the dales of arcady by dorothy una ratcliffe erskine macdonald, ltd. london, w.c.1 _all rights reserved_ _first published november 1918_ dedicated to the first yorkshireman i set eyes on daddy contents prologue daleshire on otley chevin the song of nidderdale song of the mists wander-thirst the road the swaling of the moor the moors in summer my herbary rushes satan and i to the wind saadi and the rose the difference song of the primroses lilies the pear-tree beggar's gold on early rising jewels bargaining song of good-bye king yesterday kissing philosophy a thrush's song a february day laus deo "past-ten-o'clock-land" to memory a war prayer for a little boy star-scandal the first of july "the ideal man" to the coming spring question the dales of arcady a war-time grace queen mab's awakening prologue _the youngest goddess sat in a corner of the universe and sulked. for æons, she had watched the older goddesses play each in turn with the earth-ball, and every time the ball passed her way, someone said, "she is too young, and, if she played with the ball, might injure it." another added, "even our honourable sister e---created baleful etna in her ardent desire to give a beauteous mountain to flowering sicily, and c----, when she designed the azure mediterranean, raised her little finger all too hurriedly, causing the whirlpool so dreaded by grecian sailors." but the youngest goddess had waited long and was becoming mutinous. her great grey eyes, like silent moorland tarns fringed with shadowy larches, were fixed on the handiwork of the goddess who at that moment held the ball. she noticed the blue line thoughtfully traced across a vast tract of land, the line men call the river amazon, and she watched the designer proudly hold the ball aloft to show her handiwork to her sisters. "surely it is the finest river we have yet traced!" "nay! let me see it." "can it be greater than that which mortals call the ganges?" then, as the designer of the amazon threw the ball above the head of the youngest goddess toward the lap of a weary, responsible-looking sister, the youngest goddess leapt above the little silvern stars, and caught it in her lithe white arms. a look of consternation went round the universe. "she is too young to play!" but the youngest goddess claspt the ball to her breast. "let me play, just once," she pleaded. "i will make no earthquakes, no volcanoes, no geysers, nothing that could spoil the beauty of the ball." then an old goddess--so old that she could remember god calling order out of chaos, hobbled towards her. "child! thou hast seized the ball, and play with it thou wilt, but disturb not the handiwork of thine elder sisters. thou canst pattern only where they have not worked." so the youngest goddess held the ball up to the glance of god to get a great light upon it, and by chance found one small space covered with heather and bilberry, a wild sad waste. "here, i may play! oh! my sisters, i would make something rarer and more beautiful of my little wild heath than any of you have dreamed of for other parts of the ball." lovingly she laid her outstretched hand upon the bosom of the moorland, and when she lifted it the uplands bore the soft imprint, and a little river flowed where each finger had rested. thus were created airedale, wharfedale, nidderdale, wensleydale, and swaledale. and because the fingers of the youngest goddess quivered with pleasure they are merry little dancing rivers, and even play underground as they ripple to the ouse. in this wise she fulfilled her desire to make something rarer and more beautiful of her moorland waste than her sisters had ever dreamed of for any other part of the ball. but, being very young, she boasted of her wondrous achievement, and, as a punishment, the other goddesses prevented her from ever playing with the ball again. that is the reason there is only one daleshire._ daleshire to e. a. b. when sad home-longings, like little waifs, come to my heart, in a stranger-land, no thought of a house sweeps over me, no pleasant thorp does my heart demand; for the great blue open wold it cries, for the road that over the moorland lies. for heather lands where the plovers wing, where frail mists gather about the hills like mystic shapes that eerily cling, where the air is hushed for the snipe-loved rills: all these my tired heart greets as "home," when and wherever i'm forced to roam. in the dales the pollarded willows flower: i hear the wings of a mating thrush; the river has gained its spated hour, its mad, magnificent, tumbling rush; ready to break their hearts or sing, my own sweet dales are expecting spring. no flower-girt cottage means home to me, no stately, splendid ancestral pile, no cosy house builded pleasantly does my wandering-weary heart beguile, but the homesick heart of me longs to hail my county of lovering moor and dale! beamsley beacon. on otley chevin over the rough-hewn limestone wall, i watched the serpenting river crawl adown the dale, thro' dimpled fields, daisy-brimmed, where almscliffe shields with rocky crest the lambs that play on the old earth's breast. gently i felt god's hand in mine, as the sun came forth with a strength benign: "_i have one request to make, dear god: that when my body is 'neath the sod, my spirit still may over this country roam at will._" on the wings of the wind i heard him sigh: "unheedingly many--so many--pass by, tho' the world is full of my fairest thought, of all that my servant time hath wrought, it is so rare to hear that my work is surpassing fair." "_o! grant my prayer, and let me stay in this land where thy little rivers stray, for i love them, god, with a love so true, remembering they are a part of you. o! speak and bless!_" and the wind from the uplands echoed "yes." wharfedale. the song of nidderdale as i came past the brimham rocks i heard the thrushes calling, and saw the pleasant, winding nidd in peaty ripples falling. its banks were gay with witching flowers, and all the folk did hail me back again so cheerily to bonnie nidderdale. the blackbirds in the birchen holts the live-long day were singing, where countless azure hyacinths their perfumed bells were ringing. and guisecliff stands in loneliness between the moor and vale, protecting with its rocky scaur my bonnie nidderdale. and as i passed thro' pateley brigg, a woman carolled blithely, and up and down the cobbled streets the bairnies skipped so lithely. the sky was blue, and silken clouds, each like an elfin sail, swept o'er the waking larchen woods of bonnie nidderdale. where grey-stone dykes, and greyer garths look down on ramsgill village, the thieving, gawmless, gay tomtits the little gardens pillage. grey middlesmoor is perched upon the fellside azure pale, a mist-girt, lonely sentinel o'er bonnie nidderdale. above the dowly intake lands the great wide moor is calling, of heathered bens and brackened glens, where peat-born rills are brawling. o! land of ever-changing skies, where wild winds storm and wail, there is nowhere a land more loved than bonnie nidderdale. nidderdale. song of the mists when twilight beckons from the ghyll we follow, follow up the hill; garth, holt, and meadow we caress, enwreathing all with loveliness; small, silver, mauve-blue butterflies are born of our brief summer sighs; frail harebells in our arms we bring, to curtsey to the reigning ling; bairnies who watch for us to rise steal azure from us for their eyes; and poets find their land of dreams lost in the moonlight of our streams. the hole of horcum, near whitby. wander-thirst there's a drop of romany blood in me, and days there are when it swirls and leaps like a river's race or a surging sea, stirring to life all my calmer deeps. then wandering, wandering must i go and the great, wide, open places know. for out in the world the woods are awake, and i hear the voice of the calling wind, my wonderful wooer, my rough, sweet mate, and follow i must! perchance i'll find his whip that drives the clouds o'er the fells, and cracks in the corrie, like short, sharp bells. the wild ever-during is calling for me, a missel's song and a curlew's cry, blent with a rivulet's minstrelsy, and the crooning voice of the fir-top's sigh. 'tis the great god pan that i seek to find borne on the wings of my lover wind. "o! make me one with the wondrous earth, god of the woods and the laughing rills! make me one with the lucent mirth of the sun as he rides o'er the gorse-loved hills. when i am gone and my singing is mute give to my lover my silent lute." roseberry topping. the road over the moor in the velvet dusk mysteriously it lies. white thro' the heath and the swart fir woods white 'neath the twilit skies. 'tis hid in the folds of the purple hills, seeking a fern-fringed burn: but it mounts again, then is lost once more, with a tremulous, misting turn. where blue mists gather beneath the moon it shows as a silvern stream. o path of life, you are out of sight, and lost in a wistful dream. jugger howe dale. the swaling* of the moor oh! moorland in september to love and to remember. the air is still and sunlit, the moor's a russet bed, the bracken's turning beryl, the whortle leaves are red. here stand five sister pine-trees, gold-nimbussed by the sun; and near, a slender rowan, its scarlet reign begun. a runnel near is singing a song of liquid glee, a saucy, joyous blackbird tilts bubbling notes at me. then in a magic circle seven thick white smokes upcurl, and forks of flame triumphant like crimson flags unfurl. they rise with grace, and slowly- flower incense from the ling, repaying summer splendour by an autumn offering. oh! moorland in september to love and to remember. west end, blubberhouses. * the annual burning of the heather. the moors in summer up to the moorlands a lingtit has flown- (another meadow has yet to be mown before the sun goes under the hill). i will hie me down, for a drink, to the rill: a wheatear mimics the whinchat's call, and a cuckoo cries from the woods of wath as a heron soars over the verdant strath, and an ousel pipes from the grey stone wall. i drink in a dream- the water flows from a fairy stream. for the smell of the ling my heart is a-yearn, and the sharp, sweet tang of a moorland burn. the lingtit waited anent a gate where foxgloves held their midsummer fête, then on she sped o'er the feathery green of the bracken fronds, flying beneath and between, till she reached a dyke where the bents and moors stretched out to the sky in a rolling sea of wave upon wavelet of purpling glee, o'er a land where the wistful lapwing lures. i sought to rest on the moorland's soft, sweet, heathery breast, when out of the bilberries, spick and clean, a small man stepped, in a coat of green. he bowed to the earth, with an old-world grace, then lifted his eyes to my sun-tanned face: "_so you are the mortal who drank from our rill, a cordial welcome to bilberry hill!_" he peered again, and he watched mine eyes, then turning, he whistled the lapwing's note. for a moment the melody seemed to float o'er the heather; and then with increased surprise i saw a troop of little green men around me group. they all bowed low, "i thought you had fled the yorkshire uplands, green men!" i said. they smiled at each other. their leader broke the hush of the heather, and thus he spoke: "_ling-men! her eyes are the eyes of the fells, grey as the clouds and blue as the bells of the harebell. see! how they flash and play as the rivulet does 'neath the rowan and birk; 'tis a glance in which there's loving a-lurk; a glance that only is born on the brae. ling-men! i am sure a changeling is she, and belongs to the moor. her way she lost as a weeny bairn. men found her, and town-ways they made her learn. capture her heart so she cannot roam far away from her grouse-loved home, weave from the cottony grasses a chain that will pull at her heart with a wild, dear pain; fashion a gyve from the wings of the lark, manacles make from the bumble-bees' croon, to keep her a captive from june to june, to render her ours in the light, in the dark!_" they wove a spell which encircled me round from fell to fell. o! it bound my heart for ever and aye, to the lands where the bilberry ling-men play. dallowgill moor. my herbary i know a little garden very old, high-walled, with wandering paths of greenest box; beyond the doorway lies the rolling wold, the open moorland, and the brimham rocks. here find a home all nigh-forgotten herbs; the sage and rosemary nod side by side; a giant lavender no pruning curbs, with us each year the honesties abide. under a hawthorn, ruby-gemmed in may, a bank of marjorams lie at their ease; here, lad's-love sigh their fragrant hearts away, whilst rippling lieds of water never cease. beside the cherry-tree the balsams flower, the rue and mint bloom out a life-time meek; a pleasant place it is at sunrise hour, when sportful finches wing in hide-and-seek. and where the aged, moss-grown sundial lies, the peacock pert unfolds his wheel-rim tail, showing a hundred jewelled argus eyes: with harsh, shrill cry he bids the day "all hail." more is he fitted for the fountained sward than for my herbary of butterflies; no! i proclaim the lovelier throstle, lord, the only one my simples recognise. pateley bridge, nidderdale. rushes rushes by the river rear their heads of brown; in the wind they quiver with a warning frown. "do you want them, fairest? at thy feet they lie; they were guarding, rarest,- sentinels!--they die." wild things are not willing to be captive ta'en: "cutting's almost killing," is their sad refrain. "rushes in their beauty greenly-proud should stand: guarding is their duty- river from the land." darley, nidderdale. satan* and i to-day there is no one as happy as i, who am free of the hills, of the dales, of the sky, as i ride o'er the moors while the lapwings cry. i ride thro' the whin, watch the rabbits run, then slowly i turn to bask in the sun- then gallop away o'er the crest, like fun. and satan, you fiend, with your knowing ways and tricks, that you dream of for days and days, and mem'ries of maddening hours of the chase; do you feel the liberty of the wind, that wakes the fern-land with kisses kind, and seeks with caresses our lips to find? to-day, for us both to be out is joy, tho' i am a girl with the soul of a boy, and you are a horse, whom the spurs annoy. to just be alive is a blessing rare, in a world of beauty, endlessly fair; for satan and i, we have no care. almscliffe crag, wharfedale. * the name of my horse. to the wind strong, powerful sweetheart-wind, in tireless love-storm surging; great, bold, tempestuous wind, ever thy passion urging. hold me close in thine arms, o! strengthening ecstasy: wild, sweet, capturing arms- love! i am yearning for thee. eyes, hair, bosom caress, my rowan-red lips now kiss; life-giving, wilful caress, o! marvellous moorland bliss. great, strong lover o' mine, i long for thy grand embrace; fierce, brave lover o' mine, i yield to thee my heart's grace. greenhow hill. saadi and the rose o summer, with thy magic gift of flowers and soft bird voices, musicking the breeze, while yet thy roses stir the lazy air my soul wings back thro' centuries, as hours. it journeys till it 'lights within a court where roses riot o'er veined-marble walls, where peacocks strut along the broad white steps, or over broideries by fair hands wrought. within the palace, divanned, rests a king, who watches listlessly the fountain's jet; and at his feet the poet saadi stands and hears intent th' captured bulbuls sing. a slave with soul on freedom bent he stands, his eyes ablaze with restless ecstasy, while all around him breathes magnificence of power imperial over many lands. within his slender hand he holds a rose; raising his head, he murmurs, "_mighty king! do good unto thy servant while thou canst: thou may'st not always mitigate his woes._ "_like to this fleeting glory, carmined deep, the season of thy power is transient: do good, whilst yet thou canst--'before thine eyes close in thy last, forgetting, silent sleep._" o blood-red rose! thy petals bring to me the sunlit beauty of the persian court, the voice of saadi, pleading with the king his freedom granted on thy crimson plea. a rose-garden in airedale. the difference when the factories all are silenced, and night brings her balm of sleep, what are your last dear waking thoughts ere you drift into slumber deep? why, darling mine! they are all of work, as your mind reviews the day: of the men you meet, of progress made, of struggles to make your way. but i--when i nestle among the sheets, ere sleep my tired eyes woo, just count and repeat the loving words that have fall'n to-day from you! airedale. song of the primroses listen to the infant breeze, clutching at the nippled trees, where our yellow flowers are blowing, where the rivulet is flowing. over all the blue-cupped sky silver brooding clouds swim by; see! the firstling swallow flying, later, owlets will be crying. come and mark the painter sun daub the earth with golden fun; hear the larches' fingers snapping, as if goblin hands were clapping. smell the rain-sweet, thymy earth, feel the wonder of rebirth! far away a cuckoo's calling, notes that sound like twin bells falling. then a clearer voice replies to his echo ere it dies, and the blackbirds' voices mingle with th' eistedfodd in the dingle. gold-green poplars slowly wave o'er the winter's mossy grave; ferns are pointing curly fingers where the dead year's bracken lingers. we have seen a hedgehog hide prickle-less to greet his bride; watched the baby otter shiver ere he plunged into the river. we are critics of the bees, watch how they despoil and seize from each cowslip saffron bounty; uncaught robbers of the county! all the keenings of the bat, whimperings of the water-rat; all the hopes of sister flowers come to us by gossip showers. tortoise-shelled butterflies, on their dew-pearl'd wingful sighs, bear the news of elfin squabbles; "wounded oberon still hobbles." we are darlings of the spring, all her secrets she doth bring, runes of magic she discloses to her confidant-primroses. envoi we shall feel her joy-winged sigh, when she hears the summer's cry: we shall droop and die of grieving, when our lovely spring is leaving. littondale. lilies when i am old, so very old that all my own have passed away, and i await life's evening-gold, a little figure, lone and grey; i'll keep a garden, green and bright, then i'll forget approaching night. a garden dear--with quaint-cut yews- bound by a hedge of bronzing beech, and just before them i shall choose the great white lilies that beseech, with upturned faces, pure and staid, love from the little mother maid. and close beside the lichened wall, lilies, aflame like scarlet fire, shall watch the little swallows fall from out their nestlet in the byre; and where the path strays to the stream, the golden ones shall dying dream. then where the garden greets the wood, a host of lily-bells shall ring their message clear that "all is good where god reigns over everything." my garden-beauty, all shall see, is mirrored from eternity. a garden in airedale. the pear-tree a rain of petals the pear-trees give, as a pearly toll for the right to live. fragile petals that gently fall, like tears down the face of the old grey wall. around the bole, where the grasses grow, is a circle white as of melting snow. an enchanted circle, flower-entwined, where hyacinth fingers the grasses bind. the youngling thrushes soon learn how to alight and shake the flowers from each bough. the swallows tell their babes such tales! that the tree is a ship with flower-white sails, anchored to earth in the harbour of may; but one moonless night she will sail away, and a prim green tree will take the place of the phantom ship with its sails of lace. then in autumn the orchardist time will come, and bear the fruit away to his home. and later on he will heave a sigh, that the little white tree some day must die. so i write this verse to the little pear-tree, that both be remembered--it and me. coxwold. beggar's gold i around me sounded effort manifold, as creaking cranes swung ponderously slow, at intervals i heard the hiss of steam, the rhythmic beating of an iron's blow: i thought,--this energy will sometime be transmuted into that which all men crave, the magic metal, gold, great titan gold, whom men make monarch when he should be slave. and as i mused, above the jarring clang, i heard a faint sweet sound of flutterings, a tender movement, musical and low, as of a fledgeling trying its young wings. a gentle zephyr blew the casement wide, a woman glided past the tapestry, with russet golden hair, all gowned in gold. she looked about her hesitatingly; i heard her voice as if thro' beechen boughs, caressive as a moor-born singing burn, and thro' it ran the lisping of the pines, the lovely lilt of some gold-dying fern. ii (she sang): "ye seek the gold of the city; ye cheat, ye brag, ye lie; in quest of its sordid yellow ye hunger until ye die. i offer ye gold for the having: the mint of october's glow, to warm your souls with its wonder, your souls, in their greed-bound snow. gold of the hedges i offer, marvellous gold of the ghyll, rowan-red gold from the forest, take from me, ye who will. gold ye need for your bodies, o men of the smoke-chained town. but know, that my gold's for the asking, gold for a beggar's crown." iii she silently sped as a star at morn in the saffron track, of the day, dew-born, leaving a longing intensely strong to own for myself the gold of the song. the city i'll leave with footstep bold, to seek for myself the beggar's gold. iv i woke and found a leaf upon the floor, and two more golden leaves outside the door. airedale. on early rising the lover: why not rise with dawn, my lady? why miss these sweet hours? come with me: the ghyll is shady, carpeted with flowers; why miss these sweet hours? now thou liest a-bed, my jewel, how canst thou still sleep? to encase thyself is cruel- beauty thus to keep. how canst thou still sleep? his lady: at this hour, my simple lover, i prefer to rest than to watch the tireless plover rise from dewy nest; i prefer to rest. beauty such as mine, my lover, (this i know is right) even thou wilt soon discover is more meet for night (this i know is right). the song-maker: in the daytime chirp the thrushes; but the nightingale waits until the moonlit hushes to pour forth her tale; wiser nightingale! jewels o! gold i lack; i am a man who cannot give as others can; no costly gems of value rare are mine to give, my lady fair! yet would i give, and of my best, so delve the kingdom of mine eyes: what say'st thou to a rope of pearls strung from the cirro-clouded skies? a sunlit beck, just after rain, should from its ripples lend a chain of sparkling diamonds, very meet to grace thy wrist, my lady sweet. a peaty tarn, lost 'mong the hills, of beryl tint should make a ring; the moors should yield a coronet of amethyst, from summer ling. * * * * * _rubies?_ already thou hast two! they are the gems for which i sue. ribblesdale. bargaining there are many, many forests lying north, south, east, and west, there are many, many rivers moving slowly to the sea, but there's a wood of budding beech that claims the heart of me, and there's a little singing beck that falls from heathered crest. o! i would give the universe to own that singing stream, and watch the stars a-hiding from the rosy-fingered morn, while cuckoos wake the fellside, and daffodils are born- o! any one can have the world, so i may keep my stream- yet would i barter beechen wood and little singing beck if i could fold my arms once more around my sweetheart's neck. nidderdale. song of good-bye the ship is speeding fast from out the bay, instead of thine, i feel a kiss of spray; my face is lashed by salt winds from the sea, my eyes are wet with parting now from thee. o husband sweetheart! send to me a thought- some loving word, perchance my lips have taught! the evening fades to purple, darkly blue, the air is chill, a few white stars creep through the steely buckler of the northern sky; one lonely sound recurs--a sew-mew's cry. o husband sweetheart! send thy heart to me across this tireless, surging, tossing sea! to-night we're severed, many miles apart: i wonder, canst thou rest, my dearest heart? in court of dreams perhaps we'll briefly meet and kiss upon the borderland of sleep. o husband sweetheart! say for me a prayer- god give you peace, and have you in his care! off the yorkshire coast. king yesterday you and king yesterday both have fled to the land-of-the-beautiful-days-that-are-dead. how full of bird music the dewy-fair morn when yesterday, king of the past, was born; how rosy with roses the passionate noon when you and king yesterday ruled sweet june; how royal with splendour the crimsoning west as yesterday bravely grew old with zest; and eve was a glamour of emerald light when yesterday greeted the world "good-night." oh! you and king yesterday gently wean my thoughts to the country-it-might-have-been. kissing thou canst not kiss without consent, for know, dear thief, a kiss is lent; and if thou takest one to-day, with interest must thou repay: one now, next week i'll count in fives,- thou'lt owe some scores in paradise! tanfield, wensleydale. philosophy some tell me "_life is a weariful thing, that sorrow remains, while joy takes wing._" but sorrow and i already have met: his face is wan and his lips are set; he cometh and goeth on silent feet, yet between his visits are moments sweet, moments that come like a blackbird's dart, when happiness holds me close to his heart; when i sense the rapture of swinging skies and know the thrill of the spring's surprise, as i lie on the mothering earth's deep breast and clasp my tremulous bosom, lest some unknown loveliness i might miss, or forgetful be of the west wind's kiss. like the blackbird's notes in the early hours which fall like a peal of silver flowers, joy rings his bells in my waiting ears, and sorrow departs to his silent meres. "_and if he returns?_"--my soul will sing remembering joy who has taken wing! rilstone fell. a thrush's song (to my first love, daddy) a thrush's call has chanced to fall into my heart where dwell apart dear memories of summer skies, of heartsome days, of flower-fair ways, of kisses shy with people high. what did i ken of lovers then, of lover-laws, of lover-saws? the sweet, sweet earth was giving birth to lovely things with songs and wings; and yonder thrush on yonder bush brings home to me the little years of memory. a february day (_there is a country saying that spring has not come until you can set your foot on seven daisies at once_) "_o! how do you know when spring has come? still falls the snow and the birds are dumb._" the grass will wear a greener tone, the thrush will dare to carol alone. the silver rain will warmly fall, the woods will gain the blackbird's call. but the way to tell, and the only way, is to find a dell where the breezes play, and seek and seek where the daisy-bloom shows white and meek like a baby moon. and when your foot treads with tender fear on seven white heads,- then spring is here. coxwold. laus deo (for my little god-son) god darling! listen to my song, the one i sing the whole day long, of thanks to thee for every good, whether at home, in field, or wood. i thank thee for the lovely spring, and for thy little birds that sing; i thank thee for the summer's sun, when 'mong the roses i can run. i thank thee for the sickle time, when corn is ripe, and apples prime. i thank thee for the deep white snow, when i tobogganing can go. i thank thee for the bright sweet day, for hours of love and work and play; i thank thee for the deep blue night when i and flower-buds fold up tight. nidderdale. "past-ten-o'clock-land" "_it was moonlight land and past-ten-o'clock land and we were in it and of it._"--kenneth graham. there's a lovely land that is all your own, if your years but number ten, where the cherryblossom's ever in flower, and found in "past-ten-o'clock glen." there's a river with musical water-falls, you paddle as long as you please, and the daisies don't die as you pick them, when found on "past-ten-o'clock leas." and the rivulet leads to a harbour, full of the quaintest of ships, one wish will transport you to china, or other "past-ten-o'clock trips." away in dim mountains of amber, which drop sheer down to the waves, fierce brigands, be-weaponed and ear-ringed, live in "past-ten-o'clock caves." o! the folk understand you and love you, you never can do any wrong- you can shoot the cat with a catapult, or shout the "past-ten-o'clock song." you can play you are really an otter, and get as wet as you like; you can lie in wait as a redskin does, in a deep "past-ten-o'clock dyke." it's a lovely land that is all your own, if you're only ten years old, but when you are more, you are apt to forget "past-ten-o'clock-dreams of gold!" barden fell, wharfedale. to memory mem'ry, sweet witch! you brought him to my door. i heard you knock, and saw your fingers ope the rosy gateway of a lingering hope, and i beheld his dear face as of yore. you held him by the hand i oft caressed, and seemed so small a sprite by his tall side, as in his leathern coat you tried to hide, the same old coat my cheek so often pressed. then searchingly his deep blue eyes found mine, as if to plead against forgetfulness, with all the old-time loving kindliness: and then you led him back without one sign. sweet little mem'ry, lead him back once more, and, knocking, bring him in, and close the door. a war prayer for a little boy morning the day is just beginning, but all the long night through, the sailor-men were watching out in the dark night blue. dear god! when my turn comes, may my watch be as true. evening the long, still night is coming, but whilst i've been at play, the soldier-men were fighting thro' all the live-long day. dear god! when my turn comes, please keep me brave as they. robin hood's bay. star-scandal one summer eve, my own dear love and i sat arm-entwined beneath a rowan-tree. a little wind flew past us with a sigh, and all the velvet leaves waved merrily. then, as mine eyes escaped his ardent glance, i saw a star peep o'er the purple hill and climb up to the topmost branch and dance, and wink at its reflection in the rill. "_come, kiss me once, o timorous-hearted love. full many thousand kisses dost thou owe. prithee but one, thy pretty love to prove; no one in all the world shall ever know._" no one? that spying star but told a poet, and in a song he let the whole world know it. the first of july 1916 for the mothers, wives, and sweethearts of the 15th west yorks ("leeds pals") i 'tis passing wonderful that they, the little boys of yesterday, should suddenly become such men that england rings with praise of them. but tho' their names are writ in blood --deepening crimson flood on flood- their impositions writ awry and copybooks are hardly dry; and sweetheart life had scarcely kissed the boy to man, when the blue mist of twilight lifted; and the dawn announced that rosy day was born. as pink-curled clouds lit up the sky a little gentle breeze whisked by caressing all the poppy-heads- rippling fields of budding reds- splashes of yellow sunned the earth where mustard meadows flowered mirth; and cornflowers blue ran out to meet the blue around god's mercy-seat. o! all the world and all the sky made it a sacrifice to die. ii 'tis passing wonderful that they, the little boys of yesterday, who cuddled to dear mother-hearts with darling rosy-fingered arts, did cheer with strong expectancy the shattering artillery; and smilingly went o'er the top unflinchingly without a stop into the poppied "no man's land." wave after wave, band after band, through the terror of bursting shells, through the noise of a thousand hells, through th' unmanning groans of pain, through the blood of the splendid slain lying under a blue-cupped sky, as wave after wave swept bravely by. from flowers of blue to the endless blue hundreds of souls are passing thro', and the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives: o! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives. iii 'tis passing wonderful that they, the little boys of yesterday who played with us, who teased us too, should such tremendous actions do. no praise, no honour is too high for those who gave so cheerfully: gave up the wonder of the spring, gave up the wealth that summers bring, gave up the gold of autumn's store, leaving us richer than before. unflinching bravery of soul! ring out your splendid deathless toll, ring down the years untiringly in the hearts of the children-yet-to-be. the carillon of your ideals you'll hear again in their sweet peals; god grant that we may squarely fight for all you held to be upright. leeds, _july 1st, 1917_. "the ideal man" he should be strong--as strong as thor of old; and faults of strength 'twere better he possessed than quavering mind or any lack of zest when the time needs a right arm coolly bold. truth should to him be what the unpent song is to the soaring lark; with kindly thought for everything that cold misfortune's sought; with earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong. a heart that finds the best in every man; impatient he should be at all delay or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way- (but then a fault or two is nature's plan), yet i would wish his chiefest fault should be a wilfulness to see no fault in me! semer water. to the coming spring hope and spring! you are sisters! in my woodlands the primroses are peeping with pale, sweet golden eyes, in spite of winter's weeping. in my woodlands a thrush has just swung, dipping, in search of his spring voice; the trees stand dripping, dripping. in my woodlands harsh winter coldly shivers; the windflower, white adventurer, with hope of springtime quivers. soon my woodlands, bearing bannerets of spring, will be every moment musical with birds that, mating, sing. hope and spring! you are sisters! oh, spring! spring! since the autumn died in glory, how i have yearned for your coming thro' the cloistral fog-bound days, your beauty seemed a story that would never be told again. spring! of the pearly cloud-skies soft-curled as a baby's hand, turquoise as children's eyes, of rainbow-tinctured days and twittering song of the eaves! spring! you desired vision, the wind in your primrose hair, your eyes, too, weepingly ready, your face, an anemone fair; your train, a burgeoning pattern be-sprent with woodland flowers, blackthorn, daffies, bluebells, marking the flight of our hours. spring! tho' it still is winter, in your mystic sleep you smile, yet the primroses and the thrush on wing know that even in sleep you sing; you wondrous, envassaling, longed-for maid! oh! if death came now i should be afraid: i have longed for you so the dark months thro', that i must see the pulsing glory of you; and your little hand-maidens in their turn- for each at their 'pointed times i yearn. virginal snowdrop, firstling of spring! crocus, herald of purple and gold, wistful windflowers, celandined stars, every one to my heart i fold. snow-soft blackthorn, you wild, fair sweet, the scent of you brings a flutter of wings; and, almond blossom, you stole at dawn the pale dream vest of the infant morn. of a pool of blue i dream- hyacinths, waving in ripples of blue. there is nothing so fair the whole world thro' as when quivering sun and quivering wind jocundly, joyously, leapingly find a young green wood in a lazuli dream. o spring, if i lay on my dying bed i should wait to die, till your glory had fled, i could not go ere the cuckoo had cried his impudent call to the countryside: not till the swallows had loyally come to their nesting place, in my liefest home, and then i should wait for the blackbird's note to leap from his melody-stirring throat. ah! and to feel the april rain pattering on my face again. god grant that i do not die in the spring, when my whole soul rebels to live and sing; as we all must die, so let me die when the grey november fogs are nigh; not for a longer space of heaven would i forfeit one day, nay, one single hour, one sweet bird-cry, or one haunting flower, of my beautiful, longed-for, fleeting spring. hope and spring! you are sisters! 'tis winter still, but you stir in sleep tho' the cold gusts blow and the bare trees weep. but the early primrose and flitting thrush have watched you smile and have seen you blush. and tho' it is long ere yet you rise, and the blue of your glance reflect in the skies; my heart is awake and ready to sing the moment you beckon, sweet, glorious spring! hope and spring! you are sisters! pateley bridge, nidderdale, question o seats of ancient learning, philosophers and sages! a child has put a question, which i cannot find in pages of any tome in any land: and so the answer's missed. "_where do all the kisses go, after they are kissed?_" the dales of arcady first day hearken! the south wind's voice. my lover returns, and the valleys rejoice. the bees fly upward to watch his flight, the butterflies quiver with glad delight, as he teasingly touches their jewelled wings. o! at his bidding the whitethroat swings in thrillant blue. a thrush's call blends with a blackbird's madrigal. i steadily gazed at my silent pen, attempting to keep from my straying ken an eden of woods, of bosoming hills, of verdant hedges, of wandering rills. how can one work when a lover amid the flowers will lurk? he tip-toes in thro' the window-door, and whisks my papers on to the floor; with flower-steeped hands he caresses my hair, and whispers alluringly, "_fair, most fair, slip your slender hand in mine, my sweeting, hear! the skylarks cleave the blue with greeting, hear the blackcap on the thorn at even trill truths that echo to the highest heaven, leave your world of carking care, time-haunted, for a country ever spring-enchaunted._" he leads me on to the dewy grass, where maiden primroses troop and pass; with a gleesome kiss in his arms he swings me up 'twixt his eagle-wide rainbow wings: over a willowy coppice he goes flicking the hedges of milk-white sloes, over the blazon of heralding gorse, deftly he steers his ethereal course over anemone hillocks, o'er leas, hyacinth-dimpled, o'er buttercupped leas, over the ings where forget-me-not eyes borrow the blue of azureal skies; over the meadow-flats, higher and higher, sweeping the strings of the cloud-strung lyre. the lilt of the planets is in mine ear, crystal dropping on crystal clear: "o wind, my lover, my mortal eyes must you surely cover: such beauty will make me beauty-blind, protect mine eyes, o my lover wind." then, as i lost my indrawn breath, he swirled me down to the earth beneath, down thro' the depths of a forest of pine, on to a carpet of celandine. the goldcrests twittered, the squirrels chased, while the lofty pines, brown arms enlaced, lisped a dryad-taught melody, sung by the sea. known in the valleys of arcady. for a little space did my lover sleep, while the gold-mailed sun with me did keep a radiant watch; but when eventide in saffron-rose wrapped the woodland side, he started up, and he kissed my neck, then, bidding me rise at his instant beck, we passed where the sovran oak-trees nod, where never a human foot has trod, where birches sway in slenderest grace, that never have seen a mortal's face; where rivulets hasten in sweet surprise, a wonder beneath my wond'ring eyes; a lakelet trembled beneath my glance, the lily-white elfins ceased their dance; a cherry-tree flung confetti down, and framed for my head a loving crown. soft-toned bells called to each other across the fells. while music played on a reeded flute stilled the air, and the birds were mute. "o leaf-loving zephyr, whence cometh the mirth of this melody? owns my mothering earth a piper who pipes so alluringly of beauty that is, of beauty to be? onward! o'er thousands of blushet-shy daisies, to find this piper of beautiful phrases." 'mong flocks of goats, and of leaping lambs, the piper sat. two fierce-horned rams made a fleecy cushion whereon he sat, and a sleeping ewe made a creamy mat for his hoofed feet. his music ceased. green were his eyes, and they seemed well pleased as they lit on our forms: "_o! pan, great pan! this mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span, and she would learn of the singing seasons' wonderful featness; of all the reasons. the hill and the wood and the rippling rill the air with different melodies fill; where bonnibel april latest was sent, when may filled the world with her wonderment! who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call? the opening notes of a festival to jubilate the reign of the summer beauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer. o pan! i bring a mortal whose soul is afire to sing._" pan smiled--a smile like a twisted oak- then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke, "evoë, great pan," sang the lark on high, "evoë, great pan," from the uttermost sky; i drew near and stood beside his knee: he handed his reeded flute to me, and kept his eyes, of a forest green, on my trembling hands. o! well, i ween, he knew that my amateur hands were weak, for the spirit of me was meek, so meek, and his green eyes glimmered with rising glee. my masterful lover whispered to me, "_put your lips to the flute with mine, heedless of self-hood, in song be divine._" and placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth, a rondeau he sang of the forest's youth. pan spoke at last: "child! wander and learn the lilt of the bird and the song of the burn: and when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred). "hail! child from the plaintful kingdom of man." the mountain-tops shouted, "evoë, great pan!" the rivers sang deeply, "evoë, great pan!" and whisperingly i, "evoë, great pan!" second day the rose-trees show but a tuft of green where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been, but they promise a summer of fragrant wealth: how the small buds come to the light by stealth like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife leads every browny-bare branch to life. slowly i passed thro' the rustic gate, where wine-red roses will hold june fête; the wind stole out from the blossoming row of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low: "_are you content to be bound by a wall, e'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful? tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall, always it is, and it hath been, a wall. 'tis true that thro' it there is a wicket, but what can it know of the wild grown thicket that grows where its pathway may never wander: out of this garden--the blue land yonder?_" and a cuckoo called; and the echo ran, "evoë, evoë, evoë, great pan!" then my lover lifted me up in his arms, and swiftly arose. how the grey-roofed farms receded into the cup-like earth! and i chanted a canzone of springtime and birth, which called o'er the sea to the firstling swallow, who flew beside us o'er height and hollow, till others came from their home of the sun, and the farm-folk cried, "dear summer's begun." hundreds and thousands followed our flight- all england will have a swallow to-night. by the old elm's portal of arcady my lover alighted and whispered to me, "o lily of laughter! o sister of flowers! wander alone in arcadian bowers, and i will return when the sun goes down, and wing you home to your grey, grey town. i kiss your little white hands and feet: farewell!" and he rose, on wings so fleet over the nests in the cradling larch, over the bow of the rainbow's arch. where conifers grow in fine profusion, and birches quiver in sweet confusion, where hawthorn waits with a danseuse grace to burst on the scene with her milk-white face, and pirouette near some stately spruce, scattering around him pearly dews, where rabbits scamper thro' grasses lush, and a pheasant's screech breaks the noon-day hush, i journeyed on, till the sun began his westering course. "evoë, great pan! never a note of your pipings to-day has guided my steps thro' the sylvan way. o! where must i seek in this paradise?" "evoë, evoë," a linnet sighs, "seek where the sisterly marshes are, where the marigold twinkles, a golden star, where willow and alder hide the river, where timid reed-warblers tremble and shiver." the sky showed pink thro' the branches grey, and then i heard, as if far away, a tremulous song, a music of fears that was strung together by trills of tears, a quivering star glowed, curtained by leaves, and the hullets called from some distant eaves. i found pan crouched by the river's edge, his hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge, and i listened his plaint. "o great god pan, you sing with the broken heart of a man! your song is of syrinx, who, æons ago, escaped from your loving. alas! that you know the music of love, and the music of lack, and you mourn for the hours that cannot come back,- but i would learn of merrier things: the melody murmurs of fluttering wings, the secrets that fill the nightingaled glades, the music that stirs in the leaf-colonnades." he piped for a minute, then, turning to me, with a wry, queer smile, said: "in arcady no song goes forth to the listening earth that comes not thro' travail and tears to birth: the river weeps as it leaves the fell, and the note cries out as it mourns the bell; the bird that praises the young, fair dawn, sings of his loss on the twilit lawn, and those that hymn of the coming spring lament for her too, when she taketh wing. the song of songs is of death and of love- i sing of syrinx, my own ... lost ... love." he piped again, and the blue mists frail swayed in the dusk to the tender wail, and i dreamed--till i felt on my damp, moist hair, my love's cool hand, and his whisper, "_fair_," then i felt his arms, and i knew the skies, whilst over the mountains i saw dawn arise, and another sweet day its course began, while the hidden stars sang, "evoë, great pan!" and the lark in the blue, "evoë, great pan!" and wistfully i, "evoë, great pan!" a war-time grace dear god, your rain and shining sun have all their lovely duties done: the rain makes grow the golden wheat and so provides the bread we eat. the cow gives us the milk we drink because she loves your sun, i think. please, grant that other children may have milk and bread enough this day. nidderdale. queen mab's awakening scene: _the meeting of the waters, in bolton woods, wharfedale_. queen mab _lies sleepily in a mossy hollow, guarded by a quivering frond of last year's bracken. after a little yawn she discontentedly gazes at_ the thrush _who is singing continuously, whilst balancing himself on a twig of the leafless hawthorn above her._ queen mab (_almost peevishly for a queen_): thou saucy bird, to wake me from my slumber, the spring still tarries, and i would not wake to live thro' cloud-spun days, thro' endless nights; to watch the weeping rain, until i too would mix my tears with hers. to see the hills bow their nude forms beneath the lashing hail, to hear the strong trees groan. i will not wake. the thrush (_practising trills between each line and minor arpeggios after each verse_): queen mab! queen mab! listen my lay! a windflower leapt in the hedge to-day. one of thy dimples lent its mirth to lessen the gloom of the snow-tired earth. a white-faced flower's in the hedge to-day, queen mab! queen mab! listen my lay! queen mab (_impetuously_): please, hush thy noisy song a little while. maybe a windflower shows her shy white face, but i have seen anemones in snow, hiding their eyes (false messengers of spring), justly ashamed of their own perfidy. therefore, sing softly. queen mab _curls herself up among her emerald cushions, closes her azure eyes, and sleeps for several days_. the thrush (_his voice a degree sweeter and surer_): queen mab! queen mab! awake! awake! a primrose blooms in the woodland brake. from thy sleepy lips has tumbled a smile which lies a-blossoming near the stile. a primrose blooms in the woodland brake! queen mab! queen mab! awake! awake! _a blue tit from a neighbourly silver birch softly mimics the trills after the last line._ queen mab (_half opening her eyes_): o tiresome bird, one primrose does not bring the warm sweet days for which i yearning wait. know, i have seen the hillside amber-pied with primroses, and yet a fierce gale swept adown the dale. primroses are brave, but, tho' they blossom, leave me to my dreams. _once more she nestles among the jade-green moss and sleeps for a week._ the thrush (_louder and clearer_): queen mab! queen mab! from thy faerie dream has sped a laugh like a sunny gleam which springs to earth a daffy-down-dill that merrily flouts at the purling rill, thy laugh has sped o'er the hillside grey: queen mab! queen mab! listen my lay! _the cuckoo calls wistfully from down-dale, but_ queen mab _does not hear him._ queen mab (_stretching her small white arms and yawning dreamily_): methinks the air feels warmer, and the sky seems bluer, yet mine eyes are loath to ope. i will not wake at once: how the birds sing! i did not think the world held so much song. that note's a blackbird's; that's a finch's call; a wren has whispered secrets to his mate; two doves are cooing where green curtains hang, half shyly, lest their love-songs should be heard; yet, 'tis not spring until the cuckoo cries. _the cuckoo's voice is heard nearer, coming from bolton abbey, and a second voice answers,_ cuckoo! cuckoo! from barden fell. the thrush (_his voice jubilantly strong_): queen mab! queen mab! thy hyacinth eyes have filled the coppice with azure sighs. my loved little queen of windflower feet, of daffodil-laughter so primrose-sweet! the rippling wood is a bluey lake. queen mab! queen mab! awake! awake! queen mab (_wide awake now, springs from her couch and curtsies to the world, north, south, east, and west, then raises her arms to the sun_): gold sun, i greet thee; do not hide thy face too soon behind the wistful little hills. thou art my lover, faithless, fickle, fair, and leav'st me all too soon; my kingdom's naught without thy splendid presence; stay awhile. old world, old wrinkled granddame, thee i greet; thy loving smile renews thy youth once more. for months i slept upon thy broad brown breast; i thank thee, granddame, for so good a rest. ye birds that whistle, hares that limping run, and little soft-eared rabbits, velvet shod, great wayward mortals, with unseeing eyes, i greet you one and all, for spring has come. laugh with the sun, muse with the silver showers; laugh and make merry, spring is all too fleet, and soon will dance away on flower-loved feet. _exit_ queen mab _in search of her court of butterflies. above the bird-music is heard the insistent cry of the cuckoo, till the fells re-echo with his calling._ bolton woods, wharfedale. printed by hazell, watson & viney, ld., london and aylesbury. dedication. to richard cherry, c. e., as a small token of the respect in which he is held by the author. yorkshire ditties; by john hartley; born 1839 died 1915 to which is added the cream of wit and humour, from his popular writings. second series wakefield: william nicholson and sons. london: s. d. ewins jr. and co., 22, paternoster row. manchester: john heywood, and a. heywood and son. [entered at stationers' hall.] preface. we offer no apology for presenting this little book to the public, feeling sure from our past experience, that it will be kindly welcomed by a great many lovers of their "native twang." the publishers. contents of second series. th' better part. done agean. latter wit. my gronfayther's days. heart brocken. to a daisy. a bad sooart. all we had. give it 'em hot. th' honest hard worker. niver heed. sing on. what aw want. what it is to be mother. what is it. come thi ways! advice to jenny. ther's mich expected. a strange stooary. take heart. did yo iver. an old man's christmas morning. billy bumble's bargain. moral. rejected. duffin johnie. lost love. th' traitle sop. to let. fault finders. disapointment. work away. new machinery &c. september month. a hawporth. buttermilk &c. it's a comfort. progress. try again. jealousy. winter. persevere. booith-taan election. election. none think alike. seaside. th' better part. a poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, wi' body bent, and snowy pate, aw met one day;-an' daan o' th' rooad side grassy banks he sat to rest his weary shanks; an' aw, to wile away my time, o'th' neighbouring hillock did recline, an' bade "gooid day." said aw, "owd friend, pray tell me true, if in your heart yo niver rue the time 'ats past? does envy niver fill your breast when passin fowk wi' riches blest? an' do yo niver think it wrang at yo should have to trudge alang, soa poor to th' last?" "young man," he said "aw envy nooan; but ther are times aw pity some, wi' all mi heart; to see what troubled lives they spend, what cares upon their hands depend; then aw in thoughtfulness declare 'at 'little cattle little care' is th' better part. gold is a burden hard to carry, an' tho' dame fortune has been chary o' gifts to me; yet still aw strive to feel content, an' think what is, for th' best is meant; an' th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, is still to keep mi conscience clear, from dark spots free. an' while some tax ther brains to find what they'll be forced to leave behind, when th' time shall come; aw try bi honest word an' deed, to get what little here aw need, an' live i' hopes at last to say, when breath go as flickerin away, 'awm gooin hooam.'" aw gave his hand a hearty shake, it seem'd as tho' the words he spake sank i' mi heart: aw walk'd away a wiser man, detarmined aw wod try his plan i' hopes at last 'at aw might be as weel assured ov heaven as he; that's th' better part. done agean. aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish, we've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack, we've as mich gooid spike-cake as we wish, an' wi' currens its varry near black; we've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink, we've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock, we've a load o' puttates under th' sink, so we're pretty weel off as to jock. aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide, but the cause aw dar hardly let aat; it suits me moor nor all else beside; aw've a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw can nah have a spree to misel? aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass; an' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an' tell my old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass. some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed, he should nivver keep owt thro' his wife; if he does awve oft heard 'at it's sed, 'at it's sure to breed trouble an' strife; if it does aw'm net baan to throw up, tho' aw'd mich rayther get on withaat; but who wodn't risk a blow up, for a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet, for fear it dropt aat o' mi fob, coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't, at mi frolic wod prove a done job. but aw'll gladden mi een wi' its face, to mak sure at its safe in its nick;-but aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place! why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick. whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me, an' who's taen it aw connot mak aat, for it connot be th' wife, coss you see it's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat. but thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side, an' aw see'at shoo's all on a grin; to chait her aw've monny a time tried, but i think it's nah time to give in. a chap may be deep as a well, but a woman's his maister when done; he may chuckle and flatter hissel, but he'll wakken to find at shoo's won. it's a rayther unpleasant affair, yet it's better it's happened noa daat; aw'st be fain to come in for a share o' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat. latter wit. awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat, wheear last aw set wi' thee; it seems long years sin' last we met, awm sure it must be three. awm wond'rin what aw sed or did, or what aw left undone: 'at made thi hook it, an' get wed, to one tha used to shun. aw dooant say awm a handsom chap, becoss aw know awm net; but if aw wor 'ith' mind to change, he isn't th' chap, aw'll bet. awm net a scoller, but aw know a long chawk moor ner him; it couldn't be his knowledge box 'at made thi change thi whim. he doesn't haddle as mich brass as aw do ivery wick: an' if he gets a gradely shop, it's seldom he can stick. an' then agean,--he goes on th' rant; nah, that aw niver do;-aw allus mark misen content, wi' an odd pint or two. his brother is a lazy lout,- his sister's nooan too gooid,-ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,- vice seems to run ith' blooid. an yet th'art happy,--soa they say, that caps me moor ner owt! tha taks a deal less suitin, lass, nor iver awst ha' thowt. aw saw yo walkin aat one neet, befoor yo'd getten wed; aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho aw dooant know what he sed. but he'd his arm araand thi waist, an tho' thi face wor hid, aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:- that's what aw niver did. aw thowt tha'd order him away, an' mak a fearful row, but tha niver tuk noa nooatice, just as if tha didn't know. awm hawf inclined to think sometimes, aw've been a trifle soft, aw happen should a' dun't misen? aw've lang'd to do it oft. thar't lost to me, but if a chonce should turn up by-an-by, if aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits, that isn't t'reason why. my gronfayther's days. a'a, jonny! a'a johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! but come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee, for it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha says:-ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronofayther's days. when aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then, but nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; for they smook, an' they drink, an' get other bad ways; things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days. aw remember th' furst day aw went a coortin' a bit, an' walked aght thi granny;--awst niver forget; for we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;-it wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's nooa lasses nah, john, 'at's fit to be wed; they've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; they're a make up o' buckram, an' waddin', an' stays, but a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days. at that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor, but nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; he's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah, but ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; an' ther's telegraff poles all o'th edge o'th' highways, whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days. we're teld to be thankful for blessin's at's sent, an' aw hooap 'at tha'll allus be blessed wi' content; tha mun make th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, but aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days. heart brocken. he wor a poor hard workin lad, an' shoo a workin lass: an' hard they tew'd throo day to day, for varry little brass. an' oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin' day, an' lang'd for th' happy time, when poverty noa moor should part, two lovers i' ther prime. but wark wor scarce, an' wages low an' mait an' drink wor dear, they did ther best to struggle on, as year crept after year. but they wor little better off, nor what they'd been befoor; it tuk 'em all ther time to keep grim want aatside 'oth' door. soa things went on, wol hope at last, gave place to dark despair; they felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts, an' want an toil to share. at length he screw'd his courage up to leave his native shore; an' goa where wealth wor worshipped less, an' men wor valued moor. he towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear just glistened in her e'e; then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen, but think sometimes o' me: an' whether tha's gooid luck or ill, tha knows aw shall be glad to see thee safe at hooam agean, an' welcome back mi lad." "awl labor on, an' do mi best; tho' lonely aw must feel, but awst be happy an content if tha be dooin weel. but ne'er forget tho' waves may roll, an' keep us far apart; thas left a poor, poor lass behind, an taen away her heart." "dost think 'at aw can e'er forget, wheariver aw may rooam, that bonny face an' lovin heart, awve prized soa dear at hoam? nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this, 'at till next time we meet tha'll be mi first thowt ivery morn, an' last thowt ivery neet." he went a way an' years flew by, but tidins seldom came; shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh, but breathed noa word o' blame; when one fine day a letter came, 'twor browt to her at th' mill, shoo read it, an' her tremlin bands, an' beating heart stood still. her fellow workers gathered raand an caught her as shoo fell, an' as her heead droop'd o' ther arms, shoo sighed a sad "farewell. poor lass! her love had proved untrue, he'd play'd a traitor's part, he'd taen another for his bride, an' broke a trustin heart." her doleful story sooin wor known, an' monny a tear wor shed; they took her hooam an' had her laid, upon her humble bed; shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come her burial fees to pay; but some poor comrade's undertuk, to see her put away. each gave what little helps they could, from aat ther scanty stoor; i' hopes 'at some at roll'd i' wealth wod give a trifle moor. but th' maisters ordered 'em away, abaat ther business, sharp! for shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice, an' shoo hadn't fell'd her warp. to a daisy, found blooming march 7th. a'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin, little daisy! pray, whativer wor ta doin? are ta crazy? winter winds are blowin' yet, tha'll be starved, mi little pet. did a gleam'o' sunshine warm thee, an deceive thee? niver let appearance charm thee, for believe me, smiles tha'll find are oft but snares, laid to catch thee unawares. still aw think it luks a shame, to tawk sich stuff; aw've lost faith, an tha'll do th' same, hi, sooin enuff: if tha'rt happy as tha art trustin' must be th' wisest part. come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan, raand thi dwellin'; they may screen thee when aw've gooan ther's no tellin'; an' when gentle spring draws near aw'll release thee, niver fear. an' if then thi pratty face, greets me smilin'; aw may come an' sit bith' place, time beguilin'; glad to think aw'd paar to be, ov some use, if but to thee. a bad sooart. aw'd raythur face a redwut brick, sent flyin' at mi heead; aw'd raythur track a madman's steps, whearivei they may leead; aw'd raythur ventur in a den, an' stail a lion's cub: aw'd raythur risk the foamin wave in an old leaky tub; aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray, whear bullets thickest shower; nor trust a mean, black hearted man, at's th' luck to be i' power. a redwut brick may miss its mark, a madman change his whim; a lion may forgive a theft; a leaky tub may swim; bullets may pass yo harmless by, an' leave all safe at last; a thaasand thunders shake the sky, an' spare yo when they've past; yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease; make poverty yo'r friend; but wi' a mean, blackhearted man, noa mortal can contend. ther's malice in his kindest smile, his proffered hand's a snare; he's plannin deepest villany, when seemingly mooast fair; he leads yo' on wi' oily tongue, swears he's yo're fastest friend. he get's yo' once within his coils, an' crushes yo' ith' end. old nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat, an' seeks whom to devour; but he's a saint, compared to some, 'at's th' luk to be i' power. all we had. it worn't for her winnin ways, nor for her bonny face but shoo wor th' only lass we had, an that quite alters th' case. we'd two fine lads as yo need see, an' weel we love 'em still; but shoo war th' only lass we had, an' we could spare her ill. we call'd her bi mi mother's name, it saanded sweet to me; we little thowt ha varry sooin awr pet wod have to dee. aw used to watch her ivery day, just like a oppenin bud; an' if aw couldn't see her change, aw fancied' at aw could. throo morn to neet her little tongue wor allus on a stir; awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp, but nooan at lispt like her. sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks, 'at childer shouldn't play; but then, they wor soa nicely done, we let her have her way. but bit bi bit her spirits fell, her face grew pale an' thin; for all her little fav'rite toys shoo didn't care a pin. aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads, wi monny a doleful nod; aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still aw couldn't think shoo wod. day after day my wife an' me, bent o'er that suff'rin child, shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me, then shut her een an' smiled. at last her spirit pass'd away; her once breet een wor dim; shoo'd heeard her maker whisper 'come,' an' hurried off to him. fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve, for god's will must be best; but when yo've lost a child yo've loved, it puts yor faith to th' test. we pick'd a little bit o' graand, whear grass and daisies grew, an' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon ther solemn shadows threw. we saw her laid to rest, within that deep grave newly made; wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall, on th' handle ov his spade. it troubled us to walk away, an' leeav her bi hersen; th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide, we'd niver felt till then. but th' hardest task wor yet to come, that pang can ne'er be towld; 'twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't, an' locked her aat i'th' cowld. 'twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek, 'twor then aw felt mooast sad; for shoo'd been sich a tender plant, an' th' only lass we had. but nah we're growin moor resign'd, although her face we miss; for he's blest us wi another, an we've hopes o' rearin this, give it 'em hot. give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins! souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words! out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins! daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's! what does it matter if truth be unpleasant? are we to lie a man's pride to exalt! why should a prince be excused, when a peasant is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault? o, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin; an honest man still should be fearless and bold; but at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin, an' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold. give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en, if aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee; aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden, nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee. let ivery man by his merit be tested, net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back; let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested, an' what they're entitled to, that let em tak. give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin, all yo 'at profess others failins to tell, 'at yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin, if yo set an example, an' improve yorsel. th' honest hard worker. it's hard what poor fowk mun put u'p wi'! what insults an' snubs they've to tak! what bowin an' scrapin's expected, if a chap's a black coit on his back. as if clooas made a chap ony better, or riches improved a man's heart, as if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart. give me one, hard workin, an' honest, tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse; if it's muck 'ats been getten bi labor, it does'nt mak th' man ony worse. awm sick o' thease simpering dandies, 'at think coss they've getten some brass, they've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers, an' curl up their nooas as they pass. it's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin, to be curlin an' partin ther hair; an' seekin one's own fun and pleasure, niver thinkin ha others mun fare. it's all varry weel to be spendin ther time at a hunt or a ball, but if th' workers war huntin an' doncin, whativer wad come on us all? ther's summat beside fun an' frolic to live for, aw think, if we try; th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky. tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful, an' awve oft felt a want on't misen, yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin, but it wodn't do long withaat men. one truth they may put i' ther meersham, an' smoke it--that is if they can; a man may mak hooshuns o' riches, but riches can ne'er mak a man. then give me that honest hard worker, 'at labors throo marnin to neet, tho' his rest may be little an' seldom, yet th' little he gets he finds sweet. he may rank wi' his wealthier brother, an' rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some; for a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor is a passport to th' world 'at's to come. for we know it's a sin to be idle, as man's days i' this world are but few; then let's all wi' awr lot 'be contented, an' continue to toil an' to tew. for ther's one thing we all may be sure on, if we each do awr best wol we're here, 'at when, th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on, we shall have varry little to fear. an' at last, when, we throw daan awr tackle, an' are biddin farewell to life's stage, may we hear a voice whisper at partin, "come on, lad! tha's haddled thi wage;" niver heed. let others boast ther bit o' brass, that's moor nor aw can do; aw'm nobbut one o'th' working class, 'at's strugglin to pool throo; an' if it's little 'at aw get, it's littie 'at aw need; an' if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit, aw try to niver heed. some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts, an' mourn ther sorry fate, becoss they can't keep sarvent men, an' dine off silver plate; aw think they'd show more gradely wit to listen to my creed, an' things they find they cannot get, why, try to niver heed. ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls, an' letters to ther name; but happiness despises walls, it's nooan a child o' fame. a robe may lap a woeful chap, whose heart wi grief may bleed, wol rags may rest on joyful breast, soa hang it! niver heed! th' sun shines as breet for me as them, an' th' meadows smell as sweet, th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead, an' th' flaars smile at mi feet, an' when a hard day's wark is done, aw ait mi humble feed, mi appetite's a relish fun, soa hang it, niver heed. sing on. sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; aw cannot sing; a claad hings ovver me, do what aw con fresh troubles spring. aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, aw'd leave mi cares an be a burd to-day. mi heart war once as full o' joy as thine, but nah it's sad; aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, sich faith aw had;-but he who promised aw should be his wife has robb'd me o' mi ivery joy i' life. sing on: tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; yet, when aw hear thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an' strong, aw feel a tear roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, a gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief. this little darlin', cuddled to mi breast, it little knows, when snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'at all mi woes are smothered thear, an' mi poor heart ud braik but just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake. sing on; an' if tha e'er should chonce to see that faithless swain, whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, strike up thy strain, an' if his heart yet answers to thy trill fly back to me, an' aw will love him still. but if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel all hope is o'er, an' he that aw believed an' loved soa weel be loved noa more; for that hard heart, bird music cannot move, is far too cold a dwellin'-place for love. what aw want. gie me a little humble cot, a bit o' garden graand, set in some quiet an' sheltered spot, wi' hills an' trees all raand; an' if besides mi hooam ther flows a little mumuring rill, at sings sweet music as it gooas, awst like it better still. gie me a wife 'at loves me weel, an' childer two or three, wi' health to sweeten ivery meal, an' hearts brimful o' glee. gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil mi efforts to engage, gie me a maister who can smile when forkin aght mi wage. gie me a friend 'at aw can trust, 'an tell mi secrets to; one tender-hearted, firm an' just, who sticks to what is true. gie me a pipe to smook at neet, a pint o' hooam-brew'd ale, a faithful dog 'at runs to meet me wi a waggin tail. a cat to purr o'th' fender rims, to freeten th' mice away; a cosy bed to rest mi limbs throo neet to commin day. gie me all this, an' aw shall be content, withaat a daat, but if denied, then let me be content to live withaat. for 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess can purchase pleasures true; for he's th' best chonce o' happiness, whose wants are small an' few. what it is to be mother. a'a, dear! what a life has a mother! at leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, an' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee. ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder old joab, wol his patience wor done. they're i' mischief i' ivery corner, an' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; ther's one shaatin' "little jack horner," an' another "the realms o' the blest." aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, they mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; for quiet yo niver can catch 'em unless they're asleep an' i' bed. for ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'at one on em's takken wi' fits; or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, an' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits. in a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, but bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; to keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, yo know 'at ther's summat to do. when my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', aw try to be gradely, an' straight; for when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', he enjoys better what ther's to ait. if aw tell him aw'm varry near finished wi allus been kept in a fuss, he says, as he looks up astonished, "why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does." but aw wonder who does all ther mendin', weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags? but for me they'd have noa spot to stand in- they'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags. but it allus wor soa, an' it will be, a chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; but it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, for men havn't a morsel o' thowt. but just harken to me wol aw'm tellin' ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; an' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', for aw want nowt but what aw think's reight. ov a monday aw start o' my weshin', an' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; ov a tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, an' mangle, an' iron beside. ov a wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; ov a thursday aw reckon to brew; ov a friday all th' carpets want shakin', an' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo. then o'th' setterday, after mi markets, stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend, then aw've all th' sundy clooas to luk ovver, an' that brings a week's wark to its end. then o'th' sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, it's ther only warm meal in a wick; tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, for it's paving mi way to old nick. but a chap mun be like to ha' summat, an' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang. but if yor a wife an' a mother, yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, an' to yor own comforts be blind. but still, just to seer all ther places, when they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; it's nooan a despisable seet. an, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'at if single, aw sooin should be playin' coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean. what is it. what is it maks a crusty wife forget to scold, an' leeave off strife? what is it smoothes the rooad throo life? it's sooap. what is it maks a gaumless muff grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff, woll better men can't get enough? it's sooap. what is it, if it worn't theear, wod mak some fowk feel varry queer, an' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere? it's sooap. what is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, to goa to th' church, becoss they know 'at th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa? it's sooap. what is it gains fowk invitations, throo them 'at live i' lofty stations? what is it wins mooast situations? it's sooap. what is it men say they detest, yet alus like that chap the best 'at gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest? it's sooap. what is it, when the devil sends his agents raand to work his ends, what is it gains him lots o' friends? it's sooap. what is it we should mooast despise, an' by its help refuse to rise, tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes? it's sooap. what is it, when life's wastin' fast, when all this world's desires are past, will prove noa use to us at last? it's sooap. come thi ways! bonny lassie, come thi ways, an' let us goa together! tho' we've met wi stormy days, ther'll be some sunny weather: an' if joy should spring for me, tha shall freely share it; an' if trouble comes to thee, aw can help to bear it. tho thi mammy says us nay, an' thi dad's unwillin'; wod ta have me pine away wi' this love 'at's killin'? come thi ways, an' let me twine mi arms once moor abaght thee; weel tha knows mi heart is thine, aw couldn't live withaat thee. ivery day an' haar 'at slips, some pleasure we are missin', for those bonny rooasy lips aw'm niver stall'd o' kissin', if men wor wise to walk life's track withaat sith joys to glad 'em, he must ha' made a sad mistak 'at gave a eve to adam. advice to jenny. jenny, jenny, dry thi ee, an' dunnot luk soa sad; it grieves me varry mich to see tha freeats abaat yon lad; for weel tha knows, withaat a daat, wheariver he may be, tho fond o' rammellin' abaat, he's allus true to thee. tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while, for wisdom comes wi' time, an' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile at troubles sich as thine; a faithful chap is better far, altho' he likes to rooam, nor one 'at does what isn't reight, an' sits o'th' hearth at hooam. tha needn't think 'at wedded life noa disappointment brings; tha munnot think to keep a chap teed to thi appron strings: soa dry thi een, they're varry wet, an' let thi heart be glad, for tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet, tha's wed a honest lad. ther's mony a lady, rich an' great, 'at's sarvents at her call, wod freely change her grand estate for thine tha thinks soa small: for riches cannot buy content, soa tho' thi joys be few, tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,- a heart 'at's kind an' true. soa when he comes luk breet an' gay, an' meet him wi' a kiss, tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay wi treatment sich as this; but if thi een luk red like that, he'll see all's wrang at once, he'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat, an' bolt if he's a chonce. ther's mich expected. life's pathway is full o' deep ruts, an' we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble; man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts," it'seems pairt ov his natur to grumble. but if we'd anxiously tak to makkin' things smooth as we're able, ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back, an' monny a better spread table. it's a sad state o' things when a man connot put ony faith in his brother, an' fancies he'll chait if he can, an' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another. an' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand high in social position an' power, to know at ther fortuns wor plann'd an' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower. it's sad to see luxury rife, an' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted; while others are wearin' aat life, with the furst drops o' pleasure untasted. some in carriages rollin' away, to a ball, or a rout, or a revel; but their chariots may bear 'em some day varry near to the gates ov the devil. oh! charity surely is rare, or ther'd net be soa monny neglected; for ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare, an' from them varry mich is expected. an' tho' in this world they've ther fill of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded, let deeath come--as surely it will- they'll be then ov ther duties reminded. an' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear, say "the hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew," that sentence shall fall on their ear- "depart from me; i never knew you." then, oh! let us do what we can, nor with this world's goods play the miser; if it's wise to lend money to man, to lend to the lord must be wiser. a strange stooary. aw know some fowk will call it crime, to put sich stooaries into ryhme, but yet, contentedly aw chime mi simple ditty: an if it's all a waste o' time, the moor's the pity. ------o'er wibsey slack aw coom last neet, wi' reekin heead and weary feet, a strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; he made mi start; but pluckin up, aw did him greet wi beatin heart. his dress wor black as black could be, an th' latest fashion aw could see, but yet they hung soa dawderly, like suits i' shops; bith heart! yo mud ha putten three sich legs i'th' slops. says aw, "owd trump, it's rather late for one at's dress'd i' sich a state, across this slack to mak ther gate: is ther some pairty? or does ta allus dress that rate- black duds o'th' wairty?" he twisted raand as if to see what sooart o' covy aw cud be, an' grinned wi sich a maath at me, it threw me sick! "lor saves!" aw cried, "an' is it thee at's call'd ow'd nick!" but when aw luk'd up into th' place, whear yo'd expect to find a face; a awful craytur met mi gaze, it took mi puff: "gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, aw've seen enough!" then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, he tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, an' soa aw stop't a bit to hear what things he'd ax; but as he spake his, teeth rang clear, like knick-a-nacks. "a'a, jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee net knowin sich a chap as me; for oft when tha's been on a spree, aw've been thear too; but tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, tha's just edged throo. mi name is deeath--tha needn't start, and put thi hand upon thi heart, for tha ma see 'at aw've noa dart wi which to strike; let's sit an' tawk afoor we part, o'th edge o'th dyke." "nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad, for bobby burns tells me tha had a scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, gad! tha worn't dress'd i' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad across thi breast!" "well, jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat to find me' wanderin abaght; but th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat a job to do; mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, mi arrows too." "yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'at fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?" "noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see when th' truth aw tell! fowk do withaat mi darts an me, thev kill thersel. they do it too at sich a rate wol mi owd system's aght o' date; what we call folly, they call fate; an' all ther pleasur is ha' to bring ther life's estate to th' shortest measur. they waste ther time, an' waste ther gains, o' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains, for ever swimmin, an' if a bit o' sense remains, it's fun i'th wimmen. tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft, e'er made as monny deead or daft, as gin an' rum, an' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft at me, bi gum! but if they thus goa on to swill, they'll not want wilfrid lawson's bill, for give a druffen chap his fill, an sooin off pops he, an teetotal fowk moor surely still, will dee wi th' dropsy. it's a queer thing at sich a nation can't use a bit o' moderation; but one lot rush to ther damnation through love o'th bottle: wol others think to win salvation wi being teetotal." wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "let liquors be, sup ale asteead, an' tha'll be better, an' dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard like a dead letter." "why deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, yo come to fotch us chaps away! but this seems strange, soa tell me pray, ha wor't yo coom? wor it to tell us keep away, yo hav'nt room?" "stop whear tha art, jack, if tha dar but tha'll find spirits worse bi far sarved aght i' monny a public bar, at's thowt quite lawful; nor what tha'll find i'th' places par sons call soa awful." "gooid bye!" he sed, an' off he shot, leavin behind him sich a lot o' smook, as blue as it wor hot! it set me stewin! soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot ov us own brewin. --------if when yo've read this stooary through, yo daat if it's exactly true, yo'll nobbut do as others do, yo may depend on't. blow me! aw ommost daat it too, so thear's an end on't take heart. roughest roads, we often find, lead us on to th' nicest places; kindest hearts oft hide behind some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces. flaars' whose colors breetest are, oft delight awr wond'ring seet; but thers others, humbler far, smell a thaasand times as sweet. burds o' monny color'd feather, please us as they skim along, but ther charms all put together, connot equal th' skylark's song. bonny women--angels seemin,- set awr hearts an' brains o' fire; but its net ther beauties; beamin, its ther gooidness we admire. th' bravest man 'at's in a battle, isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray; he best proves his might an' mettle, who remains to win the day. monkey's an' vain magpies chatter, but it doesn't prove em wise; an it's net wi noise an' clatter, men o' sense expect to rise. 'tisn't them 'at promise freely, are mooast ready to fulfill; an' 'tisn't them 'at trudge on dreely 'at are last at top o'th' hill. bad hauf-craans may pass as payment, gaudy flaars awr een beguile; women may be loved for raiment, show may blind us for a while; but we sooin grow discontented, an' for solid worth we sigh, an' we leearn to prize the jewel, tho it's hidden from the eye. him 'at thinks to gether diamonds as he walks along his rooad, niver need be tired wi' huggin, for he'll have a little looad. owt 'at's worth a body's winnin mun be toiled for long an' hard; an' tho' th' struggle may be pinnin, perseverance wins reward. earnest thowt, an' constant striving, ever wi' one aim i'th' seet; tho' we may be late arrivin, yet at last we'st come in reight. he who will succeed, he must, when he's bid false hopes farewell. if he firmly fix his trust in his god, and in hissel, did yo iver. gooid gracious! cried susy, one fine summer's morn, here's a bonny to do! aw declare! aw wor niver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born! aw near saw sich a seet at a fair. here, sally! come luk! ther's a maase made its nest reight ith' craan o' mi new sundy bonnet! haiver its fun its way into this chist, that caps me! aw'm fast what to mak on it! its cut! sithee thear! it's run reight under th' bed! an luk here! what's'theas little things stirrin? if they arn't some young uns at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred, may aw be as deead as a herrin! but what does ta say? "aw mun draand 'em?" nooan soa! just luk ha they're seekin ther mother; shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa; for awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother. but its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear, for mi old en's net fit to be seen in an' this new en, awm thinkin, ul luk rayther queer, after sich a rum lot as thats been in. but shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say; yo mun keep a sharp e'e or shoo'll chait us; ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! an pray what mun become o' thease poor helpless crayturs? a'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet, 'at's a roof o' ther own to cawer under, for if we'd to seek ony nook we could get, whativer 'ud come on us aw wonder? we should nooan on us like to be turned aat o' door, wi a lot a young bairns to tak 'care on: ah' although awm baat bonnet, an think misen poor, what little aw have yo'st have t'share on. that poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm, shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me; all shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an' warm, an' a gooid two o'-three shillin its lost me. aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk, they'll be aristocratical varmin; but awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk, an' na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin. bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! if we try, awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em, but as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly! never mind' if aw dooant! harum scarum! an old man's christmas morning. its a long time sin' thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,- soa pull up thi cheer, an' sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee: thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,- yet mi heart feels glad, to see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek, an' a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e. thi limbs seem to totter an' shake, like a crazy owd fence, 'at th' wind maks to tremel an' creak; but tha still fills thi place; an' it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense, 'at i' spite o' thi years an' thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face. come fill up thi pipe- for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,- an' tha'll find a drop o' hooarm-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say; an' nah, wol tha'rt toastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an' aw'll side thi owd stick, then aw'll tell thi some things 'ats happen'd sin tha went away. an' first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd, for trials an' troubles have come, an' mi heart has felt well nigh to braik; an' mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an' mi fortuns has shared, shoo bent under her griefs, an' shoo's flown far, far away aat o' ther raik. my life's like an owd gate 'ats nobbut one hinge for support, an' sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely- at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust; but it hasn't to be, for it seems life maks me his spooart, an' deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust. last neet as aw sat an' watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire, as it cracked, an' sparkled, an' flared up wi' sich gusto an' spirit, an' when it wor touch'd it shone breeter, an' flared up still higher, till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it. th' dull saand o' th' church bells coom to tell me one moor christmas mornin', had come, for its welcome- but ha could aw welcome it when all aloan? for th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an' th' cold wind wor moanin, an' them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stoan: soa aw went to bed an' aw slept, an' then began dreamin, 'at mi wife stood by mi side, an' smiled, an' mi heart left off its beatin', an' aw put aat mi hand, an' awoke, an' mornin' wor gleamin'; an' its made me feel sorrowful, an aw cannot give ovver freatin. for aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha' been, if awd goan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin', nor sorrow, for aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha' seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. it's forty' long summers an' winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye," an' as fine a young fella tha wor, as iver aw met i' mi life; when tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try, an' aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife. an' shoo wor a bonny young wench, an' better nor bonny,- aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee, an' we called it ann, for aw liked that name best ov ony, an' fowk said it wor th' pictur o' th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me. an' th' next wor a lad, an' th' next wor a lad! then a lass came,- that made us caant six,- an' six happier fowk niver sat to a meal, an' they grew like hop plants--full o' life- but waikly i' th' frame, an' at last one drooped, an' deeath coom an' marked her with his seal. a year or two moor an' another seemed longin to goa, an' all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter-then th' third seemed to sicken an' pine, an' we couldn't say "noa," for he said his sister had called, an' he wor most anxious to meet her-an' how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen, for we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish; at last her call came, an' shoo luked sich a luk at us then, which aw ne'er shall forget, tho mi mem'ry ov all other things perish. a few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten, mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an' strong? an' aw niver saw at her face wor beginning to whiten, till sho grew like a shadow, an' aw couldn't even guess wrong. then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel, an' he said "this last maks five, an' aw think ther's just room for another," an' aw went an' left him, lonely an' heartsick to travel, till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an' ther mother. an' aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha been if aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow; an aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should niver ha seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. billy bumble's bargain. young billy bumble bowt a pig, soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say; an' mony a mile he had to trig one sweltin' summer day; but billy didn't care a fig, he said he'd mak it pay; he _knew_ it wor a bargain, an' he cared net who said nay. he browt it hooam to ploo croft loin, but what wor his surprise to find all th' neighbors standing aat, we oppen maaths an' eyes; "by gow!" sed billy, to hissen, "this pig _must_ be a prize!" an' th' wimmen cried, "gooid gracious fowk! but isn't it a size?" then th' chaps sed, "billy, where's ta been? whativer has ta browt? that surely isn't crayture, lad, aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt? it luks moor like a donkey, does ta think 'at it con rawt?" but billy crack'd his carter's whip. an' answered' em wi' nowt. an' reight enuff it war a pig, if all they say is true, its length war five foot eight or nine, its height wor four foot two; an' when it coom to th' pig hoil door, he couldn't get it through, unless it went daan ov its knees, an' that it wodn't do. then billy's mother coomed to help, an' hit it wi' a mop; but thear it wor, an' thear it seem'd detarmined it 'ud stop; but all at once it gave a grunt, an' oppen'd sich a shop; an' finding aat 'at it wor lick'd, it laup'd clean ovver th' top. his mother then shoo shook her heead, an' pool'd a woeful face; "william," shoo sed, "tha shouldn't bring sich things as theas to th' place. aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink thi mother i' disgrace; but if tha buys sich things as thease aw'm feared it will be th' case!" "nah, mother, niver freat." sed bill, "its one aw'm goin to feed, its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know, but that's becoss o'th' breed; if its a trifle long i'th' grooin, why hang it! niver heed! aw know its net a beauty, _but its cheap, it is, indeed!"_ "well time 'ul try," his mother sed,- an' time at last did try; for niver sich a hungry beeast had been fed in a sty. "what's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, billy!" wor th' neighbors' daily cry; "aw connot tell yo yet," sed bill, "aw'll weigh it bye an' bye." an' hard poor billy persevered, but all to noa avail, it swallow'd all th' mait it could get, an' wod ha' swallow'd th' pail; but billy took gooid care to stand o'th' tother side o'th' rail; but fat it didn't gain as mich as what 'ud greeas its tail. pack after pack o' mail he bowt, until he'd bought fourteen; but net a bit o' difference i'th' pig wor to be seen: its legs an' snowt wor just as long as iver they had been; poor billy caanted rib bi rib an' heaved a sigh between. one day he, mix'd a double feed, an' put it into th' troff; "tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed, "aw'll awther stawl thee off, or else aw'll brust thi hide--that is unless 'at its to toff!" an' then he left it wol he went his mucky clooas to doff. it worn't long befoor he coom to see ha matters stood; he luk'd at th' troff, an' thear it wor, five simple bits o' wood, as cleean scraped aat as if it had ne'er held a bit o' food; "tha slotch!" sed bill, "aw do believe tha'd ait me if tha could." next day he browt a butcher, for his patience had been tried, an' wi a varry deeal to do, its legs wi rooap they tied; an' then his shinin knife he drew an' stuck it in its side-it mud ha been a crockadile, bi th' thickness ov its hide. but blooid began to flow, an' then its long legg'd race wor run; they scalded, scraped, an' hung it up, an' when it all wor done, fowk coom to guess what weight it wor, and mony a bit o' fun they had, for billy's mother said "it ought to weigh a ton." billy wor walkin up an' daan, dooin nowt but fume an' fidge! he luk'd at th' pig--then daan he set, i'th nook o'th' window ledge, he saw th' back booan wor sticken aght, like th' thin end ov a wedge; it luk'd like an' owd blanket hung ovver th' winterhedge. his mother rooar'd an' th' wimmen sigh'd, but th' chaps did nowt but laff; poor billy he could hardly bide, to sit an' hear ther chaff-then up he jumped, an' off he run, but whear fowk niver knew; an' what wor th' warst, when mornin' coom, th' deead pig had mizzled too. th' chaps wander'd th' country far an' near, until they stall'd thersen; but nawther billy nor his pig coom hooam agean sin then; but oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet, near shibden's ruined mill, the gooast o' billy an' his pig may be seen runnin still. moral. yo fowk 'ats tempted to goa buy be careful what yo do; dooant be persuaded coss "its _cheap_," for if yo do yo'll rue; dooant think its lowerin to yor sen to ax a friend's advice, else like poor billy's pig, 't may be bowt dear at ony price. rejected. gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss is hard to bide! for it wod ha' been a shame, had tha ivver been the bride of a workin chap like me; one 'ats nowt but love to gie. hard hoot'd neives like thease o' mine. surely ne'er wor made to press hands so lily-white as thine; nor should arms like thease caress one so slender, fair, an' pure, 'twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure. but thease tears aw cannot stay, drops o' sorrow fallin fast, hopes once held aw've put away as a dream, an think its past; but mi poor heart loves thi still, an' wol life is mine it will. when aw'm seated, lone and sad, wi mi scanty, hard won meal, one thowt still shall mak me glad, thankful that alone aw feel what it is to tew an'strive just to keep a soul alive. th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form, an' wild winds rush madly raand, but it whistles to the storm, in the barren home it's faand; natur fits it to be poor, an 'twor vain to strive for moor. if it for a lily sighed, an' a lily chonced to grow, when it found the fair one died, powerless to brave the blow of the first rude gust o' wind, which had left its wreck behind. then 'twod own 'twor better fate niver to ha' held the prize; whins an' lilies connot mate, sich is not ther destinies; then 'twor wrang for one like me, one soa poor, to sigh for thee. then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss it's hard to bide, for it wod ha' been a shame had tha iver been mi bride; content aw'll wear mi lonely lot, tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not. duffin johnie. (a rifleman's adventure.) th' mooin shone breet wi silver leet, an' th' wind wor softly sighin, th' burds did sleep, an' th' snails did creep, an' th' buzzards wor a flying; th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, an' th buttercups wor weary, when jenny went to meet her john, her rifleman, her dearie. her johnny seemed as brave a lad as iver held a rifle, an' if ther wor owt in him bad, 'twor nobbut just a trifle he wore a suit o' sooity grey, to show 'at he wor willin to feight for th' queen and country when perfect in his drillin. his heead wor raand, his back wor straight, his legs wor long an' steady, his fist wor fully two pund weight, his heart wor true an' ready; his upper lip wor graced at th' top wi mustache strong and bristlin, it railly wor a spicy crop; yo'd think to catch him whistlin. his buzzum burned wi' thowt's o' war, he long'd for battles clatter. he grieved to think noa foeman dar to cross a sup o' watter; he owned one spot,--an' nobbut one, within his heart wor tender, an' as his darlin had it fun, he'd be her bold defender. at neet he donn'd his uniform, war trials to endure, an' helped his comrades brave, to storm a heap ov horse manure! they said it wor a citidel, fill'd wi' some hostile power, they boldly made a breach, and well they triumph'd in an hour. they did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (that spoils one's breeches sadly), but th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, an' scented 'em as badly; ther wor noa slain to hug away, noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, they lived to feight another day, an' spend ther neets i' rantin. brave johnny's rooad wor up a loin where all wor dark an' shaded, part grass, part stooans, part sludge an' slime but quickly on he waded; an' nah an' then he cast his e'e an luk'd behund his shoulder. he worn't timid, noa net he! he crack'd, "he knew few bolder." but once he jumped, an' said "oh dear!" becoss a beetle past him, but still he wor unknown to fear, he'd tell yo if yo asked him; he couldn't help for whispering once, this loin's a varry long un, a chap wod have but little chonce wi thieves, if here amang em. an' all at once he heeard a voice cry out, "stand and deliver! your money or your life, mak choice, before your brains i shiver;" he luk'd all raand, but failed to see a sign of livin craytur, then tremlin dropt upon his knee, fear stamp'd on ivery faytur. "gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, mi belts, mi ammunition, aw've nowt but th' clooas at's o' mi back oh pity mi condition; aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass, aw'd gie thi ivery fardin; aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass, at tate's berry garden." "aw wish shoo wor, aw daoant care where, its her fault aw've to suffer;" just then a whisper in his ear said, "johnny, thar't a duffer," he luk'd, an' thear claise to him stuck wor jenny, burst wi' lafter; "a'a, john," shoo says, "aw've tried thi pluck, aw'st think o' this at after." "an when tha tells what thinga tha'll do, an' booasts o' manly courage, aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, go hooam an' get thi porrige." "why jenny wor it thee," he said "aw fancied aw could spy thi, aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid, aw did it but to trie thi." "just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis aw hear thi heart a beatin, an' tak this claat to wipe thi phiz gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin; thar't brave noa daat, an' tha can crow like booastin cock-a-doodle, but nooan sich men for me, aw vow, when wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.' lost love. shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass her een as black as sloas, her hair a flying' thunner claad, her cheeks a blowing rooas; her smile coom like a sunny gleam her cherry lips to curl; her voice wor like a murm'ring stream at flowed through banks o' pearl. aw long'd to claim her for mi own, but nah mi love is crost; an aw mun wander on alooan, an' mourn for her aw've lost. aw couldn't ax her to be mine, wi' poverty at th' door: aw niver thowt breet een could shine wi' love for one so poor; but nah ther's summat i' mi breast, tells me aw miss'd mi way: an' lost that lass i loved th' best throo fear shoo'd say me nay. aw long'd to claim her for, &c, aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, an' oft i'th' dark o'th' neet; aw've knelt mi daan i'th loin to find prints ov her tiny feet: an' under th' window, like a thief, aw've crept to hear her spaik, an' then aw've hurried home agean for fear mi heart ud braik. aw long'd to claim her for, &c, another bolder nor misen, has robb'd me o' mi dear, an' nah aw ne'er may share her joy an' ne'er may dry her tear; but though aw'm heartsick, lone, an' sad, an' though hope's star is set, to know she's lov'd as aw'd ha' lov'd wod mak me happy yet. aw long'd to claim her for, &c, th' traitle sop. once in a little country taan a grocer kept a shop, and sell'd amang his other things, prime traitle drink and pop, teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice, soft soap an' paader blue, presarves an' pickles, cinnamon, allspice an' pepper too; an' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff to sell to sich as came, as figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice, too numerous to name. one summer's day a waggon stood just opposite his door, an' th' childer all gaped raand as if they'd ne'er seen one afoor; an' in it wor a traitle cask, it wor a wopper too, to get it aat they all wor fast which iver way to do; but wol they stood an parley'd thear, th' horse gave a sudden chuck, an' aat it flew, an' bursting threw all th' traitle into th' muck. then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands, to them it seem'd rare fun, but th' grocer ommost lost his wits when he saw th' traitle run; he stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared he wodn't pay a meg, an'th' carter vow'd until he did he wodn't stir a peg. he said he'd done his business reight, he'd brought it up to th' door, an thear it wor, an' noa fair chap wad want him to do moor. but wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore, an' vented aat ther spleen, th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure, all plaisterd up to th' een, a neighbor chap saw th' state o' things, an' pitied ther distress, an' begg'd em not to be soa sour abaat soa sweet a mess; "an' tha'd be sour," th'owd grocer said, if th' job wor thine, owd lad, an' somdy wanted thee to pay for what tha'd niver had. "th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver "my duty's done i hope? i've brought him traitle, thear it is, an' he mun sam it up." soa th' neighbor left em to thersen, he'd nowt noa moor to say, but went to guard what ther wor left, and send th' young brood away: this didn't suit th' young lads a bit, they didn't mean to stop, they felt detarmin'd 'at they'd get another traitle sop. they tried all ways, but th' chap stood firm, they couldn't get a lick, an' some o' th' boldest gate a taste o'th neighbor's walkin sticks at last one said, i know a plan if we can scheam to do it, we'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt, an' let him roll reight throo it; agreed, agreed! they all replied, an here comes little jack, he's foorced to pass cloise up this side, we'll do it in a crack. poor jack war rather short, an' coom just like a suckin duck, he little dream'd at th' sweets o' life wod iver be his luck; but daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd heead first bang into th' mess, an' aat he coom a woeful sight, as yo may easy guess. they marched him off i' famous glee all stickified an' clammy, then licked him clean an' sent him hooam to get lick'd by his mammy. then th' cartdriver an th' grocer coom boath in a dreadful flutter, to save some, but they coom too lat, it all wor lost ith gutter: it towt a lesson to 'em boath before that job wor ended, to try (at stead o' falling aat) if ought went wrang to mend it. for wol fowk rave abaat ther loss, some sharper's sure to pop, an' aat o' ther misfortunes they'll contrive to get a sop.-to let. aw live in a snug little cot, an' tho' poor, yet aw keep aat o' debt, cloise by, in a big garden plot, stands a mansion, 'at long wor to let. twelve month sin' or somewhear abaat, a fine lukin' chap donned i' black, coom an' luk'd at it inside an' aat an' decided this mansion to tak. ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove an' masons, an' joiners, an' sweeps, an' a blacksmith to fit up a cove, an' bricks, stooans an' mortar i' heaps. ther wor painters, an' glazzeners too, to mend up each bit ov a braik, an' a lot 'at had nowt else to do, but to help some o'th 'tothers to laik. ther wor fires i' ivery range, they niver let th' harston get cooiled, throo th' celler to th' thack they'd a change, an' iverything all in a mooild. th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' hall, is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, but if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; he tells me to do it mysel. this hall lets for fifty a year, wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; when th' day come mi rent's allus thear, an' that's a gooid thing in its way, at th' last all th' repairers had done, an' th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, for aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din. then th' furniture started to come, waggon looads on it, all spankin new, rich crimson an' gold covered some, wol some shone i' scarlet an' blue. ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, an' picturs enuff for a show? they fill'd ivery corner awm sure, throo th' garret to th' kitchen below. one day when a cab drove to th' gate, th' new tenant stept aat, an' his wife, an' tawk abaat fashion an state! yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life. ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, an' aw could'nt help sayin', "bi'th mass;" as th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "a'a its grand to ha' plenty o' brass." ther wor butchers, an' bakers, an' snobs, an' grocers, an' milkmen, an' snips, all seekin' for orders an' jobs, an' sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips. aw sed to th' milk-chap tother day, "ha long does ta trust sich fowk, ike? each wick aw'm expected to pay," "fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like." things went on like this, day bi day, for somewhear cloise on for a year, wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin' that way; altho' aw wor livin soa near. but one neet when awd finished mi wark, an' wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, a chap rushes in aat 'o'th' dark throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire. says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" says aw, "lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "them 'at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "they've bolted an' diddled us cleean." aw tell'd him 'aw'd ne'er heeard a word, he cursed as he put on his hat, an' he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, an' paid nubdy owt, an' that's what." he left, an' aw crept off to bed, next day awd a visit throo ike, but aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "fine fowk tha knows pay when they like." ther's papers ith' winders, "to let," an' aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; they'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, tho they neer' do a hawpoth for me. but aw let 'em do just as they pleease, awm content tho' mi station is low, an' awm thankful sich hard times as thease if aw manage to pay what aw owe. this precept, friends, niver forget, for a wiser one has not been sed, be detamined to rise aat o' debt tho' yo go withaat supper to bed,--' fault finders. if ther's ony sooart o' fowk aw hate, it's them at's allus lukkin' aght for faults;--hang it up! they get soa used to it, wol they willn't see ony beauties if they are thear. they remind me ov a chap 'at aw knew at wed a woman 'at had a wart at th' end ov her nooas, but it war nobbut a little en, an' shoo wor a varry bonny lass for all that; but when they'd been wed a bit, an' th' newness had getten warn off, he began to fancy at this wart grew bigger ivery day, an' he stared at it, an' studied abaght it, wol when he luk'd at his wife he could see nowt else, an' he kept dinging her up wi' it wol shoo felt varry mich troubled. but one day, as they wor gettin' ther dinner, he said, "nay, lass, aw niver did see sich a thing as that wart o' thy nooas is growing into; if it gooas on tha'll be like a rhynockoroo or a newnicorn or summat!" "well," shoo says, "when tha wed me tha wed th' wart an' all, an' if tha doesn't like it tha con lump it." "aw've noa need to lump it," he says, "for it's lumpin' itsen or aw'll gie nowt for it." soa they went on, throo little to moor, till they'd a regular fratch, an' as sooin as' he'd getten his dinner, he off to his wark, an' shoo to her mother's. when jim coom back an' fan th' fire aght, an' noa wife, he felt rayther strange, but he wor detarmined to let her see 'at he could do baat her, soa he gate a bit o' summat to ait an' went to bed. this went on for two-o'-three days, an' he wor as miserable as iver he could be, but o'th' setterdy he happened to meet her i'th' shambles, an' they booath stopped an' grinned, for they'd nowt agean one another i'th' bothem. "nah, lass," he said, "aw think it's abaat time for thee to come hooam." "nay, aw'll come nooan," shoo says, "till aw've getten shut o' this wart." "oh, ne'er heed that, lass; it doesn't luk hauf as big as it did, an' if tha wor all wart, aw'd rayther have thi nor be as aw am." "soa shoo went back wi' him, an' throo that time to this he's allus luk'd for her beauties asteead ov her faults, an they get on swimmingly. one day shoo axed him if he thowt th' wart wor ony bigger?" "a'a lass," he sed, "thi een are soa breet, aw didn't know tha had one!" ----------------what aw want yo to do is to be charitable, an' if yo find ony faults, think--yo happen may have one or two yorsen. ther's net monny on us 'at's killed wi sense, but he hasn't th' leeast at's enuff to know he's a fooil. this world wad be a better spot, wi' joys moor thickly strown, if fowk cared less for others' faults an tried to mend ther own. there's plenty o' room for us all to mend, an' them 'at set abaat it sooinest are likely to be perfect furst; at ony rate, if we try it'll show willin'. disapointment. "blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall net be disappointed." aw once knew a chap they called old sammy; he used ta gaa wi a donkey, an th' mooast remarkable things abaat him wor his clogs an' his rags. sammy had niver been wed, tho' he war fifty years old, but it wor allus believed he'd managed ta save a bit a' brass. one day he war gain up hepenstull bunk, jenny o' jooans a' th' long lover wor goin up befoor him, an' whether it wor at her clogs were made a' his favrite pattern, or her ancles had summat abaat 'em different to what he'd iver seen befoor, aw cannot tell, but it seems a feelin coom ovver him all at once, sich as he'd niver had befoor, an' when he'd managed ta overtak her, he sed, "it's loaning for heeat aw think, jenny." "eea, aw think its likely for bein wut," shoo sed. "awve just been thinkin," sed sammy, "at if i wornt na a single old chap, aw shouldn't have to trail up an' daan in a lot a' rags like thease, for awm sure this jacket has hardly strength to hing o' mi rig, an' mi britches are soa full o' hoils wol awm feeared sometimes when awm puttin em on, at awst tummel throo an braik my neck." "well, reight enuff, a woife's varry useful at times," shoo sed, "but as tha hasn't one if tha'll learn mi thi jacket, aw'll see if it cannot be mended far thi a bit." "aw allus thowt tha war a gooid sooart, jenny, an' awl tak thi at thi word," he sed: so he pool'd off his coit an gave it her an' it were arranged 'at he should call for it next neet. you may bet yor life he didn't forget, an when he saw it mended up, an' brushed wol it luk'd ommost as gooid as new, he luk'd first at it an then at her, an at last he sed, "aw think we should be able to get on varry weel together, what says ta?" aw dooant know what shoo sed, but it wornt long befoor they wor wed, for sammy thowt shoo'd be worth her mait if it wor nobbut for mendin up his old duds. they hadn't been wed long, when he axed her to mend his britches.-"a'a," shoo sed, "aw cannot mend em, aw niver could sew i' mi life!" "why that is a tale," he sed, "tha mended mi jacket all reight!" "nay, indeed aw nawther!--aw mended nooon on it! aw sent it to th' tailor an paid for it doin." "then awm dropt on," sed sammy, "for aw expected tha'd be able to do all sich like wark." "tha should niver expect owt an' then tha willnt get dropt on," shoo sed.--"that, wor a bit o' varry gooid advice. work away. bonny lads, and bonny lasses! work away! work away! think how swift each moment passes, time does never stay. then let's up and to our labours, they who _will_, must sure succeed, he does best who best endeavours,- _try again_ shall be our creed. new machinery &c. it shows varry little sense for fowk to object to a new machine till they've tried it, or to fancy it'll be th' means o' smashin th' trade. luk at th' paaer looms; when they i wor started all th' hand-loom weyvers struck wark, becoss they said it ud do 'em all up, an' ther'd be noa wark at all for weyvers in a bit; but it hasn't turn'd aat soa, for ther's moor weyvers i'th' country to-day, nor iver ther wor; and they addle moor brass, an' awm sure they've easier wark. for if this country doesn't get new machines, other countries will, an' when we're left behund hand an' connot meet 'em i'th' market, we'st be a deeal war off nor ony new invention can mak us. all at's been done soa far has helped to mak us better off. they connot mak a machine to think, they're forced to stop thear; an' aw dooant daat if we'd to live long enuff, ther'd be a time when chaps ud ha nowt to do but think-but it's to be hoaped 'at they'd have summat else to think abaat nor rattenin', or shooitin', or ruinin' fowk. aw've tawk'd to some abaat it, an' they say they're foorced to do sum way to keep wages up, but if aw can tell em ha to mak brass goa farther, they'll be content to give up th' union. but aw think it goas far enuff--what they want is to keep it nearer hooam, to let less on it goa to th' ale haase, to spend less o' dog feightin', pigeon flyin', an' rat worryin'; an' if they'd niver spend owt withaat think in' whether it wor for ther gooid or net, they'd find a deal moor brass i'th' drawer corner at th' month end, an' varry likely a nice little bit to fall back on i'th' savings bank at th' year end. an a chap stands hauf an inch heigher when he's a bankbook in his pocket; an' butchers and grocers varry sooin begin to nod at him, an' ax if they can do owt for him. but if he goas on th'strap, an' happens to be a month behund, he's foorced to stand o' one side till iverybody else gets sarved, an' then if he doesn't like what's left they tell him to goa leave it. it isn't what a chap addles, it's what a chap saves 'at makes him rich. sellin' drink has made mony a chap rich, an suppin it has made thaasands poor. but still aw must honestly say 'at aw cannot agree wi' teetotalism altogether. if noa men gate drunken, ther'd be noa need for anybody to sign th' pledge;--an' aw dooant think they goa th' reight way to get fowk to be sober. they publish papers, but what use is made on em? yo hardly iver see a midden emptied but what yo'll find two or three pieces o'th' "british workman," or th' "temperance advocate" flyin' abaat; an' they hold meetings an' spend a sight o' brass o' printin' an' praichin', an' still they doant mak one teetotaller 'at ov a thaasand. aw should advise em to try this way. let em offer a â£500 prize for him 'at can invent a drink as gooid takin' as ale--an' one, 'at willn't mak fowk drunk. chaps mun sup summat when they're away throo hooam, an it is'nt iverybody's stumach 'at's strong enuff to tak watter, unless it's let daan wi summat; an' ther is noa teetotal drink invented yet 'at's any better nor spenishjuice-watter. they're all like pap. coffee an' tea are all weel enuff, but if yo want that yo munnot goa to a temperance hotel for it. aw'ye tried it monny a scoor times, but aw niver gate owt fit to sup, an' if it hadn't been for th' drop o' rum aw gate 'em to put into it, aw couldn't ha swallowed it. tea an' coffee are things 'at dooant mend wi' warmin up, an' yo connot allus wait woll fowk mak it, an' soa if yo want to sup yo mun awther goa an' beg a drop o' watter, or pay fourpence for a glass o' belly vengeance, or yo mun get a glass o' drink--but yo've noa need to get a dozzen. teetotallers say it contains poison, an' noa daat it does--but it's of a varry slow mak, an' if yo niver goa to excess yo may live to be a varry owd man, an' dee befoor it begins to operate, ther wor once a chap killed hissel wi' aitin traitle parkin, but that's noa reason we shouldn't have a bit o' brandy-snap at our fair. aw allus think a teetotal lecturer is like a bottle o' pop. ther's a bit ov a crack to 'start wi', an' a gooid deal o' fooamin, an' frothin', an' fizzin', but when it's all ovver, an' settled daan, what's left is varry poor stuff. still aw think one teetotaller is worth moor nor a ship-load o' drunkards. september month. blackberries are ripe in september, an' we may consider th' year's ripe, for when this month gets turned, things 'll begin o' gooin' th' back way. its vany wonderful when we look reight at it. this world's a wonderful spot, an' ther's a deal o' wonderful things in it. ther's some things at it's varry wonderful to see, an' ther's some things' at it's wonderful net to see. aw thowt it wor varry wonderful, a week or two sin', when aw pass'd stanninley station, 'at ther worn't a chap wi' a dog under his arm; it's th' furst time aw iver pass'd an' didn't see one. but aw niver think it's wonderful for ther to be a fooil in a company; an' aw dooant think its wonderful when aw find 'at th' biggest fooil has allus th' mooast to say. nah, its a varry nice time o'th' year is this for fowk to have a bit of a pic-nic;--aw dooant know owt 'at's a better excuse for a chap to tighten his belly-band nor a pic-nic, becoss iverybody taks twice as mich stuff to ait as they know they'll want, for fear fowk might think they wor shabby. if yo get a invite to a doo o' that mak', be sure yo goa, if you've owt of a twist. but talkin' abaat invites maks me study a bit. when yo get an invitation, allus think it ovver befoor yo tak' it ax yorsen one or two questions abaat it. if yo think it's becoss yo can play th' peanner, or becoss yo can sing--tell 'em yorterms. if yo think it's becoss some owd uncle is likely to dee an' leeav yo a lot o' brass, an' they've a dowter or two 'at isn't wed-tell 'em yor engaged (to a lady). if yo think it's becoss they fancy yor a shinin' leet--tell 'em yo're gooan aat. i yo think it's becoss they want to borrow some brass, an' yor daatful whether yo'll iver get it back agean--tell 'em yo've soa monny calls made on yo, wall yo're feeard yo connot call o' them at present. but if yo think it's just becoss they want yo, an' they'll be glad to see yo,' put on yor hat an' off in a minit. aw once knew a chap 'at had getten a invite to a doo, an' he wor gooin' to tak his wife wi' him; an' he wor tellin' some mates what a shimmer shoo wor gooin' to cut. "mun," he says, "sho'll just luk like one o' them figures i'th' waxworks! aw've bowt her a goold cheen as thick as my thum; it's cost ornmost a paand. an' tawk abaat a dress! why, yo' niver saw sich a dress it's a real mary antique! th' chap 'at sell'd it me, said it had been made for th' princess o' wales, but it wor soa mich brass wol th' prince couldn't affoord to pay for't, so he let me have it cheap; an' it's just like buckram--it'll stand ov an end." "why," said one o'th' chaps, "the princess willn't be suited if shoo hears tell 'at thy wife's gettin' it." "noa," he said, "aw dooant think shoo wod, but awst noan tell her; an' if shoo gets to know, she mun try an' put up wi' a bit ov a trial nah an' then. ther's allus troubles for th' rich as weel as th' poor." well! all this gooas to prove what aw said at th' startin'--it's a wonderful world, an' ther's a deeal o' wonderful things in it;--an', to quote from the poet (milton aw think), aw may say- it's a varry' gooid world that we live in to lend, or to spend, or to give in;- but to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own, it's th' varry worst world 'at iver wor known. hi, an' its th' best 'at iver wor known yet; an haiver mich fowk may say agean it, awve allus nooatised at' ther's varry few seem inclined to part wi' it. a hawporth. whear is thi' daddy doy? whear is thi' mam? what are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; tears o' thy little cheeks seem aat 'o place. what do they call thi, lad? tell me thi name; have they been ooinion thi? why, its a shame. here, tak this hawpny, an' buy thi some spice, rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; thear,--thart all reight agean; run like a man. he wiped up his tears wi his little white brat, an' he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; but his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:-a'a!--its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do. buttermilk &c. may is the month for buttermilk! a doctor once tell'd me it wor worth a guinea a pint; he sed it licked cod liver oil, castor oil; or paraffin oil. castor oil, he said, war varry gooid for ther bowels, cod liver oil for ther liver, an' paraffin oil for ther leets (whear they'd noa gas), but buttermilk wor better nor all three put together, an' he ad vised me to tak it. "why," aw sed; "what's th' use o'. me takkin it when aw dooant ail owt?" "ther's noa tellin' ha sooin yo may," he said, "an' an it's a varry simple remedy, yo'd better tak it whether yo do or net." "reight enuff," aw sed, "simple things sometimes do th' best. aw once knew a woman 'at had been confined to her bed for twelve year, an' her husband cured her in a minit, after all th' doctors at th' infirmary had gien her up." th' doctor pricked his ears when aw sed soa, an' wanted to know all abaat it, soa aw at it an' tell'd him. "sally an' her husband lived at th' arred well, but he oft used to goa as far as th' coit hill ova neet to have a pint an' enjoy an haar or two i' company, an' when he gate haoam he used to catch it, an' finely too, aw con assure yo, for altho shood ligg'd i' bed soa long, shoo had'nt lost th' use ov her tongue, an' her felly said 'at shoo hadn't lost th' use ov her teeth nawther, for shoo could ait as weel as iver shoo could. one neet as he wor gooin hooam, he bethowt him he'd try a bit ov a dodge on, for although he felt varry sooary for his wife, yet he could'nt help thinkin' it wor partly consait at shoo'd suffer'd throo; soa when he gate in, shoo began a blowin' into him i' fine style. 'th' owd time, lad! it shows what tha cares for me! aw hav'nt had a wick soul to spaik to sin tha went aat, but it's all one to thee! tha'll come hooam some time an' find me ligg'd deead, an' then tha can spree abaat throo morm to neet.' 'nay, lass, aw dooant think aw should spree abaat any moor nor aw do nah. but who does ta think aw met to neet?' he said. 'ah know nowt abaat it, nor care nawther.' 'why, but as aw war comin' up bith' brayvet gate, aw met betty earnshaw, an' soa aw went gaiterds wi her a bit, an' that's reason aw'm soa lat.' 'oh! tha mud weel be lat! shoo war an' owd sweetheart o' thine, wor betty.' 'eea, shoo war axin me ha tha wor gettin' on, shoo seems vany sooary for thi.' 'sooary be hanged! aw want nooan ov her sooarys! if shoo could nobbut get me aat o' th' gate, shoo'd be all reight. did shoo ax when tha thowt tha'd be at liberty?' 'nay shoo did'nt, but shoo did say at shoo thowt tha lasted long, but shoo pitied thee an' me.' 'pitied thee, did shoo! an' what did shoo pity thi for, aw should like to know? shoo happen thowt shoo could do better for thee nor what aw've done, but if shoo wor as badly as me shood know summat. 'eea, but shoo isn't, for aw nivver saw her luk better i' mi life, an' shoo talks abaat commin' i'th' morn in' to clean up for thi a bit; aw sed tha'd be fain to see her, an' tha sees if owt should happen thee, shadd be getten into th' way a bit, an' begin to feel moor used to th' haase.' 'niver! wol my heart's warm, tom. aw'll niver have sich a huzzy i'th' haase, wheal' aw am! aw'm nooan done wi yet! aw'll live a bit longer to plague yo wi', an' as for cleanin', aw'll crawl abaat o' mi hands an' knees afoor shoo shall do owt for me! yo think aw'm poorly an' soa aw'm to be trodden on, but aw'll let yo see awm worth a dozen deead uns yet; nasty owd ponse as shoo is!" an' as sure as yor thear, doctor, shoo gate up th' next morn in' an' kinneld th' fair, an' when tom coom hoam to his braikfast all wor ready, an' shoo wor set daan at th' table wi a clean cap on, an' lukkin as smart as smart could be. when th' chap saw this, he said, "lass, aw think aw'd better send betty backward," "eea, aw think tha had," shoo sed, "an' th'a can send her word throo me 'at aw may live to donee on her gravestooan yet." tom bafs in his sleeve a bit sometimes, an' if iver one ov her owd fits seems likely ta come on, he's nowt to do but say a word or two abaat betty, an' shoo's reight in a minnit. that licks buttermilk, doctor. it's a comfort. it's a comfort a chap can do withaat what he connot get. it feels hard to have to do wi' less nor what a body has at present, but if it has to be it will be, an' it's cappin' ha' fowk manage to pool throo haiver bad th' job is. it's naa use for a chap to keep longin' for sum mat better, unless he's willin' to buckle to, an' work for it; an' a chap wi' an independent mind ne'er freeats becoss he hasn't all he wants; he sets hissen to get it, an' if he's detarmined he oft succeeds, an' if net he doesn't sit daan an' mump, but up an' at it agean. havin' a lot o' brass doesn't mak a chap happy, but spend in' it may do, an' if a chap's wise he'll try to spend it in a way 'at'll bring happiness for a long time to come. ther's some fowk feeared 'at they con niver spend brass safely; they're allus freeten'd of loisin' it; but they've noa need, for if they spent it i' dooin' gooid, they'll allus be sure o' gooid interest, for they'll be pleased every time they think on it. nah, ther's some things i' this world 'at yo connot looise. it's a varry easy thing to loise a cork aat ov a bottle, but it's impossible to loise th' hoil aat ov a bottle neck. yo may braik th' bottle all to pieces, but th' hoil is somewhear; it nobbut wants another bit o' glass twistin' raand it, an' yo'll find it's as gooid as iver it wor, an' it's just soa wi' a gooid action; yo may loise th' seet on it, but it's somewhear abaat; it nobbut wants circumstances twistin' raand it, an' yo'll find it's thear--it's niver lost. if fowk 'ud get into this way o' thinkin', ther'd be a deal moor gooid done nor ther is. haiver mich brass a chap has, if he's moor wants nor he con satisfy, he's poor enuff; an' aw think if fowk 'ud spend a bit less time i' tryin' to get rich, an' a bit moor i' tryin' to lessen ther wants, they'd be moor comfortable bi th' hauf. but yo' may carry things too far even i' savin'. aw once knew a chap 'at wor a regular skinflint; he'd gie nowt--noa, net as mich as a crumb to a burd; an' if iver any wor seen abaat his haase they used to be sat daan to be young ens 'at hadn't le'nt wit. well, he once went to buy a seck o' coils, an' to be able to get 'em cheaper he fetched 'em throo th' pit; it wor th' depth o' winter, but as he had to hug 'em two mile it made th' sweeat roll off him.. when he gate hooam he put 'em daan an' shook his heead. "by gow," he sed, "awm ommost done, but aw'll mak' yo' pay for this, for aw willn't burn another coil this winter." an' he stuck, to his word, an' wheniver he wor starved, he used to get th' seck o' coils ov his back an' walk raand th' haase till he gat warm agean--an' he says they're likely to fit him his bit o' rime aat. "well," yo'n say, "that chap wor a fooil," an' aw think soa misen, an' varry likely if he'd seen us do some things he'd think we wor fooils. we dooant allus see things i'th' same leet--for instance, a pompus chap wor once tawkin' to me abaat his father. "my father," he said, "was a carver and gilder, an' he once carved a calf so naturally that you would fancy you could hear it bleat." "well, aw didn't know thi father," aw sed, "but aw know thi mother once cauved one, for aw've heeard it bleat." yo' should just ha' seen him when aw sed soa!--didn't he pull th' blinds daan, crickey! progress. this is the age of progress; and it is not slo progress nawther. the worst on it is, we're all forced to go on whether we like it or net, for if we stand still a minit, ther's somedy traidin' ov us heels, an' unless we move on they'll walk ovver us, an' then when we see them ommost at top o'th' hill, we shall find us sen grubbin' i'th' muck at th' bottom. a chap mun have his wits abaat him at this day or else he'll sooin' be left behund. ther's some absent minded fowk think they get on varry weel i'th' owd way an' they're quite content, but its nobbut becoss they're too absent minded to see ha mich better they mud ha done if they'd wakken'd up a bit sooiner. aw once knew a varry absent minded chap; he wur allus dooin' some sooart o' wrang heeaded tricks. aw' remember once we'd booath to sleep i' one bed, an aw gate in fust, an' when aw luk'd to see if he wor commin', aw'm blow'd! if he hadn't put his cloas into bed an hung hissen ovver th' cheer back. awm sure aw connot tell where all this marchin' is likely to lead us to at last, but aw hooap we shall be all reight, for aw do think ther's plenty o' room to mend even yet, but the deuce on it is,' ther's soa monny different notions abaat what is reight wol aw'm flamigaster'd amang it. some say drink is the besetting sin; another says 'bacca is man's ruination. one says we're all goin' to the devil becoss we goa to church, an' another says we'st niver goa to heaven if we goa to th' chapel, but aw dooant let ony o' them things bother me. 'at ther is a deeal o' sin i'th' world aw dooant deny, an', aw think ther is one 'at just bears th' same relation to other sins as a split ring bears to a bunch o' keys; it's one 'at all t'other things on: an' that's _selfishness_, an we've all sadly too mich o' that. we follow that "number one" doctrine sadly too mich,--iverybody seems bent o' gettin, but ther's varry few think o' givin'--(unless its advice, ther's any on 'em ready enuff to give that; but if advice wor stuff 'at they could buy potatoes wi', ther' wodn't be as mich o' that knockin' abaat for nowt as ther' is). we're all varry apt to know the messur o' ivrybody's heead but us own; we can tell when a cap fits them directly, but we con niver tell when ther's one 'at just fits us. miss parsnip said last sunday, when shoo'd been to th' chapel, "at shoo wondered ha mrs. cauliflaar could fashion to hold her heead up, for shoo niver heeard a praicher hit onybody harder in all her life," an' mrs. cauliflaar tell'd me "'at if shoo wor miss parsnip shoo'd niver put her heead i' that chapel ageean, for iverybody knew 'at he meant her' when he wor tawkin' abaat backbitin'." an'soa it is; we luk at other fowk's faults through th' thin end o' th' spy glass, but when we want to look at us own, we turn it raand. "o, wad some power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us, it wad fra many a blunder free us an' foolish notion. what airs in dress an' g'ait wad lea' us an' ev'n devotion." selfishness may do varry weel for this world, but we should remember it isn't th gooid one does to hissen 'at he gets rewarded for after-it's th' gooid he does to others, an' although we may be able to mak' a spreead here, wi' fine clooas, fine haases, an' sich like; unless we put selfishness o' one side an' practise charity it'll be noa use then. "for up above there's one 'at sees through th' heart o' every man; an' he'll just find thee as tha dees, soa dee as well as t' con." try again. look around and see the great men who have risen from the poor some are judges, some are statesmen, ther's a chance for you i'm sure. don't give in because you're weary, pleasure oft is bought by pain; if unlucky, still be cheery, up and at it! _try again_. jealousy. it wad be a poor shop, wad this world, if it worn't for love! but even love has its drawbacks. if it worn't for love ther'd be noa jaylussy--shakspere calls jaylussy a green-eyed monster, an' it may be for owt aw know, an' aw dooan't think 'at them 'at entertain it have mich white i' theirs. if ther's owt aw think fooilish, it is for a husband an' wife to be jaylus o' one another; for it spoils all ther spooart, an' maks a lot for other fowk; an' aw'm allus a bit suspicious abaat 'em, for aw've fun it to be th' case 'at them 'at do reight thersens are allus th' last to believe owt wrang abaat others. aw once knew a chap 'at wor jaylus, an' his wife had a sore time wi' him. if shoo spake to her next-door neighbor, it wor ommost as mich as her life war worth, an' shoo wor forced to give ovver gooin' to th' chapel, becos if shoo luk'd at th' parson he used to nudge her wi' a hymn book. th' neighbours pitied her, an' set him daan for a fooil; but he gate cured at last, an' aw'll tell ha.' once he had to set off, an' as shoo worn't varry weel he couldn't tak her wi' him, but he gave her a lot o' directions afoor he went, an' tell'd her 'at he might be back ony minit. well, if iver ther war a miserable chap it wor jim, wol he wor away; but he coom back as sooin as he could, an' what should he see but a leet up stairs. his face went as white as chalk, an' he wor just creepin' to th' winder to harken, when a chap 'at knew him happened to pass. he knew how jaylus jim war, soa he thowt he'd have a lark. "halla, jim!" he said, "coom here; aw've summat to tell thee. tha munnot goa in yor haase just nah, for tha ar'nt wanted." "what ammot aw wanted for, awst like to know?" said jim. "well, keep cooil, an' aw'll tell thi. tha knows tha's been away a day or two, an' aw think it's my duty to let thi know 'at last neet ther wor a young chap coom to yor haase to luk at thi mistress; an' shoo's niver been aat o; door sin', nor him nawther; an' my belief is they're in that room together just this minit." "aat o' my rooad!" sed jim, "let me goa in if aw dooant pitch him aat a' that winder, neck an' crop, my name isn't jim." up stairs he flew. "nah then, whear is he? whear is he?" he haw'led, an' seized hold o' th' pooaker. "aa, jim," shoo sed, "tha wodn't hurt th' child surelee?" an' shoo held up a bonny little lad abaat two days old, 'at stared at him as gaumless as gaumless could be, an' 'at had his father's nooas an' chin to nowt. "by gingo, aw'm done this time!" said jim, as he tuk it in his arms an' kust it. "aa, what a fooil aw've been! tha'll forgie me, lass, weant ta?" "sure aw will, jim," shoo sed. an' after that they lived happily together, as all dacent fowk should. winter. winter's comin'! top coits an' nickerbockers begin to be sowt up. a chap enjoys his bed a bit better, an' doesn't like gettin' up in a mornin' quite as weel. tawkin' abaat enjoyin' bed makes me think ova young chap aat o' midgley at' gate wed an' browt his wife to halifax to buy a bed, an' nowt wod suit her but a shut-up en, like her father an' mother had allus had: an' they wor't long befoor they fun a second-hand en, 'at they gate cheap, an' as they knew a chap 'at coam wi' a milk cart throo near whear they lived, they gate him to tak it hooam for 'em, an' it worn't long befoor th' beddin' an' all wor nicely arranged, an' they war snoozelin' under th' blankets. they hadn't been asleep long befoor he wakken'd wi a varry uncomfortabie feelin', but as his wife wor hard asleep he didn't like to disturb her. he roll'd o' one side an' then o'th' tother, an' rub'd his legs an' scratched his back, but he couldn't settle do what he wod. in a bit summat made him jump straight up ov an end, an' if he hadn't been dacently browt up, it's very likely he mud ha' sed some faal words, wi' him jumpin' up soa sudden, th' wife wakken'd, an' jumpt up as weel, but as th' bed heead war abaat six inch lower nor that shoo'd bin used to, shoo hit her neet cap agean th' top an' fell back wi a reglar sass. "whativer is ther to do, sammy," shoo sed, as sooin as shoo could spaik, "strike a leet' wi ta!" sammy gate a leet, an' blushed an ovver his face, for it wor th' fust time onybody had seen him dressed that way sin he wor a little lad. "aw dooant know what ther is to do," he sed, "but aw cannot bide i' that bed, an' that's a fact." "what!" shoo says, "are ta ruein' o' thi bargain bi nah? but tha's no need to freat, for aw con spare thee at ony time." "nay, jenny," he sed, it's nooan thee 'at maks me uneasy, but aw fancy ther's summat wick i' that bed besides thee an' me.' "is ther," shoo said, an' shoo flew off one side; "why whativer is it, thinks ta?" sammy turned daan th' clooas, an' it just luk'd as if sombdy had been aitin' spice cake an' letten all th' currans drop aat. tawk abaat fleas! they worn't fleas! they wor twice as big, an' they wor marchin' away like a rigiment o' sodgers. he stared wi' all th' een in his heead, an' shoo started a cryin'. "a'a, to think 'at aw should iver come to this, to be walked over wi' a lot o' pouse like that! what mun we do?" "do! we mun catch 'em, aw expect," he sed, an' he began wi pickin' 'em off one bi one, an' droppin' 'em into some water 'at wor cloise by. "well, mi mother tell'd me," he sed, "'at when fowk gate wed they began o' ther troubles; an' it's true an' all, but aw didn't expect owt like this, for if aw'd known, aw'd ha' seen th' weddin' far enough; aw did think 'at a chap wad be able to get a neet's rest anyway." "tha can goa back to thi mother," shoo sed, "an' stop wi' her for owt aw care, an' aw wish tha'd niver left her, for aw'st get mi deeath o' cold wi' paddlin' abaat wi' nowt on; but does ta think tha's catched 'em all?" "aw think soa, an' if tha's a mind we'll get to bed agean." "nay, tha can goa to thi mother as tha freats soa," shoo sed. "tak noa noatice o' what aw sed," sed sammy, "tha knows aw wor put abaat a bit, an' it war all for th' sake o' thee." "tha'll tell me owt," shoo sed, "put th' leet aat, an' let's see if we con get a bit o' gradely sleep." they gate into bed once more, an' shoo wor off to sleep in a minit, but sammy wor rubbin' an' scrattin' hissen. "wen, aw've heeard tell abaat things bein' ball proof and bomb proof, but aw niver knew 'at anybody wor bug proof befoor." wi' him knockin' abaat soa mich shoo wakken'd agean. "nay, sammy," shoo sed, "aw'm reight fair stawld, it's all consait, aw'm sure it is." "consait be hanged!" he bawled aat, "just feel at that blister an' then tell me if it's all consait." nowt could keep awther on 'em 'i bed after that, an' they paraded abaat all th' neet like two gooasts, wait in' for th' cock crow. mornin' did come at last, an' sammy worn't long befoor' he had th' bed aatside. "what are ta baan to do wi' it nah?" ax'd his wife. "aw'm baan to leave it wheal' it is wol neet," he sed, "an' if they havn't forgetten which road they coom, aw think ther's as monny as'll be able to tak it back to halifax." next neet they made a bed o'th' floor, an' slept like tops, an' next mornin' when they gate up, th' bed wor off. whether th' cumpny 'at wor in it had taen it or net, sammy couldn't tell, but he niver went to seek it. fowk 'at buy second-hand beds, _tak warnin._" persevere. if you fail don't be downhearted, better times come by-and-by; soon you'll find all fears departed, if you'll only boldly _try_. he who would climb up a mountain, must not sit him down and cry; at the top you'll find the fountain, and you'll reach it if you'll _try_. though your comrades call it folly, persevere, you'll win the day; never let dick, tom, or polly, stop you on your onward way, there is always joy in striving, though you fix your goal so high; nearer every day arriving, you may reach it if you _try_. booith-taan election. _this place 'is nearly a mile from the good old town of halifax._ aa! ther wor a flare-up at booith-taan hall that neet! it had been gein aat 'at they'd to be a meetin' held to elect a new lord-mayor, for new-taan, booith-taan, an' th' haley hill, on which particular occashun, ale ud be supplied at tuppence a pint upstairs. ther wor a rare muster an' a gooid deeal o' argyfyin' tuk place abaat who shud be th' chearman. but one on 'em--a sly old fox--had kept standin' o' th' floor sidlin' abaat woll ivery other chear wor full, an' then after takkin a pinch o' snuff, he said, "gentlemen, aw see noa reason aw shuddent tak this place mysen, as iverybody else has getten set daan." two or three 'at wor his friends said "hear, hear," an' two or three 'at worn't said "sensashun!" when iverybody's pint had getten fill'd, he blew his nooas, tuk another pinch o' snuff, an' stud ov his hind legs to oppen th' proceedins. "bergers and bergeresses," he began, "aw've a varry unpleasant duty to perform to-neet, which is, namely, to propooas 'at we have a fresh mayor," (cries ov "shame," "gammon," "th' mayor we have is ommost allus fresh!" (etsetra, etsetra etsetra.) "gentlemen," he began agean, "what aw have to say is this,"-"luk sharp an get it said, then," said stander, th' grocer. "if tha doesn't hold thy noise, stander, tha'll get noa moor snuff off me, aw con tell thi that; aw mayn't be as flaary a talker as thee, but what aw say is to'th' point, an' aw think 'at a constituency like booith-taan owt to be represented by somebody ov standin'." "better send th' chearman, he's stud den long enuft," said one. "prathi sit thi daan, if tha connot talk sense," said another. "its's time for sombdy to stand summat, for all th' pints is empty," said th' lanlord. "well, gentlemen," went on th' chearman, "th' question just dissolves itsel' into this: who has it to be? has it to be a doctor sombdy, or a professor sombdy, or a squire sombdy, or has it to be a plain maister?" "oh i let it be a squire," said one. "e'ea, squire broadbent ul do," said another. "nah, lads, yo' 'ie heeard th' chearman's resolushun, an' aw sit daan to call upon mr. stander, esquire, grocer, to address yo." th' chearman doubled hissel' into th' shape ov his chear, an' after they'd gein ovver pawsin' th' table legs, an' knockin' pint pots, stander gate up an' began. "fellow municipallers (hear, hear), aw agree wi' what awr chearman says, 'at we owt to have sombdy o' standin' i' society to represent us for this subsequent year 'at's forthcomin'." "tha happen want's to get one o' thi own relations in," said snittle. "it ud seem thee better to keep thi maath shut, snittle, till tha's paid me for yond garman yeast."--(shame, shame.) "gentlemen, aw propooas 'at this meetin' dissolves itsel' into a depitation to visit professor holloway, to ax him if he'll represent us for th' next year. aw dooant know him mysen, but we've all heeard tell on him, an' we've seen his pills an' ointment advertised, an' aw think he'd be a varry likely man to work awr business to th' best interest ov the whole communicants; an' noa daat he'd be able to heal up ony bits o' unpleasantness 'at's been caused wi' this election. aw believe him to be a varry pushin' man, an' one ov a spyring natur; for as elijah barrett says (i' his book on leeanin' to blacksmith), 'one inch the heighest,' seems to be the motto he works on, for goa where yo will yo'll allus see one o' his bills a bit heigher nor onybody's else, an for that reason aw beg to propooas 'at he should be acceptted as a fit an' proper person. the chearman stood up an' axed "ony chap to i say owt agean that 'at dar." up jumped billy bartle, an' said, "aw object to that in total; aw see noa reason to goa to lunnon to find a mayor, soa long as we've professors at hooam, an aw propoosas 'at we ax--" ("shut up! shut up!" "ta' hold, an' sup." "gooid lad, billy,") etsetra, etsetra. etsetra. just then th' lanlord coom in an' turn'd off th' gas, for he said "they hadn't spent aboon eighteen pence all th' neet." th' chearman said he thowt they couldn't do better nor all have a pinch o' snuff wi' him, an' have a pint i'th' kitchen woll they talked things ovver; soa they went daan th' stairs, an' somha they managed to re-elect th' owd en afoor they went hooam, an' six on em hugged him o' ther heeads to th' top o' ringby, an' niver heed if ther heeads didn't wark th' next mornin'. election. candidates at an election allus reminds me ov a lot o' bees turned aat, for they fly abaat th' country buzzin' an' hummin', wol yor fair capt what a din they con mak; but as sooin as they pop into th' hive o' st. stephen's yo niver hear a muff--they're as quite as waxwark. aw varrily believe 'at one hauf on 'em niver oppen the maath throo th' yaar end to year end, nobbut when they're sleepy, then they may gape a bit, but they do it as quiet as they can. as for them chaps 'at tawk soa mich befoor they goa, abaat passin' laws to give iverybody a paand a wick whether they work or laik, an' reducin' th' workin haars to three haars a day an' three days a wick: why, its just gammon! none think alike. what suits one body doesn't suit another. aw niver knew two fowk 'at allus thowt alike; an' if yo iver heard a poor chap talkin' abaat somebdy 'ats weel off, he's sure to say 'at if he'd his brass he'd do different throo what they do. aw once heeard a chap say 'at if he'd as mich brass as baron rothschild he'd niver do owt but ait beef-steaks an' ride i' cabs. well, lad, aw thowt, it's better tha hasn't it. we're all varry apt to find fault wi' things at we know varry little abaat, an' happen if we knew mooar we shud say less. aw once heeard two lasses talkin', an' one on 'em war tellin' tother 'at sin shoo saw her befoor, shoo'd getten wed, an' had a child, an' buried it. "why, whativer shall aw live to hear? aw didn't know 'at tha'd begun coortin'. whoiver has ta getten wed to?" "oh, awve getten wed to a forriner, at comes throo staffordshur." "well, aw hooap, tha's done weel, lass; awm sure aw do. and what does he do for a livin'?" "why, its rayther a queer trade; but he stails pots." "stails pots, betty! a'a aw wonder ha tha could bring thisen daan to wed a chap o' that sooart. aw'll keep single for iver, woll awm green maald, afoor aw'll wed ony chap unless he gets his livin' honestly." "aw should like to meet ony body 'at says he doesn't get his livin' honestly," says betty; "nah thee mark that." "well, betty, that maks noa difference to me; but aw say agean 'at noa chap gets his livin' honestly 'at stails--noa matter whether he stails pots or parkins." "why, nancy, aw thowt tha'd moor sense, aw did for sure;-aw mean, his trade is to put stails on to pots." "oh! a'a! e'e! tha mun forgi' mi this time, betty, aw see what tha meeans; he puts hanels on to pots: that's it, isn't it." "e'ea." "why, tha sees, aw didn't understond." "ther's monny a one has a deeal to say abaat things 'at they dunnot understond, an' monny a one gets awfully put aat wi' what sich like do say; but it isn't advisable to be soa varry touchus at this day, an' as aw've read somwhear- time to me this truth has towt, 'tis a truth 'at's worth revealin'; moor offend for want o' thowt nor for any want o' feelin'. an' aw believe that's true; but at th' same time it's as weel to be careful net to offend onybody if we con help it, for a chap's fingers luk a deeal nicer, an' moor agreeabler, when they're oppened aat to shake hands wi yo, nor what they do when doubled up i'th' front o' yor nooas. soa yo see, yo connot be to careful o' yor words an' deeds, if yo want to keep straight wi' fowk; an' it's a wise thing to be at peeace. and if this is a unsettled time o' th' year, that's noa reason 'at yo should be unsettled. but as it isn't iverybody's lot to know ha to get on smoothly, aw'll just give yo a bit o' advice; an' if yo learn that, an' act on it, yo'll niver rue th' brass yo've spent, especially if yo tak into consideration at th' profits are devoted to a charitable institution (that's awr haase). if wisdom's ways you'd wisely seek, five things observe with care; of whom you speak, to whom you speak, and how, and when, and where. seaside. iverybody 'at is owt is awther just settin' off or just gettin' back throo th' spaws. ther's nowt like th' sea breeze! but a chum o' mine says th' sea breeze is a fooil to saltaire, but he cannot mak me believe it. ther's nowt ever suits me as weel at blackpool as to see a lot o' cheap trippers 'at's just com'd for a day--they mean to enjoy thersen. yo can see that as sooin as iver th' train claps 'em daan, away they steer to have a luk at th' watter. ther's th' fayther comes th' furst, wi' th' youngest child in his arms, an' one or two rayther bigger poolin' 'at his coit laps, an' just behund is his owd lass, puffin' and blowin' like a steam engine, her face as red as a rising sun, an' a basket ov her arm big enuff for a oyster hawker. at one corner on it yo con see a black bottle neck peepin' aat. at th' side on her walks th' owdest lass; an' isn't shoo doin' it grand for owt shoo knows! luk what fine ribbons shoo has flyin' daan her back, an' a brass ring ov her finger, varry near big enuff to mak a dog's collar on, an' a cotton parasol 'at luks ivery bit as weel as a silk 'un; and yo con see as shoo tosses her heead first to one side an then to tother, 'at shoo defies awther yo or onybody else to tell 'at shoo's nobbut a calico wayver when shoo's at hooam. but they get aside o'th' watter at last. "ha! what a wopper!" says one o'th' lads, as a wave comes rollin' ovver. "a'a! but that's a gurter!" says another. then th' father an' th' mother puts th' young uns all in a row, an' tell 'em all to luk at th' sea--as if ther wor owt else to luk at i' blackpool. but yo may see at th' owd lass isn't comfortable, for shoo keeps peepin' into her basket, an' at last shoo says, "joa--aw believe sombdy's had ther fooit i'th' basket, for th' pasty's brusscn, an th' pot wi' th' mustard in is brockken all to bits." "neer heed, if that's all, its noa war for being mix'd a bit; it's all to goa into one shop." as sooin as owt to ait is mentioned, th' childer's hungry in a minit-even th' lass' at's been peraidin' abaat an' couldn't fashion to stand aside ov her brothers an' sisters coss they wor soa short o' manners--draws a bit nearer th' mother's elbow. daan they sit like a owd hen an' her chickens, an' dooant they put it aat o'th' seet? it means nowt if th' mustard an' th' pickled onions have getten on th' apple pasty or potted mait an' presarved tairts squeezed all into one--they're noan nasty nice; an' then th' bottle's passed raand: cold tea flavored wi rum, an sweetened, wol th' childer can hardly leave lawse when they've once getten hold. an' wol they're enjoyin' thersen this way, th' owd chap's blowin' his bacca, an' tak's a pool ivery nah and then at a little bottle, abaat th' size ov a prayer book, 'at he hugs in his side pocket. after this they mun have a sail i' one o'th' booats, an' in they get, tumellin' one over t'other, an' bargain wi' th' chap for a _gooid_ haar. th' owd chap pools his watch aat an mak's sure o'th' time when they start, an' away they goa like a burd. "isn't it grand?" says furst one an' then another. but in a bit th' owd chap puts his pipe aat an' tak's another pool at th' little bottle, an' his wife's face grows a deeal leeter coloured, an' shoo axes him ha' long they've to goa yet? aat comes th' watch, an' they're capt to find 'at they've nobbut been fifteen minutes, an' th' owdest lass lains ovver th' side, an' after coughin' a time or two begins to feed th' fish, an' th' little uns come to lig ther heeads o' ther mother's knees, but shoo tells 'em to sit o'th' seeat, for shoo connot bide to be bothered; then shoo tak's a fancy to luk ovver th' edge, an' ther's another meal for th' fish. th' owd chap's detarmined to stand it aat, soa he shuts his e'en, an screws up his maath wol it's hardly as big as a thripny bit--then his watch comes aat agean, an' he sighs to find they've nobbut been one hauf ther time. th' chaps i'th' boat see ha' matters stand, an' bring' em back as sooin as they con. aat they get, an' th' brass is paid withaat a word; but th' owd woman shakes her heead an' says, "niver noa moor! it's a dear doo! sixpence a piece, an' all th' potted mait an' th' apple pasty wasted." tales of the ridings by f. w. moorman 1872 1919 late professor of english language leeds university editor of "yorkshire dialect poems" with a memoir of the author by professor c. vaughan london elkin mathews, cork street 1921 contents: memoir a laocoon of the rocks throp's wife the inner voice b.a. corn-fever memoir frederic moorman came of a stock which, on both sides, had struck deep roots in the soil of devon. his father's family, which is believed to have sprung ultimately from "either cornwall or scotland"--a sufficiently wide choice, it may be thought--had for many generations been settled in the county.(1) his mother's--her maiden name was mary honywill--had for centuries held land at widdicombe and the neighbourhood, in the heart of dartmoor. he was born on 8th september 1872, at ashburton, where his father, the rev. a. c. moorman, was congregational minister; and for the first ten years of his life he was brought up on the skirts of the moor to which his mother's family belonged: drinking in from the very first that love of country sights and sounds which clove to him through life, and laying the foundation of that close knowledge of birds and flowers which was an endless source of delight to him in after years, and which made him so welcome a companion in a country walk with any friend who shared his love of such things but who, ten to one, could make no pretence whatever to his knowledge. in 1882, his father was appointed to the ministry of the congregational church at stonehouse, in gloucestershire; and frederic began his formal schooling at the wyclif preparatory school in that place. the country round stonehouse--a country of barish slopes and richly wooded valleys--is perhaps hardly so beautiful as that which he had left and whose memory he never ceased to cherish. but it has a charm all its own, and the child of dartmoor had no great reason to lament his removal to the grey uplands and "golden valleys" of the cotswolds. his next change must have seemed one greatly for the worse. in 1884 he was sent to the school for the sons of congregational ministers at caterham; and the cotswolds, with their wide outlook over the severn estuary to may hill and the wooded heights beyond, were exchanged for the bald sweep and the white chalk-pits of the north downs. these too have their unique beauty; but i never remember to have heard moorman say anything which showed that he felt it as those who have known such scenery from boyhood might have expected him to do. after some five years at caterham, he began his academical studies at university college, london; but, on the strength of a scholarship, soon removed to university college, aberystwyth (1890), where the scenery--sea, heron-haunted estuaries, wooded down to the very shore, and hills here and there rising almost into mountains--offered surroundings far more congenial to him than the streets and squares of bloomsbury. in these new surroundings, he seems to have been exceptionally happy, throwing himself into all the interests of the place, athletic as well as intellectual, and endearing himself both to his teachers and his fellow-students. his friendship with professor herford, then professor of english at aberystwyth, was one of the chief pleasures of his student days as well as of his after life. following his natural bent, he decided to study for honours in english language and literature, and at the end of his course (1893) was placed in the second class by the examiners for the university of london, to which the aberystwyth college was at that time affiliated. those who believe in the virtue of infant prodigies--and, in the country which invented triposes and class lists, it is hard to fix any limit to their number--will be distressed to learn that, in the opinion of those best qualified to judge of such matters, he was not at that time reckoned to be of "exceptionally scholarly calibre." perhaps this was an omen all the better for his future prospects as a scholar. it is a wholesome practice that, when the cares of examinations are once safely behind him, a student should widen his experience by a taste of foreign travel. accordingly, in september, 1893, moorman betook himself to strasbourg, primarily for the sake of continuing his studies under the skilful guidance of ten brinck. the latter, however, was almost at once called to berlin and succeeded by brandl, now himself of the university of berlin, who actually presided over moorman's studies for the next two years, and who thought, and never ceased to think, very highly both of his abilities and his acquirements. it was only natural that moorman should make a pretty complete surrender to german ideals and german methods of study. it was equally natural that, in the light of subsequent experience, his enthusiasms in that line should suffer a considerable diminution. he was not of the stuff to accept for ever the somewhat bloodless and barren spirit which has commonly dominated the pursuit of literature in german universities. into the social life of his new surroundings he threw himself with all the zest that might have been expected from his essentially sociable nature: making many friendships--that of brandl was the one he most valued--and joining--in some respects, leading--his fellow-students in their sports and other amusements. his first published work, in fact, was a translation of the rules of association football into german; and he may fairly be regarded as the godfather of that game on german soil. nor was this the end of his activities. during the two years he spent at strasbourg he acted as lektor in english to the university, so gaining--and gaining, it is said, with much success--his first experience in what was to be his life's work as a teacher. on the completion of his course at strasbourg, where he obtained the degree of ph.d. in june 1895,(2) he returned to aberystwyth, now no longer as student but as lecturer in the english language and literature under his friend and former teacher, professor herford. there he remained for a little over two years (september, 1895, to january, 1898), gradually increasing his stores of knowledge and strengthening the foundations of the skill which was afterwards to serve him in good stead as a teacher. during that time he also became engaged to the sister of one of his colleagues, miss frances humpidge, whom he had known for some years and whose love was to be the chief joy and support of his after life. as a matter of prudence, the marriage was postponed until his prospects should be better assured. the opportunity came sooner than could have been expected. in january, 1898, he was appointed to the lectureship in his subject--a subject, such is our respect for literature, then first handed over to an independent department--in the yorkshire college at leeds; and in august of the same year he was married. four children, three of whom survived and the youngest of whom was twelve at the time of his death, were born during the earlier years of the marriage. the life of a teacher offers little excitement to the onlooker; and all that can be done here is to give a slight sketch of the various directions in which moorman's energies went out. the first task that lay before him was to organise the new department which had been put into his hands, to make english studies a reality in the college to which he had been called, to give them the place which they deserve to hold in the life of any institution devoted to higher education. into this task he threw himself with a zeal which can seldom, if ever, have been surpassed. within six years he had not only put the teaching of his subject to pass students upon a satisfactory basis; he had also laid the foundations of an honours school able to compete on equal terms with those of the other colleges which were federated in the then victoria university of the north. it was a really surprising feat for so young a man--he was little over twenty-five when appointed--to have accomplished in so short a time; the more so as he was working single-handed: in other words, was doing unaided the work, both literary and linguistic, which in other colleges was commonly distributed between two or three. and i speak with intimate knowledge when i say that the leeds students who presented themselves for their honours degree at the end of that time bore every mark of having been most thoroughly and efficiently prepared. in 1904, six years after moorman's appointment to the lectureship, the yorkshire college was reconstituted as a separate and independent university, the university of leeds; and in the rearrangement which followed, an older man was invited to come in as official chief of the department for which moorman had hitherto been solely responsible. this invitation was not accepted until moorman had generously made it clear that the proposed appointment would not be personally unwelcome to him. nevertheless, it was clearly an invidious position for the new-comer: and a position which, but for the exceptional generosity and loyalty of the former chief of the department, would manifestly have been untenable. in fact, no proof of moorman's unselfishness could be more conclusive than that, for the nine years during which the two men worked together, the harmony between them remained unbroken, untroubled by even the most passing cloud. near the close of this time, in recognition of his distinction as a scholar and of his great services to the university, a separate post, as professor of the english language, was created for him. during the whole of his time at leeds, his knowledge of his subject, both on its literary and linguistic side, was constantly deepening and his efficiency, as teacher of it, constantly increasing. with so keen a mind as his, this was only to be expected. it was equally natural that, as his knowledge expanded and his advice came to be more and more sought by those engaged in the study of such matters, he should make the results of his researches known to a wider public. after several smaller enterprises of this kind,(3) he broke entirely fresh ground with two books, which at once established his right to be heard in both the fields for which he was professionally responsible: _yorkshire place names_, published for and by the thoresby society in 1911; and a study of the life and poetry of robert herrick, two years later. the former, if here and there perhaps not quite rigorous enough in the tests applied to the slippery evidence available, is in all essentials a most solid piece of work: based on a wide and sound knowledge of the linguistic principles which, though often grossly neglected, form the corner-stone, and something more, of all such inquiries; and lit up with a keen eye for the historical issues--issues reaching far back into national origins which, often in the most unexpected places, they may be made to open out. the latter, to which he turned with the more zest because it led him back to the familiar setting of his native county--to its moors and rills and flowers, and the fairy figures that haunted them--is a delightful study of one of the most unique of english poets(4); a study, however, which could only have been written by one who, among many other things, was a thorough-paced scholar. many qualities--knowledge, scholarship, love of nature, a discerning eye for poetic beauty--go to the making of such a book. their union in this _study_ serves to show that, great as was moorman's authority in the field of language, it was always to literature, above all to poetry, that his heart went naturally out. the closing years of his life were to set this beyond doubt. it would be absurd to close this sketch of moorman's professional activities without a reference, however slight, to what was, after all, one of the most significant things about them. no man can, in the full sense, be a teacher unless, in some way or other, he throws himself into the life and interests of his students. and it was among the secrets--perhaps the chief secret--of moorman's influence as a teacher that, so far from being mere names in a register, his students were to him always young people of flesh and blood, in whose interests he could share, whose companion he delighted to be, and who felt that they could turn to him for advice and sympathy as often as they were in need. no doubt his own youthfulness of temper, the almost boyish spirits which seldom or never flagged in him, helped greatly to this result; but the true fountain of it all lay in his ingrained unselfishness. the same power was to make itself felt among the classes for older students which he held in the last years of his life. to fulfil all these academical duties in the liberal spirit, which was the only spirit possible to moorman, might well have been expected to exhaust the energies of any man. yet, amidst them all, he found time to take part, both as lecturer and as trusted adviser, in the activities of the workers' educational association, attending summer meetings and, during the last five or six winters of his life, delivering weekly lectures and taking part in the ensuing discussions, at crossgates, one of the outlying suburbs of leeds. to the students who there, year by year, gathered round him he greatly endeared himself by his power of understanding their difficulties and of presenting great poetry in a way that came home to their experience and imagination. his growing sympathy with the life of homestead and cottage made this a work increasingly congenial to him; and, as a lecturer, he was perhaps never so happy, in all senses of the word, as when, released from the "idols of the lecture-room," he was seeking to awake, or keep alive, in others that love of imaginative beauty which counted for so much in his own life and in his discharge of the daily tasks that fell upon him: speaking freely and from his heart to men and women more or less of his own age and his own aspirations; "mingling leadership and _camaraderie_ in the happy union so characteristic of him," and "drawing out the best endeavours of his pupils by his modest, quietly effective methods of teaching and, above all, by his great, quiet, human love for each and all."(5) it is clear that such work, however delightful to him, meant a considerable call upon his time and strength: the more so as it went hand in hand with constant labours on behalf of the yorkshire dialect society, for which he was the most indefatigable of travellers--cycling his way into dale after dale in search of "records"--and of which, on the death of his friend, mr philip unwin, he eventually became president. nor was this all. during the last seven years or so of his life the creative impulse, the need of embodying his own life and the lives of those around him in imaginative form was constantly growing upon him, and a wholly new horizon was opening before him. at first he may have thought of nothing more than to produce plays suitable for performance either by the students of the university or by young people in those yorkshire dales with which his affections were becoming year by year increasingly bound up. but, whatever the occasion, it soon proved to be no more than an occasion. he swiftly found that imaginative expression not only came naturally to him, but was a deep necessity of his nature; that it gave a needed outlet to powers and promptings which had hitherto lain dormant and whose very existence was unsuspected by his friends, perhaps even by himself. _the may king_, _potter thompson_, the adaptation of the _second shepherds' play_ from the fifteenth-century _towneley mysteries_ followed each other in swift succession; and the two first have, or will shortly have, been performed either by university students or by school children of "the ridings."(6) this is not the place to attempt any critical account of them. but there are few readers who will not have been struck by the simplicity with which the themes--now pathetic, now humorous, now romantic--are handled, and by the easy unconsciousness with which the professor wears his "singing robes." the same qualities, perhaps in a yet higher degree, appear in the dialect poems, written during the last three years of his life: _songs of the ridings_. the inspiration of these was less literary; they sprang straight from the soil and from his own heart. it was, no doubt, a scholarly instinct which first turned his mind in this direction: the desire of one who had studied the principles of the language and knew every winding of its historical origins to trace their working in the daily speech of the present. he has told us so himself, and we may readily believe it. but, if he first came to the dales as learner and scholar, he soon found his way back as welcome visitor and friend. the more he saw of the dalesmen, the more his heart went out to them: the more readily, as if by an inborn instinct, did he enter into their manner of life, their mood and temper, their way of meeting the joys and sorrows brought by each day as it passed. and so it was that the scholar's curiosity, which had first carried him thither, rapidly gave way to a feeling far deeper and more human. his interest in forms of speech and fine shades of vowelling fell into the background; a simple craving for friendly intercourse, inspired by a deep sense of human brotherhood, took its place. and _songs of the ridings_(7) is the spontaneous outgrowth of the fresh experience and the ever-widening sympathies which had come to him as a man. the same is true of _tales of the ridings_, published for the first time in the following pages. the last five years of his life (1914-1919) had, to him as to others, been years of unusual stress. disqualified for active service, he had readily undertaken the extra work entailed by the departure of his younger colleagues for the war. he had also discharged the semi-military duties, such as acting on guard against enemy aircraft, which fell within his powers; and, both on the outskirts of leeds and round his lytton dale cottage, he had devoted all the time he could spare to allotment work, so as to take his share--it was, in truth, much more than his share--in increasing the yield of the soil. all this, with a host of miscellaneous duties which he voluntarily shouldered, had put an undue strain upon his strength. yet, with his usual buoyancy, he had seemed to stand it all without flagging; and even when warned by the army medical authorities that his heart showed some weakness, he had paid little heed to the warning, had certainly in no way allowed it either to interfere with his various undertakings or to prey upon his spirits. the armistice naturally brought some relief. among other things, it opened the prospect of the return of his colleagues and a considerable lightening both of his professional and of his manifold civic duties. he was, moreover, much encouraged--as a man of his modest, almost diffident, nature was bound to be--by the recognition which _songs of the ridings_ had brought from every side: not least from the dalesmen, for whom and under whose inspiration they were written. and all his friends rejoiced to think that a new and brighter horizon seemed opening before him. those who saw him during these last months thought that he had never been so buoyant. they felt that a new hope and a new confidence had entered into his life. these hopes were suddenly cut off. he had passed most of august and the first week of september (1919) at his cottage in lytton dale, keeping the morning of his birthday (8th september), as he always delighted to do, with his wife and children. in the afternoon he went down to bathe in the river, being himself an excellent swimmer, and wishing to teach his two younger children an art in which he had always found health and keen enjoyment. he swam across the pool and called on his daughter to follow him. noticing that she was in some difficulty, he jumped in again to help her, but suddenly sank to the bottom, and was never seen alive again. an angler ran up to help from a lower reach of the stream, and brought the girl safely to land. then, for the first time learning that her father had sunk, he dived and dived again in the hope of finding him before it was too late. but the intense cold of the water baffled all his efforts, and the body was not recovered until some hours later. it is probable that the chill of the pool had caused a sudden failure of moorman's heart--a heart already weakened by the excessive strain of the last few years--and it is little likely that, after he had once sunk, he could ever have been saved. the death of moorman called forth expressions of grief and of grateful affection, so strong and so manifestly sincere as to bring something of surprise even to his closest friends. much more surprising would they have been to himself. they came from every side, from lettered and unlettered, from loom and dale, from school and university. nothing could prove more clearly how strong was the hold he had won upon all who knew him, how large the place he filled in the heart of his colleagues and the county of his adoption. it was a fitting tribute to a literary achievement of very distinctive originality. it was also, and above all, a tribute, heartfelt and irrepressible, to the charm of a singularly bright and winning spirit: to a life which had spent itself, without stint and without one thought of self, in the service of others. endnotes (were footnotes): (1) to this family is believed to have belonged john moreman, canon and eventually dean of exeter (though he died, october, 1554, "before he was presented to the deanery"), of whom an account will be found in prince's _worthies of devon_ (ed. 1701, pp. 452-453), as well as in wood's _athenoe_ and _fasti oxonienses_ and foxe's _book of martyrs_. he was "the first in those days to teach his parishioners to say the lord's prayer, the belief and the commandments in the english tongue" (whether the contrast is with latin or cornish, for he was then vicar of menynhed, in east cornwall, does not appear). he was imprisoned, as a determined catholic, in edward vi.'s reign, but "enlarged under queen mary, with whom he grew into very great favour," and was chosen to defend the doctrine of transubstantiation before the convocation of 1553. (2) his thesis for this degree, on _the interpretation of nature in english poetry from beowulf to shakespeare_, was published in 1905. (3) he published editions of _the faithful shepherdess_, _the knight of the burning pestle_ and _the two noble kinsmen_ in 1897, and an elaborately critical edition of herrick's _poems_, in completion of his _study_, in 1915. he also contributed the chapter on "shakespeare's apocrypha" to the _cambridge history of english literature_; and for many years acted as english editor of the _shakespeare jahrbuch_. (4) dean bourne, the parish to which herrick was not very willingly wedded, is within five miles of ashburton, moorman's birthplace. (5) the words in inverted commas are quoted from the records of the class, kindly communicated by the secretary, mr hind. it is difficult to imagine anything stronger than the expressions of affectionate respect which recur again and again in them. i add one more, from the pen which wrote the second quotation: "so quiet, yet so pervading, was his love that each felt the individual tie; and our class, so diverse in spirit, thought and training, has never heard or uttered an angry word. we felt it would be acting disloyally to hurt anyone whom he loved." (6) _the may king_, written in 1913, has been twice acted by school children, once in the open air, once in the large hall of the university. _potter thompson_, written in 1911-1912, was acted by students of the university in 1913 and is at present in rehearsal for acting by pupils of the secondary school of halifax. the towneley _shepherds' play_ was acted with slight modifications by university students, under moorman's guidance, in 1907. his adaptation of it, written in 1919, has not yet been acted, but was written in the hope that some day it might be. it may be added that he was largely responsible for a very successful performance of fletcher's _elder brother_ by the university students in 1908. (7) first published serially in _the yorkshire weekly post_ of 1917-1918. a laocoon of the rocks the enclosure of the common fields of england by hedge or wall, whereby the country has been changed from a land of open champaigns and large vistas to one of parterres and cattle-pens, constitutes a revolution in the social and economic life of the nation. though extending over many years and even centuries, this process of change reached its height in the latter half of the eighteenth and the early nineteenth century, and thus comes into line with the industrial revolution which was taking place in urban england about the same time. to some, indeed, the enclosure of the open fields may appear as the outward symbol of that enwalling of the nation's economic freedom which transformed the artisan from an independent craftsman to a wage-earner, and made of him a link in the chain of our modern factory system. to those economists who estimate the wealth of nations solely by a ledger-standard, the enclosure of the common fields has seemed a wise procedure; but to those who look deeper, a realisation has come that it did much to destroy the communal life of the countryside. be that as it may, it is beyond question that to the ancient and honoured order of shepherds, from whose ranks kings, seers and poets have sprung, it brought misfortune and even ruin. among the shepherds of the eastern slopes of the pennine hills few were better known in the early years of the nineteenth century than peregrine ibbotson. a shepherd all his life, as his father and grandfather had been before him, he nevertheless belonged to a family that had once owned wide tracts of land in yorkshire. but the ibbotsons had fought on the losing side in the pilgrimage of grace, and the forfeiture of their lands had reduced them to the rank of farmers or shepherds. but the tradition of former greatness was jealously preserved in the family; it lived on in the baptismal names which they gave to their children and fostered in them a love of independence together with a spirit of reserve which was not always appreciated by their neighbours. but the spirit of the age was at work in them as in so many other families in the dale villages. peregrine's six sons had long since left him alone in his steading on the moors: some had gone down to the manufacturing towns of the west riding and had prospered in trade; others had fought, and more than one had fallen, in the napoleonic wars. peregrine, therefore, although seventy-six years of age and a widower, had no one to share roof and board with him in his shepherd's cottage a thousand feet above the sea. below, in the dale, lay the villages with their clustered farmsteads and their square-towered churches of norman foundation. round about his steading, which was screened by sycamores from the westerly gales, lay the mountain pastures, broken by terraces of limestone rock. above, where the limestone yields place to the millstone, were the high moors and fells, where grouse, curlews and merlins nested among the heather, and hardy, blue-faced sheep browsed on the mountain herbage. it was peregrine's duty to shepherd on these unenclosed moors the sheep and lambs which belonged to the farmers in the dale below. each farmer was allowed by immemorial custom to pasture so many sheep on the moors the number being determined by the acreage of his farm. during the lambing season, in april and may, all the sheep were below in the crofts behind the farmsteads, where the herbage was rich and the weakly ewes could receive special attention; but by the twentieth of may the flocks were ready for the mountain grass, and then it was that peregrine's year would properly begin. the farmers, with their dogs in attendance, would drive their sheep and lambs up the steep, zigzagging path that led to peregrine's steading, and there the old shepherd would receive his charges. dressed in his white linen smock, his crook in his hand, and his white beard lifted by the wind, he would take his place at the mouth of the rocky defile below his house. at a distance he might easily have been mistaken for a bishop standing at the altar of his cathedral church and giving his benediction to the kneeling multitudes. there was dignity in every movement and gesture, and the act of receiving the farmers' flocks was invested by him with ritual solemnity. he gave to each farmer in turn a formal greeting, and then proceeded to count the sheep and lambs that the dogs had been trained to drive slowly past him in single file. he knew every farmer's "stint" or allowance, and stern were his words to the man who tried to exceed his proper number. "thou's gotten ower mony yowes to thy stint, thomas moon," he would say to a farmer who was trying to get the better of his neighbours. "nay, peregrine, i reckon i've nobbut eighty, and they're lile 'uns at that." "eighty's thy stint, but thou's gotten eighty-twee; thou can tak heam wi' thee twee o' yon three-yeer-owds, an' mind thou counts straight next yeer." further argument was useless; peregrine had the reputation of never making a mistake in his reckoning, and, amid the jeers of his fellows, thomas moon would drive his two rejected ewes with their lambs back to his farm. when all the sheep had been counted and driven into the pens which they were to occupy for the night the shepherd would invite the farmers to his house and entertain them with oatcakes, wensleydale cheese and home-brewed beer; meanwhile, the conversation turned upon the past lambing season and the prospects for the next hay harvest. when the farmers had taken their leave peregrine would pay a visit to the pens to see that all the sheep were properly marked and in a fit condition for a moorland life. next morning he opened the pens and took the ewes and lambs on to the moors. for the next ten months they were under his sole charge, except during the short periods of time when they had to be brought down to the farms. the first occasion was "clipping-time," at the end of june, before the hay harvest began. then, on the first of september, they returned to the dale in order that the ram lambs might be taken from the flocks and sold at the september fairs. once again, before winter set in, the farmers demanded their sheep of peregrine in order to anoint them with a salve of tar, butter and grease, which would keep out the wet. for the rest the flocks remained with peregrine on the moors, and it was his duty to drive them from one part to another when change of herbage required it. the moors seemed woven into the fabric of peregrine's life, and he belonged to them as exclusively as the grouse or mountain linnet. he knew every rock upon their crests and every runnel of water that fretted its channel through the peat; he could mark down the merlin's nest among the heather and the falcon's eyrie in the cleft of the scar. if he started a brooding grouse and the young birds scattered themselves in all directions, he could gather them all around him by imitating the mother's call-note. the moor had for him few secrets and no terrors. he could find his way through driving mist or snowstorm, knowing exactly where the sheep would take shelter from the blast, and rescuing them from the danger of falling over rocks or becoming buried in snowdrifts. the sun by day and the stars by night were for him both clock and compass, and if these failed him he directed his homeward course by observing how the cotton-grass or withered sedge swayed in the wind. except when wrapped in snow, the high moors of the pennine range present for eight months of the year a harmony of sober colours, in which the grey of the rocks, the bleached purple of the heather blossom and the faded yellows and browns of bent and bracken overpower the patches of green herbage. but twice in the course of the short summer the moors burst into flower and array themselves with a bravery with which no lowland meadow can compare. the first season of bloom is in early june, when the chalices or the cloud-berry and the nodding plumes of the cottongrass spring from an emerald carpet of bilberry and ling. these two flowers are pure white, and the raiment of the moors is that of a bride prepared to meet her bridegroom, the sun. by july the white has passed, and the moors have assumed once more a sombre hue. but august follows, and once again they burst into flower. no longer is their vesture white and virginal; now they bloom as a matron and a queen, gloriously arrayed in a seamless robe of purple heather. such were the surroundings amid which peregrine ibbotson had spent three quarters of a century, and he asked for nothing better than that he should end his days as a yorkshire shepherd. but now a rumour arose that there was a project on foot to enclose the moors. the meadows and pastures in the valley below had been enclosed for more than half-a-century, and this had been brought about without having recourse to act of parliament. the fields had been enclosed by private commission; the farmers had agreed to refer the matter to expert arbitrators and their decisions had been accepted without much grumbling. the dalesmen were proud of their freehold property and were now casting their eyes upon the moorland pastures above. they agreed that the sheep would crop the grass more closely if confined by walls within a certain space, and the fees paid to the shepherd for his labour would be saved; for each farmer would be able to look after his own sheep. but what weighed with them most was the pride of individual possession compared with which the privilege of sharing with their neighbours in communal rights over the whole moor seemed of small account. moreover, stones for walling were plentiful, and the disbanding of the armies after the french wars had made labour cheap. at first peregrine refused to believe the rumour; the moors, he argued with himself, had always been commons and commons they must remain. yet the rumour persisted and gradually began to work like poison in his mind. he was too proud to mention the matter to the farmers when they came up for the autumn salving of the sheep, but a constraint in their manner deepened his suspicions, and all through the winter a pall of gloom enshrouded his mind like the pall of gloom on the moors themselves. spring brought dark foreboding to yet darker certainty. from his mountain eyrie peregrine could now see bands of men assembling in the village below. they were wallers, attracted thither by the prospect of definite work during the summer months, and on easter monday a start was made. peregrine watched them from the fells, and as he saw them carrying the blocks of limestone in their hands they seemed to him like an army of stinging ants which had been disturbed in their ant-hill and were carrying their eggs to another spot. slowly but surely the work advanced. at first the walls took a beeline track up the hillside, but when they reached the higher ground, where scars of rock and patches of reedy swamp lay in their path, their progress became serpentine. but whether straight or winding, the white walls mounted ever upwards, and peregrine knew that his doom was sealed. the moors which ibbotsons had shepherded for two hundred years would soon pass out of his charge; the most ancient of callings, which peregrine loved as he loved life itself, would be his no more; his mountain home, which had stood the shock of an age-long battle with the storms, would pass into the hand of some dalesman's hind, and he would be forced to descend to the valley and end his days in one or other of the smoky towns where his remaining sons were living. there was no human being to whom he could communicate his thoughts, yet the pent-up anguish must find outlet somehow, lest the heart-strings should snap beneath the strain. it was therefore to his sheepdog, rover, that he unburdened his mind, as the dog lay with its paws across his knees in the heather, looking up to its master's face. "snakes, rover, doesta see t' snakes," he would mutter, as his eye caught the serpent-like advance of the walls. the dog seemed to catch his meaning, and responded with a low growl of sympathy. "aye, they're snakes," the old man went on, "crawlin's up t' fell-side on their bellies an' lickin' up t' dust. they've gotten their fangs into my heart, rover, and seean they'll be coilin' thersels about my body. i niver thowt to see t' snakes clim' t' moors; they sud hae bided i' t' dale and left t' owd shipperd to dee in peace." when clipping-time came the walls had almost reached the level of the shepherd's cottage. it was the farmers' custom to pay peregrine a visit at this time and receive at his hands the sheep that were to be driven down to the valley to be clipped and earmarked. but this year not a single one appeared. shame held them back, and they sent their hinds instead. these knew well what was passing in the shepherd s mind, but they stood in too much awe of him to broach the subject; and he, on his side, was too proud to confide his grievance to irresponsible farm servants. but if nothing was said the dark circles round peregrine's eyes and the occasional trembling of his hand betrayed to the men his sleepless nights and the palsied fear that infected his heart. at times, too, though he did his utmost to avoid them, the shepherd would come upon the bands of wallers engaged in their sinister task. these were strangers to the dale and less reticent than the men from the farms. "good-mornin', shipperd. thou'll be noan sae pleased to set een on us wallers, i reckon," one of them would say. "good-mornin'," peregrine would reply. "i weant say that i's fain to see you, but i've no call to threap wi' waller-lads. ye can gan back to them that sent you and axe 'em why they've nivver set foot on t' moor this yeer." "mebbe they're thrang wi' their beasts and have no time to look after t' yowes." "thrang wi' beasts, is it? nay, they're thrang wi' t' devil, and are flaid to look an honest man i' t' face." the old man's words, and still more the lines of anguish that seamed his weather-beaten face, touched them to the quick. but what could they do? they were day-labourers, with wives and children dependent on the work of their hands. walling meant tenpence a day and regular work for at least six months, and the choice lay between that and the dreaded "bastile," as yorkshiremen in the years that succeeded the french revolution had learnt to call the workhouse. so the work went on, and each day saw "the snakes" approaching nearer to their goal on the crest of the fells. peregrine still pursued his calling, for the farmers, partly to humour the old man, gave orders that a gap here and there should be left in the walls through which he could drive his flocks. the work slackened somewhat during the hay harvest, and the services of the wallers were enlisted in the meadows below. but when the hay was gathered into the barns--there are no haystacks in the yorkshire dales--walling was resumed with greater vigour than before. the summer was advancing, and the plan was to finish the work before the winter storms called a halt. all hands were therefore summoned to the task, and the farmers themselves would often join the bands of wallers. peregrine kept out of their way as far as possible, hating nothing so much as the sound of their hammers dressing the stone. but one day, as he rounded a rocky spur, he came upon the chief farmer of the district, as he was having dinner with his men under the lee of the wall he was building. seeing that an encounter was unavoidable, the shepherd advanced boldly to meet his adversary. "i've catched thee at thy wark at last have i, timothy?" were his words of greeting, and timothy metcalfe cowered before a voice which seared like one of his own branding-irons. "enclosin' t' freemen's commons is nobbut devil's wark, i's thinkin'," peregrine went on relentlessly, "and i've marked thee out for devil's wark sin first thou tried to bring more nor thy stint o' swawdill yowes on to t' moor." the wallers received this home-thrust with a smile of approval, and timothy, roused by this, sought to defend himself. "it's noan devil's wark," he retorted. "enclosure was made by order o' t' commissioners." "aye, i know all about t' commissioners--farmers hand i' glove wi' t' lawyers frae t' towns, and, aboon all, a government that's i' t' landlords' pockets. what i say is that t' common land belongs iverybody, an' sike-like as thee have gotten no reight to fence it in." "happen we're doin' it for t' good o' t' country," argued timothy. "there's bin a vast o' good herbage wasted, wi' sheep hallockin' all ower t' moors, croppin' a bit here and a bit theer, and lettin' t' best part o' t' grass get spoilt." "thou's leein', and thou knows it," replied peregrine, with the righteous indignation of one whose professional honour is impugned. "i've allus taen care that t' moors hae bin cropped fair; thou reckons thou'll feed mair yowes an' lambs on t' moors when thou's bigged thy walls; but thou weant, thou'll feed less. i know mair about sheep nor thou does, and i tell thee thou'll not get thy twee hinds to tend 'em same as a shepherd that's bred an' born on t' moors." "we sal see about that," metcalfe answered sullenly. "an' what wilta do when t' winter storms coom?" peregrine continued. "it's not o' thee an' thine, but o' t' yowes i's thinkin'; they'll be liggin theer for mebbe three week buried under t' snow. it's then thou'll be wantin' t' owd shipperd back, aye, an' rover too, that can set a sheep when shoo's under six foot o' snow." "thou's despert proud of what thou knows about sheep an' dogs, peregrine, but there's mony a lad down i' t' dale that's thy marrow." "aye, i's proud o' what i've larnt misel through tendin' sheep on t' craven moors for mair nor sixty year; and thou's proud o' thy meadows and pasturs down i' t' dale, aye, and o' thy beasts an' yowes and all thy farm-gear; but it's t' pride that gans afore a fall. think on my words, timothy metcalfe, when i's liggin clay-cowd i' my grave. thou's tramplin' on t' owd shipperd an' robbin' him o' his callin'; and there's fowks makkin' brass i' t' towns that'll seean be robbin' thee o' thy lands. thou's puttin' up walls all ower t' commons an' lettin' t' snakes wind theirsels around my lile biggin; and there's fowks'll be puttin' up bigger walls, that'll be like a halter round thy neck." as he uttered these words, peregrine drew himself up to his full height, and his flashing eyes and animated gestures gave to what he said something of the weight of a sibylline prophecy. then, calling his dog to heel, he moved slowly away. by the end of august the walls had reached the top of the fells and there had joined up with those which had mounted the other slope of the moors from the next valley. and now began the final stage in the process of enclosure--the building of the cross-walls and the division of the whole area into irregular fields. this work started simultaneously in the dale-bottoms and on the crests, so that peregrine's cottage, which was situated midway between the valley and the mountain-tops, would be enclosed last of all. the agony which the shepherd endured, therefore, during these weeks of early autumn was long-drawn-out. he still pursued his calling, leading the sheep, when the hot sun had burnt the short wiry grass of the hill-slopes, down to the boggy ground where runnels of water furrowed their courses through the peat and kept the herbage green. but go where he might, he could not escape from the sound of the wallers' tools. it was a daily crucifixion of his proud spirit, and every blow of the hammer on the stones was like a piercing of his flesh by the crucifiers' nails. october brought frost, followed by heavy rains, and the moors were enshrouded in mist. but the farmers, eager that the enwalling should be finished before the first snows came, allowed their men no respite. with coarse sacking over their shoulders to ward off the worst of the rain, they laboriously plied their task, but the songs and jests and laughter which had accompanied their work in summer gave way to gloomy silence. they rarely met peregrine now, though they often saw him tending his flocks in the distance, and noticed that his shoulders, which six months before had been erect, were now drooping heavily forward and that he walked with tottering steps. they reported this in the farm-houses where they were lodging, and two of the farmers wives, who in happier days had been on friendly terms with peregrine, paid a visit to the old man's cottage in order to try to induce him to come down to the dale for the winter or go and stay with one of his sons in the towns. the shepherd received them with formal courtesy, but would not listen to their proposal. "nay," he said, "i'll bide on t' moors; t' moors are gooid enif to dee on." early in november a party of wallers were disturbed at their work by the persistent barking of a dog. thinking that the animal was caught in a snare, they followed the sound, with the intention of setting it free. on reaching the spot they found it was rover, standing over the prostrate figure of the shepherd. the old man had fainted and was lying in the heather. the wallers brought water in their hats and, dashing it in his face restored him to consciousness. he was, however, too weak to talk, so they carried him in their arms to his cottage and laid him on his bed while one of them raced down the hill to summon the nearest doctor. a few hours later fever set in, and the patient became delirious. a tumult of ideas was surging through his brain, and found vent in broken speech, which struck awe to the wallers' hearts as they bent over his bed. "_ein-tein-tethera-methera-pimp_; _awfus-dawfus-deefus-dumfus-dik_." the old man was counting his sheep, using the ancient gaelic numerals from one to ten, which had been handed down from one shepherd to another from time immemorial. and as he called out the numbers his hand fumbled among the bed-clothes as though he were searching for the notches on his shepherd's crook. then his mind wandered away to his three sons who had fallen in their country's wars. "miles! christopher! tristram!" he cried, and his glazed eyes were fastened on the door as if he expected them to enter. then, dimly remembering the fate that had befallen them, he sank slowly back on the pillow. "they're deead, all deead," he murmured; "an' their bones are bleached lang sin. miles deed at corunna, christopher at waterloo, and i--i deant know wheer tristram deed. they sud hae lived--lived to help me feight t' snakes." as he uttered the dreaded word his fingers clutched his throat as though he felt the coils of the monsters round his neck, and a piercing shriek escaped his lips. after a time he grew quieter and his voice sank almost to a whisper. "he makketh me to lie down i' green pasturs," he gently murmured, and, as he uttered the familiar words, a smile lit up his face. "there'll be nea snakes i' yon pasturs. i's thinkin'. ... he leadeth me beside t' still watters.... i know all about t' still watters; they flows through t' peat an' t' ling away on t' moor." later in the day the doctor came, but a glance showed him that recovery was out of the question; and next morning, as the sun broke over the eastern fells, peregrine ibbotson passed away. the snakes had done their work; their deadly fangs had found the shepherd's heart. throp's wife in yorkshire, when a man is very busy, we say he is "despert thrang"; but when he is so busy that "t' sweat fair teems off him," we say that he is as "thrang as throp's wife." now i had always been curious to know who throp's wife was, and wherein her "thrangness" consisted, and what might be throp's view of the matter; but all my inquiries threw no light upon the problem, and it seemed as though throp's wife were going to prove as intangible as mrs harris. but i am not the man to be put off by feminine elusiveness, so i made a vow that i would give up smoking until i had found throp's wife and made her mine. my summer holiday was coming on, and i decided that, instead of spending the week in scarborough, i would make a tour through the towns and villages of the west riding in search of throp's wife. i took the matter as much to heart as if i had been a mediaeval knight setting forth to rescue some distressed damsel from the clutches of a wicked magician or monstrous hippogriff, and i called my expedition "the quest of throppes wife"; as my emblem i chose the words "_cherchez la femme_." i first of all turned my steps in the direction of pudsey, for i knew that it had the reputation of being the home of lost souls. to my delight i found that pudsey professed first-hand acquaintance with the lady. "throp's wife," said pudsey; "ay, iverybody has heerd tell abaat throp's wife. thrang as throp's wife is what fowks allus say." "yes, yes," i replied; "but what i want to know is who throp's wife really was." "why," answered pudsey, "shoo'll happen hae bin t' wife o' a chap they called throp." now that was just the answer i might have expected from pudsey, and i decided to waste no more time there. so i made for the heavy woollen district--capital letters, if you please, mr printer--and straightway put my question. but the heavy woollen district was far too thrang itself to take interest in anybody else's thrangness; it knew nothing about quests or emblems, cared little about throp's wife, and less about me. so i commended the heavy woollens to the tender mercies of the excess profits taxers and sped on my way. i struck across country for the calder valley, but neither at elland, which calls itself yelland, nor at halifax, which is said to be the pleasantest place in england to be hanged in, could i obtain any clue as to the lady's identity. "thrang as throp's wife" was everywhere a household phrase, but that was all. i was beginning to grow weary; besides, i wanted my pipe. "what is the use," i asked halifax, "of your establishing literary and philosophical societies, antiquarian societies, and a local branch of the society for promoting christian knowledge, if you cannot get to the bottom of throp's wife?" halifax was somewhat taken aback at this, and its learned antiquaries, in self-defence, assured me that, if she had been a roman remain they would have known all about her. "but how do you know that she is not a roman remain?" i asked. "nobody can tell a woman's age. she may even be a solar myth." say what i might, i could not induce halifax to join in "the quest of throppes wife"; it savoured too much of quixotry for sober-minded halifax. i now realised that the quest must be a solitary one, and i consoled myself with the thought that, if the ardours of the pilgrimage were unshared, so would be the glory of the prize. fired with new enthusiasm, i shouted the name of throp's wife to the everlasting hills, and the everlasting hills gave back the slogan in reverberating echoes--"throp's wahfe." by midday i had reached the summit of stanbury moor, and the question was whether i should descend the populous worth valley to keighley or strike northwards across the hills. instinct impelled me to the latter course, and instinct was right. late in the afternoon, faint but pursuing, i reached a hill-top village which the map seemed to identify with a certain cowling hill, but which was always spoken of as cohen-eead. i made my way to "the golden fleece," and there, in the bar parlour, i met an old man and a merry. his face was as round and almost as red as a dutch cheese, and many a year had passed since he had last seen his feet. i felt drawn to this old man, whose baptismal name was timothy barraclough, but who always answered to the by-name of tim o' frolics; and when we had politely assured one another that it was grand weather for the hay and that lambs would soon be making a tidy price at colne market, i spoke to him of the quest. at first he remained silent, but after a few moments his blue eyes began to twinkle like stars in the firmament, and then, slapping his knees with both hands, he broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "ay, ay," he said, "i know all about throp's wife. shoo lived at cohen-eead, an' my mother telled me t' tale when i were nobbut a barn." as i heard these words, i almost leaped for joy, and could have thrown my arms about the old man's neck, and embraced him. remembering pudsey, however, i refrained, but urged tim o' frolics to tell me all he knew. "throp was a farmer," he began, "and lived out cornshaw way. he was a hard-workin' man, was throp, but i reckon all his wark were nobbut laikin' anent what his wife could do. you see, her mother had gien her a spinnin'-wheel when shoo were wed, and eh! but shoo were a gooid 'un to spin. shoo'd get t' house sided up by ten o'clock, an' then shoo'd set hersen down to t' wheel. throp would sam up all t' bits o' fallen wool that he could find, an' throp's wife would wesh 'em an' card 'em an' spin 'em into yarn, an' then shoo'd knit t' yarn into stockin's an' sell 'em at keighley an' colne. shoo were that thrang shee'd sooin getten shut o' all t' wool that throp could get howd on, an' then shoo axed t' farmers to let t' barns out o' t' village go round t' moors an' bring her t' wool that had getten scratted off t' yowes' backs for ten mile around. shoo were a patteren wife, and sooin fowks began to say to one another: 'i've bin reight thrang to-day; i've bin well-nigh as thrang as throp's wife.' so 'thrang as throp's wife' gat to be a regular nominy, an' other fowks took to followin' her example; it were fair smittlin'! they bowt theirsens spinnin'-wheels, an' gat agate o' spinnin', while there were all nations o' stockins turned out i' cohen-eead an' cornshaw, enough for a whole army o' sodgers. ay, an' t' women fowks gat their chaps to join i' t' wark; there were no settin' off for t' public of a neet, an' no threapin' or fratchin' at t' call-hoils. it was wark, wark, wark, through morn to neet, an' all on account o' throp's wife an' her spinnin'-wheel. "well, after a time cohen-eead had getten that sober an' hard-workin', t'owd devil began to grow a bit unaisy. he'd a lot o' slates, had t' devil; there was one slate for iverybody i' cohen-eead. he'd had t' slates made i' two sizes, one for t' men an' one for t' women." "the big slates were for the men and the little slates for the women, i suppose." "i'm noan so sure o' that," timothy rejoined, and his eyes began to twinkle again. "well," he continued, "t' devil began to look at t' slates, an there was onmost nowt written on 'em; nobody had getten druffen, or illified his neighbour; there was nobbut a two-three grocers that had bin convicted o' scale-sins. so t' devil sends for t' god o' flies, and when he were come, he says to him: 'nah then, beelzebub, what's wrang wi' cohen-eead? there's no business doin' there'; and he shows him t' slates. so beelzebub taks t' slates and looks at 'em, an' then he scrats his heead an' he says: 'i can't help it, your majesty. it's throp's wife; that's what's wrang wi' cohen-eead.' "'throp's wife! throp's wife!' says satan; 'an' who's throp's wife to set hersen agean me?' "'shoo's made fowks i' cohen-eead that thrang wi' wark they've no time to think o' sins.' "'an' what have thy flies bin doin' all t' time?' asks satan. 'they've bin laikin', that's what they've bin doin'. they ought to hae bin buzzin' round fowks' heeads an' whisperin' sinful thowts into their lug-hoils. how mony flies does thou keep at cohen-eead?' "t' god o' flies taks out his book an' begins to read t' list: 'five hunderd mawks, three hunderd atter-cops, two hunderd an' fifty bummle-bees.' 'bummle-bees! bummle-bees!' says satan. 'what's t' gooid o' them, i'd like to know? how mony house-flies, how mony blue-bottles hasta sent?' and wi' that he rives t' book out o' beelzebub's hands and turns ower t' pages hissen. "at lang length he gies him back his book, and he says: 'i sal hae to look into this misen. throp's wife! i'll sooin sattle wi' throp's wife. i'll noan have her turnin' cohen-eead intul a gardin o' eden. i reckon i'm fair stalled o' that mak o' place.' "so satan gav out that he were baan for cohen-eead an' wouldn't be back while to-morn. 'twere lat i' t' afternooin when he'd getten theer, an' t' first thing he did were to creep behind a wall and change hissen intul a sarpint. an' as he were set theer, waitin' for it to get dark, he saw five blue-bottles that were laikin' at tig i' t' sunshine anent t' wall. well, that made t'owd devil fair mad, for they ought to hae bin i' t' houses temptin' fowks to sin; so he oppened his cake-hoil, thrast out his forked tongue, an' swallowed three on 'em at one gulp. after that he felt a bit better. when it were turned ten o'clock, he crawled alang t' loans an' bridle-stiles, while he gat to throp's farm. he sidled under t' door and into t' kitchen. it were as dark as a booit i' t' kitchen, an' he could hear throp snorin' i' bed aboon t' balks. so he crawled up t' stairs, an' under t' chamer door, an' up on to t' bed. eh! but throp's wife would hae bin flustered if shoo'd seen a sarpint liggin' theer on t' pillow close agean her lug-hoil. but shoo were fast asleep, wi' throp aside her snorin' like an owd ullet i' t' ivy-tree. so t' devil started temptin' her, and what doesta think he said?" "i suppose he told her not to work so hard," i replied, "but take life more easily and quarrel a bit with her neighbours." tim o' frolics paused for a moment to enjoy the luxury of seeing me fall into the pit that he had dug for me, and then went on: "he said nowt o' t' sort. that's what t' blue-bottles had bin sayin' to her all t' time, an' all for nowt. nay, t'owd devil were a sly 'un, an' knew more about throp's wife nor all t' blue-bottles i' t' world. so he says to her: 'keziah'--they called her keziah after her grandmother--'thou's t' idlest dawkin' i' cohen-eead. when arta baan to get agate o' workin'?'" "but surely," i interrupted, "there was no temptation in telling her to work harder." timothy paused, and then, in a reproving voice, asked: "who's tellin' t' tale, i'd like to know? thou or me?" i stood rebuked, and urged him to go on with his story, promising that i would not break in on the narrative again. "well, as i were sayin'," he continued, "t' devil kept tellin' her that shoo mun be reight thrang, an' not waste time clashin' with her neighbours; an' when he thowt he'd said enough he crawled down off t' bed an out o' house and away back to wheer he com frae. "next mornin' throp's wife wakkened up at t' usual time an' crept out o' bed. there was nowt wrang wi' her, and o' course shoo knew nowt about t' royal visit that shoo'd bin honoured wi'. shoo gat all t' housewark done, fed t' hens and t' cauves, an' was set down to her wheel afore ten o'clock. there shoo sat an' tewed harder nor iver. it were setterday, an' shoo looked at t' bag o' wool and said to hersen that shoo'd have it all carded an' spun an' sided away afore shoo went to bed that neet. shoo wouldn't give ower when t' time com for dinner or drinkins or supper, but shoo made throp bring her a sup o' tea and summat to eat when he com in through his wark. an' all t' time shoo called hersen an idle dollops 'cause shoo weren't workin' hard enough. that were t' devil's game. but for all shoo tewed so hard, there was a gey bit o' wool left i' t' bag when ten o'clock com and 'twere time to get to bed. you see, 'twere bad wool; 'twere all feltered an' teed i' knots. but throp's wife were noan baan to bed while shoo'd finished t' bag. so throp said, if that were so, he mun set hissen down an' help wi' t' wark. so throp carded an' throp's wife spun, an' that set things forrad a bit. but t' hands o' t' clock went round as they'd niver done afore; eleven o'clock com and hauf-past eleven, and then a quairter to twelve. throp's wife looked at t' clock, an' then at bag, an' then at throp. "'throp,' shoo said, 'we'll noan be through wi t' wark by midneet.' "'then we sal hae to give ower,' said throp. 'it'll be sunday morn i' a quairter of an hour, an' i'm noan baan to work o' sunday.' "when throp's wife heerd that shoo burst out a-roarin'. 'i'm an idle good-for-nowt,' shoo said. 'eh! but i mun finish t' bag; i mun, i mun.' "'i'm noan baan to work when t' clock has struck twelve,' throp said agean, 'nor let thee work, nowther. i'm a deacon at t' independent chapil, an' i'll noan let fowks say that they saw a leet i' wer kitchen, an' heerd thy wheel buzzin' of a sunday morn.' "when throp's wife heerd that, shoo fell to roarin' agean, for shoo knew they'd noan be through wi' t' spinnin' while a quairter past twelve. but at lang length shoo turned to throp an' shoo said: 'let's put t' clock back, an' then, if onybody's passin' an' looks in on us, an' wants to know why we're workin' of a sunday morn, we can show 'em t' clock.' "throp said nowt for a bit; he was a soft sort o' a chap, an' didn't want to start fratchin' wi' his wife. so just to please her, he gat up on to t' stooil an' put back t' hands o' t' clock twenty minutes. an' t' clock gave a despert gert groan; 'twere summat atween a groan an' a sweer, an' it went straight to throp's heart, an' he wished he'd niver melled wi' t' clock. howiver, he com back to his cardin', an' when t' clock strack twelve, t' bag o' wool were empty, an' there were a gert hank o' spun yarn as big as a man's heead. throp looked at his wife, an' there were a glint in her een that he'd niver seen theer afore; shoo were fair ditherin' wi' pride an' flustration. 'fowks san't say "thrang as throp's wife" for nowt,' shoo said, and shoo gat up off t' stooil, sided away t' spinnin'-wheel, an' stalked off to bed wi' throp at her heels. eh! mon, but 'twere a false sort o' pride were yon." "did people find out about putting the clock back?" i asked. "nay, 'twere worse nor that," timothy replied. "that neet there was a storm at cohen-eead the likes o' which had niver bin seen theer afore. there was thunner an' leetnin', and a gert sough o' wind that com yowlin' across t' moor an' freetened iverybody wellnigh out o' their five senses. fowks wakkened up an' said 'twere judgment day, an' t' man aboon had coom to separate t' sheep frae t' goats. when t' cockleet com, t' storm had fallen a bit, an' fowks gat out o' bed to see if owt had happened 'em. slates, and mebbe a chimley or two, had bin rived off t' roofs, but t' beasts were all reight i' t' mistals, an' then they went up on to t' moors to look for t' sheep. when they got nigh throp's farm, they noticed there was a gert hoil in his riggin' big enough for a man to get through. so they shouted to throp, but he niver answered. then they oppened t' door an' looked in. there was nobody i' t' kitchen, but t' spinnin'-wheel were all meshed to bits and there were a smell o' burnin' wool. they went all ower t' house, but they could see nowt o' throp nor o' throp's wife, nor o' throp's wife's chintz-cat that shoo called nimrod, nor yet o' throp's parrot that he'd taught to whistle _pop goes t' weazel_. they lated 'em ower t' moors an' along t' beck boddom, but 'twere all for nowt, an' nobody i' cohen-eead iver set een on 'em again." such was timothy barraclough's story of throp's wife and of the terrible fate which befell her and her husband. i spent the night at the inn, and next morning made further inquiries into the matter. there was little more to be learnt, but i was told that farmers crossing the moors on their way home from colne market had sometimes heard, among the rocks on the crest of the hills, the sound of a spinning-wheel; but others had laughed at this, and had said that what they had heard was only the cry of the nightjar among the bracken. it was also rumoured that on one occasion some boys from the village had made their way into a natural cavern which ran beneath the rocks, and, after creeping some distance on hands and knees, had been startled by ghostly sounds. what they heard was the mournful whistling of a popular air, as it were by some caged bird, and then the strain was taken up by the voices of a man and woman singing in unison: up and down the city street in and out the "easel," that's the way the money goes, pop goes the weazel. "it mun be so" i met her on her way through the path-fields to the cowshed; she was gathering, in the fading light of an october evening, the belated stars of the grass of parnassus, and strapped to her shoulders was the "budget," shaped to the contour of the back, and into which the milk was poured from the pails. it was a heavy load for a girl of twelve, but she was used to it, and did not grumble. her father was dead, all the day-tale men had been called up, and her mother, she assured me, "was that thrang wi' t' hens an' t' cauves, shoo'd no time for milkin' cows." in the village she was subjected to a good deal of ridicule. the children made fun of her on her way home from school, and called her "daft lizzie"; the old folks, when they heard her muttering to herself, would shrug their shoulders and pass the remark that she was "nobbut a hauf-rocked 'un"--an insult peculiarly galling to her mother. "a hauf-rocked 'un!" she would exclaim. "nay, i rocked her misel i' t' creddle while my shackles fair worked. shoo taks after her dad, that's what's wrang wi' lizzie. a feckless gowk was watmough; he couldn't frame to do owt but play t' fiddle i' t' sky-parlour, or sit ower t' fire eatin' fat-shives." lizzie's daftness was not a serious matter; it consisted partly in a certain dreaminess, which brought a yonderly look into her eyes, and made her inattentive to what was going on around her, and partly in that habit of talking to herself which has already been referred to. i had won her confidence and friendship from the time when i rescued her "pricky-back urchin" from being kicked to death by the farm boys, who declared that hedgehogs always made their way into the byres and milked the cows. since then we had had many talks together, but this was the first time that i had accompanied her when she went to milk. milking in summer-time, when the cows are out at grass, is pleasant enough, but it is different of a winter evening. then one gropes one's way by the light of the stable lantern through the rain-sodden fields to the cowshed, the reeking atmosphere of which often makes one feel faint as one plunges into it from out of the frosty air. but lizzie liked the work at all seasons, and was never so much at ease as when she was firmly planted on her stool, her curly head butting into a cow's ribs, and the warm milk swishing rhythmically into her pail. there were three cows in the byre, and she had called them after her aunts. eliza, like her namesake, was "contrairy," and had to have her hind legs hobbled lest she should kick over the pail. molly and anne were docile beasts that chewed the cud with bovine complacency. it was lizzie's habit to tell the cows stories as she milked, making them up as she went along; but to-day she found a better listener in myself. our talk was at first of cows; thence it passed to village gossip, pigs, hedgehogs, and so back to cows once more. knowing the imaginative bent of her mind, i put the question to her: "wouldn't you like to know just what becomes of the milk you send off to leeds by train every day?" "aye, i like to know who sups t' milk," she answered, "an' so does t' cows." "but you can't know that," i said. "you don't take it round to the houses." "nay, i don't tak it round to t' houses, but i reckon out aforehand who's to get it." it was evident that lizzie had some private arrangement for the disposal of her milk, and i encouraged her to let me share her secret. "i've milked for all maks o' fowks sin' father deed," she went on, "bettermy fowks and poor widdies. once i milked for t' king." "buckingham palace or windsor castle?" lizzie knew nothing about pleasantry, and was not put out by my frivolous question. "'twern't nowther o' them places," she continued; "'twere leeds town hall. mother read it out o' t' paper that he was comin' to leeds to go round t' munition works, and would have his dinner wi' t' lord mayor. so i said to misel: 'i'll milk for t' king.' he's turned teetotal, has t' king, sin t' war started, and i telled t' cows all about it t' neet afore. 'ye mun do your best, cushies, to-morn', i said. 't' king'll be wantin' a sup o' milk to his ham and eggs, and i reckon 'twill do him more gooid nor his pint o' beer, choose how. an' just you think on that gentle-fowks has tickle bellies. don't thou go hallockin' about i' t' tonnup-field, eliza, and get t' taste o' t' tonnups into thy cud same as thou did last week.' eh! they was set up about it, was t' cows; i'd niver seen 'em so chuffy. so next day, just to put 'em back i' their places, i made em gie their milk to t' owd fowks i' t' union." "who else have you milked for?" i asked, after a pause, during which she had moved her stool from eliza to roan anne. "nay, i can't reckon 'em all up," she replied. "soomtimes it's weddin's an' soomtimes it's buryin's; then there's lile barns that's just bin weaned, and badly fowks i' bed." "and will you sometimes milk for a lady i know that lives in leeds?" lizzie was silent for a moment, and then asked: "is shoo a taicher, an' has shoo gotten fantickles and red hair?" "no," i replied, and i thought with some amusement of the freckled face and aureoled head of the village schoolmistress, who had got across with lizzie on account of her inability to do sums and speak "gradely english." "she's an old lady, with white hair; she's my mother." "aye, i'll milk for thy mother," lizzie answered; "but i'm thrang wi' sodgers this week an' next." "soldiers in camp?" i asked. "nay, sodgers i' t' hospital. poor lads, they're sadly begone for want o' a sup o' milk. i can see 'em i' their beds i' them gert wards, and there's country lads amang 'em that knows all about cows an' plooin'. their faces are as lang as a wet week when they think on that they've lossen an arm or a leg, an' will niver milk nor ploo no more. eh! but i'm fain to milk for t' sodgers." "but how can you be sure that the right people get your milk?" i asked at last. she did not answer at once, and i knew that she was wondering at my stupidity, and considering how best she could make me understand. but she could find no words to bring home to my intelligence the confidence that was hers. all that she could say was: "it mun be so." "it mun be so." at first i thought it was just the usual game of make-believe in which children love to indulge. but it was much more than this, and the simple words were an expression of her sure faith that what she willed must come to pass. "it mun be so." why not? "if ye have faith, and shall say unto this mountain, be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea, it shall be done." the inner voice fear is a resourceful demon, with whom we are engaged in perpetual conflict from the cradle to the grave. fear assumes many forms, and has always a shrewd eye for the joints in that armour of courage and confidence which we put on in self-defence. one man conquers fear of danger only to fall a prey to fear of public opinion; another succumbs to superstitious fear, while a third, steadfast against all these, comes under the thraldom of the most insidious and malign of all forms of fear--the fear of death. the power of fear has of late been forcibly impressed on my mind by hearing from his own lips the story of my friend, job hesketh. six months ago i should have said that job was entirely unconscious of fear. i have never known a man so good-humouredly indifferent to public opinion. "say what thou thinks and do what thou says" was the golden rule upon which he acted, and which he commended to others. superstition, in its myriad forms, was for him a lifelong jest. thirteen people at table had never been known to take the keen edge off his yorkshire appetite, and he liked to make fun of his friends' dread of ghosts, witches and "gabbleratchets." nothing pleased him better than to stroll of an evening round the nearest cemetery, and he had often been heard to declare: "i'd as sooin eat my supper off a tombstone as off wer kitchen table." he faced danger with reckless unconcern every day of his life. he was employed as a "vessel-man" at the leeds steel works, working on a twelve-hours' shift, and his duty was to attend to the huge "vessels" or crucibles in which the molten pig-iron is converted by the bessemer process into steel. the operation is one of enthralling interest and beauty, and job hesketh's soul was in his work. the molten iron from the blast furnaces flows along its channel into huge "ladles" or cauldrons, and from there it is conveyed into a still larger reservoir or "mixer," where the greater part of the slag--which floats as a scum on the surface--is drawn off. then the purified metal passes into other cauldrons, which are borne along by hydraulic machinery and their contents gently tipped into the crucibles, which lower their gaping mouths to receive the daffodil stream of molten iron. when their maws are full, the crucibles are once more brought into an erect position, and the process of converting iron into steel begins. a blast of air is driven through the liquid metal, and the "vessels" are at once changed into fountains of fire. a gigantic spray of flame and sparks rises from their gaping mouths and ascends to a height of twenty feet, changing its colour from green to gold and from gold to violet and blue as the impure gases of sulphur and phosphorus are purged by the blast. for twenty minutes this continues, and then the roar of the blast and the fiery spray die down. what entered the crucible as iron is now ready to be poured forth as steel. once more the "vessels" are lowered and made to discharge their contents. first comes a molten cascade of basic slag which is borne away to cool, then to be ground to finest powder, before its quickening power is given to pasture and cornfield, imparting a deeper purple to the clover and a mellower gold to the rippling ears of wheat. when all the slag has been drawn off, there is a moment's pause, and then a new cascade begins. the steel is beginning to flow, not in a daffodil stream like the slag, but in a cascade of exquisite turquoise blue, melting away at the sides into iridescent opal. sometimes a great cloud of steam from the pit below passes across the mouth of the crucible, and then the torrent of molten steel takes on all the colours of the rainbow, and the great shed, with its alert, swiftly moving figures, is suffused with a radiance of unearthly beauty. when the vessels have discharged all their precious liquid, the cauldron into which the metal has been poured is swung in mid-air by that unseen, effortless power which we know as hydraulic pressure, through the arc of a wide circle, until it reaches the point where the great ingot-moulds stand ready to receive the molten steel. then the cauldron is tapped, and once more the stream of turquoise flows forth, until the ladle is empty and the moulds are filled to the brim with liquid fire. such was the work in which job hesketh was engaged, and it absorbed him body and soul from year's end to year's end. job was a giant in stature and strength. born on a farm in the very heart of the yorkshire wolds, he had drifted, as a boy of sixteen, to leeds, and had found the life and activities of the forge as congenial as those of the farmstead. he had reached the age of fifty without knowing a day's illness, and he would have been the first to admit that fortune had smiled on him. his home life had been smooth, his wages had been sufficient for his simple needs, and the good health that he enjoyed was shared by his wife and five children. it is true that, in spite of his long years of service, he had never risen to be a foreman; but that, he knew quite well, was his own fault. during the summer months his conduct at the forge was exemplary, but as soon as november set in it was another matter. fox-hunting was the passion of his life, and with the fall of the leaf in the last days of october, job grew restless. he would eagerly scan the papers for news of the doings of the bramham moor hunt, and from the opening of the season to its close he would play truant on at least one day a week. he knew every cover for leagues around, and thought nothing of tramping six or eight miles to be ready for the meet before following the hounds and huntsman all day on foot across the stubble fields. in vain did foremen and works-managers remonstrate with him; he promised to reform, but never kept his word. the blood of many generations of wold farmers ran in his veins, and everyone of them had been a keen sportsman. the cry of the hounds rang in his dreams of a night, and when mary hesketh, lying by her husband's side, heard him muttering in his sleep: "tally-ho! hark to rover! stown away!" she knew that, when the hooter sounded at half-past five, it would summon him, not to work, but to a day with the hounds. he would return home between four and five, mud-stained from head to foot, triumphant at heart, but with an amusingly cowed expression on his face, as of a dog that expects a whipping. the only whipping that mary hesketh could administer to her repentant job was that of the tongue. in her early matrimonial life she had wielded this like a flail, and job had winced before the blows which she delivered. but in course of time she had come to realise that her husband's passion for the chase was incurable, and, like a wise woman, she accepted it as part of her destiny. "thou's bin laikin' agean, thou gert good-for-nowt," was her usual greeting for job on these occasions. "ay, ay, lass," he would reply; "i've addled nowt all t' day. but thou promised, when we wed, to tak me for better or worse; an' if t' worse wasn't t' hounds, it would happen be hosses or drink. sithee, mally, i've browt thee a two-three snowdrops; thou can wear 'em o' sunday." such was the job hesketh that i had known and loved for many years, and i saw no reason why his genial temper and buoyant heart should not remain with him to the end of his life. yet within six months the man changed completely. he grew suddenly old and shrunken; the great blithe laugh that pealed through the house was silenced, the look of suave contentment with himself and with the world about him vanished from his face, and in its place i saw a nervous, troubled glance as of one who suspects a lurking foe ready to spring at his throat. the change which came over job was like that which sometimes comes over a city sky in autumn. the morning breaks fair, and the sun rises from out a cloudless, frosty sky, promising a day of sunshine. but then, with the lighting of a hundred thousand fires, a change takes place. the smoke cannot escape in the windless air, but hangs like a pall over the houses. the sun grows chill, coppery and rayless, and soon a fog, creeping along the river, silently encloses each particle of smoke within a watery shroud, and a mantle of murky gloom invests the city. what was it that wrought this sudden change in the mind of job hesketh? the story is soon told. for a long time there had been no serious accident at the leeds steel works, and the workmen, almost without being aware of it, had grown somewhat reckless of the dangers which they had to face. they knew quite well that in many of the operations which the metal undergoes in its passage from crude ore to ingots of steel, a false step meant instant death. but they had known this so long that the knowledge had lost its terrors. there are many moments of enforced idleness for the vesselmen as they stand on their raised platform in front of the crucibles; but, even during these moments of inactivity, alertness of mind is required. one morning their minds were not alert, and one of the workmen, abe verity by name, seated on the railing which separates the platform from the pit in which stand the ingot-moulds, had snatched the cap from the head of one of his fellows. the latter, in response to this, had raised his crowbar, as if he meant to strike abe on the head, and abe, lurching backward on the railing in order to avoid the blow, had lost his balance and fallen backwards. under ordinary circumstances this would have meant nothing worse than a drop into the pit below, but, as ill-luck would have it, one of the cauldrons of molten steel was being swung along the arc of the pit by a hydraulic crane, and, at the very moment when abe lost his balance, it had reached the point beneath which he was sitting. there was an agonised cry from the vesselmen on their platform, a hissing splash with great gouts of liquid fire flying in all directions, a sickening smell, and then, a few minutes later, a clergyman, hastily summoned from the adjoining church, was reciting the burial service over the calcined body of abe verity. blank terror gleamed in the eyes of the men who had been witnesses of this grim holocaust. all work was suspended for the day, and job hesketh was led home, dazed and trembling in every joint, by his two eldest sons, who worked in another part of the forge. huddled together in his chair by the kitchen fire, perspiration streamed from his face. he was in a state bordering on delirium, and the answers which he gave to the questions put to him were wildly incoherent. abe verity was his friend. they had been boys together in the little wold village where they had been born, and it was at job's earnest entreaty that abe had quitted farm work and joined his friend at the leeds steel works. their tastes had been similar, and the veritys had often joined the heskeths in their summer holiday at the seaside. and now, in one fell moment, the lifelong friendship had been severed, and abe, the glad, strong, heart-warm man, had plunged from life to death. job refused to go to bed that night, but sat in his chair by the flickering embers of his kitchen fire. his wife, lying awake in the bedroom above, listened to his hard breathing and to the half-stifled words which now and again fell from his lips. he was brooding over the terrible scene he had witnessed. every detail had bitten itself into his brain like acid into metal. he saw the waves of liquid steel closing over his friend, the greedy swirl of the molten metal, and then the little tongues of red fire playing upon the surface. they reminded him of the red tongues of wolves which he had once seen in a cage, as they licked their chops after their feed of horse-flesh. then it was the clergyman reading from his prayer book in the garish light of the forge that fastened itself on his mind. the words seemed charged with bitter mockery: "we give thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world." "hearty thanks"! he muttered scornfully. "i'll gie god nowt o' t' sort. life tasted gooid to abe. he knew nowt about t' miseries o' t' sinful world. he led a clean life, did abe; an' he were fain o' life, same as i am." time gradually assuaged the first horror of the tragedy which job had witnessed, but it failed to bring him peace of mind. fear of death, which up to the moment of the tragedy at the forge had never given him an uneasy moment, now entered into possession of his mind and haunted him awake or asleep. his work at the forge, once a joy to him, was now an unbroken agony. he saw death lying in wait for him every time he climbed a ladder or lifted a crowbar. nor could he wholly escape from the terror in what had always seemed to him the security of his home. the howling of the wind in the chimney, the muttering of a distant thunderstorm, even the sight of his razor on the dressing-table, were enough to arouse the morbid fear and strike terror to his heart. he said little of the agony that he suffered, but it was written plainly in his eyes, in his ashen face and in the trembling of his hand. i did my best to induce him to speak his mind to me, but with poor success. one sunday evening, however, when i found him and his wife seated by themselves over the fire, i found him more communicative, and i realised that what he dreaded most of all in the thought of death was loss of personality. of the unelect calvinist's fear of hell he knew nothing. what troubled him was, rather, dissatisfaction with heaven. job was not much of a theologian, though he attended chapel regularly of a sunday evening. his ideas of heaven were drawn mainly from certain popular hymns, which depicted the life of the redeemed as a perpetual practice of psalmody. "what sud i be doin' i' heaven," he asked, "wi' a crown o' gowd on my heead and nowt to do all day but twang a harp, just as if i were one o' them lads i' t' band? what mak o' life's yon for a chap like me, that's allus bin used to tug an' tew for his livin'!" "nay, job," his wife replied, "but thou'll be fain o' a bit o' rest when thy turn cooms. it's a place o' rest, that's what heaven is; thou'll noan be wanted to play on t' harp without thou's a mind to." "i can't sit idle like thee, mary," job answered. "i mun allus be doin' summat. if it isn't steel works, it's fox-huntin'; and if it isn't fox-huntin' it's fettlin' up t' henhouse, or doin' a bit o' wark wi' my shool i' t' tatie-patch." "thou'll happen change thy mind when thou's a bit owder," was mary hesketh's answer to this. "when i'm ower thrang wi' wark on a washin'-day, i just set misen down on t' chair and think o' t' rest o' heaven, an' i say ower to misen yon lines that i larnt frae my muther: "i knew a poor lass that allus were tired, shoo lived in a house wheer help wasn't hired. her last words on earth were, 'dear friends, i am goin' wheer weshin' ain't doon, nor sweepin', nor sewin', don't weep for me now, don't weep for me niver, i'm boun' to do nowt for iver an' iver.'" "ay, lass," job replied, "that's reight enif for thee. breedin' barns taks it out o' a woman. but it'll noan suit me so weel." i did my best to reason with job and to enlarge his conception of the life to come and of the progress of the soul after death, but i made little impression on his mind. a heaven without forges, fox-hunting and hen-coops offered him no possible attraction. "what thou says may be true," he would answer, "but it'll noan be job hesketh that's sittin' theer. it'll be somebody else o' t' same name." thus did he fall back upon his ever-besetting fear of loss of personality in the life hereafter, and, like his biblical namesake, he refused to be comforted. the agony which job hesketh was enduring did not make him listless. on the contrary, it seemed to give him new energy. it is true that the old pleasure had gone out of his work and play, but to him work and play meant life, and to life he clung with the energy of one who lived in constant fear lest it should be suddenly snatched from him. it was january when abe verity had met with his fatal accident, and all through the next six months job toiled like a galley-slave. it was the practice of the heskeths to spend the first ten days of august at the seaside. it was their annual holiday, long talked of and long prepared, and it was invariably spent at bridlington. there job could indulge to the full in his favourite holiday pastime of swimming, and there he was in close touch with the undulating wold country where his boyhood had been spent. he could renew old acquaintances, lend a hand to the farmers, or wander at will along the chalk beds of the _gipsies_ or dry water-courses which wind their way from the hills to the sea. years ago he and his wife had given a trial to scarborough, blackpool and morecambe as seaside resorts, but they felt like foreigners there and had come back to bridlington as to an old home. "there's nowt like bridlington sands," he would say, in self-defence. "i'm noan sayin' but what there's a better colour i' t' watter at blackpool, but there's ower mich wind on' t sea. sea-watter gits into your mouth when you're swimmin' and then you've to blow like a grampus. scarborough's ower classy for t' likes o' mary an' me; it's all reight for bettermy-bodies that likes to dizen theirselves out an' sook cigars on church parade. but me an' t' owd lass allus go to bridlington. it's homely, is bridlington, an' you're not runnin' up ivery minute agean foreign counts an' countesses that ought to bide wheer they belang, an' keep theirsens to theirsens." there had been no improvement in job's state of mind during the long summer days that preceded his holiday. in his most robust days inquiries as to his health always elicited the answer that he was "just middlin'," which is the invariable answer that the cautious yorkshireman vouchsafes to give. now, with a shrunken frame, and fever in his eye, he was still "just middlin'," and, only when hard pressed would he acknowledge the carking fear that was gnawing at his heart. i was, however, not without hope that change of air and sea-bathing, for which job had a passion almost equal to that for fox-hunting, would restore him to health and tranquillity of mind. the heskeths started for bridlington on a friday, and on the following sunday the news reached me that my old friend had been drowned while bathing. i was stunned by the blow, and a feeling of intense gloom pervaded my mind all day. but next morning the rumour was corrected. job, it seems, had gone for a long swim on the saturday morning, and, not realising that he had lost strength during the last six months, had swum too far out of his depth. his strength had given out on the return journey, and only the arrival of a boatman had saved him from death by drowning. relieved as i was by this second account of what had happened, i was, nevertheless, a prey to the fear that this second encounter with death would have enhanced that agony of mind which he had endured ever since the moment when his friend, abe verity, had fallen into the cauldron of molten steel. i waited anxiously for job's return home and determined to go and see him on the evening following his arrival. i was in my bedroom, preparing to start off, when, to my surprise, i heard job's voice at my front door. i ran downstairs and was face to face with a job hesketh that i had not known for six months. his head and shoulders were erect, he had put on flesh, and the cowed look had entirely vanished from his eyes. i at once congratulated him on his improved appearance. "aye, aye," he answered, "there's nowt mich wrang wi' me." "bridlington, i see, has done you a world of good." "nay, i've bin farther nor bridlington," he replied, and the old merry twinkle, that i knew so well and had missed so long, came into his eyes. "what do you mean?" i asked. "have you been on board one of the wilson liners in the humber and crossed over to holland?" "farther nor holland," he replied, with a chuckle. "i've bin to heaven. i reckon i'm t' first yorkshireman that's bin to heaven an' gotten a return ticket given him." "sit down, job," i said, "and stop that nonsense. what do you mean?" job seated himself by my study fire, leisurely took from his pocket a dirty clay pipe and a roll of black twist, which he proceeded to cut and pound. as he was thus engaged he would look up from time to time into my face and enjoy to the full the look of impatience imprinted on it. "aye, lad," he began at last, "i've bin to heaven sin i last saw thee, an' heaven's more like leeds nor i thowt for." "like leeds!" i exclaimed, and, as job seemed in a jesting mood, i decided to humour him. "i fancy it must have been the other place you got to. to think of you not being able to tell heaven from hell." "nay, 'twere heaven, reight enif," he continued, undisturbed. "i could tell it by t' glint i' t' een o' t' lads an' lasses." i could see that job had a story to tell of more than ordinary interest. his changed appearance and buoyant manner showed clearly that something had happened to him which had dispelled the pall of gloom which had settled on him since abe verity's death. i was determined to hear the story in full. "now then, job," i said, "let us get to business. take that pipe out of your mouth and tell me what you have been doing at bridlington." job laid down his clay pipe, cleared his throat, and polished his face till it shone, with a large red handkerchief, and began his story. "well, you see, t' missus an' me got to bridlington friday afore bank holiday, an' next mornin' i went down to t' shore for my swim same as i'd allus done afore. 'twere a breet mornin', an t' chalk cliffs o' flamborough were glistenin' i' t' sun-leet. t' fishin' boats were out at sea, an' t' air were fair wick wi' kittiwakes an' herrin' gulls. so i just undressed misen, walked down to t' watter an' started swimmin'. eh! but t' sea were bonny an' warm, an' for once i got all yon dowly thowts o' death clean out o' my head. so i just struck out for t' buoy that were anchored out at sea, happen hafe a mile frae t' shore. that had allus bin my swim sin first we took to comin' to bridlington, and i'd niver had no trouble i' swimmin' theer an' back. i got to t' buoy all reight an' rested misen a bit an' looked round. gow! but 'twere a grand seet. i could see t' leet-house at spurn, and reight i' front o' me were bridlington wi' t' priory church and up beyond were fields an' fields of corn wi' farm-houses set amang t' plane-trees an' t' sun-leet glistenin' on their riggins. efter a while i started to swim back. but it were noan so easy. tide were agean me an' there were a freshish breeze off t' land. howiver, i'd no call to hurry misen, so when i got a bit tired i lay on my back, an' floated an' looked up at t' gulls aboon my head. but then i fan' out 'twere no use floatin'; t' tide were driftin' me out to sea. so i got agate o' swimmin' an' kept at it for wellnigh ten minutes. but t' shore were a lang way off, an' then, sudden-like, i began to think o' abe verity, an' t' fear o' death got howd on me an' clutched me same as if i'd bin taen wi' cramp. there were lads fishin' frae boats noan so far off, an' i hollaed to 'em; but they niver heerd. i tewed an' better tewed, but i got no forrarder; an' then i knew i were boun' to drown." as job got to this point in his story something of the old terror crept into his eyes, and i did my best to cheer him. "well, job," i said, "they tell me that drowning is the pleasantest kind of death that there is." his face brightened up immediately, and he replied: "thou's tellin' true, lad, an' what's more, i know all about it. if anybody wants to know what it's like to be drowned, send 'em to job hesketh. if i'd as mony lives as an owd tom-cat, i'd get shut on 'em all wi' drownin'." job's spirits were evidently restored, so i urged him to get on with his story. "well," he continued, "i tugged an' tewed as lang as i could, but my mouth began to get full o' watter, my legs an' airms were dead beat, an' i reckoned that 'twere all ower wi' me. an' then a fearful queer sort o' thing happened me. i were i' my father's farm on t' wold, laikin' wi' my brothers same as i used to do when i were a lile barn. an', what's more, i thowt it were my ninth birthday. you see, when i were nine yeer owd, my father gave me two gimmer lambs an' i were prouder yon day nor iver i'd bin i' my life afore. weel, that were t' day that had coom back; i knew nowt about drownin', but theer was i teein' a bit o' ribbin' about t' lambs' necks an' givin' 'em a sup o' milk out o' a bottle. an' then i were drivin' wi' my father an' mother i' t' spring-cart to driffield markit. i'd donned my best clothes and my nuncle had gien me a new sixpenny-bit for a fairin', an' i were to buy choose-what i liked. well, i were aimin' to think how i sud spend t' brass when i got to driffield, when suddenly i weren't a lile barn no more. i were job hesketh, vesselman at leeds steel works, and i were drownin' i' t' sea. i saw a boat noan so far away and i tried to holla to t' boatman, but 'twere no use; all my strength had given out, an' my voice were nobbut a groan. an' then----" job paused, and i looked up into his face. a strange radiance had come over it, such as i had never seen there before. i had heard it said that all that was brightest in a man's past life rises like a vision before his eyes when, in the act of drowning, his body sinks once, and then again, beneath the water, but i had never before confronted a man who could relate in detail what had happened to him. then there was job's story about his return ticket to heaven, which puzzled me, and i urged him to continue his story. "thou'll reckon i'm talkin' blether," he went on, "but i tell thee it's true, ivery word on it. i'll tak my bible oath on it. all on a sudden i were stannin' i' a gert park, and eh! but there were grand trees. they were birk-trees, an' their boles were that breet they fair glistened i' t' sunleet. an' underneath t' birks were bluebells, yakkers an' yakkers o' bluebells, an' i thowt they were bluer an' breeter nor ony i'd seen afore. there were all maks o' birds i' t' trees--spinks an' throstles an' blackbirds--an' t' air aboon my head were fair wick wi' larks an' pipits singin' as canty as could be. weel, i followed along t' beck-side while i com to a gert lake, wi' lads an' lasses sailin' boats on it. so i said to misen: 'my word! but it's roundhay park an' all.' but it wern't nowt o' t' sort. for one thing there were no policemen about, same as you'd see at roundhay on a bank holiday, an' at low side o' t' lake there was a town wi' all maks an' manders o' buildin's; an', what's more, a steel works wi' blast-furnaces. weel, i were stood there, watchin' t' childer paddlin' about i' t' watter, when somebody clapped his hand on my showder an' sang out: 'hullo! job, how long hasta bin here?' i looked round an', by t' mass! who sud i see but abe verity." "abe verity!" i exclaimed. "ay, 'twere abe hissen, plain as life. "so i said: 'hullo! abe, how ista?' "'just middlin',' says abe, 'an' how's thisen? how long hasta bin here?' "well, i didn't hardlins know what to say to him. you see i didn't fairly know where i was, so i couldn't tell him how lang i'd bin theer. so i says to him: 'sithee, abe, is this roundhay park?' "'raandhay park,' says abe. you see abe allus talked a bit broad. he couldn't talk gradely english same as you an' me. 'twere all along o' him livin' wi' them leeds loiners up at hunslet carr. 'raandhay park!' he says. 'nay, lad, you'll noan see birk-trees like yon i' raandhay park.' and he pointed to t' birk-trees by t' lake-side, wi' boles two foot through. "'what is it then?' i asked. 'have i coom to foreign parts? i'm a bad 'un to mell wi' foreigners.' "'nay,' said abe, 'thou's i' heaven.' "'heaven!' i shouted out, an' i looked up at abe to see if he were fleerin' at me. he looked as grave as a judge, did abe, but then i noticed that he were donned i' his blue overalls, same as if he'd just coom frae his wark. so i said to him: 'heaven, is it? i can't see mich o' heaven about thee, abe. wheer's thy harp an' crown o' gowd?' "'harp an' crown o' gowd,' said abe, an' he started laughin'. 'who is thou takkin' me for? i'm noan king david. i'm a vesselman at t' steel works,' an' he pointed wi' his hand across t' lake to wheer we could see t' forge. "gow! but i were fair flustrated. there was abe verity tellin' me one minute that i were in heaven, and next minute he were sayin' that he were workin' at t' steel works. you see i had allus thowt that i' heaven iverything would be different to what it is on earth. so i said: 'does thou mean to tell me, abe, that lads i' heaven do t' same sort o' wark that they've bin doin' all their lives on earth?' "'nay,' says abe, 'i'll noan go so far as to say just that. what i say is that they start i' heaven wheer they've left off on earth; but t' conditions is different.' "'how's that?' i axed. "'well, for one thing, a lad taks more pride i' his wark; an', what's more, he's freer to do what he likes. when i were at leeds steel works i had to do choose-what t' boss telled me. up here i'm my own boss.' "when i heerd that, i knew that abe were weel suited. you see he were a bit o' a socialist, were abe; he used to wear a red tie an' talk socialism of a setterday neet on hunslet moor. so i said to him: 'doesta mean that heaven stands for socialism, abe?' "but abe laughed an' shook his heead. 'nay, lad,' he said, 'we haven't gotten no 'isms i' heaven. we've gotten shut o' all that sort o' thing. there's no argifying i' heaven. there's plenty o' discipline, but it's what we call self-discipline; an' i reckon that's t' only sort o' discipline that's worth owt.' "'that'll niver do for me, abe,' i said. 'if it were a case o' self-discipline, i reckon i'd niver do a stroke o' wark.' "'nay, lad,' he said; 'thou'll think different now thou's coom to heaven. thou'll hark to t' inner voice an' do what it tells thee.' "'inner voice,' i said; 'what's that?' "'it's a new sort o' boss,' says abe; 'an' a gooid 'un an' all. when thou wants to know what to do or how to do it, thou just sets thisen down, an' t' inner voice starts talkin' to thee an' keeps on talkin', while thou gets agate o' doin' what it tells thee.'" job's story was gripping my imagination as nothing had done before. heaven was a place of activity and not of rest; a place where the labours of earth were renewed at the point at which they had ceased on earth, but under ideal conditions; so that labour, under the guidance of self-discipline, became service. job's account of his conversation with abe made all this as clear as sunlight, but i was still somewhat puzzled by the story of the inner voice. "what do you think abe meant by the inner voice?" i asked. "nay," replied job, "i can't tell. but what he said were true. i'm sure o' that. there were a look in his een that i'd niver seen theer afore; 'twere as if t' inner voice were speakin' through his een as well as through his mouth." "it's something more than conscience," i went on, speaking as much to myself as to job. "conscience tells a man what it is his duty to do, but conscience does not teach him how to do things." we were both silent for a few moments, pondering over the problem of the inner voice. then a thought flashed through my mind and, rising from my seat, i went to my bookshelves and took down a volume of browning's poems. i eagerly turned over the pages of _paracelsus_, read a few verses to myself, and then exclaimed: "i know what it is, job. the inner voice is the voice of truth." and i read aloud the verses in which paracelsus, that eager quest after truth, speaks his mind to his friend festus: truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise from outward things, whate'er you may believe. there is an inmost centre in us all, where truth abides in fullness; and around, wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, this perfect, clear perception--which is truth. a baffling and perverting carnal mesh binds it and makes all error: and to know rather consists in opening out a way whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, than in effecting entry for a light, supposed to be without. browning was, perhaps, somewhat beyond the comprehension of job hesketh, but he liked to hear me reading poetry aloud. "whativer it is," he said, "abe verity knows all about it. he were allus a better scholar nor me, were abe, sin first we went to schooil together; but i reckon i'll know all about it, too, when i've slipped t' leash an' started work at heaven steel works." it was evident that a great change had come over job's mind, and that the wonderful vision of a future life that had been granted to him during that second immersion beneath the waves of the north sea had wholly taken away from him his old fear of death. but i wanted to hear the conclusion of the story, and pressed him to continue. "nay," he said, "there's noan so mich more to tell. there was summat i' abe that made me a bit flaid o' axin' him ower mony questions. he were drissed like a plain vesselman, sure enif; but he talked as if he were a far-learnt man, an' his own maister. i axed him how lang t' shifts lasted i' heaven, an' he said: 'we work as lang as t' inner voice tells us to.' you see 'twere allus t' inner voice, an' i couldn't hardlins mak out what he meant by that. "then a thowt com into my heead, but i didn't fairly like to out wi' it, for fear t' man aboon were somewheer about an' sud hear me. so i just leaned ovver and whispered i' abe's lug: "'doesta tak a day off nows an' thens an' run wi' t' hounds or t' harriers?' "abe laughed as if he were fit to brust hissen, an' then, afore he'd time to answer, iverything went as dark as a booit. i saw no more o' abe, nor o' t' lake, nor o' t' birk-trees; an' t' next time i oppened my een there were a doctor chap stannin' ower me wi' a belly-pump in his hand, an' i were liggin' on a bed as weak as a kitlin." job was silent for a while, after finishing his story and relighting his pipe, and his silence gave me a chance of looking at him closely. physically he was none the worse for his adventure; mentally, spiritually, he was a new man. the fear of death had gone from his eyes, and in its place was the joy of life, together with a sure faith in the triumph of personality when, to use his own coursing phrase, he had slipped the leash. his vision of heaven was somewhat too material to satisfy me, but there could be no doubt that it had brought to his terror-swept soul the peace of mind which passeth all understanding. after a while job rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and took his leave. i accompanied him to the door and watched him as he walked down the street. there was something buoyant in his tread, and his gigantic shoulders rolled from side to side like a seaman's on the quarter-deck. soon he started whistling, and i smiled as i caught the tune. it was one of his chapel hymns, and there was a note of exultation in the closing bars: "o grave! where is thy victory? o death! where is thy sting?" my mind was full of job's story all that day. i somehow refused to believe that what he had related was mere imagination, and it was evident that he could not have invented the story of the inner voice, for this remained a mystery to him. the inner voice haunted me all the time, and, as i lay in bed that night, i asked myself again and again the question: why must we wait for a future life to hear this inner voice? b.a. they met at the smithy, waiting for "the crooked billet" to open for the evening. there was joe stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as besom-joe, william throup the postman, tommy thwaite the "colonel," so called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of the allied commanders-in-chief, and owd jerry the smith, who knew how to keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his hammer on the anvil. he refuted his opponents by asking them questions, after the manner of socrates. the subject of conversation was the village school-mistress, who had recently been placed in charge of some thirty children, and was winning golden opinions on all sides. "shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot eleven," began stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick." "aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said throup. "i reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day." "nay, shoo'll noan best t' parson," objected stackhouse who, as "church-warner" for the year, looked upon himself as the defender of the faith, the clergy, and all their works. "parson's written books abaat t' owd churches i' t' district, who's bin wedded in 'em, and who's liggin' i' t' vaults." "well," rejoined the colonel, "and didn't mary crabtree, wheer shoo lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?" "aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has," retorted stackhouse. "i reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to cover as to write one," retorted the colonel. "an' shoo can write too," the postman joined in, "better nor t' parson. i've seen her letters, them shoo writes and them shoo gets sent her. an' there's a queer thing abaat some o' t' letters at fowks writes to her; they put b.a. at after her name." "happen them'll be her christian names," suggested stackhouse. "there's a mak o' fowks nowadays that gets more nor one name when they're kessened." "nay," replied throup, "her name's mary, and what fowks puts on t' envelope is miss mary taylor, b.a." "thou's sure it's 'b.a.,' and not 'a.b.,'" said stackhouse. "i've a nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered 'a.b.,' meaning able-bodied, so as t' admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a limb." "nay, it's 'b.a.,' and fowks wodn't call a lass like mary taylor able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin." "i reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'b.a.,'" interposed the colonel. "shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me they're all foorced to put 'b.a.' at after their names." "what for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information coming from the colonel. "happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. it'll be same as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name." "doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked william throup, his mouth agape with wonder. "nay, blether-heead," replied stackhouse, "they'll be like t' specials, and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. but doesta reckon, colonel, that b.a. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?" "nay, they tell me that it stands for bachelor of arts, choose-what that means." the smith had listened to the colonel's explanation of the mysterious letters with growing scepticism. he had scarcely spoken, but an attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short, petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. now he stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded, after his fashion, to test the colonel by questions. "doesta reckon, colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male or a she-male?" "her's a she-male, o' course. what maks thee axe that?" the smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a cinder, and proceeded with his own cross-examination. "an' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell a he-male thro' a she-male as well as thee?" "o' course they can. by t' mass, jerry, what arta drivin' at?" "an' hasta niver bin i' church, colonel," the smith continued, unperturbed, "when t' parson has put spurrins up? why, 'twere nobbut a week last sunday sin he axed if onybody knew just cause or 'pediment why tom pounder sudn't wed anne coates." "i mind it, sure enough," interjected stackhouse, "and fowks began to girn, for they knew there was ivery cause an' 'pediment why he sud wed her." "hod thy din! besom-joe, while i ve sattled wi' t' colonel" said the smith, and he turned once more on his man. "what i want to know is if parson didn't say: 'i publish t' banns o' marriage between tom pounder, bachelor, and anne coates, spinster, both o' this parish.'" "aye, that's reight," said the colonel, "an' i see what thou's drivin' at. thou means mary taylor ought to be called spinster. well, for sure, i niver thowt o' that." "it's not likely thou would; thou's noan what i sud call a thinkin' man. thy tongue is ower fast for thy mind to keep up wi' it." "then what doesta reckon they letters stand for?" asked besom-joe. "there's nowt sae difficult wi' t' letters when you give your mind to 'em," the smith replied. "what i want to know is, if mary taylor came here of her own accord, or if her was putten into t' job by other fowks." "i reckon shoo was appointed by t' eddication committee." "appointed, was shoo? i thowt as mich. then mebbe 'b.a.' will stand for 'by appointment.'" the smith's solution of the problem was received with silence, but the silence implied approval. the colonel, it is true, smarting under a sense of defeat, would have liked to press the argument further; but just then the front door of "the crooked billet" was thrown open by the landlord, and the smithy was speedily emptied of its occupants. corn-fever "sithee, lass, oppen t' windey a minute, there's a love." "what do you want t' windey openin' for, mother? you'll give me my death o' cowd." "i thowt i heerd t' soond o' t' reaper." "sound o' t' reaper! nay, 'twere nobbut t' tram coomin' down t' road. what makes you think o' reapers? you don't live i' t' country any longer." "happen i were wrang, but they'll be cuttin' corn noan sae far away, i reckon." "what have you got to do wi' corn, i'd like to know? if you wanted to bide i' t' country when father deed, you sud hae said so. i gave you your choice, sure enough. 'coom an' live wi' me i' hustler's court,' i said, 'an' help me wi' t' ready-made work, or else you can find a place for yourself 'i thirsk workhouse.'" "aye, i've had my choice, mary, but it's gey hard tewin' all t' day at button-holes, when september's set in and i think on t' corn-harvist." there was a pause in the conversation, and mary, to humour her mother, threw up the window and let in the roar of the trams, the far-off clang of the steel hammers at the forge, and the rancid smell of the fried-fish shop preparing for the evening's trade. the old woman listened attentively to catch the sound which she longed for more than anything else in the world, but the street noises drowned everything. she sank back in her chair and took up the garment she was at work on. but her mind was busy, and after a few minutes she turned again to her daughter. "thoo'll not be thinkin' o' havin' a day i' t' coontry this month, mary?" "nay, i'm noan sich a fool as to want to go trapsin' about t' lanes an' t' ditches. i've my work to attend to, or we'll not get straight wi' t' rent." "aye, we're a bit behind wi' t' rent sin thoo com back frae thy week i' blackpool." "now don't you be allus talkin' about my week i' blackpool; i reckon i've a right to go there, same as t' other lasses that works at cohen's." "i wasn't complainin', mary." "eh! but i know you were; and that's all t' thanks i get for sendin' you them picture postcards. you want me to bide a widdy all my life, and me nobbut thirty-five." "is there sae mony lads i' blackpool, that's thinkin' o' gettin' wed?" "by gow! there is that. there's a tidy lot o' chaps i' them blackpool boarding-houses, an' if a lass minds her business, she'll have hooked one afore bank holiday week's out." again there was silence in the workroom, and the needles worked busily. the daughter was moodily brooding over the matrimonial chances which she had missed, while the mother's thoughts were going back to her youth and married life, when she lived at the foot of the hambledon hills, in a cottage where corn-fields, scarlet with poppies in summer-time, reached to her garden gate. at last the old woman timidly re-opened the conversation. "we couldn't tak a hafe-day off next week, i suppose, and gan wi' t' train soomwheer oot i' t' coontry, wheer i could see a two-three fields o' corn? rheumatics is that bad i could hardlins walk far, but mebbe they'd let me sit on t' platform wheer i could watch t' lads huggin' t' sheaves or runnin' for t' mell."(1) "lor'! mother, fowks don't do daft things like that any longer; they've too mich sense nowadays." "aye, i know t' times has changed, but mebbe there'll be farms still wheer they keep to t' owd ways. eh! it were grand to see t' farm-lads settin' off i' t' race for t' mell-sheaf. thy gran'father has gotten t' mell mony a time. i've seen him, when i were a lile lass, bringin' it back in his airms, and all t' lads kept shoutin' oot: "sam proud's gotten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn, it's weel bun' an' better shorn; --shout 'mell,' lads, 'mell'!" mary had almost ceased to listen, but the mother went on with her story: "a canty mon were my father, and he hadn't his marra for thackin' 'twixt thirsk an' malton. an' then there was t' mell-supper i' t' gert lathe, wi' singin' an' coontry dances, an' guisers that had blacked their faces. and efter we'd had wer suppers, we got agate o' dancin' i' t' leet o' t' harvist-moon; and reet i 't' middle o' t' dancers was t' mell-doll." "mell-doll!" exclaimed mary, roused to attention by the word. "well, i'm fair capped! to think o' grown-up fowks laikin' wi' dolls. eh! country lads an' lasses are downright gauvies, sure enough." "nay, 'twern't a proper doll, nowther. 'twere t' mell-sheaf, t' last sheaf o' t' harvist, drissed up i' t' farmer's smock, wi' ribbins set all ower it. a bonnie seet was t' mell-doll, an' if i could nobbut set een on yan agean, i'd be happy for a twelmonth." "you'll see no more mell-dolls, mother, so long as you bide wi' me. i'm not going to let t' lasses at cohen's call me a country gauvie, same as they did when i first came to leeds. but i'll tell you what i'll do. woodhouse feast'll be coomin' on soon, and i'll take you there, sure as my name's mary briggs. there'll be summat more for your brass nor mell-suppers, an' guisers an' dolls. there'll be swings and steam roundabouts, aye, an' steam-organs playin' all t' latest tunes thro' t' music-halls--a lot finer than your daft country songs. an' we'll noan have to wait for t' harvest-moon; there'll be naphtha flares ivery night lightin' up all t' feast." "nay, lass, i reckon i'se too owd for woodhouse feast; i'll bide at yam. i sal be better when september's oot. it's t' corn-fever that's wrang wi' me." "corn-fever! what next, i'd like to know! you catch a new ailment ivery day. one would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look after you." "a nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, i's thinkin'. i've heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t' hay-harvest's on. it's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat. so i call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh, deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. but i'll say nae mair aboot it. reach me ower yon breeches; i mun get on wi' my wark, and t' button-holes is bad for thy een, lass. thoo'll be wantin' a bit o' brass for woodhouse feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my lloyd george money left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to blackpool. nay, don't start fratchin', there's a love. i's not complainin'." (1) the mell, or mell-sheaf, is the last sheaf of corn left in the harvest field. yorkshire ditties by john hartley born 1839 died 1915 to which is added the cream of wit and humour from his popular writings. first series london w. nicholson & sons, limited, 26, paternoster square, e.c and albion works, wakefield. [entered at stationers' hall] introduction as the first volume of the yorkshire ditties has been for some time out of print, and as there is a great demand for the very humorous productions of mr. hartley's pen, it has been decided to reprint that volume, and also a second one; both to be considerably enlarged and enriched by selections from mr. hartley's other humorous writings. the publishers would also intimate that for this purpose they have purchased of mr. hartley the copyright of the ditties, and other pieces appended to each volume. the publishers presume that both volumes will, on account of their great humour, be favourably received by the public. contents of first series. poetry. bite bigger to th' swallow plenty o' brass th' little stranger babby burds wayvin mewsic that's a fact stop at hooam the short timer th' first o'th' soart lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed uncle ben the new year's resolve the old bachelor's story aght o' wark another babby the little black hand lily's gooan my native twang shoo's thi' sister persevere to a roadside flower prose pieces. cream of wit and humour from his popular writings the new year valentine day march winds april fooils policeman's scrape information watterin' places flaar shows october ale force of example gunpaader plot th' last month meditated strike new year's parties smiles, tears, getting on mysterious disappearance sam it up fooils cleanin' daan month hay-making hollingworth lake plagues end o'th' year scientific valentine dream bite bigger as aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark, (aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,) aw happen'd to hear a remark, 'at ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan-it wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd, an' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck, an' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd, it saanded like nowt but ill luck; when two little lads, donn'd i' rags, baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet, coom trapesin away ower th' flags, booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet.-th' owdest mud happen be ten, th' young en be hauf on't,--noa moor; as aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen, god help fowk this weather 'at's poor! th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand, an' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be; 'twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand, an' they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee: an' he sed, "come on, billy, may be we shall find summat else by an by, an' if net, tha mun share thease wi me when we get to some spot where its dry." leet-hearted they trotted away, an' aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad; but aw thowt awd nee'er seen sich a day- it worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad. sooin th' big en agean slipt away, an' sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck, an' he cried aght, "luk here, bill! to-day arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? here's a apple! an' th' mooast on it's saand: what's rotten aw'll throw into th' street-worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand? nah booath on us con have a treat." soa he wiped it, an' rubb'd it, an' then sed, billy, "thee bite off a bit; if tha hasn't been lucky thisen tha shall share wi' me sich as aw get." soa th' little en bate off a touch, t'other's face beamed wi' pleasur all throo, an' he said, "nay, tha hasn't taen much, bite agean, an' bite bigger; nah do!" aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,- thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me! tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor: th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee! tuppince wur all th' brass aw had, an' awd ment it for ale when coom nooin, but aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad, he desarves it for what he's been dooin; soa aw sed, "lad, here's tuppince for thee, for thi sen,"--an' they stared like two geese, but he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, "nah, it'll just be a penny a piece." "god bless thi! do just as tha will, an' may better days speedily come; tho' clam'd, an' hauf donn'd, mi lad, still tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nur some." to th' swallow bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, for tha tells ov breeter weather; but aw connot quite forgi thee, connot love thee altogether. 'tisn't thee aw fondly welcome- 'tis the cheerin news tha brings, tellin us fine weather will come, when we see thi dappled wings. but aw'd rayther have a sparrow, rayther hear a robin twitter; tho' they may net be thi marrow, may net fly wi' sich a glitter; but they niver leeav us, niver- storms may come, but still they stay; but th' first wind 'at ma's thee shiver, up tha mounts an' flies away. ther's too mony like thee, swallow, 'at when fortun's sun shines breet, like a silly buzzard follow, doncin raand a bit o' leet. but ther's few like robin redbreast, cling throo days o' gloom an' care; soa aw love mi old tried friends best- fickle hearts aw'll freely spare. plenty o' brass a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! it's grand to be able to spend a trifle sometimes on a glass for yorsen, or sometimes for a friend to be able to bury yor neive up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd an', 'baght pinchin', be able to save a wee bit for th' time when yor owd. a'a! it's grand to ha', plenty o' brass! to be able to set daan yor fooit withaght ivver thinkin'--bith' mass! 'at yor wearin' soa mitch off yor booit; to be able to walk along th' street, an' stand at shop windows to stare, an' net ha' to beat a retreat if yo' scent a "bum bailey" i' th' air. a'a i it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! to be able to goa hoam at neet, an' sit i'th' arm-cheer bith' owd lass, an' want nawther foir nor leet; to tak' th' childer a paper o' spice, or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice for yor friends, if they happen to call. a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! then th' parsons'll know where yo' live: if yo'r' poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, an' call where fowk's summat to give. yo' may have a trifle o' sense, an' yo' may be both upright an' true but that's nowt, if yo' can't stand th' expense ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew. a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! an' to them fowk at's getten a hoard, this world seems as smooth as a glass, an' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road; but him 'at's as poor as a maase, or, happen, a little i' debt, he mun point his noas up to th' big haase, an' be thankful for what he can get. a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' chink! but doan't let it harden yor heart: yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think an' try ta do gooid wi' a part! an' then, as yor totterin' daan, an' th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, yo' may find 'at yo've purchased a craan wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass. th' little stranger little bonny, bonny babby, how tha stares, an' weel tha may, for its but an haar, or hardly, sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day. a'a! tha little knows, young moppet, ha aw'st have to tew for thee; may be when aw'm forced to drop it, 'at tha'll do a bit for me. are ta maddled, mun, amang it? does ta wonder what aw mean? aw should think tha does, but dang it! where's ta been to leearn to scream? that's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee! dunnot peawt thi lip like that! mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee, feared awst hurt thee, little brat. come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother; shoo's moor used to sich nor me: hands like mine worn't made to bother wi sich ginger-breead as thee. innocent an' helpless craytur, all soa pure an' undefiled! if ther's ought belangs to heaven lives o'th' eearth, it is a child. an its hard to think, 'at some day, if tha'rt spared to weather throo, 'at tha'll be a man, an' someway have to feight life's battles too. kings an' queens, an' lords an' ladies, once wor nowt noa moor to see; an' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows, once wor born as pure as thee. an' what tha at last may come to, god aboon us all can tell; but aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky, even tho aw fail mysel. do aw ooin thee? its a pity! hush! nah prathi dunnot freat! goa an' snoozle to thi titty tha'rt too young for trouble yet. babby burds aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, across a meadow newly shorn; th' sun wor shinin' breet and clear, an' fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, an' all wor still. when, as my steps wor idly rovin, aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! it fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, as daan aw sank beside it, kneelin o'th' edge o'th' hill. it wor a little skylark's nest, an' two young babby burds, undrest, wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, callin' for mammy to provide ther mornin's meal; an' high aboon ther little hooam, th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom, ringin' soa sweetly o' mi ear, like breathins thro' a purer sphere, he sang soa weel. ther mammy, a few yards away, wor hoppin' on a bit o' hay, too feard to come, too bold to flee; an' watchin me wi' troubled e'e, shoo seem'd to say: "dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! ther daddy does the best he can to cheer yo with his sweetest song; an' thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, soa let 'em stay." "tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm-come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! for aw've a little nest misel, an' two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'at's precious too; an' they've a mammy watching thear, 'at howds them little ens as dear, an' dearer still, if that can be, nor what thease youngens are to thee, soa come,--nah do! "a'a well!--tha'rt shy, tha hops away,-tha doesn't trust a word aw say; tha thinks aw'm here to rob an' plunder, an' aw confess aw dunnot wonder- but tha's noa need; aw'll leave yo to yorsels,--gooid bye! for nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; he's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; he loves yo better nor his song- he does indeed." aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear caught up the saand o' warblin clear; thinks aw, they're happy once agean; aw'm glad aw didn't prove so mean to rob that nest; for they're contented wi ther lot, nor envied me mi little cot; an' in this world, as we goa throo, it is'nt mich gooid we can do, an' do awr best. then let us do as little wrong to ony as we pass along, an' never seek a joy to gain at's purchased wi another's pain, it isn't reet. aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, to mend awr johnny's little cart: (he allus finds me wark enough to piecen up his brocken stuff, for every neet.) an' sally--a'a! if yo could see her! when aw sit daan to get mi teah, shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, an' maks me sing it "hush a bee," i'th' rocking chear; then begs some sugar for it too; what it can't ait shoo tries to do; an' turnin up her cunnin e'e,, shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, it gets its share.", sometimes aw'm rayther cross? aw fear! then starts a little tremblin tear, 'at, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew swimmin within a wild flaar blue, falls fro ther e'e; but as the sun in april shaars revives the little droopin flaars, a kind word brings ther sweet smile back: aw raylee think mi brain ud crack if they'd ta dee. then if aw love my bairns soa weel, may net a skylark's bosom feel as mich consarn for th' little things 'at snooze i'th' shelter which her wings soa weel affoards? if fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind how mich is gained by bein' kind, ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, an' fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell even o'th' burds. wayvin mewsic ther's mewsic i'th' shuttle, i'th' loom, an i'th frame, ther's melody mingled i'th' noise, for th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame, if they'd hearken to th' saand of its voice; an' when flaggin a bit, ha refreshin to feel as yo pause an luk raand on the throng, at the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel, sing this plain unmistakable song:- nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laiking; twist an' twine, reel an' wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own making. to see workin fowk wi' a smile o' ther face as they labor thear day after day; an' hear 'th women's voices float sweetly throo 'th place, as they join i' some favorite lay; it saands amang th' din, as the violet seems 'at peeps aght th' green dockens among, an' spreading a charm over th' rest by its means, thus it blends i' that steady old song; nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laiking; twist an' twine, reel an' wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own making. an' then see what lessons are laid out anent us, as pick after pick follows time after time, an' warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us from strivin by little endeavours to climb; th' world's made o' trifles! its dust forms a mountain! then niver despair as you're trudgin along; if troubles will come an' yor spirits dishearten, yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady old song; nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; working for little is better nor laiking; twist an' twine, reel an' wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own making. life's warp comes throo heaven, th' weft's fun bi us sen; to finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath. th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty--ha then? noa wayver i' th' world can produce a gooid clooath; then let us endeavour, bi working and striving, to finish awr piece soa's noa fault can be fun; an' then i' return for awr pains an contriving, th' takker in 'll reward us an' whisper' well done.' clink a clank, clink a clank, workin withaat a thank, may be awr fortun--if soa never mind it! striving to do awr best, we shall be reight at last, if we lack comfort nah, then shall we find it. that's a fact a'a mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure; aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, aw wor never i' this way afoor, aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; aw've been twirling abaght like a worm, an' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too-tha niver saw cloas i' sich form. aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght-but promise tha'll keep it reight squat, for aw wodn't for th' world let it aght; but aw can't keep it in--tha knows that. we'd a meetin at the schooil yesterneet, an' jimmy wor thear,--tha's seen jim? an' he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, to ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, for he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; an' he just did th' same thing tother wick,-it made fowk tak noatice, dos't see. an' when aw wor gooin towards hooam aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'twor pitch dark, an' aw thowt if they coom, aw should varry near sink into th' graund. aw knew it wor jim bi his traid, an' aw tried to get aght ov his gate; but a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, aw wor niver i' sich en a state. then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, an' aw said, "nah, leave loise or aw'll screeam! can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" but he stuck to mi arm like a leach, an' he whispered a word i' mi ear; it took booath my breeath an' my speech, for aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, an' he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: aw says, "jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" as sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath: but he wodn't be quiet, for he said 'at he'd loved me soa true an' soa long-aw'd ha' geen a ear off my yed to get loise--but tha knows he's so a strong-then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, an' he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;-aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, aw wor fesen'd whativer to say; cos tha knows aw've a likin' for jim; but yo can't allus say what yo mean, for aw tremeld i' ivery limb, but at last aw began to give way, for, raylee, he made sich a fuss, an aw kussed him an' all--for they say, ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. then he left me at th' end o' awr street, an' aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; but if aw should see him to neet, what wod ta advise me to do? but dooant spaik a word--tha's noa need, for aw've made up mi mind ha to act, for he's th' grandest lad iver aw seed, an' aw like him th' best too--that's a fact! stop at hooam "tha wodn't goa an leave me, jim, all lonely by mysel? my een at th' varry thowts grow dim- aw connot say farewell. tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless tha saw me every day, an' said tha knew noa happiness when aw wor foorced a way. an th' tales tha towld, i know full weel, wor true as gospel then; what is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel soa strange--unlike thisen? ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find, i'th taan whear tha wor born, to mak a livin, if tha'll mind to ha' faith i' to-morn. aw've mony a time goan to mi wark throo claads o' rain and sleet; all's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark, it ommust mud be neet. but then, when braikfast time's come raand, aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray, an' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk like skulkin lads away. an' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet aw've sowt some shade to rest, an' as aw've paddled hooam at neet, glorious it's sunk i'th west. an' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee, (an' trouble's hard to bide), have patience, lad, an' wait an' see what's hid o'th' tother side. if aw wor free to please mi mind, aw'st niver mak this stur; but aw've a mother ommust blind, what mud become o' her? tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik an' helpless ivery limb, aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik if aw'd to leave her, jim. aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees 'at tower up to th' sky, an' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze, lie glitterin' jewels fly. woll th' music of a shepherd's reed may gently float along, lendin its tender notes to lead some fair maid's simple song; an' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side, such as we niver see; but here at hooam, at ivery stride, there's flaars for thee an' me. aw care net for ther suns soa breet, nor warblin melody; th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet saands sweeter, lad, to me. an' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan, a claat is noa disgrace; tha'll niver find a heart moor warm beat under silk or lace. then settle daan, tak my advice, give up this wish to rooam! an' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice worth stoppin' for at hooam." "god bless thee, jenny! dry that e'e, an' gi'e us howd thi hand! for words like thoase, throo sich as thee, what mortal could withstand! it isn't mich o'th' world aw know, but aw con truly say, a faithful heart's too rich to throw withaat a thowt away. so here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, aw'll tew for thine and thee, an' seek for comfort when cast daan, i'th' sunleet o' thi e'e." the short-timer some poets sing o' gipsy queens, an' some o' ladies fine; aw'll sing a song o' other scenes, a humbler muse is mine: jewels, an' gold, an' silken frills, are things too heigh for me, but woll mi harp wi' vigour thrills, aw'll strike a chord for thee. poor lassie wan, do th' best tha can, although thi fate be hard; a time ther'll be when sich as thee shall have yor full reward. at hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed, an' off tha goes to wark; an' gropes thi way to mill or shed, six months o'th' year i'th' dark. tha gets but little for thi pains, but that's noa fault o' thine; thi maister reckons up his gains, an' ligs i' bed till nine. poor lassie wan, &c. he's little childer ov his own 'at's quite as old as thee; they ride i' cushioned carriages 'at's beautiful to see; they'd fear to spoil ther little hand, to touch thy greasy brat: it's wark like thine 'as maks 'em grand they niver think o' that. poor lassie wan, &c. i' summer time they romp an' play where flowers grow wild and sweet; ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay, they thrive throo morn to neet. but tha's a cough, aw hear tha has; an' oft aw've known thee sick; but tha mun work, poor little lass, for hauf-a-craan a wick. poor lassie wan, &c. aw envy net fowks' better lot- aw should'nt like to swap. aw'm quite contented wi'mi cot; aw'm but a warkin chap. but if aw had a lot o' brass aw'd think o' them 'at's poor; aw'd have yo' childer workin' less, an' mak yor wages moor. poor lassie wan, &c. "there is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign, infinite day excludes the night, and pleasures banish pain." noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear, i' that sweet home ov love; an' those 'at scorn thi sufferins here may envy thee above. poor lassie wan, &c. th' first o'th sooart aw heeard a funny tale last neet-aw could'nt howd fro' laffin-'twor at th' bull's heead we chonced to meet, an' spent an haar i' chaffin. some sang a song, some cracked a joak, an' all seem'd full o' larkin; an' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, an' ivery e'e'd a spark in. long joa 'at comes thro th' jumples cluff, wor gettin rayther mazy; an' warkus ned had supped enuff to turn they're betty crazy;-an bob at lives at th' bogeggs farm, wi' nan throo th' buttress bottom, wor treating her to summat wanm, (it's just his way,--"odd drot em!") an' jack o'th' slade wor theear as weel, an' joa o' abe's throo waerley; an' lijah off o'th' lavver hill, wor passing th' ale raand rarely.-throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, to hear or tell a stoory; but th' gem o' all aw heard last neet wor one bi dooad o'th' gloory. he bet his booits 'at it wor true, an' all seem'd to believe him; tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue-but 't wodn't ha done to grieve him his uncle lived i' pudsey taan, an' practised local praichin; an' if he 're lucky, he wor baan to start a schooil for taichin. but he wor takken varry ill; he felt his time wor comin: (they say he brought it on hissel wi' studdyin his summin.) he call'd his wife an' neighbors in to hear his deein sarmon, an' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin ther lot ud be a warm en. then turin raand unto his wife, said--"mal, tha knows, owd craytur, if awd been bless'd wi' longer life, aw might ha' left things straighter. joa sooitill owes me eighteen pence-aw lent it him last lovefeast." says mal--"he has'nt lost his sense-thank god for that at least!" "an ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, we owe him one paand ten.".-"just hark!" says mally, "there he goas! he's ramellin agean! dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk! yo see, poor thing, he's ravin! it cuts me up to hear sich talk-he spent his life i' savin! "an, mally, lass," he said agean, "tak heed o' my direction: th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean my share o'th' last collection.-tha'll see to that, an have what's fair when my poor life is past."-says mally, "listen, aw declare, he's sensible to th' last." he shut his een an' sank to rest-deeath seldom claimed a better: they put him by,--but what wor th' best, he sent 'em back a letter, to tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; an' ha he gate to enter; an' gave 'em rules to act upon if ever they should ventur. theear peter stood wi' keys i' hand: says he, "what do you want, sir? if to goa in--yo understand unknown to me yo can't sir.-pray what's your name? where are yo throo? just make your business clear." says he, "they call me parson drew, aw've come throo pudsey here." "you've come throo pudsey, do you say? doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; aw've kept thease doors too long a day, aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." says drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, for th' sake o' all ther's in it: if yo've a map o' england by, aw'll show yo in a minit." soa peter gate a time-table-they gloored o'er th' map together: drew did all at he wor able, but could'nt find a stiver. at last says he, "thear's leeds taan hall, an thear stands braforth mission: it's just between them two--that's all: your map's an old edition. but thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, an' if yo've niver known it, yo've miss'd a bonny yorksher taan, tho mony be 'at scorn it." he oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "it's time some body coom--aw'll trust thee. tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo pudsey." lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. nay surelee tha's made a mistak; tha'rt aght o' thi element here; tha may weel goa an' peark up oth' thack, thi bonny wings shakin wi fear. aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms saand queer sooart o' music to thee; an' tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes o' miln-grease,--what th' quality be. maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us, an' thinks we're a low offald set but tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, for ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet. tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, an' as humble as humble could be; an' tho we nah are like tha wor then, we may yet be as nobby as thee. tha'd to see thi own livin when young, an' when tha grew up tha'd to spin; an' if labor like that worn't wrong, tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.' but tha longs to be off aw con tell; for tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content: soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell! off tha goas, bonny fly!--an' it went. uncle ben a gradely chap wor uncle ben as iver lived ith' fowd: he made a fortun for hissen, an' lived on't when he'r owd. his yed wor like a snow drift, an' his face wor red an' breet, an' his heart wor like a feather, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas he'd worn sin aw wor bred; an' th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, an' th' same hat for his yed; his cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing throo braik o' day till neet; his conscience niver felt a sting, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wod'nt swap his humble state wi' th' grandest fowk i' th' land; he niver wanted silver plate, nor owt 'at's rich and grand; he did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk drawn raand him ov a neet, but he slept noa war for th' want o' that, for he'd done the thing 'at's reet. owd fowk called him "awr benny," young fowk, "mi uncle ben,"-an' th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," or what best pleased thersen. a gleam o' joy coom o'er his face when he heeard ther patterin feet, for he loved to laik wi' th' little bairns an' he did the thing 'at's reet. he niver turned poor fowk away uncared for throo his door; he ne'er forgate ther wor a day when he hissen wor poor; an' mony a face has turned to heaven, all glistenin wi' weet, an' prayed for blessins on owd ben, for he did th' thing 'at's reet. he knew his lease wor ommost spent, he'd sooin be called away; yet he wor happy an' content, an' waited th' comin day; but one dark neet he shut his e'en, an' slept soa calm an' sweet, when mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'at did the thing 'at's reet. the new year's resolve says dick, "ther's a' notion sprung up i' mi yed, for th' furst time i' th' whole coorse o' mi life, an' aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, if aw knew who to get for a wife. aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, for aw've nawther to booast on misel; what aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin' lass, an' ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell. to be single is all weel enuf nah an' then, but it's awk'ard when th' weshin' day comes; for aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; they turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs. an' awm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; an' th' floor's in' a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, an' mi back warks as if it 'ud split. aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin' best; soa one day aw bethowt me to try, but aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, soa aw mud as weel offered to fly. aw did mak a dumplin', but a'a! dear a me! abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; aw ne'er fan th' mistak' till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, an' saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink. but a new-year's just startin', an' soa aw declare aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; for mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, an' thease mullucks, they're drivin' me mad. soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, talegraft me at once, an' aw'll see her misel afoor shoo can alter her mind." the old bachelor's story it was an humble cottage, snug in a rustic lane, geraniums and fuschias peep'd from every window-pane; the dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls, houseleek adorned the thatch; the door was standing open wide, they had no need of latch. and close besides the corner there stood an old stone well, which caught a mimic waterfall, that warbled as it fell. the cat, crouched on the well-worn steps, was blinking in the sun; the birds sang out a welcome to the morning just begun. an air of peace and happiness pervaded all the scene; the tall trees formed a back ground of rich and varied green; and all was steeped in quietness, save nature's music wild, when all at once, methought i heard the sobbing of a child.-i listened, and the sound again smote clearly on my ear: "can there,"--i wondering asked myself- "can there be sorrow here?"-i looked within, and on the floor was sat a little boy, striving to soothe his sister's grief by giving her a toy. "why weeps your sister thus?" i asked; "what is her cause of grief? come tell me, little man," i said, "come tell me, and be brief." clasping his sister closer still, he kissed her tear-stained face, and thus, in homely yorkshire phrase, he told their mournful case. -----"mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear, i' th' shut-up bed i' th' nook; an' tho aw've tried to wakken her, shoo'll nawther spaik nor look. mi sissy wants her poridge, an' its time shoo had em too, but th' foir's gooan aght an' th' mail's all done- aw dooant know what to do. an' o, my mammy's varry cold- just come an' touch her arm: aw've done mi best to hap her up, but connot mak her warm. mi daddy he once fell asleep, an' niver wakken'd moor: aw saw 'em put him in a box, an' tak him aght o' th' door. he niver comes to see us nah, as once he used to do, an' let'mi ride upon his back- me, an' mi sissy too. an' if they know mi mammy sleeps, soa cold, an' white, an' still, aw'm feeard they'll come an' fotch her, sir; o, sir, aw'm feard they will! aw happen could get on misen, for aw con work a bit, but little sissy, sir, yo see, shoo's' varra young as yet. oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam! help me to rouse her up! an' if shoo wants her physic, see,--it's in this little cup. aw know her heead war bad last neet, when putting us to bed; shoo said, 'god bless yo, little things!' an' that wor all shoo said. aw saw a tear wor in her e'e- in fact, it's seldom dry: sin daddy went shoo allus cries, but niver tells us why. aw think it's coss he isn't here, 'at maks her e'en soa dim; shoo says, he'll niver come to us, but we may goa to him. but if shoo's gooan an' left us here, what mun we do or say?-we cannot follow her unless, somebody 'll show us th' way." ---my heart was full to bursting, when i heard the woeful tale; i gazed a moment on the face which death had left so pale; then clasping to my heaving breast the little orphan pair, i sank upon my bended knees, and offered up a prayer, that god would give me power to aid those children in distress, that i might as a father be unto the fatherless. then coaxingly i led them forth; and as the road was long, i bore them in my arms by turns- their tears had made me strong. i took them to my humble home, where now they may be seen, the lad,--a noble-minded youth,- his "sissy,"--beauty's queen. and now if you should chance to see, far from the bustling throng, an old man, whom a youth and maid lead tenderly along;-and if you, wondering, long to know the history of the three,-they are the little orphan pair- the poor old man is me: and on the little grassy mound 'neath which their parents sleep, they bend the knee, and pray for me; i pray for them and weep. aght o' wark aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, an' aw can't get a day's wark to do! aw've trailed abaght th' streets wol awm sick an' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through. aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam, an' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, for they think it's high time aw should come, an' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock. a'a dear! it's a pitiful case when th' cubbord is empty an' bare; when want's stamped o' ivery face, an' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share. today as aw walked into th' street, th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; an' aw thout 'at it hardly luk'd reet, for aw had'nt brokken mi fast. them horses, aw knew varry weel, wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, had nivver known th' want of a meal, or a shelter to keep 'em thro' th' cold. even th' dogs have enuff an' to spare, tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; but ther maisters forget they should care for a chap 'at's three bairns an' a wife. they give dinners at th' hall ivery neet, an' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor, an' all th' windows are blazin wi leet, but they seldom give dinners to th' poor. i' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; an' unless we can get it o'th strap, we mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail. but hoamwards aw'll point mi owd clogs to them three little lambs an' ther dam;-aw wish they wor horses or dogs, for its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam. but they say ther is one 'at can see, an' has promised to guide us safe through; soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, he'll find a chap summat to do. another babby another!--well, my bonny lad, a'w wodn't send thee back; altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, tha's fun some in a crack. it maks me feel as pleased as punch to see thi pratty face; ther's net another child i'th bunch moor welcome to a place aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee, i' some nook o' mi cage; but if another comes, raylee! aw'st want a bigger wage. but aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want- we'll try to pool thee throo, for him who has mi laddie sent, he'll send his baggin too. he hears the little sparrows chirp, an' answers th' raven's call; he'll never see one want for owt, 'at's worth aboon 'em all. but if one on us mun goa short, (although it's hard to pine,) thy little belly shall be fill'd whativer comes o' mine. a chap con nobbut do his best, an' that aw'll do for thee, leavin to providence all th' rest, an' we'st get help'd, tha'll see. an' if thi lot's as bright an' fair as aw could wish it, lad, tha'll come in for a better share nor iver blessed thi dad. aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt, if, when deeath comes, aw find aw leave some virtuous lasses an' some honest lads behind. an' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace for me, a sculptor'd stooan, aw hope to leave a noble race, wi arms o' flesh an' booan. then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, wi' health, we'll persevere, an' try to find a brighter track- we'll conquer, niver fear! an may god shield thee wi' his wing, along life's stormy way, an' keep thi heart as free throo sin, as what it is to-day. th' little black hand ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, an' it may be poetical fire; an' suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire? aw'm detarmined to scribble away-soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; an' tho aw turn neet into day, if aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed! aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; but then ther's abundance o' care, an' them 'at's contented wi' strife may allus mak sure o' ther share. but aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik, tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; an' if butter be aght o' mi raik, aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk. it's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'at's getten all th' pleasure, net it! when aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, aw con thoil 'em whativer they get. but sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, an' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags, wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet but i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags; then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut' knew what ther brothers i' poverty feel, they'd a trifle moor charity show, an' help 'em sometimes to a meal. but we're all far too fond of ussen, to bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; an' we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'at's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet. but ther's mony a honest heart throbs, tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'at wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'at booasts better blooid in his veins. see that child thear! 'at's working away, an' sweepin that crossin i'th' street: he's been thear iver sin it coom day, an' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet. see what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, an' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! what care they tho' he smothered a sigh, or wiped off a tear as they coom. but luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! he's gien th' poor child summat at last: ha his een seem to twinkle an' start, as he watches th' kind gentleman past! an' thear in his little black hand he sees a gold sovereign shine! he thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, an' he says, "sure it connot be mine!" an' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, an' tell him to cut aght o'th seet; but he clutches it fast,--an' nah see ha he's threedin his way along th' street, till he comes to that varry same man, an' he touches him gently o'th' back, an' he tells him as weel as he can, 'at he fancies he's made a mistak. an' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, with his little naked feet, as he stands, an' his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad woll he taks one o'th little black hands, an' he begs him to tell him his name: but th' child glances timidly raand-poor craytur! he connot forshame to lift up his een off o'th graand. but at last he finds courage to spaik, an' he tells him they call him poor joa; 'at his mother is sickly an' waik; an' his father went deead long ago; an' he's th' only one able to work aght o' four; an' he does what he can, thro' early at morn till it's dark: an' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man. an' he tells him his mother's last word, as he starts for his labour for th' day, is to put 'all his trust in the lord, an' he'll net send him empty away.-see that man! nah he's wipin his een, an' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; an' th' lad sees i' that image o'th queen what 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd. an' mony a time too, after then, did that gentleman tak up his stand at that crossing an' watch for hissen the work ov that little black hand. an' when-years had gone by, he expressed 'at i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, an' all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'at wor towt by that poor little lad. tho' the proud an' the wealthy may prate, an' booast o' ther riches and land, some o'th' laadest ul sink second-rate to that lad with his little black hand. lilly's gooan "well, robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; thi een luk as red as a sun-aw saw that across th' width of a street; aw hope 'at yor lily's noa war-surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead? tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar-what means ta bi shakin thi heead? well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e at shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, when youngens like her hap ta dee, they miss troubles as some live to hit. tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, but give over freatin, becoss it's for th' best if shoo's been taen away." "a'a! daniel, it's easy for thee to talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; but its ommost deeath-blow to me, shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; an' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, mi feelins noa mortal can tell; mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, an' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel. aw shall think on it wor aw to live to be th' age o' methusla or moor; tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, we should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: an' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; but shoo could'nt for th' life goa away till they call'd for her daddy an' all. an' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; an' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, an' listened to all 'at shoo's said; shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, when shoo's been ov a sundy to th' schooil, an ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill an' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, an whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; aw'm gooin to a happier land; an' aw'll tell jesus when aw get thear, 'at aw've left yo here waitin his call; an' he'll find yo a place, niver fear, for ther's room up i' heaven for all. an' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, an' aw find at aw hardly can see.-gooid bye!--kiss yor lily agean,-let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast! aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; then lily shoo went to her rest." my native twang they tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, an owt to goa to th' schooil to leearn to talk like other fowk, an' net be sich a fooil; but aw've a noashun, do yo see, although it may be wrang, the sweetest music is to me, mi own, mi native twang. an' when away throo all mi friends, i' other taans aw rooam, aw find ther's nowt con mak amends for what aw've left at hooam; but as aw hurry throo ther streets noa matter tho aw'm thrang, ha welcome if mi ear but greets mi own, mi native twang. why some despise it, aw can't tell, it's plain to understand; an' sure aw am it saands as weel, tho happen net soa grand. tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, they call that vulgar slang; but if aw tell 'em they're engaged, that's net mi native twang. mi father, tho' he may be poor, aw'm net ashamed o' him; aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, an tho' her een are dim; aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk its crucken'd streets amang; for thear it is aw hear fooak tawk mi own, mi native twang. aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk say boldly what they meean; for tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, may be ther hearts are cleean, an' them 'at country fowk despise, aw say, "why, let' em hang;" they'll niver rob mi sympathies throo thee, mi native twang, aw like to see grand ladies, when they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en throo th' carriage winders shine: mi mother wor a woman, an' tho' it may be wrang, aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'at tawk mi native twang. aw wish gooid luck to ivery one; gooid luck to them 'ats brass; gooid luck an' better times to come to them 'ats poor--alas! an' may health, wealth, an' sweet content for iver dwell amang true, honest-hearted, yorkshire fowk, at tawk mi native twang. shoo's thi sister (written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.) gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; on her feet ther's monny a blister: see ha painfully shoo drags her tired limbs to some quiet corner: shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her. daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin- shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor; schooil'd for years her grief to smother, still shoos human--tha'rt her brother. tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, a kid glove o' awther hand, dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-shoo's thi sister, understand: th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters? lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin, an' ha pale her little face, an' her hair neglected, showin her's has been a sorry case; o, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, when tha shov'd her into th' street ther wor once a "man," mich greater nor thisen wi' all thi brass, him, awr blessed mediator,- wod he scorn that little lass? noa, he called 'em, an' he blessed 'em, an' his hands divine caress'd 'em. goa thi ways i an' if tha bears net some regret for what tha's done, if tha con pass on, an' cares net for that sufferin' little one; then ha'iver poor shoo be, yet shoos rich compared wi' thee. oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, to awr duties here below! for we're forced to leave behind us all awr pomp, an' all awr show: why then should we slight another? shoo's thi sister, unkind brother. persevere. what tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, th' sun's just waitin to peep throo, let us buckle to awr wark, for ther's lots o' jobs to do: tho' all th' world luks dark an' drear, let's ha' faith, an' persevere. he's a fooil 'at sits an' mumps 'coss some troubles hem him raand! man mud allus be i'th dumps, if he sulk'd coss fortun fraand; th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:- let's ha' faith, an' persevere. if we think awr lot is hard, niver let us mak a fuss; lukkin raand, at ivery yard, we'st find others war nor us; we have still noa cause to fear! let's ha' faith, an' persevere. a faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, niver won a lady fair: have a will! yo'll find a way! honest men ne'er need despair. better days are drawin' near:-then ha' faith, an' persevere. workin men,--nah we've a voice, an' con help to mak new laws; let us iver show awr choice lains to strengthen virtue's cause, wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer; this awr motto--'persevere.' let us show to foreign empires loyalty's noa empty booast; we can scorn the thirsty vampires if they dar molest awr cooast: to awr queen an' country dear still we'll cling an' persevere. but as on throo life we hurry, by whativer path we rooam, let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, true reform begins at hooam: then, to prove yorsens sincere, start at once; an' persevere. hard wark, happen yo may find it, some dear folly to forsake, be detarmined ne'er to mind it! think, yor honor's nah at stake. th' gooid time's drawin varry near! then ha' faith, an' persevere. to a roadside flower tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined to tak thee wi' me: but yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, tha'd ne'er forgie me; for i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, an' life is short enough, boath for mi-sen an' thee. here, if aw leeave thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, whear scoors may pass thee, some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish may stop an' bless thee: then bloom, mi little pooasy! tha'rt a beauty, sent here to bless: smile on--tha does thi duty. aw wodn't rob another of a joy sich as tha's gien me; for aw felt varry sad, mi little doy until aw'd seen thee. an' may each passin', careworn, lowly brother, feel cheered like me, an' leave thee for another. prose. hartley's cream of wit and humour the new year what a charm ther is abaat owt new; whether it's a new year or a new waist-coit. aw sometimes try to fancy what sooart ov a world ther'd be if ther wor nowt new. solomon sed ther wor nowt new under th' sun; an' he owt to know if onybody did. maybe he wor reight if we luk at it i' some ways, but aw think it's possible to see it in another leet. if ther wor nowt new, ther'd be nowt to hooap for--nowt to live for but to dee; an' we should lang for that time to come just for th' sake ov a change. ha anxiously a little child looks forrard to th' time when he's to have a new toy, an' ha he prizes it at furst when he's getten it: but in a while he throws it o' one side an' cries fur summat new. ha he langs to be as big as his brother, soa's he can have a new bat an' ball; an' his brother langs for th' time when he can leeave schooil an' goa work for his livin'; an' varry likely his fayther's langin' for th' time when he can live withaat workin'--all on 'em langin for summat new. langill' for things new doesn't prevent us lovin' things at's owd. who isn't praad ov ther owd fayther, as he sits i' tharm-cheer an' tells long tales abaat what he can remember bein' new? an' who doesn't feel a soothin' kind ov a feelin' come ovver him when his mother's kindly warnin' falls on his ear, as shoo tells him "what-iver he does, net to be soa fond ov ivery thing new?" what a love fowk get for "th' owd haase;" but ther's moor o'th' past nor o'th' futur' i' these feelin's, they're not hopeful, an' its hopeful feelin's at keeps th' world a goin', its hooap at maks us keep o'th' look aat for summat fresh. aw've heeard fowk wish for things to keep just as they are, they say they dooant want owt new. what a mistak' they mak! they're wishin' for what ud be th' mooast of a novelty. things willn't stop as they are, an' it wodn't be reight if they did. it's all weel enuff for them at's feathered ther nest to feel moderate contented, but them at's sufferin' for want ov a meal's mait are all hopin' for a change for th' better. owd hats an' owd slippers are generally more comfortable nor new ens, an' fowk "wish they'd niver be done,"--"they hate owt new"--as if it wodn't be summat new if they could wear 'em withaat 'em bein' done. young fowk are allus moor anxious for changes nor owd fowk, its likely enuff; like a child wi' a pictur book, watch him turn ovver two or three leaves at th' beginnin', see ha delighted he is; but in a while he turns ovver moor carelessly, an' befoor he gets to th' end he leaves it, wearied with its variety, or falls hard asleep opposite one at wod have fascinated him when he began. life's nobbut a pictur' book ov another sooart, at th' beginnin' we're delighted wi' ivery fresh leeaf, an' we keep turnin' ovver till at last we get wearied, an' had rayther sit quietly looking at one. but we cannot stop, we ha' to goo throo th' book whether we like it or net, until at last we shut us een an' fall asleep over summat new. valentine day ha monny young folk are langin for th' fourteenth o' february! an ha mony old pooastmen wish it ud niver come? sawr owd maids an' crusty owd bachelors wonder 'at fowk should have noa moor sense nor to waste ther brass on sich like nonsense. but it's noa use them talkin', for young fowk have done it befoor time, an' as long as it's i'th' natur on 'em to love one another an' get wed, soa long will valentine makers have plenty to do at this time o'th' year. ther's monny a daycent sooart of a young chap at thinks he could like to mak up to a young lass at he's met at th' chapel or some other place, but as sooin as he gets at th' side on her, he caant screw his courage up to th' stickin' place, an' he axes her some sooart ov a gaumless question, sich as "ha's your mother," or summat he cares noa moor abaat. an' as sooin as he gets to hissell he's fit to pail his heead agean th' jaumstooan for bien sich a fooil. well, nah, what can sich a chap do? why, send her a valentine ov coorse. soa he gooas an' buys her one wi' a grand piece ov poetry like this:- "the rose is red, the violet's blue, the pink is sweet, and so are you." it isn't to be expected 'at shoo can tell whear it's come throo; but shoo could guess at twice, an guess puddin' once, that's the beauty on it. then th' way's oppen'd aat at once, he's gein her to understand what ten to one shoo understood long afoor he did. next time they meet shoo's sure to ax him if he gate ony valentines, an' then he'll smile an' say, "what for, did yo?" an' shoo'll show him th' direction, an' ax him if he knows who's writing that is? an' he'll luk at it as sackless as if he didn't know it wor his own-ther heeads get cloise together, an' shoo sighs an' he sighs, an' then, if ther's noabody abaat he'll give hur a smack with his lips an' lawp back as if he'd burned th' skin off 'em, an' shooo axes him ha he con fashion to goa on like that, he owt to be ashamed ov his face? an' all th' time shoo's wonderin' why he niver did it afoor. then, if ther's owt abaat him, it isn't long befoor ther's a weddin', an' then he's begun life. he's settled into his nook i'th' world, an' he feels he's a man. troubles come, but then ther's a pleasure i' bein able to maister 'em. he's summat to wark for besides his own belly an' back. he's a heart-expandin' responsibility put on him. his country benefits by him, for a man does moor for his country 'at leaves ten weel-trained sons an' dowters nor him 'at leaves ten thaasand paand. then if sich a little simple thing as a valentine can help a chap on his rooad in lite, aw say. be hanged to th' grumblers, goa a head valentine makkers!!! march winds these winds blow rayther strong--stronger sometimes nor what feels pleasant. ther's monny a chap has a race wi' his hat, an' it luks a sheepish sooart ov a trick, an' iverybody can affooard to laff at him just becoss it isn't them. but for all that aw alus think at th' year's niver getten a reight start till after march. it's like as if it comes blusterin' an' rooarin', just o' purpose to put things into reight trim. it fotches daan th' owd watter spaats, an' lets fowk know whear ther's a slate at's shakey. it gives th' trees a bit ov a whisk raand an' wuthers abaat as if it wor detarmined to clear all th' maase nooks aat, an' give us a fair start for th' fine weather. but that isn't all it does; it finds aat if yo've ony owd teeth 'at's rayther tender, (an' if ther's owt i'th' world at 'll wear aat a chap's patience its th' tooith wark. its bad enuff, but what maks it war to bide is, iverybody can tell yo ha to cure it, an' for all that they wor as fast what to do wi' it when they had it as onybody else.) but what does it matter if it does find aat bits o' waik spots, there's nowt like knowin whear they are, for then yo do stand a chonce o' bein' able to tak care on 'em. but it does summat else beside--it brings a fine day or two--an' th' grass begins to luk a trifle greener, an' here an' thear i' bits o' shady nooks an' corners sometimes yo can find a daisy or two; an' what is ther luks bonnier nor th' first daisy yo find peepin up? it may be a bit ov a pindered lookin thing, but its a daisy; an' aw dooant think at th' grandest yo'll find all th' year 'll please yo hauf as weel as this. little children clap ther hands when they see it, becoss it tells 'em ther's some fine weather comin' bye an' bye; an' they pluck it to tak hooam wi' em' to show ther mother; an' ther grandfayther smiles when he sees it, for it whispers a bit o' comfort to him, an' tells him to cheer up! for th' time o'th' year's comin' when he'll be able to goa aat o'th' door an' sit o'th green grass, an' hear th' burds sing, an' let th' sun shine on his face, an' he willn't be feeard o' bringin' th' rhumatic back wi' him; an' takkin it altogether it's one o' th' mooast pleasin' things i' th' year is findin' a daisy i' march. it's strange ha folk alter in a few years time. luk at a child when its abaat five or six years owd--see ha delighted it is wi' a gurt bunch ov innocent lukkin' buttercups an' daisies. noatice th' same child when he's getten fourteen or fifteen years owd. he couldn't fashion to be seen carryin' a bunch. see him agean when he's a man. he's noa time for daisies then. what's th' reason? daisies are as bonny nah as iver they wor. ther is a difference somewhear, but it isn't i'th' daisies. april fooils niver try to mak a fooil ov onybody this month; ther's fooils enuff i'th world already. it's oft struck me what a varry slight difference ther is between a wise man and a fooil; one aims at summat an' hits it--tother aims at summat an' misses it; an' aw have known th' time when th' chap 'at's missed has been worth a dozen sich like as him 'at's hit. but th' world generally sets 'em daan to be wise men 'at happen to be lucky men, an' get hold o' lots o' brass. an' ha monny brains a chap has, if he can't spooart a pair o' kid gloves an' a daycent hat, he mun niver hope for owt better nor to tak his place amang th' fooils. aw've monny a time thowt when aw've heared fowk settin a chap daan as a fooil;--talk prattley--may be if he wor weighed up he's a better man nor yo this minit; yo connot tell all 'at he may have had to struggle wi'- circumstances alter cases, th' same as nooases alter faces. an' it's as weel to exercise a bit ov charity towards them 'at's set daan to be fooils. "young fowk think old fowk fooils, an' old fowk's sure young uns is." an aw believe th' old fowk are oft varry near th' mark,--for th' experience of a life time is little moor nor livin to know what fooils we've been; an' if iver aw meet wi' a chap 'at can't remember iver makkin a fooil ov hissen, aw shall expect to hear tell on' him bein ta'en to th' blue slates directly. poor richard says, "experience is a dear schooil, but fooils will leearn i' noa other;" an' who is ther 'at hasn't had to leearn i' that schooil? its a hard maister, an' we're apt to think, when we're under him, 'at he's war wi' us nor onybody else; but when we've getten th' lessen off by heart we find th' advantage on it. but ov all th' fooils it has been my luck to meet wi,' them chaps 'at knows all are th' biggest. there's some fowk think they're born wi' all th' wit i'th world, an' noabody can taich 'em owt; whativer yo tell' em, they've allus "known that long enuff sin'," or else they've "just been think in soa." aw once knew one o' that sooart--one 'at had allus been thinkin soa. one day some mates o' mine an' me thowt we cud like a marlock wi' him, an soa we gooas up to him an says, "a'a jooanas! whativer does ta think?" "nay," he says, "whativer will yo say? what's up?" "why," aw says, "jim hyn's dunkey's swallow'd th' grinelstooan." "well, if aw hadn't just been thinkin soa," says jooanas. "well, but tha thowt wrang, owd boy, this time," aw says, "for it hasn't." "why," he said, "aw hardly thowt it had." soa he had us at booath ends. they say it taks a wise man to mak a fooil, but aw think ther's enuff withaat makkin ony moor, an aw niver knew a fooil i' my life at didn't think ivery body else a little bit war cracked nor hissen. policeman's scrape tawkin abaat policemen reminds me ov a mess one on 'em gate into a while sin. aw shalln't tell awther his name or his number, becoss it's net my wish to get ony body into trouble. it's enuff for me to say he's a gooid-lukkin chap, an' if he isn't wed his wife is. he wor on neet duty, an' at one o' th' haases he had to pass, lived a fine buxom sarvent. policemen have allus been nooated for havin a fancy for sarvents, an' this wor like th' rest, an' befoor long they grew soa friendly 'at shoo used to invite him in after th' maister an' th' mistress had gooan to bed. one neet he'd crept in, an' they wor whisperin varry lovinly together, when shoo tell'd him ther wor noa cold mait o' ony sooart. "awm glad on it," he sed, "for awm stoled o' cold stuff. that luks a bit o' nice bacon at's hung up, does ta think tha could do me a bit anent th' fire, aw think ther's as mich heeat as'll cook it?" "well, robert," shoo sed, "if yo'll sit daan an' wait awl try." soa he put his lantern onto th' table an' sat daan wol shoo gate a little dutch oven an hooked two nice collops in; but shoo fancied shoo could enjoy one hersen, soa shoo stept up into a cheer to cut off another, an' as shoo'd th' knife i' one hand an' cannel i' th' tother shoo ovverbalanced hersen, and fell onto th' floor, settin up sich a skrike as yo niver heeard. th' 'cannel went aat when it fell an all wor as dark as pitch, and robert hearin th' maister skutterin daan th' stairs thowt his best plan wor to hook it; soa he grab'd up his lantern for owt he knew an buckled it on as he wor hurryin up th' steps. he'd hardly left when th' maister runs aat in his shirt, callin aat, "police! police!" robert comes fussin on as if he knew nowt abaat it, an' went back wi' th' maister, who wor soa freetened wol he darn't spaik. when they went in th' sarvent had sam'd hersen up, an lit th' cannel agean; but th' lass forgate her fall an' th' maister his fright, when they lukd at th' policeman an' saw he'd getten th' dutch oven i' th' front on him astead ov his lantern, an' two bacon collops swingin in it. they settled th' matter amang thersens, but it towt that policeman niver to tak off his lantern until he'd done wi' it. information divine service was held in the temperance hall, when the celebrated dr. foaming drinkwater preached from the text exodus 16 ch. 33 v., "and moses said unto aaron, take a pot," and in an eloquent sermon of 1h. 55m. the revd. lecturer clearly showed that a pot of beer was not alluded to in the text. collections were made at the close of the service. watterin places july is th' month to gooa a spawin'; an' fowk luk forrard to it just th' same as if they conldn't do withaat it. th' fact is aw hardly dar say owt agean it, for awm fond ov a bit ov a off mysen; but then ther's different ways o' dooin it. a chap at gethers horsemuck at hooam needn't want to mak' fowk believe he's th' lord mayor o' london abrooad. aw remember once when aw wur at a watterin' place, aw followed some fine young ladies an' wished 'em "gooid day;" aw wornt exactly sure whether one on 'em mightn't be th' princess o' wales or net, but haasumiver, they curled up ther nooas th' same as if they'd passed a fooamet. but in abaat a wick at after, aw met one on 'em gooin ovver th' north brigg wi' a slice o' traitle cake in her hand, varry near like th' door ov a mahogany shut-up-bed, an' up to th' elbows i' miln greease too. aw thowt if ony body wanted to pick a lass for a wife they shouldn't goa to a spawin' spot. for all that, awve nowt to say agean it--one body's as mich reight to goa an get sunburnt as another; but they mud as weel spaik truth, an' not allus say it's for th' gooid o' ther health, when all th' time it's just for a bit ov a spree. aw could give some gooid advice to ony body at thinks o' gooin. tak varry little brass, an' let it be i' your pocket, net i' yor face. th' less yo have an' th' less yo'll spend. dooant buy patent booits to walk o' th' sand in. if you're anxious to ride in a cock booat, dooant be particler to wear white trowsers. if yo want a horse to ride, tak one wi yo--it 'll save yo a deeal o' disappointment; if yo want a donkey, settle ha mony legs yo could like it to have, an' yo'll find plenty. be careful noabody taks a fancy to yo th' same way. ther's as mony donkeys wi' two legs as four, an' a bonny seet mooar. talkin' abaat th' number o' legs maks me think ov a chap at considered hissen rayther a sharp en; he'd a bit ov a garden an' some cherry trees in it, an' one mornin' when he gate aat o' bed he fan somdy had saved him th' trouble o' getherin' th' fruit; they'd done it for him woll he wor asleep. he coom an' tell'd th' tale to me. "a'a," he said, "if he could nobbut find aat who'd done it, he'd stransport 'em over th' seah' that he wod!" "why," aw says, "tha knows burds is varry fond o' cherries, an' its happen th' burds." "burds!" he said, an' he winked at me varry knowingly. "burds! happen they wor burds--but they wor two-legged ens aw'll bet." aw niver thowt him quite so sharp after that. nah just a word bi way of a caution. a chap 'at's two paand i' debt an' goas an' spends three paand at a watterin' place, maks hiss en five paand behund; whereas if he'd paid what he owed he'd still ha had one paand to spend, an' that ud goa as far o' th' top o' blackstonedge as three paand at blackpool. it's worth a thowt. flaar shows when ther's a flaar show, clooas show at th' same time. aw hear fowk tawk abaat "floral gems," and sich like stuff, but aw understand varry little abaat it. but aw've a few gems ov another sooart at sich times--aw call 'em gems o' thowt. aw'm allus wonderin. aw wonder a deal aw've noa business to wonder. when aw see a lot o' nice young lasses i' muslin dresses, all spankin clean, an ommost makkin a chap wish he worn't wed--aw wonder if ther petticoits an' stockins is as cleean. an when aw see a lot o' white faced lads, 'a'ts hardly getten ther hippins off, smokin cigars, an' spittin o'th' floor ivery two or three yards,--aw wonder if they dooant wish they wor finished, an' aw wonder what ther mothers is dooin to let 'em aat by thersen. an' when aw hear tell ha mich brass they get at th' doors, aw wonder ha mich on it wor borrow'd to goa wi'--an' sometimes aw wonder what they do wi' it after they've getten it--but that's noa business o' mine;--its a hungary job, aw know. aw mony a time wonder, when aw hear th' bands o' music strike up, what lord byron ment when he said, "when music arose with its voluptuous swell;" for aw've booath seen an' heeard monny a voluptuous swell at a flaar show. an' aw wonder sometimes ha it is 'at fowk 'at goa wi a shawl o' ther heead to pick aat a sheep heead i'th' market, can't be content unless they're donned i' silks an' satins to goa see a twoathree marrygolds an' fushias. an' sometimes aw wonder 'what i'th' name o' fortun aw'm dooin thear mysen, an' if anybody axes me, aw wonder what business it is o' their's;--an' its just a case o' wonderin throo beginnin to th' endin', an' aw wonder when fowk 'll leearn a bit o' wit. aw wonder if fowk think th' same abaat me. aw wonder if they do. aw shouldn't wonder if they did. october ale they reckon to brew a gooid sup o' ale in october, an' they call it "prime owd october." ther's monny a war thing i'th' world nor a sup o' gooid drink. landlords an' teetotal-lecturers manage to get a livin' aat on it some way;--but it's th' same wi' ale as wi' iverything else nah days,--it's nowt made on unless it's sharp. it's a sharp age we live in;--hand-loom waivin' an' stage coaches are all too slow; iverybody an' iverything keeps growin' sharper. but we arn't as sharp as what they are i' 'merica yet--they're too sharp. they tell me they ha' to lapp thersen up i' haybands afoor they goa to bed, for fear o' cuttin' th' sheets. aw heeard tell o' one chap runnin' a race wi' a flash o' leetnin', an' they say he'd ha' won but for one ov his gallus buttons comin' off. an' another 'at used to mak leather garters an' throw 'em ovver his heead, an' he could mak 'em soa sharp 'at he allus kept one pair flyin'. he worn't a bad hand at his job, he worn't that. one day aw axed a chap 'at had been, "if they wor raylee as sharp as what fowk gave 'em credit for?" "why," he says, "they wor sharper nor aw liked on, or else aw shouldn't ha' come back; but aw couldn't get on noa rooad: aw tried two or three different trades, but aw made nowt aat, an' at last aw set up as tubthumper; but that wodn't do. they niver wanted ought makkin'-they wor too sharp for that; they allus brought yo summat to mend;-becoss they knew a chap couldn't charge as mich for mendin' an owd tub as for makkin' a new en; soa if they'd ony sooart ov a owd tub lagg, or a piece of a barrel bottom, they browt it to get mended into a new tub. aw did as weel as aw could amang it; but one day a chap comes in an' says, 'aw want yo to do a bit o' repairin' for me.' 'varry gooid, sur,' says aw, 'an' what might yo be wantin?' 'well,' he says, 'aw've an owd bung hoil here, do yo think yo could fit me a fresh barrel to it?' aw niver spake for a minit, then aw says, 'wod yo be gooid enuff to lend me a hand to put theas shuts up?' 'wi' pleasure, sur,' he said, an' he did, an' aw left th' job an' coom hooam, for aw thowt they wor rayther too sharp." mun, a chap can be too sharp sometimes. my advice is, be as sharp as yo like, if yo're sharp in a reight way, but thers some things it's as weel to be slow abaat. be slow to do a shabby trick, an' be sharp to help a poor body 'at needs it. be slow to see other fowk's faults, an' be sharp to improve yor own. be slow to scandalise yor neighbors, an' keep a sharp luk aat to steer clear ov iverybody else's business; yo'll find it 'll give yo moor time to luk after yor own. force of example last may mr. goosequill, attorney-at-law, liberally forgave a poor widow the expenses of a trial in which he had been engaged. it is a singular fact that a tom-cat, which had been for years in the gentleman's family, having caught a mouse, let it go for pity's sake the following day. gunpaader plot squibs an' crackers! starleets an' catterin wheels! bunfires an' traikle parkin! this is th' time for a bit ov a jollification. guy fawkes did a gooid turn, after all, when he tried to blow th' parliament haase up; for we should ha' had one spree less i' the' year but for him. ax twenty fowk this question o' th' fourth o' november, "are yo gooin to buy ony fireworks this year?" an aw dar be bun to say yo willn't find one i'th' lot but what'll say "aw've summat else to do wi' my brass nor to waste it o' sich like fooilery as that." an' still, aw'll wager at nineteen on 'em buy some after all. ther's a deal o' difference i'th way they spend it. i' th' country they all sit raand th' fire wi' their parkin an' milk' or else rooasted puttaties, an' they tell tales, an' they laf an' talk till they've varry near burned ther shoo toas off, an' getten soa starved o' ther back 'at they willn't be shut ov a cold for a month; but i'th' taan there's allus th' mooast to do i'th' public haases. aw think aw shall niver forget a marlock we had th' last plot. it wor in a public haase somewhere between "spice cake-loin" an' whiskum dandy; ther wor a raam full o' fowk, an' aw nooatised 'at iverybody's pockets wor swelled aat, an' thinks aw, aw shouldn't be capp'd if ther wor a dust here in a while. they just wanted somdy to start. in a bit one on 'em gate up to goa aat, an' th' landlord (he'd a cork leg) drop'd a cracker into his pocket. he hadn't gooan far when bang it went; he turns back an' leets abaat two dozzen an' sends 'em in to th' middle o'th' raam. "nah, lads! for god's sake show a bit o' sense," says th' landlord, "dooant begin sich like wark as that i' this raam, nah dooant." he mud as weel ha' just whistled jigs to a mile-stoop; aat coom iverybody's stock, an' i' less nor hauf a minit ther wor sich a hullabaloo i' that shop as aw niver heeared afoor. to mak matters war, somdy had shut th' door an' fesened it, an' th' place wor full o' rick, an iverybody ommost chooak'd. aw gate under th' seat, an' in a bit somdy smashes th' window an' bawls aat "fire! fire!" i' two or three minits ther coom a stream o' watter into th' raam as thick as my shackle, an' smash went th' chandilleer. th' landlord wor mad ommost--lukkin glasses an' picters went one after tother, an' aw faand aat 'as aw couldn't swim, aw should ha' to shift, or else aw should be draaned. some kind soul managed to braik th' door daan an' we gate aat, but aw could hear th' landlord yelling aat 'at sombdy had stown his cork leg. ha' they went on aw dooant know, for aw steered straight hooam. at abaat six o'clock th' next morning, as aw went to my wark, aw saw a cork leg with a varry good booit on it, hangin' to a gas lamp, an aw wonder'd whose it wor. th' last month th' last month o' th' year; an' ther's summat rayther sorrowful abaat th' last o' owt, exceptin' trouble; an' still to me ther's allus summat varry interestin' abaat owt at's "th' last." aw've watched men when they've been buildin' a long chimley, but aw've niver felt mich interest till it's come th' time for 'em to put on th' last stooan; they've labored day by day, riskin boath life an' limb, an' still aw've felt varry little anxiety; but it's just th' fact on it bein' th' last stooan; an' aw've hardly been able to tak my een off it till it's been finished an' th' last man's come safe daan. but still it's a sorrowful saandin' word is "last." th' last farewell--th' last look--th' last breath--an' th' last restin, place; it sets fowk thinkin what there'll be after "th' last." th' last month i'th' year isn't a bad time to luk back an' see ha we've spent th' past eleven, an' aw think ther's few but what'll be able to see monny a place where they've missed it. an' if soa we'd better mak th' best o'th' few days left to mak what amends we can. owd christmas comes in smilin', with his holly an' his mistletoe, an' his gooid tempered face surraanded wi' steam of plum puddin' an' roast beef--tables get tested what weight they can bear--owd fowk an' young ens exchange greetin's, punch bowls steam up; an' lemons an' nutmegs suffer theresen to be rubbed, scrubbed, sliced, an' stewed; an' iverybody at can, seems to be jolly at christmas. some fowk luk forrard to christmas just for th' sake of a gooid feed, an' aw've seen odd ens, nah an' then, 'at can tuck it in i' fine style. aw recollect one christmas when jooan o' jenny's (we used to call him jooan long stummack) went to london (he'd one o'th' best twists aw iver met wi'), an' he wor takken varry wamley for want ov a bit ov a bitin on, soa he went into a cook's shop an' ax'd 'em ha mich they'd mak him a dinner for? "eighteenpence, sur," said th' maister, "come, sit daan an' help thisen." soa he sat daan just at th' front ov a lump o' rooast beef, an' cut a piece off as big as a brick, an' he worn't lang i' polishin' that an' cutting another. th' landlord wor rayther capped when he saw it goa like that, an' he says "tha'rt hungary, lad, aw think! will ta have, summat to sup?" "noa thank yo, sur," says jooan, "not just yet." he varry sooin put th' second lot where it could keep th' furst company, an' began cuttin' a third; this made th' maister seem varry uneasy, an' he says, "tha'd better have summat to sup, lad! mun aw fotch thi a pint o' drink?" "noa, thank yo," said jooan, "aw mak a practice niver to sup till aw've hauf, done." "why, lad," says th' landlord, "haitch will ta tak' to drop it?" "well" said jooan, "if yo dooant like my company aw'm sooary aw've come, but aw shouldn't like to leave this table for less nor hauf a craan, if aw do aw shall be a loiser." th' old chap pooled awt hauf a craan an' banged it on to th' table, an' says, "tak' it, an' tak' thisen away, an' niver put thi fooit i' my haase agean as long as tha's a day to live; tha'd ruin me in a wick." "why, maister," he says, "yo cap me sayin' soa, for aw can't ait as mich bi a caah head as once aw cud. aw'll tak' th' hauf crawn; gooid day, maister; you've made a shillin 'at me." mediated strike at a meeting of the tax-collectors of the w--r---g of ---shire, held in one of the cells beneath the town hall it was proposed, "that we, the tax gatherers and rate collectors of the w--r---g of ---shire do intend to throw up our offices, unless our wages are reduced or our labours increased, for being like unto other men, possessed of consciences, we are frequently tormented with the thought, that we are receiving more than what is our due, and by that means wronging the public." mr. christopher delphian moved as an amendment, "that they should dispose of their consciences, that being a readier way of getting over the difficulty." the chairman put the amendment which was carried, and the consciences were sold in one lot, for 7 3/4 d., which was carried to the fund for the entertainment of mr. calcraft, the president, whenever he should visit the district on a professional tour. new year's parties its net oft at aw have mich to do wi' parties. th' fact is aw'm wed, an' young fowk dooant want me, becoss they say aw've made my markets, an' wed fowk dooant oft ax me becoss aw suppose aw dooant oft ax them. but this month last year aw did get a invite to a doo, an' aw went. aw'st net forget in a hurry what a fidget my owd woman gate into. shoo brushed me daan aboon a duzzen times, an' turned me raand like a rooastin jack to see ha aw luk'd, woll aw wor as mazy as a wheel heead, an' th' childer luk'd up i' my face two or three times afoor they could believe it wor me. aw heeard awr abram telling betty 'at "he believed his fayther wor gooin to get kursen'd or summat." "ho eeah! why what are they baan to call him?" shoo says. "nay, aw dooant know, but my mother's been callin' him 'gaumless,' happen that's it." gaumless enuff aw thowt, an' after rubbin' my hat raand wi' a weet sponge (woll th' wife declared it wor as hansum as a japan tea caddy), aw set off. aw seized howd o'th' nob when aw gate to th' door, an' aw gave a gooid pawse, same as aw do at hooam, a fine young gentleman oppen'd it, an' after starin' at me for two or three minits, he said, "walk in, sur." aw doff'd my hat an' did soa; an' he! what a smell! "by gow, lad," aw said, "its enuff to mak my maath watter is this, ther's nowt awm fonder on nor onions, an' aw con smell ther's some cookin'--they'll be frying some liver, aw dar say. are ta th' maister's lad?" aw axed. "noa, sur," he said; "a'wm th' waiter." "why tha needn't wait o' me," aw said, "aw'll luk after mysel." "come this way, sur." he said, "aw'll introduce yo'. what name shall aw say, sur?" "does ta think aw am not known?" aw says; "nah aw'll tell thi what it is: if tha keeps diddlin after me like tha has done sin' aw come in, as if tha thowt aw wanted to stail summat, awst just twist thi neck raand." th' maister heeard me tawkin, an' coom to shake hands wi' me, smilin' all ovver his face delightedly. he hook'd his arm i' mine, an' walked me into a grand raam full o' ladies an' waiters (aw made 'em aat to be waiters coss they wor dressed like him 'at stood at th' door.) "this is my old friend, the almenack maker," he said, an' they all gate up an' sat daan agean. when aw luk'd raand aw thowt, "aw'm in for it this time," for aw could mak it aat to be nowt but a meetin' to kursen a lot o' childer', an' varry likely they wanted me to stand godfayther for 'em. aw saw noa babbies ony-where, but then aw'd heeard fowk tell abaat th' quality havin' weet nurses for ther bairns, an' aw made it aat 'at thease must be um, on accaant o'th' way they wor dressed, for they wor all i' white, an' ther's nowt easier weshed, an' aw thowt to mysen, "aw'll tell my owd woman to have her gaon made i' th' same pattern when shoo's ony more to suckle, for it must save a deal o' trouble, an' be for ivver better nor havin' a lot o' hooks an' eyes botherin' abaat th' child's face." but thear aw sat, an' as noabody said owt to me, aw said nowt to noabody. in a bit ivery body began pairin' off, an' th' maister says, "come, my friend, you must take a lady to dinner," an' a reight grand young woman coom an' tuk howd o' mi arm, an' we follow'd aat i' prussesshun, like they do at a burrin. when we gate into th' next raam aw fan aat mi mistak abaat all th' chaps being waiters, for they sat daan to th' table same as th' maister an' me, soa aw thowt varry likely they wor locals, or summat i'th' missionary line. aw niver saw as mich stuff to ait i' all my life, except in a cook shop. "shall i pass you a little soup," said th' maister? "noa, thank yo," aw said, "aw weshed me afoor aw coom." "not soap, my good friend, i mean soup," he said. "oh! broth, is it? aw did'nt know what yo ment. eeah, aw'll tak a soop o' broth, if yo please, an' a bit o' suet dumplin,' if yo have a bit." when aw said soa, a lot began a cough in', the same as if they'd a boan i' ther throit, an' th' maister oppened sich a shop 'at aw thowt th' top ov his heead had come off, but aw reckoned to tak noa noatice an' aw worked away wi my gapin' stick woll th' maister axed me ha aw liked my ox tail soup. "dun yo call this ox tail soup," aw said, an' aw beld up a caah tooith ommust big enuff to mak a knife heft. aw thowt it war a gooid joak, but noabody else seem'd to see it, an' th' mistress ordered th' waiter to tak it away instantum. when we'd all etten woll we' wor om most brussen they browt a lot o' black bottles wi' silver necks in, an' we'd all a glass o' some sooart o' pop. by th' heart an' it wor pop too. "dun yo mak this yoursen, mistress?" aw axed. "by gingo, this licks awr traitle drink into fits, yo mun give me th' resait, if yo have it." "this is shampane, sur," shoo said. "aw dooant care whether it's sham or not, it's as gooid as owt o'th' sooart aw've tasted, aw'll thank you for another drop," "help yourself, my friend," said th' maister, an aw did, aboon a bit, but ha long aw wor at it or ha monny bottles aw emptied aw niver knew, for some ha aw fell asleep, an' when aw wakken'd aw wor at hooam, an' my owd wornan wor callin aat, "are ta baan'ta get up, yond's th' last whew." smiles, tears, getting on. smiles are things aw like to see, an'. they're noa less acceptable becoss sometimes ther's a tear or two. a chap at's a heart ov a reight sooart under his waistcoit cannot allus be smilin'. awve met a deal o' sooarts o' fowk i' my bit o' time, an' th' best aw iver met had a tear i' ther ee nah an' then. if ther's owt aw hate to see, its a chap at's allus smilin'; an' if iver yo meet sich a one set him daan to be awther a haufthick or a hypocrite--yo'll be sure to be reight. it'll be time enuff to be allus grinnin' when all th' warkhaases an' th' prisons are to let--when lawyers have to turn farmers, an' bumbaileys have to emigrate--when yo connot find a soldier's or a policeman's suit ov clooas, except in a museum--when ther's noa chllder fun frozen to th' deeath o' london brig--an' when poor fowk get more beef an' less bullyin'. if iver sich a time comes woll aw live, aw'll laff wi' th' best on em, but till then a claad sometimes will settle on mi here,--an awm glad 'at it is soa. aw niver see a chap 'at's tryin to get on but what he reminds me ov once gooin to a baptist chapel to see a lot o' fowk kursened. everybody wor feightin' for th' front pews, an' them 'at gate 'em had to haddle e'm an' net be perticular abaat ther shirt collar--an' when a chap starts aat for a front place i' this life he has to rough it, an' if he succeeds aw wonder sometimes if he's ony better off nor them 'at gate th' front seeats i'th' chapel, for all 'at wor behund 'em seem'd to be tryin' to shove 'em ovver into th' bottom, an' nah an' then aw noaticed odd uns 'at could bide noa longer, an' gave up th' spot they'd fowt soa hard to get, an' sombdy behund, 'at had hardly tewd a bit dropt into th' seat. and sich is life: it isn't allus th' workers 'at succeed, net it marry! its th' skeeamers! it's them 'at keeps ther een oppen. but aw con allus thoil 'em owt they get, if, when they're climbin' up th' stee, they niver put ther heel on another chap's neck, by traidin' on his fingers, to mak him lawse his hold. it's a wrang nooation 'at some fowk have getten, to "get brass honestly if yo can, an' if yo cannot, try to keep a easy conscience, an' do baat it." some chaps 'll niver get on; they're allus gooin' to mend, but they niver start. sich like should tak a pattern throo th' almenack makkers--they've lost eighteen haars this last three years, an' if they didn't mind they'd loise six mooar this time, but they tak care net to do soa,--they shove a day extra into february to mak it up, and they call it "leap year," and it ud be a rare gooid job if fowk wod tak a few laups this year;--laup aat o'th' alehouse on to th' hearthstun at home--laup aat o' bed i' time for th' church ov a sunday momin'--laup aat o' th' clutches o' th' strap shop--laup aat o' th' gate o' bad company--laup up to yo're wark wi' a smile, an' laup back hooam wi' it, an' yo'll find th' wife's heart ul laup wi joy to see yo comin' back cheerful, an' th' childer ul laup on to yo'r knee, an' yo'll be capt ha easy it'll be to laup over ony bits o' trouble 'at yo' meet wi'. but alus laup forrard if it's possible; for if yo try to laup backards yo'll run th' risk o' braikin yo'r neck, an' noabody pities them 'at laups aat o' th' fryin' pan into th' fire, an' it's a easy matter to miss it.--aa dear o' me! aw think it is!--and yo'd think soa if yo'd seen what aw saw once. a mate o' mine courted a lass, an' he'd monny a miss afore he gat throo wi it. he used to go an' tawk to her throo a brokken window 'at ther wor i' th' weshhaase, an' one neet shoo'd promised to meet him thear, an' he wanted to kuss her as usual, but he started back. "nay, lucy," he said, "aw'm sure thar't nooan reight. has ta been growin' a mustash?" mew! mew! it went; an' he fan aat he'd kuss'd th' owd tom cat. when th' neighbours gate to know, they kursened him "kusscat," an' they call him soa yet. but that worn't all; for when he went to get wed he wor soa flustered woll he stood i' th' wrang place, an' when th' time coom for him to put th' ring on, he put it on th' woman next to him--he thowt it didn't mean, for he cud get it swap'd after, but when it wor ovver they all began to find aat ther'd been a mistak. "why, kusscat," said one, "what's ta been doin'? tha' s getten wed to thi mother." th' parson look'd glum, but he said, "it's noa use botherin' nah, its too lat, you should ha' spokken afoor--an' aw think he's fittest to be wi' his mother." but he roar'd like a bull, an' begged th' parson to do it ovver, an' do it reight; but lucy said, "he'd noa cashion, for shoo'd live an' dee an owd maid for iver afoor shoo'd have ony chap second hand." but her heart worn't as hard as shoo thowt, soa, shoo gave in, an' th' next time they managed better. mysterious disapperance. a short time ago mr. fitzivitz, of rank end, was seen to be swimming at a great rate and making a most extensive spread in the river plate. several friends cautioned him not to go so far out of his depth, but he was utterly heedless of advice, he dived still deeper, and was observed to sink over head and ears in debt, leaving a large circle of friends to bewail his loss. his body has since been recovered, but all that could have comforted his anxious friends had fled, alas for ever. sam it up. ther's a deal o' things scattered raand, at if fowk ud tak th' trouble to pick up might do 'em a paar o' gooid, an' my advice is, if yo meet wi' owt i' yor way 'at's likely to mak life better or happier, sam it up, but first mak sure yo've a reight to it. nah, aw once knew a chap at fan a topcoit, an' he came to me, an' says--"a'a lad! awve fun one o' th' grandest topcoits to-day at iver tha clapt thi' een on." "why, where did ta find it?" aw says. "reight o' th' top o' skurcoit moor." "well, tha'rt a lucky chap," aw says, "what has ta done wi' it?" "aw niver touched it; 'aw left it just whear it wor." "well, tha art a faoil; tha should ha' brout it hooam." "e'ea! an' aw should ha' done, but does ta see ther wor a chap in it." aw tell'd him he'd made a fooil on me, an' aw consider'd mysen dropt on, but noa moor nor he wor wi' havin' to leave th' coit. "neer heed," he said "fowk can allus do baat what they can't get," an' aw thowt ther wor a bit o' wisdom i' what he said. but what caps me th' mooast is at fowk tug an' tew for a thing as if ther life depended on it, an' as sooin as they find they cannot get it, they turn raand an' say they care nowt abaat it. we've all heeard tell abaat th' "fox an' grapes," an' ther's a deal o' that sooart o' thing. this world's full o' disappointments, an' we've all a share. th' bradford exchange wor oppened this month, 1867, an' aw luk on it, that wor a sad disappointment to some. "exchange is noa robbery," they say, but if some fowk knew what it had cost, they might think it had been a dear swap. ther are fowk at call it "a grand success"--but then awve heeard some call th' halifax taan hall "a grand success," but they haven't made me believe it. it may do a deal o' gooid, aw'll not deny that; it may taich fowk to let things alooan at they dooan't understand--let's hooap soa. ovver th' door-hoil they've put "act wisely," an' it's time they did. its summat like telling a chap to be honest, at the same time yo'r picking his pocket. but we've noa business to grummel, its awr duty to "submit to th' powers that be" (if they're little ens); but a chap cannot help langin' for th' time when brains an' net brass shall fit a man for a taan caancillor. but fowk mun get consolation aat o' summat, soa they try to fancy th' taan hall luks handsome. its like th' chap 'at saw his horse fall into th' beck;--he tugg'd an' pool'd, and shaated an' bawl'd, but th' horse went flooatin' on, plungin' its legs abaat, makkin' th' watter fly i' all direckshuns but it wur noa use, for it wur draanded at th' last. when he went hooam he tell'd th' wife abaat it "what does ta say?" shoo says; "is it draanded?" "e'es, it's draanded, lass; but it ud ha' done thi e'en gooid to ha' seen it, aw wor capt,--mun it wur a topper to swim, an' that's a comfort; tha knows we could niver ha' known that if it had niver been tried." lets hooap 'at when they've another to build they'll do better. its niver too late to mend, an' we're niver too owd to learn; but its hard wark to taich some. aw remember once a chap tellin' me hah they made sooap, an' he said "three-thirds o' sooap wor tollow, an' tother summat else." aw tried to show him 'at it couldn't be soa, for if three-thirds wor tollow it must be all tollow; but he said, aw "needn't start o' taichin' him; when he'd been a sooap boiler twenty year he owt to know." aw saw it wor noa use me talkin', for as wordsworth says (or else he doesn't) "twor throwing words away, for still, the soap-boiler wod have his will, and said, "three-thirds wor tollow.' but who is ther 'at niver does wrang? net th' odd en! them 'at live i' glass haases shouldn't throw stooans; soa we'll drop it. we're all fooils at times. fooils ther's some born fooils, an' ther's some mak thersen fooils, an'. ther's some get made fooils on. when we hear fowk tell tales abaat sein' boggards, an gettin' ther planets ruled, we think it saands fooilish. nah an' then one turns up rayther simple, an' a body con hardly help laffin'. it's net long sin' aw heeard tell of a owd woman goin' to th' pooast office i' bolton, an' axin to see th' maister, an, when he coom shoo said shoo wanted to know hah monny stamps it 'ud tak' to send a mangle to yeaworth. he couldn't tell her, an' shoo went away thinkin' what a fooil he wor net to know his business better nor that, an' he thowt what a fooil shoo wor for ax in sich a question. an' soa it is;--we're apt to think iverybody fooils but ussen, an' them 'at belangs to us. yo doant oft find a mother or fayther 'at thinks ther lad's a fooil (unless he gets wed, an then they allus say soa.) iverybody's'child is th' grandest an' th' cliverest i'th world. but aw couldn't help laffin' one day when i heeard a chap braggin' abaat his lad. "aa," he said, "he's cliverest lad of his age aw iver met; he's nobbut thirteen year owd an' he con do owt." just as he wor sayin' soa th' lad coom into th' raam, aitin' a raw turnip, an' his fayther thowt he'd show him off a bit, soa he said, "jack a want thee to go an' messur th' length o' that piece o' timber 'at's i'th yard, an come tell me." soa he gave him his two-fooit rule, an' th' lad went. aw thowt he wor a long time abaat it, but in a bit he coom back. "well jack," said his fayther, "ha long is it? spaik up, that's a fine lad." "why," he says, "it's th' length o' yo'r rule, an' my pocket comb, an' this piece o' band." "that's reight," said his fayther, "tha con goa hoam," put aw nooaticed 'at be did'nt brag abaat him quite so mitch at after. if a chap doesn't want to be thowt a fooil he should niver start o' showin' off befoor fowk till he knows what he's abaat, an' ther's noan on us knows iverything. aw remember once go in' to th' sale ov a horse, an' th' auctioneer knew varry little abaat cattle, an' he began praisin' it up as he thowt. "gentlemen," he said, "will you be kind enough to look at this splendid animal! examine him, gentlemen; look at his head; why, gentlemen, it's as big as a churn! an' talk about points--why, it's all points; you can hang yo'r hat on any part of him!" he'd just getten soa far, when th' chap 'at belang'd th' horse could bide it noa longer, soa be laup'd up an' pooled th' auctioneer daan bith' hair o'th' heead. "tha may be an auctioneer," he said, "but tha'rt noa ostler." but it isn't long sin' aw wor at a sale o' picturs, i'th' teetotal hall at halifax, an' th' chap 'at wor sellin' put up one lot an' made this speech:--"ladies and gentlemen,--the next lot i have the pleasure to offer you are three picturs of 'joan of arch' a french lady of distinction, who fought at the battle of waterloo against the duke of wellington, and was afterwards burnt at the siege of moscow. how much shall i say for this lot?" aw walk'd aat when awd heeard that, for aw thowt he might happen be a ostler, but blow me if he wor fit for an auctioneer. but we con forgi' a chap lukkin fooilish sometimes, if he doesn't mak' other fowk luk soa; but when that chap at saathawarm put bills up to call a meeting o'th' committee to consider what color to whitewash th' schooil, they all felt fooilish. a young chap 'at's just popp'd th' question to a young woman feels rayther fooilish if shoo says "noa." an' if shoo says "yes," he may live to think he wor fooilish. a chap feels fooilish when he's been runnin aboon a mile to catch th' train, an' just gets thear i' time to see it move off an' leave him. a chap feels fooilish when he goas to th' chapel when ther's a collection, an' finds he's left th' hawpenny at hooam he thowt o' givin', an's nowt noa less nor hauf a craan. a chap feels fooilish if he's been rakein' aat all th' neet, an' when he gets hooam his wife finds a woman's neet-cap hung to his coit button. a chap luks fooilish when he's tellin' a tale an' forgets hah it finishes. a woman luks fooilish when shoo's lost her hair pins, an' her false bob's hingin' daan her back. an' ther are times when we're all fooilish, an' awm feeard if aw doant stop yo may begin to think me fooilish, soa aw'll drop it. cleenin' daan month may is abaat th' warst pairt o'th' year for a wed chap, for he connot walk aat, an' he cannot be comfortable at hooam, becoss it's th' cleeanin' daan time. talk abaat weshin' days! they're fooils to cleeanin' days. buckstun lime an' whitewesh, bees-wax an' turpitine-black-leead an' idleback, stare a chap i' th' face ivery where. pots an' pans--weshin' bowls an' peggy tubs, winteredges an' clooas lines-brooms an' besoms--dish claots an' map claots, block up ivery nook an' corner; an' if iver ther is a time when a chap darn't spaik it's then. if he thinks th' haase is cleean enuff, an' doesn't want owt dooin' at, his wife's sure to call him a mucky haand, an' say 'at he wodn't care if he wor up to th' shoo tops i' filth; an' if he says he thinks it wants a cleean, shoo'll varry sooin ax him if he can tell her whear ther's another haase as cleean, for shoo doesn't know one, an' if he does, he's welcome to goa. but it all ends i' th' same thing--its th' time o' th' year for a reight upset, an' it 'll ha to have it, whether it wants it or net. ther's noa way to suit a woman at sich times, but to be as quiet as yo can. if yo say, "come, lass, con aw help thi a bit," shoo's sure to snap at yo, as if shoo'd bite yor heead off, an' tell yo to get aat ov her gate, for yor allus under her nooas, woll shoo can do nowt. an' if yo goa aat o'th' gate, shoo'll ax yo as sooin as yo come in, ha yo can fashion to spend' yor time gaddin abaat when yo know ha things is at hooam, an' you dooant care th' toss ov a button for her, but just mak her into a slave, an' niver think o' sich a thing as liggin' on a helpin' hand. ther's noa way to do but to bide it as weel as yo can, an' say little, for it doesn't last long. but even when its ovver, yo mun be careful what yo say, for if yo tell her yo think it luks better for th' labor, shoo's sure to say at "shoo sees varry little difference, an' shoo wor fare capt, for ivery thing wor as cleean as a pin." an' if yo say yo can see noa difference, shoo'll say, "tha can see nowtt,"--but shoo knows whether its different or net, for shoo's taen aboon a barra' looad o' muck aat o' that haase that wick. soa my advice is, to say nowt at sich times till yo're axed, an then say as they say. aw once heeard ov a young couple at wor baan to get wed, an' they made it up allus to say an' think alike, an' then they'd be sure net to fall aat; soa they went to th' church an' gate made man an wife, an' as they wor walkin' hooam he said, "aw think this is th' happiest day o' awr lives." "e'ea," shoo says, "aw think it is." "aw think we shall have some rain afoor long," he said. "e'ea," shoo says, "aw think it luks likely for weet." "a'a did ta iver see a faaler bonnet nor that lass has on," shoo said? "noa lass, aw think aw niver did," he replied; "but what a bonny lass shoo is, isn't shoo?" "nay, nobbut middlin'," shoo says. "well aw think her a beauty." "aw wonder where tha luks," shoo said, "but if tha'rt soa taen wi' her, tha con have her astead o' me." "nay, lass," he said, "tha knows we've agreed allus to think an' say alike, an' awm sure shoo's a varry bonny lass." "well an' awm sure shoo's as plain a stick as iver aw saw i' all my life, an' if aw agree to say an' think what tha does, it wor cos aw thowt tha wor reight i' thi heead." soa they walk'd hooam lukkin varry glum, an' differ'd for th' futer same as other fowk. when a chap gets wed he should be ready for th' warst. aw once knew a chap at fell i' love wi a woman 'at he met in a railway train, an' as they lived a long way apart, they did ther coortin i' writin' an' at last th' day wor fixed for 'em to get wed. joa went to fotch her an' walk her to th' church, an' as they wor gooin' he thowt shoo walked rayther queer, soa he says, "susy, does ta limp?" "limp!" shoo says, "net aw, aw limp noan." soa they went on, an' just as they wor gooin' into th' church, he said, "susy, awm sure tha seems to limp." "a'a, joa," shoo says, "aw wonder what tha'll say next." soa joa an' susy gate wed. when they wor gooin hooam he said, "susy, awm sure tha limps." "aw know aw limp," shoo says, "aw allus limp'd; is a woman ony war for limpin'?" hay-making i hope my readers will regard that varry gooid advice, when they see th' grass cut--"mak hay woll th 'sun shines." there's nowt aw like better nor to spend a day or two in a hay field. tawk abaat "ho de colong!" it doesn't smell hauf as weel to me as a wisp o' new made hay. an' them 'at niver knew th' luxury a' gooin' to bed wi' tired booans, should work i'th' hay-field for a wick. it'll do onnybody gooid; an' if some o' them idle laewts 'at stand bi a duzzen together at th' loin ends _laikin_ at pitch an' toss, wod goa an' _work_ at pitch an' toss, they'd be better booath i' mind an' body an' pocket. tossin' th' hay is booath healthful an' lawfur but tossin' hawpneys (especially them wi' heeads o' booath sides) is nawther. hay makkin' is a honest callin', an' when a chap is gettin' his livin' honestly (noa matter what he does), he feels independent,--an' when a chap feels soa, he can affooard to spaik what he thinks. aw remember once callin' at th' "calder an' hebble" public haase, an' sittin' in a raam wi' a lot o' young swells 'at coom throo sowerby brigg; an' in a bit, a trampified lukkin' chap coom in, an' called for a glass o' ale. this didn't suit th' young gentlemen, soa one on 'em says to him, "fellow, you are an intruder." "tha'rt a liar," th' chap says, "awm nowt at sooart, awm a cheer-bottom mender an' aw've sarved mi time to it." "you don't understand me, sir; what i mean is that you have no business here." "noa, lad; aw niver come to theeas shops when aw've ony business, aw allus do that furst." this rayther puzzled th' young swell an' his face went as red as a hep, cos aw laff'd at him; an' he struck his naive o'th' table; "sir," said he, "will you take your departure?" "noa," he said, "aw'll tak nowt 'at doesn't belang to me if aw know on it." "you're an insolent scoundrel, and i leave you with contempt." "yo can leeav me wi' who yo like," he said, "awst mislest noabody if they behave therlsen". they all went an' left him, an' as sooin as they'd getten aat o'th' seet he set up a gurt laff, an' called for another glass; an' aw nooatised at he gave th' landlord a sovereign to tak pay aat on, an' when he brout him his change back, he said, "thank you, sir," an' bow'd to him as if he'd been one o'th' gentry. this happened o'th' same day as aw'd been at briggus, an' awst net forget that in a hurry:--aw'll tell yo abaat it. it wor a varry hot day, an' aw'd walked throo halifax, an' wor beginin' to get rayther dry, an' when aw'd getten ommost thear, aw saw a booard shoved aat ov a chamer winder, wi' th' words painted on, "prime ginger beer sold here," soa aw went into th' haase an' ax'd for a bottle. he browt me a old hair oil bottle filled wi' summat, an a varry mucky-lukkin glass to sup aat on. "cannot yo let me have a cleean glass, maister?" aw axed. "that's clean," he says, "for aw bowt it aboon twelve months sin, an'it's niver been used for owt but pop." aw emptied th' bottle into it, an it lukk'd ommost like milk sops. "what do yo call all thease things at's swimmin' abaat?" aw says. "o, that's yeast, young man; it's a varry gooid thing for ther inside; aw'd a doctor once call'd for a bottle, an' he wodn't let me tak a bit aat: it does fowk gooid." "well but wodn't he let yo tak some o' theas pieces o' cork aat?" aw axed. "net a bit! for he said they acted tother rooad, an' it wor th' best to sup th' lot." "do yo sell a gooid deal o' this, maister?" "a'a bless yo! aw do that. ther wor a real lady coom here o' sunday afternooin, an' shoo supp'd seven bottles, an' shoo said shoo'd ha supped seventeen but her stumack wor varry kittle, an' shoo wor feear'd e' upsettin it." "an' wor ther as mich yeast in 'em as ther is i' this?" aw said. "e'ea! an' moor i' some." "why, then," aw said, "aw should think shoo'd rise early i'th mornin'." "ther's nowt noa better for gooin' to bed on, nor for gettin' up on, nor that pop." just then somdy coom in for a hawporth o' mustard, an' woll he turn'd raand aw emptied it daan th' sink, paid mi penny, an' hook'd it. soa mich for briggus, aw thowt. aw've oft heeard it spokken on as a risin' place, an noa wonder if they swallow yeast at that rate. but aw dooant see what all this has to do wi' haymakkin', soa aw'll rake up noa moar sich like things, for fear yo pitch into me. holinworth lake th' mooast remarkable thing 'at aw' con recollect abaat this time last year, wor a trip to hollinworth lake. ther'd been a collection made at the longloin sunday schooil for a new gas meeter; an after they'd getten th' brass, they bethought 'em 'at th' old en could be made do, an' soa th' taichers agreed to have a trip wi' th' funds. they argued a gooid deeal abaat ha to spend it, an' at last it wor decided they should walk all th' rooad, an' spend it as they went on. they started aat at four o'clock one setterday mornin' i' furst rate fettle. ther wor six men an' seven women; but as th' superintendent wor as big as two, they considered thersen weel paired. they trudged nicely on till they gate to bolton brow, an' then two or three began to feel faint, an' swallow (that's th' superintendent's name) propooased 'at they should have a drop o' drink to revive 'em. noabdy had owt to say agean that, soa as th' public haase wor just oppened, one on 'em went in an' browt aat a quart pitcher full an' handed it to swallow to sup th' furst. an' he did sup--for when he left lause ther wor nowt left but th' froth on his upper lip to tell at ther'd iver bin ony. "well" said lijah, "aw've heeared swallows called burds of passage, but if they'd all a passage like thee, they'd sup th' sea dry." "tha sees, lijah," he said, "awm unfortunate, for aw've a thirst on me 'at aw cannot quench, an' aw darn't sup watter for fear o' havin' th' dropsy." all th' women agreed' at he wor reight, an' soa after another quart amang em they went on. what wi' laffin, an' talkin,' an' smookin, they gate to blackstone edge moor, an' some of the women thowt it time for a rest, soa swallow stop'd all at once an' said, "do yo all see that stooan post 'at's standin' thear? that's the stooan at devides yorksher an' lankysher, an' aw think this a 'varry fit time to say a few words woll yo ease yor legs a bit." soa up he climb'd onto th' pooast, an' began praichin away, an' kept at it woll they wor all hauf pined to deeath. at last lijah said, "hang it up, ha long are ta baan to talk? aw wonder thi conscience doesn't prick thee!" "prick me!" he said, "aw defy owt to prick me when awm laborin' for a gooid cause." just then he ovver balanced hissel an' fell slap into th' middle ov a whin bush; but he wor up in a crack, an' one o' th' lasses said, "if his conscience hadn't getten prick'd summat else had," an' they went forrard, but swallow kept his hand under his coit lap for a mile or two. they gate to th' lake at last, an' after enjayin' what they call th' seea breeze, they started off to see some o' th' places ov interest. one o' th' furst they steer'd to wor th' birthplace o' tim bobbin. "an' who wor tim bobbin?" said one o' th' lasses. this puzzled 'em, for ther worn't one i'th' lot 'at knew; but one o' th' chaps said he thowt, if he worn't mistakken, he war th' inventor o' th' spinnin' mule. th' superintendent said that wor varry likely, for he'd oft nooatised when readin' history books, 'at chaps gate ther names throo summat they'd done, an' soa varry likely he gate called tim bobbin for that reason. after that they went back an' had a ride in a booat, an' as nooan on em knew ha to row, th' watter were varry sooin ankle deep inside; some on 'em began to grummel at this. "oh, niver heed," said swallow, "yo'll niver catch cold wi' salt watter." it worn't long afoor they wanted ther tea, soa they went into th' haase an' ordered a gooid feed. aw've heeard cunjurors say, "quick, jack, fly," when they've been puttin' summat aat o'th' seet; but ther worn't time to say that wi' them, for th' breead and butter went like leetnin'. one plate full after another kept comin' in, till at last th' mistress said, "aw think yo must ha' been hungry?" "e'ea, it's change o' climate 'at does it," they said. soa shoo browt in a fresh lot, but it made noa difference; away it went after tother. "do yo' know,". shoo says, when shoo coom in agean, "at yo've etten two pund o' breead apiece?" "why what's two pund when its cut thin," they said? an' at it they went agean. when they couldn't find room for ony moor, they paid ther shot an' started off hooam, whear they landed safely. th' next sunday neet, when th' gas wor lit at schooil iverybody wor capt to see what an' improvement th' new meter wor. soa after passin' a vote o' thanks to th' superintendent an' th' taichers for th' trouble they' been put to, th' matter dropt. plagues a lecture on this subject was delivered on tuesday evening, to the members of the ladies' needle and thimble association, by the rev. james sleek, curate of st. enock's-in-the-mist. after adverting to the plagues of egypt, the learned lecturer dwelt at length upon the plagues of the present day, which he classed under the following heads: --servants, poor relations, borrowers, teetotallars, tobacco-smokers, and children in arms. to counteract these evils were such associations as the one he had the honor to address, select tea meetings, fancy bazaars, and perambulators. the lecture gave great satisfaction. end o' th' year it's a long loin 'at's niver a turn, an' th' longest loin ends somewhear. ther's a end to mooast things, an' this is th' end o' the year. when a chap gets turned o' forty, years dooant seem as long as once they did--he begins to be feeared o' time rolling on--but it's fooilish, for it nawther gooas faster nor slower nor iver it did. but he's a happy chap 'at, when th' year ends, can luk back an' think ha mich gooid he's done, for it isn't what a chap will do for th' futer, its what he has done i'th' past 'at fowk mun judge by. its net wise for onybody to booast o' what they mean to do in a month's time, becoss we cannot tell what a month's time may do for us. we can hardly help havin' a gloomy thowt or two at this part o'th' year, but kursmiss comes to cheer us up a bit, an' he's nooan ov a gooid sooart 'at can't be jolly once i'th' year. as an owd friend o' mine has cliverly said:- come let us choose the better part, and sing whilst life is given; a cheerful and contented heart gives no offence to heaven. 'tis christmas time, then fill the horn, away with melancholy, if there's no leaves upon the thorn, there is upon the holly. hi! varry true! when ther's no leaves upon th' thorn, they're green upon the holly. ther's allus summat to be thankful for if we seek it aat--ther's sure to be a bit o' sunshine somewhere--an' its a varry bad case if a chap can't find consolation aat o' summat. aw remember a case ov a woman deein' 'at aw knew, an' aw met th' husband lukkin' varry glum a bit at after. "well joa," aw said, "tha's had a heavy loss, lad." "eea, aw have," an' then after studdyin' a bit, he said, "but aw should ha had to ha bowt a new suit afoor long, an' aw mud as weel buy black as any other color; it wod ha been awkerd if aw'd just getten a white hat, as aw thowt on--but providence! orders all things for th' best." ther's noa daat a gooid lot on us find consolation aat o'th' kursmiss jollification--its just a bit ov a sweetener afoor all th' nooats begin o' commin' in; aw dooant mean five paand nooats, ther's nooan monny o' them stirrin'. it's th' coil nooats, an' gas nooats, an' tax papers, them's th' sooart at's stirrin abaat this time. wheniver ther's a knock at th' door, yo may ventur to put yor hand i' yor pocket; an' happy he must feel 'at can allus find as mich thear as'll do. but its time enuff to think abaat that sooart o' thing when it comes; we've plenty to do nah to think abaat plum pudding an' rooast beef--an' aw hooap at iverybody 'at reads this may have enuff an' to spare. if aw could do owt to help yo to enjoy yorsen, awm sure aw wod, but as that's aat o' mi paar, just afoor aw leave for another twelve months aw'll gie yo a tooast, an' aw hooap yo'll all drink a bumper to it. here gooas! fill up to th' brim! are yo ready? here's off! god bless ivery one raand yor table wi' plenty to ait an' to spare; god bless yo an' mak yo all able to enjoy what may fall to yor share. god bless yo wi health an' wi riches, god bless yo wi hearts 'at can feel for the poor, when cold poverty twitches. god bless them sometimes wi' a meal. god bless them 'at's climbin' life's mountain, full ov hooaps 'at they niver may craan, an' refresh from thy cool soothin' fountain, those who paddle resignedly daan. an' tho' in death's mist-shrouded valley our friends we may lose for a while, god grant that at last all may rally where sunleet shall fade in his smile. gooid-bye! scientific after the annual excursion of the lowly dale scientific society, the members were addressed by mr. evertrot gagthorp. new specimens, the product of their recent journey, now enrich the museum: viz. in geology--limestone, pumice stone, soft stone, white stone, plum stone, and cherry stone. conchology--egg shell tortoise shell nut shell and satchel. botany--corn flour, grog blossom, and many leaves from the book of nature. entomology--a swallow tail had been obtained, but the president going to a dress party, had got the loan of it. valentine dream "on valentine's day, will a gooid gooise lay," is a varry old sayin', an' aw dare say a varry gooid en; an' if all th' geese wod nobbut lay o' that day ther'd be moor chonce o' eggs bein' cheap. but it isn't th' geese we think on at th' fourteenth o' this month i'ts th' little ducks, an' th' billy dux. a'a aw wish aw'd all th' brass 'at's spent o' valentines for one year; aw wodn't thank th' queen to be mi aunt. ther's nobdy sends me valentines nah. aw've known th' time when they did, but aw'm like a old stage cooach, aw'm aat o' date. aw'st niver forget th' furst valentine aw had sent. th' pooastman browt it afoor aw'd getten aat o' bed, an' it happen'd to be sunday mornin'. aw read it ovver an' ovver agean, an' aw luk'd at th' directions an' th' pooast mark, but aw cudn't make aat for mi life who'd sent it; but whoiver it war aw wor detarmined to fall i' love wi' her as soain as aw gate to know. then aw shov'd it under th' piller an' shut mi een an' tried to fancy what sooart ov a lass shoo must be, an' someha aw fell asleep, an' aw dremt, but aw willn't tell yo what aw dremt for fear yo'll laff. but when aw wakken'd, aw sowt up an' daan, but nowhere could aw find th' valentine. aw wor ommost heartbrokken, an' aw pool'd all th' cloas off th' bed, an' aw luk'd under it, an' ovver it, but net a bit on it could aw see, an' at last aw began to fancy 'at aw must ha dremt all th' lot, an' 'at aw'd niver had one sent at all; but when aw wor gettin' mi breeches on, blow me! if it worn' t stuck fast wi a wafer to mi shirt lap. what her 'at sent it ud a sed if shoo'd seen it, aw can't tell an' aw wodn't if aw could; but aw know one thing, aw wor niver i' sich a muck sweeat afoor sin aw wor born, an' when aw went to mi braikfast aw 'wor soa maddled, wol aw couldn't tell which wor th' reight end o'th' porridge spooin, but aw comforted misen at last wi' thinkin' 'at aw worn't th' furst 'at had turned ther back ov a valentine. more tales of the ridings by f.w.moorman, 1872 1919 late professor of english language, leeds university. editor of "_yorkshire dialect poems_" london, elkin mathews, cork street 1920 contents melsh dick two letters a miracle tales of a grandmother i. the tree of knowledge ii. janet's cove the potato and the pig coals of fire melsh dick melsh dick is the last survivor of our woodland divinities. his pedigree reaches back to the satyrs and dryads of greek mythology; he claims kinship with the fauns that haunted the groves of leafy tibur, and he lorded it in the green woods of merry england when the woodweele sang and wold not cease, sitting upon the spraye, soe lowde he wakened robin hood in the greenwood where he lay. but he has long since fallen upon evil days, and it is only in the most secluded regions of the pennines, where vestiges of primeval forest still remain and where modern civilisation has scarcely penetrated, that he is to be met with to-day. melsh is a dialect word for unripe, and the popular belief is that melsh dick keeps guard over unripe nuts; while "melsh dick'll catch thee, lad" was formerly a threat used to frighten children when they went a-nutting in the hazel-shaws. but we may, perhaps, take a somewhat wider view of this woodland deity and look upon him as the tutelary genius of all the young life of the forest--the callow broods of birds, the litters of foxes and squirrels, and the sapling oaks, hazels, and birches. there was a time when he was looked upon as a genial fairy, who would bring yule-logs to the farmers on christmas eve and direct the woodmen in their tasks of planting and felling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and malignant. the reckless felling of young trees for fencing and pit-props is supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been told of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts and have never been seen again. it was in the bowland forest district, which is watered by the ribble and its tributary becks, that i heard the fullest account of melsh dick; and the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose forefathers had for generations been woodmen in bowland forest. the region where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old market town of gisburn, where guy of that ilk fought with robin hood, and where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the wild cattle of england roamed through the park. "fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," owd dont began, "but i tak no count o' all their clash; i reckon nowt o' tales without they belang my awn family. but what i's gannin to tell you is what i've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know it's true. a gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like some fowks i could name. there's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o' chatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that would fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em." after this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, owd dont needed a long draught of march ale to regain his composure. i knew that it was worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. leisurely at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the ring o' bells. "'twere back-end o' t' yeer," he continued at last, "an' t' lads had gone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. there were a two-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan were lame i' t' leg. they called him doed o' billy's o' claypit lane. well, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as fast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. but lile doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg. so t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or he'd get left behind. so doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but he couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time t' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. at lang length he thowt he saw yan o' t' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o' him, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. he were no bigger nor doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and he'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen t' juices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. but what capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi' green moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur. "well, when doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad looked at him friendly-like and says: "'now then, doed, wheer ista boun'?' "'i's boun' home,' says doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' wi' freet. "'well, i's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, thou can coom alang wi' me. thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but i can tell who thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. thou'll have heerd tell o' thy uncle, ned bowker, that lives ower by sally abbey; he's my father, so i reckon thou an' me's cousins.' "now doed had heerd his mother tell about his uncle ned, an' when t' lad said that ned bowker were his father, he gat a bit aisier in his mind; but for all that he didn't altogether like t' looks o' him. howiver, they gat agate o' talkin', and doed let on that he were fearful fain o' squirrels. you see, he kept all nations o' wild birds an' wild animals down at his house; he'd linnets an' nanpies i' cages, and an ark full o' pricky-back urchins. but he'd niver catched a squirrel; they were ower wick for him, an' he wanted a squirrel more nor owt else i' t' world. "when melsh dick heard that--for o' course t' lad was melsh dick hissen--he said that if doed would coom wi' him, he'd sooin gie him what he wanted. he'd bin climmin' t' trees an' had catched a squirrel an' putten it i' t' basket he'd browt his dinner in. "well, lile doed hardlins knew what to do. 'twere gettin' lat, an' there were summat about t' lad that set him agin him. but then he bethowt him o' t' squirrel, an' t' squirrel were ower mich for him. so he said to melsh dick that he'd gan wi' him an' fotch t' squirrel, but he munnot stop lang, or fowks would consate that he'd lossen his way i' t' wood an' would coom seekin' him. when melsh dick heerd him say that he'd coom wi' him, his een fair glistened, an' he set off through t' wood wi' lile doed followin' efter him. t' wood was full of gert oak-trees, wi' birks set amang 'em that had just begun to turn colour. efter a while they gat to a dub i' t' middle o' t' wood; 'twere no bigger nor a duck-pond, but t' watter was deep, an' all around t' dub was a ring o' espin-trees wi' their boughs hingin' ower t' watter. eh! 'twas a grand seet, sure enif, an' doed had niver seen owt like it afore. t' sky had bin owercussen wi' hen-scrattins an' filly-tails, but when they gat to t' dub t' wind had skifted 'em, an' t' mooin were shinin' ower pendle hill way an' leetin' up t' trees and makkin' t' watter glisten like silver. lile doed were that fain he started clappin' his hands an' well-nigh forgat all about melsh dick an' t' squirrel. then all on a sudden he gat agate o' laughin', for when he saw t' mooin' i' t' watter he bethowt him o' a tale his mother had telled him o' soom daft fowks that had seen t' mooin i' t' watter an' thowt it were a cheese an' started to rake it out wi' a hay-rake. "when melsh dick heerd him laughin', he were fair mad. he thowt doed were laughin' at him, an' what maddens fairies more nor owt else is to think that fowks is girnin' at 'em. howiver, he said nowt, but set hissen down anent t' dub an' doed did t' same. then they gat agate o' talkin', an' doed axed melsh dick what for he was covered wi' green moss. "'if thou'd to clim' trees same as i have,' answered melsh dick, 'thou'd be covered wi' moss too, i'll uphod.' "'an' what for doesta wear yon cap o' red fur**??' "'why sudn't i wear a fur cap, i'd like to know. my mother maks 'em o' squirrel skins, an' they're fearful warm i' winter-time.' "when lile doed heerd him tell o' squirrels, he bethowt him o' t' squirrel i' t' basket an' wanted to set forrard. "'bide a bit,' says melsh dick, 'an' i'll show thee more squirrels nor iver thou's seen i' all thy life.' "with that he taks a whistle out of his pocket; 'twere just like a penny tin whistle, but 'twere made o' t' rind o' a wandy esh, an' melsh dick had shapped it hissen wi' his whittle. then he put t' whistle to his mouth an' started to blow. he blew a two-three notes, an' sure enif, there was a scufflin' i' t' trees an' i' less nor hauf-a-minute there were fower or five squirrels sittin' on t' boughs o' t' espins. when doed saw t' squirrels i' t' mooinleet, he were fair gloppened. he glowered at 'em, an' they glowered back at him, an' their een were as breet as glow-worms. "all t' while melsh dick kept tootlin' wi' his whistle an' t' squirrels com lowpin' through t' trees, while t' espins round t' dub were fair wick wi' 'em. you could hardlins see t' boughs for t' squirrels. 'twere same as if all t' squirrels i' bowland forest had heerd t' whistle an' bin foorced to follow t' sound. they didn't mak no babblement, but just set theirsens down on their huggans, pricked up their lugs, cocked their tails ower their rigs, and kept their een fixed on melsh dick. "well, when melsh dick thowt he'd gethered squirrels enew, he started to play a tune, an' 'twere an uncouth tune an' all. soomtimes 'twere like t' yowlin' o' t' wind i' t' chimley, an' soomtimes 'twere like t' yammerin' o' tewits an' curlews on t' moor. but when t' squirrels heerd t' tune, they gat theirsens into line alang t' boughs, an' there were happen twelve squirrels on ivery bough. then they gat agate o' lowpin'; they lowped frae tree to tree, reet round t' dub, wi' their tails set straight out behind 'em. they were that close togither, 'twere just like a gert coil o' red rope twinin' round t' watter; and all t' time they kept their faces turned to melsh dick, an' their een were blazin' like coals o' fire. round an' round they went, as lish as could be, an' lile doed just hoddled his breeath an' glowered at 'em. he'd seen horses lowpin' in a ring at slaidburn fair, but 'twere nowt anent squirrels lowpin' i' t' espins round t' dub. "efter a while doed thowt that melsh dick would sooin give ower playin' tunes on t' whistle, but he did nowt o' t' sort. he just played faster nor iver, an' all t' time he kept yan eye fixed on squirrels an' yan eye fixed on lile doed, to see if owt would happen him. an' t' faster he played t' faster lowped t' squirrels. you see, they were foorced to keep time wi' t' whistle. at lang length t' tune gat to be nobbut a shrike an' a skreel. doed had niver heerd sike-like afore; 'twere as though all t' devils i' hell had gotten lowse an' were yammerin' through t' sky wi' a strang wind drivin' 'em forrard. eh! 'twere an uncouth sound, and an uncouth seet, too, an' lile doed's teeth started ditherin' an' every limb in his body was tremmlin' like t' espin leaves on t' trees round t' dub. an' nows an' thens a gert white ullet would coom fleein' through t' boughs, an' all t' time there were lile bats flutterin' about ower t' watter an' coomin' so close agean doed they ommost brushed his face wi' their wings. "doed was wellnigh flaid to deeath, but for all that he couldn't tak his een off o' t' squirrels; they'd bewitched him, had t' squirrels. he put his hand to his heead, and it felt as though 'twere twinin' round an' round. now that was just what melsh dick wanted, and why he'd set t' squirrels lowpin' in a ring. he couldn't do nowt to doed so lang as he were maister o' his senses, but if he was to get fair giddy an' drop off into a dwam, then, sure enif, melsh dick would have him i' his power and could turn him intul a squirrel as he'd turned other lads an' lasses afore. wae's t' heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile doed, but he knew nowt about it for all that. when he felt his heead gettin' mazy, he consated he were fallin' asleep; his een gat that dazed he couldn't see t' squirrels no more, an' he thowt he mun be liggin' i' his bed at home under t' clothes. then suddenly he bethowt him that he were fallin' asleep without sayin' his prayers. you see, his mother had larnt him a prayer, an' telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore he gat into bed. well, doed aimed to say his prayer, but t' words had gotten clean out o' his heead. that made him a bit unaisy, for he were a gooid lad an' it hooined him to think that he'd forgotten t' words. all that he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he'd heerd t' lads an' lasses say when they were coomin' home fra schooil. he reckoned 'twere more like a bit o' fun nor a prayer, but all t' same, when he couldn't bethink him o' t' words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin' t' nominy, an' sang out, as loud as he could: matthew, mark, luke, and john, bless the bed that i lig on. "he'd no sooiner said t' words when all on a sudden melsh dick gav ower playin', t' squirrels gav ower lowpin', t' bats gav ower fleein' across t' dub, t' mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an' t' wood an' t' watter were as black as a booit. then there com a scufflin' an' a skrikin' all ower t' wood. t' squirrels started spittin' an' sweerin' like mad, t' ullets yammered an' t' wind yowled, an' there was all maks an' manders o' noises owerheead. then, efter a minute, t' mooin gat clear o' t' thunner-pack, an' doed glowered around. but there was nowt to be seen nowheer. melsh dick was no langer sittin' anent him, an' there was niver a squirrel left i' t' trees; all that he could clap een on was t' espin leaves ditherin' i' t' wind an' t' lile waves o' t' dub wappin' agean t' bank. "doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi' cowd an' hunger, an' t' poor lad started roarin' same as if his heart would breek. but he'd sense enif to shout for help, an' efter a while there com an answer. his father an' t' lads frae t' village had bin seekin' him all ower t' wood, and at last they fan him an' hugged him home an' put him to bed. 'twere a lang while afore he were better, an' choose what fowks said, he'd niver set foot i' t' wood agean without he'd a bit o' witchwood i' his pocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on st helen's day." two letters annie was busy at the washtub, and it was her mother, who had come to live with her and her baby while her husband was at the front, that answered the postman's knock and brought in the parcel. "annie, here's a parcil thro' france. it'll be thy jim that's sent it. i can tell his writin' onywhere, though his hand do seem a bit shaky like." "what's he sendin' naa, i'd like to know?" asked annie, in a tone of real or feigned indifference. "he's allus wearin' his brass on all maks o' oddments that he's fun i' them mucky trenches, or bowt off uther lads. nay, tha can oppen it thisen, muther; my hands is all covered wi' suds." annie's mother undid the parcel and took out a large german helmet, but it somehow failed to arouse much enthusiasm on the part of either mother or daughter. jim had already gone far towards converting his wife's kitchen into an arsenal, and, as annie said, "there was no end o' wark sidin' things away an' fettlin' up t' place." at the bottom of the helmet was an envelope addressed to "mrs annie akroyd, 7 nineveh lane, leeds," and the mother handed it to her daughter. "i'm ower thrang to read it naa," said annie; "it'll hae to wait while i've finished weshin'." "eh! but tha'll want to know how thy jim's gettin' on. happen he'll be havin' short leave sooin. i'll read it to thee misen." she opened the envelope and began to read the letter. it ran as follows:-"dear annie,--i hope this finds you well, as it leaves me at present. i'm sendin' thee a helmet that i took off a german that i com across i' one o' them gert sump-hoils that t' jack johnsons maks i' t' grund. he were a fearful big gobslotch, so i reckon t' helmet will do to wesh aar jimmy in. when he gets a bit owder, he can laik at sodgers wi' it. "i've coom aat o' t' trenches an' am enjoyin' a rest-cure behind t' lines; so don't thou worry thisen abaat me. i'm champion, an' i've nowt to do but eyt an' sleep an' write a two-three letters when i've a mind to; and what caps all is that i'm paid for doin' on it. there's a lass here that said shoo'd write this here letter for me; but i'd noan have her mellin' on t' job, though shoo were a bonny lass an' all----" "what mak o' lass is yon?" interrupted annie. "if he's bin takkin' up wi' one o' them french lasses, he'll get a bit o' my mind when he cooms back. he've allus bin fearful fain o' t' lasses, has jim, an' i've telled him more nor once i'd have no more on't. an' them frenchies is nasty good-for-nowts, i'll warrant. they want a few o' their toppins pulled." here she paused, and the rest of her wrath was vented on the clothes in the tub. her mother continued to read aloud: "mind you let me know if leeds beats barnsla i' t' midland section next setterday. it'll be a long while afore i clap eyes on a paper aat here, an' i've putten a bit o' brass on leeds winnin' t' game. an' tell my father he mun tak my linnit daan to t' spotted duck for t' next singin' competition. he's a tidy singer is bobby, if he's nobbut properly looked efter. tha mun mesh up a bit o' white o' egg wi' his linseed; there's nowt like white o' egg for makkin' linnets sing----" once again annie broke in upon the perusal of the letter. "eh! but t' lad's fair daft. all he thinks on is fooitball an' linnit matches. white o' egg for linnits, is it! i'd have him know that eggs cost brass nah-a-days. why don't he 'tend to his feightin' an' get a stripe like sarah worsnop's lad ower t' way?" "whisht a bit!" exclaimed her mother, "while i've gotten to t' end o' t' letter. eh! but he do write bad; t' words is fair tum'lin' ower one anuther." "i was in a bit o' a mullock," private james akroyd's letter went on, "t' last time we were i' t' trenches; 'twern't mich to tell abaat, but 'twere hot while it lasted. there's lads says i'm baan to get a v.c. but don't thou hark tul 'em; v.c.'s are noan for t' likes o' me. "jim." "is that all?" asked annie, as her mother folded up the letter. "don't he want to know how mony teeth aar jimmy's gotten, or owt abaat t' pot-dogs i bowt i' t' markit." "nay, that's all," replied her mother, "without there's summat else i' t' helmet." as she spoke she searched the helmet, and soon produced another letter. it also was addressed to "mrs annie akroyd," but in a woman's hand. she opened the envelope and proceeded to read it aloud. "dear mrs akroyd,--you will have received a telegram from the war office telling you of your husband's death----" as she heard the dreadful tidings, annie turned deadly pale for a moment; then the blood rushed streaming back, till face and neck were crimson. "it's a lee," she shouted, "a wicked lee. i ain't gotten no tillygram, an' he said he were well an' enjoyin' a rest-cure." then she snatched the letter from her mother's trembling hands and, with swimming eyes, read it to herself. it had been written by the hospital nurse, and continued as follows:-"he was terribly wounded when he was brought here, but i cannot tell you how splendid he was. all his thoughts were of you and your little boy, and he would write to you himself, though i wanted him to give me the pencil and paper. he said that if he didn't write himself, you would know that something was wrong with him. "the colonel came here specially to see him, and he told me that he should certainly recommend him for the v.c. your husband was a brave man and did brave things; he gave his life to save another's. he was wounded with shrapnel in the head and spine as he was crossing no man's land. the officer to whom he was attached as orderly had been hit in one of the shell-holes, and your husband crawled out of his trench in full view of the enemy's line, and brought him back. it was on the return journey that he received his wounds. the officer is safe, and will recover. "great as your sorrow must be, i hope you will be cheered by the thought that your husband laid down his life for you and me and all of us. if the v.c. is granted, you will have to go to buckingham palace to receive it, and i am sure the king would like you to take your little boy with you. "yours in truest sympathy, "nurse goodwin." when annie had finished the letter she let it fall, and, staggering to a seat, flung her hands, still wet and bleached with the labours of the washtub, upon the table; then, burying her face in them she sobbed her heart out. "i don't want no v.c.," she exclaimed at last, between her sobs. "i want my jim!" a miracle sam ineson and jerry coggill were seasoned soldiers long before the palestine campaign began. they had spent two winters in the trenches of france and flanders, and when the news reached them that their battalion had been chosen to reinforce general allenby's army in egypt, they took it as a compliment. pestilence, murder, and sudden death might be in store for them, but they would at any rate escape trench warfare, with all its attendant horrors and discomforts. their comrades at divisional head-quarters gave them a good send-off. "remember us to pharaoh," they said, "and you can send us a few mummies for christmas; they'll do for mascots." the two soldiers, who were yorkshire farmers' sons, and knew every inch of the craven country, from malham cove to kilnsey crag, had joined the egyptian army just as it was preparing to cross the desert on its way to the holy land. they had taken part in the great victory at beersheba, and then, driving the turks before them over the mountains of judea, had finally stormed the fortifications of hebron. elated by their success, their hope was that their battalion would be allowed to press forward at once so that they might spend christmas day in jerusalem. in this they were disappointed. other battalions were chosen for this proud undertaking, and when general allenby entered the holy city in triumph sam and jerry were still in the neighbourhood of hebron, engaged in repairing the fortifications and restoring order. at last the command came to advance. they were, however, to proceed in small parties, and to share in an enveloping movement among the hills. small detachments of turkish soldiers were known to be lurking among the limestone terraces between hebron and jerusalem, and their duty was to break these up by means of guerrilla warfare, and prevent surprise attacks descending at night from the hills on to the army's communication lines. the two yorkshiremen, accustomed all their lives to the shepherding of swaledale ewes among their native moors, were well qualified for this task. the limestone hills of judea bear a striking resemblance to the craven highlands, and sam and jerry had a practised eye for hiding-places among the rocks, as well as for the narrow sheep-tracks which lead from one limestone terrace to another. in the course of the next fortnight they rounded up many bands of ragged turkish soldiers, and were steadily driving the rest before them in a northerly direction. by 24th december they were within five miles of jerusalem, and the hope that they might yet reach their goal on christmas day came back once more to their minds. but it was not to be. the morning of the 24th found them near the source of one of the many wadies which, after the rains of november and december, rush in torrents through the boulder-strewn valleys, and empty themselves into the dead sea. the morning broke clear, but, as the day advanced, a thick mist descended from the hills and made progress difficult. but the ardour of the men, now that the goal was almost in sight, was such that it was impossible to hold them back. in small pickets they climbed the steep hill-sides, penetrated through the groves of olive, fig and pomegranate trees which clothe the successive tiers of limestone terraces, and reached the high plateau above. but at every step upwards the hill-mist grew thicker, and, in spite of all attempts to keep together, the pickets of soldiers became split up. when four o'clock arrived, sam and jerry found themselves alone on the hills and completely ignorant of their bearings. the short winter day was drawing to a close, and they were in danger of being benighted among the judean uplands on christmas eve. they determined to make a descent to the point from which they had started in the morning, but, after an hour's wandering in the mist, found themselves no nearer their goal. darkness was now creeping swiftly upon them, and they realised the dangers of a fall over one of the terraced cliffs. "we're fair bet," said jerry at last. "there'll be nea chrissamas dinner for us to-morn i' jerusalem, i reckon." "thou's reight," replied sam; "we sall hae to bide here while t' mist lifts, an' do t' best we can for wersels. bully-beef an' biscuit is what we'll git for wer dinners, an' there'll be nea sittin' ower t' fire at efter, watchin' t' yule-clog burn, an' eytin' spice-loaf an' cheese." "nivver mind, lad, we've had a cappin' time sin we set out on t' march to jerusalem, an' if we wasn't here we'd happen be up to wer oxters i' flanders muck." "aye, we've noan done sae badly," sam ineson agreed, "and we sall hae summat to crack about when we git back to wharfedale, choose how. thou'll hae to tak a sunday schooil class at gerston, jerry, an' tell t' lads all about solomon's pools, where we catched them turks, an' t' tomb o' t' prophet samuel anent hebron." "nay, i reckon t' lang settle at t' anglers' arms will be more i' my line. but we're noan through wi' t' job yet awhile." after this conversation, uttered in whispers, for fear lest their presence should be disclosed to any turks lurking in the neighbourhood, the two soldiers took shelter under the lee of a limestone crag, drew their overcoats tightly around them, and proceeded to eat their rations. the prospect of spending a night on the uplands of judea in a driving mist did not dismay them. they had fared worse many a night in france and flanders, and also knew what it was to be benighted on the yorkshire moors. moreover, they were tired after their wanderings among the hills, and it was not long before they fell fast asleep. jerry was awakened after a while by a familiar sound close to his ear. he drew himself up and listened, then burst into a laugh, and roused his fellow. "eh! sam," he said, "thou mun wakken up. we reckon we're sodgers; we're nowt o' t' sort; sure enough, we're nobbut shipperd lads." sam sat up and listened. the sound of a sheep's cough close at hand met his ear, and, straining his eyes, he saw a whole flock of sheep browsing the short grass around him. "that caps iverything i've heeard tell on," he exclaimed. "chrissamas eve an' two shipperd lads frae wharfedale keepin' watch ower their flock by neet i' t' holy land. an' accordin' to what sergeant said, bethlehem sud not be sae vara far away frae here." the situation in which the two shepherds found themselves touched their imaginations, and they ceased to regret that they were in danger of missing a christmas day at jerusalem. they listened to the sheep for a time, until the cry of a jackal startled the animals, and the flock dispersed. then the two soldiers fell asleep once more. shortly before midnight they awoke with a sudden start. a strange light gleamed in their faces, and the mist had almost vanished. the hill-sides and the sky above were bathed in a pearly light, while almost immediately above them they beheld a city, as it were let down from heaven and suspended in mid-air, beset with domes and minarets that flashed like jewels in the marvellous radiance that flooded all space. "a miracle! a miracle!" sam ineson exclaimed, in awe-struck tones, and then held his breath, for a familiar song broke upon his ears. from the sky, or from the battlements of the aerial city, he knew not which, there rang forth the great nativity hymn: while shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground, the angel of the lord came down, and glory shone around. jerry coggill looked into the face of sam ineson and saw there an expression of trance-like rapture. as though moved by a common impulse, the two soldiers sprang to attention, saluted, and, when the hymn ceased, fell on their knees in prayer. then the mist closed on them again, the city among the clouds was hidden from view, and the sky lost its translucence. but sleep was no longer possible for the soldiers. they were as men who had seen the invisible; it was as though heaven had descended upon them and the glory of the new-born king had gleamed in their eyes, and they were filled with a holy awe. next morning the mist had cleared, and the miracle was explained. the spot which they had chosen for their resting-place was at the foot of the great scarp of limestone upon which stands the city of bethlehem, two thousand five hundred feet above the sea. the city had passed, without the shedding of a drop of blood, into the hands of general allenby, and the soldiers stationed there, inspired by the associations of the place and the christmas season, had left their barracks shortly before midnight, and, proceeding to the officers' quarters, had greeted them with a hymn. and the christmas moon, rising high above the mountains of gilead and moab, had found for a short space of time an opening in the curtain of mist and had poured down its light upon the hills of judea, making the city of bethlehem seem to the rapt minds of the two yorkshire dalesmen as though it had been the city of the living god let down from heaven. tales of a grandmother i. the tree of knowledge i spent a certain portion of every year in a village of upper wharfedale, where i made many friends among the farm folk. among these i give pride of place to martha hessletine. martha hessletine was always known in the village as grannie. she was everybody's grannie. crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed for years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing that one might expect from a french princess in the days of the _grand monarque_. the village children would pay her a visit on their way home from afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to which her bed was always placed by day, was the parliament house for all the neighbouring farms. what grannie did not know of the life of the village and the dale was certainly not worth knowing. grannie's one luxury was a good fire. a fire, she used to say, gave you three things in one--warmth, and light, and company. usually she burnt coal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in june, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. these would last her for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached. i was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that she was speaking. "we allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and varra warm they were of a winter neet. we'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the stars shining of a frosty neet." "but doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" i asked. "aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the ash; we could roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and made our supper o' taties and buttermilk." so her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while i, not wishing to interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. so absorbed was i in my circles and pentagons that i did not notice that grannie had stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what i was doing. it was with no little surprise, therefore, that i suddenly heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "what is thou doing that for?" and turning round, i was startled to see on her usually placid face the look of a hunted animal. touched with regret for what i had done, and yet unable to understand why it had moved her so deeply, i asked what was troubling her mind. for a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice, replied: "i can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes." "why, what does it matter?" i asked, and, in the hope that i might help her to regain her composure i began to make fun of her superstitious fancies. but grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs. "it's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter truth, and i've proved it misen, to my cost." seeing how disturbed she was in her mind i tried to change the subject, but she would not let me. for about half-a-minute she was silent, lost in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which i had not seen in them before. then she turned to me and asked: "has thou iver heerd tell o' ash-riddling?" "of course i have," i replied. "everybody knows what it is to riddle ashes." "aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore st mark's day?" here was something unfamiliar, and i readily confessed my ignorance. it was evident, too, that grannie's mind could only find relief by disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so i no longer attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel. "it was 1870," she began, "the year o' the franco-german war, that i first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. my man's father, owd jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. he'd been a despert good farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper were noan o' the best. he were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went wrang wi' him. well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver been afore; he knew that i were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt that i could do for him were reet. so at last, when i'd fmished my milking i' the mistal, i got him to bed, and then i sat misen down by the fire and had a reet good roar. i were tired to death, and wished that i'd niver been born. iverything had gone agee that day: butter wouldn't coom, snowball had kicked ower the pail while i was milking her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching ways. "i were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when my man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. at first i wouldn't tell him, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end i was glad on 't. but he nobbut laughed when i told him about owd jerry, and he said he'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting what he wanted. i got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get shut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us." "'i reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said mike, 'now he's close on eighty.' so i said if that were the case it would be a good thing for the peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. yon were gaumless words, and bitter did i rue iver having spokken 'em. but mike nobbut laughed at what i said. "'putten under grund!' said he. 'nay, father will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough as a yak-stowp.' "'he'll do nowt o' the sort,' i answered; 'and he wi' a hoast in his thropple like a badly cow. i sudn't be surprised if he were dead by chrissamas.' "'we can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' replied mike. 'it will be ash-riddling day come next friday, and then we can find out for wersens if owd jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.' "'what does thou mean?' i axed. "'why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver heerd tell o' ash-riddling day? what a thing it is to wed a foreigner! if thou'd been bred and born in wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about ash-riddling day.' well, i set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been brought up in his dale, for i was wanting to know what he meant. "'what thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake afore thou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all ower the hearthstone. then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if there's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the foot-step o' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.' "when he'd finished his tale i gave out that i reckoned it nobbut blether, but i minded all the same; and that neet, when i were i' bed, i couldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and i made up my mind that i'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come thorsday neet. next morning i thought different, but all the same i couldn't get shut o' the temptation. ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were ticing me to eat o' the tree o' knowledge, same as he ticed eve i' the garden. so i said: 'get thee behind me, satan,' and i kept him behind me all that day. but when it got dark, and i'd putten the childer to bed, he came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. it wasn't that i wanted owd jerry to dee, but i were mad to see if there was ony truth in the tale that mike had told. "well, tuesday passed, and wednesday passed, and thorsday came. i said no more about the ash-riddling to mike, and i reckon he'd forgotten all about it. but that day owd jerry were warr nor iver. he set up his fratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it all day. nowt that i did for him were reet; if i filled his pipe, he said i'd putten salt in his baccy, and if i went out to feed the cauves, he told me i left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o' cowd. evening came at last, and by nine o'clock i were left alone i' the kitchen. owd jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except amos, our eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the lambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. he was a good lad was amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the rest on 'em took after their father. so i sat misen down on a stool and glowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as jacob wrastled wi' the angel. and the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile deevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were the souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out o' the deevils' road. but the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap 'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean. "at last i couldn't thole it no longer. ash-riddling or no ash-riddling, i said, i'm boun' to bed, and upstairs i went. well, i lay i' bed happen three-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark i' my head stronger and stronger. at lang length i crept downstairs agean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. all was whisht as the grave, and the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils to freeten me. so i took the riddle that i'd gotten ready afore and began to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. the stone were hot, but i were cowd as an ice-shackle, and i felt the goose-flesh creeping all ower my body. when i'd riddled all the ash i made it snod wi' the peat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, i crept back into bed and waited while mike and amos came home. "they got back about eleven, and then i thought, they'll happen see what i've done. but they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the stable, and i'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. i heerd 'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and mike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and i knew he'd niver set een on the ash-riddling. he soon fell asleep, and after a while i dozed off too, and dreamt i were murdering owd jerry i' the staggarth. as soon as cockleet came, i wakkened up and crept downstairs, quiet-like, so as not to-wakken mike or the childer. and there on the hearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of a man's clog. "it were jerry's clog as plain as life. when i saw it i went all of a didder, and thought i sud ha' fainted' for all that i'd dreamt about murdering owd jerry came back into my mind. but i drave a pin into my arm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit the fire. after i'd mashed misen a cup o' tea i felt better, and got agate wi' the housewark. but, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, was yon. ivery time i heerd the owd man hoast i thought he were boun' to dee. but he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he kept mending all the time. i couldn't forget, howiver, what i'd done, and the thought of how i'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more patient and gentle wi' jerry nor iver i'd been afore. "spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, swallows and yallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and the childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods for whissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. we had a good lambing time, and a good hay harvest at efter. i kept jerry under my eye all the while, and nowt went wrang wi' him. he'd get about the farm wi' the dogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and he'd ommost lossen his hoast. he fratched and threaped same as usual if owt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket i' the house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he could get about and go down to 'the craven heifer' for his forenoon drinkings, same as he'd allus done sin first i came into wharfedale as mike's bride. and when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter and tar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still owd jerry kept wick and cobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when i forgot what i'd done on ash-riddling day. and when i thought about it, it didn't flay me like it used to do; for i said to misen, 'i'll keep owd jerry alive ovver next st mark's day, choose how.' so i knitted him a muffler for his throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; i brewed him hot drinks made out o' herbs i'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and rubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey frae the bee-skeps. eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to sup the herb tea and to let me rub him. he reckoned i wanted to puzzum him same as if he were a ratton, and when i'd putten the saim and honey on his chest he said i'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. but i set no count on his nattering so long as i could keep him alive. "chrissamas came at last, and new year set in wi' frost and snow. the grouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played hamlet about the farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark off the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. i did all i could to keep owd jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would toddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got his hoast back agean i' his thropple. all the same, i wouldn't give in. i counted the days while st mark's day, and tewed and rived and better rived to keep him out o' his coffin. but it was weary wark, and i got no thanks frae jerry for all i was doing for him. "at lang length st mark's eve came round, and a wild day it was, and no mistake. there had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and after the snow had come rain. it was a bad lambing time, and mike and amos were about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the lambs that had lossen their yowes. owd jerry had threaped shameful the day afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down to 'the craven heifer.' "when i'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it were still lashing wi' rain, and i said to misen, i'll keep jerry i' bed to-day. if i can keep him alive to-day i sal have won, and jerry can do what he likes wi' hissen to-morrow. so i hugged up his breakfast to his chamer and told him i'd leet a fire for him there, and i'd get harry spink to come and sit wi' him and keep him company. but jerry wouldn't bide i' bed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and a wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. so off he set, wi' the rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and higher wi' the spate. "eh, deary me! what i had to thole that day! i was flaid that if he had a drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the town-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. i offered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he wanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do wi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. well, twelve o'clock came, and when i saw owd jerry coming back to his dinner i were that fain i could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on his face. "when dinner were ower mike told our amos that he mun fetch in the stirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' wharfe. the weather were that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all neet. so amos set off about half-past two, and, efter i'd weshed up and sided away i sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings. and there was owd jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. there was no sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind grew heavier. eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me that day, a queer, mocking game that i'll niver forget so lang as there's breath left i' my body. leastways that's what i thought at the time, but i've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the tree o' knowledge. "fower o'clock came, and i got tea ready. the childer came back frae school, and then mike came, and the first thing he axed was if amos had gotten back wi' the stirks. so i said: 'no, he's noan gotten back yet awhile.' my mind were so taen up wi' owd jerry and the ash-riddling that i'd forgotten that amos was away on the other side o' wharfe. so mike for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for amos. i gave owd jerry and the childer their tea, but i wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen, but kept going to the windey to see if mike and amos were coming wi' the stirks. i looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on the road; but at last i set een on mike and other lads frae the farms round about. they were carrying somebody on a hurdle." for a moment grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that were now rolling down her cheeks. in a flash i realised what was to be the tragic close of her tale, and i tried to spare her the details. but she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the bitter end. "aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. it was amos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across wharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. it wasn't jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was amos's; and the lord had taen away my eldest barn frae me because i'd etten o' the tree o' knowledge." ii. janet's cove grannie's reputation as a story-teller was readily acknowledged by the children of our village. when they had trudged back from school which was held in a village two miles away, tea was always ready for them. but tea in their own kitchens was accounted a dull repast. if the weather was fine they carried their "shives" of bread and dripping, or bread and treacle, into the road in front of their houses and ate them in the intervals between "here come three dukes a-riding," "wallflowers, wallflowers, growing up so high," and "poor roger is dead and laid in his grave." but in winter, or when the weather was bad, they made it their custom to take their teas to grannie's fireside and demand a story as accompaniment to their frugal meal. the young voices of the children brightened grannie's life, and the hour of story-telling round the fire was for her like a golden sunset following upon a day of gloom. the stories which she told to the children were usually concerned with her own childhood. she had always been of an imaginative turn of mind and the doings of her early life, seen through the long-drawn vistas of the years, had become suffused with iridescent colours. they had gathered to themselves romance as a wall overhung by trees gathers to itself moss and fern and lichen. "tell you a tale," she would say. "ay, but, honey-barns, i reckon you'll have heerd all my tales lang sin. no? well then, did i iver tell you t' tale o' janet's cove?" "ay, thou's telled us yon last week," kester laycock, the spokesman of the party of listeners, would reply; "but thou mun tell it agean." there was diplomacy as well as truth in kester's words when he said that grannie had told them the story of janet's cove the preceding week. the truth was that she had told them that tale every week since winter set in, but nothing could stale its freshness for them. besides, did not grannie introduce surprising variations of narrative every time she told it, so that it never seemed quite the same story? "janet's cove" was a story of the birds, and grannie's knowledge of the life and habits of birds seemed wonderful to them. crippled with rheumatism as she was, and unable to move from her bed, she nevertheless watched for the return of the spring and autumn migrants with all the eagerness of the born naturalist. she offered the children money if they would bring her the first tidings of the arrival of birds in the dale. there was always a halfpenny underneath the geranium pot in the window-sill for the child whose eye caught sight of the first swallow, redstart or sandpiper; or whose ear first recognised the clarion call of the cuckoo, or the evening "bleat" of the nightjar on the bracken-mantled fells at the end of may. or, if the season were autumn, the children were told to watch for the arrival of the woodcock and the earliest flock of norwegian fieldfares. under grannie's tuition more than one generation in the village had learnt to take an interest in the movements of migrants in the dale, and that was why the story of janet and the birds never failed to charm the ears of the children gathered round the kitchen hearth. "now then," grannie would begin, "if i'm boun' to tell you t' tale o' janet's cove, you mun set yoursels down an' be whisht. tak a seat at t' top o' bag o' provand, kester; betty and will can hug chairs to t' fire, and lile joe moon mun sit on t' end o' t' bed." such was grannie's arrangement of the seats, while to me, the visitor, was assigned the "lang-settle" on the other side of the fireplace. it was a coign of vantage which i shared with the ancestral copper warming-pan, and from it i could see the whole group. grannie, bent half-double with rheumatism, was propped up in her bed, with the children grouped around her. she wore, as usual, her white mutch cap and grey shawl. mittens covered her wrists, and her fingers, painfully swollen with chalk-stones, plied her knitting-needles. her face was sunken in the cheeks and round her mouth, but her large brown eyes, still full of animation, broad forehead, and high-arched brows gave dignity and even beauty to her pale countenance. on the fire the porridge was warming for the calves' supper, while suspended from the wooden ceiling was the "bread-flake," a hurdle-shaped structure across the bars of which hung the pieces of oatcake which were eaten with buttermilk at supper. "well, i've happen telled you afore," grannie began, "that when i were a lile lass i lived up malham way. my father had a farm close agen gordale scar. eh! but it's a fearful queer country is yon! gert nabs o' rock on all sides wheer nobbut goats can clim, an' becks flowin' undergrund an' then bubblin' up i' t' crofts an' meadows. on t' other side frae our steading were a cove that fowks called janet's cove. they telled all maks an' manders o' tales about t' cove an' reckoned it were plagued wi' boggards. but they couldn't keep me out o' t' cove for all that; 'twere t' bonniest spot i' t' dale, an' i nivver gat stalled o' ramlin' about by t' watter-side an' amang t' rowans. there were a watterfall i' t' cove, wi' a dark cave behind it, an' 'twere all owerhung wi' eshes an' hazels. "one neet i were sittin' up for my father while fower o'clock i' t' morn. 'twere t' day afore easter sunday an' my father were despert thrang wi' t' lambin' ewes. he hadn't taen off his shoes an' stockins for more nor a week. he'd doze a bit i' his chair by t' fire, an' then he'd wakken up an' leet t' lantern' an' gan out to see if aught ailed t' sheep. he let me bide up for company, an' so as i could warm him a sup o' tea ower t' fire. but when t' gran'father's clock strake fower he said i mun away to my bed. he'd tak a turn round t' croft, an' then he'd set off wi' his budget to t' mistal to milk t' cows. but i didn't want to gan to bed. i'd bin sleepin' off an' on all t' neet, an' i weren't feelin' a lile bit tired. so when my father had set off i went to t' door an' looked out. my song! but 'twere a grand neet. t' mooin were just turned full, an' were leetin' up all t' scars an' plats o' meadow; t' becks were just like silver an' t' owd yew-trees that grow on t' face o' t' scar had lang shadows as black as pick. i stood theer on t' door-sill for mebbe five minutes an' then i said to misel, i'll just run down as far as janet's cove afore i gan to bed.' it were a bit cowd, so i lapped my shawl around my head an' set off. "'twere nobbut a two-three minutes' walk, an' afore vara lang i were sittin' anent t' rocks, an' t' mooin were glisterin' through t' esh-trees on to t' watter. efter a while i felt a bit sleepy; 'twere t' nippy air, an' mebbe t' seet o' t' fallin' watter dazed my een. onygates, i fell asleep an' slept for better pairt of an hour. when i wakkened t' mooin were well-nigh settin', an' i could see that t' cockleet were coomin' away i' t' east. so i reckoned i'd get back to my bed. but just then i saw summat movin' about on t' other side o' t' beck. at first i thowt it were nobbut a sheep, but when i'd keeked at it a bit langer i knew it weren't a sheep at all; 'twere a lass o' about t' same size as misel." at this point in the story alertness of mind was depicted on the face of every listener. joe moon's tongue, as agile as a lizard's, had up to now been revolving like a windmill round the lower half of his face, questing after treacly crumbs which had adhered to his cheeks; but at the mention of the girl by the waterfall it ceased from its labours, and the tightly closed mouth and straining eyes showed that he was not losing a word. "queerest thing about t' lass were this," grannie continued, "shoo were nakt, as nakt as ony hen-egg, an' that at five o'clock on a frosty april morn. eh! but it made me dither to see her stannin' theer wi' niver a shift to her back. well, i crept close to t' gert stone an' kept my een on her. first of all shoo crept down to t' watter an' put her feet intul it, an' gat agate o' splashin' t' watter all ower her, just like a bird weshin' itsel i' t' beck. then shoo climmed up to t' top o' t' nab that were hingin' ower t' fall an' let t' watter flow all ower her face an' showders. i could see her lish body shinin' through t' watter an' her yallow hair streamin' out on both sides of her head. efter a while shoo climmed on to a rock i' t' beck below t' fall an' gat howd o' t' bough of an esh. shoo brak off t' bough an' shaped it into a sort o' a wand an' started wavin' it i' t' air. "now i ought to have telled you that up to now iverything i' t' cove were as whisht as t' grave. i could hear t' cocks crowin' up at our house, but all t' wild birds were roostin' i' t' boughs or on t' grund. but no sooiner did t' lass wave her wand ower her head than t' larks started singin'. t' meadows an' cow-pasturs were full o' sleepin' larks, an' then, all on a sudden, t' sky were fair wick wi' em. i harkened tul 'em, ay, an t' lass harkened an' all, an' kept wavin' t' wand aboon her head. i doubted 'twere t' lass that had wakkened t' larks an' gotten 'em to sing so canty. efter a while shoo lowered t' wand a bit an' pointed to t' moors, an' then, by t' mess! curlews gat agate o' singin.' soom fowks reckons that t' song o' t' curlew is dreesom an' yonderly, but i love to harken to it i' t' springtime when t' birds cooms back to t' moors frae t' sea. an' so did t' lass. when shoo heerd t' curlews shoo started laughin' an' dashed t' watter about wi' her foot. "an' all t' while shoo kept beatin' t' time to t' song o' t' birds wi' her wand. soomtimes shoo pointed to t' curlews aboon t' moor; then, sudden-like, shoo lowered t' wand, while it were pointin' into t' hazel shaws an' rowan bushes by t' beck-side; and afore i knew what were happening t' blackbirds wakkened up an' started whistlin' like mad. i niver heerd sich a shoutin' afore. it were fair deafenin', just as if there were a blackbird in ivery bush alang t' beck. they kept at it for happen fower or five minutes, an' then t' lass made a fresh motion wi' t' wand. what's coomin' next, i wondered, an' afore i'd done wonderin', sure enough, t' robins gat agate an' tried to shout down t' blackbirds an' all. you see i'd niver noticed afore that when t' birds start singin' i' t' morn they keep to a reg'lar order. it's just like a procession i' t' church. first cooms t' choir lads i' their supplices, an' happen a peppermint ball i' their mouths; then t' choir men, tenors and basses; then t' curate, keekin' alang t' pews to see if squire's lasses are lookin' at him, an' at lang length cooms t' vicar hissen. well, it's just t' same wi' t' birds. skylarks wakkens up first, then curlews, then blackbirds, robins, throstles. you'll niver hear a throstle i' front o' a robin, nor a robin i' front o' a blackbird. they mind what's menseful same as fowks do. at efter, mebbe cuckoo will begin to shout, an' close behind him will coom t' spinks an' pipits an' lile tits. eh, deary me! but i've clean forgotten most pairt o' what i've larnt misel about t' birds. they do iverything as reg'lar as if 'twere clockwork. "i wonder if you childer can tell me what is t' bird that ligs abed langest?" there was silence for a moment or two, and then kester laycock suggested rooks. "nay," answered grannie, "rooks are not what i sud call early risers, but they're not t' last birds up, not by a lang way. t' last bird to wakken up an' t' first bird to gan to bed is t' house-sparrow. an idle taistrill is t' sparrow, wi' nowther sense nor mense in his head. but theer, barns, i'm gettin' off t' track o' my story o' janet an' t' way shoo wakkened up t' birds wi' her wand. "you see shoo allus knew whose turn sud coom next, an' wheer ivery sort o' bird was roostin'. one minute shoo pointed t' stick to t' top o' t' trees, an' then i heerd 'caw! caw!' then shoo'd bring t' jackdaws out o' their holes i' t' rocks, an' next minute shoo were pointin' to t' mossy roots o' t' trees hingin' ower t' beck, while a jenny wren would hop out an' sing as though he were fit to brust hissen. an' all t' time it were gettin' leeter an' leeter, an' i could see that t' sun were shinin' on' t' cliffs aboon malham, though janet's cove were still i' t' shade. i knew my mother would sooin be seekin' me i' my cham'er, an' i started wonderin' what shoo'd say when shoo fan' t' bed empty. i gat a bit flaid when i thowt o' that, but i couldn't tak my een off t' lass wi' t' wand. i were fair bewitched wi' her, an' i doubt that if shoo'd pointed at me i sud hae started singin' 'here coom three dukes a-rid in'.' "howiver, shoo niver clapped een on me wheer i was sittin' behind t' stone. shoo were thrang wi' t' birds were janet, an' gettin' more excited ivery minute. by now t' din were fair deafenin'; i'd niver heerd aught like it afore, nor yet sin: without it were when my man took me down to keighley, christmas afore we were wed, an' i heerd t' lads and t' lasses singin' t' hallelujah chorus i' t' methody chapil. when i saw t' conductor-lad wi' t' stick in his hand callin' up t' trebles an' basses an' tother sets o' singers, marry! i bethowt me o' janet an' t' birds i' t' cove, an' i brast out a-laughin' while fowks thowt i were daft. "but theer, barns, i mun get forrad wi' my tale, or your mothers will be coomin' seekin' you afore i'm through wi' it. by now ommost all t' birds i' t' cove were wakkened up an' were singin' their cantiest. i looked up, an' t' sun had gotten clean ower t' top o' t' fell, an' were shinin' straight down into t' cove. ay, an' janet saw t' sun too, an' when it were like a gert gowden ball at top o' t' hill, shoo pointed her wand at t' sun an' started dancin' aboon t' watterfall. i looked at her and then i looked at t' sun, an', honey-fathers! if t' owd sun weren't dancin' too. i rubbed my een to finnd out if i'd made ony mistak, but, sure enough, theer were t' lile nakt lass an' t' owd sun aboon t' breast o' t' fell dancin' togither like mad. then, all on a sudden, i bethowt me it were easter sunday, and how i'd heerd fowks say that t' sun allus dances on easter mornin'." at this point i could not forbear interrupting grannie to ask her whether she had ever heard of a poem called _a ballad upon a wedding_. she said she had not, so i quoted to her suckling's well-known lines: her feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice, stole in and out, as if they feared the light. but o! she dances such a way, no sun upon an easter day is half so fine a sight. grannie listened attentively and seemed to think that the heroine of the poem was the fairy that wakened the birds in janet's cove. "t' lad that wrote yon verses has gotten it wrang," she said. "shoo hadn't no petticoat on her. t' lass were nakt frae top to toe. well, when shoo'd bin dancin' a while shoo seemed to forget all about t' birds. shoo let her wand drop and climmed down t' fall. then shoo set hersel on a rock behind t' fall an' clapped her hands an' laughed. i looked at her an' i saw t' bonniest seet i've iver set een on. "you see by now t' sun had getten high up i' t' sky, an' were shinin' straight up t' beck on to t' fall. there had bin a bit o' flood t' day afore, an' t' watter were throwin' up spray wheer it fell on to t' rocks below t' fall. an' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched across t' fall, an' janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi' all t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue--shinin' on her hair. "efter that i fair lost count o' t' time. i sat theer, lapped i' my shawl, an' glowered at janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at lang length i heerd soombody callin' me. 'twere my father, an' then i knew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang t' crofts. wi' that i gat up an' ran same as if i'd bin a rabbit; an' theer were my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, shoutin' 'martha!' as loud as iver he could." "did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?" asked kester, with a wealth of personal experience to draw upon. grannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, but she was too clever to give herself away. "what's that thou says about a hazelin', kester? look at t' clock. it's time thou was gettin' alang home, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee." the potato and the pig a fable for allotment-holders abe ingham was a horsforth allotment-holder. he talked allotments all day and dreamed of them all night. before the war cricket had been his hobby, and he was a familiar figure at county and council matches for twelve miles round. now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged old gods for new, and his homage was no longer paid to george hirst or wilfred rhodes, but to arran chief, yorkshire hero, and ailsa craig. he took his gardening very seriously, and called it "feightin' t' germans." if you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if you asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: "on t' tatie-patches at horsforth." he still nursed his grievances, for pet grievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were no longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, "mawks," and "mowdiewarps." in a word, ingham was one of the many englishmen whom four years of war conditions have re-created. he was slimmer and more agile than in 1914, and of the "owd abe" of pre-war times all that remained was his love of tall stories. i was privileged to listen to one of the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of inspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my lime-tree. "fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments," he began, "but i reckon they're nobbut blether anent t' tale that i could tell o' what happened me last yeer." "what was that, abe?" i asked. "did you find a magpie's nest in your jerusalem artichokes or half-crowns in the hearts of your pickling cabbages?" "none o' your fleerin'," he replied. "what i'm tellin' you is t' truth, or if it isn't' truth it's a parable, and i reckon a parable's bible truth. it were gettin' on towards back-end, and i'd bin diggin' potatoes while i were in a fair sweat wi' t' heat. so i reckoned i'd just sit down for a bit on t' bench i'd made an' rest misen. efter a while i gat agate once more, an' i'd ommost finished my row of potates when my fork gat howd o' summat big. at first i thowt it were happen a gert stone that i'd left i' t' grund, but it were nowt o' sort. 'twere a potate, sure enough, but i'd niver set eyes on owt like it afore, nor thee either. 'twere bigger nor my heead; nay, 'twere bigger nor a fooit-ball." "somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, abe," i interrupted, "and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch." "nay, it were a potate reight enough, an' i were fair capped when i'd getten howd on it wi' my two hands. 'i'll show this to sam holroyd,' i said to misen. he were chuff, were sam, 'cause he'd getten six pund o' potates off o' one root; i reckoned i'd getten six pund off o' one potate. well, i were glowerin' at t' potate when a lad com up that i'd niver seen afore. he were a young lad by his size, but he'd an owdish look i' his face, an' he says to me: 'what's yon?' "thou may well axe that,' i answered. 'it's a potate.' "'what arta boun to do wi' it?' he axed. "'nay,' i said, 'i reckon i'll take it to t' flower show an' get first prize.' "'thou mun do nowt o' t' sort,' said t' lad; 'thou mun bury it.' "'bury it! what for sud i bury it, i'd like to know?' "'thou mon bury it i' t' grund an' see what it grows intul.' "well, i reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad said, for if i could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon i'd sooin' mak my fortune. but then i bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and i said: "'but wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end?' "'thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't,' he replied, and then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer. "well, i reckoned it were a fooil's trick, but all t' same i put t' potate back into t' grund, an' went home. that neet it started rainin' an' it kept at it off an' on for well-nigh a week, an' i couldn't get down to my 'lotment nohow. but all t' time i couldn't tak my mind off o' t' lad that had made me bury my potate. he'd green eyes, an' i could niver get shut o' them eyes choose what i were doin'. well, after a while it faired up, and i set off for my garden. when i gat nigh i were fair capped. i'd set t' potate at t' top-side o' t' 'lotment, and theer, just wheer i'd set it, were a pig-sty, wi' a pig inside it fit to kill. i were that flustered you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. i looked at t' sty, and then at t' pig, an' then i felt t' pig, an' he were reight fat. an' when i'd felt t' pig i turned round to see if t' 'lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t' lad that had telled me to bury t' potate. "'well,' he says, 'is owt wrang wi' t' pig?' "'nay, there's nowt wrang wi' t' pig, but how did he get here?' "'he'll happen have coom out o' that potate thou set i' t' grund last week,' and he looked at me wi' them green eyes an' started girnin'. 'but thou mun bury t' pig same as thou buried t' potate.' "'bury t' pig!' i said. 'i'd sooiner bury t' missus ony day. we've bin short o' ham an' collops o' bacon all t' summer, an' if there's one thing i like better nor another it's a bit o' fried ham to my tea.' "'nay, thou mun bury t' pig, an' do without thy bit o' bacon,' he says, and there was summat i' t' way he gave his orders that fair bet me. i went all o' a dither, while i hardly knew if i were standin' on my heels or my heead. but t' lad were as cool as a cucumber all t' while; he folded his arms an' looked at me wi' his green eyes, an' just said nowt. eh! but 'twere gey hard to mak' up my mind what to do. i looked at t' pig, an' if iver i've seen a pig axin' to have his life spared it were yon; but then i looked at t' lad, an' his eyes were as hard as two grunstones; there was no gettin' round t' lad, i could see. so at lang length i gav' in. i killed t' pig and i buried him same as i'd buried t' potate. "when i gat home i said nowt to t' missus about t' pig, for i couldn't let on that i'd buried it; shoo'd have reckoned i were a bigger fooil nor shoo took me for. shoo gav me a sup o' poddish for my supper, an' all t' time i were eytin' it i kept thinkin' o' t' fried ham that i'd missed, an' i were fair mad wi' misen. i went to bed, but i couldn't get to sleep nohow. you see, i'd bin plagued wi' mowdiewarps up i' t' 'lotment; they'd scratted up my spring onions an' played hamlet wi' my curly greens. an' then all of a sudden i bethowt me that t' mowdiewarps would be sure to find t' pig an' mak quick-sticks o' him afore t' mornin'. eh! i gat that mad wi' thinkin' on it that i couldn't bide i' bed no longer. i gat up 'thout wakkin' t' missus, an' i crept downstairs i' my stockin' feet, an' went to t' coil-house wheer i kept my spade. i were boun to dig up t' pig an' bring him home afore t' mowdiewarps sud find him. but when i'd oppened coil-house door, what sud i see but a pair o' green eyes glowerin' at me out o' t' darkness. i were that flaid i didn't know what to do. i dursn't set hand to t' spade, an' efter a minute i crept back to bed wi' them green eyes followin' me, an' burnin' hoils i' my back same as if they'd bin two red-hot coils. sooin as cockleet com, i gat up, dressed misen an' set off for t' 'lotment, 'an by t' mess! what does ta reckon was t' first thing i saw?" "had the pig come to life again?" i asked in wonder. "nay, 'twere better nor that," replied abe. "i' t' spot wheer i'd buried t' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay, an' belt it all i' one neet. it had sprung up like a mushroom. so i went up to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by gow! but it were my house an' all." "how did you know that it was your house?" i asked. "well, you see," abe rejoined, "i could tell by t' furnitur that were in it. there was our kitchen-table that i'd bowt at t' sale when t' missus an' me were wed, an' t'owd rockin'-chair set agean t' fire; ay, an' t' pot-dogs on t' chimley-piece an' my father's an' muther's buryin'-cards framed on t' walls; 'twere all plain as life." "so the lad with the green eyes had carried away your house in the night and set it down on your allotment?" "nay, 'twere nowt o' t' sort. t' house wheer i'd bin livin' were a back-to-back house, facin' north, so as we niver gat no sun thro' yeer's end to yeer's end. but t' new house stood all by itsen, wi' windeys on all sides, an' a back door oppenin' into t' gardin. if there were one thing that t' missus an' me had set wer hearts on 'twere a back-door. we'd never lived i' a house wi' a back door, an' t' missus had to hing all her weshin' of a tuesday across t' street. well, i looked round to see if i could clap eyes on t' lad that had telled me to bury t' pig, but he were nowheer to be seen. but just then i heerd a buzzin' sound, an' i reckoned there mun be a waps somewheer about. an' a waps it were. he flew round an' round my heead, allus coomin' nearer an' nearer, an' at lang length he settled hissen reight on t' top o' my neb. an' wi' that i gav a jump, an' by gow! there was i sittin' on t' bench in my 'lotment. i'd fallen asleep, an all that i'd seen o' t' potate an' t' pig an' t' house, ay, an' t' lad wi' green eyes, were nobbut a dream. but t' waps weren't a dream, for i'd seen him flee away when i wakkened up." "what you've told me, abe, is like a bit of real life," i said, after a pause. "most of our dreams in this world turn into wasps, with stings in their tails." "nay," replied abe the optimist; "but 'twere not a proper sort of dream nawther. i've thowt a vast about it off an' on, an' i reckon 'twere a dream wi' a meanin' tul it. 'twere like pharaoh's dream o' t' fat an' lean beasts. happen one day i'll find a joseph that'll tell me what it all means!" coals of fire i a visitor to holmton, one of the smaller manufacturing towns of the west riding, on a certain october morning, about the middle of the nineteenth century, might have witnessed a strange sight. it was market-day, and a number of farm people were collected in the market-place, where a brisk trade in cattle, sheep, and dairy produce was being transacted. suddenly there appeared in their midst a farmer holding the end of a rope, the noose of which was attached, not to a bull, calf or horse, but to the neck of a girl of nineteen. at this strange sight loud shouts were raised on all sides, and a stampede was made to the spot where the man and the girl were standing. the town was originally merely a centre for the farmers in the neighbouring villages, but within the last fifty years it had seen the establishment of the cloth trade in its midst, and the population had considerably increased. round about the market-place stone-paved streets had branched off in all directions, and two-storied stone houses had been built, in which the rooms on the ground floor served for kitchen and bedroom, while in the long, low room above hand-looms had been erected, and wool was spun and woven into cloth. the shouts of the farm people in the market-place at once brought the weavers to their windows and doors. ever eager for any excitement which should relieve the drab monotony of their lives, they rushed into the streets and elbowed their way to the market-place. "what's up?" asked one of them of a farmer's man, as he followed the sound of the hubbub. "it's sam learoyd," the man replied, "and he wants to know if onybody's wantin' to buy his dowter." "black sam o' fieldhead farm! by gow! i reckon he's bin crazed sin his missus left him for t' barman. but he hasn't gotten no dowters, nor sons nowther. it'll be his stepdowter, mary whittaker, that he's browt to market." the speakers were now approaching the spot where the father and the haltered stepdaughter were standing. the former, a hard-featured, sullen man of about forty-five, was addressing the crowd. the latter, hiding as much of her face as she could beneath her grey shawl, stood with her hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on the ground. mute resignation was written on every line of her face. whatever indignation or shame she might feel at the degrading situation in which she was placed seemed repressed, either by the humility that comes from long suffering or by a supreme effort of the will, of which the tightly closed lips gave some indication. the spot chosen by sam learoyd for his traffic in human flesh was not without significance. behind him, and approached by steps, on which the farmers' wives exposed for sale their baskets of poultry and eggs, stood what was left of the market cross. it was one of those old saxon crosses of irish design which may still be seen in some of the towns and villages of england, and are said to mark the spot where the early christian missionaries, long before the churches were built, preached their gospel of peace and good will to a pagan audience. close at hand were the stocks, where, until quite recently, the bullies and scolds of the town had been set by their fellow-citizens and suhjected to the missiles and taunts of every passer-by. here, then, between these two symbols--the one of divine mercy and the other of the vindication of popular justice--mary whittaker was exposed for sale. it took some time for the crowd to realise that learoyd was in earnest. this sale by public auction of a young woman whom many of the bystanders had known for years seemed little better than a grim jest. yet most were aware that sales like this had taken place in the town before, and deep down in their minds there survived the old primitive idea that the head of a family had a right to do what he liked with the members of his household. there were muttered protests from the few women and some of the older men who were present, but most of the young men, in whom a sense of chivalry had been blunted by hard lahour and penury, found a pleasure in goading the farmer on. no magistrate was at hand to put a stop to the traffic in human life, and the single policeman, realising that he had no written instructions to deal with such a case as this, had discreetly withdrawn himself to the remotest quarter of the town. so learoyd was left free to conduct his infamous auction. "shoo's for sale," he cried, "same as if shoo were a cauf; and shoo goes to t' highest bidder." a roar of laughter greeted these words, but nobody had the courage to make a bid. seeing that purchasers held back, learoyd after the manner of an auctioneer, proceeded to announce his stepdaughter's "points." "shoo's a gradely lass, i tell you, for all shoo looks sae dowly. shoo can bak an' shoo can brew, and i've taen care that shoo'll noan speyk while shoo's spoken to." "if shoo can do all that," asked a bystander, "why doesta want to sell her?" the farmer eyed the questioner narrowly, and then, in a sullen voice, answered: "i'm sellin' her because i want to get shut on her. happen that'll be reason enough for the likes o' thee, timothy." after more of this altercation one of the younger men, urged on by his comrades, summoned up courage to make a bid. "sithee, i'll gie thee threepence for her, farmer." the girl, hearing the insulting offer that was made, raised her eyes for a moment to glance at the speaker, then shuddered, and, after a pleading look at her stepfather, lowered them again. learoyd, taking no notice of the girl, looked the bidder steadily in the face for a moment, in order to discover whether the offer was seriously made, and, apparently satisfied that such was not the case, replied: "i'll noan sell her for threepence. shoo's worth more nor that, let alone the clothes shoo stands in." but when no further offer was forthcoming he turned again to the speaker and said: "well, threepence is t' price o' a pint o' beer; mak it a quart an' t' lass is thine." but the bargainer, seeing that the offer which he made in jest was taken in earnest, slunk away to the rear of the crowd, and it seemed as though the girl would remain unsold. then it was that a ragged, out-at-heel weaver of diminutive size slowly elbowed his way to the front, and, holding up six pennies, said, with a shamefaced look on his face: "there's thy brass. i'll tak t' lass." the farmer eyed him curiously, while the crowd, realising that a serious offer had at last been made, held their breath to see what would follow. "sixpence is it," said learoyd, "an' what mak o' man art thou that want to buy her?" the weaver made no reply, but the bystanders, to whom the bidder was well known, gave the necessary information. "it's tom parfitt o' mill lane; he's lossen his wife a while sin and he'll happen be wantin' a lass to look after t' barns." there was something in the shabby dress and down-cast mien of the little weaver that appealed to the farmer's saturnine humour. he measured with his eye first of all the man, and next the girl; then, slapping his knee with his right hand, exclaimed: "well, tom, t' lass is thine; an' thou's gotten her muck-cheap." without more ado he unloosed the halter from the girl's neck, led her roughly by the arm to where the weaver was standing, pocketed the six pennies, and, followed by a crowd of rowdies, made his way to the nearest inn. meanwhile the weaver and the girl he had bought were facing each other in silence, neither having the courage to utter a word. those of the crowd who had not followed learoyd began a fire of questions, to all of which parfitt made no reply. at last he turned to the girl, and in as kindly a voice as he could command, said: "coom thy ways home, lass," and leading the way, with the girl at his heels, strode through the crowd and out of the market-place. a number of people proceeded to follow him, but as they received no answer to all their questions they gradually fell off, and by the time that parfitt's cottage was reached purchaser and purchase were alone. closing the front door behind him the weaver led the girl through the kitchen, where his three young children were playing at cat's cradle, into the adjoining bedroom. here he left her to herself, and, re-entering the kitchen, got ready a meal of tea and buttered oat-cake, which he sent in to mary whittaker by the hands of his eldest child, a girl of seven. then, without further intrusion on the girl's privacy, he climbed the rickety staircase to the upper chamber and set to work at his loom. eager to make up for the time he had lost, he worked with energy, but every sound from the rooms below came up through the cracks in the raftered floor. he could hear the voices of the children and, when the loom was silent for a few moments, the half-suppressed sobs of the outraged girl were distinctly audible. these drew tears to his eyes, but he wisely refrained from descending the staircase and attempting to comfort her. after a time the sobbing ceased, and then one by one the children stole quietly into the bedroom, and a hum of conversation was heard, in which mary whittaker was taking her part. "arta baan to stop wi' us?" he heard his eldest girl, annie, ask. "i don't know," mary replied. "happen i'll be goin' back home to-morn." "i wish thou'd coom an' live wi' us an' mind jimmy, so as i can help father wi' t' loom," annie continued. "aye, an' thou can laik at cat's cradle wi' me," interposed the younger girl, ruth. jimmy, aged three, was silent, but he climbed into mary's lap, and, with a grimy finger, made watercourses down her cheeks for the tears that still filled her eyes. "give ower, jimmy, or i'll warm thy jacket," exclaimed annie, fearful lest the boy should hurt mary's feelings. "nay, let him be," replied mary, and wiping the tears from her face she drew jimmy closer to herself and mothered him. a hole in one of the rafters, caused by the dropping out of a knot in the wood, enabled parfitt to see something of what was going on below, and with a sigh of relief he realised that the worst was now over and that the children had effected what he himself could not have done. when six o'clock came he called to annie to bring him his tea and light his benzoline lamp. when she appeared he gave orders that the evening meal should be got ready in the kitchen, and that when it was over she should ask mary to wash jimmy and put him to bed. anxiously the weaver listened to the carrying out of his instructions, and when he descended the staircase at half-past seven he found the kitchen neatly tidied up and mary whittaker seated at the fireside with the two girls on stools at her feet. until all the children were in bed he made no attempt to get the girl to tell him her story, but sought by tactful means to win her confidence. at first she shrank from him and cast anxious eyes towards the inner room where the three children were asleep. but the weaver's gentle voice gradually stilled her fears. "thou'll be tired, lass," he said at length, "and wantin' to get to bed. thou can sleep wi' jimmy in yonder anent t' wall." a frightened look came into mary's eyes as she answered: "but that'll be thy bed." "nay," replied the weaver, "it'll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi' me. i'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle." a grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made no move in the direction of the inner room. silence prevailed for some time until the weaver asked: "is there owt i can do for thee, or owt that thou's gotten to tell me, lass? it's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an' mony a day afore to-day, i reckon." this reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the girl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to speak. "don't mind me," she said at last; "i'll be better to-morn. but he didn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. it wasn't my fault mother left him. i'd allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what fowks say." step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led up to the shameful transaction in the market-place. it was no mere curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace of mind for mary whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her tortured soul. the weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history was for her, parfitt knew that it would bring relief. it was a long story that mary had to tell. she had little art of narrative, and her endeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible from blame impeded the flow of her words. reduced to plain terms, her story ran as follows:-mary whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had married samuel learoyd. of her father she knew nothing. he had died when she was a baby. from the first the learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair. anne learoyd, her mother, had been brought up in leeds, and having been used to all the excitements of life in a big town, found the solitary farm lonesome. samuel learoyd, though genial enough at times in the society of his male friends, was capricious. his temper was often sullen, and when in one of his gloomy moods he would spend the whole evening in his farm kitchen in morose silence. this state of mind was in part due to physical infirmity. as a child he had been subject to epileptic fits, and though these grew less frequent as he advanced to manhood, he never entirely shook them off, and during his married life a long spell of gloomy misanthropy would sometimes end in the return of one of these attacks. he was, too, a proud man, and his pride bred in him a morbid sensibility towards any slight, real or fanciful, that was practised on him. he treated his stepdaughter not unkindly, but never accepted any parental responsibility towards her. meanwhile anne learoyd, finding no congenial society in her own home, spent much of her time in neighbours' houses. her chief friend was the landlady of the woolpack inn, a public-house situated midway between the farm-house and holmton. here whole afternoons and evenings were spent, and the work of the farm-house was left in the hands of mary whittaker, towards whom her mother had never shown any real affection. years passed away and the relations between husband and wife grew steadily worse, till at length the crisis came. a new barman was appointed at the woolpack, a man whom anne learoyd had known during her early life in leeds. rumour was soon busy with the relations which existed between the barman and the farmer's wife, and after a time suspicious stories reached the ears of samuel learoyd. a violent scene between husband and wife took place in the farm kitchen, but, in spite of this, anne's visits to the public-house continued as before. one afternoon, when her husband was attending a cattle-mart in a neighbouring town, anne learoyd, without saying a word to her daughter, left the house and was still absent when her husband returned for supper. mary whittaker was at once dispatched to the woolpack inn, and, after an hour, returned with the news that her mother was not there and that the barman was also missing. with an oath, learoyd saddled his mare and rode in all haste to holmton. finding no news of the missing couple in the town he made his way to the nearest station, where he found that a man and woman answering to his description had left by train for liverpool four hours before. learoyd, his heart raging with fury and wounded pride, followed in pursuit. he arrived at liverpool in the early hours of the next morning, and, making his way to the docks, discovered that the fugitives had sailed at midnight for america. further pursuit was impossible. he returned home, and late that same evening was found lying dead drunk on the road-side within a hundred yards of the local railway station. he was brought home and put to bed, and next day was seized with a severe fit of epilepsy. for weeks his life was in danger, and when at last he recovered strength of body, his mind remained in a state of moroseness that at times bordered on insanity. he became a fierce hater of women, and the chief victim of his frenzy was his stepdaughter, mary whittaker. she bore his harshness with a griselda patience, but this seemed only to add provocation to his anger. in her he saw the daughter of the woman who had trodden his pride in the dust, and he marked her out as the object of his vengeance. finding that bitter words and deeds of cruelty left her seemingly unmoved, his morose and wounded spirit devised other and darker plans of revenge. at first he conceived the idea of driving her penniless from his doors, but, realising that the girl would find no difficulty in obtaining a place as servant on one of the neighbouring farms, he abandoned it as furnishing insufficient satisfaction for his tortured heart. one day he heard how a farmer had some years before ignominiously sold by public auction the wife of whom he had grown tired, and learoyd gloated over the story with malicious glee. here was a means of satisfying his vengeance to the full. to his warped imagination it mattered little that mary whittaker was entirely innocent of her mother's desertion of him, or that anne learoyd, far away in america, would probably never hear of her daughter's shame. inasmuch as the guilty wife was out of his clutch, he was content with the vicarious sacrifice that he could demand from her daughter. for some days he brooded over his cruel purpose, and it found ever more favour in his eyes. market day came and the time was ripe for action. roughly informing his stepdaughter that she must go with him to market, he left the house with her on foot, carrying a halter in his hand. on the road he brutally informed her of his purpose. a chill of horror seized the girl when she heard the news, but her tears and entreaties, so far from melting his heart, filled him with an unholy joy. as they passed a farm-house on the road mary screamed out for help, but learoyd silenced her with a blow on the mouth, and then, leaving the high road, took the path through the fields in order to avoid company. arriving at the outskirts of the town, he slipped the halter over her head and dragged her through the by-streets to the market-place. such was mary's story as told to the weaver that evening in his cottage. tom parfitt was a man of few words, but the tears that rolled down his cheek showed his sympathy. "poor lass, poor lass" was his frequent comment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the agony of the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was broken with sobs. "thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as i can addle a bite an' a sup wi' my weyvin'." "happen learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten ower things a bit." "then he'll noan get thee," and the weaver struck his fist on the table with unusual vehemence. "a wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' i reckon sam learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if i know owt about justice." "but he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all," replied mary, "and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. if he wants me i mun go. there's nobody left on t' farm to fend for him." "if he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him," exclaimed parfitt, in his indignation. mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply. they sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the girl, with a timid "i thank thee for what thou's done for me," withdrew to the inner room and cried herself to sleep. the weaver lit his clay pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from his reverie. he slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and without undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep. days and weeks passed and mary whittaker still remained in the weaver's cottage. the cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it would come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that learoyd was at hand to demand her return to the farm. but he never came, and mary grew more and more at ease in her new surroundings. the change from the roomy farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. she missed, too, the farm work: the churning of the butter and the feeding of the calves and poultry. but youth was on her side and she soon learnt to adapt herself to her new life. soon after six in the morning she would mount with parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he would then weave into cloth. the work was hard, and some of the processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first, but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. it was easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games. six months tom parfitt waited to see whether learoyd would make any attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as the farmer made no move, he quietly married mary whittaker at the primitive methodist chapel. ii years passed away and a gradual change came over the character of the social and economic life of holmton. the town became linked up by rail with leeds and bradford, and in this way it lost its isolation and caught an echo of the ideas and views of life of the people in the big towns. elementary education was introduced, and the printed book slowly found its way into the weavers' cottages. most important change of all, the hand-loom gave place to the power-loom. factories were built by the side of the beck, and while a certain amount of weaving continued to be done by the old people in their cottages, the younger generation sought employment in the mills, and payment for piecework gave way to time-wages. most of the younger weavers welcomed this change when it was fully understood. they found that the hours of work, though still terribly long, were shorter than those spent by their parents over their hand-looms, and the social intercourse of the mill, where the youths and girls met their equals in age, was deemed preferable to the family labours in the upper story of the cottages. moreover, if the overseers and foremen in the mills were often brutal, the workers could, at any rate, get away from the atmosphere of the weaving-shed when the hooters sounded at six o'clock in the evening. when this revolution in industrial life took place tom parfitt found himself too old to adapt himself to the change. "t' hand-loom's gooid enough for me," were his words. "if i went to work i' t' mill i'd feel like givin' up an owd friend, just because he'd grown owd-feshioned. i'll stick to cottage wark, choose-what other fowks may do." hearing this decision, his wife at once decided to remain with him; but the three children of parfitt's former marriage, the youngest of whom was now seventeen, determined to seek work in the factories. the family was thus split up, and the younger generation brought back into the house at night new ideas gained amid the social intercourse of the mill. mary whittaker's position in the town after her marriage to parfitt was quietly accepted by the community of weavers. they still called her by her maiden name, but there was nothing unusual in that. often, too, she was referred to as "mary that was selled for sixpence," but here again, at least as far as the older generation was concerned, no stigma was implied. it was simply a frank statement of fact. with the younger generation, however, who were quicker than their elders in absorbing new ideas and new codes of social convention, "mary that was selled for sixpence" was a name that aroused curiosity, and sometimes derision. occasionally mary's stepdaughters would be twitted about the name at the mill, and their faces would burn as they realised that a dark shadow hung over the woman whom they had been taught to call mother, and who had won their hearts from the day on which she first set foot in their father's house. once they spoke of the matter to their father, anxious to learn the exact truth from his lips. "aye, i bowt her for sixpence afore i wed her," he said, looking them steadily in the face, "an' t' man that selled her to me said i'd gotten her muck-cheap. them was t' truest words he iver spak, an' shoo would hae been muck-cheap if i'd gien a million pund for her." during all the years that mary whittaker had spent at holmton she had not once caught sight of samuel learoyd. fieldhead farm was only four miles away, but she had never had the courage to go near it. the farmer visited holmton only on market days, and notlung could ever induce his stepdaughter to go near the scene of her deep humiliation. but though she did not see learoyd he was never long out of her mind, and through her husband and children she kept herself informed of what was going on at the farm. after his shameless traffic in the holmton market-place learoyd had for some months lived alone. never a sociable man, he shunned the society of the neighbouring farmers, and they, on their side, resenting his outrageous conduct to his stepdaughter, studiously kept out of his way. doggedly he set himself to do both the labours of the house and farm, and sought to stifle in hard work the memory of his wife's desertion of him, together with whatever twinges of remorse may have come to him when he thought of the revenge which he had taken upon her daughter. but as time went on he found it impossible to attend to all his duties. nothing could induce him to enlist the services of a housekeeper, but he engaged a man, who occupied a two-roomed cottage a hundred yards away from the farm, and helped him in stable and field. but the sullen humour of learoyd was hard to put up with, and the men who came to him soon sought employment elsewhere. he would engage a servant for the year at the martinmas hiring, but as soon as the year was up the man would leave, and it became increasingly difficult for the farmer to find a substitute. "what mak o' a gaffer is learoyd?" one labourer would ask of another as they stood together in the holmton market-place waiting to be hired. "a dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', accordin' to what all t' day-tale men is sayin'," replied the other. "he looks it," answered the first. "he's gotten a face that's like beer when t' thunder has turned it to allicker. if i was to live wi' him i'd want a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my vittles sour i' my belly." "he twilted his wife, did learoyd, while she ran away wi' sam woodhead at t' woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. he can't bide women-fowks i' t' house." "then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. i've swallowed t' church i' my last place, but i'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at efter." such were the opinions passed on learoyd by the farm labourers round about holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the condition of his farm grew steadily worse. when the parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange rumour reached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in the soul of samuel learoyd. it was reported that the farmer had been attending the revival services held in the little primitive methodist chapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been melted, and that he had "found the lord." the weaver's family was slow to credit this change, though mary prayed fervently night and morning that it might be true. their doubts, however, were set at rest by the circuit steward of the holmton chapel where they attended service. he had taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen. "aye, it's true, sure enough," he said. "sam learoyd's a changed man. it were t' local preacher that done it. he gat him on to his knees anent t' penitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more wi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls. i've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin i becom a methody. 'twere a hot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t' penitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. we went thro' one to t' other and kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we; 'think on t' blooid o' t' lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' an' t' penitents would holla out: 'i can't, i can't: he's ower strang for me; i'm baan to smoor i' hell fires.' but t' local were stranger nor t' devil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout out: 'i'm saved; i've fun' him, i've fun' the lord!' then they'd git up an' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a feather. "at lang length there was nobbut sam learoyd left. he was quieter nor t' others, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as whangby cheese. so me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed an' better prayed, but all for nowt. so at last sam got up off his knees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'let me be. if i'm baan to find salvation i'll find it misen.' "at that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side an' waited for the lord to sattle t' job. an' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if it would blow down t' walls and chimleys. but warr nor t' yowlin' o' t' wind were t' groans o' sam learoyd. "after a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started singin' in a low voice, 'rock of ages.' but sam would have noan o' his singin'. so we just waited to see what would happen. well, after a while t' groans stopped, an' sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'arta saved?' asked t' local, and sam answered: 'i'm convicted o' sin.' 'praise be to god,' sang out t' local, and we gat sam off his knees and out o' t' chapil an' away home. an' ivver sin that time sam's coom reg'lar to chapil twice on sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too." "but will it last?" asked tom parfitt, whose long experience as a chapel member had taught him the snares of backsliding. "aye, 'twill last," replied the circuit steward. "sam's a changed man: he has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home o' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' book." the account which the circuit steward gave of the farmer's conversion was substantially correct, but it did not furnish the whole truth. the character of his life had changed, but his conversion was only half accomplished. in the process known as religious conversion there are usually three well-marked stages: first of all comes conviction of sin, then repentance, and finally a sense of forgiveness and peace. learoyd attained the first stage in the process that stormy night in the little methodist chapel. in a dull, blurred way he arrived too at a state of repentance for the evil he had done. but the final stage of pardon and peace remained strange to him, and the chief spiritual effect of his conversion upon him was the attainment of an exquisite agony of soul. his conscience, long dormant, was roused to feverish activity. his sins, which were many, haunted him like demons, and chief among these he accounted, not without reason, the wrong he had done to mary whittaker. she came to him in his dreams, and always under the same form. what he saw was a girl, with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing at the foot of the holmton market-cross, with a halter round her neck. nor was it only in his dreams that he saw her. sometimes as he led home his horses at nightfall after a day's ploughmg, the same form, patient and unreproachful, would be seen standing at the open door of the farm waiting to receive him. with a cowed look on his face he would turn away from the house and pass the night in the hayloft. the effect of all this upon his constitution was what might have been expected. one evening, after a night and day of acutest torment, he fell in an epileptic fit upon the kitchen floor, and was found there next morning by a child from the village who had come to the farm for milk. a doctor was summoned, who brought with him a nurse, and for some days learoyd's life hung in the balance. recovery came at last but the doctor insisted that he must no longer live alone, but must secure the services of an experienced house-keeper. in vain did learoyd protest against this plan. the medical man remained firm. the nurse would have to leave in a few days and someone else must take her place. the farmer would not stir a finger to find such a person, so that the responsibility rested with the doctor. but all his inquiries availed little. there was no lack of women suitable for the post, but not one of them would undertake it. the memory of the scene in the market-place held them back. then it was that the call came to mary whittaker. she must go back to the man that had wronged her. at first the thought struck terror to her heart; all the horror of her ignominy in the market-place came back to her mind and filled her with a loathing sickness. for two days she fought against the promptings of her better nature, but it was a losing battle. at last she broached the subject to her husband. "i mun go back to learoyd," she said, speaking in those quiet, measured tones which tom parfitt had learnt to associate with an inflexible will. her husband gave her a look in which admiration for her courage was at odds with bitter opposition to the proposal. "thou sal do nowt o' t' sort," he said, after a moment's pause. "there's no call for thee to go nigh him after all he's done to thee." "nay, but he wants me; t' doctor says he mun have somebody to live wi' him." "if he wanted thee he'd coom an' seek thee, stubbornly answered parfitt. "he'll noan do that. i know learoyd. he's ower proud to axe a favour thro' anybody, let alone thro' me." "then he can dee in his pride. he's gotten shut o' thee for good an' all, an' trodden thee i' t' muck, t' owd jezebel." "nay, don't call him, tom. didn't chapel steward say that he was a changed man sin' he took to goin' to t' chapil?" this was almost the only serious dispute that had disturbed the even tenor of their married life, and it ended in compromise. mary was to go to the farm, and if learoyd needed her she was to stay for a month; at the end of that time she would return home. her husband's offer to accompany her was declined. instead, she asked him to pay a visit to the doctor and inform him of her plan. the doctor heartily approved of all that mary whittaker had taken upon herself to do; he said he would visit his patient in the morning, and if all were going on well would take away the nurse with him in his brougham. then, as soon as possible after their departure, mary was to come to the farm and see learoyd when he was alone. it was a bright april morning when mary whittaker set out on foot for fieldhead farm. there had been rain the night before and the whole sky was full of fleecy cumulus clouds, some of which enclosed large patches of blue sky that looked like tranquil polar seas surrounded by hummocks of frozen snow. now and again a small cloud, at a lower elevation than the rest, would sail gaily across these blue pools, and then be lost to view against the white clouds on the other side. larks and chaffinches were everywhere in full song, and the sunshine had brought the honey-bees to the palm-willows which, during the last ten days, had changed their flower-buds from silver to gold. as mary approached the farm she saw the first swallows of the season darting in tremulous flight across the meadows, and their presence cheered her. they had come back to the farm, like herself, after a period of absence, and a feeling of comradeship with them penetrated to her heart. she needed all the cheering that the sights and sounds of nature could give her. as she climbed the hill-side and saw the seventeenth-century farm-house, with its mullioned windows and hood-mouldings, her heart sank within her. the cruel memory of the morning when she had last left it came back to her mind, and the hard look of learoyd, as he disclosed his purpose to her, made her flinch. she closed her eyes for a moment, as though to shut out the past, and then braced herself for the coming interview. arrived at the front door, which opened directly into the kitchen, she paused for a moment to summon up her courage, then knocked, and, without waiting, lifted the latch. learoyd, still too weak to attend to farm duties, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire; in his hands was the family bible, but he was not reading. mary was shocked at the change which fifteen years had wrought in him. he was not more than sixty, but he looked at least ten years older, and in his eyes there was the look of a hunted animal. the sullen pride, which was the habitual expression of his face in the old days, had given way to a look of morbid irritability. the farmer looked up from his book as she entered, but, failing to recognise her, asked who she was. "it's mary," she answered, and advanced towards him. "mary!" he exclaimed, and then, realising who mary was, he shrank from her as though she had been an avenging spirit. the mary of his dreams, the girl standing in the market-place with a halter round her neck, came back to his mind and deepened the look of terror in his eyes. "what doesta want wi' me?" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper. "i've coom to tak care o' thee," mary replied. "thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. i know thee. i've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's revenge thou wants, i tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an' interest, interest an' capital." mary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into learoyd's mind. she realised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she determined to remove them at all costs. "father," she said--and it was hard for her to utter the word which even when she was a child had seemed unnatural to her--"let us forget all that's gone afore. sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin warr for thee nor ever it was for me. let us start agean." as she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and gently stroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen over his eyes. at first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time it soothed his agitation. after all, this was not the mary whittaker that he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked steadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the figure of the haltered girl that haunted him. for some minutes mary and her stepfather remained in this position, and then the former, after imprinting a kiss on learoyd's forehead, rose softly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. they partook of their meal almost in silence, and then mary, fetching his hat and stick, led him out of doors into the spring sunshine, encouraged him to pay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the farm. his voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, and the frightened look disappeared from his eyes. that night, when she came into his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to bed, he held her hand for a moment and said: "thou's a gooid lass, mary; if i'd wed a lass like thee i'd hae been a different man." mary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when she wished him good-night. in the days which followed, mary whittaker made new advances in the task of winning learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that had gripped his heart. all her quiet patience was needed, for although her progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently without reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards her. the doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. he found the farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of mind. learoyd spent long hours over his bible, and it seemed at last as though his religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. conviction of sin had been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, mary hoped, he would attain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows that his sins have been forgiven him. but when mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change took place in his demeanour. it was early evening and learoyd was, as usual, reading his bible. the chapter before him was the twelfth of romans, and he read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but one: "therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." as he finished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was quietly sewing on the other side of the fire. "coals o' fire," he muttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into his eyes. mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the bible, which before had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his heart. she tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he had done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his bedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let her come near him. that night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing in the holmton market-place, came back to him with all its old haunting power. from the adjoining bedroom mary heard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself powerless to comfort him. pity for this tortured soul filled her breast, but it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and that her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering. next morning, with tears in her eyes, she told the doctor of the change that had come over his patient. the doctor tried his pulse and looked puzzled. he ordered learoyd a soothing draught, but it had no effect. all through the day his agony was frightful to witness. he sat with glowering eyes gazing at the verse which had destroyed his peace of mind. mary tried to take the bible from him but, with an oath, he refused to give it up. the day was a busy one for her. learoyd's man-servant had gone with a flock of sheep and lambs to a distant moor, and the duties of feeding the stock and milking the cows fell to her. the farmer preserved a sullen silence while she was in the house, but no sooner was she outside than his muttering began. "coals o' fire, aye, that's what shoo's heapin' on me, coals o' hell fire; they're burnin' my heart to a cinder. it's vengeance shoo's after; shoo favours her mother. all women are just t' same. she-devils, that's what they are. shoo sal have her vengeance, sure enough, an' then mebbe t' coals o' fire will burn her as they're burnin' me." a red-hot cinder fell into the grate as he spoke, and learoyd gazed at it with curious intentness until it had lost all its glow. "i'll fotch t' halter out o' t' kist, an' i'll do it," he began once more. "shoo san't torment me no longer: t' coals o' fire sal be upon her own heead." here he lapsed into morose silence, and mary, re-entering the farm kitchen shortly afterwards, found him, as she had left him, gazing intently into the fire with the bible open on his knees. she got tea ready, but learoyd stubbornly refused to eat or drink anything, and when at last ten o'clock came the farmer roused himself from his lethargy and stole off to bed, casting furtive glances at mary as he passed through the door. she wisely refrained from intruding herself upon him that night, but, climbing the stairs to her bedroom, listened for sounds in the adjoining chamber. she could hear learoyd muttering to himself, and she noticed that he was quicker in getting into bed than usual. a suspicion crossed her mind that he had not undressed, and this confirmed the idea which she had formed earlier in the evening that some secret purpose was maturing in his mind. sleep was not to be thought of, and so, without taking off her clothes, she got into bed and listened. two hours passed, and all the time she heard learoyd groaning in his bed. then he got up, struck a light, and remained still for a moment as though he were listening for any sound that might come from her room. then she heard him open the door of his bedroom and creep, candle in hand, along the passage. as he passed her door he stopped, and mary held her breath lest he should discover that she was awake and listening for every sound. apparently satisfied that she was asleep, the farmer descended the stairs to the kitchen. mary noiselessly crept out of bed and, lifting the latch of her bedroom door, stood in the shadow of the passage and watched every movement of her stepfather in the kitchen below. he had opened the old oak chest by the wall and was fumbling among its contents. at last he found what he was looking for and drew it forth. it was a long rope, and, with a shudder, mary recognised the halter which had once been round her neck. her head swam as the thought came to her that samuel learoyd was going to sell her again, and groping her way back to her room she locked the door and threw herself on her bed. anxiously she listened for the farmer's step on the staircase, but it did not come. instead, she heard him moving about in the kitchen, and then came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn from the front door. a moment later his footsteps were heard on the gravel path. rousing herself with an effort, she once more unlocked the door and crept to the head of the stairs. come what may, she resolved to follow her stepfather and discover what were his plans. she made her way down into the kitchen and, without striking a light, moved towards the front door. it was ajar, and, opening it, she stared out into the starry night. all was still, and no sound of learoyd's footsteps came to her from the farmyard. drawing her shawl tightly round her, she stepped out into the darkness. once she fancied that she heard the farmer muttering to himself in the croft below and the harrowing thought crossed her mind that this was all some cunning plan on his part to lure her out of the house and slip the halter round her neck under cover of night. her fears counselled her to return to the house and seek shelter from his mad frenzy behind lock and key, but the thought that learoyd, if seized with a fit while exposed to the chill night air, would certainly meet his death overcame her fears and urged her on. after more than two hours of fruitless search she returned to the farm, cherishing the hope that her stepfather might have returned too. but the house was empty and the door still stood ajar. realising that further search in the darkness was unavailing, she waited for the dawn and determined that, as soon as the clock struck four, she would wake up the farm labourer at his cottage and get him to search the moors while she made her way down to holmton to engage her husband and his son in the task of tracking the fugitive. the dreary night passed at last, the larks burst into song above her head, and the cry of the curlew was heard on the moors. she closed the farm door behind her, roused the hind, and then made her way as swiftly as possible to the town. here everybody was still asleep, and her footfalls waked echoes in the stone-paved streets. her nearest way to the weaver's cottage lay through the market-place, and for a moment she hesitated whether she should pass that way or take the more circuitous route by the beck-side. realising that there was no time to lose, she summoned up all her courage, and, making her way past the church, entered the market-place. her eyes were fixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her humiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was within a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her. do what she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more, and as she did so a cry of horror escaped her. in front of the cross hung the lifeless figure of a man. about his neck was a halter, the other end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the cross. it was learoyd. the wretched man, tortured by a sense of guilt, and obsessed with the idea that mary whittaker's act of sacrifice was a cold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged himself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen years before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale. in so doing, his warped imagination assured him that the coals of fire which seared his brain would henceforth be poured upon the head of mary whittaker. such was the end of samuel learoyd. if there was stern retribution in his death so was there also malign mockery. the chalice of pardon and peace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips a fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and substituted in its place a draught of venomous hemlock. proofreading team yorkshire coast and moorland scenes painted and described by gordon home _second edition_ 1907 _first edition published april 26, 1904 second edition published april, 1907_ preface it may seem almost superfluous to explain that this book does not deal with the whole of yorkshire, for it would obviously be impossible to get even a passing glimpse of such a great tract of country in a book of this nature. but i have endeavoured to give my own impressions of much of the beautiful coast-line, and also some idea of the character of the moors and dales of the north-east portion of the county. i have described the dale country in a companion volume to this, entitled 'yorkshire dales and fells.' gordon home. epsom, 1907. contents chapter i across the moors from pickering to whitby chapter ii along the esk valley chapter iii the coast from whitby to redcar chapter iv the coast from whitby to scarborough chapter v scarborough chapter vi whitby chapter vii the cleveland hills chapter viii guisborough and the skelton valley chapter ix from pickering to rievaulx abbey list of illustrations 1. on barnby moor 2. goathland moor 3. an autumn scene on the esk 4. sleights moor from swart houc cross 5. a stormy afternoon 6. east row, sandsend 7. in mulgrave woods 8. runswick bay 9. a sunny afternoon at runswick 10. sunrise from staithes beck 11. three generations at staithes 12. boulby cliffs from staithes scaur 13. the coast at saltburn 14. whitby abbey from the cliffs 15. robin hood's bay 16. a street in robin hood's bay 17. scarborough harbour and castle 18. sunlight and shadows in whitby harbour 19. the red roofs of whitby 20. evening at whitby 21. the cleveland hills from above kildale 22. hutton woods, near guisborough 23. a wide expanse of heather seen from great ayton moor 24. a golden afternoon, danby 25. a sunset from danby beacon 26. an autumn day at guisborough 27. a yorkshire postman 28. the skelton valley 29. in pickering church 30. the market-place, helmsley 31. rievaulx abbey from 'the terrace' _map at end of volume_ chapter i across the moors from pickering to whitby the ancient stone-built town of pickering is to a great extent the gateway to the moors of northeastern yorkshire, for it stands at the foot of that formerly inaccessible gorge known as newton dale, and is the meeting-place of the four great roads running north, south, east, and west, as well as of railways going in the same directions. and this view of the little town is by no means original, for the strategic importance of the position was recognised at least as long ago as the days of the early edwards, when the castle was built to command the approach to newton dale and to be a menace to the whole of the vale of pickering. the old-time traveller from york to whitby saw practically nothing of newton dale, for the great coach-road bore him towards the east, and then, on climbing the steep hill up to lockton low moor, he went almost due north as far as sleights. but to-day everyone passes right through the gloomy canyon, for the railway now follows the windings of pickering beck, and nursemaids and children on their way to the seaside may gaze at the frowning cliffs which seventy years ago were only known to travellers and a few shepherds. but although this great change has been brought about by railway enterprise, the gorge is still uninhabited, and has lost little of its grandeur; for when the puny train, with its accompanying white cloud, has disappeared round one of the great bluffs, there is nothing left but the two pairs of shining rails, laid for long distances almost on the floor of the ravine. but though there are steep gradients to be climbed, and the engine labours heavily, there is scarcely sufficient time to get any idea of the astonishing scenery from the windows of the train, and you can see nothing of the huge expanses of moorland stretching away from the precipices on either side. so that we, who would learn something of this region, must make the journey on foot; for a bicycle would be an encumbrance when crossing the heather, and there are many places where a horse would be a source of danger. the sides of the valley are closely wooded for the first seven or eight miles north of pickering, but the surrounding country gradually loses its cultivation, at first gorse and bracken, and then heather, taking the place of the green pastures. at the village of newton, perched on high ground far above the dale, we come to the limit of civilization. the sun is nearly setting. the cottages are scattered along the wide roadway and the strip of grass, broken by two large ponds, which just now reflect the pale evening sky. straight in front, across the green, some ancient barns are thrown up against the golden sunset, and the long perspective of white road, the geese, and some whitewashed gables, stand out from the deepening tones of the grass and trees. a footpath by the inn leads through some dewy meadows to the woods, above levisham station in the valley below. at first there are glimpses of the lofty moors on the opposite side of the dale, where the sides of the bluffs are still glowing in the sunset light; but soon the pathway plunges steeply into a close wood, where the foxes are barking, and where the intense darkness is only emphasized by the momentary illumination given by lightning, which now and then flickers in the direction of lockton moor. at last the friendly little oil-lamps on the platform at levisham station appear just below, and soon the railway is crossed and we are mounting the steep road on the opposite side of the valley. what is left of the waning light shows the rough track over the heather to high horcum. the huge shoulders of the moors are now majestically indistinct, and towards the west the browns, purples, and greens are all merged in one unfathomable blackness. the tremendous silence and the desolation become almost oppressive, but overhead the familiar arrangement of the constellations gives a sense of companionship not to be slighted. in something less than an hour a light glows in the distance, and, although the darkness is now complete, there is no further need to trouble ourselves with the thought of spending the night on the heather. the point of light develops into a lighted window, and we are soon stamping our feet on the hard, smooth road in front of the saltersgate inn. the door opens straight into a large stone-flagged room. everything is redolent of coaching days, for the cheery glow of the fire shows a spotlessly clean floor, old high-backed settles, a gun hooked to one of the beams overhead, quaint chairs and oak stools, and a fox's mask and brush. a gamekeeper is warming himself at the fire, for the evening is chilly, and the firelight falls on his box-cloth gaiters and heavy boots, as we begin to talk of the loneliness and the dangers of the moors, and of the snowstorms in winter, that almost bury the low cottages and blot out all but the boldest landmarks. soon we are discussing the superstitions which still survive among the simple country-folk, and the dark and lonely wilds we have just left make this a subject of great fascination. although we have heard it before, we hear over again with intense interest the story of the witch who brought constant ill-luck to a family in these parts. their pigs were never free from some form of illness, their cows died, their horses lamed themselves, and even the milk was so far under the spell that on churning-days the butter refused to come unless helped by a crooked sixpence. one day, when as usual they had been churning in vain, instead of resorting to the sixpence, the farmer secreted himself in an outbuilding, and, gun in hand, watched the garden from a small opening. as it was growing dusk he saw a hare coming cautiously through the hedge. he fired instantly, the hare rolled over, dead, and almost as quickly the butter came. that same night they heard that the old woman, whom they had long suspected of bewitching them, had suddenly died at the same time as the hare, and henceforward the farmer and his family prospered. in the light of morning the isolation of the inn is more apparent than at night. a compact group of stable buildings and barns stands on the opposite side of the road, and there are two or three lonely-looking cottages, but everywhere else the world is purple and brown with ling and heather. the morning sun has just climbed high enough to send a flood of light down the steep hill at the back of the barns, and we can hear the hum of the bees in the heather. in the direction of levisham is gallows dyke, the great purple bluff we passed in the darkness, and a few yards off the road makes a sharp double bend to get up saltersgate brow, the hill that overlooks the enormous circular bowl of horcum hole, where levisham beck rises. the farmer whose buildings can be seen down below contrives to paint the bottom of the bowl a bright green, but the ling comes hungrily down on all sides, with evident longings to absorb the scanty cultivation. the dwarf cornel, a little mountain-plant which flowers in july, is found in this 'hole.' a few patches have been discovered in the locality, but elsewhere it is not known south of the cheviots. away to the north the road crosses the desolate country like a pale-green ribbon. it passes over lockton high moor, climbs to 700 feet at tom cross rigg, and then disappears into the valley of eller beck, on goathland moor, coming into view again as it climbs steadily up to sleights moor, nearly 1,000 feet above the sea. an enormous stretch of moorland spreads itself out towards the west. near at hand is the precipitous gorge of upper newton dale, backed by pickering moor, and beyond are the heights of northdale rigg and rosedale common, with the blue outlines of ralph cross and danby head right on the horizon. the smooth, well-built road, with short grass filling the crevices between the stones, urges us to follow its straight course northwards; but the sternest and most remarkable portion of upper newton dale lies to the left, across the deep heather, and we are tempted aside to reach the lip of the sinuous gorge nearly a mile away to the west, where the railway runs along the marshy and boulder-strewn bottom of a natural cutting 500 feet deep. the cliffs drop down quite perpendicularly for 200 feet, and the remaining distance to the bed of the stream is a rough slope, quite bare in places, and in others densely grown over with trees; but on every side the fortress-like scarps are as stern and bare as any that face the ocean. looking north or south the gorge seems completely shut in. there is much the same effect when steaming through the kyles of bute, for there the ship seems to be going full speed for the shore of an entirely enclosed sea, and here, saving for the tell-tale railway, there seems no way out of the abyss without scaling the perpendicular walls. the rocks are at their finest at killingnoble scar, where they take the form of a semicircle on the west side of the railway. the scar was for a very long period famous for the breed of hawks, which were specially watched by the goathland men for the use of james i., and the hawks were not displaced from their eyrie even by the incursion of the railway into the glen, and only recently became extinct. newton dale well, at the foot of the scar, used to attract the country people for miles round, to the fair held there on midsummer day, when strange ceremonies were performed in order to insure the beneficent influence of the waters. the custom survived until the beginning of last century, but now it is not easy to even find the position of the well. very few people living in whitby or pickering had any idea of the grandeur of the scenery of newton dale when the first official journey was made by railway between the two towns. this was in 1836, but the coaches were drawn by horses on the levels and up the inclines, for it was before the days of the steam-locomotive. however, the opening of the line caused great enthusiasm and local excitement, necessitating the services of numbers of policemen to keep the people off the rails. when the separate coaches had been hauled to the highest part of the dale, the horses were detached, and the vehicles were joined up with connecting bars. then the train was allowed to rush through the pass at what was considered the dangerous speed of twenty miles an hour. for the benefit of those who enjoyed the great pace, the driver allowed the train to go at thirty miles an hour, and then, to show his complete control over the carriages, he applied the brakes and came to a standstill on the steep gradient. but for the existence of the long, narrow ravine right through the heart of these lofty moors, we may reasonably doubt whether whitby would ever have been joined with york other than by way of the coast-line to scarborough. we can cross the line near eller beck, and, going over goathland moor, explore the wooded sides of wheeldale beck and its waterfalls. mallyan's spout is the most imposing, having a drop of about 76 feet. the village of goathland has thrown out skirmishers towards the heather in the form of an ancient-looking but quite modern church, with a low central tower, and a little hotel, stone-built and fitting well into its surroundings. the rest of the village is scattered round a large triangular green, and extends down to the railway, where there is a station named after the village. the rolling masses of sleights moor rise up steeply towards the east, and from the coach-road to whitby that we deserted at the saltersgate inn there is an enormous panorama over eskdale, whitby, and the sea. chapter ii along the esk valley to see the valley of the esk in its richest garb, one must wait for a spell of fine autumn weather, when a prolonged ramble can be made along the riverside and up on the moorland heights above. for the dense woodlands, which are often merely pretty in midsummer, become astonishingly lovely as the foliage draping the steep hillsides takes on its gorgeous colours, and the gills and becks on the moors send down a plentiful supply of water to fill the dales with the music of rushing streams. climbing up the road towards larpool, we take a last look at quaint old whitby, spread out before us almost like those wonderful old prints of english towns they loved to publish in the eighteenth century. but although every feature is plainly visible--the church, the abbey, the two piers, the harbour, the old town and the new--the detail is all lost in that soft mellowness of a sunny autumn day. we find an enthusiastic photographer expending plates on this familiar view, which is sold all over the town; but we do not dare to suggest that the prints, however successful, will be painfully hackneyed, and we go on rejoicing that the questions of stops and exposures need not trouble us, for the world is ablaze with colour. beyond the great red viaduct, whose central piers are washed by the river far below, the road plunges into the golden shade of the woods near cock mill, and then comes out by the river's bank down below, with the little village of ruswarp on the opposite shore. the railway goes over the esk just below the dam, and does its very best to spoil every view of the great mill built in 1752 by mr. nathaniel cholmley. however, from the road towards sleights the huge building looks picturesque enough, with the river flowing smoothly over the broad dam fringed by the delicate faded greens and browns of the trees. the mill, with its massive roof and projecting eaves, suggests in a most remarkable fashion one of the huge gate-houses of the chinese imperial palace at peking. the road follows close beside the winding river, and all the way to sleights there are lovely glimpses of the shimmering waters, reflecting the overhanging masses of foliage. the golden yellow of a bush growing at the water's edge will be backed by masses of brown woods that here and there have retained suggestions of green, contrasted with the deep purple tones of their shadowy recesses. these lovely phases of eskdale scenery are denied to the summer visitor, but there are few who would wish to have the riverside solitudes rudely broken into by the passing of boatloads of holiday-makers. just before reaching sleights bridge we leave the tree-embowered road, and, going through a gate, find a stone-flagged pathway that climbs up the side of the valley with great deliberation, so that we are soon at a great height, with a magnificent sweep of landscape towards the south-west, and the keen air blowing freshly from the great table-land of egton high moor. a little higher, and we are on the road in aislaby village. the steep climb from the river and railway has kept off those modern influences which have made sleights and grosmont architecturally depressing, and thus we find a simple village on the edge of the heather, with picturesque stone cottages and pretty gardens, free from companionship with the painfully ugly modern stone house, with its thin slate roof. the big house of the village stands on the very edge of the descent, surrounded by high trees now swept bare of leaves. the first time i visited aislaby i reached the little hamlet when it was nearly dark. sufficient light, however, remained in the west to show up the large house standing in the midst of the swaying branches. one dim light appeared in the blue-gray mass, and the dead leaves were blown fiercely by the strong gusts of wind. on the other side of the road stood an old gray house, whose appearance that gloomy evening well supported the statement that it was haunted. the classic front appeared behind an imposing gateway approached by a curious flat bridge across a circular pond which had a solid stone edging. the low parapets of the bridge were cut into a strange serpentine form. i gazed at the front of the house, backed by the dim outline of the moor beyond; but, though the place was silent enough, i could hear no strange sounds, and the windows remained black and impassive. i left the village in the gathering gloom and was soon out on the heather. away on the left, but scarcely discernible, was swart houe cross, on egton low moor, and straight in front lay the skelder inn. a light gleamed from one of the lower windows, and by it i guided my steps, being determined to partake of tea before turning my steps homeward. i stepped into the little parlour, with its sanded floor, and demanded 'fat rascals' and tea. the girl was not surprised at my request, for the hot turf cakes supplied at the inn are known to all the neighbourhood by this unusual name, although they are not particularly fat, and are so extremely palatable that one would gladly call them by a friendlier name. but though the gloom of an autumn evening emphasizes the loneliness of the inn, it blots out the beautiful views which extend in every direction over dales and woodland, as well as the sea and moors. whitby shows itself beyond the windmill as a big town dominated by a great rectangular building looking as much like a castle as an hotel, the abbey being less conspicuous from here than from most points of view. northwards are the dense woods at mulgrave, the coast as far as kettleness, and the wide, almost limitless moors in the direction of guisborough. the road to that ancient town goes straight up the hill past swart houe cross, which forms the horizon in the picture reproduced as the frontispiece of this volume. up on that high ground you can see right across the valley of the esk in both directions. the course of the river itself is hidden by the shoulders of egton low moor beneath us, but faint sounds of the shunting of trucks are carried up to the heights. even when the deep valleys are warmest, and when their atmosphere is most suggestive of a hot-house, these moorland heights rejoice in a keen, dry air, which seems to drive away the slightest sense of fatigue, so easily felt on the lower levels, and to give in its place a vigour that laughs at distance. up here, too, the whole world seems left to nature, the levels of cultivation being almost out of sight, and anything under 800 feet seems low. towards the end of august the heights are capped with purple, although the distant moors, however brilliant they may appear when close at hand, generally assume more delicate shades, fading into grays and blues on the horizon. but however much the moors may attract us, we started out with the intention of seeing something of eskdale. we will therefore take a turning out of the guisborough road, and go down the hill to egton village, where there is a church with some norman pillars and arches preserved from the rebuilding craze that despoiled yorkshire of half its ecclesiastical antiquities. making our way along the riverside to grosmont, we come to the enormous heaps above the pits of the now disused iron-mines. this was the birthplace of the cleveland ironworks, and grosmont was at one time more famous than middlesbrough. the first cargo of ironstone was sent from here in 1836, when the pickering and whitby railway was opened. however interesting grosmont may sound in books, it is a dull place; for the knowledge that the name was originally grandimont, from the small priory founded about 1200, and named after the abbey in normandy to which it was attached, does not excite much interest when there is nothing to see but a farmhouse on the site, and the modern place consists of a railway-junction, some deserted mines, and many examples of the modern yorkshire house. everything that nature can do to make amends for this uninteresting spot is lavishly squandered upon the valley, for wherever man has left things alone there are heavy canopies of foliage, and mossy boulders among the rushing streams; and if you will but take the trouble to climb up to the heather, even the mines are dwarfed into insignificance. we will go up the steep road to the top of sleights moor. it is a long stiff climb of nearly 900 feet, but the view is one of the very finest in this country, where wide expanses soon become commonplace. we are sufficiently high to look right across fylingdales moor to the sea beyond, a soft haze of pearly blue over the hard, rugged outline of the ling. away towards the north, too, the landscape for many miles is limited only by the same horizon of sea, so that we seem to be looking at a section of a very large scale contour map of england. below us on the western side runs the mirk esk, draining the heights upon which we stand as well as egton high moor and wheeldale moor. the confluence with the esk at grosmont is lost in a haze of smoke and a confusion of roofs and railway-lines; and the course of the larger river in the direction of glaisdale is also hidden behind the steep slopes of egton high moor. towards the south we gaze over a vast desolation, crossed by the coach-road to york as it rises and falls over the swells of the heather. the queer isolated cone of blakey topping and the summit of gallows dyke, close to saltersgate, appear above the distant ridges. the route of the great roman road from the south to dunsley bay can also be seen from these heights. it passes straight through cawthorn camp, on the ridge to the west of the village of newton, and then runs along within a few yards of the by-road from picketing to egton. it crosses wheeldale beck, and skirts the ancient dyke round july or julian park, at one time a hunting-seat of the great de mauley family. the road is about 12 feet wide, and is now deep in heather; but it is slightly raised above the general level of the ground, and can therefore be followed fairly easily where it has not been taken up to build walls for enclosures. of greater antiquity, but much more easily discovered, are the bride stones close at hand on sleights moor. several of the stones have fallen, but three of them are still standing erect, the tallest being 7 feet high. it is not easy to discover any particular form from the standing and recumbent stones, for they neither make a circle nor do they seem to be directed to any particular point of the compass; but it is quite possible that these monoliths were put up by early man as a means of recording the seasons, in somewhat the same manner as stonehenge is an example of the orientated temple of neolithic times. if we go down into the valley beneath us by a road bearing south-west, we shall find ourselves at beck hole, where there is a pretty group of stone cottages, backed by some tall firs. the eller beck is crossed by a stone bridge close to its confluence with the mirk esk. above the bridge, a footpath among the huge boulders winds its way by the side of the rushing beck to thomasin foss, where the little river falls in two or three broad silver bands into a considerable pool. great masses of overhanging rock, shaded by a leafy roof, shut in the brimming waters. it is not difficult to find the way from beck hole to the roman camp on the hillside towards egton bridge. the roman road from cawthorn goes right through it, but beyond this it is not easy to trace, although fragments have been discovered as far as aislaby, all pointing to dunsley or sandsend bay. round the shoulder of the hill we come down again to the deeply-wooded valley of the esk. no river can be seen, but when we enter the shade of the trees the sound of many waters fills the air. what was once a thick green roof is now thin and yellow, and under our feet is a yielding carpet of soft brown and orange leaves. rare and luxuriant mosses grow at the foot of the trees, on dead wood, and on the damp stones, and everywhere the rich woodland scent of decay meets the nostrils. in the midst of all these evidences of rampant natural conditions we come to glaisdale end, where a graceful stone bridge of a single arch stands over the rushing stream. the initials of the builder and the date appear on the eastern side of what is now known as the beggar's bridge. it was formerly called firris bridge, after the builder, but the popular interest in the story of its origin seems to have killed the old name. if you ask anyone in whitby to mention some of the sights of the neighbourhood, he will probably head his list with the beggar's bridge, but why this is so i cannot imagine. the woods are very beautiful, but this is a country full of the loveliest dales, and the presence of this single-arched bridge does not seem sufficient to have attracted so much popularity. i can only attribute it to the love interest associated with the beggar. he was, we may imagine, the alderman thomas firris who, as a penniless youth, came to bid farewell to his betrothed, who lived somewhere on the opposite side of the river. finding the stream impassable, he is said to have determined that if he came back from his travels as a rich man he would put up a bridge on the spot he had been prevented from crossing. it is not a very remarkable story, even if it be true, but it has given the bridge a fame scarcely proportionate to its merits. chapter iii the coast from whitby to redcar along the three miles of sand running northwards from whitby at the foot of low alluvial cliffs, i have seen some of the finest sea-pictures on this part of the coast. but although i have seen beautiful effects at all times of the day, those that i remember more than any others are the early mornings, when the sun was still low in the heavens, when, standing on that fine stretch of yellow sand, one seemed to breathe an atmosphere so pure, and to gaze at a sky so transparent, that some of those undefined longings for surroundings that have never been realized were instinctively uppermost in the mind. it is, i imagine, that vague recognition of perfection which has its effect on even superficial minds when impressed with beautiful scenery, for to what other cause can be attributed the remark one hears, that such scenes 'make one feel good'? heavy waves, overlapping one another in their fruitless bombardment of the smooth shelving sand, are filling the air with a ceaseless thunder. the sun, shining from a sky of burnished gold, throws into silhouette the twin lighthouses at the entrance to whitby harbour, and turns the foaming wave-tops into a dazzling white, accentuated by the long shadows of early day. away to the north-west is sandsend ness, a bold headland full of purple and blue shadows, and straight out to sea, across the white-capped waves, are two tramp steamers, making, no doubt, for south shields or some port where a cargo of coal can be picked up. they are plunging heavily, and every moment their bows seem to go down too far to recover. on mornings when the sea is quieter there are few who can resist the desire to plunge into the blue waters, for at seven o'clock the shore is so entirely deserted that one seems to be bathing from some primeval shore where no other forms of life may be expected than some giant crustaceans. this thought, perhaps, prompted the painful sensations i allowed to prey upon me one night when i was walking along this particular piece of shore from whitby. i had decided to save time over the road to sandsend by getting on to the beach at upgang, where the lifeboat-house stands, by the entrance to a small beck. so dark was the night that i could scarcely be sure that i had not lost my way, until i had carefully felt the walls of the boat-house. then i stepped cautiously on to the sand, which i discovered as soon as my feet began sinking at every step. the harbour lights of whitby were bright enough, but in the other direction i could be sure of nothing. at first i seemed to have made a mistake as to the state of the tide, for there appeared to be a whiteness nearly up to the base of the cliffs; but this proved to be the suffused glow from the lighthouses. rain had been falling heavily for the last few days, and had produced so many wide streams across the sand that my knowledge of the usual ones merely hampered me. at first i began stepping carefully over large black hollows in the sand, and then a great black mark would show itself, which, offering no resistance to my stick as i drew it across its surface, i could only imagine to be caused by a flood of ink poured upon the beach by some horrible squid. my musings on whether sea-monsters did ever disport themselves on the shore under the cover of sufficiently dark nights would be broken into by discovering that i had plunged into a stream of undiscoverable dimensions, whose existence only revealed itself by the splash of my boots. retreating cautiously, i would take a run, and then a terrific leap into the darkness, sometimes finding myself on firm dry sand, and as frequently in the water. i had decided that i should probably not reach sandsend until daylight, when a red lamp near the railway-bridge shone out as a beacon, and i realized that i would soon be safe from the tentacles of sea-monsters. when i awoke next morning, i dashed out on to the beach, and commenced to walk rapidly in the direction of whitby, in the hope that the tide had left some of those black stains still showing. i wanted, also, to examine some of the queer ridges i had so often stepped over, and some of the rivers i had leapt. the rivers were there wide enough in places, but nothing in the way of a ridge or any signs of those inky patches could i discern. careful examination showed, however, that here and there the smooth shore was covered with sand of a rather reddish hue, quite unworthy of remark in daylight. the foolishness of my apprehensions seems apparent, but nevertheless i urge everyone to choose a moonlit night and a companion of some sort for traversing these three miles after sunset. the two little becks finding their outlet at east row and sandsend are lovely to-day; but their beauty must have been much more apparent before the north-eastern railway put their black lattice girder bridges across the mouth of each valley. but now that familiarity with these bridges, which are of the same pattern across every wooded ravine up the coast-line to redcar, has blunted my impressions, i can think of the picturesqueness of east row without remembering the railway. it was in this glen, where lord normanby's lovely woods make a background for the pretty tiled cottages, the mill, and the old stone bridge, which make up east row, that the saxons chose a home for their god thor. [since this was written one or two new houses have been allowed to mar the simplicity of the valley.--g. h.] here they built some rude form of temple, afterwards, it seems, converted into a hermitage. this was how the spot obtained the name thordisa, a name it retained down to 1620, when the requirements of workmen from the newly-started alum-works at sandsend led to building operations by the side of the stream. the cottages which arose became known afterwards as east row. a very little way inland is the village of dunsley, which may have been in existence in roman times, for ptolemy mentions dunus sinus as a bay frequently used by the romans as a landing-place. the foundations of some ancient building can easily be traced in the rough grass at the village cross-roads, now overlooked by a new stone house. but whatever surprises dunsley may have in store for those who choose to dig in the likely places, the hamlet need not keep one long, for on either hand there is a choice of breezy moorland or the astonishing beauties of mulgrave woods. before i knew this part of yorkshire, and had merely read of the woods as a sight to be visited from whitby, i was prepared for something at least as hackneyed as hayburn wyke. i was prepared for direction-boards and artificial helps to the charms of certain aspects of the streams. i certainly never anticipated that i should one day sigh for a direction-board in this forest. it was on my second visit to the woods that i determined to find a particularly dramatic portion of one of the streams. my first ramble had been in summer. i had been with one who knew the paths well, but now it was late autumn and i was alone. i explored the paths for hours, and traversed long glades ablaze with red and gold. i peered down through the yellow leaves to the rushing streams below, where i could see the great moss-grown boulders choking the narrow channels. but this particular spot had gone. i was almost in despair, when two labourers by great luck happened to come along one of the tracks. with their help i found the place i was searching for, and the result of the time spent there is given in one of the illustrations to this chapter. go where you will in yorkshire, you will find no more fascinating woodland scenery than this. from the broken walls and towers of the old norman castle the views over the ravines on either hand--for the castle stands on a lofty promontory in a sea of foliage--are entrancing; and after seeing the astoundingly brilliant colours with which autumn paints these trees, there is a tendency to find the ordinary woodland commonplace. the narrowest and deepest gorge is hundreds of feet deep in the shale. east row beck drops into this canyon in the form of a waterfall at the upper end, and then almost disappears among the enormous rocks strewn along its circumscribed course. the humid, hothouse atmosphere down here encourages the growth of many of the rarer mosses, which entirely cover all but the newly-fallen rocks. we can leave the woods by a path leading near lord normanby's modern castle, and come out on to the road close to lythe church, where a great view of sea and land is spread out towards the south. the long curving line of white marks the limits of the tide as far as the entrance to whitby harbour. the abbey stands out in its loneliness as of yore, and beyond it are the black-looking, precipitous cliffs ending at saltwick nab. lythe church, standing in its wind-swept graveyard full of blackened tombstones, need not keep us, for, although its much-modernized exterior is simple and ancient-looking, the interior is devoid of any interest. it is the same tale at nearly every village in this district, and to those who are able to grow enthusiastic in antiquarian matters some parts of the county are disappointing. in east anglia and the southern counties even the smallest hamlets have often a good church, with a conspicuous tower or spire; but in how many villages in this riding do you find no church at all, as in the case of staithes and runswick? many of the old churches of yorkshire were in a state of great dilapidation at the beginning of last century, and a great effort having been initiated by the then archbishop, a fund was instituted to help the various parishes to restore their buildings. it was a period when architecture was at a low ebb, and the desire to sweep away antiquity was certainly strong, for those churches not rebuilt from the ground were so hacked and renovated that their interest and picturesqueness has vanished. the churches at pickering, middleton, lastingham, and kirkdale must, however, be pointed out as priceless exceptions. the road drops down a tremendous hill into sandsend, where they talk of going 'up t' bonk' to lythe church. a little chapel of ease in the village accommodates the old and delicate folk, but the youth and the generally able-bodied of sandsend must climb the hill every sunday. the beck forms an island in the village, and the old stone cottages, bright with new paint and neatly-trained creepers, stand in their gardens on either side of the valley in the most picturesque fashion. the walk along the rocky shore to kettleness is dangerous unless the tide is carefully watched, and the road inland through lythe village is not particularly interesting, so that one is tempted to use the railway, which cuts right through the intervening high ground by means of two tunnels. the first one is a mile long, and somewhere near the centre has a passage out to the cliffs, so that even if both ends of the tunnel collapsed there would be a way of escape. but this is small comfort when travelling from kettleness, for the down gradient towards sandsend is very steep, and in the darkness of the tunnel the train gets up a tremendous speed, bursting into the open just where a precipitous drop into the sea could be most easily accomplished. the station at kettleness is on the top of the huge cliffs, and to reach the shore one must climb down a zigzag path. it is a broad and solid pathway until halfway down, where it assumes the character of a goat-track, being a mere treading down of the loose shale of which the enormous cliff is formed. the sliding down of the crumbling rock constantly carries away the path, but a little spade-work soon makes the track firm again. this portion of the cliff has something of a history, for one night in 1829 the inhabitants of many of the cottages originally forming the village of kettleness were warned of impending danger by subterranean noises. fearing a subsidence of the cliff, they betook themselves to a small schooner lying in the bay. this wise move had not long been accomplished, when a huge section of the ground occupied by the cottages slid down the great cliff and the next morning there was little to be seen but a sloping mound of lias shale at the foot of the precipice. the villagers recovered some of their property by digging, and some pieces of broken crockery from one of the cottages are still to be seen on the shore near the ferryman's hut, where the path joins the shore. this sandy beach, lapped by the blue waves of runswick bay, is one of the finest spots on the rocky coast-line of yorkshire. a trickling waterfall drops perpendicularly down the blackish rocks from a considerable height, while above it are the towering cliffs of shale, perfectly bare in one direction, and clothed with grass and bracken in another. at the foot of the rocks a layer of jet appears a few inches above the sand. you look northwards across the sunlit sea to the rocky heights hiding port mulgrave and staithes, and on the further side of the bay you see tiny runswick's red roofs, one above the other, on the face of the cliff. here it is always cool and pleasant in the hottest weather, and from the broad shadows cast by the precipices above one can revel in the sunny land and sea-scapes without that fishy odour so unavoidable in the villages. when the sun is beginning to climb down the sky in the direction of hinderwell, and everything is bathed in a glorious golden light, the ferryman will row you across the bay to runswick, but a scramble over the rocks on the beach will be repaid by a closer view of the now half-filled-up hob hole. the fisher-folk believed this cave to be the home of a kindly-disposed fairy or hob, who seems to have been one of the slow-dying inhabitants of the world of mythology implicitly believed in by the saxons. and these beliefs died so hard in these lonely yorkshire villages that until recent times a mother would carry her child suffering from whooping-cough along the beach to the mouth of the cave. there she would call in a loud voice, 'hob-hole hob! my bairn's gotten t'kink cough. tak't off, tak't off.' one can see the child's parents gazing fearfully into the black depths of the cavern, penetrating the cliff for 70 feet, and finally turning back to the village in the full belief that the hob would stay the disease. the steep paths and flights of roughly-built steps that wind above and below the cottages are the only means of getting about in runswick. the butcher's cart every saturday penetrates into the centre of the village by the rough track which is all that is left of the good firm road from hinderwell after it has climbed down the cliff. to this central position, close to the post-box, the householders come to buy their supply of meat for sunday, having their purchases weighed on scales placed on the flap at the back of the cart. while the butcher is doing his thriving trade the postman arrives to collect letters from the pillar-box, placing a small horn to his lips, he blows a blast to warn the villagers that the post is going, and, having waited for the last letter, climbs slowly up the steep pathway to hinderwell. halfway up to the top he pauses and looks over the fruit-trees and the tiles and chimney-pots below him, to the bright blue waters of the bay, with kettleness beyond, now all pink and red in the golden light of late afternoon. this scene is more suggestive of the mediterranean than yorkshire, for the blueness of the sea seems almost unnatural, and the golden greens of the pretty little gardens among the houses seem perhaps a trifle theatrical; but the fisher-folk play their parts too well, and there is nothing make-believe about the delicious bread-and-butter and the newly-baked cakes which accompany the tea awaiting us in a spotlessly clean cottage close by. the same form of disaster which destroyed kettleness village caused the complete ruin of runswick in 1666, for one night, when some of the fisher-folk were holding a wake over a corpse, they had unmistakable warnings of an approaching landslip. the alarm was given, and the villagers, hurriedly leaving their cottages, saw the whole place slide downwards and become a mass of ruins. no lives were lost, but, as only one house remained standing, the poor fishermen were only saved from destitution by the sums of money collected for their relief. architecturally speaking, hinderwell is a depressing village, and there is little to remember about the place except an extraordinary block of two or three shops, suitable only for a business street in a big city, but dumped right into the middle of this village of low cottages. the church is modern enough to be uninteresting, but in the graveyard st. hilda's well, from which the name hinderwell is a corruption, may still be seen. in 1603 there was a sudden and terrible outbreak of plague in the village. it only lasted from september 1 to november 10, but in that short time forty-nine people died. it seems that the infection was brought by some men from a 'turkey ship' that had been stranded on the coast, but, strangely enough, the disease does not appear to have been carried into the other villages in the neighbourhood. scarcely two miles from hinderwell is the fishing-hamlet of staithes, wedged into the side of a deep and exceedingly picturesque beck. here--and it is the same at runswick--one is obliged to walk warily during the painter's season, for fear of either obstructing the view of the man behind the easel you have just passed, or out of regard for the feelings of some girls just in front. there are often no more chances of standing still in staithes than may be enjoyed on a popular golf-links on a fine saturday afternoon. these folk at staithes do not disturb one with cries of 'fore!' but with that blank chinaman's stare which comes to anyone who paints in public. the average artist is a being who is quite unable to recognise architectural merit. he sees everything to please him if the background of his group be sufficiently tumble-down and derelict. if this be incorrect, how could such swarms of artistic folk paint and actually lodge in staithes? the steep road leading past the station drops down into the village, giving a glimpse of the beck crossed by its ramshackle wooden foot-bridge--the view one has been prepared for by guide-books and picture postcards. lower down you enter the village street. here the smell of fish comes out to greet you, and one would forgive the place this overflowing welcome if one were not so shocked at the dismal aspect of the houses on either side of the way. many are of comparatively recent origin, others are quite new, and a few--a very few--are old; but none have any architectural pretensions or any claims to picturesqueness, and only a few have the neat and respectable look one is accustomed to expect after seeing robin hood's bay. staithes had filled me with so much pleasant expectancy that my first walk down this street of dirty, ugly houses had brought me into a querulous frame of mind, and i wondered irritably why the women should all wear lilac-coloured bonnets, when a choice of colour is not difficult as far as calico is concerned. those women who were in mourning had dyed theirs black, and these assorted well with the colour of the stone of many of the houses. i hurried down on to the little fish-wharf--a wooden structure facing the sea--hoping to find something more cheering in the view of the little bay, with its bold cliffs, and the busy scene where the cobles were drawn up on the shingle. here my spirits revived, and i began to find excuses for the painters. the little wharf, in a bad state of repair, like most things in the place, was occupied by groups of stalwart fisher-folk, men and women. the men were for the most part watching their women-folk at work. they were also to an astonishing extent mere spectators in the arduous work of hauling the cobles one by one on to the steep bank of shingle. a tackle hooked to one of the baulks of timber forming the staith was being hauled at by five women and two men! two others were in a listless fashion leaning their shoulders against the boat itself. with the last 'heave-ho!' at the shortened tackle the women laid hold of the nets, and with casual male assistance laid them out on the shingle, removed any fragments of fish, and generally prepared them for stowing in the boat again. it is evidently an accepted state of things at staithes that the work of putting out to sea and the actual catching of the fish is sufficient for the men-folk, for the feminine population do their arduous tasks with a methodical matter-of-factness which surprises only the stranger. i was particularly struck on one occasion with the sight of a good-looking and very neatly dressed young fishwife who was engaged in that very necessary but exceedingly unpleasant task of cutting open fish and removing the perishable portions. with unerring precision the sharp knife was plunged into each cod or haddock, and the fish was in its marketable condition in shorter time than one can write. a little boy plunged them into a pail of ruddy-looking water, and from thence into the regulation fish box or basket that finds its way to the metropolis. a change has come over the inhabitants of staithes since 1846, when mr. ord describes the fishermen as 'exceedingly civil and courteous to strangers, and altogether free from that low, grasping knavery peculiar to the larger class of fishing-towns.' without wishing to be unreasonably hard on staithes, i am inclined to believe that this character is infinitely better than these folk deserve, and even when mr. ord wrote of the place i have reason to doubt the civility shown by them to strangers. it is, according to some who have known staithes for a long while, less than fifty years ago that the fisher-folk were hostile to a stranger on very small provocation, and only the entirely inoffensive could expect to sojourn in the village without being a target for stones. the incursion of the artistic hordes has been a great factor in the demoralization of the village, for who would not be mercenary when besought at all hours of the day to stand before a canvas or a camera? thus, the harmless stranger who strays on to the staith with a camera is obliged to pay for 'an afternoon's 'baccy' if he want an opportunity to obtain more than a snapshot of a picturesque group. he may try to capture a lonely old fisherman by asking if he would mind standing still for 'just one second,' but the old fellow will move away instantly unless his demand for payment be readily complied with. no doubt many of the superstitions of staithes people have languished or died out in recent years, and among these may be included a particularly primitive custom when the catches of fish had been unusually small. bad luck of this sort could only be the work of some evil influence, and to break the spell a sheep's heart had to be procured, into which many pins were stuck. the heart was then burnt in a bonfire on the beach, in the presence of the fishermen, who danced round the flames. in happy contrast to these heathenish practices was the resolution entered into and signed by the fishermen of staithes, in august, 1835, binding themselves 'on no account whatever' to follow their calling on sundays, 'nor to go out with our boats or cobbles to sea, either on the saturday or sunday evenings.' they also agreed to forfeit ten shillings for every offence against the resolution, and the fund accumulated in this way, and by other means, was administered for the benefit of aged couples and widows and orphans. the men of staithes are known up and down the east coast of great britain as some of the very finest types of fishermen. their cobles, which vary in size and colour, are uniform in design and the brilliance of their paint. brick red, emerald green, pungent blue and white, are the most favoured colours, but orange, pink, yellow, and many others, are to be seen. not only are fish of the present age in evidence at staithes, but nowhere along this coast can one find better examples of those of the jurassic period. when the tide has exposed the scaur which runs out from colburn nab, at the mouth of the beck, a one can examine masses of recently fallen rocks, the new faces of which are almost invariably covered with ammonites or clusters of fossil bivalves. the only hindrance to a close examination of these new falls from the cliffs is the serious danger of another fall occurring at the same spot. the fisher-folk are very kind in pointing out this peril to ardent geologists and those of a less scientific outlook, who merely enjoy the exercise of scrambling over great masses of rock. after having been warned that most of the face of the cliff above is 'qualified' to come down at any moment, there is a strong inclination to betake one's self to a safe distance, where, unfortunately, the wear and tear of the waves have in most cases so battered the traces of early marine life that there is little to attack with the hammer to compare with what can be seen in the new falls. the scaur also presents an interesting feature in its round ironstone nodules, half embedded in the smooth rocky floor. looking northwards there is a grand piece of coast scenery. the masses of boulby cliffs, rising 660 feet from the sea, are the highest on the yorkshire coast. the waves break all round the rocky scaur, and fill the air with their thunder, while the strong wind blows the spray into beards which stream backwards from the incoming crests. the upper course of staithes beck consists of two streams, flowing through deep, richly-wooded ravines. they follow parallel courses very close to one another for three or four miles, but their sources extend from lealholm moor to wapley moor. kilton beck runs through another lovely valley densely clothed in trees, and full of the richest woodland scenery. it becomes more open in the neighbourhood of loftus, and from thence to the sea at skinningrove the valley is green and open to the heavens. loftus is on the borders of the cleveland mining district, and it is for this reason that the town has grown to a considerable size. but although the miners' new cottages are unpicturesque, and the church only dates from 1811, the situation is pretty, owing to the profusion of trees among the houses. skinningrove has railway-sidings and branch-lines running down to it, and on the hill above the cottages stands a cluster of blast-furnaces. in daylight they are merely ugly, but at night, with tongues of flame, they speak of the potency of labour. i can still see that strange silhouette of steel cylinders and connecting girders against a blue-black sky, with silent masses of flame leaping into the heavens. it was long before iron-ore was smelted here, before even the old alum-works had been started, that skinningrove attained to some sort of fame through a wonderful visit, as strange as any of those recounted by mr. wells. it was in the year 1535--for the event is most carefully recorded in a manuscript of the period--that some fishermen of skinningrove caught a sea man. this was such an astounding fact to record that the writer of the old manuscript explains that 'old men that would be loath to have their credyt crackt by a tale of a stale date, report confidently that ... a _sea-man_ was taken by the fishers.' they took him up to an old disused house, and kept him there for many weeks, feeding him on raw fish, because he persistently refused the other sorts of food offered him. to the people who flocked from far and near to visit him he was very courteous, and he seems to have been particularly pleased with any 'fayre maydes' who visited him, for he would gaze at them with a very earnest countenance, 'as if his phlegmaticke breaste had been touched with a sparke of love.' the sea man was so well behaved that the fisher-folk began to feel sufficiently sure of his desire to live with them to cease to keep watch on his movements. 'one day,' we are told, 'he prively stoale out of doores, and ere he coulde be overtaken recovered the sea, whereinto he plunged himself; yet as one that woulde not unmanerly depart without taking of his leave, from the mydle upwardes he raysed his shoulders often above the waves, and makinge signes of acknowledgeing his good enterteinment to such as beheld him on the shore, as they interpreted yt;--after a pretty while he dived downe and appeared no more.' this strangely detailed account says that instead of a voice the sea man 'skreaked,' but this is of small interest compared to whether he had a tail or any fish-like attributes. the fact that he escaped would suggest the presence of legs, but the historian is silent on this all-important matter. the lofty coast-line we have followed all the way from sandsend terminates abruptly at huntcliff nab, the great promontory which is familiar to visitors to saltburn. low alluvial cliffs take the place of the rocky precipices, and the coast becomes flatter and flatter as you approach redcar and the marshy country at the mouth of the tees. the original saltburn, consisting of a row of quaint fishermen's cottages, still stands entirely alone, facing the sea on the huntcliff side of the beck, and from the wide, smooth sands there is little of modern saltburn to be seen besides the pier. for the rectangular streets and blocks of houses have been wisely placed some distance from the edge of the grassy cliffs, leaving the sea-front quite unspoiled. it would, perhaps, be well to own that i have never seen saltburn during the summer season, and for this reason i may think better of the resort than if my visit had been in midsummer. it was during october. the sun was shining brightly, and a strong wind was blowing off the land. the wide, new-looking streets were spotlessly clean, and in most of them there was no sign of life at all. it was the same on the broad sweep of sands, for when i commenced a drawing on the cliffs the only living creatures i could see were two small dogs. about noon a girls' school was let loose upon the sands, and for half an hour a furious game of hockey was fought. then i was left alone again, with the great expanse of sea, the yellow margin of sand, and the reddish-brown cliffs, all beneath the wind-swept sky. the elaborately-laid-out gardens on the steep banks of skelton beck are the pride and joy of saltburn, for they offer a pleasant contrast to the bare slopes on the huntcliff side and the flat country towards kirkleatham. but in this seemingly harmless retreat there used to be heard horrible groanings, and i have no evidence to satisfy me that they have altogether ceased. for in this matter-of-fact age such a story would not be listened to, and thus those who hear the sounds may be afraid to speak of them. the groanings were heard, they say, 'when all wyndes are whiste and the sea restes unmoved as a standing poole.' at times they were so loud as to be heard at least six miles inland, and the fishermen feared to put out to sea, believing that the ocean was 'as a greedy beaste raginge for hunger, desyers to be satisfyed with men's carcases.' there were also at that time certain rocks towards huntcliff nab, left bare at low-tide, where 'seales in greate heardes like swine' were to be seen basking in the sun. 'for their better scuritye,' says the old writer, 'they put in use a kind of military discipline, warily preparing against a soddaine surprize, for on the outermost rocke one great seale or more keepes sentinell, which upon the first inklinge of any danger, giveth the alarme to the rest by throweing of stones, or making a noise in the water, when he tumbles down from the rocke, the rest immediately doe the like, insomuch that yt is very hard to overtake them by cunning.' in 1842 redcar was a mere village, though more apparent on the map than saltburn; but, like its neighbour, it has grown into a great watering-place, having developed two piers, a long esplanade other features, which i am glad to leave to those for whom they were made, and betake myself to the more romantic spots so plentiful in this broad county. chapter iv the coast from whitby to scarborough although it is only six miles as the crow flies from whitby to robin hood's bay, the exertion required to walk there along the top of the cliffs is equal to quite double that distance, for there are so many gullies to be climbed into and crawled out of that the measured distance is considerably increased. it is well to remember this, for otherwise the scenery of the last mile or two may not seem as fine as the first stages. as soon as the abbey and the jet-sellers are left behind, you pass a farm, and come out on a great expanse of close-growing smooth turf, where the whole world seems to be made up of grass and sky. the footpath goes close to the edge of the cliff; in some places it has gone too close, and has disappeared altogether. but these diversions can be avoided without spoiling the magnificent glimpses of the rock-strewn beach nearly 200 feet below. from above saltwick bay there is a grand view across the level grass to whitby abbey, standing out alone on the green horizon. down below, saltwick nab runs out a bare black arm into the sea, which even in the calmest weather angrily foams along the windward side. beyond the sturdy lighthouse that shows itself a dazzling white against the hot blue of the heavens commence the innumerable gullies. each one has its trickling stream, and bushes and low trees grow to the limits of the shelter afforded by the ravines; but in the open there is nothing higher than the waving corn or the stone walls dividing the pastures--a silent testimony to the power of the north-east wind. the village of hawsker, with its massive though modern church, can be seen across the fields towards the west, but it does not offer sufficient attractions to divert you from the cliffs, unless you have a desire to see in one or two of the fields, gateways and rubbing-posts formed of whales' jaws, suggestive of the days when whitby carried on a thriving trade with the great cetaceans. to enjoy this magnificent coast scenery, there must be plenty of time to linger in those places where it seems impossible not to fling yourself on the long brown grass and listen to the droning of insects and the sound of the waves down below. at certain times of the day the most striking colours are seen among the sunlit rocks, and the boldness of the outlines of overhanging strata and great projecting shoulders are a continual surprise. after rounding the north cheek, the whole of robin hood's bay is suddenly laid before you. i well remember my first view of the wide sweep of sea, which lay like a blue carpet edged with white, and the high escarpments of rock that were in deep purple shade, except where the afternoon sun turned them into the brightest greens and umbers. three miles away, but seemingly very much closer, was the bold headland of the peak, and more inland was stoupe brow, with robin hood's butts on the hill-top. the fable connected with the outlaw is scarcely worth repeating, but on the site of these butts urns have been dug up, and are now to be found in scarborough museum. the bay town is hidden away in a most astonishing fashion, for, until you have almost reached the two bastions which guard the way up from the beach, there is nothing to be seen of the charming old place. if you approach by the road past the railway-station it is the same, for only garishly new hotels and villas are to be seen on the high ground, and not a vestige of the fishing-town can be discovered. but the road to the bay at last begins to drop down very steeply, and the first old roofs appear. the path at the side of the road develops into a very long series of steps, and in a few minutes the narrow street, flanked by very tall houses, has swallowed you up. everything is very clean and orderly, and, although most of the houses are very old, they are generally in a good state of repair, exhibiting in every case the seaman's love of fresh paint. thus, the dark and worn stone walls have bright eyes in their newly-painted doors and windows. over their doorsteps the fishermen's wives are quite fastidious, and you seldom see a mark on the ochre-coloured hearthstone with which the women love to brighten the worn stones. even the scrapers are sleek with blacklead, and it is not easy to find a window without spotlessly clean curtains. the little coastguard station by the opening on to the shore has difficulty in showing itself superior to the rest in these essential matters of smartness. however, the coastguards glory in a little stone pathway protected by a low wall in front of their building. on this narrow quarter-deck the men love to walk to and fro, just as though they were afloat and were limited to this space for exercise. at high-tide the sea comes halfway up the steep opening between the coastguards' quarters and the inn which is built on another bastion, and in rough weather the waves break hungrily on to the strong stone walls, for the bay is entirely open to the full force of gales from the east or north-east. all the way from scarborough to whitby the coast offers no shelter of any sort in heavy weather, and many vessels have been lost on the rocks. on one occasion a small sailing-ship was driven right into this bay at high-tide, and the bowsprit smashed into a window of the little hotel that occupied the place of the present one. with angry seas periodically demolishing the outermost houses, it seems almost unaccountable that the little town should have persisted in clinging so tenaciously to the high-water mark; but there were probably two paramount reasons for this. the deep gully was to a great extent protected from the force of the winds, and, as it was soon quite brimful of houses, every inch of space was valuable; then, smuggling was freely practised along the coast, and the more the houses were wedged together, the more opportunities for secret hiding-places would be afforded. the whole town has a consciously guilty look in its evident desire to conceal itself; and the steep narrow streets, the curious passages where it is scarcely possible for two people to pass, and the little courts which look like culs-de-sac but have a hidden flight of steps leading down to another passage, seem to be purposely intricate and confusing. for i can imagine a revenue cutter chasing a boat into robin hood's bay, and i can see the smugglers hastily landing on the beach and making for the town, followed by the excise officers, who are as unable to trace the men as though they had been chasing rabbits in a warren. the stream that made this retreat for the fishing-town is now scarcely more than a drain when it reaches the houses, for, after passing along the foot of a great perpendicular mass of shale, it rushes into a tunnel, and only appears again on the shore. it is strange that there should be so little information as to the associations of robin hood with this fishing-village. the stories of his shooting an arrow to determine where he should make his headquarters sound improbable, although his keeping one or two small ships in the bay ready for making his escape if suddenly attacked seems a rational precaution, and if only there were a little more evidence outside the local traditions to go upon, it would be pleasant to let the imagination play upon the wild life led by the outlawed earl of huntingdon in this then inaccessible coast region. the railway southwards takes a curve inland, and, after winding in and out to make the best of the contour of the hills, the train finally steams very heavily and slowly into ravenscar station, right over the peak and 630 feet above the sea. on the way you get glimpses of the moors inland, and grand views over the curving bay. there is a station named fyling hall, after sir hugh cholmley's old house, halfway to ravenscar. it was about the year 1625 that sir hugh to a great extent rebuilt fyling hall, which is still standing; but he came in with his family before the plaster on the walls was thoroughly dry, and the household seems to have suffered in health on this account. shortly afterwards sir hugh lost his eldest son richard, who was only five years old, and this great trouble decided him to move to whitby; for in 1629 he sold fyling hall to sir john hotham, and took up his residence in the abbey house at whitby. raven hall, the large house conspicuously perched on the heights above the peak, is now converted into an hotel. there is a wonderful view from the castellated terraces, which in the distance suggest the remains of some ruined fortress. at the present time there is nothing to be seen older than the house whose foundations were dug in 1774. while the building operations were in progress, however, a roman stone, now in whitby museum, was unearthed. the inscription has been translated: 'justinian, governor of the province, and vindician, general of the forces of upper britain, for the second time, with the younger provincial soldiers built this fort, the manager of public works giving his assistance.' there is therefore ample evidence for believing that this commanding height was used by the romans as a military post, although subsequently there were no further attempts to fortify the place, scarborough, so much more easily defensible, being chosen instead. a rather pathetic attempt to foster the establishment of a watering-place has, however, been lately put on foot, but beyond some elaborately prepared roads and two or three isolated blocks of houses, there is fortunately little response to this artificial cultivation of a summer resort on the bare hill-top. following this lofty coast southwards, you reach hayburn wyke, where a stream drops perpendicularly over some square masses of rock. after very heavy rains the waterfall attains quite a respectable size, but even under such favourable conditions the popularity of the place to a great extent spoils what might otherwise be a pleasant surprise to the rambler. the woodland paths leading down to the cove from the hotel by the station are exceedingly pretty, and in the summer it is not easy to find your way, despite the direction-boards nailed to trees here and there. but there are many wooded and mossy-pathed ravines equally pretty, where no charge is made for admittance, and where you can be away from your fellow-mortals and the silver paper they throw away from the chocolate they eat. there is a small stone circle not far from hayburn wyke station, to be found without much trouble, and those who are interested in early man will scarcely find a neighbourhood in this country more thickly honeycombed with tumuli and ancient earthworks. there is no particularly plain pathway through the fields to the valley where this stone circle can be seen, but it can easily be found after a careful study of the large scale ordnance map which they will show you at the hotel; and if there be any difficulty in locating the exact position of the stones, the people at the neighbouring farm are exceedingly kind in giving directions. there are about fifteen monoliths making up the circle, and they are all lying flat on the ground, so that in the summer they are very much overgrown with rank grass and low bushes. this was probably the burial-place of some prehistoric chief, but no mound remains. chapter v scarborough dazzling sunshine, a furious wind, flapping and screaming gulls, crowds of fishing-boats, and innumerable people jostling one another on the seafront, made up the chief features of my first view of scarborough. by degrees i discovered that behind the gulls and the brown sails were old houses, their roofs dimly red through the transparent haze, and above them appeared a great green cliff, with its uneven outline defined by the curtain walls and towers of the castle which had made scarborough a place of importance in the civil war and in earlier times. the wide-curving bay was filled with huge breaking waves which looked capable of destroying everything within their reach, but they seemed harmless enough when i looked a little further out, where eight or ten gray warships were riding at their anchors, apparently motionless. from the outer arm of the harbour, where the seas were angrily attempting to dislodge the top row of stones, i could make out the great mass of gray buildings stretching right to the extremity of the bay. i tried to pick out individual buildings from this city-like watering-place, but, beyond discovering the position of the spa and one or two of the mightier hotels, i could see very little, and instead fell to wondering how many landladies and how many foreign waiters the long lines of gray roofs represented. this raised so many unpleasant recollections of the various types i had encountered that i determined to go no nearer to modern scarborough than the pier-head upon which i stood. a specially big wave, however, soon drove me from this position to a drier if more crowded spot, and, reconsidering my objections, i determined to see something of the innumerable gray streets which make up the fashionable watering-place. the terraced gardens on the steep cliffs along the sea-front were most elaborately well kept, but a more striking feature of scarborough is the magnificence of so many of the shops. they suggest a city rather than a seaside town, and give you an idea of the magnitude of the permanent population of the place as well as the flood of summer and winter visitors. the origin of scarborough's popularity was undoubtedly due to the chalybeate waters of the spa, discovered in 1620, almost at the same time as those of tunbridge wells and epsom. the unmistakable signs of antiquity in the narrow streets adjoining the harbour irresistibly remind one of the days when sea-bathing had still to be popularized, when the efficacy of scarborough's medicinal spring had not been discovered, of the days when the place bore as little resemblance to its present size or appearance as the fishing-town at robin hood's bay. we do not know that piers gaveston, sir hugh cholmley, and other notabilities who have left their mark on the pages of scarborough's history, might not, were they with us to-day, welcome the pierrot, the switchback, the restaurant, and other means by which pleasure-loving visitors wile away their hardly-earned holidays; but for my part the story of scarborough's mayor who was tossed in a blanket is far more entertaining than the songs of nigger minstrels or any of the commercial attempts to amuse. this strangely improper procedure with one who held the highest office in the municipality took place in the reign of james ii., and the king's leanings towards popery were the cause of all the trouble. on april 27, 1688, a declaration for liberty of conscience was published, and by royal command the said declaration was to be read in every protestant church in the land. mr. thomas aislabie, the mayor of scarborough, duly received a copy of the document, and, having handed it to the clergyman, mr. noel boteler, ordered him to read it in church on the following sunday morning. there seems little doubt that the worthy mr. boteler at once recognised a wily move on the part of the king, who under the cover of general tolerance would foster the growth of the roman religion until such time as the catholics had attained sufficient power to suppress protestantism. mr. mayor was therefore informed that the declaration would not be read. on sunday morning (august 11) when the omission had been made, the mayor left his pew, and, stick in hand, walked up the aisle, seized the minister, and caned him as he stood at his reading-desk. scenes of such a nature did not occur every day even in 1688, and the storm of indignation and excitement among the members of the congregation did not subside so quickly as it had risen. the cause of the poor minister was championed in particular by a certain captain ouseley, and the discussion of the matter on the bowling-green on the following day led to the suggestion that the mayor should be sent for to explain his conduct. as he took no notice of a courteous message requesting his attendance, the captain repeated the summons accompanied by a file of musketeers. in the meantime many suggestions for dealing with mr. aislabie in a fitting manner were doubtless made by the captain's brother officers, and, further, some settled course of action seems to have been agreed upon, for we do not hear of any hesitation on the part of the captain on the arrival of the mayor, whose rage must by this time have been bordering upon apoplexy. a strong blanket was ready, and captains carvil, fitzherbert, hanmer, and rodney, led by captain ouseley and assisted by as many others as could find room, seizing the sides, in a very few moments mr. mayor was revolving and bumping, rising and falling, as though he were no weight at all. this public degradation was too much to be borne without substantial redress. he therefore set out at once for london to obtain satisfaction from his sovereign. but ouseley was wise enough to look after his own interests in that quarter himself, and in two letters we see the upshot of the matter. 'london, 'september 22, 1688. '....captain ouseley is said to be come to town to give reasons for tossing the mayor of scarborough in a blanket. as part of his plea he has brought with him a collection of articles against the said mayor, and the attestations of many gentlemen of note.' 'london, 'september 29, 1688. 'the mayor of scarborough and captain ouseley, who tossed the other in a blanket, were heard last night before the council: the captain pleaded his majesty's gracious pardon (which is in the press) and so both were dismissed.' aislabie was the last of the only five mayors the town had then known, and the fact that the office had only been instituted in 1684 seems to show that what reverence had gathered round the person of the chief magistrate was not sufficient to stand in the face of such outrageous conduct as the public caning of the minister. the townsfolk decided that they had had enough of mayors, for on november 16 in the same autumn scarborough was once more placed under the control of two bailiffs, as had been the case previous to 1684. if the castle does not show many interesting buildings beyond the keep and the long line of walls and drum-towers, there is so much concerning it that is of great human interest that i should scarcely feel able to grumble if there were still fewer remains. behind the ancient houses in quay street rises the steep, grassy cliff, up which one must climb by various rough pathways to the fortified summit. on the side facing the mainland, a hollow, known as the dyke, is bridged by a tall and narrow archway, in place of the drawbridge of the seventeenth century and earlier times. on the same side is a massive gateway, looking across an open space to st. mary's church, which suffered so severely during the sieges of the castle. the maimed church--for the chancel has never been rebuilt--looks across the dyke to the shattered keep, and so apparent are the results of the cannonading between them that no one requires to be told that the parliamentary forces mounted their ordnance in the chancel and tower of the church, and it is equally apparent that the royalists returned the fire hotly. the great siege lasted for nearly a year, and although his garrison was small, and there was practically no hope of relief, sir hugh cholmley seems to have kept a stout heart up to the end. with him throughout this long period of privation and suffering was his beautiful and courageous wife, whose comparatively early death, at the age of fifty-four, must to some extent be attributed to the strain and fatigue borne during these months of warfare. sir hugh seems to have almost worshipped his wife, for in his memoirs he is never weary of describing her perfections. 'she was of the middle stature of women,' he writes, 'and well shaped, yet in that not so singular as in the beauty of her face, which was but of a little model, and yet proportionable to her body; her eyes black and full of loveliness and sweetness, her eyebrows small and even, as if drawn with a pencil, a very little, pretty, well-shaped mouth, which sometimes (especially when in a muse or study) she would draw up into an incredible little compass; her hair a sad chestnut; her complexion brown, but clear, with a fresh colour in her cheeks, a loveliness in her looks inexpressible; and by her whole composure was so beautiful a sweet creature at her marriage as not many did parallel, few exceed her in the nation; yet the inward endowments and perfections of her mind did exceed those outward of her body, being a most pious virtuous person, of great integrity and discerning judgment in most things.' her husband speaks of her 'sweet good-nature,' and of how she was always ready to be touched with other people's wants before her own. that such nobleness of character should shine out brilliantly during the siege was inevitable, and sir hugh tells us that, though she was of a timorous nature, she bore herself during great danger with 'a courage above her sex.' on one occasion sir john meldrum, the parliamentary commander, sent proposals to sir hugh cholmley, which he accompanied with savage threats, that if his terms were not immediately accepted he would make a general assault on the castle that night, and in the event of one drop of his men's blood being shed he would give orders for a general massacre of the garrison, sparing neither man nor woman. to a man whose devotion to his beautiful wife was so great, a threat of this nature must have been a severe shock to his determination to hold out. but from his own writings we are able to picture for ourselves sir hugh's anxious and troubled face lighting up on the approach of the cause of his chief concern. lady cholmley, without any sign of the inward misgivings or dejection which, with her gentle and shrinking nature, must have been a great struggle, came to her husband, and implored him to on no account let her peril influence his decision to the detriment of his own honour or the king's affairs. sir john meldrum's proposals having been rejected, the garrison prepared itself for the furious attack commenced on may 11. the assault was well planned, for while the governor's attention was turned towards the gateway leading to the castle entrance, another attack was made at the southern end of the wall towards the sea, where until the year 1730 charles's tower stood. the bloodshed at this point was greater than at the gateway. at the head of a chosen division of troops, sir john meldrum climbed the almost precipitous ascent with wonderful courage, only to meet with such spirited resistance on the part of the besieged that, when the attack was abandoned, it was discovered that meldrum had received a dangerous wound penetrating to his thigh, and that several of his officers and men had been killed. meanwhile, at the gateway, the first success of the assailants had been checked at the foot of the grand tower or keep, for at that point the rush of drab-coated and helmeted men was received by such a shower of stones and missiles that many stumbled and were crushed on the steep pathway. not even cromwell's men could continue to face such a reception, and before very long the governor could embrace his wife in the knowledge that the great attack had failed. in between such scenes as these, when the air was filled with the shouts and yells of attackers and besieged, when the crack of the muskets and the intermittent reports of the cannon almost deafened her, lady cholmley was assiduously attending to the wounded and the many cases of scurvy, which was rampant among the garrison. one of her maids who shared these labours crept out of the castle one night with a view to reaching the town and escaping further drudgery and privations; but a roundhead sentry discovered her and sent her back to the castle, thinking that she was a spy. when the great keep was partially destroyed, lady cholmley was forced 'to lie in a little cabbin on the ground several months together, when she took a defluction of rhume upon one of her eyes, which troubled her ever after, and got also a touch of the scurvy then rife in the castle, and of which it is thought she was not well after.' who can wonder that sir hugh appreciated the courage of this noble lady, and i marvel still more at her fortitude when i read of the frailties her husband mentions so gently, fearing, no doubt, that without a few shadows no one would accept his picture as genuine. 'if she had taken impression of anything, it was hard to remove it with reason or argument, till she had considered of it herself; neither could she well endure adversity or crosses, though it pleased the lord to exercise her with them, by my many troubles and the calamity of the times. she would be much troubled at evils which could neither be prevented nor remedied, and sometimes discontented without any great cause, especially in her disposition of health; for, being of a tender constitution, and spun of a fine thread, every disaster took impression on her body and mind, and would make her both sick and often inclinable to be melancholy, especially in my absence.' at last, on july 22, 1645--his forty-fifth birthday--sir hugh was forced to come to an agreement with the enemy, by which he honourably surrendered the castle three days later. it was a sad procession that wound its way down the steep pathway, littered with the debris of broken masonry: for many of sir hugh's officers and soldiers were in such a weak condition that they had to be carried out in sheets or helped along between two men, and the parliamentary officer adds, rather tersely, that 'the rest were not very fit to march.' the scurvy had depleted the ranks of the defenders to such an extent that the women in the castle, despite the presence of lady cholmley, threatened to stone the governor unless he capitulated. the reduction of scarborough castle was considered a profound success to the side of the parliament, 'the moderate intelligencer' of july 23, 1645, announcing the fact with great satisfaction, 'we heare likewise that _scarborough_ is also yeelded into our hands, sir hugh hath none other conditions for himself, but with his wife and children passe beyond seas. this is excellent good newes, and is a very terrible blow to the enemy.' three years later the castle was again besieged by the parliamentary forces, for colonel matthew boynton, the governor, had declared for the king. the garrison held out from august to december, when terms were made with colonel hugh bethell, by which the governor, officers, gentlemen, and soldiers, marched out with 'their colours flying, drums beating, musquets loaden, bandeleers filled, matches lighted, and bullet in mouth, to a close called scarborough common,' where they laid down their arms. before i leave scarborough i must go back to early times, in order that the antiquity of the place may not be slighted owing to the omission of any reference to the town in the domesday book. tosti, count of northumberland, who, as everyone knows, was brother of the harold who fought at senlac hill, had brought about an insurrection of the northumbrians, and having been dispossessed by his brother, he revenged himself by inviting the help of haralld hadrada, king of norway. the norseman promptly accepted the offer, and, taking with him his family and an army of warriors, sailed for the shetlands, where tosti joined him. the united forces then came down the east coast of britain until they reached scardaburgum, where they landed and prepared to fight the inhabitants. the town was then built entirely of timber, and there was, apparently, no castle of any description on the great hill, for the norsemen, finding their opponents inclined to offer a stout resistance, tried other tactics. they gained possession of the hill, constructed a huge fire, and when the wood was burning fiercely, flung the blazing brands down on to the wooden houses below. the fire spread from one hut to another with sufficient speed to drive out the defenders, who in the confusion which followed were slaughtered by the enemy. this occurred in the momentous year 1066, when harold, having defeated the norsemen and slain haralld hadrada at stamford bridge, had to hurry southwards to meet william the norman at hastings. it is not surprising, therefore, that the compilers of the conqueror's survey should have failed to record the existence of the blackened embers of what had once been a town. but such a site as the castle hill could not long remain idle in the stormy days of the norman kings, and william le gros, earl of albemarle and lord of holderness, recognising the natural defensibility of the rock, built the massive walls which have withstood so many assaults, and even now form the most prominent feature of scarborough. chapter vi whitby 'behold the glorious summer sea as night's dark wings unfold, and o'er the waters, 'neath the stars, the harbour lights behold.' e. teschemacher. despite a huge influx of summer visitors, and despite the modern town which has grown up to receive them, whitby is still one of the most strikingly picturesque towns in england. but at the same time, if one excepts the abbey, the church, and the market-house, there are scarcely any architectural attractions in the town. the charm of the place does not lie so much in detail as in broad effects. the narrow streets have no surprises in the way of carved-oak brackets or curious panelled doorways, although narrow passages and steep flights of stone steps abound. on the other hand, the old parts of the town, when seen from a distance, are always presenting themselves in new apparel. in the early morning the east cliff generally appears merely as a pale gray silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a fretted one the abbey. but as the sun climbs upwards, colour and definition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their ruddy tones. at mid-day, when the sunlight pours down upon the medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly coloured. the predominant note is the red of the chimneys and roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. on a clear day, when detached clouds are passing across the sun, the houses are sometimes lit up in the strangest fashion, their quaint outlines being suddenly thrown out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow upon the grass and rocks behind. but there is scarcely a chimney in this old part of whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smoke that slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is no bright sunshine, colour and detail are subdued in the haze. in many towns whose antiquity and picturesqueness are more popular than the attractions of whitby, the railway deposits one in some distressingly ugly modern excrescence, from which it may even be necessary for a stranger to ask his way to the old-world features he has come to see. but at whitby the railway, without doing any harm to the appearance of the town, at once gives a visitor as typical a scene of fishing-life as he will ever find. when the tide is up and the wharves are crowded with boats, this upper portion of whitby harbour is at its best, and to step from the railway compartment entered at king's cross into this busy scene is an experience to be remembered. in the deepening twilight of a clear evening the harbour gathers to itself the additional charm of mysterious indefiniteness, and among the long-drawn-out reflections appear sinuous lines of yellow light beneath the lamps by the bridge. looking towards the ocean from the outer harbour, one sees the massive arms which whitby has thrust into the waves, holding aloft the steady lights that 'safely guide the mighty ships into the harbour bay.' if we keep to the waterside, modern whitby has no terrors for us. it is out of sight, and might therefore have never existed. but when we have crossed the bridge, and passed along the narrow thoroughfare known as church street to the steps leading up the face of the cliff, we must prepare ourselves for a new aspect of the town. there, upon the top of the west cliff, stand rows of sad-looking and dun-coloured lodging-houses, relieved by the aggressive bulk of a huge hotel, with corner turrets, that frowns savagely at the unfinished crescent, where there are many apartments with 'rooms facing the sea.' the only redeeming feature of this modern side of whitby is the circumscribed area it occupies, so that the view from the top of the 199 steps we have climbed is not altogether vitiated. a distinctive feature of the west side of the river has been lost in the sails of the union mill, which were taken down some years ago, and the solid brick building where many of the whitby people, by the excellent method of cooperation, obtained their flour at reduced prices is now the headquarters of some volunteers. the town seems to have no idea of re-erecting the sails of the windmill, and as i have so far heard of no scheme for demolishing the unpleasant-looking houses on the west cliff, we will shut our eyes to these shortcomings, and admit that the task is not difficult in the presence of such a superb view over whitby's glorious surroundings. we look over the chimney-stacks of the topmost houses, and see the silver esk winding placidly in the deep channel it has carved for itself; and further away we see the far-off moorland heights, brown and blue, where the sources of the broad river down below are fed by the united efforts of innumerable tiny streams deep in the heather. behind us stands the massive-looking parish church, with its norman tower, so sturdily built that its height seems scarcely greater than its breadth. there is surely no other church with such a ponderous exterior that is so completely deceptive as to its internal aspect, for st. mary's contains the most remarkable series of beehive-like galleries that were ever crammed into a parish church. they are not merely very wide and ill-arranged, but they are superposed one above the other. the free use of white paint all over the sloping tiers of pews has prevented the interior from being as dark as it would have otherwise been, but the result of all this painted deal has been to give the building the most eccentric and indecorous appearance. still, there are few who will fail to thank the good folks of whitby for preserving an ecclesiastical curiosity of such an unusual nature. the box-pews on the floor of the church are separated by very narrow gangways--we cannot call them aisles--and the gallery across the chancel arch is particularly noticeable for the twisted wooden columns supporting it. various pews in the transepts and elsewhere have been reserved for many generations for the use of people from outlying villages, such as aislaby, ugglebarnby, and hawskercum-stainsacre, and it was this necessity for accommodating a very large congregation that taxed the ingenuity of the churchwardens, and resulted in the strange interior existing to-day. the early history of whitby from the time of the landing of roman soldiers in dunsley bay seems to be very closely associated with the abbey founded by hilda about two years after the battle of winwidfield, fought on november 15, a.d. 654; but i will not venture to state an opinion here as to whether there was any town at streoneshalh before the building of the abbey, or whether the place that has since become known as whitby grew on account of the presence of the abbey. such matters as these have been fought out by an expert in the archaeology of cleveland--the late canon atkinson, who seemed to take infinite pleasure in demolishing the elaborately constructed theories of those painstaking historians of the eighteenth century, dr. young and mr. lionel charlton. many facts, however, which throw light on the early days of the abbey are now unassailable. we see that hilda must have been a most remarkable woman for her times, instilling into those around her a passion for learning as well as right-living, for despite the fact that they worked and prayed in rude wooden buildings, with walls formed, most probably, of split tree-trunks, after the fashion of the church at greenstead in essex, we find the institution producing, among others, such men as bosa and john, both bishops of york, and such a poet as caadmon. the legend of his inspiration, however, may be placed beside the story of how the saintly abbess turned the snakes into the fossil ammonites with which the liassic shores of whitby are strewn. hilda, who probably died in the year 680, was succeeded by aelfleda, the daughter of king oswin of northumbria, whom she had trained in the abbey, and there seems little doubt that her pupil carried on successfully the beneficent work of the foundress. aelfleda had the support of her mother's presence as well as the wise counsels of bishop trumwine, who had taken refuge at streoneshalh, after having been driven from his own sphere of work by the depredations of the picts and scots. we then learn that aelfleda died at the age of fifty-nine, but from that year--probably 713--a complete silence falls upon the work of the abbey; for if any records were made during the next century and a half, they have been totally lost. about the year 867 the danes reached this part of yorkshire, and we know that they laid waste the abbey, and most probably the town also; but the invaders gradually started new settlements, or 'bys,' and whitby must certainly have grown into a place of some size by the time of edward the confessor, for just previous to the norman invasion it was assessed for danegeld to the extent of a sum equivalent to â£3,500 at the present time. after the conquest a monk named reinfrid succeeded in reviving a monastery on the site of the old one, having probably gained the permission of william de percy, the lord of the district. the new establishment, however, was for monks only, and was for some time merely a priory. the form of the successive buildings from the time of hilda until the building of the stately abbey church, whose ruins are now to be seen, is a subject of great interest, but, unfortunately, there are few facts to go upon. the very first church was, as i have already suggested, a building of rude construction, scarcely better than the humble dwellings of the monks and nuns. the timber walls were most probably thatched, and the windows would be of small lattice or boards pierced with small holes. gradually the improvements brought about would have led to the use of stone for the walls, and the buildings destroyed by the danes probably resembled such examples of anglo-saxon work as may still be seen in the churches of bradford-on-avon and monkwearmouth. the buildings erected by reinfrid under the norman influence then prevailing in england must have been a slight advance upon the destroyed fabric, and we know that during the time of his successor, serlo de percy, there was a certain godfrey in charge of the building operations, and there is every reason to believe that he completed the church during the fifty years of prosperity the monastery passed through at that time. but this was not the structure which survived, for towards the end of stephen's reign, or during that of henry ii., the unfortunate convent was devastated by the king of norway, who entered the harbour, and, in the words of the chronicle, 'laid waste everything, both within doors and without.' the abbey slowly recovered from this disaster, and if any church were built on the ruins between 1160 and the reconstruction commenced in 1220, there is no part of it surviving to-day in the beautiful ruin that still makes a conspicuous landmark from the sea. it was after the dissolution that the abbey buildings came into the hands of sir richard cholmley, who paid over to henry viii. the sum of â£333 8s. 4d. the manors of eskdaleside and ugglebarnby, with all 'their rights, members and appurtenances as they formerly had belonged to the abbey of whitby,' henceforward belonged to sir richard and his successors. sir hugh cholmley, whose defence of scarborough castle has made him a name in history, was born on july 22, 1600, at roxby, near pickering. he has been justly called 'the father of whitby,' and it is to him we owe a fascinating account of his life at whitby in stuart and jacobean times. he describes how he lived for some time in the gate-house of the abbey buildings, 'till my house was repaired and habitable, which then was very ruinous and all unhandsome, the wall being only of timber and plaster, and ill-contrived within: and besides the repairs, or rather re-edifying the house, i built the stable and barn, i heightened the outwalls of the court double to what they were, and made all the wall round about the paddock; so that the place hath been improved very much, both for beauty and profit, by me more than all my ancestors, for there was not a tree about the house but was set in my time, and almost by my own hand. the court levels, which laid upon a hanging ground, unhandsomely, very ill-watered, having only the low well, which is in the almsers-close, which i covered; and also discovered, and erected, the other adjoining conduit, and the well in the courtyard from whence i conveyed by leaden pipes water into the house, brewhouse, and washhouse.' in the spring of 1636 the reconstruction of the abbey house was finished, and sir hugh moved in with his family. 'my dear wife,' he says, '(who was excellent at dressing and making all handsome within doors) had put it into a fine posture, and furnished with many good things, so that, i believe, there were few gentlemen in the country, of my rank, exceeded it.... i was at this time made deputy-lieutenant and colonel over the train-bands within the hundred of whitby strand, ryedale, pickering, lythe and scarborough town; for that, my father being dead, the country looked upon me as the chief of my family.' sir hugh had been somewhat addicted to gambling in his younger days, and had made a few debts of his own before he undertook to deal with his father's heavy liabilities, and in the early years of his married life he had been very much taken up with the difficult and arduous work of paying off the amounts due to the clamorous creditors. during this process he had been forced to live very quietly, and had incidentally sifted out his real friends from among his relations and acquaintances. thus, it is with pardonable pride that he says: 'having mastered my debts, i did not only appear at all public meetings in a very gentlemanly equipage, but lived in as handsome and plentiful fashion at home as any gentleman in all the country, of my rank. i had between thirty and forty in my ordinary family, a chaplain who said prayers every morning at six, and again before dinner and supper, a porter who merely attended the gates, which were ever shut up before dinner, when the bell rung to prayers, and not opened till one o'clock, except for some strangers who came to dinner, which was ever fit to receive three or four besides my family, without any trouble; and whatever their fare was, they were sure to have a hearty welcome. twice a week, a certain number of old people, widows and indigent persons, were served at my gates with bread and good pottage made of beef, which i mention that those which succeed may follow the example.' not content with merely benefiting the aged folk of his town, sir hugh took great pains to extend the piers, and in 1632 went to london to petition the 'council-table' to allow a general contribution for this purpose throughout the country. as a result of his efforts, 'all that part of the pier to the west end of the harbour' was erected, and yet he complains that, though it was the means of preserving a large section of the town from the sea, the townsfolk would not interest themselves in the repairs necessitated by force of the waves. 'i wish, with all my heart,' he exclaims, 'the next generation may have more public spirit.' sir hugh cholmley also built a market-house for the town, and removed the bridge to its present position. owing to rebuilding, neither of these actual works remains with us to-day, but their influence on the progress of whitby must have been considerable. on a june morning in the year after sir hugh had settled down so handsomely in his refurbished house, two dutch men-of-war chased into the harbour 'a small pickroon belonging to the king of spain.' the hollanders had 400 men in one ship and 200 in the other, but the spaniard had only thirty men and two small guns. the holland ships proceeded to anchor outside the harbour, and, lowering their longboats, sent ashore forty men, all armed with pistols. but the spaniards had been on the alert, and having warped their vessel to a safer position above the bridge, they placed their two guns on the deck, and every man prepared himself to defend the ship. 'i, having notice of this,' writes sir hugh, 'fearing they might do here the like affront as they did at scarborough, where they landed one hundred men, and took a ship belonging to the king of spain out of the harbour, sent for the holland captains, and ordered them not to offer any act of hostility; for that the spaniard was the king's friend, and to have protection in his ports. after some expostulations, they promised not to meddle with the dunkirker [spaniard] if he offered no injury to them; which i gave him strict charge against, and to trust to the king's protection. these holland captains leaving me, and going into the town, sent for the dunkirk captain to dine with them, and soon after took occasion to quarrel with him, at the same time ordered their men to fall on the dunkirk ship, which they soon surprised, the captain and most of the men being absent. i being in my courtyard, and hearing some pistols discharged, and being told the dunkirker and hollanders were at odds, made haste unto the town, having only a cane in my hand, and one that followed me without any weapon, thinking my presence would pacify all differences. when i came to the river-side, on the sand between the coal-yard and the bridge, i found the holland captain with a pistol in his hand, calling to his men, then in the dunkirk ship, to send a boat for him. i gave him good words, and held him in treaty until i got near him, and then, giving a leap on him, caught hold of his pistol, which i became master of; yet not without some hazard from the ship, for one from thence levelled a musket at me; but i espying it, turned the captain between me and him, which prevented his shooting.' when sir hugh had secured the captain, he sent a boatload of men to retake the ship, and as soon as the hollanders saw it approaching, they fled to their own vessels outside the harbour. in the afternoon sir hugh intercepted a letter to his prisoner, telling him to be of good cheer, for at midnight they would land 200 men and bring him away. this was a serious matter, and sir hugh sent to sir john hotham, the high sheriff of the county, who at once came from fyling, and summoned all the adjacent train-bands. there were about 200 men on guard all through the night, and evidently the hollanders had observed the activity on shore, for they made no attack. the ships continued to hover outside the harbour for two or three days, until sir hugh sent the captain to york. he was afterwards taken to london, where he remained a prisoner, after the fashion of those times, for nearly two years. it was after the troublous times of the civil war that sir hugh re-established himself at whitby, and opened a new era of prosperity for himself and the townsfolk in the alum-works at saltwick nab. chapter vii the cleveland hills on their their northern and western flanks the cleveland hills have a most imposing and mountainous aspect, although their greatest altitudes do not aspire more than about 1,500 feet. but they rise so suddenly to their full height out of the flat sea of green country that they often appear as a coast defended by a bold range of mountains. roseberry topping stands out in grim isolation, on its masses of alum rock, like a huge seaworn crag, considerably over 1,000 feet high. but this strangely menacing peak raises its defiant head over nothing but broad meadows, arable land, and woodlands, and his only warfare is with the lower strata of storm-clouds, which is a convenient thing for the people who live in these parts; for long ago they used the peak as a sign of approaching storms, having reduced the warning to the easily-remembered couplet: 'when roseberry topping wears a cap, let cleveland then beware of a clap.' in a similar manner the scarborough folk used oliver's mount, the isolated hill at the back of the town, as a ready-made barometer, for they knew that 'when oliver's mount puts on his hat, scarborough town will pay for that.' it is difficult to decide on the correct spelling of roseberry topping, as it is often spelt in the same way as the earldom, and as frequently in old writings it appears as 'rosebury.' camden, who wrote in tudor times, called it ounsberry topping, which certainly does not help matters. from the fact that you can see this remarkable peak from almost every point of the compass except south-westwards, it must follow that from the top of the hill there are views in all those directions. but to see so much of the country at once comes as a surprise to everyone. stretching inland towards the backbone of england, there is spread out a huge tract of smiling country, covered with a most complex network of hedges, which gradually melt away into the indefinite blue edge of the world where the hills of wensleydale rise from the plain. looking across the little town of guisborough, lying near the shelter of the hills, to the broad sweep of the north sea, this piece of yorkshire seems so small that one almost expects to see the cheviots away in the north. but, beyond the winding tees and the drifting smoke of the great manufacturing towns on its banks, one must be content with the county of durham, a huge section of which is plainly visible. turning towards the brown moorlands, the cultivation is exchanged for ridge beyond ridge of total desolation--a huge tract of land in this crowded england where the population for many square miles at a time consists of the inmates of a lonely farm or two in the circumscribed cultivated areas of the dales. eight or nine hundred years ago these valleys were choked up with forests. the early british inhabitants were more inclined to the hill-tops than the hollows, if the innumerable indications of their settlements be any guide, and there is every reason for believing that many of the hollows in the folds of the heathery moorlands were rarely visited by man. thus, the suggestion has been made that a few of the last representatives of now extinct monsters may have survived in these wild retreats, for how otherwise do we find persistent stories in these parts of yorkshire, handed down we cannot tell how many centuries, of strange creatures described as 'worms'? at loftus they show you the spot where a 'grisly worm' had its lair, and in many places there are traditions of strange long-bodied dragons who were slain by various valiant men. when we remember that the last wolf was killed in scotland in the seventeenth century, that africa is still adding to the list of living animals, and that the caves at kirkdale, near kirby moorside, revealed the bones of elephants, tigers, hyenas, and rhinoceroses, in an excellent state of preservation, though they were all broken, we are inclined to believe that these strange stories may have had some basis of fact. on easby moor, a few miles to the south of roseberry topping, the tall column to the memory of captain cook stands like a lighthouse on this inland coast-line. the lofty position it occupies among these brown and purply-green heights makes the monument visible over a great tract of the sailor's native cleveland. the people who live in marton, the village of his birthplace, can see the memorial of their hero's fame, and the country lads of to-day are constantly reminded of the success which attended the industry and perseverance of a humble marton boy. the cottage where james cook was born in 1728 has gone, but the field in which it stood is called cook's garth. the shop at staithes, generally spoken of as a 'huckster's,' where cook was apprenticed as a boy, has also disappeared; but, unfortunately, that unpleasant story of his having taken a shilling from his master's till, when the attractions of the sea proved too much for him to resist, persistently clings to all accounts of his early life. there seems no evidence to convict him of this theft, but there are equally no facts by which to clear him. but if we put into the balance his subsequent term of employment at whitby, the excellent character he gained when he went to sea, and professor j.k. laughton's statement that he left staithes 'after some disagreement with his master,' there seems every reason to believe that the story is untrue. if it were otherwise, the towering monument on easby moor would be a questionable inspiration to posterity. i have seldom seen a more uninhabited and inhospitable-looking country than the broad extent of purple hills that stretch away to the south-west from great ayton and kildale moors. walking from guisborough to kildale on a wild and stormy afternoon in october, i was totally alone for the whole distance when i had left behind me the baker's boy who was on his way to hutton with a heavy basket of bread and cakes. hutton, which is somewhat of a model village for the retainers attached to hutton hall, stands in a lovely hollow at the edge of the moors. the steep hills are richly clothed with sombre woods, and the peace and seclusion reigning there is in marked contrast to the bleak wastes above. when i climbed the steep road on that autumn afternoon, and, passing the zone of tall, withered bracken, reached the open moorland, i seemed to have come out merely to be the plaything of the elements; for the south-westerly gale, when it chose to do so, blew so fiercely that it was difficult to make any progress at all. overhead was a dark roof composed of heavy masses of cloud, forming long parallel lines of gray right to the horizon. on each side of the rough, water-worn road the heather made a low wall, two or three feet high, and stretched right away to the horizon in every direction. in the lulls, between the fierce blasts, i could hear the trickle of the water in the rivulets deep down in the springy cushion of heather. a few nimble sheep would stare at me from a distance, and then disappear, or some grouse might hover over a piece of rising ground; but otherwise there were no signs of living creatures. nearing kildale, the road suddenly plunged downwards to a stream flowing through a green, cultivated valley, with a lonely farm on the further slope. there was a fir-wood above this, and as i passed over the hill, among the tall, bare stems, the clouds parted a little in the west, and let a flood of golden light into the wood. instantly the gloom seemed to disappear, and beyond the dark shoulder of moorland, where the cook monument appeared against the glory of the sunset, there seemed to reign an all-pervading peace, the wood being quite silent, for the wind had dropped. the rough track through the trees descended hurriedly, and soon gave a wide view over kildale. the valley was full of colour from the glowing west, and the steep hillsides opposite appeared lighter than the indigo clouds above, now slightly tinged with purple. the little village of kildale nestled down below, its church half buried in yellow foliage. the railway comes through eskdale from whitby to stockton-on-tees, and thus gives the formerly remote valley easy communication with the outside world. it is dangerous, however, not to allow an ample margin for catching the trains, for there are only two or three in each direction in the autumn and winter, and a gap of about four hours generally separates the trains. i had been a long ramble over the moors on the north side of eskdale, and had allowed the sun to set while i was still drawing on the top of danby beacon. but, having a good map with me, i was quite confident of finding the road to lealholm without difficulty, as the distance was only a very few miles. the crimson globe in the west disappeared behind the dark horizon over the two fryup valleys, and left the world in twilight. but it would not be dark for an hour, and except for mistaking the sheep for boulders and boulders for sheep, and being consequently surprised when what i had imagined was a mass of gray stone suddenly disappeared on my approach, nothing unusual happened. i had no fear of losing my way, but what my map had led me to believe would be a plain road was a mere track in the heather, and at times it became too indistinct to follow easily. lealholm station lay in the valley on my right, but i could find no road leading there, and i wasted precious time in frequent consultations with the map. coming to a farm, i inquired the way, and was directed over a number of muddy fields, which gradually brought me down into the valley. it was now sufficiently dark for all the landmarks i had noticed to be scarcely visible, but, on inquiring at a cottage, i was told that it would take only ten minutes to walk to the station. i had a clear quarter of an hour, and, hurrying forward, soon found myself on a railway-bridge over a deep cutting. there was just enough light to see that no station was in sight, and it was impossible to find in which direction the station lay. there was no time to go back to the cottage, and there were no others to be seen. looking at the map again, i could not discover the position of this bridge, for it was on no road, as it seemed merely to connect the pastures on either side. however, i felt fairly certain that i had rather overstepped the station, and therefore climbed down the bank into the cutting, and commenced walking towards the west. coming out into the open, i thought i saw the lamps on the platforms about half a mile further on; but on pressing forward the lights became suddenly bigger, and in a minute my train passed me with a thundering rush. evidently lealholm was to the east, and not the west of that cutting. it was then 5.40, and the next train left for whitby at about a quarter to ten. when the tail-lights of the train had disappeared into the cutting, i felt very much alone, and the silence of the countryside became oppressive. it seemed to me that this part of yorkshire was just as lonely as when canon atkinson first commenced his work in danby parish, and i was reminded of his friend's remark on hearing that he was going there: 'why, danby was not found out when they sent bonaparte to st. helena, or else they never would have taken the trouble to send him all the way there!' the ruined danby castle can still be seen on the slope above the esk, but the ancient bow bridge at castleton, which was built at the end of the twelfth century, was barbarously and needlessly destroyed in 1873. a picture of the bridge has, fortunately, been preserved in canon atkinson's 'forty years in a moorland parish.' that book has been so widely read that it seems scarcely necessary to refer to it here, but without the help of the vicar, who knew every inch of his wild parish, the danby district must seem much less interesting. chapter viii guisborough and the skelton valley although a mere fragment of the augustinian priory of guisborough is standing to-day, it is sufficiently imposing to convey a powerful impression of the former size and magnificence of the monastic church. this fragment is the gracefully buttressed east end of the choir, which rises from the level meadow-land to the east of the town. the stonework is now of a greenish-gray tone, but in the shadows there is generally a look of blue. beyond the ruin and through the opening of the great east window, now bare of tracery, you see the purple moors, with the ever-formidable roseberry topping holding its head above the green woods and pastures. the destruction of the priory took place most probably during the reign of henry viii., but there are no recorded facts to give the date of the spoiling of the stately buildings. the materials were probably sold to the highest bidder, for in the town of guisborough there are scattered many fragments of richly-carved stone, and ord, one of the historians of cleveland, says: 'i have beheld with sorrow, and shame, and indignation, the richly ornamented columns and carved architraves of god's temple supporting the thatch of a pig-house.' the norman priory church, founded in 1119, by the wealthy robert de brus of skelton, was, unfortunately, burnt down on may 16, 1289. walter of hemingburgh, a canon of guisborough, has written a quaintly detailed account of the origin of the fire. translated from the monkish latin, he says: 'on the first day of rogation-week, a devouring flame consumed our church of gysburn, with many theological books and nine costly chalices, as well as vestments and sumptuous images; and because past events are serviceable as a guide to future inquiries, i have thought it desirable, in the present little treatise, to give an account of the catastrophe, that accidents of a similar nature may be avoided through this calamity allotted to us. on the day above mentioned, which was very destructive to us, a vile plumber, with his two workmen, burnt our church whilst soldering up two holes in the old lead with fresh pewter. for some days he had already, with a wicked disposition, commenced, and placed his iron crucibles, along with charcoal and fire, on rubbish, or steps of a great height, upon dry wood with some turf and other combustibles. about noon (in the cross, in the body of the church, where he remained at his work until after mass) he descended before the procession of the convent, thinking that the fire had been put out by his workmen. they, however, came down quickly after him, without having completely extinguished the fire; and the fire among the charcoal revived, and partly from the heat of the iron, and partly from the sparks of the charcoal, the fire spread itself to the wood and other combustibles beneath. after the fire was thus commenced, the lead melted, and the joists upon the beams ignited; and then the fire increased prodigiously, and consumed everything.' hemingburgh concludes by saying that all that they could get from the culprits was the exclamation, 'quid potui ego?' shortly after this disaster the prior and convent wrote to edward ii., excusing themselves from granting a corrody owing to their great losses through the burning of the monastery, as well as the destruction of their property by the scots. but guisborough, next to fountains, was almost the richest establishment in yorkshire, and thus in a few years' time there arose from the norman foundations a stately church and convent built in the early decorated style. glimpses of the inner life of the priory are given in the archbishop's registers at york, which show how close and searching were the visitations by the archbishop in person or his commissioners, and one of the documents throws light on the sad necessity for these inspections. it deals with archbishop wickwaine's visit in 1280, and we find that the canons are censured for many short-comings. they were not to go outside the cloister after compline (the last service of the day) on the pretext of visiting guests. they were not to keep expensive schools for rich or poor, unless with special sanction. they were to turn out of the infirmary and punish the persons lying there who were only pretending to be ill, and the really sick were to be more kindly treated. there had evidently been discrimination in the quality of food served out to certain persons in the frater; but this was to be stopped, and food of one kind was to be divided equally. a more strict silence was to be kept in the cloister, and no one was to refrain from joining in the praises of god whilst in the choir. there seems to have been much improper conversation among the canons, for they are specially adjured in christ to abstain from repeating immoral stories. some of the canons who had made themselves notorious for quarrelling and caballing were to be debarred from promotion, and were commended to the prior and subprior for punishment. in 1309 simon constable, a refractory canon of bridlington, was sent to guisborough to undergo a course of penance, change of residence being always considered to give an excellent opportunity for thorough reform. however, in this case no good seems to have resulted, for about five years later he was sent back to bridlington with a worse character than before, and, besides much prayer and humiliation, he was to receive a _disciplina_ every friday at the hands of the prior. this made no improvement in his conduct, for in 1321 his behaviour brought him another penance and still greater severity. a few years after this the archbishop seems to have reproached the community for the conduct of this unruly brother, which was scarcely fair. the last vision of simon constable shows him to be as impenitent as ever, and the archbishop makes the awful threat that, if he does not reform at once, he will be put in a more confined place than he has ever been in before! can this suggest that the wicked canon was to be bricked up alive? these internal troubles were not, however, generally known to the outside world, but the unfaltering searchlight of the records falls upon such great folk as peter de mauley, fifth baron mulgrave, whose castle at mulgrave, near whitby, is mentioned elsewhere; lucy de thweng, wife of sir william le latimer; sir nicholas de meynyl; and katherine, wife of sir john dentorp, whose conduct merely reflected the morals of medieval times. it was, indeed, no uncommon event for the congregation to hear some high-born culprit confessing his sins as he walked barefoot and scantily clothed in the procession in york minster. an exceedingly beautiful crucifix of copper, richly gilded, was discovered during the early part of last century, when some men were digging amongst the foundations of an old building in commondale. there seems little doubt that this was a cell or chapel belonging to the monastery, for the crucifix bears the date 1119, the year of the founding of guisborough priory. another metal crucifix, probably belonging to the thirteenth century, was discovered at ingleby arncliffe. it was beautifully inlaid with brilliant white, green, red, and blue enamels, and the figure of christ was discovered to be hollow, and to contain two ancient parchments, written in monkish latin and scarcely legible. one of them was a charm, addressed to 'ye elves, and demons and all kind of apparition,' who were called upon in the name of the trinity, the virgin mary, the apostles, martyrs, mark, matthew, luke, and john, and the elect generally, to 'hurt not this servant of god, adam osanna, by night nor by day, but that, through the very great mercy of god jesus christ, by the help of saint mary, the mother of our lord jesus christ, he may rest in peace from all the aforesaid and other evils.' another intensely interesting relic of the great priory is the altar-tomb, believed to be that of robert de brus of annandale. the stone slabs are now built into the walls on each side of the porch of guisborough church. they may have been removed there from the abbey for safety at the time of the dissolution. hemingburgh, in his chronicle for the year 1294, says: 'robert de brus the fourth died on the eve of good friday; who disputed with john de balliol, before the king of england, about the succession to the kingdom of scotland. and, as he ordered when alive, he was buried in the priory of gysburn with great honour, beside his own father.' a great number of other famous people were buried here in accordance with their wills. guisborough has even been claimed as the resting-place of robert bruce, the champion of scottish freedom, but there is ample evidence for believing that his heart was buried at melrose abbey and his body in the church of dunfermline. the memory of mr. george venables--that most excellent man who devoted many years to gathering funds for a charity school in the town--is preserved on a monument in the church. he had retired from business, but, in order to find the means to start the school, he resumed his labours in london, and devoted the whole of the profits to this useful object. the central portion of the town of guisborough, by the market-cross and the two chief inns, is quaint and fairly picturesque, but the long street as it goes westward deteriorates into rows of new cottages, inevitable in a mining country. mining operations have been carried on around guisborough since the time of queen elizabeth, for the discovery of alum dates from that period, and when that industry gradually declined, it was replaced by the iron-mines of to-day. mr. thomas chaloner of guisborough, in his travels on the continent about the end of the sixteenth century, saw the pope's alum-works near rome, and was determined to start the industry in his native parish of guisborough, feeling certain that alum could be worked with profit in his own county. as it was essential to have one or two men who were thoroughly versed in the processes of the manufacture, mr. chaloner induced some of the pope's workmen by heavy bribes to come to england. the risks attending this overt act were terrible, for the alum-works brought in a large revenue to his holiness, and the discovery of such a design would have meant capital punishment to the offender. the workmen were therefore induced to get into large casks, which were secretly conveyed on board a ship that was shortly sailing for england. when the pope received the intelligence some time afterwards, he thundered forth against mr. chaloner and the workmen the most awful and comprehensive curse. they were to be cursed most wholly and thoroughly in every part of their bodies, every saint was to curse them, and from the thresholds of the holy church of god almighty they were to be sequestered, that they might 'be tormented, disposed of, and delivered over with dathan and abiram, and with those who say unto the lord god, "depart from us; we desire not to know thy ways."' despite the fearful nature of the curse, the venture prospered so much that the darcy family, about the year 1600, set up another works in the neighbourhood of guisborough; and as this also brought considerable wealth to the owners, a third was started at sandsend in 1615. many others followed, and in 1649 sir hugh cholmley started the works close to saltwick nab, within a short distance of his house at whitby. but although there must have been more than twenty of these works in operation in the eighteenth century, owing to cheaper methods of producing alum the industry is now quite extinct in cleveland. the broad valley stretching from guisborough to the sea contains the beautifully wooded park of skelton castle. the trees in great masses cover the gentle slopes on either side of the skelton beck, and almost hide the modern mansion. the buildings include part of the ancient castle of the bruces, who were lords of skelton for many years. it is recorded that peter de brus, one of the barons who helped to coerce john into signing the great charter at runnymede, made a curious stipulation when he granted some lands at leconfield to henry percy, his sister's husband. the property was to be held on condition that every christmas day he and his heirs should come to skelton castle and lead the lady by the arm from her chamber to the chapel. the old church of upleatham, standing by the road to saltburn, is a quaint fragment of a norman building. the tower, bearing the inscription 'william crow, chvrchwarden bvlded stepel--1664,' is an addition to what is probably only part of the nave of the little norman building. it is now used merely as a cemetery chapel, but it is picturesquely situated, and on the north wall the carved norman corbels may still be seen. chapter ix from pickering to rievaulx abbey the broad vale of pickering, watered by the derwent, the rye, and their many tributaries, is a wonderful contrast to the country we have been exploring. the level pastures, where cattle graze and cornfields abound, seem to suggest that we are separated from the heather by many leagues; but we have only to look beyond the hedgerows to see that the horizon to the north is formed by lofty moors only a few miles distant. just where the low meadows are beginning to rise steadily from the vale stands the town of pickering, dominated by the lofty stone spire of its parish church and by the broken towers of the castle. there is a wide street, bordered by dark stone buildings, that leads steeply from the river to the church. the houses are as a rule quite featureless, but we have learnt to expect this in a county where stone is abundant, for only the extremely old and the palpably new buildings stand christ. then comes herod's feast, with the king labelled _herodi_. the guests are shown with their arms on the table in the most curious positions, and all the royal folk are wearing ermine. the coronation of the virgin, the martyrdom of st. thomas a becket, and the martyrdom of st. edmund, who is perforated with arrows, complete the series on the north side. along the south wall the paintings show the story of st. catherine of alexandria and the seven corporal acts of mercy. further on come scenes from the life of our lord. there seems little doubt that all the paintings, including a number of others in the transepts and elsewhere that are now destroyed, were whitewashed over at the time of the reformation, and it was during some restoration work carried out in 1851 that indications of the paintings were accidentally laid bare. when the whole of the walls had been cleaned, careful coloured drawings were made, then colour wash was applied again, and the priceless paintings disappeared for a generation. the objections to what had been considered improper wall decoration for a parish church in the nineteenth century having been reasoned away, the pictures once more appeared, but in a very different condition to their first resurrection. however, the drawings were in existence, so that a careful restoration was possible, and as we see them to-day the subdued tones closely follow the original colours. the simple norman arcade on the north side of the nave has plain round columns and semicircular arches, but the south side belongs to later norman times, and has ornate columns and capitals. at least one member of the great bruce family, who had a house at pickering called bruce's hall, and whose ascendency at guisborough has already been mentioned, was buried here, for the figure of a knight in chain-mail by the lectern probably represents sir william bruce. in the chapel there is a sumptuous monument bearing the effigies of sir david and dame margery roucliffe. the knight wears the collar of s.s., and his arms are on his surcoat. when john leland, the 'royal antiquary' employed by henry viii., came to pickering, he described the castle, which was in a more perfect state than it is to-day. he says: 'in the first court of it be a 4 toures, of the which one is caullid rosamunde's toure.' also of the inner court he writes of '4 toures, wherof the kepe is one.' this keep and rosamund's tower, as well as the ruins of some of the others, are still to be seen on the outer walls, so that from some points of view the ruins are dignified and picturesque. the area enclosed was large, and in early times the castle must have been almost impregnable. but during the civil war it was much damaged by the soldiers quartered there, and sir hugh cholmley took lead, wood, and iron from it for the defence of scarborough. the wide view from the castle walls shows better than any description the importance of the position it occupied, and we feel, as we gaze over the vale or northwards to the moors, that this was the dominant power over the whole countryside. although lastingham is not on the road to helmsley, the few additional miles will scarcely be counted when we are on our way to a church which, besides being architecturally one of the most interesting in the county, is perhaps unique in having at one time had a curate whose wife kept a public house adjoining the church. although this will scarcely be believed, we have a detailed account of the matter in a little book published in 1806. the clergyman, whose name was carter, had to subsist on the slender salary of â£20 a year and a few surplice fees. this would not have allowed any margin for luxuries in the case of a bachelor; but this poor man was married, and he had thirteen children. he was a keen fisherman, and his angling in the moorland streams produced a plentiful supply of fish--in fact, more than his family could consume. but this, even though he often exchanged part of his catches with neighbours, was not sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, and drastic measures had to be taken. the parish was large, and, as many of the people were obliged to come 'from ten to fifteen miles' to church, it seemed possible that some profit might be made by serving refreshments to the parishioners. mrs. carter superintended this department, and it seems that the meals between the services soon became popular. but the story of 'a parson-publican' was soon conveyed to the archdeacon of the diocese, who at the next visitation endeavoured to find out the truth of the matter. mr. carter explained the circumstances, and showed that, far from being a source of disorder, his wife's public-house was an influence for good. 'i take down my violin,' he continued, 'and play them a few tunes, which gives me an opportunity of seeing that they get no more liquor than necessary for refreshment; and if the young people propose a dance, i seldom answer in the negative; nevertheless, when i announce time for return, they are ever ready to obey my commands.' the archdeacon appears to have been a broad-minded man, for he did not reprimand mr. carter at all; and as there seems to have been no mention of an increased stipend, the parson-publican must have continued this strange anomaly. it is difficult to say whether the public-house was conducted in the crypt beneath the church or not. i am inclined to think that mrs. carter's inn was the present 'blacksmith's arms,' but there is distinct evidence for stating that cock-fighting used to take place secretly in the crypt. the writings of the venerable bede give a special interest to lastingham, for he tells us how king oidilward requested bishop cedd to build a monastery there. the saxon buildings that appeared at that time have gone, so that the present church cannot be associated with the seventh century. no doubt the destruction was the work of the danes, who plundered the whole of this part of yorkshire. the church that exists to-day is of transitional norman date, and the beautiful little crypt, which has an apse, nave and aisles, is coeval with the superstructure. the situation of lastingham in a deep and picturesque valley surrounded by moors and overhung by woods is extremely rich. further to the west there are a series of beautiful dales, watered by becks whose sources are among the cleveland hills. on our way to ryedale, the loveliest of these, we pass through kirby moorside, a little town which has gained a place in history as the scene of the death of the notorious george villiers, second duke of buckingham, on april 17, 1687. the house in which he died is on the south side of the king's head, and in one of the parish registers there is the entry under the date of april 19th, 'gorges viluas, lord dooke of bookingam, etc.' further down the street stands an inn with a curious porch, supported by turned wooden pillars, bearing the inscription: 'anno: dom 1632 october xi william wood' kirkdale, with its world-renowned cave, to which we have already referred, lies about two miles to the west. the quaint little saxon church there is one of the few bearing evidences of its own date, ascertained by the discovery in 1771 of a saxon sundial, which had survived under a layer of plaster, and was also protected by the porch. a translation of the inscription reads: 'orm, the son of gamal, bought st. gregory's minster when it was all broken and fallen, and he caused it to be made anew from the ground, for christ and st. gregory, in the days of king edward and in the days of earl tosti, and hawarth wrought me and brand the prior (priest or priests).' by this we are plainly told that a church was built there in the reign of edward the confessor. a pleasant road leads through nawton to the beautiful little town of helmsley. a bend of the broad, swift-flowing rye forms one boundary of the place, and is fed by a gushing brook that finds its way from rievaulx moor, and forms a pretty feature of the main street. the cottages in many cases have preserved their thatched roofs, and have seldom more than one story; but they invariably appear well preserved and carefully painted, although these stone-built houses, with leaded casements, give little scope for ornament. but the helmsley folk have realized the importance of white paint, and the window-frames, and even the strips of lead that hold the glass together, are picked out in this cheerful fashion. in the broad market-square the houses are large, but their gray respectability is broken by creepers and some pleasant spots of colour. the corner nearest to the church is particularly noticeable on account of a most picturesque gabled house, with a timber-framed upper floor--a style of construction exceedingly rare in these parts of yorkshire. the old stone cross, raised above its worn steps, stands in the open space close to the modern market hall, and humbly allows the central position to be occupied by a gothic cross recently erected to the memory of the late lord feversham, of duncombe park. a narrow turning by the market-house shows the torn and dishevelled fragment of the keep of helmsley castle towering above the thatched roofs in the foreground. the ruin is surrounded by tall elms, and from this point of view, when backed by a cloudy sunset, makes a wonderful picture. like scarborough, this stronghold was held for the king during the civil war. after the battle of marston moor and the fall of york, fairfax came to helmsley and invested the castle. he received a wound in the shoulder during the siege; but the garrison having surrendered on honourable terms, the parliament ordered that the castle should be dismantled, and the thoroughness with which the instructions were carried out remind one of knaresborough, for one side of the keep was blown to pieces by a terrific explosion and nearly everything else was destroyed. all the beauty and charm of this lovely district is accentuated in ryedale, and when we have accomplished the three long uphill miles to rievaulx, and come out upon the broad grassy terrace above the abbey, we seem to have entered a land of beulah. we see a peaceful valley overlooked on all sides by lofty hills, whose steep sides are clothed with luxuriant woods; we see the rye flowing past broad green meadows; and beneath the tree-covered precipice below our feet appear the solemn, roofless remains of one of the first cistercian monasteries established in this country. there is nothing to disturb the peace that broods here, for the village consists of a mere handful of old and picturesque cottages, and we might stay on the terrace for hours, and, beyond the distant shouts of a few children at play and the crowing of some cocks, hear nothing but the hum of insects and the singing of birds. we take a steep path through the wood which leads us down to the abbey ruins. the magnificent early english choir and the norman transepts stand astonishingly complete in their splendid decay, and the lower portions of the nave, which, until 1922, lay buried beneath masses of grass-grown dã©bris, are now exposed to view. the richly-draped hill-sides appear as a succession of beautiful pictures framed by the columns and arches on each side of the choir. as they stand exposed to the weather, the perfectly proportioned mouldings, the clustered pillars in a wonderfully good state of preservation, and the almost uninjured celestory are more impressive than in an elaborately-restored cathedral. yorkshire dialect poems by f.w. moorman (1673-1915) and traditional poems compiled with an historical introduction by f. w. moorman (professor of english language, university of leeds) london published for the yorkshire dialect society by sidgwick and jackson, ltd., 1916, 1917 to the yorkshiremen serving their country in trench or on battleship i respectfully dedicate this collection of songs from the homeland contents: preface to etext edition preface preface (to the second edition) introduction poems a yorkshire dialogue between an awd wife a lass and a butcher . anonymous an honest yorkshireman. henry carey from "snaith marsh" anonymous when at hame wi' dad anonymous i'm yorkshire too anonymous the wensleydale lad anonymous a song 1. thomas browne a song 2. thomas browne the invasion: an ecologue thomas browne elegy on the death of a frog david lewis sheffield cutler's song abel bywater address to poverty anonymous the collingham ghost anonymous the yorkshire horse dealers anonymous the lucky dream john castillo the milkin'-time j. h. dixon i niver can call her my wife ben preston come to thy gronny, doy ben preston owd moxy ben preston dean't mak gam o' me florence tweddell coom, stop at yam to-neet bob florence tweddell ode to t' mooin j. h. eccles aunt nancy j. h. eccles coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl thomas blackah my awd hat thomas blackah reeth bartle fair john harland the christmas party tom twistleton nelly o' bob's john hartley bite bigger john hartley rollickin' jack john hartley jim's letter james burnley a yorkshire farmer's address to a schoolmaster george lancaster the window on the cliff top w. h. oxley aar maggie edmund hatton t' first o' t' sooart john hartley pateley reaces anonymous play cricket ben turner the file-cutter's lament to liberty e. downing a kuss john malham-dembleby huntin' song richard blakeborough spring f. j. newboult heam, sweet heam a. c. watson then an' nae e. a. lodge owd england walter hampson. love and pie j. a. carill i's gotten t' bliss george h. cowling a natterin' wife george h. cowling o! what do ye wesh i' the beck george h. cowling traditional poems cleveland lyke-wake dirge 1 cleveland lyke-wake dirge 2 sir walter scott's version a dree neet the bridal bands the bridal garter nance and tom the witch's curse ridin' t' stang elphi bandy-legs singing games stepping up the green grass sally made a pudden sally water, sally water diller a dollar hagmana song round the year new year's day lucky-bird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! candlemas on can'lemas, a february day a can'lemas crack if can'lemas be lound an' fair, february fill-dike february fill-dyke palm sunday palm sunday, palm away; good friday on good friday rist thy pleaf royal oak day it's royal oak day, harvest home and the mell-sheaf we have her, we have her, here we coom at oor toon-end, weel bun' an' better shorn blest be t' day that christ was born, guy fawkes day a stick and a stake, awd grimey sits upon yon hill, christmas i wish you a merry kessenmas an' a happy new year, cleveland christmas song a christmas wassail sheffield mumming song charms, "nominies," and popular rhymes wilful weaste maks weasome want a rollin' stone gethers no moss than awn a crawin' hen nowt bud ill-luck 'll fester where meeat maks the miller's thumb miller, miller, mooter-poke down i' yon lum we have a mill, hob-trush hob "hob-trush hob, wheer is thoo?" gin hob mun hae nowt but a hardin' hamp, nanny button-cap the new moon a setterday's mean i see t' mean an' t' mean sees me, new mean, new mean, i hail thee, eevein' red an' mornin' gray souther, wind, souther! friday unlucky dean't o' friday buy your ring an omen blest is t' bride at t' sun shines on a charm tak twea at's red an' yan at's blake a gift o' my finger sunday clipt, sunday shorn a monday's bairn 'll grow up fair a cobweb i' t' kitchen, snaw, snaw, coom faster julius caesar made a law a weddin', a woo, a clog an' a shoe chimley-sweeper, blackymoor the lady-bird cow-lady, cow-lady, hie thy way wum, the magpie i cross'd pynot,(1) an' t' pynot cross'd me tell-pie-tit the bat black-black-bearaway the snail sneel, sneel, put oot your horn, hallamshire when all the world shall be aloft, harrogate when lords an' ladies stinking water soss, the river don the shelvin', slimy river don original transcriber's note: this is a mixture of the first and second editions as noted. the name of the author has been inserted after every title, so that it will be included when poems are copied individually. the footnotes have been renumbered and placed at the bottom of each individual poem. the sequence of the poems in the second edition has generally been adhered to, and the contents list has been built on this basis. the indexes have been omitted because of the lack of pagination in etext. computer searches also make them redundant, dave fawthrop preface several anthologies of poems by yorkshiremen, or about yorkshiremen, have passed through the press since joseph ritson published his yorkshire garland in 1786. most of these have included a number of dialect poems, but i believe that the volume which the reader now holds in his hand is the first which is made up entirely of poems written in "broad yorkshire." in my choice of poems i have been governed entirely by the literary quality and popular appeal of the material which lay at my disposal. this anthology has not been compiled for the philologist, but for those who have learnt to speak "broad yorkshire" at their mother's knee, and have not wholly unlearnt it at their schoolmaster's desk. to such the variety and interest of these poems, no less than the considerable range of time over which their composition extends, will, i believe, come as a surprise. it is in some ways a misfortune that there is no such thing as a standard yorkshire dialect. the speech of the north and east ridings is far removed from that of the industrial south-west. the difference consists, not so much in idiom or vocabulary, as in pronunciation--especially in the pronunciation of the long vowels and diphthongs.(1) as a consequence of this, i have found it impossible, in bringing together dialect poems from all parts of the county, to reduce their forms to what might be called standard yorkshire. had i attempted to do this, i should have destroyed what was most characteristic. my purpose throughout has been to preserve the distinguishing marks of dialect possessed by the poems, but to normalise the spelling of those writers who belong to one and the same dialect area. the spelling of "broad yorkshire" will always be one of the problems which the dialect-writer has to face. at best he can only hope for a broadly accurate representation of his mode of speech, but he can take comfort in the thought that most of those who read his verses know by habit how the words should be pronounced far better than he can teach them by adopting strange phonetic devices. a recognition of this fact has guided me in fixing the text of this anthology, and every spelling device which seemed to me unnecessary, or clumsy, or pedantic, i have ruthlessly discarded. on the other hand, where the dialect-writer has chosen the standard english spelling of any word, i have as a rule not thought fit to alter its form and spell it as it would be pronounced in his dialect. i am afraid i may have given offence to those whom i should most of all like to please--the living contributors to this anthology--by tampering in this way with the text of their poems. in defence of what i have done, i must put forward the plea of consistency. if i had preserved every poet's text as i found it, i should have reduced my readers to despair. in conclusion, i should--like to thank the contributors to this volume, and also their publishers, for the permission to reproduce copyright work. special thanks are due to mr. richard blakeborough, who has placed yorkshiremen under a debt, by the great service which he has rendered in recovering much of the traditional poetry of yorkshire and in giving it the permanence of the printed page. in compiling the so-called traditional poems at the end of this volume, i have largely drawn upon his wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding. f. w. moorman 1. thus in the south-west fool and soon are pronounced fooil and sooin, in the north-east feeal and seean. both the south-west and the north-east have a word praad--with a vowel--sound like the a in father--but whereas in the south west it stands for proud, in the north-east it stands for pride, preface (to the second edition) the demand for a second edition of this anthology of yorkshire dialect verse gives me an opportunity of correcting two rather serious error's which crept into the first edition. the poem entitled "hunting song" on page 86, which i attributed to mr. richard blakeborough, is the work of mr. malham-dembleby", whose poem, "a kuss," immediately precedes it in the volume. the poem on page 75, which in the first edition was marked anonymous and entitled "parson drew thro' pudsey," is the work of the late john hartley; its proper' title is "t' first o' t' sooar't," and it includes eight introductory stanzas which are now added as appendix ii. through the kindness of: fr w. a. craigie, dr. m. denby, and mr. e. g. bayford, i have also been able to make a few changes in the glossarial footnotes, the most important of these is the change from "ember's" to "floor" as the meaning of the word, "fleet" in the second line of "a lyke-wake dirge." the note which dr. craigie sen't me on this word is so interesting that i reproduce it here verbatim: "the word fleet in the 'lyke-wake dirge' has been much misunderstood, but it is certain1y the same thing as flet-floor; see the o.e.d. and e.d.d. under. flet. the form is not necessarily 'erroneous,' as is said in the o.e.d., for it might represent ,the o.n. dative fleti, which must have been common in the phrase a fleti (cf. the first verse of 'havamal'). the collocation with 'fire' occurs in 'sir gawayne' (l. 1653): 'aboute the fyre upon flet.' 'fire and fleet and candle-light' are a summary of the comforts of the house, which the dead person still enjoys for 'this ae night,' and then goes out into the dark and cold." f. w. moorman introduction the publication of an anthology of yorkshire dialect poetry seems to demand a brief introduction in which something shall be said of the history and general character of that poetry. it is hardly necessary to state that yorkshire has produced neither a robert burns, a william barnes, nor even an edwin waugh. its singers are as yet known only among their own folk; the names of john castillo and florence tweddell are household words among the peasants of the cleveland dales, as are those of ben preston and john hartley among the artisans of the aire and calder valleys; but, outside of the county, they are almost unknown, except to those who are of yorkshire descent and who cherish the dialect because of its association with the homes of their childhood. at the same time there is no body of dialect verse which better deserves the honour of an anthology. in volume and variety the dialect poetry of yorkshire surpasses that of all other english counties. moreover, when the rise of the standard english idiom crushed out our dialect literature, it was the yorkshire dialect which first reasserted its claims upon the muse of poetry; hence, whereas the dialect literature of most of the english counties dates only from the beginning of the nineteenth century, that of yorkshire reaches back to the second half of the seventeenth. in one sense it may be said that yorkshire dialect poetry dates, not from the seventeenth, but from the seventh century, and that the first yorkshire dialect poet was caedmon, the neat-herd of whitby abbey. but to the ordinary person the reference to a dialect implies the existence of a standard mode of speech almost as certainly as odd implies even. accordingly, this is not the place to speak of that great heritage of song which yorkshire bequeathed to the nation between the seventh century and the fifteenth. after the caedmonic poems, its chief glories are the religious lyrics of richard rolle, the mystic, and the great cycles of scriptural plays which are associated with the trade-guilds of york and wakefield. but in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the all-conquering standard english spread like a mighty spring-tide over england and found no check to its progress till the cheviots were reached. the new "king's english" was of little avail in silencing dialect as a means of intercourse between man and man, but it checked for centuries the development of dialect literature. the old traditional ballads and songs, which were handed down orally from generation to generation in the speech of the district to which they belonged, escaped to some extent this movement towards uniformity; but the deliberate artificers of verse showed themselves eager above all things to get rid of their provincialisms and use only the language of the court. shakespeare may introduce a few warwickshire words into his plays, but his english is none the less the standard english of his day, while spenser is sharply brought to task by ben jonson for using archaisms and provincialisms in his poems. a notable song of the elizabethan age is that entitled "york, york, for my monie," which was first published in 1584; only a yorkshireman could have written it, and it was plainly intended for the gratification of yorkshire pride; yet its language is without trace of local colour, either in spelling or vocabulary. again, there appeared in the year 1615 a poem by richard brathwaite, entitled, "the yorkshire cottoneers," and addressed to "all true-bred northerne sparks, of the generous society of the cottoneers, who hold their high-roade by the pinder of wakefield, the shoo-maker of bradford, and the white coate of kendall"; but brathwaite, though a kendal man by birth, makes no attempt to win the hearts of his "true-bred northern sparks" by addressing them in the dialect that was their daily wear. in a word, the use of the yorkshire dialect for literary purposes died out early in the tudor period. as already stated, its rebirth dates from the second half of the seventeenth century. that was an age of scientific investigation and antiquarian research. john ray, the father of natural history, not content with his achievements in the classification of plants, took up also the collection of outlandish words, and in the year 1674 he published a work entitled, a collection of english words, not generally used, with their significations and original, in two alphabetical catalogues, the one of such as are proper to the northern, the other to the southern counties. later he entered into correspondence with the leeds antiquary, ralph thoresby, who, in a letter dated april 27, 1703, sends him a list of dialect words current in and about leeds.(1) side by side with this new interest in the dialect vocabulary comes also the dialect poem. one year before the appearance of ray's collection of english words the york printer, stephen bulkby, had issued, as a humble broadside without author's name, a poem which bore the following title: a yorkshire dialogue in yorkshire dialect; between an awd wife, a lass, and a butcher. this dialogue occupies the first place in our anthology, and it is, from several points of view, a significant work. it marks the beginning, not only of modern yorkshire, but also of modern english, dialect poetry. it appeared just a thousand years after caedmon had sung the creator's praise in whitby abbey, and its dialect is that of northeast yorkshire--in other words, the lineal descendant of that speech which was used by caedmon in the seventh century, by richard rolle in the fourteenth, and which may be heard to this day in the streets of whitby and among the hamlets of the cleveland hills. the dialogue is a piece of boldest realism. written in an age when classic restraint and classic elegance were in the ascendant, and when english poets were taking only too readily to heart the warning of boileau against allowing shepherds to speak "comme on parle au village," the author of this rustic dialogue flings to the winds every convention of poetic elegance. his lines "baisent la terre" in a way that would have inexpressibly shocked boileau and the parisian salons. the poem reeks of the byre and the shambles; its theme is the misadventure which befalls an ox in its stall and its final despatch by the butcher's mallet! one might perhaps find something comparable to it in theme and treatment in the paintings of the contemporary school of dutch realists, but in poetry it is unique. yet, gross as is its realism, it cannot be called crude as a work of poetic art. in rhyme and rhythm it is quite regular, and the impression which it leaves upon the mind is that it was the work of an educated man, keenly interested in the unvarnished life of a yorkshire farm, keenly interested in the vocabulary and idioms of his district, and determined to produce a poem which should bid defiance to all the proprieties of the poetic art. eleven years later--in 1684--appeared two more poems, in a dialect akin to but not identical with that of the above and very similar in theme and treatment. these are a yorkshire dialogue in its pure natural dialect as it is now commonly spoken in the north parts of yorkeshire, and a scould between bess and nell, two yorkshire women. these two poems were also published at york, though by a different printer, and in the following year a second edition appeared, followed by a third in 1697. to the poems is appended francis brokesby's "observations on the dialect and pronunciation of words in the east riding of yorkshire," which he had previously sent to ray,(1) together with a collection of yorkshire proverbs and a "clavis," or glossary, also by brokesby. the author of these two poems, who signs himself" g. m. gent" on the title-page, is generally supposed to be a certain george meriton, an attorney by profession, though francis douce, the antiquary, claims george morrinton of northallerton as the author. "g. m." is a deliberate imitator of the man who wrote the dialogue between an awd wife, a lass, and a butcher. all that has been said about the trenchant realism of farmlife in the dialogue of 1673 applies with equal force to the dialogues of 1684. the later poet, having a larger canvas at his disposal, is able to introduce more characters and more incident; but in all that pertains to style and atmosphere he keeps closely to his model. what is still more apparent is that the author is consciously employing dialect words and idioms with the set purpose of illustrating what he calls the "pure natural dialect" of yorkshire; above all, he delights in the proverbial lore of his native county and never misses an opportunity of tagging his conversations with one or other of these homespun proverbs. the poem is too long for our anthology,(2) but i cannot forbear quoting some of these proverbs: "there's neay carrion can kill a craw." "it's a good horse that duz never stumble, and a good wife that duz never grumble." "neare is my sarke, but nearer is my skin." "it's an ill-made bargain whore beath parties rue." "a curst cow hes short horns." "wilfull fowkes duz never want weay." "for change of pastures macks fat cawves, it's said, but change of women macks lean knaves, i'se flaid the excellent example set by the authors of the yorkshire dialogues was not followed all at once. early in the eighteenth century, however, allan ramsay rendered conspicuous service to dialect poetry generally by the publication of his pastoral drama, the gentle shepherd (1725), as well as by his collections of scottish songs, known as the evergreen and tea table miscellanies. scotland awoke to song, and the charm of lowland scots was recognised even by pope and the wits of the coffee-houses. one can well believe that lovers of dialect south of the tweed were thereby moved to emulation, and in the year 1736 henry carey, the reputed son of the marquis of halifax, produced a ballad-opera bearing the equivocal title, a wonder, or an honest yorkshireman.(3) popular in its day, this opera is now forgotten, but its song, "an honest yorkshireman" has found a place in many collections of yorkshire songs. it lacks the charm of the same author's famous "sally in our alley," but there is a fine manly ring about its sentiments, and it deserves wider recognition. the dialect is that of north-east yorkshire. in 1754 appeared the anonymous dialect poem, snaith marsh.(4) this is a much more conventional piece of work than the seventeenthcentury dialogues, and the use which is made of the local idiom is more restricted. yet it is not without historic interest. composed at a time when the enclosure acts were robbing the peasant farmer of his rights of common, the poem is an elegiac lament on the part of the snaith farmer who sees himself suddenly brought to the brink of ruin by the enclosure of snaith marsh. to add to his misery, his bride, susan, has deserted him for the more prosperous rival, roger. as much of the poem is in standard english, it would be out of place to reprint it in its entirety in this collection, but, inasmuch as the author grows bolder in his use of dialect as the poem proceeds, i have chosen the concluding section to illustrate the quality of the work and the use which is made of dialect. from the date of the publication of snaith marsh to the close of the eighteenth century it is difficult to trace chronologically the progress of yorkshire dialect poetry. the songs which follow in our anthology-"when at hame wi' dad" and "i'm yorkshire, too "--appear to have an eighteenth-century flavour, though they may be a little later. their theme is somewhat similar to that of carey's song. the inexperienced but canny yorkshire lad finds himself exposed to the snares and temptations of " lunnon city." he is dazzled by the spectacular glories of the capital, but his native stock of cannyness renders him proof against seduction. the songs are what we should now call music-hall songs, and may possibly have been written for the delights of the visitors to ranelagh or vauxhall gardens. "the wensleydale lad" seems to be of about the same period, for we learn from the song that the reigning monarch was one of the georges. its opening line is a clear repetition--or anticipation--of the opening line of "when at hame wi' dad"; but whereas the hero of the latter poem, on leaving home, seeks out the glories of piccadilly and hyde park, the wensleydale lad is content with the lesser splendours; of leeds. the broad humour of this song has made it exceedingly popular; i first heard it on the lips of a runswick fisherman, and since then have met with it in different parts of the county. in the year 1786 joseph ritson, the antiquary, published a slender collection of short poems which he entitled the yorkshire garland. this is the first attempt at an anthology of yorkshire poetry, and the forerunner of many other anthologies. all the poems have a connection with yorkshire, but none of them can, in the strict sense of the word, be called a dialect poem. in the year 1800 the composition of yorkshire dialect poetry received an important stimulus through the appearance of a volume entitled, poems on several occasions. this was the posthumous work of the rev. thomas browne, the son of the vicar of lastingham. the author, born at lastingham in 1771, started life as a school-master, first of all at yeddingham, and later at bridlington; in the year 1797 he removed to hull in order to engage in journalistic work as editor of the recently established newspaper, the hull advertiser. about the same time he took orders and married, but in the following year he died. most of the poems in the little volume which his friends put through the press in the year 1800 are written in standard english. they display a mind of considerable refinement, but little originality. in the form of ode, elegy, eclogue, or sonnet, we have verses which show tender feeling and a genuine appreciation of nature. but the human interest is slight, and the author is unable to escape from the conventional poetic diction of the eighteenth century. phrases like "vocal groves," "pomona's rich bounties," or "the sylvan choir's responsive notes" meet the reader at every turn; direct observation and concrete imagery are sacrificed to trite abstractions, until we feel that the poet becomes a mere echo of other and greater poets who had gone before him. but at the end of the volume appear the "specimens of the yorkshire dialect," consisting of three songs and two eclogues. here convention is swept aside; the author comes face to face with life as he saw it around him in yorkshire town and village. we have the song of the peasant girl impatiently awaiting the country fair at which she is to shine in all the glory of "new cauf leather shoon" and white stockings, or declaring her intention of escaping from a mother who "scaulds and flytes" by marrying the sweetheart who comes courting her on "setterday neets." what is interesting to notice in these songs'is the influence of burns. browne has caught something of the scottish poet's racy vigour, and in his use of a broken line of refrain in the song, "ye loit'ring minutes faster flee," he is employing a metrical device which burns had used with great success in his "holy fair" and "halloween." the eclogue, "awd daisy," the theme of which is a yorkshire farmer's lament for his dead mare, exhibits that affection for faithful animals which we meet with in cowper, burns, and other poets of the romantic revival. in the sincerity of its emotion it is poles apart from the studied sentimentality of the famous lament over the dead ass in sterne's sentimental journey; indeed, in spirit it is much nearer to burns's "death of poor mailie," though browne is wholly lacking in that delicate humour which burns possesses, and which overtakes the tenderness of the poem as the lights and shadows overtake one another among the hills. the other eclogue, " the invasion," has something of a topical interest at a time like the present, when england is once more engaged in war with a continental power; for it was written when the fear of a french invasion of our shores weighed heavily upon the people's minds. in the eclogue this danger is earnestly discussed by the two yorkshire farmers, roger and willie. if the french effect a landing, willy has decided to send mally and the bairns away from the farm, while he will sharpen his old "lea" (scythe) and remain behind to defend his homestead. as long as wife and children are safe, he is prepared to lay down his life for his country. the importance of browne's dialect poems consists not only in their intrinsic worth, but also in the interest which they aroused in dialect poetry in yorkshire, and the stimulus which they gave to poets in succeeding generations. there is no evidence that the dialogues of george meriton, or snaith marsh, had any wide circulation among the yorkshire peasantry, but there is abundant evidence that such was the case with these five poems of thomas browne. early in the nineteenth century enterprising booksellers at york, northallerton, bedale, otley, and ,knaresborough were turning out little chap-books, generally bearing the title, specimens of the yorkshire dialect, and consisting largely of the dialect poems of browne. these circulated widely in the country districts of yorkshire, and to this day one meets with peasants who take a delight in reciting browne's songs and eclogues. down to the close of the eighteenth century the authors of yorkshire dialect poetry had been men of education, and even writers by profession. with the coming, of the nineteenth century the composition of such poetry extends to men in a humbler social position. the working-man poet appears on the scene and makes his presence felt in many ways. early in the century, david lewis, a knaresborough gardener, published, in one of the chap-books to which reference has just been made, two dialect poems, "the sweeper and thieves" and "an elegy on the death of a frog"; they were afterwards republished, together with some non-dialect verses, in a volume entitled the landscape and other poems (york, 1815) by the same author. a dialogue poem by lewis, entitled the pocket books," appears in later chap-books. it cannot be claimed for him that his poetic power is of a high standard, but as the first yorkshire peasant poet to write dialect verse he calls for notice here. his "elegy on the death of a frog" is perhaps chiefly interesting as showing the influence of burns upon yorkshire poets at the beginning of the nineteenth century. in idea, and in the choice of verse, it is directly modelled on the famous "to a mouse." the reader will doubtless have noticed that in this historic review of yorkshire dialect poetry it has always been the life of rural yorkshire which is depicted, and that the great bulk of the poetry has belonged to the north riding. what we have now to trace is the extension of this revival of vernacular poetry to the densely populated west riding, where a dialect differing radically from that of the, north and east is spoken, and where, an astonishing variety of industries has created an equally varied outlook upon life and habit of thought. was the sheffield cutler, the barnsley miner, the bradford handloom-weaver, and the leeds forge-man to find no outlet in dialect verse for his thoughts and emotions, his hopes and his fears? or, if dialect poetry must be concerned only with rustic life, was the craven dalesman to have no voice in the matter? questions such as these may well have passed through the minds of west riding men as they saw the steady growth of north riding poetry in the first forty years of the nineteenth century, and passed from hand to hand the well-thumbed chap-books wherein were included poems like "awd daisy," "the sweeper and thieves," and the dialect-songs. the desire to have a share in the movement became more and more urgent, and when the west riding joined in, it was inevitable that it should widen the scope of dialect poetry both in spirit and in form. a west riding dialect literature seems to have arisen first of all in barnsley and sheffield in the fourth decade of the nineteenth century. between 1830 and 1834 a number of prose "conversations" entitled, the sheffield dialect.' be a shevvild chap, passed through the press. the author of these also published in 1832 the wheelswarf chronicle, and in 1836 appeared the first number of the shevvild chap's annual in which the writer throws aside his nom-de-plume and signs himself abel bywater. this annual, which lived for about twenty years, is the first of the many "annuals" or "almanacs" which are the most characteristic product of the west riding dialect movement. their history is a subject to itself, and inasmuch as the contributions to them are largely in prose, they can only be referred to very lightly here. their popularity and ever-increasing circulation is a sure proof of their wide appeal, and there can be no doubt that they have done an immense service in endearing the local idiom in which they are written to those who speak it, and also in interpreting the life and thought of the, great industrial communities for whom they are written. the literary quality of these almanacs varies greatly, but among their pages will be found many poems, and many prose tales and sketches, which vividly portray the west riding artisan. abundant justice is done to his sense of humour, which, if broad and at times even crude, is always good-natured and healthy, as well as to his intense love of the sentimental, which to the stranger lurks hidden beneath a mask of indifference. incidentally, these almanacs also present a faithful picture of the social history of the west riding during the greater part of a century. as we study their pages, we realise what impression events such as the introduction of the railroad, the chartist movement, the repeal of the corn laws, mid-victorian factory legislation, tradeunionism, the co-operative movement and temperance reform made upon the minds of nineteenth-century yorkshiremen; in other words, these almanacs furnish us with just such a mirror of nineteenth-century industrial yorkshire as the bound volumes of punch furnish of the nation as a whole. among the most famous of these annual productions is the bairnsla foak's annual, an pogmoor olmenack, started by charles rogers (tom, treddlehoyle) in 1838, and the halifax original illuminated clock almanac begun by john hartley in 1867. the number of these almanacs is very large; most of them are published and circulated chiefly in the industrial districts of the riding, but not the least interesting among them is the nidderdill olminac, edited by "nattie nidds" at pateley bridge; it began in 1864 and ran until 1880. wherever published, all of these almanacs conform more or less to the same pattern, as it was first laid down by the founder of the dialect almanac, abel bywater of sheffield, in the year 1836. widely popular in the west riding, the almanac has never obtained foothold in the other ridings, and is little known outside of the county. the "bibliographical list" of dialect literature, published by the english dialect society' in 1877, mentions only two annuals or almanacs, in addition to those published in the west riding, and both of these belong to tyneside. abel bywater finds a place in our anthology by virtue of his "sheffield cutler's song." in its rollicking swing and boisterous humour it serves admirably to illustrate the new note which is heard when we pass from rural yorkshire to the noisy manufacturing cities. we exchange the farm, or the country fair, for the gallery of the city music-hall, where the cutler sits armed with stones, red herrings, "flat-backs," and other missiles ready to be hurled at the performers "if they don't play' nancy's fancy' or onay tune we fix." we are not concerned here with the linguistic side of yorkshire dialect literature, but the reader will notice how different is the phonology, and to a less extent the vocabulary and idiom, of this song from that of the north riding specimens. returning once more to the north riding, we must first of all draw attention to the poet, john castillo. in the country round whitby and pickering, and throughout the hambledon hills, his name is very familiar. born near dublin, in 1792, of roman catholic parents, he was brought up at lealholm bridge, in the cleveland country, and learnt the trade of a journeyman stone-mason. having abjured the faith of his childhood, he joined, in 1818, the wesleyan methodist society and acquired great popularity in the north riding as a local preacher. his well-known poem, "awd isaac," seems to have been first printed at northallerton in 1831. twelve years later it occupies the first place in a volume of poems published by the author at whitby under the title, awd isaac, the steeplechase, and other poems. like most of his other poems, "awd isaac" is strongly didactic and religious; its homely piety and directness of speach have won for it a warm welcome among the north yorkshire peasantry, and many a farmer and farm-labourer still living knows much of the poem by heart. as "awd isaac " is too long for an anthology, i have chosen "the lucky dream" as an illustration of castillo's workmanship. apart from its narrative interest, this poem calls for attention as a yorkshire variant of an ancient and widely dispersed folk-tale, the earliest known version of which is to be found in the works of the thirteenth-century persian poet jalalu'd-din. castillo died at pickering in 1845, and five years later a complete edition of his poems was published at kirkby moorside. less popular than "awd isaac," but often met with in collections of dialect verse, is the poem entitled "the york minster screen." this was the work of george newton brown, a lawyer by profession, who lived at nunnington in ryedale. the poem, which is in the form of a dialogue between two yorkshire farmers, was first published at malton in 1833. the conversation, which is of the raciest description, is supposed to take place in york minster and turns on the repairs which were made in 1832 to the famous organ-screen which separates the nave and transepts from the chancel. the question of altering the position of the screen is debated with much humour and vivacity. before leaving the north riding, reference must be made to elizabeth tweddell, the gifted poetess of the cleveland hills. born at stokesley in 1833, the daughter of thomas cole, the parish-clerk of that town, she married george markham tweddell, the author of the people's history of cleveland, and in 1875 she published a slender volume of dialect verse and prose entitled rhymes and sketches to illustrate the cleveland dialect. in her modest preface mrs. tweddell declares that the only merit of her work lies in "the stringing together of a good many cleveland words and expressions that are fast becoming obsolete"; but the volume has far deeper claims on our gratitude than this. there is much homely charm in her rhymes and sketches, and the two extracts which find a place in this collection are models of what simple dialect-poems should be. above all, mrs. tweddell has the gift of humour; this is well illustrated by the song, "dean't mak gam o' me," and also by her well-known prose story, "awd gab o' steers." her most sustained effort in verse is the poem entitled " t' awd cleveland customs," in which she gives us a delightful picture of the festive seasons of the cleveland year from " newery day," with its "lucky bod," to "kessamus," with its "sooard dancers." the western portion of the north riding, including swale and wensleydale, has been less fruitful in dialect poetry than the eastern. apart from the anonymous "wensleydale lad" already noticed, it is represented in this anthology only by the spirited poem, "reeth bartle fair," the work of a true lover of dialect speech, captain john harland, who published for the english dialect society a valuable glossary of swaledale words (1873). the craven country, the dialect of which differs materially from that spoken in the manufacturing districts of the west, riding, is not without its bards. these include james henry dixon (1803-1876),--a local historian and antiquary of scholarly tastes, who edited for the percy society the delightful collection of folk-poetry entitled, ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england (1846). mr. dixon wrote comparatively little poetry himself, but his song, "the milkin'-time," has the lilt of the best scottish folk-songs and well deserves its inclusion here. in a longer poem, "slaadburn faar" (1871), he gives a humorous and racy description of the adventures of a farmer and his wife on their journey from grassington to slaidburn to attend the local fair. in general idea it resembles harland's "reeth bartle fair," which appeared in the preceding year. but the typical poet of the craven country was tom twistleton, a farmer near settle, whose poems in the craven, dialect first appeared in 1869, and soon ran through several editions. he was a disciple of burns, and his poem "the christmas-party" (see below) daringly challenges comparison with the immortal "halloween." his description of the dancing in the farm-house kitchen, and of the adventures of the pair of lovers who escape from the merry throng, is singularly vivid, and illustrates the author's ready humour and keen observation of rustic life and character. reference has already been made to the nidderdill olminac which ,vas produced by "nattie nidds" between 1864 and 1880 and published at pateley bridge. among the contributors to it was thomas blackah, a working miner of greenhow hill, who in 1867 published a volume of dialect verse entitled songs and poems in the nidderdale dialect. in their truth to life, homely charm and freedom from pretentiousness, these dialect poems resemble those of mrs. tweddell, and deserve a wider recognition than they have so far won. after this excursion into the dales of the north and west riding, where, apart from mining, the life of the people is largely spent on the farm, we must turn once again to the industrial yorkshire of the south-west, and see to what extent dialect poetry has flourished in the smoke-laden air of chimney-stacks and blast-furnaces, and with what success the yorkshire dialect poets of the towns and cities have interpreted the life and thoughts of those who work in the mill or at the forge. as we have already seen, the first attempts to interpret in dialect poetry the life of industrial yorkshire were made at sheffield early in the nineteenth century by abel bywater. as the century advanced, the movement spread northwards, and the great artisan communities of bradford, leeds, and halifax produced their poets. among these pre-eminence belongs to ben preston, the bradford poet, who stepped swiftly into local fame by the publication of his well-known poem, "natterin' nan," which first appeared in a bradford journal in 1856. this is a vigorous piece of dramatic realism, setting forth the character of a yorkshire scold and grumbler with infinite zest and humour. but it is in pathos that the genius of preston chiefly consists. in poems like "owd moxy," "t' lancashire famine," and "i niver can call her my wife," he gives us pictures of the struggle that went on in the cottage-homes of the west riding during the "hungry forties." in "owd moxy" his subject is the old waller who has to face the pitiless winter wind and rain as he plies his dreary task on the moors; but in most of his poems it is the life of the handloom-weaver that he interprets. the kindliness of his nature is everywhere apparent and gives a sincerity to the poems in which he portrays with rare discernment and sympathy the sufferings of the artisan, toiling from morning to night on eight shillings a week. his pathos has dignity and restraint, and in the poem "i niver can call her my wife" it rises to the heights of great tragedy. this is ben preston's masterpiece, and, though scarcely known outside of the county, it deserves to take a place side by side with hood's " song of the shirt" by reason of the poignancy with which it interprets the tragedy of penury.(5) the example set by ben preston has been followed by other dialect poets living in the district round bradford. mention may be made of james burnley, whose poem, "jim's letter," is a telling illustration of the fine use which can be made of dialect in the service of the dramatic lyric; and of abraham holroyd, who not only wrote original verse, but also made a valuable collection of old yorkshire songs and ballads.(6) the rivalry between bradford and leeds is proverbial, and, though the latter city has lagged behing bradford in the production of dialect literature, the yorkshire songs of j. h. eccles, published in 1862, is a notable contribution to the movement whose history is here being recorded. in john hartley, halifax possessed the most versatile dialect-writer that yorkshire has so far produced. for fifty years this writer, who died in 1915, poured forth lyric song and prose tale in unstinted measure. most of his dialect work found a place in the original illuminated clock almanac, which he edited from 1867 until his death; but from time to time he gathered the best of his work into book form, and his yorkshire lyrics, published in 1898, occupy a place of honour in many a yorkshire home. the examples from his works here given will serve to illustrate his fine ear for metrical harmony, his imaginative power, and his sympathetic interpretation of yorkshire character. of the younger generation of yorkshire poets, most of them still alive, i must speak more briefly. but it must not be overlooked that, so far from there being any falling off in the volume or quality of dialect-verse, it is safe to say that it has never been in so flourishing a condition as at the present day. dialect poems are now being written in all parts of the county. editors of weekly papers welcome them gladly in their columns; the yorkshire dialect society has recently opened the pages of its annual transactions to original contributions in verse and prose, and every year the printing presses of london and yorkshire publish volumes of dialect verse. of individual writers, whose work finds illustration in this anthology, mention may be made of the rev. w. h. oxley, whose t' fisher folk o' riley brig (1888) marks, i believe, the first attempt to interpret in verse the hazardous life of the east-coast fisherman. farther north, mr. g. h. cowling has given us in his a yorkshire tyke (1914) a number of spirited and winsome studies of the life and thought of the hackness peasant. the wold country of the east riding has found its interpreter in mr. j. a. carill, whose woz'ls (1913) is full of delightful humour, as readers of "love and pie" will readily discover for themselves. "the file-cutter's l'ament " (see below), which i have selected from mr. downing's volume, smook thru' a shevvield chimla, will show that the sheffield "blade" is doing his best to carry on the tradition set by abel bywater eighty years ago. airedale still has its poets, among the most ambitious of whom is mr. malham-dembleby, who published in 1912 a volume of verse entitled, original tales and ballads in the yorkshire dialect. mr. f. j. newboult has deservedly won fame as a prosewriter in dialect; his dialect sketches which have for some years appeared in the yorkshire observer are full of broad humour and dramatic power, and his dainty little lyric "spring" (p. 87) is a sufficient indication that he has also the dower of the poet. in alderman ben turner of batley yorkshire possesses a courageous advocate of the social betterment of the working man and woman, and in the midst of a busy life he has, found' time to give utterance to his indignation and his faith in dialect-poems which appeal from the heart to the heart. mr. walter hampson, of normanton, writes in a lighter vein in his tykes abrooad (1911); he is our yorkshire mark twain, and his narrative of the adventures of a little party of yorkshiremen in normandy and brittany is full of humour. songs are scattered through the story, and one of these, "owd england," finds a place in this collection. the colne valley and the country round huddersfield has been somewhat slow in responding to the call of the homely muse of dialect but mr. e. a. lodge's little volume of verse and prose. entitled odds an' ends, marks a successful beginning. in our account of the history of dialect poetry in yorkshire it will have been noticed that the chief forms of verse to which local poets have had recourse have been the song, personal or dramatic, the ballad, and the dialogue. among the most hopeful signs of the times has been the recent extension of dialect to poems of a more sustained character. within the last twenty years two writers, associated with the far north and the far south of the county respectively, have made the bold attempt to use dialect in narrative poems of larger compass than the simple ballad. these are mr. richard blakeborough, the author of t' hunt o' yatton brigg (1896), and mr. j. s. fletcher, who, as recently as 1915, published in the dialect of osgoldcross his leet livvy. these two poems are in general character poles apart: that of mr. blakeborough is pure romance, whereas mr. fletcher never steps aside from the strait path of realism. t' hunt o' yatton brigg is steeped in all the eerie witch-lore of the cleveland moors. the plot is laid in the district round the famous roseberry topping, and deals with the adventures which befall a certain johnny simpson, who, when crossed in love, seeks the aid of the witches to aid him in his work of vengeance on the woman who has cast him off. the story is told with great vividness, and the author has made an effective use of all the malevolent powers of witchcraft, seconded by the elemental forces of thunder and lightning, to aid him in telling a story of great dramatic power. leet livvy, on the other hand, is as sober and restrained as one of the verse-tales of crabbe, and the only resemblance which it bears to mr. blakeborough's witch-story lies in the fact that its hero, like johnny simpson, belongs to the peasantry and has suffered at the hands of a woman. the tragic story of "owd mattha o' marlby moor" is recorded by the sexton whose duty it is to toll the passing bell, and mr. fletcher, whose reputation as a novelist is deservedly high, has rendered the narrative with consummate art. the use of dialect enhances the directness and dramatic realism of the story at every turn; the characters stand out sharp and clear, and we are brought face to face with the passion that makes for tragedy. the poem is purged clean of all sentiment and moralising: it is narrative pure and simple, but aglow with the lurid flame of a passion that burns to the very roots of life. it is no exaggeration to say that leet livvy is the greatest achievement in yorkshire dialect poetry up to the present time; let us hope that it is an earnest of even greater things yet to come. the duty still remains of offering a few words of explanation concerning the poems which find a place in the second part of this anthology, and which i have classified as "traditional poems." it is not contended that all of these are folk-poems in the strict sense of the term, but all of them are of unknown authorship, and for most of them a considerable antiquity may be claimed; moreover, like the folk-song, they owe their preservation rather to oral tradition than to the labours of the scribe. many of these poems enshrine some of the customs and superstitions of the country-side and carry our thoughts back to a time when the yorkshireman's habit of mind was far more primitive and childlike than it is to-day. moreover, though many of the old popular beliefs and rites have vanished before the advance of education and industrialism, the yorkshireman still clings to the past with a tenacity which exceeds that of the people farther to the south. for example, nowhere in england does the old folk-play which enacts the combats of st. george with his saracen adversaries enjoy such popularity as in the upper waters of the calder valley and in busy rochdale over the border. this play, known locally as "the peace [or pasque, i.e. easter] egg," was once acted all over england. driven from the country-side, where old traditions usually live the longest, it survives amid the smoke-laden atmosphere of cotton-mills and in towns which pride themselves, not without reason, on their love of progress and their readiness to receive new ideas. it is, for our purpose, unfortunate that this fine old play preserves little of the local dialect and is therefore excluded from this anthology.(7) apart from "the peace egg," it is the remote cleveland country in the north riding in which the old traditional poetry of yorkshire has been best preserved. this is the land of the sword-dance, the bridal-garter, and the "mellsupper," the land in which primitive faiths and traditions survive with strange tenacity. the late canon atkinson has made this land familiar to us by his fascinating forty years in a moorland parish, and, to the lover of traditional dialect songs, an even greater service has been rendered by a later gleaner in this harvest-field, mr. richard blakeborough of norton-on-tees, whose t' hunt o' yatton brigg has already been considered. in his supplement to the little volume which contains that poem, and again in his highly instructive and entertaining wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding of yorkshire, mr. blakeborough has brought together a number of traditional songs and proverbial rhymes of great interest, and, to some extent at least, of high antiquity. many of these have been collected by him among the peasantry, others are taken from a manuscript collection of notes on north riding folklore made by a certain george calvert early in the nineteenth century, and now in mr. blakeborough's possession. of the first importance in this anthology of traditional song are the "cleveland lyke-wake dirge" and "a dree neet." the former has been well known to lovers of poetry since sir walter scott included it in his border minstrelsy; the latter, i believe, was never published until the appearance of t' hunt o' yatton brigg in 1896. the tragic power and suggestiveness of these two poems is very remarkable. it is, i think, fairly certain that they stand in intimate association with one another and point back to a time when the prevailing creed of yorkshire was roman catholicism. both depict with deep solemnity the terrors of death and of the judgment which lies beyond. whinny moor appears in either poem as the desolate moorland tract, beset with prickly whin-bushes and flinty stones, which the dead man must traverse on "shoonless feet" on his journey from life. and beyond this moor lies the still more mysterious "brig o' dreead," or "' brig o' deead," as "a dree neet" renders it. it would be tempting to conjecture the precise significance of this allusion, and to connect it with other primitive myths and legends of a similar character; but space fails us, and it may well be that the very vagueness of the allusion is of more haunting tragic power than precise knowledge. it is also interesting to notice the effective use which is made in "a dree neet" of all the superstitions which gather about the great pageant of death. the flight of the gabriel ratchets, or gabriel hounds, through the sky, the fluttering of bats at the casement and of moths at the candle flame, and the shroud of soot which falls from the chimney of the room where the dying man lies, are introduced with fine effect; while the curious reference to the folk that draw nigh from the other side of the grave has an homeric ring about it, and recalls the great scene in the odyssey where the ghosts of elpenor, teiresias, and other dead heroes gather about the trench that odysseus has digged on the other side of the great stream of oceanus, hard by the dank house of hades. it is unnecessary to speak at any length of the other songs, proverbial rhymes, and "nominies" which find a place among the traditional poems in this collection. the mumming-songs, the boisterous "ridin' t' stang" verses, and all the snatches of folk-song which are, associated with the festive ritual of the circling year either carry their own explanation with them or have been elucidated by those who have written on the subject of yorkshire customs and folklore. i heartily commend to the reader's notice the three songs entitled "the bridal bands," "the bridal garter," and "nance and tom," which we owe to mr. blakeborough, and which present to us in so delightful a manner the picture of the bride tying her garter of wheaten and oaten straws about her left leg and the bride-groom unloosing it after the wedding. it is hoped, too, that the reader may find much that is interesting in the singing-games, verses and the rhymes which throw light upon the vanishing customs, folklore, and faiths of the county. they serve to lift the veil which hides the past from the present, and to give us visions of a world which is fast passing out of sight and out of memory. it is a world where one may still faintly hear the horns of elfland blowing, and where hob-trush hob and little nanny button-cap wander on printless feet through the star-lit glades; where charms are still recited when the moon is new, and where on st. agnes' eve the milkmaid lets the twelve sage-leaves fall from her casement-window and, like keats's madeline, peers through "the honey'd middle of the night "for a glimpse of the porphyro to whom she must pledge her troth. 1. some years before thoresby's letter was written, another yorkshireman, francis brokesby, rector of rowley in the east riding, communicated with ray about dialect words in use in his district. see ray's collection of english words, second edition, pp. 170-73 (1691). 2. it has been republished by the late professor skeat in the english dialect society's volume, nine specimens of english dialects. 3. two editions of this ballad-opera were published in 1736. the title of the first (? pirated) edition runs as follows: a wonder; or, an honest yorkshire-man. a ballad opera; as it is performed at the theatres with universal applause. in the second edition the words, "a wonder," disappear from the title. 4. edited by j. o. halliwell in his yorkshire anthology, 1851. 5. the first edition of ben preston's poems appeared in 1860 with the title, poems and songs in the dialect of bradford dale. 6. a. holroyd: a collection of yorkshire ballads, ed. by c. f. forshaw. (g. bell, 1892.) 7. the reader will find a reprint of the west riding version of the peace egg, with an attempt by the editor of this anthology to throw light upon its inner meaning, in the second volume of essays and studies of the english association (clarendon press, 1911). poems. a yorkshire dialogue between an awd wife a lass and a butcher. (1673) anonymous printed at york as a broadside by stephen bulkley in 1673. the original broadside is lost, but a manuscript transcript of it was purchased by the late professor skeat at the sale of sir f. madden's books and papers, and published by him in volume xxxii. of the dialect society's transactions, 1896. awd wife. pretha now, lass, gang into t' hurn(1) an' fetch me heame a skeel o' burn(2); na, pretha, barn, mak heaste an' gang, i's mar my deagh,(3) thou stays sae lang. lass. why, gom,(4) i's gea, bud, for my pains, you's gie me a frundel(5) o' your grains. awd wife. my grains, my barn! marry! not i; my draugh's(6) for t' gilts an' galts(7) i' t' sty. than, pretha, look i t' garth and see what owsen(8) i' the stand-hecks(9) be. lass. blukrins! they'll put,(10) i dare not gang oute'en(11) you'll len' me t' great leap-stang.(12) awd wife. tak t' frugan,(13) or t' awd maulin-shaft,(14) coom tite(15) agean an' be not daft. lass. gom, t' great bull-segg(16) he's brokken lowse, an' he, he's hiked(17) your broad-horned owse; an' t' owse is fall'n into t' swine-trough, i think he's brokken his cameril-hough.(18) awd wife. whaw! whaw! lass, mak heaste to t' smedy,(19) he's noo dead, for he rowts(20) already; he's boun; oh! how it bauks an' stangs!(21) his lisk(22) e'en bumps an' bobs wi' pangs. his weazen-pipe's(23) as dry as dust, his dew-lap's swelled, he cannot hoast.(24) he beals(25); tak t' barghams(26) off o' t' beams an' fetch some breckons(27) frae the clames.(28) frae t' banks go fetch me a weam-tow(29) my nowt's(30) e'en wrecken'd, he'll not dow.(31) e'en wellanerin!(32) for my nowt, for syke a musan(33) ne'er was wrowt. put t' wyes(34) amell(35) yon stirks an' steers i' t' owmer,(36) an' sneck the lear-deers.(37) see if goff hyldroth be gain-hand (38) thou helterful,(39) how dares ta stand! lass. he'll coom belive,(40) or aibles titter,(41) for when he hard i' what a twitter(42) your poor owse lay, he took his flail an' hang'd 't by t' swipple(43) on a nail; an' teuk a mell(44) fra t' top o' t' wharns(45) an' sware he'd ding your owse i' t' harns.(46) he stack his shak-fork up i' t' esins(47) an' teuk his jerkin off o' t' gresins.(48) then teuk his mittens, reached his bill, an' off o' t' yune-head(49) teuk a swill(50) to kep t' owse blude in. leuk, he's coom. awd wife. than reach a thivel(51) or a strum(52) to stir his blude; stand not to tauk. hing t' reckans(53) up o' t' rannel-bauk.(54) god ye good-morn, goff; i's e'en fain you'll put my owse out o' his pain. butcher. hough-band him, tak thir(55) weevils hine(56) f'rae t' rape's end; this is not a swine we kill, where ilkane hauds a fooit. i's ready now, ilkane leuk to it. then "beef!" i' god's name i now cry. stretch out his legs an' let him lie till i coom stick him. where's my swill?(57) coom hither, lass; haud, haud, haud still. lass. what mun i do wi' t' blude? butcher. thou fool, teem(58) 't down i' t' garth, i' t' midden-pool. good beef, by t' mass! an' when 'tis hung i's roll it down wi' tooth an' tongue, an' gobble 't down e'en till i worry. an' whan neist mell(59) we mak a lurry(60) a piece o' this frae t' kimlin(61) browt by t' rood! 't will be as good as owt. awd wife. maut-hearted(62) fool, i e'en could greet(63) to see my owse dead at my feet. i thank you, goff; i's wipe my een an', please, you too. butcher. why, gom green? 1. corner. 2. bucket of water. 3. dough. 4. grand-mother. 5. handful. 6. draff. 7. sows and boars. 8. oxen. 9. stalls. 10. gore. 11. unless. 12. pole. 13. oven-fork. 14. handle of oven-mop. 15. quickly. 16. bullock. 17. gored. 18. bend of hind.leg. 19. smithy. 20. snorts. 21. swells and stings. 22. flank. 23. windpipe. 24. cough. 25. bellows. 26. horse-collars. 27. bracken. 28. heaps. 29. belly-band. 30. ox. 31. recover. 32. alas! 33. wonder. 34. heifers. 35. among. 36. shade. 37. barn-doors. 38. near at hand. 39. halter-full. 40. soon. 41. perhaps sooner. 42. perilous state. 43. flap-end. 44. mallet. 45. hand-mill. 46. brains. 47. eaves. 48. stairs. 49. oven-top. 50. bucket. 51. porridge-stick. 52. stick. 53. iron chains for pot-hooks. 54. chimney cross-beam. 55. those. 56. away. 57. bucket. 58. pour. 59. next harvest-supper. 60. merry feast. 61. tub. 62. maggot-hearted. 63. weep. an honest yorkshireman henry carey (died 1748) i is i' truth a coontry youth, nean used to lunnon fashions; yet vartue guides, an' still presides ower all my steps an' passions. nea coortly leer, bud all sincere, nea bribe shall iver blinnd me ; if thoo can like a yorkshire tike, a rogue thoo'll niver finnd me. thof envy's tongue, so slimly hung, would lee aboot oor coonty, nea men o' t' earth boast greater worth, or mair extend their boonty. oor northern breeze wi' us agrees, an' does for wark weel fit us ; i' public cares, an' love affairs, wi' honour we acquit us. sea great a maand(1) is ne'er confaand(2) 'tiv onny shire or nation, they gie un meast praise whea weel displays a larned eddication; whaal rancour rolls i' laatle souls, by shallow views dissarnin', they're nobbut wise at awlus prize good manners, sense, an' larnin'. 1. mind 2. confined from "snaith marsh" (1754) anonymous this was written at the time of the enclosure acts which robbed the peasent farmer of his rights to use commons. alas! will roger e'er his sleep forgo, afore larks sing, or early cocks 'gin crow, as i've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done, to help thee milking, e'er day wark begun? and when thy well-stripp'd kye(1) would yield no more, still on my head the reeking kit(2) i bore. and, oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome talk we've held together, ganging down the balk, maund'ring(3) at time which would na for us stay, but now, i ween, maes(4) no such hast away. yet, o! return eftsoon and ease my woe, and to some distant parish let us go, and there again them leetsome days restore, where, unassail'd by meety(5) folk in power, our cattle yet may feed, tho' snaith marsh be no more. but wae is me! i wot i fand(6) am grown, forgetting susan is already gone, and roger aims e'er lady day to wed; the banns last sunday in the church were bid. but let me, let me first i' t' churchyard lig, for soon i there must gang, my grief's so big. all others in their loss some comfort find; though ned's like me reduc'd, yet jenny's kind, and though his fleece no more our parson taks, and roast goose, dainty food, our table lacks, yet he, for tithes ill paid, gets better land, while i am ev'ry o' t' losing hand. my adlings wared,(7) and yet my rent to pay, my geese, like susan's faith, flown far away; my cattle, like their master, lank and poor, my heart with hopeless love to pieces tore, and all these sorrows came syne(8) snaith marsh was no more 1. well-milked kine (cattle) 2. pail 3. finding fault 4. makes 5. mighty 6. fond, foolish 7. earnings spent 8. since when at hame wi' dad anonymous when at hame wi' dad, we niver had nae fun, sir, which meade me sae mad, i swore away i'd run, sir. i pack'd up clease(1) sae smart, ribbed stockings, weastcoats pretty; wi' money an' leet heart, tripp'd off to lunnon city, fal de ral de ra. when i did git there i geap'd about quite silly, at all the shows to stare i' a spot call'd piccadilly. lord! sike charmin' seights: bods(2) i' cages thrive, sir', coaches, fiddles, feights, an' crocodiles alive, sir, fal de ral de ra. then i did gan to see the gentry in hyde park, sir, when a lass push'd readely(1) by, to whom i did remark, sir: "tho' your feace be e'en sae fair, i've seen a bear mair civil." then, the laatle clease they wear! god! lunnon is the divil, fal de ral de ra. to t' play-house then i goes, whar i seed merry feaces, an' i' the lower rows were sarvants keepin' pleaces. the players i saw sean, they managed things quite funny; by gock! they'd honey-mean afore they'd matrimony. fal de ral de ra. now havin' seen all i could an' pass'd away my time, sir, if you think fit an' good, i'll e'en give up my rhyme, sir. an', sud my ditty please, the poppies in this garden to me would be heart's-ease; if not, i axe your pardon. fal de ral de ra. 1. clothes 2. birds 3. rudely i'm yorkshire too anonymous from a garland of new songs, published by w. appleton, darlington, 1811. by t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook, i was sent betimes to school; i went wi' the stream, as i studied my book, an' was thought to be no small fool. i never yet bought a pig in a poke, for, to give awd nick his due, tho' oft i've dealt wi' yorkshire folk, yet i was yorkshire too. i was pretty well lik'd by each village maid, at races, wake or fair, for my father had addled a vast(1) in trade, and i were his son and heir. and seeing that i didn't want for brass, poor girls came first to woo, but tho' i delight in a yorkshrre lass, yet i was yorkshire too! to lunnon by father i was sent, genteeler manners to see; but fashion's so dear, i came back as i went, and so they made nothing o' me my kind relations would soon have found out what was best wi' my money to do: says i, "my dear cousins, i thank ye for nowt, but i'm not to be cozen'd by you! for i'm yorkshire too." 1. earned a lot. the wensleydale lad anonymous when i were at home wi' my fayther an' mother, i niver had na fun; they kept me goin' frae morn to neet, so i thowt frae them i'd run. leeds fair were coomin' on, an' i thowt i'd have a spree, so i put on my sunday cooat an' went right merrily. first thing i saw were t' factory, i niver seed one afore; there were threads an' tapes, an' tapes an' silks, to sell by monny a score. owd ned turn'd iv'ry wheel, an' iv'ry wheel a strap; "begor!" says i to t' maister-man, "owd ned's a rare strong chap." next i went to leeds owd church- i were niver i' one i' my days, an' i were maistly ashamed o' misel, for i didn't knaw their ways; there were thirty or forty folk, i' tubs an' boxes sat, when up cooms a saucy owd fellow. says he, "noo, lad, tak off thy hat." then in there cooms a great lord mayor, an' over his shooders a club, an' he gat into a white sack-poke,(1) an gat into t' topmost tub. an' then there cooms anither chap, i thinks they call'd him ned, an' he gat into t' bottommost tub, an' mock'd all t' other chap said. so they began to preach an' pray, they prayed for george, oor king; when up jumps t' chap i' t' bottommost tub. says he, "good folks, let's sing." i thowt some sang varra weel, while others did grunt an' groan, ivery man sang what he wad, so i sang " darby an' joan."(2) when preachin' an' prayin' were over, an' folks were gangin' away, i went to t' chap i' t' topmost tub. says i, "lad, what's to pay?" "why, nowt," says he, "my lad." begor! i were right fain, so i click'd hod(3) o' my gret club stick an' went whistlin' oot again. 1. corn-sack 2. another reading is "bobbing joan." 3. took hold a song 1. thomas browne (1771-1798) ye loit'ring minutes faster flee, y' are all ower slow by hauf for me, that wait impatient for the mornin'; to-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair, i'll try to shine the fooremost there, misen in finest claes adornin', to grace the day. i'll put my best white stockings on, an' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon, my clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton; aboot my neck a muslin shawl, a new silk handkerchee ower all, wi' sike a careless air i'll put on, i'll shine this day. my partner ned, i know, thinks he, he'll mak hiss en secure o' me, he's often said he'd treat me rarely; but i's think o' some other fun, i'll aim for some rich farmer's son, and cheat oor simple neddy fairly, sae sly this day. why mud not i succeed as weel, an' get a man full oot genteel, as awd john darby's daughter nelly? i think misen as good as she, she can't mak cheese or spin like me, that's mair 'an(1) beauty, let me tell ye, on onny day. then hey! for sports and puppy shows, an' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows, an' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin'; an' thousand other pratty seets, an' lasses traul'd(2) alang the streets, wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin' to drink this day. let's leuk at t' winder, i can see 't, it seems as tho' 't was growin' leet, the cloods wi' early rays adornin'; ye loit'ring minutes faster flee, y' are all ower slow be hauf for me, at(3) wait impatient for the mornin' o' sike a day. 1. than 2. trailed 3. that a song 2. thomas browne (1771--1798) when i was a wee laatle totterin' bairn, an' had nobbud just gitten short frocks, when to gang i at first was beginnin' to lairn, on my brow i gat monny hard knocks. for sae waik, an' sae silly an' helpless was i i was always a tumblin' doon then, while my mother would twattle me(1) gently an' cry, "honey jenny, tak care o' thisen." when i grew bigger, an' got to be strang, at i cannily ran all about by misen, whor i liked, then i always mud gang bithout(2) bein' tell'd about ought; when, however, i com to be sixteen year awd, an' rattled an' ramp'd amang men, my mother would call o' me in an' would scaud, an' cry--" huzzy, tak care o' thisen." i've a sweetheart cooms noo upo' setterday nights, an' he swears at he'll mak me his wife; my mam grows sae stingy, she scauds an' she flytes,(3) an' twitters(4) me oot o' my life. bud she may leuk sour, an' consait hersen wise, an' preach agean likin' young men; sen i's grown a woman her clack(5) i'll despise, an' i's--marry!--tak care o' misen. 1. prattle to me. 2. without. 3. argues, 4. worries. 5. talk the invasion: an ecologue thomas browne (1771--1798) impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit?--virgil. a wanton wether had disdain'd the bounds that kept him close confin'd to willy's grounds; broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray, he knew not whither on the public way. as willy strives, with all attentive care, the fence to strengthen and the gap repair, his neighbour, roger, from the fair return'd, appears in sight in riding-graith adorn'd; whom, soon as willy, fast approaching, spies, thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries. willy how dea ye, roger? hae ye been at t' fair? how gangs things? made ye onny bargains there? roger i knaw not, willy, things deant look ower weel, coorn sattles fast, thof beas'(1) 'll fetch a deal. to sell t' awd intak(2) barley i desaagn'd, bud couldn't git a price to suit my maand. what wi' rack-rents an' sike a want a' trade, i knawn't how yan's to git yan's landloords paid. mair-ower(3) all that, they say, i' spring o' t' year franch is intarmin'd on 't to 'tack us here. willy yea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for? depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4) roger true, willy, nobbud englishmen 'll stand by yan another o' their awwn good land. they'll niver suffer--i's be bun' to say â­ the franch to tak a single sheep away. fightin' for heame, upo' their awn fair field, all power i' france could niver mak 'em yield. willy whaw! seer(5) you cannot think, when put to t' pinch, at onny englishmen 'll iver flinch! if franch dea coom here, roger, i'll be hang'd an' they deant git theirsens reet soondly bang'd. i can't bud think--thof i may be mistean â­ not monny on 'em 'll git back agean. roger i think nut, willy, bud some fowk 'll say, oor english fleet let t' franch ships git away, when they were laid, thou knaws, i' bantry bay; at(6) they could niver all have gien 'em t' slip, bud t' english wanted nut to tak a ship. willy eh! that's all lees! roger i dinnot say it's true, it's all unknawn to sike as me an' you. how do we knaw when fleets do reet or wrang? i whope it's all on't fause, bud sea talks gang. howsiver this i knaw, at when they please, oor sailors always beat 'em upo' t' seas. an' if they nobbut sharply look aboot, t'hey needn't let a single ship coom oat. at least they'll drub 'em weel, i dinnot fear, an' keep 'em fairly off frae landin' here. willy i whope sea, roger, bud, an' if they dea coom owerr, i then shall sharpen my awd lea.(7) what thof(8) i can bud of a laatle boast, you knaw van wadn't hae that laatle lost. i's send our mally an' all t' bairns away, an' i misen 'll by the yamstead(9) stay. i'll fight, if need; an' if i fall, why, then i's suffer all the warst mishap misen. was i bud seer my wife an' bairns were seafe, i then sud be to dee content eneaf. roger reet, willy, mon, what an' they put us tea 't i will misen put forrad my best feat.(10) what thof i's awd, i's nut sae easily scar'd; on his awn midden an awd cock fights hard. they say a franchman's torn'd a different man, a braver, better soldier, ten to yan. bud let the franch be torn'd to what they will, they'll finnd at englishmen are english still. o' their awn grund they'll nowther flinch nor flee, they'll owther conquer, or they'll bravely dee. 1. beasts, cattle. 2 enclosure. 3. besides. 4. stir. 5. surely. 6. that. 7. scythe. 8. though. 9. homestead. 10 foot. elegy on the death of a frog (1815) david lewis ya summer day when i were mowin', when flooers of monny soorts were growin', which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin', as i advance, a frog i cut widout my knowin'- a sad mischance. poor luckless frog, why com thoo here? thoo sure were destitute o' fear; some other way could thoo nut steer to shun the grass? for noo that life, which all hod dear, is gean, alas! hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soond with which the mowers strip the groond, then fled away wi' nimble boond, thoo'd kept thy state: but i, unknawin', gav a wound, which browt thy fate. sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn, wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn, and golden rings round baith ees drawn, all gay an' blithe, thoo lowpt(1) the fields like onny fawn, but met the scythe. frae dikes where winter watters steead(2) thoo com unto the dewy mead, regardless of the cattle's treead, wi' pantin' breeath, for to restore thy freezin' bleead, but met wi' deeath. a frenchman early seekin' prog,(3) will oftentimes ransack the bog, to finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog, to give relief; but i prefer a leg of hog, or roond o' beef. but liker far to the poor frog, i's wanderin' through the world for prog, where deeath gies monny a yan a jog, an' cuts them doon; an' though i think misen incog, that way i's boun. time whets his scythe and shakes his glass, and though i know all flesh be grass, like monny mair i play the ass, don't seem to know; but here wad sometime langer pass, befoor i go. ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers, of cottage mean, or gilded booers, possessed of attractive pooers, ye all mun gang like frogs in meadows fed by shooers, ere owt be lang. though we to stately plants be grown, he easily can mow us doon; it may be late, or may be soon, his scythe we feel; or is it fittin' to be known? therefore fareweel. 1. leaped. 2. stood. 3. food. sheffield cutler's song (1887) abel bywater coom all you cutlin' heroes, where'ersome'er you be, all you what works at flat-backs,(1) coom listen unto me; a basketful for a shillin', to mak 'em we are willin', or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin', or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin'. a baskitful o' flat-backs, i'm sure we'll mak, or more, to ger(2) reight into t' gallery, wheer we can rant an' roar, throw flat-backs, stones an' sticks, red herrin's, bones an' bricks, if they don't play "nancy's fancy," or onny tune we fix, we'll do the best at e'er we can to break some o' their necks. hey! jont, lad, where art ta waddlin' to? does ta work at flat-backs yit, as tha's been used to do? ha! coom, an' tha' s go wi' me, an' a sample i will gie thee, it's one at i've just forged upon geoffry's bran-new stiddy.(3) look at it well, it does excel all t' flat-backs i' aar smithy. let's send for a pitcher o' ale, lad, for i'm gerrin' varry droy, i'm ommost chok'd wi' smithy sleck,(4) the wind it is so hoigh. gie rafe an' jer a drop, they sen(5) they cannot stop, they're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop, they're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop. here's steem at lives at heeley, he'll soon be here, i knaw, he's larnt a new maccaroni step, the best you iver saw; he has it so complete, he troies up ivery street, an' ommost breaks all t' pavors(6) wi' swattin'(7) daan his feet. an' anak troies to beat him, wheniver they doon(8) meet. we'll raise a tail by sunda, steem; i knaw who's one to sell, we'll tee a hammer heead at t' end to mak it balance well. it's a reight new lunnon tail, we'll wear it kale for kale,(9) aar anak browt it wi' him, that neet he coom by t' mail. we'll drink success unto it--hey! tout, lad, teem(10) aat t' ale. 1 knives. 2 get. 3. anvil. 4. dust. 5. say. 6. paving stones. 7. hammering. 8. do. 9. turn and about. 10. pour. address to poverty anonymous scoolin' maid o' iron broo, thy sarvant will address thee noo, for thoo invites the freedom by drivin' off my former friends, to leak to their awn private ends, just when i chanc'd to need 'em. i've had thy company ower lang, ill-lookin' wean,(1) thoo must be wrang, thus to cut short my jerkin. i ken thee weel, i knaw thy ways, thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes, an' foorc'd me to hard workin'. to gain o' thee a yal(2) day's march i straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch. for all i still straave faster, thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop, by some slain corn, or failin' crop, or ivery foul disaster. if i my maand may freely speak, i really dunnot like thy leak, whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on; thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd, a fiend afoore, a freight behinnd, an' foul as mother shipton. folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth, thoo has been wi' me frae my youth, an' gien me monny a thumper; bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight, fast fallin' frae a fearful height, a doonreet milton plumper. sud plenty frae her copious horn, teem(1) oot to me good crops o' corn, an' prosper weel my cattle, an' send a single thoosand pund, 't wad bring all things completely roond, an' i wad gie thee battle. noo, poverty, ya thing i beg, like a poor man withoot a leg, sea, prethee, don't deceive me; i knaw it's i' thy power to grant the laatle favour at i want â­ at thoo wad gang an' leave me. 1. child. 2. whole. the collingham ghost anonymous i'll tell ye aboot the collingham ghost, an' a rare awd ghost was he; for he could laugh, an' he could talk, an' run, an' jump, an' flee. he went aboot hither an' thither, an' freeten'd some out o' their wits, he freeten'd the parson as weel as the clerk, an' lots beside them into fits. the poor awd man wha teak the toll at collingham bar for monny a year, he dursn't coom out to oppen his yat(2) for fear the ghost sud be near. he teak to his bed an' there he laid, for monny a neet an' day; his yat was awlus wide oppen thrown, an' nean iver stopp'd to pay. awd jerry wha kept the public hoose, an' sell'd good yal to all, curs'd the ghost wi' hearty good will, for neabody stopp'd to call. it made sike a noise all roond aboot, that folks com far to see; some said it was a dreadful thing, an' sum said 't was a lee. gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns, thinkin' 't was some comical beast; an' they wad eyther kill him or catch him, or drive him awa at least. sea into lady wood right they went ya beautiful meenleet neet; a lot o' great men an' a lot o' rough dogs, enew(3) a poor ghost to eat. they waited lang, the ghost didn't come, they began to laugh an' rail, "if he coom oat of his den," says yan, "we'll clap a bit o' saut of his tail." "nay, he knows better than turn oot, when we are here to watch him, he'd git a bullet through his lug, or mungo there wad catch him." when close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter the ghost went whirrin' up, an' owerr the woods he laughed an' shouted, "bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!" the gamkeepers all tummled doon, their hair thrast off their hat, they gaped an' grean'd(4) an' roll'd aboot, an' their hearts went pit-a-pat. their feaces were white as onny clout, an' they said niver a word, t'hey couldn't tell what the ghost was like, whether 'twas a beast or a bird. they stay'd nea langer i' t' wood that neet, poor men were niver dafter, they ran awa hame as fast as they could, an' their dogs ran yelping after. the parson then, a larned man, said he wad conjure the ghost; he was sure it was nea wandrin' beast, but a spirit that was lost. all languages this parson knew that onny man can chat in, the ebrew, greek, an' irish too, as weel as dutch an' latin. o! he could talk an' read an' preach, few men knew mair or better, an' nearly all the bukes he read were printed in black letter. he read a neet, he read a day, fo mak him fit for his wark, an' when he thowt he was quite up, he sent for the awd clerk. the clerk was quickly by his side, he took but little fettlin', an' awa they went wi' right good will to gie the ghost a settlin'. aye off they set wi' all their might, nor stopp'd at thin or thick, the parson wi' his sark(5) an' buke, the clerk wi' a thick stick. at last by t' side o' t' bank they stopp'd, where wharfe runs murmurin' clear, a beautiful river breet an' fine, as onny in wide yorkshire. the parson then began to read, an' read full loud an' lang, the rabbits they ran in an' oot, an' wonder'd what was wrang. the ghost was listnin' in a hole, an' oat he bang'd at last, the fluttrin' o' his mighty wings, was like a whirlwind blast. he laughed 'an shooted as he flew, until the wild woods rang; his who-who-whoop was niver heard sea load an' clear an' strang. the parson he fell backwards ower into a bush o' whins, an' lost his buke, an' rave(6) his sark,(7) an' prick'd his hands an' shins. the clerk he tried to run awa, but tumml'd ower his stick, an' there he made a nasty smell while he did yell an' fick.(8) an' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd that here i darn't tell, for if i did, folks wad declare i was as ill as hissel. for eighteen months an' mair he stay'd, an' just did as he thowt ; for lord nor duke, parson nor clerk, he fear'd, nor cared nowt. efter that time he went awa, just when it pleas'd hissel; but what he was, or whar he com fra, nea mortal man can tell. 1. pour. 2. gate. 3. enough. 4. groaned. 5. surplice. 6. tore. 7. surplice. 8. kick. the yorkshire horse dealers anonymous bain(1) to clapham town-end lived an owd yorkshire tike, who i' dealing i' horseflesh had ne'er met his like; 't were his pride that i' all the hard bargains he'd hit, he'd bit a girt monny, but niver bin bit. this owd tommy towers (by that name he were known) had an owd carrion tit(2) that were sheer skin an' bone; to have killed him for t' curs wad have bin quite as well, but 't were tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel! well! yan abey muggins, a neighborin cheat, thowt to diddle owd tommy wad be a girt treat; he'd a horse, too, 't were war(3) than owd tommy's, ye see, for t' neet afore that he'd thowt proper to dee ! thinks abey, t' owd codger 'll niver smoke t' trick, i'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,(4) an' if tommy i nobbut can happen to trap, 't will be a fine feather i' abraham cap! so to tommy he goes, an' the question he pops: "betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, tommy, what swops? what wilt gie me to boot? for mine's t' better horse still?" "nowt," says tommy, "i'll swop even hands, an' ye will!" abey preached a lang time about summat to boot, insistin' that his were the liveliest brute; but tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, till abey shook hands, an' said, well, tommy i done! "o! tommy," said abey, "i's sorry for thee, i thowt thou'd hae hadden mair white i' thy ee; good luck's wi' thy bargain, for my horse is deead." "hey!" says tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an' it's fleead(5)!" so tommy got t' better o' t' bargain a vast, an' cam' off wi' a yorkshireman's triumph at last; for thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mich to choose, yet tommy were richer by t' hide an' fower shooes. 1 near. 2 nag. 3 worse. 4. quick, living 5. flayed. the lucky dream john castillo (1792-1845) ya kessmas neet, or then aboot, when measons all were frozzen oot, i went to see a country friend, an hospitable hoor to spend. for gains, i cut across o' t' moor, whoor t' snaw sea furiously did stoor.(1) the hoose i gain'd an' enter'd in, an' were as welcome as a king. the storm agean t' windey patter'd, an' hail-steans doon t' chimley clatter'd. all hands were in, an' seem'd content, an' nean did frost or snaw lament. t' lasses all were at their sewing, their cheeks wiv health an' beauty glowing. aroond the hearth, in cheerful chat, twea or three friendly neighbours sat, their travels telling, whoor they'd been, an' what they had beath heeard an' seen. till yan did us all mich amuse, an' thus a story introduce. "i recollect lang saan,"(2) says he, "a story that were tell'd to me, at seems sea strange i' this oor day that true or false i cannot say. a man liv'd i' this neighbourhood, nea doot of reputation good, an' lang taame strave wi' stiddy care, to keep his hoosehod i' repair. at length he had a curious dream, for three neets runnin' 't were the seame, at(3) if on lunnon brig he stood, he'd hear some news would dea him good, he labour'd hard, beath neet an' day, tryin' to draave those thowts away; yet daily grew mair discontent till he at last to lunnon went. being quite a stranger to that toon, lang taame he wander'd up an' doon, till, led by some mysterious hand, on lunnon brig he teak his stand. an' there he waited day by day, an' just were boun(4) to coom away, sea mich he thowt he were to bleame to gang sea far aboot a dream, when thus a man, as he drew near, did say, "good friend, what seek you here, where i have seen you soon and late?" his dream tiv him he did relate. "dreams," says the man, " are empty things, mere thoughts that flit on silver'd wings; unheeded we should let them pass. i've had a dream, and thus it was, that somewhere round this peopled ball, there's such a place as lealholm hall(5); yet whether such a place there be, or not, is all unknown to me. there in a cellar, dark and deep, where slimy creatures nightly creep, and human footsteps never tread, there is a store of treasure hid. if it be so, i have no doubt, some lucky wight will find it out. yet so or not is nought to me, for i shall ne'er go there to see." the man did slyly twice or thrice the cockney thenk for his advice; then heame agean withoot delay he cherfully did tak his way. an' set aboot the wark, an' sped, fun' ivvery thing as t' man had said; were iver efter seen to flourish t' fanest gentleman iv all t' parish. folks wonder'd sair, an' ,weel they might, whoor he gat all his guineas bright. if it were true, i' spite o' fame, tiv him it were a lucky dream." 1. drive. 2. long ago. 3. that. 4. ready. 5. in the neighbourhood of whitby. the milkin'-time j. h. dixon (1803-1876) meet me at the fowd at the milkin'-time, whan the dusky sky is gowd at the milkin'-time; whan the fog(1) is slant(2) wi' dew, an' the clocks(3) go hummin' thro' the wick-sets(4) an' the branches of the owmerin'(5) yew. weel ye knaw the hour of the milkin'-time, the girt bell sounds frev t' tower at the milkin'-time; bud as gowd sooin turns to gray, an' i cannot have delay, dunnot linger by the way at the milkin'-time. ye'll find a lass at's true at the milkin'-time, shoo thinks of nane bud you at the milkin'-time; bud my fadder's gittin' owd, an' he's gien a bit to scowd, whan i's ower lang at the fowd at the milkin'-time. happen ye're afeard at the milkin'-time; mebbe loike ye've heerd at the milkin'-time the green fowk shak their feet, whan t' moon on heeside's breet, an' it chances so to-neet, at the milkin'-time. there's yan, an' he knaws weel whan it's milkin'-time; he'd feace the varra de'il at the milkin'-time. he'd nut be yan to wait tho' a barguest(6) war i' t' gate,(7) if the word i'd nobbud say 't at the milkin'-time. 1. aftermath. 2. wet. 3. beetles 4. quick-sets. 5. overshadowing 6. the barguest is an apparition, taking usually the form of a big black dog with saucer eyes. 7. way, road. i niver can call her my wife ben preston (1819-1902) i'm a weyver, ye knaw, an' awf deead, so i do all at iver i can to put away aat o' my heead the thowts an' the aims of a man. eight shillin' i' t'wick's what i arn, when i've varry gooid wark an' full time, an' i think it's a sorry consarn for a fella at's just in his prime. bud aar maister says things is as weel as they have been or iver can be, an' i happen sud think so misel if he'd nobbud swop places wi' me. bud he's welcome ta all he can get, i begrudge him o' noan of his brass, an' i'm nowt bud a madlin(1) to fret, or to think o' yon beautiful lass. i niver can call her my wife, my love i sal niver mak knawn, yit the sarra that darkens her life thraws its shadda across o' my awn. when i knaw at her heart is at eease, theer is sunshine an' singin' i' mine; an' misfortunes may come as they pleease, yit they seldom can mak me repine. bud that chartist wor nowt bud a slope(2)- i were fooild by his speeches an' rhymes, for his promises wattered my hope, an' i leng'd for his sunshiny times; bud i feel at my dearest desire within me 'll wither away; like an ivy-stem trailin' i' t' mire, it's deein for t' want of a stay. when i laid i' my bed day an' neet, an' were geen up by t' doctors for deead, god bless her! shoo'd coom wi' a leet an' a basin o' grewil an' breead. an' i once thowt i'd aat wi' it all, bud so kindly shoo chatted an' smiled, i were fain to turn ovver to t' wall, an' to bluther an' roar like a child. an' i said, as i thowt of her een, each breeter for t' tear at were in 't, it's a sin to be niver forgeen, to yoke her to famine an' stint; so i'll e'en travel forrad throo life, like a man throo a desert unknawn; i mun ne'er have a home nor a wife, bud my sorras 'll all be my awn. so i trudge on alone as i owt, an' whativer my troubles may be, they'll be sweetened, poor lass, wi' the thowt at i've niver browt trouble to thee. yit a bird has its young uns to guard, a wild beast a mate in his den, an' i cannot bud think at it's hardâ­ nay, deng it, i'm roarin' agen! 1. fool 2. impostor. come to thy gronny, doy(1) ben preston come to thy gronny, doy, come to thy gronny, bless thee, to me tha'rt as pratty as onny; mutherlass barn of a dowter unwed, little tha knaws, doy, the tears at i've shed; trials i've knawn both for t' heart an' for t' heead, shortness o' wark, ay, an' shortness o' breead. these i could bide, bud tho' tha'rt noan to blame, bless thee, tha browt me both sorra an' shame; gronny, poor sowl, for a two month or more hardly could feshion to lewk aat. o' t' door; t' neighbours called aat to me, "dunnot stand that, aat wi' that hussy an' aat wi' her brat." deary me, deary me! what could i say? t' furst thing of all, i thowt, let me go pray; t' next time i slept i'd a dream, do ye see, ay, an' i knew at that dream were for me. tears of christ jesus, i saw 'em that neet, fall drop by drop on to one at his feet. after that, saw him wi' barns raand his knee, some on 'em, happen, poor crayturs like thee; says i at last, though i sorely were tried, surely a sinner a sinner sud bide; neighbours may think or may say what they will, t' muther an' t' dowter sal stop wi' me still. come on 't what will, i' my cot they sal caar,(2) woe be to them at maks bad into waar(3); some fowk may call thee a name at i hate, wishin' fra t' heart tha were weel aat o' t' gate; oft this hard world into t' gutter 'll shove thee, poor little lamb, wi' no daddy to love thee. dunnot thee freeat, doy, whol granny hods up, niver sal tha want a bite or a sup; what if i work these owd fingers to t' boan, happen tha'll love me long after i'm goan; t' last bite i' t' cupboard wi' thee i could share't, hay! bud tha's stown(4) a rare slice o' my heart. spite of all t' sorra, all t' shame at i've seen, sunshine comes back to my heart throo thy een; cuddle thy gronny, doy, bless thee, tha'rt bonny, doy, rosy an' sweet fra thy braa to thy feet, kingdoms an' craans wodn't buy thee to-neet. 1 darling. 2. cower, take shelter. 3. worse. 4. stolen. owd moxy ben preston owd moxy wrowt hard for his morsil o' breead, an' to keep up his courage he'd sing, tho' time wi' his scythe hed mawn t' crop on his heead an' then puffed it away wi' his wing. reight slavish his labour an' little his wage, his path tuv his grave were bud rough, poor livin' an' hardships, a deal more nor age, hed swealed(1) daan his can'le to t' snuff. one cowd winter morn, as he crept aat o' bed, t' owd waller felt dizzy an' sore: "come, frame(2) us some breykfast, owd duckfooit, he said, "an' i'll finish yond fence up at t' moor; "i'll tew(3) like a brick wi' my hammer an' mall,(4) an' i'll bring home my honey to t' hive, an' i'll pay t' bit o' rent an' wer(5) shop-score an' all, an' i'll dee aat o' debt if i live." so peg made his pobs(6) an' then futtered(7) abaat, an' temm'd(8) him his tea into 't can, then teed up some bacon an' breead in a claat, for dearly shoo liked her owd man. then moxy set aat on his wearisome way, wadin' bravely throo t' snaw-broth i' t' dark; it's a pity when fellas at's wakely an' grey hes to walk for a mile to their wark. bud summat that mornin' made moxy turn back, tho' he hardly knew what it could meean, so, cudlin' owd peggy, he gave her a smack, an' then started for t' common ageean. all t' day a wild hurricane wuther'd(9) throo t' glen, an' then rush'd like a fiend up to t' heeath; an' as peggy sat knittin' shoo said tuv hersen, "aw dear! he'll be starruv'd to t' deeath." an' shoo felt all that day as shoo'd ne'er felt afore, an' shoo dreeaded yit hunger'd for neet ; when harknin' an' tremlin' shoo heeard abaat t' door a mutterin, an' shufflin o' feet. five minutes at after,(10) owd peg, on her knees, were kussin' a forehead like stone; an' to t' men at stood by her wi' tears i' their ees, shoo said, "go, lads, an' leave me alone." when they straightened his body, all ready for t' kist,(11) it were seen at he'd thowt of his plan; for t' shop-score an' t' rent war safe locked in his fist, so he deed aat o' debt, like a man. 1. melted. 2. prepare. 3. toil. 4. mallet. 5. our. 6. porridge. 7. bustled. 8. poured. 9. roared. 10. afterwards, 11. coffin. dean't mak gam o' me (1875) florence tweddell i went last week to stowslay(1) fair, my sweetheart for to see; she promis'd she would meet me there bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i rigg'd misel' all i' my best, as fine as fine could be; an' little thowt how things would to'n(2); bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i walk'd to t' toon, an' bowt a cane, to cut a dash, ye see; an' how i swagger'd up an' doon! bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i thowt, if nobbut poll would come, how happy we sud be! i'd treat her into t' penny show, bud dean't mak gam o' me : oh, dean't mak gam o' me! at last i saw her coomin' in; bud what else did i see? jack hodge was walkin' biv her saade! bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! stright up i went, an' "poll!" says i, "i's waiting, lass, for thee!" "then thoo mun wait!" was all she said, bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! she teak jack's airm, an' there i stead quite flabbergash'd, ye see: i thowt i sud hav dropt to t' grund, bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! poor nancy green com seaglin'(3) up, "what's matter, dick?" says she: "jack hodge is off wi' poll!" says i, bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! "why, niver maand her; let her gan ; she's better gean!" said she: bud i thowt nut; an' then i cried, bud dean't mak gam o' me : oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i's nobbut a poor country lad at's lost my heart, ye see: i'll gan nea mair to t' pomesun fair,(4) sea dean't mak gam o' me : oh, dean't mak gam o' me! 1. stokesley. 2. turn out. 3. sauntering. 4. the fair held at stokesley on the saturday before palm sunday coom, stop at yam to-neet bob florence tweddell "coom, stop at yam(1) to-neet, bob, dean't gan oot onnywhere: thoo gets thisel t' leeast vex'd, lad, when thou sits i' t' awd airm-chair. "there's keat an' dick beath want thee to stop an' tell a teale: tak little keatie o' thy knee, an' dick 'll sit on t' steal. "let's have a happy neet, bob, tell all t' teales thoo can tell; for givin' pleeasure to the bairns will dea thee good thisel. "i knaw it's sea wi' me, bob, for oft when i've been sad, i've laik'd an' laugh'd wi' them, mon, untel my heart's felt glad. "an' sing that laatle sang, bob, thoo used to sing to me, when oft we sat at t' river saade, under t' awd willow tree. "what happy taames them was, bob, thoo niver left me then to gan to t' yal-hoose neet be neet amang all t' drunken men. "i does my best for thoo, bob, an' thoo sud dea t' seame for me: just think what things thoo promised me asaade t' awd willow tree!" "i prithee say nea mair, lass, i see i ain't dean reet; i'll think of all thoo's said to me, an' stop at yam to-neet." "i'll try to lead a better life i will, an' that thoo'll see! fra this taame fo'th i'll spend my neets at yam, wi' t' bairns an' thee!" 1. home. ode to t' mooin j. h. eccles (1824-1883) i like to see thy quaint owd face lewk softly daan on me, e'en though i ne'er could find thy nose nor catch thy watchful ee. full monny times i've seen thee rise, when busy day were done, when daan behint t' owd maantain tops had passed t' breet evenin' sun. i like to see thee when sweet spring cooms back to hill an' vale; when odours rise through t' hawthorn bush, an' float on t' evenin' gale. when lovers walk on t' primrose benks, an' whisper soft an' low; dreamin' just same as me an' t' wife did monny years ago. i like to see thee when t' june rose is wet wi' fallin' dew, when t' nightingale maks t' owd woods ring wi' music fresh an' new when fairies dance on t' top o' t' flaars an' roam through t' pleasant dells, like monarchs i' their marble halls, i' t' lilies' virgin bells. i like to see thee when t' ripe corn is wavin' to an' fro; when t' squirril goes a-seekin' nuts an' jumps thro' bough to bough. when t' purple heather covers t' hills, an' t' hunters, tired and worn, back through the fairy-haunted glens unto their homes return. i like to see thee when all raand is white wi' drivven snow, when t' streams are stopp'd by owd jack frost an' foaks slip as they go. i like to see thee all t' year raand, when t' sky is fair an' breet, an' allus hail wi' fond delight the noble queen o' t' neet. i used to think at i could reach up to thy face wi' ease, if i had but a big long stick; for tha were but green cheese. but naa i've got far different thowts, an' learnt to understand at tha art one o' t' wondrous works formed by t' gert maker's hand. aunt nancy j. h. eccles aunt nancy's one o' t' savin' sort, at niver lets t' chonce pass; yet wouldn't do owt mean or low for t' sake o' gettin' t' brass. her home's as clean as need be seen, whoiver may go in; an' as for nancy, dear-a-me! shoo's like a new-made pin. shoo's full o' thrift an' full o' sense, an' full o' love beside; shoo rubs an' scrubs thro' morn to neet an' maks t' owd haase her pride. her husband, when his wark is doon, sits daan i' t' owd arm chair ; forgets his troubles as he owt, an' loises all his care. wi' pipe an' book i' t' chimley nook time flies on noiseless wing; shoo sits an' knits wi' pleasant face, he's happy as a king. wi' tattlin' folks shoo's niver seen i' alley, loin(1) or street, but goes her way wi' modest step, exact an' clean an' neat. her neighbours soomtimes watch her aat, an' say shoo's praad an' stiff; but all their gossip cooms to nowt, aunt nancy's reight enif. wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad to some poor lonely elf; to ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way at's poorer nor(2) herself. shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives, kind, gentle-hearted sowl; i' charity her hands find wark, shoo's good alike to all. he niver tells her what he thinks, nor flatters nor reproves; his life is baand wi' gowlden bands to t' woman at he loves. god bless her, shoo's a dimond breet, both good i' mind an' heart; an angel spreeadin' light an' love, that plays a noble part. shoo's worthy of a monarch's choice, her worth can ne'er be towld ; shoo cam to mak folks' hearts feel glad, shoo's worth her weight i' gowld. 1 lane. 2 than. coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl (1867) thomas blackah coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl, an' straighten thy cap an' thy hair; i's really beginnin' to stall(1) to see thee sit dazzin'(2) i' t' chair. sea coom, let us tak a walk oot, for t' air is as warm as a bee; i hennot(3) a morsel o' doot it'll help beath lile willy an' thee. we'll gan reet throo t' middle toon, as far as to reavensgill heead(4); when thar, we can sit wersens doon on t' crags close at side o' t' becksteead. an' then, oh! hoo grand it'll be to pass a few minutes away, an' listen t' birds sing on each tree their carols for closin' the day. an' all aboot t' green nobby hills, t' lile daisies their beauties will show; an' t' perfume at flora distils like breath o' the mornin' will blow. then don on thy bonnet an' shawl, an' coom let's be walkin' away; i's fairly beginnin' to stall to see thee sit dazzin' all t' day. 1 grow tired. 2. dozing. 3. have not. 4. near pateley bridge. my awd hat thomas blackah i'll wear thee yet awhile, awd hat, i'll wear thee yet awhile; though time an' tempest, beath combined, have changed thy shap an' style. for sin we two togither met, when thoo were nice an' new, what ups an' doons i' t' world we've had, bud awlus braved 'em through. that glossy shade o' thine, awd hat, that glossy shade o' thine, at graced thy youthful days is gean, which maks me noo repine. fra monny a gleam an' monny a shoor thoo's sheltered my awd heead; bud sean a smarter, tider hat will shelter 't i' thy steead. though friends have proved untrue, awd hat, though friends have proved untrue, an' vanished in adversity, like mist or mornin' dew; yet when fierce storms or trials com i fand a friend i' thee; sea noo, when thoo's far on, awwd hat, thoo 'st finnd a friend i' me. some nail or crook 'll be thy heame o' t' joists, or back o' t' door; or, mebbe, thoo'l be bunched(1) aboot wi' t' barns across o' t' floor. when t' rain an' t' wind coom peltin' through thy crumpled, battered croon, i'll cut thee up for soles to wear i' my awd slender shoon. 1. kicked reeth bartle fair(1) (1870) john harland this mworning as i went to wark, i met curly just coomin' heame; he had on a new flannin sark(2) an' he saw at i'd just gitten t' seame. "whar's te been?" said awd curly to me. "i've been down to reeth bartle fair." "swat(3) te down, mun, sex needles,"(4) said he, an' tell us what seets te saw there." "why, t' lads their best shoon had put on, an' t' lasses donn'd all their best cwoats; i saw five pund of scotch wether mutton sell'd by ward and tish tom for five grwoats. rowlaway had fine cottons to sell, butteroy lace an' handkerchers browt; young tom cwoats had a stall tuv hissel, an' had ribbins for varra near nowt. "thar was enos had good brandy-snaps, bill brown as good spice as could be; potter robin an' mair sike-like chaps had t' bonniest pots te could see. john ridley, an' awd willy walls, an' naylor, an' twea or three mar, had apples an' pears at their stalls, an' gardener joe tea was thar. "thar was scissors an' knives an' read(5) purses, an' plenty of awd cleathes on t' nogs,(6) an' twea or three awd spavin'd horses, an' plenty o' shoon an' new clogs. thar was plenty o' good iron pans, an' pigs at wad fill all t' deale's hulls(7); thar was baskets, an skeps, an' tin cans, an' bowls, an' wood thivles for gulls.(8) "thar was plenty of all maks(9) o' meat, an' plenty of all sworts o' drink, an' t' lasses gat monny a treat, for t' gruvers(10) war all full o' chink. i cowp'd(11) my black hat for a white un, lile jonas had varra cheap cleath; jem peacock an' tom talk'd o' feightin', but gudgeon jem puke lick'd 'em beath. "thar was dancin' an' feightin' for ever, will wade said at he was quite griev'd; an' pedlety tell'd 'em he'd never forgit 'em as lang as he leev'd. they knock'd yan another about, just warse than a sham to be seen, charlie will look'd as white as a clout, kit puke gat a pair o' black een. "i spied our awd lass in a newk, drinkin' shrub wi' grim freesteane, fond lad; i gav her a varra grow(12) leuk; o, connies,(13) but i was just mad. sea i went to john whaites's to drink, whar i war'd(14) twea an' seempence i' gin; i knaw not what follow'd, but think i paddl'd through t' muck thick an' thin. "for to-day, when i gat out o' bed, my cleathes were all sullied sea sar, our peggy and all our fwoak said to reeth fair i sud never gang mar. but it's rake-time,(15) sea i mun away, for my partners are all gain' to wark." sea i lowp'd up an bade him good day, an' wrowt at t' awd gang(16) tell 't was dark." 1. the fair held at reeth in swaledale on st. bartholomew's day, august 24. 2. shirt. 3. sit. 4. "sex needles" is literally the interval of time during which a knitter would work the loops off six needles. 5. red. 6. pegs. 7. sties. 8. sticks for stirring hasty puddings. 9. sorts. 10. miners. 11. bartered. 12. ugly. 13. mates. 14. spent. 15. time for the next shift. 16. a lead mine the christmas party (1876) tom twistleton when cowd december's sturdy breeze in chimley-tops did grumble, or, tearing throug'h the leafless trees, on lang dark neets did rumble, a lot o' young folks, smart an' gay, an' owds uns, free an' hearty, agreed amang thersels at they would have a christmas party at hame some neet they kicked up sich a fuss an' spreead, an' made sich preparations; they baked grand tarts an' mixed their breead wi' spices frae all nations. to drive away baith want an' cowd it seem'd their inclination; an' t' neebours round, baith young an' owd, all gat an invitation to gang that neet. smart sprigs o' spruce an' ivy green were frae the ceiling hinging, an' in their midst, conspicuous seen, the mistletoe was swinging. the lamp shone forth as clear as day, an' nowt was there neglected; an' t' happy, smiling faces say, some company is expected to coom this neet. an' first com moll wi' girt lang jack, a strapping, good-like fella; an' following closely at their back com bob and isabella. with "how's yoursel?" an' "how d'ye do?" they sit down i' their places, till t' room sae big, all through an' through, wi' happy smiling faces was filled that neet. a merrier lot than this i name ne'er met at onny party; all girt grand balls they put to shame, they were sae gay an' hearty. here yan had made hersel quite fine, wi' lace an' braid's assistance; an' there a girt grand crinoline, to keep t' lads at a distance, stood out that neet. the lads draw up to t' fire their chairs, an' merrily pass their jokes off; the lasses all slip off upstairs, to pu' their hats an' cloaks off. befoor a glass that hings at t' side they all tak up their station, an' think within theirsels wi' pride they'll cause a girt sensation 'mang t' lads that neet. an' now the lusty christmas cheer is browt out for t' occasion; to pies an' tarts, an' beef an' beer, they git an invitation. an' some, i' tune to put it by, play havoc on each dainty, whal some there is, sae varra shy, scarce let theirsels have plenty to eat that neet. against the host o' good things there they wage an awful battle; they're crying out, "a lile bit mair!" an' plates an' glasses rattle. here, yan's nae time a word to pass, thrang(1) supping an' thrang biting; there, simpering sits a girt soft lass that waits for mich inviting an' fuss that neet. an' when this good substantial fare has gien 'em satisfaction, they side(2) all t' chairs, an' stand i' pairs, wi' heels i' tune for action. see-sawing, t' fiddler now begins the best that he is able; he rosins t' stick an' screws up t' pins an' jumps up on to t' table, to play that neet. there, back an' forrad, in an' out, his elbow it gaas silting,(3) an' to an' fro, an' round about, the dancers they are lilting. some dance wi' ease i' splendid style, wi' tightly-fitting togs on, whal others bump about all t' while, like drainers wit their clogs on, sae numb'd that neet. an' when they've reel'd an' danc'd their fling, their chairs all round are ranged; they tell droll tales, they laugh, they sing, an' jokes are interchanged. a merry tune t' girt kettle sings, an' t' fire is blazing breetly ; wi' cheerful din t' owd farmhouse rings, an' hours fly ower them sweetly an' swift that neet. t' owd women preach an' talk about their claes being owd an' rotten, an' still being forc'd to speck an' clout,(4) it's sich a price is cotton. t' owd men sit round, wi' pipe an' glass, in earnest conversation; on t' ways an' means o' saving brass, an' t' rules an' t' laws o' t' nation, they talk that neet. now girt lang jack, that lives on t' moor, wi' cunning an' wi' caution, is beckoning moll to gang to t' door wi' sly mischievous motion. moll taks the hint, nor thinks it wrang, her heart that way inclining; she says to t' rest she thinks she'll gang to see if t' stars are shining out clear that neet. then down a field they tak a walk, an' then they wend their way back; to have a bit o' pleasant talk they shelter under t' haystack. she did not say "for shame!" not she, though oft-times johnny kiss'd her; she said she just would run an' see if t' other folks had missed her frae t' room that neet. a chap that had two watchful een, of which they waren't thinking, when peeping round that neet, had seen long jack at molly winking. says he, "now's t' time to have a stir, let's just gang out an' watch her; we's have some famous fun wi' her, if we can nobbut catch her wi' him this neet. then two or three, bent on a spree, out to the door gang thungein',(5) but hauf a yard they scarce could see, it was as dark as dungeon. jack hears their footsteps coming slow, an' frae her side he slinks off; runs round t' house-end, jumps ower a wa', an' up ower t' knee i' t' sink-trough he splash'd that neet. now, ye young men, be who ye may, that's bent on fun an' sportin', whare'er ye be, by neet or day, remember jack's misfortin. though things unlook'd for on ye creep, don't do owt in a splutter; but learn to look befoor ye leap, lest ye in some deep gutter stick fast some neet. 1. busily. 2. clear away. 3. rising up. 4. mend and patch. 5. thumping. nelly o' bob's john hartley (1839-1915) who is it at lives i' that cot on the lea, joy o' my heart an' leet o' my ee? who is that lass at's so dear unto me? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it goes trippin' ower dew-spangled grass, singin' so sweetly? shoo smiles as i pass, bonniest, rosy-cheek'd, gay-hearted lass! nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it i see i' my dreams of a neet ? who lovingly whispers words tender an' sweet, till i wakken to find shoo's nowheer i' t' seet? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it at leads me so lively a donce, yet to tawk serious ne'er gies me a chonce, an' niver replied when i begged on her once? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it at ivery chap's hankerin' to get, yet tosses her heead an' flies off in a pet, as mich as to say, "you've not getten me yet"? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it could mak life a long summer's day, whose smile would drive sorrow an' trouble away, an' mak t' hardest wark, if for her, seem like play? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it i'll have if i've iver a wife, an' love her, her only, to th' end o' my life, an' nurse her i' sickness, an' guard her from strife? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it at's promised, to-neet if it's fine, to meet me at t' corner o' t' mistal(1) at nine? why, it's her at i've langed for so long to mak mine nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. 1. cow-shed bite bigger john hartley as i hurried through t' taan to my wark, -i were lat,(1) for all t' buzzers had gooan i happen'd to hear a remark at 'ud fotch tears thro' th' heart of a stooan. it were rainin', an' snawin', an' cowd, an' th' flagstones were cover'd wi' muck, an' th' east wind both whistled an' howl'd, it saanded like nowt bud ill luck. when two little lads, donn'd(2) i' rags, baat(3) stockin's or shoes o' their feet, com trapsin' away ower t' flags, boath on 'em sodden'd wi' t' weet. th' owdest mud happen be ten, t' young un be haulf on't, no more; as i look'd on, i said to misen, "god help fowk this weather at's poor!" t' big un samm'd(4) summat off t' graand, an' i look'd just to see what 't could be, 't were a few wizen'd flaars he'd faand, an' they seem'd to hae fill'd him wi' glee. an' he said, "coom on, billy, may be we sal find summat else by an' by; an' if not, tha mun share these wi' me, when we get to some spot wheer it's dry." leet-hearted, they trotted away, an' i follow'd, 'cause t' were i' my rooad; but i thowt i'd ne'er seen sich a day, it wern't fit to be aat for a tooad. sooin t' big un agean slipp'd away, an' samm'd summat else aat o' t' muck; an' he cried aat, "look here, bill, to-day arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? "here's a apple, an' t' mooast on it's saand, what's rotten i'll throw into t' street. wern't it gooid to lig theer to be faand? naa boath on us can have a treat." so he wip'd it an' rubb'd it, an' then said, "billy, thee bite off a bit; if tha hasn't been lucky thisen, tha sal share wi' me sich as i get." so t' little un bate off a touch,(5) t' other's face beam'd wi' pleasure all through, an' he said, "nay, tha hasn't taen mich, bite agean, an' bite bigger, naa do." i waited to hear nowt no more; thinks i, there's a lesson for me; tha's a heart i' thy breast, if tha'rt poor; t' world were richer wi' more sich as thee. two pence were all t' brass at i had, an' i meant it for ale when com nooin ; bud i thowt, i'll go give it yond lad, he desarves it for what he's been doin'. so i said, "lad, here's twopence for thee, for thisen." an' they star'd like two geese; bud he said, whol t' tear stood in his ee, "naa, it'll just be a penny apiece." "god bless thee! do just as tha will, an' may better days speedily come; though clamm'd(6) an' hauf donn'd,(7) my lad, still tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nor(8) some." 1. late. 2. dressed. 3. without. 4. picked. 5. small piece. 6. starved 7. dressed 8. than rollickin' jack john hartley i know a workin' lad, his hands are hard an' rough, his cheeks are red an' braan, but i like him weel enough. his ee's as breet 's a bell, an' his curly hair is black, an' he stands six foot in his stockin' feet, an' his name is rollickin' jack. at morn, if we should meet, he awlus has a smile, an' his heart is gay an' leet, when trudgin' to his toil. he whistles, or he sings, or he stops a joke to crack; an' monny a lass at he happens to pass looks shyly at rollickin' jack. his mother's old an' gray; his father's deead an' gooan; he'll niver move away an' leave her all alooan. choose who(1) should be his wife, shoo'll mak a sad mistak, for he's ivery inch a mother's lad, is this rough an' rollickin' jack. an' still i think sometimes th' old woman wants a nurse; an' as for weddin' jack, why, there's monny a lass done worse. of coorse it's not for me to tell him who to tak, but there's one i could name, if i could but for shame, just the lass to suit rollickin' jack. 1. whoever. jim's letter james burnley (born 1842) whats this? a letter thro'(1) jim? god bless him! what has he to say? here, lizzie, my een's gettin' dim, just read it, lass, reight straight away. tha trem'les, liz. what is there up? abaat thy awn cousin tha surely can read; his ways varry oft has made bitter my cup, but theer--i forgive him--read on, niver heed that's it--"as it leaves me at present "- his father's expression to nowt! go on, lass, t' beginnin's so pleasant it couldn't be mended wi' owt. what's that? he has "sent a surprise"? what is 't, lass? go on! a new gaan, i'll be bun', or happen a nugget o' famous girt size; whativer it is it's t' best thing under t' sun. ay, lad, i dare say, "life is rough," for t' best on 't is nut varry smooth; i' england it's hilly enough, niver name wi' them diggers uncouth. but theer, liz, be sharp an' let's have his surprise. i'm capt(2) wheer tha's gotten that stammerin' cough, tha reads a deal better nor that when tha tries. good gracious! what's t' matter? shoo's fainted reight off! hey! lizzie, tha flays(3) me; coom here, an' sit wheer tha'll get some fresh air: tha'rt lookin' so bad at i fear tha's much war(4) nor i were aware. that's reight, lass, get tul it once more, just read reight to t' end on 't, an' then we'll just tak a walk for a bit aat o' t' door, whol tha feels rayther more like thisen. what! bless us! aar jim gotten wed! it is a surprise, on my word. who is she? that's all at he's said? i wish then i niver had heard. at one time i thowt happen thee he'd admire, an' that's haa we all sud have liked it to be. bud, sithee! what's that, liz, at's burnin' on t' fire? it's t' ribbin jim bowt thee! ay, ay, lass, i see. 1. from. 2. puzzled. 3. frightenest. 4. worse. a yorkshire farmer's address to a schoolmaster george lancaster (born 1846) good day to you, misther skealmaisther, the evenin' is desperate fine, i thowt i wad gie ye a call aboot that young sonnie o' mine. i couldn't persuade him to come, sea i left him behont(1) me at yam,(2) bud somehoo it's waintly(3) possess'd me to mak a skealmaisther o' sam. he's a kind of a slack-back, ye knaw, i niver could get him to work, he scarcelins wad addle(4) his saut wiv a ploo, or a shovel, or fork. i've tried him agean an' agean, bud i finnd that he's nea use at yam, sea me an' my missus agreed to mak a skealmaisther o' sam. if i sends him to wark, why, he'll chunther(5) an' gie me the a awfullest leaks, he'd a deal rayther lig upo' d' sofy wi' novels an' them soort o' beaks. sea i thowt a skealmaisther wad suit him, a lowse soort o' job, do ye see, just to keep a few bairns oot o' mischief, as easy as easy can be. of coorse you've to larn 'em to coont, an' to figure a bit, an' to read, an' to sharpen 'em up if they're numskulls, wiv a lalldabber(6) ower their heead, bud it's as easy as easy, ye knaw, an' i think it wad just suit oor sam, an' my missus, she's just o' my mind, for she says that he's nea use at yam. it was nobbut this mornin' i sent him to gan an' to harrow some land, he was boamin'(7) asleep upo' d' fauf,(8) wiva rubbishly beak iv his hand; i gav him a bunch(9) wi' my feat, an' rattled him yarmin'(10) off yam. sea i think that i'll send him to you, you mun mak a skealmaisther o' sam. he's a stiff an' a runty(1) young fellow, i think that' he'll grow up a whopper, he'd wallop the best lad you've got, an' i think he wad wallop him proper; bud still he's a slack-back, ye knaw, an' seein' he's nea use at yam, i think i shall send him to you, you mun mak a skealmaisther o' sam. 1. behind. 2. home. 3 strangely. 4.earn. 5. grumble. 6. cuff. 7. trailing along. 8. fallow. 9. kick. 10. whining. the window on the cliff top (1888) w. h. oxley "what! margery, still at your window in this blinding storm and sleet! why, you can't see your hand before you, and i scarce could keep my feet. "why, even the coast-guards tell me that they cannot see the sand; and we know, thank god, that the cobles and yawls have got to land. "there's five are safe at scarbro', and one has reach'd the tyne, and two are in the humber, and one at quay,(2) makes nine." "aye, aye, i'd needs be watchful, there's niver a soul can tell, an' happen 'twixt yan o' t' snaw-blints(3) yan mud catch a glimpse o' t' bell. "i reckon nowt o' t' coast-guards! what's folks like them to say? there's neer a yan amang 'em knaws owt aboot oor bay. "i's niver leave my winder whiles there's folks as has to droon; an' it wadna be the first time as i've help'd ta wakken t' toon. "i isn't good for mich noo, for my fourscore years is past; but i's niver quit my winder, as long as life sal last. "'twas us as seed them frenchmen as wreck'd on speeton sands; 'twas me as seed that schooner as founder'd wi' all hands. "'twas me first spied oor cobles reight ower t' end o' t' brig, that time when all was droonded; i tell'd 'em by there rig.(4) "aye, man, i's neen sae drowsy, don't talk o' bed to me; i's niver quit my winder, whiles there's a moon to see. "don't talk to me o' coast-guards! what's them to sike as me? they hasn't got no husbands, no childer, lost i' t' sea. "it's nobbut them at's felt it, as sees as i can see; it's them as is deead already knaws what it is to dee. "ye'd niver understan' me; god knaws, as dwells above, there's hearts doon here, lives, broken, what's niver lost their love. "but better noo ye'd leave me, i's mebbe not misen; we fisher-folks has troubles no quality can ken." 1. thick-set. 2. bridlington. 3. snow-storms. 4. dress. aar maggie edmund hatton i believe aar maggie's coortin', for shoo dresses hersen so smart, an' shoo's allus runnin' to t' window when there's ony o' t' chaps abaat: shoo willent wear her owd shawl, bud dons a bonnet atstead,(1) an' laps her can in her gaan as shoo goes to t' weyvin' ,shed. of a neet wi' snoddened(2) hair, an' cheeks like a summers cherry, an' lips fair assin'(3) for kisses, an' een so black an' so merry, shoo taks her knittin' to t' meadows, an' sits in a shady newk, an' knits while shoo sighs an' watches wi' a dreamy, lingerin' lewk. thus knittin', sighin' an' watchin', shoo caars(4) aat on t' soft meadow grass, listenin' to t' murmurin' brooklet, an' waitin' for t' sweethear't to pass; shoo drops her wark i' her appron, an' glints aat on t' settin' sun, an' wonders if he goes a-courtin' when his long day's wark is done. when shoo hears t' chap's fooitsteps comin', shoo rises wi' modest grace; ay, mag, thou sly, lovin' lassie, for shame o' thy bashful face! shoo frames(5) to be goin' home'ards, as he lilts ower t' stile, bud when he comes anent(6) herr, shoo gies him sich a smile. then he places his arm araand her, an' shoo creeps cloise to his side, an' leyns her heead on his waiscoit, an' walks wi' an air o' pride. bud oh! you sud see her glances, an' oh! you sud hear 'em kiss, when they pairt thro' one another! if shoo isn't coortin', who is? 1. instead. 2. smoothed out. 3. asking. 4. cowers, lies. 5. makes pretence. 6. beside. parson drew thro' pudsey (1st ed) or t' first o' t' sooart (2nd ed) john hartley from pp 135, 136, 75, 76 and 77 of second edition. i heeard a funny tale last neet, i couldn't howd frae laughin' ; 'twere at t' bull's head we chonced to meet, an' spent an haar i' chaffin'. some sang a song, some cracked a joke, an' all seemed full o' larkin' ; an' t' raam were blue wi' bacca smoke, an' ivery ee 'd a spark in. long joe at comes thro' t' jumples clough were gettin' rayther mazy, an' warkus ned had supped enough to turn their betty crazy, an' bob at lives at t' bogeggs farm, wi' nan thro' t' buttress bottom, were treatin' her to summat warm it's just his way. odd drot 'em! an' jack o' t' slade were theer as weel, an' joe o' abe's thro' waerley, an' lijah off o' t' lavver hill were passin' th' ale raand rarely. thro' raand an' square they seemed to meet to hear or tell a story, but t' gem o' all i heeard last neet were one by doad o' t' glory. he bet his booits at it were true, an' all seemed to believe him; though if he lost he needn't rue, but 't wodn't done to grieve him. his uncle lived it pudsey taan, an' practised local praichin'; an' if he 're lucky, he were baan to start a schooil for taichin'. but he were takken vary ill, he felt his time were comin'; they say he browt it on hissel wi' studyin' his summin. he called his wife an' neighbours in to hear his deein' sarmon, an' telled 'em if they lived i' sin their lot 'd be a warm 'un. then, turnin' raand unto his wife, said, "mal, tha knaws, owd craytur, if i'd been blest wi' longer life i might hae left things straighter. joe sooithill owes me eighteen pence; i lent it him last love-feast." says mall, "he hasn't lost his sense, thank god for that at least." "an' ben o' t' top o' t' bank, tha knows, we owe him one paand ten." "just hark," says mally, "theer he goes, he's ramellin' agean." "don't tak a bit o' notice, folk; you see, poor thing, he's ravin'. it cuts me up to hear sich talk; he's spent his life i' savin'." "an', mally lass," he said agean, "tak heed o' my direction, t' schooil owes me hauf a craan, i mean my share o' t' last collection. tha'll see to that an' have what's fair, when my poor life is past." says mally, "listen, i declare, he's sensible at last." he shut his een and sank to rest, death seldom claimed a better; they put him by, bud what were t' best, he sent 'em back a letter, to tell' em all haa he'd goan on, an' haa he gate to enter, an' gav 'em rules to act upon if iver they sud ventur. saint peter stood wi' keys i' hand, says he, "what do ye want, sir, if to go in, you understand, unknown to me, you can't, sir. pray what's your name? where are ye thro'(3)? just make your business clear?", says he, "they call me 'parson drew,' i've come thro' pudsey here." "ye've come thro' pudsey, do ye say? don't try sich jokes on me, sir; i've kept these doors too long a day, i can't be fooled by thee, sir." says drew; "i wodn't tell a lie for t' sake o' all there's in it, if ye've a map o' england by, i'll show you in a minute." so peter gate a time-table, they gloor'd(4) ower t' map together, an' drew did all at he were able, but couldn't find it either. at last says he, "there's leeds taan hall, an' there stands bradford's mission; it's just between them two--that's all, your map's an old edition. "bud theer it is--i'll lay a craan;- an' if ye've niver knawn it, ye've miss'd a bonny yorkshire taan, though monny be at scorn it." he oppen'd t' gate; says he, "it's time somebody coom--i'll trust thee;- tha'll find inside no friends o' thine, tha'rt first at's coom thro' pudsey." 1. makes pretence. 2. beside. 3. from. 4. stared. pateley reaces 1874 anonymous from the nidderdill olminao, 1875, edited by "nattie nidds" (pateley bridge). attention all, baith great an' small, an' doan't screw up your feaces; while i rehearse i' simple verse, a count o' pateley reaces. fra all ower moors they com by scores girt skelpin'(1) lads an' lasses; an' cats an' dogs, an' coos an' hogs, an' horses, mules an' asses. awd foaks were thar, fra near an' far, at couldn't fairly hopple; an' laffin' brats, as wild as cats, ower heeads an' heels did topple. the darley lads arrived i' squads, wi' smiles all ower their feaces; an' hartwith youths, wi' screwed-up mooths, in wonder watched the reaces. fra menwith hill, and folly gill, thorngat, an' deacon paster, fra thruscross green, an' t' heets were seen croods coomin' thick an' faster. 'tween bardin brigg and threshfield rig awd wharfedeale gat a thinnin'; an' ger'ston plods(2) laid heavy odds on creaven lass for winnin'. sich lots were seen o' hebdin green, ready sean on i' t' mornin', while aptrick chaps, i' carts and traps, were off to pateley spornin'.(3) all greenho hill, past coddstone's kill,(4) com toltherin'(5) an' singin', harcastle coves, like sheep i' droves, awd palmer simp were bringin'. baith short an' tall, past gowthit hall, tup dealers kept on steerin', for ne'er before, roond middles moor, had there been sich a clearin'. all kinds and sorts o' games an' sports, had pateley chaps provided, an' weel did t' few their business do at ower 'em all persided. 't'wad tak a swell a munth to tell all t' ins an' t' oots o' t' reaces, hoo far they ran, which horses wan, an' which were back'd for pleaces. awd billy broon lost hauf a croon wi' taty-hawker backin', for green crag flew, ower t' hurdles true, an' wan t' match like a stockin'. an' creaven lass won lots o' brass, besides delightin' t' brockils, an' eva danc'd, an' rear'd and pranc'd; an gif(6) she stood o' cockles. but t' donkey reace were star o' t' pleace, for awd an' young observers; 'twad meade a nun fra t' convent run an' ne'er again be nervous. tom hemp fra t' stean cried oot, "weel dean," an' t' wife began o' chaffin'; whal kirby jack stack up his back, an' nearly brast wi' laffin'. sly wilsill bin, fra een to chin, were plaister'd up wi' toffy, an' lang-leg jane, he browt frae t' plain, full bent on winnin' t' coffee. young pronsy(7) flirts, i' drabbl'd skirts, like painted peeacocks stritches(8); while girt chignons like milkin'-cans on their top-garrits perches. fat sal fra' t' knott scarce gat to t' spot, afore she lost her bustle, which sad mishap quite spoil'd her shap, an' meade her itch an' hustle. lile pug-nosed nell, fra kettlewell, com in her dolly vardin, all frill'd an' starch'd she proodly march'd wi' squintin' joe fra bardin. tha're cuffs an' falls, tunics an' shawls, an' fancy pollaneeses, all sham displays, ower tatter'd stays, an' hard-worn ragg'd chemises. tha're mushroom fops, fra' fields an' shops, fine cigarettes were sookin', an' lots o' youths, wi' beardless mooths, all kinds o' pipes were smookin'. an' when at last the sports were past, all heamward turn'd their feaces; to ne'er relent at e'er they spent a day wi' pateley reaces. 1. huge 2. grassington labourers. 3. spurring. 4. kiln. 5. hobbling. 6. if 7. over-dressed. 8. strut about. play cricket (1909) ben turner whativer task you tackle, lads, whativer job you do, i' all your ways, i' all your days, be honest through an' through: play cricket. if claads oppress you wi' their gloom, an' t' sun seems lost to view, don't fret an' whine, ask t' sun to shine, an' don't o' livin' rue: play cricket. if you're i' debt, don't growl an' grunt, an' wish' at others had t' same want o' luck; but show more pluck, an' ne'er mak others sad: play cricket. if in your days there's chonce to do good deeds, then reight an' fair, don't hesitate, an' wait too late, an' say you'n(1) done your share: play cricket. we've all a row to hoe, that's true, let's do it best we can; it's nobbut once we have the chonce to play on earth the man: play cricket. 1. you have. the file-cutter's lament to liberty (1910) e. downing nay, i'm moithered,(1) fairly maddled,(2) what's a "nicker-peck"(3) to do? my owd brain's a egg that's addled, tryin' to see this matter through. here's a strappin' young inspector- dacent lad he is, an' all- says all things mun be correct, or i shall have to climb the pole. says as all my bonny pigeons as i keep wi' me i' t' shop, mun be ta'en to other regions; here the law wain't ler 'em stop. says as how my little terrier mun foind kennellin' elsewheer. i expect awst(4) have to bury 'er; shoo'll rest nowheer else bur(5) here. says as i mun wear a appron throo my shoulder to my knee; an' (naa, listen! this puts t' capper on) says how cleanly it mun be. each ten men mun have a basin, fastened, mark you, fixed and sure, for to wesh ther hands and face in; not to throw it aat o' door. there's to be two ventilators, in good order and repair; us at's short o' beef an' taters, has to fatten on fresh air. each shop floor mun be substantial concrete, pavement, wood, or brick so that water from the branch'll keep the dust from lyin' thick. an' for iv'ry bloomin' stiddie(6) there's so many cubic feet, we'st(7) ha' room to play at hiddie(8) us at isn't aat i' t' street. eh, i can't tell hauf o' t' tottle(9) of these regulations steep; i expect a suckin'-bottle will be t' next we have to keep. eh! i know, mun! who knows better? it's for t' good of all, is this. iv'rybody's teed to t' letter, 'cause o' t' few at's done amiss. eytin' leead-dust brings leead-colic, sure as mornin' brings the day. does te think at iver i'll lick thumb and fingers' dirt away? well, good-bye, my good owd beauty- liberty, naa left to few! since the common-weal's my duty, dear owd liberty--adieu! 1. perplexed. 2. bewildered. 3. file-cutter. 4. i shall. 5. but. 6. stithy 7. we shall. 8. hide and seek. 9. total. a kuss (1912) john malham-dembleby ye may bring me gowd bi t' bowlful, gie me lands bi t' mile, fling me dewy roses, stoor(1) set on my smile. ye may caar(2) ye daan afoor me, castles for me build, twine me laurel garlands, let sweet song be trilled. ye may let my meyt be honey, let my sup be wine, gie me haands an' hosses, gie me sheep an' kine. yit one flaid(3) kuss fra her would gie sweeter bliss to me nor owt at ye could finnd to name, late(4) ye through sea tul sea. i've seen her hair gleam gowden in t' kersmas yollow sun, an' ivery inch o' graand she treeads belang her sure it mun. her smile is sweet as roses, an' sweeter far to me, an' praad she hods her heead up, as lass o' heigh degree. bonnie are green laurel leaves, i'd sooiner my braa feel t' laughin' lips o' t' lass i love, though bays be varry weel. i'm varry fond o' singin', what bonnier could be nor my fair lass hersen agate(5) a-singin' love to me? it's reight to live on spice an' sich, an' sup a warmin' glass, but sweet-stuff's walsh,(6) an' wine is cowd, aside my lovely lass. tak ye your haands an' hosses, tak ye your sheep an' kine; to finnd my lass ower t' hills i'll ride, she sal be iver mine. 1. value. 2. cower. 3. trembling. 4. search. 5. busy. 6. insipid. huntin' song richard blakeborough it's neet an' naa we're here, lads, we're in for gooid cheer, lads; yorkshiremen we all on us are, yorkshiremen for better or war(1); we're tykes an' we're ghast(2) uns, we're paid uns an' fast uns, awther for better or awther for war! all t' lot then shaat till ye've gor hooast,(3) lads, sing, yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads, wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads, wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans,(4) lads." there's some at nooan are here, lads, forger em we sal ne'er, lads; yorkshiremen they all on 'em war, yorkshiremen yit all on 'em are. there's thrang(5) uns an' looan(6) uns, there's wick uns an' gooan uns, they're all reight somewheer, an' we 'st be no war! all t' lot then shaat till ye've gor hooast, lads, sing, "yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads, wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads, wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans, lads." 1. worse. 2. spirited. 3. got hoarse. 4. children. 5. busy. 6. lonely spring (1914) f. j. newboult owd winter gat notice to quit, 'cause he'd made sich a pigsty o' t' place, an' summer leuked raand when he'd flit, an' she says, i"t's a daanreyt disgrace! sich-like ways! i niver did see sich a haase to come intul i' all my born days! but spring says, "it's my job, is this, i'll sooin put things streyt, niver fear. ye go off to t' spaws a bit, miss, an' leave me to fettle up here!" an' sitha! shoo's donned a owd appron, an' tucked up her sleaves, an' set to, with a witha! tha can tell, when t' hail pelts tha like mad, at them floors bides a bit of a scrub; tha knaws t' flegstuns mun ha' been bad, when she teems(1) aat all t' wotter i' t' tub. mind thy eyes! when shoo gets hod o' t' long brush an' sweeps aat them chamers, i'll tell tha, t' dust flies! whol shoo's threng(2) tha'll be best aat o' t' gate(3): shoo'll care nowt for soft tawk an' kisses. to tell her thy mind, tha mun wait whol shoo's getten things ready for t' missis. when shoo's done, shoo'll doff her owd appron, an' slip aat i' t' garden, an' call tha to come. aye, summer is t' roses' awn queen, an' shoo sits i' her state, grandly dressed; but spring's twice as bonny agean, when shoo's donned hersen up i' her best gaan o' green, an' stands all i' a glow,wi' a smile on her lips an' a leet i' her een. to t' tips of her fingers shoo's wick.(4) tha can see t' pulses beat i' her braa. tha can feel her soft breath comin' quick, an' it thrills tha-tha duzn't knaw haa. when ye part, them daffydaandillies shoo's kissed an' then gi'en tha--they'll bloom i' thy heart! 1. pours. 2. busy. 3 way. 4. alive. heam, sweet heam (1914) a. c. watson when oft at neet i wanders heame to cosy cot an' busy deame, my hardest day's wark seems but leet, when i can get back heame at neet, my wife an' bairns to sit besaade, aroond my awn bit firesaade. what comfort there's i' steep(1) for me, a laatle prattler on my knee! what tales i have to listen tea! but just at fost there's sike to-dea as niver was. each laatle dot can fain agree for t' fav'rite spot. sike problems they can set for me 't wad puzzle waaser heeads mebbe. an' questions hawf a scoor they ask, to answer' em wad prove a task; for laatle thowts stray far away to things mysterious, oot o' t' way. an' then sike toffer(2) they torn oot, an' pratty lips begin to poot, if iverything's nut stowed away to cumulate frae day to day. sike treasures they could niver spare, but gether mair an' mair an' mair in ivery pocket. i've nea doot they've things they think the wo'ld aboot. an' when their bed-taame's drawin' nigh, wi' heavy heead an' sleepy eye, it's vary laatle din they mak, but slyly try a nap to tak. an' when on t' lats(3) they've gone aboon, i fills my pipe an' sattles do on to have a comfortable smewk. an' then at t' news i has a lewk; or hods a bit o' talk wi' t' wife, the praade an' comfort o' my life. cawd winds may blaw, an' snaw-flakes flee, an' neets may be beath lang an' dree, or it may rain an' rain agean, sea lang as i've my day's wark dean, i wadn't swap my humble heame for bigger hoose or finer neame. if all could as contented be, there'd be mair joy an' less mis'ry. 1. in store. 2. odds and ends. 3. laths. then an' nae e. a. lodge privately printed by mr. e. a. lodge in a volume entitled odds an' ends (n. d.). when i were but a striplin' an' bare a scoor year owd, i thowt i'd gotten brains enew to fill all t' yeds(1) i' t' fowd. i used to roor wi' laffin' at t' sharpness o' my wit, an' a joke i made one kersmiss threw my nuncle in a fit. i used to think my mother were a hundred year behund; an' my father--well, my father nobbut fourteen aence to t' pund. an' i often turned it ovver, but i ne'er could fairly see yaeiver(2) sich owd cronies could hae bred a chap like me. an' whene'er they went to t' market, i put my fillin's in; whol my father used to stop me wi' "prithee, hold thy din. "does ta think we're nobbut childer, wi' as little sense as thee? when thy advice is wanted, we'st axe thee, does ta see." but they gate it, wilta, shalta, an' i did my levil best to change their flee-blown notions, whol their yeds were laid to t' west. this happened thirty year sin; nae i've childer o' my own, at's gotten t' cheek to tell me at i'm a bit flee-blown. 1. heads. 2. however. owd england from tykes abrooad (w. nicholson, wakefield, 1911). walter hampson. tha'rt welcome, thrice welcome, owd england; it maks my een sparkle wi' glee, an' does mi heart gooid to behold thee, for i know tha's a welcome for me. let others recaant all thi failin's, let traitors upbraid as they will, i know at thy virtues are many, an' my heart's beeatin' true to thee still. there's a gladness i' t' sky at bends ower thee, there's a sweetness i' t' green o' thy grass, there's a glory i' t' waves at embrace thee, an' thy beauty there's naan can surpass. thy childer enrich iv'ry valley, an' add beauty to iv'ry glen, for tha's mothered a race o' fair women, an' true-hearted, practical men. there's one little spot up i' yorkshire, it's net mich to crack on at t' best, but to me it's a kingdom most lovely, an' it holds t' warmest place i' my breast. compared wi' that kingdom, all others are worthless as bubbles o' fooam, for one thing my rovin' has towt me, an' that is, there's no place like hooam. i know there'll be one theer to greet me at's proved faithful through many dark days, an' little feet runnin' to meet me, an' een at(1) howd love i' their gaze. an' there's neighbours both hooamly an' kindly, an' mates at are wor'thy to trust, an' friends my adversity's tested, at proved to be generous an' just. an' net far away there's green valleys, an' greeat craggy, towerin' hills, an' breezes at mingle their sweetness wi' t' music o' sparklin' rills; an' meadows all decked wi' wild-flaars, an' hedges wi' blossom all white, an' a blue sky wheer t' skylark is singin', just to mak known his joy an' delight. aye, england, owd england! i love thee wi' a love at each day grows more strong; in my heart tha sinks deeper an' deeper, as year after year rolls along; an' spite o' thy faults an' thy follies, whativer thy fortune may be, i' storm or i' sunshine, i' weal or i' woe, tha'll allus be lovely to me. may thy sons an' thy dowters live happy, an' niver know t' woes o' distress; may thy friends be for iver increeasin', an' thy enemies each day grow less. may tha niver let selfish ambition dishonour or tarnish thy swoord, but use it alooan agean despots whether reignin' at hooam or abrooad. 1. that. love and pie j. a. carill from woz'ls humorous sketches and rhymes in the east yorkshire dialect (n. d.). whin i gor hoired et beacon farm a year last martinmas, i fund we'd gor a vory bonny soort o' kitchen lass; and so i tell'd her plooin' made me hungry--thot was why i awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie. and efther thot i thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin' large, and so i ate it for her sake--theer wasn't onny charge; until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why she awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie. i wasn't mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin', she had no chance o' goin' oot for armin' it and walkin'. but thin i knawed i gor her love whin i could see t' pies; i knawed her thowts o' me were big by bigness o' their size. the pies and gell i thowt thot geed,(1) they hardlins could be beaten, she knawed i'd awlus thowts on her by way t' pies were eaten; until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why she awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie. noo just thoo wait a bit and see; i'm only thod-lad(2) noo, i moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two; and thin thoo'll see, or i'm a cauf, i'll mak 'em ring choch bell, and carry off et martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin' gell. and whin thoo's buyin' coats and beats(3) wi' wages thot ye take, it's i'll be buyin' boxes for t' laatle bits o' cake; and whin i've gar a missus ther'll be no more askin' why she awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie. 1. good. 2. third lad on the farm. 3. boots. i's gotten t' bliss (1914) george h. cowling i's gotten t' bliss o' moonten-tops to-neet, thof i's i' bondage noo, an' blinnd an' deeaf. brethren, i's stoun(1)! an' fand it varry sweet, sea strike my neame off, if't be your belief i's slidin' back. last neet, as i were shoggin'(2) on up t' street, i acted t' thief. ye think i's hardened. ay! i see ye lewvk. i stell't,(3) it's true; bud, brethren, i'll repay. i'll pay back ten-foad iverything i tewk, an' folks may say whate'er they like to say. it were a kiss, an' t' lass has promised iv oar ingle-newk to neame t' day. 1. stolen. 2. jogging 3. stole. a natterin' wife george h. cowling the parson, the squire an' the divil are troubles at trouble this life, bud each on em's dacent an' civil compared wi' a natterin'(1) wife. a wife at mun argie an' natter, she maks a man's mortal life hell. an' that's t' gospel-truth o' t' matter, i knaws, 'cause i's got yan misel. 1. nagging. o! what do ye wesh i' the beck george h. cowling "o! what do ye wesh i' the beck, awd wench? is it watter ye lack at heame?" it's nobbut a murderer's shrood, young man, a shrood for to cover his weam.(1) "o! what do ye cut i' the slack, awd hag? is it fencin' ye lack for your beas'(2)?" it's nobbut a murderer's coffin, sir, a coffin to felt(3) his feace." "o! what do ye greaye(4) at the crossroads, witch? is it roots ye lack for your swine?" "it's nobbut a murderer's grave, fair sir, a grave for to bury him fine." "an' whea be-owes(5) coffin an' shrood, foul witch? an' wheas is the grave i' the grass?" "this spell i hae woven for thee, dear hairt, coom, kill me, an' bring it to pass." 1. belly. 2. beasts, cattle.. 3. hide. 4. dig 5. owns, part ii traditional poems cleveland lyke-wake dirge(1) this ya neet, this ya neet, ivvery neet an' all; fire an' fleet(2) an' can'le leet, an' christ tak up thy saul. when thoo frae hence away art passed(3) ivvery neet an' all; to whinny-moor thoo cooms at last, an' christ tak up thy saul. if ivver thoo gav owther hosen or shoon, ivvery neet an' all; clap thee doon an' put 'em on, an' christ tak up thy saul. bud if hosen or shoon thoo nivver gav nean,(4) ivvery neet an' all; t' whinnies 'll prick thee sair to t' bean,(5) an' christ tak up thy saul. frae whinny-moor when(6) thoo mayst pass, ivvery neet an' all; to t' brig o' dreead thoo'll coom at last, an' christ tak up thy saul. if ivver thoo gav o' thy siller an' gowd, ivvery neet an' all; at t' brig o' dreead thoo'll finnd foothod, an' christ tak up thy saul. bud if siller an' gowd thoo nivver gav nean, ivvery neet an' all; thoo'll doan, doon tum'le towards hell fleames, an' christ tak up thy saul. frae t' brig o' dreead when thoo mayst pass, ivvery neet an' all; to t' fleames o' hell thoo'll coom at last, an' christ tak up thy saul. if ivver thoo gav owther bite or sup, ivvery neet an' all; t' fleames 'll nivver catch thee up, an' christ tak up thy saul. bud if bite or sup thoo nivver gav nean, ivvery neet an' all; t' fleames 'll bon(7) thee sair to t' bean, an' christ tak up thy saul. 1. the text of this version of the "lyke-wake dirge" follows, with slight variations, that found in mr. richard blakeborough's wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding (p. 123), where the following account is given: "i cannot say when or where the lyke walke dirge was sung for the last time in the north riding, but i remember once talking to an old chap who remembered it being sung over the corpse of a distant relation of his, a native of kildale. this would be about 1800, and he told me that lyke-wakes were of rare occurrence then, and only heard of in out-of-the-way places. ... there are other versions of the song; the one here given is as it was dictated to me. there is another version in the north riding which seems to have been written according to the tenets of rome; at least i imagine so, as purgatory takes the place of hellish flames, as given above." in the appendix to this volume will be found the other version with the introduction of purgatory to which mr. blakeborough refers. i have taken it from sir walter scott's border minstrelsy (ed. henderson, vol. ii. pp. 170-2), but it also finds a place in john aubrey's remains of gentilisme and judaisme (1686-7), preserved among the lansdowne mss. in the british museum. aubrey prefixes the following note to his version of the dirge: the beliefe in yorkeshire was amongst the vulgar (perhaps is in part still) that after the person's death the soule went over whinny-moore, and till about 1616-24 at the funerale a woman came (like a praefica) and sang the following song." further information about this interesting dirge and its parallels in other literatures will be found in henderson's edition of the border minstrelsy, p. 163) and in j. c. atkinson's glosary of the cleveland dialect, p. 595. cleveland lyke-wake dirge traditional sir walter scott's version from appendix i of 1st edition. this ae nighte, this ae nighte, every nighte and alle; fire and sleete and candle lighte, and christe receive thye saule. when thou from hence away are paste, every nighte and alle; to whinny-muir thou comest at laste; and christe receive thye saule. if ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, every nighte and alle; sit thee down, and put them on; and christe receive thye saule. if hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, every nighte and alle; the whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane, and christe receive thye saule. from whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, every nighte and alle ; to brigg o' dread thou comest at laste, and christe receive thye saul (a stanza wanting) from brigg o' dread when thou mayst passe, every nighte and alle; to purgatory fire thou comest at laste; and christ receive thye saule. if ever thou gavest meat or drinke, every nighte and alle; the fire shall never make thee shrinke; and christ receive thye saule. if meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, every nighte and alle; the fire will burn thee to the bare bane; and christe receive thye saule. this ae nighte, this ae nighte, every nighte and alle; fire and sleete, and candle lighte, and christe receive thye saule. a dree neet(1) traditional 't were a dree(2) neet, a dree neet, as t' squire's end drew nigh, a dree neet, a dree neet, to watch, an pray, an' sigh. when t' streeam runs dry, an' t' deead leaves fall, an' t' ripe ear bends its heead, an' t' blood wi' lithin'(3), seems fair clogg'd, yan kens yan's neam'd wi' t' deead. when t' een grows dim, an' folk draw nigh frae t' other saade o' t' grave, it's late to square up awd accoonts a gannin' sowl to save. t' priest may coom, an' t' priest may gan, his weel-worn tale to chant, when t' deeath-smear clems a wrinkled broo, sike disn't fet yan's want.(4) nea book, nea can'le, bell, nor mass, nea priest iv onny lan', when t' dree neet cooms, can patch a sowl, or t' totterin' mak to stan'. . . . . . 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, for a sowl to gan away, a dree neet, a dree neet, bud a gannin' sowl can't stay. an' t' winner shuts(5) they rattled sair, an' t' mad wild wind did shill, an' t' gabriel ratchets(6) yelp'd aboon, a gannin' sowl to chill. 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, for deeath to don his cowl, to staup(7) abroad wi' whimly(8) treead, to claim a gannin' sowl. bud laal(9) deeath recks hoo dree t' neet be, or hoo a sowl may pray, when t' sand runs oot, his sickle reaps; a gannin' sowl can't stay. 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, ower whinny-moor to trake,(10) wi' shoonless feet, ower flinty steanes, thruf monny a thorny brake. a dree neet, a dree neet, wi' nowt neaways to mark t' gainest trod(11) to t' brig o' deead; a lane lost sowl i' t' dark. a dree neet, a dree neet, at t' brig foot theer to meet laal sowls at(12) he were t' father on, wi' nea good-deame i' seet. at t' altar steps he niver steead, thof monny a voo he made, noo t' debt he awes to monny a lass at t' brig foot mun be paid. they face him noo wiv other deeds, like black spots on a sheet, they noo unscape,(13) they egg him on, on t' brig his doom to meet. nea doves has sattled on his sill, bud a flittermoose(14) that neet cam thrice taames thruf his casement, an' flacker'd roond his feet. an' thrice taames did a raven croak, an' t' seame-like thrice cam t' hoot frae t' ullets' tree; doon chimleys three there cam a shrood o' soot. an' roond t' can'le twea taames there cam a dark-wing'd moth to t' leet, bud t' thod(15), it swirl'd reet into t' fleame, wheer gans his sowl this neet. 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, for yan to late(16) to pray, a dree neet, a dree neet, bud a gannin' sowl can't stay. . . . . . 1, from r. blakeborough's "old songs of the dales," appended to his t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 37, second edition. 2. gloomy. 3. thickening. 4. the literal meaning of this line is, when the death-salve bedaubs a wrinkled brow, rites such as these do not fetch (i.e. supply) one's want. the reference is to extreme unction. 5. window shutters. 6. the hounds of death. 7. stalk. 8. stealthy. 9. little. 10. wander. 11. shortest path. 12. that. 13. stir up memories. 14. bat. 15. third. 16. attempt. the bridal bands traditional from r. blakeborough's wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding, p. 97. blushing, theer oor peggy sits, stitchin', faane stitchin', love-knots roond her braadal bands, witchin', bewitchin'. t' braade's maids all mun dea a stitch, stitchin', faane stitchin', an' they mun binnd it roond her leg, witchin', bewitchin'. bud some bauf(1) swain at's soond o' puff, stitchin', faane stitchin', will claim his reet to tak it off, witchin', bewitchin'. an' he aroond his awn love's leg, stitchin', faane stitchin', will lap(2) it roond to binnd his love, witchin', bewitchin'. whal she, sweet maid, 'll wear his troth, stitchin', faane stitchin', maanding each taame she taks it off, witchin', bewitchin', that day when she will hae to wear, stitchin', faane stitchin', nut yan, bud twea, a braadal pair, witchin', bewitchin'. oh! happy day, when she sal stitch, stitchin', faane stitchin', her braadal bands, the wearin' which maks maids bewitchin'. 1 sturdy. 2. wrap. the bridal garter(1) a catch traditional here's health to t' lass whea donn'd this band to grace her leg, an' ivvery garter'd braade i' t' land: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.(2) aroond her leg it has been bun', i wish i'd bun' it. a trimmer limb could nut be fun': sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. may ivvery yan at lifts his glass to this faane band uphod(3) he gans wi' t' best-like lass: sae sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. frae wrist to wrist this band we pass, as han' clasps han'; i' turn we through it draw each glass: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. an' here's tiv her at fast(4) did weer a braadal band bun' roond her leg; gie her a cheer: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. an' here's to venus; let us beg a boon at she will gie each braade a pattern leg: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it do on your wizan. 1 from mr. richard blakeborough's "old songs of the dales," appended to his t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 57, 2nd edition.. 2 throat. 3 uphold, maintain. 4 first. nance and tom traditional from mr. r. blakeborough's "old songs of the dales," appended to his t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 44, 2nd edition. i' t' merry taame o' harvestin' lang sen,(1) aye well a day! oar nancy, t' bonniest lass i' t' field had varra laal to say. an' tom whea follow'd, follow'd her, an' neigh as dumb were he, an' thof he wark'd some wiv his hands he harder wark'd his ee. for nan were buxom, nan were fair, her lilt were leet an' free; an' tom could hardlins hod(2) his wits, he couldn't hod his ee frae nancy's face; an' her breet smaale made tom's heart lowp(3) an' thump; whal nancy awn'd t' fost kiss he gav, her stays mun git a bump bud o' ya neet, tom set her yam, " noo, nance,"tell'd he," i've gitten a cauvin' coo, an' twea fat pigs; wi' thy fair charms i'm smitten. thoo knaws i have a theak,(4) my lass, an' gear, baith gert an' small, i've fotty pund ligg'd by at yam, tak me, lass, tak it all." nance hing'd her heead an' dropp'd her een, an' then she sighed, "ah, dear! noo hod thy whisht,(5) thoo's tell'd t' same tale to monny a maid, i fear." bud tom just bowdly sleev'd(6) her waist an chuck'd her unner t' chin. "o' sunday neet," said he, " i'll wait to hug(7) thy milk-skeel(8) in. (a verse is missing) she bun' aboot her matchless cauf four cletchin' streas,(9) did nan, twea wheaten an' twea oaten streas, bud niver tell'd her man. she platted 'em when t' harvest mean her colour'd cheek made pale, for nea lass plats her band for bairns and then blirts(10) out her tale. an' t' mean for sham' ahint a clood her smaalin' feace did hide; sea nea hedge-skulker gat a peep at nan's leg when 't were tied. an' nean i' t' village would have knawn, at roond her leg, like thack,(11) she'd bun' a band to gie her bairns, bud she tummel'd offen(12) t' stack, an' deaz'd she ligg'd, her shapely limb laid oot for all to see; an' roond her leg a platted band were bun' belaw her knee. then up she sprang, an' laughin' said, "noo, tom warn't here to see; an' nean can say i's scrawmy(13) cauf'd, an' t' band still guards my knee." 1. long ago. 2 .hold. 3, leap. 4. thatched roof. 5. hold thy tongue. 6. encircled. 7. carry. 8. milk-pail. 9. thatching straws. 10. blurts. 11. thatch. 12. off. 13. unshapely. the witch's curse(1) traditional fire coom, fire gan, curlin' smeak keep oot o' t' pan. ther's a tead(2) i' t' fire, a frog on t' hob, here's t' heart frev a crimson ask(3); here's a teath fra t' heead o' yan at's deead, at niver gat thruf his task. here's prick'd i' blood a maiden's prayer, at t' ee o' man maunt(4) see; it's prick'd upon a yet warm mask,(5) an' lapp'd(6) aboot a breet green ask, an' it's all fer him an' thee. it boils, thoo'll drink; he'll speak, thoo'll think: it boils, thoo'll see; he'll speak, thoo'll dee. 1 from r. blakeborough's t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 12; see also the same author's yorkshire wit, character, folklore, and customs, p. 169. 2. toad. 3. newt. 4. may not. 5, brew. 6. wrapped. ridin' t' stang(1) (grassington version) traditional hey dilly, how dilly, hey dilly, dang! it's nayther for thy part, nor my part, that i ride the stang. but it's for jack solomon, his wife he did bang. he bang'd her, he bang'd her, he bang'd her indeed, he bang'd t' poor woman tho' shoo stood him no need. he nayther took stick, stain, wire, nor stower,(2) but he up wi' a besom an' knock'd her ower. so all ye good neighbours who live i' this raw, i pray ye tak warnin', for this is our law. an' all ye cross husbands who do your wives bang, we'll blow for ye t' horn , an' ride for ye t' stang. hip, hip, hip, hurrah! 1 from b. j. harker's rambles in upper wharfedale. other versions, more or less similar to the above, are to be found in r. blakeborough's wit, folklore, and customs of the north riding, and j. nicholson's folk speech of the east riding. in the yorkshire dialect society's transactions, vol. iii., part xvi., will be found a racy account, in the beverley dialect, of the custom of "ridin' t' stang." 2. pole. elphi bandy-legs(1) traditional elphi bandy-legs, bent, an' wide apart, nea yan i' this deale awns a kinder heart. elphi, great-heead, greatest iver seen, nea yan i' this deale awns a breeter een. elphi, little chap, thof he war so small, war big wi' deeds o' kindness, drink tiv him yan an' all. him at fails to drain dry, be it mug or glass, binnot woth a pescod, nor a buss(3) frae onny lass. 1. written in an old cook-book and signed "j. l. 1699"; from gordon home's 'the evolution of an english town, p208. 2. is not worth. 3. kiss singing games traditional i stepping up the green grass thus and thus and thus; will you let one of your fair maids come and play with us. we will give you pots and pans, we will give you brass; we will give you anything for a pretty lass. we won't take your pots and pans, we won't take your brass, we won't take your "anything for a pretty lass." we will give you gold and silver, we will give you pearl; we will give you anything for a pretty girl. come, my dearest mary, come and play with us; you shall have a young man born for your sake. and the bells shall ring, and the cats shall sing, and we'll all clap hands together. ii sally made a pudden, shoo made it ower sweet; shoo dursn't stick a knife in 't, till jack cam home at neet. john, wilta have a bit like? don't say nay, for last monday mornin' was aar weddin'-day. iii sally water, sally water, come sprinkle your can, why do you lie mournin' all for a young man? come, choose o' the wisest, come, choose o' the best, come, choose o' the young men the one you love best. iv diller a dollar, a ten o' clock scholar, what maks you coom sae soon? you used to coom at ten o'clock, bud noo you coom at noon. 1. from s. o. addy, a sheffield glossary, p. 239; current in other parts of england. hagmana song(1) fragment of the hagmana song! (as sung at richmond, yorkshire, on the eve of the new year, by the' corporation pinder.) to-night it is the new-year's night, to-morrow is the day," and we are come for our right, and for our ray,(2) as we used to do in old king henry's day. sing', fellows, sing, hagman-heigh. if you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit; cut, cut and low, beware of your maw; cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb, that me and my merry men may have some. sing, fellows, sing, hagman-heigh. if you go to the black-ark, bring me ten mark; ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground, that me and my merry men may have some. sing, fellows, sing, hagman-heigh. 1. hagmena, or hogmanay, is a north-country name for new year's eve; the name is also applied to the offering for which children go round and beg on that evening. 2. a portuguese coin of emall value. round the year new year's day lucky-bird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! maister an' mistress, it's time to git up. if you don't git up, you'll have nea luck; luckybird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! candlemas on can'lemas, a february day, throw can'le an' can'lestick away. a can'lemas crack lays mony a sailor on his back. if can'lemas be lound(1) an' fair, ya hauf o' t' winter's to coom an' mair. if can'lemas day be murk an' foul, ya hauf o' t' winter's gean at yule. 1. calm. february fill-dike february fill-dyke, fill it wi' eyther black or white. march muck it oot, wi' a besom an' a cloot. palm sunday palm sunday, palm away; next sunday's easter-day. good friday on good friday rist thy pleaf,(1) start nowt, end nowt, that's eneaf. lang friday's niver dean, sea lig i' bed whal setterday nean. 1. rest thy plough. royal oak day it's royal oak day, t' twenty-naanth o' may. an' if ye dean't gie us holiday, we'll all run away. harvest home and the mell-sheaf(1) 1. the " mell " is the last sheaf of corn left in the field when the harvest is gathered in. we have her, we have her, a coo iv a tether. at oor toon-end. a yowe(1) an' a lamb, a pot an' a pan. may we git seafe in wiv oor harvest-yam, wiv a sup o' good yal, an' some ha'pence to spend. 3. ewe. here we coom at oor toon-end, a pint o' yal an' a croon to spend. here we coom as tite as nip(1) an' niver flang ower(2) but yance iv a grip.(3) 1. very quickly. 2. tumbled. 3. ditch. weel bun' an' better shorn is mr. readheead's corn. we have her, we have her, as fast as a feather. hip, hip, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! john metcalfe has gitten all shorn an' mawn, all but a few standards an' a bit o' lowse corn. we have her, we have her, fast i' a tether coom help us to hod her. hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! blest be t' day that christ was born, for we've getten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn. it's weel bun', but better shorn. mell! shout, lads, mell! guy fawkes day a stick and a stake, for king james's sake. please give us a coil,(1) a coil. 1. coal. awd grimey sits upon yon hill, as black as onny awd craw. he's gitten on his lang grey coat wi' buttons doon afoor. he's gitten on his lang grey coat wi' buttons doon afoor. christmas i wish you a merry kessenmas an' a happy new year, a pokeful o' money an' a cellar-full o' beer. a good fat pig an' a new-cauven coo; good maisther an' misthress, hoo do you do? cleveland christmas song(1) god rist you merry, gentlemen, let nothin' you dismay, remember christ oor saviour was born o' kessmas day, to seave wer sowls fra sattan's power; lang taam we've gean astray. this brings tidin's o' comfort an' joy. noo stright they went to bethlehem, wheer oor sweet saviour lay; they fan' him iv a manger, wheer oxen fed on hay, to seave wer sowls fra sattan's power; lang taam we've gean astray. this brings tidin's o' comfort an' joy. god bliss t' maister o' this hoose, an' t' mistress also, an' all your laatle childeren that roond your teable go; an' all your kith an' kindered, that dwell beath far an' near; an' i wish you a merry kessamas an' a happy new year. 1. from mrs. tweddell's rhymes and sketches, p. 14. a christmas wassail(1) here we coom a-wessellin(2) among the leaves so green, an' here we coom a-wanderin' so fair as to be seen. chorus an' to your' wessel an' to jolly wessel, love an' joy be to you an' to your wessel-tree. the wessel-bob(3) is made o' rosemary tree, an' so is your beer o' the best barley. an' to your wessel, etc. weare not beggars' childeren that begs from door to door, but we are neighbours' childeren that has been here before. an' to your wessel, etc. we have got a little purse made i' ratchin(4) leather skin, an' we want a little money to line it well within. an' to your wessel, etc. bring us out your table an' spread it wi' a cloth; bring us out your mouldy cheese likewise your christmas loaf. an' to your wessel, etc. god bless the master o' this house, likewise the mistress too; an' all the little childeren that round the table go. an' to your wessel, etc. good master an' good' misteress, while you're sittin' by the fire pray, think of us poor childeren that's wanderin' i' the mire. an' to your wessel, etc. 1. from easther and lees, almondbury and huddersfield glossary (english dialect society publications, vol. 39, pp. xvii.-xviii). 2. wassailing. 3. wassail-bough. 4. urchin, hedgehog. sheffield mumming song(1) come all ye jolly mummers that mum in christmas time. come join with us in chorus come join with us in rhyme. chorus and a-mumming we will go, we'll go, and a-mumming we will go ; with a white cockade in all our hats, we'll go to t' gallant show. it's of st. george's valour so loudly let us sing; an honour to his country and a credit to his king. chorus and a-mumming we will go, we'll go, and a-mumming we will go ; we'll face all sorts of weather both rain, cold, wet, and snow. it's of the king of egypt, that came to seek his son; it's of the king of egypt, that made his sword so wan. chorus and a-mumming, etc. it's of the black morocco dog that fought the fiery battle; it's of the black morocco dog that made his sword to rattle. chorus and a-mumming, etc. 1 from s. o. addy, sheffield glossary (english dialect society publications, vol. xxii. p. 153). the song is sung at christmas time in the villages about sheffield at the conclusion of the folkplay, "the peace egg." see s. o. addy, sheffield glossary (english dialect society), p. 153. charms, "nominies," and popular rhymes traditional wilful weaste maks weasome want, an' you may live to say: i wish i had that sharve(1) o' breead that yance i flang away. 1. crust a rollin' stone gethers no moss, a ram'lin' lad saves no brass; a whistlin' lass an' a crowin' hen will fotch t' devil oot o' his den. than awn a crawin' hen, i seaner wad t' awd divil meet, hickity o, pickity o, pompolorum jig! or breed a whistlin' lass, i seaner wad t' awd divil treat, hickity o, pickity o, pompolorum jig! nowt bud ill-luck 'll fester where there craws an' whistles sike(1) a pair; may hens an' women breed nea mair. pompolorum jig. 1. such. meeat maks, an' clease shaps, but that is nut t' man; for bonnie is that bonnie diz, deny it if you can. the miller's thumb miller, miller, mooter-poke, teak a laid an' stale a stroke.(2) 2. took a load of corn and stole a half-bushel; mooter, or multure, is the toll of meal taken by the miller for grinding the corn: mooter-poke, or multure-pocket, is accordingly a nickname for a miller. down i' yon lum(1) we have a mill, if they send more grist we'll grind more still. with her broad arm an' mighty fist shoo rams it into t' mooter-chist.(2) 1. wood. 2. the chest in which the toll of meal was kept. hob-trush hob "hob-trush hob, wheer is thoo?" "i's tryin' on my left-foot shoe, an' i'll be wi' thee--noo!" gin hob mun hae nowt but a hardin' hamp, he'll co om nae mair nowther to berry nor stamp.(1) 1. the meaning seems to be, if hob is allowed nothing more than a smock-frock of coarse hemp, he will not come again either to thresh corn or to beat flax. nanny button-cap t' moon shines breet, t' stars give leet, an' little nanny button-cap will coom to-morra neet. the new moon a setterday's mean cooms yance i' seven year ower sean. i see t' mean an' t' mean sees me, god bless t' sailors oot on t' sea. new mean, new mean, i hail thee, this neet my true love for to see. not iv his best or worst array, bud iv his apparel for ivery day. that i to-morrow may him ken frev amang all other men. eevein' red an' mornin' gray: certain signs o' a bonnie day. evenin' gray an' mornin' red will send t' shepherd weet to bed. souther, wind, souther!(1) an' blaw my father heame to my moother.(2) 1. veer to the south. 2. this is the lilt of the children of the east-coast fishermen when the boats are at sea. friday unlucky dean't o' friday buy your ring, o' friday dean't put t' spurrins(1) in; dean't wed o' friday. think on o' this, nowther blue nor green mun match her driss. 1. banns an omen blest is t' bride at t' sun shines on, an' blest is t' deead at t' rain rains on. a charm tak twea at's red an' yan at's blake,(1) o' poison berries three, three fresh-cull'd blooms o' devil's glut,(2) an' a sprig o' rosemary. tak henbane, bullace, bummlekite,(3) an' t' fluff frev a deead bulrush, naan berries shak frae t' rowan-tree, an' naan frae t' botterey-bush.(4) 1. yellow. 2. bindweed. 3. blackberries. 4. elder tree a gift(1) o' my finger is seer to linger; a gift o' my thumb is seer to coom. 1. white speck. sunday clipt, sunday shorn, better t' bairn had niver been born. a monday's bairn 'll grow up fair, a tuesday's yan i' grace thruf prayer; a wednesday's bairn has monny a pain, a tho'sday's bairn wean't baade at heame. a friday's bairn is good an' sweet, a settherday's warks frae morn to neet. bud a sunday's bairn thruf leyfe is blist,. an' seer i' t' end wi' t' saints to rist. a cobweb i' t' kitchen, an' feat-marks on t' step, finnd nea wood i' t' yune(1) an' nea coals i' t' skep.(2) 1. oven. 2. scuttle. snaw, snaw, coom faster, white as allyblaster, poor owd women, pickin' geese, sendin' t' feathers daan to leeds. julius caesar made a law, augustus caesar sign'd it, that ivery one that made a sneeze should run away an' find it. a weddin', a woo, a clog an' a shoe, a pot-ful o' porridge, away they go! chimley-sweeper, blackymoor, set o' t' top o' t' chapel door. tak a stick an' knock him daan, that's the way to chapeltaan. the lady-bird cow-lady, cow-lady, hie thy way wum,(1) thy haase is afire, thy childer all gone; all but poor nancy, set under a pan, weyvin' gold lace as fast as shoo can. 1. home. the magpie i cross'd pynot,(1) an' t' pynot cross'd me. t' devil tak t' pynot an' god save me. . 1. magpie. tell-pie-tit, thy tongue's slit, an ivery dog i' t' toon 'll get a bit. the bat black-black-bearaway coom doon by hereaway. the snail sneel, sneel, put oot your horn, your fayther an' muthel'll gie ye some corn. hallamshire when all the world shall be aloft, then hallamshire shall be god's croft. winkabank and templebrough will buy all england through an' through. harrogate(1) when lords an' ladies stinking water soss,(2) high brigs o' stean the nidd sal cross. an' a toon be built on harrogate moss. 1. attributed to mother shipton. 2. gulp. the river don the shelvin', slimy river don each year a daughter or a son.(1) 1. compare the dartmoor rhyme: river of dart, oh! river of dart, every year thou claimest a heart. yorkshire tales. third series amusing sketches of yorkshire life in the yorkshire dialect. john hartley, author of "clock almanack," "yorkshire ditties," "yorksher puddin," "mally an me," etc. ther's sunshine an storm as we travel along, throo life's journey whear ivver we be; an its wiser to leeten yor heart wi' a song, nor to freeat at wbat fate may decree; yo'll find gooid an bad amang th' fowk 'at yo meet, an' form friendships maybe yo'll regret; but tho' some may deceive an lay snares for yor feet, pass 'em by,--an' forgive an' forget. london: william nicholson & sons limited, 26, paternoster square, e.c. contents grimes' new hat. sammywell sweeps th' chimley. hepsabah's hat. old dave to th' new parson. sammywell's eggsperiment. what came of a clock almanac. sammywell's reformation. sheffield smook. awr lad. grimes' galloway. true blue; a romance of factory life. "if aw wor a woman." sammywell's soft snap. a bashful bradfordian. th' owd, owd story. jim nation's fish-shop. bob brierley's bull pup. troubles and trials. earnin' a honest penny. th' next mornin'. christmas oysters. chairley's coortin. what a gallus button did. grimes' new hat. "sammywell, has ta seen swindle latly?" "nay, mally, aw havn't seen him for a matter ov two or three wick." "well, aw wish tha'd been at chapel yesterdy mornin." "wor ther summat extra like." "eah, ther wor summat extra; an summat at wod ha made thee oppen thi e'en. aw wor nivver so surprised i' mi life. swindle an his wife wor thear,--an tho' it isn't oft aw tak noatice o' fowk, aw couldn't help dooin soa, an it wor a treeat to see em." "aw can believe thi weel enuff; ther's net monny wimmen as hansome as mistress swindle." "awm not tawkin abaat mistress swindle; tha knows better nor that, awd like to know what ther is hansome abaat her? shoo's noa style abaat her. shoo's a gurt brussen thing! but swindle is a gooid-lukkin chap, an awm sewer onnybody could ha mistakken him for a real gentleman. he'd a grand suit o' clooas on, as hansome as onny man need wear at his wife's funeral, an noa sign o' muck under his fingernails, an he'd a silk top hat on at shane like a lukkin glass!" "why, what bi that? aw've a silk top hat, but aw nivver wear it." "noa, an tha nivver will wear it, unless tha walks aght bi thisen! it isn't fit to be seen at a hen race. aw wodn't be seen walkin aght wi thi wi sich a thing on thi heead. but aw meean thi to ha one an aw'll pay for it aght o' mi own pocket, but aw'll goa wi' thi to buy it, for if tha went bi thisen tha'd let em shove onny sooart ov a oldfashioned thing onto thi, but they'll find they've a different body to deal wi when awm thear." "it's varry gooid o' thee, mally, to offer to buy me a new hat, but aw railly dooant want one. yond hat o' mine is as gooid as new for aw havn't had it on a duzzen times. tha knows aw nivver wear it nobbut when aw goa to th' chapel. it isn't aboon twelve month sin aw gave ten shilling for it." "it's soa much bigger shame for thi to tell it. it shows ha oft tha goes to a place o' worship. a fine example tha sets to jerrymier an th' rest o' thi gron-childer. but awd have thee to know at tha'rt net as young as tha used to be, an its abaat time tha wor thinkin o' thi latter end. tha may be deead an burried befoor long an tha owt to prepare." "why, tha sewerly doesn't meean to bury me in a silk hat?" "noa, aw dooant think awst ivver have th' luck to bury thi at all! but aw want thi to begin an goa to th' chapel reglar, an let mistress swindle see at her husband isn't th' only one at can turn aght like a gentleman." "tha'll be like to pleeas thisen abaat it, but aw thowt it wor me tha wor praad on an net mi hat." "tha gets some strange nooations into thi heead, sammywell. if ther's owt abaat thi for onny woman to be praad on awm sewer aw dooant know whear it is. but as sooin as tha's finished thi pipe aw want thi to get shaved, an put on thi best sundy suit an goa wi me into westgate an get a new hat--one o'th best ther is i'th shop, if it taks all th' brass aw have i' mi pocket. aw'll let mistress swindle see at shoo connot crow ovver me!" soa sammywell went aght to be shaved, an mally began to get ready to goa wi him, as sooin as he should be all fixed up to suit her. "nah, sammywell," sed mally, as sooin as they wor ready to set off, "aw dunnot want thee to say a word when we get to th' shop. aw'll do what tawkin has to be done, an if aw connot get thee a better hat nor that tha has on thi heead, and one to seem thi better, aw shall know th' reason why. aw can hardly fashion to walk daan th' street wi thi, but it isn't varry far an we happen shalln't meet onnybody we know." when they walked into th' shop, mally went up to th' caanter and sed, "young man,--aw want to buy a new silk top hat, latest fashion, best quality, price noa object, if its under ten shillin, to suit this elderly gentleman, an luk sharp abaat it, for we're prepared to pay ready brass." "certainly, maam," an he sooin had two or three ready for him to try on. "how will this suit?--latest style." "that willn't do at all. it maks him luk like a pill doctor. he wants a chapel-gooin hat." "well, here's the very thing. just the style for an old man." "then aw dooant want it! he's net an old man! he's noa older nor yo'll be if yo live as long. why, that maks him luk like a local praicher aght o' wark!" "how will this suit? this style is very much worn." "aw dooant want one at's been worn. noa second hand hats for me." th' shopman didn't loise his patience, but tried one after another wol th' caanter wor piled up wi hats, but nooan on em suited. "aw dooant know ha it is," sed mally, "a big shop like this an cant get a daycent lukkin hat! awm sewer there must be one if onnybody'd sense to find it. here's one, try this." sammywell put it on. "that's the ticket! that luks like summat! aw knew aw could find one! ha does it feel? is it comfortable?" an shoo twisted it to one side and then twisted it back agean. "nah, what do yo want for that,--an remember,--ready brass?" "i cannot charge for that, because that's the hat he came in." "is that soa, sammywell?" "eah, this is my own hat." "why, then, its what aw've tell'd thi monny a time,--its thee at doesn't know ha to put it on. th' hat ails nowt if ther wor some sense i'th heead. tha couldn't have a better. its a blessin aw coomed wi thi or else tha'd just ha thrown ten shillin away. awm varry mich obliged to yo, young man, for all th' trubble yo've takken to suit him, an aw hardly like to goa aght withaat buyin summat. yo happen dooant have onny pooastage stamps?" "oh, yes." "then yo can let me have threehaupoth." "certainly shall i send them?" "nay, awm nooan to praad to hug mi own bundles. gooid afternooin." "good afternoon, mrs. grimes, glad to serve you at any time." "he's a varry civil chap is yond. be sewer sammywell tha allus gooas to his shop when tha wants a pooastage stamp." sammywell sweeps th' chimley. "tha'rt booan idle, sammywell, that's what's th' matter wi' thee!" "mally, tha knows tha doesn't spaik trewth when tha says sich a thing; for aw havn't a lazy booan i' mi skin an nivver had! aw'll admit ther are times when aw should be thankful for a bit ov a rest, but ther's no rest whear tha art, tha taks care o' that." "rest! it'll be time enuff to tawk abaat rest when tha's done summat! th' hardest wark tha ivver does is aitin an drinkin, an tha does'nt hawf chew thi mait as tha should. when do aw get onny rest? con ta tell me that?" "nay, aw connot. aw wish aw could; but tha knows 'ther's noa rest for the wicked,' soa what can ta expect." "dooant let me hev onny o' thy back-handed tawk or aw'll let thee see whear th' wickedness comes in! are ta baan to goa an see after a sweep to come to this chimley, or are we to be smoored an have all th' bits o' furnitur ruinated?" "aw'll fotch thee hawf-a-duzzen sweeps if tha wants em, but why the dickens could'nt ta say what tha wanted asteead o' startin blaghardin me?" "aw dooant want hawf-a-duzzen sweeps;--one'll be enuff for what ther is to do, an aw shouldn't want one at all if awd a felly 'at wor worth his salt, but tha can do nowt. whativver sich shiftless fowk wor created for licks me!" "why tha doesn't think ivverybody should be born sweeps, does ta?" "noa, ther's noa need for that. but when a chap isn't clivver enuff to be a sweep, he owt still to have sense enuff to luk for one when ther's one wanted. but aw know one thing, an that is, aw'll put on mi things, an set off an leeav thi to it, an tha can awther sweep it, or get it swept, or caar ith' haase wol tha gets sufficated, soa tha knows!" an wi that, mally went upstairs to get don'd, leavin sammywell to mak th' best he could on it. in a varry few minnits, shoo wor daan agean, an flingin a shillin on th' table shoo sed, "thear's th' brass to pay th' sweep if tha gets one, and be sewer to tell him net to mak onny moor muck nor he can help, an aw'll cleean an fettle all up ith' mornin; an if tha wants owt to ait, tha knows whear it is, an as for owt to sup, tha'rt better baght, an tha knows tha spends sadly to mich," an away shoo went. sammywell set varry quiet for a minnit or two, studyin things, an then he sed, "ho! soa that's it! well, we shall see! shoo's left a shillin for th' sweep but nowt for me. varry gooid.--then it just comes to this;--if aw fotch a sweep, he gets th' shillin an aw sit drymaath, but if aw sweep it misen aw'st have a shillin to spend, soa here gooas!" an he seized th' pooaker an varry sooin had th' foir scaled aght. "aw dooant think it'll tak me aboon five minnits when aw start, an if aw dooant mak sich a gooid job on it shoo'll nivver know unless shoo gooas up to see, an' if shoo tries that trick it's sewer to be weel swept bith' time shoo comes daan agean," an he put on his hat an went aght, lockin' th' door after him. wol he wor suppin his second two penoth, who should come in but his old chum parker. "halloa, sammy!" he sed, "what's up? aw've just met th' mistress and shoo sed shoo'd left thee at hooam, varry thrang." "did shoo? well, tha sees aw havn't started yet, but aw'st ha to mak a beginnin varry sooin, tho aw must say its a job at's a bit aght o' my line." "why, whativver is it?" "its nobbut th' chimley wants sweepin, an aw doant fairly know ha to set abaat it." "oh, if that's all, aw can tell thi ha to manage that. it willn't tak thi aboon five minnits." "thar't just th' chap aw wanted to see. call for twopenoth for thisen an then tell me ha to goa on." parker didn't need axin twice, an when he'd getten it, he sed, "tha doesn't keep hens, does ta?" "noa, aw keep nowt but mally an misen, an awr hepsabah's childer th' mooast oth' time." "well, but some oth' naybors do; an tha could borrow one for a few minnits. a gooid old cock wod be th' best." "eeah, aw could get one at belangs th' chap at lives th' next door but one. they're all off at their wark but aw could get one aght o' their yard withaat axin." "well, then, its easy enuff. all tha wants is a long piece o' string, an a stooan teed at one end. then tha mun get on top oth' haase an drop th' stooan daan th' chimley, an it'll roll daan into th' foir-grate,--then tee tother end oth' string to chicken's legs, and shove it, tail furst, daan th' chimley pot, an then goa into th' haase an pool it daan th' flue, an all th' sooit will come wi it, an it'll be a cleeaner job nor if all th' sweeps ith' taan had been at it." "bith' heart! parker, aw'st nivver ha thowt o' that. aw'll goa an do it at once. aw could do wi a job like this ivvery day ith' wick." sammywell went hooam i' famous glee. he sooin gate some string an teed a nice cobble stooan to th' end on it, an then he gate up onto th' wesh-haase an easily climb'd onto th' thack. he made sewer which wor th' reight chimley pot and dropt th' stooan daan as parker had tell'd him an daan it went till he could hear it rattle ith' empty foir-grate quite plainly, an then he went daan agean to get th' chicken. it couldn't ha happened better, for thear wor th' old cock--a girt big white en,--carr'd up in a corner whear th' sun wor shinin, fast asleep. sammywell had it under his arm in a twinklin, but it wornt quite as easy gettin up on th' thack agean, but he managed it, an after a deeal o' flutterin an squawkin, he teed it fast to tother end oth' string. but shovin it daan th' chimney pot wor noa easy matter, for it wor a varry tight fit. daan he went agean, as fast as he could, an as sooin as he gate into th' haase he began to pull. my! but it wor a job! for a varry long time he couldn't stir it, but at last he felt it wor commin, an then th' sooit began to roll daan i' claads an he wor ommost smoored, but ther wor nowt for it but to keep poolin at it even if he wor burried under it. it wor a varry unfortnat curcumstance at th' woman mally had gooan to see should be away throo hooam, for it caused her to turn back, thinkin to hersen, at after all it wod happen be better for her to be at hooam to superintend things if sammywell had getten a sweep,--an shoo just oppened th' door at th' same instant as th' cock flew into th' kitchen. shoo couldn't see sammywell, for th' place wor full o' sooit, but shoo could hear summat flyin raand, makkin a moast awful din, an pots an tins smashin abaat i' all directions. th' owd cock, seein th' door oppen, flew aght, catchin poor mally fair ith' face wi' its wings as it passed, an sendin her onto her back ith' gutter, wi' her bonnet off, an her face blackened like a female christy minstrel! th' woman 'at lived opposite wor hingin aght some clooas, an th' cock tried to fly ovver 'em, but th' string bein fast to its legs, browt it daan fair i'th' middle on 'em, an what wi' th' din th' cock made, an th' skrikes shoo made--for shoo thowt for sewer it wor th' owd dule hissen--an mally's grooans, it sooin browt aght hepsabah an all th' naybors, an it worn't till a poleeceman coom at onnybody could tell what wor to do. ov coarse, th' furst thing th' poleeceman did wor to arrest mally for bein drunk an disorderly, an ther's noa daat shoo lukt it; an then they all made a rush to th' haase, for th' sooit wor rollin aght oth' door as if th' place wor afire. sittin on th' floor, ith' middle ov a cart looad o' sooit, wor a poor human crayter, coffin an spittin,--(an some sed, swearin,) an when he wor browt into th' dayleet, it wor sammywell. as sooin as he could get his breeath, he started to shak hissen,--when th' woman 'at belanged th' clooas hit him on th' heead wi a prop, an wod ha done moor but mally interfered. when th' scare wor ovver, th' naybor wimmen did nowt but laff, an sammywell and mally went into th' haase an shut th' door. "whativver has ta been doing?" axt mally. "aw've been sweepin th' chimley," sed sammywell. "an a bonny job tha's made on it. if tha can find onny sooap an watter onnywhear, goa and gie thisen a gooid swill an then change thi' clooas, an leeav me to tackle this mess. aw dooant blame thee a bit moor nor aw blame misen, for knowin what a fooil tha art, and what a mullock tha allus maks ov ivverything tha offers to do, aw owt to ha had moor sense nor mention sich a thing to thi." sammywell thowt th' less he sed an th' better, an he went at once to do as he wor tell'd. he wor as anxious to get away as shoo wor to be shut on him, an as he wor gooin aght, mally sed,-"whear are ta gooin an what are ta gooin to do?" "awm gooin to a funeral befoor tha sees me agean." "aw didn't know onnybody wor deead. who's funeral will it be?" "parker's." hepsabah's hat. "some fowk are nivver satisfied! aw've noa patience wi' sich like! th' moor some fowk have an th' moor they want. ther wor noa sich stinkin pride when aw wor young; but young folk nah dooant know what ails em. when aw wor a lass it wor thowt to be quite enuff if one wor plainly an respectably donned, an if they had onny pride, it wor to know at ther underclooas wor cleean an sweet an fit to be seen, but nah it's all top finery an fluff they think abaat; but if they'd darn ther stockins an wesh ther shifts a bit ofter, asteead o' wantin to spooart new gaons an hats ivvery few days it ud seem em better. at onnyrate, them's my sentiments." "why, mally lass, what's set thi off agean? has somdy been sayin at tha doesn't darn thi stockins an keep thi clooas cleean?" "noa ther hasn't, an tha knows nubdy could ivver say such a thing abaat me. it's awr hepsabah at's started me, if tha wants to know!" "what's shoo been up to agean? sewerly tha's moor sense not to tak nooatice o' owt shoo says." "aw connot help bein worritted when shoo's put abaght, an shoo's full o' trubble,--an aw connot say at aw wonder at it." "why if th' lass is full o' trubble shoo's to be sympathised wi. has her husband come hooam druffen or what?" "tha knows better nor that! her husband has summat else to do wi his brass nor to teem it daan his throit. he's net like some fowk as aw could mention. but tha knows they've hard to scrat to pay ther way an keep up his club, an awr hepsabah has a gooid deeal o' pride, an yond hat o' hers is hardly fit to be seen in at warty, nivver name sundy, an shoo connot affoord another, an th' poor child's ommost heartbrokken." "bless mi life! that's easy to set straight! connot ta lend her one o' thy bonnets?" "tha artn't worth tawkin to! does ta think a young lass, (for shoo's little moor,) wod goa to th' chapel in an old woman's bonnet? if shoo'd had lot's o' father's they'd ha bowt her one." "happen soa;--but tha sees shoo hasn't a lot o' father's,--shoo's nobbut getten me,--but if buyin her a bit ov a bonnet will set matters straight aw could sewerly manage that." "nah tha'rt tawkin sense. aw tell'd her if shoo'd nobbut ax thi tha'd nooan see her kept i'th haase for th' want ov a hat. but shoo sed tha'd allus been soa gooid to her at shoo couldn't for shame to mention it. but, tha knows, tha cannot buy her a hat unless shoo gooas wi thi." "w ell,--tell her to put her things on an we'll goa an get her messured for one at once." "tha tawks as if tha wor gooin to get her a coffin asteead ov a hat. wimmen dooant get messured for hats." "oh, dooant they. well, tell her to get ready an luk sharp." mally left sammywell smookin his pipe an went to carry gooid news to hepsabah. "nah, hepsabah lass,--aw've managed to tawk thi father into th' humour to buy thi a hat. a'a! but aw've had a job! come this minnit for fear he changes his mind; an see tha gets a gooid en wol tha's th' chonce." sammywell wor capt to see em back soa sooin, but tellin em to sit daan a bit wol he went up stairs, he left em an went to put summat into his purse, an wor rayther surprised at mally didn't follow to see ha mich he tuk, for he had to goa into a box whear they kept ther savins at wor nivver suppooased to be touched except on special occasions. "aw shalln't need mich for a job o' this sooart," he sed, "if aw remember reightly that straw hat aw bowt last summer nobbut cost me eighteen pence, an shoo willn't want one as big as that; but awst nooan be to two-a-three penoth o' copper; an aw mud as weel have a bit extra to swagger wi." soa he tuk a couple o' soverins,--ov coarse intendin to bring em back, an then hurried off wi hepsabah as fast as he could for fear mally wod ax some questions he didn't want to answer. "whear are we to goa?" he axt as soon as they wor aght o'th seet o'th haase. "aw think pinchems an twitchems will be th' best place," sed hepsabah. "just whearivver tha likes, an be sewer tha gets one to suit thi." when they gate to th' shop, sammywell felt like holdin back, for he'd nivver been i' sich a place befoor, but he screwed his courage up, an tellin' hepsabah to lead th' way he follered, feelin like a fish aght o' watter. hepsabah walked in as if shoo owned th' shop, an spaikin to a gentleman, they wor shown up stairs whear ther wor sich a lot o' wimmin tryin hats on, an sich a lot o' young lasses fussin abaat an attendin to em, wol sammywell wor fairly flammergasted amang it. one nice young woman browt him a cheer to sit on, but he darn't ventur 'on it, for it lukt as if it wor made o' black sealin wax, but hepsabah flopt daan on it as if shoo'd been used to sittin o' sich articles all her life. sammywell whispered to her to be as sharp as shoo could, an stood watchin what wor gooin on. then th' young woman coom agean wi her armful o' what lukt to be flaars an feathers an ribbins all jumbled in a lump, but which proved to be what they called hats, an as shoo put furst one an then another on to hepsabah, he wor fairly surprised to discover what a bonny lukkin woman his dowter wor; an when shoo axt him which he liked best, he could nobbut say, "onny on em! suit thisen, lass!" an th' young woman smiled at him an sed, "it's nice when a gentleman likes to see his wife well dressed," an sammywell blushed an sed "hem! hem!" but didn't undeceive her. after tryin on abaat a scoor, nooan seemin to exactly suit hepsabah, th' young woman browt another, an sammywell's e'en fairly sparkled. "by th' heart!" he sed, "but that's what aw call a bobby dazzler!" an it wor plain to be seen at hepsabah thowt soa too. "aw should like it," shoo sed, "but awm feeared it'll cost a lot." "tha's nowt to do wi that. it's me at's to pay for it!" soa in a few minnits it wor packt in a box, an handed to her, an sammywell tell'd her to tak it an get aghtside an wait for him an he'd bi wi her as sooin as he'd sattled for it. hepsabah's face wor all smiles, tho' ther wor just a glisten o' tears in her een as shoo went away. "an nah, young woman," sed sammywell, as he held his purse in his hand, "ha mich do yo want?" shoo handed him th' bill, but he seemed as if he couldn't mak it aght, soa he put on his spectacles. "this is a mistak, miss," he sed, "aw've nobbut agreed to pay for one." "that's quite right, sir," shoo sed, "one hat,--twenty two and six." "twenty two fiddlesticks!" "no, sir, twenty two shillings and six pence. that's not much for a gentleman to pay for his wife's hat." "but shoo isn't mi wife! shoo's nobbut mi dowter!" "no one would think you had a daughter so old;--you must have married very young," sed th' young woman smilin at him in a way at made him feel funny all ovver. he sed noa moor but handed her two soverins; shoo gave him his change, an he made th' best ov his way into th' street where hepsabah wor waitin for him; then he lained his back agean a lamp-pooast as if he wor too waik to stand. "do yo feel sick, father?" sed hepsabah. "eeah, aw think aw've getten a bit ov a sickener." "it wor varry warm i' that shop." "eeah,--its th' hottest shop aw've ivver been in." "yo see, yo arn't used to buyin hats." "noa, an awm net likely to get used to it. aw hooap thar't suited." "o, father,--its a beauty! if aw can nobbut get my chap to buy me a costume to match it!" "tha'll nivver do that, hepsabah, becoss he connot. if he'd to buy thee a costoom, as tha calls it, to match that, an pay for it at th' same rate as aw've paid for that hat, it ud cost him aboon a thaasand paand! what does to think it's cost me?" "aw can't guess." "twenty two shillin an sixpence! that's true whether tha believes it or net." "is that all! why its as cheap as muck." "well, mak th' best on it, for tha'll get noa moor muck at th' same price aght o' me. but promise me at tha'll nivver tell thi mother! if shoo'd to get to know shoo wodn't be able to sleep for a wick. it's a scandlus shame, an aw've been swindled! why, tha owt to ha getten a hat as big as a umbrella for that price." "well, if yo hadn't wanted me to have it yo shouldn't ha sed soa." "aw did want thi to have it, but it's price aw connot get ovver. why it weighs nowt hardly. its cost aboon five shillin an aance. thee goa in an show it to thi mother an aw'll goa an get summat to steady mi narves." sammywell tried to keep his spirits up wi puttin some spirits daan, but he couldn't manage it, an it wor wi fear an tremblin at he lifted th' sneck when he went hooam. all lukt breet an cheerful an th' supper wor on th' table, an mally's face showed noa sign o' ill temper. "thank gooidness," he sed to hissen, "shoo hasn't been upstairs to caant th' brass yet." "come thi ways to thi supper, sammywell, aw wor gettin uneasy abaat thi." "has hepsabah been?" he axt. "eeah. an shoo's shown me her new hat, an aw must say aw didn't gie thi credit for havin sich gooid taste. shoo's famously suited, an awm pleeased to think tha's acted as a father should act for once. aw do believe if tha could nobbut live long enuff aw should be able to mak a daycent chap on thi at th' finish." "did shoo say owt abaght what it cost?" "nay shoo didn't, an aw nivver axt her, for aw know tha'd nooan be likely to give mich; but if aw thowt aw could get one like it for owt under five an twenty shillin awd be after one i'th mornin." "well, but tha connot,--for ther's nivver been but one made o' that pattern." "ther'd happen be one ov another pattern to suit me." "ther's noa moor ov onny sooart whativver; for th' chap at keeps that shop is gooin to retire from business to-neet an start a bank i'th mornin,--an noa wonder." "onnybody'd think to listen to thi at tha didn't thoil it. aw know ha mich brass tha tuk wi thi an if tha's spent it all, what bi that! tha doesn't buy thi dowter a hat ivvery wick! an its far cheaper to buy a daycent article nor to squander yor brass on a lot o' rubbish. shoo's varry careful ov her clooas is hepsabah, an tha'll see it'll ha lasted weel bi th' time tha gooas to buy her another." "that's a moral sartainty. if that hat lasts her wol aw buy her another it'll last a long time." "say noa moor abaat it. tha's suited us an if tha hasn't suited thisen its thi own fault. aw thowt tha desarved a bit ov a treeat soa aw fotched thi a drop o' thi favourite, an if tha doesn't want it all thisen aw dooant mind havin a drop." "that's all reight, mally, an awm glad tha'rt soa thowtful, but aw connot help thinkin tha'rt a varry inconsistent woman." "nah then! if tha'rt gooin to start callin me names aw willn't have a drop!" "aw dooant want to call thi names, but facts are stubborn things. if aw happen to goa an get two-penoth into mi heead tha praiches at me for a full clockhaar abaat th' sin ov extravagance an th' blessins ov economy; but awr hepsabah can wear a hat at's cost as mich as aw could buy a distillary for, an that's all reight." "if tha bowt a distillery, sammywell, nawther thee nor it wod last as long as awr hepsabah's hat, soa things are better as they are. hand ovver what change tha's getten i' thi pocket an then sup up an let's get off to bed, an be thankful tha's getten a dowter to buy a hat for, an a wife at advises thee allus for th' best." "all reight, lass,--awm ready,--but aw connot for th' life o' me see what awr hepsabah's hat has to do wi young wimmen darnin ther stockins an weshin ther shifts." "a'a, sammywell! ther's a deeal o' things abaat wimmen at tha has to leearn yet." "aw believe there is,--but twenty two an sixpence a lesson is a trifle aboon my cut." old dave to th' new parson. "soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo? well, awm fain to see yo've come; yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst, but mak yorsen at hooam. aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me, if aw tell what's in mi noddle, remember, if we dooant agree, it's but an old man's twaddle. but aw might happen drop a hint, 'at may start yo to thinkin; awd help yo if aw saw mi way, an do it too, like winkin. awm net mich up o' parsons,- ther's some daycent ens aw know; they're smart enuff at praichin, but at practice they're too slow. for dooin gooid nooan can deny ther chonces are mooast ample; if they'd give us fewer precepts, an rayther moor example. we need a friend to help waik sheep, oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;-ther's a big responsibility rests on a parson's shoulders. but oft ther labor's all in vain, noa matter ha persistent; becoss ther taichin an ther lives are hardly quite consistent. ther's nowt can shake ther faith in god, when bad is growing worse; an nowt abate ther trust, unless it chonce to touch ther purse. they say, "who giveth to the poor, lends to the lord," but yet, they all seem varry anxious, net to get the lord in debt. but wi my fooilish nooations mayhap yo'll net agree,-its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,- but it seems that way to me. if yo hear a clivver sarmon, yor attention it command's, if yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white as what he keeps his hands. ther's too mich love ov worldly ways, an too mich affectation; they work i'th' vinyard a few days, then hint abaat vacation. he has to have a holiday because he's worked soa hard;-well, aw allus think 'at labor is desarvin ov reward. what matters, tho' his little flock a shepherd's care is wantin: old nick may have his run o'th' fold wol he's off galavantin. aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one, yo seem a gradely sooart; but if yo' th' gospel armour don, yo'll find it isn't spooart. dooant sell yor heavenly birthright, for a mess ov worldly pottage: but spend less time i'th' squire's hall an moor i'th' poor man's cottage. point aght the way an walk in it, they'll follow, one bi one, an when yo've gained yor journey's end, yo'll hear them words, "well done." a christian soldier has to be, endurin, bold an brave; strong in his faith he'll sewerly win, as sewer as my name's dave." sammywell's eggsperiment. "if my memory sarves me reightly, mally, its abaght forty year sin aw tell'd thee at aw liked a boil'd egg for mi braikfast, an it seems tha's nivver forgetten it, for it seems to me at tha's nivver gein me owt else, an awm just abaat sick o'th seet on em." "ther's nivver onny suitin thee, sammywell, what aw do for thi, an as to givin thi eggs to thi braikfast for forty year, tha knows it isn't true, for aw dooant think tha's had em moor nor once a month, if that. but tha needn't freeat abaat that, for at th' price eggs is nah, its just like aitin brass. aw've gien em to thi a time or two latly becoss tha complained abaat feelin waik, an ther's nowt at's moor strength nor eggs." "if this is a sample aw believe tha'rt reight, for this is strong enuff to drive me aght o'th haase. eggs is nivver fit to ait unless they're fresh, and tha owt to know that." "it's a queer thing if that isn't fresh, for aw nobbut bowt a duzzen off judy jooans yesterdy, an shoo declared shoo laid em hersen." "then that accaants for it, for its just th' soort ov a egg at aw should fancy judy wod lay. when tha buys onny moor, be sewer they've been laid wi a nice young pullet an then they willn't poison a chap. that's ommost browt mi heart up." "if that's all tha hadn't mich to bring up, but if tha wor like other husbands tha'd set to wark an fix that cellar up, an buy some hens an then tha'd know who laid em. but tha'll do nowt nobbut sit o' thi backside an smook or else spend thi time i' some public wi a glass anent thi. aw wonder sometimes ha tha can fashion to pool up to th' table an ait at all. but ther's nowt trubbles thee soa long as tha gets thi belly full an has a shillin i' thi pocket an a gooid bed to come to at neet." "why, when aw mentioned keepin hens last spring, tha flew up in a tantrum, an sed tha'd have nooan sich powse abaat th' haase, but if tha thinks we could do wi some aw'll get some to-day. this is setterdy an ther's allus plenty to be had i'th market. aw think it ud be a gooid idea for ther's nowt awm fonder on nor a fresh egg in a drop o' rum in a mornin." "rum agean! it's th' topmost thowt i' thi mind. if aw live longer nor thee, aw'll put a bottle into thi coffin. tho' if aw did, aw do believe tha'd get up an sup it. but if tha likes to goa an buy a couple o' nice hens an fix a place up for em, tha can tak this five shillin an see what tha can do. an if tha brings me mi reight change an doesn't stop long, aw'll see if aw cannot have summat for thi at tha'll like." "aw'll hunt up old blind billy, an get a couple off him, becoss aw know he's honest, an ther's net monny honest fowk i'th hen trade." sammywell worn't long befoor he wor off, an as he wor passin th' market tavern, he saw blind billy commin aght. he tell'd him just what he wanted, an billy sed, "as far as aw can see, tha's just come at th' reight time, for aw've three grand young pullets at's all ready for layin, an aw'll let thi have em cheap. six shillin for three; and they're cheap at seven an sixpence." "nay, tha axes too much, they're sich little ens." "aw nivver saw three bigger at that price," he sed, an as he wor born stooan blind that wor true. "aw'll gie thi five shillin, an strike th' bargain just nah," sed sammywell. "tha'rt a hard customer, but as we've had monny a drink together, tha shall have em." soa th' brass an th' chickens changed hands an sammywell wor sooin back hooam wi his bargain. "tha hasn't been long," sed mally, as shoo lukt at th' hens, "an whear's mi change?" "ha mich change did ta expect aght o' five shillin, when aw've browt thi three layin pullets?" "if awd gien thi ten it ud just ha been th' same an aw owt to ha had moor sense nor to ax. but nah tha's getten em, whear does ta intend to put em?" "aw'll put em i' yond old hamper 'at's i'th' cellar. aw cannot fix a place for em befoor monday." "noa, but tha can beg an old box or two or a few booards wol tha'rt aght to-day an then tha'll have all ready for a start." sundy mornin saw sammywell up i' gooid time, an his first job wor to feed his chickens. he felt quite like a farmer in a small way. then mally had to goa an peep at em. "sammywell! come hither this minnit!" shoo called aght, an he ran daan fit to braik his neck. "peep into that corner," shoo sed, as shoo raised th' hamper lid. an thear sewer enuff; ther wor a nice white egg. he picked it aght gently an they booath examined it, an they thowt they'd nivver seen one as nice befoor. "what mun we do wi it?" sed mally. "aw think th' best thing to do wi it will be to ait it." "it ommost luks a shame, but still aw suppooas that's what its for. aw wonder which laid it. does ta think it wor th' black en or th' braan en? aw fancy it wor th' white en." "eeah, aw think it must ha been th' white en," sed sammywell, "but get it boiled an we'll share it." they wor as pleeased as two childer ovver ther braikfast, an it had seldom happened at they'd booath been in sich a gooid temper as they wor when they started for th' chapel. sammywell had oppened th' cellar winder to let some air in, an after lockin th' door they wor just startin off, when what should they see but that white chicken pickin away i'th fould. "nah, tha sees what tha's done! tha's left th' lid off that hamper! aw wish tha'd let things alooan at tha doesn't understand. tha knows nowt abaat chickens." "it's thi own fault for leeavin th' cellar winder oppen! onny fooil mud ha known better nor that. but let's drive it back, if we leeav it aght it'll be lost." "shoo shoo," went sammy, an "shoo shoo," went mally, but th' chicken seemed to tak varry little nooatice, until sammywell made a click at it, then it gave a scream an ran between his legs, an seemed detarmined to goa onnywhear except to th' cellar winder. hepsabah wor lukkin aght o'th winder an saw what they wor tryin to do, soa shoo coom aght wi th' long brush to help em, an little jerrymier coom to help too. "nah, gently does it," sed sammywell, an they gethered raand in a ring an it lukt as if they wor just gooin to nab it, when jerrymier sed "shoo, shoo" an away it flew, clean ovver ther heeads, daan th' ginnel an aght into westgate. "tha young taistrel!" sed sammywell, but he off after it as hard as he could, an a fine race it gave him. up one street an daan another they went, but sammywell's blooid wor up an he worn't gooin to be lickt wi a bit ov a chicken. th' streets wor lined wi fowk gooin to chapel or church, an they shook ther heeads in a varry meeanin way, an some on em turned up th' whites o' ther een as if they wor tryin to see th' inside o' ther heeads, but sammywell went on an nivver lost seet o'th chicken. they'd ommost getten to th' taan hall, when they coom to a spice shop an th' door wor oppen, an in it popt. "nah, aw've getten thi!" he sed, an he follered it in an shut th' door. th' young woman i'th shop wor capt when it jumpt onto th' caanter. "catch it, mistress!" sed sammy, an shoo clickt at it, but it flew i'th winder, an nivver mind if it didn't mak th' mint drops fly! then it gate aght an swept all th' glass ornaments off th' shelf an peearked up on th' shandileer; sammy struck at it wi his umberell, but he missed it, an gave th' young woman's heead sich a crack wol it rang like a pot. then he oppened th' door an as luck wod have it, it flew aght. sammy flew aght too, an th' woman ran after him, holdin booath hands to her heead an cryin "murder!" that wor enough to start all th' lads 'at should ha been at sundy schooil after sammywell, but he didn't care. after it he ran an at last it flew into a ass-middin, an nah he felt sewer on it. it tried to fly aght but it couldn't, but ther wor noa way to get it but to goa in after it. he wished he hadn't had on his best sundy suit, but ther wor no help for it. he managed to crawl in, an in a minnit he wor up to his knees i' ass an puttaty pillins. th' chicken raised sich a dust wi flutterin abaat wol he wor ommost chooaked an blinded, but he grabbed it an wor sooin aght, lukkin as if somedy'd been shakin a flaar seck ovver his heead. th' lads set up a shaat, but he tuk noa nooatice, an made th' best of his way towards hooam, takkin care net to goa past th' spice shop, for he didn't think it wor a proper day for business like that 'at wod be waitin for him. mally an hepsabah follered bi a lot o'th naybors, wor commin to see what had become on him, an when they saw what a pictur he'd made ov hissen, they fairly skriked wi laffin--all but mally. shoo wor soa mad wol shoo couldn't spaik. just as they'd getten to th' end o'th ginnel, old zekil saw him, and sed--"heigh up, thear! what are ta dooin wi that chicken?" "awm takkin it whear it belangs." "that's my chicken, put it daan an mell on it agean at thi peril." "nay, zekil," sed mally, "it's awr chicken, for sammywell bowt it yesterdy an its laid us a egg this mornin." "aw tell yo it's mine! it's nivver laid onny eggs, for it's a cock. aw can own it becoss its tail feathers is brokken." sammywell lukt at it, "aw wish its neck had been brokken," he sed. zekil tuk it an made off wi it, an sammywell an mally went hooam; "goa into th' cellar an see for thisen," sed mally, "awm as sewer yond's awr chicken as aw've a nooas o' my face." he went to see, and there wor his three chickens just as he'd left em. "nah, what am aw to do? theas clooas'll nivver be like thersen agean, an awm wellny choaked." "tha desarves twice as mich as tha's getten! to think at a chap has lived to thy time o' life an connot tell th' difference between a cock an a hen. tha must be daft." "daft! soa are ta daft! tha knew noa moor nor me. but tha can tak thi chickens, an goa to blazes wi em for owt aw care! it wor thee at wanted em, it wor nooan o' me!" "tha'rt net spaikin trewth--" "well, tha'rt another! if it hadn't been for thee awst ha been i'th chapel this minnit." "tha'rt happen as weel at hooam, for tha'rt nooan in a fit state o' mind for th' chapel." "awm nooan in a fit state o' body nawther aw think. just luk at theas clooas!" "goa upstairs an change em, an aw'll see what aw can do wi em. tha'rt th' biggest fool aw ivver met i' my life." what came of a clock almanac. rosa and louisa mellit wor dressmakkers--they'd nawther father nor mother, an nowt to live on but what they could addle wi ther fingers, an that worn't mich; for tho' they'd had a bit ov a shop for ten year, asteead o'th' customers gettin mooar, they gate steadily less--nah an then they'd a dress to mak for a sarvant lass or some o'th naybors' wives or dowters, but when th' dresses wor made an sent hooam, monny a time they didn't get paid for em for months an months, an often enuff they nivver finger'd th' brass at all. soa as th' years went on things went from bad to worse, an asteead o' payin ready money for jock as they bowt, they'd to get it on th' strap, until ther worn't a place near whear they'd trust em onny mooar. they'd selled as much o' ther furnitur as they could till they'd nowt else left at onnybody wod buy; an they'd popt bits o' things, sich as books an odds an ends, till they'd nowt else left to pop. an nah th' rent day wor next mornin, an barrin abaat hawf a soverin they hadn't onnythin to pay it wi. "if we could nobbut get us own debts paid," sed louisa one neet, when th' shutters were up an they wor talkin things ovver, "we could do nicely--awm sewer missis rhodes could pay that three paand shoo owes us easy enuff if shoo wod." "aw ax'd her to-day," sed rosa, "an shoo sed shoo'd try an let us have five shillin at midsummer." "what's five shillin then, when we've eight paand ten to pay to morn?" they booath sat ovver a handful o' coils ther wor i'th grate an sed nowt for a bit, then rosa sed, "ther's yond length o' black silk we've had soa long, that piece missis jackson ordered an then wod'nt tak; we mun sell that, it cost fower paand, happen we can get three for it. whear is it?" louisa gate up an fotch'd it off a shelf--it wor tied up in a piece o' paper, an when shoo oppened it aght, it must ha getten damp somehah, for it wor all i' patches o' white mowd, an fairly ruinated. then booath on em burst into tears when they saw it, and sat daan ageean an sobbed for long enuff. "ther's nowt for it but to be turn'd aght o'th haase an goa an work i' a mill," sed louisa. "eeah! dear-a-me, to think o' us commin to that." an they booath cried ageean. "we must have summat at we can sell," rosa sobbed in a bit, "what's getten mother's brooach?" "we sell'd that to pay th' doctor's bill when poor owd hamer next door had th' fever soa long." "so we did, awd forgetten." ageean nawther on em spake for a bit, an th' wind howl'd raaad th' haase, an rain beat ageean th' panes, an all on a sudden rosa jump'd up an sed-"louisa, dooan't yo' remember when mother wor deein, shoo sed ther wor a little tin box i' her trunk, an at if ivver we wor i' onny trouble we wor to look inside ov it." "aw think aw do, but aw nivver saw th' box, whear is it?" "aw dooan't know, unless its i'th trunk still, let's hev a look for it." they gate a cannel an went upstairs, an varry sooin coom daan ageean wi a owd tin trunk at they put on th' hearthstun. louisa oppened it, an start'd rummagin abaat amang a whole lot o' odds an ends o' wearin apparel, an reight daan i'th bottom corner her hand coom agean summat hard. "here it is," shoo sed, as shoo pool'd aght a little flat tin box, abaat eight inches long an six inches wide an appen hawf an inch thick. one end ov it wor made to slide off, but it wor soa rusty for want o' use 'at it tuk a bit o' bother to loise it, but at last off it coom, an louisa put in her finger and pool'd aght--not a savins bank book wi a gooid raand sum o' money on its pages--but three owd numbers o'th clock almanack. poor lasses, they'd been expectin sich things aght o' this box, at when they saw what it contain'd they booath started o' cryin agean. "poor mother," sed rosa, "shoo allus used to say 'at if shoo wor low spirit'd or i' trubble th' "clock almanack" allus cheer'd her up, an shoo must ha thowt it wod cheer us up too." an then they cried agean, for nawther on em felt at all inclin'd for readin noa comic stooaries, or thowt at they'd find much comfort i'th yorksher dialect that neet; soa louisa put em back into th' box an nivver oppen'd em--but as th' box wor rayther thin, shoo had to slide em in one at a time, an as shoo wor puttin in th' second one, th' remainin almanac slipt off her knee onto th' floor, an tho' shoo didn't see it, a bit o' white paper fell aght ov it an lay under th' table. when th' box wor put away they went to bed withaat supper, an cried thersens to sleep, an th' paper laid thear under th' table all neet, an a couple o' braan mice play'd all raand it, an used it insteead ov a table cloth to eat ther supper off. i'th mornin when rosa coom daan to leet th' fire th' piece o' paper wor th' furst thing shoo saw when shoo took th' shut daan; shoo picked it up an turn'd it ovver, an thear if it worn't a ten paand bank o' england nooat. tawk abaat rejoicins, jewbilee days is nowt to that mornin. louisa nearly went off her chump an they'd th' best braikfast they'd had for years. they hadn't noa daat as to whear it had come thro' for it wor dated th' year at ther mother deed, they knew at it must ha been hers, an it had no daat been i'th trunk an tummell'd aght when they wor turnin things ovver--they had another look but ther wor noa mooar. it wor rosa at look'd, but as shoo knew ther were nowt i'th little tin box but clock almanacks, shoo didn't oppen it. as sooin as th' banks oppen'd louisa went an gate th' nooat chang'd soa as to be ready for th' lanlord when he coom, an when shoo gate back rosa met her at th' door wi a smillin face, and sed, at missis rhodes had browt th' three paand shoo owed em, an ordered a new black silk dress beside; soa they gate daan th' mouldy piece at they'd look'd at th' neet befooar, an to ther joy they faand aght at th' stains wor only on th' two aghtside folds, an inside it wor all reight an wod mak th' dress weel enuff. they'd a happy day as yo can guess, an at dinner time they sent a bit o' beef an yorksher puddin to a poorly woman at liv'd daan th' yard, an like all fowk at does a gooid turn to them at's war off nor thersens, they felt better for it. that neet when th' shop wor shut, they sat daan beside th' assnook an began o' tawkin ha different things seemed thro' what they had done th' neet befooar. "just to think," sed rosa, "last neet we'd nobbut ten shillin an th' rent to pay; an naah we've th' rent paid, an nearly five paand beside, an a dress to mak into th' bargain." "eah!" louisa went on, "an just fancy sellin yond owd bonnet at we've had soa long, to that owd woman at sed shoo couldn't bide new fashioned things." "well we've had bad luck long enuff, aw hope it'll turn nah--if we could nobbut get a bit o' brass, we'd buy miss simpson's shop i' front street." an soa they tawked on poor lasses i'th gladness o' ther hearts, for it wor wi them as it is wi a seet o' others i' this cowd hard world, they'd had soa mich claady weather at a bit o' sunshine wor ommost mooar nor they could understand. after they'd had ther supper, louisa sed, "rosa, last neet aw felt as if aw couldn't bear to read in them owd clock almanacs o' mothers, but aw feel to-neet as if a gooid stooary wodn't come amiss." "aw'll read one," sed rosa, an shoo gate up an gate th' little tin case aght o'th box, an took th' almanacs aght:-"ther's eighteen seventy fower, an five, an six, which shall aw read aght on?" "th' owdest one," louisa answered, "tho' noa daat they'll all be gooid." rosa pickt seventy fower aght, an oppen'd it, an as shoo did soa a crisp bit o' white paper fell aght, louisa catcht it befooar it gate to th' floor, an thear it wor a five paand nooat. "turn ovver th' leeaves," louisa cried, "quick! quick!" rosa did soa, an a reglar little shaar o' nooats fell aght--it wor th same i'th t'other almanacs, an when they'd gooan throo all th' pages they'd quite a little pile on em--some wor fivers, some tenners, an ther wor one for twenty paand. "aw see wot dear, dear mother meant when shoo sed if ivver we wor i' onny trubble, we wor to luk into th' little tin box." ther wor nearly three hundred paand altogether, an poor lasses they nivver went to bed all neet, for fear o' theives braikin in an stailin--an next mornin they nivver oppen'd th' shop, but went straight away to miss simpson's and bowt her shop, stock an gooid will, an all, an paid brass daan for it. they've nivver luk'd behund em since, tho' its mooar nor two year sin this happened; tho' rosa's gooan aght o' bisniss, becoss shoo's wed a clerk in a bank; an louisa's baan to be married at kursmiss to a chap at has a shop next door, an they're baan to break a door thro' an roll both shops into one. on th' furst ov october ivvery year as sooin as th' clock almanack comes aght, they booath on em run an buy th' first copy at ivver they can lig ther hands on, for th' varry seet ov th' red an yoller cover maks em think o'th happiest moment at ivver they had i' ther lives. it isn't often at ther's soa mich brass faand inside a clock almanack, but ther's monny an monny a paands worth ov innocent amusement to be faand in its pages, an they're odd kind o' fowk at connot thoil to spend a threepeny bit on one, or think ther brass is wasted. sammywell's reformation. "mally! if tha cannot scale th' foir baght makkin that din, let it alooan!" "when aw want thee to tell me ha to scale a foir aw'll ax thi! aw should think aw've lived long enuff to know that mich. it mun awther be scaled or it'll goa aght." "then let it goa aght! if tha maks a racket like that agean tha'll goa aght whativver comes o'th foir, or if tha doesn't aw'll pitch thi on th' top on it! oh my poor heead! aw wish tha had it for hawf an haar, then tha'd know summat." "awm nooan soa sewer abaat that! tha's had it ivver sin aw knew thi an its varry little at tha knows!" "aw know it'll drive me aght o' mi senses if it doesn't stop." "well, tha willn't have far to goa, that's one blessin. bless mi life! its nobbut a touch o'th tooithwark." "nobbut a touch isn't it? if tha'd to be touched i'th same way tha wodn't live five minnits. as it happens, it isn't th' tooithwark at all, it's th' newralgy aw've getten into mi heead." "well, be thankful at tha's getten summat in it at last, for its been empty long enuff, an that owt to be fain whether its newralgy or oldralgy. aw've noa patience wi thi, for if ther's th' leeast thing ails thi tha upsets all th' haase. when awr hepsabah's jerrymier had it he hardly made a muff, an he did have it wi a vengence, poor child." "awd like to know if ther's owt i' this world at jerrymier hasn't had? if awd to come hooam wi mi neck brokken tha'd declare at jerrymier had had his brokken monny a time, an seemed to enjoy it! aw wish he'd nivver been born for he's th' plague o' my life!" "it mud ha been a gooid job for him if he nivver had been born, an th' same could be sed abaat moor nor him, soa tha can crack that nut." "tha'd tawk abaat crackin nuts if tha'd th' face ache like me. o-o-o-o-h! aw believe th' top o' mi heead's commin off! aw dooant expect onny sympathy, but connot ta gie me summat to ease me a bit? if tha doesn't awst goa ravin mad." "onny body to lissen to thi ud fancy tha wor that already. which side is it on?" "it isn't th' aghtside tha may be sewer. o-o-o-o-h! its like drivin a nail into mi heead." "tha mun goa an get it pool'd." "pool'd! what pool'd? they can do me noa gooid wi poolin unless they pool mi heead off, an aw dooant think tha'd shed a tear if tha'd to see me come walkin hooam wi it under mi arm!" "why, aw dooant know what use it ud be to thi under thi arm, but it's been varry little use to thi under thi hat. but aw'll see what aw can do for thi if tha'll have a bit o' patience." "patience! all reight, lass. aw'll ha patience. dooant hurry thysen whativver tha does. tha'd better goa an have a bit ov a tawk wi awr hepsabah, an tak jerrymier for a walk befoor tha starts. it may be th' deeath ov his gronfather, but that meeans nowt." "ther's nubdy wants thee to dee, for tha'd be worth less then nor tha art nah, if sich a thing could be. nah, here sithee,--ther's a nice little oonion aw've rooasted, an tha mun let mi put it i' thi earhoil." "will that do onny gooid thinks ta?" "we can nobbut try. tha knows a sheepheead an oonion is allus gooid." "mally,--when tha wor poorly aw shed tears ovver thee." "well, if tha did, ammot aw sheddin tears?" "eeah, but its pillin that oonion at's made em come. tha'll be sooary for this someday. ooooh!" "nah, tha'll see that'll gie thi a bit o' ease. keep this warm flannel to th' side o' thi face wol aw mak thi a pooltice." "doesn't ta think aw owt to have summat i'th inside as weel?" "aw've heeard say at a dooas o' oppenin physic is a varry gooid thing, an aw've some tincture o' rewbub at aw gate for jerrymier." "then let jerrymier have it! aw'll have nooan sich like muck! can't ta think o' summat else?--summat warm an comfortin like." "aw can mak thi a sup o' mint teah. that's a varry gooid thing aw believe." "tha knows mint teah nivver does for me. ha does ta think a drop o' warm whisky an watter, withaat sewger ud do? it isn't nice takkin, but when its for physic aw can put up wi it." "if tha thinks it'll do thi onny gooid aw'll slip aght an get thi a tooithful." "if it wor nobbut a tooith at wor botherin me, tha might gie me a tooithful, but when its mi whooal heead, a pint 'll be little enuff." "keep still just whear tha art, an aw'll fotch thi some, for unless aw do aw dooant think tha'll let me have a bit o' sleep." sammywell sat varry still an mally wornt varry long befoor shoo wor back, an as sooin as shoo could shoo made him a glass booath strong an hot, an considerin at it wor baght sewger, he tuk it varry weel, tho' he did pool a faal face after he'd getten it daan. "nah, aw'll mak thi a gooid big bran pooltice at'll goa all ovver thi heead, an then tha mun get to bed, an then aw'll tak a drop o' whisky to awr hepsabah's husband, for he's fair made up wi a cold." "tha mun do nowt o'th sooart. ther isn't a war thing for a cold nor whisky; all th' doctor's 'll tell thi that. if he's getten a bad cold mak him some mint tea. ther's nowt better for gettin him onto a sweeat. an aw think if aw wor thee aw wodn't bother abaat that bran pooltice wol we see ha th' whisky goas on. awm sewer aw feel a bit easier bi nah. aw think aw'll creep up to bed, an awd better tak th' bottle up wi me for fear it should come on agean, an aw'll leeav thee to mak th' mint teah, an be sewer tha doesn't stop long, for aw connot rest withaat thi." he went to bed an mally made a jugful o' strong mint teah an tuk it to hepsabah's, an when shoo coom back an went up to bed, sammywell wor asleep. "he must ha had another tarrible pain," sed mally, "for th' bottle's empty, but he's saand asleep nah." when mally wakkened i'th mornin, sammywell wor still asleep, soa shoo gate up as quietly as shoo could, an tuckt him in nice an comfortable, an went daan-stairs to get a bit o' braikfast ready. "aw know he likes a sup a teah,--an aw'll mak him a bit o' nice buttered tooast an cook him a yarmoth blooater, an may-be he'll feel a bit better after he's getten that into him, tho' sometimes aw think he hardly desarves it, for he does try me sometimes wol aw think he's ommost spun me to th' length. but what can aw do? he's nooan what yo call an ill en, but he's soa aggravatin. but aw've nubdy to blame but misen, for aw've spoilt him ivver sin aw had him an awst ha to tak th' consequences. if ivver aw get wed ageean aw'll begin as aw meean to go on. but, a'a dear o' me! whativver am aw tawkin abaat! an old gronmother like me thinkin abaat gettin wed ageean! but ther are times when sich thowts will get into a body's noddle, for aw once heeard a chap say, at a chap does live sometimes till he's to old to be wed, but a woman nivver. but aw needn't trouble misen wi thinkin abaat sich things for he's nooan deead yet nor likely to be; an if he wor aw dooant know whear aw could ivver get another to suit me as weel. if aw could nobbut taich him a bit o' sense, an get him to behave as a chap ov his years owt to do it ud be different, tho' aw do believe aw should feel lost withaat him." "his braikfast's all ready nah, an aw'll tak it to bed to him, an if he's wakkened up in a daycent temper aw'll have a tawk to him." sammywell had just wakkened when shoo went in wi it. "a'a! mally, lass," he sed when he saw his braikfast, "aw dooan't know whativver aw mud do but for thee!" "is thi heead onny better?" "aw nivver felt better i' mi life. it's a shame to put thee to all this trubble, for aw could ha getten up to it." "it's noa trubble, sammywell, an aw wodn't care owt abaat trubble if tha'd nobbut try an behave thisen, an net spaik to me i'th way tha does. awm sewer sometimes, when tha gets into one o' thi tantrums aw feel as if ther wor nowt left for me to live for. if tha'd nobbut try to reform a bit,--if tha'd be as tha used to be forty or fifty year sin, aw should be th' happyest woman within saand o'th taan hall chimes. get that into thi an tha'll happen feel better. aw mun goa becoss its weshin day, an aw've an extra wesh, for awr hepsabah's sent all jerrymier's clooas at he's worn for this last fortnit, an he does mucky a seet o' brats an stuff." "jerrymier agean! what the duce has ta to do wi weshin jerrymier's clooas! let her wesh em hersen. aw've just studden this wol awm stall'd!" "thear tha goas agean! if onnybody says a word to thee tha flies off in a passhion. aw know what awr poor hepsabah has to do an tha doesn't. tha'd nivver ha gooan on like that when we wor wed at furst." "noa! but ther wor noa jerrymier then!" "ther'd ha been noa jerrymier nah if it hadn't ha been for thee. tha cannot get ovver th' fact 'at tha'rt his gronfather. but aw mun be off for standin tawkin to thee willn't get th' clooas weshed." "it's a drop o' rare gooid teah is this,--aw wonder if shoo's mixed it hersen, if net shoo should allus buy at that shop. aw dooant think ther's a chap onnywhear 'at's a better wife nor aw've getten, an aw can't help thinkin sometimes at aw dooant treeat her just as aw owt to do. aw think it's abaat time aw altered things. shoo wants me to reform, an do as aw used to do when we wor wed at furst. well, aw can hardly manage that, but aw remember th' time 'at aw used to mak a gooid bit a fuss on her, an used to spaik moor lovinly like. awm blessed if aw dooant try it on agean! if a little thing like that'll suit her, shoo's worthy on it an shoo shall have it. aw've had a gooid braikfast, an aw could ha supt a gallon o' that teah if awd had it.--it's th' weshin day, an aw used to give her a help sometimes, an aw'll do it agean." when sammywell gate daan staars th' place wor full o' steeam an th' smell o' sooapsuds, but he didn't put on his hat an goa aght, but he crept up cloise beside her an slippin his arm raand her waiste, he sed, "mally, lass, connot aw help thi a bit?" "what are ta up to nah! aw know thy tricks ov old! tha thinks tha can put thi hand i' mi pocket an tak th' last shillin we have i'th haase! but awm too old fashioned for thi. ger aght o' this hoil or aw'll claat thi ovver thi heead wi this blanket!" "nay, lass, aw dooant like to see thee tewin like this an me dooin nowt, let's help thi a bit." "it's little aw'll gie for sich help as thine! if tha comes here to reckon to help me, tha'll want payin for it twice ovver." "why, mally love, if tha'll gie me a kuss aw'll turn th' wringin machine for thi wol tha's done." "sammywell,--aw want thee to luk me straight i'th face an tell me what tha's had to sup this mornin an whear tha's getten it?" "aw've had nowt but that drop o' teah tha browt up stairs." "well, aw dooant want to say tha'rt a stooary teller, but aw can think what aw like." "nah, mally love----" "ger aght o' this hoil, gurt softheead! if tha comes near me wi onny o' thi 'mally loves,' aw'll throw this bucket o' watter ovver thi! tha'rt a fooil thisen an tha thinks awm one, but tha'll find thisen mistaen. after been called 'old towel' an 'blow broth' an 'old nivversweeat,' to say nowt abaat names at awd be ashamed to mention--it's rayther too lat i'th day to try an come ovver me wi thi 'mally loves.'" "but awm baan to reform, awm net gooin to call thi sich names onny moor, an if tha'll nobbut let me help thi, mally love----" "aw'll gie thi 'mally love!' aw suppooas tha thinks aw havn't enuff to do, soa tha mun come here to aggravate an hinder me all tha can!" "tha shouldn't ha claated me across th' chops wi that weet hippen,--that's noa way to help a chap's reformation." "aw'll hit thi wi summat harder nor that if tha doesn't put on thi hat an ger aght. it's noa use thee tawkin' to me abaat reformin', for it's too lat on i'th day. if it wor possible to mak thi into a daycent chap ther's nubdy'd know thi. even little jerrymier coom in tother day to ax for thi becoss he wanted to goa for a walk, an when aw tell'd him tha wor up stairs, he sed, 'is mi grondad reight in his heead to-day?' even he knows thi!" "aw've done wi jerrymier for ivver an aw hooap tha'll nivver mention his name agean in a haase o' mine." "this haase is mine as it happens, an awst nivver ax thee whose name aw've to mention. a'a! awd be ashamed o' misen if aw wor like thee, comin an makkin a bother like this th' furst thing in a mornin." "aw didn't want to mak onny bother,--aw wanted to help thi, mally love, but----" "ger aght o' this hoil or' aw'll mash th' peggy ovver thi heead! tha gurt maddlin! tak this shillin an goa an see if tha can mak thisen a bigger fooil nor tha art!" "well, aw'll tak it, tho' aw had meant to help thi a bit, but it seems tha'rt too thrang to help a chap wi his reformation. gooid bye, mally love, an----" but he just managed so slip aght o'th door i' time to miss th' foir shool at shoo flung at his heead. "aw'll put off reformin an tryin to act like aw used to do; for aw get noa encouragement. its noa use tryin to suit a woman for it cannot be done. aw see nowt for it but to goa on i'th same old way, an after all, old fowk can nivver be young agean. well, ther's one comfort,--shoo's gein me a shillin. vartue is its own reward." sheffield smook. mister sydney algernon horne, wor a weel to do chap, as yo'll gather thro' his name, for parents dooant give ther child sich fine names unless thers a bit o' brass behind em. if owd horne, sydney's feyther, had been a poor warkin man, he'd ha called th' lad tom, or bill, or happen mike; but as he wor a gentleman, wi bank shares, an cottage haase property, he dubbed th' lad sydney algernon as aw've telled yo. aw think its nobbut reight at aw should tell yo at this rewl abaat names doesn't allus hold gooid, for ther's a mucky, dirty nooased, draggle-tail'd lass lives up awr yard, wi frowsy hair at couldn't be straightened wi nowt short ov a cooambin machine; shoo hasn't a hawpney to bless hersen wi, an yet shoo's called victoria hujaney, after th' queen o' these lands, an ex-empress o'th french. but aw must get on wi mi tale, or else yo'll happen be thinkin 'at awm nivver baan to tell it. mister sydney algernon horne faand hissen an orphan at three an twenty year owd, an th' owner o' all th' bank shares an th' cottages, besides th' haase he lived in, which wor a varry nice one wi a big garden, an situated, as th' advertisements says, in the mooast salubrious pairt o' sheffield. he knew a deal o' fowk at sheffield--fowk like him wi a heap o' brass; an bein a single man, an furst-rate company, he wor welcomed i' all th' big haases, a deeal moor heartily nor mooast o'th' readers o'th' clock almanac wod ha been. young men made him welcome, becoss he could tell a gooid stooary an sing a song wi onny on em. faythers an mothers o' marriageable dowters wor fain to see him, i' hopes at he'd be smitten wi th' charms o' matilda charlotte or ethel maude,--but th' lasses thersens wor fainest to see him, becoss he wor nice lukkin, an could tawk soft to em, an he used to squeeze ther hands when he wor sayin "gooid bye," soa gently, at he used to mak em ivvery one think at he wor dyin ov love for em. but sydney wor too wide awake to be catched easy; he wor varry happy an comfortable as a bachelor, an as he'd a gooid idea at i' mooast cases it wor his brass an not him at they wanted, he steered clear o' all th' traps at they set for him; an when th' kursmis parties wor all ovver, he wor still single--an they'd none on em getten noa forrader wi him when winter coom agean, an put a stop to lawn tennis an croquet parties. but yo know it says i' th' gooid owd book at it isn't "gooid for a man to dwell alooan"--an aw suppoas it isn't, for someha or other, sooiner or later mooast young chaps get dropt on, an sydney wor noa excepshun to th' rewl. aw'll tell yo hah it wor. one snowy neet, at abaat six o'clock he wor gooin hooam to his dinner, (for swells yo must know ha ther dinners at th' time at respectable warkin fowk ha ther teahs)--he wor just passin a dark lane end, when he heard a woman's voice singin aght "help! help!" he cut up th' rooad as fast as he could, an abaat twenty yards thro' th' corner, he seed a regular offal lukkin feller strugglin wi a young lady under a gas pooast.--as sooin as th' ruffian seed sydney commin, he bolted ovver a wall, in a way at showed at it worn't th' furst time at he'd takken to his heels to save hissen a thrashin. ov cooarse as sooin as th' danger wor ovver, an ther wor noa need o' owt o't sooart, th' young lady swooned away--an it tuk sydney all his time to bring her raand, in fact it worn't until he'd kissed her two or three times, at shoo begun o' commin to her senses. as sooin as shoo wor able to walk, he assisted her hooam, or at least to th' haase wher shoo wor visitin. on th' way shoo tell'd him at they call'd her mabel mothersdale, that shoo wor stayin a wick or two wi some friends, an that shoo'd just slip aght to pop a letter into th' pillar box, when th' tramp attack'd her. sydney went next day to ax hah shoo wor.--shoo wor varry fain to see him--an th' friends shoo wor stayin wi made a big fuss ov him, an axd him to stay dinner. he stayed ov cooarse. th' next day he called wi a piece o' music 'at he'd been tellin em abaat--th' day after he went wi some tickets for a grand concert ther wor baan to be i' sheffield--an what wi one excuse or another, he seed her ivvery day--an ivvery neet when he doffed his clooas an gate into bed, he felt moor i' love wi mabel nor he had done th' neet befoor. at last th' day coom for her to goa back hooam to brummagem, where her father lived, an when sydney called to say "gooid bye" to her, he tuk th' opportunity when they wor left aloan for abaat five minutes, to ax her to marry him. mabel wor a sensible lass, ho knew a reight chap when shoo seed one, soa shoo sed at shoo'd wed him wi pleasur if he'd get her father's consent. "mother's been deead these six years," shoo sed, "but befoor shoo deed aw promised her faithful at aw'd nivver marry nubdy withaat mi father wor agreeable." sydney kussed her an sed he wor quite content an he'd goa daan to brummagem next tuesday, an ax her father on th' wednesday mornin, an as he wor weel to do i' money matters, noa daat ther'd be noa difficulty i' gettin th' owd feller to have him for a son i' law. soa mabel went hooam wi a happy heart, an caanted th' haars wol next wednesday, when shoo'd see her dear sydney algernon ageean. nah as aw tell'd yo befooar, sydney wor a reight nice young feller--he wor as steady as a clock, an nubdy couldn't say nowt ageean him, nobbut for one thing, an that wor he'd getten an idea into his heead, at he couldn't possibly live baat bacca--mornin, nooin an neet, he wor hardly ivver withaat awther a pipe or a cigar in his maath, an tho' fowk tell'd him at he smooked a deeal too mich, it wor noa gooid. "aw couldn't live baat a bit o' bacca," he used to say, "an when th' day cooms 'at aw may'nt smook, aw shall'nt care ha sooin they shut me up in a box, an cart me off to th' burryin graand." soa yo can easy imagine 'at wi sich sentiments as these, he didn't leeave off smookin as ha fowk tawked. at last tuesdy coom, an as th' best train for brummagem left at five o'clock in th' afternooin, sydney decided he'd goa by that; an as its a longish gait, ov cooarse he tuk jolly gooid care to have plenty o' smookin materials wi him. when he gate to th' stashun, he faand aght to his disgust, 'at th' only reekin hoil on all th' train wor full, soa he gate into another carriage an decided to mak that into one, for he'd getten some slips o' paper in his pocket wi "_smookin_" on, soa as he could stick one on if it wor required, haivver has nubdy else got in wi him, he didn't bother abaat puttin th' slip up. at last th' train started an glided aght o' th' leeted stashun into th' darkness aghtside, for it wor winter time, an a thick muggy afternooin, soa he lit his pipe an started readin a "clock almanac" at he'd bowt--an what wi readin th' stories, an thinkin abaat ha sooin he'd see mabel, an fillin his pipe, he didn't nooatice where he'd getten too; when all ov a sudden th' train started gooin slower an slower, an finally stopt at a bit ov a road-side stashun, abaat as big as one o' them hot pay hoils whear lads caar ov a neet to spend ther coppers in. as it wor a express he knew it didn't owt to stop there, an just as he wor wonderin what ther wor to do, th' door wor oppened an a little owd gentleman wi spectacles on, wor tumbled into th' same compartment whear he wor, an a leather bag wor shoved in after him--a porter touched his hat an shaated aght "all reet!" th' door wor slammed too, th' whistle blew, an th' train started off agean. "phew! yor smookin, sir!" sed th' owd chap as sooin as he'd getten his breeath an lukt raand. "eah!" sed sydney, showin a cigar at he'd leeted not a minnit befooar. "aw insist on yor puttin it aght instantly," sed th' owd feller. sydney wornt used to bein ordered abaat like this, soa he sed: "oh, yo insist on it, do yo, owd buffer, but suppooas aw dooant put it aght, what then?" "but you shall put it aght, an at once too," he went on, gettin varry red i' th' face, "do yo think at aw shall submit to be poisoned wi yor vile, disgustin tobacca smook? sich men as yo should ride in a cattle truck or a dog box--tho' if yo wor in there yo'd be taichin th' cawves an puppies bad habbits--owd buffer, indeed! i'll have yo fined, sir." "nah dooan't yo get raggy," sed sydney, poolin aght his cigar case, an leetin another; "if aw have to be fined aw mud as weel have summat for my brass," an he moved an sat on a seat in front o'th owd chap, an puffed aght o' both cigars as fast as he could, wol he made sich a reek i'th hoil at th' lamp up aboon lukk'd like a full mooin on a misty neet. "awm a director on this line," th' owd beggar gasped, "an aw insist on yor desistin the smookin at once, sir." "a director are yo? awm fain to see yo, aw've often wanted to ax one o' ye gentry ha it is at th' trains is soa unpunctual on this line?" th' owd chap jumped up an run to th' winder, an let it daan, an started tryin to find th' cord to stop th' train, but bi gooid luck he'd getten to th' wrang side o'th carriage, an while he wor botherin to find th' rope, sydney opened th' t'other winder an stuck one o'th' slips wi "smookin" on it, on th' aghtside oth' pane, an then he sed: "aw insist on yo closin that winder, sir, th' draught annoys me, as aw've getten a bad cowd." haivver th' owd chap wodn't shut it, he kept his heead aght an cought, an it worn't till he catched seet o' sydney sharpenin a gurt jack-knife on his booit, at he wor flayed into cloisin it. nah it soa happened at only that varry afternooin, th' owd feller had been readin ith' paper, abaat a man havin escaped throo a mad haase somwhear or other, an it struck him at sydney must be th' varry chap, soa he wor in sich a funk 'at he didn't know whativver to do, but he thowt th' best thing wod be to keep as still as he could, an not vex sydney, soa he sat daan as quiet as owt an sed nowt. "are yo fond o' mewsic?" sydney axt. "varry," sed th' owd chap. soa sydney started wavin his jack knife abaat, an bellowin a song aght o' tune, abaat buffalo bill, an huntin buffalos in th' wilds o' kensington, an he stuck a verse in abaat scalpin railway directors. in th' meeantime th' train wor gooin along at a gooid rattle, for they wor lat, an th' driver wor makkin up time, soa th' carriage started o' swingin a bit. th' owd feller thowt he mud say summat to try an mak sydney forget abaat scalpin directors, soa he sed: "dooant yo think this trains gooin quickly, sir?" "aw wish it wod goa twenty times faster, aw wish it wod goa a thaasand times faster," sed sydney, wavin his arms abaat, "aw wish it wod goa bang into another train an smash this carriage all inter smithereens." "why, if it did yo'd be killed!" "awd dee gladly ony day," sydney answered, "if aw could only know at a director wor killed too." an soa they went on, sydney dooin all kind o' mad things, he even insisted on th' director smookin three whiffs ov a cigar; but at last, like ivverything i' this world, th' journey coom to an end, an they glided into th' station at brummagem. as sooin as ivver th' train stopt, th' director jumpt aght, an called for a porter, "get that gentleman's name," he sed, "he's been smookin in this carriage." sydney wor sittin quite calmly, wi' hawf a cigar in his maath, an th' porter sed,-"have yo been smookin, sir?" "ov coorse aw have, cannot yo see mi cigar, this is a smookin carriage, luk thear"--an he pointed to th' label on th' winder. th' porter couldn't do anything when he seed that, but th' director sent for th' stashun maister, an made an awful shindy; he sed 'at sydney wor mad, an ha he'd threatened him wi' a knife, an aw dooant know what beside--but sydney wor soa polite, an whispered to th' stashun maister, "at he thowt th' owd feller had had too mich to sup, for he'd been smookin hissen as they could easy find aght if they smell'd his breeath." soa th' stashun maister sed he couldn't do owt, as it wor a smookin carriage, soa sydney wor allowed to goa to th' hotel, leeavin 'em to feight it aght as they liked. th' last thing he thowt ov that neet befooar he fell asleep wor, ha mabel wod laugh next day when he telled her abaat it. next mornin when he'd had his braikfast, he donned hissen up smart as a chap owt to do when he's gooin a cooartin, an set off in a cab to mabel's father's haase. th' lass wor lukkin aght for him, an after a bit o' kussin an huggin (as is suitable at sich times) sydney sed he mud as weel see her father an get it ovver. "he's in th' library," sed mabel. "nah for it," sydney sed, as they stood aghtside th' door, "gie me another kuss, lass, to keep me up to th' mark, an eh! aw've sich a joke to tell thi abaat afterwards." mabel kussed him ageean, an then shoo oppen'd th' door an walked in, wi sydney followin behund feelin varry uncumfortable, for its noa joke aw can tell yo axin an owd gentleman to gie yo his dowter. mister mothersdale wor sittin at a table, writin a letter, when they went in an he didn't luk up till mabel sed:--"papa, dear, this is mister horne, th' gentleman i told yo abaat, who protected me from that ruffian i' sheffield, who tried to rob me." he lukked up, and sydney felt like to sink into his booits, for if it worn't th' varry owd chap at he'd travelled in th' train wi' th' neet befooar. nah tho' sydney knew th' owd chap in a crack, by gooid luck mabel's father hadn't his glasses on, soa he didn't mak him aght at furst. "awm varry fain to mak yor acquaintance, sir," he sed, "my dowter has towd me ha kind yo wor i' sheffield, an aw wish to thank yo for it." sydney wor soa flayed ov th' owd feller rememberin his voice, 'at he shoved a hawpny into his maath befooar he spake, an then he sed:--"aw didn't do much awm sewer, sir. it wor nowt at all." "have aw ivver met yo befooar," mister mothersdale axt, "aw seem to know yor voice?" "net as aw know on," sydney answered, feelin at he wor in for a thunderin lot o' lyin. "mister horne's niver been i' brummagem befooar," mabel sed. "it's varry strange," th' owd man went on, as he put his specs on, "aw seem to know yor voice soa weel, an dear-a-me yor face reminds me ov sumdy but aw cannot tell who." nah sydney wor dressed quite different thro what he had th' neet befooar, an while mabel's father wor puzzlin his heead abaat it, mabel sed "aw showed yo a photograph o' mister horne, papa, praps that's it?" "that must be it," sydney sed, jumpin at th' idea soa sharp, at in spite o'th hawpny he had in his maath, he spoke quite nateral like; an though th' owd feller couldn't believe 'at this nice gradely lukkin young man, could be th' same as th' madman he'd travelled wi' th' neet befooar, th' idea coom into his heead, an th' moor he lukked, th' moor certain he grew. "can yo sing," he axed. "awm a varry poor singer," sydney sed. "soa wor th' chap last neet," thowt owd mothersdale, but mabel put in, "oh! papa he sings as beautifully as sims reeves." "then it couldn't ha been him," thowt her father, an then he axt: "do yo know a comic song at awm varry fond ov, abaat buffalo bill scalpin railway directors in th' wilds o' kensington?" mabel laft, an sydney tried to laff too, as he sed:-"aw nivver heeard ov it befooar, but if yor fond ov it, aw'll try an get it an sing it for yo." th' owd man wor baan to ax some mooar questions when sydney thinkin it wor time to change th' subject, sed:--"aw've come, mr. mothersdale, to ax if yo've onny objections to"--he'd quite forgetten abaat his voice ageean, an when he gate that far, mabel's father begun o' beein quite sewer i' wor th' madman, an he stuck in wi:--"do yo happen, mr. horne, to have a big knife abaat yo, for aw want one for abaat hawf a minnit?" sydney wor just baan to bring aght his jack knife, but he remembered just i' time, soa he sed, "noa, awm sorry aw haven't, but mister mothersdale wod yo have onny objections to mabel an me keepin company? awm weel off, aw've a gooid hooam to tak her to, an awm sewer aw can mak her happy." nah ivvery word at sydney sed made owd mothersdale mooar sewer at he wor th' chap at he'd coom daan i'th train wi th' neet afooar. he wor awfully riled abaat it yo may be sewer, for if ther wor one thing on earth at he couldn't abide it wor th' stink o' bacca, an he'd been varry near smooared i' that railway carriage. but wol he wor as mad as a hatter abaat it, he remembered at he'd heeard mabel say 'at this mister horne had heaps o' brass, soa he thowt he'd say no mooar abaat th' neet afooar, but let him wed th' lass, an tak a revenge aght ov him some other way. soa he started jawin away, as these better class fathers does, abaat ha he couldn't bide to part wi his dear mabel, an soa on; but when sydney tell'd him abaat his bank shares, an th' cottage haase property, he sooin gave in. "well," he sed wi a sniff, as if he'd getten a bad cowd in his heead, "if yo booath on yo love each other soa mich, aw willn't stand in th' road o' yor happiness, but ther's one little request aw must ask yo to grant me, mr. horne, in return for my dowter?" sydney wor soa sewted at th' way things wor gooin, at he blurted aght, "awst be glad to promise owt yo like to ask, sir." "awm a member o' th' anti-tobacca society," sed th' owd beggar chucklin to hissen, "an aw hooap yo dooant indulge i' smookin or snufftakkin?" "aw do smook a little, sir, but varry little." "then, ov cooarse as its soa little, yo willn't object to give it up in order to win mabel's hand?" poor sydney, he'd nobbut had three cigars that mornin, an he wor fair deein to get aght an have a smook, but ther didn't seem noa escape, soa wi a sigh, he sed:--"varry weel, sir, aw'll give it up." owd mothersdale grinned, an thowt ha nicely he wor payin him off for th' neet befoor, then he shoved a sheet o' paper across th' table, an sydney wrote on it that he promised nivver to smook no mooar wol th' owd chap consented. "aw shall nivver consent," sed mr. mothersdale, "haivver it doesn't matter. nah, mabel, gie me a kiss, an then yo an mister horne can run away an talk things ovver." mabel kissed him, an went away wi sydney, but when shoo axed him afterwards what th' joke wor he'd promised to tell her, he pretended he'd forgetten. they wor wed at midsummer, an sydney kept his word abaat smookin--he started chewin, an suckin owd empty pipes, but it worn't like smookin, an whenivver he smelt th' reek ov a cigar it fair set him longin, but like a man owt to do, he didn't braik his promise. ---------------abaat a year after, when they wor baan to cursen th' babby, mabel's father wor ax'd to th' ceremony. mabel wor vexed at sydney couldn't smook, becoss shoo knew ha fond he wor on it, soa th' afternooin her father wor expected, shoo sed, "we'll cure papa ov his dislike to bacca smook, or else we'll get him to let yo smook ageean." "hah'll yo do it, lass?" "wait an see," shoo sed, "yo shall smook a pipe to-neet." he wondered ha it wor to be done, an at fower o'clock shoo sent him off to th' stashun to meet her father. when they gate back th' whole haase wor full o' bacca smook, in bedrooms an passages, on th' steps, in th' sittin rooms, ther wor thick white claads ov it. "oh, dear-a-me," sed mr. mothersdale, "whativvers this? sydney yo've brokken yor promise, an been smookin?" "aw haven't," sidney sed, "nivver a whif hav aw smook'd sin th' day aw promised." "noa," mabel sed, "we've faand a better way nor that, we're booath fond o'th reek o' bacca, soa we get a fumigatin thing aght o'th greenhaase, and burn bacca in it, it sents all th' haase i' noa time, an saves sydney all th' trubble o' puffin away at pipes an cigars." he felt he wor done--he couldn't live i' sich a smook as that, soa he tell'd sydney at if he'd keep his smookin aght o'th raich o' his nooas, he could start when he liked, providin they wodn't use th' fumigator noa mooar. sidney slipt aght into th' back garden, an smook'd what he thowt wor th' best cigar he'd ivver had in his life; an as it says in stooary books "they all lived varry happy ivver afterwards." awr lad. beautiful babby! beautiful lad! pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad! full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;- two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays; two little een ov heavenly blue,- wonderinly starin at ivverything new, two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,- an planted between em a wee little nooas, a chin wi a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;- nivver wor bonnier babby nor this. two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,- except when asleep in thy snug little nest. two little feet 'at are kickin all day, up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play. welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars, soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs. what tha may come to noa mortal can tell;- we hooap an we pray 'at all may be well. we've other young taistrels, one, two an three, but net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee. sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat, becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get. poverty sometimes we have as a guest, but tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best. what are fowks' riches to mother an me? all they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee. aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe, 'at labor an worry wod keep a chap low,-'at love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee, when poverty coom in at th' door,--but aw see old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark, for love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark. ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild, 'at wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child. then why should we envy his wealth an his lands, tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands? for we have the treasures noa riches can buy, an aw think we can keep em,--at leeast we can try; an if it should pleeas him who orders all things, to call yo away to rest under his wings,-tho to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n, we shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' heaven whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy, nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy. blessins on thi! wee thing,--an whativver thi lot, tha'rt promised a mansion, tho born in a cot, what fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see, but christ coom to call just sich childer as thee. an this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan, tha may yet be a jewel to shine in his craan. grimes' galloway. "it's noa use, sammywell,--aw dooant knaw ha tha feels, but aw can assure thee 'at aw dooant feel so young as aw used to do. when aw wor twenty years younger tha allus set off bi thisen an left me to mooild amang it th' best way aw could; but nah, when tha knows 'at aw can hardly put one fooit afoor tother tha wants me to goa for a walk. its weel enuff for thee to climb ovver hills an daan dales, becoss thi limbs are limber--thanks to me for takkin care on thi as aw have done. it's miserable for me to caar ith' haase all bi misen, an thee wanderin abaat as tha does, an hardly ivver turns up except at meal times, an net allus then. if tha'd ha takken moor nooatice ov what aw've sed to thi i' years gooan by, we could ha been ridin in a carriage ov us own nah. it is'nt at aw've onny desire to show off, but aw think when fowk get to my age, an have tew'd as aw've done, they're entitled to some ease an comfort. but aw suppooas aw'st nivver know what rest is until awm under th' sod." "aw think tha must ha been aitin summat 'at's disagreed wi thi, owd lass, for tha's done nowt but grummel this last two-o'-three days. tha caars i'th' haase too mich. tha sees tha connot ride a bicycle, an tha'd hardly like to be seen ridin in a wheelbarro, or else awd trundle thee abaat for an hour or two ivvery day, an awr hepsabah's peramberlater wod'nt hold thi, if it wod it ud find jerrymier summat to do an keep him aght o' mischief. then ther's plenty o' tram-cars, but tha allus says tha feels smoor'd when tha rides i' one o' them, soa awm fast what to do amang it." "dooant bother thisen.--aw'st get a ride one o' theas days as far as th' cemetary, an aw shall'nt hav long to wait unless things alter pretty sooin." "well, what wod ta advise me to do?" "it's too lat on ith' day for thee to come to me for advice. do thi own way, but when tha's lost me tha'll miss me,--mark that. tha'll nivver find another to do for thi as aw've done." "aw hooap net,--but aw hav'nt lost thi yet, an aw dooant want to. but aw've just getten a nooation! awm capt aw nivver thowt on it befoor! aw'll goa see abaat it this varry minnit! tha shall be reight set up this time. just have a bit o' patience, an aw'll be back in an haar's time." "thear tha gooas agean! if aw say a word to thee tha flies off after some wild goois eearand an manages to mak thisen into a bigger fooil nor tha art. tell me what tha meeans to do?" "aw'll tell thi all abaat it when aw come back, an aw weant belong." "well dooant goa an get owt to sup. if tha'rt detarmined to have it, buy some an bring it hooam wi thi, for aw believe tha spaiks trewth when tha sed aw'd getten summat at disagreed wi me, for mi stummack's been varry kittle for a day or two." "all reight, lass! keep thi pecker up, an aw'll bring thi raand all reight." an sammywell set off. -----------"aw wish aw'd nivver spokken," sed mally, as shoo watched him pass th' winder. "he's getten that bankbook in his pocket, an he'll as sewer goa an squander some moor brass as he's livin. he isn't fit to be trusted. he meeans weel enuff, but he's soa simple. net but what ther's war nor him if yo knew whear to find 'em, an aw believe he tries to do his best, but that isn't mich to crack on. hasumivver, aw mun put up wi it, soa aw'll get thi drinkin ready, for he sed he wod'nt be long." it didn't tak her long befoor shoo'd made as temptin an comfortable a meal as onny reasonable chap could desire, an then shoo set daan to wait wi as mich patience as shoo could. darkness wor creepin on an shoo'd ommost getten stall'd o' watchin th' clock, when ther wor a queer grindin sooart ov a noise aghtside, an in another minnit sammywell come in. "nah, lass! tha sees aw hav'nt been varry long an aw've browt thi summat. bring a leet an have a luk at it." "whativver is it?" shoo sed, as shoo coom to th' door wi a cannel in her hand. "whativver has ta getten?" shoo sed, as shoo walked raand it. "aw've bowt this galloway an little carriage soas aw can drive thi aght whenivver th' weather's fine." "whativver wrangheeaded trick will ta be guilty on next!" "why, tha wor grummelin abaat net bein able to get aght o' door, an aw bethowt me at old swindle had this for sale, soa aw've bowt it." "an nicely he's swindled thee aw've noa daat. but are ta sewer it is a galloway? becoss aw wodn't believe what he says if he went onto his bended knees." "well, what does ta think it is? tha can see at it's nawther a elefant nor a camel." "well, lad,--it may be all reight, but aw should want somdy else to say soa. it luks varry poorly aw think, luk ha white it is ith' face." "that's th' color on it. it ails nowt an tha'll say soa when aw drive thi aght ith' mornin." "thee drive me aght, does ta say? nay, lad, aw've moor respect for misen nor that! what does ta think awr hepsabah an th' naybors wod say. but it'll do for jerrymier. but whear are ta baan to put it?" "aw've getten a place to keep it, an if awther jerrymier or his mother dar to mell on it, they'll know abaat it." "tha need'nt freeat,--ther'll nubdy be ovver anxious to mell ov a thing like that. if tha'd bowt a donkey an cart an started hawkin cockles and muscles or else leadin coils ther mud ha been some sense in it. but tak it away an come in an get thi drinkin an dooant stand thear lukkin as gawmless as that article. off tha gooas an tak it wi thi, an if it lives wol mornin tha can show it to jerrymier an ax him whether it is a galloway or net. it luks as if it had coom aght o' noah's ark, tho if awed been noah aw should ha let that thing have a swim for it." "tha'rt th' mooast provokin, dissatisfied, ungrateful woman aw ivver met! awm in a gooid mind to drive away an nivver coom back!" "if tha depends on that whiteweshed umberella-stand tha wodn't be far to seek. but tha'd better hand me that bankbook, for fear tha should leet o' onny moor curosities, an we're nooan gooin to goa into th' show trade. nah away wi thi." grimes drove off an mally went into th' haase. "what a silly owd maddlin he is. just to think at he should goa an wear all that brass o' me. awr hepsabah 'll be fair ranty. but then it's his own brass an he's a reight to spend it as he thinks fit, an aw know ther isn't another body ith' world but me at he'd ha bowt it for. aw think aw nivver saw a bonnier little thing, but it'll be time enuff to tell him soa when he's cooild daan a bit. aw have to keep him daan a bit or else he'd sooin be too big for his booits. that's his fooit. when he's had a cup o' this teah, an had theas muffins (aw bowt em a purpose for him) he'll leet his pipe an sattle daan, an aw can sooin bring him raand if he's as mad as a wasp. aw'st nivver be able to sleep to-neet for thinkin abaat yon'd pony an th' drive aght ith' mornin." when grimes coom in he wor lukkin varry glumpy. "come thi ways, an get theas muffins wol they're hot,--they're fresh off th' beckstun an that butter's come reight off th' farm an its as sweet as a nut." sammywell sed nowt, but as th' teah began to warm him an th' muffins wor just to his likin his face seemed to clear a bit, an when shoo handed him his second cup, he wink'd at her, (he couldn't help it.) "this is a drop o' gooid teah, lass, an aw think aw nivver had grander muffins." "aw've tried to suit thi. has ta fed that galloway an left it comfortable for th' neet?" "as comfortable as it desarves! but aw did'nt know 'at a whiteweshed umberella-stand wanted makkin comfortable." "aw know its all reight for tha hasn't a heart i' thi belly to hurt a flee. what time does ta intend to start off i'th mornin." "mak thi own time. but aw thowt tha didn't care to goa." "it's what aw've been langin for for years, an tha knows, sammywell, if aw do say a word nah an agean at doesn't just suit thi, its becoss tha aggravates me. if tha'd treeat me as a wife owt to be treated, aw should nivver utter a wrang word." "well, tha artn't th' only one i' this haase at gets aggravated sometimes, but we'll say noa moor abaat it. try an bi ready bi ten o'clock i'th mornin, an we'll start aght if its fine." "but tha doesn't feel cross abaat it, does ta lad." "cross, behanged! if aw tuk onny nooatice o' what tha says, aw should allus be cross. let's get to bed." -----------next mornin mally wor soa flustered wol when grimes coom in to his braikfast after lukkin to th' galloway, her hands tremmeld soa at shoo could hardly teem aght his teah. but shoo managed to get donned at last, an sammywell browt th' galloway an th' little trap to th' door, an he felt a bit narvous too, for it wor th' furst time he'd ivver driven aght wi his wife, but he wor praad to do it, an his pride kept him up. they wor i' hooaps o' gettin off withaat hepsabah an th' naybors gettin to know, but it wor noa use. sombd'y seen th' galloway, an when sammywell helpt mally into her seat, they wor all aght. hepsabah stood thear, wi a babby o' awther arm, an jerrymier at her side, an as they rode past, shoo put on as humble a luk as shoo knew ha, an dropt a curtsey, an sed "gooid mornin, mr. and mrs. grimes, esquire." then shoo brast aght laffin an all th' naybor wimmen waved ther approns or towels or owt else they could snatch howd on, an cheered em wol they gate aght o'th bottom o'th fold. they tuk th' shortest cut to get aght o'th busy streets, an they worn't long befoor they coom to whear ther wor green fields on booath sides o'th rooad. it wor a grand day, an they sed little for a while, for they wor booath feelin varry happy, an they lukt it. old as they wor, an i' spite ov all th' ups an daans they'd had, they felt like sweethearts agean, an if they couldn't luk forrad to th' long enjoyment ov monny pleasures, they could luk back wi few regrets, an hearts full ov thankfulness for all th' blessins they'd had an possessed. "aw nivver thowt, sammywell," sed mally, after a bit, "at aw should ivver live to ride i' mi own carriage an pair." "why, lass, awm pleased if tha'rt suited. but tha can hardly call it a carriage an pair." "aw dooant see why net. its a varry nice little carriage is this an awm sewer th' galloway an thee mak a gooid pair, for aw should tak yo to be booath abaat th' same age, an th' same complection to nowt, except for thi nooas; an yo nawther on yi ivver hurried yorsen mich or seem likely to do; but aw think if aw wor thee awd get aght an shove behind a bit, its a pity to see it tewin up this hill, an its puffin like all that." "well, let it puff! if ther's onny shovin to be done tha'll ha to tak thi share on it. we'll stop at yond haase at top o'th hill an then wol we get a bite an a sup, fanny can rest a bit." "who's fanny?" "that's th' galloway's name." "then it'll have to be kursend ovver agean." "ha's that?" "dooant thee think 'at aw forget. it wor fanny hebblethwaite at wor allus hankerin after thee until we wor wed, an for some time after. aw've had enuff o' fannys. we'll call it jerrymier." "but its a mare tha sees." "well then, we'll call it jimmima." "let's mak it jenny an ha done wi it." "owt'll do but fanny. shoo wor a impotent hussy. aw wonder what becoom on her?" "aa! shoo's been deead aboon a duzzen year?" "oh, well then--tha can call it fanny." they did enjoy thersen that day an noa mistak, an monny a day after, an they're lukkin forrad to monny a pleasant little time. th' naybors have getten used to seein em nah an have noa desire to poak fun at em. jerrymier has takken a big fancy to th' galloway, an oft gooas an gethers it a basket full ov sweet clover, an when grimes an mally arn't using it, hepsabah an her babbies have a drive throo th' park, jerrymier acting as th' cooachman. th' galloway knows its getten a gooid hooam. it wants for nowt,--mally taks gooid care o' that. it's one to be trusted an it knows its way abaat. some day yo may see an old galloway, pullin a little carriage containin an old man an woman;--all three on em saand asleep, an yo can rest assured at that's grime's an mally an ther galloway. true blue; a romance of factory life. susy was only twenty-two, and she had been a widow for over twelve months. she had married when only nineteen, a honest hard working man who was more than twice her age. there had been no love in the match, so far as she was concerned;--she was an orphan,--poor,--lonely, and pretty. she was only a weaver, and not very expert, yet she managed to make sufficient to pay her board and to keep herself well dressed, for the position she occupied, and her beauty,--for she was very beautiful, and her natural taste enabled her to present an appearance so much superior to those with whom she was in daily contact, that many envied her, and some looked askance at her, and shook their heads, and predicted evil to come. some one had dubbed her 'the factory belle,' but she never resented what many would have considered insults or slights, but kept on in her own innocent, yet attractive and attentive way, and commanded a certain amount of respect even from those who were secretly her enemies. no one would for a single moment suspect that she was a widow, for not only was she so young, but looked even younger. that her husband had worshipped her was not difficult of belief, and that she had been to him a kind, fond wife was indisputable;--her gratitude for his kindness and his self-sacrifices to secure her happiness had been such, that if she did not love him with the blind infatuation of youth's fond dream, she respected him, and he was first in her then unawakened affections. when he was suddenly stricken down with a fell disease which was at that time ravaging many of the towns in the west riding, she nursed him faithfully, and when he died,--holding her little white hand in his brown, brawny fist, she shed the bitterest tears that had ever dimmed her beautiful blue grey eyes. after the last sad rites were over, she had disposed of the household furniture, which was all he had been able to leave her, and paid every claim that was presented, finding herself once more alone, and dependent on her own exertions for a living. she had plenty of sympathizing friends, and more than one would willingly have provided for her in the hope that at some future time they might win her for themselves, but she was of a very independent spirit and preferred to depend on her own efforts to provide for her wants. she had no difficulty in obtaining employment at the weaving shed where she had worked before her marriage; and right welcome did her fellow workers make her, and the look of sadness which for a time clouded her face, though it did not detract her from her beauty,--by degrees cleared off,--her eyes sparkled as before,--the bloom came back to her velvet cheeks and her lips curled again into the bewitching smile that suited them so well, and with her added years, were developed charms that she had not possessed before. her swelling bust accentuated her tapering waist, and her beautifully rounded arms, her well shaped, small hands,--her graceful carriage, all combined to produce a perfect specimen of yorkshire female lovliness. where hundreds were employed, it was not to be expected she would lack admirers. she had many,--many more than she even imagined. though almost faultless in face and figure, yet she was not without some faults. she knew she was beautiful, and she was vain. much of her apparent artlessness was assumed. she was pleased to be admired, and felt gratified to see the effect of her glance, as she favoured one with a languishing look, and another with a haughty stare, or a wicked, sparkling, mischief loving gleam,--transient on her part but fatally permanent on susceptible hearts. in her own heart she had never felt love,--she had never sounded the depths of her own nature;--she was as yet a stranger to herself. amongst others, who were ever ready at her beck and call were two young men,--both about her own age.--they are both dead now or this story would not have been written. we will simply speak of them as dick and jack. one was the overlooker under whom she worked, this was dick, a prime favourite with the masters, and a clever, honest chap he was. jack was known as "th' oiler," his duty being to attend to the long lines of shafting and revolving pullies. much of his work, especially the more dangerous part of it, had to be performed whilst the engine was stopped. never were known two truer friends than dick and jack. after working hours they were seldom separated. they worked together in the little allotment garden which they jointly rented. even the pig was a partnership concern. although they were friendly with all they came in contact with, they never made any other special friendships. they were satisfied to be with each other and so confidential were they, that they each lived in the other's life. nicknames were common at that day, and dick was generally spoken of as "true blue," because of his unswerving integrity. jack had to be content with the less euphonious title "th' oiler." they were neither of them blind to susy's charms, and admiration blended with pity, and pity, where a beautiful woman is concerned, is likely to lead to something else. they often spoke of her to each other, but it was the only subject on which they ever conversed, that they were not entirely open and honest about. dick's position gave him many opportunities to be near susy, and it was remarked that her loom seemed to require more attention than any other under his surveillance. susy, with that quick instinct which all women seem to be possessed, saw that he was at her mercy. but she loved her liberty. she had tasted such bliss as married life could offer,--so she thought, and she preferred to feel free to smile on whom she pleased. she was virtuous, and kind, after a fashion, but she was fast becoming a coquet,--a flirt. in her little world she was a queen, and the homage of one did not satisfy her. hearts were her playthings,--they amused her, and she liked to be amused. one day, during the dinner hour;--she had brought her dinner to the mill, which was her invariable custom, as the house where she lodged was a considerable distance from the works;--she was sitting in a retired corner in an adjoining room, when looking up she saw dick standing close by her and regarding her with such a longing, yet troubled look, that although she laughed, and was about to make some flippant remark, she checked herself, and made room on the little bench for him to sit. "why, dick," she said, as he took his place beside her, "what's to do? has th' boiler brussen, or are we going on strike?" "nay, susy, its summat moor serious nor that. aw thowt aw should find thee here. aw hope tha arn't mad at aw've come." "what should aw be mad for? tha's as mich reight to be here as me,--an if it comes to that aw suppooas we've nawther on us onny business here an aw think aw'll be gooin." "net just yet, susy;--stop a minnit,--aw've summat to say. its varry particlar. can't ta guess what it is?" "aw dooant know unless tha'rt gooin to find fault abaat mi piece, an awm sewer aw've done mi best wi it, but yond warp's rotten." "its nowt abaat thi wark, its moor important to me nor all th' wark i'th shed. o, susy, awm sewer tha must know what aw want to say. tha connot be blind, an tha must know at awm fonder on thi nor o' onnybody i' all this world. tha knows ha bonny tha art, an tha knows tha's nobbut to put up thi finger an tha can have onny single chap i'th shop, but, believe me, susy,--ther isn't one at can ivver love thi as aw love thi. aw'll work for thi throo morn to neet, an tha shall be th' happiest woman i'th world if its i' my paar to mak thi soa. what says ta? aw willn't hurry thee if tha wants time to think abaat it,--but tell me,--is ther onnybody at tha likes better?" "why, dick, tha's fairly knockt th' wind aght o' me. tha sewerly forgets at awm a widdy. a young chap like thee doesn't owt to be lukkin after widdys, when ther's soa monny single young lasses abaat waitin for chaps." "it'd mak noa difference to me if tha wor a widdy twenty times ovver. tha'rt th' grandest woman aw ivver met, an if aw ivver do wed it'll be thee. come, nah, tell me,--we havn't mich time befoor th' engine starts. is ther onnybody tha likes better nor me. spaik aght. if ther is aw'll bide it as weel as aw can, an aw'll nivver trubble thi agean." "noa, dick, ther isn't. that's gospel trewth. ther's nubdy livin at aw like better nor thee, an aw dooant know another aw like as weel, but tha knows when it comes to weddin, it mun be summat moor nor likin th' next time. it'll have to be lovin. an aw dooant love thee weel enuff, but aw may leearn to do, but tha mun gie me time." "yond's th' engine startin, aw mun be off;--an bless thi for what tha's sed. aw'll mak misen worthy on thi, an tha shall love me at th' finish." that afternoon dick seemed to be walking on air. his face was flushed, and his heart beat until his voice was so unsteady that those who had to speak with him eyed him curiously. as he passed susy's loom she gave him a look so full of love and sympathy that it required an effort to pass on to his other duties. when the day's work was ended, he waited, as was his custom, for jack, though he would much rather have gone home alone. he felt selfishly happy, and he wanted to nurse his secret where no eye could read his exultation. it was a something sacred,--too sacred to be shared even with jack. as they walked along, they saw susy tripping away, some distance in advance. "yond's susy, aw see," said jack. "aw could tell her onnywhear. shoo doesn't walk like th' rest on em. aw wonder if shoo'll ivver think abaat gettin wed agean." "that's a matter at we've nowt to do wi. aw suppooas shoo'll pleas hersen," said dick, in a tone that fairly startled jack. "summat must ha gooan wrang wi' him at his wark," thought jack, and they walked along, only now and then giving utterance to some common place remark. dick's conscience accused him. he felt that he possessed a secret that jack could not share. there was a rift in the lute. perfect confidence had ceased to exist between them. why should it be so? he asked himself. jack has committed no fault. had the case been reversed he felt sure that jack would have confided in him. ah, but jack could never love her as he loved her! nobody could ever love her as he loved her! nobody! days and weeks went by, and it was a hard time for dick. sometimes he was in the seventh heaven of delight, and again he was plunged in the depths of misery and despair. susy seemed just as frivolous as ever. his declaration made no difference in her. she dispensed her smiles as impartially as ever, to all appearance unconscious that every favour bestowed on another was a stab to dick, but however full of resentment he might feel, a sidelong glance which seemed so full of meaning to him banished his discontent and he accused himself of unreasonable jealousy. the coldness between the two friends seemed to increase, yet they went to work together as usual, but conversation flagged and only indifferent subjects were touched upon. dick had still unbounded faith in susy, and although he could not but see that she avoided him, he accounted for it owing to the respect she still felt for the husband she had lost, and to the seriousness of making a second matrimonial venture. one day, during the dinner hour, something seemed to impel him to see her and plead with her once more. he knew where she was to be found, and was proceeding to the place, when he heard her voice. he was screened by some huge bales of yarn, and he could hear what she said distinctly. "its varry kind o' thee, jack, to tak pity on me,--aw like thee weel enuff, in fact ther's nubdy aw like better, but when aw wed agean it mun be moor nor likin, it will have to be love. aw may leearn to love thi yet, but tha mun gie me time." dick could wait to hear no more. retracing his steps noiselessly, he went out into the open air. could it be true? had his ears deceived him? was it possible that the beautiful woman on whom he had lavished all the first love of his life could be capable of playing with him in such a fashion? jack was his rival! he was a sycophant! a hypocrite! a villian! how the afternoon passed he could not tell. he kept as far away from susy as his duties would allow, and at night he walked home alone. next day he met jack at the entrance to the works, but he gave him such a look of hatred that he stepped aside and he passed without a word. jack was quite unconscious of having done anything to merit such treatment, but by degrees, as he reviewed the incidents of the past few weeks, a light broke upon him;--he saw it all. they were rivals. from that time all intercourse ceased between the two who had been deemed inseparable. this gave rise to many remarks from their acquaintances, not a few of whom guessed the cause. susy seemed quite unconcerned, and smiled as sweetly as ever. dick furtively watched her, and the more he looked, the stronger grew his mad infatuation and the deeper became his determination to be revenged. he never again intruded himself on susy's dinner hour, but he knew that jack took every opportunity of seeing her, and the work that he should have done during the time the machine was standing, he had to hurry over when it was in motion. it was a hazardous work;--a single slip might lead to a certain and horrible death. but he was experienced and cautious, and he felt no fear. the fire of revenge, always smouldering, was almost daily fanned into flame by real or fancied causes. jack went calmly on his way. he regretted the break in their friendship, but he could not resign susy. he hoped all things would come out right at last. a day came, when, as the engine began to set in motion the innumerable shafts and wheels and pulleys, which in turn transmitted their mighty strength over the hundreds of looms,--dick stood at the end of the row of machines that were under his charge. his eyes had a strange light in them and his face was unnaturally pale, and his hands wandered unmeaningly over the loom nearest him. a scream reverberated through the shed, above all the clatter of shuttles and whirr of wheels, and was repeated again, and again. there was a rush towards one point. the mighty engine stopped with a groan, and all the wheels were motionless. all the workers had deserted their posts,--nay,--not all. dick stood shivering, grasping an iron bar for support. susy, stood confronting him. the look in her wonderful eyes was one that he had never before seen. no word was spoken. she passed on to join the throng, and dick followed like one in a dream. "poor jack!" "poor lad!" was heard on every hand. the crowd divided, and four strong men bore the battered and bleeding form into the private office. dick saw it,--he followed close behind it. outside the very sunshine seemed red. he seemed to awake from a dream. there was his friend,--the friend he had loved,--nay,--more,--the friend he did love still. and he? what was he? a murderer: no one had accused him;--no one even suspected him. yes there was one. her eyes still seemed to glare at him with their mute accusation. what did he care? she had caused it all. he inwardly cursed her; and cursing her loved her more madly than ever. there was no revenge in his breast now. hastily throwing on his jacket, he followed the ambulance on which lay the unconcious body, covered with a sheet through which the blood had already penetrated. a doctor had been summoned and he said life was not extinct. when the infirmary was reached, dick entered, no one attempted to intercept him. but when the body was placed in the accident ward, all but the doctors and nurses were ordered out. dick paced the corridor from end to end incessantly. he could not leave until he knew the worst. he had long to wait, but at last the doctors appeared. "he still lives, but there is no hope." and with that terrible sentence ringing in his ear, he had to leave him. when he reached the works again, he found them closed, but a crowd of workers were gathered there. he joined them. they were discussing the terrible accident. "aw saw it," sed one, "aw wor standin cloise to him when th' ladder smashed an threw him onto th' shaft. his smock wor catched in a second, an he wor whirled raand an raand until th' engine wor stopt, and then he dropt to th' graand battered to bits." "its ten thaasand pities," sed another, "an aw connot help thinkin ther's been some foul play somewhear. who can ha takken th' brokken ladder away? that ladder should be examined. somdy may ha been foolin wi it." "it does seem strange," said several, "but mooast likely it'll turn up." they soon began to scatter, and dick went homewards. the ladder! who could have taken the ladder? the tell tale ladder, that bore the evidence of his guilt. arrived at home, he shut himself in his room and there he sat through what appeared to him an eternity of night. he felt no desire to sleep. early in the morning found him again at the infirmary. he questioned a nurse who was passing. "he is quite conscious now, but he cannot hold out many hours. it is better he should die, than live a helpless cripple all the rest of his days." "aw mun see him," he sed, "do let me see him." "that cannot be without the doctor's permission," she said, but seeing the frantic grief of the man, she went and brought the doctor's consent. dick was soon at the bedside. he saw only the bandaged head. the face was scarcely disfigured, but there was a look upon it that could not be misunderstood. a faint smile played over his pale features, as he recognised his visitor. dick could not speak, but sank on his knees by the bedside and sobbed as only a strong man can sob. "jack," he sed at last, "can ta forgie me, lad? aw did it. but aw wor mad! the devil had me in his clutches. awm willin to suffer for it, but do forgie me. forgie me for old times sake." "aw knew tha did it, but aw forgie thi freely, for tha didn't know it wod end like this. aw wor to blame for net dooin mi wark when aw should ha done. dunnot blame susy. shoo's worthy on thi. shoo tell'd me 'at all her heart wor thine, an aw did all aw could to mak thi jaylus. an shoo wor praad, an when tha seemed to slight her it cut her up, but pride wodn't let her tell thi what aw've tell'd thi nah. it's hard to leeav th' world when young, but its mi own fault. forgie me, dick, an let me dee, an may thee an susy be happy." "that can nivver be, jack. thear's noa mooar happiness for me." there was no response. the eyelids drooped,--the jaw fell. the nurse who had stood at a distance, drew near and spread a white napkin over his face. "he's gone. 'tis better so." an inquest was held. "accidental death" was the verdict. the ladder could not be found. neither dick nor susy ever entered those works again. they were both sadly altered. after jack's funeral, months passed before they met again. what took place when they did meet can only be surmised. some short time afterwards their was a quiet wedding, and they moved to another town. but dick never recovered his old spirits, and it was not long before she was a second time a widow. when dick was in his coffin and the men stood by to close it for the last time, she placed in it a parcel. it contained two pieces of a broken ladder, showing where it had been sawn almost in two. this is all the story, susy is living yet. the secret rests with her and me. "if aw wor a woman." "if aw wor a woman awd----" "if tha wor a woman tha'd be a disgrace to ivverybody belangin to thi, an thar't little else nah," sed mally. "aw wor gooin to remark, 'at if aw wor a woman----" "eah! but tha arn't a woman, an if tha wor tha'd wish thisen a man agean, varry sharply. but if aw wor a man awd set a different example to what tha does. aw wonder sometimes what thar't thinkin on, if tha ivver does think, which awm inclined to daat, unless its thinkin ha tha can contrive to be awkard an aggravatin." "well, but as aw wor gooin to say, if aw wor a----" "aw dooant want to hear owt tha has to say abaat it. a fine woman tha'd mak! but aw wish tha wor foorced to swap places wi me for a wick. aw should like to see ha tha'd fancy gettin up befoor dayleet ov a mondy mornin an start o' sich a weshin o' clooas as aw have to face ivvery wick; to say nowt abaat starchin an manglin an ironin. an then to start an brew a barrel o' ale for other fowk to sup; an then to bake for sich a family as we've getten,--nivver to mention makkin th' beds an cleanin th' hearthstun,--an' th' meals to get ready, an then to cleean th' haase throo top to bottom ivvery wick,--an darn th' stockins an put a claat on here an a patch on thear, an fifty moor things beside,--an nivver get a word o' thanks for it. aw just wish tha wor a woman for an odd wick. aw do, truly." "as aw sed befoor, if aw wor a----" "awm capt tha hasn't moor sense nor to keep tawkin sich foolishness. tha knows tha arn't a woman an tha nivver can be,--moor's pity. but if aw wor a man awd awther tawk sense or keep mi maath shut. aw think sometimes 'at summat 'll happen to thi as a judgment for bein sich an ungrateful tyke as tha art. tha gets up in a mornin an finds thi braikfast ready, an if ther's owt i'th haase at's nice an tasty tha gets it; an then tha walks aght to what tha calls thi wark, an comes to thi dinner, an off agean wol drinkin time, an after that tha awther gooas an caars i' some jerryhoil, or else tha sits rockin thisen i'th front o'th fair, smokin thi bacca an enjoyin thisen wol bedtime. ther's some fowk dooant know when they're weel done to. but aw know who it is 'at has to tew an slave all th' day, wi hardly a chonce to wipe th' sweeat off mi face." "but, if tha'll lissen, aw wor gooin to remark, if aw wor----" "tha maks a deeal too monny remarks. tha'll sit thear, remarkin an praichin bi th' haar together, an nivver give me a chonce to get in a word edgeways. but awm just sick an stall'd o' harkenin to thi. they wor a time, years sin nah,--but aw can remember it tho' tha's forgetten it,--when tha used to sit an lissen to owt aw had to say, an my word wor law then. an if mi little finger warked tha'd hardly be able to sleep ov a neet for trubblin abaat it. but it's different nah. aw dooant believe it ud disturb thi if mi heead had to tummel off mi shoolders. aw've studden a gooid deeal sin aw wor wed to thee, an aw expect aw'st ha to stand a lot moor; but one thing aw willn't put up wi, an that is, sittin an listenin to thee, an havin to keep mi tongue still. soa tha knows." "well, but if aw wor----" "nah, let it stop just whear it is. tha's getten a tawkin fit on aw know,--aw wonder thi jaws dooant wark. but aw willn't hear another word! noa, net a word!" "but if----" "ther's noa 'buts' abaat it! hold thi noise, do! tha'd tawk a hen an chickens to deeath. tha wod. aw wonder if aw shall ivver have a bit o' peace?--net befoor awm laid low, aw reckon." sammywell's soft snap. "what wor yond clatter, mally? has somdy been smashin summat?" "nowt 'at meeans mich. it wor a accident an couldn't be helpt." "well, what wor it? can't ta spaik?" "it's nowt at's owt to do wi thee, soa tha needn't let it bother thi heead; but if tha'rt soa crazy to know aw can tell thi.--it's awr hepsabah's jerrymiah at's brokken th' winder i'th weshus. nah, arta satisfied?" "satisfied! now! satisfied bi gum! does ta think aw've nowt else to do wi mi brass but to buy winders for jerrymiah to smash? ha is it awr hepsabah can't keep her childer at hooam? when we'd childer we nivver sent em raand to ther gronfather's to smash winders! an if aw catch hold o' that young taistrel aw'll tak th' skin off him!" "hold thi din, gert softheead! onnybody to hear thi tawk, 'ud think tha'd gooan cleean wrang i' thi heead! bless mi life! tha dosn't think 'at th' child did it on purpose, does ta? he wor nobbut tryin his best to catch a blue-bottle-fly, an it went into th' winder whear be couldn't raik it, soa he sammed up a teacup an flang it at it,--nivver thinkin owt abaat th' winder, becoss he knew ha tha hated sich things buzzin abaat thi heead; but whativver that child does it seems to be wrang. aw'd be shamed o' misen to start grumblin abaat a bit ov a tupny-hawpny winder!" "tupny-hawpny winder! why, it'll cost a shillin to get that winder put in! an what abaat th' teahcup?" "oh, that's nowt. it wor nobbut an owd crackt en. awd meant throwin it away monny a wick sin. th' child wor sadly trubbled when he saw what he'd done, for he wor feeard tha'd be cross wi him, but aw tell'd him to whisht, for tha wornt to a winder or two, soa tha can give him a hawpny for spice, (tha knows he thinks a deeal moor on it when it comes throo thee,) an tha can call at glazers shop an tell em to send a chap up to put another pane in, an here's sixpence for thisen, sithee, for aw know thi bacca's ommost done." "that's all reight. ov cooarse th' child didn't meean to braik th' winder, nor the teacup nawther,--but he owt to be towt different; an aw dooant believe awr hepsabah knows owt abaat trainin childer as they owt to be trained. but aw'st send noa chap up here to put that winder in. aw've getten nowt else to do an aw meean to put that in misen. aw can buy a square o' glass that size, for abaat thrippence, an better glass nor that wor too. but, mally, nah this is a bargain;--if aw get th' glass an th' putty, and put it in, tha gies me th' shillin th' same as tha'd gie it onnybody else." "tha can have th' shillin! aw'm nooan grumblin abaat th' shillin,--but aw connot see wot tha wants wi soa mich brass day after day. ther's hardly ivver a day passes ovver thi heead 'at tha dosen't ax me for awther sixpince or a shillin, an awm sewer ther's all tha needs to ait an drink at hooam, an tha's as gooid clooas to don as onny man need wish,--an nobbut th' last sundy, tha axt me for sixpince for th' collection, an tha nobbut put in a hawpny, for aw wor watchin thi.--a'a, well! but hasumivver, here's another shillin, soa if tha thinks tha can put it in, goa an get a square a glass an ha dun wi it." "'think aw can put it in?' aw dooant think owt abaat it! aw know aw can put it in! what does ta tak me for? does ta think aw havn't th' strength an brains enuff to wrastle wi' a bit o' glass like that?" "tha's wrastled wi too monny glasses, sammywell, sin aw knew thi, an they've getten thi daan moor noa once. it's gettin lat i'th' day, nah, to expect thi to mend mich, but if tha'd nobbut sign teetotal an join th' chapel, an buy jerrymier a new sundy suit, aw think aw mun see summat to admire in thi even yet." "ther's as mich to admire abaat me as ther is abaat some other fowk aw could mention, but aw'll bi off just nah, for when aw've a job to do aw want to get it done, an net stand hummin an haain abaat it like thee." ---------"nah, mally lass. if awd had as mich sense when aw wor young as aw have nah, we'st ha been ridin in us carriage. sithee--aw've nobbut gien thrippence for this glass an aw've getten putty for nowt an when that winder's mended it'll be better nor new an ninepence saved, soa tha sees we'st be soa mich i' pocket." "then that's ninepence tha'd nivver ha saved if it hadn't ha been for jerrymier, soa tha connot say he's gooid for nowt onny moor." "ger aght o' mi gate, an lets do summat. bring me a cheer to stand on an a knife an a hammer an a chissel an aw'll show thi ha to put a winder in, in abaat two or three ticktacks. this is what aw call a soft snap. ninepence,--that's threepenoths for abaat three minnits wark. nah, thee stand thear an steady th' cheer. here gooas!---aw wonder what dang'd sooart o' putty that lumpheead used 'at put this winder in. it's as hard as iron--jer-rer-ruselem!" "what's to do, sammywell? has ta takken th' skin off?" "skin off! oooo! aw've ommost takken mi finger off! get us some claat an a length o' threed to lap it up. if aw knew th' chap 'at put that winder in, he'd nivver put another in." "ther nah,--be moor careful,--it mud ha been war,--but tha sees that's what comes ov a chap startin to do summat 'at he doesn't understand." "understand! what the dickens is ther to understand abaat puttin a winder in? it's nooan puttin a winder in at's trubble! it's gettin this dang'd owd glass aght 'at tother chap put in. but awm nooan gooin to be likt bi a winder. stick fast to that cheer. one,--two,--three----" "nah, tha's done it! tha's gooan an brokken another pane! ah knew tha'd mak a mullock on it when tha started!" "did ta! well, aw'll mak a mullock o' thee i' two minnits if tha doesn't shut up! tha sees awm dooin mi best to try to save a penny or two an tha does nowt but try to aggravate me. braikin another pane doesn't amaant to mich;--they're nobbut thrippence a piece; aw think th' best plan 'll be to tak th' sash aght an put it on th' table, an then it'll be easier to get at. what says ta!" "do as tha likes, but aw think tha'd better let a chap come an put em in an ha done wi' it." "if aw connot put a winder in we'll do baat. nah, tha'll see it's just as simple as suckin spice, nah 'at aw've getten it whear aw can get to it. a'a, ther's noa wonder 'at them glazeners gettin rich! chargin a shillin for a bit ov a job like this. awm moor nor hawf inclined to goa into this trade, as old as aw am. nah, tha sees, that's all ready for puttin th' glass in. umph!--th' chap 'at cut this must ha been cross ee'd. well, nivverheed,--aw guess aw can just squ-e-e-e-e-ze it in--. dang it! it's allus alike! if awd ha cut that glass misen it ud ha just been reight. nah it's crackt reight across! but it'll ha to do,--crackt or net crackt! consarn it! aw dooant see what fowk want wi winders in a wesh haase! awm i' two minds to board th' hoil up an let em wesh i'th dark. hasumivver, that's nooan sich a bad job if it'll nobbut stick. if aw hadn't brokken this tother pane aw'st had done nah. nah, mally, lass, aw'st want another shillin for this tother winder." "tha'll get noa moor aght o' me. tha mun buy another square aght o' thi ninepence tha's saved." "what ninepence?--does ta expect a chap to goa trailin abaat th' taan for a hawf a day buyin glass an stuff, an nivver spendin nowt. these winders ud cost thi a shillin a piece if onny body else put em in, but aw willn't be hard on thi,--gie me another sixpence an aw'll finish th' job." "aw wish tha'd nivver started it. but this is th' last penny tha'll get aght o' me, soa tha knows! aw nivver saw nubdy frame war i' mi life! why, if awd gien awr hepsabah's jerrymier th' job he'd ha done it better nor that." "wod he?--well, suppooas tha does give him th' job! aw'll tell thi what it is.--aw've just studden this sooart o' thing as long as awm gooin to.--ther's awr hepsabah an her jerrymiar, an thee, 'at know ivverything an can do ivverything,--an aw know nowt an can do nowt, an awm treeated war nor nowt, an soa yo can just tak them winders an stick em up as they are, or mend em, or do what the daggers yo like wi em, but aw tell thi this, once for all,--'at as long as ivver thy name's mally, tha'll nivver catch me slavin an plannin as aw have done for thee an thine. if tha'd nivver ha interfered, them winders ud ha been in, but tha'll nawther put em in thisen nor let me do it--soa awm gooin aght." "gooid shutness! th' longer he lives an th' war he gets." a bashful bradfordian. one wod hardly expect to find a bashful young chap in a bradforth printin office. but ther is one; but aght o' consideration for his tender feelins aw willn't tell his real name, but call him james fearnly. if yo're varry anxious to find aght who it really is, this is th' way to do it. when yo've a bit o' spare time, if yo connot manage to get 'em all together at once, tak 'em one bi one, as yo can catch 'em, an read this stooary to em. th' furst one 'at blushes, yo may safely tak to be him. james fell i' love wi a young woman 'at lived up manningham loin, an its allus been suppooased, bi them 'at know 'em, 'at shoo must ha fell i' love wi him at th' same time, or sooiner; but hasumivver, to th' surprise o' ivverybody 'at knew james, they gate wed. ha they spent ther honeymooin aw cannot tell, an aw wodn't if aw could, but after a bit they gate nicely sattled in a little haase on thornton road. angelina was his wife's name, but he cut it short an called her angel, which he varry likely thowt shoo wor. but if he wor bashful, shoo worn't. shoo'd a bonny face, an a shape 'at made ivvery old chap 'at saw her wish he wor young ageean; an when owt tickled her shoo laft like a locomotive whistle in a fit; an as for bein bashful,--why--shoo didn't know what it meant. shoo'd a sister,--a'a! but shoo wor a grand en! to tell the trewth, james had fallen i' love wi her furst, but he wor too bashful to tell her soa, an he'd nivver ha had pluck to pop th' question to angelina if it hadn't been 'at they wor lost at th' back o'th taan hall, an he had to borrow a lantern to prevent 'em runnin agean lamppooasts. but when they'd getten sattled, maude blanche, (that wor th' sister's name,) coom to pay em a visit. nah, maude blanche wor just as fond o' fun as james wor feeared on it, an shoo kept jabbin him between th' ribs, an sayin all sooarts o' queer things, an axin him questions 'at he couldn't answer an he blushed until angelina had to tell her to stop, for fear all his blooid wod be in his heead. well, they went to bed. james an his wife i' one raam and maude blanche i'th next. james wor sooin i'th land o' nod, an angelina felt disgusted when shoo heeard him snoorin an turned raand an followed his example. ha long they had slept they didn't know, but angelina oppen'd her e'en, an what should shoo see, but th' drawers oppen, an all th' stuff scattered raand. shoo gave a skrike, an jam'd her elbow between james's ribs wi' sich a foorce 'at he fell on th' floor like a log o' wood. "murder! police! thieves!" shoo skriked. "a'a, dear! what ivver shall we do! drive 'em aght!" "angelina, aw cannot do it! it's impossible!" an he stood shivverin an shakin and tryin to lap his legs up in his shirt tail. "aw've been robbed! that solid goold brooch aw gave fifteen pence for is missin, an all mi hair pins an a bobbin o' black threead, and gooidness knows what else! maude blanche! come here! maude blanche! does ta hear?" "gooid gracious! tha arn't callin thi sister in here an me i' this state!" sed james, an he dived under th' bed. "maude blanche! _do_ come! th' hasse is full o' robbers!" "for god's sake, angelina, dunnot let her come in here till awm donned. aw've nowt on but mi shirt, and if shoo comes an sees me aw shall faint reight off." "shirt be hanged! what does it matter if shoo sees it! shoo'll have it to wesh next wick! tha owt to be 'shamed o' thisen!" "aw am, an aw'st be moor soa if shoo comes in. does ta know aw've noa stockins on, an mi britches is hung ovver th' bed fooit; an this shirt is a quarter ov a yard to short! dunnot let her come in whativver tha does!" just then th' door oppened, an a smilin face peep'd in. "what's to do?" axt maude blanche. "we've been robbed! an that softheead is caarin under th' bed asteead o' runnin after th' robbers!" "turn her aght, angelina! if tha doesn't aw shall sink throo th' floor. gie me mi britches if tha'll do nowt else, an then aw'll see what aw can do. maude blanche! if tha hasn't forgetten all tha's ivver been towt at th' sundy schooil, get aght o' this hoil as sharp as tha can! if tha doesn't tha'll see what tha'll be sorry for as long as tha lives, for aw cannot stand it!" angelina wor soa upset 'at shoo hardly knew what shoo wor dooin, but shoo pitched james's britches under th' bed, and maude blanche wor laffin wol shoo had to rest ageean th' bed fooit to steady hersen. james tried to put on his britches, but it wor noa easy matter, but in a bit he did get his legs into 'em, altho' they wor th' wrang side before, an then he crept aght, moor deead nor alive, an a deeal war freetened wi' maude blanche nor he wor abaat th' robbers. "whear's th' robbers?" he sed, lukkin daan at th' slack ov his britches an fumblin after th' buttons. "ther's noa robbers," sed maude blanche, "it's nobbut a bit o' my fun. aw heeard yo booath snooarin an aw thowt it ud be a gooid jooak to mak yo fancy somedy'd brokken into th' haase." "a'a! did ta ivver!" sed angelina, turnin to james; "did ta ivver see one like her i' all thi life?" "aw dooant think aw ivver did, an aw nivver want to see owt like her agean. aw wonder if shoo ivver saw owt like me? aw should think shoo'll nivver forget it as long as shoo lives." "a'a, hold thi wisht! little things mak noa impression on awr maude blanche." they all went to bed agean, but james couldn't sleep, his narves had getten sich a shock. as sooin as it wor dayleet he gat up an dressed an went to his wark, but he couldn't think o' owt else, an ivvery time he did think, he blushed soa, wol th' foreman sed he wor sewer he'd getten scarlet fayver, and advised him to goa hooam an get a hot posset. he's workin steady nah, but he's nivver getten ovver th' scare 'at heed had that neet, an he nivver gooas to bed withaat his britches, or else he has a newspaper pinned raand th' hem ov his shirt. angelina tells him 'at he maks a deeal o' fuss abaat nowt, but he considers it a varry serious matter. last time 'at maude blanche paid 'em a visit, shoo wor wearin a pair o' green spectacles, an when angelina axt her what shoo wore 'em for, shoo sed 'at shoo did it becoss shoo wor feared if shoo lukt at james wi' th' naked eye 'at it mud send him into a fit. if th' young chaps whear he worked had getten to know abaat it, they'd ha plagued his life aght, but they kept it to thersen. it wor angelina 'at tell'd me abaat it, for shoo sed shoo knew aw could keep a saycret, an it didn't matter whether aw could or net, for if aw tell'd it, ther'd nubdy believe it. well, aw've tell'd it, an it's true an all. th' owd, owd story. it wor th' owd, owd story he towd her, th' story, 'at's owder nor time; nowt ivver chap whisper'd wor owder, nowt ivver soa grand an sublime. for man nivver towd ither story, soa chock full ov magic as this, for, it shraaded th' young chaps i' glory, an' filled her 'at listened wi' bliss. th' story had wrought sich a wonder noa ither tale ivver has done-two hearts, that afooar wor assunder, wor knit i' a crack into one. an' still he kept tellin' her th' story, which mooar an' mooar wonderful grew, (soa oft its been tell'd its grown hoary,) but shoo could hav sworn it wor new. shoo thowt of th' angels above 'em, wor jealous o' her, an' him, then-for angels has noa chaps to love 'em, love's nobbut for wimmin an' men. but th' love i' her heart ovvercame her, an' shoo pitied th' whole angel thrang, aw know what love is, an' dooant blame her, an' aw dooant think her pity wor wrang. th' story wor towd, an' for ever it wor noa gurt shakes what might befall; nowt but deeath, these two hearts could sever, an' that nobbut partly, net awl: for love like one's soul is immortal, if its love, it wont vanish away-its birth wor inside o' th' breet portal ov eden, it knows noa decay. sin' then it has lived on, while th' ages has rowled on wi' uniform flow, as young, an as fresh, as when sages towd ther sweethearts it cent'ries ago-an' chaps 'll be tellin th' story, th' breet, owd, owd story ov love, when time, an' love, fade inter th' glory 'at streams thro' th' manshuns above. jim nation's fish-shop. sammywell grimes an his wife, mally, wor set anent th' foir,--sammywell seemingly varry mich interested ith' newspaper, an mally, showin signs ov impatience, wor darnin stockins. all wor silent except for th' tickin oth' clock, wi nah an then a long-drawn-aght sigh throo mally an an occasional grunt throo grimes. at last mally couldn't stand it onny longer, an shoo pitched th' stockins on th' table an sed,-"dost know, its just cloise on an haar an a hawf sin tha set daan wi that paper, an tha's nivver oppened thi lips to me durin that time? aw remember when things wor different. ther wor a time when tha tuk a delight i' tellin me all th' news, but latterly tha tells me nowt, an if it worn't for hepsabah an some oth' naybors aw shouldn't know whether th' world wor gooin on as usual, or it had come to an end." "why, lass,--th' fact oth' matter is ther's nowt to tell. aw nivver saw th' like. aw dooant know what papers are gooin into, for ther isn't a bit o' news in em. aw've just glanced ovver this an aw can find nowt worth readin." "it doesen't tak thee an haar an a hawf to find that aght. is ther owt in abaat th' war?" "oh, war! aw believe it does say summat abaat th' war. it's still gooin on, an one chap has sprained his ankle an another has had a narrow escape an de wet is expected to be captured as sooin as they get hold on him, an a lot moor sich tales, but they arn't worth thinkin abaat coss they'll all be contradicted ith' mornin." "an does it say nowt abaat that butcher at's run away an left his wife? awr hepsabah wor sayin shoo believed they'd catched him." "hi! they've catched him, an he wor browt up at th' taan hall this mornin an he pleaded 'guilty,' soa th' magistrate sed as he'd allus borne a gooid character he'd give him his choice, an he could awther goa back hooam an live wi his wife or goa to quod for three months wi hard labour." "they've let him off easier nor he desarved, but aw should think his wife's gien him a bit ov her mind." "nay, net shoo! shoo's nivver had th' chonce, for he tuk three months. shoo's a tartar aw believe." "shoo must be if that's th' case. a'a, sammywell,--a chap at's blessed wi a gooid wife owt to goa daan on his knees i' gratitude for they're varry scarce." "aw believe they are;--a chap wod have to goa a far way to find one at this day." "he'd have to travel a deeal farther to find a gooid husband,--aw can tell thi that! an if tha arn't satisfied wi thi wife tha's getten tha'rt at liberty to goa an find a better. it's noa use a woman tryin to be a gooid wife at this day, for they get noa better thowt on. if they did, tha'd think moor o' me nor tha does!" "aw dooant see ha aw could do that, lass, for tha nivver gives me a chonce to forget thi unless its when awm asleep, an net oft then, for if tha doesn't want one thing tha wants another, an awm allus fain to do what aw con for thi, but tha'rt nivver satisfied for long together. aw wonder sometimes what aw gate wed for." "aw've been wonderin that for a deal o' years. th' fact is aw dooant know what sich chaps live for. if aw wor a man aw should like to be able to luk back an think awd done a gooid turn to mi fellow-man." "aw think aw did that when aw wed thee." "it wor th' best thing tha ivver did for thisen, an tha knows it! but awm net gooin to waste mi time tawkin to thee for tha arn't worth it. has ta made up thi mind what tha'rt baan to have for thi supper?" "owt 'll do for me." "as tha seems to care soa little abaat it, suppooas tha gooas withaat for a change." "all reight, lass. just do as tha likes." "aw connot do as aw like, if aw could aw should have summat to ait, for aw've hardly put a bite into mi heead this day, an ther's nowt ith' haase aw can touch, an awm too tired to goa aght for owt, an aw've nubdy to send, soa aw'st ha to do withaat as usual." "if tha'll nobbut say what tha wants aw'll fotch it for thi if its to be had; tha knows that." "well, if tha doesn't mind. aw think we could booath enjoy a bowlful o' mussles,--but they mun be gooid ens an aw dooant think tha knows th' shop. they call th' chap 'at keeps it jim nation, but aw dooant know whear it is, but tha can easy find aght." "willn't onny other shop do just as weel?" "noa, another shop willn't do becoss aw want th' best. we allus pay ready brass for awr stuff an aw dooant like to think at other fowk get better sarved; an when aw went for th' milk this mornin aw heeard mistress whitin tawkin to widdy baystey an shoo sed, 'my husband's getten mussels twice as big sin he went to jim nation's shop,' an aw want some oth' same sooart." "gie me summat to put 'em in," sed grimes, "aw'st sooin find it for ther isn't monny fish-shops i' bradforth." "well, luk as sharp as tha can," sed mally, "an be sewer they're fresh." grimes set off an mally began at once to get th' table laid for th' supper. befoor grimes had gooan varry far he thowt his wisest plan wod be to ax somdy. soa seein a poleeceman he made enquiries. "aw dooant know exactly," sed th' bobby, "but aw fancy ther's a chap o' that name keeps a shop somewhere up manningham way." soa sammywell set off i' that direction, keepin his een oppen for a fish shop. after he'd gooan ommost a mile he sed, "awm a fooil for commin all this way, for if awd nobbut gien it a thowt aw'st ha known ther wor noa shop o' that sooart up here. mi best plan wod ha been to goa to th' market an enquire thear. they'd be sewer to know," soa he walked back agean, but he made a few enquiries as he went along, but nubdy seemed to know. just as he'd getten to westgate he saw tom taggart an he felt sewer he'd know, for he seemed to spend his time trailin abaat th' streets. "hallo, tom!" he sed, "tha'rt just th' chap aw wanted to see! can ta tell me whear jim nation keeps his fish shop?" "jim nation?" sed tom, rubbin his chin,--"let me see. are ta sewer it's a fish shop?" "aw should think it is for he sells mussels." "o,--hi, tha'rt reight. it is a fish shop. what did ta say wor th' chap's name?" "jim nation." "o,--jim is it? tha'rt sewer it isn't 'tom'?" "noa, it's jim." "it isn't sam shackleton tha meeans, is it? he sells fish sometimes." "aw tell thi his name's jim nation." "o,--well,--then it willn't be sam shackleton. awm like as if aw know th' chap tha meeans but aw connot spot him this minnit. let's goa into th' 'star' an mak some enquirements, ther's sewer to be somdy 'll know him." soa into th' 'star' they went, an tom called for a pint for hissen an axt grimes what he wor gooing to have. "we connot come in an goa aght drymaath, tha knows," sed tom, soa grimes ordered twopenoth an paid for booath. then they axt ivverybody if they knew whear jim nation's fish shop wor, but altho two or three on em believed they'd seen it, nubdy could tell whear. "we'd better have another drink an sit daan a bit," sed tom, "ther'll be sewer for somdy to come in at'll know." but sammywell worn't havin onny moor o' that sooart, so he left em. when he wor aght ith' street ageean, he scrat his heead an sed summat he shouldn't. "what a lumpheead aw am! why didn't aw goa to ax mistress whitin at furst, an save misen all this bother?" an he started at once for her haase. he faand her sittin sewin,--for ther's little or noa trade dooin in a milk shop after drinkin time. "wod yo be soa gooid, mistress whitin, as to tell me whear jim nation has his fish shop?" "fish shop.--jim nation.--nay, mr. grimes, awm sooary to say aw connot. it's nowhear abaat here, that awm sewer on. has he been ith' trade long?" "well, this is the degger! aw've happen getten th' wrang name; but awm sewer that's what mally tell'd me. but yo happen willn't mind tellin me whear yo're husband buys his mussels?" "mussels! my husband nivver buys onny mussels. if he does he taks em somewhear else to cook, for we havn't had sich a thing i' awr haase aw couldn't tell th' time when. awm feeard on 'em. yo must be mistakken." "well, ther's a mistak somewhear,--that's a sartanty. my best plan will be to goa back hooam an see if aw can get some better information." "tha's been a long time, sammywell;--had ta onny trubble to find th' shop?" "shop! ther isn't sich a shop! aw've walked monny a mile an axt scoors o' fowk, an my belief is at tha's just been makkin a laffinstock on me. mistress whitin says shoo nivver heeard tell o' sich a chap nor shop nawther." "then hasn't ta browt onny?" "ha the dickens could aw bring onny when aw tell thi aw couldn't find th' shop!" "a child o' four year old could goa a eearand better nor thee! if awd sent jerrymier he'd ha browt em an they'd ha been cook't an etten befoor nah." "well, it isn't too lat to send jerrymier yet. but aw tell thi mistress whitin says ther isn't sich a shop, an they nivver had a mussel i' ther haase sin they wor born nor for years befoor that!" "ov course shoo'd say soa! that shows th' depth on her. shoo wants to have th' best o' ivverything for hersen. but aw'll goa an see if shoo'll tell sich a tale to me. her's isn't th' only milk shop i' bradforth, an aw'll nivver buy another drop on her as long as aw live. an if shoo doesn't mind what shoo's dooin aw'll put th' inspector onto her, for its moor watter nor milk at aw've been gettin thear for a long time." mally threw a shawl ovver her heead an tuk th' basket, an called for jerrymier, so as he could carry it for her, an away they went. mistress whitin wor sittin just as sammywell had left her, an wor runnin ovver in her mind th' names ov all th' fowk she knew at kept fish shops. when mally stept in shoo didn't nooatice at shoo wor varry excited soa shoo sed, "come in, mally;--awm just studyin abaat what yo're grimes wor axin me two-or-three minnits sin." "it needs noa studyin abaat. yo know what he axt yo weel enuff, but yo dooant want to tell. aw've allus takken yo to be a varry different sooart ov a woman. didn't aw hear yo, wi mi own ears, tellin owd widdy baystey,--noa longer sin nor this mornin, at sin yor husband began gooin to jim nations at he gate mussels twice as big as at onny other shop? nah, deny it if yo can. aw dooant see what ther is to laff at nawther." "why, mistress grimes, yo've made a sad mistak. aw wor nobbut advisin mistress baystey to let her lad,--him at's so waikly,--to goa th' gymnasium. sin my husband started o' gooin he's twice as strong as he wor, an th' muscles ov his arms are twice th' size they used to be. yo see its been all a mistak." it tuk mally a minnit or two befoor shoo could reckon things up fairly, but as sooin as shoo did shoo laft too, an then takkin jerrymier bith arm started off to find th' nearest fish shop. they hadn't far to goa, but when shoo axt th' chap ha he wor sellin his mussels, he stared at her wi' all th' een in his heead. "mussels! ther's noa mussels at this time oth' year," he sed. mally lukt flummuxt for a minnit, then givin jerrymier a shillin to goa to th' pooarkshop for a duzzen sheep trotters, they sooin landed safely hooam. "noa wonder tha didn't bring onny mussels, sammywell, for they arn't i' season, but aw've browt summat aw know tha likes. here jerrymier, tak these for thisen, an dooant be long befoor tha'rt i' bed." ha they enjoyed ther supper aw can nobbut guess, an what explanation shoo gave grimes aw dooant know, but jerrymier an his gronfather wor laffin fit to split th' next mornin, at th' yard botham. bob brierley's bull pup. bob brierley had been wed three months. he wor a book-keeper an a varry daycent chap for owt aw knaw to th' contrary. his wife wor a nice young thing, an blest wi a gooid share o' common sense. it seems strange, but yo'll find its generally th' case, at th' best lasses wed th' biggest fooils. but this isn't allus soa, for aw wed one o'th best misen. hasumivver, bob an his wife wor varry happy, at leeast they thowt soa, but they had to have a taste o' trubble like th' rest o' fowk. they'd noa childer, nor onny signs o' onny, but they had a bull pup. it wor a gooid job i' one respect at they had this pup, for if they hadn't aw should ha been short ov a subject to write abaat. whether it had etten summat at upset it stummack, or whether it grew sick o' seein them fondlin an messin wi one another aw dooant know, but ther's noa daat abaat it bein sick. this didn't bother bob varry mich;--men havn't sich tender feelins as wimmin, but angelina, (that wor wife's name, but her husband called her angel) wor i' sooar trubble. shoo gave it castor oil, an hippi-kick-yor-anna, an coddled it up i' flannel, an cried ovver it, an when bob coom hooam to his drinkin, an grumeld becoss it worn't ready, shoo called him a hard hearted infidel. bob didn't quite like it, but seein at shoo wor soa put abaght, he made shift wi sich things as wor handy, an then tuk his share o' nursin wol angel cook'd a beefsteak for hersen. but i' spite ov all they could do, it just fittered once an gave a farewell yelp, and deed. it wor a sorrowful neet. whether they lost onny sleep ovver it aw dooan't know, but next mornin angelina sed shoo'd "had its voice ringin in her ears all th' neet, an shoo thowt shoo'd nivver get ovver th' loss on it." "oh, we'st get ovver it i' time," sed bob, "it nobbut cost ten an sixpence, an when aw get mi wage advanced aw'll buy another." angelina made noa reply to what shoo considered a varry unfeelin remark, an for th' furst time durin ther wedded life shoo began to suspect at bob wor noa better nor th' rest o' fowk. "what mun we do wi th' little darlin?" shoo axt. "why, chuck it i'th middin," sed bob, an then seein a luk ov horror coom ovver her face, "unless tha intends to have it stuffed, or mak sawsiges on it." this wor moor nor angelina could stand, an sinkin into th' rockin cheer, shoo wod ha fainted reight away, but happenin to see th' clock, shoo saw it wor time for bob to start for his wark, an he couldn't stop to bring her raand, soa shoo had to pospone faintin till another time. "happen awd better bury it i'th garden," he sed, "it willn't tak a minnit." "e'e! nay!" shoo sed, "aw'll lap it up i' some nice clean newspaper, an tha mun tak it wi thi, an when tha finds a nice secluded spot, whear it can rest peacefully, lay it to rest." "all reight, lass! put it on th' table wol aw goa for mi hat an coit," sed bob, "an dunnot freeat." angelina lapt it carefully up, an sat daan to have a gooid cry, an bob coom rushin daan, feeard he'd be lat, tuckt th' bundle under his arm an set off intendin to drop it into th' furst ashpit he coom to. he passed monny a one, but ther wor allus somdy abaat, an he couldn't get a chonce o' gettin shut on it, an he wor foorced to tak it to th' office wi him. this didn't trubble him varry mich, for he'd allus a hawf an haar for his lunch at twelve o'clock, soa he detarmined he'd dispooas on it then, an i'th meantime, he put it in a cubboard i'th office, whear it wodn't be seen. it seem'd to bob at moor fowk went to th' cubboard that mornin nor had ivver been to it befoor. "its time this cubboard had a clean aght," sed th' manager as he wor huntin for a book, "it smells like a vault." bob tremeld, but all passed off safely. twenty times during that mornin he wor put in a sweeat wi' furst one an another, but twelve o'clock coom at last, an waitin till tother clarks had gooan, he grabbed his parcel, an jumpt in th' furst tramcar he saw,--luckily ther wor nobbut one man inside an he wor readin a paper,--soa puttin his parcel i'th opposite corner, he jumpt off at the next stoppin place. he started off at full speed an wor just beginnin to smile at his own clivverness, when somdy shaated. "hi! hi, thear!" an turning to luk, he saw a man rushin towards him holdin his parcel. "you forgot your parcel, young man," he said, puffin an blowin, "it was lucky i happened to see it!" bob sed "thank yo" as weel as he could, an then sed summat else, which aw willn't repeat, an tuckin it under his arm, he went to th' place whear he usually gat his breead an cheese an his glass o' bitter. he sat in a quiet corner, an one bi one th' customers went aght, an thinkin he saw a favourable chonce, he put his bundle on th' seeat, and threw a newspaper carelessly ovver it, supt up--an when he thowt nubdy wor lukkin he quietly left it an wor sooin back in his office, feelin wonderfully relieved. but he hadn't seen th' last on it even then. all wor quiet except for th' scratchin o' pens, for th' maister wor sittin at his private desk, when a redheeaded lad,--bob thowt he wor th' ugliest lad he'd ivver seen in his life,--coom in grinnin, an sydlin up to him, an holdin th' parcel at arms length, as if he wor feeared o' bein bitten, he sed, "th' lanlord o'th 'slip inn' has sent this,--he says yo left it on th' seeat." bob snatched it aght ov his hand an put it in his desk, but th' lad still stood grinnin. "dooan't aw get owt for bringin it? aw know what it is, an aw should think its worth summat." bob's face wor as red as a hep, an th' sweeat wor like dew on his forheead,--th' leeast coin he had wor a shillin, but he put it into his hand an bundled him aght, wol th' maister gave him a luk at made him uncomfortable for th' balance o'th day. when five o'clock set him at liberty, he tuk his parcel once moor an started for hooam; but ther wor a grim luk ov determination on his face. "aw'll get rid o' thee this time, if aw have to walk twenty mile to find a place," he sed. "th' chap aw bowt thee on, sed ther wor nowt like a bull pup for stickin, an tha's stuck to me wi a vengence. aw wodn't goa throo another day like this for all th' bull pups i' bulgaria! an if angelina ivver perswades me to buy another aw hooap they'll call me bull pup for th' rest o' mi days!" he'd nearly getten hooam, when he coom to th' corner ov a small croft, an as ther wor nubdy abaat he dropt it ovver th' wall; an mutterin summat throo his teeth, an shakkin his fists, he went hooam, but net i'th sweetest o' tempers. angelina lukt him up an daan, an in a surprised voice axt, "hasn't ta browt it back?" "browt it back! browt what back? does ta think awm daft?" "why, then what's to be done? ther's nowt to cook for thi drinkin!" "drinkin! what's that to do wi it? tha sewerly didn't think o' cookin--" "aw thowt when tha fan aght th' mistak tha'd ha sent it back." "mistak! what are ta drivin at? what wi th' bull pup an thee yu'll send me wrang i' mi heead!" "why, didn't ta know at tha'd taen th' wrang parcel? tha tuk th' leg o' lamb at th' butcher's lad had just browt, an left th' poor dog on th' table!" "th' deuce aw did? what's ta done wi it?" "aw gave a man sixpence to tak it away. but whear's th' leg o' lamb?" "hold on a minnit! it's nooan far off." an withaat another word he started off, an as luck let, it wor just whear he dropt it. he oppened th' parcel to mak sewer it wor all reight, an then he set off back. "well, if onnybody had tell'd me at aw wor sich a fooil as net to be able to tell th' difference between a leg o' lamb an a bull pup aw wodn't ha believed em;--but th' best on us are fooils sometimes." "here it is, angelina,--cut off a steak or two an let's have summat to get th' taste o' that bull pup aght o' mi maath! awm sooary at tha's lost thi pet, but tha munnot tak it too mich to heart." "me! net aw marry! awm rare an fain its gooan for little dogs mak a deal o' muck:--an somtime,--ther's noa knowin, ov coarse--but it may be,--mind, nobbut say it may,--we may have summat else to nurse at'll suit us better nor a bull pup." troubles and trials. did it ivver occur to yo 'at if it wor as easy to shake off unpleasant acquaintences as it is to shak a carpet, what a dust ther'd be i'th world? it doesn't do to want to get rid ov a thing just becoss it isn't to yor likin. its advisable sometimes to have disagreeable things handy to give a relish to what's moor appreciated, tho less sowt after. ivverybody will admit th' advantages ov gooid health, but nubdy can appreciate it like one 'at's been sick. it's th' circumstances 'at surraand th' cases 'at accant for th' opinions we form. if rich fowk sympathised as mich wi poor fowk, as poor fowk envy rich fowk, ther'd be noa poverty. we all know that. but then it's what will nivver happen. a chap 'at's worried to deeath becoss his stocks or shares have dropt fifty per cent connot enter into a poor woman's anxiety abaat flaar or mait gooan up a penny a paand. what's nobbut an inconvenience to one is starvation to another. ther's a deeal o' difference between poetry an philosophy, an aw connot help thinkin 'at if poor fowk had less poetry an moor philosophy, an rich fowk had visa versa, we should get nearer level an all be better for it. if we could nobbut get ovver that waikness ov worshipin a chap for what he has raythur nor for what he is we could simplyfy th' social problem. "riches may depart, hopes dissolve in air, but an honest heart still may laugh at care." but ther's monny an honest heart 'at hasn't getten a laff left in it. they know bi bitter experience, 'at "the smiling lips decieve us, with words that woo and win; our friends betray and leave us when darker days begin." but haivver dark th' prospect may be he's a fooil 'at gives way to despair. haivver bad things are, they mud be war; an when a chap ends his life to get rid ov his trubbles, th' chonces are at th' tide wor just abaat to turn if he could nobbut ha had pluck to wait. th' trubbles we have are seldom soa heavy 'at we connot bear em, tho it may be hard wark, but when we're a bit cast daan, we dooant freeat hawf as mich abaat what we have to put up wi, as to what's gooin to happen. imaginary evils are allus war to bide nor th' trubbles we railly have. "let to-morrow take care of to-morrow, leave things of the future to fate, what's the use to anticipate sorrow? life's troubles come never too late. if to hope over much be an error 'tis one that the wise have preferred and how often have hearts been in terror of evils that never occurred?" ther's summat for yo to think abaat, an let th' july sunshine enter into yor hearts. it'll help to chase away th' claads o' care, an maybe, buried hooaps may yet blossom into a harvest ov happiness an joy. fortun, they say knocks once at ivvery man's door, but varry oft th' man doesn't happen to be in, an i' that case he sends his dowter, but ther's nubdy getten a welcome for miss fortun, but once shoo gets in, shoo's a beggar to stick. better try to mak friends wi th' old man. earnin' a honest penny. sarah's that agravatin' sometimes, wol aw feel as if it wod do me gooid to hav a reight swear at her--an' aw should do it, if it wornt for th' fact at awr tom's wed a lass at has a uncle 'at's a deacon at a chapil, an' when a chaps respectably connected like that, aw think its as weel to be a bit careful ov his tawk. nah aw'll gie yo a' instance, awd had a five bob bet on wi' a chap called uriah lodge, it wor abaat hah mich a pig he wor baan to kill wod weigh when it wor dressed, an' aw won. uriah promised to pay mi o' sundy mornin', but insteead o' th' brass, ther coom'd a letter throo him to say 'at he'd been havin' a tawk wi' a district visitor abaat it, an this chap had soa convinced him o' th' evils o' bettin', 'at he'd decided at he wodn't pay me, for if he did it wod do violence to his conshuns, but if aw liked he'd send mi a fry o' pigs livver asteead. "conshuns," aw sed, "it's mooar like at it'll do violence to his britches pockets, aw willn't have onny ov his muky pigs livver." "what's to do nah," sarah axed. soa aw tell'd her all abaat it, an ov cooarse aw expected at shoo'd side wi' me,--but noa, shoo sed, "awm sewer aw respect uriah for th' cooarse he's pursuin', aw hooap it'll be a lesson to yo--what wor yo baan to do wi' th' brass?" "aw wor baan to buy a paand o' bacca wi' it," aw sed. then shoo started abaat bettin', an' horse racin', an' smookin', an' aw dooant know what moor--yo'd a thowt aw wor th' warst chap i' all maant pleasant if yo'd heeard her: an' shoo ended up wi' sayin' 'at shoo wished awd be a bit mooar like a chap 'at lives next door to us called martin robertshaw. "he doesn't bet," shoo sed, "he doesn't smook, hes a daycent gradely lad is martin, he wor off at hawf past eight this mornin' daan to th' sundy schooil--yo'll nivver catch him drinkin' at public haases an' bettin' abaat deead pigs--his missis is a lucky woman if ivver ther wor one." its noa use i' th' world tawkin' to sarah when shoo gets reight on, soa aw nivver spake a word wol shoo'd finished, an' then aw sed, "have yo finished yor sarmon, missis?" "yes," shoo went on, "it's noa gooid tawkin' to sich as yo, it's nobbut wastin' breeath, yo'll goa yor own gate aw expect i' spite o' all aw can say." "well," says i, "it's hawf past twelve, lets have us dinners for awm dry after this storm, an' as its a fine day we'll goa up to th' top o' beacon hill for a walk an' see th' view o' th' taan." soa we had us dinner an set off. beacon hill's weel known i' halifax, it soars up at th' bottom o' th' taan as bare an' bald as a duck egg; ther's norther a tree, nor a shrub, an' aw dooant think thers a blade o' grass that even a moke wod ait, unless it belanged to a irishman an' wor hawf clammed. it lets th' east wind on to th' taan throo a hoil at one end, an it keeps th' mornin' sun off, an' hides th' evenin' mooin. it grows nowt nobbut stooans covered wi' sooit, an' smook throo th' gas haase hangs ovver it all day long like a claad. but up at th' top thers some stooan delves, an' a field or two whear they say reeal grass grows, an' i' support o' this noashun somdy's had th' cheek to turn hawf a dozen cows aght, an' let 'em pretend to graze,--of cooarse its all mak believe, for they mun gie th' poor brewts summat to ait beside, or else th' inspector for crewelty to annimals wod have been daan on em befoor nah. it's a long gate up beacon hill--yo goa up new bank an' ovver godly brig, in between th' bloody field an' saint joseph's schooil, an' then reight up to th' top, an' if it wornt for th' fact at thears a gooid few public haases o'th road aw dooant think 'at sarah wod ivver have getten to th' top at all; for shoo wor tuk bad wi' th' spasms jist at th' side o' th' pine apple, an shoo had attacks ivvery few minnits wol we gate to th' albion, which is th' last licensed haase; but bi gooid luck they didn't coom on after that, for as thers noawhear to get her onny thing comfortin' if shoo'd been tuk agean, aw dooant know whativver aw should ha done. well, we gate to th' top at last, an' sat daan to luk at th' view. it's reight grand, an them at hasn't seen it should goa bi all means at once. yo can see all ovver th' taan--monny a thaasand chimleys all smokin' at once, an' scoars o' mill's, an' ivvery nah an' then when th' wind blows th' reek away, yo can see th' bastile as plain as owt. as we wor sittin' daan to rest we heeard sumdy tawkin' jist ovver th' wall, soa we kept still a bit, an' varry sooin we heeard as mich cursin' an' swearin' as owt to have filled a faandry for a wick. "whativver is ther to do," sed sarah, "lets have a luck?" we gate up, an' went an' luk'd throo a hoil i' th' wall, an' thear daan in a bit ov a holler, soa 'at they couldn't be seen, wor abaat twenty gurt strappin' young fellers tossin' coppers. we hadn't been lukkin' moor nor a minnit or two, when a man wi' a red beeard coom runnin' daan th' hill an' stopt abaat ten yards throo whear th' chaps wor laikin' at pitch an' toss, an' he started o' writin' summat daan in a book. "bobbies!" a chap shaated aght, an i' hawf a minnit ther wor nubdy to be seen, nobbut th' new comer, for ivvery one on 'em had hooked it as fast as if th' owd chap wor after 'em. then th' feller sammed up th' coppers, an' coom'd reight to whear we wor, an' climbed ovver th' wall. he wor laffin like owt. when he'd getten on to th' side whear we wor, he luk'd a bit surprised to see us, but he sed nowt--soa sarah axd him if be wor a poleeceman, an' if he wor baan to report 'em at th' taans hall? "net aw," he sed, "awm noa bobby awm not, aw nobbut did it to flay 'em." "but yo gate ther brass," aw sed. "for sewer aw did," says he, "aw mak a day's wage at this trade ivvery sundy, it's th' best payin' professhun aght--aw gate seventeen pence this mornin' at ringby, an ther's eighteen pence here, that's three bob nobbut a penny. last sundy aw addled three an' ninepence, at siddal an' whitegate. ther soa flayed if onnybody starts o' writin', 'at they hook it like a express train, for they think yor takkin ther names daan." when he'd sed this he brust aght laffin agean, an' sed to me, "dooant yo' knaw me?" "noa," aw sed, "but aw seem to knaw yor voice." then he ax'd sarah if shoo didn't knaw him nawther? "aw've nivver clapt een on yo' befooar," sarah sed. he laft as if he wor baan to split for a bit, an' then he sed, "luk here, but yo' munnot split," an' he pull'd off his gurt red beard, an' awm blow'd if it worn't martin robertshaw, th' chap 'at lives next door to us. aw wor soa capt yo' could ha' shoov'd him ovver wi' yor little finger, an' sarah leaned up agean th' wall, an' aw thowt th' spasms wor comin' on agean; but aw wor mista'an, for they didn't, at least not wol we gate daan to th' albion once mooar. "aw promised my missis a sewin' machine," martin went on, "an' as brass is soa hard to addle just nah, aw've had to start i' this line, an' it pays weel to, an' ther's noa danger abaat it. a chap has to put his hand to owt nah days to earn a honest penny--aw doan't call it chaitin' to ease sich as yond on ther brass. but aw mun be off, aw've to goa daan to shibden yet, an' bizness befoor pleashur's my motto. an' he run daan th' hill callin' aght 'at we worn't to tell his missis 'at we'd seen him. "nah then, lass," aw sed, "yo' wor sayin' a bit sin' 'at yo' wished aw wor a bit mooar like yon chap,--what do yo' say nah?" "well," sarah sed, "aw willn't say at aw exactly approve ov his goins on, but onnyhah, yo'll admit at he's gettin' th' brass for a gooid purpose; aw tell'd yo' at his wife wor a lucky woman, an' aw stick to mi words." "then aw suppooas if awd sed aw wor baan to buy yo' a new bonnet wi' uriah lodge's five bob, it 'ud hey been awl reet?" "circumstances alters cases as th' sayin' says," sarah went on, "but yo' wor baan to spend it i' baccy, an' aw shall still stick to what aw sed this morn, 'at bettin's reeal wicked; but coom on, for aw feel as if th' spasms wor comin' on mi agean, awm awl ov a tremmel, an' tawkin maks mi war." so we went daan to th' albion, an' then hooam. we wor just gooin to bed that neet, when missis robertshaw coom in, to ax sarah to lend her a rubbin bottle. "is somdy hurt?" sarah ax'd. "it's martin," shoo sed, "he wor gooin daan to shibden this afternooin, to visit one ov his sundy skollards 'ats badly; an' he happened bi ill luck to coom on a reg'lar lot o' idle young fellers at wor laikin at pitch an' toss. martin connot bide wickedness o' noa sooart, soa he stopt to tell 'em hah sinful gamblin' wor, 'specially on a sundy, an' hah mich better for 'em it 'ud be, if they'd put ther hard-addled brass into th' savins bank, but asteead o' takkin his gooid advice, they set on him an' beat him black an blue, an' robbed him o' three bob 'at he had in his pockit, 'at had been subscribed for th' missionarys at th' sundy skooil." "is he mich war?" aw axed. "his sundy coit's all tore to ribbons, an his ankles sprained; one o' his front teeth is knocked clean aght, an' his watch is gooan. aw shall be only too thankful if he gets to his wark in a fortneet." "hev yo' telled th' perleece?" sarah sed. "noa," shoo sed, "it wodn't be noa sooart o' use tellin' them chaps, they're too lazy to do owt nobbut draw ther wage,--besides, martin's that forgivin', 'at he says he'd rayther suffer i' silence nor let onnybody be punished on his accant--but aw mun be off." an' shoo went aght wi' th' bottle. "ther's a deal o' humbug i' this world," sarah sed, when th' woman wor gooan, "awm glad he's getten catched at last, aw mak nowt o' sich decaitful fowk, robbin' poor people o' ther brass,--it's little enuff 'at we can finger honestly nah a days. aw've been wantin a new bonnet monny a week--missis lupton's getten one, an' shoo's getten a faal face to put inside ov it two, an aw dooant like to be bet bi a woman like that,--soa if yo' can get that five bob thro' uriah, it'll come in handy. aw've sed times an times agean, 'at them lodges wor th' nearest fowk i' all maant pleasant, an' fowk owt to pay ther debts, whether it's bettin or whether it isn't." "aw'll see him to morn." "that's reight, lad, do, an' let's goa to bed nah, for we shall have a rare gas nooat this quarter if we sit up like this." th' next mornin'. aw'll nivver get druffen noa mooar, it's th' last time is this, an that's trew,-for mi booans is all shakkin an sooar, throo th' craan o' mi hat, to mi shoe. an mi skin, it's all cover'd wi' marks, some's blue, an some's black, an some's red; yo connot think ha mi heead warks, an it feels just as heavy as lead. aw connot tell ha' aw gate fresh, for aw didn't sup ovver mich drink,-it's mi stummack 'at's weakly, aw guess, it couldn't be nowt else aw' think, for aw'd nobbut a gallon o' beer, a couple o' whiskeys,--a rum,-happen two--for awm net varry clear hah monny--aw knaw aw hed some. that's all, tho' aw'd happen a drop lat on, 'at aw knaw nowt abaat; for th' lanlord he tell'd mi to stop, when th' brass i' mi pocket runn'd aght, aw remember beein chuckt into th' street at cloisin time, nothin noa mooar,-an mi mates set mi up o' mi feet, an propt me agean a hasse door. all th' rest o' last neet is a blank, aw wonder who put mi to bed? awm sewer aw dooant knaw who to thank, an aw connot reet think, for mi head-besides aw feel terrible sick,- this drinkin, it isn't all bliss; aw expect aw'st be seedy a wick, it's towt mi a lesson 'as this. christmas oysters. they tell me 'at in orstralia they have kursmas day in th' middle o' summer,--aw dooant knaw whether it's trew or net, for someha' them 'at's been i' furrin pairts are varry mich addicted to th' practiss o' tellin lies,--but if they hey ther kursmiss i' summer, all aw con say is, 'at it's a mistak; ov cooarse furriners can do as they like, but it allus seems to me at th' best ov kursmiss is at it cooms i'th middle o' winter to cheer poor fowks' hearts when th' days is dark an gloomy. it's a wonderful time is kursmiss--all th' shops as ther winders dressed aght wi' th' best things they hev, to mak a show, an gas leets shinin all up an daan, an ther's geese an turkeys hangin up aghtside,--an yo' see ivverybody lukkin as gooid humoured as if they'd getten some brass gi'en. aw know nowt mooar pleasant nor to goa throo th' markits on th' neet befoor kursmiss, an luk at th' stawls an th' smilin faces all up an daan. aw heeard a bit ov a stoary abaat kursmiss a bit sin' 'at aw'll tell yo. ther wor a young lad at dewsbury an he wor varry fond o' gooid aitin,--it's net a varry uncommon complaint amang lads,--but this chap wor mooar nor usual fond o' gooid things, an if ivver he gate hold ov onny brass, he allus used to spend it awther at a pie shop, or on fish fried wi' chipt puttates, or some other daintes o' that sooart. it wor kursmiss eve last year, an he'd getten howd o' some copper bi sweepin snaw off th' doorstuns for th' nabers, soa after he'd hed his teah, he set off to fill hissen full o' summat tasty. "aw'll ha' summat reeal gooid to-neet," he sed, "as it's kursmiss time." he lukt into shops at tarts, an penny ducks, an blood puddins, an all sooarts o' things; but he'd hed them all monny a time, an he wanted summat fresh. at last he went into th' markit place, an after he'd luk'd raand, wi' th' brass fair burnin a hoil in his pocket for want o' spendin, he coom to a stawl whear a chap wor shaatin aght: "hoisters! reeal natives! a penny apiece!" nah he'd nivver tasted a hoister i' all his life, it wor summat new, soa he went up to th' chap an axt for one. th' man gate hold o' one an started o' oppenin it wi' his knife, but th' lad sed-"howd on, aw say, that's a varry little en, aw want a reight daan big un--th' biggest one yo' hev i'th place." "if yo' want a reight big un," th' man sed, "aw con sewt yo' up to th' mark," an he went behund th' stawl, an in a hawf minnit he coom back wi' one abaat as big as a pan lid. it wor oppened, an th' fish wor liggin on th' shell i'th center, abaat three inches across. "will this sewt yo'," he sed. "that'll do," th' lad sed, "aw like a fair sized un." he put some pepper an vinegar on it, an handed it to th' lad an sed, "aw dooant think yo' can manage it, sir." he nivver spake, but tuk th' shell in his hand, an oppen'd his maath an sukt it in. he'd to try two or three times befoor it went daan his throit, an it nearly choakt him, but at last it went. "aw've done it," he sed wi' tears in his een, "hah mich is ther to pay?" "nah, aw willn't mak noa charge," th' man answered, "yo've done weel, aw didn't think yo' could ha' managed it, ther's three fowk tried at that hoister to-neet, an a dog beside, but it lickt 'em all." th' lad turned away, an slipt behind a row o' stawls, an aw willn't say onny mooar abaat what happened after. chairley's coortin. chairley dempster wor nobbut a little chap but he'd a varry big opinion ov hissen. he'd consait enuff for hawf a duzzen. his mother wor a widdy an he wor th' only child shoo'd ivver had an shoo set a deeal o' stoor on him, an firmly believed at ther wornt another at wor fit to hold th' cannel to him. noa daat this accanted for him havin sich a gooid opinion ov hissen. they wornt varry weel to do, for when her husband deed, he'd nowt he could leeav her except th' bit o' furnitur an th' babby. fowk thowt shoo'd be wed agean, but they wor mistaen. if it hadn't been for havin chairley happen shoo wod ha done, for shoo wor young an strong, an varry gooidlukkin i'th bargain' an lots o' chaps wod ha thowt thersen lucky if they could ha 'ticed her to buckle on wi 'em. but shoo kept em all at a distance, an managed, wi weshin an cleeanin for fowk, to mak as mich as kept her an her lad. shoo spoilt him, as wor to be expected, an denied hersen lots o' things shoo badly needed to keep him weel donned, an shoo wor nivver as praad as when shoo heeard somdy say at he lukt 'like a little gentleman.' shoo kept him at schooil wol he wor fourteen, an he didn't shame his taichers, an when he left he wor cliverer nor mooast lads ov his age. dooant run away wi th' idea at he wor a fine young gentleman, for he wor nobbut a country lad, for he'd been browt up in a country place amang country fowk, but he wor one o'th better sooart, an amang th' naybors wor considered a bit ov a swell. what trade to put him to bothered his mother aboon o' bit. shoo could ha liked to ha made him into a doctor or a parson, or shoo wodn't have objected to startin him as th' president ov a bank, but sich things cost brass an shoo wor varry poor. he could ha liked to ha been a sowger, but he worn't big enuff, an sailerin didn't suit his stummack. at last he had to be content to get into a grocer's shop as a lad abaat, and he wor sixteen bi this time. th' maister sooin tuk a fancy to him, for he worked hard an steady, an befoor he'd been thear a month he wor put behind th' caanter to wait on customers. his mother wor ovverjoyed at this, an altho shoo wornt one o'th biggest or best customers, ther wor nubdy went ofter to th' shop. if shoo nobbut wanted two articles shoo went twice for em, an shoo wor nivver in a hurry to get sarved, for the biggest pleasur shoo'd ivver known wor to watch chairley deal aght punds o' sewgar an cakes o' sooap. but ther's noa pleasur i' this world at isn't mixt wi some pain, an it wor soa i' her case. one day as shoo wor watchin him sarve a lass wi a rasher o' bacon, an saw th' way he smiled at her an shoo tittered back at him, struck her for th' furst time, at th' day might come when he'd be somdy else's chairley, an shoo'd hay to tak a back seeat. when shoo went hooam shoo could think abaat nowt else, an shoo set studyin abaat it soa long, at when he coom hooam to his supper ther wor nowt ready for him, an th' foir wor aght. "what's to do, mother?" he sed, "arn't yo weel or have yo nobbut just getten hooam?" "a'a, lad," shoo sed,--lukkin raand suspiciously, as if shoo wor feeard he'd browt some lass wi him,--"aw dooant know what's to do. aw just set me daan to think a bit at time's flown by withaat me nooaticin it. has ta come straight hooam?" "hi,--aw allus coom straight hooam when mi wark's done." "an did ta coom bi thisen all th' way?" "ov coorse aw coom bi misen. did yo want me to fotch somdy wi mi?" "nay, lad. aw hooap that day's far distant when tha'll bring onnybody here to tak thi mother's place. who wor that forrad young thing at tha wor sellin that rasher o' bacon to when aw wor i'th shop?" "aw nobbut know her furst name. they call her minnie, shoo's a sarvent at that big haase at th' street corner." "minnie, do they call her? aw think ninny wod be a name to suit her better. aw nivver saw her befoor i' mi life, but shoo's noa gooid, aw saw that as sooin as aw clapt mi een on her. aw hooap tha'll mind what tha'rt dooin an have noa truck wi sichlike." "why, mother, aw've allus thowt her a varry gooid lass, an awm sewer shoo's a bonny en." "that's just whear it is. they allus are bonny are sich like as her. but next time shoo cooms into th' shop just order her off abaat her business. an see at tha does as aw tell thi. shoo can get what shoo wants at another shop at's nearer their haase. its nooan yor bacon shoo wants;--its thee shoo's after, but tha'rt sich a ninnyhammer at tha can't see it." "yo must know, mother, 'at aw can't order her aght o'th shop. awm sewer shoo thinks nowt abaat me. ther's nooan sich luck. shoo's older nor me bi ivver soa mich, an shoo could have onny chap i'th street if shoo'd to put her finger up. awm sewer aw dooant know what's put sich a nooation into yor heead. but aw'll have mi supper if its ready." "come thi ways;--awm sooary aw've kept thi waitin, but tuk it into thi. tha'll get moor gooid aght o' that nor sich as her. ther owt to be a law to punish sichlike." chairley sed nowt noa moor, but he thowt a lot. to tell trewth, sich thowts had nivver befoor entered into his heead. an if his mother had nivver sed owt abaat it, it's possible they nivver wod. it wor setterdy neet, an as he wor anxious to be up i' gooid time at sundy, he sed, "gooid neet," an went to bed. for th' furst time in his life he tossed an roll'd abaat, an couldn't fall asleep. his mother had put that lass into his heead an he couldn't get her aght. he'd allus thowt her a nice lass, but he'd nivver known ha bonny shoo wor till then. "a'a!" he sighed, "awd goa throo foir an watter for sich a lass as her." an th' upshot on it wor, at when at last he did fall asleep, it wor to dream at he'd wed an angel just like her, an he wakkened to find th' bolster cuddled up in his arms. sundy passed someway, but nawther schooil nor sarmon did him onny gooid. unconsciously he'd set up an idol an wor worshippin it wi all th' strength ov his young heart. as he went to his wark next mornin, he happened to catch th' seet ov hissen as he passed a shop winder, an for th' furst time he felt ha little he wor. ommost fust customer to enter th' shop wor minnie. shoo wanted a duzzen fresh eggs. chairley's face went as red as a pickled cabbage, an when he went to get em his hands tremeled soa at he smashed two. "oh, what a pity," sed minnie. "oh, net at all, awm quite used to it," he stammered. then minnie stared at him an laft, an he tried to laff to, an one oth' shop lads gave a guffaw an this soa nettled chairley 'at he samd th' bag wi th' eggs in an sent it flyin at his heead, an gave it sich a crack at th' bag wor brussen, an th' eggs all smashed wor sylin daan throo his heead to his feet, an just then th' maister walked in. minnie stood stupified an chairley seized his hat an ran aght at th' back door. wol th' lad wor splutterin an slobberin, an th' maister doncin mad, minnie slipt aght an bowt her eggs at another shop. but shoo couldn't get chairley aght of her mind. shoo'd allus admired him, an thowt what a gooid husband he'd mak for somdy when he gate a bit older; an nah shoo saw as plainly as could be ha matters stood, an guessed as near trewth as if chairley had tell'd her all abaat it. it wor lat on ith' day when chairley slunk into th' shop, an th' maister mooationed for him to step into th' private office. what tuk place aw dooan't exactly know, but when they coom aght chairley lukt varry warm, an th' maister had a grin on his face at wor a gooid sign. three or four days passed, an minnie nivver entered that shop. chairley tried to feel thankful, for he didn't know ha to face her, an yet he wor miserable, for he felt as if he couldn't live withaat her. just as he wor turnin th' corner oth' street on his way hooam,--it wor ommost dark an he wor in a varry low kay;--a voice cloise to him sed, "what's the price of fresh eggs to-day, chairley?" chairley felt like jumpin aght ov his skin, as he turned raand an saw minnie, laffin all ovver her face an lukkin moor bewitchinly bonny nor ivver. "a'a, minnie! miss minnie, aw meean;--aw have to beg yo pardon. aw'll nivver do it agean as long as aw live. will yo forgie me this time, an coom to th' shop as usual?" "has the shop-boy forgiven you?" "aw care nowt abaat him." "but the master?" "oh' he's all reight, but when aw gate to know who yo wor, they could ha fell'd me wi a feather." minnie had stept back into th' shadder oth' porch an wor sittin on th' step. chairley wor ith' shadder o'th' porch too. all wor varry quiet for a long time an when th' mooin peept aght an sent a mild soft leet into that same porch, it showed a couple sittin varry cloise together. when chairley went hooam that neet, he wor th' mooast important chap, in his own estimation, at lived i' that taan. his mother had been uneasy for th' past few days, for shoo saw ther wor summat wrang, an shoo nooaticed th' change in him as sooin as he went in. "has things gooan reight wi thi to-day, chairley?" shoo ventured to ax him. "nivver better, mother;--nivver better!" but shoo felt sewer ther wor summat undernaith, an shoo wor detarmined to find it aght. shoo knew at chairley wodn't be at th' shop next mornin, as it wor his day to goa seekin orders, soa shoo waited till he'd getten off, an then shoo went to see his maister. "come this way, mrs. dempster," he sed when he saw her, "what can we do for you this morning?" "aw wanted to spaik to yo if yo pleeas. awd like to know if my son has been havin onny trubble latly?" "well, my dear madam, troubles come to all on us at times. i dare say charley has had a little trouble,--just a minimum." "aw mud ha known it! but if yond minnie doesn't let my lad alooan aw'll mak this taan too hot for her. shoo owt to be smoored an all sichlike." "excuse me, mrs. dempster, but if you are alluding to my niece minnie, i must ask you to speak with more respect, for she is as good as she is good-looking, and that is saying a great deal." "yo dooan't meean to say shoo's yor neese sewerly." "she is my niece and your boy's sweetheart. they were engaged last night with my full consent, and a nice young couple they are. if all goes well, they are to be married when charley comes of age, and will then succeed me in this business." "laws-a-mercy on us! well,--well. an a nice lass shoo is too," an off shoo set to think things ovver agean. shoo nivver agean interfered wi his coortin. they're wed nah. shoo lives wi em, but shoo can't understand why they allus laff if shoo sets em fresh eggs for ther braikfast. what a gallus button did. one friday neet last summer, ther wor a braik daan at th' shop 'at dick taylor worked at, just befoor stoppin time, soa th' ovverlukker telled him 'at it wor noa use his comin i'th mornin, as they wodn't be able to start th' engine agean wol mundy. dick worn't sorry, for it wor fine weather, an' he thowt a day's halliday ud be varry pleasant. when he gate hooam, he telled his missis 'at he wor baan to laik th' next day, an' shoo sed, "naah, dick, ther's a chonce for yo to pleeas me--yo know aw've axed yo all th' summer to tak me raand to see th' parks i' bradforth, for aw've nivver seen one on em, exceptin lister's, an' that's becoss it's soa near--they tell me 'at th' flaars i' peel's park, an' up at horton, are reeal beautiful." "we'll goa, mary," dick sed, "an' up to bowlin park too." shoo gave him a kuss, an' gate him his teah, an' let him keep a shillin aght o' his wage, to get some cigars wi' for him to smook when they wor aght th' next day. after braikfast i'th mornin they set off. they lived near th' stashun at manningham, in a haase off valley road, soa they cut across, an' ovver th' canal, an' up bi spinkwell, into th' main road for peel park. it wor varry hot, soa bi th' time they gate into th' park, an' lukt at th' flaar beds daan bi th' lake, an' climbed up on to th' terrace, they wor varry glad to sit daan on a seeat near to whear th' band stand is. ther's a grand view thro' thear, yo can see reight ovver bradforth as far as lister's milns, an' queensbury--th' sun wor shinin, an' dick wor just leetin one o'th cigars when a young man abaat two or three an' twenty coom daan th' walk, huggin' a basket--when he seed em he stopt, an' sed:-"can yo give me a match, mate?" "eah," dick sed, "hear's a box, help thisen,"--when he'd leeted his pipe, mary sed, "this is a varry nice park, sir." "i," he answered, "an' it's a nice place for coortin in, on a neet when th' band isn't playin--you cannot coom here ov a evenin withaat findin abaat hawf a scooar o' cupples--yo see it's net too near th' taan, wol it's nice an' quiet--but it's net too lonely nawther, a decent lass can coom here wi' her sweetheart, an' nawther her mother nor nubdy else can say owt agean it, for ther's allus somdy awther commin or gooin." "yo seem to know it well?" dick sed to th' young feller. he wor nobbut a ugly chap, but when dick sed this, he smiled wol he wor nearly nice lukkin, an' his een twinkled wi' fun, as he sed, "aw should think aw do know it, an' aboon a bit too, why aw wor rewinated net hawf a yard thro' whear yor missis is sittin." mary jumped up as if th' seat wor baan to bite her, an' her nelly tummeld reight thro' th' railin, an' ligged among th' shrubs on the slope abaat ten feet below. when th' young feller seed that, he fair skriked aght wi' laffin, but befoor dick could do owt, he wor ovver th' railin, an had getten her umberel up agean. "it wor a nelly tumblin daan like that at did for me," says he, "but aw see yor maized, soa aw'll tell yo all abaat it;" soa he sat daan on th' seat beside me, an' he began. "when aw furst coom a workin to bradforth, abaat three year sin, aw lodged wi' a young feller 'at lived i' otley road--we slept i'th same room; an' one sundy mornin as we wor dressin, aw sed to him, 'at aw wor flayed aw should have to buy a new pair o' sundy britches, for them aw hed getten wor wore varry shabby. "'aw'll sell yo a pair,' he sed; an' he pulled a pair aght ov a box, 'aw bowt em off th' pegs, an' gave fifteen bob for em, noa mooar nor a year sin--but aw nivver liked em--aw wor em when mi sister wor wed, an when aw went to blackpool for a wick last july, an' that's all, yo shall have em for eight bob, an it's a bargain sich as yo willn't get ivvery day.' "they wor reeal smart traasers, an' to mak a long stooary short, aw bowt em; an' that evenin, aw wor gooin aght a walkin wi' a lass 'at aw knew, soa aw wore em to luk smart like. aw wor thinner then than aw am nah, for aw've filled aght a bit sin aw wor wed; but this chap 'at aw bowt em off, wor hawf as fat agean as aw wor, a reglar porker, fit for killin; an' when aw coom to put th' britches on, aw fun aght, 'at they wor ivver soa mich to wide for me raand th' waist--that worn't th' warst o' it, for aw fun aght also 'at fower aght o'th six gallus buttons wor off--but aw hadn't time to sew onnymooar on, soa wi' a bit a bother aw made em do. "well, aw set off wi' th' new traasers on--it's trew 'at they wor hitched up that high 'at aw worn't a bit comfortable, an' ther wor as mich room in em as wod nearly have done for two like me, but as me tail coit hid it aw didn't mind that, an' aw felt a reeal swell, aw can tell yo, for they wor th' leetest coloured pair 'at ivver awd ivver had i' my life. amy wor waitin o' me, an' we walked daan here to peel's park, an' sat on this varry seeat." "awm gettin varry interested," mary sed, when he stopt to leet his pipe 'at had gooan aght, "goa on wi' yor tale." he puffed away for a minnit, an then went on:--"someha or other amy's nelly slipt in between th' railins like yor's did a bit sin, an aw wor ovver th' fence after it like a shot,--but when aw wor climbin up agean, my golly, if one o'th two remainin buttons didn't snap cleean off, aw think th' thread mun ha' been as rotten as apples,--luckily aw wor just on th' top o'th rail, or aw dooan't knaw what aw should ha done, but aw managed to get on to th' seat, an thear aw sat." mary an dick booath started o' laffin, an dick sed, "well, an ha did yo' goa on?" "it wor noa laffin matter for me aw con tell yo',--it wor summer time, an not dark wol nearly ten o'clock, an it wor nobbut eight then. amy faand aght in a minnit 'at summat wor wrang, but shoo sed nowt, an aw kept it quiet as long as aw could, wishin at th' sun 'ud luk sharp an goa daan, but asteead o' that, it seemed to me 'at it wor gooin higher up ivvery minnit. soa when shoo'd sed at shoo wor chilly, an wanted to walk a bit, abaat hawf a duzzen times, aw wor forced to tell her th' truth. aw expected shoo'd a made fun o' me, but shoo didn't; shoo lukked reeal consarned abaat it, an sed shoo wor varry sorry for th' mishap, but we'd stop whear we wor till it wor dark. soa we sat thear for a bit, an then shoo sed, "'it ud be a deeal better for yo if yo hed sumdy to luk after yor clooas far yo.' "mi mother lives up at keighley," aw sed, "an it's soa far shoo connot, an th' lanlady's hawf blind." "'well,' amy went on, 'but if yo'd hed a wife, shoo'd do all sich things as that for yo.' "someha' or other mi arm slipt raand her waist, an aw willn't tell yo' noa mooar; long befoor th' sun hed set, an it went daan sooin enuff nah, it wor all sattled." "'all's weel at ends weel,'" dick sed. "eeah," th' young feller sed, "but aw'll tak mi solem alfred davey 'at when aw put them thear britches on, aw'd noa mooar thowts o' bein wed, nor aw hed o' be in hang'd. aw'd nobbut gooan aght walkin wi' amy to pass th' time away, as young fellers will do." "awm sewer aw hooap shoo's made yo a gooid wife," sed mary. "nivver a chap hed a better wife i' all th' world nor aw hev," sed he, "but yo' shall coom in an see her, we live i' them haases at th' end o'th corperashun quarries daan thear. coom on." dick explained 'at they wor gooin to see th' other parks, but he wodn't ha' noa refusal. "yo' con goa to-morn to horton,--coom on, an me an amy 'll goa wi' yo' to bowlin park this afternooin, we've nivver been sin it wor oppened." he wor soa pressin 'at they went an hed ther drinkins wi him an amy,--an he show'd 'em th' britches 'at hed been the cause ov it all. they went to bowlin i'th afternooin, an sin' then they've oftens had a bit ov a aght together. [illustration: the chapel of the nine altars, fountains abbey. [_frontispiece._] motor tours in yorkshire by mrs. rodolph stawell author of "motor tours in wales," etc. with photographs by r. de s. stawell hodder and stoughton new york and london contents i page the dales 1 ii the coast 87 iii chiefly old churches 117 iv york and the south 167 index 223 illustrations the chapel of the nine altars, fountains abbey _frontispiece_ facing page the conduit court, skipton castle 8 from the road near barden tower 20 bolton priory 22 the choir, bolton priory 24 the nave, fountains abbey 38 the tower, fountains abbey 40 fountains hall 42 chapter house, jervaulx abbey 48 bolton castle 60 askrigg 66 the buttertubs pass 68 the swale 70 richmond 74 greta bridge 80 the dairy bridge 82 high force 86 the cliff, staithes 88 the quay, staithes 94 the harbour, staithes 96 runswick bay 98 whitby abbey 100 whitby harbour 102 whitby abbey, interior 104 whitby church, from the abbey 106 whitby harbour 108 robin hood's bay 110 moors between whitby and scarborough 112 the village of lastingham 128 lastingham cross 132 hodge beck 136 kirkdale 140 double entrance to helmsley castle 144 rievaulx abbey from the terrace 148 rievaulx abbey 150 chancel arch, rievaulx abbey 152 sheriff hutton castle 160 gateway of kirkham priory 164 walmgate bar, york 170 micklegate bar, york 172 york minster 176 st. mary's abbey, york 182 bootham bar, york 184 street in york 186 norman doorway in pontefract castle 192 west doorway of selby abbey 202 chapter house, howden 210 beverley 214 the dales summary of tour through the dales distances. skipton (ingleton and back, _viâ_ malham 62 miles) hubberholme 20 " bolton bridge 22 " ripon 33 " (fountains and back 9 " ) askrigg 33 " richmond, _viâ_ buttertubs pass 31 " high force 30 " -- total 240 miles roads. no bad hills except on buttertubs pass--which is precipitous in parts--and in richmond. surface: usually good. i the dales in the motorist's life there are hours that can never be forgotten. it may be some hour of sunshine that haunts us, when the warm wind, we remember, was heavy with the scent of gorse or pungent with the stinging breath of the sea; or some hour when the road lay white and straight before us across a moor, and the waves of heather rolled away from us to the horizon in long curves of colour, and as we sped over the miles we seemed no nearer to the shore of the purple sea nor to the end of the white straight road; or it may be, perhaps, the hour of our gradual approach to some ancient city transfigured in the sunset, "soft as old sorrow, bright as old renown." but, whatever the scene may be, whether moor or fen, forest or shore, there are two elements which are always present in the motorist's memory of a happy run--a good surface, and a good engine. no one could travel in yorkshire, i think, without adding to his store of unforgotten hours. so great is the variety of scenery and interest that all must somewhere find the landscape that appeals to them. some will remember those moors of cleveland that have no visible limit, and some the many-coloured dales of the west riding, and some the straight roads of the plain where the engine hums so gaily. some will ever after dream of the day when they followed the course of the wooded tees; others will dream of the distant towers of york or beverley, or of the heights and depths of the buttertubs pass. and, to be quite frank, there are some to whom this last exciting dream will be rather of the nature of a nightmare. in more ways than one yorkshire is a good field for motoring. throughout the greater part of the county there are few hedges, and the stone walls that take the place of these are low. the roads are wide and their surface good, except in unfrequented places. now in yorkshire the places that are unfrequented are very few indeed, and it is in connection with this fact that the motorist has the greatest advantage over every other kind of tourist. he can choose his own time for visiting bolton or fountains or the incomparable rievaulx; he can see them when the dew is on the grass and the glamour of solitude is in the woods. to be alone with our emotions is what we all desire in the presence of wide spaces or stately aisles; and in this county, where there is so much beauty to be seen and so many to see it, those only who possess "speed as a chattel" can ever hope to be alone. it is almost impossible to lay too much stress on our advantages, as motorists, in this matter of securing peace. looking back upon a tour among the yorkshire dales, i see that the keynote was struck at the very outset by the little town of skipton, with its grey granite houses and slated roofs, its wide street and the castle above it, the ancient church and the tombs of the great. such are a hundred yorkshire villages and little towns. each of them, it seems, is connected with some historic name. in the case of skipton the name is clifford. if the first builders of the castle and the church were not cliffords, but de romilles, it was the cliffords who made both castle and church what they now are. it was a clifford who built the long gallery and the octagon tower that we see beyond the grass of the great outer court; it was a clifford who repaired all the other towers; a clifford who devised the curious shell-pictures that line the guardroom; cliffords who lived for centuries in the castle, and the few cliffords that died in their beds who enriched the church with their tombs. their motto, "_désormais_," stands up against the sky in letters of stone above the round towers of their gateway, and their arms are carved above the inner door. the court on which this door opens, the "conduit court," as it is called, is the very core of skipton, and one of the most romantic places i have ever seen. it would seize the dullest imagination--this little paved enclosure shut in on every side, the long flight of steps, the doorways with the crumbling carvings, the mullioned windows, the yew-tree that has seen so many centuries, the low stone seat with its shields, the norman archway through which all the cliffords have passed. most of the feet that came this way awoke ringing echoes under the old arch, for the cliffords were wont to be dressed in coats of mail. they were all mighty in war. the first armour-clad baron of the name, he who began the building of this court and died at bannockburn, has clattered through this doorway; and after him the hero of créçy; and later on that other who fought for henry v. and died at meaux; and he who fell at st. albans in the cause of lancaster; and his son and avenger, called "the butcher," who slew that "fair gentleman and maiden-like person," the young earl of rutland, and was himself slain at towton; and the great sailor, cumberland, who made nine voyages and fought the spaniards for queen elizabeth. here, too, when he came to his own at last, has stood that strange, romantic figure, the shepherd lord, who spent his youth in hiding among the northern hills, yet who, despite his love of solitude and learning, could not forget his long ancestry of fighting men, and himself fought on flodden field. among all these heroes the kings who have come through this doorway cut rather a sorry figure: edward ii., a sorry figure in any company; richard iii., a usurper here as in larger courts, playing the master while the true lord of skipton was keeping sheep; and henry viii., who came here to take part in a wedding--a spectator for once. the bride on this occasion was his niece, eleanor brandon, the daughter of that love-match that was so great a failure, between the duke of suffolk and mary, princess of england and queen dowager of france. the wedding ceremony took place in the long gallery, which was built for the occasion by the bridegroom's father. lady eleanor's granddaughter, lady pembroke, was more closely connected with this spot where we are standing than any clifford who came before her. [illustration: the conduit court, skipton castle.] anne clifford, countess of pembroke, who rustled through this archway many a time, no doubt, while the castle of her ancestors was being repaired at her charges, was a very busy woman. "her house was a home for the young, and a retreat for the aged; an asylum for the persecuted, a college for the learned, and a pattern for all." she restored six castles, we are told, and built seven churches and two hospitals; she erected a monument to spenser; she wrote some memoirs, too, with a record of all these things, and wherever she made her mark she stamped her initials. you can see them, very large and clear, if you look overhead upon the leaden spouting of this court, and you may see them again in the windows of the church. anne clifford's disposition was in no respect a retiring one, as we may gather from her famous answer to the secretary of state who wished a nominee of his own to stand for her borough of appleby. "i have been bullied by a usurper," she said, "and neglected by a court, but i will not be dictated to by a subject. your man shall not stand." her work in restoring her castle of skipton was no light undertaking, for it had lately endured a three years' siege by the army of the parliament, and its seven towers must have been sadly battered before the day of its proud surrender. so defiant was that surrender that the garrison marched out through the great entrance gate beneath the motto of the cliffords, "accordingley to the honour of a souldier, with colours flying, trumpets sounding, drums beating, matches lighted at both ends, and bullets in their mouthes," while the commissioned officers took with them "their wearing apparell that was properley their owne in their portmantles." one other pious work did anne perform. she made a magnificent tomb for her father the admiral, third earl of cumberland--who fought the armada with the queen's glove in his hat--and she set upon it seventeen armorial shields, all gilt and painted, and a mighty black marble slab, and a list of honours. we may see it in the chancel of the church she repaired; this grey church that stands so picturesquely at the end of the long street, with the hollyhocks and daisies brightening its dark walls. opposite to the grave of lady pembroke's father is that of her little brother, "an infant of most rare towardness in all the appearances that might promise wisdome"; and near to this is the splendid tomb, with restored brasses, of the first earl of cumberland. such of the earlier cliffords as found burial at all, including the shepherd lord, were laid in bolton abbey, whose monks were connected with this church and gave it the delicately carved screen that adds so much to its beauty. it is sometimes said or hinted that jane clifford, the rose of the world, was in some way connected with skipton. this can hardly be the case, however, for the fair rosamund was born and spent her childhood on the banks of the wye, and was laid in her temporary grave at godstowe long before edward ii. gave this castle to the cliffords who came after her. from skipton, where homely comfort may be found at the sign of the "black horse," an expedition should be made to malham and its famous cove, about twelve miles away; and if time allows, the run may be lengthened very enjoyably by rejoining the main road at hellifield and skirting the moors as far as clapham or ingleton. in this way we shall see something of the craggy country of craven, of which camden wrote long ago: "what with huge stones, steep rocks, and rough ways, this place is very wild and unsightly." the huge stones and steep rocks are still there, but the way by which we go is very far from being rough; it is, on the contrary, such an exceptionally fine road that it seems almost a pity to leave it. those who wish to see malham, however, must turn off at gargrave or coniston. much has been written concerning malham cove, and many long adjectives used. some writers have even declared themselves terrified by it; but these, i think, must have been of a timid temperament. it is the position of the place, no doubt, that has this overwhelming effect upon some minds: the sudden and unexpected presence of a great semi-circular cliff amid quiet undulating fields. if one could be carried blindfold to the foot of it i can imagine that it would be truly imposing; but it is visible from a distance as a grey scar on the face of the green hillside, and thus a good deal of its effect is lost in the course of a gradual approach. the best way to reach it is to walk across the fields from malham village, following the course of the aire, the stream that tunnels its way so strangely into the cove. there is, it is true, a narrow and steep road which commands a fine view of it as a whole, but there is no room here for any but a small car to turn, and there is no doubt that the cliff can best be seen on foot. this is true also of its more imposing neighbour, gordale scar. says wordsworth- "let thy feet repair to gordale chasm, terrific as the lair where young lions couch," and indeed, as the hill that approaches gordale chasm is nearly as terrific as the chasm itself, it is certainly best, if not imperative, to repair to it on thy feet. i believe that the tarn which lies upon the moor above malham cove, and long ago belonged to the monks of fountains, may be reached by road, but i have not been there myself. from malham the way is narrow and surprisingly tortuous as far as hellifield, but here we rejoin the splendid high road we left at coniston, and speed along it through ribblesdale to settle. this small town has progressive ambitions. it "treats" the surface of its main road, it lights its streets by electricity, it has a fine new garage and a hotel that has the air of being nice. it is attractive, too, and pretty as well as praiseworthy, with hills behind it and a tiny weir above the bridge. beyond it we pass the ebbing and flowing spring of giggleswick in its stone basin by the wayside; climb the long hill under the grey crags of giggleswick scar, with a splendid backward view, and run down by wood and beck to clapham, where the village cross stands close to the stream in the shadow of the trees. not very far away is the famous cave, bristling with stalactites. after leaving clapham we cross a wide heath, with the throttle open. first and last this is a good run. on the left is the open country; on the right that wild land of huge stones and steep rocks that seemed to camden so unsightly, in an age when the whole duty of a landscape was to smile. clambering on the hillside in a cleft of the crags are the narrow, winding streets of ingleton, and a viaduct spanning the valley. this valley, which is hardly wider than a gorge, is said to be well worth exploring; but neither its waterfall, thornton force, nor its caves of yordas and weathercote, can be seen by road. they hardly concern us here. it concerns us rather to return to skipton, and thence to strike up into the heart of the hills. climbing the road above the castle we see how skipton lies in a hollow among the moors. behind us to the south is the brontë country; haworth and its graves far off beyond airedale, and stonegappe only three miles away. it was at stonegappe that charlotte reluctantly taught the little sidgwicks, and no doubt made them suffer nearly as much as she suffered herself from her over-sensitive feelings. embsay moor appears on our right as we rise, and beyond it the savage outline of rylstone fell, with the ruined watch-tower of the nortons, the foes of the cliffords, showing desolately against the sky upon the topmost crag. of the nortons and their tower, and the daughter of their house, and of the white doe of rylstone and her weekly journey across the moors to the grave of the youth with whom the nortons ended, wordsworth has told us. we are running down now into "the valley small," where the house of the nortons once stood, and here is the church where "the bells of rylstone played their sabbath music--_god us ayde_!" at threshfield we turn to the left and are in wharfedale. the names of all these yorkshire dales are very familiar in our ears. wharfedale, wensleydale, swaledale, teesdale--they are all words with a charm in them. and here, as we glide out of a wood, is wharfedale spread before us; and we know at last that it is not only in the name that the charm lies. the river flows below through the wide valley and winds away in shining curves into the far distance, past the bluff outline of kilnsey crag, past the dark belt of firs, till it vanishes among the folds of the jewelled hills. for in their liquid brilliancy the colouring of all these dales is that of gems, of amethyst and emerald, of sapphire and turquoise and opal; and the sunlight that floods them on the days when we are fortunate has the luminous gold of the topaz. as we drive under the overhanging crag of kilnsey--"the highest and steepest that ever i saw," says camden--and pass the tiny village where the sheep belonging to the abbey of fountains used to be shorn, the hills begin to close in, till, as we draw near kettlewell, they rise round us so protectively that we seem to have entered a new and calmer world. kettlewell itself is so calm as to appear asleep. its grey houses, shadowed by trees and sheltered by the mighty shoulder of great whernside, are defended from every wind, and from every sound but the rippling of the wharfe. beyond this peaceful spot, where we cross the river, the road is rather rough, and after passing through pretty buckden it is also extremely narrow. however, it leads to hubberholme, and no more than that need be asked of any road. at hubberholme the river is still wide, and thickly strewn with stones; the slopes of the hills are very near and steep, and are clothed with bracken and fir-trees, and deeply cleft by tiny becks; masses of wild flowers fringe the banks with clouds of mystic blue; and beyond an old stone bridge stands the church, low and grey, with a paved pathway and a porch bright with crimson ramblers. the rough walls have stood in this lonely spot for many centuries. the door is open, and we may see for ourselves the strange state of the masonry within, whose builders, when they left it thus rugged and unplastered, little thought that its unfinished appearance would be tenderly cherished by the antiquarians of a future age. a rare rood-loft of oak divides the tiny chancel from the nave. this loft dates from the year 1558, the last year that the old faith reigned in england; and in this remote hiding-place among the hills it escaped the vigilant eye of elizabeth and the destructive hands of the puritans. on returning to kettlewell we shall find it worth our while to continue the journey down the dale on the road that passes through conistone, for though it is not so good, as regards surface, as that on the right bank of the river, it commands a different--and a very lovely--series of views. from grassington we cross to linton, on the right bank, where there are some little falls whose prettiness is hardly striking enough to allure us from our way; and at burnsall we should keep to the same side of the stream rather than follow the public conveyances to the left bank. horse-drawn travellers may well be excused for shirking the hill above burnsall; but few gradients have any terrors for us, and the backward view of wharfedale from the high hillside is more beautiful than anything we have yet seen in yorkshire. the two roads meet near barden tower, the beloved retreat of the shepherd lord. henry, the tenth lord clifford, was a very small boy when his father, "the butcher," lost his estates, his cause, and his life, on the blood-red grass of towton. it was not without reason that john clifford was surnamed "the butcher." it was in vain that young rutland knelt to him for mercy on wakefield bridge, "holding up both his hands and making dolorous countenance, for his speech was gone for fear." "by god's blood," snarled clifford, "thy father slew mine, and so will i do thee and all thy kin!" and he plunged his dagger into the boy's heart. "in this act," says the historian, "the lord clifford was accounted a tyrant and no gentleman. with his hands still dyed with the son's blood he savagely cut off the head of the dead father, the busy, plotting head of richard, duke of york, and carried it, crowned with paper, 'in great despite and much derision,'" to the lancastrian queen. "madam, your war is done," he cried, "here is your king's ransom!" margaret of anjou, for all her manly ways, became rather hysterical at the hideous sight, laughing violently with pale lips; and clifford's triumph was short. while he lay with an arrow through his throat upon the field of towton--which we shall see later on--his little son was hurried away to a shepherd's hut in the north, where in the course of twenty-five years or so on the hillside he learnt more than the tending of sheep. he became the gentlest of his line, a lover of learning, a watcher of the skies; and though at last skipton came back to him, and brougham, and pendragon, and many another castle, he lived here quietly in this simple tower above the wooded wharfe, befriending the poor, reading his books, and now and then reading the stars as well, with his friends the monks of bolton. [illustration: from the road near barden tower.] "and ages after he was laid in earth, the good lord clifford was the name he bore." his descendant, the notable lady pembroke, whose initials are so conspicuous at skipton, expended some of her energy here at barden. this was one of the six castles she restored, and over the door we may read the inscription she placed there according to her habit, with all her names and titles recorded at length, and a reference to a complimentary text about "the repairer of the breach." those who wish to see the famous strid--and none should miss the sight--may leave their cars by the wayside at a point not very far from barden tower; but this is not the course i recommend. the bolton woods are beautiful beyond description, and it is only by walking or driving through them from the abbey to the strid, or even to barden tower, that one can fully enjoy their ferny slopes and serried stems, and the little shining streams that slip through them to the wharfe. george eliot and george lewes once spent a whole day wandering together along these paths, and we might follow in their footsteps very happily, i think. those who prefer to drive must hire carriages, for motors are not admitted to the woods; but the existence of a very nice little hotel at bolton bridge makes everything easy. by one means or another the strid must be seen. here the wharfe is contracted into a narrow cleft, an abrupt chasm between low masses of rock; and the angry river, suddenly straitened in its course, has in its convulsions bitten into the stone till it is riddled with a thousand holes and hollows. when the river is low it is possible to leap across from rock to rock. this is the leap that alice de meschines' boy attempted but failed to achieve so many years ago, when the hounds he held in leash hesitated to follow him, and so dragged him back into the torrent. "i will make many a poor man's son my heir," said his mother; and the priory that her parents had founded at embsay was moved by her to bolton, and greatly enriched in memory of the drowned boy of egremond. here is the stone from which he leapt, they say, and here the stone he never reached, and both are polished by the feet of those who have been more successful. this legend--and i fear the unkinder "myth" would be the more accurate word--has prompted several poets to make verses, but has signally failed to inspire them. [illustration: bolton priory.] all that is left of bolton priory is before us when we reach the cavendish memorial. close to this spot, though hidden from the road, is the log hut known as hartington seat, the point of view whence the ruin looks its loveliest. we are at the edge of a wooded cliff. the priory lies far below us in its level graveyard, framed in trees; the river sweeps away from our feet, and after curving thrice, disappears into the blue haze of the hills. between the churchyard and the foot of the red cliffs beyond the wharfe lies the regular line of the monks' stepping-stones, by which for many centuries, probably, the congregation of the faithful came from the hills to their devotions; and came, too, on other occasions, laden with fruit or game for the hospitable table of the prior. do not go to bolton on a bank holiday, nor, if you can help it, in august, lest you should find as many people as were there in the days of its splendour, when the canons and the lay-brethren and the men-at-arms and the thirty servants and the unnumbered serfs and the frequent guests made it a stirring place. yet it is always possible to find an early hour when there is peace in the ruined choir, where somewhere in the shadow of the arcaded walls the dust of the shepherd lord lies under the grass. bolton was sold to the shepherd's son, the first earl of cumberland, at the time of the dissolution, when the building of the west tower was brought to a sudden standstill, and the nave, the parish church, was separated by a wall from the choir, the monks' church, which would be needed no more. there stands the tower, still unfinished; and here is the nave, now, as then, a parish church, where for seven hundred years without interruption, it is said, services have been held sunday by sunday. the beauty of the interior, unfortunately, is not great. the early victorian age has left its fatal stamp upon it. it was not till forty years ago that the walls were cleansed of whitewash; and in 1851 a large sum of money was mis-spent at the great exhibition in acquiring some dreadful glass. [illustration: the choir, bolton priory] the motorist's route from bolton bridge to harrogate is undoubtedly the moorland road by blubberhouses. the contour-book describes it as rough and steep; but the steepness is nowhere very severe, and the surface is now excellent, while the moors have their usual charms--charms not only for the artist, though these are appealing enough, but special charms for the motorist too, the delight of an unfenced road and a wide country. not that this road lies altogether on the moors. there are woods here and there, and soft, green beds of bracken, and slopes of massive rock; and presently we pass the great reservoir of the leeds waterworks. then the country opens out again, and we have a series of fine wide views till harrogate appears below us, occupying a considerable proportion of the landscape. harrogate is exactly what one would expect it to be: a place of large hotels and fine shops, a place whose ideals are comfort and prosperity. those who like to motor round a centre--a plan which has many advantages--could hardly find a better base for their operations. "the great merit of harrogate," wrote george eliot, "is that one is everywhere close to lovely open walks." our field has widened since her day, but harrogate's great merit is still its merit as a centre. in this respect it is superior even to york, though in itself not worthy to be named with that incomparable city. to the west, within easy distance, are nidderdale and wharfedale; to the north are ripon, fountains, and jervaulx, with middleham and even wensleydale for the enterprising; to the south is kirkstall abbey on the outskirts of leeds. byland and rievaulx may be seen in a single day's drive, and only twenty-one miles away is york itself. harrogate is so entirely, so aggressively modern, so resolute to let bygones be bygones, that one learns with something of a shock how it came by its name. harrogate, it appears, means the soldiers' hill on the road. the soldiers who lived on the hill were roman: the road was the roman road through the forest of knaresborough. except for this faint hint of an earlier and more strenuous life, the history of harrogate is the history of its "spaw." these crowded acres were a bare, uninhabited common at the end of the sixteenth century, when captain slingsby, wandering one day across the stray, was led by the tewits to a spring that cured him of his ills, which had hitherto yielded only to the waters of germany. he set a roof over the precious spot, and so this spring became the _fons et origo_ of modern harrogate. and the stray, though now in the heart of a large town, is still uninhabited, still common-land; for a century after the discovery of the tewit well, when hotels were already thick upon the surrounding ground, an act of parliament was passed by which two hundred acres of land were presented for ever to the people of harrogate, to serve for the daily walks of those who drank the waters. at knaresborough, only three miles further on, we are in a very different world, the world of old houses and older tales, of monarchs and saints, of william the conqueror and the proud de stutteville, of richard, king in name but not in deed, and of oliver, king in deed but not in name--an inspiring world, one would think. the first view of the town, too--the river, and the high, unusual bridge, and the red houses on the hillside, and above them the castle that had once so proud a crown of towers--seems to promise much. looking at that fragment of a fortress we remember those who have owned it; the de burgh who built it; the de stutteville who fought in the battle of the standard; piers gaveston, who is better forgotten; de morville, murderer of beckett, hiding here from justice; queen philippa, whom we are glad to remember for any reason; john of gaunt; charles i. and we remember richard ii., a prisoner in the one tower that still stands, alone with his humiliating memories. this one glimpse of the castle and its past, however, is all that knaresborough can give us of romance. it is almost best to ask no more, for a nearer view of the crumbling keep will leave us very sad. the path that leads to it, the path that took de morville to safety and richard to prison, is neatly asphalted, and lighted with gas-lamps on stone bases, which the local guide-book describes as "ornamental." hard by the door through which the sad king passed from his shame at westminster, and went forth again to the mystery of pontefract, stands a penny-in-the-slot machine. a custodian will show us the guardroom and its relics, and even the dungeon; but we must be careful to look at them in the right order, or we shall be rebuked. the wolf-trap must be seen before the conqueror's chest, and philippa's chest before the armour from marston moor. by this time the glamour has faded. even the fine view from the castle rock must be inspected--_inspected_ is the right word--from nicely painted seats, placed at regular intervals in the shelter of clipped evergreens. the most satisfactory place in knaresborough is the old manor beside the river, where the original "roof-tree" round which the house was built still grows up through the rooms, and would be taller if a too zealous workman had not aspired to "make it tidy." a great deal of beautiful furniture has been gathered in the panelled rooms, including the sturdy and simple oak bedstead in which oliver cromwell slept when he was staying in the house that faces the crown hotel, in the upper part of the town. perhaps the bed was brought here when oliver's lodging was pulled down and rebuilt, as happened some time ago. the floor of his room was carefully preserved; that floor on which the landlady's little girl, peeping through the keyhole at "this extraordinary person," saw him kneeling at his prayers. it was in this town that he gathered his troops to meet the scottish invasion, and from hence that he marched out, by way of otley, skipton, and clitheroe, to defeat the duke of hamilton at preston. the siege of the castle was not his work: fairfax had taken it by assault some years earlier. cromwell had sad memories in connection with knaresborough, for it was somewhere in its neighbourhood that his second boy, oliver, was killed. "i thought he looked sad and wearied," said a contemporary who met him just before the battle of marston moor, "for he had had a sad loss--young oliver had got killed to death not long before, i heard; it was near knaresborough." to see the dropping well we must cross the river by bridge or ferry, and walk along a pretty path under the beeches. here, as everywhere in knaresborough, disillusion dogs our steps. this beautiful curiosity of nature, this great overhanging rock, worn smooth by the perpetual dripping of the water, framed in moss and ferns, has been made into a "side-show," with a railing, an entrance fee, and a row of bowler hats, stuffed parrots, and other ornaments in process of petrifaction. on the other side of the river is st. robert's chapel. here, too, the world is too much with us. leland, that stout traveller, who "was totally enflammid with a love to see thoroughly al those partes of this opulente and ample reaulme ... and notid yn so doing a hole worlde of thinges very memorable," tells us how robert flower, the son of a man "that had beene 2 tymes mair of york," came to these rocks by the river nidd "desiring a solitarie life as an hermite." he made himself this chapel, "hewen owte of the mayne stone"; and he seems to have had some persuasive power of goodness or wisdom that turned his enemies into friends. "king john was ons of an il-wille to this robert flour," yet ended by benefiting him and his, an unusual developement in the case of king john; and de stutteville, who lived up at the castle, had actually set out to raid the hermitage, suspecting it to harbour thieves, when he too, persuaded by a vision or otherwise, suddenly became the hermit's friend. this tiny sanctuary, eight or nine feet long, with its altar and groined roof and recesses for relics, all wrought in the solid rock, would be a place to stimulate the imagination if it were not that the surroundings and the guide are such as would cause the strongest imagination to wilt. some say that the black slab of marble which is now a memorial to sir henry slingsby in the parish church once formed the altar-top in st. robert's chapel; others say it came from the priory, and was raised there in honour of the saint who "forsook his fair lands" and caused the priory's foundation. the slab lies in the slingsby chapel, and records that sir henry was executed "by order of the tyrant cromwell." carlyle tells us that this slingsby, "a very constant royalist all along," was condemned for plotting the betrayal of hull to the royalists. the road from knaresborough to ripon follows the valley of the nidd as far as ripley. this village has the air of being a feudal survival. its cottages with their neatness and their flowers, its _hôtel de ville_, and even the "treated" surface of its excellent road, all bear the stamp of a close connection with the castle whose park gates are at the corner. in the sixteenth century the village of ripley was under the eye of a very masterful lady. it was to this castle that oliver cromwell, tired from fighting on marston moor, came in search of rest. rest, however, was denied him. his hostess, whose husband was away, had no sympathy with fatigue that came from resisting the king's majesty, and so poor oliver--"sad and wearied," as we know, even before the battle--spent the night on a chair in the hall, while lady ingilby, seated opposite to him with a couple of pistols in her hands, kept her relentless eye upon him till the morning. when he rode away she told him it was fortunate for him that he had been so tractable. i think this fierce lady must have been agreeable to oliver's grim humour. the approach to ripon is pretty, by a road shaded with trees. above the town rises the cathedral, massive and stately if not superlatively beautiful. though it is not one of our largest cathedrals, its history is immense. even st. wilfrid's seventh-century church was not the first that stood here, for before his remote day eata had founded a monastery that was hardly built before the danes burnt it. indeed, the monastery was destroyed so often--by danes, anglo-saxons, normans, and scots in turn--that every style of architecture, from saxon to perpendicular, is represented in the various restorations. there are even, i believe, in the crypt and chapter-house, fragments of wilfrid's own church, among them being the curious slit called wilfrid's needle, which has been "mighty famous," as camden said, for a great many centuries. the saint himself was mighty famous in his day, as he well deserved to be. even still we know a good deal about him, through bede and others: how, when he was a poor and ignorant boy of fourteen, "not enduring the frowardness of his stepmother, he went to seek his fortune," and was brought to the notice of queen eanfled, "whom for his wit and beauty he was not unfit to serve"; and how she sent him to lindisfarne, where, "being of an acute understanding, he in a very short time learnt the psalms and some books"; and how he refused a wife in france; and was presented by king alfred of deira with a monastery at rhypum, here on this very hill; and was consecrated at compiègne in a golden chair carried by singing bishops; and how he converted the people of bosham by teaching them to fish with eel-nets, so that "they began more readily at his preaching to hope for heavenly goods"; and how he won the day in the great controversy at whitby, and finally died as an archbishop and was buried at the south end of the altar here at ripon. he was a very human saint, and much beloved. his church was destroyed by edred, but his monastery grew in power. the most beautiful part of the present building is the early english west front, which dates from the reign of henry iii. ripon is altogether charming, and still does homage very prettily to its patron, king alfred, who made it a royal borough. he it was who ordained that every night a horn should be blown by the wakeman, and that any one who was robbed between the blowing of the horn and the hour of sunrise should be repaid by the townsfolk. from his day to ours each night at nine o'clock the men of ripon have heard the horn--three long, penetrating blasts before the town hall and three before the wakeman's house. several centuries ago the wakeman became the mayor, and now he blows the horn by deputy. "except ye lord keep ye cittie," are the words on the town hall, "ye wakeman waketh in vain"; and not far away, at one corner of the market-square, is a pretty old gabled house bearing this legend: "1604. in thys house lived a long time hugh ripley, ye last wakeman and first mayore of rippon." yet it is not these links with the beginnings of our history, with wilfrid the saxon saint and alfred the saxon king, that draw so many people to ripon. ripon has a greater attraction than these. only a few miles away is fountains abbey. when approaching fountains the motorist may feel very thankful that a few additional miles on the road are of little importance to him. by choosing the longer way, through the village of studley royal, he will certainly save himself a considerable walk and may possibly secure the unspeakable blessing of solitude. the walk through the park from the main entrance is, i know, regarded as one of the chief beauties of the place, with its temple of fame, and its surprise view, and its little cascades; but except for the view of the abbey, which is lovely, these artificial prettinesses are more appreciated by those who come forth on "an expedition" than by those who really wish to seize and keep something of the spirit of the place. the distant abbey seen from the east is part of a beautiful landscape, a satisfaction to the eye, a picturesque incident in the long glade; but those who approach it from the west come upon it suddenly in all its vastness, close at hand, and realise, probably for the first time, something of the splendour of the old monasteries. [illustration: the nave, fountains abbey.] here--in this long line of doorways, in this enormous church which the choir of birds still fills with sacred music, this cloister-garth and chapter-house with the rich archways, these stairs and domestic buildings, wall beyond wall and room beyond room--here truly was a power to make a monarch jealous! it is no wonder that yorkshire, crowded as it was with monasteries, thought a strength like theirs might pit itself against the strength of the king, and rose in protest against the dissolution; it is no wonder that the king's agents could not find enough chains in the country to hang the prisoners in. if this vast skeleton is so magnificent, of what sort was the actual life! close your eyes for a moment to it all, and think of the beginnings of it. think of those thirteen monks, prior richard and his brethren from st. mary's at york, hungering for a more perfect fulfilment of their vows, who came here long ago, when this green sward was "overgrown with wood and brambles, more proper for a retreat of wild beasts than for the human species." like wild beasts they lived, with no shelter but the trees and no food but herbs and leaves. they worked with their hands by day, and kept their vigils by night, "but of sadness or of murmuring there was not one sound," says the monk who wrote their story, "but every man blessed god with gladness." they lived under the thatched yews till they had raised a roof for themselves, but even when that was accomplished they were often on the point of starvation. one day when all the food they had was two loaves and a half, a beggar asked for bread. "one loaf for the beggar," was abbot richard's decree, "and one and a half for the builders. for ourselves god will provide." the cartload of bread which arrived immediately afterwards as a gift from a pious knight was the cause of much thankfulness among the monks, but of little surprise. [illustration: the tower, fountains abbey.] as the years passed, lands and legacies made the monastery rich. and so at last this splendid fabric rose--a triumph of the spirit over circumstances, a monument to those long-buried monks whose toils and sufferings are built into the mighty nave, though surely they never dreamed of such power and wealth as we are forced to dream of as we stand amid this mass of broken walls, now green with moss and weeds, but once the heart of a huge organism. it is a monument, too, to many who came after the brave thirteen: to abbot huby, who built the tower and is said to be buried near it; to john of kent, who gave us the bewildering beauty of the chapel of the nine altars, one of the most exquisite things ever wrought in stone: so spiritual, so aspiring, that it seems to be a prayer made visible, or even--with its slender arrowy columns rising into the air till, like fountains, they break into curves--to be the embodiment of the abbey motto: _benedicite fontes domino_. and while we are remembering those who laboured for fountains, do not let us forget the man who died for it at tyburn--william thirsk. this abbot was rash enough to resist the messengers of privy seal, and was accused by them of many things. he had, they wrote, "gretly dilapidate his howse" by theft and sacrilege, had sold the plate and jewels of the abbey, and had not even secured a proper price for them. to those who were themselves bent upon theft and sacrilege on a large scale this last offence seemed worst of all. he had actually, they declared contemptuously, been persuaded by a jeweller that a valuable ruby was a mere garnet; "for the trewith ys he is a varra fole and a miserable ideote." he joined in that desperate protest the pilgrimage of grace, and so was hanged. fortunately for posterity as well as for himself, thirsk's successor, brodelay, who was a creature of thomas cromwell and chosen with a view to future events, was not a "varra fole," and yielded meekly when his abbey was demanded of him, saving it from the fate of jervaulx. as it is, too much of it is gone--much that might have been preserved. the cloisters have vanished though the garth is there, with the long flight of steps and the great stone basin in the grass and the yew-tree beside it; and gone, too, is the magnificent infirmary, deliberately destroyed in the days of james i. by the vandal who owned it and was in want of some building material. [illustration: fountains hall.] one thing, however, still stands, which is, perhaps, the last relic of the monks of fountains that we should expect to find, and is certainly the most touching relic possible--actually linking us with those far-off days when the patient thirteen were left here in the wilderness by archbishop thurstan to keep their vow of poverty with such terrible literalness. over there, beside the wall, is one of the yew-trees whose boughs, covered with thatch, formed the first monastery of fountains. close to the western entrance is fountains hall. surely we must forgive that wicked man who pulled down the infirmary, since the place he built with the stones is this lovely jacobean house, a thing as beautiful in its own domestic way as time-worn stone and bays and mullions can make it. a balustrade, a sundial, an old-fashioned garden and ancient yew-hedge make the picture and our pleasure complete. there is a comfortable hotel at ripon, and as we have a great deal to see before reaching any other desirable shelter, we shall find it best, i think, to spend a night there either before or after visiting fountains. from the windows of the _unicorn_, on market-day, the paved square is a gay and pleasant sight, with its crowded stalls and bright awnings, and stores of fruit and flowers and basket-work; and here on a summer's night the horn-blower may be dimly seen at nine o'clock in his three-cornered hat and laced coat, doing the bidding of alfred the great. from ripon there are three ways of reaching richmond, without taking into account the direct route, which would show us nothing of the dales we came out to see. in either case we must go by jervaulx and middleham and wensley. only a few miles from ripon is a village less famous, but not less attractive, than any of these: a spot well-known to antiquarians, and doubtless to artists too, but unfamiliar to ordinary folk. the charm of west tanfield catches the eye at once from the bridge that spans the ure, and comes as a pleasant surprise in the midst of rather tame scenery. the red-roofed cottages are grouped upon the river-bank, with gay little gardens sloping to the water's edge; behind them rises the church tower, and the square grey gatehouse of the marmions, with its delicate oriel. this gateway was built by henry v.'s friend and executor fitzhugh, who married one of the marmions and lived here, and added to the church that held the splendid tombs of his wife's ancestors. he was not buried here himself, but by his own wish with curious haste at jervaulx. it is seldom that a little village church possesses such monuments as these of the marmions, so rich in ornament and so marvellously preserved: the arched and canopied recess that holds the effigy of sir john; the cloaked and coronetted figure of maud his wife, who built this aisle and founded chantries here; the emblazoned tomb of the unknown lady with the lion; the knight in mail; and the magnificent monument of that other knight and his wife which is probably a cenotaph in memory of john and elizabeth marmion of the fourteenth century. their effigies lie, perfectly preserved, under a light and graceful "hearse" of ironwork, with seven sconces for candles--the only iron hearse, they say, in england. every detail of the dress, every line of the features, is distinct. the knight's aquiline nose and full lips, rather sweet in expression, are encircled by a gorget of mail, over whose delicate links droop the ends of his long moustache. a collar of ss clasps his throat. on the north side of the chancel there is a curious recess, with a squint into the nave and two little windows into the choir. it is unique, i believe, and as regards its origin and uses very baffling. beyond west tanfield the scenery grows in beauty, for we are nearing the hills. masham lies prettily in a valley, with a setting of moors and dales, gold and emerald when the sun is shining, soft grey and green when the day is dull. skirting the little town we go on our way to jervaulx. the site of jervaulx is not beautiful, but pleasant and peaceful. it lies in a private park, so the car must wait beside the gardener's cottage while we walk, borrowed key in hand, across the field to the scattered fragments of what was once a great cistercian abbey. of the ruins tragically little was left standing by the energetic commissioners of henry viii., though they apologised for some necessary delay in their congenial work. "pleasythe your lordship to be advertysed," wrote thomas cromwell's "most bounden beadman" richard bellyseys, "i have taken down all the lead of jervaulx ... and the said lead cannot be conveit nor carried until the next sommre, for the ways in that countre are so foul and deep that no caryage can pass in wyntre. and as concerninge the taking down of the house i am minded to let it stand to the next spring of the year, by reason of the days are now so short it wolde be double charges to do it now." the work was finished with great thoroughness at last, however, as all may see. of the church the barest outline only is left, with the raised platform where once the high altar stood, and near it the broken figure that is said to represent the henry fitzhugh who did so much for west tanfield and left such strange orders about his funeral. he desired to be buried at jervaulx with all possible haste after his death. "to be carried thither by daylight, if it come not too late; but if so, then the same night." the land on which this community first settled, at fors, was the gift of one of fitzhugh's ancestors, which may account for his wish to be buried here. the case of the last abbot of jervaulx, adam sedbergh, was a sad one; for he suffered the pains of martyrdom without its exaltation, and while certainly failing to please himself, pleased no one else. he was a timid creature, apparently, and when yorkshire rose in the pilgrimage of grace, he was so much afraid of king and rebels alike that he simply ran away and hid. the rebel mob came clamouring about the gates of jervaulx, crying: "choose you a new abbot!" and the frightened brothers gathered hurriedly in the chapter-house. if we follow this path, and turn down by these crumbling steps, we may stand where they stood that day; for there is more of the chapter-house still in existence than of any other part of the building. the roof that covered the monks' bewildered heads is gone; but here is the wide stone bench on which they sat, trembling, through that hasty conclave, and here are the columns and the walls on which their eyes dwelt, unseeingly, while the rebels threatened them with fire at their gates and their rightful leader was hiding in the heather. they could think of no better course than to seek the reluctant adam, and make a rebel of him whether he would or no. they found him on the moors at last, and lest his beautiful abbey should be burnt to the ground because of him, he came back to face the curses and daggers of the mob, the futile sufferings of rebellion, the prison-cell in the tower where his name still shows upon the wall, and the gallows of tyburn. his tardy and unwilling heroism was piteously useless, for not even the flames of the pilgrims of grace could have laid the walls of jervaulx lower or left its altars more desolate than did the hammers and picks of the king's agents. [illustration: chapter house, jervaulx abbey.] charles kingsley came here once, and picked a forget-me-not for his wife--a pleasant memory among so many fierce ones. he was the last canon of the collegiate church of middleham, where he stayed for several days at the time of his instalment, and endured "so much bustle, and robing and unrobing" that he had no time to think. middleham, as a rule, is anything but a bustling place; but in spite of its demure looks, i believe there are still days when its streets are, as kingsley saw them, "crowded with jockeys and grooms." we are now on our way thither. after passing through east witton we cross the cover, whose pools are dear to fishermen, and were therefore dear to kingsley. "little cover," he called it affectionately, "in his deep wooded glen, with his yellow rock and bright white stones, and brown water clearer than crystal." we climb into middleham past the base of an old cross on which is fixed a modern head. at the top of the hill is the curious structure called the swine cross, with the mutilated stone beast whose identity has proved so hard to establish. some say it is the bear of warwick; others recognise in it the boar of gloucester. as far as its personal appearance is concerned it might with equal plausibility be called the lion of england or the hound of the baskervilles, seeing that its outline commits the sculptor to nothing and it has no manner of face whatever. turning to the left we find the castle looking down upon us gloomily. this castle of middleham is square and stern; more strong than beautiful. its keep is norman, and is the work of a fitzranulph of the twelfth century; but the towered wall that hems it round so closely was built by the nevilles, who lived here for many years in princely state. the great earl of warwick, when he was not making kings--and, indeed, sometimes when he was--chose this to be a centre of his pomp and power; and one of the kings he made, edward iv., is said to have been imprisoned here for a short time. the time would have been longer if edward had not cajoled his custodian, the archbishop of york, into allowing him to hunt in the park. we know from _henry vi._ how richard, duke of gloucester, and lord hastings lay in ambush in the forest that is no longer here, and rescued edward from those who were hunting with him. that same duke of gloucester, who was a trespasser on this occasion, came to middleham as its master later on. poor anne neville, the kingmaker's daughter, spent most of her sad married life within this melancholy fortress, with the husband who asked no man to make him king, but made himself richard iii. we may see the gloomy walls of her withdrawing room--bereft now of both roof and floor--where she sat so often sick at heart and ailing; and the banquet-hall where her father kept such state; and the kitchen where six oxen were sometimes roasted for one breakfast. there, in the north wall, is the gateway through which she watched her husband riding out to entrap his little nephews, and through which she herself soon followed him to see him crowned; and here at the south-west corner of the outer wall is the tower where her only son was born. the boy spent practically all his short life here, all but that brief and brilliant interlude of the coronation at westminster and the pageantry at york; and here, too, he died in his parents' absence. i do not know if anne ever returned to middleham. we hear of her "in a state bordering on madness," and not long afterwards her tragic life was over. for many years the castle was left at the mercy of all who cared to despoil it. it was very literally treated as a quarry; for when all the faced stone within reach had been removed the walls were hollowed out below, in the hope that the upper part might fall and so provide more plunder. such is the cohesion of the masonry, however, that this design was more or less frustrated, and the undermined walls still stand like overhanging cliffs. here and there, indeed, great masses have fallen in huge boulders as solid as rock; but perhaps the gunpowder of the commonwealth was responsible for these. there was once a suggestion made, in a letter from lord huntingdon to his "verrye good lord ye lord treasurer," that queen elizabeth should join in this work of quarrying. she purposed to pay a visit to her city of york, a visit which was designed to be "no small comforte to all hyr good subjects, and no less terrour to ye others." but the great difficulty was to find "a good housse" for her. huntingdon excitedly laid his scheme before burleigh. "ye meanes ys thys," he wrote. "hyr hyghness hathe heare ye castell of midham, which ys in greate ruyne and daylye wasteth, ... but ye tymber ye stone ye lead and ye iron yt ys theare wold make a fayre housse heare, and as i gesse with good husbandrye paye all ye chargys. i am sure if your l. dyd see ye place ... you wolde thinke yt most convenient to be pulled downe, rathyr than yt shuld stande and waste daylye as yt dothe."[1] fortunately burleigh did not think it most convenient, and now the place no longer wastes daily, but is daily being repaired. when we crossed cover bridge we entered wensleydale, and a mile or two beyond middleham is the pretty little town from which the dale takes its name. the scenery is quiet and pastoral here, the ure flows smoothly, and it is difficult to realise how near we are to the sort of country defoe was thinking of when he wrote in his eighteenth-century way: "the black moorish lands show dismal and frightful." how near we are to the moorish lands, however, we shall shortly find out, and it is at wensley that we have to decide by which road we shall cross them. but first, here is wensley church on the left, with saxon stones in it, and a splendid brass that no one who cares for such things would wish to pass by, and among its graves one that has been thought to be of interest to every british man and woman. it is an altar-tomb with fluted corners standing on the right of the path that leads from gate to porch. beneath it lies peter goldsmith. it has been stated,[2] on what grounds i cannot discover, that he was surgeon of the _victory_ at trafalgar, and that nelson died in his arms. this is making a great claim for him. yet his name is not mentioned in the standard accounts of nelson's death,[3] nor does it appear in the list of the _victory's_ officers. as we all know, beatty was the surgeon who attended nelson in the cockpit. the assistant-surgeon was neil smith; the surgeon's mate was westerburgh.[4] this is the country of the scropes of bolton, and their names and arms are conspicuous in the church--over the porch, on the buttresses, on the carved chancel stalls, and, above all, on lord bolton's screened pew in the north aisle. the carved sides of this were originally part of the parclose by which the tombs of the scropes were surrounded in easby abbey. the front of it is ugly and has an eighteenth-century air. the horrible grey marbled paint that defaces the woodwork suggests the nineteenth. the famous brass, which lies within the communion rails, is so beautiful as to appeal to the most ignorant in such matters, and dates from the fourteenth century. it marks the grave of two men--sir simon of wensley, priest, and the seventeenth-century rector who desired to be buried under the same stone and brass. our course, after leaving wensley, depends on our further intentions. the course i recommend is this: to drive up wensleydale on the lower road, past the cascades and village of aysgarth--named by the danes asgard, the home of the gods--past bainbridge and hawes; to cross the river at yorebridge, and return by askrigg and redmire, making a short digression to bolton castle; then, turning to the left beyond redmire, to strike across the "moorish lands" to richmond. these yorkshire moors, which seemed so "ill-looking" to defoe, are neither black nor frightful in our later eyes, but glorious with colour and light. the old road from leyburn across barden and hipswell moors has rather a bad surface, and a hill that is stiff enough to account for the making of the new road; but on a sunny summer's evening the view from the highest point is lovely beyond words. beautiful it must be at all seasons and in all weathers, but it is only when the air is clear that the head of swaledale may be seen on one side of the ridge and the far-away slopes of wensleydale on the other, and it is only when the sun is sinking that those distant hills are washed with gold. the moors sweep round us far and near; a line of dark firs crosses them mid-way; patches of vivid green break through the heather; and down in the valley the swale shows as a thin thread of twisted silver. behind us, towards middleham, the more level country is a dark blue streak beyond the crimson of the sunlit heather. the white road, straight and narrow, lies before us. those who choose this way will have little to regret, and will have one real advantage: they will approach richmond by the road which gives the finest view of that fair town. they must remember, however, that there is a very steep downward gradient at one point between the moors and the river, and at the bottom of it a sharp turn over a bridge. the run up swaledale may easily be achieved from richmond, where there is a comfortable hotel. the other alternative is to cross from wensleydale to swaledale by way of the buttertubs pass. now, i do not wish to be too encouraging about this pass! it is a place for the well-equipped only, and for those who do not suffer too much when their tyres are suffering. many cars, of course, have passed this way, and many more will do so; but none the less it is not a suitable road for motoring. it is precipitous in places, narrow everywhere, and the surface is almost entirely composed of loose stones. moreover, a grassy slope, so steep as to be almost a precipice, drops away from the edge of it; and though i am assured the pass is perfectly safe, there are points in it where nothing but faith in one's driver can make it comfortable! the scenery is magnificent. starting from wensley, we must take the upper of the two roads to redmire marked on bartholomew's map, for the lower one, apparently, runs through lord bolton's park. it occurs to one here, as in several other places in yorkshire, that it would be a good plan if map-makers would adopt some distinctive way of marking private roads. the views from the high ground are lovely. all wensleydale lies before us--green as an emerald in the valley, bare and grey on the hilltops, dimly blue in the distance. over it all lies that haze of luminous gold that the sunshine gives to these dales. far away, but clearly visible, bolton castle stands up on the hillside, massive and grey and relentless, a queen's prison. at redmire station we turn aside to see it. "the castelle," says leland, "as no great howse, is al compactid in 4 or 5 towers." outwardly, it is probably much the same as in his day: a square of cold, grey stone with a tower at each corner, gloomy and forbidding, with no attempt at ornament, no break in the solid masonry except the tiny windows. to leland it was simply the castle of the scropes, the work of the famous chancellor who fought at créçy in his younger days, the fortress of a family that was perpetually distinguishing itself. so he looked at it and passed it by. it was "no great howse." but we see it with other eyes, because it has been touched by the charm that wins us in spite of our better judgment, just as it won men long ago in spite of theirs--the glamour of the queen of scots. the banquet hall where so many scropes have feasted--bishops, statesmen, judges, knights of the garter--leaves us cold; we do not care to know there was a chantry here; even the cruel dungeon in the ground, with the hole through which the victim was lowered and the bolt to which he was fastened and the slab of stone that was fixed over the top, only calls for a passing shudder. to us the interest of bolton castle is centred in the whitewashed room upstairs. [illustration: bolton castle.] it was a summer evening, "one hour after sunsetting," when mary rode into that grass-grown court with sir francis knollys and sir george bowes, and two companies of soldiers, and six ladies, and forty-three horses, and four cartloads of luggage. she was not yet very unhappy. "she hath been very quiet," wrote knollys of the journey, "very tractable, and void of displeasant countenance." she was less tractable when the time came for her to leave bolton: she had learnt much meanwhile. for the months spent at bolton were the crisis of her misfortunes. in this upper room she sat "knitting of a work" in the deep recess of the window, or writing endless letters by the fire, or turning young christopher norton's head, while the casket letters were being read at hampton court, and her accusers were discussing her character at york, and her "dear cousin and sister" was pressing her to abdicate her throne. it was in this room that she wrote at last to her advisers: "i pray you do not speak to me again about abdication, for i am deliberately resolved rather to die than to resign my crown; and the last words that i shall utter in my life shall be the words of a queen of scotland." she wrote a vast number of other letters here. some were to the young queen of spain, her sister-in-law, who, as elizabeth of france, had been her playmate at the court of henri ii.; some were about the care of her infant son; and some, of a conciliatory kind, were to the queen of england. "toutesfoyes," she wrote, "sur votre parolle il n'est rien que je n'entreprisse, car je ne doutay jamays de votre honneur et royalle fidelitay." it was here, too, that she wrote her first english letter to her custodian, sir francis knollys--her schoolmaster, as she called him, who had been giving her lessons, apparently without any marked success. "it is sed seterday my unfrinds wil be wth zou; y sey nething, bot trest weil. an ze send one to zour wiff ze may asur her schu wold a bin weilcom to a pur strenger.... thus affter my commendations i pray god heue you in his kipin. "your assured gud frind, "marie r. "excus ivel vreitn furst tym." mary's rooms have lately been restored; but this plain stone fireplace is the same by which she sat shivering while the news of the westminster conference was so long in coming through the snow, hoping against hope that the english queen would not "make her lose all"; turning over in her mind the scheme for marrying her to don john of austria; reading specious letters from elizabeth pleading "the natural love of a mother towards her bairn"; and smiling upon knollys till he credited her with "an eloquent tongue, a discreet head, a stout courage, and a liberal heart adjoined thereunto." this is the window through which she looked out over wensleydale, luminous in the august sunshine or white with snow, and realised gradually that she was indeed a prisoner, she who "loved greatly to go on horseback." she was allowed to ride in the park, it is true; but her riding was a mockery with twelve soldiers at her horse's heels. yet she was not always sad. she had her lighter moments and pastimes other than knitting. "the queen here is merry, and hunteth," wrote knollys, "and passeth her time in pleasant manner." she even coquetted with the reformed faith, and "grew into a good liking of the liturgy"; and she took pleasure (of a more convincing kind) in having her hair busked by mistress mary seaton, whom she declared to be the finest busker in any country. knollys, apparently, was not insensible to the charms of a _coiffure_. "this day she did set such a curled hair upon the queen that it was like to be a periwig that showed very delicately; and every other day she hath a new device of hairdressing, without any cost, and yet setteth forth a woman gaily well." here, up these steps upon which mary's skirts have trailed, is the room where mistress seaton set such a curled hair upon the lovely head, the room where the queen slept, or more often lay awake. there had been some difficulty in making her rooms ready to receive her. the scropes were not luxurious, it seems. her bedding and hangings came from sir george bowes' house, near barnard castle; pewter vessels and a copper kettle were hastily borrowed from the court of england; and the neighbours lent some furniture with rather a bad grace. there is a very strong local tradition that mary once escaped from bolton castle. the "queen's gap" on leyburn shawl is pointed out as the scene of her recapture, and this little bedroom window as the way of her escape. i cannot find the least evidence that the story is true. but it was in this room that she lay sick for days, before she was dragged reluctantly away in the dusk of a january dawn, bitterly cold and bitterly angry, to her next prison at tutbury. this castle held for the king in the civil war, and that is why it has lost its north-west tower. the actual fall was in a storm, a hundred years later than the siege that weakened the masonry. as we drive away up wensleydale we look back again and again at the fortress, which dominates the valley far more conspicuously than its position on the green hillside seems to warrant. the scenery grows wilder and the slopes nearer before a steep descent with a bad surface takes us into askrigg. here, in a little open space beside the church, is a picturesque jacobean house of grey stone, bearing an inscription and the date mdclxxviii. its projecting bays are joined by a wooden gallery, which was designed, it is said, to give a good view of the bull-baiting that took place before it. there, hidden in the grass, is the iron ring to which the bull was tied; and close beside it stands the restored village-cross--a strange conjunction of symbols! in the fifteenth-century church there are some pillars which are thought to have been transported from fors, the original dwelling, about a mile from here, of the brothers of jervaulx--the little band of monks from savigny, who came to this valley under the leadership of peter de quincy, the leech, in the reign of stephen. they found this place too wild even for their cistercian ideals, too cold and foggy for the ripening of crops, too frequently beset by wolves; and so, though the optimistic peter was "very certain we shall be able to raise a competent supply of ale, cheese, bread, and butter," the community moved nearer to civilisation, leaving behind them nothing for us to see except a window in a barn and these pillars in askrigg church. [illustration: askrigg.] as the road becomes narrower and rougher the scenery every moment grows more beautiful. hawes lies on the other side of the valley at the foot of the blue hills, in a lovely position beside the ure; and when we have reached a point exactly opposite to it we turn sharply up a steep pitch on the right, with a splendid panoramic view of mountains on the left as we climb. this is the beginning of the buttertubs pass. from this point onwards, till the road plunges down into swaledale, the surface is composed more or less of loose stones. the stiffest upward gradients we shall have to encounter are within a mile or two of this spot, for the wild part of the pass--the real moorland--is comparatively level, and by the time we reach the actual buttertubs we are already running down. this is the climax--this point where the downward gradient begins--for here suddenly the solid earth seems to fall away from us: here suddenly the rough and narrow road is no longer lying across the far-stretching moorland, but is hanging high upon the hillside, clinging upon the extremest edge of a gulf which drops dizzily into a blue sea of shadows. thus it clings for miles. beyond the chasm the bare hillside rises again above our heads in magnificent curves, glowing with colour, and cleft here and there into purple gorges. slightly above the road on the left are the buttertubs, strange crater-like hollows of unplumbed depth, appearing at intervals beside us, with sharp rocks bristling through the grass at their mouths. as we slowly descend, the hills of swaledale rise before us like a wall blocking the defile; and presently a gate across the road shows that we are near the world again. [illustration: the buttertubs pass.] truly this is one of the runs that are unforgettable. to be among these savage heights and depths, these heaving waves of desolate moor, to have these solitudes above us and these blue shadows so far below us, is to know something of "the strong foundations of the earth." it is with a feeling of anti-climax that we close the gate behind us, and, on a precipitous gradient and no surface worth mentioning, steer slowly down into swaledale. as we cautiously make our way over the stones of this very trying lane, we are confronted with rather a startling notice board: "no road." it seems a little late to tell us that now: they might have mentioned it before we crossed the pass! then it dawns upon us that the amateur hand that traced the letters has sloped the board in the wrong direction. it is really meant to face down the valley, for the discouragement of those who might stray up from swaledale, ignorant of the pass. swaledale, i think, is the most beautiful of all the dales. of course beauty varies with the weather, and distant muker in the hollow of the hills cannot be the same on a colourless, grey day as when it lies in a pool of sunshine. but on any day swaledale must seem, to one who is fresh from the elemental dignity of the pass, to hold a wonderful variety of lovely things: opal hills and soft woods, patches of heather and slopes of fern, fir-trees and feathery birches and clumps of scarlet rowans. there are individual pictures that one remembers as types of the whole. at gunnerside, for instance, where the road crosses the swale, cliffs rise from the stony river-bed, and are crowned with overhanging trees, the banks are smothered in masses of burdock leaves, and the whole scene is encircled by the hills. the road is not very good, and there are some steep pitches between gunnerside and reeth; but it matters little, for who would care to hurry through such a land as this? [illustration: the swale.] it was on the road near low row that john wesley began his preaching in this part of the world, standing on a table by the wayside. a little further on is helaugh, once a gayer place than it is at present. the hills above it have echoed many a time to the winding of the horn, when john of gaunt was lord here and went out to chase the boar. later on these lands belonged to that strange duke of wharton, "the scorn and wonder" of pope's day, who was a whig when it was unfashionable and a jacobite when it became dangerous, who fought against his country and died a monk. "ask you why wharton broke through every rule? 'twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool." at reeth, a fascinating place built on a slope at the mouth of arkengarth dale, we cross the river again, and find a much better road on the other side. between reeth and richmond the swale, flowing softly past its richly wooded banks, is as beautiful as the lower wye. on the further side of it we see the norman tower of marrick priory, where once twelve blackrobed nuns lived only a mile away from their "white-clothid" sisters of ellerton. the nuns of marrick were fortunate, for though they were so few they won a short respite for some unknown reason, and were allowed to stay in their beautiful retreat till the dissolution of the larger monasteries. there are few places in england, i think, that would be easier to love and harder to leave than swaledale. richmond, on its hill, guards the mouth of the valley. this first view of it from swaledale, with the tower of the castle rising slowly into sight, gives no idea at all of the beauty and strength that have made it famous. we only know how richmond has won its name when we see it from below, with the buttressed bridge in the foreground, and the bright waters of the swale reflecting the houses that are clustered at their brink, and the sun-flecked path under the trees, and the roofs, tier above tier, climbing the steep hillside, and above them all--foe of their foes and shelter of their friends--the long curtain-wall and towering keep of the castle. this view of richmond has been praised so much that one fears disappointment. yet one is not disappointed. richmond is not only beautiful: it has that other quality--so much more important than beauty in woman or town--the quality of charm. richmond is lovable. it was the normans who first took advantage of this fine position for a fortress: the saxon owners of the place were the earls of mercia, and had no castle here, for gilling, their headquarters in the north, was only a few miles away. we may dream, if we like, that ethelfled, the soldierly daughter of alfred the great, and godiva, the lady of coventry, visited this place when their husbands were minded to chase the wolf or the boar in this part of their lands. it is possible that they did so: but there is no authentic history of richmond before the time when alan the breton received from his kinsman, william the conqueror, "at the siege before york," a grant of "all the towns and lands which lately belonged to earl edwin in yorkshire." it was this alan who began to build the castle. we may not enter it without permission, for it is now used as barracks; but we can walk up to the gateway at the foot of the great keep and see its buttresses and turrets towering above us; and we can follow the path that surrounds the walls and look at the view that george iv. admired so much. this view of the river from the castle is very pretty, but is by no means comparable to the view of the castle from the river. possibly george iv. fixed his eyes upon the culloden tower among the trees to the right, and was biassed by association. three times this castle wall behind us has imprisoned a king. when five english knights and their men-at-arms made their dashing march to alnwick and captured william the lion of scotland, it was to richmond they brought him; and david bruce, another scottish king, was here nearly two hundred years later; and the third was charles i. legend, indeed, tells us of a fourth king still imprisoned here; for this castle rock is one of the many places wherein king arthur lies asleep with all his knights, awaiting the magic blast upon the horn that shall some day wake him. the breton folk say he waits beneath the island of agalon; the welsh look for him to come forth from among the mountains of glamorganshire. [illustration: richmond.] soon after bruce's imprisonment the castle seems to have fallen into disrepair; and this, i suppose, was the reason that john of gaunt, who was lord of richmond, made his hunting expeditions from helaugh rather than from here. harry of richmond, when he became henry vii., gave this castle of his to his mother, and finding that the "mantill wall" was "in decay of maisone wark," and "all the doyers, wyndoys, and other necessaries," with much beside, were also in decay, he gave orders that the whole should "be new refresshede." though this attractive town possesses much, it has also lost much. once it had a wall--built to keep the scots out--and several gates; but all are gone now, except the postern in friar's wynd, and the old pointed arch of bargate, which we may see from the foot of carnforth hill. gone, too, is the elaborate cross, which, according to all accounts, was an object of beauty in the paved market-place. this is more than can be said for the strange obelisk that has supplanted it. but in this same market-square still stands holy trinity chapel--not beautiful, but very ancient, being that "chapel in richemont toune" which, leland says, had "straung figures in the waulles of it. the people there dreme," he goes on, "that it was ons a temple of idoles." some even dream that this chapel was founded by paulinus, the seventh-century saint, in memory of an occasion when he baptized an enormous number of converts in the swale; but, as bede says the ceremony took place in the river because it was impossible to build oratories "in those parts," this dream is not very credible. it is no dream, i believe, but a fact, that the chapel stands on the site of a danish temple. in its walls there are now no strange figures of "idoles," but some very strange _annexes_ for a chapel. a butcher's shop is wedged between the tower and the nave, and several other shops are built into its side. one of the most notable things here is the grey friars' tower, which we passed on entering the town from swaledale: a peculiarly slender and graceful piece of perpendicular work. like the campanile at evesham, it stands alone because the building of the church connected with it was suddenly brought to an end by the dissolution. the franciscans who had their friary here were mostly put to death or imprisoned for life--yet not for long--because they thought it their duty to obey st. francis rather than henry viii. there are remains of another religious house quite close to richmond. very little is left at easby of the abbey church of st. agatha, but the position of the ruins beside the river is full of quiet charm. those who dwelt here were premonstratensian canons, whose rather confusing order was founded by the german visionary st. norbert, and whose white garments were chosen for them by the virgin herself. they passed to their dormitory through the norman archway with the ornamented mouldings, the last remaining fragment of the original twelfth-century building raised by roald, the constable of richmond. until lately a very decorative tree grew up through this archway and figured in every picture of easby, but it threatened to break down the masonry, and so was sacrificed. it is a sad loss to artists. but the last memorial of roald would have been a loss still sadder, for, even as it is, roald is often forgotten in favour of the scropes, who practically rebuilt st. agatha's. their shield is still over the porch of the parish church, a hundred yards away; their dust lies under the rough sods to the west of the north transept. at wensley we saw the carved sides of what was once their parclose. we finally leave the town by the same road that leads to easby, turning off to the left to join the great roman highway beyond gilling. it was just here, where the roads fork, that the lass of richmond hill lived in the eighteenth century, till she married the writer of the song; and hither, too, to the same hill house, came later songs, greater than macnally's--songs from byron to his future wife, miss milbank. our last view of richmond, from _maison dieu_, is worthy of remembrance. the town is spread before us with all its towers; the slender grey friars' tower, the church, the soaring keep; and in the background of hills is the green gap that means so much to those who have lost their hearts to swaledale. that is behind us now; and on the right is stretched the great green plain of central yorkshire--the plain that divides the western moors from the moors of clevedon and hambledon. somewhere in that plain is the great north road. soon after passing lord zetland's place, aske hall, we drive through the wide street of gilling, the little village of gardens, where there is nothing left, except a few saxon stones, to remind us that the great earls of mercia made it one of their capitals till alan of brittany laid it waste. a little way beyond it we turn a sharp corner and are on the roman road. after speeding along this for some minutes it is interesting to look back and see the amazing straightness of the white streak that stretches away behind the car and disappears over the crest of the hill. the scenery is dull at first; but presently a new line of moors and dales appears on the horizon, and the roadway itself is shaded with trees and fringed with grass and flowers. meantime the surface is enough in itself to make a motorist happy. the car glides up the slope of a little bridge; we pass a screen of trees; and the extreme beauty of the greta is revealed with a suddenness that is almost startling. this bridge with the stone parapet is the famous greta bridge; this is the stream painted by turner and sung by scott; there by the roadside are the gates of rokeby. "oh, brignall banks are fresh and fair, and greta woods are green!" brignall banks are not in sight, but here are greta woods--intensely green--flinging their branches across the river till they meet and interlace in an archway over the clear water and the yellow stones. [illustration: greta bridge.] at the northern limit of rokeby park we must leave the highway. there is a road here that is not marked on bartholomew's map--a road that turns to the right and leads to mortham tower, and the dairy bridge, and the meeting of the greta and the tees. the "battled tower" of mortham is now inhabited; we may not see the bloodstains on the stairs; but from a little distance the fifteenth-century peel and the tudor buildings that surround it make a pretty group. below the grassy knoll on which it stands the greta dashes down between its overshadowing banks and veiling foliage to join the quieter, statelier tees. the beauty of this place is really haunting. sir walter scott has described every inch of it in "rokeby," with complete accuracy if with no great inspiration. for the wild sweetness of this spot is not such as can be put into words. it is a place of enchantment, where the spell-bound poet can only stammer helplessly, and the plain man for a moment feels himself a poet. returning to the main road, we follow the wooded tees to barnard castle. for miles the river is as we saw it at the meeting of the waters, darkly shadowed by trees and bound by rocky banks; more beautiful in itself than wharfe or swale, though flowing through a valley that cannot be compared to the other dales except at its head: but there, i think, excelling them all. through the greater part of teesdale the beauty of the river is so closely confined to its banks that we only catch a glimpse of it now and then, when actually crossing the stream. one of these glimpses we have from the toll-bridge just below eggleston abbey, where we cross for a few minutes into the county of durham. the ruins of the abbey are visible through the trees, standing on a grassy hill upon the yorkshire bank of the river. [illustration: the dairy bridge.] at barnard castle--which is not a very attractive town at first sight, and is sorely disfigured by its portentous museum--we again cross the tees into yorkshire, near the point where the familiar towers of the baliols' ruined fortress stand high above the river on their cliff. this commanding position was granted to the norman guy de baliol by rufus, and guy's son bernard raised on it the castle that was forfeited by his descendant. this bernard was no friend to the throne on which the later baliol sat, for he was the most zealous of the five knights who captured william of scotland and took him to richmond castle. when the enterprise seemed about to fail, it was bernard who cried: "if you should all turn back, i would go on alone!" a little more than a hundred years later john baliol, king of scotland, was rashly refusing to be at the beck and call of the english king. "has the fool done this folly?" asked edward. "if he will not come to us we will come to him!" so john lost his crown, and barnard castle saw the baliols no more. it was given to the nevilles, and so with many other things fell into the capacious hands of richard iii., who actually lived here for a time, and has left his symbol, the wild boar, upon the oriel window. there is one gracious memory that makes these towers sacred. the ruined halls are haunted by the presence of that gentle and sad lady who was the widow of one john baliol and the mother of another--devorgilla, daughter of kings, foundress of baliol college, and in her endless sorrow the builder of dulce cor. when her husband died she "had his dear heart embalmed and enshrined in a coffer of ivory, enamelled and bound with silver bright, which was placed before her daily in her hall as her sweet, silent companion." it was here at bernard castle that she chiefly lived with that silent companion, until the noble shrine of stone was ready to receive the ivory coffer; it was here she lived on alone, till she too died and was carried out to be buried in sweetheart abbey, with john baliol's "dear heart" upon her breast. of the two roads to middleton-in-teesdale the one on the durham side is the best as regards both surface and scenery; but the greater number of those who drive up teesdale will return to barnard castle before going on their way to the north or crossing yorkshire to the coast, and will probably prefer to drive up the valley by one road and come down it again on the other. on the yorkshire side there is nothing very striking. lartington is pretty, and gay with flowers; cotherstone still has a fragment of the fitzhughs' castle in a field above the river; romaldkirk has an interesting church. beyond mickleton we cross the lune, which is a miniature copy of the tees, with the same rocky bed and the same close screen of overarching boughs. a few minutes later we cross the tees itself and are in middleton. the road from middleton to high force is surprisingly populous. here among the hills, where the fields are yielding to moorland, and the river flows under bare crags, one expects a certain amount of loneliness; yet here is a broad and civilised highway, with all the character of a road near some large town. the scenery, however, is wild enough; and more beautiful than anything we have seen. beyond the river--open now to the sky, no longer veiled by trees--rise the moors, piled high, fold upon fold, grand in outline and glorious in colour, green and purple and crimson. a wood by the wayside blots out river and hills for a moment; then suddenly through a gap we see high force. looking down from the road we see it as a picture framed in trees: the solid wall of rock, the leap of the foaming waters, the cloud of spray, the fir-trees with their spires against the sky, the crimson moors beyond. that white torrent is the boundary of the county, the crown and climax of the beauty of yorkshire, and our last and most perfect memory of the dales. [illustration: high force.] the coast summary of tour along the coast distances. yarm saltburn 21 miles whitby 21 " scarborough 25 " total 67 miles roads hills very steep and frequent near coast. surface usually good. [illustration: the cliff, staithes.] ii the coast when one is approaching the coast of yorkshire from the north, the important thing is to avoid the manufacturing towns of stockton and middlesbrough. this can be done by crossing the tees at yarm, and joining the splendid road that runs so straightly from this point to the sea. those who have come from the dales will notice at once, even in yarm, how greatly the houses here differ from the houses of the west. in that fair land the buildings, both small and great, have the character common to moorland buildings: they are stern and sturdy and grey; made not to please the eye, but to endure the buffetings of wind and rain. but these houses of the plain, it seems, do their best to provide the beauty that is lacking in scenery. they are warm and picturesque, red and tiled and gabled, a feature in the landscape. the wide street of yarm, with its trees and grass and pretty buildings, has almost a foreign air. beyond it is the straight road with the magnificent surface. the views from this road, to right and left, are rather striking, each in its own way. on the left the scene is not beautiful, yet not without romance--the romance that is hidden under so much that is ugly. that long, long line of tall chimneys and distant masts, that cloud of smoke that darkens all the sky, are symbols of the spirit of adventure, of the love of enterprise, of untiring progress, of belief in the future; for surely the history of our commerce has included all these things. it was from stockton that the first railway in the world ran to darlington; and in middlesbrough many of our merchant ships are built. eighty years ago about a hundred people lived there: to-day there are a hundred thousand under that black pall. to the right of us is an equally long line of another sort--the line of the cleveland moors. the curious excrescence of roseberry topping is conspicuous from the first, and even at this distance the monument to captain cook is visible on the hillside. for it was in the little village of marton, through which we pass on our way to guisborough, that james cook was born, and learnt his lessons in the village school when not employed in scaring crows. roseberry topping, at first sight, looks like a huge tumulus. "it is the landmark that directs sailers, and a prognostick to the neighbours hereabouts." the view from its summit has been described by many writers, with degrees of enthusiasm varying from the "most agreeable prospect" of camden to the ardour of another traveller, who declared that "there you may see a vewe the like whereof i never saw, or thinke that any traveller hath seene any comparable unto yt." a certain discreet author, quoting these words a hundred years ago, says gravely: "accurate observation and comparison forbid us to ratify this assertion in its full extent." the base of roseberry topping is largely composed of alum. in the reign of elizabeth some alum works were set up at guisborough, but were solemnly cursed by the pope. his holiness, it transpired, was himself the owner of some alum works. the actual streets of guisborough are not attractive, but seen from a distance the general effect of the little place is rather charming. it lies in a valley with the hills of cleveland behind it, and towering above it is the great east window of its priory, bereft so entirely of tracery that it has the air of some stately gateway. this lovely fragment, this graceful window with its pinnacles and crockets, is all, except a norman gateway, that is left of the burial-place of the english bruces--the once rich and famous augustinian priory whose buildings covered acres of ground, and whose prior "kept a most pompous house." at least two churches that have stood upon this spot were destroyed by fire, but it was not fire that caused this final destruction; not, as in one of the other cases, the conduct of "a vile plumber with a wicked disposition"; not even primarily the zeal of henry viii.'s commissioner; but the vandalism of one chaloner, who bought it and hacked it to pieces. it was he who built the alum works that were so distasteful to the pope, and it is quite possible that some of the stones of this gothic masterpiece were used for the purpose. if this were the case, one could forgive the pope for his methods of carrying on business. at skelton, over there on the hill, lived the bruces of the english branch, who founded the priory. margaret tudor, daughter of henry vii. and wife of james iv. of scotland, raised a splendid cenotaph here to her husband's ancestors, the bruces of annandale and skelton, only a short time before her brother made the place desolate for ever. the cenotaph was moved to the parish church, and was broken up in the eighteenth century. until quite lately pieces of it were scattered in various parts of the church and priory, but it has now been restored with great care and set up near the west door of the church, with all its statues of scottish and english bruces except that of the greatest bruce of all. king robert's figure, it is believed, was on the west end that has long been lost. there is some fine old glass in this church, and a modern window of exceptional beauty. guisborough is not a place to stay in; but only six miles away is saltburn with all its hotels. the short drive thither is pretty, and close to the wayside on the right is upleatham church, the smallest used for services in england, with a miniature tower and a nave about fifteen feet long. saltburn is a rising watering-place, and has probably a gay future before it, for it has many charms for those who like plenty of breezes and bathing-boxes. it must have been a lovely spot when it was quiet, for its deep green dell ends in a fine cliff, below which the sea ripples over a many-coloured foreshore. the zetland hotel faces these things. [illustration: the quay, staithes.] from saltburn we may drive across to brotton, or may take the longer way by skelton, passing near the castle. this is now a house dating obviously from the eighteenth century; but i believe there are among its offices some slight remains of the castle of the bruces--the castle that was, long after their day, the scene of much revelry on the part of its owner john hall and his familiars. among these was laurence sterne. "its festive board," says a georgian writer, "was attended by many of the literati of the age. where genius and talent were blended in so close union we cannot but imagine that the feast of reason and the flow of soul were happily realised." according to authentic accounts the feast and the flow--not of reason nor of soul--made the place a perfect pandemonium. beyond brotton the fine outline of boulby cliff rises before us, marred by the huge ironworks that disfigure so many places in cleveland. loftus and easington are uninteresting; but a couple of miles after passing through the latter we dip into a lovely little tree-clad valley--one of the many green gorges that run down, "between the heather and the northern sea," with tumbling becks hurrying through them. we climb out of this one on a stiff gradient, and in another moment are looking down on staithes. at the top of the hill that leads down into staithes there is a little railway inn. here it is advisable to leave the car, for the hill is exceedingly steep, and there is no place in the tiny fishing town itself where a car may find shelter. visitors, in fact, are not encouraged. if, seeking food, you ring at a door that seems to offer hope, you are recommended to try elsewhere. yet the day will surely come when a large hotel will rise upon the hill, and lodging-houses will grow up round it, and we shall hear of the "upper" and "lower" towns, the new town and the old, and staithes will be spoilt. meantime a cup of tea may be had at the railway inn, which, though homely, is extremely clean. [illustration: the harbour, staithes.] long ago james cook, a little shop-boy hungry for the sea, ran away from staithes. one marvels that any one could steel his heart to leave it. but to little james, hitherto occupied in the scaring of crows, mr. sanderson's shop under the hill was merely the gate of a wonderful new world, and he hardly hesitated before passing through it to his adventurous life and death; to the heights of montcalm and the depths of hitherto unsounded waters, and finally to the knives of the south seas. even here, it is plain, he was dreaming of the south seas. some sailor brought a south sea shilling to staithes and cook, seeing it in his master's till, was seized by the romance of it and changed it for a more prosaic coin. the transaction was suspicious in the eyes of sanderson, and though he was sorry for his mistake when he understood it, james indignantly left him. staithes is dear to every artist who has ever looked upon its streets and quays, and indeed to every one who has an eye for pictorial effect. the deep valley that we crossed a few minutes ago ends here at the sea in two cliffs, and between them the town is wedged. the narrow paved street winds down to the shore, where little quays are washed by the waves, and little cottages cling to the cliff for shelter, and boats are drawn up on the beach. at the river's mouth, under the other cliff, hosts of seagulls whirl about the rocks or float upon the water; but most deplorably the picturesque wooden bridge that has figured in so many works of art is now replaced by an unsightly iron girder. staithes is a place apart. in this deep gully, hidden from land and sea, one seems to be worlds away from ordinary english life. even the people are picturesque; the women and little girls in pink or lilac sunbonnets and gay aprons, and the men and boys in dark blue knitted jerseys. every group of children, every ancient mariner, every pretty girl in a doorway, is as decorative as a peasant in the chorus of an operetta. [illustration: runswick bay.] this coast is indented with bays. runswick, only a few miles away, may be seen by making a short digression from hinderwell--more correctly hilda's well--where there is a holy well named in honour of the saintly abbess of whitby. runswick bay is sheltered on every side by hills. a long low headland sweeps round it on the south, with a strip of sandy beach following the line of the land, and beyond the sand a curving line of surf. on the nearer side a cliff protects a cluster of red-tiled houses, and on the summit of this cliff the car must be left while we walk down the winding path. it is only from below that the pretty grouping of the village can be seen. in the tourist season this bay is rather thickly populated, and as the place cannot accommodate more than a few of its admirers, the fields near the shore are dotted with the tents of the resolute. but there must be times when this lovely haven is a haven of peace. it is from the hill above lythe that we first see the whitby cliff in the distance, with the abbey standing up against the sky. the coast and its long line of surf are before us, and on the right are the trees of mulgrave park. the present castle of mulgrave is modern, but there are still some ruins to be seen of the old fortress of the saxon giant, wada, and of the norman fossards and mediæval mauleys, and of the seventeenth-century president of the north, lord sheffield. it was one of the seven peters of the house of de malo-lacu, or mauley, who beautified the castle so greatly to his own satisfaction that he called it moult grace. "but because it became a grievance to the neighbours thereabouts, the people (who have always the right of coining words), by changing one single letter, called it moult grave, by which name it is everywhere known." both its grace and its seriousness were wiped away by the time the civil war was done. the hill that leads from lythe to the coast is nearly a mile long, and has gradients varying from 1 in 7 to 1 in 12. at the foot of it is sandsend, as near to the sea as a place can stand. here are the mouths of two little green valleys, each with its own little beck and each with its own little village. the villages, the old and the new, sandsend and new row, are very tiny indeed, but there is a good hotel between them, within reach of the salt spray, and houses are being busily built. the place is about to be fashionable, i think, and indeed it has charms, with the deep, green sides of the gorge at the back of it, and the sea foaming at its doors. for the greater part of our way from sandsend to whitby we are on a private road, with a toll of one shilling. there are several sharp curves upon it, with "special caution" notices, and the sides of the gully at upgang are very steep. [illustration: whitby abbey.] whitby, fifty or a hundred years ago, before the raucous cries of steam merry-go-rounds disturbed the ghost of cædmon or grinning aunt sallies stood beside the abbey cross, must have been the loveliest town in england. even now it is bewitching. the old town and the new are separated by the long harbour, with its crowd of gaily painted cobles, its quays, its rows of nets hung out to dry; and so, from the windows of the royal hotel on the one cliff, one can look across the water at the other cliff, and the old houses closely packed upon the slope, the red-tiled roofs, the high-pitched gables, the queer passages; and raised high above these the grassy hilltop, the long, low church, the sloping graveyard where mary linskill lies, the tall grey cross of cædmon. crowning all stands the ruined abbey on its height. a long flight of steps winds up the steep hillside from the harbour to the abbey, skirting the churchyard; and from this distance, in the dusk of evening, the stream of dark figures climbing endlessly might well be blackrobed pilgrims. [illustration: whitby harbour.] the tall gables of whitby abbey on its bare and desolate cliff are known to us in countless pictures. we are prepared for the general effect of wild stateliness, the turrets against the sky, the wind-swept height, the whirling seabirds; but the beauty of the architecture is a surprise to some of us--the slender lancets, the rich triforium and trefoiled arches, the rose window, and all the wealth of ornament. the ruins of the tower lie where they fell, a mass of _débris_ overgrown with grass and weeds. here under the grey-brown walls, which are crumbled and bitten by the salt wind like a cliff against which the spray has dashed for centuries, we may sit and remember the saints and kings who came to this place when our history was young. it is not of the actual builders of these arches that we chiefly think. hundreds of years before their day a monastery stood here, whose fame has always overshadowed this later one. this is the story of it:-in the seventh century king oswy of northumbria and king penda of the mercians were at war. in vain oswy offered conciliatory gifts: penda would have none of them. "if that pagan," cried the exasperated oswy, "refuses to receive our gifts we will offer them to the lord, who knows how to accept them!" so he vowed, if he defeated the "wicked king," to dedicate his baby daughter to the cloister and give sites for twelve monasteries. this bleak cliff, then called streaneshalch, the bay of the lighthouse, was one of the sites he gave when he had killed penda, "that destroyer of his neighbours and fomenter of hostility," as william of malmesbury calls him; and on it a monastery was built by the royal and saintly abbess hilda, "whom all that knew her called mother, for her singular piety and grace." here she ruled for many years, teaching peace and charity, training holy men--st. wilfrid of ripon, st. john of beverley--and even conquering snakes and birds, it was said. important things took place here during her rule. it was here that the great synod was held concerning the keeping of easter, when st. wilfrid quoted st. peter and colman quoted columba till king oswy closed the discussion by saying, "peter is an officer whom i am not disposed to contradict ... lest when i come to the doors of the kingdom of heaven there may be no one to open them to me." and it was here, somewhere within a stone's throw of this actual spot, that cædmon, the lay-brother, the herdsman "who did not learn the art of poetry from man but from god," stood before st. hilda in the presence of learned men, and told his vision and recited the verses that were the first english poem. "and his song and his verse were so winsome to hear, that his teachers themselves wrote and learned from his mouth." it was somewhere close at hand, too, that this earliest of our poets lay down to die in the infirmary, "conversing pleasantly in a joyful manner." "i am in charity, my children," he said, "with all the servants of god." then he crossed himself, "laid his head on the pillow, and falling into a slumber, ended his life so in silence." st. hilda herself, "whose life was a bright example to all who desired to live well," died and was buried here, but her bones were afterwards taken to glastonbury. the dust of her successor, however--that princess elfleda whom oswy dedicated to the religious life when he defeated penda--lies somewhere very near this spot, within the abbey church itself, with that of the king her father, and her mother, queen eanfled. and down there on the slope, where the old cross stands, was the graveyard of the monks and in it the grave of cædmon. [illustration: whitby abbey. interior.] in the ninth century came the sons of lothbroc the dane, hinguar and hubba, "men of terrible obstinacy and unheard-of valour." flying the invincible standard which their sisters had made with their own hands, they landed on this coast and utterly destroyed the monastery of streaneshalch. for two hundred years this spot lay desolate. then reinfrid the soldier saw it, and was "pricked to the heart." he became a monk of evesham, and after long years came back to streaneshalch--by that time also called "hwiteby"--to carry on the traditions of the past. he began the work of raising the new abbey on the site of the old; but it was those who came after him who built that early english chancel, and carved the lilies of the north transept, and made the decorated window through which we see the church, and the bluff headlands, and the white teeth of the north sea for ever biting at the cliff. there is no need to return to the town, for we can join the high-road to scarborough at a point not far from here. by going a few miles out of the direct route we may see another of the sheltered bays that make this coast so beautiful; the bay where long ago, it is said, a fleet of fishing-boats was always ready to carry robin hood and his merry men to safety. robin hood's butts, on the further side of the bay, are supposed to have been used as targets for his bowmen by that "most kind and obliging robber," as a sixteenth-century writer calls him. a long, steep hill leads down into the little town, which lies on the northern side of the crescent bay; the old town with its red houses clustered in the shelter of the cliff, its walls washed by the spray; the new town higher up the slope. there, below us, is the quay where john wesley so often preached. it was there that he received--not without seeing the humour of it--the sailor's remonstrance against the theory that the fear of death could only be overcome by the fear of god. the sailor evidently felt that his reputation was at stake. [illustration: whitby church, from the abbey.] this lower and most romantic part of bay town is far the most attractive, but even the upper town is not unpleasing, though it has several little hotels, and threatens to develop into a watering-place. there is a road that leads out of the valley on the further side, but it is extremely bad in every way, and it is practically imperative to return as we came. soon after regaining the high-road we climb slowly up to the moors. looking back we can still see the cleft in the hills where whitby's red houses are hidden, and the headlands beyond it, and the stately abbey on the cliff. before us there is a run so entrancing, a feast of colour so deeply satisfying, that these moors of cleveland must henceforward, i think, be the standard by which we appraise all moorland runs. the road lies visible in front of us for miles: at times so straight that the telegraph wires are foreshortened till the posts are hardly distinguishable one from another; at other times winding in serpentine curves into the far distance. on each side of us, from the wheels of the hurrying car to the horizon, stretches the heather. here and there is a patch of bracken, now and then a strip of yellow grass; but it is heather that makes the landscape, that flings its imperial robes over the hills and nestles under the wayside stones, that satisfies the eye and rests the heart with its astonishing beauty. miles of road fly under us; we glide up and we dart down; now we dip into a ferny dell and climb out of it again, now we cross a stony beck, now we pass a plantation of firs; but still the setting is heather, deep bell-heather and pale ling, purple and crimson and mauve, sweeping away till the colours are merged in blue. bluest of all is the sea, which appears now and then in a triangle of sapphire at the end of a glen. on the shores of that blue sea, a couple of miles to our left, is ravenscar, which takes its name from the raven standard of the sons of danish lothbroc, who landed here when they came to devastate st. hilda's abbey. such at least is the tradition. [illustration: whitby harbour.] gradually, and most reluctantly, we leave these shining heights for the lower world. the heather gives way to fields; the road is again bounded by respectable stone walls. we pass claughton, then run down a steep hill between trees. beyond these fir-trees, which rise up like walls on each side of the road, scarborough appears--a dim mass of red blurred with smoke--and its castle lifted high above it on the headland. "the toune stondith hole on a slaty clife," says leland, "and shoith very fair to the se side." how very fair this place must have been one can easily imagine, when there was nothing here but the picturesque town of a tudor day, and the "exceding goodly larg and strong castelle on a stepe rok," and the "paroche chirch of our lady joyning almost to the castelle," and the "3 howsis of freres, grey, blake, and white," and the sea-wall made by richard iii., "now yn ruine by the se rage," and the "peere whereby socour is made for shippes," which, when leland saw it, was "sore decayid." the town was partly walled then, too, and had two gates, one "meatley good," and one "very base." only one or two of all these things are left, and even they are now as sore decayed as was the pier of henry viii.'s time. yet scarborough is still exceeding fair; so fair that it overcomes all one's prejudices against popular watering-places; fair even in spite of huge hotels and a beach black with people, and rows of ice-cream stalls, and braying bands, and hoarse hurdy-gurdies, and all kinds of music. it is built at the junction of two bays, between which the castle juts out on "a rock of wonderful height and bigness, inaccessible by reason of steep craggs almost on every side." into both of these bays the north sea sweeps, even upon the calmest day, in mighty curves of frothing surf. below the castle is a little sheltered harbour, where a crowd of fishing-boats and smacks is protected from the "se rage" by breakwaters. quite lately a wide road with an embankment has been built from bay to bay round the base of the castle promontory. those who have loved the rough rocks that once were here feel naturally that this new drive spoils the beauty of the place. but, after all, scarborough is not designed for lovers of wild nature. the mischief was done here long ago. the new drive is a boon to thousands who have to take their pleasure in bath-chairs, and in this place of esplanades and lawn-tennis court and smart clothes a little more artificiality is no great grievance. [illustration: robin hood's bay.] from very early days this rock has been fortified. in the heimskringla, i believe, those who can may read how harald the norseman landed near the strong fortress of skardaburg, and how he and his men climbed the hill behind the town and made a mighty bonfire; then, with pitchforks, flung the burning faggots down among the wooden houses. "there the northmen killed many people." the present castle was originally built by william le gros, one of the heroes of the battle of the standard, who "increased the natural strength of the place by a very costly work." henry iii. in his fear of his barons ordered it to be destroyed, and when its owner demurred came to destroy it himself. when he saw the costly work, however, he bethought him of another destiny for it. he made it a little stronger and kept it himself. [illustration: moors between whitby and scarborough.] scarborough castle has never yielded except to guile or famine. when piers gaveston, the silly favourite of a silly king, took refuge here from the barons who were tired of his wit and his insulting nicknames, it was famine that made him surrender himself and his ill-gotten goods--crown jewels and all--to warwick, "the black dog," and pembroke, "the jew." the great douglas, by the english named the "black" and by the scots the "good," the guardian of the bruce's heart and the hero of seventy fights, attacked scarborough castle in vain; and more than two hundred years later robert aske and his pilgrims of grace, though they took the town, failed to make any impression whatever upon the fortress. there was a certain market-day in mary's reign, however, when a party of peasants strolled up this castle hill, and without any ado were allowed to pass with their wares between those round towers which we still may see, and over the two draw-bridges, and past the keep into the castle bailey. perhaps the sentinels were a little surprised at the number of peasants who came to sell butter and eggs that day, but they were certainly more surprised when they saw their castle in the hands of thomas stafford and the rest of the smocked rebels. the masquerade cost stafford his life, and did his cause no good at all. twice again was scarborough castle attacked, both times in the civil war, both times by the army of the parliament. it was during the first of these sieges that the church--the "paroche chirch joyning almost to the castelle"--lost its chancel. there are still gaunt fragments of it standing like pillars in the churchyard, as we may see. the choir was turned into a battery, but received more hurt than it gave before the castle yielded at last to starvation so terrible that some of the garrison were carried out in sheets. then a parliament-man was put in as governor, but as he shortly afterwards declared for the king the siege began again. the parliament took no more risks. when they had retaken it, and dealt with it as their manner was, scarborough castle was no longer very redoubtable. its state of disrepair was a cause of much discomfort to poor george fox a few years later; for this dilapidated building was one of his many prisons, and he found it far from weather-proof. the home-made suit of leather that impressed carlyle so much--"the one continuous including case"--must have been worn out by this time, i think, for the wetness of his clothes was one of the great quaker's most constant afflictions. when the smoky chimney prompted him to tax the roman catholic governor with sending him to purgatory he was put into a room that had no fireplace at all. "being to the sea-side," he says of it, "and lying much open, the wind drove in the rain forcibly, so that the water came over my bed and ran about the room, that i was fain to skim it up with a platter." here he received distinguished visitors, and argued about the pope's infallibility with as much spirit as ever. the maimed church that stands below the castle on the slope is not now so imposing as once it was, but it is still a fine building and has four chantries. in its shadow lies anne brontë. from the road leading to the castle gate, at a point near the fountain, one may see by looking over the wall of the churchyard the upright stone that bears her name. when she was dying, her sister charlotte, with the desperate hope of those who despair, brought her to scarborough, whose bay and headlands gave her the last pleasure she had. "it made her happy," wrote charlotte, "to see scarborough and its bay once more.... our lodgings are pleasant, as anne sits at the window she can look down on the sea." chiefly old churches summary of tour in mid-yorkshire distances. scarborough helmsley, _viâ_ hackness and lastingham 41 miles (rievaulx and back 6 " ) york, _viâ_ sheriff hutton and kirkham 36 " - total 83 miles roads. no very serious hills except at rievaulx. surface: main roads excellent; by-roads poor. iii chiefly old churches it is hard to turn away from the sea so soon. if we find it too hard to bear we may stay at scarborough for a couple of nights, and, taking a short run down the coast, may see filey, and the white cliffs of flamborough, and the beautiful priory church of bridlington, in a few hours. then we can turn westwards with less discontent, especially if we make a short _détour_ by scalby, hackness, and the forge valley. hackness lies in a nest of trees. every road that leads to it is lovely. as we run down through glades and woods to this sheltered, still retreat, this green bower of sweeping boughs, it is easy to understand how deeply restful it must have seemed to st. hilda of whitby and to the monks of a later day. hilda founded the tiny community here, and made it a cell of her own great abbey, hoping, perhaps, to come here herself sometimes when she was tired of living in the teeth of the wind. the little grey church, wrapped and hidden in the trees, is partly norman, partly early english, but has various relics in it belonging to the saxon life of hilda's nunnery: a broken cross or pillar inscribed with runes, and a saxon stone built into a norman arch. a tablet on the wall tells how "the lady hilda of royal descent did for the sake of security and retirement establish a nunnery or cell for 8 nuns at hackness." the fortunes of the place rose and fell with those of its parent abbey, for when whitby was destroyed by the danes in the ninth century, hackness, too, was utterly wiped out. then came the norman revival. but "thieves and robbers coming out of the forests and dens where they lurked, carried away all the monks' substance, and laid that holy place--whitby abbey--desolate. in like manner pirates, void of all compassion, landing there, came and plundered the monastery." so the monks' benefactor, william de percy, gave them this retreat, already sacred to the memory of their great predecessor, where, like her, they might find security and retirement. even to-day those priceless boons are to be found at hackness. even on an august afternoon, when the forge valley may almost be described as crowded, there are security and retirement in the green nest at hackness. two miles of moderately pretty country lie between these two places. we see the thick woods before us like a wall across the landscape, and the archway of trees that spans the road is the gate into the forge valley. this little glen is too famous for its own good; but not a word of its fame is undeserved. in the early morning it must be quite perfect in its own gentle way, with its little river winding under the trees beside the road, and the grassy banks, and the cool woods rising on each side, and the paths that leave the wayside and disappear alluringly into the shadows. but in the afternoon of a summer's day, when the grass is strewn with bowler hats, and every birch-tree is the background of a family group, flight is best. the flight is quite a short one, for the valley is on a miniature scale. at its mouth, in a field beside the derwent, is the ruin that was once ayton castle, a shattered tower that seems to have had many owners in turn, attons and st. johns and euers and cliffords, and was no doubt very useful in defending the narrow defile through which we have just driven. it came to the cliffords with margaret bromflete, who was descended from one of the attons, and was the wife of clifford the butcher. this was the lady clifford who saved her son's life by sending him away into hiding when the cause of the red rose seemed altogether lost: so this fragment of masonry is probably one of the many castles that were restored to the shepherd lord when henry vii. became king. it is a place after the shepherd's own heart, for in his day no doubt the valley of the forge was as peaceful as hackness. indeed, only a hundred years ago, a writer described the neighbourhood of ayton as "grotesquely rural." the beauty of the scenery ends rather suddenly as we drive through the two aytons, east and west, and go on our way to pickering. however, the road is level and has an excellent surface, and if the landscape is a little dull the villages are pretty. we pass through a series of them, all more or less alike and all built mainly of grey stone, for we are near the moors. on the outskirts of brompton is gallows hill, whence, from her brother's farm, "the phantom of delight," mary hutchinson, came out one autumn morning to marry wordsworth in the church whose spire rises on our left. with the bridegroom was dorothy, a little sad-hearted we may guess; and with the "perfect woman" was her sister joanna, that "wild-hearted" girl who found her brother-in-law's "dear friendships with the streams and groves" so comical that her laughter on the subject once raised echoes from all the hills of grasmere. the church in which this wedding took place is interesting for its own sake, and contains, i have read, a memorial to a sixteenth-century soldier, "who in wars to his greit charges sarved oin kyng and tow quenes with du obediens and died without recumpens." i did not see this, but quote it for the sake of those who collect curious epitaphs.[5] beyond brompton the road skirts ebberston and allerston, and passes through thornton-le-dale, where a stream of some size runs by the wayside from end to end of the village, and an old cross stands among flowers. this village has a name for beauty, and like some other beauties takes a little too much pains to keep that reputation. it is certainly a pretty village, but it has rather a self-conscious air. pickering is about two miles away. pickering is not particularly beautiful, but its ruined castle, and above all its wonderful church, should certainly be seen, for one rarely finds a church whose relics represent so many dates. the font is saxon, the pulpit chippendale, and between these two extremes of craftsmanship--the roughly hewn stone and the delicately chiselled wood--are the fourteenth-century tombs and the fifteenth-century frescoes, and the elizabethan chest. when leland was here he saw and noted this figure of sir william bruce, and the "cantuarie bering his name," and that other effigy, of alabaster, with the "garland about his helmet," which represents sir david roucliffe and no bruce, though leland calls him one. of these strange frescoes above our heads, which make the special fame of pickering church, there is no word in leland's record. possibly these pictured saints and virtues--st. christopher and st. george and the corporal acts of mercy--were so often to be seen in churches of his day that they did not call for comment, or it may be that they were already hidden under the thick coat of plaster that covered them for hundreds of years. they were discovered in the middle of the nineteenth century, and promptly whitewashed without fear or favour. the most elaborate of the pictures is the feast of herod, which shows that king dressed in mediæval garments suggestive of mrs. markham's history, while john the baptist is being horribly beheaded in the corner. the remains of the castle are above the town; but the names of rosamund's tower and the devil's are more romantic than their appearance, and the inevitable lawn-tennis court can be more easily forgiven here than in the baileys of more beautiful ruins. this castle belonged to the house of lancaster, and therefore in his day to that lancaster, "the actor," whom piers gavestone in his last moments besought for mercy, the lancaster who so shortly afterwards was crying "have mercy on me, king of heaven!" when his turn came to be beheaded. it belonged, too, to the "time-honoured lancaster" whose son imprisoned richard ii. for a little while within these very walls. all the prisons, it seems, to which henry iv. committed richard--knaresborough, pickering, pontefract--were his own lancastrian castles, and at henry's accession, of course, became crown property. this one, which held for the king in the civil war, still belongs to the duchy of lancaster. not many miles from pickering, at the very brink of the moors, is a village whose name is familiar to lovers of old buildings and students of church history, and whose charms of seclusion and quietness are so endearing that even the unlearned are likely to think of it again and again with affection. i do not think "excursions" ever go to lastingham. there is nothing there to attract those who visit a sacred ruin to play games in its aisles, or to sit on the high altar till it becomes necessary to enclose it with a railing, or to photograph their _fiancées_ under its arches. these are only drawn by a famous name. the fame of lastingham is hidden in a few ancient books, and in the works of archæologists, and in the memories of those who have sought peace and found it there. to reach it we must turn to the right a couple of miles beyond pickering, and drive by winding ways and on rather an indifferent surface to the foot of the moors. it is at cropton that the moors first come into sight. the scenery has been uninteresting since we left the forge valley, and it is with all the more delight that we suddenly, at a turn of the road, find the landscape filled with colour and warmth and beauty, with hills green in the foreground and gloriously crimson against the sky. the road curves and twists and curves again, as though hunting for lastingham among the little valleys. it seems to be altogether lost, and then suddenly we find it. about twelve hundred and fifty years ago, when its history began, it was not so easily found. ethelwald, king of the deiri, wished to have a monastery in his own northumbrian country--some peaceful spot to which, when he had a mind, he might retire for prayer and quietness during his life, and in which he might be buried when he died. so he summoned to him that "holy, wise, and good man," cedd, bishop of the east angles and brother of st. chad, and offered him a piece of land. cedd "chose himself a place among craggy and distant mountains which looked like lurking-places for robbers ... to the end that the fruits of good works should spring up where before beasts were wont to dwell, or men to live after the manner of beasts." such is bede's rather overdrawn description of this green hollow among the rounded hills; yet some say that bede visited the place himself. having chosen the spot it was necessary "to cleanse the place for the monastery from former crimes," so cedd and his brother cynebil kept between them a forty days' fast upon that little knoll where the church stands, uplifted above the village. there the monastery rose, and thither the bishop often came to see that all was well. once he came at a time "when there was a mortality there," and, catching the epidemic, he died. and so it happens that the dust of this saxon saint lies beneath the crypt of lastingham church. [illustration: the village of lastingham.] cedd's brother, the famous chad, to whom so many churches are dedicated, succeeded him as abbot, and was often here. in connection with him bede tells a poetical story of a monk of lastingham. oswini was a practical man, and felt himself unfitted for the contemplative life, yet greatly longed to renounce the world. so "quitting all he had"--he had been a queen's prime minister--he came to st. chad here on this little hill, and, pointing to the hatchet and axe that he had brought in his hand, put himself and them at the service of the monks. so while the others prayed brother oswini worked. and it was he, the humble worker with his hands, and not the monks upon their knees in the church, who heard the voices of the heavenly choir. he was "doing such things as were necessary" in the house when, "on a sudden," as he afterwards said, "he heard the voice of persons singing most sweetly and rejoicing, and appearing to descend from heaven." this sound of singing surged round the oratory where chad was at prayer, then returned to heaven, "the way it came, with inexpressible sweetness." none heard it but the saint and the man of labour. chad knew the meaning of it. "they were angelic spirits," he said, "who came to call me to my heavenly reward, which i have always longed after." seven days later, says the historian, the bishop died. this gate and path will lead us to the knoll where all these things happened, except the actual death of chad. here brother oswini worked and heard the angels sing: here cedd fasted and died. here in this little crypt, which we reach through the strange walled opening in the nave, his dust lies on the right of the altar. some say that these saxon stones with the fishes and dragons carved upon them have been here ever since the days of cedd; but the sturdy piers and vaulted ceiling of the miniature chapel are, of course, norman. they, and the apse above them, were probably the work of those monks of whitby who founded the abbey of st. mary at york, and seem to have paused here for ten years on their way thither. the street by which we entered lastingham winds down the slope to the foot of the hollow; on the right of it is the restored well of st. cedd in its stone basin. the heather of the huge cleveland moors is hardly more than a stone's-throw distant; and high upon the hill that overlooks the site of the saxon monastery is a cross, not ancient, but very striking in this place. the tiny inn is close under the church. it is extremely small, and of the homeliest kind; but i think that any one who is not daunted by the simple life--the _very_ simple life, be it plainly understood--will carry away pleasant memories of the quietness and cleanliness and kindliness within its doors. it has, unfortunately, not even a shed wherein to shelter a car, but only a grass plot where a car may spend a fine night. we climb out of lastingham by a road that passes close to the cross. this cross was set up in commemoration of queen victoria's accession, but there must surely have been another thought in the minds of those who placed it so symbolically in this particular spot. let us pause for a moment and look down. the village lies below us in its little hollow, with the church of the early saints raised in its midst; and just above us, conspicuous on its height and clearly outlined against the sky, stands the cross. it seems to guard the boundary between the poetry of lastingham and the prose of the ordinary world, for the beauty that makes such a perfect setting for the place ends suddenly on the brow of the hill, and we speed away among commonplace fields and hedges to join the high-road by way of appleton-le-moor. [illustration: lastingham cross.] at keldholme, though the priory is marked on the map as though still in existence, only some stones built into a wall are left to show where de stutteville's nunnery stood. as for the de stutteville's own castle, which once rose proudly on the hill to our right, the stones of it form the walls of the neighbouring prison, and the site of it is a pasturage for the neighbouring cows. the prison in question--a dark, repellent spot in a pretty street--is in the market-place of kirbymoorside. nearly facing it is the "black swan," whose pretty red-tiled porch bears the date 1632; but it was the "king's head," further up the street, to which pope alluded when he said, neither truthfully nor politely, that the second duke of buckingham died at kirbymoorside "in the worst inn's worst room." this trim, modern-looking house with the sober front of grey, so unsuggestive of the rakish duke, has never formed a part of the inn, and it was in its best room that buckingham, on his deathbed, declared he had always had the greatest veneration for religion and reason. we may not cross the threshold of the room into which the dying man was carried--and, indeed, even penitent upon his deathbed, george villiers the second was hardly an object for pilgrimages!--but here is its little window overlooking the street, the middle window of the three that are next the inn. many writers, following macaulay and pope, assume that buckingham died in this house because he had squandered his fortune so thoroughly that he could not secure a more comfortable place to die in. but some tell a more likely, if less edifying, tale. the duke was injured or taken ill, they say, while hunting near this town, and as his own castle of helmsley was several miles away he was carried hither, to the house of one of his tenants. it seems certain that the estate of helmsley was still his at his death, since his executors received nearly ninety thousand pounds for it from charles duncombe, banker and goldsmith. a man who had once possessed all that the buckinghams had taken from their kings might be said to have squandered his fortune without being actually in want of a roof to die under. he had at one time a very fine roof of his own here at kirbymoorside, but this may have been one of the many things he had lost, or possibly the civil war had left it in a state even less luxurious than this little grey house. by following a stony lane we may see, in a farmyard above the town, the few fragments of masonry that are the last remains of the castle of the nevilles and the buckinghams. queen elizabeth took it from the nevilles, and her successor gave it to the man of whom he said: "you may be sure that i love the earl of buckingham more than any one else." the second duke, who died so humbly, was buried with his betters--among whom, i think, we may include his father--in westminster abbey. his body was embalmed, and the oft-quoted line in the register of burials at kirbymoorside refers only to the viscera: "1687 april 17th. gorges vilaus lord dooke of bookingam." about a mile beyond kirbymoorside there is a little valley, not far from the high-road, of which perhaps the greater number of us have never heard. the appeal of kirkdale, like that of lastingham, is not to the many, and for that very reason it is irresistible to some; not only to the man of science and the historian, but to all those who can best hear the voices of the dead in places where there are no voices of the living. there is silence in kirkdale. a steep hill with a preposterous surface leads down to hodge beck; to the wooden footbridge among the trees, and the quarry where the hyænas used to live, and the splash that we must cross. those limestone rocks to the right are famous in the world of science, for that dark cave whose entrance we may see was discovered, about a hundred years ago, to be strewn with the bones of strange beasts. it was a veritable treasury for geologists, for the hyænas who lived and died here in such quantities not only bequeathed their own bones to us, but also many bones of the uncouth creatures they were in the habit of eating, creatures most happily no longer with us. there were once tigers and elephants, it appears, in quiet kirkdale. [illustration: hodge beck.] we climb out of the beck and turn to the right. the narrow glen is thickly wooded, after the manner of yorkshire dales both large and small, and in a clump of firs stands the minster of st. gregory. this is a fine name for so small a building; but it was called a minster nearly nine hundred years ago, and we need not deny it the distinction in its venerable age. it is not for its beauty that we come to see it, though it is picturesque enough in its setting of trees; but chiefly it is for the sake of one stone in its wall, and of the names inscribed upon it--names familiar yet remote, the names of edward the king and tosti the earl. here they are, carved in the lifetime of those who bore them. it is plain that this great stone was not always, as it is now, under a porch; for it was once a sundial, and here it is always in the shadow. the words upon it are deeply and clearly graven, easily distinguished, and, except for a few words, easily understood. this is the whole inscription, carved in two columns, with one line below the dial:- "orm gamal suna bohte sts gregorius minster wonne hit wes ael tobrocan & tofalan & he hit let macan newan from grunde xpe & sts gregorius in eadward dagum cng & in tosti dagum eorl, & hawarth me wrohte & brand, prs." (_orm gamal's son, bought st. gregory's minster when it was all tobroken and tofallen, and he it let be made new from ground to christ and st. gregory, in edward's days, the king, and in tosti's days, the earl, & howarth me wrought, and brand, priests._) the sundial has its own legend:- "this is daeges solmerca aet ilcum tide.' (_this is day's sunmarker at every time._") this church, then, was made new from the ground in the middle of the eleventh century; for it was in 1056 that tosti, the son of the famous godwin, obtained the earldom of northumbria; and it was in 1065 that he "impelled the northumbrians to rebel, by the asperity of his manners," and so lost his earldom. in using these words william of malmesbury is really most moderate, for tosti seems to have been a terrible swashbuckler. he murdered, among many others, the son of the very man who rebuilt this church and set up this inscription: "all the sons of the traitor godwin," says an old chronicler, "were men of such wickedness that if they saw any beautiful town belonging to any one they caused the lord of it to be slain by night, and his offspring to be destroyed, that they might obtain his property." on one occasion tosti seized his brother harold by the hair in the king's presence, while he was actually drinking his majesty's health; whereupon harold lifted tosti "up on high, and dashed him down on the floor." such was the asperity of their manners. edward the king is, of course, the confessor, the "harmless king." within the church there are two carved stones round which much discussion circles. until lately they were in the outer wall, where they naturally suffered much from the climate. one of them--the one that has a cross engraved upon it--once bore the words "cyning æthilwald," or "king ethelwald," in runic letters. upon the slender foundation of this somewhat vague inscription it has been argued that this is the coffin lid of king ethelwald: therefore ethelwald was buried at kirkdale: therefore cedd's monastery, where ethelwald wished to be buried, was at kirkdale and not at lastingham. this last conclusion is then turned into a premise, with a view to suggesting that the beautiful stone with the celtic design upon it may be the coffin lid of cedd himself. yet bede says that cedd was buried at "lestingau." the door of st. gregory's minster is locked. we may see the "sunmarker" and its clear lettering without entering the building, and also a slab of stone with an interlaced celtic pattern which is let into the outer wall; but to see the reputed coffin lids of ethelwald and cedd--which are beautiful specimens of celtic work, whatever their story--we must drive to nawton village, a mile away, and fetch the key from the vicarage. this seems hard; and if hard for motorists, a hundred times harder for bicyclists and others. the yorkshire churches are in the main very kind to the public. many of them are left open, with a suggestive money-box close to the door, and often with a guide-book that may be borrowed. by this method the church probably gains rather than loses, since it is pleasanter to give half a crown to an old building that deserves it than to give sixpence to an old man who has learnt a few facts by rote, and learnt them wrongly. if it is possible, however, to forgive a church for being closed we must forgive this church of kirkdale. it has again and again been defaced and desecrated by those curious folk who love their own insignificant initials more than any fairer sight. it is certain that those who care so little for a building as to treat it thus will not journey very far to fetch the key. [illustration: kirkdale.] the fine high-road that skirts the eastern moors, the road on which we have been travelling since we left scarborough, comes to an end, in a sense, at helmsley; for here it splits up into two roads, each of which we must follow for a time. helmsley itself has its attractions. among them are an open market square and an ancient cross, pretty houses and an inn covered with flowers, a tiny stream running through the town from end to end, and a castle-keep upon the hill. this is that castle which was "once proud buckingham's delight," and now stands within the park whose name is borrowed from duncombe the banker. helmsley has passed through many hands, of which some helped in the making of history, and some were not over clean. the first name we hear of in connection with the place is no less a one than william the conqueror, for he, having given helmsley to one of his followers, chose it on one occasion for his own resting-place, after a heavy march and much hard work of the destructive kind he affected. his host, earl morton, lost these lands in the losing cause of robert curthose, and they fell to the famous walter of espec, one of the leaders in that strange semi-religious victory, the battle of the standard, whose heroes were summoned by an archbishop, absolved upon the field by a bishop, and actually overshadowed through the fight by the consecrated host and the banners of three saints. just such a mixture as this, of religion and bloodshed, was walter himself, with his splendid presence, his gigantic height, his bright eyes and noble forehead, his voice "like the sound of a trumpet," his life as a warrior, and his death as a monk. walter's sister adeline married peter de ros, and it was their great-grandson, robert de ros, who built this much dilapidated tower of helmsley castle. after long centuries of ownership by unimportant williams and roberts and georges the place came into the fair hands of katherine, the daughter of the earl of rutland, and the wholly undeserved wife of the first duke of buckingham. lady katherine manners was not, as is sometimes said, the granddaughter of sir philip sidney, for it was her uncle roger, not her father, who married sidney's daughter. the duchess of buckingham inherited all the wealth of her father's house, for her two little half-brothers died "by wicked practice and sorcery": so helmsley came to steenie, whose angel-face brought him so much beside his nickname. all his honours and his riches were won, says clarendon, "upon no other advantage or recommendation than of the beauty and gracefulness and becomingness of his person." yet something more truly lovable than this, we may be sure, was needed to win his kate and her broad lands; and indeed the romance that gives this castle of helmsley its chief interest remained romantic to the end, even though the duchess lived to write: "i pray god never woman may love a man as i have done you." james i.'s slave-dog, as he called himself, was too busy in court and camp to visit helmsley much, if ever, but it must have been a fine sight when it was his. the keep, not then a crumbling fragment, rose high above walls and many towers. here are still the two moats that surrounded them, and the two gateways that once made a double defence. how strong the defences were we may gather from the trouble they gave to sir thomas fairfax when he besieged the castle in the time of the second duke of buckingham, and won it at last, not only for the parliament, but for himself. his grateful country gave him the lands of helmsley, but at the same time took the precaution of reducing the castle to ruins, so that this shattered keep and gatehouse should never again defend royalist or rebel. the buckinghams were ever humorists, and the second duke, pondering how he might regain some of his lost possessions, bethought him of marrying mary fairfax. after he had been embroiled in many plots and suffered many imprisonments he settled down here within sight of the tower that his father-in-law had reduced to so sad a state. [illustration: double entrance to helmsley castle.] there, beyond the lawn-tennis court, is the house he lived in. some of it seems to be older than his day, but he probably was obliged to repair it rather thoroughly after the siege. we may climb those steps, if we will, and enter. these are haunted rooms. they are not haunted by a very worthy ghost, i fear--not even by steenie of the dainty leg and the lovely complexion, the gallant adventurer whom many loved much and whom we all love a little--but only by his handsome, vicious son, the son who was born to the sound of all the joy-bells of westminster, and died in the humble little bed at kirbymoorside. these rooms were once proud buckingham's delight; now they tear at one's heart. it is a thing to be glad of, no doubt, that lord mayor duncombe found buckingham's home too small to hold his vaulting ambitions and so built the palace in the park, leaving us this pitiful relic of departed glory. yet one marvels that any man should have allowed so much beauty to go to wrack. these great oak panels with their rare design, this splendid moulded ceiling wrought so elaborately with tudor roses, that frieze of shields and fleurs-de-lys, of mermaids and winged dragons, once made an appropriate setting for the man whom a contemporary called the "finest gentleman of person and wit" he ever saw. now, in their decayed grandeur, they are appropriate still; a dramatic--almost a melodramatic--symbol of his fate. half the panelling is gone; shred by shred the plaster of the ceiling is falling on the uneven floor; bare laths and gaping holes disfigure the tudor roses over our heads; of the mermaids and winged dragons only a few are left. lumber is piled upon the floor where "all mankind's epitome" was wont to walk; cobwebs and dust deface the windows. such is the symbol of proud buckingham, than whom "no man was ever handsomer," yet who was, in the last year of his life, "worn to a thread"; and up there in the park is the symbol of the city knight who bought his property with money not always well-gained, and flourished like a green bay-tree. we see the unromantic, prosperous house of the thrifty duncombe as we drive away to rievaulx. motorists will find it their best plan to visit the terrace of rievaulx before seeing the abbey itself. the way lies through a gate on the left at the top of an extremely steep hill; a winding lane leads among trees to a second gate, and here the car may safely be left. a few steps bring us to the famous terrace cut on the hillside by a duncombe of the eighteenth century. for half a mile the wide and level turf is stretched between the woods that overshadow it on the left, and the woods that fall steeply away from it on the right to the foot of the hill. beyond the valley another wooded hill rises; to the south are moors. if we stand at the brink of the terrace and look down through a gap in the trees we see, far below us, the pointed arches of rievaulx abbey. at each end of the terrace is a classical temple. at the north end, where we are standing, is the one described in the local guide-book as "a beautiful temple with an ionic portico." at first sight it gives one a shock. eighteenth-century buildings so often do give one a shock. if, however, we forget for a few minutes that rievaulx abbey lies down there in the valley, if we forget walter of espec and his monks, and remember only the days when this temple was built, the ionic portico has its uses. it gives us a vision of the age of powder and hoops, of the fair ladies who rustled here on the soft turf when george was king. the closely cropped sward was suited to the dainty feet, the scenery not so "savage" as to wound the dainty susceptibilities. indeed, in any century, this scene could only heal. there is a path that winds down the hill to the abbey, and if our car is independent of us this is the best way to go. but if she is unattended and cannot meet us in the valley we must drive down the steep hill to the village. the surface of this hill is composed of ruts and loose stones, but the beauty of the woods is compensation for nearly anything. [illustration: rievaulx abbey from the terrace.] if fountains abbey speaks of power, rievaulx breathes peace. taking everything into consideration, i think its beauty has only one rival in england. the valley of the rye is far lovelier than studley park; the building itself is far lovelier than bolton. only tintern can rival it; not even tintern can eclipse it. for at tintern the feeling of cistercian seclusion can only be acquired through the imagination: a high-road is close at hand; a brisk trade in picture postcards and goss china is carried on at the abbey door; to be alone is almost impossible. but here at rievaulx we may chance to stand in perfect solitude, perfect stillness, under the mighty archway that soars in dignified simplicity so far above our heads, and separates us as though by invisible gates from the world. no imagination is needed here to conjure up the aloofness of the white monks--the actual fact is here. through the empty windows--once filled, in defiance of the early cistercian ideals, with some of the first efforts of english glass-stainers--we see the wild hillside rising from the very walls, and above it the rampart of trees; the grass under our feet grows like the grass of the field; the world makes no sign, and on each side of us the slender arches point to heaven. there is something here that is more than beauty; the very air seems charged with the prayers of holy men long dead. the weather-worn slab of the high altar is unfortunately enclosed by a railing, which is doubtless needed, in this christian country, to save it from desecration. not near this stone, as one might expect, but in the ruined chapter-house, lies the dust of the monk who came here in his old age to hide his "broad but well-featured face" under the shadow of a cowl, and to subdue his trumpet-like voice to the singing of psalms--the monk who had founded this abbey in the days when he was a famous soldier--walter of espec. [illustration: rievaulx abbey.] walter founded three monasteries: one at kirkham, which we shall presently see; one here; one at wardon in bedfordshire. incorporated with leland's itinerary is a document which tells us how walter's only son fell from his horse and broke his neck upon a stone cross, and how in consequence walter founded the monasteries of kirkham and rievaulx with some of the wealth for which he had now no heir. dugdale, the seventeenth-century antiquarian, believed the tale, and told it for truth in his "monasticon." yet now we are bidden to reject the story of the younger walter's sad end; nay, even to doubt that he ever lived! he is not mentioned, say those who know, in the foundation-charter of the abbey; there is nowhere in any document a statement that walter of espec ever had a son. however, till we find a definite statement that he had none, we shall probably continue to accept or reject the story according to temperament. there are still some fragments of the actual church that was built by the eager hands of the monks from clairvaux, the monks sent by st. bernard himself to live their austere lives in this valley; but, of course, this rich triforium, these corbels of elaborate carving, these lancets and moulded arches and clustered columns were never seen by norman walter. nor, indeed, would they have met with approval from the saintly abbot of clairvaux, whose aspirations, like those of all the early cistercians, tended to severe simplicity in architecture as in life. the vanished nave, it is thought, was part of the norman work of bernard's missionary monks, but this glorious chancel and the refectory with the strange doorway belong entirely to the thirteenth century. beautiful as are the details it is by the great chancel-arch that we shall always remember rievaulx. it is the reposefulness of its simple grandeur that strikes the keynote of peace. its quiet, stately lines rest the eye, and the memory of it rests the heart whenever we think of this fair daughter of citeaux and mother of melrose. [illustration: chancel arch, rievaulx abbey.] long ago there was a second cistercian abbey on the banks of rye. the bells of old byland and the bells of rievaulx clashed with one another, which for some reason shocked the byland monks. those who live in towns to-day, and sunday by sunday hear the bells of seven or eight churches ringing simultaneously in varying keys, will sympathise with them; but there seems to have been some idea in their minds beyond the obvious one, an idea strong enough to make them migrate first to stocking and then to the spot where we may see the ruins of their abbey. those who can spare the time will find that the beautiful west front of the second byland repays them well for driving the few miles between the two ruins. the community that finally settled on this spot had been through a great deal. when they came here it was more than fifty years since the thirteen monks necessary to found a new house had left furness to wander in their ox-waggon from place to place--from furness to cumberland, from cumberland to thirsk, from thirsk to byland-on-the-moor, from byland-on-the-moor to stocking, and from stocking to their final home at last. none of the original thirteen can have seen the trefoiled door and gigantic wheel-window of the west front; for this, the most striking part of the existing ruin, was probably the finishing touch to a very splendid church. those who reach byland may perhaps like to drive about a mile and a half beyond it, to see the interesting church at coxwold, and the house where laurence sterne lived for some time and wrote the greater part of "tristram shandy," alternated with many sermons. from coxwold a series of byways will take them to the high-road at brandsby. those, however, who are unable to go beyond rievaulx, must return to helmsley. they may follow the rye for a little while, and then, turning to the left with a last and lovely view of the abbey, may mount the hill through the woods, the fairy-haunted woods of rievaulx, where the stems are not wrapped about with a confusion of undergrowth, but rise unhampered from a carpet of ferns and creepers. this climb among the dusky trees is very short, but adds to one's sense of rievaulx's remoteness. the shadowy stillness of these woods is like a veil dropped between the valley and the world. after driving through helmsley we cross the rye, and presently pass the upper entrance of duncombe park, the "nelson gate," erected as we see "to the memory of lord viscount nelson, and the unparallelled gallant achievements of the british navy." between helmsley and sheriff hutton, whither we are bound, lies some very pretty country of a pastoral kind, and a series of picturesque villages, several of which deserve more attention than we are likely to give them. here, for instance, is oswaldkirk, which might well tempt us to pause. it is scattered along the side of a hill, with its little houses half smothered in trees. the tiny church is open, and in it are some fragments of saxon and norman work, and a jacobean pulpit which once held the famous john tillotson, who began life in a tailor's shop and ended it as archbishop of canterbury. his success was chiefly due, i believe, to his eloquence, so we may regard this spot as the cradle of his fortunes, since the sermon he preached here was his first. and here in oswaldkirk was born another man of mark, the antiquarian to whom we owe so much of our knowledge of the ruined monasteries, roger dodsworth. he collaborated with dugdale in the "monasticon," which was not published till after his death. the younger man inherited the fruit of his researches, and has more or less eclipsed his name. a little more than a mile beyond oswaldkirk is gilling, one of the prettiest villages in the county. its wide street is bordered by bright gardens; a tiny stream runs through it under a row of miniature bridges; on the left is a church with some interesting tombs; and on the right, entirely hidden by the trees, is the castle of the fairfaxes. only those who have secured special permission are admitted to see this castle and its splendid elizabethan hall, of which the fame has reached many who were never in it. it is, according to all accounts, a marvel of rich ornament, of oaken panels and delicate inlay, of carved mouldings and stained glass and armorial shields. a road with a perfect surface carries us out of the village to the top of a hill--where one patch of heather by the wayside reminds us that we are on grimston moor--and on through brandsby to stillington. the church we leave behind us as we turn sharply to the left has no special interest beyond the fact that laurence sterne preached many of his sermons in it, while he was living at sutton-in-the-forest and at coxwold. here in stillington we leave the fine high-road for a very poor one--one that is a mere lane in fact--which leads us past the strange little church of marton-on-the-forest, with its crow-stepped gables and tower, to the village of sheriff hutton. "what is this forest call'd?" we may be inclined to ask with archbishop scrope in "henry iv." "'tis gaultree forest, an't shall please your grace." even in leland's time there was very little wood in the neighbourhood of sheriff hutton, and now the forest of galtres, so "impenetrable and swampy" when the romans set to work to drain it, has practically vanished. a good proportion of it, i think, must always have been forest only in the technical sense, for we hear of it in the reign of elizabeth as the scene of a yearly horse-race, wherein the prize for the winning horse was a little golden bell. moreover, there is a tradition that wanderers in the forest of galtres, which reached to the outskirts of york, were guided by a light hung in the lantern tower of all saints church. unless a great part of the country were open--"low medows and morisch ground"--this light would not have greatly aided the belated traveller. be that as it may, the country is now so open that as we draw near sheriff hutton we may see with a thrill, if we look very intently along the far horizon, the faint, elusive gleaming of york minster. the castle of sheriff hutton is more impressive at a distance than close at hand. it is visible miles away across the flat country, and the jagged outlines of its cluster of towers stand up so imposingly against the sky that one is led to expect something rather vast and effective. but these gaunt remnants are all there is to see. they stand in a farmyard and are surrounded with haystacks. once upon a time this castle was fine enough. it had eight or nine great towers, "and the stately staire up to the haul" was very magnificent, and so was "the haul it self, and al the residew of the house." it owed its splendour to the splendid nevilles, to the great warwick among others, who seems always to have lived in a state of kingly magnificence, as befitted one who made kings. when he died it passed, with his other castles, to his son-in-law richard iii., who used it as a prison for such claimants of the throne as he did not trouble to murder. there was humour in this plan of sending the two young cousins to keep each other company--edward iv.'s daughter, elizabeth of york, and the youthful warwick, son of that duke of clarence who was drowned in a butt of malmsey. they were not here very long, for hardly had their uncle richard's ill-gotten crown fallen under the hawthorn on bosworth field, before the new king's emissary was riding in all haste to sheriff hutton. there was a crowd that day about this gate that still bears the arms of the nevilles and of england, for from all the country round the people gathered to do honour to their future queen; and as she was led out from her prison to share henry's throne, the gentry of the neighbourhood, an eager bodyguard, pressed forward to escort her to london. poor cousin warwick went to london too, with a bodyguard of a sterner sort; for since his claims could not, like elizabeth's, be merged in those of the new king, he was destined for the tower and the block. there is no record, apparently, of how this stately castle was transformed in the course of one century from a "princely logginges" to a mere shell. the usual death sentence of castles, "dismantled by order of the parliament," was never pronounced in this case, for the mischief was done before charles i. was king. in henry viii.'s reign this was for a time the home of that duke of norfolk who was the uncle of two queens, and lived to see them both upon the scaffold. he was a witness at anne boleyn's wedding and a judge at her trial, and was himself only saved from the block by henry's death. his son surrey, the sweet singer, has walked here too, where now the hay is stacked. [illustration: sheriff hutton castle.] richard iii. was here at least once, in the year before his death. he and his sad wife--sad all her life, but now heart-broken--came here to bury their little son. at the end of the sloping village street is the old church where they laid him; and there we may still see, not the place of his burial, for that is unknown, but the little alabaster figure that once lay upon his tomb. it has the air of being a good portrait. the features are still faintly visible; the pathetic down-drawn mouth suggests that anne neville's son was not much happier than herself. circling the boyish head is a heavy crown, the only crown it ever wore. the reason that the prince of wales was buried here does not appear. some suggest that his mother, who was with richard at nottingham, could not bear to return to middleham, and so met the funeral procession here; but there is at least one historian[6] who describes her despair when she saw her dead son in his own home. elizabeth of york was probably at sheriff hutton when her little cousin edward was brought here to his grave. she must have remembered another edward, nearer and dearer to her, whose grave, not yet discovered, had been so lately made at the foot of the dark staircase in the tower of london. this ancient church has some fine brasses in it. one of them is hidden beneath a trap-door in the floor; another bears the figures of two babies in swaddling clothes. the church's patron saint is st. helena, the mother of constantine, and the discoverer, through a vision, of the holy cross. the historians give us a good deal of choice in the matter of this lady's origin. some declare that she was the daughter of a british king, a woman of surprising beauty and intelligence; but it seems to be more likely that her father was an innkeeper. sheriff hutton is only about ten miles away from york, but if possible we should add a few miles to the distance by making a _détour_ to kirkham priory. all that there is to be seen there is comprised in one picture, so to speak, a picture of an old gateway and the base of a cross; but it is a picture that one remembers. to reach it we pass through country that is sometimes moderately pretty, sometimes dull. there is a little church at foston that is pleasant to the eye, with a red-tiled roof, and a miniature bell-tower, and a pathway where the yew-trees nearly meet. but we are now on the borderland between the beautiful part of yorkshire and the uninteresting south-eastern plain. after we leave kirkham we shall see little more of the beauties of nature. we shall see some beautiful architecture, and various things that are more appealing to the imagination than to the eye. and here, too, as is so often the case where the scenery is tame, the roads are sufficient in themselves for the pleasure of the day's journey. about a mile beyond foston we turn on to the high-road from scarborough to york; but after a few moments leave it again for a road on the right, by which we slowly descend into the valley of the derwent. the hillside is thickly wooded, and as we pass beyond the overarching trees we see kirkham lying below us: the little village, and the wooded hill beyond it, and the beautiful gateway that is so entirely unlike all others, and, fringed with rushes, the wide, smooth river--the derwent, which we last saw at ayton, shadowed by the birches of the forge valley and overlooked by the ruins of margaret bromflete's castle. this was the first of the monasteries founded by walter of espec. in front of the gateway is the base of an old cross, of which the top step is carved with an almost illegible design. local tradition, in its courageous way, declares that there is incorporated with these steps a fragment of the "little stone cross" that caused the death of walter of espec's son. the truth of this tale seems to depend a good deal on whether walter ever had a son. [illustration: gateway of kirkham priory.] it is this gateway that we have come to see. the fragment of wall in which it is framed was probably built in the twelfth century, but all this wealth of ornament and heraldry belongs to a much later date. the quiet valley and the stream would suggest to one that this, like walter's rievaulx, was a cistercian house; but there was never a cistercian community that would have countenanced all this display of tracery and crockets and statuary, and all these worldly coats of arms. they were augustinian canons who made their gate so fine, and carved upon it these ten shields of men with sounding names--clare and vaux, scrope, ros, plantagenet--and set these saints in their niches, and above them the seal of the priory; and who passed to their meals in the refectory under all the varied mouldings of this magnificent norman door south of the cloister-garth; and who chanted their credo with their eyes fixed on that lovely lancet window, once part of the east-end of their church. and now we are at last bound for york. we cross the derwent and climb the hill again to the high-road, and there before us, very far away, lies our goal. faintly shining, york minster shows like a pale opal hanging above the horizon. the very thought of york and all that it stands for makes the heart beat faster. let us open the throttle then, and speed to it as quickly as we may; for the road lies broad and level between the fields, and nearly as straight as an arrow's path, and never, if we love our engine and our england as we should, shall we forget this flight of ours to the city of all our kings. york and the south summary of tour in the south distances. york pontefract 24 miles beverley, _viâ_ selby 45 " hull 9 " - total 78 miles roads. usually good and level. iv york and the south no man knows the spell of york till he has approached it by road in the evening. of all the fresh experiences that the motor-car has brought to us there are few from which the imagination gains so much as from this way of entering old and beautiful towns. we have too long accepted the roof of a railway station as our first view of such places. it is not an inspiring view. but to see york minster from afar, shining under the evening sky and lifted high above the city; to watch it growing larger and larger, rising higher and higher, increasing in beauty every moment, until at last one drives slowly into its huge shadow; to pass under one of the great gates that have survived so many centuries, so many wars, so many pageants, that have welcomed so many kings, and dripped with the blood of so many warriors; to see the ancient streets for the first time idealised by the dusk of twilight, will help us, if anything will, to recall and realise something of what york has been during the eighteen hundred years of her history. the past is very insistent here. here are the walls, encircling the whole city, that were built by edward i. and repaired after the civil war. we may drive round them, and pass in and out of the four gates that were once so hard to enter: monk bar, by which we come in from kirkham under the arms of england and france quartered together; and bootham bar on the newcastle road; and micklegate bar on the tadcaster road; and walmgate bar, where the restored barbican reminds us that it was undermined during the long siege of the civil war. all these bars are turreted and ornamented with painted shields and statues or helmets of stone; three of them still have their portcullises; three still bear the arms of france. [illustration: walmgate bar, york.] walmgate, or watling gate, bar is the most picturesque of them on the inner side, for it carries on its stone pillars an elizabethan house of timber and plaster. but by far the richest in memories is micklegate bar. some of these memories are of a very ghastly kind, for it was here that the heads of "traitors" were set up. it was here that harry hotspur's head looked down upon his doubly treacherous old father, the duke of northumberland, as that time-server rode out through the gate in perfect friendliness with henry iv., and found it advisable, no doubt, to ignore the thing that stared above the parapet. here, in henry v.'s reign, the head of lord scrope of masham was set up because he favoured the house of york; and here, half a century later, was the head of the duke of york himself, crowned with paper--to be replaced, almost before margaret of anjou had finished laughing at it, by the head of the man who put it here--clifford the butcher. the hideous series closed with the followers of prince charlie in the forty-five. [illustration: micklegate bar, york.] meantime there were other sights to be seen at micklegate bar. richard iii., fresh from one coronation and eager for another, was received here "with great pomp and triumph" by the citizens and the clergy "in their richest copes," and passed through this archway with his stolen crown upon his head, followed by his luckless queen and the little boy who was so soon to die. his successor's daughter, margaret tudor, entered york very gaily by this gate with five hundred lords and ladies, on her way to her unhappy marriage with james iv. of scotland. james i. was on his way to scotland, too, when he rode to micklegate bar from tadcaster, with the sheriffs of york bearing their white rods before him. he waited here while the mayor, kneeling in the road, presented him with a sword and the city keys, and a cup and a purse, "and made a worthy speech at the delivery of each particular." still braver was the scene when charles i. came in, with that strange army that was no army; the army that was commanded by an "amateur general" and was intended to overawe the scots by pomp. "the progress was more illustrious than the march, and the soldiers were the least part of the army," says clarendon. this sombre bar was gay enough that day. so splendid a procession has seldom been seen as that which filed through its dark shadow then, all glittering and glowing, while the trainbands of the city, magnificent in scarlet and silver and feathered caps, greeted charles with a volley, and the civic authorities on their knees greeted him with flattery. it was not many years before another sort of scene was enacted on this spot: when the army of fairfax--commanded by no amateur--was drawn up in a double line that stretched away from this gate for a mile, and the two royalist generals who had defended the city so finely, glenham and slingsby, marched out between the two lines with the remnant of the garrison, with all the honours of war. that was the most stirring sight, i expect, that micklegate bar has seen. fairfax and the other victorious generals marched to the minster and "sang a psalm." what that psalm must have meant to fairfax we can hardly realise. the siege had lasted for thirteen weeks; more than four thousand of his men had died in the course of it; twenty-two times they had assaulted the walls. he was himself a yorkshireman, and like all yorkshiremen, loved and honoured the city that has held so proud a place in english history, and the minster that is the city's crown. no wonder he marched straight from the gate to the minster and sang a psalm! what york minster meant to fairfax it must in a lesser degree mean to every englishman. it combines superlative interest with superlative beauty. we may come to it primed with its history--the history that begins with the roman temple whose foundations are hidden beneath it, the history that includes so many great names; we may know that paulinus of the seventh century--the tall, majestic man with the hawk-face whom bede has described for us--built the first church here of wood, and was the first archbishop of york; that three other churches stood here and were destroyed before the present building was begun in the thirteenth century and slowly rose to its perfection; but when we see it we can remember nothing but its beauty. it completely dominates york. it is impossible to forget its presence for a moment, whether it be dim and blurred in the dawn or flushed with the light of sunset. nearly every one, i suppose, has seen it. nearly every one has felt, on passing through the entrance in the south transept, that breathless sensation of awe that is almost fear, of reverence that is almost worship. the first sight of those immense arches, so absolutely simple, so indescribably majestic, with the lancets of the five sisters behind them, is overwhelming. it is only gradually that memory returns, and the great nave slowly fills with the processions of the past, with the weddings and funerals and coronation pageants that have swept by, century after century, to choir or chapter-house. young edward iii. and philippa of hainault were a comely pair when they were married here in the presence of the parliament and council, surrounded by the nobles of england and scotland. not very many years later their little son was carried to his grave in the north aisle of the choir. much was spent in alms and masses, many pounds of wax were burnt, many widows watched round the little coffin before william of hatfield was laid in this tomb where we see his effigy, a slender, boyish figure lying very straightly under the high canopy. in the next century a sinister scene took place here: richard crookback mourning for his brother, coming here to hear a requiem sung, with his head full of plots against the dead man's little sons. very soon he was here again, entering those splendid doors with the iron scrollwork, which lead into the chapter-house where he was crowned for the second time--the chapter-house that pius ii. described as "a fine lightsome chapel, with shining walls and small, thin-waisted pillars quite round." "as the rose is the flower of flowers," said the monks, "so is this the house of houses." [illustration: york minster.] there are not very many notable tombs here, though there is much illustrious dust. here was buried the head of king edwin of northumbria, who so "often sat alone by himself for a long time, silent as to his tongue, but deliberating in his heart" whether he should become a christian. this minster is in a sense the fruit of his deliberations. there is no monument to him, nor to earl tostig of the violent temper, whose body was carried here from stamford bridge; but the founder of the present building lies in his robes under a canopy in the south transept. we may see, too, in the lady chapel, the marble tomb of archbishop scrope, the builder of bolton castle, who preached a sermon in this minster inciting the people to take up arms, and lost his head in consequence. and near the altar of the same chapel is a little black kneeling figure that deserves attention. it is a monument to frances matthew, the wife of tobie matthew, archbishop of york, and the daughter of william barlow, bishop of chichester. "she had four sisters married to four bishops.... so that a bishop was her father, an archbishop her father-in-law, she had four bishops her brethren, and an archbishop her husband." unless i am much mistaken she had also an abbess for her mother, which was the strangest thing of all. there was a william barlow, at one time bishop of st. david's, who is said to have married an abbess as soon as the reformation made it possible, and had five daughters married to five bishops. frances matthew must surely have been one of these. tradition says that bishop barlow, who had many unpleasant traits, stripped the lead from the palace of st. david's and dowered his daughters with it; but frances must have been a baby, if indeed she was born, when her father was guilty of this thievish vandalism. she herself is described as being above her sex, and even above the times--but indeed all the women who were buried in ages gone by seem to have been superior to all the rest. she gave her husband's library to the minster. close to her mural monument is the largest window in england. there is no building, i believe, that has so much ancient and beautiful glass as this, and it is a miracle to be thankful for that it was not destroyed in the last century, when the poor maniac set fire to the minster because he disliked the buzzing of the organ. the soft-toned window of the five sisters is the loveliest of all. but all these are modern things. down in the crypt we shall find ourselves in touch with the century of paulinus and st. chad and st. wilfrid, the three earliest archbishops of york; for here is the herringbone work of the first stone church, and here, they say, are the pillars of the building that succeeded it and was destroyed by the danes. this is the spot on which the roman temple stood, and the wooden church where king edwin was baptized, and the altar on which ulphus the saxon laid his horn. this ulphus was a prince in deira, whose sons were of a quarrelsome temper, and were likely, he thought, to fall out over the division of his property after his death. so "he presently took this course to make them equal." he carried his favourite drinking-horn, his horn of ivory and gold, to york, and filling it there he knelt before the altar of the minster and drank the wine in token that he endowed the church with all his lands for ever. that this brought peace to his family i rather doubt; but the lands of ulphus are to this day in the possession of york minster, and the horn of ulphus is to this day within its walls. if we go through this door in the south aisle of the choir we may see it--an elephant's tusk, rich tawny in colour, finely carved. it disappeared mysteriously at the time of the civil war, but somehow fell into the hands of fairfax, whose son returned it to the minster. how it came to fairfax is not recorded; but is it not possible that he may have quietly taken possession of it, knowing how unsafe it was in the hands of the puritans, and have told his son to give it back in less troubled times? or was it perhaps one of those relics which would have "irrecoverably perished in the late wars" if fairfax had not paid "that industrious antiquary, mr. dodsworth," to collect them? we know that fairfax had "a peculiar respect" for antiquities, and that it was owing to his unceasing care that the minster suffered so little in the war. it is not in a few days that york can be seen. only those really know the place who live within the enchanted walls; we should linger here as long as possible, and return again and again. yet those whose time is limited will find that even a couple of nights spent at the justly famous station hotel will enable them to see more than the minster without suffering from that sense of hurry that spoils pleasure. york has not hurried. in the museum gardens, themselves a wonderful museum, we may realise how many centuries she has taken to become what she is. here is a tower that was raised by the romans. the date of it is uncertain, but mr. wellbeloved tells us it was probably built when the conquering legion came to eboracum. this, says gibbon, was at the beginning of the second century; so this tower of many angles takes us back to the time of hadrian, to days before the emperor severus died here in the palace that has altogether vanished, bidding his sons let all their conduct tend to each other's good; days long before the death of constantius and the accession of constantine the great. it is not true that constantine was born in york, but it was here that he went through his little performance of reluctant modesty when the soldiers made him emperor--weeping and spurring his horse while they pursued him with the imperial robes. in the same garden are the ruins of st. mary's abbey. the benedictine monks who founded this community came from whitby, and were perhaps the builders of the norman apse we saw at lastingham, where they paused for a time on their way to york. it is easy to see that this remnant of a most beautiful church was not of their raising: there is nothing norman here, nothing but the purest gothic work. it was while the earlier eleventh-century church was still standing that a strange scene took place here; when the archbishop of york with his retinue clamoured long upon the abbey gates in vain, while the abbot refused to open to him; then forced his way at last into the abbey and pronounced an interdict--here where the grass grows under our feet--against the abbot and his monks. the cause of all this commotion was that little band of brethren who built the abbey of fountains with so much toil and endurance. they were at that time monks of st. mary's, and had appealed to archbishop thurstan to reform their house. abbot geoffrey, however, preferred to remain unreformed; and so the fiery prelate swept off with the zealous thirteen and set them down in the wilderness beside the skell to live as austerely as they would. the abbey of st. mary, in spite of the interdict, grew very great as well as beautiful. [illustration: st. mary's abbey, york.] not only at the dissolution, but far later, this monastery was horribly ill-treated. its stones have built a palace and a prison; they have been used for mending, and have been made into quicklime. the palace they built has to a great extent vanished, but the tudor house that stands near bootham bar--the red house with the arms of james i. over the door--is either actually a part of it or was rebuilt from its ruins. it was in that house that strafford lived when he was president of the council of the north; both james i. and charles i. stayed in it when they came to york; and it was probably there that henrietta maria lived for three months when she brought materials of war to the city. there are other stones of st. mary's still to be seen, by which we may partly guess the glory that has departed. there are countless numbers of them in this garden; every flower-bed is bordered with them, and the lower part of the guesthouse, down there across the grass, is literally stacked with statues and mouldings and bosses of wonderful richness. this hospitium is used as a museum. it is a little bewildering, with its mingled associations of mediæval monks and roman matrons. here are all the things that we are accustomed to see in collections of roman relics--pottery, tiles, jewellery, everything from a tesselated pavement to a circus ticket. one thing there is, however, to which we are not accustomed; a thing whose interest is rather painful, if not morbid; a coil of a woman's hair, as bright and brown as if it had been laid in its stone coffin only yesterday. the hair of poor flavia or placida would be better buried, i think. [illustration: bootham bar, york.] the prison that was built from the stones of st. mary's abbey is on the site of william the conqueror's castle. it is still called the castle, but there is nothing left of the fortress except one round grey tower, standing alone on a little hill. its walls have been concerned with many great deeds; much valour has defended it and much besieged it; much english history has been made in the shadow of it. yet clifford's tower is generally remembered chiefly in connection with the wild scene of horror that took place here at the time of richard i.'s coronation, when the jews of york rushed to the castle for shelter, with their ducats and their daughters, and were besieged by the mob. here, where the steps wind up between the tidy laurels, the mad crowd yelled and battered on the walls, while the white friar who led them shrieked: "down with the enemies of christ!" here within the tower, where the grass is strewn with exquisite fragments of gothic ornament--probably from st. mary's--the starving jews were huddled with their families till they grew desperate. they killed their wives and children, and then they killed themselves. a few surrendered, begging for baptism, converted by these strange methods; but they were allowed no baptism but that of blood. as we drive slowly through the streets of york, peering now at some carved archway, now at some time-worn coat-of-arms, passing here under the overhanging eaves of st. william's college, or there under the lantern tower of st. helen's, we feel that the life of the past is still existing in this city, in some strange astral way, hidden within the life of the present. the past is not merely a picturesque memory here. even if we had never heard the magic name of york, i think we should feel that her streets were crowded with figures we could not see. [illustration: street in york.] a modern note is struck as we drive out of the town past the racecourse, and find to our pleasure that the splendid road is "treated" with some preparation that makes it absolutely dustless. this is the road by which the stewart kings approached york with so much show and colour, and by which their supporters marched away, defeated, but with honours of war. like them, we are going to tadcaster. the middle of the bridge that spans the wharfe at tadcaster is the boundary between the west riding and the ainsty, or county of york city; and this is why it was the spot where the sheriffs welcomed the kings of england when they came to york. it was not on this actual bridge, however, that charles was met by the citizens; for this one was made from the ruins of the castle early in the eighteenth century. both castle and bridge, it would seem, were useless by the time they had passed from hand to hand in the civil war. tadcaster was an important place then, an outpost of york; even as its predecessor, calcaria, had been an outpost to eboracum. a couple of miles beyond tadcaster we pass through the village of towton. it was near here, in the fields that lie between the main road and the river cock, that the white rose overcame the red after ten hours of "deadly battle and bloody conflict." it was on the night before the actual battle that lord clifford and his company "were attrapped or they were ware," and clifford, having taken off his gorget for some reason, was killed by an arrow "stricken into the throat." "this end had he," says the chronicler, "which slew the young earl of rutland kneeling upon his knees." if we leave the high-road for a few minutes, turning to the right beyond towton, we shall be crossing the actual battlefield, the ground that was such a horrible medley of snow and blood on that palm sunday when "both the hosts approached in a plain field," the ground in which the yorkists stuck the spent arrows of the lancastrians, "which sore annoyed the legs of the owners when the battle joined." the falling snow, too, "somewhat blemished and minished" their sight, and the end of it was that king henry's men turned and fled towards tadcaster. we cannot see "the little broke called cocke" from this spot, but there on the right is the depression in the fields through which it runs. so many men were "drent and drowned" that day in the cock that their comrades, it is said, crossed the stream on their dead bodies, and even the river wharfe was red with blood. from this scene of slaughter, which "did sore debilitate and much weaken the puysance of this realme," edward iv. rode into york as its master. at saxton we turn to the left and rejoin the high-road to pontefract, and after some miles of good going but cheerless scenery we cross the aire at ferrybridge. it was this crossing of the aire at ferrybridge that caused the death of clifford the butcher on the eve of towton; for he, "being in lusty youth and of frank courage," attempted to prevent edward of york from passing the river, and so was himself cut off from the lancastrian army. he did actually secure the bridge. lord fitzwalter was keeping the passage for edward "with a great number of tall personages," but clifford and his light-horse stole up to this spot early in the morning "or his enemies were ware, gat the bridge, and slew the keepers of the same." this was the beginning of the carnage of towton. lord fitzwalter, hearing the racket, rose from his bed and hurried, poleaxe in hand, to join in the fray, but "before he knew what the matter meant" he was killed. a few hours later clifford, too, was dead. for the last few minutes we have been travelling on the road that holds, perhaps, for road-lovers, more glamour in its name than any other--the great north road. we have no time to think of the romance of it, of the millions who have trodden its dust, of the gay-hearted vagabonds or anxious kings who have passed this way, for we turn from it too soon and take the road to pontefract. i do not know if it was on this identical road between ferrybridge and pontefract that edward iv. and warwick rode out to the field of towton; it was in any case on a very different surface. the town of pontefract itself is strangely unimposing for a place of such great renown; the houses are unpicturesque, the surrounding country dull. yet camden says it is sweetly situated, and is remarkable for producing liquorice. there are other things for which pontefract has been remarkable in its day; but as we mount the slope into the long, straggling town there is little to show that it has ever been concerned with affairs of more vital importance than liquorice. there is, it is true, a fine church greatly ruined on our right, which has the air of having lived through a good deal. it was battered to pieces in the course of three sieges, and the transept only has been rebuilt. the strange perpendicular tower, of which the lower part is square and the upper octagonal, seems oddly enough to have suffered less than the body of the building, for it has been very little restored. this church of all saints was connected with a religious house whose brethren served the castle chapel; but it was not the abbey that camden "industriously omits" from his description of pontefract, because even in his day there was hardly a sign of it left. in his day the walls of this forlorn nave were still unbroken, and rising high above it on the hill were all the towers of the castle, a splendid cluster, with the great norman wall encircling them, and the round tower of ilbert de lacy tallest of all. of this "high and stately, famous and princely impregnable castle and citadel," as it was called only a few years before the civil war, there is deplorably little for us to see. hardly one stone was left upon another by general lambert. the _débris_ were heaped over the foundations, soil was spread over all, and the sinister fortress whose walls had echoed the sighs of royal prisoners and the last groan of a king, the "guilty closure" that was drenched with blood and tears, was devoted to the rearing of silkworms and other such innocent uses. during the last century, however, a good deal was excavated, and we may without great difficulty find out the scene of much that has happened here. [illustration: norman doorway in pontefract castle.] "oh, pomfret! pomfret! o thou bloody prison, fatal and ominous to noble peers!" the names of those to whom it has been fatal make a long list. the most illustrious name on that list is richard plantagenet. that richard was by some means done to death in this castle is, i believe, certain; but how he died and where is unknown. the old tale that tells how sir piers exton and his eight men rushed into the room where the imprisoned king was dining, and how richard "right valiantly defended himself," but was finally struck on the head with a poleaxe by sir piers, who "withal ridded him of his life in an instant," was discredited when richard's grave at westminster was opened, and the skull, which was perfectly preserved, showed no mark of a blow. another theory is the one believed by northumberland and harry hotspur, who accused henry iv. of having traitorously caused their sovereign lord and his "with hunger, cold, and thirst to perish, to be murdered." if we skirt the lawn-tennis court and turn down a little path to the left we shall find, behind the raised bowling-alley, a fragment of vaulted ceiling and a wall with three little recesses in it. this is reputed to be richard's prison. i do not know if there be any real evidence that it was so. there is certainly not the evidence of a continuous tradition; for until the siege destroyed it a room in the round tower was shown to visitors as the scene of piers exton's fabulous exploit with the poleaxe--a room in which there was a post all hacked and cut by the blows aimed at the king! when the post disappeared the scene of richard's death moved to this gascoign tower where we see the vaulted ceiling. it is curious how often the only fragment left of a building happens to be the scene of the event in the building's history that is most likely to appeal to popular sentiment. one grows suspicious of local traditions! richard ii. was not the only prince to be imprisoned in pontefract castle. james i. of scotland was here, and with him were the dukes of orléans and bourbon and other prisoners taken on the field of agincourt. henry v. was a little anxious at one time lest he should lose "the remnant of his prisoners of france," for a plot was on foot to rescue them. "i will," wrote the king, "that the duke of orléans be kept still within the castle of pomfret, without going to robert's place or to any other disport; for it is better he lack his disport than we were deceived of all the remnant." of all those who actually met their death here thomas earl of lancaster--he whom gaveston called the actor--had the hardest fate. the place belonged to him, and he had done much for it. among other things he built or repaired the tower called swillington, the tower that was destined to be his own prison, whose fragments we may see down there guarding the moat on the north side. his hatred of gaveston and the despencers, edward ii.'s favourites, brought him to this plight; to this dark tower whose walls he had made so thick, whose entrance was a trap-door in the roof; to his mock trial by his enemies in the great hall that stood here on the north side of the lawn; to his condemnation and ignominious death. it was here within this court, somewhere near the northern boundary wall, that he stood facing the despencers as they venomously sent him to the block; it was here that he uttered his last despairing words: "shall i die without answer?" then they muffled his head in an old hood and set him, the king's uncle, on "a lean mare without a bridle," and so led him out among the mocking soldiers to his death. we can see, from the castle ramparts, the hill where he was beheaded. it is called st. thomas's hill to this day, for later on he was canonised and his grave in st. john's priory became a shrine. the site of the priory--the monastery that camden industriously omitted--is between the hill and the castle. pontefract was fatal to many of edward iv.'s followers and kin. before his final triumph at tewkesbury some of his supporters were imprisoned here. "john pylkyngton, mr. w. att cliff, and fowler ar taken," we read in the paston letters, "and in the castyll of pomfrett, and ar lyck to dye hastyly, withowte they be dead." very hastily, too, and without trial, edward's brother-in-law lord rivers, and stepson sir richard grey died here by order of richard iii. it really seems as though there had been something sinister in the atmosphere of this place. even its one gay memory--the visit of henry viii. and his fifth bride--is overshadowed by the scaffold; for it was here that katherine howard put a weapon into her husband's hand by making francis derham her private secretary. indeed pontefract has no cheerful annals: they are all of battle, murder, and sudden death. there was very little bloodshed, i believe, when the leader of the pilgrimage of grace took the castle; but who can guess how many died during the three sieges of the civil war? the place was crown property, but after two sieges it surrendered to the army of the parliament. it is rather difficult to ascertain by what particular form of treachery it was recovered by the royalists. the deed was done, in any case, by one colonel marris, whom clarendon describes as "a stout and bold undertaker in attempts of the greatest danger." stout and bold he certainly was, but not very attractive; for he began by deserting the royal cause, and then, when he wished to turn his coat again, was enabled to carry out his plot by his close friendship with the governor. being always welcome he made friends with some of the guard. the garrison, as it happened, needed new beds, so when marris and some others appeared at the gates laden with beds they were admitted at once. they carried the beds into that solid-looking house that was on our right as we entered the castle, the house that bears the arms of lancaster over the door. it was the main guardhouse. there they flung the beds upon the floor and overpowered the friendly guard. so pontefract came back to the crown, the parliamentary garrison were imprisoned in the magazine, and the third siege began. the magazine in which colonel cotterell and his men lived for eleven weeks is under the lawn-tennis court. if you borrow a taper from the custodian you can go down into it, and read, on the wall of the staircase, the names that some of these soldiers cut in the stone. when the time came for discussing terms of surrender general lambert said that marris and five others must be given up to him. the governor asked and was granted six days in which the six men might do their best to escape. on the fifth day they had all disappeared and the garrison surrendered. two of the six, however, were still within the castle, in a secret place beneath the pipe tower, which stood over there beyond the norman keep. they were walled up "with great store of waste stones," and had food for a month beside them. the situation was a critical one. they heard their garrison march away, some to newark, some to the enemy's camp, some to their homes, the officers with their horses and arms, even the men with portmantles and snapsacks; heard the rumbling of the three waggons that carried the wounded; heard, during ten awful days, the incessant clamour and crash of the first hurried dismantling of the castle, the clamour that might be their death at any moment; heard at last the withdrawal of the parliamentary troops. then they took down their wall of waste stones, and stole away. these men who imprisoned themselves were the last prisoners of pontefract castle, for after this the historic ground was sown with liquorice; but the main guardhouse was spared, as we see, and for another century or two kept up the gloomy traditions of the place as a prison. the country that lies between pontefract and beverley is by no means beautiful. it is so aggressively dull that it may almost be called ugly. it is not for the sake of the scenery, truly, that we cover so many miles of southern yorkshire, but chiefly for the sake of beverley minster; and there are many, no doubt, who will prefer to make york or pontefract the last stopping-place of their tour. those who do not care for historical memories unless there be something beautiful connected with them i advise to drive across from york to beverley by the most direct road. half-way between pontefract and knottingley we have once more a flashing glimpse of the great north road and the immense signposts that mark its dignity, and are in themselves a lesson in geography; at chapel haddlesey we cross a toll-bridge. these are the only incidents on this singularly uneventful route until we reach selby; but as all good motorists very well know, the road without incidents is often as happy as the country without history, and the particular road that lies through these melancholy fields and unattractive villages is very fine. those who depend on horses or trains cannot vary their speed according to the beauty of the country, but to us is given the special joy of sauntering through lovely landscapes and hurrying on when there is nothing to be seen. in 1906 the name of selby was brought into tragic prominence by the fire that made its abbey roofless and "only not a wreck." but as there are disastrous victories so there are beneficent calamities; and selby abbey, it seems, whose restoration has already been a triumph of energy, will soon be more complete than it has been since 1690, when the tower fell and ruined the south transept. this grand church is the work of many hands. it is a mixture of every style of architecture, both within and without: early norman, transition, early english, decorated, perpendicular. the west front, for instance, has a splendid norman doorway with five mouldings, and above it an early english window filled with perpendicular tracery. no part of this building was raised by the founder; and indeed it was not to this exact spot, but nearer to the ouse, that benedict of auxerre, bringing with him "the glorious finger" of st. germanus and the memory of a heavenly vision, came to set up his hut. the first benefactor of the foundation was the man who presented a tent to shelter the relic, round which a cluster of wooden buildings grew, and formed the first monastery of selby. william the conqueror gave land, and a charter, and many privileges; and abbot benedict won from the pope the much-coveted honour of the mitre. william's charter was dated the year after the birth of prince henry, and its great generosity, it is said, was prompted by the fact that selby was the birthplace of this favourite son of the king, henry the fine scholar, henry the lion of justice. to him, says an old chronicler, "almighty god gave three gifts--wisdom, victory, and riches." yet his wisdom failed him, alas, in the matter of lampreys! [illustration: west doorway of selby abbey.] it was abbot hugh, a member of that great house of de lacy which gave so many fine buildings to england, who raised the abbey on the spot where it still stands. that massive pillar at the east end of the nave, the pillar with the spiral mouldings, was part of his work. it is even possible that some of its stones were actually laid in their places by his strenuous hands, for he worked with the builders. it is a fine picture--the beautiful pillar rising course by course towards the open sky, as hugh de lacy, abbot and noble, with infinite care and reverence fixed each stone in its place with a hymn of praise. the later abbots, the three who in the fourteenth century raised the choir that has been called peerless, were men of another fashion--not especially humble--members of parliament, entertainers of kings, men of the world. yet to them, too, we owe much gratitude for all this splendour of ornament, these capitals and bosses, this great east window, this flowing parapet that is so often repeated. and, as a nation, we owe gratitude to all those whose work or money has helped in the recent restoration.[7] there is nothing but the abbey itself to keep us in selby. there is no sign by which we may know the spot where sir thomas fairfax, by defeating the royalists and capturing their colonel, first made his name honoured. we do know, however, that he and his troops marched to selby on that occasion by this wondrously level road upon which we drive away. for the first mile or so, until we turn away from the ouse, we are on the road that used to be, in the old coaching days, called the lower road to york. it diverges from the great north road at barnet, and though not the main highway, was the more direct route, and therefore the one chosen by those who were in a hurry. it is for a very short time that we are on it; but surely, for a moment, above the humming of the engine, above the rushing of the wind, we hear the ringing of black bess's hoofs. five level miles bring us to the door of hemingborough church, which is large and renowned, but of a dreariness so gaunt and bare that it altogether fails to charm. its walls, unsoftened by creepers, rise from the treeless landscape in uncompromising severity; and inside the building the colourless effect is equally depressing, in spite of some fine woodwork. the tall and slender spire is really beautiful, however, and may be seen for miles across the plain. to visit wressle castle we must leave the direct road to howden, turning to the left immediately after crossing the derwent. here again the sad landscape seems to have infected the building. theoretically it has all the elements of romance, and to read of it without seeing it is to conjure up a picture of decaying splendour, of venerable walls eloquent of revelry and war, a picture worthy of the great names of percy and lacy and seymour. a castle founded by that earl of worcester whose headless body lies in shrewsbury abbey because he fought for richard ii.'s lost cause, a castle that has seen all the might of the northumberlands and all the tragedy of civil war, must surely have "the grand air." so one thinks till one has seen wressle. in the background is a building, shabby but not ruined; in the foreground is a cabbage-patch. yet once this place was all magnificence, made "al of very fair and greate squarid stone both withyn and withoute." leland tells us of its halls and great chambers, and its five towers, and its brewhouse without the wall, and its "botery, pantery, pastery, lardery, and kechyn." all these things were exceedingly fair, he says, and so were the gardens within the moat and the orchards without. it was here where the cabbages are that those fair gardens grew. and in the orchards were mounds, "writhen about with degrees like turninges of cokilshilles, to cum to the top without payn." most fondly of all he describes the "study caullid paradise," with the ingenious device of ledged desks for holding books. there, looking down upon us from the upper part of the tower nearest to the road, are the empty windows of that paradise whose inhabitants were driven out of it for ever by the flaming sword of civil war. this is only a fragment of the original castle. the northumberlands needed a considerable amount of house-room, for they had, it appears, two hundred and twenty-nine servants. there were gentlemen to wait before noon and gentlemen to wait after noon, and gentlemen to wait after supper; there were yeoman officers, and groom officers, and grooms of the chambers; there was a groom for brushing clothes, a groom of the stirrup, a groom to dress the hobbies and nags, a groom to keep the hounds, a groom to keep the gates, and an endless list of others. the day came when the servants in this house were called upon by the parliament to demolish it themselves, and were given a month to do it in. this one side of the quadrangle was all they left. it is possible, i believe, to climb one of the towers to see the view--but i cannot think it desirable. the view from the bottom of the tower is not so attractive as to make one wish for more. a very great relief to the eye is howden, about three miles further on. the town itself is not without a certain degree of picturesqueness, though it was scarcely a happy thought to surmount the ancient steps of the cross in the market-place by a modern street lamp. however, from that same market-place we see, behind the red houses, the ruined gable-end of the church that is howden's pride, whose lovely tower is one of the landmarks of the plain. the peculiarly slender and graceful effect of this tower is partly owing, i think, to the unusual height of the lower stage compared with the upper. those tall lancets were the work of walter skirlaw, bishop of durham, whose palace stood over there to the east of the church, where the pretty gardens are. if we venture a little way on foot along that lane at the corner of the square, we may see, without trespassing, the beautiful old ivy-covered wall and the blocked gatehouse with the shield upon it, within which the bishops of durham were wont to seek rest and change. camden's tale, to the effect that bishop skirlaw built "the huge tall steeple" as a refuge for the inhabitants in times of flood, need not be believed; it was probably the invention, as a certain quaint old book suggests, of "some doating scribe, desirous of assimilating the steeple of howden church to the tower of babel." in the thirteenth century the archbishop of york, seeing that this church was "very wide and large," and rich enough to support "many spiritual men," made it collegiate. hence arose the need for the chapter-house that walter skirlaw built on the south side of the choir, and made so wonderfully beautiful that even now, robbed as it is of its groined roof and much of its rich ornament, it dwells in one's mind as a thing apart. the decorated choir, which was first the work and afterwards the shrine of the thirteenth-century poet, john hoveden, is itself a ruin; for when the church lost its prebends and its riches in the reign of edward vi. there was neither need nor means left for keeping this part of the building in repair. the nave is still the parish church. [illustration: chapter house, howden.] after leaving howden we have to pass, with what speed we may, over ten more miles of absolutely level, absolutely uninspiring country. then we go through north cave, where george washington's ancestors used to live; and at last the road begins to rise over kettlethorpe hill. the flat land is laid out like a map below us; far away upon the horizon--which is level as the sea--rises "the huge tall steeple" of howden; and between the plain of yorkshire and the rising-ground of lincolnshire are the sullen waters of that great river that has brought england so much of her prosperity. not always, however, has the humber brought prosperity. more than a thousand years ago the fleet of the avenging danes, hinguar and hubba, swept up between these low banks, to lay this rich country waste. right into the heart of the land they sailed, and ceased not to destroy till all the country of the fens was desolate. now this calamity and much more besides--the destruction of lindisfarne and whitby, of croyland and ely and peterborough, and the death of st. edmund the king--was brought about by the jealousy of one obscure individual. for lothbroc the dane, being a guest at edmund's court, had showed so much skill in the trapping of birds and beasts that the king's head-keeper, as one may call him, was "inflamed with mortal envy." so he slew lothbroc treacherously. then the king sent the murderer to sea in a little boat, without sail or oars, and the boat drifted to the shores of denmark. and the wicked keeper sought the sons of lothbroc, whose names were hinguar and hubba, and told them that their father had been slain by order of king edmund. so hinguar and hubba swore by "their almighty gods that they would not leave that murder unpunished"; and verily they fulfilled their oath. two hundred years later another dane, sweyn of the forked beard, "a cruel man, and ready for the shedding of blood," sailed up to conquer the north. just beyond that island that lies close to the left bank, where we see the ouse suddenly widen into the humber, sweyn turned into the river trent. and "all england groaned like a bed of reeds shaken by the west wind." at the top of the hill we pass through a wonderful avenue of beeches and sycamores; then run down a long and pleasant slope into walkington; and soon the blue towers of beverley appear. the brief run across the common above beverley will probably be the last of our memorable moments in yorkshire: the last of those memories which we motorists--while the days are long and the winds are soft and the engine purrs contentedly hour after hour--hoard up to enjoy again and again, not only through the winter but through the years. this particular moment is a very short one; but it will be long, i think, before we forget the beauty of the town of beverley as it lies in the blue dusk of a summer evening, with its matchless towers dominating it. yes, surely, they are matchless! see how the straight, clean lines of their tall buttresses--those parallel lines that are repeated again and again in the perpendicular panels, and even in the deep shadows cast by the masonry--give the impression of slenderness and height. not anywhere, not at lincoln, not at york, are there towers of a design so complete and finished, of a simplicity so exquisite. nowhere else does the accumulation of straight lines produce so rich a whole; nowhere else are the very shadows used to enhance the effect. there is much that is beautiful in beverley minster, but in the main it is these twin towers that are going to be our compensation for all those miles we have driven between flat fields, "enclosid," as leland says, "with hegges." the monastery of beverley was founded, or at all events much frequented in the eighth century, by a certain archbishop of york, who retired hither "out of a pious aversion to this world," and has been known ever since as st. john of beverley. bede's account of this saint is well worth reading. he was a man of many miracles, of much kindliness, of some sharpness of tongue. never was there a saint of so much commonsense, mingled with the compelling power that works miracles in every age. there was a "dumb boy," for instance, who had also a sore head. the archbishop divined the nervous nature of the dumbness, and cured it so thoroughly that the youth talked incessantly for a day and a night, as long as he could keep awake. then the archbishop "ordered the physician to take in hand the cure of his head." the shrewd saint recognised his own limitations. on another occasion he was brought to heal a dying nun. "what can i do to the girl," he asked tartly, "if she is like to die?" [illustration: beverley.] such was st. john of beverley, of whom we may see a picture, though not, i fear, a portrait, in the south transept of this minster. it represents him receiving from king athelstane a charter with a portentous seal and the following legend:- "als fre make i the as hert may thynke or egh may see." king athelstane, it is true, was by no means a contemporary of st. john of beverley, but he regarded the saint as his special benefactor, and gave many privileges to beverley on that account--so the symbolism is pretty even if the picture is not. if we walk along the nave till we are beneath the second boss of the vaulted roof, counting from the east, we shall be above the spot where john of beverley's dust has lain for many centuries. he was originally buried in the porch; probably his bones were moved when the saxon church was replaced by a norman one. i do not know on what authority the local guide informs us that athelstane's dagger is in this grave. gibson, who in his additions to camden describes the opening of the tomb in the seventeenth century, makes mention of no dagger, but only of the sweet-smelling dust, and the six cornelian beads, and the brass pins and iron nails. athelstane, it is true, left his dagger as a hostage on st. john's grave while he was fighting the scots; but the story says that he redeemed it on his return by re-founding the monastery as a college, and granting it the right of sanctuary. hence the legend on the charter. in the north aisle of the choir, near the entrance to the percy chapel, is the visible symbol of that right of sanctuary, the fridstool, the plain rounded seat in which he that sat was safe even though he were a murderer, the sacred centre of the six circles that conferred each its own amount of security. to this stool of peace, in the days when it stood beside the altar, many a man--indeed many a ruffian--has owed his life and the freedom he so little deserved. it was to this very seat that richard ii.'s half-brother, sir john holland, came hurrying through the night. froissart tells the story, how holland and lord ralph stafford met in a lane but could not see each other for the darkness. "i am stafford," said one. "and i am holland," said the other, and added: "thy servants have murdered my squire whom i loved so much." then he killed lord ralph with a blow. stafford's servant cried out that his master was dead. "be it so," said sir john; "i had rather have put him to death than one of less rank, for i have the better revenged the loss of my squire." in spite of this haughty attitude, however, he lost no time in taking refuge here. the beautiful towers were not in existence then, but the nave through which he hastened was this decorated nave that we see now, and these early english arches were above him as he sat in the sanctuary, and close to him was that wonderful canopied tomb near the altar, supposed to be the grave of eleanor, lady percy. if it were not eclipsed by the minster the church of st. mary at beverley would be more famous than it is, for it, too, is full of beauty and interest. but only those who are very enthusiastic lovers of architecture, or who are able to spend some days in the town, will risk confusing their memories of the first with the details of the second. beverley, though never fortified, had once three gates. of these only one still stands, the north bar. beneath its crow-stepped parapet charles i. must have passed with an angry heart when he rode out to york after his futile expedition to hull. and it is very likely that we, if we are going south, shall drive out of beverley upon the same road by which he came from hull the night before, with the first open defiance of one of his own towns ringing ominously in his ears. who thinks of history when he goes to hull? it is, no doubt, like all great commercial centres, of paramount interest to its inhabitants; but to the traveller what is it? a starting-place, a place where there are docks, railway stations, hotels. even that increasing band of travellers who are learning, with the help of bicycles and motor-cars, to know their country with the intimate knowledge that nearly always means love, to linger in its historic towns, to seek its little villages, and to eat the familiar bacon-and-eggs of its wayside inns, even these are fain to pass through hull with no thought beyond their anxiety to reach some other place. beyond the two old churches of holy trinity and st. mary there is nothing here to see except a good deal of prosperity and the squalor that prosperity brings. yet even these wide streets of central hull, with all their prosaic traffic, should take our thoughts back to edward i. these things are the justification of that astute and high-handed king; they are the fulfilment of his prophecy. this sheltered corner of the humber, he thought, would make a fine position for a commercial town. to think of a thing was to do it at once, with our first edward; so he bought the land from the abbey of meaux, made himself a manor, called the place king's town, built some houses, and paid people to live in them. well, there may be some even now who would have to be paid to live in hull; but none the less edward was wise here as in most other places. and, moreover, as we reach the outskirts of this town we may recall that one of the most dramatic scenes in english history was enacted here--that defiance of charles i. at the walls of his own town, which was the gauntlet flung by the parliament. war was yet not declared, but there was great store of ammunition in hull which might, thought charles, be useful by and by. so he, with two or three hundred others, set out from york to see about the matter, and as he drew near this town--fortified then with a great wall and many towers--he sent a message to bid the governor dine with him. i do not know if there is any vestige left of the wall to which charles presently came, or any record of the spot where he paused, dumbfounded, before the gate. this, he surely thought, as he scanned the walls and the closely shut gates and the hostile draw-bridges, this was a strange welcome to his city of hull, the king's town! here were no sheriffs marching out to meet him as at york, nor gay trainbands, nor kneeling mayors; but walls manned with soldiers who were anything but gay, and inhospitable gate-keepers whom he could by no means persuade to let him pass, and on the ramparts the unhappy governor, sir john hotham. "and when the king commanded him to cause the port to be opened," says clarendon, "he answered like a distracted man that no man could understand; he fell upon his knees, used all the execrations imaginable, that the earth would open and swallow him up if he were not his majesty's most faithful subject." yet in spite of all his protestations this man "of a fearful nature and perplexed understanding" was quite clear in his mind as to what his intentions were, and not too fearful to carry them out. the king should not come in. then solemnly, from below the wall they might not enter, the king's officers made proclamation that sir john hotham, governor of hull, was a traitor; and charles, with his head high but his spirits very low, rode on to beverley in the shadow of the great rebellion. our plight at this moment is not the same as his. if his difficulty was to enter hull, ours lies in the leaving of it--supposing, that is to say, that we wish to cross the humber by the ferry. there are no arrangements of any kind for shipping cars. a narrow, precipitous gangway, with a right-angled turn in the middle, is the only means of passing from the quay to the ferry-boat. the transit is a matter of difficulty for any car--for a large one it is impossible. hull, however, is a progressive place, as befits the town of that most progressive king who saw its possibilities so long ago. very soon, we cannot doubt, the shipping of a car on the shores of the humber will be less like a feat in a circus than it is at present. index agincourt, battle of, 195 ainsty of york, 187 airedale, 15 aire, river, 13, 189 alan, count of brittany, 73, 79 alfred the great, 36, 37, 44 alfrid, king of deira, 36 allerston, 124 anne boleyn, 160, 161 appleton-le-moor, 133 arkengarth dale, 71 arthur, king, 74, 75 aske hall, 79 aske, robert, 113 askrigg, 57, 66, 67 athelstane, king, 215, 216 atton, family of, 122 aysgarth, 56 ayton castle, 122, 164 bainbridge, 57 baliol, bernard, 82, 83 baliol college, 83 baliol, guy, 82 baliol, john, the elder, 83, 84 baliol, john, king of scotland, 82, 83 barden moor, 57 barden tower, 19, 21 barlow, bishop, 177, 178 barnard castle, 65, 81, 82-84 barnet, 205 bay town, 107 bear of warwick, 50 beatty, sir william, 55 beckett, thomas à, 28 bede, the venerable, 35, 76, 129, 140, 174, 214 bellyseys, richard, 47 benedict, abbot of selby, 202, 203 beverley, 4, 200, 201, 212-218, 221 black bess, 205 blubberhouses, 25 boar of gloucester, 50, 83 bolton bridge, 22, 25 bolton castle, 57, 59-66, 177 bolton, lord, 56, 59 bolton priory, 5, 11, 21, 23-25, 149 bolton woods, 21, 22 bootham bar, york, 170, 183 bosham, st. wilfrid at, 36 bosworth, battle of, 159 boulby cliff, 95 bourbon, duke of, 195 bowes, sir george, 61, 65 boy of egremond, 22, 23 brandon, lady eleanor, 8 brandsby, 154, 157 bridlington, 119 brodelay, abbot of fountains, 42 bromflete, margaret, 122, 164 brompton, 123, 124 brontë, anne, 115, 116 brontë, charlotte, 15, 115, 116 brontë country, the, 15 brotton, 94, 95 brougham castle, 20 bruce, david, 74, 75 bruce, family of, 92-95, 125 bruce, robert, 94 buckden, 17 buckingham, first duke of, 135, 143, 144, 145 buckingham, second duke of, 133-135, 141, 144-146 buckingham, katherine duchess of, 143, 144 buckingham, mary duchess of, 144 burgh, de, 28 burleigh, lord, 53, 54 burnsall, 19 buttertubs pass, 4, 58, 59, 67-69 byland abbey, 26, 153, 154 byland, old, 152, 153 byron, lord, 78 cædmon, 101, 104, 105 camden, quotations from, 12, 14, 17, 35, 91, 191, 192, 196, 209 carlyle, thomas, 33, 114 cavendish memorial at bolton, 23 chapel haddlesey, 201 charles i., 28, 74, 172, 173, 184, 187, 218, 220, 221 citeaux, 152 civil war, 9, 31, 33, 34, 53, 65, 100, 113, 114, 126, 135, 144, 170, 180, 187, 192, 197-200, 204, 207, 208, 218, 220, 221 clairvaux, 151 clapham, 11, 14 clarence, duke of, 159 clarendon, quotations from, 143, 173, 198, 221 clares, arms of the, 165 claughton, 109 cleveland moors, 4, 79, 91, 92, 95, 108, 131 clifford "the butcher," 7, 19, 20, 122, 171, 188-190 clifford, family of, 6-11, 15, 122 clifford "the shepherd lord," 7, 8, 11, 19-21, 24, 122 clifford's tower, york, 185, 186 clitheroe, 30 cock, river, 188, 189 colman, 104 compiègne, 36 coniston, 12, 13 conistone, 18 conquering legion, 181 constantine the great, 162, 181 constantius, emperor, 181 cook, captain, 91, 96, 97 cotherstone, 84 cotterell, colonel, 199 cover, river, 50, 54 coxwold, 154, 157 craven, 5-15 cromwell, oliver, 28, 30, 31, 33, 34 cromwell, thomas, 41, 42, 47 cropton, 127 croyland abbey, 211 culloden tower, richmond, 74 cumberland, first earl of, 11, 24 cumberland, third earl of, 7, 10 cynebil, 129 dairy bridge, 80 dales, the, 1-86, 89 danes, the, 35, 105, 109, 120, 179, 211, 212 darlington, 90 defoe, quotations from, 54, 57 derham, francis, 197 derwent, river, 122, 164, 166, 206 despensers, the, 195, 196 devorgilla, princess, 83 dissolution of monasteries, 24, 41, 42, 46, 47, 72, 77, 93, 183 dodsworth, roger, 156, 180 douglas, black, 112, 113 dropping well at knaresborough, 31 dugdale, 151, 156 duncombe, charles, 134, 142, 145, 147 duncombe park, 141, 147, 155 eanfled, queen, 35, 105 easby abbey, 56, 77, 78 easington, 95 east ayton, 123 east witton, 50 eata, 35 ebberston, 124 edmund, king, 211, 212 edred, king, 36 edward the confessor, 137-139 edward i., 83, 170, 219, 222 edward ii., 8, 11, 196 edward iii., 175, 176 edward iv., 51, 159, 189, 191, 197 edward v., 162 edward, son of richard iii., 52, 161, 162, 172 edwin, king of northumbria, 177, 179 eggleston abbey, 82 elfleda, princess, 105 elizabeth, queen, 7, 10, 53, 62, 63, 135 elizabeth, queen of spain, 62 elizabeth of york, 159, 160, 162 ellerton priory, 72 eliot, george, 22, 26 ely, 211 embsay, 23 embsay moor, 15 espec, walter of, 142, 148, 150-152, 164, 165 ethelfled, daughter of alfred the great, 73 ethelwald, king of deira, 128, 139, 140 euer, family of, 122 evesham, 77, 106 exton, sir piers, 193, 194 fairfaxes, castle of the, 156 fairfax, sir thomas, 144, 145, 173, 174, 180, 204, 205 ferrybridge, 189-191 filey, 119 fitzhugh, sir henry, 45, 47 fitzhughs, castle of the, 84 fitzranulph, 51 fitzwater, lord, 190 flamborough head, 119 flodden, battle of, 8 forge valley, 119, 121-123, 127, 164 fors, 47, 66, 67 fossard, family of, 99 foston, 163 fountains abbey, 5, 13, 17, 26, 37-43, 149, 183 fountains hall, 43 fox, george, 114, 115 froissart, quotations from, 216, 217 furness, 153 gallows hill, 123 galtres, forest of, 157, 158 gargrave, 12 gaveston, piers, 28, 112, 126, 195 geoffrey, abbot of st. mary's, 183 george iv., 74 george washington, 210 gibson, editor of camden, 215 giggleswick, 14 gilling, 73, 78, 79 gilling, east, 156 glastonbury, 105 glenham, general, 173 godiva, lady, 73 godwin, earl, 138 goldsmith, peter, 55 gordale scar, 13 grasmere, 123 grassington, 19 great north road, 79, 190, 201, 205 great whernside, 17 greta bridge, 80 greta, river, 80, 81 grey friars' tower, richmond, 77, 79 grey, sir richard, 197 grimston moor, 157 gros, william le, 112 guisborough, 91-94 gunnerside, 70 hackness, 119-121, 122 hall, john, 95 hambledon moors, 79 hamilton, duke of, 31 hampton court, 62 harald the norseman, 111 harold ii., 139 harrogate, 25-28 harry hotspur, 171, 193 hartington seat, 23 hastings, lord, 51 hawes, 57, 67 haworth, 15 helaugh, 71, 75 hellifield, 11, 13 helmsley, 134, 141-147, 154, 156 hemingborough, 205 henrietta maria, queen, 184 henry i., 203 henry iii., 112 henry iv., 126, 171, 194 henry v., 7, 45, 195 henry vi., 189 henry vii., 75, 93, 122, 160 henry viii., 8, 46, 77, 93, 161, 197 high force, 85, 86 hill house, richmond, 78 hinderwell, 98 hinguar and hubba, 105, 109, 211, 212 hipswell moor, 57 hodge beck, 136 holland, sir john, 216, 217 hospitium of st. mary's, york, 184, 185 hotham, sir john, 221 hoveden, john, 210 howden, 206, 208-210 hubberholme, 17, 18 huby, abbot of fountains, 41 hull, 33, 218-222 humber, 211, 212, 219, 222 huntingdon, lord, 53 hutchinson, joanna, 123 hutchinson, mary, 123 ingilby, lady, 34 ingleton, 11, 14 james i., 135, 144, 172, 184 james i. of scotland, 195 james iv. of scotland, 93, 172 jervaulx abbey, 26, 42, 44, 45, 46-49, 66 john of austria, 63 john of gaunt, 28, 71, 75, 126 john of kent, 41 john, king, 32 katherine howard, 160, 197 keldholme, 133 kettlethorpe hill, 210 kettlewell, 17, 18 kilnsey crag, 16, 17 kingsley, charles, 49, 50 kirbymoorside, 133-135, 145 kirkdale, 136-141 kirkham priory, 150, 151, 163-165, 170 kirkstall abbey, 26 knaresborough, 28-33, 126 knaresborough, forest of, 27 knollys, sir francis, 61-64 knottingley, 201 lacy, family of, 203, 206 lacy, hugh de, 203, 204 lacy, ilbert de, 192 lambert, general, 192, 199 lancaster, duchy of, 126 lancaster, thomas, earl of, 126, 195, 196 lass of richmond hill, 78 lartington, 84 lastingham, 127-132, 136, 140, 182 leeds, 26 leeds waterworks, 25 leland, quotations from, 32, 60, 76, 100, 110, 125, 150, 206, 207, 213 lewes, george, 22 leyburn, 57 leyburn shawl, 65 lindisfarne, 35, 211 linskill, mary, 101 linton, 19 loftus, 95 lothbroc, 105, 109, 211 low row, 70 lune, river, 85 lythe, 99, 100 macaulay, lord, 134 macnally, 78 malham, 11, 12, 13 margaret of anjou, 20, 171 margaret, princess, daughter of henry vii., 93, 172 marmion, family of, 44-46 marrick priory, 71, 72 marris, colonel, 198, 199 marston moor, battle of, 29, 31, 34 marton-in-cleveland, 91 marton-on-the-forest, 157 mary, princess, daughter of henry vii., 8 mary queen of scots, 60-65 masham, 46 matthew, archbishop of york, 177 matthew, frances, 177, 178 mauley or de malo-lacu, family of, 99, 100 meaux, abbey of, 219 melrose abbey, 152 mercia, earls of, 73, 79 meschines, alice de, 22, 23 micklegate bar, york, 170, 171-173 mickleton, 85 middleham, 26, 44, 49-54, 58, 162 middlesbrough, 89, 90 middleton-in-teesdale, 84, 85 milbank, miss, 78 monk bar, york, 170 mortham tower, 80, 81 morton, earl, 142 morville, de, 28, 29 muker, 70 mulgrave park, 99, 100 multangular tower, york, 181, 182 nawton, 140 nelson, 55, 155 neville, anne, 51, 52, 161, 172 neville, family of, 51, 83, 135, 159, 160 newark, 199 new row, 100 nidd, river, 32 nine altars, chapel of the, fountains, 41 norfolk, duke of, 160 north cave, 210 north sea, 106, 111 northumberland, duke of, 171, 193 norton, christopher, 61 norton, family of, 15, 16 orléans, duke of, 195 oswaldkirk, 155, 156 oswini, monk of lastingham, 129-131 oswy, king, 103-105 otley, 30 ouse, river, 202, 205, 212 paston letters, quotation from, 197 pembroke, countess of, 8-10, 21 penda, king of mercia, 103, 105 pendragon castle, 20 percy, family of, 205-208 percy, lady, 217 percy, william de, 121 peterborough, 211 philippa, queen, 28, 29, 175, 176 pickering, 123, 124-127 pilgrimage of grace, 39, 42, 48, 49, 113, 197 pius ii., 176 plantagenets, arms of the, 164 pontefract, 29, 126, 189-201 pope, alexander, 71, 133, 134 premonstratensian order, 77 preston, battle of, 31 quincy, peter de, 67 redmire, 57, 59, 60 reeth, 70, 71 reinfrid, 105 ribblesdale, 14 richard i., 185 richard ii., 28, 29, 126, 192-195, 206, 216 richard iii., 8, 51, 62, 83, 110, 159, 161, 172, 176, 197 richard, first abbot of fountains, 39 richard, second abbot of fountains, 40 richmond, 44, 57, 58, 71, 72-79, 83 rievaulx abbey, 5, 26, 147-152, 154, 165 rievaulx woods, 154 ripley, 33, 34 ripon, 26, 33, 34-37, 43, 44 rivers, lord, 197 roald, constable of richmond, 78 robert curthose, 142 robin hood, 108 robin hood's bay, 106, 107 robin hood's butts, 106 _rokeby_, 81 rokeby park, 80 romaldkirk, 84 romilles, family of, 6 ros, family of, 142, 143, 165 rosamund, the fair, 11 roseberry topping, 91, 92 roucliffe, sir david, 125 runswick bay, 98, 99 rutland, earl of, 7, 19, 188 rye, river, 149, 152, 154, 155 rylstone, 16 rylstone fell, 15 rylstone, white doe of, 15, 16 st. bernard, 151, 152 st. cedd, 128-131, 139, 140 st. chad, 128-131, 179 st. columba, 104 st. david's, 178 st. germanus, 202 st. helena, 162 st. hilda, 98, 103-105, 109, 120, 121 st. john of beverley, 103, 214-216 st. john, family of, 122 st. john's priory, pontefract, 196 st. mary's abbey, york, 39, 131, 182-185 st. mary's church, beverley, 217 st. norbert, 77 st. paulinus, 76, 174, 179 st. robert of knaresborough, 31-33 st. thomas's hill, pontefract, 196 st. wilfrid, 34-36, 37, 103, 104, 179 st. william's college, york, 186 saltburn, 94 sandsend, 100, 101 saxon remains, 35, 55, 79, 120, 124, 131, 137-140, 155, 179 saxton, 189 scalby, 119 scarborough, 106, 109-116, 119, 141, 164 scott, sir walter, 80, 81 scrope, archbishop, 60, 177 scrope, lord, of masham, 171 scropes of bolton, 56, 60, 65, 78, 164 seaton, mary, 64, 65 sedburgh, abbot of jervaulx, 48, 49 selby, 201-205 settle, 14 severus, emperor, 181 seymour, family of, 206 sheffield, lord, 99 sheriff hutton, 155, 157-163 shrewsbury abbey, 206 sidney, sir philip, 143 skell, river, 183 skelton, 93-95 skipton, 5-11, 15, 20, 30 skirlaw, walter, 209 slingsby, captain, 27 slingsby, sir henry, 33, 173 stafford, lord ralph, 216, 217 stafford, lord thomas, 113 staithes, 96-98 stamford bridge, 177 standard, battle of the, 28, 112, 142 station hotel, york, 181 sterne, laurence, 95, 154, 157 stewart, charles, the young pretender, 172 stillington, 157 stocking, 153 stockton-on-tees, 89, 90 stonegappe, 15 strafford, earl of, 184 stray, the, 27, 28 strid, the, 21-23 studley park, 38, 149 studley royal, 38 stuttevilles, de, 28, 32, 133 suffolk, duke of, 8 surrey, earl of, 161 sutton-in-the-forest, 157 swale, river, 58, 70, 71, 72, 76, 81 swaledale, 16, 57, 58, 67, 69-79 sweetheart abbey, 83, 84 sweyn, 212 tadcaster, 170, 172, 187, 188 tees, river, 4, 81, 82, 85, 89 teesdale, 16, 81-86 tewkesbury, battle of, 197 thirsk, 153 thirsk, abbot of fountains, 41 thornton force, 15 thornton-le-dale, 124 threshfield, 16 thurstan, archbishop, 43, 182, 183 tillotson, archbishop, 155 tintern, 149 tosti, earl, 137-139, 177 towton, battle of, 7, 19, 20, 188-191 trent, river, 212 trinity chapel, richmond, 76 turner, 80 tutbury, 65 ulphus, 179, 180 ulphus, horn of, 180 upgang, 101 upleatham, 94 ure, river, 44, 54, 67 vaux, arms of, 165 victoria, queen, accession of, 132 victory, h.m.s., surgeons of, 55 wada the giant, 99 wakefield, battle of, 19 wakeman, the, of ripon, 36, 37, 44 walkington, 212 walmgate bar, york, 170, 171 warwick, earl of, the kingmaker, 51, 159, 191 warwick, earl of, son of duke of clarence, 159, 160 weathercote cave, 15 wensley, 44, 55, 56, 59, 78 wensleydale, 16, 26, 54-67 wesley, john, 107 west ayton, 123 westminster, 29, 52, 63, 135, 145, 193 west tanfield, 44-46, 47 wharfe, river, 16, 17, 21, 22, 23, 81, 187, 189 wharfedale, 16-25, 26 wharton, duke of, 71 whitby, 36, 99, 101-106, 108, 120, 131, 182, 211 wilfrid's needle, 35 william i., 28, 29, 73, 142, 185, 203 william ii., 82 william of hatfield, 176 william the lion, 74, 83 william of malmesbury, quotations from, 103, 138 worcester, earl of, 206 wordsworth, dorothy, 123 wordsworth, william, 13, 16, 123 wressle castle, 206-208 yarm, 89, 90 yordas cave, 15 yorebridge, 57 york, 4, 26, 52, 53, 62, 73, 158, 168, 164, 165-187, 189, 201, 205, 220 york minster, 158, 166, 169, 174-181 york, richard duke of, 20, 171 zetland, marquess of, 79 zetland hotel, saltburn, 94 unwin brothers, limited, printers, woking and london. footnotes: [1] quoted by speight. [2] speight's "romantic richmondshire." [3] see "nelson's despatches," vol. vii. [4] "the trafalgar roll," by col. r. m. holden, in the _united service magazine_, for october, 1908. [5] "north riding of yorkshire." j. e. morris. [6] croydon. [7] many of the facts connected with selby are derived from mr. moody's handbook. transcriber's note -plain print and punctuation errors fixed. yorkshire battles. yorkshire battles. by edward lamplough. author of "the siege of hull," "mediæval yorkshire," "hull and yorkshire frescoes," etc. hull: william andrews & co. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., limited, 1891. hull: william andrews and co. printers, dock street. to the rev. e. g. charlesworth, vicar of acklam, a contributor to and lover of yorkshire literature, this volume is most respectfully inscribed. e. l. contents. page i.--winwidfield, etc. 1 ii.--battle of stamford bridge 15 iii.--after stamford bridge 36 iv.--battle of the standard 53 v.--after the battle of the standard 75 vi.--battle of myton meadows 83 vii.--battle of boroughbridge 101 viii.--battle of byland abbey 116 ix.--in the days of edward iii. and richard ii. 131 x.--battle of bramham moor 139 xi.--battle of sandal 150 xii.--battle of towton 165 xiii.--yorkshire under the tudors 173 xiv.--battle of tadcaster 177 xv.--battle of leeds 183 xvi.--battle of wakefield 187 xvii.--battle of adwalton moor 192 xviii.--battle of hull 196 xix.--battle of selby 199 xx.--battle of marston moor 203 xxi.--battle of brunanburgh 216 xxii.--fight off flamborough head 221 index 227 preface. in the history of our national evolution yorkshire occupies a most important position, and the sanguinary record of yorkshire battles possesses something more than material for the poet and the artist. valour, loyalty, patriotism, honour and self-sacrifice are virtues not uncommon to the warrior, and the blood of true and brave men has liberally bedewed our fields. it was on yorkshire soil that the tides of foreign invasion were rolled back in blood at stamford bridge and northallerton; the misfortunes attendant upon the reign of weak and incapable princes are illustrated by the fields of boroughbridge, byland abbey, and myton-upon-swale, and, in the first days of our greatest national struggle, the true men of yorkshire freely shed their blood at tadcaster, bradford, leeds, wakefield, adwalton moor and hull, keeping open the pathway by which fairfax passed from selby to marston moor. let pedants prate of wars of kites and crows; we take national life as a unity, and dare to face its evolution through all the throes of birth, owning ourselves debtors to the old times before us, without being either so unwise or ungenerous as to contemn the bonds of association, and affect a false and impossible isolation. to the educated and intelligent our yorkshire battles present interesting and important studies of those subtle and natural processes by which nations achieve liberty, prosperity, and greatness. e. l. hull literary club, _january 6th, 1891_. yorkshire battles. i.--winwidfield, etc. from the earliest ages of our recorded national history the soil of yorkshire has been the "dark and bloody ground" of mighty chieftains and their armed thousands. where the sickle gleams to-day amid the golden fields of autumn, our ancestors beheld the flashing steel of mighty hosts, and triumphed by the might of their red right hand, or endured the bitter humiliation of defeat. vain was the barrier of hadrian's wall to restrain the fiery caledonians from their prey in the old times before us, when the roman eagle was borne above the iron cohorts of the empire through the remote and rugged northland. when severus visited the island, to maintain his rule and quell the raging storms of invasion, he found the city of york surrounded by barbarians, and encountered and drove them afar in bloody defeat when the roman gallies bore off the last of the legionaries, and the britons were left to their own resources, the tide of devastation spread wide and far, and the suffering people were driven to the verge of despair. according to william of malmsbury, the romans had drained the land of its best blood, and left it cursed with a sottish and debauched population. hordes of picts and scots inundated the land, fired its villages, overthrew its cities, and slew the inhabitants with the edge of the sword. oft has the pathetic earnestness of gildas been quoted: "the barbarians drive us to the sea, the sea throws us back on the barbarians; thus two modes of death await us, we are either slain or drowned." again the clang of arms and the loud tones of war rang through the north, when the white-horse standard of the saxons was spread upon the breeze, and the tall, muscular warriors, with their long, fair hair and flowing beards, swept towards the borders, filling the briton with astonishment and admiration. then blood flowed like water, and the fiery picts were turned to sullen flight; but, ere long, yorkshire plain and hill groaned under a fresh burden of blood as briton and saxon strove together for the mastery. the tide of war ebbed and flowed around the ancient city of york, and sanguinary and numerous were the engagements that ensued before the britons relinquished the sovereignty of the island. the history of edwin, king of deira and bernicia, is worthy of a passing notice; he was left an orphan at the tender age of three years, when king ethelfrith seized his inheritance of deira, and pursued his steps with implacable persistency until redwald king of east anglia took him under his protection. ethelfrith at once marched upon redwald, and two sanguinary battles followed, the usurper perishing in the last conflict. redwald then placed edwin upon the throne of deira and bernicia. edwin was a pagan, but on espousing the sister of ethelbald, king of kent, he came under the influence of bishop paulinus, and his conversion followed. on easter day, 626, edwin gave audience to his subjects in his "regal city" on the derwent, a few miles from york. doubtless it was a favourable time for the presenting of petitions, for during the night the queen had given birth to a daughter. towards the conclusion of the morning's business, a messenger was ushered into the royal presence, and, when about to address the king, drew forth a long double-edged knife, with which he attempted to stab the monarch, throwing all the weight of his body into the blow. lila, the king's minister, perceiving his master's danger, interposed his body, which was transpierced by the weapon, which inflicted a slight wound upon the king. upon the instant the assassin was slain by a score of weapons, but not before he had also killed forthhere, one of edwin's household. it transpired that the murderer was a servant of cuichelm, king of the west saxons, and was named eumer. the knife had been poisoned, and though robbed of its virulence in passing through the body of lila, the king had to endure somewhat at the hands of his physician, and was no doubt under some apprehension of death. in conversation with paulinus he vowed to accept the christian religion if he recovered from his wound, and succeeded in punishing the murderous treachery of cuichelm, and on whit-sunday the infant princess received christian baptism. the avenging army of northumbria burst into the fair westland with sword and spear, and edwin carried his banner through many a sanguinary engagement, when the strong growing corn was trampled under foot and cursed with red battle-rain, as the massy columns of northumbria drove over the field, banners flapping overhead, javelins and stones beating in a terrible shower along the front, whilst a forest of portended pikes rent and overwhelmed all who dared to brave the dreadful onset. on the king's return he hesitated long before professing the christian religion, and called his chiefs to take council with him. to his surprise the way was prepared for him. coifi, chief of the pagan priests, doubted the power of his gods. he gave them careful service, omitted nothing, and deserved well of them, yet he was not first in the king's favour, nor prosperous in his undertakings. one of edwin's chieftains took a more just and elevated view of the subject: "the present life of man, o king, seems to me, in comparison of that time which is unknown to us, like the swift flight of a sparrow through the room wherein you sit at supper in winter, with your commanders and ministers, and a good fire in the midst, whilst storms of rain and snow prevail abroad--the sparrow, i say, flying in at one door and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry storm; but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, into the dark winter from which he had emerged. so this life of man appears for a short space, but of what went before, or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant. if, therefore, this new doctrine contains something more certain, it seems justly to deserve to be followed." the result was that coifi undertook to desecrate his gods, assuming sword and spear, and mounting a stallion, forbidden to priests. great was the astonishment and awe of the people as the royal party rode towards the temple. as coifi approached he brandished his spear, and hurled it into the building. as it clashed upon the floor an awful cry burst from the priests, but no dire catastrophe followed, and fire being applied to the temple, building and gods were alike consumed. the impotence of the pagan gods established, the conversion of the people rapidly followed, and the wise and good king reigned over a flourishing state for several years. unhappily, the virtues of the king and the affection of his subjects were no protection from misfortune, and the chequered life went down in ruin and defeat. penda, the pagan king of mercia, a wretch inured to crime, entered into a confederacy with cadwalla, king of north wales, and, after vowing to compass the destruction of all the christians in the island, marched against king edwin. the royal northumbrian was neither slow to mass his troops nor meet his arch-enemy; but the triumph that had so often attended his arms was not vouchsafed in this inauspicious hour; and when the terrible waves of battle rolled against each other at the village of hatfield, near doncaster, in the october days of 633, his throne and crown went down in the fierce storm, though brave men flung themselves before his banners, and struggled with the savage foe as long as life lingered in the hacked and bleeding frame. falling with honour in the van of battle, edwin breathed out his life amidst the roar of the contending hosts, and so the day darkened ere the night closed on christian northumbria. by the king's side fell his son, the gallant young osfrid, and the slaughter of the defeated army being very great, a season of extreme depression ensued. great as the confusion was, the dead king received the last melancholy offices, his head being buried in the porch of the church at york, and the abbey at whitby receiving his body. in the year 655, when the winters of eighty years had bleached the head of the warlike and ferocious penda, he again participated in a tremendous conflict which took place on the field of victory, or winwidfield, on the northern bank of the aire, near leeds. the occasion of the war was as follows: adelwald, king of deira, was threatened by oswy, king of bernicia, and perceiving that he could only hope to retain his crown by compassing the ruin of that powerful monarch, he formed a league with the kings of mercia and east anglia, and declared war against oswy, who, dismayed by so powerful a coalition, strove, by every possible means, to avert the bursting of the storm. all his efforts proving futile, he humbled himself in fervent supplications for victory on the solemn eve of the impending battle, and recorded a religious vow that, in the event of his being delivered from his enemies, his infant daughter, elfleda, should be devoted to the service of the holy church. while oswy was buried in supplication the shrewd brain of adelwald was busily revolving the position. should oswy be defeated, he would be at the mercy of his allies of mercia and east anglia, and his own destruction and the division of his kingdom might be anticipated. to obviate such a disastrous result adelwald resolved to reserve his own forces, and leave his allies to deal with oswy, when he might reasonably hope to secure his kingdom against the decimated army, or armies of the victor. on the morning of the 15th of november, the four kings marshalled their forces, spearmen, and other variously armed infantry and cavalry; and penda, animated and impetuous, his fiery spirit undimmed by the four score years that had passed over his head, rushed to the attack, and the clash of arms and tumult of war resounded over the field as the troops of oswy nobly sustained the fierce assault. at this juncture, the crafty adelwald, assured that the deadly game would be continued to the bitter end, began to retire his troops, and the mercians, losing heart under the suspicion of his treachery, relaxed their efforts, and commenced a hasty and confused retreat. penda and his numerous chieftains appealed to them, and strove to restore their broken ranks, but in vain. oswy pressed them hard; smote them with fierce charges of cavalry, and with the rush of his serried spearmen bore down all resistance. the kings of anglia and east mercia were put to the sword, and their armies decimated and scattered. oswy, secured in the possession of life and throne, exulted in the signal victory which had blessed his arms. amid the lifeless thousands that encumbered the sanguinary field, twenty-eight vassal chieftains of the highest rank had fallen with their kings. oswy satiated his regal ambition by taking possession of the realms of his conquered adversaries, but he respected the crown of the crafty adelwald, who retained the glittering bauble until his death, a few years later. before the saxon monarchy had time to develope, the danes visited the unhappy island with fire and sword. coasting along the shores, interrupting the commerce, blocking up the mouths of the rivers, or penetrating far inland, their only mission to plunder and destroy, they proved a terrible curse to the nation, and brought the islanders to the verge of ruin and despair. with the name of penda, is associated that of a very opposite prince, alfred, king of the northumbrians, as he is styled in the anglo-saxon chronicle. alfred espoused kyneburga, penda's daughter, by whom he had issue one son, osred, who succeeded to the throne. this talented prince ascended the throne after many vicissitudes, and was slain at ebberston on the 19th january, 705, and was buried in the church of little driffield. it appears that the country was being ravaged by a large body of danes and norwegians, and that alfred pursued and engaged them, holding them to a desperate trial of arms for the whole of the short winter's afternoon. the gloomy night was closing in on the dreadful scene, and the northmen were breaking before the charges of the royal troops, when an arrow smote the king, and he fell in the front of battle. on the instant a danish warrior charged the prostrate monarch, and, before a hand could be raised in his defence, wounded him in the thigh. in haste and confusion the wounded man was carried away from the scene of strife, and concealed in a cave until the invaders had retired, when he was borne to the castle of deira-field, and every attention given to recover him from his wounds, but after a week of suffering he expired, to the regret of his subjects. in the year 867, a great conflict for the sovereignty of northumbria was maintained between osbert and ella, the former having been expelled from his throne and the latter elected thereto in his stead. at this unhappy juncture, the danish chieftains, hinguar and hubba, brought a powerful fleet into the humber, and therewith passed their land forces over the river into northumbria, directing the march of their principal forces upon york, and marking their track in blood and ashes. the common danger arrested the course of the internecine feud, and osbert and ella proposed to combine their forces for the defence of the capital. before this junction could, however, be effected the northmen fell upon york, and osbert, without waiting for his ally, threw himself into the city, and attacked the advancing danes. for a time the battle raged hotly. the banners were brought to the front, and the leaders fought gallantly beneath them, animating their followers by their example and exhortations. so fierce was the defence of the northumbrians that the danes were driven back, but only to again struggle forward through dust and blood to the devoted city. osbert and his chieftains strove nobly to hold up against the heavy masses that bore down upon them with such determined energy. again and again they cast themselves upon the steel-bound ranks of their enemies, only to be borne down in the press, before the descending swords, and lie beneath the feet that pressed forward and entered the city in triumph. scarcely had hubba and hinguar established themselves, before ella approached, and addressed himself to the storming of the walls. so fierce and stubborn was the onslaught, that his troops broke through the defences and penetrated the danish lines. the northman was never more to be feared than when at bay, with the sword above his head. the danes sallied out, slew or drove out all the northumbrians who had entered the city, and, engaging them in the open field, put ella and the flower of his army to the sword. the day was fittingly concluded by a fiendish massacre of the citizens of york. in saxon and danish times northumbria was continually invaded, and in the days of king athelstan the famous battle of brunanburgh was fought north of the humber, and, if we may attach any importance to the speculations of some of our yorkshire antiquaries, our favoured county was the scene of that desperate conflict. as a matter of fact, the exact locality of the battle has not yet been established on sufficient evidence, and no doubt our historians will continue to regard it as unascertained. ii.--battle of stamford bridge. a.d. 1066. two circumstances secured the triumph of william, duke of normandy, when he invaded saxon england in the year 1066. the first was the temporary withdrawal of the saxon fleet, for the purpose of securing supplies; the second was the enmity of tosti godwinsson, who incited harold hardrada to attempt the subjugation of the island. had the saxon fleet kept the sea, had harold encountered the invader with the unbroken strength of his army of defence, the norman might have effected a landing, but it would have been with decimated forces, and probably in the face of an army that would have offered a desperate resistance to their disembarkation, and would have called them to an even more bloody conflict than that of senlac. the chain of events which led to the battle of stamford bridge may be traced back to that memorable scene when the aged and heroic northumbrian, jarl siward, lay dying in his house at york. disdaining to meet death in other than his customary guise of warrior and chief, he caused his servitors to invest his gigantic frame in the iron panoply of war, to arm him with the heavy sword and tempered battle-axe which he had so long and ably employed in the national service, and so breathed his last, leaving the wild hordes of northumbria to be disposed of by king edward, for his son, the afterwards far-famed waltheof, was too young to rule over so extensive and warlike a province. no doubt harold employed his great influence with king edward to secure the aggrandisement of his own family, for his brother tosti was invested with command of the province. tosti was the most froward of the sons of godwin, and showed none of the high qualities and sincere patriotism which distinguished godwin and his son harold. cruel and passionate, tosti was ill-fitted to govern a proud and inflammable people like the northumbrians. the following passage from roger of wendover illustrates the violent disposition of the earl: "tosti quitted the king's court in a rage, and coming to the city of hereford, where his brother harold had prepared a great feast for the king, he cut off the limbs of all the servants, and put an arm, or some other member, in each of the vessels of wine, mead, ale, or pickle; after which he sent a message to the king, that on coming to his lodgings, he would find the food seasoned to his mind, and that he should take care to carry away the delicacies with him." tosti's rule in northumbria came to a sudden termination, a.d. 1065. the "anglo-saxon chronicle" thus records the event: "all the thanes in yorkshire and northumberland gathered themselves together, and outlawed their earl, tosty, and slew his household men, all that they might come at, as well english as danish: and they took all his weapons at york, and gold and silver, and all his treasures which they might anywhere there hear of, and sent after morkar, the son of elgar the earl, and chose him to be their earl: and he went south with all the shire, and with nottinghamshire, and derbyshire, and lincolnshire, until he came to northampton: and his brother edwin came to meet him with the men who were in his earldom, and also many britons came with him. there came harold, the earl, to meet them; and they laid an errand upon him to king edward, and also sent messengers with him, and begged that they might have morkar for their earl. and the king granted it, and sent harold again to them at northampton, on the eve of st. simon's and st. jude's mass; and he made known the same to them, and delivered a pledge thereof to them: and he there renewed canute's law. but the northern men did much harm about northampton whilst he went on their errand, inasmuch as they slew men and burned houses and corn; and took all the cattle which they came at, that was many thousand: and many hundred men they took and led north with them; so that shire, and the other shires which there are nigh, were for many years the worse. and tosty the earl, and his wife, and all those who would what he would, went south over sea with him to baldwin, the earl, and he received them all; and they were all the winter there." the indignation of tosti was extreme, and was not unnaturally directed towards his brother, harold, who had used his influence with the confessor to obtain the pardon of the turbulent northumbrians, and the confirmation of morkar in the possession of the earldom. that harold was actuated by personal motives cannot be questioned, for he procured the government of mercia for earl edwin, and espoused the sister of these potent nobles. it was obvious that a crisis must come in his history, and in that of his country, and as a man and a patriot he could not afford to be hampered by the crimes of his brother, and by the disaffection and revolt of a province so remote and difficult of access as northumbria. although harold was at the head of an army when he treated with the northumbrians at northampton, it is apparent from the passage already quoted that they were assembled in such numbers and array, that any attempt to reinstate tosti in the earldom would have resulted in a battle, and probably would have necessitated an armed invasion of northumbria. on the 5th of january, 1066, king edward fulfilled the number of his days, and on the morrow was buried in westminster abbey. from the day of his death england entered upon a long course of stormy and disastrous years; and it must be confessed that to his own folly in promising the succession to his kinsman, william, duke of normandy, the national troubles are to be largely attributed. it is said that edward's last hours were vexed by the vision of a warrior shooting a bloody arrow, portending evil days for the kingdom; and also that he gave a reluctant consent to the succession of harold, warning him that the result would be very grevious. the citizens of london, the nobility, and clergy, were largely favourable to the claims of harold; the lineal heir to the crown being the confessor's nephew, edgar atheling--a youth of far too tender years to wear the crown to which the duke of normandy and harold godwinson aspired. no man wished to behold the norman duke seated upon the throne of the great alfred; and when harold caused himself to be proclaimed king on the evening of the day of the confessor's death, his action was ratified by the witenagemot, and the crown was placed upon his head by stigand, archbishop of canterbury. in the north alone was any disaffection manifested towards king harold, and he met it by paying the northumbrians a visit, in which he was accompanied by wulstan, bishop of worcester. he was favourably received, and won the esteem and support of the northumbrians. in the true sense of the word, harold was an elected king, chosen of the nation; not a tyrant and usurper. earl tosti spared no pains to raise up enemies against his brother during the period of his enforced banishment, and succeeded in inducing the famous norwegian monarch, harold hardrada, to make a descent upon the island. too impatient to await the appearance of his ally, earl tosti was the first to raise sword in the land, coming from beyond sea with a fleet of daring adventurers, flemings, and others. landing in the isle of wight, he enforced contributions of food and money, and proceeded to ravage the coast as far as sandwich. harold had, however, provided so largely for the protection of his kingdom by the formation of a large fleet, and of formidable land forces, that tosti was compelled to beat a speedy retreat, and directed his course to the north, taking "some of the boatmen with him, some willingly and some unwillingly." entering the humber, he devastated the lindsey shore with fire and sword; but being beset by the troops of morkar and edwin, he was deserted by the greater part of his fleet, and was obliged to precipitately retire into scotland with the twelve gallies that remained to him. king malcolm iii. hospitably entertained the fugitive prince at his court, but all the solicitations of tosti failed to induce him to invade the territories of king harold. tosti succeeded in attaching a number of adventurers to his cause, or rather a number of pirates followed his fortunes in the hope of obtaining plunder, and with the certainty of being allowed to slaughter the inhabitants of the coasts, and to ravage the land. where the north sea foams around the orkneys, tosti was to meet the norwegian monarch; and the orkneyinga saga thus narrates his arrival and departure:- "at this time, when the brothers, paul and erlendr, had taken up the rule in orkney, there arrived at the east side of the island from norway harold sigurdson with a large army. he came first to shetland. went from thence to orkney. there he left queen ellisif, and their daughters, maria and ingigerdi. from orkney he had much help. both the jarls joined the expedition of the king. the king thence went south to england, and landed where it is called klifland, and came to skardaborg." tosti and his gallies joined the norwegians, and in the expressive phraseology of the time:--"tosti submitted to him and became his man." northumbria was the seat of war, the saxon fleet and harold's army of defence being located in the south, for the arrival of the armament of the duke of normandy was daily expected, and tosti and his ally had therefore every prospect of obtaining a strong hold of the north, the population of which was largely of danish origin. from the first the proceedings of the invaders were not calculated to win over the northumbrians to their cause. as the great fleet of 500 sail bore for the humber, numerous troops were landed to ravage the coast; and a fierce swoop was made upon scarborough, which was burnt to the ground. sailing up the humber, the invaders continued their evil work, and the sky was lurid with flame and dark with smoke, and slaughtered peasants were strewn on the soil which they had ploughed and sown in the earlier days of the year, when they looked forward to the harvest of the scythe and sickle, nor dreamt that autumn would bring upon them the sharp chastisement of the sword. york was the prize for which the invaders offered, and, sailing up the ouse, they moored their fleet at the village of riccall, ten miles from the city, upon which they at once directed their march. jarls edwin and morkar made strenuous efforts to arrest the invaders, but the northern forces were insufficient to meet so numerous and powerful an army as that of hardrada. nevertheless, the brothers assembled such troops as they could collect, and took up a position at fulford to cover the city. hardrada occupied a defensive position, with the river on his right flank, and a morass on his left. edwin and morkar showed no lack of spirit in the combat which ensued, and promptly charged the norwegian lines, which they penetrated, making a very great slaughter; but being too weak in numbers to reap the full advantage of their valour, they were unable to rout the ranks which they had thrown into disorder; and the norwegians clung to their ground, and maintained a hand-to-hand conflict until the arrival of large reinforcements from the fleet enabled them to push back the northumbrian ranks, and to charge them in turn. this was decisive of the battle: the northumbrians had exhausted their strength in the first conflict, and could not stem the tide of fresh warriors that bore down upon them, with their ringing war-song, and with flashing spears and axes. the disordered ranks of the northumbrians were speedily broken, and the army dissolved in a wild rout of savage fugitives, oft turning stubbornly at bay, and exacting a heavy price for their lives. many of the northumbrians were forced into the river, or took to the water in their endeavours to escape the vengeance of the unsparing norwegians, so that more men of the saxon army perished in the ouse than fell by the sword on the field of fulford. "and this fight was on the vigil of st. matthew the apostle, and it was wednesday." morkar and edwin retired into york with the remnant of fugitives that rallied around them; but their numbers were insufficient for the defence of the city, and they retreated thence, when harold and tosti entered in triumph at the head of a division of their army, and received the submission of the citizens, who furnished them with provisions, and placed hostages in their hands; "and they agreed upon a full peace, so that they should all go with him south, and this land subdue." the norwegians had retired from the city, and taken up a position at stamford bridge, part of the army remaining at riccall for the protection of the fleet, while the commanders appear to have been engaged in projects for organising an army to march south; but the enemy was approaching by forced marches; and on the 26th of september, 1066, the decisive battle of stamford bridge was fought no sooner was harold apprised of the invasion of northumbria, than he placed himself at the head of his army, advanced his ensigns; and pressed forward with such celerity that, on the 23rd of september, his army occupied tadcaster. on the following day he entered york; the norwegians, who had been left in occupation, retiring before him. the battle commenced at sunrise on the 25th; and the forces of harold and tosti appear to have been taken by surprise, for a large number of norwegians were with the fleet at riccall. under any circumstances, however, hardrada was certain to provide for the safety of his fleet; and the fact that he afterwards drew large reinforcements from it does not of itself imply that he was taken by surprise, unless, indeed he had under-estimated the forces of harold, and had prepared for battle accordingly. the armies were sufficiently powerful for so important an occasion, each consisting of some 60,000 men; those of hardrada being adventurers and soldiers by profession; whilst the warlike element was sufficiently developed in harold's army, many of the troops being veterans, and all accustomed to wield arms, for there had not been time to collect hasty levies, such as some of those that fought at hastings three weeks later. before the battle commenced, harold godwinson dispatched a troop of twenty horse to negotiate with the enemy, no doubt in the hope of winning over his brother tosti, against whom his mind revolted from engaging in war. tosti manifested a marked disposition to accede to his brother's wishes on being informed that he should be reinstated in his territories and honours; but, on his demanding what price would be paid to secure his ally, harold sigurdson, he was met by the significant reply:--"six feet of earth; or, as he is a giant, he shall have seven." then tosti swore a great oath that no man should ever say that tosti, son of godwin, broke faith with harold, son of sigurd; whereon the trumpets sounded, and the saxon advance began. the norwegians occupied a purely defensive position on rising ground in the rear of the derwent; the narrow wooden bridge, which spanned the river, being held by a strong detachment posted on the saxon side of the water. there is a strange legendary story told of a gigantic norwegian holding the bridge, single-handed, against the saxon army for three hours; meeting every rush of the assailants with tremendous blows of a huge battle-axe, and only falling by a treacherous blow from the spear of a saxon soldier, who, in a boat, passed underneath the bridge, and directing a stroke of his spear between the planks, smote the warrior underneath his mail, and so slew him. considering that harold's army contained both archers and slingers, it is difficult to believe that three hours should be lost, and forty saxons slain by this terrible warrior, before he fell to the cowardly stroke of a concealed enemy. it is certain, however, that the bridge was stormed by the saxons, and that harold hardrada maintained a defensive position while they crossed, although he might have attacked them at great disadvantage while forming in the open ground. being deficient in cavalry, he had formed his troops somewhat in the old scottish fashion of the schiltron: massing them in one huge circular column, with the front rank kneeling, and all presenting their pikes, so that the bristling column might scarcely be broken by the most desperate and repeated charges, and the soldiers, who loved fighting with the wild norse love, which has not yet died out of the earth, might safely count upon a feast of blows that day. hardrada occupied the centre of his army, with his jarls and captains around him, and his famous war-standard, the "land-ravager," floating above his head. he was mounted upon a powerful black war-horse, his hauberk and helmet were of burnished steel, and a long blue cloak rendered him conspicuous amidst his warlike thousands, over whom he towered in the physical superiority of his gigantic stature; as the battle commenced he lifted his powerful voice, and sang his war-song, kindling the enthusiasm of his warriors, and preparing them for the storm that was about to burst upon them. before the main-battle commenced, the force that guarded the bridge had to be driven back, and if there be any truth in the story of its sturdy defence, hardrada's reinforcements should have reached him before the saxons passed the bridge. the initiative was forced upon harold godwinson, and no slackness was shown by the saxons in closing in upon their formidable adversaries. the charges were repeated again and again, and the famous saxon twibil did good service that day; nor were the spearmen wanting in their efforts, while the saxon cavalry charged again and again. the day wore on; the cries of battle and the clash of weapons sounded far; the norwegian host was belted by a wide hem of the dead. the saxon light troops did good service on this memorable day, and brought down many of the sea-rovers by the discharge of their missiles. although both armies suffered severely, the battle endured steadily; the invaders maintained their formation with stubborn valour, and the saxons continued their attacks with equal determination. in the heat of the battle an arrow smote king hardrada in the throat, and he died in the midst of his army, at the foot of his standard, to the sound of ringing steel and fierce war-cries. although the noble form of hardrada was missed from the press, and his war-cry no longer presaged victory to the norwegian host, his valiant troops maintained the field with unabated ardour; and prince olave bringing up reinforcements from the fleet, the strife waxed fiercer, and the most sanguine might question with whom the victory would rest. harold was an expert warrior, and failing to penetrate the norwegian ranks by dint of hard fighting, he feigned a retreat, and induced them to abandon their close formation, in the excitement of attack and pursuit, when he turned upon their disordered lines, and the field instantly became the scene of a fierce hand-to-hand encounter, with its dreadful attendant carnage. tosti, and many of the norwegians, fell in the last stubborn effort to maintain the field, for although the generous saxon offered them quarter, it was disdainfully refused by the maddened northmen. the following quaint and pithy account of the battle is taken from the "anglo-saxon chronicle," and is well worthy of quotation:- "then, during this, came harold, king of the angles, with all his forces, on the sunday, to tadcaster, and there drew up his force, and went thence on monday throughout york; and harold, king of norway, and tosty, the earl, and their forces, were gone from their ships beyond york to stamford-bridge, because it had been promised them for a certainty, that there, from all the shire, hostages should be brought to meet them. then came harold, king of the english, against them, unawares, beyond the bridge, and they there joined battle, and very strenuously, for a long time of the day, continued fighting: and there was harold king of norway and tosty the earl slain, and numberless of the people with them, as well of the northmen as of the english: and the northmen fled from the english. then was there one of the norwegians who withstood the english people, so that they might not pass over the bridge, nor obtain the victory. then an englishman aimed at him with a javelin, but it availed nothing; and then came another under the bridge, and pierced him terribly inwards under the coat of mail. then came harold, king of the english, over the bridge, and his forces onward with him, and there made great slaughter, as well of norwegians as of flemings. and the king's son edmund, harold let go home to norway, with all the ships." dreadful were the events of that september day, and most dismally tragic the retreat from stamford bridge to riccall; the pursuers wielding sword and spear with merciless energy on the rear of the fugitive army, while ever and anon the northman turned upon his foe and died fighting. the fleet was reached by the war-worn norwegians, but afforded them no refuge, for the saxons pressed on to the attack, and captured ship after ship, and in some instances appear to have fired the vessels, failing to carry them by the sword, for the "anglo-saxon chronicle" says:- "and the english from behind hotly smote them, until they came, some to their ships, some were drowned, and some also burned; and thus in divers ways they perished, so that there were few left. the king then gave his protection to olave, son of the king of the norwegians, and to their bishop and to the earl of orkney, and to all those who were left in the ships: and they then went up to our king, and swore oaths that they ever would observe peace and friendship toward this land, and the king let them go home with twenty-four ships." on the low plain of riccall the dead lay thickly, and to this day the villagers point out to the curious visitor the huge earthen mounds that cover the bones of the norwegians. the harold hardrada saga gives us a last glimpse of the remnant of the forlorn fleet, as it sailed from the ancient port of ravenser:- "olafr, son of harold sigurdson, led the fleet from england, setting sail at hrafnseyri, and in the autumn came to orkney. of whom stein herdisson makes mention: 'the king the swift ships with the flood set out, with the autumn approaching, and sailed from the port, called hrafnseyri (the raven tongue of land). the boats passed over the broad track of the long ships; the sea raging, the roaring tide was furious around the ships' sides.'" the memory of the norwegian giant who held the bridge was perpetuated by the people of stamford, for drake tells us that they "have a custom, at an annual feast, to make pies in the form of a swill, or swine tub, which tradition says was made use of by the man who struck the norwegian on the bridge, instead of a boat." harold is accused of having disgusted his army by refusing them a share of the spoil; but this is difficult to reconcile with the known generous character of the man; and no prince could have been more nobly seconded by his troops than was harold on the field of senlac. brief indeed was the victor's respite from the dangers of the field; for, as he was presiding at a great feast of his chieftains and officers at york, a messenger entered the hall in haste, and delivered his ominous message that william of normandy had disembarked his army at pevensey, unopposed, on the 29th of september. the march south was at once commenced; and on the 14th of october a murderous battle was fought at senlac, raging with unwavering fury from sunrise to sunset. king harold, his brothers leofwin and gurth, fell in the front of battle, with the flower of the army; and from that day the norman rule commenced in england. iii.--after stamford bridge. william, duke of normandy, landed at pevensey on the eve of st. michael, 1066, and cast up fortifications for the protection of his army. not venturing to penetrate into the country, he awaited the approach of the saxon army. he had not long to wait. the route from york to hastings was covered by forced marches, and, with a decimated and wearied army, harold godwinson took up his position before the norman host. his rear was protected by rising ground; his front and flanks by trenches and huge wooden piles. he had especially to fear the norman cavalry and archers, and took every precaution to defend his troops against them. on the eve of the battle the saxons regaled themselves with strong ale, and chanted legendary songs by their bivouac fires; but the normans occupied themselves in religious services, as befitted hired cut-throats and the "scum of europe." harold's banner, embroidered in gold with the figure of a warrior, in battle attitude, was fixed near the "hoar apple tree." the men of wessex brought with them their great banner, emblazoned with a golden dragon. on the 14th october, harold's birthday, the battle was fought. the norman army advanced in three lines: the light infantry and archers under roger de montgomerie; the men-at-arms under martel; and the knights, esquires, and picked men-at-arms under the command of the duke. as the normans advanced they raised the song of roland, and the minstrel taillefer claimed first blood, as a sturdy saxon fell to his sword. the norman archers shot their arrows fast and well, point-blank against the saxons, but the palisades proved a most efficient protection, and from their bows, and slings, and military machines, the saxons replied, but they were not famous in missile warfare. then the norman lines closed on front and flanks, with thrust of lance, and fierce axe-play against the stout wooden piles, and all the while the heavy saxon twibils rose and fell, crashing through norman helm and shield, as horse and rider bit the dust, and from the saxon rear the heavy javelins came whirling through the air. the dead and wounded lay thick on both sides of the palisades, and blood trickled and curdled in the dust. with unflinching courage the conflict was maintained, amid a tumult of discordant sounds: the clash and clatter of steel against steel, the groans of the wounded, and the sudden death-yells of those whose spirits fled as the axes came crashing through helm and brain-pan, or lance was driven sheer through corset and breast: above the heat and roar of the _melee_ pealed the saxon war-cry: "christ's rood! the holy rood!" answered by the sonorous norman death-cry: "our lady of help! god be our help!" the day sped to the heat and languor of the mid october noon, and the normans toiled before the saxon front, and belted it with flashing steel. with painful anxiety duke william saw his repeated charges spent against the saxon army, saw his ranks shaken and thinned, without one foot of ground being won. he now bade his archers shoot high in the air, so that their arrows might descend upon the heads of the saxons. by this the slaughter was dreadfully increased within the saxon lines, but the warriors were unshaken in their resolution to maintain their ground. along the front the saxons nobly avenged their slaughtered brethren, and william poured his whole army against them in a murderous charge. quicker rose and fell the saxon axes, and, recoiling from the shock, the surging mass of mail-clad warriors rolled down the ravine, between two hills, and many men were trampled to death by the struggling horses. surely a charge of heavy cavalry would, at this crisis, have secured the throne and crown of harold. thrice the stalwart form of norman william sank amid the surges, as three horses were slain beneath him. a cry arose that the duke was slain, and panic and defeat appeared inevitable, when william rode, bare-headed, among his warriors, and reformed their ranks. during the dreadful carnage, harold maintained the van, fighting with heroic courage, although suffering severely from an arrow-wound which had destroyed one of his eyes. william's strenuous efforts were nobly seconded by his officers, and especially by his half-brother, odo, the warlike bishop of bayeux. foiled in every attempt to penetrate the saxon lines, and hopeless of beating them out of their defences, william drew the saxons by a feigned retreat of his cavalry, and on passing the broken ground, turned upon them, and cut them to pieces. twice was the ruse repeated, and although the saxons maintained their position with undaunted front, their ranks were terribly thinned and shaken. the charges were repeated, again and again, and the normans rolled back in blood. the day waned, but the desperate attacks were foiled. at length a number of palisades were displaced, and the norman horse bit into the saxon masses, hewing a bloody pathway, and paying heavily for every foot they won. twenty knights vowed to take harold's banner, and william of normandy, rendered desperate by his peril, was anxiously seeking the saxon hero. the conflict inside the palisades was tremendous. harold's brothers, gurth and leofwin, perished in the van: the king was slain; there was a bloody rally round the royal banner; ten of the norman knights were hewn down, but the banner was captured, and the norman flag elevated in its place. still the saxons would not fly; the "golden dragon" was taken, and they were reduced to a mere mob of struggling warriors. the grey of evening merged into the dusk of night before the retreat commenced. in retreat they were almost as dangerous as in battle, and repeatedly turned and drew norman blood. the normans were driven back, william advanced to their succour, and while their leader, eustace of boulogne, was whispering in the duke's ear, he was struck on the back by a heavy saxon axe, and fell, insensible, from his horse, the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils. the normans, relaxing the pursuit, rode their horses over the slain saxons, in savage elation, before returning solemn thanks to god for the victory. gurtha, the mother of harold, came to beg the hero's body, to give it burial; but william is reported to have refused, ordering the corse to be buried on the strand, remarking, with unknightly anger--"he guarded the coast while he was alive, let him thus continue to guard it after death." the dead king was, however, interred in waltham abbey, which he had founded and endowed; or, if tovi, canute's standard-bearer, was the original founder of the abbey, yet harold was largely its benefactor. on the field of senlac king william built the famous battle abbey, that priests might perpetually pray for the souls of the slain, but, as palgrave remarks:- "all this pomp and solemnity has passed away like a dream. the 'perpetual prayer' has ceased for ever--the roll of battle is rent--the shields of the norman lieges are trodden in the dust--the abbey is levelled to the ground--and a dark and reedy pool fills the spot where the foundations of the quire have been uncovered, merely for the gaze of the idle visitor, or the instruction of the moping antiquary." yorkshire endured terrible evils at the hands of the conqueror, as he penetrated its wilds with his famous bowmen and men-at-arms. the year 1068 witnessed a northumbrian revolt, which was easily quelled; but a more determined effort to cast off the norman yoke was made in the following year. the events are thus recorded in the "anglo-saxon chronicle," and were graphically realized by the acutely sympathetic mind of the rev. charles kingsley in his stirring story of "hereward, the last of the english." the accuracy of the latter part of the title of his novel is, however, generally disputed: "a.d. 1068--this year king william gave the earldom of northumberland to earl robert, and the men of that country came against him, and slew him and 900 others with him. and then edgar etheling marched with all the northumbrians to york, and the townsmen treated with him; on which king william came from the south with all his troops, and sacked the town, and slew many hundred persons. he also profaned st. peter's minster, and all other places, and the etheling went back to scotland. "after this came harold's sons from ireland, about midsummer, with sixty-four ships, and entered the mouth of the taff, where they incautiously landed. earl beorn came upon them unawares with a large army, and slew all their bravest men; the others escaped to their ships, and harold's sons went back again to ireland. "a.d. 1069--this year died aldred, archbishop of york, and he lies buried in his cathedral church. he died on the festival of protus and hyacinthus, having held the see with much honour ten years, all but fifteen weeks. "soon after this, three of the sons of sweyne came from denmark with 240 ships, together with earl osbern and earl thorkill, into the humber, where they were met by child edgar and earl waltheof, and merle-sweyne, and earl cospatric with the men of northumberland and all the landsmen riding and marching joyfully with an immense army; and so they went to york, demolished the castle, and found there large treasures. they also slew many hundred frenchmen, and carried off many prisoners to their ships; but, before the shipmen came thither, the frenchmen had burned the city, and plundered and burnt st. peter's minister. when the king heard of this, he went northward with all the troops he could collect, and laid waste all the shire; whilst the fleet lay all the winter in the humber, where the king could not get at them. the king was at york on midwinter's day, remaining on land all the winter, and at easter he came to winchester." it was on the 19th of september that the danes and northumbrians entered york, and, amid the flame and smoke of burning houses, stormed the norman stronghold, and put the garrison to the sword. egbert, the seventh archbishop of york, had founded a valuable library in the city, but it was utterly consumed in the flames. the triumph of king william was not so easily achieved as might be supposed from the account given in the "anglo-saxon chronicle;" and had he not succeeded in buying off the danish fleet, it is quite possible that all the fruit of his great victory at senlac might have been swallowed up at york. although the northumbrians were not strong enough to brave the normans in open field, they defended york against all the attacks of the king's troops for a period of six months, and the garrison only surrendered when they were in danger of perishing from starvation. during the siege waltheof siwardsson especially distinguished himself, and on one occasion defended, single-handed, a breach in the city-wall, dashing out the brains of the normans as they came within the sweep of his axe. in the first burst of rage on receiving news of the slaughter of the norman garrison, william vowed to lay the whole of northumbria in ashes, and he carried out with ruthless severity this rash and cruel resolution. the troops who fought beneath his banner were mercenary cut-throats, the fit agents of his vengeance, and they addressed themselves to the work of destruction with a keen appreciation. the peasantry fell by the edge of the sword, neither age nor sex being respected: the shrieking children were mingled in the common ruin. cottages were fired, orchards hewn down, the instruments of husbandry destroyed, and every energy was bent to the destruction of human life, and to ensure by starvation the death of those whom the sword failed to reach. for nine years after the storm had passed over the devoted province, the ground remained untilled, and the villages unrestored. the wretched fugitives who hid their heads in forests and caves were driven to feed upon the flesh of unclean cats and dogs, and finally they endeavoured to prolong their miserable lives by the last resort to cannibalism. it is computed that one hundred thousand persons perished in a district of sixty miles in length. the sea-ports were subjected to the same severities, that, in case of further danish invasions, the ships might be unable to obtain supplies. york itself was not spared by the ruthless norman. the prisoners, who had been delivered into william's hands by the extreme pangs of famine, were put to the sword, and the city was given to the flames. during his expedition to northumbria, william narrowly escaped receiving the reward of his demerits, an example of poetic justice that would have been particularly striking to the historian, and useful to the moralist. while on the march from hexham to york, he became involved in a wild and unknown country; his horses perished, his soldiers were reduced to the extremes of suffering and privation; and william missed his way, in the obscurity of a night-march, and was reduced to a state of great anxiety, not to say fear, being uncertain of the ground over which he wandered, and equally uncertain of the direction in which his troops were marching. the north continued to suffer from war and invasion. malcolm wasted northumberland, a.d. 1079, and his wild scots invaded the country as far as the tyne, and re-entered scotland with much spoil, and many prisoners. the bishopric of durham had been bestowed upon walcher of lorraine, and as he equally governed by crozier and sword, taxing the people heavily, and allowing his norman mercenaries to plunder, insult, and slay his flock at their pleasure, he was bitterly hated; and, when his servant gilbert murdered liulf, a noble englishman, who had married jarl siward's widow, the mother of the heroic waltheof, their rage knew no bounds. walcher consented to confer with the northumbrians at gateshead, and was attended by a large escort. every englishman carried a weapon with him, concealed beneath his garment, and the bishop, becoming alarmed for his life, took refuge in the church, which was speedily fired, when the murderer and his accomplice were driven out, and received a summary requital for their crime. compelled to sally out by flame and smoke, the bishop appeared among the raging multitude, his face wrapped in the skirt of his robe. there was silence, then a voice gave the death-words: "good rede, short rede! slay ye the bishop!" and the protector of murderers was slain. his escort of a hundred men, normans and flemings, died beneath northumbrian steel in that awful hour, only two of his servants, menials of english birth, being saved. vengeance was delegated to odo of bayeux, and there was no hereward, no waltheof to welcome him with blood-wet steel. he entered durham unopposed, a norman army at his back, and slew or maimed all the men that he could find. seven years later, and william lay dying in the monastery of st. gervas, passing to his last account at sunrise on the 9th of september, as the bells of st. mary tolled the hour of prime. his last words were: "i recommend my soul to my lady mary, the holy mother of god." rufus succeeded, and in his reign the king's army besieged durham castle, and received its surrender. this arose from the revolt of odo of bayeux, who was captured at rochester castle, and sent out of the country, to the sound of saxon curses and the triumphant strains of saxon trumpets, for the proud prelate who had cursed england with his presence since the day of senlac was conquered by saxon steel at last. the north was again ravaged by the scots, a.d. 1091, when rufus marched to protect it, and "edgar atheling mediated a peace between the kings." the following year saw the king again in the north, with a large following, when, "he repaired the city (carlisle), and built the castle. and he drove out dolfin, who had before governed that country, and having placed a garrison in that castle he returned into the south, and sent a great number of rustic englishmen thither, with their wives and cattle, that they might settle there and cultivate the land." a.d. 1093.- "king malcolm returned home to scotland, and as soon as he came thither, he assembled his troops and invaded england, ravaging the country with more fury than behoved him: and robert, earl of northumberland, with his men, lay in wait for him, and slew him unawares. he was killed by moræl of bamborough, the earl's steward, and king malcolm's own godfather: his son edward, who, had he lived, would have been king after his father, was killed with him. when the good queen margaret heard that her most beloved lord, and her son, were thus cut off, she was grieved in spirit unto death, and she went with her priest into the church, and having gone through all befitting rites, she prayed of god that she might give up the ghost." the northern province had little rest from marching armies, sieges, and battles. in the easter of 1095, robert, earl of northumberland, treated with contempt the king's summons to attend the court at winchester; whereon the king took an early opportunity of attacking him, seized his principal servants and officers, took tynemouth castle, and after vainly besieging bamborough, built a castle, _malveisin_, or "evil neighbour," over against it, and leaving therein a strong garrison departed. after the king's departure, the earl sallied out one night, riding towards tynemouth, when a part of the garrison of _malveisin_ pursued after him, carried him off, wounded, and slew or captured his attendants. on this rufus ordered his captains to carry northumberland to bamborough castle, and summon it to surrender, threatening to put out the earl's eyes if the castle continued to hold out. the scheme was successful, the countess--a young and beautiful woman, recently married to northumberland--at once surrendered, when the unhappy earl was condemned to a life-long imprisonment. the mysterious death of william rufus, who was found in the new forest, slain by an arrow, on the 2nd of august, a.d. 1100, was followed by the accession of henry i., when the northern provinces of the island enjoyed a period of unwonted repose, which was terminated by the usurpation of stephen of blois, when the scottish invasions re-commenced, and the battle of the standard was fought. during these years york was steadily rising from its ashes, after the conqueror's fiery chastisement, when, on the 4th june, 1137, a fire accidently broke out, and the city was again consumed. of the patriots who combatted so valiantly against the conqueror during the invasion of northumbria, earl edwin was slain in 1071, being betrayed to the normans by three of his servants; morkar, after joining hereward in the famous camp of refuge, fell into the hands of the king, and was cast into prison, pursuant to a sentence of imprisonment for life, but, when the conqueror lay on his death-bed, he ordered his release, and william rufus immediately re-committed him to prison; earl cospatrick was banished for the slaughter of the normans at durham and york, and received honours and lands from the king of scotland. hereward was murdered by the normans, but exacted an heroic price for his life. iv.--battle of the standard. a.d. 1138. the crown which the conqueror won at hastings was fated to pass from the direct male line of succession in the third generation. robert, the eldest of king william's sons, was passed over by his father, who transmitted the crown to rufus. when that violent, but not wholly ungenerous, prince was slain in the new forest prince henry, the conqueror's youngest son, usurped the crown, and ultimately overcame his brother robert, seized his duchy of normandy, and condemned him to a life-long imprisonment. each of the brothers had a son bearing the name of his grandsire, and it appeared certain that the feud of the fathers would be perpetuated by the children. william, son of robert, had many stout friends, and enjoyed, in a special degree, the protection of the king of france; hence wars and revolts arose in the king's usurped duchy of normandy, and it seemed probable that when king henry died the duchy would be re-conquered by robert's son. all the energies of king henry were therefore turned to securing the duchy for his son. in the year 1120 he carried the prince to normandy, and, by his valour and address in the field, seconded by his crafty policy, he succeeded in restoring peace and order in the duchy, and also in detaching his nephew's chief supporters from his cause. when about to sail from barfleur, he was accosted by an ancient mariner, who claimed that his father had piloted the conqueror to england in 1066, and besought the honour of now carrying king henry across the channel. the king had already made his arrangements, but he entrusted prince william and his suite to the care of fitz-stephen. it was a serene, moonlight night when the _blanche nef_ sailed, but the prince had provided too generously for the good cheer of the mariners, and a drunken and careless crew carried him to his fate. the _blanche nef_ struck on the rocks of the ras de catte, and rapidly filled. prince william was hastily thrust into the ship's boat, but he insisted upon attempting the rescue of his half-sister, and vainly, but generously, sacrificed his life in the endeavour. the position of duke robert's son was apparently more hopeful now that he was the only lineal male heir to the throne. king henry was not, however, the less earnest in his endeavours to transmit all his dignities to his own children. thus reads the "anglo-saxon chronicle," for 1127:- "this year at christmas, king henry held his court at windsor, and david, king of scotland, was there, and all the headmen of england, both clergy and laity. and the king caused the archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, and all the thanes who were present, to swear to place england and normandy, after his death, in the hands of his daughter the princess, who had been the wife of the emperor of saxony. and then he sent her to normandy, accompanied by her brother robert, earl of gloucester, and by brian, the son of the earl alan fergan; and he caused her to be wedded to the son of the earl of anjou, named geoffrey martel." in the following year the brief, but brilliant, career of prince william came to an end. after a most honourable campaign, whilst "he was besieging eu against king henry, and expected on the morrow to receive its surrender, for the enemy was almost worn-out, the young man died of a slight wound in the hand, leaving behind him an endless name." robert of normandy fulfilled the number of his days in the year 1134. no doubt the statement of matthew paris was quite correct:- "when the king heard of his death, he did not grieve much, but commanded the body to be reverently interred in the conventual church of gloucester." king henry had reigned many years, and committed many crimes to secure his crown, but, such is the irony of fate, he was not permitted to enjoy his triumph long, for, on the 1st of december, he died through over-indulgence in supping on lampreys, and, to use the expressive ambiguity of carlyle, "went to his own place, wherever that might be." prominent among the nobles of england was stephen, count of blois, the son of the conqueror's daughter adela, and the first peer of the realm--a position which he put to the proof when the oath of allegiance was taken to the ex-empress matilda, robert, duke of gloucester, having vainly claimed precedence, although he could only claim as the natural son of the king. stephen was a brave, generous, and popular noble, and both the peers and commons of england would have preferred his rule to that of the king's daughter; when, therefore, he made claim to the throne no opposition was raised. "for when the nobles of the kingdom were assembled at london, he promised that the laws should be reformed to the satisfaction of every one of them, and william, archbishop of canterbury, who was the first of all the nobles to take the oath of fidelity to the empress as queen of england, now consecrated stephen to be king. in fine, all the bishops, earls, and barons who had sworn fealty to the king's daughter and her heirs gave their adhesion to king stephen, saying that it would be a shame for so many nobles to submit themselves to a woman." having obtained the crown, stephen assisted in burying the corpse of his uncle, being one of those who sustained the coffin on their shoulders. how suggestive such a scene must have appeared to many who were present. the dead king had broken the closest ties of relationship and blood in obtaining the crown; the retribution that took the shape of his son's untimely death was to some extent compensated by the death of his nephew; but no sooner is the old king dead than his nephew usurps the crown, maugre his vows of allegiance to matilda, and piously assists in conveying him to the grave. for the moment no man seemed disposed to maintain the claims of the ex-empress: the first to move on her behalf being her uncle david, king of scotland, a humane and religious prince, who occupied the same relationship to stephen's wife that he did to the ex-empress. in his first invasion david succeeded in occupying carlisle and newcastle, but being confronted by stephen at the head of a powerful army, a treaty was entered into at durham, whereby king david engaged to abandon hostilities on certain territorial concessions being made to him. thrice in one year northumbria was inundated by the wild scots, and stephen, harassed by his treacherous barons, could only avenge his unhappy subjects by laying waste the frontiers of scotland. the wildest storm of war swept over northumbria in the year 1138, the unfortunate inhabitants of that province being mercilessly slaughtered in requital for the sins of their princes and nobles--sins in which they had neither art nor part. david was deeply afflicted by the enormous cruelties which his troops perpetrated, but he was utterly unable to control their passions, and endeavoured to quieten his conscience by condemning the acts of his armies, and by his royal munificence to the church--james the first expressed his appreciation of the liberality of his predecessor by remarking that, "he kythed a sair saint to the crown." the tumultuary army which followed him "consisted of normans, germans, and english, of cumbrian britons, of northumbrians, of men of teviotdale and lothian, of picts commonly called men of galloway, and of scots." barely threescore years and ten had elapsed since william the norman had carried fire and sword through northumbria. the charred and blackened ruins of grange and village were not yet entirely hidden by the dense growth of bramble and thorn; and the human bones, that had been gnawed by the wolves in their midnight banquets in the evil days that succeeded the confessor's death, had not yet mouldered into their kindred earth. it was in the wild and stormy season of the opening spring of 1138 that king david commenced his operations. shaken to its centre, northumbria lay at the mercy of the invader: again the sword reaped its bloody harvest, again the torch performed its evil office, and the midnight skies were illumined by the glare of burning homesteads and villages. the highways and byeways were strewn with the dead: with the gashed clay of strong men, of women, and of little children. age and womanhood lay together in dishonoured death; the white hairs and the flowing tresses trodden in the same bloody mire, and, most cruel spectacle! the little babes, pierced and shattered by spears, lay where they had been cast in fiendish sport by the pitiless barbarians. the blood of the priests reeked upon the altars of the most high god, and the sacred fanes were heaped with the sweltering corruption of slain worshippers. miserable fugitives turned their faces towards the humber, striving to escape the hot-footed scot, who pressed so keen and fast upon their track. the remnant of the maddened people, desperate in their despair, only required a leader to organise and direct their strength. thurstan, the aged archbishop of york, although bowed down to the verge of the grave by the weight of many years and infirmities, came forward to organise the strength of his afflicted people. stephen being unable to disengage himself from the toils of his revolted barons, the civil war having already broken out in the south, despatched bernard de baliol to the north, at the head of a body of men-at-arms. the real strength of the movement was, however, the combination of those eminent northern barons, william, earl of albemarle, robert de ferrars, william percy, roger de mowbray, ilbert de lacy, and the veteran walter l'espec, who, responding with prompt energy to the supplications of archbishop thurstan, gathered their vassals together, and prepared to take the field, as soon as all arrangements were completed, and the widely scattered strength of the north was concentrated. to draw the people to one standard, and to animate them with an unconquerable fortitude, was the peculiar work of the archbishop; but, being too infirm to take a public part in the exciting scenes which were being enacted, he deputed ralph nowel, the titular bishop of orkney, to carry out his plans. this prelate caught the spirit of his superior, and a signal success rewarded his efforts. processions of the clergy were organised, and the exhibition of crosses, relics, and religious banners, tended to increase the devoted courage of the superstitious peasantry. the whole of the male population was called to arms, and a certain victory was promised, with a quick transition into paradise for those who perished on the field. thirsk was the rendezvous, and, as the news was carried through the province, men-at-arms and knights came trooping in, attended by the desperate peasantry, whose rude arms, and lack of defensive armour, but ill befitted them for what promised to be so dubious and sanguinary an enterprise. three days were occupied in fasting and devotion: the troops then took a common vow of adherence to each other, victory being most emphatically promised them. nerved by every art of the church, by their own desperate position, and by their thirst for vengeance, they encamped around the grand standard which thurstan had raised at elfer-tun, to command their piety and patriotism. it consisted of a lofty spar, or mast, mounted on a huge four-wheeled car, and terminating in a large crucifix, with a silver box attached, containing the sacramental elements of the romish church. around the mast waved the holy banners of the sainted peter of york, wilfrid of ripon, and john of beverley. hugo de sotevagina, archdeacon of york, inscribed this remarkable rhyme on the foot of the mast:- "dicitur a stando standardum quod stitit illic militæ probitas vincere sive mori. standard, from stand, this fight we aptly call: our men here stood to conquer or to fall." from the turn of the lines we should infer that the inscription was affixed subsequent to the battle. norman baron and saxon peasant had not long to wait the trial of strength. the summer was now far advanced, for david had been detained before the strong fortress of norham; but that stronghold once in his hands, he marched onward, unopposed, until he approached the neighbourhood of york. his standard was simply a wreath of blooming heather, attached to a long lance. eustace fitz-john commanded the guard of completely accoutred knights and men-at-arms which attended prince henry, the commander of the first division, comprising lowlanders, defended by cuirasses, and armed with long pikes; the archers of teviotdale and liddesdale; the troopers of cumberland and westmoreland, riding small but useful horses; and the fierce galwegians, destitute of defensive armour, and bearing long and slender pikes. the highlanders and islemen followed the first division, and carried target, claymore, and the ancient danish war-axe. king david followed with a gallant body of anglo-norman and english knights, and a mixed corps of warriors, gathered from various parts of the land, brought up the rear. with king david marched his warlike nephew, william macdonoquhy, flushed with the memory of his victory at clitheroe, where, on the 4th of june, he had defeated a strong force of the english, and gained much spoil. the position of the anglo-norman barons was extremely peculiar; not only did king david claim northumberland, where they held lands, but they acknowledged him for their liege lord, holding from him estates which were situate on the scottish side of the border. under these circumstances they prudently despatched robert bruce, earl of annandale, and bernard de baliol, to the scottish camp, to offer terms to the king. if his scottish majesty would withdraw his army, and conclude a permanent peace, they engaged "to procure from stephen a full grant of the earldom of northumberland in favour of prince henry." the king was, however, firm in his resolution to maintain the cause of the ex-empress; and william macdonoquhy declared that bruce was a false traitor. the two noblemen had no alternative but to renounce their allegiance to the scottish crown, and to beat a hasty retreat to the english army. the disposition of the scottish army was then discussed, and david proposed to place his saxon archers and norman knights in the van, to commence the attack. deep was the indignation of malise, earl of strathearn, and bitter his protest against the king's confidence in norman mail. said he, "i wear no armour; but there is not one among them who will advance beyond me this day." the norman, allan de piercy, angrily protested that the "rude earl" boasted of that which he had not the courage to perform; whereon david checked the growing quarrel, and pacified malise by ordering the galwegians to take the van. it was the 22nd day of august, the wide moor, gay with blooming heather, was involved in a land-mist, and, as a further cover to their approach, the wild scots fired some villages. the english were, however, already formed around the standard, expectant of the inevitable conflict, and no doubt experienced neither alarm nor disappointment when bruce and baliol came in on the spur, and declared that the enemy was on the march. old walter l'espec spake a few soldierly words of hopeful exhortation to his warriors, then placed his ungloved hand in that of the earl of albemarle, with the dauntless exclamation, "i pledge thee my troth to conquer or to die." kindled to enthusiasm by the spirit of the valiant old man, the soldiers gripped each other's hands, and the vow became general. archbishop thurstan's representative was not slow to seize so favourable a moment for increasing the enthusiastic ardour of the troops, and he uttered a brief, but thrilling, harangue, in which, according to the old chroniclers, he at once flattered and provoked the emulous courage of the anglo-norman chivalry, by referring to the achievements of their ancestors; kindled their resentment by pointing them to the desecrated altars of their churches; assured them of a swift and retributive vengeance; opened paradise to all who should fall sword in hand that day, and encouraged them by reminding them of their superiority over their enemies in respect of their arms and armour. the form of absolution was then read, and answered by the solemn "amen" of the host. all was ready for the ordeal. the knights and men-at-arms in both armies were similarly armed. "from the conquest to the close of the twelfth century but little change had taken place in the armour and weapons of the english; but five distinct varieties of body-armour were worn by them about the time of the standard--a scaly suit of steel, with a _chapelle de fer_, or iron cap; a hauberk of iron rings; a suit of mascled or quilted armour; another of rings set edgewise; and a fifth of tegulated mail, composed of small square plates of steel lapping over each other like tiles, with a long flowing tunic of cloth below. gonfarons fluttered from the spear-heads; and knights wore nasal helmets and kite-shaped shields of iron, but their spears were simply pointed goads." according to some accounts, the english men-at-arms were drawn up in a dense column, surrounding their holy standard; and the archers, consisting of peasants and yeomen from the woods and wolds of yorkshire, lincolnshire, and nottingham, were posted in the van. it is certain that the norman barons and the men-at-arms dismounted, and sent their horses to the rear, and the probability is that the mailed troops occupied the front of battle, and protected the archers, who were destitute of defensive armour. all the accounts of the battle favour this inference, although it is distinctly stated that the archers were broken, but afterwards rallied--a statement that seems incredible, for the english army being outflanked, the broken archers would have been cut to pieces, it being impossible for the dense column that surrounded the standard to open its ranks to receive the fugitives, while the charging scots were pressing hot and hard upon their rear, and the action of the spearmen was retarded by the presence of the archers upon their front, as these unfortunates were being massacred by the enemy. the galwegians made the first charge, with ulgrick and dovenald leading. their dreadful cries of _albanigh, albanigh!_ ("we are the men of albyn!") rolled like thunder over the field, as they rushed furiously upon the norman men-at-arms, threatening to bear down all that withstood them with the forest of their long, thin pikes. the centre of the english army was pierced, but the formation was too dense to be shattered by a charge of pikemen, however furiously made, and the long pikes were broken upon shield and hauberk, or shivered by blow of sword and axe. the galwegians bit deep, but fell in scores along the front, and as they recoiled from the meeting, the archers let fly a shower of shafts upon them. it was impossible to rally and re-form in the face of that storm of deadly shafts, beating as hard and fast as winter hail upon their naked bodies, and while numbers fell, weltering in their gore, the disordered masses began to retire, probably to the right and left, while the english taunted them with derisive cries of "_eyrych, eyrych!_" ("you are but irish!") which, scott remarks, "must have been true of that part of the galwegians called the wild scots of galloway, who are undoubtedly scotch-irish." as the men of galloway staggered back from the storm of arrows, leaving ulgrick and dovenald dead upon the field, prince henry charged down upon the english with his knights and men-at-arms upon the spur. with spear, and sword, and axe, he won a bloody pathway sheer through the english centre, and put to flight the servants who were posted in the rear of the army in charge of their masters' horses. the oft-quoted expression of alred, that "they broke through the english ranks as if they had been spiders' webs," must be regarded as largely figurative, for two reasons. in the first place, the galwegians were re-forming with the utmost alacrity, and the other lines were bearing down fast and stern, yet the english ranks closed in before they could take advantage of the confusion caused by the cavalry, and presented an impenetrable front to the advancing scots. in the second place, the prince achieved nothing by his charge, beyond chasing a few grooms from the field. on his return, he found the battle over, and passing undiscovered through the pursuing forces, succeeded, after many perils, in reaching carlisle on the 28th of august. there is a curious, but not over-reliable story, that in the perilous moment when the english were re-forming their ranks, and the remains of prince henry's men-at-arms were dashing after the fugitives in the rear, an english soldier, with singular presence of mind, averted the impending storm by hewing off a scotchman's head, and bearing it, at point of spear, to the front, loudly exclaiming, "behold the head of the king of the scots." before this ominous spectacle the galwegians fell back in a sudden panic, arresting the advance of the second line, and causing the third line to beat a hasty retreat without lifting weapon on the field. bare-headed, king david rode amid the breaking ranks in a gallant effort to rally his soldiers; but all his efforts proving fruitless, he assumed the command of his cavalry, and protected, as far as possible, the retreat of his disorganised army. there can, however, maugre this oft-told story, be no question that a tremendous battle raged for upwards of two hours. the devoted savages of galloway rallied, and, supported by the second and third lines of their army, closed in upon the english, "after giving three shouts in the manner of their nation." thus the holy standard, and its heroic defenders, was belted with a wide and deep hem of raging enemies, who sought, with sword and axe, to hew a passage through the phalanx of spears that held them back. they combated fiercely together in a mist of dust and heat; blood flowed like water, and the trampled earth was dreadful with the bodies of the slain; but no despoiling hand reached the standard; a hedge of glittering steel defended it, the normans fenced it with flashing swords, the serried spears sustained the fierce attack, though indented here and there by the pressure of horse and men. the continuous shower of shafts from the archers sorely distressed and harassed the scots, and abandoning all hope of breaking or hewing down the valiant enemy, around which they had drawn their triple line of warriors, they broke and fled. first the decimated remnant of the savage heroes of galloway recoiled, and spread confusion through the second line, and then the outward hem of mixed troops, who had never struck blow, wavered and broke; and the battle of the standard was lost and won. david valiantly protected the retreat of his disordered army, leaving some 12,000 upon the field. he halted at carlisle, in grave distress as to the fate of his son, who rejoined him three days later, as before mentioned. quarrels took place in his army, and weapons were freely resorted to, and some blood shed. the 200 mailed knights of king david lost nearly the whole of their horses, and only nineteen carried their harness from the field. the norman barons were not particularly fortunate in making prisoners, but fifty knights fell to their spear and sword. of these, william cumin, the scotch chancellor, was detained in prison for a short time by the bishop of durham, and, on being liberated, "gave thanks to god," desiring heartily that he never at any time should again meet with the like experience. his companions in affliction were ransomed about the time of the feast of all-saints following. the scottish army having rallied at carlisle, continued the war, besieged and reduced, by famine, wark castle; and carried away as prisoners a number of english women, who were ultimately restored to their friends through the good offices of alberic, bishop of ostia, who, being seconded by king stephen's wife, succeeded in bringing about a peace, which was concluded on the 9th day of april, 1139. before the english army disbanded, eustace fitz-john, who had garrisoned malton with scotch troops, received their attention. in the conflict which ensued the town was stormed and given to the flames. on this eventful day the english archers won their first laurels with the long bow and arrows, two cubits in length; and this sanguinary conflict derives an additional interest from the fact. as brave and experienced warriors, the captains would probably perceive and acknowledge the service performed by the northumbrian infantry, but not one of them considered the possibility of a day dawning that would see the laurels of war bestowed upon the english archers, while the anglo-norman chivalry had to be contented with less honourable trophies of bravery and skill. v.--after the battle of the standard. the reign of stephen was cursed by the worst evils of civil war. the king was captured at lincoln, a.d. 1140, being deserted by many of his troops; but was afterwards exchanged for robert, earl of gloucester, who had been taken prisoner by stephen's partisans. ultimately matilda's son, prince henry, entered england, when it was arranged that he should succeed to the throne on the king's death. under henry's rule happier days dawned upon the kingdom. a.d. 1160, a great council was held at york, said to be the first of such assemblages to which the title of parliament was applied. the king of scots attended, with his nobles and clergy, and rendered feudal homage for his province of lothian. scott asserts that "homage was done by the scottish kings for lothian, simply because it had been a part, or moiety, of northumberland, ceded by eadulf-cudel, a saxon earl of northumberland, to malcolm ii., on condition of amity and support in war, for which, as feudal institutions gained ground, feudal homage was the natural substitute and emblem." malcolm, being greatly attached to the king of england, yielded to him all his possessions in cumberland and northumberland, possessions which henry would probably have conquered had they not been ceded. malcolm was succeeded by his brother william, the declared enemy of england. invading northumberland, he was surprised near alnwick castle by bernard de baliol. sixty cavaliers escorted him, and he made a desperate charge upon the english, exclaiming, "now we shall see who are good knights." he was unhorsed, and carried off to newcastle on the spur. as the price of his liberty he performed feudal homage at york for the whole of scotland, placing hostages and certain strongholds in king henry's hands. henry died, broken-hearted and conquered by the repeated revolts of his sons. on his accession richard i. annuled the acts of his father, as regarded the independence of scotland, but homage for lothian was of course continued. early in 1190, a dreadful fire broke out in york, and rapidly spread, being fanned by a strong wind. during the confusion a number of thieves entered the house of a jewish widow, slew her and her children, and plundered the house. benedict, the husband of the murdered woman, had fallen in the massacre of jews during king richard's coronation. jocenus had attended benedict to london, and had effected his escape with much difficulty. being very wealthy he feared the fury of the mob, and took refuge in the castle, carrying with him his treasures. his example was largely followed by the jews. the governor of the castle sallied out, leaving it in the hands of the refugees. on his return he was largely accompanied, and the jews, in their fear, refused to admit him. he at once raised the country, and besieged the castle. their offer of ransom being rejected, in their despair the jews resolved to kill themselves, after destroying their property and setting fire to the fortress. jocenus cut the throats of his wife and five children, and this dreadful example was largely followed. the less courageous of the jews then appealed to the besiegers, told the story of the tragedy, and, as proof, threw at their feet several mangled corpses. protection was promised to the survivors, when the gates were thrown open. the besiegers entered, and completed the extermination of the jews. the cathedral was then visited, and the bonds and securities of the jews, deposited there for safe keeping, were destroyed. william longchamp, bishop of ely, was deputed to punish the offenders. he appointed osbert de longchamp governor of the county; and the sheriff and governor of the castle were deprived of their offices, and cast into prison. fines were inflicted on many citizens, and a hundred hostages taken. on richard's release from his german captivity, he sold many offices to raise his ransom. for 3,000 marks geoffrey plantagenet, archbishop of york, purchased the office of sheriff. this rendered him all but an absolute prince of the province. early in his reign king john visited york, and held a convention, which was attended by the king of scotland, and many of his nobles. the citizens abstained from any expression of welcome, and the disgusted king consoled himself by exacting a fine of £100. in the last year of the tyrant's life, york was besieged by the northern barons, who were bought off with 1,000 marks. henry iii. held a convocation at york in 1220, when his sister joanna was engaged to king alexander of scotland. in the following year his majesty attended the espousals, celebrated in the cathedral church. on this occasion alexander's sister, margaret, bestowed her hand upon hubert de burgh, the justiciary. henry celebrated his christmas festivities in york, a.d. 1230 and 1252. on the last occasion he bestowed the hand of his daughter margaret upon alexander, king of scotland. matthew paris gives a particular and most interesting account of the ceremonies:- "the earl-marshal earnestly demanded that the palfrey of the king of scotland, which he claimed as his right, should be given to him, with its caparisons--not for its value, or out of any avarice, but according to an ancient custom in such cases--that it might not die away in his time through any neglect of his." alexander "would not submit to such an exaction, because, if he chose, he might obtain these equipments from any catholic prince, or from some of his own nobles." the archbishop of york nobly performed his part. "in making presents of gold, silver, and silken dresses, he sowed on a barren shore four thousand marks which he never afterwards reaped. but it was necessary for him to do these things for a time, that his good fame might be preserved in its integrity, and that the mouths of evil-speakers might be closed." necessarily edward i. was many times in yorkshire during his scottish wars. in 1291 he treated the citizens to the spectacle of one of his state-butcheries, when rees-ap-meredith, a descendant of the ancient royalty of south wales, was dragged on a hurdle to the gallows, and hanged and quartered. in the year 1298, he obtained sole possession of the port and lands of wyke, afterwards known as kingston-upon-hull. under his royal patronage, the port speedily rose to a position of great maritime importance. in the same year he twice summoned parliament to assemble at york, commanding the attendance of the scotch nobility, and declared the pains and penalties of high treason against all absentees. six years later edward concluded that the conquest of scotland was achieved, and disbanded his army. in 1307, he died upon the red war-path, commenced in subtlety and falsehood. he drew his last breath at burgh-on-sands, in cumberland, on the 7th of july. in yorkshire the barons ran piers gaveston to earth in the days of edward ii. in 1311 they curtailed the royal power, and sentenced gaveston to perpetual banishment, attaching the death-penalty should he re-enter the kingdom. edward commanded gaveston to return, and restored his honours and possessions. the barons flew to arms, and marched to york. the king fled to newcastle, proceeded to scarborough castle, where he left gaveston in command, and vainly endeavoured to raise an army. attacked by the barons, gaveston surrendered. pembroke and lord henry percy engaged that he should be imprisoned in wallingford castle, and that he should suffer no violence. nevertheless he was carried to dedington castle, near banbury, when pembroke departed, and warwick appeared upon the scene. threatened with attack, the garrison declined to defend their prisoner, and surrendered him into the hands of warwick. gaveston was mounted upon a mule, surrounded by his enemies, and carried to warwick castle with extravagant parade, being welcomed with a loud flourish of trumpets. he read his fate in the fierce elation of the barons, but made a vain appeal for mercy. it was rejected, and he was condemned to death. vi.--battle of myton meadows. a.d. 1319. after the battle of bannockburn the whole of scotland regained its ancient freedom, saving only the border town and fortress of berwick, the security of which was zealously guarded by the unfortunate son of the terrible "hammer of scotland." the severe and even harsh discipline to which the burghers were subjected by the commandant of the fortress caused much dissatisfaction, and one of the inhabitants, a burgess named spalding, proposed, in the bitterness of his heart, to betray the place into the hands of the scottish monarch. king robert eagerly entered into negotiations which were placed before him by the earl of march, and deputed the conducting of the somewhat hazardous enterprise to his favourite captains, douglas and randolph. the project was duly carried to a successful termination, a body of troops scaling the walls under cover of a dark night, being materially assisted by spalding, who went the rounds that night. some confusion occurred, the governor of the castle made a desperate sally into the town, and bloody fighting followed before douglas, randolph, and sir william keith of galston succeeded in forcing the stubborn southrons back to the shelter of their works. soon after the king appeared upon the scene, and, further resistance obviously being futile, the castle was surrendered. for spalding it may be said that his action was probably more patriotic than treacherous, as he was married to a scottish woman, and was, doubtless, himself of the same nationality. this loss was severely felt by the english, and was bitterly resented by king edward. it was followed by a dreadful invasion of the northern provinces of england, when northallerton, boroughbridge, and skipton-in-craven were committed to the flames, and ripon only secured immunity from a similar visitation by the payment of a ransom of one thousand marks. the unhappy people were utterly without protection, and the scots leisurely returned to their own country, driving their miserable captives before them "like flocks of sheep." involved with his barons in those wretched complications which embittered his reign, edward the ii. was so mortified by the loss of berwick, that he hastily came to an arrangement with the malcontents, and raising his banner prepared to invade scotland, and attempt the recovery of the town and fortress which had so suddenly passed out of his possession. the royal army assembled at newcastle in the month of july, and, being very strong, edward was hopeful of bringing the expedition to a successful termination. no measure was omitted for the securing of the object in view, and a powerful fleet from the cinque ports followed the army with supplies of stores and warlike material. the walls of the fortress being so low that the warriors at the base could exchange stroke of lance with the defenders of the ramparts, edward prepared to carry the place by assault, no doubt remembering the feat of his great sire in 1296, when he rode his good steed bayard over ditch and wall, and commenced the work of pitiless slaughter with his own strong right hand. bruce, equally determined to retain the place, had appointed his gallant son-in-law, walter, the high-steward of scotland, to the command of the town and castle. the garrison was reinforced by 500 volunteers, all gentlemen, friends and relations of the steward. provisions to serve for a year having been laid up, the gallant scots awaited the course of events. however sanguine edward of cærnarvon may have been, he certainly exhibited all reasonable prudence before berwick, and, before commencing active operations, caused his camp to be strongly fortified. when the hour of attack arrived, the valiant scots who manned the walls of berwick found they had a double danger to meet, as the english mariners were bringing up one of their largest ships, which was crowded with soldiers, who clung to the masts, rigging, and spars, ready to leap upon the ramparts, as soon as the sailors brought up alongside the walls, and got the vessel in position with their grappling irons. as the vessel drew near, gleaming with steel, and presenting a most formidable appearance, she suddenly took the ground, and in a moment all was confusion, the mariners straining every nerve to get her off into deep water again. all these attempts proving in vain, and as the vessel lay stranded at ebb-tide, she was set on fire by the scots, and consumed, to the great elation of the garrison, and equally to the disgust of the english. while this exciting incident was being enacted, edward was furiously assaulting the town from the land, sending his fierce stormers, who were abundantly supplied with scaling ladders, to the attack by thousands, and covering their advance by the incessant discharge of his archers, whose long and deadly shafts swept the ramparts like a hail-storm. but the scots met the storm with indomitable bravery, fringing their walls with glittering pikes, hurling down showers of missiles upon the enemy, casting down their ladders, and sending their heavy axes through the iron skull-caps of the stormers before they could make good their foot-hold upon the ramparts. after long hours of stubborn and sanguinary toil, edward withdrew his troops to the shelter of their entrenchments, and both parties rested after their severe and exhausting toil: but at the base of the walls, and upon the bloody ramparts many brave men slept their long death-sleep. untamed by their repulse, the english soldiers prepared to renew their efforts, and set to work upon the construction of a huge military machine called a "sow": this was framed of solid timber, and moved upon heavy rollers, the roof sloping and affording an efficient protection to the soldiers who toiled with pick and spade beneath its cover, intent upon undermining the walls of the beleaguered hold. the "sow" was especially dangerous to the scots in the present case, for the whole length of the walls being exposed to repeated assaults, they were so completely outnumbered that they were unable to spare any considerable number of men to guard against its action, and should once a breach be effected in the walls it would be impossible to arrest the pressure of edward's stormers, who kept the hardy scots fully employed even while their ramparts were intact. when the english engineers levelled the ground, and wheeled the heavy machine against the walls, and the miners were waiting, pick in hand, to fall to work, the contending warriors awaited the result with equal anxiety and interest. berwick was indebted for its safety to the labours of a flemish engineer named john crab, who had prepared a huge catapult for the purpose of hurling heavy missiles against the terrible "sow," and, as it approached the wall, he discharged a huge mass of rock against it. the flight of the missile was regarded with the utmost interest by both parties, but it failed to strike the machine, and a second discharge was equally inoperative, and the "sow" now drew near the walls, amid the exulting shouts of the besiegers; but crab had now obtained a better idea of the power of his catapult, and, calculating the distance to a nicety, sent a large piece of rock upon the mid-roof of the doomed "sow." the massive stone went thundering and crashing through the solid timber, and, as cries of rage and dismay burst from the english troops, the miners came rushing wildly from the ruined machine, and sought to gain the trenches, while the scots sent their arrows and missiles after them, exclaiming, in grim mockery and exultation, "behold, the english sow has farrowed!" the scots were inspired by their success, the english aggravated by repeated disappointments and repulses, and the conflict necessarily waxed fiercer, crab working his military engines with great vigour, hurling showers of missiles upon the assailants, and giving the unlucky "sow" its _coup de grace_ in the form of a quantity of blazing and highly inflammable material, which quickly set it on fire. amid the tumult of the assault it continued to burn, sending up showers of sparks and dense volumes of smoke, until it was reduced to ashes. the english fleet was brought up to second the efforts of the stormers, but john crab had so many cranes and springals in position, and hurled his huge copper-winged darts, heavy iron chains, and grappling hooks, and bundles of ignited tow, saturated with pitch, with such unfailing precision that the commanders were fairly daunted, and, fearing to involve the fleet in utter destruction, drew off, and the scots, thus opportunely relieved, directed their undivided attention to the repeated assaults of the enemy. during those hours of murderous strife the grand steward was passing from point to point with a reserve of 100 men, and wherever he found the garrison hardly pressed he succoured them with a few men, and animated them by his example and exhortations; and where the slaughter had been especially heavy he made good the loss from his fast diminishing reserves. the conflict was at its height, and the steward had done all that he could to strengthen the sorely-pressed garrison, only one soldier remaining in attendance upon him, when the startling news was brought that edward's warriors had destroyed the barriers at st. mary's gate, which they were endeavouring to burn down. hastily collecting a band of warriors, he pressed forward to the threatened point, passing numbers of young lads and fearless women busily engaged in collecting the missiles thrown over the walls by the enemy, and on approaching the scene of peril, he commanded the gate to be thrown open, and charging through the flame and smoke at the head of his brave followers he fell upon the assailants, sword in hand, and after a fierce conflict drove them off, restored the defences, and made fast the door again. the conflict ended in the utter repulse of the english forces, nevertheless the garrison was sorely thinned and exhausted, so that unless it was augmented by reinforcements, or some diversion was made in its favour, but little prospect of maintaining the fortress remained. it was the policy of robert bruce never to risk a battle with his powerful enemies, and although sorely tried by the dangerous state to which berwick was reduced, he maintained his resolution, but attempted a diversion by despatching douglas and randolph with 15,000 men to make a raid upon the northern shires of england, and, if possible, to fall upon york, and carry off queen isabella, who there awaited the issue of the campaign, imagining that she was secured from all peril by her distance from the theatre of war and by the strong walls of the city. the scots were not slow in carrying out the instructions of king robert, but crossed the solway, and made a rapid march upon york, only to find that their project had been discovered, and the queen's escape secured. it appears that a scottish spy had fallen into the hands of the english, and confessed, "how our enemy, james douglas, with a chosen band of men, would come to these parts in order to carry off the queen, and those whom he should find resisting should be killed at the same time." the danger of queen isabella, whose character was then unimpeached, aroused all the loyal energies of the archbishop and mayor of york, and hastily collecting a body of armed men, they made a rapid march to secure her majesty's safety, and caused her to be conveyed by water to nottingham. the attempt to draw edward from the siege of berwick by threatening the safety of his queen having failed, the scottish captains proceeded to carry out the second part of their programme with the utmost energy, and giving loose to their wild passion for burning and plundering, they wrought terrible mischief upon the northern towns and villages, as though determined to extort from king edward the heaviest price for the fortress of berwick, should he decide to maintain the siege, in spite of every obstacle, until it fell into his hands. deeply touched by the distress of the peasantry, the archbishop of york, william de melton, and the mayor, nicholas fleming, attempted to organise an army, and check the depredations of the scots, who had carried their wild riders to the gates of york, and set the suburbs on fire. perhaps history can furnish no more rash undertaking than this: randolph and douglas were cool and experienced captains, and ferocious soldiers; the troops they commanded were veterans, accustomed to victory, and experienced in the hardships and toils of the field; men who could only be approached by tried and steady soldiers, and who were not likely to yield the palm to the flower of the english army. to meet these, the archbishop had to rely upon burghers and peasants, men little accustomed to the use of arms, and entirely deficient in military training, and for whom no competent leaders could be found. no lack of energy was shown by the archbishop and mayor, and the hasty and untried levies responded to their exhortations with equal zeal. there was no time to prepare the volunteers for the ordeal, no opportunities for testing their courage in skirmishes, for training them to advance upon such dangerous enemies as the scots, or to retire before them in good order if they found them too strongly posted to be attacked with any prospect of success. as though to compensate all physical defects by an extraordinary weight of spiritual influence, the numbers of the army were augmented by many priests, who are supposed to have been brought together at york for the celebration of the feast of st. matthew. ten thousand men were all that the archbishop could bring into the field, and with these he marched after the scots, who prepared to receive his attack at "myton meadow, near the swale water," supposed to be a large field, at that time unenclosed, and situate some three miles east of boroughbridge, just above the confluence of the rivers ure and swale, and in the immediate locality of the obscure village of myton. half the army of douglas and randolph would probably have sufficed to worst the english in fair and open field, but the scots commanders had been long accustomed to foil the english by ambuscades and surprises, the fatal english archers, and their usual superiority in numbers, necessitating the utmost caution on the part of the scots when engaging with their formidable southern foes; and on this unfortunate day the scots prepared an ambush, which was certain to foil the onset of the english, and to cast them into that confusion which ends in panic where undisciplined troops are concerned. on the english approaching the bridge across the swale, the scots, or more probably an advanced division of them, feigned a retreat, drawing the englishmen within the toils of an ambush, that was prepared for their destruction. to ensure their more complete defeat, they were permitted to cross the bridge, and while pushing on, no doubt in some uncertainty, they were suddenly involved in dense clouds of smoke, which, drifting before the wind, veiled the movements of the enemy. the scots had fired three haystacks, and were coming furiously down upon their enemies under cover of the smoke, having concentrated their forces "after the manner of a shield." before the onset was delivered, the scottish army separated into two divisions, and uttering their dreadful battle-cry, one division threw itself between the english and the bridge, cutting off every prospect of retreat, while the other charged full upon the archbishop's troops. confused by the drifting smoke, the dreadful war-cries of douglas and randolph, the english troops were so completely taken by surprise that they were half-beaten before a blow was struck. with no regular troops to maintain the van and rear, and give them steadiness by example, and without leaders to form them in the best way to meet the charging enemy into whose hand they were so rashly delivered, the confused mass of englishmen were held at utter disadvantage. with steady charge the scottish spearmen bore down upon them, the billmen and swordmen rushed upon their ranks like a tempest, and the men-at-arms taking them in the rear, a bloody massacre ensued. utterly unable to maintain their ranks, hurled upon each other by the furious charges of the enemy, smitten, broken, trampled under foot, the english, after a vain attempt at defence, broke, and sought to secure their safety by a headlong flight. beset on every side, followed close by the victors, cut off from the bridge, the wretched troops lost all heart, and, seized with panic, thought not of attempting to make a stand against their enemies, but turned all their energies to secure their escape. a scene of dreadful carnage followed: the scots were pitiless in their triumph, and cut down the fugitives with remorseless activity. the english vainly attempted to cross the swale, and dreadful and tragic scenes took place on the bank and in the waters of the river. the fugitives who hesitated to cast themselves into the water fell by the sword of the pursuer, and of those who attempted to pass the river about a thousand were drowned. the approach of night alone saved the army from utter destruction, and the total loss was computed at nearly 4,000 men, of whom 300 were priests, arrayed in full canonicals, but who were put to the sword with merciless severity by the scots, who lost few men themselves, and treating the slaughter of the churchmen as a pleasant joke referred to the battle as the chapter of mitton. it was fought on the 13th, september, 1319. sir nicholas fleming, who was serving as mayor of york for the seventh year, was slain on the field. the pursuit was close, but the archbishop of york and the bishop of ely, although hardly pushed, succeeded in effecting their escape. the archbishop's cross was among the missing, however, the cross-bearer having secreted it in the hope of preserving it from the scots; but a peasant finding it by chance was tempted to conceal it in his hut for some days, when the pricking of his conscience becoming too severe he penitently restored it to the rightful owner. the loss of the scots was insignificant, but the churchyard of myton received a huge and ghastly burthen of slain yorkshiremen. the corpse of sir nicholas fleming was tenderly cared for, and buried in the church of st. wilfred, york, the citizens deeply lamenting the loss of their patriotic mayor, for the repose of whose soul special provisions were made by the archbishop. from the bloody field of myton the hardy scots pursued their way triumphantly to castleford, where they crossed the river aire, and proceeding through airedale, wharfedale, and craven, bore off many captives and much plunder, entering scotland in safety. vii.--battle of boroughbridge. a.d. 1321. on the 1st of july, 1312, a dark and tragic deed was enacted on the gentle eminence of blacklow, where the avon winds through a calm and peaceful scene. the sun shone brightly on the flashing waters of the river, on the summer foliage of wood and grove, and on the polished steel mail of armed men, for the english barons, arundel, lancaster, and hereford, were actors in the tragedy, and their banners waved from the ranks of numerous men-at-arms, pikemen, and archers, for at length, by mingled violence and guile, they had won into their own hands the life of the king's favourite, and him they now called upon to conclude the drama of life with what spirit and courage he could command for so trying an occasion. then stood forward the handsome and talented young knight, the favourite of his unhappy monarch, hurried by rough hands to the fatal block, and the grim headsman performed his unholy office, striking off the head of piers gaveston, sometime earl of cornwall, and--with all his faults--an accomplished knight, deserving of a better fate. chief of the self-constituted judges who thus presumed to rid themselves of a personal enemy, was thomas earl of lancaster, the grandson of henry the third, and the most potent noble in the whole realm of england. to this exalted person, a prince of many virtues, gaveston had humbled himself, and pleaded, but vainly pleaded, for mercy. lancaster could not forgive the gibes of his fallen enemy. the "stage-player" and "old hog" now held the life of the offender in his hands; his proud heart indignantly remembered the shame and mortification of that day when, in the lists of the tournament, his haughty crest was abased to the very dust, as the lance of the upstart gaveston hurled him from his saddle. so lancaster avenged himself for defeat and unmerited insult, and the rude barons declared that he had done well. but edward of cærnarvon remembered the deed of shame, and waited, as weak and gentle-minded men will sometimes wait, until circumstances should enable him to demand of lancaster a full reckoning for the blood that had been shed. in the first bitterness of his wrath he attempted to meet the barons in the field, but they were too powerful for so unwarlike a monarch as edward to contend with, and being averse to endanger the peace of the kingdom by attacking the king in his own person, they submitted to his clemency, and were restored to favour. persuaded to pardon the crime edward would not legalize it by declaring piers gaveston a traitor, although importuned to take this step by the most powerful of the barons. time passed, and all men forgot the gascon knight piers gaveston, or only remembered him to blame his follies and exult in the sharp and sudden punishment that overtook him. after the triumphs achieved by edward the i. in his attempts to subjugate scotland, and destroy its national life by ruthlessly slaying her patriots with the soldier's sword or the headsman's axe, it was with extreme bitterness that the english endured the humiliation of defeated armies and invaded provinces. they had taken to the sword, and when that sword fell from the hands of edward at burgh-on-sands it was seized by randolph and douglas, and mercilessly it was used, until in the invaded, blood-stained northern provinces of england the fear and hatred of the scots became a passion, and he was indeed a bold or foolish man who presumed to enter into negotiations with the national enemy. naturally king edward's hold upon the loyalty of his subjects was weakened by the northern troubles, for the stubborn english mind regarded the red-handed crimes of the father as the virtuous enterprise of a great monarch, and contrasted with his success the feeble efforts of his son: it was the glory of berwick and falkirk contrasted with the disasters of bannockburn and berwick: it was the ravaged, outraged scotland of the first edward contrasted with the wasted and blood-stained northumbria of the second edward. so troubles thickened around the life-path of edward of cærnarvon. his authority was subverted, and so low had he descended in the estimation of his feudatories, that queen isabella was denied admission into the king's castle of leeds, in kent, then held by the lord of badlesmere, under his majesty's authority, and for his majesty's use. the queen's attendants naturally insisted upon being admitted, and endeavoured to force their way into the castle, when the garrison proceeded to extremities, and several of her majesty's suite were slain. this high-handed proceeding of badlesmere caused a revulsion of feeling in favour of the king, and availing himself of the transient emotion, he gathered together a powerful army. for once his actions were energetic, and his blows fell heavily. he took badlesmere prisoner, and loaded him with chains, at the same time inflicting a heavy and well-merited punishment upon his lawless vassals. he made an unexpected visit to the lords of the marches, and captured and hanged twelve knights. like all weak-minded men he knew no moderation in the hour of success, and presumed more upon a transient advantage than a great monarch would have done if successful in the utter destruction of a hostile party. this sudden change in the royal fortunes alarmed the barons, and many made submission; but edward cast them into prison, and seized their castles. great lancaster was now sorely discomposed, and learned, too late, to fear the monarch whose authority he had so openly slighted. it had been long suspected that this potent noble had entered into a confederacy with the scots, to avert the doom which would probably overtake him if deserted by the english barons, or defeated by the royal forces. the time had now arrived when it was necessary to call in the national enemy to his rescue; and in this crisis of his fortunes he openly avowed his unpatriotic measures, took up arms, and urgently appealed to the king of scotland for assistance. before those redoubtable warriors, moray and douglas, assembled their men-at-arms and pikemen, the promptitude of edward had prevailed. finding that he could not maintain himself against king edward until succoured by the scottish reinforcements, lancaster marched northward, and was joined by the earl of hereford. this accession of strength did not, however, enable him to assume the offensive, although it encouraged him to make a stand at burton-upon-trent, where he took up a position that commanded the bridge, in the vain hope of holding the royal forces at bay, and of receiving reinforcements from the disaffected barons. the noble blood that had already been shed in requital of treason against the crown had operated forcibly upon the reasoning faculties of edward's violent and restless barons, and they prudently kept their steeds in stall, and swords in scabbard, leaving lancaster and hereford, with their band of adherents, to make the best of their quarrel with the king, alone, and unaided, unless they could succeed in reaching the scottish border and forming a junction with the scots under randolph and douglas. it would have fared ill with the nation if lancaster's design had succeeded, for although robert bruce was too wise a monarch to attempt to annex any of the english territory, being satisfied to strictly maintain the integrity of the kingdom of scotland, yet lancaster might have involved the nation in the distractions of a wide-extending civil war, for placed in so desperate a position he would necessarily have urged the scots to press any advantage that their arms might have achieved, and although the resistance of the english would have been the rising of the nation against a foreign invader, yet lancaster might have succeeded in winning over some of the barons, especially as edward knew not the art of attaching them to his interests, but was possessed of an unhappy facility in disgusting them by his too-obvious lack of the qualities necessary to a great prince in the middle ages. lancaster failed in his proposed operations, and was obliged to beat a hasty retreat to secure himself from the advancing royalists. on the 16th march he approached boroughbridge, to find it defended by the warden of the western marches, sir andrew harcla, and the sheriff of yorkshire, sir simon ward. the crisis had come: but the conflict was not to win a sceptre, or a protectorship, but to escape from the axe and block wherewith traitors were requited for their misdeeds in the days of the plantagenets. in happier and more fortunate times earl lancaster had bestowed the accolade of knighthood upon andrew harcla, and he now endeavoured to induce the loyal knight to make common cause with him against king edward. harcla was too prudent a man to take so rash and ruinous a step, and lancaster drew up his soldiers to attempt to force the old wooden bridge, which spanned the river ure. the hasty levies which harcla and ward had called to arms consisted largely of northern archers, famous for their skill with the bow, and they were strongly posted at the head of the bridge. to ford the river was impossible, it being sixty yards wide at that part; to follow the course of the river and seek to cross at some other point, with ward and harcla marching _en rapport_ on the opposite side of the river, and with the royal troops nigh at hand, closing in upon their rear, was to risk an almost inevitable and irremediable disaster. lancaster's one path to freedom was by the storming of the bridge, and they accordingly prepared for their last passage-at-arms. the archers were ordered forward to clear the bridge, and a deadly trial of skill commenced; the long, keenly-barbed shafts sweeping like a hail of death from end to end of the bridge: in a moment the dead lay thick at either end, and the brave and determined archers of either army mutually faced with admirable courage the fierce sleet of death that smote them down in bloody heaps. it could not last: the superiority of the northern archers was beyond dispute, and lancaster ordered back the remains of his archers to a less exposed position, to make room for bills and pikes, and the lances of the dismounted men-at-arms, for the bridge was too old and full of holes to admit of a charge of horse. a violent conflict ensued, blood was spilled freely, and the bridge was heaped with the slain, for the old northumbrian war-fury rose to the fierce music of clashing steel and resonant war-cries, and the defensive position of the royal troops, so deeply massed at the head of the bridge, gave them every advantage over their assailants, who could only bring a few lances to the front in the hopeless struggle to beat a bloody pathway for their escape. the insurgents fought desperately, as men entrapped, fighting for bare life, or exacting the heaviest price from the slayer. hereford set a noble example to the unfortunate soldiers, charging on foot, sword in hand, the foremost man in the sanguinary toil; but an untoward stroke mocked his valour, and discouraged the devoted vassals who fought beneath his flag. under the rickety old bridge, with its gaping timbers, lurked a felon welshman, armed with a long spear, waiting for some noble victim, whom he could thus slay without risking his own person. the wished-for opportunity at length occurred, as hereford headed the desperate charge of the lancastrians, and sustained the fight in the vicinity of his concealed enemy. suddenly, to the dismay and horror of his friends, he reeled and fell heavily upon the bridge; the pallor of death overspread his features, and the blood gushed from his wounds. the welshman had gashed his bowels by a murderous stroke of his lance. lancaster now attempted to ford the river with a portion of his troops, but this proved impossible in face of the deadly superiority of the opposing archers. sir roger clifford was wounded in the head; sir william sulley and sir roger bernefield were slain outright; the earl's army was utterly demoralised, his loss was severe, and abandoning the last hope of forcing the river, he utterly lost heart, and retired into the town, taking refuge in a chapel. de harcla now ordered the royal troops to advance, and they rushed furiously over the bridge, bearing down the last feeble defence of the disheartened lancastrians, and pursuing the scattered fugitives with a cruel ardour. many archers and pikemen fell by sword and bill in that dark hour, vassals whose only crime was obedience to the lords whose badge they wore. many knights and barons surrendered their swords, and were rudely haled away in bonds, to await the punishment that follows unsuccessful treason. that day the shadow of death gloomed over many a brave young soldier, whose valour might have been worthily employed in defending the northern borders against the incursions of the scots. earl lancaster was speedily surprised in the chapel where he had hidden his unhappy head. exulting in having achieved so notable a capture, the rough soldiers laid rude hands upon him, whereon he sadly gazed upon the crucifix, and fervently and pathetically ejaculated, "good lord, i render myself unto thee, and put me unto thy mercy!" and great was his need of the divine, for of human mercy he was to receive none. his knightly armour was torn off, never to be resumed, and, after many insults, he was conveyed to york, to be hailed with derisive cries of "king arthur!" by the rude populace, as they cast the street mud at him. in his famous castle of pontefract was a new dungeon, built by his directions, and to which entrance was obtained by means of a trap-door in the turret of the tower. to pontefract the earl was carried, and lowered into this gloomy dungeon, so close a type of the grave to which he was hourly drawing near. king edward was not long in reaching pontefract with his army; when lancaster was brought to trial before his majesty and the loyal barons who marched with him. among them were the spencers, around whom he had hoped to draw the toils, and whom he regarded with indignation and disgust, as the rapacious, upstart favourites of a weak and foolish prince. the spencers looked upon him as their most dangerous enemy, and edward was only fierce when defending his favourites: who should speak of mercy in such an hour as that? certainly none of edward's barons, however deeply they might deplore the fate of the noble earl, for their plea for mercy might be regarded as a proof of disloyalty, and edward was showing a leven of that savage spirit which existed so strongly in his father, and was shown by the butchering of so many noble scotchmen on the scaffold. the condemnation and sentence were speedily arrived at. lancaster was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, but being of the royal blood he was spared the torture which meaner traitors were subjected to, and the punishment was commuted to decollation. on the 22nd of march the headsman waited for lancaster, who was led to the scaffold, mounted on a miserable hack, insulted and reviled by the spectators, many of whom pelted him with mud. calm and dignified, he implored the grace of heaven to enable him patiently to endure the sorrow of that bitter hour. the block was placed upon a hill near his castle, and he knelt with his face to the east, expecting the stroke of the executioner; but his pitiless enemies ordered him to turn to the north, from whence he had expected the scottish succours, and in this position he received his death-blow. the rebellion of lancaster involved many noblemen in his ruin. ninety-five knights and barons were cast into prison, and stood their trial for high treason. other bloody executions followed with merciless barbarity. the lords warren-de-lisle, william de fouchet, thomas mandute, fitz-william, henry de bradburne, and william cheney, suffered at pontefract; and clifford, mowbray, and deynville were decapitated at york. thus bloodily did king edward avenge the death of gaveston--for there can be little doubt that the blow aimed at the spencers, and the recollection of gaveston's doom, were the motives that moved him to such a cruel exercise of his power over his revolted and defeated subjects. perhaps a more humane and generous policy might have averted the evil days, when he was left as helpless in the hands of his enemies as was lancaster on the day of his defeat and capture. in reguerdon of his great service to the crown, sir andrew harcla was exalted to the rank of earl of carlisle. among the revolted barons who fought with lancaster and hereford at boroughbridge, was john de mowbray, lord of the vale of mowbray, of kirby malzeard, and thirsk and upsall castles. tradition still retains his name, and gives a strangely wild and legendary account of his death; probable enough, but not to be received as authentic history. in the breaking up of the lancastrian troops, in the last stormy passage of the day, john de mowbray, disengaging himself from the press, put spurs to his horse, and rode off, in the direction of upsall castle, near thirsk, where he hoped to secure his safety. the royalists, however, were soon on his track, pressed him hard, and reached him as he was making his way through a lane, within sight of upsall castle. in a moment he was seized and unhelmed, and his throat stretched across the trunk of a fallen tree as one of the king's men struck off his head. his armour was then stripped off and suspended from the branches of an oak tree, his body being cast into a way-side ditch. the tradition is preserved in the name of the lane which is still called chop head loaning. the rev. thomas parkinson, f.r.h.s., gives this tradition at length in his interesting volume, "yorkshire legends and traditions," and quotes mrs. susan k. phillips' poetical version of the legend--a poem which would have delighted sir walter scott. the blood-stained old wooden bridge across the ure has long ceased to bear the traffic of the locality, and a handsome stone erection now replaces it. harcla and ward's old fighting ground, that bristled with sword and spear and deadly bill on the 16th of march, 1321, is now more prosaic soil, burdened with houses, timber, and coal-yards; and is partly cleft by a short canal, the property of the river ure navigation. when the river was embanked in 1792, the excavators at the old banks, below the bridge, discovered some presumed relics of the battle, consisting of many fragments of arms and armour. viii.--battle of byland abbey. a.d. 1322. after the tragedy of earl lancaster's revolt had been concluded by the wholesale executions of the barons and knights implicated in that misguided movement, the scots, commanded by randolph, earl of moray, invaded the western marches, and ravaged the country in their customary barbarous style, slaying all who attempted resistance, and driving before them all the flocks and herds that their swift and well-organised cavalry could collect. what they could not carry away they burnt, returning to scotland without having received a check in the field. where they had passed, the summer sun gleamed brightly on ruined cots and devastated fields, and the english peasantry, inured to toil and suffering, gazed despairingly upon the ruin of the fruit of the soil, fostered by their hard labour, and by the sun and rain of the departed months. while the scots were acting edward of cærnarvon was preparing to take the field. referring to the english monarch's victory at boroughbridge, sir walter scott makes the following reflections:- "this gleam of success on his arms, which had been sorely tarnished, seems to have filled edward, who was of a sanguine and buoyant temperament, with dreams of conquest over all his enemies. as a king never stands more securely than on the ruins of a discovered and suppressed conspiracy, he wrote to the pope to give himself no further solicitude to procure a truce or peace with the scots, since he had determined to bring them to reason by force." edward spared no pains to ensure the success of the expedition into scotland, and parliament authorised military levies in the country to the extent of one man from every english hamlet and village, and a proportionate number from the towns and cities. subsidies of money were largely granted, and enabled edward to obtain supplies of arms and provisions from over seas, besides reinforcing his army with soldiers from aquitaine. the scottish monarch timed his movements, and organised his plans to check the english advance, with his customary foresight and energy; and although the cruel slaughter of so many of his nearest relatives and dearest friends might well have steeled his heart against the english, we are bound to admit that his repeated devastations of the northumbrian provinces were of incalculable service in protecting scotland from hostile attacks, although they might and did excite the english to cross the border in expeditions organised for the purpose of revenge. bruce never wanted for an army to invade england--an army that repaid its toils by the plunder of the enemy, and this is clearly illustrated by the campaign that ended with the battle of byland abbey; while edward was spending months in raising an army, taxing the people, and making forced levies, drawing supplies of men and munitions from his continental provinces, bruce had but to raise his standard, when a numerous army followed him, to win the reguerdon of their toil with sword and spear from the fertile english provinces. king robert dared not risk the liberties of scotland by meeting the powerful hosts of england, with their deadly archers, in the open field, and his plan of defence was therefore to devastate the english borders with fire and sword, to the farthest practicable limit, and to drive all the flocks and herds on the scottish border far inland, wasting the country as far as the firth of forth. as soon as moray had performed his raid on the west marches, he was instructed to join his forces with those of douglas, and cross the borders in a more easterly direction, while king robert penetrated into lancashire through the western marches. the expedition commenced on the 1st of july, and was concluded on the 24th, when the scotch army re-entered scotland in triumph, with numerous waggons heavily laden with the plunder of the english. the vale of furness had been the scene of their triumphant march, and they left it utterly desolated; barns, stacks and ricks, and fields of ripening grain had been given to the flames, or trampled under foot. the unhappy peasantry, abandoning their rude cots, sought such refuge as the woods and wilds afforded, or haply took shelter in the nearest walled town. men-at-arms and burghers took spear and bow in hand, made fast their gates, and kept careful watch lest the enemy should burst upon them with fire and sword some dreadful night. the wasted country gleamed with the light of burning villages, and many a rude border-fortress was taken by assault before king edward headed his warriors and marched northward with his mail-clad barons and stout yeomen. the wary scots waited not for the approach of the splendid army that marched behind the banners of the unfortunate edward of cærnarvon; although the english warriors were animated by an intense desire to avenge their wrongs, and not a monarch in christendom but might have quailed at the prospect of joining battle with them, yet all their high courage and warlike accomplishments failed to serve them in their contest with the bruce. pressing onward, rank after rank, squadron after squadron, with the glitter of thousands of lances, pikes, and bills, and with hundreds of banners floating on the breeze, the warriors of king edward found neither foes to fight nor plunder to repay their toil, but "a land of desolation, which famine seemed to guard." the transport of stores for so large an army was attended with extreme toil and difficulty, for the wasted soil would not even afford forage for the english horses. the english captains, hoping that by some chance the enemy might be brought to an engagement, resolutely maintained their advance, and the patient soldiers held on their way, in spite of increasing difficulties and dangers. it was the month of august, and the fatigue of the heavily armed troops must have been excessive. at length the toil-worn army reached the capital, but without any amelioration of their condition, or the prospect of an engagement. the sole spoil between england and edinburgh was one lame bull. well might earl warenne declare, "by my faith, i never saw dearer beef." a fleet with supplies was expected in the firth, but it was detained by adverse winds, and after vainly waiting for three days, during which the troops began to experience the pangs of hunger, edward reluctantly commanded the retreat to commence. they knew that bruce had massed his army at culross, and was keeping them under observation, but it was impossible to get within sight of the scottish army, or to force an engagement. in their retreat the suffering and enraged soldiery burst into the convents of dryburgh and melrose, from which all but a few aged and infirm monks had retired: these unfortunates they put to the sword, defiled the sanctuaries, and carried off the consecrated vessels. bruce was now following hard and fast on the track of the retreating army, alert to seize every advantage, and anxious to secure the safety of his kingdom by inflicting a crushing blow upon his enemy. the english soldiery were harassed by being kept continually on the alert, and by the scarcity of provisions, but their greatest disaster awaited them on their native soil. travel-wasted and famine-stricken they entered england, and were liberally supplied with food from the principal magazines in the north. partaking with the impatient avidity of starving men, they sickened in great numbers, and in a few days 16,000 were carried off by inflammation of the bowels; and of the sick who recovered, few were ever again fit for service in the field. to avert further disasters, and renew the strength and spirit of the survivors, the king formed a camp at byland abbey, some fourteen miles from york; and there the sorely-tried and weary soldiers found a temporary rest, and again enjoyed sufficient supplies of wholesome food. the position was extremely strong, and under ordinary circumstances might perhaps have been considered unassailable when held by english archers and men-at-arms. it was a country of rocks and woods, where deep ravines cleft the rocks, and formed huge cliffs, easy of defence. the soldiers were judiciously posted on the elevated ground surrounding the abbey, a steep ridge very difficult to scale, the pass to which was narrow and easily defended by veteran soldiers. the exact ground that was held cannot now be ascertained; it was certainly an elevated ridge, and very probably that now known as the old stead bank, at one end of which is a piece of land called "scot's corner." if this is the scene of the conflict, it took place about a mile and a half to the north-west of the abbey. doubtless the royal troops were still demoralised by the mortifying results of the campaign, disheartened by their losses, and weakened and dejected by their sufferings. king robert's troops were largely mounted on small and active ponies, which enabled them to follow fast upon the tracks of the english. crossing the tweed, he attempted to carry norham castle, but failed, and directed his march towards byland abbey, for he had intelligence that the english army had there formed their camp. by a forced march he appeared in front of the english, to their great surprise. no doubt bruce inferred that the english had lost all heart, for cressy, poictiers, and agincourt were then unfought, and the world knew little of what the indomitable british spirit could endure, when great and esteemed captains animated the warriors to the conflict. edward ii. was neither great nor fortunate in arms, and was dining in the abbey, attended by his principal officers, when the scots appeared and commenced the attack. it was the 14th day of october, and the scots commenced the conflict by a desperate attempt to carry the pass that was the key to the english position. earls pembroke and richmond were there, however, directing the defence, and, although taken by surprise, the english soldiers made good their position with great courage. the pikemen held the crest of the rock in solid formation, ready to charge should the scots force the pass, and bear them down again: the archers swept the front of the position with showers of arrows, and huge masses of rock were hurled upon the advancing enemy. the terrible scottish infantry swept on with their long spears and heavy bills and claymores, and a hot encounter ensued. the scots were so roughly handled, and the position was so strong, that bruce despaired of winning it by storming the pass. to douglas was appointed the arduous duty of continuing the conflict, randolph, with four squires, fighting under his command, as volunteers. the english advanced post that defended the ascent of the cliff was commanded by sir thomas ughtred and sir ralph cobham--two gallant english knights who acquitted themselves nobly. there was great bloodshed, and hard fighting for some time. bruce, who fully realised the position, headed a chosen band of highlanders, active and daring men, and resolved to attempt to take the english in the rear, for closely engaged with the furious attacks of douglas, and probably believing the natural defence sufficient for their protection, the english had neglected to post their troops in such a position as would secure them in case of a rear attack being made. bruce seems to have realised the necessity of his attack being too sudden and secret to admit of defensive measures being taken, and, making a circuit, his highlanders quickly and noiselessly scaled the high rocks in flank and rear of the english army. what followed may be easily imagined. the charge of the highlanders was resistless, and being unexpected, a dreadful scene of slaughter and panic ensued. vainly the english sought to close in, and meet the foe that burst upon rear and flank: this diversion naturally distracted the attention of the troops who supported the attacks of douglas and randolph, and those hardy warriors forcing the pass won the heights, where a terrible conflict was going on, the english troops breaking away, and taking to flight whenever the opportunity offered. good men were there, although the panic-stricken fled, and many fell on that corpse-encumbered and blood-stained ridge, fighting at close quarters, and dying in their tracks. the bravest were cut down, and those that could escape the toils took to hurried flight. the battle was soon over; not so the pursuit. great was the slaughter that ensued, but the actual loss of life is not chronicled. so unexpected and complete was the victory of the scots, that edward was utterly incapable of making an attempt to rally his troops, or effect any orderly retreat. mounting a swift horse, he directed his flight to york with all conceivable speed, leaving behind him his plate, money, and treasure, and even the privy seal. walter stewart followed hard after him with 500 horse, and had it not been for the swiftness of the royal steed, in all probability england would have undergone the humiliation of having her monarch borne a prisoner from her own soil by the invaders. as it was, the scottish warrior could ill brook the loss of the intended prize, and he lingered before the walls of york with his slender force of men-at-arms until the shades of evening began to close over the scene; but so dejected and dispirited were the royal troops that they tamely submitted to the affront, although in sufficient numbers to have swept away the stout riders of stewart. the despensers succeeded in effecting their escape from the scene of confusion and bloodshed, and the day after the battle accompanied the king to bridlington. with them went the earl of kent, john de cromwell, and john de ross. many englishmen had taken refuge in the abbey of rivaulx when the struggle became too obviously hopeless; and among the knights and nobles who there surrendered their swords to the scots were the earl of richmond, and sir henry de sully. the prisoners were treated with the greatest courtesy, being simply regarded as chivalrous warriors doing their devoir in the field; but the earl of richmond had expressed himself in most disrespectful terms against the bruce, and to show his opinion of such ungentle behaviour king robert ordered the earl to be closely confined. on the 22nd of october the scottish army returned to their own country, laden with spoil, including £400 exacted for the ransom of beverley: they left behind them a ravaged and ruined country. andrew de harcla for some reason or other had failed to join king edward with his levies, but, halting near boroughbridge, had wasted the country. this was a suspicious circumstance, and was openly commented upon, with the implication that he had entered into a league with the scots, and would not act against them. it was in the last days of the year that these grave charges were brought before the royal notice, when the earl's arrest was immediately ordered. surrounded by his retainers, and occupying the strong fortress of carlisle, the earl might have successfully resisted the king's arms until an opportunity of effecting his escape into scotland offered; and lord lucy, who put the royal orders into execution, resorted to strategy rather than force. attended by sir hugh de moriceby, sir richard de denton, sir hugh de lowther, four squires, and a small party of soldiers, lord lucy entered carlisle castle, with as little ostentation as possible, his soldiers dispersing, to re-assemble in small parties near the gates. lord lucy and his knights then sought the presence of de harcla, and demanded his instant surrender, with the option of defending himself against their attack. the earl declined to defend himself against the four warriors, but as he was being carried off a cry of treason was raised, and the keeper of the inner ward, making a movement to close the gate, was immediately slain by sir richard de denton. at the same moment lord lucy's soldiers seized the gates, and the earl's doom was virtually sealed. he was tried before the chief justiciary, jeffrey de scroop, and was sentenced to degradation and death; being found guilty of having entered into a treasonable undertaking with king robert, to whom he guaranteed the crown of scotland in return for services to be rendered in england--no doubt embracing the destruction of the royal favourites, the despensers. it is difficult to believe that harcla would enter into so dubious an undertaking, so soon after the failure of the powerful earl of lancaster. if he had acted as the agent of the barons, we may believe that some particulars of the confederation would have been elicited during his trial. the statement that he summoned the principal inhabitants of cumberland to meet him at carlisle, informed them that he had entered into a treaty with the king of scotland, and succeeded in obtaining their support, is scarcely to be credited. the earl is generally regarded as the scapegoat who bore the sins of byland battle to the block. degraded from his nobility, despoiled of the insignia of his knightly merit, the unfortunate man was conducted to the scaffold at carlisle on the 2nd of march, 1322, and there executed. edward was induced by this final disaster to give more serious attention to negotiations for peace. henry de sully, the french knight, used his influence to bring the two monarchs to an understanding, and a preliminary truce was agreed to at thorpe, and finally a truce for thirteen years was ratified by robert bruce, king of scotland, and edward the ii. of england, at berwick, on the 7th of june, 1323; a merciful peace after such long and bloody strife, and for which the name of henry de sully deserves to be held in honourable remembrance. ix.--in the days of edward iii. and richard ii. king edward directed his first essay in arms against the scots, in requital of their sanguinary invasions of the north. the flower of his army was supposed to consist of 2,000 men-at-arms under lord john of hainault, and the distinction thus bestowed upon foreign troops aroused the honest wrath of the english. king edward was accompanied by his mother, queen isabella, and while the court was engaged in festivities in the monastery of the friars minors, at york, on trinity sunday, a dreadful tumult arose in the suburbs--the hainaulters and the lincolnshire archers, being quartered near each other, engaged in a dreadful conflict. a great part of the army was drawn into the quarrel; houses were fired, and lighted the scene of murder with a weird and fitful light. all authority was defied, and exhaustion alone arrested the conflict, which was renewed later on, when the hainaulters combined, and beat up the quarters of the bowmen of lincoln and northampton, slaughtering three hundred of them before the tumult was quelled. after this the english foot entered into a confederation to cut off the hainaulters, and the young king had great difficulty in restoring peace and order in his army. the campaign was extremely unfortunate. douglas surprised the camp one night, cut down the royal tent, raised his war-cry in the midst of the startled army, and, after nearly capturing the king, effected his escape. the hainaulters received £14,000 for their assistance. the hainaulters were again at york in the following january, on the occasion of the marriage festivities of king edward and queen philippa. the foreigners distinguished themselves by firing the suburbs of the city, and by insulting the wives, daughters, and female servants of the citizens, who challenged them to mortal combat. the foreigners lost 527 men, slain by the sword or the waters of the ouse, and slaughtered 242 englishmen. several parliaments were held at york in edward's reign, and when david bruce invaded northumbria in 1346, queen philippa raised her standard in the city. the scots kept york under observation for some time, and attacked the suburbs. the impending battle was fought near durham on the 17th of october. after a vain attempt to cut off the english archers, the scots closed in a hand-to-hand conflict, and fought under a deadly hail of arrows. the english steadily won ground, and the scots began to break before repeated repulses and attacks. the king fought like a lion; his banner disappeared; the earl of march and the great steward retired their divisions, believing the king was slain. he still fought on; eighty loyal gentlemen supporting him. he was surrounded, wounded in the leg, two spears were entangled in his harness, his sword was dashed out of his hand, and he was called upon to surrender. maddened by mortification and pain, he struck out with his gauntleted fist. john copeland lost two teeth by the king's hand, but was gratified by receiving his surrender. after edward's days of warfare and pride came to an end, richard ii. reigned in his stead. some little ferment occurred in beverley and scarborough, but wat tyler's death prevented the movement from spreading. in 1385 richard quartered his army at beverley, during an expedition to scotland. a bohemian knight, sir meles, was insulted by two of sir john holland's squires, and protected by two archers, retainers of lord ralph stafford. a heated dispute was settled by the death of one of the squires, who was shot by an arrow. the guilty archer appealed to lord ralph stafford for protection, and lord ralph at once sought sir john holland, who was also out in quest of sir meles, vowing to avenge the death of his favourite squire. knight and lord met in a narrow lane, and, it being dark, did not recognise each other until the challenge passed, when holland drew his sword, exclaimed, "stafford, i was inquiring for you; thy servants have murdered my squire, whom i loved so much;" then he smote the young lord, and laid him dead at his feet. holland took sanctuary at beverley, and king richard confiscated his possessions, and declared that he should be executed if he ventured out of bounds. holland was the king's half-brother by their mother joan, the widow of the black prince, and she besought pardon for the guilty knight, and so bitterly bewailed his peril, that, after three days of continuous weeping, she expired. holland was then pardoned. he was afterwards raised to the rank of earl of huntingdon, and being seized by the vassals of the late duke of gloucester, whom he had held in deadly hatred, he was delivered to the headsman's axe. for six months, a.d. 1392, the courts of king's bench and chancery were held at york, richard being at feud with the citizens of london. he bestowed the title of lord mayor upon the mayors of york; presented the city with the first mayor's mace; and created the first duke of york in the person of edward plantagenet, the fifth son of edward iii. and queen philippa. in richard's reign the battle of otterburn was fought. earl douglas won sir henry percy's lance before the barriers of newcastle, and vowed that it should float from the loftiest tower of dalkeith castle. percy swore that it should not be carried out of northumberland, and douglas promised to plant it before his tent, that percy might have an opportunity of regaining it on the following night percy, with 6,000 horse and 8,000 foot, furiously attacked the scots, who were encamped at otterburn. douglas, by a skilful movement, took the english in flank, and a hot encounter ensued, which was interrupted as a dark cloud swept before the moon. it passed, and the battle was resumed, as the scene was flooded with light. douglas smote his way through the press, wielding his axe in both hands. three spears smote him, and man and horse went down. he was found dying, defended by his chaplain, william lundie, who bestrode him, curtail-axe in hand. douglas thanked god that few of his ancestors had died in bed or chamber. he reminded his friends of the old prophecy that a dead douglas should win a field; and commanded them to raise his fallen banner and his war-cry, but to tell none that he lay dying there. his orders were followed, and the english were defeated. the de la poles, merchants of hull, rose to power during the reigns of edward iii. and richard ii. edward received princely assistance from the brothers during his french wars, and in 1327 bestowed the office of chief butler upon richard. william he created a knight-banneret. sir michael was appointed admiral of the king's fleet in the north, and was raised to the peerage as earl of suffolk. in 1389 he died at paris, a broken-hearted exile. his son and successor followed henry v. to france, and died, of a malignant disease, before the walls of harfleur. michael, his eldest son, took up his honours, but perished on the field of agincourt, a few weeks later. william, the fourth earl, famous as a statesman and warrior, was foully slain in the roads of dover, his head being struck off against the side of the long-boat of the ship _nicholas_. his son, created duke of suffolk in 1462, married elizabeth, daughter of richard duke of york. their eldest son, john, earl of lincoln, was declared heir to the crown by richard iii. he fell at the battle of stoke, june 16th, 1487. the fifth earl of suffolk was brought to the block in 1513; and the exile, richard, fought beneath the banner of king francis, and was slain amid the rout at pavia in 1525, when king francis was taken prisoner, after a desperate defence. in "the story of the de la poles," j. travis-cook, f.h.r.s., furnishes the student with a very interesting account of this talented but unfortunate family. edward baliol's expedition against scotland, fruitful of so much suffering and useless bloodshed, sailed from ravenser in 1332. the crown that he won was as suddenly lost as acquired. x.--battle of bramham moor. a.d. 1408. in 1387 the barons of england deprived king richard of the reins of government, and impeached his friends, the archbishop of york, the duke of ireland, the earl of suffolk, sir robert tresilian, and sir nicholas brember. brember and tresilian were publicly executed, the others secured their safety by flight. years passed, and richard recovered his authority, when he punished the lords appellant, sparing only his cousin hereford and the duke of norfolk. some conversation appears to have passed between these nobles, and hereford accused norfolk of having expressed his suspicion that richard would yet revenge himself upon them for their past offence, and especially for the affair of "radcot bridge," when the duke of ireland's forces were dispersed. norfolk denied the charge, and the king permitted the quarrel to be decided by wager of battle. the 29th of april, 1398, was appointed for the trial; the place, coventry. the noblemen had put spurs to their horses, when richard, under the advice of his council, stopped the combat, and banished the offenders--as guilty of treason. norfolk's sentence was for life; hereford's for ten years. the londoners were incensed at losing their favourite, hereford, and when his father, the aged john of gaunt, died on the christmas following his son's banishment, and richard seized his estates, the general indignation was extreme; for the king had granted legal instruments to both the exiles, securing to them any inheritance which might fall to them. in face of the gathering storm richard sailed for ireland. on the 4th july, 1399, three small ships entered the humber, and hereford, attended by the archbishop of canterbury, thomas fitz-alan, son of the late earl of arundel, a few servitors, and fifteen men-at-arms, landed at ravenser spurn. shut out of hull, he was met at doncaster by the earls of northumberland and westmoreland, who espoused his cause, affecting to believe his assertion that he had returned to claim the estates of his father. king richard threw himself into conway castle, and northumberland induced him to leave his refuge, to make terms with hereford. drawn into an ambush, richard was delivered into his cousin's hands. northumberland had sworn on the sacramental elements to keep faith with the king, and richard thus reproached him, on the moment of his seizure, "may the god on whom you laid your hand reward you and your accomplices at the last day." on the 1st of october, the day following his coronation, henry iv. signed a licence for matthew danthorpe, a hermit, who had welcomed him at ravenser spurn, granting him permission to erect a hermitage and chapel on that desolate place. richard was imprisoned, and expired in a dungeon of pontefract castle, but whether by stroke of sir piers exton's axe, or broken down by famine, matters not _now_. northumberland was honoured by the dignity of constable of england, and at the coronation bore a naked sword on the king's right hand. he was further guerdoned by a grant of the isle of man. on the 7th of may, 1402, the percies defeated earl douglas at the battle of homildon, inflicting a heavy loss upon the scots, and capturing douglas; murdoch, son of the duke of albany, and other captains to the total sum of eighty. king henry forbade the ransoming of the prisoners, an interference which aroused the bitter wrath of the percies. as though in mockery of their pride, he bestowed upon them the scottish estates of the douglas, and ordered them to abstain from ransoming sir edward mortimer, hotspur's brother-in-law, who had fallen into the hands of owen glendower, the welsh patriot. these impositions of the royal commands resulted in the revolt of the percies. the scotch prisoners were released, and assisted the percies in the field. the captive mortimer married glendower's daughter, and drew that chieftain into the conspiracy. the lineal heir to the throne was edmund mortimer, earl of march. him northumberland proposed to raise to the throne, virtually partitioning the kingdom between the percies, mortimers, and glendower. the revolt came to the issue of battle at shrewsbury, on the 21st july, 1403, when percy and douglas penetrated the centre of the royal army, and hotspur, casting up the ventaille of his helmet, was shot in the brain by an arrow, and fell in the press. the victorious advance was turned into a rout. of prince henry, it is written: "the prince that daie holpe his father like a lustie young gentleman." northumberland was marching to join his sons, but retired into warkworth castle on receiving the news of their defeat. the king, either from fear or policy, condoned his part in the revolt. when the archbishop of york, richard scrope, took up arms in 1405, the earl was implicated in his revolt. sir john falconberg had raised the banner of revolt in cleveland, but prince john and the earl of westmoreland had defeated the rebels. the archbishop's army was so strong, for it had been augmented by lord bardolph and thomas, lord mowbray, that the royal captains resorted to treaty, and induced the archbishop to disband his army. no sooner was this done than the leaders of the revolt were arrested. the archbishop of york, lord mowbray, sir john lamplugh, sir robert plumpton, and several other unfortunates, were put upon their trial, and condemned to death. on the 8th june the archbishop of york was executed at his palace of bishopthorpe, and his head, with that of mowbray, was piked and exposed on york walls. the city of york was heavily fined, and the king proceeded to durham, where he executed lords hastings and fauconbridge, and sir john griffith. northumberland, "with three hundred horse, got him to berwike," but on the king's advance passed into scotland, accompanied by lord bardolph. after brief exile, the end came. "the earle of northumberland, and the lord bardolfe, after they had been in wales, in france, and flanders to purchase aid against king henrie, were returned backe into scotland, and had remained there now for the space of a whole yeare: and as their evill fortune would, while the king held a councill of the nobilitie at london, the saide earle of northumberland and lord bardolfe, in a dismall houre, with a great power of scots returned into england, recovering diverse of the earle's castels and seigneories, for the people in great numbers resorted unto them. hereupon encouraged with hope of good successe, they entered into yorkshire, and there began to distroie the countrie." the sheriff of yorkshire, sir thomas rokeby, is stated to have lured the old warrior to his doom. sir nicholas tempest reinforced him at knaresborough, and the little army crossed the wharfe at wetherby. they had achieved a succession of trifling successes, but now sir thomas rokeby interposed his forces, cut off their retreat, and compelled them to give battle, on the 28th february, 1408, on bramham moor, near hazlewood. they were brave men who thus stood opposed. northumberland's troops were incited by their dangerous position, by the hope of recovering their lost possessions, and by their hatred of the king. on the other hand, the royalists were anxious to gain the honours and rewards which princes bestow. the sheriff was not slack to close, but advanced his standard of st. george, and sounded the charge, as northumberland bore down upon him with his lances, doing battle once more beneath his banner, that displayed the proud emblazonments of the house of percy. the onset was fierce and bloody. lances shivered to splinters; men went down in their blood, wounded and dying; riderless horses burst from the press, and wildly galloped over the moor. lances were cast aside, as knights and men-at-arms fell-to with sword, and mace, and axe, testing mail, smashing shield and casque, and finding and bestowing wounds and death despite of guarding weapons and tempered plate-mail. the archers were fiercely at work, pouring their long shafts upon the rear ranks; the footmen face to face with the wild play of deadly bill and thrust of pike. morions were cleft, corsets pierced, and men fell thick and fast. the battle was hotly maintained, but for a short time, the insurgents being sorely over-matched. northumberland fell--never to rise again until rough hands stripped off his mail, and held him for the butcher's work of headsman's axe and knife. there ended lord bardolph's many troubles, as he fell, a sorely wounded and dying man, into the sheriff's hands. the leaders fallen, no further object for contention remained to the rebels, and the defeat was complete and irretrievable. the tragedy of the battlefield had to be concluded by the rush of the pursuers, eager to maim and slay; and by the useless rally of defeated men, turning fiercely at bay, to claim blood for blood and life for life; and, alas! by the seizure of flying men, doomed to rope and axe in reguerdon of their last act of vassalage to the devoted house of northumberland. the earl's head, "full of silver horie hairs, being put upon a stake, was openly carried through london, and set upon the bridge of the same citie: in like manner was the lord bardolfe's. the bishop of bangor was taken and pardoned by the king, for that when he was apprehended, he had no armour on his backe. the king, to purge the north parts of all rebellion, and to take order for the punishment of those that were accused to have succoured and assisted the earl of northumberland, went to yorke, where, when many were condemned, and diverse put to great fines, and the countrie brought to quietnesse, he caused the abbot of hailes to be hanged, who had been in armour against him with the foresaid earle." so, after his treacheries, his aspiring ambitions, the once puissant earl of northumberland was brought as low as richard of bordeaux when he lay upon his bier at st. paul's, his set and rigid face, bared from eyebrows to chin, for the inspection of the londoners, and, in its surrounding swathing of grave-clothes, in its dreadful emaciation, eloquent of the unrecorded tragedy of secret murder. a grant of the manor of spofforth, a former possession of the slain earl, rewarded the loyalty of sir thomas rokeby. in the reign of henry v., an attempt was again made to restore the lineal heir to the throne, an augury of the war of the roses commenced in his son's reign. the earl of marche, the object of the conspiracy, himself betrayed it to the king. henry, whose assassination had been planned, took immediate revenge upon the principal offenders, richard, earl of cambridge, lord scroop of masham, and sir thomas grey. they were executed at southampton, on the 13th of august, 1415, at the moment when the royal fleet was sailing from the harbour to add the terrors of invasion to unhappy france, then suffering from internecine strife. there is an old tradition that on the day of agincourt the shrine of st. john of beverley exuded blood, and when king henry was in yorkshire he naturally paid his devotions at the shrine. he was accompanied by his queen; and it was at this time that he received the sad news of the death of his brother clarence at beaujé. the duke was dashing over the narrow bridge when the charging scots burst upon him; sir john carmichael shivered his lance upon the duke's corset, sir john swinton smote him in the face, and, as he dropped from the saddle, the earl of buchan, with one blow of a mace, or "steel hammer," dashed out his brains. xi.--the battle of sandal. a.d. 1460. although henry vi. was beloved by his subjects, he was subjected to the vicissitudes of the wars of the roses. his queen, margaret of anjou, was unpopular with the people, her favourite minister, william de la pole, was hated of the nobles, and nobles and commons were alike exasperated by the loss of the french possessions. richard, duke of york, a brave soldier, and popular with the people, was the lineal heir to the throne, and he was determined to assert his claim. the first battle was fought at st. albans, on the 23rd may, 1455. the royalists maintained the town, being commanded by lord clifford, the dukes of buckingham and somerset, and the earls of northumberland and stafford. york fiercely attacked, being supported by norfolk, salisbury and warwick. the northern archers poured their shafts into the town, and inflicted great slaughter, and the earl of warwick, "seizing his opportunity, moved to the garden side of the town, and attacking it at the weakest side, forced the barriers." a desperate conflict ensued, somerset, northumberland, and clifford were slain, and king henry, stafford, buckingham, and dudley were wounded by arrows. abbot wethemstede states that he saw, "here one lying with his brains dashed out, here another without his arm; some with arrows sticking in their throats, others pierced in their chests." the king was defeated and captured, and the yorkists divided the government. the duke was created constable of the kingdom, salisbury lord chancellor, and warwick governor of calais. each party watched the other, and the pious king attempted to reconcile the leaders in 1458, when they went in solemn procession to st. paul's, the duke of york leading the queen, and the opposing barons being paired accordingly. a few weeks later, and warwick fled into yorkshire, the two factions being put into opposition by a brawl between the servants of warwick and queen margaret. in september, 1459, the yorkists were again in arms, and salisbury, feigning to fly before lord audley and the royalists, turned upon them as they were crossing a brook on bloreheath, and bore them down with lance and bill. the conflict was somewhat desultory, and lasted five hours, the victory remaining with the yorkists. lord audley was slain, and with him 2,400 men, including the good knights thomas dutton, john dunne, hugh venables, richard molineaux, and john leigh. henry and york met at ludlow, when sir andrew trollope carried his command over to the king, and the yorkists, panic-stricken by this defection, dispersed. the duchess of york, and two of her sons, fell into henry's hands, and was sent to her sister, anne, duchess of buckingham. at coventry, november 20th, parliament attainted and confiscated the estates of "the duke of york, the earl of march, the duke of rutland, the earl of warwick, the earl of salisbury, the lord powis, the lord clinton, the countess of salisbury, sir thomas neville, sir john neville, sir thomas harrington, sir thomas parr, sir john conyers, sir john wenlock, sir william oldhall, edward bourchier, sq., and his brother, thomas vaughan, thomas colt, thomas clay, john dinham, thomas moring, john otter, master richard fisher, hastings, and others." on the submission of lord powis he received the king's grace, but lost his goods. warwick, march, and salisbury fled to calais, and somerset, the newly-appointed governor, proceeded to attempt the reduction of the fortress; but, by a clever counter-stroke, warwick captured the fleet, lord rivers and his son being surprised before they could leave their bed. rivers "was brought to calais, and before the lords, with eight-score torches, and there my lord salisbury rated him, calling him 'knave's son, that he should be so rude to call him and these other lords traitors; for they should be found the king's true liege-men, when he would be found a traitor.' and my lord warwick rated him, and said, 'that his father was but a squire, and brought up with king henry v., and since made himself by marriage, and also made a lord; and that it was not his part to hold such a language to lords, being of the king's blood.' and my lord march rated him likewise. and sir anthony was rated for his language of all the three lords in likewise." a notable scene, and picturesque: making easy the mental transition to a later period, when these fierce lords called for block and headsmen, and their prisoners made short shrift. indeed the period was very near. osbert mountford, despatched to reinforce somerset, was captured at sandwich, carried to calais, and beheaded on the 25th june, 1460. on the 5th june salisbury and warwick landed at sandwich, and reached london with 25,000 men arrayed under their banners. margaret strove to shut them out of the city, but in vain; and lord scales discharged the tower guns against them. on the 19th of july the two armies engaged at northampton. margaret, with a strong escort, watched the conflict with the keenest anxiety. the heavy rains rendered the king's artillery inoperative, yet, after five hours of sanguinary fighting, the battle was decided by the treachery of lord grey, of ruthin, who carried his command over to the yorkists. king henry was captured, and carried, in honourable captivity, to london. margaret fled to scotland, accompanied by somerset and the young prince of wales. richard of york entered london, appeared before the peers, and advanced to the throne, placing his hand upon the canopy. this mute claim was received in silence, that was broken by the archbishop of canterbury, as he enquired whether the duke would not wait upon the king. york haughtily replied, "i know of none in this realm than ought not rather to wait upon me," and turning his back upon the peers, retired. it was admitted by the lords that richard was the lineal heir to the throne, but parliament had elected henry iv. to the crown, henry v. had succeeded, and his son, the present king, had been accepted by the lords and commons, and, but for the ambition of york, his title would have remained unquestioned. the peers passed over the claims of the young prince of wales, and decided that the king should retain the crown, but that, on his death, york and his heirs should inherit it. margaret was immediately summoned to london, and prepared for the journey by raising her standard. before she appeared upon the scene the battle of sandal was fought. the yorkists now freely dipped their hands in blood. lords hungerford and scales were allowed to pass out of the tower free men, but the soldiers and officers had "to abide by the law." lord scales was murdered within the week by mariners serving warwick and march. he was seen "lying naked in the cemetery of the church of st. mary overy, in southwark. he had lain naked, being stripped of his clothes, for several hours on the ground, but afterwards on the same day he was honourably interred by the earls of march, warwick, and others." in the same month, july, sir thomas blount, of kent, with five others of the household of the duke of exeter, were accused before "the earl of warwick and the other justiciaries of the king, of illegally holding the tower," and "were drawn to tyburn and beheaded, and shortly afterwards john archer, who was in the councils of the duke of exeter, shared the same fate." duke richard was declared heir-apparent on the 9th of november, with the present title of lord protector, and an allowance of £10,000 to maintain the dignity. the yorkshire royalists were in arms, and "had destroyed the retainers and tenants of the duke of york and earl of salisbury." salisbury and york immediately marched for the north. their vanguard struck somerset's army at worksop, and was cut off. on the 21st december york occupied his castle of sandal. his army consisted of 6,000 men, too few to cope with the enemy lying at pontefract under somerset and northumberland. the duke might have maintained the defensive until the earl of march came up from the welsh borders, but on the 30th of december he sallied out to rescue a foraging party from the lancastrians. with so numerous an army to feed, and in a position so remote from succour, richard might reasonably risk something to protect his foragers. vainly sir david hall argued against so perilous an adventure. the drawbridge was lowered, and york's banner was given to the wintry wind. it bore for device a falcon _volant_, _argent_, with a fetter-lock, _or_. the bird was depicted in the effort of opening the lock, typical of the crown. behind the falcon-banner marched 4,000 veterans. with the duke there rode to his last battle, salisbury and the good knights, thomas neville, david hall, john parr, john and hugh mortimer, walter limbrike, john gedding, eustace wentworth, guy harrington, and other notable men-at-arms. raising the war-cry of york, and sounding trumpets, they charged through the drifting snow-flakes, and awoke the fury of the battle. the duke was outnumbered and surrounded, but fought stubbornly, being nobly seconded by his heroic army. lord clifford hotly attacked him, exerting every effort to cut off his retreat. duke richard valiantly attempted to cut his way through and retire into sandal, but clifford as sternly drew around him the iron bonds of war, prevented all retreat, and held him to the trial. the battle was extremely sanguinary, and the lancastrians fought as though they were the red-handed arbiters of the whole dispute, and, like avenging angels, must wash out the treason of york in streams of blood. as mountford fought at evesham so fought the lord protector that day--exacting the heaviest price for his doomed life. weapons whirled before his face, rang on his mail, and probed the jointed armour with point and edge until the good steel harness was dinted and stained with gore. many warriors perished around him, and he, too, fell, sorely stricken, and died in his blood, amid the trampling of iron-clad feet, and the clash of crossing swords, as friends and foes fought hand-to-hand above his body. the crisis came. the falcon-banner fell, and the pursuing swords maimed and slew the fugitives, burdening the old year with the sorrows of the widow and the orphan. in the triumphant van, in the moment of victory, richard hanson, mayor of hull, laid down his life for queen margaret and her fair son. salisbury won his way through the press, to fall by headsman's axe. rutland broke away from the slaughter, reached wakefield bridge, to perish by the steel of clifford, happy in his early death that saved him from the infamy of bloody years that tarnished the fame of his brothers, march, clarence, and gloucester. some chroniclers represent the queen as commanding her army in person, and as luring the duke to meet her in open field. dissuaded from the encounter by his friends, he declared that: "all men would cry wonder, and report dishonour, that a woman had made a dastard of me, whom no man could even to this day report as a coward! and surely my mind is rather to die with honour than to live with shame! advance my banners in the name of god and of st. george." this is not the york of history. rutland is represented as a boy, aged twelve years, a spectator, not a combatant, and accompanied by his tutor, aspall. clifford overtook him, and demanded his name. "the young gentleman dismayed, had not a word to speak, but kneeled on his knees, craving mercy and desiring grace, both with holding up his hands and making a dolorous countenance--for his speech was gone for fear." "save him," cried aspall, "he is a prince's son, and peradventure may do you good hereafter." said clifford, "by god's blood thy father slew mine, and so will i thee and all thy kin," and so smote him to the heart with his dagger, and bade the chaplain, "go, bear him to his mother, and tell her what thou hast seen and heard." doubtless clifford was as red-handed a sinner as any of the barons, but probably no worse. he is said to have cut off the duke's head, crowned it with paper, and carried it upon a pole to the queen, exclaiming, "madam, your war is done: here i bring your king's ransom." such are some popular errors, perpetuated by historians who have followed the romantic versions of grafton and hall. margaret did not lure york to his fate, for she was in scotland when the battle was fought, and he did not sally out to fight a battle, but to rescue his foragers. the execution of yorkist prisoners was simply a retaliation for the treason and blood-guiltiness of the yorkists, and was carried out without the queen's knowledge. clifford may have vowed to avenge his father's death upon the house of york, and rutland may have fallen to his sword: but the duke was in his eighteenth year, and no doubt an approved man-at-arms. as recorded, he had been attainted of treason a few months prior to his death. we may safely conclude that there were no schoolboys on wakefield-green on the 30th of december, 1460, and the only tutors there were tutors in arms. william of wyrcester's account of the battle may be considered the most probable, and best authenticated:- "the followers of the duke of york, having gone out to forage for provisions on the 29th of december, a dreadful battle was fought at wakefield between the duke of somerset, the earl of northumberland and lord neville, and the adverse party, when the duke of york, thomas neville, son of the earl of salisbury, thomas harrington, thomas parr, edward bourchier, james pykering, and henry rathforde, with many other knights and squires, and soldiers to the amount of two thousand, were slain in the field. after the battle, lord clifford slew the young earl of rutland, the son of the duke of york, as he was fleeing across the bridge at wakefield; and in the same night the earl of salisbury was captured by a follower of sir and. trollope, and on the morrow beheaded by the bastard of exeter at pontefract, where at the same time the dead bodies of york, rutland, and others of note who fell in the battle, were decapitated, and their heads affixed in various parts of york, whilst a paper crown was placed in derision on the head of the duke of york." thus perished duke richard in his fiftieth year. edward, earl of march, richard's eldest son, was at gloucester when the news reached him of the disaster before sandal castle. he promptly advanced his army to intercept the lancastrians, and dispute their advance upon the capital. jasper tudor, earl of pembroke, harassed his rear with a tumultuary army of welsh and irish troops. marching to engage an army, and alarmed by a powerful enemy in the rear, was too critical a position for edward not to appreciate its danger. on the 2nd of february, 1461, he turned furiously upon the enemy, at mortimer's cross, herefordshire, and defeated pembroke with a loss of 3,800 men. at hereford edward halted, and handed over to the headsman owen tudor, sir john throckmorton, and eight of the lancastrian captains--the captives of his sword and lance at mortimer's cross. london threw open its gates to the victor on the 4th of march, and he was proclaimed king, under the title of edward iv. xii.--the battle of towton. a.d. 1461. margaret of anjou had the honour of defeating the famous warwick. thus wyrcester:- "after the battle of wakefield queen margaret came out of scotland to york, where it was decided by the council of the lords to proceed to london and to liberate king henry out of the hands of his enemies by force of arms. shortly after the feast of the purification, the queen, the prince of wales, the dukes of exeter and somerset, the earls of northumberland, devonshire, and shrewsbury, the lords roos, grey of codnor, fitzhugh, graystock, welles and willoughby, and many others, amounting in all to 24,000 men, advanced upon st. albans, and at dunstable destroyed sir edward poyning, and 200 foot." margaret's tumultuary army consisted of english, irish, welsh, and scotch troops, and their excesses tended to the ruin of the lancastrian cause. on the 17th of february the second battle of st. albans was fought. at first the lancastrians fell back before warwick's archers, but, renewing the attack, they fought their way to st. peter's street, driving the enemy before them. on reaching the heath at the north end of the town, the yorkists made a stand, and, after a furious struggle, were put to the rout. warwick lost sir john grey of groby, and 2,300 men. king henry was rescued from the hands of warwick, but margaret ungenerously executed his warders, lord bonville, and the veteran sir thomas kyriel, although the king had pledged his word for their safety. margaret reached barnet, but london feared her and her rude army. when she sent for "victuals and lenten stuff," the mayor and sheriffs obeyed her orders, but the commons stopped the carts at cripplegate. march and warwick were drawing near, london would not admit her army, and margaret "fled northward, as fast as she might, towards york." henry was deposed by the yorkists, and the earl of march declared king in his stead. edward iv. carried on the war with vigour. norfolk visited his estates to raise troops; warwick marched out with the vanguard, the infantry followed, and lastly, on the 12th of march, edward issued out of bishopgate with the rear-guard. on the 28th of march lord fitzwalter secured ferrybridge, but at daybreak the lancastrians fell on: fitzwalter was slain as he issued from his tent, in his night gear, to quell, as he thought, a quarrel of his rude soldiery. clifford pressed the fugitives furiously, and they carried a panic into the camp of edward, that was only arrested when warwick slew his horse, swearing upon the cross-hilt of his sword, that, "who would might flee; but he would tarry with all who were prepared to stand and fight the battle out." the troops recovered courage, and edward proclaimed freedom to depart for all who desired to quit before the battle; threatening severe punishments to any who, remaining, manifested fear in the presence of the enemy. such cowards were to be slain by their companions. no man accepted the permission to retire. lord fauconbridge then fell upon clifford, defeated him, and recovered the post. during the retreat clifford paused, to remove his gorget, and was struck on the throat, and slain, by a headless arrow. edward crossed the river, and confronted the enemy on towton field. the lancastrians were formed on an elevated ridge between towton and saxton, and presenting a front some two miles in extent. the yorkists occupied a neighbouring ridge. a broad battle-space lay between the two armies. the villagers were at mass in saxton church when "the celebration with palms and spears began," for it was palm sunday. the heavy clouds hung low in the sombre sky, and as the wind arose the snow began to fall heavily, and was driven full into the faces of the lancastrians. it was nine o'clock when, from the heavy masses of edward's army, looming portentiously through the thickened air, the flight arrows descended upon the lancastrians, and mingled with the wind-driven snow. in an instant the snow was red with blood, and dead and wounded men encumbered the ground. falconberg having advanced his archers, and struck the first blow, retired them, drawing the lancastrian fire. the queen's archers shot fierce and fast, but uselessly exhausted their quivers, when the yorkists took a terrible revenge, pouring a deadly sleet of arrows upon their enemies. it is said that they drew the lancastrian arrows from the soil, leaving a few to impede the queen's advance. somerset determined to close, and ordered a general advance. knights dashed from point to point along the lines; northumberland and trollope closed their decimated ranks, and moved to the attack. edward's army had suffered little, and was kept well in hand. it advanced steadily to meet the tide of war that surged madly forward through the mirk air and falling snow. king edward commanded the centre: the lion of england crested his helmet, he carried a long lance, with a peculiar vamplate, and the crimson velvet housings of his steed were powdered with suns and white roses. when the armies joined battle, he dismounted, and fought on foot. warwick commanded the right wing, lord falconberg the left, and sir john denman and sir john venloe were in charge of the rear-guard "as if battle were the gate of paradise, and the future an incomprehensible dream, they raised against each other a tumultuous shout of execration and defiance." the front ranks struck, with shivering of knightly lances on the wings, and with deadly play of mauls, of bills and pikes in the van. the slaughter was dreadful: the moans of the dying were drowned in the clashing of steel, fierce war-cries, and the rush of stormy winds. savagely assailed, and beaten by the pitiless, incessant snow, the lancastrians valiantly maintained their ground, although their original superiority in numbers was more than balanced by their first losses and their exposed position. the front ranks fought desperately, for edward of york had issued orders that no quarter should be extended to the vanquished. the archers of york poured their last arrows into the rear of the queen's army. norfolk should have commanded the van, but, seized with a sudden sickness, he had remained at pontefract with the rear-guard. his orders were to bring forward his command, with any reinforcements that might reach him. edward anxiously awaited his arrival. the battle raged for hours; the imprisoned peasantry in saxton church fearfully awaited the end; and edward was scarcely less anxious, for the murderous butchery of the hand-to-hand fight favoured neither army. norfolk was steadily marching through the wintery weather with his hardy soldiers, and messenger after messenger reached him requesting him to hurry up the reserves. the form of battle was lost, as the two hosts were locked in the sanguinary struggle. the dark and stormy day was glooming to a wild and early night, when a louder tumult of battle rose on the lancastrian left flank at north acres. norfolk was on the field, and had struck his enemy. the lancastrians could not bear up under the augmented storm, and the retreat commenced. in the confusion the retiring wings struck each other, and the difficulties of the position were increased. edward urged his infuriated soldiery to unsparing vengeance, and the lancastrians turned again and again upon their pursuers. ere they reached the river cock--a tributary of the wharfe--the lancastrian army had merged into a dense and tumultuary crowd of fugitives, upon whose flank and rear the yorkists hung with the blood-thirsty fury of barbarians. on reaching the stream the massacre became frightful, and the waters were tinged with gore and darkened with the slain, and are stated to have communicated their dreadful burthen and sanguinary stains to the wharfe. for three days the lancastrians were hunted out and butchered by the victors. on the gloomy night of that fatal 29th of march, 1461, a stormy rout of knights and men-at-arms urged their jaded war-horses through the narrow streets of york, calling loudly upon the king and queen to mount in hot haste and ride for their lives. that night the king and queen, with the young prince, rode through bootham, through the gloom of galtres forest, fugitives, _en route_ for scotland. the total loss was computed at 40,000 souls, the lancastrians being heavily in excess. the death-roll contains the names of the earls of northumberland, westmoreland, and shrewsbury; of lords dacres and wells, and sir andrew trollope. at york edward executed the earls of devonshire and ormond, sir baldwin fulford, sir william talboys, and sir william hill. the earl of wiltshire suffered at newcastle on the 1st of may. the heads of york and salisbury were replaced by those of devonshire and hill. according to tradition, "the lord dacres was slain in nor-acres." having removed his gorget he was shot in the throat by the cross-bow bolt of a lad lurking behind a burtree, or elder-bush. the blood and snow froze on the field of towton, and when the thaw came the furrows overflowed with mingling blood and water. the slain were buried in vast pits; and there is a strange legendary belief that the roses which so persistently flourish upon the field, and the petals of which are pure white, slightly flushed with red, sprang from the commingling blood of the partisans of the red and white roses. edward was duly crowned, but his throne was threatened by the plots of the lancastrians, although he kept the headsman's axe steadily at work. in 1462 the scots caused some trouble in the north; and, towards the close of the year, margaret appeared in arms, but precipitately retired without being able to make head against the king. in 1464 margaret again appeared in the north, when the gallant sir ralph percy was slain on hedgeley moor, fighting for the red rose. the battle of hexham followed a rout of the lancastrians, whose leaders, somerset, ross, and hungerford, were executed. sir ralph grey having betrayed bamborough castle to the queen, and then defended it against edward, was executed at doncaster. margaret escaped, but henry ultimately fell into edward's hands, and was committed to the tower. xiii.--yorkshire under the tudors. edward iv. disgusted the earl of warwick by espousing elizabeth, widow of sir john grey, of groby, and the yorkshire rising, known as the thrave of st. leonard, followed. the defeat and death of the royal captains, the earls of devon and pembroke, was succeeded by edward's confinement in middleham castle, and his escape to the continent, when warwick restored king henry to the throne. on the 14th march, 1471, edward landed at ravenser spurn and defeated warwick at the battle of barnet, when the king-maker and his brother montacute were slain. on the day of barnet, queen margaret, her son and his bride, landed at weymouth, and the battle of tewkesbury was fought on the 4th may, when prince edward was slain, and queen margaret captured. edward was now firmly fixed upon the throne, and in 1478 he requited the numerous treacheries of his brother clarence by procuring his condemnation on a charge of high treason. clarence perished in the tower, either being drowned in a butt of wine, or permitted to drink himself to death. on the 9th of april, 1483, edward iv. departed this life, leaving two sons, edward and richard. richard, duke of gloucester, promptly appeared upon the scene, seized lord rivers, the queen's brother, and lord grey, her son, and sent them to pontefract, where they were executed. procuring possession of the persons of his nephews, he caused them to be murdered, and usurped the throne. nemesis followed him; he lost his only son, and was defeated and slain at bosworth field by henry tudor, who espoused elizabeth, daughter of edward iv., and was crowned under the title of henry vii. richard had proclaimed john de-la-pole, earl of lincoln, heir presumptive to the throne, but this unfortunate nobleman was slain at the battle of stoke, ostensibly fighting in the cause of the pretender, lambert simnel. the wars of the roses were now ended, and henry concluded the series of diabolical tragedies by obtaining the condemnation and execution of the earl of warwick, clarence's son, and the lineal heir to the throne. he was judicially murdered on the 24th november, 1499. henry's love of gold led to a revolt in yorkshire, a.d. 1489, when the people, furious against the imposition of a tax, murdered the earl of northumberland, and took up arms; to be defeated and severely punished. henry viii. succeeded to the throne, and by the suppression of the monasteries roused the indignation of the yorkshire people, who made an armed remonstrance, known as the pilgrimage of grace. but for the moderation of the people, henry's throne might have been overturned, and his majesty requited their loyalty by wholesale executions, and by hanging sir robert constable over the beverley gate at hull, and executing robert aske at york. another of the leaders, lord darcy, was executed on tower hill. the reign of edward vi. witnessed a tumultuary outbreak at seamer, consequent upon changes that had been made in the forms of religious worship. it was promptly put down by troops from york, and the ringleaders were executed. during the reign of queen mary there was some little excitement in yorkshire, consequent upon sir thomas wyat's insurrection, when thomas, son of lord stafford, seized scarborough castle, and paid with his life for the daring exploit. the nation was sorely disturbed by the complications resulting from the lust and religion of henry viii., when elizabeth ascended the throne, and her majesty's interference with the affairs of scotland, and her imprisonment of mary stuart, added to the difficulties of the position. the northern rising, headed by thomas percy, earl of northumberland, and charles neville, earl of westmoreland, occurred in november, 1569, and was promptly suppressed, and followed by the customary severities. fortunately royal lines die out, and with elizabeth the tudors ceased; but only to entail upon the nation the wars and revolutions resulting from the follies of the stuarts. xiv.--the battle of tadcaster. a.d. 1642. when charles i. visited hull in 1639, he was most loyally received by the people; but his second visit, on the 23rd of april, 1642, ended in a bitter disappointment, and brought on the resort to arms. his power had waned, the star chamber was a tyranny of the past; stafford was surrendered to the block, and laud was in prison. before charles reached the town, he was requested to defer his visit, and on appearing before the beverley gate, he found it closed, the drawbridge raised, shotted cannon frowning upon him, pikemen and musketeers holding the ramparts. sir john hotham dare not for his life admit the king. vain the orders, the threats, the persuasions of charles; he was compelled to retire, after commanding the garrison to hurl the traitor over the walls. sir john was deeply distressed; he had heard himself proclaimed a traitor by the royal heralds, who sounded trumpets before the walls. on the 3rd of june, the nobility and gentry of yorkshire met the king on heworth moor, and from that day the nation was virtually in arms. on the 2nd of july, the royalists occupied hull bridge, and the "providence" entered the humber with military stores for the king. hotham attempted to capture the stores, but his troops were driven back, and the munitions of war were carted to york, being escorted by a large force of the king's friends. shortly after hull was besieged, and the banks of the river being cut, the country around was submerged. batteries were erected and the town cannonaded, but with little effect. as the month waned, sorties were organised, and the royal lines penetrated. one day the foot were scattered and the royal cavalry had to retire to beverley. reinforcements from london encouraged sir john meldrum, who assisted in the defence, in repeating the sorties. on one occasion the earl of newport was hoisted out of his saddle by a cannon ball, and hurled into a ditch. he was with difficulty rescued, being reduced to a state of insensibility. the siege was raised. at nottingham, on the 25th of august, charles raised his standard. it was blood-red, bore the royal arms, quartered, with a hand pointing to the endangered crown, and the motto, "give to cæsar his due." it was almost instantly levelled with the ground as a sudden blast of wind swept with a weird moaning across the face of the hill. cumberland maintained the king's cause in the loyal north, and to counteract his influence, parliament appointed lord fairfax to the command of the northern forces, his son, sir thomas, acting as general of horse. various skirmishes ensued, fairfax operating from his head-quarters at tadcaster. on one occasion the loyal city of york was insulted by one of fairfax's officers, who fired a pistol in micklegate bar. at wetherby, the younger fairfax was surprised by sir thomas glemham, but the explosion of a powder magazine induced the royalists to draw off. sir thomas was in great peril, being repeatedly fired upon at close quarters. major carr, of the king's army, was slain, and the parliamentarian captain atkinson was mortally wounded, his thigh being fractured by the repeated blows of pistols. the earl of newcastle assuming the command of the cavaliers, attacked fairfax at tadcaster. a bridge over the wharfe led to the main street of tadcaster, and fairfax cast up a breastwork to command this bridge, while he posted musketeers in a number of houses that flanked the position. the attack commenced on the morning of tuesday, the 7th of december, eight hundred parliamentarians withstanding the numerous army of newcastle. when fairfax beheld newcastle's cavaliers marching down the york road, and over the fields on each side, he resolved to evacuate the town, perceiving the impossibility of holding it against so numerous an enemy. it was, however, too late to retire in the face of the enemy, and the troops had barely time to occupy the position at the bridge before newcastle made a determined attack upon them. planting two demi-culverins to command the bridge, and hurrying up his infantry, newcastle opened the ball at eleven o'clock. for five hours the cavaliers attacked, and the parliamentarians as gallantly defended the position. again and again the king's men came steadily on, with pikes in the front, and the musketeers firing and reloading with the most determined courage; but ere they could reach the breastwork the brave men of nunappleton and denton, and the stout-hearted burghers of bradford and bingley, smote them with a storm of shot, shattered and thinned their ranks--sending them back to re-form and renew the attack with the same obstinate but unavailing courage. after a while the fight slackened, the royalists lining the hedges and maintaining a brisk exchange of shot with their adversaries. it was important that newcastle should effect a lodgment within the lines of defence by carrying the houses on the river banks, and several desperate attempts to effect this were made. some fierce conflicts resulted, and many men were slain. at length newcastle carried one of the houses that commanded the main body of the parliamentarians. in this strait, major-general gifford was ordered forward to retake the lost positions. some heavy fighting at close quarters ensued, and pike and sword were red with blood, and the soil cumbered with the slain and wounded, before the stubborn royalists were driven out, and the buildings re-occupied. as the shades of evening closed over the mournful scene of slaughter and confusion, newcastle sent forward another party against one of the houses. it was his last effort, and was gallantly made; but the hail of bullets smote so fiercely in the face of the division, that it was driven back in confusion, with some loss of men, including captain lister, a young and promising officer, whose death was deeply lamented. newcastle drew off, intending to renew the attack on the following morning. upwards of a hundred dead and wounded men were left upon the field. lord fairfax retained the honours of the field, but was compelled to retire his forces, and accordingly occupied the town of selby. his position was extremely precarious, and he was deeply distressed by the necessity of leaving the towns of the west exposed to the attacks of their powerful enemies. xv.--the battle of leeds. a.d. 1643. on the 14th december, sir thomas fairfax and the gallant captain hotham sallied out of selby, and stormed sherborne, to come back on the spur, closely pursued by the enraged goring. sir william savile, of thornhill, compelled leeds and wakefield to surrender; and on sunday, december 18th, attacked bradford with 200 foot, six troops of dragoons, and five of horse. a spirited engagement ensued, and the royalists were beaten off. shortly after, sir thomas made a night-march through the royalist lines, and entered bradford with 300 foot and three troops of horse. reinforced by numerous recruits sir thomas resolved to attack sir william savile, who was strongly entrenched in leeds. the approaches from the bridge and hunslet lane were defended by breastworks, and two demi-culverins commanded the long, broad briggate, or principal street. on monday, january 23rd, 1643, fairfax summoned the town with 2,000 clubmen, 1,000 musketeers, six troops of horse, and three of dragoons at his back. sir william savile rejoined by a gallant defiance, having 1,500 foot and 500 horse posted in the town. sir thomas had formed his troops in two divisions to storm both sides of the town, and they advanced to attack as a snow-storm burst over the moor. the watchword was "emanuel," and with sounding trumpets sergeant-major forbes and captain hodgson fell on at the head of five companies of foot and one of dismounted dragoons. they were saluted with a volley of musketry, all but inoperative. the musketeers had aimed too high. the roar of battle rose at the end of ludgate, when sir william fairfax and sir thomas norcliffe assaulted the entrenchments, and was answered from the south side of the river, where the stormers were fighting their way to the south end of the bridge. here they established themselves, and flanked the defenders of the works at the north-end of the bridge, who were holding forbes and his stormers in check. sir william savile ordered up one of the demi-culverins, and planted it upon the bridge, to arrest the parliamentarian advance. maitland, who led the attack, despatched a party of dragoons to the waterside, and compelled the defenders of the lower breastwork to retire, when forbes occupied the deserted position. schofield, a minister of halifax, celebrated this success by singing a verse of the lxvii. psalm; and as it was concluded the cheers of the dragoons announced the evacuation of the upper breastwork. still singing the psalm, forbes charged up the briggate, and captured the demi-culverins. here they were met by sir william fairfax, who had gallantly forced his way into the town. fairfax had stormed three positions, and captured leeds, after three hours of close fighting. his conduct was highly eulogised. sir william savile and the rev. mr. robinson swam their horses across the aire, and escaped. unhappily captain beaumont was drowned in the attempt. fairfax lost about twenty men, and took 460 prisoners, the two demi-culverins, a number of muskets, and fourteen barrels of gunpowder. the prisoners were allowed to depart on engaging not to arm against parliament. sir thomas fairfax being in delicate health returned to the head-quarters at selby. newcastle withdrew from wakefield, and concentrated his army at york, leaving the country between selby and the west open to the fairfaxes, who occupied howley hall, between wakefield and bradford. xvi.--the battle of wakefield. a.d. 1643. while the fairfaxes held selby, queen henrietta landed at bridlington, where she was briskly cannonaded by vice-admiral batten, whose ungallant conduct was generally reprobated. fairfax offered her majesty an escort of yorkshire parliamentarians. the plots of the hothams closed hull to the fairfaxes, and they resolved to march to leeds, a distance of twenty miles, although exposed to a flank attack. sir thomas drew off the enemy by marching a division in the direction of tadcaster, thus enabling lord fairfax to carry the main body to leeds. the royalists believed that sir thomas had designs upon york, and goring followed hot upon his track, and on whin moor, near the village of seacroft, charged his rear and right flank, and dispersed the parliamentarians, of whom a few were wounded or slain, and many were captured. after a sharp pursuit and some shrewd blows, sir thomas fairfax and sir henry foulis reached leeds with a few troopers. chiefly for the purpose of obtaining prisoners for the exchange of his captured soldiers, sir thomas resolved to make an attempt upon wakefield, then held by goring with seven troops of horse and six regiments of foot. outworks, trenches, breastworks, and several cannon defended the town. the royalist officers were given to drinking and playing at bowls, and although aware of fairfax's advance, he found some officers in liquor when the attack began. doubtless this refers to the few; the majority would be on the alert like gallant and loyal gentlemen. at midnight on saturday, the 20th of may, sir thomas marched from howley with 1,500 horse and foot, drawn from the garrisons of leeds, bradford, halifax, and howley. at four o'clock, he approached wakefield, to find the enemy on the alert. driving a body of horse out of stanley, he assailed wrengate and northgate. major-general gifford, sir henry foulis, sir william fairfax, and other brave officers, supported sir thomas. the stormers were saluted by a hot fire from muskets and cannon, but suffered little thereby. undaunted by their hot reception, the stormers faced the hail of shot and fell on with pike and musket, capturing the works and turning the guns upon the enemy. driving the cavaliers before him, fairfax cleared the streets, capturing, with many others, general goring, sir thomas bland, lieut.-colonel sir geo. wentworth, lieut.-colonel saint george, lieut.-colonel macmoyler, sergt.-major carr, captains carr, knight, wildbore, rueston, pemberton, croft, ledgard, lashley, kayley, and nuttall; captn.-lieut. benson, sergt.-major carnabie. left wounded in wakefield, upon their engagement to be true prisoners, lieutenants munckton, thomas, wheatley, kent, nicholson; ensigns squire, vavasor, masken, lampton, ducket, stockhold, baldwinson, davis, carr, gibson, smathweight, ballinson, watson, smelt, hallyburton, and cornet wivell. too weak to retain his conquest, fairfax marched off in triumph with his prisoners, captured cannon, colours, arms, ammunition, etc. london greatly rejoiced on receiving news of the victory. parliament ordered public thanksgivings to be observed in the city; and in the churches and chapels narratives of the action were read. the following is the official account of the battle, as made to lord fairfax: "on saturday night, the 20th of may, the lord general fairfax gave orders for a party of 1,000 foot, three companies of dragoons, and eight troops of horse, to march from the garrison of leeds, bradford, halifax, and howley; sir thomas fairfax commanded in chief. the foot were commanded by sergt.-major-general gifford and sir william fairfax. the horse were divided into two bodies, four troops commanded by sir thomas fairfax, and the other four troops by sir henry foulis; howley was the rendezvous, where they all met on saturday last, about twelve o'clock of night; about two next morning they marched away, and coming to stanley, where two of the enemy's troops lay, with some dragoons, that quarter was beaten up, and about one-and-twenty prisoners taken. about four o'clock in the morning we came before wakefield, where, after some of their horse were beaten into the town, the foot, with unspeakable courage, beat the enemies from the hedges, which they had lined with musketeers, into the town, and assaulted it in two places, westgate and northgate, and after an hour and a half fight, we recovered one of their pieces, and turned it upon them, and entered the town at both places at one and the same time. when the baracadoes were opened, sir thomas fairfax, with the horse, fell into the town, and cleared the street, when colonel goring was taken by lieut. alured, brother to captain alured, a member of the house; yet in the market place there stood three troops of horse and colonel lampton's regiment, to whom major-general gifford sent a trumpet with offer of quarter, if they would lay down their arms. they answered they scorned the motion. then he fired a piece of their own ordnance upon them, and the horse fell in among them, beat them out of the town, and took all their officers, expressed in the enclosed list, twenty-seven colours of foot, three cornets of horse, and about 1,500 common soldiers. the enemy had in the town 3,000 foot and seven troops of horse, besides colonel lampton's regiment, which came into the town after he had entered the town. the enemy left behind them three pieces of ordnance, with ammunition, which we brought away.--signed, thomas fairfax, henry foulis, john gifford, william fairfax, john holmes, robert foulis, titus leighton, francis talbott." xvii.--the battle of adwalton moor. with an army of 12,000 men at his back the marquis of newcastle was bound to clear yorkshire of the parliamentarians. having stormed howley hall, he marched upon bradford, halting on adwalton moor on the 29th of june, 1643; making a careful disposition of his army, and placing his artillery in position, as though apprehensive of an attack from his active and daring opponents. the audacity of the fairfaxes was justified by their desperate position. hull was closed to them by the defection of the hothams; the open towns of the west were exhausted, and they were surrounded by enemies in the heart of a hostile country. while newcastle was encamping on adwalton moor, fairfax was preparing to march upon him at four o'clock on the following morning. the excitement in bradford was intense. the success of fairfax could alone deliver them from the hands of the royalists, who were deeply exasperated against the stubborn burghers. the march of the parliamentarians was delayed until eight o'clock, in consequence of the tardiness or treachery of major-general gifford, if we may believe the grumblings of sir thomas fairfax, who was doubtless impatient to be at the enemy. the main body of the cavaliers was posted before the hamlet of adwalton, and a "forlorn hope," as the advanced guard was called, held the westgate hill, half a mile distant from the army. here fairfax dealt his first blow, and swept the cavaliers before his advancing army. so first blood was claimed, and scattered on the turf lay the mangled forms of many brave men, their cold, still faces looking doubly pallid and sad in the bright morning sunshine. jutting out from the main road by westgate hill, hodgson's lane led up to newcastle's position, and entered warren's lane, opening on the moor from gomersal. lord fairfax, with 3,000 men against 12,000, had to fight a defensive battle, and lining the hedges at the head of warren's lane with musketeers, he ordered gifford to move down hodgson's lane upon newcastle's position. the ground was scarcely occupied before twelve troops of cavalry swept across the moor, trumpets sounding, armour clashing, and the long, thin rapiers flashing back the morning's sun. ere they reached the roundheads, the muskets flashed from the hedge-rows, and as the white smoke drifted on the breeze, and the loud report rang out, the gallant cavaliers retired with thinned and disordered ranks, leaving colonel howard and many other gallant men dead upon the field. again they charged, again broke before the deadly fire of the musketeers, leaving another colonel upon the field. then fairfax charged, and bore them, sorely buffeted and cut-up, before his strong riders, until they found protection beneath the muzzle of their cannon. gifford was handling his infantry with such address that newcastle's spirits drooped, and he thought of commanding a retreat. but he had bold, strong gentlemen beneath his banners, and colonel skerton, heading a stand of pikes, broke gifford's ranks, and made deadly work as the royal horse followed his charge. the parliamentarians were not allowed time to rally, but were driven into bradford. sir thomas had no order to retire, and was not aware of the defeat of his father's command. for some time he maintained his ground, and succeeded in carrying his troops into halifax. the next morning he was in bradford. a day of heavy fighting followed, but the place could not be maintained. sir thomas attempted to pass through the royal lines, but his party was dispersed, and his wife captured by the enemy. he gained leeds, where the news arrived that the hothams had been arrested, and hull was open to the parliamentarians. the fairfaxes resolved to make the attempt to reach the fortress, and succeeded after many perils, sir thomas being shot through the wrist during a skirmish, and fainting from excessive pain and loss of blood. xviii.--the battle at hull. a.d. 1643. newcastle marched upon hull, drove sir thomas fairfax out of beverley, and besieged the town with 12,000 foot and 4,000 horse, on the 2nd of september, 1643. attempts were made to command the humber by the erection of forts at hessle and paull, and red-hot shot were thrown into the town. a sally was beaten back, but the besiegers were hindered by the cutting of the banks of the hull and humber, when the country around was laid under water. oliver cromwell and lord willoughby of parham visited the town to consult with the fairfaxes as to the best measures for the defence, but appeared satisfied that it could be maintained. the sorties of the garrison were spirited, and attended with some success. on the 9th october the royalists attempted to carry the town by escalade, and almost succeeded. the charter house battery was stormed, but re-captured, and many lives were lost. the gallant captain strickland was slain while leading the stormers. on the morning of the 11th of october a pitched battle was fought before the town. fairfax organised a force of 1,500 men, drawn from the garrison, burghers, and the crews of the warships in the humber. meldrum and lord fairfax issued out of the hessle and beverley gates, and took the royalists by surprise, driving them out of their works; but being assailed by fresh troops from the main body of the besiegers, they were very roughly handled, and driven under the town walls, when the cannon opened upon the cavaliers, and enabled meldrum and fairfax to re-form their troops. supported by the fire of the town guns, the parliamentarians renewed their attack; and, in the face of a heavy fire, stormed the enemy's works, the dispute being very severe, and the fighting stubbornly maintained at close quarters. newcastle's warriors made a gallant attempt to re-conquer their lost forts, but the cannon were turned upon them, and the parliamentarians repulsed every attack. after three hours of hard fighting the cavaliers retired, having received over one hundred discharges of the town guns. an anxious night was passed, for the parliamentarians expected newcastle to renew his attempts to regain his forts and cannon, but the marquis had suffered heavily, and, taking council with his officers, resolved to abandon the siege, and retire under cover of the night. his main army retired upon york, securing the retreat by breaking down bridges and obstructing the roads. the men of hull rejoiced in the capture of two famous cannon, gog and magog, a demi-culverin, four small drakes mounted on one carriage, two large brass drakes, and a saker. the burghers spent the following day in public thanksgiving, and thus observed the anniversary of their deliverance until the restoration of the stuarts. xix.--the battle of selby. a.d. 1644. in 1644 king and parliament were so closely matched that any accession of strength to either party would tend to the speedy conclusion of the conflict. when, on the 4th of march, the earl of leven occupied sunderland with 30,000 scots, reinforcements for parliament, the greatest concern was felt by all good cavaliers, and the marquis of newcastle promptly brought up his yorkshire royalists, and held leven at bay. in this strait sir thomas fairfax was ordered to the north to reinforce the scots with cavalry, and enable them to engage the king's men. lord fairfax joined his son near hull, and, augmenting his forces, it was resolved to attack selby, which was defended by barricades, and garrisoned by a strong force of foot and horse under the command of colonel bellasis, the son of lord falconberg. on the 11th of april, 1644, the parliamentarians advanced to the storm. the army was formed into three divisions, commanded by lord fairfax, sir john meldrum, and colonel bright. sir thomas fairfax supported with his cavalry. the steady advance was met by the red flash of the guns, and the smoke rose and drifted over the front. but the drums beat on, the pikemen held bravely to the front, and the musketeers began to handle their guns, as the front ranks poured into the trenches, leaving on the green sward behind them the silent forms of slain men, whose white, drawn faces looked very sad in the midst of the fresh young grass, and under the shifting april clouds. in the trenches and by the barricades some hot work went on, with clash of pikes and hail of bullets, until the cavaliers were fairly beaten from their defences, and their reluctant officers, failing to rally their disordered ranks, retired them from the front. the lines were won, but colonel bellasis held the open ground with his horse, ready to sweep back the hostile foot should they attempt any further advance, and a desultory fire of musketry was maintained, until sir thomas fairfax succeeded, after a fierce struggle, in breaking down a barricade and making way for his horse. then the files of heavy cavalry came crashing over the disputed ground, beating under hoof the heaps of debris and rubbish, and overthrowing all who strove with pike and musket to bar their path. sir thomas occupied the ground between the houses and the river, when, with trumpets sounding the charge, a numerous body of royal horse bore down upon them. the charge was gallantly received, and a severe conflict ensued, when, beaten back by dint of steel and lead, the royalists broke away in confusion, and availing themselves of the bridge of boats, crossed the river and took to flight. scarcely had the panting warriors time to re-form their disordered ranks before the fiery bellasis burst upon them in a furious charge, eager to avenge his defeated horse. cold steel met in thrust and parry; the pistols flashed, and brave men fell thickly as, hand-to-hand, in dust and smoke, the sharp hot _melee_ held; then riderless steeds broke away from the shock; sir thomas was hurled from his steed amid plunging hoofs and slashing steel, but was rescued by his gallant troopers, and re-mounted. the cavaliers fought as king's men should that day, but were over-weighted by fairfax's heavy horse, and driven off in headlong flight for york, leaving colonel bellasis a prisoner in the hands of the victorious roundheads. in the meantime the parliamentarian foot had made good their hold of the town, and accepted the surrender of the royal foot. the results of this engagement were remarkable. the fairfaxes had only defeated some two or three thousand men, and wrested a small town from the king's hands, yet the strong city of york trembled for its safety, and newcastle was urgently requested to return and defend the county. he complied. the scots were at liberty. fairfax immediately joined them with his little army; and, on the 19th of april, york was blockaded by the combined forces. manchester augmented the besieging army; york was closely invested, its fall was imminent; and king charles urgently demanded of prince rupert the raising of the siege. gallantly was the demand met, but was followed by the famous battle of marston moor, from the effects of which the royal cause never recovered. xx.--battle of marston moor. a.d. 1644. king charles was fully conscious of the perilous position in which he would be placed if york fell, and yorkshire passed into the hands of the enemy; he therefore instructed prince rupert to march to the relief of york, using the following impressive language:- "i command and conjure you, by the duty and affection which i know you bear me, that, all new enterprise laid aside, you immediately march, according to your first intention, with all your force to the relief of york; but if that be either lost, or have freed themselves from the besiegers, or that, for want of powder, you cannot undertake that work, that you immediately march with your whole strength to worcester, to assist me and my army, without which, or your having relieved york by beating the scots, all the successes you may afterwards have, most infallibly will be useless unto me." gathering up forces as he advanced, rupert marched to the succour of the city, and occupied knaresborough and boroughbridge on the evening of the 30th of june. on the following morning the parliamentarians drew up on hessay moor, to arrest rupert's advance. outgeneraling his adversaries, the prince marched to poppleton ferry, halted his army, and entered york with 200 cavaliers. that night a council of war was held, and rupert resolved to give battle to the enemy. the marquis of newcastle endeavoured to dissuade the prince from this step, and begged him to await the arrival of a reinforcement of 5,000 men, expected in the course of a few days. rupert is accused of behaving with discourtesy towards newcastle, and for this there can be no defence. there was, however, good reason for fighting, and at once. certainly the prince could not be expected to put a great value on newcastle's advice. rupert had achieved many successes, and had relieved york by a masterly movement; on the other hand, newcastle had not achieved any remarkable success, and had allowed himself to be besieged in york without fighting a battle. if he could hold leslie in check, surely he might have attempted to raise the blockade of york before manchester arrived with reinforcements. had rupert waited for reinforcements, would the parliamentarians have accepted battle, or retired to some stronger position? rupert was in a favourable position, with a tried army, almost as strong as that of the enemy, and if he did not at once give battle as favourable an opportunity might not again occur. having relieved york, was he to retire and leave the enemy in yorkshire to again besiege the city, or capture the various royal strongholds? two nearly equal armies were opposed on yorkshire soil, would one army leave the other in possession? would the parliamentarians compel the cavaliers to fight? or would the two armies move away in different directions, seeking other fields and other foes? rupert and the parliamentarian leaders knew that they were there to fight. the king's affairs absolutely demanded a victory, and the blame that attaches to rupert is that he forgot the general in acting the part of a captain of horse, and so lost a battle that it was within his capabilities to have won, as the conduct of his army abundantly proved. the morning of the 2nd of july beheld rupert's army in motion; but the enemy were marching upon tadcaster, not expecting an engagement. a threatening movement of rupert's cavalry was promptly checked, and both armies began to form for battle under the earls of leven and manchester and lord fairfax on the one hand; and rupert, goring, lucas, and sir john urrie on the other. some time elapsed before the various divisions reached the field, and stood opposed in order of battle. the parliamentarians occupied a gentle eminence covered by a crop of rye, beaten down by horse and foot. the regiments of scotch and english were intermixed, that the grace or blame of victory or defeat might be equally shared. the centre consisted of serried masses of pikemen and musketeers, commanded by leven and the elder fairfax; sir thomas fairfax led the right wing, consisting of his yorkshire cavalry, supported by three regiments of scottish horse, and outflanked by the village of marston. the left wing, extending to tockwith village, was commanded by manchester and cromwell. their field word was "god with us!" before them was the open moor, held by the king's men, but the furze and broken ground was calculated to retard their charges. between the two armies extended a ditch and hedge, soon to be immortalised as the scene of some heavy fighting and dreadful slaughter. some uncertainty exists as to the disposition of the royalists, the various accounts of the battle being very contradictory, but it may be assumed that the centre was commanded by goring, sir charles lucas, and general porter; newcastle heading his own regiment of white-coated pikemen. rupert carried his huge red-cross banner, emblazoned with the arms of the palatinate, on the left wing; and sir john urrie commanded the right. grant seems disposed to support the statement of rushworth, that rupert led the right wing, and sir charles lucas the left. rupert's position was excellent for the fighting of a defensive battle. to cross the ditch that lay between the armies was a serious undertaking for either army, but especially for the parliamentarians, as rupert had lined the hedge with musketeers, and had planted a battery on an eminence behind his centre, thus demanding a heavy sacrifice of life from the parliamentarians before they could exchange blows with his centre, and, in the event of his assuming the offensive, the advance would be partially covered by the battery. the combined armies consisted of about 46,000 men, and were of almost equal strength, the parliamentarians having, probably, some little advantage in numbers. for several hours no hostile movement took place, with the exception of a few discharges of cannon, by one of the first shots of which the loyal sir gilbert houghton lost his son. apparently both parties were awed by the importance of the impending conflict, and reluctant to make the first movement, with all the difficulties attending the passage of the ditch and hedge. the pleasant summer afternoon waned into evening, peaceful and calm. seven o'clock approached: surely the bloody bout would be delayed until the morrow. occasionally the cannon roared, and a few men fell; one of these unfortunates was young walton, cromwell's nephew, who was severely wounded; and it is supposed that this brought about the parliamentarian attack. "it was now between six and seven, and rupert, calling for provisions, dismounted, and began to eat his supper. a large number of his followers did the like. newcastle strolled towards his coach to solace himself with a pipe. before he had time to take a whiff, the battle had begun."--_gardiner._ manchester moved forward his infantry in heavy masses, with pikes and muskets ready for the deadly work, and attempted the passage of the ditch, while cromwell's magnificent cuirassiers swept forward to clear the same formidable obstacle, and engage the enemy's right. rupert hurried forward a large body of musketeers to meet manchester's attack, and at the same time swept their ranks by the deadly discharges of his field battery. rupert's musketeers being covered by the hedge, inflicted heavy loss upon the parliamentarians, and manchester vainly exerted himself to re-form their shattered ranks. two cannons were hurried up, and the officers exposed themselves with the utmost devotion to encourage their troops, but they were powerless to advance in the face of that deadly shower of bullets, and the position was becoming critical in the extreme, when relief came, and that not a moment too soon. cromwell, making a wide sweep, gained the open moor, found room for a charge, and bore down upon the enemy's right with a tremendous and fatal force. a short but desperate conflict ensued as cromwell carried his ironsides through the sorely buffeted and shattered squadrons of the royal horse. pressing on, he stormed the battery and put the gunners to the sword. a moment's breathing space was allowed the horses, and then the musketeers, who held manchester's advance in check with their forks planted in the ditch-bank, maintaining a steady and destructive fire, became the object of attack. these brave soldiers did not attempt to meet the charge, but retreated in close order, with presented pikes, and although they suffered severely from the fury of the enemy, they endeavoured to check the successive charges by the repeated fire of their muskets. there was no braver man in the field than sir thomas fairfax, but he suffered a sad defeat on that memorable july evening. the ground occupied by his troops was broken and intersected by a number of lanes; not difficult to defend, but preventing united action when the moment for the advance arrived. nevertheless he struggled forward, wasting his strength by a succession of weak charges, but unable to find room for a general attack. the fiery rupert was opposed to him, and swept his ranks by a cruel and incessant fire of musketry, until little hope for the parliament remained in this part of the field. for a time the impending ruin was averted by cromwell, who charged the prince's infantry, and afforded fairfax an opportunity of re-forming his torn and wearied forces; but in the midst of the struggling advance of the over-mastered parliamentarians rupert delivered his grand charge, and storming over and through every obstacle, filled this part of the field with a wild rout of unhappy fugitives, amongst whom the keen rapiers of his gay cavaliers wrought terrible havoc. the brother of sir thomas fairfax was mortally wounded, but the good knight clung desperately to the ground with 500 of his own horse and a regiment of lancers, to be wounded and fairly borne off the field by the impetuous rupert. here the prince took a deadly and fatal revenge on the scotch cavalry, put them to headlong flight, and bore on in stormy pursuit, while the royal infantry was exposed to the attacks of manchester's foot and cromwell's victorious ironsides. had rupert succoured his centre at this stage of the battle he must have compelled the parliamentarians to yield to him the victory. nobly the royal foot met the deadly storm of battle; exerting such heroic courage that they fairly pushed back the parliamentarian advance, and the king's prospects were yet promising, maugre the terrible handling received from cromwell. that gallant soldier held his cavalry well in hand, albeit their ranks were somewhat thinned by shot and steel; and they now wrested the victory from the rashly impetuous rupert. the marquis of newcastle's incomparable regiment of northumbrians perished here. they were known as "lambs," or "white-coats," from the colour of their doublets, and resisted cromwell to the last. again and again he charged them, but they returned blow for blow, and, disdaining all offers of quarter, perished almost to a man, the few that were saved owing their lives rather to the magnanimity of their enemies than to any exertions of their own to escape the slaughter. they fell in their proper battle-order, and presented a ghastly spectacle as they lay upon the field in rank and file, their white coats cruelly slashed with many a crimson stain. the remainder of the royal foot were now taken in the rear by the ironsides, and sustained a bloody and ruinous defeat. before their ruin was consummated the prince returned, and a fierce conflict ensued. rupert had counted the victory as already won, and rage and mortification added to the fury of the last sanguinary and stubborn conflict. cromwell was wounded in the neck, and his charge was all but abortive, when leslie came up and retrieved the mishap by a terrible onslaught that sent rupert's over-mastered warriors in wild confusion from the field. the infantry now surrendered, and cromwell captured all the cannon, baggage, &c, of the royal army, which was pursued almost to the gates of york. at a late hour throngs of wounded men and fugitives from the field appeared before micklegate-bar, but the soldiers of the garrison were alone admitted into the city, and the confusion that ensued was of the most deplorable and painful character. cromwell remained on the field, anxious and alert, fearful that the impetuous rupert might rally some remains of his army, and, by a sudden onslaught under cover of night, wrest from his shattered army the victory so hardly won by dint of heavy fighting. the general loss was estimated at 7,000 men, prince rupert losing over 3,000 slain, and 3,000 prisoners, including many officers. the parliamentarians captured forty-seven colours, twenty-five pieces of artillery, a number of carbines and pistols, 130 barrels of gunpowder, and 10,000 arms. among their prisoners were generals sir charles lucas, tilliard, and porter, and lord goring's son. amongst the gallant gentlemen who laid down their lives for king charles on marston moor were lord kerry, sir francis dacres, sir william lampton, sir charles slingsby, sir william wentworth, sir marmaduke luddon, sir richard gledhill, colonel john fenwick, sir richard graham, and captain john baird. sir richard gledhill, as a matter of fact, died in his own house an hour after he succeeded in gaining its shelter. he had received twenty-six wounds. sir charles lucas was informed that he could select some of the slain for private interment, and in thus distinguishing one unfortunate cavalier caused a bracelet of silky hair to be removed from his wrist, "as he knew an honourable lady who would thankfully receive it." the scots suffered severely, and the english lost captains micklethwaite and pugh, and sir thomas fairfax had to deplore the loss of his brother charles, and of major fairfax. no two accounts of the battle agree, and cromwell, whose conduct conduced so largely to the winning of the battle, has been even accused of cowardice by one writer. rapin says, "i shall not undertake to describe this battle, because in all the accounts i have seen i meet with so little order or clearness that i cannot expect to give a satisfactory idea of it to such of my readers as understand these matters." the parliamentarians assumed a white badge to distinguish them from their opponents. prince rupert would probably have won the battle had he acted as a commander-in-chief instead of leading a wing; but it was then customary for each of the three commanders to fight his own battle, with too little regard to the general issue, when there was no commander directing the operations of the divisions. the king's affairs never recovered from the results of this battle, and the royal cause undoubtedly received its death-blow on marston moor, when the last of the yorkshire battles was fought. xxi.--battle of brunanburgh. a.d. 937. king athelstan reigned in troublous days, with the restless danish population in the north, the welsh in the west, the scots ready to support his enemies, and his own nobles discontented and disloyal. athelstan had conferred upon sithric, king of northumberland, the hand of his sister; but the prince violated his obligations, and was only secured from punishment by the sudden stroke of death. sithric's sons, anlaf and godfrid, took refuge in ireland and scotland; and a confederation of the princes of scotland, wales, ireland, and cumberland, seconded by a danish fleet, threatened the crown of athelstan. after four years of preparation and recruiting the storm burst. in 937 anlaf entered the humber at the head of a huge armada of 615 sail, and occupied bernicia. athelstan, with a powerful army, marched to the north and encamped at brunanburgh. it is said that anlaf entered the king's camp disguised as a minstrel, and was liberally rewarded by athelstan, but, in his pride, buried the gold, and was perceived by one of the royal soldiers, who then recognised him, but permitted him to retire from the camp before he apprised athelstan of the identity of the minstrel. his excuse that had permitted anlaf to escape because he had at one period sworn fealty to him, was accepted as a sufficient reason; but athelstan removed his camp, and shortly after the bishop of sherborne came up with his troops and occupied the ground that athelstan had vacated. that night anlaf made a sudden attack upon the saxons, and slew the bishop of sherborne and many of his followers, before he was driven off. the day of battle dawned. each army was formed into two corps. athelstan commanded the west saxons; turketul, his heroic chancellor, led the warriors of mercia and london. anlaf and his wild northmen opposed the king; constantine, king of scotland, confronted turketul with his scots and cumbrians. at sunrise the war-smiths fell to, with sleet of arrows and deadly play of bills and spears, as the banners were pushed forward. bravely the golden-haired athelstan acquitted himself in the van, amid the communion of swords and the clashing of bills, the conflict of banners and the meeting of spears, when the keen javelins strewed the soil with the slain, and the unerring arrows carried death above the guarding shield. athelstan's sword dropped in the press, but as otho, archbishop of canterbury, entreated the heavenly aid, a sword of celestial potency filled the empty sheath, and with it athelstan fought until night closed upon the scene. as the day was drawing towards eventide, with the wild war-wrestle at its maddest, and the song of the fiery northman rolling like thunder over the field, now heaped with slain and wounded men, for the front ranks had been mown down, and renewed again and again, turketul headed a veteran corps of spearmen, and made an irresistible charge upon the scots. vainly constantine strove to hold his ground; his fierce scots were over-weighted, broken, and borne down. anlaf's northmen were dismayed, and gave ground. turketul charged them; a brief, fierce struggle ensued; then he penetrated their ranks; flight commenced; the field was covered with fugitives; the northmen anxiously striving to regain their nailed barks, and crowd all sail for ireland. then pressed the west saxons hard on "the footsteps of the loathed nations." "they hewed the fugitives behind, amain, with swords mill-sharp," while on the battle-stead lay five "youthful kings, and seven eke of anlaf's earls." "constantine, hoary warrior, he had no cause to exult in the communion of swords. here was his kindred band of friends o'erthrown on the falkstead, in battle slain; and his son he left on the slaughter-place, mangled with wounds, young in the fight." the slaughter was dreadful, but the throne of athelstan was secured, and his northern subjects humbled. he left behind him a terrible carnage field, "the sallowy kite the corse to devour, and the swarthy raven with horned nib, and the dusky 'pada' erne white-tailed, the corse to enjoy, greedy war-hawk, and the grey beast, wolf of the wood. carnage greater has not been in this island ever yet of people slain, before this, by edges of swords, as books us say, old writers, since from the east hither, angles and saxons came to land, o'er the broad seas britain sought, mighty war-smiths, the welsh o'ercame, earls most bold, this earth obtained." in later years anlaf obtained considerable successes over king edmund, and the northern provinces were ceded to him; but scarcely had he obtained this high position ere death touched his brow, and kingly pride and vain ambition were overcome. despite the labours of yorkshire and lancashire antiquaries, the locality of brunanburgh must be regarded as unascertained, and no evidence has been produced that can justify its inclusion in the list of yorkshire battles. xxii.--fight off flamborough head. a.d. 1779. in the years 1778 and 1779 british commerce suffered severely from the attacks of paul jones. in september of the latter year he cruised along the east coast with the "bonne homme richard," 40 guns, 375 men; the "alliance," 40 guns, 300 men; the "pallas," 32 guns, 275 men; and the "vengeance," 12 guns, 70 men. on the 20th of september, bridlington was alarmed by an express stating that paul jones was off scarborough; that evening he was seen by the fishermen of flamborough, and a fleet of merchantmen crowded into bridlington bay, and the harbour was soon thronged with vessels, a number being chained alongside the piers. the townsfolks mustered, rudely armed, and supported the two companies of northumberland militia, who marched to the quay with drums beating. the baltic fleet, with a freight valued at £600,000 pounds, was approaching the coast, convoyed by the "serapis," 40 guns, captain, pearson; and the "countess of scarborough," 20 guns, captain, piercy. on thursday, september 23rd, the fleet approached scarborough, and was warned by the bailiff that the enemy was in the neighbourhood. captain pearson then signalled the fleet to bear down upon his lee, but the ships continued their course. about noon a scene of confusion ensued as the leading ships perceived the enemy bearing down upon them. the two captains hoisted all sail, prepared for action, and took the post of danger. twilight was closing over waves and cliff when, at about twenty minutes past seven, the "serapis" challenged the "bonne homme richard," and saluted him with a cannon shot. the american flag was run up, and the shot returned. captain pearson delivered a broadside, which was returned, and for some time the battle was carried on by repeated discharges of cannon. the moon arose with unusual brilliancy, and the natives of flamborough thronged to the cliffs to witness the exciting scene. paul jones attempted to board, but with bayonet, pike, and cutlass the british tars maintained their decks, and the "bonne homme richard" sheered off. an attempt to lay the "serapis" square with her adversary was foiled, and the "bonne homme richard" was laid across the bows of the "serapis." with cannon and small arms a murderous conflict was maintained, then the jib-boom of the "serapis" gave way, and the ships fell broadside to broadside, with yard-arms locked; swaying and reeling as they ripped up each other's sides with repeated broadsides, although the muzzles of the cannons touched, and many of the port-lids were torn away. the night closed in, and the conflict continued. the decks of the "serapis" were swept by shot, covered with the slain and wounded. for two hours her crew maintained the fight with heroic courage. combustibles were thrown upon her decks, ten times she took fire; a hand-grenade exploded a cartridge, and the explosion ran along the line of guns where the cartridges lay, abaft the mainmast. many men were killed or wounded, and the guns remained unfought to the end. during this murderous work the "alliance" sailed round and round the combatants, and raked the "serapis" with successive broadsides. on a cry for quarter being raised, captain pearson boarded the "bonne homme richard," but at once retired on perceiving a numerous party of the enemy lying in ambush. the battle re-commenced, when the "alliance" again raked the "serapis," inflicting dreadful slaughter, and bringing down the mainmast. the "serapis" was little better than a wreck, and the old flag was reluctantly hauled down. paul jones received the conquered enemy most courteously. without the aid of the "alliance" the "bonne homme richard" would have been captured. she was on fire in two places, the guns on her lower deck were dismounted, and she had seven feet of water in her hold. out of her crew of 375 men, 306 were killed and wounded. the total loss of the two english ships did not reach half that number. on the following day the "bonne homme richard" was abandoned, and, before all her wounded could be removed, went to the bottom. the "countess of scarborough" fought the "pallas" and "vengeance" for upwards of two hours, and only struck when a third vessel bore down upon her. the king of france presented paul jones with a gold-hilted sword, and requested the american government to sanction the bestowal of the military order of merit upon the gallant adventurer. captain pearson was knighted, and was rewarded by the merchants for saving the baltic fleet. he was appointed lieutenant-governor of greenwich, and received the freedom of the corporations of hull, scarborough, appleby, and dover. [illustration: the end] index. adela, daughter of william i., 56 adelwald, king of deira, 8-10 aire, river, 8, 99, 185 airedale, 99 albany, duke of, 142 albemarle, william, 3rd earl of, 61, 66 alberic, bishop of ostia, 73 aldred, archbishop of york, 43 alexander ii., king of scotland, 79, 80 alexander iii., king of scotland, 79 alfred, king of the north-humbrians, 10, 11 alfred, king of england, 20 alnwick castle, 76 alred, 70 alured, lieut., 191 alured, captn., 191 anlaf, 216-220 annandale, robert bruce, lord of, 64-66 appleby, 225 archer, john, 156 arundel, edmund fitz-alan, 2nd earl of, 100 aske, robert, 175 aspall, 159-160 athelstan, king of mercia, 13, 216-220 atkinson, captn., 179 audley, john touchet, 6th lord, 152 avon, river, 100 badlesmere, bartholomew, 1st lord de, 103-4 baird, captn., john, 214 baldwin v., earl of flanders, 18 baldwinson, ensign, 189 baliol, bernard de, 61, 64-66, 76 baliol, edward, king of scotland, 138 ballinson, ensign, 189 bamborough castle, 50-51, 172 banbury, 81 bangor, bishop of, 147 bardolph, thomas, 5th lord, 143-7 barfleur, 54 battles: adwalton moor, 193-5 agincourt, 124, 137, 148 bannockburn, 83, 103 barnet, 173 beaujé, 149 bloreheath, 152 boroughbridge, 107-110 bosworth, 174 bramham moor, 145-6 brunanburgh, 13-14, 217-220 byland abbey, 122-128 cressy, 124 durham, or neville's cross, 133 ebberston, 11 evesham, 158 falkirk, 103 off flamborough, 222-5 fulford, 24 hastings, or senlac, 27, 37-41, 53 hedgeley moor, 172 hexham, 172 homildon, 142 hull, 196-8 leeds, 183-6 marston moor, 202 mortimer's cross, 162-3 myton meadows, 95-8 northampton, 154 otterburn, 135 pavia, 137 radcot bridge, 139 sandal, or wakefield-green, 157-162 selby, 199-201 shrewsbury, 142 st. albans (first), 150-1 st. albans (second), 164-5 stamford bridge, 15, 25-34 standard, the, 51 stoke, 137, 174 tadcaster, 180-182 tewkesbury, 173 towton, 166-172 wakefield, 188-191 winwidfield, 8-10 beaumont, captn., 185 bellasis, col., 199-202 benedict, a rich jew of york, 77 benson, captn.-lieut., 189 beorne, earl, 43 bernefield, sir roger, 110 berwick, 83-93, 103, 130, 144 beverley, 128, 134, 148, 178, 196 bingley, 181 bishopthorpe, 144 blacklow, 100 blanche nef, 54 bland, sir thomas, 189 blount, sir thomas, 156 bonville, william, 1st lord, 165 bootham, 171 boroughbridge, 84, 95, 107-111, 114-115, 117, 128, 204 bourchier, edward, 161 bosworth, battle of, 174 bradburne, henry de, 113 bradford, 181, 183, 188, 190, 192, 194 bramham moor, 145 brember, sir nicholas, 139 brian, son of earl alan fergan, 55 bridlington, 127, 187, 221 bright, col., 200 bruce, robert, earl of annandale, 64-66 bruce, robert, earl of carrick and king of scotland, 83-5, 91-2, 106, 117-125, 128-130 bruce, david, king of scotland, 133 buchan, earl of, 149 buckingham, duchess of, 152 buckingham, henry stafford, 2nd duke of, 150-151 burgh, hubert de, 79 burgh-on-sands, 81, 102 burton-upon-trent, 105 byland abbey, 118, 122-7, 130 cadwalla, king of the west britons, 7 calais, 153-4 cambridge, richard plantagenet, 4th earl of, 148 canterbury, wm. corbois, archbishop of, 57 canterbury, thos. fitz-alan (alias arundel), archbishop of, 140 canterbury, thomas bourchier, archbishop of, 155 canute, king of england, 18, 41 carlisle, 49, 58, 70-73, 128-130 carmichael, sir john, 149 carnabie, sergt.-major, 189 carr, major, 179 carr, sergt.-major, 189 carr, captn., 189 carr, ensign, 189 castleford, 99 chapter of mitton, 98 charles i., king of england, 177-179, 203 cheney, william, 113 chop head loaning, 115 cinque ports, 85 clarence, thomas plantagenet, 2nd duke of, 148-9 clarence, george plantagenet, 3rd duke of, 159, 174 clay, thomas, 152 cleveland, 143 clifford, sir roger, 110 clifford, thomas de clifford, 8th lord, 150-1 clifford, john de clifford, 9th lord, 158-162, 166 clinton, john de clinton, 5th lord, 152 clitheroe, 64 cobham, sir ralph, 125 cock, river, 170 coifi, a pagan priest 5-6 colt, thomas, 152 constable of england (duke of northumberland), 141 constable, sir robert, 175 constantine, king of scotland, 217-219 conway castle, 141 conyers, sir john, 152 copeland, john, esquire, 133 cornwall, piers de gaveston, earl of, 81-2, 100-2 cospatrick, 4th earl of northumberland, 44, 52 coventry, 140, 152 crab, john, a flemish engineer, 88-90 croft, captn., 189 cromwell, john de, 127, cromwell, oliver, 196, 206, 208-13, 215 cuichelm, king of the west saxons, 4 culross, 121 cumberland, 179 cumin, william, chancellor of scotland, 73 dacres, ralph, 1st lord, 171 dacres, sir francis, 214 dalkeith castle, 135 danthorpe, matthew, hermit, 141 darcy, thomas, 1st lord, 175 david i., king of scotland, 55, 58-60, 63, 64-5, 71-2 david ii., king of scotland, 133 dedington castle, 81 deira-field, castle of, 11 denman, sir john, 168 denton, sir richard de, 129 denton, 181 derwent, river, 3, 127 despenser, sir hugh, 112, 113, 127, 129 despenser, hugh, earl of winchester, 112, 113, 127, 129 devonshire, thomas courtenay, 14th earl of, 171 devonshire, humphrey stafford, 15th earl of, 173 deynville, 113 doncaster, 7, 140, 172 dovenald, 68-9 douglas, sir james, 83-4, 91-3, 95-6, 102, 105-6, 119, 125-6, 132 douglas, james, earl of, 135-6 douglas, archibald (tine-man) earl of, 142 dryburgh, 121 dunstable, 164 durham, geoffrey ruffus, bishop of, 73 durham, 47-9, 52, 58, 144 edgar atheling, 20, 43, 49 edward, the confessor, king of england, 16-20, 59 edward i., king of england, 80, 81, 83, 85, 102, 112 edward ii., king of england, 81, 83-88, 90, 92-93, 100-7, 111-2, 117-8, 120-1, 124, 126-7, 128, 130 edward iii., king of england, 131-3, 135 edward iv., king of england, 163, 165-174 edward v., king of england, 174 edward vi., king of england, 175 edwin, king of northumbria, 3-8 edwin earl of northumbria, 17, 19, 21, 23-5, 52 egbert, archbishop of york, 44 ella, usurper of northumbria, 12-3 ely, john hotham, bishop of, 98 espec, walter l', 61, 66 exeter, henry holland, 4th duke of, 156, 164 fairfax, ferdinand, 2nd lord, 179-187, 193-7, 199-200, 202-6 fairfax, sir thomas, 179-202, 206, 210-11 fairfax, sir william, 184-5, 188, 190-1 fauconberg, william neville, 7th lord, 167-8 fitz-john, eustace, 63-73 fleming, nicholas, mayor of york, 92-5, 98 foulis, sir henry, 188, 190-1 gaunt, john of, 2nd duke of lancaster, 140-1 gaveston, piers de, 81-2, 100-2, 113 gifford, major-general john, 181, 188, 190-1, 193-4 glemham, sir thomas, 179 gloucester, robert, 1st earl of, 55-6, 75 gloucester, thomas plantagenet, 1st duke of, 135 gloucester, richard plantagenet, 3rd duke of, 159, 174 goring, lord george, 183, 187, 188-9, 191, 206-7 hanson, richard, mayor of hull, 159 harcla, sir andrew, 1st earl of carlisle, 107-8, 110, 114-5, 128-30 harold hardrada, king of norway, 15, 21-32 harold, king of england, 15-18, 20-3, 26-9, 31-7, 39-41, 43 henrietta, queen of charles i., 187 henry i., king of england, 53-8 henry ii., king of england, 75-6 henry iii., king of england, 79-80, 101 henry iv., king of england, 141-4, 155, 164-5 henry v., king of england, 137, 148, 153, 155 henry vi., king of england, 150-5, 160, 165, 171-3 henry vii., king of england, 174-5 henry viii., king of england, 175-6 henry, prince, of scotland, 63, 65, 69-70, 72 hereford, humphrey de bohun, 2nd earl of, 100, 105-6, 109-10, 114 hereford, henry plantagenet, 1st duke of, 139-41 hereward le wake, 42, 48, 52 hessay moor, 204 hinguar, a danish chief 12-3 holland, sir john, 13th earl of huntingdon and 1st duke of exeter, 134-5 hotham, sir john, 177-8, 187, 192, 195 hotham, captn. john, 183, 187, 190, 192 houghton, sir gilbert, 208 hubba, a danish chief, 12, 13 hull, kingston-upon-, 80, 140, 175, 177-8, 187, 192, 195, 199, 225 hungerford, robert, 3rd lord, 155, 172 ireland, robert vere, ninth earl of oxford, and first duke of, 139 isabella, queen of edward ii., 92, 103-4, 131 john, king of england, 78, 79 john, prince, first duke of bedford, 143 jones, paul, 221-5 keith, sir william, of galston, 84 kent, edmund plantagenet, fourth earl of, 127 kyriel, sir thomas, 165 lacy, ilbert de, 61 lancaster, thomas plantagenet, second earl of, 100-1, 104-114, 116, 129 lancaster, john of gaunt, second duke of, 140-1 lancaster, henry plantagenet, third duke of, 141 leeds, 6, 183-5, 187-9, 195 leeds castle, kent, 103-4 leven, earl of, 199, 206 lincoln, john de la pole, ninth earl of, 137, 174 london, 20, 57, 147, 154, 163-165, 178, 189 longchamp, william, bishop of ely, 178 lucas, sir charles, 206-7, 214 macdonoquhy, william, 64, 65 malcolm iii., king of scotland, 21, 47, 50 malcolm iv., king of scotland, 76 malcolm ii., king of scotland, 76 malise, earl of strathearn, 65 manchester, earl of, 202, 205-6, 209-11 march, edmund mortimer, fifth earl of, 148 march, edward, titulary earl of, 152-3, 156-7, 159, 162-3, 165 margaret of anjou, 150-1, 154-5, 159-60, 164, 167, 171-3 matilda, daughter of henry i., 55-58, 75 matilda, queen of stephen, 73 meldrum, sir john, 178, 197, 200 melton, william de, archbishop of york, 92-4, 96, 98 montacute, john neville, first marquis of, 173 morkar, first earl of northumberland, 17-18, 21, 23, 24-5, 52 mortimer, edmund, fifth earl of march, 142 mowbray, roger de mowbray, second lord de, 61 mowbray, john de mowbray, second lord de, 113, 114 mowbray, thomas de, sixth lord, 143-4 newcastle, 58, 76, 81, 85, 135, 171 newcastle, marquis of, 180-2, 186, 192-4, 196-9, 202, 204, 207, 209, 212 newport, earl, 178 norfolk, thomas, baron mowbray, first duke of, 139-40 norfolk, john mowbray, third duke of, 150 norfolk, john mowbray, fourth duke of, 165, 169-70 northampton, 17, 18, 19, 154 northumberland, henry percy, twelfth earl of, 140-47 northumberland, henry percy, thirteenth earl of, 150-151 northumberland, henry percy, fourteenth earl of, 157, 161, 164, 168, 171 northumberland, henry percy, sixteenth earl of, 175 northumberland, thomas percy, nineteenth earl of, 176 nottingham, 92, 179 nowel, ralph, titular bishop of orkney, 61, 66 odo, bishop of bayeux, 39, 48-9 ormond, earl of, 171 osbert, king of northumbria, 12-13 osred i., king of northumbria, 11 oswy, king of northumbria, 8-10 otho, archbishop of canterbury, 218 parkinson, the rev. thomas, f.r.h.s., 151 pearson, captain, 222-5 pembroke, aylmer de valence, tenth earl of, 124 pembroke, jasper tudor, sixteenth earl of, 162 pembroke, william herbert, seventeenth earl of, 173 penda, king of mercia, 7-11 percy, sir henry, k. g., "hotspur," 135-6, 142-3 philippa, queen, 132-3, 135 phillips, mrs s. k., 115 pole, de la, sir william, 137 pole, de la, sir richard, 137 pole, de la, michael, first earl of suffolk, 137 pole, de la, michael, second earl of suffolk, 137 pole, de la, michael, third earl of suffolk, 137 pole, de la, william, fourth earl and first duke of suffolk, 137 pole, de la, john, second duke of suffolk, 137 pole, de la, john, ninth earl of lincoln, 137 pole, de la, edmund, fifth earl of suffolk, 137 pole, de la, richard, titulary duke of suffolk, 137 pontefract, 111, 113, 141, 157, 162, 174 porter, general, 207, 214 powis, lord, 152-3 randolph, thomas, earl of moray, 83-4, 91-3, 95-6, 102, 105-6, 116, 119, 125-6 richard i., king of england, 76-8 richard ii., king of england, 133-136, 139-41, 147 richard iii., king of england, 137 richmond, john de dreux, ninth earl of, 124, 127-8 rivers, richard widvile, first lord, 153 rivers, anthony widvile, second lord, 174 robert, earl (robert comyn, third earl of northumberland), 43 robert, earl (robert de mowbray, eighth earl of northumberland) 50-1 robert, duke of normandy, 53-4, 56 rokeby, sir thomas, 145-6, 148 roos, thomas de roos, tenth lord, 164 rupert, prince, 202, 215 rutland, edmund plantagenet, titulary duke of, 152, 159-162 salisbury, richard neville, eighth earl of, 150-3, 156-7, 159, 161-162, 171 savile, sir william, of thornhill, 183-5 scales, thomas de scales, seventh lord, 154-6 scarborough, 23, 81, 134, 221-2,225 scroop, jeffrey de, chief justiciary, 129 scroop, henry le scroop, of masham, third lord, 148 shrewsbury, john talbot, fifth earl of, 164, 171 siward, earl of northumbria, 15-16, 47 somerset, edmund de beaufort, second duke of, 150-1 somerset, henry de beaufort, fifth earl of, 153-4, 156-7, 161, 164, 168, 172 stafford, humphrey de stafford, fifth earl, 150-1 stafford, henry, first lord, 176 stephen, king of england, 51, 56, 57-8, 61, 75 stigand, archbishop of canterbury, 20 sulley, sir henry de, 127, 130 tadcaster, 26, 31, 179, 187, 206 thurstan, archbishop of york, 61, 62 tilliard, general, 214 tosti godwinsson, earl of northumbria, 15-7, 19-23, 25-27, 31-2 travis-cook, john, f.r.h.s., 137 trollope, sir andrew, 152, 162, 168, 171 tudor, henry, sixteenth earl of richmond, 174 turketul, 217-8 urrie, sir john, 206, 207 wakefield, 159, 161-2, 164, 183,186 walcher of lorraine, bishop of durham, sixth earl of northumberland, 47, 48 wales, edward, prince of, 154-5, 164, 171, 173 waltheof siwardsson, fifth earl of northumberland, 16, 43, 45, 47-8 ward, sir simon, sheriff of yorkshire, 107-8, 115 warwick, guy de beauchamp, eleventh earl of, 81 warwick, richard neville, sixteenth earl of, 150-4, 156, 164-6, 168, 173 warwick, edward plantagenet, eighteenth earl of, 174-5 welles, leo de welles, sixth lord, 164, 171 westmoreland, ralph neville, first earl of, 140, 143 westmoreland, charles neville, sixth earl of, 176 widvile, sir anthony, 153 william, duke of normandy, 19-20, 23, 35-41 william i., king of england, 44-49, 51-54, 59 william ii. (rufus), king of england, 49-53 william, son of robert duke of normandy, 53-56 william, son of henry i., 54-55 willoughby, richard welles, seventh lord, 164 willoughby, of parham, lord, 196 wiltshire, james butler, second earl of, 171 wulstan, bishop of worcester, 20 york, 1, 16-17, 25-26, 43-47, 75-81, 92-94, 126-7, 131-3, 135, 144, 171, 202-5, 213 york, walter de grey, archbishop of, 139 york, richard scroop, archbishop of, 143-4 york, edward plantagenet, first duke of, 135 york, richard plantagenet, fifth duke of, 174 york, richard plantagenet, eighth duke of, 137, 150-2, 154-62, 171 publications of william andrews & co., hull. new book by william andrews, f.r.h.s. _elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy 8vo., price 6s._ old-time punishments. by william andrews, f.r.h.s., author of "curiosities of the church," "historic romance," "famous frosts and frost fairs," "historic yorkshire," etc. contents. carefully prepared papers, profusely illustrated, appear on the following subjects:- _the ducking stool_--_the brank, or scold's bridle_--_the pillory_--_punishing _authors and burning books__--_finger-pillory_--_the jouga_--_the stocks_--_the drunkard's cloak_--_whipping_--_public penance in white sheets_--_the repentance-stool_--_riding the stang_--_gibbet lore_--_drowning_--_burning to death_--_boiling to death_--_beheading_--_hanging_, _drawing, and quartering_--_pressing to death_--_hanging_--_hanging in chains_--_the halifax gibbet_--_the scottish maiden, etc._--_an index of five closely-printed pages._ many curious illustrations. press opinions. "this in an entertaining book ... well-chosen illustrations and a serviceable index."--_athenæum._ "a hearty reception may be bespoken for it,"--_globe._ "a work which will be eagerly read by all who take it up."--_scotsman._ "it is entertaining."--_manchester guardian._ "a vast amount of curious and entertaining matter."--_sheffield independent._ "we can honestly recommend a perusal of this book."--_yorkshire post._ "interesting, and handsomely printed."--_newcastle chronicle._ "a very readable history."--_birmingham daily gazette._ "mr. andrews' book is well worthy of careful study, and is a perfect mine of wealth on the subject of which it treats."--_herts advertiser._ "it is sure of a warm welcome on both sides of the atlantic"--_christian leader._ london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, & co. hull: william andrews & co. _in the press._ yorkshire family romance. by frederick ross, f.r.h.s., author of "the ruined abbeys of england," "celebrities of yorkshire wolds," "biographia eboracensis," "the progress of civilisation," etc. it will be observed from the following list of subjects that the work is of wide and varied interest, and will make a permanent contribution to yorkshire literature:- contents: the alum workers. the murderer's bride. blackfaced clifford. the orphan heiress of denton. the martyred cardinal. phases in the life of a political martyr. burning of cottingham castle. rise of the house of phipps. the doomed heir of osmotherley. the plumpton marriage. the eland tragedy. the prodigal son. st. eadwine, the royal martyr. saltmarshe, the fanatic. the felons of ilkley. the shepherd lord. the gunpowder plot. the viceroy siward. the ingilby boar's head. the synod of streoneshalh. the lady jockey. the traitor governor of hull. little moll and her husband. the topcliffe insurrection. the londesborough peerage. waterton, the wanderer. the maiden of marblehead. the earldom of wiltes. the metcalfes and the three calves the witches of fewston. passant. _the volume will be tastefully bound in cloth gilt, and printed from new type on toned paper, and no pains will be spared to render it a lasting and important contribution to yorkshire literature._ hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. _elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy 8vo., price 5s._ curiosities of the church: studies of curious customs, services, and records. by william andrews, f.r.h.s., author of "historic romance," "famous frosts and frost fairs," "historic yorkshire," etc. contents: early religious plays: being the story of the english stage in its church cradle days--the caistor gad-whip manorial service--strange serpent stories--church ales--rush-bearing--fish in lent--concerning doles--church scrambling charities--briefs--bells and beacons for travellers by night--hour glasses in churches--chained books in churches--funeral effigies--torch-light burials--simple memorials of the early dead--the romance of parish registers--dog whippers and sluggard wakers--odd items from old accounts--an index of six closely-printed pages. illustrated. press opinions. "a volume both entertaining and instructive, throwing much light on the manners and customs of bygone generations of churchmen, and will be read to-day with much interest."--_newbery house magazine._ "an extremely interesting volume."--_north british daily mail._ "a work of lasting interest."--_hull examiner._ "full of interest."--_the globe._ "the reader will find much in this book to interest, instruct, and amuse."--_home chimes._ "we feel sure that many will feel grateful to mr. andrews for having produced such an interesting book."--_the antiquary._ "a volume of great research and striking interest."--_the bookbuyer (new york)._ "a valuable book."--_literary world (boston, u.s.a.)._ "contains, in a popular and readable form, much that is curious and instructive."--_manchester guardian._ "an admirable book."--_sheffield independent._ "an interesting, handsomely got up volume.... mr. andrews is always chatty, and expert in making a paper on a dry subject exceedingly readable."--_newcastle courant._ "mr. william andrews' new book, 'curiosities of the church,' adds another to the series by which he has done so much to popularise antiquarian studies.... the book, it should be added, has some quaint illustrations, and its rich matter is made available for reference by a full and carefully compiled index."--_scotsman._ hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. _elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy 8vo., vols. i. and ii., price 5s. each._ north country poets: poems and biographies of natives or residents of northumberland, cumberland, westmoreland, durham, lancashire, and yorkshire. edited by william andrews, f.r.h.s. _in vol. i. biographies and examples of the best poetry of the following are included_:--james armstrong, william e. a. axon, mrs. geo. linnaeus banks, geo. linnaeus banks, a. a. d. bayldon, elizabeth barrett browning, h. t. mackenzie bell, ben brierley, william brockie, james burnley, joseph baron, w. hall burnett, w. gershom collingwood, samuel collinson, james clephan, arthur hugh clough, rev. e. g. charlesworth, joseph cooper, sir francis hastings doyle, thomas parkinson dotchson, j. h. eccles, rev. robert w. elliot, m.a.; c. f. forshaw, dora greenwell, lord houghton, patty honeywood, henry heavisides, david holt, florence jackson, robert kidson, george lancaster, william leighton, george milner, james ashcroft noble, thomas newbigging, w. c. newsam, mrs. susan k. phillips, jno. macleay peacock, rev. w. morley punshon, ll.d.; john richardson, john duncan richardson, joseph skipsey, sir henry taylor, w. w. tomlinson, william tirebuck, samuel waddington, aaron watson, william watson, jno. rowell waller, edwin waugh, joe wilson. _in vol. ii. biographies and examples of the best poetry of the following are included_:--rev. richard abbay, m.a.; richard abbot, john thomas barker, john thomas baron, bernard batigan, william billington, anthony buckle, b.a.; thomas burns, the earl of carlisle, george cotterell, c. w. craven, canon dixon, m.a.; jno. emmet, f.l.s.; rev. james gabb, m.a.; rev. a. vine hall, jno. harbottle, g. r. hedley, jno. holland, fred holmes, allison hughes, george hull, j. w. inchbold, rev. j. w. kaye, richard le gallienne, thomas w. little, alfred lishman, wm. longstaff, rev. j. bernard m'govern, h. ernest nichol, fred pratt, ben preston, joseph readman, william renton, j. ryley robinson, ll.d.; j. p. robson, john sewart, abraham stansfield, alfred t. story, mrs. tonkin, j. r. tutin, jno. walker, r. spence-watson, ll.d.; mrs. laura a. whitworth, geo. oswald wight. press opinions. "it is a really excellent repository of the best local poetry of the northern counties, the specimens being selected with sound judgment, and the pithy biographies being in the case of each poet supplied by some writer well situated to obtain original and reliable information."--_lancashire evening post._ "mr. andrews has not only achieved success, but deserved it."--_eastern morning news._ "all lovers of english literature will eagerly welcome this work."--_york gazette._ "it is really a handsome and interesting book. it is a permanent addition to the literature of the north country."--_newcastle weekly chronicle._ "the biographical sketches are interesting in the extreme."--_sheffield daily telegraph._ "the memoirs are exceedingly well done, and the sample pieces have been chosen with sound critical judgment."--_christian leader._ london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., limited. hull: william andrews & co., hull press. an important book for reference. f'cap 4to. bevelled boards, gilt tops, price 4s. famous frosts and frost fairs in great britain. chronicled from the earliest to the present time. by william andrews, f.r.h.s., author of "curiosities of the church," "old-time punishments," etc. only 400 copies printed, each copy numbered, and only 50 remain on sale. three curious full-page illustrations. this work furnishes a carefully prepared account of all the great frosts occurring in this country from a.d. 134 to 1887. the numerous frost fairs on the thames are fully described, and illustrated with quaint woodcuts, and several old ballads relating to the subject are reproduced. it is tastefully printed and elegantly bound. _the following are a few of the many favourable reviews of "famous frosts and frost fairs."_ "the work is thoroughly well written, it is careful in its facts, and may be pronounced exhaustive on the subject. illustrations are given of several frost fairs on the thames, and as a trustworthy record this volume should be in every good library. the usefulness of the work is much enhanced by a good index."--_public opinion._ "the book is beautifully got up."--_barnsley independent._ "a very interesting volume."--_northern daily telegraph._ "a great deal of curious and valuable information is contained in these pages.... a comely volume."--_literary world._ "the work from first to last is a most attractive one, and the arts alike of printer and binder have been brought into one to give it a pleasing form."--_wakefield free press._ "an interesting and valuable work."--_west middlesex times._ "not likely to fail in interest."--_manchester guardian._ "this chronology has been a task demanding extensive research and considerable labour and patience, and mr. andrews is to be heartily congratulated on the result."--_derby daily gazette._ "a volume of much interest and great importance."--_rotherham advertiser._ hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. _elegantly bound in cloth gilt, crown 8vo., price 4s._ * * * * * yorkshire in olden times. edited by william andrews, f.r.h.s. * * * * * this work consists of a series of carefully written papers, reprinted from the _wakefield free press_ and other journals. =contents:= =an outline history of yorkshire.= by thomas frost. =the cow-devil: a legend of craven.= by william brockie. =the first anglo-saxon poet.= by john h. leggott, f.r.h.s. =the battle of brunanburgh.= by frederick ross, f.r.h.s. =old customs at york.= by george benson. =elizabethan gleanings.= by aaron watson. =the fight for the hornsea fishery.= by t. tindall wildridge. =folk assemblies.= by john nicholson. =quaint gleanings from the parish register-chest of kirkby wharfe.= by the rev. richard wilton, m.a. =the wakefield mysteries.= by william henry hudson. =a biographical romance.= by william andrews, f.r.h.s. =some scraps and shreds of yorkshire superstitions.= by w. sydney, f.r.s.l. =the salvation of holderness.= by frederick ross, f.r.h.s. =yorkshire fairs and festivals.= by thomas frost. =james nayler, the mad quaker who claimed to be the messiah.= by william andrews, f.r.h.s. =duke ricard's doom: a legend of sandal castle.= by edward lamplough. =obsolete industries of the east riding.= by john nicholson. =bolton abbey: its history and legends.= by alfred chamberlain, b.a. =to bolton abbey.= by the rev. e. g. charlesworth. =a carefully compiled index.= opinions of the press. _the following are extracted from a number of favourable reviews of_ "yorkshire in the olden times." the _bury free press_ says: "the volume is one of wide and varied interest, which will secure for it readers in all parts of the country." the _shields daily gazette_ states: "the work consists of a series of articles contributed by various authors, and it thus has the merit of bringing together much special knowledge from a great number of sources. it is an entertaining volume, full of interest for the general reader, as well as for the learned and curious." the _hornsea gazette_ concludes its notice by saying: "the work is one which cannot fail to instruct and entertain the reader." it is pronounced by the _hull examiner_ "a most readable and well-bound volume." says the _malton gazette_: "unlike many books akin to it, this work contains nothing not of permanent and exclusive worth, and mr. andrews' latest book is one which the future historian of the shire of many acres will be glad to avail himself of." the _christian leader_ finishes a long and favourable review as follows: "the volume is one of diversified interest, likely to find readers in other parts of the country as well as in the great province to which it has particular reference." _the edition is limited to 400 copies, and only a few remain on sale. an early application for copies necessary._ * * * * * london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton. kent, & co. hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. the danes in lancashire [illustration: canute.] the danes in lancashire and yorkshire by s. w. partington _illustrated_ sherratt & hughes london: 33 soho square, w. manchester: 34 cross street 1909 preface. the story of the 'childhood of our race' who inhabited the counties of lancashire and yorkshire before the norman conquest, is an almost blank page to the popular reader of to-day. the last invaders of our shores, whom we designate as the danes and norsemen, were not the least important of our ancestors. the history of their daring adventures, crafts and customs, beliefs and character, with the surviving traces in our language and laws, form the subject of this book. from the evidence of relics, and of existing customs and traditions, we trace their thought and actions, their first steps in speech and handicraft, and the development of their religious conceptions. our education authorities have realized the fact that "local names" contain a fund of history and meaning which appeals to the young as well as to the adults; and the county committees have been well advised to recommend the teaching of history and geography from local features and events. some articles written by the late mr. john just, m.a., of bury, on our early races, and elements of our language and dialect, formed the incentive to the writer to continue the story of our danish ancestors. to the following writers we are indebted for many facts and quotations: h. colley march, esq., m.d.; w. g. collingwood, "scandinavian britain"; w. s. calverley, "stone crosses and monuments of westmorland and cumberland"; dr. w. wagner's "tales and traditions of our northern ancestors"; mr. boyle, "danes in the east riding of yorkshire"; mr. j. w. bradley, b.a., of the salt museum, stafford, "runic calendars and clog-almanacs"; rev. j. hay colligan, liverpool; professor w. a. herdman, liverpool; mr. jas. t. marquis, of the battle of "brunanburh"; dr. worsäac, "danes in england." messrs. titus wilson & son, kendal, plates, "map of races," etc.; swan, sonnenschein & co., london; williams, norgate & co., london. to charles w. sutton, esq., free reference library, manchester, for valuable advice and assistance grateful thanks are now tendered. s. w. partington. bury, _october 4, 1909_. contents. page invasion and conquest 1 settlements 11 place-names 45 patronymics 59 physical types still existing 77 political freemen 87 husbandry 109 stone crosses 117 runes 135 memorials 161 literature 167 mythology 187 superstitions 203 agriculture 213 list of illustrations. canute _frontispiece_ page viking settlements 13 extwistle hall 34 brunanburh map 36 old dane's house 40 ancient danish loom 80 heysham hogback 120 danish ornaments, claughton-on-brock 124 halton cross 125 ormside cup 131 clog almanac symbols 144 runic calendar 155 carved wood, with runes 170 bractaetes 174 halton cup 176 calderstones, no. i. 184 calderstones, no. ii. 185 invasion and conquest chapter i. invasion and conquest. a victorious people have always a wide-spreading influence over the people subdued by them. an inferior race never withstood a superior one. the very fact that the danes gained not only an ascendancy in many parts of england during the anglo-saxon dynasties, but even the government of them all, is a proof that they were at that period a race of individuals superior to the natives of the land. the indigenous britons felt the ameliorating influence of the roman superiority and the civilisation which formed an element of the roman sway. the danes exercised and maintained an influence equal to the extent of their amalgamation for the general good of the country. the romans were as much superior to the aboriginal britons as the english of the present day are to the africans and sikhs. the saxons were an advance on the romanised celt, while on the saxons again, the danes or northmen were an advance in superiority and a great element of improvement. leaving the danes to tell their own tale and write their own histories in favour of their own fatherland, we undertake to sketch out their connection with our own county of lancaster, with the permanent, and still existing, effects of that connection. hitherto history has unfolded nothing as to the date when the "vikings" first visited the lancashire coast, plundering the county, and slaughtering the inhabitants. the danes first visited the eastern coasts about the year a.d. 787, as narrated in the saxon chronicle. in the year 894 the city of chester fell into their hands, under the redoubtable hastings. this celebrated place the danes fortified, and henceforward, along with the other cities of derby, across the island, held at intervals until their power waned by the amalgamation which eventually constituted one people. local names are the beacon lights of primeval history. the names of places, even at this remote period of time, suffice to prove that the danes left an impression of superiority by their invasion. at this time the danes invaded the coast of lancashire, and formed settlements therein. cumberland and westmorland were under the dominion of cumbrian britons. at this early period the danes have so intermingled with the anglo-saxons, as to influence the names of the hundreds into which the shire was sub-divided. no chronicle may register this fact, but the words do, and will do, so long as they constitute the signs and symbols of ideas and things. the northern hundred of the shire was named lonsdale, and extended not only over the district of lunesdale, but also included the territory north of the sands. the second hundred into which the shire was divided was amounderness. if we allow "ness" to be of strictly scandinavian origin, then this hundred has a strictly danish or norse name, "amounder" being the first viking who settled in the fylde country. blackburn, pronounced "blakeburn," is the third name of a hundred which lies more inland, but having little or no coast line within the shire. inland the scandinavian influence diminished. hence the genuine anglo-saxon name of this division; in the early times "blagburnshire." the fourth hundred is that of salford, also inland, hence under no danish influence. the name is genuine anglo-saxon and perhaps this hundred includes natives less mixed with scandinavian population than any other in the north of england. the broad anglo-saxon frame is seen to perfection in the country districts, and the light, ruddy complexion. the men were made for endurance and slow in movements. it would be a difficult task to get them to move if they felt disinclined to do so. the last hundred has much sea coast, and came therefore much under danish influence. hence the name, west derby hundred. no one who knows anything of our early history will hesitate to pronounce this name altogether danish, so that three out of the five hundreds into which the county was apportioned were under danish domination. "bi," danish, in modern english "by," was the common term given by danish settlers to their residence. derby or deorby means not the residence or home of the deer, but a locality where the animals abounded. the danes had, more than any other people, a reverence for the dead. wherever a hero fell, even if but a short time sufficed to cover his remains, this was done; and if nothing better to mark the spot, a boat which brought him hither was placed over him, keel uppermost. failing a boat, a "haugr" or mound was raised over his grave. when christianity upset these "hofs," or sacred enclosures of odin and thor, then crosses were erected over the christian graves. this accounts for the universal number of "crosbys" in the danish district of the kingdom. conquered rome converted and conquered its barbarian and heathen masters to the cross. anglo-saxon converted his danish neighbour, and subdued him to the cross. the higher the superstitions of the pagan the greater the devotee when he is converted. when the danes were converted to christianity by their intercourse with the anglo-saxons they transferred all their superstitious feeling to the emblems of christianity. churches were also built by the naturalised danes in all places where they settled; and just as easy as it is to recognise their dwellings by their "bys," so it is to know the places where they reared their churches. their name for a church was "kirkja." hence in whatever compound name this word enters as a component, there it indicates a danish origin. hence kirkby, formby, ormskirk, and kirkdale are places appertaining to the early anglo-danish history. dale is likewise a genuine appellative, as in kirkdale as already noticed. besides, in this hundred we find: skelmersdale, ainsdale, cuerdale, and birkdale. the only two places which the danes seem to have noticed in their navigation of the ribble were walton-le-dale and the more important cuerdale, now renowned in archæology for the richest find of ancient coins recorded in history. the danes brought a treasure of 7,000 pieces to cuerdale. mingled with the coins were bars of silver, amulets, broken rings, and ornaments of various kinds, such as are recorded by scandinavian sagas. many countries had been rifled for this treasure. kufic, italian, byzantine, french, and anglo-saxon coins were in the booty; besides 3,000 genuine danish pieces, minted by kings and jarls on the continent. another discovery of danish treasure was made at harkirke, near crosby. the coins here found were of a more recent deposit, and contained but one of canute the great. from the mersey to the ribble was a long, swampy, boggy plain, and was not worth the romans' while to make roads or to fix stations or tenements. from the conquest until the beginning of the 18th century this district was almost stagnant, and its surface undisturbed. the dane kept to the shore, the sea was his farm. he dredged the coast and the estuary, with his innate love of danger, till liverpool sprang up with the magic of eastern fable, and turned out many a rover to visit every region of the world. the race of the viking are, many of them, the richest merchants of the earth's surface.[a] about half of england--the so-called "danelag," or community of danes, was for centuries subject to danish laws. these laws existed for 200 years after the norman conquest. the normans long retained a predilection for old danish institutions and forms of judicature, and their new laws bear the impress and colour of the older time. this is established beyond doubt, in spite of the boast of the famous sir robert peel in parliament, that he was proud "the danes tried in vain to overcome the institutions of england instead of securing them." the english word "by-law" is still used to denote municipal or corporate law, which is derived from the danish "by-lov." this shows they must have had some share in developing the system of judicature in english cities. the "hustings" were well known in the seven cities under danish rule. the earliest positive traces of a "jury" in england appear in the "danelag," among the danes established there; and that long before the time of william the conqueror. the present village of thingwall, in cheshire, was a place of meeting for the "thing" or "trithing," a court held in the open air to settle laws and disputes in the same manner as that existing at tynwald, isle of man. the division of "ridings" in yorkshire is also derived from this danish custom. the "trithing" was a danish institution, so also was the wapentake. what are called "hundreds" in some counties, are called "wapentakes" in others, thus from the norse "taka," which means a "weapon grasping." tacitus says the ancients used to "express assent by waving or brandishing their weapons." if the sentence pleased they struck their spears together, "since the most honourable kind of assent is to applaud with arms." from this practice the word came to mean the sentence or decree had been thus authenticated. "vapantak" in the grafas of icelandic parliament means the breaking up of the session, when the men resumed their weapons which had been laid aside during the assembly. (cleasby.) local names. as a maritime race the danes brought to our county not only a knowledge of the sea, how to navigate its perils, and the secret of successful trading, but also possessed the art and craft of shipbuilding to a higher degree than any then known. we still have the old danish name in liverpool of david rollo and sons, shipbuilders and engineers. the following danish maritime terms have become part of our language: vrag, a wreck; flaade, fleet; vinde, windlass; skibsborde, shipboard; mast, mast; seile, sails; styrmand, steersman. from the fact that "thingwall" in cheshire and "tynwald" in the isle of man afford the memorial of the assizes, and that "wald" or "vold" signifies a "bank" or "rampart," where these courts were held in order to be safe from surprise, may we not presume the local name "the wylde," in bury, to be derived from the same source, as the "bank" or "rampart" would be used previous to the building of the old castle? the danish "byr," or "by," means a settlement, town, or village, and as the word "berg" means a hill, and "borough," "bury," "brow," and "burgh" are similar terms for a fortified hill, we may suppose "bury" to be taken from this source, instead of from the saxon "byrig," a bridge, when no bridge existed. settlements chapter ii. settlements. from the year 876 the danes became colonists and settlers. raid and plunder gave place to peaceful pursuits. the english chronicle says that in "this year halfdene apportioned the lands of northumbria; and they henceforth continued ploughing and tilling them." this colonisation of deira by the danes was soon followed in other districts. the greater part of central britain with the whole of the north and east came entirely under scandinavian rule. [illustration: the viking settlements] in 877 trading is recorded by the sagas from norway, in a shipload of furs, hides, tallow and dried fish, which were exchanged for wheat, honey, wine and cloth. thus early was established the increase in comfort and wealth, as evidenced by the erection of christian monuments early in the tenth century. the origin of "long-weight" and "long-hundred" count is traceable to the danish settlements. this peculiar reckoning survives in the selling of cheese 120 lbs. to the cwt., and in the counting of eggs, 120 to the hundred. the timber trade counts 120 deals to the hundred. on the east coast fish are counted 132 to the hundred. six score to the hundred is still popular in westmorland measure of crops and timber. this danish method of count was derived from the icelandic term "hundred" which meant 120. professor maitland, in his "domesday book and beyond," says that the number of sokemen or free men, owing certain dues to the hundred court, or to a lord, who were masters of their own land, like the customary tenants of cumberland, was greater in norfolk and suffolk than in essex, and that in lincolnshire they formed nearly half the rural population. at the time of domesday the number of serfs was greatest in the west of england, but none are recorded in yorkshire and lincolnshire. in the manors bearing english names the sokemen numbered two-fifths of the population, while in those manors with danish names they formed three-fifths of the population. (boyle.) in the danelaw they represent the original freeholders of the settlement and owed obedience to the local "thing" or "trithing court." in those districts which were not conquered by edward the elder the freeholders settled and prospered, and with the spread of christianity they became independent proprietors and traders. the presence of danish place-names marks the district which they conquered, including the counties of lincoln, nottingham, derby, leicester, rutland, and northampton. in the rest of mercia few of these names are to be found, viz., in cheshire, shropshire, staffordshire, worcester, gloucester, hereford and oxfordshire. the eastern part of the danish district came to be known as the five burghs, namely, derby, leicester, lincoln, stamford and nottingham. from the year 880 when halfdene divided the lands of deira among his followers the conditions of life became those of colonists, and the danes settled down to cultivate their own lands, learning the language of the earlier angles, teaching them many words, and ways of northern handicraft, and gradually intermarrying and forming the vigorous character of body and mind which denotes the modern englishman. from the middle of the tenth century men bearing anglo-danish names held high positions in the church; odo was archbishop of canterbury, his nephew oswald was bishop of worcester and afterwards archbishop of york in succession to oskytel, and many norse names appear as witnesses to royal charters. the hatred still existed against these barbarous danes, and it is recorded in the saxon chronicle that the saxons learned drunkenness from the danes, a vice from which before they were free. this character is strangely contrasted by the story of john of wallingford, that "they were wont, after the fashion of their country, to comb their hair every day, to bathe every saturday, laugardag, 'bath day,'--and to change their garments often, and to set off their persons by many such frivolous devices. and in this manner laid siege to the virtue of the women." if we are to accept the evidence of lord coke, we are indebted to the danish invasion for our propensity to make ale the national beverage. this eminent authority says that king edgar, in 'permitting' the danes to inhabit england, first brought excessive drinking among us. the word ale came into the english language through the danish öl. at any rate after the advent of the norsemen, the english left off drinking water and began to drink ale as the regular everyday beverage of the people. the term 'beer' was used by the anglo-saxons, but seems to have fallen into desuetude until the name was revived to distinguish 'ale' from hopped ale.'--_from "inns, ales, and drinking customs of old england," by frederick w. hackwood_. green the historian in his "conquest of england" says the names of the towns and villages of deira show us in how systematic a way southern northumbria was parted among its conquerors.... "the english population was not displaced, but the lordship of the soil was transferred to the conqueror. the settlers formed a new aristocracy, while the older nobles sank to a lower position, for throughout deira the life of an english thane was priced at but half the value of a 'northern hold.'" the inference to be drawn from this passage is that the english lords of the soil were replaced by danish ones, the english settlers remained in possession of their ancient holdings. in the course of time the two races amalgamated, but at the norman conquest this amalgamation had only been partially effected. in the districts where the danes settled they formed new villages, in which they lived apart from the general anglian population. had they not done so the memory of their settlement could never have been perpetuated by the danish names given to their homes. every group of isolated danish place-names teaches the same fact, and there are many such groups. this is the case in the wirral district of cheshire, the peninsula between the mersey and the dee, where we find such names as raby, greasby, frankby, irby, pansby, whitby and shotwick, and in the centre of the district the village called thingwall. while throughout the rest of the county scarcely a danish name can be found, and as these names were conferred by the danish settlers it is impossible not to believe that under analogous conditions the names in other districts were conferred in the same way. where a new village was planted midway between two older villages, its territory would be carved in varying proportions out of the lands of the earlier settlements. sometimes certain rights of the older villages were maintained in the territory of which they had been deprived. thus in a danish village of anlaby, the lands whereof were carved out of the adjoining townships of kirk ella and hessle, the respective rectors of these parishes had curiously divided rights to both the great and the small tithes; whilst in the neighbouring instance of the danish willerby, carved out of kirk ella and cottingham, the rector of kirk ella took all the great tithes, and the rector of cottingham took all the small tithes. this method of danish _village formation_ explains a curious point. the foundation of the earlier anglian settlements preceded the development of the great road system of england. leaving out of consideration the roman roads and the comparatively few british roads, the former of which have relation to nothing but the military needs of that all conquering people, our existing road system is due to the anglo-saxon. our old roads lead from one village to another and each village is a centre from which roads radiate. the danish villages were, on the contrary, usually roadside settlements. new settlements were formed on the vast fringes of wood and waste which surrounded the cultivated lands of the older english villages. the road existed and the one village street was formed along the line. such wayside settlements are carnaby and bessingby, on the road from bridlington to driffield. when, as was sometimes the case, the new settlement was planted at a little distance from the existing road a new road running at right angles from the old one and leading directly to the settlement was formed. skidby, towthorp, kirby, grindalbythe and many others are cases in point. one consequence of such conditions of formation would be that where the english settlements were most numerous the danish settlements would be few and small, because there was less land available in such districts for their formation. while, on the other hand, where english settlements were more sparsely scattered the danish settlements would be more numerous, and comparatively large. taking a large district like the east riding, the average area of the danish townships may be expected to fall below that of the anglo-saxon. the facts comply with all these tests. thus to take the townships with danish names, and compare with similar districts of anglo-saxon names, we arrive at the conclusion as to whether the district was thickly populated before the coming of the danes. many anglo-saxon villages are to be found along the course of the roman road, which coincides with the modern one of to-day. the two classes of population found only in danish districts, the sochmanni and the "liber tenentes," are wholly absent in purely english districts. both held land exempt from villain services, which was a condition of tenure introduced by the danes. this fact shatters the theory of green that english settlers were communities of freemen. they were in fact communities of bondmen, villains, bordars, cottars, and serfs, the last holding no lands, but being bound to the soil as chattels, and the rest holding their lands, "at the will of the lord," and in return for actual services. what then was the sochman? the lawyer of to-day will answer, "he is one who held land by 'socage,' tenure." although in domesday this "sochman" is confined to danish districts, a fact which is recognised in the laws of edward the confessor. after the conquest a type of tenure more or less closely corresponding to that by which the earlier sochman held his land, was gradually established over the whole kingdom. tenants who owned such tenures were called "sochmen," and the tenure itself was called "socage." a distinction was drawn between "free socage" and "villain socage." the fuller development of the feudal system which followed the conquest greatly complicated all questions of land tenure. new conditions of holding superior to that of "socage" were introduced. thus in the pages of britton, who always speaks in the person of the king, we read: "sochmanries are lands and tenements which are not held by knights' fee, nor by grand serjeantries, but by simple services, as lands enfranchised by us, or our predecessors, out of ancient demesnes." bracton is more explicit. he defines free socage as the tenure of a tenement, whereof the service is rendered in money to the chief lords, and nothing whatever is paid, "ad scutum et servitium regis." "socage," he proceeds, "is named from soke, and hence the tenants who held in socage are called sochmanni, since they are entirely occupied in agriculture, and of whom wardship and marriage pertain to the nearest parents in the right of blood. and if in any manner homage is taken thereof, as many times is the case, yet the chief lord has not on this account, wardship and marriage, which do not always follow homage." he then goes on to define "villain socage." the essential principle of socage tenure is rent in lieu of services. it is to this fact no doubt that the vast impetus which was given to the coinage of england soon after the coming of the danes is largely due. as mr. worsaäe says, the danish coiners increased to fifty in number from the reign of aethelred to edward the confessor, and the greater number exercised this vocation at york and lincoln. thus the sochmanni were found only in the settlements of the people who had created in england a tenure of land free from servile obligations. the manner of fixing these early settlements of land was the same in ireland, in the east riding of yorkshire, and in lincolnshire. the same custom is still observed by our modern colonists who launch out into the australian bush. the land was staked out by the settler from the highest ridge downwards to the creek of the river or shore. by this means the settler obtained on outlet to the open sea. the homestead was built by the bondr or husbandman, on the sheltered ground between the marsh and hill. these settlements became byes, and were encircled by a garth, or farmyard. the names of some norse farms and settlements became composed of a norse prefix and saxon ending. thus we find oxton "the farm of the yoke," in the hollow of a long ridge. storeton, from stortun or "big field." many of these names are repetitions of places which exist in cumberland, denmark, and the isle of man. raby and irby were smaller farms on the boundary of large byes, and were derived from the danish chief ivar. each homestead had its pastures and woods, which are denoted by the terminals "well," "wall," and "birket," found in such names as crabwall, thelwall, thingwall. "thwaites" or "hlither" were sloping pastures, cleared of wood, between the hill and marsh, used for grazing cattle and sheep. this system of agriculture is of norse origin, and many such "thwaites" are to be found in wallasey, lancashire, and the lake district. calday and calder, recorded in domesday, "calders," derived from kalf-gard, are names existing in calderstones, at wavertree, and calday near windermere, as well as at eastham and in scotland. each large settler had summer pastures for cattle on the highland or moor, called "soeters" or "saetter," a shelter seat for the dairymaids. from this custom we derive the names seacombe, satterthwaite, seathwaite, seascale, and sellafield. as the population increased the large estates were divided among the families of the early settlers, and these upland pastures became separate farms. evidence that these early norsemen were christians is found in the name preston, in domesday. prestune, the farm of the priest: who in these early days farmed his own land. from its position this farm became known as west kirby. the stone crosses of nelson and bromborough prove that these churches were founded early in the eleventh century. the danish character of chester at this date is shown by the fact that it was ruled by "lawmen," in the same manner as the five boroughs (vide round's "feudal england," p. 465), and its growing wealth and importance was due to the trading intercourse through the danish ships with dublin. coming from the north-east another norse and danish settlement sprang up round liverpool. though we have no distinct historical record, the place names indicate the centre was at thelwall (tingwall). such names are roby, west derby, kirkby, crosby, formby, kirkdale, toxteth, found in domesday as "stockestede," croxteth, childwall, harbreck, ravensmeols, ormskirk, altcar, burscough, skelmersdale. out of forty-five names of places recorded in domesday in west derby hundred, ten are scandinavian, the rest might be interpreted in either dialect. all other names in domesday in south lancashire are anglo-saxon, which only amount to twelve: the reason for the small number of names being that the land was for the most part lying waste, and was thus free from assessment. thus we find on the present map that norse names form a large number which are not recorded in domesday. many of these would be later settlements. in west derby the names of three landowners appear in this survey with norse names, while three others are probably norse, and seven saxon. following the fall of the danish dynasty the districts of south lancashire formed part of cheshire and we find the names of six "drengs" around warrington, possessing norman names, while only one bears a norse name. the word "dreng" being norse, would infer that the tenure was of "danelaw" origin and not of anglo-saxon. the founder of the abbey of burton-on-trent, wulfric spot, held great tracts of land in wirral and west lancashire, which are named in his will dated 1002. thus the "bondr" here held his land under mercian rules, from which the hides and hundreds were similar to those of the previous "danelaw." lancashire was the southern portion of deira, which was one of the two kingdoms, bernicia being the other, into which the conquests of ida, king of northumbria, were on his death divided. in 559 a.d. ida died, and aella became king of deira, and afterwards sole king of northumbria, until 587 or 589. in 617, edwin son of ella was king of northumbria, the greatest prince, says hume the historian, of the heptarchy in that age. he was slain in battle with penda of mercia. in 634 the kingdom was again divided, eanfrid reigning in bernicia, and osric in deira. then oswald, saint as well as king, appears to have reunited the two provinces again under his kingship of northumberland. authorities, in more than one instance, vary as to the exact dates, within a year or two. the saxon kingdom of northumbria reached from the humber to the forth, and from the north sea to the irish sea. for two centuries after the death of ecgfrith the saxon king and the battle of nectansmere, history only records a succession of plunder and pestilence. green the historian says "king after king was swept away by treason and revolt, the country fell into the hands of its turbulent nobles, its very fields lay waste, and the land was scourged by famine and plague." the pirate northmen or vikings as they were called first, began to raid the coast of england with their fleets with the object of plunder. the english chronicle records their first attacks in the year 787. "three of their ships landed on the western shores, these were the first ships of danish men that sought the land of engle-folk." the monastery of lindisfarne was plundered six years later by their pirate ships, and the coast of northumbria was ravaged, jan., 793. the following year they returned and destroyed the monasteries of wearmouth and jarrow. this was the beginning of the norse raids on our eastern shores. in 875 halfdan returned from his campaign against alfred and the year after he divided the lands of northumbria amongst his followers. in many parts we find groups of scandinavian place-names so close and thick, says mr. w. g. collingwood in his "scandinavian britain," that we must assume either depopulation by war, or the nearly complete absence of previous population. there is no reason to suppose that the earlier vikings depopulated the country they ravaged. spoil was their object and slaughter an incident. as canon atkinson has shown in his "analysis of the area of cleveland under cultivation at domesday period," very little of the country in that district was other than moor or forest at the end of the eleventh century, and that most of the villages then existing had scandinavian names. his conclusion is that these districts were a wilderness since roman and prehistoric days, and first penetrated by the danes and norse: except for some clearings such as crathorne, stokesley, stainton, and easington, and the old monastery at whitby. this conclusion receives support, says mr. collingwood, from an analysis of the sculptured stones now to be seen in the old churches and sites of cleveland. it is only at yarm, crathorne, stainton, easington, and whitby, that we find monuments of the pre-viking age, and these are the products of the latest anglian period. at osmotherley, ingleby, arncliffe, welbury, kirklevington, thornaby, ormesby, skelton, great ayton, kirkdale, and kirkby-in-cleveland are tombstones of the tenth and eleventh centuries. it is thus evident that the angles were only beginning to penetrate these northern parts of yorkshire when the vikings invaded and carried on the work of land settlement much further. further extension was made by the norse from the west coast, as the place-names show. monuments of pre-viking art work exist at places with scandinavian names, such as kirkby-moorside, kirkby-misperton, and kirkdale; while in other cases only viking age crosses are found at places with names of anglian origin, such as ellerburn, levisham, sinnington, nunnington. this would indicate that some anglian sites were depopulated and refounded with danish names, while others had no importance in anglian times but soon became flourishing sites under the danes. in the west of yorkshire the great dales were already tenanted by the angles, but the moors between them, and the sites higher up the valleys, were not the sites of churches until the danish period. (see "anglian and anglo-danish sculpture in the north riding," by w. g. collingwood. _yorks. arch. journal_, 1907.) yorkshire at the time of the domesday survey was carucated and divided into ridings and wapentakes. thingwall, near whitby. (canon atkinson, site lost.) thinghow, near ginsborough (now lost), and thinghow, now finney hill, near northallerton. (mr. william brown, f.s.a.) tingley, near wakefield; thingwall, near liverpool; thingwall in wirral, may have been thingsteads. (w. g. collingwood.) names of places ending in -ergh, and -ark are dairy-farms from setr and saetr. names with ullsas prefix, such as ulpha, ullscarth, ullswater, record the fact that wolves inhabited the hills. beacons were kept up in olden days on hills which bear the names of warton, warcop, warwick and warthole. tanshelf, near pontefract, is derived from taddenesscylfe, blawith and blowick from blakogr--blackwood. axle, acle, arcle from öxl, the shoulder. the battle of brunanburh. was it fought in lancashire? "there is one entry in the anglo-saxon chronicle which must be mentioned here as it throws light upon an archæological discovery of considerable importance. in 911 the chronicle records that the danish army among the northumbrians broke the peace and overran the land of mercia. when the king learned that they were gone out to plunder, he sent his forces after them, both of the west saxons and the mercians; and they fought against them and put them to flight, and slew many thousands of them...." "there is good reason to believe," as mr. andrew shows (brit. numis. jour. i, 9), "that the famous cuerdale hoard of silver coins, which was found in 1840 in a leaden chest buried near a difficult ford of the ribble on the river bank about two miles above preston, represents the treasure chest of this danish army, overtaken in its retreat to northumbria at this ford and destroyed." * * * * * then follows a process of reasoning in support of the above conclusion, based upon the place of minting and the dating of the coins. "the bulk of the coins, however, were danish, issued by danish kings of northumbria, many of them from york." besides the cuerdale find of 10,000 silver coins and 1,000 ounces of silver there are records given of other danish finds.--from the victoria county history of lancashire, vol. i., see coins. each historian of this important event has claimed a different site, in as many parts of england. in grose's "antiquities" we find the allied scotch, welsh, irish, and danes, the northumbrian army, under anlaf were totally defeated, in 938 at brunanburgh (bromridge, brinkburn), in northumberland, when constantine, king of the scots, and six petty princes of ireland and wales, with twelve earls were slain. this description is given in the anglo-saxon chronicle. the honour of claiming the lancashire site on the river brun near burnley, belongs to the late mr. thomas turner wilkinson, a master of burnley grammar school, who claimed it for saxifield in 1856. we are indebted to mr. jas. t. marquis, a member of the lancashire and cheshire antiquarian society, for the following summary of evidence which he placed before the above society during the winter session of 1908-9, and which will be found recorded in the transactions of the society. he says, "there is overwhelming testimony in favour of the site on the lancashire brun." the reasons for claiming this site are simply two. an old writer spells brinkburn--brincaburh, and there is an artificial mound proving a fight. camden gives brunford, near brumbridge in northumberland, as the place where "king athelstane fought a pitched battle against the danes." this might easily be, but not the battle we refer to. there is no reason given except the word "ford." gibson suggests that it must have been "somewhere near the humber," although he finds a difficulty in carrying constantine and the little king of cumberland so high into yorkshire. the other places suggested are brumborough in cheshire, banbury in oxfordshire, burnham and bourne in lincolnshire, brunton in northumberland, but no good reason beyond a name, and an embankment in some cases, but not all. brownedge in lancashire has been suggested, with excellent reasons. dr. giles and others suggest that the name should be brumby instead of brunanburh. ingram in his map of saxon england places the site in lincolnshire, near the trent, but without assigning good reasons. turner observes that the "villare" mentions a brunton in northumberland, and gibson states what may still be seen in maps of a century old, "that in cheshire there is a place called brunburh near the shores of the mersey." this last would be a serious competitor if there was a river brun, or tumuli, or ford, or battlefield: but nothing is claimed, only the name suggested. brunsford or brunford. let us first establish the site of the "burh," which is a hill that shields or protects a camp, town, or hamlet. the question is, where was the "tun" or village on the brun? it was in saxon times usual for the folk to settle near a "burh" for the protection afforded by an overlord who occupied it. it was also the custom of the early missionaries to establish a feldekirk by setting up a cross near to the hamlet, where they used to preach christianity and bury their dead. tradition says it was intended to build the church on the site of the cross, but that god willed it otherwise. god-ley lane would be the lane which led from the village in saxon times to god's lea or god-ley, on which was the new church and burial ground. thus the new town would take its modern name from the ground on which the church stood, namely brun-ley, bron-ley, and burn-ley. the cross, built in saxon times to mark the spot where christianity was first preached, stood at the foot of the "burh" near the brun, and thus the early name would be brunford. the records of domesday book contain no mention of burnley. to the east and west would be the vast forest of boulsworth and pendle, while the valleys would be marshes and swamps. the ancient roads went along the hill sides, and there is an ancient road from clitheroe by pendle passing along the east side of the hill, now almost obliterated, leading to barrowford. the ancient road on this east side of the valley, was on the boulsworth slope from brunford, via haggate and shelfield, to castercliffe, colne, and trawden which gave its name to the forest, and emmott. dr. whitaker tells us that in his day, "in the fields about red lees are many strange inequalities in the ground, something like obscure appearances of foundations, or perhaps entrenchments, which the levelling operations of agriculture have not been able to efface. below walshaw is a dyke stretching across from 'scrogg wood' to 'dark wood.'" the ninth century annalist says, "the northmen protected themselves according to custom, 'with wood and a heap of earth,'" a walshaw would therefore be a wall of wood. nothing was safer, when attacked by bowmen, than a wood. such was the brun-burh. this burh at red lees with mounds and ditches, in a half circle on each side of the causeway, would have the same appearance on being approached from the east and south-east as the eleventh century "burh" at laughton-en-le-morthen in yorkshire. the ancient way referred to in dr. whitaker, from burnley to townley, would be from the market cross, along godley lane to the brunford cross, up over the ridge to the top of brunshaw, along the causeway to lodge farm, through the deer park, through the watch gate at the foot of the hill, and up to castle hill at tunlay. although egbert was called the first king of england, his son alfred the great at the height of his power only signed himself "alfred of the west saxons, king." england was still governed under the three provinces at the time of henry i., namely wessex, mercia, and danelagh. the latter province comprised the whole tract of country north and east of watling street. mercia included the lands north of the mersey. danish northumbria or deira comprised the lands to the west of the pennines. amongst the hills north of the ribble the hostile nations could meet in security. saxon-mercia north of the mersey, surrounded by alien nations, and having been itself conquered from that claimed as the danelaw, would be the most likely where those nations could meet in time of peace, and was the debatable land in time of war. after the death of alfred, when edward the elder claimed overlordship, the danes rose in revolt in the north. it is recorded that he and his warrior sister "the lady of the mercians" abandoned the older strategy of rapine and raid, for that of siege and fortress building, or the making and strengthening of burhs. edward seems to have recovered the land between the mersey and the ribble, for soon after leaving manchester, the britons of strathclyde, the king of scots, regnold of bamborough who had taken york at this period, and the danish northumbrians take him to be father and lord. the place is not mentioned, but must be somewhere between boulsworth and pendle. [illustration: extwistle hall, near eamott, marks an ancient boundary.] the same thing happened when athelstan claimed his overlordship. profiting by following his father's example, he would travel from burh to burh, and his route would not be difficult to trace, namely, thelwall, manchester, bacup, broad dyke, long dyke, easden fort, copy nook, castle hill, watch gate, brunburh, broadbank, castercliffe, shelfield, winewall, eamot. the anglo-saxon chronicle says that "a.d. 926, sihtric perished, and king athelstan ruled all the kings in the island, the northumbrians, constantine king of scots, ealdred of bamborough, and others, which they confirmed by pledges and oaths at a place eamot on the 4th of the ides of july and they renounced idolatry." everything points to the fact that brunanburgh gave its name to this battle. this part of the saxon king's dominions being the one place where all the hostile nations could meet before the attack. there is no other river brun in northern mercia, and the saxon chronicle says the battle was fought near brunanburh. ethelward says brunandune (river and dale). simeon gives wendune (swindon). malmesbury and tugulf names brunanburh or bruford. florence of worcester "near brunanburh." henry of huntingdon gives brunesburh, and gaimar has brunswerc, which we have in worsthorne, which is known to be derived from wrthston, the town of wrth. in the _annales cambriae_ it is styled the "bellum brun" (the battles of the brun). this would explain the many names. william of malmesbury says that the field was "far into england." we have brownedge and brownside. in addition to all this we have "bishops leap," s'winless lane, saxifield, saxifield dyke. we have also a ruh-ley, a red lees, directly opposite to which we have a traditional battlefield and battlestone, also a high law hill, and horelaw pastures, a number of cairns of stones, a small tumuli; all of which may be said to be near the hillfort brunburh. descriptions of battles from the map. from the two ordnance maps, "six inch to the mile," one of briercliffe, and the other of worsthorne, it may be seen that the roads from slack, near huddersfield, pass through the pennine range, one by the long causeway, on the south of the position and on the southern side, near stipernden, is "warcock hill. from here running north, are a series of ridges, shedden edge, hazel edge, hamilton hill, to the other road from slack, passing through the hills at widdop, and immediately on the north side at thursden is another warcock hill. from warcock hill to warcock hill would stretch the army of anlaf in their first position. from the north end of the position a road north to shelfield and castercliffe, by means of which he would be joined by his welsh allies, from the ribble, via portfield, and his strathclyde and cumbrian allies from the north. from this end of the position there is a road due west to the broadbank, where there is the site of a small camp at haggate. [illustration] from here anlaf would send his welsh allies under adalis, and his shipmen under hryngri, for the night attack on the advancing saxons as they crossed the brunford. they fell on them somewhere on the site of bishop's house estate, but were afterwards beaten back across the estates known as saxifield. two days afterwards both sides prepared for the great struggle near the burh, and anlaf, taking his cue from his opponent, advanced his left and took possession of the hill near mereclough, afterwards called high law (round hill), and the pastures behind still known as battlefield, with a stone called battlestone in the centre of it. constantine and the scots were in charge of the hill, and the pict, and orkney men behind. his centre he pushed forward at brown edge, to the "tun of wrst." while his right touched s'winden water under adalis with the welsh and shipmen. two days before the great battle athelstan marched out of brunburh at the north end, and encamped somewhere on the plain called bishop's house estate, his route by the brunford, and probably s'winless lane. we are told that anlaf entered the camp as a spy, and ascertaining the position of athelstan's tent, formed the night attack for the purpose of destroying him. athelstan, however, leaving for another part of his position on the brun, gave wersthan, bishop of sherborne, the command. the bishop met his death somewhere on the estate, the pasture being known as bishop's leap, which undoubtedly gave its name to the estate. adalis, the welsh prince, had done this in the night attack, probably coming by way of walshaw, and darkwood. alfgier took up the command, with thorolf on his right and eglis in support in front of the wood. alfgier was first assaulted by adalis with the welsh and driven off the field, afterwards fleeing the country. thorolf was assaulted by hryngr the dane, and soon afterwards by adalis also, flushed with victory. thorolf directed his colleague eglis to assist him, exhorted by his troops to stand close, and if overpowered to retreat to the wood. thorolf or thorold the viking was the hero of this day, near the netherwood on thursden water. he fought his way to hryngr's standard and slew him. his success animated his followers, and adalis, mourning the death of hryngr, gave way and retreated, with his followers back over saxifield to the causeway camp at broadbank. whatever took place at saxifield the enemy left it entirely, and the decisive battle took place at the other end of brunburh. in walking up s'windene, by s'winden water, the district on the right between that river and the brun is called in old maps roo-ley and in older manuscripts ruhlie, marked in thomas turner wilkinson's time, with a cairn and tumulus. some distance further on we find heckenhurst. the roads down from the burh are at rooley and at brownside and at red lees by the long causeway leading to mereclough. athelstan placed thorolf on the left of his army, at roo-ley, to oppose the welsh and irregular irish under adalis. in front of brownside (burnside) was eglis with the picked troops, and on eglis' right opposite worsthorne, athelstane and his anglo-saxons. across the original long causeway on the red lees, with the burh entrenchments immediately at his back, was the valiant turketul, the chancellor, with the warriors of mercia and london opposite round hill and mereclough. thorolf began by trying to turn the enemy's right flank, but adalis darted out from behind the wood, now hackenhurst, and destroyed thorolf, and his foremost friends on roo-ley or ruhlie. eglis came up to assist his brother viking, and encouraging the retreating troops by an effort destroyed the welsh prince adalis, and drove his troops out of the wood. the memorial of this flight was a cairn and tumulus on roo-ley. athelstan and anlaf were fighting in the centre for the possession of (bruns) weston, neither making much progress, when the chancellor turketul, with picked men, including the worcester men under the magnanimous sinfin, made a flank attack at mereclough, and breaking through the defence of the pict and orkney men, got to the "back o' th' hill." he penetrated to the cumbrians and scots, under constantine, king of the grampians. the fight was all round constantine's son, who was unhorsed. the chancellor was nearly lost, and the prince released, when sinfin, with a mighty effort, terminated the fight by slaying the prince. on round hill, down to one hundred years ago, stood a cairn called high law. when the stones were made use of to mend the roads, a skeleton was found underneath. that would, i believe, be a memorial of the fight. at "back o' th' hill," a blind road leads through what in an old map, and in tradition is called "battlefield," and the first memorial stone is called "battlestone." another similar stone is further on. following the blind road through hurstwood, the chancellor would find himself at brown end, near brown edge. at the other end of the position, eglis having won the wood, would be in the neighbourhood of hell clough, ready to charge at the same time as turketul, on the rear of anlaf's army. [illustration: old daneshouse] at this point of the battle, athelstan, seeing this, made a successful effort and pushed back the centre. then began the carnage, the memorials of which are still to be seen on brown edge, hamilton pasture, swindene, twist hill, bonfire hill, and even beyond. those who could get through the hills at widdop would do so: others however would take their "hoards" from the camps at warcock hill and other places, and burying their "treasures" as they went along, pass in front of boulsworth, and over the moor through trawden forest, between emmott and wycollar. if the saxon description of the battle, in turner's "history of the anglo-saxons" be read and compared with the ordnance maps before named, the reader will see that there is no other place in england which can show the same circumstantial evidence nor any place, having that evidence, be other than the place sought for. danes house, burnley, is thus referred to by the late mr. t. t. wilkinson, f.r.a.s.:--"danes house is now a deserted mansion situated about half-a-mile to the north of burnley, on the colne road. it has been conjectured there was a residence on the same site a.d. 937, when athelstan, king of the south saxons, overthrew with great slaughter, at the famous battle of brunanburgh, anlaf, the dane, and constantine, king of the scots. tradition states that it was here that anlaf rested on his way to the battlefield from dublin and the isles, hence the name danes house. the present deserted mansion has undergone little change since it was re-erected about the year 1500." this house has now been pulled down. the dyke or dykes, broadclough, bacup. this mighty entrenchment is over 600 yards in length and for over 400 yards of the line is 18 yards broad at the bottom. no satisfactory solution has yet been offered of the cause of this gigantic work or of the use to which it was put originally. speaking of it newbigging ("history of rossendale") says:- "the careful investigations of mr. wilkinson have invested this singular work with more of interest than had before been associated with it, by his having with marked ability and perseverance, collected together a mass of exhaustive evidence, enforced by a chain of argument the most conclusive, with regard to the much debated locality of the great struggle between the saxons and the danes, which he endeavours, and most successfully, to show is to be found in the immediate neighbourhood of burnley, and in connection with which the earthwork in question constituted, probably, a not unimportant adjunct." again, he says:- "if saxonfield (saxifield) near burnley, was the scene of the engagement between the troops of athelstan and anlaf, then it is in the highest degree probable that one or other of the rival armies, most likely that of the saxon king, forced, or attempted to force a passage through the valley of the irwell and that there they were encountered by the confederated hosts intrenched behind the vast earthwork at broadclough that commanded the line of their march. whether this was taken in flank or rear by the saxon warriors, or whether it was successful in arresting their progress, or delaying a portion of their army, it is impossible to determine; but that it was constructed for weighty strategical purposes, under the belief that its position was of the last importance, so much of the remains of the extraordinary which still exists affords sufficient evidence." place-names chapter iii. place-names. an eloquent modern writer has declared, with a good reason, that even if all other records had perished, "anyone with skill to analyse the language, might re-create for himself the history of the people speaking that language, and might come to appreciate the divers elements out of which that people was composed, in what proportion they were mingled, and in what succession they followed one upon the other." from a careful analysis of the names of the more prominent features of the land; of its divisions, its towns and villages, and even its streets, as well as the nomenclature of its legal, civil, and political institutions, its implements of agriculture, its weapons of war, and its articles of food and clothing,--all these will yield a vast fund of history. the place-name liverpool has been the greatest puzzle to local etymologists. from the earliest known spelling--recorded in a deed of the time of richard i. 1189-99, where the form is leverpool--to the present, it has gone through more changes than any other local name. as the norse element in the vicinity of liverpool has been very great, we may assume the original derivation to come from "hlith," the old norse for a "slope." the north dialect also contains the word "lither" meaning sluggish. it is an adjective bearing the same meaning as the modern english "lithe," pliant, or gentle. the names lithgoe, lethbridge, clitheroe, and litherland may be derived from it. from the peaceful reign of canute, or knut, we derive the nautical term, some place-names--knuts-ford, knott end, knot mill, knottingley. knot, from old norse "knutr," and "knotta," a ball, was the name given to the measurement of speed of a ship. fifty feet was the distance allowed between the knots on the cord, and as many as ran out in half a minute by the sand-glass indicated the speed of the ship. and thus we speak of a 10 knot breeze blowing.[b] hope, as a place-name, is common from the orkneys to the midlands, and is derived from an old norse word "hoop," for a small land-locked bay, inlet or a small enclosed valley, or branch from the main dale. hope is a common place-name, as well as a surname. in compounds we find it in hopekirk, hopeton, hapton, hopehead, dryhope. from "trow," a trough, we derive trowbridge, troughton, trawden, and probably rawtenstall. the battle of brunanburg, which took place in the year 937, is supposed to have been fought on the site of the modern burnley, on the river brun. king olaf brought his men over in 600 ships, many containing over 100 men each. he was defeated by athelstane and his brother edmund. there was until recently pulled down in burnley a house called danes-house. though the danes lost this battle, the northern bards recorded its bravery in their war songs, of which their sagas or legends still preserve some remains. among the chief followers of king athelstane in 931, who subdued the danish kingdom in england, we find the names of the following jarls: urm, gudrum, ingrard, hadder, haward, healden, rengwald, scule, and gunner. it is not difficult to recognise modern surnames from this list, such as urmston, guthrie, hodder, howard, holden, heald, reynolds, scholes, and gunning. "northumbria was the literary centre of the christian world in western europe," says john richard green; and the learning of the age was directed by the northumbrian scholar baeda, the venerable bede. yorkshire. the population of yorkshire, after the retreat of the romans, was composed of angles. when the vikings invaded the county, the wide dales only had been occupied by these early settlers. the higher valleys were densely wooded, the broad moors and mosslands had not been penetrated until the coming of the norse in 900 a.d. some anglian districts were refounded under danish names, and became flourishing settlements. canon atkinson has shown by his analysis of cleveland, that at domesday, very little of that district was under cultivation. to the end of the eleventh century it consisted of moor and forest, and that many of the villages had then danish names. the name ingleby shows the passing of the angles, by the addition of the danish 'by.' at domesday yorkshire was divided into ridings (thrithings), and wapentakes. such names as thingwall near whitby, thinghow near gainsborough, thinghow near northallerton, and tingley near wakefield, though some of the sites have disappeared, remain to show the centres of danish government. the presence of many scandinavian places and names suggests that the country before then was a wilderness. the condition of the country may be gathered from the records and traditions of reginald and symeon of durham. in 875 halfdan the dane began his raid into bernicia, and the abbot of lindisfarne, eardwulf fled before him, taking the relics of st. cuthbert. these wanderings, says symeon, covered a period of nine years. the leader of this band was eadred, the abbot of carlisle (caer-luel), whose monastery had been destroyed, and with the city, lay in ruins for two hundred years. at the places where these relics rested during their wanderings, churches were afterwards erected, and dedicated to this saint. the direction taken by the fugitives has been traced by monsignor eyre and the late rev. t. lees, first inland to elsdon, then by the reed and tyne to haydon bridge, and up the tyne valley; south by the maiden way, and then through the fells by lorton and embleton to the cumberland coast. at derwentmouth, workington, they determined to embark for ireland, but were driven back by a storm and thrown ashore on the coast of galloway, where they found a refuge at whithorn. mr. w. g. collingwood says in his "scandinavian britain," that in this storm the ms. gospels of bishop eadfirth (now in the british museum) were washed overboard, but recovered. at whithorn the bishop heard of halfdan's death, and turned homewards by way of kirkcudbright. the fact that the relics of st. cuthbert found refuge in cumberland and galloway shows that the danish invasion, from which they were saved, took very little hold of these parts. the vikings of the irish sea were already under the influence of christians, if not christianised, and were not hostile to the fugitive monks, while the natives welcomed them. the early historians relate the curious story of the election of guthred, halfdan's successor. eadred, abbot of carlisle, who was with st. cuthbert's relics at craik, in central yorkshire, on the way home, dreamt that st. cuthbert told him to go to the danish army on the tyne, and to ransom from slavery, a boy named guthred, son of hardecnut (john of wallingford says, "the sons of hardecnut had sold him into slavery"), and to present him to the army as their king. he was also to ask the army to give him the land between the tyne and the wear, as a gift to st. cuthbert and a sanctuary for criminals. confident in his mission, he carried out its directions; found the boy, ransomed him, gained the army's consent, and the gift of the land, and proclaimed guthred king at "oswigedune." eardwulf then brought to the same place the relics of st. cuthbert, on which every one swore good faith. the relics remained until 999 at chester-le-street, and there eardwulf re-established the bishopric. in these records of the saxon historian symeon, we have the curious illustration of the viking raiders becoming rapidly transformed from enemies into allies and rulers chosen from among them. the history of guthred's reign was peaceful, and he became a christian king. his election took place about the year 880. during the reign of guthred, his kingdom became christianised, the sees of lindisfarne and york survived the changes. guthred died in 894 and was buried in the high church at york. in 919 ragnvald, called by symeon "inguald," became king of york. he was one of the most romantic figures of the whole viking history. his name bore many forms of spelling: ragnvald, reignold, ronald, ranald, and reginald. coming from the family of ivar in ireland, ragnvald mac bicloch ravaged scotland in 912, fought and killed bard ottarsson in 914 off the isle of man. joined his brother at waterford in 915 and set out for his adventure in north britain. landing in cumberland, he passed along the roman wall, and becoming king of york, was the first of the irish vikings who ruled until 954. the attacks of vikings who were still pagans continued, and many curious lights are shed by the chronicles of pictish writers. the power of st. cuthbert over the lands given for a sanctuary to eadred the abbot, is recorded in the legend of olaf ball (from 'ballr,' the stubborn), a pagan who refused rent and service to st. cuthbert, for lands granted to him by ragnvald, between castle eden and the wear. this pagan came one day to the church of st. cuthbert at chester-le-street. he shouted to bishop cutheard and his congregation, "what can your dead man, cuthbert, do to me? what is the use of threatening me with his anger? i swear by my strong gods, thor and uthan, that i will be the enemy of you all from this time forth." then, when he tried to leave the church, he could not lift his foot over the threshold, but fell down dead. "and st. cuthbert, as was just, thus got his lands." the succession of races which gave many of our place-names, and the order in which they came, has been pointed out in the following names by the late canon hume, of liverpool: maeshir, now called mackerfield, was called maeshir by the britons, meaning longfield; to which the saxons added field, which now becomes longfield-field, wansbeckwater is danish, saxon, and english, three words meaning water. then we have torpenhowhill, a hill in cumberland, composed of four words, each meaning hill. in addition to maritime terms, and terms of government, we derive from danish sources titles of honour and dignity, such as king, queen, earl, knight, and sheriff. the danes have left us traces of their occupation in the word gate, which is of frequent occurrence, and used instead of street in many of our older towns. the saxons, who were less civilised, left many terms, such as ton, ham, stead, and stock. but they had no word to denote a line of houses. "gata" was therefore not the english word used for gate, but a street of houses. from the norman we have row, from rue, a street. the names of many of our streets and buildings are full of historical associations and information. in bolton, wigan, and preston we find some streets bearing the name of gate, such as bradshawgate, wallgate, standishgate, and fishergate. in the towns of york, ripon, newcastle, and carlisle many more of these gates are to be found. york has no less than twenty gates. to the roads of the romans, the danes gave the name of "a braut," _i.e._, the broken course, or cleared way. (from this "a braut" comes the modern english word abroad, and the adjective broad.) the anglo-saxon took the name of street from the roman strata. thus we get the name of broad street, being two words of similar meaning. lone, lonely, and alone come from "i laun," which means banishment, and those thus outlawed formed the brigands of the hill districts. we thus get lunesdale, lune, and lancaster, from which john of gaunt took his english title. skipper was the danish term for the master of a small vessel. in the game of bowls and curling the skipper is the leader or director. "hay," the norse for headland, pronounced hoy, furnishes us with several local place-names, such as huyton, hoylake, howick. a norse festival. trafalgar day is celebrated by the usual custom on october 21st--by the hoisting of the british flag on the public buildings and by the decoration of the nelson monuments in liverpool and london. this battle was fought in 1805, and decided the supremacy of britain as a sea power. long may the deathless signal of our greatest hero continue to be the lode star of the man and the nation: "england expects that every man will do his duty." let us trace the connection between lord nelson and the danes in our own county. admiral nelson bore a genuine scandinavian name, from "nielsen," and was a native of one of the districts which were early colonised by the danes, namely, burnhamthorpe, in norfolk. his family were connected with the village of mawdesley, near rufford, which still has for its chief industry basket-making. fairhurst hall, at parbold, in the same district of lancashire, was the home of a nelson family for many centuries. this recalls the fact that we have still in existence a curious survival. "a strange festival" is celebrated each year on january 31st at lerwick, or kirkwall, the capital of the orkney isles. the festival called "up-helly-a" seems to be growing in favour. lerwick becomes the mecca of the north for many days, and young people travel long distances to witness the revels that go to make up the celebration of the ancient festival. all former occasions were eclipsed by the last display. at half-past eight o'clock a crowd of about 3,000 people assembled in the square at the market cross. in the centre stood a norse war galley or viking ship, with its huge dragon head towering upwards with graceful bend. along the bulwarks were hung the warriors' shields in glowing colours, the norse flag, with the raven, floating overhead. on board the galley fiddlers were seated. then a light flared below fort charlotte, which announced that the good ship victory would soon be on the scene. and a stately ship she was, as she came majestically along, hauled by a squad in sailor costume, while a troop of instructors from the fort walked alongside as a guard of honour to the good vessel. the victory immediately took up her position, and the guizers began to gather. torches were served out, the bugle sounded the call to light up, and then the procession started on its way round the town. the guizers who took part numbered over three hundred, and seen under the glare of the torches the procession was one of the prettiest. the norse galley led the way, and the victory occupied a place near the centre of the procession. the dresses were very tasteful and represented every age and clime. there were gay cavaliers, red indians, knight templars, and squires of the georgian period. the procession being over, the victory and the norse galley were drawn up alongside each other, near the market cross, while the guizers formed a circle round them. toasts were proposed, songs were sung, and thereafter the proceedings were brought to a close by the guizers throwing their flaming torches on board the ships. as soon as the bonfire was thoroughly ablaze, the guizers formed themselves in their various squads, each headed by a fiddler, and began their house to house visitation. the guizer was costumed as an old norse jarl, with a sparkling coat of mail, and carried a prettily emblazoned shield and sword. the squad of which he was chief were got up as vikings. curiously enough, these were followed by dutch vrows. the orkneys and shetland isles were ceded to james iii. of scotland, as the dowry of his wife, margaret, in 1469, and became part of great britain on the union of scotland with england. james i. married ann of denmark, and passed through lancashire in august, 1617, when he visited hoghton tower. the effusiveness of the prestonians was outdone at hoghton tower, where his majesty received a private address in which he was apostrophised as "dread lord." he is reported to have exclaimed "cot's splutters! what a set of liegemen jamie has!" patronymics chapter iv. patronymics. we are sprung from the sea; a county of seaports is our dwelling-place, and the sea itself our ample dominion, covered throughout its vast extent with our fellow subjects in their "floating cities." these are filled with our wealth, which we commit to the winds and waves to distribute to the extremities of the four quarters of the world. we are therefore no common people, nor are they common events which form eras in our history; nor common revolutions which have combined and modified the elements of our speech. though we have kept no genealogies to record to us from what particular horde of settlers we are sprung--no family chronicles to tell us whether saxon, dane, norse, or norman owns us as progeny--still our names serve partly to distinguish us, and "words" themselves thus still remind us of what otherwise would be totally forgotten. it has been claimed that two-thirds of us are sprung from the anglo-saxons and danes, and had our language kept pace with our blood we should have had about two-thirds of our modern english of the same origin. but we have more. our tongue is, hence, less mixed than our blood. it is therefore easier to trace out the histories of words than of families. it is difficult at first sight to determine whether family names have been derived from family residences or the residences have obtained their names from their first proprietors. the romans imposed their military names upon the towns of the early britons. the danes added their own descrip-names, and previous to becoming converted to christianity gave the names of their heathen deities to the mountains and landmarks. to these were added the names of norse and danish kings and jarls. after the norman conquest, when the land had been divided by william the conqueror among his followers, comes the period when surnames were taken from the chief lands and residences. pagan deities supply us with many surnames. from "balder" comes balderstone, osbaldistone. "thor" gives us tursdale, turton, thursby, thorley, thurston, and thurstaston, in the wirral, near west kirby. "frëyer" supplies frisby, frankby, fry, fryer, fraisthorpe, and fraser. "uller" or "oller" gives elswick, ullersthorpe, elston, ulverston. from "vé," a sacred place, like "viborg," the old jutland assize town, we derive wydale, wigthorpe, wythorpe, willoughby, wilbeforce, wigton, and wyre. some of our earliest lancashire names are derived from "gorm," "billingr," "rollo," who were norse and danish kings. their names and their compounds show us that the danes were christianised, as "ormskirk," which provides very many surnames, such as orme, oram, ormsby, ormerod, ormeshaw; and another form of gorm, "grim" as grimshaw and grimsargh. formby and hornby may also be traced to this origin. from "billingr" we get billinge, the village near wigan, standing on a high hill and having a beacon, billington and other names of this construction. from "rollo" we derive roby, raby, rollo, rollinson, ribby. from "arving," an heir, we get irving, irvin, and irton. from "oter" we have otter, ottley, uttley. the danes sailed up the river douglas, and gave the name tarleton, from "jarlstown." many christian names come from the danish--eric, elsie, karl, harold, hugo, magnus, olave, ralph, ronald, reginald. surnames formed by the addition of "son" or "sen" are common to both danes and english, but never appear in saxon names. thus we have anderson, adamson, howson, haldan, matheson, nelson, jackson, johnson, thomson, and stevenson. the different names we find given to the same trees arise from different settlers giving and using their own form of name: "birch," "bracken," "crabtree," and "cawthorn." "wil-ding" is also known in westmorland and yorkshire. "whasset," which gives its name to a small hamlet near beetham, in westmorland, is danish; "wil-ding" is probably flemish, and also wild, wilde, as this name dates from about the year a.d. 1338, when edward iii. encouraged numbers of flemings to come over from the netherlands to introduce and improve the manufacture of woollens. he located them in different parts of the country, and we find them settled in kendal and in the vicinity of bury and rochdale. this will account for this surname being so frequently found in lancashire. from copenhagen "the harbour of merchants," we derive many important place-names and surnames. a copeman was a chapman, a merchant or dealer; and thus we derive cheap, cheapside, chepstow, and chipping. in surnames we get copeland, copley, copethorne, and capenhurst. the common expression "to chop or change," comes from this source. in the london lyckpeny of 1430 we find: "flemings began on me for to cry 'master, what will you copen or buy.'" in 1579, calvin in a sermon said: "they play the copemaisters, and make merchandise of the doctrine of this gospel." these early copmen remind us of the lancashire merchant who had visited the states after the american civil war. he said to the late john bright: "how i should like to return here, fifty years after my death, to see what wonderful progress these people have made." john bright replied: "i have no doubt, sir, you will be glad of any excuse to come back." to the abundance of surnames derived from danish origin the following are important:--lund, lindsey, lyster, galt or geld, and kell. lund was a grove where pagan rites were conducted. lindsey is a grove by the sea. lyster is danish for a fishing fork composed of barbed iron spikes on a pole for spearing fish. galt or geld, an offering of the expiatory barrow pig to the god "frëyer." from kell, in danish a "spring," we get kellet and okell. surnames of a distinct danish character, and customs derived from viking days are to be met with in our local fairs and wakes. writing on this subject, the rev. w. t. bulpit of southport says that, "robert de cowdray, who died in 1222, was an enterprising lord of manor of meols, and obtained a charter from the king, with whom he was a _persona-grata_, for a weekly wednesday market, and a yearly fair, to be held on the eve and day of st cuthbert, to whom the church is dedicated. the charter probably did but legalise what already existed; cowdray was a man of the world, and knew that it would be an advantage to his estate to have a fair. soon after his death the charter lapsed. enemies said it interfered with pre-existing fairs. though legally it had no existence the fair continued for centuries in connection with st. cuthbert's wake in march. it was also the end of the civil year, when payments had to be made, and thus farm stock was sold. this caused the market and wake to be useful adjuncts, and a preparation for welcoming the new year on march 25th, st. cuthbert's day, the anniversary of his death was held on march 23rd, and a viking custom demanded a feast. the old name of the death feast was called darval, and the name was transferred to the cakes eaten at the wake, and they were called darvel cakes.[c] long after the event commemorated was forgotten darvel cakes were supplied in lent to guests at churchtown wakes. connected with these fairs there was a ceremony of electing officials, and at these social gatherings of all the local celebrities a mayor was elected who generally distinguished himself by being hospitable. similar ceremonies still exist, where charters no longer survive, at such places as poulton near blackpool, and norden near rochdale. traces of the norman are found in dunham massey and darcy lever and a few others, but along the whole of the east and north of the county the saxon and danish landholder seems to have held in peace the ancestral manor house in which he had dwelt before the conquest, and the haughty insolence of the norman was comparatively unknown. speke, the oldest manor house in south lancashire, near liverpool, is derived from "spika," norse for mast, which was used for fattening swine. "parr" is a wooded hill, and this word enters into many compound names. "bold," near st. helens, signifies a stone house, and is the surname of one of the oldest lancashire families. the norse "brecka," a gentle declivity, is much in evidence in west lancashire, as in norbreck, warbrick, swarbrick, torbrick, killbrick in the fylde district, and also scarisbrick, in the vicinity of ormskirk. this name used to be spelt scaursbreck, and is a compound of "scaur," a bird of the seagull type, and "breck" from the natural formation of the land. birkdale, ainsdale, skelmersdale, kirkdale, ansdell, kirby, kirkby, crosby, are all place-names of danish origin which provide many surnames in the county. where danish names abound the dialect still partakes of a danish character. english surnames. a great majority are derived from trades and callings. some may be traced from ancient words which have dropped out. "chaucer"[d] and "sutor" are now meaningless, but long ago both signified a shoemaker. a "pilcher" formerly made greatcoats; a "reader," thatched buildings with reeds or straw; a "latimer" was a writer in latin for legal and such like purposes. an "arkwright" was the maker of the great meal chests or "arks," which were formerly essential pieces of household furniture; "tucker" was a fuller; "lorimer" was a sadler; "launder" or "lavender," a washerman; "tupper" made tubs; "jenner" was a joiner; "barker" a tanner; "dexter," a charwoman; "bannister" kept a bath; "sanger" is a corruption of singer or minstrel; "bowcher," a butcher; "milner" a miller; "forster," a forester; a "chapman" was a merchant. the ancestors of the colemans and woodyers sold those commodities in former generations; "wagners" were waggoners; and "naylors" made nails. a "kemp" was once a term for a soldier; a "vavasour" held rank between a knight and a baron. certain old-fashioned christian names or quaint corruptions of them have given rise to patronymics which at first sight appear hard to interpret. everyone is not aware that austin is identical with augustin; and the name anstice is but the shortening of anastasius. ellis was originally derived from elias. hood in like manner is but a modern corruption of the ancient odo, or odin. everett is not far removed from the once not uncommon christian name everard, while even stiggins can be safely referred to the northern hero "stigand." the termination "ing," signified son or "offspring." thus browning and whiting in this way would mean the dark or fair children. a number of ancient words for rural objects have long ago become obsolete. "cowdray" in olden days signified a grove of hazel; "garnett," a granary. the suffix "bec" in ashbec and holmbec is a survival of the danish "by," a habitation. "dean" signifies a hollow or dell, and the word "bottom" meant the same thing. thus higginbottom meant a dell where the "hicken" or mountain ash flourished. "beckett" is a little brook, from the norse "beck." "boys" is a corruption of "bois," the french for wood. "donne" means a down; "holt," a grove, and "hurst," a copse. "brock" was the old term for a badger, hence broxbourne; while "gos" in gosford signified a goose. on dialect in lancashire and yorkshire. the district of england which during the heptarchy was, and since has been known by the name of northumbria, which consists of the territory lying to the north of the rivers humber (whence the name north-humbria) and mersey, which form the southern boundaries, and extending north as far as the rivers tweed and forth, is generally known to vary considerably in the speech of its inhabitants from the rest of england. considering the great extent and importance of this district, comprising as it does more than one-fourth of the area and population of england, it seems surprising that the attention of philologists should not have been more drawn to the fact of this difference and its causes. from an essay on some of the leading characteristics of the dialects spoken in the six northern counties of england (ancient northumbria) by the late robert backhouse peacock, edited by the rev. t. c. atkinson, 1869, we learn that, when addressing themselves to the subject of dialect, investigators have essayed to examine it through the medium of its written rather than its spoken language. the characteristics to be found in the language now spoken have been preserved in a degree of purity which does not appertain to the english of the present day. it is therefore from the dialect rather than from any literary monuments that we must obtain the evidence necessary for ascertaining the extent to which this northumbrian differs from english in its grammatical forms,--not to speak of its general vocabulary. the most remarkable characteristic is the definite article, or the demonstrative pronoun--"t," which is an abbreviation of the old norse neuter demonstrative pronoun "hit"--swedish and danish "et." that this abbreviation is not simply an elision of the letters "he" from the english article "_the_," which is of old frisian origin, is apparent from the fact that all the versions of the second chapter, verse 1, for instance, of solomon's song, "i am the rose of sharon, and the lily of the valleys," the uniform abbreviation for all parts of england is the elision of the final letter "e," making _the_ into "th"; on the other hand, out of fourteen specimens of the same verse in northumbria, eight give the "t" occurring three times in the verse, thus, "i's t' rooaz o' sharon, an' t' lily o' t' valleys." the districts where the scandinavian article so abbreviated prevails are found in the versions to be the county of durham, central and south cumberland, westmorland; all lancashire, except the south-eastern district, and all yorkshire; an area which comprehends on the map about three-fourths of all northumbria. the next leading feature is the proposition--i, which is used for in. this is also a pure scandinavianism, being not only old norse, but used in icelandic, swedish and danish of the present day. two instances occur in the 14th verse of the same chapter, where for "o my dove, thou art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, etc.," we have idiomatic version: "o my cushat, 'at 's i' t' grikes o' t' crags, i' t' darkin' whols o' t' stairs." another word which occurs in six of the northumbrian versions is also scandinavian, viz., the relative pronoun _at_ for _that_. from this illustration of a short verse and a half of scripture, we have established the norse character of the dialect as distinguished from common english, of five of the most ordinary words in the english language, namely, the representatives of the words _the_, _in_, _that_, _art_ and _am_. these instances from the etymology of the dialects help to establish the following canon: that when a provincial word is common to more than one dialect district (that is, districts where in other respects the dialects differ from each other), it may, as a rule, be relied upon, that the word is not a corruption but a legitimate inheritance. those referred to, we have seen, are the inheritance of a whole province, that province being formerly an entire kingdom. proceeding in the usual order of grammars, having disposed of the article, we come next to the _substantives_. these differ from the ordinary english in that they recognise only one "case" where english has two. the northumbrian dialect dispenses with the possessive or genitive case almost entirely, and for "my father's hat," or "my uncle's wife's mother's house," say, "my faddher hat," and "my uncle wife muddher house." upon which, all that need be remarked is that they have gone further in simplifying this part of speech than the rest of their countrymen, who have only abolished the dative and accusative cases from the parent languages of their speech. extreme brevity and simplicity are eminently norse and northumbrian characteristics. we have already seen some remarkable instances in the versions of solomon's song, where we saw that the first three words, "i am the," are expressed in as many letters, namely, "i's t'"; and again in verse 14, "thou art in the," by "at 's i t'." we have here another instance in the abolition of the genitive case-ending, out of many more that might be added. in pronouncing the days of the week we find: sunnda for sunday, thorsda for thursday, and setterda for saturday, always with the short da. the remaining days as in ordinary english. in pronouns we find "wer" for "our," in the possessive case, from old norse vârr. relative--_at_ for who, which, that. demonstrative--t' the. that theyar--that one. thoer--these or those. indefinites--summat=something, somewhat. from old norse sum-hvat, somewhat. the two following are common at preston and adjacent districts: sooawhaasse=whosoever. sooawheddersa=whethersoever. correlative adjectival pronoun: sa mich=so much. swedish, sâ mycket. adverbs from scandinavian: backerds--backwards. connily--prettily, nicely. eigh--yes; forrùt, forrud--forwards; helder--preferably; i mornin--to-morrow; i now--presently; lang sen--long since; lowsley--loosely; neddher--lower nether; neya--no; noo--now; reetly--rightly; sa--so; sen--since; shamfully--shamefully. shaply--shapely; sooa--so. tull--to; weel--well; whaar--where. _interjections._ ech!--exclamation of delight. hoity-toity!--what's the matter: from old norse "hutututu." woe-werth!--woe betide. an illustration. a good illustration of danish terms may be gathered from the following conversation heard by a minister in this county between a poor man on his death-bed and a farmer's wife, who had come to visit him: "well, john," she said, "when yo' getten theer yo'll may happen see eaur tummus; and yo'll tell 'im we'n had th' shandry mended, un a new pig-stoye built, un 'at we dun pretty well beawt him." "beli' me, meary!" he answered, "dost think at aw's nowt for t' do bo go clumpin' up un deawn t' skoies a seechin' yo're tummus!" the word "mun" also is in frequent use, and comes from the danish verb "monne;" the danish "swiga," to drink in, as "to tak a good swig," and "heaw he swigged at it!" many danish words become purely english, as foul, fowl; kow, cow; fued, food; stued, stood; drown, drown; "forenoun" and "atternoun" became "forenoon" and "afternoon;" stalker, stalker; kok, cock; want, to want. in popular superstition the races had much in common. the danish river sprite "nok," imagined by some to be "nick," or "owd nick," the devil; but properly "nix," a "brownie." he wore a red cap and teased the peasants who tried to "flit" (danish "flytter") in order to escape him. though we have "gretan," to weep, it also means to salute or bid farewell, from the danish "grata." "give o'er greeting," we hear it said to a crying child. while "greeting" is a popular word of danish origin, so is "yuletide" for christmas, and "yule candles," "yule cakes," "yule log." the word "tandle" means fire or light, and is given to a hill near oldham. from this we derive our "candle." "lake," to play, is still used in our district, but never heard where danish words are not prevalent. in the danish, "slat" means to slop, and it is said, "he slat the water up and down." a very common participle in lancashire is "beawn." the danish "buinn" is "prepared," or "addressed to," or "bound for," as "weere ar't beawn furt' goo?" in danish and lancashire "ling" means heath; but it does not occur in anglo-saxon. from the danish "snig," to creep, we get "snig," eels. locally we also have the name "rossendale," which covers a large extent of our county. may we not suppose this to be from "rost," a torrent or whirlpool, and "dale," the danish for valley? the names of places beginning or ending with "garth," or "gaard," shows that the people were settling in "gaarde" or farms belonging to the chief, earl, or udaller. with the danish "steen," for stone, we have garston, garstang, garton, as well as garswood and garden. the danish having no such sound or dipthong as our "th," must account for the relic of the pronunciation "at" for "that," which is much used in our local dialect, as "it's toime at he were here,"--"at" being the danish conjunction for "that." the word we use for sprinkling water, to "deg," does not come from the anglo-saxon "deagan," which means to dye or tinge with colour, but from "deog" or "deigr." shakespeare uses the word in the "tempest," where prospero says: "when i have deck'd the sea with drops full salt." from "klumbr," a mass or clod, we get "clump," as clump of wood, and "clumpin' clogs." stowe says, "he brought his wooden shoes or clumpers with him." physical types still existing chapter v. physical types still existing. as early as the eleventh century the names of english towns and villages are written in the domesday book with the danish ending "by" or "bi," and not with the norwegian form of "böer" or "bö." this preponderance of danish endings proves the widely extended influence of the danes in the north. that they should have been preserved in such numbers for more than eight centuries after the fall of the danish dominion in england, disproves the opinion that the old danish inhabitants of the country were supplanted or expelled after the cessation of the danish rule (1042), first by the anglo-saxons, and afterwards by the normans. mr. wörsæ says: "the danes must have continued to reside in great numbers in these districts, previously conquered by them, and consequently it follows that a considerable part of the present population may with certainty trace their origin to the northmen, and especially to the danes. the general appearance of the inhabitants is a weighty corroboration of the assertions of history. the black hair, dark eye, the prominent nose, and the long oval face to be found in the southerners remind us of the relationship with the romans, or a strong mixture of the british anglo-saxon and norman races. the difference in physiognomy and stature of the northern races are also easily be recognised. the form of face is broader, the cheekbones stand out prominently, the nose is flatter, and at times turned somewhat upwards. the eyes and hair are of a lighter colour, and even deep red hair is far from uncommon. the people are not very tall in stature, but usually more compact and strongly built than those of the south." [illustration: example of ancient danish loom; from the färoes, now in bergen museum.] the still existing popular dialect is an excellent proof that the resemblance of the inhabitants is not confined to an accidental or personal likeness. many words and phrases are preserved in the local dialect which are neither found nor understood in other parts of the country. these terms are not only given to waterfalls, mountains, rivulets, fords, and islands, but are also in common use in daily life. the housewife has her spool and spinning wheel from "spole"; her reel and yarn-winder from "rock" and "granwindle"; her baking-board from "bagebord." she is about to knead dough, from "deig"; and in order to make oaten bread, or thin cakes beaten out by the hand, we have clap-bread or clap-cake, form "klapperbröd" and "klapper-kake." she spreads the tablecloth, "bordclaith," for dinner, "onden"; while the fire smokes, "reeks," as it makes its way through the thatch, "thack," where in olden times the loft, "loft," was the upper room or bower, "buir." out in the yard or "gaard," is the barn, "lade," where is stored the corn in "threaves." in the river are troughs, "trows," used to cross over. these were two small boats, cut out of the trunks of trees, and held together by a crosspole. by placing a foot in each trough the shepherd rowed himself across with the help of an oar. he goes up the valley, "updaal," to clip, "klippe," the sheep. it is said that canute the great crossed over the river severn in this manner, when he concluded an agreement with edmund ironsides to divide england between them. blether, from "bladdra," is also a common expression, meaning to "blubber or cry," to gabble or talk without purpose. another form of the word is "bleat," as applied to sheep. other words now in use from the norse are "twinter," a two-year-old sheep, and "trinter," a three-year-old. a "gimmer lamb" is a female lamb. the lug-mark, _i.e._, a bit cut out of a sheep's ear that it may be recognised by the owner, is from lögg mark." lög is law, and thus it is the legal mark. the "smit" or smear of colour, generally red, by which the sheep are marked occurs in the bible of ulphilas in the same sense as smear. another proof may be found on the carving in the knitting sticks made and used by the northern peasantry of the present day. the patterns are decidedly scandinavian. of the people of this district, it may be said that in their physical attributes they are the finest race in the british dominions. their scandinavian descent, their constant exposure to a highly oxygenised atmosphere, their hereditary passion for athletic sports and exercises, their happy temperament, their exemption from privation, and many other causes, have contributed to develop and maintain their physical pre-eminence, and to enable them to enjoy as pastime an amount of exposure and fatigue that few but they would willingly encounter. thomas de quincey, who lived thirty years among them, observed them very closely, and knew them, well, after remarking that "it is the lower classes that in every nation form the 'fundus' in which lies the national face, as well as the national character," says: "each exists here in racy purity and integrity, not disturbed by alien inter-marriages, nor in the other by novelties of opinion, or other casual effects derived from education and reading." the same author says: "there you saw old men whose heads would have been studies for guido; there you saw the most colossal and stately figures among the young men that england has to show; there the most beautiful young women. there it was that sometimes i saw a lovelier face than ever i shall see again." the eloquent opium-eater gave the strongest possible proof that his admiration was real by taking one of these "beautiful young women" to wife. the men of our northern dales do not pay much respect to anyone who addresses them in language they are not accustomed to, nor do they make much allowance for ignorance of their own dialect. in a northern village we once stopped to speak to an old lady at her door, and began by remarking that the river was much swollen. "we call it a beck," said the old lady, turning her back upon us, and telling her granddaughter to bring out the scrapple. "whatever may a scrapple be?" we asked, deferentially. "why, that's what a scrapple may be," she said, indicating a coal-rake in the girl's hand. as we moved away, we overheard her say to a neighbour, "i don't know where he has been brought up. he calls th' beck a river, and doesn't know what a scrapple is!" they have a very quick sense of humour, and often practice a little mystification on inquisitive strangers. to a tourist who made the somewhat stupid inquiry, "does it ever rain here?" the countrymen replied: "why it donks, and it dozzles, and sometimes gives a bit of a snifter, but it ne'er comes in any girt pell," leaving the querist's stock of information very much as he found it. the first invasion of the danes took place in the year 787, and to scotland they gave the name of "sutherland," and the hebrides were the southern islands, or "sudreygar," a name which survives in the title of the bishop of sodor and man. the forest of rossendale contains eleven "vaccaries," or cow-pastures (we are told by mr. h. c. march, m.d.), which were called "booths," from the huts of the shepherds and cowherds. from this we trace cowpebooth, bacopbooth, and crawshawbooth. booth is derived from the old norse "bûd," a dwelling, while from "byr" and "boer" we get the surnames byrom, burton, buerton, bamber, thornber. "forseti" was the judge of one of the norse deities, and the word supplies us with fawcett, facit, or facid as it was spelt in 1781, and foster. unal was a danish chief, whose name survives as a surname neal, niel, and o'neil. from the old norse "yarborg," an earthwork, we get yarborough, yerburgh, sedburg, and sedberg. boundaries have always been matters of great importance, and "twistle" is a boundary betwixt farms. endrod was king of norway in 784, and his name furnishes endr, whose boundary becomes entwistle, and also enderby. rochdale is derived from "rockr," old norse for rock, and dale from the norse "daal," a wide valley; thus the norsename rochdale supplanted celtic-saxon name of "rachdam." "gamul," meaning old, was a common personal name among norsemen. in a grant of land dated 1051, fifteen years before the conquest, appears the name of gouse gamelson, which is a distinct norse patronymic. gambleside was one of the vaccaries or cow-pastures of rossendale forest, and was spelt gambulside. in anglo-saxon and teutonic dialects "ing" is a patronymic, as in bruning, son of brun, says mr. robert ferguson, m.p., in his "surnames as a science." but it has also a wider sense. thus, in leamington it signifies the people of the leam, on which river the place is situated. from a like origin comes the name of the scandinavian vikings, vik-ing; the people from vik, a bay. sir j. picton, in his "ethnology of wiltshire," says: "when the saxons first invaded england they came in tribes, and families headed by their patriarchal leaders. each tribe was called by its leader's name, with the termination 'ing,' signifying family. where they settled they gave their patriarchal name to the mark, or central point round which they clustered." considering the great number of these names, amounting to over a thousand in england, and the manner in which they are dispersed, it is impossible to consider them as anything else than the everyday names of men. this large number will serve to give an idea of the very great extent to which place-names are formed from the names of men who founded the settlements. it must be remembered that the earlier date now generally assigned for the teutonic settlements tends to give greater latitude to the inquiry as to the races by whom the settlements were made, as well as the fact that all our settlements were made in heathen times. from the neighbouring tribe of picts we retain one form "pecthun," from which we derive the surnames of picton, peyton, and paton. this may suggest that we owe the name peat to the same origin. we have also the word pictures, probably formed from "pict," and "heri," a warrior. political freemen chapter vi. political freemen under the reign of ethelred ii. the supremacy of the anglo-saxons had already passed away. as a people they sank, and left only a part of their civilisation and institutions to their successors, the danes and normans. the development of a maritime skill unknown before, of a bold manly spirit of enterprise, and of a political liberty which, by preserving a balance between the freedom of the nobles and of the rest of the people, ensured to england a powerful and peaceful existence. danish settlers in england conferred a great benefit on the country, from a political point of view, by the introduction of a numerous class of independent peasantry. these people formed a striking contrast to the oppressed race of anglo-saxons. turner says: "the danes seem to have planted in the colonies they occupied a numerous race of freemen, and their counties seem to have been well peopled." the number of these independent landowners was consequently greatest in the districts which were earliest occupied by the danes, where they naturally sprung up from the danish chiefs parcelling out the soil to their victorious warriors. twenty years after the norman conquest there was a greater number of independent landed proprietors, if not, in the strictest sense of the word, freeholders, in the districts occupied by the danes, and under "danelag," than in any other of the anglo-saxon parts of england. the smaller anglo-saxon agriculturists were frequently serfs, while the danish settlers, being conquerors, were mostly freemen, and in general proprietors of the soil. domesday book mentions, under the name of "sochmanni," a numerous class of landowners or peasants in the danish districts of the north, while in the south they are rarely to be found. they were not freeholders in the present sense of the term. they stood in a feudal relation to a superior lord, but in such a manner that the "sochmanni" may best be compared with our present "hereditary lessees." their farm passed by inheritance to their sons, they paying certain rents and performing certain feudal duties; but the feudal lord had no power to dispose of the property as he pleased. the following is an abstract of a paper on tithe and tenure in the north, by the rev. j. h. colligan:- danish influence on land tenure was originally a military one. in westmorland the manors were granted round several great baronies or fees. the barons held their estates "in capite" from the king, upon conditions that were mainly military, while the lords of the manors held of the barons, their chief duty being, to keep a muster-roll of their tenants for the discharge of the military claims of the barons. the tenants held of the lord by fines and services, the latter being, until the close of the xvith century, of a military character. this baronial system, perfected by william the conqueror, gave enormous power into the hands of the barons. the hudlestons, of millum castle, lancashire, exercised the prerogative of "jura regalia" for twenty-two generations. they also had the privileges of "wreck of the sea." some of the barons had the power of capital punishment, others, again, had the right to nominate sheriffs. they held their own courts and could be either friends or rivals of the king, to whom alone they owed homage, with service at home or abroad. the authority thus obtained by the barons was distributed to the knights and lords of the manors, who, in their turn, levied conditions upon their dependants. this system of devolution of power received from the king was enjoyed also by the church, and kept the counties always ready for war. when the martial spirit began to forsake the land, and peaceful and sporting pleasures arose, we find a new form of tenure. lands and tenements are given for the apparently trifling conditions of keeping up eyries of hawks for the baron, or of providing a gilt spur, or of producing a rose, sometimes out of season but generally in the time of roses, or of making presents of pepper, ginger, cloves, or some other tasty trifle. a number of these rents require no explanation, as they are only the reflex of the passion of the age. horses, dogs and hawks for the knight, pepper, ginger and cloves for the monks, are easily understood. the reasons for the rose and stirrup, the spur and the glove are not so apparent. it is possible that originally they were symbolical of real rent or service. the transition from the actual to the symbolical must have taken place in the xivth and xvth centuries. we have hitherto been speaking of the relationship between the barons and the monks, the knights and the lords of the manor. there is no reference to tenants, because there was no such thing as a free individual tenure before the middle of the xvith century. the soldier-tenants clung round the barony of the manor, and their position was defined as "tenantes ad voluntatem." it was only in elizabeth's reign that the demands of the tenants began to be formulated, and the unique form of tenure called "tenant right" appeared on the border. it is difficult to discover when and how the movement for freedom on the part of the tenants began, but it certainly is associated with the reformation, and is seen plainly in those places where protestantism was vigorous. we shall examine the growth of this form of tenure as it appeared in a cumberland manor. in the neighbourhood under consideration we find three kinds of tenants. at the one extreme were the drenges, who were probably saxon slaves; at the other were tenants by right, who were probably equal in dignity and privilege in the early days to the lord of the manor himself. in cumberland and westmoreland traces of the drengage tenements may be found, and the bondgate, appleby, is an illustration of drengage dwellings. the tenants by right are found in cumberland, where they are now called yeomen, and in westmorland, where they are known as statesmen (steadsmen), and in north lancashire, where, to the regret of the writer in the victoria county history, the yeomen are gradually disappearing. mr. j. brownbill says that tenant right was frequently urged all over furness and cartmel and in warton and the northern border of lancashire. he refers to the particulars in west's "antiquities of furness." we have not been able to ascertain the origin of the tenure as it applies to north lancashire, but on the borders it is the outcome of an interesting and unique form of service called cornage. it is still a disputed point as to the origin of the word. some holding it to from the fact that the lord gave notice of the enemies' approach by winding a horn; others that it was much earlier in its origin, and arises from the horn or cattle tax, still known in westmorland as neator nowt-geld. whichever origin be taken, it is clear that, from the time of queen elizabeth, the keeping of the borders was an important service, and is seen from the fact that the tenant could not hire another to take his place. in regard to this border service, known as cornage, the lord had several privileges which included wardship or control over the heir, until he was 21 years of age; marriage, which gave him the right of arranging a marriage if the inheritance had devolved upon a female; and relief, which was the payment of a certain sum by the heir upon taking possession of the inheritance. the chief privilege which the "tenant-by-right" possessed for his border service was that of devising his tenement by _will_, a privilege which is much prized until this day. at the restoration the "drengage tenure" was raised into a socage tenure, and it was under this tenure, with that of cornage, and sometimes with a combination of these forms, that most of the tenements of the manors of cumberland and westmorland were held. these holders came to be described as customary tenants. the customary tenant is distinguished from the freeholder, and the copyholder, in that he is not seised of his land in fee simple, as is the freeholder, and is not subject to the disabilities of the copyholder, nor are his customary dues considered derogatory to the nobility of his tenure. the customary tenant is therefore between the freeholder and the copyholder, with a number of well defined privileges. the two most important duties of the average tenant in cumberland and westmorland were those of warfare and the watching of the forests. the former depended entirely upon the attitude of the other kingdoms, especially scotland; the latter was a long and laborious service laid upon the tenant until the middle of the xvith century. the counties of cumberland and westmorland were dense forests until long after the norman conquest, and the timber for the royal shipyards was grown in these highlands of england. the forests were full of game, and the regulations in connection with the preservation of game and the upkeep of the forests were most exacting upon the people. from the middle of the xvith century, however, these ancient laws and services began to lose their force, and a new set of regulations arose to meet the new environment. slowly but surely the feudal system had passed away. here and there a relic remained, but it was impossible to ignore the rights of men who could no longer be bought and sold with a tenement. from the first year of the reign of elizabeth the border service is well defined and the claims of the tenants became fixed. several years before, lord wharton, as deputy-general of the west marches, drew up a series of regulations for the protection of that part of the border. in an interesting article by mr. graham, we find how the men of hayton, near carlisle, turned out every night with their spears, and remained crouched on the river bank in the black darkness or the pouring rain. it is a typical example of borderers engaged upon their regular service. this system had superseded the feudal system. the feudal tenure survived in many instances where a power. like one of their own tumultuous forces, when once directed into the right stream, they went to form that new product which we call an englishman. the documents, which were discovered at penruddock in the township of hutton soil--the "kist" is in the possession of mr. wm. kitchen, town head, penruddock--relate to a struggle between the lord and the tenants of hutton john, cumberland, on the subject of tenant right. so far as we are aware these documents are unique. the various authorities on cumberland history give reference to a number of these disputes but no mention is made of the hutton john case, so that we have here for the first time a full knowledge of what was probably the most important of all these trials. in addition, while there are no documents relating to the other cases, we have here every paper of the hutton john case preserved. the story of the discovery is that the writer (the rev. j. hay colligan) was searching for material for a history of the penruddock presbyterian meeting house when he came across a kist, or chest, containing these documents. (a calendar of these documents may be found in the cumberland and westmorland transactions for 1908.) the manor of hutton john had long been in the possession of the hutton family when it passed in 1564 to a son of sir john hudleston of millum castle by his marriage with mary hutton. her brother thomas had burdened the estate on account of his imprisonment lasting about fifty years. it was the son of this marriage, joseph by name, who became the first lord of the manor, and most of the manorial rights still remain with the hudleston family. after joseph hudleston came three andrews--first, 1603-1672; second, 1637-1706; third, 1669-1724--and it was with these four lords that the tenants carried on their historical dispute. the death of thomas hutton took place some time after 1620 and was the occasion for raising a number of questions that agitated the manor for almost a century afterwards. it flung the combustible topic of tenure into an atmosphere that was already charged with religious animosity, and the fire in the manor soon was as fierce as the beacon-flare on their own skiddaw. the position of the parties in the manor may be summed up by saying that joseph hudleston insisted that the tenants were tenants-at-will, and the tenants on the other hand claimed tenant right. whatever may have been the origin of cornage, it is clear that by the xviith century it was synonymous with tenant right. the details in the dispute cannot here be treated, but the central point was the subject of a general fine. this fine, frequently called gressome, was the entrance fine which the tenant paid to the lord upon admittance. in some manors it was a two years' rent, in others three. an unusual form in the manor of hutton john was a seven years' gressome, called also a running fine or a town-term. this was the amount of two years' rent at the end of every seven years. the contention of the tenants was, that as this was a running fine, no general fine was due to the lord of the manor on the death of the previous lord. from this position the tenants never wavered, and for over seventy years they fought the claim of the lord. upon the death of thomas hutton the tenants claiming tenant right refused to pay the general fine to joseph hudleston. after wrangling with the tenants for a few years, joseph brought a bill against them in 1632. he succeeded in obtaining a report from the law lord, baron trevor, which plays an important part in the case unto the end. he apparently disregarded the portion which applied to himself, and pressed the remainder upon the tenants. the tenants thereupon decided to send three of their number with a petition to charles i. and it was delivered to the king at newmarket. he ordered his judges to look into the matter. the civil war, however, had begun, and the whole country was about to be filled with smoke and flame. needless to say the tenants took the side of parliament, while the lord of the manor, the first andrew, was described in the records as a papist in arms. during the civil war the whole county of cumberland was in action. the manor of hutton john was mainly for the parliament. greystoke castle, only two miles from the manor, surrendered to the parliamentary troops. the termination of the civil war in 1651 was the date for the beginning of litigation between the hudleston family and the parliament on the subject of the manor. after this was over the struggle between the lord and the tenants began again. in their distress the tenants sent a letter to lord howard of naworth castle, whose puritan sympathies were well known. this is a feature of the case that need not be dwelt upon, but without which there can be no complete explanation of the story. the struggle was in fact a religious one. the occasion of it was the entrance into a cumberland manor of a lancashire family, and the consequent resentment on the part of the adherents of the manor, who boasted that they had been there "afore the hudlestons." the motives which prompted each party were those expressed in the words puritan _v._ papist. the year 1668 was a memorable one in the history of the dispute. in that year the tenants brought a bill of complaint against the lord at carlisle assizes. the judge, at the opening of the court, declared that the differences could be compounded by some gentlemen of the county. all the parties agreed, and the court made an order whereby sir philip musgrave, kt. and bart., and sir john lowther, bart., were to settle the case before september 21st. if they could not determine within that time they were to select an umpire within one week, who must make his award before lady-day. sir philip musgrave and sir john lowther accepted the responsibility placed upon them by the court and took great pains to accommodate the differences, but finding themselves unable to furnish the award within the time specified they elected sir george fletcher, bart., to be umpire. sir george fletcher made his award on march 3rd, 1668. the original document, written, signed and sealed with his own hand, is here before us. its tattered edges prove that it has been frequently referred to. sir george fletcher's award was on the whole in favour of the tenants, and especially on the subject of the general fine, which he declared was not payable on the death of the lord. other important matters were dealt with, including heriots, widows' estates, the use of quarries on the tenements, the use of timber, the mill rent, together with the subject of boons and services. all the tenants acquiesced in the award, and the lord paid the damages for false imprisonment to several of the tenants. in the year 1672 andrew hudleston the first died, and andrew the second, 1637-1706, succeeded to the lordship. he immediately began to encroach. he demanded the general fine in addition to rents and services, contrary to the award. the struggle therefore broke out afresh as fiercely as ever, and both parties returned to the old subject of tenure. the matter became a religious one owing to the restoration and the rigid acts which followed between 1662-1689. an extraordinary incident occurred at this time in the conversion of the lord to the protestant cause, but this did not affect the dispute between him and the tenants. in 1699 the tenants moved again. they requested the court to put into operation the award of sir george fletcher. from that year until 1704 the strife was bitterer than ever, and the kist contains more documents relating to this period than to any other. in the year 1704, after several judgments had previously been made against the third andrew hudleston and his late father, the former appealed to the house of lords, and the case was dismissed in favour of the tenants. although the struggle lasted until the year 1716, the climax was reached in 1704. the historical value of the case is the way in which it illustrates the conditions of tenure in the north-west of england, and at the same time pourtrays the pertinacity in spite of serious obstacles of the yeoman class in asserting its rights. _tithe._ the subject of tithe is one that can only be dealt with in a restricted way and from one point of view. it is well known that, through the influence of george fox in north lancashire, quakerism spread with frenzied force through westmorland and cumberland. many of those who had been previously content with puritan doctrines seceded to the quakers. the practice of declining to pay the tithe, in the case which the documents before us illustrate, was of a different character. it occurs in the parish of greystoke, in which the manor of hutton john was situated. five years after the award of sir george fletcher on the tenure case, the nonconforming section of the tenants of hutton john raised another question of a tithe called "bushel corn." this had been regularly paid to the rector of greystoke from time immemorial. even the puritan rectors had received this tithe down to that great puritan, richard gilpin, who was ejected from the rectory of greystoke in 1661. the point in dispute was not a deliberate refusal of the tithe, it was a declaration of the parishioners that the _measure_ was an unjust one. the contest was carried on by john noble, of penruddock, and thos. parsons, the steward of the countess of arundel and surrey, lady of the barony of greystoke. associated with parsons was john robson, a servant and proctor of the rector. parsons and robson were farmers of the tithe, but the case had the full consent of the rector, the rev. allan smallwood, d.d. the immediate cause of the dispute was the question of the customary measure. it resulted in the settlement of a vexatious subject which was as to the size of a _bushel_. the matter was one of contention throughout the country until standard weights and measures were recognised and adopted. in cumberland the most acute form was upon the subject of the corn bushel. the deviations in quantity were difficult to suppress, and several law cases upon this matter are on record. in the parish of greystoke the case was first begun in 1672. the bushel measure had been gradually increased from sixteen gallons, which amount the parishioners acknowledged and were prepared to pay, until it reached twenty-two gallons. the case passed through the assizes of three counties, being held at carlisle, lancaster and appleby, and a verdict for the parishioners was eventually given. the documents, apart from their intrinsic worth, have thus an inestimable value, in that they shed light upon and give information in regard to the doings in a cumberland manor where hitherto there has been but darkness and silence, as far as the records of the people were concerned. we are able now to follow with interest and satisfaction a story that is equal in courage and persistence with the best traditions of english love of justice and fair play. the documents in this case were numerous but small, and were in many cases letters and scraps of paper. as a piece of local history it is not to be compared with the tenure case, but it contains valuable items of parish life in the xviith century. perhaps the best of the letters are those from sir john otway, the well-known lawyer. john noble the yeoman has several letters full of fine touches. the depositions of the witnesses at cockermouth in 1672 are picturesque. the lawyers' bills, of which there are many, are not so illuminating. there are several letters of henry johnes of lancaster, who was mayor of that town on two occasions. public men regard it as a great honour to represent the northern districts of england in parliament, merely from the intelligent political character of the voters; and it was certainly through the adherence of the love of freedom in the north that cobden and bright were able to struggle so successfully for the promotion of free trade and for financial reform. sir e. bulwer lytton, the great english writer, says: "those portions of the kingdom originally peopled by the danes are noted for their intolerance of all oppression, and their resolute independence of character, to wit, yorkshire, lancashire, norfolk, and cumberland, and large districts in the scottish lowlands." memorials of the danes are mixed up with england's freest and most liberal institutions; and to the present day the place where the candidate for a seat in parliament addressed the electors bears throughout england the pure danish name of the "husting." when william i. began to conquer england, and to parcel it out among his warriors, it was the old danish inhabitants who opposed him; who would have joined him, their kinsman the norman, especially as he gave it out that one of their objects in coming to england was to avenge the danes and norwegians who were massacred by ethelred, but the normans aimed at nothing less than the abolition of the free tenure of estates and the complete establishment of a feudal constitution. this mode of proceeding was resented, which would rob the previously independent man of his right to house and land, and by transferring it to the powerful nobles shook the foundation of freedom. the danes turned from them in disgust, and no longer hesitated to join the equally oppressed anglo-saxons. the normans were obliged to build strong fortifications, for fear of the people of scandinavian descent, who abounded both in the towns and rural districts. what the normans chiefly apprehended was attacks from the danes who, there was good reason to suppose, might come over with their fleets, to the assistance of their countrymen in the north of england. the norman kings who succeeded william the conqueror dwelt in perfect safety in the southern districts, but did not venture north without some fear, and a chronicler who lived at the close of the twelfth century assures us that they never visited this part of the kingdom without being accompanied by a strong army. abolition of slavery. in those districts where the danes exercised complete dominion the custom of slavery was abolished. this fact is established by a comparison of the population of those districts colonised by the danes with that of the older english districts. the population returns given in domesday book prove that no "servi" existed in the counties where danish influence was greatest. both in yorkshire and lincolnshire at this time there is no record of slavery. in the counties where this influence was less, such as nottingham, the returns show that one serf existed to every 200 of the population. in derbyshire 1 per cent., in norfolk and suffolk 4 per cent., in leicestershire 6 per cent., in northamptonshire 10 per cent., in cambridge, hertford and essex 11 per cent. outside the influence of the danelagh the proportion is much greater. in oxfordshire 14 per cent. were slaves, in worcester, bucks, somerset and wiltshire 15 per cent., in dorset and hampshire 16 per cent., in shropshire 17 per cent., in devonshire 18 per cent., in cornwall 21 per cent., and in gloucestershire 24 per cent., or almost one-fourth of the whole population. these records were not made by danish surveyors, but norman officials, and explode the theory of historians like green who assert that the english settlers were communities of free men. these conditions of tenure were introduced by the danes, and became so firmly established that the names given to such freeholders as "statesmen" in cumberland, "freemen" and "yeomen" in yorkshire, westmorland and north lancashire still exist at the present day. as we have seen, records of struggles for tenant rights have come to light in recent years which prove that feudal conditions were imposed by successive landlords, and were resisted both before and after the commonwealth. invasion and settlement. the norse settlement at the mouth of the dee dated from the year 900 when ingimund, who had been expelled from dublin, was given certain waste lands near chester, by aethelflaed, lady of the mercians. this colony extended from the shore of flint, over the wirral peninsula to the mersey, and it is recorded in domesday by the name of their thingwall or tingvella. along with the group of norse names in the wirral is thurstaston, or thors-stone, or thorstun-tun. this natural formation of red sandstone has been sometimes mistaken for a tingmount or norse monument. several monuments of the tenth century norse colony are to be found in the district, such as the hogback stone in west kirby museum, and the gravestone bearing the wheel-shaped head. a similar monument was found on hilbre island, and other remains of cross slabs occur at neston and bromborough. the norse place-names of wirral prove that these lands were waste and unoccupied, when names of danish origin were given, such as helsby, frankby, whitby, raby, irby, greasby and pensby. some wirral names are composed of celtic and norse, as the settlers brought both gælic and norse names from ireland. these are found in the norse runes in the isle of man and north of lancaster. socmen were manorial tenants who were free in status, though their land was not held by charter, like that of a freeholder, but was secured to them by custom. they paid a fixed rent for the virgate, or part of a virgate, which they generally held; and, taking the peterborough socmen as examples, they were bound to render farm produce, such as fowls and eggs, at stated seasons; to lend their plough teams thrice in winter and spring; to mow and carry hay; to thresh and harrow, and do other farm work for one day ... and to help at the harvest for one or two days. their services contrasted with the _week-work_ of a villein, were little more than nominal and are comparable to those of the radmanni. the peterborough socmen reappear under the "descriptio militum" of the abbey, where it is said they were served "cum militibus," but this appears to be exceptional. socmen were like "liber tenentes" frequently liable to "merchet, heriot and tallage." their tenure was the origin of free socage, common in the thirteenth century, and now the prevailing tenure of land in england. socmen held land by a fixed money payment, and by a fixed though trivial amount of base service which would seem to ultimately disappear by commutation." all socmen as customary tenants required the intervention of the steward of the manor in the transfer or sale of their rights. ("palgrave's dictionary of political economy," p. 439.) _merchet._ of all the manorial exactions the most odious was the "merchetum," a fine paid by the villain on giving his daughter in marriage. it was considered as a mark of servile descent, and the man free by blood was supposed to be always exempted from it, however debased his position was in every other respect. in the status of socmen, developed from the law of saxon freemen there was usually nothing of the kind. "heriot" was the fine or tax payable to the lord or abbot on the death of the socman. the true heriot is akin in name and in character to the saxon "here-great"--to the surrender of the military outfit supplied by the chief to his follower. in feudal time and among peasants it is not the war-horse and armour that is meant, but the ox and harness take their place. (vinogradoff, "mediæval manors": political exactions, chap. v., 153.) _mol-men._ etymologically, there is reason to believe that this term is of danish origin, and the meaning has been kept in practice by the scotch dialect (_vide_ "ashley, economic history," i, pp. 56-87.) _tallage._ the payment of arbitrary tallage is held during the thirteenth century to imply a servile status. such tallage at will is not very often found in documents, although the lord sometimes retained his prerogative in this respect even when sanctioning the customary form of renders and services. now and then it is mentioned that tallage is to be levied once a year although the amount remains uncertain. ("villianage in england," chap. v, 163, vinogradoff.) husbandry chapter vii. husbandry. the influence of the norse has been felt in terms connected with land. "god speed the plough" has been the toast of many a cup at many a merry meeting for many a century past in this realm. yet we seem not generally to know by whom the name of the plough was introduced amongst us. the anglo-saxon knew nothing of such an implement and its uses ere they settled in the land. this is apparent from their not having a term for it in their own tongue. even when they were accustomed to the use of the so-called plough of the romans, which they found in the hands of the british at their settlement in the country, they so confounded the terms of husbandry that they gave the name of "syl" or "suhl" to the roman-british implement, from the furrow "sulcus," which it drew, without attending in the least to the roman-british name. the work of one such plough during a season they have called a "sulling" or furrowing. this so-called plough, from the figures left of it in the anglo-saxon mss., seems to have been but a sorry kind of an article, not fit to be brought into comparison with the worst form of our plough in the neglected districts of england. we owe both the framework and the origin of the modern plough to the northerners. we meet with the word in the old norse "plogr." in swedish it is "plog"; while in danish it occurs both as "plov" and "ploug," as in english, and it was in all probability introduced by that people during the eleventh century, at the latter part of their dynasty within the island. there is no root either in the teutonic or scandinavian tongues from which it is deducible. the british name for their plough was "aradr," their mode of pronouncing the latin "aratum," the word for the roman plough. the sort of agriculture which was known in the very early times must have been extremely simple, if we are to judge it by the terms which have reached our times. ulphilas, in his translation of the greek testament construes the word for plough with the gothic word "hôha," the origin of our modern term "hoe." we may therefore surmise that in these primitive times natives hoed the ground for their crops for want of better implements to turn up the soil. while we owe to the norse the name for plough, we are also indebted to them for the term "husbandry." among the scandinavians, the common name for the peasantry was "bondi," the abstract form of "buondi," dwelling in, or inhabiting a country. as intercourse with more civilised nations began to civilise the inhabitants of these northern climes, certain favoured "bondi" had houses assigned to them, with plots of ground adjoining for the use of their families. as the culture of such private plots was distinct from the common culture of other land, the person so favoured, separated from the general herd, obtained the name of "husbondi," and the culture of their grounds "husbondri." when such families obtained settlements in england, they brought over with them the habits and names of the north; and from mingling with the anglo-saxon natives, with whom adjuncts to introduced terms and titles were common, the suffix of "man" was applied to the name of "husbondi," who thus became "husbandmen," a term still kept up in the northern counties for labourers on farms, who are styled husbandmen to this day. names from trades and handicrafts were given to persons employed therein both by danes and anglo-saxons. such names keep up their distinction to the present day. the general name of artizans of every kind was smith. simple "smiths" are anglo-saxon, "smithies" are norse. "millars," from the trade of millers, are anglo-saxon. "milners" for the same reason are norse. "ulls," "woolley" is anglo-saxon, "woolner" is norse; "fullers" and "towers" are anglo-saxon; "kilners" and "gardners," norse. some names derived from offices as "gotts" from "gopr," a priest, or one who had charge of a "hof," or heathen temple in the north. "goods" comes from "gopa," and "barge" from "bargr." as further instances we may notice the names of buildings. "bigging," applied to a building, shows it to be norse, as in "newbiggin" and "dearsbiggin." such buildings were built of timber, and had an opening for the door and an eyelet for a window. in the norse this opening was called "vindanga," or windeye, which term we have adopted, and modernised it into our word "window." we have also chosen several norse names for our domesticated animals. "bull" we have formed from the norse "bole." "gommer," or "gimmer" we retain in the northern dialect for ewe lamb, from the norse "gimber." "stegg," the name for a gander, is in norse "stegger." in the north nicknames were general, and every man had his nickname, particularly if there was aught remarkable in his appearance or character. some obtained such names from their complexions, as the "greys," "whites," "blacks," "browns," "blakes." short and dwarfish persons took the nicknames of "stutts," nowadays called "stotts." before christianity found its way among the natives, some bore fanciful names, as may be instanced in "bjorn," a bear, now "burns." prefixes to such fanciful names were also common, as in "ashbjorn," the bear of the osir or gods, in modern times spelt "ashburns"; and "thorbjorn," the bear of thor, whence came "thornber" and "thorburn." the name of "mather" is norse for man, and as norse names are general, we may produce the following: "agur" from "ager"; "rigg" from "rig"; "grime" from "grimr"; "foster" from "fostr"; "harland" from "arlant"; "grundy" from "grunrd"; "hawkes" from "hawkr"; and "frost" from "frosti," which are of frequent occurrence in the old norse sagas. in the vale of the lune the danes have left numerous traces. north of lancaster is halton, properly "haughton," named from the tumulus or danish "haugh," within the village. these are the names of the "bojais" or farms belonging to "byes," or residences of their greatmen. near hornby we find such places at "whaitber," "stainderber," "threaber," "scalaber." within the manor of hornby are "santerfell," "romsfell," "litherell," or fell of the hillside. the name of fell for mountain bespeaks norse or danish influence. the raven was the national symbol of the danes. we have ravenstonedale and ravenshore, and we also find the name in rivington pike, from raven-dun-pike. pike is a common name for a hill or spur standing away from the mountain range, and is derived from the picts. the derivation of our common pronoun "same" is to be traced through the old norse "samt," "sama," and "som," and has been selected into our tongue from the definite form "sama," the same. while we might expect to meet with this word, in the lowland scotch, where the norse influence was greater, the people use the anglo-saxon "ilia" or "ylea," while in the general english, where the influence of the northmen was less, we have adopted the norse word "same," to the exclusion of the word we might expect to consider as our own. many a good word do we owe to the norsmen, whatever we may think about their deeds. stone crosses chapter ix. stone crosses. the parish church of st. peter, bolton, was rebuilt entirely by mr. peter ormrod, whose surname is danish, and was consecrated on st. peter's day, 1871. among the pre-norman stones discovered during the re-building were the broken head of a supposed irish cross, of circular type, probably of the tenth century; part of the shaft of a cross bearing a representation of adam and eve, with the apple between their lips, and an upturned hand; and a stone with carving of a nondescript monster. at this period the danes were the rulers of ireland and the isle of man, whose bishops were men bearing danish names, and therefore we may assume that this memorial was erected under their influence and direction. some crosses, says fosbrooke, in his dictionary of antiquities, owe their origin to the early christians marking the druid stones with crosses, in order to change the worship without breaking the prejudice. some of the crosses presumed to be runic rather belong to the civilised britons, were erected by many of the christian kings before a battle or a great enterprise, with prayers and supplication for the assistance of almighty god. at a later period, not probably earlier than the tenth century, a scandinavian influence shows itself, and to a very appreciable extent modifies the ornamentation of these monuments. it went even further, and produced a representation of subjects, which, however strange it may appear, are only explained by a reference to the mythology of that part of europe. the grave covers, to which, on account of their shape, the name of hog-backed stones has been applied, appear to have occurred very rarely beyond the counties of cumberland, durham, york, and lancaster, though some not quite of the ordinary type have been found in scotland, as, for instance, at govan, on the clyde, near glasgow. they developed ultimately, through a transitional form, into the coped stone with a representation of a covering of tiles, the roof of man's last home, and were a common grave cover of the twelfth century. stone crosses. in pre-reformation times there was scarcely a village or hamlet in england which had not its cross; many parishes, indeed, had more than one. we know that at liverpool there were the high cross, the white cross, and st. patrick's cross. while many of these crosses are of undoubted saxon origin, others bear distinct traces of scandinavian mythology. [illustration: heysham hogback.] [illustration] north lancashire relics. in the churchyard of halton, near lancaster, is the shaft of an ancient cross. in 1635 the upper part was removed by the rector, in order that the portion remaining might be converted into a sundial. on the east side are two panels, one showing two human figures, in a sitting posture, engaged in washing the feet of a seated figure; the other showing two figures on either side of a tall cross. this is the christian side of a cross erected at a time of transition. on the west side is a smith at work with a pair of bellows. he is forging a large pair of pincers, as he sits on a chair. below the chair is the bust of a man, or a coat of mail. above him is a sword of heavy type, also a second hammer, a second pair of pincers, and a human body, with a "figure of eight" knot, intertwined in a circle, in place of a head, and an object at his feet representing the head. the half-panel above has reference to some event in the sagas. at heysham, near lancaster, also in the churchyard, is an example of a hog-backed stone, a solid mass six feet long and two feet thick, laid over some ancient grave. on the stone is a stag, with broad horns, and as it is not a reindeer it is said to be a rude representation of an elk. the scene on this side of the stone depicts an animal hunt. the termination at each end is a rude quadruped on its hind quarters. a fragment of a beautifully-sculptured cross is still remaining, evidently part of a cross which fitted into the socket of the stone. in the churchyard of st. mary's, lancaster, was a fine cross with a runic inscription, meaning "pray for cynebald, son of cuthbert." this cross has been removed to the british museum. other ancient remains. at whalley are three fine specimens of reputed saxon crosses. tradition says they commemorate the preaching of paulinus in 625. although they have no remaining inscriptions, their obelisk form and ornaments of fretwork were used in common by the norwegians, saxons, and danes. in winwick churchyard is a great fragment of a crosshead, consisting of the boss and two arms. on the arms are a man with two buckets and a man being held head downwards by two ferocious-looking men, who have a saw beneath them, and are either sawing him asunder or are preparing to saw off his arms. this evidently relates to oswald, for he was dismembered by order of pemba, and the buckets might refer to the miracle-working well which sprang up where his body fell. at upton, birkenhead, is a sculptured stone bearing a runic inscription. dr. browne takes the inscription to mean: "the people raised a memorial: pray for aethelmund." at west kirby is a nearly complete example of a hog-backed stone. the lower part is covered on both sides by rough interlacing bands, and the middle and upper part with scales, the top being ornamented with a row of oblong rings on each side, with a band running through each row of rings. the work at the top, which looks like a row of buckles, is very unusual. the stone, which is of harder material than any stone in the neighbourhood, must have been brought from a distance, and in the memorial of some important person, probably thurstan, as we find the name thurstaston in the locality. there is also at west kirby a flat slab on the face of which a cross is sculptured. this is very unusual in england, though not rare in scotland and ireland. at hilbree, the island off west kirby, there is a cross of like character. principal rhys says that in the eleventh and twelfth centuries the norsemen were in the habit of largely recruiting their fleet in shetland and the orkneys, not merely with thrales, but with men of a higher position. they infused thus a certain amount of pictish blood into the island. the "shetland bind"--oghams distributed over the island, in such places as braddan, turby, michael, onchan, and bride. the norwegian language, says mr. c. roeder, was spoken practically from 890-1270; it was introduced by the shetland and orkney men, and from norway, with which connection was kept, as shown by the grammatical structure of the runic stones in the island, which falls between 1170 and 1230. it was the only language of the rulers, and used at "thing" and hall, resembling in this old norman barons and their counts in king william the conqueror's time. the spirit of the norsemen lives in the legal constitution of the government, an inheritance that produced a free parliament, and particularly in its place-names. the sea fringe, with its hundreds of norse rocks, creeks, and forelands, and caves, have left imperishable evidence of the mighty old seafarers, the track they took, and the commingling and fusion they underwent in blood and speech, and their voyages from the shetlands and western isles. [illustration: hammer.] [illustration: brooch.] [illustration: fibula of white metal from claughton.] some human remains. claughton-on-brock, near preston, is named clactune in domesday book. the danes have also left relics of their presence and influence as they have done all over the fylde district. the late monsignor gradwell, a great student of local nomenclature and a lancashire historian of considerable repute, wrote: "in claughton the roman road crosses the fleet, a small brook in the sixacre. about seventy years ago a barrow was found on the west of the new lane, about half a mile south of the street. in it were found an earthenware urn containing the burnt remains of a human body, with some delicately wrought silver brooches, some beads and arms, a dagger and a sword. the brooch of fretwork was precisely similar to many ancient danish brooches still preserved in the copenhagen museum, and this proves that the claughton deposit was also danish. that the danes were strong in claughton and in the neighbourhood is proved by the many danish names. thus, we have dandy birk, or danes hill; stirzacre, and barnacre, respectively stirs land and biorn's land. the danish relics were carefully deposited at claughton hall by the finder, mr. thomas fitzherbert brockholes." the halton cross. now what is to be said about the subjects carved on these crosses and about the date of the work? one of the subjects is most remarkable, and gives a special interest to this cross; for here on the west face and north we have the story of sigurd fafnir's bane; here is his sword and the forging of it, his horse grani, which bore away the treasure; the roasting of the dragon's heart; the listening to the voice of the birds, and the killing of regin the smith. [illustration: halton cross.] the story so far as it relates to our subject is this: we all know that the love of money is the root of all evil. now there were two brothers, fafnir and regin. fafnir held all the wealth, and became a huge monster dragon, keeping watch over his underground treasure-house. regin, his brother, had all skill in smith's work, but no courage. he it was who forged the sword wherewith the hero sigurd went forth to kill the dragon and take the treasure. this he did with the help of his wonderful horse grani, who, when the heavy boxes of treasure were placed on his back, would not move until his master had mounted, but then went off merrily enough. this story, anglicised and christianised, is the story of our english patron saint st. george, the horse rider and the dragon slayer. here is the story written in stone. we know the ancient belief that the strength of every enemy slain passes into the body of the conqueror. illustration of hog-back stone. the stone is perhaps more than a thousand years old, and has been a good deal knocked about. it was once the tomb of a great christian briton or englishman, before the norman conquest; and you may still see four other "hog-backed saxon" uncarved tombstones in lowther churchyard, marking the graves of the noble of that day. when a stone church was built, our sculptured shrine was built into the walls of the church, and some of the mortar still sticks to the red sandstone. when this old church was pulled down to give place to a new one this same stone, covered with lime and unsightly, was left lying about. you will see something twisted and coiled along the bottom of each drawing beneath the figures, and you will see some strange designs (they are sacred symbols used long ago) on either side of one of the heads in the lower picture; but what will strike you most will be the long curls of hair, and the hands pressed to the breast or folded and pressed together as if in prayer; and, above all, you will notice that all these people seem to be asleep; their eyes are closed and their hands folded or pressed to their breast, and they all look as if they were either asleep or praying, or very peaceful and at perfect rest. these people are not dead; look at their faces and mark generally the attitudes of repose. now let us find something worth remembering about all this. the tombstone is made like a little house to represent the home of the dead. but at the time i am speaking of the people believed that only those who died bravely fighting would have a life of happiness afterwards; other people who were not wicked people at all--but all who died of sickness or old age--went to the cold, dark world ruled over by a goddess called "hel," who was the daughter of the evil one. "such is the origin of our word hell, the name of a goddess applied to a locality. her domains were very great and her yard walls very high. hunger is her dish, starvation her knife, care is her bed, a beetling cliff is the threshold of her hall, which is hung with grief." all, except the warriors who died fighting, however good, went to her domain. it might be thought that to be with such a goddess after death was bad enough, but there was a worse place. for the wicked another place was prepared, a great hall and a bad one; its doors looked northward. it was altogether wrought of adders' backs wattled together, and the heads of the adder all turned inwards, and spit venom, so that rivers of venom ran along the hall, and in those rivers the wicked people must wade for ever. the christian wished to show that this terrible idea of man's future state was to fire away to something better through the lord of life, our lord jesus christ, and so they set up crosses and carried triquetra, the sign of the ever blessed trinity, on their sculptured tombs to teach the people to believe no longer in gods and goddesses of darkness, but to look to one god, the father, son and holy spirit, to drive away all evil spirits from their hearts, and to give them a quiet time and a perfect end. was there any wonder that years afterwards, when the bright light shone forth from the cross to disperse the dark clouds of paganism, that men said that holy men, such as patrick, kentigern and cuthbert had driven all poisonous snakes out of the land? the twisted and coiling thing beneath the figures is no doubt the old serpent. the cross of christ and the ash tree yggdrasil of the northern tribes bore a like meaning at a certain time to the mixed peoples on this coast. (w. s. collingwood.) anglo-danish monuments. the great variety of ornament found in the north riding monuments shows that in four centuries many influences were brought to bear upon the sculptors' art, and much curious development went on, of which we may in the future understand the cause. our early sculptors, like the early painters, were men trying hard to express their ideals, which we have to understand before we can appreciate their work. the anglian people included writers and thinkers like bede and alcuin, and that their two centuries of independence in the country of which the north riding was the centre and heart, were two centuries of a civilization which ranked high in the world of that age. the danish invasion, so lamentable in its earlier years, brought fresh blood and new energies in its train, and up to the norman conquest this part of england was rich and flourishing. in writing the history of its art, part of the material will be found in these monuments. the material of which these sculptures are made is usually of local stone. they were carved on the spot and not imported ready made. in the progress of anglian art we have the development which began with an impulse coming from the north, and ending with influence coming from the south. the monuments were possibly executed by anglian sculptors under the control of danish conquerors. even under the early heathen rule of the danes, christians worked and lived, and as each succeeding colony of danes became christianised, they required gravestones, and churches to be carved for them. following a generation of transition, at the end of the ninth century, monuments are found displaying danish taste. the close connection of the york kingdom with dublin, provides a reason for the irish influence. abundant evidence is found in the chain pattern, and ring patterns, the dragons, and wheelheads, which are hacked and not finished into a rounded surface by chiselling. the brompton hogbacks are among the finest works of this period. the stainton bear, and the wycliffe bear, are also of this period. the pickhill hogback has an irish-scandavian dragon, and other dragons are to be seen at gilling, crathorne, easington, levisham, sinnington, and pickering. new influences came from the midlands into yorkshire, after the fall of the dublin-york kingdom, about the year 950. one instance of this advance in the sculptor's art is to be seen in the round shaft, trimmed square above, at gilling, stanwick, and middleton, which came from mercia, and passed on into cumberland, where it is to be found at penrith and gosforth. these latter have edda subjects and appear to be late tenth century. gilling has a curious device, which may possibly be the völund wing wheel, and völund appears on the leeds cross, and also at neston in cheshire. the scandinavian chain pattern, frequent on the _stones_ of the north riding, and in cumberland, is entirely absent in manuscripts. there must have been books at lastingham, hackness, gilling, and other great monasteries, but the stone-carvers did not copy them. [illustration] [illustration: base and side of the ormside cup.] the ormside cup, on the other hand, has close analogies with the two important monuments at croft and northallerton, which seem to be the leading examples of the finest style, from which all the rest evolve, not without influence from abroad at successive periods. it is to relief work rather than to manuscripts that we must look for the inspiration of the sculptors. in these monuments linked together we can trace the continuation of the viking age style during the later half of the tenth century and the early part of the eleventh centuries. the stone carver's art was reviving, stones were becoming more massive, which means that they were more skilfully quarried, the cutting is more close and varied, and on its terms the design is more decorative and artistic, though still preserving its northern character among impulses and influences from the south. but there is no room here for the bewcastle cross or the hovingham stone. we have an example of this period's attempt to imitate. it is probable that the stone carving was a traditional business, began by st. wilfrid's, and benedict bishop's imported masons, and carried on in a more or less independent development as it is to-day. with the danish invasion began a period of new influences which were not shaken off until after the norman conquest. the interlaced work was abandoned in the tenth century by southern sculptors, remained the national art of the north. the manx, irish, and scotch kept it long after the eleventh century, and so did the scandinavians. the bewcastle cross in the gigurd shaft of the cross at halton in lancashire, and if this development has been rightly described the halton shaft is easily understood. in the period covered by the eleventh century dials inscribed with anglo-danish names date themselves. interlacing undergoes new development, becoming more open and angular, until we get right lined plaits like wensley, it is better cut, as the later part of the century introduces the masons who rebuilt the churches and began the abbeys. no longer was the work hacked but clean chiselled, and intermingled with new grotesques; we find it at hackness, in the impost, and in the fonts at alne and bowes, where we are already past the era of the norman conquest. anglian work of the simpler forms and earlier types date 700 a.d. full development of anglian art, middle of eighth century to its close. anglian work in decline, or in ruder hands, but not yet showing danish influence, early ninth century. transitional, such as anglian carvers might have made for danish conquerors, late ninth century. anglo-danish work showing irish influence, early half of the tenth century. anglo-danish work with midland influence, later part of tenth and beginning of eleventh century. eleventh century, pre-norman. post-conquest, developed out of pre norman art. recumbent monuments were grave-slabs, which may have been coffin lids, such as must have fitted the saxon rock graves at heysham, lancashire, while other forms may have simply marked the place under which a burial was made. they are found with anglian lettering at wensley, another has been removed from yarm, and those of the durham district are well known. the two stones at wensley may have been recumbent, like the melsonby stones. the spennithorne slab bears crosses of the earlier northumbrian type, seen again in the west wilton slab. at crathorne are two slabs, with "maltese" crosses apparently late, all the preceding being of the fine style. levisham slab has an irish scandinavian dragon. grave slabs are found of all periods and styles. shrine-shaped tombs are known in various parts of england, with pre-viking ornament. (w. s. collingwood). runes chapter x. runes. before dealing with the norse and danish antiquities of lancashire, of which we have some remains in the form of sculptured stones, and ancient crosses, it would be profitable to inquire into the origin and development of that mysterious form of letters known as runes or runic. how many of the thousands who annually visit the isle of man are aware that the island contains a veritable museum of runic historical remains? a brief survey of these inscriptions, which have yielded definite results, having been deciphered for us by eminent scholars, will help us to understand the nature of those to be found in our own county. we are told by dr. wägner that runes were mysterious signs. the word rune is derived from rûna, a secret. the form of the writing would appear to be copied from the alphabet of the phoenicians. the runes were looked upon, for many reasons, as full of mystery and supernatural power. in the fourth century ulphilas made a new alphabet for the goths by uniting the form of the greek letters to the runic alphabet, consisting of twenty-five letters, which was nearly related to that of the anglo-saxons. the runes gradually died out as christianity spread, and the roman alphabet was introduced in the place of the old germanic letters. the runes appear to have served less as a mode of writing than as a help to memory, and were principally used to note down a train of thought, to preserve wise sayings and prophecies, and the remembrance of particular deeds and memorable occurrences. tacitus informs us that it was the custom to cut beech twigs into small pieces, and then throw them on a cloth, which had been previously spread out for the purpose, and afterwards to read future events by means of the signs accidentally formed by the bits of wood as they lay in the cloth. in his catalogue of runic inscriptions found on manx crosses, kermode says that "of the sculptors' names which appear all are norse. out of a total of forty-four names, to whom these crosses were erected, thirty-two are those of men, eight of women, and four are nicknames. of men, nineteen names are norse, nine celtic, three doubtful, and one pictish." this proves the predominance of norse and danish chiefs to whom these monuments were erected. runes are simply the characters in which these inscriptions are carved, and have nothing to do with the language, which in the manx inscriptions is scandinavian of the 12th century. to speak of a stone which bears an inscription in runes as a runic stone is as though we should call a modern tombstone a roman stone because the inscription is carved in roman capitals. canon taylor traces the origin of runes to a greek source, namely, the thracian or second ionian alphabet, which, through the intercourse of the greek colonists at the mouth of the danube with the goths south of the baltic, was introduced in a modified form into northern europe, and had become established as a runic "futhork" as early as the christian era. the main stages of development are classified by canon taylor as the gothic, the anglican, and the scandinavian. the rune consists of a stem with the twigs or letters falling from left or right. this is the most common form to be found, allowing for difference of workmanship, of material, and space. the progress in the development of the rune may be observed from the most simple plait or twist, to the most complex and beautiful geometric, and to the zoomorphic. the latter has the striking features of birds and beasts of the chase, and also of men, many being realistic; and except the latter are well drawn. the forms of the men are sometimes found with heads of birds or wings. in addition to decorative work we find on three of the cross slabs illustrations from the old norse sagas. on a large cross at braddan is a representation of daniel in the lion's den; and at bride, on a slab, is a mediæval carving of the fall of adam, in which the serpent is absent. both pagan and christian emblems derive their ornamentation from the same source, "basket work." long after the introduction of christianity we find the pagan symbols mixed up in strange devices on the same stones, which were erected as christian monuments. in the "lady of the lake," sir walter scott gives an account of the famous fiery cross formed of twigs. "the grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, a slender crosslet framed with care, a cubit's length in measure due; the shaft and limbs were rods of yew." "the cross, thus formed, he held on high, with wasted hand and haggard eye." basketmaking is the parent of all modern textile art, and no other industry is so independent of tools. it is the humble parent of the modern production of the loom, and the most elaborate cloth is but the development of the simple wattle work of rude savages. plaiting rushes is still the earliest amusement of children, the patterns of which are sometimes identical with the designs engraved by our earliest ancestors on their sculptured stones. interlaced ornament is to be met with on ancient stones and crosses all over our islands. ancient pottery also shows that the earliest form of ornament was taken from basket designs. the lough derg pilgrim sought a cross made of interwoven twigs, standing upon a heap of stones, at the east end of an old church. this was known as st. patrick's altar. this is recorded by a certain lord dillon in 1630, who visited the island known as st. patrick's purgatory on the lough derg, in ireland. the wicker cross retained its grasp upon the superstitious feelings of the people after the suppression at the reformation. he says of this miserable little islet that the tenant paid a yearly rent of £300, derived from a small toll of sixpence charged at the ferry. this was probably the last of the innumerable crosses of the same wicker and twigs. (lieut.-col. french, bolton.) runic almanacs. when the northern nations were converted to christianity the old pagan festivals were changed to christian holidays, and the old pagan divinities were replaced by christian saints. the faith placed in the early deities was transferred to the latter. as certain deities had formerly been supposed to exercise influence over the weather and the crops; so the days dedicated to them, were now dedicated to certain saints. the days thus dedicated were called mark-days, and as it may be supposed it became the office of the clergy to keep account of the time and to calculate when the various holidays would occur. owing to the fact that many christian feasts are what are called movable, that is, are not fixed to a certain date but depend on easter, the reckoning was more difficult for the laity than it had been in pagan times. in those days the fixed holidays could be easily remembered. an ordinary man without knowing how to read or write could keep a list of them by cutting marks or notches on strips of wood. the successors of these are called messe, and prim staves. the messe staves are the more simple--_messe-daeg_ means mass day, and the stave only denoted such days. the prim stave contained besides the marks for sundays and the moon's changes. hence their name from prima-luna, or first full moon after the equinox. the messe-daeg staves are frequently met with. they consist generally of flat pieces of wood about a yard or an ell long, two inches wide, and half an inch thick, and have frequently a handle, giving them the appearance of a wooden sword. the flat side is divided into two unequal portions by a line running lengthways. in the narrow part, the days are notched at equal distances, half the year on each side, or 182 marks on one side and 183 on the other. in the wider space and connected with the days are the signs for those which are to be particularly observed: on the edges the weeks are indicated. the marks for the days do not run from january to july and from july to december, but on the winter side (vetr-leid) from october 14 to april 13, and in the summer side (somar-leid) from april 14 to october 13. the signs partly refer to the weather, partly to husbandry, and partly the legends of the saints. seldom are two staves formed exactly alike. not only do the signs vary but the days themselves. nor are they always flat, but sometimes square, _i.e._, with four equal sides: when of the latter shape they are called clogs, or clog almanacs. they are called cloggs, _i.e._, logg, almanacks = al-mon-aght, viz., the regard or observation of all the moons, because by means of these squared sticks, says verstegan, they could certainly tell when the new moons, full moons, or other changes should happen, and consequently easter and the other movable feasts. they are called by the danes rim-stocks, not only because the dominical letters were anciently expressed on them in runic characters, but also because the word rimur anciently signified a calendar. by the norwegians with whom they are still in use, they are called prim-staves, and for this reason, the principal and most useful thing inscribed on them being the prime or golden number, whence the changes of the moon are understood, and also as they were used as walking sticks, they were most properly called prim-staves. the origin of these runic or clog-calendars was danish (vide mr. j. w. bradley, m.a., salt library, stafford). they were unknown in the south, and only known by certain gentry in the north. they are quite unknown in ireland and scotland, and are only known from the few examples preserved in the museums. owing to the changes of custom in modern times these wooden perpetual almanacs have become quite superseded by the printed annuals. the inscriptions read proceeding from the right hand side of the notches, are marks or symbols of the festivals expressed in a kind of hieroglyphic manner, pointing out the characteristics of the saints, against whose festivals they are placed, others the manner of their martyrdom; others some remarkable fact in their lives; or to the work or sport of the time when the feasts were kept. thus on january 13 the feast of st. hiliary is denoted by a cross or crozier, the badge of a bishop. explanation of the clog almanac. the edges of the staff are notched chiefly with simple angular indentations but occasionally with other marks to denote the date of certain special festivals. [illustration] jan. 1.--the feast of the circumcision. sometimes a circle. jan. 2, 3, 4, 5.--ordinary days. jan. 6.--the feast of the epiphany. twelfth day. in some examples the symbol is a star. jan. 7.--ordinary day. jan. 8-12.--the first day of the second week is shown by a larger notch. jan. 13.--feast of st. hilary. bishop of poictiers, with double cross. jan. 14.--ordinary day. jan. 15, 16.--first day of third week. jan. 17.--feast of st. anthony. patron saint of feeders of swine. this is the rune for m. jan. 18.--f. of st. prisca, a.d. 278. not noticed. jan. 20.--f. of s. fabian. not noticed. f. of s. sebastian. not noticed. jan. 21.--f. of s. agnes. jan. 22.--f. of s. vincent. not noticed. jan. 25.--conversion of st. paul. symbol of decapitation. no other saints days are noticed in jan. feb. 2.--candlemas. purification of virgin mary. feb. 3.--st. blaise, bishop and martyr. the patron saint of woolcombers. bp. sebasti. armenia. a.d. 316. feb. 4.--st. gilbert. not noticed. feb. 5.--st. agatha. palermo. patroness of chaste virgins. feb. 6.--st. dorothea. not noticed. feb. 9.--st. apolmia. a.d. 249. alexandria. feb. 14.--st. valentine (historian). m. a.d. 271. plot gives feb. 16.--st. gregory. pope x. a.d. 1276. feb. 20, 22, 23.--st. mildred, st. millburgh, sisters. feb. 24.--st. matthias, apostle. mar. 1.--st. david, bishop. symbol a harp. patron saint of wales, a.d. 544. mar. 2.--st. chad. a.d. 672. mar. 12.--st. gregory the great, a.d. 604. mar. 17.--s. patrick, patron of ireland. mar. 20.--s. cuthbert. not noticed. mar. 21.--s. benedict. not noticed, a.d. 543. mar. 25.--feast of annunciation. blessed virgin mary. usual symbol heart. these complete one edge of the staff. thus each edge contains three months or one quarter of the year. turning the staff over towards the reader who holds the loop or ring in the right hand. april 1.--all fools day. custom. not noticed. s. hugh. a.d. 1132. april 2, 3.--s. francis of paula, a.d. 1508. s. richard, bishop of chichester, a.d. 1262. april 4.--st. isidore, bishop of seville. april 5.--st. vincent. terrer valentia. 1419. april 9.--s. mary of egypt. not noticed. april 11.--st. gultitae, abbot of croyland. april 19.--st. ælphege, archbishop of canterbury. 1012. april 23.--st. george, patron saint of england. of garter legend. april 25.--st. mark. alexandria. apostle and evangelist. april 30.--st. catherine of siena. may 1.--may day. st. philip and st. james the less. may 3.--invention or discovery of the holy cross. may 5.--st. hilary of arles. a.d. 449. may 7.--st. john beverlev. a.d. 721. may 8.--st. michael archangel. may 19.--st. dunstan, archbishop of canterbury. a.d. 988. june 8.--st. william, archbishop of york. 1144. note the w. on the line. june 11.--st. barnabas, apostle. commencement of the hay harvest, hence the rake. june 24.--nativity of john baptist. turnover staff for rest of june. june 29.--st. peter, symbol of key. july 2.--visitation of s. elizabeth. july 7.--s. ethelburgh. july 15.--s. swithin, symbol as a.d. 862. bishop of winchester. shower of rain. july 20.--st. margaret. july 22.--st. mary magdalene. july 25.--st. james, apostle the great. july 26.--st. anne. august 1.--lammas day. august 5.--st. oswald. august 10.--st. lawrence. august 15.--assumption of the blessed virgin mary. august 24.--st. bartholomew. august 29.--st. john baptist. sept. 1.--st. giles. patron of hospitals. sept. 6.- sept. 8.--nativity of the blessed virgin mary. sept. 14.--exaltation of the cross. sept. 21.--st. matthew, apostle. sept. 29.--feast of s. michael the archangel. oct. 9.--st. denis. oct. 13.--st. edward the confessor. oct. 18.--st. luke the evangelist. oct. 25.--st. crispin, patron of shoemakers. oct. 28.--st. simon and st. jude. nov. 1.--all saints. nov. 2.--all souls. nov. 6.--st. leonard. nov. 11.--st. martin. bishop of tours, a.d. 397. nov. 17.--s. hugh. bishop of lincoln, a.d. 1200. nov. 20.--st. edmund, king of east anglia. nov. 23.--st. clement. nov. 25.--st. catherine of alexandria. nov. 30.--st. andrew, apostle. dec. 6.--st. nicholas. dec. 8.--conception of the blessed virgin mary. dec. 13.--st. lucia. patroness saint of diseases of the eye. dec. 21.--st. thomas, apostle. shortest day. plot 25.--christmas day. plot 26.--st. stephen, first martyr. plot 27.--st. john the evangelist. plot 28.--innocents. plot 29.--st. thomas of canterbury, 1171. plot 31.--st. sylvester, pope 335. made a general festival 1227. the more ancient almanac called runic primitare, so named from the prima-luna or new moon which gave the appellation of prime to the lunar or golden number, so called because the number was marked in gold on the stave. the rim stocks of denmark so called from rim, a calendar and stock a staff. the marks called runic characters were supposed to have magical powers and so were regarded with dread by the christians and were often destroyed by the priests and converts to christianity. they were derived from rude imitations of the greek letters. two of these staves now in the museum at copenhagen are 4 feet 8-1/2 inches and 3 feet 8 inches long respectively. they are hand carved and not in any sense made by machinery. this accounts from them being rarely alike, and often very different from one another. the sun in his annual career returns to the same point in the zodiac in 365 days, 6 hours, nearly. the moon who is really the month maker, as the sun is the year maker, does 12 of her monthly revolutions in 354 days. so that a lunar year is 11 days shorter than the solar, supposing both to start from the same date. the actual lunar month contains about 29-1/2 days. therefore in order to balance the two reckonings, it was agreed at a convention of scientist christians of alexandria in the year a.d. 323, two years previous to the council of nice, to make the distances between the new moon alternately 29 and 30 days, and to place the golden number accordingly. now these egyptian scholars observed that the new moon nearest the vernal equinox in 323 was on the 27th day of the egyptian month phauranoth, corresponding with our 23rd of march, so the cycle was commenced on this day. this is the reason why the golden number 1 is placed against it, 29 days from this brought them to the 21st april, and 30 days from this to the 21st may, and so on through the year. runic calendar. the explanatory engraving of the calendar shows the year begins on the 23rd december. that this date is correctly given for the first day of the year is proved by the agreement between the saints days and the days of the month on which they fall and the christian sunday letters. in thus beginning the year this calendar exhibits a rare peculiarity. no other runic calendar begins the year in the same manner, while numbers could be shown which begin the year at yuletide, commencing on the 25th december. of the two modes of beginning it there is no question that the one here exhibited is the genuine heathen while the other is genuine christian. it is worth noticing that as winter takes precedence of summer in the sense of a year: so night takes precedence of day generally in the sense of a civil day of 24 hours in old icelandic writers, a manner of speech which to this day is far from having gone out of use. considering the heathen tradition preserved in this calendar in the number of days given to the year and in the date given to the commencement of the year, in which it stands unique, in the fact that the interval between 1230 and 1300, _i.e._, out of 160 years rich in famous local and famous general saints, not one should be recorded here: that saints of universal adoration in the catholic church, such as st. thomas of canterbury, st. benedict, and others, should not have a place here: we cannot escape referring it to an age when it may be fairly supposed that these heathen traditions were still believed in by at least a considerable number of the community. anterior to 1230 it cannot be, long posterior to that date it can scarcely be. that it must be a layman's calendar, is shown because it exhibits no golden numbers, and gives consequently no clue to the paschal cycle or movable feasts. it is a very valuable piece of antiquity and ought to be well taken care of. on 2nd february were anciently observed all over the pagan north certain rites connected with the worship of fire. in some places the toast or bumper of the fire was drunk by the whole family kneeling round the fire, who at the same time offered grain or beer to the flames on the hearth. this was the so-called eldborgs-skäl, the toast of fire salvage, a toast which was meant to avert disaster by fire for the coming year. fire and sun worship mingled together, no doubt in observance of this feast: for where it was most religiously observed amongst the swedes it was called freysblôt and was a great event. in early christian times only wax candles which had received the blessing of the priest, were burnt in the houses of the people, in the evening. hence candlemas,--see illustration in stephens' scandinavian monuments. from a remarkable treatise by eirikr magnusson, m.a., on a runic calendar found in lapland in 1866, bearing english runes. (cambridge antiq. soc. communications, vol. x., no. 1, 1877.) [illustration] this english (?) or norwegian runic calendar is dated about a.d. 1000-1100. what distinguishes this piece is that seemingly from its great age and its having been _made in england_, it has preserved in the outer or lower lines several of _the olden runes_. these are the "notae distortae" spoken of by worm. some of these as we can plainly see are provincial _english_ varieties of the old northern runes. the calendar before us is of bone, made from the jaw-bone of the porpoise. we know nothing of its history. worm says, "probably to this class must be assigned the peculiar calendar carved on a concave bone, part of the jaw-bone of some large fish." although it shows three rows of marks the signs of festivals, the solar cycle and the lunar cycle, this last is here very imperfect and has even some distorted marks as we see in the engraving. each side, the concave as well as the convex, bears near the edge its girdling three rows of marks, so that every series comprehends a quarter of a year, beginning with the day of saint calixtus. as worm has only given one side of this curious rune-blade, we cannot know the peculiarities of the other half, which contained the solar cycle, and the three sign lines for two quarters. on the side given, the runes on the right hand are reversed and read from top to bottom; those on the left hand are not retrograde. it may often have been carried on the person, being only 18 inches long. the clog calendars range in length from 3 to 4 feet, to as many inches. whenever we light upon any kind of _runic_ pieces, we are at once confined _to the north_, scandinavia and england. though so numerous in the northern lands, no runic calendar has ever yet been found in any saxon or german province, except a couple bought or brought by modern travellers, as curiosities from scandinavia. stephens says this whole class of antiquities has never yet been properly treated. it offers work for one man's labours during a long time and many journeys. it would produce a rich harvest as to the signs and symbols, and runes as modified by local use and clannish custom. all the symbol marks should be treated in parallel groups. the various and often peculiar runes should be carefully collected and elucidated. all this is well worthy of a competent rune-smith, computist, and ecclesiologist. on many of the _old_ runic calendars, especially in sweden, we find a "_lake_" or game long famous all over europe, but now mostly known to children, called "the lake" or game of saint peter. this is an ingenious way of so placing 30 persons, that we may save one half from death or imprisonment, by taking out each ninth man as a victim, till only one half the original number is left. these 15 are thus all rescued. of course the man thus taken must not be counted a second time. formerly the favoured 15 were called christians and the other jews. carving this in one line, we get the marks so often found on rune-clogs: xxxx|||||xx|xxx|x||xx|||x||xx| the story about it is this: saint peter is said to have been at sea in a ship in which were 30 persons, the one half christians and the other half jews. but a storm arose so furious that the vessel had to be lightened, and it was resolved to throw overboard half the crew. saint peter then ranged them in the order we see, every ninth man was taken out. the crosses betoken the christians and the strokes the jews. in this way all the jews were cast into the deep while all the christians remained. herewith the old were wont to amuse themselves. _folk-lore of children in rhyme and ritual._ the child is surrounded by an ancient circle of ritualism and custom. visitors to see the infant must take it a threefold gift. in some districts in yorkshire the conditions are a little tea, sugar, and oven-cake. another yorkshire practice is to take an egg, some salt, and a piece of silver. the child must not be brought downstairs to see the visitor, for to bring it downstairs would be to give it a start in life in the wrong direction. the form of this idea is to be found in certain (japanese) customs. the child's finger-nails must not be cut with scissors, for iron had such close association with witchcraft. the nails must be bitten off with the teeth. this practice survives in some adults, much to the disgust of their friends. of children's games, that known as "hopscotch" was originally a religious rite practised at funerals. it was symbolical of the passage of the soul from the body to heaven or the other place to which the ancients gave various names. the pattern which is drawn for the purpose of this game has been found on the floor of the roman forum. another game called "cat's cradle" was played by the north american indians, and has recently found on an island north of australia. when children could not play on account of the rain they recited a little rhyme which is still known to-day by the people of austria and in the wilds of asia. the game of "ring o' roses" is the survival of an old incantation addressed to the corn spirit. when the wind rippled across the cornfield the ancient harvesters thought the corn god was passing by, and would recite the old rhyme, closing with the words, "hark the cry! hark the cry! all fall down!" sometimes the corn spirit was supposed to become incarnated in the form of a cow, hence the line in the nursery jingle, "boy blue! the cow's in the corn." when the boy donned his first pair of breeches he must pass through a ritual. he must be nipped. the significance of the nip was a test to see whether the boy in the new breeches was the same boy, or whether he had been changed by the fairies or evil spirits. this idea of a change by evil spirits might seem far-fetched, but so recently as 1898, in the records of the irish courts there was a case in which an irishman was tried for accusing his wife of not being the same person as when he married her, and of the woman being branded in consequence. superstitions as to the cure of certain childish complaints survive in the cure for whooping cough, to take the sufferer "over t' watter." that is the only medicinal use of the river aire, near leeds. memorials chapter xi. memorials. at the time of the conquest the population in some of the largest and most important cities is said to have been almost exclusively of scandinavian extraction. in the north the norwegian saint, "st. olave," has been zealously commemorated in both towns and country. this proves that churches were built and christian worship performed during the danish dominion, and that these northmen continued to reside here in great numbers after the danish ascendancy ended. in the city of chester there is a church and parish which still bears the name of st. olave, and by the church runs a street called st. olave's lane. this is opposite the old castle and close to the river dee. in the north-west part of york there is a st. olave's church, said to be the remains of a monastery founded by the powerful danish earl sieward, who was himself buried there in the year 1058. long before the norman conquest, the danes and northmen preponderated in many of the towns of the north of england, which they fortified, and there erected churches dedicated to their own sainted kings and warriors. olave is derived from "olaf the white," who was a famous norse viking. he subdued dublin about the middle of the ninth century, and made himself king of the city and district. from this time ireland and the isle of man were ruled by norwegian kings for over three centuries. it may therefore be inferred, by a natural process of deductive reasoning, that during this period the danes were founding their settlements in lancashire. although we have no distinct traces of buildings erected by them, the names given by them to many places still survive. in these compound names the word "kirk" is often met with. this must establish the fact that the danes erected many other churches besides st. olave's at chester and york. from chester and west kirby, in the wirral district, to furness, in the north, we have abundant evidence in the name of kirk, and its compound forms, that many christian churches were erected. at kirkdale, ormskirk, kirkham, kirkby lonsdale, kirby moorside, and kirkby stephen norman churches have superseded danish buildings. kendal was known formerly as kirkby-in-kendal, or the "church-town in the valley of kent." and further memorials here survive in the names of streets, such as stramongate, gillingate, highgate, and strickland-gate. the name furness is distinctly scandinavian, from "fur" and "ness," or far promontory. the abbot of furness was intimate with the danish rulers of manxland, for he got a portion of land there in 1134 to build himself a palace. he was followed by the prior of whithorn and st. bede. in 1246 the monks of furness obtained all kinds of mines in man, and some land near st. trinian's. by the industry and ability of these monks furness became one of the wealthiest abbeys in england, and thus were laid the foundations of one of the greatest industries in lancashire, viz., the smelting of iron ore. literature chapter xii. literature. during that period when the danes were making their conquests and settlements in the north of england, art and literature did not hold any high position in europe. the fall of the roman empire gave a shock to the pursuits of learning which had not recovered when christian art was in its infancy. the northmen early distinguished themselves in the art of shipbuilding, and also in the manufacture of ornaments, domestic utensils, and weapons. this taste had arisen from the imitation of the roman and arabesque articles of commerce which they brought up into the north. some scandinavian antiquities have been discovered belonging to the period called "the age of bronze," and also the later heathen times, known as "the iron age." the sagas record that the carving of images was skilfully practised in the north, and the english chronicles provide records of richly carved figures on the bows of danish and norse vessels. the normans from denmark who settled in normandy were first converted to christianity, and early displayed the desire to erect splendid buildings, especially churches and monasteries. long before the norman conquest, the danes devoted themselves to peaceful occupations. several of the many churches and convents were erected by danish princes and chiefs, in the northern parts of england, which have now been re-built, or disappeared; but their names survive to distinguish their origin. it has been said that these early buildings were composed of wood. this is proved from the work recently issued by mr. j. francis bumpus, in his "cathedrals of norway, sweden, and denmark." the touching life story of the martyred saint olaf is there told. a wooden chapel was built over his grave about the year 1047. this became the centre of the national religion, and the sanctuary of the national freedom and independence. trondhjem, says mr. bumpus, is the eloquent expression in stone of norway's devotion to the beloved st. olaf. despoiled of much of its ornamentation by protestant zeal, it retains in the octagon of its noble choir a true architectural gem, equal in delicate beauty to the angel choir of lincoln. [illustration: example of danish carved wood-work, with runes, from thorpe church, hallingdal, denmark.] the phrase "skryke of day" is common to south lancashire, and is the same as the old english "at day pype," or "peep of day." "there is a great intimacy," says dr. grimm, "between our ideas of light and sound, of colour and music, and hence we are able to comprehend that rustling, and that noise, which is ascribed to the rising and setting sun." thomas kingo, a danish poet of the seventeenth century, and probably others of his countrymen, make the rising of the sun to pipe (pfeifen), that is to utter a piercing sound. tacitus had long before recorded the swedish superstition, that the rising sun made a noise. the form in which our skryke of day has come down to us is scandinavian. grimm says, "still more express are the passages which connect the break of day, and blush of the morning, with ideas of commotion and rustling." goethe has in "faust" borrowed from the pythagorean and platonic doctrine of the harmony of the spheres, and illustrated grimm's proposition of the union of our ideas of light and sound by describing the course of the sun in its effulgence as a march of thunder. jonson regarded noise as an essential quality of the heavenly bodies- "come, with our voices let us war, and challenge all the spheres, till each of us be made a star, and all the world turned ears." the noise of daybreak may be gathered from the fracture of metal, and applied to the severance of darkness and light, may well have sound attributed to it. the old meaning of "peep (or pype) of day" was the joyful cry which accompanied the birth of light. "peep," as sound is most ancient, and a "nest of peepers," that is, of young birds, is now almost obsolete english. milton, in "paradise lost," shows the setting sun to make a noise from its heated chariot axles being quenched in the atlantic. once, at creation, the morning stars sang for joy; but afterwards moved in expressive silence. ballads and war songs. as a consequence of the danish and norman conquests, a peculiar composition arose called anglo-danish and anglo-norman. these legends and war songs were produced by the danish wars, and were the expressions of an adventurous and knightly spirit, which became prevalent in england. the most celebrated of them were the romances of "beowulf," "havelock, the dane," and "guy, earl of warwick." in the older romances of scandinavian songs and sages, combats against dragons, serpents, and plagues are celebrated; in later romances of the age of chivalry, warriors are sung who had fallen in love with beautiful damsels far above them in birth or rank, and whose hand they could only acquire by some brilliant adventure or exploit. the heathen poems of the scandinavian north are all conceived in the same spirit, and it is not unreasonable to recognise traces of scandinavian influence in english compositions. in later times, even to the middle ages, this influence is still more apparent in the ballads and popular songs, which are only to be found in the northern or old danish parts of england. many parts of the edda or sagas have been founded on songs in honour of the gods and heroes worshipped in scandinavia. in shakespeare's "hamlet" the young prince is sent to britain with a letter carried by his two comrades. but he re-writes the letter and saves his life. in the original amleth legend of saxo grammaticus the two companions of amleth, carry a wooden rune-carvel. but he cuts away some of the staves and adds others, so that the letter now tells the british king to slay the messengers, and to give his daughter in marriage to amleth. in the "historie of hamlet," london, 1608, we read, "now to bear him company were assigned two of fengons' ministers, bearing letters engraved on wood, that contained hamlet's death, in such sort as he had advertised to the king of england. but the subtle danish prince, being at sea, whilst his companions slept, raced out the letters that concerned his death, and instead thereof graved others." lay of the norse gods and heroes. step out of the misty veil which darkly winds round thee; step out of the olden days, thou great divinity! across thy mental vision passes the godly host, that brugi's melodies made asgard's proudest boast. there rise the sounds of music from harp strings sweet and clear, wonderfully enchanting to the receiving ear. thou wast it, thou hast carried sagas of northern fame, didst boldly strike the harp strings of old skalds; just the same thou span'st the bridge of birfrost, the pathway of the gods: o name the mighty heroes, draw pictures of the gods! these fairy tales of the giants, dwarfs, and heroes, are not senseless stories written for the amusement of the idle; but they contain the deep faith or religion of our forefathers, which roused them to brave actions, and inspired them with strength and courage. these sagas existed for over four hundred years, until they exchanged their hero-god for st. martin, and their thumar, for st. peter or st. oswald, when their glory in scandinavia fell before the preaching of the cross. art. [illustration: bractaetes.] previous to their conquest of england, the danes are said to have been unacquainted with the art of coining money. they are said to have imitated the byzantine coins, by making the so-called "bractaetes," which were stamped only on the one side, and were mostly used as ornaments. the art of coinage was very ancient in england. it was the custom of the anglo-saxon coiners to put their names on the coins which they struck. in the eighth and ninth centuries the names of the coiners are purely anglo-saxon. but in the tenth century, and especially after the year 950, pure danish or scandinavian names begin to appear; for instance, thurmo, grim, under king edgar (959-975), and rafn, thurstan, under king edward (975-978); also ingolf, hargrim, and others. these scandinavian names are mostly found in the coins minted in the north of england, or in districts which were early occupied by the danes. under king ethelred ii., who contended so long with canute the great before the danish conquest of england was completed, the number of scandinavian coiners arose rapidly, with the danish power, and the names of forty or fifty may be found on the coins of ethelred alone. even after the fall of the danish power, they are to be met with in almost the same number as before on the coins of the anglo-saxon king, edward the confessor. these coins prove much and justify us in inferring a long continued coinage. * * * * * the great hoard of silver coins found at cuerdale in 1840, some two miles above preston, were buried in a leaden chest, near an ancient ford of the river ribble. this treasure composed the war chest of the danish army, which was defeated at this ford early in the tenth century, on its retreat into northumbria. it contained nearly one thousand english coins of alfred the great, and some forty-five of edward the elder. the latest date of any of these coins being of the latter reign, the date of the hoard being buried may be fixed between the years 900 and 925. many of the coins were continental, belonging to the coast of western france, and from the district round the mouth of the river seine. the appearance of this money agrees with the early records of the saxon chronicle, that of the year 897, which tells us that "the danish army divided, one part went into the eastern counties, and the other into northumbria, and those who were without money, procured ships and went southwards over the sea to the seine." the other chronicle of 910 states that, "a great fleet came hither from the south, from brittany, and greatly ravaged the severn, but there they afterwards nearly all perished." it may be supposed that the remnant of this band became united with the main danish army, and would account for the large proportion of foreign money. the bulk of the coins were danish, minted by danish kings of northumbria. [illustration: halton cup.] [illustration] from these circumstances, we may believe, this hoard to have been the treasure or war chest of this retreating army. this cuerdale hoard is by far the largest found in lancashire; it contained 10,000 silver coins, and nearly 1,000 ounces of silver ingots. a smaller find, made at an early date, was the hoard of 300 silver pennies, discovered in 1611 at harkirke, which lies on the sea coast between crosby and formby. of this collection, some 35 coins were engraved at the latter part of the tenth century. this engraving shows that these coins were minted by alfred, edward the elder, and the danish king canute, and the ecclesiastical coinages of york and east anglia. these coins were buried within a few years of the deposit at cuerdale. we have numerous records of other danish finds. at halton moor, five miles above lancaster, the discovery was made in 1815 of a silver cup of graceful design, containing 860 silver coins of canute, with ornaments, which included a torque of silver wire. mr. j. coombe, of the british museum, describes the coins as 21 danish, and 379 of canute. the latter being nearly all of one type, having on the obverse side the head of the king with helmet and sceptre, and on the reverse a cross, within the inner circle, with amulets in the four angles. the silver cup found on halton moor contained, in addition to the coins of canute, a silver torque, which had been squeezed into the vessel. both these silver articles are highly decorated and of great interest. the cup weighed over ten ounces, and was composed of metal containing three parts silver with one part copper. it appeared to have been gilt originally, some of the gold still remaining, which was of very pale colour. the ornamentation consisted of four circular compartments, divided by branches which terminated in the heads of animals, in arabesque style. in these compartments are a panther and a butting bull alternately. this ornament is included inside two beautiful borders, which encircle the cup in parallel lines. the torque is of equal interest, and is a peculiar example of danish wire-work metal rings, twisted and plated, with the ends beaten together for a double fastening. the face of this portion of the necklace, which is flattened, was decorated with small triangular pieces fixed by curious rivets. it was of pure silver and weighed six ounces six penny-weights. along with these deposits were some gold pieces, struck on one side only, with a rough outline of a human head. similar pieces have been found in denmark, and the danish element is predominant in the whole decoration. the viking age. before the normans came our district was scandinavian. from the year 876 they began to settle and behaved not as raiders but as colonists. they wanted homes and settled quietly down. in the course of 200 years their descendants became leading landowners, as we see from the norse names of the 12th century records. naturally the art of the district must have been influenced by such people: especially by the scandinavians who had lived in ireland, till then a very artistic country. whether irish taught norse or _vice versa_, we see that there was a quantity of artistic work produced especially along the seaboard, and we are lucky in having analogies not far to seek. in the isle of man the earliest series of crosses have 11th century runes and figure subjects from the edda and the sigurd story which were late 11th century. mr. kermode, f.s.a., scot., dates them 1050-1150 (saga book of viking club, vol. i., p. 369). we have them in the remains in man a kindred race to ours in the age before the normans came: and we find resemblances between these manx crosses and some of ours both in subject and in style. in subjects the 11th century crosses of kirk andreas, jurby, and malew find a parallel at halton, which mr. calverley places late in 11th century and attributes to people under strong scandinavian influence: but danish as it happens rather than norse. the halton crosses are not norse in style. they are like the late pre-norman work in yorkshire where the danes lived. then the hogback stones have to be placed. we have fixed the gosforth and plumland examples by their dragonesque work as of the viking settlement. all these have the chain pattern, which mr. calverley called the tree yggdrasil or tree of existence, which shows that these monuments are of viking origin. from what models or pattern did these early sculptors copy their designs? it is sometimes said that they imitated mss.: assuming that mss. were fairly common and placed in the stone carver's hands. this is far less likely than that sculptors, at a distance from good models in stone, copied patterns from metal work which were the most portable, and most accessible of all forms of art, in the days before printing was invented. suppose, to make it plainer, the sorrowing survivor bids the british workman carve a cross for the dead. "what like shall i work it?" says the mason. "like the fair crosses of england or ireland, a knot above, and a knot below, and so forth." "but," says the mason, and he might say it in the 10th century, "i have never been in england or ireland or seen your crosses." then answers the patron, "make it like this swordhilt." (calverley.) the earlier irish christians were highly intellectual and literary, but not at first artistic. literature in all races precedes art; it would be contrary to all historical analogy if patrick and columba had lived in the artistic atmosphere of the eighth and ninth century in ireland. patrick's bell is no great credit to assicus his coppersmith: his crosier was a plain stick. there is no indication in our remains that irish missionaries of the seventh century brought a single art idea into the country. it was the irish viking christians of the twelfth century who did. mr. george stephens, in his "old northern runic monuments of scandinavia and england," vol. iii., under the heading "runic remains and runic writings," says:-"i believe these stones, however altered and conventionalised, were all originally made for worship as gods or fetishes, elfstones, or what not, but in fact, at first as phallic symbols, the zinga and the zoni, creation and preservation, placed on the tumulus as triumphant emblems of light out of darkness, life after death. and the _priapus_ and _cups_ sometimes seen on burial-urns, must have the same meaning. several of the grave minnes bearing old norse runes were worship stones, carved with regular cups, etc., _ages before_ they were used a second time for funereal purposes." prof. j. f. simpson, m.d., edinburgh, has a paper "on the cup cuttings and ring cuttings on the calder stones near liverpool," in the transactions of the historic society of lancashire and cheshire, vol. xvii., 1865, in which he states that-"the calder stones near liverpool afford an interesting and remarkable example of these cup and ring carvings upon this variety of stones--or, in words, upon the stones of a small megalithic circle. some of the calder stones afford ample evidence of modern chiselling as marked by the sharpness and outray figurings. but in addition to these there are cut upon them, though in some parts greatly faded away, sculpturings of cups and concentric rings similar to those found in various parts of england and scotland, remarkable for not only their archaic carvings, perfect and entire similarity to those found elsewhere, but still more from the fact that we have here presented upon a single circle almost every known and recognised type of these cuttings. the calder circle is about six yards in diameter, consists of five stones which are still upright and one that is fallen. the stones consists of slabs and blocks of red sandstone, all different in size and shape. the fallen stone is small, and shows nothing on its exposed side, but possibly if turned over some markings might be discovered on its other surface. of the five standing stones the largest of the set, no. 1, is a sandstone slab between 576 feet in height and in breadth. on its outer surface, or the surface turned to the exterior of the circle, there is a flaw above from disintegration and splintering of the stone: but the remaining portion of the surface presents between 30 and 40 cup depressions varying from 2 to 3 and a half inches in diameter, and at its lowest and left-hand corner is a concentric circle about a foot in diameter, consisting of four enlarging rings, but apparently without any central depression. the opposite surface of this stone (no. 1) is that directed to the interior of the circle, has near its centre a cup cut upon it, with the remains of one surrounding ring. on the right side of this single-ringed cup are the faded remains of a concentric circle of three rings. to the left of it there is another three-ringed circle with a central depression, but the upper portions of the ring are broken off. above it is a double-ringed cup, with this peculiarity, that the external ring is a volute leading from the central cup, and between the outer and inner ring is a fragmentary line of apparently another volute making a double-ringed spiral which is common on some irish stones, as on those of the great archaic mausoleum at new grange, but extremely rare in great britain. at the very base of this stone towards the left are two small volutes, one with a central depression or cup, and the other seemingly without it. one of these small volutes consists of three turns, the other of two. the cup and ring cuttings have been discovered in a variety of relations and positions. some are sculptured on the surface of rocks _in situ_--on large stones placed inside and outside the walls of old british cities and camps, on blocks used in the construction of the olden dwellings and strongholds of archaic living man, in the interior of the chambered sepulchres and kistvaens of the archaic dead, on monoliths and on cromlechs, and repeatedly in scotland on megalithic or so-called "druidical" circles. the name calder stones is derived from norse calder or caldag, the calf-garth or yard enclosed to protect young cattle from straying. norse and danish grave mounds. amongst the ancient monuments of britain the well-known remains called druidical circles hold a foremost place, though their use, and the people by whom they were erected, are questions which still remain matters of dispute. the stone enclosures of denmark, which resemble the circles of cumbria in many respects, mainly differ from them, in that they are found in connection with burial chambers, whilst the latter are generally situated on the flat surface of moors, with nothing to indicate that they have ever been used for sepulchural purposes. therefore wherever no urns or other remains have been found, we have negative evidence that the place was not intended for a place of sepulture. [illustration: calder stone no 1 outer surface.] [illustration: inner surface.] cairns which are the most undisputed form of a celtic burial place were once very numerous in the northern districts: but a great many have long since been removed. the graves of norway bear an outward resemblance to the celtic cairn, but the main cause appears to be that in mountainous countries stones are more easily procurable than earth. where a doubt exists as to the proprietorship of these mounds, the only means of deciding is by an examination of the interior. the norse cairn should enclose a stone chest or wooden chamber and iron weapons. the norwegians burned the body until about their conversion to christianity. [illustration: calder stone no 2. outer aspect, two sides.] [illustration: inner side.] [illustration: calder stone no 3. outer aspect two sides.] [illustration: inner side] tumuli or barrows still remain in great numbers. as far as records have been kept of those removed, nearly all must be claimed for the bronze age, and the main part of those yet standing are essentially of a danish character. in the description of this class of graves, we have no actual mention of iron antiquities. the cairn called mill hill, westmoreland, appears to have been a celtic burial place, whilst loden how was more probably danish than norse. four different names are found in connection with sepulchres of this kind, viz., "how, raise, barrow, and hill," but the distinction is principally that of age, and the order of the words as here placed indicates the period to which each belongs. few traces of the iron age can be regarded as exclusively norwegian wherever the body has been burned. ormstead, near penrith, was possibly a norse burial place; while thulbarrow, in the same neighbourhood, was in all probability danish. memorial stones still remain in considerable numbers, the most remarkable of which is the nine standards in westmoreland. several villages called unthank take their names from monuments no longer in existence, the word being in english "onthink," and the phrase "to think on" is still current in the dialect. mythology chapter xiii. mythology. the religious conceptions of the most famous nations of antiquity are connected with the beginnings of civilisation. we are told by dr. wägner, in his work "asgard and the gods," of the traditions of our northern ancestors, the story of the myths and legends of norse antiquity. the first of their heroes was odin, the god of battles, armed with his war spear, followed by the walkyries, who consecrate the fallen heroes with a kiss, and bear them away to the halls of the gods, where they enjoy the feasts of the blessed. later, odin invents the runes, through which he gains the power of understanding and ruling all things. he thus becomes the spirit of nature, the all-father. then the ash tree, "yggdrasil," grew up; the tree of the universe, of time, and life. the boughs stretched out to heaven, and over-shadowed walhalla, the hall of the heroes. this world-tree was evergreen, watered daily by the fateful norns, and could not wither until the last battle should be fought, where life, time, and the world were all to pass away. this was related by a skald, the northern bard, to the warriors while resting from the fatigue of fighting, by tables of mead. the myths were founded on the belief of the norse people, regarding the creation of the world, gods, and men, and thus we find them preserved in the songs of the "edda. the vague notion of a deity who created and ruled over all things had its rise in the impression made upon the human mind by the unity of nature. the sun, moon, and stars, clouds and mists, storms and tempests, appeared to be higher powers, and took distinct forms in the mind of man. the sun was first regarded as a fiery bird which flew across the sky, then as a horse, and afterwards as a chariot and horses; the clouds were cows, from whose udders the fruitful rain poured down. the storm-wind appeared as a great eagle that stirred the air by the flapping of his enormous wings. these signs of nature seemed to resemble animals. on further consideration it was found that man was gifted with the higher mental powers. it was then acknowledged that the figure of an animal was an improper representation of a divine being. they thus inverted the words of holy writ, that "god created man in his own image," and men now made the gods in their own likeness, but still regarded them as greater, more beautiful, and more ideal than themselves. from the titles of these pagan gods we derive the names of our days of the week, and thus we continue to perpetuate in our daily life the story of norse mythology. the first day of the week was dedicated to the worship of the sun. the second day to that of the moon. the third day was sacred to tyr, the god of war. the fourth day was sacred to wodin, or odin, the chief deity. the fifth day was sacred to thor, the god of thunder. the sixth day of the week, friday, was sacred to frigga, the wife of the great odin. the seventh or last day of the week was dedicated by the romans to saturn, one of the planets, their god of agriculture, whose annual festival was a time of unrestrained enjoyment. the "eddas" were two scandinavian books, the earlier a collection of mythological and heroic songs, and the other a prose composition of old and venerable traditions. these books were meant for the instruction of the norse skalds and bards. it is believed that the learned icelander, saemund, the wise, compiled the older edda in 1056 from oral traditions, and partly from runic writings. the younger edda is supposed to have been compiled by bishop snorri sturlason in 1178, and this collection goes by the name of snorra-edda. the language was developed by means of the sagas and songs which had been handed down among the people from generation to generation. the norns were the three fatal sisters, who used to watch over the springs of water, and appeared by the cradle of many a royal infant to give it presents. on such occasions two of them were generally friendly to the child, while the third prophesied evil concerning it. in the pretty story of the "sleeping beauty" these norns appear as the fairies. mythical gods. bragi was the son of the wave maidens and the god of poetry. he was married to the blooming induna, who accompanied him to asgard, where she gave the gods every morning the apples of eternal youth. tyr, the god of war, was tall, slender as a pine, and bravely defended the gods from the terrible fenris-wolf. in doing so he lost his hand, and was held in high honour by the people. baldur, the holy one, and the giver of all good, was the son of odin. his mother frigga entreated all creatures to spare the well-beloved, but she overlooked the weak mistletoe bough. the gods in boisterous play threw their weapons at baldur, and the dart made of the fatal bough was thrown by the blind hödur with deadly effect. forseti, the son of baldur, resembled his father in holiness and righteousness, was the upholder of eternal law. the myth shows him seated on a throne teaching the norsemen the benefits of the law, surrounded by his twelve judges. loki, the crafty god, was the father of the fenris-wolf, and the snake. he was the god of warmth and household fire, and was held to be the corrupter of gods, and the spirit of evil. it was loki who formed the fatal dart, which he placed in the hands of the blind hödur, which caused the death of baldur. after the murder of baldur, loki conceals himself on a distant mountain, and hides himself under a waterfall. here the avengers catch him in a peculiar net which he had invented for the destruction of others. they bind him to a rock, where a snake drops poison upon his face, which makes him yell with pain. his faithful wife, sigyn, catches the poison in a cup; but still it drops upon him whenever the vessel is full. from this myth it is supposed that shakspere derived the story of his greatest drama and tragedy, "hamlet," of the prince of denmark. our forefathers notion of the last battle, the single combats of the strong, the burning of the world, are all to be read in ancient traditions, and we find them described in the poems of the skalds. the norse mythology makes amends for the tragic end of the divine drama by concluding with a description of the renewal of the world. the earth rises fresh and green out of its ruin, as soon as it has been cleansed from sin, refined and restored by fire. the gods assemble on the plains of ida, and the sons of thor bring with them their father's storm-hammer, a weapon no longer used for fighting, but only for consecrating what is right and holy. they are joined by baldur and hödur, reconciled and united in brotherly love. uller is recorded in the edda as the cheery and sturdy god of winter, who cared nothing for wind and snowstorm, who used to go about on long journeys on his skates or snow-shoes. these shoes were compared to a shield, and thus the shield is called uller's ship in many places. when the god uller skated over the ice he carried with him his shield, and deadly arrows and bow made from the yew-tree. he lived in the palace ydalir, the yew vale. as he protected plants and seeds from the severe frosts of the north, by covering the ground with a coating of snow, he was regarded as the benefactor of mortal men, and was called the friend of baldur, the giver of every blessing and joy. uller meant divine glory, as vulder, the anglo-saxon god, was also characterised. this was probably because the glory of the northern winter night, which is often brilliantly lighted by the snow, the dazzling ice, and the aurora-borealis, the great northern light. the myths exist in the present like the stately ruins of a past time, which are no longer suitable for the use of man. generations come and go, their views, actions, and modes of thought change: "all things change; they come and go; the pure unsullied soul alone remains in peace." thousands of years ago our ancestors prayed to waruna, the father in heaven; thousands of years later the romans entered their temple and worshipped jupiter, the father in heaven, while the teutonic races worshipped the all-father. after the lapse of centuries now we turn in all our sorrow and adversities to our father which is in heaven. in the thousands of years which may pass we shall not have grown beyond this central point of religion. "our little systems have their day; they have their day and cease to be; they are but broken lights of thee, and thou, o lord, art more than they. we have but faith; we cannot know; for knowledge is of things we see; and yet we trust it comes from thee, a beam in darkness, let it grow!" in his masterly work on "hero-worship," carlyle traces the growth of the "hero as divinity" from the norse mythology in the following words: "how the man odin came to be considered a god, the chief god? his people knew no limits to their admiration of him; they had as yet no scale to measure admiration by. fancy your own generous heart's love of some greatest man expanding till it transcended all bounds, till it filled and overflowed the whole field of your thought. then consider what mere time will do in such cases; how if a man was great while living, he becomes tenfold greater when dead. what an enormous 'camera-obscura' magnifier is tradition! how a thing grows in the human memory, in the human imagination, when love, worship, and all that lies in the human heart, is there to encourage it. and in the darkness, in the entire ignorance; without date or document, no book, no arundel marble: only here and there some dumb monumental cairn. why! in thirty or forty years, were there no books, any great man would grow 'mythic,' the contemporaries who had seen him, being once all dead: enough for us to discern far in the uttermost distance some gleam as of a small real light shining in the centre of that enormous camera-obscura image: to discern that the centre of it all was not a madness and nothing, but a sanity and something. this light kindled in the great dark vortex of the norse mind, dark but living, waiting only for the light, this is to me the centre of the whole. how such light will then shine out, and with wondrous thousand-fold expansion spread itself in forms and colours, depends not on _it_, so much as in the national mind recipient of it. who knows to what unnameable subtleties of spiritual law all these pagan fables owe their shape! the number twelve, divisiblest of all, which could be halved, quartered, parted into three, into six, the most remarkable number, this was enough to determine the signs of the zodiac, the number of odin's sons, and innumerable other twelves. odin's runes are a significant feature of him. runes, and the miracles of "magic" he worked by them, make a great feature in tradition. runes are the scandinavian alphabet; suppose odin to have been the inventor of letters as well as "magic" among that people. it is the greatest invention man has ever made, this of marking down the unseen thought that is in him by written characters. it is a kind of second speech, almost as miraculous as the first. you remember the astonishment and incredulity of atahaulpa the peruvian king; how he made the spanish soldier, who was guarding him, scratch dios on his thumb nail, that he might try the next soldier with it, to ascertain whether such a miracle was possible. if odin brought letters among his people, he might work magic enough! writing by runes has some air of being original among the norsemen; not a phoenician alphabet, but a scandinavian one. snorro tells us farther that odin invented poetry; the music of human speech, as well as that miraculous runic marking of it. transport yourself into the early childhood of nations; the first beautiful morning light of our europe, when all yet lay in fresh young radiance, as of a great sunrise, and our europe was first beginning to think,--to be! this odin, in his rude semi-articulate way, had a word to speak. a great heart laid open to take in this great universe, and man's life here, and utter a great word about it. and now, if we still admire such a man beyond all others, what must these wild norse souls, first awakened with thinking, have made of him! the rough words he articulated, are they not the rudimental roots of those english words we still use? he worked so, in that obscure element. but he was as a light kindled in it, a light of intellect, rude nobleness of heart, the only kind of lights we have yet: he had to shine there, and make his obscure element a little lighter, as is still the task of us all. we will fancy him to be the type norseman; the finest teuton whom that race had yet produced. he is as a root of many great things; the fruit of him is found growing, from deep thousands of years, over the whole field of teutonic life. our own wednesday, is it not still odin's day? wednesbury, wansborough, wanstead, wandsworth: odin grew into england too, these are still the leaves from that root. he was the chief god to all the teutonic peoples; their pattern norsemen. the essence of the scandinavian, as indeed of all pagan mythologies, we found to be recognition of the divineness of nature; sincere communion of man with the mysterious invisible powers, visibly seen at work in the world around him. sincerity is the great characteristic of it. amid all that fantastic congeries of associations and traditions in their musical mythologies, the main practical belief a man could have was of an inflexible destiny, of the valkyrs and the hall of odin, and that the one thing needful for a man was to be brave. the valkyrs are choosers of the slain, who lead the brave to a heavenly hall of odin: only the base and slavish being thrust elsewhere, into the realms of hela, the death goddess. this was the soul of the whole norse belief. valour is still valour. the first duty of a man is still that of subduing fear. snorro tells us they thought it a shame and misery not to die in battle; and if a natural death seemed to be coming on, they would cut wounds in their flesh that odin might receive them as warriors slain. old kings about to die had their body laid into a ship, the ship sent forth with sail set and slow fire burning in it; that once out at sea, it might blaze up into flame, and in such a manner bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in the ocean." the descent of odin. (from the norse tongue.) by thomas gray. up rose the king of men with speed, and saddled straight his coal black steed. down the yawning steep he rode that leads to hela's drear abode. him the dog of darkness spied; his shaggy throat he opened wide, while from his jaws with carnage fill'd, foam and human gore distill'd; hoarse he bays with hideous din, eyes that glow and fangs that grin, and long pursues with fruitless yell the father of the powerful spell. onward still his way he takes, (the groaning earth beneath him shakes) till full before his fearless eyes the portals nine of hell arise. right against the eastern gate by the moss grown pile he sate, where long of yore to sleep was laid the dust of the prophetic maid, facing to the northern clime, thrice he traced the runic rhyme, thrice pronounced in accents dread, the thrilling verse that wakes the dead. till from out the hollow ground slowly breathed a sullen sound. what call unknown, what charms presume to break the quiet of the tomb? who thus afflicts my troubled sprite and drags me from the realms of night? long on these mouldering bones have beat the winter's snow, the summer's heat. the drenching dews, and driving rain, let me, let me sleep again. who is he with voice unbless'd that calls me from the bed of rest? odin: a traveller to the unknown is he that calls; a warrior's son, thou the deeds of light shall know; tell me what is done below. for whom yon glittering board is spread, dress'd for whom yon golden bed? proph: mantling in the goblet see the pure beverage of the bee, o'er it hangs the shield of gold: 'tis the drink of balder bold: balder's head to death is given: pain can reach the sons of heaven! unwilling i my lips unclose: leave me, leave me to repose. odin: once again my call obey; prophetess! arise and say what dangers odin's child await, who the author of his fate? proph: in hoder's hand the hero's doom; his brother sends him to the tomb, now my weary lips i close, leave me, leave me to repose. odin: prophetess! my spell obey; once again arise and say who th' avenger of his guilt, by whom shall hoder's blood be spilt? proph: in the caverns of the west, by odin's fierce embrace compress'd, a wondrous boy shall rind a bear, who ne'er shall comb his raven hair, nor wash his visage in the stream, nor see the sun's departing beam, till he on hoder's corpse shall smile, flaming on the funeral pile. now my weary lips i close, leave me, leave me to repose. odin: yet awhile my call obey; prophetess awake and say what virgins these in speechless wo, that bent to earth their solemn brow, that their flaxen tresses tear, and snowy veils that float in air? tell me whence their sorrows rose, then i leave thee to repose. proph: ha! no traveller art thou: king of men i know thee now: mightiest of a mighty line. odin: no boding maid of skill divine, art thou, no prophetess of good, but mother of a giant brood! proph: hie thee hence, and boast at home, that never shall enquirer come to break my iron sleep again, till lok his horse his tenfold chain, never till substantial night, has re-assumed her ancient right, till wrapped in fumes, in ruin hurl'd, sinks the fabric of the world. superstitions chapter xiv. superstitions. the most remarkable instance of the tenacity of superstitions is the survival of the practice of "bringing in the new year." not only does it exist among the poor and uneducated, but even amongst educated people at this festive season. it is considered an omen of misfortune if the first person who enters your house on new year's morning has a fair complexion or light hair. this popular prejudice has never been satisfactorily accounted for, says the late mr. charles hardwick, in his "traditions and superstitions." he says: "i can only suggest that it most probably arose from the fact that amongst the keltic tribes, who were the earliest immigrants, dark hair prevailed. this dark characteristic still prevails amongst the welsh, cornish, and irish of the present day. when these earlier races came in contact with the danes and norse as enemies, they found their mortal foes to possess fair skins and light hair. they consequently regarded the intrusion into their houses, at the commencement of the year, of one of the hated race, as a sinister omen. the true kelt does not only resent, on new year's day, the red hair of the dane, but the brown and flaxen locks of the german as well." an old writer, oliver matthew, of shrewsbury, writing in the year 1616, at the age of 90 years, says it was the custom of the danes to place one of their men to live in each homestead of the conquered race, and this was more resented than the tribute they had to pay. this affords another proof that these fair-haired men were the cause of this present superstition. it is also considered unlucky to allow anything to be taken out of the house on new year's day, before something had been brought in. the importation of the most insignificant article, even a piece of coal, or something in the nature of food, is sufficient to prevent this misfortune, which the contrary action would render inevitable. this sentiment is well expressed in the following rhyme:- take out, and then take in, bad luck will begin. take in, then take out, good luck comes about. it would be rash to speculate how long superstitions of this kind will continue to walk hand in hand with religion; how long traditions from far-off heathen times will exercise this spell not only in our remote country places but in enlightened towns. in the realms of folk-lore, many were firm believers in witchcraft, in signs and omens, which things were dreaded with ignorant awe, while the romantic race of gipsies look upon occult influences from the inside, as a means of personal gain. the prophetic character of the weather during this period is a superstition common to all the aryan tribes. so strongly is this characteristic of the season felt in lancashire at the present day, that many country people may be met with who habitually found their "forecast" on the appearances of the heavens on old christmas day. the late mr. t. t. wilkinson relates a singular instance of this superstition, which shows the stubbornness of traditional lore, even when subjected to the power and influence of legislative enactments. he says: "the use of the old style in effect is not yet extinct in lancashire. the writer knows an old man of habergham, near burnley, about 77 years of age, who always reckons the changes of the seasons in this manner. he alleges the practice of his father and grandfather in support of his method, and states with much confidence that 'perliment didn't change t' seasons wen they chang'd day o't' month.'" a work named "the shepherd's kalender," published in 1709, soberly informs us that "if new year's day in the morning opens with dusky red clouds, it denotes strife and debates among great ones, and many robberies to happen that year." the helm wind. in the neighbourhood of kirkoswald, on the eden in cumberland, a district prolific in arthurian legends, it is said that a "peculiar wind called the 'helm wind,' sometimes blows with great fury in that part of the country. it is believed by some persons to be an electrical phenomenon." this fact may have some remote connection with the superstition under consideration. sir walter scott's version of the legend is as follows: "a daring horse jockey sold a black horse to a man of venerable and antique appearance, who appointed the remarkable hillock upon the eildon hills, called the lucken hare, as the place where at twelve o'clock at night he should receive the price. he came and his money was paid in ancient coin, and he was invited by his customer to view his residence. the trader in horses followed his guide in the deepest astonishment through several long ranges of stalls, in each of which a horse stood motionless, while an armed warrior lay equally still at the charger's feet. 'all these men,' said the wizard in a whisper, 'will awaken at the battle of sheriffmoor.' at the extremity of this extraordinary depôt hung a sword and a horn, which the prophet pointed out to the horse dealer, as containing the means of dissolving the spell. the man in confusion, took the horn and attempted to wind it. the horses instantly started in their stalls, stamped and shook their bridles; the men arose, and clashed their armour; and the mortal terrified at the tumult he had excited, dropped the horn from his hand. a voice like that of a giant, louder even than the tumult around, pronounced these words: "woe to the coward that ever he was born that did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!" the mistletoe was supposed to protect the homestead from fire and other disaster, and, like other mysterious things, was believed to be potent in matters relating to courtship and matrimony. it is to this sentiment we owe the practice of kissing under the bush formed of holly and mistletoe during christmas festivities. this matrimonial element in the mistletoe is artistically presented in the scandinavian mythology. freigga, the mother of baldr, had rendered him invulnerable against all things formed out of the then presumed four elements, fire, air, earth, and water. the mistletoe was believed to grow from none of these elements. but she overlooked the one insignificant branch of the mistletoe, and it was by an arrow fashioned from it that the bright day-god baldr, the scandinavian counterpart of apollo and bel, was killed by the blind hodr or heldr. the gods, however, restored him to life, and dedicated the mistletoe to his mother, who is regarded as the counterpart of the classical venus. hence its importance in affairs of love and courtship. it is not improbable that the far-famed dart of cupid may have some relation to the mistletoe arrow, to which the beautiful baldr succumbed. the medicinal qualities of the mistletoe tree were also in high repute. its healing power was shared by the ash tree, which was the "cloud tree" of the norsemen. the ash (norse "askr,") was the tree out of which the gods formed the first man, who was thence called askr. the ash was among the greeks, an image of the clouds, and the mother of men. other christmas customs and superstitions are peculiar to lancashire. the white thorn is supposed to possess supernatural power, and certain trees of this class, in lancashire called christmas thorns, are believed to blossom only on old christmas day. mr. wilkinson says that in the neighbourhood of burnley many people will yet travel a considerable distance "at midnight, in order to witness the blossoming." the boar's head yet forms a chief object amongst the dishes of christmas festivities. among the impersonations of natural phenomena, the wild boar represented the "ravages of the whirlwind that tore up the earth." in all mythologies the boar is the animal connected with storm and lightning. there yet exists a superstition prevalent in lancashire to the effect that pigs can "see the wind." dr. kuhm says that in westphalia this superstition is a prevalent one. the tradition is at least three or four thousand years old. lancashire has many stories of the pranks played by the wild boar or demon pig, removing the stones in the night on the occasion of the building of churches. stories of this nature are to be found respecting winwick, where a rude carving resembling a hog fastened to a block of stone, by a collar, is to be seen built into the tower of the present church. burnley and rochdale churches, and samlesbury church, near preston, possess similar traditions. all celtic nations have been accustomed to the worship of the sun. it was a custom that everywhere prevailed in ancient times to celebrate a feast at the winter solstice, by which men testified their joy at seeing this great luminary return again to this part of the heavens. this was the greatest solemnity of the year. they called it in many places "yole," or "yuul," from the word "hiaul" and "houl," which even at this day signifies sun in the language of cornwall. "heulo" in modern welsh means to "shine as the sun." and thus we may derive our word halo. some writers, including the venerable bede, derive yule from "hvoel," a wheel, meaning the return of the sun's annual course after the winter solstice. agriculture a comparison of progress between danish and british chapter xv. agriculture. while the scandinavian element is regarded by modern writers as the predominating feature in the composition of englishmen, the danish has been the pre-eminent force in forming the character of the race which dominates the lancashire people of to-day. in our survey of the progress of the race, from the earliest settlement of the danes, we find the impression of their footprints in the place-names of the county, which are our oldest and most enduring monuments. following their character of daring and venture, we have established a maritime power which is the envy of the world. the same spirit which formed our early settlements in lancashire has founded colonies in every quarter of the globe. the enterprise of the early "copemen" has developed into our mercantile fleet, which controls the carrying trade of the seas. the voice of their language still resounds in the names of our laws, the "hundreds" of the county, and in our system of administration, and also in the political freedom which has established the saying that "what lancashire says to-day, england will say to-morrow." in the earliest record of agricultural progress we find the danes have given us the name of "husbandry," and the modern implement called the "plough." therefore, in forming an estimate of the benefits which have resulted from our intercourse with the danes, the primary industry of agriculture and dairy produce must not be omitted. in all other branches of commercial activity, by the application of scientific methods, unbounded progress has been achieved. has the oldest industry of the county had a share in this attainment of wealth, or its rural population derived advancement? for a period of half-a-century our agricultural leaders have held competitions known as agricultural shows, where valuable prizes have been given for live stock of all descriptions, and rewards for every design of mechanical appliance for agriculture. to a stranger visiting these shows, it would appear that we brooked no rival in the production of dairy produce. what are the facts disclosed by the figures for the past 25 or 50 years? in the "year book of the lancashire past agricultural students' association" we are told that parliament handed over, in the year 1890, to local authorities, large sums of money for purposes of technical instruction, and that "this marks the really substantial beginning of agricultural education in lancashire." with this statement, made at the opening of the twentieth century, it may be interesting to notice the increase of our imports of danish dairy produce for a period of eleven years:- year. imports. exports. 1897 £10,968,397 £3,476,663 1898 £11,703,384 £3,919,326 1899 £12,432,977 £4,399,025 1900 £13,187,667 £4,724,181 1901 £14,234,102 £4,163,478 1902 £15,556,780 £4,033,897 1903 £16,594,565 £4,398,088 1904 £15,911,615 £3,925,836 1905 £15,416,456 £4,476,624 1906 £16,433,648 £5,162,428 1907 £18,262,542 £6,124,039 danish agriculture. during the past ten years, says mr. consul l. c. liddell in his report for 1908, denmark has witnessed a considerable increase. the exports of agricultural produce, which in 1904 were worth £18,400,000, reached £22,400,000 in 1908. the amount of butter exported to the united kingdom reaches 96.1 per cent. of the total; of bacon, 97.5 per cent.; and of eggs, 98.8 per cent. the remainder of the butter and bacon goes principally to germany. nearly the entire export of horses and cattle is absorbed by the german market, whilst three-fifths of the beef also finds its way thither, the remainder going to norway. the labour question has, as in other years, attracted much attention. the number of swedish and finnish labourers is decreasing, and it is from galicia that denmark would now appear to recruit her farm hands. the number of galician "season" labourers in 1908 reached 8,000, or about 1,000 more than in 1907. the co-operative organisations approached the prime minister with the proposal that free passes should be granted on the state railway system to any unemployed at copenhagen having a knowledge of field work to help in farming. this attempt to organise a "back to the land" movement is not expected to be attended with success. these figures show an increase of nearly double in eleven years, or an increase of eight millions, and an increase of two millions from 1906 to 1907. it must be remembered that the bulk of danish produce comes to the manchester market, and is distributed from that centre. an analysis of the 1907 imports from denmark gives the following details:--butter £10,192,587, eggs £1,774,319, fish £91,031, lard £17,723, bacon £5,385,275, pork £200,000. the item of bacon for 1907 shows an increase of one million pounds over the year 1906. the import of danish produce began in the early sixties of last century, and the quality was so indifferent that we are told it was fortunate if two casks of butter were good out of every five. even then the quality was superior to irish butter in its taste and appearance. the population of denmark is two and a half millions, and the cultivated area of land is seven million acres. the yield of crops to the acre is 28 bushels of wheat, while in england it is 33 bushels. in barley the yield is 30 bushels to our 35 bushels, and in oats it is 33 bushels to our 42. these figures show the comparative fruitfulness of the land to be in favour of england. the live stock per 1,000 population in denmark is 711 cattle to our 267, and pigs 563 to our 82. the total imports for twenty years show that our dairy produce from abroad has doubled, and is increasing at a rapid rate. comparisons of danish methods of farming to-day cannot be made with the present conditions existing in lancashire or yorkshire, but can only be made by the modern conditions now obtaining in essex under lord rayleigh. crops diminishing. what has been the course of our agriculture for the past sixty years? mr. cobden maintained that free trade would do no injury to agriculture. the following is a comparison of prices in the years 1845 and 1907:- 1845. 1907. [e]4lbs. loaf of bread 6d. 5-1/2d. [f]1lb. butter 7d. 1/1. [f]1lb. cheese 2d. 9d. [f]1lb. bacon 3d. 9d. [f]1lb. beef 4d. 8d. sixty years ago home-grown wheat produced flour for twenty-four millions of our population.[g] to-day it produces flour for four and a half millions. the acreage under wheat has been reduced in the last thirty years to one-half in england, to one-third in scotland, and to one-fifth in ireland. the same is true of green crops. nine hundred thousand acres less are under crops than were thirty years ago. the same may be said of the area under hop cultivation, which has been reduced every year. the only bright spot in the review of our agricultural position, extending over many years, is to be found in the growth of fruit, although this has not increased as rapidly as foreign importations. the result of these changes during the last thirty years has been an increase of imports of agricultural produce of eighty millions. our imports of wheat have increased by thirty-two millions, our imports of dairy produce have increased by twenty-one millions, and eggs alone have increased by four millions sterling a year; while fruit and vegetables have increased by ten and a half millions. the effect of this must be the increased dependence of our population on foreign supplies. agriculture finds employment for a million less than it did sixty years ago. these are facts and not opinions, and we are compelled to use the figures of the general national imports, as the details of the counties are not available. national savings. statesmen tell us that the post office savings bank deposits are a fair indication of the industrial prosperity. in the report of these post office savings banks we find that denmark heads the list with £15 11s. per head of the population, while the united kingdom comes ninth in the list with a sum of £4 11s. per head of the population. the economy of waste has been the keynote of wealth to many industries, and the adaptability of labour to changed conditions has marked the survival of more than one centre of commercial activity. individual cases are not wanting to prove that men who have been found unfit to follow their work in mills and town employments through weak health or the effect of accidents, have succeeded, by the aid of a small capital, in becoming model farmers, and have demonstrated the variety of crops and stock which can be raised on a single farm. the bye-products of the manufacturers are often the source of success, and these are the most neglected in the itinerary of the farmer. the greatest problem which confronts our municipal authorities is the profitable disposal of sewage. where sewage farms are maintained they are invariably conducted at a heavy loss to the ratepayers, while the adjoining farm tenants often succeed in making profits. to reclaim the land which has gone out of cultivation, by the application of unemployed labour and the disposal of waste and sewage, provides the solution of a difficulty which may become a source of wealth, and restore the prosperity of a lost industry. cost of agricultural education. a white paper just issued by the board of education gives particulars as to the amount spent by county councils in england and wales on agricultural education. the amounts vary considerably in the different counties for the year ending march, 1908. in england, lancashire takes the lead with £7,485, and in wales the county of carmarthen is prominent with £597. the gross total amounted to £79,915, of which £21,662 was in grants to schools and colleges, £9,876 for scholarships, and £12,433 for dairy instruction. the figures are approximate owing to the difficulty of analysing education accounts. there are not wanting those who say that farming cannot be made to pay in england. essex has quite a different experience. for here farms, varying in size from 250 acres to 5,000 and over, have been made to return very good profits. the whole secret lies in the work being conducted on scientific principles, and the careful watching of every penny expended, as well as giving the labourers a direct interest in getting good results. on lord rayleigh's estate, terling, which comprises about 5,000 acres, striking results have been obtained during the past twenty years, his successes being attributed to the use of business and scientific methods. for many years past his lordship's brother, the hon. e. g. strutt--probably one of the most experienced practical farmers in england--has had the management of the property, and has shown that farming can be carried on with a profit in this country. essex is described as flat, but in the neighbourhood of terling, which abuts on the great eastern railway line at witham, there are numerous gently undulating plains, and even at this time of the year a stroll along the lanes in the neighbourhood reveals many pleasant surprises. here and there the hedgerows are already bursting into delicate green buds, and in some places the crops sown during the early winter for spring are showing above the rich dark brow soil. and many are the birds which are already, as it were, getting into voice for the spring. the county hereabouts is heavily wooded, the chief trees being oak, ash, and elm. many of these are veritable giants and monarchs of the forest, now standing out alone on the sky-line in all their nakedness of winter outline, then in small groups, again in such numbers as to become forests. on every hand are signs of activity. ploughing for the moment is all over, though there are still fields of stubble which have to be turned over and prepared for crops in the near future. fields which have already been ploughed are being heavily manured in readiness for sowing. and herein lies one of the secrets of the successful farming prevailing in this favoured neighbourhood. everyone knows, but not everyone acts upon the knowledge, that as the fertility of the soil is exhausted fresh nutriment must be given. the observance of this rule brings its own reward, as many have learned to their advantage. hedging and ditching are in progress, and by the time that all hands will be required on the land for ploughing, scarifying, harrowing, and sowing, hedges will have been trimmed and ditches cleaned. some eighteen or twenty years ago lord rayleigh decided to offer all his farm labourers, who number about 250, bonuses on the profits of their industry. this scheme proved eminently successful; so much so, indeed, that lord rayleigh has now gone a step further and offered to give every man who cares to invest his savings in his farms 4 per cent. interest on such money, and a share in any profits which may accrue after that dividend has been paid. a very large proportion of the men employed have taken advantage of this offer, which gives them close upon 2 per cent. more than they were getting from the post office savings bank, where they had been in the habit of putting their money, for they are a thoroughly respectable, self-respecting, and frugal community. it is now just a year since this offer was first made, and the employees put up over £1,000, in sums ranging from £1 to £100, the latter sum coming from a man who had banked all the bonuses he earned, along with savings from twenty-five years' earnings. lord rayleigh's idea was to get the men not only to study thrift, but to take a keener interest in their daily work. it has been said that that man is a public benefactor who gets two blades of grass to flourish where but one grew before. his lordship has a far higher satisfaction in advancing the position of the men in his employment. in effect this is what he said to them: "my farms represent so much money to me; now for every £1 which you put in i will guarantee you 4 per cent. after we have all had our 4 per cent., such surplus profit as may be left, if any, will be divided between us _pro rata_." the result of the first year's farming under this form of co-partnership has been very satisfactory. everyone has not only been paid the guaranteed 4 per cent., which was distributed recently, but each labourer has also received a share in the sum which was over after paying out that amount. while mr. strutt declined to disclose the exact amount of the remaining profit, he hinted that the extra interest might quite possibly be as much as a further 4 per cent. whatever it is, every labourer who put his savings into lord rayleigh's hands is congratulating himself upon his good fortune, and, as saving begets saving, there is a prospect that none of these beneficiaries will ever need the old age pension. lord rayleigh has made only two stipulations with his men, both aimed at unity of administration. one is that they cannot have any voice in the management of the estate, which mr. strutt naturally works to the best advantage, and the other is that only the savings of the labourer himself and his wife may be offered for investment in the farms. probably there is no farm where such intricate or such useful books are kept as on the terling estates. practically every field is treated as a separate farm in itself. say, for instance, a field is to be sown with wheat. it has to be ploughed, the cost of which is charged in the book against that field, as also the value of the manure used, the price of the seeds sown, and all the time occupied in preparing the land, and, later on, in cutting the wheat, threshing, and sending it to market. on the opposite page of the ledger is put the amount obtained for the grain, and the value of the straw, whether sold or used on the farms. a balance can then be struck, and the profit or loss shown at a glance. on the profit shown, those who did the various necessary labours receive their bonus. so with every field. but the system does not end here. a most careful record is kept, for example, of every cow--the original cost, if bought, the amount of milk she yields per year, of her calves, and what they fetch when sold, or their value if retained on the estate. every friday, the morning and evening milkings are accurately measured, and at the end of the year these figures are added up and multiplied by seven for the seven days of the week. in this way it is known exactly how much milk each cow gives. the annual average should be about 800 gallons, which is regarded as a very fair amount. there is, however, one cow, lilac by name, which seems to despise that average. last year her yield of milk was no less than 1,457 gallons, which is a big record, even on the terling estates. mr. strutt reckons that a cow should give on an average 650 gallons of milk per year, and the cowmen get a bonus when the yield of the cows in their charge average that amount. the advantage of such records are enormous. if a cow does not give 650 gallons of milk per annum, she is at once sold, as she does not pay for her keep. as there are no less than 800 cows on the estate, the keeping of such records involves an enormous amount of work, but it is work which has a profitable result, facilitating, as it does, the weeding out of poor dairy stock. the same attention is paid to other departments. records are kept of the sheep, of which there are considerable flocks scattered over the fifteen farms comprised in the estate. it is the same with poultry, of which there are thousands roaming about the farms, grubbing much of their food, but, of course, some is thrown down for them in the various poultry yards. no hens are penned up on the estate. while that course is necessary where prize-show birds are reared, in the case of table poultry and poultry kept for eggs pens are neither essential nor profitable. with freedom the birds lay more regularly, and are generally in better condition for the table. asked as to whether eggs were not lost owing to the hens laying in the hedges, mr. isted, who is in charge of the office where all the various books of record are kept, said that few, indeed, if any, are overlooked by those responsible, because of the system of bonuses given by lord rayleigh, to which reference has already been made. those in charge of the hens receive a reward on every score of eggs brought in. every head of poultry reared also means a monetary benefit to the workers. daily between 60 and 80 17-gallon churns of milk are despatched to london. it is said that from no station along the great eastern railway line is more milk sent to the metropolis than from witham. at present about 100 of these churns leave the station every day, all the milk coming from the immediate neighbourhood. eggs are also sent to the rayleigh dairies in vast quantities. every egg is carefully tested before it leaves the estate. the poultry is disposed of through middlemen. other produce is sold in the essex markets--at chelmsford, colchester, witham, and braintree. this would include all the cereals not used on the farm, and such hay as was not required for the stock during winter. down in essex wages are regarded as generally good by the farm labourers. at least there is a distinct tendency on the part of the men to remain on the soil. horsemen receive 14s. a week, cowmen 14s. and 15s., the head cowmen getting generally 18s. and 20s., while other farm hands earn from 13s. to 15s. living is very cheap, and rents are low. a good, comfortable cottage, with a decent bit of garden, where vegetables can be grown, can be had for £4 or £5 a year. should a man require more ground he can get it at a nominal annual rent of 3d. per rod--that is, a piece of ground measuring 5-1/2 yards each way. quite a number of men avail themselves of this offer, and as they knock off work at five p.m., they put in their evenings on their own "estate." it is true that lord rayleigh has only tried his new system of investment, as well as interest in the farms, for a year, but the results amply justify the experiment. so satisfied are the men themselves that many have asked to be allowed to invest their share of the interest earned and their new bonuses in the estate. it would seem that here, at least, is a possible project for checking the ever-increasing rush of young men to the towns, where, while wages may be higher, the conditions are not conducive to either personal or patriotic well-being. the great feature of lord rayleigh's plan is that it is a distinctly profit-sharing one, for no reform, however attractive, can be economically good unless it is financially sound. with wheat in a rising market at 50s. a quarter, the granaries of the world holding back supplies a considerable proportion of which are already cornered in america--and bread dearer than it has been for many years, the question of the moment is, can england become her own wheat grower? fourteen weeks after harvest the home supplies are exhausted. britain needs altogether, both home and foreign, 30,000,000 quarters of wheat per annum to provide her people with bread. out of the total area of 32,000,000 acres under crops of all sorts in the country only 1,625,000 acres are devoted to the growth of wheat. english climatic conditions can be relied upon to allow an average production of three and a half quarters per acre. the solution of the problem, therefore, is simplicity itself. a matter of 8,000,000 acres taken from those devoted meantime to other crops, to pasturage (to say nothing of deer forests, grouse moors, golf links), or even lying waste, and developed for wheat growing would produce, roughly speaking, the extra 28,000,000 necessary to our annual national food supply. millions of acres of the land at present in other crops has grown wheat at a profit in the past. in the sixties and seventies the staple commodity was at its most remunerative price. in 1867 it touched the enormous average of 64s. 5d. per quarter, while later, in 1871 and 1873, it stood at 56s. 8d. and 58s. 8d. per quarter. with the countries of the east--india, china, japan--awakening to the potentialities of wheat as a food in place of rice, with america's prairies becoming used up and her teeming millions multiplying, and with canada, australia, and argentina remaining at a standstill as regards wheat production, it is clear that england ought to become self-sufficing. to attain the desired end the vast possibilities of the agricultural science of to-day must be appreciated and developed by every possible means. what can be done within england's own borders is the chief point to be considered, and some experiments and experiences may point the way. the first question is, would home produced wheat pay? farmers tell us that at 30s. a quarter wheat is just worth growing, but that each shilling over 30s. means about 5s. clear profit. would not wheat at 40s. an acre be worth cultivating? as to the practical ways and means of obtaining this sum out of the soil, i must detail some of the more modern scientific methods in agriculture. i have said that 8,000,000 acres of the present area under crops could make us independent of foreign supplies. by applying certain simple rules of selection regarding seeds, a much smaller area of land would give the same result. instead of 3-1/2 quarters per acre--the present average--the yield could be doubled, or even trebled. thirty years ago, in france, three quarters an acre was considered a good crop, but the same soil with improved methods of cultivation nowadays yields at least four quarters per acre; while in the best soils the crop is only considered good when it yields five quarters to six quarters an acre. the work of the garton brothers and of professor biffen, of cambridge university, has clearly shown that by careful selection and crossing of the best breeds of wheat the yield can be actually quadrupled. hallet's famous experiments in selection demonstrate that the length of the wheat ear can be doubled, and the number of ears per stalk nearly trebled. the finest ear he developed produced 123 grains, as against 47 in the original ear, and 52 ears to one plant, as against ten in the original. in agriculture, as in other matters in which england claims to take a leading part, we have something to learn from the continent. france, belgium, and germany have adopted a system of co-operation which has reduced the cost of farming to the smallest possible limit. from a fund supplied partly by the governments of these countries and partly by the farmers themselves, small farms, manures, seeds, machinery, etc., are provided on a co-operative basis. would not a system on similar lines have far-reaching results in this country? perhaps the most interesting suggestion, the newest in the fields of scientific agriculture research, is the inoculation of the soil with bacteria. through these wonder-working germs which live in the nodules of plant roots multiplication of the free nitrogen in the air goes on with great rapidity, and this, united with other elements, forms valuable plant food. recent experiments, the results of which have not yet been made public, show that good crops of wheat may be grown in the poorest soil; indeed, the scriptural injunction about sowing seeds in waste places no longer bears scientific examination. on an area which was little more than common sand crops inoculated with bacteria gave an increased yield of 18 per cent. wheat grown on the lines i have touched upon within the united kingdom, and paying the grower 40s. per quarter, would go far to solve every social and economic problem known. there would be work for all in the country districts, and consequently less poverty in the towns, and to the nation's resources would be conserved the enormous annual expenditure on foreign wheat of £67,000,000. occupying ownership. "a time there was, ere england's griefs began, when every rood of ground maintained its man," behold a change; where'er her flag unfurled, it presaged forth--goods-maker to the world. then wealth from trade, pure farming handicapped while glittering towns the youthful swain entrapped. in trade, no longer, england stands alone, indeed, too oft, john bull gets "beaten on his own." dependent on the world for nearly every crumb, is this a time when patriots should be dumb? for england needs to guard 'gainst future strife that backing up which comes from rural life. though all indeed may use both book and pen, the nation's weal depends on robust men inured to toil--a hardy, virile band. and these are bred where owners till the land. supply of wheat. strides in the scale of living. earl carrington, president of the board of agriculture, presided at a meeting of the society of arts, when a paper upon the production of wheat was read by mr. a. e. humphries. his lordship gave some very interesting jottings from family history, showing the great advance that had taken place in the scale of living. the subject of the lecture, he said, reminded him that over 100 years ago his grandfather, who was president of the board of agriculture, made a speech in which he said that one of the most important subjects with which the board had to deal was the scarcity of wheat. it was curious that they were discussing the same subject to-day. his father, who was born 103 years ago, had often told him that in the early part of last century they did not have white bread at every meal, as it was so scarce. if that happened at the table of old robert smith, the banker, at whitehall, what must the bread of the working classes have been like! in the five years from 1878 to 1882, said mr. humphries in his lecture, we produced 117 lb. of wheat per head per annum, and imported 238 lb., while in the years from 1903 to 1907 we produced only 68 lb. per head, and imported 284 lb. for many years british wheat had been sold at substantially lower prices than the best foreign, and in the capacity of making large, shapely, well-aerated and digestible loaves the home-grown grain was notably deficient. it was commonly attributed to our climate, and people said that great britain was not a wheat producing country. the real reason was that farmer did not grow the right kind of wheat. it was not a matter of climate or of soil, but of catering for the particular kind of soil in which the grain was to be grown. the crux of the whole question was to obtain a variety of seed that would suit the environment. farmers, instead of aiming at quality, had striven to get as large a yield per acre as possible. the hon. j. w. taverner, agent-general for victoria, said that he had heard a lot of talk about the efficiency of the territorial army and the safety of the country. if only the men were fed on bread baked from australian wheat england had nothing to fear, for the men would be equal to anything. footnotes [a] from an article by the late john just, m.a., of bury. [b] knott is also used for the name of a mountain or hill, as in arnside knott, in westmoreland, but near the lancashire border. [c] from darvel--death and öl--feast. [d] the ancestors of the poet were, however, more likely "chaussiers," makers of long hose. [e] from "free trader," issued by the liberal free traders, dec., 1904. [f] from "the hungry forties," written by mr. cobden's daughter. [g] from report of agricultural committee of the tariff commission. index acle, 28. adamson, 63. adalis, 32, 38, 39. aella, king, 24. agriculture, 215. ainsdale, 7. aire, 159. ale, 16. alexandria, 152. alfgier, 38-39. alfred the great (illust.), 26, 33. altcar, 23. amleth, 173. amounderness, 5. anastasius, 68. anderson, 63. angel choir of lincoln, 170. anglian population, 17. anlaby, 13. anlaf, 25, 32, 35, 36, 37, 41. anstice, 68. aradr, 112. aratum, 112. arcle, 28. arnside knott, 48. arncliffe, 27. art, 174. athelfloed, lady of the mercians, 104. athelstan, 26, 30, 33, 34, 35, 37, 49. asia, 158. augustin, 68. austin, 68. australia, 158. austria, 158. axle, 28. ayton (great), 27. back o'th' hill, 40. bacup, 34. balder, 62. ball (olaf), 53. ballads and war songs, 172. ballr, 53. balderstone, 62. bamber, 84. banbury, 31. bannister, 68. barker, 68. barrowford, 32. basket making, 140. bath-day, 15. battlefield, 37. battlestone, 37. beck, 69. beckett, 69. bede, 49. beer, 16. bellum brun, 35. bernicia, 24, 25, 50. bessingby, 18. billingr, 62. birkdale, 7. birket, 22. bishop's house estate, 37. bishop's leap, 31, 35. blagburnshire hundred, 5. 'blakogr,' 28. blawith, 28. blowick, 28. 'boer,' 84. 'bois,' 69. 'bondr,' 24. bonfire hill, 40. booth, 84. boulsworth, 32. boys, 69. bractaetes, 174. 'breck,' 67. bridlington, 18. britons, 1. ---of strathclyde, 34. broadclough dykes, 41. broad dyke, 34. broadbank, 35. brock, 69. brincaburh, 30. brinkburn, 30. bromborough, 31. brownedge, 35, 40. brownend, 40. brownside, 35. brun, 28, 29. brunanburh, 28, 31. brunford, 30. brunton, 31. brumbridge, 30. brumby, 31. 'bud,' 84. buerton, 84. 'burh,' 31. burnley, 29, 48. burscough, 23. burton, 84. burton-on-trent, 24. bushel-corn, 99. 'by-law,' 8. 'byr,' 84. byrom, 84. byzantine coins, 174. cairns, 185. calday, 22. calders, 22. calderstones, 22, 182. canute, 5, 177. candlemas, 155. capenhurst, 64. castle hill--tunlay, 33-34. cat's cradle, 158. causeway, 33. carnaby, 18. castercliffe, 32, 35. celtic burial, 185. chapman, 64. cheap, 64. cheapside, 64. chepstow, 64. chester, 4, 23, 163-164. chester-le-street, 53. children's games, 158. childwall, 23. christian 'sunday letters,' 153. churches, 163-164. churchtown, 164. claughton-on-brock, 124. clitheroe, 32, 48. clog almanacs, 143. ------symbols, 144. coinage, 175. colne, 32. constantine, king of scots, 30. copeland, 64. copeman, 64. copenhagen, 64. copethorn, 64. copley, 64. copynook, 34. corn spirit, 158. cottingham, 13. craik, yorkshire, 51. crathorne, 26. crosby, 6, 23. crosses, 195. croxteth, 19. cuerdale, 7, 28, 175. cumberland, 53. cuthbert, saint, 50, 53. cutherd, bishop, 53. cup-cuttings, 182. 'dale,' 7. danelag, 8. danes house, 41. darvel cakes, 66. darvel deathfeast, 66. dean, 69. deira, 9, 11, 12, 24. dell, 69. derby, 5. dialect, 69. drengs, 24. eadred, abbot of carlisle, 50. eanfrid, 25. easden fort, 34. easington, 26. ecclesiologist, 156. ecfrith, 25. edward the elder, 34. edwin, king, 24. egbert (illust.), 33. eglis, 39. egyptian scholars, 152. ellerburn, 27. elston, 62. elswick, 62. emmott, 41. enderby, 84. 'endr,' 84. endrod, 84. entwistle, 84. equinox, vernal, 152. ernot, 35. everett, 68. everard, 68. extwistle hall, 35. facid, 84. facit, 84. fairs and wakes, 65. fawcett, 84. 'feldkirk,' 31. fire and sun worship, 154. folklore for children, 157. formby, 6, 23. forseti, 84. foster, 84. fraisthorpe, 62. frankby, 62. fraser, 62. freyer, 62. frisby, 62. fry, 62. fryer, 62. furness, 164. fylde, 5. 'gaard,' 75. galt, 65. gamelson, 84. gambleside, 84. gamul, 84. 'gata,' 54. garnett, 68. garstang, 75. garswood, 75. garth, 75. garton, 75. geld, 65. godley, 32, 33. golden numbers, 144. 'gos,' 69. gosford, 69. grave mounds, 184. grindalbythe, 18. guthred, king, 51, 52. hackenhurst, 39. haggate, 36. halfdan's death, 51. halfdene, 13, 15, 26. halton, 121, 125, 177-179. ---crosses, 179. ---torque, 177. hamilton hill, 36, 40. hamlet, 173. hapton, 48. harbreck, 19. harkirke, 7, 177. 'haugr,' 6. hay, 55. haydon bridge, 51. hazel edge, 36. hell clough, 40. helm wind, 208. heptarchy, 25. heriot, 107. hessle, 18. heysham, 121. highlawhill, 36. 'hofs,' 6. horelaw pastures, 36. 'hlith,' 48. hoe, 112. hogback stone, 105, 121, 179. hoop, 48. hope, 48. hopehead, 48. hopekirk, 48. hopeton, 48. howick, 55. hoylake, 55. hudleston, 96. hundred court, 14. hutton john, 96. hurstwood, 35. husbandry, 111, 112. hustings, 8. huyton, 55. hyngr, the dane, 37, 38. ida, king, 24. ingleby, 50. invasion and conquest, 1, 2, 3. irby, 22. ireland, 180. irish christians, 180. ivar, 22. jarls, 49. jarrow, 26. kell, 65. kellet, 65. kendal, 164. kingo, poet, 170. kirk ella, 17, 18. kirk levington, 27. kirkby, 6, 18. kirkby in cleveland, 27. kirkby lonsdale, 164. kirkby misperton, 27. kirkby moorside, 27, 164. kirkby stephen, 164. kirkdale, 5, 6, 19, 27. 'kirkja' church, 6. knott end mill, 48. 'knotta,' 48. knottingley, 48. knut, 48. 'knutr,' 48. knutsford, 48. 'lake,' game, 157. land tenure, 90. laugardag, bath day, 15. lawmen, 23. lay of norse gods, 173. leamington, 84. lethbridge, 48. levishan, 27. lindsey, 65. lindisfarne, 25. litherland, 48. literature, 168. ---'skryke of day,' 170. ---sunrise, 170. lithe, 48. lithgoe, 48. liverpool, 23, 47. log-law, 81. long hundred, 13. long weight, 13. lonsdale, 4. loom, danish, 80. lorton, 51. lorton-en-le-morthen, yorks., 33. 'lug-mark,' 81. lunar cycle, 155. lund, 65. lyster, 65. mackerfield, 54. maeshir, 54. maiden way, 51. manchester, 34. manorial exaction, 106. manx inscriptions, 138. memorials, 161. 'merchet,' 106. mercia, 25. mercians, lady of, 34. ---rule, 24. mereclough, 39. mersey, 34. 'messe staves,' 142. moons, changes, 143. mythology, 189. names, norse and anglo-saxon, 113. neilson, 56. nelson, admiral, 56. norns, 189. norse festival, 55. northumberland, --. northumbria, 25, 27, 70. nunnington, 23, 27. 'occupying ownership,' 234. odin, 6, 197. ---'the descent of,' 199. 'ol,' 16. 'oller,' 62. olave, saint, 63. oram, 63. 'orm,' 63. orme, 63. ormerod, 63. ormesby, 27. ormeshaw, 63. ormside cup, 131. ormskirk, 23, 63. ormstead, 185. osmotherley, 27. 'osric,' 25. 'oswald,' 25. 'oter,' 63. otter, 63. ottley, 63. 'oxl,' 28. oxton, 22. paton, 85. patronymics, 60. 'pecthun,' 85. penda, 25. peyton, 85. phauranoth, 152. physical types, 79. picton, 85. picts, 85, 115. picture, 85. piko, 115. place names, 14-47. 'plogr. plov.,' 112. plough, 112. political freemen, 89. preston, 23. prestune, 23. prim-staves, 142. prima-luna, 142. quakers, 99. raby, 22. rachdam, 84. ragnvald, 52. raven, 115. ravenshore, 115. ravensmeols, 23. rawtenstall, 48. red-lees, 33-36. regnold of bamborough, 34. ribble, 29-34. 'ridings,' yorkshire, 9. rimstock, 143-144. 'rimur,' 143. rivington pike, 115. roby, 23. rochdale, 84. roman days, 26. rooley, 39. rossendale, 84. round hill, 40. royal charters, norse witnesses, 15. rûnâ, 137. runes, 137. runic almanacs, 141. ---calender, 155. ---characters, 143, 153. ---'futhork,' 139. ---inscriptions, 138. ---monuments, 181. 'ruthlie,' 39. 'saetter,' 22. sagas, 169, 174. salford hundred, 5. satterthwaite, 22. saxifield, 30, 35, 42. scarisbrick, 67. seacombe, 22. seascale, 22. seathwaithe, 22. sellafield, 22. 'servi,' 103. settlements, 12. shakespere, 193. sherborne, 37. sheffield, 35. shotwick, 17. sieward, earl, 163. sigurd-story, 179. sinnington, 23. 'sinfin,' 39, 40. 'sithric,' king, 35. skelmersdale, 78. skelton, 27. skidby, 18. skipper, 55. slavery abolition, 103. 'socage,' 16, 20, 21. sochman, 14, 20. sochmanni, 19, 91. sochmanries, 20. socmen of peterboro', 105. sodor and man, 83. solar cycle, 155. speke, 66. 'spika,' 65. statesmen, 104. stainton, 26-7. steadsmen, 104. stigand, 68. stiggins, 68. 'stockstede,' croxteth, 23. stokesley, 26. stone crosses, 119. storeton, 22. sudreyjar, 83. sun, 152. superstitions, 159, 205. sutherland, 83. swarbrick, 67. sweden 'lake' game, 156. swindene, 40. s'winden water, 37. s'winless lane, 35, 37. tacitus, historian, 138. 'tallage,' 107. tanshelf, taddnesscylfe, 28. thane, 16. thelwall, 23, 34. 'thing,' trithing, 8. thinghow, 28, 50. thingstead, 28. thingwall, 8, 13, 28, 50. 'thor,' 62. thorley, 62. thornaby, 27. thorold, 38. thorolf, 38. thursby, 62. thurstaston, 62. thurston water, 38. tingley, 28, 50. torque, 177. towneley, 33. towthorp, 18. toxteth, 23. trawden, 48. tree-yggdrasil, 180. 'trithing,' 7, 10. trithing court, 14. troughton, 48. trowbridge, 48. 'trow'-trough, 48. turketul, chancellor, 39. turton, 62. tursdale, 62. twist hill, 40. tynwald, 8. ullersthorpe, 62. ullscarth, 28. ullswater, 28. ulpha, 23. ulverston, 62. unthank, 22. valkyrs, 199. valour, 199. 'vë,' 62. verstigan, 143. 'viborg,' 62. viking age, 178. wallhalla, 189. walkyries, 189. wallasey, 22. walshaw, 33. walton le dale, 5. wandsworth, 198. wansborough, 198. wanstead, 198. wapentake, 8-9. warcock, 28. warcock-hill, 36. warthole, 28. warton, 28. warwick, 28. warrington, 24. watling street, 33. wavertree, 22. wearmouth, 26. wednesbury, 198. wednesday, 198. wellborough, 27. west derby, 23. ------hundred, 5. west kirby, 23. whasset, 63. whitby, 17, 26, 27. whithorn, 51. ---prior of, 165. wigton, 62. wigthorpe, 62. wilbeforce, 62. wild, 64. wilde, 64. wilding, 63. willerby, 13. willoughby, 62. windermere, 22. winewall, 35. winter solstice, 211. widdop, 36. wirral, 12, 24. woollen manufacture, 64. worsthorne, 37. worsthorne, 36. wulfric spot, 24. wycollar, 41. wydale, 62. wylde, 10. wyre, 62. yarborg, 84. yarborough, 84. yarm, 27. yerburgh, 84. yggdrasil, 189. yorkshire children's folklore, 114. yule, origin, 211. zinga, 181. zodiac, 152. zoni, 181. transcriber's notes punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. simple typographical errors were corrected; frequent unbalanced quotation marks not remedied except as noted below. page 16: "hopped ale.'" either is missing an opening quotation mark or has a superfluous ending one. page 36: 'is "warcock hill.' either is missing a closing quotation mark or has a superfluous opening one. page 62: "descrip-names" was printed that way; may be misprint for "descriptive names". page 65: text beginning with '"robert de cowdray, who died in 1222' has no closing quotation mark. page 71: "proposition" probably should be "preposition". page 72: ending quotation mark added to "i's t'". page 73: "helder--preferably;" the semi-colon was printed as a colon, but changed here for consistency with the rest of the list. page 80: "are also easily be recognised" was printed that way. page 80: "or clap-cake, form" probably should be "from". page 81: 'lögg mark."' either is missing an opening quotation mark or has a superfluous closing one. page 106: likely superfluous quotation mark after 'by commutation."' page 114: missing quotation mark added after 'is in norse "stegger."' page 117: there is no "chapter viii" in this book, but the chapter names match the table of contents. page 132: paragraph beginning "the bewcastle cross in the gigurd shaft" was printed as shown here. pages 144-151: runic symbols appeared to the left of each entry in the clog almanac on these pages, and between some of them. to avoid clutter, this ebook does not indicate where those symbols appeared. page 147: "st. john beverlev" may be alternate spelling for "beverley". page 149: no entry for sept. 6. page 158: "and has recently found" was printed that way. page 172: "songs and sages" may be misprint for "sagas". page 181: '"the calder stones near liverpool' has no closing quotation mark. page 182: "between 576 feet" is a misprint, possibly for "5&6". page 190: 'songs of the "edda.' either is missing a closing quotation mark or has a superfluous opening one. page 195: '"how the man odin' is missing a closing quotation mark, or its mate is on page 199. page 199: 'the sky and in the ocean."' is missing an opening quotation mark, or its mate is on page 195. page 220: "last thirty years" was misprinted as "vast"; changed here. page 223: "rich dark brow soil" probably should be "brown". page 234: unclear whether "occupying ownership" is a section heading or just the title of the poem. page 235: "but of catering" contained a duplicate "of"; changed here. some alphabetizing errors in the index corrected here. index references were not checked for accuracy. page 243: no page reference given in the index for "northumberland, --". yorkshire family romance. [illustration: sir john hotham.] yorkshire family romance. by frederick ross, f.r.h.s., author of "celebrities of yorkshire wolds," "progress of civilisation," etc. hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, & co., limited. 1891. contents. the synod of streoneshalh the doomed heir of osmotherley eadwine, the royal martyr siward, the viceroy phases in the life of a political martyr the murderer's bride the earldom of wiltes black-faced clifford the shepherd lord the felons of ilkley the ingleby boar's head the eland tragedy the plumpton marriage the topcliffe insurrection the burning of cottingham castle the alum workers the maiden of marblehead rise of the house of phipps the traitor governor of hull yorkshire family romance. the synod of streoneshalh. northumbria was at peace, after a long period of anarchy, bloodshed, battles, and murders. christianity had been restored by st. oswald, king and martyr; york cathedral, commenced by king eadwine, had been completed; the great abbey of lindisfarne had become a centre of christian light and civilisation; and several other churches and religious houses were growing up over the length and breadth of the land. oswy, a wise, vigorous, and warlike king, one of the most illustrious of his line, ruled northumbria in its integrity; held northern mercia under his sway; had subjected the southern picts and scots to his authority; and was bretwalda of the heptarchy. this position, however, he had only gained, and this peace firmly secured, after a great struggle and the shedding of much blood, and, it must be added, after the perpetration of an atrocious crime. when paulinus, under the patronage of king eadwine, had introduced christianity into northumbria, mercia was ruled by penda, a ferocious pagan, who made a vow to woden that he would exterminate the new heretical faith or lay down his life in the attempt. accordingly, he entered into a compact with cadwallon, a british prince of wales, and together they invaded northumbria. eadwine met them in battle and was slain; paulinus and the queen, with her children, fled to kent, and the kingdom was harried by the victors, who sought out the christians and put them indiscriminately to the sword. cadwallon remained as ruler of the kingdom, and under his barbarous measures christianity became almost, if not altogether, extinct, whilst the altars of woden were re-established in every direction. osric and eanfrid, grandsons of ælla, first king of deira, after the death of eadwine, were raised by the voice of the people to the thrones of deira and bernicia. they had been baptised at the court of their uncle by paulinus, but now, as they had no christians to govern, they apostatised and relapsed into the faith of woden, but their reign was short; they laid siege to cadwallon in york, were defeated, osric slain in the battle, and eanfrid put to death afterwards; and cadwallon continued to rule the northumbrians with an iron hand. at this time there was a young prince, an exile in scotland--oswald, son of æthelfred, king of bernicia--who had fled thither when a youth, and had been instructed in the principles of christianity by the monks of iona. he heard of the deaths of the two kings, and of the misery to which his native land was subjected by the tyranny and oppression of cadwallon, and determined upon going thither and attempting to drive out the usurper. on his arrival the people flocked round his standard, and, with a cross borne in front of his army, he met cadwallon at deniseburn, near hexham, and defeated him, cadwallon falling in the fight. he established his court at york, as king of northumbria, and eventually became sixth bretwalda, extending his territories beyond the tweed. he restored christianity, by means of missionaries from iona, completed the church of york, commenced by eadwine, and founded other churches and some monasteries, leading a life of usefulness, beloved by his people for his piety and good government. but penda was still living, as bitter as ever against christianity, and intelligence reached the court of york that he was preparing for a second invasion of northumbria, again to trample out the nascent christianity. in order to be beforehand with his enemy, oswald invaded mercia, where the pagan king was again victorious, and oswald slain at masserfield, which came, in consequence, to be called oswald's-town, corrupted in modern times into oswestry. penda caused his body to be torn limb from limb and cast abroad to be devoured by wild beasts, then crossed the border into northumbria, and ravaged the land with fire and sword. when the mercians had retired, oswy, an illegitimate half-brother of oswald, was called to the throne of northumbria in the year 642; but two years afterwards, oswin, son of osric the apostate, disputed his right on the ground of his illegitimacy, and being backed by a numerous body of friends, oswy agreed to a compromise, he taking bernicia, and oswin deira. seven years after, a dispute arose between the two kings about the boundaries of their territories, and they took up arms to settle the question by the sword. the two armies met at wulfer's dun, near catterick, when oswin, perceiving the enemy's forces to be much more numerous than his own, and reluctant to shed blood recklessly, dismissed his men and went to the house of his friend count hudwold, at ingethlin (gilling), to conceal himself for the present, with a view of entering a monastery; but hudwold betrayed him, and oswy sent ethelwin to murder him, who faithfully executed his mission. eanfleda, oswy's queen, a daughter of king eadwine, afterwards, with the consent of her husband, founded a monastery at gilling, where prayers should be offered up for the soul of oswin, and for the pardon of oswy. the people of deira refused to recognise oswy as king; drove him back across the tees when he came to take possession, and elected æthelwald, a son of oswald, for their king. the hoary-headed old pagan, penda, although now well stricken in years, could not witness the advance of christianity, under oswy, without pious emotion, and he resolved upon still another invasion of northumbria in the cause of woden. he entered into an alliance with athelm, king of the east angles, and æthelwald of deira--the latter incited by motives of policy--and the confederates marched against oswy. a great battle ensued at winwidfield, near leeds, when æthelwald, who was a christian, repented of having entered into a league with the enemies of that faith, and stood aloof. after an obstinate fight, penda and thirty of his chief officers were slain, and the greater part of his army cut to pieces. this was the last struggle in england between christianity and paganism. thus there was peace in the land after the scenes of violence and bloodshed occasioned by the fanatic fury of penda, and oswy found himself in a position to carry out his views for establishing christianity on a sure basis. before the battle of winwidfield he had made a vow that he would build a great monastery at streoneshalh, endow it with the twelve manors of crown property lying round the white bay (whitby), and that he would dedicate his daughter eanfleda to perpetual virginity and the service of god in the monastery, if he should, by the blessing of god, be successful over his pagan enemy. the cathedral of york was now finished, and he sent the masons and other workmen to erect the monastery and church on the lofty cliff overhanging the outfall of the river esk into the white bay, and its walls uprose with marvellous rapidity. as soon as it was completed it was opened for monks and nuns of the benedictine order, a colony of whom migrated from hartlepool; and the princess hilda, a woman highly esteemed for her learning, virtue, and piety, was placed at the head as prioress. at this time there were two bodies of christians in northumbria, antagonistic to each other on many points of doctrine and ceremonial, the most important being the question of the proper time for the celebration of the easter festival, and most important was it deemed in these primitive times, for both parties firmly believed that the soul's salvation was imperilled by its non-observance on the right day. the antagonistic sects were the priests and monks from iona, representatives of the primitive british church--which had been planted in the island, it was said, by joseph of arimathea--with their converts, comprehending the greater portion of the northumbrian christians; and on the other side, the ecclesiastics who had imbibed their faith at the feet of romish teachers. the origin of this antagonism of opinion came about in the following way. christianity had been extirpated in northumbria by the sword of penda, and the people had relapsed into heathenism, very few remaining who still clung to the faith as taught by paulinus. this was the state of the country when oswald came to the throne. he had imbibed the tenets of christianity in the schools of iona, and sent thither for missionaries to re-convert his people, and founded the see of lindisfarne, which became the focus of religion and civilisation in his kingdom. thus, when oswy ascended the throne, christianity of the ancient british type prevailed in the land. but there were others who had been educated in southern england, france, and italy, who held to the faith as promulgated by augustine, paulinus, and other roman missionaries, and a great deal of controversy, disputation, and even quarrels on tenets of belief and religious observances, took place between the two divisions of the church. first and foremost, as stated above, was that of the proper time for observing the festival of easter. the british church celebrated it on the day of the full moon next after the vernal equinox; the romish, not on the day of the full moon, but on the sunday following. the former claimed st. john, the beloved apostle, and the usage of the eastern church, as their authorities; the latter, the example of saints peter and paul, backed by a decree of the council of nice, and they branded as schismatics all who refused to conform to their mode; whilst the british condemned to hell-fire all who deferred the celebration until the sunday after the full moon. bede said "it was not without reason that the question disturbed the minds of a great number of christians, who were apprehensive lest after they had begun the race of salvation they should be found to have run in vain." this state of things caused great confusion, one section of the church humbling themselves in abstinence, prayers, and tears, whilst the other were lifting up their voices in joyful celebration of the resurrection. even in the king's palace there was disunion, oswy, who had been educated in scotland, and eanfleda, his queen, who had been taught in kent, observing the festival, one on the one day, the other on the other. it was obvious that something must be done to put an end to these disputes, and oswy at length determined upon calling together a synod to settle the matter once and for all. there was also another question on which the two sections of the church were at daggers drawn, that of the tonsure, the romish monks shaving the head all round, emblematic of the crown of thorns; the british only in front as far back as the ears; but this was not looked upon as a vital question, and was easily arranged after the great easter dispute was settled. the king decided upon holding the synod in his new monastery of streoneshalh, and had summoned all the most notable ecclesiastics on both sides to discuss the question. it was a picturesque spectacle to see the royal train and the monks and priests winding their way up the steep hill from the valley of the esk and entering the portals of the priory on the summit, where it stood overlooking the expanse of sea, with its rounded arches and stunted pillars, radiant in the sunshine, and glitteringly white in the freshness of its architecture. the disputants assembled in the great hall, the king taking his place on the dais as president, with the prioress hilda by his side. on the scottish side were ranged hilda, who, although she had been baptised by paulinus, had been instructed at the feet of aidan, the ionian bishop of lindisfarne; colman, bishop of lindisfarne; cedd (a northumbrian), bishop of the east saxons; and a train of monks and priests from icolmkill and lindisfarne. on the romish side were queen eanfleda; prince alfred, son of oswy; wilfrid, abbot of ripon, who had been educated in rome, a most able, eloquent, and learned man, the first churchman of his age; agilbert, bishop of paris, formerly of the west saxons; james, the deacon who had been left by paulinus in charge of the infant northumbrian church; ronan and agathon, priests who had been educated in france, and others who had received instruction from italian priests and monks. oswy maintained a neutrality as president, although he adhered to the british mode; and cedd acted as interpreter. the king opened the synod by briefly stating its object, the necessity of conformity in so important a point as that it was called together to discuss, praying the holy spirit to guide them in the debate; and concluded by calling upon bishop colman to open the discussion. the bishop said that easter, as observed by his church, was derived directly from the apostles, not from a romish bishop or a council of fallible men. bishops finan, aidan, and columba had so observed it; but their authority, though eminently holy men, was not sufficient. their warrant was based on the custom of st. john, the beloved disciple of christ, therefore, recognising his high authority, and the fact that it was so observed by the eastern and eldest-born church, no one could dispute its being the true method. bishop agilbert was called upon to reply, but excused himself, as not knowing the northumbrian tongue sufficiently well to make himself understood. wilfrid, the abbot, the great champion of his side, whose name was afterwards known from rome to york, and who became archbishop of york, thereupon rose and said, "easter, as we observe it, is the same as we ourselves have seen it observed at rome, where the blessed apostles, saint peter and paul, lived, preached, suffered, and are buried; and as, in our travels through italy and france, whether for study or pilgrimage, we have always seen it observed. we know also, by relation, that the same obtains in the churches of asia, africa, egypt, and greece, nay, among all the churches of the world, excepting in this remote and obscure island, where a few obstinate britons pretend to dispute the affair with the whole world." at this taunt bishop colman said, "i marvel, brother wilfrid, that you call ours a foolish contention, when we have for our pattern and guide so worthy an apostle as st. john, who alone leaned upon our saviour's breast." wilfrid, touched with compunction at having spoken too harshly, replied, "god forbid that i should accuse st. john," and entered into a learned statement of the early christians accommodating their rites and ceremonies in accordance with those of the jews, and that st. john, who kept the laws of moses literally, thus celebrated the feast of easter on the first day of the jewish passover, whether on sunday or any other day. but st. peter, knowing that christ rose from the grave on a sunday, celebrated the feast on that day of the week, in accordance with a command which he received from our lord, which is certainly a higher authority than that of st. john; and the decree of the council of nice, in 525, was but a confirmation thereof. colman replied, "athanolius, so commendable for his holiness, and father columba, whose sanctity is proved by miracles, kept easter as we do, and i do not deem it wise to depart from their method." "their holiness and miracles," responded wilfrid, "i dispute not; but i have no doubt that when, in the day of judgment, they say, 'lord, have we not prophesied, cast out devils, and wrought miracles in thy name?' he will answer, 'begone; i know you not.' can you compare columba with the most blessed of the apostles, to whom christ said, 'thou art peter, and upon this rock i will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it; and to thee i give the keys of the kingdom of heaven.'" "did our lord speak this to st. peter?" asked the king, of colman. "most certainly," was the reply. "hitherto," continued the king, "i have observed the rule of st. john, and in ignorance, but now mine eyes are opened. you both agree that the words of our lord, quoted by the father abbot, were spoken to st. peter, and i deem it not wise to withstand or gainsay so potent a person as the doorkeeper of heaven, lest when i come thither i find them closed against me; and i should recommend this assembly to decide upon celebrating the festival after the mode of st. peter." the result of this speech was that several went over from the british to the roman side, and, after a few other speeches, the question was put to the vote, and decided almost unanimously in favour of the romanists. cedd, bishop of the east saxons, was one of the converts, but colman declined submission, soon after resigned his bishopric, and with his monks and priests returned to iona. ultimately, however, all the branches of the church conformed to the rule of st. peter--the picts in 699, the scots, comprehending the monks of iona, in 716, and the britons or welsh in 800. the doomed heir of osmotherley. the vale of mowbray is one of the many beautiful pieces of landscape scenery with which the county of yorkshire abounds; a favourite sketching-ground for artists, and often seen, in detached portions, on the walls of the royal academy. an equal favourite, also, is it with the tourist and worshippers of natural beauty. if dr. syntax, when he mounted grizzle to go in search of the picturesque, had come to the vale of mowbray, we may fancy that he would have considered his quest at an end, and his purpose accomplished. in the saxon era it presented a somewhat different aspect from what it does now; more strikingly magnificent and grand in its wild, natural beauty. instead of cornfields, pastures, hedgerows, churches, mills, and mansions, it was one expanse of forest, with towering oaks, elms, and poplars; and, beneath a tangled undergrowth of brushwood and briar, the home and haunts of the antlered stag, the wild boar, the wolf, and innumerable other wild creatures, four-footed, on the sward below, or pinion-borne amid the foliage above. it must not be supposed, however, that the vale was given up entirely to these denizens of woodland, and destitute of human inhabitants. the lord of the valley was earl oswald, a saxon, or, to speak more accurately, an anglian nobleman--the greatest landed proprietor for many miles round. his mansion was seated on a gentle slope of the hambleton hills; a one-storied edifice, consisting of a large hall, where he, his retainers, and domestic servants, partook of their meals, and where the latter slept by night, on straw or rushes spread on the floor, with some smaller family sleeping and guest rooms, a kitchen, brewhouse, and other necessary appliances of a nobleman's household, including a chapel with open, round-headed doorway, draped with a pair of woollen portieres, generally looped back, and displaying in the interior some roughly carpentered benches, and a lamp pendant from the roof. around the mansion was some arable land, with granaries and stacks; pasture land for horses, oxen, and sheep, protected by stockades from the incursions of wolves and other beasts of prey; an orchard and a vegetable garden. scattered about in clearings of the forest were the homesteads of the class correspondent with the modern tenant-farmer, with their oxen, swine, wains, and rude implements of husbandry; and, nestling around the mansion, an aggregation of wattled and mud-built dwellings, the abodes of the villeins or serfs, hence denominated a village, in the centre of which stood the church, a very primitive structure of wood, consisting of nave and chancel only, without side aisles, transept, or tower. earl oswald was a young man of five-and-twenty years, comely in aspect and benign in manner; and was a considerate overlord and kind master. he had not long been in possession of his estates, his father having died only twelve months previously, his death having been occasioned by an accident when pursuing the wild boar in the forest. the present earl was the last of his race, having no brothers or other relatives to inherit the earldom, which would become extinct in case of his death without issue; consequently it behoved him, in order to continue the succession, to look out for a wife. but at that time the choice was very limited; it was essential that he should marry a lady with some pretensions to aristocratic birth, in order to keep up the dignity of his family; and as people, even nobles, did not then travel far away from home, visiting only such families as resided within a moderate distance, his choice was rather restricted. it happened, however, that one day, when hunting in cleveland, he met with a thegn, one of the lower order of nobility, who invited him to his house to spend the night, as he was some distance from home. at supper he was introduced to the thegn's daughter, gytha, a beautiful young maiden, some three or four years younger than himself, and was so charmed with her beauty, amiability of deportment, and sensible conversation, that he became enamoured of her, and mentally resolved that if there were no obstacles in the way he would make her his countess and the mother of his heir. he made no declaration on that occasion, but finding the hunting round the bases of the great cleveland hill, the ottenberg, now called roseberry topping, fruitful of sport, he came again and again, seldom letting a week pass without one or two visits, and never failing to call at the thegn's house, where he was always cordially welcomed by gytha and her father. the friendship thus commenced soon ripened into intimacy, and when the earl found that his attentions had made an impression on the heart of the fair maiden, he began to whisper in her ear the tale of love. as maidens, in those practical, unsophisticated days, knew not the art of coquetry, and were not apt at disguising the feelings of their hearts, gytha listened with pleasure to his flattering tale, confessed at once that she reciprocated his love, and without any needless circumlocution or affected bashfulness consented to become his wife, which met with the full approbation of her father, and a month afterwards he bore her away to become the mistress of the mansion in the mowbray vale, and, it was hoped, the mother of the future lord of the domain. months past along--delicious months--one succession of honeymoons; the happy pair never tiring of each other's company. in the mornings the earl would go forth to superintend the operations of ploughing, sowing, or harvesting, or to look after the careful tending of his flocks and herds; and occasionally, for pastime or for the benefit of the larder, would penetrate the recesses of the forest, hunting-spear in hand, and surrounded by his hounds; whilst the lady gytha directed the domestic affairs of the house, or occupied herself in her bower, with her handmaidens, embroidering a set of arras for the adornment of the hall; but they always spent the after-part of the day together in caressing converse. the months thus passed along, and began to resolve themselves into years, but still the great hope of their lives was not accomplished, that of giving an heir to carry downwards the honours and possessions of the family. for a long time they flattered themselves with this hope, despite the length of time that had elapsed since their marriage; but when three or four years had gone into the past without any fruition of their hopes, they began to despond. the earl became moody and melancholy in contemplating the probable and almost certain extinction of his race; and his lady wept and mourned in secret, at the bitter disappointment her husband experienced, no less than at the denial to herself of the delights and pleasant anxieties of maternity. another year or two, with their wintry storms and summer sunshine, went by, and the earl had sunk into the depths of despair, when, after all hope had departed, a gleam of sunshine shot athwart "the winter of his discontent," heralding the coming of a glorious summer. the probable birth of a living child, and, it might be, heir, was announced to him, and he immediately became a changed man; from the slough of despondency he sprang up, radiant with expectancy, buoyant in spirit, and gladdened at heart; and the lady gytha underwent an equal change, from tears and brooding to the delicious anticipation of fondling on her breast and presenting to her husband, as the outcome of their loves, an heir to his lands and dignities. it was a proud day for earl oswald when the women of his household brought him news of the birth of a male child, healthy and well-formed, with promise of developing into vigorous life, indeed, in the nurse's opinion, it was one of the most wonderful infants that ever came into the world, and he was further gratified to learn that the mother was doing well, whom he waited upon as soon as the feminine portion of the community, who ruled supreme at this interesting crisis, permitted, to congratulate her on the auspicious event. nor did he confine himself to mere gratulations and expressions of rejoicing; in demonstration of his gratitude to heaven for his long-hoped-for heir, every day, for the succeeding week, he sat at the entrance door of his mansion and administered, with bountiful hand, food and stycas to all mendicant wayfarers, dispensed gifts to his servitors and slaves, and bestowed liberal donations on the church and the monastic fraternities, with a stipulation in the latter case that they should pray for the welfare of the newly-born christian child. the infant throve apace, and waxed more beautiful every day, with his blue saxon eyes and fair flaxen hair, the darling of his mother, the cherished hope of his father, and the petted plaything of all the household. he had attained the mature age of twelve months, when a terrible calamity befel the family, a calamity, however, which was common enough in those days of turbulence, bloodshed, and war. it was the time when the danish vikings were most active in making landings on the british coasts, ravaging the country, and massacring the people who opposed them, and then sailing homeward with the spoils of the plundered villages and monasteries. northumbria lay especially open to their incursions; ravenspurn, flamborough, and lindisfarne, were their principal landing places, and the humber, the tees, and the tyne, their high roads into the interior. they had, indeed, established a permanent encampment on the headland of flamborough, and intrenched themselves by enlarging a natural ravine, deepening it, and throwing up earthworks, so as to constitute it a formidable defensive barrier stretching across the peninsula, which still exists, and is popularly known as "danes' dyke." news reached earl oswald that a large fleet of vessels had arrived at flamborough, and that the danes, in great numbers, were marching with sword and firebrand across the wolds, and in the direction of his home. the news was sent by the leading men of the district, who were gathering their vassals and slaves together to resist the invaders, and he was requested to come to their assistance with all the men he could muster. he lost no time in obeying the call, and after bidding an affectionate farewell to his wife, and exhorting her to great watchfulness and care over little oswy, who, said he, is the only hope for the continuance of my race in case of any mischance to myself--he went forth at the head of his retainers, and joined the army, which had assembled in the neighbourhood of driffield, to check the progress of the enemy. about a couple of miles to the north-east of driffield, there was a valley running east and west, along which it was anticipated the foe would come, and here the saxons decided to await their approach. they took up their position on the southern slopes, and threw up some rough earthworks to protect their front, and, after lying there a couple of days, their scouts brought intelligence that the danes were but a mile distant, and that in their track could be seen the flames of villages which they had fired in their march. presently they made their appearance; a vast host of fierce-looking warriors, who, on perceiving the saxons, set up a wild barbarian shout, and clashed their weapons together as if eager for the conflict. the saxons uttered a shout of defiance in response, but remained quietly behind their intrenchments, whilst the danes rushed forward impetuously, and clambering up the slope, the battle began. the field was obstinately contested on both sides, the fight lasting the entire day, neither gaining any absolute advantage, the bravery being equal on both sides, and what the saxons lacked in numbers was made up by the superiority of their position, and the shelter afforded by their earthworks. great numbers of brave men fell on both sides, the danes, from their exposed position, losing more than their antagonists, and when the darkness of night fell, separating the combatants, they deemed it expedient to retreat upon flamborough. the following day the saxons went over the field to succour the wounded and bury the dead. among the former was found earl oswald, who was taken in charge by his retainers and conveyed to his home; and the latter were buried, saxon and dane together, and tumuli raised over their bodies. their grave-mounds may still be seen spread over two or three acres of ground, over-canopied by trees, and are popularly known by the name of "danes' graves," and the valley where the battle was fought still bears the name of "danes' dale." a speedy messenger was sent to inform lady gytha of what had befallen her husband, and it was with anguished heart that she received the mournful cavalcade which carried him, wounded and almost insensible, to his home. he lived two or three days, but in the end, despite the most skilful of leechery and the most assiduous nursing, he succumbed to the loss of blood he had sustained during the night he lay on the field. in his dying moments he again besought his wife to protect and bring up in godly fashion his infant heir; and she, with heartbroken sobbing, entreated him to have no apprehensions on that head, as now she would have nothing to live for but that one sole purpose. and the earl closed his eyes in death, and was buried in the little wooden church hard by, which had been built by his grandfather--buried with all the pomp befitting his rank; and the lady gytha returned to her mansion to grieve over her loss, devote herself to the instruction of her beloved child, and look after the interests of his estates. it chanced one day that the widowed lady and her orphan child were disporting themselves on the grass-plot in front of the house, when a withered old crone came up and implored charity. the lady gytha, who was ever beneficent to the poor, sent into the house for some victuals, which she gave to the old woman, bidding her sit under the shade of a tree and eat thereof, condoled with her under her infirmities, and supplemented her gift of food with a few coins. whilst she was conversing with the woman, the little oswy was running about after some ducks, and, chasing them to the edge of a pond, fell in, but was immediately rescued. at the same moment a dog that was chained up near by gave two prolonged howls, which attracted the attention of the stranger, who, after musing awhile, said, "lady! you have been very kind in your largesses to me, whom you know not, and i can only repay you by a warning, which i pray you to take heed of. i am an old woman, and have lived long in this world, not without learning somewhat that is hidden to others. i have studied omens and forebodings, and have acquired the power of predicting the future from signs of the present. know then, lady, that i can foresee from the mishap of your little son, and the language of the dog, that he will undergo great peril from water, and that this will happen, unless prevented by fit precaution, in his second year, as is indicated by the two howls of the dog;" and, having said this, she hobbled off, leaning on her walking-staff, without leaving time for reply. lady gytha, although she did not place much credence in the prediction of the old woman, was imbued, to some extent, with the superstitions and credulities of the age, and she summoned into her presence an astrologer, requesting him to cast the nativity of the child. he noted down the time and particulars of his birth, and promised a reply within the week. after a few days' absence he returned, and appeared before lady gytha with a clouded brow, she receiving him with a tremor of anxiety. "what do the stars reveal?" enquired she. "are the tidings good or evil?" "lady," replied he, "i have calculated the star of his nativity, and sorry am i to tell that it augurs evil rather than good. a great peril awaits the child, on the fourth day of the third moon after his second birthday. it is recorded in the starry volume that on that occasion he will perish by drowning." "oh, say not so, wise sir. it would kill me as well. are you assured that this fate is inevitable?" "fate, lady, is inevitable; but there is one planet which presents a disturbing element in his horoscope, and it is possible that this fate may have been miscalculated, and that, through the influence of the planet, the threatening may be averted; and it will become you that, at the date indicated, you should take all possible precaution, in order that he should not be brought into the neighbourhood of water of any kind." the astrologer, having been rewarded generously for his services, and assured that all due precautions should be taken, he departed, murmuring to himself, "fate is fate, and it cannot be averted." the lady gytha's whole existence was now absorbed in that of her child. he was scarcely ever out of her reach and sight, she watched over him with more than maternal care, if that were possible, and he continued to blossom out, with the promise of becoming everything she could wish--her support, her comfort, and the pride of her after-life. but these prospects of the future were overshadowed by a cloud--an anxious foreboding of what might happen on the fourth day of the third moon of his second year, which the stars marked with a doubtful and perhaps fatal prognostic. could he but pass that dangerous point of life, the lowering cloud would dissolve into thin air, and for the future might be anticipated the glad sunshine of existence. the fatal day came nearer and nearer. he had passed his second birthday, and the mother had meditated often and often on the means whereby he should be delivered from the threatening evil. it was plainly revealed to her that the danger arose from water, and she reasoned that if she could place him out of the neighbourhood of river, pools, or springs, the evil might be turned aside and the augury baffled. when thinking the matter over, there suddenly rose up before her mind's eye the steep slopes of ottenberg, the cleveland hill, about which she had often clambered and gambolled when a child, and it struck her that if she could convey young oswy to the summit, he would be removed so far away from any running or standing stream, or pool of water, that there could be no possibility of the fulfilment of the prediction, and she resolved upon taking him thither. accordingly she proceeded to her father's house at its base, and on the summer's night preceding the fateful day, clomb the side of the hill with her child in her arms. she arrived at the summit as the sun was rising from the sea on the eastern horizon, and lighting up the glorious panorama visible from that elevated position. she partook of some refreshment which she had brought with her, and, although she felt no fatigue in making the ascent, owing to her anxiety, now that she had reached what she deemed a place of security, nature began to give way, and a sense of exhaustion to oppress her. she sat there, with her child clasped in her arms, as the sun rose higher in the heavens, and darted forth its heated rays upon her unsheltered head. under its influence she began to feel drowsy, but battled with the feeling, determined not to lose her hold of the child until the day had passed. at length, however, she unconsciously and insensibly succumbed, and fell asleep, sinking on the turf and relaxing her grasp. the young oswy disengaged himself, and wandered away, plucking the wild flowers, and looking with infant delight at the gulls winging their flight over the sea. an hour or two elapsed, and the lady gytha awoke. at first she could scarcely understand where she was, but in a few minutes she came to full consciousness, and was startled to find that her child was not with her. she sprang up, called him by name, but elicited no response, and she feared he had fallen down the side of the hill. with beating heart she sought around, and on turning a projecting shoulder of the hill was agonised to perceive the object of her search lying with his face in a stream of water that was issuing from a fissure, and, on taking him up, found life to be extinct. the pen fails in attempting to depict her frantic grief, but it may be briefly stated, that she carried down the lifeless body, conveyed it to her home, and laid it beside its father in the little timber church. for her there was no further earthly joy, and fixing her thoughts on the only source of consolation, she founded a small religious house in the vale of mowbray, where she spent the few remaining years of her life in religious meditation and devotional exercises. she was buried beside her beloved child in the little church, around which a village grew up, which was called, in remembrance of the burial-place of oswy and his mother--osmotherley. according to the legend, the spring at the summit of the hill gushed forth miraculously, in order that the decree of fate should not be frustrated. "on the proud steep of ottenberg still may be found the spring which rose his sad doom to complete; and on its verge the villagers sit round, in wonder recording the fiat of fate." eadwine, the royal martyr. a pious and benevolent monk of rome, passing one day through the slave market of that city, noticed a group of beautiful fair-haired boys and youths, who were exposed for sale. compassionating their condition, he enquired whence they came. "they are angles," was the reply. "they are beautiful enough to be _angeli_," said the monk. "what part of anglia come they from?" "deira." "then shall they be saved, _de ira_, from the wrath of god. who is their king?" "ælla." "then," continued the monk, "shall alleluias resound through their land," and he there and then determined to go thither as a missionary, and preach the gospel to them, but before he could complete his arrangements, he was raised to the pontifical throne as gregory i., afterwards called gregory the great. incapable, therefore, of going himself, he sent augustine, with paulinus and other monks, as missionaries to the saxons of britain. instead, however, of going to the kingdom of deira, they landed in that of kent, gained the ear of king ethelberht, who embraced christianity, and established the see of canterbury, with augustine as bishop thereof. ælla, the first king of deira, died in the year 588, leaving a son, his heir, then three years of age, and an elder daughter, acca, married to ethelfrid, king of bernicia, the great kingdom of northumbria being then divided into bernicia and deira, both extending from sea to sea, and separated by the river tees. taking advantage of his brother-in-law's tender age, ethelfrid usurped the throne of deira, and became king of the whole of northumbria, and the boy eadwine was taken into exile by his friends. for many years, until he grew up to manhood, he wandered about from one refuge to another, until at last he found a safe asylum at the court of redwald, king of the east angles. ethelfrid sent a demand that he should be delivered up to him, and redwald, in reply, said to the messenger, "tell thy master that i have promised to protect him, and will not give him up at the dictate of any king, however powerful he may be." eventually, however, persuaded by bribes, and terrified by threats, he agreed to deliver him up. eadwine, hearing of this, wandered forth into the forest, and, "as he sate solitary under a tree, in dumps, musing what was best to be done," a venerable stranger suddenly appeared before him, and said, "noble prince, thou knowest me not, but i come to tell thee that thou shalt be restored to thy kingdom, and moreover shall become bretwalda of the saxon kings, if thou listenest but to those that shall be sent to thee, to teach the worship of the only true god." eadwine, dazzled by the prospect, readily promised to do so, when the stranger placed his hand upon his head, saying, "remember that as a sign," and vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. on his return to the palace, he found that, at the intercession of the queen, redwald had withdrawn from his engagement, and was now determined to protect the fugitive to the utmost of his power. ethelfrid, in consequence, raised an army for the invasion of east anglia, but was met by redwald, and a desperate battle ensued on the banks of the river idle, in which the usurper was defeated and slain, and eadwine proclaimed king of northumbria. he proved himself to be an able and vigorous ruler, adding the isles of man and anglesea to his dominions, and extending his territories northward to the forth, where he built a fortress, around which a town gradually grew up, which was called edwin's burgh--the infant edinburgh. he raised his kingdom to a height of power it had never before attained, and in the year 624, on the death of redwald, he attained the dignity of bretwalda, or supreme king of the saxons, and president of the heptarchian witenagemot, whenever any such should be called together. his first wife, quenborga, daughter of ceorl, king of mercia, having died, he sent ambassadors to ask the hand of ethelburga, daughter of ethelberht, king of kent, in marriage, but her brother, eadberht, then on the throne, replied, "i cannot consent, for it is not meet that a christian princess should mate with a pagan." the ambassadors returned to northumbria, and extolled so highly the beauty and amiability of the princess, that eadwine determined to make her his queen at any cost, and, after some further negotiation, agreed that she should enjoy her own religion, have priests to celebrate the rites thereof, and, moreover, that he would himself examine the grounds of the christian faith, and if he found them superior to those of woden, would renounce the latter and embrace the former. accordingly the fair young christian came to northumbria, accompanied by paulinus and three or four preaching monks, and the marriage was celebrated with great splendour at york, the pope sending her, on the occasion, a silver mirror and a gilt ivory comb, which latter is supposed to have been found near whitby in 1872. faithful to his stipulation, the king allowed his queen the utmost freedom in religious matters, and permitted the monks to go forth throughout his realm, preaching and making proselytes. still he himself adhered to the worship of woden, in the great temple of goodmandingham, over which coifi presided as high priest, and which was contiguous to one of his palaces--that of londesborough, near market weighton. about this time cuichelm, king of wessex, jealous of his ascendancy as bretwalda, sent a messenger to assassinate him, who failed in his object, and eadwine prepared to make war against cuichelm for his dastardly conduct. two days after this event his daughter eanfleda was born, and, at the urgent request of the queen and paulinus, he permitted her to be baptised and dedicated to the service of the god of his queen, as a thank-offering for his escape. he promised paulinus also, that if his god were sufficiently potent to give him a victory over cuichelm, he would, on his return, take into serious consideration the question of embracing christianity and proclaiming it the religion of northumbria. at the close of their conversation, paulinus placed his hand on the king's head, and said, "you have been restored to your kingdom, you have extended its limits, and become the greatest of the saxon kings of england--the bretwalda--know you this sign?" eadwine replied that he did. "and," continued paulinus, "there was another promise besides these of a secular nature, that teachers should be sent to instruct you in the true faith. behold, here we are--i and my companions." this was more convincing to the king than any amount of logical argument, and he marched with confidence into wessex, gained a decisive victory, and on his return summoned a gemôt of nobles at his londesborough palace to discuss this great religious question. the chief speaker at the assembly was the high priest coifi. "know, o king!" said he, "that i have long been of opinion that our gods are worthless, and can do nothing for us, and i now perceive that the god of paulinus is god alone, the creator of the world, and the true object of worship." the king acquiesced in his views, and the nobles, taking their cue from them, gave their assent to the deposition of woden, and the substitution of christ as the god of the saxons. it was then determined that the great temple of woden should be desecrated, and the king inquired who would dare to do it. "i," replied coifi, "i have spent my life hitherto in ministering at the altar of a false and impotent god, and it is fitting that i should overturn that altar." a day was fixed for the purpose, and then the king and his nobles, followed by a crowd of people, proceeded from londesborough to goodmandingham, and in the midst coifi, mounted on a war steed and brandishing a lance in his hand. as the priests of woden were only permitted to ride mares, and not to bear arms of any kind, the people gazed upon him with superstitious horror, expecting that either the earth would open and swallow him, or a thunderbolt descend from the sky and strike him dead; but neither occurred, and the sun shone as serenely as if no such monstrous act of impiety were taking place. without hesitation coifi rode boldly into the temple, and, poising his lance, hurled it at the idol, upon which the people without, not daring to enter, fearing lest the temple should fall and bury them in its ruins, set up a loud yell of horror, and flung themselves down on the sward, but when they beheld the lance quivering in the side of the image and the priest calmly riding out, without the slightest manifestation of wrath on the part of the outraged god--neither thunder, lightning, nor earthquake--they began to think that woden was no god, and that he whom paulinus proclaimed was a god indeed, and the issue was that the king and his court were baptised, and then the common people, 10,000 having undergone the rite in the river swale in one day, going into the river in batches, whilst paulinus blessed the water. a wooden church was erected in york, which was replaced by one of stone, commenced by eadwine and completed by king oswald--the precursor of the present majestic york minster, and paulinus was constituted bishop of the see, which comprehended the whole of england northward of the humber and the mersey. in 634, pope honorius sent him a pallium, which raised him to the dignity of an archbishop. at that time the kingdom of mercia was ruled by a ferocious old pagan--penda--who made a vow to extirpate christianity from the island, and entered into an alliance with cadwallon, a welsh king, for the invasion of northumbria. eadwine encountered them at heathfield, near doncaster, and a sanguinary battle ensued, which proved most disastrous to the hitherto victorious northumbrians. eadwine and his son osfrid were slain in the fight, and another son, eanfrid, was murdered after the battle. the victors then ravaged the country, burning and plundering the houses, and slaughtering the people without regard to sex or age. cadwallon remained in northumbria, assuming the government, and ruling the people with great severity and cruelty, until he was slain in battle by oswald, whilst penda marched into east anglia, which had become christian, subdued it, and then took upon himself the title of bretwalda. thus fell the great and glorious eadwine, the victor of many fights, the bretwalda of england, the first christian king of the north, and the protomartyr of northumbria. his body was conveyed to whitby for burial, and his head interred in the porch of his church at york. he was afterwards canonised, and a church in london and another at breve, in somersetshire, have been dedicated to st. eadwine. the queen, with her two surviving children, accompanied by paulinus, fled to kent. she founded a nunnery, and took the veil within its walls; her children she sent to france, to be educated under the care of her cousin, king dagobert, and after her death she was canonised. paulinus became the third bishop of rochester. siward, the viceroy. according to a scandinavian legend, a young danish lady went wandering into a forest, where she suddenly, when turning out of one glade into another, came face to face with a bear, who seized her and forcibly violated her. the result was the birth of a child, with shaggy ears, to whom was given the name of barn. he married, and had a son, siward, who came on a piratical excursion to england, and became viceroy earl of northumbria, and this identity of siward, son of barn, with siward the earl, has been generally accepted by modern chroniclers, which may be attributed to the great obscurity which hangs over the history of this period. the fact is, that this legend does not pertain to earl siward at all, but to another siward--siward-barn--who lived half-a-century afterwards, and was son of the danish jarl--barn. following the instincts of his race, he sailed from denmark with a fleet, and after ravaging the orkneys and the coasts of scotland and northumbria, passed up the thames, and presented himself at the court of edward the confessor, whose favour he gained by entering his service. he was rewarded with lands in cumberland and westmoreland, and in holderness, yorkshire, one of his manors there being called barns-town, now barmston, near bridlington. after the conquest, he joined in the northern insurrection against william i., and was one of the companions of hereward the wake in the isle of ely, where he was captured, sent a prisoner into normandy, and there died. he never had anything to do with the earldom of northumbria, which was held during his time by tosti, morkere, and waltheof, the son of earl siward. having disposed of this myth, it becomes us to give, as far as can be ascertained, the true ancestry of siward. when the saxon heptarchy, or octarchy, became consolidated into one kingdom, the realm of northumbria, extending from the humber to the tweed, and sometimes to the forth, which was the last to submit, was peopled by a brave and warlike people, sensitively tenacious of their independence, and of so turbulent a character, that it became necessary to place over them a viceroy earl of great vigour, determination, and military ability, to give it the semblance of semi-independence, but at the same time to be ready on the spot to nip incipient rebellion when in the bud. such a governor was found in oswulf, son of ealdred, lord of bamborough, who was nominated to the office by king athelstane. he was succeeded by waltheof, the elder, who was followed by his son ughtred, from whom the holders of not less than seven peerages claim descent. by ælgifu, daughter of king ethelred ii., he had issue--eadulf, gospatric, and ældred. ældred succeeded as earl of bernicia, on the death of his uncle, eadulf i., earl of northumbria; and siward, who was his son, appears to have been appointed, at the same time, deputy-earl of deira. he was born towards the end of the tenth century, was a giant in stature, of herculean strength, and of great courage, which he displayed on many a field of battle. his life, indeed, appears to have been spent more in the battlefield than in the peaceful pursuits of government, the administration of justice, or the superintendence of his yorkshire manors, of which malton was the chief, granted to him for his military services, and it presents a succession of romantic episodes, in which the sword played the principal part. ældred, his father, died in 1038, and was succeeded in bernicia by his brother, eadulf ii. siward, however, claimed it as his hereditary right; and so matters remained until 1041, when eadulf incurred the displeasure of king hathacnut. this was the opportunity siward had been longing for, and he hastened up to the king's court, where, by his representations, he embittered the mind of the king still further against his uncle, and in the sequel was either ordered or permitted to put him to death. this was precisely what he wanted, and, without the least scruple of conscience or regard to kinship when his own aggrandisement was at issue, he proceeded to bernicia and murdered his uncle in cold blood, assuming at the same time the government, and thus becoming earl of northumbria in its integrity. in the same year, 1041, the people of worcester rose in insurrection against an unpopular tax, and the three great earls, siward of northumbria, leofric of mercia, and godwine of kent, were directed to march thither to suppress it. this was done chiefly at the instigation of ælfric, archbishop of york, who had caused their bishop, lyfric, to be deprived, and himself appointed in his room, to hold the see _in commendam_ with york, but whom the clergy of worcester refused to recognise. the earls had no difficulty in suppressing the revolt--indeed the rebels scarcely made any stand against them; but, with great barbarity, they slaughtered the people, plundered their habitations, burnt the city, and compelled them to accept ælfric as their bishop. the following year hathacnut died, and was succeeded by eadwarde the confessor, more fitted for the cowl than the crown, when the three earls, the mightiest subjects of the realm, divided the administration of the kingdom amongst themselves; siward at this time held likewise the earldoms of huntingdon and northampton, which were severed from northumbria at his death. in 1051, count eustace of boulogne, on his return from a visit to king eadwarde, treated the people of dover with great insolence, who fell upon him and his followers, and gave them a deservedly severe chastisement. eustace demanded redress from the king, who commanded earl godwine to punish the dover people, who, finding that eustace had been the aggressor, asked that they might be heard in their defence, to which the king would not listen; then godwine assumed a higher tone, and demanded the surrender of the count to answer for his insolence. this enraged the king, who summoned siward and leofric to render assistance against the hostile designs of godwine. they came to gloucester, where a compromise was effected; but at a subsequent gemôt, held in london, godwine and his family were banished. the most creditable military effort of the many in which his sword had been drawn, and that which redounded the most to his glory, was the last of his life. in 1054, he was sent by king eadwarde in command of an expedition into scotland against the usurper, macbeth, in favour of the young prince, malcolm canmore, son of the murdered king duncan. he was now the father of two sons by his first wife--æthelfleda--osbert, now approaching manhood, and waltheof, a boy, some years younger. the former he took with him to scotland, to initiate him in the then deemed glorious art of war; and a brave young fellow he proved himself to be, a worthy scion of the old stock. siward attacked scotland by land and sea, met the usurper and defeated him in a pitched battle, after which he caused malcolm to be proclaimed king. it is sometimes stated that macbeth was slain in the battle, which was not the case, as he escaped and held out for three years, maintaining a desultory series of fights with malcolm, but was eventually slain in 1057. his son osbert fell in the battle, fighting bravely, and when the news was brought to him, he eagerly inquired if his wounds were in front, and when told they were, said that he could not but rejoice, such a death being worthy of one sprung from his loins. shakspeare, not always true to history, in his tragedy of "macbeth" thus gives the death of "young siward," as he calls osbert:--he meets with macbeth on the field, and, after some bandying of words, they fight, and macbeth falls, after which osbert rushes into the thick of the fight, and falls himself. when siward is told that all his son's wounds are in front, he exclaims- "why, then, god's soldier is he! had i as many sons as i have hairs, i would not wish them to a fairer death: and so his knell is tolled." prince malcolm observes- "he's worth more sorrow, and that i'll spend for him." to which siward replies- "he's worth no more. they say he parted well, and paid his score, and so god be with him." henry of huntingdon, speaking of siward's death, says--"and so he passed away, as he believed, to valhalla, to rejoin the great warriors of his race who had gone before," seeming to intimate, founded on the misconception of his identity with the viking siward-barn, that he died in the old scandinavian faith of woden, which was not true, as he lived and died a christian, such as christians were then. he is supposed to have founded a church in york, dedicated to st. olaf, the martyred king of norway, and connected with it a fraternity of monks, the name of which, in the reign of william ii., was changed into that of st. mary the virgin, and eventually became the famous and wealthy abbey of after-times, with a mitred abbot. the ruins may now be seen in the grounds of the museum. he ruled his province with great firmness and some severity, necessary in his endeavours to curb the savage propensities of the people, and to establish a system of order and good government, and was bountiful to the church, as some atonement, perhaps, for the crimes by which he rose to his high position. shortly after his return from his scottish expedition, he was stricken with dysentery, which rapidly grew worse, and he lay in his vice-regal mansion at york without hope of recovery. when he felt his last moments approaching he suddenly started up from his couch and exclaimed, "let me not die the death of a cow! if it be not my fate to die gloriously on the field of battle, as my brave boy, osbert, has done, with all his wounds in front, at least let me die in the guise of a warrior. don me my harness, place the helmet on my head, and gird my sword on my thigh. it were a shame and disgrace that i, who have faced death in so many fields, should die ignominiously in bed. bring forth my battle-axe and shield, and place them by my side, that the ghosts of my warlike ancestry, who are looking down upon me now, may see me pass away from earth to join them in their everlasting home, with the semblance of the great warrior that i have been." and thus, seated on a chair, clothed in his armour, and supported in an upright posture by his attendants, he gave up the ghost, and was buried in his church of st. olaf. his son, waltheof, being too young for the government of so important a province, it was given to tosti, son of earl godwine, and brother of harold, the future king; whilst waltheof succeeded to the earldoms of huntingdon and northampton, and eventually to that of northumbria. phases in the life of a political martyr. in the year 1055, there was a funeral in the church of st. olaf, york. the corpse was conveyed through the streets of the city with great barbaric splendour and pomp. the procession, consisting of stalwart and bronzed warriors, was strikingly illustrative of the dead hero. swords flashed in the sun; armour, pikes, and battle-axes glittered; and captured pennons, with other trophies of war, were borne along in triumph. although all these warriors were mourners, the chief, and, indeed, the only one of the blood who followed, was a stripling of fifteen, young in years, but displaying muscular proportions, a military bearing, and features betokening valour, determination of purpose, and invincible resolution in the accomplishment of his will. the warrior was laid in his tomb with all due ceremonial, the priests closed their books, the soldiers who had followed him to many a battlefield, gathered round the open grave to take a last look at his coffin, and then dispersed, whilst the young mourner returned to the vice-regal castle, which now seemed so solitary and desolate without the sound of his father's voice. the defunct warrior was stout old siward, the northumbrian earl, who had scorned "to die the death of a cow," and the mourner who followed his remains was his sole surviving son, waltheof; his elder son, osbert, having been slain in battle. eadward the confessor was then king, and he, deeming waltheof too young and inexperienced to rule so ungovernable a people as the northumbrians, appointed tosti, a younger son of earl godwine, and brother to harold, afterwards king, to the earldom. tosti, however, ruled the people with such intolerable cruelty and oppression that the people of york broke into his mansion, plundered it, and murdered his house-carles; they then assembled in a folkgemôte and formally deposed him, electing morkere of mercia in his room. this was an illegal act, but the king, when he heard the circumstances of the case, confirmed it, as did also the witan-gemôte of westminster. morkere constituted osulf, waltheof's uncle, his deputy in bernicia, on whose death he was succeeded by his brother, gospatric. john of peterborough says that waltheof was given the earldoms of huntingdon and northampton at his father's death; but as these were held by tosti, the probability seems to be that he succeeded on the deposition of that earl. simeon of durham says that he governed bernicia as his father's deputy, but this seems improbable on account of his age, and is not confirmed by other authorities. on the accession of harold, tosti, in conjunction with harold hardrada, invaded northumbria, but were defeated by harold at stamford bridge. it was, however, the cause of the ruin of harold, who, whilst banquetting at york in celebration of his victory, had news brought him that duke william of normandy had landed in sussex, and he had to lead his army by forced marches to the south, arriving in the front of the fresh norman troops footsore and wearied, and with the loss of many who had fallen out of the ranks during the march; the result being his defeat and death, which might have been otherwise but for this fatal expedition to york. the brother earls, morkere of northumbria and eadwine of mercia, and waltheof undertook to bring bodies of soldiers to his aid, but the former two stood aloof, from politic motives; but waltheof sent his contingent, if he were not present at the battle himself, which is uncertain. duke william was now king of england. london, with the south and east, had submitted at once, but it cost him some efforts to subjugate the west, and still more the north. he did, however, eventually make himself master of yorkshire and the northern counties, built a castle at york, and placed therein william malet as military governor of the city. the year after his accession, he found it necessary to visit his norman dukedom, when, fearing to leave behind him men so powerful, and whom he suspected of disaffection, he courteously invited earls eadwine, morkere, and waltheof, to accompany him as guests, who complied with his request, although they were perfectly aware that they were going as hostages for the good behaviour of their people during his absence. soon after their return, the three earls, under earl gospatric, made a demonstration in the north in favour of eadgar, the atheling, but were defeated, and fled to the court of malcolm, in scotland. william sent a herald to demand the fugitives, but the king declined giving them up. in the year 1069, a danish fleet of 240 vessels might be seen sailing up the humber and ouse. it was under the command of the danish princes harold and cnut, and had been joined at sea by a scottish fleet under gospatric and waltheof. this formidable force landed near york, and entered the city amid the acclamations of the citizens. malet was shut up in the castle with a body of norman troops, and had boastingly written to the king that he wanted no help, for he could hold it till domesday. around the castle walls were several houses, which malet ordered to be fired, that they might not afford shelter to the enemy, but the fire spread further than he intended, consuming the greater portion of the city, the cathedral, and archbishop egbert's magnificent library. it was whilst the flames were rising up with terrific grandeur from the cathedral towers, and the houses were all ablaze or in ashes, that the confederates made their grand attack, captured the citadel, and put the garrison to the sword. waltheof performed prodigies of valour. it is recorded of him in a danish saga--"the great earl, with mighty arm and sinewy breast, stood by the gate of york (castle) as the normans came forth, their heads falling to the earth in succession beneath his battle-axe." waltheof was appointed governor of york, the english and scots garrisoning it, whilst the danes, in their ships, occupied the trent and ouse, to check the advance of william and his army. it was not long before the king made his appearance before york and demanded its surrender. waltheof replied, "take it if you can, for assuredly i will not surrender it while life lasts." the king then bribed the danes to withdraw, by a large sum of money and permission to ravage the northern coasts, and invested the city. a breach was made in the walls, and william of malmesbury says--"waltheof, a man of great muscular strength and courage, stood in the breach, and killed a great number of normans who attempted to enter." he states, also, that a battle was fought outside the walls, and that waltheof was the victor. the siege lasted six months, and the city was reduced at last by famine, after which the king committed the horrible crime of laying waste the country from york to durham so effectually that for nine years neither spade nor plough was put in the ground, and the miserable survivors who escaped his sword were compelled to eat the most loathsome food to sustain life. gospatric, earl of northumbria, and waltheof fled to scotland, but afterwards tendered their submission to the king, the latter in person, the other by proxy. waltheof was a man of immense power and influence as lord of hallamshire, malton, and many another broad manor in yorkshire and other counties, and was, besides, a skilful warrior and brave soldier, and the king, admiring his qualities, longed to win him over as his liege man. he therefore pardoned him, restored him to his earldoms, and added thereto that of northumbria, from which he had deposed gospatric. moreover, he gave him in marriage his niece, judith, daughter of eudes, earl of champagne, thinking thus to make sure of his loyalty. soon after he entered upon his new earldom he committed a crime which is a blot upon his name, but which was considered justifiable in that age. a deadly feud existed between the descendants of ughtred and those of one thorbrand of york. thorbrand was the enemy of the father of the second wife of ughtred, who only obtained her hand by undertaking to kill him, but was murdered himself by thorbrand. earl ealdred then, in retaliation, assassinated thorbrand, and was in turn killed by carl, son of thorbrand, and a series of murders followed, which were completed by a wholesale massacre of the sons of carl by waltheof, when they were feasting at the house of their elder brother at settrington, two only escaping. there was a great feast in the eastern counties to celebrate the marriage of ralph, earl of suffolk, with emma, daughter of roger, son of william, earl of hereford, and waltheof was one of the guests. this marriage had been prohibited by the king, who was now in normandy, and advantage was taken of his absence to consummate it, which was, in the eye of the law, a treasonable act. after the dinner, the conversation turned upon the tyranny of king william, and, as the guests became heated with wine, they framed a plot to depose him, and place one of themselves as king in his room, the rest to be his proximate peers. waltheof is said to have taken the oath on compulsion, but the following morning repented of having done so, and went to archbishop lanfrane for absolution, who advised him to go to the king, explain the matter, and implore his pardon. he had, however, foolishly mentioned it to his wife judith, who, wishing to get rid of "the saxon churl" and marry a norman, sent an exaggerated account of the conspiracy to her uncle, with the intimation that her husband was most deeply implicated in it. waltheof went to normandy, revealed the plot to the king, and asked his forgiveness for the part he had been compelled to take in it, who assured him of pardon, and they returned to england together. the king, however, who had now for some time looked upon waltheof as too powerful for a subject, thought this a favourable opportunity to get rid of him, and when he arrived in england, committed him to prison at winchester. he then caused him to be arraigned at the pentecostal gemôte, on a charge of treasonable conspiracy, and he was condemned to death. a few days after he was brought out into the market-place at winchester, and there beheaded; the first instance, says kennett, of decapitation in england. ingulphus says that judith might have saved him, but she desired his death that she might marry again, and afterwards experienced feelings of remorse for her cruelty. she subsequently fell into disgrace with her uncle for refusing to marry one who was lame. her name appears in domesday book as lady of the manors of hallam, sheffield, and attercliffe. by his wife judith he had issue, three daughters, co-heiresses--matilda, who married first simon de st. liz, and secondly, david i., king of scotland, thus conveying the earldom of huntingdon to the scottish royal family; alice, who married richard fitz gilbert, whose granddaughter and heiress married richard fitz ooth, from whom was robert fitz ooth, who claimed the earldom of huntingdon on the failure of the scottish male line, and who is generally supposed to be identical with the outlaw robin hood; and judith, who married first ralph de toney, secondly robert, son of richard de tonbridge, from whom descended the barons and earls fitzwalter, the earldom becoming extinct, and the barony falling in abeyance in 1753, the latter being called out in 1868, in the person of sir brook william brydges, fifth baronet of, county kent. the murderer's bride. it was on a beautiful evening in june, when the thirteenth century was but a few years old, and when john wore the crown of england, that a girl of some twenty summers was seated in a vaulted room of a ruinous old saxon castle, surrounded by her bower-maidens, chattering and laughing, and busily employed on some embroidery work. the castle stood on a slight eminence, some three or four miles from the sea-coast of yorkshire, and commanding a glorious view of the uplands of cleveland, the wide expanse of ocean, the only recently completed towers of st. hilda's abbey, as they stood proudly on the beetling cliff, and the clustering of fishermen's huts on the margin of the bay below, then called the village of presteby, formerly streoneshalh, and now whitby. it had been built by the half-mythical saxon noble, wada, as a defence against the marauding picts, who came over the border, and more particularly against the danish vikings, who were wont to land at flamborough, and harry the land. in the year 867, they had destroyed the lady hilda's monastery, and it lay in ruins until after the conquest, when it was re-built and re-endowed by william de percy, ancestor of the potent earls of northumberland, and about half a century before the period of our narrative, it had been again pillaged and the country laid waste by a norwegian fleet. but, amid all these storms, the old castle built by wada held its own, although it now showed in its features the ravages of time and the marks of the batterings it had undergone from the hands of a succession of foes, in the shape of fallen towers, crumbling walls, and decayed battlements. after the conquest, the castle and barony were granted by the king to nigel fossard, a soldier who had fought for him at hastings, and from whose family it passed, after two or three generations, to robert de turnham, by marriage with johanna, heiress of the fossards. they were now dead, and slept side by side within the sacred precincts of st. hilda, having left an only child--isabel--as heiress, and now mistress of the ruined old fortress, and the domain of pasture and moorland lying round it; the same fair girl whom we find seated at her embroidery frame. the apartment in which the youthful group were assembled was the lady isabel's bower, very different, however, from a modern boudoir, being of the usual saxon type. the walls and vaulted roof were of roughly-hewn stone, with a low, stunted column in the centre, and rounded arches, slightly decorated with a zigzag ornamentation, and on one side was an unglazed opening to admit the light, more like a loophole than a window. on the walls, suspended from tenter-hooks, were arras, picturing the miracles of st. hilda, which served to give some semblance of comfort and cheerfulness to the room; and the other furniture consisted of a table, or board resting on two trestles, and half a dozen cross-legged stools. sounds of merriment and laughter echoed from the roof, as the maidens plied their needles, the buoyancy of their youthful spirits, and the outlook into what appears like a fairyland of the future, imparting a sunshine which is the happy privilege of youth, but is denied to more mature age. yet, in the midst of all this joyous mirth, isabel occasionally sighed, as disquieting thoughts passed through her mind. she was left in an unprotected solitude, and although the good abbot of st. hilda's had been her father's friend, and had promised him on his death-bed to watch over her and aid her by his counsel, he could not supply the place of father and mother, of whom she had been bereft, or of sister or brother, a companionship she had never experienced. she had already begun to taste the cares and anxieties of her position, and looked forward with some degree of apprehension, having learnt that the king, as absolute lord of the soil of england, had the right and power to dispose of the hands of heiresses of any portion of that soil which was only held of him by baronial or knightly tenure. "the sun goes down apace," said isabel, rising and going to look forth from the window, "fold up the altar-cloth, we shall have time to complete the embroidery before the obit of st. hilda." she gazed out upon the sea, sparkling with the glitter of the setting sun, and looked upon the abbey tower on the cliff, still radiant with brightness--an out-post, as it seemed to her, of the realms of heaven, and she felt a peaceful calm steal over her mind. suddenly her eyes gleamed with joy, and her heart began to throb with passionate gladness. these emotions were awakened by the sight of a youth of noble bearing, pacing with rapid steps the road leading to the castle. this youth was jasper de percy, a scion of the afterwards illustrious house of that name. he had long been affianced to isabel, with the consent and full approbation of their parents, and they loved each other dearly and passionately. it was not long ere he was ushered into her presence by the old seneschal of the castle, but with their soft whisperings we have nothing to do, save that we know they consisted of protestations of eternal love and anticipations of a happy future. whilst they were together the sun went down, and, as the bell of compline rang out sweetly over the water, they knelt together and uttered their evening prayer to the holy virgin, after which he departed. "pax vobiscum!" said the abbot, as he entered the room soon after, "how fares it with my daughter?" she replied that she was well in health, but somewhat disquieted in soul, and told him what she had heard about the king having the disposal of the hands of heiresses, and asking him if it were so. he explained the law to her, and knowing and approving of her love for young percy, expressed a hope that his majesty would not interfere in her case, but, added he, "king john is a bad man, unscrupulous in his actions, and an arch-heretic, even to the defying of the holy father at rome--the vicegerent of god upon earth, saying that he will allow no foreign priest to meddle in his dominion." after some further conversation, isabel knelt at his feet, confessed her little faults, received absolution, and the abbot returned to st. hilda's. so the days and weeks went on in their usual routine, with nothing to disturb their serenity, until at length a thunderbolt, as it were, fell suddenly in the midst of the little community, utterly destroying all their fond hopes of happiness. the scene now changes to normandy. king henry ii. of england had four sons, of whom william, the eldest, d.v.p., and richard, the second, succeeded, who d.s.p. the third, geoffrey, married constance, daughter and heiress of conan le petit, duke of bretagne and earl of richmond, and had issue, arthur, who was heir to the throne of england on the death of his uncle richard, but, being absent in brittany, john, fourth son of henry, usurped the throne, and when philip of france espoused the cause of arthur, he invaded france with an army, to maintain the position he had assumed, and with the intention of removing the obstacle to his legal right to the throne. he captured his nephew, after patching up a peace with king philip, and sent him to falaise, with instructions to hubert de burgh to put his eyes out. hubert, however, compassionated the boy, and saved him from that fate, upon which king john removed arthur from his custody, and had him taken to rouen, and placed in safe keeping. the midnight bell at st. ouen had rung out over the norman city, and, saving that, all was still in its tortuous streets, excepting the footsteps of three persons going down to the river-side. they went along stealthily, one of them, a boy, with seeming reluctance, and who appeared to be expostulating with the two men who urged him along. "i tell thee, boy," said he who was evidently the chief of the company, "that thou shalt be duke of bretagne and earl of richmond, and we are but taking thee to a place of safety wherein to abide until these untoward matters that agitate the realm of france can be arranged." "but my crown, the crown of england, my inheritance!" commenced the boy as they arrived at the water's side, when the two men forced him into a boat and pushed it off upon the seine, and it glided down the river beyond the confines of the city. the leader of the party was king john, and the other his esquire, an ill-favoured bully, with an evil cast of the eye, a poictevin by birth, and called, in derision, peter de malo-lacu, afterwards softened down to maulac, and eventually to de mauley. he was one of the tools and evil counsellors of john, and was ever ready to commit any crime provided he were well paid for it. their companion was the boy prince, arthur. the night was dreary and murky, and the wind wailed a mournful cadence through the trees, well befitting the contemplated deed of blood. the boat had passed some distance down the river, and arthur, fearing some foul design, was imploring his uncle to be taken back to rouen, when the poictevin, in reply to a signal from the king, suddenly plunged his dagger up to the hilt in the boy's breast, and at the same moment seized him by the legs, and pitched him over the side of the boat into the river, to pass down to the sea with the ebbing tide. "'twas well done," said john to his companion in guilt, "that obstacle to our ambition is removed for ever; and as for thee, peter, thou shalt be great amongst the nobles of our realm. it will be hard if i cannot find an heiress lacking a husband, and thou shalt be a baron of england." again are we among the merry hills and dales of cleveland. the summer has passed away, the leaves of autumn have fallen, the fierce blasts of the wintry winds of north yorkshire have toned down into the gentle gales of spring, and a glad sunshine pervades land and sea. but there is wailing and lamentation within the walls of wada's old castle, and saddened hearts beneath the shadow of st. hilda's tower. the marriage of isabel and jasper had been arranged, and nothing was wanting for its consummation but the sanction of the king. a messenger had been despatched to the court of john to obtain his consent, but he replied that it could not be, as he had other views in regard to the heiress, and purposed, by giving her hand to a brave warrior of poictou, to raise her to a dignity far above anything ever attained by the turnhams or the fossards; in short, that he intended giving her in marriage to his friend and companion-in-arms, peter de maulac. hence those tears and lamentations, as there was no resisting the king's will. a few months, and there stood before the altar of st. hilda, decorated with the embroidery from the deft fingers of isabel and her bower-maidens, an ill-assorted couple. on the one side a forbidding-looking man, with a ferocious cast of countenance and an eye of ill omen; on the other, a gentle, delicate girl, of symmetrical figure and beautifully chiselled features, but pale as a corpse, and with eyes swollen and bloodshot with weeping. nevertheless, it mattered not, the mandate of the king must be obeyed, and they became man and wife. peter de mauley, as he now chose to style himself, thus became, by right of his wife, feudal lord of isabel's demesnes, situated at egton, juby-park-houses, and newbiggin, near whitby; mauley cross, near pickering; bainton, near driffield; ellerton, near pocklington; and seaton, near hornsea; but the king compelled him to pay for the livery of these estates a fine of 7,000 marks. he built a new castle near the old one, and called it, from the beauty of the situation, moult-grace, but which the people, in consequence of his oppression, transformed, by the change of a single letter, into moult-grave, since then corrupted into mulgrave. he was a firm adherent of john in his troubles with the pope and the barons, and was rewarded for his services with other considerable grants of lands, the sheriffdoms of dorset and somerset, and, under henry iii., with the governorship of sherborne castle. he died in 1221, and the ill-fated isabel pre-deceased him, whose body he buried in meaux abbey, near beverley, giving with it a grant of land. they had a son--peter--who succeeded, who was followed by six other peters in unbroken succession, all of whom enjoyed the estates, excepting the seventh, who died v.p. the fourth was created a baron by writ of summons in 1295; but peter the eighth, fourth in the barony, dying without issue in 1415, the dignity fell in abeyance between his sisters and co-heiresses--constance, who married, first, william fairfax, secondly, sir john bigot, and who succeeded to moult-grave, and elizabeth, who married george salvin. the title was revived in 1838, as a barony by patent, in the person of the hon. w. f. spencer ponsonby, third son of the earl of bessborough, a descendant, through females, of elizabeth salvin; but the old barony by writ still lies in abeyance among the representatives of the above co-heiresses. the death of prince arthur is still shrouded in mystery, the english chroniclers giving different versions of it, and shakspeare representing him as being killed by a fall from the walls of his prison when attempting to escape; but the french historians, who are more likely to be correct, coincide in attributing it to the hand of peter de malo-lacu, in the presence of john, or even to that of the king himself. the earldom of wiltes. the famous yorkshire family of le scrope, or scroop, is one of the most illustrious in the peerage roll of england; not, however, for the number and dignity of their titles, which only amounted to five of lesser rank, two of which are extinct, one dormant, and two in abeyance, but, for the many eminent and influential men sprung from the race, who have distinguished themselves in the state, at the king's council table, in the church, at the bar, on the battlefield, and in the walks of literature. during three centuries, from edward ii. to charles i., there have been of the scropes--two earls, twenty barons, one baronet, one archbishop, four bishops, one lord chancellor, four lord treasurers, five knights of the garter, several knights banneret, many wardens of the scottish marches, three immortalised in the pages of shakspeare, one, "keen lord scrope," in the ballad of "kinmont willie," and another in the ballad of "flodden field." they were originally of normandy, and in the reign of william i., osborne fitz-richard, their first english ancestor, held several manors in the western counties. the first mention of them in connection with yorkshire is in 1287, when they held eight carucates of land at bolton, where they built bolton castle. they rose rapidly in importance, ramifying in various directions, mainly into two great branches, those of masham and bolton, subsequently having mansions and domains at bolton castle; clifton castle, masham; danby hall, middleham; upsall castle, thirsk; croft-on-the-tees, ellerton-upon-swale, spennithorne, and south kilvington; and are now represented by a junior branch, seated at danby-super-yore. henry, seventh baron scrope, of bolton, was one of the heroes of flodden, whose valour is sung in the ballad of flodden field. john, eighth baron, was implicated in the rebellion of the pilgrimage of grace, but escaped the death of a traitor. henry, ninth baron, had charge of mary queen of scots, at bolton. henry, third baron scrope, of masham, was executed for treason, as was also richard scrope, archbishop of york. the time in which sir william scrope, k.g., earl of wiltes, and king of the isle of man, lived, that of the reign of richard ii., was one of the most eventful in the history of england. richard, son of the black prince, was born in 1367, and succeeded to the throne of his grandfather, edward iii., at ten years of age, in 1377, the government being vested in twelve councillors, his uncles being excluded therefrom. he displayed signs of vigour and ability during the insurrection under wat tyler and jack straw, when he met the rebels in smithfield, on which occasion the former was killed by lord mayor walworth; and in his invasion of scotland, in 1385, when he penetrated as far as aberdeen, and burnt edinburgh, perth, and dundee; but afterwards he threw himself into the arms of favourites, which excited the jealousy of his uncles, when the duke of gloucester was chosen head of the council, and the parliament, called "wonderful," summoned under his auspices, put two of his favourites to death, and confiscated the property of the rest. when he reached the age of twenty-two he threw off the trammels of guardianship, and for some time ruled his kingdom with justice, but he possessed not the necessary vigour to cope with the turbulent spirits by whom he was surrounded, and still permitted himself to be governed by favourites, of whom sir william scrope was one. sir william might almost be said to be born a courtier. his father, richard, first baron of bolton; his uncle, geoffrey, first baron of masham; and his maternal uncle, michael de la pole, son of a hull merchant, and created earl of suffolk by richard ii., were all foremost men about the court in military, diplomatic, legislative, judicial, and other capacities. his father was a statesman of rare talent, and resigned his chancellorship in 1380, in consequence of the anger of the young king at his protests against the lavish grants he made to his favourites. pole, earl of suffolk, and de vere, duke of ireland, with brember, mayor of london, and tresilian, were the king's favourites in his early days, but in 1388, gloucester and the confederated barons attacked them, compelled the two former to take to flight, and put to death the two latter. after their dispersion, sir william scrope became one of the principal advisers and favourites of the king, who loaded him with honours and wealth. he was constituted seneschal of acquitaine in 1383; governor of the town and castle of cherbourg in 1385; and governor of queensborough castle in the same year; was appointed vice-chamberlain of the household in 1393, and lord chamberlain in 1395. he was sent as ambassador to france to negotiate the marriage of the king, in 1395, and to treat for peace, in 1397. he was nominated justicier of chester, north wales, and flint, in 1397, and in the same year surveyor of the forests in cheshire. in 1397, he was created earl of wiltes; the following year had charge of the castle of guisnes; and in 1399, was appointed guardian of the realm during the absence of the king in ireland. he was a faithful servant and attached friend to his master, and laid down his life in his service. the causes of the deposition and death of richard were his weak character and his obnoxious mode of government, through favourites and evil advisers, which were accelerated by the ambition and revenge of his cousin henry, duke of hereford, son of john of gaunt, duke of lancaster. the duke of hereford had a quarrel with mowbray, duke of norfolk, each accusing the other of treason, and the king consented that the matter should be decided by combat at coventry, but when the lists were opened and the combatants mounted, lance in hand, ready to commence the fight, the king commanded them to desist, and arbitrarily condemned norfolk to banishment from the realm for life, and hereford for ten years, the latter being granted the privilege of taking possession, through his attorney, of any inheritances that might fall to him during his absence. whilst he was abroad his father, the duke of lancaster, died, and the king, in violation of his promise, took possession of his widely-spread lands in yorkshire and elsewhere, including leeds, kippax, almondbury, and many another manor in the county. henry, now duke of lancaster, had speedy intelligence of this from his attorney, and gathering a few followers together, took shipping for england, and landed at ravenspurn, in holderness, at the mouth of the humber. his ostensible motive in coming to england, and perhaps his real intention, was simply to obtain possession of his inheritance, with, possibly, some vague ideas of vengeance for his banishment. but, as he passed through yorkshire, he was joined by the percies and other powerful families, who welcomed him back to england, and the people flocked round his standard, so that when he approached london he found himself at the head of a considerable army, and then he threw off his disguise, and proclaimed that he had come to deliver the kingdom from the evil advisers of the crown. the king had gone to ireland to subdue an insurrection, and had left the earl of wiltes as guardian of the realm, who, on hearing of the march of lancaster towards london, fled, with others, to bristol, hoping to join the king there on his return from ireland. the duke followed them thither, laid siege to the castle, "where at length," says walsingham, "william le scrope, john busby, and henry grene, were taken prisoners, and they were forthwith, on the morrow, beheaded, at the outcry of the populace." the duke had now fully resolved upon striking for the crown, although he was not the legitimate heir, even if richard were removed, and it was his usurpation which gave rise to the subsequent war of the roses. in furtherance of his project, he considered it desirable to win over the citizens of london, and in order to conciliate those who were opposed to the favourites, and terrify those who were friendly to the king and his government, he sent thither the heads of scrope, busby, and grene, in a basket, with a letter, in which he said--"i beg of you to let me know if you will be on my side or not, and i care not which, for i have people enough to fight all the world for one day. but take in good part the present i have sent you," etc. this produced the effect he wished for, as the londoners at once espoused his cause. the king was soon after captured, sent to pontefract castle, and there murdered, after a formal deposition; and henry, with the consent of parliament, assumed the crown. he called a parliament together, who, in the first year of his reign, passed an act of attainder and confiscation against the earl of wiltes and other of richard's friends; and it was assumed that the earldom thus became extinct, although legally it only became dormant, and presents one of the most curiously complicated and interesting cases that ever came before the court of heralds or the house of lords, paralleled only, perhaps, in interest by the famous scrope-grosvenor heraldic dispute, between sir richard scrope, the earl's father, and sir robert grosvenor, as to the right to bear "azure a bend or" on their shields of arms, in which 400 witnesses of the highest rank appeared in evidence. the patent of the earldom was thus made out:--"we, considering the probity, the wise and provident circumspection, and the illustriousness of manners and birth of our beloved and trusty william le scrope, chevalier, and willing deservedly to exalt him by the prerogative of honour, do create him in parliament to be earl of wiltes; and do invest him with the style, name, and honour of the place aforesaid, by the girding of the sword, to have to him and his heirs-male for ever. and in order that the earl and his heirs aforesaid, for the decency of so great a name and honour, may be the better and the more honourably able to support the burdens incumbent on the same, of our special grace we have given and granted, and by this charter confirm, to the earl and his heirs aforesaid, £20 to be received every year out of the issues of the county of wilton, by the hands of the sheriff of the county for ever." the patent was made out in this way, with remainder to his heirs-male, because, although married, he had no issue by whom it might descend lineally, and it would thus pass downward in the family through his collateral heirs, his brothers or their children. in 1859, simon thomas scrope, of danby, claimed the dormant earldom, as heir-general of the grantee, on the ground that the attainder was invalid, and the case occupied the consideration of the house of lords for ten years. in the first place, the question arose whether by "heirs-general," collateral descendants were meant, which was decided in the affirmative, and the claimant then proved to the satisfaction of the house that he was the heir-general. it was then contended that the attainder was invalid, as taking up arms in defence of a reigning sovereign could not by any possibility be construed into treason; but, on the other hand, it was argued that the attainder was legal, as it was an act of the first parliament called by henry. but it was shown that before henry's assumption of the crown, whilst the king was in captivity, he made grants of the earl's lands and goods in the name of the king, using richard's name and seal for the purpose, as he did also in issuing writs for the summoning of a new parliament, which were ante-dated so as to appear to have been issued by the king, and this parliament it was which passed the act of the attainder. "this, of course," as elsynge says, "was entirely illegal, for as the earl had been illegally executed, without the pretence, or the possibility of a pretence, of any legal charge or lawful trial, there could be nothing to affect the legal rights which devolved upon his heirs, and a murder could hardly create a forfeiture." further, it was shown that all the attainders of the parliament of henry were reversed by the first parliament of edward iv., therefore, even if the attainder had been perfectly legal, it became null and void by the subsequent reversal, and consequently the title was now lying dormant, and belonged to the heir-general of sir william scrope. this seems to be very simple, clear, and logical, but the lords of the nineteenth century thought otherwise, and gave their decision that an act of parliament of the fourteenth century should be held to be valid, simply because it was an act of parliament, even although reversed by a subsequent act, and that, consequently, the claim could not be admitted. the legitimate heir to the earldom is, therefore, debarred from enjoying his title. but if the principle which operated adversely to his claim were to be set in motion retrospectively, many a proud coronet, even amongst those who voted against the claim, would fall to the ground. it has been said by some authorities that sir william was not the son of richard, first baron scrope of bolton, but his nephew, and son of henry, first baron scrope of masham. he purchased, _circa_ 1393, of william de montacute, the sovereignty of the isle of man, the lord of the island at that time possessing the right of being crowned and styled king, although subject to the king of england. at the time of the execution of the earl, his brother richard was archbishop of york, who is represented by walsingham, as having been "a pious and devout man, incomparably learned, of singular integrity, and of a goodly and amiable personage," and was so grieved at the murder of his brother, and so exasperated against the usurper bolingbroke, that he entered into conspiracy with the earl of northumberland, who had been alienated from the king, and had lost his son (hotspur) at the battle of shrewsbury, and with mowbray, earl of norfolk, son of the banished earl, to dethrone king henry. the standard of revolt, emblazoned with the five wounds of christ, was raised at shipton, near york, around which 20,000 yorkshiremen ranged themselves. the archbishop imprudently made known his intentions too openly, by fixing papers to church doors, charging the king with usurpation, perjury, sacrilege, and murder; by sending circulars to other counties calling upon the people to take up arms for his dethronement; and preaching three sermons denouncing him as a _pseudo_ king, and a traitor to his sovereign. the king, of course, soon heard of these proceedings, and sent prince john, afterwards duke of bedford, and the earl of westmoreland, with 30,000 men, to put down the insurrection. they found the conspirators so securely entrenched in the forest of galtres that they deemed it most prudent to resort to a stratagem. by means of flattery and false promises they allured the archbishop from his shelter, and immediately arrested him for high treason, taking him first to pontefract and then to bishopthorpe. the king directed the famous judge gascoigne to try and sentence him, who refused, saying that a peer must be tried by his peers. judge fulthorpe, who was less scrupulous, was then appointed, and, with scarcely the formality of a trial, condemned him to death. "presently after, he was set upon an ill-favoured jade, his face towards its tail, and was carried with great scorn to a field hard by, where his head was stricken off by a fellow that did his office very ill, not being able to decapitate with less than five strokes." he was looked upon as a martyr by the people, who flocked in crowds to pray at his tomb and place of execution, which was forbidden by the king by proclamation, and the pope excommunicated all who were concerned in his death. (see "the loyal martyr, 1722." maydestone's "history of the martyrdom of archbishop scrope." "a narrative of the decollation of archbishop scrope, by thos. gascoigne, d.d.," in ms. in the bod. lib.; and "a declaration of archbishop scrope against the government of henry iv." in ang. sec., vol. 2.) black-faced clifford. thomas, eighth baron clifford, is said by genealogists to have been born in 1414, and that he was forty years of age when he fell at st. alban's; but he must have been nearer fifty than forty, as his son john, ninth baron, was born in 1430, when he would be but sixteen years of age; but marriages were contracted early then. his daughter, elizabeth, was married at six years of age to sir william plumpton, who, dying soon after, she was re-married to his brother, her father stipulating that "they should not ligge together" until she had arrived at the age of eighteen. he was a portly, soldierly-looking figure, with a commanding presence, and a tone of voice calculated to ensure obedience to his commands. he had spent the greater part of his life, since the dawn of manhood, in the wars of france; was greatly applauded for his capture of pontoise by a clever stratagem, in 1438, and two years afterwards won equal admiration for the skill and bravery with which he defended it against the troops of king charles vii., and in 1445, he was entrusted with the high honour of escorting to england, margaret of anjou, the bride of henry vi. john, his son, was somewhat different, possessing neither the martial figure, the open countenance, nor the genial manner of his father. his frame was more slenderly proportioned, his face presented rather a scowl than a smile, and his temperament inclined to a moroseness and brooding, which rendered him cruel in war and disagreeable amongst his private friends. it was a beautiful may morning in the year 1455; the sun was shining brightly in the vale of craven. breakfast was spread in the great hall of the castle of the cliffords. on the daïs at the upper end, sat, at the cross table, thomas, lord clifford, and his wife, the lady joan, a daughter of thomas, lord dacre, of gillesland; his son john, with his wife, margaret, daughter of henry bromflete; baron vesey; and the prior of bolton, who had come over on his mule to be present on this occasion. down the centre of the hall stretched the long table of oaken planks resting on trestles, with benches on each side, on which were seated the knights of the fees of skipton, esquires, the priests of the chapel, the secretary, the treasurer, the seneschal, the constable, and other of the higher officials of the castle, with others of meaner degree, all ranged higher or lower, above or below the salt, according to their rank. the tables were loaded with substantial fare--huge joints of beef, mutton, brawn, and venison; saltfish, fresh herrings, and eels, with manchetts of bread in trenchers, interspersed with foaming flagons of ale and pewter tankards of sack. there was rudely cooked plenty, and keen appetites to overlook the deficiency of delicacies. the conversation on the daïs turned upon the great topic of the day--the manifest aspiration of richard, duke of york, to the crown of england, and the deposition of the imbecile and monkish-minded king henry vi. henry of bolingbroke, son of john of gaunt, fourth son of edward, had usurped the throne of his cousin, richard ii., and had been succeeded by his son, henry v., and his grandson, henry vi., which usurpation gave rise to the desolating war of the roses, now breaking out, and it could not be denied that richard had a better claim, as the representative, through anne, his mother, of the duke of clarence, than henry had, as representative of the duke of lancaster. "the summons from the king arrived a week ago," said lord clifford in reply to the prior, "and you will perceive, holy father, that i have lost no time in obeying it." "and a fine body of men you have gathered together," said the prior, "the flower of craven, whom it would be difficult to match for rude bravery and devotion to the will of their lord." "true," replied clifford, "but we have opposed to us the men of the vale of mowbray, under the duke of norfolk, and the stout men-at-arms of middleham, the followers of warwick and salisbury, all yorkshiremen, not less obstinately brave than those of craven, to say nothing of the durham retainers of the nevilles from raby. but then we shall have the powerful assistance of the percys, with their troops from topcliffe and leckonfield and wressle, so that it must be a fierce and bloody contest. i count but little upon the men of the south and the west of england; it will be the valour of the north which shall decide it." "indeed, my lord," answered the prior, "i foresee a long and bloody war, when such powerful competitors are pitted against each other, and i mourn over the thousands of desolated homesteads in merry england, as it is wont to be called; merry, alas! i fear not, for many a long day to come." "have you had any further tidings, sir," inquired the younger clifford, "of the movements of richard of york?" "nothing," replied his father, "but that he has raised his standard on the borders of wales, and is marching with his troops upon london, to demand justice upon somerset; and further, i have received information that salisbury, warwick, and mowbray, are hastening to join him. but we must not waste more time; we must perform a long march before sunset." a short service was held, and mass said in the chapel before the leaders, by the prior, and the head priest of the chapel extemporised a religious service in the courtyard to the soldiers, who stood bareheaded, and listened devoutly. in those days the lower classes, however rough and barbarous they might be, implicitly believed what was told them by the priests, without any dogmatic scruples whatever, believing that the shriving of the priest or monk cleared off all old scores of sin, and they might, without compunction, commence a fresh score; the sum and substance of their religion being to serve their feudal lord faithfully, accept the dogmas of the priest, and contribute according to their means to the money-chests of the church and the monastery. there was but scant leave-taking; the women of that time were so accustomed to parting with their husbands and sons for the french and scottish wars, that they looked upon it as a matter of course. outside the walls was a gathering of the wives, children, and sweethearts of the rank and file, with whom there were some tender leave-takings from those, so many of whom they would never more see, and who, despite their rough exterior, possessed within them hearts beating with affection and tenderness towards the cheerers of their cottage firesides. the royalists of craven made but slow progress as they wended their way southward. it was not until after some ten days' marching along rough roads, entangled woods, the fording of rivers, and tramping through morasses, that lord clifford and the men of craven found themselves on the borders of hertfordshire. here they met with a messenger from the king, with information that henry and somerset, with an army, small in number, but composed chiefly of nobles and knights, men of experience and valour, had come forth from london to meet the yorkists, and would await lord clifford's arrival at watford, bidding him to speed with all haste to that rendezvous. lord clifford and his son at this summons spurred on their chargers, leaving the troops to follow. they found the king occupying a house in the small town, and in conference with the duke of somerset, who had been nominated by the queen to the generalship-in-chief of the forces; they were admitted to the presence at once, and were cordially received by henry, lord clifford being high in his favour. the yorkshire contingent entered the town soon after, with their banners displayed and trumpets sounding, and pitched their tents alongside those of the king's army. a council of war was called in the evening, and lord clifford had the gratification of meeting there his uncle henry, second earl of northumberland, now sixty years of age, king henry v. having reversed the attainder of his grandfather, for the shrewsbury and bramham affairs, and restored him to the percy estates and dignities, since which he had won distinction by sharing in the glory of agincourt. at this council it was determined to march, on the following morning, upon st. alban's, as it was ascertained from scouts that richard of york, between whom and somerset there was bitter enmity, was marching in that direction with an army he had gathered round him at ludlow, which had been augmented on the road by the contingents of his sympathisers, and was supposed to outnumber the forces ranged under the lancastrian banner. the following morning the tents around watford were struck by daylight; the troops breakfasted, and, with banners flying and trumpets sounding, they commenced their march towards st. alban's. sir philip wentworth carried the royal standard; and with the king, as a guard of honour, were humphrey, duke of buckingham, and his son, earl stafford; henry percy, earl of northumberland; james butler, earl of wiltshire; thomas, lord clifford; and other nobles of the first rank. as the army approached st. alban's, they perceived the uplands in front of them covered with armed men, moving rapidly along towards the old roman city, in battle array. on seeing this, the lancastrians halted, set up the royal standard, with lord clifford and his craven men to guard the barriers. the duke of buckingham was sent to demand of the duke of york why he thus appeared before his sovereign. duke richard replied that he was loyal to the king, sought only for justice upon somerset, and would at once lay down his arms if he would surrender him to be dealt with according to the laws of the kingdom. the king, on receiving this message, displayed unwonted spirit, and replied that "he would as soon give up his crown as deliver up either somerset or the meanest soldier in his camp to the mercy of the yorkists." this answer was final, and the red and the white rose met for the first time in the struggle of battle. the lancastrians had the advantage of position, and were so certain of victory that somerset issued orders that no quarter should be given to the yorkists, but the latter had firearms of a rude description, which gave them a counter advantage. clifford, however, kept them at bay bravely, and prevented them from coming to close conflict. meanwhile, warwick, with his northern warriors, entered the town from the other side, and fell upon the king's troops with such vigour that, as hall says, "the king's army was profligate disposed, and all the chieftains of the field almost slain and brought to confusion." the barriers were at length burst, and york entered the town, and then in the streets were heard the shouts of "a warwick! a warwick!" on the other side "a york! a york!" and in the midst the war cries of "king henry! a somerset! a percy! a clifford!" etc., all intermingled with the clash of swords upon armour and shield; the whir of arrows flying through the air; the groans of wounded and dying men, and the screams of flying women; whilst the market-place was strewn with the bodies of fallen men, and the streets flowed with blood. shakspeare makes clifford fall at the hand of the duke of york. warwick enters crying- "clifford of cumberland, 'tis warwick calls! and if thou do'st not hide thee from the bear now when the angry trumpet sounds alarm and dead men's cries do fill the empty air, clifford, i say, come forth and fight with me! proud northern lord, clifford of cumberland, warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms." york, however, interposes, and claims the right of fighting with him. "_clifford._--what seest thou in me, york? why dost thou pause? _york._--with thy brave bearing i should be in love, but that thou art so fast mine enemy. _clifford._--nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem, but that 'tis shown ignobly and in treason. _york._--so let it help me now against thy sword, as i in justice and true right express it! _clifford._--my soul and body on the action both! _york._--a dreadful lay!--address thee instantly. (_they fight, and clifford falls._) _clifford._--la fin couronne les oeuvres. (_dies._) _york._--thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will." the slaughter of lord clifford at the hands of the duke of york is the keynote to young clifford's subsequent ruthless hatred of the house of york. coming up to the body of his father, shakspeare puts these words into his mouth- "wast thou ordain'd, dear father, to lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve the silvery livery of advised age, and in thy reverence, and thy chair-days thus to die in ruffian battle? even at this sight my heart is turn'd to stone; and while 'tis mine it shall be stony. york not our old men spares: no more will i their babes; tears virginal shall be to me even as the dew to fire; and beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims, shall, to my flaming wrath, be oil and flax. henceforth i will not have to do with pity meet i an infant of the house of york, into as many gobbets will i cut it as wild medea young absyrtus did. in cruelty will i seek out my fame. come thou new ruin of old clifford's house. (_taking up the body._) as old æneas did anchises bear, so bear i thee upon my manly shoulders. but then æneas bore a living load, nothing so heavy as these woes of mine." although the lancastrians fought bravely, nothing could withstand the superior number of the yorkists, combined, as it was, with the military skill and impetuous valour of the earl of warwick, and in a short space of time there lay dead the duke of somerset and the earls of northumberland and stafford; and the duke of buckingham and the earl of wiltshire and ormond grievously wounded. thus deprived of their chief leaders, the king being a mere cipher, the lancastrians threw down their weapons and fled, wentworth flinging down the royal standard and spurring his horse in the direction of suffolk. the poor king was captured; but york treated him with great courtesy and kindness, conducted him to st. alban's abbey, where they prayed together at the shrine of the martyr, and then went together, victor and vanquished, to london. the yorkists were now in the ascendant, but acted with great moderation. there were no executions and no attainders; so clifford succeeded to the title and kept the estates. the king was again attacked by his old malady, and again was richard of york appointed protector; but queen margaret now began to exhibit her qualities, and to intrigue in politics. she was truly an able and brave woman, but vindictive and rash. she succeeded in ousting york from the protectorship, and took measures for crushing him effectually; and again the flames of war broke out. lord clifford did not, under these circumstances, sit at home brooding over his misfortunes and the bitterness of his hatred to the house of york. he was always on the alert, at london or elsewhere, attending on councils of state or engaged in the field. he fought at bloreheath, in 1459, and at northampton, in 1460, on both of which occasions his party suffered a defeat; but margaret, nothing daunted, raised an army of 18,000 men, and proceeded at their head into yorkshire, in face of the frosts and snows of the december of 1460. the duke of york, with a small army of 5,000 men, went from london and threw himself into sandal castle, by wakefield, there to await the arrival of his son edward, earl of march, who was mustering forces in the welsh marches. the queen came with her army upon wakefield green, with the duke of somerset, son of the slain duke, in chief command, and clifford and wiltshire, son of the earl who fell at st. alban's, in command of ambuscades, one on each side. then, aware of her numerical superiority, she appeared before sandal, and summoned the duke to come forth and fight her. "what, are you afraid of encountering an army led by a woman? cowardly poltroon! can you be fit to wear the crown of england, who shut yourself up in a castle against a woman?" york called a council of war, and was earnestly dissuaded against running the hazard of a battle before the arrival of his son; but, taunted by the jeers of the queen, he felt that his honour was concerned in fighting at once, despite the numerical odds, and forth he went with his small army, not one-third that of the queen. the duke sallied forth and met somerset, with a comparatively small force, on wakefield green, whom he attacked with great vigour, anticipating, with his better-disciplined men, an easy victory; but the ambuscades under clifford and wiltshire came out upon his flanks, whilst a contingent of northern borderers attacked his rear, and thus, completely surrounded, his small force succumbed, the white rose drooped, and the red, for the first time, was triumphant. this battle brought to an end the ambitious aspirations of richard of york. he was one of the first to fall, and with him sir thomas neville, lord salisbury's son, and lord harrington, the husband of katherine neville, his daughter. lord salisbury himself was wounded, but not sufficiently to prevent his galloping off from the scene. clifford however, followed in hot pursuit, captured, and sent him to pontefract castle, where he was at once beheaded. previously, however, to his pursuit of the father, clifford was guilty of that dastardly act upon his son, the earl of rutland, which has stamped his name with infamy, and has given significance to his sobriquet of "black-faced clifford." the duke of york had with him, in sandal castle, his family, including the youthful earl of rutland. boy-like, he must needs go and see the battle, and nothing could dissuade him. "i will go," said he, "and see my father kill the cruel queen; and when i am a man i will go and fight, and kill his enemies too." "a battle is not a place, lord edmund," replied his tutor and chaplain, sir robert aspall, "for boys. a stray arrow might kill you." "think not, sir priest," replied the brave boy, "that a son of richard of york is afraid of an arrow! stay under shelter of these walls, like craven priest, if you will; i shall go and see the deeds of men who are men!" seeing that nothing could turn the boy from his purpose, his tutor resolved to go with him to keep him out of harm's way, nothing loth himself to witness the conflict of arms. when the battle was over, and the vanquished flying, sir robert led his charge, away towards sandal. they had not proceeded far, when they encountered a steel-clad warrior on horseback, with blood dropping from his sword. perceiving from his apparel that he was a youth of distinction, the warrior dismounted, and, holding his horse by the reins, inquired who he was. "then," as hall says, "the young gentleman, dismayed, had not a word to speak, but kneeled on his knees, imploring mercy and desiring grace, both with holding up his hands and making dolorous countenance, for his speech was gone for fear. 'save him,' said his chaplain, 'for he is a prince's son, and peradventure may do you good hereafter.' with that word lord clifford marked him, and said, 'by god's blood! thy father slew mine, and so will i do to thee and all thy kin,' and with that word, struck the earl to the heart with his dagger, and bade the chaplain bear the earl's mother and brother word what he had done, and said, adding, 'by this act, lord clifford was accompted a tyrant and no gentleman.'" not satisfied with this cowardly act of vindictiveness, lord clifford resolved to carry his vengeful hatred on, by insulting the dead. he returned to the field, now strewn with corpses, sought for, and found that of the duke of york, and cutting off his head, stuck it upon a lance and carried it, as the most acceptable trophy, to the tent of the queen, who received it with ill-timed merriment and jest. she made a paper crown and placed it on the head, with an inscription--"this is he who would have been king of england," and gave directions for it to be conveyed, along with that of salisbury, to york, and placed over one of the gates, adding, "leave room for the head of my lord of warwick, for it shall soon bear them company!" queen margaret, flushed with her victory, marched towards london, but met with the earl of warwick, in february, 1461, at st. alban's, and there defeated him, after which the poor captive king was released and brought to his queen in lord clifford's tent. but edward, the quondam earl of march, now duke of york, had come up and joined warwick, who, together, entered london and were welcomed by the citizens, who favoured the house of york. margaret, fearing to meet their united forces, returned northward, her strongholds and most devoted friends being in the northern counties, especially on the scottish borders, whither she was followed by duke edward. she had come to york, and lay there with 60,000 men, when she heard that york and warwick had reached pontefract with an army of 40,000 men. anxious to prevent the passage of the aire by the enemy, she moved to towton, some eight miles off york, and there was fought the memorable and decisive battle which placed the crown on the head of edward iv. the lancastrians had seized ferrybridge under lord fitzwalter, and clifford, as courageous as he was cruel, undertook to dislodge him, which he accomplished. but lord falconbridge crossed the aire three miles higher, at castleford, and attacked clifford in the flank with a superior force. clifford fled towards the queen's camp, and when he arrived at dittingdale, two miles off towton, feeling thirsty after his exertions, he removed his gorget and stooped to drink at a streamlet, when an arrow struck him in the throat, and the murderer of rutland and insulter of the dead richard of york fell to rise no more. the shepherd lord. for ever memorable in the annals of england will be palm sunday in the year 1461, and equally so the little hamlet of towton, by tadcaster. there and then was fought, in a blinding snowstorm, what camden calls "the english pharsalia," the greatest battle hitherto fought on english soil, where englishman met englishman, and kinsman kinsman, in deadly conflict, and in which quarter was neither asked nor given. the conflict lasted ten hours, and the pursuit of the fugitives was continued until the middle of monday. 60,000 lancastrians were met by 40,000 yorkists, and 36,000 corpses and dying men lay that sunday night on the snow of the fields, roads, and hillsides, whilst the river and streamlets ran with torrents of blood, and the snow became encrimsoned as it fell. the fight inclined in favour of the red rose, under the command of the duke of somerset, although york and warwick performed prodigies of valour with their smaller forces, and the day must have gone against the white rose, when, towards evening, the banner of the mowbrays was seen approaching, and the duke of norfolk came up with a body of fresh troops, who made a vigorous attack on the lancastrians, which at once turned the scale, and changed what seemed to be a defeat into a decisive victory, which was virtually the deposition of henry vi., and the elevation of edward iv. to the throne--a transference of the crown from the house of lancaster to that of york. the shades of evening were falling over the forest lands around skipton, some week or ten days after the battle. the surrounding hills were covered with snow, and a fierce wind raged round the towers of the castle, whilst the boughs of the trees crashed against each other, and ever and anon a huge branch, reft from the parent stem, was flung with fury to the earth. within the castle, in a room overlooking the courtyard, sat the lady clifford, with her young children, two or three female attendants, and the chaplain of the household. it was very unlike a modern drawing-room, and, in these sybarite days, would be looked upon as a very comfortless apartment; yet was it a fair specimen of the drawing-room of the period. instead of axminster or aubusson carpets, the floors were strewn with rushes; instead of oil paintings from the hands of eminent masters, the walls were hung with tapestries of arras, more to cover the rough nakedness of the stonework and exclude draughts than for æsthetic purposes; the furniture of the room consisted of a table, two or three chairs, and a few stools of rough carpentry, not in mahogany or rosewood, but of the native oak, hewn out of the woodlands of the demesne. on the hearthstone blazed a fire of wood, sputtering as the sleet fell into it down the wide open chimney. there was no grate, fender, or fire-irons, but beside the hearth lay a heap of fresh wood, to be thrown on the fire as required; and when the embers required stirring, a stick from the heap was used for that purpose. lady clifford sat in silence, brooding in thought over her absent husband, with an occasional heavy-drawn sigh; the children were gambolling about the room in innocent unconsciousness of the perils to which their father was exposed; the chaplain joined in their romps, and amused them by telling them tales of fairyland and the good deeds of holy saints; and the handmaidens were sitting apart, plying their distaffs and spinning-wheels, and indulging in the usual gossip of an isolated castle and the surrounding village, but maintained it in an undertone, so as not to disturb the meditations of their lady. "what a fearful night it is," said lady clifford, as a terrific gust of wind came roaring round the towers of the castle, seeming almost to shake them to their foundations, stoutly as they were built. "it is terrible even here, sitting as we are under the protection of these strong walls; what must it be to those who are exposed to its fury, camped, perchance, on some wild moor, and surrounded by enemies?" at this moment a trumpet summons for admittance to the castle was heard; and presently the seneschal entered the room, stating that a knight was without the gate with tidings of great importance. "who is he?" asked lady clifford. "do you know him?" "yes, my lady, he is sir john de barnoldswick, who accompanied my lord, and i fear me he brings intelligence of evil import." "admit him instantly, and bring him hither." the rattling of the chains of the drawbridge was heard, and the sound of opening the ponderous castle gates, followed by the tramping of a horse in the courtyard, and the heavy footsteps of a steel-clad warrior on the stone stairs, and a tall, martial-looking figure, but with melancholy gait and drooping head, entered the room and made a profound obeisance to the lady of the castle, but without speaking a word of salutation. "whence comest thou, sir knight, and what are thy tidings?" inquired lady clifford, in tremulous accents. "i come from the field of battle, lady, and my tidings are evil." "let us hear them; i am a soldier's wife, and ought not to shrink from calamitous intelligence," she replied, although her nervous trembling belied her utterance. "know, then, lady, that a great and disastrous battle has been fought near tadcaster, and the lancastrian cause lost. i fought till the last under the clifford banner; saw many a brave fellow of the vale of craven fall around me, and barely escaped to bring the news hither." "and what of the king and the brave queen margaret?" "alas! i know not; they and the prince of wales were in york when the battle was fought. all i know is that somerset and the king's troops were utterly defeated, and fled northward, with warwick and the duke of york in hot pursuit." "and what of my lord? fled he too? he would never turn his back to the foes of his king." "he did not, lady; had he been present, the result might have been different. he was not in the engagement." "what mean you by 'not in the engagement'? surely he, of all men, would not stand aloof on such an occasion?" "alas! lady, i fear to tell you why." "speak, man! is he dead? or why was he absent?" "it is too true, lady, that he can no longer fight in defence of his king." "then he is dead!" cried lady clifford, in an agony of despair. "he fell, my lady, on the eve of the battle, after a glorious act of valour, by a random shot. heaven rest his soul!" "heaven help my poor children!" cried lady clifford, and fell to the floor in a swoon, the mother's instinctive love for her offspring prevailing over her grief for her own loss. and truly, she had reason to fear for them. her husband, "black-faced clifford," as he was called, had an inveterate hatred for the house of york; he had murdered, in cold blood, the young duke of rutland, brother of edward of york; had cut off the head of richard, duke of york; and had caused the earl of salisbury, father of warwick, to be executed at pontefract; and it was tolerably certain that york, the future king, and warwick, his general, would seek to take vengeance on the children of him who had committed those atrocities. the dukes of york and warwick marched triumphantly to york, and were submissively received by the authorities, and there they celebrated the festival of easter with great splendour. hastings, stafford, and others had been made knights-bannerets on the field; devon and wilts were decapitated by martial law, and their heads placed on the bar gate of york, whence those of richard of york and the earl of salisbury, the fathers of york and warwick, had been removed; and, after settling affairs in the north, the victors marched to london, and were welcomed by the citizens with loud demonstrations of joy, the londoners being staunch yorkists. lady clifford prepared to meet her untoward fate, and took measures for the safety of her children. her old friend, the venerable prior of bolton, who had made himself acquainted with all that had taken place since the battle of towton, so far as could be learnt in that remote spot, mounted his mule and rode over to the castle. he was received courteously and with dutiful reverence by lady clifford, and, moreover, with joy, as she wished to consult him, above all others, as to her future line of conduct. "i am at a loss, holy father, to think what i can do. i suppose there is no hope of retrieval on the part of queen margaret?" "i am afraid not. the queen is endeavouring to raise another army in the north, but i fear with little chance of success." "what, then, will be the effect upon the adherents of the house of lancaster? i suppose executions, attainders, and confiscations?" "precisely so; and lord clifford, one of the most bitter foes of the house of york, will certainly be included in the first list, his title extinguished, and his estates confiscated." "and my poor children will thus lose all their inheritance; but it is not that i dread this so much as the vengeance of the duke--king now, i presume--and of the earl of warwick. i fear me that even if their lives are not sacrificed, they will be cast into dungeons, to languish out their lives." "your apprehensions, my daughter, are, unfortunately, but too well-founded, and we must consult on some measures for their safety. you need not fear molestation until edward has seated himself securely on the throne, and will be safer within the walls of this castle than elsewhere. but it will be wise to make provision for removal to some secure retreat as soon as the acts of attainder have passed, and the king begins to take vengeance on his foes, for then skipton will pass into other hands." "i bethink me of such a place," said lady clifford. "your council is wise. i can go to the mansion of my father, lord vesci, on his londesborough estates, near market weighton, where it will be possible to reside as far removed from the world as if out of the world. there i could bring up my children, without notice, until the cloud had passed over, or until a change in the wheel of fortune shall restore the house of lancaster to the throne." after some further discussion, the prior saw that this was the best plan that could be adopted; and it was arranged that measures should be taken for departure at any moment, when there should be indications of the towers of skipton becoming untenable, and, after a parting benediction, the reverend prior mounted his mule, and returned home. king edward lost no time in taking steps to paralyse effectually any further efforts on the part of the adherents of the rival house. he called together a parliament, and one of the first measures laid before it was an act of attainder against all the nobles and men of rank who had appeared in arms against his legitimate claim to the crown, which, now that he had been successful, was deemed treason. the demesnes of john, lord clifford, extended for seventy miles, with an interval of ten, from skipton into the heart of westmoreland, with four castles--those of brougham, appleby, brough, and pendragon, besides that of skipton. the westmoreland estates, with the tenure baronies of vipont and westmoreland, had been inherited by robert de clifford, third baron, from his great-aunt, isabella, daughter and co-heiress of the last male heir of the family of de vipont. by the act of attainder all these fair lands and castles were reft away from the family, the barony of de clifford was declared to be extinct for ever, and all the estates, forests, moors, castles, tenements, mills, and goods escheated to the crown. in the fourth of the reign, the castle, manor, and lordship of skipton, and the manor of morton were granted in tail male to sir edward stanley, but in the fifteenth year were transferred to the king's brother, richard, duke of gloucester, to hold till death. it is proverbial that bad news flies rapidly, and it was not long ere news arrived at skipton and bolton of the act of attainder. the prior had come over to the castle to advise with lady clifford. "you must take your departure at once," said he. "the agents of the usurper will be here anon and take possession in the name of the king, and it is not at all improbable that they will have instructions to remove your children from your care, and immure them in some place of captivity, if nothing worse befalls them, as the offspring of one of the most determined enemies of the house of york." "i have sent a confidential servant," she replied, "to lord vesci, my father, who sends word back that preparation shall be made for my reception at londesborough." "nothing remains, then," said the prior, "but to secure your jewels and other portable articles of value, with such of the family papers as you may deem it wise to preserve, and to set off on your journey, with an escort sufficient for your protection, but not so large as to attract undue notice." lady clifford had left the castle in charge of the seneschal, to deliver it into the king's hands, and rode forth on a palfrey, disguised as a farmer's wife. she was accompanied by three or four horsemen in similar disguise, with whom the children rode, and was followed at some distance by some half-dozen servitors clad as peasants, but bearing concealed weapons for the purpose of defence, if needful, as it was probable that they might meet with disbanded soldiers, who might not be over scrupulous in waylaying and robbing chance travellers. the party, as far as possible, went along by-ways, so as to escape observation, but these were sometimes so rough as to compel them to take the more beaten high roads, and, passing by otley, tadcaster, and york, arrived at londesborough without any mishap or adventure of consequence. londesborough is supposed to have been the delgovitia of the romans, and was seated at the foot of the road from eboracum, one branch going to the ferry over the humber at brough, and the other across holderness to the seaport at ravenspurn. it is presumed, also, that the saxon king, eadwine, had a palace here, and that within its walls he held his conference with paulinus, which resulted in the demolition of the temple of woden at goodmandingham, two miles distant. the de vescis had built a mansion here, and laid out a park with a noble avenue of trees, a mile in length, in which lady clifford had played when a child, londesborough having been her birthplace. the estates passed at the death of henry de bromflete, in 1466, to his daughter, margaret, and through her to the de cliffords, in whose possession they remained until the death, without issue male, of henry v., and last earl of cumberland, when they passed, by the marriage of his daughter and heiress, to the earl of burlington, of the boyle family. the old mansion was taken down in 1819, and the park divided into farms. it was with a feeling of melancholy satisfaction that lady clifford found herself in a species of security in her ancestral home, and she longed to ramble at will about the park and village, as she had been wont to do in bygone days, but it was not prudent to indulge in such pleasures, her position necessitating the utmost seclusion of herself and children from the outer world. about a month afterwards she sent a messenger secretly to skipton, to ascertain what had occurred there since she left, and on his return learnt that the king's commissioners had visited the castle and taken possession of it and the estates in the name of the crown; moreover, that they had made particular inquiries after lady clifford and "the brats of the butcher of wakefield," but were put off by being told by the domestics in charge that they had left skipton a month ago, and gone they knew not where, but believed to some country across the sea. the yorkists, however, seem to have suspected that this was not the truth, and shortly afterwards strangers of sinister aspect were observed to be lurking about londesborough. this excited great terror in the breast of lady clifford, who saw clearly that her children were in great danger, and she took prompt measures for their safety. she had three children--henry, the eldest, about seven years of age; richard, the younger son; and a daughter--elizabeth, affianced to one of the plumptons of plumpton. she soon decided on her plans. the maid who had nursed her when a child, had married a shepherd on the estate, and henry was placed under her charge, to be brought up as her child, to live as his foster-parents lived, and follow the occupation of tending sheep on the hillsides, in which measure, he, being an intelligent child, cheerfully acquiesced, assumed the shepherd's garb, and attended to the duties of his new station without the slightest murmur, his sole regret being the enforced absence from his mother. richard was sent in charge of a careful servant to ravenspurn, and thence carried across the sea to flanders, whilst elizabeth, who, it was supposed, would not be molested, remained as the sole comfort and solace of her mother. these measures were not taken a moment too soon, for "a little after they were thus disposed of, the adverse party examined their mother about them, who told them that she had ordered them to be carried beyond sea to be bred up there; but whether they were alive or not she could not tell, which answer satisfied them for the present," and, after making strict search without effect, they departed. in 1466, lord de vesci died, and lady clifford, as his heiress, succeeded to his estates, when a rumour reached londesborough from the court that the king suspected that the children were in concealment there, upon which lady clifford sent the shepherd, with his wife and young henry, to a farm in a remote and wild part of cumberland, where there were few inhabitants, and no roads upon which passengers would travel, excepting from one sheep track to another. in this lonely solitude, tending his sheep on the bleak hills, henry grew up from boyhood to youth, and from youth to manhood--a mere shepherd and little more. his fare was that of an ordinary peasant--oaten or rye bread, occasionally swine flesh, and water from the running brook. his bed consisted of sheepskins on a heap of straw, and his shelter from the inclemency of the weather a straw-thatched cottage. he associated with the few scattered people of the district as one of themselves, and joined the young men in the rude sports of the period. he grew up without any education whatever, and knew neither how to read nor write; yet he had a soul attuned to higher things, and when abroad at night with his sheep would observe the constellations in the heavens, and weave theories in his own mind relative to the origin, motions, and uses of the glittering specks which studded the firmament over his head, a study which he afterwards pursued with more intelligence, in company with the canons of bolton at barden tower. thus he lived until his thirty-second year, thinking only to live and die a cumberland shepherd, and possibly to marry, and be the progenitor of a race of peasants, who should have no reminiscences of the glories of skipton, or the martial deeds of their illustrious ancestors. the political world of england, however, had not stood still in the interval, mighty events had been taking place. edward, the king, had been gathered to his fathers, after the judicial murder of his brother, the duke of clarence. his sons, edward v. and the duke of york, were murdered by their uncle, richard of gloucester, who usurped the throne. henry, earl of richmond, with lancastrian blood in his veins, invaded england, and the battle of bosworth was fought in the year 1485, when the usurper richard was slain, and richmond ascended the throne as king henry vii. the yorkist dynasty having now come to an end, there remained no more fear for the cliffords. the shepherd was brought from the fells of cumberland to londesborough. soon after the attainder was reversed, the confiscated estates restored, and the clifford banner again floated in the breeze from the towers of skipton. but the shepherd lord felt not at home amid the splendours of his castle, and he fitted up one of the keeper's lodges in barden forest for his residence, where he lived in great simplicity, spending his days in hunting and his nights in watching the stars, and studying astronomy with the canons of bolton, with such rude instruments as were then to be procured. in 1513, when about sixty years of age, he received a summons to attend the expedition into scotland, with a contingent of men-at-arms, and held a command at the battle of flodden, where he displayed the hereditary military skill and valour of the cliffords. "from penigent to pendle hill, from linton to long addingham, and all that craven coasts did till, they with the lusty clifford came. all staincliffe hundred went with him, with striplings strong from wharfedale, and all that hauton hills did climb, with longstroth eke and litton dale, whose milk-fed fellows, fleshly bred, well brown'd, with sounding bows upbend, all such as horton fells had fed, on clifford's banners did attend." --_ballad of flodden field._ he survived the battle ten years, died in 1523, at about the seventieth year of his age, and was buried with his ancestors in the church of bolton. margaret, lady clifford, married for her second husband, launcelot threlkeld, and bore him three daughters. she survived her first husband thirty years, and the restitution seven years, dying in 1491, at londesborough. she was buried in the church there, near the altar, under a slab, with an inlaid brass plate bearing the following inscription:--"orate pro anima margarete, d'ne clifford et vescy, olim spouse nobilissimi viri joh'is d'm clifford et westmoreland, filie et hereditis henrici bromflet, quondam d'ni vescy, etc. ... matris henrici domini clifford, westmoreland et vescy, quae obiit 15 die mens aprilis, anno domini 1491, cujus corpus sub hoc marmore est humatum." the felons of ilkley. the town of ilkley, on the wharfe, now so well known to tourists for the beauty of its situation and the grandeur of the natural scenery surrounding it, and to invalids for the invigorating and restorative qualities of its waters, is a place of very ancient date. it was built and fortified by the proprætor, virius lupus, in the time of the emperor severus, the fortress being situated on a precipitous bank of the wharfe, and a cohort stationed there. remains of the intrenchments are still to be seen, and altars, sepulchral stones, and other memorials of the roman olicaria have frequently been disinterred. under the saxons, too, it was a place of some importance, with a church and priest. in the churchyard there are some remarkable relics of this age, consisting of three stone crosses, with curiously convoluted knots and scroll work. afterwards it sank into a mere village, but with a grammar school, founded in 1601 by the parishioners, and so remained until recent times, when the fame of its salubrious springs went forth over the land and attracted crowds of fashionable invalids and hypochondriacs. it was in the latter half of the seventeenth century, when the reign of the puritans had come to an end, and the "merry monarch" had been restored to the throne of the stuarts, bringing with him the profligate, licentious, and profane manners of the court of versailles, that one fine summer's afternoon a party of roysterers, who had been at a cock-fight, burst into the kitchen of the mud-built and thatched alehouse of ilkley, calling upon mistress laycock, the alewife, for sundry flagons of ale wherewith to moisten their throats, parched and dry with halloaing and shouting out bets at the cocking match. the twenty years' rule of the puritans, with the suppression of sports, theatres, and other amusements, and the substitution of long sermons and long prayers, had produced the natural reaction, and now the people of ilkley, as in other places, returned with renewed zest to their bull-baiting, dog fights, cudgel matches, and their more innocent amusements of dancing round the maypole, holding yule-feasts and village fairs, and mumming in grotesque masquerade on plough monday. the roysterers who thus boisterously invaded dame laycock's kitchen were tom heber, a young scapegrace, son of reginald heber, a barrister-at-law of the middle temple, and an offshoot of the ancient family of heebeare, who had been settled in craven for some centuries. he had been brought up in the old gabled and cross-timbered house of his father in ilkley, had been well educated, and was a clever and accomplished young fellow; moreover, his father had taken him once or twice to london, and he had been a witness of the revels and immoralities of whitehall, which struck his fancy as being the perfection of human bliss. his companions this afternoon were will hudson, the village cobbler, who infinitely preferred swaggering at a bull-baiting to hammering at the lapstone; walter pollard, a shoeing smith, whose feats at tossing off the contents of a blackjack were the admiration of his comrades; jack smithers, a journeyman flesher, whose dog was the pride of the village for his pluck in tackling any animal of his size or more than his size; and two or three other rapscallions of the village, who were ever foremost in a brawl, and more frequently seen in the purlieus of the alehouse than in pursuit of their proper vocations. these worthies had now seated themselves on the long-settle which faced a fire of wood on the hearth-stone, over which swung a large cauldron, and called out vociferously for the ale. "now then, mother laycock," shouted heber, "when is this ale coming?" "the old score's not paid yet, master thomas," replied she, from another room, "and i told you that i would not draw another pint until that was paid." "oh! you won't, won't you; then your crockery shall suffer for your obstinacy; so here goes," and down he dashed an earthenware jug on the floor, upon which she rushed in, and opening a cupboard door, showed a long score chalked against him. "oh! hang the score," said he, "you know i shall pay you some day; my father cannot be so hard as to keep me entirely without money." "but, master thomas, i cannot afford to give such long trust." "now, mistress laycock, you know i am a good customer, and always pay in the long run; is this ale forthcoming?" and down he threw another piece of crockery, adding, "it shall all go if you do not bring the ale." the old dame, terrified at the breakage of her pots, then gave in and produced the ale, adding it to the score on the cupboard door. the ale jug passed merrily round, and the conversation turned first upon the points of the cock-fight they had been witnessing, and then upon the merits of the competitors in a wrestling match which was coming off the following sunday. they then began to complain of their scant fortunes, not attributing it at all to their lack of industry in business. "i'll tell you what it is," said heber, "it's a parlous shame that my father keeps me so short of money." "it is! it is!" echoed his companions. "he has brought me up as a gentleman, and given me a good education, but does not allow me the means to support that position, and i say again that it is cursed shame; but never mind, boys, the time is coming when i shall have plenty of gold to scatter about amongst you, my jolly companions." "brayvo! brayvo! three cheers for squire heber." "meanwhile," continued he, "it is the best philosophy to make the best of what we have, to enjoy life as much as we can, to dance, and drink, and sing, and fling dull care to the winds. so drink, boys! drink! and i will sing you one of cowley's new songs which i picked up in london." and he trolled forth- "fill the bowl with rosy wine; around our temples roses twine; and let us cheerfully awhile, like the vine and roses smile, crown'd with roses we contemn gyges' wealthy diadem. to-day is ours; what do we fear? to-day is ours; we have it here. let's treat it kindly, that it may wish, at least, with us to stay. let's banish business; banish sorrow; to the gods belongs to morrow." of course, the song was rapturously applauded by the listeners, who caught the general sentiment, but were unable to understand the allusions or appreciate the refinement of the language. suddenly heber exclaimed--"lads! a bright thought has flashed across my mind. we want money, and money we must have. old alic squire is well to do, and always has a considerable sum of money by him, and it would be a charity to relieve him of the care and anxiety of keeping it in that lonely house of his. the thing could be easily done. we have but to disguise ourselves, break into his house, take what we require, and leave him to attribute the appropriation, i won't call it theft, to professional burglars." the confederates highly approved of the scheme, and gave a ready assent, after which they arranged a plan of operation, and agreed to carry it into execution three nights hence. on the appointed evening they assembled at the house of will, the cobbler, where they donned sundry disguises, armed themselves with cudgels, an axe, a crowbar, and a wooden wedge, and sallied forth into the moonlight. squire's farmhouse lay at a little distance from the village, shrouded in trees. it was occupied by himself, a widower, and his married daughter, elizabeth beecroft; whilst in the barn, on that night, slept one jane beanland. the moon was nearly at full, but masses of clouds drifted across its face, obscuring its beams, so that it only shone out at intervals. as they approached the house at midnight a profound silence prevailed; not a dog barked, and it was only broken occasionally by the distant hooting of an owl. a minute or two were only required to force open the door by the application of the wedge and three or four blows of the axe, and heber, hudson, and pollard entered the house, the others remaining outside. the old man had been awakened by the noise of forcing the door open, and he came from his bedroom half-dressed, demanding what they wanted by thus breaking into his house. "money," was the reply, "and if you do not give it up we shall take it." "i have got no money for you," he answered, and, seizing upon a poker, he stood upon his defence, but was overpowered by a blow on the head, and the robbers then prized open his desk, but found in it not more than fifty shillings, and broke open a cupboard, taking from it a piece of beef, after which they went away, much disappointed at the smallness of their booty. notwithstanding their disguise, they had been identified, squire, in his deposition, stating that he recognised tom heber by his stature and the softness of his hand, which he felt when struggling with him; elizabeth, his daughter, whose room they had entered and "nearly smothered her in the bed clothes," also recognised "mr. thos. heber," as one of the party; and jane beanland deposed that, as she lay in the barn, she heard the voices of mr. thos. heber, of holling, and william hudson, of ilkley, when they were breaking open the door. moreover, elizabeth longfellow gave evidence that going into the alehouse of josias laycock, where walter pollard was drinking, she overheard him say, "i am now making bess squire's half-crowns fly." they had left behind them also an iron gavelock, a staff, and a wedge, which were identified as having been in their possession a day or two before the crime was committed. these facts having come to light, warrants were issued for the apprehension of the offenders, and they were brought before walter hawkesworth, of hawkesworth, the nearest magistrate. this gentlemen was a friend of serjeant heber, and, knowing tom well, he expressed his regret at seeing him placed in that situation, who, however, laughingly replied that it was only done for a lark, but the magistrate, after hearing the depositions, with a grave countenance, said "it might be a lark, but at the same time it was a felony, and a serious outrage of the law, and he had no alternative but to commit them to york for trial at the assizes." they were consequently arraigned at the assizes on a charge of burglary, but escaped the usual severe punishment, partly on the ground that the crime was committed as a frolic, which was the line of defence, partly through family influence, and partly through the powerful agency of money. it is a remarkable fact that there were then resident in ilkley two families--the hebers, of whom was the criminal, and the longfellows, a member of whom was a witness on the trial against him, and that from them are descended two of the most charming poets of modern times--reginald heber, bishop of calcutta, author of "palestine," and henry wadsworth longfellow, whose writings are as much admired in england as in his native america. the ingilby boar's head. the crest of the ingilbys of ripley is "a boar's head couped and erect arg., tusked or," which was obtained by an early knight of the family, in a romantic fashion, and as the reward for a valiant achievement. in the reign of edward the confessor the manor of ripley was held by merlesweyn, a powerful danish lord, and owner of many another manor and estate in the same district. he joined in the gospatric insurrection against william the conqueror, in favour of edgar the atheling, for which rebellion his lands were confiscated, and granted to ralph de paganel, a norman noble who had fought at hastings, and who besides became lord of leeds, headingley, and extensive estates on the ouse, the aire, and the nidd; holding the merlesweyn estates _in capite_ from the king; leeds, etc., by the service of a knight's fee and a half, under the lacies of pontefract; whilst lands at adel, arthington, etc., devolved on him in right of his wife, matilda, daughter of richard de surdeval. he was the founder of the priory of the holy trinity, york, upon which, in 1080, he bestowed the churches of leeds and adel. from the paganels, ripley passed to the trusbut family, how does not appear, and from them, by the marriage of the heiress, to the family of de ros of ingmanthorpe, a branch of the de ros's of hamlake and holderness, who became the superior lords, under whom the manor was held for half a knight's fee, early in the twelfth century, by a family whose previous name is not recorded, but who adopted that of de ripley from their possessions. from this family descended the famous canon of bridlington, sir george de ripley, in the fifteenth century, the alchymist and "discoverer" of the philosopher's stone, as he professed, in 1470, and who contributed annually vast sums of money to the knights of rhodes for maintaining their warfare against the mussulmans. the ingilbys are of scandinavian origin, seated for a long period at engelby, in lincolnshire, whence they derived their surname, who, at the time of domesday book held three manors in lincolnshire, two in the north riding of yorkshire, under the bishop of durham and william of poictou, and one in derbyshire. in 1350, or thereabouts, sir thomas de ingilby, justice of the common pleas, married catherine of luerne, daughter and heiress of bernard (?) de ripley, and came into possession of the ripley estates, where he settled, and, seven years afterwards, obtained a charter for an annual fair and weekly market at ripley. the ingilbys, still extant, have held a distinguished place among the families of yorkshire, and many members of the family have been entrusted with high offices in church and state, and become eminent in the field. john ingilby (_temp._ richard ii.), was the second founder of and benefactor to the carthusian monastery of mount grace, in cleveland. john, born at ripley in 1434, "did wondrously flourish in the reign of henry vi." sir william, his son, was knighted by "lord gloucester on milton field, in holland, in 1482," for valour. a john de ingilby was prior of sheen and bishop of llandaff, 1496-1500. sir william, born 1515, was high sheriff of yorkshire and treasurer of berwick, _temp._ elizabeth. david, his second son, married anne nevile, daughter of charles, sixth earl of westmoreland, by which marriage his representatives, with those of nicholas pudsey, are co-heirs of the abeyant barony of nevile of raby. francis, third son of sir william, was a roman catholic priest, and was executed at york, in 1586, for performing the functions of his office in the realm. john, fifth son of sir william, was presented in the list of recusants in 1604. william, eldest son of sampson of spofforth, fourth son of sir william, was created baronet in 1642, and fought on the king's side at marston moor. his castle at ripley was garrisoned for the king, and cromwell, after the battle of marston moor, passing through ripley, demanded lodgings for the night, which was at first refused by lady ingilby, but he was, after a parley, admitted, on the promise that his followers should not be guilty of any impropriety. she received him with a couple of pistols stuck in her apron string, and on leaving in the morning, he inquired the meaning of the two weapons. "i'll tell you," she replied, "why i had two; it was that the second might be ready in case the first missed fire, for if you had behaved otherwise than peaceably i should have pistolled you without the least remorse." sir william rebuilt ripley castle. in one of the towers is the following inscription:--"in the yiere of owre ld. m.d.l.v. was this towre buyldyd by sir willyam ingilby, knight; philip and mary reigning that time." in the great staircase window is a series of escutcheons on stained glass, containing the arms of ingilby and of the families with whom they had inter-married. sir william, the second baronet, purchased the manor of armley from the mauliverers. sir john, the fourth baronet died 1772, when the baronetcy expired. the baronetcy was revived in 1781, in the person of john ingilby, an illegitimate son of the fourth baronet of the previous creation. sir william amcotts, his fourth son, succeeded to the baronetcy of his maternal grandfather, sir wharton amcotts, by special remainder, and to that of his father in 1815, but died s.p., in 1854, when the baronetcy expired. in 1866 the baronetcy was again restored, in the person of the rev. henry john, nephew of the above sir john, in his succession by will to the ripley estates, whose son, sir henry day is the present holder, with (according to the new domesday book, of 1876) an acreage in the west riding of 10,000, producing a rental of £11,149 per annum. in ripley castle there is, or was, a full-length portrait of a knight of the ingilby family, attired in the hunting costume of the plantagenet times, with the head of a wild boar at his feet. this is the presentment of sir william ingilby, a doughty warrior and a hunter of renown, who lived in the troublous reign of edward ii. although the representative of the family still lived in lincolnshire, not having yet acquired the ripley estates, this sir william resided on one of the yorkshire estates not far distant from ripley, and would be on terms of intimacy with the family of de ripley, whose heiress was won by sir thomas ingilby, the justice of the common pleas, and who possibly might have been the son of sir william. sir william had gained some renown in the scottish wars of king edward i. against william wallace, and had been an ardent and loyal supporter of the weak and unfortunate second edward on his accession to the throne, from the fact of his being the son of the great and glorious king, the first of that name. he remained loyal until the king gave himself up into the hands of his favourite, piers gaveston, who humoured his naturally depraved inclinations, and led him into acts of malgovernment, which estranged the hearts of the people. he loaded him with benefits, bestowing on him great estates and much treasure. amongst other grants he gave him the lordship of knaresborough castle and forest, with divers liberties, franchises, and privileges, which led him to assume a high and dictatorial tone to the nobles of the realm, who expostulated with the king, and compelled him to banish the insolent foreigner. but the king, not able to learn wisdom in the school of experience, recalled him and bestowed fresh benefits upon him, which so exasperated the barons that they rose in arms, with thomas, earl of lancaster, at their head, captured the favourite in scarborough castle, and beheaded him. the king then took the spensers into his favour, who became more intolerably oppressive than their predecessor, upon which the barons again rose in arms, but were defeated in a battle at boroughbridge, and nearly a hundred barons, knights, and other prisoners put to death, the earl of lancaster being beheaded at pontefract. in the sequel, however, the spensers met the same fate as gaveston, the elder being executed at bristol, and the younger at hereford. notwithstanding his personal loyalty, sir william became so disgusted at the imbecile conduct of the king, and the arrogance of his favourites, that he took up arms with the barons for the purpose of removing them from the royal councils. a bloody revenge was taken by the king on the leaders and more prominent members of the conspiracy, but those of lesser degree were permitted to escape capital punishment, being punished by fines, confiscations, etc., and lay under a cloud of disgrace until the barbarous murder of the king in berkley castle, and the accession of edward iii., removed the stigma. in this latter category was included sir william ingilby, who would most probably have remained alienated from the good graces of the king had not a fortunate circumstance occurred, which restored him to favour, and which had an influence in enhancing the dignity of the family. sir william's residence was in the valley of the nidd, "one of the most romantic, picturesque, and wealthy vales in england." spreading around for a distance of several miles lay the magnificent forest of knaresborough, the home of wild cattle, wolves, wild boars, the roebuck, and other ferocious animals of the chase. to the east stood, on its craggy and almost inaccessible rock, overhanging the nidd and the then small village of knaresborough, the formidable fortress of serlo de burgh, whilst on the verge of the forest stood the splendid monastic establishments of fountains, bolton, ripon, and other lesser houses. the forest has the reputation of having been one of the haunts of robin hood, one portion bearing traditionally the name of "robin hood's park," whence he issued to pay his visits to the abbey of fountains, as recorded in ballad lore. in the western portion of the forest lay the royal chase of haverah park (hey-wra, the park of the wra or roe), consisting of 2,000 acres, densely wooded, and inhabited by beasts of chase, which were kept together and preserved by an oak paling, which encircled the park. the road thither from knaresborough ran through the forest south of the nidd, and across an upland, since famous for its chalybeate springs, and where there were then a few scattered cottages, forming a small hamlet, which came to be designated heynragate--the road to heynra park--which has since been corrupted into harrogate, and has become one of the most fashionable inland watering places in the kingdom. the castle and forest of knaresborough were granted to serlo de burgh, who built the castle, after whom they were alternately in the hands of the crown, or of some royal favourite on whom they had been bestowed. edward ii. made a grant of them to piers gaveston, on whose death they reverted to the crown. it was during this period that the king came to knaresborough castle to relax himself from the cares and anxieties of royalty, by three or four days' hunting in haverah park. he was not attended by a large retinue, being only accompanied by three or four friends, and a few body servants; huntsmen, beaters, and other attendants of the chase being permanently retained there, as well as hounds and all the requisite hunting gear and weapons; this was because of his unpopularity with the people, on account of his governing the realm upon the advice of unworthy favourites. hence he came down with some degree of secrecy, in a species of incognito, and it was not known generally to the residents of the valley who the hunter was, the supposition being that he was some friend of the king's, who had been given permission to hunt in haverah chase. the day following his arrival at knaresborough, the king rode through the forest to haverah, accompanied by his friends, and a following of attendants bearing bows and arrows, boar spears, beating staves, and other implements of hunting, who were on foot. on entering the enclosures the attendants sent their dogs amongst the underwood and commenced beating the bushes, with loud cries to start the game. as these were very plentiful, a number of small animals, badgers, foxes, polecats, etc., were roused from their lairs in quick succession, and afforded considerable sport. two or three stags were also started, one of which was killed by the king, by an arrow shot; and a wolf made his appearance, who displayed great pugnacity, and caused great excitement amongst the hunters. towards noon the king and his friends sat down to a refection under the shadow of a patriarchal oak, which, from its size and evident age, rendered it possible that it might have witnessed the druidical mysteries of the brigantes. again the beaters and dogs commenced their operations, and were rewarded by the appearance of a huge wild boar, armed with a formidable pair of tusks, who rushed into the glade where the hunters were assembled. the dogs rushed upon him, barking with eagerness, and the king and his friends, taking boar spears from the attendants, rode at a gallop towards the animal, who gazed upon them for a few moments, as if to measure the strength of his opponents, and then turned and dashed amongst the underwood, followed by the hounds and the hunters. two or three of the dogs, venturing too near the boar, were instantly ripped up, and the hunters followed as best they might through the tangled brushwood. the king, who was better mounted than his friends, soon left them behind, and, brandishing his spear, followed in the track made by the boar, not without sundry scratches from the projecting branches of the forest trees; but the boar still kept ahead, occasionally turning to look at the hounds who were yelping at his heels, and then dashing onward again; whilst the king, mounted on a powerful and fleet horse, gradually gained on the beast, despite the obstacles that beset his path. although the forest of knaresborough was a royal appanage, the foresters, as the inhabitants of the district were called, possessed certain privileges of hunting therein, with certain limits; from haverah park alone were they excluded, that domain being reserved exclusively for the king and those to whom he gave permission to hunt in the enclosure. sir william ingleby being a "forester," therefore had the right of following game in the forest outside the palings of haverah. on the same day that the king went to hunt in haverah park, sir william went out, boar spear in hand, in search of sport. he was not accompanied by either attendant or dog, trusting alone to his own natural prowess, in case he should meet with game. in his wanderings he had come near the palings of the park, and sat down to partake of a luncheon he had brought with him in his pocket. he was just finishing his meal when he heard the cry of hunting dogs, and immediately afterwards a crashing sound. looking up he saw the palings give way, and a huge boar rushing through the gap, followed by half a dozen dogs and a man on horseback. he had just time to observe that the hunter was clad in a buff jerkin, with high-reaching boots, and was brandishing a boar spear and encouraging the hounds, when the boar, finding himself so hotly pursued, turned at bay, drove his tusks into a couple of the dogs, and then sprang upon the hunter, overturning the horse, and laying the hunter prostrate on the sward. he was just on the point of dashing his tusks into the body of the fallen enemy, when sir william rushed up, and with well directed aim struck his spear into the heart of the boar, which fell lifeless at his feet, and then, taking his knife from his girdle, with a huntsman's skill severed the head from the body, the whole occupying but a few minutes. "and who are you, my brave fellow?" inquired the fallen hunter, whom sir william had assisted in rising and disentangling from his horse. "i am a denizen of the forest," replied sir william. "as to my name, it matters not; but right glad am i to have been the means of rescuing you from the fangs of that monster." "you have saved me from death, whoever you may be," said the hunter, "and your guerdon shall be equivalent to the service you have rendered me." "may i be allowed to ask who you may be," continued sir william, "who are hunting in the king's chase?" "i am connected with the court of the king, who has come hither for the divertisement of hunting." "the king, whom heaven preserve, then is present in the chase?" inquired sir william. "he is," replied the hunter, "the remainder of the party will be here anon." "how shall i know the king, for i shall wish to pay due respect to him?" "oh, he may be easily recognised, for he will remain covered, while all the rest momentarily remove their hats." at this moment the rest of the hunting group came up, all of whom uncovered their heads. "now, do you recognise the king?" inquired the hunter. "i do," he replied, dropping on his knee, "and crave pardon for the boldness of my language." the king, for he it was, then told his followers how sir william had saved his life, and that although he had declined giving his name, he would find that out, and would reward him suitably for so important a service. "please your majesty," said one of the beaters, "i know who the gentleman is; he is sir william ingleby of nidderdale." "sir william ingleby?" said the king. "if i remember aright, you were one of those who, along with our kinsman, lancaster, appeared in arms against our royal authority." "not my liege," replied ingleby, "against your royal authority, but against your evil advisers." "well," continued the king, with a slight scowl, "let bygones be bygones; you have done me a service which obliterates all that. you are from this moment restored to favour; in memory of what you have done this day, i decree that, for the future and all time, you and your family shall bear, as the crest of your arms, a boar's head. let me see you shortly at my court, and then i will see what further i can do out of gratitude for the service you have rendered me." sir william made a profound obeisance to the king, and from that time the fortunes of the inglebys, from that circumstance, coupled with the fortunate marriage with the heiress of ripley, continued to rise. the rev. thomas parkinson, in his "lays and leaves of the forest" (1882), writes--"it is impossible to fix any date at which the various wild animals ceased to inhabit the forest. the wild cattle are not mentioned after the thirteenth century. wolves were probably extinct in the fourteenth; indeed there are traditions of their existence three centuries later. deer there were in 1654 a.d., for william fleetwood, sergeant of the duchy of lancaster, was plaintiff in a suit against ellis markham for destruction of some deer, game, and trees in haverah or heywra park, at that date. the last wild boar is said to have been slain in the boar-hole in haverah park, in the reign of charles ii. by the middle of the reign of elizabeth, however, say 1580 a.d., probably all, except very rare specimens indeed, the larger wild animals were gone.... nominally, the district remained a royal forest up to the time of its enclosure, under act of parliament, in 1771 a.d., but long before that date it had practically ceased to be a refuge for wild beasts, or to be used for the chase. as we have seen, its larger animals were extinct, and, besides losing its chief fauna, it has been denuded, in a great measure, of its green woods and forest monarchs. this is said to have been brought about chiefly by the existence of smelting furnaces for lead and iron in the neighbourhood." the eland tragedy. in the reign of king edward iii., four gentlemen, the heads of four reputable county families, resided in their respective halls, within a short distance of each other, in the neighbourhood of huddersfield. they were sir john eland, of eland hall; sir robert beaumont, of crosland hall; sir hugh quarmby, of quarmby; and john lockwood, of lockwood. the family of sir john eland had been seated here for several generations, descended from leisingus de eland, from whom lasingcroft derives its name. they were a knightly race, had inter-married with some of the best county families, and lived in a style of great splendour. their lands were held as a fief under the earls of warren, and sir john, who now represented the family, held the stewardship of the earl's manors in yorkshire, including that of wakefield. he was also the shire-reeve, and, as such, the representative of the king, in the administration of justice and law within the county. little further is known of him, and he would have scarcely been remembered, but for a deadly feud which arose between him and his above-mentioned neighbours, and a series of atrocious murders arising thereout. even this might have been forgotten, as at that time deadly fights between families or communities frequently occurred, and excited but little notice, blood-for-blood vengeance being looked upon as a matter of course, and in the same light that duels were a century or two ago. the livery companies then frequently met in cheapside to settle their quarrels with bows and clubs; and the famous fight of chevy chase was nothing more than the outcome of a dispute between two border earls about hunting without permission across the border. so, with other frays of similar character, it might have passed into oblivion, but for a ballad which was written at the time, a modernised version of which appeared _temp._ henry viii., and which has come down to the present time--a copy of which was printed in halifax in 1789, and another published in whittaker's "loidis et elmete." the more modern version was entitled "revenge upon revenge: a narrative of the tragical practices of sir john eland, high sheriff of yorkshire, on sir robert beaumont, in the reign of king edward iii." it gives the whole of the proceedings, with such circumstantial detail that, although some authorities have endeavoured to throw discredit upon the narrative, and expressed their belief that it is a fiction, it bears internal evidence of its truth. sir john was a man of overbearing temper, impatient of opposition to his behests, and implacable in his hatred. the ballad opens with a long diatribe on pride and worldly ambition, and says- "with such like faults was found infect one, sir john eland, knight; his doings made it much suspect therein he took delight." whilst sir robert beaumont, the main object of his hatred, is thus mentioned- "sometime there dwelt in crosland hall a kind and courteous knight; it was well known that he withal sir robert beaumont hight. some say that eland sheriff was by beaumont disobey'd, which might him make for that trespass with him the worst afraid." the origin of the feud appears to have been in this wise--earl de warren had seduced alice de lacy, wife of thomas, earl of lancaster, upon which a quarrel arose between the two earls, and their retainers met and fought, when a nephew of sir john was slain by one exley. exley made over to sir john a plot of land as compensation for the mischance, which he accepted, but still sought to be avenged by the death of the homicide. exley fled to the house of his relative, sir robert beaumont, for shelter, and sir john demanded his surrender, which was refused by sir robert, and in this he was countenanced by his friends quarmby and lockwood, on the ground that sir john, having accepted the plot of land, had condoned the offence, which gave great affront to sir john, who went off muttering threats of vengeance. sir john was doubtlessly perfectly right, in his capacity of sheriff, to demand the delivery up of an offender against the laws of the realm, but he was equally in the wrong in having accepted a bribe to compromise the offence; but his irritation arose from the fact of sir robert having set his authority at defiance--an insult which his proud spirit could not brook. he brooded over the matter at home for some days, and at length came to the resolution of erasing the stain upon his dignity by the death of sir robert, which he determined to accomplish with his own hands. he considered, further, that as quarmby and lockwood had backed sir robert in his defiance of him as sheriff, they would be likely to avenge his death, so, to make assurance doubly sure, he felt it to be necessary to deal out the same fate to them. accordingly, a few days after- "he raised the country round about, his friends and tenants all, and for his purpose picked out stout, sturdy men, and tall. to quarmby hall they came by night, and there the lord they slew, at that time hugh of quarmby hight, before the country knew. to lockwood then, the selfsame night, they came, and there they slew lockwood of lockwood, that wiley wight. that stirred the strife anew." "a gentleman of that wisdom and prudence that he was not only reckoned, but esteemed, as the oracle, as well as the darling, of his country, and whose memory will remain fragrant in future ages." having completed these preliminary murders, sir john proceeded with his men to execute his _coup de grace_. crosland hall was surrounded by a deep moat- "the hall was watered well about, no wight might enter in, till that the bridge was well made out they durst not enter in." as the bridge was raised, they lay in ambush till early in the morning, when it was lowered to allow a maid-servant to pass forth, upon which they rushed across and entered the house in a noisy, boisterous manner. sir robert came from his chamber, half-dressed, to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, when he was attacked by the invaders of his premises. he seized a sword and stood on his defence- "and thus it was, most certainly, that slain before he was he fought again them manfully, undressed though he was. his lady cried and shrieked withal when as from her they led her dearest knight into the hall, and there cut off his head." a ms. says that exley and a brother of sir robert were killed at the same time. sir john then ordered wine and victuals to be laid out for their breakfast, and invited the two sons of sir robert to sit down and join him in the repast; the younger, through fear, assented, but adam, the elder, refused, with a scowling brow, to eat with the murderer of his father, upon seeing which, sir john said, "how heinously that lad doth take his father's death; and looks with a frowning countenance as if he would take revenge; but i will keep such a watchful, circumspect eye over him that he shall never be able to do us any harm." having thus accomplished his purpose, and finished his meal beside the corpse of his victim lying on the floor, he departed with his band of assassins, nor does it appear that he was ever called to account for the outrage. after the burial of her husband, lady beaumont, fearing for the safety of her children, fled with them to the house of her kinsman, townley, in lancashire, and took along with her the sons of quarmby and lockwood, and a youth named lacy, of crumblebottom, where they were instructed together in feats of chivalry, fencing, tilting, shooting with the long bow, riding, and other knightly qualities, as preparations for taking their revenge. the curtain had fallen upon the first act of the drama; fifteen years had now elapsed, and the second act commences. the four youths had now grown up nearly to manhood, and lockwood, the eldest, suggested that the time was now come when "we should bravely seek to revenge the spilling of our fathers' blood, for if eland should have that foul act for well done, it will encourage him in his wickedness, and further to proceed in destroying the whole posterity of our renowned ancestors; therefore do i esteem it our wisdom, and an undertaking well becoming the successors of such worthy patriots, utterly to extirpate from the face of the earth the cursed cain and his posterity." the others assented, and took into their counsel two men--dawson and haigh--retainers of one of the families--who had come from yorkshire, and who informed them that sir john would shortly go to brighouse, where the sheriffdom was to be held, and that they might easily waylay him and accomplish their purpose. accordingly they set off, accompanied by an armed band of men, and secreted themselves in crumblebottom wood, on the wayside from eland to brighouse. sir john, suspecting nothing, went on his way to brighouse, and coming upon some armed men on the roadside whom he knew not, courteously "vail'd his bonnet," when adam beaumont stepped forward and said- "thy courtesy 'vails thee not, sir knight, thou slew my father dear, sometime sir robert beaumont hight; and slain thou shalt be here." the others addressed him in like terms. "whose fathers' blood," said they all, "we are now come to revenge upon thee and thine." they then attacked him, his followers drawing their weapons and rallying round him in his defence, and a general fight commenced between the two companies, several on both sides being wounded. at length the four young men, who kept together, succeeded in separating sir john from his followers, and inflicting upon him numerous wounds, left him lying bleeding and dying upon the turf. knowing that such a crime as the murder of the king's sheriff could not pass unnoticed, as soon as they felt assured that they had accomplished their revenge they hastened back into lancashire, but feeling that they would not be safe at townley hall, they went onward into furness, then a wild unfrequented corner of the county, with few inhabitants excepting the monks of the abbey and a few peasants who were dependent upon it, and hid themselves in the recesses of the woods, among the caves and fells, depending upon their bows for the supply of their daily food. and thus ends the second act of the drama. in the meanwhile, sir john's son, a second sir john, succeeded to eland, who was married and had a son, then a young boy, who might also have succeeded but for the machinations of the allies in furness. during the winter they had been laying their plots, and came to the determination of utterly extirpating the male line of the elands, and arranged to attack sir john on his way to or from church on palm sunday. accordingly, in the spring, they came secretly to crumblebottom hall, where they lay _perdu_ to watch events, and, on the eve of palm sunday, concealed themselves in eland mill. their proceedings, however, were not so secret but that rumours of impending evil reached the ears of sir john, and on sunday morning he told his wife that he should not go out that day, but she rallied him on his fears, and urged that he must go to church on that specially holy day as an example to others, upon which he reluctantly assented, but took the precaution of putting on a coat of mail beneath his waistcoat. the confederates and their followers saw the sun rise on the morning of palm sunday as they lay in the mill, and began to prepare for their meditated deed, when the door was suddenly opened, and the miller's wife entered for some corn which her husband had sent her for. they immediately seized her, bound her hand and foot, and told her that if she cried out they would knock her on the head. not returning in due course, her husband grew wroth at her dalliance. "the miller swore she should repent, she tarried there so long; a good cudgel in hand he went, to chastise her with wrong." but the miller, instead of amusing himself by thrashing his wife, met with the same fate that she had undergone, and was thrown, securely bound, on a heap of flour-sacks beside her. sir john, his wife, and little son, left eland hall for church, taking a short cut over the stones of the mill-dam which was nearly empty in consequence of a drought. as he was stepping over beaumont shot an arrow at him which glanced off his coat of mail, as did lockwood with a like effect. the villagers, who were going to church, seeing this, came running up, when lockwood shot another arrow, which pierced sir john's brain, whilst another from quarmby, mortally wounded the boy. they had now accomplished their vengeance; the male line of the elands was extinct; but it behoved them to look to their own safety, as the villagers, armed with clubs and hatchets, were assembling in great force. they rushed out of the mill, fought their way along whittlelane end to old earthgate, and hence to anely wood, hotly pursued by their foes. willet, smith, remington, and bunney, yeomanry officers, also summoned their men, who armed themselves with "pitchforks, long staves, knotted clubs, and rusty bills," and joined the hunt. as their foes neared them, they faced round and presented a bold, resolute front, as long as their arrows lasted, when they again took to flight; lockwood carrying off quarmby, who had fallen wounded. they gained the shelter of the wood, where they left quarmby, dead, and each sought to shift for himself. beaumont took refuge in crosland hall, and stood on his defence with the bridge drawn up; he afterwards escaped to france, fought against the turks in hungary, where he won great fame and honour, and eventually became a knight of rhodes. lockwood sought shelter in camel hall, but was captured when incautiously visiting a village maiden with whom he had an amour, and was put to death there and then, and so ended the race of the lockwoods. what became of lacy is not known. sir john eland, the younger, left a daughter and heiress, who married sir john savile, of tankersley, and conveyed the eland and other estates to that family. the plumpton marriage. the plumpton family, of plumpton, near knaresborough, were established there from the period of the domesday book, when edred de plumpton held two carucates of land of william de percy, the mesne lord. they had estates afterwards at other places--idle, near leeds, held of the lacies; steeton, near tadcaster; nesfield, near otley, where they had a manor-house, and elsewhere. they were a family of considerable importance in yorkshire, and were great benefactors to the nunnery of esholt, in craven. they frequently make a conspicuous appearance in the various historical events of the centuries of their existence. peter, son of nigel, suffered confiscation of his lands for confederating with the barons against king john; but, on submitting and doing fealty to henry iii., they were restored. sir robert, founder of a chapel in the church in knaresborough, was beheaded at york, for participation in scrope's rebellion against king henry iv., in 1408. sir william, who objected to the levying of tolls, at otley and ripley, by archbishop kemp, lay in wait for the tax-gatherers at thornton bridge, with a company of foresters. the officials, apprehending the meaning of the armed men by the bridge, turned aside to pass over the river by brafferton ford, but were followed by sir william and his men, shouting, "slay the archbishop's carles, and would to god we had the archbishop himself here." in the fray which ensued, several of the archbishop's men were slain and wounded, and others taken prisoners. robert, the last male representative of the family, died unmarried and intestate at paris, in 1749, when the estates passed to his aunt, anne, who, in 1760, sold them to daniel lascelles, for £28,000. a volume entitled "the plumpton correspondence," consisting of family letters, chiefly of a domestic character, written in the reigns of edward iv., richard iii., henry vii., and henry viii., was published in 1869 by the camden society; edited by thomas stapleton, from sir edward plumpton's "book of letters." in the reign of henry ii., gilbert de plumpton, a youthful scion of the family, was living at plumpton. as the plumptons were then comparatively small land-owners, and as they had high aspirations, aiming at the knightly or baronial degree, it behoved them to improve their landed estates by prudent marriages with heiresses, and thus qualify themselves for a higher position in the county. young gilbert, then approaching manhood, therefore cast his eyes about him with that purpose. his range of vision was rather restricted, as people in those days, owing to the badness of the roads and other causes, rarely travelled far away from home, and were almost compelled to select their wives and husbands from amongst their neighbours, seldom going beyond the bounds of their native counties to enter into matrimonial alliances. besides this, eligible heiresses were but few in number, and being under the guardianship of the king, or of some one appointed by him, whose consent was necessary for marriage, it being a serious offence to marry an heiress without such pre-consent, it became a difficult matter, even when an heiress was found and her affections secured, to consummate their reciprocal love by a conjugal union; especially as kings were then wont to use their power over their fair wards in a very arbitrary and tyrannical fashion, by bestowing their hands and inheritances on their favourites, or in reward for some service, without the least consideration for the pleasure or will of the person most concerned--the lady herself. about this time roger de guilevast, or, as he is sometimes called, richard wardwast, a wealthy land-owner, in the neighbourhood of plumpton, died, and left his only daughter, eleanor, heiress to his extensive possessions. this young lady, gilbert had encountered when out with his hounds one day, some twelve months previously. he had been searching for game in the woodlands of the picturesque scenery which surrounds plumpton, and had come to the lake, when he was startled by the sight of an exquisitely beautiful young girl wandering along the shore, and seemingly enjoying the beautiful prospect of land, water, and foliaged trees. he accosted her, and she readily entered into conversation with him, when he was as much struck by her wit and sensible remarks as he had previously been by her beauty. she informed him who she was, and who her father, and he imparted to her the same information respecting himself, and they discovered that, although they had never chanced to meet previously, they were well acquainted with each other's families. gilbert therefore knew that if her father died without other issue his estates would descend to her as his heiress. here he thought was the chance he had been hoping for; but as he was of a cautious, calculating disposition, he considered that her father, not yet aged, might still have a son, to whom the lands would pass, and leave her with nothing more than a slender marriage portion; and although he saw that she was beautiful and accomplished, and was just the wife whom he would choose if personal charms were the chief consideration, he could not, in justice to his family and his own aspirations, marry a dowerless maiden, and he resolved not to commit himself too far until he saw more as to the chance of her succession to the estates. still he determined not to lose sight of her altogether, and that it would be well in the meantime to inspire her heart with the sentiment of love towards him, if it were possible to do so. "do you often walk in this direction?" he asked. "oh yes," she replied, "in the beautiful summer sunshine, when the trees are clad in their bright vestments of green, and the flowers are opening their petals and giving forth perfume from every bank; when the birds are singing joyfully overhead, and the hum of the bees and other insects add a pleasing undertone to their louder carolling--i love to wander alone with nature for my companion. and you! do you care to commune with nature? or only feel a pleasure in going forth in the forest lands and pastures, to destroy the innocent and beautiful creatures who enjoy their existence as much as you do yourself?" and so saying, she pointed interrogatively at his dogs, which were barking and sniffing about among the bushes. "oh!" answered he, "believe not that my sole delight is in the chase. nature has sent certain animals into the world to supply us with food, and it is right to deprive them of life before placing them on the table; nor do i think it wrong to destroy noxious animals, such as wolves and foxes, and it is only on such that i wage war; nothing do i kill out of wanton sport. i experience pleasure in the sight of the rising and the setting sun, i can look with delight on the glories of a landscape, such as that which is spread around us, and witness with a thrill of sublime awe the warring of the elements in a tempest." thus they conversed for some time, mutually interested in each other's conversation, and before parting arranged to meet at set times near the huge rock which rises out of the water and stretches for a length of fifty feet, and which still attracts thousands of tourists to wonder at and admire it. many times did they meet there, and their love ripened at each interview, gilbert almost forgetting the demands of his family for heiresses, and almost resolving to seek her hand, even in case of a brother coming to claim the inheritance; but some six months afterwards, eleanor's father "went the way of all flesh," and she became really an heiress, when gilbert commenced making love to her in real earnest, his own private inclinations coinciding now with what was due to his consideration of the interests of his family. at this time ranulph de glanville was resident in yorkshire, as lord of coverdale, having acquired the estates there by his marriage with bertha, daughter of theobald de valvins, lord of parham. he was the greatest legal luminary of his age, and eminent, besides, as a statesman and warrior; was judge-itinerant in yorkshire and thirteen other counties, and in 1186 was promoted to the dignity of chief-justice of england; he was also sheriff of yorkshire and some other counties, and was employed extensively in state affairs. when king henry ii. was in france, king william of scotland invaded northumberland, in 1174, and glanville, as sheriff of yorkshire, raised an army of yorkshiremen, marched against him, defeated him in a battle, and took him prisoner, lodging him in richmond castle. news of the victory reached the king after his memorable penance at the tomb of thomas a becket, and, instead of attributing it to the skill of glanville and the bravery of his followers, ascribed it to st. thomas, as a reward for his penitential humiliation at his shrine. in his latter days he founded an abbey and a priory in his native county of suffolk; in 1189 he accompanied king richard in his crusade to palestine, and is said to have been slain at the siege of acre. as sheriff of the county of york, he was the representative of the king, and, of course, in the matter of the guardianship of heiresses and the disposal of their hands and inheritances. when intelligence reached him of the death of roger de guilevast without issue male, it occurred to him that it would be a good opportunity for rewarding one, reiner, a favourite dependant of his, whom he wished to advance in life. reiner is mentioned in the plump. cartul., 1002, as sheriff of yorkshire, but as glanville himself was then sheriff, he would probably be deputy-sheriff. he therefore proposed to bestow the heiress and her estates upon reiner, and gave instructions to that effect. the lovers, for plighted lovers they had become when eleanor received an intimation that she was to give her hand to reiner, resolved upon a bold step, no less than that of defying the king and his sheriff by a clandestine marriage. gilbert was on terms of great intimacy with the spofforths of spofforth, a township adjoining that of plumpton, an ancient saxon family, one of whom, thomas, early in the fifteenth century, became abbot of st. mary's, york, and, in 1422, was elected bishop of rochester, but, before installation, was constituted bishop of hereford by papal provision. one of the family was a priest and the close friend of gilbert, and he undertook to risk the performance of the ceremony, which was carried out in private, and gilbert took his bride home, and for a week or more enjoyed the usual connubial felicity of the honeymoon period. a loud knocking at the gates of the plumpton manor house one morning startled the inmates and aroused the fears of the newly married couple, who were apprehensive of the vengeance of the sheriff. at first they thought of flight; but where to go? nowhere in the realm would they be safe against the power of the king, so they were compelled perforce to abide the issue. when the gates were opened, a body of men in the livery of the sheriff presented themselves, the leader of whom said, "in the name of the king, and by the authority of his sheriff, ranulph de glanville, i demand to be delivered up to me the bodies of gilbert de plumpton and of eleanor de guilevast, a ward of the crown, who has been treacherously carried off from her home by the said gilbert, in violation of the laws of the realm, and in traitorous contempt of the king's authority." at this juncture gilbert presented himself with his wife leaning on his arm, and demanded what they meant by such intrusion and insolent language, adding that he was no traitor and no contemner of the laws of the kingdom, but one of the king's most faithful subjects. "we come not," was the reply, "to bandy words with you, or decide the question at issue; our instructions are to convey you to york, where the sheriff will determine what further shall be done in the matter, and who will listen to any objections you may be pleased to urge in respect of your apprehension as a violator of the law." seeing that there was no use in resisting, gilbert said, "then i will accompany you to york," and gave directions for his horse to be saddled. "but," he continued, "i trust it is not necessary to submit this lady, my wife, to the indignity; i suppose she may remain here until i have vindicated my innocence, and can return to her." "that cannot be," replied the leader, "my instructions are to bring you and the lady, and loth as i am to appear discourteous to a lady, i must insist on her accompanying us." "i am ready to go," said eleanor; "rather would i go to face any perils, in your company, than be left behind with all the anxieties and uncertainties as to what is befalling you." another horse was then brought from the stables for her accommodation, and the party rode together to york. they were placed in the custody of the sheriff's officers, but not in prison, and a few days after were brought before the sheriff. he interrogated gilbert with great severity, who acknowledged the marriage, and the lady with more courtesy, who replied with modesty, pleading that she was not aware that marrying the man to whom she had given her heart could be a matter of offence to the king, adding that, so far as she knew, even a milkmaid or a peasant girl was at liberty to marry whom she chose. the sheriff explained that she was very different from a peasant girl, who was a mere serf, and that it mattered not whom she married, but that she was an inheritor of a portion of the land of england, the whole of which belonged to the king, and that such being the case, it was necessary for the welfare of the realm that he should have in his hand the disposal of such heiresses in marriage, so that their estates should not fall into the hands of unworthy persons. "i can understand," he continued, "that you, a simple maiden, should be ignorant of this essential feature of the constitution of the realm, and being so, are entitled rather to compassion than blame for having been inveigled into this unlawful marriage, which, in the eye of the law, is no marriage at all, but concubinage. as for you, sir," addressing himself to gilbert, "you are supposed to be cognisant of the laws of the land, and have been guilty of a gross crime and misdemeanour, which may lead to serious consequences. it will be necessary for me to lay the matter before the king's grace, and bring you before his tribunal of justice, so that he may deal with you as he deems fitting, and rest assured, it will go well with you if you escape with your life. as for your wife, as you call her, it is probable you will never more see her; but she will be well cared for, if that be any consolation to you, and shall be provided with a suitable and worthy husband." on hearing this announcement, eleanor uttered a piercing shriek, and fell fainting to the floor. she was carried away into an adjoining apartment, whilst her husband, betraying signs of deep agitation, attempted to speak, but was prevented doing so by direction of the judge. what followed may be told in the words of the plumpton ms.:--in the year 1184, while the king (henry ii.) was sojourning at worcester with his army, with intent to make war with rhys-ap-griffin, a certain youth was brought there in fetters, sprung of noble lineage, and whose name was gilbert de plumpton, whom ranulph de glanville, the king's justiciary, had in odium, and sought to put to death, laying to his charge that he had ravished a certain maiden in the king's gift, the daughter of roger de guilevast, and kept her to him as his wife, and that, in the night-time, he broke through six doors in the abode of the girl's father, and took a hunting-horn and a headstall, etc., along with the said maiden. he added, moreover, that all these things he carried off by theft and robbery, and upon the issue he offered to abide the law. but ranulph de glanville, wishing to make away with him, because he designed to give the same maiden (whom the said gilbert had already known after their espousals) to reiner, sheriff of yorkshire, with her father's inheritance, further exhorted those who were to try gilbert to adjudge him to death; and so it was done, for they sentenced him to be hanged, and whilst he was being led to the gibbet, intelligence was brought of the proceedings in his case to baldwin, bishop of the same city of worcester. the which bishop, though in great grief for the condemnation of the youth, was, however, exhorted by his attendants to rescue him from death. they said that he could legally do this, because it was a sunday the same day, and upon it the feast of blessed mary magdalen. the bishop (who was a meek and good man) acquiesced in their arguments, and having mounted on horseback, quickly rode after the executioners, who were leading the youth to the gibbet, and had now arrived at the place. already was the youth, with his hands bound behind his back, and with a green band covering his eyes, and an iron chain round his neck--the executioners being on the point of hoisting the youth up as the bishop arrived with a multitude of people. having alighted from his horse, and running up, he stationed himself by the side of the prisoner, thus exclaiming and saying, "i forbid you, on the part of god and the blessed mary magdalen, and under sentence of excommunication, to hang this man on this day; because today is the day of our lord and the feast of the blessed mary magdalen. wherefore it is not lawful for you to contaminate the day." the executioners replied, "who are you, and what madness prompts you that you have the audacity to impede the execution of the king's justice?" but the bishop, with no less firmness of heart than of speech, rejoins, "not madness, but the clemency of heavenly pity, urges me; nor do i desire to impede the king's justice, but to warn against an unwary act, lest by the contamination of a solemn day, you and the king incur the wrath of the eternal god." after some altercation, divine authority at length prevailed; and at the entreaty of the bishop, he who was bound was unloosed; nevertheless he was delivered over to the keeper of the king's castle in safe custody, and in the morning to be led again to execution. but the lord almighty, who never deserts those who hope in him, granted longer span of life to the said gilbert. for when all these matters were reported to king henry, he sent his messengers in the greatest haste to the castle with orders that the youth should not be hanged. this story is deemed apochryphal by some authorities as being utterly inconsistent with the mild, beneficent, and just character of the justiciary. foss, who refers to it as a dereliction from the path of judicial integrity, says-"presuming the story to be true, the chief justiciary's merit must have been great indeed to induce the king to pardon so monstrous a perversion of justice," adding, "some doubt, however, cannot but be attached to the relation, not merely from its extravagant ferocity and the impunity of its perpetrators, but from the assertion of the work which bears glanville's name, who says--'none of the judges have so hardened a front, or so rash a presumption, as to dare to deviate, however slightly, from the path of justice, or utter a sentence in any measure contrary to the truth.' it is scarcely possible to suppose that a king so just as henry ii. would have overlooked the guilt of the judge, or have visited the innocence of the accused with imprisonment." on the other side, roger de hoveden relates the story with some circumstantiality, under the date of 1184, who was not only a contemporary, but was a native of howden, not many miles distant from plumpton. he adds further, that "the knight (gilbert) being rescued from death, was kept in prison by ranulph de glanville until the king's death (1189)." in the annals of the exchequer also, we find given the expenses of conveying gilbert de plumpton from york to worcester, on this occasion. what became of gilbert and eleanor afterwards is not recorded, or mentioned in the tradition, but we may hope that after his release on the accession of richard i., they were reunited, and that their oppressor, having died the following year, they were enabled to pass the remainder of their lives in tranquility and happiness. the topcliffe insurrection. "i wayle, i wepe, i sobbe, i sighe full sore, the dedely fate, the dolefulle destenny of him that is gone, alas! without restore, of the blode royall descendinge nobelly; whos lordshepe doutles was slayne lamentably, thorow tresen ageyn hym compassyd and wrought, trew to his prince, in worde, in dede, and thought." --skelton. the prevailing blemish in the character of king henry vii. was avarice, which led him, through his rapacious ministers, empson and dudley, to oppress the people with extortionate taxation. to save his exchequer he avoided foreign wars, and once only did he cross the sea with that object, in the cause of anne of bretagne, whose fief was claimed by the french king; but on arriving at boulogne, king charles, appealing to his master-passion, bought him off by means of a large bribe. for the purpose of this war, parliament, in february, 1489, granted a tax of one-tenth of a penny, for a subsidy of £75,000. this oppressive tax was very unpopular, and especially so in yorkshire and the north, the people about thirsk, particularly, being loud in their murmurs. they were goaded on by the rough and excited harangues of one john à chambre, whom lord bacon describes as "a base fellow called john chambre, a very brute feu, who bore most sway among the vulgar." he had for his fellow leader sir john egremont, who, although not quite so boisterous and unpolished as chambre, was equally resolute and vigorous in his opposition to fiscal extortion; and these two leaders gathered around them a body of rustics and mechanics, who armed themselves with such weapons as they could procure, such as scythes, bill-hooks, and bludgeons. vowing they would not lay down their arms until the tax was repealed, they went from village to village, and town to town, inveighing against the king's evil counsellors, explaining their designs, and enlisting recruits to their banner. an account of these turbulent proceedings reached the ears of the king, who sent an order down to the earl of northumberland, the lord-lieutenant of yorkshire, to explain the necessity of the tax, to uphold the honour and dignity of the nation. the earl wrote back to the king a letter of remonstrance, showing that the tax was intolerably oppressive, a burden that they were scarcely able to bear, and praying him to reconsider it, and make some abatement in the demand. to this he received a reply that not a single penny should be abated, and he was enjoined to see that it was exacted to the uttermost farthing. henry percy, fourth earl of northumberland, was one of the most potent nobles of the north, and had castles at topcliffe, on the swale, near thirsk; at leckonfield, near beverley; and at wressil, near howden--all maintained with a splendour almost regal, with barons, knights, and esquires as members of his household and retinue. the castle of topcliffe, the earliest and chief seat of the percies, stood with its massive keep, battlemented towers, gateway, walls, and dungeon, upon an elevated mound called maiden bower, on the river swale, near the confluence of the cod-beck. from its nearness to thirsk, the focus of the insurrection, the earl came thither from leckonfield to execute the command of the king, and he called a folk-môte at thirsk for that purpose. with his vassals and tenants he was popular, being a kind and considerate master and landlord, and by the people of yorkshire he was held in high esteem, so that he was under no apprehension, although the people were in arms; and he took no measures for his safety in case of tumult, feeling assured that there was no danger, and that he would be able, by his explanations and expostulations, to appease the angry feelings of the multitude. on the morning of the day appointed for the meeting, there was a great assemblage of people in thirsk, and excited crowds coming along all the roads leading thither from ripon, boroughbridge, easingwold, and the neighbouring villages. the people were armed chiefly with bludgeons, and displayed two banners, one inscribed "no taxes; down with empson and dudley," the other, "oh for the days of good king dickon." richard iii., when residing at middleham, as duke of gloucester, was exceedingly popular with the poor, mingling with them in their amusements, and consorting with them as familiarly as if they were his equals, probably with a politic eye to the future. when he was carrying out his scheme of usurpation, he sent for a contingent of men-at-arms from his middleham estates, who assembled for review in finsbury fields, when one of his yorkshire tenants stepped out of the ranks, and, clapping him on the shoulder, said, "ah's main blythe thoo's goin' to be king, dickon." egremont and chambre were in the midst on horseback, riding hither and thither, exhorting the people with inflammatory speeches to be firm in their determination not to pay the tax, telling them that all england was with them, and not to listen to the earl, who was one of the king's advisers in levying the tax; further, that if need be they would lead them to london and compel the king to remit the tax, or drag him from his throne. at this time the earl rode into the town, surrounded by a body of retainers, all men of rank, habited in brilliant costume, the livery of the percies. he was assailed with mingled cheers from his tenants, and hisses and shouts of opprobrium from the insurgent mob. he attempted to address them, but the uproar became greater; again he made the attempt, when there arose a deafening discord of sounds from drums, kettles, and pans, accompanied by the yelling and howling of the mob, when, finding he could not gain their ear, he and his followers turned their horses' heads and trotted back to topcliffe. as they passed away, the leaders shouted, "bravely done, my merry men; this is our first victory; let us on to topcliffe, and beard him in his castle, and then for london, to face the tyrant king in the tower." the earl and his followers gained the castle, and were seated in consultation on what were best to be done in the emergency, when loud shouts assailed their ears from outside, and, looking forth, they perceived that they had been followed by the mob, infuriated by the harangues of their leaders. although implored not to do so, but to shut the gates and stand a siege, the earl went out and faced the insurgents. "what want you, good people?" he inquired. "a remission of the tax," replied egremont. "i have no power or authority to do so," said the earl. "who but you advised the king that not a penny should be abated?" shouted chambre, and the mob yelled, and cried, "down with him; he wants to rob our children of their bread." the earl was a proud man, and scorned to give a denial to the insinuation, which served to inflame the passions of the rioters to a still higher degree. "he's silent, and that proves his guilt," shouted chambre. "down with him; such bloodsuckers should not be allowed to exist." and then there was a brandishing of clubs and a rush forward of the mob, and in a few moments the earl was stricken down, and beaten savagely as he lay. the mob then entered the castle tumultuously, and killed several of his domestics; but the barons and knights, fled to seek safety, or, as skelton has it- "trustinge in noblemen, that wer wyth hym there; bot all they fled from hym from falshode or fere, he was envyronde aboute on every syde, withe his enemys that were stark mad and wode; yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde, alas! for southe! what thoughe his mynde were goode, his courage manly; yet there he shed his bloode. all left alone, alas! he fowt in vayne, for cruelly among them ther he was slayne." hence the insurgents went triumphantly, calling upon the people to unite with them in putting down kingly tyranny and financial oppression, but eventually they were met by the earl of surrey, who was sent against them, at ackworth, near pontefract, and dispersed. chambre and others of the leaders were captured and hanged at york; but egremont, thanks to the fleetness of his horse, escaped to flanders, and was protected by the yorkist margaret, duchess of burgundy. what was his ultimate fate is not known. the earl was honoured with a most magnificent funeral in the minster or collegiate church of st. john, beverley, in a chapel built expressly for the reception of his remains, and beneath a tomb with rich gothic canopy, adorned with sculptured figures, and emblazoned with the multitude of quarterings of the family. the body, after having been embalmed, was conveyed to his castle of wressil, and hence to leckonfield, whence it was taken to beverley, accompanied by a long and splendid procession, all robed and accoutred at the expense of the family. there were twelve lords with "gownes at 10s. the yerd;" twenty-four lords and knights "with gownes and hods;" sixty squires and gentlemen "with gownes and typets;" two hundred yeomen "in gownes;" "one hundred gromes and gentlemen's servants in gownes." there were also the bearers of the great standard, twelve bearers of sarcenet banners "betyn with my lord's armys," sixty bearers of "scutchions of buckram betyn with my lord's armys," and two officers of arms from the herald's office, london, to superintend the armorial arrangements, who were paid £20 for "their helpe and payne." besides these there were five hundred priests, one thousand clerks, and representatives from the neighbouring monasteries, all habited in mourning, and bearing crucifixes, other church ornaments, and vessels and emblems of mortality. mingling with these were four hundred torch-bearers, and bringing up the rear, 13,340 poor persons, who received, according to the will, a funeral dole of twopence each. altogether the cost amounted to £1,037 6s. 8d., equal to, at least, £10,000 of the present value of money. the body was met at the great west door of the minster by the provost, vicars, canons, choristers, and other officials of the minster, who conducted the procession. a mournful anthem was chanted up the nave into the chancel, where a long and splendid service of masses and choral singing was performed, and the body lowered into its resting-place, amid the sobs and lamentations of those who had known and loved the earl for his virtues. of his tomb, with its "multiplicity of noble carved work and canopied arches," as described by leland, there remain only the altar table, with its sides covered with armorial bearings, but without the figures which ranged round it in niches, and on the wall above the word "esperance," the motto of the family, and "1494," the date of the funeral. the burning of cottingham castle. cottingham is a well-built, picturesque village, midway between hull and beverley, on the ancient road, but a quarter of a mile distant from the modern highway. it is a place of great antiquity, dating from the ancient british period, and deriving its name from ket, a celtic female deity, with the saxon suffixes of ing and ham. in the days of edward the confessor, it belonged to one gamel, who is supposed to have held a thursday market there; and at the time of the domesday book, the manor, four miles in length, with five fisheries of 8,000 eels, was held by hugh, son of baldrick. it was granted by william the conqueror to robert de stuteville, surnamed front de boeuf, from whom it descended to robert de stuteville, or d'estoteville, who was sheriff of yorkshire, twenty-first henry ii., and from him to william de stuteville, _temp._ john, who, for some offence, was excommunicated by the archbishop of york. he appealed to the king, who came to cottingham to investigate the matter, and in the sequel compelled the prelate to give him absolution. moreover, he granted to de stuteville a charter empowering him to castellate his manor-house, and hold a weekly market and annual fair. nicholas de stuteville died seventeenth henry iii., leaving two daughters, joan and margaret, as his co-heiresses, the former of whom married hugh de wake, descended from leofric, viceroy earl of mercia, and his wife the famous godiva, and from hereward le wac (the wake), lord of brunne, the last, and one of the most formidable, opponents of the norman duke william, in his conquest of england. john, his grandson, was summoned as a baron twenty-third edward i., whose daughter, margaret, married edmund of woodstock, earl of kent, third son of king edward i., and had issue, joan, "the fair maid of kent," who inherited the barony of wake, which she transmitted to her issue by her first husband, thomas de holand, and which fell in abeyance in 1497, as it still continues. she married, secondly, edward, the black prince, and by him was mother of king richard ii. king edward i. was celebrating christmas with the wakes at cottingham, when, being out hunting, he came to wyke-super-hull, and, struck with its capabilities as a port, granted the charter which laid the foundation of its future greatness, and changed its name to kingstown-upon-hull; and at the same time gave his host a charter of free warren over his manor, and authority to erect a gallows for the execution of criminals. thomas, his son, in the following reign, obtained a charter of confirmation, with the privilege of holding a weekly market and two annual fairs, and authority to convert his residence into a castle of defence, and to garrison it with armed men. this thomas founded, adjacent to the castle, a monastery of austin friars, on a site with a defective title, in consequence of which it was removed to haltemprice, on another part of the estate. the feudal barony was held _in capite_ by the service of one barony, and consisted of 4,000 acres, with £200 yearly rental from free tenants. it was a beautiful august day in the year 1540. the reapers were in the fields about cottingham, sickle in hand, cutting down the golden corn, and lumbering wains with solid wooden wheels, and drawn by oxen, were carrying away the sheaves to garner in the homesteads; the fruit of a thousand trees in the orchards surrounding the village hung, rich and luscious, pendant from the boughs, and ripening to perfection under the bright sunshine. the village consisted of a scattering of cross-timbered houses with wattled and mud-walled frames, latticed windows, and thatched roofs. from the midst thereof rose in proud and lofty dignity the majestic walls, turrets, and bastions of the stutevilles, the wakes, and now of the holands, surrounded by a moat, which was crossed by a drawbridge, and the entrance defended by a barbican and a portcullis. upon its battlements might be seen three or four men-at-arms, lounging lazily about, and amusing themselves by watching the passage of vessels and boats up and down the humber. the pleasant clack of the baronial mill, and the occasional uplifted voices of the denizens of the farm-yards and pastures, alone broke the silence of the slumberous summer afternoon. in a hamlet within ken of the out-lookers on the parapets of the castle might be seen the now deserted house of the augustinian friars, at haltemprice; for here no longer the canons dropped their beads, muttered their prayers, or chanted their anthems; the ruthless hand of henry had driven them forth upon the wide world to become supplicants for charity, alongside those who had erstwhile found succour at their gate. the priory and site had in the present year been granted to thomas culpepper, but he had not yet taken possession, and it lay desolate and silent, as did, at the same time, many another noble abbey and priory, scattered over the face of england. lord wake, as he was called by courtesy, although he was only a tenure baron, had been out in the direction of the now thriving town of kingston-upon-hull, and about the middle of the afternoon he came riding over the drawbridge, and passed through the arched gateway into the courtyard of his castle. upon his fist he carried a favourite hawk, and he was accompanied by his falconer, and three or four liveried retainers. he leaped agilely from his horse, which was taken charge of by a groom, and, handing his hawk to the falconer, he passed through a portal to the domestic apartments, where he was met by his wife, a singularly beautiful woman, not much past the bloom of girlhood, and as modest, chaste, and pious as she was charming in feature, person, and demeanour. "what sport have you had this morning, husband mine?" inquired she, after an affectionate embrace. "excellent," he replied; "my falcon has done wonders, he brought down a heron, who, from his size, must have been the patriarch of the shaw; but, dearest life! sport of that kind, brave as it may be, is as naught to the happiness i experience in thy dear society." other expressions of endearment of a similar kind passed as they sat down to dinner, composed chiefly of venison and boar's flesh. lord wake was a great hunter in the surrounding woods of his domain, and as he sat at dinner he was surrounded by half a dozen petted boar and stag hounds, who gambolled at will about the apartment, or sat on their haunches, looking up at their master in anxious expectation of stray bones, which were thrown to them with no niggard hand. the meal passed over almost in silence, which was only broken occasionally by remarks and discussion on domestic topics; but when it was finished, and lady wake had taken up her embroidery-frame, her husband told her that his sport had brought him to the gates of kingstown, where he learnt that the king was in the town, who had arrived there unexpectedly. he was on his progress to york to meet his nephew, james v. of scotland, and had come by a circuitous route "for fear of the enraged people," who, exasperated at the dissolution of the religious houses, and the king's assumption of supremacy over the church, had two or three years previously raised a formidable insurrection, which they denominated the "pilgrimage of grace." the mayor (henry thurcross), lord wake said, had sent the sheriff to meet his highness at the "boarded bridge" of newland, on the confines of the county of hull; had himself, with the aldermen, received him with great obeisance and due formalities at beverley-gate, and had conducted him to the manor hall, the usual residence of royalty when in the town, where he now was enjoying the splendid hospitality of the corporation. "the caitiff," exclaimed lady wake, "what does he want down here? his presence betokens no good, and woe betide those with whom he sojourns." "bluff king hal," as he was frequently termed, was no favourite with the better class of ladies; and especially with such as were of a devout turn of mind, and were regular and punctual in the performance of their religious duties, as enjoined by their father-confessors. his propensity for chopping off the heads of his wives, or of divorcing them when a new beauty enthralled his amorous susceptibilities, caused him to be held in detestation by all right-minded women; and his sacrilegious deposition of the holy father's authority in england, combined with his so-called brutal dispersion of the religious fraternities and sisterhoods of the realm, and unwarrantable plunder of the holy places of the land, caused him to be looked upon by the devout as an incarnation of satan. such were the views of lady wake, who felt keenly the loss of haltemprice, which had been to her a sanctuary of heaven, and to which she had been a most generous benefactor. whilst lord and lady wake were conversing on this subject, the sound of a trumpet was heard outside, followed by the opening of the great gate at the summons, "in the king's name," and the clatter of a horse's hoofs over the drawbridge and into the courtyard. lord wake hastened out and found an herald seated on horseback, who, when he announced himself as the lord of the castle, gave three blasts of his trumpet, and then delivered his message:--"his highness the king henry, the eighth of the name, by the grace of god, defender of the faith, and supreme head of the church of england, to the lord of the barony of cottingham, usually styled lord wake, greeting--it is his highness's pleasure that on the morrow he will come, god willing, to baynard castle, and partake of the hospitality of the noble baron and lady wake. god save the king." in the course of conversation with the magnates of hull, at the manor hall, he had made inquiry respecting persons of note residing in the neighbourhood, and lord wake was mentioned as keeping up a magnificent establishment within three or four miles of the gates of hull, and as being blessed with a wife of surpassing beauty. the king's licentious propensities were at once aroused at hearing this. "fore god," quoth he, "i will betake me thither, and with mine own eyes see whether this yorkshire beauty is the paragon you represent her to be;" and he summoned his herald into his presence and despatched him with the above message to cottingham. lord wake was thrown into consternation at receiving the king's greeting and message, and, before giving an answer, went indoors to consult his wife. "holy mary!" said she, "what a disaster! we must avoid it in some way or other. never will i meet the woman-slayer and desecrator of god's temples within these walls." "true," he replied, "we must find some means of averting it if possible, but meanwhile it will be necessary to send a civil and loyal reply," and returning to the courtyard, he bade the herald inform the king that he felt highly flattered at his highness's condescension in proposing a visit to his humble house, and that on the following day preparations should be made for greeting him in the best way his humble means afforded. when the herald had departed, lord wake pondered deeply on the dilemma in which he found himself placed by the king's proffered visit. he felt that it was impossible, except by taking some desperate step, to evade it, but something must be done, as he felt assured that the honour of himself and that of his wife were at stake, well knowing, as he did, the unbridled passion of the king, and that if it were thwarted the most perilous consequences might ensue. the confiscation of his estates might be looked for in such case; but better, thought he, lose my land, than my wife her honour. this train of thought led him to think of his castle, where he had lived so happily with the beloved of his heart, when suddenly the idea struck him--what if i burn down my castle! the king could not come for entertainment amidst its ruined walls and smoking embers, and though i should sacrifice my home, i should preserve what is far dearer to me--my wife, pure and undefiled as when i led her to the altar. the more he thought of the project, the more fully he became assured of its practicability as an effectual bar of defence against the king's intentions. he submitted the idea to lady wake, who, without the slightest hesitation, concurred in the proposal. the seneschal of the castle was then called in--a faithful old retainer, who had been in the family for two or three generations of lords, and who might be intrusted with the keeping of any secret of his master. he was informed of the nature of the peril hanging over the family, and of the method projected by lord wake to avert the evil. he had been born and bred up in the castle; knew every nook and corner of it; loved it with a devoted affection, almost as if it had been a thinking, sentient being; and could not without an excess of grief see it destroyed; yet he recognised at once the necessity of the case, and not being able to devise an alternative, so as to save the old towers and walls, undertook, as proposed by his master, to fire the castle that night. lord and lady wake then proceeded to pack up all the more portable articles of value, jewels, money, family papers, and heirlooms, which were conveyed secretly to the unoccupied priory of haltemprice, and thither they went themselves, issuing from a postern, and crossing the moat by means of a raft stationed there for the purpose. when the retainers, men-at-arms, and domestics, all save the sentinals on duty, had retired to rest, the seneschal, heaped together a quantity of combustible materials in proximity to a mass of old and dry woodwork panelling on the walls, which he set fire to. the flames soon caught hold of the woodwork, which, blazing up, got a complete hold of the building. he then rang the alarm-bell and roused up the sleepers, telling them that he had been awakened by the smell of burning. of course all was done that could be done, under his direction, for the subjugation of the fire, but the appliances were so utterly inefficient, consisting merely of a line of men passing a chain of buckets from hand to hand after being filled from the moat, that the fire soon overcame all their efforts to extinguish it, and the roof soon after falling in, it blazed up into the midnight sky, illuminating the country for miles round. the flames were distinctly visible from hull and beverley, and numbers of persons from both towns hurried to the scene of disaster, but could afford no assistance, the fire having by that time gained such an ascendency that they could but stand and gaze, awe-stricken, on the scene of devastation. intelligence was conveyed to the king the following morning of the "accidental" fire at baynard castle, and to show his sympathy he offered to contribute £2,000 towards its restoration, which was respectfully declined by lord wake, and the king, after sundry measures for the improvement of the port of kingstown, crossed the humber and returned to london. the tradition adds, further, that this lord wake, dying without issue male, the manor was divided between his three daughters, who were respectively married to the duke of richmond, the earl of westmoreland, and baron powis, and that those portions thus acquired the names they still bear of cottingham richmond, cottingham westmoreland, and cottingham powis. tradition, however, is prone to error, and in this narrative there are several discrepancies and anachronisms. there was then no baron wake, the barony having fallen into abeyance more than a century previously; but the holder of the manor, being a feudal baron, might bear the title by courtesy. secondly, leland saw the ruins of the burnt castle in 1538, two or three years before the visit of king henry to hull, and he mentions the division of the manor into four parts as having taken place previously, the fourth part being held by the king. the alum workers. nestling in a lovely valley in the most romantic part of cleveland lies the little town of guisborough, with the mouldering ruins of its once famous priory. at the time of the conquest it consisted of three manors, which were given to the earl of moreton, and soon after, united into one manor, passed to robert de brus, lord of skelton, to hold _in capite_, by military service. in the year 1129 he founded the priory of canons of the augustine order, and endowed it with a manor of twenty caracutes and two oxgangs, with the tenements, mill, and all other appurtenances. it flourished apace, grew rich, and nurtured some learned and eminent men within its cloisters, until it fell beneath the ruthless axe of henry viii. the chaloners of guisborough are of welsh descent, tracing their ancestry to trayhayrne, son of maloc krwm, one of the fifteen peers of wales. his grandson, madoc, otherwise chaloner, was ancestor of thomas chaloner, of beaumaris, one of whose sons was roger chaloner, a citizen and silk mercer of london, whose son, sir thomas, knight (born 1521), was eminent as a statesman, diplomatist, and poet; was employed on several embassies; was knighted at the battle of pinkie for bravery; and was author of several esteemed works--"the praise of folly," "de republica anglorum," and many others. he purchased the manor of guisborough of sir thomas legh, to whom it had been granted at the dissolution, for the sum of £998 13s. 4d. "these towering rocks, green hills, and spacious plains, circled with wood, are chaloner's domains. a generous race, from cambro-griffin traced, fam'd for fair maids and matrons wise and chaste." his portrait was painted by holbein and by antonio more, the former engraved by holler, the latter exhibited at leeds in 1868. sir thomas, knight, his son (born 1559, died 1615), succeeded to the guisborough estates, and was the discoverer of the alum mines. he was twice married, and had issue several children, of whom the eldest--william--was created baronet in 1620, by the title of sir william chaloner, bart., of guisborough, in the county of york; rev. edward, d.d., an eminent polemical writer; and thomas and james, parliamentarian officers and regicides. at college he gained some reputation by his latin and english verses, but was not equal to his father as a poet. he was, however, a good naturalist, at the time when the science was little understood and less studied. in 1580-84, he made _le grand tour_, and spent some time in italy, where he associated with all the most eminent literary and scientific men of the day. being a keen observer of natural objects and phenomena, he had noticed that on a certain part of his guisborough estate the soil never froze, that it was speckled with divers colours, chiefly yellow and blue, which sparkled in the sunshine, and that the trees and shrubs which grew thereon spread their roots laterally, and penetrated the earth very superficially, and that their leaves were of a peculiar tint of green. when in rome he paid a visit to the pope's alum works at puzzeoli, where he noticed with his quick, observant eye that the earth and trees presented the same remarkable features as those on his guisborough estate, and he immediately came to the conclusion that his land was impregnated with alum. he hastened back to england to test his hypothesis, which he soon verified by experiment, and saw that a mine of wealth lay beneath his feet. but how to work and prepare it he knew not, and there was no one in england who did, and scarcely any one in europe, outside of italy, which then had a monopoly of alum, and he set his wits to work to devise some means for separating it from the earth, and preparing it as a manufactured commodity for the market. alum is a mineral salt found in clay and other earths, and is a valuable commodity used in various manufactures, and for other purposes. it was first extracted from the earth in which it was embedded, and prepared for use in the east, chiefly at edessa, in syria; afterwards near constantinople; and, on the fall of the eastern empire, the alum workers transferred the industry to italy where it was established in various places, and was confined to the peninsula for more than a century, after which it spread into germany, france, and flanders. the popes had works at rome and civita vecchia, and carefully guarded their secret, not allowing the workmen to leave the country on any pretence whatever, under pain of excommunication, as the profits of the sale brought a handsome revenue to their coffers. sir thomas chaloner cogitated the matter in his mind, and the more he thought, the more he saw that the only mode of bringing his alum mines into operation was by kidnapping some of the pope's workmen, a difficult and perilous task, but which he resolved to attempt, and with that view went again to italy. of course the best place for accomplishing his object was at civita vecchia, a seaport in the papal states. thither, therefore, he went, and lived in retirement, eluding observation as far as possible, but mingling, whenever he could, with the alum workers, ingratiating himself with them by means of wine, friendly and familiar converse, and the judicious distribution of money. by these means he became acquainted with their characters, and with their hopes and aspirations. three of the more intelligent he singled out to work upon, but each one separately. he would take them into a wine-house and ply them well with the tongue-loosener, and then turn the conversation upon their occupation and future prospects. of the three, one seemed to have some influence over the other two, who, to a certain extent, took their opinions from him, and re-echoed his sentiments; and sir thomas shrewdly perceived that if he could win over this one, the others would follow, like sheep after the bell-wether. they were seated in a wine shop one day, talking over the alum workers' great grievance. "and so," said sir thomas, "you would really like to escape from this life of slavery?" "i should, indeed," was the reply; "work here is neither better nor worse than that of a galley-slave." "why not escape, then, and fling off the chains that gall you?" "alas, sir," he replied, "we are too closely guarded and watched to render escape at all hopeful. besides, money would be required, and of this we have but sufficient to get our daily bread." "but if anyone were to put the means of escape in your hands, would you be sufficiently daring to make the attempt?" "most certainly." "and you would not fear the pope's excommunication, which would assuredly follow?" "look here, signor, although i am a poor ignorant alum worker, i know something of what has been doing in england and germany, and have heard of wickcliffe, luther, and calvin, and i should care no more for excommunication at the hands of the pope than i should for a snap of his fingers." chaloner saw he had got hold of the right man, and he gradually revealed to him his discovery of alum earth in england, and proposed that he should accompany him thither to work it, where he would be absolutely free, and promising him a much higher remuneration than he was receiving in italy; to which the man readily assented, and undertook to gain over the other two men, who he felt assured would accompany him. at a subsequent meeting of the four confederates the question was discussed as to the best mode of smuggling them out of italy, and, after several projects had been suggested and dismissed as impracticable, it was decided that they should be conveyed on board a vessel in casks, as merchandise, and liberated when out at sea. sir thomas at once set to work to find means for carrying out his project, the first being to find a vessel captained by one equally resolute with himself, and to whom he could venture to entrust his secret. fortunately for his purpose, there chanced to be lying in the harbour a ship from the port of hull, commanded by an honest fellow-yorkshireman, a man who, as he said himself, "feared neither the pope nor the devil." with this captain he sought an interview, explained who he was, and by careful steps laid his scheme before him. the rough, weather-beaten old captain grasped him by the hand, and, giving it a vigorous shake, swore to stand by him "through thick and thin." he was waiting for a return cargo, had got his vessel half filled, and he agreed, whether full or not, to set sail on that day week. sir thomas then went into the market and purchased a quantity of grain, to be delivered on board in six days, packed in casks. he then caused three casks to be constructed secretly, with false ends to be filled with grain, leaving the central part open and pierced with holes, in great number, but so small as to be scarcely perceptible. on the sixth day, when the alum works were closed, the three men came to him, and were placed in the three casks, which, having passed the ordeal of the customs office without suspicion, were shipped, and at daybreak the following morning the vessel was loosed from her moorings, spread her canvas, and bade adieu to civita vecchia. it was soon discovered at the alum works that the three were missing, and strict search was made for them, without result. at length it occurred to the authorities that they had escaped in the english vessel which had sailed that morning, and three ships were sent in pursuit of her, but she had several hours' start, and had a fair wind, and the pursuers never caught sight of her. the men were released from their uncomfortable berths when at a safe distance, and revelled in their feeling of liberty as they sped over the blue waves of the mediterranean, across the bay of biscay, and up the channel, arriving safely at hull, whence they proceeded with sir thomas to cleveland. sir thomas established his works beyond bellemondegate, where now mountains of refuse shale are piled up. for some time the works yielded but small profit, and it was not until chaloner got more workmen from rochelle that they became a success, after which they yielded a handsome revenue, and had the effect of breaking down the italian monopoly, and reducing the price of alum in england to one-half its former cost. when chaloner had got the mines and works into thorough working order, king charles i., at the instigation of some of his rapacious courtiers, made a claim to them as crown property, and he was compelled to surrender them. they were then let to sir paul pindar, at a rent of £12,500 per annum, to be paid into the royal exchequer, besides £1,600 per annum to the earl of mulgrave and £600 per annum to sir william pennyman, but they were restored to the chaloners by the long parliament. eight hundred men were employed on the works, and the alum sold at £26 per ton, which left a large residue of profit. other mines were discovered in cleveland, on the estates of the families of phipps, pennyman, fairfax, d'arcy, and cholmley, when competition brought down the price, and consequently reduced the profits; and, as some of these were situated nearer the sea-coast, with greater facilities for shipment, the guisborough mines became less and less profitable, and were eventually abandoned. this conduct on the part of king charles caused the chaloners to become zealous parliamentarians in the civil war. sir thomas's sons, james and thomas, drew their swords against the king, and both sat as members of the high court of justice for his trial. the former was tried as a regicide after the restoration, was condemned to death, and drawn on a hurdle to tyburn for execution, but received a reprieve when the halter was round his neck; was remitted to the tower, and died of poison, it was reported, by his own hand, "an invention," says markham, in his life of fairfax, "of the carrion vultures of the restoration." the latter, at the restoration, was included in the list of those excluded from pardon, but saved his life by flight. winstanley says of him, "he had travelled far in the world, and returned home poysoned with that jesuitical doctrine of king-killing, which he put in practice, being the great speech-maker against the king, ... and a great stickler for their new utopian commonwealth, but upon his majestie's return fled, his actions being so bad as would not endure the touchstone." the maiden of marblehead. one fine summer's morning, in the year of grace 1742, the little inn of the little town of marblehead was in a state of great bustle, in anticipation of the visit of some government officials from boston to dine there. the landlady, rather vixenish in temper and tongue, was busily occupied in attending to the culinary department, and at intervals scolding a young girl of sixteen, who was scrubbing the floor, and was the maid-of-all-work in the establishment, working from early in the morning till late at night for a small pittance of wages. marblehead was a small fishing town or village about sixteen miles from boston, in new england, consisting of a cluster of log-built and straw-thatched houses, amongst which stood conspicuously forth the little hostelry, in consequence of its sign of king george the second's head swinging and creaking from a crossbeam over the highway. the inhabitants were almost entirely of guernsey descent, a brave people, but not so loyal as the sign of their inn would seem to indicate, as after the war of the revolution there were in the town 600 widows of patriots who had fallen; and, in the war of 1812, 500 marblehead men were prisoners of war in england. the washing of the floor was not completed when the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and in a few minutes three gentlemen alighted at the door, gave their horses in charge of an extemporised ostler, and entered the house. the landlady made a profound curtsy to her guests, and at the same time rated her hand-maiden for not having the room ready for the gentlemen. "don't scold her," said he who appeared to be the chief of the group; "i dare say the little lassie has done her best, and perhaps we have arrived earlier than we were expected." the girl, who was dressed in homely attire, and without shoes or stockings, turned her head with a silent glance of thanks to the speaker--a glance which he pronounced to himself to be angelic. the gentleman who thus came upon the scene was a mr. charles henry frankland, thirty-six years of age, and slightly bronzed in feature from his early residence in bengal, where he was born. he was the eldest son of the governor of bengal, henry frankland, who had been brother and heir-presumptive of sir thomas frankland, third baronet of thirkleby, in yorkshire, but he had died in 1736, leaving this son heir-presumptive to the baronetcy in his place. in 1741 he had been appointed collector of the customs at the port of boston, and on this summer's morning, with two subordinates was paying a professional visit to marblehead, which lay within the boston collection. the more he saw of the girl, as she waited at table during dinner, the more was he struck with the beauty of her features and the faultless symmetry of her figure. as was said of her, "her ringlets were black and glossy as the raven; her dark eyes beamed with light and loveliness, and her voice was musical and bird-like." he entered into conversation with her, and found that her name was agnes surriage, and that her parents, of a humble position in life, dwelt at a neighbouring village. he was charmed with the modest and intelligent replies she made to his questions, but found that she was altogether uneducated, and had learnt nothing excepting how to perform household work, to sew and knit, and "to go to meeting on sundays." on leaving, he gave her money to buy herself shoes and stockings; but on his next visit he found her again bare-legged, and asking her why she had not supplied herself with shoes and stockings, she replied that she had done so, but kept them to go to "meeting" in. becoming more and more fascinated with her beauty, he at length asked her parents to allow him to take her to boston and have her educated, to which they consented, after some hesitation. he caused her to be instructed in reading, writing, drawing, music, dancing, and all the accomplishments of a fine lady; but although she excelled eventually in sketching, playing, and dancing, and wrote a beautiful hand, she could never master the difficulties of orthography, her spelling to the last being always of an original and curiously eccentric character. when her education was completed, and she had grown to womanhood, he took her to his home as his mistress, and she bore him a son, who was christened richard cromwell. she was, however, looked upon askance by the quaker circles of boston, not on account of her lowly birth, but because of her disreputable connection with her "protector." sir thomas frankland, third baronet, died without male issue, in 1747, and charles henry, his nephew, succeeded as fourth baronet. seven years after, he returned to england, with agnes and his son, to dispute the will of the late baronet as to the disposition of the family estates at thirkleby, near easingwold. sir thomas made three wills; the first in 1741, wherein he left a slender provision for his widow, leaving the estates to his heir-male. in the second, made in 1744, he left thirkleby to his widow for life, to pass at her death to the then holder of the baronetcy; and by the third will, dated 1746, he left her the estates, producing £2,500 per annum, and the whole of his personalty absolutely, and to dispose of as she chose. it was contended that the last will was made when he was in an unsound state of mind and under undue influence, and a lawsuit ensued, resulting in the setting aside of the third and the confirmation of the second will. the lawsuit gained, sir charles and agnes went for a tour on the continent, and in the month of november, 1755, were sojourning in the city of lisbon. on the 1st of that month, the sun rose, shining with almost unusual brightness, and the streets were filled with people going hither and thither on matters of religion, business, and pleasure, little dreaming of, and with nothing to indicate, the catastrophe which was to befall their city. the franklands had breakfasted at their hotel, and sir charles, donning a court suit, started off in a carriage with a lady to witness the celebration of high mass in the cathedral, leaving agnes at the hotel. they had not proceeded far, and were passing in front of a lofty building, when, without warning, the terrible earthquake occurred, which in eight minutes laid the city in ruins, and swallowed up 50,000 of its inhabitants. the lofty building came crashing down, and buried the carriage and its occupants. what became of the lady is not known, but the horses were killed, and sir charles lay bruised and wounded beneath the ruins for an hour. in full expectation of death, he reflected on his past life, and, concluding that he was undergoing a judgment of god for his misdeeds, and especially for having lived in a state of concubinage, made a vow that if he should be rescued, he would show his repentance by marrying the partner of his guilt. agnes had escaped unhurt, and when the first shock had passed, fearful that some mischance had befallen him, rushed out in the direction of the cathedral, regardless of the still falling houses, in search of him. as she was clambering over a heap of ruins, she heard moans issuing from beneath, and a voice which she recognised as that of her beloved one. she immediately got together a party of diggers, and, by promises of high rewards, succeeded in extricating him, and after his wounds had been dressed, conveyed him to belem, where, in process of time, he recovered, and where their marriage was celebrated. sir charles returned to boston; but in 1757 he was appointed consul-general to portugal, and again came to lisbon. in 1763 he resumed his duties at boston, retaining his consulship, although absent, until 1767, when he returned to england, and died the following year, being succeeded in the baronetcy by his brother thomas. lady frankland returned to new england with her son, and they resided upon an estate at hopkinson which she had inherited through her parents, but at the outbreak of the revolutionary war in 1775, she, being a royalist, came to england, and, in 1782, married mr. john drew, a banker at chichester, and died in 1783. richard cromwell, her son, entered the naval service of england, but retired on his ship being ordered to america, as he felt unwilling to fight against his native land. in 1796 he was living in chichester with a family growing up around him. in 1865 there was published at albany, "sir charles henry frankland, bart.; or, boston in the colonial times; by elias nason, m.a.," who, in the preface, says--"who was sir c. h. frankland? is a question which a brief story entitled 'a legend of new england,' and published by william lincoln, in 1843, and still more recently the ballad of 'agnes,' by dr. oliver wendell holmes here, led the public to entertain: was he a real person or a myth? was there ever such a collector of the port of boston? was he indeed buried under the ruins of lisbon at the time of the great earthquake? was he rescued therefrom by the efforts of a poor girl, named agnes surriage, and did he afterwards make her his wife?" these questions the author answers in the subsequent pages of the pamphlet, of which the above is an epitome. rise of the house of phipps. about the middle of the seventeenth century, during the civil war and the restoration, there dwelt in bristol one james phipps, a gunsmith by trade. he was blessed with a numerous progeny; of him it might truly be said that "his quiver was full of them," for he had eventually twenty-six children, of whom twenty-one were boys. having only his gunmaking trade to depend upon for a living, he found it difficult to provide means for feeding, clothing, and educating them, and often lay awake long at nights, pondering in his mind what he should do to meet the necessities of the case. at that time, and for two or three reigns previously, we had been at work laying the foundations of the present great american republic, by establishing plantations of colonists, aristocratic and episcopalian, in the south, and puritanical in the north, most of whom had been driven thither by the persecutions they had undergone in the mother country. bristol was then the great port of imports and exports of the western continent, and james phipps naturally heard of the unbounded capabilities of the new continent, as also he heard, by tradition, of the vast wealth which the buccaneers of elizabeth's reign--the old vikings of devonshire--brought from the west indies, peru, mexico, etc., into the ports of bristol, barnstaple, bideford, etc., and it occurred to him that here was scope enough for him and all his sons, and he emigrated with them to new england, where william, his youngest son, was born, and he seems to have died soon after, as this son is stated to have been brought up by his mother until he was eighteen years of age. this william phipps was the founder of that family who are now lords of mulgrave castle, and whose dignity has culminated in a marquisate. he had received no education, but taught himself to read and write when apprentice to a ship carpenter. at the expiration of his apprenticeship he married the daughter of captain robert spencer, and relict of a rich merchant of the name of hull, who brought him a small fortune, with which he commenced business, but his speculations were not successful. but he did not despair, although fortune did seem to frown. he was a man of unbounded enterprise and energy, and he said to his wife, who was lamenting the loss of her money, "be not cast down, my dear; i will live to be the commander of better men than i myself am now. providence has great things in store for me, and the time shall come when i will build a fair brick house in the green lane of north boston, of which you shall be the mistress." when casting about for employment, he chanced to hear of a spanish galleon, laden with specie and plate, which had been wrecked half a century previously somewhere in the bahamas, and he resolved to go in search of it, and to endeavour the recovery of the cargo by means of the diving-bell. aristotle, 300 years b.c., makes some obscure references to a machine of this kind, but what it was or how employed is not known. the first reliable account we have of such a machine is given by taisnier, who describes a "cacobus aquaticus" (marine kettle) which was exhibited by two greeks before the emperor charles v., at toledo, in 1538; but it seems to have been of no practical use, as it had no apparatus for supplying the divers with fresh air. a similar sort of bell, but constructed on better principles, had been made use of on the coast of mull, between the years 1650 and 1660 to operate upon some sunken vessels of the spanish armada, but without much success. it was this which directed the attention of phipps to the diving-bell, who perceived that by various modifications and improvements of the apparatus it might be made a most valuable instrument for submarine operations, and after a long and patient study, and numberless experiments, he succeeded in constructing a bell very much the same as that now used, and capable of being worked much more efficiently and with greater safety than any previously employed. in consequence of his having thus, by his skill and scientific modifications, produced a really working machine, he is generally styled "the inventor of the diving-bell." he sailed for the bahamas, but was not able to find the spot where the vessel lay. he received information of another, however, the position of which was more accurately defined, and which held a much greater treasure. he then sailed for london, his resources having failed, where he arrived in 1683, and laid the project before king charles, who furnished him with a 19-gun frigate, in which he returned to the bahamas. before he found the locality of the object of his search, he again became crippled for funds, and went again to london for further assistance, but king james, who had succeeded to the crown in the interval, deeming his views visionary, declined having anything to do in the matter. the duke of albemarle, however, was more sanguine and got up a subscription for a fresh outfit, on condition that he and the subscribers should share in the proceeds, and captain phipps sailed with two vessels. this time he was more successful; after some search he found the precise spot where the galleon lay, and, by means of his diving-bell, brought up from the wreck thirty-two tons of silver, besides gold plate and jewels, of the estimated value of £200,000. with this splendid prize he came again to england, but on a division of the spoil, he got no more than £20,000, the duke absorbing £90,000, whilst the remainder was distributed amongst the other subscribers and the crews of the vessels. the king, in appreciation of his ingenuity and enterprise, knighted him, and constituted him sheriff of new england. he made a second visit to the wreck, and made a gleaning of what had been left, and on his return to new england he built the "fair brick house in the green lane of north boston," where he dwelt some time with his wife, now lady phipps, who no longer twitted him about the loss of her fortune. he afterwards served in the army, and was appointed, by william iii., governor of massachusetts; but two years after, refusing to sanction certain corrupt practices, he was charged by his enemies with maladministration of his government. he went to london to clear himself of the false charges, but died there soon after his arrival, in 1694, and was buried in the church of st. mary woolnoth, london, where his widow erected a sumptuous monument to his memory, with a sculptured representation of his achievements in the bahamas. not having any issue by his wife, he adopted constantine, her nephew, and at his death bequeathed to him the bulk of his fortune. he is said generally, in the genealogies of the family, to have been phipps's own son; but in "the life of his excellency sir william phipps, kt., late captain-general and governor-in-chief of the province of massachusetts bay, new england, 1697," which was published during the lifetime of his widow, it is said distinctly, "not having any child of his own, he adopted a nephew of his wife to be his heir." sir constantine phipps, his nephew, who assumed the name of phipps on inheriting his uncle's property, became lord high chancellor of ireland, was knighted, and died in 1728. william, his son, married the lady katherine, daughter of james, fourth earl of anglesey, by the lady katherine darnley, a natural daughter of king james ii., who re-married john sheffield, duke of buckingham, duke and marquis of normandy, and earl of mulgrave. constantine, his son, who died 1780, was created baron mulgrave of new ross, in the peerage of ireland, in 1768. constantine, his son, second baron, was the famous navigator, who made a voyage of discovery into the arctic regions, and was, in the pitt administration, joint paymaster of the forces, a lord of trade, and a commissioner of the india board. he was created, in 1790, baron mulgrave, of mulgrave castle, in the peerage of england, but, dying issueless in 1792, that title expired. his portrait may be seen in greenwich hospital. henry, his brother, succeeded as third baron mulgrave of new ross, and in his person the barony of mulgrave, of mulgrave castle, was re-created in 1794. he was further created viscount normanby and earl of mulgrave, in 1812, and g.c.b. he was governor of scarborough castle and foreign secretary, 1805-6, and died in 1831. constantine henry, his son, succeeded to all his father's titles, and was advanced in the peerage to the marquisate of normanby, in 1838. his lordship, who died in 1863, was an eminent statesman and diplomatist, was constituted p.c., 1832; g.c.h., 1832; g.c.b., 1847; and k.g., 1851, and held the following offices:--governor-general of jamaica, 1832-34; lord privy seal, july to november, 1834; lord-lieutenant of ireland, 1835-39; secretary of state for the colonies, september to december, 1839; home secretary, 1839-41; was minister at paris, 1846-52; envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary at florence, 1854-58; and represented scarborough in parliament, 1818-20, higham ferrers, 1822-26, and malton, 1826-30. he was a man of accomplished literary taste, having published "a year of revolution," from a journal kept in paris, in the year 1848, 2 vols., 1857. also several novels--"yes and no," "matilda," "the contrast," "clorinde," and "the prophet of st. paul's," and several political pamphlets of great ability, with some other minor works. george augustus constantine, his son, the second marquis was a k.c.mg. and p.c.; was m.p. for scarborough, 1847-21; treasurer of the household, 1853-58; a lord-in-waiting in 1866 and 1868-69; captain of the corps of gentlemen-at-arms, 1869-71; governor of nova scotia, 1858-66; of queensland, 1871-74; of new zealand, 1874-78; and of victoria, 1878-84. he died in 1890, and was succeeded by his son, the rev. constantine charles henry, the present marquis, who was born in 1846. the traitor governor of hull. october the thirtieth, 1640, was a day of great bustle and excitement in the town of beverley. all ordinary business seemed to be suspended, and the streets were filled with groups of people, in earnest discussion, and with persons hastening hither and thither as if on important business, whilst great crowds of burghers occupied the space in front of the old hanse house or guildhall, waiting for the opening of the doors. it was the day appointed for the election of representatives to parliament, and as such an event had not taken place since 1628, excepting that of the spring of the present year, for the parliament which lasted only twenty-eight days, combined with the irritating circumstances which had caused the issue of the writs, the excitement and the depth of party feeling between the puritans and the upholders of the policy of wentworth and laud, was all the more intense. the king had striven to rule and levy taxes absolutely and irresponsibly, contrary to the constitution; and the murmurs and opposition became so great as to compel him to summon together the representatives of the commons to sanction his acts, and grant the necessary subsidies. hence were the burgesses of beverley summoned together to elect their representatives to what came to be called in after time "the long parliament." in due course they were admitted into the hall, and presently after the mayor, william cheppelow, a mercer, entered, and took his seat as returning-officer. he was accompanied by the recorder, francis thorpe, the aldermen, the capital burgesses, and the usual officials. after the reading of the writ and other preliminaries, he asked if any one had a candidate to propose, when a burgess proposed sir john hotham, "our old representative, who has served us faithfully in four previous parliaments." another proposed michael warton, esq., "our worthy townsman, whose principles are well known to us all;" and a third proposed sir thomas metham, knight, all which proposals were seconded, and the polling proceeded with, the result being the return of the two former, who, the following day, posted up to london to take their seats at the opening of the house on the third of november. sir john hotham was a descendant of sir john de trehouse, knight, of kilkenny, who, for his services at the battle of hastings, had a grant of the manor of hotham, near beverley. peter, his great-grandson, assumed the name of "de hotham," and his descendant, sir john, was summoned as baron in 1315, which dignity became extinct at his death, as it was a personal summons only. the family subsequently became possessors of south dalton and scorborough, both in the neighbourhood of beverley, which were now held by sir john, who made the mansion at the latter village his place of residence. he was born towards the end of the sixteenth century, was made a baronet in 1621, and had been five times married. he was now destined, by reason of his return to the long parliament, to make his name famous in english history, or, as some might say, infamous. he was not disaffected towards the king and his policy; what he did in opposition thereto he deemed to be his duty to the parliament of which he was a member, of which, however, he afterwards repented, impelled partly also by jealousy at the appointment of lord fairfax to the command of the forces in the north, which, he considered, ought to have been given to him, an old experienced soldier, who had served for a long time in the low countries, and had fought under the banner of the elector palatine at the battle of prague. at the neighbouring town of hull there was at this time a great store of arms and ammunition, which had been deposited there for the use of the troops in the scottish expedition, when the king went thither to attempt to cram the liturgy down the throats of the presbyterian scots. it had been under the charge of colonel legge, who, on the disbandment of the army, left it under the care of the mayor of hull. when the rupture between the king and the parliament was coming to a crisis, the former went with his court to york, his secret object being to get possession of the magazine; and the parliament, suspecting his motive for going north, sent sir john hotham and his son, captain john hotham, to take charge of it, and not to deliver it up on any consideration, excepting by their order. this occurred in march, 1642. captain hotham, his son, represented scarborough in the long parliament. in march, the king had sent the earl of newcastle to take charge of hull and the magazine of arms, but the mayor declined delivering up his trust, and the following month the king proceeded thither in person, to demand admittance, attended by a suite of noblemen and gentlemen. when he appeared before the town, he found the gates shut, the drawbridges raised, and the walls swarming with men-at-arms. he caused a trumpet to be sounded for a parley, when sir john hotham, the new governor, accompanied by the mayor, appeared over beverley gate. he had previously sent sir louis dives from beverley with a message that he was coming with some noblemen to dine with sir john, who held a hurried consultation with alderman pelham, a member of the parliament, when they determined upon not admitting him, and upon placing a guard over the mayor and burgesses, and sent a reply that he could not admit him without a betrayal of the trust reposed in him by the parliament. when sir john appeared over the gate, the king demanded admittance, and asked angrily why the gate was shut against him. sir john replied, "i am sorry to disobey your majesty, but i am intrusted by the parliament with the charge of this garrison, with instructions to admit no one who comes with apparently hostile intentions, and i trust that i may not be misunderstood, for nothing is meant in it but the good of the kingdom and the welfare of your majesty." "pray, sir john, by what authority do you act thus disloyally?" "by order of both houses of parliament." "read or show me that authority." "i decline doing so." "has the mayor seen it?" "no! i scorn that he should. i am the governor of the town, and it concerns no one else." the king then asked the mayor if he sanctioned this treasonable conduct, who, terrified and abashed in the presence of royalty, fell on his knees and replied, "my liege! glad should i be to open the gates if it were in my power; but, alas! both i and the inhabitants are under guard, and soldiers, with drawn swords, threaten our lives if we make the attempt." "well, sir john," said the king, "this act of yours is unparalleled, and will, i fear, lead to dismal consequences, and i cannot do less than proclaim and proceed against you as a traitor; but i will give you an hour to decide." he then retired, and, on his return, found the governor inflexible in his refusal to admit him, excepting with a following of not more than twenty persons, upon which he caused a herald to proclaim him a traitor, and all who abetted him guilty of treason, shouting, "fling the traitor over the walls! throw the rebel into the ditch," after which he retired to beverley, and spent the night there. the following morning he sent a messenger with a promise of pardon for the past, and his favour for the future, if sir john would open the gates to him, and when he received a negative answer he returned to york. the king then sent a complaint to parliament of sir john's conduct, who replied that he had done quite right, and that his proclamation of him as a traitor was a flagrant breach of the privilege of parliament. as the king could not obtain admission to the town by persuasive means, he resorted to force, and laid siege to it, and the parliament sent an additional force of 2,000 men to maintain the defence. about this time, lord digby, a royalist, was captured and brought into hull, who, in repeated conversations with sir john on the evils he was bringing upon the kingdom, half persuaded him to admit the king; but eventually he resolved not to betray his trust. nevertheless he facilitated the escape of his lordship, and this was what first caused him to be viewed with suspicion by the parliament. soon after, the king went into the midlands, and set up his standard at nottingham, leaving the siege of hull in the hands of lord newport, and the civil war commenced in earnest. captain hotham, a dashing and dare-devil officer, left hull with a small force, had a brush with and was defeated by glemham, on the wolds; frightened archbishop williams from cawood, who fled to wales, and never saw his diocese again; disputed the passage of the tees with newcastle, and again at tadcaster against an overwhelming force; and assisted sir t. fairfax in the capture of leeds. by various instrumentalities, the hothams, father and son, had now veered round from the parliamentarian to the royalist side. the younger had met the queen when she landed at burlington, kissed her hand, and promised obedience to the king's will; and the elder had been in correspondence with newcastle, and had undertaken to deliver up hull on the 28th of august. but all this had come to the ears of parliament, and measures were at once taken to frustrate his intentions. orders were sent to thomas raikes, the mayor, sir matthew boynton, hotham's brother-in-law, and captain meyer, commander of a vessel of war in the humber, to arrest him and his son, and send them up to london, and they lost no time in the matter. captain meyer landed one hundred men, who seized the citadel and the block-house, and they placed a watch round sir john's house. captain hotham they captured without difficulty, and placed in security during the night, and at daylight went to sir john's house to take him, but found he had effected his escape. too old a soldier to be caught in a trap like that, and too old in strategy not to be able to devise means of extrication from a peril, he, having learned from his spies what was passing, and seeing that matters were coming to a crisis, determined upon flying to his house at scorborough, which was fortified and able to stand a short siege. he eluded the watch by passing out by a private door at the back, and made his way, by obscure lanes and streets, to beverley gate. when he arrived there he was saluted by the guard, who knew nothing of the order for his arrest, and, assuming a lofty unembarrassed bearing, he ordered the gate to be opened and six of the guards to follow him to beverley. he was immediately obeyed, and, securing a horse, he rode off in the direction of beverley; but as soon as he had purposely outridden his attendants, he turned to the right, through sculcoates, towards stone ferry. his pursuers meanwhile learnt what had passed at the gate, and rode after him along the beverley road. they overtook the six guards, who informed them that sir john could not be more than a few furlongs ahead on the road, and they spurred on towards beverley without overtaking the fugitive. sir john's house lay three or four miles beyond beverley, on the west of the river hull, and as he knew it would be dangerous to pass through the town, he resolved to cross the river and proceed along the eastern side, and re-cross it when he had passed beverley. unfortunately, when he came to stone ferry, there was no boat, and the river was running too rapidly to allow of swimming his horse across; he therefore hastened on to wawn ferry, hoping to cross there, but the fates seemed to be against him; there was no boat there either, and the hazard was too great to attempt reaching the opposite bank by any other means. he paused for a few minutes, thinking over what course he should pursue. there appeared to be nothing for it but to make a bold dash through beverley. it was true that the town was held by the parliamentarians, but they might not have heard of the events which had transpired in hull. besides, there was no alternative, and putting spurs to his horse's flanks, he soon came in sight of the towers of beverley minster. he entered the town by queensgate, and passing along the streets with an air of indifference, came to the market-place, which he found occupied by a troop of 700 or 800 men, with his nephew, colonel boynton, at their head. with an assumed nonchalant air, he saluted his nephew, and ordered a company of the men to follow, which they were preparing to do, when the colonel, who had been made acquainted with his treachery, came up, and seizing his horse's bridle, said, "sir john, you are my prisoner. i respect you as my kinsman, but i must, although with the greatest reluctance, pass by all tender respect, and arrest you as a traitor to the commonwealth." sir john, seeing that resistance was useless, replied, "well, kinsman, since such is your will i must be content and submit," but, espying a lane close by, he clapped spurs to his horse and galloped down it, followed by his nephew, shouting "down with the traitor; knock him down;" and a soldier, striking him with the butt end of his musket, brought him to the earth, bleeding and almost senseless. by a strange coincidence, he was confined for the night in the same house where the king had slept after his discomfiture at the gates of hull. the following morning he was taken to hull, placed on board captain meyer's vessel, and, with his son, immediately conveyed to london. on the 3rd of december they were arraigned at the guildhall for treason, the earl of manchester presiding, and were sentenced to be executed on the last day of the year. the house of lords, desirous of pardoning him, reprieved sir john for three days; but the commons would not listen to it. captain hotham was beheaded in due course before his father, which some said was a piece of concerted malice, that he might not die a baronet, which he would have done had his father suffered first. on the 2nd of january, sir john was brought out upon tower hill and mounted the scaffold, accompanied by the rev. hugh peters and other ministers and friends. he met his fate bravely and like a soldier, and before laying his head on the block, addressed the people, saying--"gentlemen,--i know no more of myself but that i deserve this death from god almighty, and that i deserve damnation and the severest punishment from him. as for the business of hull--the betraying it from the parliament--the ministers that have all been with me and gave me good counsels, i thank them. neither was i any ways guilty of it. that's all i can say to that act," etc., etc. it will be seen that he was no orator, and did not give utterance to his ideas in a very clear and coherent manner. the speech of his son, three days previously, was very superior, both in matter and manner. after peters had addressed the crowd, putting sir john's sentiments in better language, the unfortunate baronet placed his head on the block. his head was stricken off by the headsman, and his mutilated remains were buried in the church of all-hallows, barking, the liturgy being read at his funeral, although it had been abolished by act of parliament. * * * * * transcriber's note: archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained. * * * * * _elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy 8vo., price, 6s._ yorkshire battles. by edward lamplough. contents: this work contains carefully-written accounts of the following yorkshire battles, which cannot fail to interest and instruct the reader. it is a book of more than local interest:- _winwidfield, etc.--battle of stamford bridge--after stamford bridge--battle of the standard--after the battle of the standard--battle of myton meadows--battle of boroughbridge--battle of byland abbey--in the days of edward iii. and richard ii.--battle of bramham moor--battle of sandal--battle of towton--yorkshire under the tudors--battle of tadcaster--battle of leeds--battle of wakefield--battle of adwalton moor--battle of hull--battle of selby--battle of marston moor--battle of brunnanburgh--fight off flamborough head--index._ opinions of the press. "a remarkably handsome volume, typographically equal to the best productions of any european capital."--_north british daily mail._ "a handsome book. it is extremely interesting, and is a work which cannot fail to find a permanent place amongst the best books devoted to the history of the county. the military history of yorkshire is very closely investigated in this work. although the book is written in a clear and picturesque style, great care and attention have been given to the researches of antiquaries and historians, and many authorities have been consulted, in consequence of which, several long-established errors have been corrected, and some oft-repeated but superficial conclusions confuted. special attention has been given to the military history of the county during the great rebellion--a subject which has yet to be fairly and intelligently treated by the general historian. so far as the limits of the work permit, the general history of the county, from epoch to epoch, has been sketched, maintaining the continuity of the work, and increasing its interest and value both to the general reader and the specialist. the printers of the book are messrs. wm. andrews and co., hull, and it must be regarded as a good specimen of local typography."--_wakefield free press._ "an important work."--_beverley independent._ "does great credit to the new firm of book publishers."--_yorkshire county magazine._ "a beautifully printed volume."--_halifax courier._ "mr. lamplough's book is thoroughly readable, and is written in a manly as well as a discriminating spirit."--_yorkshire post._ _london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, & co. hull: william andrews & co., the hull press._ _elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy 8vo., price 6s._ old-time punishments. by william andrews, f.r.h.s., author of "curiosities of the church," "historic romance," "famous frosts and frost fairs," "historic yorkshire," etc. contents. carefully prepared papers, profusely illustrated, appear on the following subjects:- _the ducking stool--the brank, or scold's bridle--the pillory--punishing authors and burning books--finger-pillory--the jougs--the stocks--the drunkard's cloak--whipping--public penance in white sheets--the repentance-stool--riding the stang--gibbet lore--drowning--burning to death--boiling to death--beheading--hanging, drawing, and quartering--pressing to death--hanging--hanging in chains--the halifax gibbet--the scottish maiden, etc.--an index of five closely-printed pages._ many curious illustrations. press opinions. "this is an entertaining book ... well-chosen illustrations and a serviceable index."--_athenæum._ "a hearty reception may be bespoken for it."--_globe_ "a work which will be eagerly read by all who take it up."--_scotsman._ "it is entertaining."--_manchester guardian._ "a vast amount of curious and entertaining matter."--_sheffield independent._ "we can honestly recommend a perusal of this book."--_yorkshire post._ "interesting, and handsomely printed."--_newcastle chronicle._ "a very readable history."--_birmingham daily gazette._ "mr. andrews' book is well worthy of careful study, and is a perfect mine of wealth on the subject of which it treats."--_herts advertiser._ "it is sure of a warm welcome on both sides of the atlantic."--_christian leader._ london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, & co. hull: william andrews & co., the hull press. proofreaders. illustrated html file produced by david widger yorkshire painted and described by gordon home contents chapter i across the moors from pickering to whitby chapter ii along the esk valley chapter iii the coast from whitby to redcar chapter iv the coast from whitby to scarborough chapter v scarborough chapter vi whitby chapter vii the cleveland hills chapter viii guisborough and the skelton valley chapter ix from pickering to rievaulx abbey chapter x describes the dale country as a whole chapter xi richmond chapter xii swaledale chapter xiii wensleydale chapter xiv ripon and fountains abbey chapter xv knaresborough and harrogate chapter xvi wharfedale chapter xvii skipton, malham and gordale chapter xviii settle and the ingleton fells chapter xix concerning the wolds chapter xx from filey to spurn head chapter xxi beverley chapter xxii along the humber chapter xxiii the derwent and the howardian hills chapter xxiv a brief description of the city of york chapter xxv the manufacturing district index list of illustrations 1. york from the central tower of the minster 2. sleights moor from swart houe cross 3. an autumn scene on the esk 4. runswick bay 5. sunrise from staithes beck 6. robin hood's bay 7. whitby abbey from the cliffs 8. the red roofs of whitby 9. an autumn day at guisborough 10. the skelton valley 11. in pickering church 12. the market-place, helmsley 13. richmond castle from the river 14. a rugged view above wensleydale 15. a jacobean house at askrigg 16. aysgarth force 17. view up wensleydale from leyburn shawl 18. ripon minster from the south 19. fountains abbey 20. knaresborough 21. bolton abbey, wharfedale 22. settle 23. wind and sunshine on the wolds 24. filey brig 25. the outermost point of flamborough head 26. hornsea mere 27. the market-place, beverley 28. patrington church 29. coxwold village 30. the west front of the church of byland abbey 31. bootham bar, york 32. kirkstall abbey, leeds _sketch map_ yorkshire chapter i across the moors from pickering to whitby the ancient stone-built town of pickering is to a great extent the gateway to the moors of north-eastern yorkshire, for it stands at the foot of that formerly inaccessible gorge known as newton dale, and is the meeting-place of the four great roads running north, south, east, and west, as well as of railways going in the same directions. and this view of the little town is by no means original, for the strategic importance of the position was recognised at least as long ago as the days of the early edwards, when the castle was built to command the approach to newton dale and to be a menace to the whole of the vale of pickering. the old-time traveller from york to whitby saw practically nothing of newton dale, for the great coach-road bore him towards the east, and then, on climbing the steep hill up to lockton low moor, he went almost due north as far as sleights. but to-day everyone passes right through the gloomy cañon, for the railway now follows the windings of pickering beck, and nursemaids and children on their way to the seaside may gaze at the frowning cliffs which seventy years ago were only known to travellers and a few shepherds. but although this great change has been brought about by railway enterprise, the gorge is still uninhabited, and has lost little of its grandeur; for when the puny train, with its accompanying white cloud, has disappeared round one of the great bluffs, there is nothing left but the two pairs of shining rails, laid for long distances almost on the floor of the ravine. but though there are steep gradients to be climbed, and the engine labours heavily, there is scarcely sufficient time to get any idea of the astonishing scenery from the windows of the train, and you can see nothing of the huge expanses of moorland stretching away from the precipices on either side. so that we, who would learn something of this region, must make the journey on foot; for a bicycle would be an encumbrance when crossing the heather, and there are many places where a horse would be a source of danger. the sides of the valley are closely wooded for the first seven or eight miles north of pickering, but the surrounding country gradually loses its cultivation, at first gorse and bracken, and then heather, taking the place of the green pastures. at the village of newton, perched on high ground far above the dale, we come to the limit of civilization. the sun is nearly setting. the cottages are scattered along the wide roadway and the strip of grass, broken by two large ponds, which just now reflect the pale evening sky. straight in front, across the green, some ancient barns are thrown up against the golden sunset, and the long perspective of white road, the geese, and some whitewashed gables, stand out from the deepening tones of the grass and trees. a footpath by the inn leads through some dewy meadows to the woods, above levisham station in the valley below. at first there are glimpses of the lofty moors on the opposite side of the dale where the sides of the bluffs are still glowing in the sunset light; but soon the pathway plunges steeply into a close wood, where the foxes are barking, and where the intense darkness is only emphasized by the momentary illumination given by lightning, which now and then flickers in the direction of lockton moor. at last the friendly little oil-lamps on the platform at levisham station appear just below, and soon the railway is crossed and we are mounting the steep road on the opposite side of the valley. what is left of the waning light shows the rough track over the heather to high horcum. the huge shoulders of the moors are now majestically indistinct, and towards the west the browns, purples, and greens are all merged in one unfathomable blackness. the tremendous silence and the desolation become almost oppressive, but overhead the familiar arrangement of the constellations gives a sense of companionship not to be slighted. in something less than an hour a light glows in the distance, and, although the darkness is now complete, there is no further need to trouble ourselves with the thought of spending the night on the heather. the point of light develops into a lighted window, and we are soon stamping our feet on the hard, smooth road in front of the saltersgate inn. the door opens straight into a large stone-flagged room. everything is redolent of coaching days, for the cheery glow of the fire shows a spotlessly clean floor, old high-backed settles, a gun hooked to one of the beams overhead, quaint chairs, and oak stools, and a fox's mask and brush. a gamekeeper is warming himself at the fire, for the evening is chilly, and the firelight falls on his box-cloth gaiters and heavy boots as we begin to talk of the loneliness and the dangers of the moors, and of the snow-storms in winter, that almost bury the low cottages and blot out all but the boldest landmarks. soon we are discussing the superstitions which still survive among the simple country-folk, and the dark and lonely wilds we have just left make this a subject of great fascination. although we have heard it before, we hear over again with intense interest the story of the witch who brought constant ill-luck to a family in these parts. their pigs were never free from some form of illness, their cows died, their horses lamed themselves, and even the milk was so far under the spell that on churning-days the butter refused to come unless helped by a crooked sixpence. one day, when as usual they had been churning in vain, instead of resorting to the sixpence, the farmer secreted himself in an outbuilding, and, gun in hand, watched the garden from a small opening. as it was growing dusk he saw a hare coming cautiously through the hedge. he fired instantly, the hare rolled over, dead, and almost as quickly the butter came. that same night they heard that the old woman, whom they had long suspected of bewitching them, had suddenly died at the same time as the hare, and henceforward the farmer and his family prospered. in the light of morning the isolation of the inn is more apparent than at night. a compact group of stable buildings and barns stands on the opposite side of the road, and there are two or three lonely-looking cottages, but everywhere else the world is purple and brown with ling and heather. the morning sun has just climbed high enough to send a flood of light down the steep hill at the back of the barns, and we can hear the hum of the bees in the heather. in the direction of levisham is gallows dyke, the great purple bluff we passed in the darkness, and a few yards off the road makes a sharp double bend to get up saltersgate brow, the hill that overlooks the enormous circular bowl of horcum hole, where levisham beck rises. the farmer whose buildings can be seen down below contrives to paint the bottom of the bowl a bright green, but the ling comes hungrily down on all sides, with evident longings to absorb the scanty cultivation. the dwarf cornel a little mountain-plant which flowers in july, is found in this 'hole.' a few patches have been discovered in the locality, but elsewhere it is not known south of the cheviots. away to the north the road crosses the desolate country like a pale-green ribbon. it passes over lockton high moor, climbs to 700 feet at tom cross rigg and then disappears into the valley of eller beck, on goathland moor, coming into view again as it climbs steadily up to sleights moor, nearly 1,000 feet above the sea. an enormous stretch of moorland spreads itself out towards the west. near at hand is the precipitous gorge of upper newton dale, backed by pickering moor, and beyond are the heights of northdale rigg and rosedale common, with the blue outlines of ralph cross and danby head right on the horizon. the smooth, well-built road, with short grass filling the crevices between the stones, urges us to follow its straight course northwards; but the sternest and most remarkable portion of upper newton dale lies to the left, across the deep heather, and we are tempted aside to reach the lip of the sinuous gorge nearly a mile away to the west, where the railway runs along the marshy and boulder-strewn bottom of a natural cutting 500 feet deep. the cliffs drop down quite perpendicularly for 200 feet, and the remaining distance to the bed of the stream is a rough slope, quite bare in places, and in others densely grown over with trees; but on every side the fortress-like scarps are as stern and bare as any that face the ocean. looking north or south the gorge seems completely shut in. there is much the same effect when steaming through the kyles of bute, for there the ship seems to be going full speed for the shore of an entirely enclosed sea, and here, saving for the tell-tale railway, there seems no way out of the abyss without scaling the perpendicular walls. the rocks are at their finest at killingnoble scar, where they take the form of a semicircle on the west side of the railway. the scar was for a very long period famous for the breed of hawks, which were specially watched by the goathland men for the use of james i., and the hawks were not displaced from their eyrie even by the incursion of the railway into the glen, and only recently became extinct. we can cross the line near eller beck, and, going over goathland moor, explore the wooded sides of wheeldale beck and its water-falls. mallyan's spout is the most imposing, having a drop of about 76 feet. the village of goathland has thrown out skirmishers towards the heather in the form of an ancient-looking but quite modern church, with a low central tower, and a little hotel, stone-built and fitting well into its surroundings. the rest of the village is scattered round a large triangular green, and extends down to the railway, where there is a station named after the village. chapter ii along the esk valley to see the valley of the esk in its richest garb, one must wait for a spell of fine autumn weather, when a prolonged ramble can be made along the riverside and up on the moorland heights above. for the dense woodlands, which are often merely pretty in midsummer, become astonishingly lovely as the foliage draping the steep hill-sides takes on its gorgeous colours, and the gills and becks on the moors send down a plentiful supply of water to fill the dales with the music of rushing streams. climbing up the road towards larpool, we take a last look at quaint old whitby, spread out before us almost like those wonderful old prints of english towns they loved to publish in the eighteenth century. but although every feature is plainly visible--the church, the abbey, the two piers, the harbour, the old town and the new--the detail is all lost in that soft mellowness of a sunny autumn day. we find an enthusiastic photographer expending plates on this familiar view, which is sold all over the town; but we do not dare to suggest that the prints, however successful, will be painfully hackneyed, and we go on rejoicing that the questions of stops and exposures need not trouble us, for the world is ablaze with colour. beyond the great red viaduct, whose central piers are washed by the river far below, the road plunges into the golden shade of the woods near cock mill, and then comes out by the river's bank down below, with the little village of ruswarp on the opposite shore. the railway goes over the esk just below the dam, and does is very best to spoil every view of the great mill built in 1752 by mr. nathaniel cholmley. the road follows close beside the winding river and all the way to sleights there are lovely glimpses of the shimmering waters, reflecting the overhanging masses of foliage. the golden yellow of a bush growing at the water's edge will be backed by masses of brown woods that here and there have retained suggestions of green, contrasted with the deep purple tones of their shadowy recesses. these lovely phases of eskdale scenery are denied to the summer visitor, but there are few who would wish to have the riverside solitudes rudely broken into by the passing of boatloads of holiday-makers. just before reaching sleights bridge we leave the tree-embowered road, and, going through a gate, find a stone-flagged pathway that climbs up the side of the valley with great deliberation, so that we are soon at a great height, with a magnificent sweep of landscape towards the south-west, and the keen air blowing freshly from the great table-land of egton high moor. a little higher, and we are on the road in aislaby village. the steep climb from the river and railway has kept off those modern influences which have made sleights and grosmont architecturally depressing, and thus we find a simple village on the edge of the heather, with picturesque stone cottages and pretty gardens, free from companionship with the painfully ugly modern stone house, with its thin slate roof. the big house of the village stands on the very edge of the descent, surrounded by high trees now swept bare of leaves. the first time i visited aislaby i reached the little hamlet when it was nearly dark. sufficient light, however, remained in the west to show up the large house standing in the midst of the swaying branches. one dim light appeared in the blue-grey mass, and the dead leaves were blown fiercely by the strong gusts of wind. on the other side of the road stood an old grey house, whose appearance that gloomy evening well supported the statement that it was haunted. i left the village in the gathering gloom and was soon out on the heather. away on the left, but scarcely discernible, was swart houe cross, on egton low moor, and straight in front lay the skelder inn. a light gleamed from one of the lower windows, and by it i guided my steps, being determined to partake of tea before turning my steps homeward. i stepped into the little parlour, with its sanded floor, and demanded 'fat rascals' and tea. the girl was not surprised at my request, for the hot turf cakes supplied at the inn are known to all the neighbourhood by this unusual name. the course of the river itself is hidden by the shoulders of egton low moor beneath us, but faint sounds of the shunting of trucks are carried up to the heights. even when the deep valleys are warmest, and when their atmosphere is most suggestive of a hot-house, these moorland heights rejoice in a keen, dry air, which seems to drive away the slightest sense of fatigue, so easily felt on the lower levels, and to give in its place a vigour that laughs at distance. up here, too, the whole world seems left to nature, the levels of cultivation being almost out of sight, and anything under 800 feet seems low. towards the end of august the heights are capped with purple, although the distant moors, however brilliant they may appear when close at hand, generally assume more delicate shades, fading into greys and blues on the horizon. grosmont was the birthplace of the cleveland ironworks, and was at one time more famous than middlesbrough. the first cargo of ironstone was sent from here in 1836, when the pickering and whitby railway was opened. we will go up the steep road to the top of sleights moor. it is a long stiff climb of nearly 900 feet, but the view is one of the very finest in this country, where wide expanses soon become commonplace. we are sufficiently high to look right across fylingdales moor to the sea beyond, a soft haze of pearly blue over the hard, rugged outline of the ling. away towards the north, too, the landscape for many miles is limited only by the same horizon of sea, so that we seem to be looking at a section of a very large-scale contour map of england. below us on the western side runs the mirk esk, draining the heights upon which we stand as well as egton high moor and wheeldale moor. the confluence with the esk at grosmont is lost in a haze of smoke and a confusion of roofs and railway lines; and the course of the larger river in the direction of glaisdale is also hidden behind the steep slopes of egton high moor. towards the south we gaze over a vast desolation, crossed by the coach-road to york as it rises and falls over the swells of the heather. the queer isolated cone of blakey topping and the summit of gallows dyke, close to saltersgate, appear above the distant ridges. the route of the great roman road from the south to whitby can also be seen from these heights. it passes straight through cawthorn camp, on the ridge to the west of the village of newton, and then runs along within a few yards of the by-road from pickering to egton. it crosses wheeldale beck, and skirts the ancient dyke round july or julian park, at one time a hunting-seat of the great de mauley family. the road is about 12 feet wide, and is now deep in heather; but it is slightly raised above the general level of the ground, and can therefore be followed fairly easily where it has not been taken up to build walls for enclosures. if we go down into the valley beneath us by a road bearing south-west, we shall find ourselves at beck hole, where there is a pretty group of stone cottages, backed by some tall firs. the eller beck is crossed by a stone bridge close to its confluence with the mirk esk. above the bridge, a footpath among the huge boulders winds its way by the side of the rushing beck to thomasin foss, where the little river falls in two or three broad silver bands into a considerable pool. great masses of overhanging rock, shaded by a leafy roof, shut in the brimming waters. it is not difficult to find the way from beck hole to the roman camp on the hill-side towards egton bridge. the roman road from cawthorn goes right through it, but beyond this it is not easy to trace, although fragments have been discovered as far as aislaby, all pointing to whitby or sandsend bay. round the shoulder of the hill we come down again to the deeply-wooded valley of the esk. and in time we reach glaisdale end, where a graceful stone bridge of a single arch stands over the rushing stream. the initials of the builder and the date appear on the eastern side of what is now known as the beggar's bridge. it was formerly called firris bridge, after the builder, but the popular interest in the story of its origin seems to have killed the old name. if you ask anyone in whitby to mention some of the sights of the neighbourhood, he will probably head his list with the beggar's bridge, but why this is so i cannot imagine. the woods are very beautiful, but this is a country full of the loveliest dales, and the presence of this single-arched bridge does not seem sufficient to have attracted so much popularity. i can only attribute it to the love interest associated with the beggar. he was, we may imagine, the alderman thomas firris who, as a penniless youth, came to bid farewell to his betrothed, who lived somewhere on the opposite side of the river. finding the stream impassable, he is said to have determined that if he came back from his travels as a rich man he would put up a bridge on the spot he had been prevented from crossing. chapter iii the coast from whitby to redcar along the three miles of sand running northwards from whitby at the foot of low alluvial cliffs, i have seen some of the finest sea-pictures on this part of the coast. but although i have seen beautiful effects at all times of the day, those that i remember more than any others are the early mornings, when the sun was still low in the heavens, when, standing on that fine stretch of yellow sand, one seemed to breathe an atmosphere so pure, and to gaze at a sky so transparent, that some of those undefined longings for surroundings that have never been realized were instinctively uppermost in the mind. it is, i imagine, that vague recognition of perfection which has its effect on even superficial minds when impressed with beautiful scenery, for to what other cause can be attributed the remark one hears, that such scenes 'make one feel good'? heavy waves, overlapping one another in their fruitless bombardment of the smooth shelving sand, are filling the air with a ceaseless thunder. the sun, shining from a sky of burnished gold, throws into silhouette the twin lighthouses at the entrance to whitby harbour, and turns the foaming wave-tops into a dazzling white, accentuated by the long shadows of early day. away to the north-west is sandsend ness, a bold headland full of purple and blue shadows, and straight out to sea, across the white-capped waves, are two tramp steamers, making, no doubt, for south shields or some port where a cargo of coal can be picked up. they are plunging heavily, and every moment their bows seem to go down too far to recover. the two little becks finding their outlet at east row and sandsend are lovely to-day; but their beauty must have been much more apparent before the north-eastern railway put their black lattice girder bridges across the mouth of each valley. but now that familiarity with these bridges, which are of the same pattern across every wooded ravine up the coast-line to redcar, has blunted my impressions, i can think of the picturesqueness of east row without remembering the railway. it was in this glen, where lord normanby's lovely woods make a background for the pretty tiled cottages, the mill, and the old stone bridge, which make up east row,[1] that the saxons chose a home for their god thor. here they built some rude form of temple, afterwards, it seems, converted into a hermitage. this was how the spot obtained the name thordisa, a name it retained down to 1620, when the requirements of workmen from the newly-started alum-works at sandsend led to building operations by the side of the stream. the cottages which arose became known afterwards as east row. [footnote 1: since this was written one or two new houses have been allowed to mar the simplicity of the valley.--g.h.] go where you will in yorkshire, you will find no more fascinating woodland scenery than that of the gorges of mulgrave. from the broken walls and towers of the old norman castle the views over the ravines on either hand--for the castle stands on a lofty promontory in a sea of foliage--are entrancing; and after seeing the astoundingly brilliant colours with which autumn paints these trees, there is a tendency to find the ordinary woodland commonplace. the narrowest and deepest gorge is hundreds of feet deep in the shale. east row beck drops into this canon in the form of a water-fall at the upper end, and then almost disappears among the enormous rocks strewn along its circumscribed course. the humid, hot-house atmosphere down here encourages the growth of many of the rarer mosses, which entirely cover all but the newly-fallen rocks. we can leave the woods by a path leading near lord normanby's modern castle, and come out on to the road close to lythe church, where a great view of sea and land is spread out towards the south. the long curving line of white marks the limits of the tide as far as the entrance to whitby harbour. the abbey stands out in its loneliness as of yore, and beyond it are the black-looking, precipitous cliffs ending at saltwick nab. lythe church, standing in its wind-swept graveyard full of blackened tombstones, need not keep us, for, although its much-modernized exterior is simple and ancient-looking, the interior is devoid of any interest. the walk along the rocky shore to kettleness is dangerous unless the tide is carefully watched, and the road inland through lythe village is not particularly interesting, so that one is tempted to use the railway, which cuts right through the intervening high ground by means of two tunnels. the first one is a mile long, and somewhere near the centre has a passage out to the cliffs, so that even if both ends of the tunnel collapsed there would be a way of escape. but this is small comfort when travelling from kettleness, for the down gradient towards sandsend is very steep, and in the darkness of the tunnel the train gets up a tremendous speed, bursting into the open just where a precipitous drop into the sea could be most easily accomplished. the station at kettleness is on the top of the huge cliffs, and to reach the shore one must climb down a zigzag path. it is a broad and solid pathway until half-way down, where it assumes the character of a goat-track, being a mere treading down of the loose shale of which the enormous cliff is formed. the sliding down of the crumbling rock constantly carries away the path, but a little spade-work soon makes the track firm again. this portion of the cliff has something of a history, for one night in 1829 the inhabitants of many of the cottages originally forming the village of kettleness were warned of impending danger by subterranean noises. fearing a subsidence of the cliff, they betook themselves to a small schooner lying in the bay. this wise move had not long been accomplished, when a huge section of the ground occupied by the cottages slid down the great cliff and the next morning there was little to be seen but a sloping mound of lias shale at the foot of the precipice. the villagers recovered some of their property by digging, and some pieces of broken crockery from one of the cottages are still to be seen on the shore near the ferryman's hut, where the path joins the shore. this sandy beach, lapped by the blue waves of runswick bay, is one of the finest and most spectacular spots to be found on the rocky coast-line of yorkshire. you look northwards across the sunlit sea to the rocky heights hiding port mulgrave and staithes, and on the further side of the bay you see tiny runswick's red roofs, one above the other, on the face of the cliff. here it is always cool and pleasant in the hottest weather, and from the broad shadows cast by the precipices above one can revel in the sunny landand sea-scapes without that fishy odour so unavoidable in the villages. when the sun is beginning to climb down the sky in the direction of hinderwell, and everything is bathed in a glorious golden light, the ferryman will row you across the bay to runswick, but a scramble over the rocks on the beach will be repaid by a closer view of the now half-filled-up hob hole. the fisherfolk believed this cave to be the home of a kindly-disposed fairy or hob, who seems to have been one of the slow-dying inhabitants of the world of mythology implicitly believed in by the saxons. and these beliefs died so hard in these lonely yorkshire villages that until recent times a mother would carry her child suffering from whooping-cough along the beach to the mouth of the cave. there she would call in a loud voice, 'hob-hole hob! my bairn's getten t'kink cough. tak't off, tak't off.' the same form of disaster which destroyed kettleness village caused the complete ruin of runswick in 1666, for one night, when some of the fisherfolk were holding a wake over a corpse, they had unmistakable warnings of an approaching landslip. the alarm was given, and the villagers, hurriedly leaving their cottages, saw the whole place slide downwards, and become a mass of ruins. no lives were lost, but, as only one house remained standing, the poor fishermen were only saved from destitution by the sums of money collected for their relief. scarcely two miles from hinderwell is the fishing-hamlet of staithes, wedged into the side of a deep and exceedingly picturesque beck. the steep road leading past the station drops down into the village, giving a glimpse of the beck crossed by its ramshackle wooden foot-bridge--the view one has been prepared for by guide-books and picture postcards. lower down you enter the village street. here the smell of fish comes out to greet you, and one would forgive the place this overflowing welcome if one were not so shocked at the dismal aspect of the houses on either side of the way. many are of comparatively recent origin, others are quite new, and a few--a very few--are old; but none have any architectural pretensions or any claims to picturesqueness, and only a few have the neat and respectable look one is accustomed to expect after seeing robin hood's bay. i hurried down on to the little fish-wharf--a wooden structure facing the sea--hoping to find something more cheering in the view of the little bay, with its bold cliffs, and the busy scene where the cobbles were drawn up on the shingle. here my spirits revived, and i began to find excuses for the painters. the little wharf, in a bad state of repair, like most things in the place, was occupied by groups of stalwart fisherfolk, men and women. the men were for the most part watching their womenfolk at work. they were also to an astonishing extent mere spectators in the arduous work of hauling the cobbles one by one on to the steep bank of shingle. a tackle hooked to one of the baulks of timber forming the staith was being hauled at by five women and two men! two others were in a listless fashion leaning their shoulders against the boat itself. with the last 'heave-ho!' at the shortened tackle the women laid hold of the nets, and with casual male assistance laid them out on the shingle, removed any fragments of fish, and generally prepared them for stowing in the boat again. a change has come over the inhabitants of staithes since 1846, when mr. ord describes the fishermen as 'exceedingly civil and courteous to strangers, and altogether free from that low, grasping knavery peculiar to the larger class of fishing-towns.' without wishing to be unreasonably hard on staithes, i am inclined to believe that this character is infinitely better than these folk deserve, and even when mr. ord wrote of the place i have reason to doubt the civility shown by them to strangers. it is, according to some who have known staithes for a long long while, less than fifty years ago that the fisherfolk were hostile to a stranger on very small provocation, and only the entirely inoffensive could expect to sojourn in the village without being a target for stones. no doubt many of the superstitions of staithes people have languished or died out in recent years, and among these may be included a particularly primitive custom when the catches of fish had been unusually small. bad luck of this sort could only be the work of some evil influence, and to break the spell a sheep's heart had to be procured, into which many pins were stuck. the heart was then burnt in a bonfire on the beach, in the presence of the fishermen, who danced round the flames. in happy contrast to these heathenish practices was the resolution entered into and signed by the fishermen of staithes, in august, 1835, binding themselves 'on no account whatever' to follow their calling on sundays, 'nor to go out without boats or cobbles to sea, either on the saturday or sunday evenings.' they also agreed to forfeit ten shillings for every offence against the resolution, and the fund accumulated in this way, and by other means, was administered for the benefit of aged couples and widows and orphans. the men of staithes are known up and down the east coast of great britain as some of the very finest types of fishermen. their cobbles, which vary in size and colour, are uniform in design and the brilliance of their paint. brick red, emerald green, pungent blue and white, are the most favoured colours, but orange, pink, yellow, and many others, are to be seen. looking northwards there is a grand piece of coast scenery. the masses of boulby cliffs, rising 660 feet from the sea, are the highest on the yorkshire coast. the waves break all round the rocky scaur, and fill the air with their thunder, while the strong wind blows the spray into beards which stream backwards from the incoming crests. the upper course of staithes beck consists of two streams, flowing through deep, richly-wooded ravines. they follow parallel courses very close to one another for three or four miles, but their sources extend from lealholm moor to wapley moor. kilton beck runs through another lovely valley densely clothed in trees, and full of the richest woodland scenery. it becomes more open in the neighbourhood of loftus, and from thence to the sea at skinningrove the valley is green and open to the heavens. loftus is on the borders of the cleveland mining district, and it is for this reason that the town has grown to a considerable size. but although the miners' new cottages are unpicturesque, and the church only dates from 1811, the situation is pretty, owing to the profusion of trees among the houses, has railway-sidings and branch-lines running down to it, and on the hill above the cottages stands a cluster of blast-furnaces. in daylight they are merely ugly, but at night, with tongues of flame, they speak of the potency of labour. i can still see that strange silhouette of steel cylinders and connecting girders against a blue-black sky, with silent masses of flame leaping into the heavens. it was long before iron-ore was smelted here, before even the old alum-works had been started, that skinningrove attained to some sort of fame through a wonderful visit, as strange as any of those recounted by mr. wells. it was in the year 1535--for the event is most carefully recorded in a manuscript of the period--that some fishermen of skinningrove caught a sea man. this was such an astounding fact to record that the writer of the old manuscript explains that 'old men that would be loath to have their credyt crackt by a tale of a stale date, report confidently that ... a _sea-man_ was taken by the fishers.' they took him up to an old disused house, and kept him there for many weeks, feeding him on raw fish, because he persistently refused the other sorts of food offered him. to the people who flocked from far and near to visit him he was very courteous, and he seems to have been particularly pleased with any 'fayre maydes' who visited him, for he would gaze at them with a very earnest countenance, 'as if his phlegmaticke breaste had been touched with a sparke of love.' the lofty coast-line we have followed all the way from sandsend terminates abruptly at huntcliff nab, the great promontory which is familiar to visitors to saltburn. low alluvial cliffs take the place of the rocky precipices, and the coast becomes flatter and flatter as you approach redcar and the marshy country at the mouth of the tees. the original saltburn, consisting of a row of quaint fishermen's cottages, still stands entirely alone, facing the sea on the huntcliff side of the beck, and from the wide, smooth sands there is little of modern saltburn to be seen besides the pier. for the rectangular streets and blocks of houses have been wisely placed some distance from the edge of the grassy cliffs, leaving the sea-front quite unspoiled. the elaborately-laid-out gardens on the steep banks of skelton beck are the pride and joy of saltburn, for they offer a pleasant contrast to the bare slopes on the huntcliff side and the flat country towards kirkleatham. but in this seemingly harmless retreat there used to be heard horrible groanings, and i have no evidence to satisfy me that they have altogether ceased. for in this matter-of-fact age such a story would not be listened to, and thus those who hear the sounds may be afraid to speak of them. the groanings were heard, they say, 'when all wyndes are whiste and the rea restes unmoved as a standing poole.' at times they were so loud as to be heard at least six miles inland, and the fishermen feared to put out to sea, believing that the ocean was 'as a greedy beaste raginge for hunger, desyers to be satisfyed with men's carcases.' in 1842 redcar was a mere village, though more apparent on the map than saltburn; but, like its neighbour, it has grown into a great watering-place, having developed two piers, a long esplanade, and other features, which i am glad to leave to those for whom they were made, and betake myself to the more romantic spots so plentiful in this broad county. chapter iv the coast from whitby to scarborough although it is only six miles as the crow flies from whitby to robin hood's bay, the exertion required to walk there along the top of the cliffs is equal to quite double that distance, for there are so many gullies to be climbed into and crawled out of that the measured distance is considerably increased. it is well to remember this, for otherwise the scenery of the last mile or two may not seem as fine as the first stages. as soon as the abbey and the jet-sellers are left behind, you pass a farm, and come out on a great expanse of close-growing smooth turf, where the whole world seems to be made up of grass and sky. the footpath goes close to the edge of the cliff; in some places it has gone too close, and has disappeared altogether. but these diversions can be avoided without spoiling the magnificent glimpses of the rock-strewn beach nearly 200 feet below. from above saltwick bay there is a grand view across the level grass to whitby abbey, standing out alone on the green horizon. down below, nab runs out a bare black arm into the sea, which even in the calmest weather angrily foams along the windward side. beyond the sturdy lighthouse that shows itself a dazzling white against the hot blue of the heavens commence the innumerable gullies. each one has its trickling stream, and bushes and low trees grow to the limits of the shelter afforded by the ravines; but in the open there is nothing higher than the waving corn or the stone walls dividing the pastures--a silent testimony to the power of the north-east wind. after rounding the north cheek, the whole of robin hood's bay is suddenly laid before you. i well remember my first view of the wide sweep of sea, which lay like a blue carpet edged with white, and the high escarpments of rock that were in deep purple shade, except where the afternoon sun turned them into the brightest greens and umbers. three miles away, but seemingly very much closer, was the bold headland of the peak, and more inland was stoupe brow, with robin hood's butts on the hill-top. the fable connected with the outlaw is scarcely worth repeating, but on the site of these butts urns have been dug up, and are now to be found in scarborough museum. the bay town is hidden away in a most astonishing fashion, for, until you have almost reached the two bastions which guard the way up from the beach, there is nothing to be seen of the charming old place. if you approach by the road past the railway station it is the same, for only garishly new hotels and villas are to be seen on the high ground, and not a vestige of the fishing-town can be discovered. but the road to the bay at last begins to drop down very steeply, and the first old roofs appear. the oath at the side of the road develops into a very lone series of steps, and in a few minutes the narrow street flanked by very tall houses, has swallowed you up. everything is very clean and orderly, and, although most of the houses are very old, they are generally in a good state of repair, exhibiting in every case the seaman's love of fresh paint. thus, the dark and worn stone walls have bright eyes in their newly-painted doors and windows. over their door-steps the fishermen's wives are quite fastidious, and you seldom see a mark on the ochre-coloured hearth-stone with which the women love to brighten the worn stones. even the scrapers are sleek with blacklead, and it is not easy to find a window without spotless curtains. at high tide the sea comes half-way up the steep opening between the coastguards' quarters and the inn which is built on another bastion, and in rough weather the waves break hungrily on to the strong stone walls, for the bay is entirely open to the full force of gales from the east or north-east. all the way from scarborough to whitby the coast offers no shelter of any sort in heavy weather, and many vessels have been lost on the rocks. on one occasion a small sailing-ship was driven right into this bay at high tide, and the bowsprit smashed into a window of the little hotel that occupied the place of the present one. the railway southwards takes a curve inland, and, after winding in and out to make the best of the contour of the hills, the train finally steams very heavily and slowly into ravenscar station, right over the peak and 630 feet above the sea. on the way you get glimpses of the moors inland, and grand views over the curving bay. there is a station named fyling hall, after sir hugh cholmley's old house, half-way to ravenscar. raven hall, the large house conspicuously perched on the heights above the peak, is now converted into an hotel. there is a wonderful view from the castellated terraces, which in the distance suggest the remains of some ruined fortress. at the present time there is nothing to be seen older than the house whose foundations were dug in 1774. while the building operations were in progress, however, a roman inscribed stone, now in whitby museum, was unearthed. it states that the 'castrum' was built by two prefects whose names are given. this was one of the fortified signal stations built in the 4th century a.d. to give warning of the approach of hostile ships. following this lofty coast southwards, you reach hayburn wyke, where a stream drops perpendicularly over some square masses of rock. there is a small stone circle not far from hayburn wyke station, to be found without much trouble, and those who are interested in early man will scarcely find a neighbourhood in this country more thickly honey-combed with tumuli and ancient earth-works. there is no particularly plain pathway through the fields to the valley where this stone circle can be seen, but it can easily be found after a careful study of the large-scale ordnance map which they will show you at the hotel. chapter v scarborough dazzling sunshine, a furious wind, flapping and screaming gulls, crowds of fishing-boats, and innumerable people jostling one another on the sea-front, made up the chief features of my first view of scarborough. by degrees i discovered that behind the gulls and the brown sails were old houses, their roofs dimly red through the transparent haze, and above them appeared a great green cliff, with its uneven outline defined by the curtain walls and towers of the castle which had made scarborough a place of importance in the civil war and in earlier times. the wide-curving bay was filled with huge breaking waves which looked capable of destroying everything within their reach, but they seemed harmless enough when i looked a little further out, where eight or ten grey war-ships were riding at their anchors, apparently motionless. from the outer arm of the harbour, where the seas were angrily attempting to dislodge the top row of stones, i could make out the great mass of grey buildings stretching right to the extremity of the bay. i tried to pick out individual buildings from this city-like watering-place, but, beyond discovering the position of the spa and one or two of the mightier hotels, i could see very little, and instead fell to wondering how many landladies and how many foreign waiters the long lines of grey roofs represented. this raised so many unpleasant recollections of the various types i had encountered that i determined to go no nearer to modern scarborough than the pier-head upon which i stood. a specially big wave, however, soon drove me from this position to a drier if more crowded spot, and, reconsidering my objections, i determined to see something of the innumerable grey streets which make up the fashionable watering-place. the terraced gardens on the steep cliffs along the sea-front were most elaborately well kept, but a more striking feature of scarborough is the magnificence of so many of the shops. they suggest a city rather than a seaside town, and give you an idea of the magnitude of the permanent population of the place as well as the flood of summer and winter visitors. the origin of scarborough's popularity was undoubtedly due to the chalybeate waters of the spa, discovered in 1620, almost at the same time as those of tunbridge wells and epsom. the unmistakable signs of antiquity in the narrow streets adjoining the harbour irresistibly remind one of the days when sea-bathing had still to be popularized, when the efficacy of scarborough's medicinal spring had not been discovered, of the days when the place bore as little resemblance to its present size or appearance as the fishing-town at robin hood's bay. we do not know that piers gaveston, sir hugh cholmley, and other notabilities who have left their mark on the pages of scarborough's history, might not, were they with us to-day, welcome the pierrot, the switchback, the restaurant, and other means by which pleasure-loving visitors wile away their hardly-earned holidays; but for my part the story of scarborough's mayor who was tossed in a blanket is far more entertaining than the songs of nigger minstrels or any of the commercial attempts to amuse. this strangely improper procedure with one who held the highest office in the municipality took place in the reign of james ii., and the king's leanings towards popery were the cause of all the trouble. on april 27, 1688, a declaration for liberty of conscience was published, and by royal command the said declaration was to be read in every protestant church in the land. mr. thomas aislabie, the mayor of scarborough, duly received a copy of the document, and, having handed it to the clergyman, mr. noel boteler, ordered him to read it in church on the following sunday morning. there seems little doubt that the worthy mr. boteler at once recognized a wily move on the part of the king, who under the cover of general tolerance would foster the growth of the roman religion until such time as the catholics had attained sufficient power to suppress protestantism. mr. mayor was therefore informed that the declaration would not be read. on sunday morning (august 11) when the omission had been made, the mayor left his pew, and, stick in hand, walked up the aisle, seized the minister, and caned him as he stood at his reading-desk. scenes of such a nature did not occur every day even in 1688, and the storm of indignation and excitement among the members of the congregation did not subside so quickly as it had risen. the cause of the poor minister was championed in particular by a certain captain ouseley, and the discussion of the matter on the bowling-green on the following day led to the suggestion that the mayor should be sent for to explain his conduct. as he took no notice of a courteous message requesting his attendance, the captain repeated the summons accompanied by a file of musketeers. in the meantime many suggestions for dealing with mr. aislabie in a fitting manner were doubtless made by the captain's brother officers, and, further, some settled course of action seems to have been agreed upon, for we do not hear of any hesitation on the part of the captain on the arrival of the mayor, whose rage must by this time have been bordering upon apoplexy. a strong blanket was ready, and captains carvil, fitzherbert, hanmer, and rodney, led by captain ouseley and assisted by as many others as could find room, seizing the sides, in a very few moments mr. mayor was revolving and bumping, rising and falling, as though he were no weight at all. if the castle does not show many interesting buildings beyond the keep and the long line of walls and drumtowers, there is so much concerning it that is of great human interest that i should scarcely feel able to grumble if there were still fewer remains. behind the ancient houses in quay street rises the steep, grassy cliff, up which one must climb by various rough pathways to the fortified summit. on the side facing the mainland, a hollow, known as the dyke, is bridged by a tall and narrow archway, in place of the drawbridge of the seventeenth century and earlier times. on the same side is a massive barbican, looking across an open space to st. mary's church, which suffered so severely during the sieges of the castle. the maimed church--for the chancel has never been rebuilt--is close to the dyke and the shattered keep, and so apparent are the results of the cannonading between them that no one requires to be told that the parliamentary forces mounted their ordnance in the chancel and tower of the church, and it is equally obvious that the royalists returned the fire hotly. the great siege lasted for nearly a year, and although his garrison was small, and there was practically no hope of relief, sir hugh cholmley seems to have kept a stout heart up to the end. with him throughout this long period of privation and suffering was his beautiful and courageous wife, whose comparatively early death, at the age of fifty-four, must to some extent be attributed to the strain and fatigue borne during these months of warfare. sir hugh seems to have almost worshipped his wife, for in his memoirs he is never weary of describing her perfections. 'she was of the middle stature of women,' he writes, 'and well shaped, yet in that not so singular as in the beauty of her face, which was but of a little model, and yet proportionable to her body; her eyes black and full of loveliness and sweetness, her eyebrows small and even, as if drawn with a pencil, a very little, pretty, well-shaped mouth, which sometimes (especially when in a muse or study) she would draw up into an incredible little compass; her hair a sad chestnut; her complexion brown, but clear, with a fresh colour in her cheeks, a loveliness in her looks inexpressible; and by her whole composure was so beautiful a sweet creature at her marriage as not many did parallel, few exceed her, in the nation; yet the inward endowments and perfections of her mind did exceed those outward of her body, being a most pious virtuous person, of great integrity and discerning judgment in most things.' on one occasion during the siege sir john meldrum, the parliamentary commander, sent proposals to sir hugh cholmley, which he accompanied with savage threats, that if his terms were not immediately accepted he would make a general assault on the castle that night, and in the event of one drop of his men's blood being shed he would give orders for a general massacre of the garrison, sparing neither man nor woman. to a man whose devotion to his beautiful wife was so great, a threat of this nature must have been a severe shock to his determination to hold out. but from his own writings we are able to picture for ourselves sir hugh's anxious and troubled face lighting up on the approach of the cause of his chief concern. lady cholmley, without any sign of the inward misgivings or dejection which, with her gentle and shrinking nature, must have been a great struggle, came to her husband, and implored him to on no account let her peril influence his decision to the detriment of his own honour or the king's affairs. sir john meldrum's proposals having been rejected, the garrison prepared itself for the furious attack commenced on may 11. the assault was well planned, for while the governor's attention was turned towards the gateway leading to the castle entrance, another attack was made at the southern end of the wall towards the sea, where until the year 1730 charles's tower stood. the bloodshed at this point was greater than at the gateway. at the head of a chosen division of troops, sir john meldrum climbed the almost precipitous ascent with wonderful courage, only to meet with such spirited resistance on the part of the besieged that, when the attack was abandoned, it was discovered that meldrum had received a dangerous wound penetrating to his thigh, and that several of his officers and men had been killed. meanwhile, at the gateway, the first success of the assailants had been checked at the foot of the grand tower or keep, for at that point the rush of drab-coated and helmeted men was received by such a shower of stones and missiles that many stumbled and were crushed on the steep pathway. not even cromwell's men could continue to face such a reception, and before very long the governor could embrace his wife in the knowledge that the great attack had failed. at last, on july 22, 1645--his forty-fifth birthday--sir hugh was forced to come to an agreement with the enemy, by which he honourably surrendered the castle three days later. it was a sad procession that wound its way down the steep pathway, littered with the debris of broken masonry: for many of sir hugh's officers and soldiers were in such a weak condition that they had to be carried out in sheets or helped along between two men, and the parliamentary officer adds rather tersely, that 'the rest were not very fit to march.' the scurvy had depleted the ranks of the defenders to such an extent that the women in the castle, despite the presence of lady cholmley, threatened to stone the governor unless he capitulated. three years later the castle was again besieged by the parliamentary forces, for colonel matthew boynton, the governor, had declared for the king. the garrison held out from august to december, when terms were made with colonel hugh bethell, by which the governor, officers, gentlemen, and soldiers, marched out with 'their colours flying, drums beating, musquets loaden, bandeleers filled, matches lighted, and bullet in mouth, to a close called scarborough common,' where they laid down their arms. before i leave scarborough i must go back to early times, in order that the antiquity of the place may not be slighted owing to the omission of any reference to the town in the domesday book. tosti, count of northumberland, who, as everyone knows, was brother of the harold who fought at senlac hill, had brought about an insurrection of the northumbrians, and having been dispossessed by his brother, he revenged himself by inviting the help of haralld hadrada, king of norway. the norseman promptly accepted the offer, and, taking with him his family and an army of warriors, sailed for the shetlands, where tosti joined him. the united forces then came down the east coast of britain until they reached scardaburgum, where they landed and prepared to fight the inhabitants. the town was then built entirely of timber, and there was, apparently, no castle of any description on the great hill, for the norsemen, finding their opponents inclined to offer a stout resistance, tried other tactics. they gained possession of the hill, constructed a huge fire, and when the wood was burning fiercely, flung the blazing brands down on to the wooden houses below. the fire spread from one hut to another with sufficient speed to drive out the defenders, who in the confusion which followed were slaughtered by the enemy. this occurred in the momentous year 1066, when harold, having defeated the norsemen and slain haralld hadrada at stamford bridge, had to hurry southwards to meet william the norman at hastings. it is not surprising, therefore, that the compilers of the conqueror's survey should have failed to record the existence of the blackened embers of what had once been a town. but such a site as the castle hill could not long remain idle in the stormy days of the norman kings, and william le gros, earl of albemarle and lord of holderness, recognising the natural defensibility of the rock, built the massive walls which have withstood so many assaults, and even now form the most prominent feature of scarborough. until 1923 there was no knowledge of there having been any roman occupation of the promontory upon which the castle stands. excavations made in that year have shown that a massively-built watch tower was maintained there during the last phase of roman control in britain. this was one of a chain of signal or lookout stations placed along the yorkshire coast when the threat of raiders from the mouths of the german rivers had become serious. chapter vi whitby behold the glorious summer sea as night's dark wings unfold, and o'er the waters, 'neath the stars, the harbour lights behold. _e. teschemacher_. despite a huge influx of summer visitors, and despite the modern town which has grown up to receive them, whitby is still one of the most strikingly picturesque towns in england. but at the same time, if one excepts the abbey, the church, and the market-house, there are scarcely any architectural attractions in the town. the charm of the place does not lie so much in detail as in broad effects. the narrow streets have no surprises in the way of carved-oak brackets or curious panelled doorways, although narrow passages and steep flights of stone steps abound. on the other hand, the old parts of the town, when seen from a distance, are always presenting themselves in new apparel. in the early morning the east cliff generally appears as a pale grey silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a fretted one the abbey. but as the sun climbs upwards, colour and definition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their ruddy tones. at midday, when the sunlight pours down upon the medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly coloured. the predominant note is the red of the chimneys and roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. there is scarcely a chimney in this old part of whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-grey smoke that slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is no bright sunshine, colour and details are subdued in the haze. in many towns whose antiquity and picturesqueness are more popular than the attractions of whitby, the railway deposits one in some distressingly ugly modern excrescence, from which it may even be necessary for a stranger to ask his way to the old-world features he has come to see. but at whitby the railway, without doing any harm to the appearance of the town, at once gives a visitor as typical a scene of fishing-life as he will ever find. when the tide is up and the wharves are crowded with boats, this upper portion of whitby harbour is at its best, and to step from the railway compartment entered at king's cross into this picturesque scene is an experience to be remembered. in the deepening twilight of a clear evening the harbour gathers to itself the additional charm of mysterious indefiniteness, and among the long-drawn-out reflections appear sinuous lines of yellow light beneath the lamps by the bridge. looking towards the ocean from the outer harbour, one sees the massive arms which whitby has thrust into the waves, holding aloft the steady lights that 'safely guide the mighty ships into the harbour bay.' if we keep to the waterside, modern whitby has no terrors for us. it is out of sight, and might therefore have never existed. but when we have crossed the bridge, and passed along the narrow thoroughfare known as church street to the steps leading up the face of the cliff, we must prepare ourselves for a new aspect of the town. there, upon the top of the west cliff, stand rows of sad-looking and dun-coloured lodging-houses, relieved by the aggressive bulk of a huge hotel, with corner turrets, that frowns savagely at the unfinished crescent, where there are many apartments with 'rooms facing the sea.' turning landwards we look over the chimney stacks of the topmost houses, and see the silver esk winding placidly in the deep channel it has carved for itself; and further away we see the far off moorland heights, brown and blue, where the sources of the broad river down below are fed by the united efforts of innumerable tiny streams deep in the heather. behind us stands the massive-looking parish church, with its norman tower, so sturdily built that its height seems scarcely greater than its breadth. there is surely no other church with such a ponderous exterior that is so completely deceptive as to its internal aspect, for st. mary's contains the most remarkable series of beehive-like galleries that were ever crammed into a parish church. they are not merely very wide and ill-arranged, but they are superposed one abode the other. the free use of white paint all over the sloping tiers of pews has prevented the interior from being as dark as it would have otherwise been, but the result of all this painted deal has been to give the building the most eccentric and indecorous appearance. the early history of whitby from the time of the landing of roman soldiers in the inlet seems to be very closely associated with the abbey founded by hilda about two years after the battle of winwidfield, fought on november 15, a.d. 654; but i will not venture to state an opinion here as to whether there was any town at streoneshalh before the building of the abbey, or whether the place that has since become known as whitby grew on account of the presence of the abbey. such matters as these have been fought out by an expert in the archaeology of cleveland--the late canon atkinson, who seemed to take infinite pleasure in demolishing the elaborately constructed theories of those painstaking historians of the eighteenth century, dr. young and mr. lionel charlton. many facts, however, which throw light on the early days of the abbey are now unassailable. we see that hilda must have been a most remarkable woman for her times, instilling into those around her a passion for learning as well as right-living, for despite the fact that they worked and prayed in rude wooden buildings, with walls formed, most probably, of split tree-trunks, after the fashion of the church at greenstead in essex, we find the institution producing, among others, such men as bosa and john, both archbishops of york, and such a poet as caedmon. the legend of his inspiration, however, may be placed beside the story of how the saintly abbess turned the snakes into the fossil ammonites with which the liassic shores of whitby are strewn. hilda, who probably died in the year 680, was succeeded by aelfleda, the daughter of king oswiu of northumbria, whom she had trained in the abbey, and there seems little doubt that her pupil carried on successfully the beneficent work of the foundress. aelfleda had the support of her mother's presence as well as the wise counsels of bishop trumwine, who had taken refuge at streoneshalh, after having been driven from his own sphere of work by the depredations of the picts and scots. we then learn that aelfleda died at the age of fifty-nine, but from that year--probably 713--a complete silence falls upon the work of the abbey; for if any records were made during the next century and a half, they have been totally lost. about the year 867 the danes reached this part of yorkshire, and we know that they laid waste the abbey, and most probably the town also; but the invaders gradually started new settlements, or 'bys,' and whitby must certainly have grown into a place of some size by the time of edward the confessor, for just previous to the norman invasion it was assessed for danegeld to the extent of a sum equivalent to £3,500 at the present time. after the conquest a monk named reinfrid succeeded in reviving a monastery on the site of the old one, having probably gained the permission of william de percy, the lord of the district. the new establishment, however, was for monks only, and was for some time merely a priory. the form of the successive buildings from the time of hilda until the building of the stately abbey church, whose ruins are now to be seen, is a subject of great interest, but, unfortunately, there are few facts to go upon. the very first church was, as i have already suggested, a building of rude construction, scarcely better than the humble dwellings of the monks and nuns. the timber walls were most probably thatched, and the windows would be of small lattice or boards pierced with small holes. gradually the improvements brought about would have led to the use of stone for the walls, and the buildings destroyed by the danes may have resembled such examples of anglo-saxon work as may still be seen in the churches of bradford-on-avon and monkwearmouth. the buildings erected by reinfrid under the norman influence then prevailing in england must have been a slight advance upon the destroyed fabric, and we know that during the time of his successor, serlo de percy, there was a certain godfrey in charge of the building operations, and there is every reason to believe that he completed the church during the fifty years of prosperity the monastery passed through at that time. but this was not the structure which survived, for towards the end of stephen's reign, or during that of henry ii., the unfortunate convent was devastated by the king of norway, who entered the harbour, and, in the words of the chronicle, 'laid waste everything, both within doors and without.' the abbey slowly recovered from this disaster, and the reconstruction commenced in 1220, still makes a conspicuous landmark from the sea. it was after the dissolution that the abbey buildings came into the hands of sir richard cholmley, who paid over to henry viii. the sum of £333 8s. 4d. the manors of eskdaleside and ugglebarnby, with all 'their rights, members and appurtenances as they formerly had belonged to the abbey of whiby,' henceforward belonged to sir richard and his successors. sir hugh cholmley, whose defence of scarborough castle has made him a name in history, was born on july 22, 1600, at roxby, near pickering. he has been justly called 'the father of whitby,' and it is to him we owe a fascinating account of his life at whitby in stuart and jacobean times. he describes how he lived for some time in the gate-house of the abbey buildings, 'till my house was repaired and habitable, which then was very ruinous and all unhandsome, the wall being only of timber and plaster, and ill-contrived within: and besides the repairs, or rather re-edifying the house, i built the stable and barn, i heightened the outwalls of the court double to what they were, and made all the wall round about the paddock; so that the place hath been improved very much, both for beauty and profit, by me more than all my ancestors, for there was not a tree about the house but was set in my time, and almost by my own hand.' in the spring of 1636 the reconstruction of the abbey house was finished, and sir hugh moved in with his family. 'my dear wife,' he says '(who was excellent at dressing and making all handsome within doors), had put it into a fine posture, and furnished with many good things, so that, i believe, there were few gentlemen in the country, of my rank, exceeded it.... i was at this time made deputy-lieutenant and colonel over the train-bands within the hundred of whitby strand, ruedale, pickering, lythe and scarborough town; for that, my father being dead, the country looked upon me as the chief of my family.' 'i had between thirty and forty in my ordinary family, a chaplain who said prayers every morning at six, and again before dinner and supper, a porter who merely attended the gates, which were ever shut up before dinner, when the bell rung to prayers, and not opened till one o'clock, except for some strangers who came to dinner, which was ever fit to receive three or four besides my family, without any trouble; and whatever their fare was, they were sure to have a hearty welcome. as a definite result of his efforts, 'all that part of the pier to the west end of the harbour' was erected, and yet he complains that, though it was the means of preserving a large section of the town from the sea, the townsfolk would not interest themselves in the repairs necessitated by force of the waves. 'i wish, with all my heart,' he exclaims, 'the next generation may have more public spirit.' chapter vii the cleveland hills on their northern and western flanks the cleveland hills have a most imposing and mountainous aspect, although their greatest altitudes do not aspire to more than about 1,500 feet. but they rise so suddenly to their full height out of the flat sea of green country that they often appear as a coast defended by a bold range of mountains. roseberry topping stands out in grim isolation, on its masses of alum rock, like a huge sea-worn crag, considerably over 1,000 feet high. but this strangely menacing peak raises his defiant head over nothing but broad meadows, arable land, and woodlands, and his only warfare is with the lower strata of storm-clouds, which is a convenient thing for the people who live in these parts; for long ago they used the peak as a sign of approaching storms, having reduced the warning to the easily-remembered couplet: 'when roseberry topping wears a cap, let cleveland then beware of a clap.' from the fact that you can see this remarkable peak from almost every point of the compass except south-westwards, it must follow that from the top of the hill there are views in all those directions. but to see so much of the country at once comes as a surprise to everyone. stretching inland towards the backbone of england, there is spread out a huge tract of smiling country, covered with a most complex network of hedges, which gradually melt away into the indefinite blue edge of the world where the hills of wensleydale rise from the plain. looking across the little town of guisborough, lying near the shelter of the hills, to the broad sweep of the north sea, this piece of yorkshire seems so small that one almost expects to see the cheviots away in the north. but, beyond the winding tees and the drifting smoke of the great manufacturing towns on its banks, one must be content with the county of durham, a huge section of which is plainly visible. turning towards the brown moorlands, the cultivation is exchanged for ridge beyond ridge of total desolation--a huge tract of land in this crowded england where the population for many square miles at a time consists of the inmates of a lonely farm or two in the circumscribed cultivated areas of the dales. eight or nine hundred years ago these valleys were choked up with forests. the early british inhabitants were more inclined to the hill-tops than the hollows, if the innumerable indications of their settlements be any guide, and there is every reason for believing that many of the hollows in the folds of the heathery moorlands were rarely visited by man. thus, the suggestion has been made that a few of the last representatives of now extinct monsters may have survived in these wild retreats, for how otherwise do we find persistent stories in these parts of yorkshire, handed down we cannot tell how many centuries, of strange creatures described as 'worms'? at loftus they show you the spot where a 'grisly worm' had its lair, and in many places there are traditions of strange long-bodied dragons who were slain by various valiant men. on easby moor, a few miles to the south of roseberry topping, the tall column to the memory of captain cook stands like a lighthouse on this inland coastline. the lofty position it occupies among these brown and purply-green heights makes the monument visible over a great tract of the sailor's native cleveland. the people who live in marton, the village of his birthplace, can see the memorial of their hero's fame, and the country lads of to-day are constantly reminded of the success which attended the industry and perseverance of a humble marton boy. the cottage where james cook was born in 1728 has gone, but the field in which it stood is called cook's garth. the shop at staithes, generally spoken of as a 'huckster's,' where cook was apprenticed as a boy, has also disappeared; but, unfortunately, that unpleasant story of his having taken a shilling from his master's till, when the attractions of the sea proved too much for him to resist, persistently clings to all accounts of his early life. there seems no evidence to convict him of this theft, but there are equally no facts by which to clear him. but if we put into the balance his subsequent term of employment at whitby, the excellent character he gained when he went to sea, and professor j.k. laughton's statement that he left staithes 'after some disagreement with his master,' there seems every reason to believe that the story is untrue. i have seldom seen a more uninhabited and inhospitable-looking country than the broad extent of purple hills that stretch away to the south-west from great ayton and kildale moors. walking from guisborough to kildale on a wild and stormy afternoon in october, i was totally alone for the whole distance when i had left behind me the baker's boy who was on his way to hutton with a heavy basket of bread and cakes. hutton, which is somewhat of a model village for the retainers attached to hutton hall, stands in a lovely hollow at the edge of the moors. the steep hills are richly clothed with sombre woods, and the peace and seclusion reigning there is in marked contrast to the bleak wastes above. when i climbed the steep road on that autumn afternoon, and, passing the zone of tall, withered bracken, reached the open moorland, i seemed to have come out merely to be the plaything of the elements; for the south-westerly gale, when it chose to do so, blew so fiercely that it was difficult to make any progress at all. overhead was a dark roof composed of heavy masses of cloud, forming long parallel lines of grey right to the horizon. on each side of the rough, water-worn road the heather made a low wall, two or three feet high, and stretched right away to the horizon in every direction. in the lulls, between the fierce blasts, i could hear the trickle of the water in the rivulets deep down in the springy cushion of heather. a few nimble sheep would stare at me from a distance, and then disappear, or some grouse might hover over a piece of rising ground; but otherwise there were no signs of living creatures. nearing kildale, the road suddenly plunged downwards to a stream flowing through a green, cultivated valley, with a lonely farm on the further slope. there was a fir-wood above this, and as i passed over the hill, among the tall, bare stems, the clouds parted a little in the west, and let a flood of golden light into the wood. instantly the gloom seemed to disappear, and beyond the dark shoulder of moorland, where the cook monument appeared against the glory of the sunset, there seemed to reign an all-pervading peace, the wood being quite silent, for the wind had dropped. the rough track through the trees descended hurriedly, and soon gave a wide view over kildale. the valley was full of colour from the glowing west, and the steep hillsides opposite appeared lighter than the indigo clouds above, now slightly tinged with purple. the little village of kildale nestled down below, its church half buried in yellow foliage. the ruined danby castle can still be seen on the slope above the esk, but the ancient bow bridge at castleton, which was built at the end of the twelfth century, was barbarously and needlessly destroyed in 1873. a picture of the bridge has, fortunately, been preserved in canon atkinson's 'forty years in a moorland parish.' that book has been so widely read that it seems scarcely necessary to refer to it here, but without the help of the vicar, who knew every inch of his wild parish, the danby district must seem much less interesting. chapter viii guisborough and the skelton valley although a mere fragment of the augustinian priory of guisborough is standing to-day, it is sufficiently imposing to convey a powerful impression of the former size and magnificence of the monastic church. this fragment is the gracefully buttressed east-end of the choir, which rises from the level meadow-land to the east of the town. the stonework is now of a greenish-grey tone, but in the shadows there is generally a look of blue. beyond the ruin and through the opening of the great east window, now bare of tracery, you see the purple moors, with the ever-formidable roseberry topping holding its head above the green woods and pastures. the destruction of the priory took place most probably during the reign of henry viii., but there are no recorded facts to give the date of the spoiling of the stately buildings. the materials were probably sold to the highest bidder, for in the town of guisborough there are scattered many fragments of richly-carved stone, and ord, one of the historians of cleveland, says: 'i have beheld with sorrow, and shame, and indignation, the richly ornamented columns and carved architraves of god's temple supporting the thatch of a pig-house.' the norman priory church, founded in 1119, by the wealthy robert de brus of skelton, was, unfortunately, burnt down on may 16, 1289. walter of hemingburgh, a canon of guisborough, has written a quaintly detailed account of the origin of the fire. translated from the monkish latin, he says 'on the first day of rogation-week, a devouring flame consumed our church of gysburn, with many theological books and nine costly chalices, as well as vestments and sumptuous images; and because past events are serviceable as a guide to future inquiries, i have thought it desirable, in the present little treatise, to give an account of the catastrophe, that accidents of a similar nature may be avoided through this calamity allotted to us. on the day above mentioned, which was very destructive to us, a vile plumber, with his two workmen, burnt our church whilst soldering up two holes in the old lead with fresh pewter. for some days he had already, with a wicked disposition, commenced, and placed his iron crucibles, along with charcoal and fire, on rubbish, or steps of a great height, upon dry wood with some turf and other combustibles. about noon (in the cross, in the body of the church, where he remained at his work until after mass) he descended before the procession of the convent, thinking that the fire had been put out by his workmen. they, however, came down quickly after him, without having completely extinguished the fire; and the fire among the charcoal revived, and partly from the heat of the iron, and partly from the sparks of the charcoal, the fire spread itself to the wood and other combustibles beneath. after the fire was thus commenced, the lead melted, and the joists upon the beams ignited; and then the fire increased prodigiously, and consumed everything.' hemingburgh concludes by saying that all that they could get from the culprits was the exclamation, 'quid potui ego?' shortly after this disaster the prior and convent wrote to edward ii., excusing themselves from granting a corrody owing to their great losses through the burning of the monastery, as well as the destruction of their property by the scots. but guisborough, next to fountains, was almost the richest establishment in yorkshire, and thus in a few years' time there arose from the norman foundations a stately church and convent built in the early decorated style. one of the most interesting relics of the great priory is the altar-tomb, believed to be that of robert de brus of annandale. the stone slabs are now built into the walls on each side of the porch of guisborough church. they may have been removed there from the abbey for safety at the time of the dissolution. hemingburgh, in his chronicle for the year 1294, says: 'robert de brus the fourth died on the eve of good friday; who disputed with john de balliol, before the king of england, about the succession to the kingdom of scotland. and, as he ordered when alive, he was buried in the priory of gysburn with great honour, beside his own father.' a great number of other famous people were buried here in accordance with their wills. guisborough has even been claimed as the resting place of robert bruce, the champion of scottish freedom, but there is ample evidence for believing that his heart was buried at melrose abbey and his body in dunfermline abbey. the central portion of the town of guisborough, by the market-cross and the two chief inns, is quaint and fairly picturesque, but the long street as it goes westward deteriorates into rows of new cottages, inevitable in a mining country. mining operations have been carried on around guisborough since the time of queen elizabeth, for the discovery of alum dates from that period, and when that industry gradually declined, it was replaced by the iron mines of today. mr. thomas chaloner of guisborough, in his travels on the continent about the end of the sixteenth century, saw the pope's alum works near rome, and was determined to start the industry in his native parish of guisborough, feeling certain that alum could be worked with profit in his own country. as it was essential to have one or two men who were thoroughly versed in the processes of the manufacture, mr. chaloner induced some of the pope's workmen by heavy bribes to come to england. the risks attending this overt act were terrible, for the alum works brought in a large revenue to his holiness, and the discovery of such a design would have meant capital punishment to the offender. the workmen were therefore induced to get into large casks, which were secretly conveyed on board a ship which was shortly sailing for england. when the pope received the intelligence some time afterwards, he thundered forth against mr. chaloner and the workmen the most awful and comprehensive curse. they were to be cursed most wholly and thoroughly in every part of their bodies, every saint was to curse them, and from the thresholds of the holy church of god almighty they were to be sequestered, that they might 'be tormented, disposed of, and delivered over with dathan and abiram, and with those who say unto the lord god, "depart from us; we desire not to know thy ways."' the broad valley stretching from guisborough to the sea contains the beautifully wooded park of skelton castle. the trees in great masses cover the gentle slopes on either side of the skelton beck, and almost hide the modern mansion. the buildings include part of the ancient castle of the bruces, who were lords of skelton for many years. chapter ix from pickering to rievaulx abbey the broad vale of pickering, watered by the derwent, the rye and their many tributaries, is a wonderful contrast to the country we have been exploring. the level pastures, where cattle graze and cornfields abound, seem to suggest that we are separated from the heather by many leagues; but we have only to look beyond the hedgerows to see that the horizon to the north is formed by lofty moors only a few miles distant. just where the low meadows are beginning to rise steadily from the vale stands the town of pickering, dominated by the lofty stone spire of its parish church and by the broken towers of the castle. there is a wide street, bordered by dark stone buildings, that leads steeply from the river to the church. the houses are as a rule quite featureless, but we have learnt to expect this in a county where stone is abundant, for only the extremely old and the palpably new buildings stand out from the grey austerity of the average yorkshire town. in rare cases some of the houses are brightened with white and cream paint on windows and doors, and if these commendable efforts became less rare, pickering would have as cheerful an aspect to the stranger as helmsley, which we shall pass on our way to rievaulx. approached by narrow passages between the grey houses and shops, the church is most imposing, for it is not only a large building, but the cramped position magnifies its bulk and emphasizes the height of the norman tower, surmounted by the tall stone spire added during the fourteenth century. going up a wide flight of steps, necessitated by the slope of the ground, we enter the church through the beautiful porch, and are at once confronted with the astonishingly perfect paintings which cover the walls of the nave. the pictures occupy nearly all the available wall-space between the arches and the top of the clerestory, and their crude quaintnesses bring the ideas of the first half of the fifteenth century vividly before us. there is a spirited representation of st. george in conflict with a terrible dragon, and close by we see a bearded st. christopher holding a palm-tree with both hands, and bearing on his shoulder the infant christ. then comes herod's feast, with the king labelled _herodi_. the guests are shown with their arms on the table in the most curious positions, and all the royal folk are wearing ermine. the coronation of the virgin, the martyrdom of st. thomas à becket, and the martyrdom of st. edmund, who is perforated with arrows, complete the series on the north side. along the south wall the paintings show the story of st. catherine of alexandria and the seven corporal acts of mercy. further on come scenes from the life of our lord. the simple norman arcade on the north side of the nave has plain round columns and semicircular arches, but the south side belongs to later norman times, and has ornate columns and capitals. at least one member of the great bruce family, who had a house at pickering called bruce's hall, and whose ascendency at guisborough has already been mentioned, was buried here, for the figure of a knight in chain-mail by the lectern probably represents sir william bruce. in the chapel there is a sumptuous monument bearing the effigies of sir david and dame margery roucliffe. the knight wears the collar of ss, and his arms are on his surcoat. when john leland, the 'royal antiquary' employed by henry viii., came to pickering, he described the castle, which was in a more perfect state than it is to-day. he says: 'in the first court of it be a 4 toures, of the which one is caullid rosamunde's toure.' also of the inner court he writes of '4 toures, wherof the kepe is one.' this keep and rosamund's tower, as well as the ruins of some of the others, are still to be seen on the outer walls, so that from some points of view the ruins are dignified and picturesque. the area enclosed was large, and in early times the castle must have been almost impregnable. but during the civil war it was much damaged by the soldiers quartered there, and sir hugh cholmley took lead, wood, and iron from it for the defence of scarborough. the wide view from the castle walls shows better than any description the importance of the position it occupied, and we feel, as we gaze over the vale or northwards to the moors, that this was the dominant power over the whole countryside. although lastingham is not on the road to helmsley, the few additional miles will scarcely be counted when we are on our way to a church which, besides being architecturally one of the most interesting in the county, is perhaps unique in having at one time had a curate whose wife kept a public-house adjoining the church. although this will scarcely be believed, we have a detailed account of the matter in a little book published in 1806. the clergyman, whose name was carter, had to subsist on the slender salary of £20 a year and a few surplice fees. this would not have allowed any margin for luxuries in the case of a bachelor; but this poor man was married, and he had thirteen children. he was a keen fisherman, and his angling in the moorland streams produced a plentiful supply of fish--in fact, more than his family could consume. but this, even though he often exchanged part of his catches with neighbours, was not sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, and drastic measures had to be taken. the parish was large, and, as many of the people were obliged to come 'from ten to fifteen miles' to church, it seemed possible that some profit might be made by serving refreshments to the parishioners. mrs. carter superintended this department, and it seems that the meals between the services soon became popular. but the story of 'a parson-publican' was soon conveyed to the archdeacon of the diocese, who at the next visitation endeavoured to find out the truth of the matter. mr. carter explained the circumstances, and showed that, far from being a source of disorder, his wife's public-house was an influence for good. 'i take down my violin,' he continued, 'and play them a few tunes, which gives me an opportunity of seeing that they get no more liquor than necessary for refreshment; and if the young people propose a dance, i seldom answer in the negative; nevertheless, when i announce time for return, they are ever ready to obey my commands.' the archdeacon appears to have been a broad-minded man, for he did not reprimand mr. carter at all; and as there seems to have been no mention of an increased stipend, the parson publican must have continued this strange anomaly. the writings of bede give a special interest to lastingham, for he tells us how king oidilward requested bishop cedd to build a monastery there. the saxon buildings that appeared at that time have gone, so that the present church cannot be associated with the seventh century. no doubt the destruction was the work of the danes, who plundered the whole of this part of yorkshire. the church that exists today is of transitional norman date, and the beautiful little crypt, which has an apse, nave and aisles, is coeval with the superstructure. the situation of lastingham in a deep and picturesque valley surrounded by moors and overhung by woods is extremely rich. further to the west there are a series of beautiful dales watered by becks whose sources are among the cleveland hills. on our way to ryedale, the loveliest of these, we pass through kirby moorside, a little town which has gained a place in history as the scene of the death of the notorious george villiers, second duke of buckingham, on april 17, 1687. the house in which he died is on the south side of the king's head, and in one of the parish registers there is the entry under the date of april 19th, 'gorges viluas, lord dooke of bookingam, etc.' further down the street stands an inn with a curious porch, supported by turned wooden pillars, bearing the inscription: 'anno: dom 1632 october xi william wood' kirkdale, with its world-renowned cave, to which we have already referred, lies about two miles to the west. the quaint little saxon church there is one of the few bearing evidences of its own date, ascertained by the discovery in 1771 of a saxon sun-dial, which had survived under a layer of plaster, and was also protected by the porch. a translation of the inscription reads: 'orm, the son of gamal, bought st. gregory's minster when it was all broken and fallen, and he caused it to be made anew from the ground, for christ and st. gregory, in the days of king edward and in the days of earl tosti, and hawarth wrought me and brand the prior (priest or priests).' by this we are plainly told that a church was built there in the reign of edward the confessor. a pleasant road leads through nawton to the beautiful little town of helmsley. a bend of the broad, swift-flowing rye forms one boundary of the place, and is fed by a gushing brook that finds its way from rievaulx moor, and forms a pretty feature of the main street. a narrow turning by the market-house shows the torn and dishevelled fragment of the keep of helmsley castle towering above the thatched roofs in the foreground. the ruin is surrounded by tall elms, and from this point of view, when backed by a cloudy sunset makes a wonderful picture. like scarborough, this stronghold was held for the king during the civil war. after the battle of marston moor and the fall of york, fairfax came to helmsley and invested the castle. he received a wound in the shoulder during the siege; but the garrison having surrendered on honourable terms, the parliament ordered that the castle should be dismantled, and the thoroughness with which the instructions were carried out remind one of knaresborough, for one side of the keep was blown to pieces by a terrific explosion and nearly everything else was destroyed. all the beauty and charm of this lovely district is accentuated in ryedale, and when we have accomplished the three long uphill miles to rievaulx, and come out upon the broad grassy terrace above the abbey, we seem to have entered a land of beulah. we see a peaceful valley overlooked on all sides by lofty hills, whose steep sides are clothed with luxuriant woods; we see the rye flowing past broad green meadows; and beneath the tree-covered precipice below our feet appear the solemn, roofless remains of one of the first cistercian monasteries established in this country. there is nothing to disturb the peace that broods here, for the village consists of a mere handful of old and picturesque cottages, and we might stay on the terrace for hours, and, beyond the distant shouts of a few children at play and the crowing of some cocks, hear nothing but the hum of insects and the singing of birds. we take a steep path through the wood which leads us down to the abbey ruins. the magnificent early english choir and the norman transepts stand astonishingly complete in their splendid decay, and the lower portions of the nave, which, until 1922, lay buried beneath masses of grass-grown débris, are now exposed to view. the richly-draped hill-sides appear as a succession of beautiful pictures framed by the columns and arches on each side of the choir. as they stand exposed to the weather, the perfectly proportioned mouldings, the clustered pillars in a wonderfully good state of preservation, and the almost uninjured clerestory are more impressive than in an elaborately-restored cathedral. chapter x describes the dale country as a whole when in the early years of life one learns for the first time the name of that range of mountains forming the backbone of england, the youthful scholar looks forward to seeing in later years the prolonged series of lofty hills known as the 'pennine range.' his imagination pictures pen-y-ghent and ingleborough as great peaks, seldom free from a mantle of clouds, for are they not called 'mountains of the pennine range,' and do they not appear in almost as large type in the school geography as snowdon and ben nevis? but as the scholar grows older and more able to travel, so does the pennine range recede from his vision, until it becomes almost as remote as those crater-strewn mountains in the moon which have a name so similar. this elusiveness on the part of a natural feature so essentially static as a mountain range is attributable to the total disregard of the name of this particular chain of hills. in the same way as the term 'cumbrian hills' is exchanged for the popular 'lake district,' so is a large section of the pennine range paradoxically known as the 'yorkshire dales.' it is because the hills are so big that the valleys are deep and it is owing to the great watersheds that these long and narrow dales are beautified by some of the most copious and picturesque rivers in england. in spite of this, however, when one climbs any of the fells over 2,000 feet, and looks over the mountainous ridges on every side, one sees, as a rule, no peak or isolated height of any description to attract one's attention. instead of the rounded or angular projections from the horizon that are usually associated with a mountainous district, there are great expanses of brown table-land that form themselves into long parallel lines in the distance, and give a sense of wild desolation in some ways more striking than the peaks of scotland or wales. the thick formations of millstone grit and limestone that rest upon the shale have generally avoided crumpling or distortion, and thus give the mountain views the appearance of having had all the upper surfaces rolled flat when they were in a plastic condition. denudation and the action of ice in the glacial epochs have worn through the hard upper stratum, and formed the long and narrow dales; and in littondale, wharfedale, wensleydale, and many other parts, one may plainly see the perpendicular wall of rock sharply defining the upper edges of the valleys. the softer rocks below generally take a gentle slope from the base of the hard gritstone to the riverside pastures below. at the edges of the dales, where water-falls pour over the wall of limestone--as at hardraw scar, near hawes--the action of water is plainly demonstrated, for one can see the rapidity with which the shale crumbles, leaving the harder rocks overhanging above. unlike the moors of the north-eastern parts of yorkshire, the fells are not prolific in heather. it is possible to pass through wensleydale--or, indeed, most of the dales--without seeing any heather at all. on the broad plateaux between the dales there are stretches of moor partially covered with ling; but in most instances the fells and moors are grown over at their higher levels with bent and coarse grass, generally of a browny-ochrish colour, broken here and there by an outcrop of limestone that shows grey against the swarthy vegetation. in the upper portions of the dales--even in the narrow riverside pastures--the fences are of stone, turned a very dark colour by exposure, and everywhere on the slopes of the hills a wide network of these enclosures can be seen traversing even the most precipitous ascents. where the dales widen out towards the fat plains of the vale of york, quickset hedges intermingle with the gaunt stone, and as one gets further eastwards the green hedge becomes triumphant. the stiles that are the fashion in the stone-fence districts make quite an interesting study to strangers, for, wood being an expensive luxury, and stone being extremely cheap, everything is formed of the more enduring material. instead of a trap-gate, one generally finds an excessively narrow opening in the fences, only just giving space for the thickness of the average knee, and thus preventing the passage of the smallest lamb. some stiles are constructed with a large flat stone projecting from each side, one slightly in front and overlapping the other, so that one can only pass through by making a very careful s-shaped movement. more common are the projecting stones, making a flight of precarious steps on each side of the wall. except in their lowest and least mountainous parts, where they are subject to the influences of the plains, the dales are entirely innocent of red tiles and haystacks. the roofs of churches, cottages, barns and mansions, are always of the local stone, that weathers to beautiful shades of green and grey, and prevents the works of man from jarring with the great sweeping hill-sides. then, instead of the familiar grey-brown haystack, one sees in almost every meadow a neatly-built stone house with an upper storey. the lower part is generally used as a shelter for cattle, while above is stored hay or straw. by this system a huge amount of unnecessary carting is avoided, and where roads are few and generally of exceeding steepness a saving of this nature is a benefit easily understood. the villages of the dales, although having none of the bright colours of a level country, are often exceedingly quaint, and rich in soft shades of green and grey. in the autumn the mellowed tints of the stone houses are contrasted with the fierce yellows and browny-reds of the foliage, and the villages become full of bright colours. at all times, except when the country is shrivelled by an icy northern wind, the scenery of the dales has a thousand charms. chapter xi richmond for the purposes of this book we may consider richmond as the gateway of the dale country. there are other gates and approaches, some of which may have advocates who claim their superiority over richmond as starting-places for an exploration of this description, but for my part, i can find no spot on any side of the mountainous region so entirely satisfactory. if we were to commence at bedale or leyburn, there is no exact point where the open country ceases and the dale begins; but here at richmond there is not the very smallest doubt, for on reaching the foot of the mass of rock dominated by the castle and the town, swaledale commences in the form of a narrow ravine, and from that point westwards the valley never ceases to be shut in by steep sides, which become narrower and grander with every mile. the railway that keeps richmond in touch with the world does its work in a most inoffensive manner, and by running to the bottom of the hill on which the town stands, and by there stopping short, we seem to have a strong hint that we have been brought to the edge of a new element in which railways have no rights whatever. this is as it should be, and we can congratulate the north-eastern company for its discretion and its sense of fitness. even the station is built of solid stonework, with a strong flavour of medievalism in its design, and its attractiveness is enhanced by the complete absence of other modern buildings. we are thus welcomed to the charms of richmond at once. the rich sloping meadows by the river, crowned with dense woodlands, surround us and form a beautiful setting of green for the town, which has come down from the fantastic days of the norman conquest without any drastic or unseemly changes, and thus has still the compactness and the romantic outline of feudal times. from whatever side you approach it, richmond has always some fine combination of towers overlooking a confusion of old red roofs and of rocky heights crowned with ivy-mantled walls, all set in the most sumptuous surroundings of silvery river and wooded hills, such as the artists of the age of steel-engraving loved to depict. every one of these views has in it one dominating feature in the magnificent norman keep of the castle. it overlooks church towers and everything else with precisely the same aloofness of manner it must have assumed as soon as the builders of nearly eight hundred years ago had put the last stone in place. externally, at least, it is as complete to-day as it was then, and as there is no ivy upon it, i cannot help thinking that the bretons who built it in that long distant time would swell with pride were they able to see how their ambitious work has come down the centuries unharmed. we can go across the modern bridge, with its castellated parapets, and climb up the steep ascent on the further side, passing on the way the parish church, standing on the steep ground outside the circumscribed limits of the wall which used to enclose the town in early times. turning towards the castle, we go breathlessly up the cobbled street that climbs resolutely to the market-place in a foolishly direct fashion, which might be understood if it were a roman road. there is a sleepy quietness about this way up from the station, which is quite a short distance, and we look for much movement and human activity in the wide space we have reached; but here, too, on this warm and sunny afternoon, the few folks who are about seem to find ample time for conversation and loitering. on one side of us is the king's head, whose steep tiled roof and square front has just that air of respectable importance that one expects to find in an old established english hotel. it looks across the cobbled space to the curious block of buildings that seems to have been intended for a church but has relapsed into shops. the shouldering of secular buildings against the walls of churches is a sight so familiar in parts of france that this market place has an almost continental flavour, in keeping with the fact that richmond grew up under the protection of the formidable castle built by that alan rufus of brittany who was the conqueror's second cousin. the town ceased to be a possession of the dukes of brittany in the reign of richard ii., but there had evidently been sufficient time to allow french ideals to percolate into the minds of the men of richmond, for how otherwise can we account for this strange familiarity of shops with a sacred building which is unheard of in any other english town? where else can one find a pork-butcher's shop inserted between the tower and the nave, or a tobacconist doing business in the aisle of a church? even the lower parts of the tower have been given up to secular uses, so that one only realizes the existence of the church by keeping far enough away to see the sturdy pinnacled tower that rises above the desecrated lower portions of the building. in this tower hangs the curfew-bell, which is rung at 6 a.m. and 8 p.m., a custom, according to one writer, 'that has continued ever since the time of william the conqueror.' all the while we have been lingering in the market-place the great keep has been looking at us over some old red roofs, and urging us to go on at once to the finest sight that richmond can offer, and, resisting the appeal no longer, we make our way down a narrow little street leading out to a walk that goes right round the castle cliffs at the base of the ivy-draped walls. from down below comes the sound of the river, ceaselessly chafing its rocky bottom and the big boulders that lie in the way. you can distinguish the hollow sound of the waters as they fall over ledges into deep pools, and you can watch the silvery gleams of broken water between the old stone bridge and the dark shade of the woods. the masses of trees clothing the side of the gorge add a note of mystery to the picture by swallowing up the river in their heavy shade, for, owing to its sinuous course among the cliffs, one can see only a short piece of water beyond the bridge. the old corner of the town at the foot of bargate appears over the edge of the rocky slope, but on the opposite side of the swale there is little to be seen beside the green meadows and shady coppices that cover the heights above the river. there is a fascination in this view in its capacity for change. it responds to every mood of the weather, and every sunset that glows across the sombre woods has some freshness, some feature that is quite unlike any other. autumn, too, is a memorable time for those who can watch the face of nature from this spot, for when one of those opulent evenings of the fall of the year turns the sky into a golden sea of glory, studded with strange purple islands, there is unutterable beauty in the flaming woods and the pale river. on the way back to the market-place we pass a decayed arch that was probably a postern in the walls of the town. there can be no doubt whatever of the existence of these walls, for leland begins his description of the town with the words '_richemont_ towne is waullid,' and in another place he says: 'waullid it was, but the waul is now decayid. the names and partes of 4 or 5 gates yet remaine.' we cannot help wondering why richmond could not have preserved her gates as york has done, or why she did not even make the effort sufficient to retain a single one, as bridlington and beverley did. the two posterns--one we have just mentioned, and the other in friar's wynd, on the north side of the market-place, with a piece of wall 6 feet thick adjoining--are interesting, but we would have preferred something much finer than these mere arches; and while we are grumbling over what richmond has lost, we may also measure the disaster which befell the market-place in 1771, when the old cross was destroyed. before that year there stood on the site of the present obelisk a very fine cross which clarkson, who wrote about a century ago, mentions as being the greatest beauty of the town to an antiquary. a high flight of steps led up to a square platform, which was enclosed by a richly ornamented wall about 6 feet high, having buttresses at the corners, each surmounted with a dog seated on its hind-legs. within the wall rose the cross, with its shaft made from one piece of stone. there were 'many curious compartments' in the wall, says clarkson, and 'a door that opened into the middle of the square,' but this may have been merely an arched opening. the enrichments, either of the cross itself or the wall, included four shields bearing the arms of the great families of fitz-hugh, scrope (quartering tibetot), conyers, and neville. from the description there is little doubt that this cross was a very beautiful example of perpendicular or perhaps decorated gothic, in place of which we have a crude and bulging obelisk bearing the inscription: 'rebuilt (!) a.d. 1771, christopher wayne, esq., mayor'; it should surely have read: 'perpetrated during the mayoralty of christopher wayne goth.' although, as we have seen, leland, who wrote in 1538, mentions frenchgate and finkel street gate as 'down,' yet they must have been only partially destroyed, or were rebuilt afterwards, for whitaker, writing in 1823, mentions that they were pulled down 'not many years ago' to allow the passage of broad and high-laden waggons. there can be little doubt, therefore, that, swollen with success after the demolition of the cross, the mayor and corporation proceeded to attack the remaining gateways, so that now not the smallest suggestion of either remains. but even here we have not completed the list of barbarisms that took place about this time. the barley cross, which stood near the larger one, must have been quite an interesting feature. it consisted of a lofty pillar with a cross at the top, and rings were fastened either on the shaft or to the steps upon which it stood, so that the cross might answer the purpose of a whipping-post. the pillory stood not far away, and the may-pole is also mentioned. but despite all this squandering of the treasures that it should have been the business of the town authorities to preserve, the tower of the grey friars has survived, and, next to the castle, it is one of the chief ornaments of the town. some other portions of the monastery are incorporated in the buildings which now form the grammar school. the grey friars is on the north side of the town, outside the narrow limits of the walls, and was probably only finished in time to witness the dispersal of the friars who had built it. it is even possible that it was part of a new church that was still incomplete when the dissolution of the monasteries made the work of no account except as building materials for the townsfolk. the actual day of the surrender was january 19, 1538, and we wonder if robert sanderson, the prior, and the fourteen brethren under him, suffered much from the privations that must have attended them at that coldest period of the year. at one time the friars, being of a mendicant order, and inured to hard living and scanty fare, might have made light of such a disaster, but in these later times they had expanded somewhat from their austere ways of living, and the dispersal must have cost them much suffering. going back to the reign of henry vii. or there-abouts, we come across the curious ballad of 'the felon sow of rokeby and the freres of richmond' quoted from an old manuscript by sir walter scott in 'rokeby.' it may have been as a practical joke, or merely as a good way of getting rid of such a terrible beast, that 'ralph of rokeby, with goodwill, the fryers of richmond gave her till.' friar middleton, who with two lusty men was sent to fetch the sow from rokeby, could scarcely have known that she was 'the grisliest beast that ere might be, her head was great and gray: she was bred in rokeby wood; there were few that thither goed, that came on live [= alive] away. 'she was so grisley for to meete, she rave the earth up with her feete, and bark came fro the tree; when fryer middleton her saugh, weet ye well he might not laugh, full earnestly look'd hee.' to calm the terrible beast when they found it almost impossible to hold her, the friar began to read 'in st. john his gospell,' but 'the sow she would not latin heare, but rudely rushed at the frear,' who, turning very white, dodged to the shelter of a tree, whence he saw with horror that the sow had got clear of the other two men. at this their courage evaporated, and all three fled for their lives along the watling street. when they came to richmond and told their tale of the 'feind of hell' in the garb of a sow, the warden decided to hire on the next day two of the 'boldest men that ever were borne.' these two, gilbert griffin and a 'bastard son of spaine,' went to rokeby clad in armour and carrying their shields and swords of war, and even then they only just overcame the grisly sow. if we go across the river by the modern bridge, we can see the humble remains of st. martin's priory standing in a meadow by the railway. the ruins consist of part of a perpendicular tower and a norman doorway. perhaps the tower was built in order that the grey friars might not eclipse the older foundation, for st. martin's was a cell belonging to st. mary's abbey at york and was founded by wyman, steward or dapifer to the earl of richmond, about the year 1100, whereas the franciscans in the town owed their establishment to radulph fitz-ranulph, a lord of middleham in 1258. the doorway of st. martin's, with its zigzag mouldings must be part of wyman's building, but no other traces of it remain. having come back so rapidly to the norman age, we may well stay there for a time while we make our way over the bridge again and up the steep ascent of frenchgate to the castle. on entering the small outer barbican, which is reached by a lane from the market-place, we come to the base of the norman keep. its great height of nearly 100 feet is quite unbroken from foundations to summit, and the flat buttresses are featureless. the recent pointing of the masonry has also taken away any pronounced weathering, and has left the tower with almost the same gaunt appearance that it had when duke conan saw it completed. passing through the arch in the wall abutting the keep, we come into the grassy space of over two acres, that is enclosed by the ramparts. it is not known by what stages the keep reached its present form, though there is every reason to believe that conan, the fifth earl of richmond, left the tower externally as we see it to-day. this puts the date of the completion of the keep between 1146 and 1171. the floors are now a store for the uniforms and accoutrements of the soldiers quartered at richmond, so that there is little to be seen as we climb a staircase in the walls 11 feet thick, and reach the battlemented turrets. looking downwards, we gaze right into the chimneys of the nearest houses, and we see the old roofs of the town packed closely together in the shelter of the mighty tower. a few tiny people are moving about in the market-place, and there is a thin web of drifting smoke between us and them. everything is peaceful and remote; even the sound of the river is lost in the wind that blows freely upon us from the great moorland wastes stretching away to the western horizon. it is a romantic country that lies around us, and though the cultivated area must be infinitely greater than in the fighting days when these battlements were finished, yet i suppose the vale of mowbray which we gaze upon to the east must have been green, and to some extent fertile, when that conan who was duke of brittany and also earl of richmond looked out over the innumerable manors that were his yorkshire possessions. i can imagine his eye glancing down on a far more thrilling scene than the green three-sided courtyard enclosed by a crumbling grey wall, though to him the buildings, the men, and every detail that filled the great space, were no doubt quite prosaic. it did not thrill him to see a man-at-arms cleaning weapons, when the man and his clothes, and even the sword, were as modern and everyday as the soldier's wife and child that we can see ourselves, but how much would we not give for a half-an-hour of his vision, or even a part of a second, with a good camera in our hands? in the lower part of what is called robin hood's tower is the chapel of st. nicholas, with arcaded walls of early norman date, and a long and narrow slit forming the east window. more interesting than this is the norman hall at the south-east angle of the walls. it was possibly used as the banqueting-room of the castle, and is remarkable as being one of the best preserved of the norman halls forming separate buildings that are to be found in this country. the hall is roofless, but the corbels remain in a perfect state, and the windows on each side are well preserved. the builder was probably earl conan, for the keep has details of much the same character. it is generally called scolland's hall, after the lord of bedale of that name, who was a sewer or dapifer to the first earl alan of richmond. scolland was one of the tenants of the earl, and under the feudal system of tenure he took part in the regular guarding of the castle. there is probably much norman work in various parts of the crumbling curtain walls, and at the south-west corner a norman turret is still to be seen. alan, who received from the conqueror the vast possessions of earl edwin, was no doubt the founder of richmond. he probably received this splendid reward for his services soon after the suppression of the saxon efforts for liberty under the northern earls. william, having crushed out the rebellion in the remorseless fashion which finally gave him peace in his new possessions, distributed the devastated saxon lands among his supporters; thus a great part of the earldom of mercia fell to this breton. the site of richmond was fixed as the new centre of power, and the name, with its apparently obvious meaning, may date from that time, unless the suggested anglo-saxon derivation which gives it as rice-munt--the hill of rule--is correct. after this gilling must soon have ceased to be of any account. there can be little doubt that the castle was at once planned to occupy the whole area enclosed by the walls as they exist to-day, although the full strength of the place was not realized until the time of the fifth earl, who, as we have seen, was most probably the builder of the keep in its final form, as well as other parts of the castle. richmond must then have been considered almost impregnable, and this may account for the fact that it appears to have never been besieged. in 1174, when william the lion of scotland was invading england, we are told in jordan fantosme's chronicle that henry ii., anxious for the safety of the honour of richmond, and perhaps of its custodian as well, asked: 'randulf de glanvile est-il en richemunt?' the king was in france, his possessions were threatened from several quarters, and it would doubtless be a relief to him to know that a stronghold of such importance was under the personal command of so able a man as glanville. in july of that year the danger from the scots was averted by a victory at alnwick, in which fight glanville was one of the chief commanders of the english, and he probably led the men of richmondshire. it is a strange thing that richmond castle, despite its great pre-eminence, should have been allowed to become a ruin in the reign of edward iii.--a time when castles had obviously lost none of the advantages to the barons which they had possessed in norman times. the only explanation must have been the divided interests of the owners, for, as dukes of brittany, as well as earls of richmond, their english possessions were frequently endangered when france and england were at war. and so it came about that when a duke of brittany gave his support to the king of france in a quarrel with the english, his possessions north of the channel became crown property. how such a condition of affairs could have continued for so long is difficult to understand, but the final severing came at last, when the unhappy richard ii. was on the throne of england. the honour of richmond then passed to ralph neville, the first earl of westmoreland, but the title was given to edmund tudor, whose mother was queen catherine, the widow of henry v. edmund tudor, as all know, married margaret beaufort, the heiress of john of gaunt, and died about two months before his wife--then scarcely fourteen years old--gave birth to his only son, who succeeded to the throne of england as henry vii. he was earl of richmond from his birth, and it was he who carried the name to the thames by giving it to his splendid palace which he built at shene. even the ballad of 'the lass of richmond hill' is said to come from yorkshire, although it is commonly considered a possession of surrey. protected by the great castle, there came into existence the town of richmond, which grew and flourished. the houses must have been packed closely together to provide the numerous people with quarters inside the wall which was built to protect the place from the raiding scots. the area of the town was scarcely larger than the castle, and although in this way the inhabitants gained security from one danger, they ran a greater risk from a far more insidious foe, which took the form of pestilences of a most virulent character. after one of these visitations the town of richmond would be left in a pitiable plight. many houses would be deserted, and fields became 'over-run with briars, nettles, and other noxious weeds.' easby abbey is so much a possession of richmond that we cannot go towards the mountains until we have seen something of its charms. the ruins slumber in such unutterable peace by the riverside that the place is well suited to our mood to go a-dreaming of the centuries which have been so long dead that our imaginations are not cumbered with any of the dull times that may have often set the canons of st. agatha's yawning. the walk along the steep shady bank above the river is beautiful all the way, and the surroundings of the broken walls and traceried windows are singularly rich. there is nothing, however, at easby that makes a striking picture, although there are many architectural fragments that are full of beauty. fountains, rievaulx and tintern, all leave easby far behind, but there are charms enough here with which to be content, and it is, perhaps, a pleasant thought to know that, although on this sunny afternoon these meadows by the swale seem to reach perfection, yet in the neighbourhood of ripon there is something still finer waiting for us. of the abbey church scarcely more than enough has survived for the preparation of a ground-plan, and many of the evidences are now concealed by the grass. the range of domestic buildings that surrounded the cloister garth are, therefore, the chief interest, although these also are broken and roofless. we can wander among the ivy-grown walls which, in the refectory, retain some semblance of their original form, and we can see the picturesque remains of the common-room, the guest-hall, the chapter-house, and the sacristy. beyond the ruins of the north transept, a corridor leads into the infirmary, which, besides having an unusual position, is remarkable as being one of the most complete groups of buildings set apart for this object. a noticeable feature of the cloister garth is a norman arch belonging to a doorway that appears to be of later date. this is probably the only survival of the first monastery founded, it is said, by roald, constable of richmond castle, in 1152. building of an extensive character was, therefore, in progress at the same time in these sloping meadows, as on the castle heights, and st. martin's priory, close to the town, had not long been completed. whoever may have been the founder of the abbey, it is definitely known that the great family of scrope obtained the privileges that had been possessed by the constable, and they added so much to the property of the monastery that in the reign of henry viii. the scropes were considered the original founders. easby thus became the stately burying-place of the family and the splendid tombs that appeared in the choir of their church were a constant reminder to the canons of the greatness of the lords of bolton. sir henry le scrope was buried beneath a great stone effigy, bearing the arms--azure, a bend or--of his house. near by lay sir william le scrope's armed figure, and round about were many others of the family buried beneath flat stones. we know this from the statement of an abbot of easby in the fourteenth century; and but for the record of his words there would be nothing to tell us anything of these ponderous memorials, which have disappeared as completely as though they had had no more permanence than the yellow leaves that are just beginning to flutter from the trees. the splendid church, the tombs, and even the very family of scrope, have disappeared; but across the hills, in the valley of the ure, their castle still stands, and in the little church of wensley there can still be seen the parclose screen of perpendicular date that one of the scropes must have rescued when the monastery was being stripped and plundered. the fine gate-house of easby abbey, which is in a good state of preservation, stands a little to the east of the parish church, and the granary is even now in use. on the sides of the parvise over the porch of the parish church are the arms of scrope, conyers, and aske; and in the chancel of this extremely interesting old building there can be seen a series of wall-paintings, some of which probably date from the reign of henry iii. this would make them earlier than those at pickering. chapter xii swaledale there is a certain elevated and wind-swept spot, scarcely more than a long mile from richmond, that commands a view over a wide extent of romantic country. vantage-points of this type, within easy reach of a fair-sized town, are inclined to be overrated, and, what is far worse, to be spoiled by the litter of picnic parties; but whitcliffe scar is free from both objections. in magnificent september weather one may spend many hours in the midst of this great panorama without being disturbed by a single human being, besides a possible farm labourer or shepherd; and if scraps of paper and orange-peel are ever dropped here, the keen winds that come from across the moors dispose of them as efficaciously as the keepers of any public parks. the view is removed from a comparison with many others from the fact that one is situated at the dividing-line between the richest cultivation and the wildest moorlands. whitcliffe scar is the mount pisgah from whence the jaded dweller in towns can gaze into a promised land of solitude, 'where things that own not man's dominion dwell, and mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been.' the eastward view of green and smiling country is undeniably beautiful, but to those who can appreciate byron's enthusiasm for the trackless mountain there is something more indefinable and inspiring in the mysterious loneliness of the west. the long, level lines of the moorland horizon, when the sun is beginning to climb downwards, are cut out in the softest blue and mauve tints against the shimmering transparency of the western sky, and the plantations that clothe the sides of the dale beneath one are filled with wonderful shadows, which are thrown out with golden outlines. the view along the steep valley extends for a few miles, and then is suddenly cut off by a sharp bend where the swale, a silver ribbon along the bottom of the dale, disappears among the sombre woods and the shoulders of the hills. in this aspect of swaledale one sees its mildest and most civilized mood; for beyond the purple hill-side that may be seen in the illustration, cultivation becomes more palpably a struggle, and the gaunt moors, broken by lines of precipitous scars, assume control of the scenery. from 200 feet below, where the river is flowing along its stony bed, comes the sound of the waters ceaselessly grinding the pebbles, and from the green pastures there floats upwards a distant ba-baaing. no railway has penetrated the solitudes of swaledale, and, as far as one may look into the future in such matters, there seems every possibility of this loneliest and grandest of the yorkshire dales retaining its isolation in this respect. none but the simplest of sounds, therefore, are borne on the keen winds that come from the moorland heights, and the purity of the air whispers in the ear the pleasing message of a land where chimneys have never been. besides the original name of whitcliffe scar, this remarkable view-point has, since 1606, been popularly known as 'willance's leap.' in that year a certain robert willance, whose father appears to have been a successful draper in richmond, was hunting in the neighbourhood, when he found himself enveloped in a fog. it must have been sufficiently dense to shut out even the nearest objects; for, without any warning, willance found himself on the verge of the scar, and before he could check his horse both were precipitated over the cliff. we have no detailed account of whether the fall was broken in any way; but, although his horse was killed instantly, willance, by some almost miraculous good fortune, found himself alive at the bottom with nothing worse than a broken leg. it is a difficult matter to decide which is the more attractive means of exploring swaledale; for if one keeps to the road at the bottom of the valley many beautiful and remarkable aspects of the country are missed, and yet if one goes over the moors it is impossible really to explore the recesses of the dale. the old road from richmond to reeth avoids the dale altogether, except for the last mile, and its ups and its downs make the traveller pay handsomely for the scenery by the way. but this ought not to deter anyone from using the road; for the view of the village of marske, cosily situated among the wooded heights that rise above the beck, is missed by those who keep to the new road along the banks of the swale. the romantic seclusion of this village is accentuated towards evening, when a shadowy stillness fills the hollows. the higher woods may be still glowing with the light of the golden west, while down below a softness of outline adds beauty to every object. the old bridge that takes the road to reeth across marske beck needs no such fault-forgiving light, for it was standing in the reign of elizabeth, and, from its appearance, it is probably centuries older. the new road to reeth from richmond goes down at an easy gradient from the town to the banks of the river, which it crosses when abreast of whitcliffe scar, the view in front being at first much the same as the nearer portions of the dale seen from that height. down on the left, however, there are some chimney-shafts, so recklessly black that they seem to be no part whatever of their sumptuous natural surroundings, and might almost suggest a nightmare in which one discovered that some of the vilest chimneys of the black country had taken to touring in the beauty spots of the country. as one goes westward, the road penetrates right into the bold scenery that invites exploration when viewed from 'willance's leap.' there is a scottish feeling--perhaps alpine would be more correct--in the steeply-falling sides of the dale, all clothed in firs and other dense plantations; and just where the swale takes a decided turn towards the south there is a view up marske beck that adds much to the romance of the scene. behind one's back the side of the dale rises like a dark green wall entirely in shadow, and down below half buried in foliage, the river swirls and laps its gravelly beaches, also in shadow. beyond a strip of pasture begin the tumbled masses of trees which, as they climb out of the depths of the valley, reach the warm, level rays of sunlight that turns the first leaves that have passed their prime into the fierce yellows and burnt siennas which, when faithfully represented at burlington house, are often considered overdone. even the gaunt obelisk near marske hall responds to a fine sunset of this sort, and shows a gilded side that gives it almost a touch of grandeur. evening is by no means necessary to the attractions of swaledale, for a blazing noon gives lights and shades and contrasts of colour that are a large portion of swaledale's charms. if instead of taking either the old road by way of marske, or the new one by the riverside, one had crossed the old bridge below the castle, and left richmond by a very steep road that goes to leyburn, one would have reached a moorland that is at its best in the full light of a clear morning. the clouds are big, but they carry no threat of rain, for right down to the far horizon from whence this wind is coming there are patches of blue proportionate to the vast spaces overhead. as each white mass passes across the sun, we are immersed in a shadow many acres in extent: but the sunlight has scarcely fled when a rim of light comes over the edge of the plain, just above the hollow where downholme village lies hidden from sight, and in a few minutes that belt of sunshine has reached some sheep not far off, and rimmed their coats with a brilliant edge of white. shafts of whiteness, like searchlights, stream from behind a distant cloud, and everywhere there is brilliant contrast and a purity to the eye and lungs that only a yorkshire moor possesses. a short two miles up the road to leyburn, just above gill beck, there is an ancient house known as walburn hall, and also the remains of the chapel belonging to it, which dates from the perpendicular period. the buildings are now used as a farm, but there are still enough suggestions of a dignified past to revivify the times when this was a centre of feudal power. turning back to swaledale by a lane on the south side of gill beck, downholme village is passed a mile away on the right, and the bold scenery of the dale once more becomes impressive. two great headlands, formed by the wall-like terminations of cogden and harkerside moors, rising one above the other, stand out magnificently. their huge sides tower up nearly a thousand feet from the river, until they are within reach of the lowering clouds that every moment threaten to envelop them in their indigo embrace. there is a curious rift in the dark cumulus revealing a thin line of dull carmine that frequently changes its shape and becomes nearly obliterated, but its presence in no way weakens the awesomeness of the picture. the dale appears to become huger and steeper as the clouds thicken, and what have been merely woods and plantations in this heavy gloom become mysterious forests. the river, too, seems to change its character, and become a pale serpent, uncoiling itself from some mountain fastness where no living creatures besides great auks and carrion birds, dwell. in such surroundings as these there were established in the middle ages, two religious houses, within a mile of one another, on opposite sides of the swirling river. on the north bank, not far from marrick village, you may still see the ruins of marrick priory in its beautiful situation much as turner painted it a century ago. leland describes marrick as 'a priory of blake nunnes of the foundation of the askes.' it was, we know, an establishment for benedictine nuns, founded or endowed by roger de aske in the twelfth century. at ellerton, on the other side of the river a little lower down, the nunnery was of the cistercian order; for, although very little of its history has been discovered, leland writes of the house as 'a priori of white clothid nunnes.' after the battle of bannockburn, when the scots raided all over the north riding of yorkshire, they came along swaledale in search of plunder, and we are told that ellerton suffered from their violence. where the dale becomes wider, owing to the branch valley of arkengarthdale, there are two villages close together. grinton is reached first, and is older than reeth, which is a short distance north of the river. the parish of grinton is one of the largest in yorkshire. it is more than twenty miles long, containing something near 50,000 acres, and according to mr. speight, who has written a very detailed history of richmondshire, more than 30,000 acres of this consist of mountain, grouse-moor and scar. for so huge a parish the church is suitable in size, but in the upper portions of the dales one must not expect any very remarkable exteriors; and grinton, with its low roofs and plain battlemented tower, is much like other churches in the neighbourhood. inside there are suggestions of a norman building that has passed away, and the bowl of the font seems also to belong to that period. the two chapels opening from the chancel contain some interesting features, which include a hagioscope, and both are enclosed by old screens. leaving the village behind, and crossing the swale, you soon come to reeth, which may, perhaps, be described as a little town. it must have thrived with the lead-mines in arkengarthdale and along the swale, for it has gone back since the period of its former prosperity, and is glad of the fact that its situation, and the cheerful green which the houses look upon, have made it something of a holiday resort. when reeth is left behind, there is no more of the fine 'new' road which makes travelling so easy for the eleven miles from richmond. the surface is, however, by no means rough along the nine miles to muker, although the scenery becomes far wilder and more mountainous with every mile. the dale narrows most perceptibly; the woods become widely separated, and almost entirely disappear on the southern side; and the gaunt moors, creeping down the sides of the valley seem to threaten the narrow belt of cultivation, that becomes increasingly restricted to the river margins. precipitous limestone scars fringe the browny-green heights in many places, and almost girdle the summit of calver hill, the great bare height that rises a thousand feet above reeth. the farms and hamlets of these upper parts of swaledale are of the same greys, greens, and browns as the moors and scars that surround them. the stone walls, that are often high and forbidding, seem to suggest the fortifications required for man's fight with nature, in which there is no encouragement for the weak. in the splendid weather that so often welcomes the mere summer rambler in the upper dales the austerity of the widely scattered farms and villages may seem a little unaccountable; but a visit in january would quite remove this impression, though even in these lofty parts of england the worst winter snowstorm has, in quite recent years, been of trifling inconvenience. bad winters will, no doubt, be experienced again on the fells; but leaving out of the account the snow that used to bury farms, flocks, roads, and even the smaller gills, in a vast smother of whiteness, there are still the winds that go shrieking over the desolate heights, there is still the high rainfall, and there are still destructive thunderstorms that bring with them hail of a size that we seldom encounter in the lower levels. the great rapidity with which the swale, or such streams as the arkle, can produce a devastating flood can scarcely be comprehended by those who have not seen the results of even moderate rainstorms on the fells. when, however, some really wet days have been experienced in the upper parts of the dales, it seems a wonder that the bridges are not more often in jeopardy. of course, even the highest hills of yorkshire are surpassed in wetness by their lakeland neighbours; for whereas hawes junction, which is only about seven miles south of muker, has an average yearly rainfall of about 62 inches, mickleden, in westmorland, can show 137, and certain spots in cumberland aspire towards 200 inches in a year. the weather conditions being so severe, it is not surprising to find that no corn at all is grown in swaledale at the present day. some notes, found in an old family bible in teesdale, are quoted by mr. joseph morris. they show the painful difficulties experienced in the eighteenth century from such entries as: '1782. i reaped oats for john hutchinson, when the field was covered with snow,' and: '1799, nov. 10. much corn to cut and carry. a hard frost.' muker, notwithstanding all these climatic difficulties, has some claim to picturesqueness, despite the fact that its church is better seen at a distance, for a close inspection reveals its rather poverty-stricken state. the square tower, so typical of the dales, stands well above the weathered roofs of the village, and there are sufficient trees to tone down the severities of the stone walls, that are inclined to make one house much like its neighbour, and but for natural surroundings would reduce the hamlets to the same uniformity. at muker, however, there is a steep bridge and a rushing mountain stream that joins the swale just below. the road keeps close to this beck, and the houses are thus restricted to one side of the way. away to the south, in the direction of the buttertubs pass, is stags fell, 2,213 feet above the sea, and something like 1,300 feet above muker. northwards, and towering over the village, is the isolated mass of kisdon hill, on two sides of which the swale, now a mountain stream, rushes and boils among boulders and ledges of rock. this is one of the finest portions of the dale, and, although the road leaves the river and passes round the western side of kisdon, there is a path that goes through the glen, and brings one to the road again at keld. just before you reach keld, the swale drops 30 feet at kisdon force, and after a night of rain there are many other waterfalls to be seen in this district. these are not to me, however, the chief attractions of the head of swaledale, although without the angry waters the gills and narrow ravines that open from the dale would lose much interest. it is the stern grandeur of the scarred hillsides and the wide mountainous views from the heights that give this part of yorkshire such a fascination. if you climb to the top of rogan's seat, you have a huge panorama of desolate country spread out before you. the confused jumble of blue-grey mountains to the north-west is beyond the limits of yorkshire at last, and in their strong embrace those stern westmorland hills hold the charms of lakeland. if one stays in this mountainous region, there are new and exciting walks available for every day. there are gloomy recesses in the hillsides that encourage exploration from the knowledge that they are not tripper-worn, and there are endless heights to be climbed that are equally free from the smallest traces of desecrating mankind. rare flowers, ferns, and mosses flourish in these inaccessible solitudes, and will continue to do so, on account of the dangers that lurk in their fastnesses, and also from the fact that their value is nothing to any but those who are glad to leave them growing where they are. chapter xiii wensleydale the approach from muker to the upper part of wensleydale is by a mountain road that can claim a grandeur which, to those who have never explored the dales, might almost seem impossible. i have called it a road, but it is, perhaps, questionable whether this is not too high-sounding a term for a track so invariably covered with large loose stones and furrowed with water-courses. at its highest point the road goes through the buttertubs pass, taking the traveller to the edge of the pot-holes that have given their name to this thrilling way through the mountain ridge dividing the swale from the ure. such a lonely and dangerous road should no doubt be avoided at night, but yet i am always grateful for the delays which made me so late that darkness came on when i was at the highest portion of the pass. it was late in september, and it was the day of the feast at hawes, which had drawn to that small town farmers and their wives, and most, if not all, the young men and maidens within a considerable radius. i made my way slowly up the long ascent from muker, stumbling frequently on the loose stones and in the water-worn runnels that were scarcely visible in the dim twilight. the huge, bare shoulders of the fells began to close in more and more as i climbed. towards the west lay great shunnor fell, its vast brown-green mass being sharply defined against the clear evening sky; while further away to the north-west there were blue mountains going to sleep in the soft mistiness of the distance. then the road made a sudden zig-zag, but went on climbing more steeply than ever, until at last i found that the stony track had brought me to the verge of a precipice. there was not sufficient light to see what dangers lay beneath me, but i could hear the angry sound of a beck falling upon quantities of bare rocks. if one does not keep to the road, there is on the other side the still greater menace of the buttertubs, the dangers of which are too well known to require any emphasis of mine. those pot-holes which have been explored with much labour, and the use of winches and tackle and a great deal of stout rope, have revealed in their cavernous depths the bones of sheep that disappeared from flocks which have long since become mutton. this road is surely one that would have afforded wonderful illustrations to the 'pilgrim's progress,' for the track is steep and narrow and painfully rough; dangers lie on either side, and safety can only be found by keeping in the middle of the road. what must have been the thoughts, i wonder, of the dalesmen who on different occasions had to go over the pass at night in those still recent times when wraithes and hobs were terrible realities? in the parts of yorkshire where any records of the apparitions that used to enliven the dark nights have been kept, i find that these awesome creatures were to be found on every moor, and perhaps some day in my reading i shall discover an account of those that haunted this pass. although there are probably few who care for rough moorland roads at night, the buttertubs pass in daylight is still a memorable place. the pot-holes can then be safely approached, and one can peer into the blackness below until the eyes become adapted to the gloom. then one sees the wet walls of limestone and the curiously-formed isolated pieces of rock that almost suggest columnar basalt. in crevices far down delicate ferns are growing in the darkness. they shiver as the cool water drips upon them from above, and the drops they throw off fall down lower still into a stream of underground water that has its beginnings no man knows where. on a hot day it is cooling simply to gaze into the buttertubs, and the sound of the falling waters down in these shadowy places is pleasant after gazing on the dry fell-sides. just beyond the head of the pass, where the descent to hawes begins, the shoulders of great shunnor fell drop down, so that not only straight ahead, but also westwards, one can see a splendid mountain view. ingleborough's flat top is conspicuous in the south, and in every direction there are indications of the geology of the fells. the hard stratum of millstone grit that rests upon the limestone gives many of the summits of the hills their level character, and forms the sharply-defined scars that encircle them. the sudden and violent changes of weather that take place among these watersheds would almost seem to be cause enough to explain the wearing down of the angularities of the heights. even while we stand on the bridge at hawes we can see three or four ragged cloud edges letting down on as many places torrential rains, while in between there are intervals of blazing sunshine, under which the green fells turn bright yellow and orange in powerful contrast to the indigo shadows on every side. such rapid changes from complete saturation to sudden heat are trying to the hardest rocks, and at hardraw, close at hand, there is a still more palpable process of denudation in active operation. such a morning as this is quite ideal for seeing the remarkable waterfall known as hardraw scar or force. the footpath that leads up the glen leaves the road at the side of the 'green dragon' at hardraw, where the innkeeper hands us a key to open the gate we must pass through. being september, and an uncertain day for weather, we have the whole glen to ourselves, until behind some rocks we discover a solitary angler. there is nothing but the roughest of tracks to follow, for the carefully-made pathway that used to go right up to the fall was swept away half a dozen years ago, when the stream in a fierce mood cleared its course of any traces of artificiality. we are deeply grateful, and make our among the big rocks and across the slippery surfaces of shale, with the roar of the waters becoming more and more insistent. the sun has turned into the ravine a great searchlight that has lit up the rock walls and strewn the wet grass beneath with sparkling jewels. on the opposite side there is a dense blue shadow over everything except the foliage on the brow of the cliffs, where the strong autumn colours leap into a flaming glory that transforms the ravine into an astonishing splendour. a little more careful scrambling by the side of the stream, and we see a white band of water falling from the overhanging limestone into the pool about ninety feet below. off the surface of the water drifts a mist of spray, in which a soft patch of rainbow hovers until the sun withdraws itself for a time and leaves a sudden gloom in the horseshoe of overhanging cliffs. the place is, perhaps, more in sympathy with a cloudy sky, but, under sunshine or cloud, the spout of water is a memorable sight, and its imposing height places hardraw among the small group of england's finest waterfalls. the mass of shale that lies beneath this stratum is soft enough to be worked away by the water until the limestone overhangs the pool to the extent of ten or twelve feet, so that the water falls sheer into the circular basin, leaving a space between the cliff and the fall where it is safe to walk on a rather moist and slippery path that is constantly being sprayed from the surface of the pool. john leland wrote, nearly four hundred years ago, '_uredale_ veri litle corne except bygg or otes, but plentiful of gresse in communes,' and although this dale is so much more genial in aspect, and so much wider than the valley of the swale, yet crops are under the same disabilities. leaving gayle behind, we climb up a steep and stony road above the beck until we are soon above the level of green pasturage. the stone walls still cover the hillsides with a net of very large mesh, but the sheep find more bent than grass, and the ground is often exceedingly steep. higher still climbs this venturesome road, until all around us is a vast tumble of gaunt brown fells, divided by ravines whose sides are scarred with runnels of water, which have exposed the rocks and left miniature screes down below. at a height of nearly 1,600 feet there is a gate, where we will turn away from the road that goes on past dodd fell into langstrothdale, and instead climb a smooth grass track sprinkled with half-buried rocks until we have reached the summit of wether fell, 400 feet higher. there is a scanty growth of ling upon the top of this height, but the hills that lie about on every side are browny-green or of an ochre colour, and there is little of the purple one sees in the cleveland hills. the cultivated level of wensleydale is quite hidden from view, so that we look over a vast panorama of mountains extending in the west as far as the blue fells of lakeland. i have painted the westward view from this very summit, so that any written description is hardly needed; but behind us, as we face the scene illustrated here, there is a wonderful expanse that includes the heights of addlebrough, stake fell, and penhill beacon, which stand out boldly on the southern side of wensleydale. i have seen these hills lightly covered with snow, but that can give scarcely the smallest suggestion of the scene that was witnessed after the remarkable snowstorm of january, 1895, which blocked the roads between wensleydale and swaledale until nearly the middle of march. roads were dug out, with walls of snow on either side from 10 to 15 feet in height, but the wind and fresh falls almost obliterated the passages soon after they had been cut. in landstrothdale mr. speight tells of the extraordinary difficulties of the dalesfolk in the farms and cottages, who were faced with starvation owing to the difficulty of getting in provisions. they cut ways through the drifts as high as themselves in the direction of the likeliest places to obtain food, while in swaledale they built sledges. when we have left the highest part of wether fell, we find the track taking a perfectly straight line between stone walls. the straightness is so unusual that there can be little doubt that it is a survival of one of the roman ways connecting their station on brough hill, just above the village of bainbridge, with some place to the south-west. the track goes right over cam fell, and is known as the old cam road, but i cannot recommend it for any but pedestrians. when we have descended only a short distance, there is a sudden view of semmerwater, the only piece of water in yorkshire that really deserves to be called a lake. it is a pleasant surprise to discover this placid patch of blue lying among the hills, and partially hidden by a fellside in such a way that its area might be far greater than 105 acres. those who know turner's painting of this lake would be disappointed, no doubt, if they saw it first from this height. the picture was made at the edge of the water with the carlow stone in the foreground, and over the mountains on the southern shore appears a sky that would make the dullest potato-field thrilling. a short distance lower down, by straying a little from the road, we get a really imposing view of bardale, into which the ground falls suddenly from our very feet. sheep scamper nimbly down their convenient little tracks, but there are places where water that overflows from the pools among the bent and ling has made blue-grey seams and wrinkles in the steep places that give no foothold even to the toughest sheep. we lose sight of semmerwater behind the ridge that forms one side of the branch dale in which it lies, but in exchange we get beautiful views of the sweeping contours of wensleydale. high upon the further side of the valley askrigg's gray roofs and pretty church stand out against a steep fellside; further down we can see nappa hall, surrounded by trees, just above the winding river, and bainbridge lies close at hand. we soon come to the broad and cheerful green, surrounded by a picturesque scattering of old but well preserved cottages; for bainbridge has sufficient charms to make it a pleasant inland resort for holiday times that is quite ideal for those who are content to abandon the sea. the overflow from semmerwater, which is called the bam, fills the village with its music as it falls over ledges or rock in many cascades along one side of the green. there is a steep bridge, which is conveniently placed for watching the waterfalls; there are white geese always drilling on the grass, and there are still to be seen the upright stones of the stocks. the pretty inn called the 'rose and crown,' overlooking a corner of the green states upon a board that it was established in 1445. a horn-blowing custom has been preserved at bainbridge. it takes place at ten o'clock every night between holy rood (september 27) and shrovetide, but somehow the reason for the observance has been forgotten. the medieval regulations as to the carrying of horns by foresters and those who passed through forests would undoubtedly associate the custom with early times, and this happy old village certainly gains our respect for having preserved anything from such a remote period. when we reach bolton castle we shall find in the museum there an old horn from bainbridge. besides having the length and breadth of wensleydale to explore with or without the assistance of the railway, bainbridge has as its particular possession the valley containing semmerwater, with the three romantic dales at its head. counterside, a hamlet perched a little above the lake, has an old hall, where george fox stayed in 1677 as a guest of richard robinson. the inn bears the date 1667 and the initials 'b.h.j.,' which may be those of one of the jacksons, who were quakers at that time. on the other side of the river, and scarcely more than a mile from bainbridge, is the little town of askrigg, which supplies its neighbour with a church and a railway-station. there is a charm in its breezy situation that is ever present, for even when we are in the narrow little street that curves steeply up the hill there are quite exhilarating peeps of the dale. we can see wether fell, with the road we traversed yesterday plainly marked on the slopes, and down below, where the ure takes its way through bright pastures, there is a mist of smoke ascending from hawes. blocking up the head of the dale are the spurs of dodd and widdale fells, while beyond them appears the blue summit of bow fell. we find it hard to keep our eyes away from the distant mountains, which fascinate one by appearing to have an importance that is perhaps diminished when they are close at hand. we find ourselves halting on a patch of grass by the restored market-cross to look more closely at a fine old house overlooking the three-sided space. there is no doubt as to the date of the building, for a plain inscription begins 'gulielmus thornton posuit hanc domum mdclxxviii.' the bay windows have heavy mullions and there is a dignity about the house which must have been still more apparent when the surrounding houses were lower than at present. the wooden gallery that is constructed between the bays was, it is said, built as a convenient place for watching the bull-fights that took place just below. in the grass there can still be seen the stone to which the bull-ring was secured. the churchyard runs along the west side of the little market-place, so that there is an open view on that side, made interesting by the perpendicular church. the simple square tower and the unbroken roof-lines are battlemented, like so many of the churches of the dales; inside we find norman pillars that are quite in strange company, if it is true that they were brought from the site of fors abbey, a little to the west of the town. wensleydale generally used to be famed for its hand-knitting, but i think askrigg must have turned out more work than any place in the valley, for the men as well as the womenfolk were equally skilled in this employment, and mr. whaley says they did their work in the open air 'while gossiping with their neighbours.' this statement is, nevertheless, exceeded by what appears in a volume entitled 'the costume of yorkshire.' in that work of 1814, which contains a number of george walker's quaint drawings, reproduced by lithography, we find a picture having a strong suggestion of askrigg in which there is a group of old and young of both sexes seated on the steps of the market-cross, all knitting, and a little way off a shepherd is seen driving some sheep through a gate, and he also is knitting. from askrigg there is a road that climbs up from the end of the little street at a gradient that looks like 1 in 4, but it is really less formidable. considering its steepness the surface is quite good, but that is due to the industry of a certain road-mender with whom i once had the privilege to talk when, hot and breathless, i paused to enjoy the great expanse that lay to the south. he was a fine saxon type, with a sunburnt face and equally brown arms. road-making had been his ideal when he was a mere boy, and since he had obtained his desire he told me that he couldn't be happier if he were the king of england. the picturesque road where we leave him, breaking every large stone he can find, goes on across a belt of brown moor, and then drops down between gaunt scars that only just leave space for the winding track to pass through. it afterwards descends rapidly by the side of a gill, and thus enters swaledale. there is a beautiful walk from askrigg to mill gill force. the distance is scarcely more than half a mile across sloping pastures and through the curious stiles that appear in the stone walls. so dense is the growth of trees in the little ravine that one hears the sound of the waters close at hand without seeing anything but the profusion of foliage overhanging and growing among the rocks. after climbing down among the moist ferns and moss-grown stones, the gushing cascades appear suddenly set in a frame of such lavish beauty that they hold a high place among their rivals in the dale. keeping to the north side of the river, we come to nappa hall at a distance of a little over a mile to the east of askrigg. it is now a farmhouse, but its two battlemented towers proclaim its former importance as the chief seat of the family of metcalfe. the date of the house is about 1459, and the walls of the western tower are 4 feet in thickness. the nappa lands came to james metcalfe from sir richard scrope of bolton castle shortly after his return to england from the field of agincourt, and it was probably this james metcalfe who built the existing house. the road down the dale passes woodhall park, and then, after going down close to the ure, it bears away again to the little village of carperby. it has a triangular green surrounded by white posts. at the east end stands an old cross, dated 1674, and the ends of the arms are ornamented with grotesque carved heads. the cottages have a neat and pleasant appearance, and there is much less austerity about the place than one sees higher up the dale. a branch road leads down to aysgarth station, and just where the lane takes a sharp bend to the right a footpath goes across a smooth meadow to the banks of the ure. the rainfall of the last few days, which showed itself at mill gill force, at hardraw scar, and a dozen other falls, has been sufficient to swell the main stream at wensleydale into a considerable flood, and behind the bushes that grow thickly along the riverside we can hear the steady roar of the cascades of aysgarth. the waters have worn down the rocky bottom to such an extent that in order to stand in full view of the splendid fall we must make for a gap in the foliage, and scramble down some natural steps in the wall of rock forming low cliffs along each side of the flood. the water comes over three terraces of solid stone, and then sweeps across wide ledges in a tempestuous sea of waves and froth, until there come other descents which alter the course of parts of the stream, so that as we look across the riotous flood we can see the waters flowing in many opposite directions. lines of cream-coloured foam spread out into chains of bubbles which join together, and then, becoming detached, again float across the smooth portions of each low terrace. some footpaths bring us to aysgarth village, which seems altogether to disregard the church, for it is separated from it by a distance of nearly half a mile. there is one pleasant little street of old stone houses irregularly disposed, many of them being quite picturesque, with mossy roofs and ancient chimneys. this village, like askrigg and bainbridge, is ideally situated as a centre for exploring a very considerable district. there is quite a network of roads to the south, connecting the villages of thoralby and west burton with bishop dale, and the main road through wensleydale. thoralby is very old, and is beautifully situated under a steep hillside. it has a green overlooked by little grey cottages, and lower down there is a tall mill with curious windows built upon bishop dale beck. close to this mill there nestles a long, low house of that dignified type to be seen frequently in the north riding, as well as in the villages of westmorland. the huge chimney, occupying a large proportion of one gable-end, is suggestive of much cosiness within, and its many shoulders, by which it tapers towards the top, make it an interesting feature of the house. the dale narrows up at its highest point, but the road is enclosed between grey walls the whole of the way over the head of the valley. a wide view of langstrothdale and upper wharfedale is visible when the road begins to drop downwards, and to the east buckden pike towers up to his imposing height of 2,302 feet. we shall see him again when we make our way through wharfedale but we could go back to wensleydale by a mountain-path that climbs up the side of cam gill beck from starbottom, and then, crossing the ridge between buckden pike and tor mere top, it goes down into the wild recesses of waldendale. so remote is this valley that wild animals, long extinct in other parts of the dales, survived there until almost recent times. when we have crossed the ure again, and taken a last look at the upper fall from aysgarth bridge, we betake ourselves by a footpath to the main highway through wensleydale, turning aside before reaching redmire in order to see the great castle of the scropes at bolton. it is a vast quadrangular mass, with each side nearly as gaunt and as lofty as the others. at each corner rises a great square tower, pierced, with a few exceptions, by the smallest of windows. only the base of the tower at the north-east corner remains to-day, the upper part having fallen one stormy night in november, 1761, possibly having been weakened during the siege of the castle in the civil war. we go into the court-yard through a vaulted archway on the eastern side. many of the rooms on the side facing us are in good preservation, and an apartment in the south-west tower, which has a fireplace, is pointed out as having been used by mary queen of scots when she was imprisoned here after the battle of langside in 1568. it was the ninth lord scrope who had the custody of the queen, and he was assisted by sir francis knollys. mary, no doubt, found the time of her imprisonment irksome enough, despite the magnificent views over the dale which her windows appear to have commanded; but the monotony was relieved to some extent by the lessons in english which she received from sir francis, whom she describes as her 'good schoolmaster.' while still a prisoner, mary addressed to him her first english letter, which begins: 'master knollys, i heve sum neus from scotland'; and half-way through she begs that he will excuse her writing, seeing that she had 'neuur vsed it afor,' and was 'hestet.' the letter concludes with 'thus, affter my commendations, i prey god heuu you in his kipin. your assured gud frind, marie r.' on the opposite side of the steep-sided dale penhill stands out prominently, with its flat summit reflecting just enough of the setting sun to recall a momentous occasion when from that commanding spot a real beacon-fire sent up a great mass of flame and sparks. it was during the time of napoleon's threatened invasion of england, and the lighting of this beacon was to be the signal to the volunteers of wensleydale to muster and march to their rendezvous. the watchman on penhill, as he sat by the piled-up brushwood, wondering, no doubt, what would happen to him if the dreaded invasion were really to come about, saw, far away across the vale of mowbray, a light which he at once took to be the beacon upon roseberry topping. a moment later tongues of flame and smoke were pouring from his own hilltop, and the news spread up the dale like wildfire. the volunteers armed themselves rapidly, and with drums beating they marched away, with only such delay as was caused by the hurried leave-takings with wives and mothers, and all the rest who crowded round. the contingent took the road to thirsk, and on the way were joined by the mashamshire men. whether it was with relief or disappointment i do not know; but when the volunteers reached thirsk they heard that they had been called out by a false alarm, for the light seen in the direction of roseberry topping had been caused by accident, and the beacon on that height had not been lit. wensley stands just at the point where the dale, to which it has given its name, becomes so wide that it begins to lose its distinctive character. the village is most picturesque and secluded, and it is small enough to cause some wonder as to its distinction in naming the valley. it is suggested that the name is derived from _wodenslag_, and that in the time of the northmen's occupation of these parts the place named after their chief god would be the most important. in the little church standing on the south side of the green there is so much to interest us that we are almost unable to decide what to examine first, until, realizing that we are brought face to face with a beautiful relic of easby abbey, we turn our attention to the parclose screen. it surrounds the family pew of bolton hall, and on three sides we see the perpendicular woodwork fitted into the east end of the north aisle. the side that fronts the nave has an entirely different appearance, being painted and of a classic order, very lacking in any ecclesiastical flavour, an impression not lost on those who, with every excuse, called it 'the opera box.' in the panels of the early part of the screen are carved inscriptions and arms of the scropes covering a long period, and, though many words and letters are missing, it is possible to make them more complete with the help of the record made by the heralds in 1665. a charming lane, overhung by big trees, runs above the river-banks for nearly two miles of the way to middleham; then it joins the road from leyburn, and crosses the ure by a suspension bridge, defended by two very formidable though modern archways. climbing up past the church, we enter the cobbled market-place, which wears a rather decayed appearance in sympathy with the departed magnificence of the great castle of the nevilles. it commands a vast view of wensleydale from the southern side, in much the same manner as bolton does from the north; but the castle buildings are entirely different, for middleham consists of a square norman keep, very massive and lofty, surrounded at a short distance by a strong wall and other buildings, also of considerable height, built in the decorated period, when the nevilles were in possession of the stronghold. the norman keep dates from the year 1190, when robert fitz randolph, grandson of ribald, a brother of the earl of richmond, began to build the castle. it was, however, in later times, when middleham had come to the nevilles by marriage, that really notable events took place in this fortress. it was here that warwick, the 'king-maker,' held edward iv. prisoner in 1467, and in part iii. of the play of 'king henry vi.,' scene v. of the fourth act is laid in a park near middleham castle. richard iii.'s only son, edward prince of wales, was born here in 1467, the property having come into richard's possession by his marriage with anne neville. we have already seen leyburn shawl from near wensley, but its charm can only be appreciated by seeing the view up the dale from its larch-crowned termination. perhaps if we had seen nothing of wensleydale, and the wonderful views it offers, we should be more inclined to regard this somewhat popular spot with greater veneration; but after having explored both sides of the dale, and seen many views of a very similar character, we cannot help thinking that the vista is somewhat overrated. leyburn itself is a cheerful little town, with a modern church and a very wide main street which forms a most extensive market-place. there is a bull-ring still visible in the great open space, but beyond this and the view from the shawl leyburn has few attractions, except its position as a centre or a starting-place from which to explore the romantic neighbourhood. as we leave leyburn we get a most beautiful view up coverdale, with the two whernsides standing out most conspicuously at the head of the valley, and it is this last view of coverdale, and the great valley from which it branches, that remains in the mind as one of the finest pictures of this most remarkable portion of yorkshire. chapter xiv ripon and fountains abbey we have come out of wensleydale past the ruins of the great cistercian abbey of jervaulx, which conan, earl of richmond, moved from askrigg to a kindlier climate, and we have passed through the quiet little town of masham, famous for its fair in september, when sometimes as many as 70,000 sheep, including great numbers of the fine wensleydale breed, are sold, and now we are at ripon. it is the largest town we have seen since we lost sight of richmond in the wooded recesses of swaledale, and though we are still close to the ure, we are on the very edge of the dale country, and miss the fells that lie a little to the west. the evening has settled down to steady rain, and the market-place is running with water that reflects the lights in the shop-windows and the dark outline of the obelisk in the centre. this erection is suspiciously called 'the cross,' and it made its appearance nearly seventy years before the one at richmond. gent says it cost £564 11s. 9d., and that it is 'one of the finest in england.' i could, no doubt, with the smallest trouble discover a description of the real cross it supplanted, but if it were anything half as fine as the one at richmond, i should merely be moved to say harsh things of john aislabie, who was mayor in 1702, when the obelisk was erected, and therefore i will leave the matter to others. it is, perhaps, an un-christian occupation to go about the country quarrelling with the deeds of recent generations, though i am always grateful for any traces of the centuries that have gone which have been allowed to survive. with this thought still before me, i am startled by a long-drawn-out blast on a horn, and, looking out of my window, which commands the whole of the market-place, i can see beneath the light of a lamp an old-fashioned figure wearing a three-cornered hat. when the last quavering note has come from the great circular horn, the man walks slowly across the wet cobble-stones to the obelisk, where i watch him wind another blast just like the first, and then another, and then a third, immediately after which he walks briskly away and disappears down a turning. in the light of morning i discover that the horn was blown in front of the town hall, whose stucco front bears the inscription: 'except ye lord keep ye cittie, ye wakeman waketh in vain.' the antique spelling is, of course, unable to give a wrong impression as to the age of the building, for it shows its period so plainly that one scarcely needs to be told that it was built in 1801, although it could not so easily be attributed to the notorious wyatt. notwithstanding much reconstruction there are still a few quaint houses to be seen in ripon, and there clings to the streets a certain flavour of antiquity. it is the minster, nevertheless, that raises the 'city' above the average yorkshire town. the west front, with its twin towers, is to some extent the most memorable portion of the great church. it is the work of archbishop walter gray, and is a most beautiful example of the pure early english style. inside there is a good deal of transitional norman work to be seen. the central tower was built in this period, but now presents a most remarkable appearance, owing to its partial reconstruction in perpendicular times, the arch that faces the nave having the southern pier higher than the norman one, and in the later style, so that the arch is lop-sided. as a building in which to study the growth of english gothic architecture, i can scarcely think it possible to find anything better, all the periods being very clearly represented. the choir has much sumptuous carved woodwork, and the misereres are full of quaint detail. in the library there is a collection of very early printed books and other relics of the minster that add very greatly to the interest of the place. the monument to hugh ripley, who was the last wakeman of ripon and first mayor in 1604, is on the north side of the nave facing the entrance to the crypt, popularly called 'st. wilfrid's needle.' a rather difficult flight of steps goes down to a narrow passage leading into a cylindrically vaulted cell with niches in the walls. at the north-east corner is the curious slit or 'needle' that has been thought to have been used for purposes of trial by ordeal, the innocent person being able to squeeze through the narrow opening. in reality it is probably nothing more than an arrangement for lighting two cells with one lamp. the crypt is of such a plainly roman type, and is so similar to the one at hexham, that it is generally accepted as dating from the early days of christianity in yorkshire, and there can be little doubt that it is a relic of wilfrid's church in those early times. at a very convenient distance from ripon, and approached by a pleasant lane, are the lovely glades of studley royal, the noble park containing the ruins of fountains abbey. below the well-kept pathway runs the skell, but so transformed from its early character that you would imagine the pathways wind round the densely-wooded slopes, and give a dozen different views of each mass of trees, each temple, and each bend of the river. at last, from a considerable height, you have the lovely view of the abbey ruins illustrated here. at every season its charm is unmistakable, and even if no stately tower and no roofless arches filled the centre of the prospect, the scene would be almost as memorable. it is only one of the many pictures in the park that a retentive memory will hold as some of the most remarkable in england. among the ruins the turf is kept in perfect order, and it is pleasant merely to look upon the contrast of the green carpet that is so evenly laid between the dark stonework. the late-norman nave, with its solemn double line of round columns, the extremely graceful arches of the chapel of the nine altars, and the magnificent vaulted perspective of the dark cellarium of the lay-brothers, are perhaps the most fascinating portions of the buildings. i might be well compared with the last abbot but one, william thirsk, who resigned his post, forseeing the coming dissolution, and was therefore called 'a varra fole and a misereble ideote,' if i attempted in the short space available to give any detailed account of the abbey or its wonderful past. i have perhaps said enough to insist on its charms, and i know that all who endorse my statements will, after seeing fountains, read with delight the books that are devoted to its story. chapter xv knaresborough and harrogate it is sometimes said that knaresborough is an overrated town from the point of view of its attractiveness to visitors, but this depends very much upon what we hope to find there. if we expect to find lasting pleasure in contemplating the dropping well, or the pathetic little exhibition of petrified objects in the mother shipton inn, we may be prepared for disappointment. it seems strange that the real and lasting charms of the town should be overshadowed by such popular and much-advertised 'sights.' the first view of the town from the 'high' bridge is so full of romance that if there were nothing else to interest us in the place we would scarcely be disappointed. the nidd, flowing smoothly at the foot of the precipitous heights upon which the church and the old roofs appear, is spanned by a great stone viaduct. this might have been so great a blot upon the scene that knaresborough would have lost half its charm. strangely enough, we find just the reverse is the case, for this railway bridge, with its battlemented parapets and massive piers, is now so weathered that it has melted into its surroundings as though it had come into existence as long ago as the oldest building visible. the old knaresborough kept well to the heights adjoining the castle, and even to-day there are only a handful of later buildings down by the river margin. when we have crossed the bridge, and have passed along a narrow roadway perched well above the river, we come to one of the many interesting houses that help to keep alive the old-world flavour of the town. only a few years ago the old manor-house had a most picturesque and rather remarkable exterior, for its plaster walls were covered with a large black and white chequer-work and its overhanging eaves and tailing creepers gave it a charm that has since then been quite lost. the restoration which recently took place has entirely altered the character of the exterior, but inside everything has been preserved with just the care that should have been expended outside as well. there are oak-wainscoted parlours, oak dressers, and richly-carved fireplaces in the low-ceiled rooms, each one containing furniture of the period of the house. upstairs there is a beautiful old bedroom lined with oak, like those on the floor below, and its interest is greatly enhanced by the story of oliver cromwell's residence in the house, for he is believed to have used this particular bedroom. higher up the hill stands the church with a square central tower surmounted by a small spike. it still bears the marks of the fire made by the scots during their disastrous descent upon yorkshire after edward ii.'s defeat at bannockburn. the chapel north of the chancel contains interesting monuments of the old yorkshire family of slingsby. the altar-tomb in the centre bears the recumbent effigies of francis slingsby, who died in 1600, and mary his wife. another monument shows sir william slingsby, who accidentally discovered the first spring at harrogate. the slingsbys, who were cavaliers, produced a martyr in the cause of charles i. this was the distinguished sir henry, who, in 1658, 'being beheaded by order of the tyrant cromwell, ... was translated to a better place.' so says the inscription on a large slab of black marble in the floor of the chapel. the last of the male line of the family was sir charles slingsby, who was most unfortunately drowned by the upsetting of a ferry-boat in the ure in february, 1869. when we have progressed beyond the market-place, we come out upon an elevated grassy space upon the top of a great mass of rock whose perpendicular sides drop down to a bend of the nidd. around us are scattered the ruins of knaresborough castle--poor and of small account if we compare them with richmond, although the site is very similar; where before the siege in 1644 there must have been a most imposing mass of towers and curtain walls. of the great keep, only the lowest story is at all complete, for above the first-floor there are only two sides to the tower, and these are battered and dishevelled. the walls enclosed about the same area as richmond, but they are now so greatly destroyed that it is not easy to gain a clear idea of their position. there were no less than eleven towers, of which there now remain fragments of six, part of a gateway, and behind the old courthouse there are evidences of a secret cell. an underground sally-port opening into the moat, which was a dry one, is reached by steps leading from the castle yard. the keep is in the decorated style, and appears to have been built in the reign of edward ii. below the ground is a vaulted dungeon, dark and horrible in its hopeless strength, which is only emphasized by the tiny air-hole that lets in scarcely a glimmering of light, but reveals a thickness of 15 feet of masonry that must have made a prisoner's heart sick. it is generally understood that bolingbroke spared richard ii. such confinement as this, and that when he was a prisoner in the keep he occupied the large room on the floor above the kitchen. it is now a mere platform, with the walls running up on two sides only. the kitchen (sometimes called the guard-room) has a perfectly preserved roof of heavy groining, supported by two pillars, and it contains a collection of interesting objects, rather difficult to see, owing to the poor light that the windows allow. there is a great deal to interest us among the wind-swept ruins and the views into the wooded depths of the nidd, and we would rather stay here and trace back the history of the castle and town to the days of that norman serlo de burgh, who is the first mentioned in its annals, than go down to the tripper-worn dropping well and the mother shipton inn. the distance between knaresborough and harrogate is short, and after passing starbeck we come to an extensive common known as the stray. we follow the grassy space, when it takes a sharp turn to the north, and are soon in the centre of the great watering-place. there is one spot in harrogate that has a suggestion of the early days of the town. it is down in the corner where the valley gardens almost join the extremity of the stray. there we find the royal pump room that made its appearance in early victorian times, and its circular counter is still crowded every morning by a throng of water-drinkers. we wander through the hilly streets and gaze at the pretentious hotels, the baths, the huge kursaal, the hydropathic establishments, the smart shops, and the many churches, and then, having seen enough of the buildings, we find a seat supported by green serpents, from which to watch the passers-by. a white-haired and withered man, having the stamp of a military life in his still erect bearing, paces slowly by; then come two elaborately dressed men of perhaps twenty-five. they wear brown suits and patent boots, and their bowler hats are pressed down on the backs of their heads. then nursemaids with perambulators pass, followed by a lady in expensive garments, who talks volubly to her two pretty daughters. when we have tired of the pavements and the people, we bid farewell to them without much regret, being in a mood for simplicity and solitude, and go away towards wharfedale with the pleasant tune that a band was playing still to remind us for a time of the scenes we have left behind. chapter xvi wharfedale otley is the first place we come to in the long and beautiful valley of the wharfe. it is a busy little town where printing machinery is manufactured and worsted mills appear to thrive. immediately to the south rises the steep ridge known as the chevin. it answers the same purpose as leyburn shawl in giving a great view over the dale; the elevation of over 900 feet, being much greater than the shawl, of course commands a far more extensive panorama, and thus, in clear weather, york minster appears on the eastern horizon and the ingleton fells on the west. farnley hall, on the north side of the wharfe, is an elizabethan house dating from 1581, and it is still further of interest on account of turner's frequent visits, covering a great number of years, and for the very fine collection of his paintings preserved there. the oak-panelling and coeval furniture are particularly good, and among the historical relics there is a remarkable memento of marston moor in the sword that cromwell carried during the battle. ilkley has contrived to keep an old well-house, where the water's purity is its chief attraction. the church contains a thirteenthcentury effigy of sir andrew de middleton, and also three pre-norman crosses without arms. on the heights to the south of ilkley is rumbles moor, and from the cow and calf rocks there is a very fine view. about six miles still further up wharfedale, bolton abbey stands by a bend of the beautiful river. the ruins are most picturesquely placed on ground slightly raised above the banks of the wharfe. of the domestic buildings practically nothing remains, while the choir of the church, the central tower, and north transepts are roofless and extremely beautiful ruins. the nave is roofed in, and is used as a church at the present time, and it is probable that services have been held in the building practically without any interruption for 700 years. hiding the early english west end is the lower half of a fine perpendicular tower, commenced by richard moone, the last prior. the great east window of the choir has lost its tracery, and the decorated windows at the sides are in the same vacant state, with the exception of one. it is blocked up to half its height, like those on the north side, but the flamboyant tracery of the head is perfect and very graceful. lower down there is some late-norman interlaced arcading resting on carved corbels. from the abbey we can take our way by various beautiful paths to the exceedingly rich scenery of bolton woods. some of the reaches of the wharfe through this deep and heavily-timbered part of its course are really enchanting, and not even the knowledge that excursion parties frequently traverse the paths can rob the views of their charm. it is always possible, by taking a little trouble, to choose occasions for seeing these beautiful but very popular places when they are unspoiled by the sights and sounds of holiday-makers, and in the autumn, when the woods have an almost undreamed-of brilliance, the walks and drives are generally left to the birds and the rabbits. at the strid the river, except in flood-times, is confined to a deep channel through the rocks, in places scarcely more than a yard in width. it is one of those spots that accumulate stories and legends of the individuals who have lost their lives, or saved them, by endeavouring to leap the narrow channel. that several people have been drowned here is painfully true, for the temptation to try the seemingly easy but very risky jump is more than many can resist. higher up, the river is crossed by the three arches of barden bridge, a fine old structure bearing the inscription: 'this bridge was repayred at the charge of the whole west r ... 1676.' to the south of the bridge stands the picturesque tudor house called barden tower, which was at one time a keeper's lodge in the manorial forest of wharfedale. it was enlarged by the tenth lord clifford--the 'shepherd lord' whose strange life-story is mentioned in the next chapter in connection with skipton--but having become ruinous, it was repaired in 1658 by that indefatigable restorer of the family castles, the lady anne clifford. at this point there is a road across the moors to pateley bridge, in nidderdale, and if we wish to explore that valley, which is now partially filled with a lake formed by the damming of the nidd for bradford's water-supply, we must leave the wharfe at barden. if we keep to the more beautiful dale we go on through the pretty village of burnsall to grassington, where a branch railway has recently made its appearance from skipton. the dale from this point appears more and more wild, and the fells become gaunt and bare, with scars often fringing the heights on either side. we keep to the east side of the river, and soon after having a good view up littondale, a beautiful branch valley, we come to kettlewell. this tidy and cheerful village stands at the foot of great whernside, one of the twin fells that we saw overlooking the head of coverdale when we were at middleham. its comfortable little inns make kettlewell a very fine centre for rambles in the wild dales that run up towards the head of wharfedale. buckden is a small village situated at the junction of the road from aysgarth, and it has the beautiful scenery of langstrothdale chase stretching away to the west. about a mile higher up the dale we come to the curious old church of hubberholme standing close to the river, and forming a most attractive picture in conjunction with the bridge and the masses of trees just beyond. at raisgill we leave the road, which, if continued, would take us over the moors by dodd fell, and then down to hawes. the track goes across horse head moor, and it is so very slightly marked on the bent that we only follow it with difficulty. it is steep in places, for in a short distance it climbs up to nearly 2,000 feet. the tawny hollows in the fell-sides, and the utter wildness spread all around, are more impressive when we are right away from anything that can even be called a path. when we reach the highest point before the rapid descent into littondale we have another great view, with pen-y-ghent close at hand and fountains fell more to the south. chapter xvii skipton, malham and gordale when i think of skipton i am never quite sure whether to look upon it as a manufacturing centre or as one of the picturesque market towns of the dale country. if you arrive by train, you come out of the station upon such vast cotton-mills, and such a strong flavour of the bustling activity of the southern parts of yorkshire, that you might easily imagine that the capital of craven has no part in any holiday-making portion of the county. but if you come by road from bolton abbey, you enter the place at a considerable height, and, passing round the margin of the wooded haw beck, you have a fine view of the castle, as well as the church and the broad and not unpleasing market-place. the fine gateway of the castle is flanked by two squat towers. they are circular and battlemented, and between them upon a parapet, which is higher than the towers themselves, appears the motto of the cliffords, 'desormais' (hereafter), in open stone letters. beyond the gateway stands a great mass of buildings with two large round towers just in front; to the right, across a sloping lawn, appears the more modern and inhabited portion of the castle. the squat round towers gain all our attention, but as we pass through the doorways into the courtyard beyond, we are scarcely prepared for the astonishingly beautiful quadrangle that awaits us. it is small, and the centre is occupied by a great yew-tree, whose tall, purply-red trunk goes up to the level of the roofs without any branches or even twigs, but at that height it spreads out freely into a feathery canopy of dark green, covering almost the whole of the square of sky visible from the courtyard. the base of the trunk is surrounded by a massive stone seat, with plain shields on each side. the aspect of the courtyard suggests more that of a manor-house than a castle, the windows and doorways being purely tudor. the circular towers and other portions of the walls belong to the time of edward ii., and there is also a round-headed door that cannot be later than the time of robert de romillé, one of the conqueror's followers. the rooms that overlook the shady quadrangle are very much decayed and entirely unoccupied. they include an old dining-hall of much picturesqueness, kitchens, pantries, and butteries, some of them only lighted by very narrow windows. the destruction caused during the siege which took place during the civil war might have brought skipton castle to much the same condition as knaresborough but for the wealth and energy of that remarkable woman lady anne clifford, who was born here in 1589. she was the only surviving child of george, the third earl of cumberland, and grew up under the care of her mother, margaret, countess of cumberland, of whom lady anne used to speak as 'my blessed mother.' after her first marriage with richard sackville, earl of dorset, lady anne married the profligate philip, earl of pembroke and montgomery. she was widowed a second time in 1649, and after that began the period of her munificence and usefulness. with immense enthusiasm, she undertook the work of repairing the castles that belonged to her family, brougham, appleby, barden tower, and pendragon being restored as well as skipton. besides attending to the decayed castles, the countess repaired no less than seven churches, and to her we owe the careful restoration of the parish church of skipton. she began the repairs to the sacred building even before she turned her attention to the wants of the castle. in her private memorials we read how, 'in the summer of 1665 ... at her own charge, she caus'd the steeple of skipton church to be built up againe, which was pull'd down in the time of the late warrs, and leaded it over, and then repaired some part of the church and new glaz'd the windows, in ever of which window she put quaries, stained with a yellow colour, these two letters--viz., a. p., and under them the year 1655... besides, she raised up a noble tomb of black marble in memory of her warlike father.' this magnificent altar-tomb still stands within the communion rails on the south side of the chancel. it is adorned with seventeen shields, and whitaker doubted 'whether so great an assemblage of noble bearings can be found on the tomb of any other englishman.' this third earl was a notable figure in the reign of elizabeth, and having for a time been a great favourite with the queen, he received many of the posts of honour she loved to bestow. he was a skilful and daring sailor, helping to defeat the spanish armada, and building at his own expense one of the greatest fighting ships of his time. the memorials of lady anne give a description of her appearance in the manner of that time: "the colour of her eyes was black like her father's," we are told, "with a peak of hair on her forehead, and a dimple in her chin, like her father. the hair of her head was brown and very thick, and so long that it reached to the calf of her legs when she stood upright." we cannot leave these old towers of skipton castle without going back to the days of john, the ninth lord clifford, that "bloody clifford" who was one of the leaders of the lancastrians at wakefield, where his merciless slaughter earned him the title of "the butcher." he died by a chance arrow the night before the battle of towton, so fatal to the cause of lancaster, and lady clifford and the children took refuge in her father's castle at brough. for greater safety henry, the heir, was placed under the care of a shepherd whose wife had nursed the boy's mother when a child. in this way the future baron grew up as an entirely uneducated shepherd lad, spending his days on the fells in the primitive fashion of the peasants of the fifteenth century. when he was about twelve years old lady clifford, hearing rumours that the whereabouts of her children had become known, sent the shepherd and his wife with the boy into an extremely inaccessible part of cumberland. he remained there until his thirty-second year, when the battle of bosworth placed henry vii on the throne. then the shepherd lord was brought to londesborough, and when the family estates had been restored, he went back to skipton castle. the strangeness of his new life being irksome to him, lord clifford spent most of his time in barden forest at one of the keeper's lodges, which he adapted for his own use. there he hunted and studied astronomy and astrology with the canons of bolton. at flodden field he led the men-at-arms from craven, and showed that by his life of extreme simplicity he had in no way diminished the traditional valour of the cliffords. when he died they buried him at bolton abbey, where many of his ancestors lay, and as his successor died after the dissolution of the monasteries, the "shepherd lord" was the last to be buried in that secluded spot by the wharfe. skipton has always been a central spot for the exploration of this southern portion of the dales. to the north is kirby malham, a pretty little village with green limestone hills rising on all sides; a rushing beck coming off kirby fell takes its way past the church, and there is an old vicarage as well as some picturesque cottages. we find our way to a decayed lych-gate, whose stones are very black and moss-grown, and then get a close view of the perpendicular church. the interior is full of interest, not only on account of the norman font and the canopied niches in the pillars of the nave, but also for the old pews. the malham people seemingly found great delight in recording their names on the woodwork of the pews, for carefully carved initials and dates appear very frequently. all the pews have been cut down to the accepted height of the present day with the exception of some on the north side which were occupied by the more important families, and these still retain their squareness and the high balustrades above the panelled lower portions. just under the moorland heights surrounding malham tarn is the other village of malham. it is a charming spot, even in the gloom of a wintry afternoon. the houses look on to a strip of uneven green, cut in two, lengthways, by the aire. we go across the clear and sparkling waters by a rough stone footbridge, and, making our way past a farm, find ourselves in a few minutes at gordale bridge. here we abandon the switchback lane, and, climbing a wall, begin to make our way along the side of the beck. the fells drop down fairly sharply on each side, and in the failing light there seems no object in following the stream any further, when quite suddenly the green slope on the right stands out from a scarred wall of rock beyond, and when we are abreast of the opening we find ourselves before a vast fissure that leads right into the heart of the fell. the great split is s-shaped in plan, so that when we advance into its yawning mouth we are surrounded by limestone cliffs more than 300 feet high. if one visits gordale scar for the first time alone on a gloomy evening, as i have done, i can promise the most thrilling sensations to those who have yet to see this astonishing sight. it almost appeared to me as though i were dreaming, and that i was aladdin approaching the magician's palace. i had read some of the eighteenth-century writer's descriptions of the place, and imagined that their vivid accounts of the terror inspired by the overhanging rocks were mere exaggerations, but now i sympathize with every word. the scars overhang so much on the east side that there is not much space to get out of reach of the water that drips from every portion. great masses of stone were lying upon the bright strip of turf, and among them i noticed some that could not have been there long; this made me keep close under the cliff in justifiable fear of another fall. i stared with apprehension at one rock that would not only kill, but completely bury, anyone upon whom it fell, and i thought those old writers had underrated the horrors of the place. wordsworth writes of "gordale chasm, terrific as the lair where the young lions couch," and he also describes it as one of the grandest objects in nature. a further result of the craven fault that produced gordale scar can be seen at malham cove, about a mile away. there the cliff forms a curved front 285 feet high, facing the open meadows down below. the limestone is formed in layers of great thickness, dividing the face of the cliff into three fairly equal sections, the ledges formed at the commencement of each stratum allowing of the growth of bushes and small trees. a hard-pressed fox is said to have taken refuge on one of these precarious ledges, and finding his way stopped in front, he tried to turn, and in doing so fell and was killed. at the base of the perpendicular face of the cliff the aire flows from a very slightly arched recess in the rock. it is a really remarkable stream in making its debut without the slightest fuss, for it is large enough at its very birth to be called a small river. its modesty is a great loss to yorkshire, for if, instead of gathering strength in the hidden places in the limestone fells, it were to keep to more rational methods, it would flow to the edge of the cover, and there precipitate itself in majestic fashion into a great pool below. chapter xviii settle and the ingleton fells the track across the moor from malham cove to settle cannot be recommended to anyone at night, owing to the extreme difficulty of keeping to the path without a very great familiarity with every yard of the way, so that when i merely suggested taking that route one wintry night the villagers protested vigorously. i therefore took the road that goes up from kirby malham, having borrowed a large hurricane lamp from the "buck" inn at malham. long before i reached the open moor i was enveloped in a mist that would have made the track quite invisible even where it was most plainly marked, and i blessed the good folk at malham who had advised me to take the road rather than run the risks of the pot-holes that are a feature of the limestone fells. the little town of settle has a most distinctive feature in the possession of castleberg, a steep limestone hill, densely wooded except at the very top, that rises sharply just behind the market-place. before the trees were planted there seems to have been a sundial on the side of the hill, the precipitous scar on the top forming the gnomon. no one remembers this curious feature, although a print showing the numbers fixed upon the slope was published in 1778. the market-place has lost its curious old tolbooth, and in its place stands a town hall of good tudor design. departed also is much of the charm of the old shambles that occupy a central position in the square. the lower story, with big arches forming a sort of piazza in front of the butcher's and other shops, still remains in its old state, but the upper portion has been restored in the fullest sense of that comprehensive term. in the steep street that we came down on entering the town there may still be seen a curious old tower, which seems to have forgotten its original purpose. some of the houses have carved stone lintels to their doorways and seventeenth-century dates, while the stone figure on 'the naked man' inn, although bearing the date 1663, must be very much older, the year of rebuilding being probably indicated rather than the date of the figure. the ribble divides settle from its former parish church at giggleswick, and until 1838 the townsfolk had to go over the bridge and along a short lane to the village which held its church. settle having been formed into a separate parish, the parish clerk of the ancient village no longer has the fees for funerals and marriages. although able to share the church, the two places had stocks of their own for a great many years. at settle they have been taken from the market square and placed in the court-house, and at giggleswick one of the first things we see on entering the village is one of the stone posts of the stocks standing by the steps of the market cross. this cross has a very well preserved head, and it makes the foreground of a very pretty picture as we look at the battlemented tower of the church through the stone-roofed lichgate grown over with ivy. the history of this fine old church, dedicated, like that of middleham, to st alkelda, has been written by mr. thomas brayshaw, who knows every detail of the old building from the chalice inscribed "[illustration] the. commvnion. cvpp. belonginge. to. the. parishe. of. iyggelswicke. made. in. ano. 1585." to the inverted norman capitals now forming the bases of the pillars. the tower and the arcades date from about 1400, and the rest of the structure is about 100 years older. "the black horse" inn has still two niches for small figures of saints, that proclaim its ecclesiastical connections in early times. it is said that in the days when it was one of the duties of the churchwardens to see that no one was drinking there during the hours of service the inspection used to last up to the end of the sermon, and that when the custom was abolished the church officials regretted it exceedingly. giggleswick is also the proud possessor of a school founded in 1512. it has grown from a very small beginning to a considerable establishment, and it possesses one of the most remarkable school chapels that can be seen anywhere in the country. the greater part of this district of yorkshire is composed of limestone, forming bare hillsides honeycombed with underground waters and pot-holes, which often lead down into the most astonishing caverns. in ingleborough itself there is gaping gill hole, a vast fissure nearly 350 feet deep. it was only partially explored by m. martel in 1895. ingleborough cave penetrates into the mountain to a distance of nearly 1,000 yards, and is one of the best of these limestone caverns for its stalactite formations. guides take visitors from the village of clapham to the inmost recesses and chambers that branch out of the small portion discovered in 1837. in almost every direction there are opportunities for splendid mountain walks, and if the tracks are followed the danger of hidden pot-holes is comparatively small. from the summit of ingleborough, and, indeed, from most of the fells that reach 2,000 feet, there are magnificent views across the brown fells, broken up with horizontal lines formed by the bare rocky scars. chapter xix concerning the wolds on wide uplands of chalk the air has a raciness, the sunlight a purity and a sparkle, not to be found in lowlands. there may be no streams, perhaps not even a pond; you may find few large trees, and scarcely any parks; ruined abbeys and even castles may be conspicuously absent, and yet the landscapes have a power of attracting and fascinating. this is exactly the case with the wolds of yorkshire, and their characteristics are not unlike the chalk hills of sussex, or those great expanses of windswept downs, where the weathered monoliths of stonehenge have resisted sun and storm for ages. when we endeavour to analyse the power of attraction exerted by the wolds, we find it to exist in the sweeping outlines of the land with scarcely a house to be seen for many miles, in the purity of the air owing to the absence of smoke, in the brilliance of the sunlight due to the whiteness of the roads and fields, and in the wonderful breezes that for ever blow across pasture, stubble, and roots. above the eastern side of the valley, where the derwent takes its deep and sinuous course towards the alluvial lands, the chalk first makes its appearance in the neighbourhood of acklam, and farther north at wharram-le-street, where picturesque hollows with precipitous sides break up the edge of the cretaceous deposits. eastwards the high country, scarred here and there with gleaming chalk-pits, and netted with roads of almost equal whiteness, continues to the great headland of flamborough, where the sea frets and fumes all the summer, and lacerates the cliffs during the stormy months. the masses of flinty chalk have shown themselves so capable of resisting the erosion of the sea that the seaward termination of the wolds has for many centuries been becoming more and more a pronounced feature of the east coast of england, and if the present rate of encroachment along the low shores of holderness is continued, this accentuation will become still more conspicuous. the open roads of the wolds, bordered by bright green grass and hedges that lean away from the direction of the prevailing wind, give wide views to bare horizons, or glimpses beyond vast stretches of waving corn, of distant country, blue and indistinct, and so different in character from the immediate surroundings as to suggest the ocean. at flamborough the white cliffs, topped with the clay deposit of the glacial ages, approach a height of 200 feet; but although the thickness of the chalk is estimated to be from i,000 to i,500 feet, the greatest height above sea-level is near wilton beacon, where the hills rise sharply from the vale of york to 808 feet, and the beacon itself is 23 feet lower. on this western side of the plateau the views are extremely good, extending for miles across the flat green vale, where the derwent and the ouse, having lost much of the light-heartedness and gaiety characterizing their youth in the dales, take their wandering and converging courses towards the humber. in the distance you can distinguish a group of towers, a stately blue-grey outline cutting into the soft horizon. it is york minster. to the north-west lie the beautifully wooded hills that rise above the derwent, and hold in their embrace castle howard, newburgh priory, and many a stately park. towards the north the descents are equally sudden, and the panorama of the vale of pickering, extending from the hills behind scarborough to helmsley far away in the west, is most remarkable. down below lies the circumscribed plain, dead-level except for one or two isolated hillocks. the soil is dark and rich, and there is a marshy appearance everywhere, showing plainly the water-logged condition of the land even at the present day. there is scarcely a district in england to compare with the yorkshire wolds for its remarkable richness in the remains of early man. as long ago as the middle of last century, when archaeology was more of a pastime than a science, this corner of the country had become famous for the rich discoveries in tumuli made by a few local enthusiasts. it has been suggested that the flint-bearing character of the wolds made this part of yorkshire a district for the manufacture of implements and weapons for the inhabitants of a much larger area, and no doubt the possession of this ample supply of offensive material would give the tribe in possession a power, wealth, and permanence sufficient to account for the wonderful evidences of a great and continuous population. in these districts it is only necessary to go slowly over a ploughed field after a period of heavy rain to be fairly certain to pick up a flint knife, a beautifully chipped arrow-head, or an implement of less obvious purpose. to those who have never taken any interest in the traces of early man in this country, this may appear a musty subject, but to me it is quite the reverse. the long lines of entrenchments, the round tumuli, and the prehistoric sites generally--omitting lake dwellings--are most invariably to be found upon high and windswept tablelands, wild or only recently cultivated places, where the echoes have scarcely been disturbed since the long-forgotten ages, when a primitive tribe mourned the loss of a chieftain, or yelled defiance at their enemies from their double or triple lines of defence. in journeying in any direction through the wolds it is impossible to forget the existence of early man, for on the sky-line just above the road will appear a row of two or three rounded projections from the regular line of turf or stubble. they are burial-mounds that the plough has never levelled--heaps of earth that have resisted the disintegrating action of weather and man for thousands of years. if such relics of the primitive inhabitants of this island fail to stir the imagination, then the mustiness must exist in the unresponsive mind rather than in the subject under discussion. in making an exploration of the wolds a good starting-place is the old-fashioned town of malton, whence railways radiate in five directions, including the line to great driffield, which takes advantage of the valley leading up to wharram percy, and there tunnels its way through the high ground. choosing a day when the weather is in a congenial mood for rambling, lingering, or picnicking, or, in other words, when the sun is not too hot, nor the wind too cold, nor the sky too grey, we make our start towards the hills. we go on wheels--it is unimportant how many, or to what they are attached--in order that the long stretches of white road may not become tedious. the stone bridge over the derwent is crossed, and, glancing back, we see the piled-up red roofs crowded along the steep ground above the further bank, with the church raising its spire high above its newly-restored nave. then the wide street of norton, which is scarcely to be distinguished from malton, being separated from it only by the river, shuts in the view with its houses of whity-red brick, until their place is taken by hedgerows. to the left stretches the vale of pickering, still a little hazy with the remnants of the night's mist. straight ahead and to the right the ground rises up, showing a wall chequered with cornfields and root-crops, with long lines of plantations appearing like dark green caterpillars crawling along the horizon. the first village encountered is rillington, with a church whose stone spire and the tower it rests upon have the appearance of being copied from pickering. inside there is an early english font, and one of the arcades of the nave belongs to the same period. turning southwards a mile or two further on, we pass through the pretty village of wintringham, and, when the cottages are passed, find the church standing among trees where the road bends, its tower and spire looking much like the one just left behind. the interior is interesting. the pews are all of old panelled oak, unstained, and with acorn knobs at the ends; the floor is entirely covered with glazed red tiles. the late norman chancel, the plain circular font of the same period, and the massive altar-slab in the chapel, enclosed by wooden screens on the north side, are the most notable features. going to the east we reach helperthorpe, one of the wold villages adorned with a new church in the decorated style. the village gained this ornament through the generosity of the present sir tatton sykes, of sledmere, whose enthusiasm for church building is not confined to one place. in his own park at sledmere four miles to the south, at west lutton, east heslerton, and wansford you may see other examples of modern church building, in which the architect has not been hampered by having to produce a certain accommodation at a minimum cost. and thus in these villages the fact of possessing a modern church does not detract from their charm; instead of doing so, the pilgrim in search of ecclesiastical interest finds much to draw him to them. as a contrast to helperthorpe, the adjoining hamlet of weaverthorpe has a church of very early norman or possibly saxon date, and an inscribed saxon stone a century earlier than the one at kirkdale, near kirby moorside. the inscription is on a sundial over the south porch in both churches; but while that of kirkdale is quite complete and perfect, this one has words missing at the beginning and end. haigh suggests that the half-destroyed words should read: "lit oscetvli archiepiscopi." then, without any doubt comes: "[illustration] in: honore: sce: andreae apostoli: herebertus wintonie: hoc monasterivm fecit: i in tempore regn." here the inscription suddenly stops and leaves us in ignorance as to in whose time the monastery was built. there seems little doubt at all that father haigh's suggested completion of the sentence is correct, making it read: "in tempore regn[aldi regis secundi]," which would have just filled a complete line. the coins of regnald ii. of northumbria bear christian devices, and it is known that he was confirmed in 942, while his predecessor of that name appears to have been a pagan. if the restoration of the first words of the inscription are correct, the stone cannot be placed earlier than the year 952 (dr. stubbs says 958), when oscetul succeeded wulstan to the see of york. however, even in a neighbourhood so replete with antiquities this is sufficiently far back in the age of the vikings to be of thrilling interest, for you must travel far to find another village church with an inscription carved nearly a thousand years ago, at a time when the english nation was still receiving its infusion of scandinavian strength. the arch of the tower and the door below the sundial have the narrowness and rudeness suggesting the pre-norman age, but more than this it is unwise to say. and so we go on through the wide sunny valley, watching the shadows sweep across the fields, where often the soil is so thin that the ground is more white than brown, scanning the horizon for tumuli, and taking note of the different characteristics of each village. not long ago the houses, even in the small towns, were thatched, and even now there are hamlets still cosy and picturesque under their mouse-coloured roofs; but in most instances you see a transition state of tiles gradually ousting the inflammable but beautiful thatch. the tiles all through the wolds are of the curved pattern, and though cheerful in the brilliance of their colour, and unspeakably preferable to thin blue slates, they do not seem to weather or gather moss and rich colouring in the same manner as the usual flat tile of the southern counties. we turn aside to look at the rudely carved norman tympanum over the church door at wold newton, and then go up to thwing, on the rising ground to the south, where we may see what mr. joseph morris claims to be the only other norman tympanum in the east riding. a cottage is pointed out as the birthplace of archbishop lamplugh, who held the see of york from 1688 to 1691. he was of humble parentage and it is said that he would often pause in conversation to slap his legs and say, "just fancy me being archbishop of york!" the name of the village is derived from the norse word _thing_, meaning an assembly. keeping on towards the sea, we climb up out of the valley, and passing argam dike and grindale, come out upon a vast gently undulating plateau with scarcely a tree to be seen in any direction. a few farms are dotted here and there over the landscape, and towards filey we can see a windmill; but beyond these it seems as though the fierce winds that assail the promontory of flamborough had blown away everything that was raised more than a few feet above the furrows. the village of bempton has, however, contrived to maintain itself in its bleak situation, although it is less than two miles from the huge perpendicular cliffs where the wolds drop into the sea. the cottages have a snug and eminently cheerful look, with their much-weathered tiles and white and ochre coloured walls. from their midst rises the low square tower of the church, and if it ever had a spire or pinnacles in the past, it has none now; for either the north-easterly gales blew them into the sea long ago, or else the people were wise enough never to put such obstructions in the way of the winter blasts. turning southwards, we get a great view over the low shore of holderness, curving away into the haze hanging over the ocean, with bridlington down below, raising to the sky the pair of towers at the west end of its priory--one short and plain, and the other tall and richly ornamented with pinnacles. going through the streets of sober red houses of the old town, we come at length into a shallow green valley, where the curious gypsy race flows intermittently along the fertile bottom. the afternoon sunshine floods the pleasant landscape with a genial glow, and throws long blue shadows under the trees of the park surrounding boynton hall, the seat of the stricklands. the family has been connected with the village for several centuries, and some of their richly-painted and gilded monuments can be seen in the church. one of these is to sir william strickland, bart., and another to lady strickland, his wife, who was a sister of sir hugh cholmley, the gallant but unfortunate defender of scarborough castle during the civil war. in his memoirs sir hugh often refers to visits paid him by "my sister strickland." after passing thorpe hall the road goes up to the breezy spot, commanding wide views, where the little church of rudstone stands conspicuously by the side of an enormous monolith. although the church tower is norman, it would appear to be a recent arrival on the scene in comparison with the stone. antiquaries are in fairly general agreement that huge standing stones of this type belong to some very remote period, and also that they are "associated with sepulchral purposes"; and the fact that they are usually found in churchyards would suggest that they were regarded with a traditional veneration. the road past the church drops steeply down into the pretty village, and, turning northwards, takes us to the bend of the valley, where north burton lies, which we passed earlier in the day; so we go to the left, and find ourselves at kilham, a fair-sized village on the edge of the chalk hills. like rudstone and a dozen places in its neighbourhood, kilham is situated in a district of extraordinary interest to the archaeologist, the prehistoric discoveries being exceedingly numerous. chariot burials of the early iron age have been discovered here, as well as large numbers of neolithic implements. there is a beautiful norman doorway in the nave of the church, ornamented with chevron mouldings in a lavish fashion. far more interesting than this, however, are the fonts in the two villages of cottam and cowlam, lying close together, although separated by a thinly-wooded hollow, about five miles to the west. cottam church and the farm adjoining it are all that now exists of what must once have been an extensive village. in the church is a norman font of cylindrical form, covered with the wonderfully crude carvings of that period. there are six subjects, the most remarkable being the huge dragon with a long curly tail in the act of swallowing st. margaret, whose skirts and feet are shown inside the capacious jaws, while the head is beginning to appear somewhere behind the dragon's neck. to the right is shown a gruesome representation of the martyrdom of st. lawrence, and then follow adam and eve by the tree of life (a twisted piece of foliage), the martyrdom of st. andrew, and what seems to be another dragon. on each side of the bridle-road by the church you can trace without the least difficulty the ground-plan of many houses under the short turf. the early writers do not mention cottam, and so far i have come upon no explanation for the wiping out of this village. possibly its extinction was due to the black death in 1349. it is about four miles by road to cowlam, although the two churches are only about a mile and a half apart; and when cowlam is reached there is not much more in the way of a village than at cottam. the only way to the church from the road is through an enormous stackyard, speaking eloquently of the large crops produced on the farm. as in the other instance, a search has to be made for the key, entailing much perambulation of the farm. at length the door is opened, and the splendid font at once arrests the eye. more noticeable than anything else in the series of carvings are the figures of two men wrestling, similar to those on the font from the village of hutton cranswick, now preserved in york museum. the two figures are shown bending forwards, each with his hands clasped round the waist of the other, and each with a foot thrown forward to trip the other, after the manner of the westmorland wrestlers to be seen at the grasmere sports. it seems to me scarcely possible to doubt that the subject represented is jacob wrestling with the _man_ at penuel. at sledmere, the adjoining village, everything has a well-cared-for and reposeful aspect. its position in a shallow depression has made it possible for trees to grow, so that we find the road overhung by a green canopy in remarkable contrast to the usual bleakness of the wolds. the park surrounding sir tatton sykes' house is well wooded, owing to much planting on what were bare slopes not very many years ago. the village well is dignified with a domed roof raised on tall columns, put up about seventy years ago by the previous sir tatton to the memory of his father, sir christopher sykes; the inscription telling how much the wolds were transformed through his energy 'in building, planting, and enclosing,' from a bleak and barren track of country into what is now considered one of the most productive and best-cultivated districts of yorkshire. the late sir tatton sykes was the sort of man that yorkshire folk come near to worshipping. he was of that hearty, genial, conservative type that filled the hearts of the farmers with pride. on market days all over the riding one of the always fresh subjects of conversation was how sir tatton was looking. a great pillar put up to his memory by the road leading to garton can be seen over half holderness. so great was the conservatism of this remarkable squire that years after the advent of railways he continued to make his journey to epsom, for the derby, on horseback. a stone's-throw from the house stands the church, rebuilt, with the exception of the tower, in 1898 by sir tatton. there is no wall surrounding the churchyard, neither is there ditch, nor bank, nor the slightest alteration in the smooth turf. the church, designed by mr. temple moore, is carried out in the style of the decorated period in a stone that is neither red nor pink, but something in between the two colours. the exterior is not remarkable, but the beauty of the internal ornament is most striking. everywhere you look, whether at the detail of carved wood or stone, the workmanship is perfect, and without a trace of that crudity to be found in the carvings of so many modern churches. the clustered columns, the timber roof, and the tracery of the windows are all dignified, in spite of the richness of form they display. only in the upper portion of the screen does the ornament seem a trifle worried and out of keeping with the rest of the work. sledmere also boasts a tall and very beautiful 'eleanor' cross, erected about ten years ago, and a memorial to those who fell in the european war. as we continue towards the setting sun, the deeply-indented edges of the wolds begin to appear, and the roads generally make great plunges into the valley of the derwent. the weather, which has been fine all day, changes at sunset, and great indigo clouds, lined with gold, pile themselves up fantastically in front of the setting sun. lashing rain, driven by the wind with sudden fury, pours down upon the hamlet lying just below, but leaves wharram-le-street without a drop of moisture. the widespread views all over the howardian hills and the sombre valley of the derwent become impressive, and an awesomeness of turneresque gloom, relieved by sudden floods of misty gold, gives the landscape an element of unreality. against this background the outline of the church of wharram-le-street stands out in its rude simplicity. on the western side of the tower, where the light falls upon it, we can see the extremely early masonry that suggests pre-norman times. it cannot be definitely called a saxon church, but although 'long and short work' does not appear, there is every reason to associate this lonely little building with the middle of the eleventh century. there are mason marks consisting of crosses and barbed lines on the south wall of the nave. the opening between the tower and the nave is an almost unique feature, having a moorish-looking arch of horseshoe shape resting on plain and clumsy capitals. the name wharram-le-street reminds us forcibly of the existence in remote times of some great way over this tableland. unfortunately, there is very little sure ground to go upon, despite the additional fact of there being another place, thorpe-le-street, some miles to the south. with the light fast failing we go down steeply into the hollow where north grimston nestles, and, crossing the streams which flow over the road, come to the pretty old church. the tower is heavily mantled with ivy, and has a statue of a bishop on its west face. a norman chancel arch with zigzag moulding shows in the dim interior, and there is just enough light to see the splendid font, of similar age and shape to those at cowlam and cottam. a large proportion of the surface is taken up with a wonderful 'last supper,' and on the remaining space the carvings show the 'descent from the cross,' and a figure, possibly representing st. nicholas, the patron saint of the church. when the lights of malton glimmer in the valley this day of exploration is at an end, and much of the wold country has been seen. chapter xx from filey to spurn head 'as the shore winds itself back from hence,' says camden, after describing flamborough head, 'a thin slip of land (like a small tongue thrust out) shoots into the sea.' this is the long natural breakwater known as filey brig, the distinctive feature of a pleasant watering-place. in its wide, open, and gently curving bay, filey is singularly lucky; for it avoids the monotony of a featureless shore, and yet is not sufficiently embraced between headlands to lose the broad horizon and sense of airiness and space so essential for a healthy seaside haunt. the brig has plainly been formed by the erosion of carr naze, the headland of dark, reddish-brown boulder clay, leaving its hard bed of sandstone (of the middle calcareous grit formation) exposed to the particular and ceaseless attention of the waves. it is one of the joys of filey to go along the northward curve of the bay at low tide, and then walk along the uneven tabular masses of rock with hungry waves heaving and foaming within a few yards on either hand. no wonder that there has been sufficient sense among those who spend their lives in promoting schemes for ugly piers and senseless promenades, to realize that nature has supplied filey with a more permanent and infinitely more attractive pier than their fatuous ingenuity could produce. there is a spice of danger associated with the brig, adding much to its interest; for no one should venture along the spit of rocks unless the tide is in a proper state to allow him a safe return. a melancholy warning of the dangers of the brig is fixed to the rocky wall of the headland, describing how an unfortunate visitor was swept into the sea by the sudden arrival of an abnormally large wave, but this need not frighten away from the fascinating ridge of rock those who use ordinary care in watching the sea. at high tide the waves come over the seaweedy rocks at the foot of the headland, making it necessary to climb to the grassy top in order to get back to filey. the real fascination of the brig comes when it can only be viewed from the top of the naze above, when a gale is blowing from the north or north-east, and driving enormous waves upon the line of projecting rocks. you watch far out until the dark green line of a higher wave than any of the others that are creating a continuous thunder down below comes steadily onward, and reaching the foam-streaked area, becomes still more sinister. as it approaches within striking distance, a spent wave, sweeping backwards, seems as though it may weaken the onrush of the towering wall of water; but its power is swallowed up and dissipated in the general advance, and with only a smooth hollow of creamy-white water in front, the giant raises itself to its fullest height, its thin crest being at once caught by the wind, and blown off in long white beards. the moment has come; the mass of water feels the resistance of the rocks, and, curling over into a long green cylinder, brings its head down with terrific force on the immovable side of the brig. columns of water shoot up perpendicularly into the air as though a dozen 12-inch shells had exploded in the water simultaneously. with a roar the imprisoned air escapes, and for a moment the whole brig is invisible in a vast cloud of spray; then dark ledges of rock can be seen running with creamy water, and the scene of the impact is a cauldron of seething foam, backed by a smooth surface of pale green marble, veined with white. then the waters gather themselves together again, and the pounding of lesser waves keeps up a thrilling spectacle until the moment for another great _coup_ arrives. years ago filey obtained a reputation for being 'quiet,' and the sense conveyed by those who disliked the place was that of dullness and primness. this fortunate chance has protected the little town from the vulgarizing influences of the unlettered hordes let loose upon the coast in summer-time, and we find a sea-front without the flimsy meretricious buildings of the popular resorts. instead of imitating blackpool and margate, this sensible place has retained a quiet and semi-rural front to the sea, and, as already stated, has not marred its appearance with a jetty. from the smooth sweep of golden sand rises a steep slope grown over with trees and bushes which shade the paths in many places. without claiming any architectural charm, the town is small and quietly unobtrusive, and has not the untidy, half-built character of so many watering-places. above a steep and narrow hollow, running straight down to the sea, and densely wooded on both sides, stands the church. it has a very sturdy tower rising from its centre, and, with its simple battlemented outline and slit windows, has a semi-fortified appearance. the high pitched-roofs of early english times have been flattened without cutting away the projecting drip-stones on the tower, which remain a conspicuous feature. the interior is quite impressive. round columns alternated with octagonal ones support pointed arches, and a clerestory above pierced with roundheaded slits, indicating very decisively that the nave was built in the transitional norman period. it appears that a western tower was projected, but never carried out, and an unusual feature is the descent by two steps into the chancel. a beautiful view from the churchyard includes the whole sweep of the bay, cut off sharply by the brig on the left hand, and ending about eight miles away in the lofty range of white cliffs extending from speeton to flamborough head. the headland itself is lower by more than a 100 feet than the cliffs in the neighbourhood of bempton and speeton, which for a distance of over two miles exceed 300 feet. a road from bempton village stops short a few fields from the margin of the cliffs, and a path keeps close to the precipitous wall of gleaming white chalk. we come over the dry, sweet-smelling grass to the cliff edge on a fresh morning, with a deep blue sky overhead and a sea below of ultramarine broken up with an infinitude of surfaces reflecting scraps of the cliffs and the few white clouds. falling on our knees, we look straight downwards into a cove full of blue shade; but so bright is the surrounding light that every detail is microscopically clear. the crumpling and distortion of the successive layers of chalk can be seen with such ease that we might be looking at a geological textbook. on the ledges, too, can be seen rows of little whitebreasted puffins; razor-bills are perched here and there, as well as countless guillemots. the ringed or bridled guillemot also breeds on the cliffs, and a number of other types of northern sea-birds are periodically noticed along these inaccessible bempton cliffs. the guillemot makes no nest, merely laying a single egg on a ledge. if it is taken away by those who plunder the cliffs at the risk of their lives, the bird lays another egg, and if that disappears, perhaps even a third. coming to flamborough head along the road from the station, the first noticeable feature is at the point where the road makes a sharp turn into a deep wooded hollow. it is here that we cross the line of the remarkable entrenchment known as the danes' dyke. at this point it appears to follow the bed of a stream, but northwards, right across the promontory--that is, for two-thirds of its length--the huge trench is purely artificial. no doubt the _vallum_ on the seaward side has been worn down very considerably, and the _fosse_ would have been deeper, making in its youth, a barrier which must have given the dwellers on the headland a very complete security. like most popular names, the association of the danes with the digging of this enormous trench has been proved to be inaccurate, and it would have been less misleading and far more popular if the work had been attributed to the devil. in the autumn of 1879 general pitt rivers dug several trenches in the rampart just north of the point where the road from bempton passes through the dyke. the position was chosen in order that the excavations might be close to the small stream which runs inside the dyke at this point, the likelihood of utensils or weapons being dropped close to the water-supply of the defenders being considered important. the results of the excavations proved conclusively that the people who dug the ditch and threw up the rampart were users of flint. the most remarkable discovery was that the ground on the inner slope of the rampart, at a short distance below the surface, contained innumerable artificial flint flakes, all lying in a horizontal position, but none were found on the outer slope. from this fact general pitt rivers concluded that within the stockade running along the top of the _vallum_ the defenders were in the habit of chipping their weapons, the flakes falling on the inside. the great entrenchment of flamborough is consequently the work of flint-using people, and 'is not later than the bronze period.' and the strangest fact concerning the promontory is the isolation of its inhabitants from the rest of the county, a traditional hatred for strangers having kept the fisherfolk of the peninsula aloof from outside influences. they have married among themselves for so long, that it is quite possible that their ancestral characteristics have been reproduced, with only a very slight intermixture of other stocks, for an exceptionally long period. on taking minute particulars of ninety flamborough men and women, general pitt rivers discovered that they were above the average stature of the neighbourhood, and were, with only one or two exceptions, dark-haired. they showed little or no trace of the fair-haired element usually found in the people of this part of yorkshire. it is also stated that almost within living memory, when the headland was still further isolated by a belt of uncultivated wolds, the village could not be approached by a stranger without some danger. we find no one to object to our intrusion, and go on towards the village. it is a straggling collection of low, red houses, lacking, unfortunately, anything which can honestly be termed picturesque; for the church stands alone, a little to the south, and the small ruin of what is called 'the danish tower' is too insignificant to add to the attractiveness of the place. all the males of flamborough are fishermen, or dependent on fishing for their livelihood; and in spite of the summer visitors, there is a total indifference to their incursions in the way of catering for their entertainment, the aim of the trippers being the lighthouse and the cliffs nearly two miles away. formerly, the church had only a belfry of timber, the existing stone tower being only ten years old. under the norman chancel arch there is a delicately-carved perpendicular screen, having thirteen canopied niches richly carved above and below, and still showing in places the red, blue, and gold of its old paint-work. another screen south of the chancel is patched and roughly finished. the altar-tomb of sir marmaduke constable, of flamborough, on the north side of the chancel, is remarkable for its long inscription, detailing the chief events in the life of this great man, who was considered one of the most eminent and potent persons in the county in the reign of henry viii. the greatness of the man is borne out first in a recital of his doughty deeds: of his passing over to france 'with kyng edwarde the fourith, y[t] noble knyght.' 'and also with noble king herre, the sevinth of that name he was also at barwick at the winnyng of the same [1482] and by ky[n]g edward chosy[n] captey[n] there first of anyone and rewllid and governid ther his tyme without blame but for all that, as ye se, he lieth under this stone.' the inscription goes on in this way to tell how he fought at flodden field when he was seventy, 'nothyng hedyng his age.' sir marmaduke's daughter catherine was married to sir roger cholmley, called 'the great black knight of the north,' who was the first of his family to settle in yorkshire, and also fought at flodden, receiving his knighthood after that signal victory over the scots. yorkshire being a county in which superstitions are uncommonly long-lived it is not surprising to find that a fisherman will turn back from going to his boat, if he happen on his way to meet a parson, a woman, or a hare, as any one of these brings bad luck. it is also extremely unwise to mention to a man who is baiting lines a hare, a rabbit, a fox, a pig, or an egg. this sounds foolish, but a fisherman will abandon his work till the next day if these animals are mentioned in his presence[1]. [footnote 1: 'flamborough village and headland,' colonel a.h. armytage.] on the north and south sides of the headland there are precarious beaches for the fisherman to bring in their boats. they have no protection at all from the weather, no attempt at forming even such miniature harbours as may be seen on the berwickshire coast having been made. when the wind blows hard from the north, the landing on that side is useless, and the boats, having no shelter, are hauled up the steep slope with the help of a steam windlass. under these circumstances the south landing is used. it is similar in most respects to the northern one, but, owing to the cliffs being lower, the cove is less picturesque. at low tide a beach of very rough shingle is exposed between the ragged chalk cliffs, curiously eaten away by the sea. seaweed paints much of the shore and the base of the cliffs a blackish green, and above the perpendicular whiteness the ruddy brown clay slopes back to the grass above. when the boats have just come in and added their gaudy vermilions, blues, and emerald greens to the picture, the north landing is worth seeing. the men in their blue jerseys and sea-boots coming almost to their hips, land their hauls of silvery cod and load the baskets pannier-wise on the backs of sturdy donkeys, whose work is to trudge up the steep slope to the road, nearly 200 feet above the boats, where carts take the fish to the station four miles away. in following the margin of the cliffs to the outermost point of the peninsula, we get a series of splendid stretches of cliff scenery. the chalk is deeply indented in many places, and is honey-combed with caves. great white pillars and stacks of chalk stand in picturesque groups in some of the small bays, and everywhere there is the interest of watching the heaving water far below, with white gulls floating unconcernedly on the surface, or flapping their great stretch of wing as they circle just above the waves. near the modern lighthouse stands a tall, hexagonal tower, built of chalk in four stories, with a string course between each. the signs of age it bears and the remarkable obscurity surrounding its origin and purpose would suggest great antiquity, and yet there seems little doubt that the tower is at the very earliest elizabethan. the chalk, being extremely soft, has weathered away to such an extent that the harder stone of the windows and doors now projects several inches. in a record dated june 21, 1588, the month before the spanish armada was sighted in the english channel, a list is given of the beacons in the east riding, and instructions as to when they should be lighted, and what action should be taken when the warning was seen. it says briefly: 'flambrough, three beacons uppon the sea cost, takinge lighte from bridlington, and geving lighte to rudstone.' there is no reference to any tower, and the beacons everywhere seem merely to have been bonfires ready for lighting, watched every day by two, and every night by three 'honest householders ... above the age of thirty years.' the old tower would appear, therefore, to have been put up as a lighthouse. if this is a correct supposition, however, the dangers of the headland to shipping must have been recognized as exceedingly great several centuries ago. a light could not have failed to have been a boon to mariners, and its maintenance would have been a matter of importance to all who owned ships; and yet, if this old tower ever held a lantern, the hiatus between the last night when it glowed on the headland, and the erection of the present lighthouse is so great that no one seems to be able to state definitely for what purpose the early structure came into existence. year after year when night fell the cliffs were shrouded in blackness, with the direful result that between 1770 and 1806 one hundred and seventy-four ships were wrecked or lost on or near the promontory. it remained for a benevolent-minded customs officer of bridlington--a mr. milne--to suggest the building of a lighthouse to the elder brethren of trinity house, with the result that since december 6, 1806, a powerful light has every night flashed on flamborough head. the immediate result was that in the first seven years of its beneficent work no vessel was 'lost on that station when the lights could be seen.' the derivation of the name flamborough has been conclusively shown to have nothing at all to do with the english word 'flame,' being possibly a corruption of _fleinn_, a norse surname, and _borg_ or _burgh_, meaning a castle. in domesday it is spelt 'flaneburg,' and _flane_ is the norse for an arrow or sword. at the point where the chalk cliffs disappear and the low coast of holderness begins, we come to the exceedingly popular watering-place of bridlington. at one time the town was quite separate from the quay, and even now there are two towns--the solemn and serious, almost quakerish, place inland, and the eminently pleasure-loving and frivolous holiday resort on the sea; but they are now joined up by modern houses and the railway-station, and in time they will be as united as the 'three towns' of plymouth. along the sea-front are spread out by the wide parades, all those 'attractions' which exercise their potential energies on certain types of mankind as each summer comes round. there are seats, concert-rooms, hotels, lodging-houses, bands, kiosks, refreshment-bars, boats, bathing-machines, a switchback-railway, and even a spa, by which means the migratory folk are housed, fed, amused, and given every excuse for loitering within a few yards of the long curving line of waves that advances and retreats over the much-trodden sand. the two stone piers enclosing the harbour make an interesting feature in the centre of the sea-front, where the few houses of old bridlington quay that have survived, are not entirely unpicturesque. in 1642 queen henrietta maria landed on whatever quay then existed. she had just returned from holland with ships laden with arms and ammunition for the royalist army. adverse winds had brought the dutch ships to bridlington instead of newcastle, where the queen had intended to land, and a delay was caused while messengers were sent to the earl of newcastle in order that her landing might be effected in proper security. news of the dutch ships lying off bridlington was, however, conveyed to four parliamentary vessels stationed by the bar at tynemouth, and no time was lost in sailing southwards. what happened is told in a letter published in the same year, and dated february 25, 1642. it describes how, after two days' riding at anchor, the cavalry arrived, upon which the queen disembarked, and the next morning the rest of the loyal army came to wait on her. 'god that was carefull to preserve her by sea, did likewise continue his favour to her on the land: for that night foure of the parliament ships arrived at burlington, without being perceived by us; and at foure a clocke in the morning gave us an alarme, which caused us to send speedily to the port to secure our boats of ammunition, which were but newly landed. but about an houre after the foure ships began to ply us so fast with their ordinance, that it made us all to rise out of our beds with diligence, and leave the village, at least the women; for the souldiers staid very resolutely to defend the ammunition, in case their forces should land. one of the ships did her the favour to flanck upon the house where the queene lay, which was just before the peere; and before she was out of her bed, the cannon bullets whistled so loud about her, (which musicke you may easily believe was not very pleasing to her) that all the company pressed her earnestly to goe out of the house, their cannon having totally beaten downe all the neighbouring houses, and two cannon bullets falling from the top to the bottome of the house where she was; so that (clothed as she could) she went on foot some little distance out of the towne, under the shelter of a ditch (like that of newmarket;) whither before she could get, the cannon bullets fell thicke about us, and a sergeant was killed within twenty paces of her.' in old bridlington there stands the fine church of the augustinian priory we have already seen from a distance, and an ancient structure known as the bayle gate, a remnant of the defences of the monastery. they stand at no great distance apart, but do not arrange themselves to form a picture, which is unfortunate, and so also is the lack of any real charm in the domestic architecture of the adjoining streets. the bayle gate has a large pointed arch and a postern, and the date of its erection appears to be the end of the fourteenth century, when permission was given to the prior to fortify the monastery. unhappily for bridlington, an order to destroy the buildings was given soon after the dissolution, and the nave of the church seems to have been spared only because it was used as the parish church. quite probably, too, the gatehouse was saved from destruction on account of the room it contains having been utilized for holding courts. the upper portions of the church towers are modern restorations, and their different heights and styles give the building a remarkable, but not a beautiful outline. at the west end, between the towers is a large perpendicular window, occupying the whole width of the nave, and on the north side the vaulted porch is a very beautiful feature. the interior reveals an inspiring perspective of clustered columns built in the early english period with a fine decorated triforium on the north side. both transepts and the chancel appear to have been destroyed with the conventual buildings, and the present chancel is merely a portion of the nave separated with screens. southwards in one huge curve of nearly forty miles stretches the low coast of holderness, seemingly continued into infinitude. there is nothing comparable to it on the coasts of the british isles for its featureless monotony and for the unbroken front it presents to the sea. the low brown cliffs of hard clay seem to have no more resisting power to the capacious appetite of the waves than if they were of gingerbread. the progress of the sea has been continued for centuries, and stories of lost villages and of overwhelmed churches are met with all the way to spurn head. four or five miles south of bridlington we come to a point on the shore where, looking out among the lines of breaking waves, we are including the sides of the two demolished villages of auburn and hartburn. from a casual glance at skipsea no one would attribute any importance to it in the past. it was, nevertheless, the chief place in the lordship of holderness in norman times, and from that we may also infer that it was the most well-defended stronghold. on a level plain having practically no defensible sites, great earthworks would be necessary, and these we find at skipsea brough. there is a high mound surrounded by a ditch, and a segment of the great outer circle of defences exists on the south-west side. no masonry of any description can be seen on the grass-covered embankment, but on the artificial hillock, once crowned, it is surmised, by a norman keep, there is one small piece of stonework. these earthworks have been considered saxon, but later opinion labels them post-conquest.[1] in the time of the domesday survey the seigniory of holderness was held by drogo de bevere, a flemish adventurer who joined in the norman invasion of england and received his extensive fief from the conqueror. he also was given the king's niece in marriage as a mark of special favour; but having for some reason seen fit to poison her, he fled from england, it is said, during the last few months of william's reign. the barony of holderness was forfeited, but drogo was never captured. [footnote 1: a worked flint was found in the moat not long ago by dr. j. l. kirk, of pickering.] poulson, the historian of holderness, states that henry iii. gave orders for the destruction of skipsea castle about 1220, the earl of albemarle, its owner at that time, having been in rebellion. when edward ii. ascended the throne, he recalled his profligate companion piers gaveston, and besides creating him baron of wallingford and earl of cornwall, he presented this ill-chosen favourite with the great seigniory of holderness. going southwards from skipsea, we pass through atwick, with a cross on a large base in the centre of the village, and two miles further on come to hornsea, an old-fashioned little town standing between the sea and the mere. this beautiful sheet of fresh water comes as a surprise to the stranger, for no one but a geologist expects to discover a lake in a perfectly level country where only tidal creeks are usually to be found. hornsea mere may eventually be reached by the sea, and yet that day is likely to be put further off year by year on account of the growth of a new town on the shore. the scenery of the mere is quietly beautiful. where the road to beverley skirts its margin there are glimpses of the shimmering surface seen through gaps in the trees that grow almost in the water, many of them having lost their balance and subsided into the lake, being supported in a horizontal position by their branches. the islands and the swampy margins form secure breeding-places for the countless water-fowl, and the lake abounds with pike, perch, eel, and roach. it was the excellent supply of fish yielded by hornsea mere that led to a hot discussion between the neighbouring abbey of meaux and st. mary's abbey at york. in the year 1260 william, eleventh abbot of meaux, laid claim to fishing rights in the southern half of the lake, only to find his brother abbot of york determined to resist the claim. the cloisters of the two abbeys must have buzzed with excitement over the _impasse_ and relations became so strained that the only method of determining the issue was by each side agreeing to submit to the result of a judicial combat between champions selected by the two monasteries. where the fight took place i do not know, and the number of champions is not mentioned in the record. it is stated that a horse was first swum across the lake, and stakes fixed to mark the limits of the claim. on the day appointed the combatants chosen by each abbot appeared properly accoutred, and they fought from morning until evening, when, at last, the men representing meaux were beaten to the ground, and the york abbot retained the whole fishing rights of the mere. hornsea has a pretty church with a picturesque tower built in between the western ends of the aisles. an eighteenth-century parish clerk utilized the crypt for storing smuggled goods, and was busily at work there on a stormy night in 1732, when a terrific blast of wind tore the roof off the church. the shock, we are told, brought on a paralytic seizure of which he died. by the churchyard gate stands the old market-cross, recently set up in this new position and supplied with a modern head. as we go towards spurn head we are more and more impressed with the desolate character of the shore. the tide may be out, and only puny waves tumbling on the wet sand, and yet it is impossible to refrain from feeling that the very peacefulness of the scene is sinister, and the waters are merely digesting their last meal of boulder-clay before satisfying a fresh appetite. the busy town of hornsea beck, the port of hornsea, with its harbour and pier, its houses, and all pertaining to it, has entirely disappeared since the time of james i., and so also has the place called hornsea burton, where in 1334 meaux abbey held twenty-seven acres of arable land. at the end of that century not one of those acres remained. the fate of owthorne, a village once existing not far from withernsea, is pathetic. the churchyard was steadily destroyed, until 1816, when in a great storm the waves undermined the foundations of the eastern end of the church, so that the walls collapsed with a roar and a cloud of dust. twenty-two years later there was scarcely a fragment of even the churchyard left, and in 1844, the vicarage and the remaining houses were absorbed, and owthorne was wiped off the map. the peninsula formed by the humber is becoming more and more attenuated, and the pretty village of easington is being brought nearer to the sea, winter by winter. close to the church, easington has been fortunate in preserving its fourteenth-century tithe-barn covered with a thatched roof. the interior has that wonderfully imposing effect given by huge posts and beams suggesting a wooden cathedral. at kilnsea the weak bank of earth forming the only resistance to the waves has been repeatedly swept away and hundreds of acres flooded with salt water, and where there are any cliffs at all, they are often not more than fifteen feet high. chapter xxi beverley when the great bell in the southern tower of the minster booms forth its deep and solemn notes over the city of beverley, you experience an uplifting of the mind--a sense of exaltation greater, perhaps, than even that produced by an organ's vibrating notes in the high vaulted spaces of a cathedral. beverley has no natural features to give it any attractiveness, for it stands on the borders of the level plain of holderness, and towards the wolds there is only a very gentle rise. it depends, therefore, solely upon its architecture. the first view of the city from the west as we come over the broad grassy common of westwood is delightful. we are just sufficiently elevated to see the opalescent form of the minster, with its graceful towers rising above the more distant roofs, and close at hand the pinnacled tower of st. mary's showing behind a mass of dark trees. the entry to the city from this direction is in every way prepossessing, for the sunny common is succeeded by a broad, tree lined road, with old-fashioned houses standing sedately behind the foliage, and the end of the avenue is closed by the north bar--the last of beverley's gates. it dates from 1410, and is built of very dark red brick, with one arch only, the footways being taken through the modern houses, shouldering it on each side. leland's account and the town records long before his day tell us that there were three gates, but nothing remains of 'keldgate barr' and the 'barr de newbygyng.' we go through the archway and find ourselves in a wide street with the beautiful west end of st. mary's church on the left, quaint georgian houses, and a dignified hotel of the same period on the opposite side, while straight ahead is the broad saturday market with its very picturesque 'cross.' the cross was put up in 1714 by sir charles hotham, bart., and sir michael warton, members of parliament for the corporation at that time. without the towers the exterior of the minster gives me little pleasure, for the early english chancel and greater and lesser transepts, although imposing and massive, are lacking in proper proportion, and in that deficiency suffer a loss of dignity. the eulogies so many architects and writers have poured out upon the early english work of this great church, and the strangely adverse comments the same critics have levelled at the perpendicular additions, do not blind me to what i regard as a most strange misconception on the part of these people. the homogeneity of the central and eastern portions of the minster is undeniable, but because what appears to be the design of one master-builder of the thirteenth century was apparently carried out in the short period of twenty years, i do not feel obliged to consider the result beautiful. in the perpendicular work of the western towers everything is in graceful proportion, and nothing from the ground to the top of the turrets, jars with the wonderful dignity of their perfect lines. a few years before the norman conquest a central tower and a presbytery were added to the existing building by archbishop cynesige. the 'frenchman's' influence was probably sufficiently felt at that time to give this work the stamp of norman ideas, and would have shown a marked advance on the romanesque style of the saxon age, in which the other portions of the buildings were put up. after that time we are in the dark as to what happened until the year 1188, when a disaster took place of which there is a record: 'in the year from the incarnation of our lord 1188, this church was burnt, in the month of september, the night after the feast of st. matthew the apostle, and in the year 1197, the sixth of the ides of march, there was an inquisition made for the relics of the blessed john in this place, and these bones were found in the east part of his sepulchre, and reposited; and dust mixed with mortar was found likewise, and re-interred.' this is a translation of the latin inscription on a leaden plate discovered in 1664, when a square stone vault in the church was opened and found to be the grave of the canonized john of beverley. the picture history gives us of this remarkable man, although to a great extent hazy with superstitious legend, yet shows him to have been one of the greatest and noblest of the ecclesiastics who controlled the early church in england. he founded the monastery at beverley about the year 700, on what appears to have been an isolated spot surrounded by forest and swamp, and after holding the see of york for some twelve years, he retired here for the rest of his life. when he died, in 721, his memory became more and more sacred, and his powers of intercession were constantly invoked. the splendid shrine provided for his relics in 1037 was encrusted with jewels and shone with the precious metals employed. like the tomb of william the conqueror at caen, it disappeared long ago. after the collapse of the central tower to its very foundations came the vast early english reconstruction of everything except the nave, which was possibly of pre-conquest date, and survived until the present decorated successor took its place. much discussion has centred round certain semicircular arches at the back of the triforium, whose ornament is unmistakably norman, suggesting that the early nave was merely remodelled in the later period. the last great addition to the structure was the beautiful perpendicular north porch and the west end--the glory of beverley. the interior of the transepts and chancel is extremely interesting, but entirely lacking in that perfection of form characterizing york. a magnificent range of stalls crowned with elaborate tabernacle work of the sixteenth century adorns the choir, and under each of the sixty-eight seats are carved misereres, making a larger collection than any other in the country. the subjects range from a horrible representation of the devil with a second face in the middle of his body to humorous pictures of a cat playing a fiddle, and a scold on her way to the ducking-stool in a wheel-barrow, gripping with one hand the ear of the man who is wheeling her. in the north-east corner of the choir, built across the opening to the lesser transept on that side, is the tomb of lady eleanor fitzallen, wife of henry, first lord percy of alnwick. it is considered to be, without a rival, the most beautiful tomb in this country. the canopy is composed of sumptuously carved stone, and while it is literally encrusted with ornament, it is designed in such a masterly fashion that the general effect, whether seen at a distance or close at hand, is always magnificent. the broad lines of the canopy consist of a steep gable with an ogee arch within, cusped so as to form a base at its apex for an elaborate piece of statuary. this is repeated on both sides of the monument. on the side towards the altar, the large bearded figure represents the deity, with angels standing on each side of the throne, holding across his knees a sheet. from this rises a small undraped figure representing lady eleanor, whose uplifted hands are held in one of those of her maker, who is shown in the act of benediction with two fingers on her head. in the north aisle of the chancel there is a very unusual double staircase. it is recessed in the wall, and the arcading that runs along the aisle beneath the windows is inclined upwards and down again at a slight angle, similar to the rise of the steps which are behind the marble columns. this was the old way to the chapter-house, destroyed at the dissolution, and is an extremely fine example of an early english stairway. near the percy chapel stands the ancient stone chair of sanctuary, or frith-stool. it has been broken and repaired with iron clamps, and the inscription upon it, recorded by spelman, has gone. the privileges of sanctuary were limited by henry viii, and abolished in the reign of james i; but before the dissolution malefactors of all sorts and conditions, from esquires and gentlewomen down to chapmen and minstrels, frequently came in undignified haste to claim the security of st. john of beverley. here is a case quoted from the register by mr. charles hiatt in his admirable account of the minster: 'john spret, gentilman, memorandum that john spret, of barton upon umber, in the counte of lyncoln, gentilman, com to beverlay, the first day of october the vii yer of the reen of keing herry vii and asked the lybertes of saint john of beverlay, for the dethe of john welton, husbondman, of the same town, and knawleg [acknowledge] hymselff to be at the kyllyng of the saym john with a dagarth, the xv day of august.' on entering the city we passed st. mary's, a beautiful perpendicular church which is not eclipsed even by the major attractions of the minster. at the west end there is a splendid perpendicular window flanked by octagonal buttresses of a slightly earlier date, which are run up to a considerable height above the roof of the nave, the upper portions being made light and graceful, with an opening on each face, and a pierced parapet. the tower rises above the crossing, and is crowned by sixteen pinnacles. in its general appearance the large south porch is perpendicular, like the greater part of the church, but the inner portion of its arch is norman, and the outer is early english. one of the pillars of the nave is ornamented just below the capital with five quaint little minstrels carved in stone. each is supported by a bold bracket, and each is painted. the musical instruments are all much battered, but it can be seen that the centre figure, who is dressed as an alderman, had a harp, and the others a pipe, a lute, a drum, and a violin. from saxon times there had existed in beverley a guild of minstrels, a prosperous fraternity bound by regulations, which poulson gives at length in his monumental work on beverley. the minstrels played at aldermen's feasts, at weddings, on market-days, and on all occasions when there was excuse for music. chapter xxii along the humber 'away with me in post to ravenspurgh; but if you faint, as fearing to do so, stay and be secret, and myself will go.' _richard ii_, act ii, scene 1. the atrophied corner of yorkshire that embraces the lowest reaches of the humber is terminated by a mere raised causeway leading to the wider patch of ground dominated by spurn head lighthouse. this long ridge of sand and shingle is all that remains of a very considerable and populous area possessing towns and villages as recently as the middle of the fourteenth century. far back in the middle ages the humber was a busy waterway for shipping, where merchant vessels were constantly coming and going, bearing away the wool of holderness and bringing in foreign goods, which the humber towns were eager to buy. this traffic soon demonstrated the need of some light on the point of land where the estuary joined the sea, and in 1428 henry vi granted a toll on all vessels entering the humber in aid of the first lighthouse put up about that time by a benevolent hermit. no doubt the site of this early structure has long ago been submerged. the same fate came upon the two lights erected on kilnsea common by justinian angell, a london merchant, who received a patent from charles ii to 'continue, renew, and maintain' two lights at spurn point. in 1766 the famous john smeaton was called upon to put up two lighthouses, one 90 feet and the other 50 feet high. there was no hurry in completing the work, for the foundations of the high light were not completed until six years later. the sea repeatedly destroyed the low light, owing to the waves reaching it at high tide. poulson mentions the loss of three structures between 1776 and 1816. the fourth was taken down after a brief life of fourteen years, the sea having laid the foundations bare. as late as the beginning of last century the illumination was produced by 'a naked coal fire, unprotected from the wind,' and its power was consequently most uncertain. smeaton's high tower is now only represented by its foundations and the circular wall surrounding them, which acts as a convenient shelter from wind and sand for the low houses of the men who are stationed there for the lifeboat and other purposes. the present lighthouse is 30 feet higher than smeaton's, and is fitted with the modern system of dioptric refractors, giving a light of 519,000 candle-power, which is greater than any other on the east coast of england. the need for a second structure has been obviated by placing the low lights half-way down the existing tower. every twenty seconds the upper light flashes for one and a half seconds, being seen in clear weather at a distance of seventeen nautical miles. in the middle ages great fortunes were made on the shores on the humber. sir william de la pole was a merchant of remarkable enterprise, and the most notable of those who traded at ravenserodd. it was probably owing to his great wealth that his son was made a knight-banneret, and his grandson became earl of suffolk. another of the de la poles was the first mayor of hull, and seems to have been no less opulent than his brother, who lent large sums of money to edward iii, and was in consequence appointed chief baron of the exchequer and also presented with the lordship of holderness. the story of ravenser, and the later town of ravenserodd, is told in a number of early records, and from them we can see clearly what happened in this corner of yorkshire. owing to a natural confusion from the many different spellings of the two places, the fate of the prosperous port of ravenserodd has been lost in a haze of misconception. and this might have continued if mr. j. r. boyle had not gone exhaustively into the matter, bringing together all the references to the ravensers which have been discovered. there seems little doubt that the first place called ravenser was a danish settlement just within the spurn point, the name being a compound of the raven of the danish standard, and eyr or ore, meaning a narrow strip of land between two waters. in an early icelandic saga the sailing of the defeated remnant of harold hardrada's army from ravenser, after the defeat of the norwegians at stamford bridge, is mentioned in the lines: 'the king the swift ships with the flood set out, with the autumn approaching, and sailed from the port, called hrafnseyrr (the raven tongue of land).' from this event of 1066 ravenser must have remained a hamlet of small consequence, for it is not heard of again for nearly two centuries, and then only in connexion with the new ravenser which had grown on a spit of land gradually thrown up by the tide within the spoon-shaped ridge of spurn head. on this new ground a vessel was wrecked some time in the early part of the thirteenth century, and a certain man--the earliest recorded peggotty--converted it into a house, and even made it a tavern, where he sold food and drink to mariners. then three or four houses were built near the adapted hull, and following this a small port was created, its development being fostered by william de fortibus, earl of albemarl, the lord of the manor, with such success that, by the year 1274, the place had grown to be of some importance, and a serious trade rival to grimsby on the lincolnshire coast. to distinguish the two ravensers the new place, which was almost on an island, being only connected with the mainland by a bank composed of large yellow boulders and sand, was called ravenser odd, and in the chronicles of meaux abbey and other records the name is generally written ravenserodd. the original place was about a mile away, and no longer on the shore, and it is distinguished from the prosperous port as ald ravenser. owing, however, to its insignificance in comparison to ravenserodd, the busy port, it is often merely referred to as ravenser, spelt with many variations. the extraordinarily rapid rise of ravenserodd seems to have been due to a remarkable keenness for business on the part of its citizens, amounting, in the opinion of the grimsby traders, to sharp practice. for, being just within spurn head, the men of ravenserodd would go out to incoming vessels bound for grimsby, and induce them to sell their cargoes in ravenserodd by all sorts of specious arguments, misquoting the prices paid in the rival town. if their arguments failed, they would force the ships to enter their harbour and trade with them, whether they liked it or not. all this came out in the hearing of an action brought by the town of grimsby against ravenserodd. although the plaintiffs seem to have made a very good case, the decision of the court was given in favour of the defendants, as it had not been shown that any of their proceedings had broken the king's peace. the story of the disaster, which appears to have happened between 1340 and 1350, is told by the monkish compiler of the chronicles of meaux. translated from the original latin the account is headed: 'concerning the consumption of the town of ravensere odd and concerning the effort towards the diminution of the tax of the church of esyngton. 'but in those days, the whole town of ravensere odd.. was totally annihilated by the floods of the humber and the inundations of the great sea ... and when that town of ravensere odd, in which we had half an acre of land built upon, and also the chapel of that town, pertaining to the said church of esyngton, were exposed to demolition during the few preceding years, those floods and inundations of the sea, within a year before the destruction of that town, increasing in their accustomed way without limit fifteen fold, announcing the swallowing up of the said town, and sometimes exceeding beyond measure the height of the town, and surrounding it like a wall on every side, threatened the final destruction of that town. and so, with this terrible vision of waters seen on every side, the enclosed persons, with the reliques, crosses, and other ecclesiastical ornaments, which remained secretly in their possession and accompanied by the viaticum of the body of christ in the hands of the priest, flocking together, mournfully imploring grace, warded off at that time their destruction. and afterwards, daily removing thence with their possession, they left that town totally without defence, to be shortly swallowed up, which, with a short intervening period of time by those merciless tempestuous floods, was irreparably destroyed.' the traders and inhabitants generally moved to kingston-upon-hull and other towns, as the sea forced them to seek safer quarters. when henry of lancaster landed with his retinue in 1399 within spurn head, the whole scene was one of complete desolation, and the only incident recorded is his meeting with a hermit named matthew danthorp, who was at the time building a chapel. the very beautiful spire of patrington church guides us easily along a winding lane from easington until the whole building shows over the meadows. we seem to have stumbled upon a cathedral standing all alone in this diminishing land, scarcely more than two miles from the humber and less than four from the sea. no one quarrels with the title 'the queen of holderness,' nor with the far greater claim that patrington is the most beautiful village church in england. with the exception of the east window, which is perpendicular, nearly the whole structure was built in the decorated period; and in its perfect proportion, its wealth of detail and marvellous dignity, it is a joy to the eye within and without. the plan is cruciform, and there are aisles to the transepts as well as the nave, giving a wealth of pillars to the interior. above the tower rises a tall stone spire, enriched, at a third of its height, with what might be compared to an earl's coronet, the spikes being represented by crocketed pinnacles--the terminals of the supporting pillars. the interior is seen at its loveliest on those afternoons when that rich yellow light mr. w. dean howells so aptly compares with the colour of the daffodil is flooding the nave and aisles, and glowing on the clustered columns. in the eastern aisles of each arm of the transept there were three chantry chapels, whose piscinae remain. the central chapel in the south transept is a most interesting and beautiful object, having a recess for the altar, with three richly ornamented niches above. in the groined roof above, the central boss is formed into a hollow pendant of considerable interest. on the three sides are carvings representing the annunciation, st. catherine of alexandria, and st. john the baptist, and on the under side is a tudor rose. sir henry dryden, in the _archaeological journal_, states that this pendant was used for a lamp to light the altar below, but he points out, at the same time, that the sacrist would have required a ladder to reach it. an alternative suggestion made by others is that this niche contained a relic where it would have been safe even if visible. patrington village is of fair size, with a wide street; and although lacking any individual houses calling for comment, it is a pleasant place, with the prevailing warm reds of roofs and walls to be found in all the holderness towns. on our way to hedon, where the 'king of holderness' awaits us, we pass winestead church, where andrew marvell was baptized in 1621, and where we may see the memorials of a fine old family--the hildyards of winestead, who came there in the reign of henry vi. the stately tower of hedon's church is conspicuous from far away; and when we reach the village we are much impressed by its solemn beauty, and by the atmosphere of vanished greatness clinging to the place that was decayed even in leland's days, when henry viii, still reigned. no doubt the silting up of the harbour and creeks brought down hedon from her high place, so that the retreat of the sea in this place was scarcely less disastrous to the town's prosperity than its advance had been at ravenserodd; and possibly the waters of the humber, glutted with their rapacity close to spurn head, deposited much of the disintegrated town in the waterway of the other. the nave of the church is decorated, and has beautiful windows of that period. the transept is early english, and so also is the chancel, with a fine perpendicular east window filled with glass of the same subtle colours we saw at patrington. in approaching nearer to hull, we soon find ourselves in the outer zone of its penumbra of smoke, with fields on each side of the road waiting for works and tall shafts, which will spread the unpleasant gloom of the city still further into the smiling country. the sun becomes copper-coloured, and the pure, transparent light natural to holderness loses its vigour. tall and slender chimneys emitting lazy coils of blackness stand in pairs or in groups, with others beyond, indistinct behind a veil of steam and smoke, and at their feet grovels a confusion of buildings sending forth jets and mushrooms of steam at a thousand points. hemmed in by this industrial belt and compact masses of cellular brickwork, where labour skilled and unskilled sleeps and rears its offspring, is the nucleus of the royal borough of kingston-upon-hull, founded by edward i at the close of the thirteenth century. it would scarcely have been possible that any survivals of the edwardian port could have been retained in the astonishing commercial development the city has witnessed, particularly in the last century; and hull has only one old street which can lay claim to even the smallest suggestion of picturesqueness. the renaissance of english architecture is beginning to make itself felt in the chief streets, where some good buildings are taking the places of ugly fronts; and there are one or two more ambitious schemes of improvement bringing dignity into the city; but that, with the exception of two churches, is practically all. when we see the old prints of the city surrounded by its wall defended with towers, and realize the numbers of curious buildings that filled the winding streets--the windmills, the churches and monasteries--we understand that the old hull has gone almost as completely as ravenserodd. it was in hull that michael, a son of sir william de la pole of ravenserodd, its first mayor, founded a monastery for thirteen carthusian monks, and also built himself, in 1379, a stately house in lowgate opposite st. mary's church. nothing remains of this great brick mansion, which was described as a palace, and lodged henry viii during his visit in 1540. even st. mary's church has been so largely rebuilt and restored that its interest is much diminished. the great perpendicular church of holy trinity in the market-place is, therefore, the one real link between the modern city and the little town founded in the thirteenth century. it is a cruciform building and has a fine central tower, and is remarkable in having transepts and chancel built externally of brick as long ago as the decorated period. the de la pole mansion, of similar date, was also constructed with brick--no doubt from the brickyard outside the north gate owned by the founder of the family fortunes. the pillars and capitals of the arcades of both the nave and chancel are thin and unsatisfying to the eye, and the interior as a whole, although spacious, does not convey any pleasing sensations. the slenderness of the columns was necessary, it appears, owing to the soft and insecure ground, which necessitated a pile foundation and as light a weight above as could be devised. william wilberforce, the liberator of slaves, was born in 1759 in a large house still standing in high street, and a tall doric column surmounted by a statue perpetuates his memory, in the busiest corner of the city. the old red-brick grammar school bears the date 1583, and is a pleasant relief from the dun-coloured monotony of the greater part of the city. in going westward we come, at the village of north cave, to the southern horn of the crescent of the wolds. all the way to howden they show as a level-topped ridge to the north, and the lofty tower of the church stands out boldly for many miles before we reach the town. the cobbled streets at the east end of the church possess a few antique houses coloured with warm ochre, and it is over and between these that we have the first close view of the ruined chancel. the east window has lost most of its tracery, and has the appearance of a great archway; its date, together with the whole of the chancel, is late decorated, but the exquisite little chapterhouse is later still, and may be better described as early perpendicular. it is octagonal in plan, and has in each side a window with an ogee arch above. the stones employed are remarkably large. the richly moulded arcading inside, consisting of ogee arches, has been exposed to the weather for so long, owing to the loss of the vaulting above, that the lovely detail is fast disappearing. about four miles from howden, near the banks of the derwent, stand the ruins of wressle castle. in every direction the country is spread out green and flat, and, except for the towers and spires of the churches, it is practically featureless. to the north the horizon is brought closer by the rounded outlines of the wolds; everywhere else you seem to be looking into infinity, as in the fen country. the castle that stands in the midst of this belt of level country is the only one in the east riding, and although now a mere fragment of the former building, it still retains a melancholy dignity. since a fire in 1796 the place has been left an empty shell, the two great towers and the walls that join them being left without floors or roofs. wressle was one of the two castles in yorkshire belonging to the percys, and at the time of the civil war still retained its feudal grandeur unimpaired. its strength was, however, considered by the parliament to be a danger to the peace, despite the fact that the earl of northumberland, its owner, was not on the royalist side, and an order was issued in 1648 commanding that it should be destroyed. pontefract castle had been suddenly seized for the king in june during that year, and had held out so persistently that any fortified building, even if owned by a supporter, was looked upon as a possible source of danger to the parliamentary government. an order was therefore sent to lord northumberland's officers at wressle commanding them to pull down all but the south side of the castle. that this was done with great thoroughness, despite the most strenuous efforts made by the earl to save his ancient seat, may be seen to-day in the fact that, of the four sides of the square, three have totally disappeared, except for slight indications in the uneven grass. the saddest part of the story concerns the portion of the buildings spared by the cromwellians. this, we are told, remained until a century ago nearly in the same state as in the year 1512, when henry percy, the fifth earl, commenced the compilation of his wonderful household book. the great chamber, or dining room, the drawing chamber, the chapel, and other apartments, still retained their richly-carved ceilings, and the sides of the rooms were ornamented with a 'great profusion of ancient sculpture, finely executed in wood, exhibiting the bearings, crests, badges, and devises, of the percy family, in a great variety of forms, set off with all the advantages of painting, gilding and imagery.' there was a moat on three sides, a square tower at each corner, and a fifth containing the gateway presumably on the eastward face. in one of the corner towers was the buttery, pantry, 'pastery,' larder, and kitchen; in the south-easterly one was the chapel; and in the two-storied building and the other tower of the south side were the chief apartments, where my lord percy dined, entertained, and ordered his great household with a vast care and minuteness of detail. we would probably have never known how elaborate were the arrangements for the conduct and duties of every one, from my lord's eldest son down to his lowest servant, had not the household book of the fifth earl of northumberland been, by great good fortune, preserved intact. by reading this extraordinary compilation it is possible to build up a complete picture of the daily life at wressle castle in the year 1512 and later. from this account we know that the bare stone walls of the apartments were hung with tapestries, and that these, together with the beds and bedding, all the kitchen pots and pans, cloths, and odds and ends, the altar hangings, surplices, and apparatus of the chapel--in fact, every one's bed, tools, and clothing--were removed in seventeen carts each time my lord went from one of his castles to another. the following is one of the items, the spelling being typical of the whole book: 'item.--yt is ordynyd at every remevall that the deyn subdean prestes gentilmen and children of my lordes chapell with the yoman and grome of the vestry shall have apontid theime ii cariadges at every remevall viz. one for ther beddes viz. for vi prests iii beddes after ii to a bedde for x gentillmen of the chapell v beddes after ii to a bedde and for vi children ii beddes after iii to a bedde and a bedde for the yoman and grom o' th vestry in al xi beddes for the furst cariage. and the ii'de cariage for ther aparells and all outher ther stuff and to have no mo cariage allowed them but onely the said ii cariages allowid theime.' we have seen the astonishingly tall spire of hemingbrough church from the battlements of wressle castle, and when we have given a last look at the grey walls and the windows, filled with their enormously heavy tracery, we betake ourselves along a pleasant lane that brings us at length to the river. the soaring spire is 120 feet in height, or twice that of the tower, and this hugeness is perhaps out of proportion with the rest of the building; yet i do not think for a moment that this great spire could have been different without robbing the church of its striking and pleasing individuality. there are transitional norman arches at the east end of the nave, but most of the work is decorated or perpendicular. the windows of the latter period in the south transept are singularly happy in the wonderful amount of light they allow to flood through their pale yellow glass. the oak bench-ends in the nave, which are carved with many devices, and the carefully repaired stalls in the choir, are perpendicular, and no doubt belong to the period when the church was a collegiate foundation of durham. chapter xxiii the derwent and the howardian hills malton is the only town on the derwent, and it is made up of three separate places--old malton, a picturesque village; new malton, a pleasant and oldfashioned town; and norton, a curiously extensive suburb. the last has a norman font in its modern church, and there its attractions begin and end. new malton has a fortunate position on a slope well above the lush grass by the river, and in this way arranges the backs of its houses with unconscious charm. the two churches, although both containing norman pillars and arches, have been so extensively rebuilt that their antiquarian interest is slight. on account of its undoubted signs of roman occupation in the form of two rectangular camps, and its situation at the meeting-place of some three or four roman roads, new malton has been with great probability identified with the _delgovitia_ of the antonine itinerary. old malton is a cheerful and well-kept village, with antique cottages here and there, roofed with mossy thatch. it makes a pretty picture as you come along the level road from pickering, with a group of trees on the left and the tower of the priory church appearing sedately above the humble roofs. a gilbertine monastery was founded here about the middle of the twelfth century, during the lifetime of st. gilbert of sempringham in lincolnshire, who during the last year of his long life sent a letter to the canons of malton, addressing them as 'my dear sons.' little remains of malton priory with the exception of the church, built at the very beginning of the early english period. of the two western towers, the southern one only survives, and both aisles, two bays of the nave, and everything else to the east has gone. the abbreviated nave now serves as a parish church. between malton and the vale of york there lies that stretch of hilly country we saw from the edge of the wolds, for some time past known as the howardian hills, from castle howard which stands in their midst. the many interests that this singularly remote neighbourhood contains can be realized by making such a peregrination as we made through the wolds. there is no need to avoid the main road south of malton. it has a park-like appearance, with its large trees and well-kept grass on each side, and the glimpses of the wooded valley of the derwent on the left are most beautiful. on the right we look across the nearer grasslands into the great park of castle howard, and catch glimpses between the distant masses of trees of lord carlisle's stately home. the old castle of the howards having been burnt down, vanbrugh, the greatest architect of early georgian times, designed the enormous building now standing. in 1772 horace walpole compressed the glories of the place into a few sentences. '... i can say with exact truth,' he writes to george selwyn,' that i never was so agreeably astonished in my days as with the first vision of the whole place. i had heard of vanburgh, and how sir thomas robinson and he stood spitting and swearing at one another; nay, i had heard of glorious woods, and lord strafford alone had told me that i should see one of the finest places in yorkshire; but nobody ... had informed me that should at one view see a palace, a town, a fortified city; temples on high places, woods worthy of being each metropolis of the druids, vales connected to hills by other woods, the noblest lawn in the world fenced by half the horizon, and a mausoleum that would tempt one to be buried alive; in short, i have seen gigantic places before, but never a sublime one.' the style is that of the corinthian renaissance, and walpole's description applies as much to-day as when he wrote. the pictures include some of the masterpieces of reynolds, lely, vandyck, rubens, tintoretto, canaletto, giovanni bellini domenichino and annibale caracci. two or three miles to the south, the road finds itself close to the deep valley of the derwent. a short turning embowered with tall trees whose dense foliage only allows a soft green light to filter through, goes steeply down to the river. we cross the deep and placid river by a stone bridge, and come to the priory gateway. it is a stately ruin partially mantled with ivy, and it preserves in a most remarkable fashion the detail of its outward face. the mossy steps of the cross just outside the gateway are, according to a tradition in one of the cottonian manuscripts, associated with the event which led to the founding of the abbey by walter espec, lord of helmsley. he had, we are told, an only son, also named walter, who was fond of riding with exceeding swiftness. one day when galloping at a great pace his horse stumbled near a small stone, and young espec was brought violently to the ground, breaking his neck and leaving his father childless. the grief-stricken parent is said to have found consolation in the founding of three abbeys, one of them being at kirkham, where the fatal accident took place. of the church and conventual buildings only a few fragments remain to tell us that this secluded spot by the derwent must have possessed one of the most stately monasteries in yorkshire. one tall lancet is all that has been left of the church; and of the other buildings a few walls, a beautiful decorated lavatory, and a norman doorway alone survive. stamford bridge, which is reached by no direct road from kirkham abbey, is so historically fascinating that we must leave the hills for a time to see the site of that momentous battle between harold, the english king, and the norwegian army, under harold hardrada and harold's brother tostig. the english host made their sudden attack from the right bank of the river, and the northmen on that side, being partially armed, were driven back across a narrow wooden bridge. one northman, it appears, played the part of horatius in keeping the english at bay for a time. when he fell, the norwegians had formed up their shield-wall on the left bank of the river, no doubt on the rising ground just above the village. that the final and decisive phase of the battle took place there freeman has no doubt. stamford bridge being, as already mentioned, the most probable site of the roman _derventio_, it was natural that some village should have grown up at such an important crossing of the river. an unfrequented road through a belt of picturesque woodland goes from stamford bridge past sand hutton to the highway from york to malton. if we take the branch-road to flaxton, we soon see, over the distant trees, the lofty towers of sheriff hutton castle, and before long reach a silent village standing near the imposing ruin. the great rectangular space, enclosed by huge corner-towers and half-destroyed curtain walls, is now utilized as the stackyard of a farm, and the effect as we approach by a footpath is most remarkable. it seems scarcely possible that this is the castle leland described with so much enthusiasm. 'i saw no house in the north so like a princely logginges,' he says, and also describes 'the stately staire up to the haul' as being very magnificent. we come to the north-west tower, and look beyond its ragged outline to the distant country lying to the west, grass and arable land with trees appearing to grow so closely together at a short distance, that we have no difficulty in realizing that this was the ancient forest of galtres, which reached from sheriff hutton and easingwold to the very gates of york. in the complete loneliness of the ruins, with the silence only intensified by the sounds of fluttering wings in the tops of the towers, we in imagination sweep away the haystacks and reinstate the former grandeur of the fortress in the days of ralph neville, first earl of westmorland. it was he who rebuilt the norman castle of bertram de bulmer, sheriff of yorkshire, on a grander scale. upon the death of warwick, the kingmaker, in 1471, edward iv gave the castle and manor of sheriff hutton to his brother richard, afterwards richard iii, and it was he who kept edward iv's eldest child elizabeth a prisoner within these massive walls. the unfortunate edward, earl of warwick, the eldest son of george, duke of clarence, when only eight years old, was also incarcerated here for about three years. richard iii, the usurper, when he lost his only son, had thought of making this boy his heir, but the unfortunate child was passed over in favour of john de la pole, earl of lincoln, and remained in close confinement at sheriff hutton until august, 1485, when the battle of bosworth placed henry vii on the throne. sir robert willoughby soon afterwards arrived at the castle, and took the little earl to london. princess elizabeth was also sent for at the same time, but whether both the royal prisoners travelled together does not appear to be recorded. the terrible pathos of this simultaneous removal from the castle lay in the fact that edward was to play the part of pharaoh's chief baker, and elizabeth that of the chief butler; for, after fourteen years in the tower of london, the earl of warwick was beheaded, while the king, after five months, raised up elizabeth to be his queen. even in those callous times the fate of the prince was considered cruel, for it was pointed out after his execution, that, as he had been kept in imprisonment since he was eight years old, and had no knowledge or experience of the world, he could hardly have been accused of any malicious purpose. so cut off from all the common sights of everyday life was the miserable boy that it was said 'that he could not discern a goose from a capon.' portions of the augustinian priory are built into the house called newburgh priory, and these include the walls of the kitchen and some curious carvings showing on the exterior. william of newburgh, the historian, whose writings end abruptly in 1198--probably the year of his death--was a canon of the priory, and spent practically his whole life there. in his preface he denounced the inaccuracies and fictions of the writings of geoffrey of monmouth. at the dissolution newburgh was given by henry viii to anthony belasyse, the punning motto of whose family was _bonne et belle assez_. one of his descendants was created lord fauconberg by charles i, and the peerage became extinct in 1815, on the death of the seventh to bear the title. the last owner--sir george wombwell, bart.--inherited the property from his grandmother, who was a daughter of the last lord fauconberg. sir george was one of the three surviving officers who took part in the charge of the light brigade at balaclava on october 25, 1854. the late duke of cambridge paid several visits to newburgh, occupying what is generally called 'the duke's room.' rear-admiral lord adolphus fitz-clarence, whose father was george iv, died in 1856 in the bed still kept in this room. in a glass case, at the end of a long gallery crowded with interest, are kept the uniform and accoutrements sir george wore at balaclava. the second lord fauconberg, who was raised from viscount to the rank of earl in 1689, was warmly attached to the parliamentary side in the civil war, and took as his second wife cromwell's third daughter, mary. this close connexion with the protector explains the inscription upon a vault immediately over one of the entrances to the priory. on a small metal plate is written: 'in this vault are cromwell's bones, brought here, it is believed, by his daughter mary, countess of fauconberg, at the restoration, when his remains were disinterred from westminster abbey.' the letters 'r.i.p.' below are only just visible, an attempt having been made to erase them. no one seems to have succeeded in finally clearing up the mystery of the last resting-place of cromwell's remains. the body was exhumed from its tomb in henry vii.'s chapel at westminster, and hung on the gallows at tyburn on january 30, 1661--the twelfth anniversary of the execution of charles i--and the head was placed upon a pole raised above st. stephen's hall, and had a separate history, which is known. lord fauconberg is said to have become a royalist at the restoration, and if this were true, he would perhaps have been able to secure the decapitated remains of his father-in-law, after their burial at the foot of the gallows at tyburn. it has often been stated that a sword, bridle, and other articles belonging to cromwell are preserved at newburgh priory, but this has been conclusively shown to be a mistake, the objects having been traced to one of the belasyses. coxwold has that air of neatness and well-preserved antiquity which is so often to be found in england where the ancient owners of the land still spend a large proportion of their time in the great house of the village. there is a very wide street, with picturesque old houses on each side, which rises gently towards the church. a great tree with twisted branches--whether oak or elm, i cannot remember--stands at the top of the street opposite the churchyard, and adds much charm to the village. the inn has recently lost its thatch, but is still a quaint little house with the typical yorkshire gable, finished with a stone ball. on the great sign fixed to the wall are the arms and motto of the fauconbergs, and the interior is full of old-fashioned comfort and cleanliness. nearly opposite stand the almshouses, dated 1662. the church is chiefly perpendicular, with a rather unusual octagonal tower. in the eighteenth century the chancel was rebuilt, but the fauconberg monuments in it were replaced. sir william belasyse, who received the newburgh property from his uncle, the first owner, died in 1603, and his fine jacobean tomb, painted in red, black and gold, shows him with a beard and ruff. his portrait hangs in one of the drawing-rooms of the priory. the later monuments, adorned with great carved figures, are all interesting. they encroach so much on the space in the narrow chancel that a most curious method for lengthening the communion-rail has been resorted to--that of bringing forward from the centre a long narrow space enclosed with the rails. from the pulpit laurence sterne preached when he was incumbent here for the last eight years of his life. he came to coxwold in 1760, and took up his abode in the charming old house he quaintly called 'shandy hall.' it is on the opposite side of the road to the church, and has a stone roof and one of those enormous chimneys so often to be found in the older farmsteads of the north of england. sterne's study was the very small room on the right-hand side of the entrance doorway; it now contains nothing associated with him, and there is more pleasure in viewing the outside of the house than is gained by obtaining permission to enter. during his last year at coxwold, when his rollicking, boisterous spirits were much subdued, sterne completed his 'sentimental journey.' he also relished more than before the country delights of the village, describing it in one of his letters as 'a land of plenty.' every day he drove out in his chaise, drawn by two long-tailed horses, until one day his postilion met with an accident from one his master's pistols, which went off in his hand. 'he instantly fell on his knees,' wrote sterne, 'and said "our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name"--at which, like a good christian, he stopped, not remembering any more of it.' the beautiful hambleton hills begin to rise up steeply about two miles north of coxwold, and there we come upon the ruins of byland abbey. their chief feature is the west end of the church, with its one turret pointing a finger to the heavens, and the lower portion of a huge circular window, without any sign of tracery. this fine example of early english work is illustrated here. the whole building appears to be the original structure built soon after 1177, for it shows everywhere the transition from norman to early english which was taking place at the close of the twelfth century. the founders were twelve monks and an abbot, named gerald, who left furness abbey in 1134, and after some vicissitudes came to the notice of gundred, the mother of roger de mowbray, either by recommendation or by accident. one account pictures the holy men on their way to archbishop thurstan at york, with all their belongings in one wagon drawn by eight oxen, and describes how they chanced to meet gundreda's steward as they journeyed near thirsk. through gundreda the monks went to hode, and after four years received land at old byland, where they wished to build an abbey. this position was found to be too close to rievaulx, whose bells could be too plainly heard, so that five years later the restless community obtained a fresh grant of land from de mowbray, at a place called stocking, where they remained until they came to byland. recent excavation and preservation operations carried out by h.m. office of works have added many lost features to the ruins including the exposure of the whole of the floor level of the church hitherto buried under grassy mounds. almost any of the roads to the east go through surprisingly attractive scenery. there are heathery commons, roads embowered with great spreading trees, or running along open hill-sides, and frequently lovely views of the hambletons and more distant moors in the north. in scenery of this character stands gilling castle, the seat of the fairfaxes for some three centuries. it possesses one of the most beautiful elizabethan dining-rooms to be found in this country. the walls are panelled to a considerable height, the remaining space being filled with paintings of decorative trees, one for each wapentake of yorkshire. each tree is covered with the coats of arms of the great families of that time in the wapentake. the brilliant colours against the dark green of the trees form a most suitable relief to the uniform brown of the panelling. in addition to the charm of the room itself, the view from the windows into a deep hollow clothed with dense foliage, with a distant glimpse of country beyond, is unlike anything i have seen elsewhere. chapter xxiv a brief description of the city of york thoroughly to master the story of the city of york is to know practically the whole of english history. its importance from the earliest times has made york the centre of all the chief events that have take place in the north of england; and right up to the time of the civil war the great happenings of the country always affected york, and brought the northern capital into the vortex of affairs. and yet, despite the prominent part the city has played in ecclesiastical, military, and civil affairs through so many centuries of strife, it has contrived to retain a medieval character in many ways unequalled by any town in the kingdom. this is due, in a large measure, to the fortunate fact that york is well outside the area of coal and iron, and has never become a manufacturing centre, the few factories it now possesses being unable to rob the city of its romance and charm. there could scarcely be a better approach to such a city than that furnished by the railway-station. immediately outside the building, we are confronted with a sloping grassy bank, crowned with a battlemented wall, and we discover that only through its bars and posterns can we enter the city, and feast our eyes on the relics of the middle ages within. it is no dummy wall put up to please visitors, for right down to the siege of 1644, when the parliamentary army battered walmgate bar with their artillery, it has withstood many assaults and investments. repairs and restorations have been carried out at various times during the last century, and additional arches have been inserted by the bars and where openings have been made necessary, luckily without robbing the walls of their picturesqueness or interest. the bright, creamy colour of the stonework is a pleasant reminder of the purity of york's atmosphere, for should the smoke of the city ever increase to the extent of even the smaller manufacturing towns, the beauty and glamour of every view would gradually disappear. of the roman legionary base called eboracum there still remain parts of the wall and the lower portion of a thirteen-sided angle bastion while embedded in the medieval earthen ramparts there is a great deal of roman walling. the four chief gateways and the one or two posterns and towers have each a particular fascination, and when we begin to taste the joys of york, we cannot decide whether the minster, the gateways, the narrow streets full of overhanging houses, or the churches, all of which we know from prints and pictures, call us most. in our uncertainty we reach a wide arch across the roadway, and on the inner side find a flight of stone steps leading to the top of the wall. we climb them, and find spread out before us our first notable view of the city. the battlemented stone parapet of the wall stops at a tower standing on the bank of the river, and on the further side rises another, while above the old houses, closely packed together beyond lendal bridge, appear the stately towers of the minster. on the plan of keeping the best wine until the last, we turn our backs to the minster and go along the wall, trying to imagine the scene when open country came right up to encircling fortifications, and within were to be found only the picturesque houses of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, many of them new in those days, and yet so admirably designed as to be beautiful without the additional charm of age. then, suddenly, we find no need to imagine any longer, having reached the splendid twelfth-century structure of micklegate bar. its bold turrets are pierced with arrow-slits, and above the battlements are three stone figures. the archway is a survival of the norman city. in gazing at this imposing gateway, which confronted all who approached york from the south, we seem to hear the clanking sound of the portcullis as it is raised and lowered to allow the entry of some plantagenet sovereign and his armed retinue, and, remembering that above this gate were fixed the dripping heads of richard, duke of york, after his defeat at wakefield; the earl of devon, after towton, and a long list of others of noble birth, we realize that in those times of pageantry, when the most perfect artistry appeared in costume, in architecture, and in ornament of every description, there was a blood-thirstiness that makes us shiver. the wall stops short at skeldergate bridge, where we cross the river and come to the castle. there is a frowning gateway that boasts no antiquity, and the courtyard within is surrounded by the eighteenth-century assize courts, a military prison, and the governor's house. hemmed in by these buildings and a massive wall is the artificial mound surmounted by the tottering castle keep. it is called clifford's tower because francis clifford, earl of cumberland, restored the ruined wall in 1642. the royal arms and those of the cliffords can still be seen above the doorway, but the structure as a whole dates from the twelfth century, and in 1190 was the scene of a horrible tragedy, when the people of york determined to massacre the jews. those merchants who escaped from their houses with their families and were not killed in the streets fled to the castle, but finding that they were unable to defend the place, they burnt the buildings and destroyed themselves. a few exceptions consented to become christians, but were afterwards killed by the infuriated townspeople. on the opposite side of the foss, a stream that joins the ouse just outside the city, the walls recommence at the fishergate postern, a picturesque tower with a tiled roof. after this the line of fortifications turns to the north, and walmgate bar shows its battlemented turrets and its barbican, the only one which has survived. the gateway itself, on the outside, is very similar in design to micklegate and monk bars, and was built in the thirteenth century; inside, however, the stonework is hidden behind a quaint elizabethan timber front supported on two pillars. this gate, as already mentioned, was much battered during the siege of 1644, which lasted six weeks. it was soon after the royalists' defeat at marston moor that york capitulated, and fortunately sir thomas fairfax gave the city excellent terms, and saved it from being plundered. through him, too, the minster suffered very little damage from the parliamentary artillery, and the only disaster of the siege was the spoiling of the marygate tower, near st. mary's abbey, many of the records it contained being destroyed. numbers were saved through the rewards fairfax offered to any soldier who rescued a document from the rubbish, and as the transcribing of all the records had just been completed by one dodsworth, to whom fairfax had paid a salary for some years, the loss was reduced to a minimum. walmgate leads straight to the bridge over the foss, and just beyond we come to fine old merchants' hall, established in 1373 by john de rowcliffe. the panelled rooms and the chapel, built early in the fifteenth century, and many interesting details, are beautiful survivals of the days when the trade guilds of the city flourished. on the left, a few yards further on, at the corner of the pavement, is the interesting little church of all saints, whose octagonal lantern was illuminated at night as a guiding light to travellers on their way to york. the north door has a sanctuary knocker. the narrowest and most antique of the old streets of york are close to all saints' church, and the first we enter is the shambles, where butchers' shops with slaughter-houses behind still line both sides of the way. on the left, as we go towards the minster, one of the shops has a depressed ogee arch of oak, and great curved brackets across the passage leading to the back. all the houses are timber-framed, and either plastered and coloured with warm ochre wash, or have the spaces between the oak filled with dark red brick. in the little shambles, too, there are many curious details in the high gables, pargeting and oriel windows. petergate is a charming old street, though not quite so rich in antique houses as stonegate, illustrated here. a large number of shops in stonegate sell 'antiques,' and, as the pleasure of buying an old pair of silver candlesticks is greatly enhanced by the knowledge that the purchase will be associated with the old-world streets of york, there is every reason for believing that these quaint houses are in no danger. in walking through these streets we are very little disturbed by traffic, and the atmosphere of centuries long dead seems to surround us. we constantly get peeps of the great central tower of the minster or the early english south transept, and there are so many charming glimpses down passages and along narrow streets that it is hard to realize that we are not in some town in normandy such as lisieux or falaise, and yet those towns have no walls, and falaise, has only one gateway, and lisieux none. it is surely justifiable to ask, in kingsley's words, 'why go gallivanting with the nations round' until you have at least seen what england can show at york and chester? skirting the west end of the minster, and having a close view of its two towers built in late perpendicular times, which are not so beautiful as those at beverley, we come to what is in many ways the most romantic of all the medieval survivals of york. there is an open space faced by bootham bar, the chief gateway towards the north; behind are the weathered red roofs of many antique houses, and beyond them rises the stately mass of the minster. the barbican was removed in 1831, and the interior has been much restored, without, however, destroying its fascination. we can still see the portcullis and look out of the narrow windows through which the watchmen have gazed in early times at approaching travellers. it was at this gateway that armed guides could be obtained to protect those who were journeying northwards through the forest of galtres, where wolves were to be feared in the middle ages. facing bootham bar is a modern public building judiciously screened by trees, and adjoining it to the south stands the beautiful old house where, before the dissolution, the abbots of st. mary's abbey lived in stately fashion. when henry viii paid his one visit to york it was after the pilgrimage of grace led by robert aske, who was hanged on one of the gates. the citizens who had welcomed the rebels pleaded pardon, which was granted three years afterwards; but henry appointed a council, with the duke of norfolk as its president, which was held in the abbots' house, and resulted in the mayor and corporation losing most of their powers. the beautiful fragments of st. mary's abbey are close to the river, and the site is now included in the museum grounds. in the museum building itself there is a wonderfully fine collection of roman coffins, dug up when the new railway-station was being built. one inscription is particularly interesting in showing that the romans set up altars in their palaces, thus explaining the reason for the jews refusing to enter the praetorium at jerusalem when christ was made prisoner, because it was the feast of the passover. we can see the restored front of the guildhall overlooking the river from lendal bridge, which adjoins the gates of the abbey grounds, but to reach the entrance we must go along the street called lendal and turn into a narrow passage. the hall was put up in 1446, and is therefore in the perpendicular style. a row of tall oak pillars on each side support the roof and form two aisles. the windows are filled with excellent modern stained glass representing several incidents in the history of the city, from the election of constantine to be roman emperor, which took place at york in a.d. 306, down to the great dinner to the prince consort, held in the hall in 1850. the church of st. michael spurriergate, built at the same period as the guildhall, is curiously similar in its interior, having only a nave and aisles. the stone pillars are so slight that they are scarcely of much greater diameter than the wooden ones in the civic structure, and some of them are perilously out of plumb. there is much old glass in the windows. st. margaret's church has a splendid norman doorway carved with the signs of the zodiac; st. mary's castlegate is an early english or transitional building transformed and patched in perpendicular times; st. mary's bishophill junior has a most interesting tower, containing roman materials, and the list could be prolonged for many pages if there were space. we finally come back to the minster, and entering by the south transept door, realize at once in the dim immensity of the interior that we have reached the crowning splendour of york. the great organ is filling the lofty spaces with solemn music, carrying the mind far beyond petty things. edwin's wooden chapel, put up in 627 for his baptism into the christian church nearly thirteen centuries ago, and almost immediately replaced by a stone structure, has gone, except for some possible fragments in the crypt. vanished, too, is the building that was standing when, in 1069, the danes sacked and plundered york, leaving the minster and city in ruins, so that the great church as we see it belongs almost entirely to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the towers being still later. chapter xxv the manufacturing district it is not easy to understand how a massive structure such as that of selby abbey can catch fire and become a burnt-out shell, and yet this actually happened not many years ago. it was before midnight on october 19, 1906, that the flames were first seen bursting from the latham chapel, where the organ was placed. the selby fire brigade with their small engine were confronted with a task entirely beyond their powers, and though the men worked heroically, they were quite unable to prevent the fire from spreading to the roofs of the chancel and nave, and consuming all that was inflammable within the tower. by about three in the morning fire-engines from leeds and york had arrived, and with a copious supply of water from the river, it was hoped that the double roof of the nave might have been saved, but the fire had obtained too fierce a hold, and by 4.30 a correspondent telegraphed: 'the flames are through the west-end roof. the whole building will now be destroyed from end to end. the flames are pouring out of the roof, and the lead of the roof is running down in molten streams. the scene is magnificent but pathetic, and the whole of the noble building is now doomed. the whole of the inside is a fiery furnace. the seating is in flames, and the firemen are in considerable danger if they stay any longer, as the false roof is now burned through. 'the false roof is falling in, and the flames are ascending 30 feet above the building. dense clouds of smoke are pouring out.' when the fire was vanquished, it had practically completed its work of destruction. besides reducing to charred logs and ashes all the timber in the great building, the heat had been so intense that glass windows had been destroyed, tracery demolished, carved finials and capitals reduced to powder, and even the massive piers by the north transept, where the furnace of flame reached its maximum intensity, became so calcined and cracked that they were left in a highly dangerous condition. fortunately the splendid norman nave was not badly damaged, and after a new roof had been built, it was easily made ready for holding services. the two bays nearest to the transept are early norman, and on the south side the massive circular column is covered with a plain grooved diaper-work, almost exactly the same as may be seen at durham cathedral. all the rest of the nave is transitional norman except the early english clerestory, and is a wonderful study in the progress from early norman to early english. on the floor on the south side of the nave by one of the piers is a slab to the memory of a maker of gravestones, worded in this quaint fashion: 'here lyes ye body of poor frank raw parish clark and gravestone cutter and ys is writt to let yw know: wht frank for othrs us'd to do is now for frank done by another. buried march ye 31, 1706.' a stone on the floor of the retro-choir to john johnson, master and mariner, dated 1737, is crowded with nautical metaphor. 'tho' boreas with his blustring blasts has tos't me to and fro, yet by the handy work of god i'm here inclos'd below and in this silent bay i lie with many of our fleet untill the day that i set sail my admiral christ to meet.' the great perpendicular east window was considered by pugin to be one of the most beautiful of its type in england, and the risk it ran of being entirely destroyed during the fire was very great. the design of the glass illustrates the ancestry of christ from jesse, and a considerable portion of it is original. although selby abbey suffered severely in the conflagration, yet its greatest association with history, the norman nave, is still intact. at the eastern end of the nave we can still look upon the ponderous arches of the benedictine abbey church, founded by william the conqueror in 1069 as a mark of his gratitude for the success of his arms in the north of england, even as battle abbey was founded in the south. going to the west as far as pontefract, we come to the actual borders of the coal-mine and factory-bestrewn country. although the history of pontefract is so detailed and so rich, it has long ago been robbed of nearly every building associated with the great events of its past, and its present appearance is intensely disappointing. the town stands on a hill, and has a wide and cheerful market-place possessing an eighteenth-century 'cross' on big open arches. it is a plain, classic structure, 'erected by mrs. elisabeth dupier relict of solomon dupier, gent, in a cheerful and generous compliance with his benevolent intention anno dom' 1734.' the castle stood at the northern end of the town on a rocky eminence just suited for the purposes of an early fortress, but of the stately towers and curtain walls which have successively been reared above the scarps, practically nothing besides foundations remains. the base of the great round tower, prominent in all the prints of the castle in the time of its greatest glory, fragments of the lower parts of other towers and some dungeons or magazines are practically the only features of the historic site that the imagination finds to feed upon. a long flight of steps leads into the underground chambers, on whose walls are carved the names of various prisoners taken during the siege of 1648. below the castle, on the east side, is the old church of all saints with its ruined nave, eloquent of the destruction wrought by the parliamentary cannon in the successive sieges, and to the north stands new hall, the stately tudor mansion of lord george talbot, now reduced to the melancholy wreck depicted in these pages. the girdle of fortifications constructed by the besiegers round the castle included new hall, in case it might have been reached by a sally of the royalists, whose cannon-balls, we know, carried as far, from the discovery of one embedded in the masonry. coats of arms of the talbots can still be seen on carved stones on the front walls over the entrance. the date, 1591, is believed to be later than the time of the erection of the house, which, in the form of its parapets and other details, suggests the style of henry viii's reign. although we can describe in a very few words the historic survivals of pontefract, to deal even cursorily with the story of the vanished castle and modernized town is a great undertaking, so numerous are the great personages and famous events of english history connected with its owners, its prisoners, and its sieges. the name pontefract has suggested such an obvious derivation that, from the early topographers up to the present time, efforts have been made to discover the broken bridge giving rise to the new name, which replaced the saxon kyrkebi. no one has yet succeeded in this quest, and the absence of any river at pontefract makes the search peculiarly hopeless. at castleford, a few miles north-west of pontefract, where the roman ermine street crossed the confluence of the aire and the calder, it is definitely known that there was only a ford. the present name does not make any appearance until several years after the norman conquest, though ilbert de lacy received the great fief, afterwards to become the honour of pontefract, in 1067, the year after the battle of hastings. ilbert built the first stone castle on the rock, and either to him or his immediate successors may be attributed the norman walls and chapel, whose foundations still exist on the north and east sides of the castle yard. the de lacys held pontefract until 1193, when robert died without issue, the castle and lands passing by marriage to richard fitz-eustace; and the male line again became extinct in 1310, when thomas, earl of lancaster, married alice, the heiress of henry de lacy. henry's great-grandfather was the roger de lacy, justiciar and constable of chester, who is famous for his heroic defence of chateau gaillard, in normandy, for nearly a year, when john weakly allowed philip augustus to continue the siege, making only one feeble attempt at relief. thomas, earl of lancaster, who was a cousin of edward ii, was more or less in continual opposition to the king, on account of his determination to rid the court of the royal favourites, and it was with lancaster's full consent that piers gaveston was beheaded at blacklow hill, near warwick, in 1312. for this edward never forgave his cousin, and when, during the fighting which followed the recall of the despensers, lancaster was obliged to surrender after the battle of boroughbridge, edward had his revenge. the earl was brought to his own castle at pontefract, where the king lay, and there accused of rebellion, of coming to the parliaments with armed men, and of being in league with the scots. without even being allowed a hearing he was condemned to death as a traitor, and the next day, june 19, 1322, mounted on a sorry nag without a bridle, he was led to a hill outside the town, and executed with his face towards scotland. in the last year of the same century richard ii died in imprisonment in the castle, not long after the parliament had decided that the deposed king should be permanently immured in an out-of-the-way place. hardyng's chronicle records the journeying from one castle to another in the lines: 'the kyng the[n] sent kyng richard to ledis, there to be kepte surely in previtee, fro the[n]s after to pykeryng we[n]t he nedes, and to knauesburgh after led was he, but to pountfrete last where he did die.' archbishop scrope affirmed that richard died of starvation, while shakespeare makes sir piers of exton his murderer. during the pilgrimage of grace the castle was besieged, and given up to the rebels by lord darcy and the archbishop of york. in the following century came the three sieges of the civil war. the first two followed after the battle of marston moor in 1644, and fairfax joined the parliamentary forces on christmas day of that year, remaining through most of january. on march 1 sir marmaduke langdale relieved the royalist garrison, and colonel lambert fell back, fighting stubbornly and losing some 300 men. the garrison then had an interval of just three weeks to reprovision the castle, then the second siege began, and lasted until july 19, when the courageous defenders surrendered, the besieging force having lost 469 men killed to 99 of those within the castle. of these two sieges, often looked upon as one, there exists a unique diary kept by nathan drake, a 'gentleman volunteer' of the garrison, and from its wonderfully graphic details it is possible to realize the condition of the defence, their sufferings, their hopes, and their losses, almost more completely than of any other siege before recent times. in the third and last investment of 1648-49 cromwell himself summoned the garrison, and remained a month with the parliamentary forces, without seeing any immediate prospect of the surrender of the castle. when the royalists had been reduced to a mere handful, colonel morris, their commander, agreed to terms of capitulation on march 24, 1649. the dismantling of the stately pile by order of parliament followed as a matter of course, and now we have practically nothing but seventeenth-century prints to remind us of the embattled towers which for so many months defied cromwell and his generals. liquorice is still grown at pontefract, although the industry has languished on account of spanish rivalry, and the town still produces those curious little discs of soft liquorice, approximating to the size of a shilling, known as 'pontefract cakes.' the ruins of the great cistercian abbey of kirkstall, founded in the twelfth century by henry de lacy, still stand in a remarkable state of completeness, about three miles from leeds. with the exception of fountains, the remains are more perfect than any in yorkshire. nearly the whole of the church is transitional norman, and the roofless nave is in a wonderfully fine state of preservation. the chapter-house and refectory, as well as smaller rooms, are fairly complete, and the situation by the aire on a sunny day is still attractive; yet owing to the smoke-laden atmosphere, and the inevitable indications of the countless visitors from the city, the ruins have lost much of their interest, unless viewed solely from a detached architectural standpoint. we do not feel much inclination to linger in this neighbourhood, and continue our way westwards towards the great rounded hills, where, not far from keighley, we come to the grey village of haworth. more than half a century has gone since charlotte brontë passed away in that melancholy house, the 'parsonage' of the village. in that period the church she knew has been rebuilt, with the exception of the tower, her home has been enlarged, a branch line from keighley has given haworth a railway-station, and factories have multiplied in the valley, destroying its charm. these changes sound far greater than they really are, for in many ways haworth and its surroundings are just what they were in the days when the members of that ill-fated household were still united under the grey roof of the 'parsonage,' as it is invariably called by mrs. gaskell. we climb up the steep road from the station at the bottom of the deep valley, and come to the foot of the village street, which, even though it turns sharply to the north in order to make as gradual an ascent as possible, is astonishingly steep. at the top stands an inn, the 'black bull,' where the downward path of the unhappy branwell brontë began, owing to the frequent occasions when 'patrick,' as he was familiarly called, was sent for by the landlord to talk to his more important patrons. the churchyard is, to a large extent, closely paved with tombstones dating back to the seventeenth century, laid flat, and on to this dismal piece of ground the chief windows of the brontës' house looked, as they continue to do to-day. it is exceedingly strange that such an unfortunate arrangement of the buildings on this breezy hill-top should have given a gloomy outlook to the parsonage. if the house had only been placed a little higher up the hill, and been built to face the south, it is conceivable that the brontës would have enjoyed better health and a less melancholy and tragic outlook on life. an account of a visit to haworth parsonage by a neighbour, when charlotte and her father were the only survivors of the family, gives a clear impression of how the house appeared to those who lived brighter lives: 'miss brontë put me so in mind of her own "jane eyre." she looked smaller than ever, and moved about so quietly and noiselessly, just like a little bird, as rochester called her, barring that all birds are joyous, and that joy can never have entered that house since it was first built, and yet, perhaps, when that old man married, and took home his bride, and children's voices and feet were heard about the house, even that desolate crowded graveyard and biting blast could not quench cheerfulness and hope.' very soon after the family came to haworth mrs. brontë died, when the eldest girl, maria, was only six years old; and far from there having been any childish laughter about the house, we are told that the children were unusually solemn from their infancy. in their earliest walks, the five little girls with their one brother--all of them under seven years--directed their steps towards the wild moors above their home rather than into the village. over a century has passed, and practically no change has come to the moorland side of the house, so that we can imagine the precocious toddling children going hand-in-hand over the grass-lands towards the moors beyond, as though we had travelled back over the intervening years. the purple moors so beloved by the brontës stretch away to the calder valley, and beyond that depression in great sweeping outlines to the peak of derbyshire, where they exceed 2,000 feet in height. within easy reach of this grand country is sheffield, perhaps the blackest and ugliest city in england. at night, however, the great iron and steel works become wildly fantastic. the tops of the many chimneys emit crimson flames, and glowing shafts of light with a nucleus of dazzling brilliance show between the inky forms of buildings. ceaseless activity reigns in these industrial infernos, with three shifts of men working during each twenty-four hours; and from the innumerable works come every form of manufactured steel and iron goods, from a pair of scissors or a plated teaspoon to steel rails and armour plate. [editor's note:--the chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter xv and volume 3 starts with chapter xxx.] sylvia's lovers. by elizabeth gaskell oh for thy voice to soothe and bless! what hope of answer, or redress? behind the veil! behind the veil!--tennyson in three volumes. vol. iii. london: m.dccc.lxiii. contents xxx happy days xxxi evil omens xxxii rescued from the waves xxxiii an apparition xxxiv a reckless recruit xxxv things unutterable xxxvi mysterious tidings xxxvii bereavement xxxviii the recognition xxxix confidences xl an unexpected messenger xli the bedesman of st sepulchre xlii a fable at fault xliii the unknown xliv first words xlv saved and lost chapter xxx happy days and now philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. the business flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. as for himself he required very little; but he had always looked forward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means for this were now furnished to him. the dress, the comforts, the position he had desired for sylvia were all hers. she did not need to do a stroke of household work if she preferred to 'sit in her parlour and sew up a seam'. indeed phoebe resented any interference in the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that she looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. 'mrs hepburn' (as sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piece in her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day when she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray or scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding. what she cared for far more were the comforts with which it was in her power to surround her mother. in this philip vied with her; for besides his old love, and new pity for his aunt bell, he never forgot how she had welcomed him to haytersbank, and favoured his love to sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he should ever win his cousin to be his wife. but even if he had not had these grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he would have done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare smiles which his wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when she saw him attending to 'mother,' for so both of them now called bell. for her creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble luxury, sylvia did not care; philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she often manifested to all his efforts to surround her with such things. it was even a hardship to her to leave off her country dress, her uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to don a stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. sitting in the dark parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 'white work,' was much more wearying to her than running out into the fields to bring up the cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. she sometimes thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where there were no out-door animals to look after; the 'ox and the ass' had hitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father's home into mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to speak in words the grateful regard that she could read without the poor expression of language. she missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above the fields; she rebelled against the necessity of 'dressing' (as she called it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was a necessity where the first step beyond the threshold must be into a populous street. it is possible that philip was right at one time when he had thought to win her by material advantages; but the old vanities had been burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. a great deal of passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent; but at this period it appeared as though she were indifferent to most things, and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing much. she was stunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most points; those on which she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice and oppression of her father's death, or anything that concerned her mother. she was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with philip; he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts of impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, had gone to form his idea of the former sylvia. once or twice he was almost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much to have a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse her to pleasure by gratifying it. indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights without his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for the morrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in the early dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side, or whether it was not all a dream that he called sylvia 'wife.' he was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken of in the same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in only being allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patient perseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, he went on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other men would have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with half a heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. all this time philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he was over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. over and over again in this first year of married life he dreamt this dream; perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never varied. it was always of kinraid's return; kinraid was full of life in philip's dream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himself by all the laws of probability that his rival was dead. he never remembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible dream after he had roused himself, with a fight and a struggle, from his feverish slumbers. he was generally sitting up in bed when he found himself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of kinraid's living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. occasionally sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class at that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation; but philip never gave her any truth in his reply. after all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to himself, the long-desired happiness was not so delicious and perfect as he had anticipated. many have felt the same in their first year of married life; but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, striving to gain love, and capable itself of steady love all the while, is a gift not given to all. for many weeks after their wedding, kester never came near them: a chance word or two from sylvia showed philip that she had noticed this and regretted it; and, accordingly, he made it his business at the next leisure opportunity to go to haytersbank (never saying a word to his wife of his purpose), and seek out kester. all the whole place was altered! it was new white-washed, new thatched: the patches of colour in the surrounding ground were changed with altered tillage; the great geraniums were gone from the window, and instead, was a smart knitted blind. children played before the house-door; a dog lying on the step flew at philip; all was so strange, that it was even the strangest thing of all for kester to appear where everything else was so altered! philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour on the part of the latter before he could induce kester to promise to come down into the town and see sylvia in her new home. somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure; at least, it seemed so at the time, though probably it broke the ice of restraint which was forming over the familiar intercourse between kester and sylvia. the old servant was daunted by seeing sylvia in a strange place, and stood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively looking about him, instead of seating himself on the chair sylvia had so eagerly brought forward for him. then his sense of the estrangement caused by their new positions infected her, and she began to cry pitifully, saying,-'oh, kester! kester! tell me about haytersbank! is it just as it used to be in feyther's days?' 'well, a cannot say as it is,' said kester, thankful to have a subject started. 'they'n pleughed up t' oud pasture-field, and are settin' it for 'taters. they're not for much cattle, isn't higginses. they'll be for corn in t' next year, a reckon, and they'll just ha' their pains for their payment. but they're allays so pig-headed, is folk fra' a distance.' so they went on discoursing on haytersbank and the old days, till bell robson, having finished her afternoon nap, came slowly down-stairs to join them; and after that the conversation became so broken up, from the desire of the other two to attend and reply as best they could to her fragmentary and disjointed talk, that kester took his leave before long; falling, as he did so, into the formal and unnaturally respectful manner which he had adopted on first coming in. but sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the door. 'to think of thy going away, kester, without either bit or drink; nay, come back wi' thee, and taste wine and cake.' kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while sylvia, in all the glow and hurry of a young housekeeper's hospitality, sought for the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard, and hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she crammed into his hand in spite of his remonstrances; and then she poured him out an overflowing glass of wine, which kester would far rather have gone without, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might taste it without having gone through the preliminary ceremony of wishing the donor health and happiness. he stood red and half smiling, with his cake in one hand, his wine in the other, and then began,- 'long may ye live, happy may ye he, and blest with a num'rous pro-ge-ny.' 'theere, that's po'try for yo' as i larnt i' my youth. but there's a deal to be said as cannot be put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot say it, somehow. it 'd tax a parson t' say a' as a've getten i' my mind. it's like a heap o' woo' just after shearin' time; it's worth a deal, but it tak's a vast o' combin', an' cardin', an' spinnin' afore it can be made use on. if a were up to t' use o' words, a could say a mighty deal; but somehow a'm tongue-teed when a come to want my words most, so a'll only just mak' bold t' say as a think yo've done pretty well for yo'rsel', getten a house-full o' furniture' (looking around him as he said this), 'an' vittle an' clothin' for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' missus in her time o' need; an' mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man 'ud mak'; a'm not above sayin' as he's, mebbe, better nor a took him for;--so here's to ye both, and wishin' ye health and happiness, ay, and money to buy yo' another, as country folk say.' having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, kester tossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and made off. that night sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. philip never said how he himself had brought it to pass, nor did he name the fact that he had heard the old man come in just as he himself had intended going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, as he thought sylvia and kester would most enjoy their interview undisturbed. and sylvia felt as if her husband's silence was unsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning to expand towards him. she sank again into the listless state of indifference from which nothing but some reference to former days, or present consideration for her mother, could rouse her. hester was almost surprised at sylvia's evident liking for her. by slow degrees hester was learning to love the woman, whose position as philip's wife she would have envied so keenly had she not been so truly good and pious. but sylvia seemed as though she had given hester her whole affection all at once. hester could not understand this, while she was touched and melted by the trust it implied. for one thing sylvia remembered and regretted--her harsh treatment of hester the rainy, stormy night on which the latter had come to haytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring them into monkshaven to see the imprisoned father and husband. sylvia had been struck with hester's patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudeness which she was conscious that she herself should have immediately and vehemently resented. sylvia did not understand how a totally different character from hers might immediately forgive the anger she could not forget; and because hester had been so meek at the time, sylvia, who knew how passing and transitory was her own anger, thought that all was forgotten; while hester believed that the words, which she herself could not have uttered except under deep provocation, meant much more than they did, and admired and wondered at sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against her. again, the two different women were divergently affected by the extreme fondness which bell had shown towards hester ever since sylvia's wedding-day. sylvia, who had always received more love from others than she knew what to do with, had the most entire faith in her own supremacy in her mother's heart, though at times hester would do certain things more to the poor old woman's satisfaction. hester, who had craved for the affection which had been withheld from her, and had from that one circumstance become distrustful of her own power of inspiring regard, while she exaggerated the delight of being beloved, feared lest sylvia should become jealous of her mother's open display of great attachment and occasional preference for hester. but such a thought never entered sylvia's mind. she was more thankful than she knew how to express towards any one who made her mother happy; as has been already said, the contributing to bell robson's pleasures earned philip more of his wife's smiles than anything else. and sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and caresses she lavished on hester whenever poor mrs. robson spoke of the goodness and kindness of the latter. hester attributed more virtue to these sweet words and deeds of gratitude than they deserved; they did not imply in sylvia any victory over evil temptation, as they would have done in hester. it seemed to be sylvia's fate to captivate more people than she cared to like back again. she turned the heads of john and jeremiah foster, who could hardly congratulate philip enough on his choice of a wife. they had been prepared to be critical on one who had interfered with their favourite project of a marriage between philip and hester; and, though full of compassion for the cruelty of daniel robson's fate, they were too completely men of business not to have some apprehension that the connection of philip hepburn with the daughter of a man who was hanged, might injure the shop over which both his and their name appeared. but all the possible proprieties demanded that they should pay attention to the bride of their former shopman and present successor; and the very first visitors whom sylvia had received after her marriage had been john and jeremiah foster, in their sabbath-day clothes. they found her in the parlour (so familiar to both of them!) clear-starching her mother's caps, which had to be got up in some particular fashion that sylvia was afraid of dictating to phoebe. she was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her at this employment; but she was on her own ground, and that gave her self-possession; and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly and modestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, besides, so notable in her handiwork, that she conquered all their prejudices at one blow; and their first thought on leaving the shop was how to do her honour, by inviting her to a supper party at jeremiah foster's house. sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding feast, and philip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, to make her consent to go at all. she had been to merry country parties like the corneys', and to bright haymaking romps in the open air; but never to a set stately party at a friend's house. she would fain have made attendance on her mother an excuse; but philip knew he must not listen to any such plea, and applied to hester in the dilemma, asking her to remain with mrs. robson while he and sylvia went out visiting; and hester had willingly, nay, eagerly consented--it was much more to her taste than going out. so philip and sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down bridge street, across the bridge, and then clambered up the hill. on the way he gave her the directions she asked for about her behaviour as bride and most honoured guest; and altogether succeeded, against his intention and will, in frightening her so completely as to the grandeur and importance of the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certain set rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to them when the right time came, that, if any one so naturally graceful could have been awkward, sylvia would have been so that night. as it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very edge of her chair; she uttered the formal words which philip had told her were appropriate to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe at home and in bed. yet she left but one unanimous impression on the company when she went away, namely, that she was the prettiest and best-behaved woman they had ever seen, and that philip hepburn had done well in choosing her, felon's daughter though she might be. both the hosts had followed her into the lobby to help philip in cloaking her, and putting on her pattens. they were full of old-fashioned compliments and good wishes; one speech of theirs came up to her memory in future years:-'now, sylvia hepburn,' said jeremiah, 'i've known thy husband long, and i don't say but what thou hast done well in choosing him; but if he ever neglects or ill-uses thee, come to me, and i'll give him a sound lecture on his conduct. mind, i'm thy friend from this day forrards, and ready to take thy part against him!' philip smiled as if the day would never come when he should neglect or ill-use his darling; sylvia smiled a little, without much attending to, or caring for, the words that were detaining her, tired as she was; john and jeremiah chuckled over the joke; but the words came up again in after days, as words idly spoken sometimes do. before the end of that first year, philip had learnt to be jealous of his wife's new love for hester. to the latter, sylvia gave the free confidence on many things which philip fancied she withheld from him. a suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, that sylvia might speak of her former lover to hester. it would be not unnatural, he thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead; but the idea irritated him. he was entirely mistaken, however; sylvia, with all her apparent frankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. she never mentioned her father's name, though he was continually present to her mind. nor did she speak of kinraid to human being, though, for his sake, her voice softened when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor; and for his sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others, trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait; and partly for his dead sake, and partly because of the freedom of the outlook and the freshness of the air, she was glad occasionally to escape from the comfortable imprisonment of her 'parlour', and the close streets around the market-place, and to mount the cliffs and sit on the turf, gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of the open sea; for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked like broken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. she did not want any companion on these rambles, which had somewhat of the delight of stolen pleasures; for all the other respectable matrons and town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have always a business object for their walk, or else to stop at home in their own households; and sylvia was rather ashamed of her own yearnings for solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of the mother-like sea. she used to take off her hat, and sit there, her hands clasping her knees, the salt air lifting her bright curls, gazing at the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of thought; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she could not have told you. but, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner in the house; a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a little baby by her side--her child, philip's child. his pride, his delight knew no bounds; this was a new fast tie between them; this would reconcile her to the kind of life that, with all its respectability and comfort, was so different from what she had lived before, and which philip had often perceived that she felt to be dull and restraining. he already began to trace in the little girl, only a few days old, the lovely curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother's face. sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes, really happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. for its irrevocableness had weighed much upon her with a sense of dull hopelessness; she felt all philip's kindness, she was grateful to him for his tender regard towards her mother, she was learning to love him as well as to like and respect him. she did not know what else she could have done but marry so true a friend, and she and her mother so friendless; but, at the same time, it was like lead on her morning spirits when she awoke and remembered that the decision was made, the dead was done, the choice taken which comes to most people but once in their lives. now the little baby came in upon this state of mind like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room. even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even with her crazed brain and broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful infancy brought light to her. all the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep, of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, came back, like the habits of her youth, to bell; and she was never so happy or so easy in her mind, or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as when she had sylvia's baby in her arms. it was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us such things may be--the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint, old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her knees, looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking the little language to it as though it could understand; the father on his knees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger curled round his strong and sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature with wondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, and smiling, propped up on pillows in order that she, too, might see the wonderful babe; it was astonishing how the doctor could come and go without being drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this baby just as if babies came into the world every day. 'philip,' said sylvia, one night, as he sate as still as a mouse in her room, imagining her to be asleep. he was by her bed-side in a moment. 'i've been thinking what she's to be called. isabella, after mother; and what were yo'r mother's name?' 'margaret,' said he. 'margaret isabella; isabella margaret. mother's called bell. she might be called bella.' 'i could ha' wished her to be called after thee.' she made a little impatient movement. 'nay; sylvia's not a lucky name. best be called after thy mother and mine. and i want for to ask hester to be godmother.' 'anything thou likes, sweetheart. shall we call her rose, after hester rose?' 'no, no!' said sylvia; 'she mun be called after my mother, or thine, or both. i should like her to be called bella, after mother, because she's so fond of baby.' 'anything to please thee, darling.' 'don't say that as if it didn't signify; there's a deal in having a pretty name,' said sylvia, a little annoyed. 'i ha' allays hated being called sylvia. it were after father's mother, sylvia steele.' 'i niver thought any name in a' the world so sweet and pretty as sylvia,' said philip, fondly; but she was too much absorbed in her own thoughts to notice either his manner or his words. 'there, yo'll not mind if it is bella, because yo' see my mother is alive to be pleased by its being named after her, and hester may be godmother, and i'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me afore we were married made up into a cloak for it to go to church in.' 'i got it for thee,' said philip, a little disappointed. 'it'll be too good for the baby.' 'eh! but i'm so careless, i should be spilling something on it? but if thou got it for me i cannot find i' my heart for t' wear it on baby, and i'll have it made into a christening gown for mysel'. but i'll niver feel at my ease in it, for fear of spoiling it.' 'well! an' if thou does spoil it, love, i'll get thee another. i make account of riches only for thee; that i may be able to get thee whativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother.' she lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips to kiss him for these words. perhaps on that day philip reached the zenith of his life's happiness. chapter xxxi evil omens the first step in philip's declension happened in this way. sylvia had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at a stationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languid days. occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, but she usually awoke startled and feverish. one afternoon philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and his child; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made the door creak on its hinges as he opened it. the woman employed to nurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound might rouse her from her slumber; and philip would probably have been warned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had he been perceived by the nurse. as it was, he opened the door, made a noise, and sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyes wild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not know where she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all which actions philip saw, dismayed and regretful. but he kept still, hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. instead she stretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of yearning and tears,-'oh! charley! come to me--come to me!' and then as she more fully became aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, she sank back and feebly began to cry. philip's heart boiled within him; any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense of guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. her weak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through his anxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm she was doing herself. at this moment he stirred, or unintentionally made some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,-'oh, who's theere? do, for god's sake, tell me who yo' are!' 'it's me,' said philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down the miserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger, that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of himself. indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for the time, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruel words he did. but she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive tone of voice. 'oh, philip, i've been asleep, and yet i think i was awake! and i saw charley kinraid as plain as iver i see thee now, and he wasn't drowned at all. i'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear and life-like. oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?' she wrung her hands in feverish distress. urged by passionate feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the agitation which was doing her harm, philip spoke, hardly knowing what he said. 'kinraid's dead, i tell yo', sylvie! and what kind of a woman are yo' to go dreaming of another man i' this way, and taking on so about him, when yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne to another man?' in a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. she looked at him with the mute reproach which some of us see (god help us!) in the eyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in the night-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look, never saying a word of reply or defence. then she lay down, motionless and silent. he had been instantly stung with remorse for his speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony had entered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb and motionless as if by a spell. now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, half threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless for the time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must have her pardon--her relenting--at any price, even if they both died in the act of reconciliation. but she lay speechless, and, as far as she could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with the quivering she could not still. philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she entered full of the dignified indignation of wisdom. 'are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter?' she asked. 'she's noane so strong as she can bear flytin' and scoldin', nor will she be for many a week to come. go down wi' ye, and leave her i' peace if yo're a man as can be called a man!' her anger was rising as she caught sight of sylvia's averted face. it was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of some kind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitching overmastering her resolute stillness from time to time. philip, who did not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger in which he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word, one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which was not even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, any more than if it had been an impassive stone. the nurse had fairly to take him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room. in half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. of course, the nurse gave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much _animus_ against philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to have some very serious conversation with him. 'i do assure you, mr. hepburn, that, in the state your wife has been in for some days, it was little less than madness on your part to speak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.' 'it was madness, sir!' replied philip, in a low, miserable tone of voice. the doctor's heart was touched, in spite of the nurse's accusations against the scolding husband. yet the danger was now too serious for him to mince matters. 'i must tell you that i cannot answer for her life, unless the greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measures i shall use have the effect i wish for in the next twenty-four hours. she is on the verge of a brain fever. any allusion to the subject which has been the final cause of the state in which she now is must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which may bring it to her memory.' and so on; but philip seemed to hear only this: then he might not express contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiven through all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the doctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what had passed! heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passed through by all during the course of their lives; and philip had had his share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and the speech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution to patience. for many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see sylvia, as the very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the fever and convulsive movement. yet she seemed, from questions she feebly asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the day of her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. but how much she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. she was quiet enough when, at length, philip was allowed to see her. but he was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she could smile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all he could do or say. and of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was her behaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and was able to go about the house again. philip thought many a time of the words she had used long before--before their marriage. ominous words they were. 'it's not in me to forgive; i sometimes think it's not in me to forget.' philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. but nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. and he knew she was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her nature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once more into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of anger? then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. he only seemed to drive her love away still more. if any one had known all that was passing in that household, while yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love; sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth caught the echoes of what ought to have been his. it was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact. everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the love seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaints can avail to bring it back. so reason outsiders, and are convinced of the result before the experiment is made. but philip could not reason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained and reproached. she did not much answer him; but he thought that her eyes expressed the old words,-'it's not in me to forgive; i sometimes think it's not in me to forget.' however, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in the most tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season of their lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than such as are connected with love. even with the most domestic and affectionate men, their emotions seem to be kept in a cell distinct and away from their actual lives. philip had other thoughts and other occupations than those connected with his wife during all this time. an uncle of his mother's, a cumberland 'statesman', of whose existence he was barely conscious, died about this time, leaving to his unknown great-nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put him at once in a different position with regard to his business. henceforward his ambition was roused,--such humble ambition as befitted a shop-keeper in a country town sixty or seventy years ago. to be respected by the men around him had always been an object with him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than ever now, as a sort of refuge from his deep, sorrowful mortification in other directions. he was greatly pleased at being made a sidesman; and, in preparation for the further honour of being churchwarden, he went regularly twice a day to church on sundays. there was enough religious feeling in him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such conduct from himself. he believed that he went because he thought it right to attend public worship in the parish church whenever it was offered up; but it may be questioned of him, as of many others, how far he would have been as regular in attendance in a place where he was not known. with this, however, we have nothing to do. the fact was that he went regularly to church, and he wished his wife to accompany him to the pew, newly painted, with his name on the door, where he sate in full sight of the clergyman and congregation. sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular church-going, and she felt it as a hardship, and slipped out of the duty as often as ever she could. in her unmarried days, she and her parents had gone annually to the mother-church of the parish in which haytersbank was situated: on the monday succeeding the sunday next after the romish saint's day, to whom the church was dedicated, there was a great feast or wake held; and, on the sunday, all the parishioners came to church from far and near. frequently, too, in the course of the year, sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to scarby moorside afternoon service,--when the hay was got in, and the corn not ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was no afternoon milking. many clergymen were languid in those days, and did not too curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them such small congregations in country parishes. now she was married, this weekly church-going which philip seemed to expect from her, became a tie and a small hardship, which connected itself with her life of respectability and prosperity. 'a crust of bread and liberty' was much more accordant to sylvia's nature than plenty of creature comforts and many restraints. another wish of philip's, against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled in thought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had engaged during the time of her illness to take charge of the baby, should always carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. sylvia often felt, now she was strong, as if she would far rather have been without the responsibility of having this nursemaid, of whom she was, in reality, rather afraid. the good side of it was that it set her at liberty to attend to her mother at times when she would have been otherwise occupied with her baby; but bell required very little from any one: she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodical even in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative habits of her earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had been at the basis of the formation of such habits, was gone. she took great delight in watching the baby, and was pleased to have it in her care for a short time; but she dozed so much that it prevented her having any strong wish on the subject. so sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible to herself, in spite of the nursemaid; and, above all, she would carry it out, softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear it to the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the west side of the town where the cliffs were not so high, and there was a good space of sand and shingle at all low tides. once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be in this world. the fresh sea-breeze restored something of the colour of former days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits; here she might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her baby; here it was all her own; no father to share in it, no nursemaid to dispute the wisdom of anything she did with it. she sang to it, she tossed it; it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were weary; and then she would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall to gazing on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests, advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all her life long--as they did when she had walked with them that once by the side of kinraid; those cruel waves that, forgetful of the happy lovers' talk by the side of their waters, had carried one away, and drowned him deep till he was dead. every time she sate down to look at the sea, this process of thought was gone through up to this point; the next step would, she knew, bring her to the question she dared not, must not ask. he was dead; he must be dead; for was she not philip's wife? then came up the recollection of philip's speech, never forgotten, only buried out of sight: 'what kind of a woman are yo' to go on dreaming of another man, and yo' a wedded wife?' she used to shudder as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm, living body as she remembered these words; cruel words, harmlessly provoked. they were too much associated with physical pains to be dwelt upon; only their memory was always there. she paid for these happy rambles with her baby by the depression which awaited her on her re-entrance into the dark, confined house that was her home; its very fulness of comfort was an oppression. then, when her husband saw her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes upbraided her for doing what was so unnecessary as to load herself with her child. she knew full well it was not that that caused her weariness. by-and-by, when he inquired and discovered that all these walks were taken in one direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of her love for the inanimate ocean. was it connected in her mind with the thought of kinraid? why did she so perseveringly, in wind or cold, go out to the sea-shore; the western side, too, where, if she went but far enough, she would come upon the mouth of the haytersbank gully, the point at which she had last seen kinraid? such fancies haunted philip's mind for hours after she had acknowledged the direction of her walks. but he never said a word that could distinctly tell her he disliked her going to the sea, otherwise she would have obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absolute obedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at this period--obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed her smallest wish had she but expressed it! she never knew that philip had any painful association with the particular point on the sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both from a consciousness of wifely duty, and also because the sight of it brought up so much sharp pain. philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her illness was the suggestive cause that drew her so often to the shore. her illness consequent upon that dream had filled his mind, so that for many months he himself had had no haunting vision of kinraid to disturb his slumbers. but now the old dream of kinraid's actual presence by philip's bedside began to return with fearful vividness. night after night it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, and close approach; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all men were then, even then, knocking at his door. in his business philip prospered. men praised him because he did well to himself. he had the perseverance, the capability for head-work and calculation, the steadiness and general forethought which might have made him a great merchant if he had lived in a large city. without any effort of his own, almost, too, without coulson's being aware of it, philip was now in the position of superior partner; the one to suggest and arrange, while coulson only carried out the plans that emanated from philip. the whole work of life was suited to the man: he did not aspire to any different position, only to the full development of the capabilities of that which he already held. he had originated several fresh schemes with regard to the traffic of the shop; and his old masters, with all their love of tried ways, and distrust of everything new, had been candid enough to confess that their successors' plans had resulted in success. 'their successors.' philip was content with having the power when the exercise of it was required, and never named his own important share in the new improvements. possibly, if he had, coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he might not have been so acquiescent for the future. as it was, he forgot his own subordinate share, and always used the imperial 'we', 'we thought', 'it struck us,' &c. chapter xxxii rescued from the waves meanwhile hester came and went as usual; in so quiet and methodical a way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almost forgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. she was a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times of darkness. she herself was almost surprised at her own increasing regard for sylvia. she had not thought she should ever be able to love the woman who had been such a laggard in acknowledging philip's merits; and from all she had ever heard of sylvia before she came to know her, from the angry words with which sylvia had received her when she had first gone to haytersbank farm, hester had intended to remain on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. but her kindness to bell robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; and in spite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she had become the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household. now the very change in sylvia's whole manner and ways, which grieved and vexed philip, made his wife the more attractive to hester. brought up among quakers, although not one herself, she admired and respected the staidness and outward peacefulness common amongst the young women of that sect. sylvia, whom she had expected to find volatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as if she had been born a friend: she seemed to have no will of her own; she served her mother and child for love; she obeyed her husband in all things, and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. and yet at times hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind, as if all things were not as right as they seemed. philip looked older, more care-worn; nay, even hester was obliged to allow to herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved tones. innocent hester! she could not understand how the very qualities she so admired in sylvia were just what were so foreign to her nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, felt what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and would have hailed petulant words or wilful actions with an unspeakable thankfulness for relief. one day--it was in the spring of 1798--hester was engaged to stay to tea with the hepburns, in order that after that early meal she might set to again in helping philip and coulson to pack away the winter cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use. the tea-time was half-past four; about four o'clock a heavy april shower came on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken mrs. robson from her afternoon's nap. she came down the corkscrew stairs, and found phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things. phoebe and mrs. robson were better friends than phoebe and her young mistress; and so they began to talk a little together in a comfortable, familiar way. once or twice philip looked in, as if he would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then phoebe would put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon as his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain mrs. robson's sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and the nurse-maid. the latter had misappropriated some hot water, prepared and required by phoebe, to the washing of the baby's clothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience of any one in full possession of their senses; but the details were just within poor bell's comprehension, and she was listening with the greatest sympathy. both the women were unaware of the lapse of time; but it was of consequence to philip, as the extra labour was not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were precious. at a quarter to five hester and he came in, and then phoebe began to hurry. hester went up to sit by bell and talk to her. philip spoke to phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk. indeed, until his marriage, phoebe had always called him by his christian name, and had found it very difficult to change it into 'master.' 'where's sylvie?' said he. 'gone out wi' t' babby,' replied phoebe. 'why can't nancy carry it out?' asked philip. it was touching on the old grievance: he was tired, and he spoke with sharp annoyance. phoebe might easily have told him the real state of the case; nancy was busy at her washing, which would have been reason enough. but the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not like philip's sharpness, so she only said,-'it's noane o' my business; it's yo' t' look after yo'r own wife and child; but yo'r but a lad after a'.' this was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke to philip's fit of ill-temper. 'i'm not for my tea to-night,' said he, to hester, when all was ready. 'sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be. i'll go and set to on t' stock-taking. don't yo' hurry, hester; stop and chat a bit with th' old lady.' 'nay, philip,' said hester, 'thou's sadly tired; just take this cup o' tea; sylvia 'll be grieved if yo' haven't something.' 'sylvia doesn't care whether i'm full or fasting,' replied he, impatiently putting aside the cup. 'if she did she'd ha' taken care to be in, and ha' seen to things being as i like them.' now in general philip was the least particular of men about meals; and to do sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every household duty in which old phoebe would allow her to meddle, and always careful to see after her husband's comforts. but philip was too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was saying, nor was he aware how bell robson had been attending to what he said. but she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter was neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as paramount to all others; nor could hester convince her that philip had not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor old woman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress. presently sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless with hurry. 'oh,' said she, taking off her wet shawl, 'we've had to shelter from such a storm of rain, baby and me--but see! she's none the worse for it, as bonny as iver, bless her.' hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order to prevent bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was coming down on the unsuspecting sylvia; but all in vain. 'philip's been complaining on thee, sylvie,' said bell, in the way in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child; grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words. 'i forget justly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual. it's not right, my lass, it's not right; a woman should--but my head's very tired, and all i can think on to say is, it's not right.' 'philip been complaining of me, and to mother!' said sylvia, ready to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she. 'no!' said hester, 'thy mother has taken it a little too strong; he were vexed like at his tea not being ready.' sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, and the contraction of care returned to her brow. she occupied herself with taking off her baby's walking things. hester lingered, anxious to soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at sylvia, when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak, and then it seemed as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the shop-work, where she knew she was expected by both philip and coulson. she poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to sylvia, and kneeling down by her, she whispered,-'just take him this into t' ware-room; it'll put all to rights if thou'll take it to him wi' thy own hands.' sylvia looked up, and hester then more fully saw how she had been crying. she whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,-'i don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. i know i'm for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an' it's very dull work; harder than yo' think on, hester,--an' i would ha' been home for tea to-night only i was afeared of baby getting wet wi' t' storm o' hail as we had down on t' shore; and we sheltered under a rock. it's a weary coming home to this dark place, and to find my own mother set against me.' 'take him his tea, like a good lassie. i'll answer for it he'll be all right. a man takes it hardly when he comes in tired, a-thinking his wife '11 be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and niver know nought of t' reason why.' 'i'm glad enough i've getten a baby,' said sylvia, 'but for aught else i wish i'd niver been married, i do!' 'hush thee, lass!' said hester, rising up indignant; 'now that is a sin. eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. but let's talk no more on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it's a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.' hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of position; and the word fasting caught mrs. robson's ear, as she sate at her knitting by the chimney-corner. 'fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting. lassie! it's not right in thee, i say; go, take him his tea at once.' sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to nancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to put it to bed. sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, passionate tenderness as she did so. then she took the cup of tea; but she said, rather defiantly, to hester,-'i'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her mind.' then louder to her mother, she added,-'mother, i'll take him his tea, though i couldn't help the being out.' if the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was going to do it was the reverse. hester followed her slowly into the ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. sylvia held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to philip, but avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, or regret, or self-justification. if she had spoken, though ever so crossly, philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred it to her silence. he wanted to provoke her to speech, but did not know how to begin. 'thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. she did not answer him. 'i cannot think what's always taking thee there, when one would ha' thought a walk up to esdale would be far more sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. thou'll be having that baby ill some of these days.' at this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were going to say something. oh, how he wished she would, that they might come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. but she had come resolved not to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion. only as she was going away she turned and said,-'philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot grieve her, and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. our being wed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let us make as if we were happy.' 'sylvie! sylvie!' he called after her. she must have heard, but she did not turn. he went after her, and seized her by the arm rather roughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. 'sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you've said? speak! i will have an answer.' he almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence of behaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst of agonized and unrequited love. 'let me go! oh, philip, yo' hurt me!' just at this moment hester came up; philip was ashamed of his passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of his wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as to a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable crying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the length of our days on earth to be indulged in often. when she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a time, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of his footstep coming in search of her to make friends. but he was detained below on business, and never came. instead, her mother came clambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bed between seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an earlier hour. sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her face and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort her mother's last waking hours. she helped her to bed with gentle patience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to have another wild outburst. when her mother was going off to sleep, sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. then she gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful heavens took possession of her once more. 'it's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthly harm in it. i would ha' been at home to his tea, if i could; but when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is either in my arms or asleep; why, i'll go any cry my fill out under yon great quiet sky. i cannot stay in t' house to be choked up wi' my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding or peace-making.' so she put on her things and went out again; this time along the high street, and up the long flights of steps towards the parish church, and there she stood and thought that here she had first met kinraid, at darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very look of all the sad, earnest faces round the open grave--the whole scene, in fact; and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she had so often tried to control. then she walked on, crying bitterly, almost unawares to herself; on through the high, bleak fields at the summit of the cliffs; fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far from all sight of the habitation of man. but, below, the sea rose and raged; it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blew gustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves that came invincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against the base of the cliffs below. sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of many waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound of the blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. she was more quieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been had all nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while she was yet in-doors and only saw a part of the serene sky. she fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she would reach, and then turn back again. it was where the outline of the land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. here the field-path she had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a cluster of fishermen's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village; and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it again reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for many and many a mile. sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards when she came within sight of this cove,--headlington cove, they called it. all the way along she had met no one since she had left the town, but just as she had got over the last stile, or ladder of stepping-stones, into the field from which the path descended, she came upon a number of people--quite a crowd, in fact; men moving forward in a steady line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or something of that kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in their arms, as if all were fain to come out and partake in some general interest. they kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, and sylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. the great cable the men held was attached to some part of a smack, which could now be seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and all but a wreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as the waning light would allow her to see. the vessel strained to get free of the strong guiding cable; the tide was turning, the wind was blowing off shore, and sylvia knew without being told, that almost parallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to many a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in straight for monkshaven port. and the ships that had been thus lost had been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, which seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. by this time, the crowd--the fishermen from the hamlet down below, with their wives and children--all had come but the bedridden--had reached the place where sylvia stood. the women, in a state of wild excitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words, even while they hindered them by actions; and, from time to time, one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deck below. whether these latter heard it or not, no one could tell; but it seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun and tumult of wind and wave. it was generally a woman with a child in her arms who so employed herself. as the strain upon the cable became greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were depending. on they came, a long line of human beings, black against the ruddy sunset sky. as they came near sylvia, a woman cried out,-'dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi' us; there's many a bonny life at stake, and many a mother's heart a-hangin' on this bit o' hemp. tak' houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and god remember thee i' thy need.' sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in an instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed as though she was holding fire in her bare palms. never a one of them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over many of their hands were raw and bleeding. some strong, experienced fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving directions as to how it should be held according to varying occasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough to speak. the women and children that accompanied them ran on before, breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay or hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, explaining. from their many words and fragmentary sentences, sylvia learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a newcastle smack sailing from london, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save time, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to withstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen who had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she would have been cast upon the rocks before this, and 'all on board perished'. 'it were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces, they were so near. they were as pale as dead men, an' one was prayin' down on his knees. there was a king's officer aboard, for i saw t' gowd about him.' 'he'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see his own folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aught but king's ships.' 'eh! but it's gettin' dark! see there's t' leeghts in t' houses in t' new town! t' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet. it'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' into still waters.' one more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the vessel--or what remained of her--was in the harbour, among the lights and cheerful sounds of safety. the fishermen sprang down the cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. not sylvia, however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day: her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before. she would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with them all round. but instead she must go home, and well would it be with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped any notice of her absence. so she separated herself from the groups of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of the monkshaven public houses. as sylvia went down the church steps, she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel into port. 'there was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant as had comed as passenger. it were a good job as we could manage her. good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent a hand.' the street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time. already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and sylvia scarcely met any one. she went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the private door. all was still; the basins of bread and milk that she and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. nancy had gone to bed, phoebe dozed in the kitchen; philip was still in the ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with coulson, for hester had gone home to her mother. sylvia was not willing to go and seek out philip, after the manner in which they had parted. all the despondency of her life became present to her again as she sate down within her home. she had forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back again. still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. she took her basin up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. when it had been fed and hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by some unusual noise in her room. she found mrs. robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much on what philip had said in his anger against sylvia. it was really necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so sylvia stole out, and went quickly down-stairs to philip--now sitting tired and worn out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite--and told him she meant to pass the night with her mother. his answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her mother's indisposition. as soon as she had left the room, philip set down his half-finished basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his folded arms. the wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell, and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or the pale gray fire that was dying out--dead at last. chapter xxxiii an apparition mrs. robson was very poorly all night long. uneasy thoughts seemed to haunt and perplex her brain, and she neither slept nor woke, but was restless and uneasy in her talk and movements. sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that at length she preferred sitting in the easy-chair by the bedside. here she dropped off to slumber in spite of herself; the scene of the evening before seemed to be repeated; the cries of the many people, the heavy roar and dash of the threatening waves, were repeated in her ears; and something was said to her through all the conflicting noises,--what it was she could not catch, though she strained to hear the hoarse murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning of the utmost importance to her. this dream, that mysterious, only half-intelligible sound, recurred whenever she dozed, and her inability to hear the words uttered distressed her so much, that at length she sate bolt upright, resolved to sleep no more. her mother was talking in a half-conscious way; philip's speech of the evening before was evidently running in her mind. 'sylvie, if thou're not a good wife to him, it'll just break my heart outright. a woman should obey her husband, and not go her own gait. i never leave the house wi'out telling father, and getting his leave.' and then she began to cry pitifully, and to say unconnected things, till sylvia, to soothe her, took her hand, and promised never to leave the house without asking her husband's permission, though in making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing her last pleasure to her mother's wish; for she knew well enough that philip would always raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of her old free open-air life. but to comfort and cherish her mother she would have done anything; yet this very morning that was dawning, she must go and ask his permission for a simple errand, or break her word. she knew from experience that nothing quieted her mother so well as balm-tea; it might be that the herb really possessed some sedative power; it might be only early faith, and often repeated experience, but it had always had a tranquillizing effect; and more than once, during the restless hours of the night, mrs. robson had asked for it; but sylvia's stock of last year's dead leaves was exhausted. still she knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered corner of haytersbank farm garden; she knew that the tenants who had succeeded them in the occupation of the farm had had to leave it in consequence of a death, and that the place was unoccupied; and in the darkness she had planned that if she could leave her mother after the dawn came, and she had attended to her baby, she would walk quickly to the old garden, and gather the tender sprigs which she was sure to find there. now she must go and ask philip; and till she held her baby to her breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and chains of matrimony. but the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of its little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentleness. she gave it back to nancy to be dressed, and softly opened the door of philip's bed-room. 'philip!' said she, gently. 'philip!' he started up from dreams of her; of her, angry. he saw her there, rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek, and a little beseeching. 'mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as some balm-tea would do her good--it allays used to: but my dried balm is all gone, and i thought there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at haytersbank. feyther planted a bush just for mother, wheere it allays came up early, nigh t' old elder-tree; and if yo'd not mind, i could run theere while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, and it's not seven now.' 'thou's not wear thyself out with running, sylvie,' said philip, eagerly; 'i'll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,' continued he, catching the shadow that was coming over her face, 'thou'd rather go thyself: it's only that i'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself.' 'it'll not tire me,' said sylvia. 'afore i was married, i was out often far farther than that, afield to fetch up t' kine, before my breakfast.' 'well, go if thou will,' said philip. 'but get somewhat to eat first, and don't hurry; there's no need for that.' she had got her hat and shawl, and was off before he had finished his last words. the long high street was almost empty of people at that early hour; one side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. up the hill-road, through the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, sylvia went by the very shortest path she knew. she had only once been at haytersbank since her wedding-day. on that occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the corneys' kitchen in former times, than her mother's orderly and quiet abode. those little children were fatherless now; and the house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. there were no shutters to shut; the long low window was blinking in the rays of the morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn, or early worms. it was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck solemnly on sylvia's mind. only a thrush in the old orchard down in the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill melody. sylvia went slowly past the house and down the path leading to the wild, deserted bit of garden. she saw that the last tenants had had a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the well she was passing could feel the insult. over it grew two hawthorn trees; on the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit, long ago: the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible danger of falling into the well and being drowned. the rusty unused chain was wound round the windlass; the bucket was falling to pieces from dryness. a lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed pitifully with hunger; accompanying sylvia to the garden, as if glad of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be touched. primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they formerly did; and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away, and cumbering the ground. sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb-plot, and plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek; sighing a little all the time. then she retraced her steps; paused softly before the house-door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood. she tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to carry it home and befriend it; but it was scared by her endeavour and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across the white dew of the meadow. then sylvia began to hasten home, thinking, and remembering--at the stile that led into the road she was brought short up. some one stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of a naval officer, so well known in monkshaven in those days. sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. she had not gone a yard--no, not half a yard--when her heart leaped up and fell again dead within her, as if she had been shot. 'sylvia!' he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate love. 'sylvia!' she looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell straight on his face. it was bronzed, and the lines were strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in haytersbank gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see in life again. he was close to her and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if trying to clear away some bewildering mist. then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes, if he could but have read it. twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which bore them back into the depths of her heart. he thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and to woo her to his outstretched hungry arms once more. but when she saw this motion of his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; and with an inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more, and turning away began to run blindly towards the town for protection. for a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour; and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. so he followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to overtake her too speedily. 'i have frightened my poor love,' he kept thinking. and by this thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he longed to use; yet he was always so near behind that her quickened sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion flashed across her brain that she would go to the wide full river, and end the hopeless misery she felt enshrouding her. there was a sure hiding-place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide. no one can tell what changed her course; perhaps the thought of her sucking child; perhaps her mother; perhaps an angel of god; no one on earth knows, but as she ran along the quay-side she all at once turned up an entry, and through an open door. he, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlour, with a cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast; the change from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on, and that no one was there, and he stood for an instant baffled, and hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart; but an irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp shudders going through her whole frame. 'my love, my darling!' said he, going up to her, and trying to raise her, and to loosen her hands away from her face. 'i've been too sudden for thee: it was thoughtless in me; but i have so looked forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the field, and go past me, but i should ha' been more tender and careful of thee. nay! let me have another look of thy sweet face.' all this he whispered in the old tones of manoeuvring love, in that voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams. she tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden shadow--to sink into the ground out of sight. once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him hear her speak. but she only moaned. 'sylvia!' said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and offence. 'sylvia! one would think you weren't glad to see me back again at length. i only came in late last night, and my first thought on wakening was of you; it has been ever since i left you.' sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was gray as the face of death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair. 'where have yo' been?' she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her voice were half strangled within her. 'been!' said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion entering his mind. 'been!' he repeated; then, coming a step nearer to her, and taking her hand, not tenderly this time, but with a resolution to be satisfied. 'did not your cousin--hepburn, i mean--did not he tell you?--he saw the press-gang seize me,--i gave him a message to you--i bade you keep true to me as i would be to you.' between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for her answer; but none came. her eyes dilated and held his steady gaze prisoner as with a magical charm--neither could look away from the other's wild, searching gaze. when he had ended, she was silent for a moment, then she cried out, shrill and fierce,-'philip!' no answer. wilder and shriller still, 'philip!' she cried. he was in the distant ware-room completing the last night's work before the regular shop hours began; before breakfast, also, that his wife might not find him waiting and impatient. he heard her cry; it cut through doors, and still air, and great bales of woollen stuff; he thought that she had hurt herself, that her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the spot whence the cry proceeded. on opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting-room, he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground, huddled up in a heap; when she perceived him come in, she dragged herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and came and stood facing him. the officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant that he saw the realization of his greatest dread. but sylvia laid her hand on kinraid's arm, and assumed to herself the right of speech. philip did not know her voice, it was so changed. 'philip,' she said, 'this is kinraid come back again to wed me. he is alive; he has niver been dead, only taken by t' press-gang. and he says yo' saw it, and knew it all t' time. speak, was it so?' philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what refuge of words or acts to shelter. sylvia's influence was keeping kinraid silent, but he was rapidly passing beyond it. 'speak!' he cried, loosening himself from sylvia's light grasp, and coming towards philip, with a threatening gesture. 'did i not bid you tell her how it was? did i not bid you say how i would be faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? oh! you damned scoundrel! have you kept it from her all that time, and let her think me dead, or false? take that!' his closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but sylvia came swift between the blow and its victim. 'charley, thou shan't strike him,' she said. 'he is a damned scoundrel' (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone) 'but he is my husband.' 'oh! thou false heart!' exclaimed kinraid, turning sharp on her. 'if ever i trusted woman, i trusted you, sylvia robson.' he made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt that stung her to life. 'oh, charley!' she cried, springing to him, 'dunnot cut me to the quick; have pity on me, though he had none. i did so love thee; it was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was drowned--feyther, and th' corneys, and all, iverybody. thy hat and t' bit o' ribbon i gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi' sea-water; and i went mourning for thee all the day long--dunnot turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, and i'll bless yo',--and have niver been mysel' since; niver ceased to feel t' sun grow dark and th' air chill and dreary when i thought on t' time when thou was alive. i did, my charley, my own love! and i thought thou was dead for iver, and i wished i were lying beside thee. oh, charley! philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo' this was true. philip, wasn't it so?' 'would god i were dead!' moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man. but she had turned to kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and neither of them heard or heeded him--they were drawing closer and closer together--she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking eagerly. 'and feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t' press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i' york prison, and tried, and hung!--hung! charley!--good kind feyther was hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' wide world, and poor mother dateless--and i thought yo' were dead--oh! i thought yo' were dead, i did--oh, charley, charley!' by this time they were in each other's arms, she with her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break. philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but charley held her tight, mutely defying philip. unconsciously she was philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill. 'sylvie!' said he, grasping her tight. 'listen to me. he didn't love yo' as i did. he had loved other women. i, yo'--yo' alone. he loved other girls before yo', and had left off loving 'em. i--i wish god would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till i die, whether yo' love me or not. and then--where was i? oh! that very night that he was taken, i was a-thinking on yo' and on him; and i might ha' given yo' his message, but i heard them speaking of him as knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways. how was i to know he would keep true to thee? it might be a sin in me, i cannot say; my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. i know this, i've loved yo' as no man but me ever loved before. have some pity and forgiveness on me, if it's only because i've been so tormented with my love.' he looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. he let go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. 'i may die,' he said, 'for my life is ended!' 'sylvia!' spoke out kinraid, bold and fervent, 'your marriage is no marriage. you were tricked into it. you are my wife, not his. i am your husband; we plighted each other our troth. see! here is my half of the sixpence.' he pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his neck. 'when they stripped me and searched me in th' french prison, i managed to keep this. no lies can break the oath we swore to each other. i can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. i'm in favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out. come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married again, all square and above-board. come away. leave that damned fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we'll be true, whatever has come and gone. come, sylvia.' his arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. just then the baby cried. 'hark!' said she, starting away from kinraid, 'baby's crying for me. his child--yes, it is his child--i'd forgotten that--forgotten all. i'll make my vow now, lest i lose mysel' again. i'll never forgive yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. all that's done and ended. he's spoilt my life,--he's spoilt it for as long as iver i live on this earth; but neither yo' nor him shall spoil my soul. it goes hard wi' me, charley, it does indeed. i'll just give yo' one kiss--one little kiss--and then, so help me god, i'll niver see nor hear till--no, not that, not that is needed--i'll niver see--sure that's enough--i'll never see yo' again on this side heaven, so help me god! i'm bound and tied, but i've sworn my oath to him as well as yo': there's things i will do, and there's things i won't. kiss me once more. god help me, he's gone!' chapter xxxiv a reckless recruit she lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her face unseen. every now and then a thrill ran through her body: she was talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of words. philip stood near her, motionless: he did not know whether she was conscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he and she were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, and it numbed all other thought. once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give. she rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; her glazed eyes fell upon philip as he instinctively made a step to hold her steady. no light came into her eyes any more than if she had looked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contraction of dislike. some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no more than she saw the inanimate table. that way of looking at him withered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done. he watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out of sight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily weakness. the door of communication between the parlour and the shop was opened. that was the first event of which philip took note; but phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them unused, and knowing that sylvia had sate up all night with her mother, she had gone back to the kitchen. philip had neither seen nor heard her. now coulson came in, amazed at hepburn's non-appearance in the shop. 'why! philip, what's ado? how ill yo' look, man!' exclaimed he, thoroughly alarmed by philip's ghastly appearance. 'what's the matter?' 'i!' said philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 'why should there be anything the matter?' his instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation or sympathy. 'there may be nothing the matter wi' thee,' said coulson, 'but thou's the look of a corpse on thy face. i was afeared something was wrong, for it's half-past nine, and thee so punctual!' he almost guarded philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching him, and perplexing himself with philip's odd, strange ways. hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on philip's ashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that first glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of noticing or watching. only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. it was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store of gossip from the country, or the town--from the farm or the quay-side. among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before furnished a large topic; and by-and-by philip heard a name that startled him into attention. the landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors was talking to coulson. 'there was a sailor aboard of her as knowed kinraid by sight, in shields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they were well out o' t' river. and kinraid was no ways set up, for all his lieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome in it!); but he tells 'm all about it--how he was pressed aboard a man-o'-war, an' for his good conduct were made a warrant officer, boatswain, or something!' all the people in the shop were listening now; philip alone seemed engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible chance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the good woman's narration. she, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went on with fresh vigour. 'an' there's a gallant captain, one sir sidney smith, and he'd a notion o' goin' smack into a french port, an' carryin' off a vessel from right under their very noses; an' says he, "which of yo' british sailors 'll go along with me to death or glory?" so kinraid stands up like a man, an' "i'll go with yo', captain," he says. so they, an' some others as brave, went off, an' did their work, an' choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught by them french, an' were clapped into prison i' france for iver so long; but at last one philip--philip somethin' (he were a frenchman, i know)--helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. but they were welcomed by th' whole british squadron as was i' t' channel for t' piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a french port; an' captain sir sidney smith was made an admiral, an' him as we used t' call charley kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a lieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' king's service; and is come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as is just past!' a murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around philip. all this was publicly known about kinraid,--and how much more? all monkshaven might hear tomorrow--nay, to-day--of philip's treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate, and supplanted him in his love. philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew must follow. any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury; and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in such matters, spreads like wildfire. philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before him, if only kinraid spoke the word. his head was bent down while he thus listened and reflected. he half resolved on doing something; he lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. the sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face, made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's events. he saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he remembered the square, upright build of kinraid; his fine uniform, with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. the comparison drove philip from passive hopelessness to active despair. he went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless of phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left the place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him. he paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight together, he went upstairs. first of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs, in which his baby slept. he dearly loved the child, and many a time would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life. the little bella was having her morning slumber; nancy used to tell long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers when they got up, and when they went to bed. then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long, lingering, soft, fond kiss. and on tip-toe he passed away into the room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to him! he was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the shame to come. he had not meant to see sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay, apparently asleep. mrs. robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards the wall. philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at his wife. she was turned towards her mother, her face averted from him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that lay listless by her side. as his hot breath neared that hand it was twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body. and then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her misery,--misery that he had caused. he sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever. only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, one of himself, one of sylvia, done in the first month of their marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. they were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of humanity as could be conceived; but philip went up, and after looking for a minute or so at sylvia's, he took it down, and buttoned his waistcoat over it. it was the only thing he took away from his home. he went down the entry on to the quay. the river was there, and waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of rest in their perpetual monotony of sound. but many people were there, if such a temptation presented itself to philip's mind; the sight of his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up another entry--the town is burrowed with such--back into the high street, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fells and moors beyond. he plunged and panted up this rough ascent. from the top he could look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright shining river into two parts. to the right lay the sea, shimmering and heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of the little port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them, thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to the market-place, which of them was his? and he singled it out in its unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, where even now phoebe was cooking the household meal that he never more must share. up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither. he went through the ploughed fields where the corn was newly springing; he came down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back upon it with loathing; he made his way inland to the high green pastures; the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised 'at heaven's gate'. he strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and bush, that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after him with their great blank puzzled eyes. he had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly on the desolate brown moors; through the withered last year's ling and fern, through the prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down the tender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startled plover's cry, goaded by the furies. his only relief from thought, from the remembrance of sylvia's looks and words, was in violent bodily action. so he went on till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came out upon the wild fells. he had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance of men's tracks; but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out, and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beats for a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist swam and quivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find some shelter and food, or lie down to die. he fell down now, often; stumbling over the slightest obstacle. he had passed the cattle pastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and they, too, ceased nibbling, and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of monkshaven people--people who ought to be far, far away. 'thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't tak' heed,' shouted some one. philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. an old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within a couple of hundred yards. philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbled towards him. 'good lork!' said the man, 'wheere hast ta been? thou's seen oud harry, i think, thou looks so scared.' philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old standard of respectability; but the effort was pitiful to see, had any one been by, who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain cries of bodily and mental agony. 'i've lost my way, that's all.' ''twould ha' been enough, too, i'm thinkin', if i hadn't come out after t' ewes. there's t' three griffins near at hand: a sup o' hollands 'll set thee to reeghts.' philip followed faintly. he could not see before him, and was guided by the sound of footsteps rather than by the sight of the figure moving onwards. he kept stumbling; and he knew that the old shepherd swore at him; but he also knew such curses proceeded from no ill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in going and 'seem' after t' ewes.' but had the man's words conveyed the utmost expression of hatred, philip would neither have wondered at them, nor resented them. they came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells. a hundred yards off, and there was a small public-house, with a broad ruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract. 'theere!' said the old man. 'thee cannot well miss that. a dunno tho', thee bees sich a gawby.' so he went on, and delivered philip safely up to the landlord. 'here's a felly as a fund on t' fell side, just as one as if he were drunk; but he's sober enough, a reckon, only summat's wrong i' his head, a'm thinkin'.' 'no!' said philip, sitting down on the first chair he came to. 'i'm right enough; just fairly wearied out: lost my way,' and he fainted. there was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the house-place, drinking. he, too, like philip, had lost his way; but was turning his blunder to account by telling all manner of wonderful stories to two or three rustics who had come in ready to drink on any pretence; especially if they could get good liquor without paying for it. the sergeant rose as philip fell back, and brought up his own mug of beer, into which a noggin of gin had been put (called in yorkshire 'dog's-nose'). he partly poured and partly spilt some of this beverage on philip's face; some drops went through the pale and parted lips, and with a start the worn-out man revived. 'bring him some victual, landlord,' called out the recruiting sergeant. 'i'll stand shot.' they brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. the sergeant asked for pepper and salt; minced the food fine and made it savoury, and kept administering it by teaspoonfuls; urging philip to drink from time to time from his own cup of dog's-nose. a burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either pepper or salt, took possession of philip, and he drank freely, scarcely recognizing what he drank. it took effect on one so habitually sober; and he was soon in that state when the imagination works wildly and freely. he saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, and active, in his gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to philip, taking life lightly; admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth. if philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, returning with martial glory to monkshaven, would not sylvia love him once more? could not he win her heart? he was brave by nature, and the prospect of danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his imagination. he thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistment with his new friend, the sergeant; but the latter was twenty times as cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. philip was older by some years than the regulation age; but, at that time of great demand for men, the question of age was lightly entertained. the sergeant was profuse in statements of the advantages presented to a man of education in his branch of the service; how such a one was sure to rise; in fact, it would have seemed from the sergeant's account, as though the difficulty consisted in remaining in the ranks. philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, each time with failing power of reason. at length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of hand, he found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go before the nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his majesty's marines the next morning. and after that he remembered nothing more. he wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as the sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment; while gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before came, filling up philip's cup of agony. he knew that he had received the bounty-money; and though he was aware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, no care, indeed, for any of the advantages so liberally promised him the night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondent passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. anything was welcome that severed him from his former life, that could make him forget it, if that were possible; and also welcome anything which increased the chances of death without the sinfulness of his own participation in the act. he found in the dark recess of his mind the dead body of his fancy of the previous night; that he might come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had never been his. but he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight--so full of despair was he. he could eat no breakfast, though the sergeant ordered of the best. the latter kept watching his new recruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or dreading a sudden bolt. but philip walked with him the two or three miles in the most submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret or repentance; and before justice cholmley, of holm-fell hall, he was sworn into his majesty's service, under the name of stephen freeman. with a new name, he began a new life. alas! the old life lives for ever! chapter xxxv things unutterable after philip had passed out of the room, sylvia lay perfectly still, from very exhaustion. her mother slept on, happily unconscious of all the turmoil that had taken place; yes, happily, though the heavy sleep was to end in death. but of this her daughter knew nothing, imagining that it was refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of life. both mother and daughter lay motionless till phoebe entered the room to tell sylvia that dinner was on the table. then sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, bewildered and uncertain as to what was to be done next; how she should meet the husband to whom she had discarded all allegiance, repudiated the solemn promise of love and obedience which she had vowed. phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in the invalid, scarcely older than herself. 'how is t' old lady?' asked she, in a low voice. sylvia turned her head round to look; her mother had never moved, but was breathing in a loud uncomfortable manner, that made her stoop over her to see the averted face more nearly. 'phoebe!' she cried, 'come here! she looks strange and odd; her eyes are open, but don't see me. phoebe! phoebe!' 'sure enough, she's in a bad way!' said phoebe, climbing stiffly on to the bed to have a nearer view. 'hold her head a little up t' ease her breathin' while i go for master; he'll be for sendin' for t' doctor, i'll be bound.' sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly on her breast, speaking to her and trying to rouse her; but it was of no avail: the hard, stertorous breathing grew worse and worse. sylvia cried out for help; nancy came, the baby in her arms. they had been in several times before that morning; and the child came smiling and crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own dying parent. 'oh, nancy!' said sylvia; 'what is the matter with mother? yo' can see her face; tell me quick!' nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out of the room, crying out, 'master! master! come quick! t' old missus is a-dying!' this appeared to be no news to sylvia, and yet the words came on her with a great shock, but for all that she could not cry; she was surprised herself at her own deadness of feeling. her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard both her mother and her child. it seemed a long, long time before any one came, and then she heard muffled voices, and a heavy tramp: it was phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, and nancy creeping in behind to hear his opinion. he did not ask many questions, and phoebe replied more frequently to his inquiries than did sylvia, who looked into his face with a blank, tearless, speechless despair, that gave him more pain than the sight of her dying mother. the long decay of mrs. robson's faculties and health, of which he was well aware, had in a certain manner prepared him for some such sudden termination of the life whose duration was hardly desirable, although he gave several directions as to her treatment; but the white, pinched face, the great dilated eye, the slow comprehension of the younger woman, struck him with alarm; and he went on asking for various particulars, more with a view of rousing sylvia, if even it were to tears, than for any other purpose that the information thus obtained could answer. 'you had best have pillows propped up behind her--it will not be for long; she does not know that you are holding her, and it is only tiring you to no purpose!' sylvia's terrible stare continued: he put his advice into action, and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. this she resisted; laying her cheek against her poor mother's unconscious face. 'where is hepburn?' said he. 'he ought to be here!' phoebe looked at nancy, nancy at phoebe. it was the latter who replied, 'he's neither i' t' house nor i' t' shop. a seed him go past t' kitchen window better nor an hour ago; but neither william coulson or hester rose knows where he's gone to. dr morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, but he made no sound. 'give me baby!' he said, suddenly. nancy had taken her up off the bed where she had been sitting, encircled by her mother's arm. the nursemaid gave her to the doctor. he watched the mother's eye, it followed her child, and he was rejoiced. he gave a little pinch to the baby's soft flesh, and she cried out piteously; again the same action, the same result. sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched out her arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning over it. 'so far so good!' said dr morgan to himself. 'but where is the husband? he ought to be here.' he went down-stairs to make inquiry for philip; that poor young creature, about whose health he had never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after her confinement, was in an anxious condition, and with an inevitable shock awaiting her. her husband ought to be with her, and supporting her to bear it. dr morgan went into the shop. hester alone was there. coulson had gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered house, with his common-place wife. if he had felt anxious about philip's looks and strange disappearance, he had also managed to account for them in some indifferent way. hester was alone with the shop-boy; few people came in during the universal monkshaven dinner-hour. she was resting her head on her hand, and puzzled and distressed about many things--all that was implied by the proceedings of the evening before between philip and sylvia; and that was confirmed by philip's miserable looks and strange abstracted ways to-day. oh! how easy hester would have found it to make him happy! not merely how easy, but what happiness it would have been to her to merge her every wish into the one great object of fulfiling his will. to her, an on-looker, the course of married life, which should lead to perfect happiness, seemed to plain! alas! it is often so! and the resisting forces which make all such harmony and delight impossible are not recognized by the bystanders, hardly by the actors. but if these resisting forces are only superficial, or constitutional, they are but the necessary discipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will make all things right in heaven. some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its light on hester's troubled thoughts from time to time. but again, how easy would it have been to her to tread the maze that led to philip's happiness; and how difficult it seemed to the wife he had chosen! she was aroused by dr morgan's voice. 'so both coulson and hepburn have left the shop to your care, hester. i want hepburn, though; his wife is in a very anxious state. where is he? can you tell me?' 'sylvia in an anxious state! i've not seen her to-day, but last night she looked as well as could be.' 'ay, ay; but many a thing happens in four-and-twenty hours. her mother is dying, may be dead by this time; and her husband should be there with her. can't you send for him?' 'i don't know where he is,' said hester. 'he went off from here all on a sudden, when there was all the market-folks in t' shop; i thought he'd maybe gone to john foster's about th' money, for they was paying a deal in. i'll send there and inquire.' no! the messenger brought back word that he had not been seen at their bank all morning. further inquiries were made by the anxious hester, by the doctor, by coulson; all they could learn was that phoebe had seen him pass the kitchen window about eleven o'clock, when she was peeling the potatoes for dinner; and two lads playing on the quay-side thought they had seen him among a group of sailors; but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no knowledge of his appearance among them. before night the whole town was excited about his disappearance. before night bell robson had gone to her long home. and sylvia still lay quiet and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any other creature by the events of the day, and the strange vanishing of her husband. the only thing she seemed to care for was her baby; she held it tight in her arms, and dr morgan bade them leave it there, its touch might draw the desired tears into her weary, sleepless eyes, and charm the aching pain out of them. they were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, whose non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife must (they thought) seem strange to her. and night drew on while they were all in this state. she had gone back to her own room without a word when they had desired her to do so; caressing her child in her arms, and sitting down on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much for her. they saw her eyes turn towards the door every time it was opened, and they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who could not be found, though many were seeking for him in all probable places. when night came some one had to tell her of her husband's disappearance; and dr morgan was the person who undertook this. he came into her room about nine o'clock; her baby was sleeping in her arms; she herself pale as death, still silent and tearless, though strangely watchful of gestures and sounds, and probably cognizant of more than they imagined. 'well, mrs. hepburn,' said he, as cheerfully as he could, 'i should advise your going to bed early; for i fancy your husband won't come home to-night. some journey or other, that perhaps coulson can explain better than i can, will most likely keep him away till to-morrow. it's very unfortunate that he should be away at such a sad time as this, as i'm sure he'll feel when he returns; but we must make the best of it.' he watched her to see the effect of his words. she sighed, that was all. he still remained a little while. she lifted her head up a little and asked, 'how long do yo' think she was unconscious, doctor? could she hear things, think yo', afore she fell into that strange kind o' slumber?' 'i cannot tell,' said he, shaking his head. 'was she breathing in that hard snoring kind of way when you left her this morning?' 'yes, i think so; i cannot tell, so much has happened.' 'when you came back to her, after your breakfast, i think you said she was in much the same position?' 'yes, and yet i may be telling yo' lies; if i could but think: but it's my head as is aching so; doctor, i wish yo'd go, for i need being alone, i'm so mazed.' 'good-night, then, for you're a wise woman, i see, and mean to go to bed, and have a good night with baby there.' but he went down to phoebe, and told her to go in from time to time, and see how her mistress was. he found hester rose and the old servant together; both had been crying, both were evidently in great trouble about the death and the mystery of the day. hester asked if she might go up and see sylvia, and the doctor gave his leave, talking meanwhile with phoebe over the kitchen fire. hester came down again without seeing sylvia. the door of the room was bolted, and everything quiet inside. 'does she know where her husband is, think you?' asked the doctor at this account of hester's. 'she's not anxious about him at any rate: or else the shock of her mother's death has been too much for her. we must hope for some change in the morning; a good fit of crying, or a fidget about her husband, would be more natural. good-night to you both,' and off he went. phoebe and hester avoided looking at each other at these words. both were conscious of the probability of something having gone seriously wrong between the husband and wife. hester had the recollection of the previous night, phoebe the untasted breakfast of to-day to go upon. she spoke first. 'a just wish he'd come home to still folks' tongues. it need niver ha' been known if t' old lady hadn't died this day of all others. it's such a thing for t' shop t' have one o' t' partners missin', an' no one for t' know what's comed on him. it niver happened i' fosters' days, that's a' i know.' 'he'll maybe come back yet,' said hester. 'it's not so very late.' 'it were market day, and a',' continued phoebe, 'just as if iverything mun go wrong together; an' a' t' country customers'll go back wi' fine tale i' their mouths, as measter hepburn was strayed an' missin' just like a beast o' some kind.' 'hark! isn't that a step?' said hester suddenly, as a footfall sounded in the now quiet street; but it passed the door, and the hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the sound died away. 'he'll noane come to-night,' said phoebe, who had been as eager a listener as hester, however. 'thou'd best go thy ways home; a shall stay up, for it's not seemly for us a' t' go to our beds, an' a corpse in t' house; an' nancy, as might ha' watched, is gone to her bed this hour past, like a lazy boots as she is. a can hear, too, if t' measter does come home; tho' a'll be bound he wunnot; choose wheere he is, he'll be i' bed by now, for it's well on to eleven. i'll let thee out by t' shop-door, and stand by it till thou's close at home, for it's ill for a young woman to be i' t' street so late.' so she held the door open, and shaded the candle from the flickering outer air, while hester went to her home with a heavy heart. heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. no news of philip, no change in sylvia; an unceasing flow of angling and conjecture and gossip radiating from the shop into the town. hester could have entreated coulson on her knees to cease from repeating the details of a story of which every word touched on a raw place in her sensitive heart; moreover, when they talked together so eagerly, she could not hear the coming footsteps on the pavement without. once some one hit very near the truth in a chance remark. 'it seems strange,' she said, 'how as one man turns up, another just disappears. why, it were but upo' tuesday as kinraid come back, as all his own folk had thought to be dead; and next day here's measter hepburn as is gone no one knows wheere!' 'that's t' way i' this world,' replied coulson, a little sententiously. 'this life is full o' changes o' one kind or another; them that's dead is alive; and as for poor philip, though he was alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came into t' shop o' wednesday morning.' 'and how does she take it?' nodding to where sylvia was supposed to be. 'oh! she's not herself, so to say. she were just stunned by finding her mother was dying in her very arms when she thought as she were only sleeping; yet she's never been able to cry a drop; so that t' sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all i can hear, she doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. t' doctor says if she could but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of things.' 'and what do john and jeremiah foster say to it all?' 'they're down here many a time in t' day to ask if he's come back, or how she is; for they made a deal on 'em both. they're going t' attend t' funeral to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to be shut up in t' morning.' to the surprise of every one, sylvia, who had never left her room since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her intention of following her mother to the grave. no one could do more than remonstrate: no one had sufficient authority to interfere with her. dr morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to tears by the occasion; only he begged hester to go with her, that she might have the solace of some woman's company. she went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past. but on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw kester, in his sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, kind mistress. his evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the fountain of sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the funeral. but she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she made an effort to go round by the place where kester stood. 'come and see me,' was all she could say for crying: and kester only nodded his head--he could not speak a word. chapter xxxvi mysterious tidings that very evening kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door. phoebe opened it. he asked to see sylvia. 'a know not if she'll see thee,' said phoebe. 'there's no makin' her out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.' 'she bid me come and see her,' said kester. 'only this mornin', at missus' buryin', she telled me to come.' so phoebe went off to inform sylvia that kester was there; and returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. an instant after he was gone, phoebe heard him return, and carefully shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and sitting-room. sylvia was in the latter when kester came in, holding her baby close to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, making nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to phoebe's indignation. sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. she went up to kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over. 'don't talk to me of her,' she said hastily. 'i cannot stand it. it's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh----' she began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down her sobs. 'kester,' she went on, hastily, 'charley kinraid isn't dead; dost ta know? he's alive, and he were here o' tuesday--no, monday, was it? i cannot tell--but he were here!' 'a knowed as he weren't dead. every one is a-speaking on it. but a didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. a took comfort i' thinkin' as thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.' 'then he's gone?' said sylvia. 'gone; ay, days past. as far as a know, he but stopped a' neet. a thought to mysel' (but yo' may be sure a said nought to nobody), he's heerd as our sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it.' 'kester!' said sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. 'i saw him. he was here. philip saw him. philip had known as he wasn't dead a' this time!' kester stood up suddenly. 'by goom, that chap has a deal t' answer for.' a bright red spot was on each of sylvia's white cheeks; and for a minute or so neither of them spoke. then she went on, still whispering out her words. 'kester, i'm more afeared than i dare tell any one: can they ha' met, think yo'? t' very thought turns me sick. i told philip my mind, and took a vow again' him--but it would be awful to think on harm happening to him through kinraid. yet he went out that morning, and has niver been seen or heard on sin'; and kinraid were just fell again' him, and as for that matter, so was i; but----' the red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination. kester spoke. 'it's a thing as can be easy looked into. what day an' time were it when philip left this house?' 'tuesday--the day she died. i saw him in her room that morning between breakfast and dinner; i could a'most swear to it's being close after eleven. i mind counting t' clock. it was that very morn as kinraid were here.' 'a'll go an' have a pint o' beer at t' king's arms, down on t' quay-side; it were theere he put up at. an' a'm pretty sure as he only stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. but a'll go see.' 'do,' said sylvia, 'and go out through t' shop; they're all watching and watching me to see how i take things; and daren't let on about t' fire as is burning up my heart. coulson is i' t' shop, but he'll not notice thee like phoebe.' by-and-by kester came back. it seemed as though sylvia had never stirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak. 'he went away i' rob mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters to hartlepool. t' lieutenant (as they ca' him down at t' king's arms; they're as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new-painted sign to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin' longer wi' 'em; but he went out betimes o' tuesday morn', an' came back a' ruffled up, an paid his bill--paid for his breakfast, though he touched noane on it--an' went off i' rob postman's mail-cart, as starts reg'lar at ten o'clock. corneys has been theere askin' for him, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near em; and they bees cousins. niver a one among 'em knows as he were here as far as a could mak' out.' 'thank yo', kester,' said sylvia, falling back in her chair, as if all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now that her anxiety was relieved. she was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on her child's head. kester spoke next. 'a think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. but it's a' t' more wonder where thy husband's gone to. thee and him had words about it, and thou telled him thy mind, thou said?' 'yes,' said sylvia, not moving. 'i'm afeared lest mother knows what i said to him, there, where she's gone to--i am-' the tears filled her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; 'and yet it were true, what i said, i cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt my life, and i'm not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, how very wretched, i were. a word fra' him would ha' mended it a'; and charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful love, and philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on as him i was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd keep true to me, as i were to do to him.' 'a wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,' said kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation. sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still shut. then she said, 'yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. oh, kester!' lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, 'it's well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.' 'ay!' said he. 'but there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra' shirkin' their misery. think yo' now as philip is livin'?' sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied. 'i dunnot know. i said such things; he deserved 'em all----' 'well, well, lass!' said kester, sorry that he had asked the question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. 'neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not think on him. a'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it wi' my mind so full. thou knows haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' oud place is empty?' 'yes!' said sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with feeling. 'a only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i' monkshaven. my sister, her as lived at dale end an' is a widow, has comed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about. a'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. a'm lodgin' at peggy dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea: no one can miss it.' he stood up and shook hands with her. as he did so, he looked at her sleeping baby. 'she's liker yo' than him. a think a'll say, god bless her.' with the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. she ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the disturbance made her cry fretfully. 'hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's no one left to love me but thee, and i cannot stand thy weeping, my pretty one. hush thee, my babe, hush thee!' she whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs to bed. about three weeks after the miserable date of bell robson's death and philip's disappearance, hester rose received a letter from him. she knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble so much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose. but she need not have feared; there were no facts told, unless the vague date of 'london' might be something to learn. even that much might have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been too much taken by surprise to examine it. it ran as follows:-'dear hester,-'tell those whom it may concern, that i have left monkshaven for ever. no one need trouble themselves about me; i am provided for. please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the messrs foster, and to my partner, william coulson. please to accept of my love, and to join the same to your mother. please to give my particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt isabella robson. her daughter sylvia knows what i have always felt, and shall always feel, for her better than i can ever put into language, so i send her no message; god bless and keep my child. you must all look on me as one dead; as i am to you, and maybe shall soon be in reality. 'your affectionate and obedient friend to command, 'philip hepburn. 'p.s.--oh, hester! for god's sake and mine, look after ('my wife,' scratched out) sylvia and my child. i think jeremiah foster will help you to be a friend to them. this is the last solemn request of p. h. she is but very young.' hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. she put it in her pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the shop. the customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than usual. she thought that in the evening she would go across the bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers foster. but something occurred to put off the fulfilment of this plan. that same morning sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, because consultation would have required previous confidence, and confidence would have necessitated such a confession about kinraid as it was most difficult for sylvia to make. the poor young wife yet felt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be she could not imagine. she had no home to go to; for as philip was gone away, she remained where she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means of livelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankful to take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, what could she do? in this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end of her wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go and ask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered. it would be the first time of her going out since her mother's funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. more even than on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. she could not get over the impression that kinraid must be lingering near; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positive terror to think of meeting him again. she felt as though, if she but caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. or rather so she felt, and so she thought before she took her baby in her arms, as nancy gave it to her after putting on its out-of-door attire. with it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her thoughts was changed. the infant was wailing and suffering with its teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and the bridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she notice the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met who recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the draping mourning provided for her by hester and coulson, in the first unconscious days after her mother's death. though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon philip's disappearance--warned possibly by kinraid's story against hasty decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general disturbance--yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate could have befallen philip's wife. marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest even in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her mother at the market cross--her father had lost his life in a popular cause, and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of his townsmen; sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet daily life was well known to them; and now her husband had been carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his comfort most. for the general opinion was that philip had been 'carried off'--in seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those days--either by land-crimps or water-crimps. so sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk to jeremiah foster's. she had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinner hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than to the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours of the day. sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry. in an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. 'no, sir, i cannot take it! wine allays gives me th' headache; if i might have just a drink o' water. thank you, ma'am' (to the respectable-looking old servant), 'i'm well enough now; and perhaps, sir, i might speak a word with yo', for it's that i've come for.' 'it's a pity, sylvia hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the bank, for it's been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, with thy child. but if there's aught i can do or say for thee, thou hast but to name it, i am sure. martha! wilt thou relieve her of her child while she comes with me into the parlour?' but the wilful little bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was. so the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life depended on this trivial fact. once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with jeremiah, sylvia did not know how to begin. jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little fingers. 'she favours you a deal,' said he, at last. 'more than her father,' he went on, purposely introducing philip's name, so as to break the ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about something connected with her husband. still sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that house the last time that she entered it. 'it's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. 'it's about philip as i comed to speak. do yo' know any thing whatsomever about him? he niver had a chance o' saying anything, i know; but maybe he's written?' 'not a line, my poor young woman!' said jeremiah, hastily putting an end to that vain idea. 'then he's either dead or gone away for iver,' she whispered. 'i mun be both feyther and mother to my child.' 'oh! thee must not give it up,' replied he. 'many a one is carried off to the wars, or to the tenders o' men-o'-war; and then they turn out to be unfit for service, and are sent home. philip 'll come back before the year's out; thee'll see that.' 'no; he'll niver come back. and i'm not sure as i should iver wish him t' come back, if i could but know what was gone wi' him. yo' see, sir, though i were sore set again' him, i shouldn't like harm to happen him.' 'there is something behind all this that i do not understand. can thee tell me what it is?' 'i must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel; and i came up here to ask for it.' another long pause, during which jeremiah made a feint of playing with the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience at not being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at length stretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of the coveted possession. surprise at this action roused sylvia, and she made some comment upon it. 'i niver knew her t' go to any one afore. i hope she'll not be troublesome to yo', sir?' the old man, who had often longed for a child of his own in days gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, and almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering over some painful story which she could not bring herself to tell. 'i'm afeared of speaking wrong again' any one, sir. and mother were so fond o' philip; but he kept something from me as would ha' made me a different woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. i were troth-plighted wi' kinraid the specksioneer, him as was cousin to th' corneys o' moss brow, and comed back lieutenant i' t' navy last tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead and gone these three years.' she paused. 'well?' said jeremiah, with interest; although his attention appeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eager playfulness of the baby on his knee. 'philip knew he were alive; he'd seen him taken by t' press-gang, and charley had sent a message to me by philip.' her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of her story. 'and he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to break my heart in thinking as kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel'; and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t' truth. it would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had his message if i'd niver ha' been to see him again. but philip niver let on to any one, as i iver heared on, that he'd seen charley that morning as t' press-gang took him. yo' know about feyther's death, and how friendless mother and me was left? and so i married him; for he were a good friend to us then, and i were dazed like wi' sorrow, and could see naught else to do for mother. he were allays very tender and good to her, for sure.' again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep sighs. 'if i go on, sir, now, i mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell. i do so need some one to tell me what i ought to do, and i were led here, like, else i would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. yo'll promise, sir?' jeremiah foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eager look, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving the promise required; she went on. 'upon a tuesday morning, three weeks ago, i think, tho' for t' matter o' time it might ha' been three years, kinraid come home; come back for t' claim me as his wife, and i were wed to philip! i met him i' t' road at first; and i couldn't tell him theere. he followed me into t' house--philip's house, sir, behind t' shop--and somehow i told him all, how i were a wedded wife to another. then he up and said i'd a false heart--me false, sir, as had eaten my daily bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrow and mourning for his death! then he said as philip knowed all t' time he were alive and coming back for me; and i couldn't believe it, and i called philip, and he come, and a' that charley had said were true; and yet i were philip's wife! so i took a mighty oath, and i said as i'd niver hold philip to be my lawful husband again, nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as a stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.' she stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. but her listener said, after a pause, 'it were a cruel wrong, i grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin, and thy words were evil, my poor lass. what happened next?' 'i don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'kinraid went away, and mother cried out; and i went to her. she were asleep, i thought, so i lay down by her, to wish i were dead, and to think on what would come on my child if i died; and philip came in softly, and i made as if i were asleep; and that's t' very last as i've iver seen or heared of him.' jeremiah foster groaned as she ended her story. then he pulled himself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice, 'he'll come back, sylvia hepburn. he'll think better of it: never fear!' 'i fear his coming back!' said she. 'that's what i'm feared on; i would wish as i knew on his well-doing i' some other place; but him and me can niver live together again.' 'nay,' pleaded jeremiah. 'thee art sorry what thee said; thee were sore put about, or thee wouldn't have said it.' he was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over conjugal differences; but he did not go deep enough. 'i'm not sorry,' said she, slowly. 'i were too deeply wronged to be "put about"; that would go off wi' a night's sleep. it's only the thought of mother (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of all this, i trust) that comes between me and hating philip. i'm not sorry for what i said.' jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and undisguised in expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say. he looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. so pretty and delicate a young creature to use such strong relentless language! she seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them. 'i dare say you think i'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. perhaps i am. i can't think o' that for remembering how i've suffered; and he knew how miserable i was, and might ha' cleared my misery away wi' a word; and he held his peace, and now it's too late! i'm sick o' men and their cruel, deceitful ways. i wish i were dead.' she was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing her tears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its little arms to go back to its mother. the hard stony look on her face melted away into the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one to her, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs. a bright thought came into the old man's mind. he had been taking a complete dislike to her till her pretty way with her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her. 'poor little one!' said he, 'thy mother had need love thee, for she's deprived thee of thy father's love. thou'rt half-way to being an orphan; yet i cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom god will be a father. thou'rt a desolate babe, thou may'st well cry; thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and i know not if the lord will take thee up.' sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby tighter to her, she exclaimed. 'don't speak so, sir! it's cursing, sir! i haven't forsaken her! oh, sir! those are awful sayings.' 'thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with him again. dost thee know that by the law of the land, he may claim his child; and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn? poor little maiden!' continued he, once more luring the baby to him with the temptation of the watch and chain. sylvia thought for a while before speaking. then she said, 'i cannot tell what ways to take. whiles i think my head is crazed. it were a cruel turn he did me!' 'it was. i couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness.' this acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on jeremiah's part, almost took sylvia by surprise. why might she not hate one who had been both cruel and base in his treatment of her? and yet she recoiled from the application of such hard terms by another to philip, by a cool-judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed jeremiah to be. from some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she began to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh judgment which she herself had been the first to pronounce. 'he were so tender to mother; she were dearly fond on him; he niver spared aught he could do for her, else i would niver ha' married him.' 'he was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen. and i never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother.' 'but it were all the same as a lie,' said sylvia, swiftly changing her ground, 'to leave me to think as charley were dead, when he knowed all t' time he were alive.' 'it was. it was a self-seeking lie; putting thee to pain to get his own ends. and the end of it has been that he is driven forth like cain.' 'i niver told him to go, sir.' 'but thy words sent him forth, sylvia.' 'i cannot unsay them, sir; and i believe as i should say them again.' but she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction. all jeremiah replied, however, was, 'poor wee child!' in a pitiful tone, addressed to the baby. sylvia's eyes filled with tears. 'oh, sir, i'll do anything as iver yo' can tell me for her. that's what i came for t' ask yo'. i know i mun not stay theere, and philip gone away; and i dunnot know what to do: and i'll do aught, only i must keep her wi' me. whativer can i do, sir?' jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. then he replied, 'i must have time to think. i must talk it over with brother john.' 'but you've given me yo'r word, sir!' exclaimed she. 'i have given thee my word never to tell any one of what has passed between thee and thy husband, but i must take counsel with my brother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now that thy husband has left the shop.' this was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up, as a sign that the interview was ended. he gave the baby back to its mother; but not without a solemn blessing, so solemn that, to sylvia's superstitious and excited mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse. 'the lord bless thee and keep thee! the lord make his face to shine upon thee!' all the way down the hill-side, sylvia kept kissing the child, and whispering to its unconscious ears,-'i'll love thee for both, my treasure, i will. i'll hap thee round wi' my love, so as thou shall niver need a feyther's.' chapter xxxvii bereavement hester had been prevented by her mother's indisposition from taking philip's letter to the fosters, to hold a consultation with them over its contents. alice rose was slowly failing, and the long days which she had to spend alone told much upon her spirits, and consequently upon her health. all this came out in the conversation which ensued after reading hepburn's letter in the little parlour at the bank on the day after sylvia had had her confidential interview with jeremiah foster. he was a true man of honour, and never so much as alluded to her visit to him; but what she had then told him influenced him very much in the formation of the project which he proposed to his brother and hester. he recommended her remaining where she was, living still in the house behind the shop; for he thought within himself that she might have exaggerated the effect of her words upon philip; that, after all, it might have been some cause totally disconnected with them, which had blotted out her husband's place among the men of monkshaven; and that it would be so much easier for both to resume their natural relations, both towards each other and towards the world, if sylvia remained where her husband had left her--in an expectant attitude, so to speak. jeremiah foster questioned hester straitly about her letter: whether she had made known its contents to any one. no, not to any one. neither to her mother nor to william coulson? no, to neither. she looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, and he looked at her, each wondering if the other could be in the least aware that a conjugal quarrel might be at the root of the dilemma in which they were placed by hepburn's disappearance. but neither hester, who had witnessed the misunderstanding between the husband and wife on the evening, before the morning on which philip went away, nor jeremiah foster, who had learnt from sylvia the true reason of her husband's disappearance, gave the slightest reason to the other to think that they each supposed they had a clue to the reason of hepburn's sudden departure. what jeremiah foster, after a night's consideration, had to propose was this; that hester and her mother should come and occupy the house in the market-place, conjointly with sylvia and her child. hester's interest in the shop was by this time acknowledged. jeremiah had made over to her so much of his share in the business, that she had a right to be considered as a kind of partner; and she had long been the superintendent of that department of goods which were exclusively devoted to women. so her daily presence was requisite for more reasons than one. yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to render it unadvisable that the old woman should be too much left alone; and sylvia's devotion to her own mother seemed to point her out as the very person who could be a gentle and tender companion to alice rose during those hours when her own daughter would necessarily be engaged in the shop. many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this removal of alice: an occupation was provided for sylvia, which would detain her in the place where her husband had left her, and where (jeremiah foster fairly expected in spite of his letter) he was likely to come back to find her; and alice rose, the early love of one of the brothers, the old friend of the other, would be well cared for, and under her daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of the time that she was occupied in the shop. philip's share of the business, augmented by the money which he had put in from the legacy of his old cumberland uncle, would bring in profits enough to support sylvia and her child in ease and comfort until that time, which they all anticipated, when he should return from his mysterious wandering--mysterious, whether his going forth had been voluntary or involuntary. thus far was settled; and jeremiah foster went to tell sylvia of the plan. she was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to any independence of action, to do anything but leave herself in his hands. her very confession, made to him the day before, when she sought his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. otherwise, she had had notions of the possibility of a free country life once more--how provided for and arranged she hardly knew; but haytersbank was to let, and kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible that she might have to return to her early home, and to her old life. she knew that it would take much money to stock the farm again, and that her hands were tied from much useful activity by the love and care she owed to her baby. but still, somehow, she hoped and she fancied, till jeremiah foster's measured words and carefully-arranged plan made her silently relinquish her green, breezy vision. hester, too, had her own private rebellion--hushed into submission by her gentle piety. if sylvia had been able to make philip happy, hester could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards her; but sylvia had failed in this. philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth a wanderer into the wide world--never to come back! and his last words to hester, the postscript of his letter, containing the very pith of it, was to ask her to take charge and care of the wife whose want of love towards him had uprooted him from the place where he was valued and honoured. it cost hester many a struggle and many a self-reproach before she could make herself feel what she saw all along--that in everything philip treated her like a sister. but even a sister might well be indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded and slighted, and his life embittered by the thoughtless conduct of a wife! still hester fought against herself, and for philip's sake she sought to see the good in sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to take care of her. with the baby, of course, the case was different. without thought or struggle, or reason, every one loved the little girl. coulson and his buxom wife, who were childless, were never weary of making much of her. hester's happiest hours were spent with that little child. jeremiah foster almost looked upon her as his own from the day when she honoured him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and seal, and coming to his knee; not a customer to the shop but knew the smiling child's sad history, and many a country-woman would save a rosy-cheeked apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on next market-day for 'philip hepburn's baby, as had lost its father, bless it.' even stern alice rose was graciously inclined towards the little bella; and though her idea of the number of the elect was growing narrower and narrower every day, she would have been loth to exclude the innocent little child, that stroked her wrinkled cheeks so softly every night in return for her blessing, from the few that should be saved. nay, for the child's sake, she relented towards the mother; and strove to have sylvia rescued from the many castaways with fervent prayer, or, as she phrased it, 'wrestling with the lord'. alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose ewe-lamb she was, could not be even in heaven without yearning for the creature she had loved best on earth; and the old woman believed that this was the principal reason for her prayers for sylvia; but unconsciously to herself, alice rose was touched by the filial attentions she constantly received from the young mother, whom she believed to be foredoomed to condemnation. sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read her bible; for though she spoke little of her ignorance, and would fain, for her child's sake, have remedied it now it was too late, she had lost what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and could only make out her words with much spelling and difficulty. so the taking her bible in hand would have been a mere form; though of this alice rose knew nothing. no one knew much of what was passing in sylvia; she did not know herself. sometimes in the nights she would waken, crying, with a terrible sense of desolation; every one who loved her, or whom she had loved, had vanished out of her life; every one but her child, who lay in her arms, warm and soft. but then jeremiah foster's words came upon her; words that she had taken for cursing at the time; and she would so gladly have had some clue by which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown region from whence both blessing and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed done something which should cause her sin to be visited on that soft, sweet, innocent darling. if any one would teach her to read! if any one would explain to her the hard words she heard in church or chapel, so that she might find out the meaning of sin and godliness!--words that had only passed over the surface of her mind till now! for her child's sake she should like to do the will of god, if she only knew what that was, and how to be worked out in her daily life. but there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to and ask information from. jeremiah foster had spoken as if her child, sweet little merry bella, with a loving word and a kiss for every one, was to suffer heavily for the just and true words her wronged and indignant mother had spoken. alice always spoke as if there were no hope for her; and blamed her, nevertheless, for not using the means of grace that it was not in her power to avail herself of. and hester, that sylvia would fain have loved for her uniform gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed so cold in her unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour; and moreover, sylvia felt that hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding philip's absence without knowing how bitter a cause sylvia had for casting him off. the only person who seemed to have pity upon her was kester; and his pity was shown in looks rather than words; for when he came to see her, which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual tacit consent, they spoke but little of former days. he was still lodging with his sister, widow dobson, working at odd jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time. but on his returns to monkshaven he was sure to come and see her and the little bella; indeed, when his employment was in the immediate neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away without a visit. there was not much conversation between him and sylvia at such times. they skimmed over the surface of the small events in which both took an interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a checked speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they were never mentioned. twice sylvia--below her breath--had asked kester, just as she was holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been heard of kinraid since his one night's visit to monkshaven: each time (and there was an interval of some months between the inquiries) the answer had been simply, no. to no one else would sylvia ever have named his name. but indeed she had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any questions about him from any one likely to know. the corneys had left moss brow at martinmas, and gone many miles away towards horncastle. bessy corney, it is true was married and left behind in the neighbourhood; but with her sylvia had never been intimate; and what girlish friendship there might have been between them had cooled very much at the time of kinraid's supposed death three years before. one day before christmas in this year, 1798, sylvia was called into the shop by coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the bales of winter goods supplied to them from the west riding, and other places. he was looking at a fine irish poplin dress-piece when sylvia answered to his call. 'here! do you know this again?' asked he, in the cheerful tone of one sure of giving pleasure. 'no! have i iver seen it afore?' 'not this, but one for all t' world like it.' she did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying to recollect where she could have seen its like. 'my missus had one on at th' party at john foster's last march, and yo' admired it a deal. and philip, he thought o' nothing but how he could get yo' just such another, and he set a vast o' folk agait for to meet wi' its marrow; and what he did just the very day afore he went away so mysterious was to write through dawson brothers, o' wakefield, to dublin, and order that one should be woven for yo'. jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t' exact colour.' sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, in a low voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to coulson's displeasure. all the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. alice rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen eyes. at length, after one of sylvia's deep, unconscious sighs, the old woman spoke: 'it's religion as must comfort thee, child, as it's done many a one afore thee.' 'how?' said sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself an object of notice. 'how?' (the answer was not quite so ready as the precept had been.) 'read thy bible, and thou wilt learn.' 'but i cannot read,' said sylvia, too desperate any longer to conceal her ignorance. 'not read! and thee philip's wife as was such a great scholar! of a surety the ways o' this life are crooked! there was our hester, as can read as well as any minister, and philip passes over her to go and choose a young lass as cannot read her bible.' 'was philip and hester----' sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned upon her, she did not know how to word her question. 'many a time and oft have i seen hester take comfort in her bible when philip was following after thee. she knew where to go for consolation.' 'i'd fain read,' said sylvia, humbly, 'if anybody would learn me; for perhaps it might do me good; i'm noane so happy.' her eyes, as she looked up at alice's stern countenance, were full of tears. the old woman saw it, and was touched, although she did not immediately show her sympathy. but she took her own time, and made no reply. the next day, however, she bade sylvia come to her, and then and there, as if her pupil had been a little child, she began to teach sylvia to read the first chapter of genesis; for all other reading but the scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would not condescend to the weakness of other books. sylvia was now, as ever, slow at book-learning; but she was meek and desirous to be taught, and her willingness in this respect pleased alice, and drew her singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might become a convert. all this time sylvia never lost the curiosity that had been excited by the few words alice had let drop about hester and philip, and by degrees she approached the subject again, and had the idea then started confirmed by alice, who had no scruple in using the past experience of her own, of her daughter's, or of any one's life, as an instrument to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything earthly. this knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into sylvia's thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in hester--poor hester, whose life she had so crossed and blighted, even by the very blighting of her own. she gave hester her own former passionate feelings for kinraid, and wondered how she herself should have felt towards any one who had come between her and him, and wiled his love away. when she remembered hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness towards herself from the very first, she could better bear the comparative coldness of her present behaviour. she tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she had lost; but the very means she took were blunders, and only made it seem to her as if she could never again do right in hester's eyes. for instance, she begged her to accept and wear the pretty poplin gown which had been philip's especial choice; feeling within herself as if she should never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing she could do with it was to offer it to hester. but hester rejected the proffered gift with as much hardness of manner as she was capable of assuming; and sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it by for the little daughter, who, hester said, might perhaps learn to value things that her father had given especial thought to. yet sylvia went on trying to win hester to like her once more; it was one of her great labours, and learning to read from hester's mother was another. alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite fond of sylvia; if she could not read or write, she had a deftness and gentleness of motion, a capacity for the household matters which fell into her department, that had a great effect on the old woman, and for her dear mother's sake sylvia had a stock of patient love ready in her heart for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. she never thought of seeking them out, as she knew that hester did; but then she looked up to hester as some one very remarkable for her goodness. if only she could have liked her! hester tried to do all she could for sylvia; philip had told her to take care of his wife and child; but she had the conviction that sylvia had so materially failed in her duties as to have made her husband an exile from his home--a penniless wanderer, wifeless and childless, in some strange country, whose very aspect was friendless, while the cause of all lived on in the comfortable home where he had placed her, wanting for nothing--an object of interest and regard to many friends--with a lovely little child to give her joy for the present, and hope for the future; while he, the poor outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. how could hester love sylvia? yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. hester was not well; and the doctors said that the constant occupation in the shop was too much for her, and that she must, for a time at least, take daily walks into the country. sylvia used to beg to accompany her; she and the little girl often went with hester up the valley of the river to some of the nestling farms that were hidden in the more sheltered nooks--for hester was bidden to drink milk warm from the cow; and to go into the familiar haunts about a farm was one of the few things in which sylvia seemed to take much pleasure. she would let little bella toddle about while hester sate and rested: and she herself would beg to milk the cow destined to give the invalid her draught. one may evening the three had been out on some such expedition; the country side still looked gray and bare, though the leaves were showing on the willow and blackthorn and sloe, and by the tinkling runnels, making hidden music along the copse side, the pale delicate primrose buds were showing amid their fresh, green, crinkled leaves. the larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping down into their nests in the pasture fields; the air had just the sharpness in it which goes along with a cloudless evening sky at that time of the year. but hester walked homewards slowly and languidly, speaking no word. sylvia noticed this at first without venturing to speak, for hester was one who disliked having her ailments noticed. but after a while hester stood still in a sort of weary dreamy abstraction; and sylvia said to her, 'i'm afeared yo're sadly tired. maybe we've been too far.' hester almost started. 'no!' said she, 'it's only my headache which is worse to-night. it has been bad all day; but since i came out it has felt just as if there were great guns booming, till i could almost pray 'em to be quiet. i am so weary o' th' sound.' she stepped out quickly towards home after she had said this, as if she wished for neither pity nor comment on what she had said. chapter xxxviii the recognition far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns were booming on that 7th of may, 1799. the mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glittering white with snowy sand, and the fragments of innumerable sea-shells, delicate and shining as porcelain. looking at that shore from the sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth, stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a great mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a convent sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. in the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliage that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might be discerned from a long distance by the naked eye; the silver gray of the olive-trees near its summit; the heavy green and bossy forms of the sycamores lower down; broken here and there by a solitary terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread; till the eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the white seaboard and the sandy hillocks; with here and there feathery palm-trees, either isolated or in groups--motionless and distinct against the hot purple air. look again; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are the white walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black in shadow. the fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a port and a haven against the wild levantine storms; and a lighthouse rises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety. beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, there is the same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground, till the upland circuit comes closing in to the north, and the great white rocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue colour. above, the sky is literally purple with heat; and the pitiless light smites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore. nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of our own soft green. the limestone rock underlies the vegetation, and gives a glittering, ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even to the cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. in spring-time alone does the country look rich and fruitful; then the corn-fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, 'some fifty, some an hundred fold'; down by the brook kishon, flowing not far from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, there grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh to look upon; the orchards are full of glossy-leaved cherry-trees; the tall amaryllis puts forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling the pomp of king solomon; the daisies and the hyacinths spread their myriad flowers; the anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and thither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire. a spicy odour lingers in the heated air; it comes from the multitude of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. later on they will have withered and faded, and the corn will have been gathered, and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kind of gray-bleached tint. even now in may, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, the terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, the fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, were inexpressibly wearying to the english eyes that kept their skilled watch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast-town that lay out a little to the northward of where the british ships were anchored. they had kept up a flanking fire for many days in aid of those besieged in st jean d'acre; and at intervals had listened, impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or the sharper rattle of the french musketry. in the morning, on the 7th of may, a man at the masthead of the _tigre_ sang out that he saw ships in the offing; and in reply to the signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist friendly flags. that may morning was a busy time. the besieged turks took heart of grace; the french outside, under the command of their great general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault than all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before (for the siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes of carrying the town by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive; and sir sidney smith, aware of buonaparte's desperate intention, ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be spared from the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from the ships upon the french, to land, and assist the turks and the british forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. lieutenant kinraid, who had shared his captain's daring adventure off the coast of france three years before, who had been a prisoner with him and westley wright, in the temple at paris, and had escaped with them, and, through sir sidney's earnest recommendation, been promoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant, received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed to an especial post of danger. his heart was like a war-horse, and said, ha, ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to land him under the ancient machicolated walls where the crusaders made their last stand in the holy land. not that kinraid knew or cared one jot about those gallant knights of old: all he knew was, that the french, under boney, were trying to take the town from the turks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they should not. he and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town by the water-port gate; he was singing to himself his own country song,- weel may the keel row, the keel row, &c. and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught up the air, and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. so, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of acre, hemmed in on either side by the white walls of turkish houses, with small grated openings high up, above all chance of peeping intrusion. here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned turk going along with as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. but the majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together to defend the breach, where the french guns thundered out far above the heads of the sailors. they went along none the less merrily for the sound to djezzar pacha's garden, where the old turk sate on his carpet, beneath the shade of a great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who made known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of sir sidney smith and the colonel of the marines. as soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of h.m.s. _tigre_, he interrupted the council of war without much ceremony, and going to kinraid, he despatched them, as before arranged, to the north ravelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions. out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the strange, desolate garden; but once more in the streets, the old newcastle song rose up again till the men were, perforce, silenced by the haste with which they went to the post of danger. it was three o'clock in the afternoon. for many a day these very men had been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour--even when at sea, fanned by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot smoke, with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whizz of death perpetually whistling in their ears, they were uncomplaining and light-hearted. many an old joke, and some new ones, came brave and hearty, on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was veiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by the bright flames of death. a sudden message came; as many of the crew of the _tigre_ as were under lieutenant kinraid's command were to go down to the mole, to assist the new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the masthead at day-dawn), under command of hassan bey, to land at the mole, where sir sidney then was. off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, though two of their number lay silent for ever at the north ravelin--silenced in that one little half-hour. and one went along with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his right arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. they helped the turkish troops to land more with good-will than tenderness; and then, led by sir sidney, they went under the shelter of english guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantly defended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burning afternoon. the ruins of the massive wall that here had been broken down by the french, were used by them as stepping stones to get on a level with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the latter hurled down; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning's comrades were made into ghastly stairs. when djezzar pacha heard that the british sailors were defending the breach, headed by sir sidney smith, he left his station in the palace garden, gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to the breach; where, with his own hands, and with right hearty good-will, he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that if he lost his english friends he lost all! but little recked the crew of the _tigre_ of the one old man--pacha or otherwise--who tried to hold them back from the fight; they were up and at the french assailants clambering over the breach in an instant; and so they went on, as if it were some game at play instead of a deadly combat, until kinraid and his men were called off by sir sidney, as the reinforcement of turkish troops under hassan bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old breach in the walls, which was no longer the principal object of the french attack; for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breach by their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the city walls. 'fight your best kinraid!' said sir sidney; 'for there's boney on yonder hill looking at you.' and sure enough, on a rising ground, called richard coeur de lion's mount, there was a half-circle of french generals, on horseback, all deferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words, of a little man in their centre; at whose bidding the aide-de-camp galloped swift with messages to the more distant french camp. the two ravelins which kinraid and his men had to occupy, for the purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not ten yards from that enemy's van. but at length there was a sudden rush of the french to that part of the wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed. surprised at this movement, kinraid ventured out of the shelter of the ravelin to ascertain the cause; he, safe and untouched during that long afternoon of carnage, fell now, under a stray musket-shot, and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned by his men, who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had been planned for the french; who, descending the city walls into the pacha's garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and lay headless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, and by the fountain side. kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls. he was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. dead bodies of frenchmen lay strewn around him; no englishman had ventured out so far. all the wounded men that he could see were french; and many of these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed him aloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume the semblance of death; for some among these men were still capable of dragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all their failing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end. the outlying pickets of the french army were within easy rifle shot; and his uniform, although less conspicuous in colour than that of the marines, by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. yet how he longed to turn, if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat full into his aching eyes. fever, too, was coming upon him; the pain in his leg was every moment growing more severe; the terrible thirst of the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, made his lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed parched and wooden. thoughts of other days, of cool greenland seas, where ice abounded, of grassy english homes, began to make the past more real than the present. with a great effort he brought his wandering senses back; he knew where he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, which were but small; the unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought of the newly-made wife in her english home, who might never know how he died thinking of her. suddenly he saw a party of english marines advance, under shelter of the ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and bear them within the walls for surgical help. they were so near he could see their faces, could hear them speak; yet he durst not make any sign to them when he lay within range of the french picket's fire. for one moment he could not resist raising his head, to give himself a chance for life; before the unclean creatures that infest a camp came round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the dead bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of life within them. but the setting sun came full into his face, and he saw nothing of what he longed to see. he fell back in despair; he lay there to die. that strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation. he had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in the red glare of a house on fire; the same despair of help, of hopeless farewell to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red light. one man left his fellows, and came running forwards, forwards in among the enemy's wounded, within range of their guns; he bent down over kinraid; he seemed to understand without a word; he lifted him up, carrying him like a child; and with the vehement energy that is more from the force of will than the strength of body, he bore him back to within the shelter of the ravelin--not without many shots being aimed at them, one of which hit kinraid in the fleshy part of his arm. kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken leg, and his very life seemed leaving him; yet he remembered afterwards how the marine recalled his fellows, and how, in the pause before they returned, his face became like one formerly known to the sick senses of kinraid; yet it was too like a dream, too utterly improbable to be real. yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and alone by the fainting kinraid, fitted in well with the belief conjured up by his personal appearance. he panted out,-'i niver thought you'd ha' kept true to her!' and then the others came up; and while they were making a sling of their belts, kinraid fainted utterly away, and the next time that he was fully conscious, he was lying in his berth in the _tigre_, with the ship surgeon setting his leg. after that he was too feverish for several days to collect his senses. when he could first remember, and form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the man especially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and make inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named philip hepburn, and, when he was found, to entreat him to come and see kinraid. the sailor was away the greater part of the day, and returned unsuccessful in his search; he had been from ship to ship, hither and thither; he had questioned all the marines he had met with, no one knew anything of any philip hepburn. kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and when the doctor exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, he told him, with some irritation, of the ill-success of his servant; he accused the man of stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to go himself. partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would undertake the search for hepburn, and he engaged faithfully to follow all kinraid's eager directions; not to be satisfied with men's careless words, but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books. he, too, brought the same answer, however unwillingly given. he had set out upon the search so confident of success, that he felt doubly discomfited by failure. however, he had persuaded himself that the lieutenant had been partially delirious from the effects of his wound, and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay. there had, indeed, been slight symptoms of kinraid's having received a sun-stroke; and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour to persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endued a stranger with the lineaments of some former friend. kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all this plausible talk, which was even more irritating than the fact that hepburn was still undiscovered. 'the man was no friend of mine; i was like to have killed him when last i saw him. he was a shopkeeper in a country town in england. i had seen little enough of him; but enough to make me able to swear to him anywhere, even in a marine's uniform, and in this sweltering country.' 'faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to return upon the memory in cases of fever,' quoth the doctor, sententiously. the attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by the failure of another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful, now put in his explanation. 'maybe it was a spirit. it's not th' first time as i've heared of a spirit coming upon earth to save a man's life i' time o' need. my father had an uncle, a west-country grazier. he was a-coming over dartmoor in devonshire one moonlight night with a power o' money as he'd got for his sheep at t' fair. it were stowed i' leather bags under th' seat o' th' gig. it were a rough kind o' road, both as a road and in character, for there'd been many robberies there of late, and th' great rocks stood convenient for hiding-places. all at once father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting beside him on th' empty seat; and he turns his head and looks, and there he sees his brother sitting--his brother as had been dead twelve year and more. so he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never say a word, but wonders what it all means. all of a sudden two fellows come out upo' th' white road from some black shadow, and they looked, and they let th' gig go past, father's uncle driving hard, i'll warrant him. but for all that he heard one say to t' other, "by----, there's _two_ on 'em!" straight on he drove faster than ever, till he saw th' far lights of some town or other. i forget its name, though i've heared it many a time; and then he drew a long breath, and turned his head to look at his brother, and ask him how he'd managed to come out of his grave i' barum churchyard, and th' seat was as empty as it had been when he set out; and then he knew that it were a spirit come to help him against th' men who thought to rob him, and would likely enough ha' murdered him.' kinraid had kept quiet through this story. but when the sailor began to draw the moral, and to say, 'and i think i may make bold to say, sir, as th' marine who carried you out o' th' frenchy's gun-shot was just a spirit come to help you,' he exclaimed impatiently, swearing a great oath as he did so, 'it was no spirit, i tell you; and i was in my full senses. it was a man named philip hepburn. he said words to me, or over me, as none but himself would have said. yet we hated each other like poison; and i can't make out why he should be there and putting himself in danger to save me. but so it was; and as you can't find him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. it was him, and not my fancy, doctor. it was flesh and blood, and not a spirit, jack. so get along with you, and leave me quiet.' all this time stephen freeman lay friendless, sick, and shattered, on board the _thesus_. he had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed on her deck; a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to get the fusee out of one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that lay close at hand; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the poor marine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shockingly burnt and disfigured, the very skin of all the lower part of his face being utterly destroyed by gunpowder. they said it was a mercy that his eyes were spared; but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy, as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded by splinters, and feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itself were preserved. of all that suffered by that fearful accident (and they were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, as the philip hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being made at that very time. chapter xxxix confidences it was a little later on in that same summer that mrs. brunton came to visit her sister bessy. bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer who lived at an almost equal distance between monkshaven and hartswell; but from old habit and convenience the latter was regarded as the dawsons' market-town; so bessy seldom or never saw her old friends in monkshaven. but mrs. brunton was far too flourishing a person not to speak out her wishes, and have her own way. she had no notion, she said, of coming such a long journey only to see bessy and her husband, and not to have a sight of her former acquaintances at monkshaven. she might have added, that her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as lost if it was not displayed among those who, knowing her as molly corney, and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was, would look upon it with wondering admiration, if not with envy. so one day farmer dawson's market-cart deposited mrs. brunton in all her bravery at the shop in the market-place, over which hepburn and coulson's names still flourished in joint partnership. after a few words of brisk recognition to coulson and hester, mrs brunton passed on into the parlour and greeted sylvia with boisterous heartiness. it was now four years and more since the friends had met; and each secretly wondered how they had ever come to be friends. sylvia had a country, raw, spiritless look to mrs. brunton's eye; molly was loud and talkative, and altogether distasteful to sylvia, trained in daily companionship with hester to appreciate soft slow speech, and grave thoughtful ways. however, they kept up the forms of their old friendship, though their hearts had drifted far apart. they sat hand in hand while each looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which time had made. molly was the first to speak. 'well, to be sure! how thin and pale yo've grown, sylvia! matrimony hasn't agreed wi' yo' as well as it's done wi me. brunton is allays saying (yo' know what a man he is for his joke) that if he'd ha' known how many yards o' silk i should ha' ta'en for a gown, he'd ha' thought twice afore he'd ha' married me. why, i've gained a matter o' thirty pound o' flesh sin' i were married!' 'yo' do look brave and hearty!' said sylvia, putting her sense of her companion's capacious size and high colour into the prettiest words she could. 'eh! sylvia! but i know what it is,' said molly, shaking her head. 'it's just because o' that husband o' thine as has gone and left thee; thou's pining after him, and he's not worth it. brunton said, when he heared on it--i mind he was smoking at t' time, and he took his pipe out of his mouth, and shook out t' ashes as grave as any judge--"the man," says he, "as can desert a wife like sylvia robson as was, deserves hanging!" that's what he says! eh! sylvia, but speakin' o' hanging i was so grieved for yo' when i heared of yo'r poor feyther! such an end for a decent man to come to! many a one come an' called on me o' purpose to hear all i could tell 'em about him!' 'please don't speak on it!' said sylvia, trembling all over. 'well, poor creature, i wunnot. it is hard on thee, i grant. but to give t' devil his due, it were good i' hepburn to marry thee, and so soon after there was a' that talk about thy feyther. many a man would ha' drawn back, choose howiver far they'd gone. i'm noane so sure about charley kinraid. eh, sylvia! only think on his being alive after all. i doubt if our bessy would ha' wed frank dawson if she'd known as he wasn't drowned. but it's as well she did, for dawson's a man o' property, and has getten twelve cows in his cow-house, beside three right down good horses; and kinraid were allays a fellow wi' two strings to his bow. i've allays said and do maintain, that he went on pretty strong wi' yo', sylvie; and i will say i think he cared more for yo' than for our bessy, though it were only yesterday at e'en she were standing out that he liked her better than yo'. yo'll ha' heared on his grand marriage?' 'no!' said sylvia, with eager painful curiosity. 'no! it was in all t' papers! i wonder as yo' didn't see it. wait a minute! i cut it out o' t' _gentleman's magazine_, as brunton bought o' purpose, and put it i' my pocket-book when i were a-coming here: i know i've got it somewheere.' she took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and rummaged in the pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit of printed paper, from which she read aloud, 'on january the third, at st mary redcliffe, bristol, charles kinraid, esq., lieutenant royal navy, to miss clarinda jackson, with a fortune of 10,000_l_.' 'theere!' said she, triumphantly, 'it's something as brunton says, to be cousin to that.' 'would yo' let me see it?' said sylvia, timidly. mrs. brunton graciously consented; and sylvia brought her newly acquired reading-knowledge, hitherto principally exercised on the old testament, to bear on these words. there was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she might not have expected; and yet the surprise turned her giddy for a moment or two. she never thought of seeing him again, never. but to think of his caring for another woman as much as he had done for her, nay, perhaps more! the idea was irresistibly forced upon her that philip would not have acted so; it would have taken long years before he could have been induced to put another on the throne she had once occupied. for the first time in her life she seemed to recognize the real nature of philip's love. but she said nothing but 'thank yo',' when she gave the scrap of paper back to molly brunton. and the latter continued giving her information about kinraid's marriage. 'he were down in t' west, plymouth or somewheere, when he met wi' her. she's no feyther; he'd been in t' sugar-baking business; but from what kinraid wrote to old turner, th' uncle as brought him up at cullercoats, she's had t' best of edications: can play on t' instrument and dance t' shawl dance; and kinraid had all her money settled on her, though she said she'd rayther give it all to him, which i must say, being his cousin, was very pretty on her. he's left her now, having to go off in t' _tigre_, as is his ship, to t' mediterranean seas; and she's written to offer to come and see old turner, and make friends with his relations, and brunton is going to gi'e me a crimson satin as soon as we know for certain when she's coming, for we're sure to be asked out to cullercoats.' 'i wonder if she's very pretty?' asked sylvia, faintly, in the first pause in this torrent of talk. 'oh! she's a perfect beauty, as i understand. there was a traveller as come to our shop as had been at york, and knew some of her cousins theere that were in t' grocery line--her mother was a york lady--and they said she was just a picture of a woman, and iver so many gentlemen had been wantin' to marry her, but she just waited for charley kinraid, yo' see!' 'well, i hope they'll be happy; i'm sure i do!' said sylvia. 'that's just luck. some folks is happy i' marriage, and some isn't. it's just luck, and there's no forecasting it. men is such unaccountable animals, there's no prophesyin' upon 'em. who'd ha' thought of yo'r husband, him as was so slow and sure--steady philip, as we lasses used to ca' him--makin' a moonlight flittin', and leavin' yo' to be a widow bewitched?' 'he didn't go at night,' said sylvia, taking the words 'moonlight flitting' in their literal sense. 'no! well, i only said "moonlight flittin'" just because it come uppermost and i knowed no better. tell me all about it, sylvie, for i can't mak' it out from what bessy says. had he and yo' had words?--but in course yo' had.' at this moment hester came into the room; and sylvia joyfully availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the conversation that had reached this painful and awkward point. she detained hester in the room for fear lest mrs. brunton should repeat her inquiry as to how it all happened that philip had gone away; but the presence of a third person seemed as though it would be but little restraint upon the inquisitive molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same questions till she nearly drove sylvia distracted, between her astonishment at the news of kinraid's marriage; her wish to be alone and quiet, so as to realize the full meaning of that piece of intelligence; her desire to retain hester in the conversation; her efforts to prevent molly's recurrence to the circumstances of philip's disappearance, and the longing--more vehement every minute--for her visitor to go away and leave her in peace. she became so disturbed with all these thoughts and feelings that she hardly knew what she was saying, and assented or dissented to speeches without there being either any reason or truth in her words. mrs. brunton had arranged to remain with sylvia while the horse rested, and had no compunction about the length of her visit. she expected to be asked to tea, as sylvia found out at last, and this she felt would be the worst of all, as alice rose was not one to tolerate the coarse, careless talk of such a woman as mrs. brunton without uplifting her voice in many a testimony against it. sylvia sate holding hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving the room, and trying to arrange her little plans so that too much discordance should not arise to the surface. just then the door opened, and little bella came in from the kitchen in all the pretty, sturdy dignity of two years old, alice following her with careful steps, and protecting, outstretched arms, a slow smile softening the sternness of her grave face; for the child was the unconscious darling of the household, and all eyes softened into love as they looked on her. she made straight for her mother with something grasped in her little dimpled fist; but half-way across the room she seemed to have become suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, and she stopped short, fixing her serious eyes full on mrs. brunton, as if to take in her appearance, nay, as if to penetrate down into her very real self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about her mother's lips for an hour past. 'do away!' said bella, decisively. 'what a perfect love!' said mrs. brunton, half in real admiration, half in patronage. as she spoke, she got up and went towards the child, as if to take her up. 'do away! do away!' cried bella, in shrill affright at this movement. 'dunnot,' said sylvia; 'she's shy; she doesn't know strangers.' but mrs. brunton had grasped the struggling, kicking child by this time, and her reward for this was a vehement little slap in the face. 'yo' naughty little spoilt thing!' said she, setting bella down in a hurry. 'yo' deserve a good whipping, yo' do, and if yo' were mine yo' should have it.' sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run to her arms, and was soothing herself with sobbing on her mother's breast; for alice took up the defence. 'the child said, as plain as words could say, "go away," and if thou wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding her wish, thou mun put up with the wilfulness of the old adam, of which it seems to me thee hast getten thy share at thirty as well as little bella at two.' 'thirty!' said mrs. brunton, now fairly affronted. 'thirty! why, sylvia, yo' know i'm but two years older than yo'; speak to that woman an' tell her as i'm only four-and-twenty. thirty, indeed!' 'molly's but four-and-twenty,' said sylvia, in a pacificatory tone. 'whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is alike to me,' said alice. 'i meant no harm. i meant but for t' say as her angry words to the child bespoke her to be one of the foolish. i know not who she is, nor what her age may be.' 'she's an old friend of mine,' said sylvia. 'she's mrs. brunton now, but when i knowed her she was molly corney.' 'ay! and yo' were sylvia robson, and as bonny and light-hearted a lass as any in a' t' riding, though now yo're a poor widow bewitched, left wi' a child as i mustn't speak a word about, an' living wi' folk as talk about t' old adam as if he wasn't dead and done wi' long ago! it's a change, sylvia, as makes my heart ache for yo', to think on them old days when yo' were so thought on yo' might have had any man, as brunton often says; it were a great mistake as yo' iver took up wi' yon man as has run away. but seven year '11 soon be past fro' t' time he went off, and yo'll only be six-and-twenty then; and there'll be a chance of a better husband for yo' after all, so keep up yo'r heart, sylvia.' molly brunton had put as much venom as she knew how into this speech, meaning it as a vengeful payment for the supposition of her being thirty, even more than for the reproof for her angry words about the child. she thought that alice rose must be either mother or aunt to philip, from the serious cast of countenance that was remarkable in both; and she rather exulted in the allusion to a happier second marriage for sylvia, with which she had concluded her speech. it roused alice, however, as effectually as if she had been really a blood relation to philip; but for a different reason. she was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to herself in what had been said; she was indignant at sylvia for suffering the words spoken to pass unanswered; but in truth they were too much in keeping with molly brunton's character to make as much impression on sylvia as they did on a stranger; and besides, she felt as if the less reply molly received, the less likely would it be that she would go on in the same strain. so she coaxed and chattered to her child and behaved like a little coward in trying to draw out of the conversation, while at the same time listening attentively. 'as for sylvia hepburn as was sylvia robson, she knows my mind,' said alice, in grim indignation. 'she's humbling herself now, i trust and pray, but she was light-minded and full of vanity when philip married her, and it might ha' been a lift towards her salvation in one way; but it pleased the lord to work in a different way, and she mun wear her sackcloth and ashes in patience. so i'll say naught more about her. but for him as is absent, as thee hast spoken on so lightly and reproachfully, i'd have thee to know he were one of a different kind to any thee ever knew, i reckon. if he were led away by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for him, and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it's him as is suffering for it, inasmuch as he's a wanderer from his home, and an outcast from wife and child.' to the surprise of all, molly's words of reply were cut short even when they were on her lips, by sylvia. pale, fire-eyed, and excited, with philip's child on one arm, and the other stretched out, she said,-'noane can tell--noane know. no one shall speak a judgment 'twixt philip and me. he acted cruel and wrong by me. but i've said my words to him hissel', and i'm noane going to make any plaint to others; only them as knows should judge. and it's not fitting, it's not' (almost sobbing), 'to go on wi' talk like this afore me.' the two--for hester, who was aware that her presence had only been desired by sylvia as a check to an unpleasant _tete-a-tete_ conversation, had slipped back to her business as soon as her mother came in--the two looked with surprise at sylvia; her words, her whole manner, belonged to a phase of her character which seldom came uppermost, and which had not been perceived by either of them before. alice rose, though astonished, rather approved of sylvia's speech; it showed that she had more serious thought and feeling on the subject than the old woman had given her credit for; her general silence respecting her husband's disappearance had led alice to think that she was too childish to have received any deep impression from the event. molly brunton gave vent to her opinion on sylvia's speech in the following words:-'hoighty-toighty! that tells tales, lass. if yo' treated steady philip to many such looks an' speeches as yo'n given us now, it's easy t' see why he took hisself off. why, sylvia, i niver saw it in yo' when yo' was a girl; yo're grown into a regular little vixen, theere wheere yo' stand!' indeed she did look defiant, with the swift colour flushing her cheeks to crimson on its return, and the fire in her eyes not yet died away. but at molly's jesting words she sank back into her usual look and manner, only saying quietly,-'it's for noane to say whether i'm vixen or not, as doesn't know th' past things as is buried in my heart. but i cannot hold them as my friends as go on talking on either my husband or me before my very face. what he was, i know; and what i am, i reckon he knows. and now i'll go hurry tea, for yo'll be needing it, molly!' the last clause of this speech was meant to make peace; but molly was in twenty minds as to whether she should accept the olive-branch or not. her temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which is not easily ruffled; her mind, stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement from without; and her appetite was invariably good, so she stayed, in spite of the inevitable _tete-a-tete_ with alice. the latter, however, refused to be drawn into conversation again; replying to mrs. brunton's speeches with a curt yes or no, when, indeed, she replied at all. when all were gathered at tea, sylvia was quite calm again; rather paler than usual, and very attentive and subduced in her behaviour to alice; she would evidently fain have been silent, but as molly was her own especial guest, that could not be, so all her endeavours went towards steering the conversation away from any awkward points. but each of the four, let alone little bella, was thankful when the market-cart drew up at the shop door, that was to take mrs. brunton back to her sister's house. when she was fairly off, alice rose opened her mouth in strong condemnation; winding up with-'and if aught in my words gave thee cause for offence, sylvia, it was because my heart rose within me at the kind of talk thee and she had been having about philip; and her evil and light-minded counsel to thee about waiting seven years, and then wedding another.' hard as these words may seem when repeated, there was something of a nearer approach to an apology in mrs. rose's manner than sylvia had ever seen in it before. she was silent for a few moments, then she said,-'i ha' often thought of telling yo' and hester, special-like, when yo've been so kind to my little bella, that philip an' me could niver come together again; no, not if he came home this very night----' she would have gone on speaking, but hester interrupted her with a low cry of dismay. alice said,-'hush thee, hester. it's no business o' thine. sylvia hepburn, thou'rt speaking like a silly child.' 'no. i'm speaking like a woman; like a woman as finds out she's been cheated by men as she trusted, and as has no help for it. i'm noane going to say any more about it. it's me as has been wronged, and as has to bear it: only i thought i'd tell yo' both this much, that yo' might know somewhat why he went away, and how i said my last word about it.' so indeed it seemed. to all questions and remonstrances from alice, sylvia turned a deaf ear. she averted her face from hester's sad, wistful looks; only when they were parting for the night, at the top of the little staircase, she turned, and putting her arms round hester's neck she laid her head on her neck, and whispered,-'poor hester--poor, poor hester! if yo' an' he had but been married together, what a deal o' sorrow would ha' been spared to us all!' hester pushed her away as she finished these words; looked searchingly into her face, her eyes, and then followed sylvia into her room, where bella lay sleeping, shut the door, and almost knelt down at sylvia's feet, clasping her, and hiding her face in the folds of the other's gown. 'sylvia, sylvia,' she murmured, 'some one has told you--i thought no one knew--it's no sin--it's done away with now--indeed it is--it was long ago--before yo' were married; but i cannot forget. it was a shame, perhaps, to have thought on it iver, when he niver thought o' me; but i niver believed as any one could ha' found it out. i'm just fit to sink into t' ground, what wi' my sorrow and my shame.' hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, immediately she was in sylvia's arms. sylvia was sitting on the ground holding her, and soothing her with caresses and broken words. 'i'm allays saying t' wrong things,' said she. 'it seems as if i were all upset to-day; and indeed i am;' she added, alluding to the news of kinraid's marriage she had yet to think upon. 'but it wasn't yo', hester: it were nothing yo' iver said, or did, or looked, for that matter. it were yo'r mother as let it out.' 'oh, mother! mother!' wailed out hester; 'i niver thought as any one but god would ha' known that i had iver for a day thought on his being more to me than a brother.' sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking hester's smooth brown hair, off which her cap had fallen. sylvia was thinking how strange life was, and how love seemed to go all at cross purposes; and was losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of the world; she was almost startled when hester rose up, and taking sylvia's hands in both of hers, and looking solemnly at her, said,-'sylvia, yo' know what has been my trouble and my shame, and i'm sure yo're sorry for me--for i will humble myself to yo', and own that for many months before yo' were married, i felt my disappointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day and by night; but now i ask yo', if yo've any pity for me for what i went through, or if yo've any love for me because of yo'r dead mother's love for me, or because of any fellowship, or daily breadliness between us two,--put the hard thoughts of philip away from out yo'r heart; he may ha' done yo' wrong, anyway yo' think that he has; i niver knew him aught but kind and good; but if he comes back from wheriver in th' wide world he's gone to (and there's not a night but i pray god to keep him, and send him safe back), yo' put away the memory of past injury, and forgive it all, and be, what yo' can be, sylvia, if you've a mind to, just the kind, good wife he ought to have.' 'i cannot; yo' know nothing about it, hester.' 'tell me, then,' pleaded hester. 'no!' said sylvia, after a moment's hesitation; 'i'd do a deal for yo', i would, but i daren't forgive philip, even if i could; i took a great oath again' him. ay, yo' may look shocked at me, but it's him as yo' ought for to be shocked at if yo' knew all. i said i'd niver forgive him; i shall keep to my word.' 'i think i'd better pray for his death, then,' said hester, hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her hold of sylvia's hands. 'if it weren't for baby theere, i could think as it were my death as 'ud be best. them as one thinks t' most on, forgets one soonest.' it was kinraid to whom she was alluding; but hester did not understand her; and after standing for a moment in silence, she kissed her, and left her for the night. chapter xl an unexpected messenger after this agitation, and these partial confidences, no more was said on the subject of philip for many weeks. they avoided even the slightest allusion to him; and none of them knew how seldom or how often he might be present in the minds of the others. one day the little bella was unusually fractious with some slight childish indisposition, and sylvia was obliged to have recourse to a never-failing piece of amusement; namely, to take the child into the shop, when the number of new, bright-coloured articles was sure to beguile the little girl out of her fretfulness. she was walking along the high terrace of the counter, kept steady by her mother's hand, when mr. dawson's market-cart once more stopped before the door. but it was not mrs. brunton who alighted now; it was a very smartly-dressed, very pretty young lady, who put one dainty foot before the other with care, as if descending from such a primitive vehicle were a new occurrence in her life. then she looked up at the names above the shop-door, and after ascertaining that this was indeed the place she desired to find, she came in blushing. 'is mrs. hepburn at home?' she asked of hester, whose position in the shop brought her forwards to receive the customers, while sylvia drew bella out of sight behind some great bales of red flannel. 'can i see her?' the sweet, south-country voice went on, still addressing hester. sylvia heard the inquiry, and came forwards, with a little rustic awkwardness, feeling both shy and curious. 'will yo' please walk this way, ma'am?' said she, leading her visitor back into her own dominion of the parlour, and leaving bella to hester's willing care. 'you don't know me!' said the pretty young lady, joyously. 'but i think you knew my husband. i am mrs. kinraid!' a sob of surprise rose to sylvia's lips--she choked it down, however, and tried to conceal any emotion she might feel, in placing a chair for her visitor, and trying to make her feel welcome, although, if the truth must be told, sylvia was wondering all the time why her visitor came, and how soon she would go. 'you knew captain kinraid, did you not?' said the young lady, with innocent inquiry; to which sylvia's lips formed the answer, 'yes,' but no clear sound issued therefrom. 'but i know your husband knew the captain; is he at home yet? can i speak to him? i do so want to see him.' sylvia was utterly bewildered; mrs. kinraid, this pretty, joyous, prosperous little bird of a woman, philip, charley's wife, what could they have in common? what could they know of each other? all she could say in answer to mrs. kinraid's eager questions, and still more eager looks, was, that her husband was from home, had been long from home: she did not know where he was, she did not know when he would come back. mrs. kinraid's face fell a little, partly from her own real disappointment, partly out of sympathy with the hopeless, indifferent tone of sylvia's replies. 'mrs. dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly a year ago, but i thought he might be come home by now. i am expecting the captain early next month. oh! how i should have liked to see mr. hepburn, and to thank him for saving the captain's life!' 'what do yo' mean?' asked sylvia, stirred out of all assumed indifference. 'the captain! is that' (not 'charley', she could not use that familiar name to the pretty young wife before her) 'yo'r husband?' 'yes, you knew him, didn't you? when he used to be staying with mr corney, his uncle?' 'yes, i knew him; but i don't understand. will yo' please to tell me all about it, ma'am?' said sylvia, faintly. 'i thought your husband would have told you all about it; i hardly know where to begin. you know my husband is a sailor?' sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart beating thick all the time. 'and he's now a commander in the royal navy, all earned by his own bravery! oh! i am so proud of him!' so could sylvia have been if she had been his wife; as it was, she thought how often she had felt sure that he would be a great man some day. 'and he has been at the siege of acre.' sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, and mrs. kinraid caught the look. 'st jean d'acre, you know--though it's fine saying "you know", when i didn't know a bit about it myself till the captain's ship was ordered there, though i was the head girl at miss dobbin's in the geography class--acre is a seaport town, not far from jaffa, which is the modern name for joppa, where st paul went to long ago; you've read of that, i'm sure, and mount carmel, where the prophet elijah was once, all in palestine, you know, only the turks have got it now?' 'but i don't understand yet,' said sylvia, plaintively; 'i daresay it's all very true about st paul, but please, ma'am, will yo' tell me about yo'r husband and mine--have they met again?' 'yes, at acre, i tell you,' said mrs. kinraid, with pretty petulance. 'the turks held the town, and the french wanted to take it; and we, that is the british fleet, wouldn't let them. so sir sidney smith, a commodore and a great friend of the captain's, landed in order to fight the french; and the captain and many of the sailors landed with him; and it was burning hot; and the poor captain was wounded, and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within the enemy's--that is the french--fire; so that they were ready to shoot any one of his own side who came near him. they thought he was dead himself, you see, as he was very near; and would have been too, if your husband had not come out of shelter, and taken him up in his arms or on his back (i couldn't make out which), and carried him safe within the walls.' 'it couldn't have been philip,' said sylvia, dubiously. 'but it was. the captain says so; and he's not a man to be mistaken. i thought i'd got his letter with me; and i would have read you a part of it, but i left it at mrs. dawson's in my desk; and i can't send it to you,' blushing as she remembered certain passages in which 'the captain' wrote very much like a lover, 'or else i would. but you may be quite sure it was your husband that ventured into all that danger to save his old friend's life, or the captain would not have said so.' 'but they weren't--they weren't--not to call great friends.' 'i wish i'd got the letter here; i can't think how i could be so stupid; i think i can almost remember the very words, though--i've read them over so often. he says, "just as i gave up all hope, i saw one philip hepburn, a man whom i had known at monkshaven, and whom i had some reason to remember well"--(i'm sure he says so--"remember well"), "he saw me too, and came at the risk of his life to where i lay. i fully expected he would be shot down; and i shut my eyes not to see the end of my last chance. the shot rained about him, and i think he was hit; but he took me up and carried me under cover." i'm sure he says that, i've read it over so often; and he goes on and says how he hunted for mr. hepburn all through the ships, as soon as ever he could; but he could hear nothing of him, either alive or dead. don't go so white, for pity's sake!' said she, suddenly startled by sylvia's blanching colour. 'you see, because he couldn't find him alive is no reason for giving him up as dead; because his name wasn't to be found on any of the ships' books; so the captain thinks he must have been known by a different name to his real one. only he says he should like to have seen him to have thanked him; and he says he would give a deal to know what has become of him; and as i was staying two days at mrs. dawson's, i told them i must come over to monkshaven, if only for five minutes, just to hear if your good husband was come home, and to shake his hands, that helped to save my own dear captain.' 'i don't think it could have been philip,' reiterated sylvia. 'why not?' asked her visitor; 'you say you don't know where he is; why mightn't he have been there where the captain says he was?' 'but he wasn't a sailor, nor yet a soldier.' 'oh! but he was. i think somewhere the captain calls him a marine; that's neither one nor the other, but a little of both. he'll be coming home some day soon; and then you'll see!' alice rose came in at this minute, and mrs. kinraid jumped to the conclusion that she was sylvia's mother, and in her overflowing gratitude and friendliness to all the family of him who had 'saved the captain' she went forward, and shook the old woman's hand in that pleasant confiding way that wins all hearts. 'here's your daughter, ma'am!' said she to the half-astonished, half-pleased alice. 'i'm mrs. kinraid, the wife of the captain that used to be in these parts, and i'm come to bring her news of her husband, and she don't half believe me, though it's all to his credit, i'm sure.' alice looked so perplexed that sylvia felt herself bound to explain. 'she says he's either a soldier or a sailor, and a long way off at some place named in t' bible.' 'philip hepburn led away to be a soldier!' said she, 'who had once been a quaker?' 'yes, and a very brave one too, and one that it would do my heart good to look upon,' exclaimed mrs. kinraid. 'he's been saving my husband's life in the holy land, where jerusalem is, you know.' 'nay!' said alice, a little scornfully. 'i can forgive sylvia for not being over keen to credit thy news. her man of peace becoming a man of war; and suffered to enter jerusalem, which is a heavenly and a typical city at this time; while me, as is one of the elect, is obliged to go on dwelling in monkshaven, just like any other body.' 'nay, but,' said mrs. kinraid, gently, seeing she was touching on delicate ground, 'i did not say he had gone to jerusalem, but my husband saw him in those parts, and he was doing his duty like a brave, good man; ay, and more than his duty; and, you may take my word for it, he'll be at home some day soon, and all i beg is that you'll let the captain and me know, for i'm sure if we can, we'll both come and pay our respects to him. and i'm very glad i've seen you,' said she, rising to go, and putting out her hand to shake that of sylvia; 'for, besides being hepburn's wife, i'm pretty sure i've heard the captain speak of you; and if ever you come to bristol i hope you'll come and see us on clifton downs.' she went away, leaving sylvia almost stunned by the new ideas presented to her. philip a soldier! philip in a battle, risking his life. most strange of all, charley and philip once more meeting together, not as rivals or as foes, but as saviour and saved! add to all this the conviction, strengthened by every word that happy, loving wife had uttered, that kinraid's old, passionate love for herself had faded away and vanished utterly: its very existence apparently blotted out of his memory. she had torn up her love for him by the roots, but she felt as if she could never forget that it had been. hester brought back bella to her mother. she had not liked to interrupt the conversation with the strange lady before; and now she found her mother in an obvious state of excitement; sylvia quieter than usual. 'that was kinraid's wife, hester! him that was th' specksioneer as made such a noise about t' place at the time of darley's death. he's now a captain--a navy captain, according to what she says. and she'd fain have us believe that philip is abiding in all manner of scripture places; places as has been long done away with, but the similitude whereof is in the heavens, where the elect shall one day see them. and she says philip is there, and a soldier, and that he saved her husband's life, and is coming home soon. i wonder what john and jeremiah 'll say to his soldiering then? it'll noane be to their taste, i'm thinking.' this was all very unintelligible to hester, and she would dearly have liked to question sylvia; but sylvia sate a little apart, with bella on her knee, her cheek resting on her child's golden curls, and her eyes fixed and almost trance-like, as if she were seeing things not present. so hester had to be content with asking her mother as many elucidatory questions as she could; and after all did not gain a very clear idea of what had really been said by mrs. kinraid, as her mother was more full of the apparent injustice of philip's being allowed the privilege of treading on holy ground--if, indeed, that holy ground existed on this side heaven, which she was inclined to dispute--than to confine herself to the repetition of words, or narration of facts. suddenly sylvia roused herself to a sense of hester's deep interest and balked inquiries, and she went over the ground rapidly. 'yo'r mother says right--she is his wife. and he's away fighting; and got too near t' french as was shooting and firing all round him; and just then, according to her story, philip saw him, and went straight into t' midst o' t' shots, and fetched him out o' danger. that's what she says, and upholds.' 'and why should it not be?' asked hester, her cheek flushing. but sylvia only shook her head, and said, 'i cannot tell. it may be so. but they'd little cause to be friends, and it seems all so strange--philip a soldier, and them meeting theere after all!' hester laid the story of philip's bravery to her heart--she fully believed in it. sylvia pondered it more deeply still; the causes for her disbelief, or, at any rate, for her wonder, were unknown to hester! many a time she sank to sleep with the picture of the event narrated by mrs. kinraid as present to her mind as her imagination or experience could make it: first one figure prominent, then another. many a morning she wakened up, her heart beating wildly, why, she knew not, till she shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes that had passed in her dreams: scenes that might be acted in reality that very day; for philip might come back, and then? and where was philip all this time, these many weeks, these heavily passing months? chapter xli the bedesman of st sepulchre philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. if his heart had been light, he might have rallied sooner; but he was so depressed he did not care to live. his shattered jaw-bone, his burnt and blackened face, his many injuries of body, were torture to both his physical frame, and his sick, weary heart. no more chance for him, if indeed there ever had been any, of returning gay and gallant, and thus regaining his wife's love. this had been his poor, foolish vision in the first hour of his enlistment; and the vain dream had recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement which the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit had called forth. but that was all over now. he knew that it was the most unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass; and yet those were happy days when he could think of it as barely possible. now all he could look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and the bare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want. those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion, and attended to his bodily requirements; but they had no notion of listening to any revelations of unhappiness, if philip had been the man to make confidences of that kind. as it was, he lay very still in his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always saying he was better, when the ship-surgeon came round with his daily inquiries. but he did not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view, that he was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount of attention. perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all. the doctors said it was the heat that made him languid, for that his wounds and burns were all doing well at last; and by-and-by they told him they had ordered him 'home'. his pulse sank under the surgeon's finger at the mention of the word; but he did not say a word. he was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will; otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longer where he was. slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served; resting here and there in garrison hospitals, philip at length reached portsmouth on the evening of a september day in 1799. the transport-ship in which he was, was loaded with wounded and invalided soldiers and sailors; all who could manage it in any way struggled on deck to catch the first view of the white coasts of england. one man lifted his arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, 'old england for ever!' in a faint shrill voice, and then burst into tears and sobbed aloud. others tried to pipe up 'rule britannia', while more sate, weak and motionless, looking towards the shores that once, not so long ago, they never thought to see again. philip was one of these; his place a little apart from the other men. he was muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him by one of his officers; he felt the september breeze chill after his sojourn in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. as the ship came in sight of portsmouth harbour, the signal flags ran up the ropes; the beloved union jack floated triumphantly over all. return signals were made from the harbour; on board all became bustle and preparation for landing; while on shore there was the evident movement of expectation, and men in uniform were seen pressing their way to the front, as if to them belonged the right of reception. they were the men from the barrack hospital, that had been signalled for, come down with ambulance litters and other marks of forethought for the sick and wounded, who were returning to the country for which they had fought and suffered. with a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel came up to her appointed place, and was safely moored. philip sat still, almost as if he had no part in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, the loud directions that cut the air around him, and pierced his nerves through and through. but one in authority gave the order; and philip, disciplined to obedience, rose to find his knapsack and leave the ship. passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings for particular comrades; there was one especially, a man as different from philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always attached himself; a merry fellow from somersetshire, who was almost always cheerful and bright, though philip had overheard the doctors say he would never be the man he was before he had that shot through the side. this marine would often sit making his fellows laugh, and laughing himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible a fit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die in the paroxysm. after one of these fits he had gasped out some words, which led philip to question him a little; and it turned out that in the quiet little village of potterne, far inland, nestled beneath the high stretches of salisbury plain, he had a wife and a child, a little girl, just the same age even to a week as philip's own little bella. it was this that drew philip towards the man; and this that made philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptive marine. the litters had moved off towards the hospital, the sergeant in charge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids, who tried to obey them to the best of their power, falling into something like military order for their march; but soon, very soon, the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and felt as if the rough welcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were almost too much for them. philip and his companion were about midway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced herself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressing on either side, and threw herself on the neck of philip's friend. 'oh, jem!' she sobbed, 'i've walked all the road from potterne. i've never stopped but for food and rest for nelly, and now i've got you once again, i've got you once again, bless god for it!' she did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her husband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she had got him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her; she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she be repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while her little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces, and clinging to her mammy's gown. jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; and philip bitterly envied him--envied his life, envied his approaching death; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, and is not such love stronger than death? philip had felt as if his own heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold heavy stone. but at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him. the road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measure by the guard of soldiers. all sorts of kindly speeches, and many a curious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked along. philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandaged up; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, and shivered within its folds. they came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner of a street. down the causeway of this street a naval officer with a lady on his arm was walking briskly, with a step that told of health and a light heart. he stayed his progress though, when he saw the convoy of maimed and wounded men; he said something, of which philip only caught the words, 'same uniform,' 'for his sake,' to the young lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes kindled. then leaving her for an instant, he pressed forward; he was close to philip,--poor sad philip absorbed in his own thoughts,--so absorbed that he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having the northumbrian burr, the newcastle inflections which he knew of old, and that were to him like the sick memory of a deadly illness; and then he turned his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well enough who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of the handsome, happy man,--the man whose life he had saved once, and would save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for all that, he prayed that he might never meet more on earth. 'here, my fine fellow, take this,' forcing a crown piece into philip's hand. 'i wish it were more; i'd give you a pound if i had it with me.' philip muttered something, and held out the coin to captain kinraid, of course in vain; nor was there time to urge it back upon the giver, for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed, the crowd pressed upon the captain and his wife, the procession moved on, and philip along with it, holding the piece in his hand, and longing to throw it far away. indeed he was on the point of dropping it, hoping to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving it to jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily along by her husband's side. they thanked him, and spoke in his praise more than he could well bear. it was no credit to him to give that away which burned his fingers as long as he kept it. philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion on board the _theseus_ would oblige him to leave the service. he also believed that they would entitle him to a pension. but he had little interest in his future life; he was without hope, and in a depressed state of health. he remained for some little time stationary, and then went through all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds received in service, and was turned out loose upon the world, uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what became of him. it was fine, warm october weather as he turned his back upon the coast, and set off on his walk northwards. green leaves were yet upon the trees; the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wild rough-flavoured fruits of different kinds; the fields were tawny with the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald green with the growth of the aftermath. the roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks and michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of the windows glittered through a veil of china roses. the war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, soldiers and sailors were heroes everywhere. philip's long drooping form, his arm hung in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his jaw bound up with a black silk handkerchief; these marks of active service were reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had been crowns and sceptres. many a hard-handed labourer left his seat by the chimney corner, and came to his door to have a look at one who had been fighting the french, and pushed forward to have a grasp of the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the good wife's keeping, for the kind homely women were ever ready with milk or homebrewed to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when he stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water. at the village public-house he had had a welcome of a more interested character, for the landlord knew full well that his circle of customers would be large that night, if it was only known that he had within his doors a soldier or a sailor who had seen service. the rustic politicians would gather round philip, and smoke and drink, and then question and discuss till they were drouthy again; and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extra glass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism. altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to philip just now; and not before he needed the warmth of brotherly kindness to cheer his shivering soul. day after day he drifted northwards, making but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this short daily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest--for the morning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of an hour or two he must be up and away. he was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that he was drawing near a stately city, with a great old cathedral in the centre keeping solemn guard. this place might be yet two or three miles distant; he was on a rising ground looking down upon it. a labouring man passing by, observed his pallid looks and his languid attitude, and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down a lane to the left a few steps farther on, he would find himself at the hospital of st sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to all comers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile on the old stone benches within the shadow of the gateway. obeying these directions, philip came upon a building which dated from the time of henry the fifth. some knight who had fought in the french wars of that time, and had survived his battles and come home to his old halls, had been stirred up by his conscience, or by what was equivalent in those days, his confessor, to build and endow a hospital for twelve decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were to attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of all time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century, pretty well for an eternity bespoken by a man), for his soul and the souls of those whom he had slain. there was a large division of the quadrangular building set apart for the priest who was to say these masses; and to watch over the well-being of the bedesmen. in process of years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been forgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries; and the place itself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set of almshouses; and the warden's office (he who should have said or sung his daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily prayers and preached a sermon on sundays) an agreeable sinecure. another legacy of old sir simon bray was that of a small croft of land, the rent or profits of which were to go towards giving to all who asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. this beer was, so sir simon ordained, to be made after a certain receipt which he left, in which ground ivy took the place of hops. but the receipt, as well as the masses, was modernized according to the progress of time. philip stood under a great broad stone archway; the back-door into the warden's house was on the right side; a kind of buttery-hatch was placed by the porter's door on the opposite side. after some consideration, philip knocked at the closed shutter, and the signal seemed to be well understood. he heard a movement within; the hatch was drawn aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by a pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all disinclined for conversation. 'you may sit down on yonder bench,' said he. 'nay, man! sit i' the sun, for it's a chilly place, this, and then you can look through the grate and watch th' old fellows toddling about in th' quad.' philip sat down where the warm october sun slanted upon him, and looked through the iron railing at the peaceful sight. a great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with broad flag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all round the quadrangle; low two-storied brick houses, tinted gray and yellow by age, and in many places almost covered with vines, virginian creepers, and monthly roses; before each house a little plot of garden ground, bright with flowers, and evidently tended with the utmost care; on the farther side the massive chapel; here and there an old or infirm man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit of gardening, or talking to one of his comrades--the place looked as if care and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and excluded by the ponderous gate through which philip was gazing. 'it's a nice enough place, bean't it?' said the porter, interpreting philip's looks pretty accurately. 'leastways, for them as likes it. i've got a bit weary on it myself; it's so far from th' world, as a man may say; not a decent public within a mile and a half, where one can hear a bit o' news of an evening.' 'i think i could make myself very content here,' replied philip. 'that's to say, if one were easy in one's mind.' 'ay, ay, my man. that's it everywhere. why, i don't think that i could enjoy myself--not even at th' white hart, where they give you as good a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere i' th' four kingdoms--i couldn't, to say, flavour my ale even there, if my old woman lay a-dying; which is a sign as it's the heart, and not the ale, as makes the drink.' just then the warden's back-door opened, and out came the warden himself, dressed in full clerical costume. he was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped to speak to philip, the wounded soldier; and all the more readily because his old faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he had belonged to the marines. 'i hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the founder of st sepulchre,' said he, kindly. 'you look but poorly, my good fellow, and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down.' 'thank you, sir!' said philip. 'i'm not hungry, only weary, and glad of a draught of beer.' 'you've been in the marines, i see. where have you been serving?' 'i was at the siege of acre, last may, sir.' 'at acre! were you, indeed? then perhaps you know my boy harry? he was in the----th.' 'it was my company,' said philip, warming up a little. looking back upon his soldier's life, it seemed to him to have many charms, because it was so full of small daily interests. 'then, did you know my son, lieutenant pennington?' 'it was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were sending me back to england. i had been his servant for a short time before i was wounded by the explosion on board the _theseus_, and he said i should feel the cold of the voyage. he's very kind; and i've heard say he promises to be a first-rate officer.' 'you shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,' said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'i recognize the cloak now--the young scamp! how soon he has made it shabby, though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immense tear not too well botched up. 'and so you were on board the _theseus_ at the time of the explosion? bring some cold meat here for the good man--or stay! come in with me, and then you can tell mrs. pennington and the young ladies all you know about harry,--and the siege,--and the explosion.' so philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roast beef almost against his will; and he was questioned and cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as it seemed to him. he had given all possible details on the subjects about which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how he could best make his retreat, when the younger miss pennington went up to her father--who had all this time stood, with his hat on, holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. he bent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion of his daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioning philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich do question the poor. 'and where are you going to now?' philip did not answer directly. he wondered in his own mind where he was going. at length he said, 'northwards, i believe. but perhaps i shall never reach there.' 'haven't you friends? aren't you going to them?' there was again a pause; a cloud came over philip's countenance. he said, 'no! i'm not going to my friends. i don't know that i've got any left.' they interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had either lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting. the warden went on, 'i ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. old dobson, who was with general wolfe at the taking of quebec, died a fortnight ago. with such injuries as yours, i fear you'll never be able to work again. but we require strict testimonials as to character,' he added, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at philip. philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or the illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory. he was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care very much what became of him. the warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider a settlement at st sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-out soldier, were a little annoyed at philip's cool way of receiving the proposition. the warden went on to name the contingent advantages. 'besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing on all saints', on christmas, and on candlemas days--a blue gown and suit of clothes to match every michaelmas, and a shilling a day to keep yourself in all other things. your dinner you would have with the other men, in hall.' 'the warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees that everything is comfortable, and says grace,' added the warden's lady. 'i know i seem stupid,' said philip, almost humbly, 'not to be more grateful, for it's far beyond what i iver expected or thought for again, and it's a great temptation, for i'm just worn out with fatigue. several times i've thought i must lie down under a hedge, and just die for very weariness. but once i had a wife and a child up in the north,' he stopped. 'and are they dead?' asked one of the young ladies in a soft sympathizing tone. her eyes met philip's, full of dumb woe. he tried to speak; he wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal the truth. 'well!' said the warden, thinking he perceived the real state of things, 'what i propose is this. you shall go into old dobson's house at once, as a kind of probationary bedesman. i'll write to harry, and get your character from him. stephen freeman i think you said your name was? before i can receive his reply you'll have been able to tell how you'd like the kind of life; and at any rate you'll have the rest you seem to require in the meantime. you see, i take harry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character,' added he, smiling kindly. 'of course you'll have to conform to rules just like all the rest,--chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights out at nine; but i'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walk across quad to your new quarters.' and thus philip, almost in spite of himself, became installed in a bedesman's house at st sepulchre. chapter xlii a fable at fault philip took possession of the two rooms which had belonged to the dead sergeant dobson. they were furnished sufficiently for every comfort by the trustees of the hospital. some little fragments of ornament, some small articles picked up in distant countries, a few tattered books, remained in the rooms as legacies from their former occupant. at first the repose of the life and the place was inexpressibly grateful to philip. he had always shrunk from encountering strangers, and displaying his blackened and scarred countenance to them, even where such disfigurement was most regarded as a mark of honour. in st sepulchre's he met none but the same set day after day, and when he had once told the tale of how it happened and submitted to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. the slight employment his garden gave him--there was a kitchen-garden behind each house, as well as the flower-plot in front--and the daily arrangement of his parlour and chamber were, at the beginning of his time of occupation, as much bodily labour as he could manage. there was something stately and utterly removed from all philip's previous existence in the forms observed at every day's dinner, when the twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall, and the warden came in his college-cap and gown to say the long latin grace which wound up with something very like a prayer for the soul of sir simon bray. it took some time to get a reply to ship letters in those times when no one could exactly say where the fleet might be found. and before dr pennington had received the excellent character of stephen freeman, which his son gladly sent in answer to his father's inquiries, philip had become restless and uneasy in the midst of all this peace and comfort. sitting alone over his fire in the long winter evenings, the scenes of his past life rose before him; his childhood; his aunt robson's care of him; his first going to foster's shop in monkshaven; haytersbank farm, and the spelling lessons in the bright warm kitchen there; kinraid's appearance; the miserable night of the corneys' party; the farewell he had witnessed on monkshaven sands; the press-gang, and all the long consequences of that act of concealment; poor daniel robson's trial and execution; his own marriage; his child's birth; and then he came to that last day at monkshaven: and he went over and over again the torturing details, the looks of contempt and anger, the words of loathing indignation, till he almost brought himself, out of his extreme sympathy with sylvia, to believe that he was indeed the wretch she had considered him to be. he forgot his own excuses for having acted as he had done; though these excuses had at one time seemed to him to wear the garb of reasons. after long thought and bitter memory came some wonder. what was sylvia doing now? where was she? what was his child like--his child as well as hers? and then he remembered the poor footsore wife and the little girl she carried in her arms, that was just the age of bella; he wished he had noticed that child more, that a clear vision of it might rise up when he wanted to picture bella. one night he had gone round this mill-wheel circle of ideas till he was weary to the very marrow of his bones. to shake off the monotonous impression he rose to look for a book amongst the old tattered volumes, hoping that he might find something that would sufficiently lay hold of him to change the current of his thoughts. there was an old volume of _peregrine pickle_; a book of sermons; half an army list of 1774, and the _seven champions of christendom_. philip took up this last, which he had never seen before. in it he read how sir guy, earl of warwick, went to fight the paynim in his own country, and was away for seven long years; and when he came back his own wife phillis, the countess in her castle, did not know the poor travel-worn hermit, who came daily to seek his dole of bread at her hands along with many beggars and much poor. but at last, when he lay a-dying in his cave in the rock, he sent for her by a secret sign known but to them twain. and she came with great speed, for she knew it was her lord who had sent for her; and they had many sweet and holy words together before he gave up the ghost, his head lying on her bosom. the old story known to most people from their childhood was all new and fresh to philip. he did not quite believe in the truth of it, because the fictitious nature of the histories of some of the other champions of christendom was too patent. but he could not help thinking that this one might be true; and that guy and phillis might have been as real flesh and blood, long, long ago, as he and sylvia had even been. the old room, the quiet moonlit quadrangle into which the cross-barred casement looked, the quaint aspect of everything that he had seen for weeks and weeks; all this predisposed philip to dwell upon the story he had just been reading as a faithful legend of two lovers whose bones were long since dust. he thought that if he could thus see sylvia, himself unknown, unseen--could live at her gates, so to speak, and gaze upon her and his child--some day too, when he lay a-dying, he might send for her, and in soft words of mutual forgiveness breathe his life away in her arms. or perhaps--and so he lost himself, and from thinking, passed on to dreaming. all night long guy and phillis, sylvia and his child, passed in and out of his visions; it was impossible to make the fragments of his dreams cohere; but the impression made upon him by them was not the less strong for this. he felt as if he were called to monkshaven, wanted at monkshaven, and to monkshaven he resolved to go; although when his reason overtook his feeling, he knew perfectly how unwise it was to leave a home of peace and tranquillity and surrounding friendliness, to go to a place where nothing but want and wretchedness awaited him unless he made himself known; and if he did, a deeper want, a more woeful wretchedness, would in all probability be his portion. in the small oblong of looking-glass hung against the wall, philip caught the reflection of his own face, and laughed scornfully at the sight. the thin hair lay upon his temples in the flakes that betoken long ill-health; his eyes were the same as ever, and they had always been considered the best feature in his face; but they were sunk in their orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. as for the lower part of his face, blackened, contracted, drawn away from his teeth, the outline entirely changed by the breakage of his jaw-bone, he was indeed a fool if he thought himself fit to go forth to win back that love which sylvia had forsworn. as a hermit and a beggar, he must return to monkshaven, and fall perforce into the same position which guy of warwick had only assumed. but still he should see his phillis, and might feast his sad hopeless eyes from time to time with the sight of his child. his small pension of sixpence a day would keep him from absolute want of necessaries. so that very day he went to the warden and told him he thought of giving up his share in the bequest of sir simon bray. such a relinquishment had never occurred before in all the warden's experience; and he was very much inclined to be offended. 'i must say that for a man not to be satisfied as a bedesman of st sepulchre's argues a very wrong state of mind, and a very ungrateful heart.' 'i'm sure, sir, it's not from any ingratitude, for i can hardly feel thankful to you and to sir simon, and to madam, and the young ladies, and all my comrades in the hospital, and i niver expect to be either so comfortable or so peaceful again, but----' 'but? what can you have to say against the place, then? not but what there are always plenty of applicants for every vacancy; only i thought i was doing a kindness to a man out of harry's company. and you'll not see harry either; he's got his leave in march!' 'i'm very sorry. i should like to have seen the lieutenant again. but i cannot rest any longer so far away from--people i once knew.' 'ten to one they're dead, or removed, or something or other by this time; and it'll serve you right if they are. mind! no one can be chosen twice to be a bedesman of st sepulchre's.' the warden turned away; and philip, uneasy at staying, disheartened at leaving, went to make his few preparations for setting out once more on his journey northwards. he had to give notice of his change of residence to the local distributor of pensions; and one or two farewells had to be taken, with more than usual sadness at the necessity; for philip, under his name of stephen freeman, had attached some of the older bedesmen a good deal to him, from his unselfishness, his willingness to read to them, and to render them many little services, and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his habitual silence, which made him a convenient recipient of all their garrulousness. so before the time for his departure came, he had the opportunity of one more interview with the warden, of a more friendly character than that in which he gave up his bedesmanship. and so far it was well; and philip turned his back upon st sepulchre's with his sore heart partly healed by his four months' residence there. he was stronger, too, in body, more capable of the day-after-day walks that were required of him. he had saved some money from his allowance as bedesman and from his pension, and might occasionally have taken an outside place on a coach, had it not been that he shrank from the first look of every stranger upon his disfigured face. yet the gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless teeth always did away with the first impression as soon as people became a little acquainted with his appearance. it was february when philip left st sepulchre's. it was the first week in april when he began to recognize the familiar objects between york and monkshaven. and now he began to hang back, and to question the wisdom of what he had done--just as the warden had prophesied that he would. the last night of his two hundred mile walk he slept at the little inn at which he had been enlisted nearly two years before. it was by no intention of his that he rested at that identical place. night was drawing on; and, in making, as he thought, a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain to seek shelter where he might find it. but it brought him very straight face to face with his life at that time, and ever since. his mad, wild hopes--half the result of intoxication, as he now knew--all dead and gone; the career then freshly opening shut up against him now; his youthful strength and health changed into premature infirmity, and the home and the love that should have opened wide its doors to console him for all, why in two years death might have been busy, and taken away from him his last feeble chance of the faint happiness of seeing his beloved without being seen or known of her. all that night and all the next day, the fear of sylvia's possible death overclouded his heart. it was strange that he had hardly ever thought of this before; so strange, that now, when the terror came, it took possession of him, and he could almost have sworn that she must be lying dead in monkshaven churchyard. or was it little bella, that blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to see again? there was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant air to his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil import to him. as well as he could, he found his way back to monkshaven, over the wild heights and moors he had crossed on that black day of misery; why he should have chosen that path he could not tell--it was as if he were led, and had no free will of his own. the soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart beat thick, and then stopped, only to start again with fresh violence. there he was, at the top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts a literal staircase leading down from the hill-top into the high street, through the very entry up which he had passed when he shrank away from his former and his then present life. there he stood, looking down once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks of chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once been his own dwelling--who dwelt there now? the yellower gleams grew narrower; the evening shadows broader, and philip crept down the lane a weary, woeful man. at every gap in the close-packed buildings he heard the merry music of a band, the cheerful sound of excited voices. still he descended slowly, scarcely wondering what it could be, for it was not associated in his mind with the one pervading thought of sylvia. when he came to the angle of junction between the lane and the high street, he seemed plunged all at once into the very centre of the bustle, and he drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow, from whence he could look out upon the street. a circus was making its grand entry into monkshaven, with all the pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. trumpeters in parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out triumphant discord. next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald horses, and the windings of this team through the tortuous narrow street were pretty enough to look upon. in the chariot sate kings and queens, heroes and heroines, or what were meant for such; all the little boys and girls running alongside of the chariot envied them; but they themselves were very much tired, and shivering with cold in their heroic pomp of classic clothing. all this philip might have seen; did see, in fact; but heeded not one jot. almost opposite to him, not ten yards apart, standing on the raised step at the well-known shop door, was sylvia, holding a child, a merry dancing child, up in her arms to see the show. she too, sylvia, was laughing for pleasure, and for sympathy with pleasure. she held the little bella aloft that the child might see the gaudy procession the better and the longer, looking at it herself with red lips apart and white teeth glancing through; then she turned to speak to some one behind her--coulson, as philip saw the moment afterwards; his answer made her laugh once again. philip saw it all; her bonny careless looks, her pretty matronly form, her evident ease of mind and prosperous outward circumstances. the years that he had spent in gloomy sorrow, amongst wild scenes, on land or by sea, his life in frequent peril of a bloody end, had gone by with her like sunny days; all the more sunny because he was not there. so bitterly thought the poor disabled marine, as, weary and despairing, he stood in the cold shadow and looked upon the home that should have been his haven, the wife that should have welcomed him, the child that should have been his comfort. he had banished himself from his home; his wife had forsworn him; his child was blossoming into intelligence unwitting of any father. wife, and child, and home, were all doing well without him; what madness had tempted him thither? an hour ago, like a fanciful fool, he had thought she might be dead--dead with sad penitence for her cruel words at her heart--with mournful wonder at the unaccounted-for absence of her child's father preying on her spirits, and in some measure causing the death he had apprehended. but to look at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she had had an hour's painful thought in all her blooming life. ay! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, now the gay cavalcade has gone out of sight, and the chill of night has succeeded to the sun's setting. husband and father, steal out into the cold dark street, and seek some poor cheap lodging where you may rest your weary bones, and cheat your more weary heart into forgetfulness in sleep. the pretty story of the countess phillis, who mourned for her husband's absence so long, is a fable of old times; or rather say earl guy never wedded his wife, knowing that one she loved better than him was alive all the time she had believed him to be dead. chapter xliii the unknown a few days before that on which philip arrived at monkshaven, kester had come to pay sylvia a visit. as the earliest friend she had, and also as one who knew the real secrets of her life, sylvia always gave him the warm welcome, the cordial words, and the sweet looks in which the old man delighted. he had a sort of delicacy of his own which kept him from going to see her too often, even when he was stationary at monkshaven; but he looked forward to the times when he allowed himself this pleasure as a child at school looks forward to its holidays. the time of his service at haytersbank had, on the whole, been the happiest in all his long monotonous years of daily labour. sylvia's father had always treated him with the rough kindness of fellowship; sylvia's mother had never stinted him in his meat or grudged him his share of the best that was going; and once, when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow-house, she had made him possets, and nursed him with the same tenderness which he remembered his mother showing to him when he was a little child, but which he had never experienced since then. he had known sylvia herself, as bud, and sweet promise of blossom; and just as she was opening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy and prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle of kester's interests, one sorrow after another came down upon her pretty innocent head, and kester's period of service to daniel robson, her father, was tragically cut short. all this made sylvia the great centre of the faithful herdsman's affection; and bella, who reminded him of what sylvia was when first kester knew her, only occupied the second place in his heart, although to the child he was much more demonstrative of his regard than to the mother. he had dressed himself in his sunday best, and although it was only thursday, had forestalled his saturday's shaving; he had provided himself with a paper of humbugs for the child--'humbugs' being the north-country term for certain lumps of toffy, well-flavoured with peppermint--and now he sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the door as might be, in sylvia's presence, coaxing the little one, who was not quite sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening the paper parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen. 'she's like thee--and yet she favours her feyther,' said he; and the moment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see how sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to her husband. his stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though he thought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as he had feared. it was true that bella had her father's grave, thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's gray ones, out of which the childlike expression of wonder would never entirely pass away. and as bella slowly and half distrustfully made her way towards the temptation offered her, she looked at kester with just her father's look. sylvia said nothing in direct reply; kester almost thought she could not have heard him. but, by-and-by, she said,-'yo'll have heared how kinraid--who's a captain now, and a grand officer--has gone and got married.' 'nay!' said kester, in genuine surprise. 'he niver has, for sure!' 'ay, but he has,' said sylvia. 'and i'm sure i dunnot see why he shouldn't.' 'well, well!' said kester, not looking up at her, for he caught the inflections in the tones of her voice. 'he were a fine stirrin' chap, yon; an' he were allays for doin' summut; an' when he fund as he couldn't ha' one thing as he'd set his mind on, a reckon he thought he mun put up wi' another.' 'it 'ud be no "putting up,"' said sylvia. 'she were staying at bessy dawson's, and she come here to see me--she's as pretty a young lady as yo'd see on a summer's day; and a real lady, too, wi' a fortune. she didn't speak two words wi'out bringing in her husband's name,--"the captain", as she called him.' 'an' she come to see thee?' said kester, cocking his eye at sylvia with the old shrewd look. 'that were summut queer, weren't it?' sylvia reddened a good deal. 'he's too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t' old way,--as he used for t' speak to me. i were nought to her but philip's wife.' 'an' what t' dickins had she to do wi' philip?' asked kester, in intense surprise; and so absorbed in curiosity that he let the humbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, and the little bella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great as those fabled to exist on tom tiddler's ground. sylvia was again silent; but kester, knowing her well, was sure that she was struggling to speak, and bided his time without repeating his question. 'she said--and i think her tale were true, though i cannot get to t' rights on it, think on it as i will--as philip saved her husband's life somewheere nearabouts to jerusalem. she would have it that t' captain--for i think i'll niver ca' him kinraid again--was in a great battle, and were near upon being shot by t' french, when philip--our philip--come up and went right into t' fire o' t' guns, and saved her husband's life. and she spoke as if both she and t' captain were more beholden to philip than words could tell. and she come to see me, to try and get news on him. 'it's a queer kind o' story,' said kester, meditatively. 'a should ha' thought as philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into t' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape.' 'nay!' said sylvia, suddenly looking straight at kester; 'yo're out theere. philip had a deal o' good in him. and i dunnot think as he'd ha' gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd been i' kinraid's place.' 'an' yo've niver heared on philip sin' he left?' asked kester, after a while. 'niver; nought but what she told me. and she said that t' captain made inquiry for him right and left, as soon after that happened as might be, and could hear niver a word about him. no one had seen him, or knowed his name.' 'yo' niver heared of his goin' for t' be a soldier?' persevered kester. 'niver. i've told yo' once. it were unlike philip to think o' such a thing.' 'but thou mun ha' been thinkin' on him at times i' a' these years. bad as he'd behaved hissel', he were t' feyther o' thy little un. what did ta think he had been agait on when he left here?' 'i didn't know. i were noane so keen a-thinking on him at first. i tried to put him out o' my thoughts a'together, for it made me like mad to think how he'd stood between me and--that other. but i'd begun to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think i should like to hear as he were doing well. i reckon i thought he were i' london, wheere he'd been that time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke as if he'd enjoyed hissel' tolerable; and then molly brunton told me on t' other one's marriage; and, somehow, it gave me a shake in my heart, and i began for to wish i hadn't said all them words i' my passion; and then that fine young lady come wi' her story--and i've thought a deal on it since,--and my mind has come out clear. philip's dead, and it were his spirit as come to t' other's help in his time o' need. i've heard feyther say as spirits cannot rest i' their graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done i' their bodies.' 'them's my conclusions,' said kester, solemnly. 'a was fain for to hear what were yo'r judgments first; but them's the conclusions i comed to as soon as i heard t' tale.' 'let alone that one thing,' said sylvia, 'he were a kind, good man.' 'it were a big deal on a "one thing", though,' said kester. 'it just spoilt yo'r life, my poor lass; an' might ha' gone near to spoilin' charley kinraid's too.' 'men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,' said sylvia, bitterly. 'not a' mak' o' men. i reckon, lass, philip's life were pretty well on for bein' spoilt at after he left here; and it were, mebbe, a good thing he got rid on it so soon.' 'i wish i'd just had a few kind words wi' him, i do,' said sylvia, almost on the point of crying. 'come, lass, it's as ill moanin' after what's past as it 'ud be for me t' fill my eyes wi' weepin' after t' humbugs as this little wench o' thine has grubbed up whilst we'n been talkin'. why, there's not one on 'em left!' 'she's a sad spoilt little puss!' said sylvia, holding out her arms to the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother's cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath the matronly cap. 'mammy spoils her, and hester spoils her----' 'granny rose doesn't spoil me,' said the child, with quick, intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother's list. 'no; but jeremiah foster does above a bit. he'll come in fro' t' bank, kester, and ask for her, a'most ivery day. and he'll bring her things in his pocket; and she's so fause, she allays goes straight to peep in, and then he shifts t' apple or t' toy into another. eh! but she's a little fause one,'--half devouring the child with her kisses. 'and he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi' bella's steps. i often run upstairs and watch 'em out o' t' window; he doesn't care to have me with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child all to hisself.' 'she's a bonny un, for sure,' said kester; 'but not so pretty as thou was, sylvie. a've niver tell'd thee what a come for tho', and it's about time for me t' be goin'. a'm off to t' cheviots to-morrow morn t' fetch home some sheep as jonas blundell has purchased. it'll be a job o' better nor two months a reckon.' 'it'll be a nice time o' year,' said sylvia, a little surprised at kester's evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey or absence; he had often been away from monkshaven for a longer time without seeming to care so much about it. 'well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for t' leave my sister--she as is t' widow-woman, wheere a put up when a'm at home. things is main an' dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an' there's a deal o' talk on a famine i' t' land; an' whaten a paid for my victual an' t' bed i' t' lean-to helped t' oud woman a bit,--an' she's sadly down i' t' mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t' tak' my place, for a' she's moved o'er to t' other side o' t' bridge for t' be nearer t' new buildings, an' t' grand new walk they're makin' round t' cliffs, thinkin' she'd be likelier t' pick up a labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. a'd ha' liked to ha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha' left, for she's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbut gets houd on her blind side.' 'can i help her?' said sylvia, in her eager way. 'i should be so glad; and i've a deal of money by me---' 'nay, my lass,' said kester, 'thou munnot go off so fast; it were just what i were feared on i' tellin' thee. i've left her a bit o' money, and i'll mak' shift to send her more; it's just a kind word, t' keep up her heart when i'm gone, as i want. if thou'd step in and see her fra' time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi' talkin' to her on me, i'd tak' it very kind, and i'd go off wi' a lighter heart.' 'then i'm sure i'll do it for yo', kester. i niver justly feel like mysel' when yo're away, for i'm lonesome enough at times. she and i will talk a' t' better about yo' for both on us grieving after yo'.' so kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by sylvia's promise to go and see his sister pretty often during his absence in the north. but sylvia's habits were changed since she, as a girl at haytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, running out perpetually without anything on to scatter crumbs to the poultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to go up to the garden for a handful of herbs, or to clamber to the highest point around to blow the horn which summoned her father and kester home to dinner. living in a town where it was necessary to put on hat and cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk in a steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape down to the freedom of the sea-shore until philip went away; and after that time she had learnt so to fear observation as a deserted wife, that nothing but bella's health would have been a sufficient motive to take her out of doors. and, as she had told kester, the necessity of giving the little girl a daily walk was very much lightened by the great love and affection which jeremiah foster now bore to the child. ever since the day when the baby had come to his knee, allured by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently considered her as in some sort belonging to him; and now he had almost come to think that he had a right to claim her as his companion in his walk back from the bank to his early dinner, where a high chair was always placed ready for the chance of her coming to share his meal. on these occasions he generally brought her back to the shop-door when he returned to his afternoon's work at the bank. sometimes, however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for from his house in the new town, as his business at the bank for that day was ended. then sylvia was compelled to put on her things, and fetch back her darling; and excepting for this errand she seldom went out at all on week-days. about a fortnight after kester's farewell call, this need for her visit to jeremiah foster's arose; and it seemed to sylvia that there could not be a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise and going to see the widow dobson, whose cottage was on the other side of the river, low down on the cliff-side, just at the bend and rush of the full stream into the open sea. she set off pretty early in order to go there first. she found the widow with her house-place tidied up after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the open door--not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at the rush and recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing them either,--rather seeing days long past. she started into active civility as soon as she recognized sylvia, who was to her as a great lady, never having known sylvia robson in her wild childish days. widow dobson was always a little scandalized at her brother christopher's familiarity with mrs. hepburn. she dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed it for sylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool to mark her sense of the difference in their conditions, for there was another chair or two in the humble dwelling; and then the two fell into talk--first about kester, whom his sister would persist in calling christopher, as if his dignity as her elder brother was compromised by any familiar abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart a little more. 'a could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand,' said she; 'for a've that for to tell christopher as might set his mind at ease. but yo' see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn't read it; so a just comfort mysel' wi' thinkin' nobody need learn writin' unless they'n got friends as can read. but a reckon he'd ha' been glad to hear as a've getten a lodger.' here she nodded her head in the direction of the door opening out of the house-place into the 'lean-to', which sylvia had observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection of the mention of which by kester had enabled her to identify widow dobson's dwelling. 'he's a-bed yonder,' the latter continued, dropping her voice. 'he's a queer-lookin' tyke, but a don't think as he's a bad un.' 'when did he come?' said sylvia, remembering kester's account of his sister's character, and feeling as though it behoved her, as kester's confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudent advice. 'eh! a matter of a s'ennight ago. a'm noane good at mindin' time; he's paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand. he'd comed in one night, an' sate him down afore he could speak, he were so done up; he'd been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. "can yo' give me a bed?" says he, panting like, after a bit. "a chap as a met near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let." "ay," says a, "a ha' that; but yo' mun pay me a shilling a week for 't." then my mind misgive me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, an' yet if he hadn't, a should just ha' gi'en him t' bed a' t' same: a'm not one as can turn a dog out if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. so he outs wi' a shillin', an' lays it down on t' table, 'bout a word. "a'll not trouble yo' long," says he. "a'm one as is best out o' t' world," he says. then a thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. an' says i, "a'm a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:" for yo' see a were low about our christopher's goin' away north; "so a'm forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a've made mysel' some stirabout for my supper; and if yo'd like t' share an' share about wi' me, it's but puttin' a sup more watter to 't, and god's blessing 'll be on 't, just as same as if 't were meal." so he ups wi' his hand afore his e'en, and says not a word. at last he says, "missus," says he, "can god's blessing be shared by a sinner--one o' t' devil's children?" says he. "for the scriptur' says he's t' father o' lies." so a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "thou mun ask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but a've allays had god's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll share it wi' thee as far as my will goes." so he raxes his hand across t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. a thought it were scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just then for t' lift t' pot off t' fire--it were t' first vittle a'd tasted sin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' us poor folk: an' a' a said were just "coom along, chap, an' fa' to; an' god's blessing be on him as eats most." an' sin' that day him and me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me nought of who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. but a think he's one o' them poor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure, his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t' his bed, an' just lies there sighing,--for one can hear him plain as dayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.' as a proof of this, a sigh--almost a groan--startled the two women at this very moment. 'poor fellow!' said sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'there's more sore hearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' but after a while, she bethought her again of kester's account of his sister's 'softness'; and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. so she added, in a sterner, harder tone--'still, yo' say yo' know nought about him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow, and it behoves yo' to be careful. i think i'd just send him off as soon as he's a bit rested. yo' say he's plenty o' money?' 'nay! a never said that. a know nought about it. he pays me aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him some broth as good as a could make 'em.' 'i wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if i were yo; but i think yo'd be better rid on him,' said sylvia. 'it would be different if yo'r brother were in monkshaven.' as she spoke she rose to go. widow dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humble woman said,-'yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heart t' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? for a wouldn't like to vex yo', for christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t' feel for friendless folk, an' choose what may come on it, i cannot send him away.' 'no!' said sylvia. 'why should i be vexed? it's no business o' mine. only i should send him away if i was yo'. he might go lodge wheere there was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and are up to them.' into the sunshine went sylvia. in the cold shadow the miserable tramp lay sighing. she did not know that she had been so near to him towards whom her heart was softening, day by day. chapter xliv first words it was the spring of 1800. old people yet can tell of the hard famine of that year. the harvest of the autumn before had failed; the war and the corn laws had brought the price of corn up to a famine rate; and much of what came into the market was unsound, and consequently unfit for food, yet hungry creatures bought it eagerly, and tried to cheat disease by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour with rice or potato meal. rich families denied themselves pastry and all unnecessary and luxurious uses of wheat in any shape; the duty on hair-powder was increased; and all these palliatives were but as drops in the ocean of the great want of the people. philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew stronger; and as he grew stronger hunger took the place of loathing dislike to food. but his money was all spent; and what was his poor pension of sixpence a day in that terrible year of famine? many a summer's night he walked for hours and hours round the house which once was his, which might be his now, with all its homely, blessed comforts, could he but go and assert his right to it. but to go with authority, and in his poor, maimed guise assert that right, he had need be other than philip hepburn. so he stood in the old shelter of the steep, crooked lane opening on to the hill out of the market-place, and watched the soft fading of the summer's eve into night; the closing of the once familiar shop; the exit of good, comfortable william coulson, going to his own home, his own wife, his comfortable, plentiful supper. then philip--there were no police in those days, and scarcely an old watchman in that primitive little town--would go round on the shady sides of streets, and, quickly glancing about him, cross the bridge, looking on the quiet, rippling stream, the gray shimmer foretelling the coming dawn over the sea, the black masts and rigging of the still vessels against the sky; he could see with his wistful, eager eyes the shape of the windows--the window of the very room in which his wife and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, broken-hearted outcast. he would go back to his lodging, and softly lift the latch of the door; still more softly, but never without an unspoken, grateful prayer, pass by the poor sleeping woman who had given him a shelter and her share of god's blessing--she who, like him, knew not the feeling of satisfied hunger; and then he laid him down on the narrow pallet in the lean-to, and again gave sylvia happy lessons in the kitchen at haytersbank, and the dead were alive; and charley kinraid, the specksioneer, had never come to trouble the hopeful, gentle peace. for widow dobson had never taken sylvia's advice. the tramp known to her by the name of freeman--that in which he received his pension--lodged with her still, and paid his meagre shilling in advance, weekly. a shilling was meagre in those hard days of scarcity. a hungry man might easily eat the produce of a shilling in a day. widow dobson pleaded this to sylvia as an excuse for keeping her lodger on; to a more calculating head it might have seemed a reason for sending him away. 'yo' see, missus,' said she, apologetically, to sylvia, one evening, as the latter called upon the poor widow before going to fetch little bella (it was now too hot for the child to cross the bridge in the full heat of the summer sun, and jeremiah would take her up to her supper instead)--'yo' see, missus, there's not a many as 'ud take him in for a shillin' when it goes so little way; or if they did, they'd take it out on him some other way, an' he's not getten much else, a reckon. he ca's me granny, but a'm vast mista'en if he's ten year younger nor me; but he's getten a fine appetite of his own, choose how young he may be; an' a can see as he could eat a deal more nor he's getten money to buy, an' it's few as can mak' victual go farther nor me. eh, missus, but yo' may trust me a'll send him off when times is better; but just now it would be sendin' him to his death; for a ha' plenty and to spare, thanks be to god an' yo'r bonny face.' so sylvia had to be content with the knowledge that the money she gladly gave to kester's sister went partly to feed the lodger who was neither labourer nor neighbour, but only just a tramp, who, she feared, was preying on the good old woman. still the cruel famine cut sharp enough to penetrate all hearts; and sylvia, an hour after the conversation recorded above, was much touched, on her return from jeremiah foster's with the little merry, chattering bella, at seeing the feeble steps of one, whom she knew by description must be widow dobson's lodger, turn up from the newly-cut road which was to lead to the terrace walk around the north cliff, a road which led to no dwelling but widow dobson's. tramp, and vagrant, he might be in the eyes of the law; but, whatever his character, sylvia could see him before her in the soft dusk, creeping along, over the bridge, often stopping to rest and hold by some support, and then going on again towards the town, to which she and happy little bella were wending. a thought came over her: she had always fancied that this unknown man was some fierce vagabond, and had dreaded lest in the lonely bit of road between widow dobson's cottage and the peopled highway, he should fall upon her and rob her if he learnt that she had money with her; and several times she had gone away without leaving the little gift she had intended, because she imagined that she had seen the door of the small chamber in the 'lean-to' open softly while she was there, as if the occupant (whom widow dobson spoke of as never leaving the house before dusk, excepting once a week) were listening for the chink of the coin in her little leathern purse. now that she saw him walking before her with heavy languid steps, this fear gave place to pity; she remembered her mother's gentle superstition which had prevented her from ever sending the hungry empty away, for fear lest she herself should come to need bread. 'lassie,' said she to little bella, who held a cake which jeremiah's housekeeper had given her tight in her hand, 'yon poor man theere is hungry; will bella give him her cake, and mother will make her another to-morrow twice as big?' for this consideration, and with the feeling of satisfaction which a good supper not an hour ago gives even to the hungry stomach of a child of three years old, bella, after some thought, graciously assented to the sacrifice. sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned her back to the town, and to the slow wayfarer in front. under the cover of her shawl she slipped a half-crown deep into the crumb of the cake, and then restoring it to little bella, she gave her her directions. 'mammy will carry bella; and when bella goes past the poor man, she shall give him the cake over mammy's shoulder. poor man is so hungry; and bella and mammy have plenty to eat, and to spare.' the child's heart was touched by the idea of hunger, and her little arm was outstretched ready for the moment her mother's hurried steps took her brushing past the startled, trembling philip. 'poor man, eat this; bella not hungry.' they were the first words he had ever heard his child utter. the echoes of them rang in his ears as he stood endeavouring to hide his disfigured face by looking over the parapet of the bridge down upon the stream running away towards the ocean, into which his hot tears slowly fell, unheeded by the weeper. then he changed the intention with which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and turned back to his lodging. of course the case was different with sylvia; she would have forgotten the whole affair very speedily, if it had not been for little bella's frequent recurrence to the story of the hungry man, which had touched her small sympathies with the sense of an intelligible misfortune. she liked to act the dropping of the bun into the poor man's hand as she went past him, and would take up any article near her in order to illustrate the gesture she had used. one day she got hold of hester's watch for this purpose, as being of the same round shape as the cake; and though hester, for whose benefit the child was repeating the story in her broken language for the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch as it was intended that she should (she being the representative of the 'hungry man' for the time being), it went to the ground with a smash that frightened the little girl, and she began to cry at the mischief she had done. 'don't cry, bella,' said hester. 'niver play with watches again. i didn't see thee at mine, or i'd ha' stopped thee in time. but i'll take it to old darley's on th' quay-side, and maybe he'll soon set it to rights again. only bella must niver play with watches again.' 'niver no more!' promised the little sobbing child. and that evening hester took her watch down to old darley's. this william darley was the brother of the gardener at the rectory; the uncle to the sailor who had been shot by the press-gang years before, and to his bed-ridden sister. he was a clever mechanician, and his skill as a repairer of watches and chronometers was great among the sailors, with whom he did a very irregular sort of traffic, conducted, often without much use of money, but rather on the principle of barter, they bringing him foreign coins and odd curiosities picked up on their travels in exchange for his services to their nautical instruments or their watches. if he had ever had capital to extend his business, he might have been a rich man; but it is to be doubted whether he would have been as happy as he was now in his queer little habitation of two rooms, the front one being both shop and workshop, the other serving the double purpose of bedroom and museum. the skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man was sometimes sought by the jeweller who kept the more ostentatious shop in the high street; but before darley would undertake any 'tickle' piece of delicate workmanship for the other, he sneered at his ignorance, and taunted and abused him well. yet he had soft places in his heart, and hester rose had found her way to one by her patient, enduring kindness to his bed-ridden niece. he never snarled at her as he did at too many; and on the few occasions when she had asked him to do anything for her, he had seemed as if she were conferring the favour on him, not he on her, and only made the smallest possible charge. she found him now sitting where he could catch the most light for his work, spectacles on nose, and microscope in hand. he took her watch, and examined it carefully without a word in reply to her. then he began to open it and take it to pieces, in order to ascertain the nature of the mischief. suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a checked sound of surprise. he looked at her from above his spectacles; she was holding a watch in her hand which she had just taken up off the counter. 'what's amiss wi' thee now?' said darley. 'hast ta niver seen a watch o' that mak' afore? or is it them letters on t' back, as is so wonderful?' yes, it was those letters--that interlaced, old-fashioned cipher. that z. h. that she knew of old stood for zachary hepburn, philip's father. she knew how philip valued this watch. she remembered having seen it in his hands the very day before his disappearance, when he was looking at the time in his annoyance at sylvia's detention in her walk with baby. hester had no doubt that he had taken this watch as a matter of course away with him. she felt sure that he would not part with this relic of his dead father on any slight necessity. where, then, was philip?--by what chance of life or death had this, his valued property, found its way once more to monkshaven? 'where did yo' get this?' she asked, in as quiet a manner as she could assume, sick with eagerness as she was. to no one else would darley have answered such a question. he made a mystery of most of his dealings; not that he had anything to conceal, but simply because he delighted in concealment. he took it out of her hands, looked at the number marked inside, and the maker's name--'natteau gent, york'--and then replied,-'a man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for t' sell it. it's a matter o' forty years old. natteau gent has been dead and in his grave pretty nigh as long as that. but he did his work well when he were alive; and so i gave him as brought it for t' sell about as much as it were worth, i' good coin. a tried him first i' t' bartering line, but he wouldn't bite; like enough he wanted food,--many a one does now-a-days.' 'who was he?' gasped hester. 'bless t' woman! how should i know?' 'what was he like?--how old?--tell me.' 'my lass, a've summut else to do wi' my eyes than go peering into men's faces i' t' dusk light.' 'but yo' must have had light for t' judge about the watch.' 'eh! how sharp we are! a'd a candle close to my nose. but a didn't tak' it up for to gaze int' his face. that wouldn't be manners, to my thinking.' hester was silent. then darley's heart relented. 'if yo're so set upo' knowing who t' fellow was, a could, mebbe, put yo' on his tracks.' 'how?' said hester, eagerly. 'i do want to know. i want to know very much, and for a good reason.' 'well, then, a'll tell yo'. he's a queer tyke, that one is. a'll be bound he were sore pressed for t' brass; yet he out's wi' a good half-crown, all wrapped up i' paper, and he axes me t' make a hole in it. says i, "it's marring good king's coin, at after a've made a hole in't, it'll never pass current again." so he mumbles, and mumbles, but for a' that it must needs be done; and he's left it here, and is t' call for 't to-morrow at e'en.' 'oh, william darley!' said hester, clasping her hands tight together. 'find out who he is, where he is--anything--everything about him--and i will so bless yo'.' darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs of sympathy on his grave face. 'my woman,' he said 'a could ha' wished as you'd niver seen t' watch. it's poor, thankless work thinking too much on one o' god's creatures. but a'll do thy bidding,' he continued, in a lighter and different tone. 'a'm a 'cute old badger when need be. come for thy watch in a couple o' days, and a'll tell yo' all as a've learnt.' so hester went away, her heart beating with the promise of knowing something about philip,--how much, how little, in these first moments, she dared not say even to herself. some sailor newly landed from distant seas might have become possessed of philip's watch in far-off latitudes; in which case, philip would be dead. that might be. she tried to think that this was the most probable way of accounting for the watch. she could be certain as to the positive identity of the watch--being in william darley's possession. again, it might be that philip himself was near at hand--was here in this very place--starving, as too many were, for insufficiency of means to buy the high-priced food. and then her heart burnt within her as she thought of the succulent, comfortable meals which sylvia provided every day--nay, three times a day--for the household in the market-place, at the head of which philip ought to have been; but his place knew him not. for sylvia had inherited her mother's talent for housekeeping, and on her, in alice's decrepitude and hester's other occupations in the shop, devolved the cares of due provision for the somewhat heterogeneous family. and sylvia! hester groaned in heart over the remembrance of sylvia's words, 'i can niver forgive him the wrong he did to me,' that night when hester had come, and clung to her, making the sad, shameful confession of her unreturned love. what could ever bring these two together again? could hester herself--ignorant of the strange mystery of sylvia's heart, as those who are guided solely by obedience to principle must ever be of the clue to the actions of those who are led by the passionate ebb and flow of impulse? could hester herself? oh! how should she speak, how should she act, if philip were near--if philip were sad and in miserable estate? her own misery at this contemplation of the case was too great to bear; and she sought her usual refuge in the thought of some text, some promise of scripture, which should strengthen her faith. 'with god all things are possible,' said she, repeating the words as though to lull her anxiety to rest. yes; with god all things are possible. but ofttimes he does his work with awful instruments. there is a peacemaker whose name is death. chapter xlv saved and lost hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which the unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it again at william darley's. she had schooled herself to believe that time and patience would serve her best. her plan was to obtain all the knowledge about philip that she could in the first instance; and then, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fall on sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. so hester put on her things, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that evening after the shop was closed. poor little sylvia! she was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the full extent of what hester believed. many a time since philip went away had she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spoke shortly to her, when alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, when hester's gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when her own heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that she had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly she did by this time. philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly to her during the eighteen months of their married life, except on the two occasions before recorded: once when she referred to her dream of kinraid's possible return, and once again on the evening of the day before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of kinraid's involuntary disappearance. after she had learnt that kinraid was married, her heart had still more strongly turned to philip; she thought that he had judged rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing; she was even more indignant at kinraid's fickleness than she had any reason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring love as philip's had been--lasting ever since the days when she first began to fancy what a man's love for a woman should be, when she had first shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial term for her, a girl of twelve--'little lassie,' as he was wont to call her. but across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow--like the chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. how should she decide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once more called her 'wife'? she shrank from such a possibility with all the weakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which made her strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words; and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion when hester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the heart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point. now, on this bright summer evening, while hester had gone down to the quay-side, sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in the parlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset. she could not leave alice: the old woman had grown so infirm that she was never left by her daughter and sylvia at the same time; yet sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the new town, where she had been to her supper at jeremiah foster's. hester had said that she should not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and hester was generally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect, appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt to rely upon her. sylvia wanted to go and see widow dobson, and learn when kester might be expected home. his two months were long past; and sylvia had heard through the fosters of some suitable and profitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be glad to know as soon as possible. it was now some time since she had been able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew, kester might already be come back from his expedition to the cheviots. kester was come back. scarce five minutes had elapsed after these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hasty hand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps brought him face to face with her. the smile of greeting was arrested on her lips by one look at him: his eyes staring wide, the expression on his face wild, and yet pitiful. 'that's reet,' said he, seeing that her things were already on. 'thou're wanted sore. come along.' 'oh! dear god! my child!' cried sylvia, clutching at the chair near her; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact before her that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it. 'ay; thy child!' said kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm, and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to the quay-side. 'tell me!' said sylvia, faintly, 'is she dead?' 'she's safe now,' said kester. 'it's not her--it's him as saved her as needs yo', if iver husband needed a wife.' 'he?--who? o philip! philip! is it yo' at last?' unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up her arms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were then crossing. 'he!--philip!--saved bella? bella, our little bella, as got her dinner by my side, and went out wi' jeremiah, as well as could be. i cannot take it in; tell me, kester.' she kept trembling so much in voice and in body, that he saw she could not stir without danger of falling until she was calmed; as it was, her eyes became filmy from time to time, and she drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaning all the while against the wall of the bridge. 'it were no illness,' kester began. 't' little un had gone for a walk wi' jeremiah foster, an' he were drawn for to go round t' edge o' t' cliff, wheere they's makin' t' new walk reet o'er t' sea. but it's but a bit on a pathway now; an' t' one was too oud, an' t' other too young for t' see t' water comin' along wi' great leaps; it's allays for comin' high up again' t' cliff, an' this spring-tide it's comin' in i' terrible big waves. some one said as they passed t' man a-sittin' on a bit on a rock up above--a dunnot know, a only know as a heared a great fearful screech i' t' air. a were just a-restin' me at after a'd comed in, not half an hour i' t' place. a've walked better nor a dozen mile to-day; an' a ran out, an' a looked, an' just on t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a wave runnin' back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, an' oud jeremiah standin' like one crazy, lookin' o'er int' t' watter; an' like a stroke o' leeghtnin' comes a man, an' int' t' very midst o' t' great waves like a shot; an' then a knowed summut were in t' watter as were nearer death than life; an' a seemed to misdoubt me that it were our bella; an' a shouts an' a cries for help, an' a goes mysel' to t' very edge o' t' cliff, an' a bids oud jeremiah, as was like one beside hissel', houd tight on me, for he were good for nought else; an' a bides my time, an' when a sees two arms houdin' out a little drippin' streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist-band, an' hauls her to land. she's noane t' worse for her bath, a'll be bound.' 'i mun go--let me,' said sylvia, struggling with his detaining hand, which he had laid upon her in the fear that she would slip down to the ground in a faint, so ashen-gray was her face. 'let me,--bella, i mun go see her.' he let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too weak to stir. 'now, if you'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' along; but yo' mun be a steady and brave lass.' 'i'll be aught if yo' only let me see bella,' said sylvia, humbly. 'an' yo' niver ax at after him as saved her,' said kester, reproachfully. 'i know it's philip,' she whispered, 'and yo' said he wanted me; so i know he's safe; and, kester, i think i'm 'feared on him, and i'd like to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at bella would give me courage. it were a terrible time when i saw him last, and i did say--' 'niver think on what thou did say; think on what thou will say to him now, for he lies a-dyin'! he were dashed again t' cliff an' bruised sore in his innards afore t' men as come wi' a boat could pick him up.' she did not speak; she did not even tremble now; she set her teeth together, and, holding tight by kester, she urged him on; but when they came to the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which way to turn. 'this way,' said kester. 'he's been lodgin' wi' sally this nine week, an' niver a one about t' place as knowed him; he's been i' t' wars an' getten his face brunt.' 'and he was short o' food,' moaned sylvia, 'and we had plenty, and i tried to make yo'r sister turn him out, and send him away. oh! will god iver forgive me?' muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp cries of pain, sylvia, with kester's help, reached widow dobson's house. it was no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. several sailors stood about the door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict of the doctor, who was even now examining philip's injuries. two or three women stood talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway. but when sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women moved aside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with a certain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of antagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it--she who had been living in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was little better than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle with starvation; for so much of the lodger at widow dobson's was popularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp was quite forgotten now. sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of their silence; but it was as nothing to her. if such things could have touched her at this moment, she would not have stood still right in the midst of their averted hearts, and murmured something to kester. he could not hear the words uttered by that hoarse choked voice, until he had stooped down and brought his ear to the level of her mouth. 'we'd better wait for t' doctors to come out,' she said again. she stood by the door, shivering all over, almost facing the people in the road, but with her face turned a little to the right, so that they thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff-side, a hundred yards or so distant, below which the hungry waves still lashed themselves into high ascending spray; while nearer to the cottage, where their force was broken by the bar at the entrance to the river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight before her eyes. she only saw a blurred mist; she heard no sound of waters, though it filled the ears of those around. instead she heard low whispers pronouncing philip's earthly doom. for the doctors were both agreed; his internal injury was of a mortal kind, although, as the spine was severely injured above the seat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of his body. they had spoken in so low a tone that john foster, standing only a foot or so away, had not been able to hear their words. but sylvia heard each syllable there where she stood outside, shivering all over in the sultry summer evening. she turned round to kester. 'i mun go to him, kester; thou'll see that noane come in to us, when t' doctors come out.' she spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she had heard, made some easy conditional promise. then those opposite to the cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors coming out, and john foster, graver, sadder still, following them. without a word to them,--without a word even of inquiry--which many outside thought and spoke of as strange--white-faced, dry-eyed sylvia slipped into the house out of their sight. and the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore. the room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle of light made by a dip candle. widow dobson had her back to the bed--her bed--on to which philip had been borne in the hurry of terror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. she was crying--crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, with her back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes cut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. she only shook her head as she saw sylvia, spirit-like, steal in--white, noiseless, and upborne from earth. but noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding it in the shadow. he knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed; that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching death was stealing. but no one spoke. at length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort. 'little lassie, forgive me now! i cannot live to see the morn!' there was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her whole body. 'i did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'i see it now. but i'm a dying man. i think that god will forgive me--and i've sinned against him; try, lassie--try, my sylvie--will not thou forgive me?' he listened intently for a moment. he heard through the open window the waves lapping on the shelving shore. but there came no word from her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her lips at length. 'child,' said he, once more. 'i ha' made thee my idol; and if i could live my life o'er again i would love my god more, and thee less; and then i shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. but speak one word of love to me--one little word, that i may know i have thy pardon.' 'oh, philip! philip!' she moaned, thus adjured. then she lifted her head, and said, 'them were wicked, wicked words, as i said; and a wicked vow as i vowed; and lord god almighty has ta'en me at my word. i'm sorely punished, philip, i am indeed.' he pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. but he asked for yet another word. 'i did thee a wrong. in my lying heart i forgot to do to thee as i would have had thee to do to me. and i judged kinraid in my heart.' 'thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly; 'and so he were. he were married to another woman not so many weeks at after thou went away. oh, philip, philip! and now i have thee back, and--' 'dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread of telling him what she believed he did not know, and next her passionate sobs, choked her. 'i know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing her with gentle, caressing hand. 'little lassie!' he said, after a while when she was quiet from very exhaustion, 'i niver thought to be so happy again. god is very merciful.' she lifted up her head, and asked wildly, 'will he iver forgive me, think yo'? i drove yo' out fra' yo'r home, and sent yo' away to t' wars, wheere yo' might ha' getten yo'r death; and when yo' come back, poor and lone, and weary, i told her for t' turn yo' out, for a' i knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. i think i shall go about among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo' are wheere all tears are wiped away.' 'no!' said philip, turning round his face, forgetful of himself in his desire to comfort her. 'god pities us as a father pities his poor wandering children; the nearer i come to death the clearer i see him. but you and me have done wrong to each other; yet we can see now how we were led to it; we can pity and forgive one another. i'm getting low and faint, lassie; but thou must remember this: god knows more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me to you. i think and do believe as we shall meet together before his face; but then i shall ha' learnt to love thee second to him; not first, as i have done here upon the earth.' then he was silent--very still. sylvia knew--widow dobson had brought it in--that there was some kind of medicine, sent by the hopeless doctors, lying upon the table hard by, and she softly rose and poured it out and dropped it into the half-open mouth. then she knelt down again, holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, and watching the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. and in the stillness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the shelving shore. something like an hour before this time, which was the deepest midnight of the summer's night, hester rose had come hurrying up the road to where kester and his sister sate outside the open door, keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all others having gone away, one by one, even john and jeremiah foster having returned to their own house, where the little bella lay, sleeping a sound and healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. hester had heard but little from william darley as to the owner of the watch and the half-crown; but he was chagrined at the failure of all his skilful interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised her further information in a few days, with all the more vehemence because he was unaccustomed to be baffled. and hester had again whispered to herself 'patience! patience!' and had slowly returned back to her home to find that sylvia had left it, why she did not at once discover. but, growing uneasy as the advancing hours neither brought sylvia nor little bella to their home, she had set out for jeremiah foster's as soon as she had seen her mother comfortably asleep in her bed; and then she had learnt the whole story, bit by bit, as each person who spoke broke in upon the previous narration with some new particular. but from no one did she clearly learn whether sylvia was with her husband, or not; and so she came speeding along the road, breathless, to where kester sate in wakeful, mournful silence, his sister's sleeping head lying on his shoulder, the cottage door open, both for air and that there might be help within call if needed; and the dim slanting oblong of the interior light lying across the road. hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to ask how much was truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which she had heard. kester looked at her without a word. through this solemn momentary silence the lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up close on the shelving shore. 'he? philip?' said she. kester shook his head sadly. 'and his wife--sylvia?' said hester. 'in there with him, alone,' whispered kester. hester turned away, and wrung her hands together. 'oh, lord god almighty!' said she, 'was i not even worthy to bring them together at last?' and she went away slowly and heavily back to the side of her sleeping mother. but 'thy will be done' was on her quivering lips before she lay down to her rest. the soft gray dawn lightens the darkness of a midsummer night soon after two o'clock. philip watched it come, knowing that it was his last sight of day,--as we reckon days on earth. he had been often near death as a soldier; once or twice, as when he rushed into fire to save kinraid, his chances of life had been as one to a hundred; but yet he had had a chance. but now there was the new feeling--the last new feeling which we shall any of us experience in this world--that death was not only close at hand, but inevitable. he felt its numbness stealing up him--stealing up him. but the head was clear, the brain more than commonly active in producing vivid impressions. it seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his mother's knee, wishing with all the earnestness of his childish heart to be like abraham, who was called the friend of god, or david, who was said to be the man after god's own heart, or st john, who was called 'the beloved.' as very present seemed the day on which he made resolutions of trying to be like them; it was in the spring, and some one had brought in cowslips; and the scent of those flowers was in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying--his life ended, his battles fought, his time for 'being good' over and gone--the opportunity, once given in all eternity, past. all the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before him; the scenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism--he could have touched the places; the people, the thoughts, the arguments that satan had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the vividness of a present time. and he knew that the thoughts were illusions, the arguments false and hollow; for in that hour came the perfect vision of the perfect truth: he saw the 'way to escape' which had come along with the temptation; now, the strong resolve of an ardent boyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 'what a christian might be'; and then the swift, terrible now, when his naked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of god's mercy-seat, out of the blaze of his anger against all those who act a lie. his mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. was this death in very deed? he tried to grasp at the present, the earthly present, fading quick away. he lay there on the bed--on sally dobson's bed in the house-place, not on his accustomed pallet in the lean-to. he knew that much. and the door was open into the still, dusk night; and through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the waves on the shelving shore, could see the soft gray dawn over the sea--he knew it was over the sea--he saw what lay unseen behind the poor walls of the cottage. and it was sylvia who held his hand tight in her warm, living grasp; it was his wife whose arm was thrown around him, whose sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time. 'god bless and comfort my darling,' he said to himself. 'she knows me now. all will be right in heaven--in the light of god's mercy.' and then he tried to remember all that he had ever read about, god, and all that the blessed christ--that bringeth glad tidings of great joy unto all people, had said of the father, from whom he came. those sayings dropped like balm down upon his troubled heart and brain. he remembered his mother, and how she had loved him; and he was going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. as he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; but sylvia clenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the same for her, for his child, and for himself. then he saw the sky redden with the first flush of dawn; he heard kester's long-drawn sigh of weariness outside the open door. he had seen widow dobson pass through long before to keep the remainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, which had been his for many and many a sleepless and tearful night. those nights were over--he should never see that poor chamber again, though it was scarce two feet distant. he began to lose all sense of the comparative duration of time: it seemed as long since kind sally dobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, before going into the humble sleeping-room--as long as it was since his boyhood, when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should be his, with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off to the woodlands where they grew. then there came a rush and an eddying through his brain--his soul trying her wings for the long flight. again he was in the present: he heard the waves lapping against the shelving shore once again. and now his thoughts came back to sylvia. once more he spoke aloud, in a strange and terrible voice, which was not his. every sound came with efforts that were new to him. 'my wife! sylvie! once more--forgive me all.' she sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips; she held him in her arms, she moaned, and said, 'oh, wicked me! forgive me--me--philip!' then he spoke, and said, 'lord, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive each other!' and after that the power of speech was conquered by the coming death. he lay very still, his consciousness fast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that he knew it was sylvia who touched his lips with cordial, and that it was sylvia who murmured words of love in his ear. he seemed to sleep at last, and so he did--a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sun fell on his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turned so as once more to see his wife's pale face of misery. 'in heaven,' he cried, and a bright smile came on his face, as he fell back on his pillow. not long after hester came, the little bella scarce awake in her arms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see him ere yet he passed away. hester had watched and prayed through the livelong night. and now she found him dead, and sylvia, tearless and almost unconscious, lying by him, her hand holding his, her other thrown around him. kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly; but she not at all. then hester bore her child to her, and sylvia opened wide her miserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was gone from her. but bella suddenly rousing up at the sight of the poor, scarred, peaceful face, cried out,-'poor man who was so hungry. is he not hungry now?' 'no,' said hester, softly. 'the former things are passed away--and he is gone where there is no more sorrow, and no more pain.' but then she broke down into weeping and crying. sylvia sat up and looked at her. 'why do yo' cry, hester?' she said. 'yo' niver said that yo' wouldn't forgive him as long as yo' lived. yo' niver broke the heart of him that loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very door. oh, philip! my philip, tender and true.' then hester came round and closed the sad half-open eyes; kissing the calm brow with a long farewell kiss. as she did so, her eye fell on a black ribbon round his neck. she partly lifted it out; to it was hung a half-crown piece. 'this is the piece he left at william darley's to be bored,' said she, 'not many days ago.' bella had crept to her mother's arms as a known haven in this strange place; and the touch of his child loosened the fountains of her tears. she stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put it round her own neck; after a while she said, 'if i live very long, and try hard to be very good all that time, do yo' think, hester, as god will let me to him where he is?' * * * * * monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing place. yet, standing near the site of widow dobson's house on a summer's night, at the ebb of a spring-tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up the shelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as that which philip listened to in the pauses between life and death. and so it will be until 'there shall be no more sea'. but the memory of man fades away. a few old people can still tell you the tradition of the man who died in a cottage somewhere about this spot,--died of starvation while his wife lived in hard-hearted plenty not two good stone-throws away. this is the form into which popular feeling, and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded the story. not long since a lady went to the 'public baths', a handsome stone building erected on the very site of widow dobson's cottage, and finding all the rooms engaged she sat down and had some talk with the bathing woman; and, as it chanced, the conversation fell on philip hepburn and the legend of his fate. 'i knew an old man when i was a girl,' said the bathing woman, 'as could niver abide to hear t' wife blamed. he would say nothing again' th' husband; he used to say as it were not fit for men to be judging; that she had had her sore trial, as well as hepburn hisself.' the lady asked, 'what became of the wife?' 'she was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. i can just remember her when i was a little child, but she died before her daughter was well grown up; and miss rose took t' lassie, as had always been like her own.' 'miss rose?' 'hester rose! have yo' niver heared of hester rose, she as founded t' alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers on t' horncastle road? there's a piece o' stone in front to say that "this building is erected in memory of p. h."--and some folk will have it p. h. stands for t' name o' th' man as was starved to death.' 'and the daughter?' 'one o' th' fosters, them as founded t' old bank, left her a vast o' money; and she were married to distant cousin of theirs, and went off to settle in america many and many a year ago.' the end. [editor's note:--the chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter xv and volume 3 starts with chapter xxx.] sylvia's lovers. by elizabeth gaskell oh for thy voice to soothe and bless! what hope of answer, or redress? behind the veil! behind the veil!--tennyson in three volumes. vol. ii. london: m.dccc.lxiii. contents xv a difficult question xvi the engagement xvii rejected warnings xviii eddy in love's current xix an important mission xx loved and lost xxi a rejected suitor xxii deepening shadows xxiii retaliation xxiv brief rejoicing xxv coming troubles xxvi a dreary vigil xxvii gloomy days xxviii the ordeal xxix wedding raiment chapter xv a difficult question philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope. the night before it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes; he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours before, had been almost impious, so great was the change in his circumstances for the better. now all seemed promising for the fulfilment of what he most desired. he was almost convinced that he was mistaken in thinking that kinraid had had anything more than a sailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to sylvia; at any rate, he was going away to-morrow, in all probability not to return for another year (for greenland ships left for the northern seas as soon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere then he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love. so this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they had been the night before; they were a vehement expression of gratitude to god for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to grant him the desire of his eyes and the lust of his heart. he was like too many of us, he did not place his future life in the hands of god, and only ask for grace to do his will in whatever circumstances might arise; but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing which, when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out to be equivalent to a curse. and that spirit brings with it the material and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes are answers to our prayer; and so they are in one sense, but they need prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptation to evil which such events invariably bring with them. philip little knew how sylvia's time had been passed that day. if he had, he would have laid down this night with even a heavier heart than he had done on the last. charley kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where the path to haytersbank farm diverged. then he stopped his merry talk, and announced his intention of going to see farmer robson. bessy corney looked disappointed and a little sulky; but her sister molly brunton laughed, and said,-'tell truth, lad! dannel robson 'd niver have a call fra' thee if he hadn't a pretty daughter.' 'indeed, but he would,' replied charley, rather annoyed; 'when i've said a thing, i do it. i promised last night to go see him; besides, i like the old man.' 'well! when shall we tell mother yo're comin' whoam?' 'toward eight o'clock--may-be sooner.' 'why it's bare five now! bless t' lad, does he think o' staying theere a' neet, and they up so late last night, and mrs. robson ailing beside? mother 'll not think it kind on yo' either, will she, bess?' 'i dunno. charley mun do as he likes; i daresay no one'll miss him if he does bide away till eight.' 'well, well! i can't tell what i shall do; but yo'd best not stop lingering here, for it's getting on, and there'll be a keen frost by t' look o' the stars.' haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed; there were no shutters to the windows, nor did they care to draw the inside curtains, so few were the passers-by. the house door was fastened; but the shippen door a little on in the same long low block of building stood open, and a dim light made an oblong upon the snowy ground outside. as kinraid drew near he heard talking there, and a woman's voice; he threw a passing glance through the window into the fire-lit house-place, and seeing mrs. robson asleep by the fireside in her easy-chair, he went on. there was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into the pail, and kester, sitting on a three-legged stool, cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. sylvia stood near the farther window-ledge, on which a horn lantern was placed, pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in reality laughing at kester's futile endeavours, and finding quite enough to do with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail, or the occasional kick. the frosty air was mellowed by the warm and odorous breath of the cattle--breath that hung about the place in faint misty clouds. there was only a dim light; such as it was, it was not dearly defined against the dark heavy shadow in which the old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped. as charley came to the door, kester was saying, 'quiet wi' thee, wench! theere now, she's a beauty, if she'll stand still. there's niver sich a cow i' t' riding; if she'll only behave hersel'. she's a bonny lass, she is; let down her milk, theere's a pretty!' 'why, kester,' laughed sylvia, 'thou'rt asking her for her milk wi' as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a wife!' 'hey, lass!' said kester, turning a bit towards her, and shutting one eye to cock the other the better upon her; an operation which puckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines and folds. 'an' how does thee know how a man woos a wife, that thee talks so knowin' about it? that's tellin'. some un's been tryin' it on thee.' 'there's niver a one been so impudent,' said sylvia, reddening and tossing her head a little; 'i'd like to see 'em try me!' 'well, well!' said kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning, 'thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou's a good lass, may-be thy turn 'll come and they 'll try it.' 'i wish thou'd talk of what thou's some knowledge on, kester, i'stead of i' that silly way,' replied sylvia. 'then a mun talk no more 'bout women, for they're past knowin', an' druv e'en king solomon silly.' at this moment charley stepped in. sylvia gave a little start and dropped her ball of worsted. kester made as though absorbed in his task of cajoling black nell; but his eyes and ears were both vigilant. 'i was going into the house, but i saw yo'r mother asleep, and i didn't like to waken her, so i just came on here. is yo'r father to the fore?' 'no,' said sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if he could have heard the way in which she and kester had been talking, and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger against herself. 'father is gone to winthrop about some pigs as he's heerd on. he'll not be back till seven o'clock or so.' it was but half-past five, and sylvia in the irritation of the moment believed that she wished kinraid would go. but she would have been extremely disappointed if he had. kinraid himself seemed to have no thought of the kind. he saw with his quick eyes, not unaccustomed to women, that his coming so unexpectedly had fluttered sylvia, and anxious to make her quite at her ease with him, and not unwilling to conciliate kester, he addressed his next speech to him, with the same kind of air of interest in the old man's pursuit that a young man of a different class sometimes puts on when talking to the chaperone of a pretty girl in a ball-room. 'that's a handsome beast yo've just been milking, master.' 'ay; but handsome is as handsome does. it were only yesterday as she aimed her leg right at t' pail wi' t' afterings in. she knowed it were afterings as well as any christian, and t' more t' mischief t' better she likes it; an' if a hadn't been too quick for her, it would have a' gone swash down i' t' litter. this'n 's a far better cow i' t' long run, she's just a steady goer,' as the milky down-pour came musical and even from the stall next to black nell's. sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the while that it was a great pity she had not put on a better gown, or even a cap with brighter ribbon, and quite unconscious how very pretty she looked standing against the faint light, her head a little bent down; her hair catching bright golden touches, as it fell from under her little linen cap; her pink bed-gown, confined by her apron-string, giving a sort of easy grace to her figure; her dark full linsey petticoat short above her trim ancles, looking far more suitable to the place where she was standing than her long gown of the night before would have done. kinraid was wanting to talk to her, and to make her talk, but was uncertain how to begin. in the meantime kester went on with the subject last spoken about. 'black nell's at her fourth calf now, so she ought to ha' left off her tricks and turned sober-like. but bless yo', there's some cows as 'll be skittish till they're fat for t' butcher. not but what a like milking her better nor a steady goer; a man has allays summat to be watchin' for; and a'm kind o' set up when a've mastered her at last. t' young missus theere, she's mighty fond o' comin' t' see black nell at her tantrums. she'd niver come near me if a' cows were like this'n.' 'do you often come and see the cows milked?' asked kinraid, 'many a time,' said sylvia, smiling a little. 'why, when we're throng, i help kester; but now we've only black nell and daisy giving milk. kester knows as i can milk black nell quite easy,' she continued, half vexed that kester had not named this accomplishment. 'ay! when she's in a good frame o' mind, as she is sometimes. but t' difficulty is to milk her at all times.' 'i wish i'd come a bit sooner. i should like t' have seen you milk black nell,' addressing sylvia. 'yo'd better come to-morrow e'en, and see what a hand she'll mak' on her,' said kester. 'to-morrow night i shall be far on my road back to shields.' 'to-morrow!' said sylvia, suddenly looking up at him, and then dropping her eyes, as she found he had been watching for the effect of his intelligence on her. 'i mun be back at t' whaler, where i'm engaged,' continued he. 'she's fitting up after a fresh fashion, and as i've been one as wanted new ways, i mun be on the spot for t' look after her. maybe i shall take a run down here afore sailing in march. i'm sure i shall try.' there was a good deal meant and understood by these last few words. the tone in which they were spoken gave them a tender intensity not lost upon either of the hearers. kester cocked his eye once more, but with as little obtrusiveness as he could, and pondered the sailor's looks and ways. he remembered his coming about the place the winter before, and how the old master had then appeared to have taken to him; but at that time sylvia had seemed to kester too little removed from a child to have either art or part in kinraid's visits; now, however, the case was different. kester in his sphere--among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it was--had heard with much pride of sylvia's bearing away the bell at church and at market, wherever girls of her age were congregated. he was a north countryman, so he gave out no further sign of his feelings than his mistress and sylvia's mother had done on a like occasion. 't' lass is weel enough,' said he; but he grinned to himself, and looked about, and listened to the hearsay of every lad, wondering who was handsome, and brave, and good enough to be sylvia's mate. now, of late, it had seemed to the canny farm-servant pretty clear that philip hepburn was 'after her'; and to philip, kester had an instinctive objection, a kind of natural antipathy such as has existed in all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in the country, between agriculture and trade. so, while kinraid and sylvia kept up their half-tender, half-jesting conversation, kester was making up his slow persistent mind as to the desirability of the young man then present as a husband for his darling, as much from his being other than philip in every respect, as from the individual good qualities he possessed. kester's first opportunity of favouring kinraid's suit consisted in being as long as possible over his milking; so never were cows that required such 'stripping,' or were expected to yield such 'afterings', as black nell and daisy that night. but all things must come to an end; and at length kester got up from his three-legged stool, on seeing what the others did not--that the dip-candle in the lantern was coming to an end--and that in two or three minutes more the shippen would be in darkness, and so his pails of milk be endangered. in an instant sylvia had started out of her delicious dreamland, her drooping eyes were raised, and recovered their power of observation; her ruddy arms were freed from the apron in which she had enfolded them, as a protection from the gathering cold, and she had seized and adjusted the wooden yoke across her shoulders, ready to bear the brimming milk-pails to the dairy. 'look yo' at her!' exclaimed kester to charley, as he adjusted the fragrant pails on the yoke. 'she thinks she's missus a ready, and she's allays for carrying in t' milk since t' rhumatiz cotched my shouther i' t' back end; and when she says "yea," it's as much as my heed's worth to say "nay."' and along the wall, round the corner, down the round slippery stones of the rambling farmyard, behind the buildings, did sylvia trip, safe and well-poised, though the ground wore all one coating of white snow, and in many places was so slippery as to oblige kinraid to linger near kester, the lantern-bearer. kester did not lose his opportunity, though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic cough when-ever he breathed, and often interrupted his words. 'she's a good wench--a good wench as iver was--an come on a good stock, an' that's summat, whether in a cow or a woman. a've known her from a baby; she's a reet down good un.' by this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, just as sylvia had unladen herself, and was striking a light with flint and tinder. the house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air, although the kitchen into which they entered contained only a raked and slumbering fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung the immense pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. to this pan kester immediately addressed himself, swinging it round with ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the old-fashioned machinery. kinraid stood between kester and the door into the dairy, through which sylvia had vanished with the milk. he half wished to conciliate kester by helping him, but he seemed also attracted, by a force which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went. kester read his mind. 'let alone, let alone,' said he; 'pigs' vittle takes noan such dainty carryin' as milk. a may set it down an' niver spill a drop; she's noan fit for t' serve swine, nor yo' other, mester; better help her t' teem t' milk.' so kinraid followed the light--his light--into the icy chill of the dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed with the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans. in his haste to help her, charley took up one of the pails. 'eh? that'n 's to be strained. yo' have a' the cow's hair in. mother's very particular, and cannot abide a hair.' so she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she--but not before he--was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer over the bowl, and pouring the white liquid through it. 'there!' said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; 'now yo'll know how to do it next time.' 'i wish next time was to come now,' said kinraid; but she had returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear him. he followed her to her side of the dairy. 'i've but a short memory, can yo' not show me again how t' hold t' strainer?' 'no,' said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. 'but there's no need to tell me yo've getten a short memory.' 'why? what have i done? how dun you know it?' 'last night,' she began, and then she stopped, and turned away her head, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and such like. 'well!' said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and flattered by it, if his conjecture were right. 'last night--what?' 'oh, yo' know!' said she, as if impatient at being both literally and metaphorically followed about, and driven into a corner. 'no; tell me,' persisted he. 'well,' said she, 'if yo' will have it, i think yo' showed yo'd but a short memory when yo' didn't know me again, and yo' were five times at this house last winter, and that's not so long sin'. but i suppose yo' see a vast o' things on yo'r voyages by land or by sea, and then it's but natural yo' should forget.' she wished she could go on talking, but could not think of anything more to say just then; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flattering interpretation he might put upon her words, on her knowing so exactly the number of times he had been to haytersbank, flashed upon her, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther afield--to make it a little less personal. this was not his wish, however. in a tone which thrilled through her, even in her own despite, he said,-'do yo' think that can ever happen again, sylvia?' she was quite silent; almost trembling. he repeated the question as if to force her to answer. driven to bay, she equivocated. 'what happen again? let me go, i dunno what yo're talking about, and i'm a'most numbed wi' cold.' for the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window, and the ice was already forming on the milk. kinraid would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most young women, warm; but he paused before he dared put his arm round sylvia; she had something so shy and wild in her look and manner; and her very innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check. so he contented himself with saying,-'i'll let yo' go into t' warm kitchen if yo'll tell me if yo' think i can ever forget yo' again.' she looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. he enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question; it showed she felt its significance. her pure eyes looked steadily into his; nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make her afraid. they were like two children defying each other; each determined to conquer. at last she unclosed her lips, and nodding her head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more in her check apron,-'yo'll have to go home sometime.' 'not for a couple of hours yet,' said he; 'and yo'll be frozen first; so yo'd better say if i can ever forget yo' again, without more ado.' perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence,--perhaps the tones were less modulated than they had been before, but anyhow bell robson's voice was heard calling sylvia through the second door, which opened from the dairy to the house-place, in which her mother had been till this moment asleep. sylvia darted off in obedience to the call; glad to leave him, as at the moment kinraid resentfully imagined. through the open door he heard the conversation between mother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning, so difficult did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas he had just been forming with sylvia's bright lovely face right under his eyes. 'sylvia!' said her mother, 'who's yonder?' bell was sitting up in the attitude of one startled out of slumber into intensity of listening; her hands on each of the chair-arms, as if just going to rise. 'there's a fremd man i' t' house. i heerd his voice!' 'it's only--it's just charley kinraid; he was a-talking to me i' t' dairy.' 'i' t' dairy, lass! and how com'd he i' t' dairy?' 'he com'd to see feyther. feyther asked him last night,' said sylvia, conscious that he could overhear every word that was said, and a little suspecting that he was no great favourite with her mother. 'thy feyther's out; how com'd he i' t' dairy?' persevered bell. 'he com'd past this window, and saw yo' asleep, and didn't like for t' waken yo'; so he com'd on to t' shippen, and when i carried t' milk in---' but now kinraid came in, feeling the awkwardness of his situation a little, yet with an expression so pleasant and manly in his open face, and in his exculpatory manner, that sylvia lost his first words in a strange kind of pride of possession in him, about which she did not reason nor care to define the grounds. but her mother rose from her chair somewhat formally, as if she did not intend to sit down again while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in that standing attitude long. 'i'm afeared, sir, sylvie hasn't told yo' that my master's out, and not like to be in till late. he'll be main and sorry to have missed yo'.' there was nothing for it after this but to go. his only comfort was that on sylvia's rosy face he could read unmistakable signs of regret and dismay. his sailor's life, in bringing him suddenly face to face with unexpected events, had given him something of that self-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman; and with an apparent calmness which almost disappointed sylvia, who construed it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or stayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in holding her hand a minute longer than was absolutely necessary,-'i'm coming back ere i sail; and then, may-be, you'll answer yon question.' he spoke low, and her mother was rearranging herself in her chair, else sylvia would have had to repeat the previous words. as it was, with soft thrilling ideas ringing through her, she could get her wheel, and sit down to her spinning by the fire; waiting for her mother to speak first, sylvia dreamt her dreams. bell robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as it lay on the surface. she was not aware how deep down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl's heart who sat on the other side of the fire, with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure. bell looked upon sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbidden things by threats of danger. but the forbidden thing was already tasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it more precious-sweet. bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. her milk-white linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face, from which the usual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from the same cause, rendered more prominent and stern. she had a clean buff kerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her sunday woollen gown of dark blue,--if she had been in working-trim she would have worn a bedgown like sylvia's. her sleeves were pinned back at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands lay crossed in unwonted idleness on her check apron. her knitting was by her side; and if she had been going through any accustomed calculation or consideration she would have had it busily clinking in her fingers. but she had something quite beyond common to think about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was not equal to knitting. 'sylvie,' she began at length, 'did i e'er tell thee on nancy hartley as i knew when i were a child? i'm thinking a deal on her to-night; may-be it's because i've been dreaming on yon old times. she was a bonny lass as ever were seen, i've heerd folk say; but that were afore i knew her. when i knew her she were crazy, poor wench; wi' her black hair a-streaming down her back, and her eyes, as were a'most as black, allays crying out for pity, though never a word she spoke but "he once was here." just that o'er and o'er again, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, "he once was here," were all her speech. she had been farm-servant to my mother's brother--james hepburn, thy great-uncle as was; she were a poor, friendless wench, a parish 'prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad, as nobody knowed, come o'er the hills one sheep-shearing fra' whitehaven; he had summat to do wi' th' sea, though not rightly to be called a sailor: and he made a deal on nancy hartley, just to beguile the time like; and he went away and ne'er sent a thought after her more. it's the way as lads have; and there's no holding 'em when they're fellows as nobody knows--neither where they come fro', nor what they've been doing a' their lives, till they come athwart some poor wench like nancy hartley. she were but a softy after all: for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. i've heerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was wrong wi' nancy as soon as th' milk turned bingy, for there ne'er had been such a clean lass about her milk-cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse, and she would sit and do nothing but play wi' her fingers fro' morn till night, and if they asked her what ailed her, she just said, "he once was here;" and if they bid her go about her work, it were a' the same. and when they scolded her, and pretty sharp too, she would stand up and put her hair from her eyes, and look about her like a crazy thing searching for her wits, and ne'er finding them, for all she could think on was just, "he once was here." it were a caution to me again thinking a man t' mean what he says when he's a-talking to a young woman.' 'but what became on poor nancy?' asked sylvia. 'what should become on her or on any lass as gives hersel' up to thinking on a man who cares nought for her?' replied her mother, a little severely. 'she were crazed, and my aunt couldn't keep her on, could she? she did keep her a long weary time, thinking as she would, may-be, come to hersel', and, anyhow, she were a motherless wench. but at length she had for t' go where she came fro'--back to keswick workhouse: and when last i heerd on her she were chained to th' great kitchen dresser i' t' workhouse; they'd beaten her till she were taught to be silent and quiet i' th' daytime, but at night, when she were left alone, she would take up th' oud cry, till it wrung their heart, so they'd many a time to come down and beat her again to get any peace. it were a caution to me, as i said afore, to keep fro' thinking on men as thought nought on me.' 'poor crazy nancy!' sighed sylvia. the mother wondered if she had taken the 'caution' to herself, or was only full of pity for the mad girl, dead long before. chapter xvi the engagement 'as the day lengthens so the cold strengthens.' it was so that year; the hard frost which began on new year's eve lasted on and on into late february, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers, as it kept back the too early growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gave them the opportunity of leading manure. but it did not suit invalids as well, and bell robson, though not getting worse, did not make any progress towards amendment. sylvia was kept very busy, notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow-woman in the neighbourhood on cleaning, or washing, or churning days. her life was quiet and monotonous, although hard-working; and while her hands mechanically found and did their accustomed labour, the thoughts that rose in her head always centred on charley kinraid, his ways, his words, his looks, whether they all meant what she would fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love at the time, such a feeling was likely to endure. her mother's story of crazy nancy had taken hold of her; but not as a 'caution,' rather as a parallel case to her own. like nancy, and borrowing the poor girl's own words, she would say softly to herself, 'he once was here'; but all along she believed in her heart he would come back again to her, though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies of forsaken love. philip knew little of all this. he was very busy with facts and figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary business, and only now and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going to haytersbank in an evening, to inquire after his aunt's health, and to see sylvia; for the two fosters were punctiliously anxious to make their shopmen test all their statements; insisting on an examination of the stock, as if hepburn and coulson were strangers to the shop; having the monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise the fixtures and necessary furniture; going over the shop books for the last twenty years with their successors, an employment which took up evening after evening; and not unfrequently taking one of the young men on the long commercial journeys which were tediously made in a gig. by degrees both hepburn and coulson were introduced to distant manufacturers and wholesale dealers. they would have been willing to take the fosters' word for every statement the brothers had made on new year's day; but this, it was evident, would not have satisfied their masters, who were scrupulous in insisting that whatever advantage there was should always fall on the side of the younger men. when philip saw sylvia she was always quiet and gentle; perhaps more silent than she had been a year ago, and she did not attend so briskly to what was passing around her. she was rather thinner and paler; but whatever change there was in her was always an improvement in philip's eyes, so long as she spoke graciously to him. he thought she was suffering from long-continued anxiety about her mother, or that she had too much to do; and either cause was enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference which had a repressed tenderness in it, of which she, otherwise occupied, was quite unaware. she liked him better, too, than she had done a year or two before, because he did not show her any of the eager attention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fully understood. things were much in this state when the frost broke, and milder weather succeeded. this was the time so long looked forward to by the invalid and her friends, as favouring the doctor's recommendation of change of air. her husband was to take her to spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, who lived near the farm they had occupied, forty miles or so inland, before they came to haytersbank. the widow-woman was to come and stay in the house, to keep sylvia company, during her mother's absence. daniel, indeed, was to return home after conveying his wife to her destination; but there was so much to be done on the land at this time of the year, that sylvia would have been alone all day had it not been for the arrangement just mentioned. there was active stirring in monkshaven harbour as well as on shore. the whalers were finishing their fittings-out for the greenland seas. it was a 'close' season, that is to say, there would be difficulty in passing the barrier of ice which lay between the ships and the whaling-grounds; and yet these must be reached before june, or the year's expedition would be of little avail. every blacksmith's shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers, beating out old iron, such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into the great harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and important sailors, rushing hither and thither, conscious of the demand in which they were held at this season of the year. it was war time, too. many captains unable to procure men in monkshaven would have to complete their crews in the shetlands. the shops in the town were equally busy; stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters, warm clothing of all sorts to be provided. these were the larger wholesale orders; but many a man, and woman, too, brought out their small hoards to purchase extra comforts, or precious keepsakes for some beloved one. it was the time of the great half-yearly traffic of the place; another impetus was given to business when the whalers returned in the autumn, and the men were flush of money, and full of delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends. there was much to be done in fosters' shop, and later hours were kept than usual. some perplexity or other was occupying john and jeremiah foster; their minds were not so much on the alert as usual, being engaged on some weighty matter of which they had as yet spoken to no one. but it thus happened that they did not give the prompt assistance they were accustomed to render at such times; and coulson had been away on some of the new expeditions devolving on him and philip as future partners. one evening after the shop was closed, while they were examining the goods, and comparing the sales with the entries in the day-book, coulson suddenly inquired-'by the way, hester, does thee know where the parcel of best bandanas is gone? there was four left, as i'm pretty sure, when i set off to sandsend; and to-day mark alderson came in, and would fain have had one, and i could find none nowhere.' 'i sold t' last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who fought the press-gang same time as poor darley were killed. he took it, and three yards of yon pink ribbon wi' t' black and yellow crosses on it, as philip could never abide. philip has got 'em i' t' book, if he'll only look.' 'is he here again?' said philip; 'i didn't see him. what brings him here, where he's noan wanted?' 't' shop were throng wi' folk,' said hester, 'and he knew his own mind about the handkercher, and didn't tarry long. just as he was leaving, his eye caught on t' ribbon, and he came back for it. it were when yo' were serving mary darby and there was a vast o' folk about yo'.' 'i wish i'd seen him,' said coulson. 'i'd ha' gi'en him a word and a look he'd not ha' forgotten in a hurry.' 'why, what's up?' said philip, surprised at william's unusual manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a reflection of his own feelings about kinraid. coulson's face was pale with anger, but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he would reply or not. 'up!' said he at length. 'it's just this: he came after my sister for better nor two year; and a better lass--no, nor a prettier i' my eyes--niver broke bread. and then my master saw another girl, that he liked better'--william almost choked in his endeavour to keep down all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, 'and that he played t' same game wi', as i've heerd tell.' 'and how did thy sister take it?' asked philip, eagerly. 'she died in a six-month,' said william; '_she_ forgived him, but it's beyond me. i thought it were him when i heerd of t' work about darley; kinraid--and coming fra' newcassel, where annie lived 'prentice--and i made inquiry, and it were t' same man. but i'll say no more about him, for it stirs t' old adam more nor i like, or is fitting.' out of respect to him, philip asked no more questions although there were many things that he fain would have known. both coulson and he went silently and grimly through the remainder of their day's work. independent of any personal interest which either or both of them had or might have in kinraid's being a light o' love, this fault of his was one with which the two grave, sedate young men had no sympathy. their hearts were true and constant, whatever else might be their failings; and it is no new thing to 'damn the faults we have no mind to.' philip wished that it was not so late, or that very evening he would have gone to keep guard over sylvia in her mother's absence--nay, perhaps he might have seen reason to give her a warning of some kind. but, if he had done so, it would have been locking the stable-door after the steed was stolen. kinraid had turned his steps towards haytersbank farm as soon as ever he had completed his purchases. he had only come that afternoon to monkshaven, and for the sole purpose of seeing sylvia once more before he went to fulfil his engagement as specksioneer in the _urania_, a whaling-vessel that was to sail from north shields on thursday morning, and this was monday. sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low window, in order to have all the light the afternoon hour afforded for her work. a basket of her father's unmended stockings was on the little round table beside her, and one was on her left hand, which she supposed herself to be mending; but from time to time she made long pauses, and looked in the fire; and yet there was but little motion of flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. it was 'redd up' for the afternoon; covered with a black mass of coal, over which the equally black kettle hung on the crook. in the back-kitchen dolly reid, sylvia's assistant during her mother's absence, chanted a lugubrious ditty, befitting her condition as a widow, while she cleaned tins, and cans, and milking-pails. perhaps these bustling sounds prevented sylvia from hearing approaching footsteps coming down the brow with swift advance; at any rate, she started and suddenly stood up as some one entered the open door. it was strange she should be so much startled, for the person who entered had been in her thoughts all during those long pauses. charley kinraid and the story of crazy nancy had been the subjects for her dreams for many a day, and many a night. now he stood there, bright and handsome as ever, with just that much timidity in his face, that anxiety as to his welcome, which gave his accost an added charm, could she but have perceived it. but she was so afraid of herself, so unwilling to show what she felt, and how much she had been thinking of him in his absence, that her reception seemed cold and still. she did not come forward to meet him; she went crimson to the very roots of her hair; but that, in the waning light, he could not see; and she shook so that she felt as if she could hardly stand; but the tremor was not visible to him. she wondered if he remembered the kiss that had passed between them on new year's eve--the words that had been spoken in the dairy on new year's day; the tones, the looks, that had accompanied those words. but all she said was-'i didn't think to see yo'. i thought yo'd ha' sailed.' 'i told yo' i should come back, didn't i?' said he, still standing, with his hat in his hand, waiting to be asked to sit down; and she, in her bashfulness, forgetting to give the invitation, but, instead, pretending to be attentively mending the stocking she held. neither could keep quiet and silent long. she felt his eyes were upon her, watching every motion, and grew more and more confused in her expression and behaviour. he was a little taken aback by the nature of his reception, and was not sure at first whether to take the great change in her manner, from what it had been when last he saw her, as a favourable symptom or otherwise. by-and-by, luckily for him, in some turn of her arm to reach the scissors on the table, she caught the edge of her work-basket, and down it fell. she stooped to pick up the scattered stockings and ball of worsted, and so did he; and when they rose up, he had fast hold of her hand, and her face was turned away, half ready to cry. 'what ails yo' at me?' said he, beseechingly. 'yo' might ha' forgotten me; and yet i thought we made a bargain against forgetting each other.' no answer. he went on: 'yo've never been out o' my thoughts, sylvia robson; and i'm come back to monkshaven for nought but to see you once and again afore i go away to the northern seas. it's not two hour sin' i landed at monkshaven, and i've been near neither kith nor kin as yet; and now i'm here you won't speak to me.' 'i don't know what to say,' said she, in a low, almost inaudible tone. then hardening herself, and resolving to speak as if she did not understand his only half-expressed meaning, she lifted up her head, and all but looking at him--while she wrenched her hand out of his--she said: 'mother's gone to middleham for a visit, and feyther's out i' t' plough-field wi' kester; but he'll be in afore long.' charley did not speak for a minute or so. then he said-'yo're not so dull as to think i'm come all this way for t' see either your father or your mother. i've a great respect for 'em both; but i'd hardly ha' come all this way for to see 'em, and me bound to be back i' shields, if i walk every step of the way, by wednesday night. it's that yo' won't understand my meaning, sylvia; it's not that yo' don't, or that yo' can't.' he made no effort to repossess himself of her hand. she was quite silent, but in spite of herself she drew long hard breaths. 'i may go back to where i came from,' he went on. 'i thought to go to sea wi' a blessed hope to cheer me up, and a knowledge o' some one as loved me as i'd left behind; some one as loved me half as much as i did her; for th' measure o' my love toward her is so great and mighty, i'd be content wi' half as much from her, till i'd taught her to love me more. but if she's a cold heart and cannot care for a honest sailor, why, then, i'd best go back at once.' he made for the door. he must have been pretty sure from some sign or other, or he would never have left it to her womanly pride to give way, and for her to make the next advance. he had not taken two steps when she turned quickly towards him, and said something--the echo of which, rather than the words themselves, reached him. 'i didn't know yo' cared for me; yo' niver said so.' in an instant he was back at her side, his arm round her in spite of her short struggle, and his eager passionate voice saying, 'yo' never knowed i loved you, sylvia? say it again, and look i' my face while yo' say it, if yo' can. why, last winter i thought yo'd be such a woman when yo'd come to be one as my een had never looked upon, and this year, ever sin' i saw yo' i' the kitchen corner sitting crouching behind my uncle, i as good as swore i'd have yo' for wife, or never wed at all. and it was not long ere yo' knowed it, for all yo' were so coy, and now yo' have the face--no, yo' have not the face--come, my darling, what is it?' for she was crying; and on his turning her wet blushing face towards him the better to look at it, she suddenly hid it in his breast. he lulled and soothed her in his arms, as if she had been a weeping child and he her mother; and then they sat down on the settle together, and when she was more composed they began to talk. he asked her about her mother; not sorry in his heart at bell robson's absence. he had intended if necessary to acknowledge his wishes and desires with regard to sylvia to her parents; but for various reasons he was not sorry that circumstances had given him the chance of seeing her alone, and obtaining her promise to marry him without being obliged to tell either her father or her mother at present. 'i ha' spent my money pretty free,' he said, 'and i've ne'er a penny to the fore, and yo'r parents may look for something better for yo', my pretty: but when i come back fro' this voyage i shall stand a chance of having a share i' th' _urania_, and may-be i shall be mate as well as specksioneer; and i can get a matter of from seventy to ninety pound a voyage, let alone th' half-guineas for every whale i strike, and six shilling a gallon on th' oil; and if i keep steady wi' forbes and company, they'll make me master i' time, for i've had good schooling, and can work a ship as well as any man; an' i leave yo' wi' yo'r parents, or take a cottage for yo' nigh at hand; but i would like to have something to the fore, and that i shall have, please god, when we come back i' th' autumn. i shall go to sea happy, now, thinking i've yo'r word. yo're not one to go back from it, i'm sure, else it's a long time to leave such a pretty girl as yo', and ne'er a chance of a letter reaching yo' just to tell yo' once again how i love yo', and to bid yo' not forget yo'r true love.' 'there'll be no need o' that,' murmured sylvia. she was too dizzy with happiness to have attended much to his details of his worldly prospects, but at the sound of his tender words of love her eager heart was ready to listen. 'i don't know,' said he, wanting to draw her out into more confession of her feelings. 'there's many a one ready to come after yo'; and yo'r mother is not o'er captivated wi' me; and there's yon tall fellow of a cousin as looks black at me, for if i'm not mista'en he's a notion of being sweet on yo' hisself.' 'not he,' said sylvia, with some contempt in her tone. 'he's so full o' business and t' shop, and o' makin' money, and gettin' wealth.' 'ay, ay; but perhaps when he gets a rich man he'll come and ask my sylvia to be his wife, and what will she say then?' 'he'll niver come asking such a foolish question,' said she, a little impatiently; 'he knows what answer he'd get if he did.' kinraid said, almost as if to himself, 'yo'r mother favours him though.' but she, weary of a subject she cared nothing about, and eager to identify herself with all his interests, asked him about his plans almost at the same time that he said these last words; and they went on as lovers do, intermixing a great many tender expressions with a very little conversation relating to facts. dolly reid came in, and went out softly, unheeded by them. but sylvia's listening ears caught her father's voice, as he and kester returned homewards from their day's work in the plough-field; and she started away, and fled upstairs in shy affright, leaving charley to explain his presence in the solitary kitchen to her father. he came in, not seeing that any one was there at first; for they had never thought of lighting a candle. kinraid stepped forward into the firelight; his purpose of concealing what he had said to sylvia quite melted away by the cordial welcome her father gave him the instant that he recognized him. 'bless thee, lad! who'd ha' thought o' seein' thee? why, if iver a thought on thee at all, it were half way to davis' straits. to be sure, t' winter's been a dree season, and thou'rt, may-be, i' t' reet on 't to mak' a late start. latest start as iver i made was ninth o' march, an' we struck thirteen whales that year.' 'i have something to say to you,' said charley, in a hesitating voice, so different to his usual hearty way, that daniel gave him a keen look of attention before he began to speak. and, perhaps, the elder man was not unprepared for the communication that followed. at any rate, it was not unwelcome. he liked kinraid, and had strong sympathy not merely with what he knew of the young sailor's character, but with the life he led, and the business he followed. robson listened to all he said with approving nods and winks, till charley had told him everything he had to say; and then he turned and struck his broad horny palm into kinraid's as if concluding a bargain, while he expressed in words his hearty consent to their engagement. he wound up with a chuckle, as the thought struck him that this great piece of business, of disposing of their only child, had been concluded while his wife was away. 'a'm noan so sure as t' missus 'll like it,' said he; 'tho' whativer she'll ha' to say again it, mischief only knows. but she's noan keen on matterimony; though a have made her as good a man as there is in a' t' ridings. anyhow, a'm master, and that she knows. but may-be, for t' sake o' peace an' quietness--tho' she's niver a scolding tongue, that a will say for her--we'n best keep this matter to ourselves till thou comes int' port again. t' lass upstairs 'll like nought better than t' curl hersel' round a secret, and purr o'er it, just as t' oud cat does o'er her blind kitten. but thou'll be wanting to see t' lass, a'll be bound. an oud man like me isn't as good company as a pretty lass.' laughing a low rich laugh over his own wit, daniel went to the bottom of the stairs, and called, 'sylvie, sylvie! come down, lass! a's reet; come down!' for a time there was no answer. then a door was unbolted, and sylvia said, 'i can't come down again. i'm noan comin' down again to-night.' daniel laughed the more at this, especially when he caught charley's look of disappointment. 'hearken how she's bolted her door. she'll noane come near us this night. eh! but she's a stiff little 'un; she's been our only one, and we'n mostly let her have her own way. but we'll have a pipe and a glass; and that, to my thinking, is as good company as iver a woman in yorkshire.' chapter xvii rejected warnings the post arrived at monkshaven three times in the week; sometimes, indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the bag, which was brought thither by a man in a light mail-cart, who took the better part of a day to drive from york; dropping private bags here and there on the moors, at some squire's lodge or roadside inn. of the number of letters that arrived in monkshaven, the fosters, shopkeepers and bankers, had the largest share. the morning succeeding the day on which sylvia had engaged herself to kinraid, the fosters seemed unusually anxious to obtain their letters. several times jeremiah came out of the parlour in which his brother john was sitting in expectant silence, and, passing through the shop, looked up and down the market-place in search of the old lame woman, who was charitably employed to deliver letters, and who must have been lamer than ever this morning, to judge from the lateness of her coming. although none but the fosters knew the cause of their impatience for their letters, yet there was such tacit sympathy between them and those whom they employed, that hepburn, coulson, and hester were all much relieved when the old woman at length appeared with her basket of letters. one of these seemed of especial consequence to the good brothers. they each separately looked at the direction, and then at one another; and without a word they returned with it unread into the parlour, shutting the door, and drawing the green silk curtain close, the better to read it in privacy. both coulson and philip felt that something unusual was going on, and were, perhaps, as full of consideration as to the possible contents of this london letter, as of attention to their more immediate business. but fortunately there was little doing in the shop. philip, indeed, was quite idle when john foster opened the parlour-door, and, half doubtfully, called him into the room. as the door of communication shut the three in, coulson felt himself a little aggrieved. a minute ago philip and he were on a level of ignorance, from which the former was evidently going to be raised. but he soon returned to his usual state of acquiescence in things as they were, which was partly constitutional, and partly the result of his quaker training. it was apparently by john foster's wish that philip had been summoned. jeremiah, the less energetic and decided brother, was still discussing the propriety of the step when philip entered. 'no need for haste, john; better not call the young man till we have further considered the matter.' but the young man was there in presence; and john's will carried the day. it seemed from his account to philip (explanatory of what he, in advance of his brother's slower judgment, thought to be a necessary step), that the fosters had for some time received anonymous letters, warning them, with distinct meaning, though in ambiguous terms, against a certain silk-manufacturer in spitalfields, with whom they had had straightforward business dealings for many years; but to whom they had latterly advanced money. the letters hinted at the utter insolvency of this manufacturer. they had urged their correspondent to give them his name in confidence, and this morning's letter had brought it; but the name was totally unknown to them, though there seemed no reason to doubt the reality of either it or the address, the latter of which was given in full. certain circumstances were mentioned regarding the transactions between the fosters and this manufacturer, which could be known only to those who were in the confidence of one or the other; and to the fosters the man was, as has been said, a perfect stranger. probably, they would have been unwilling to incur the risk they had done on this manufacturer dickinson's account, if it had not been that he belonged to the same denomination as themselves, and was publicly distinguished for his excellent and philanthropic character; but these letters were provocative of anxiety, especially since this morning's post had brought out the writer's full name, and various particulars showing his intimate knowledge of dickinson's affairs. after much perplexed consultation, john had hit upon the plan of sending hepburn to london to make secret inquiries respecting the true character and commercial position of the man whose creditors, not a month ago, they had esteemed it an honour to be. even now jeremiah was ashamed of their want of confidence in one so good; he believed that the information they had received would all prove a mistake, founded on erroneous grounds, if not a pure invention of an enemy; and he had only been brought partially to consent to the sending of hepburn, by his brother's pledging himself that the real nature of philip's errand should be unknown to any human creature, save them three. as all this was being revealed to philip, he sat apparently unmoved and simply attentive. in fact, he was giving all his mind to understanding the probabilities of the case, leaving his own feelings in the background till his intellect should have done its work. he said little; but what he did say was to the point, and satisfied both brothers. john perceived that his messenger would exercise penetration and act with energy; while jeremiah was soothed by philip's caution in not hastily admitting the probability of any charge against dickinson, and in giving full weight to his previous good conduct and good character. philip had the satisfaction of feeling himself employed on a mission which would call out his powers, and yet not exceed them. in his own mind he forestalled the instructions of his masters, and was silently in advance of john foster's plans and arrangements, while he appeared to listen to all that was said with quiet business-like attention. it was settled that the next morning he was to make his way northwards to hartlepool, whence he could easily proceed either by land or sea to newcastle, from which place smacks were constantly sailing to london. as to his personal conduct and behaviour there, the brothers overwhelmed him with directions and advice; nor did they fail to draw out of the strong box in the thick wall of their counting-house a more than sufficient sum of money for all possible expenses. philip had never had so much in his hands before, and hesitated to take it, saying it was more than he should require; but they repeated, with fresh urgency, their warnings about the terrible high prices of london, till he could only resolve to keep a strict account, and bring back all that he did not expend, since nothing but his taking the whole sum would satisfy his employers. when he was once more behind the counter, he had leisure enough for consideration as far as coulson could give it him. the latter was silent, brooding over the confidence which philip had apparently received, but which was withheld from him. he did not yet know of the culminating point--of philip's proposed journey to london; that great city of london, which, from its very inaccessibility fifty years ago, loomed so magnificent through the mist of men's imaginations. it is not to be denied that philip felt exultant at the mere fact of 'going to london.' but then again, the thought of leaving sylvia; of going out of possible daily reach of her; of not seeing her for a week--a fortnight; nay, he might be away for a month,--for no rash hurry was to mar his delicate negotiation,--gnawed at his heart, and spoilt any enjoyment he might have anticipated from gratified curiosity, or even from the consciousness of being trusted by those whose trust and regard he valued. the sense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he thought on the subject; he almost wished that he had told his masters earlier in the conversation of his unwillingness to leave monkshaven for so long a time; and then again he felt that the gratitude he owed them quite prohibited his declining any task they might impose, especially as they had more than once said that it would not do for them to appear in the affair, and yet that to no one else could they entrust so difficult and delicate a matter. several times that day, as he perceived coulson's jealous sullenness, he thought in his heart that the consequence of the excessive confidence for which coulson envied him was a burden from which he would be thankful to be relieved. as they all sat at tea in alice rose's house-place, philip announced his intended journey; a piece of intelligence he had not communicated earlier to coulson because he had rather dreaded the increase of dissatisfaction it was sure to produce, and of which he knew the expression would be restrained by the presence of alice rose and her daughter. 'to lunnon!' exclaimed alice. hester said nothing. 'well! some folks has the luck!' said coulson. 'luck!' said alice, turning sharp round on him. 'niver let me hear such a vain word out o' thy mouth, laddie, again. it's the lord's doing, and luck's the devil's way o' putting it. maybe it's to try philip he's sent there; happen it may be a fiery furnace to him; for i've heerd tell it's full o' temptations, and he may fall into sin--and then where'd be the "luck" on it? but why art ta going? and the morning, say'st thou? why, thy best shirt is in t' suds, and no time for t' starch and iron it. whatten the great haste as should take thee to lunnon wi'out thy ruffled shirt?' 'it's none o' my doing,' said philip; 'there's business to be done, and john foster says i'm to do it; and i'm to start to-morrow.' 'i'll not turn thee out wi'out thy ruffled shirt, if i sit up a' neet,' said alice, resolutely. 'niver fret thyself, mother, about t' shirt,' said philip. 'if i need a shirt, london's not what i take it for if i can't buy mysel' one ready-made.' 'hearken to him!' said alice. 'he speaks as if buying o' ready-made shirts were nought to him, and he wi' a good half-dozen as i made mysel'. eh, lad? but if that's the frame o' mind thou'rt in, lunnon is like for to be a sore place o' temptation. there's pitfalls for men, and traps for money at ivery turn, as i've heerd say. it would ha' been better if john foster had sent an older man on his business, whativer it be.' 'they seem to make a deal o' philip all on a sudden,' said coulson. 'he's sent for, and talked to i' privacy, while hester and me is left i' t' shop for t' bear t' brunt o' t' serving.' 'philip knows,' said hester, and then, somehow, her voice failed her and she stopped. philip paid no attention to this half-uttered sentence; he was eager to tell coulson, as far as he could do so without betraying his master's secret, how many drawbacks there were to his proposed journey, in the responsibility which it involved, and his unwillingness to leave monkshaven: he said-'coulson, i'd give a deal it were thou that were going, and not me. at least, there is many a time i'd give a deal. i'll not deny but at other times i'm pleased at the thought on't. but, if i could i'd change places wi' thee at this moment.' 'it's fine talking,' said coulson, half mollified, and yet not caring to show it. 'i make no doubt it were an even chance betwixt us two at first, which on us was to go; but somehow thou got the start and thou'st stuck to it till it's too late for aught but to say thou's sorry.' 'nay, william,' said philip, rising, 'it's an ill look-out for the future, if thee and me is to quarrel, like two silly wenches, o'er each bit of pleasure, or what thou fancies to be pleasure, as falls in t' way of either on us. i've said truth to thee, and played thee fair, and i've got to go to haytersbank for to wish 'em good-by, so i'll not stay longer here to be misdoubted by thee.' he took his cap and was gone, not heeding alice's shrill inquiry as to his clothes and his ruffled shirt. coulson sat still, penitent and ashamed; at length he stole a look at hester. she was playing with her teaspoon, but he could see that she was choking down her tears; he could not choose but force her to speak with an ill-timed question. 'what's to do, hester?' said he. she lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene; now they were full of the light of indignation shining through tears. 'to do!' she said; 'coulson, i'd thought better of thee, going and doubting and envying philip, as niver did thee an ill turn, or said an ill word, or thought an ill thought by thee; and sending him away out o' t' house this last night of all, may-be, wi' thy envyings and jealousy.' she hastily got up and left the room. alice was away, looking up philip's things for his journey. coulson remained alone, feeling like a guilty child, but dismayed by hester's words, even more than by his own regret at what he had said. philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards haytersbank. he was chafed and excited by coulson's words, and the events of the day. he had meant to shape his life, and now it was, as it were, being shaped for him, and yet he was reproached for the course it was taking, as much as though he were an active agent; accused of taking advantage over coulson, his intimate companion for years; he who esteemed himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man! his feeling on the subject was akin to that of hazael, 'is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' his feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his judgment off its balance on another. the resolution he had deliberately formed of not speaking to sylvia on the subject of his love till he could announce to her parents the fact of his succession to fosters' business, and till he had patiently, with long-continuing and deep affection, worked his way into her regard, was set aside during the present walk. he would speak to her of his passionate attachment, before he left, for an uncertain length of time, and the certain distance of london. and all the modification on this point which his judgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited heart was, that he would watch her words and manner well when he announced his approaching absence, and if in them he read the slightest token of tender regretful feeling, he would pour out his love at her feet, not even urging the young girl to make any return, or to express the feelings of which he hoped the germ was already budding in her. he would be patient with her; he could not be patient himself. his heart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable coming scene, he turned into the field-path that led to haytersbank. coming along it, and so meeting him, advanced daniel robson, in earnest talk with charley kinraid. kinraid, then, had been at the farm: kinraid had been seeing sylvia, her mother away. the thought of poor dead annie coulson flashed into philip's mind. could he be playing the same game with sylvia? philip set his teeth and tightened his lips at the thought of it. they had stopped talking; they had seen him already, or his impulse would have been to dodge behind the wall and avoid them; even though one of his purposes in going to haytersbank had been to bid his uncle farewell. kinraid took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he gave him, and which philip would fain have avoided. but the specksioneer was full of kindliness towards all the world, especially towards all sylvia's friends, and, convinced of her great love towards himself, had forgotten any previous jealousy of philip. secure and exultant, his broad, handsome, weather-bronzed face was as great a contrast to philip's long, thoughtful, sallow countenance, as his frank manner was to the other's cold reserve. it was some minutes before hepburn could bring himself to tell the great event that was about to befall him before this third person whom he considered as an intrusive stranger. but as kinraid seemed to have no idea of going on, and as there really was no reason why he and all the world should not know of philip's intentions, he told his uncle that he was bound for london the next day on business connected with the fosters. daniel was deeply struck with the fact that he was talking to a man setting off for london at a day's notice. 'thou'll niver tell me this hasn't been brewin' longer nor twelve hours; thou's a sly close chap, and we hannot seen thee this se'nnight; thou'll ha' been thinkin' on this, and cogitating it, may-be, a' that time.' 'nay,' said philip, 'i knew nought about it last night; it's none o' my doing, going, for i'd liefer ha' stayed where i am.' 'yo'll like it when once yo're there,' said kinraid, with a travelled air of superiority, as philip fancied. 'no, i shan't,' he replied, shortly. 'liking has nought to do with it.' 'ah' yo' knew nought about it last neet,' continued daniel, musingly. 'well, life's soon o'er; else when i were a young fellow, folks made their wills afore goin' to lunnon.' 'yet i'll be bound to say yo' niver made a will before going to sea,' said philip, half smiling. 'na, na; but that's quite another mak' o' thing; going' to sea comes natteral to a man, but goin' to lunnon,--i were once there, and were near deafened wi' t' throng and t' sound. i were but two hours i' t' place, though our ship lay a fortneet off gravesend.' kinraid now seemed in a hurry; but philip was stung with curiosity to ascertain his movements, and suddenly addressed him: 'i heard yo' were i' these parts. are you for staying here long?' there was a certain abruptness in philip's tone, if not in his words, which made kinraid look in his face with surprise, and answer with equal curtness. 'i'm off i' th' morning; and sail for the north seas day after.' he turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for any further conversation with his interrogator. philip, indeed, had nothing more to say to him: he had learned all he wanted to know. 'i'd like to bid good-by to sylvie. is she at home?' he asked of her father. 'a'm thinking thou'll not find her. she'll be off to yesterbarrow t' see if she'd get a settin' o' their eggs; her grey speckled hen is cluckin', and nought 'll serve our sylvia but their eggs to set her upon. but, for a' that, she mayn't be gone yet. best go on and see for thysel'.' so they parted; but philip had not gone many steps before his uncle called him back, kinraid slowly loitering on meanwhile. robson was fumbling among some dirty papers he had in an old leather case, which he had produced out of his pocket. 'fact is, philip, t' pleugh's in a bad way, gearin' and a', an' folk is talkin' on a new kind o' mak'; and if thou's bound for york---' 'i'm not going by york; i'm going by a newcastle smack.' 'newcassel--newcassel--it's pretty much t' same. here, lad, thou can read print easy; it's a bit as was cut out on a papper; there's newcassel, and york, and durham, and a vast more towns named, wheere folk can learn a' about t' new mak' o' pleugh.' 'i see,' said philip: '"robinson, side, newcastle, can give all requisite information."' 'ay, ay,' said robson; 'thou's hit t' marrow on t' matter. now, if thou'rt i' newcassel, thou can learn all about it; thou'rt little better nor a woman, for sure, bein' mainly acquaint wi' ribbons, but they'll tell thee--they'll tell thee, lad; and write down what they sayn, and what's to be t' price, and look sharp as to what kind o' folk they are as sells 'em, an' write and let me know. thou'll be i' newcassel to-morrow, may-be? well, then, i'll reckon to hear fro' thee in a week, or, mayhap, less,--for t' land is backward, and i'd like to know about t' pleughs. i'd a month's mind to write to brunton, as married molly corney, but writin' is more i' thy way an' t' parson's nor mine; and if thou sells ribbons, brunton sells cheese, and that's no better.' philip promised to do his best, and to write word to robson, who, satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission, bade him go on and see if he could not find the lass. her father was right in saying that she might not have set out for yesterbarrow. she had talked about it to kinraid and her father in order to cover her regret at her lover's accompanying her father to see some new kind of harpoon about which the latter had spoken. but as soon as they had left the house, and she had covertly watched them up the brow in the field, she sate down to meditate and dream about her great happiness in being beloved by her hero, charley kinraid. no gloomy dread of his long summer's absence; no fear of the cold, glittering icebergs bearing mercilessly down on the _urania_, nor shuddering anticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her mind. he loved her, and that was enough. her eyes looked, trance-like, into a dim, glorious future of life; her lips, still warm and reddened by his kiss, were just parted in a happy smile, when she was startled by the sound of an approaching footstep--a footstep quite familiar enough for her to recognize it, and which was unwelcome now, as disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which alone she cared to indulge. 'well, philip! an' what brings _yo'_ here?' was her rather ungracious greeting. 'why, sylvie, are yo' sorry to see me?' asked philip, reproachfully. but she turned it off with assumed lightness. 'oh, yes,' said she. 'i've been wanting yo' this week past wi' t' match to my blue ribbon yo' said yo'd get and bring me next time yo' came.' 'i've forgotten it, sylvie. it's clean gone out of my mind,' said philip, with true regret. 'but i've had a deal to think on,' he continued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven. sylvia did not want his penitence, did not care for her ribbon, was troubled by his earnestness of manner--but he knew nothing of all that; he only knew that she whom he loved had asked him to do something for her, and he had neglected it; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went on with the apology she cared not to hear. if she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less engrossed with deep feeling, she would have reproached him, if only in jest, for his carelessness. as it was, she scarcely took in the sense of his words. 'you see, sylvie, i've had a deal to think on; before long i intend telling yo' all about it; just now i'm not free to do it. and when a man's mind is full o' business, most particular when it's other folk's as is trusted to him, he seems to lose count on the very things he'd most care for at another time.' he paused a little. sylvia's galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by his silence; she felt that he wanted her to say something, but she could think of nothing besides an ambiguous-'well?' 'and i'm off to london i' t' morning,' added he, a little wistfully, almost as if beseeching her to show or express some sorrow at a journey, the very destination of which showed that he would be absent for some time. 'to lunnon!' said she, with some surprise. 'yo're niver thinking o' going to live theere, for sure!' surprise, and curiosity, and wonder; nothing more, as philip's instinct told him. but he reasoned that first correct impression away with ingenious sophistry. 'not to live there: only to stay for some time. i shall be back, i reckon, in a month or so.' 'oh! that's nought of a going away,' said she, rather petulantly. 'them as goes to t' greenland seas has to bide away for six months and more,' and she sighed. suddenly a light shone down into philip's mind. his voice was changed as he spoke next. 'i met that good-for-nothing chap, kinraid, wi' yo'r father just now. he'll ha' been here, sylvie?' she stooped for something she had dropped, and came up red as a rose. 'to be sure; what then?' and she eyed him defiantly, though in her heart she trembled, she knew not why. 'what then? and yo'r mother away. he's no company for such as thee, at no time, sylvie.' 'feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leave o' yo',' said sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the little wooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting it away. at the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix any meaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among the contents thus turned over before the box was locked. 'but thy mother wouldn't like it, sylvie; he's played false wi' other lasses, he'll be playing thee false some o' these days, if thou lets him come about thee. he went on wi' annie coulson, william's sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he's been on wi' others.' 'i dunnot believe a word on 't,' said sylvia, standing up, all aflame. 'i niver telled a lie i' my life,' said philip, almost choking with grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which she betrayed. 'it were willie coulson as telled me, as solemn and serious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren't the first nor the last time as he had made his own game with young women.' 'and how dare yo' come here to me wi' yo'r backbiting tales?' said sylvia, shivering all over with passion. philip tried to keep calm, and to explain. 'it were yo'r own mother, sylvia, as knowed yo' had no brother, or any one to see after yo'; and yo' so pretty, so pretty, sylvia,' he continued, shaking his head, sadly, 'that men run after yo' against their will, as one may say; and yo'r mother bade me watch o'er ye and see what company yo' kept, and who was following after yo', and to warn yo', if need were.' 'my mother niver bade yo' to come spying after me, and blaming me for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. an' i don't believe a word about annie coulson; an' i'm not going to suffer yo' to come wi' yo'r tales to me; say 'em out to his face, and hear what he'll say to yo'.' 'sylvie, sylvie,' cried poor philip, as his offended cousin rushed past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, where he heard the sound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. he could hear her feet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. he sate still in despair, his head buried in his two hands. he sate till it grew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by careful hands, died out into gray ashes. dolly reid had done her work and gone home. there were but philip and sylvia in the house. he knew he ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangements to make. yet it seemed as though he could not stir. at length he raised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. up the little wooden stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. he breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of sylvia's room. 'sylvie! i'm going away; say good-by.' no answer. not a sound heard. 'sylvie!' (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). there was no reply. 'sylvie! i shall be a long time away; perhaps i may niver come back at all'; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death. 'say good-by.' no answer. he waited patiently. can she be wearied out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. yet once again--'good-by, sylvie, and god bless yo'! i'm sorry i vexed yo'.' no reply. with a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his cap, and left the house. 'she's warned, any way,' thought he. just at that moment the little casement window of sylvia's room was opened, and she said-'good-by, philip!' the window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. philip knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. those two words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach or blame. 'she's but a young lassie,' said he to himself; 'an' kinraid has been playing wi' her, as such as he can't help doing, once they get among the women. an' i came down sudden on her about annie coulson, and touched her pride. maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her how her mother was feared for her. i couldn't ha' left the place to-morrow if he'd been biding here; but he's off for half a year or so, and i'll be home again as soon as iver i can. in half a year such as he forgets, if iver he's thought serious about her; but in a' my lifetime, if i live to fourscore, i can niver forget. god bless her for saying, "good-by, philip."' he repeated the words aloud in fond mimicry of her tones: 'good-by, philip.' chapter xviii eddy in love's current the next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a march morning did. the beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever storms it might go raging out. it was long since philip had tasted the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as his employment at the shop detained him in monkshaven till the evening. and as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and elastic. with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared for a good stretch towards hartlepool, whence a coach would take him to newcastle before night. for seven or eight miles the level sands were as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down land-ways. philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying the sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushing almost up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing back over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. to his left were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies here and there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, and then sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yet greater richness of colour at their base towards the blue ocean before him. the loud, monotonous murmur of the advancing and receding waters lulled him into dreaminess; the sunny look of everything tinged his day-dreams with hope. so he trudged merrily over the first mile or so; not an obstacle to his measured pace on the hard, level pavement; not a creature to be seen since he had left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in the sea-pools near monkshaven. the cares of land were shut out by the glorious barrier of rocks before him. there were some great masses that had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay half embedded in the sand, draperied over by the heavy pendent olive-green seaweed. the waves were nearer at this point; the advancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar; here and there the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks into white breakers; but otherwise the waves came up from the german ocean upon that english shore with a long steady roll that might have taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of the sea-serpent on the coast of 'norroway over the foam.' the air was soft as may; right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened into gray near the sea lines. flocks of seagulls hovered about the edge of the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumage to glimmer in the sunlight as philip approached. the whole scene was so peaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (too well founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during the dark hours of the past night. there was haytersbank gully opening down its green entrance among the warm brown bases of the cliffs. below, in the sheltered brushwood, among the last year's withered leaves, some primroses might be found. he half thought of gathering sylvia a posy of them, and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace-offering. but on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action out of his head; it was above an hour later than he had supposed, and he must make all haste on to hartlepool. just as he was approaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran out some way upon the sand with the very force of his descent; then he turned to the left and took the direction of hartlepool a hundred yards or so in advance of philip. he never stayed to look round him, but went swiftly and steadily on his way. by the peculiar lurch in his walk--by everything--philip knew it was the specksioneer, kinraid. now the road up haytersbank gully led to the farm, and nowhere else. still any one wishing to descend to the shore might do so by first going up to the robsons' house, and skirting the walls till they came to the little slender path down to the shore. but by the farm, by the very house-door they must of necessity pass. philip slackened his pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock. by-and-by kinraid, walking on the sunlight open sands, turned round and looked long and earnestly towards haytersbank gully. hepburn paused when he paused, but as intently as he looked at some object above, so intently did hepburn look at him. no need to ascertain by sight towards whom his looks, his thoughts were directed. he took off his hat and waved it, touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. when he turned away at last, hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and crept yet more into the cold dank shadow of the cliffs. each step was now a heavy task, his sad heart tired and weary. after a while he climbed up a few feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with the stones and rocks around. stumbling over the uneven and often jagged points, slipping on the sea-weed, plunging into little pools of water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet kept his eyes fixed as if in fascination on kinraid, and made his way almost alongside of him. but the last hour had pinched hepburn's features into something of the wan haggardness they would wear when he should first be lying still for ever. and now the two men were drawing near a creek, about eight miles from monkshaven. the creek was formed by a beck (or small stream) that came flowing down from the moors, and took its way to the sea between the widening rocks. the melting of the snows and running of the flooded water-springs above made this beck in the early spring-time both deep and wide. hepburn knew that here they both must take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge about a quarter of a mile up the stream; indeed from this point, owing to the jutting out of the rocks, the land path was the shortest; and this way lay by the water-side at an angle right below the cliff to which hepburn's steps were leading him. he knew that on this long level field path he might easily be seen by any one following; nay, if he followed any one at a short distance, for it was full of turnings; and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for a while till kinraid was far enough in advance for him to escape being seen. he came up to the last rock behind which he could be concealed; seven or eight feet above the stream he stood, and looked cautiously for the specksioneer. up by the rushing stream he looked, then right below. 'it is god's providence,' he murmured. 'it is god's providence.' he crouched down where he had been standing and covered his face with his hands. he tried to deafen as well as to blind himself, that he might neither hear nor see anything of the coming event of which he, an inhabitant of monkshaven at that day, well understood the betokening signs. kinraid had taken the larger angle of the sands before turning up towards the bridge. he came along now nearing the rocks. by this time he was sufficiently buoyant to whistle to himself. it steeled philip's heart to what was coming to hear his rival whistling, 'weel may the keel row,' so soon after parting with sylvia. the instant kinraid turned the corner of the cliff, the ambush was upon him. four man-of-war's men sprang on him and strove to pinion him. 'in the king's name!' cried they, with rough, triumphant jeers. their boat was moored not a dozen yards above; they were sent by the tender of a frigate lying off hartlepool for fresh water. the tender was at anchor just beyond the jutting rocks in face. they knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to and from their nets by the side of the creek; but such a prize as this active, strong, and evidently superior sailor, was what they had not hoped for, and their endeavours to secure him were in proportion to the value of the prize. although taken by surprise, and attacked by so many, kinraid did not lose his wits. he wrenched himself free, crying out loud: 'avast, i'm a protected whaler. i claim my protection. i've my papers to show, i'm bonded specksioneer to the _urania_ whaler, donkin captain, north shields port.' as a protected whaler, the press-gang had, by the 17th section of act 26 geo. iii. no legal right to seize him, unless he had failed to return to his ship by the 10th march following the date of his bond. but of what use were the papers he hastily dragged out of his breast; of what use were laws in those days of slow intercourse with such as were powerful enough to protect, and in the time of popular panic against a french invasion? 'd--n your protection,' cried the leader of the press-gang; 'come and serve his majesty, that's better than catching whales.' 'is it though?' said the specksioneer, with a motion of his hand, which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him saw and interpreted rightly. 'thou wilt, wilt thou? close with him, jack; and ware the cutlass.' in a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it became a hand-to-hand struggle, of which, from the difference in numbers, it was not difficult to foretell the result. yet kinraid made desperate efforts to free himself; he wasted no breath in words, but fought, as the men said, 'like a very devil.' hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull struggle of limbs on the sand, the growling curses of those who thought to have managed their affair more easily; the sudden cry of some one wounded, not kinraid he knew, kinraid would have borne any pain in silence at such a moment; another wrestling, swearing, infuriated strife, and then a strange silence. hepburn sickened at the heart; was then his rival dead? had he left this bright world? lost his life--his love? for an instant hepburn felt guilty of his death; he said to himself he had never wished him dead, and yet in the struggle he had kept aloof, and now it might be too late for ever. philip could not bear the suspense; he looked stealthily round the corner of the rock behind which he had been hidden, and saw that they had overpowered kinraid, and, too exhausted to speak, were binding him hand and foot to carry him to their boat. kinraid lay as still as any hedgehog: he rolled when they pushed him; he suffered himself to be dragged without any resistance, any motion; the strong colour brought into his face while fighting was gone now, his countenance was livid pale; his lips were tightly held together, as if it cost him more effort to be passive, wooden, and stiff in their hands than it had done to fight and struggle with all his might. his eyes seemed the only part about him that showed cognizance of what was going on. they were watchful, vivid, fierce as those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in its desperate quickened brain for some mode of escape not yet visible, and in all probability never to become visible to the hopeless creature in its supreme agony. without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and taking in everything while he lay bound at the bottom of the boat. a sailor sat by his side, who had been hurt by a blow from him. the man held his head in his hand, moaning; but every now and then he revenged himself by a kick at the prostrate specksioneer, till even his comrades stopped their cursing and swearing at their prisoner for the trouble he had given them, to cry shame on their comrade. but kinraid never spoke, nor shrank from the outstretched foot. one of his captors, with the successful insolence of victory, ventured to jeer him on the supposed reason for his vehement and hopeless resistance. he might have said yet more insolent things; the kicks might have hit harder; kinraid did not hear or heed. his soul was beating itself against the bars of inflexible circumstance; reviewing in one terrible instant of time what had been, what might have been, what was. yet while these thoughts thus stabbed him, he was still mechanically looking out for chances. he moved his head a little, so as to turn towards haytersbank, where sylvia must be quickly, if sadly, going about her simple daily work; and then his quick eye caught hepburn's face, blanched with excitement rather than fear, watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat breathless during the affray and the impressment of his rival. 'come here, lad!' shouted the specksioneer as soon as he saw philip, heaving and writhing his body the while with so much vigour that the sailors started away from the work they were engaged in about the boat, and held him down once more, as if afraid he should break the strong rope that held him like withes of green flax. but the bound man had no such notion in his head. his mighty wish was to call hepburn near that he might send some message by him to sylvia. 'come here, hepburn,' he cried again, falling back this time so weak and exhausted that the man-of-war's men became sympathetic. 'come down, peeping tom, and don't be afeared,' they called out. 'i'm not afeared,' said philip; 'i'm no sailor for yo' t' impress me: nor have yo' any right to take that fellow; he's a greenland specksioneer, under protection, as i know and can testify.' 'yo' and yo'r testify go hang. make haste, man and hear what this gem'man, as was in a dirty blubbery whale-ship, and is now in his majesty's service, has got to say. i dare say, jack,' went on the speaker, 'it's some message to his sweetheart, asking her to come for to serve on board ship along with he, like billy taylor's young woman.' philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want of activity, but because he was undecided what he should be called upon to do or to say by the man whom he hated and dreaded, yet whom just now he could not help admiring. kinraid groaned with impatience at seeing one, free to move with quick decision, so slow and dilatory. 'come on then,' cried the sailors, 'or we'll take you too on board, and run you up and down the main-mast a few times. nothing like life aboard ship for quickening a land-lubber.' 'yo'd better take him and leave me,' said kinraid, grimly. 'i've been taught my lesson; and seemingly he has his yet to learn.' 'his majesty isn't a schoolmaster to need scholars; but a jolly good captain to need men,' replied the leader of the gang, eyeing philip nevertheless, and questioning within himself how far, with only two other available men, they durst venture on his capture as well as the specksioneer's. it might be done, he thought, even though there was this powerful captive aboard, and the boat to manage too; but, running his eye over philip's figure, he decided that the tall stooping fellow was never cut out for a sailor, and that he should get small thanks if he captured him, to pay him for the possible risk of losing the other. or else the mere fact of being a landsman was of as little consequence to the press-gang, as the protecting papers which kinraid had vainly showed. 'yon fellow wouldn't have been worth his grog this many a day, and be d--d to you,' said he, catching hepburn by the shoulder, and giving him a push. philip stumbled over something in this, his forced run. he looked down; his foot had caught in kinraid's hat, which had dropped off in the previous struggle. in the band that went round the low crown, a ribbon was knotted; a piece of that same ribbon which philip had chosen out, with such tender hope, to give to sylvia for the corneys' party on new year's eve. he knew every delicate thread that made up the briar-rose pattern; and a spasm of hatred towards kinraid contracted his heart. he had been almost relenting into pity for the man captured before his eyes; now he abhorred him. kinraid did not speak for a minute or two. the sailors, who had begun to take him into favour, were all agog with curiosity to hear the message to his sweetheart, which they believed he was going to send. hepburn's perceptions, quickened with his vehement agitation of soul, were aware of this feeling of theirs; and it increased his rage against kinraid, who had exposed the idea of sylvia to be the subject of ribald whispers. but the specksioneer cared little what others said or thought about the maiden, whom he yet saw before his closed eyelids as she stood watching him, from the haytersbank gully, waving her hands, her handkerchief, all in one passionate farewell. 'what do yo' want wi' me?' asked hepburn at last in a gloomy tone. if he could have helped it, he would have kept silence till kinraid spoke first; but he could no longer endure the sailors' nudges, and winks, and jests among themselves. 'tell sylvia,' said kinraid---'there's a smart name for a sweetheart,' exclaimed one of the men; but kinraid went straight on,-'what yo've seen; how i've been pressed by this cursed gang.' 'civil words, messmate, if you please. sylvia can't abide cursing and swearing, i'm sure. we're gentlemen serving his majesty on board the _alcestis_, and this proper young fellow shall be helped on to more honour and glory than he'd ever get bobbing for whales. tell sylvia this, with my love; jack carter's love, if she's anxious about my name.' one of the sailors laughed at this rude humour; another bade carter hold his stupid tongue. philip hated him in his heart. kinraid hardly heard him. he was growing faint with the heavy blows he had received, the stunning fall he had met with, and the reaction from his dogged self-control at first. philip did not speak nor move. 'tell her,' continued kinraid, rousing himself for another effort, 'what yo've seen. tell her i'll come back to her. bid her not forget the great oath we took together this morning; she's as much my wife as if we'd gone to church;--i'll come back and marry her afore long.' philip said something inarticulately. 'hurra!' cried carter, 'and i'll be best man. tell her, too that i'll have an eye on her sweetheart, and keep him from running after other girls.' 'yo'll have yo'r hands full, then,' muttered philip, his passion boiling over at the thought of having been chosen out from among all men to convey such a message as kinraid's to sylvia. 'make an end of yo'r d--d yarns, and be off,' said the man who had been hurt by kinraid, and who had sate apart and silent till now. philip turned away; kinraid raised himself and cried after him,-'hepburn, hepburn! tell her---' what he added philip could not hear, for the words were lost before they reached him in the outward noise of the regular splash of the oars and the rush of the wind down the gully, with which mingled the closer sound that filled his ears of his own hurrying blood surging up into his brain. he was conscious that he had said something in reply to kinraid's adjuration that he would deliver his message to sylvia, at the very time when carter had stung him into fresh anger by the allusion to the possibility of the specksioneer's 'running after other girls,' for, for an instant, hepburn had been touched by the contrast of circumstances. kinraid an hour or two ago,--kinraid a banished man; for in those days, an impressed sailor might linger out years on some foreign station, far from those he loved, who all this time remained ignorant of his cruel fate. but hepburn began to wonder what he himself had said--how much of a promise he had made to deliver those last passionate words of kinraid's. he could not recollect how much, how little he had said; he knew he had spoken hoarsely and low almost at the same time as carter had uttered his loud joke. but he doubted if kinraid had caught his words. and then the dread inner creature, who lurks in each of our hearts, arose and said, 'it is as well: a promise given is a fetter to the giver. but a promise is not given when it has not been received.' at a sudden impulse, he turned again towards the shore when he had crossed the bridge, and almost ran towards the verge of the land. then he threw himself down on the soft fine turf that grew on the margin of the cliffs overhanging the sea, and commanding an extent of view towards the north. his face supported by his hands, he looked down upon the blue rippling ocean, flashing here and there, into the sunlight in long, glittering lines. the boat was still in the distance, making her swift silent way with long regular bounds to the tender that lay in the offing. hepburn felt insecure, as in a nightmare dream, so long as the boat did not reach her immediate destination. his contracted eyes could see four minute figures rowing with ceaseless motion, and a fifth sate at the helm. but he knew there was a sixth, unseen, lying, bound and helpless, at the bottom of the boat; and his fancy kept expecting this man to start up and break his bonds, and overcome all the others, and return to the shore free and triumphant. it was by no fault of hepburn's that the boat sped well away; that she was now alongside the tender, dancing on the waves; now emptied of her crew; now hoisted up to her place. no fault of his! and yet it took him some time before he could reason himself into the belief that his mad, feverish wishes not an hour before--his wild prayer to be rid of his rival, as he himself had scrambled onward over the rocks alongside of kinraid's path on the sands--had not compelled the event. 'anyhow,' thought he, as he rose up, 'my prayer is granted. god be thanked!' once more he looked out towards the ship. she had spread her beautiful great sails, and was standing out to sea in the glittering path of the descending sun. he saw that he had been delayed on his road, and had lingered long. he shook his stiffened limbs, shouldered his knapsack, and prepared to walk on to hartlepool as swiftly as he could. chapter xix an important mission philip was too late for the coach he had hoped to go by, but there was another that left at night, and which reached newcastle in the forenoon, so that, by the loss of a night's sleep, he might overtake his lost time. but, restless and miserable, he could not stop in hartlepool longer than to get some hasty food at the inn from which the coach started. he acquainted himself with the names of the towns through which it would pass, and the inns at which it would stop, and left word that the coachman was to be on the look-out for him and pick him up at some one of these places. he was thoroughly worn out before this happened--too much tired to gain any sleep in the coach. when he reached newcastle, he went to engage his passage in the next london-bound smack, and then directed his steps to robinson's, in the side, to make all the inquiries he could think of respecting the plough his uncle wanted to know about. so it was pretty late in the afternoon, indeed almost evening, before he arrived at the small inn on the quay-side, where he intended to sleep. it was but a rough kind of place, frequented principally by sailors; he had been recommended to it by daniel robson, who had known it well in former days. the accommodation in it was, however, clean and homely, and the people keeping it were respectable enough in their way. still hepburn was rather repelled by the appearance of the sailors who sate drinking in the bar, and he asked, in a low voice, if there was not another room. the woman stared in surprise, and only shook her head. hepburn went to a separate table, away from the roaring fire, which on this cold march evening was the great attraction, and called for food and drink. then seeing that the other men were eyeing him with the sociable idea of speaking to him, he asked for pen and ink and paper, with the intention of defeating their purpose by pre-occupation on his part. but when the paper came, the new pen, the unused thickened ink, he hesitated long before he began to write; and at last he slowly put down the words,-'dear and honoured uncle,'---there was a pause; his meal was brought and hastily swallowed. even while he was eating it, he kept occasionally touching up the letters of these words. when he had drunk a glass of ale he began again to write: fluently this time, for he was giving an account of the plough. then came another long stop; he was weighing in his own mind what he should say about kinraid. once he thought for a second of writing to sylvia herself, and telling her---how much? she might treasure up her lover's words like grains of gold, while they were lighter than dust in their meaning to philip's mind; words which such as the specksioneer used as counters to beguile and lead astray silly women. it was for him to prove his constancy by action; and the chances of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in philip's estimation. but should the latter mention the bare fact of kinraid's impressment to robson? that would have been the natural course of things, remembering that the last time philip had seen either, they were in each other's company. twenty times he put his pen to the paper with the intention of relating briefly the event that had befallen kinraid; and as often he stopped, as though the first word would be irrevocable. while he thus sate pen in hand, thinking himself wiser than conscience, and looking on beyond the next step which she bade him take into an indefinite future, he caught some fragments of the sailors' talk at the other end of the room, which made him listen to their words. they were speaking of that very kinraid, the thought of whom filled his own mind like an actual presence. in a rough, careless way they spoke of the specksioneer, with admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner; and from that they passed on to jesting mention of his power amongst women, and one or two girls' names were spoken of in connection with him. hepburn silently added annie coulson and sylvia robson to this list, and his cheeks turned paler as he did so. long after they had done speaking about kinraid, after they had paid their shot, and gone away, he sate in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts. the people of the house prepared for bed. their silent guest took no heed of their mute signs. at length the landlord spoke to him, and he started, gathered his wits together with an effort, and prepared to retire with the rest. but before he did so, he signed and directed the letter to his uncle, leaving it still open, however, in case some sudden feeling should prompt him to add a postscript. the landlord volunteered the information that the letter his guest had been writing must be posted early the next morning if it was going south; as the mails in that direction only left newcastle every other day. all night long hepburn wearied himself with passionate tossings, prompted by stinging recollection. towards morning he fell into a dead sound sleep. he was roused by a hasty knocking at the door. it was broad full daylight; he had overslept himself, and the smack was leaving by the early tide. he was even now summoned on board. he dressed, wafered his letter, and rushed with it to the neighbouring post-office; and, without caring to touch the breakfast for which he paid, he embarked. once on board, he experienced the relief which it always is to an undecided man, and generally is at first to any one who has been paltering with duty, when circumstances decide for him. in the first case, it is pleasant to be relieved from the burden of decision; in the second, the responsibility seems to be shifted on to impersonal events. and so philip sailed out of the mouth of the tyne on to the great open sea. it would be a week before the smack reached london, even if she pursued a tolerably straight course, but she had to keep a sharp look-out after possible impressment of her crew; and it was not until after many dodges and some adventures that, at the end of a fortnight from the time of his leaving monkshaven, philip found himself safely housed in london, and ready to begin the delicate piece of work which was given him to do. he felt himself fully capable of unravelling each clue to information, and deciding on the value of the knowledge so gained. but during the leisure of the voyage he had wisely determined to communicate everything he learnt about dickinson, in short, every step he took in the matter, by letter to his employers. and thus his mind both in and out of his lodgings might have appeared to have been fully occupied with the concerns of others. but there were times when the miserable luxury of dwelling upon his own affairs was his--when he lay down in his bed till he fell into restless sleep--when the point to which his steps tended in his walks was ascertained. then he gave himself up to memory, and regret which often deepened into despair, and but seldom was cheered by hope. he grew so impatient of the ignorance in which he was kept--for in those days of heavy postage any correspondence he might have had on mere monkshaven intelligence was very limited--as to the affairs at haytersbank, that he cut out an advertisement respecting some new kind of plough, from a newspaper that lay in the chop-house where he usually dined, and rising early the next morning he employed the time thus gained in going round to the shop where these new ploughs were sold. that night he wrote another letter to daniel robson, with a long account of the merits of the implements he had that day seen. with a sick heart and a hesitating hand, he wound up with a message of regard to his aunt and to sylvia; an expression of regard which he dared not make as warm as he wished, and which, consequently, fell below the usual mark attained by such messages, and would have appeared to any one who cared to think about it as cold and formal. when this letter was despatched, hepburn began to wonder what he had hoped for in writing it. he knew that daniel could write--or rather that he could make strange hieroglyphics, the meaning of which puzzled others and often himself; but these pen-and-ink signs were seldom employed by robson, and never, so far as philip knew, for the purpose of letter-writing. but still he craved so for news of sylvia--even for a sight of paper which she had seen, and perhaps touched--that he thought all his trouble about the plough (to say nothing of the one-and-twopence postage which he had prepaid in order to make sure of his letter's reception in the frugal household at haytersbank) well lost for the mere chance of his uncle's caring enough for the intelligence to write in reply, or even to get some friend to write an answer; for in such case, perhaps, philip might see her name mentioned in some way, even though it was only that she sent her duty to him. but the post-office was dumb; no letter came from daniel robson. philip heard, it is true, from his employers pretty frequently on business; and he felt sure they would have named it, if any ill had befallen his uncle's family, for they knew of the relationship and of his intimacy there. they generally ended their formal letters with as formal a summary of monkshaven news; but there was never a mention of the robsons, and that of itself was well, but it did not soothe philip's impatient curiosity. he had never confided his attachment to his cousin to any one, it was not his way; but he sometimes thought that if coulson had not taken his present appointment to a confidential piece of employment so ill, he would have written to him and asked him to go up to haytersbank farm, and let him know how they all were. all this time he was transacting the affair on which he had been sent, with great skill; and, indeed, in several ways, he was quietly laying the foundation for enlarging the business in monkshaven. naturally grave and quiet, and slow to speak, he impressed those who saw him with the idea of greater age and experience than he really possessed. indeed, those who encountered him in london, thought he was absorbed in the business of money-making. yet before the time came when he could wind up affairs and return to monkshaven, he would have given all he possessed for a letter from his uncle, telling him something about sylvia. for he still hoped to hear from robson, although he knew that he hoped against reason. but we often convince ourselves by good argument that what we wish for need never have been expected; and then, at the end of our reasoning, find that we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for that our wishes are untouched, and are as strong enemies to our peace of mind as ever. hepburn's baulked hope was the mordecai sitting in haman's gate; all his success in his errand to london, his well-doing in worldly affairs, was tasteless, and gave him no pleasure, because of this blank and void of all intelligence concerning sylvia. and yet he came back with a letter from the fosters in his pocket, curt, yet expressive of deep gratitude for his discreet services in london; and at another time--in fact, if philip's life had been ordered differently to what it was--it might have given this man a not unworthy pleasure to remember that, without a penny of his own, simply by diligence, honesty, and faithful quick-sightedness as to the interests of his masters, he had risen to hold the promise of being their successor, and to be ranked by them as a trusted friend. as the newcastle smack neared the shore on her voyage home, hepburn looked wistfully out for the faint gray outline of monkshaven priory against the sky, and the well-known cliffs; as if the masses of inanimate stone could tell him any news of sylvia. in the streets of shields, just after landing, he encountered a neighbour of the robsons, and an acquaintance of his own. by this honest man, he was welcomed as a great traveller is welcomed on his return from a long voyage, with many hearty good shakes of the hand, much repetition of kind wishes, and offers to treat him to drink. yet, from some insurmountable feeling, philip avoided all mention of the family who were the principal bond between the honest farmer and himself. he did not know why, but he could not bear the shock of first hearing her name in the open street, or in the rough public-house. and thus he shrank from the intelligence he craved to hear. thus he knew no more about the robsons when he returned to monkshaven, than he had done on the day when he had last seen them; and, of course, his first task there was to give a long _viva voce_ account of all his london proceedings to the two brothers foster, who, considering that they had heard the result of everything by letter, seemed to take an insatiable interest in details. he could hardly tell why, but even when released from the fosters' parlour, he was unwilling to go to haytersbank farm. it was late, it is true, but on a may evening even country people keep up till eight or nine o'clock. perhaps it was because hepburn was still in his travel-stained dress; having gone straight to the shop on his arrival in monkshaven. perhaps it was because, if he went this night for the short half-hour intervening before bed-time, he would have no excuse for paying a longer visit on the following evening. at any rate, he proceeded straight to alice rose's, as soon as he had finished his interview with his employers. both hester and coulson had given him their welcome home in the shop, which they had, however, left an hour or two before him. yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which surprise was blended, when he came to his lodgings. even alice seemed gratified by his spending this first evening with them, as if she had thought it might have been otherwise. weary though he was, he exerted himself to talk and to relate what he had done and seen in london, as far as he could without breaking confidence with his employers. it was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors, although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to produce the expression of it which gratified him. coulson was sorry for his former ungenerous reception of the news that philip was going to london; hester and her mother each secretly began to feel as if this evening was like more happy evenings of old, before the robsons came to haytersbank farm; and who knows what faint delicious hopes this resemblance may not have suggested? while philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could not sleep, was glad to pass away the waking hours that must intervene before to-morrow night, at times, he tried to make them talk of what had happened in monkshaven during his absence, but all had gone on in an eventless manner, as far as he could gather; if they knew of anything affecting the robsons, they avoided speaking of it to him; and, indeed, how little likely were they ever to have heard their names while he was away? chapter xx loved and lost philip walked towards the robsons' farm like a man in a dream, who has everything around him according to his wish, and yet is conscious of a secret mysterious inevitable drawback to his enjoyment. hepburn did not care to think--would not realize what this drawback, which need not have been mysterious in his case, was. the may evening was glorious in light and shadow. the crimson sun warmed up the chilly northern air to a semblance of pleasant heat. the spring sights and sounds were all about; the lambs were bleating out their gentle weariness before they sank to rest by the side of their mothers; the linnets were chirping in every bush of golden gorse that grew out of the stone walls; the lark was singing her good-night in the cloudless sky, before she dropped down to her nest in the tender green wheat; all spoke of brooding peace--but philip's heart was not at peace. yet he was going to proclaim his good fortune. his masters had that day publicly announced that coulson and he were to be their successors, and he had now arrived at that longed-for point in his business, when he had resolved to openly speak of his love to sylvia, and might openly strive to gain her love. but, alas! the fulfilment of that wish of his had lagged sadly behind. he was placed as far as he could, even in his most sanguine moments, have hoped to be as regarded business, but sylvia was as far from his attainment as ever--nay, farther. still the great obstacle was removed in kinraid's impressment. philip took upon himself to decide that, with such a man as the specksioneer, absence was equivalent to faithless forgetfulness. he thought that he had just grounds for this decision in the account he had heard of kinraid's behaviour to annie coulson; to the other nameless young girl, her successor in his fickle heart; in the ribald talk of the sailors in the newcastle public-house. it would be well for sylvia if she could forget as quickly; and, to promote this oblivion, the name of her lover should never be brought up, either in praise or blame. and philip would be patient and enduring; all the time watching over her, and labouring to win her reluctant love. there she was! he saw her as he stood at the top of the little hill-path leading down to the robsons' door. she was out of doors, in the garden, which, at some distance from the house, sloped up the bank on the opposite side of the gully; much too far off to be spoken to--not too far off to be gazed at by eyes that caressed her every movement. how well philip knew that garden; placed long ago by some tenant of the farm on a southern slope; walled in with rough moorland stones; planted with berry-bushes for use, and southernwood and sweet-briar for sweetness of smell. when the robsons had first come to haytersbank, and sylvia was scarcely more than a pretty child, how well he remembered helping her with the arrangement of this garden; laying out his few spare pence in hen-and-chicken daisies at one time, in flower-seeds at another; again in a rose-tree in a pot. he knew how his unaccustomed hands had laboured with the spade at forming a little primitive bridge over the beck in the hollow before winter streams should make it too deep for fording; how he had cut down branches of the mountain-ash and covered them over, yet decked with their scarlet berries, with sods of green turf, beyond which the brilliancy crept out; but now it was months and years since he had been in that garden, which had lost its charm for sylvia, as she found the bleak sea-winds came up and blighted all endeavours at cultivating more than the most useful things--pot-herbs, marigolds, potatoes, onions, and such-like. why did she tarry there now, standing quite motionless up by the highest bit of wall, looking over the sea, with her hand shading her eyes? quite motionless; as if she were a stone statue. he began to wish she would move--would look at him--but any way that she would move, and not stand gazing thus over that great dreary sea. he went down the path with an impatient step, and entered the house-place. there sat his aunt spinning, and apparently as well as ever. he could hear his uncle talking to kester in the neighbouring shippen; all was well in the household. why was sylvia standing in the garden in that strange quiet way? 'why, lad! thou'rt a sight for sair een!' said his aunt, as she stood up to welcome him back. 'an' when didst ta come, eh?--but thy uncle will be glad to see thee, and to hear thee talk about yon pleughs; he's thought a deal o' thy letters. i'll go call him in.' 'not yet,' said philip, stopping her in her progress towards the door. 'he's busy talking to kester. i'm in no haste to be gone. i can stay a couple of hours. sit down, and tell me how you are yoursel'--and how iverything is. and i've a deal to tell you.' 'to be sure--to be sure. to think thou's been in lunnon sin' i saw thee!--well to be sure! there's a vast o' coming and going i' this world. thou'll mind yon specksioneer lad, him as was cousin to t' corneys--charley kinraid?' mind him! as if he could forget him. 'well! he's dead and gone.' 'dead! who told you? i don't understand,' said philip, in strange bewilderment. could kinraid have tried to escape after all, and been wounded, killed in the attempt? if not, how should they know he was dead? missing he might be, though how this should be known was strange, as he was supposed to be sailing to the greenland seas. but dead! what did they mean? at philip's worst moment of hatred he had hardly dared to wish him dead. 'dunnot yo' mention it afore our sylvie; we niver speak on him to her, for she takes it a deal to heart, though i'm thinkin' it were a good thing for her; for he'd got a hold of her--he had on bessy corney, too, as her mother telled me;--not that i iver let on to them as sylvia frets after him, so keep a calm sough, my lad. it's a girl's fancy--just a kind o' calf-love; let it go by; and it's well for her he's dead, though it's hard to say so on a drowned man.' 'drowned!' said philip. 'how do yo' know?' half hoping that the poor drenched swollen body might have been found, and thus all questions and dilemmas solved. kinraid might have struggled overboard with ropes or handcuffs on, and so have been drowned. 'eh, lad! there's no misdoubtin' it. he were thought a deal on by t' captain o' t' _urania_; and when he niver come back on t' day when she ought for to have sailed, he sent to kinraid's people at cullercoats, and they sent to brunton's i' newcassel, and they knew he'd been here. t' captain put off sailing for two or three days, that he might ha' that much law; but when he heard as kinraid were not at corneys', but had left 'em a'most on to a week, he went off to them northern seas wi' t' next best specksioneer he could find. for there's no use speaking ill on t' dead; an' though i couldn't abear his coming for iver about t' house, he were a rare good specksioneer, as i've been told.' 'but how do you know he was drowned?' said philip, feeling guiltily disappointed at his aunt's story. 'why, lad! i'm a'most ashamed to tell thee, i were sore put out mysel'; but sylvia were so broken-hearted like i couldn't cast it up to her as i should ha' liked: th' silly lass had gone and gi'en him a bit o' ribbon, as many a one knowed, for it had been a vast noticed and admired that evenin' at th' corneys'--new year's eve i think it were--and t' poor vain peacock had tied it on his hat, so that when t' tide----hist! there's sylvie coming in at t' back-door; never let on,' and in a forced made-up voice she inquired aloud, for hitherto she had been speaking almost in a whisper,-'and didst ta see king george an' queen charlotte?' philip could not answer--did not hear. his soul had gone out to meet sylvia, who entered with quiet slowness quite unlike her former self. her face was wan and white; her gray eyes seemed larger, and full of dumb tearless sorrow; she came up to philip, as if his being there touched her with no surprise, and gave him a gentle greeting as if he were a familiar indifferent person whom she had seen but yesterday. philip, who had recollected the quarrel they had had, and about kinraid too, the very last time they had met, had expected some trace of this remembrance to linger in her looks and speech to him. but there was no such sign; her great sorrow had wiped away all anger, almost all memory. her mother looked at her anxiously, and then said in the same manner of forced cheerfulness which she had used before,-'here's philip, lass, a' full o' lunnon; call thy father in, an we'll hear a' about t' new-fangled pleughs. it'll be rare an' nice a' sitting together again.' sylvia, silent and docile, went out to the shippen to obey her mother's wish. bell robson leant forward towards philip, misinterpreting the expression on his face, which was guilt as much as sympathy, and checked the possible repentance which might have urged him on at that moment to tell all he knew, by saying, 'lad! it's a' for t' best. he were noane good enough for her; and i misdoubt me he were only playin' wi' her as he'd done by others. let her a-be, let her a-be; she'll come round to be thankful.' robson bustled in with loud welcome; all the louder and more talkative because he, like his wife, assumed a cheerful manner before sylvia. yet he, unlike his wife, had many a secret regret over kinraid's fate. at first, while merely the fact of his disappearance was known, daniel robson had hit on the truth, and had stuck to his opinion that the cursed press-gang were at the bottom of it. he had backed his words by many an oath, and all the more because he had not a single reason to give that applied to the present occasion. no one on the lonely coast had remarked any sign of the presence of the men-of-war, or the tenders that accompanied them, for the purpose of impressment on the king's ships. at shields, and at the mouth of the tyne, where they lay in greedy wait, the owners of the _urania_ had caused strict search to be made for their skilled and protected specksioneer, but with no success. all this positive evidence in contradiction to daniel robson's opinion only made him cling to it the more; until the day when the hat was found on the shore with kinraid's name written out large and fair in the inside, and the tell-tale bit of ribbon knotted in the band. then daniel, by a sudden revulsion, gave up every hope; it never entered his mind that it could have fallen off by any accident. no! now kinraid was dead and drowned, and it was a bad job, and the sooner it could be forgotten the better for all parties; and it was well no one knew how far it had gone with sylvia, especially now since bessy corney was crying her eyes out as if he had been engaged to her. so daniel said nothing to his wife about the mischief that had gone on in her absence, and never spoke to sylvia about the affair; only he was more than usually tender to her in his rough way, and thought, morning, noon, and night, on what he could do to give her pleasure, and drive away all recollection of her ill-starred love. to-night he would have her sit by him while philip told his stories, or heavily answered questions put to him. sylvia sat on a stool by her father's knee, holding one of his hands in both of hers; and presently she laid down her head upon them, and philip saw her sad eyes looking into the flickering fire-light with long unwinking stare, showing that her thoughts were far distant. he could hardly go on with his tales of what he had seen, and what done, he was so full of pity for her. yet, for all his pity, he had now resolved never to soothe her with the knowledge of what he knew, nor to deliver the message sent by her false lover. he felt like a mother withholding something injurious from the foolish wish of her plaining child. but he went away without breathing a word of his good fortune in business. the telling of such kind of good fortune seemed out of place this night, when the thought of death and the loss of friends seemed to brood over the household, and cast its shadow there, obscuring for the time all worldly things. and so the great piece of news came out in the ordinary course of gossip, told by some monkshaven friend to robson the next market day. for months philip had been looking forward to the sensation which the intelligence would produce in the farm household, as a preliminary to laying his good fortune at sylvia's feet. and they heard of it, and he away, and all chance of his making use of it in the manner he had intended vanished for the present. daniel was always curious after other people's affairs, and now was more than ever bent on collecting scraps of news which might possibly interest sylvia, and rouse her out of the state of indifference as to everything into which she had fallen. perhaps he thought that he had not acted altogether wisely in allowing her to engage herself to kinraid, for he was a man apt to judge by results; and moreover he had had so much reason to repent of the encouragement which he had given to the lover whose untimely end had so deeply affected his only child, that he was more unwilling than ever that his wife should know of the length to which the affair had gone during her absence. he even urged secrecy upon sylvia as a personal favour; unwilling to encounter the silent blame which he openly affected to despise. 'we'll noane fret thy mother by lettin' on how oft he came and went. she'll, may-be, be thinkin' he were for speakin' to thee, my poor lass; an' it would put her out a deal, for she's a woman of a stern mind towards matteremony. and she'll be noane so strong till summer-weather comes, and i'd be loath to give her aught to worrit hersel' about. so thee and me 'll keep our own counsel.' 'i wish mother had been here, then she'd ha' known all, without my telling her.' 'cheer up, lass; it's better as it is. thou'll get o'er it sooner for havin' no one to let on to. a myself am noane going to speak on't again.' no more he did; but there was a strange tenderness in his tones when he spoke to her; a half-pathetic way of seeking after her, if by any chance she was absent for a minute from the places where he expected to find her; a consideration for her, about this time, in his way of bringing back trifling presents, or small pieces of news that he thought might interest her, which sank deep into her heart. 'and what dun yo' think a' t' folks is talkin' on i' monkshaven?' asked he, almost before he had taken off his coat, on the day when he had heard of philip's promotion in the world. 'why, missus, thy nephew, philip hepburn, has got his name up i' gold letters four inch long o'er fosters' door! him and coulson has set up shop together, and fosters is gone out!' 'that's t' secret of his journey t' lunnon,' said bell, more gratified than she chose to show. 'four inch long if they're theere at all! i heerd on it at t' bay horse first; but i thought yo'd niver be satisfied 'bout i seed it wi' my own eyes. they do say as gregory jones, t' plumber, got it done i' york, for that nought else would satisfy old jeremiah. it'll be a matter o' some hundreds a year i' philip's pocket.' 'there'll be fosters i' th' background, as one may say, to take t' biggest share on t' profits,' said bell. 'ay, ay, that's but as it should be, for i reckon they'll ha' to find t' brass the first, my lass!' said he, turning to sylvia. 'a'm fain to tak' thee in to t' town next market-day, just for thee t' see 't. a'll buy thee a bonny ribbon for thy hair out o' t' cousin's own shop.' some thought of another ribbon which had once tied up her hair, and afterwards been cut in twain, must have crossed sylvia's mind, for she answered, as if she shrank from her father's words,-'i cannot go, i'm noane wantin' a ribbon; i'm much obliged, father, a' t' same.' her mother read her heart clearly, and suffered with her, but never spoke a word of sympathy. but she went on rather more quickly than she would otherwise have done to question her husband as to all he knew about this great rise of philip's. once or twice sylvia joined in with languid curiosity; but presently she became tired and went to bed. for a few moments after she left, her parents sate silent. then daniel, in a tone as if he were justifying his daughter, and comforting himself as well as his wife, observed that it was almost on for nine; the evenings were light so long now. bell said nothing in reply, but gathered up her wool, and began to arrange the things for night. by-and-by daniel broke the silence by saying,-'a thowt at one time as philip had a fancy for our sylvie.' for a minute or two bell did not speak. then, with deeper insight into her daughter's heart than her husband, in spite of his greater knowledge of the events that had happened to affect it, she said,-'if thou's thinking on a match between 'em, it 'll be a long time afore th' poor sad wench is fit t' think on another man as sweetheart.' 'a said nought about sweethearts,' replied he, as if his wife had reproached him in some way. 'woman's allays so full o' sweethearts and matteremony. a only said as a'd thowt once as philip had a fancy for our lass, and a think so still; and he'll be worth his two hunder a year afore long. but a niver said nought about sweethearts.' chapter xxi a rejected suitor there were many domestic arrangements to be made in connection with the new commercial ones which affected hepburn and coulson. the fosters, with something of the busybodiness which is apt to mingle itself with kindly patronage, had planned in their own minds that the rose household should be removed altogether to the house belonging to the shop; and that alice, with the assistance of the capable servant, who, at present, managed all john's domestic affairs, should continue as mistress of the house, with philip and coulson for her lodgers. but arrangements without her consent did not suit alice at any time, and she had very good reasons for declining to accede to this. she was not going to be uprooted at her time of life, she said, nor would she consent to enter upon a future which might be so uncertain. why, hepburn and coulson were both young men, she said, and they were as likely to marry as not; and then the bride would be sure to wish to live in the good old-fashioned house at the back of the shop. it was in vain she was told by every one concerned, that, in case of such an event, the first married partner should take a house of his own, leaving her in undisputed possession. she replied, with apparent truth, that both might wish to marry, and surely the wife of one ought to take possession of the house belonging to the business; that she was not going to trust herself to the fancies of young men, who were always, the best of them, going and doing the very thing that was most foolish in the way of marriage; of which state, in fact, she spoke with something of acrimonious contempt and dislike, as if young people always got mismatched, yet had not the sense to let older and wiser people choose for them. 'thou'll not have been understanding why alice rose spoke as she did this morning,' said jeremiah foster to philip, on the afternoon succeeding the final discussion of this plan. 'she was a-thinking of her youth, i reckon, when she was a well-favoured young woman, and our john was full of the thought of marrying her. as he could not have her, he has lived a bachelor all his days. but if i am not a vast mistaken, all that he has will go to her and to hester, for all that hester is the child of another man. thee and coulson should have a try for hester, philip. i have told coulson this day of hester's chances. i told him first because he is my wife's nephew; but i tell thee now, philip. it would be a good thing for the shop if one of ye was married.' philip reddened. often as the idea of marriage had come into his mind, this was the first time it had been gravely suggested to him by another. but he replied quietly enough. 'i don't think hester rose has any thought of matrimony.' 'to be sure not; it is for thee, or for william coulson, to make her think. she, may-be, remembers enough of her mother's life with her father to make her slow to think on such things. but it's in her to think on matrimony; it's in all of us.' 'alice's husband was dead before i knew her,' said philip, rather evading the main subject. 'it was a mercy when he were taken. a mercy to them who were left, i mean. alice was a bonny young woman, with a smile for everybody, when he wed her--a smile for every one except our john, who never could do enough to try and win one from her. but, no! she would have none of him, but set her heart on jack rose, a sailor in a whale-ship. and so they were married at last, though all her own folks were against it. and he was a profligate sinner, and went after other women, and drank, and beat her. she turned as stiff and as grey as thou seest her now within a year of hester's birth. i believe they'd have perished for want and cold many a time if it had not been for john. if she ever guessed where the money came from, it must have hurt her pride above a bit, for she was always a proud woman. but mother's love is stronger than pride.' philip fell to thinking; a generation ago something of the same kind had been going on as that which he was now living through, quick with hopes and fears. a girl beloved by two--nay, those two so identical in occupation as he and kinraid were--rose identical even in character with what he knew of the specksioneer; a girl choosing the wrong lover, and suffering and soured all her life in consequence of her youth's mistake; was that to be sylvia's lot?--or, rather, was she not saved from it by the event of the impressment, and by the course of silence he himself had resolved upon? then he went on to wonder if the lives of one generation were but a repetition of the lives of those who had gone before, with no variation but from the internal cause that some had greater capacity for suffering than others. would those very circumstances which made the interest of his life now, return, in due cycle, when he was dead and sylvia was forgotten? perplexed thoughts of this and a similar kind kept returning into philip's mind whenever he had leisure to give himself up to consideration of anything but the immediate throng of business. and every time he dwelt on this complication and succession of similar events, he emerged from his reverie more and more satisfied with the course he had taken in withholding from sylvia all knowledge of her lover's fate. it was settled at length that philip was to remove to the house belonging to the shop, coulson remaining with alice and her daughter. but in the course of the summer the latter told his partner that he had offered marriage to hester on the previous day, and been refused. it was an awkward affair altogether, as he lived in their house, and was in daily companionship with hester, who, however, seemed to preserve her gentle calmness, with only a tinge more of reserve in her manner to coulson. 'i wish yo' could find out what she has again' me, philip,' said coulson, about a fortnight after he had made the proposal. the poor young man thought that hester's composure of manner towards him since the event argued that he was not distasteful to her; and as he was now on very happy terms with philip, he came constantly to him, as if the latter could interpret the meaning of all the little occurrences between him and his beloved. 'i'm o' right age, not two months betwixt us; and there's few in monkshaven as would think on her wi' better prospects than me; and she knows my folks; we're kind o' cousins, in fact; and i'd be like a son to her mother; and there's noane i' monkshaven as can speak again' my character. there's nought between yo' and her, is there, philip?' 'i ha' telled thee many a time that she and me is like brother and sister. she's no more thought on me nor i have for her. so be content wi't, for i'se not tell thee again.' 'don't be vexed, philip; if thou knew what it was to be in love, thou'd be always fancying things, just as i am.' 'i might be,' said philip; 'but i dunnut think i should be always talking about my fancies.' 'i wunnot talk any more after this once, if thou'll just find out fra' thysel', as it were, what it is she has again' me. i'd go to chapel for iver with her, if that's what she wants. just ask her, philip.' 'it's an awkward thing for me to be melling wi',' said hepburn, reluctantly. 'but thou said thee and she were like brother and sister; and a brother would ask a sister, and niver think twice about it.' 'well, well,' replied philip, 'i'll see what i can do; but, lad, i dunnot think she'll have thee. she doesn't fancy thee, and fancy is three parts o' love, if reason is t' other fourth.' but somehow philip could not begin on the subject with hester. he did not know why, except that, as he said, 'it was so awkward.' but he really liked coulson so much as to be anxious to do what the latter wished, although he was almost convinced that it would be of no use. so he watched his opportunity, and found alice alone and at leisure one sunday evening. she was sitting by the window, reading her bible, when he went in. she gave him a curt welcome, hearty enough for her, for she was always chary in her expressions of pleasure or satisfaction. but she took off her horn spectacles and placed them in the book to keep her place; and then turning more fully round on her chair, so as to face him, she said,-'well, lad! and how does it go on? though it's not a day for t' ask about worldly things. but i niver see thee now but on sabbath day, and rarely then. still we munnot speak o' such things on t' lord's day. so thee mun just say how t' shop is doing, and then we'll leave such vain talk.' 't' shop is doing main an' well, thank ye, mother. but coulson could tell yo' o' that any day.' 'i'd a deal rayther hear fra' thee, philip. coulson doesn't know how t' manage his own business, let alone half the business as it took john and jeremiah's heads--ay, and tasked 'em, too--to manage. i've no patience with coulson.' 'why? he's a decent young fellow as ever there is in monkshaven.' 'he may be. he's noane cut his wisdom-teeth yet. but, for that matter, there's other folks as far fra' sense as he is.' 'ay, and farther. coulson mayn't be so bright at all times as he might be, but he's a steady-goer, and i'd back him again' any chap o' his age i' monkshaven.' 'i know who i'd sooner back in many a thing, philip!' she said it with so much meaning that he could not fail to understand that he himself was meant, and he replied, ingenuously enough,-'if yo' mean me, mother, i'll noane deny that in a thing or two i may be more knowledgeable than coulson. i've had a deal o' time on my hands i' my youth, and i'd good schooling as long as father lived.' 'lad! it's not schooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning as carries a man through t' world. it's mother-wit. and it's noane schooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning as takes a young woman. it's summat as cannot be put into words.' 'that's just what i told coulson!' said philip, quickly. 'he were sore put about because hester had gi'en him the bucket, and came to me about it.' 'and what did thou say?' asked alice, her deep eyes gleaming at him as if to read his face as well as his words. philip, thinking he could now do what coulson had begged of him in the neatest manner, went on,-'i told him i'd help him all as i could---' 'thou did, did thou? well, well, there's nought sa queer as folks, that a will say,' muttered alice, between her teeth. '--but that fancy had three parts to do wi' love,' continued philip, 'and it would be hard, may-be, to get a reason for her not fancying him. yet i wish she'd think twice about it; he so set upon having her, i think he'll do himself a mischief wi' fretting, if it goes on as it is.' 'it'll noane go on as it is,' said alice, with gloomy oracularness. 'how not?' asked philip. then, receiving no answer, he went on, 'he loves her true, and he's within a month or two on her age, and his character will bear handling on a' sides; and his share on t' shop will be worth hundreds a year afore long.' another pause. alice was trying to bring down her pride to say something, which she could not with all her efforts. 'maybe yo'll speak a word for him, mother,' said philip, annoyed at her silence. 'i'll do no such thing. marriages are best made wi'out melling. how do i know but what she likes some one better?' 'our hester's not th' lass to think on a young man unless he's been a-wooing on her. and yo' know, mother, as well as i do--and coulson does too--she's niver given any one a chance to woo her; living half her time here, and t' other half in t' shop, and niver speaking to no one by t' way.' 'i wish thou wouldn't come here troubling me on a sabbath day wi' thy vanity and thy worldly talk. i'd liefer by far be i' that world wheere there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage, for it's all a moithering mess here.' she turned to the closed bible lying on the dresser, and opened it with a bang. while she was adjusting her spectacles on her nose, with hands trembling with passion, she heard philip say,-'i ask yo'r pardon, i'm sure. i couldn't well come any other day.' 'it's a' t' same--i care not. but thou might as well tell truth. i'll be bound thou's been at haytersbank farm some day this week?' philip reddened; in fact, he had forgotten how he had got to consider his frequent visits to the farm as a regular piece of occupation. he kept silence. alice looked at him with a sharp intelligence that read his silence through. 'i thought so. next time thou thinks to thyself, 'i'm more knowledgeable than coulson,' just remember alice rose's words, and they are these:--if coulson's too thick-sighted to see through a board, thou'rt too blind to see through a window. as for comin' and speakin' up for coulson, why he'll be married to some one else afore t' year's out, for all he thinks he's so set upon hester now. go thy ways, and leave me to my scripture, and come no more on sabbath days wi' thy vain babbling.' so philip returned from his mission rather crestfallen, but quite as far as ever from 'seeing through a glass window.' before the year was out, alice's prophecy was fulfilled. coulson, who found the position of a rejected lover in the same house with the girl who had refused him, too uncomfortable to be endured, as soon as he was convinced that his object was decidedly out of his reach, turned his attention to some one else. he did not love his new sweetheart as he had done hester: there was more of reason and less of fancy in his attachment. but it ended successfully; and before the first snow fell, philip was best man at his partner's wedding. chapter xxii deepening shadows but before coulson was married, many small events happened--small events to all but philip. to him they were as the sun and moon. the days when he went up to haytersbank and sylvia spoke to him, the days when he went up and she had apparently no heart to speak to any one, but left the room as soon as he came, or never entered it at all, although she must have known that he was there--these were his alternations from happiness to sorrow. from her parents he always had a welcome. oppressed by their daughter's depression of spirits, they hailed the coming of any visitor as a change for her as well as for themselves. the former intimacy with the corneys was in abeyance for all parties, owing to bessy corney's out-spoken grief for the loss of her cousin, as if she had had reason to look upon him as her lover, whereas sylvia's parents felt this as a slur upon their daughter's cause of grief. but although at this time the members of the two families ceased to seek after each other's society, nothing was said. the thread of friendship might be joined afresh at any time, only just now it was broken; and philip was glad of it. before going to haytersbank he sought each time for some little present with which to make his coming welcome. and now he wished even more than ever that sylvia had cared for learning; if she had he could have taken her many a pretty ballad, or story-book, such as were then in vogue. he did try her with the translation of the _sorrows of werther_, so popular at the time that it had a place in all pedlars' baskets, with law's _serious call_, the _pilgrim's progress_, klopstock's _messiah_, and _paradise lost_. but she could not read it for herself; and after turning the leaves languidly over, and smiling a little at the picture of charlotte cutting bread and butter in a left-handed manner, she put it aside on the shelf by the _complete farrier_; and there philip saw it, upside down and untouched, the next time he came to the farm. many a time during that summer did he turn to the few verses in genesis in which jacob's twice seven years' service for rachel is related, and try and take fresh heart from the reward which came to the patriarch's constancy at last. after trying books, nosegays, small presents of pretty articles of dress, such as suited the notions of those days, and finding them all received with the same languid gratitude, he set himself to endeavour to please her in some other way. it was time that he should change his tactics; for the girl was becoming weary of the necessity for thanking him, every time he came, for some little favour or other. she wished he would let her alone and not watch her continually with such sad eyes. her father and mother hailed her first signs of impatient petulance towards him as a return to the old state of things before kinraid had come to disturb the tenour of their lives; for even daniel had turned against the specksioneer, irritated by the corneys' loud moans over the loss of the man to whom their daughter said that she was attached. if daniel wished for him to be alive again, it was mainly that the corneys might be convinced that his last visit to the neighbourhood of monkshaven was for the sake of the pale and silent sylvia, and not for that of bessy, who complained of kinraid's untimely death rather as if by it she had been cheated of a husband than for any overwhelming personal love towards the deceased. 'if he were after her he were a big black scoundrel, that's what he were; and a wish he were alive again to be hung. but a dunnot believe it; them corney lasses were allays a-talkin' an' a-thinking on sweethearts, and niver a man crossed t' threshold but they tried him on as a husband. an' their mother were no better: kinraid has spoken civil to bessy as became a lad to a lass, and she makes an ado over him as if they'd been to church together not a week sin'.' 'i dunnot uphold t' corneys; but molly corney--as is molly brunton now--used to speak on this dead man to our sylvie as if he were her sweetheart in old days. now there's no smoke without fire, and i'm thinking it's likely enough he were one of them fellows as is always after some lass or another, and, as often as not, two or three at a time. now look at philip, what a different one he is! he's niver thought on a woman but our sylvie, i'll be bound. i wish he wern't so old-fashioned and faint-hearted.' 'ay! and t' shop's doin' a vast o' business, i've heard say. he's a deal better company, too, 'n or he used to be. he'd a way o' preaching wi' him as a couldn't abide; but now he tak's his glass, an' holds his tongue, leavin' room for wiser men to say their say.' such was a conjugal colloquy about this time. philip was gaining ground with daniel, and that was something towards winning sylvia's heart; for she was unaware of her father's change of feeling towards kinraid, and took all his tenderness towards herself as if they were marks of his regard for her lost lover and his sympathy in her loss, instead of which he was rather feeling as if it might be a good thing after all that the fickle-hearted sailor was dead and drowned. in fact, daniel was very like a child in all the parts of his character. he was strongly affected by whatever was present, and apt to forget the absent. he acted on impulse, and too often had reason to be sorry for it; but he hated his sorrow too much to let it teach him wisdom for the future. with all his many faults, however, he had something in him which made him be dearly loved, both by the daughter whom he indulged, and the wife who was in fact superior to him, but whom he imagined that he ruled with a wise and absolute sway. love to sylvia gave philip tact. he seemed to find out that to please the women of the household he must pay all possible attention to the man; and though he cared little in comparison for daniel, yet this autumn he was continually thinking of how he could please him. when he had said or done anything to gratify or amuse her father, sylvia smiled and was kind. whatever he did was right with his aunt; but even she was unusually glad when her husband was pleased. still his progress was slow towards his object; and often he sighed himself to sleep with the words, 'seven years, and maybe seven years more'. then in his dreams he saw kinraid again, sometimes struggling, sometimes sailing towards land, the only one on board a swift advancing ship, alone on deck, stern and avenging; till philip awoke in remorseful terror. such and similar dreams returned with the greater frequency when, in the november of that year, the coast between hartlepool and monkshaven was overshadowed by the presence of guard-ships, driven south from their station at north shields by the resolution which the sailors of that port had entered into to resist the press-gang, and the energy with which they had begun to carry out their determination. for on a certain tuesday evening yet remembered by old inhabitants of north shields, the sailors in the merchant service met together and overpowered the press-gang, dismissing them from the town with the highest contempt, and with their jackets reversed. a numerous mob went with them to chirton bar; gave them three cheers at parting, but vowed to tear them limb from limb should they seek to re-enter north shields. but a few days afterwards some fresh cause of irritation arose, and five hundred sailors, armed with such swords and pistols as they could collect, paraded through the town in the most riotous manner, and at last attempted to seize the tender eleanor, on some pretext of the ill-treatment of the impressed men aboard. this endeavour failed, however, owing to the energetic conduct of the officers in command. next day this body of sailors set off for newcastle; but learning, before they reached the town, that there was a strong military and civil force prepared to receive them there, they dispersed for the time; but not before the good citizens had received a great fright, the drums of the north yorkshire militia beating to arms, and the terrified people rushing out into the streets to learn the reason of the alarm, and some of them seeing the militia, under the command of the earl of fauconberg, marching from the guard-house adjoining new gate to the house of rendezvous for impressed seamen in the broad chase. but a few weeks after, the impressment service took their revenge for the insults they had been subjected to in north shields. in the dead of night a cordon was formed round that town by a regiment stationed at tynemouth barracks; the press-gangs belonging to armed vessels lying off shields harbour were let loose; no one within the circle could escape, and upwards of two hundred and fifty men, sailors, mechanics, labourers of every description, were forced on board the armed ships. with that prize they set sail, and wisely left the place, where deep passionate vengeance was sworn against them. not all the dread of an invasion by the french could reconcile the people of these coasts to the necessity of impressment. fear and confusion prevailed after this to within many miles of the sea-shore. a yorkshire gentleman of rank said that his labourers dispersed like a covey of birds, because a press-gang was reported to have established itself so far inland as tadcaster; and they only returned to work on the assurance from the steward of his master's protection, but even then begged leave to sleep on straw in the stables or outhouses belonging to their landlord, not daring to sleep at their own homes. no fish was caught, for the fishermen dared not venture out to sea; the markets were deserted, as the press-gangs might come down on any gathering of men; prices were raised, and many were impoverished; many others ruined. for in the great struggle in which england was then involved, the navy was esteemed her safeguard; and men must be had at any price of money, or suffering, or of injustice. landsmen were kidnapped and taken to london; there, in too many instances, to be discharged without redress and penniless, because they were discovered to be useless for the purpose for which they had been taken. autumn brought back the whaling-ships. but the period of their return was full of gloomy anxiety, instead of its being the annual time of rejoicing and feasting; of gladdened households, where brave steady husbands or sons returned; of unlimited and reckless expenditure, and boisterous joviality among those who thought that they had earned unbounded licence on shore by their six months of compelled abstinence. in other years this had been the time for new and handsome winter clothing; for cheerful if humble hospitality; for the shopkeepers to display their gayest and best; for the public-houses to be crowded; for the streets to be full of blue jackets, rolling along with merry words and open hearts. in other years the boiling-houses had been full of active workers, the staithes crowded with barrels, the ship-carpenters' yards thronged with seamen and captains; now a few men, tempted by high wages, went stealthily by back lanes to their work, clustering together, with sinister looks, glancing round corners, and fearful of every approaching footstep, as if they were going on some unlawful business, instead of true honest work. most of them kept their whaling-knives about them ready for bloody defence if they were attacked. the shops were almost deserted; there was no unnecessary expenditure by the men; they dared not venture out to buy lavish presents for the wife or sweetheart or little children. the public-houses kept scouts on the look-out; while fierce men drank and swore deep oaths of vengeance in the bar--men who did not maunder in their cups, nor grow foolishly merry, but in whom liquor called forth all the desperate, bad passions of human nature. indeed, all along the coast of yorkshire, it seemed as if a blight hung over the land and the people. men dodged about their daily business with hatred and suspicion in their eyes, and many a curse went over the sea to the three fatal ships lying motionless at anchor three miles off monkshaven. when first philip had heard in his shop that these three men-of-war might be seen lying fell and still on the gray horizon, his heart sank, and he scarcely dared to ask their names. for if one should be the _alcestis_; if kinraid should send word to sylvia; if he should say he was living, and loving, and faithful; if it should come to pass that the fact of the undelivered message sent by her lover through philip should reach sylvia's ears: what would be the position of the latter, not merely in her love--that, of course, would be hopeless--but in her esteem? all sophistry vanished; the fear of detection awakened philip to a sense of guilt; and, besides, he found out, that, in spite of all idle talk and careless slander, he could not help believing that kinraid was in terrible earnest when he uttered those passionate words, and entreated that they might be borne to sylvia. some instinct told philip that if the specksioneer had only flirted with too many, yet that for sylvia robson his love was true and vehement. then philip tried to convince himself that, from all that was said of his previous character, kinraid was not capable of an enduring constant attachment; and with such poor opiate to his conscience as he could obtain from this notion philip was obliged to remain content, until, a day or two after the first intelligence of the presence of those three ships, he learned, with some trouble and pains, that their names were the _megoera_, the _bellerophon_, and the _hanover_. then he began to perceive how unlikely it was that the _alcestis_ should have been lingering on this shore all these many months. she was, doubtless, gone far away by this time; she had, probably, joined the fleet on the war station. who could tell what had become of her and her crew? she might have been in battle before now, and if so--so his previous fancies shrank to nothing, rebuked for their improbability, and with them vanished his self-reproach. yet there were times when the popular attention seemed totally absorbed by the dread of the press-gang; when no other subject was talked about--hardly, in fact, thought about. at such flows of panic, philip had his own private fears lest a flash of light should come upon sylvia, and she should suddenly see that kinraid's absence might be accounted for in another way besides death. but when he reasoned, this seemed unlikely. no man-of-war had been seen off the coast, or, if seen, had never been spoken about, at the time of kinraid's disappearance. if he had vanished this winter time, every one would have been convinced that the press-gang had seized upon him. philip had never heard any one breathe the dreaded name of the _alcestis_. besides, he went on to think, at the farm they are out of hearing of this one great weary subject of talk. but it was not so, as he became convinced one evening. his aunt caught him a little aside while sylvia was in the dairy, and her husband talking in the shippen with kester. 'for good's sake, philip, dunnot thee bring us talk about t' press-gang. it's a thing as has got hold on my measter, till thou'd think him possessed. he's speaking perpetual on it i' such a way, that thou'd think he were itching to kill 'em a' afore he tasted bread again. he really trembles wi' rage and passion; an' a' night it's just as bad. he starts up i' his sleep, swearing and cursing at 'em, till i'm sometimes afeard he'll mak' an end o' me by mistake. and what mun he do last night but open out on charley kinraid, and tell sylvie he thought m'appen t' gang had got hold on him. it might make her cry a' her saut tears o'er again.' philip spoke, by no wish of his own, but as if compelled to speak. 'an' who knows but what it's true?' the instant these words had come out of his lips he could have bitten his tongue off. and yet afterwards it was a sort of balm to his conscience that he had so spoken. 'what nonsense, philip!' said his aunt; 'why, these fearsome ships were far out o' sight when he went away, good go wi' him, and sylvie just getting o'er her trouble so nicely, and even my master went on for to say if they'd getten hold on him, he were not a chap to stay wi' 'em; he'd gi'en proofs on his hatred to 'em, time on. he either ha' made off--an' then sure enough we should ha' heerd on him somehow--them corneys is full on him still and they've a deal to wi' his folk beyond newcassel--or, as my master says, he were just t' chap to hang or drown hissel, sooner nor do aught against his will.' 'what did sylvie say?' asked philip, in a hoarse low voice. 'say? why, a' she could say was to burst out crying, and after a bit, she just repeated her feyther's words, and said anyhow he was dead, for he'd niver live to go to sea wi' a press-gang. she knowed him too well for that. thou sees she thinks a deal on him for a spirited chap, as can do what he will. i belie' me she first began to think on him time o' t' fight aboard th' _good fortune_, when darley were killed, and he would seem tame-like to her if he couldn't conquer press-gangs, and men-o'-war. she's sooner think on him drowned, as she's ne'er to see him again.' 'it's best so,' said philip, and then, to calm his unusually excited aunt, he promised to avoid the subject of the press-gang as much as possible. but it was a promise very difficult of performance, for daniel robson was, as his wife said, like one possessed. he could hardly think of anything else, though he himself was occasionally weary of the same constantly recurring idea, and would fain have banished it from his mind. he was too old a man to be likely to be taken by them; he had no son to become their victim; but the terror of them, which he had braved and defied in his youth, seemed to come back and take possession of him in his age; and with the terror came impatient hatred. since his wife's illness the previous winter he had been a more sober man until now. he was never exactly drunk, for he had a strong, well-seasoned head; but the craving to hear the last news of the actions of the press-gang drew him into monkshaven nearly every day at this dead agricultural season of the year; and a public-house is generally the focus from which gossip radiates; and probably the amount of drink thus consumed weakened robson's power over his mind, and caused the concentration of thought on one subject. this may be a physiological explanation of what afterwards was spoken of as a supernatural kind of possession, leading him to his doom. chapter xxiii retaliation the public-house that had been chosen by the leaders of the press-gang in monkshaven at this time, for their rendezvous (or 'randyvowse', as it was generally pronounced), was an inn of poor repute, with a yard at the back which opened on to the staithe or quay nearest to the open sea. a strong high stone wall bounded this grass-grown mouldy yard on two sides; the house, and some unused out-buildings, formed the other two. the choice of the place was good enough, both as to situation, which was sufficiently isolated, and yet near to the widening river; and as to the character of the landlord, john hobbs was a failing man, one who seemed as if doomed to be unfortunate in all his undertakings, and the consequence of all this was that he was envious of the more prosperous, and willing to do anything that might bring him in a little present success in life. his household consisted of his wife, her niece, who acted as servant, and an out-of-doors man, a brother of ned simpson, the well-doing butcher, who at one time had had a fancy for sylvia. but the one brother was prosperous, the other had gone on sinking in life, like him who was now his master. neither hobbs nor his man simpson were absolutely bad men; if things had gone well with them they might each have been as scrupulous and conscientious as their neighbours, and even now, supposing the gain in money to be equal, they would sooner have done good than evil; but a very small sum was enough to turn the balance. and in a greater degree than in most cases was the famous maxim of rochefoucault true with them; for in the misfortunes of their friends they seemed to see some justification of their own. it was blind fate dealing out events, not that the events themselves were the inevitable consequences of folly or misconduct. to such men as these the large sum offered by the lieutenant of the press-gang for the accommodation of the mariners' arms was simply and immediately irresistible. the best room in the dilapidated house was put at the service of the commanding officer of the impress service, and all other arrangements made at his desire, irrespective of all the former unprofitable sources of custom and of business. if the relatives both of hobbs and of simpson had not been so well known and so prosperous in the town, they themselves would have received more marks of popular ill opinion than they did during the winter the events of which are now being recorded. as it was, people spoke to them when they appeared at kirk or at market, but held no conversation with them; no, not although they each appeared better dressed than they had either of them done for years past, and although their whole manner showed a change, inasmuch as they had been formerly snarling and misanthropic, and were now civil almost to deprecation. every one who was capable of understanding the state of feeling in monkshaven at this time must have been aware that at any moment an explosion might take place; and probably there were those who had judgment enough to be surprised that it did not take place sooner than it did. for until february there were only occasional cries and growls of rage, as the press-gang made their captures first here, then there; often, apparently, tranquil for days, then heard of at some distance along the coast, then carrying off a seaman from the very heart of the town. they seemed afraid of provoking any general hostility, such as that which had driven them from shields, and would have conciliated the inhabitants if they could; the officers on the service and on board the three men-of-war coming often into the town, spending largely, talking to all with cheery friendliness, and making themselves very popular in such society as they could obtain access to at the houses of the neighbouring magistrates or at the rectory. but this, however agreeable, did not forward the object the impress service had in view; and, accordingly, a more decided step was taken at a time when, although there was no apparent evidence as to the fact, the town was full of the greenland mariners coming quietly in to renew their yearly engagements, which, when done, would legally entitle them to protection from impressment. one night--it was on a saturday, february 23rd, when there was a bitter black frost, with a north-east wind sweeping through the streets, and men and women were close shut in their houses--all were startled in their household content and warmth by the sound of the fire-bell busily swinging, and pealing out for help. the fire-bell was kept in the market-house where high street and bridge street met: every one knew what it meant. some dwelling, or maybe a boiling-house was on fire, and neighbourly assistance was summoned with all speed, in a town where no water was laid on, nor fire-engines kept in readiness. men snatched up their hats, and rushed out, wives following, some with the readiest wraps they could lay hands on, with which to clothe the over-hasty husbands, others from that mixture of dread and curiosity which draws people to the scene of any disaster. those of the market people who were making the best of their way homewards, having waited in the town till the early darkness concealed their path, turned back at the sound of the ever-clanging fire-bell, ringing out faster and faster as if the danger became every instant more pressing. as men ran against or alongside of each other, their breathless question was ever, 'where is it?' and no one could tell; so they pressed onwards into the market-place, sure of obtaining the information desired there, where the fire-bell kept calling out with its furious metal tongue. the dull oil-lamps in the adjoining streets only made darkness visible in the thronged market-place, where the buzz of many men's unanswered questions was rising louder and louder. a strange feeling of dread crept over those nearest to the closed market-house. above them in the air the bell was still clanging; but before them was a door fast shut and locked; no one to speak and tell them why they were summoned--where they ought to be. they were at the heart of the mystery, and it was a silent blank! their unformed dread took shape at the cry from the outside of the crowd, from where men were still coming down the eastern side of bridge street. 'the gang! the gang!' shrieked out some one. 'the gang are upon us! help! help!' then the fire-bell had been a decoy; a sort of seething the kid in its mother's milk, leading men into a snare through their kindliest feelings. some dull sense of this added to utter dismay, and made them struggle and strain to get to all the outlets save that in which a fight was now going on; the swish of heavy whips, the thud of bludgeons, the groans, the growls of wounded or infuriated men, coming with terrible distinctness through the darkness to the quickened ear of fear. a breathless group rushed up the blackness of a narrow entry to stand still awhile, and recover strength for fresh running. for a time nothing but heavy pants and gasps were heard amongst them. no one knew his neighbour, and their good feeling, so lately abused and preyed upon, made them full of suspicion. the first who spoke was recognized by his voice. 'is it thee, daniel robson?' asked his neighbour, in a low tone. 'ay! who else should it be?' 'a dunno.' 'if a am to be any one else, i'd like to be a chap of nobbut eight stun. a'm welly done for!' 'it were as bloody a shame as iver i heerd on. who's to go t' t' next fire, a'd like to know!' 'a tell yo' what, lads,' said daniel, recovering his breath, but speaking in gasps. 'we were a pack o' cowards to let 'em carry off yon chaps as easy as they did, a'm reckoning!' 'a think so, indeed,' said another voice. daniel went on-'we was two hunder, if we was a man; an' t' gang has niver numbered above twelve.' 'but they was armed. a seen t' glitter on their cutlasses,' spoke out a fresh voice. 'what then!' replied he who had latest come, and who stood at the mouth of the entry. 'a had my whalin' knife wi' me i' my pea-jacket as my missus threw at me, and a'd ha' ripped 'em up as soon as winkin', if a could ha' thought what was best to do wi' that d----d bell makin' such a din reet above us. a man can but die onest, and we was ready to go int' t' fire for t' save folks' lives, and yet we'd none on us t' wit to see as we might ha' saved yon poor chaps as screeched out for help.' 'they'll ha' getten 'em to t' randyvowse by now,' said some one. 'they cannot tak' 'em aboard till morning; t' tide won't serve,' said the last speaker but one. daniel robson spoke out the thought that was surging up into the brain of every one there. 'there's a chance for us a'. how many be we?' by dint of touching each other the numbers were counted. seven. 'seven. but if us seven turns out and rouses t' town, there'll be many a score ready to gang t' mariners' arms, and it'll be easy work reskyin' them chaps as is pressed. us seven, each man jack on us, go and seek up his friends, and get him as well as he can to t' church steps; then, mebbe, there'll be some theere as'll not be so soft as we was, lettin' them poor chaps be carried off from under our noses, just becase our ears was busy listenin' to yon confounded bell, whose clip-clappin' tongue a'll tear out afore this week is out.' before daniel had finished speaking, those nearest to the entrance muttered their assent to his project, and had stolen off, keeping to the darkest side of the streets and lanes, which they threaded in different directions; most of them going straight as sleuth-hounds to the haunts of the wildest and most desperate portion of the seafaring population of monkshaven. for, in the breasts of many, revenge for the misery and alarm of the past winter took a deeper and more ferocious form than daniel had thought of when he made his proposal of a rescue. to him it was an adventure like many he had been engaged in in his younger days; indeed, the liquor he had drunk had given him a fictitious youth for the time; and it was more in the light of a rough frolic of which he was to be the leader, that he limped along ( always lame from old attacks of rheumatism), chuckling to himself at the apparent stillness of the town, which gave no warning to the press-gang at the rendezvous of anything in the wind. daniel, too, had his friends to summon; old hands like himself, but 'deep uns', also, like himself, as he imagined. it was nine o'clock when all who were summoned met at the church steps; and by nine o'clock, monkshaven, in those days, was more quiet and asleep than many a town at present is at midnight. the church and churchyard above them were flooded with silver light, for the moon was high in the heavens: the irregular steps were here and there in pure white clearness, here and there in blackest shadow. but more than half way up to the top, men clustered like bees; all pressing so as to be near enough to question those who stood nearest to the planning of the attack. here and there, a woman, with wild gestures and shrill voice, that no entreaty would hush down to the whispered pitch of the men, pushed her way through the crowd--this one imploring immediate action, that adjuring those around her to smite and spare not those who had carried off her 'man',--the father, the breadwinner. low down in the darkened silent town were many whose hearts went with the angry and excited crowd, and who would bless them and caress them for that night's deeds. daniel soon found himself a laggard in planning, compared to some of those around him. but when, with the rushing sound of many steps and but few words, they had arrived at the blank, dark, shut-up mariners' arms, they paused in surprise at the uninhabited look of the whole house: it was daniel once more who took the lead. 'speak 'em fair,' said he; 'try good words first. hobbs 'll mebbe let 'em out quiet, if we can catch a word wi' him. a say, hobbs,' said he, raising his voice, 'is a' shut up for t' neet; for a'd be glad of a glass. a'm dannel robson, thou knows.' not one word in reply, any more than from the tomb; but his speech had been heard nevertheless. the crowd behind him began to jeer and to threaten; there was no longer any keeping down their voices, their rage, their terrible oaths. if doors and windows had not of late been strengthened with bars of iron in anticipation of some such occasion, they would have been broken in with the onset of the fierce and now yelling crowd who rushed against them with the force of a battering-ram, to recoil in baffled rage from the vain assault. no sign, no sound from within, in that breathless pause. 'come away round here! a've found a way to t' back o' behint, where belike it's not so well fenced,' said daniel, who had made way for younger and more powerful men to conduct the assault, and had employed his time meanwhile in examining the back premises. the men rushed after him, almost knocking him down, as he made his way into the lane into which the doors of the outbuildings belonging to the inn opened. daniel had already broken the fastening of that which opened into a damp, mouldy-smelling shippen, in one corner of which a poor lean cow shifted herself on her legs, in an uneasy, restless manner, as her sleeping-place was invaded by as many men as could cram themselves into the dark hold. daniel, at the end farthest from the door, was almost smothered before he could break down the rotten wooden shutter, that, when opened, displayed the weedy yard of the old inn, the full clear light defining the outline of each blade of grass by the delicate black shadow behind. this hole, used to give air and light to what had once been a stable, in the days when horse travellers were in the habit of coming to the mariners' arms, was large enough to admit the passage of a man; and daniel, in virtue of its discovery, was the first to get through. but he was larger and heavier than he had been; his lameness made him less agile, and the impatient crowd behind him gave him a helping push that sent him down on the round stones with which the yard was paved, and for the time disabled him so much that he could only just crawl out of the way of leaping feet and heavy nailed boots, which came through the opening till the yard was filled with men, who now set up a fierce, derisive shout, which, to their delight, was answered from within. no more silence, no more dead opposition: a living struggle, a glowing, raging fight; and daniel thought he should be obliged to sit there still, leaning against the wall, inactive, while the strife and the action were going on in which he had once been foremost. he saw the stones torn up; he saw them used with good effect on the unguarded back-door; he cried out in useless warning as he saw the upper windows open, and aim taken among the crowd; but just then the door gave way, and there was an involuntary forward motion in the throng, so that no one was so disabled by the shots as to prevent his forcing his way in with the rest. and now the sounds came veiled by the walls as of some raging ravening beast growling over his prey; the noise came and went--once utterly ceased; and daniel raised himself with difficulty to ascertain the cause, when again the roar came clear and fresh, and men poured into the yard again, shouting and rejoicing over the rescued victims of the press-gang. daniel hobbled up, and shouted, and rejoiced, and shook hands with the rest, hardly caring to understand that the lieutenant and his gang had quitted the house by a front window, and that all had poured out in search of them; the greater part, however, returning to liberate the prisoners, and then glut their vengeance on the house and its contents. from all the windows, upper and lower, furniture was now being thrown into the yard. the smash of glass, the heavier crash of wood, the cries, the laughter, the oaths, all excited daniel to the utmost; and, forgetting his bruises, he pressed forwards to lend a helping hand. the wild, rough success of his scheme almost turned his head. he hurraed at every flagrant piece of destruction; he shook hands with every one around him, and, at last, when the destroyers inside paused to take breath, he cried out,-'if a was as young as onest a was, a'd have t' randyvowse down, and mak' a bonfire on it. we'd ring t' fire-bell then t' some purpose.' no sooner said than done. their excitement was ready to take the slightest hint of mischief; old chairs, broken tables, odd drawers, smashed chests, were rapidly and skilfully heaped into a pyramid, and one, who at the first broaching of the idea had gone for live coals the speedier to light up the fire, came now through the crowd with a large shovelful of red-hot cinders. the rioters stopped to take breath and look on like children at the uncertain flickering blaze, which sprang high one moment, and dropped down the next only to creep along the base of the heap of wreck, and make secure of its future work. then the lurid blaze darted up wild, high, and irrepressible; and the men around gave a cry of fierce exultation, and in rough mirth began to try and push each other in. in one of the pauses of the rushing, roaring noise of the flames, the moaning low and groan of the poor alarmed cow fastened up in the shippen caught daniel's ear, and he understood her groans as well as if they had been words. he limped out of the yard through the now deserted house, where men were busy at the mad work of destruction, and found his way back to the lane into which the shippen opened. the cow was dancing about at the roar, and dazzle, and heat of the fire; but daniel knew how to soothe her, and in a few minutes he had a rope round her neck, and led her gently out from the scene of her alarm. he was still in the lane when simpson, the man-of-all-work at the mariners' arms, crept out of some hiding-place in the deserted outbuilding, and stood suddenly face to face with robson. the man was white with fear and rage. 'here, tak' thy beast, and lead her wheere she'll noane hear yon cries and shouts. she's fairly moithered wi' heat an' noise.' 'they're brennin' ivery rag i have i' t' world,' gasped out simpson: 'i niver had much, and now i'm a beggar.' 'well! thou shouldn't ha' turned again' thine own town-folks, and harboured t' gang. sarves thee reet. a'd noane be here leadin' beasts if a were as young as a were; a'd be in t' thick on it.' 'it was thee set 'm on--a heerd thee--a see'd thee a helping on 'em t' break in; they'd niver ha' thought on attackin' t' house, and settin' fire to yon things, if thou hadn't spoken on it.' simpson was now fairly crying. but daniel did not realize what the loss of all the small property he had in the world was to the poor fellow (rapscallion though he was, broken down, unprosperous ne'er-do-weel!) in his pride at the good work he believed he had set on foot. 'ay,' said he; 'it's a great thing for folk to have a chap for t' lead 'em wi' a head on his shouthers. a misdoubt me if there were a felly theere as would ha' thought o' routling out yon wasps' nest; it tak's a deal o' mother-wit to be up to things. but t' gang'll niver harbour theere again, one while. a only wish we'd cotched 'em. an' a should like t' ha' gi'en hobbs a bit o' my mind.' 'he's had his sauce,' said simpson, dolefully. 'him and me is ruined.' 'tut, tut, thou's got thy brother, he's rich enough. and hobbs 'll do a deal better; he's had his lesson now, and he'll stick to his own side time to come. here, tak' thy beast an' look after her, for my bones is achin'. an' mak' thysel' scarce, for some o' them fellys has getten their blood up, an' wunnot be for treating thee o'er well if they fall in wi' thee.' 'hobbs ought to be served out; it were him as made t' bargain wi' lieutenant; and he's off safe wi' his wife and his money bag, and a'm left a beggar this neet i' monkshaven street. my brother and me has had words, and he'll do nought for me but curse me. a had three crown-pieces, and a good pair o' breeches, and a shirt, and a dare say better nor two pair o' stockings. a wish t' gang, and thee, and hobbs and them mad folk up yonder, were a' down i' hell, a do.' 'coom, lad,' said daniel, noways offended at his companion's wish on his behalf. 'a'm noane flush mysel', but here's half-a-crown and tuppence; it's a' a've getten wi' me, but it'll keep thee and t' beast i' food and shelter to-neet, and get thee a glass o' comfort, too. a had thought o' takin' one mysel', but a shannot ha' a penny left, so a'll just toddle whoam to my missus.' daniel was not in the habit of feeling any emotion at actions not directly affecting himself; or else he might have despised the poor wretch who immediately clutched at the money, and overwhelmed that man with slobbery thanks whom he had not a minute before been cursing. but all simpson's stronger passions had been long ago used up; now he only faintly liked and disliked, where once he loved and hated; his only vehement feeling was for himself; that cared for, other men might wither or flourish as best suited them. many of the doors which had been close shut when the crowd went down the high street, were partially open as daniel slowly returned; and light streamed from them on the otherwise dark road. the news of the successful attempt at rescue had reached those who had sate in mourning and in desolation an hour or two ago, and several of these pressed forwards as from their watching corner they recognized daniel's approach; they pressed forward into the street to shake him by the hand, to thank him (for his name had been bruited abroad as one of those who had planned the affair), and at several places he was urged to have a dram--urgency that he was loath for many reasons to refuse, but his increasing uneasiness and pain made him for once abstinent, and only anxious to get home and rest. but he could not help being both touched and flattered at the way in which those who formed his 'world' looked upon him as a hero; and was not insensible to the words of blessing which a wife, whose husband had been impressed and rescued this night, poured down upon him as he passed. 'theere, theere,--dunnot crack thy throat wi' blessin'. thy man would ha' done as much for me, though mebbe he mightn't ha' shown so much gumption and capability; but them's gifts, and not to be proud on.' when daniel reached the top of the hill on the road home, he turned to look round; but he was lame and bruised, he had gone along slowly, the fire had pretty nearly died out, only a red hue in the air about the houses at the end of the long high street, and a hot lurid mist against the hill-side beyond where the mariners' arms had stood, were still left as signs and token of the deed of violence. daniel looked and chuckled. 'that comes o' ringin' t' fire-bell,' said he to himself; 'it were shame for it to be tellin' a lie, poor oud story-teller.' chapter xxiv brief rejoicing daniel's unusually late absence from home disturbed bell and sylvia not a little. he was generally at home between eight and nine on market days. they expected to see him the worse for liquor at such times; but this did not shock them; he was no worse than most of his neighbours, indeed better than several, who went off once or twice a year, or even oftener, on drinking bouts of two or three days' duration, returning pale, sodden, and somewhat shame-faced, when all their money was gone; and, after the conjugal reception was well over, settling down into hard-working and decently sober men until the temptation again got power over them. but, on market days, every man drank more than usual; every bargain or agreement was ratified by drink; they came from greater or less distances, either afoot or on horseback, and the 'good accommodation for man and beast' (as the old inn-signs expressed it) always included a considerable amount of liquor to be drunk by the man. daniel's way of announcing his intention of drinking more than ordinary was always the same. he would say at the last moment, 'missus, i've a mind to get fuddled to-neet,' and be off, disregarding her look of remonstrance, and little heeding the injunctions she would call after him to beware of such and such companions, or to attend to his footsteps on his road home. but this night he had given no such warning. bell and sylvia put the candle on the low window-seat at the usual hour to guide him through the fields--it was a habit kept up even on moonlight nights like this--and sate on each side of the fire, at first scarcely caring to listen, so secure were they of his return. bell dozed, and sylvia sate gazing at the fire with abstracted eyes, thinking of the past year and of the anniversary which was approaching of the day when she had last seen the lover whom she believed to be dead, lying somewhere fathoms deep beneath the surface of that sunny sea on which she looked day by day without ever seeing his upturned face through the depths, with whatsoever heart-sick longing for just one more sight she yearned and inwardly cried. if she could set her eyes on his bright, handsome face, that face which was fading from her memory, overtasked in the too frequent efforts to recall it; if she could but see him once again, coming over the waters beneath which he lay with supernatural motion, awaiting her at the stile, with the evening sun shining ruddy into his bonny eyes, even though, after that one instant of vivid and visible life, he faded into mist; if she could but see him now, sitting in the faintly flickering fire-light in the old, happy, careless way, on a corner of the dresser, his legs dangling, his busy fingers playing with some of her woman's work;--she wrung her hands tight together as she implored some, any power, to let her see him just once again--just once--for one minute of passionate delight. never again would she forget that dear face, if but once more she might set her eyes upon it. her mother's head fell with a sudden jerk, and she roused herself up; and sylvia put by her thought of the dead, and her craving after his presence, into that receptacle of her heart where all such are kept closed and sacred from the light of common day. 'feyther's late,' said bell. 'it's gone eight,' replied sylvia. 'but our clock is better nor an hour forrard,' answered bell. 'ay, but t' wind brings monkshaven bells clear to-night. i heerd t' eight o'clock bell ringing not five minutes ago.' it was the fire-bell, but she had not distinguished the sound. there was another long silence; both wide awake this time. 'he'll have his rheumatics again,' said bell. 'it's cold for sartin,' said sylvia. 'march weather come afore its time. but i'll make him a treacle-posset, it's a famous thing for keeping off hoasts.' the treacle-posset was entertainment enough for both while it was being made. but once placed in a little basin in the oven, there was again time for wonder and anxiety. 'he said nought about having a bout, did he, mother?' asked sylvia at length. 'no,' said bell, her face a little contracting. after a while she added, 'there's many a one as has husbands that goes off drinking without iver saying a word to their wives. my master is none o' that mak'.' 'mother,' broke in sylvia again, 'i'll just go and get t' lantern out of t' shippen, and go up t' brow, and mebbe to t' ash-field end.' 'do, lass,' said her mother. 'i'll get my wraps and go with thee.' 'thou shall do niver such a thing,' said sylvia. 'thou's too frail to go out i' t' night air such a night as this.' 'then call kester up.' 'not i. i'm noane afraid o' t' dark.' 'but of what thou mayst meet i' t' dark, lass?' sylvia shivered all over at the sudden thought, suggested by this speech of her mother's, that the idea that had flashed into her own mind of going to look for her father might be an answer to the invocation to the powers which she had made not long ago, that she might indeed meet her dead lover at the ash-field stile; but though she shivered as this superstitious fancy came into her head, her heart beat firm and regular; not from darkness nor from the spirits of the dead was she going to shrink; her great sorrow had taken away all her girlish nervous fear. she went; and she came back. neither man nor spirit had she seen; the wind was blowing on the height enough to sweep all creatures before it; but no one was coming. so they sate down again to keep watch. at length his step was heard close to the door; and it startled them even in their state of expectation. 'why, feyther!' cried sylvia as he entered; while his wife stood up trembling, but not saying a word. 'a'm a'most done up,' said he, sitting heavily down on the chair nearest the door. 'poor old feyther!' said sylvia, stooping to take off his heavy clogged shoes; while bell took the posset out of the oven. 'what's this? posset? what creatures women is for slops,' said he; but he drank it all the same, while sylvia fastened the door, and brought the flaring candle from the window-seat. the fresh arrangement of light displayed his face blackened with smoke, and his clothes disarranged and torn. 'who's been melling wi' thee?' asked bell. 'no one has melled wi' me; but a've been mellin' wi' t' gang at last.' 'thee: they niver were for pressing thee!' exclaimed both the women at once. 'no! they knowed better. they'n getten their belly-full as it is. next time they try it on, a reckon they'll ax if daniel robson is wi'in hearin'. a've led a resky this neet, and saved nine or ten honest chaps as was pressed, and carried off to t' randyvowse. me and some others did it. and hobbs' things and t' lieutenant's is a' burnt; and by this time a reckon t' randyvowse is pretty nigh four walls, ready for a parish-pound.' 'thou'rt niver for saying thou burnt it down wi' t' gang in it, for sure?' asked bell. 'na, na, not this time. t' 'gang fled up t' hill like coneys; and hobbs and his folks carried off a bag o' money; but t' oud tumbledown place is just a heap o' brick and mortar; an' t' furniture is smoulderin' int' ashes; and, best of a', t' men is free, and will niver be cotched wi' a fire-bell again.' and so he went on to tell of the ruse by which they had been enticed into the market-place; interrupted from time to time by their eager questions, and interrupting himself every now and then with exclamations of weariness and pain, which made him at last say,-'now a'm willing to tell yo' a' about it to-morrow, for it's not ivery day a man can do such great things; but to-neet a mun go to bed, even if king george were wantin' for to know how a managed it a'.' he went wearily upstairs, and wife and daughter both strove their best to ease his aching limbs, and make him comfortable. the warming-pan, only used on state occasions, was taken down and unpapered for his service; and as he got between the warm sheets, he thanked sylvia and her mother in a sleepy voice, adding,-'it's a vast o' comfort to think on yon poor lads as is sleepin' i' their own homes this neet,' and then slumber fell upon him, and he was hardly roused by bell's softly kissing his weather-beaten cheek, and saying low,-'god bless thee, my man! thou was allays for them that was down and put upon.' he murmured some monosyllabic reply, unheard by his wife, who stole away to undress herself noiselessly, and laid herself down on her side of the bed as gently as her stiffened limbs would permit. they were late in rising the next morning. kester was long since up and at his work among the cattle before he saw the house-door open to admit the fresh chill morning air; and even then sylvia brushed softly, and went about almost on tip-toe. when the porridge was ready, kester was called in to his breakfast, which he took sitting at the dresser with the family. a large wooden platter stood in the middle; and each had a bowl of the same material filled with milk. the way was for every one to dip his pewter spoon into the central dish, and convey as much or as little as he liked at a time of the hot porridge into his pure fresh milk. but to-day bell told kester to help himself all at once, and to take his bowl up to the master's room and keep him company. for daniel was in bed, resting from his weariness, and bemoaning his painful bruises whenever he thought of them. but his mind was still so much occupied with the affair of the previous night, that bell judged rightly that a new listener would give ease to his body as well as to his mind, and her proposal of kester's carrying up his breakfast had been received by daniel with satisfaction. so kester went up slowly, carrying his over-full basin tenderly, and seated himself on the step leading down into the bed-room (for levels had not been calculated when the old house was built) facing his master, who, half sitting up in the blue check bed, not unwillingly began his relation again; to which kester listened so attentively, that his spoon was often arrested in its progress from the basin to his mouth, open ready to receive it, while he gazed with unwinking eyes at daniel narrating his exploits. but after daniel had fought his battle o'er again to every auditor within his reach, he found the seclusion of his chamber rather oppressive, without even the usual week-days' noises below; so after dinner, though far from well, he came down and wandered about the stable and the fields nearest to the house, consulting with kester as to crops and manure for the most part; but every now and then breaking out into an episodical chuckle over some part of last night's proceedings. kester enjoyed the day even more than his master, for he had no bruises to remind him that, although a hero, he was also flesh and blood. when they returned to the house they found philip there, for it was already dusk. it was kester's usual sunday plan to withdraw to bed at as early an hour as he could manage to sleep, often in winter before six; but now he was too full of interest in what philip might have to tell of monkshaven news to forego his sabbath privilege of spending the evening sitting on the chair at the end of the dresser behind the door. philip was as close to sylvia as he could possibly get without giving her offence, when they came in. her manner was listless and civil; she had lost all that active feeling towards him which made him positively distasteful, and had called out her girlish irritation and impertinence. she now was rather glad to see him than otherwise. he brought some change into the heavy monotony of her life--monotony so peaceful until she had been stirred by passion out of that content with the small daily events which had now become burdensome recurrences. insensibly to herself she was becoming dependent on his timid devotion, his constant attention; and he, lover-like, once so attracted, in spite of his judgment, by her liveliness and piquancy, now doted on her languor, and thought her silence more sweet than words. he had only just arrived when master and man came in. he had been to afternoon chapel; none of them had thought of going to the distant church; worship with them was only an occasional duty, and this day their minds had been too full of the events of the night before. daniel sate himself heavily down in his accustomed chair, the three-cornered arm-chair in the fireside corner, which no one thought of anybody else ever occupying on any occasion whatever. in a minute or two he interrupted philip's words of greeting and inquiry by breaking out into the story of the rescue of last night. but to the mute surprise of sylvia, the only one who noticed it, philip's face, instead of expressing admiration and pleasant wonder, lengthened into dismay; once or twice he began to interrupt, but stopped himself as if he would consider his words again. kester was never tired of hearing his master talk; by long living together they understood every fold of each other's minds, and small expressions had much significance to them. bell, too, sate thankful that her husband should have done such deeds. only sylvia was made uneasy by philip's face and manner. when daniel had ended there was a great silence, instead of the questions and compliments he looked to receive. he became testy, and turning to bell, said,-'my nephew looks as though he was a-thinking more on t' little profit he has made on his pins an' bobs, than as if he was heeding how honest men were saved from being haled out to yon tender, an' carried out o' sight o' wives and little 'uns for iver. wives an' little 'uns may go t' workhouse or clem for aught he cares. philip went very red, and then more sallow than usual. he had not been thinking of charley kinraid, but of quite another thing, while daniel had told his story; but this last speech of the old man's brought up the remembrance that was always quick, do what he would to smother or strangle it. he did not speak for a moment or two, then he said,-'to-day has not been like sabbath in monkshaven. t' rioters, as folks call 'em, have been about all night. they wanted to give battle to t' men-o'-war's men; and it were taken up by th' better end, and they've sent to my lord malton for t' militia; and they're come into t' town, and they're hunting for a justice for t' read th' act; folk do say there'll be niver a shop opened to-morrow.' this was rather a more serious account of the progress of the affair than any one had calculated upon. they looked grave upon it awhile, then daniel took heart and said,-'a think we'd done a'most enough last neet; but men's not to be stopped wi' a straw when their blood is up; still it's hard lines to call out t' sojers, even if they be but militia. so what we seven hatched in a dark entry has ta'en a lord to put a stop to 't!' continued he, chuckling a little, but more faintly this time. philip went on, still graver than before, boldly continuing to say what he knew would be discordant to the family he loved so well. 'i should ha' telled yo' all about it; i thought on it just as a bit o' news; i'd niver thought on such a thing as uncle there having been in it, and i'm main sorry to hear on it, i am.' 'why?' said sylvia, breathlessly. 'it's niver a thing to be sorry on. i'm proud and glad,' said bell. 'let-a-be, let-a-be,' said daniel, in much dudgeon. 'a were a fool to tell him o' such-like doings, they're noane i' his line; we'll talk on yard measures now. philip took no notice of this poor attempt at sarcasm: he seemed as if lost in thought, then he said,-'i'm vexed to plague yo', but i'd best say all i've got i' my mind. there was a vast o' folk at our chapel speaking about it--last night's doings and this morning's work--and how them as set it afoot was assured o' being clapt int' prison and tried for it; and when i heered uncle say as he was one, it like ran through me; for they say as t' justices will be all on t' government side, and mad for vengeance.' for an instant there was dead silence. the women looked at each other with blank eyes, as if they were as yet unable to take in the new idea that the conduct which had seemed to them a subject for such just pride could be regarded by any one as deserving of punishment or retribution. daniel spoke before they had recovered from their amazement. 'a'm noane sorry for what a did, an' a'd do it again to-neet, if need were. so theere's for thee. thou may tell t' justices fra' me that a reckon a did righter nor them, as letten poor fellys be carried off i' t' very midst o' t' town they're called justices for.' perhaps philip had better have held his tongue; but he believed in the danger, which he was anxious to impress upon his uncle, in order that, knowing what was to be apprehended, the latter might take some pains to avert it. he went on. 'but they're making a coil about the randyvowse being all destroyed!' daniel had taken down his pipe from the shelf in the chimney corner, and was stuffing tobacco into the bowl. he went on pretending to do this a little while after it was filled; for, to tell the truth, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the new view of his conduct presented to him. still he was not going to let this appear, so lifting up his head with an indifferent air he lighted the pipe, blew into it, took it out and examined it as something were wrong about it, and until that was put to rights he was unable to attend to anything else; all the while the faithful three who hung upon his well-being, gazing, breathless, at his proceedings, and anxious for his reply. 'randyvowse!' said he at length, 'it were a good job it were brenned down, for such a harbour for vermin a never seed: t' rats ran across t' yard by hunders an' thousands; an' it were no man's property as a've heerd tell, but belonged to chancery, up i' lunnon; so wheere's t' harm done, my fine felly?' philip was silent. he did not care to brave any further his uncle's angry frown and contracted eye. if he had only known of daniel robson's part in the riot before he had left the town, he would have taken care to have had better authority for the reality of the danger which he had heard spoken about, and in which he could not help believing. as it was, he could only keep quiet until he had ascertained what was the legal peril overhanging the rioters, and how far his uncle had been recognized. daniel went on puffing angrily. kester sighed audibly, and then was sorry he had done so, and began to whistle. bell, full of her new fear, yet desirous to bring all present into some kind of harmony, said,-'it'll ha' been a loss to john hobbs--all his things burnt, or trampled on. mebbe he desarved it all, but one's a kind o' tender feeling to one's tables and chairs, special if one's had t' bees-waxing on 'em.' 'a wish he'd been burnt on t' top on 'em, a do,' growled out daniel, shaking the ash out of his pipe. 'don't speak so ill o' thysel',' said his wife. 'thou'd ha' been t' first t' pluck him down if he'd screeched out.' 'an' a'll warrant if they come about wi' a paper asking for feyther's name to make up for what hobbs has lost by t' fire, feyther 'll be for giving him summut,' said sylvia. 'thou knows nought about it,' said daniel. 'hold thy tongue next time till thou's axed to speak, my wench.' his sharp irritated way of speaking was so new to sylvia, that the tears sprang to her eyes, and her lip quivered. philip saw it all, and yearned over her. he plunged headlong into some other subject to try and divert attention from her; but daniel was too ill at ease to talk much, and bell was obliged to try and keep up the semblance of conversation, with an occasional word or two from kester, who seemed instinctively to fall into her way of thinking, and to endeavour to keep the dark thought in the background. sylvia stole off to bed; more concerned at her father's angry way of speaking than at the idea of his being amenable to law for what he had done; the one was a sharp present evil, the other something distant and unlikely. yet a dim terror of this latter evil hung over her, and once upstairs she threw herself on her bed and sobbed. philip heard her where he sate near the bottom of the short steep staircase, and at every sob the cords of love round his heart seemed tightened, and he felt as if he must there and then do something to console her. but, instead, he sat on talking of nothings, a conversation in which daniel joined with somewhat of surliness, while bell, grave and anxious, kept wistfully looking from one to the other, desirous of gleaning some further information on the subject, which had begun to trouble her mind. she hoped some chance would give her the opportunity of privately questioning philip, but it seemed to be equally her husband's wish to thwart any such intention of hers. he remained in the house-place, till after philip had left, although he was evidently so much fatigued as to give some very distinct, though unintentional, hints to his visitor to be gone. at length the house-door was locked on philip, and then daniel prepared to go to bed. kester had left for his loft above the shippen more than an hour before. bell had still to rake the fire, and then she would follow her husband upstairs. as she was scraping up the ashes, she heard, intermixed with the noise she was making, the sound of some one rapping gently at the window. in her then frame of mind she started a little; but on looking round, she saw kester's face pressed against the glass, and, reassured, she softly opened the door. there he stood in the dusk outer air, distinct against the gray darkness beyond, and in his hand something which she presently perceived was a pitchfork. 'missus!' whispered he, 'a've watched t' maister t' bed; an' now a'd be greatly beholden to yo' if yo'd let me just lay me down i' t' house-place. a'd warrant niver a constable i' a' monkshaven should get sight o' t' maister, an' me below t' keep ward.' bell shivered a little. 'nay, kester,' she said, patting her hand kindly on his shoulder; 'there's nought for t' fear. thy master is not one for t' hurt nobody; and i dunnot think they can harm him for setting yon poor chaps free, as t' gang catched i' their wicked trap.' kester stood still; then he shook his head slowly. 'it's t' work at t' randyvowse as a'm afeared on. some folks thinks such a deal o' a bonfire. then a may lay me down afore t' fire, missus?' said he, beseechingly. 'nay, kester--' she began; but suddenly changing, she said, 'god bless thee, my man; come in and lay thee down on t' settle, and i'll cover thee up wi' my cloak as hangs behind t' door. we're not many on us that love him, an' we'll be all on us under one roof, an' niver a stone wall or a lock betwixt us.' so kester took up his rest in the house-place that night, and none knew of it besides bell. chapter xxv coming troubles the morning brought more peace if it did not entirely dissipate fear. daniel seemed to have got over his irritability, and was unusually kind and tender to wife and daughter, especially striving by silent little deeds to make up for the sharp words he had said the night before to the latter. as if by common consent, all allusion to the saturday night's proceedings was avoided. they spoke of the day's work before them; of the crops to be sown; of the cattle; of the markets; but each one was conscious of a wish to know more distinctly what were the chances of the danger that, to judge from philip's words, hung over them, falling upon them and cutting them off from all these places for the coming days. bell longed to send kester down into monkshaven as a sort of spy to see how the land lay; but she dared not manifest her anxiety to her husband, and could not see kester alone. she wished that she had told him to go to the town, when she had had him to herself in the house-place the night before; now it seemed as though daniel were resolved not to part from him, and as though both had forgotten that any peril had been anticipated. sylvia and her mother, in like manner, clung together, not speaking of their fears, yet each knowing that it was ever present in the other's mind. so things went on till twelve o'clock--dinner-time. if at any time that morning they had had the courage to speak together on the thought which was engrossing all their minds, it is possible that some means might have been found to avert the calamity that was coming towards them with swift feet. but among the uneducated--the partially educated--nay, even the weakly educated--the feeling exists which prompted the futile experiment of the well-known ostrich. they imagine that, by closing their own eyes to apprehended evil, they avert it. the expression of fear is supposed to accelerate the coming of its cause. yet, on the other hand, they shrink from acknowledging the long continuance of any blessing, in the idea that when unusual happiness is spoken about, it disappears. so, although perpetual complaints of past or present grievances and sorrows are most common among this class, they shrink from embodying apprehensions for the future in words, as if it then took shape and drew near. they all four sate down to dinner, but not one of them was inclined to eat. the food was scarcely touched on their plates, yet they were trying to make talk among themselves as usual; they seemed as though they dared not let themselves be silent, when sylvia, sitting opposite to the window, saw philip at the top of the brow, running rapidly towards the farm. she had been so full of the anticipation of some kind of misfortune all the morning that she felt now as if this was the very precursive circumstance she had been expecting; she stood up, turning quite white, and, pointing with her finger, said,-'there he is!' every one at table stood up too. an instant afterwards, philip, breathless, was in the room. he gasped out, 'they're coming! the warrant is out. you must go. i hoped you were gone.' 'god help us!' said bell, and sate suddenly down, as if she had received a blow that made her collapse into helplessness; but she got up again directly. sylvia flew for her father's hat. he really seemed the most unmoved of the party. 'a'm noane afeared,' said he. 'a'd do it o'er again, a would; an' a'll tell 'em so. it's a fine time o' day when men's to be trapped and carried off, an' them as lays traps to set 'em free is to be put i' t' lock-ups for it.' 'but there was rioting, beside the rescue; t' house was burnt,' continued eager, breathless philip. 'an' a'm noane goin' t' say a'm sorry for that, neyther; tho', mebbe, a wouldn't do it again.' sylvia had his hat on his head by this time; and bell, wan and stiff, trembling all over, had his over-coat, and his leather purse with the few coins she could muster, ready for him to put on. he looked at these preparations, at his wife and daughter, and his colour changed from its ruddy brown. 'a'd face lock-ups, an' a fair spell o' jail, but for these,' said he, hesitating. 'oh!' said philip, 'for god's sake, lose no time, but be off.' 'where mun he go?' asked bell, as if philip must decide all. 'anywhere, anywhere, out of this house--say haverstone. this evening, i'll go and meet him there and plan further; only be off now.' philip was so keenly eager, he hardly took note at the time of sylvia's one vivid look of unspoken thanks, yet he remembered it afterwards. 'a'll dang 'em dead,' said kester, rushing to the door, for he saw what the others did not--that all chance of escape was over; the constables were already at the top of the little field-path not twenty yards off. 'hide him, hide him,' cried bell, wringing her hands in terror; for she, indeed they all, knew that flight would now be impossible. daniel was heavy, rheumatic, and, moreover, had been pretty severely bruised on that unlucky night. philip, without another word, pushed daniel before him upstairs, feeling that his own presence at haytersbank farm at that hour of the day would be a betrayal. they had just time to shut themselves up in the larger bed-room, before they heard a scuffle and the constables' entry down-stairs. 'they're in,' said philip, as daniel squeezed himself under the bed; and then they held quite still, philip as much concealed by the scanty, blue-check curtain as he could manage to be. they heard a confusion of voices below, a hasty moving of chairs, a banging of doors, a further parley, and then a woman's scream, shrill and pitiful; then steps on the stairs. 'that screech spoiled all,' sighed philip. in one instant the door was opened, and each of the hiders was conscious of the presence of the constables, although at first the latter stood motionless, surveying the apparently empty room with disappointment. then in another moment they had rushed at philip's legs, exposed as these were. they drew him out with violence, and then let him go. 'measter hepburn!' said one in amaze. but immediately they put two and two together; for in so small a place as monkshaven every one's relationships and connexions, and even likings, were known; and the motive of philip's coming out to haytersbank was perfectly clear to these men. 't' other 'll not be far off,' said the other constable. 'his plate were down-stairs, full o' victual; a seed measter hepburn a-walking briskly before me as a left monkshaven.' 'here he be, here he be,' called out the other man, dragging daniel out by his legs, 'we've getten him.' daniel kicked violently, and came out from his hiding-place in a less ignominious way than by being pulled out by his heels. he shook himself, and then turned, facing his captors. 'a wish a'd niver hidden mysel'; it were his doing,' jerking his thumb toward philip: 'a'm ready to stand by what a've done. yo've getten a warrant a'll be bound, for them justices is grand at writin' when t' fight's over.' he was trying to carry it off with bravado, but philip saw that he had received a shock, from his sudden look of withered colour and shrunken feature. 'don't handcuff him,' said philip, putting money into the constable's hand. 'you'll be able to guard him well enough without them things.' daniel turned round sharp at this whisper. 'let-a-be, let-a-be, my lad,' he said. 'it 'll be summut to think on i' t' lock-up how two able-bodied fellys were so afeared on t' chap as reskyed them honest sailors o' saturday neet, as they mun put him i' gyves, and he sixty-two come martinmas, and sore laid up wi' t' rheumatics.' but it was difficult to keep up this tone of bravado when he was led a prisoner through his own house-place, and saw his poor wife quivering and shaking all over with her efforts to keep back all signs of emotion until he was gone; and sylvia standing by her mother, her arm round bell's waist and stroking the poor shrunken fingers which worked so perpetually and nervously in futile unconscious restlessness. kester was in a corner of the room, sullenly standing. bell quaked from head to foot as her husband came down-stairs a prisoner. she opened her lips several times with an uneasy motion, as if she would fain say something, but knew not what. sylvia's passionate swollen lips and her beautiful defiant eyes gave her face quite a new aspect; she looked a helpless fury. 'a may kiss my missus, a reckon,' said daniel, coming to a standstill as he passed near her. 'oh, dannel, dannel!' cried she, opening her arms wide to receive him. 'dannel, dannel, my man!' and she shook with her crying, laying her head on his shoulder, as if he was all her stay and comfort. 'come, missus! come, missus!' said he, 'there couldn't be more ado if a'd been guilty of murder, an' yet a say again, as a said afore, a'm noane ashamed o' my doings. here, sylvie, lass, tak' thy mother off me, for a cannot do it mysel', it like sets me off.' his voice was quavering as he said this. but he cheered up a little and said, 'now, good-by, oud wench' (kissing her), 'and keep a good heart, and let me see thee lookin' lusty and strong when a come back. good-by, my lass; look well after mother, and ask philip for guidance if it's needed.' he was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill cries of the women; but in a minute or two they were checked by the return of one of the constables, who, cap in hand at the sight of so much grief, said,-'he wants a word wi' his daughter.' the party had come to a halt about ten yards from the house. sylvia, hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran out and threw her arms round her father, as if to burst out afresh on his neck. 'nay, nay, my wench, it's thee as mun be a comfort to mother: nay, nay, or thou'll niver hear what a've got to say. sylvie, my lass, a'm main and sorry a were so short wi' thee last neet; a ax thy pardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and sent thee to thy bed wi' a sore heart. thou munnot think on it again, but forgie me, now a'm leavin' thee.' 'oh, feyther! feyther!' was all sylvia could say; and at last they had to make as though they would have used force to separate her from their prisoner. philip took her hand, and softly led her back to her weeping mother. for some time nothing was to be heard in the little farmhouse kitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women. philip stood by silent, thinking, as well as he could, for his keen sympathy with their grief, what had best be done next. kester, after some growls at sylvia for having held back the uplifted arm which he thought might have saved daniel by a well-considered blow on his captors as they entered the house, went back into his shippen--his cell for meditation and consolation, where he might hope to soothe himself before going out to his afternoon's work; labour which his master had planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight, as kester thought, for the job was one which would take him two or three days without needing any further directions than those he had received, and by the end of that time he thought that his master would be at liberty again. so he--so they all thought in their ignorance and inexperience. although daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impulsive--in a word, often thinking and acting very foolishly--yet, somehow, either from some quality in his character, or from the loyalty of nature in those with whom he had to deal in his every-day life, he had made his place and position clear as the arbiter and law-giver of his household. on his decision, as that of husband, father, master, perhaps superior natures waited. so now that he was gone and had left them in such strange new circumstances so suddenly, it seemed as though neither bell nor sylvia knew exactly what to do when their grief was spent, so much had every household action and plan been regulated by the thought of him. meanwhile philip had slowly been arriving at the conclusion that he was more wanted at monkshaven to look after daniel's interests, to learn what were the legal probabilities in consequence of the old man's arrest, and to arrange for his family accordingly, than standing still and silent in the haytersbank kitchen, too full of fellow-feeling and heavy foreboding to comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appearance from the very aching of his heart. so when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity and propriety, began to put away the scarcely tasted dinner, and sylvia, blinded with crying, and convulsively sobbing, was yet trying to help her mother, philip took his hat, and brushing it round and round with the sleeve of his coat, said,-'i think i'll just go back, and see how matters stand.' he had a more distinct plan in his head than these words implied, but it depended on so many contingencies of which he was ignorant that he said only these few words; and with a silent resolution to see them again that day, but a dread of being compelled to express his fears, so far beyond theirs, he went off without saying anything more. then sylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry. somehow she had expected him to do something--what, she did not know; but he was gone, and they were left without stay or help. 'hush thee, hush thee,' said her mother, trembling all over herself; 'it's for the best. the lord knows.' 'but i niver thought he'd leave us,' moaned sylvia, half in her mother's arms, and thinking of philip. her mother took the words as applied to daniel. 'and he'd niver ha' left us, my wench, if he could ha' stayed.' 'oh, mother, mother, it's philip as has left us, and he could ha' stayed.' 'he'll come back, or mebbe send, i'll be bound. leastways he'll be gone to see feyther, and he'll need comfort most on all, in a fremd place--in bridewell--and niver a morsel of victual or a piece o' money.' and now she sate down, and wept the dry hot tears that come with such difficulty to the eyes of the aged. and so--first one grieving, and then the other, and each draining her own heart of every possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheer and console--the february afternoon passed away; the continuous rain closing in the daylight even earlier than usual, and adding to the dreariness, with the natural accompaniments of wailing winds, coming with long sweeps over the moors, and making the sobbings at the windows that always sound like the gasps of some one in great agony. meanwhile philip had hastened back to monkshaven. he had no umbrella, he had to face the driving rain for the greater part of the way; but he was thankful to the weather, for it kept men indoors, and he wanted to meet no one, but to have time to think and mature his plans. the town itself was, so to speak, in mourning. the rescue of the sailors was a distinctly popular movement; the subsequent violence (which had, indeed, gone much further than has been described, after daniel left it) was, in general, considered as only a kind of due punishment inflicted in wild justice on the press-gang and their abettors. the feeling of the monkshaven people was, therefore, in decided opposition to the vigorous steps taken by the county magistrates, who, in consequence of an appeal from the naval officers in charge of the impressment service, had called out the militia (from a distant and inland county) stationed within a few miles, and had thus summarily quenched the riots that were continuing on the sunday morning after a somewhat languid fashion; the greater part of the destruction of property having been accomplished during the previous night. still there was little doubt but that the violence would have been renewed as evening drew on, and the more desperate part of the population and the enraged sailors had had the sabbath leisure to brood over their wrongs, and to encourage each other in a passionate attempt at redress, or revenge. so the authorities were quite justified in the decided steps they had taken, both in their own estimation then, and now, in ours, looking back on the affair in cold blood. but at the time feeling ran strongly against them; and all means of expressing itself in action being prevented, men brooded sullenly in their own houses. philip, as the representative of the family, the head of which was now suffering for his deeds in the popular cause, would have met with more sympathy, ay, and more respect than he imagined, as he went along the streets, glancing from side to side, fearful of meeting some who would shy him as the relation of one who had been ignominiously taken to bridewell a few hours before. but in spite of this wincing of philip's from observation and remark, he never dreamed of acting otherwise than as became a brave true friend. and this he did, and would have done, from a natural faithfulness and constancy of disposition, without any special regard for sylvia. he knew his services were needed in the shop; business which he had left at a moment's warning awaited him, unfinished; but at this time he could not bear the torture of giving explanations, and alleging reasons to the languid intelligence and slow sympathies of coulson. he went to the offices of mr. donkin, the oldest established and most respected attorney in monkshaven--he who had been employed to draw up the law papers and deeds of partnership consequent on hepburn and coulson succeeding to the shop of john and jeremiah foster, brothers. mr. donkin knew philip from this circumstance. but, indeed, nearly every one in monkshaven knew each other; if not enough to speak to, at least enough to be acquainted with the personal appearance and reputation of most of those whom they met in the streets. it so happened that mr. donkin had a favourable opinion of philip; and perhaps for this reason the latter had a shorter time to wait before he obtained an interview with the head of the house, than many of the clients who came for that purpose from town or country for many miles round. philip was ushered in. mr. donkin sate with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, ready to watch his countenance and listen to his words. 'good afternoon, mr. hepburn!' 'good afternoon, sir.' philip hesitated how to begin. mr. donkin became impatient, and tapped with the fingers of his left hand on his desk. philip's sensitive nerves felt and rightly interpreted the action. 'please, sir, i'm come to speak to you about daniel robson, of haytersbank farm.' 'daniel robson?' said mr. donkin, after a short pause, to try and compel philip into speed in his story. 'yes, sir. he's been taken up on account of this affair, sir, about the press-gang on saturday night.' 'to be sure! i thought i knew the name.' and mr. donkin's face became graver, and the expression more concentrated. looking up suddenly at philip, he said, 'you are aware that i am the clerk to the magistrates?' 'no, sir,' in a tone that indicated the unexpressed 'what then?' 'well, but i am. and so of course, if you want my services or advice in favour of a prisoner whom they have committed, or are going to commit, you can't have them, that's all.' 'i am very sorry--very!' said philip; and then he was again silent for a period; long enough to make the busy attorney impatient. 'well, mr. hepburn, have you anything else to say to me?' 'yes, sir. i've a deal to ask of you; for you see i don't rightly understand what to do; and yet i'm all as daniel's wife and daughter has to look to; and i've their grief heavy on my heart. you could not tell me what is to be done with daniel, could you, sir?' 'he'll be brought up before the magistrates to-morrow morning for final examination, along with the others, you know, before he's sent to york castle to take his trial at the spring assizes.' 'to york castle, sir?' mr. donkin nodded, as if words were too precious to waste. 'and when will he go?' asked poor philip, in dismay. 'to-morrow: most probably as soon as the examination is over. the evidence is clear as to his being present, aiding and abetting,--indicted on the 4th section of 1 george i., statute 1, chapter 5. i'm afraid it's a bad look-out. is he a friend of yours, mr. hepburn?' 'only an uncle, sir,' said philip, his heart getting full; more from mr. donkin's manner than from his words. 'but what can they do to him, sir?' 'do?' mr. donkin half smiled at the ignorance displayed. 'why, hang him, to be sure; if the judge is in a hanging mood. he's been either a principal in the offence, or a principal in the second degree, and, as such, liable to the full punishment. i drew up the warrant myself this morning, though i left the exact name to be filled up by my clerk.' 'oh, sir! can you do nothing for me?' asked philip, with sharp beseeching in his voice. he had never imagined that it was a capital offence; and the thought of his aunt's and sylvia's ignorance of the possible fate awaiting him whom they so much loved, was like a stab to his heart. 'no, my good fellow. i'm sorry; but, you see, it's my duty to do all i can to bring criminals to justice.' 'my uncle thought he was doing such a fine deed.' 'demolishing and pulling down, destroying and burning dwelling-houses and outhouses,' said mr. donkin. 'he must have some peculiar notions.' 'the people is so mad with the press-gang, and daniel has been at sea hisself; and took it so to heart when he heard of mariners and seafaring folk being carried off, and just cheated into doing what was kind and helpful--leastways, what would have been kind and helpful, if there had been a fire. i'm against violence and riots myself, sir, i'm sure; but i cannot help thinking as daniel had a deal to justify him on saturday night, sir.' 'well; you must try and get a good lawyer to bring out all that side of the question. there's a good deal to be said on it; but it's my duty to get up all the evidence to prove that he and others were present on the night in question; so, as you'll perceive, i can give you no help in defending him.' 'but who can, sir? i came to you as a friend who, i thought, would see me through it. and i don't know any other lawyer; leastways, to speak to.' mr. donkin was really more concerned for the misguided rioters than he was aware; and he was aware of more interest than he cared to express. so he softened his tone a little, and tried to give the best advice in his power. 'you'd better go to edward dawson on the other side of the river; he that was articled clerk with me two years ago, you know. he's a clever fellow, and has not too much practice; he'll do the best he can for you. he'll have to be at the court-house, tell him, to-morrow morning at ten, when the justices meet. he'll watch the case for you; and then he'll give you his opinion, and tell you what to do. you can't do better than follow his advice. i must do all i can to collect evidence for a conviction, you know.' philip stood up, looked at his hat, and then came forward and laid down six and eightpence on the desk in a blushing, awkward way. 'pooh! pooh!' said mr. donkin, pushing the money away. 'don't be a fool; you'll need it all before the trial's over. i've done nothing, man. it would be a pretty thing for me to be feed by both parties.' philip took up the money, and left the room. in an instant he came back again, glanced furtively at mr. donkin's face, and then, once more having recourse to brushing his hat, he said, in a low voice-'you'll not be hard upon him, sir, i hope?' 'i must do my duty,' replied mr. donkin, a little sternly, 'without any question of hardness.' philip, discomfited, left the room; an instant of thought and mr donkin had jumped up, and hastening to the door he opened it and called after philip. 'hepburn--hepburn--i say, he'll be taken to york as soon as may be to-morrow morning; if any one wants to see him before then, they'd better look sharp about it.' philip went quickly along the streets towards mr. dawson's, pondering upon the meaning of all that he had heard, and what he had better do. he had made his plans pretty clearly out by the time he arrived at mr. dawson's smart door in one of the new streets on the other side of the river. a clerk as smart as the door answered philip's hesitating knock, and replied to his inquiry as to whether mr. dawson was at home, in the negative, adding, after a moment's pause-'he'll be at home in less than an hour; he's only gone to make mrs dawson's will--mrs. dawson, of collyton--she's not expected to get better.' probably the clerk of an older-established attorney would not have given so many particulars as to the nature of his master's employment; but, as it happened it was of no consequence, the unnecessary information made no impression on philip's mind; he thought the matter over and then said-'i'll be back in an hour, then. it's gone a quarter to four; i'll be back before five, tell mr. dawson.' he turned on his heel and went back to the high street as fast as he could, with a far more prompt and decided step than before. he hastened through the streets, emptied by the bad weather, to the principal inn of the town, the george--the sign of which was fastened to a piece of wood stretched across the narrow street; and going up to the bar with some timidity (for the inn was frequented by the gentry of monkshaven and the neighbourhood, and was considered as a touch above such customers as philip), he asked if he could have a tax-cart made ready in a quarter of an hour, and sent up to the door of his shop. 'to be sure he could; how far was it to go?' philip hesitated before he replied-'up the knotting lane, to the stile leading down to haytersbank farm; they'll have to wait there for some as are coming.' 'they must not wait long such an evening as this; standing in such rain and wind as there'll be up there, is enough to kill a horse.' 'they shan't wait long,' said philip, decisively: 'in a quarter of an hour, mind.' he now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, which was increasing as the tide came in and the night hours approached. coulson had no word for him, but he looked reproachfully at his partner for his long, unexplained absence. hester was putting away the ribbons and handkerchiefs, and bright-coloured things which had been used to deck the window; for no more customers were likely to come this night through the blustering weather to a shop dimly lighted by two tallow candles and an inefficient oil-lamp. philip came up to her, and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes; but the strange consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, and called the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length compelled her, as it were, to speak, and break the spell of the silence. so, curiously enough, all three spoke at once. hester asked (without looking at philip)-'yo're sadly wet, i'm feared?' coulson said-'thou might have a bit o' news to tell one after being on the gad all afternoon.' philip whispered to hester-'wilt come into t' parlour? i want a word wi' thee by oursel's.' hester quietly finished rolling up the ribbon she had in her hands when he spoke, and then followed him into the room behind the shop before spoken of. philip set down on the table the candle which he had brought out of the shop, and turning round to hester, took her trembling hand into both of his, and gripping it nervously, said-'oh! hester, thou must help me--thou will, will not thou?' hester gulped down something that seemed to rise in her throat and choke her, before she answered. 'anything, thou knows, philip.' 'yes, yes, i know. thou sees the matter is this: daniel robson--he who married my aunt--is taken up for yon riot on saturday night at t' mariners' arms----' 'they spoke on it this afternoon; they said the warrant was out,' said hester, filling up the sentence as philip hesitated, lost for an instant in his own thoughts. 'ay! the warrant is out, and he's in t' lock-up, and will be carried to york castle to-morrow morn; and i'm afeared it will go bad with him; and they at haytersbank is not prepared, and they must see him again before he goes. now, hester, will thou go in a tax-cart as will be here in less than ten minutes from t' george, and bring them back here, and they must stay all night for to be ready to see him to-morrow before he goes? it's dree weather for them, but they'll not mind that.' he had used words as if he was making a request to hester; but he did not seem to await her answer, so sure was he that she would go. she noticed this, and noticed also that the rain was spoken of in reference to them, not to her. a cold shadow passed over her heart, though it was nothing more than she already knew--that sylvia was the one centre of his thoughts and his love. 'i'll go put on my things at once,' said she, gently. philip pressed her hand tenderly, a glow of gratitude overspread him. 'thou's a real good one, god bless thee!' said he. 'thou must take care of thyself, too,' continued he; 'there's wraps and plenty i' th' house, and if there are not, there's those i' the shop as 'll be none the worse for once wearing at such a time as this; and wrap thee well up, and take shawls and cloaks for them, and mind as they put 'em on. thou'll have to get out at a stile, i'll tell t' driver where; and thou must get over t' stile and follow t' path down two fields, and th' house is right before ye, and bid 'em make haste and lock up th' house, for they mun stay all night here. kester 'll look after things.' all this time hester was hastily putting on her hat and cloak, which she had fetched from the closet where they usually hung through the day; now she stood listening, as it were, for final directions. 'but suppose they will not come,' said she; 'they dunnot know me, and mayn't believe my words.' 'they must,' said he, impatiently. 'they don't know what awaits 'em,' he continued. 'i'll tell thee, because thou 'll not let out, and it seems as if i mun tell some one--it were such a shock--he's to be tried for 's life. they know not it's so serious; and, hester,' said he, going on in his search after sympathy, 'she's like as if she was bound up in her father.' his lips quivered as he looked wistfully into hester's face at these words. no need to tell her who was _she_. no need to put into words the fact, told plainer than words could have spoken it, that his heart was bound up in sylvia. hester's face, instead of responding to his look, contracted a little, and, for the life of her, she could not have helped saying,-'why don't yo' go yourself, philip?' 'i can't, i can't,' said he, impatiently. 'i'd give the world to go, for i might be able to comfort her; but there's lawyers to see, and iver so much to do, and they've niver a man friend but me to do it all. you'll tell her,' said philip, insinuatingly, as if a fresh thought had struck him, 'as how i would ha' come. i would fain ha' come for 'em, myself, but i couldn't, because of th' lawyer,--mind yo' say because of th' lawyer. i'd be loath for her to think i was minding any business of my own at this time; and, whatever yo' do, speak hopeful, and, for t' life of yo', don't speak of th' hanging, it's likely it's a mistake o' donkin's; and anyhow--there's t' cart--anyhow i should perhaps not ha' telled thee, but it's a comfort to make a clean breast to a friend at times. god bless thee, hester. i don't know what i should ha' done without thee,' said he, as he wrapped her well up in the cart, and placed the bundles of cloaks and things by her side. along the street, in the jolting cart, as long as hester could see the misty light streaming out of the shop door, so long was philip standing bareheaded in the rain looking after her. but she knew that it was not her own poor self that attracted his lingering gaze. it was the thought of the person she was bound to. chapter xxvi a dreary vigil through the dark rain, against the cold wind, shaken over the rough stones, went hester in the little tax-cart. her heart kept rising against her fate; the hot tears came unbidden to her eyes. but rebellious heart was soothed, and hot tears were sent back to their source before the time came for her alighting. the driver turned his horse in the narrow lane, and shouted after her an injunction to make haste as, with her head bent low, she struggled down to the path to haytersbank farm. she saw the light in the window from the top of the brow, and involuntarily she slackened her pace. she had never seen bell robson, and would sylvia recollect her? if she did not how awkward it would be to give the explanation of who she was, and what her errand was, and why she was sent. nevertheless, it must be done; so on she went, and standing within the little porch, she knocked faintly at the door; but in the bluster of the elements the sound was lost. again she knocked, and now the murmur of women's voices inside was hushed, and some one came quickly to the door, and opened it sharply. it was sylvia. although her face was completely in shadow, of course hester knew her well; but she, if indeed she would have recognized hester less disguised, did not know in the least who the woman, muffled up in a great cloak, with her hat tied down with a silk handkerchief, standing in the porch at this time of night, could be. nor, indeed, was she in a mood to care or to inquire. she said hastily, in a voice rendered hoarse and arid with grief: 'go away. this is no house for strangers to come to. we've enough on our own to think on;' and she hastily shut the door in hester's face, before the latter could put together the right words in which to explain her errand. hester stood outside in the dark, wet porch discomfited, and wondering how next to obtain a hearing through the shut and bolted door. not long did she stand, however; some one was again at the door, talking in a voice of distress and remonstrance, and slowly unbarring the bolts. a tall, thin figure of an elderly woman was seen against the warm fire-light inside as soon as the door was opened; a hand was put out, like that which took the dove into the ark, and hester was drawn into the warmth and the light, while bell's voice went on speaking to sylvia before addressing the dripping stranger-'it's not a night to turn a dog fra' t' door; it's ill letting our grief harden our hearts. but oh! missus (to hester), yo' mun forgive us, for a great sorrow has fallen upon us this day, an' we're like beside ourselves wi' crying an' plaining.' bell sate down, and threw her apron over her poor worn face, as if decently to shield the signs of her misery from a stranger's gaze. sylvia, all tear-swollen, and looking askance and almost fiercely at the stranger who had made good her intrusion, was drawn, as it were, to her mother's side, and, kneeling down by her, put her arms round her waist, and almost lay across her lap, still gazing at hester with cold, distrustful eyes, the expression of which repelled and daunted that poor, unwilling messenger, and made her silent for a minute or so after her entrance. bell suddenly put down her apron. 'yo're cold and drenched,' said she. 'come near to t' fire and warm yo'rsel'; yo' mun pardon us if we dunnot think on everything at onest.' 'yo're very kind, very kind indeed,' said hester, touched by the poor woman's evident effort to forget her own grief in the duties of hospitality, and loving bell from that moment. 'i'm hester rose,' she continued, half addressing sylvia, who she thought might remember the name, 'and philip hepburn has sent me in a tax-cart to t' stile yonder, to fetch both on yo' back to monkshaven.' sylvia raised her head and looked intently at hester. bell clasped her hands tight together and leant forwards. 'it's my master as wants us?' said she, in an eager, questioning tone. 'it's for to see yo'r master,' said hester. 'philip says he'll be sent to york to-morrow, and yo'll be fain to see him before he goes; and if yo'll come down to monkshaven to-night, yo'll be on t' spot again' the time comes when t' justices will let ye.' bell was up and about, making for the place where she kept her out-going things, almost before hester had begun to speak. she hardly understood about her husband's being sent to york, in the possession of the idea that she might go and see him. she did not understand or care how, in this wild night, she was to get to monkshaven; all she thought of was, that she might go and see her husband. but sylvia took in more points than her mother, and, almost suspiciously, began to question hester. 'why are they sending him to york? what made philip leave us? why didn't he come hissel'?' 'he couldn't come hissel', he bade me say; because he was bound to be at the lawyer's at five, about yo'r father's business. i think yo' might ha' known he would ha' come for any business of his own; and, about york, it's philip as telled me, and i never asked why. i never thought on yo'r asking me so many questions. i thought yo'd be ready to fly on any chance o' seeing your father.' hester spoke out the sad reproach that ran from her heart to her lips. to distrust philip! to linger when she might hasten! 'oh!' said sylvia, breaking out into a wild cry, that carried with it more conviction of agony than much weeping could have done. 'i may be rude and hard, and i may ask strange questions, as if i cared for t' answers yo' may gi' me; an', in my heart o' hearts, i care for nought but to have father back wi' us, as love him so dear. i can hardly tell what i say, much less why i say it. mother is so patient, it puts me past mysel', for i could fight wi' t' very walls, i'm so mad wi' grieving. sure, they'll let him come back wi' us to-morrow, when they hear from his own sel' why he did it?' she looked eagerly at hester for an answer to this last question, which she had put in a soft, entreating tone, as if with hester herself the decision rested. hester shook her head. sylvia came up to her and took her hands, almost fondling them. 'yo' dunnot think they'll be hard wi' him when they hear all about it, done yo'? why, york castle's t' place they send a' t' thieves and robbers to, not honest men like feyther.' hester put her hand on sylvia's shoulder with a soft, caressing gesture. 'philip will know,' she said, using philip's name as a kind of spell--it would have been so to her. 'come away to philip,' said she again, urging sylvia, by her looks and manner, to prepare for the little journey. sylvia moved away for this purpose, saying to herself,-'it's going to see feyther: he will tell me all.' poor mrs. robson was collecting a few clothes for her husband with an eager, trembling hand, so trembling that article after article fell to the floor, and it was hester who picked them up; and at last, after many vain attempts by the grief-shaken woman, it was hester who tied the bundle, and arranged the cloak, and fastened down the hood; sylvia standing by, not unobservant, though apparently absorbed in her own thoughts. at length, all was arranged, and the key given over to kester. as they passed out into the storm, sylvia said to hester,-'thou's a real good wench. thou's fitter to be about mother than me. i'm but a cross-patch at best, an' now it's like as if i was no good to nobody.' sylvia began to cry, but hester had no time to attend to her, even had she the inclination: all her care was needed to help the hasty, tottering steps of the wife who was feebly speeding up the wet and slippery brow to her husband. all bell thought of was that 'he' was at the end of her toil. she hardly understood when she was to see him; her weary heart and brain had only received one idea--that each step she was now taking was leading her to him. tired and exhausted with her quick walk up hill, battling all the way with wind and rain, she could hardly have held up another minute when they reached the tax-cart in the lane, and hester had almost to lift her on to the front seat by the driver. she covered and wrapped up the poor old woman, and afterwards placed herself in the straw at the back of the cart, packed up close by the shivering, weeping sylvia. neither of them spoke a word at first; but hester's tender conscience smote her for her silence before they had reached monkshaven. she wanted to say some kind word to sylvia, and yet knew not how to begin. somehow, without knowing why, or reasoning upon it, she hit upon philip's message as the best comfort in her power to give. she had delivered it before, but it had been apparently little heeded. 'philip bade me say it was business as kept him from fetchin' yo' hissel'--business wi' the lawyer, about--about yo'r father.' 'what do they say?' said sylvia, suddenly, lifting her bowed head, as though she would read her companion's face in the dim light. 'i dunnot know,' said hester, sadly. they were now jolting over the paved streets, and not a word could be spoken. they were now at philip's door, which was opened to receive them even before they arrived, as if some one had been watching and listening. the old servant, phoebe, the fixture in the house, who had belonged to it and to the shop for the last twenty years, came out, holding a candle and sheltering it in her hand from the weather, while philip helped the tottering steps of mrs. robson as she descended behind. as hester had got in last, so she had now to be the first to move. just as she was moving, sylvia's cold little hand was laid on her arm. 'i am main and thankful to yo'. i ask yo'r pardon for speaking cross, but, indeed, my heart's a'most broken wi' fear about feyther.' the voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that hester could not but yearn towards the speaker. she bent over and kissed her cheek, and then clambered unaided down by the wheel on the dark side of the cart. wistfully she longed for one word of thanks or recognition from philip, in whose service she had performed this hard task; but he was otherwise occupied, and on casting a further glance back as she turned the corner of the street, she saw philip lifting sylvia carefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of the wheel, and then they all went into the light and the warmth, the door was shut, the lightened cart drove briskly away, and hester, in rain, and cold, and darkness, went homewards with her tired sad heart. philip had done all he could, since his return from lawyer dawson's, to make his house bright and warm for the reception of his beloved. he had a strong apprehension of the probable fate of poor daniel robson; he had a warm sympathy with the miserable distress of the wife and daughter; but still at the back of his mind his spirits danced as if this was to them a festal occasion. he had even taken unconscious pleasure in phoebe's suspicious looks and tones, as he had hurried and superintended her in her operations. a fire blazed cheerily in the parlour, almost dazzling to the travellers brought in from the darkness and the rain; candles burned--two candles, much to phoebe's discontent. poor bell robson had to sit down almost as soon as she entered the room, so worn out was she with fatigue and excitement; yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as she thought, from her husband. 'i'm ready now,' said she, standing up, and rather repulsing sylvia's cares; 'i'm ready now,' said she, looking eagerly at philip, as if for him to lead the way. 'it's not to-night,' replied he, almost apologetically. 'you can't see him to-night; it's to-morrow morning before he goes to york; it was better for yo' to be down here in town ready; and beside i didn't know when i sent for ye that he was locked up for the night.' 'well-a-day, well-a-day,' said bell, rocking herself backwards and forwards, and trying to soothe herself with these words. suddenly she said,-'but i've brought his comforter wi' me--his red woollen comforter as he's allays slept in this twelvemonth past; he'll get his rheumatiz again; oh, philip, cannot i get it to him?' 'i'll send it by phoebe,' said philip, who was busy making tea, hospitable and awkward. 'cannot i take it mysel'?' repeated bell. 'i could make surer nor anybody else; they'd maybe not mind yon woman--phoebe d'ye call her?' 'nay, mother,' said sylvia, 'thou's not fit to go.' 'shall i go?' asked philip, hoping she would say 'no', and be content with phoebe, and leave him where he was. 'oh, philip, would yo'?' said sylvia, turning round. 'ay,' said bell, 'if thou would take it they'd be minding yo'.' so there was nothing for it but for him to go, in the first flush of his delightful rites of hospitality. 'it's not far,' said he, consoling himself rather than them. 'i'll be back in ten minutes, the tea is maskit, and phoebe will take yo'r wet things and dry 'em by t' kitchen fire; and here's the stairs,' opening a door in the corner of the room, from which the stairs immediately ascended. 'there's two rooms at the top; that to t' left is all made ready, t' other is mine,' said he, reddening a little as he spoke. bell was busy undoing her bundle with trembling fingers. 'here,' said she; 'and oh, lad, here's a bit o' peppermint cake; he's main and fond on it, and i catched sight on it by good luck just t' last minute.' philip was gone, and the excitement of bell and sylvia flagged once more, and sank into wondering despondency. sylvia, however, roused herself enough to take off her mother's wet clothes, and she took them timidly into the kitchen and arranged them before phoebe's fire. phoebe opened her lips once or twice to speak in remonstrance, and then, with an effort, gulped her words down; for her sympathy, like that of all the rest of the monkshaven world, was in favour of daniel robson; and his daughter might place her dripping cloak this night wherever she would, for phoebe. sylvia found her mother still sitting on the chair next the door, where she had first placed herself on entering the room. 'i'll gi'e you some tea, mother,' said she, struck with the shrunken look of bell's face. 'no, no' said her mother. 'it's not manners for t' help oursel's.' 'i'm sure philip would ha' wished yo' for to take it,' said sylvia, pouring out a cup. just then he returned, and something in his look, some dumb expression of delight at her occupation, made her blush and hesitate for an instant; but then she went on, and made a cup of tea ready, saying something a little incoherent all the time about her mother's need of it. after tea bell robson's weariness became so extreme, that philip and sylvia urged her to go to bed. she resisted a little, partly out of 'manners,' and partly because she kept fancying, poor woman, that somehow or other her husband might send for her. but about seven o'clock sylvia persuaded her to come upstairs. sylvia, too, bade philip good-night, and his look followed the last wave of her dress as she disappeared up the stairs; then leaning his chin on his hand, he gazed at vacancy and thought deeply--for how long he knew not, so intent was his mind on the chances of futurity. he was aroused by sylvia's coming down-stairs into the sitting-room again. he started up. 'mother is so shivery,' said she. 'may i go in there,' indicating the kitchen, 'and make her a drop of gruel?' 'phoebe shall make it, not you,' said philip, eagerly preventing her, by going to the kitchen door and giving his orders. when he turned round again, sylvia was standing over the fire, leaning her head against the stone mantel-piece for the comparative coolness. she did not speak at first, or take any notice of him. he watched her furtively, and saw that she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, and she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe them away with her apron. while he was turning over in his mind what he could best say to comfort her (his heart, like hers, being almost too full for words), she suddenly looked him full in the face, saying,-'philip! won't they soon let him go? what can they do to him?' her open lips trembled while awaiting his answer, the tears came up and filled her eyes. it was just the question he had most dreaded; it led to the terror that possessed his own mind, but which he had hoped to keep out of hers. he hesitated. 'speak, lad!' said she, impatiently, with a little passionate gesture. 'i can see thou knows!' he had only made it worse by consideration; he rushed blindfold at a reply. 'he's ta'en up for felony.' 'felony,' said she. 'there thou're out; he's in for letting yon men out; thou may call it rioting if thou's a mind to set folks again' him, but it's too bad to cast such hard words at him as yon--felony,' she repeated, in a half-offended tone. 'it's what the lawyers call it,' said philip, sadly; 'it's no word o' mine.' 'lawyers is allays for making the worst o' things,' said she, a little pacified, 'but folks shouldn't allays believe them.' 'it's lawyers as has to judge i' t' long run.' 'cannot the justices, mr. harter and them as is no lawyers, give him a sentence to-morrow, wi'out sending him to york?' 'no!' said philip, shaking his head. he went to the kitchen door and asked if the gruel was not ready, so anxious was he to stop the conversation at this point; but phoebe, who held her young master in but little respect, scolded him for a stupid man, who thought, like all his sex, that gruel was to be made in a minute, whatever the fire was, and bade him come and make it for himself if he was in such a hurry. he had to return discomfited to sylvia, who meanwhile had arranged her thoughts ready to return to the charge. 'and say he's sent to york, and say he's tried theere, what's t' worst they can do again' him?' asked she, keeping down her agitation to look at philip the more sharply. her eyes never slackened their penetrating gaze at his countenance, until he replied, with the utmost unwillingness, and most apparent confusion,-'they may send him to botany bay.' he knew that he held back a worse contingency, and he was mortally afraid that she would perceive this reserve. but what he did say was so much beyond her utmost apprehension, which had only reached to various terms of imprisonment, that she did not imagine the dark shadow lurking behind. what he had said was too much for her. her eyes dilated, her lips blanched, her pale cheeks grew yet paler. after a minute's look into his face, as if fascinated by some horror, she stumbled backwards into the chair in the chimney comer, and covered her face with her hands, moaning out some inarticulate words. philip was on his knees by her, dumb from excess of sympathy, kissing her dress, all unfelt by her; he murmured half-words, he began passionate sentences that died away upon his lips; and she--she thought of nothing but her father, and was possessed and rapt out of herself by the dread of losing him to that fearful country which was almost like the grave to her, so all but impassable was the gulf. but philip knew that it was possible that the separation impending might be that of the dark, mysterious grave--that the gulf between the father and child might indeed be that which no living, breathing, warm human creature can ever cross. 'sylvie, sylvie!' said he,--and all their conversation had to be carried on in low tones and whispers, for fear of the listening ears above,--'don't,--don't, thou'rt rending my heart. oh, sylvie, hearken. there's not a thing i'll not do; there's not a penny i've got,--th' last drop of blood that's in me,--i'll give up my life for his.' 'life,' said she, putting down her hands, and looking at him as if her looks could pierce his soul; 'who talks o' touching his life? thou're going crazy, philip, i think;' but she did not think so, although she would fain have believed it. in her keen agony she read his thoughts as though they were an open page; she sate there, upright and stony, the conviction creeping over her face like the grey shadow of death. no more tears, no more trembling, almost no more breathing. he could not bear to see her, and yet she held his eyes, and he feared to make the effort necessary to move or to turn away, lest the shunning motion should carry conviction to her heart. alas! conviction of the probable danger to her father's life was already there: it was that that was calming her down, tightening her muscles, bracing her nerves. in that hour she lost all her early youth. 'then he may be hung,' said she, low and solemnly, after a long pause. philip turned away his face, and did not utter a word. again deep silence, broken only by some homely sound in the kitchen. 'mother must not know on it,' said sylvia, in the same tone in which she had spoken before. 'it's t' worst as can happen to him,' said philip. 'more likely he'll be transported: maybe he'll be brought in innocent after all.' 'no,' said sylvia, heavily, as one without hope--as if she were reading some dreadful doom in the tablets of the awful future. 'they'll hang him. oh, feyther! feyther!' she choked out, almost stuffing her apron into her mouth to deaden the sound, and catching at philip's hand, and wringing it with convulsive force, till the pain that he loved was nearly more than he could bear. no words of his could touch such agony; but irrepressibly, and as he would have done it to a wounded child, he bent over her, and kissed her with a tender, trembling kiss. she did not repulse it, probably she did not even perceive it. at that moment phoebe came in with the gruel. philip saw her, and knew, in an instant, what the old woman's conclusion must needs be; but sylvia had to be shaken by the now standing philip, before she could be brought back to the least consciousness of the present time. she lifted up her white face to understand his words, then she rose up like one who slowly comes to the use of her limbs. 'i suppose i mun go,' she said; 'but i'd sooner face the dead. if she asks me, philip, what mun i say?' 'she'll not ask yo',' said he, 'if yo' go about as common. she's never asked yo' all this time, an' if she does, put her on to me. i'll keep it from her as long as i can; i'll manage better nor i've done wi' thee, sylvie,' said he, with a sad, faint smile, looking with fond penitence at her altered countenance. 'thou mustn't blame thysel',' said sylvia, seeing his regret. 'i brought it on me mysel'; i thought i would ha' t' truth, whativer came on it, and now i'm not strong enough to stand it, god help me!' she continued, piteously. 'oh, sylvie, let me help yo'! i cannot do what god can,--i'm not meaning that, but i can do next to him of any man. i have loved yo' for years an' years, in a way it's terrible to think on, if my love can do nought now to comfort yo' in your sore distress.' 'cousin philip,' she replied, in the same measured tone in which she had always spoken since she had learnt the extent of her father's danger, and the slow stillness of her words was in harmony with the stony look of her face, 'thou's a comfort to me, i couldn't bide my life without thee; but i cannot take in the thought o' love, it seems beside me quite; i can think on nought but them that is quick and them that is dead.' chapter xxvii gloomy days philip had money in the fosters' bank, not so much as it might have been if he had not had to pay for the furniture in his house. much of this furniture was old, and had belonged to the brothers foster, and they had let philip have it at a very reasonable rate; but still the purchase of it had diminished the amount of his savings. but on the sum which he possessed he drew largely--he drew all--nay, he overdrew his account somewhat, to his former masters' dismay, although the kindness of their hearts overruled the harder arguments of their heads. all was wanted to defend daniel robson at the approaching york assizes. his wife had handed over to philip all the money or money's worth she could lay her hands upon. daniel himself was not one to be much beforehand with the world; but to bell's thrifty imagination the round golden guineas, tied up in the old stocking-foot against rent-day, seemed a mint of money on which philip might draw infinitely. as yet she did not comprehend the extent of her husband's danger. sylvia went about like one in a dream, keeping back the hot tears that might interfere with the course of life she had prescribed for herself in that terrible hour when she first learnt all. every penny of money either she or her mother could save went to philip. kester's hoard, too, was placed in hepburn's hands at sylvia's earnest entreaty; for kester had no great opinion of philip's judgment, and would rather have taken his money straight himself to mr. dawson, and begged him to use it for his master's behoof. indeed, if anything, the noiseless breach between kester and philip had widened of late. it was seed-time, and philip, in his great anxiety for every possible interest that might affect sylvia, and also as some distraction from his extreme anxiety about her father, had taken to study agriculture of an evening in some old books which he had borrowed--_the farmer's complete guide_, and such like; and from time to time he came down upon the practical dogged kester with directions gathered from the theories in his books. of course the two fell out, but without many words. kester persevered in his old ways, making light of philip and his books in manner and action, till at length philip withdrew from the contest. 'many a man may lead a horse to water, but there's few can make him drink,' and philip certainly was not one of those few. kester, indeed, looked upon him with jealous eyes on many accounts. he had favoured charley kinraid as a lover of sylvia's; and though he had no idea of the truth--though he believed in the drowning of the specksioneer as much as any one--yet the year which had elapsed since kinraid's supposed death was but a very short while to the middle-aged man, who forgot how slowly time passes with the young; and he could often have scolded sylvia, if the poor girl had been a whit less heavy at heart than she was, for letting philip come so much about her--come, though it was on her father's business. for the darkness of their common dread drew them together, occasionally to the comparative exclusion of bell and kester, which the latter perceived and resented. kester even allowed himself to go so far as to wonder what philip could want with all the money, which to him seemed unaccountable; and once or twice the ugly thought crossed his mind, that shops conducted by young men were often not so profitable as when guided by older heads, and that some of the coin poured into philip's keeping might have another destination than the defence of his master. poor philip! and he was spending all his own, and more than all his own money, and no one ever knew it, as he had bound down his friendly bankers to secrecy. once only kester ventured to speak to sylvia on the subject of philip. she had followed her cousin to the field just in front of their house, just outside the porch, to ask him some question she dared not put in her mother's presence--(bell, indeed, in her anxiety, usually absorbed all the questions when philip came)--and stood, after philip had bid her good-by, hardly thinking about him at all, but looking unconsciously after him as he ascended the brow; and at the top he had turned to take a last glance at the place his love inhabited, and, seeing her, he had waved his hat in gratified farewell. she, meanwhile, was roused from far other thoughts than of him, and of his now acknowledged love, by the motion against the sky, and was turning back into the house when she heard kester's low hoarse call, and saw him standing at the shippen door. 'come hither, wench,' said he, indignantly; 'is this a time for courtin'?' 'courting?' said she, drawing up her head, and looking back at him with proud defiance. 'ay, courtin'! what other mak' o' thing is't when thou's gazin' after yon meddlesome chap, as if thou'd send thy eyes after him, and he making marlocks back at thee? it's what we ca'ed courtin' i' my young days anyhow. and it's noane a time for a wench to go courtin' when her feyther's i' prison,' said he, with a consciousness as he uttered these last words that he was cruel and unjust and going too far, yet carried on to say them by his hot jealousy against philip. sylvia continued looking at him without speaking: she was too much offended for expression. 'thou may glower an' thou may look, lass,' said he, 'but a'd thought better on thee. it's like last week thy last sweetheart were drowned; but thou's not one to waste time i' rememberin' them as is gone--if, indeed, thou iver cared a button for yon kinraid--if it wasn't a make-believe.' her lips were contracted and drawn up, showing her small glittering teeth, which were scarcely apart as she breathed out-'thou thinks so, does thou, that i've forgetten _him_? thou'd better have a care o' thy tongue.' then, as if fearful that her self-command might give way, she turned into the house; and going through the kitchen like a blind person, she went up to her now unused chamber, and threw herself, face downwards, flat on her bed, almost smothering herself. ever since daniel's committal, the decay that had imperceptibly begun in his wife's bodily and mental strength during her illness of the previous winter, had been making quicker progress. she lost her reticence of speech, and often talked to herself. she had not so much forethought as of old; slight differences, it is true, but which, with some others of the same description, gave foundation for the homely expression which some now applied to bell, 'she'll never be t' same woman again. this afternoon she had cried herself to sleep in her chair after philip's departure. she had not heard sylvia's sweeping passage through the kitchen; but half an hour afterwards she was startled up by kester's abrupt entry. 'where's sylvie?' asked he. 'i don't know,' said bell, looking scared, and as if she was ready to cry. 'it's no news about him?' said she, standing up, and supporting herself on the stick she was now accustomed to use. 'bless yo', no, dunnot be afeared, missus; it's only as a spoke hasty to t' wench, an' a want t' tell her as a'm sorry,' said kester, advancing into the kitchen, and looking round for sylvia. 'sylvie, sylvie!' shouted he; 'she mun be i' t' house.' sylvia came slowly down the stairs, and stood before him. her face was pale, her mouth set and determined; the light of her eyes veiled in gloom. kester shrank from her look, and even more from her silence. 'a'm come to ax pardon,' said he, after a little pause. she was still silent. 'a'm noane above axing pardon, though a'm fifty and more, and thee's but a silly wench, as a've nursed i' my arms. a'll say before thy mother as a ought niver to ha' used them words, and as how a'm sorry for 't.' 'i don't understand it all,' said bell, in a hurried and perplexed tone. 'what has kester been saying, my lass?' she added, turning to sylvia. sylvia went a step or two nearer to her mother, and took hold of her hand as if to quieten her; then facing once more round, she said deliberately to kester,-'if thou wasn't kester, i'd niver forgive thee. niver,' she added, with bitterness, as the words he had used recurred to her mind. 'it's in me to hate thee now, for saying what thou did; but thou're dear old kester after all, and i can't help mysel', i mun needs forgive thee,' and she went towards him. he took her little head between his horny hands and kissed it. she looked up with tears in her eyes, saying softly,-'niver say things like them again. niver speak on----' 'a'll bite my tongue off first,' he interrupted. he kept his word. in all philip's comings and goings to and from haytersbank farm at this time, he never spoke again of his love. in look, words, manner, he was like a thoughtful, tender brother; nothing more. he could be nothing more in the presence of the great dread which loomed larger upon him after every conversation with the lawyer. for mr. donkin had been right in his prognostication. government took up the attack on the rendezvous with a high and heavy hand. it was necessary to assert authority which had been of late too often braved. an example must be made, to strike dismay into those who opposed and defied the press-gang; and all the minor authorities who held their powers from government were in a similar manner severe and relentless in the execution of their duty. so the attorney, who went over to see the prisoner in york castle, told philip. he added that daniel still retained his pride in his achievement, and could not be brought to understand the dangerous position in which he was placed; that when pressed and questioned as to circumstances that might possibly be used in his defence, he always wandered off to accounts of previous outrages committed by the press-gang, or to passionate abuse of the trick by which men had been lured from their homes on the night in question to assist in putting out an imaginary fire, and then seized and carried off. some of this very natural indignation might possibly have some effect on the jury; and this seemed the only ground of hope, and was indeed a slight one, as the judge was likely to warn the jury against allowing their natural sympathy in such a case to divert their minds from the real question. such was the substance of what philip heard, and heard repeatedly, during his many visits to mr. dawson. and now the time of trial drew near; for the york assizes opened on march the twelfth; not much above three weeks since the offence was committed which took daniel from his home and placed him in peril of death. philip was glad that, the extremity of his danger never having been hinted to bell, and travelling some forty miles being a most unusual exertion at that time to persons of her class, the idea of going to see her husband at york had never suggested itself to bell's mind. her increasing feebleness made this seem a step only to be taken in case of the fatal extreme necessity; such was the conclusion that both sylvia and he had come to; and it was the knowledge of this that made sylvia strangle her own daily longing to see her father. not but that her hopes were stronger than her fears. philip never told her the causes for despondency; she was young, and she, like her father, could not understand how fearful sometimes is the necessity for prompt and severe punishment of rebellion against authority. philip was to be in york during the time of the assizes; and it was understood, almost without words, that if the terrible worst occurred, the wife and daughter were to come to york as soon as might be. for this end philip silently made all the necessary arrangements before leaving monkshaven. the sympathy of all men was with him; it was too large an occasion for coulson to be anything but magnanimous. he urged philip to take all the time requisite; to leave all business cares to him. and as philip went about pale and sad, there was another cheek that grew paler still, another eye that filled with quiet tears as his heaviness of heart became more and more apparent. the day for opening the assizes came on. philip was in york minster, watching the solemn antique procession in which the highest authority in the county accompanies the judges to the house of the lord, to be there admonished as to the nature of their duties. as philip listened to the sermon with a strained and beating heart, his hopes rose higher than his fears for the first time, and that evening he wrote his first letter to sylvia. 'dear sylvia, 'it will be longer first than i thought for. mr. dawson says tuesday in next week. but keep up your heart. i have been hearing the sermon to-day which is preached to the judges; and the clergyman said so much in it about mercy and forgiveness, i think they cannot fail to be lenient this assize. i have seen uncle, who looks but thin, but is in good heart: only he will keep saying he would do it over again if he had the chance, which neither mr. dawson nor i think is wise in him, in especial as the gaoler is by and hears every word as is said. he was very fain of hearing all about home; and wants you to rear daisy's calf, as he thinks she will prove a good one. he bade me give his best love to you and my aunt, and his kind duty to kester. 'sylvia, will you try and forget how i used to scold you about your writing and spelling, and just write me two or three lines. i think i would rather have them badly spelt than not, because then i shall be sure they are yours. and never mind about capitals; i was a fool to say such a deal about them, for a man does just as well without them. a letter from you would do a vast to keep me patient all these days till tuesday. direct-'mr. philip hepburn, 'care of mr. fraser, draper, 'micklegate, york. 'my affectionate duty to my aunt. 'your respectful cousin and servant, 'philip hepburn. 'p.s. the sermon was grand. the text was zechariah vii. 9, "execute true judgment and show mercy." god grant it may have put mercy into the judge's heart as is to try my uncle.' heavily the days passed over. on sunday bell and sylvia went to church, with a strange, half-superstitious feeling, as if they could propitiate the most high to order the events in their favour by paying him the compliment of attending to duties in their time of sorrow which they had too often neglected in their prosperous days. but he 'who knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust,' took pity upon his children, and sent some of his blessed peace into their hearts, else they could scarce have endured the agony of suspense of those next hours. for as they came slowly and wearily home from church, sylvia could no longer bear her secret, but told her mother of the peril in which daniel stood. cold as the march wind blew, they had not felt it, and had sate down on a hedge bank for bell to rest. and then sylvia spoke, trembling and sick for fear, yet utterly unable to keep silence any longer. bell heaved up her hands, and let them fall down on her knees before she replied. 'the lord is above us,' said she, solemnly. 'he has sent a fear o' this into my heart afore now. i niver breathed it to thee, my lass----' 'and i niver spoke on it to thee, mother, because----' sylvia choked with crying, and laid her head on her mother's lap, feeling that she was no longer the strong one, and the protector, but the protected. bell went on, stroking her head, 'the lord is like a tender nurse as weans a child to look on and to like what it lothed once. he has sent me dreams as has prepared me for this, if so be it comes to pass. 'philip is hopeful,' said sylvia, raising her head and looking through her tears at her mother. 'ay, he is. and i cannot tell, but i think it's not for nought as the lord has ta'en away all fear o' death out o' my heart. i think he means as daniel and me is to go hand-in-hand through the valley--like as we walked up to our wedding in crosthwaite church. i could never guide th' house without daniel, and i should be feared he'd take a deal more nor is good for him without me.' 'but me, mother, thou's forgetting me,' moaned out sylvia. 'oh, mother, mother, think on me!' 'nay, my lass, i'm noane forgetting yo'. i'd a sore heart a' last winter a-thinking on thee, when that chap kinraid were hanging about thee. i'll noane speak ill on the dead, but i were uneasylike. but sin' philip and thee seem to ha' made it up----' sylvia shivered, and opened her mouth to speak, but did not say a word. 'and sin' the lord has been comforting me, and talking to me many a time when thou's thought i were asleep, things has seemed to redd theirselves up, and if daniel goes, i'm ready to follow. i could niver stand living to hear folks say he'd been hung; it seems so unnatural and shameful.' 'but, mother, he won't!--he shan't be hung!' said sylvia, springing to her feet. 'philip says he won't.' bell shook her head. they walked on, sylvia both disheartened and almost irritated at her mother's despondency. but before they went to bed at night bell said things which seemed as though the morning's feelings had been but temporary, and as if she was referring every decision to the period of her husband's return. 'when father comes home,' seemed a sort of burden at the beginning or end of every sentence, and this reliance on his certain coming back to them was almost as great a trial to sylvia as the absence of all hope had been in the morning. but that instinct told her that her mother was becoming incapable of argument, she would have asked her why her views were so essentially changed in so few hours. this inability of reason in poor bell made sylvia feel very desolate. monday passed over--how, neither of them knew, for neither spoke of what was filling the thoughts of both. before it was light on tuesday morning, bell was astir. 'it's very early, mother,' said weary, sleepy sylvia, dreading returning consciousness. 'ay, lass!' said bell, in a brisk, cheerful tone; 'but he'll, maybe, be home to-night, and i'se bound to have all things ready for him.' 'anyhow,' said sylvia, sitting up in bed, 'he couldn't come home to-night.' 'tut, lass! thou doesn't know how quick a man comes home to wife and child. i'll be a' ready at any rate.' she hurried about in a way which sylvia wondered to see; till at length she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to drive away thought. every place was cleaned; there was scarce time allowed for breakfast; till at last, long before mid-day, all the work was done, and the two sat down to their spinning-wheels. sylvia's spirits sank lower and lower at each speech of her mother's, from whose mind all fear seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange restless kind of excitement. 'it's time for t' potatoes,' said bell, after her wool had snapped many a time from her uneven tread. 'mother,' said sylvia, 'it's but just gone ten!' 'put 'em on,' said bell, without attending to the full meaning of her daughter's words. 'it'll, maybe, hasten t' day on if we get dinner done betimes.' 'but kester is in t' far acre field, and he'll not be home till noon.' this seemed to settle matters for a while; but then bell pushed her wheel away, and began searching for her hood and cloak. sylvia found them for her, and then asked sadly-'what does ta want 'em for, mother?' 'i'll go up t' brow and through t' field, and just have a look down t' lane.' 'i'll go wi' thee,' said sylvia, feeling all the time the uselessness of any looking for intelligence from york so early in the day. very patiently did she wait by her mother's side during the long half-hour which bell spent in gazing down the road for those who never came. when they got home sylvia put the potatoes on to boil; but when dinner was ready and the three were seated at the dresser, bell pushed her plate away from her, saying it was so long after dinner time that she was past eating. kester would have said something about its being only half-past twelve, but sylvia gave him a look beseeching silence, and he went on with his dinner without a word, only brushing away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand from time to time. 'a'll noane go far fra' home t' rest o' t' day,' said he, in a whisper to sylvia, as he went out. 'will this day niver come to an end?' cried bell, plaintively. 'oh, mother! it'll come to an end some time, never fear. i've heerd say-"be the day weary or be the day long, at length it ringeth to even-song."' 'to even-song--to even-song,' repeated bell. 'd'ye think now that even-song means death, sylvie?' 'i cannot tell--i cannot bear it. mother,' said sylvia, in despair, 'i'll make some clap-bread: that's a heavy job, and will while away t' afternoon.' 'ay, do!' replied the mother. 'he'll like it fresh--he'll like it fresh.' murmuring and talking to herself, she fell into a doze, from which sylvia was careful not to disturb her. the days were now getting long, although as cold as ever; and at haytersbank farm the light lingered, as there was no near horizon to bring on early darkness. sylvia had all ready for her mother's tea against she wakened; but she slept on and on, the peaceful sleep of a child, and sylvia did not care to waken her. just after the sun had set, she saw kester outside the window making signs to her to come out. she stole out on tip-toe by the back-kitchen, the door of which was standing open. she almost ran against philip, who did not perceive her, as he was awaiting her coming the other way round the corner of the house, and who turned upon her a face whose import she read in an instant. 'philip!' was all she said, and then she fainted at his feet, coming down with a heavy bang on the round paving stones of the yard. 'kester! kester!' he cried, for she looked like one dead, and with all his strength the wearied man could not lift her and carry her into the house. with kester's help she was borne into the back-kitchen, and kester rushed to the pump for some cold water to throw over her. while philip, kneeling at her head, was partly supporting her in his arms, and heedless of any sight or sound, the shadow of some one fell upon him. he looked up and saw his aunt; the old dignified, sensible expression on her face, exactly like her former self, composed, strong, and calm. 'my lass,' said she, sitting down by philip, and gently taking her out of his arms into her own. 'lass, bear up! we mun bear up, and be agait on our way to him, he'll be needing us now. bear up, my lass! the lord will give us strength. we mun go to him; ay, time's precious; thou mun cry thy cry at after!' sylvia opened her dim eyes, and heard her mother's voice; the ideas came slowly into her mind, and slowly she rose up, standing still, like one who has been stunned, to regain her strength; and then, taking hold of her mother's arm, she said, in a soft, strange voice-'let's go. i'm ready.' chapter xxviii the ordeal it was the afternoon of an april day in that same year, and the sky was blue above, with little sailing white clouds catching the pleasant sunlight. the earth in that northern country had scarcely yet put on her robe of green. the few trees grew near brooks running down from the moors and the higher ground. the air was full of pleasant sounds prophesying of the coming summer. the rush, and murmur, and tinkle of the hidden watercourses; the song of the lark poised high up in the sunny air; the bleat of the lambs calling to their mothers--everything inanimate was full of hope and gladness. for the first time for a mournful month the front door of haytersbank farm was open; the warm spring air might enter, and displace the sad dark gloom, if it could. there was a newly-lighted fire in the unused grate; and kester was in the kitchen, with his clogs off his feet, so as not to dirty the spotless floor, stirring here and there, and trying in his awkward way to make things look home-like and cheerful. he had brought in some wild daffodils which he had been to seek in the dawn, and he placed them in a jug on the dresser. dolly reid, the woman who had come to help sylvia during her mother's illness a year ago, was attending to something in the back-kitchen, making a noise among the milk-cans, and singing a ballad to herself as she worked; yet every now and then she checked herself in her singing, as if a sudden recollection came upon her that this was neither the time nor the place for songs. once or twice she took up the funeral psalm which is sung by the bearers of the body in that country-our god, our help in ages past. but it was of no use: the pleasant april weather out of doors, and perhaps the natural spring in the body, disposed her nature to cheerfulness, and insensibly she returned to her old ditty. kester was turning over many things in his rude honest mind as he stood there, giving his finishing touches every now and then to the aspect of the house-place, in preparation for the return of the widow and daughter of his old master. it was a month and more since they had left home; more than a fortnight since kester, with three halfpence in his pocket, had set out after his day's work to go to york--to walk all night long, and to wish daniel robson his last farewell. daniel had tried to keep up and had brought out one or two familiar, thread-bare, well-worn jokes, such as he had made kester chuckle over many a time and oft, when the two had been together afield or in the shippen at the home which he should never more see. but no 'old grouse in the gunroom' could make kester smile, or do anything except groan in but a heart-broken sort of fashion, and presently the talk had become more suitable to the occasion, daniel being up to the last the more composed of the two; for kester, when turned out of the condemned cell, fairly broke down into the heavy sobbing he had never thought to sob again on earth. he had left bell and sylvia in their lodging at york, under philip's care; he dared not go to see them; he could not trust himself; he had sent them his duty, and bade philip tell sylvia that the game-hen had brought out fifteen chickens at a hatch. yet although kester sent this message through philip--although he saw and recognized all that philip was doing in their behalf, in the behalf of daniel robson, the condemned felon, his honoured master--he liked hepburn not a whit better than he had done before all this sorrow had come upon them. philip had, perhaps, shown a want of tact in his conduct to kester. acute with passionate keenness in one direction, he had a sort of dull straightforwardness in all others. for instance, he had returned kester the money which the latter had so gladly advanced towards the expenses incurred in defending daniel. now the money which philip gave him back was part of an advance which foster brothers had made on philip's own account. philip had thought that it was hard on kester to lose his savings in a hopeless cause, and had made a point of repaying the old man; but kester would far rather have felt that the earnings of the sweat of his brow had gone in the attempt to save his master's life than have had twice ten times as many golden guineas. moreover, it seemed to take his action in lending his hoard out of the sphere of love, and make it but a leaden common loan, when it was philip who brought him the sum, not sylvia, into whose hands he had given it. with these feelings kester felt his heart shut up as he saw the long-watched-for two coming down the little path with a third person; with philip holding up the failing steps of poor bell robson, as, loaded with her heavy mourning, and feeble from the illness which had detained her in york ever since the day of her husband's execution, she came faltering back to her desolate home. sylvia was also occupied in attending to her mother; one or twice, when they paused a little, she and philip spoke, in the familiar way in which there is no coyness nor reserve. kester caught up his clogs, and went quickly out through the back-kitchen into the farm-yard, not staying to greet them, as he had meant to do; and yet it was dull-sighted of him not to have perceived that whatever might be the relations between philip and sylvia, he was sure to have accompanied them home; for, alas! he was the only male protector of their blood remaining in the world. poor kester, who would fain have taken that office upon himself, chose to esteem himself cast off, and went heavily about the farmyard, knowing that he ought to go in and bid such poor welcome as he had to offer, yet feeling too much to like to show himself before philip. it was long, too, before any one had leisure to come and seek him. bell's mind had flashed up for a time, till the fatal day, only to be reduced by her subsequent illness into complete and hopeless childishness. it was all philip and sylvia could do to manage her in the first excitement of returning home; her restless inquiry for him who would never more be present in the familiar scene, her feverish weariness and uneasiness, all required tender soothing and most patient endurance of her refusals to be satisfied with what they said or did. at length she took some food, and, refreshed by it, and warmed by the fire, she sank asleep in her chair. then philip would fain have spoken with sylvia before the hour came at which he must return to monkshaven, but she eluded him, and went in search of kester, whose presence she had missed. she had guessed some of the causes which kept him from greeting them on their first return. but it was not as if she had shaped these causes into the definite form of words. it is astonishing to look back and find how differently constituted were the minds of most people fifty or sixty years ago; they felt, they understood, without going through reasoning or analytic processes, and if this was the case among the more educated people, of course it was still more so in the class to which sylvia belonged. she knew by some sort of intuition that if philip accompanied them home (as, indeed, under the circumstances, was so natural as to be almost unavoidable), the old servant and friend of the family would absent himself; and so she slipped away at the first possible moment to go in search of him. there he was in the farm-yard, leaning over the gate that opened into the home-field, apparently watching the poultry that scratched and pecked at the new-springing grass with the utmost relish. a little farther off were the ewes with their new-dropped lambs, beyond that the great old thorn-tree with its round fresh clusters of buds, again beyond that there was a glimpse of the vast sunny rippling sea; but sylvia knew well that kester was looking at none of these things. she went up to him and touched his arm. he started from his reverie, and turned round upon her with his dim eyes full of unshed tears. when he saw her black dress, her deep mourning, he had hard work to keep from breaking out, but by dint of a good brush of his eyes with the back of his hand, and a moment's pause, he could look at her again with tolerable calmness. 'why, kester: why didst niver come to speak to us?' said sylvia, finding it necessary to be cheerful if she could. 'a dun know; niver ax me. a say, they'n gi'en dick simpson' (whose evidence had been all material against poor daniel robson at the trial) 'a' t' rotten eggs and fou' things they could o' saturday, they did,' continued he, in a tone of satisfaction; 'ay, and they niver stopped t' see whether t' eggs were rotten or fresh when their blood was up--nor whether stones was hard or soft,' he added, in a lower tone, and chuckling a little. sylvia was silent. he looked at her now, chuckling still. her face was white, her lips tightened, her eyes a-flame. she drew a long breath. 'i wish i'd been theere! i wish i could do him an ill turn,' sighed she, with some kind of expression on her face that made kester quail a little. 'nay, lass! he'll get it fra' others. niver fret thysel' about sich rubbish. a'n done ill to speak on him.' 'no! thou hasn't. then as was friends o' father's i'll love for iver and iver; them as helped for t' hang him' (she shuddered from head to foot--a sharp irrepressible shudder!) 'i'll niver forgive--niver!' 'niver's a long word,' said kester, musingly. 'a could horsewhip him, or cast stones at him, or duck him mysel'; but, lass! niver's a long word!' 'well! niver heed if it is--it's me as said it, and i'm turned savage late days. come in, kester, and see poor mother.' 'a cannot,' said he, turning his wrinkled puckered face away, that she might not see the twitchings of emotion on it. 'there's kine to be fetched up, and what not, and he's theere, isn't he, sylvie?' facing round upon her with inquisitiveness. under his peering eyes she reddened a little. 'yes, if it's philip thou means; he's been all we've had to look to sin'.' again the shudder. 'well, now he'll be seein' after his shop, a reckon?' sylvia was calling to the old mare nibbling tufts of early-springing grass here and there, and half unconsciously coaxing the creature to come up to the gate to be stroked. but she heard kester's words well enough, and so he saw, although she made this excuse not to reply. but kester was not to be put off. 'folks is talkin' about thee and him; thou'll ha' to mind lest thee and him gets yo'r names coupled together.' 'it's right down cruel on folks, then,' said she, crimsoning from some emotion. 'as if any man as was a man wouldn't do all he could for two lone women at such a time--and he a cousin, too! tell me who said so,' continued she, firing round at kester, 'and i'll niver forgive 'em--that's all.' 'hoots!' said kester, a little conscious that he himself was the principal representative of that name of multitude folk. 'here's a pretty lass; she's' got "a'll niver forgi'e" at her tongue's end wi' a vengeance.' sylvia was a little confused. 'oh, kester, man,' said she, 'my heart is sore again' every one, for feyther's sake.' and at length the natural relief of plentiful tears came; and kester, with instinctive wisdom, let her weep undisturbed; indeed, he cried not a little himself. they were interrupted by philip's voice from the back-door. 'sylvie, your mother's awake, and wants you!' 'come, kester, come,' and taking hold of him she drew him with her into the house. bell rose as they came in, holding by the arms of the chair. at first she received kester as though he had been a stranger. 'i'm glad to see yo', sir; t' master's out, but he'll be in afore long. it'll be about t' lambs yo're come, mebbe?' 'mother!' said sylvia, 'dunnot yo' see? it's kester,--kester, wi' his sunday clothes on.' 'kester! ay, sure it is; my eyes have getten so sore and dim of late; just as if i'd been greeting. i'm sure, lad, i'm glad to see thee! it's a long time i've been away, but it were not pleasure-seeking as took me, it were business o' some mak'--tell him, sylvie, what it were, for my head's clean gone. i only know i wouldn't ha' left home if i could ha' helped it; for i think i should ha' kept my health better if i'd bided at home wi' my master. i wonder as he's not comed in for t' bid me welcome? is he far afield, think ye, kester?' kester looked at sylvia, mutely imploring her to help him out in the dilemma of answering, but she was doing all she could to help crying. philip came to the rescue. 'aunt,' said he, 'the clock has stopped; can you tell me where t' find t' key, and i'll wind it up.' 't' key,' said she, hurriedly, 't' key, it's behind th' big bible on yon shelf. but i'd rayther thou wouldn't touch it, lad; it's t' master's work, and he distrusts folk meddling wi' it.' day after day there was this constant reference to her dead husband. in one sense it was a blessing; all the circumstances attendant on his sad and untimely end were swept out of her mind along with the recollection of the fact itself. she referred to him as absent, and had always some plausible way of accounting for it, which satisfied her own mind; and, accordingly they fell into the habit of humouring her, and speaking of him as gone to monkshaven, or afield, or wearied out, and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led her to believe for the moment. but this forgetfulness, though happy for herself, was terrible for her child. it was a constant renewing of sylvia's grief, while her mother could give her no sympathy, no help, or strength in any circumstances that arose out of this grief. she was driven more and more upon philip; his advice and his affection became daily more necessary to her. kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly than sylvia did herself; and, impotent to hinder what he feared and disliked, he grew more and more surly every day. yet he tried to labour hard and well for the interests of the family, as if they were bound up in his good management of the cattle and land. he was out and about by the earliest dawn, working all day long with might and main. he bought himself a pair of new spectacles, which might, he fancied, enable him to read the _farmer's complete guide_, his dead master's _vade-mecum_. but he had never learnt more than his capital letters, and had forgotten many of them; so the spectacles did him but little good. then he would take the book to sylvia, and ask her to read to him the instructions he needed; instructions, be it noted, that he would formerly have despised as mere book-learning: but his present sense of responsibility had made him humble. sylvia would find the place with all deliberation: and putting her finger under the line to keep the exact place of the word she was reading, she would strive in good earnest to read out the directions given; but when every fourth word had to be spelt, it was rather hopeless work, especially as all these words were unintelligible to the open-mouthed listener, however intent he might be. he had generally to fall back on his own experience; and, guided by that, things were not doing badly in his estimation, when, one day, sylvia said to him, as they were in the hay-field, heaping up the hay into cocks with dolly reid's assistance-'kester--i didn't tell thee--there were a letter from measter hall, lord malton's steward, that came last night and that philip read me.' she stopped for a moment. 'ay, lass! philip read it thee, and whatten might it say?' 'only that he had an offer for haytersbank farm, and would set mother free to go as soon as t' crops was off t' ground.' she sighed a little as she said this. "'only!" sayst ta? whatten business has he for to go an' offer to let t' farm afore iver he were told as yo' wished to leave it?' observed kester, in high dudgeon. 'oh!' replied sylvia, throwing down her rake, as if weary of life. 'what could we do wi' t' farm and land? if it were all dairy i might ha' done, but wi' so much on it arable.' 'and if 'tis arable is not i allays to t' fore?' 'oh, man, dunnot find fault wi' me! i'm just fain to lie down and die, if it were not for mother.' 'ay! thy mother will be sore unsettled if thou's for quitting haytersbank,' said merciless kester. 'i cannot help it; i cannot help it! what can i do? it would take two pair o' men's hands to keep t' land up as measter hall likes it; and beside----' 'beside what?' said kester, looking up at her with his sudden odd look, one eye shut, the other open: there she stood, her two hands clasped tight together, her eyes filling with tears, her face pale and sad. 'beside what?' he asked again, sharply. 't' answer's sent to measter hall--philip wrote it last night; so there's no use planning and fretting, it were done for t' best, and mun be done.' she stooped and picked up her rake, and began tossing the hay with energy, the tears streaming down her cheeks unheeded. it was kester's turn to throw down his rake. she took no notice, he did not feel sure that she had observed his action. he began to walk towards the field-gate; this movement did catch her eye, for in a minute her hand was on his arm, and she was stooping forward to look into his face. it was working and twitching with emotion. 'kester! oh, man! speak out, but dunnot leave me a this-ns. what could i ha' done? mother is gone dateless wi' sorrow, and i am but a young lass, i' years i mean; for i'm old enough wi' weeping.' 'i'd ha' put up for t' farm mysel', sooner than had thee turned out,' said kester, in a low voice; then working himself up into a passion, as a new suspicion crossed his mind, he added, 'an' what for didn't yo' tell me on t' letter? yo' were in a mighty hurry to settle it a', and get rid on t' oud place.' 'measter hall had sent a notice to quit on midsummer day; but philip had answered it hisself. thou knows i'm not good at reading writing, 'special when a letter's full o' long words, and philip had ta'en it in hand to answer.' 'wi'out asking thee?' sylvia went on without minding the interruption. 'and measter hall makes a good offer, for t' man as is going to come in will take t' stock and a' t' implements; and if mother--if we--if i--like, th' furniture and a'----' 'furniture!' said kester, in grim surprise. 'what's to come o' t' missus and thee, that yo'll not need a bed to lie on, or a pot to boil yo'r vittel in?' sylvia reddened, but kept silence. 'cannot yo' speak?' 'oh, kester, i didn't think thou'd turn again' me, and me so friendless. it's as if i'd been doin' something wrong, and i have so striven to act as is best; there's mother as well as me to be thought on.' 'cannot yo' answer a question?' said kester, once more. 'whatten's up that t' missus and yo'll not need bed and table, pots and pans?' 'i think i'm going to marry philip,' said sylvia, in so low a tone, that if kester had not suspected what her answer was to be, he could not have understood it. after a moment's pause he recommenced his walk towards the field-gate. but she went after him and held him tight by the arm, speaking rapidly. 'kester, what could i do? what can i do? he's my cousin, and mother knows him, and likes him; and he's been so good to us in a' this time o' trouble and heavy grief, and he'll keep mother in comfort all t' rest of her days.' 'ay, and thee in comfort. there's a deal in a well-filled purse in a wench's eyes, or one would ha' thought it weren't so easy forgettin' yon lad as loved thee as t' apple on his eye.' 'kester, kester,' she cried, 'i've niver forgotten charley; i think on him, i see him ivery night lying drowned at t' bottom o' t' sea. forgetten him! man! it's easy talking!' she was like a wild creature that sees its young, but is unable to reach it without a deadly spring, and yet is preparing to take that fatal leap. kester himself was almost startled, and yet it was as if he must go on torturing her. 'an' who telled thee so sure and certain as he were drowned? he might ha' been carried off by t' press-gang as well as other men.' 'oh! if i were but dead that i might know all!' cried she, flinging herself down on the hay. kester kept silence. then she sprang up again, and looking with eager wistfulness into his face, she said,-'tell me t' chances. tell me quick! philip's very good, and kind, and he says he shall die if i will not marry him, and there's no home for mother and me,--no home for her, for as for me i dunnot care what becomes on me; but if charley's alive i cannot marry philip--no, not if he dies for want o' me--and as for mother, poor mother, kester, it's an awful strait; only first tell me if there's a chance, just one in a thousand, only one in a hundred thousand, as charley were ta'en by t' gang?' she was breathless by this time, what with her hurried words, and what with the beating of her heart. kester took time to answer. he had spoken before too hastily, this time he weighed his words. 'kinraid went away from this here place t' join his ship. an' he niver joined it no more; an' t' captain an' all his friends at newcassel as iver were, made search for him, on board t' king's ships. that's more nor fifteen month ago, an' nought has iver been heerd on him by any man. that's what's to be said on one side o' t' matter. then on t' other there's this as is known. his hat were cast up by t' sea wi' a ribbon in it, as there's reason t' think as he'd not ha' parted wi' so quick if he'd had his own will.' 'but yo' said as he might ha' been carried off by t' gang--yo' did, kester, tho' now yo're a' for t' other side.' 'my lass, a'd fain have him alive, an' a dunnot fancy philip for thy husband; but it's a serious judgment as thou's put me on, an' a'm trying it fair. there's allays one chance i' a thousand as he's alive, for no man iver saw him dead. but t' gang were noane about monkshaven then: there were niver a tender on t' coast nearer than shields, an' those theere were searched.' he did not say any more, but turned back into the field, and took up his hay-making again. sylvia stood quite still, thinking, and wistfully longing for some kind of certainty. kester came up to her. 'sylvie, thou knows philip paid me back my money, and it were eight pound fifteen and three-pence; and t' hay and stock 'll sell for summat above t' rent; and a've a sister as is a decent widow-woman, tho' but badly off, livin' at dale end; and if thee and thy mother 'll go live wi' her, a'll give thee well on to all a can earn, and it'll be a matter o' five shilling a week. but dunnot go and marry a man as thou's noane taken wi', and another as is most like for t' be dead, but who, mebbe, is alive, havin' a pull on thy heart.' sylvia began to cry as if her heart was broken. she had promised herself more fully to philip the night before than she had told kester; and, with some pains and much patience, her cousin, her lover, alas! her future husband, had made the fact clear to the bewildered mind of her poor mother, who had all day long shown that her mind and heart were full of the subject, and that the contemplation of it was giving her as much peace as she could ever know. and now kester's words came to call up echoes in the poor girl's heart. just as she was in this miserable state, wishing that the grave lay open before her, and that she could lie down, and be covered up by the soft green turf from all the bitter sorrows and carking cares and weary bewilderments of this life; wishing that her father was alive, that charley was once more here; that she had not repeated the solemn words by which she had promised herself to philip only the very evening before, she heard a soft, low whistle, and, looking round unconsciously, there was her lover and affianced husband, leaning on the gate, and gazing into the field with passionate eyes, devouring the fair face and figure of her, his future wife. 'oh, kester,' said she once more, 'what mun i do? i'm pledged to him as strong as words can make it, and mother blessed us both wi' more sense than she's had for weeks. kester, man, speak! shall i go and break it all off?--say.' 'nay, it's noane for me t' say; m'appen thou's gone too far. them above only knows what is best.' again that long, cooing whistle. 'sylvie!' 'he's been very kind to us all,' said sylvia, laying her rake down with slow care, 'and i'll try t' make him happy.' chapter xxix wedding raiment philip and sylvia were engaged. it was not so happy a state of things as philip had imagined. he had already found that out, although it was not twenty-four hours since sylvia had promised to be his. he could not have defined why he was dissatisfied; if he had been compelled to account for his feeling, he would probably have alleged as a reason that sylvia's manner was so unchanged by her new position towards him. she was quiet and gentle; but no shyer, no brighter, no coyer, no happier, than she had been for months before. when she joined him at the field-gate, his heart was beating fast, his eyes were beaming out love at her approach. she neither blushed nor smiled, but seemed absorbed in thought of some kind. but she resisted his silent effort to draw her away from the path leading to the house, and turned her face steadily homewards. he murmured soft words, which she scarcely heard. right in their way was the stone trough for the fresh bubbling water, that, issuing from a roadside spring, served for all the household purposes of haytersbank farm. by it were the milk-cans, glittering and clean. sylvia knew she should have to stop for these, and carry them back home in readiness for the evening's milking; and at this time, during this action, she resolved to say what was on her mind. they were there. sylvia spoke. 'philip, kester has been saying as how it might ha' been----' 'well!' said philip. sylvia sate down on the edge of the trough, and dipped her hot little hand in the water. then she went on quickly, and lifting her beautiful eyes to philip's face, with a look of inquiry--'he thinks as charley kinraid may ha' been took by t' press-gang.' it was the first time she had named the name of her former lover to her present one since the day, long ago now, when they had quarrelled about him; and the rosy colour flushed her all over; but her sweet, trustful eyes never flinched from their steady, unconscious gaze. philip's heart stopped beating; literally, as if he had come to a sudden precipice, while he had thought himself securely walking on sunny greensward. he went purple all over from dismay; he dared not take his eyes away from that sad, earnest look of hers, but he was thankful that a mist came before them and drew a veil before his brain. he heard his own voice saying words he did not seem to have framed in his own mind. 'kester's a d--d fool,' he growled. 'he says there's mebbe but one chance i' a hundred,' said sylvia, pleading, as it were, for kester; 'but oh! philip, think yo' there's just that one chance?' 'ay, there's a chance, sure enough,' said philip, in a kind of fierce despair that made him reckless what he said or did. 'there's a chance, i suppose, for iverything i' life as we have not seen with our own eyes as it may not ha' happened. kester may say next as there's a chance as your father is not dead, because we none on us saw him----' 'hung,' he was going to have said, but a touch of humanity came back into his stony heart. sylvia sent up a little sharp cry at his words. he longed at the sound to take her in his arms and hush her up, as a mother hushes her weeping child. but the very longing, having to be repressed, only made him more beside himself with guilt, anxiety, and rage. they were quite still now. sylvia looking sadly down into the bubbling, merry, flowing water: philip glaring at her, wishing that the next word were spoken, though it might stab him to the heart. but she did not speak. at length, unable to bear it any longer, he said, 'thou sets a deal o' store on that man, sylvie.' if 'that man' had been there at the moment, philip would have grappled with him, and not let go his hold till one or the other were dead. sylvia caught some of the passionate meaning of the gloomy, miserable tone of philip's voice as he said these words. she looked up at him. 'i thought yo' knowed that i cared a deal for him.' there was something so pleading and innocent in her pale, troubled face, so pathetic in her tone, that philip's anger, which had been excited against her, as well as against all the rest of the world, melted away into love; and once more he felt that have her for his own he must, at any cost. he sate down by her, and spoke to her in quite a different manner to that which he had used before, with a ready tact and art which some strange instinct or tempter 'close at his ear' supplied. 'yes, darling, i knew yo' cared for him. i'll not say ill of him that is--dead--ay, dead and drowned--whativer kester may say--before now; but if i chose i could tell tales.' 'no! tell no tales; i'll not hear them,' said she, wrenching herself out of philip's clasping arm. 'they may misca' him for iver, and i'll not believe 'em.' 'i'll niver miscall one who is dead,' said philip; each new unconscious sign of the strength of sylvia's love for her former lover only making him the more anxious to convince her that he was dead, only rendering him more keen at deceiving his own conscience by repeating to it the lie that long ere this kinraid was in all probability dead--killed by either the chances of war or tempestuous sea; that, even if not, he was as good as dead to her; so that the word 'dead' might be used in all honest certainty, as in one of its meanings kinraid was dead for sure. 'think yo' that if he were not dead he wouldn't ha' written ere this to some one of his kin, if not to thee? yet none of his folk newcassel-way but believe him dead.' 'so kester says,' sighed sylvia. philip took heart. he put his arm softly round her again, and murmured-'my lassie, try not to think on them as is gone, as is dead, but t' think a bit more on him as loves yo' wi' heart, and soul, and might, and has done iver sin' he first set eyes on yo'. oh, sylvie, my love for thee is just terrible.' at this moment dolly reid was seen at the back-door of the farmhouse, and catching sight of sylvia, she called out-'sylvia, thy mother is axing for thee, and i cannot make her mind easy.' in a moment sylvia had sprung up from her seat, and was running in to soothe and comfort her mother's troubled fancies. philip sate on by the well-side, his face buried in his two hands. presently he lifted himself up, drank some water eagerly out of his hollowed palm, sighed, and shook himself, and followed his cousin into the house. sometimes he came unexpectedly to the limits of his influence over her. in general she obeyed his expressed wishes with gentle indifference, as if she had no preferences of her own; once or twice he found that she was doing what he desired out of the spirit of obedience, which, as her mother's daughter, she believed to be her duty towards her affianced husband. and this last motive for action depressed her lover more than anything. he wanted the old sylvia back again; captious, capricious, wilful, haughty, merry, charming. alas! that sylvia was gone for ever. but once especially his power, arising from whatever cause, was stopped entirely short--was utterly of no avail. it was on the occasion of dick simpson's mortal illness. sylvia and her mother kept aloof from every one. they had never been intimate with any family but the corneys, and even this friendship had considerably cooled since molly's marriage, and most especially since kinraid's supposed death, when bessy corney and sylvia had been, as it were, rival mourners. but many people, both in monkshaven and the country round about, held the robson family in great respect, although mrs. robson herself was accounted 'high' and 'distant;' and poor little sylvia, in her heyday of beautiful youth and high spirits, had been spoken of as 'a bit flighty,' and 'a set-up lassie.' still, when their great sorrow fell upon them, there were plenty of friends to sympathize deeply with them; and, as daniel had suffered in a popular cause, there were even more who, scarcely knowing them personally, were ready to give them all the marks of respect and friendly feeling in their power. but neither bell nor sylvia were aware of this. the former had lost all perception of what was not immediately before her; the latter shrank from all encounters of any kind with a sore heart, and sensitive avoidance of everything that could make her a subject of remark. so the poor afflicted people at haytersbank knew little of monkshaven news. what little did come to their ears came through dolly reid, when she returned from selling the farm produce of the week; and often, indeed, even then she found sylvia too much absorbed in other cares or thoughts to listen to her gossip. so no one had ever named that simpson was supposed to be dying till philip began on the subject one evening. sylvia's face suddenly flashed into glow and life. 'he's dying, is he? t' earth is well rid on such a fellow!' 'eh, sylvie, that's a hard speech o' thine!' said philip; 'it gives me but poor heart to ask a favour of thee!' 'if it's aught about simpson,' replied she, and then she interrupted herself. 'but say on; it were ill-mannered in me for t' interrupt yo'.' 'thou would be sorry to see him, i think, sylvie. he cannot get over the way, t' folk met him, and pelted him when he came back fra' york,--and he's weak and faint, and beside himself at times; and he'll lie a dreaming, and a-fancying they're all at him again, hooting, and yelling, and pelting him.' 'i'm glad on 't,' said sylvia; 'it's t' best news i've heered for many a day,--he, to turn again' feyther, who gave him money fo t' get a lodging that night, when he'd no place to go to. it were his evidence as hung feyther; and he's rightly punished for it now.' 'for a' that,--and he's done a vast o' wrong beside, he's dying now, sylvie!' 'well! let him die--it's t' best thing he could do!' 'but he's lying i' such dree poverty,--and niver a friend to go near him,--niver a person to speak a kind word t' him.' 'it seems as yo've been speaking wi' him, at any rate,' said sylvia, turning round on philip. 'ay. he sent for me by nell manning, th' old beggar-woman, who sometimes goes in and makes his bed for him, poor wretch,--he's lying in t' ruins of th' cow-house of th' mariners' arms, sylvie.' 'well!' said she, in the same hard, dry tone. 'and i went and fetched th' parish doctor, for i thought he'd ha' died before my face,--he was so wan, and ashen-grey, so thin, too, his eyes seem pushed out of his bony face.' 'that last time--feyther's eyes were starting, wild-like, and as if he couldn't meet ours, or bear the sight on our weeping.' it was a bad look-out for philip's purpose; but after a pause he went bravely on. 'he's a poor dying creature, anyhow. t' doctor said so, and told him he hadn't many hours, let alone days, to live.' 'and he'd shrink fra' dying wi' a' his sins on his head?' said sylvia, almost exultingly. philip shook his head. 'he said this world had been too strong for him, and men too hard upon him; he could niver do any good here, and he thought he should, maybe, find folks i' t' next place more merciful.' 'he'll meet feyther theere,' said sylvia, still hard and bitter. 'he's a poor ignorant creature, and doesn't seem to know rightly who he's like to meet; only he seems glad to get away fra' monkshaven folks; he were really hurt, i am afeared, that night, sylvie,--and he speaks as if he'd had hard times of it ever since he were a child,--and he talks as if he were really grieved for t' part t' lawyers made him take at th' trial,--they made him speak, against his will, he says.' 'couldn't he ha' bitten his tongue out?' asked sylvia. 'it's fine talking o' sorrow when the thing is done!' 'well, anyhow he's sorry now; and he's not long for to live. and, sylvie, he bid me ask thee, if, for the sake of all that is dear to thee both here, and i' th' world to come, thou'd go wi' me, and just say to him that thou forgives him his part that day.' 'he sent thee on that errand, did he? and thou could come and ask me? i've a mind to break it off for iver wi' thee, philip.' she kept gasping, as if she could not say any more. philip watched and waited till her breath came, his own half choked. 'thee and me was niver meant to go together. it's not in me to forgive,--i sometimes think it's not in me to forget. i wonder, philip, if thy feyther had done a kind deed--and a right deed--and a merciful deed--and some one as he'd been good to, even i' t' midst of his just anger, had gone and let on about him to th' judge, as was trying to hang him,--and had getten him hanged,--hanged dead, so that his wife were a widow, and his child fatherless for ivermore,--i wonder if thy veins would run milk and water, so that thou could go and make friends, and speak soft wi' him as had caused thy feyther's death?' 'it's said in t' bible, sylvie, that we're to forgive.' 'ay, there's some things as i know i niver forgive; and there's others as i can't--and i won't, either.' 'but, sylvie, yo' pray to be forgiven your trespasses, as you forgive them as trespass against you.' 'well, if i'm to be taken at my word, i'll noane pray at all, that's all. it's well enough for them as has but little to forgive to use them words; and i don't reckon it's kind, or pretty behaved in yo', philip, to bring up scripture again' me. thou may go about thy business.' 'thou'rt vexed with me, sylvie; and i'm not meaning but that it would go hard with thee to forgive him; but i think it would be right and christian-like i' thee, and that thou'd find thy comfort in thinking on it after. if thou'd only go, and see his wistful eyes--i think they'd plead wi' thee more than his words, or mine either.' 'i tell thee my flesh and blood wasn't made for forgiving and forgetting. once for all, thou must take my word. when i love i love, and when i hate i hate; and him as has done hard to me, or to mine, i may keep fra' striking or murdering, but i'll niver forgive. i should be just a monster, fit to be shown at a fair, if i could forgive him as got feyther hanged.' philip was silent, thinking what more he could urge. 'yo'd better be off,' said sylvia, in a minute or two. 'yo' and me has got wrong, and it'll take a night's sleep to set us right. yo've said all yo' can for him; and perhaps it's not yo' as is to blame, but yo'r nature. but i'm put out wi' thee, and want thee out o' my sight for awhile.' one or two more speeches of this kind convinced him that it would be wise in him to take her at her word. he went back to simpson, and found him, though still alive, past the understanding of any words of human forgiveness. philip had almost wished he had not troubled or irritated sylvia by urging the dying man's request: the performance of this duty seemed now to have been such a useless office. after all, the performance of a duty is never a useless office, though we may not see the consequences, or they may be quite different to what we expected or calculated on. in the pause of active work, when daylight was done, and the evening shades came on, sylvia had time to think; and her heart grew sad and soft, in comparison to what it had been when philip's urgency had called out all her angry opposition. she thought of her father--his sharp passions, his frequent forgiveness, or rather his forgetfulness that he had even been injured. all sylvia's persistent or enduring qualities were derived from her mother, her impulses from her father. it was her dead father whose example filled her mind this evening in the soft and tender twilight. she did not say to herself that she would go and tell simpson that she forgave him; but she thought that if philip asked her again that she should do so. but when she saw philip again he told her that simpson was dead; and passed on from what he had reason to think would be an unpleasant subject to her. thus he never learnt how her conduct might have been more gentle and relenting than her words--words which came up into his memory at a future time, with full measure of miserable significance. in general, sylvia was gentle and good enough; but philip wanted her to be shy and tender with him, and this she was not. she spoke to him, her pretty eyes looking straight and composedly at him. she consulted him like the family friend that he was: she met him quietly in all the arrangements for the time of their marriage, which she looked upon more as a change of home, as the leaving of haytersbank, as it would affect her mother, than in any more directly personal way. philip was beginning to feel, though not as yet to acknowledge, that the fruit he had so inordinately longed for was but of the nature of an apple of sodom. long ago, lodging in widow rose's garret, he had been in the habit of watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the flock disported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to the attic window, and insensibly philip grew to know their ways, and one pretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated in his mind with his idea of his cousin sylvia. the pigeon would sit in one particular place, sunning herself, and puffing out her feathered breast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her plumage. philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain piece of shot silk--now in the shop; and none other seemed to him so suitable for his darling's wedding-dress. he carried enough to make a gown, and gave it to her one evening, as she sate on the grass just outside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged in knitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfit. he was glad that the sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the changing colours in fuller light. sylvia admired it duly; even mrs. robson was pleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues. philip whispered to sylvia--(he took delight in whispers,--she, on the contrary, always spoke to him in her usual tone of voice)-'thou'lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart,--o' thursday fortnight!' 'thursday fortnight. on the fourth yo're thinking on. but i cannot wear it then,--i shall be i' black.' 'not on that day, sure!' said philip. 'why not? there's nought t' happen on that day for t' make me forget feyther. i couldn't put off my black, philip,--no, not to save my life! yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes of me,--and i'm sure i'm much beholden to yo'; and i'll have it made up first of any gown after last april come two years,--but, oh, philip, i cannot put off my mourning!' 'not for our wedding-day!' said philip, sadly. 'no, lad, i really cannot. i'm just sorry about it, for i see thou'rt set upon it; and thou'rt so kind and good, i sometimes think i can niver be thankful enough to thee. when i think on what would ha' become of mother and me if we hadn't had thee for a friend i' need, i'm noane ungrateful, philip; tho' i sometimes fancy thou'rt thinking i am.' 'i don't want yo' to be grateful, sylvie,' said poor philip, dissatisfied, yet unable to explain what he did want; only knowing that there was something he lacked, yet fain would have had. as the marriage-day drew near, all sylvia's care seemed to be for her mother; all her anxiety was regarding the appurtenances of the home she was leaving. in vain philip tried to interest her in details of his improvements or contrivances in the new home to which he was going to take her. she did not tell him; but the idea of the house behind the shop was associated in her mind with two times of discomfort and misery. the first time she had gone into the parlour about which philip spoke so much was at the time of the press-gang riot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement; the second was on that night of misery when she and her mother had gone in to monkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he was taken to york; in that room, on that night, she had first learnt something of the fatal peril in which he stood. she could not show the bright shy curiosity about her future dwelling that is common enough with girls who are going to be married. all she could do was to restrain herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on the subject. in time he saw that she shrank from it; so he held his peace, and planned and worked for her in silence,--smiling to himself as he looked on each completed arrangement for her pleasure or comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was involved in what fragments of peace and material comfort might remain to her mother. the wedding-day drew near apace. it was philip's plan that after they had been married in kirk moorside church, he and his sylvia, his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for the day to robin hood's bay, returning in the evening to the house behind the shop in the market-place. there they were to find bell robson installed in her future home; for haytersbank farm was to be given up to the new tenant on the very day of the wedding. sylvia would not be married any sooner; she said that she must stay there till the very last; and had said it with such determination that philip had desisted from all urgency at once. he had told her that all should be settled for her mother's comfort during their few hours' absence; otherwise sylvia would not have gone at all. he told her he should ask hester, who was always so good and kind--who never yet had said him nay, to go to church with them as bridesmaid--for sylvia would give no thought or care to anything but her mother--and that they would leave her at haytersbank as they returned from church; she would manage mrs robson's removal--she would do this--do that--do everything. such friendly confidence had philip in hester's willingness and tender skill. sylvia acquiesced at length, and philip took upon himself to speak to hester on the subject. 'hester,' said he, one day when he was preparing to go home after the shop was closed; 'would yo' mind stopping a bit? i should like to show yo' the place now it's done up; and i've a favour to ask on yo' besides.' he was so happy he did not see her shiver all over. she hesitated just a moment before she answered,-'i'll stay, if thou wishes it, philip. but i'm no judge o' fashions and such like.' 'thou'rt a judge o' comfort, and that's what i've been aiming at. i were niver so comfortable in a' my life as when i were a lodger at thy house,' said he, with brotherly tenderness in his tone. 'if my mind had been at ease i could ha' said i niver were happier in all my days than under thy roof; and i know it were thy doing for the most part. so come along, hester, and tell me if there's aught more i can put in for sylvie.' it might not have been a very appropriate text, but such as it was the words, 'from him that would ask of thee turn not thou away,' seemed the only source of strength that could have enabled her to go patiently through the next half-hour. as it was, she unselfishly brought all her mind to bear upon the subject; admired this, thought and decided upon that, as one by one philip showed her all his alterations and improvements. never was such a quiet little bit of unconscious and unrecognized heroism. she really ended by such a conquest of self that she could absolutely sympathize with the proud expectant lover, and had quenched all envy of the beloved, in sympathy with the delight she imagined sylvia must experience when she discovered all these proofs of philip's fond consideration and care. but it was a great strain on the heart, that source of life; and when hester returned into the parlour, after her deliberate survey of the house, she felt as weary and depressed in bodily strength as if she had gone through an illness of many days. she sate down on the nearest chair, and felt as though she never could rise again. philip, joyous and content, stood near her talking. 'and, hester,' said he, 'sylvie has given me a message for thee--she says thou must be her bridesmaid--she'll have none other.' 'i cannot,' said hester, with sudden sharpness. 'oh, yes, but yo' must. it wouldn't be like my wedding if thou wasn't there: why i've looked upon thee as a sister iver since i came to lodge with thy mother.' hester shook her head. did her duty require her not to turn away from this asking, too? philip saw her reluctance, and, by intuition rather than reason, he knew that what she would not do for gaiety or pleasure she would consent to, if by so doing she could render any service to another. so he went on. 'besides, sylvie and me has planned to go for our wedding jaunt to robin hood's bay. i ha' been to engage a shandry this very morn, before t' shop was opened; and there's no one to leave wi' my aunt. th' poor old body is sore crushed with sorrow; and is, as one may say, childish at times; she's to come down here, that we may find her when we come back at night; and there's niver a one she'll come with so willing and so happy as with thee, hester. sylvie and me has both said so.' hester looked up in his face with her grave honest eyes. 'i cannot go to church wi' thee, philip; and thou must not ask me any further. but i'll go betimes to haytersbank farm, and i'll do my best to make the old lady happy, and to follow out thy directions in bringing her here before nightfall.' philip was on the point of urging her afresh to go with them to church; but something in her eyes brought a thought across his mind, as transitory as a breath passes over a looking-glass, and he desisted from his entreaty, and put away his thought as a piece of vain coxcombry, insulting to hester. he passed rapidly on to all the careful directions rendered necessary by her compliance with the latter part of his request, coupling sylvia's name with his perpetually; so that hester looked upon her as a happy girl, as eager in planning all the details of her marriage as though no heavy shameful sorrow had passed over her head not many months ago. hester did not see sylvia's white, dreamy, resolute face, that answered the solemn questions of the marriage service in a voice that did not seem her own. hester was not with them to notice the heavy abstraction that made the bride as if unconscious of her husband's loving words, and then start and smile, and reply with a sad gentleness of tone. no! hester's duty lay in conveying the poor widow and mother down from haytersbank to the new home in monkshaven; and for all hester's assistance and thoughtfulness, it was a dreary, painful piece of work--the poor old woman crying like a child, with bewilderment at the confused bustle which, in spite of all sylvia's careful forethought, could not be avoided on this final day, when her mother had to be carried away from the homestead over which she had so long presided. but all this was as nothing to the distress which overwhelmed poor bell robson when she entered philip's house; the parlour--the whole place so associated with the keen agony she had undergone there, that the stab of memory penetrated through her deadened senses, and brought her back to misery. in vain hester tried to console her by telling her the fact of sylvia's marriage with philip in every form of words that occurred to her. bell only remembered her husband's fate, which filled up her poor wandering mind, and coloured everything; insomuch that sylvia not being at hand to reply to her mother's cry for her, the latter imagined that her child, as well as her husband, was in danger of trial and death, and refused to be comforted by any endeavour of the patient sympathizing hester. in a pause of mrs robson's sobs, hester heard the welcome sound of the wheels of the returning shandry, bearing the bride and bridegroom home. it stopped at the door--an instant, and sylvia, white as a sheet at the sound of her mother's wailings, which she had caught while yet at a distance, with the quick ears of love, came running in; her mother feebly rose and tottered towards her, and fell into her arms, saying, 'oh! sylvie, sylvie, take me home, and away from this cruel place!' hester could not but be touched with the young girl's manner to her mother--as tender, as protecting as if their relation to each other had been reversed, and she was lulling and tenderly soothing a wayward, frightened child. she had neither eyes nor ears for any one till her mother was sitting in trembling peace, holding her daughter's hand tight in both of hers, as if afraid of losing sight of her: then sylvia turned to hester, and, with the sweet grace which is a natural gift to some happy people, thanked her; in common words enough she thanked her, but in that nameless manner, and with that strange, rare charm which made hester feel as if she had never been thanked in all her life before; and from that time forth she understood, if she did not always yield to, the unconscious fascination which sylvia could exercise over others at times. did it enter into philip's heart to perceive that he had wedded his long-sought bride in mourning raiment, and that the first sounds which greeted them as they approached their home were those of weeping and wailing? end of vol. ii. the house 'round the corner by gordon holmes author of a mysterious disappearance, the arncliffe puzzle, etc. new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, 1919, by edward j. clode printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i. wherein the house receives a new tenant 1 ii. showing how even a house may have a way of its own 21 iii. a midnight seance 42 iv. showing how explanations do not always explain 63 v. gathering clouds 84 vi. the storm breaks 106 vii. a faint-hearted ally 127 viii. wherin percy whittaker proves himself a man of action 147 ix. showing the real strength of an illusion 167 x. armathwaite states a case 185 xi. preparations for battle 206 xii. the dawn of a black friday 226 xiii. deus ex machina 246 xiv. in which the area widens 267 xv. the laying of the ghost 287 chapter i wherein the house receives a new tenant the train had panted twelve miles up a sinuous valley, halting at three tiny stations on the way; it dwelt so long at the fourth that the occupant of a first-class carriage raised his eyes from the book he was reading. he found the platform packed with country folk, all heading in the same direction. hitherto, this heedless traveller had been aware of some station-master or porter bawling an unintelligible name; now, his fellow-passengers seemed to know what place this was without being told; moreover, they seemed to be alighting there. a porter, whose face, hands, and clothing were of one harmonious tint, suggesting that he had been dipped bodily in some brownish dye, and then left to dry in the sun, opened the door. "aren't you gettin' out, sir?" he inquired, and his tone implied both surprise and pain. "is this nuttonby?" said the passenger. "yes, sir." "why this crush of traffic?" "it's market day, sir." "thanks. i didn't expect to see such a crowd. have you a parcels office, where i can leave some baggage?" "yes, sir." "hang on to this bag, then. there are three boxes in the van. you'll need a barrow--they're heavy!" by this time, the man who knew so little of important nuttonby--which held 3,005 inhabitants in the 1911 census, having increased by two since 1901--had risen, and was collecting a fisherman's outfit, and some odds and ends of personal belongings. he followed the porter, who, on eyeing the rods and pannier, and with some knowledge of "county" manners, had accepted the stranger as entitled to hold a first-class ticket. sure enough, the boxes were heavy. the guard had to assist in handling them. "by gum!" said the porter, when he tried to lift the first on to a trolley. "books," explained the traveler. "i thought mebbe they wuz lead," said the porter. "some books have that quality," said the other. the guard, a reader in his spare time, smiled. the owner of so much solid literature seized a stout leather handle. "i'll give you a hand," he said, and the porter soon added to his slight store of facts concerning the newcomer. this tall, sparsely-built man in tweeds and a deer-stalker cap was no weakling. the platform was nearly empty when the porter began to trundle the loaded trolley along its length. a pert youth appeared from nowhere, and cried "ticket!" firmly, almost threateningly. he was given a first-class ticket from york, and a receipt for excess luggage. the bit of white paste-board startled him. "thank you, sir," he said. first-class passengers were rare birds at nuttonby; too late, he knew he ought to have said "ticket, please!" the same pert youth, appearing again from nowhere, officiated in the parcels office. he noticed that none of the articles bore a name or initials; they were brand-new; their only railway labels were "york, from king's cross," and "nuttonby, from york." "book the bag and these small articles separately," he was instructed. "i may want them soon. the boxes may be sent for this afternoon; i don't know yet." he turned to the porter: "is there a house agent in the town?" "yes, sir--two." "which is the better--the man with the larger _clientèle_--sorry, i mean with the greater number of houses on his books?" "well, sir, walker an' son have bin in business here fifty year an' more." "i'll try walker. where's his place?" "next door the 'red lion,' sir." then the youth, anxious to atone, and rather quicker-witted than the brown-hued one, got in a word. "the 'red lion' is halfway up the main street, sir. turn to your right when you leave here, an' you're there in two minutes." "i'll show the gentleman," said the porter, who had decided a month ago that this blooming kid was putting on airs. he was as good as his word--or nearly so. a tip of half a crown was stupefying, but he gathered his wits in time to say brokenly at the exit: "wu-wu-walker's is straight up, sir." straight up the stranger went. the wide street was crammed with stalls, farmers' carts, carriers' carts, dog-carts, even a couple of automobiles, for wednesday, being market day, was also police-court day and board of guardians day. he passed unheeded. on wednesdays, nuttonby was a metropolis; on any other day in the week he would have drawn dozens of curious eyes, peeping surreptitiously over short curtains, or more candidly in the open. of course, he was seen by many, since nuttonby was not so metropolitan that it failed to detect a new face, even on wednesdays; but his style and appearance were of the gentry; nuttonby decided that he had strayed in from some "big" house in the district. walker & son, it would seem, were auctioneers, land valuers, and probate estimators as well as house agents. their office was small, but not retiring. it displayed a well-developed rash of sale posters, inside and out. one, in particular, was heroic in size. it told of a "spacious mansion, with well-timbered park," having been put up for auction--five years earlier. whiteness of paper and blackness of type suggested that walker & son periodically renewed this aristocrat among auction announcements--perhaps to kindle a selling spirit among the landed gentry, a notoriously conservative and hold-tight class. a young man, seated behind a counter, reading a sporting newspaper, and smoking a cigarette, rose hastily when the caller entered. "yes, sir," he said, thereby implying instant readiness to engage in one or all of the firm's activities. "are you mr. walker?" said the newcomer. "yes, sir." "ah! i thought you might be the son." "well, i am, if it comes to that. do you want my father?" walker, junior, was a nuttonby "nut"--a sharp young blade who did not tolerate chaff. "i want to rent a furnished house in or near a quiet country village, where there is some good fishing," was the answer. "now, you can determine whether i should trouble mr. walker, senior, or not?" "no trouble at all, sir! he'll be here in ten seconds." walker, junior, had nearly made the same mistake as the ticket-collecting youth; however, he estimated time correctly. he went out, put his head through the open window of the "red lion's" bar-parlor, and shouted: "dad, you're wanted!" thus, within ten seconds, the stranger saw the firm! he repeated his need, and there was a great parade of big-leafed books, while the elder walker ascertained the prospective client's exact requirements. whittled down to bare facts, they amounted to this: a house, in a small and remote village, and a trout stream. the absolute seclusion of the village and its diminutive proportions were insisted on, and property after property was rejected, though the walkers were puzzled to know why. this distinguished-looking man wished to find a dwelling far removed from any social center. his ideal was a tiny moorland hamlet, miles from the railway, and out of the beaten track of summer visitors. suddenly, the son cried: "elmdale is the very place, dad!" dad's face brightened, but clouded again instantly. "you mean--er--the house 'round the corner?" he said, pursing his lips. "yes." "i'm afraid it wouldn't suit." "why not?" put in the stranger. "i rather like the name." "i didn't mention any name, sir," and walker, senior, still looked glum. "you described it as the house 'round the corner--an excellent name. it attracts me. where is elmdale?" the head of the firm pointed to a map of the north riding hanging above the fireplace. "here you are," he said, seizing a pen and running it along the meandering black line of a stream. "eight miles from nuttonby, and thousands from every other town--on the edge of the moor--about forty houses in the village--and a first-rate beck, with trout running from four ounces to half a pound--but----" "but what?" "the house, sir. you won't like the house." "what's wrong with it?" "nothing. it's comfortable enough, and well furnished." yet again he hesitated. "why, it appears to be, as your son said, the very place." walker, senior, smiled drearily. he knew what was coming. "i can't recommend it, sir, and for this reason. a gentleman named garth--mr. stephen garth; some sort of professor, i understand--lived there a many years, with his wife and daughter. nice, quiet people they were, and the young lady was a beauty. no one could make out why they should wish to be buried alive in a hole like elmdale, but they seemed happy enough. then, two years since, in this very month of june, mrs. garth and the girl drove into nuttonby in their governess car, and went off by train, sending the trap back by a hired man. mr. garth mooned about for a week or two, and then hanged himself one evening alongside a grandfather's clock which stands in the hall. that made a rare stir, i can tell you; since then, no one will look at the grange, which is its proper name. i need hardly say that the villagers have seen mr. garth's ghost many times, particularly in june, because in that month the setting sun throws a peculiar shadow through a stained-glass window on the half landing. last year i let the place to a sheffield family who wanted moorland air. my! what a row there was when mrs. wilkins heard of the suicide, and, of course, saw the ghost! it was all i could do to stave off an action for damages. 'never again,' said i. 'if anybody else rents or buys the house, they take the ghost with it.'" "is it for sale?" "oh, yes! neither mrs. garth nor miss marguérite have come near elmdale since they left. they didn't attend the funeral, and i may add, in confidence, that messrs. holloway & dobb, solicitors in this town, who have charge of their affairs--so far as the ownership of the grange goes, at any rate--do not know their whereabouts. it is a sad story, sir." the would-be tenant was apparently unmoved by the story's sadness. "what kind of house is it?" he inquired. "old-fashioned, roomy, with oaken rafters, and a jacobean grate in the dining-room. five bedrooms. fine garden, with its own well, fed by a spring. the kind of seventeenth-century dwelling that would fetch a high rent nowadays if near a town. as it is, i'd be glad to take sixty pounds a year for it, or submit an offer." "furnished?" "yes, sir, and some decent stuff in it, too. i'm surprised messrs. holloway & dobb don't sell that, anyhow; but i believe they have a sort of order from mrs. garth that the property is to be sold as it stands, and not broken up piece-meal." "why did you describe it as the house 'round the corner?" mr. walker smiled. "that was for my son's benefit, sir," he explained. "the elmdale cottages are clustered together on the roadside. the grange stands above them, at one end, and a few yards up a road leading to the moor. it commands a fine view, too," he added regretfully. "i'll take it," said the stranger. walker, junior, looked jubilant, but his father's years had weakened confidence in mankind. many a good let was lost ere the agreement was signed and this one was beset by special difficulties. "if you give me your name and address, i'll consult messrs. holloway & dobb----" he began, and was probably more astonished than he would care to confess by the would-be tenant's emphatic interruption-"is this property to let, or is it not?" "yes, sir. haven't i said so?" "very well! i offer you a quarter's rent, payable to you or your son when i have looked at the place. as a matter of form, i would like one of you to accompany me to elmdale at once, because i must inquire into the fishing. i suppose you can hire a conveyance of sorts to take us there? of course, in any event, i shall pay your fee for the journey. my name is robert armathwaite. i am a stranger in this part of yorkshire, but if you, or messrs. holloway & dobb, care to call at the local bank, say, in three days' time, you will be satisfied as to my financial standing. i'll sign an agreement for a yearly tenancy, terminable thereafter by three months' written notice, when i pay the first installment of the rent. as the place is furnished, you will probably stipulate for payment in advance throughout. i fancy you can draw up such an agreement in half an hour, and, if there is an inventory, it should be checked and initialed when we visit the house. does that arrangement suit you?" the walkers were prosperous and pompous, but they knew when to sink their pomposity. "yes, sir, it _can_ be done," agreed the elder man. "thank you. which is the leading bank here?" walker, senior, indicated a building directly opposite. "i'll have a word with the manager," said mr. armathwaite. "if i'm here in half an hour, will you have a carriage waiting?" "a dog-cart, sir. my own. my son will attend to you." "excellent. evidently, your firm understands business." and mr. armathwaite went out. the walkers watched as he crossed the road, and entered the bank. their side of the street being higher than the other, they could see, above the frosted lower half of the bank's window, that he approached the counter, and was ushered into the manager's private room. "what d'ye make of it, dad?" inquired the "nut," forgetting his importance in the absorbing interest of the moment. "dad" tickled his bald scalp with the handle of the pen. "tell you what," he said solemnly. "some houses have an attraction for queer folk. whoever built the grange where it is must have been daft. the people who lived there when i was a young man were a bit touched. mr. garth was mad, we know, an' mrs. wilkins was the silliest woman i ever met. now comes this one." "_he_ looks all right." "you never can tell. at any rate, we'll take his money, and welcome. i asked sixty, but wouldn't have sneezed at forty. neither would holloway & dobb; they've some costs to collect since the wilkins' affair. go and get the trap ready. and mind you, jim, no hanky-panky." the youthful walker winked. "you leave that to me," he said. "what about the fee--will he stand a guinea?" "you might try it, at any rate." at the appointed time, half-past eleven o'clock, mr. armathwaite came, carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. he cast an appreciative eye at a wiry cob, put the parcel in the back of the waiting dog-cart, and climbed to the seat beside the younger walker, now attired _de rigueur_ for the country. "will you kindly call at the railway station?" he said. the request was unexpected, but the driver nodded, and showed some skill in turning through the congeries of vehicles which crowded the street. at the station, the bag and other small articles were withdrawn from the parcels office, and deposited beside the package in brown paper. james walker was mystified, but said nothing. returning through the main street, he answered a few questions concerning local matters, and, once in the open country, grew voluble under the influence of a first-rate havana proffered by his companion. men of his type often estimate their fellows by a tobacco standard, and walker privately appraised the cigar as "worth a bob, at the lowest figure." from that instant, mr. robert armathwaite and mr. james walker took up their relative positions without demur on the part of either. oddly enough, seeing that the newcomer had expressed his dislike for society, he listened with interest to bits of gossip concerning the owners of the various estates passed on the way. he was specially keen on names, even inquiring as to what families one titled landowner was connected with by marriage. then, as to the fishing, could the walkers arrange that for him? forgetting his 'cuteness, walker settled the point off-hand. "you had better deal with the matter yourself, sir," he said. "there'll be no difficulty. nearly all the elmdale farms are freeholds, most of 'em with common rights on the moor. why, when one of 'em changes hands, the buyer has the right to take over all the sheep footed on the seller's part of the moor. p'raps you don't know what 'footed' means. sheep will always go back to the place where they were raised, and the habit is useful when they stray over an open moorland. so, you see, all you have to do is to get permission from two or three farmers, and you can fish for miles." he tried to talk of the garths, particularly of the pretty daughter, but his hearer's attention wandered; obviously, information as to the ways and habits of the local yeomanry was more to mr. armathwaite's taste than a "nut's" gushing about a good-looking girl. within an hour, after five miles of fair roadway and two of a switchback, mostly rising, walker pointed with his whip to a thin line of red-tiled houses, here and there a thatched roof among them, nestling at the foot of a gill, or ravine, which pierced the side of a gaunt moorland. above the hamlet, at the eastern end, rose an old-fashioned stone house, square, with a portico in the center, and a high-pitched roof of stone slabs. "there's elmdale," he said, "and that's the grange. looks a god-forsaken hole, doesn't it, sir?" "if you pay heed to the real meanings of words, no place on earth merits that description," said mr. armathwaite. walker was no whit abashed. "well, no," he grinned. "i ought to have asked sooner, but have you brought any keys?" the agent instinct warned the other that his choice of an adjective had been unwise in more ways than one. "that's all right, sir," he said cheerfully. "the keys are kept in the village--at mrs. jackson's. she's a useful old body. if you want a housekeeper, she and her daughter would suit you down to the ground." little more was said until the steaming pony was pulled up in front of a thatched cottage. seen thus intimately, and in the blaze of a june sun, elmdale suggested coziness. each house, no matter what its size, had a garden in front and an orchard behind. long, narrow pastures ran steeply up to the moor, and cattle and sheep were grazing in them. there were crops on the lower land. for all its remoteness, elmdale faced south, and its earth was fertile. armathwaite sat in the dog-cart while james walker ran up the strip of flower-laden garden, and peered in through a low doorway. in later days, the singular fact was borne in on armathwaite that had his companion adopted any other method of making known his business--had he, for instance, shouted to mrs. jackson or her daughter, betty, and asked for the keys of the grange--the whole course of his subsequent life would unquestionably have been altered. a loose stone under the foot of an emperor's horse may change the map of the world. in this instance, a remarkable, and, in some respects, unique series of events arose solely from the fact that walker, junior, was of active habit, and alighted from the vehicle in preference to announcing his wishes for others to hear; because betty jackson, at that moment, was plucking gooseberries in the back garden, and knew nothing of what was going on until a country maid's belated wit failed completely to stem the tide of circumstance. armathwaite caught scraps of a brief but seemingly heated argument going on inside the cottage. it was couched in the yorkshire dialect, which he understood, to some extent, but could not speak. then walker, a gallant figure in straw hat, gray coat, red waistcoat with gilded buttons, breeches and gaiters and brown boots, strutted into sight. he was red-faced and laughing, and a bundle of keys jingled in one hand. "mrs. jackson's as bad as any of 'em," he cried, springing to his seat and taking the reins from a clip on the dash-board. "made such a to-do about anyone looking over the house. asked if you'd heard of the ghost, too. and, blow me, if she didn't pretend she'd mislaid the keys! we wouldn't have got 'em for a deuce of a time if i hadn't twigged 'em hanging on a nail, and grabbed 'em. then she gave me my name for nothing, i can assure you." "yet you recommended her for the post of housekeeper," said armathwaite, smiling. "yes, sir. she's a rare good cook, and tidy, too. can't make out what's come over her. she was fair scared to death." walker's statement as to mrs. jackson's behavior was by no means highly colored. before he reached the dog-cart, the old woman had hurried into the back garden. "betty!" she shrilled. "betty, where are you?" a head in a poke-bonnet rose above a clump of tall gooseberry bushes, and a voice answered: "yes, mother, what is it?" "run, girl, run! what's to be done? mr. walker has brought a man to look at the house." "what house?" "the grange, to be sure." "oh, mother!" betty ran quickly enough now. she was a strongly-built, apple-cheeked lass; but there was a glint of fear in her eyes, and the faces of both mother and daughter had gone gray under the tan of moor air and much work in the open. "whatever can we do?" cried mrs. jackson, with the hopeless distress of a woman overwhelmed by some unforeseen and tragic occurrence. "that impudent young walker came and snatched at the keys before i could stop him. and they've gone there, the pair of 'em! there they are now--halfway up the hill." all this, of course, was couched in "broad yorkshire," which, however, need not enter into the record. the two gazed at the men in the dog-cart, who were partly visible above a yew hedge, since the by-road in which the grange was situated turned up the hill by the gable of mrs. jackson's cottage. "oh, mother!" said the girl, in awe-stricken accents, "why didn't you hide 'em?" "how was i to hide 'em? i was knocked all of a heap. who'd have thought of anyone coming here to-day, of all days in the year?" "who's that with him?" betty almost sobbed. "the man who's going over the house, of course." "oh, dear! if only i'd known! i'd have taken the keys and gone with them." "what good would that have done?" "i might have humbugged them into waiting a minute or two. i'd have thought of some excuse. but don't worry too much, mother. maybe they'll give the least little look round, and come away again." "and maybe they won't," cried mrs. jackson angrily, for she was recovering from her fright, and her daughter's implied reproach was irritating. "i did my best, and it can't be helped now, no matter what happens. run after them, betty, and offer to help. you may manage something, even now." the girl needed no second bidding. she was through the cottage and out in the road in a jiffy. but she had lost a minute or more already, and the sturdy galloway was climbing a steep hill quickly. when she reached a garden gate to which the reins were tied, the front door of the grange stood open, and the visitors were inside. "oh, dear!" she breathed, in a heart-broken way. "oh, dear! if only mother had called me sooner! now, it's too late! and i promised that no one should know. well, i must do my best. just a bit of luck, and i may pull things straight yet!" chapter ii showing how even a house may have a way of its own while walker was fiddling with the lock, not being quite sure as to the right key, armathwaite had eyed the southern landscape. elmdale was six hundred feet above sea level, and the grange stood fully a hundred feet higher than the village, so a far-flung panorama of tillage, pasture, and woodland provided a delightful picture on that glorious june day. to the north, he knew, stretched miles of wild moor, and the heather began where the spacious garden ended. a glance at the map in the walkers' office had shown that this bleak waste was crossed by mere tracks, marked in the dotted lines which motorists abhor. indeed, the very road leading to the house was not macadamized beyond the gate; two years of disuse had converted even the stone-covered portion into a sort of meadow, because grass, the sulkiest of vegetables in a well-tended lawn, will grow luxuriantly on a granite wall if left alone. truly, elmdale seemed to be at the end of the world--the world of yorkshire, at any rate--and robert armathwaite found its aspect pleasing. a lock clicked; he turned, and entered a domain he was now fully resolved to make his own. "well, i'm blest!" said walker, speaking in a surprised way; "anyone 'ud think the place hadn't been empty an hour, let alone two years, not countin' mrs. wilkins's couple of nights. i wonder who left these clothes, and hats, and things!" he had good reason for a certain stare of bewilderment. the door, which was stoutly built, with a pane of sheet glass in the upper half, opened straight into a spacious, oak-paneled hall. left and right were a dining-room and a drawing-room, each containing two windows. behind the dining-room a wide staircase gave access to the upper floors, and a flood of rich and variously-tinted light from a long arched window glowed on the dark panels below, and glistened on the polished mahogany case of a grandfather's clock which faced the foot of the stairs. the wall opposite the entrance was pierced by a half-open door, through which could be seen laden bookshelves reaching up eight feet or more. another door, beyond the stairway, showed the only possible means of approach to the kitchen and domestic offices. there were no pictures in the hall, but some antique plates and dishes of blue china were ranged on a shelf above the wainscot, and a narrow table and four straight-backed chairs, all of oak, were in tasteful keeping with the surroundings. on each side of the dining-room door were double rows of hooks, and on these hung the garments which had caught the agent's eye. a bowler hat, a frayed panama, a cap, a couple of overcoats, even a lady's hat and mackintosh, lent an air of occupancy to the house, which was not diminished by the presence of several sticks and umbrellas in a couple of chinese porcelain stands. walker took down the panama. it was dust-laden, and the inner band of leather had a clammy feeling. he replaced it hastily. "that's the professor's," he said, trying to speak unconcernedly. "i remember seeing him in it, many a time." armathwaite noticed the action, and was aware of a peculiar _timbre_ in walker's voice. "now, suppose we lay that ghost, and have done with it," he said quietly. "where did my worthy and retrospective landlord hang himself?" "there," said walker, indicating a solitary hook screwed through the china shelf near the clock. "that bronze thing," pointing to a burmese gong lying on the floor, "used to hang there. he took it down, tied the rope to the hook, and kicked a chair away.... if you come here," and he advanced a few paces, "you'll see why a ghost appears." "mr. walker," bleated someone timidly. mr. walker unquestionably jumped, and quite as unquestionably swore, even when he recognized betty jackson, standing in the porch. "well, what is it?" he cried gruffly, hoping his companion has missed that display of nerves. "please, sir, mother thought--" began the girl; but the startled "nut" was annoyed, and showed it. "i don't care what your mother thinks," he shouted. "refusing me the keys, indeed! what next? i've a good mind to report her to messrs. holloway & dobb." "but, sir, she only wanted to make the house a bit more tidy. it's dusty and stuffy. if you gentlemen would be kind enough to wait in the garden five minutes, i'd open up the rooms, and raise a window here and there." betty, tearful and repentant, had entered the hall in her eagerness to serve. walker weakened; he had a soft spot in his heart for girls. "no matter now," he said. "we shan't be here long. this gentleman is just going to look round and see if the place suits him." "the best bedroom is all upside down," she persisted. "if you'd give me three minutes----" "run away and play, and don't bother us," he answered off-handedly. "as i was about to say, mr. armathwaite, someone in the old days put stained glass in that window on the landing. you'll notice it shows a knight in black armor--edward, the black prince, it's believed to be--and, when the sun sets in the nor' west, it casts a strong shadow on the paneling beside the clock. of course, it can be seen from the porch, and it accounts for this silly story about the ghost----" "oh!" screamed the girl. "why talk of such horrid things? there's no ghost!" her cry was so unexpectedly shrill that walker yielded to an anger almost as loud-voiced. "confound you!" he stormed at her; "take yourself off! one more word from you, and your mother loses her job." armathwaite looked into the girl's troubled face and saw there a fear, a foreboding, which were very real, if not to be accounted for readily. "kindly leave us," he said. "if i want mrs. jackson, or you, i'll call at the cottage." there was an air of authority about mr. armathwaite that disconcerted betty more than walker's bluster. she went out and closed the front door. the agent ran and opened it again. the girl was standing on the path, clear of the porch, and gazing wistfully at the house. "will you mind your own business?" he grumbled. "the deuce take it, what's come to you to-day? you and your mother seem half crazy." "we don't like folk to see the place at its worst," she said, rather defiantly. "you're doing your best to turn mr. armathwaite against it, _i_ should think," was the angry comment. "now, don't touch this door again, and clear out, d'ye hear?" betty flushed. she was distressed, but dales' blood boils quickly when subjected to the fire of contumely. "i haven't asked such a favor," she said. "and you might keep a civil tongue in your head." walker sniffed his annoyance. but why bandy words with this aggressive young woman? he swung on his heel. "sorry you should have met with such a queer reception, mr. armathwaite," he said. "i can't account for it. i really can't. perhaps mrs. jackson feels hurt that i didn't let her know you were coming, but----" "never mind mrs. jackson or her daughter," said armathwaite placidly. "i'll soon settle matters with them. now, you have an inventory, i believe? suppose we start here." "then you've decided to take the house, sir?" "yes, two hours ago, in nuttonby." "i wish all our clients were like you," laughed walker. "you know what you want and see that you get it.... well, sir, as it happens, the inventory begins with the hall. i'll read, and you might note the items, stopping me if there's any doubt." the agent rattled through his task, but was pulled up several times in dining-room and drawing-room, when a picture or two, some sheffield plate, and various bits of china were missing. black doubt seized the sharp walker when this had happened for the fourth time. in all, there were seven disappearances, and, in each instance, the article was old and fairly valuable. country villages, he reflected, were ransacked nowadays by collectors of curios. when opportunity served, he and mrs. jackson would have some earnest words. but surprise and relief came in the discovery of the seven; they were piled, with a number of books, on a table in the library. "i suppose some kind of spring cleaning is going on," he said sheepishly. "now the cat is out of the bag. why the deuce didn't betty say so, and have done with it!" "i imagine she was trying to tell us something of the sort," smiled the other unconcernedly. "surely we have not got to check the titles of all these books?" "no, sir. they're lumped together--about eight hundred volumes." armathwaite surveyed the shelves with the eye of a reader. "that must be nearly right," he said, after a little pause. "i must not get mine mixed with my predecessor's. i've brought nearly two hundred myself." walker thought of the brown paper parcel, which seemed to have a certain solidity, but said nothing. in the first place, if eight hundred books occupied so much space, a quarter of that number would fit in no ordinary sheet of brown paper. secondly, mr. armathwaite's manner did not invite unnecessary questions. the kitchen and scullery were soon dealt with. there was coal in a cellar, and a supply of wood, and a number of lamps drew attention to some tins of oil. "how much for this lot?" inquired the would-be tenant. "nothing," said walker, in a sudden fit of generosity. "these stores were left by mrs. wilkins, and lost sight of during the row. my, what a bother she raised!" "yet there is no ghost; we have betty's word for it. now--the bedrooms." the "best" bedroom--that in the south-east angle--was certainly not in disorder. indeed, it looked fresher and cleaner than any of the others; the bed was spotless; even the window-sill had been dusted recently. "of course," said the agent, "those two silly women have been tidying things up a bit for the season. i'm getting the hang of things by degrees. they're afraid i might think it should have been done sooner." "probably," agreed armathwaite, who, however, held a somewhat different view. the girl was not afraid of mr. james walker. of whom, then, or of what? if the inquiry interested him he would find out. the remaining bedrooms held at least one year's dust. a box-room, lumber-room, and servant's bedroom occupied the second floor. in the ceiling of a small lobby there was a trap-door. "that leads to a space beneath the roof," said walker. "by the way, there ought to be a ladder. it's gone." being, as has been seen, of active habit, he brought a chair from the bedroom, stood on it, pushed up the flap, and peered into the semi-obscurity of a triangular, rafter-lined attic, lighted only by a tiny square of glass cemented into one of the flat stone slabs of the roof. "oh, here it is," he announced. "shall i pull it out?" "no, thanks," said armathwaite. "i don't suppose i shall mount so high again during my tenancy." the younger man closed the trap, and, as it had been unfastened previously, shot a bolt into its socket. "well, that ends it," he said, brushing some grime off his hands. "if you care to stroll through the garden you'll find plenty of fruit coming on. this should be a good year for apples and plums, i'm told. it's too late to raise any potatoes or vegetables, but the village will supply plenty of table stuff, and cheap, too." "let me see," mused armathwaite aloud. "fifteen pounds rent, and, say, two guineas for your fee, and another guinea for the conveyance--eighteen pounds three shillings in all. let us adjourn to the library, and i'll pay you, sign the agreement, and initial the inventory. then i need not detain you any longer, mr. walker." the agent looked blank, as well he might. he was flustered, too, by the terms offered for his valuable services. "you don't mean that you're going to stay here straightaway, sir?" he cried. "yes. i came prepared for immediate occupation. that is why i brought my bag, and some groceries." "groceries!" walker was so astonished that he could only repeat the word. "that parcel, you know. i'm an old campaigner--that is, i have much experience of camping out, under far less pleasant conditions than in a delightful house in a yorkshire village. i shall be quite happy here." "but there's a kind of an inn not far off; you'll come and have a snack there with me, sir?" was all that walker could find to say at the moment. "i'm much obliged to you, but i may not stir out again to-day. shall we go down?" they descended the stairs, which creaked loudly under their feet. walker was puzzled to understand a cool customer of the armathwaite type. he had never heard of a tenancy being entered into with such promptitude, yet there was no point in the stranger's behavior which he could fix on as definitely eccentric, or even unusual. the man evidently knew his own mind, and, if he paid up, the philosophy of walker, senior, fitted the case admirably. still it was a slightly dazed son who pocketed fifteen pounds in notes and three guineas in coin, and gave receipts for these sums, and exchanged copies of an agreement, and handed over the keys. "take another cigar," said the new tenant, bidding him good-bye at the front door, when bag and parcel had been brought in and dumped on the hall table. "oh, there is one other small matter. i left three boxes at nuttonby station. here is the voucher. can you get some carter or farmer to bring them here, to-day or to-morrow? i'll pay him well for his trouble. they're rather heavy--books, mostly." conscious of a subdued feeling which he was wholly unable to explain, walker took the cigar and the printed slip, raised his hat--an action which vexed him when he recalled it subsequently--and strolled down to the gate and the waiting dog-cart. rattling the reins to let the pony know that he would stand no nonsense, he turned the corner on one wheel, and gave not the slightest heed to betty jackson's frantic efforts to attract his attention. without slackening pace at the fox and hounds inn, he whisked into the nuttonby road, but pulled up on the crest of the first hill. looking back at elmdale, lying snug and content in the blazing sunshine of early afternoon, he gazed at the grange during a full minute. the front door was closed. so far as he could make out, no tall figure was sauntering in garden or orchard. then he felt in his breeches pocket, to make sure, by the touch of notes and gold, that he was not dreaming. "well, i'm jiggered, if this isn't a rum go!" he muttered, and chirruped the pony into a trot again. in the meantime, mr. robert armathwaite had watched his hurried departure, in the first instance from the porch and subsequently from one of the windows in the dining-room. "perhaps i've made a mistake," he communed, with an amused smile, when he noted the momentary stopping of the dog-cart outside the village. "i've puzzled that young sprig, and i might have avoided that. not that it matters a great deal. his father will inquire at the bank about my financial standing, and the pair of them will put me down as a well-to-do lunatic. maybe they will prove right. who can tell? at any rate, i've not felt so content with my lot since i left india. now for some bread and cheese, and a thorough survey of my domain." he unpacked the brown paper parcel on the kitchen table, and thereby proved himself at least well skilled as a caterer. bacon, flour, bread, tea, coffee, sugar--all manner of simple domestic stores were there. he had, in fact, gone into a grocer's shop in nuttonby, produced a written list, and asked that the articles named therein should be of the best quality and got ready at once. while munching a frugal meal he bethought himself of the water supply. unlocking the back door, he found the well, and drew a bucket of water, which was excellent in quality, and by no means suffering from disuse; indeed, he learnt later that the jacksons and other cottagers took their supply from that source. after a stroll round the garden and orchard--noting the laden gooseberry and currant bushes in the one, and several varieties of apples, pears, plums, and cherries in the other--he went back to the house. going upstairs, he took possession of the "best" room, and distributed the contents of the bag among various drawers and on a dressing-table. a large wardrobe contained some feminine garments, old, but of good quality, and he left them undisturbed. examining the bed, he found the sheets scrupulously clean and well-aired. to all seeming, they had been put there that very day, and he believed that the jackson family meant to accommodate some friend in the grange for the night, which reasonable surmise explained betty jackson's anxiety lest any hint of the project should reach the agent's ears. "it's too bad if i've contrived to upset their plans," he mused. "they're welcome to any other room, for all that i care, and i'll tell them so if i come across either of them this evening." nevertheless, meaning to be lord of his own realm, he locked the doors, both back and front, when he went for a ramble over the moors. he was willing to fall in with any hospitable arrangement the caretakers might have in view, but they must consult him, and he refused to have either of them prowling about the house in his absence. he followed the moorland road for some miles, meeting no one, and seeing no living creature save hundreds of black-faced sheep. not even a grouse scurried across the heather, for june is the nesting season, and the parent birds lie close. noting the watershed, he found the source of the beck which brawled through elmdale, and tracked it back to the village. it was alive with trout and grayling, and his fingers itched for a rod. he regretted now that he had not obtained the names of some of the riparian landowners from walker, but realized that the village inn would soon yield all the information he needed, and probably contain some of the farmers in person that evening. he reached his new abode, however, somewhat later than he had intended, approaching it from the east, which afforded not only a new point of view, but enabled him to detect mrs. jackson and betty in a series of manoeuvres which were distinctly mysterious when taken into account with their earlier attitude. obviously, when he emerged from the depths of the tree-lined gill, and first caught sight of the house, mother and daughter had just quitted the front door, presumably after knocking, and failing to obtain an answer. betty ran out into the road, and gazed up towards the moor. apparently satisfied by her scrutiny of that bare upland she hurried to the rear of the premises, and reappeared, carrying a gardener's ladder, which she placed against the wall. giving a rapid glance in the direction of the village, she mounted the ladder. it was rather short, and she was in some danger of falling, but, by clinging to a creeper, she managed to reach a sufficient height that she could peer into the bedroom in which armathwaite had spread his belongings. she descended again swiftly, took away the ladder, and returned to her mother. both women eyed the upper windows anxiously, and, as the outcome of some talk, betty went to the gate a second time, and looked along the bold curve of the moorland road. she shook her head. her mother joined her, and the two went to their cottage. armathwaite smiled, and resolved to keep his knowledge of the jacksons' behavior to himself. he did not wish to quarrel with the women, who would be useful in many ways. in a day or two, when he had won their confidence, they would doubtless explain their queer proceedings; most likely, the explanation would prove so simple that it would never occur to a suspicious mind. having waited to fill his pipe, he entered the village, and walked up the narrow path to mrs. jackson's abode. he was met at the door by betty. she seemed to be rather alarmed by the visit, yet pleased to see him. "can we do anything for you, sir?" she said. "mother and i went to the house a while ago, but you were out." in the oblique yorkshire way she had partly told the reason of the visit. mrs. jackson, too, came and stood near her daughter, and it was curious to note the underlook of alarm, of poignant anxiety, in both faces. "i wish to make your acquaintance, and to inquire about milk, butter, and eggs," he said pleasantly. "mr. walker suggested that you might be willing to attend to household matters, and that would take a burden off my mind." "we'll be pleased to do it, and reasonable, too, sir," said mrs. jackson promptly. "very well. come and see me in the morning. meanwhile, can you arrange for a quart of milk, a pound of butter, and a few eggs to be sent in immediately?" "oh, yes, sir," said both together, and the expression of relief in the one face was mirrored in the other. "you'll be wanting something cooked now, sir?" went on the older woman, with a new cheerfulness of tone, and armathwaite would have been a far less capable student of human nature than he was had he failed to see that a much desired entry to the house was now regarded as an assured thing. suddenly he made up his mind to solve the enigma, whatever it might be, since the theory of a spare bed being in request did not seem to fit the case. "no," he said carelessly, treating the proposal as of slight import, one way or the other. "i wish to be alone this evening. but you can come in early to-morrow. isn't there a spare key?" "yes, sir," broke in the girl, for her mother was utterly nonplussed again. "it's on the bunch with the others." he produced the keys from his pocket, and saw that there were two alike. "one of these?" he inquired, meeting the girl's eyes in a steady glance. then he was sure of his ground. she was so excited that she could hardly answer. he gave her the key, ascertained that she would bring the milk and the rest in a few minutes, and left the two women staring after him. betty was as good as her word. she made no attempt to prolong her stay, but deposited her purchases on the hall-table, and promised that she or her mother would come about seven in the morning. "will you need to be called, sir?" she inquired, as an afterthought. "well, yes. i'm a sound sleeper," he assured her gravely. the statement was true, but it required qualification. a man who had slept many a night under conditions that demanded instant wakefulness if any sinister sound threatened his very existence, did not rank in the class of sound sleepers known to quiet elmdale. thereafter he cooked a meal of eggs and bacon, tea and toast, smoked, rambled in the garden, read, thought a good deal, and went to bed. the light in his room was extinguished soon after ten o'clock. about half-past eleven, little more than twelve hours from the time he had first heard of "the house 'round the corner," he was aroused by a loud crash in the hall. he was up in an instant, laughing at the success of a booby trap compacted of the burmese gong, some thread, and a piece of wood set as a trigger. his feet were not on the floor before the front door banged, and, hurrying to the window, he saw betty jackson flying down the path for dear life. he could not be mistaken. in that northern latitude a midsummer night is never wholly dark. he not only recognized the girl, but could note her heaving shoulders as she sobbed hysterically in her flight. "i'm sorry if you're badly scared, my country maid, but you asked for it," he said aloud. "now i think i'll be left to undisturbed slumber till seven o'clock." therein he erred. he had not quitted the window, being held by the solemn beauty of the gray landscape, ere a heavy thud, and then another, and yet a third, reached his ears. he might not have localized the first, but its successors came unmistakably from the attic. after a few seconds, the three knocks were repeated, and now he adjudged them to the precise bounds of the trap-door. slipping an automatic pistol into the pocket of his pyjama suit--merely as a precaution against the unforeseen, though he was a man devoid of fear, he took an electric torch from a drawer, but knew better than to bring it into use until its glare would disconcert others--not himself. he thrust his bare feet into slippers, unlocked the bedroom door, and passed out on to the landing. "now to unveil isis!" he thought, as he felt for the first step of the upward stairway. it needed one of steel nerve and fine courage to creep about a strange house in the dark--a house where ill deeds had been done, and in which their memories lurked--but robert armathwaite had gone through experiences which reduced the present adventure to the proportions of a somewhat startling prank, closely akin to the success of the stratagem which had routed betty jackson. and, as he mounted the stairs, keeping close to the wall, and thus preventing the old boards from creaking, again came those ominous knocks, louder, more insistent; but whether threatening or merely clamorous he could not decide--yet. chapter iii a midnight seance armathwaite had a foot on the upper landing when a stifled sob reached his ears, and a determined, almost angry, stamping or hammering shook the trap-door. one element, then, of the mystery attached to this reputedly ghost-ridden house was about to be dispelled. when james walker shot the bolt which rendered the door as unyielding as the stout rafters which incased it, he had unwittingly imprisoned someone in the attic loft; and the someone, tiring of imprisonment, was making loud demand for release. moreover, betty jackson was in the secret. she knew of the intruder's presence, but had not learnt the particular mode of concealment adopted--hence her renewed efforts to gain admission, her use of the ladder, and her somewhat daring visit during the dead hours of the night. now, armathwaite scouted the notion of a couple of village women like mrs. jackson and her daughter being in league with midnight robbers, or worse. even if some thievery was in prospect, they could not possibly have arranged that certain unknown miscreants should hide beneath the roof, since the arrival of walker with an unexpected tenant was evidently the last thing they had dreamed of. therefore, smiling at the humor of the incident, he had to simulate a sternness he was far from feeling when he cried: "stop making that noise! who are you, and how did you come to get yourself locked in in this way?" "please let me out!" came the muffled reply. "i'll explain everything--i will, indeed!" thereupon, armathwaite was more surprised than ever. the appeal, though tearful and husky, was precisely opposite in character to that which he anticipated. he looked for gruff entreaty in the accents of the country of broad acres. what he actually heard was a cultured voice, a voice with a singularly soft and musical enunciation, and its note was of complaint rather than petition. "all right!" he cried, hardly suppressing a laugh. "i'll bring a chair and draw the bolt. i suppose you can lower the ladder yourself?" "of course i can--i drew it up!" again, the answer did not fit in with the conditions. but armathwaite secured the same chair which walker had used, pressed the button of the electric torch, and, having forced the bolt out of its socket, raised the door a few inches. "catch hold!" he said. "i'll show you a light." the door was lifted, and he glimpsed a beardless face peering from the inner void. he sprang to the floor, put the chair on one side, and awaited developments. soon the ladder appeared, and was adjusted. then came two neat but strong brown brogues, with slim-ankled black stockings to match, and the turned-up ends of a pair of gray, flannel trousers. the owner of these articles of attire sat for an instant on the edge of the trap, as though reluctant to descend further, and armathwaite noticed, to his very great bewilderment, that the black stockings were of silk. "will you kindly promise not to grab my legs as i come down?" said the voice. "i have not the slightest desire to grab your legs, or your neck, for that matter, if you behave yourself," said armathwaite. "you don't understand, of course," came the curiously dignified protest; "but i am not misbehaving myself, and have no intention of so doing. this ridiculous thing would not have happened if that silly young fop had not fastened the trap-door. i can't imagine why he did it. it was no business of his, at any rate. and may i ask who _you_ are?" "i'll answer all polite inquiries, and, it may be, put a few on my own account, when you favor me with a closer view," said armathwaite, not without a tinge of sarcasm in his politeness. "oh, this is too stupid for words!" was the petulant reply, and the speaker swung into sight. the ladder was tilted steeply, and the steps were narrow. apparently, the young gentleman in a gray flannel suit who materialized in this manner preferred to gaze at his rescuer rather than adopt the safer method of descent which involved a momentary turning of his back. possibly, too, he was more nervous than his remarks betokened, for he was yet some distance from the floor when the lower-most foot slipped, and he fell. the toe of the other foot caught in a rung, and he was thrown violently into armathwaite's arms, who, to save him from pitching headlong downstairs, had to clutch him with some force, whereupon the torch dropped, and the two were enfolded by a pall of darkness that seemed to have an actual quality of tangibleness. "oh!" shrieked the youth, now thoroughly frightened, "please don't hurt me! i haven't done anything wrong. i haven't really!" armathwaite's senses were steeped in the very essence of wonderment; he knew now that he was clasping a woman to his breast, hugging her most energetically, too, and the knowledge was at once disconcerting and irritating. but he had acquired the faculty long ago of remaining impassive in circumstances calling for rigid self-control, so he merely said, with curt reassurance: "if you'll not make such a row, and stand still, i'll find that confounded torch and shed a light on the situation." he stooped, and groped on the floor, being aware that the girl was panting with ill-repressed alarm the while. luckily, his fingers soon closed on the nickel cylinder, and the almost overwhelming gloom was banished. "do you think you can manage to walk downstairs without stumbling, or shall i hold your arm?" he inquired, and the somewhat taunting question, no less than his obvious disregard of his companion's terror, supplied a needed tonic. "the ladder was steep and slippery," she said tremulously. "the stairs offer no difficulty, so i can dispense with your assistance, thanks." certainly this young person's way of expressing herself differed in every essential from her distinctly agitated state. she was not yet aware of the innate chivalry of the man in refraining from thrusting the torch close to her face and staring at her, but already her panic was subsiding, and she turned and hurried away so quickly that armathwaite thought she meant to escape. "just one moment!" he said, though not making the least effort to detain her otherwise. "are there any more of you up here?" his sheer unconcern could not fail to lessen her agitation still further, and she halted on the next landing. "what do you mean?" she cried. despite her qualms, she still maintained a curious attitude of defiance, as if she, and not the house's lawful tenant, had most cause to feel aggrieved. "exactly what i said. were you alone in that attic?" "of course i was. what a question!" "a natural one, from my point of view. i was sound asleep, when your ally, betty jackson, kicked up a din in the hall, and you began pounding on the trap-door." "poor betty! is she here? betty! betty!" leaning over the banisters, she peered into the blackness beneath. there was a glimmer of spectral light here, for a late-rising moon was adding to the silvery brightness of a perfect night, and some of its radiance was piercing the stained glass. armathwaite noted her action with increasing bewilderment. "betty fled as though she were pursued by seven devils," he said, when no other answer came to her cry. "i guessed at some mischief being afoot, so planned a surprise for anyone crossing the hall without my knowledge. no matter what her earlier opinions, betty believes in that ghost now." "ghost! what ghost? there is no ghost here. do you think to scare me with a bogey, like a naughty child?" they were descending the broad stairs of the lower flight together, and armathwaite had stolen one glance at the lissom young figure. he was minded to smile at a cunningly-hidden safety pin which kept a broad-brimmed fisherman's hat of heather mixture cloth in position so that the girl's hair was concealed. the coat hung rather loosely on slender shoulders, but the disguise was fairly effective in other respects, and the masquerader moved with an easy grace that betokened a good walker. "i have not occupied the house many hours, but i have come to the conclusion that it harbors certain strange fantasies," he said, taking the lead, and stopping to break a thread stretched across the foot of the stairs. "we'll find a lamp and matches in the dining-room," he added. "suppose we go there and discuss matters?" "isn't it rather late? whatever time is it?" was the hesitating comment. "and aren't you rather hungry?" he replied, ignoring both questions. "i'm simply ravenous. i haven't eaten a morsel since six o'clock this morning." "i can offer you bread and butter and milk. shall i boil you some eggs?" "if you mention food again, i shall drop. please, what time is it?" "nearly midnight." "oh, i must be going! i must, really. the jacksons will find me something to eat." "you're going into that room, and, unless i have your promise to remain there, you'll accompany me to the kitchen. which is it to be--a comfortable chair, with a lamp, or a compulsory prowl through kitchen and larder?" "i'll sit down, please," came the slow admission. "i'm very tired, and rather done up. i walked miles and miles this morning, and the long hours up there in the dark were horrid." without another word armathwaite threw open the dining-room door, and lighted the lamp which he had left on the table. the girl sank wearily into an arm-chair; her action was a tacit acceptance of his terms. somehow, he was convinced that she would not take advantage of his absence and slip out through the front door, which betty jackson had assuredly not waited to lock. among the kitchen utensils he had found a small oil-stove in working order. in a surprisingly short time, therefore, he was back in the dining-room with a laden tray. "do you like your eggs soft-boiled, medium, or hard?" he inquired, treating an extraordinary episode with a nonchalance which betokened either a temperament wholly devoid of emotion or a career crowded with uncommon experiences. "need i eat eggs at all?" said the girl. "i'm sure, mrs. jackson----" "do you want to rouse the village?" "no; anything but that." "then i must point out that the one cottage in elmdale whose inmates will be deaf and dumb at this moment is mrs. jackson's. both mother and daughter are quaking because of the possible consequences of an attempt to enter this house at an hour which no person could choose for a legitimate purpose. eat and drink, therefore. we'll deal with the jacksons subsequently. no, don't begin by a long draught of milk. it is tempting, but harmful if taken in that way. try some bread and butter. now, two eggs. oh, dash it! i've forgotten an egg-spoon, and i don't know where such things are kept. i'll go and hunt for them." "don't trouble. lend me that electric lamp--how useful it is!--and i'll bring one in a minute." by this time armathwaite had seen that his captive was a remarkably pretty girl. male attire supplies the severest test of feminine beauty, since form and feature are deprived of adventitious aids; but a small, oval face, two pouting lips, a finely-modeled nose, brilliant brown eyes, swept by long curved lashes, and a smooth forehead, rising above arched and well-marked eyebrows, needed no art of milliner or dressmaker to enhance their charms. she was fairly tall, too--though dwarfed by armathwaite's six feet and an inch of height in his slippered feet--and admirably proportioned, if slender and lithe. evidently, she thought he had not penetrated her disguise, and was momentarily becoming more self-possessed. again, she had some explanation of her presence in the house which could not fail of acceptance, and did not scruple, therefore, to display a close acquaintance with its arrangements denied to one who admittedly had taken up his abode there only that day. the man listened to her quick, confident steps going to the kitchen, heard the rattle of a drawer in an antique dresser which stood there, and, with an emphatic gesture, seemed to appeal to the gods ere he bent over the stove to see if the water was yet a-boil. the girl might be hungry, but feminine curiosity proved stronger than the urgent claims of an empty stomach. she went into the larder, and undoubtedly eyed the new tenant's stores. she implied as much when she re-entered the dining-room. "boiled eggs require pepper and salt," she explained. "you've got so many little paper bags that i didn't dare rummage among them, so i've secured a cruet which was left here when my--when the people who used to live here went away. the salt may be a bit damp, but the pepper should be all right." without more ado she tackled a slice of bread, breaking it into small pieces, and buttering each piece separately before munching it. "some wise person said in a newspaper the other day that one ought to give every mouthful of bread three hundred bites," she went on. "i wonder if he ever fasted eighteen hours before practicing his own precept. i'm afraid i wouldn't believe him if he said he did." "people who study their digestion generally die young," said armathwaite drily. "oh, i don't agree with you in that," she retorted. "my dad is great on food theories. he knows all about proteins and carbohydrates; he can tell you to a fourth decimal the caloric value of an egg; and _he's_ a phenomenally healthy person. by the way, how are those eggs coming on?" "try this one. i think the water has been boiling three minutes!" armathwaite spoke calmly enough, but a stoutly-built edifice of circumstantial evidence had just crumbled in ruins about his ears. he was persuaded that, for some reason best known to herself, miss marguérite garth had adopted this freakish method of revisiting her old home. such a thesis made all things plausible. it explained her singularly self-contained pose, her knowledge of the house's contents, her wish to remain hidden from prying eyes, and, last but not least, it brought the peculiar conduct of the jackson family into a commonplace category, for the two women would be governed by a clannish feeling which is almost as powerful in rural yorkshire as in scotland. a girl who had lived nearly all her life in the village would be looked on as a native. she might appeal confidently for their help and connivance in such a matter. but this girl's father was alive, and marguérite garth's father had been in a suicide's grave two years. who, then, was the audacious young lady now assuring him that he could boil eggs admirably? he was puzzled anew, almost piqued, because he flattered himself on a faculty for guessing accurately at the contents of a good many closed pages in a human document after a glance at the outer cover and its endorsement. he was spurred to fresh endeavor. he wanted to solve this riddle before its baffling intricacies were made plain by the all-satisfying statement which his companion obviously had it in mind to give. "won't you remove your hat?" he said, thinking to perplex her by a mischievous request. "no, thanks," she said blithely. "i'll just demolish this second egg. then i'll tell you why i am here, and awaken mrs. jackson, no matter what her neighbors may think. but, why wait? i can eat and talk--put the facts in an eggshell, so to speak. my relatives own this house. mr. garth has long wanted a few books and knick-knacks, and i've come to get them. some are collected already on the library table; the remainder i'll gather in the morning, with your permission. but i don't wish my visit to be known to others than mrs. jackson and betty, and that is why i retreated to the loft when you and mr. walker arrived. it was a bother that anyone should select this day in particular to visit the property; but i imagined you would go away in an hour or so. even when that vain young person, james walker, locked me in, i believed betty would come and release me after your departure. besides, i wouldn't for worlds have let walker see me. i--er--dislike him too much." armathwaite allowed to pass without comment her real motive for refusing to meet sharp-eyed james walker; but again the problem of her identity called insistently for solution. if she was not marguérite garth, who on earth was she? "let me understand," he began. "the owner, and former occupant, of this house, was mr. stephen garth?" "is," she corrected. "it remains his property, though he is living elsewhere." armathwaite so far forgot himself as to whistle softly between his teeth. and, indeed, such momentary impoliteness might be excused by his bewilderment. if stephen garth, who had owned and occupied the grange, was still living, who was the man whose ghost had excited elmdale, and driven back to prosaic sheffield a certain mrs. wilkins, of nervous disposition and excitable habit? "ah!" he said judicially. "messrs. walker & son, of nuttonby, are his agents and messrs. holloway & dobb, also of nuttonby, his solicitors?" "i suppose so," said the girl, deep in the second egg. "but i understood that mr. stephen garth had only one child, a daughter." "isn't he allowed to have a nephew, or an assorted lot of cousins?" "such contingencies are permissible, but they don't meet the present case." "why not?" "because, my dear young lady, anyone with half an eye in their head could see that you are a girl masquerading in a man's clothes. now, who are you? i am entitled to ask. i have certain legal rights as the tenant of this house during the forthcoming three months, and as you have broken the law in more ways than you imagine, perhaps, i want to be enlightened before i condone your various offenses." the girl was holding a glass of milk to her lips, and drank slowly until the glass was emptied; but her eyes met armathwaite's over the rim, and they were dilated with apprehension, for a heedless prank was spreading into realms she had never dreamed of. "does it really matter who i am?" she managed to say quietly, though there was a pitiful flutter in her voice, and the hand which replaced the tumbler on the table shook perceptibly. "yes, it matters a great deal," he said. with a generosity that was now beginning to dawn on her, he averted his gaze, and scrutinized a colored print on the wall. "but why?" she persisted. "because i am convinced that you are mr. stephen garth's daughter." she drew a deep breath, and he was aware instantly that she was hovering on the verge of candid confession. she moved uneasily, propped her elbows on the table, and concealed some part of her features by placing her clenched fists against her cheeks. "well, what if i am?" she said at last, with a touch of the earlier defiance in her voice. "are you? please answer outright." "yes." "and your father is alive?" "of course he is!" "mother, too?" "yes." "do they know you are here?" "no. for some reason, they have taken a dislike to elmdale, and hardly ever mention it, or the grange, for that matter. yet my poor old dad is such a creature of habit that he is always missing something--a book, a favorite picture, a bit of china, and i schemed to come here, pack a few of the articles he most values, and have them sent to our cottage in cornwall. once they're there, they couldn't very well be sent back, could they? but as my people have forbidden me ever to speak of or come near elmdale, i didn't quite know how to manage it, until i hit on the notion of impersonating percy whittaker, the brother of a friend with whom i have been staying in cheshire. percy would do anything for me, but there was no sense in sending him, was there? he would be sure to bungle things awfully, so i borrowed his togs, and traveled all night to a station on the other side of the moor--and nobody--thought--i was--a girl--except you--and betty, of course. she--knew me--at once." "for goodness' sake, don't cry. i believe you--every word. but did you travel from cheshire in that rig-out?" "no, oh, no! i wore a mackintosh, and a lady's hat. they're hanging in the hall. i took them off while crossing the moor." "a mackintosh!" "yes. don't be horrid! i turned up my trousers, of course." "i'm not being horrid. i want to help you. you walked--how many miles?" "fourteen." "and breakfasted at york?" "yes. you see, betty would have brought me some lunch. then _you_ came." "the bedroom was prepared for your use, then?" "yes. it's my room, really. dad likes to sleep with his head to the west, and that is where the door is in that room." "poor girl! i would have given a good deal that this thing should not have happened. but we must make the best of a bad job. now, i hope you'll accept my advice. let me go upstairs and remove the clothes i shall need in the morning. then you retire there, lock the door, and sleep well till betty comes." "oh, i can't! you are very kind, but i _must_ go to mrs. jackson now." she had blushed and paled in alternate seconds. half rising, she sank back into the chair again; though the table was between them, the wearing of a boy's clothes was not quite so easy a matter as it had seemed earlier. the one thing she did not guess was that this serious-faced man was far more troubled by thoughts of a reputed ghost than by an escapade which now loomed large in her mind. "i'm half inclined to make you obey me," he said angrily, gazing at her now with fixed and troubled eyes. "but you've been so good and kind," she almost sobbed. "why should you be vexed with me now? i've told you the truth, i have, indeed." "that is precisely the reason why i am sure you ought not to risk arousing the village to-night." "but i won't. i'll tap at the window. betty knows i'm here, somewhere, and she'll let me in at once." armathwaite was at his wits end to decide on the sanest course. a man less versed than he in the complexities of life would have counseled her retreat to the cottage as the only practicable means of escape from a position bristling with difficulties; but some subtle and intuitive sense warned him that marguérite garth should, if possible, leave elmdale without the knowledge which credited that house with a veritable ghost. "it's long after midnight," he persisted. "i'll have a snooze in a chair, and meet betty jackson before you show up. you can trust me absolutely to explain things to her." "you forget that she is worrying dreadfully about me. please let me go!" "very well," he said, driven to the half measures he had learnt to detest. "promise me this--that you'll go straight to bed, and come here for breakfast without any conversation with the jacksons." the girl showed her relief, not unmixed with surprise at a strangely-worded stipulation. "i'll do that," she said, after a little pause. "mind you--no talk. just 'good-night, i'm dead tired,' and that sort of thing." "yes," she agreed again, wonderingly. "and the same in the morning?" "i'll do my best." "off with you, then! i'll come to the door, and stand there, in case you're challenged by anybody." "there's little fear of that in elmdale at this hour," she said, with a new cheerfulness. he turned, ostensibly to pick up the electric torch. she was out in the hall instantly; when he rejoined her she was wearing the mackintosh. "good-night!" she said. "next to dad, you're the nicest man i've ever met, and i don't even know your name." "i'll introduce myself at breakfast," he growled, extinguishing the torch as he opened the door. he watched her swift run down the curving path to the gate, and heard her footsteps as she hurried into the village street. the night was so still that he knew when she turned into the front garden of the cottage, and he caught the tapping on a window, which, beginning timidly, soon grew more emphatic, perhaps more desperate. some minutes passed. he could see the back of the cottage, and no gleam of light shone in any of its tiny windows. then followed some decided thumping on a door, but the tenement might have been an empty barn for all the response that was forthcoming. finally, he was aware of slow feet climbing dejectedly up the hill, and the garden gate creaked. "i can't make anybody hear," wailed a tearful voice. armathwaite was even more surprised than the girl at this dramatic verification of his prophecy, but he availed himself of it as unscrupulously as any delphic oracle. "i told you so," he said. "now, come in and go to bed!" chapter iv showing how explanations do not always explain though weary and distrait, marguérite garth was of too frank a disposition to allow such an extraordinary incident to pass without comment. she halted in the porch by armathwaite's side, and gazed blankly at the silent cottage. "you spoke of a ghost," she murmured brokenly. "i'm beginning to think myself that i am bewitched. what can have happened? why won't betty or her mother let me in?" "i'll have much pleasure in clearing up that trivial mystery about eight o'clock in the morning," he said with due gravity, fearing lest any attempt to relieve the situation by a joke might have the disastrous effect often achieved by a would-be humorist when a perplexed woman on the verge of tears is the subject of his wit. "now, if you'll wait in the dining-room till i collect my garments, you'll be in bed and asleep within five minutes." he gave her no further opportunity for argument or protestation. closing and locking the door, he left the key in the lock, whereas, by virtue of the arrangement with betty jackson, it had reposed previously on the hall-table. in a few seconds he bustled in with an armful of clothes and a pair of boots. handing over the torch, he said cheerfully: "now, leave everything to me, and you'll be astonished to find how all your woes will vanish by daylight. good-night, and sleep well!" then the girl did a strange thing. she held the torch close to his face, and looked at him unflinchingly. "i am very fortunate in having met a man like you," she said, and, without another word, turned and mounted the stairs. he waited until the bedroom door closed, and listened for the click of a lock, but listened in vain. "it would appear that i'm still able to win the confidence of children and dogs," he muttered, smiling grimly. then he made a pillow of his clothes on a couch beneath the window, and, such was the force of habit, was asleep quite soon. a glint of sunlight reflected from the glass in a picture woke him at four o'clock. after glancing at his watch, he slept again, and was aroused the next time by the crunch of feet on the graveled path outside. he was at the door while betty jackson was yet trying to insert the key which she had withdrawn and pocketed overnight. he admitted her, and said good-humoredly: "i came downstairs when you ran away from a goblin gong, leaving the door unlocked. i don't suppose we are in danger of burglary in elmdale, but it is customary to take reasonable precautions." betty, who was carrying a jug of milk, flushed till her cheeks resembled a ripe russet apple. denial was useless, but she tried to wriggle. "i didn't mean any harm, sir," she said. "i only wanted to have a look around. the house is so upset." "put that milk on the dining-room table," he said. she obeyed, glad that a dreaded ordeal seemed to have ended ere it had well begun. armathwaite followed, and closed the dining-room door. what he really feared was that she might drop the jug, and that the resultant crash would awaken his guest before betty and he had engaged in a heart-to-heart talk. "now," he said, raising the blind, and flooding the room with clear morning light, "i take you for a sensible girl, betty." "i hope i am, sir," she answered shyly. "have you quite recovered from your fright?" "yes, sir." she reddened again, thinking she knew what was coming. she could have dealt with walker, but glib pertness would not avail when this tall stranger's eyes were piercing her very soul. nevertheless, his tone was gentle and reassuring--at first. "i was ignorant of the real facts, you see, so i had to defend myself," he said. "i know the truth now. miss garth is upstairs and asleep. she heard the commotion caused by the gong, and could not endure the strain and loneliness of that dark garret any longer--" "was miss meg there--in the loft?" cried betty, blurting out the first vague thought that occurred to her bemused brain, because those words, "miss garth is upstairs and asleep," swamped her understanding with a veritable torrent of significance. "yes. she hid there when mr. walker and i entered the house, and, by the merest chance, she was fastened in. she remained there twelve hours." "oh, poor thing! she'd be nearly clemmed to death." in yorkshire, "clemmed" means "starved," and "starved" means "perished with cold." armathwaite could follow many of the vernacular phrases, and this one did not bother him. "she was hungry, without doubt," he said, "but i did not send her supperless to bed. now, i have various questions to put before you go to her room, and i want straightforward, honest answers. if i am told the truth, i shall know how to act for the best in miss garth's interests; and that is what _you_ wish, i suppose?" "oh, yes, sir! i'm sure none of us had any notion of doing wrong." "don't speak so loudly. i want no explanations of your behavior yesterday. it would have been wise had you trusted in me at once, but that was hardly to be expected, seeing that i was a man fallen from the moon.... why didn't you let miss garth enter when she knocked at your window and the door last night?" the girl's eyes opened wide in sheer distress. "oh, sir!" she almost whispered; "what time did she come?" "about midnight." "there now! i half fancied that such a thing might happen. when i ran home, sir, i was fair scairt, because there _has_ been talk of a ghost, and i wasn't too keen about coming in here in the dark. but mother was worried, and wouldn't go to bed. she would have it that miss meg had got clear of the house, and was hiding in a shed at the top of the lane. so, after a lot of talk, mother and i went there together. there was a light in the dining-room as we passed, but it had gone out when we came back." "solvitur ambulando," muttered the man, smiling at the simple solution of an occurrence which had puzzled him greatly at the time. "what's that, sir?" demanded betty. "sorry. i was thinking aloud--a bad habit. those two latin words mean that your walk to the shed disposes of a difficulty. now for the next item, betty. miss meg, as you call her, is the young lady who lived here a good many years?" "she was born here, sir. she and i are nearly of an age--twenty-two, each of us." "and her father was mr. stephen garth?" "yes, sir." "but isn't he dead?" "oh, yes, sir! dead and buried two years this very month." "are you sure?" "yes, sir. mother was the first who saw his dead body. she was nearly frightened into a fit." "tell me the exact facts." "well, sir, mrs. garth and miss meg went away, all of a sudden. there was no quarrel that we know of, and mr. garth himself helped a man to carry out their boxes. they kissed on parting at the gate. i myself heard him saying that he would join them as soon as he had finished some book he was busy with. he was a great man for writing and studying, and he'd walk ten miles to get some granny's tale about dales ways, and the things people used to do in the old times. but no sooner had they left him than he changed. we all noticed it. he paid off the gardener, and dismissed two maids, and lived here alone. that didn't last long. i used to bring eggs and milk and things, and he'd take them in at the door. he'd talk pleasantly enough, but he looked awful worried. then, one morning, i couldn't make anybody hear, and i thought he had gone out early. about seven o'clock that evening mother went and knocked, but there was no answer. next morning it was the same; but when mother and i tried again in the evening, we noticed that the curtain, which can be drawn across the glass top of the door, had been pulled aside. at the inquest they wanted to know if it had been in the same position when we were there before, but we couldn't be certain, though we thought it must have been drawn. anyhow, mother looked in, and ran away screaming, and i ran after her, not knowing why. in a minute or two she was able to speak, and said she had seen mr. garth hanging near the clock. some men went, and they saw him clearly, and one of them, mr. benson, rode to bellerby for the policeman. he came in about an hour, and broke open the door, and cut poor mr. garth down. he had been dead a long time, the doctor said, and the worst thing was that nobody could find mrs. garth and miss meg. not that any blame could be laid to them, because mr. garth himself said so in a letter addressed 'to the coroner,' which was laid at the foot of the clock. we have a weekly paper in the cottage, sir, and you can see the whole account there." "get that paper, and give it to me privately sometime to-day," said armathwaite. "meanwhile, your story is ample for my present purpose. were you surprised at seeing miss garth yesterday?" "sir, you could have knocked me down with a feather. and she in a man's clothes, and all. she came over the moor about ten o'clock--" "never mind the details now. did she speak of her father?" "in a sort of a way, sir." "did she give you the impression that he was still living?" "now that you mention it, sir, she did, but i couldn't quite understand what she said, and thought, for sure, i was mistaken. it wasn't the kind of thing one might ask questions about--was it, sir?" "no, indeed. knowing he had committed suicide, you didn't like to hurt her feelings?" "that's it, sir, exactly." "you hadn't much talk, i take it?" "no, sir. she was all of a shake with excitement, and wanted to be let into the house before anyone else in the village could see her. i was to leave her alone till one o'clock, she said. then i was to bring her something to eat, and we'd have a long chat. and that's the last i've seen of her, sir." it has been noted that armathwaite was no lover of the middle way in dealing with the hazards of existence. in fact, strength of will and inflexibility of purpose had already driven him from place and power to the haven of retirement, which he imagined he would find in elmdale. he had made up his mind overnight as to the handling of the problem set by marguérite garth's presence in her father's house, and he saw no reason now why he should depart from the decision reached then. "you've been very candid, betty jackson," he said, looking steadily into the girl's wondering eyes, "and i mean to be equally outspoken with you. for some cause, which i cannot fathom, and may never inquire into, miss garth is not only unaware of any recent death in her family, but is convinced that her father is alive and well. there is a flaw in the argument somewhere, but it is hardly my business, nor yours, to discover the weak spot. now, i propose that we let the young lady leave elmdale as happy in her belief, or her ignorance, as she entered it. in plain english, i suggest that neither you, nor i, nor your mother, say one syllable about the suicide of mr. stephen garth. if his daughter believes he is living, we should be hard put to it to convince her that he is dead." "he _is_ dead, sir. i saw him in his coffin," said betty earnestly. "i am not disputing your statement. my sole consideration, at this moment, is the happiness of the girl now lying asleep upstairs. suppose, within the next hour or two, she says something about the surprise her father will receive when he sees some of the books and other articles she means to send to her present home, are you going to tell her that she is utterly mistaken--that mr. garth has been dead and buried--that she is talking like a lunatic?" "oh, no, sir! i wouldn't dream of speaking that way to miss meg." "but don't you see, it has to be either one thing or the other. either you accept her view that her father is alive, or you are constantly acting in a way that must arouse her suspicions. and, if once she begins to question you, what will happen then? you'll be in a ten times more difficult position than if you convince yourself, for the time being, that you were dreaming when you saw some man in a coffin." "but i wasn't," persisted betty. "why, sir, the whole village knows----" "i'm not doubting your word in the least. the point at issue is this--do you mean to perplex and worry miss meg by informing her that her father hanged himself in the hall of this very house two years ago?" "no, sir. that i don't." "you promise that?" "oh, yes, sir." "i'm glad you've come to my way of thinking. miss garth will leave here to-day, or to-morrow, at the latest. till then, you must keep guard over your tongue. go now, and tell your mother what i have told you. make her understand the facts most clearly. if she agrees to help you and me in this matter, she is to come here and take up a housekeeper's duties. i'll pay her and you well for your services, but my instructions must be carried out to the letter. if she refuses, or feels unable, to obey my wishes in this matter, she is not to cross the threshold. do you understand that fully?" armathwaite could be tersely emphatic in speech and manner when he chose. he had taken betty jackson into his confidence, but he had also expressed his intentions in a way that left her in no doubt as to the result if any lack of discretion on her part, or her mother's, led to a crisis. he had gauged the situation to a nicety. mrs. jackson and her daughter were well disposed towards marguérite garth, but there was no harm in stilling their tongues through the forceful medium of self-interest. when the two came back together within a few minutes he knew that he had swept immediate obstacles from the path. mrs. jackson was a shrewd yorkshire woman, and needed no blare of trumpets to inform her on which side her bread was buttered. "good morning, sir," she cried cheerfully. "betty has told me what you said, and i think you're quite right. what time do you want breakfast, and what'll you have cooked?" armathwaite nodded his satisfaction. "we three will get along famously," he laughed. "now, betty, put some water in one of the bedrooms, and, when you call miss garth, get my dressing-case, which is on the table, and bring it to me. she will answer your mother's questions about breakfast. any hour that suits her will suit me. and let us all look as pleasant as though there wasn't such a thing as a ghost within a thousand miles of elmdale." the chance phrase reminded him of the elder walker's words: "elmdale is eight miles from nuttonby, and thousands from every other town." yet, remote as was this moor-edge hamlet, a sordid tragedy had been enacted there. someone had died in that house under circumstances which called imperatively for a most searching inquiry. a daylight phantom had replaced the grim specter which credulous villagers were wont to see on a summer's eve. was it his business to exorcise the evil spirit? he did not know. he closed his eyes resolutely to that side of the difficulty. marguérite garth must be sent on her way first; then he would make a guarded investigation into the history of the man whom mrs. jackson had seen "hanging near the clock." when summoned to the dining-room he received a shock. man-like, he had pictured his unbidden guest as he had seen her the previous night. now he was greeted by a smiling and prepossessed young lady, who had extracted a muslin gown from the stock in the wardrobe, and whose piquant face was crowned by a wealth of brown hair. the presence of woman's chief adornment naturally enhanced the girl's remarkable beauty. in defiance, too, of certain modern laws of hygiene--or perhaps because she couldn't help it, being built that way--she had a very slim waist. last night she would have passed in a crowd for a boy of slender physique; this morning she was adorably feminine. during fifteen years of strenuous work in the east, armathwaite had never given a thought to the opposite sex. he had seen little of his country-women, for the indian frontier is not a haven for married officers, and he personally would have regarded a wife as a positive hindrance to his work; so it was a singular fact that his first reflection now should be that a certain percy whittaker, whom, in all probability, he would never set eyes on, was a person to be envied. he almost scowled at the absurdity of the notion, and the girl, extending her hand, caught the fleeting expression. "aren't you pleased to see me?" she cried. "i made sure you were aching for my appearance. betty tells me you were up and about before she arrived, and i have been an unconscionable time dressing; you must be pining for breakfast." "you shall not rob me of a chance of saying that i am glad to see you by that unnecessary tag about breakfast," he said. "but isn't it an awful bore to find you have a girl lodger? poor man! you hire a house in the country for a fishing holiday, and fate condemns you to play host!" "be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares," he quoted. "is that from proverbs?" "no. it occurs in a certain epistle to the hebrews." she knitted her brows. "i thought so," she said. "i'm rather good at proverbs, and i don't remember that one. if you meant to give me a nasty knock you might have reminded me that it is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top than with a brawling woman in a wide house.... do you like coffee, or tea?" "both." "mixed? mrs. jackson didn't know your tastes, so i told her to be extravagant." "i'll try the coffee, please." it was an odd sensation to find himself seated at table with such a vivacious companion. marguérite garth had evidently banished her overnight experiences into the limbo of yesterday's seven thousand years. she could not have smiled more gayly, or been more at ease with a friend of long standing. "betty and i have been exchanging impressions about you," she rattled on. "we agree that you're not half so severe as you look. but i'm not such a marvelous guesser as you are, so, will you tell me what i'm to call you?" "bob." "mr. bob?" "i don't mean that my name rhymes with lobb, or dobb or hobb. bob is a diminutive of robert." "but robert what?" "no, just bob." "don't be silly. you must have another name." "the name on mr. walker's register is such a mouthful--armathwaite, if you _will_ have it." "what a queer way to put it! 'on mr. walker's register.' isn't it your real name?" "there! i was sure you would say that. why not be content with blunt and honest-sounding bob?" "shall we establish a sort of cousinship? you're bob and i'm meg." "that would be a most excellent beginning, meg." she laughed delightedly. "we're having quite an adventure!" she cried. "it sounds like a chapter out of an exciting novel. i hope you didn't think i was rude about your other name--the long one--bob! you see, i used to be meg garth, but now i'm meg ogilvey. i'm hardly accustomed to the ogilvey yet, but i rather like it. don't you?" armathwaite's face darkened, and he swallowed a piece of bacon without giving it even one of the twenty-nine bites recommended by dietists as a minimum. "why, that makes you look at me black as thunder," she vowed. "it's a quite simple matter. my people came into some money when we left elmdale, and the ogilvey was part of the legacy. it reaches us from the maternal side of the family, and the change was easy enough for dad, because he always wrote under the pen-name of stephen ogilvey." "stephen ogilvey--the man who is an authority on folk-lore?" the genuine surprise in his voice evidently pleased his hearer. "yes. how thrilling that you should recognize him! that is real fame, isn't it?--to be regarded as top-dog in your particular line. but you seemed to be angry when i told you about it." "i thought you were married," he said, secretly quaking at his own temerity. again she knitted her brows in a rather fascinating effort to appear sagacious. "i don't quite see----" she began. then she stopped suddenly. "you think that if i were married i wouldn't be quite such a tom-boy--is that it?" she went on. "no. you've failed so badly in your interpretation of my thought that i dare hardly tell you its true meaning." "please do. i hate to misunderstand people." "well, i'll try and explain. you have not forgotten, i hope, that i have already described you as an angel?" "your quotation wasn't a bit more applicable than mine." "be that as it may, i cannot imagine an angel married. can you?" "good gracious! am i to remain single all my life?" "who am i that i should choose between an angel and meg ogilvey?" "i wouldn't limit your choice so narrowly," she said, eluding his point with ease. "besides, i've been expecting every minute to hear that there is a mrs. armathwaite." "there isn't!" "i'm sorry. i wish there was, and that she was here now. then, if she was nice, and you wouldn't have married her if she wasn't, she would ask me to stay a few days. and i would say 'yes, please.' as it is, i must hurry over my packing, and take myself back to cheshire." "yes," said he, compelling the words. "there is no doubt about that. you cannot remain here." "well, you needn't hammer in the fact that you'll be glad to be rid of me. have some more coffee?" a heavy step sounded on the path without. the girl, who was seated with her back to the window, turned and looked out. "here's tom bland, the nuttonby carrier," she cried excitedly, smiling and nodding at some person visible only to herself. "dear old tom! won't he be surprised at seeing me!" armathwaite's wandering wits were suddenly and sharply recalled to the extraordinary situation confronting him. "you don't mean that some local man has recognized you?" he growled, and the note of real annoyance in his voice brought a wondering glance from the girl. "we gazed straight at one another, at any rate," she said, with a perceptible stiffening of manner. "considering that tom knows me as well as i know him, it would be stupid to pretend that neither of us knows the other. it would be useless where tom is concerned, at any rate. he grinned all over his face, so i may as well go to the door and have a word with him." "you'll do nothing of the sort," said armathwaite, springing to his feet, and upsetting a plate in his hurry. "if tom bland says he has seen you here, i'll tell him he's several varieties of a liar. at this moment marguérite garth simply doesn't exist. she's a myth. the lady in this room is meg ogilvey, whom tom bland has never heard of before. now, understand, that i forbid you to move or show your face again at the window." "oh, my!" pouted the girl, making believe to be very much afraid of him. that was the hardest part of the task confronting the grange's latest tenant. he could awe and keep in check ten thousand turbulent and fanatical pathans for many a year, but a clear-eyed english girl of twenty-two refused to be either awe-stricken or kept in restraint for as many minutes. yet he must bend her to his will, for her own sake. he must force her away from elmdale, from the hourly possibility of some ghastly revelation which would darken and embitter her life. the undertaking would go against the grain, but he dared not shirk it, and, once his mind was made up, he was not one whose resolution faltered. chapter v gathering clouds the nuttonby carrier took the new tenant of the grange into his circle of acquaintances with the ready camaraderie of his class. "fine morning, sir," said he. "an excellent morning," said armathwaite. "have you brought my boxes?" "yes, sir. they be rare an' heavy, an' all." "you and i can manage them between us, i have no doubt," and armathwaite led the way to the gate. as they passed the dining-room, bland stared candidly through the window, but the girl was not visible. "i didn't reckon on seein' miss meg to-day, sir," he said. "miss meg? who's miss meg?" smiled the other. "why, poor mr. garth's lass, to be sure." "ah! my cousin thought you were under the impression that you recognized her. but you are mistaken. the lady you saw is miss marguérite ogilvey." "is she now? well, that takes it! i could ha' sworn--miss who, sir?" armathwaite repeated the name, and tom bland scratched his head. he was elderly, and weather-tanned as the nuttonby porter, but his occupation had quickened his wits; there are times when one should not reiterate an opinion. "you'll not have tried the beck yet, sir?" he said, twisting the conversation rather obviously. "i had a turn in the swale meself last evenin'--this water runs into it, ye ken, an' the troot were risin' fine." "what flies did you use?" "two march browns an' a black gnat. there's nowt like a march brown, to my thinkin'." "can you tell me who owns the land in that direction?" and armathwaite pointed to the wooded gill which cut into the moorland to the eastward. bland gave some names, which armathwaite entered in a notebook. he was wondering whether or not he should ask the man not to mention that he had seen a second occupant of the house, but decided that gossip would be stilled more quickly if the topic were left severely alone. he knew that walker had told the carrier certain facts about himself. possibly there would be some talk when next the two met, but, by that time, the grange would have lost its highly interesting visitor, and armathwaite smiled at the notion of the dapper young auctioneer trying to extract information from him. the boxes, too, permitted of no waste of breath. when the third was dumped in the hall bland was gasping, and armathwaite's rather sallow face wore a heightened color. "that was a stiff haul for your horse. how much?" said the owner of these solid trunks. "it's eight miles----" began bland. despite a fixed tariff he could not forego an opportunity for bargaining, and yorkshire will never give a direct answer if it can be avoided. "sixteen, really," broke in armathwaite. "will sixteen shillings meet the case?" but bland drew the line at downright extortion. "nay, nay!" he said. "i had a few calls on the way, an' there's some empties to go back from the fox and hounds. take off the six, sir, an' i'll be very content." armathwaite paid him and added a florin "for a drink." as it happened, betty jackson crossed the hall, and nodded a greeting. this was fortunate. the girl's presence lent a needed touch of domesticity. "ye'll hae gotten betty an' her mother to do for you?" commented the carrier. "yes. i was lucky to find them available." "ay, they're all right. they'll mak' ye comfortable. they will, an' all. i've known mrs. jackson these fot-ty year. good mornin', sir. if you want owt frae nuttonby just tell the postman. i come this way tuesdays, thursdays an' saturdays." with the departure of the carrier armathwaite fancied that the irksomeness of life would lessen. the "cousin" of recent adoption had evidently withdrawn to the farther part of the dining-room, because bland, despite many attempts, had not set eyes on her again. she, of course, was aware when he mounted into the cart and rumbled out of sight around the corner of the cottage. she came out. armathwaite was unstrapping the boxes. one was already open, revealing books in layers. "sorry i'm such a nuisance," she said quietly. "of course, it was thoughtless of me to nod to tom bland, but he took me by surprise. naturally, you don't wish people to know i am in elmdale. will you confer one last favor? take your rods and pannier, and go for a couple of hours' fishing. i shall scoot before you return. i'll select the few things i require, and betty will pack them, and hand them over to bland on saturday." he was on his knees and looked up at her. "by 'scooting' do you mean that you are going to walk across that moor again?" he demanded. "yes." "if that is the only possible way of escape, i'll go with you." "walk twenty-eight miles? ridiculous!" "you're not going alone." "i am." this with a little stamp of one of the brown brogues, mighty fetching. "i shall not force my company on you, if that is what you fear." "but how absurd! do you intend following me?" "yes--until you are within easy range of the railway." "mr. armathwaite, i'm perfectly well able to take care of myself." "i'm sure of it, meg. but a cousin should be cousinly. our relationship will not be close. say, a distance of two hundred yards." he smiled into her eyes; his stern face softened wonderfully when he smiled. "i couldn't think of permitting it," she pouted, eyeing him with a new interest. he sat back on his heels, and affected a resigned attitude. "let's argue the point for two hours," he said. "i can't go fishing, because i shall be trespassing until i have acquired some rights. moreover, nothing short of violence will stop me from escorting you over the moor. in this weather, moors contain tramps." "i know. i met two yesterday." "did they speak to you?" "one did. i didn't mind him. the second one turned and looked. i was ready to run, but he only stared." "may i ask what costume you intend wearing for to-day's outing?" "i haven't quite decided. it may be a blue shantung or a white piqué, but it won't be gray flannel, if that's what you're hinting at." he rose, and felt in his pockets. "i think we can get through those two hours comfortably. may i smoke?" he said. "yes, please do. then you won't be so grumpy. walk twenty-eight miles on my account! the idea!" "i've walked forty before to-day, and stood a very reasonable chance of being potted every inch of the way. you won't fire at me, at any rate, so twenty-eight is a mere stroll. in fact, if you are gracious, it can be a pleasant one, too." "potted! were you in the army?" "no. soldiers like that sort of thing! i didn't so i gave it up. sure you don't mind a pipe?" "i love it. i often fill and light dad's for him when he's busy. you ought to see him when he's tracking some norse legend to its lair, or clearing up a point left doubtful by frazer in the _golden bough_. have you ever read frazer? i know him and mannhardt almost by heart. i help dad a lot in my own little way. have you ever played cat's cradle?" "with a piece of string?" "yes. well, games and folk-lore go together, and cat's cradle has been played since the ancient britons wore--whatever ancient britons did wear. now, you're laughing at me." "indeed, i'm not. i was marveling at our kindred tastes. have you heard of the jatakas and panchatantras of india?" "i know that there are such things." "i'll jot down two or three, with a translation." "oh, wouldn't dad love to meet you! he often growls because he can't read sanskrit." "tell me where you live, and i'll look you up some day." "our permanent address is----oh, my! somebody's coming, and i don't want you to be cross with me again." she fled into the kitchen. the door had hardly closed when a shadow darkened the porch. armathwaite, lighting his pipe, gazed through a cloud of smoke at a red-faced policeman. "hello!" he said. "who have _you_ come for?" the policeman grinned, and saluted. "there's not much doing in elmdale in my line, sir," he said. "i was told the grange had a new tenant, so i just looked in. i come this way thursday mornings and monday nights, as a rule. i'm stationed at bellerby, nearly three miles from here. last time i was in this hall----" armathwaite was too quick for him. residence in mr. walker's "house 'round the corner" had proved so rife in surprises that the long arm of coincidence might be expected to play its part at any moment. so he countered deftly. "sorry i can't be more hospitable," he broke in, advancing, and deliberately causing the constable to step back into the porch. "everything is at sixes and sevens. i only arrived yesterday, and my boxes, as you see, are not yet unpacked." he closed the door, feeling certain that his judgment had not erred. it was soon justified. "next time you're passing, give me a call," he went on. "i'll be able to offer you a whisky and soda or a bottle of beer. are you the man who was brought here by a mr. benson on a certain occasion?" "i am, sir, and it was a nasty job, too. i'm glad someone has taken the place. it's a nice property, but the garden has gone to wrack and ruin since poor mr. garth went. just look at them dandelions, growin' where there used to be a bed of the finest begonias i've ever seen! 'begonia smith' was the gardener's nickname for miles around. and convolvulus instead of sweet peas! it's a sin, that's what it is!" the policeman, clearly an enthusiast, took off his helmet, and wiped his forehead with a purple pocket-handkerchief. "you knew mr. garth, i suppose?" said armathwaite, strolling towards the dandelions, whose vigorous growth was so offensive to the horticultural eye. the other went with him, little thinking he was being headed off a scent which might lead to a greater tragedy than the devastation of a once well-kept garden. "knew him well, sir. a very pleasant-spoken gentleman he was, an' all. i brought him a party of plow stots one day--men who dance in the villages at martinmas, sir--and he was as pleased as punch because they sang some old verses he'd never heard before. the last man in the world i'd ever have thought of to kill himself." "there was no doubt that he committed suicide?" "no, sir, that there wasn't. he'd been dead two days when i cut him down. well, no need to talk of it now, but even the doctor was rattled, though the weather was very hot that june." armathwaite felt as if he had been conjured by some spiteful necromancer out of a smiling and sunlit english countryside into a realm of ghouls and poison-growths. a minute ago a charming and sweet-spoken girl had been chatting glibly about her father's wanderings in the by-ways of folk-lore, and now this stolid policeman was hinting at the gruesomeness of his task when called on to release the lifeless body of that same man from its dolorous perch beside the clock. for an instant he lost himself, and fixed such a penetrating glance on the constable that the latter grew uneasy, lest he had said something he ought not to have said. armathwaite realized the mistake at once, and dropped those searching eyes from the other's anxious face to some scraps of ribbon sewn on the left breast of the dark blue tunic. "you have the tirah medal, i see," he said. "were you at dargai?" the question achieved the immediate effect counted on. "i was, an' all, sir," and the ex-soldier squared his shoulders. "though no scottie, i was in the gordon highlanders. were you there, sir?" "i--er--yes, but as a non-combatant. i was in the politicals--quite a youngster in those days, and i was fool enough to envy you that rush across the plateau." "it was warm work while it lasted, sir." "there have been few things to equal it in warfare. what time do you pass through the village on monday?" "shortly after eleven, sir." "if you see a light, come in. if not, look me up next thursday. if i'm fishing, i'll leave word with mrs. jackson that you're to have a refresher should you be that way inclined." "thank you, sir. my name's leadbitter, if ever you should want me." "and a jolly good name, too, for a man who fought against the afridis. by the way, can you tell me what time the post leaves here?" "a rural postman calls at thompson's shop for letters about half-past four, sir." a cigar changed hands, and p. c. leadbitter strode off, holding his head high. it was a red-letter day. he had met one who knew what the storming of the dargai pass meant. even the memories of stephen garth pendant from a hook beneath the china shelf faded into the mists of a country policeman's humdrum routine. he was halfway to bellerby when he remembered that he had not done the one thing he meant doing--he had not asked mr. armathwaite's intentions with regard to the garden. begonia smith had retired to a village lying between bellerby and nuttonby. though too old to take a new situation, he would jump at the chance of setting his beloved grange garden in order again, and, of course, he was just the man for the job. leadbitter believed in doing a good turn when opportunity offered. after tea, he went in search of smith of the order begoniaceae. to save half a mile of a three miles' tramp by road, he passed through the estate of sir berkeley hutton, and met that redoubtable baronet himself strolling forth to see how the partridges were coming on. "ha!" cried hutton, knowing that his land was not in the policeman's district, "has that rascally herd of mine been gettin' full again?" "no, sir berkeley, jim's keepin' steady these days," was the answer. "there's a new tenant at the grange, elmdale; he'll be wantin' a gardener, i'm thinkin', so i'm going to put begonia smith on his track." "a new tenant! you don't tell me. what's his name?" "a mr. robert armathwaite, sir berkeley. a very nice gentleman, too. been in india, in the politicals, he said. i didn't quite know what he meant----" "but i do, by jove, and a decent lot of chaps they are. picked men, all of 'em. i must look him up. i haven't met anyone of that name, but we're sure to own scores of friends in common. glad i met you, leadbitter. i'll drive over there some day soon. armathwaite, you say? sounds like an old yorkshire name, but it's new to me. the coveys are strong on the wing this year, eh?" so, all unwittingly so far as armathwaite was concerned, his recognition of an indian frontier ribbon had set in motion strange forces, as a pebble falling from an alpine summit can start an avalanche. in truth, he had not yet grasped the essential fact that residents in a secluded district of yorkshire, or in any similar section of the united kingdom, were close knit throughout astonishingly large areas. he had belonged to a ruling caste among an inferior race during so many active years that he still retained the habits of thought generated by knowledge of local conditions in india, where a town like nuttonby would have little in common with a hamlet like elmdale, whereas, in yorkshire, nuttonby knew the affairs of elmdale almost as intimately as its own. but enlightenment on this point, and on many others, was coming speedily. he received the first sharp lesson within a few hours. marguérite ogilvey might be a most industrious young lady when circumstances were favorable, but she had so many questions to put, and so much local news to absorb from mrs. jackson and betty, that the morning slipped by without any material progress being made in the avowed object of her visit. armathwaite, piling rows of books on the library floor, noticed that the collection of seven, ranging from a sheffield cake-basket to a baxter print, had not been added to. the girl wanted to know, of course, why leadbitter came, and was told, though his references to the disheveled state of the garden were suppressed. then she volunteered to help in disposing of the new lot of books, but her services were peremptorily declined. "you're a grumpy sort of cousin at times, bob," she cried, and betook herself to the scullery and more entertaining company. she had been chatting there an hour, or longer, when she wheeled round on mrs. jackson with an astonished cry. "i've been here all the morning, and you've never said a word about my father and mother," she declared. "they're quite well, thank you; but you might have inquired." "well, there!" stammered mrs. jackson, "it was on the tip of me tongue half a dozen times, an' something drove it away again. an' how are they, miss meg?" "i've just told you. i do wish they'd come back to the grange, but they seem to hate the very mention of it. i wonder why?" "elmdale's a long way frae lunnon," said betty, catching at a straw in this sudden whirlpool. "we're just as far from london in cornwall," laughed the girl. "oh, is that where you've gone?" put in mrs. jackson incautiously. "yes. didn't you know? hadn't you the address for letters?" "no, miss. miggles said"--miggles was the peripatetic postman--"that all letters had to be sent to holloway & dobb, in nuttonby." marguérite looked rather puzzled, because her recollection ran differently; she dropped the subject, thinking, doubtless, that her parents' behests had some good reason behind them, and ought to be respected. "anyhow," she went on, "now that i've broken the ice by coming here, my people may be willing to return. i don't suppose mr. armathwaite will stay beyond the summer." "mr. walker tole me he thought of takin' the place for a year," said mrs. jackson. "indeed. i'll ask him at lunch. i've wasted the morning, so i'll stay another night, and start early to-morrow. you'll find me a bed in the cottage, won't you, mrs. jackson?" "mebbe, mr. armathwaite will be vexed," said betty, making a half-hearted effort to carry out the compact between herself and her employer. "leave mr. armathwaite to me," laughed marguérite. "he's a bear, and he growls, but he has no claws, not for women, at any rate. no one could be nicer than he last night. i felt an awful fool, and looked it, too; but he didn't say a single word to cause me any embarrassment. moreover, he intends crossing the moor with me, and i can't let him get lost in the dark. men have died who were lost on that moor." "oh, but that's in the winter, miss, when the snow's deep," said betty. "why, i do believe you want to get rid of me!" cried the other. betty flushed guiltily. she was floundering in deep waters, and struck out blindly. "oh, no, miss," she vowed. "you know me better than that. p'raps you'll be gettin' married one of these days, an' then you can please yourself, an' live here." "married! me get married, and leave dad and mums! oh, dear no! one young man has asked me already, and i--" "betty," said a voice from the doorway leading to the hall, "can you give me a duster?" the conclave started apart, like so many disturbed sparrows; but armathwaite could make a shrewd guess as to the name of the "one young man," since he had marguérite ogilvey's own testimony for it that percy whittaker would "do anything" to oblige her, and what more likely than that such devotion should lead to matrimony? at luncheon he received with frigidity the girl's statement that she planned remaining in elmdale till the morrow. "there's really no reason to hurry," she said airily. "the whittakers know where i am, and i'll send a postcard saying i'll be with them friday evening." "i must remind you that every hour you prolong your visit you add to the risk of discovery," he said. "discovery of what, or by whom?" she demanded. "i am only endeavoring to fall in with your own wishes. you came here secretly. you took pains to prevent anyone from recognizing you. have you changed your mind?" "i--i think i have. you see, your being here makes a heap of difference." "precisely. you ought to get away all the sooner." "first betty--now you! i must indeed be an unwelcome guest in my father's house. of course, i can't possibly stay now. there's a train from leyburn at seven o'clock. i can catch it by leaving here at three, but i shan't start unless i go alone." she looked prettier than ever when her brown eyes sparkled with anger, but armathwaite hardened his heart because of the grim shadow which she could not see but which was hourly becoming more visible to him. "is leyburn the station on the other side of the moor?" he asked. "yes." "then you will remain here three weary months, meg." "i don't pretend to understand," she cried wrathfully. "i've paid three months' rent, and here i shall stay if a regiment of girls and a whole army of percy whittakers try to eject me. as i am equally resolved not to allow you to cross the moor unaccompanied, you will readily perceive the only logical outcome of your own decision." the brown eyes lost their fire, but acquired another sort of sheen. "what has happened that you should speak so unkindly?" she quavered. "last night and this morning you--you--didn't order me out. and i don't see why you should drag in percy whittaker. i only borrowed his togs." many times in the history of this gray old world have woman's tears pierced armor and sapped fortresses. this hapless man yielded at once. "confound it, miss ogilvey, i'd keep you here during the remainder of my days if i could arrange matters to my own liking and yours," he blurted out. she recovered her self-possession with amazing readiness. "now, bob, you're talking nonsense," she tittered. "aren't we making mountains out of molehills? i have lots to do, and hate being rushed. i can stay with mrs. jackson to-night, and you and i will set out for leyburn early to-morrow. then, if you don't care to face the return journey, you shall take train to nuttonby and drive here. isn't that a good plan?" "we must adopt it, at any rate," he said grudgingly. "but you promise to remain hidden all day?" "yes, even that. now, let's stop squabbling, and eat. tell me something about india. it must be an awfully jolly place. if i went there, should i be a mem-sahib?" "it is highly probable." "what a funny way to put it! aren't all english ladies in india mem-sahibs?" "the married ones are. the spinsters are miss-sahibs." she laughed delightedly, and without any sense of awkwardness because of her own blunder. "naturally they would be. that's rather neat when you come to think of it," she cried. old jokes are ever new in someone's ears, or no comic paper could live beyond a year. when betty came in with a gooseberry tart and cream, she heard the two calling each other "bob" and "meg," and reported thereon in the kitchen. "it seems to me she's larnt summat (something) i' cornwall," commented mrs. jackson. "and him old enough to be her father!" marveled betty. "fiddlesticks! it's the life he's led that's aged him. he's not a day more'n thirty-five." mrs. jackson was no bad judge. her employer was in his thirty-sixth year. after luncheon, marguérite ogilvey collected her treasures, and, with betty's help, packed them in boxes obtained at the village shop. before tea, she wrote a letter, which armathwaite took to the post. while there, he inquired about the fishing, and the grocer pointed out a very tall and stoutly-built man stacking hay at the bottom of a long field. "that's mr. burt," he said. "he owns a mile or more of the best water. if you were to go an' see him now, sir, you could settle things straight off." "but i want to have a word with miggles." "he'll be here in ten minutes, sir, an' i'll tell him to give you a hail. the nuttonby road passes the end of that field." matters seemed to be arranged conveniently; as, indeed, they were, if sprites were laying snares for robert armathwaite's feet. he met farmer burt, and was given all fishing facilities at once. nay, more, if this weather lasted, as was likely, and all the hay was saved by sunset, burt himself would call next day, and reveal the lie of the land. "make it saturday," said armathwaite, mindful of another fixture. "right you are, sir!" someone shouted. it was miggles, breast-high beyond a hedge. at that instant armathwaite caught sight of a dog-cart swinging into elmdale. a gallant figure at the reins seemed somehow familiar. therefore, instead of describing the kind of bath he wished tom bland to bring from an ironmonger's, he said sharply to the postman: "who is that in the dog-cart?" "young mr. walker, o' nuttonby, sir," was the answer. james walker! the man whom marguérite ogilvey said she hated, and such a phrase on a girl's lips with reference to a man like walker almost invariably means that she has been pestered by his attentions. the grange was nearly a mile distant, and walker was now dashing through the village street. "damn!" said armathwaite, making off at top speed. miggles gazed after him. "rum houses draws rum coves," he said, trudging away on his daily round. "not that he's the first who's damned young jimmy walker, not by a jolly long way!" evidently, an aristotelian postman. chapter vi the storm breaks armathwaite's face, as he strode through elmdale, was hardly that of a man who had found there the quiet and solitude he had stipulated for when in treaty with walker & son. its stern and harassed aspect was seen and commented on by a score of people. though most of the inhabitants were busy in the fields, there were watchers in plenty peering from each farm and cottage. already the village held in common the scanty stock of information possessed by the jacksons concerning the grange's new tenant, because mother and daughter were far too shrewd to provoke discussion by withholding the facts stated by the house agent. they knew that every urchin who could toddle had peeped through gate and hedges that morning; they were more alive than armathwaite himself to the risk miss meg ran of being seen if she went outside the house, front or back, for ten seconds. the best way to disarm gossip was to answer as best they might the four questions put by every inquirer: who is he? where does he come from? is he married? how long will he stop? singularly enough, in a land of variable weather, elmdale at this time was bathed in brilliant sunshine from morn till eve. the ripening crops, the green uplands, the moor, with its gorse just fading and its heather showing the first faint flush of purple, were steeped in the "great peacefulness of light" so dear to ruskin. if one searched the earth it would be hard to find a nook where sorrow and evil were less likely to dree their weird; yet, armathwaite expected to meet those grim sisters stalking through the ancient house when he saw an empty dog-cart and an open door; he seldom erred in such forecasts, and his divination was not at fault now. as he entered the hall, he heard the girl's voice, clear and crisp and scornful. "how dare you say such things to me! how dare you! my father is alive and well. if he were here now----" james walker chuckled. "tell that to the marines," he began. the remainder of the sentence died on his lips when armathwaite's tall form appeared in the doorway. "you here, mr. walker?" said the anglo-indian calmly. then, noting marguérite ogilvey's white face and distraught eyes, he assumed a mystified air, and cried: "hullo, meg, what's gone wrong?" she flew to him instantly, clasping his arm, and the confident touch of her fingers thrilled him to the core. "oh, bob, i'm so glad you've come back," she almost sobbed. "that--that nasty little man has been telling such horrid fibs. he says--he says--oh, bob, won't you send him away?" at that moment the mental equilibrium of james walker, junior (his father was also james) was badly shaken. it oscillated violently in one direction when he noted the manner of address these two adopted the one to the other. it swung to another extreme on hearing himself described as "a nasty little man" by a girl for whom a long-dormant calf love had quickened in his veins when tom bland announced that "meg garth, or her ghost," was at the grange that day. it positively wobbled when armathwaite threw a protecting arm round the desired one's shoulders. so he listened, open-mouthed, when armathwaite spoke. "sorry i wasn't at home, meg, dear, when mr. walker arrived--or he wouldn't have troubled you," the mysterious stranger was saying. there was an unpleasant glint in the steely glance that accompanied the next words: "now, mr. walker, come outside, and explain your business." but walker was no country bumpkin, to be overawed and silenced by a man of superior social status. he was puzzled, and stung, stung beyond hope of cure. yet he was not afraid. certain qualities of sharpness and cuteness warned him that if he controlled his temper, and did not bluster, he held the whip hand in a situation of which the true inwardness was still hidden. "my business is not with you, mr. armathwaite," he said, with the utmost civility his tongue was capable of. "i heard of miss garth's arrival, and came to see her. it's not my fault if she's vexed at what i've said. i meant no offense. i only told the truth." "i have reason to believe that you forced yourself into miss garth's presence;" and, in repeating the name, armathwaite pressed the girl's shoulder gently as an intimation that no good purpose would be served by any correction in that respect. "again, and for the last time, i request you to leave her." "there's no last time about it," said walker, who was watching marguérite's wan and terror-stricken face. "i had a perfect right to call on meg garth. she daren't pretend she doesn't know me, and a false name can't humbug me, or tom bland, for that matter." "i know you only too well," broke in the girl with a vehemence that brought a momentary rush of color to her cheeks. "you annoyed me for two years, and i'm sorry now i didn't complain to my father about your ridiculous oglings and shilling boxes of chocolates, which i gave to the village children." she struck harder than she knew. walker bridled like an annoyed turkey-cock. armathwaite pressed marguérite's shoulder a second time, and withdrew his hand. "if your ungracious admirer won't leave you, meg, you had better leave him," he said, smiling into her woebegone face. "go into the drawing-room, or join mrs. jackson. _i'll_ deal with mr. walker." he held the door open, purposely blotting walker out of sight, and the girl obeyed. she went out bravely enough, but he caught a smothered sob as she passed towards the kitchen. there also, he was bitterly aware, danger lurked in other guise, though the two well-disposed women might perchance have the wit to discredit walker's revelations, whatever they were. closing the door, which swung half open again without his knowledge, he turned an inquiring and most unfriendly eye on the unwanted visitor. "i hope you are ashamed of yourself," he said quietly. if walker had understood mankind better, he would not have misinterpreted that suave utterance by imagining, as he did, that it betokened fear of exposure. unhappily, he strutted, and slapped a gaitered leg with a switch he carried in place of a whip. "ashamed of nothing," he answered truculently. "i admit being sweet on the girl. what is there to be ashamed of in that, i'd like to know?" "it's distinctly to your credit, in some ways," said armathwaite. "i should have expected your tastes to run rather to barmaids, with an ultimate vote in favor of the daughter of a well-to-do butcher. i dislike class distinctions, walker. too often they savor of snobbery; but, in this instance, i am obliged to remind you that my cousin is a lady." "oh, is that it? cousins, are you? i wish you'd told me sooner." "why?" "it might have saved this bit of bother, anyhow." "i don't think that any well-meant explanations on my part could cure you of an impertinent nature, walker." "dash it all, mr. armathwaite, why couldn't i visit meg? i've seen and spoken to her scores of times." "but, even in nuttonby, one does not thrust one's presence on a lady uninvited." walker laughed. he could stand any amount of reproof as to his manners, because he rather prided himself on a swaggering disregard of other people's feelings. "we don't stand on ceremony in yorkshire," he said jauntily. "i opened the door, and actually heard her voice. there was no sense in betty jackson sayin' miss garth wasn't here, and i told her so pretty plainly. then, out she came. what would you have done, in my shoes? now, i ask you, sir, as man to man." "i would have striven not to insult her so grossly that she should be moved to tears." "but i didn't. don't you believe it. i was pleasant as could be. she behaved like a regular little spit-fire. turned on me as though she'd been waitin' for the chance. i can stand a lot, but i'm jiggered if i'd let her tell me she'd complain to her father, and have him take away the agency of the property from our firm, when her father is buried these two years in bellerby churchyard. why, she must think i'm dotty." armathwaite moistened his lips with his tongue. "you enlightened her ignorance, i presume?" he inquired blandly. "i didn't know what she was gettin' at, but i asked her plump and plain who the 'stephen garth' was who hanged himself in this very house, and has his name and the date of his death on the stone over his grave.... it strikes me that even you don't know the facts, mr. armathwaite. if her father is alive, who was the man who committed suicide?... and, by jing, _did_ he commit suicide?" james walker's theorizing ended suddenly. "you poisonous little rat!" murmured armathwaite, and seized him. walker was young and active, and by no means a weakling or cowardly, but he resembled a jackal in the grip of a tiger when the hands closed on him which had choked the life out of nas'r-ulla khan, chief cut-throat of the usman khel. there was no struggle. he was flung face downwards on the table until the door was thrown wide. then he was bundled neck and crop out of the house, and kicked along the twenty yards of curving path to the gate. there armathwaite released him, a limp and profane object. "now, go to nuttonby, and stop there!" was the parting injunction he received. his bitterest humiliation lay in the knowledge that marguérite garth and betty jackson, hearing the racket, had rushed to hall and door, and were gloating over his discomfiture. a drop of bitterest gall was added by his assailant's subsequent behavior, for armathwaite turned his back on him, and sauntered slowly to the house, seemingly quite assured that there would be no counter-attack. and, indeed, james walker retained sufficient sense in his frenzied brain to realize that he had no earthly chance in a physical struggle with this demon of a man. so he climbed into the dog-cart, though not with his wonted agility, and drove away to nuttonby without ever a backward glance. but he vowed vengeance, vowed it with all the intensity of a mean and stubborn nature. he had visions, at first, of a successful action for assault and battery; but, as his rage moderated, he saw certain difficulties in the way. his only witnesses would be hostile, and it was even questionable if a bench of magistrates would convict armathwaite when it was shown that he, walker, had virtually forced an entry into the house, and refused to leave when requested. but he could strike more subtly and vindictively through the authorities. marguérite garth had said that stephen garth was living, and robert armathwaite--that compound of iron knuckles and whip-cord muscles--had tacitly endorsed the statement. if that was true, who was the man buried in stephen garth's name and identity in the churchyard at bellerby? he had a vague recollection of some difference of opinion between the coroner and a doctor at the inquest. he must refresh his memory by consulting a file of the _nuttonby gazette_. in any event, he could stir a hornets' nest into furious activity and search the innermost recesses of the grange with anguish-laden darts. curse meg garth and her cousin! he'd teach both of 'em, that he would! if they thought that james walker was done with because he had been flouted and ill-used, they were jolly well mistaken, see if they weren't! marguérite ogilvey was as tender-hearted a girl as ever breathed, but it needed super-human qualities--qualities that no woman could possibly possess and have red blood in her veins--to restrain the fierce joy which thrilled her being when she saw her persecutor driven forth with contumely. betty jackson, the village maid, was delighted but shocked; marguérite, the educated and well-bred young lady, rejoiced candidly. "you've done just what i would have done if i were a strong man like you!" she cried tremulously, when armathwaite faced her at the door. there was a light in her eyes which he gave no heed to at the moment--the light which comes into the eyes of woman when she is defended by her chosen mate--but he attributed it to excitement, and hastened to calm her. "i may have acted rashly," he said; "but i couldn't help it. sometimes, one has to take the law into one's own hands. surely, this is one of the occasions." "he'll keep clear of elmdale for a bit," chortled betty. "p'raps he thinks no one saw you kickin' him except ourselves. he's wrong! half the village knows it! old mrs. bolland nearly fell out of an upstairs window with cranin' her neck to see what was goin' on, an' there's little johnnie headlam runnin' down the ten-acre field now to tell mr. burt an' his men all about it." the girl had thoughtlessly blurted out a fact of far-reaching import. armathwaite swung on his heel, and found gaping faces at every cottage backwindow, and above every hedge. sleepy elmdale had waked. its usually deserted street was pullulating with child life. the sharp walkers were somewhat too sharp on the land agency side of their business, and were cordially hated in consequence. the bouncing of walker, junior, had not made him popular; his trouncing would provide a joyous epic for many a day. as for marguérite ogilvey's presence in the house, it was known far and wide already. she had been recognized by dozens of people. elmdale, which might have figured as goldsmith's deserted village five minutes earlier, was now a thriving place, all eyes and cackling tongues. armathwaite had lost sight of that highly probable outcome of his action, nor did it trouble him greatly. the major happening, which he had striven so valiantly to avert, had come about through no fault of his; these minor issues were trivial and might be disregarded. in an earthquake the crumbling of a few bricks more or less is a matter of small account. he knew that when marguérite ogilvey had almost forgotten the downfall of walker she would remember its immediate cause the more poignantly. "hadn't we better go indoors till the weather is cooler?" he said, and the sound of his calm voice, no less than the smile he managed to summon in aid, relaxed the tension. "please, miss, shall i make a fresh pot of tea?" inquired betty when the door was closed. there spoke the true yorkshire breed. let the heavens fall, but don't miss a meal. "no," said marguérite, holding her open hands pressed close to eyes and cheeks. "yes," said armathwaite--"that is, if miss meg has not had her tea." betty nodded, and hastened into the drawing-room, where, it appeared, tea was awaiting armathwaite's return when walker arrived on the scene. she emerged, carrying a tea-pot, and went to the kitchen. marguérite was now crying silently. when the man caught her arm, meaning to lead her gently into the drawing-room, she broke into a very tempest of weeping, just as a child yields to an abandonment of grief when most assured of sympathy and protection. he took her to a chair, but did not attempt to pacify her. for one thing, he had a man's belief that a woman's hyper-sensitive nervous system may find benefit in what is known as "a good cry;" for another, he was not sorry to have a brief respite during which to collect and criticize his own ideas. he did not even try to conceal from himself the ugly fact that james walker had put into one or two sentences of concentrated venom all that was known to him (armathwaite) concerning the death in the house, and even a little more, because he had not learnt previously that stephen garth was buried at bellerby. nor did he permit himself to under-rate marguérite's intelligence. her heedless vivacity, and the occasional use of school-girl slang in her speech, were the mere externals of a thoughtful and well-stored mind. there was not the least chance that she would miss any phase of the tragedy which had puzzled and almost bewildered him by its vagueness and mystery. she would recall his own perplexed questions of the previous night. in all likelihood the jacksons, mother and daughter, had said things which fuller knowledge would clothe with sinister significance. walker's open-mouthed brutality had left nothing to the imagination. when marguérite ogilvey spoke, armathwaite felt that he would be called on to deal with the most difficult problem he had ever tackled. when betty came with a replenished tea-pot she would have attempted to soothe the girl's convulsive sobbing had not armathwaite intervened. "leave miss meg to me," he said. "she's going to stop crying in a minute, and vow that she looks a perfect fright, and must really go to her room and bathe her eyes. and i'm going to tell her that a handkerchief dipped in a teaspoonful of milk and dabbed on red eyes is more refreshing and healing than a bucketful of cold water. then we'll have tea, and eke a stroll on the moor, and perchance providence will send us a quiet hour in which to look at facts squarely in the face, whereupon some of us will know just where we are, and the world will not be quite so topsy-turvy as it appears at this moment." betty gathered that the "master's" harangue was not meant for her, and withdrew, whereupon marguérite dropped her hands and lifted her swimming eyes to armathwaite's grave and kindly face. "is that milk recipe of yours really intended for use?" she inquired, with a piteous attempt at a smile. "the whole program has been carefully planned on the most up-to-date and utilitarian lines," he answered. "did you hurt walker?" was her next rather unexpected question, while pouring some milk into a saucer. "yes." "i'm glad." "how many boxes of chocolates did he send you?" "about half a dozen." "then i kicked him at least once for each box--gave good measure, too." "it's horrid and un-christian--still, i'm glad. do you take sugar and cream?" "of course." "why of course? some people don't." "i'm an emphatic person in my likes and dislikes, so i talk that way." "i don't know what i should have done if you were not here." "you are too charitable. it is my being here that has caused all the worry." "no, i cannot take that view. there are happenings in life which, at the hour, seem to be the outcome of mere chance, but one realizes later that they were inevitable as autumn after spring." "what a libel on our english climate," he laughed. "is there no summer, then? what about this present glorious revel of sunshine? charles the second, who never said a foolish thing and never did a wise one, remarked one day that, in his opinion, england possessed the best climate in the world, because no day was too hot or too cold to prevent a man from going out of doors. i've seen more of the world, geographically speaking, than his kingship, yet i agree with him." "my father----" she began, but choked suddenly. "tell me this, meg: how long is it since you last saw your father?" he demanded, well knowing the futility of any attempt to divert her mind from a topic which must surely occupy it to the exclusion of all else. "just a week ago," she faltered. "good! i need not insist, then, that our young friend in the red waistcoat is mistaken when he says that your father occupies a grave in bellerby churchyard! of course, i'm not pretending that you and i are not faced with a strange problem. with your permission, i propose that we solve it together. i'll keep nothing back. you, on your part, must answer such questions as i think necessary--unless, that is, you feel i am trespassing unduly into the private affairs of your family. i'm not well posted in the turns and twists of english country life, but i am quite certain of two things--first, the mystery attached to this house must be dissipated now, because the police authorities will insist on it; second, if they beat me, and you suffer, they'll have achieved something that no set of officials has succeeded in doing hitherto. now, i want you to believe that, and to act in the assumption that god is in heaven, and all is well with the world." the girl smiled through her tears, and strove gallantly to eat one of the cheese-cakes for which mrs. jackson was renowned. "bob," she said, after a little while, "will you tell me why you came to elmdale?" "i wanted peace and solitude, plus some trout-fishing." "yet you speak of engaging in some terrible combat against the law on my account." "aren't you rather jumping at conclusions? circumstances have conspired to build a bogey. a ghost which all elmdale has seen in the hall resolves itself, on inquiry, into a shadow cast by a stained-glass window. certain murderous-sounding thumps which i heard last night materialize into a charming young lady. why shouldn't a death which took place in this house two years since prove equally susceptible of a simple explanation? no, we're not going to convert ourselves into a committee of two until you have taken one more cup of tea, one more cake, or two slices of bread and butter. then you'll put on a hat, and i'll light a pipe, and we'll climb up to the moor. on the way i'll impart every scrap of information i've gathered thus far, and, when you have considered the situation in such light as i am able to cast on it, you will decide whether or not you are justified in telling me something of your recent history. is it a bargain?" armathwaite was only talking for the sake of keeping the girl's mind from brooding on the extraordinary facts thrust on her by walker. he was sure she would treat a phenomenal set of affairs more rationally if she heard the story from his own lips. he would have liked, if possible, to have glanced over the report of the inquest in the newspaper promised by betty, but decided that marguérite ogilvey must not be left to her own thoughts one instant longer than was absolutely necessary. examination of the newspaper was deferred, therefore. when the girl ran downstairs to join him she had tied some scrap of blue veil over her hat in such wise that her face was screened in profile, so, as they breasted the hill together, he could hardly judge of the effect of the curious story he had to relate. he omitted nothing, minimized no detail. from the moment of his entry into the office of walker & son, at nuttonby, he gave a full and lucid narrative. rather losing sight of his own altruism in his eagerness to show how essential it was that they should meet attack with the confidence engendered by being prepared for all possible developments, he was not aware of the wondering glances which marguérite shot at him with increasing frequency. at last, he made an end. they had walked a mile or more, he talking steadily and the girl listening, only interposing a word now and again to show that she followed what he was saying, when he saw a man seated by the roadside at a little distance. the road dipped sharply at this point. they had crossed the first of a series of undulations which formed the great plateau of the moor, and elmdale and its pastures were completely hidden. "shall we turn back?" he said. "this fellow in front looks like a weary tourist, but i fancy you don't want to meet anyone just now, and i haven't noticed a branch path through the heather." marguérite was gazing curiously at the bent figure. her eyes held the expression of one who sees something familiar while the other senses refuse to be convinced. armathwaite, by reason of the veil, could not see that half-startled, wholly skeptical look, but her attitude was enough. "do you think you know that chap?" he said. perhaps, in that quiet moorland, his voice carried farther than he imagined. be that as it may, the tired one raised his drooping head, and looked their way. "why, it is--it must be!" cried marguérite excitedly, though no man could guess whether she was pleased or annoyed. "there can be no doubt about it," agreed armathwaite. "but, don't you see, he's waving to us? it's percy whittaker! has he dropped from the skies?" "with a bump, i should guess," said armathwaite. but inwardly he raged. were these complications never to cease? that dejected figure was eloquent of fate. somehow, its worn and nerveless aspect was menacing. yet, he laughed, being one who flaunted fortune in that way. "if it really is percy, let's go and cheer him up," he said. "he looks as though he needed comforting." chapter vii a faint-hearted ally that moment was a vital one in the lives of those two; it influenced the lives of others in lesser degree, but to marguérite ogilvey and robert armathwaite it meant so much that the man, in calm review of events subsequently, saw that it stood out from minor incidents in exactly the same dominant proportion as james walker's hurried descent on mrs. jackson's cottage on the preceding day. had walker remained in the dog-cart, and shouted for the keys of the grange, mrs. jackson would have contrived, by hook or by crook, to delay the examination of the house until betty had smuggled "miss meg" into safety, in which case armathwaite would never have met her. and, now, if the girl had quickened her pace--in eager delight, perhaps, breaking into a run--had she, either by voice or manner, shown that the unforeseen presence of percy whittaker on the moor was not only an extraordinary event in itself, but one which she hailed with unmitigated joy, armathwaite would assuredly have stifled certain vague whisperings of imagination which, ere long, might exercise a disastrous influence on the theory he held in common with a well-known british general--namely, that empire-builders should not be married. but she stood stock still, and, without turning her head so that armathwaite might see her face, said quietly: "well, it is the unexpected that happens, and the last person i dreamed of seeing to-day was master percy." "are you sure it _is_ whittaker?" inquired armathwaite. he put the question merely for the sake of saying something banal and commonplace. not for an instant did he doubt the accuracy of marguérite's clear brown eyes; but, oddly enough, the behavior of the dejected figure by the roadside lent reasonable cause for the implied doubt. never did tired wayfarer look more weary or disconsolate. after that first glance, and a listless gesture, the stranger showed no other sign of recognition. to all seeming, he had reached the limit of his resources, physical and mental. "sure?" echoed the girl. "of course, i'm sure. there's only one percy, and it's there now, beastly fagged after a long walk on a hot day in thin patent-leather shoes. doesn't it remind you of a plucked weed drooping in the sunshine?" she moved on, walking rapidly now, but a slight undertone of annoyance had crept into her voice, tinging her humor with sarcasm. armathwaite said nothing. the sun-laved landscape glowed again after a few seconds of cold brilliance--a natural phenomenon all the more remarkable inasmuch as no cloud flecked the sky. thus, in silence, they neared the limp individuality huddled dejectedly on a strip of turf by the roadside. to armathwaite's carefully suppressed amusement, he saw that the wanderer was indeed wearing thin, patent-leather shoes. "percy!" cried the girl. percy looked up again. he drew the fore-finger of his right hand around the back of his neck between collar and skin, as though his head required adjustment in this new position. "hallo, meg!" he said, and the greeting was not only languid but bored. "what in the world are you doing here?" she went on, halting in front of him. "i dunno," he said. "i'm beastly fagged, i can tell you--" armathwaite smiled, but marguérite laughed outright. "there's nothing to grin at," came the querulous protest. "once upon a time i labored under the impression that england was a civilized country, but now i find it's habitable only in parts, and this isn't one of the parts, not by a jolly long way. i say, meg, you booked to leyburn, didn't you?" "yes." "but you never walked over this moor?" "i did." "well, i wish i'd known as much about yorkshire before i started as i do now--that's all." again he twisted his neck and freed it from the chafing contact of a tight collar. after a curious peep at armathwaite, he bent a pair of gray-green eyes on the turf at his feet once more. "percy, don't be stupid, but tell me why you've come," cried marguérite. "there's no bad news from home, is there?" "no--that's all right. edie sent me." "why?" "you said you'd wire or write. when no telegram came yesterday, and no letter this morning, she bundled me off by the next train. 'go and see what has become of her?' was the order, and here i am. where am i, please?" "near elmdale. i'm awfully sorry, percy. i--i couldn't either telegraph or write yesterday. i've written to-day--" "near elmdale!" he broke in. "is it what the natives hereabouts call 'a canny bit' away?" "no--only a little over a mile. poor percy!" "idiotic percy! percy, the silly ass! percy, the blithering idiot! d'you see that suitcase?" and he swayed slightly, and directed a mournful glance at a small, leather portmanteau lying by his side. "i've sent that dashed thing, packed as it is now, by rail and parcels post scores of times, and they generally make it out as weighing about eleven pounds. that's a bally mistake. i must have swindled the railway companies and the post office out of a pot of money. it weighs a ton--one solid ton. and i've carried it dozens of miles. me, mind you, who hates carrying things, clung to it as if my life depended on it. i started out from leyburn station hours and hours ago. i asked a chap how far it was to elmdale across the moor. he showed me the road, and said: 'it's a gay bit, maister.' i climbed a hill at least five miles high--higher than any mountain in europe i can remember reading about--and met a man. 'is this the way to elmdale?' i inquired. 'ay,' he said. 'how far?' said i. 'it's a nice bit, maister,' said he. being, as i thought, on top of the hill, i imagined that all i had to do was to walk down the other side; so i left him and rambled on. after walking miles and miles i met another man. 'how far to elmdale?' i said. 'it's a canny bit, maister,' was his contribution. that knocked me out. i left him without another word. i staggered more miles, till i got this far; but when i saw the next hill i gave in. tell me the worst, meg, before i lie down and die. how far is it to elmdale, really?" "mr. armathwaite will carry your suitcase, and i'll take your arm, and you'll be at the grange in twenty minutes. it's all down hill after we leave this slight dip." "mr. armathwaite?" inquired percy dully, quite ignoring the other man's courteous smile at the implied introduction. "yes, the new tenant of our house." "first i've heard of any new tenant." "nothing surprising in that," and marguérite's voice grew almost snappy. "get up, anyhow, unless you wish to have a mattress and a quilt brought here." the young man rose. he was not affecting a weariness he did not feel. being a weedy youth, not built for feats of athleticism, the long walk in a hot sun over difficult country had taxed his physique unduly. "how d'ye do?" he said, raising lack-luster eyes to armathwaite's. "i'm fit as a fiddle," said armathwaite cheerfully, grabbing the portmanteau. "so will you be to-morrow. in fact, you'll be surprised how quickly your muscles will lose their stiffness when you sight the journey's end." "i've been doing that every five minutes during the past two hours," was the doleful answer. armathwaite nodded sympathetically. percy whittaker struck him as a flabby creature, whose conversational style was unintentionally funny. like falstaff, if not humorous in himself, he was "the cause of humor in others." truth to tell, armathwaite gave him slight heed. he was mainly interested in marguérite ogilvey's attitude, and she was markedly irritated either by her friend's lackadaisical pose or because he had appeared at all. the girl softened, however, when she saw how percy limped. she linked an arm in his, and the trio moved off. "how often have i told you to wear strong boots with good, stout soles?" she said. "i'm a good walker myself, but i don't tackle these moor roads in house slippers. isn't that so, mr. armathwaite? one ought to be properly shod for trudging about the country." "you don't seem to understand that i hate trudging anywhere; the last thing i dreamed of when i left chester this morning was that i should tramp half across yorkshire," protested whittaker. "even now, i don't see why you came." "couldn't help myself--edie's orders." "but why?" "well--er--" "if you mean that she knew i had gone away intending to wear a boy's clothes you needn't spare my feelings. mr. armathwaite knows all about that." "does he? in that case, i'm spared any explanation. you see, edie was naturally anxious. as for me, i hardly slept a wink last night through worrying about you. and then, a letter came for you this morning from your father. i recognized his handwriting, and it's marked 'immediate.' since there was no news from you, we were at a loss to decide on the best course to adopt. now, i appeal to you, mr. armathwaite. suppose--" "i agree with you entirely," broke in armathwaite. "i think miss ogilvey ought to be profoundly grateful for your self-sacrifice." "there, meg, do you hear that? self-sacrifice! i'm literally skinned in your service, and you only pitch into me. now, i've done most of the talking. it's your turn. when are you coming home?" "to-morrow, perhaps." "but, i say, meg! there'll be a howling row with your people when they find out." "where is dad's letter? you've brought it, of course?" "yes. edie thought that was the best plan. here you are!" he produced a letter from a breast pocket, and sat down instantly when the girl murmured an apology and opened the envelope. armathwaite refilled his pipe, and lit it. while doing so he became aware that percy whittaker was scrutinizing him with a curiously subtle underlook, and the notion was borne in on him that the newcomer, though effete in some respects, might be alert enough in others. for one thing, the tired gray-green eyes had suddenly become critical; for another, a weak mouth was balanced by a somewhat stubborn chin. for all his amusingly plaintive air, this young man could be vindictive if he chose. at any rate, armathwaite realized that another barrier had been thrust in the way of marguérite ogilvey's untroubled departure from elmdale. percy whittaker was obviously an intimate friend, and the extraordinary crisis which had arisen in the ogilvey household could hardly remain hidden from him. what use would he make of the knowledge? how would such a flabby youth act in circumstances which were utterly perplexing to a man ten years his senior in age and immeasurably more experienced? armathwaite could not make up his mind. he must simply bide his time and act as he deemed expedient in conditions that varied so remarkably from hour to hour. at the moment, he was in the position of the master of a ship becalmed in the tropics, surrounded by an unvexed sea and a cloudless sky, yet warned by a sharp fall in the barometer that a typhoon was imminent. his thoughts were interrupted by an exclamation from the girl. "just like dad!" she cried. "he writes asking me to search among the old bookshops of chester for one of the very volumes i am bringing from his own library. he knows it is here, yet persists in disregarding the fact. mr. armathwaite, what _am_ i to think? isn't it enough to turn one's hair gray?" "it is a puzzling situation, certainly," said armathwaite, quickly alive to the fact that, in whittaker's presence, at any rate, the cousinship had been dropped. "what is?" demanded whittaker. "not much to make a fuss about in searching for a book, is there?" "no. but suppose i tell you that people here declare my father is dead, that he committed suicide two years ago, that he is buried in a neighboring cemetery, that his ghost is seen o' nights in our own house--what would you say then, percy?" "i'd say that the inhabitants are well suited to their country, and the sooner you and i are away from both, the better for the pair of us." meg crumpled up the letter in one hand, and hauled whittaker to his feet with the other. "come on," she said emphatically. "if you hear the whole story now you'll collapse. i'm glad you've arrived, though i thought at first you were adding to my worries. you can help in clearing up a mystery. now, don't interrupt, but listen! i'm going to give you a plain, straightforward version of events which sound like the maddest sort of nonsense. you wouldn't believe a word i'm telling you if mr. armathwaite wasn't present. but he will vouch for every syllable, and, when i've finished, you'll agree that when i said we would leave here, 'to-morrow, perhaps,' i might just as well have substituted 'next week' or 'next month' for 'to-morrow.' isn't that so, mr. armathwaite?" armathwaite removed his pipe from between teeth that were biting savagely into its stem. he wished the girl had been more discreet, yet, how could he forbid these confidences? "yes, and no," he answered. "yes, if you mean to constitute yourself into a court of inquiry; no, if you take my advice, and return to chester with mr. whittaker without loss of time." "how is that possible?" she insisted, turning wondering eyes on him. "you yourself said that nothing we can do now will stop the authorities from re-opening the whole affair. there is no hope of closing people's mouths, bob! well, i've said it, and now percy will be wild to learn the facts, because meg ogilvey doesn't run around calling by their christian names men whom she has known a day without very good reason. but you don't know our local folk if you think our affairs are not being talked of in elmdale and nuttonby at this moment. bland saw me, and james walker will spread the tale far and wide. what good will i do by running away? don't imagine i didn't hear what walker said. he blurted out what you have hinted at. some man was found dead in our house. it wasn't my father. then, who was it?" in her excitement she was hurrying percy along at a rare pace, and armathwaite saw, with a chill of foreboding, that the other was stepping out without protest, all an ear for impending revelations. "from that point of view, mr. whittaker's presence is unquestionably advantageous," he said. "he is a friend in whom you can trust. he is acquainted with your relatives, i take it. his opinions will consequently be far weightier than mine." "that's the way bob talks when he's grumpy," said the girl, apparently for whittaker's benefit alone. "he doesn't mean it really, but he thinks he ought to behave like a stage uncle and prevent an impulsive young thing from acting foolishly. yet, all the time, he knows quite well that we could no more change the course of events now than hold back the tide." "will you kindly remember that if you were talking greek, i'd have just about as much grasp of what you're saying as i have at this moment?" put in whittaker. thus recalled to her task, marguérite did not deviate from it any further. by the time percy whittaker had dropped into a chair in the dining-room, he had heard exactly what had happened since armathwaite arrived in elmdale. as he was hungry, a meal was improvised. he said little, only interpolating a fairly shrewd question now and again while marguérite was amplifying some part of her recital. about this time he developed a new trait. he seemed rather to shirk comments which would draw armathwaite into the conversation. when the girl appealed to the latter to verify some statement of fact, whittaker remained silent. even when it was necessary to refer directly to armathwaite, he did so obliquely. "you've spun a jolly queer yarn, meg," he said, after she had retailed, for the second time, and with evident gusto, the discomfiture of james walker. "i think it would be a good notion now if we found out what really did occur in this house after you and your mother went away. didn't you say there was a newspaper report of the inquest handy?" "betty jackson promised to give it to mr. armathwaite." "well, couldn't we see it?" "i'll go and ask her for it," said armathwaite, and he left the room. "tell you what, meg," drawled percy, pouring out a third cup of tea, "you're making a howling mistake in letting that chap share your confidence." marguérite's eyebrows curved in astonishment. the very suddenness of this attack was disconcerting. "what do you mean?" she cried. "it's not always easy to give reasons for one's ideas. i was just thinking that he's a complete stranger, and here he is acting as though he was the head of the family. who is he? where does he come from? why is he poking his nose into your private affairs? by gad, i can see edie sniffing at him if she was here in my place!" some gleam of intuition warned the girl that she must repress the sharp retort on her lips. "then i am glad your sister is not here," she said quietly. "you must have woefully misunderstood every word i have uttered if you imagine that mr. armathwaite has done anything but strive manfully to keep a sordid story from my ken. he tried to make me go away this morning, and again this afternoon. he would certainly send me off early to-morrow if he were not afraid of some terrible thing happening. please don't begin by being prejudiced against mr. armathwaite. i have enough trouble staring me in the face to dispense with absurd suspicions of one who has been a very real friend." whittaker seemed to weigh the point. marguérite's self-control probably angered him as greatly as any other of the amazing things which had come to his knowledge during the past hour. he had expected her to bridle in defense of the man in whom she reposed such trust; her very calmness was unexpected and annoying. "what will your people say when the whole business comes out?" he grumbled. "dash it, meg, i must speak plainly! it's no joke, you know, your coming here and being alone in the house with some fellow whom you never heard of before in your life." her face paled, and her brown eyes had a glint of fire in them; but with a splendid effort, she managed again to frame words other than those eager to burst forth. "you miss the real problem that calls for solution," she said tremulously. "the consequences of my actions, no matter how foolish they may have been, count for nothing in comparison with the tragedy with which my father's name is bound up. oh, percy, don't you see what people must think? a man committed suicide in this house, and every one believed it was my father. yet you yourself, less than an hour ago, brought me a letter written by my father yesterday! suppose i leave elmdale this instant--suppose, which is impossible, that the present excitement dies down--how can i go through life with such a ghastly secret weighing me down? it would drive me crazy!" armathwaite's firm tread was audible as he crossed the hall. "anyhow, take my tip, and don't blurt out everything you know the minute you're asked," muttered her counselor, and the door opened. armathwaite drew a chair to the window and unfolded a frayed newspaper, laying another on his knees. to all appearance, he had noted neither the sullen discontent in one face nor the white anguish in the other. "this is a copy of the _nuttonby gazette_, dated june 22nd, two years ago," he said. "it contains what appears to be a verbatim report of the opening day's inquest, which seems to have created a rare stir, judging by the scare heads and space allotted to it. will it distress you, miss ogilvey, if i go through it from beginning to end?" "yes, it will distress me very greatly, but i don't see how i can avoid hearing it. if one visits the dentist there is no use in pretending that having a tooth drawn doesn't hurt. please read every word." he obeyed without further preamble. it was a disagreeable task, but he did not flinch from it, though well aware that the gruesome details would shock one of his hearers inexpressibly. divested of the loud-sounding phrases with which a country reporter loves to clothe any incident of a sensational character, the newspaper added nothing to the facts already related by betty jackson and police-constable leadbitter, except a letter written and signed by the deceased man, in which he declared he had taken his own life because he was suffering from an incurable disease. it was only when the succeeding issue of the _nuttonby gazette_ was scanned, with its report of the adjourned inquest, that new light was vouchsafed. the coroner was a mr. hill, a local solicitor; a dr. scaife, from bellerby, who had conducted a post-mortem examination, had excited mr. hill's ire by his excessive caution in describing the cause of death. "i found no symptoms of what is popularly known as 'incurable disease,'" said the doctor. "the brain, heart, liver, lungs, and internal organs generally were in a fairly healthy state except for ordinary post-mortem indications. death by hanging is usually capable of clear diagnosis. there is excessive fluidity of the blood, with hyperæmia of the lungs. the right side of the heart is engorged, and the left nearly empty. the mucous membrane of the trachea is injected, and appears of a cinnabar-red color. the abdominal veins are congested, and apoplexy of the brain is present as a secondary symptom. contrary to common belief, the eyes do not start from the head, and the tongue seldom protrudes beyond the teeth. indeed, the expression of the face does not differ from that seen in other forms of death, and, in this connection, it must be remembered that death, the result of disease, may present all the signs of death by suffocation. the body showed few of these indices." "would you mind telling us what you are driving at, dr. scaife?" the coroner had asked. "here is a man found hanging in his house, leaving a letter addressed to me in which he states his intention beyond a doubt. do you wish the jury to believe that his death may nevertheless have been a natural one?" "no," was the reply. "i do not say that. but the absence of certain symptoms, and the presence of others, make it essential that i should state that mr. garth might just as well have died from apoplexy as from strangulation." "are we to understand that mr. garth may have died from apoplexy and afterwards hanged himself?" "that would be nonsense," said dr. scaife. "i agree, most emphatically. do you refuse to certify as to the cause of death?" "no. i am merely fulfilling a duty by pointing out what i regard as discrepancies in the post-mortem conditions. i looked for signs of organic disease. there was none." evidently, coroner and doctor were inclined to be testy with each other, and the newspaper report left the impression that dr. scaife was a hair-splitter. in the result, a verdict of "suicide, while in a state of unsound mind," was returned. there followed a description of the interment in bellerby churchyard of "the mortal remains of stephen garth," when the vicar read a "modified form of the burial service," while the "continued absence from elmdale of the dead man's wife and daughter," was referred to without other comment. when armathwaite laid aside the second newspaper, no one spoke for a minute or more. percy whittaker was seemingly interested in the effort of a fly to extract nutriment from a lump of sugar; marguérite ogilvey was staring at vacancy with wide-open, terror-laden eyes; armathwaite himself appeared to be turning over the baffling problem in his mind. at last, whittaker stirred uneasily. "what time does the post leave here, meg?" he inquired. "i want to send edie a line. she'll have a bad fit of the jumps if she hears from neither of us to-morrow." chapter viii wherein percy whittaker proves himself a man of action the rather bizarre question startled the girl out of her melancholy thoughts. she looked at whittaker as though she had completely forgotten his presence. "the post," she repeated. "there is no post out of elmdale this evening. miggles passed through the village hours ago." "miggles?" "he's the postman. we either see him ourselves or leave letters at thompson's, the grocer's, before four o'clock." "then neither letter nor telegram can be dispatched to-night?" "yes. if you care to pay mileage to bellerby, and the message is handed in before eight, thompson will send a boy with a telegram." whittaker glanced at his watch. the hour was half-past six. "how far is bellerby?" he said. "tell me in terms of the clock, not in miles, which, as a method of reckoning in yorkshire, conveys a sense of infinity." "a boy can bicycle there in half an hour." "then, footsore as i am, i shall hie me to thompson's." "why not write your telegram here, and betty will take it." "no, thanks. i'll see to it myself. then, if it doesn't reach edie to-night, i can place a hand on my heart and vow i did all man could do, and failed." "you are not forgetting that i have written to her?" "no. don't you see? a letter from you complicates matters even more. if she hears from meg, and not a word is said about percy, she'll wonder what has become of little me. i suppose thompson's shop is not 'a nice bit' removed from the village?" "it is opposite the fox and hounds inn. you can walk there in two minutes." armathwaite, who had risen, and was staring through the window during this brief colloquy, was struck by the quietly pertinacious note in whittaker's voice. moreover, he was listening carefully, since there was some faint trace of an accent which had a familiar sound in his ears. he waited, until the younger man had gone out and was walking gingerly down the garden path; progress downhill must have been a torture to sore toes, yet whittaker was strangely determined to send that unnecessary telegram in person--unnecessary, that is, in view of the fact that a message dispatched next morning would have served the same purpose. why? armathwaite found that life bristled with interrogatives just then. turning to look at marguérite, he said: "your friend doesn't like me." she did not attempt to fence with him. somehow, when her eyes met his, a new strength leaped in her heart. "percy flatters himself on the ease with which he follows the line of least resistance, but in reality he is a somewhat shallow and transparent person," she answered. "there is a transparency of shallowness which occasionally hides a certain depth of mud." "oh, he means no harm! his widowed sister, mrs. suarez, is a great stickler for the conventions, and she has infected him with her notions. she is the 'edie' he speaks of. _my_ chum is a younger sister, christabel." "suarez? an unusual name in england." "she married a calcutta merchant. the whittakers are anglo-indians." armathwaite smiled. he knew now whence came that slightly sibilant accent. whittaker was a blonde eurasian, a species so rare that it was not surprising that even a close observer should have failed to detect the "touch of the tar-brush" at first sight. from that instant armathwaite regarded him from an entirely new view-point. the briton who has lived many years in the east holds firmly to the dogmatic principle that in the blend of two races the eurasian is dowered with the virtues of neither and the vices of both. more than ever did he regret the qualms of the conventional mrs. suarez which had brought percy whittaker to elmdale that day. "i'm sorry he deems it advisable to distrust me," he went on. "how long have you been acquainted with the family?" "ever since i went to school with christabel at brighton. she often came here during the summer holidays; and i used to visit her at whitsuntide." "they are aware of your change of name, of course?" "yes. how could it be otherwise?" "a thoughtless question indeed. the notion was flitting through my mind that no one in elmdale knew of it, or the fact was bound to have been made public at the inquest. the doctor who gave evidence--was he your regular medical attendant?" "he was an intimate friend rather than a doctor. he knew dad so well that he would scout the idea of suicide. perhaps that explains his hesitating statement to the coroner. oh, mr. armathwaite, what does it all mean? was ever girl plunged into such a sea of trouble? what _am_ i to do?" "don't you think you ought to send for your mother?" "if she were here now she could only say what i am saying--that my father is alive and in the best of health." "forgive me if i seem to be cross-examining you, but i am groping blindly towards some theory which shall satisfy two conditions wholly irreconcilable at present. your mother and you went away from elmdale, leaving your father here. do you remember the exact reason given for your departure?" "one day dad asked me to read some passages from a french treatise on basque songs. it was rather technical stuff, and i stumbled over the translation, so he said i was losing my french, and that mother and i should go to paris for a few weeks, and do a round of theaters. of course, i was delighted--what girl wouldn't be? i couldn't pack quickly enough. when paris emptied, towards the end of june, we went to quimper, in brittany. and there was another excuse, too. about that time we received news of the legacy, and dad thought we should get accustomed to the change of name more readily in a foreign country." "how long did you remain abroad?" "nearly three months. but dad joined us within a fortnight of our departure from england. he only remained at home to finish a book and clear up the lawyer's business about the money." "after your return, what happened?" "we had a month in london. then my people took a house in cornwall, near the village of warleggan, a place tucked in beneath the moors, just as elmdale is. dad explained that he wanted to study the miracle plays at first hand, because the remnants of the language possessed by the old inhabitants were more helpful than grammars and oxford translations." "your mother raised no difficulties about the change of residence?" "not the least. in a way, it was rather agreeable, both to mother and me. here we saw very few people. in warleggan, where dad's pen-name, now his own legally, gave him some social standing, the county families called. we were richer, too, and could afford to entertain, which we never did while in elmdale." armathwaite passed a hand over his mouth and chin in a gesture of sheer bewilderment. "i still hold strongly to the opinion that you should send for mrs. ogilvey," he said, striving to cloak the motive underlying the suggestion, since he was assured now that the half-forgotten tragedy of the grange would speedily burst into a new and sinister prominence in far-off warleggan. "if she were here she could direct my efforts to choke off inquirers. we may be acting quite mistakenly. she knows everything--i am convinced of that--and her appearance would, in itself, serve to put matters on a more normal basis." marguérite sprang to her feet. her fine eyes blazed with uncontrollable excitement, and her voice held a ring of defiance. "if my mother ought to come, why not my father?" she cried vehemently. "i know what you are thinking, but dare not say. you believe my father is a murderer? is that it? you imagine that a man who would not wilfully harm a fly is capable of committing a dreadful crime and shielding himself under the assumption that he took his own life?" "isn't that rather unjust of you?" said armathwaite. "i'm not considering the justice or injustice of my words now. i am defending one whom i love. i----" she choked, and buried her face in her hands. bitterly aware that he was only adding to her woes, he nerved himself for the ungracious task. "you are trying, like myself, to explain a set of extraordinary circumstances," he said. "woman-like, you do not scruple to place on my shoulders the burden of your own vague suspicions. i am not so greatly concerned as you seem to imagine because of the possibility that your father may have killed someone. unhappily, i myself have killed several men, in fair fight, and in the service of my country, but there is no blood-guiltiness on my conscience. before i venture to describe any man as a murderer, i want to know whom he killed, and why." he made this amazing statement with the calm air of a sportsman contrasting the "bags" of rival grouse moors. even in her bitter distress the girl was constrained to gaze at him in wonderment. "you think that the taking of human life may be justifiable?" she gasped. "naturally. if not, why do we honor great soldiers with pensions and peerages?" "but that is in warfare, when nations are struggling for what they conceive to be their rights." "sometimes. the hardest tussle i was ever engaged in dealt with no more sacred trust than the safe-guarding of half a dozen bullocks. certain fierce-whiskered scoundrels swore by the prophet that they would rieve those cattle, and perhaps a rifle or two, with a collection of women's ornaments as a side line, while i was equally resolved that the lawful possessors thereof should not be harried. fifteen men died in five minutes before the matter was settled in accordance with my wishes, and i accounted for three of them. i am not boasting of the achievement. it was a disagreeable necessity. i tell you of it now merely to dissipate any notion you may have formed as to my squeamishness in looking unpleasant facts squarely in the face. a man died here two years ago, and it would be sheer folly to pretend that your father knew nothing about it. i believe you will find that the dead man not only wore mr. garth's clothes, but bore such a close facial and physical resemblance to him that people who had known him half a lifetime were deceived. then, there is the letter read by the coroner. i take it for granted that it was in your father's handwriting. if these things are true, and common sense tells me that we ought to go on that assumption, and on no other, mr. garth will surely be called upon to explain why he endeavored to hoodwink the authorities. if he comes here within the next few days he will certainly be arrested. that is why i ask you to send for your mother. everything points to the belief that she knows why you left elmdale. i reject the legacy theory _in toto_. by a strange coincidence, your parents may have had some money left to them by will about that time. if so, they merely took advantage of the fortunate chance which enabled them to explain the change of name without any violent wrenching of the probabilities. one word more to define my own position in this matter. i don't care tuppence whether or not your father killed anyone, or why. my sole concern is for you. i am responsible for the whole wretched muddle. had i not gratified an impish taste for ferreting out mysteries, i would have allowed betty jackson to smuggle you out of the house yesterday. had i obeyed the conventions--those shackles on the wayward-minded devised by generations of careful mammas--i would have bundled you off last night, or, if common charity forbade, sent you away at daybreak. then, nothing would have happened, except that i should be burdened with a secret, no new thing in _my_ life. now, will you send for mrs. ogilvey?" "no," came the instant reply. "despite mr. percy whittaker's warning, will you trust me so far as to explain your reason for refusing?" "what do you mean by 'percy whittaker's warning'? i have told you nothing of what he said." "i understand the type of man. he could no more refrain from suggesting that i was actuated by some underhanded motive than a flea-ridden dog from scratching." "please, don't pick a quarrel with percy on my account," she pleaded tearfully. "on your account i shall suffer percy, even though he bray me in a mortar." "well, then, i'm--i'm sorry if i turned on you a little while ago. i apologize. you are really the only one i can appeal to for help at this moment. it was just because i felt the truth of all that you have said that i tried to force the same confession from you. heaven help me, i am compelled to believe that my poor father got himself involved in some dreadful crime. it will all come out now. if the police get hold of him he will be put in prison. i must save him. never did daughter love a father more than i love mine, and i'll sacrifice everything, reputation, happiness, even life itself, for his sake. and that is why my mother must not come here. i shall remain, and she will stay in cornwall so as to safeguard him, if need be. you have no idea what an innocent he is in worldly affairs. if--if he had to escape--to get away from some foreign country--he could never manage it without her assistance. don't you see, the decision must rest with me? i'll write to mother, and tell her what we know, and arrange some plan with her whereby dad will be able to avoid arrest. oh, i can't make things clearer, but you are so kind and nice that you will understand--and help! say you'll help, and i'll not cry any more--but be brave--and confident!" while uttering that broken appeal she had come near, and a timid hand now rested on his shoulder. he looked down into her swimming eyes and saw there the perfect faith of a child. never was man more tempted to take a woman in his arms and kiss away her fears than was robert armathwaite at that instant, but he recoiled from the notion as though a snake had reared its basilisk head from out of a bed of sweet-scented flowers. nevertheless, he placed his hands on her shoulders, and now his left arm was entwined with her right arm, and they stood there in unconsciously lover-like pose. "i'm glad you said that, little girl," he said quietly. "i shall not disappoint you, depend on that. if we have to break every statute therein made and provided, we'll save your father from the consequences of his own blundering or wrong-doing. now, leave everything to me. if strangers, other than the police, ask you questions, refer them to your 'cousin.' remember, you know nothing and can tell nothing as to bygone events, while you can say, if a demand is made for your father's present address, that i have advised you not to supply it. we must not appear to be actually defying the authorities. our rôle is one of blank ignorance, combined with a pardonable curiosity to discover what all the fuss is about. i must not figure as a hindrance to inquiry, but merely as a distant relative who objects to your being bothered by a matter of which you, at least, have no knowledge. now, one thing more--i want to see your father's handwriting. will you give me the envelope which contained his letter?" "better still," said marguérite, drying her eyes with a scrap of lace which was supposed to be a pocket-handkerchief, "i'll give you the letter itself. you'll find it a highly incriminating document." to reach the letter, which she had tucked into a waistbelt, she had to withdraw the other hand from armathwaite's shoulder. he had no excuse to hold her any longer in that protecting way, and his own hands fell. suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he became aware that percy whittaker was gazing at them through the window. his first impulse was to tell his companion of this covert espionage, for it was nothing less. the two were talking in the drawing-room, so whittaker had purposely walked past the porch in order to look in at them. then he decided that the girl had worries in plenty without embroiling her with one who was admittedly an admirer, so he indulged in a little bit of acting on his own account. when she produced the letter, he turned his back on the window, ostensibly to obtain a better light, and, at the same time, drew slightly to one side. the handwriting was scholarly but curiously legible, betraying the habit of a dabbler in strange words who printed rather than wrote, lest some playful compositor should invent a new and confounding philology. the text certainly afforded a weird commentary on the circumstances which laid at the writer's door responsibility for an audacious crime. it ran: "my darling meg,--chester has been a bookish city since the days of julius cæsar. i have small doubt, if one dug deep in its foundations, one would come across an original manuscript in j. c.'s own fist. i would impose a lighter task, however. rummage one or two old bookshops, and get me wentworth webster's 'basque legends,' published in london in 1877 and 1879. i am hungering for it. find it quickly, and come home. i need your sharp eyes.--yours ever, "dad." marguérite watched armathwaite's face while he read. "enough to hang anybody, isn't it?" she cried, with dolorous effort to speak in lighter vein. "may i retain this? i shall take good care of it." "keep it as a souvenir. the identical book is lying on the library table." yet her mobile face clouded again, since it could not be denied that her father knew well that the book was in the elmdale house, and was deliberately ignoring its existence there. armathwaite affected to look through the window. "hullo!" he said. "whittaker has come back." whittaker, standing sideways, seemingly discovered them simultaneously. he came in. "thompson speaks a language of his own," he drawled; "but the dispatch of a boy on a bicycle, and the resultant charge of three shillings, gave color to my belief that he understood the meaning of 'telegram.' otherwise, his remarks were gibberish." "percy," said marguérite gravely, "mr. armathwaite and i have had a serious talk while you were out. he advised me to send for my mother, but, for various reasons, i have decided to fight this battle myself, with your aid, and mr. armathwaite's, of course." whittaker hesitated perceptibly before he spoke again. like all neurotics, he had to flog himself into decision. "i fully expected something of the sort, meg," he said at last. "as i don't approve of the present state of affairs, i took it on myself to ask edie to wire mrs. ogilvey, bidding her travel north by the next train." "you didn't dare!" breathed the girl, whose very lips whitened with consternation. "oh, yes, i dared all right! a fellow must assert himself occasionally, you know. i can see plainly that you intend remaining in elmdale till the mystery you have tumbled into is cleared up. in that case, your mother is the right person to take hold of the situation. you'll be vexed with me, no doubt, and tell me that i had no business to interfere, but i've thought this thing out, and i'm backing my judgment against yours. in a week, or less, you'll thank me. see if you don't." "i shall never forgive you while i have breath in my body," she said, speaking with a slow laboriousness that revealed the tension of her feelings far more than the mere words. "i was sure you'd say that, and must put up with it for the time being. anyhow, the thing is beyond our control now, and you know edie well enough to guess that she'll do as i tell her." "what did you tell her? i have a right to ask." "i kept a copy of the message," he said with seeming nonchalance. "i'll read it: 'meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death which occurred in grange two years ago. telegraph her mother at once, and recommend immediate journey to elmdale.' unless i'm greatly mistaken, that will bring mrs. ogilvey here without delay, especially when edie adds her own comments." marguérite sank into a chair. her sky had fallen. she was too unnerved now to find relief even in tears. she continued to glower at whittaker as though he had become some fearsome and abhorrent object. evidently, however, he had steeled himself against some such attitude on her part. "don't forget there's two to one in this argument, meg," he said, sitting down and producing a cigarette. "since mr. armathwaite has elected to be your champion after a very brief acquaintance, i must point out that, by your own admission, he recommended the same thing. the only difference is that while he talked i acted." for a little time there was silence. whittaker, brazening the thing out, lighted the cigarette. armathwaite, unable to indulge the impulse which suggested the one effective way in which this decadent half-breed could be restrained from future interference, could not trust himself to speak. as for the girl, she seemed to be tongue-tied, but her laboring breath gave eloquent testimony of surcharged emotions. finally, wishing to ease the strain, armathwaite glanced at his watch. the time was a few minutes after seven. "i'm going into the village," he said. "i believe the dinner hour is 7:30, but i may not return till much later, so you might kindly tell betty that i shall forage for myself when i come in." "don't leave me, bob," came the despairing cry. "i can't bear to be left alone to-night." "very well," he said, yielding instantly to that heart-felt appeal. "i'll entrust my business to a deputy. look for me in ten minutes." he went out. the two in the room heard the front door close, and followed his firm tread as he strode to the gate. then marguérite rose, and flung wide a window, and her sorrow-laden eyes dwelt unseeing on the far horizon. she stood there, motionless, until whittaker stirred fretfully. "look here, meg," he began, but was promptly stricken into silence again. starting at the sound of his voice as though she had heard a serpent's hiss, the girl hurried away without a word, obviously making for the solitude of her own apartment. he lighted another cigarette. "by gad!" he cackled to himself, apparently extracting amusement from a situation in which the majority of men would have found small cause for humor, "i've stopped those two from billing and cooing, or my name ain't percy. i can't stomach that big chap, and that's a fact. he's just the sort of fellow a girl might lose her head over, but i've put a spoke in his wheel by bringing ma on the scene. now i must sit tight, and play naughty little boy in the corner till she arrives. after that, i'll make it my business to shunt pa into some climate better suited for his particular complaint. maybe i shan't figure so badly in meg's estimation when she realizes that i did some hard thinking while the other johnny was making eyes at her. i've been looking for some sort of an explosion in this quarter ever since i read of the suicide of stephen garth at the grange, elmdale. i thought then there was something fishy going on, and i was jolly well not mistaken. if i hadn't been such a dashed fool as to tramp over that confounded moor i'd have been here hours sooner. but all's well that ends well, and this affair shan't slip out of my grip if i can help it." he had chosen a strange way in which to woo a maid, but there is no accounting for the vagaries of a warped mind, and percy whittaker was a true degenerate, one of those physically weak and mentally perverted beings "in whose cold blood no spark of honor bides." yet, even his sluggish pulses could be stirred. the house which had witnessed strange scenes played by stronger actors might be trusted to deal sternly with this popinjay. he got his first taste of its quality before he was an hour older. chapter ix showing the real strength of an illusion armathwaite went straight to farmer burt's house. he reasoned that burt would be a likely possessor of a smart cob, and that among the farm hands would exist at least one boy of sufficient intelligence to carry through a simple commission without error. he was lucky in finding the farmer at home, watering his stock before completing the hay-making operations. in the bleak north the agriculturist wastes no time when the weather is propitious. if need be, burt and his men would work till nearly midnight, and feel well pleased if thereby the last rick of dry, sweet-smelling hay was covered with a tarpaulin. explanation, backed by ample payment, produced both the boy and the cob. in the result, the following telegram was handed in at bellerby post-office ten minutes before the closing hour of eight: "postmaster, york,--kindly give this telegram and accompanying ten pounds to proprietor of principal garage in york. i want to hire powerful and reliable car with experienced chauffeur for one week at least. will pay full rates on condition that car reaches me by noon to-morrow, friday. chauffeur should bring ample supply of petrol, as none available here. i send ten pounds as guarantee for order, and will remit balance of first week's charge in accordance with instructions conveyed by chauffeur. owner of car will oblige by telegraphing acceptance of offer, with name and address, early to-morrow, paying porterage, which will be refunded.--armathwaite, the grange, elmdale, viâ bellerby." it was a singular fact that the really effective means of burking inquiry by the local authorities only occurred to armathwaite's perplexed brain as he was hurrying back to the grange. when all was said and done, who in elmdale actually knew that the erstwhile stephen garth was living? his daughter and percy whittaker! he, armathwaite, could not even be certain that whittaker had ever seen the man. well, then, marguérite had only to vow that her earlier statement was a sheer invention, a species of joke inspired by the worst possible taste--and stephen garth would rest quietly in his grave! the pretense left the mystery insoluble as ever where the girl herself was concerned, but that phase of the difficulty might be dealt with in the privacy of her own home. the chief draw-back--an official inquiry, with its far-reaching developments--would be surmounted. the jacksons might be trusted to forget everything they had heard that day. there remained james walker. well, his evidence was discredited at the outset. armathwaite himself would be a most convincing witness against walker. it would be easy to show that the pushful and amorous youth who had bluffed his way into the house in order to insult a lady who would have nothing to do with him, and was forcibly ejected by the new tenant, had fallen into a singular and most amazing blunder when he said that marguérite garth had told him that her father was still alive. the more armathwaite reviewed this possible way out of a really threatening situation the more he liked it. the surprising thing was that he had not thought of it sooner. even percy whittaker's confounded impertinence in telegraphing to his sister was robbed of its sting. suppose the police got wind of the message, they would make little of it. how did it run? "meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death which occurred in grange two years ago." it was awkwardly phrased, perhaps, but was capable of explanation. she was "disturbed" by the "rumors." what rumors? not that her father was not dead, but that some other man had died and been buried in his place! who had spread the rumors? why, walker himself! had he not jeered at marguérite, and endeavored to palliate his offense by repeating the absurd tittle-tattle to the man who had kicked him out of the house? thin ice, this; but it might bear if not pressed unduly. by rare luck whittaker had asked his sister to communicate with the girl's mother. there was no reference to her father. in effect, a friend of long standing had recognized the fact that she had only one parent left. armathwaite was bothered by no scruples in this matter. he had promised marguérite ogilvey his help in her efforts to safeguard the father whom she held so dear, and he would fulfill his bond to the letter. personally, he ran no risk. his acquaintance with elmdale and its strange tragedy was only a day old. as for marguérite herself, no jury in the land would punish a daughter who lied to protect her own father. there remained percy whittaker. what crooked line would that curiously-constituted youth take? he could be bribed into acquiescence; but what terms would he exact? armathwaite felt a certain tightening of his lips when he answered his own question. at any rate, the vitally important thing now was to gain time, and he was confident that a bold front would carry a most attractive and winsome girl past the dangers of the morrow. oddly enough, as he neared the grange, the old house itself seemed to smile at him in a friendly and encouraging way. the setting sun lent warmth to its gray walls and glinted cheerfully from its windows. one pane of glass in particular--probably because it had a slightly convex surface--a pane in one of the windows of meg's bedroom, winked continuously as his body swayed with each onward stride. it might have been saying: "leave it to me! leave it to me! i've watched ten generations of men and women passing beneath, and i know how gently time deals with humanity's sorrows." the idea so obsessed him that he loitered inside the gate, and glanced up to see if, by any chance, marguérite might be in the room and have noticed his approach. yes, she was there! she threw open the window, which, in view of what happened within the next half-minute, moved upward with a noiseless ease that was absolutely uncanny. "dinner is just coming in," she said. "betty has put some hot water in your bedroom, the one opposite this, and you must hurry over your toilet." "i also have good news," he answered gayly. "i've hit on a plan that should rout the enemy." "which enemy?" she asked in a lower tone. "the powers that be," and he waved a comprehensive arm to indicate the world at large. "by putting back the clock twenty-four hours we defeat every sort of combination that can take the field against us. i'll propound the scheme at dinner, so prepare to feast with a light heart." with expressive pantomime she inquired if percy whittaker was to share their council, and he replied with a nod. he was loth to deprive his eyes of the perfect picture she offered there, with her elbows resting on the window-sill, her head and shoulders set, as it were, in a frame, and the last rays of the sun brightening her pallid cheeks and weaving strands of spun gold in her brown hair. but the summons from the kitchen was not to be flouted, so he made for the door. it will be remembered that the hall was lighted directly from the upper part of the front door, and the stained-glass window on the half-landing of the stairs. indirectly, its gloom could be dissipated by any one of three interior doors, but all of them happened to be closed. thus, when armathwaite's tall figure appeared in the porch, it effectually withdrew the light gained through the glass in the front door until the door itself was opened. he had his hand on the handle when he heard a most weird groaning and shrieking caused by the closing of the bedroom window. practically in the same instant he caught an affrighted yell from inside the house, and some one shot violently down the stairs and into the hall, falling in a huddled heap on the floor. armathwaite had the door open in a second, and found percy whittaker lying at the foot of the stairs, while marguérite's voice came in a cry of alarm: "what is it? what has happened? percy, is that you?" by that time armathwaite had partly raised the fallen man, who did not seem to have an atom of breath left in his body. mrs. jackson, too, came from the kitchen with a lamp, and marguérite appeared on the stairs. "what's the matter?" she cried again. "did percy fall? is he hurt?" "i imagine he missed his footing on the stairs," said armathwaite coolly. "at any rate, he struck the floor with such a thump that he is winded.... now, old chap, pull yourself together! can't you stand? shall i carry you to a chair?" in a dazed way whittaker endeavored to stand upright. at once he uttered a croak of agony, and would have collapsed once more if armathwaite were not supporting him. "by jove!" exclaimed the other, "i'm afraid he is more damaged than i thought. show a light here, mrs. jackson. now, go ahead, and open the door of mr. whittaker's room if it is closed. i'll take him there, and find out the extent of the mischief." even in the confusion of the moment armathwaite noticed that percy was gazing at the wall near the clock with the distended eyes of fear. mrs. jackson saw it, too, and with the outspokenness of her class, did not hesitate to put her thought into words. "eh, my, but t' poor young man'll hae seen t' ghost," she cried. "i--i saw some spook," muttered whittaker weakly. "where is it? what was it? i'm sure i saw something." "go upstairs," armathwaite commanded mrs. jackson angrily. "or, better still, hand the lamp to miss meg, and stop talking nonsense." quickly he had whittaker stretched on a bed, and soon ascertained that the trouble, whatever it might be, lay in the right ankle. the sufferer had taken off the patent-leather boots, and was wearing felt slippers, so examination of his injury was no difficult matter. armathwaite, evidently no novice in such emergencies, shook his head when whittaker flinched or cried aloud in pain if a tendon was touched or an effort made to twist the foot slightly. "put that lamp down," he said to mrs. jackson, "and bring me a basin of cold water. you, meg," he went on, "might tear a sheet, or any piece of strong linen, into strips about three inches wide. be as quick as you can, please! every minute saved now may mean a week afterwards." "what's gone wrong?" whispered whittaker, when the women had flown. "is it a smash?" "no, thank goodness! you'd not get over a broken ankle in a hurry. but you've collected a very nasty sprain, and possibly lacerated some ligaments as well. fortunately, i know what to do before the joint has time to swell. how in the world did you contrive to pitch downstairs? the steps are broad, and the grade less than the average." "i--i didn't fall. that is, i mean i didn't trip or stumble over anything. i saw that thing--the ghost--and simply crumpled up. i think i must have nearly fainted." "but, my dear fellow, what you took for a ghost was merely the reflection of a painted figure in a stained-glass window." "it was more than that. i'm not quite a fool. i never saw anything so ghastly in my life. didn't you say that the man was found hanging in the hall near the clock? well, i saw him, i tell you. i had turned the corner of the stairs when suddenly the beastly thing loomed up right in front of my eyes. then it groaned most horribly. i couldn't be mistaken. i was thinking of nothing of the sort. in fact, i was wondering whether meg would take a sensible view of things, and agree that i did right in getting edie to send for her mater. then that cursed vision appeared. if i didn't see it i'm going dotty. why, i felt my hair rising, and i dropped as though i'd been shot." "of course, i can't convince you now," said armathwaite, "but when you are able to get about again i'll show you just what happened." "get about again? you don't mean to say i'm crocked for any length of time?" "for a day or two, at least," came the diplomatic assurance. "as soon as i've tied a rough bandage we'll send for a doctor, and he will be able to give you a definite opinion." whittaker groaned, and his eyelids closed wearily over the gray-green eyes. "oh, d----n this house!" he muttered. "it's bewitched! why the devil did i ever come here?" armathwaite bound the injured limb tightly, and enjoined on whittaker the necessity of remaining prone till a doctor arrived. there was little call for any such insistence. the unfortunate percy was suffering enough pain already without adding to it by movement. he was persuaded to drink some milk, but the mere raising of his head to put a glass to his lips caused exquisite torture. then armathwaite left him, meaning to appeal to farmer burt for further assistance. dinner was not to be thought of until a messenger was sent to dr. scaife, at bellerby, and meg and mrs. jackson remained with whittaker in the meantime. while descending the stairs, armathwaite gave special heed to the shadow cast by the window. it was dimly visible, but it seemed almost unbelievable that any person of ordinary intelligence could mistake it for a ghostly manifestation. suddenly a thought struck him, and he summoned betty jackson. "would you mind walking to the front door and standing close to it, so as to block the light which enters through the upper portion?" he said when she came. wondering what he was driving at, she obeyed. then the true cause of whittaker's fright was revealed. the natural light through the plain glass of the door nearly overcame the weaker rays which filtered through the colored panes, but, as soon as the doorway was blocked, the figure of the black prince leaped into a prominence that was almost astounding, even to one who looked for some such development. the artist who had fashioned the window had followed the canons of medieval art. the armored knight, whose face gleamed palely through a raised visor, was poised as though standing on tip-toe, and a rib of the window rose straightly above his head. thus, the reflection on the wall bore a most striking resemblance to a man hanging from the hook in the china shelf, while the sinister shadow deepened markedly when light was excluded from the only other source. the discovery of this simple fact not only explained the apparition which had sent percy whittaker headlong down the stairs, but also showed why gaping rustics could terrify themselves at will. the closer they peered the more visible became the "ghost." even betty understood what was happening, though she had not heard the orchestral effect of the complaining window-sash. "mercy on us!" she whispered in a scared way. "who'd ever ha' thought of the like of that? you must have bin comin' in, sir, the very minnit the poor young gentleman put foot on the second flight o' steps, an' that thing just lepped at him." "between us, at any rate, we have laid the ghost, betty," said armathwaite. "if mr. whittaker complains of increased pain while i am out, tell your mother or miss meg to pour cold water over the bandage. that will give him relief. perhaps, later, warm fomentations may be required, but he is all right now till the doctor sees him." as he walked a second time to burt's farm-house, his mind dwelt on the singular coincidence that produced the shadow on the wall about the very anniversary of the suicide--or murder--which had vexed the peace of elmdale two years ago. to one who was wont to relieve the long nights of duty in an indian frontier station by a good deal of varied scientific reading, the mystery of the vision in the grange was dissipated as soon as it was understood. its occurrence was possible only during a few evenings before and after the summer solstice, when the sun had traveled farthest north in the northern hemisphere. its duration was limited to ten minutes at the utmost, because the sun sinks rapidly when nearing the horizon, and the specter's visits were further curtailed by clouds, since strong sunlight and a clear sky were indispensable conditions to its appearance. but, without posing as an authority on stained glass, armathwaite was convinced that the window which had produced this disturbing phenomenon was not modern. the elder walker had spoken of the grange as a "seventeenth-century dwelling," and there was every likelihood that the painted effigy of the hero of crecy had been installed by the original builder, who might have cherished the belief that he was a descendant of the gallant edward and the fair maid of kent. if that was so, the "ghost" has existed, not two junes, but nearer three hundred, and must have been observed and commented upon countless times. it was odd that marguérite ogilvey had not mentioned the fact specifically. it was still more odd that a man should have been found hanged in that exact spot. somehow, armathwaite thrilled with a sense of discovery when that phase of the problem dawned on him. he was still turning it over in his thoughts when he reached burt's farm. here he was again fortunate. some chance had kept the farmer at home, and, although the latter had neither man nor horse to spare for a second journey to bellerby, he dispatched a messenger to a laborer in the village who owned a bicycle, and was always ready to ride the six miles for half a crown. armathwaite, of course, had told burt of the accident, and the farmer shook his head sapiently when he heard its cause. "ay!" he said. "if i owned yon place i'd rive that window out by t' roots. it's done a fair share of mischief in its time--it has, an' all!" "do you mean that it has been responsible for other mishaps?" was the natural query. "yes, sir; three in my time, an' i'm the right side o' sixty yet." "what were they?" "i don't remember t' first, because i was nobbut a little 'un, but i've heerd my faither tell on 't. some folk o' t' neäm o' faulkner lived there then, an' one o' their gells, who'd married a man called ogilvey, i think, kem yam (came home) to have her first bairn where her mother could look after her. this mrs. ogilvey must h' known t' hoos an' its ways well enough, but yon spook gev her a bad start one evenin', for all that, an' her bairn was born afore time, and she nearly lost her life." "are you sure the name was ogilvey?" broke in armathwaite. "oh, ay! i mind it well, because i've got a dictionary in t' hoose by a man o't same neäm." "what became of this mrs. ogilvey?" "by gum, she cleared off as soon as she and t' youngster could get into a carriage, an' never showed her nose i' elmdale again. owd faulkner took te drink in his last years, an' had a notion that he and the black prince could finish a bottle of wine together. one night he was suppin' his share as usual on t' stairs, an' he fell backwards over, an' bruk his neck. then there was poor mr. garth's case, which ye'll hae heerd aboot, mebbe?" "yes, i've heard of it," said armathwaite. "how did mr. garth come into the property?" "i don't rightly ken, but folk said it was through yan (one) o' faulkner's married daughters. gosh! he might ha' bin yon bairn. but, no! his neäm 'ud be ogilvey then." "were you ever told why the window should be erected in memory of the black prince?" "ay; the story is that the man who dug the first sod out o' the foundations broke ground on the fifteenth o' june, an' some larned owd codger said the fifteenth was t' black prince's birthday." "it seems to be rather a slight excuse for such an elaborate window." burt looked around cautiously, lest he should be overheard. "there was queer folk livin' when that hoos was built," he muttered. "happen there's more 'n one sort o' black prince. i'm thinking meself that mebbe some rascal of a pirate had owd nick in his mind when he planned yon article." armathwaite laughed. he was aware that a belief in witchcraft still lingered in these remote yorkshire dales, but he was not prepared to find traces of devil-worship so far afield. "it's a very interesting matter," he said, "and, when i've got the invalid off my hands, i'll inquire further into the historical side of it. you see, the style of coloring and craftsmanship should enable an expert to date the window within very few years of its actual period. ah, here's your man! i hope he found the bicyclist at home?" assurance on that head was soon forthcoming. armathwaite returned to the grange, and, while going to whittaker's room, he glanced curiously at the wall near the clock. though a sufficiency of light still came through the window, and the mellow colors in a vignette border were surprisingly bright, there was not the slightest semblance of an apparition in the hall. but, such was the force of suggestion, after burt's hint at bygone practice of the black arts within those ancient walls, he found now that the face framed in the open visor was cadaverous in the extreme, and had a sinister and repellent aspect. cynic though he was in some respects, as he mounted the creaking stairs, he wondered. chapter x armathwaite states a case after endeavoring, with no marked success, to console a fretful invalid with promises of alleviation of his sufferings by a skilled hand--promises made with the best of intent, though doomed to disappointment, because the immediate use of a tight bandage was precisely the treatment which any doctor would have recommended--armathwaite joined marguérite in a belated meal. the spirit of an infuriated cook must have raged in mrs. jackson's breast when she bade betty "tell 'em to mak' the best of it, because everything is spiled." nevertheless, they dined well, since yorkshire love of good fare would not permit a real _débâcle_ among the eatables. marguérite was utterly downcast when armathwaite informed her that percy whittaker would be lucky if he could trust his weight on the injured ankle within the next month. "what a load of misfortune i carried with me yesterday over the moor!" she cried bitterly. "yet, how could i foresee that an interfering woman like edith suarez would send percy hotfoot in pursuit?" "i have formed a hazy idea of mrs. suarez from various remarks dropped by her brother and you," said armathwaite. "if it is correct in the least particular, i am surprised that she ever let you leave chester on such an errand." "she didn't. i came away without her knowledge!" "ah!" "you needn't say 'ah!' in that disapproving way. why shouldn't i visit elmdale and this house if i wanted to?" "you have quite failed to understand my exclamation. it was an involuntary tribute to my own powers." "if you mean that edith is a cat, i agree with you. when she hears that percy has fallen downstairs and lamed himself, she won't believe a word of it. before we know where we are she will be here herself." "we have five bedrooms. the house will then be full," he said placidly. "five? oh! you include my mother in your reckoning. bob, don't you think i ought to telegraph early in the morning and tell her not to come?" "no. if you adopt the scheme i have evolved for the routing of all walkers and the like, the arrival of your mother will be the one thing requisite to insure its complete triumph." then he laid bare his project. stephen garth was dead and buried. let him remain so. mrs. ogilvey herself would be the first to approve of any fair means which would save her husband from the probing and prying of the police. there was always the probability that he was innocent of any crime. even if, from the common-sense point of view, they must assume that he knew of the ghastly secret which the house could reveal sooner or later, it did not necessarily follow that such cognizance was a guilty one. thus did armathwaite juggle with words, until his hearer was convinced that he could secure her a respite from the tribulations of the morrow, at least, though the graver problem would remain to vex the future. they were yet talking earnestly when the iron hasp of the gate clicked in its socket. "dr. scaife!" cried marguérite, rising hurriedly. then she bethought herself. "i suppose it doesn't really matter now who sees me," she added, "and i should so much like to meet him. he is one of our oldest friends in yorkshire." "meet him, by all means; but don't forget your new rôle. in fact, it would be well if you rehearsed it at once. the doctor will be a valuable factor in the undoing of walker." the bell rang. armathwaite himself went to the door. a slightly-built, elderly man, wearing a bowler hat and an overcoat, was standing there. in the lane beyond the gate gleamed the lamps of a dog-cart, and a groom was holding the horse's head. "i'm doctor scaife," announced the newcomer. "i'm told you have had an accident of some sort here!" "yes," said armathwaite. "come in, doctor! you've probably heard my name--armathwaite. i've just rented this place for the summer, and a young friend of mine, who arrived unexpectedly to-day, had the ill-luck to slip on the stairs and sprain his ankle. i've done what i could by way of first-aid. i hope you received my message correctly?" "about the india-rubber bandage, do you mean? yes, i've brought one. lucky your man caught me. i was just starting for another village; but i can make the call on my way home. where is the patient?" at that minute the doctor set eyes on marguérite, who had come to the door of the dining-room. her face was in shadow, because the lamp on the table was directly behind her. "well, uncle ferdie, you dear old thing--don't you know me?" she cried. dr. scaife was not a man of demonstrative habit; but, for once in his life, he literally gasped with surprise. "meg!" he stammered. "my own little meg!" he grasped her hands in both of his. a dozen questions were hovering on his lips, yet all he could find to say was: "is mrs. garth here, too?" "no; mother comes to-morrow, or next day at latest." "you intend remaining, i hope?" "well, our movements are rather erratic, but we shall have several opportunities of meeting you before we go." betty appeared, carrying a lamp, which she set on a bracket at the corner of the stairs. scaife, still holding meg's hand, drew her to the light. "come here!" he said. "let me have a good look at you. prettier than ever, 'pon me soul! and how is your dear mother? where have you buried yourself all this time? how long is it? two years! never a line to a forlorn uncle, even at christmas! i shan't forgive you to-morrow, but i'm so pleased to see you to-night that at present i'll forget your neglect." "uncle ferdie, it was not my fault. mother couldn't bear me to mention elmdale or any of its associations." "ah, of course! of course! but time is the great healer. i'll pray for continued fine weather, so that her beloved moor may smile on her arrival. well, well! i feel as though i had seen--er--seen a fairy. mind you don't vanish before i come downstairs. i'm ready now, mr. armathwaite." the worthy doctor had nearly blundered, but he had executed what americans call a "side-step" neatly enough. armathwaite smiled at the girl. she had passed this initial test with honors. a couple more such experiences, and james walker would be flouted as a mischievous fool if he talked of stephen garth being alive. as he piloted the doctor upstairs, armathwaite glanced at the window of ill-omen. the light of the lamp had conquered the external gloaming. the leaded divisions of colored glass were apparently of one uniform tint. even the somber figure in black armor had lost its predominance. whittaker, who was lying on his back, tried to turn when the two men entered his bedroom. he groaned, and said querulously: "couldn't you have got here sooner, doctor? i'm suffering the worst sort of agony. this confounded ankle of mine must have been tied up all wrong." "we'll soon put that right," said scaife, with professional cheerfulness. "will you hold the lamp, mr. armathwaite, while i have a look? what time did the accident happen?" "exactly at half-past seven," said armathwaite. the doctor consulted his watch. "oh, come now, you're really very fortunate, mr.----" "whittaker," put in armathwaite. "ah, yes! did you mention the name? the mere sight of meg garth drove everything else from my mind. but it's only a quarter to nine, mr. whittaker, and a messenger had to reach me at bellerby, three miles away. hello, who tied this bandage? you, mr. armathwaite? have you had hospital training?" "no; nothing beyond the rough and ready ways of a camp. a friend in the indian medical certainly taught me how to adjust a strip of lint." "you shouldn't grumble, young man; you've been looked after in first-class style," said the doctor, smiling at percy. "it may relieve your mind if i tell you that i couldn't have done any better myself. or, perhaps, if the pain is very bad, you'll think that the poorest sort of consolation. fortunately, mr. armathwaite warned me as to what had happened, so i've brought a lotion which will give you some relief. now, tell me when i touch a sore place. i shan't hurt you more than is needed to find out exactly where the trouble lies." in a few minutes scaife had reached the same conclusion as armathwaite. indeed, he gave the latter a look which was easily understandable. if it were not for the moral effect of his presence on the sufferer, he need not have been summoned from bellerby that night. he applied the soothing lotion, however, and substituted a thin, india-rubber strip for the linen bandage. then he and armathwaite assisted whittaker to undress, and placed him in bed as comfortably as possible. "now, i want to assure you that the prompt attention you received prevented a very awkward swelling," said the doctor, before taking his departure. "you've sprained that ankle rather badly. if it had been allowed to swell it would have given you a very nasty time. as it is, if you're careful, you'll be able to hobble about in a fortnight." "a fortnight!" whittaker almost shrieked. "i can't lie here a fortnight!" "whether you remain here or not, you'll be lucky if you can put that foot on the ground within that time. you may be moved, if you're carried, though i don't advise it." "but it's perfect rot to talk about being stewed up in this room all that time," protested the other, his eyes gleaming yellow, and his fingers plucking nervously at the bed-clothes. "this isn't my house. i'm a stranger here. besides, there are things i must do. i have to be up and about to-morrow, without fail." dr. scaife nodded. he was far too wise a person to argue with an excited patient. "well, wait till i examine you in the morning," he said. "sometimes, injuries of the sprain order yield very rapidly to treatment. take this, and you'll have a night's rest, at any rate." he shook some crystals out of a small bottle into a little water, and watched whittaker drinking the decoction. "lie quiet now," he went on soothingly. "you'll soon be asleep. if that bandage hurts when you wake, you must grin and bear it. i'll be here about ten o'clock." downstairs, he told armathwaite that he had given whittaker a stiff dose of bromide. "here's the bottle," he said. "if he's awake in half an hour's time, let him have a similar lot. don't be afraid. he can stand any amount of it." armathwaite smiled, and scaife smiled back at him. they understood, without further speech, that a youngster of pronounced neurotic temperament could withstand a quantity of the drug that would prove dangerous to the average man. "who is he?" continued the doctor. "i haven't seen him here before. is there any difficulty about his remaining in the grange?" "he is a friend of meg's," explained armathwaite. "she was staying with his sister at chester, and we all reached elmdale within a few hours of one another." thus was another pitfall safely skirted. by the time dr. scaife was in the dining-room and talking to meg, he had arrived at conclusions which were perfectly reasonable and thoroughly erroneous. in response to armathwaite, he promised to bring a nurse in the morning, as he was confident that the sprain would keep whittaker bed-ridden at least a couple of weeks. then he took his leave. "i'll go and sit with percy a little while now," said marguérite. "poor fellow! what a shame he should have met with this mishap after his gallant walk to-day. perhaps that is why he fell. his muscles may have relaxed owing to over-exertion. will you ever forgive me, bob, for all the worry i have caused you?" "no," he said. "i want you to remind me of it so often that we shall lose count of the number of times. but, before you go upstairs, let me warn you that dr. scaife gave our young friend about twenty grains of bromide in one gulp. he may be dozing. if he is, don't wake him." in a couple of minutes she was back in the library, where armathwaite was seated with a book and a pipe. "he's asleep," she whispered. "i'm glad to hear it. now, come and sit down. are you too tired to answer questions?" "try me." "concerning your change of name--can you explain more definitely how it came about?" "i told you. it was on account of a legacy." "but from whom? who was the ogilvey who left the money? a relative on your father's side, or your mother's?" "dad's, i understood." "did you ever hear of anyone named faulkner?" "yes. some people of that name lived here years ago. we were distantly related. in fact, that is how the property came into dad's possession. but he never really went into details. one day he said he had made a will, leaving me everything, subject to a life interest for mother, and that when he was dead a lawyer would tell me all that i ought to know. then i cried at the horrid thought that he would have to die at all, and he laughed at me, and that was the last i ever heard of it. why do you ask?" "you remember that we promised not to hide anything from one another?" "of course i remember." "well, then, i think i have hit on a sort of a clew to the ogilvey part of the mystery, at any rate. by the merest chance, while awaiting the return of mr. burt's man from the village, our talk turned on the history of this house. he spoke of the faulkners, and mentioned the fact that the eldest son of a daughter of the family, a mrs. ogilvey, was born here. that would be some fifty odd years ago. how old is your father?" "fifty-four." "the dates tally, at all events." meg knitted her brows over this cryptic remark. "but," she said, "if you imply that my father may be the son of a mrs. ogilvey, that would mean that his name never was garth." "exactly." "isn't such a guess rather improbable? i am twenty-two, and i was born in this very house, and i lived here twenty years except during school terms at brighton and in brussels, and we were known as garths during all that long time." armathwaite blew a big ring of smoke into the air, and darted a number of smaller rings through it. the pattern, beautifully distinct at first, was soon caught in a current from an open window, and eddied into shapelessness. he was thinking hard, and had acted unconsciously, so it was with a sense of surprise that he heard the girl laugh half-heartedly. "i've been forming mad and outrageous theories until my poor head aches," she said, answering the unspoken question in his eyes. "some of them begin by being just as perfectly proportioned as your smoke-rings, but they fade away in the next breath." "my present theory is nebulous enough," he admitted, "but it is not altogether demolished yet. can you endure a brief analysis of my thoughts? you won't be afraid, and lie awake for hours?" "no. i mean that i want to hear everything you wish to tell me." "the man who died here two years ago must have resembled your father in no common degree. dr. scaife is not the sort of person who makes a mistake in such a vital matter as the identification of a dead body, especially when the subject is an old and valued friend of his. by the way, you called him uncle, but that, i take it, was merely an affectionate mode of address dating from your childhood?" "yes. it's a yorkshire custom among intimates." "have you ever heard of a real uncle--your father's brother--or of a first cousin who was very like him?" "no. i have asked my people about relatives but we seemed to have none. even the ogilvey of the legacy was never mentioned by either of them until mother read me a letter from dad received while we were in paris." "exactly. this testamentary ogilvey appeared on the scene soon after stephen garth died and was buried. your father was well aware of that occurrence, because he contrived it. he knew that the man who died was coming here, so he sent your mother and you to paris to get you safely out of the way. now, don't begin to tremble, and frighten yourself into the belief that i am proving your father's guilt of some dreadful crime. you yourself are convinced that he is incapable of any such act. may i not share your good opinion of him, yet try to reach some sort of firm ground in a quagmire where a false step may prove disastrous? suppose, mr. garth, as he was called at that time, merely got rid of his wife and daughter until an unwelcome guest had been received and sent on his way again, and that fate, with the crassness it can display at times, contrived that the visitor died, or was killed, or committed suicide, at the most awkward moment it is possible to conceive, can you not imagine a hapless, middle-aged scholar availing himself of the most unlikely kind of expedient in order to escape a scandal? your father is a student, a writer, almost a recluse, yet such a man, driven suddenly into panic-stricken use of his wits, oft-times devises ways and means of humbugging the authorities which an ordinarily clever criminal would neither think of nor dare. i am insisting on this phase of the matter so that you and i may concentrate our intelligence on the line of inquiry most likely to yield results. let me tabulate my contentions in chronological sequence: _a._--mr. garth received some news which led him to disturb the peaceful conditions of life which had obtained during twenty years. his first care was to send his wife and daughter to a place far removed from elmdale. _b._--mrs. garth shared her husband's uneasiness, and agreed to fall in with the plan he had devised. _c._--in order to secure complete secrecy, the whole staff of servants was dismissed, practically at a moment's notice, and probably paid liberal compensation. _d._--after a week of this gradual obliteration of himself in elmdale, mr. garth is missed, with the inevitable outcome that his dead body is found hanging in the hall, and, lest there should be any doubt as to his identity, a letter is left for the coroner, in which he asserts a thing, which his friend, dr. scaife, knew to be untrue, namely, that he was suffering from incurable disease. the statement, conveyed otherwise than in a letter, would have been received with skepticism; it was made with the definite object of giving a reason for an apparent suicide, and leaving testimony, in his own handwriting, that the disfigured body could be that of no other person than stephen garth. if a general resemblance of the dead to the living did not suffice--if the wearing of certain clothes, and the finding of certain documents and trinkets, such as a watch and chain, for instance--" marguérite, who had been listening intently, could no longer restrain her excitement. "yes," she cried, "that is so correct that it is quite wonderful. my father had a half-hunter gold watch and a chain of twisted leather which he wore as long as i can remember. both had gone when he came to us in paris; when i missed them, and asked what had become of them, he said they were lost, much to his annoyance, and he had been obliged to buy a new watch in london." "there is nothing wonderful in treating a watch and chain as the first objects which would lead to a man's identification," said armathwaite. "now, don't let your admiration for the excessive wisdom of the court tempt you to interrupt again, because the court has not fully made up its own mind and is marshaling its views aloud in order to hear how they sound. where were we? still in section d, i think. well, granted that an obtuse policeman or a perplexed doctor refused to admit that stephen garth was dead, the letter would clinch the matter. indeed, from the report of the inquest, we see that it did achieve its purpose. the remaining heads of the argument may be set forth briefly: _e._--stephen garth is buried at bellerby, and stephen ogilvey steps into new life in paris, wearing a literary cloak already prepared by many years of patient industry, though no one in elmdale knew that its well-known resident was a famous writer on folk-lore. _f._--after some months of foreign travel, it was deemed safe to return to england, and cornwall was chosen as a place of residence. the connection between rural cornwall and rural yorkshire is almost as remote as the influence of mars on the earth. both belong to the same system, and there would be trouble if they became detached, but, otherwise, they move in different orbits; they have plenty of interests in common, but no active cohesion. in a word, stephen ogilvey ran little risk in cornwall of being recognized as stephen garth. _g._--mrs. ogilvey, a most estimable lady, and quite as unlikely as her scholar-husband to be associated with a crime, was a party to all these mysterious proceedings, and the combined object of husband and wife was to keep their daughter in ignorance of the facts for a time, at least, if not forever. "i don't think i need carry the demonstration any further to-night. you are not to retire to your room and sob yourself into a state of hysteria because your coming to elmdale has threatened with destruction an edifice of deceit built with such care and skill. i am beginning to recognize now a fatalistic element in the events of the past twenty-four hours that suggests the steady march of a greek tragedy to its predestined end. but the dramatic art has undergone many changes since the days of euripides. let's see if we cannot avail ourselves of modern methods, and keep the tragic _dénouement_ in the place where it has been put already, namely, in bellerby churchyard." the girl stood up, and gave him her hand. "i'm almost certain, bob, that if you and dad had five minutes' talk, there would be an end of the mystery," she said. "and a commencement of a long friendship, i hope," he said. their eyes met, and meg's steady gaze faltered for the first time. she almost ran out of the room, and armathwaite sat many minutes in utter stillness, looking through the window at the dark crest of the moor silhouetted against a star-lit sky. then he refilled his pipe, and picked up the book he had taken haphazard from the well-stored shelves of that curiously constituted person, stephen ogilvey. it was a solid tome, entitled: "scottish criminal trials," and lay side by side with "the golden bough," which marguérite had spoken of, and a german work, "geschichte des teufels." turning over the leaves, he found that someone had marked a passage with ink. the reference had been noted many years ago, because the marks were faded and brown, but the paragraph thus singled out had an extraordinary vivid bearing on the day's occurrences. it read: "a statute of james i., still in force, enacts that all persons invoking an evil spirit, or consulting, covenanting with, entertaining, employing, feeding or rewarding any evil spirit, shall be guilty of felony and suffer death." instantly there flitted before armathwaite's vision a picture of the besotted faulkner offering libations of wine to the black figure scowling from the stained-glass window. perhaps the old toper had been lifting his head in a final bumper when he fell backward down the stairs and broke his neck. armathwaite shut the book with a bang. when he went out, he found that betty had forgotten to leave a candle in the hall, and he must either go upstairs in the dark or carry with him the lamp still burning on its bracket. he glared steadily at the dull outline of the effigy in armor. "i'm not superstitious," he muttered, "but if i could have my own way with you, my beauty, i'd smash you into little bits!" then, to show his contempt for all ghouls and demons, he extinguished the lamp, and felt his way by holding the banisters. it was creepy work. once, he was aware of a curious contraction of the skin at the nape of his neck. he turned in a fury, and eyed the window. now that no light came from the hall, some of its color was restored, and certain blue and orange tints in the border were so perfect in tone that he was moved from resentment to admiration. "not for the first time in the history of art, the frame is better than the picture," he thought. "very well, you imp of darkness, some day, and soon, i hope, we'll dislodge you and keep your setting." he did not ask himself whom he included in that pronoun "we." there was no need. the mighty had fallen at last. he loved marguérite ogilvey, and would marry her if she would accept him though her parents had committed all the crimes in the calendar, and her ancestors were wizards and necromancers without exception. chapter xi preparations for battle james walker, the younger, took thought while his cob paced the eight miles between elmdale and nuttonby. in the result, he changed his plans if not his intent. pulling up outside the office of holloway & dobb, he signaled a clerk who peered out at him through a dust-laden window. it is a singular fact that more dust gathers on the windows of offices occupied by respectable country solicitors than on the windows of all other professional men collectively. "would you mind asking mr. dobb to come and see me for a minute on important business?" he said when the clerk came out. after befitting delay, mr. dobb appeared. he was portly and bespectacled, and not inclined to hurry. moreover, he did not make a practice of holding consultations with clients in the street. it needed a man of county rank to prefer such a request, and mr. dobb, commissioner for oaths, and leading solicitor in nuttonby, was very much astonished when he heard that "young walker, the auctioneer," had invited him to step outside. "well, what is it?" he inquired stiffly, standing in the doorway, and clearly resolved not to budge another inch. "sorry to trouble you, sir," said walker humbly, "but i can't leave this pony when so near his stable. he'd take off on his own account." dobb, though slightly mollified by an eminently reasonable explanation, did not offer to cross the pavement, so walker, after glancing up and down the street to make sure that no passer-by could overhear, continued in a low tone: "i've just come from the grange, elmdale, and saw miss meg garth there. she passed a remark which seemed to imply that her father is still living, and got very angry when i told her that he was dead and buried two years ago." mr. dobb descended from the doorway quickly enough then. resting a fat hand on the rail of the dash-board, he looked up into walker's red face. the scrutiny was not friendly. he was sure that the junior member of the firm of walker & son had been drinking. "do you know what you are talking about?" he said, sternly. walker leaned down, until his ferret eyes peered closely into those of the angry solicitor. "that's why i'm here, sir," he said, with the utmost deference of manner. "of course, i'm aware that you represent the family--at any rate, with regard to the elmdale property--and when miss meg herself said that her father was alive, and flew into a rage when i ventured to correct her, what was i to think? i admit i was knocked all of a heap, and may have put things rather bluntly, but there cannot be the slightest doubt as to what she meant. more than that, her cousin, mr. robert armathwaite, bore out her statement, and got so mad with me for stickin' to it that mr. garth had committed suicide, that we almost came to blows." walker was quite sober--the solicitor had no doubt on that score now. perhaps vague memories stirred in the shrewd, legal mind, and recalled certain curious discrepancies he had noted in events already passing into the limbo of forgetfulness. he, too, looked to right and left, lest some keen-eared citizen should have crept up unobserved. "can't you take your trap to the stable and come back here?" he asked, thereby admitting that walker's breach of decorum was condoned. "that's really what i had in mind, sir. i was afraid you might have left the office before i was at liberty, as i have a few matters to attend to when i reach our own place, and i didn't want to intrude by callin' at your house." dobb was watching him critically, and was evidently becoming more puzzled each moment. "i need hardly tell you that you are bringing a very serious charge against someone," he said at last. "no, that i'm not!" cried walker emphatically. "i'm just telling you the plain facts. it's not my business to bring charges. i thought, in reality, that i was doing someone a good turn by comin' straight to you; but, if you don't agree, mr. dobb----" "no, no, i didn't mean my remark in that sense," explained the solicitor hastily, not without a disagreeable feeling that this perky young auctioneer seemed to know exactly what he was about. "i only wanted you to understand that grave issues may be bound up with an extraordinary story of this nature. look here! i'm busy now. will you be free at six o'clock?" "yes, sir." "well, come to my house, and we'll discuss matters fully. you say you saw and spoke to miss meg herself?" "oh, yes, sir! no mistake. i've known her all my life." "very well, then. don't be later than six. i have some people coming to dinner at seven." walker saluted with the switch he carried instead of a whip, clicked his tongue at the cob, and rattled away down the high street. dobb looked after him dubiously. he had been friendly with the garths, and james walker, junior, was almost the last person in nuttonby he would have entrusted with any scandal or secret which affected them. however, in another hour, he would endeavor to gauge the true value of walker's information. it might be a cock and bull yarn, in which case it would be a pleasure to sit on walker heavily. meanwhile, he would avail himself of the opportunity to go through certain papers in his possession, and come to the forthcoming interview primed with the facts. every thursday evening, at half-past five, the proprietor, editor, and manager of the _nuttonby gazette_--a journalistic trinity comprised in one fussy little man named banks--looked in at walker and son's office for the "copy" of the week's advertisements, mr. banks being then on his way back to the printing-works after tea. thus, he killed two birds with one stone, since the walkers not only controlled a good deal of miscellaneous advertising, but, moving about the countryside as they did in the course of their business, often gave him news paragraphs not otherwise available. young walker, of course, was prepared for this visit. indeed, it loomed large in the scheme he had embarked on. hurrying home, he changed into a suit of clothes calculated to impress gwendoline dobb, the solicitor's only unmarried daughter, if he met her, and then strolled to the high street sanctum of the firm. not a word did he say to his father as to happenings at elmdale. the old man was altogether too cautious, he thought, and would assuredly tell him to shut his mouth, which was the last thing he meant to do where meg garth and her "bounder of a cousin" were concerned. thus, when banks hurried in, and asked the usual question: "anything fresh, gentlemen?" walker, senior, was by no means prepared for the thunderbolt which his son was about to launch. the older man told the journalist that lady hutton was giving a special prize for honey at the next agricultural show; that hay had been a bumper crop in the district; and that mangel wurzel was distinctly falling out of favor, items of an interest to nuttonby readers that far transcended the clash of empires in the balkans. banks was going, when the son said quietly: "by the way, you might like to mention that a mr. robert armathwaite, a relative of the former occupants, has rented the grange, elmdale, probably for a period of twelve months." "a relative of the garths, jim--i didn't know that!" exclaimed his father. "it's right enough. meg garth herself told me." "meg garth! is _she_ here?" "she's at the grange. tom bland told me she was there, so, after calling about those cattle at bellerby to-day, i drove on to elmdale and saw her." "well, of all the surprising things! then, mr. armathwaite must have known about the house when he came in yesterday?" yesterday! while the three men were gazing at each other in the walkers' office, armathwaite and marguérite ogilvey were escorting percy whittaker down the moor road, and even wily james walker, junior, little guessed what a whirlwind had enwrapped the new tenant of the grange since, as the older walker had put it, "he came in yesterday." "no, i'm jiggered if he did!" cried the younger man viciously. "armathwaite had never heard the name of the place before we mentioned it. i'll swear that in any court of law in the land." "and i'd bear you out," agreed his father. "not that i can see any reason why it should come into court. he paid up promptly, and we have nothing to bother about until the next quarter is due." "i'm not so sure of that," was the well-calculated answer. "what are you driving at, jim?" "this. he's no more meg garth's cousin than i am. there's some queer game bein' played, and i'm a dutchman if there isn't a row about it. i tell you, meg garth is there, alone, and, when i met her, she calmly informed me that her father was alive. she nearly jumped down my throat because i said he wasn't, and that fellow, armathwaite, took her part. the jacksons, too, mother and daughter, are mixed up in it somehow. if stephen garth is living, who is the man that was found hanged in the grange two years ago, and why is he buried in bellerby churchyard in stephen garth's name?" "i say, jim, you should be careful what you're saying." walker, senior, was troubled. he, like dobb, fancied that strong liquor was inducing this fantasy, yet his son seldom erred in that respect; to-day his manner and appearance gave no other signs of intemperance. "i'm tellin' you just what took place. who should know meg garth if _i_ didn't? she called armathwaite 'bob,' and he called her 'meg,' and they were as thick as thieves; but they left me in no doubt as to old garth bein' still on the map. in fact, we had a regular row about it." "by jove!" cried banks, moistening his thin lips with his tongue. "this promises to be a sensation with a vengeance. have you told the police?" "no. it's not my business." "i'm not so sure of that. why, man, stephen garth left a letter for the coroner. dr. scaife was inclined to question the cause of death, but mr. hill closed him up like an oyster. don't you see what it means? if stephen garth is living now, some unknown man was murdered in the grange. he could neither have killed himself nor died from natural causes, since no one in their senses would have tried to conceal his death by letting it appear that they themselves were dead." mr. banks expressed himself awkwardly, but his deduction was not at fault, and left his hearers under no doubt as to its significance. his eyes glistened. he could see the circulation of the _nuttonby gazette_ rising by thousands during the next few weeks, and at a time, too, when people were generally too busy to read newspapers, or buy extra copies for dispatch to friends in other parts of the country. what a thrice happy chance that this thing should have come to light on a thursday evening! there was nothing in it yet that he dared telegraph to the morning newspapers in york and leeds, but, by skillful manipulation, he could make plenty of it for his own sheet. "but it simply can't be true!" bleated walker, senior, in a voice that quavered with sheer distress. "what isn't true?" demanded his son. "you don't doubt what i'm tellin' you, do you? ask tom bland if meg garth isn't in elmdale. he saw her, and she nodded at him through a window, but, when he asked about her, that pup, armathwaite, swore she wasn't there, and that bland had seen some other young lady. he couldn't take that line with me, because he was out when i called, and meg and i were at it, hammer and tongs, when he came in." "at what, hammer and tongs?" gasped his father distractedly. "arguin' about old garth, she sayin' he was alive and well, and makin' out i was lyin' when i said he was dead." "excuse me, gentlemen, i must be off," said banks, and the man who was still sore from the grip of armathwaite's hands and the thrust of armathwaite's boot knew that the first direct assault on the stronghold of meg garth's pride had begun. "look here, young fellow," said walker, senior, recovering his wits with an effort, "you've set in motion more mischief than you reckon on. i wish to goodness you hadn't blurted out everything before banks. you know what he is. he'll make a mountain out of a molehill." "i've found no molehill at elmdale--don't you believe it," came the angry retort. "why, you ought to have seen my face when meg sprang that tale on me about her father. i just laughed at it. 'tell that to the marines,' i said. by jing, it's no make-believe, though. between you and me, it's as clear as a whistle that stephen garth committed a murder, and humbugged the whole countryside into thinkin' he had killed himself. just throw your mind back a bit, and you'll see how the pieces of the puzzle fit. mother and daughter get out of the way; servants are discharged; the man is brought to the house over the moor from leyburn, just as old garth escaped and meg returned, for i'll swear she never came through nuttonby station. dr. scaife was the only man who half guessed at the truth, but fussy hill squelched him, all because of the letter. then, neither holloway & dobb, nor ourselves were given a free hand to deal with the house. mrs. garth didn't mean to part with it--twig? of course, garth daren't show his nose there, but, when he pegs out in reality, the other two can come back. it's all plain as a white gate when you see through it, and, when we get hold of armathwaite's connection with it, we'll know every move in the game. he's in it, somehow, and up to the neck, too. you want to blame me for speakin' before banks, but you've forgotten that tom bland told me this afternoon he had seen miss meg, and that lots of people knew i was there later. if she goes round tellin' folk her father isn't dead it would soon come out that she and i quarreled about it. where would i be then? when you're not quite so rattled you'll admit that i was bound to speak, and that i've chosen just the right way to do it. if the police want me now as a witness they'll have to come to me, and that's a jolly sight better than that i should go to them. do, for goodness' sake, give me credit for a little common sense!" and, having an eye on the clock, walker, junior, bounced out, apparently in high dudgeon; but really well pleased with his own machiavellian skill. indeed, judged solely from a standard of evil-doing, he had been most successful. he knew well that banks would go straight to the local superintendent of police, ostensibly for further information, but in reality to carry the great news, and set in motion the official mill which would grind out additional installments. but walker's masterstroke lay with dobb, who, in a sense, represented mrs. garth and her daughter. if dobb could be brought to appreciate the gravity of the girl's statements anent her father--and his reception of walker's story showed that he was prepared to treat it seriously--he would either write to meg, asking her to visit nuttonby, or go himself to elmdale. in either event, she would be crushed into the dust. the elderly and trustworthy solicitor's testimony would carry weight. she could no longer deny that stephen garth was reputedly in his grave; she would be faced with the alternative that her father was an adroit criminal of the worst type, because public opinion invariably condemns a smug rogue far more heavily than the ne'er-do-well, who seems to be branded for the gallows from birth. yet, by operation of the law that it is the unexpected that happens, james walker, the second, was fated not to retire for a night's well-earned and much-needed repose with a mind wholly freed from anxiety. this came about in a peculiar way. by mrs. garth's request, soon after her departure from elmdale, the solicitor invariably addressed her as mrs. ogilvey. at last, the notion got embedded in mr. dobb's mind that she had undoubtedly quarreled with her husband long before the latter committed suicide, and that the outcome of garth's death was her speedy remarriage! from his recollection of her, she was certainly not the sort of woman whom he would credit with such a callous proceeding, but no man can spend a lifetime in a lawyer's office without gaining an insight into strange by-ways of human nature. the profession necessitates a close knowledge of the hidden lives and recondite actions of scores of one's fellow-creatures. mr. dobb knew a vicar who had committed bigamy, and a county magistrate who had been a petty thief for years before he was caught. that mrs. garth should marry again within a few weeks of her husband's burial might indeed be strange, but it sank into a commonplace category in comparison with other queer events he could name. behold, then, young james arriving at the beeches--a charming old house situated on the outskirts of nuttonby; the "nut," as was becoming, was attired in a nut-brown suit, black shoes, a brown homburg hat, socks and tie to match a shirt with heliotrope stripes, and yellow gloves. he had passed in at the gate in full view of a couple of girls of his acquaintance, and knew that they were glancing over a yew hedge when the front door opened and he was admitted. he was shown into a library, where mr. dobb awaited him. the lawyer motioned him to a chair. "now, mr. walker," he said curtly, "would you mind telling me exactly what happened at elmdale this afternoon?" james sat down. unfortunately, the furniture provided a placid harmony in oak, so the seat of the chair was hard, even though it shone with the subdued polish of a hundred years of careful use and elbow grease applied by many generations of vigorous housemaids. "with your permission, sir, i--er--think i'd better begin--er--a little earlier." "what's the matter? isn't that chair comfortable?" mr. dobb was clerk to the magistrates in the nuttonby petty sessions; his pet abhorrence was a fidgety witness, and walker was obviously ill at ease. "the fact is, sir, i'm a bit saddle-galled. if you don't mind----" "certainly. take that easy chair. what occurred 'a little earlier' which you think i ought to know?" walker had been disagreeably reminded of armathwaite, but he kept a venomous tongue well under control. he told the lawyer the circumstances under which armathwaite, confessedly a complete stranger, had entered into the tenancy of the grange, and described the journey to elmdale, together with the curious behavior of the jackson family. he was scrupulously accurate in his account of the cause and extent of his visit that day, even going so far as to admit that there was "a sort of a scuffle" between armathwaite and himself. mr. dobb listened in silence. at the end, he fixed a singularly penetrating glance on the narrator. "in plain english, i suppose," he said, "this man, armathwaite, bundled you out neck and crop?" "no, sir. not exactly that. but i couldn't fight him in miss meg's presence." "yet, from what you have told me, i gather that mr. armathwaite is a gentleman?" "he has all the airs of one," said walker. "and he must have thought you had behaved discourteously to his cousin before he would use actual violence towards you!" "nothing of the sort, sir. miss meg jumped down my throat for no reason whatever. of course, mr. armathwaite hadn't heard the beginning of it, and may have imagined i was to blame, but i wasn't." "perhaps there is an explanation that may be news to you. you are not aware, i take it, that mrs. garth is now mrs. ogilvey?" "by jing!" cried walker, rather forgetting himself, "that's the name tom bland tried to tell me, but he couldn't rightly get his tongue round it." "probably. but don't you see the bearing this important fact has on to-day's proceedings? i have reason to believe that mrs. garth and her daughter disagreed with mr. garth before his death. at any rate, she seems to have married again within a very short time, and miss meg may have fancied that you were trying purposely to insult and annoy her by referring to a bygone tragedy. the mere presence of this mr. armathwaite, who is wholly unknown here, lends color to that assumption. he may be a 'cousin' by the second marriage. it is even conceivable that mrs. ogilvey, as mrs. garth now is, did not wish her second husband's relatives to know of the way in which her first husband met his death. the fact that mr. armathwaite rented the grange can be regarded as nothing more than an ordinary coincidence. isn't it possible, mr. walker, that you blundered very seriously in thrusting yourself into miss meg's presence, and forcing an unpalatable revelation on her?" walker's red face positively blanched. for one instant his nerve failed him. "i never thought of that," he muttered, in dire confusion. "it strikes me as a perfectly tenable theory," said dobb, rising, and thereby showing that the interview was at an end. "you took me rather by surprise when you called me out of my office this afternoon, but i have given the matter some calm reflection in the interim, and have come to the conclusion that you found in elmdale what is vulgarly known as a mare's nest." walker stood up, too. he realized that he was being dismissed with ignominy, and resented it. thumping an oak table with his clenched fist, he cried passionately: "not me! you'll see in a day or two, mr. dobb, who's makin' the mistake. if i'm wrong i'll eat humble pie, but i'm not eatin' any now, thank you. i came to you, meanin' to do a good turn to all parties----" "restrain yourself, please," broke in the solicitor, speaking with cold dignity. "what kind of 'good turn' is it that rakes up bygone troubles, and spreads scandalous gossip?" "you've missed my point entirely, mr. dobb," protested walker. "i thought that you, being a friend of the garths, could drop a quiet hint to miss meg not to talk about her dead-and-gone father as though he might arrive here by the next train--that's all." "but it is not all. if it were, your attitude would be understandable, even praiseworthy. what you are saying indirectly is that mr. stephen garth is alive, and that some unknown person lies in bellerby churchyard." thus cornered, walker floundered badly. "i'm not able to argue with you, sir, and that's the truth," he said. "neither do i want to be drawn into a squabble of this sort. of course, i know nothing of any second marriage; but, even if i did, miss meg isn't a little girl, who might have forgotten her real father. look here! i stick to my notion, and that's the long and the short of it. there's a mystery at elmdale, and it's bound to come out, no matter what difference of opinion there may be between you and me." a parlormaid entered with a telegram. "excuse me one moment," said mr. dobb; "that is, unless you wish to go!" he added. walker was constrained to put on a bold front before the servant. "i can wait another couple of minutes," he said off-handedly. the lawyer smiled; but, for his own purposes, he did not wish to quarrel outright with his visitor. he opened the buff envelope, and read, and not even the experience of a lifetime served to mask the incredulous dismay which leaped to his face. for the message ran: "have reason to believe that a gentleman passing under the name of robert armathwaite is in or near nuttonby. kindly make guarded inquiries and wire result.--sigmatic." now, "sigmatic" was the code address of a department of the india office in which mr. dobb's eldest son held a responsible position. that phrase, "passing under the name of," suggested many possibilities to the legal mind. moreover, the fact that a government department was interested, and that the ordinary official channel for investigation was not employed, gave him furiously to think. in any event, he had been saved from the exceeding unwisdom of treating james walker too cavalierly. "i'll just answer this, as the messenger is waiting," he said pleasantly. "if you're not in a hurry, mr. walker, sit down again. i'll send in a decanter of sherry and some cigarettes. help yourself, will you?" he went out. james walker grinned, and plunged his clenched fists into his trousers pockets. "that telegram knocked old dobb into a cocked hat," he mused. "wonder what was in it? something to do with the garths, i'll bet! keep a steady hand on the reins, jimmy, my boy, and you'll finish with the best of 'em yet!" chapter xii the dawn of a black friday there were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor of the grange, all nearly of equal size, and remarkably spacious, since they corresponded in area with the rooms beneath. percy whittaker occupied the westerly front room, marguérite had pre-empted the easterly one, and armathwaite's room lay in the north-east angle. thus, he was early aroused by the morning sun, and was up and about long before mrs. jackson or betty put in an appearance. for lack of the bath which he had been prevented from ordering through tom bland, he splashed in an old-fashioned shallow zinc contrivance which reminded him of former days in baluchistan. crossing the landing afterwards, meaning to look in on percy whittaker, he glanced at the now oddly familiar black figure in the stained-glass window. at the moment his thoughts were not dwelling on the topic which had occupied them, well nigh to the exclusion of all else, since he had first set eyes on elmdale, yet, by some occult influence, no sooner did he meet the cold, unseeing glare of the painted effigy than his brain began to calculate the significance of certain dates. the _nuttonby gazette_ dated saturday, june 22nd, of two years ago, had stated that the inquest on stephen garth was held at the fox and hounds inn, elmdale, "to-day" (so the enterprising banks had evidently brought out a special edition). mrs. jackson and police constable leadbitter had deposed to the finding of the body on "friday evening," which would be the 21st. mrs. jackson and betty had last seen garth alive on the wednesday. certain post-mortem indications showed that the death had taken place that night, the 19th. to-day, friday, two years later, was the 19th! armathwaite was not a nervous subject, but he was aware once more of a creepy sensation when he realized that this sunlit morning probably heralded in the fatal anniversary. seen in a clear and penetrating light, and closely examined at an hour when each line stood out boldly, the face of the figure revealed certain peculiarities. artists in stained glass seldom attempt to convey subtleties in flesh tints. at best, their craft is mainly decorative, and effects are obtained by judicious grouping of colors, each of a distinct tone value, rather than by the skilled merging of light into shadow, which is the painter's chief aim. but, in this instance, a deliberate attempt had been made to depict features of a truly malevolent cast. the oval formed by the open visor of the helmet gave scope for the use of an almost invisible casing of lead, which also provided the larger outline of the helmet itself, and of an enormous raven, with outstretched wings, perched on the crest. yet, instead of the youthful and noble countenance which tradition would surely ascribe to a gallant prince, the face which peered from the casque was that of an evil-minded ascetic. indeed, the longer armathwaite looked, the more he was convinced that the artist had tried to suggest a mere skull covered with dead skin. the nose was pinched, and the nostrils were unpleasantly prominent. the lips were mere seams of dried parchment, and the cavernous eyes were really two empty sockets. this sinister and ghoul-like visage was totally at variance with the remainder of the work. the armor was correct from helm to sollerets, with hauberk and corselet, greaves and jambards, while the gauntleted hands were crossed, in true warrior fashion, on the hilt of a long, straight sword. the vignette border of tendrils and vine-leaves was charming in design and rich in well-blended color, and an observer of critical taste could not fail to compare the gross offense of the portrait with the quiet beauty of its setting. to some minds, there is an element in art which denies a true sense of harmony to a distorted imagination, and the notion was suddenly borne in on armathwaite that the same hand had never limned that demoniac face and the remainder of the window. the one might have been the product of some debauchee steeped in the worst excesses of a libidinous society, while the other breathed the calm serenity of the renaissance. armathwaite had in full measure the hunter's instinct which incites mankind to seek out and destroy ferocious beasts. if he had a weapon in his hands at the moment he would have smashed that diabolical mask out of existence. the unaccountable spasm passed, and he entered whittaker's room, to find that disconsolate youth lying on his back, wide awake, and staring blankly at the ceiling. "hullo!" he said cheerily. "had a good night's rest?" "pretty fair," muttered the invalid, turning his eyes dully on the other. "that doctor chap doped me, i expect. anyhow i slept till i heard you splashin' in the bath." "how's the ankle?" "rotten. look here, mr. armathwaite, you seem to understand this sort of thing. bar jokes, how long must i remain here?" "in bed, do you mean?" "yes." "a week, at least. after that, you may be able to hop about on one leg." "if _you_ were in my place, would you stop in bed a week?" "what else could i do? even walking with a crutch is impossible because of the strain on the ligaments." whittaker moved involuntarily, and was given a sharp reminder that his informant was not exaggerating his disability. "all right," he said sullenly. "what time is it?" "about six o'clock. betty will bring you some tea and an egg before seven." "miss ogilvey isn't up yet?" "no." half unconsciously, armathwaite resented the studied formality of that "miss ogilvey." he fully appreciated its intent. he was a stranger and must be kept at arm's length. moreover, the crippled percy held him at a disadvantage. the younger man might be as insolent as he chose--armathwaite was muzzled. "can i do anything for you," he said. "in what way?" "well, if the pain is very bad, an extra bandage, soaked in cold water, will relieve the burning sensation." "no, thanks. i'll wait till the doctor comes." "he is bringing a nurse, by the way. you'll need proper attention for the next few days." "right. don't let me keep you. i think i can sleep another hour or so." armathwaite was at no loss to understand why the cub wished to be rid of him. whittaker was not only torturing himself with the knowledge that his host would be free to enjoy marguérite ogilvey's company without let or hindrance, but he also felt a grudge against the fates which had snatched him out of active participation in the day's events. neither dreamed that the accident would precipitate the crisis each wished to avoid. in fact, in view of what did actually happen, it would be interesting to speculate on the probable outcome if, by chance, armathwaite had been disabled instead of whittaker. but history, whether dealing with men or nations, recks little of "what might have been." it is far too busily occupied in fashioning the present and concealing the past, for, let students dig and delve ever so industriously, they seldom obtain a true record of occurrences which have shaken the world, while, in the lives of the few people with whom this chronicle deals, there were then at work certain minor influences which no one of them ever discerned in their entirety. there was nothing surprising in this. a crystal-minded woman like marguérite ogilvey could never adjust her perceptive faculties to the plane of a decadent percy, while robert armathwaite was too impatient of ignoble minds that he should ever seek to uncover the mole-burrowings of james walker. certain developments took place which affected each and all in relative degrees, and each acted according to his or her bent. beyond that, analysis of cause and effect can hardly be other than sheer guesswork. armathwaite rummaged in the larder for a crust, chewed it, and, having thus appeased the laws of hygiene, lighted the first joyous pipe of the morning. he was smoking contentedly in the garden when a bent, elderly man approached. though twisted with rheumatism--the painful tribute which mother earth exacts from those of her sons who know how to obtain her chief treasures--this man quickened into a new life when he saw armathwaite. he cast a sorrowing glance at the wilderness of weeds as he came up the garden path, but his weather-lined face broke into a pleasant smile as he halted in front of the new tenant. "good mornin', sir," he said, touching his hat, though the action was devoid of any semblance of servility. "things are in a nice mess, aren't they?" and he wheeled round to gaze at dandelions rampant in a bed sacred to begonias. "they are, indeed!" agreed armathwaite, wondering what white-haired philosopher had come on the scene. "you'll be mr. armathwaite, i'm thinkin'?" went on the other. "yes." "my name's smith, sir. mr. leadbitter, the policeman, told me you had taken on the grange. mebbe you'll be wantin' a gardener." a light broke in on armathwaite. "oh! begonia smith!" he cried. "come back to the old love--is that it?" "that's it, sir. she looks as if she wanted someone to look after her." "very well. take charge. it's too late in the year to grow flowers or vegetables, but you can tidy things up a bit." "a man who has his heart in the job, sir, can grow flowers at any time of the year. if i was to drop a line to the nuttonby carrier to-night, i'd have a fair show of geraniums, calceolarias, lobelia, an' marguerite daisies in the front here by to-morrow evenin'." armathwaite was not one to check enthusiasm. moreover, the notion of brightening the surroundings appealed to him. "that would be sharp work," he said, eyeing the jungle. smith, with the suspiciousness of an old man eager to show that he was as good as some of the young ones, misunderstood that critical survey. "before tom bland brings the plants from the nursery i'll have a canny bit o' soil ready for 'em," he vowed. "i'm sure of it," said armathwaite, quickly alive to the aged gardener's repudiation of any doubt cast on his powers. "but surely you can be better employed than in mere digging. are there laborers to be hired in the village?" smith swept the bare meadow-land with the appraising eyes of knowledge. "plenty of 'em, sir. the hay is in, an' they'll be slack enough now for another month." "very well. send your order to bland, including such implements as you may need. hire three or four men, and get them busy. by the way, have you heard that miss meg is here?" "miss meg! our miss meg?" smith's astonishment was not feigned. he was slightly dazzled already by the way in which his new employer had received suggestions for the regeneration of the garden; now, he was thoroughly bewildered. "yes," said armathwaite, watching him narrowly. "she may join us any minute. of course, if she expresses any preference for a particular method of laying out the flower-beds, you will adopt it without question." "why, sir," said the old man simply, "if it's the same miss meg as i hev' in mind i'll not charge you a penny for what little i can do about the place. it'll be enough for me to see her bonnie face again an' hear her voice." "i'll tell her that," laughed armathwaite. "but we don't trade on those terms. you were happy here, i suppose, before mr. garth died?" "no man could ha' worked for nicer people, sir. it bruk me all to pieces when t' maister tellt me to go. an' i never rightly understood it, until--until the sad thing happened you'll hev' heerd of. mr. garth was just as much cut up about me goin' as i was meself--that was the queer part of it.... sir, tell me this, d'you mean to live here any length o' time?" "i hope so." "well, it's a bold thing to say, afore i've known ye five minnits, so to speak, an' there may be nowt in it other than owd wives' blether, but, if you ain't such a great lover o' stained glass, i advise ye to hev' yon staircase window riven out by t' roots." "now, why in the world do you say that?" "i can't put it into plain words, sir, an' that's a fact, but i'd be glad to see the house shut o' that grinnin' death's head. i well remember my own father tellin' me there was a curse in it, an' many's the time mr. garth laughed at me when i spoke on't. but t' owd man's prophecy kem yam (came home) to roost at last. it did, an' all." "what reason did your father give for his belief?" "it's a strange story, sir, but i know bits of it are true, so mebbe the rest isn't so far out. d'you see yon farm?" and begonia smith pointed to the burt homestead. "yes," said armathwaite. "i met mr. burt yesterday." "it's built on the ruins o' holand castle, sir. it's barely ten years ago since mr. burt used the last o' t' stones for his new barn. these holands were descended from a lady who married edward, the black prince. she had three sons by her first husband, an' one of 'em kem to this part o' yorksheer. as was the way in them days, he set a church alongside his castle, and was that proud of his step-father, who would ha' bin king of england had he lived, that he had that painted glass window med in his memory. in later times, when there was a cry about images, the owner of holand castle had the window taken out an' hidden. then, to please somebody or another, he set fire to t' church. after that, things went badly with him, an' the castle was deserted, because it had the plague, though i'm thinking the only plague was bad drainage. anyhow, nigh on two hundred year ago, a man named faulkner settled i' this quiet spot--you can guess what it was like, sir, when there was no railways, an' the nearest main road ran through leyburn on t' other side o' t' moor. this faulkner had gathered his brass in no good way, robbin' ships an' killin' folk on the high seas, it was said. he used to import hogsheads o' wine all the way from whitby, an' rare good wood was in 'em, because i saw the last of 'em used as a rain barrel, an' i'm not seventy yet. the story goes that one night, in his cups, he was annoyed by the way the black prince looked at him, hard an' condemning like a judge. he got a pair o' big pistols, an' fired one at the prince's face. he shot the eyes out, an' then aimed the second one at the mouth, but that burst, and blew his own right hand off, an' he bled to death afore they could plug the veins. his son, who was a chip o' t' owd block, hired a drunken artist to paint another face. this man knew nowt about stained glass, but he was a rare hand at drawin' terrible things, so he planned yon devil's phiz on oiled paper, an' stuck it between two thin plates o' glass, an' it was leaded in. if you was to climb on a ladder you'd find the difference at once between that part o' t' window an' all t' remainder. many's the time i've seen it when nailin' up the wistaria, an', if i'd dared, would have put the hammer-head through it. but mr. garth refused to have it touched. he called it an antiquarian curiosity. all the same, he wouldn't have miss meg told about it, because it might have frightened her but he was always careful to see that the blind was not drawn across the front door on june evenings. mebbe, you'll have heerd of a ghost, sir?" a window was raised, and both men looked up. marguérite was leaning out, her face aglow with pleasure. "why, if it isn't my own dear smith!" she cried. "what lucky wind brought _you_ here? mr. armathwaite, is this _your_ doing? smith, i'll be down in a jiffy. mind you don't skedaddle before i come!" thus it befell that when betty jackson brought an early breakfast to percy whittaker, and she was asked where miss meg was, she answered: "out in the garden with mr. armathwaite. they're talkin' to begonia smith." "ah, i heard the voices. and who, pray, is begonia smith?" demanded percy. "the old gardener," said betty. "he was here years an' years." "does mr. armathwaite mean to have the grounds attended to?" "looks like it, sir. he an' miss meg are measurin' bits, an' smith's stickin' in pieces of wood. it'll be nice to have the place kept spick an' span again." it was, perhaps, unfortunate that meg's glimpse of her friend from the bedroom window should have brought her downstairs pell-mell without even a tap on whittaker's door to inquire as to his well-being. it was perhaps, equally unfortunate that, when she remembered her remissness, she should have hurried to his room while her cheeks were flushed with the strong moorland air and her eyes shining with excitement. "how are you, percy dear?" she said, entering in response to his surly "come in!" "i ought to have looked in on you sooner, but i could hardly believe my eyes when i saw mr. armathwaite in the garden with smith, our own old gardener, whom i've known ever since i was a baby." "why has armathwaite brought smith here?" said whittaker, peering at her fixedly, yet veiling those gray-green eyes under lowered lids. "he didn't. smith just came. but isn't it fortunate? he couldn't have found a better man, especially as smith won't have any of the hard work on his hands. mr. armathwaite is giving him all the help he needs." "to put the place in order?" "yes, of course. smith promises marvels by to-morrow evening. but you haven't told me yet how your poor ankle feels." "never mind my poor ankle, meg. i understood that the house was only let for three months?" "oh, much longer, i believe. mr. armathwaite---"confound mr. armathwaite! the devil fly away with mr. armathwaite! i'm sick of his name: i spit on him!" he literally writhed in a paroxysm of anger. "percy!" he had chosen an unhappy word when he spoke of spitting on his rival. he reminded her of a toad, and she hated toads. with a desperate effort he sat bolt upright in the bed. "it's high time you and i had a few straight words, meg," he said, and his voice lost its drawl, and the blasé manner was dropped. "you haven't forgotten, i suppose, that i've asked you to marry me?" "no. perhaps, if you rack your memory, you'll remember my answer," she said indignantly, for she felt the innuendo, and was resolved to resent it with vigor. "no, oh, no! you said you didn't mean to marry anybody. that is a maidenly sentiment which is right and proper, and i agreed with it at the time. but the position has altered considerably during the past couple of days. as matters stand now, meg, you may change your mind, and i beg to inform you that when you do marry, you'll marry me." "it is hardly fair to take advantage of your accident," she said, with a quiet scorn that only served to infuriate him the more. "what do you mean?" he said thickly. "you are not usually so dense. if you were not ill you would never dare speak to me in that fashion." "never mind my illness. that will soon pass. and the density you complain of is not so one-sided as you imagine. i pointed out that the position had changed. two days ago you were free to say 'yes' or 'no' to my proposal. to-day you are not. you've got to marry me now, meg. you'll be my wife by fair means or foul. need i explain myself further?" "it--it would be as well." "all right. you've asked for it, and you'll get it. unless i have your promise here and now that our marriage will take place as soon as i can stand on my feet again, i'll have your father arrested for murder." "percy, you must be mad even to think of such a dreadful thing!" "no, not mad, but sane, very sane and wide-eyed. that fellow, armathwaite, wants you, and he'll snap you up while i'm lying in this infernal house unless i strike now, and strike hard. i mean exactly what i say. i've thought it all out here, though i'm suffering pain enough to drive me crazy. but the mind can conquer the body, and my mind is not only clear, but fixed. tell me you'll marry me, and i'll be patient as a saint. i'll take your word for it. i don't want you to sit by my side and hold my hand, as some sniveling fools would wish. you can plan your gardens with armathwaite, and smile at him and talk with him as much as you please. but you've got to be my wife. refuse, and the only way you can save your father from arrest is by getting armathwaite to commit another murder." "you brute!" she almost whispered. her lips were quivering pitifully, but the fount of tears was dried, and her eyes blazed with an intensity that conquered whittaker for the moment. he lay back on the pillows again, with a smile that was twisted into a rictus of agony as a twinge wrung the injured limb. "call me any hard names you like," he muttered, closing his eyes under the intolerable contempt and loathing of marguérite's steadfast scrutiny. "i've said what i had to say, and i'll not depart from a syllable of it. you'd have married me one of these days if you hadn't met armathwaite. he has turned your pretty little head with his knight-errant airs and cavalry officer appearance. so i've determined to pull you back by force--see? you'll get over it in time. you and i will be as good chums as ever when this gale has blown itself out. don't think i shall hold you less dear because your father placed himself in danger of the law. he escaped neatly before, and can escape again. i'll even tell you how. no one here knows--" he opened his eyes again, to ascertain if some dawning interest in the project he was about to reveal--which was precisely that already set forth by armathwaite--had driven the horror from her drawn features; but marguérite had vanished. he listened for her footsteps, and could hear no sound. he shouted loudly, and tugged frenziedly at a bell. betty came running, thinking he had fallen out of bed, and needed assistance. "why, whatever is the matter?" she cried, with true yorkshire abruptness, when she found him lying as she had left him a few minutes earlier. "where is miss meg?" he raged. "tell her she must come here--at once! tell her that! use those very words--come at once!" "my! what a to-do about nowt! i was sure the house was on fire!" "confound you, will you go!" he shouted. "yes, i'll go! for goodness' sake, keep quiet. you're doing yourself no good by gettin' that excited. oh, you needn't bawl at me! i'll find her. it isn't such a big place that she can be lost for more'n a minnit or two." grumbling audibly at the funny ways some folk had, to be sure, betty went downstairs. she looked into the drawing-room, dining-room, and library, but marguérite was in none of those places. then she passed out into the garden; through the open window whittaker could hear her asking armathwaite if he knew where miss meg was. he caught the answer, too. "yes. she left me to visit mr. whittaker." "she's not there, sir, and he has just sent me for her in an awful hurry," said betty. "is it anything i can do for him?" "no, sir. he wants miss meg." "well, she can't be far away. she may be in her bedroom. go and look there. if i see her, i'll hand on your message." soon, when betty had ransacked the house, she came to the conclusion that marguérite had gone into the village. for some reason, on hearing this, whittaker appeared to be calmer, and only growled an order that he was to be informed instantly of miss garth's return. betty retreated to the kitchen. when the door was safely closed she said to her mother: "that percy whittaker is daft, an' it's easy to see what ails him. if i was miss meg i wouldn't have him if he was hung with diamonds." "you're nobbut a fond lass," commented mrs. jackson, cracking an egg on the side of a basin preparatory to emptying its contents into a frying-pan. "always thinkin' of young men, like the rest of 'em. poor meg garth has other things to bother her. if you hadn't lost a good father when you were too little to ken owt about it, you'd know what she's goin' through now." "but she says her father is livin'," said betty. "tell me summat fresh," retorted her mother. "wouldn't it be better for her if he wasn't? you mark my words. there'll be a bonny row i' this house afore we're much older. now, hurry up with t' toast. no matter what else happens, folk mun eat." chapter xiii deus ex machina after a while, betty came to armathwaite again. "if you please, sir, breakfast is ready. shall i bring it in, or will you wait for miss meg?" she said. that a second inquiry as to marguérite's whereabouts should be necessary seemed to surprise him. "you were looking for miss garth a few minutes ago. didn't you find her?" he inquired. "no, sir. she's not in the house." "but what can have become of her?" "i thought, sir, she might ha' gone into t' village." "why?" "she knows everybody i' t' place. she said last night that now she was makin' a bit of a stay she'd be seein' some o' t' folk." "i think i should have noticed her if she had gone out by the gate," he said, weighing the point. "smith!" he called, "has miss meg left the house recently--within the past ten minutes, i mean?" "not that i know of, sir," said smith; "but i'm that worritted by the state of some o' these here beds that ammost owt (almost anything) might ha' happened without me givin' it heed." "bang that gong at the front door," said armathwaite to betty. "it should be heard in every house in elmdale, and she will understand." the gong was duly banged, and its effect on elmdale was immediately perceptible. old mrs. bolland vowed afterwards that she would sit permanently at the back bedroom window, because, being rheumaticky, she couldn't get upstairs quickly enough, and there was summat to see nowadays at t' grange. but the tocsin failed to reach the one ear for which it was intended. the village produced every live inhabitant except marguérite ogilvey. "was miss meg friendly with the burts?" inquired armathwaite, when he and betty realized it was useless to gaze expectantly either at the corner of the roadway visible from the porch, or at such small cross-sections of the village "street" as could be seen at irregular intervals between the houses. "yes, sir. she'd often walk over there," said the girl, gazing at once in the direction of the castle farm, which was the name of the holding. "she would know that breakfast was on the way?" "oh, yes, sir! i axed her meself when i brought her a cup of tea. she said that nine o'clock would suit." betty turned involuntarily to consult the grandfather's clock in the hall. the hands stood at ten minutes past nine; but, in the same moment, she remembered that the clock was not going. armathwaite followed her glance, and looked at his watch. "ten minutes past nine," he answered, with a laugh. "the old clock is right to a tick. was it in use while the sheffield lady remained in the house?" "no, sir. it stopped at that time when the old man died." then she giggled. there is hardly a man or woman in yorkshire who does not know that the words of a famous song were suggested by the behavior of a clock which is still exhibited in an inn on the south side of the tees at pierce bridge, and the girl had unconsciously repeated the tag of verses and chorus. armathwaite had yet to learn of this treasured possession of the county of broad acres, so he eyed betty rather disapprovingly. moved by an impulse which he regarded as nothing more than a desire to check such undue levity, he strode into the hall, found a key resting on a ledge of the clock's canopy, wound up the heavy weights, and started the pendulum. "perhaps our ancient friend may be more accurate than you, betty," he said. "you mean, i suppose, that it stopped at that time because it was not wound. how do _you_ know the hour, or even the day, anyone died here?" "well, i don't, sir, an' that's a fact," she admitted. "but what about breakfast?" "attend to mr. whittaker--i'll wait!" he went out again, and saw smith hobbling down the bye-road. "hi!" he cried, "if you're going into the village you might ask if anyone has seen miss meg!" smith replied with a hand wave. he was thinking mainly of begonias, planning a magician's stroke, because his new master had told him to spare no expense. within ten minutes he returned, but not alone. four able-bodied rustics came with him, each carrying a spade or a garden fork. but he had not forgotten armathwaite's request. "miss meg hasn't gone that way, sir," he said. "plenty of folk saw her in t' garden, an' they couldn't ha' missed her had she been in t' street. but she'll be comin' i' now. no fear o' her bein' lost, stolen, or strayed i' elmdale. these chaps are good for a day's diggin' at four shillin' an' two quarts o' beer each. is that right, sir?" "make it five shillings and no beer," said armathwaite. the laborers grinned. "no beer is even to be bought during working hours," he added sharply. "you can work harder and longer on tea. you may have all the tea, milk, bread and cheese you want, but not a drop of beer, this day or any other day, while at work here. i know what i am talking about. i am no teetotal fanatic, but i've proved the truth of that statement during many a day of more trying labor than digging soft earth." the terms were agreed to without a murmur. the incident, slight as it was, had its bearing on the day's history. smith was leading his cohort to the attack, when one of the men, apparently bethinking himself, approached armathwaite and touched his cap. "beg pardon, sir," he said, "but was ye axin' about miss meg?" "yes." "well, i seed her goin' up t' moor road nigh on half an hour sen" (since). the grange itself was the only house on the moor road for many a mile, and it was most unlikely that marguérite would take a protracted stroll in that direction at such an hour. somehow, armathwaite was aware of a chill in the air which he had not felt earlier. it was his habit to disregard those strange glimpses of coming events, generally of misfortune, which men call premonitions. when confronted by accomplished facts, he acted as honor and experience dictated; for the rest, he said, with milton- "i argue not against heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot of heart and hope; but still bear up and steer right onward." but this all-sufficing rule of conduct had availed him little from the moment he crossed the threshold of the grange. right well had it served him in the strenuous years of vigilant governance now so remote; since his coming to elmdale he seemed ever to be striving against shapeless phantoms. he had sought quiet and content in that peaceful-looking village; he had found only care and gnawing foreboding, brightened, it is true, by a day-dream, which itself left bitter communing when it waned. for he was his own severest censor. he regarded himself as one already in the sere and yellow leaf. fortune had called him to the high places only to cast him forth discredited, if not humbled. that he, a man who believed he had done with the great world, should think of allying his shattered life with the sweet and winsome creature whose feminine charm was enhanced by a frank girlishness, was a tantalizing prospect which, like the mirage in a desert, merged with the arid wastes when subjected to close scrutiny. with marguérite near, reason fled, and all things seemed possible; when the thrall of her presence was withdrawn, cold judgment warned him that gratitude for help rendered should not be mistaken for love. he felt now that another crisis had arisen, yet the past yielded no ray of guidance. he glared at the poor laborer who, all unconsciously, was fate's herald in this new adversity, for he was instantly aware, without other spoken word, that marguérite ogilvey had fled. the man's troubled face showed that he feared he had done wrong. "i'm main sorry, sir," said he, "if i've said owt te vex ye, but, hearin' the talk of miss meg, i thought----" armathwaite's drawn features relaxed, and he placed a friendly hand on the villager's shoulder. "you've done right," he said. "i am very much obliged to you. i have a stupid habit of allowing my mind to wander. just then i was thinking of something wholly unconnected with miss garth's disappearance, which will arouse mrs. jackson's wrath because of bacon and eggs frizzled to a cinder. i must go and condole with her." he was turning to re-enter the house, mainly to set at rest any suspicion that marguérite's absence arose from other cause than sheer forgetfulness, when the clang of the gate stayed him. a youth had dismounted from a bicycle, and was hastening up the path with an air of brisk importance. "telegrams for garth and whittaker," he said. "any answer, sir?" armathwaite took the two buff envelopes which the lad produced from a leather pouch. "have you come from bellerby?" he inquired. "yes, sir." "well, wait a few minutes. there may be some reply." he went into the dining-room. so sure was he that marguérite had gone away that he had not the slightest hesitation about opening the telegram addressed to "garth, the grange, elmdale." as he anticipated, it was from mrs. ogilvey. it had been dispatched at seven o'clock from tavistock, and read: "arriving to-night if possible. don't take any action until i am with you.--mother." the early hour at which it had been sent off--from a town, too, which he rightly estimated as a good many miles distant from warleggan, showed that mrs. suarez had contrived to get a telegram through to cornwall the previous night, so percy whittaker's mischievous interference had proved quite successful. then, with lightning clarity came the belief that percy whittaker was responsible for marguérite's flight. armathwaite scouted the notion that she had such a thing in her mind when she came to him in the garden. her nature was incapable of guile. had she formed some fantastic scheme during the watches of the night she would never have put her troubles aside to share in his light-hearted planning of a new and glorified garden. in fact, he recalled her sudden dismay because of her seeming neglect of the invalid, and now he knew that he had not seen her since she went upstairs, whereas whittaker himself had sent more than one urgent summons for her subsequently. stifling his fury as best he might, armathwaite hurried to whittaker's room. "a telegram has just come for you," he said, and watched the younger man's face as he read. it was a long screed, and evidently bored its recipient. "oh, it's only from my sister," came the languid explanation. "by the way, where's miss garth?" "gone, i think." "gone!" whittaker rose on an elbow and glowered at armathwaite. "what the devil do you mean by 'gone'? where has she gone to?" he cried. "i want you to answer that question," and armathwaite's voice was strangely harsh and threatening. "she came to you half an hour ago. did you say anything likely to distress her? tell me the truth, or i'll pound your face to a jelly." his aspect had suddenly become so menacing that whittaker wilted; his head sank back to the pillow, and his eyelids twitched with fright. "that's no way to talk----" he began, but the other seized him by the shoulder with his left hand and clenched his right fist suggestively. "you think i ought not to threaten you with violence because you are lying there helpless," was the savage interruption; "but, if you have not forgotten the ways of ind, you must know that a poisonous snake is never so venomous as when disabled. speak, now, and speak truthfully, or, as sure as god is in heaven, i'll strike!" there was no withstanding the set purpose revealed by those blazing eyes, and whittaker was so alarmed that he dared not attempt to lie. "i--i've asked meg--half a dozen times--to marry me," he stuttered, "and this morning--i told her--she'd have to consent--now." "why now?" and the fierce grip tightened, drawing the livid face nearer. "because--she must." "explain yourself, you dog!" "i--i was afraid of your influence, so i warned her--that if--she wanted to save her father.... ah! let go! curse you, let go! you're breaking my bones!" that eldritch scream restored armathwaite's senses. it startled the men in the garden. it brought mrs. jackson and betty running from the kitchen. happily, armathwaite struck no blow. he flung off whittaker's limp body as though he were, indeed, one of the vicious reptiles to which he had compared him. "you _sug_!" he breathed, using the bitterest term of contempt known to the east, for the persian word means all that the anglo-saxon implies when he likens a fellow-creature to a dog, with the added force of an epithet which signifies "dog" in that despicable sense, and in none other. striding down the stairs, his fire-laden glance met the ghastly smile of the painted figure. with an active bound, he was on the window ledge, and the clenched fist which had ached to scatter some of the hapless percy's features fell heavily on the scowling face in the window. the glass, which proved exceedingly thin and brittle, shivered into countless fragments within and without, and the inner sheet of transparent paper was so dry and tense that it shriveled instantly when exposed to the air. indeed, armathwaite, despite his rage, was aware of a peculiar sensation. it seemed as though he had struck at something impalpable as air. his hand was not cut. it appeared to have touched nothing. he thrust straight and hard, and the only evidence of his destroying zeal was a quantity of powdered glass on the landing, some curled wisps of paper adhering to the leaden frame, and an oval of blue sky shining through the visor. as he leaped to the floor again, mrs. jackson reached the center of the hall. she screeched frantically, thinking that the black prince himself was springing from the window. but she was a stout-hearted old woman, and quickly recovered her wits when she saw what armathwaite had done. "they've long wanted a man i' this house!" she cried, in a voice that cracked with excitement, "and it's glad i am te see they've gotten yan at last! eh, sir, ye med me jump! ye did an' all! but ye'll never rue t' day when ye punched a hole in t' fëace o' that image of owd nick!" by this time smith and his helpers, aware that something unusual was going on inside the house, were gathered at the front door, which had remained wide open since the early morning. "listen, all of you!" said armathwaite, addressing the two women and five men as though they were an army and he their emperor. "i am master here, and i expect you to obey my orders. i am going out now, and i may be away some hours, possibly all day. you, smith, must put a padlock and chain on the gate and refuse to open it for anyone except dr. scaife and a nurse. you, mrs. jackson, must keep the doors locked while i am gone, and let no one enter, excepting, as i have told smith, dr. scaife and the nurse who will accompany him. do you understand?" "yes, sir." "and you, smith?" "yes, sir." "betty, put some thin slices of bread and meat between two small plates, and tie them in a napkin. fill a bottle with milk. quick! i have no time to lose." he turned to the gaping boy who had brought the telegrams from bellerby. "did you ride here on your own bicycle?" he asked. "yes, sir." "is it a strong machine?" "yes, sir." "lend it to me for the day, and i'll give you a sovereign." "right you are, sir!" came the hearty response. "is there anything to go back to the post office?" "nothing. raise the saddle of your bicycle, and see that the tires are in good order. here's your money." in an incredibly short time armathwaite was pushing the bicycle up the steep road to the moor. he walked with long, swinging strides, and was soon lost to sight, because the trees behind the grange hid the highway from any part of the house or grounds, and no one dared risk his wrath by going out into the road to watch him. he climbed swiftly yet steadily, and conquered the worst part of the hill in fifteen minutes. then he mounted the bicycle, and got over the ground rapidly. thus, within less than an hour after marguérite ogilvey had escaped from the grange--in the first instance by taking refuge in her bedroom, and, while betty was talking to whittaker, by slipping downstairs and climbing through a window in the library--armathwaite saw her--a lonely figure in that far-flung moorland, walking in the direction of leyburn. apparently, she had grabbed her hat and mackintosh coat when passing through the hall, and was carrying them, because the sun was glinting in her coils of brown hair. no stranger who met her would take her for other than a summer visitor. certainly, no one would guess the storm of grief and terror that raged in her heart. the bicycle sped along with a silent speed that soon lessened the distance between the two. armathwaite did not wish to startle her by a too sudden appearance, so he rang the bell when yet fifty yards in the rear. she turned instantly. when she saw who the pursuer was, she stopped. neither spoke until armathwaite had alighted, and the two had exchanged a long and questioning look. then she said: "i'm going to my father. my place is with him. he must be hidden somewhere. i dare not wait until my mother came or wrote. i'm sorry, bob. i could not even explain, though i should have telegraphed from york. please don't ask me to say any more, or try to detain me." "any explanation is unnecessary," he said, smiling gravely into the sweet face with its aspect of unutterable pain. "i squeezed the facts out of percy whittaker. i'm afraid i hurt him, but that is immaterial." "you made him tell you what he said to me?" and the brown eyes momentarily lost their wistfulness in a whirl of surprise and maidenly dismay. "yes." "everything--even his threat?" "everything." "oh, bob! what am i to do? i must go to dad!" "undoubtedly; but i don't see why you should walk fourteen miles practically without food. i've brought some breakfast--of a sort. we'll go shares--half the sandwiches and half the milk. then you'll ride on the step of the bike when the road permits, and trudge the remainder, and we'll be in leyburn in half the time it would take you to walk. here are the eatables, and this is just the place for a picnic." he spoke and behaved in such a matter-of-fact way that he almost persuaded the bewildered girl that her conduct, and his, and percy whittaker's was ruled and regulated by every-day conditions. placing the bicycle by the roadside, he produced the package prepared by betty, and was uncorking the milk when a strangled sob caught his ear. marguérite had turned to hide her face, for a rush of emotion had proved too much for her self-control. laying the bottle on a bank of turf, he caught the girl's shoulder, and turned her gently until her swimming eyes met his. "there's nothing to be gained by hailing trouble half way, meg," he said. "i don't wish to hide my belief that you are faced with conditions of a most extraordinary nature, but i am convinced that they will shape themselves differently to any forecast we can arrive at now. i followed you for two reasons. i wanted you to begin a long journey better prepared than was possible after flight on a moment's notice, and i did not want you to go away thinking i was in ignorance of your motives. i can tell you here and now that you will save your father, if his position is such that he needs safe-guarding; further, you will never be compelled to marry percy whittaker." "bob," she whispered brokenly. "i would rather die!" then armathwaite flung restraint to the winds. he gathered her in his arms, and lifted the tear-stained face to his. "sweetheart," he said, "in the midst of such madness, let you and me be sane. i love you! you are the only woman i have ever loved. if i am allowed by providence to begin life once more, you are the only woman i shall ever love. you were brought to me by a kindly fate, and i refuse to let you go now without telling you that you carry my heart with you. i ask for no answer at this moment. some day in the future, when the clouds have lifted from your young life, i'll come to you--" but marguérite gave him her answer then. lifting herself on tip-toe, she kissed him on the lips. "bob," she said tremulously, "i think i knew you were my chosen mate, if god willed it, when we parted on that first night in the grange." that first night! it was hardly thirty-six hours ago, yet these two had crowded into that brief space more tribulation than many lovers undergo in a lifetime; and sorrow knits hearts more closely and lastingly than joy. armathwaite could hardly credit the evidence of his senses. he had come to regard himself as so immeasurably older than this delightful girl that it seemed wildly improbable that she could return the almost hopeless love which had sprung into sudden and fierce activity in his breast. yet, here she was, lying snug in his embrace, and gazing up at him with glistening eyes, her lips distended, her arms clasping him, her heart beating tumultuously in the first transports of passion. he kissed her again and again, and could have held her there seemingly forever; but they were driven apart by a curious humming sound which bore a singular resemblance to the purr of a powerful automobile climbing a steep hill. marguérite disengaged herself from her lover's embrace with a flushing self-consciousness that was, in itself, vastly attractive. "bob," she murmured, stooping to pick up a fallen hat and mackintosh, "miracles are happening. here are you and i forgetting a world in which evil things find a place, and here is a motor-car crossing elmdale moor for the first time in history." "it would not surprise me in the least if the visitant proved to be a flying-machine," he laughed, finding it hard to withdraw his ardent gaze from those flushed cheeks and that tangled mass of brown hair. but the insistent drumming of an engine grew ever louder, and soon a long, low-built touring car swept into view over the last undulation. apparently, it was untenanted save by a chauffeur, and armathwaite's brain, recovering its balance after a whirl of delirium, was beginning to guess at a possible explanation of this strange occurrence, when the car slowed as it neared them, and finally halted. "are you mr. armathwaite, sir?" inquired the chauffeur. "yes." the man lifted his cap. "this is the car you ordered from york last night, sir." "how thoughtful of you to follow!" cried armathwaite, overjoyed by this quite unexpected bit of good fortune. he had not only forgotten that the car was on order--an impulse of the moment when he realized how tied he and all others were to the house if anything in the nature of a sudden and rapid journey came on the _tapis_--but, in any event, he had not looked for its arrival before mid-day, and the hour was yet barely ten o'clock. "your servants thought you might need me, sir," explained the man, "so i came after you. it's a scorcher of a road for the first mile, but the rest isn't so bad, if it keeps in the same condition." now, what had actually happened was this. the chauffeur had reached the grange about twenty minutes after armathwaite's departure. at that moment smith was chaining and padlocking the gate, but betty heard the snorting of the car, and came to find out its cause. when the chauffeur told her that he was there in response to an order, the quick-witted girl told him to hurry up the moor road. he looked at it, and grinned. "what! take a valuable machine over a track like that! not me!" he said. "can't it go there?" she inquired. "it can go anywhere, for that matter." "are you afraid, then?" "afraid of what? d'ye think i want to twist an axle or smash a wheel?" then one of the laboring men joined in. "i reckon you don't know t' maister," he said. "he wouldn't care a pin if you smashed yourself, but you've got to obey orders. he's one of the sort who has his own way. good pay, no beer, an' hard work is _his_ motter. it is, an' all." between maid and man, the chauffeur decided to risk it. when all was said and done, it would be a bad beginning in a new job if the servants reported his refusal to follow on. "is he far ahead?" he inquired. "mebbe a mile over t' top." starting the engine on the switch, he put the car at the hill, and, like many another difficulty, it was not insurmountable when tackled boldly. so, behold! a comfortable and easy way was opened to leyburn, at any rate, and armathwaite laughed gayly. "now we'll breakfast, and discuss," said he. "the gods have sent us a chariot!" chapter xiv in which the area widens if any critic, on perusing this chronicle, is moved to peevish condemnation of armathwaite's amazing conduct that morning, the man himself would be the last to protest. he might urge that he was dazzled by the new and entrancing realm whose bright waters and fair meads he could discern beyond the present rough and dangerous ground. he might plead the literal truth--that when he went in pursuit of marguérite ogilvey he had no more intention of declaring his love than of hastening to dover and endeavoring forthwith to swim the english channel. but, making every allowance for a confirmed celibate who had suddenly become a devout lover, and to whose arms the lady of his choice had committed herself without any pretense of restraint, it must still be admitted that he was guilty of a most singular omission in failing to make known to her his very identity! he remembered the phenomenal lapse when too late. even to that practical side of his character which reproached the emotional side with a ridiculous forgetfulness, he could only say, in mitigation of sentence, that the sudden appearance of the car brought about such a novel situation that all else yielded to the need for prompt and skillful judgment in deciding marguérite's immediate future. it was all the more difficult to think logically and act decisively when marguérite herself, ever and anon, was lifting adorably shy eyes to his while the two were making the best of the unusual meal he had provided. there, nevertheless, within a few feet, stood the obedient giant whose stout mechanism rendered many things possible that were hitherto impossible. the chauffeur, who gave his name as storr, had taken off the bonnet for a critical glance at the six cylinders which had forced nearly two tons of metal and wood up the stony and rutted surface of one of the worst moorland tracks in yorkshire. he seemed to be more than satisfied. the water in the radiator had got rather excited, but that was only to be expected. a close eye was given to other essentials, and the tire covers were examined, but every part of the car had withstood the strain of a fearsome hill splendidly. storr had never doubted, but, like a prudent general, he reviewed his forces after the engagement, and found them not only intact, but ready for mightier deeds. then, merely to gratify the sense of touch, as a horseman strokes a willing and well-groomed steed, he fingered a tap or two, shut off the engine, and asked armathwaite if he might smoke a cigarette while awaiting further orders. his employer thanked him for the word. it recalled the motive of marguérite's flight. some plan of action must be arrived at, and without delay. "smoke, by all means," he said, summing up the man at a glance as a bluff and honest sort of follow who would be thoroughly dependable if properly handled. "how long did the run from york to elmdale take?" "a little more than two hours, sir. i started at half-past seven. your telegram said i was to arrive by noon, but our people thought they'd please a new customer by bein' a bit afore time. they didn't wire, because the car would be to hand almost as quick as a telegram." "can you go from leyburn to york in two hours?" "easily, sir." "very well. just pull your machine a few yards ahead, and miss ogilvey and i will discuss the day's program." storr obeyed, and armathwaite outlined to a willing listener the project he had already formed. "first," he said, "here is a telegram from your mother. i opened it. i thought it was best----" "why, of course, bob dear; why shouldn't you?" bob dear! it was very pleasant to hear the phrase on marguérite's lips, yet it rendered doubly distasteful the suggestion he had in mind; since where is the lover who will bring himself willingly to the task of telling his lady-love that they must part? but it had to be done. marguérite must go--not quite so far as cornwall, it is true, but much too far to please him, and he must return to the grange, where, a sure instinct warned him, weighty matters would be settled that day. a cry of dismay from the girl gave him the cue he wanted. "oh, she has started already!" she almost sobbed. "while i was flying to warleggan she is traveling north. we shall pass each other on the way!" "no," he said, "that must not happen. you are going to be a good little sweetheart, and do as i tell you. this most excellent and comfortable car will take you to york. there you will ascertain from an obliging station-master what time mrs. ogilvey can arrive from tavistock, assuming she left there at or about the hour stated in the message, and you'll meet her. at a rough guess, mrs. ogilvey should be in york about six o'clock. you'll escort her to the station hotel, give her something to eat, and calmly discuss the whole affair while the same luxurious automobile is bringing you back to elmdale." "but, what of the danger dad may be in?" "i am coming to that. i believe, somehow, that your mother will relieve your mind in that respect. remember, i have always held, since the main features of this extraordinary affair became clear, that your father has acted throughout with his wife's cognizance, if not with her complete approval. now, if that is so, she is the one person who can decide whether you return with her to elmdale or hasten through the night to warleggan. again hazarding a guess, i don't think you could reach your father to-night, even though you caught the first available train from york. cornwall is a long way from yorkshire. by starting this minute, you might be in york by one o'clock. allowing eleven hours for the journey, an estimate i am doubtful about, you would arrive at tavistock at midnight, whereas it is highly probable there is no such train, nor one so rapid. by the way, why, do you think, did mrs. ogilvey telegraph from tavistock?" "she would drive there--some twelve miles. no telegram could be dispatched from warleggan before the post office opened at eight." "she may have had an even more powerful reason. the message is sent to 'garth,' not to 'ogilvey.' isn't it quite rational to suppose that she hopes no one in elmdale knows about the change of name?" "yes," said meg, trying to look calmly judicial. "that sounds reasonable." "then every consideration points to the wisdom of awaiting your mother at york." "but, bob dear, have you thought of the awful result if percy carries out his threat?" "percy will not do anything dramatic to-day, i promise you. i have scared him badly already, and i'm going back now with the full intent that he shall cause no more mischief until i hear from, or see, mrs. ogilvey and yourself, or one of you. perhaps, to relieve my anxiety, you will send a message from york announcing your decision?" "yes; i'll do that. you are really convinced that i ought to meet mother?" "i'm sure of it." "then you can trust me. i'll do as you say. you needn't have any fear that between here and york i'll change my mind. bob, you believe me, don't you, when i tell you that i ran away this morning because i dared not take you into my confidence? i could not bring myself to explain the true meaning of percy's horrid insinuations." "please, forget percy. i'll deal with him." "but you won't be too angry with him? it is hard to endure, i know, that he should play on his defenseless state, but, if he were quite well and uninjured, he could offer you no resistance." he laughed. the notion of percy whittaker and himself engaging in a desperate conflict for physical supremacy was intensely amusing. "if you mean that i am not to assault him, i promise that with all my heart," he said. "i gripped him rather strenuously an hour ago, i admit, but then i was angry with him. now i feel that i owe him a deep debt of gratitude, because he has brought to pass something which i hardly dared dream of. don't you see, dearest, that if percy hadn't behaved meanly to you i shouldn't now be calling you dearest, and wishing that our sharp-eyed chauffeur were anywhere else in the wide world but where he is. now, no more words, but deeds! off you go to york! what money have you?" "plenty." "what do you call plenty?" "dad gave me fifteen pounds when i left home, and i've spent less than five." "well, then, sweetheart, it is good-by till this evening." "oh, bob darling, i shall pray that it may be so!" storr received his orders without lifting an eyelid, which was highly creditable to him, having regard to the peculiar conditions under which he had met his employer. of course, he was ignorant of the state of affairs at the grange. he imagined that mr. armathwaite was escorting a young lady over the moor to leyburn, which was a funny way to reach york, when nuttonby lay on a better road, which was also the more direct route. but there was nothing unusual in the fact that he should be taking miss ogilvey to meet her mother, while the car would make light of the three journeys. "you'd better have this, sir, and see if it's right," he said, giving armathwaite a note. a glance showed that it dealt with terms for the hire of the car. "tell your people it is quite satisfactory," said armathwaite, and, after a farewell pressure of meg's hand, and a look from the brown eyes which remained with him like a blessing, the car started. he watched until it had vanished over a long undulation of the road, and saw the last flutter of meg's handkerchief ere she crossed the sky-line. then he mounted the bicycle, and rode swiftly back to the tiny hamlet in which, during two short days, he had passed through so many and so much varied experiences. looking down from the crest of the hill at the sunlit panorama of farm and field, woodland and furze-grown common, with elmdale's cluster of homesteads nestling close beneath the moor, and the spire of bellerby church (near which lay the mortal remains of "stephen garth") rising above a cluster of elms in the middle distance, it seemed to be a fantastic and unreal notion that so many of life's evils, so much of its beauty and happiness, could have found full scope for their expression in that tiny and remote place. as the hill was too dangerous in parts to ride, he dismounted twice. he was about to coast down the last straight slope to the house when a thought struck him with such blinding force that he nearly lost control of the bicycle. fool that he was, his first care should have been to tell marguérite that his name was not armathwaite; that he had adopted an incognito simply to avoid the prying eyes and inquisitive tongues of those with whom he might be brought in contact; that, in marrying him, she was stepping forth from the seclusion of a student's retreat into the full glare of public life. oh, the deuce take all complications and worries! he had won marguérite by extraordinary means--he must do his wooing in more orthodox manner, and in his true colors. he was traveling at a rate which kept pace with the tornado in his mind, but the second nature brought into being by an adventurous career bent a watchful eye on the inequalities of the road, so that he was actually slowing up somewhat short of the gate leading to the grange garden when he became aware of an unusual concourse of people gathered in the roadway. a motor-car and two dog-carts were halted near the gable of mrs. jackson's cottage, and a number of men--among them two in police uniform--who seemed to have collected into a chatting group, dissolved into units when he approached. he recognized a groom at a horse's head as dr. scaife's man; all the others were total strangers. but not for long. sir berkeley hutton, brought to elmdale by a neighborly curiosity strengthened by the call of the east, appeared to be overwhelmed with surprise at sight of armathwaite. but the worthy baronet did not lose the faculty of speech. no conceivable catastrophe, short of instant death, could deprive him of that. "god bless my soul!" he cried, advancing with outstretched hand. "baluchi bob! the last man breathing i ever expected to see in elmdale! did the monsoon break earlier than usual this year, or what wind of heaven blew _you_ here?" "hullo, barker!" cried armathwaite, hailing him with manifest pleasure. "i didn't know you had pitched your tent in these parts!" "yes, but, dash it all, bob, what's the game? they told me someone name of armathwaite, in the politicals, had taken the grange." "quite true. but you know i came a cropper in india, and i was a bit tired of the _sturm und drang_ of existence, so i hied me to cover under my mother's maiden name. i suppose i have a sort of right to it, though it doesn't seem to have proved altogether successful as a cloak." "by gad! i can hardly agree with you there. i felt as though i'd come a purler over wire when i saw baluchi bob dropping off that bicycle. great scott! you on a bike! how have the mighty fallen! but i'll lend you a hack till you collect a few useful screws, unless you're bitten by this new craze for rushing about the country in a gastank. and won't mollie be glad to see you! it was only the other day she was talkin' about the pup, and sayin' that if it hadn't been for you----" "oh, tell mollie to forget that old tale, or she'll make me nervous!" each word exchanged between the two was heard distinctly by the others, and, such is the queer way in which the affairs of life sometimes take an unexpected twist, there was a marked and instant change of attitude on the part of three men, at least, who had come to elmdale that day prepared to treat the grange's new tenant as a potential criminal. banks, mouthpiece of the _nuttonby gazette_, who had bicycled thither in the hope of securing another batch of readable copy for a special saturday edition, suddenly found himself reviewing, with a sinking heart, one or two rather ticklish paragraphs in the screed already published anent "the elmdale mystery." as for the superintendent and inspector of police from nuttonby, they forthwith recanted certain opinions formed after hearing banks's story and reading the current issue of his newspaper. for sir berkeley hutton was a county magnate, chairman of the nuttonby bench, an alderman of the county council, a deputy lieutenant, and goodness knows what else of a power in civic and social circles, and here was he hailing this stranger as an intimate friend, being himself greeted by the nickname earned by a loud and strident utterance which never failed, speaking of lady hutton as "mollie," of his eldest son as "the pup." county police and country editors must be chary of accepting the evidence of james walkers and tom blands against the guarantee of such a man, or they may get their corns trodden on most painfully! all at once, sir berkeley hutton seemed to recollect the talk which had been going on outside the locked and barred gate, for begonia smith and his henchmen had refused to pass anyone but the doctor and nurse, who were with their patient at that moment. "i say, bob," he went on, in a thunderous whisper quite as audible as his ordinary voice, "i'm devilish glad it's you--i am, 'pon my soul!--because some of these chaps have been spinnin' the queerest sort of yarn, in which a murder, a suicide, a ghost, and a pretty girl are mixed up in fine style. just tell 'em all to go to blazes, will you?--except dobb. dobb's a decent fellow, and he acted for the people who used to live here--hi! dobb. this is----" then it dawned on him that his friend might wish still to preserve his anonymity save in the sacred circle of the elect, so he broke off into "come along, dobb! i want you to meet one of the best fellows who ever wore shoe-leather!" dobb advanced. with him came a gentleman who was as unknown to nuttonby as armathwaite himself. before the solicitor could speak, his companion said quietly: "sir robert dalrymple, i believe?" "yes," and marguérite's "chosen mate" looked him very searchingly and squarely in the eyes. "my name is morand," said the other. "i am sent here by the india office to tell you----" he glanced around in momentary hesitation. "pray, go on," said dalrymple, as armathwaite must be described henceforth. "there is nothing that the india office has to communicate which i am not willing that all the world should hear." "happily, sir robert, this is a communication which all the world ought to hear. the maharajah of barapur is dead. he was assassinated last monday while driving through the bazaar. his prime minister, chalwar singh, was with him, and was mortally wounded at the same time." "then india is well rid of two pestilent scoundrels," said dalrymple unconcernedly. "that is the view now held by the government," was the grave answer. "a death-bed conversion, of a sort," commented his hearer dryly. "a death-bed confession, too," said morand. "it was a fortunate thing that both men lived long enough to reveal that they had concocted the whole story of the maharani's pearls in order to get you shelved. your administration was too honest. they played on your well-known carelessness in trivial matters of detail, and bribed your native secretary, muncherji, to include in your correspondence the letters which seemed to prove your complicity in a serious breach of trust. muncherji, by rare good chance, was not in barapur when the maharajah and chalwar singh were riddled with bullets, so he was arrested before he knew of the affair. he, too, has confessed. in fact, i can convey everything in a sentence. the government of india has reinstated you in the high commissionership, and you are gazetted as absent on leave. i am the bearer of ample apologies from the india office, which will be tendered to you in person by my chief when he meets you in london. meanwhile, i am to request you to allow the announcement to be made public that you will return to india on a named date, while the appointment of your deputy is left open for your recommendation." dalrymple paled slightly, which was the only evidence he gave of the effect such a statement was bound to produce on a proud and ambitious nature, but sir berkeley hutton was irrepressible. "by gad!" he roared, "somebody's gold lace has been rolled in the dust of calcutta before the india department climbed down like that. i never heard anything like it--never! 'pon me soul! won't mollie be pleased?" yet the man to whom the path of empire was again thrown open spoke no word. it was good to have his honor cleared of the stain put on it by a scheming indian prince and his henchmen. it was good to find himself standing once more in the high place he had won by self-sacrificing work and unflinching adherence to an ideal of efficient government. but his thoughts were with a sorrow-stricken girl speeding to a sad tryst with a mother who might bring tidings that would blight her life for many a year. morand grew anxious. he shared dalrymple's knowledge of the tremendous issues bound up with an affair of state of real magnitude, and he did not want to fail in this, his first confidential mission. "if there is anything else i can say, sir robert----" he began, and his voice disrupted a dream. "it's all right, morand," said the other, letting a hand rest on the shoulder of the younger man in that characteristic way of his. "i'm not such a cur as to snarl when i have been proved right, and my traducers are ready to admit their blunder. i didn't yelp when the blow fell. i'm not going to kick up a bobbery now when i'm given back my spurs. tell your chief that i'll come to him soon, within a week, if possible. i have business on my hands here that calls imperatively for settlement. i'll deal first with that; then i'll come. are you returning to town at once?" "by the first available train. more than that, i am to telegraph your decision to whitehall. between you and me, some people are in a howling funk lest a question should be put in the house." "that isn't the frontier method. men who appeal to parliament when things go wrong are of no value to india. but i don't want to preach." "won't you come in?" "if you'll pardon me, i'll hurry back to nuttonby. that telegram is called for urgently. what about your deputy?" "collins was transferred to oudh because he supported me. send him to barapur. the natives will understand that better than a dozen gazettes." "thanks. that clinches it, sir robert. mr. dobb, do you mind if we start immediately?" mr. dobb did mind. for one thing, he had not spoken a word to sir robert dalrymple yet. for another, nuttonby loomed larger in his mind than some wrangle in far-away hindustan, and nuttonby was seething with rumors anent present and past inhabitants of the grange. "we, like the state of barapur, have our little troubles," he said guardedly. "sir robert has shown already that he appreciates their gravity. my car will take you to nuttonby, mr. morand, and come back for me." the representative of the india office was only too pleased to get away on any terms. he knew that a reassuring message was wanted in whitehall. there were wheels within wheels. a question _was_ put in the house that night, and an under-secretary scoffed at the notion that sir robert dalrymple, "a trusted servant of his country, whose splendid work on the indus was most thoroughly appreciated by the government of india," had been requested to resign. as a matter of public interest, he was pleased to inform the honorable questioner that sir robert dalrymple, only that day, had put forward the name of mr. mortimer collins, i.c.s., to act as his deputy in barapur until he returned from short leave granted on "urgent private affairs." the motor was already trumpeting its way through a mob of elmdale urchins, who seldom saw a car, and had never before seen two in one day, when dalrymple found himself regretting he had not inquired how morand contrived to get on his track so easily. some weeks elapsed before he learned that the only friend in london who knew his whereabouts thought it a duty to speak when the hue and cry went forth from the india office. dalrymple was with his friend, a retired general, in his club when the vexed administrator announced his intention to retire from the arena and take a well-earned rest. "i'll assume my mother's name, armathwaite," he had said, "and rusticate in some place where barapur is unknown and india never mentioned. let's have a look at the map!" he glanced at a motoring road-book lying on the club table. "here we are!" he laughed. "judging by the condition of the highways, there are backwoods near nuttonby, in yorkshire. my postal address will be armathwaite, near nuttonby, for some months. but i'll write." so that was how it happened that sir robert dalrymple came to the grange, and met marguérite ogilvey. some part of the outcome of that meeting was foreshadowed while smith of the begonias was unlocking the gate, because a procession of three appeared in the porch. dr. scaife and a nurse were carrying percy whittaker between them. the doctor's distress was almost comical when he caught sight of dalrymple. he shouted brokenly, being rather breathless: "for goodness' sake--mr. armathwaite--come and persuade this young man--to remain here. he insists--on being taken away--at once!" chapter xv the laying of the ghost it has been seen that dalrymple had a short way with the percy whittakers of this world. he strode up the garden path and confronted whittaker, who was standing on one foot and clinging in pain and terror to dr. scaife and the nurse. "you had better remain here," he said sternly. "miss ogilvey has only gone to meet her mother at york. both ladies will probably arrive this evening. why are you making yourself a nuisance when everyone is doing all that is possible to serve you?" whittaker clutched the doctor even more tightly. "he says that before witnesses," he quavered, "yet less than an hour ago he tried to strangle me." "stuff and nonsense! i don't believe it!" protested scaife emphatically. "i frightened him, undoubtedly," said dalrymple. "it was necessary. sometimes a threatened spanking is as effectual as the real thing, and mr. whittaker's nervous system has led him to take an exaggerated view of my intentions. the fact is that he himself was responsible for a show of violence on my part. meanwhile, marguérite ogilvey, whom you have always known as meg garth, dr. scaife, has promised to become my wife, so mr. whittaker and i have no further cause for quarrel. indeed, by the time he is able to walk downstairs unassisted, his own good sense will come to the rescue, and blot out any unpleasant memories as between him and me.... now, percy, my boy, let me use my muscles to better purpose than choking the life out of you. i'm going to carry you back to bed again." his air of quiet domination, no less than the news which sounded the knell of whittaker's hopes, seemed to mesmerize the neurotic youth into silence and submission. dalrymple took him in his arms, lifted him off the ground with gentle care, and carried him to the bedroom he had insisted on leaving. the nurse followed, and he left the invalid in her care. hastening to the porch, he found dr. scaife mopping his forehead; the worthy doctor was more upset by the frenzied statements made by percy than by the physical effort involved by carrying him downstairs. "wait one moment," he said. "i'm bringing in some men whom you know. then i shall explain everything." he passed on to the gate. "i want you, hutton, and you, mr. dobb, to come into the house. those police officers also had better join us. who is the other man?" "mr. banks, of the _nuttonby gazette_," said the baronet. "very well. let him come, too. better tell him what he must not say rather than correct his blunders subsequently in a court of law." mr. dobb, being a lawyer, doubted the wisdom of admitting a representative of the press to their conclave, but dalrymple's air of authority kept him dumb. during the drive from nuttonby the delegate of the india office had discoursed on the important position this stranger occupied in india, and it was not for a country solicitor, who hardly guessed what was coming, to question his decision before he knew its scope. and therein dalrymple showed his genius. banks, already in a flutter because of certain indiscretions in his printed references to the inquest, was at once soothed and gratified by the great man's tact. the police superintendent found the ground cut away from beneath his feet by the full and complete version of recent events which dalrymple supplied. sir berkeley and the doctor listened to the recital with ill-suppressed amazement, but, at the end, they agreed, each and all, with dalrymple's suggestion that judgment should be suspended until mrs. ogilvey was in elmdale. he did not attempt to argue that the law should not take its course. "during the past ten years," he said, "i have held the lives and liberties of two millions of people in my keeping, so i need hardly say that i am a most unlikely person to fly in the face of authority. but there are circumstances connected with this inquiry which call for careful treatment. some man died here, and was buried, and the law must be satisfied that mr. stephen ogilvey was either ignorant of the occurrence, or had no guilty knowledge of it--which is not quite the same thing--before he can be exonerated from the grave suspicion at present attached to his actions of two years ago. now, i have not the honor of knowing either mr. ogilvey or his wife, but i do hold that they could not have won the respect of their neighbors during twenty years of residence in this house and yet be capable of planning and committing an atrocious murder. i would point out that mrs. ogilvey shares some of the blame, or the guilt, of her husband. if he is a criminal, she knows it. the law looks with lenient eyes on a woman who shields a man in such conditions, but that element in human affairs only goes to strengthen my contention that mrs. ogilvey can, if she chooses, throw a flood of light on this strange problem. she is now on her way north. her daughter has gone to york to meet her. in all likelihood, one or both ladies will be in elmdale to-night. is it not reasonable to ask that investigation by the police into a singular occurrence now two years old should be postponed till to-morrow? gentlemen, i promise you this. come here to-morrow, say, about two o'clock, and you will be placed in possession of every fact then known to me. it is obvious, in my opinion, that the police can hardly adopt any other course, but i am bound to point out to mr. banks that the man who writes, and the newspaper which publishes, theories or speculations with regard to this matter before it is fully cleared up through the proper channel, will incur a most serious responsibility." sir berkeley hutton, of course, had a word to say. "mr. garth, or mr. ogilvey as you now call him, is an old and valued friend of mine," he declared, "and it is my fixed and definite belief that if he was stung by a wasp he would find some excuse for a poor insect which was only trying to protect itself from imaginary danger. stephen garth kill anybody! stuff and nonsense!" mr. dobb, too, was incredulous in so far as his friend's criminality was concerned. "mr. garth certainly wrote the letter to the coroner," he said. "i saw it, and recognized his handwriting. therefore, he knew that a death had taken place, and used a remarkably ingenious method of hoodwinking the authorities. that, in itself, is a legal offense--the magnitude of which alone can be estimated when we know the truth. i agree with sir robert dalrymple. we must await mrs. garth's, or, i suppose i must learn to say, mrs. ogilvey's, arrival before any other steps are taken. meanwhile, it is of the utmost importance that no word of this discussion shall travel beyond these four walls." "will sir robert dalrymple undertake to notify me of mrs. ogilvey's presence?" was the very pertinent inquiry made by the police superintendent. dalrymple undertook readily to send a messenger into nuttonby early next morning, and his diplomacy was rewarded by seeing the conclave break up on that understanding. nevertheless, he passed a miserable and restless day. he had not stemmed the torrent, but diverted it. if his faith was not justified, if marguérite's mother either refused to give any explanation of her husband's extraordinary ruse, or denied all knowledge of it, there was no getting away from the fact that the elderly recluse might soon be lodged in a felon's cell. marguérite herself would strain every nerve to save her father, if only by flight, but her lover realized how futile that would prove. he had secured a respite--and no more. if mrs. ogilvey's admissions led her daughter to journey on through the night to warleggan, the girl might contrive to hurry her father out of england before the bolt fell. but to what avail? they would be traced with ease. their flight, the pursuit, the arrest, would only add fuel to the flame lighted by inquisitive newspapers. better, far better, that the man should face an inquiry at once rather than be put on trial after a vain attempt to escape. it was almost a relief to visit percy whittaker during the afternoon, and endeavor to convert him from active enmity into a sulky acquiescence in things as they were, and not as he hoped they would be. luckily, dalrymple had estimated a curious temperament with singular accuracy. after a long conversation, in which the older man cajoled and flattered percy by turns, the latter declared that he never meant to put his threat into force. "i'm not such an ass as to want to marry a girl who loathed the sight of me," he said ruefully. "i tried to frighten meg. i guessed she'd run off to warleggan. my motive was to separate the pair of you. then i'd follow, as soon as this confounded ankle of mine would permit, and tell her candidly that i was frantically jealous of you. dash it all, and not without good cause! all's fair in love an' war, mr. armathwaite. i've a notion now that my splutter simply drove her into your arms." "my name is not armathwaite----" began dalrymple, whereupon whittaker glared at him in a new frenzy. "i never thought it was!" he vociferated. "let me tell you you're the biggest puzzle of the lot. i shan't be a bit surprised if you say you are the fellow who hanged somebody here, and persuaded old garth to stand the racket." so, to pass the time while the nurse was eating a meal, dalrymple told him the story of barapur, and percy heard, and was subdued, since he knew now that, come what might, marguérite ogilvey was lost to him forever. then, while dalrymple was surveying the day's work of smith and his men, and declaring it was good, there came a messenger from bellerby on a borrowed bicycle, bearing a telegram. it was from marguérite, and dalrymple's heart danced with joy when he read: "all is well. father leaves for york to-night. he will join mother and me early to-morrow. expect us about ten o'clock. am detaining car. love, meg." all is well! what was well? it was a woman's message, which assumed everything and told nothing, except the one amazing fact that stephen ogilvey's wife had evidently decided that the period of concealment was ended, and that her husband should now vindicate himself in the eyes of his world. at any rate, a youth returned to bellerby with two bicycles and the richer by two sovereigns, so it is tolerably certain that dalrymple's few words of congratulation were not delayed on the way. the new tenant smoked and mused in the garden for another hour, until betty came to summon him to dinner. he was entering the house when he saw the ghost again, a phantom divested now of eeriness, because a round blob of sunshine shone on the wall instead of the white sockets of eyes which lent such a ghoulish aspect to the shadowy face. then he did a queer thing. lifting the grandfather's clock, and disregarding the protest of weights and pendulum thumping against its wooden ribs, he placed it exactly where the reflection of the window fell. instantly, the ghost vanished. the dark mahogany case absorbed the outlines of the figure. the old spanish wood glowed richly here and there where the lights were strongest, and a disk of gold illumined the dull brass of the clock's face. and that was the end of the elmdale ghost! never again would it be seen until someone moved the clock, and sir robert dalrymple vowed that such alteration should not occur in his time. luckily, dr. scaife came just as dalrymple was sitting down to a solitary meal, and he was promptly bidden to the feast. dalrymple showed him marguérite's telegram, and they discussed it for an hour, or longer, though with no result, for they could only theorize, and, since truth is stranger than fiction, even two such acute minds failed to arrive at the actual solution of the mystery. dalrymple went late to bed, and awoke early, to find that the much-maligned british climate had produced another fine day. it was joyous to see the sun shining into his bedroom; it was still more joyous to descend the stairs, and glimpse the blue sky through the black prince's visor. a current of pure, sweet-scented air came through the orifice, and seemed to presage a new span of life to the old house; dalrymple decided, then and there, that when the turmoil had subsided, he would commission the best obtainable artist in stained glass to restore the black prince's features in guise befitting his character as a warrior, statesman, and true lover. a few minutes before ten tom bland came with a cartload of plants from a nursery. smith and the laborers carried the boxes of flowers into the garden, and set them on both sides of the path, so that happy chance contrived that marguérite should lead her parents to their old home through a blaze of color when the automobile brought them to the gate at ten o'clock. it is not often that any collection of mortals is privileged to see a ghost in broad daylight, and in the rays of a powerful sun at that, but such was the lot of carrier bland, gardener smith, and four gaping yokels of elmdale, not to mention a quite respectable number of other inhabitants, when stephen garth alighted from the car and walked jauntily up the garden to the porch of his own house. to save mrs. jackson and betty from spasms, dalrymple had warned them previously of mr. garth's coming, but the men, and elmdale generally, were not thus enlightened, and some of them would certainly have bolted had they not seen "the new guv'nor" shaking hands with "the old guv'nor," and had not the latter stopped to greet begonia smith with the exceedingly trite remark: "well, smith, i'm not so dead as you thought me!" "no, sir," said smith, who did not find his tongue again until the newcomers had gone into the grange. then he turned to one of the men. "all i can say, henery, is this," he murmured huskily. "i've heerd of people lookin' as though they'd bin dead an' dug up, but i'll take my oath no one has dug mr. garth out o' bellerby churchyard." "it must be all right, though," was the philosophic answer. "miss meg wouldn't look so happy if there was goin' to be trouble." "ay! but hurry up with those begonias. in with 'em!" * * * * * it would serve no good purpose to set forth in detail the manner in which mr. and mrs. ogilvey cleared up the mystery on the one hand, and became mystified themselves on the other. few parents can rear a charming daughter to womanhood without experiencing the surprise, almost the dismay, of finding that she has given her heart to a man of whom they know little. in this instance, a devoted father and an equally devoted mother could only listen in bewilderment when the girl, who was still a child in their eyes, introduced "robert armathwaite" as her promised husband, while their astonished eyes were only paralleled by meg's own when the tall, grave-looking stranger proceeded to explain that he was not robert armathwaite, but sir robert dalrymple, k.c.s.i. marguérite, at first, believed he was joking. when he assured her he was even more serious than usual, she relieved the situation by making an elaborate curtsey to her own reflection in an old-fashioned mirror in the drawing-room. "lady dalrymple!" she cried. "presented at court by her humble self! sir robert dalrymple, k.c.s.i.! lady dalrymple, k.i.s.s.!" whereupon, she proceeded to invest each of them with her own order. when the bench, the bar, the police, and the press were duly represented that afternoon, mr. stephen ogilvey spoke fully and frankly. his wife and daughter were present, and, if mrs. ogilvey wept a little during the recital, it was only natural. for she alone knew what this gentle-voiced, white-haired man had endured during those june days two years ago. even the tender-hearted marguérite could never realize the exquisite torture which her father had suffered voluntarily. perhaps the presence of her lover, combined with the reaction of the discovery that her father had committed no actual crime, rendered her temporarily incapable of appreciating the motives which accounted for his actions. be that as it may, this is his story: "to make clear the reason which led me to deceive my friends in elmdale in such an extraordinary way, i must go back twenty-four years in my life. i was then thirty-five years of age, and professor of philology in a recently-formed university in the midlands. i was married, but, as some of you know, my first and only child was not born until the events happened which drove me into retirement, and led my dear wife and myself to seek the peace and seclusion of elmdale." it is not to be wondered at if dalrymple and marguérite exchanged smiling glances at those words; but the professor's strange narrative should not be interrupted by lovers' confidences. "i am a man of highly sensitive nature," he went on, "and my mind almost gave way under the shock when my brother james, somewhat older than myself, who occupied a prominent position in birmingham as manager of an important private bank, was reported missing from his office under circumstances which pointed to a serious and systematic embezzlement of the bank's funds. day by day the scandal enlarged its bounds. the bank closed its doors; hundreds of people were ruined; there were several cases of suicide among the robbed depositors; and, at last, my brother, james ogilvey, was arrested in france, owing to a chance meeting with a man who knew him. he was brought to trial, sentenced to a long term of penal servitude, and passed into seeming oblivion accompanied by the curses of thousands. my wife and i literally could not hold up our heads among our friends in the midlands, and, as we were not wholly dependent on my earnings, we resolved to change our name and start life anew. at that crisis, my mother died. undoubtedly her death was hastened by my brother's wrong-doing, and it is probable that she destroyed a will already in existence, meaning to make another, but was stricken down by apoplexy before she could carry out her intention. at any rate, no will was found, so her property became intestate. this house and ground belonged to her, but she was unknown locally, as she left elmdale more than half a century ago, so, after settling some legal matters, my wife and i determined to live here, and adopt my wife's maiden name. there was no great difficulty. i still continued to do my work, which was mainly of a specialist nature, under my own name, but in elmdale i was always 'stephen garth,' and the catastrophe in the midlands soon passed into the mists when our child was born. "we reasoned that by the time she grew to womanhood, the memory of james ogilvey's crime would have died away. at any rate, there was nothing to be gained by letting her know that such a person had ever existed, and you can take it from me that she was ignorant of the fact until a late hour yesterday. some eight years ago, my unfortunate brother was released. i met him in london, supplied him with ample funds, and sent him to the colonies, taking good care that he should know neither my altered name nor my address. i heard no more of him until the beginning of june, two years since, when he wrote to me as 'stephen garth,' said he was coming to live in my house, being tired of a roving life, and threatened to take lodgings in the village if i did not receive him. now, my wife and i were determined that he should never cross our daughter's path if we could help it, so a journey to france was resolved on hastily and the two took their departure. for my own part, i decided to await my brother's coming, and try to reason with him. if he proved obdurate, i meant to join my wife and daughter abroad, and, to that end, as mr. dobb is aware, i made over all my property to my wife in trust for my daughter. this step was necessary, i believe, to save them from persecution at my brother's hands, because he had hinted at some grievance with regard to the disposition of my mother's estate, a grievance quite unfounded, since i had dealt with him most generously on his release from prison. in order to conceal his presence from the villagers until i had tried every argument to prevail on him to leave me and my family in peace, i arranged to meet him at leyburn, and drive to the edge of the moor. i brought him to the house without anyone being the wiser, but i soon found i was a child in his hands. he played on my fear of publicity by agreeing to lie _perdu_ if i would supply him with drink. i bore with the infliction for some days until, driven to despair, i refused to purchase any more alcohol. there was a furious scene between us, and he threatened not merely exposure, but legal proceedings to force me to 'disgorge,' as he put it, his share of the property left by our mother, whose maiden name, by the way, faulkner, is well known here. i realize now that james was in a state verging on dementia, but i may sum up a distressing period of four days and nights of suffering by saying that, in a final paroxysm of rage, he was seized with apoplexy, and died almost instantaneously. "though convinced that he was dead, i hoped against hope for some hours. then _rigor mortis_ set in, and i knew that the only man who had ever inflicted an injury on my good name had struck his last and shrewdest blow by dying in my house. i want you to consider the position i was in. a man, a stranger, was lying there dead, in circumstances that demanded an inquest. i had not called for a doctor, or obtained any assistance locally. i had sent my wife and daughter to a foreign country, obviously to get them out of the way. a _post-mortem_ examination would show that death had taken place nearly a day before i made any stir. if i destroyed certain documents in my brother's possession--such, for instance, as a ticket of leave, which he had retained long after its expiry for the mere purpose, i firmly believe, of bringing pressure to bear on me--there would be nothing to show his identity. in a word, there was a _prima facie_ case of murder ready to be established against me. of course, the medical evidence would go to prove my innocence, but all the world--all of my small world, at any rate--would gape and gossip because of the scandal which my wife and i had given more than twenty years of our life to escape. for the sake of my wife and daughter i resolved upon a daring expedient. the 'ogilvey fraud' of a previous generation was forgotten. why should i not resume my own name, and let my brother die and be buried as stephen garth? i saw that my own behavior during the past week would help the assumption that i had committed suicide, while a rather marked resemblance between my brother and myself, together with the fact that he had died from apoplexy, would complete the illusion. moreover, there exists, in connection with this very house, a curious legend which condemned seven generations of its owners to die by violence, either self-inflicted, or caused by others. james ogilvey's death was the seventh, and i trusted to this alleged prophecy of a spanish priest put to death by a sea-rover named faulkner in the seventeenth century being sufficiently well known in connection with a shadow, or manifestation, cast on the wall by a stained-glass window in the staircase. "at any rate, i steeled my heart to a dreadful undertaking, dressed my brother in my own clothes, tied his body to a hook in the hall where the shadow i have spoken of is seen at this time of the year, and stole away across the moor after writing a letter to the coroner. "gentlemen, i believe i have broken the law in some respects, and i am prepared to suffer for my misdeeds. perhaps, a long and blameless and not wholly useless life may plead for me now. i acted as i did because of a certain pride in my work, and because of my love for a dear wife and daughter. i dreamed that the dead past had indeed buried its dead but, by a most unusual combination of simple circumstances, the whole strange story has been brought to light. i have nothing more to say. now that a long ordeal of silence is ended, i am happier to-day than i ever thought to be again in my existence. i can produce a certain number of documents to prove what i may term the historical part of my confession. the really vital part of it--the manner of my brother's death--can receive no other testimony than my own, eked out by such statement as my friend, dr. scaife, may find himself able to make after hearing my version of the tragedy." marguérite ran to her father and threw her arms around his neck. "if they take you before a judge, dad," she cried, "let me go into court and tell them that i was the cause of all the trouble. then he will warn me not to be such a bad little girl, and sympathize with you so greatly that he will say you leave the court without a stain on your character." * * * * * as a matter of fact, owing to the attitude of the authorities and with the active assistance of banks in the columns of the _nuttonby gazette_, the official inquiry into the affair attracted very little notice. a ten-line paragraph explained that it was mr. james ogilvey who died, and not mr. stephen garth, and a special faculty was obtained to correct the announcement on the stone in bellerby churchyard. naturally, the people in elmdale and the neighborhood had a pretty fair knowledge of the truth, but everyone was so pleased to see the "professor" and his wife again that the thing was hushed up with remarkable ease. even percy whittaker held his tongue. village gossip has it that storr, the chauffeur, is badly smitten by betty jackson's charms. the girl's mother clinched matters by grumbling that "sen betty's gotten a young man there's no doin' owt wi' her." and begonia smith turned the garden into a fairy-land that summer. the black prince received his new and most impressive set of features before a certain noteworthy marriage took place, and beamed a courtly approval on the bride when she descended the stairs in her wedding dress. in fact, the elmdale tragedy received its quietus when james walker, senior, and james walker, junior, watched sir robert and lady dalrymple drive past their office _en route_ to paris and the continent. said the father: "little things often lead to the most surprising events. who'd ha' thought, jimmie, when we let the 'house 'round the corner' to a stranger named robert armathwaite, that we were indirectly bringing about the marriage of meg garth to sir robert dalrymple?" "well, i didn't, for one!" said the son gloomily. the end * * * * * zane grey's novels _the light of western stars_ a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. _the rainbow trail_ the story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. _desert gold_ the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. _riders of the purple sage_ a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. the prosecution of jane withersteen is the theme of the story. _the last of the plainsmen_ this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines." _the heritage of the desert_ a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons--well, that's the problem of this great story. _the short stop_ the young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. his hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. _betty zane_ this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. _the lone star ranger_ after killing a man in self defense, buck duane becomes an outlaw along the texas border. in a camp on the mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. _the border legion_ joan handle, in a spirit of anger, sent jim cleve out to a lawless western mining camp, to prove his mettle. then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. on her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots kells, the leader--and nurses him to health again. here enters another romance--when joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes jim in the throes of dissipation. a gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. _the last of the great scouts._ by helen cody wetmore and zane grey the life story of colonel william f. cody, "buffalo bill," as told by his sister and zane grey. it begins with his boyhood in iowa and his first encounter with an indian. we see "bill" as a pony express rider, then near fort sumter as chief of the scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous indian campaigns. there is also a very interesting account of the travels of "the wild west" show. no character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of america than "buffalo bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. * * * * * the novels of mary roberts rinehart _"k."_ illustrated. k. lemoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful sidney page lives. she is in training to become a nurse. the joys and troubles of their young love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made the author famous. _the man in lower ten._ illustrated by howard chandler christy. an absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the "man in lower ten." the strongest elements of mrs. rinehart's success are found in this book. _when a man marries._ illustrated by harrison fisher and mayo bunker. a young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. the aunt, who contributes to the family income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. how the young man met the situation is humorously and most entertainingly told. _the circular staircase._ illus. by lester ralph. the summer occupants of "sunnyside" find the dead body of arnold armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. following the murder a bank failure is announced. around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing interest. _the street of seven stars._ illustrated (photo play edition.) harmony wells, studying in vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. she meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn dr. anna and jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means. * * * * * booth tarkington's novels _seventeen._ illustrated by arthur william brown. no one but the creator of penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was seventeen. _penrod._ illustrated by gordon grant. this is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. it is a finished, exquisite work. _penrod and sam._ illustrated by worth brehm. like "penrod" and "seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. _the turmoil._ illustrated by c. e. chambers. bibbs sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. the love of a fine girl turns bibb's life from failure to success. _the gentleman from indiana._ frontispiece. a story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country editor's life in indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest. _the flirt._ illustrated by clarence f. underwood. the "flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. * * * * * kathleen norris' stories _mother._ illustrated by f. c. yohn. this book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's experiences. _saturday's child._ frontispiece by f. graham cootes. out on the pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a quest for happiness. she passes through three stages--poverty, wealth and service--and works out a creditable salvation. _the rich mrs. burgoyne._ illustrated by lucius h. hitchcock. the story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own romance. _the story of julia page._ frontispiece by allan gilbert. how julia page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. _the heart of rachael._ frontispiece by charles e. chambers. rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most appealing characters. * * * * * sewell ford's stories _shorty mccabe._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. a very humorous story, the hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. _side-stepping with shorty._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. sympathy with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for "side-stepping with shorty." _shorty mccabe on the job._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. shorty mccabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to the minute. he aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," and gives joy to all concerned. _shorty mccabe's odd numbers._ illustrated by francis vaux wilson. these further chronicles of shorty mccabe tell of his studio for physical culture, and of his experiences both on the east side and at swell yachting parties. _torchy._ illus, by geo. brehm and jas. montgomery flagg. a red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of new york, tells the story of his experiences. _trying out torchy._ illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the previous book. _on with torchy._ illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. _torchy, private sec._ illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for the corrugated iron company. the story is full of humor and infectious american slang. _wilt thou torchy._ illus. by f. snapp and a. w. brown. torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the florida west coast, in company with a group of friends of the corrugated trust and with his friend's aunt, on which trip torchy wins the aunt's permission to place an engagement ring on vee's finger. * * * * * novels of frontier life by william macleod raine _mavericks._ a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. _a texas ranger._ how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquite, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. _wyoming._ in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. _ridgway of montana._ the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. _bucky o'connor._ every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. _crooked trails and straight._ a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. _brand blotters._ a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its 320 pages. [editor's note:--the chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter xv and volume 3 starts with chapter xxx.] sylvia's lovers. by elizabeth gaskell oh for thy voice to soothe and bless! what hope of answer, or redress? behind the veil! behind the veil!--tennyson in three volumes. vol. i. london: m.dccc.lxiii. contents i monkshaven ii home from greenland iii buying a new cloak iv philip hepburn v story of the press-gang vi the sailor's funeral vii tete-a-tete.--the will viii attraction and repulsion ix the specksioneer x a refractory pupil xi visions of the future xii new year's fete xiii perplexities xiv partnership chapter i monkshaven on the north-eastern shores of england there is a town called monkshaven, containing at the present day about fifteen thousand inhabitants. there were, however, but half the number at the end of the last century, and it was at that period that the events narrated in the following pages occurred. monkshaven was a name not unknown in the history of england, and traditions of its having been the landing-place of a throneless queen were current in the town. at that time there had been a fortified castle on the heights above it, the site of which was now occupied by a deserted manor-house; and at an even earlier date than the arrival of the queen and coeval with the most ancient remains of the castle, a great monastery had stood on those cliffs, overlooking the vast ocean that blended with the distant sky. monkshaven itself was built by the side of the dee, just where the river falls into the german ocean. the principal street of the town ran parallel to the stream, and smaller lanes branched out of this, and straggled up the sides of the steep hill, between which and the river the houses were pent in. there was a bridge across the dee, and consequently a bridge street running at right angles to the high street; and on the south side of the stream there were a few houses of more pretension, around which lay gardens and fields. it was on this side of the town that the local aristocracy lived. and who were the great people of this small town? not the younger branches of the county families that held hereditary state in their manor-houses on the wild bleak moors, that shut in monkshaven almost as effectually on the land side as ever the waters did on the sea-board. no; these old families kept aloof from the unsavoury yet adventurous trade which brought wealth to generation after generation of certain families in monkshaven. the magnates of monkshaven were those who had the largest number of ships engaged in the whaling-trade. something like the following was the course of life with a monkshaven lad of this class:--he was apprenticed as a sailor to one of the great ship-owners--to his own father, possibly--along with twenty other boys, or, it might be, even more. during the summer months he and his fellow apprentices made voyages to the greenland seas, returning with their cargoes in the early autumn; and employing the winter months in watching the preparation of the oil from the blubber in the melting-sheds, and learning navigation from some quaint but experienced teacher, half schoolmaster, half sailor, who seasoned his instructions by stirring narrations of the wild adventures of his youth. the house of the ship-owner to whom he was apprenticed was his home and that of his companions during the idle season between october and march. the domestic position of these boys varied according to the premium paid; some took rank with the sons of the family, others were considered as little better than servants. yet once on board an equality prevailed, in which, if any claimed superiority, it was the bravest and brightest. after a certain number of voyages the monkshaven lad would rise by degrees to be captain, and as such would have a share in the venture; all these profits, as well as all his savings, would go towards building a whaling vessel of his own, if he was not so fortunate as to be the child of a ship-owner. at the time of which i write, there was but little division of labour in the monkshaven whale fishery. the same man might be the owner of six or seven ships, any one of which he himself was fitted by education and experience to command; the master of a score of apprentices, each of whom paid a pretty sufficient premium; and the proprietor of the melting-sheds into which his cargoes of blubber and whalebone were conveyed to be fitted for sale. it was no wonder that large fortunes were acquired by these ship-owners, nor that their houses on the south side of the river dee were stately mansions, full of handsome and substantial furniture. it was also not surprising that the whole town had an amphibious appearance, to a degree unusual even in a seaport. every one depended on the whale fishery, and almost every male inhabitant had been, or hoped to be, a sailor. down by the river the smell was almost intolerable to any but monkshaven people during certain seasons of the year; but on these unsavoury 'staithes' the old men and children lounged for hours, almost as if they revelled in the odours of train-oil. this is, perhaps, enough of a description of the town itself. i have said that the country for miles all around was moorland; high above the level of the sea towered the purple crags, whose summits were crowned with greensward that stole down the sides of the scaur a little way in grassy veins. here and there a brook forced its way from the heights down to the sea, making its channel into a valley more or less broad in long process of time. and in the moorland hollows, as in these valleys, trees and underwood grew and flourished; so that, while on the bare swells of the high land you shivered at the waste desolation of the scenery, when you dropped into these wooded 'bottoms' you were charmed with the nestling shelter which they gave. but above and around these rare and fertile vales there were moors for many a mile, here and there bleak enough, with the red freestone cropping out above the scanty herbage; then, perhaps, there was a brown tract of peat and bog, uncertain footing for the pedestrian who tried to make a short cut to his destination; then on the higher sandy soil there was the purple ling, or commonest species of heather growing in beautiful wild luxuriance. tufts of fine elastic grass were occasionally to be found, on which the little black-faced sheep browsed; but either the scanty food, or their goat-like agility, kept them in a lean condition that did not promise much for the butcher, nor yet was their wool of a quality fine enough to make them profitable in that way to their owners. in such districts there is little population at the present day; there was much less in the last century, before agriculture was sufficiently scientific to have a chance of contending with such natural disqualifications as the moors presented, and when there were no facilities of railroads to bring sportsmen from a distance to enjoy the shooting season, and make an annual demand for accommodation. there were old stone halls in the valleys; there were bare farmhouses to be seen on the moors at long distances apart, with small stacks of coarse poor hay, and almost larger stacks of turf for winter fuel in their farmyards. the cattle in the pasture fields belonging to these farms looked half starved; but somehow there was an odd, intelligent expression in their faces, as well as in those of the black-visaged sheep, which is seldom seen in the placidly stupid countenances of well-fed animals. all the fences were turf banks, with loose stones piled into walls on the top of these. there was comparative fertility and luxuriance down below in the rare green dales. the narrow meadows stretching along the brookside seemed as though the cows could really satisfy their hunger in the deep rich grass; whereas on the higher lands the scanty herbage was hardly worth the fatigue of moving about in search of it. even in these 'bottoms' the piping sea-winds, following the current of the stream, stunted and cut low any trees; but still there was rich thick underwood, tangled and tied together with brambles, and brier-rose, [sic] and honeysuckle; and if the farmer in these comparatively happy valleys had had wife or daughter who cared for gardening, many a flower would have grown on the western or southern side of the rough stone house. but at that time gardening was not a popular art in any part of england; in the north it is not yet. noblemen and gentlemen may have beautiful gardens; but farmers and day-labourers care little for them north of the trent, which is all i can answer for. a few 'berry' bushes, a black currant tree or two (the leaves to be used in heightening the flavour of tea, the fruit as medicinal for colds and sore throats), a potato ground (and this was not so common at the close of the last century as it is now), a cabbage bed, a bush of sage, and balm, and thyme, and marjoram, with possibly a rose tree, and 'old man' growing in the midst; a little plot of small strong coarse onions, and perhaps some marigolds, the petals of which flavoured the salt-beef broth; such plants made up a well-furnished garden to a farmhouse at the time and place to which my story belongs. but for twenty miles inland there was no forgetting the sea, nor the sea-trade; refuse shell-fish, seaweed, the offal of the melting-houses, were the staple manure of the district; great ghastly whale-jaws, bleached bare and white, were the arches over the gate-posts to many a field or moorland stretch. out of every family of several sons, however agricultural their position might be, one had gone to sea, and the mother looked wistfully seaward at the changes of the keen piping moorland winds. the holiday rambles were to the coast; no one cared to go inland to see aught, unless indeed it might be to the great annual horse-fairs held where the dreary land broke into habitation and cultivation. somehow in this country sea thoughts followed the thinker far inland; whereas in most other parts of the island, at five miles from the ocean, he has all but forgotten the existence of such an element as salt water. the great greenland trade of the coasting towns was the main and primary cause of this, no doubt. but there was also a dread and an irritation in every one's mind, at the time of which i write, in connection with the neighbouring sea. since the termination of the american war, there had been nothing to call for any unusual energy in manning the navy; and the grants required by government for this purpose diminished with every year of peace. in 1792 this grant touched its minimum for many years. in 1793 the proceedings of the french had set europe on fire, and the english were raging with anti-gallican excitement, fomented into action by every expedient of the crown and its ministers. we had our ships; but where were our men? the admiralty had, however, a ready remedy at hand, with ample precedent for its use, and with common (if not statute) law to sanction its application. they issued 'press warrants,' calling upon the civil power throughout the country to support their officers in the discharge of their duty. the sea-coast was divided into districts, under the charge of a captain in the navy, who again delegated sub-districts to lieutenants; and in this manner all homeward-bound vessels were watched and waited for, all ports were under supervision; and in a day, if need were, a large number of men could be added to the forces of his majesty's navy. but if the admiralty became urgent in their demands, they were also willing to be unscrupulous. landsmen, if able-bodied, might soon be trained into good sailors; and once in the hold of the tender, which always awaited the success of the operations of the press-gang, it was difficult for such prisoners to bring evidence of the nature of their former occupations, especially when none had leisure to listen to such evidence, or were willing to believe it if they did listen, or would act upon it for the release of the captive if they had by possibility both listened and believed. men were kidnapped, literally disappeared, and nothing was ever heard of them again. the street of a busy town was not safe from such press-gang captures, as lord thurlow could have told, after a certain walk he took about this time on tower hill, when he, the attorney-general of england, was impressed, when the admiralty had its own peculiar ways of getting rid of tiresome besiegers and petitioners. nor yet were lonely inland dwellers more secure; many a rustic went to a statute fair or 'mop,' and never came home to tell of his hiring; many a stout young farmer vanished from his place by the hearth of his father, and was no more heard of by mother or lover; so great was the press for men to serve in the navy during the early years of the war with france, and after every great naval victory of that war. the servants of the admiralty lay in wait for all merchantmen and traders; there were many instances of vessels returning home after long absence, and laden with rich cargo, being boarded within a day's distance of land, and so many men pressed and carried off, that the ship, with her cargo, became unmanageable from the loss of her crew, drifted out again into the wild wide ocean, and was sometimes found in the helpless guidance of one or two infirm or ignorant sailors; sometimes such vessels were never heard of more. the men thus pressed were taken from the near grasp of parents or wives, and were often deprived of the hard earnings of years, which remained in the hands of the masters of the merchantman in which they had served, subject to all the chances of honesty or dishonesty, life or death. now all this tyranny (for i can use no other word) is marvellous to us; we cannot imagine how it is that a nation submitted to it for so long, even under any warlike enthusiasm, any panic of invasion, any amount of loyal subservience to the governing powers. when we read of the military being called in to assist the civil power in backing up the press-gang, of parties of soldiers patrolling the streets, and sentries with screwed bayonets placed at every door while the press-gang entered and searched each hole and corner of the dwelling; when we hear of churches being surrounded during divine service by troops, while the press-gang stood ready at the door to seize men as they came out from attending public worship, and take these instances as merely types of what was constantly going on in different forms, we do not wonder at lord mayors, and other civic authorities in large towns, complaining that a stop was put to business by the danger which the tradesmen and their servants incurred in leaving their houses and going into the streets, infested by press-gangs. whether it was that living in closer neighbourhood to the metropolis--the centre of politics and news--inspired the inhabitants of the southern counties with a strong feeling of that kind of patriotism which consists in hating all other nations; or whether it was that the chances of capture were so much greater at all the southern ports that the merchant sailors became inured to the danger; or whether it was that serving in the navy, to those familiar with such towns as portsmouth and plymouth, had an attraction to most men from the dash and brilliancy of the adventurous employment--it is certain that the southerners took the oppression of press-warrants more submissively than the wild north-eastern people. for with them the chances of profit beyond their wages in the whaling or greenland trade extended to the lowest description of sailor. he might rise by daring and saving to be a ship-owner himself. numbers around him had done so; and this very fact made the distinction between class and class less apparent; and the common ventures and dangers, the universal interest felt in one pursuit, bound the inhabitants of that line of coast together with a strong tie, the severance of which by any violent extraneous measure, gave rise to passionate anger and thirst for vengeance. a yorkshireman once said to me, 'my county folk are all alike. their first thought is how to resist. why! i myself, if i hear a man say it is a fine day, catch myself trying to find out that it is no such thing. it is so in thought; it is so in word; it is so in deed.' so you may imagine the press-gang had no easy time of it on the yorkshire coast. in other places they inspired fear, but here rage and hatred. the lord mayor of york was warned on 20th january, 1777, by an anonymous letter, that 'if those men were not sent from the city on or before the following tuesday, his lordship's own dwelling, and the mansion-house also, should be burned to the ground.' perhaps something of the ill-feeling that prevailed on the subject was owing to the fact which i have noticed in other places similarly situated. where the landed possessions of gentlemen of ancient family but limited income surround a centre of any kind of profitable trade or manufacture, there is a sort of latent ill-will on the part of the squires to the tradesman, be he manufacturer, merchant, or ship-owner, in whose hands is held a power of money-making, which no hereditary pride, or gentlemanly love of doing nothing, prevents him from using. this ill-will, to be sure, is mostly of a negative kind; its most common form of manifestation is in absence of speech or action, a sort of torpid and genteel ignoring all unpleasant neighbours; but really the whale-fisheries of monkshaven had become so impertinently and obtrusively prosperous of late years at the time of which i write, the monkshaven ship-owners were growing so wealthy and consequential, that the squires, who lived at home at ease in the old stone manor-houses scattered up and down the surrounding moorland, felt that the check upon the monkshaven trade likely to be inflicted by the press-gang, was wisely ordained by the higher powers (how high they placed these powers i will not venture to say), to prevent overhaste in getting rich, which was a scriptural fault, and they also thought that they were only doing their duty in backing up the admiralty warrants by all the civil power at their disposal, whenever they were called upon, and whenever they could do so without taking too much trouble in affairs which did not after all much concern themselves. there was just another motive in the minds of some provident parents of many daughters. the captains and lieutenants employed on this service were mostly agreeable bachelors, brought up to a genteel profession, at the least they were very pleasant visitors, when they had a day to spare; who knew what might come of it? indeed, these brave officers were not unpopular in monkshaven itself, except at the time when they were brought into actual collision with the people. they had the frank manners of their profession; they were known to have served in those engagements, the very narrative of which at this day will warm the heart of a quaker, and they themselves did not come prominently forward in the dirty work which, nevertheless, was permitted and quietly sanctioned by them. so while few monkshaven people passed the low public-house over which the navy blue-flag streamed, as a sign that it was the rendezvous of the press-gang, without spitting towards it in sign of abhorrence, yet, perhaps, the very same persons would give some rough token of respect to lieutenant atkinson if they met him in high street. touching their hats was an unknown gesture in those parts, but they would move their heads in a droll, familiar kind of way, neither a wag nor a nod, but meant all the same to imply friendly regard. the ship-owners, too, invited him to an occasional dinner or supper, all the time looking forward to the chances of his turning out an active enemy, and not by any means inclined to give him 'the run of the house,' however many unmarried daughters might grace their table. still as he could tell a rattling story, drink hard, and was seldom too busy to come at a short notice, he got on better than any one could have expected with the monkshaven folk. and the principal share of the odium of his business fell on his subordinates, who were one and all regarded in the light of mean kidnappers and spies--'varmint,' as the common people esteemed them: and as such they were ready at the first provocation to hunt and to worry them, and little cared the press-gang for this. whatever else they were, they were brave and daring. they had law to back them, therefore their business was lawful. they were serving their king and country. they were using all their faculties, and that is always pleasant. there was plenty of scope for the glory and triumph of outwitting; plenty of adventure in their life. it was a lawful and loyal employment, requiring sense, readiness, courage, and besides it called out that strange love of the chase inherent in every man. fourteen or fifteen miles at sea lay the _aurora_, good man-of-war; and to her were conveyed the living cargoes of several tenders, which were stationed at likely places along the sea-coast. one, the _lively lady_, might be seen from the cliffs above monkshaven, not so far away, but hidden by the angle of the high lands from the constant sight of the townspeople; and there was always the randyvow-house (as the public-house with the navy blue-flag was called thereabouts) for the crew of the _lively lady_ to lounge about, and there to offer drink to unwary passers-by. at present this was all that the press-gang had done at monkshaven. chapter ii home from greenland one hot day, early in october of the year 1796, two girls set off from their country homes to monkshaven to sell their butter and eggs, for they were both farmers' daughters, though rather in different circumstances; for molly corney was one of a large family of children, and had to rough it accordingly; sylvia robson was an only child, and was much made of in more people's estimation than mary's by her elderly parents. they had each purchases to make after their sales were effected, as sales of butter and eggs were effected in those days by the market-women sitting on the steps of the great old mutilated cross till a certain hour in the afternoon, after which, if all their goods were not disposed of, they took them unwillingly to the shops and sold them at a lower price. but good housewives did not despise coming themselves to the butter cross, and, smelling and depreciating the articles they wanted, kept up a perpetual struggle of words, trying, often in vain, to beat down prices. a housekeeper of the last century would have thought that she did not know her business, if she had not gone through this preliminary process; and the farmers' wives and daughters treated it all as a matter of course, replying with a good deal of independent humour to the customer, who, once having discovered where good butter and fresh eggs were to be sold, came time after time to depreciate the articles she always ended in taking. there was leisure for all this kind of work in those days. molly had tied a knot on her pink-spotted handkerchief for each of the various purchases she had to make; dull but important articles needed for the week's consumption at home; if she forgot any one of them she knew she was sure of a good 'rating' from her mother. the number of them made her pocket-handkerchief look like one of the nine-tails of a 'cat;' but not a single thing was for herself, nor, indeed, for any one individual of her numerous family. there was neither much thought nor much money to spend for any but collective wants in the corney family. it was different with sylvia. she was going to choose her first cloak, not to have an old one of her mother's, that had gone down through two sisters, dyed for the fourth time (and molly would have been glad had even this chance been hers), but to buy a bran-new duffle cloak all for herself, with not even an elder authority to curb her as to price, only molly to give her admiring counsel, and as much sympathy as was consistent with a little patient envy of sylvia's happier circumstances. every now and then they wandered off from the one grand subject of thought, but sylvia, with unconscious art, soon brought the conversation round to the fresh consideration of the respective merits of gray and scarlet. these girls were walking bare-foot and carrying their shoes and stockings in their hands during the first part of their way; but as they were drawing near monkshaven they stopped, and turned aside along a foot-path that led from the main-road down to the banks of the dee. there were great stones in the river about here, round which the waters gathered and eddied and formed deep pools. molly sate down on the grassy bank to wash her feet; but sylvia, more active (or perhaps lighter-hearted with the notion of the cloak in the distance), placed her basket on a gravelly bit of shore, and, giving a long spring, seated herself on a stone almost in the middle of the stream. then she began dipping her little rosy toes in the cool rushing water and whisking them out with childish glee. 'be quiet, wi' the', sylvia? thou'st splashing me all ower, and my feyther'll noane be so keen o' giving me a new cloak as thine is, seemingly.' sylvia was quiet, not to say penitent, in a moment. she drew up her feet instantly; and, as if to take herself out of temptation, she turned away from molly to that side of her stony seat on which the current ran shallow, and broken by pebbles. but once disturbed in her play, her thoughts reverted to the great subject of the cloak. she was now as still as a minute before she had been full of frolic and gambolling life. she had tucked herself up on the stone, as if it had been a cushion, and she a little sultana. molly was deliberately washing her feet and drawing on her stockings, when she heard a sudden sigh, and her companion turned round so as to face her, and said, 'i wish mother hadn't spoken up for t' gray.' 'why, sylvia, thou wert saying as we topped t'brow, as she did nought but bid thee think twice afore settling on scarlet.' 'ay! but mother's words are scarce, and weigh heavy. feyther's liker me, and we talk a deal o' rubble; but mother's words are liker to hewn stone. she puts a deal o' meaning in 'em. and then,' said sylvia, as if she was put out by the suggestion, 'she bid me ask cousin philip for his opinion. i hate a man as has getten an opinion on such-like things.' 'well! we shall niver get to monkshaven this day, either for to sell our eggs and stuff, or to buy thy cloak, if we're sittin' here much longer. t' sun's for slanting low, so come along, lass, and let's be going.' 'but if i put on my stockings and shoon here, and jump back into yon wet gravel, i 'se not be fit to be seen,' said sylvia, in a pathetic tone of bewilderment, that was funnily childlike. she stood up, her bare feet curved round the curving surface of the stone, her slight figure balancing as if in act to spring. 'thou knows thou'll have just to jump back barefoot, and wash thy feet afresh, without making all that ado; thou shouldst ha' done it at first, like me, and all other sensible folk. but thou'st getten no gumption.' molly's mouth was stopped by sylvia's hand. she was already on the river bank by her friend's side. 'now dunnot lecture me; i'm none for a sermon hung on every peg o' words. i'm going to have a new cloak, lass, and i cannot heed thee if thou dost lecture. thou shall have all the gumption, and i'll have my cloak.' it may be doubted whether molly thought this an equal division. each girl wore tightly-fitting stockings, knit by her own hands, of the blue worsted common in that country; they had on neat high-heeled black leather shoes, coming well over the instep, and fastened as well as ornamented with bright steel buckles. they did not walk so lightly and freely now as they did before they were shod, but their steps were still springy with the buoyancy of early youth; for neither of them was twenty, indeed i believe sylvia was not more than seventeen at this time. they clambered up the steep grassy path, with brambles catching at their kilted petticoats, through the copse-wood, till they regained the high road; and then they 'settled themselves,' as they called it; that is to say, they took off their black felt hats, and tied up their clustering hair afresh; they shook off every speck of wayside dust; straightened the little shawls (or large neck-kerchiefs, call them which you will) that were spread over their shoulders, pinned below the throat, and confined at the waist by their apron-strings; and then putting on their hats again, and picking up their baskets, they prepared to walk decorously into the town of monkshaven. the next turn of the road showed them the red peaked roofs of the closely packed houses lying almost directly below the hill on which they were. the full autumn sun brought out the ruddy colour of the tiled gables, and deepened the shadows in the narrow streets. the narrow harbour at the mouth of the river was crowded with small vessels of all descriptions, making an intricate forest of masts. beyond lay the sea, like a flat pavement of sapphire, scarcely a ripple varying its sunny surface, that stretched out leagues away till it blended with the softened azure of the sky. on this blue trackless water floated scores of white-sailed fishing boats, apparently motionless, unless you measured their progress by some land-mark; but still, and silent, and distant as they seemed, the consciousness that there were men on board, each going forth into the great deep, added unspeakably to the interest felt in watching them. close to the bar of the river dee a larger vessel lay to. sylvia, who had only recently come into the neighbourhood, looked at this with the same quiet interest as she did at all the others; but molly, as soon as her eye caught the build of it, cried out aloud-'she's a whaler! she's a whaler home from t' greenland seas! t' first this season! god bless her!' and she turned round and shook both sylvia's hands in the fulness of her excitement. sylvia's colour rose, and her eyes sparkled out of sympathy. 'is ta sure?' she asked, breathless in her turn; for though she did not know by the aspect of the different ships on what trade they were bound, yet she was well aware of the paramount interest attached to whaling vessels. 'three o'clock! and it's not high water till five!' said molly. 'if we're sharp we can sell our eggs, and be down to the staithes before she comes into port. be sharp, lass!' and down the steep long hill they went at a pace that was almost a run. a run they dared not make it; and as it was, the rate at which they walked would have caused destruction among eggs less carefully packed. when the descent was ended, there was yet the long narrow street before them, bending and swerving from the straight line, as it followed the course of the river. the girls felt as if they should never come to the market-place, which was situated at the crossing of bridge street and high street. there the old stone cross was raised by the monks long ago; now worn and mutilated, no one esteemed it as a holy symbol, but only as the butter cross, where market-women clustered on wednesday, and whence the town crier made all his proclamations of household sales, things lost or found, beginning with 'oh! yes, oh! yes, oh! yes!' and ending with 'god bless the king and the lord of this manor,' and a very brisk 'amen,' before he went on his way and took off the livery-coat, the colours of which marked him as a servant of the burnabys, the family who held manorial rights over monkshaven. of course the much frequented space surrounding the butter cross was the favourite centre for shops; and on this day, a fine market day, just when good housewives begin to look over their winter store of blankets and flannels, and discover their needs betimes, these shops ought to have had plenty of customers. but they were empty and of even quieter aspect than their every-day wont. the three-legged creepie-stools that were hired out at a penny an hour to such market-women as came too late to find room on the steps were unoccupied; knocked over here and there, as if people had passed by in haste. molly took in all at a glance, and interpreted the signs, though she had no time to explain their meaning, and her consequent course of action, to sylvia, but darted into a corner shop. 't' whalers is coming home! there's one lying outside t' bar!' this was put in the form of an assertion; but the tone was that of eager cross-questioning. 'ay!' said a lame man, mending fishing-nets behind a rough deal counter. 'she's come back airly, and she's brought good news o' t' others, as i've heered say. time was i should ha' been on th' staithes throwing up my cap wit' t' best on 'em; but now it pleases t' lord to keep me at home, and set me to mind other folks' gear. see thee, wench, there's a vast o' folk ha' left their skeps o' things wi' me while they're away down to t' quay side. leave me your eggs and be off wi' ye for t' see t' fun, for mebbe ye'll live to be palsied yet, and then ye'll be fretting ower spilt milk, and that ye didn't tak' all chances when ye was young. ay, well! they're out o' hearin' o' my moralities; i'd better find a lamiter like mysen to preach to, for it's not iverybody has t' luck t' clargy has of saying their say out whether folks likes it or not.' he put the baskets carefully away with much of such talk as this addressed to himself while he did so. then he sighed once or twice; and then he took the better course and began to sing over his tarry work. molly and sylvia were far along the staithes by the time he got to this point of cheerfulness. they ran on, regardless of stitches and pains in the side; on along the river bank to where the concourse of people was gathered. there was no great length of way between the butter cross and the harbour; in five minutes the breathless girls were close together in the best place they could get for seeing, on the outside of the crowd; and in as short a time longer they were pressed inwards, by fresh arrivals, into the very midst of the throng. all eyes were directed to the ship, beating her anchor just outside the bar, not a quarter of a mile away. the custom-house officer was just gone aboard of her to receive the captain's report of his cargo, and make due examination. the men who had taken him out in his boat were rowing back to the shore, and brought small fragments of news when they landed a little distance from the crowd, which moved as one man to hear what was to be told. sylvia took a hard grasp of the hand of the older and more experienced molly, and listened open-mouthed to the answers she was extracting from a gruff old sailor she happened to find near her. 'what ship is she?' 't' _resolution_ of monkshaven!' said he, indignantly, as if any goose might have known that. 'an' a good _resolution_, and a blessed ship she's been to me,' piped out an old woman, close at mary's elbow. 'she's brought me home my ae' lad--for he shouted to yon boatman to bid him tell me he was well. 'tell peggy christison,' says he (my name is margaret christison)--'tell peggy christison as her son hezekiah is come back safe and sound.' the lord's name be praised! an' me a widow as never thought to see my lad again!' it seemed as if everybody relied on every one else's sympathy in that hour of great joy. 'i ax pardon, but if you'd gie me just a bit of elbow-room for a minute like, i'd hold my babby up, so that he might see daddy's ship, and happen, my master might see him. he's four months old last tuesday se'nnight, and his feyther's never clapt eyne on him yet, and he wi' a tooth through, an another just breaking, bless him!' one or two of the better end of the monkshaven inhabitants stood a little before molly and sylvia; and as they moved in compliance with the young mother's request, they overheard some of the information these ship-owners had received from the boatman. 'haynes says they'll send the manifest of the cargo ashore in twenty minutes, as soon as fishburn has looked over the casks. only eight whales, according to what he says.' 'no one can tell,' said the other, 'till the manifest comes to hand.' 'i'm afraid he's right. but he brings a good report of the _good fortune_. she's off st abb's head, with something like fifteen whales to her share.' 'we shall see how much is true, when she comes in.' 'that'll be by the afternoon tide to-morrow.' 'that's my cousin's ship,' said molly to sylvia. 'he's specksioneer on board the _good fortune_.' an old man touched her as she spoke-'i humbly make my manners, missus, but i'm stone blind; my lad's aboard yon vessel outside t' bar; and my old woman is bed-fast. will she be long, think ye, in making t' harbour? because, if so be as she were, i'd just make my way back, and speak a word or two to my missus, who'll be boiling o'er into some mak o' mischief now she knows he's so near. may i be so bold as to ax if t' crooked negro is covered yet?' molly stood on tip-toe to try and see the black stone thus named; but sylvia, stooping and peeping through the glimpses afforded between the arms of the moving people, saw it first, and told the blind old man it was still above water. 'a watched pot,' said he, 'ne'er boils, i reckon. it's ta'en a vast o' watter t' cover that stone to-day. anyhow, i'll have time to go home and rate my missus for worritin' hersen, as i'll be bound she's done, for all as i bade her not, but to keep easy and content.' 'we'd better be off too,' said molly, as an opening was made through the press to let out the groping old man. 'eggs and butter is yet to sell, and tha' cloak to be bought.' 'well, i suppose we had!' said sylvia, rather regretfully; for, though all the way into monkshaven her head had been full of the purchase of this cloak, yet she was of that impressible nature that takes the tone of feeling from those surrounding; and though she knew no one on board the resolution, she was just as anxious for the moment to see her come into harbour as any one in the crowd who had a dear relation on board. so she turned reluctantly to follow the more prudent molly along the quay back to the butter cross. it was a pretty scene, though it was too familiar to the eyes of all who then saw it for them to notice its beauty. the sun was low enough in the west to turn the mist that filled the distant valley of the river into golden haze. above, on either bank of the dee, there lay the moorland heights swelling one behind the other; the nearer, russet brown with the tints of the fading bracken; the more distant, gray and dim against the rich autumnal sky. the red and fluted tiles of the gabled houses rose in crowded irregularity on one side of the river, while the newer suburb was built in more orderly and less picturesque fashion on the opposite cliff. the river itself was swelling and chafing with the incoming tide till its vexed waters rushed over the very feet of the watching crowd on the staithes, as the great sea waves encroached more and more every minute. the quay-side was unsavourily ornamented with glittering fish-scales, for the hauls of fish were cleansed in the open air, and no sanitary arrangements existed for sweeping away any of the relics of this operation. the fresh salt breeze was bringing up the lashing, leaping tide from the blue sea beyond the bar. behind the returning girls there rocked the white-sailed ship, as if she were all alive with eagerness for her anchors to be heaved. how impatient her crew of beating hearts were for that moment, how those on land sickened at the suspense, may be imagined, when you remember that for six long summer months those sailors had been as if dead from all news of those they loved; shut up in terrible, dreary arctic seas from the hungry sight of sweethearts and friends, wives and mothers. no one knew what might have happened. the crowd on shore grew silent and solemn before the dread of the possible news of death that might toll in upon their hearts with this uprushing tide. the whalers went out into the greenland seas full of strong, hopeful men; but the whalers never returned as they sailed forth. on land there are deaths among two or three hundred men to be mourned over in every half-year's space of time. whose bones had been left to blacken on the gray and terrible icebergs? who lay still until the sea should give up its dead? who were those who should come back to monkshaven never, no, never more? many a heart swelled with passionate, unspoken fear, as the first whaler lay off the bar on her return voyage. molly and sylvia had left the crowd in this hushed suspense. but fifty yards along the staithe they passed five or six girls with flushed faces and careless attire, who had mounted a pile of timber, placed there to season for ship-building, from which, as from the steps of a ladder or staircase, they could command the harbour. they were wild and free in their gestures, and held each other by the hand, and swayed from side to side, stamping their feet in time, as they sang- weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, weel may the keel row that my laddie's in! 'what for are ye going off, now?' they called out to our two girls. 'she'll be in in ten minutes!' and without waiting for the answer which never came, they resumed their song. old sailors stood about in little groups, too proud to show their interest in the adventures they could no longer share, but quite unable to keep up any semblance of talk on indifferent subjects. the town seemed very quiet and deserted as molly and sylvia entered the dark, irregular bridge street, and the market-place was as empty of people as before. but the skeps and baskets and three-legged stools were all cleared away. 'market's over for to-day,' said molly corney, in disappointed surprise. 'we mun make the best on't, and sell to t' huxters, and a hard bargain they'll be for driving. i doubt mother'll be vexed.' she and sylvia went to the corner shop to reclaim their baskets. the man had his joke at them for their delay. 'ay, ay! lasses as has sweethearts a-coming home don't care much what price they get for butter and eggs! i dare say, now, there's some un in yon ship that 'ud give as much as a shilling a pound for this butter if he only knowed who churned it!' this was to sylvia, as he handed her back her property. the fancy-free sylvia reddened, pouted, tossed back her head, and hardly deigned a farewell word of thanks or civility to the lame man; she was at an age to be affronted by any jokes on such a subject. molly took the joke without disclaimer and without offence. she rather liked the unfounded idea of her having a sweetheart, and was rather surprised to think how devoid of foundation the notion was. if she could have a new cloak as sylvia was going to have, then, indeed, there might be a chance! until some such good luck, it was as well to laugh and blush as if the surmise of her having a lover was not very far from the truth, and so she replied in something of the same strain as the lame net-maker to his joke about the butter. 'he'll need it all, and more too, to grease his tongue, if iver he reckons to win me for his wife!' when they were out of the shop, sylvia said, in a coaxing tone,-'molly, who is it? whose tongue 'll need greasing? just tell me, and i'll never tell!' she was so much in earnest that molly was perplexed. she did not quite like saying that she had alluded to no one in particular, only to a possible sweetheart, so she began to think what young man had made the most civil speeches to her in her life; the list was not a long one to go over, for her father was not so well off as to make her sought after for her money, and her face was rather of the homeliest. but she suddenly remembered her cousin, the specksioneer, who had given her two large shells, and taken a kiss from her half-willing lips before he went to sea the last time. so she smiled a little, and then said,-'well! i dunno. it's ill talking o' these things afore one has made up one's mind. and perhaps if charley kinraid behaves hissen, i might be brought to listen.' 'charley kinraid! who's he?' 'yon specksioneer cousin o' mine, as i was talking on.' 'and do yo' think he cares for yo'?' asked sylvia, in a low, tender tone, as if touching on a great mystery. molly only said, 'be quiet wi' yo',' and sylvia could not make out whether she cut the conversation so short because she was offended, or because they had come to the shop where they had to sell their butter and eggs. 'now, sylvia, if thou'll leave me thy basket, i'll make as good a bargain as iver i can on 'em; and thou can be off to choose this grand new cloak as is to be, afore it gets any darker. where is ta going to?' 'mother said i'd better go to foster's,' answered sylvia, with a shade of annoyance in her face. 'feyther said just anywhere.' 'foster's is t' best place; thou canst try anywhere afterwards. i'll be at foster's in five minutes, for i reckon we mun hasten a bit now. it'll be near five o'clock.' sylvia hung her head and looked very demure as she walked off by herself to foster's shop in the market-place. chapter iii buying a new cloak foster's shop was the shop of monkshaven. it was kept by two quaker brothers, who were now old men; and their father had kept it before them; probably his father before that. people remembered it as an old-fashioned dwelling-house, with a sort of supplementary shop with unglazed windows projecting from the lower story. these openings had long been filled with panes of glass that at the present day would be accounted very small, but which seventy years ago were much admired for their size. i can best make you understand the appearance of the place by bidding you think of the long openings in a butcher's shop, and then to fill them up in your imagination with panes about eight inches by six, in a heavy wooden frame. there was one of these windows on each side the door-place, which was kept partially closed through the day by a low gate about a yard high. half the shop was appropriated to grocery; the other half to drapery, and a little mercery. the good old brothers gave all their known customers a kindly welcome; shaking hands with many of them, and asking all after their families and domestic circumstances before proceeding to business. they would not for the world have had any sign of festivity at christmas, and scrupulously kept their shop open at that holy festival, ready themselves to serve sooner than tax the consciences of any of their assistants, only nobody ever came. but on new year's day they had a great cake, and wine, ready in the parlour behind the shop, of which all who came in to buy anything were asked to partake. yet, though scrupulous in most things, it did not go against the consciences of these good brothers to purchase smuggled articles. there was a back way from the river-side, up a covered entry, to the yard-door of the fosters, and a peculiar kind of knock at this door always brought out either john or jeremiah, or if not them, their shopman, philip hepburn; and the same cake and wine that the excise officer's wife might just have been tasting, was brought out in the back parlour to treat the smuggler. there was a little locking of doors, and drawing of the green silk curtain that was supposed to shut out the shop, but really all this was done very much for form's sake. everybody in monkshaven smuggled who could, and every one wore smuggled goods who could, and great reliance was placed on the excise officer's neighbourly feelings. the story went that john and jeremiah foster were so rich that they could buy up all the new town across the bridge. they had certainly begun to have a kind of primitive bank in connection with their shop, receiving and taking care of such money as people did not wish to retain in their houses for fear of burglars. no one asked them for interest on the money thus deposited, nor did they give any; but, on the other hand, if any of their customers, on whose character they could depend, wanted a little advance, the fosters, after due inquiries made, and in some cases due security given, were not unwilling to lend a moderate sum without charging a penny for the use of their money. all the articles they sold were as good as they knew how to choose, and for them they expected and obtained ready money. it was said that they only kept on the shop for their amusement. others averred that there was some plan of a marriage running in the brothers' heads--a marriage between william coulson, mr. jeremiah's wife's nephew (mr. jeremiah was a widower), and hester rose, whose mother was some kind of distant relation, and who served in the shop along with william coulson and philip hepburn. again, this was denied by those who averred that coulson was no blood relation, and that if the fosters had intended to do anything considerable for hester, they would never have allowed her and her mother to live in such a sparing way, ekeing out their small income by having coulson and hepburn for lodgers. no; john and jeremiah would leave all their money to some hospital or to some charitable institution. but, of course, there was a reply to this; when are there not many sides to an argument about a possibility concerning which no facts are known? part of the reply turned on this: the old gentlemen had, probably, some deep plan in their heads in permitting their cousin to take coulson and hepburn as lodgers, the one a kind of nephew, the other, though so young, the head man in the shop; if either of them took a fancy to hester, how agreeably matters could be arranged! all this time hester is patiently waiting to serve sylvia, who is standing before her a little shy, a little perplexed and distracted, by the sight of so many pretty things. hester was a tall young woman, sparely yet largely formed, of a grave aspect, which made her look older than she really was. her thick brown hair was smoothly taken off her broad forehead, and put in a very orderly fashion, under her linen cap; her face was a little square, and her complexion sallow, though the texture of her skin was fine. her gray eyes were very pleasant, because they looked at you so honestly and kindly; her mouth was slightly compressed, as most have it who are in the habit of restraining their feelings; but when she spoke you did not perceive this, and her rare smile slowly breaking forth showed her white even teeth, and when accompanied, as it generally was, by a sudden uplifting of her soft eyes, it made her countenance very winning. she was dressed in stuff of sober colours, both in accordance with her own taste, and in unasked compliance with the religious customs of the fosters; but hester herself was not a friend. sylvia, standing opposite, not looking at hester, but gazing at the ribbons in the shop window, as if hardly conscious that any one awaited the expression of her wishes, was a great contrast; ready to smile or to pout, or to show her feelings in any way, with a character as undeveloped as a child's, affectionate, wilful, naughty, tiresome, charming, anything, in fact, at present that the chances of an hour called out. hester thought her customer the prettiest creature ever seen, in the moment she had for admiration before sylvia turned round and, recalled to herself, began,-'oh, i beg your pardon, miss; i was thinking what may the price of yon crimson ribbon be?' hester said nothing, but went to examine the shop-mark. 'oh! i did not mean that i wanted any, i only want some stuff for a cloak. thank you, miss, but i am very sorry--some duffle, please.' hester silently replaced the ribbon and went in search of the duffle. while she was gone sylvia was addressed by the very person she most wished to avoid, and whose absence she had rejoiced over on first entering the shop, her cousin philip hepburn. he was a serious-looking young man, tall, but with a slight stoop in his shoulders, brought on by his occupation. he had thick hair standing off from his forehead in a peculiar but not unpleasing manner; a long face, with a slightly aquiline nose, dark eyes, and a long upper lip, which gave a disagreeable aspect to a face that might otherwise have been good-looking. 'good day, sylvie,' he said; 'what are you wanting? how are all at home? let me help you!' sylvia pursed up her red lips, and did not look at him as she replied, 'i'm very well, and so is mother; feyther's got a touch of rheumatiz, and there's a young woman getting what i want.' she turned a little away from him when she had ended this sentence, as if it had comprised all she could possibly have to say to him. but he exclaimed, 'you won't know how to choose,' and, seating himself on the counter, he swung himself over after the fashion of shop-men. sylvia took no notice of him, but pretended to be counting over her money. 'what do you want, sylvie?' asked he, at last annoyed at her silence. 'i don't like to be called "sylvie;" my name is sylvia; and i'm wanting duffle for a cloak, if you must know.' hester now returned, with a shop-boy helping her to drag along the great rolls of scarlet and gray cloth. 'not that,' said philip, kicking the red duffle with his foot, and speaking to the lad. 'it's the gray you want, is it not, sylvie?' he used the name he had had the cousin's right to call her by since her childhood, without remembering her words on the subject not five minutes before; but she did, and was vexed. 'please, miss, it is the scarlet duffle i want; don't let him take it away.' hester looked up at both their countenances, a little wondering what was their position with regard to each other; for this, then, was the beautiful little cousin about whom philip had talked to her mother, as sadly spoilt, and shamefully ignorant; a lovely little dunce, and so forth. hester had pictured sylvia robson, somehow, as very different from what she was: younger, more stupid, not half so bright and charming (for, though she was now both pouting and cross, it was evident that this was not her accustomed mood). sylvia devoted her attention to the red cloth, pushing aside the gray. philip hepburn was vexed at his advice being slighted; and yet he urged it afresh. 'this is a respectable, quiet-looking article that will go well with any colour; you niver will be so foolish as to take what will mark with every drop of rain.' 'i'm sorry you sell such good-for-nothing things,' replied sylvia, conscious of her advantage, and relaxing a little (as little as she possibly could) of her gravity. hester came in now. 'he means to say that this cloth will lose its first brightness in wet or damp; but it will always be a good article, and the colour will stand a deal of wear. mr. foster would not have had it in his shop else.' philip did not like that even a reasonable peace-making interpreter should come between him and sylvia, so he held his tongue in indignant silence. hester went on: 'to be sure, this gray is the closer make, and would wear the longest.' 'i don't care,' said sylvia, still rejecting the dull gray. 'i like this best. eight yards, if you please, miss.' 'a cloak takes nine yards, at least,' said philip, decisively. 'mother told me eight,' said sylvia, secretly conscious that her mother would have preferred the more sober colour; and feeling that as she had had her own way in that respect, she was bound to keep to the directions she had received as to the quantity. but, indeed, she would not have yielded to philip in anything that she could help. there was a sound of children's feet running up the street from the river-side, shouting with excitement. at the noise, sylvia forgot her cloak and her little spirit of vexation, and ran to the half-door of the shop. philip followed because she went. hester looked on with passive, kindly interest, as soon as she had completed her duty of measuring. one of those girls whom sylvia had seen as she and molly left the crowd on the quay, came quickly up the street. her face, which was handsome enough as to feature, was whitened with excess of passionate emotion, her dress untidy and flying, her movements heavy and free. she belonged to the lowest class of seaport inhabitants. as she came near, sylvia saw that the tears were streaming down her cheeks, quite unconsciously to herself. she recognized sylvia's face, full of interest as it was, and stopped her clumsy run to speak to the pretty, sympathetic creature. 'she's o'er t' bar! she's o'er t' bar! i'm boun' to tell mother!' she caught at sylvia's hand, and shook it, and went on breathless and gasping. 'sylvia, how came you to know that girl?' asked philip, sternly. 'she's not one for you to be shaking hands with. she's known all down t' quay-side as "newcastle bess."' 'i can't help it,' said sylvia, half inclined to cry at his manner even more than his words. 'when folk are glad i can't help being glad too, and i just put out my hand, and she put out hers. to think o' yon ship come in at last! and if yo'd been down seeing all t' folk looking and looking their eyes out, as if they feared they should die afore she came in and brought home the lads they loved, yo'd ha' shaken hands wi' that lass too, and no great harm done. i never set eyne upon her till half an hour ago on th' staithes, and maybe i'll niver see her again.' hester was still behind the counter, but had moved so as to be near the window; so she heard what they were saying, and now put in her word: 'she can't be altogether bad, for she thought o' telling her mother first thing, according to what she said.' sylvia gave hester a quick, grateful look. but hester had resumed her gaze out of the window, and did not see the glance. and now molly corney joined them, hastily bursting into the shop. 'hech!' said she. 'hearken! how they're crying and shouting down on t' quay. t' gang's among 'em like t' day of judgment. hark!' no one spoke, no one breathed, i had almost said no heart beat for listening. not long; in an instant there rose the sharp simultaneous cry of many people in rage and despair. inarticulate at that distance, it was yet an intelligible curse, and the roll, and the roar, and the irregular tramp came nearer and nearer. 'they're taking 'em to t' randyvowse,' said molly. 'eh! i wish i'd king george here just to tell him my mind.' the girl clenched her hands, and set her teeth. 'it's terrible hard!' said hester; 'there's mothers, and wives, looking out for 'em, as if they were stars dropt out o' t' lift.' 'but can we do nothing for 'em?' cried sylvia. 'let us go into t' thick of it and do a bit of help; i can't stand quiet and see 't!' half crying, she pushed forwards to the door; but philip held her back. 'sylvie! you must not. don't be silly; it's the law, and no one can do aught against it, least of all women and lasses. by this time the vanguard of the crowd came pressing up bridge street, past the windows of foster's shop. it consisted of wild, half-amphibious boys, slowly moving backwards, as they were compelled by the pressure of the coming multitude to go on, and yet anxious to defy and annoy the gang by insults, and curses half choked with their indignant passion, doubling their fists in the very faces of the gang who came on with measured movement, armed to the teeth, their faces showing white with repressed and determined energy against the bronzed countenances of the half-dozen sailors, who were all they had thought it wise to pick out of the whaler's crew, this being the first time an admiralty warrant had been used in monkshaven for many years; not since the close of the american war, in fact. one of the men was addressing to his townspeople, in a high pitched voice, an exhortation which few could hear, for, pressing around this nucleus of cruel wrong, were women crying aloud, throwing up their arms in imprecation, showering down abuse as hearty and rapid as if they had been a greek chorus. their wild, famished eyes were strained on faces they might not kiss, their cheeks were flushed to purple with anger or else livid with impotent craving for revenge. some of them looked scarce human; and yet an hour ago these lips, now tightly drawn back so as to show the teeth with the unconscious action of an enraged wild animal, had been soft and gracious with the smile of hope; eyes, that were fiery and bloodshot now, had been loving and bright; hearts, never to recover from the sense of injustice and cruelty, had been trustful and glad only one short hour ago. there were men there, too, sullen and silent, brooding on remedial revenge; but not many, the greater proportion of this class being away in the absent whalers. the stormy multitude swelled into the market-place and formed a solid crowd there, while the press-gang steadily forced their way on into high street, and on to the rendezvous. a low, deep growl went up from the dense mass, as some had to wait for space to follow the others--now and then going up, as a lion's growl goes up, into a shriek of rage. a woman forced her way up from the bridge. she lived some little way in the country, and had been late in hearing of the return of the whaler after her six months' absence; and on rushing down to the quay-side, she had been told by a score of busy, sympathizing voices, that her husband was kidnapped for the service of the government. she had need pause in the market-place, the outlet of which was crammed up. then she gave tongue for the first time in such a fearful shriek, you could hardly catch the words she said. 'jamie! jamie! will they not let you to me?' those were the last words sylvia heard before her own hysterical burst of tears called every one's attention to her. she had been very busy about household work in the morning, and much agitated by all she had seen and heard since coming into monkshaven; and so it ended in this. molly and hester took her through the shop into the parlour beyond--john foster's parlour, for jeremiah, the elder brother, lived in a house of his own on the other side of the water. it was a low, comfortable room, with great beams running across the ceiling, and papered with the same paper as the walls--a piece of elegant luxury which took molly's fancy mightily! this parlour looked out on the dark courtyard in which there grew two or three poplars, straining upwards to the light; and through an open door between the backs of two houses could be seen a glimpse of the dancing, heaving river, with such ships or fishing cobles as happened to be moored in the waters above the bridge. they placed sylvia on the broad, old-fashioned sofa, and gave her water to drink, and tried to still her sobbing and choking. they loosed her hat, and copiously splashed her face and clustering chestnut hair, till at length she came to herself; restored, but dripping wet. she sate up and looked at them, smoothing back her tangled curls off her brow, as if to clear both her eyes and her intellect. 'where am i?--oh, i know! thank you. it was very silly, but somehow it seemed so sad!' and here she was nearly going off again, but hester said-'ay, it were sad, my poor lass--if i may call you so, for i don't rightly know your name--but it's best not think on it for we can do no mak' o' good, and it'll mebbe set you off again. yo're philip hepburn's cousin, i reckon, and yo' bide at haytersbank farm?' 'yes; she's sylvia robson,' put in molly, not seeing that hester's purpose was to make sylvia speak, and so to divert her attention from the subject which had set her off into hysterics. 'and we came in for market,' continued molly, 'and for t' buy t' new cloak as her feyther's going to give her; and, for sure, i thought we was i' luck's way when we saw t' first whaler, and niver dreaming as t' press-gang 'ud be so marred.' she, too, began to cry, but her little whimper was stopped by the sound of the opening door behind her. it was philip, asking hester by a silent gesture if he might come in. sylvia turned her face round from the light, and shut her eyes. her cousin came close up to her on tip-toe, and looked anxiously at what he could see of her averted face; then he passed his hand so slightly over her hair that he could scarcely be said to touch it, and murmured-'poor lassie! it's a pity she came to-day, for it's a long walk in this heat!' but sylvia started to her feet, almost pushing him along. her quickened senses heard an approaching step through the courtyard before any of the others were aware of the sound. in a minute afterwards, the glass-door at one corner of the parlour was opened from the outside, and mr. john stood looking in with some surprise at the group collected in his usually empty parlour. 'it's my cousin,' said philip, reddening a little; 'she came wi' her friend in to market, and to make purchases; and she's got a turn wi' seeing the press-gang go past carrying some of the crew of the whaler to the randyvowse. 'ay, ay,' said mr. john, quickly passing on into the shop on tip-toe, as if he were afraid he were intruding in his own premises, and beckoning philip to follow him there. 'out of strife cometh strife. i guessed something of the sort was up from what i heard on t' bridge as i came across fra' brother jeremiah's.' here he softly shut the door between the parlour and the shop. 'it beareth hard on th' expectant women and childer; nor is it to be wondered at that they, being unconverted, rage together (poor creatures!) like the very heathen. philip,' he said, coming nearer to his 'head young man,' 'keep nicholas and henry at work in the ware-room upstairs until this riot be over, for it would grieve me if they were misled into violence.' philip hesitated. 'speak out, man! always ease an uneasy heart, and never let it get hidebound.' 'i had thought to convoy my cousin and the other young woman home, for the town is like to be rough, and it's getting dark.' 'and thou shalt, my lad,' said the good old man; 'and i myself will try and restrain the natural inclinations of nicholas and henry.' but when he went to find the shop-boys with a gentle homily on his lips, those to whom it should have been addressed were absent. in consequence of the riotous state of things, all the other shops in the market-place had put their shutters up; and nicholas and henry, in the absence of their superiors, had followed the example of their neighbours, and, as business was over, they had hardly waited to put the goods away, but had hurried off to help their townsmen in any struggle that might ensue. there was no remedy for it, but mr. john looked rather discomfited. the state of the counters, and of the disarranged goods, was such also as would have irritated any man as orderly but less sweet-tempered. all he said on the subject was: 'the old adam! the old adam!' but he shook his head long after he had finished speaking. 'where is william coulson?' he next asked. 'oh! i remember. he was not to come back from york till the night closed in.' philip and his master arranged the shop in the exact order the old man loved. then he recollected the wish of his subordinate, and turned round and said-'now go with thy cousin and her friend. hester is here, and old hannah. i myself will take hester home, if need be. but for the present i think she had best tarry here, as it isn't many steps to her mother's house, and we may need her help if any of those poor creatures fall into suffering wi' their violence.' with this, mr. john knocked at the door of the parlour, and waited for permission to enter. with old-fashioned courtesy he told the two strangers how glad he was that his room had been of service to them; that he would never have made so bold as to pass through it, if he had been aware how it was occupied. and then going to a corner cupboard, high up in the wall, he pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked his little store of wine, and cake, and spirits; and insisted that they should eat and drink while waiting for philip, who was taking some last measures for the security of the shop during the night. sylvia declined everything, with less courtesy than she ought to have shown to the offers of the hospitable old man. molly took wine and cake, leaving a good half of both, according to the code of manners in that part of the country; and also because sylvia was continually urging her to make haste. for the latter disliked the idea of her cousin's esteeming it necessary to accompany them home, and wanted to escape from him by setting off before he returned. but any such plans were frustrated by philip's coming back into the parlour, full of grave content, which brimmed over from his eyes, with the parcel of sylvia's obnoxious red duffle under his arm; anticipating so keenly the pleasure awaiting him in the walk, that he was almost surprised by the gravity of his companions as they prepared for it. sylvia was a little penitent for her rejection of mr. john's hospitality, now she found out how unavailing for its purpose such rejection had been, and tried to make up by a modest sweetness of farewell, which quite won his heart, and made him praise her up to hester in a way to which she, observant of all, could not bring herself fully to respond. what business had the pretty little creature to reject kindly-meant hospitality in the pettish way she did, thought hester. and, oh! what business had she to be so ungrateful and to try and thwart philip in his thoughtful wish of escorting them through the streets of the rough, riotous town? what did it all mean? chapter iv philip hepburn the coast on that part of the island to which this story refers is bordered by rocks and cliffs. the inland country immediately adjacent to the coast is level, flat, and bleak; it is only where the long stretch of dyke-enclosed fields terminates abruptly in a sheer descent, and the stranger sees the ocean creeping up the sands far below him, that he is aware on how great an elevation he has been. here and there, as i have said, a cleft in the level land (thus running out into the sea in steep promontories) occurs--what they would call a 'chine' in the isle of wight; but instead of the soft south wind stealing up the woody ravine, as it does there, the eastern breeze comes piping shrill and clear along these northern chasms, keeping the trees that venture to grow on the sides down to the mere height of scrubby brushwood. the descent to the shore through these 'bottoms' is in most cases very abrupt, too much so for a cartway, or even a bridle-path; but people can pass up and down without difficulty, by the help of a few rude steps hewn here and there out of the rock. sixty or seventy years ago (not to speak of much later times) the farmers who owned or hired the land which lay directly on the summit of these cliffs were smugglers to the extent of their power, only partially checked by the coast-guard distributed, at pretty nearly equal interspaces of eight miles, all along the north-eastern seaboard. still sea-wrack was a good manure, and there was no law against carrying it up in great osier baskets for the purpose of tillage, and many a secret thing was lodged in hidden crevices in the rocks till the farmer sent trusty people down to the shore for a good supply of sand and seaweed for his land. one of the farms on the cliff had lately been taken by sylvia's father. he was a man who had roamed about a good deal--been sailor, smuggler, horse-dealer, and farmer in turns; a sort of fellow possessed by a spirit of adventure and love of change, which did him and his own family more harm than anybody else. he was just the kind of man that all his neighbours found fault with, and all his neighbours liked. late in life (for such an imprudent man as he, was one of a class who generally wed, trusting to chance and luck for the provision for a family), farmer robson married a woman whose only want of practical wisdom consisted in taking him for a husband. she was philip hepburn's aunt, and had had the charge of him until she married from her widowed brother's house. he it was who had let her know when haytersbank farm had been to let; esteeming it a likely piece of land for his uncle to settle down upon, after a somewhat unprosperous career of horse-dealing. the farmhouse lay in the shelter of a very slight green hollow scarcely scooped out of the pasture field by which it was surrounded; the short crisp turf came creeping up to the very door and windows, without any attempt at a yard or garden, or any nearer enclosure of the buildings than the stone dyke that formed the boundary of the field itself. the buildings were long and low, in order to avoid the rough violence of the winds that swept over that wild, bleak spot, both in winter and summer. it was well for the inhabitants of that house that coal was extremely cheap; otherwise a southerner might have imagined that they could never have survived the cutting of the bitter gales that piped all round, and seemed to seek out every crevice for admission into the house. but the interior was warm enough when once you had mounted the long bleak lane, full of round rough stones, enough to lame any horse unaccustomed to such roads, and had crossed the field by the little dry, hard footpath, which tacked about so as to keep from directly facing the prevailing wind. mrs. robson was a cumberland woman, and as such, was a cleaner housewife than the farmers' wives of that north-eastern coast, and was often shocked at their ways, showing it more by her looks than by her words, for she was not a great talker. this fastidiousness in such matters made her own house extremely comfortable, but did not tend to render her popular among her neighbours. indeed, bell robson piqued herself on her housekeeping generally, and once in-doors in the gray, bare stone house, there were plenty of comforts to be had besides cleanliness and warmth. the great rack of clap-bread hung overhead, and bell robson's preference of this kind of oat-cake over the leavened and partly sour kind used in yorkshire was another source of her unpopularity. flitches of bacon and 'hands' (_i.e._, shoulders of cured pork, the legs or hams being sold, as fetching a better price) abounded; and for any visitor who could stay, neither cream nor finest wheaten flour was wanting for 'turf cakes' and 'singing hinnies,' with which it is the delight of the northern housewives to regale the honoured guest, as he sips their high-priced tea, sweetened with dainty sugar. this night farmer robson was fidgeting in and out of his house-door, climbing the little eminence in the field, and coming down disappointed in a state of fretful impatience. his quiet, taciturn wife was a little put out by sylvia's non-appearance too; but she showed her anxiety by being shorter than usual in her replies to his perpetual wonders as to where the lass could have been tarrying, and by knitting away with extra diligence. 'i've a vast o' mind to go down to monkshaven mysen, and see after t' child. it's well on for seven.' 'no, dannel,' said his wife; 'thou'd best not. thy leg has been paining thee this week past, and thou'rt not up to such a walk. i'll rouse kester, and send him off, if thou think'st there's need on it.' 'a'll noan ha' kester roused. who's to go afield betimes after t' sheep in t' morn, if he's ca'ed up to-neet? he'd miss t' lass, and find a public-house, a reckon,' said daniel, querulously. 'i'm not afeard o' kester,' replied bell. 'he's a good one for knowing folk i' th' dark. but if thou'd rather, i'll put on my hood and cloak and just go to th' end o' th' lane, if thou'lt have an eye to th' milk, and see as it does na' boil o'er, for she canna stomach it if it's bishopped e'er so little.' before mrs. robson, however, had put away her knitting, voices were heard at a good distance down the lane, but coming nearer every moment, and once more daniel climbed the little brow to look and to listen. 'it's a' reet!' said he, hobbling quickly down. 'niver fidget theesel' wi' gettin' ready to go search for her. i'll tak' thee a bet it's philip hepburn's voice, convoying her home, just as i said he would, an hour sin'.' bell did not answer, as she might have done, that this probability of philip's bringing sylvia home had been her own suggestion, set aside by her husband as utterly unlikely. another minute and the countenances of both parents imperceptibly and unconsciously relaxed into pleasure as sylvia came in. she looked very rosy from the walk, and the october air, which began to be frosty in the evenings; there was a little cloud over her face at first, but it was quickly dispersed as she met the loving eyes of home. philip, who followed her, had an excited, but not altogether pleased look about him. he received a hearty greeting from daniel, and a quiet one from his aunt. 'tak' off thy pan o' milk, missus, and set on t' kettle. milk may do for wenches, but philip and me is for a drop o' good hollands and watter this cold night. i'm a'most chilled to t' marrow wi' looking out for thee, lass, for t' mother was in a peck o' troubles about thy none coining home i' t' dayleet, and i'd to keep hearkening out on t' browhead.' this was entirely untrue, and bell knew it to be so; but her husband did not. he had persuaded himself now, as he had done often before, that what he had in reality done for his own pleasure or satisfaction, he had done in order to gratify some one else. 'the town was rough with a riot between the press-gang and the whaling folk; and i thought i'd best see sylvia home.' 'ay, ay, lad; always welcome, if it's only as an excuse for t' liquor. but t' whalers, say'st ta? why, is t' whalers in? there was none i' sight yesterday, when i were down on t' shore. it's early days for 'em as yet. and t' cursed old press-gang's agate again, doing its devil's work!' his face changed as he ended his speech, and showed a steady passion of old hatred. 'ay, missus, yo' may look. i wunnot pick and choose my words, noather for yo' nor for nobody, when i speak o' that daumed gang. i'm none ashamed o' my words. they're true, and i'm ready to prove 'em. where's my forefinger? ay! and as good a top-joint of a thumb as iver a man had? i wish i'd kept 'em i' sperits, as they done things at t' 'potticary's, just to show t' lass what flesh and bone i made away wi' to get free. i ups wi' a hatchet when i saw as i were fast a-board a man-o'-war standing out for sea--it were in t' time o' the war wi' amerikay, an' i could na stomach the thought o' being murdered i' my own language--so i ups wi' a hatchet, and i says to bill watson, says i, "now, my lad, if thou'll do me a kindness, i'll pay thee back, niver fear, and they'll be glad enough to get shut on us, and send us to old england again. just come down with a will." now, missus, why can't ye sit still and listen to me, 'stead o' pottering after pans and what not?' said he, speaking crossly to his wife, who had heard the story scores of times, and, it must be confessed, was making some noise in preparing bread and milk for sylvia's supper. bell did not say a word in reply, but sylvia tapped his shoulder with a pretty little authoritative air. 'it's for me, feyther. i'm just keen-set for my supper. once let me get quickly set down to it, and philip there to his glass o' grog, and you'll never have such listeners in your life, and mother's mind will be at ease too.' 'eh! thou's a wilfu' wench,' said the proud father, giving her a great slap on her back. 'well! set thee down to thy victual, and be quiet wi' thee, for i want to finish my tale to philip. but, perhaps, i've telled it yo' afore?' said he, turning round to question hepburn. hepburn could not say that he had not heard it, for he piqued himself on his truthfulness. but instead of frankly and directly owning this, he tried to frame a formal little speech, which would soothe daniel's mortified vanity; and, of course, it had the directly opposite effect. daniel resented being treated like a child, and yet turned his back on philip with all the wilfulness of one. sylvia did not care for her cousin, but hated the discomfort of having her father displeased; so she took up her tale of adventure, and told her father and mother of her afternoon's proceedings. daniel pretended not to listen at first, and made ostentatious noises with his spoon and glass; but by-and-by he got quite warm and excited about the doings of the press-gang, and scolded both philip and sylvia for not having learnt more particulars as to what was the termination of the riot. 'i've been whaling mysel',' said he; 'and i've heerd tell as whalers wear knives, and i'd ha' gi'en t' gang a taste o' my whittle, if i'd been cotched up just as i'd set my foot a-shore.' 'i don't know,' said philip; 'we're at war wi' the french, and we shouldn't like to be beaten; and yet if our numbers are not equal to theirs, we stand a strong chance of it.' 'not a bit on't--so be d--d!' said daniel robson, bringing down his fist with such violence on the round deal table, that the glasses and earthenware shook again. 'yo'd not strike a child or a woman, for sure! yet it 'ud be like it, if we did na' give the frenchies some 'vantages--if we took 'em wi' equal numbers. it's not fair play, and that's one place where t' shoe pinches. it's not fair play two ways. it's not fair play to cotch up men as has no call for fightin' at another man's biddin', though they've no objection to fight a bit on their own account and who are just landed, all keen after bread i'stead o' biscuit, and flesh-meat i'stead o' junk, and beds i'stead o' hammocks. (i make naught o' t' sentiment side, for i were niver gi'en up to such carnal-mindedness and poesies.) it's noane fair to cotch 'em up and put 'em in a stifling hole, all lined with metal for fear they should whittle their way out, and send 'em off to sea for years an' years to come. and again it's no fair play to t' french. four o' them is rightly matched wi' one o' us; and if we go an' fight 'em four to four it's like as if yo' fell to beatin' sylvie there, or little billy croxton, as isn't breeched. and that's my mind. missus, where's t' pipe?' philip did not smoke, so took his turn at talking, a chance he seldom had with daniel, unless the latter had his pipe between his lips. so after daniel had filled it, and used sylvia's little finger as a stopper to ram down the tobacco--a habit of his to which she was so accustomed that she laid her hand on the table by him, as naturally as she would have fetched him his spittoon when he began to smoke--philip arranged his arguments, and began-'i'm for fair play wi' the french as much as any man, as long as we can be sure o' beating them; but, i say, make sure o' that, and then give them ivery advantage. now i reckon government is not sure as yet, for i' the papers it said as half th' ships i' th' channel hadn't got their proper complement o' men; and all as i say is, let government judge a bit for us; and if they say they're hampered for want o' men, why we must make it up somehow. john and jeremiah foster pay in taxes, and militiaman pays in person; and if sailors cannot pay in taxes, and will not pay in person, why they must be made to pay; and that's what th' press-gang is for, i reckon. for my part, when i read o' the way those french chaps are going on, i'm thankful to be governed by king george and a british constitution.' daniel took his pipe out of his mouth at this. 'and when did i say a word again king george and the constitution? i only ax 'em to govern me as i judge best, and that's what i call representation. when i gived my vote to measter cholmley to go up to t' parliament house, i as good as said, 'now yo' go up theer, sir, and tell 'em what i, dannel robson, think right, and what i, dannel robson, wish to have done.' else i'd be darned if i'd ha' gi'en my vote to him or any other man. and div yo' think i want seth robson ( as is my own brother's son, and mate to a collier) to be cotched up by a press-gang, and ten to one his wages all unpaid? div yo' think i'd send up measter cholmley to speak up for that piece o' work? not i.' he took up his pipe again, shook out the ashes, puffed it into a spark, and shut his eyes, preparatory to listening. 'but, asking pardon, laws is made for the good of the nation, not for your good or mine.' daniel could not stand this. he laid down his pipe, opened his eyes, stared straight at philip before speaking, in order to enforce his words, and then said slowly-'nation here! nation theere! i'm a man and yo're another, but nation's nowheere. if measter cholmley talked to me i' that fashion, he'd look long for another vote frae me. i can make out king george, and measter pitt, and yo' and me, but nation! nation, go hang!' philip, who sometimes pursued an argument longer than was politic for himself, especially when he felt sure of being on the conquering side, did not see that daniel robson was passing out of the indifference of conscious wisdom into that state of anger which ensues when a question becomes personal in some unspoken way. robson had contested this subject once or twice before, and had the remembrance of former disputes to add to his present vehemence. so it was well for the harmony of the evening that bell and sylvia returned from the kitchen to sit in the house-place. they had been to wash up the pans and basins used for supper; sylvia had privately shown off her cloak, and got over her mother's shake of the head at its colour with a coaxing kiss, at the end of which her mother had adjusted her cap with a 'there! there! ha' done wi' thee,' but had no more heart to show her disapprobation; and now they came back to their usual occupations until it should please their visitor to go; then they would rake the fire and be off to bed; for neither sylvia's spinning nor bell's knitting was worth candle-light, and morning hours are precious in a dairy. people speak of the way in which harp-playing sets off a graceful figure; spinning is almost as becoming an employment. a woman stands at the great wool-wheel, one arm extended, the other holding the thread, her head thrown back to take in all the scope of her occupation; or if it is the lesser spinning-wheel for flax--and it was this that sylvia moved forwards to-night--the pretty sound of the buzzing, whirring motion, the attitude of the spinner, foot and hand alike engaged in the business--the bunch of gay coloured ribbon that ties the bundle of flax on the rock--all make it into a picturesque piece of domestic business that may rival harp-playing any day for the amount of softness and grace which it calls out. sylvia's cheeks were rather flushed by the warmth of the room after the frosty air. the blue ribbon with which she had thought it necessary to tie back her hair before putting on her hat to go to market had got rather loose, and allowed her disarranged curls to stray in a manner which would have annoyed her extremely, if she had been upstairs to look at herself in the glass; but although they were not set in the exact fashion which sylvia esteemed as correct, they looked very pretty and luxuriant. her little foot, placed on the 'traddle', was still encased in its smartly buckled shoe--not slightly to her discomfort, as she was unaccustomed to be shod in walking far; only as philip had accompanied them home, neither she nor molly had liked to go barefoot. her round mottled arm and ruddy taper hand drew out the flax with nimble, agile motion, keeping time to the movement of the wheel. all this philip could see; the greater part of her face was lost to him as she half averted it, with a shy dislike to the way in which she knew from past experience that cousin philip always stared at her. and avert it as she would she heard with silent petulance the harsh screech of philip's chair as he heavily dragged it on the stone floor, sitting on it all the while, and felt that he was moving round so as to look at her as much as was in his power, without absolutely turning his back on either her father or mother. she got herself ready for the first opportunity of contradiction or opposition. 'well, wench! and has ta bought this grand new cloak?' 'yes, feyther. it's a scarlet one.' 'ay, ay! and what does mother say?' 'oh, mother's content,' said sylvia, a little doubting in her heart, but determined to defy philip at all hazards. 'mother 'll put up with it if it does na spot would be nearer fact, i'm thinking,' said bell, quietly. 'i wanted sylvia to take the gray,' said philip. 'and i chose the red; it's so much gayer, and folk can see me the farther off. feyther likes to see me at first turn o' t' lane, don't yo', feyther? and i'll niver turn out when it's boun' for to rain, so it shall niver get a spot near it, mammy.' 'i reckoned it were to wear i' bad weather,' said bell. 'leastways that were the pretext for coaxing feyther out o' it.' she said it in a kindly tone, though the words became a prudent rather than a fond mother. but sylvia understood her better than daniel did as it appeared. 'hou'd thy tongue, mother. she niver spoke a pretext at all.' he did not rightly know what a 'pretext' was: bell was a touch better educated than her husband, but he did not acknowledge this, and made a particular point of differing from her whenever she used a word beyond his comprehension. 'she's a good lass at times; and if she liked to wear a yellow-orange cloak she should have it. here's philip here, as stands up for laws and press-gangs, i'll set him to find us a law again pleasing our lass; and she our only one. thou dostn't think on that, mother! bell did think of that often; oftener than her husband, perhaps, for she remembered every day, and many times a day, the little one that had been born and had died while its father was away on some long voyage. but it was not her way to make replies. sylvia, who had more insight into her mother's heart than daniel, broke in with a new subject. 'oh! as for philip, he's been preaching up laws all t' way home. i said naught, but let molly hold her own; or else i could ha' told a tale about silks an' lace an' things.' philip's face flushed. not because of the smuggling; every one did that, only it was considered polite to ignore it; but he was annoyed to perceive how quickly his little cousin had discovered that his practice did not agree with his preaching, and vexed, too, to see how delighted she was to bring out the fact. he had some little idea, too, that his uncle might make use of his practice as an argument against the preaching he had lately been indulging in, in opposition to daniel; but daniel was too far gone in his hollands-and-water to do more than enunciate his own opinions, which he did with hesitating and laboured distinctness in the following sentence: 'what i think and say is this. laws is made for to keep some folks fra' harming others. press-gangs and coast-guards harm me i' my business, and keep me fra' getting what i want. theerefore, what i think and say is this: measter cholmley should put down press-gangs and coast-guards. if that theere isn't reason i ax yo' to tell me what is? an' if measter cholmley don't do what i ax him, he may go whistle for my vote, he may.' at this period in his conversation, bell robson interfered; not in the least from any feeling of disgust or annoyance, or dread of what he might say or do if he went on drinking, but simply as a matter of health. sylvia, too, was in no way annoyed; not only with her father, but with every man whom she knew, excepting her cousin philip, was it a matter of course to drink till their ideas became confused. so she simply put her wheel aside, as preparatory to going to bed, when her mother said, in a more decided tone than that which she had used on any other occasion but this, and similar ones-'come, measter, you've had as much as is good for you.' 'let a' be! let a' be,' said he, clutching at the bottle of spirits, but perhaps rather more good-humoured with what he had drunk than he was before; he jerked a little more into his glass before his wife carried it off, and locked it up in the cupboard, putting the key in her pocket, and then he said, winking at philip-'eh! my man. niver gie a woman t' whip hand o'er yo'! yo' seen what it brings a man to; but for a' that i'll vote for cholmley, an' d----t' press-gang!' he had to shout out the last after philip, for hepburn, really anxious to please his aunt, and disliking drinking habits himself by constitution, was already at the door, and setting out on his return home, thinking, it must be confessed, far more of the character of sylvia's shake of the hand than of the parting words of either his uncle or aunt. chapter v story of the press-gang for a few days after the evening mentioned in the last chapter the weather was dull. not in quick, sudden showers did the rain come down, but in constant drizzle, blotting out all colour from the surrounding landscape, and filling the air with fine gray mist, until people breathed more water than air. at such times the consciousness of the nearness of the vast unseen sea acted as a dreary depression to the spirits; but besides acting on the nerves of the excitable, such weather affected the sensitive or ailing in material ways. daniel robson's fit of rheumatism incapacitated him from stirring abroad; and to a man of his active habits, and somewhat inactive mind, this was a great hardship. he was not ill-tempered naturally, but this state of confinement made him more ill-tempered than he had ever been before in his life. he sat in the chimney-corner, abusing the weather and doubting the wisdom or desirableness of all his wife saw fit to do in the usual daily household matters. the 'chimney-corner' was really a corner at haytersbank. there were two projecting walls on each side of the fire-place, running about six feet into the room, and a stout wooden settle was placed against one of these, while opposite was the circular-backed 'master's chair,' the seat of which was composed of a square piece of wood judiciously hollowed out, and placed with one corner to the front. here, in full view of all the operations going on over the fire, sat daniel robson for four live-long days, advising and directing his wife in all such minor matters as the boiling of potatoes, the making of porridge, all the work on which she specially piqued herself, and on which she would have taken advice--no! not from the most skilled housewife in all the three ridings. but, somehow, she managed to keep her tongue quiet from telling him, as she would have done any woman, and any other man, to mind his own business, or she would pin a dish-clout to his tail. she even checked sylvia when the latter proposed, as much for fun as for anything else, that his ignorant directions should be followed, and the consequences brought before his eyes and his nose. 'na, na!' said bell, 'th' feyther's feyther, and we mun respect him. but it's dree work havin' a man i' th' house, nursing th' fire, an' such weather too, and not a soul coming near us, not even to fall out wi' him; for thee and me must na' do that, for th' bible's sake, dear; and a good stand-up wordy quarrel would do him a power of good; stir his blood like. i wish philip would turn up.' bell sighed, for in these four days she had experienced somewhat of madame de maintenon's difficulty (and with fewer resources to meet it) of trying to amuse a man who was not amusable. for bell, good and sensible as she was, was not a woman of resources. sylvia's plan, undutiful as it was in her mother's eyes, would have done daniel more good, even though it might have made him angry, than his wife's quiet, careful monotony of action, which, however it might conduce to her husband's comfort when he was absent, did not amuse him when present. sylvia scouted the notion of cousin philip coming into their household in the character of an amusing or entertaining person, till she nearly made her mother angry at her ridicule of the good steady young fellow, to whom bell looked up as the pattern of all that early manhood should be. but the moment sylvia saw she had been giving her mother pain, she left off her wilful little jokes, and kissed her, and told her she would manage all famously, and ran out of the back-kitchen, in which mother and daughter had been scrubbing the churn and all the wooden implements of butter-making. bell looked at the pretty figure of her little daughter, as, running past with her apron thrown over her head, she darkened the window beneath which her mother was doing her work. she paused just for a moment, and then said, almost unawares to herself, 'bless thee, lass,' before resuming her scouring of what already looked almost snow-white. sylvia scampered across the rough farmyard in the wetting, drizzling rain to the place where she expected to find kester; but he was not there, so she had to retrace her steps to the cow-house, and, making her way up a rough kind of ladder-staircase fixed straight against the wall, she surprised kester as he sat in the wool-loft, looking over the fleeces reserved for the home-spinning, by popping her bright face, swathed round with her blue woollen apron, up through the trap-door, and thus, her head the only visible part, she addressed the farm-servant, who was almost like one of the family. 'kester, feyther's just tiring hissel' wi' weariness an' vexation, sitting by t' fireside wi' his hands afore him, an' nought to do. an' mother and me can't think on aught as 'll rouse him up to a bit of a laugh, or aught more cheerful than a scolding. now, kester, thou mun just be off, and find harry donkin th' tailor, and bring him here; it's gettin' on for martinmas, an' he'll be coming his rounds, and he may as well come here first as last, and feyther's clothes want a deal o' mending up, and harry's always full of his news, and anyhow he'll do for feyther to scold, an' be a new person too, and that's somewhat for all on us. now go, like a good old kester as yo' are.' kester looked at her with loving, faithful admiration. he had set himself his day's work in his master's absence, and was very desirous of finishing it, but, somehow, he never dreamed of resisting sylvia, so he only stated the case. 't' 'ool's a vast o' muck in 't, an' a thowt as a'd fettle it, an' do it up; but a reckon a mun do yo'r biddin'.' 'there's a good old kester,' said she, smiling, and nodding her muffled head at him; then she dipped down out of his sight, then rose up again (he had never taken his slow, mooney eyes from the spot where she had disappeared) to say--'now, kester, be wary and deep--thou mun tell harry donkin not to let on as we've sent for him, but just to come in as if he were on his round, and took us first; and he mun ask feyther if there is any work for him to do; and i'll answer for 't, he'll have a welcome and a half. now, be deep and fause, mind thee!' 'a'se deep an' fause enow wi' simple folk; but what can a do i' donkin be as fause as me--as happen he may be?' 'ga way wi' thee! i' donkin be solomon, thou mun be t' queen o' sheba; and i'se bound for to say she outwitted him at last!' kester laughed so long at the idea of his being the queen of sheba, that sylvia was back by her mother's side before the cachinnation ended. that night, just as sylvia was preparing to go to bed in her little closet of a room, she heard some shot rattling at her window. she opened the little casement, and saw kester standing below. he recommenced where he left off, with a laugh-'he, he, he! a's been t' queen! a'se ta'en donkin on t' reet side, an' he'll coom in to-morrow, just permiskus, an' ax for work, like as if 't were a favour; t' oud felley were a bit cross-grained at startin', for he were workin' at farmer crosskey's up at t' other side o' t' town, wheer they puts a strike an' a half of maut intil t' beer, when most folk put nobbut a strike, an t' made him ill to convince: but he'll coom, niver fear!' the honest fellow never said a word of the shilling he had paid out of his own pocket to forward sylvia's wishes, and to persuade the tailor to leave the good beer. all his anxiety now was to know if he had been missed, and if it was likely that a scolding awaited him in the morning. 't' oud measter didn't set up his back, 'cause a didn't coom in t' supper?' 'he questioned a bit as to what thou were about, but mother didn't know, an' i held my peace. mother carried thy supper in t' loft for thee.' 'a'll gang after 't, then, for a'm like a pair o' bellowses wi' t' wind out; just two flat sides wi' nowt betwixt.' the next morning, sylvia's face was a little redder than usual when harry donkin's bow-legs were seen circling down the path to the house door. 'here's donkin, for sure!' exclaimed bell, when she caught sight of him a minute after her daughter. 'well, i just call that lucky! for he'll be company for thee while sylvia and me has to turn th' cheeses.' this was too original a remark for a wife to make in daniel's opinion, on this especial morning, when his rheumatism was twinging him more than usual, so he replied with severity-'that's all t' women know about it. wi' them it's "coompany, coompany, coompany," an' they think a man's no better than theirsels. a'd have yo' to know a've a vast o' thoughts in myself', as i'm noane willing to lay out for t' benefit o' every man. a've niver gotten time for meditation sin' a were married; leastways, sin' a left t' sea. aboard ship, wi' niver a woman wi'n leagues o' hail, and upo' t' masthead, in special, a could.' 'then i'd better tell donkin as we've no work for him,' said sylvia, instinctively managing her father by agreeing with him, instead of reasoning with or contradicting him. 'now, theere you go!' wrenching himself round, for fear sylvia should carry her meekly made threat into execution. 'ugh! ugh!' as his limb hurt him. 'come in, harry, come in, and talk a bit o' sense to me, for a've been shut up wi' women these four days, and a'm a'most a nateral by this time. a'se bound for 't, they'll find yo' some wark, if 't's nought but for to save their own fingers.' so harry took off his coat, and seated himself professional-wise on the hastily-cleared dresser, so that he might have all the light afforded by the long, low casement window. then he blew in his thimble, sucked his finger, so that they might adhere tightly together, and looked about for a subject for opening conversation, while sylvia and her mother might be heard opening and shutting drawers and box-lids before they could find the articles that needed repair, or that were required to mend each other. 'women's well enough i' their way,' said daniel, in a philosophizing tone, 'but a man may have too much on 'em. now there's me, leg-fast these four days, and a'll make free to say to yo', a'd rather a deal ha' been loading dung i' t' wettest weather; an' a reckon it's th' being wi' nought but women as tires me so: they talk so foolish it gets int' t' bones like. now thou know'st thou'rt not called much of a man oather, but bless yo', t' ninth part's summut to be thankful for, after nought but women. an' yet, yo' seen, they were for sending yo' away i' their foolishness! well! missus, and who's to pay for t' fettling of all them clothes?' as bell came down with her arms full. she was going to answer her husband meekly and literally according to her wont, but sylvia, already detecting the increased cheerfulness of his tone, called out from behind her mother-'i am, feyther. i'm going for to sell my new cloak as i bought thursday, for the mending on your old coats and waistcoats.' 'hearken till her,' said daniel, chuckling. 'she's a true wench. three days sin' noane so full as she o' t' new cloak that now she's fain t' sell.' 'ay, harry. if feyther won't pay yo' for making all these old clothes as good as new, i'll sell my new red cloak sooner than yo' shall go unpaid.' 'a reckon it's a bargain,' said harry, casting sharp, professional eyes on the heap before him, and singling out the best article as to texture for examination and comment. 'they're all again these metal buttons,' said he. 'silk weavers has been petitioning ministers t' make a law to favour silk buttons; and i did hear tell as there were informers goin' about spyin' after metal buttons, and as how they could haul yo' before a justice for wearing on 'em.' 'a were wed in 'em, and a'll wear 'em to my dyin' day, or a'll wear noane at a'. they're for making such a pack o' laws, they'll be for meddling wi' my fashion o' sleeping next, and taxing me for ivery snore a give. they've been after t' winders, and after t' vittle, and after t' very saut to 't; it's dearer by hauf an' more nor it were when a were a boy: they're a meddlesome set o' folks, law-makers is, an' a'll niver believe king george has ought t' do wi' 't. but mark my words; i were wed wi' brass buttons, and brass buttons a'll wear to my death, an' if they moither me about it, a'll wear brass buttons i' my coffin!' by this time harry had arranged a certain course of action with mrs robson, conducting the consultation and agreement by signs. his thread was flying fast already, and the mother and daughter felt more free to pursue their own business than they had done for several days; for it was a good sign that daniel had taken his pipe out of the square hollow in the fireside wall, where he usually kept it, and was preparing to diversify his remarks with satisfying interludes of puffing. 'why, look ye; this very baccy had a run for 't. it came ashore sewed up neatly enough i' a woman's stays, as was wife to a fishing-smack down at t' bay yonder. she were a lean thing as iver you saw, when she went for t' see her husband aboard t' vessel; but she coom back lustier by a deal, an' wi' many a thing on her, here and theere, beside baccy. an' that were i' t' face o' coast-guard and yon tender, an' a'. but she made as though she were tipsy, an' so they did nought but curse her, an' get out on her way.' 'speaking of t' tender, there's been a piece o' wark i' monkshaven this week wi' t' press-gang,' said harry. 'ay! ay! our lass was telling about 't; but, lord bless ye! there's no gettin' t' rights on a story out on a woman--though a will say this for our sylvie, she's as bright a lass as iver a man looked at.' now the truth was, that daniel had not liked to demean himself, at the time when sylvia came back so full of what she had seen at monkshaven, by evincing any curiosity on the subject. he had then thought that the next day he would find some business that should take him down to the town, when he could learn all that was to be learnt, without flattering his womankind by asking questions, as if anything they might say could interest him. he had a strong notion of being a kind of domestic jupiter. 'it's made a deal o' wark i' monkshaven. folk had gotten to think nought o' t' tender, she lay so still, an' t' leftenant paid such a good price for all he wanted for t' ship. but o' thursday t' _resolution_, first whaler back this season, came in port, and t' press-gang showed their teeth, and carried off four as good able-bodied seamen as iver i made trousers for; and t' place were all up like a nest o' wasps, when yo've set your foot in t' midst. they were so mad, they were ready for t' fight t' very pavin' stones.' 'a wish a'd been theere! a just wish a had! a've a score for t' reckon up wi' t' press-gang!' and the old man lifted up his right hand--his hand on which the forefinger and thumb were maimed and useless--partly in denunciation, and partly as a witness of what he had endured to escape from the service, abhorred because it was forced. his face became a totally different countenance with the expression of settled and unrelenting indignation, which his words called out. 'g'on, man, g'on,' said daniel, impatient with donkin for the little delay occasioned by the necessity of arranging his work more fully. 'ay! ay! all in good time; for a've a long tale to tell yet; an' a mun have some 'un to iron me out my seams, and look me out my bits, for there's none here fit for my purpose.' 'dang thy bits! here, sylvie! sylvie! come and be tailor's man, and let t' chap get settled sharp, for a'm fain t' hear his story.' sylvia took her directions, and placed her irons in the fire, and ran upstairs for the bundle which had been put aside by her careful mother for occasions like the present. it consisted of small pieces of various coloured cloth, cut out of old coats and waistcoats, and similar garments, when the whole had become too much worn for use, yet when part had been good enough to be treasured by a thrifty housewife. daniel grew angry before donkin had selected his patterns and settled the work to his own mind. 'well,' said he at last; 'a mought be a young man a-goin' a wooin', by t' pains thou'st taken for t' match my oud clothes. i don't care if they're patched wi' scarlet, a tell thee; so as thou'lt work away at thy tale wi' thy tongue, same time as thou works at thy needle wi' thy fingers.' 'then, as a were saying, all monkshaven were like a nest o' wasps, flyin' hither and thither, and makin' sich a buzzin' and a talkin' as niver were; and each wi' his sting out, ready for t' vent his venom o' rage and revenge. and women cryin' and sobbin' i' t' streets--when, lord help us! o' saturday came a worse time than iver! for all friday there had been a kind o' expectation an' dismay about t' _good fortune_, as t' mariners had said was off st abb's head o' thursday, when t' _resolution_ came in; and there was wives and maids wi' husbands an' sweethearts aboard t' _good fortune_ ready to throw their eyes out on their heads wi' gazin', gazin' nor'ards over t'sea, as were all one haze o' blankness wi' t' rain; and when t' afternoon tide comed in, an' niver a line on her to be seen, folk were oncertain as t' whether she were holding off for fear o' t' tender--as were out o' sight, too--or what were her mak' o' goin' on. an' t' poor wet draggled women folk came up t' town, some slowly cryin', as if their hearts was sick, an' others just bent their heads to t' wind, and went straight to their homes, nother looking nor speaking to ony one; but barred their doors, and stiffened theirsels up for a night o' waiting. saturday morn--yo'll mind saturday morn, it were stormy and gusty, downreet dirty weather--theere stood t' folk again by daylight, a watching an' a straining, and by that tide t' _good fortune_ came o'er t' bar. but t' excisemen had sent back her news by t' boat as took 'em there. they'd a deal of oil, and a vast o' blubber. but for all that her flag was drooping i' t' rain, half mast high, for mourning and sorrow, an' they'd a dead man aboard--a dead man as was living and strong last sunrise. an' there was another as lay between life an' death, and there was seven more as should ha' been theere as wasn't, but was carried off by t' gang. t' frigate as we 'n a' heard tell on, as lying off hartlepool, got tidings fra' t' tender as captured t' seamen o' thursday: and t' _aurora_, as they ca'ed her, made off for t' nor'ard; and nine leagues off st abb's head, t' _resolution_ thinks she were, she see'd t' frigate, and knowed by her build she were a man-o'-war, and guessed she were bound on king's kidnapping. i seen t' wounded man mysen wi' my own eyes; and he'll live! he'll live! niver a man died yet, wi' such a strong purpose o' vengeance in him. he could barely speak, for he were badly shot, but his colour coome and went, as t' master's mate an' t' captain telled me and some others how t' _aurora_ fired at 'em, and how t' innocent whaler hoisted her colours, but afore they were fairly run up, another shot coome close in t' shrouds, and then t' greenland ship being t' windward, bore down on t' frigate; but as they knew she were an oud fox, and bent on mischief, kinraid (that's he who lies a-dying, only he'll noane die, a'se bound), the specksioneer, bade t' men go down between decks, and fasten t' hatches well, an' he'd stand guard, he an' captain, and t' oud master's mate, being left upo' deck for t' give a welcome just skin-deep to t' boat's crew fra' t' _aurora_, as they could see coming t'wards them o'er t' watter, wi' their reg'lar man-o'-war's rowing----' 'damn 'em!' said daniel, in soliloquy, and under his breath. sylvia stood, poising her iron, and listening eagerly, afraid to give donkin the hot iron for fear of interrupting the narrative, unwilling to put it into the fire again, because that action would perchance remind him of his work, which now the tailor had forgotten, so eager was he in telling his story. 'well! they coome on over t' watters wi' great bounds, and up t' sides they coome like locusts, all armed men; an' t' captain says he saw kinraid hide away his whaling knife under some tarpaulin', and he knew he meant mischief, an' he would no more ha' stopped him wi' a word nor he would ha' stopped him fra' killing a whale. and when t' _aurora_'s men were aboard, one on 'em runs to t' helm; and at that t' captain says, he felt as if his wife were kissed afore his face; but says he, "i bethought me on t' men as were shut up below hatches, an' i remembered t' folk at monkshaven as were looking out for us even then; an' i said to mysel', i would speak fair as long as i could, more by token o' the whaling-knife, as i could see glinting bright under t' black tarpaulin." so he spoke quite fair and civil, though he see'd they was nearing t' _aurora_, and t' _aurora_ was nearing them. then t' navy captain hailed him thro' t' trumpet, wi' a great rough blast, and, says he, "order your men to come on deck." and t' captain of t' whaler says his men cried up from under t' hatches as they'd niver be gi'en up wi'out bloodshed, and he sees kinraid take out his pistol, and look well to t' priming; so he says to t' navy captain, "we're protected greenland-men, and you have no right t' meddle wi' us." but t' navy captain only bellows t' more, "order your men t' come on deck. if they won't obey you, and you have lost the command of your vessel, i reckon you're in a state of mutiny, and you may come aboard t' _aurora_ and such men as are willing t' follow you, and i'll fire int' the rest." yo' see, that were t' depth o' the man: he were for pretending and pretexting as t' captain could na manage his own ship, and as he'd help him. but our greenland captain were noane so poor-spirited, and says he, "she's full of oil, and i ware you of consequences if you fire into her. anyhow, pirate, or no pirate" (for t' word pirate stuck in his gizzard), "i'm a honest monkshaven man, an' i come fra' a land where there's great icebergs and many a deadly danger, but niver a press-gang, thank god! and that's what you are, i reckon." them's the words he told me, but whether he spoke 'em out so bold at t' time, i'se not so sure; they were in his mind for t' speak, only maybe prudence got t' better on him, for he said he prayed i' his heart to bring his cargo safe to t' owners, come what might. well, t' _aurora_'s men aboard t' _good fortune_ cried out "might they fire down t' hatches, and bring t' men out that a way?" and then t' specksioneer, he speaks, an' he says he stands ower t' hatches, and he has two good pistols, and summut besides, and he don't care for his life, bein' a bachelor, but all below are married men, yo' see, and he'll put an end to t' first two chaps as come near t' hatches. an' they say he picked two off as made for t' come near, and then, just as he were stooping for t' whaling knife, an' it's as big as a sickle----' 'teach folk as don't know a whaling knife,' cried daniel. 'i were a greenland-man mysel'.' 'they shot him through t' side, and dizzied him, and kicked him aside for dead; and fired down t' hatches, and killed one man, and disabled two, and then t' rest cried for quarter, for life is sweet, e'en aboard a king's ship; and t' _aurora_ carried 'em off, wounded men, an' able men, an' all: leaving kinraid for dead, as wasn't dead, and darley for dead, as was dead, an' t' captain and master's mate as were too old for work; and t' captain, as loves kinraid like a brother, poured rum down his throat, and bandaged him up, and has sent for t' first doctor in monkshaven for to get t' slugs out; for they say there's niver such a harpooner in a' t' greenland seas; an' i can speak fra' my own seeing he's a fine young fellow where he lies theere, all stark and wan for weakness and loss o' blood. but darley's dead as a door-nail; and there's to be such a burying of him as niver was seen afore i' monkshaven, come sunday. and now gi' us t' iron, wench, and let's lose no more time a-talking.' 'it's noane loss o' time,' said daniel, moving himself heavily in his chair, to feel how helpless he was once more. 'if a were as young as once a were--nay, lad, if a had na these sore rheumatics, now--a reckon as t' press-gang 'ud find out as t' shouldn't do such things for nothing. bless thee, man! it's waur nor i' my youth i' th' ameriky war, and then 't were bad enough.' 'and kinraid?' said sylvia, drawing a long breath, after the effort of realizing it all; her cheeks had flushed up, and her eyes had glittered during the progress of the tale. 'oh! he'll do. he'll not die. life's stuff is in him yet.' 'he'll be molly corney's cousin, i reckon,' said sylvia, bethinking her with a blush of molly corney's implication that he was more than a cousin to her, and immediately longing to go off and see molly, and hear all the little details which women do not think it beneath them to give to women. from that time sylvia's little heart was bent on this purpose. but it was not one to be openly avowed even to herself. she only wanted sadly to see molly, and she almost believed herself that it was to consult her about the fashion of her cloak; which donkin was to cut out, and which she was to make under his directions; at any rate, this was the reason she gave to her mother when the day's work was done, and a fine gleam came out upon the pale and watery sky towards evening. chapter vi the sailor's funeral moss brow, the corney's house, was but a disorderly, comfortless place. you had to cross a dirty farmyard, all puddles and dungheaps, on stepping-stones, to get to the door of the house-place. that great room itself was sure to have clothes hanging to dry at the fire, whatever day of the week it was; some one of the large irregular family having had what is called in the district a 'dab-wash' of a few articles, forgotten on the regular day. and sometimes these articles lay in their dirty state in the untidy kitchen, out of which a room, half parlour, half bedroom, opened on one side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at the opposite. in face of you, as you entered the door, was the entrance to the working-kitchen, or scullery. still, in spite of disorder like this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the place; the corneys were rich in their way, in flocks and herds as well as in children; and to them neither dirt nor the perpetual bustle arising from ill-ordered work detracted from comfort. they were all of an easy, good-tempered nature; mrs. corney and her daughters gave every one a welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would just as soon sit down for a gossip at ten o'clock in the morning, as at five in the evening, though at the former time the house-place was full of work of various kinds which ought to be got out of hand and done with: while the latter hour was towards the end of the day, when farmers' wives and daughters were usually--'cleaned' was the word then, 'dressed' is that in vogue now. of course in such a household as this sylvia was sure to be gladly received. she was young, and pretty, and bright, and brought a fresh breeze of pleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere. and besides, bell robson held her head so high that visits from her daughter were rather esteemed as a favour, for it was not everywhere that sylvia was allowed to go. 'sit yo' down, sit yo' down!' cried dame corney, dusting a chair with her apron; 'a reckon molly 'll be in i' no time. she's nobbut gone int' t' orchard, to see if she can find wind-falls enough for t' make a pie or two for t' lads. they like nowt so weel for supper as apple-pies sweetened wi' treacle, crust stout and leathery, as stands chewing, and we hannot getten in our apples yet.' 'if molly is in t' orchard, i'll go find her,' said sylvia. 'well! yo' lasses will have your conks' (private talks), 'a know; secrets 'bout sweethearts and such like,' said mrs. corney, with a knowing look, which made sylvia hate her for the moment. 'a've not forgotten as a were young mysen. tak' care; there's a pool o' mucky watter just outside t' back-door.' but sylvia was half-way across the back-yard--worse, if possible, than the front as to the condition in which it was kept--and had passed through the little gate into the orchard. it was full of old gnarled apple-trees, their trunks covered with gray lichen, in which the cunning chaffinch built her nest in spring-time. the cankered branches remained on the trees, and added to the knotted interweaving overhead, if they did not to the productiveness; the grass grew in long tufts, and was wet and tangled under foot. there was a tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the gray old trees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green bosses of untrimmed grass. why the fruit was not gathered, as it was evidently ripe, would have puzzled any one not acquainted with the corney family to say; but to them it was always a maxim in practice, if not in precept, 'do nothing to-day that you can put off till to-morrow,' and accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any little gust of wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the 'lads' wanted a supply of pies for supper. molly saw sylvia, and came quickly across the orchard to meet her, catching her feet in knots of grass as she hurried along. 'well, lass!' said she, 'who'd ha' thought o' seeing yo' such a day as it has been?' 'but it's cleared up now beautiful,' said sylvia, looking up at the soft evening sky, to be seen through the apple boughs. it was of a tender, delicate gray, with the faint warmth of a promising sunset tinging it with a pink atmosphere. 'rain is over and gone, and i wanted to know how my cloak is to be made; for donkin 's working at our house, and i wanted to know all about--the news, yo' know.' 'what news?' asked molly, for she had heard of the affair between the _good fortune_ and the _aurora_ some days before; and, to tell the truth, it had rather passed out of her head just at this moment. 'hannot yo' heard all about t' press-gang and t' whaler, and t' great fight, and kinraid, as is your cousin, acting so brave and grand, and lying on his death-bed now?' 'oh!' said molly, enlightened as to sylvia's 'news,' and half surprised at the vehemence with which the little creature spoke; 'yes; a heerd that days ago. but charley's noane on his death-bed, he's a deal better; an' mother says as he's to be moved up here next week for nursin' and better air nor he gets i' t' town yonder.' 'oh! i am so glad,' said sylvia, with all her heart. 'i thought he'd maybe die, and i should niver see him.' 'a'll promise yo' shall see him; that's t' say if a' goes on well, for he's getten an ugly hurt. mother says as there's four blue marks on his side as'll last him his life, an' t' doctor fears bleeding i' his inside; and then he'll drop down dead when no one looks for 't.' 'but you said he was better,' said sylvia, blanching a little at this account. 'ay, he's better, but life's uncertain, special after gun-shot wounds.' 'he acted very fine,' said sylvia, meditating. 'a allays knowed he would. many's the time a've heerd him say "honour bright," and now he's shown how bright his is.' molly did not speak sentimentally, but with a kind of proprietorship in kinraid's honour, which confirmed sylvia in her previous idea of a mutual attachment between her and her cousin. considering this notion, she was a little surprised at molly's next speech. 'an' about yer cloak, are you for a hood or a cape? a reckon that's the question.' 'oh, i don't care! tell me more about kinraid. do yo' really think he'll get better?' 'dear! how t' lass takes on about him. a'll tell him what a deal of interest a young woman taks i' him!' from that time sylvia never asked another question about him. in a somewhat dry and altered tone, she said, after a little pause-'i think on a hood. what do you say to it?' 'well; hoods is a bit old-fashioned, to my mind. if 't were mine, i'd have a cape cut i' three points, one to tie on each shoulder, and one to dip down handsome behind. but let yo' an' me go to monkshaven church o' sunday, and see measter fishburn's daughters, as has their things made i' york, and notice a bit how they're made. we needn't do it i' church, but just scan 'em o'er i' t' churchyard, and there'll be no harm done. besides, there's to be this grand burryin' o' t' man t' press-gang shot, and 't will be like killing two birds at once.' 'i should like to go,' said sylvia. 'i feel so sorry like for the poor sailors shot down and kidnapped just as they was coming home, as we see'd 'em o' thursday last. i'll ask mother if she'll let me go.' 'ay, do. i know my mother 'll let me, if she doesn't go hersen; for it 'll be a sight to see and to speak on for many a long year, after what i've heerd. and miss fishburns is sure to be theere, so i'd just get donkin to cut out cloak itsel', and keep back yer mind fra' fixing o' either cape or hood till sunday's turn'd.' 'will yo' set me part o' t' way home?' said sylvia, seeing the dying daylight become more and more crimson through the blackening trees. 'no; i can't. a should like it well enough, but somehow, there's a deal o' work to be done yet, for t' hours slip through one's fingers so as there's no knowing. mind yo', then, o' sunday. a'll be at t' stile one o'clock punctual; and we'll go slowly into t' town, and look about us as we go, and see folk's dresses; and go to t' church, and say wer prayers, and come out and have a look at t' funeral.' and with this programme of proceedings settled for the following sunday, the girls whom neighbourhood and parity of age had forced into some measure of friendship parted for the time. sylvia hastened home, feeling as if she had been absent long; her mother stood on the little knoll at the side of the house watching for her, with her hand shading her eyes from the low rays of the setting sun: but as soon as she saw her daughter in the distance, she returned to her work, whatever that might be. she was not a woman of many words, or of much demonstration; few observers would have guessed how much she loved her child; but sylvia, without any reasoning or observation, instinctively knew that her mother's heart was bound up in her. her father and donkin were going on much as when she had left them; talking and disputing, the one compelled to be idle, the other stitching away as fast as he talked. they seemed as if they had never missed sylvia; no more did her mother for that matter, for she was busy and absorbed in her afternoon dairy-work to all appearance. but sylvia had noted the watching not three minutes before, and many a time in her after life, when no one cared much for her out-goings and in-comings, the straight, upright figure of her mother, fronting the setting sun, but searching through its blinding rays for a sight of her child, rose up like a sudden-seen picture, the remembrance of which smote sylvia to the heart with a sense of a lost blessing, not duly valued while possessed. 'well, feyther, and how's a' wi' you?' asked sylvia, going to the side of his chair, and laying her hand on his shoulder. 'eh! harkee till this lass o' mine. she thinks as because she's gone galraverging, i maun ha' missed her and be ailing. why, lass, donkin and me has had t' most sensible talk a've had this many a day. a've gi'en him a vast o' knowledge, and he's done me a power o' good. please god, to-morrow a'll tak' a start at walking, if t' weather holds up.' 'ay!' said donkin, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice; 'feyther and me has settled many puzzles; it's been a loss to government as they hannot been here for profiting by our wisdom. we've done away wi' taxes and press-gangs, and many a plague, and beaten t' french--i' our own minds, that's to say.' 'it's a wonder t' me as those lunnon folks can't see things clear,' said daniel, all in good faith. sylvia did not quite understand the state of things as regarded politics and taxes--and politics and taxes were all one in her mind, it must be confessed--but she saw that her innocent little scheme of giving her father the change of society afforded by donkin's coming had answered; and in the gladness of her heart she went out and ran round the corner of the house to find kester, and obtain from him that sympathy in her success which she dared not ask from her mother. 'kester, kester, lad!' said she, in a loud whisper; but kester was suppering the horses, and in the clamp of their feet on the round stable pavement, he did not hear her at first. she went a little farther into the stable. 'kester! he's a vast better, he'll go out to-morrow; it's all donkin's doing. i'm beholden to thee for fetching him, and i'll try and spare thee waistcoat fronts out o' t' stuff for my new red cloak. thou'll like that, kester, won't ta?' kester took the notion in slowly, and weighed it. 'na, lass,' said he, deliberately, after a pause. 'a could na' bear to see thee wi' thy cloak scrimpit. a like t' see a wench look bonny and smart, an' a tak' a kind o' pride in thee, an should be a'most as much hurt i' my mind to see thee i' a pinched cloak as if old moll's tail here were docked too short. na, lass, a'se niver got a mirroring glass for t' see mysen in, so what's waistcoats to me? keep thy stuff to thysen, theere's a good wench; but a'se main and glad about t' measter. place isn't like itsen when he's shut up and cranky.' he took up a wisp of straw and began rubbing down the old mare, and hissing over his work as if he wished to consider the conversation as ended. and sylvia, who had strung herself up in a momentary fervour of gratitude to make the generous offer, was not sorry to have it refused, and went back planning what kindness she could show to kester without its involving so much sacrifice to herself. for giving waistcoat fronts to him would deprive her of the pleasant power of selecting a fashionable pattern in monkshaven churchyard next sunday. that wished-for day seemed long a-coming, as wished-for days most frequently do. her father got better by slow degrees, and her mother was pleased by the tailor's good pieces of work; showing the neatly-placed patches with as much pride as many matrons take in new clothes now-a-days. and the weather cleared up into a dim kind of autumnal fineness, into anything but an indian summer as far as regarded gorgeousness of colouring, for on that coast the mists and sea fogs early spoil the brilliancy of the foliage. yet, perhaps, the more did the silvery grays and browns of the inland scenery conduce to the tranquillity of the time,--the time of peace and rest before the fierce and stormy winter comes on. it seems a time for gathering up human forces to encounter the coming severity, as well as of storing up the produce of harvest for the needs of winter. old people turn out and sun themselves in that calm st. martin's summer, without fear of 'the heat o' th' sun, or the coming winter's rages,' and we may read in their pensive, dreamy eyes that they are weaning themselves away from the earth, which probably many may never see dressed in her summer glory again. many such old people set out betimes, on the sunday afternoon to which sylvia had been so looking forward, to scale the long flights of stone steps--worn by the feet of many generations--which led up to the parish church, placed on a height above the town, on a great green area at the summit of the cliff, which was the angle where the river and the sea met, and so overlooking both the busy crowded little town, the port, the shipping, and the bar on the one hand, and the wide illimitable tranquil sea on the other--types of life and eternity. it was a good situation for that church. homeward-bound sailors caught sight of the tower of st nicholas, the first land object of all. they who went forth upon the great deep might carry solemn thoughts with them of the words they had heard there; not conscious thoughts, perhaps--rather a distinct if dim conviction that buying and selling, eating and marrying, even life and death, were not all the realities in existence. nor were the words that came up to their remembrance words of sermons preached there, however impressive. the sailors mostly slept through the sermons; unless, indeed, there were incidents such as were involved in what were called 'funeral discourses' to be narrated. they did not recognize their daily faults or temptations under the grand aliases befitting their appearance from a preacher's mouth. but they knew the old, oft-repeated words praying for deliverance from the familiar dangers of lightning and tempest; from battle, murder, and sudden death; and nearly every man was aware that he left behind him some one who would watch for the prayer for the preservation of those who travel by land or by water, and think of him, as god-protected the more for the earnestness of the response then given. there, too, lay the dead of many generations; for st. nicholas had been the parish church ever since monkshaven was a town, and the large churchyard was rich in the dead. masters, mariners, ship-owners, seamen: it seemed strange how few other trades were represented in that great plain so full of upright gravestones. here and there was a memorial stone, placed by some survivor of a large family, most of whom perished at sea:--'supposed to have perished in the greenland seas,' 'shipwrecked in the baltic,' 'drowned off the coast of iceland.' there was a strange sensation, as if the cold sea-winds must bring with them the dim phantoms of those lost sailors, who had died far from their homes, and from the hallowed ground where their fathers lay. each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a small flat space, on which a wooden seat was placed. on this particular sunday, all these seats were filled by aged people, breathless with the unusual exertion of climbing. you could see the church stair, as it was called, from nearly every part of the town, and the figures of the numerous climbers, diminished by distance, looked like a busy ant-hill, long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service. all who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token of mourning; it might be very little; an old ribbon, a rusty piece of crape; but some sign of mourning was shown by every one down to the little child in its mother's arms, that innocently clutched the piece of rosemary to be thrown into the grave 'for remembrance.' darley, the seaman shot by the press-gang, nine leagues off st. abb's head, was to be buried to-day, at the accustomed time for the funerals of the poorer classes, directly after evening service, and there were only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not come forth to show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon as murdered. the crowd of vessels in harbour bore their flags half-mast high; and the crews were making their way through the high street. the gentlefolk of monkshaven, full of indignation at this interference with their ships, full of sympathy with the family who had lost their son and brother almost within sight of his home, came in unusual numbers--no lack of patterns for sylvia; but her thoughts were far otherwise and more suitably occupied. the unwonted sternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all whom she met awed and affected her. she did not speak in reply to molly's remarks on the dress or appearance of those who struck her. she felt as if these speeches jarred on her, and annoyed her almost to irritation; yet molly had come all the way to monkshaven church in her service, and deserved forbearance accordingly. the two mounted the steps alongside of many people; few words were exchanged, even at the breathing places, so often the little centres of gossip. looking over the sea there was not a sail to be seen; it seemed bared of life, as if to be in serious harmony with what was going on inland. the church was of old norman architecture; low and massive outside: inside, of vast space, only a quarter of which was filled on ordinary sundays. the walls were disfigured by numerous tablets of black and white marble intermixed, and the usual ornamentation of that style of memorial as erected in the last century, of weeping willows, urns, and drooping figures, with here and there a ship in full sail, or an anchor, where the seafaring idea prevalent through the place had launched out into a little originality. there was no wood-work, the church had been stripped of that, most probably when the neighbouring monastery had been destroyed. there were large square pews, lined with green baize, with the names of the families of the most flourishing ship-owners painted white on the doors; there were pews, not so large, and not lined at all, for the farmers and shopkeepers of the parish; and numerous heavy oaken benches which, by the united efforts of several men, might be brought within earshot of the pulpit. these were being removed into the most convenient situations when molly and sylvia entered the church, and after two or three whispered sentences they took their seats on one of these. the vicar of monkshaven was a kindly, peaceable old man, hating strife and troubled waters above everything. he was a vehement tory in theory, as became his cloth in those days. he had two bugbears to fear--the french and the dissenters. it was difficult to say of which he had the worst opinion and the most intense dread. perhaps he hated the dissenters most, because they came nearer in contact with him than the french; besides, the french had the excuse of being papists, while the dissenters might have belonged to the church of england if they had not been utterly depraved. yet in practice dr wilson did not object to dine with mr. fishburn, who was a personal friend and follower of wesley, but then, as the doctor would say, 'wesley was an oxford man, and that makes him a gentleman; and he was an ordained minister of the church of england, so that grace can never depart from him.' but i do not know what excuse he would have alleged for sending broth and vegetables to old ralph thompson, a rabid independent, who had been given to abusing the church and the vicar, from a dissenting pulpit, as long as ever he could mount the stairs. however, that inconsistency between dr wilson's theories and practice was not generally known in monkshaven, so we have nothing to do with it. dr wilson had had a very difficult part to play, and a still more difficult sermon to write, during this last week. the darley who had been killed was the son of the vicar's gardener, and dr wilson's sympathies as a man had been all on the bereaved father's side. but then he had received, as the oldest magistrate in the neighbourhood, a letter from the captain of the _aurora_, explanatory and exculpatory. darley had been resisting the orders of an officer in his majesty's service. what would become of due subordination and loyalty, and the interests of the service, and the chances of beating those confounded french, if such conduct as darley's was to be encouraged? (poor darley! he was past all evil effects of human encouragement now!) so the vicar mumbled hastily over a sermon on the text, 'in the midst of life we are in death'; which might have done as well for a baby cut off in a convulsion-fit as for the strong man shot down with all his eager blood hot within him, by men as hot-blooded as himself. but once when the old doctor's eye caught the up-turned, straining gaze of the father darley, seeking with all his soul to find a grain of holy comfort in the chaff of words, his conscience smote him. had he nothing to say that should calm anger and revenge with spiritual power? no breath of the comforter to soothe repining into resignation? but again the discord between the laws of man and the laws of christ stood before him; and he gave up the attempt to do more than he was doing, as beyond his power. though the hearers went away as full of anger as they had entered the church, and some with a dull feeling of disappointment as to what they had got there, yet no one felt anything but kindly towards the old vicar. his simple, happy life led amongst them for forty years, and open to all men in its daily course; his sweet-tempered, cordial ways; his practical kindness, made him beloved by all; and neither he nor they thought much or cared much for admiration of his talents. respect for his office was all the respect he thought of; and that was conceded to him from old traditional and hereditary association. in looking back to the last century, it appears curious to see how little our ancestors had the power of putting two things together, and perceiving either the discord or harmony thus produced. is it because we are farther off from those times, and have, consequently, a greater range of vision? will our descendants have a wonder about us, such as we have about the inconsistency of our forefathers, or a surprise at our blindness that we do not perceive that, holding such and such opinions, our course of action must be so and so, or that the logical consequence of particular opinions must be convictions which at present we hold in abhorrence? it seems puzzling to look back on men such as our vicar, who almost held the doctrine that the king could do no wrong, yet were ever ready to talk of the glorious revolution, and to abuse the stuarts for having entertained the same doctrine, and tried to put it in practice. but such discrepancies ran through good men's lives in those days. it is well for us that we live at the present time, when everybody is logical and consistent. this little discussion must be taken in place of dr wilson's sermon, of which no one could remember more than the text half an hour after it was delivered. even the doctor himself had the recollection of the words he had uttered swept out of his mind, as, having doffed his gown and donned his surplice, he came out of the dusk of his vestry and went to the church-door, looking into the broad light which came upon the plain of the church-yard on the cliffs; for the sun had not yet set, and the pale moon was slowly rising through the silvery mist that obscured the distant moors. there was a thick, dense crowd, all still and silent, looking away from the church and the vicar, who awaited the bringing of the dead. they were watching the slow black line winding up the long steps, resting their heavy burden here and there, standing in silent groups at each landing-place; now lost to sight as a piece of broken, overhanging ground intervened, now emerging suddenly nearer; and overhead the great church bell, with its mediaeval inscription, familiar to the vicar, if to no one else who heard it, i to the grave do summon all, kept on its heavy booming monotone, with which no other sound from land or sea, near or distant, intermingled, except the cackle of the geese on some far-away farm on the moors, as they were coming home to roost; and that one noise from so great a distance seemed only to deepen the stillness. then there was a little movement in the crowd; a little pushing from side to side, to make a path for the corpse and its bearers--an aggregate of the fragments of room. with bent heads and spent strength, those who carried the coffin moved on; behind came the poor old gardener, a brown-black funeral cloak thrown over his homely dress, and supporting his wife with steps scarcely less feeble than her own. he had come to church that afternoon, with a promise to her that he would return to lead her to the funeral of her firstborn; for he felt, in his sore perplexed heart, full of indignation and dumb anger, as if he must go and hear something which should exorcize the unwonted longing for revenge that disturbed his grief, and made him conscious of that great blank of consolation which faithfulness produces. and for the time he was faithless. how came god to permit such cruel injustice of man? permitting it, he could not be good. then what was life, and what was death, but woe and despair? the beautiful solemn words of the ritual had done him good, and restored much of his faith. though he could not understand why such sorrow had befallen him any more than before, he had come back to something of his childlike trust; he kept saying to himself in a whisper, as he mounted the weary steps, 'it is the lord's doing'; and the repetition soothed him unspeakably. behind this old couple followed their children, grown men and women, come from distant place or farmhouse service; the servants at the vicarage, and many a neighbour, anxious to show their sympathy, and most of the sailors from the crews of the vessels in port, joined in procession, and followed the dead body into the church. there was too great a crowd immediately within the door for sylvia and molly to go in again, and they accordingly betook themselves to the place where the deep grave was waiting, wide and hungry, to receive its dead. there, leaning against the headstones all around, were many standing--looking over the broad and placid sea, and turned to the soft salt air which blew on their hot eyes and rigid faces; for no one spoke of all that number. they were thinking of the violent death of him over whom the solemn words were now being said in the gray old church, scarcely out of their hearing, had not the sound been broken by the measured lapping of the tide far beneath. suddenly every one looked round towards the path from the churchyard steps. two sailors were supporting a ghastly figure that, with feeble motions, was drawing near the open grave. 'it's t' specksioneer as tried to save him! it's him as was left for dead!' the people murmured round. 'it's charley kinraid, as i'm a sinner!' said molly, starting forward to greet her cousin. but as he came on, she saw that all his strength was needed for the mere action of walking. the sailors, in their strong sympathy, had yielded to his earnest entreaty, and carried him up the steps, in order that he might see the last of his messmate. they placed him near the grave, resting against a stone; and he was hardly there before the vicar came forth, and the great crowd poured out of the church, following the body to the grave. sylvia was so much wrapt up in the solemnity of the occasion, that she had no thought to spare at the first moment for the pale and haggard figure opposite; much less was she aware of her cousin philip, who now singling her out for the first time from among the crowd, pressed to her side, with an intention of companionship and protection. as the service went on, ill-checked sobs rose from behind the two girls, who were among the foremost in the crowd, and by-and-by the cry and the wail became general. sylvia's tears rained down her face, and her distress became so evident that it attracted the attention of many in that inner circle. among others who noticed it, the specksioneer's hollow eyes were caught by the sight of the innocent blooming childlike face opposite to him, and he wondered if she were a relation; yet, seeing that she bore no badge of mourning, he rather concluded that she must have been a sweetheart of the dead man. and now all was over: the rattle of the gravel on the coffin; the last long, lingering look of friends and lovers; the rosemary sprigs had been cast down by all who were fortunate enough to have brought them--and oh! how much sylvia wished she had remembered this last act of respect--and slowly the outer rim of the crowd began to slacken and disappear. now philip spoke to sylvia. 'i never dreamt of seeing you here. i thought my aunt always went to kirk moorside.' 'i came with molly corney,' said sylvia. 'mother is staying at home with feyther.' 'how's his rheumatics?' asked philip. but at the same moment molly took hold of sylvia's hand, and said-'a want t' get round and speak to charley. mother 'll be main and glad to hear as he's getten out; though, for sure, he looks as though he'd ha' been better in 's bed. come, sylvia.' and philip, fain to keep with sylvia, had to follow the two girls close up to the specksioneer, who was preparing for his slow laborious walk back to his lodgings. he stopped on seeing his cousin. 'well, molly,' said he, faintly, putting out his hand, but his eye passing her face to look at sylvia in the background, her tear-stained face full of shy admiration of the nearest approach to a hero she had ever seen. 'well, charley, a niver was so taken aback as when a saw yo' theere, like a ghost, a-standin' agin a gravestone. how white and wan yo' do look!' 'ay!' said he, wearily, 'wan and weak enough.' 'but i hope you're getting better, sir,' said sylvia, in a low voice, longing to speak to him, and yet wondering at her own temerity. 'thank you, my lass. i'm o'er th' worst.' he sighed heavily. philip now spoke. 'we're doing him no kindness a-keeping him standing here i' t' night-fall, and him so tired.' and he made as though he would turn away. kinraid's two sailor friends backed up philip's words with such urgency, that, somehow, sylvia thought they had been to blame in speaking to him, and blushed excessively with the idea. 'yo'll come and be nursed at moss brow, charley,' said molly; and sylvia dropped her little maidenly curtsey, and said, 'good-by;' and went away, wondering how molly could talk so freely to such a hero; but then, to be sure, he was a cousin, and probably a sweetheart, and that would make a great deal of difference, of course. meanwhile her own cousin kept close by her side. chapter vii tete-a-tete.--the will 'and now tell me all about th' folk at home?' said philip, evidently preparing to walk back with the girls. he generally came to haytersbank every sunday afternoon, so sylvia knew what she had to expect the moment she became aware of his neighbourhood in the churchyard. 'my feyther's been sadly troubled with his rheumatics this week past; but he's a vast better now, thank you kindly.' then, addressing herself to molly, she asked, 'has your cousin a doctor to look after him?' 'ay, for sure!' said molly, quickly; for though she knew nothing about the matter, she was determined to suppose that her cousin had everything becoming an invalid as well as a hero. 'he's well-to-do, and can afford everything as he needs,' continued she. 'his feyther's left him money, and he were a farmer out up in northumberland, and he's reckoned such a specksioneer as never, never was, and gets what wage he asks for and a share on every whale he harpoons beside.' 'i reckon he'll have to make himself scarce on this coast for awhile, at any rate,' said philip. 'an' what for should he?' asked molly, who never liked philip at the best of times, and now, if he was going to disparage her cousin in any way, was ready to take up arms and do battle. 'why, they do say as he fired the shot as has killed some o' the men-o'-war's men, and, of course, if he has, he'll have to stand his trial if he's caught.' 'what lies people do say!' exclaimed molly. 'he niver killed nought but whales, a'll be bound; or, if he did, it were all right and proper as he should, when they were for stealing him an' all t' others, and did kill poor darley as we come fra' seemin' buried. a suppose, now yo're such a quaker that, if some one was to break through fra' t' other side o' this dyke and offer for to murder sylvia and me, yo'd look on wi' yo'r hands hanging by yo'r side.' 'but t' press-gang had law on their side, and were doing nought but what they'd warrant for.' 'th' tender's gone away, as if she were ashamed o' what she'd done,' said sylvia, 'and t' flag's down fra' o'er the randyvowse. there 'll be no more press-ganging here awhile.' 'no; feyther says,' continued molly, 'as they've made t' place too hot t' hold 'em, coming so strong afore people had getten used to their ways o' catchin' up poor lads just come fra' t' greenland seas. t' folks ha' their blood so up they'd think no harm o' fighting 'em i' t' streets--ay, and o' killing 'em, too, if they were for using fire-arms, as t' _aurora_'s men did.' 'women is so fond o' bloodshed,' said philip; 'for t' hear you talk, who'd ha' thought you'd just come fra' crying ower the grave of a man who was killed by violence? i should ha' thought you'd seen enough of what sorrow comes o' fighting. why, them lads o' t' _aurora_ as they say kinraid shot down had fathers and mothers, maybe, a looking out for them to come home.' 'i don't think he could ha' killed them,' said sylvia; 'he looked so gentle.' but molly did not like this half-and-half view of the case. 'a dare say he did kill 'em dead; he's not one to do things by halves. and a think he served 'em reet, that's what a do.' 'is na' this hester, as serves in foster's shop?' asked sylvia, in a low voice, as a young woman came through a stile in the stone wall by the roadside, and suddenly appeared before them. 'yes,' said philip. 'why, hester, where have you been?' he asked, as they drew near. hester reddened a little, and then replied, in her slow, quiet way-'i've been sitting with betsy darley--her that is bed-ridden. it were lonesome for her when the others were away at the burying.' and she made as though she would have passed; but sylvia, all her sympathies alive for the relations of the murdered man, wanted to ask more questions, and put her hand on hester's arm to detain her a moment. hester suddenly drew back a little, reddened still more, and then replied fully and quietly to all sylvia asked. in the agricultural counties, and among the class to which these four persons belonged, there is little analysis of motive or comparison of characters and actions, even at this present day of enlightenment. sixty or seventy years ago there was still less. i do not mean that amongst thoughtful and serious people there was not much reading of such books as _mason_ on _self-knowledge_ and _law's serious call_, or that there were not the experiences of the wesleyans, that were related at class-meeting for the edification of the hearers. but, taken as a general ride, it may be said that few knew what manner of men they were, compared to the numbers now who are fully conscious of their virtues, qualities, failings, and weaknesses, and who go about comparing others with themselves--not in a spirit of pharisaism and arrogance, but with a vivid self-consciousness that more than anything else deprives characters of freshness and originality. to return to the party we left standing on the high-raised footway that ran alongside of the bridle-road to haytersbank. sylvia had leisure in her heart to think 'how good hester is for sitting with the poor bed-ridden sister of darley!' without having a pang of self-depreciation in the comparison of her own conduct with that she was capable of so fully appreciating. she had gone to church for the ends of vanity, and remained to the funeral for curiosity and the pleasure of the excitement. in this way a modern young lady would have condemned herself, and therefore lost the simple, purifying pleasure of admiration of another. hester passed onwards, going down the hill towards the town. the other three walked slowly on. all were silent for a few moments, then sylvia said-'how good she is!' and philip replied with ready warmth,-'yes, she is; no one knows how good but us, who live in the same house wi' her.' 'her mother is an old quakeress, bean't she?' molly inquired. 'alice rose is a friend, if that is what you mean,' said philip. 'well, well! some folk's so particular. is william coulson a quaker, by which a mean a friend?' 'yes; they're all on 'em right-down good folk.' 'deary me! what a wonder yo' can speak to such sinners as sylvia and me, after keepin' company with so much goodness,' said molly, who had not yet forgiven philip for doubting kinraid's power of killing men. 'is na' it, sylvia?' but sylvia was too highly strung for banter. if she had not been one of those who went to mock, but remained to pray, she had gone to church with the thought of the cloak-that-was-to-be uppermost in her mind, and she had come down the long church stair with life and death suddenly become real to her mind, the enduring sea and hills forming a contrasting background to the vanishing away of man. she was full of a solemn wonder as to the abiding-place of the souls of the dead, and a childlike dread lest the number of the elect should be accomplished before she was included therein. how people could ever be merry again after they had been at a funeral, she could not imagine; so she answered gravely, and slightly beside the question: 'i wonder if i was a friend if i should be good?' 'gi' me your red cloak, that's all, when yo' turn quaker; they'll none let thee wear scarlet, so it 'll be of no use t' thee.' 'i think thou'rt good enough as thou art,' said philip, tenderly--at least as tenderly as he durst, for he knew by experience that it did not do to alarm her girlish coyness. either one speech or the other made sylvia silent; neither was accordant to her mood of mind; so perhaps both contributed to her quietness. 'folk say william coulson looks sweet on hester rose,' said molly, always up in monkshaven gossip. it was in the form of an assertion, but was said in the tone of a question, and as such philip replied to it. 'yes, i think he likes her a good deal; but he's so quiet, i never feel sure. john and jeremiah would like the match, i've a notion.' and now they came to the stile which had filled philip's eye for some minutes past, though neither of the others had perceived they were so near it; the stile which led to moss brow from the road into the fields that sloped down to haystersbank. here they would leave molly, and now would begin the delicious _tete-a-tete_ walk, which philip always tried to make as lingering as possible. to-day he was anxious to show his sympathy with sylvia, as far as he could read what was passing in her mind; but how was he to guess the multitude of tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle? a resolution to be good, if she could, and always to be thinking on death, so that what seemed to her now as simply impossible, might come true--that she might 'dread the grave as little as her bed'; a wish that philip were not coming home with her; a wonder if the specksioneer really had killed a man, an idea which made her shudder; yet from the awful fascination about it, her imagination was compelled to dwell on the tall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the wan countenance; a hatred and desire of revenge on the press-gang, so vehement that it sadly militated against her intention of trying to be good; all these notions, and wonders, and fancies, were whirling about in sylvia's brain, and at one of their promptings she spoke,-'how many miles away is t' greenland seas?--i mean, how long do they take to reach?' 'i don't know; ten days or a fortnight, or more, maybe. i'll ask.' 'oh! feyther 'll tell me all about it. he's been there many a time.' 'i say, sylvie! my aunt said i were to give you lessons this winter i' writing and ciphering. i can begin to come up now, two evenings, maybe, a week. t' shop closes early after november comes in.' sylvia did not like learning, and did not want him for her teacher; so she answered in a dry little tone,-'it'll use a deal o' candle-light; mother 'll not like that. i can't see to spell wi'out a candle close at my elbow.' 'niver mind about candles. i can bring up a candle wi' me, for i should be burning one at alice rose's.' so that excuse would not do. sylvia beat her brains for another. 'writing cramps my hand so, i can't do any sewing for a day after; and feyther wants his shirts very bad.' 'but, sylvia, i'll teach you geography, and ever such a vast o' fine things about t' countries, on t' map.' 'is t' arctic seas down on t' map?' she asked, in a tone of greater interest. 'yes! arctics, and tropics, and equator, and equinoctial line; we'll take 'em turn and turn about; we'll do writing and ciphering one night, and geography t' other.' philip spoke with pleasure at the prospect, but sylvia relaxed into indifference. 'i'm no scholard; it's like throwing away labour to teach me, i'm such a dunce at my book. now there's betsy corney, third girl, her as is younger than molly, she'd be a credit to you. there niver was such a lass for pottering ower books.' if philip had had his wits about him, he would have pretended to listen to this proposition of a change of pupils, and then possibly sylvia might have repented making it. but he was too much mortified to be diplomatic. 'my aunt asked me to teach _you_ a bit, not any neighbour's lass.' 'well! if i mun be taught, i mun; but i'd rayther be whipped and ha' done with it,' was sylvia's ungracious reply. a moment afterwards, she repented of her little spirit of unkindness, and thought that she should not like to die that night without making friends. sudden death was very present in her thoughts since the funeral. so she instinctively chose the best method of making friends again, and slipped her hand into his, as he walked a little sullenly at her side. she was half afraid, however, when she found it firmly held, and that she could not draw it away again without making what she called in her own mind a 'fuss.' so, hand in hand, they slowly and silently came up to the door of haytersbank farm; not unseen by bell robson, who sate in the window-seat, with her bible open upon her knee. she had read her chapter aloud to herself, and now she could see no longer, even if she had wished to read more; but she gazed out into the darkening air, and a dim look of contentment came like moonshine over her face when she saw the cousins approach. 'that's my prayer day and night,' said she to herself. but there was no unusual aspect of gladness on her face, as she lighted the candle to give them a more cheerful welcome. 'wheere's feyther?' said sylvia, looking round the room for daniel. 'he's been to kirk moorside church, for t' see a bit o' th' world, as he ca's it. and sin' then he's gone out to th' cattle; for kester's ta'en his turn of playing hissel', now that father's better.' 'i've been talking to sylvia,' said philip, his head still full of his pleasant plan, his hand still tingling from the touch of hers, 'about turning schoolmaster, and coming up here two nights a week for t' teach her a bit o' writing and ciphering.' 'and geography,' put in sylvia; 'for,' thought she, 'if i'm to learn them things i don't care a pin about, anyhow i'll learn what i do care to know, if it 'll tell me about t' greenland seas, and how far they're off.' that same evening, a trio alike in many outward circumstances sate in a small neat room in a house opening out of a confined court on the hilly side of the high street of monkshaven--a mother, her only child, and the young man who silently loved that daughter, and was favoured by alice rose, though not by hester. when the latter returned from her afternoon's absence, she stood for a minute or two on the little flight of steep steps, whitened to a snowy whiteness; the aspect of the whole house partook of the same character of irreproachable cleanliness. it was wedged up into a space which necessitated all sorts of odd projections and irregularities in order to obtain sufficient light for the interior; and if ever the being situated in a dusky, confined corner might have been made an excuse for dirt, alice rose's house had that apology. yet the small diamond panes of glass in the casement window were kept so bright and clear that a great sweet-scented-leaved geranium grew and flourished, though it did not flower profusely. the leaves seemed to fill the air with fragrance as soon as hester summoned up energy enough to open the door. perhaps that was because the young quaker, william coulson, was crushing one between his finger and thumb, while waiting to set down alice's next words. for the old woman, who looked as if many years of life remained in her yet, was solemnly dictating her last will and testament. it had been on her mind for many months; for she had something to leave beyond the mere furniture of the house. something--a few pounds--in the hands of john and jeremiah foster, her cousins: and it was they who had suggested the duty on which she was engaged. she had asked william coulson to write down her wishes, and he had consented, though with some fear and trepidation; for he had an idea that he was infringing on a lawyer's prerogative, and that, for aught he knew, he might be prosecuted for making a will without a licence, just as a man might be punished for selling wine and spirits without going through the preliminary legal forms that give permission for such a sale. but to his suggestion that alice should employ a lawyer, she had replied-'that would cost me five pounds sterling; and thee canst do it as well, if thee'll but attend to my words.' so he had bought, at her desire, a black-edged sheet of fine-wove paper, and a couple of good pens, on the previous saturday; and while waiting for her to begin her dictation, and full serious thought himself, he had almost unconsciously made the grand flourish at the top of the paper which he had learnt at school, and which was there called a spread-eagle. 'what art thee doing there?' asked alice, suddenly alive to his proceedings. without a word he showed her his handiwork. 'it's a vanity,' said she, 'and 't may make t' will not stand. folk may think i were na in my right mind, if they see such fly-legs and cob-webs a-top. write, "this is my doing, william coulson, and none of alice rose's, she being in her sound mind."' 'i don't think it's needed,' said william. nevertheless he wrote down the words. 'hast thee put that i'm in my sound mind and seven senses? then make the sign of the trinity, and write, "in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost."' 'is that the right way o' beginning a will?' said coulson, a little startled. 'my father, and my father's father, and my husband had it a-top of theirs, and i'm noane going for to cease fra' following after them, for they were godly men, though my husband were o' t' episcopal persuasion.' 'it's done,' said william. 'hast thee dated it?' asked alice. 'nay.' 'then date it third day, ninth month. now, art ready?' coulson nodded. 'i, alice rose, do leave my furniture (that is, my bed and chest o' drawers, for thy bed and things is thine, and not mine), and settle, and saucepans, and dresser, and table, and kettle, and all the rest of my furniture, to my lawful and only daughter, hester rose. i think that's safe for her to have all, is 't not, william?' 'i think so, too,' said he, writing on all the time. 'and thee shalt have t' roller and paste-board, because thee's so fond o' puddings and cakes. it 'll serve thy wife after i'm gone, and i trust she'll boil her paste long enough, for that's been t' secret o' mine, and thee'll noane be so easy t' please.' 'i din't reckon on marriage,' said william. 'thee'll marry,' said alice. 'thee likes to have thy victuals hot and comfortable; and there's noane many but a wife as'll look after that for t' please thee.' 'i know who could please me,' sighed forth william, 'but i can't please her.' alice looked sharply at him from over her spectacles, which she had put on the better to think about the disposal of her property. 'thee art thinking on our hester,' said she, plainly out. he started a little, but looked up at her and met her eyes. 'hester cares noane for me,' said he, dejectedly. 'bide a while, my lad,' said alice, kindly. 'young women don't always know their own minds. thee and her would make a marriage after my own heart; and the lord has been very good to me hitherto, and i think he'll bring it t' pass. but don't thee let on as thee cares for her so much. i sometimes think she wearies o' thy looks and thy ways. show up thy manly heart, and make as though thee had much else to think on, and no leisure for to dawdle after her, and she'll think a deal more on thee. and now mend thy pen for a fresh start. i give and bequeath--did thee put "give and bequeath," at th' beginning?' 'nay,' said william, looking back. 'thee didst not tell me "give and bequeath!"' 'then it won't be legal, and my bit o' furniture 'll be taken to london, and put into chancery, and hester will have noane on it.' 'i can write it over,' said william. 'well, write it clear then, and put a line under it to show those are my special words. hast thee done it? then now start afresh. i give and bequeath my book o' sermons, as is bound in good calfskin, and lies on the third shelf o' corner cupboard at the right hand o' t' fire-place, to philip hepburn; for i reckon he's as fond o' reading sermons as thee art o' light, well-boiled paste, and i'd be glad for each on ye to have somewhat ye like for to remember me by. is that down? there; now for my cousins john and jeremiah. they are rich i' world's gear, but they'll prize what i leave 'em if i could only onbethink me what they would like. hearken! is na' that our hester's step? put it away, quick! i'm noane for grieving her wi' telling her what i've been about. we'll take a turn at t' will next first day; it will serve us for several sabbaths to come, and maybe i can think on something as will suit cousin john and cousin jeremiah afore then.' hester, as was mentioned, paused a minute or two before lifting the latch of the door. when she entered there was no unusual sign of writing about; only will coulson looking very red, and crushing and smelling at the geranium leaf. hester came in briskly, with the little stock of enforced cheerfulness she had stopped at the door to acquire. but it faded away along with the faint flush of colour in her cheeks; and the mother's quick eye immediately noted the wan heavy look of care. 'i have kept t' pot in t' oven; it'll have a'most got a' t' goodness out of t' tea by now, for it'll be an hour since i made it. poor lass, thou look'st as if thou needed a good cup o' tea. it were dree work sitting wi' betsy darley, were it? and how does she look on her affliction?' 'she takes it sore to heart,' said hester, taking off her hat, and folding and smoothing away her cloak, before putting them in the great oak chest (or 'ark,' as it was called), in which they were laid from sunday to sunday. as she opened the lid a sweet scent of dried lavender and rose-leaves came out. william stepped hastily forwards to hold up the heavy lid for her. she lifted up her head, looked at him full with her serene eyes, and thanked him for his little service. then she took a creepie-stool and sate down on the side of the fire-place, having her back to the window. the hearth was of the same spotless whiteness as the steps; all that was black about the grate was polished to the utmost extent; all that was of brass, like the handle of the oven, was burnished bright. her mother placed the little black earthenware teapot, in which the tea had been stewing, on the table, where cups and saucers were already set for four, and a large plate of bread and butter cut. then they sate round the table, bowed their heads, and kept silence for a minute or two. when this grace was ended, and they were about to begin, alice said, as if without premeditation, but in reality with a keen shrinking of heart out of sympathy with her child-'philip would have been in to his tea by now, i reckon, if he'd been coming.' william looked up suddenly at hester; her mother carefully turned her head another way. but she answered quite quietly-'he'll be gone to his aunt's at haytersbank. i met him at t' top o' t' brow, with his cousin and molly corney.' 'he's a deal there,' said william. 'yes,' said hester. 'it's likely; him and his aunt come from carlisle-way, and must needs cling together in these strange parts.' 'i saw him at the burying of yon darley,' said william. 'it were a vast o' people went past th' entry end,' said alice. 'it were a'most like election time; i were just come back fra' meeting when they were all going up th' church steps. i met yon sailor as, they say, used violence and did murder; he looked like a ghost, though whether it were his bodily wounds, or the sense of his sins stirring within him, it's not for me to say. and by t' time i was back here and settled to my bible, t' folk were returning, and it were tramp, tramp, past th' entry end for better nor a quarter of an hour.' 'they say kinraid has getten slugs and gun-shot in his side,' said hester. 'he's niver one charley kinraid, for sure, as i knowed at newcastle,' said william coulson, roused to sudden and energetic curiosity. 'i don't know,' replied hester; 'they call him just kinraid; and betsy darley says he's t' most daring specksioneer of all that go off this coast to t' greenland seas. but he's been in newcastle, for i mind me she said her poor brother met with him there.' 'how didst thee come to know him?' inquired alice. 'i cannot abide him if it is charley,' said william. 'he kept company with my poor sister as is dead for better nor two year, and then he left off coming to see her and went wi' another girl, and it just broke her heart.' 'he don't look now as if he iver could play at that game again,' said alice; 'he has had a warning fra' the lord. whether it be a call no one can tell. but to my eyne he looks as if he had been called, and was going.' 'then he'll meet my sister,' said william, solemnly; 'and i hope the lord will make it clear to him, then, how he killed her, as sure as he shot down yon sailors; an' if there's a gnashing o' teeth for murder i' that other place, i reckon he'll have his share on't. he's a bad man yon.' 'betsy said he were such a friend to her brother as niver was; and he's sent her word and promised to go and see her, first place he goes out to. but william only shook his head, and repeated his last words,-'he's a bad man, he is.' when philip came home that sunday night, he found only alice up to receive him. the usual bedtime in the household was nine o'clock, and it was but ten minutes past the hour; but alice looked displeased and stern. 'thee art late, lad,' said she, shortly. 'i'm sorry; it's a long way from my uncle's, and i think clocks are different,' said he, taking out his watch to compare it with the round moon's face that told the time to alice. 'i know nought about thy uncle's, but thee art late. take thy candle, and begone.' if alice made any reply to philip's 'good-night,' he did not hear it. chapter viii attraction and repulsion a fortnight had passed over and winter was advancing with rapid strides. in bleak northern farmsteads there was much to be done before november weather should make the roads too heavy for half-fed horses to pull carts through. there was the turf, pared up on the distant moors, and left out to dry, to be carried home and stacked; the brown fern was to be stored up for winter bedding for the cattle; for straw was scarce and dear in those parts; even for thatching, heather (or rather ling) was used. then there was meat to salt while it could be had; for, in default of turnips and mangold-wurzel, there was a great slaughtering of barren cows as soon as the summer herbage failed; and good housewives stored up their christmas piece of beef in pickle before martinmas was over. corn was to be ground while yet it could be carried to the distant mill; the great racks for oat-cake, that swung at the top of the kitchen, had to be filled. and last of all came the pig-killing, when the second frost set in. for up in the north there is an idea that the ice stored in the first frost will melt, and the meat cured then taint; the first frost is good for nothing but to be thrown away, as they express it. there came a breathing-time after this last event. the house had had its last autumn cleaning, and was neat and bright from top to bottom, from one end to another. the turf was led; the coal carted up from monkshaven; the wood stored; the corn ground; the pig killed, and the hams and head and hands lying in salt. the butcher had been glad to take the best parts of a pig of dame robson's careful feeding; but there was unusual plenty in the haytersbank pantry; and as bell surveyed it one morning, she said to her husband-'i wonder if yon poor sick chap at moss brow would fancy some o' my sausages. they're something to crack on, for they are made fra' an old cumberland receipt, as is not known i' yorkshire yet.' 'thou's allays so set upo' cumberland ways!' said her husband, not displeased with the suggestion, however. 'still, when folk's sick they han their fancies, and maybe kinraid 'll be glad o' thy sausages. i ha' known sick folk tak' t' eating snails.' this was not complimentary, perhaps. but daniel went on to say that he did not mind if he stepped over with the sausages himself, when it was too late to do anything else. sylvia longed to offer to accompany her father; but, somehow, she did not like to propose it. towards dusk she came to her mother to ask for the key of the great bureau that stood in the house-place as a state piece of furniture, although its use was to contain the family's best wearing apparel, and stores of linen, such as might be supposed to be more needed upstairs. 'what for do yo' want my keys?' asked bell. 'only just to get out one of t' damask napkins.' 'the best napkins, as my mother span?' 'yes!' said sylvia, her colour heightening. 'i thought as how it would set off t' sausages.' 'a good clean homespun cloth will serve them better,' said bell, wondering in her own mind what was come over the girl, to be thinking of setting off sausages that were to be eaten, not to be looked at like a picture-book. she might have wondered still more, if she had seen sylvia steal round to the little flower border she had persuaded kester to make under the wall at the sunny side of the house, and gather the two or three michaelmas daisies, and the one bud of the china rose, that, growing against the kitchen chimney, had escaped the frost; and then, when her mother was not looking, softly open the cloth inside of the little basket that contained the sausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her autumn blossoms in one of the folds of the towel. after daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had had his afternoon meal (tea was a sunday treat), he prepared to set out on his walk to moss brow; but as he was taking his stick he caught the look on sylvia's face; and unconsciously interpreted its dumb wistfulness. 'missus,' said he, 't' wench has nought more t' do, has she? she may as well put on her cloak and step down wi' me, and see molly a bit; she'll be company like.' bell considered. 'there's t' yarn for thy stockings as is yet to spin; but she can go, for i'll do a bit at 't mysel', and there's nought else agate.' 'put on thy things in a jiffy, then, and let's be off,' said daniel. and sylvia did not need another word. down she came in a twinkling, dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her face peeping out of the folds of the latter, bright and blushing. 'thou should'st na' ha' put on thy new cloak for a night walk to moss brow,' said bell, shaking her head. 'shall i go take it off, and put on my shawl?' asked sylvia, a little dolefully. 'na, na, come along! a'm noane goin' for t' wait o' women's chops and changes. come along; come, lassie!' (this last to his dog). so sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that had to be restrained to the sober gait her father chose. the sky above was bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars, the grass was crisping under their feet with the coming hoar frost; and as they mounted to the higher ground they could see the dark sea stretching away far below them. the night was very still, though now and then crisp sounds in the distant air sounded very near in the silence. sylvia carried the basket, and looked like little red riding hood. her father had nothing to say, and did not care to make himself agreeable; but sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, and any conversation would have been a disturbance to her. the long monotonous roll of the distant waves, as the tide bore them in, the multitudinous rush at last, and then the retreating rattle and trickle, as the baffled waters fell back over the shingle that skirted the sands, and divided them from the cliffs; her father's measured tread, and slow, even movement; lassie's pattering--all lulled sylvia into a reverie, of which she could not have given herself any definite account. but at length they arrived at moss brow, and with a sudden sigh she quitted the subjects of her dreamy meditations, and followed her father into the great house-place. it had a more comfortable aspect by night than by day. the fire was always kept up to a wasteful size, and the dancing blaze and the partial light of candles left much in shadow that was best ignored in such a disorderly family. but there was always a warm welcome to friends, however roughly given; and after the words of this were spoken, the next rose up equally naturally in the mind of mrs corney. 'and what will ye tak'? eh! but t' measter 'll be fine and vexed at your comin' when he's away. he's off to horncastle t' sell some colts, and he'll not be back till to-morrow's neet. but here's charley kinraid as we've getten to nurse up a bit, and' t' lads 'll be back fra' monkshaven in a crack o' no time.' all this was addressed to daniel, to whom she knew that none but masculine company would be acceptable. amongst uneducated people--whose range of subjects and interest do not extend beyond their daily life--it is natural that when the first blush and hurry of youth is over, there should be no great pleasure in the conversation of the other sex. men have plenty to say to men, which in their estimation (gained from tradition and experience) women cannot understand; and farmers of a much later date than the one of which i am writing, would have contemptuously considered it as a loss of time to talk to women; indeed, they were often more communicative to the sheep-dog that accompanied them through all the day's work, and frequently became a sort of dumb confidant. farmer robson's lassie now lay down at her master's feet, placed her nose between her paws, and watched with attentive eyes the preparations going on for refreshments--preparations which, to the disappointment of her canine heart, consisted entirely of tumblers and sugar. 'where's t' wench?' said robson, after he had shaken hands with kinraid, and spoken a few words to him and to mrs. corney. 'she's getten' a basket wi' sausages in 'em, as my missus has made, and she's a rare hand at sausages; there's noane like her in a' t' three ridings, i'll be bound!' for daniel could praise his wife's powers in her absence, though he did not often express himself in an appreciative manner when she was by to hear. but sylvia's quick sense caught up the manner in which mrs. corney would apply the way in which her mother's housewifery had been exalted, and stepping forwards out of the shadow, she said,-'mother thought, maybe, you hadn't killed a pig yet, and sausages is always a bit savoury for any one who is na' well, and----' she might have gone on but that she caught kinraid's eyes looking at her with kindly admiration. she stopped speaking, and mrs. corney took up the word-'as for sausages, i ha' niver had a chance this year, else i stand again any one for t' making of 'em. yorkshire hams 's a vast thought on, and i'll niver let another county woman say as she can make better sausages nor me. but, as i'm saying, i'd niver a chance; for our pig, as i were sa fond on, and fed mysel', and as would ha' been fourteen stone by now if he were an ounce, and as knew me as well as any christian, and a pig, as i may say, that i just idolized, went and took a fit a week after michaelmas day, and died, as if it had been to spite me; and t' next is na' ready for killing, nor wunnot be this six week. so i'm much beholden to your missus, and so's charley, i'm sure; though he's ta'en a turn to betterin' sin' he came out here to be nursed.' 'i'm a deal better,' said kinraid; 'a'most ready for t' press-gang to give chase to again.' 'but folk say they're gone off this coast for one while,' added daniel. 'they're gone down towards hull, as i've been told,' said kinraid. 'but they're a deep set, they'll be here before we know where we are, some of these days.' 'see thee here!' said daniel, exhibiting his maimed hand; 'a reckon a served 'em out time o' t' ameriky war.' and he began the story sylvia knew so well; for her father never made a new acquaintance but what he told him of his self-mutilation to escape the press-gang. it had been done, as he would himself have owned, to spite himself as well as them; for it had obliged him to leave a sea-life, to which, in comparison, all life spent on shore was worse than nothing for dulness. for robson had never reached that rank aboard ship which made his being unable to run up the rigging, or to throw a harpoon, or to fire off a gun, of no great consequence; so he had to be thankful that an opportune legacy enabled him to turn farmer, a great degradation in his opinion. but his blood warmed, as he told the specksioneer, towards a sailor, and he pressed kinraid to beguile the time when he was compelled to be ashore, by coming over to see him at haytersbank, whenever he felt inclined. sylvia, appearing to listen to molly's confidences, was hearkening in reality to all this conversation between her father and the specksioneer; and at this invitation she became especially attentive. kinraid replied,-'i'm much obliged to ye, i'm sure; maybe i can come and spend an ev'ning wi' you; but as soon as i'm got round a bit, i must go see my own people as live at cullercoats near newcastle-upo'-tyne.' 'well, well!' said daniel, rising to take leave, with unusual prudence as to the amount of his drink. 'thou'lt see, thou'lt see! i shall be main glad to see thee; if thou'lt come. but i've na' lads to keep thee company, only one sprig of a wench. sylvia, come here, an let's show thee to this young fellow!' sylvia came forwards, ruddy as any rose, and in a moment kinraid recognized her as the pretty little girl he had seen crying so bitterly over darley's grave. he rose up out of true sailor's gallantry, as she shyly approached and stood by her father's side, scarcely daring to lift her great soft eyes, to have one fair gaze at his face. he had to support himself by one hand rested on the dresser, but she saw he was looking far better--younger, less haggard--than he had seemed to her before. his face was short and expressive; his complexion had been weatherbeaten and bronzed, though now he looked so pale; his eyes and hair were dark,--the former quick, deep-set, and penetrating; the latter curly, and almost in ringlets. his teeth gleamed white as he smiled at her, a pleasant friendly smile of recognition; but she only blushed the deeper, and hung her head. 'i'll come, sir, and be thankful. i daresay a turn'll do me good, if the weather holds up, an' th' frost keeps on.' 'that's right, my lad,' said robson, shaking him by the hand, and then kinraid's hand was held out to sylvia, and she could not avoid the same friendly action. molly corney followed her to the door, and when they were fairly outside, she held sylvia back for an instant to say,-'is na' he a fine likely man? i'm so glad as yo've seen him, for he's to be off next week to newcastle and that neighbourhood.' 'but he said he'd come to us some night?' asked sylvia, half in a fright. 'ay, i'll see as he does; never fear. for i should like yo' for to know him a bit. he's a rare talker. i'll mind him o' coming to yo'.' somehow, sylvia felt as if this repeated promise of reminding kinraid of his promise to come and see her father took away part of the pleasure she had anticipated from his visit. yet what could be more natural than that molly corney should wish her friend to be acquainted with the man whom sylvia believed to be all but molly's engaged lover? pondering these thoughts, the walk home was as silent as that going to moss brow had been. the only change seemed to be that now they faced the brilliant northern lights flashing up the sky, and that either this appearance or some of the whaling narrations of kinraid had stirred up daniel robson's recollections of a sea ditty, which he kept singing to himself in a low, unmusical voice, the burden of which was, 'for i loves the tossin' say!' bell met them at the door. 'well, and here ye are at home again! and philip has been, sylvie, to give thee thy ciphering lesson; and he stayed awhile, thinking thou'd be coming back.' 'i'm very sorry,' said sylvia, more out of deference to her mother's tone of annoyance, than because she herself cared either for her lesson or her cousin's disappointment. 'he'll come again to-morrow night, he says. but thou must take care, and mind the nights he says he'll come, for it's a long way to come for nought.' sylvia might have repeated her 'i'm very sorry' at this announcement of philip's intentions; but she restrained herself, inwardly and fervently hoping that molly would not urge the fulfilment of the specksioneer's promise for to-morrow night, for philip's being there would spoil all; and besides, if she sate at the dresser at her lesson, and kinraid at the table with her father, he might hear all, and find out what a dunce she was. she need not have been afraid. with the next night hepburn came; and kinraid did not. after a few words to her mother, philip produced the candles he had promised, and some books and a quill or two. 'what for hast thou brought candles?' asked bell, in a half-affronted tone. hepburn smiled. 'sylvia thought it would take a deal of candlelight, and was for making it into a reason not to learn. i should ha' used t' candles if i'd stayed at home, so i just brought them wi' me.' 'then thou may'st just take them back again,' said bell, shortly, blowing out that which he had lighted, and placing one of her own on the dresser instead. sylvia caught her mother's look of displeasure, and it made her docile for the evening, although she owed her cousin a grudge for her enforced good behaviour. 'now, sylvia, here's a copy-book wi' t' tower o' london on it, and we'll fill it wi' as pretty writing as any in t' north riding.' sylvia sate quite still, unenlivened by this prospect. 'here's a pen as 'll nearly write of itsel',' continued philip, still trying to coax her out her sullenness of manner. then he arranged her in the right position. 'don't lay your head down on your left arm, you'll ne'er see to write straight.' the attitude was changed, but not a word was spoken. philip began to grow angry at such determined dumbness. 'are you tired?' asked he, with a strange mixture of crossness and tenderness. 'yes, very,' was her reply. 'but thou ought'st not to be tired,' said bell, who had not yet got over the offence to her hospitality; who, moreover, liked her nephew, and had, to boot, a great respect for the learning she had never acquired. 'mother!' said sylvia, bursting out, 'what's the use on my writing "abednego," "abednego," "abednego," all down a page? if i could see t' use on 't, i'd ha' axed father to send me t' school; but i'm none wanting to have learning.' 'it's a fine thing, tho', is learning. my mother and my grandmother had it: but th' family came down i' the world, and philip's mother and me, we had none of it; but i ha' set my heart on thy having it, child.' 'my fingers is stiff,' pleaded sylvia, holding up her little hand and shaking it. 'let us take a turn at spelling, then,' said philip. 'what's t' use on't?' asked captious sylvia. 'why, it helps one i' reading an' writing.' 'and what does reading and writing do for one?' her mother gave her another of the severe looks that, quiet woman as she was, she could occasionally bestow upon the refractory, and sylvia took her book and glanced down the column philip pointed out to her; but, as she justly considered, one man might point out the task, but twenty could not make her learn it, if she did not choose; and she sat herself down on the edge of the dresser, and idly gazed into the fire. but her mother came round to look for something in the drawers of the dresser, and as she passed her daughter she said in a low voice-'sylvie, be a good lass. i set a deal o' store by learning, and father 'ud never send thee to school, as has stuck by me sore.' if philip, sitting with his back to them, heard these words he was discreet enough not to show that he heard. and he had his reward; for in a very short time, sylvia stood before him with her book in her hand, prepared to say her spelling. at which he also stood up by instinct, and listened to her slow succeeding letters; helping her out, when she looked up at him with a sweet childlike perplexity in her face: for a dunce as to book-learning poor sylvia was and was likely to remain; and, in spite of his assumed office of schoolmaster, philip hepburn could almost have echoed the words of the lover of jess macfarlane- i sent my love a letter, but, alas! she canna read, and i lo'e her a' the better. still he knew his aunt's strong wish on the subject, and it was very delightful to stand in the relation of teacher to so dear and pretty, if so wilful, a pupil. perhaps it was not very flattering to notice sylvia's great joy when her lessons were over, sadly shortened as they were by philip's desire not to be too hard upon her. sylvia danced round to her mother, bent her head back, and kissed her face, and then said defyingly to philip,-'if iver i write thee a letter it shall just be full of nothing but "abednego! abednego! abednego!"' but at this moment her father came in from a distant expedition on the moors with kester to look after the sheep he had pasturing there before the winter set fairly in. he was tired, and so was lassie, and so, too, was kester, who, lifting his heavy legs one after the other, and smoothing down his hair, followed his master into the house-place, and seating himself on a bench at the farther end of the dresser, patiently awaited the supper of porridge and milk which he shared with his master. sylvia, meanwhile, coaxed lassie--poor footsore dog--to her side, and gave her some food, which the creature was almost too tired to eat. philip made as though he would be going, but daniel motioned to him to be quiet. 'sit thee down, lad. as soon as i've had my victual, i want t' hear a bit o' news.' sylvia took her sewing and sat at the little round table by her mother, sharing the light of the scanty dip-candle. no one spoke. every one was absorbed in what they were doing. what philip was doing was, gazing at sylvia--learning her face off by heart. when every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the mighty bowl, kester yawned, and wishing good-night, withdrew to his loft over the cow-house. then philip pulled out the weekly york paper, and began to read the latest accounts of the war then raging. this was giving daniel one of his greatest pleasures; for though he could read pretty well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding what he read was almost too much for him. he could read, or he could understand what was read aloud to him; reading was no pleasure, but listening was. besides, he had a true john bullish interest in the war, without very well knowing what the english were fighting for. but in those days, so long as they fought the french for any cause, or for no cause at all, every true patriot was satisfied. sylvia and her mother did not care for any such far-extended interest; a little bit of york news, the stealing of a few apples out of a scarborough garden that they knew, was of far more interest to them than all the battles of nelson and the north. philip read in a high-pitched and unnatural tone of voice, which deprived the words of their reality; for even familiar expressions can become unfamiliar and convey no ideas, if the utterance is forced or affected. philip was somewhat of a pedant; yet there was a simplicity in his pedantry not always to be met with in those who are self-taught, and which might have interested any one who cared to know with what labour and difficulty he had acquired the knowledge which now he prized so highly; reading out latin quotations as easily as if they were english, and taking a pleasure in rolling polysyllables, until all at once looking askance at sylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her pretty rosy lips open, her eyes fast shut; in short, she was asleep. 'ay,' said farmer robson, 'and t' reading has a'most sent me off. mother 'd look angry now if i was to tell yo' yo' had a right to a kiss; but when i was a young man i'd ha' kissed a pretty girl as i saw asleep, afore yo'd said jack robson.' philip trembled at these words, and looked at his aunt. she gave him no encouragement, standing up, and making as though she had never heard her husband's speech, by extending her hand, and wishing him 'good-night.' at the noise of the chairs moving over the flag floor, sylvia started up, confused and annoyed at her father's laughter. 'ay, lass; it's iver a good time t' fall asleep when a young fellow is by. here's philip here as thou'rt bound t' give a pair o' gloves to.' sylvia went like fire; she turned to her mother to read her face. 'it's only father's joke, lass,' said she. 'philip knows manners too well.' 'he'd better,' said sylvia, flaming round at him. 'if he'd a touched me, i'd niver ha' spoken to him no more.' and she looked even as it was as if she was far from forgiving him. 'hoots, lass! wenches are brought up sa mim, now-a-days; i' my time they'd ha' thought na' such great harm of a kiss.' 'good-night, philip,' said bell robson, thinking the conversation unseemly. 'good-night, aunt, good-night, sylvie!' but sylvia turned her back on him, and he could hardly say 'good-night' to daniel, who had caused such an unpleasant end to an evening that had at one time been going on so well. chapter ix the specksioneer a few days after, farmer robson left haytersbank betimes on a longish day's journey, to purchase a horse. sylvia and her mother were busied with a hundred household things, and the early winter's evening closed in upon them almost before they were aware. the consequences of darkness in the country even now are to gather the members of a family together into one room, and to make them settle to some sedentary employment; and it was much more the case at the period of my story, when candles were far dearer than they are at present, and when one was often made to suffice for a large family. the mother and daughter hardly spoke at all when they sat down at last. the cheerful click of the knitting-needles made a pleasant home-sound; and in the occasional snatches of slumber that overcame her mother, sylvia could hear the long-rushing boom of the waves, down below the rocks, for the haytersbank gulley allowed the sullen roar to come up so far inland. it might have been about eight o'clock--though from the monotonous course of the evening it seemed much later--when sylvia heard her father's heavy step cranching down the pebbly path. more unusual, she heard his voice talking to some companion. curious to see who it could be, with a lively instinctive advance towards any event which might break the monotony she had begun to find somewhat dull, she sprang up to open the door. half a glance into the gray darkness outside made her suddenly timid, and she drew back behind the door as she opened it wide to admit her father and kinraid. daniel robson came in bright and boisterous. he was pleased with his purchase, and had had some drink to celebrate his bargain. he had ridden the new mare into monkshaven, and left her at the smithy there until morning, to have her feet looked at, and to be new shod. on his way from the town he had met kinraid wandering about in search of haytersbank farm itself, so he had just brought him along with him; and here they were, ready for bread and cheese, and aught else the mistress would set before them. to sylvia the sudden change into brightness and bustle occasioned by the entrance of her father and the specksioneer was like that which you may effect any winter's night, when you come into a room where a great lump of coal lies hot and slumbering on the fire; just break it up with a judicious blow from the poker, and the room, late so dark, and dusk, and lone, is full of life, and light, and warmth. she moved about with pretty household briskness, attending to all her father's wants. kinraid's eye watched her as she went backwards and forwards, to and fro, into the pantry, the back-kitchen, out of light into shade, out of the shadow into the broad firelight where he could see and note her appearance. she wore the high-crowned linen cap of that day, surmounting her lovely masses of golden brown hair, rather than concealing them, and tied firm to her head by a broad blue ribbon. a long curl hung down on each side of her neck--her throat rather, for her neck was concealed by a little spotted handkerchief carefully pinned across at the waist of her brown stuff gown. how well it was, thought the young girl, that she had doffed her bed-gown and linsey-woolsey petticoat, her working-dress, and made herself smart in her stuff gown, when she sate down to work with her mother. by the time she could sit down again, her father and kinraid had their glasses filled, and were talking of the relative merits of various kinds of spirits; that led on to tales of smuggling, and the different contrivances by which they or their friends had eluded the preventive service; the nightly relays of men to carry the goods inland; the kegs of brandy found by certain farmers whose horses had gone so far in the night, that they could do no work the next day; the clever way in which certain women managed to bring in prohibited goods; in fact, that when a woman did give her mind to smuggling, she was more full of resources, and tricks, and impudence, and energy than any man. there was no question of the morality of the affair; one of the greatest signs of the real progress we have made since those times seems to be that our daily concerns of buying and selling, eating and drinking, whatsoever we do, are more tested by the real practical standard of our religion than they were in the days of our grandfathers. neither sylvia nor her mother was in advance of their age. both listened with admiration to the ingenious devices, and acted as well as spoken lies, that were talked about as fine and spirited things. yet if sylvia had attempted one tithe of this deceit in her every-day life, it would have half broken her mother's heart. but when the duty on salt was strictly and cruelly enforced, making it penal to pick up rough dirty lumps containing small quantities that might be thrown out with the ashes of the brine-houses on the high-roads; when the price of this necessary was so increased by the tax upon it as to make it an expensive, sometimes an unattainable, luxury to the working man, government did more to demoralise the popular sense of rectitude and uprightness than heaps of sermons could undo. and the same, though in smaller measure, was the consequence of many other taxes. it may seem curious to trace up the popular standard of truth to taxation; but i do not think the idea would be so very far-fetched. from smuggling adventures it was easy to pass on to stories of what had happened to robson, in his youth a sailor in the greenland seas, and to kinraid, now one of the best harpooners in any whaler that sailed off the coast. 'there's three things to be afeared on,' said robson, authoritatively: 'there's t' ice, that's bad; there's dirty weather, that's worse; and there's whales theirselves, as is t' worst of all; leastways, they was i' my days; t' darned brutes may ha' larnt better manners sin'. when i were young, they could niver be got to let theirsels be harpooned wi'out flounderin' and makin' play wi' their tales and their fins, till t' say were all in a foam, and t' boats' crews was all o'er wi' spray, which i' them latitudes is a kind o' shower-bath not needed.' 'th' whales hasn't mended their manners, as you call it,' said kinraid; 'but th' ice is not to be spoken lightly on. i were once in th' ship _john_ of hull, and we were in good green water, and were keen after whales; and ne'er thought harm of a great gray iceberg as were on our lee-bow, a mile or so off; it looked as if it had been there from the days of adam, and were likely to see th' last man out, and it ne'er a bit bigger nor smaller in all them thousands and thousands o' years. well, the fast-boats were out after a fish, and i were specksioneer in one; and we were so keen after capturing our whale, that none on us ever saw that we were drifting away from them right into deep shadow o' th' iceberg. but we were set upon our whale, and i harpooned it; and as soon as it were dead we lashed its fins together, and fastened its tail to our boat; and then we took breath and looked about us, and away from us a little space were th' other boats, wi' two other fish making play, and as likely as not to break loose, for i may say as i were th' best harpooner on board the _john_, wi'out saying great things o' mysel'. so i says, "my lads, one o' you stay i' th' boat by this fish,"--the fins o' which, as i said, i'd reeved a rope through mysel', and which was as dead as noah's grandfather--"and th' rest on us shall go off and help th' other boats wi' their fish." for, you see, we had another boat close by in order to sweep th' fish. (i suppose they swept fish i' your time, master?)' 'ay, ay!' said robson; 'one boat lies still holding t' end o' t' line; t' other makes a circuit round t' fish.' 'well! luckily for us we had our second boat, for we all got into it, ne'er a man on us was left i' th' fast-boat. and says i, "but who's to stay by t' dead fish?" and no man answered, for they were all as keen as me for to go and help our mates; and we thought as we could come back to our dead fish, as had a boat for a buoy, once we had helped our mates. so off we rowed, every man jack on us, out o' the black shadow o' th' iceberg, as looked as steady as th' pole-star. well! we had na' been a dozen fathoms away fra' th' boat as we had left, when crash! down wi' a roaring noise, and then a gulp of the deep waters, and then a shower o' blinding spray; and when we had wiped our eyes clear, and getten our hearts down agen fra' our mouths, there were never a boat nor a glittering belly o' e'er a great whale to be seen; but th' iceberg were there, still and grim, as if a hundred ton or more had fallen off all in a mass, and crushed down boat, and fish, and all, into th' deep water, as goes half through the earth in them latitudes. th' coal-miners round about newcastle way may come upon our good boat if they mine deep enough, else ne'er another man will see her. and i left as good a clasp-knife in her as ever i clapt eyes on.' 'but what a mercy no man stayed in her,' said bell. 'why, mistress, i reckon we a' must die some way; and i'd as soon go down into the deep waters as be choked up wi' moulds.' 'but it must be so cold,' said sylvia, shuddering and giving a little poke to the fire to warm her fancy. 'cold!' said her father, 'what do ye stay-at-homes know about cold, a should like to know? if yo'd been where a were once, north latitude 81, in such a frost as ye ha' niver known, no, not i' deep winter, and it were june i' them seas, and a whale i' sight, and a were off in a boat after her: an' t' ill-mannered brute, as soon as she were harpooned, ups wi' her big awkward tail, and struck t' boat i' her stern, and chucks me out into t' watter. that were cold, a can tell the'! first, i smarted all ower me, as if my skin were suddenly stript off me: and next, ivery bone i' my body had getten t' toothache, and there were a great roar i' my ears, an' a great dizziness i' my eyes; an' t' boat's crew kept throwin' out their oars, an' a kept clutchin' at 'em, but a could na' make out where they was, my eyes dazzled so wi' t' cold, an' i thought i were bound for "kingdom come," an' a tried to remember t' creed, as a might die a christian. but all a could think on was, "what is your name, m or n?" an' just as a were giving up both words and life, they heaved me aboard. but, bless ye, they had but one oar; for they'd thrown a' t' others after me; so yo' may reckon, it were some time afore we could reach t' ship; an' a've heerd tell, a were a precious sight to look on, for my clothes was just hard frozen to me, an' my hair a'most as big a lump o' ice as yon iceberg he was a-telling us on; they rubbed me as missus theere were rubbing t' hams yesterday, and gav' me brandy; an' a've niver getten t' frost out o' my bones for a' their rubbin', and a deal o' brandy as i 'ave ta'en sin'. talk o' cold! it's little yo' women known o' cold!' 'but there's heat, too, i' some places,' said kinraid. i was once a voyage i' an american. they goes for th' most part south, to where you come round to t' cold again; and they'll stay there for three year at a time, if need be, going into winter harbour i' some o' th' pacific islands. well, we were i' th' southern seas, a-seeking for good whaling-ground; and, close on our larboard beam, there were a great wall o' ice, as much as sixty feet high. and says our captain--as were a dare-devil, if ever a man were--"there'll be an opening in yon dark gray wall, and into that opening i'll sail, if i coast along it till th' day o' judgment." but, for all our sailing, we never seemed to come nearer to th' opening. the waters were rocking beneath us, and the sky were steady above us; and th' ice rose out o' the waters, and seemed to reach up into the sky. we sailed on, and we sailed on, for more days nor i could count. our captain were a strange, wild man, but once he looked a little pale when he came upo' deck after his turn-in, and saw the green-gray ice going straight up on our beam. many on us thought as the ship were bewitched for th' captain's words; and we got to speak low, and to say our prayers o' nights, and a kind o' dull silence came into th' very air; our voices did na' rightly seem our own. and we sailed on, and we sailed on. all at once, th' man as were on watch gave a cry: he saw a break in the ice, as we'd begun to think were everlasting; and we all gathered towards the bows, and the captain called to th' man at the helm to keep her course, and cocked his head, and began to walk the quarter-deck jaunty again. and we came to a great cleft in th' long weary rock of ice; and the sides o' th' cleft were not jagged, but went straight sharp down into th' foaming waters. but we took but one look at what lay inside, for our captain, with a loud cry to god, bade the helmsman steer nor'ards away fra' th' mouth o' hell. we all saw wi' our own eyes, inside that fearsome wall o' ice--seventy miles long, as we could swear to--inside that gray, cold ice, came leaping flames, all red and yellow wi' heat o' some unearthly kind out o' th' very waters o' the sea; making our eyes dazzle wi' their scarlet blaze, that shot up as high, nay, higher than th' ice around, yet never so much as a shred on 't was melted. they did say that some beside our captain saw the black devils dart hither and thither, quicker than the very flames themselves; anyhow, he saw them. and as he knew it were his own daring as had led him to have that peep at terrors forbidden to any on us afore our time, he just dwined away, and we hadn't taken but one whale afore our captain died, and first mate took th' command. it were a prosperous voyage; but, for all that, i'll never sail those seas again, nor ever take wage aboard an american again.' 'eh, dear! but it's awful t' think o' sitting wi' a man that has seen th' doorway into hell,' said bell, aghast. sylvia had dropped her work, and sat gazing at kinraid with fascinated wonder. daniel was just a little annoyed at the admiration which his own wife and daughter were bestowing on the specksioneer's wonderful stories, and he said-'ay, ay. if a'd been a talker, ye'd ha' thought a deal more on me nor ye've iver done yet. a've seen such things, and done such things.' 'tell us, father!' said sylvia, greedy and breathless. 'some on 'em is past telling,' he replied, 'an some is not to be had for t' asking, seeing as how they might bring a man into trouble. but, as a said, if a had a fancy to reveal all as is on my mind a could make t' hair on your heads lift up your caps--well, we'll say an inch, at least. thy mother, lass, has heerd one or two on 'em. thou minds the story o' my ride on a whale's back, bell? that'll maybe be within this young fellow's comprehension o' t' danger; thou's heerd me tell it, hastn't ta?' 'yes,' said bell; 'but it's a long time ago; when we was courting.' 'an' that's afore this young lass were born, as is a'most up to woman's estate. but sin' those days a ha' been o'er busy to tell stories to my wife, an' as a'll warrant she's forgotten it; an' as sylvia here niver heerd it, if yo'll fill your glass, kinraid, yo' shall ha' t' benefit o't. 'a were a specksioneer mysel, though, after that, a rayther directed my talents int' t' smuggling branch o' my profession; but a were once a whaling aboord t' _ainwell_ of whitby. an' we was anchored off t' coast o' greenland one season, an' we'd getten a cargo o' seven whale; but our captain he were a keen-eyed chap, an' niver above doin' any man's work; an' once seein' a whale he throws himself int' a boat an' goes off to it, makin' signals to me, an' another specksioneer as were off for diversion i' another boat, for to come after him sharp. well, afore we comes alongside, captain had harpooned t' fish; an' says he, "now, robson, all ready! give into her again when she comes to t' top;" an' i stands up, right leg foremost, harpoon all ready, as soon as iver i cotched a sight o' t' whale, but niver a fin could a see. 'twere no wonder, for she were right below t' boat in which a were; and when she wanted to rise, what does t' great ugly brute do but come wi' her head, as is like cast iron, up bang again t' bottom o' t' boat. i were thrown up in t' air like a shuttlecock, me an' my line an' my harpoon--up we goes, an' many a good piece o' timber wi' us, an' many a good fellow too; but a had t' look after mysel', an a were up high i' t' air, afore i could say jack robinson, an' a thowt a were safe for another dive int' saut water; but i'stead a comes down plump on t' back o' t' whale. ay! yo' may stare, master, but theere a were, an' main an' slippery it were, only a sticks my harpoon intil her an' steadies mysel', an' looks abroad o'er t' vast o' waves, and gets sea-sick in a manner, an' puts up a prayer as she mayn't dive, and it were as good a prayer for wishin' it might come true as iver t' clargyman an' t' clerk too puts up i' monkshaven church. well, a reckon it were heerd, for all a were i' them north latitudes, for she keeps steady, an' a does my best for t' keep steady; an' 'deed a was too steady, for a was fast wi' t' harpoon line, all knotted and tangled about me. t' captain, he sings out for me to cut it; but it's easy singin' out, and it's noane so easy fumblin' for your knife i' t' pocket o' your drawers, when yo've t' hold hard wi' t' other hand on t' back of a whale, swimmin' fourteen knots an hour. at last a thinks to mysel' a can't get free o' t' line, and t' line is fast to t' harpoon, and t' harpoon is fast to t' whale; and t' whale may go down fathoms deep wheniver t' maggot stirs i' her head; an' t' watter's cold, an noane good for drownin' in; a can't get free o' t' line, and a connot get my knife out o' my breeches pocket though t' captain should ca' it mutiny to disobey orders, and t' line's fast to t' harpoon--let's see if t' harpoon's fast to t' whale. so a tugged, and a lugged, and t' whale didn't mistake it for ticklin', but she cocks up her tail, and throws out showers o' water as were ice or iver it touched me; but a pulls on at t' shank, an' a were only afeard as she wouldn't keep at t' top wi' it sticking in her; but at last t' harpoon broke, an' just i' time, for a reckon she was near as tired o' me as a were on her, and down she went; an' a had hard work to make for t' boats as was near enough to catch me; for what wi' t' whale's being but slippery an' t' watter being cold, an' me hampered wi' t' line an' t' piece o' harpoon, it's a chance, missus, as thou had stopped an oud maid.' 'eh dear a' me!' said bell, 'how well i mind yo'r telling me that tale! it were twenty-four year ago come october. i thought i never could think enough on a man as had rode on a whale's back!' 'yo' may learn t' way of winnin' t' women,' said daniel, winking at the specksioneer. and kinraid immediately looked at sylvia. it was no premeditated action; it came as naturally as wakening in the morning when his sleep was ended; but sylvia coloured as red as any rose at his sudden glance,--coloured so deeply that he looked away until he thought she had recovered her composure, and then he sat gazing at her again. but not for long, for bell suddenly starting up, did all but turn him out of the house. it was late, she said, and her master was tired, and they had a hard day before them next day; and it was keeping ellen corney up; and they had had enough to drink,--more than was good for them, she was sure, for they had both been taking her in with their stories, which she had been foolish enough to believe. no one saw the real motive of all this almost inhospitable haste to dismiss her guest, how the sudden fear had taken possession of her that he and sylvia were 'fancying each other'. kinraid had said early in the evening that he had come to thank her for her kindness in sending the sausages, as he was off to his own home near newcastle in a day or two. but now he said, in reply to daniel robson, that he would step in another night before long and hear some more of the old man's yarns. daniel had just had enough drink to make him very good-tempered, or else his wife would not have dared to have acted as she did; and this maudlin amiability took the shape of hospitable urgency that kinraid should come as often as he liked to haytersbank; come and make it his home when he was in these parts; stay there altogether, and so on, till bell fairly shut the outer door to, and locked it before the specksioneer had well got out of the shadow of their roof. all night long sylvia dreamed of burning volcanoes springing out of icy southern seas. but, as in the specksioneer's tale the flames were peopled with demons, there was no human interest for her in the wondrous scene in which she was no actor, only a spectator. with daylight came wakening and little homely every-day wonders. did kinraid mean that he was going away really and entirely, or did he not? was he molly corney's sweetheart, or was he not? when she had argued herself into certainty on one side, she suddenly wheeled about, and was just of the opposite opinion. at length she settled that it could not be settled until she saw molly again; so, by a strong gulping effort, she resolutely determined to think no more about him, only about the marvels he had told. she might think a little about them when she sat at night, spinning in silence by the household fire, or when she went out in the gloaming to call the cattle home to be milked, and sauntered back behind the patient, slow-gaited creatures; and at times on future summer days, when, as in the past, she took her knitting out for the sake of the freshness of the faint sea-breeze, and dropping down from ledge to ledge of the rocks that faced the blue ocean, established herself in a perilous nook that had been her haunt ever since her parents had come to haytersbank farm. from thence she had often seen the distant ships pass to and fro, with a certain sort of lazy pleasure in watching their swift tranquillity of motion, but no thought as to where they were bound to, or what strange places they would penetrate to before they turned again, homeward bound. chapter x a refractory pupil sylvia was still full of the specksioneer and his stories, when hepburn came up to give her the next lesson. but the prospect of a little sensible commendation for writing a whole page full of flourishing 'abednegos,' had lost all the slight charm it had ever possessed. she was much more inclined to try and elicit some sympathy in her interest in the perils and adventures of the northern seas, than to bend and control her mind to the right formation of letters. unwisely enough, she endeavoured to repeat one of the narratives that she had heard from kinraid; and when she found that hepburn (if, indeed, he did not look upon the whole as a silly invention) considered it only as an interruption to the real business in hand, to which he would try to listen as patiently as he could, in the hope of sylvia's applying herself diligently to her copy-book when she had cleared her mind, she contracted her pretty lips, as if to check them from making any further appeals for sympathy, and set about her writing-lesson in a very rebellious frame of mind, only restrained by her mother's presence from spoken mutiny. 'after all,' said she, throwing down her pen, and opening and shutting her weary, cramped hand, 'i see no good in tiring myself wi' learning for t' write letters when i'se never got one in a' my life. what for should i write answers, when there's niver a one writes to me? and if i had one, i couldn't read it; it's bad enough wi' a book o' print as i've niver seen afore, for there's sure to be new-fangled words in 't. i'm sure i wish the man were farred who plagues his brains wi' striking out new words. why can't folks just ha' a set on 'em for good and a'?' 'why! you'll be after using two or three hundred yoursel' every day as you live, sylvie; and yet i must use a great many as you never think on about t' shop; and t' folks in t' fields want their set, let alone the high english that parsons and lawyers speak.' 'well, it's weary work is reading and writing. cannot you learn me something else, if we mun do lessons?' 'there's sums--and geography,' said hepburn, slowly and gravely. 'geography!' said sylvia, brightening, and perhaps not pronouncing the word quite correctly, 'i'd like yo' to learn me geography. there's a deal o' places i want to hear all about.' 'well, i'll bring up a book and a map next time. but i can tell you something now. there's four quarters in the globe.' 'what's that?' asked sylvia. 'the globe is the earth; the place we live on.' 'go on. which quarter is greenland?' 'greenland is no quarter. it is only a part of one.' 'maybe it's a half quarter.' 'no, not so much as that.' 'half again?' 'no!' he replied, smiling a little. she thought he was making it into a very small place in order to tease her; so she pouted a little, and then said,-'greenland is all t' geography i want to know. except, perhaps, york. i'd like to learn about york, because of t' races, and london, because king george lives there.' 'but if you learn geography at all, you must learn 'bout all places: which of them is hot, and which is cold, and how many inhabitants is in each, and what's the rivers, and which is the principal towns.' 'i'm sure, sylvie, if philip will learn thee all that, thou'lt be such a sight o' knowledge as ne'er a one o' th' prestons has been sin' my great-grandfather lost his property. i should be main proud o' thee; 'twould seem as if we was prestons o' slaideburn once more.' 'i'd do a deal to pleasure yo', mammy; but weary befa' riches and land, if folks that has 'em is to write "abednegos" by t' score, and to get hard words int' their brains, till they work like barm, and end wi' cracking 'em.' this seemed to be sylvia's last protest against learning for the night, for after this she turned docile, and really took pains to understand all that philip could teach her, by means of the not unskilful, though rude, map which he drew for her with a piece of charred wood on his aunt's dresser. he had asked his aunt's leave before beginning what sylvia called his 'dirty work;' but by-and-by even she became a little interested in starting from a great black spot called monkshaven, and in the shaping of land and sea around that one centre. sylvia held her round chin in the palms of her hands, supporting her elbows on the dresser; looking down at the progress of the rough drawing in general, but now and then glancing up at him with sudden inquiry. all along he was not so much absorbed in his teaching as to be unconscious of her sweet proximity. she was in her best mood towards him; neither mutinous nor saucy; and he was striving with all his might to retain her interest, speaking better than ever he had done before (such brightness did love call forth!)--understanding what she would care to hear and to know; when, in the middle of an attempt at explaining the cause of the long polar days, of which she had heard from her childhood, he felt that her attention was no longer his; that a discord had come in between their minds; that she had passed out of his power. this certainty of intuition lasted but for an instant; he had no time to wonder or to speculate as to what had affected her so adversely to his wishes before the door opened and kinraid came in. then hepburn knew that she must have heard his coming footsteps, and recognized them. he angrily stiffened himself up into coldness of demeanour. almost to his surprise, sylvia's greeting to the new comer was as cold as his own. she stood rather behind him; so perhaps she did not see the hand which kinraid stretched out towards her, for she did not place her own little palm in it, as she had done to philip an hour ago. and she hardly spoke, but began to pore over the rough black map, as if seized with strong geographical curiosity, or determined to impress philip's lesson deep on her memory. still philip was dismayed by seeing the warm welcome which kinraid received from the master of the house, who came in from the back premises almost at the same time as the specksioneer entered at the front. hepburn was uneasy, too, at finding kinraid take his seat by the fireside, like one accustomed to the ways of the house. pipes were soon produced. philip disliked smoking. possibly kinraid did so too, but he took a pipe at any rate, and lighted it, though he hardly used it at all, but kept talking to farmer robson on sea affairs. he had the conversation pretty much to himself. philip sat gloomily by; sylvia and his aunt were silent, and old robson smoked his long clay pipe, from time to time taking it out of his mouth to spit into the bright copper spittoon, and to shake the white ashes out of the bowl. before he replaced it, he would give a short laugh of relishing interest in kinraid's conversation; and now and then he put in a remark. sylvia perched herself sideways on the end of the dresser, and made pretence to sew; but philip could see how often she paused in her work to listen. by-and-by, his aunt spoke to him, and they kept up a little side conversation, more because bell robson felt that her nephew, her own flesh and blood, was put out, than for any special interest they either of them felt in what they were saying. perhaps, also, they neither of them disliked showing that they had no great faith in the stories kinraid was telling. mrs. robson, at any rate, knew so little as to be afraid of believing too much. philip was sitting on that side of the fire which was nearest to the window and to sylvia, and opposite to the specksioneer. at length he turned to his cousin and said in a low voice-'i suppose we can't go on with our spell at geography till that fellow's gone?' the colour came into sylvia's cheek at the words 'that fellow'; but she only replied with a careless air-'well, i'm one as thinks enough is as good as a feast; and i've had enough of geography this one night, thank you kindly all the same.' philip took refuge in offended silence. he was maliciously pleased when his aunt made so much noise with her preparation for supper as quite to prevent the sound of the sailor's words from reaching sylvia's ears. she saw that he was glad to perceive that her efforts to reach the remainder of the story were baulked! this nettled her, and, determined not to let him have his malicious triumph, and still more to put a stop to any attempt at private conversation, she began to sing to herself as she sat at her work; till, suddenly seized with a desire to help her mother, she dexterously slipped down from her seat, passed hepburn, and was on her knees toasting cakes right in front of the fire, and just close to her father and kinraid. and now the noise that hepburn had so rejoiced in proved his foe. he could not hear the little merry speeches that darted backwards and forwards as the specksioneer tried to take the toasting-fork out of sylvia's hand. 'how comes that sailor chap here?' asked hepburn of his aunt. 'he's none fit to be where sylvia is.' 'nay, i dunnot know,' said she; 'the corneys made us acquaint first, and my master is quite fain of his company.' 'and do you like him, too, aunt?' asked hepburn, almost wistfully; he had followed mrs. robson into the dairy on pretence of helping her. 'i'm none fond on him; i think he tells us traveller's tales, by way o' seeing how much we can swallow. but the master and sylvia think that there never was such a one.' 'i could show them a score as good as he down on the quayside.' 'well, laddie, keep a calm sough. some folk like some folk and others don't. wherever i am there'll allays be a welcome for thee.' for the good woman thought that he had been hurt by the evident absorption of her husband and daughter with their new friend, and wished to make all easy and straight. but do what she would, he did not recover his temper all evening: he was uncomfortable, put out, not enjoying himself, and yet he would not go. he was determined to assert his greater intimacy in that house by outstaying kinraid. at length the latter got up to go; but before he went, he must needs bend over sylvia and say something to her in so low a tone that philip could not hear it; and she, seized with a sudden fit of diligence, never looked up from her sewing; only nodded her head by way of reply. at last he took his departure, after many a little delay, and many a quick return, which to the suspicious philip seemed only pretences for taking stolen glances at sylvia. as soon as he was decidedly gone, she folded up her work, and declared that she was so much tired that she must go to bed there and then. her mother, too, had been dozing for the last half-hour, and was only too glad to see signs that she might betake herself to her natural place of slumber. 'take another glass, philip,' said farmer robson. but hepburn refused the offer rather abruptly. he drew near to sylvia instead. he wanted to make her speak to him, and he saw that she wished to avoid it. he took up the readiest pretext. it was an unwise one as it proved, for it deprived him of his chances of occasionally obtaining her undivided attention. 'i don't think you care much for learning geography, sylvie?' 'not much to-night,' said she, making a pretence to yawn, yet looking timidly up at his countenance of displeasure. 'nor at any time,' said he, with growing anger; 'nor for any kind of learning. i did bring some books last time i came, meaning to teach you many a thing--but now i'll just trouble you for my books; i put them on yon shelf by the bible.' he had a mind that she should bring them to him; that, at any rate, he should have the pleasure of receiving them out of her hands. sylvia did not reply, but went and took down the books with a languid, indifferent air. 'and so you won't learn any more geography,' said hepburn. something in his tone struck her, and she looked up in his face. there were marks of stern offence upon his countenance, and yet in it there was also an air of wistful regret and sadness that touched her. 'yo're niver angry with me, philip? sooner than vex yo', i'll try and learn. only, i'm just stupid; and it mun be such a trouble to you.' hepburn would fain have snatched at this half proposal that the lessons should be continued, but he was too stubborn and proud to say anything. he turned away from the sweet, pleading face without a word, to wrap up his books in a piece of paper. he knew that she was standing quite still by his side, though he made as if he did not perceive her. when he had done he abruptly wished them all 'good-night,' and took his leave. there were tears in sylvia's eyes, although the feeling in her heart was rather one of relief. she had made a fair offer, and it had been treated with silent contempt. a few days afterwards, her father came in from monkshaven market, and dropped out, among other pieces of news, that he had met kinraid, who was bound for his own home at cullercoats. he had desired his respects to mrs. robson and her daughter; and had bid robson say that he would have come up to haytersbank to wish them good-by, but that as he was pressed for time, he hoped they would excuse him. but robson did not think it worth while to give this long message of mere politeness. indeed, as it did not relate to business, and was only sent to women, robson forgot all about it, pretty nearly as soon as it was uttered. so sylvia went about fretting herself for one or two days, at her hero's apparent carelessness of those who had at any rate treated him more like a friend than an acquaintance of only a few weeks' standing; and then, her anger quenching her incipient regard, she went about her daily business pretty much as though he had never been. he had gone away out of her sight into the thick mist of unseen life from which he had emerged--gone away without a word, and she might never see him again. but still there was a chance of her seeing him when he came to marry molly corney. perhaps she should be bridesmaid, and then what a pleasant merry time the wedding-day would be! the corneys were all such kind people, and in their family there never seemed to be the checks and restraints by which her own mother hedged her round. then there came an overwhelming self-reproaching burst of love for that 'own mother'; a humiliation before her slightest wish, as penance for the moment's unspoken treason; and thus sylvia was led to request her cousin philip to resume his lessons in so meek a manner, that he slowly and graciously acceded to a request which he was yearning to fulfil all the time. during the ensuing winter, all went on in monotonous regularity at haytersbank farm for many weeks. hepburn came and went, and thought sylvia wonderfully improved in docility and sobriety; and perhaps also he noticed the improvement in her appearance. for she was at that age when a girl changes rapidly, and generally for the better. sylvia shot up into a tall young woman; her eyes deepened in colour, her face increased in expression, and a sort of consciousness of unusual good looks gave her a slight tinge of coquettish shyness with the few strangers whom she ever saw. philip hailed her interest in geography as another sign of improvement. he had brought back his book of maps to the farm; and there he sat on many an evening teaching his cousin, who had strange fancies respecting the places about which she wished to learn, and was coolly indifferent to the very existence of other towns, and countries, and seas far more famous in story. she was occasionally wilful, and at times very contemptuous as to the superior knowledge of her instructor; but, in spite of it all, philip went regularly on the appointed evenings to haytersbank--through keen black east wind, or driving snow, or slushing thaw; for he liked dearly to sit a little behind her, with his arm on the back of her chair, she stooping over the outspread map, with her eyes,--could he have seen them,--a good deal fixed on one spot in the map, not northumberland, where kinraid was spending the winter, but those wild northern seas about which he had told them such wonders. one day towards spring, she saw molly corney coming towards the farm. the companions had not met for many weeks, for molly had been from home visiting her relations in the north. sylvia opened the door, and stood smiling and shivering on the threshold, glad to see her friend again. molly called out, when a few paces off,-'why, sylvia, is that thee! why, how thou'rt growed, to be sure! what a bonny lass thou is!' 'dunnot talk nonsense to my lass,' said bell robson, hospitably leaving her ironing and coming to the door; but though the mother tried to look as if she thought it nonsense, she could hardly keep down the smile that shone out of her eyes, as she put her hand on sylvia's shoulder, with a fond sense of proprietorship in what was being praised. 'oh! but she is,' persisted molly. 'she's grown quite a beauty sin' i saw her. and if i don't tell her so, the men will.' 'be quiet wi' thee,' said sylvia, more than half offended, and turning away in a huff at the open barefaced admiration. 'ay; but they will,' persevered molly. 'yo'll not keep her long, mistress robson. and as mother says, yo'd feel it a deal more to have yer daughters left on hand.' 'thy mother has many, i have but this one,' said mrs. robson, with severe sadness; for now molly was getting to talk as she disliked. but molly's purpose was to bring the conversation round to her own affairs, of which she was very full. 'yes! i tell mother that wi' so many as she has, she ought to be thankful to t' one as gets off quickest.' 'who? which is it?' asked sylvia, a little eagerly, seeing that there was news of a wedding behind the talk. 'why! who should it be but me?' said molly, laughing a good deal, and reddening a little. 'i've not gone fra' home for nought; i'se picked up a measter on my travels, leastways one as is to be.' 'charley kinraid,' said sylvia smiling, as she found that now she might reveal molly's secret, which hitherto she had kept sacred. 'charley kinraid be hung!' said molly, with a toss of her head. 'whatten good's a husband who's at sea half t' year? ha ha, my measter is a canny newcassel shopkeeper, on t' side. a reckon a've done pretty well for mysel', and a'll wish yo' as good luck, sylvia. for yo' see,' (turning to bell robson, who, perhaps, she thought would more appreciate the substantial advantages of her engagement than sylvia,) 'though measter brunton is near upon forty if he's a day, yet he turns over a matter of two hundred pound every year; an he's a good-looking man of his years too, an' a kind, good-tempered feller int' t' bargain. he's been married once, to be sure; but his childer are dead a' 'cept one; an' i don't mislike childer either; an' a'll feed 'em well, an' get 'em to bed early, out o' t' road.' mrs. robson gave her her grave good wishes; but sylvia was silent. she was disappointed; it was a coming down from the romance with the specksioneer for its hero. molly laughed awkwardly, understanding sylvia's thoughts better than the latter imagined. 'sylvia's noane so well pleased. why, lass! it's a' t' better for thee. there's charley to t' fore now, which if a'd married him, he'd not ha' been; and he's said more nor once what a pretty lass yo'd grow into by-and-by.' molly's prosperity was giving her an independence and fearlessness of talk such as had seldom appeared hitherto; and certainly never before mrs. robson. sylvia was annoyed at molly's whole tone and manner, which were loud, laughing, and boisterous; but to her mother they were positively repugnant. she said shortly and gravely,-'sylvia's none so set upo' matrimony; she's content to bide wi' me and her father. let a be such talking, it's not i' my way.' molly was a little subdued; but still her elation at the prospect of being so well married kept cropping out of all the other subjects which were introduced; and when she went away, mrs. robson broke out in an unwonted strain of depreciation. 'that's the way wi' some lasses. they're like a cock on a dunghill, when they've teased a silly chap into wedding 'em. it's cock-a-doodle-do, i've cotched a husband, cock-a-doodle-doo, wi' 'em. i've no patience wi' such like; i beg, sylvie, thou'lt not get too thick wi' molly. she's not pretty behaved, making such an ado about men-kind, as if they were two-headed calves to be run after.' 'but molly's a good-hearted lass, mother. only i never dreamt but what she was troth-plighted wi' charley kinraid,' said sylvia, meditatively. 'that wench 'll be troth-plight to th' first man as 'll wed her and keep her i' plenty; that's a' she thinks about,' replied bell, scornfully. chapter xi visions of the future before may was out, molly corney was married and had left the neighbourhood for newcastle. although charley kinraid was not the bridegroom, sylvia's promise to be bridesmaid was claimed. but the friendship brought on by the circumstances of neighbourhood and parity of age had become very much weakened in the time that elapsed between molly's engagement and wedding. in the first place, she herself was so absorbed in her preparations, so elated by her good fortune in getting married, and married, too, before her elder sister, that all her faults blossomed out full and strong. sylvia felt her to be selfish; mrs. robson thought her not maidenly. a year before she would have been far more missed and regretted by sylvia; now it was almost a relief to the latter to be freed from the perpetual calls upon her sympathy, from the constant demands upon her congratulations, made by one who had no thought or feeling to bestow on others; at least, not in these weeks of 'cock-a-doodle-dooing,' as mrs. robson persisted in calling it. it was seldom that bell was taken with a humorous idea; but this once having hatched a solitary joke, she was always clucking it into notice--to go on with her own poultry simile. every time during that summer that philip saw his cousin, he thought her prettier than she had ever been before; some new touch of colour, some fresh sweet charm, seemed to have been added, just as every summer day calls out new beauty in the flowers. and this was not the addition of philip's fancy. hester rose, who met sylvia on rare occasions, came back each time with a candid, sad acknowledgement in her heart that it was no wonder that sylvia was so much admired and loved. one day hester had seen her sitting near her mother in the market-place; there was a basket by her, and over the clean cloth that covered the yellow pounds of butter, she had laid the hedge-roses and honeysuckles she had gathered on the way into monkshaven; her straw hat was on her knee, and she was busy placing some of the flowers in the ribbon that went round it. then she held it on her hand, and turned it round about, putting her head on one side, the better to view the effect; and all this time, hester, peeping at her through the folds of the stuffs displayed in foster's windows, saw her with admiring, wistful eyes; wondering, too, if philip, at the other counter, were aware of his cousin's being there, so near to him. then sylvia put on her hat, and, looking up at foster's windows, caught hester's face of interest, and smiled and blushed at the consciousness of having been watched over her little vanities, and hester smiled back, but rather sadly. then a customer came in, and she had to attend to her business, which, on this as on all market days, was great. in the midst she was aware of philip rushing bare-headed out of the shop, eager and delighted at something he saw outside. there was a little looking-glass hung against the wall on hester's side, placed in that retired corner, in order that the good women who came to purchase head-gear of any kind might see the effect thereof before they concluded their bargain. in a pause of custom, hester, half-ashamed, stole into this corner, and looked at herself in the glass. what did she see? a colourless face, dark soft hair with no light gleams in it, eyes that were melancholy instead of smiling, a mouth compressed with a sense of dissatisfaction. this was what she had to compare with the bright bonny face in the sunlight outside. she gave a gulp to check the sigh that was rising, and came back, even more patient than she had been before this disheartening peep, to serve all the whims and fancies of purchasers. sylvia herself had been rather put out by philip's way of coming to her. 'it made her look so silly,' she thought; and 'what for must he make a sight of himself, coming among the market folk in that-a-way'; and when he took to admiring her hat, she pulled out the flowers in a pet, and threw them down, and trampled them under foot. 'what for art thou doing that, sylvie?' said her mother. 'the flowers is well enough, though may-be thy hat might ha' been stained.' 'i don't like philip to speak to me so,' said sylvia, pouting. 'how?' asked her mother. but sylvia could not repeat his words. she hung her head, and looked red and pre-occupied, anything but pleased. philip had addressed his first expression of personal admiration at an unfortunate tune. it just shows what different views different men and women take of their fellow-creatures, when i say that hester looked upon philip as the best and most agreeable man she had ever known. he was not one to speak of himself without being questioned on the subject, so his haytersbank relations, only come into the neighborhood in the last year or two, knew nothing of the trials he had surmounted, or the difficult duties he had performed. his aunt, indeed, had strong faith in him, both from partial knowledge of his character, and because he was of her own tribe and kin; but she had never learnt the small details of his past life. sylvia respected him as her mother's friend, and treated him tolerably well as long as he preserved his usual self-restraint of demeanour, but hardly ever thought of him when he was absent. now hester, who had watched him daily for all the years since he had first come as an errand-boy into foster's shop--watching with quiet, modest, yet observant eyes--had seen how devoted he was to his master's interests, had known of his careful and punctual ministration to his absent mother's comforts, as long as she was living to benefit by his silent, frugal self-denial. his methodical appropriation of the few hours he could call his own was not without its charms to the equally methodical hester; the way in which he reproduced any lately acquired piece of knowledge--knowledge so wearisome to sylvia--was delightfully instructive to hester--although, as she was habitually silent, it would have required an observer more interested in discovering her feelings than philip was to have perceived the little flush on the pale cheek, and the brightness in the half-veiled eyes whenever he was talking. she had not thought of love on either side. love was a vanity, a worldliness not to be spoken about, or even thought about. once or twice before the robsons came into the neighbourhood, an idea had crossed her mind that possibly the quiet, habitual way in which she and philip lived together, might drift them into matrimony at some distant period; and she could not bear the humble advances which coulson, philip's fellow-lodger, sometimes made. they seemed to disgust her with him. but after the robsons settled at haytersbank, philip's evenings were so often spent there that any unconscious hopes hester might, unawares, have entertained, died away. at first she had felt a pang akin to jealousy when she heard of sylvia, the little cousin, who was passing out of childhood into womanhood. once--early in those days--she had ventured to ask philip what sylvia was like. philip had not warmed up at the question, and had given rather a dry catalogue of her features, hair, and height, but hester, almost to her own surprise, persevered, and jerked out the final question. 'is she pretty?' philip's sallow cheek grew deeper by two or three shades; but he answered with a tone of indifference,-'i believe some folks think her so.' 'but do you?' persevered hester, in spite of her being aware that he somehow disliked the question. 'there's no need for talking o' such things,' he answered, with abrupt displeasure. hester silenced her curiosity from that time. but her heart was not quite at ease, and she kept on wondering whether philip thought his little cousin pretty until she saw her and him together, on that occasion of which we have spoken, when sylvia came to the shop to buy her new cloak; and after that hester never wondered whether philip thought his cousin pretty or no, for she knew quite well. bell robson had her own anxieties on the subject of her daughter's increasing attractions. she apprehended the dangers consequent upon certain facts, by a mental process more akin to intuition than reason. she was uncomfortable, even while her motherly vanity was flattered, at the admiration sylvia received from the other sex. this admiration was made evident to her mother in many ways. when sylvia was with her at market, it might have been thought that the doctors had prescribed a diet of butter and eggs to all the men under forty in monkshaven. at first it seemed to mrs. robson but a natural tribute to the superior merit of her farm produce; but by degrees she perceived that if sylvia remained at home, she stood no better chance than her neighbours of an early sale. there were more customers than formerly for the fleeces stored in the wool-loft; comely young butchers came after the calf almost before it had been decided to sell it; in short, excuses were seldom wanting to those who wished to see the beauty of haytersbank farm. all this made bell uncomfortable, though she could hardly have told what she dreaded. sylvia herself seemed unspoilt by it as far as her home relations were concerned. a little thoughtless she had always been, and thoughtless she was still; but, as her mother had often said, 'yo' canna put old heads on young shoulders;' and if blamed for her carelessness by her parents, sylvia was always as penitent as she could be for the time being. to be sure, it was only to her father and mother that she remained the same as she had been when an awkward lassie of thirteen. out of the house there were the most contradictory opinions of her, especially if the voices of women were to be listened to. she was 'an ill-favoured, overgrown thing'; 'just as bonny as the first rose i' june, and as sweet i' her nature as t' honeysuckle a-climbing round it;' she was 'a vixen, with a tongue sharp enough to make yer very heart bleed;' she was 'just a bit o' sunshine wheriver she went;' she was sulky, lively, witty, silent, affectionate, or cold-hearted, according to the person who spoke about her. in fact, her peculiarity seemed to be this--that every one who knew her talked about her either in praise or blame; in church, or in market, she unconsciously attracted attention; they could not forget her presence, as they could that of other girls perhaps more personally attractive. now all this was a cause of anxiety to her mother, who began to feel as if she would rather have had her child passed by in silence than so much noticed. bell's opinion was, that it was creditable to a woman to go through life in the shadow of obscurity,--never named except in connexion with good housewifery, husband, or children. too much talking about a girl, even in the way of praise, disturbed mrs. robson's opinion of her; and when her neighbours told her how her own daughter was admired, she would reply coldly, 'she's just well enough,' and change the subject of conversation. but it was quite different with her husband. to his looser, less-restrained mind, it was agreeable to hear of, and still more to see, the attention which his daughter's beauty received. he felt it as reflecting consequence on himself. he had never troubled his mind with speculations as to whether he himself was popular, still less whether he was respected. he was pretty welcome wherever he went, as a jovial good-natured man, who had done adventurous and illegal things in his youth, which in some measure entitled him to speak out his opinions on life in general in the authoritative manner he generally used; but, of the two, he preferred consorting with younger men, to taking a sober stand of respectability with the elders of the place; and he perceived, without reasoning upon it, that the gay daring spirits were more desirous of his company when sylvia was by his side than at any other time. one or two of these would saunter up to haytersbank on a sunday afternoon, and lounge round his fields with the old farmer. bell kept herself from the nap which had been her weekly solace for years, in order to look after sylvia, and on such occasions she always turned as cold a shoulder to the visitors as her sense of hospitality and of duty to her husband would permit. but if they did not enter the house, old robson would always have sylvia with him when he went the round of his land. bell could see them from the upper window: the young men standing in the attitudes of listeners, while daniel laid down the law on some point, enforcing his words by pantomimic actions with his thick stick; and sylvia, half turning away as if from some too admiring gaze, was possibly picking flowers out of the hedge-bank. these sunday afternoon strolls were the plague of bell's life that whole summer. then it took as much of artifice as was in the simple woman's nature to keep daniel from insisting on having sylvia's company every time he went down to monkshaven. and here, again, came a perplexity, the acknowledgement of which in distinct thought would have been an act of disloyalty, according to bell's conscience. if sylvia went with her father, he never drank to excess; and that was a good gain to health at any rate (drinking was hardly a sin against morals in those days, and in that place); so, occasionally, she was allowed to accompany him to monkshaven as a check upon his folly; for he was too fond and proud of his daughter to disgrace her by any open excess. but one sunday afternoon early in november, philip came up before the time at which he usually paid his visits. he looked grave and pale; and his aunt began,-'why, lad! what's been ado? thou'rt looking as peaked and pined as a methody preacher after a love-feast, when he's talked hisself to death's door. thee dost na' get good milk enow, that's what it is,--such stuff as monkshaven folks put up wi'!' 'no, aunt; i'm quite well. only i'm a bit put out--vexed like at what i've heerd about sylvie.' his aunt's face changed immediately. 'and whatten folk say of her, next thing?' 'oh,' said philip, struck by the difference of look and manner in his aunt, and subdued by seeing how instantly she took alarm. 'it were only my uncle;--he should na' take a girl like her to a public. she were wi' him at t' "admiral's head" upo' all souls' day--that were all. there were many a one there beside,--it were statute fair; but such a one as our sylvie ought not to be cheapened wi' t' rest.' 'and he took her there, did he?' said bell, in severe meditation. 'i had never no opinion o' th' wenches as 'll set theirselves to be hired for servants i' th' fair; they're a bad lot, as cannot find places for theirselves--'bout going and stannin' to be stared at by folk, and grinnin' wi' th' plough-lads when no one's looking; it's a bad look-out for t' missus as takes one o' these wenches for a servant; and dost ta mean to say as my sylvie went and demeaned hersel' to dance and marlock wi' a' th' fair-folk at th' "admiral's head?"' 'no, no, she did na' dance; she barely set foot i' th' room; but it were her own pride as saved her; uncle would niver ha' kept her from it, for he had fallen in wi' hayley o' seaburn and one or two others, and they were having a glass i' t' bar, and mrs. lawson, t' landlady, knew how there was them who would come and dance among parish 'prentices if need were, just to get a word or a look wi' sylvie! so she tempts her in, saying that the room were all smartened and fine wi' flags; and there was them in the room as told me that they never were so startled as when they saw our sylvie's face peeping in among all t' flustered maids and men, rough and red wi' weather and drink; and jem macbean, he said she were just like a bit o' apple-blossom among peonies; and some man, he didn't know who, went up and spoke to her; an' either at that, or at some o' t' words she heard--for they'd got a good way on afore that time--she went quite white and mad, as if fire were coming out of her eyes, and then she turned red and left the room, for all t' landlady tried to laugh it off and keep her in.' 'i'll be down to monkshaven before i'm a day older, and tell margaret lawson some on my mind as she'll not forget in a hurry.' bell moved as though she would put on her cloak and hood there and then. 'nay, it's not in reason as a woman i' that line o' life shouldn't try to make her house agreeable,' said philip. 'not wi' my wench,' said bell, in a determined voice. philip's information had made a deeper impression on his aunt than he intended. he himself had been annoyed more at the idea that sylvia would be spoken of as having been at a rough piece of rustic gaiety--a yearly festival for the lower classes of yorkshire servants, out-door as well as in-door--than at the affair itself, for he had learnt from his informant how instantaneous her appearance had been. he stood watching his aunt's troubled face, and almost wishing that he had not spoken. at last she heaved a deep sigh, and stirring the fire, as if by this little household occupation to compose her mind, she said-'it's a pity as wenches aren't lads, or married folk. i could ha' wished--but it were the lord's will--it would ha' been summut to look to, if she'd had a brother. my master is so full on his own thoughts, yo' see, he's no mind left for thinking on her, what wi' th' oats, and th' wool, and th' young colt, and his venture i' th' _lucky mary_.' she really believed her husband to have the serious and important occupation for his mind that she had been taught to consider befitting the superior intellect of the masculine gender; she would have taxed herself severely, if, even in thought, she had blamed him, and philip respected her feelings too much to say that sylvia's father ought to look after her more closely if he made such a pretty creature so constantly his companion; yet some such speech was only just pent within philip's closed lips. again his aunt spoke-'i used to think as she and yo' might fancy one another, but thou'rt too old-fashioned like for her; ye would na' suit; and it's as well, for now i can say to thee, that i would take it very kindly if thou would'st look after her a bit.' philip's countenance fell into gloom. he had to gulp down certain feelings before he could make answer with discretion. 'how can i look after her, and me tied to the shop more and more every day?' 'i could send her on a bit of an errand to foster's, and then, for sure, yo' might keep an eye upon her when she's in th' town; and just walk a bit way with her when she's in th' street, and keep t' other fellows off her--ned simpson, t' butcher, in 'special, for folks do say he means no good by any girl he goes wi'--and i'll ask father to leave her a bit more wi' me. they're coming down th' brow, and ned simpson wi' them. now, philip, i look to thee to do a brother's part by my wench, and warn off all as isn't fit.' the door opened, and the coarse strong voice of simpson made itself heard. he was a stout man, comely enough as to form and feature, but with a depth of colour in his face that betokened the coming on of the habits of the sot. his sunday hat was in his hand, and he smoothed the long nap of it, as he said, with a mixture of shyness and familiarity-'sarvant, missus. yo'r measter is fain that i should come in an' have a drop; no offence, i hope?' sylvia passed quickly through the house-place, and went upstairs without speaking to her cousin philip or to any one. he sat on, disliking the visitor, and almost disliking his hospitable uncle for having brought simpson into the house, sympathizing with his aunt in the spirit which prompted her curt answers, and in the intervals of all these feelings wondering what ground she had for speaking as if she had now given up all thought of sylvia and him ever being married, and in what way he was too 'old-fashioned.' robson would gladly have persuaded philip to join him and simpson in their drink, but philip was in no sociable mood, and sate a little aloof, watching the staircase down which sooner or later sylvia must come; for, as perhaps has been already said, the stairs went up straight out of the kitchen. and at length his yearning watch was rewarded; first, the little pointed toe came daintily in sight, then the trim ankle in the tight blue stocking, the wool of which was spun and the web of which was knitted by her mother's careful hands; then the full brown stuff petticoat, the arm holding the petticoat back in decent folds, so as not to encumber the descending feet; the slender neck and shoulders hidden under the folded square of fresh white muslin; the crowning beauty of the soft innocent face radiant in colour, and with the light brown curls clustering around. she made her way quickly to philip's side; how his heart beat at her approach! and even more when she entered into a low-voiced _tete-a-tete_. 'isn't he gone yet?' said she. 'i cannot abide him; i could ha' pinched father when he asked him for t' come in.' 'maybe, he'll not stay long,' said philip, hardly understanding the meaning of what he said, so sweet was it to have her making her whispered confidences to him. but simpson was not going to let her alone in the dark corner between the door and the window. he began paying her some coarse country compliments--too strong in their direct flattery for even her father's taste, more especially as he saw by his wife's set lips and frowning brow how much she disapproved of their visitor's style of conversation. 'come, measter, leave t' lass alone; she's set up enough a'ready, her mother makes such a deal on her. yo' an' me's men for sensible talk at our time o' life. an', as i was saying, t' horse was a weaver if iver one was, as any one could ha' told as had come within a mile on him.' and in this way the old farmer and the bluff butcher chatted on about horses, while philip and sylvia sate together, he turning over all manner of hopes and projects for the future, in spite of his aunt's opinion that he was too 'old-fashioned' for her dainty, blooming daughter. perhaps, too, mrs. robson saw some reason for changing her mind on this head as she watched sylvia this night, for she accompanied philip to the door, when the time came for him to start homewards, and bade him 'good-night' with unusual fervour, adding-'thou'st been a deal o' comfort to me, lad--a'most as one as if thou wert a child o' my own, as at times i could welly think thou art to be. anyways, i trust to thee to look after the lile lass, as has no brother to guide her among men--and men's very kittle for a woman to deal wi; but if thou'lt have an eye on whom she consorts wi', my mind 'll be easier.' philip's heart beat fast, but his voice was as calm as usual when he replied-'i'd just keep her a bit aloof from monkshaven folks; a lass is always the more thought on for being chary of herself; and as for t' rest, i'll have an eye to the folks she goes among, and if i see that they don't befit her, i'll just give her a warning, for she's not one to like such chaps as yon simpson there; she can see what's becoming in a man to say to a lass, and what's not.' philip set out on his two-mile walk home with a tumult of happiness in his heart. he was not often carried away by delusions of his own creating; to-night he thought he had good ground for believing that by patient self-restraint he might win sylvia's love. a year ago he had nearly earned her dislike by obtruding upon her looks and words betokening his passionate love. he alarmed her girlish coyness, as well as wearied her with the wish he had then felt that she should take an interest in his pursuits. but, with unusual wisdom, he had perceived his mistake; it was many months now since he had betrayed, by word or look, that she was anything more to him than a little cousin to be cared for and protected when need was. the consequence was that she had become tamed, just as a wild animal is tamed; he had remained tranquil and impassive, almost as if he did not perceive her shy advances towards friendliness. these advances were made by her after the lessons had ceased. she was afraid lest he was displeased with her behaviour in rejecting his instructions, and was not easy till she was at peace with him; and now, to all appearance, he and she were perfect friends, but nothing more. in his absence she would not allow her young companions to laugh at his grave sobriety of character, and somewhat prim demeanour; she would even go against her conscience, and deny that she perceived any peculiarity. when she wanted it, she sought his advice on such small subjects as came up in her daily life; and she tried not to show signs of weariness when he used more words--and more difficult words--than were necessary to convey his ideas. but her ideal husband was different from philip in every point, the two images never for an instant merged into one. to philip she was the only woman in the world; it was the one subject on which he dared not consider, for fear that both conscience and judgment should decide against him, and that he should be convinced against his will that she was an unfit mate for him, that she never would be his, and that it was waste of time and life to keep her shrined in the dearest sanctuary of his being, to the exclusion of all the serious and religious aims which, in any other case, he would have been the first to acknowledge as the object he ought to pursue. for he had been brought up among the quakers, and shared in their austere distrust of a self-seeking spirit; yet what else but self-seeking was his passionate prayer, 'give me sylvia, or else, i die?' no other vision had ever crossed his masculine fancy for a moment; his was a rare and constant love that deserved a better fate than it met with. at this time his hopes were high, as i have said, not merely as to the growth of sylvia's feelings towards him, but as to the probability of his soon being in a position to place her in such comfort, as his wife, as she had never enjoyed before. for the brothers foster were thinking of retiring from business, and relinquishing the shop to their two shopmen, philip hepburn and william coulson. to be sure, it was only by looking back for a few months, and noticing chance expressions and small indications, that this intention of theirs could be discovered. but every step they took tended this way, and philip knew their usual practice of deliberation too well to feel in the least impatient for the quicker progress of the end which he saw steadily approaching. the whole atmosphere of life among the friends at this date partook of this character of self-repression, and both coulson and hepburn shared in it. coulson was just as much aware of the prospect opening before him as hepburn; but they never spoke together on the subject, although their mutual knowledge might be occasionally implied in their conversation on their future lives. meanwhile the fosters were imparting more of the background of their business to their successors. for the present, at least, the brothers meant to retain an interest in the shop, even after they had given up the active management; and they sometimes thought of setting up a separate establishment as bankers. the separation of the business,--the introduction of their shopmen to the distant manufacturers who furnished their goods (in those days the system of 'travellers' was not so widely organized as it is at present),--all these steps were in gradual progress; and already philip saw himself in imagination in the dignified position of joint master of the principal shop in monkshaven, with sylvia installed as his wife, with certainly a silk gown, and possibly a gig at her disposal. in all philip's visions of future prosperity, it was sylvia who was to be aggrandized by them; his own life was to be spent as it was now, pretty much between the four shop walls. chapter xii new year's fete all this enlargement of interest in the shop occupied philip fully for some months after the period referred to in the preceding chapter. remembering his last conversation with his aunt, he might have been uneasy at his inability to perform his promise and look after his pretty cousin, but that about the middle of november bell robson had fallen ill of a rheumatic fever, and that her daughter had been entirely absorbed in nursing her. no thought of company or gaiety was in sylvia's mind as long as her mother's illness lasted; vehement in all her feelings, she discovered in the dread of losing her mother how passionately she was attached to her. hitherto she had supposed, as children so often do, that her parents would live for ever; and now when it was a question of days, whether by that time the following week her mother might not be buried out of her sight for ever, she clung to every semblance of service to be rendered, or affection shown, as if she hoped to condense the love and care of years into the few days only that might remain. mrs. robson lingered on, began slowly to recover, and before christmas was again sitting by the fireside in the house-place, wan and pulled down, muffled up with shawls and blankets, but still there once more, where not long before sylvia had scarcely expected to see her again. philip came up that evening and found sylvia in wild spirits. she thought that everything was done, now that her mother had once come downstairs again; she laughed with glee; she kissed her mother; she shook hands with philip, she almost submitted to a speech of more than usual tenderness from him; but, in the midst of his words, her mother's pillows wanted arranging and she went to her chair, paying no more heed to his words than if they had been addressed to the cat, that lying on the invalid's knee was purring out her welcome to the weak hand feebly stroking her back. robson himself soon came in, looking older and more subdued since philip had seen him last. he was very urgent that his wife should have some spirits and water; but on her refusal, almost as if she loathed the thought of the smell, he contented himself with sharing her tea, though he kept abusing the beverage as 'washing the heart out of a man,' and attributing all the degeneracy of the world, growing up about him in his old age, to the drinking of such slop. at the same time, his little self-sacrifice put him in an unusually good temper; and, mingled with his real gladness at having his wife once more on the way to recovery, brought back some of the old charm of tenderness combined with light-heartedness, which had won the sober isabella preston long ago. he sat by her side, holding her hand, and talking of old times to the young couple opposite; of his adventures and escapes, and how he had won his wife. she, faintly smiling at the remembrance of those days, yet half-ashamed at having the little details of her courtship revealed, from time to time kept saying,-'for shame wi' thee, dannel--i never did,' and faint denials of a similar kind. 'niver believe her, sylvie. she were a woman, and there's niver a woman but likes to have a sweetheart, and can tell when a chap's castin' sheep's-eyes at her; ay, an' afore he knows what he's about hissen. she were a pretty one then, was my old 'ooman, an' liked them as thought her so, though she did cock her head high, as bein' a preston, which were a family o' standin' and means i' those parts aforetime. there's philip there, i'll warrant, is as proud o' bein' preston by t' mother's side, for it runs i' t' blood, lass. a can tell when a child of a preston tak's to being proud o' their kin, by t' cut o' their nose. now philip's and my missus's has a turn beyond common i' their nostrils, as if they was sniffin' at t' rest of us world, an' seein' if we was good enough for 'em to consort wi'. thee an' me, lass, is robsons--oat-cake folk, while they's pie-crust. lord! how bell used to speak to me, as short as though a wasn't a christian, an' a' t' time she loved me as her very life, an' well a knew it, tho' a'd to mak' as tho' a didn't. philip, when thou goes courtin', come t' me, and a'll give thee many a wrinkle. a've shown, too, as a know well how t' choose a good wife by tokens an' signs, hannot a, missus? come t' me, my lad, and show me t' lass, an' a'll just tak' a squint at her, an' tell yo' if she'll do or not; an' if she'll do, a'll teach yo' how to win her.' 'they say another o' yon corney girls is going to be married,' said mrs. robson, in her faint deliberate tones. 'by gosh, an' it's well thou'st spoke on 'em; a was as clean forgettin' it as iver could be. a met nanny corney i' monkshaven last neet, and she axed me for t' let our sylvia come o' new year's eve, an' see molly an' her man, that 'n as is wed beyond newcassel, they'll be over at her feyther's, for t' new year, an' there's to be a merry-making.' sylvia's colour came, her eyes brightened, she would have liked to go; but the thought of her mother came across her, and her features fell. her mother's eye caught the look and the change, and knew what both meant as well as if sylvia had spoken out. 'thursday se'nnight,' said she. 'i'll be rare and strong by then, and sylvie shall go play hersen; she's been nurse-tending long enough.' 'you're but weakly yet,' said philip shortly; he did not intend to say it, but the words seemed to come out in spite of himself. 'a said as our lass should come, god willin', if she only came and went, an' thee goin' on sprightly, old 'ooman. an' a'll turn nurse-tender mysen for t' occasion, 'special if thou can stand t' good honest smell o' whisky by then. so, my lass, get up thy smart clothes, and cut t' best on 'em out, as becomes a preston. maybe, a'll fetch thee home, an' maybe philip will convoy thee, for nanny corney bade thee to t' merry-making, as well. she said her measter would be seem' thee about t' wool afore then.' 'i don't think as i can go,' said philip, secretly pleased to know that he had the opportunity in his power; 'i'm half bound to go wi' hester rose and her mother to t' watch-night.' 'is hester a methodee?' asked sylvia in surprise. 'no! she's neither a methodee, nor a friend, nor a church person; but she's a turn for serious things, choose wherever they're found.' 'well, then,' said good-natured farmer robson, only seeing the surface of things, 'a'll make shift to fetch sylvie back fra' t' merry-making, and thee an' thy young woman can go to t' prayer-makin'; it's every man to his taste, say i.' but in spite of his half-promise, nay against his natural inclination, philip was lured to the corneys' by the thought of meeting sylvia, of watching her and exulting in her superiority in pretty looks and ways to all the other girls likely to be assembled. besides (he told his conscience) he was pledged to his aunt to watch over sylvia like a brother. so in the interval before new year's eve, he silently revelled as much as any young girl in the anticipation of the happy coming time. at this hour, all the actors in this story having played out their parts and gone to their rest, there is something touching in recording the futile efforts made by philip to win from sylvia the love he yearned for. but, at the time, any one who had watched him might have been amused to see the grave, awkward, plain young man studying patterns and colours for a new waistcoat, with his head a little on one side, after the meditative manner common to those who are choosing a new article of dress. they might have smiled could they have read in his imagination the frequent rehearsals of the coming evening, when he and she should each be dressed in their gala attire, to spend a few hours under a bright, festive aspect, among people whose company would oblige them to assume a new demeanour towards each other, not so familiar as their every-day manner, but allowing more scope for the expression of rustic gallantry. philip had so seldom been to anything of the kind, that, even had sylvia not been going, he would have felt a kind of shy excitement at the prospect of anything so unusual. but, indeed, if sylvia had not been going, it is very probable that philip's rigid conscience might have been aroused to the question whether such parties did not savour too much of the world for him to form one in them. as it was, however, the facts to him were simply these. he was going and she was going. the day before, he had hurried off to haytersbank farm with a small paper parcel in his pocket--a ribbon with a little briar-rose pattern running upon it for sylvia. it was the first thing he had ever ventured to give her--the first thing of the kind would, perhaps, be more accurate; for when he had first begun to teach her any lessons, he had given her mavor's spelling-book, but that he might have done, out of zeal for knowledge, to any dunce of a little girl of his acquaintance. this ribbon was quite a different kind of present; he touched it tenderly, as if he were caressing it, when he thought of her wearing it; the briar-rose (sweetness and thorns) seemed to be the very flower for her; the soft, green ground on which the pink and brown pattern ran, was just the colour to show off her complexion. and she would in a way belong to him: her cousin, her mentor, her chaperon, her lover! while others only admired, he might hope to appropriate; for of late they had been such happy friends! her mother approved of him, her father liked him. a few months, perhaps only a few weeks more of self-restraint, and then he might go and speak openly of his wishes, and what he had to offer. for he had resolved, with the quiet force of his character, to wait until all was finally settled between him and his masters, before he declared himself to either sylvia or her parents. the interval was spent in patient, silent endeavours to recommend himself to her. he had to give his ribbon to his aunt in charge for sylvia, and that was a disappointment to his fancy, although he tried to reason himself into thinking that it was better so. he had not time to wait for her return from some errand on which she had gone, for he was daily more and more occupied with the affairs of the shop. sylvia made many a promise to her mother, and more to herself, that she would not stay late at the party, but she might go as early as she liked; and before the december daylight had faded away, sylvia presented herself at the corneys'. she was to come early in order to help to set out the supper, which was arranged in the large old flagged parlour, which served as best bed-room as well. it opened out of the house-place, and was the sacred room of the house, as chambers of a similar description are still considered in retired farmhouses in the north of england. they are used on occasions like the one now described for purposes of hospitality; but in the state bed, overshadowing so large a portion of the floor, the births and, as far as may be, the deaths, of the household take place. at the corneys', the united efforts of some former generation of the family had produced patchwork curtains and coverlet; and patchwork was patchwork in those days, before the early yates and peels had found out the secret of printing the parsley-leaf. scraps of costly indian chintzes and palempours were intermixed with commoner black and red calico in minute hexagons; and the variety of patterns served for the useful purpose of promoting conversation as well as the more obvious one of displaying the work-woman 's taste. sylvia, for instance, began at once to her old friend, molly brunton, who had accompanied her into this chamber to take off her hat and cloak, with a remark on one of the chintzes. stooping over the counterpane, with a face into which the flush would come whether or no, she said to molly,-'dear! i never seed this one afore--this--for all t' world like th' eyes in a peacock's tail.' 'thou's seen it many a time and oft, lass. but weren't thou surprised to find charley here? we picked him up at shields, quite by surprise like; and when brunton and me said as we was comin' here, nought would serve him but comin' with us, for t' see t' new year in. it's a pity as your mother's ta'en this time for t' fall ill and want yo' back so early.' sylvia had taken off her hat and cloak by this time, and began to help molly and a younger unmarried sister in laying out the substantial supper. 'here,' continued mrs. brunton; 'stick a bit o' holly i' yon pig's mouth, that's the way we do things i' newcassel; but folks is so behindhand in monkshaven. it's a fine thing to live in a large town, sylvia; an' if yo're looking out for a husband, i'd advise yo' to tak' one as lives in a town. i feel as if i were buried alive comin' back here, such an out-o'-t'-way place after t' side, wheere there's many a hundred carts and carriages goes past in a day. i've a great mind for t' tak yo' two lassies back wi' me, and let yo' see a bit o' t' world; may-be, i may yet. her sister bessy looked much pleased with this plan, but sylvia was rather inclined to take offence at molly's patronizing ways, and replied,-'i'm none so fond o' noise and bustle; why, yo'll not be able to hear yoursels speak wi' all them carts and carriages. i'd rayther bide at home; let alone that mother can't spare me.' it was, perhaps, a rather ungracious way of answering molly brunton's speech, and so she felt it to be, although her invitation had been none of the most courteously worded. she irritated sylvia still further by repeating her last words,-'"mother can't spare me;" why, mother 'll have to spare thee sometime, when t' time for wedding comes.' 'i'm none going to be wed,' said sylvia; 'and if i were, i'd niver go far fra' mother.' 'eh! what a spoilt darling it is. how brunton will laugh when i tell him about yo'; brunton's a rare one for laughin'. it's a great thing to have got such a merry man for a husband. why! he has his joke for every one as comes into t' shop; and he'll ha' something funny to say to everything this evenin'.' bessy saw that sylvia was annoyed, and, with more delicacy than her sister, she tried to turn the conversation. 'that's a pretty ribbon in thy hair, sylvia; i'd like to have one o' t' same pattern. feyther likes pickled walnuts stuck about t' round o' beef, molly.' 'i know what i'm about,' replied mrs. brunton, with a toss of her married head. bessy resumed her inquiry. 'is there any more to be had wheere that come fra', sylvia?' 'i don't know,' replied sylvia. 'it come fra' foster's, and yo' can ask.' 'what might it cost?' said betsy, fingering an end of it to test its quality. 'i can't tell,' said sylvia, 'it were a present.' 'niver mak' ado about t' price,' said molly; 'i'll gi'e thee enough on 't to tie up thy hair, just like sylvia's. only thou hastn't such wealth o' curls as she has; it'll niver look t' same i' thy straight locks. and who might it be as give it thee, sylvia?' asked the unscrupulous, if good-natured molly. 'my cousin philip, him as is shopman at foster's,' said sylvia, innocently. but it was far too good an opportunity for the exercise of molly's kind of wit for her to pass over. 'oh, oh! our cousin philip, is it? and he'll not be living so far away from your mother? i've no need be a witch to put two and two together. he's a coming here to-night, isn't he, bessy?' 'i wish yo' wouldn't talk so, molly,' said sylvia; 'me and philip is good enough friends, but we niver think on each other in that way; leastways, i don't.' '(sweet butter! now that's my mother's old-fashioned way; as if folks must eat sweet butter now-a-days, because her mother did!) that way,' continued molly, in the manner that annoyed sylvia so much, repeating her words as if for the purpose of laughing at them. '"that way?" and pray what is t' way yo're speaking on? i niver said nought about marrying, did i, that yo' need look so red and shamefaced about yo'r cousin philip? but, as brunton says, if t' cap fits yo', put it on. i'm glad he's comin' to-night tho', for as i'm done makin' love and courtin', it's next best t' watch other folks; an' yo'r face, sylvia, has letten me into a secret, as i'd some glimpses on afore i was wed.' sylvia secretly determined not to speak a word more to philip than she could help, and wondered how she could ever have liked molly at all, much less have made a companion of her. the table was now laid out, and nothing remained but to criticize the arrangement a little. bessy was full of admiration. 'theere, molly!' said she. 'yo' niver seed more vittle brought together i' newcassel, i'll be bound; there'll be above half a hundredweight o' butcher's meat, beside pies and custards. i've eaten no dinner these two days for thinking on 't; it's been a weary burden on my mind, but it's off now i see how well it looks. i told mother not to come near it till we'd spread it all out, and now i'll go fetch her.' bessy ran off into the house-place. 'it's well enough in a country kind o' way,' said molly, with the faint approbation of condescension. 'but if i'd thought on, i'd ha' brought 'em down a beast or two done i' sponge-cake, wi' currants for his eyes to give t' table an air.' the door was opened, and bessy came in smiling and blushing with proud pleasure. her mother followed her on tip-toe, smoothing down her apron, and with her voice subdued to a whisper:-'ay, my lass, it _is_ fine! but dunnot mak' an ado about it, let 'em think it's just our common way. if any one says aught about how good t' vittle is, tak' it calm, and say we'n better i' t' house,--it'll mak' 'em eat wi' a better appetite, and think the more on us. sylvie, i'm much beholden t' ye for comin' so early, and helpin' t' lasses, but yo' mun come in t' house-place now, t' folks is gatherin', an' yo'r cousin's been asking after yo' a'ready.' molly gave her a nudge, which made sylvia's face go all aflame with angry embarrassment. she was conscious that the watching which molly had threatened her with began directly; for molly went up to her husband, and whispered something to him which set him off in a chuckling laugh, and sylvia was aware that his eyes followed her about with knowing looks all the evening. she would hardly speak to philip, and pretended not to see his outstretched hand, but passed on to the chimney-corner, and tried to shelter herself behind the broad back of farmer corney, who had no notion of relinquishing his customary place for all the young people who ever came to the house,--or for any old people either, for that matter. it was his household throne, and there he sat with no more idea of abdicating in favour of any comer than king george at st james's. but he was glad to see his friends; and had paid them the unwonted compliment of shaving on a week-day, and putting on his sunday coat. the united efforts of wife and children had failed to persuade him to make any farther change in his attire; to all their arguments on this head he had replied,-'them as doesn't like t' see me i' my work-a-day wescut and breeches may bide away.' it was the longest sentence he said that day, but he repeated it several times over. he was glad enough to see all the young people, but they were not 'of his kidney,' as he expressed it to himself, and he did not feel any call upon himself to entertain them. he left that to his bustling wife, all smartness and smiles, and to his daughters and son-in-law. his efforts at hospitality consisted in sitting still, smoking his pipe; when any one came, he took it out of his mouth for an instant, and nodded his head in a cheerful friendly way, without a word of speech; and then returned to his smoking with the greater relish for the moment's intermission. he thought to himself:-'they're a set o' young chaps as thinks more on t' lasses than on baccy;--they'll find out their mistake in time; give 'em time, give 'em time.' and before eight o'clock, he went as quietly as a man of twelve stone can upstairs to bed, having made a previous arrangement with his wife that she should bring him up about two pounds of spiced beef, and a hot tumbler of stiff grog. but at the beginning of the evening he formed a good screen for sylvia, who was rather a favourite with the old man, for twice he spoke to her. 'feyther smokes?' 'yes,' said sylvia. 'reach me t' baccy-box, my lass.' and that was all the conversation that passed between her and her nearest neighbour for the first quarter of an hour after she came into company. but, for all her screen, she felt a pair of eyes were fixed upon her with a glow of admiration deepening their honest brightness. somehow, look in what direction she would, she caught the glance of those eyes before she could see anything else. so she played with her apron-strings, and tried not to feel so conscious. there were another pair of eyes,--not such beautiful, sparkling eyes,--deep-set, earnest, sad, nay, even gloomy, watching her every movement; but of this she was not aware. philip had not recovered from the rebuff she had given him by refusing his offered hand, and was standing still, in angry silence, when mrs. corney thrust a young woman just arrived upon his attention. 'come, measter hepburn, here's nancy pratt wi'out ev'n a soul to speak t' her, an' yo' mopin' theere. she says she knows yo' by sight fra' having dealt at foster's these six year. see if yo' can't find summut t' say t' each other, for i mun go pour out tea. dixons, an' walkers, an' elliotts, an' smiths is come,' said she, marking off the families on her fingers, as she looked round and called over their names; 'an' there's only will latham an' his two sisters, and roger harbottle, an' taylor t' come; an' they'll turn up afore tea's ended.' so she went off to her duty at the one table, which, placed alongside of the dresser, was the only article of furniture left in the middle of the room: all the seats being arranged as close to the four walls as could be managed. the candles of those days gave but a faint light compared to the light of the immense fire, which it was a point of hospitality to keep at the highest roaring, blazing pitch; the young women occupied the seats, with the exception of two or three of the elder ones, who, in an eager desire to show their capability, insisted on helping mrs. corney in her duties, very much to her annoyance, as there were certain little contrivances for eking out cream, and adjusting the strength of the cups of tea to the worldly position of the intended drinkers, which she did not like every one to see. the young men,--whom tea did not embolden, and who had as yet had no chance of stronger liquor,--clustered in rustic shyness round the door, not speaking even to themselves, except now and then, when one, apparently the wag of the party, made some whispered remark, which set them all off laughing; but in a minute they checked themselves, and passed the back of their hands across their mouths to compose that unlucky feature, and then some would try to fix their eyes on the rafters of the ceiling, in a manner which was decorous if rather abstracted from the business in hand. most of these were young farmers, with whom philip had nothing in common, and from whom, in shy reserve, he had withdrawn himself when he first came in. but now he wished himself among them sooner than set to talk to nancy pratt, when he had nothing to say. and yet he might have had a companion less to his mind, for she was a decent young woman of a sober age, less inclined to giggle than many of the younger ones. but all the time that he was making commonplace remarks to her he was wondering if he had offended sylvia, and why she would not shake hands with him, and this pre-occupation of his thoughts did not make him an agreeable companion. nancy pratt, who had been engaged for some years to a mate of a whaling-ship, perceived something of his state of mind, and took no offence at it; on the contrary, she tried to give him pleasure by admiring sylvia. 'i've often heerd tell on her,' said she, 'but i niver thought she's be so pretty, and so staid and quiet-like too. t' most part o' girls as has looks like hers are always gape-gazing to catch other folks's eyes, and see what is thought on 'em; but she looks just like a child, a bit flustered wi' coming into company, and gettin' into as dark a corner and bidin' as still as she can. just then sylvia lifted up her long, dark lashes, and catching the same glance which she had so often met before--charley kinraid was standing talking to brunton on the opposite side of the fire-place--she started back into the shadow as if she had not expected it, and in so doing spilt her tea all over her gown. she could almost have cried, she felt herself so awkward, and as if everything was going wrong with her; she thought that every one would think she had never been in company before, and did not know how to behave; and while she was thus fluttered and crimson, she saw through her tearful eyes kinraid on his knees before her, wiping her gown with his silk pocket handkerchief, and heard him speaking through all the buzz of commiserating voices. 'your cupboard handle is so much i' th' way--i hurt my elbow against it only this very afternoon.' so perhaps it was no clumsiness of hers,--as they would all know, now, since he had so skilfully laid the blame somewhere else; and after all it turned out that her accident had been the means of bringing him across to her side, which was much more pleasant than having him opposite, staring at her; for now he began to talk to her, and this was very pleasant, although she was rather embarrassed at their _tete-a-tete_ at first. 'i did not know you again when i first saw you,' said he, in a tone which implied a good deal more than was uttered in words. 'i knowed yo' at once,' she replied, softly, and then she blushed and played with her apron-string, and wondered if she ought to have confessed to the clearness of her recollection. 'you're grown up into--well, perhaps it's not manners to say what you're grown into--anyhow, i shan't forget yo' again.' more playing with her apron-string, and head hung still lower down, though the corners of her mouth would go up in a shy smile of pleasure. philip watched it all as greedily as if it gave him delight. 'yo'r father, he'll be well and hearty, i hope?' asked charley. 'yes,' replied sylvia, and then she wished she could originate some remark; he would think her so stupid if she just kept on saying such little short bits of speeches, and if he thought her stupid he might perhaps go away again to his former place. but he was quite far enough gone in love of her beauty, and pretty modest ways, not to care much whether she talked or no, so long as she showed herself so pleasingly conscious of his close neighbourhood. 'i must come and see the old gentleman; and your mother, too,' he added more slowly, for he remembered that his visits last year had not been quite so much welcomed by bell robson as by her husband; perhaps it was because of the amount of drink which he and daniel managed to get through of an evening. he resolved this year to be more careful to please the mother of sylvia. when tea was ended there was a great bustle and shifting of places, while mrs. corney and her daughters carried out trays full of used cups, and great platters of uneaten bread and butter into the back-kitchen, to be washed up after the guests were gone. just because she was so conscious that she did not want to move, and break up the little conversation between herself and kinraid, sylvia forced herself to be as active in the service going on as became a friend of the house; and she was too much her mother's own daughter to feel comfortable at leaving all the things in the disorder which to the corney girls was second nature. 'this milk mun go back to t' dairy, i reckon,' said she, loading herself with milk and cream. 'niver fash thysel' about it,' said nelly corney, 'christmas comes but onest a year, if it does go sour; and mother said she'd have a game at forfeits first thing after tea to loosen folks's tongues, and mix up t' lads and lasses, so come along.' but sylvia steered her careful way to the cold chill of the dairy, and would not be satisfied till she had carried away all the unused provision into some fresher air than that heated by the fires and ovens used for the long day's cooking of pies and cakes and much roast meat. when they came back a round of red-faced 'lads,' as young men up to five-and-thirty are called in lancashire and yorkshire if they are not married before, and lasses, whose age was not to be defined, were playing at some country game, in which the women were apparently more interested than the men, who looked shamefaced, and afraid of each other's ridicule. mrs. corney, however, knew how to remedy this, and at a sign from her a great jug of beer was brought in. this jug was the pride of her heart, and was in the shape of a fat man in white knee-breeches, and a three-cornered hat; with one arm he supported the pipe in his broad, smiling mouth, and the other was placed akimbo and formed the handle. there was also a great china punch-bowl filled with grog made after an old ship-receipt current in these parts, but not too strong, because if their visitors had too much to drink at that early part of the evening 'it would spoil t' fun,' as nelly corney had observed. her father, however, after the notions of hospitality prevalent at that time in higher circles, had stipulated that each man should have 'enough' before he left the house; enough meaning in monkshaven parlance the liberty of getting drunk, if they thought fit to do it. before long one of the lads was seized with a fit of admiration for toby--the name of the old gentleman who contained liquor--and went up to the tray for a closer inspection. he was speedily followed by other amateurs of curious earthenware; and by-and-by mr. brunton (who had been charged by his mother-in-law with the due supplying of liquor--by his father-in-law that every man should have his fill, and by his wife and her sisters that no one should have too much, at any rate at the beginning of the evening,) thought fit to carry out toby to be replenished; and a faster spirit of enjoyment and mirth began to reign in the room. kinraid was too well seasoned to care what amount of liquor he drank; philip had what was called a weak head, and disliked muddling himself with drink because of the immediate consequence of intense feelings of irritability, and the more distant one of a racking headache next day; so both these two preserved very much the same demeanour they had held at the beginning of the evening. sylvia was by all acknowledged and treated as the belle. when they played at blind-man's-buff go where she would, she was always caught; she was called out repeatedly to do what was required in any game, as if all had a pleasure in seeing her light figure and deft ways. she was sufficiently pleased with this to have got over her shyness with all except charley. when others paid her their rustic compliments she tossed her head, and made her little saucy repartees; but when he said something low and flattering, it was too honey-sweet to her heart to be thrown off thus. and, somehow, the more she yielded to this fascination the more she avoided philip. he did not speak flatteringly--he did not pay compliments--he watched her with discontented, longing eyes, and grew more inclined every moment, as he remembered his anticipation of a happy evening, to cry out in his heart _vanitas vanitatum_. and now came crying the forfeits. molly brunton knelt down, her face buried in her mother's lap; the latter took out the forfeits one by one, and as she held them up, said the accustomed formula,-'a fine thing and a very fine thing, what must he (or she) do who owns this thing.' one or two had been told to kneel to the prettiest, bow to the wittiest, and kiss those they loved best; others had had to bite an inch off the poker, or such plays upon words. and now came sylvia's pretty new ribbon that philip had given her (he almost longed to snatch it out of mrs. corney's hands and burn it before all their faces, so annoyed was he with the whole affair.) 'a fine thing and a very fine thing--a most particular fine thing--choose how she came by it. what must she do as owns this thing?' 'she must blow out t' candle and kiss t' candlestick.' in one instant kinraid had hold of the only candle within reach, all the others had been put up high on inaccessible shelves and other places. sylvia went up and blew out the candle, and before the sudden partial darkness was over he had taken the candle into his fingers, and, according to the traditional meaning of the words, was in the place of the candlestick, and as such was to be kissed. every one laughed at innocent sylvia's face as the meaning of her penance came into it, every one but philip, who almost choked. 'i'm candlestick,' said kinraid, with less of triumph in his voice than he would have had with any other girl in the room. 'yo' mun kiss t' candlestick,' cried the corneys, 'or yo'll niver get yo'r ribbon back.' 'and she sets a deal o' store by that ribbon,' said molly brunton, maliciously. 'i'll none kiss t' candlestick, nor him either,' said sylvia, in a low voice of determination, turning away, full of confusion. 'yo'll not get yo'r ribbon if yo' dunnot,' cried one and all. 'i don't care for t' ribbon,' said she, flashing up with a look at her tormentors, now her back was turned to kinraid. 'an' i wunnot play any more at such like games,' she added, with fresh indignation rising in her heart as she took her old place in the corner of the room a little away from the rest. philip's spirits rose, and he yearned to go to her and tell her how he approved of her conduct. alas, philip! sylvia, though as modest a girl as ever lived, was no prude, and had been brought up in simple, straightforward country ways; and with any other young man, excepting, perhaps, philip's self, she would have thought no more of making a rapid pretence of kissing the hand or cheek of the temporary 'candlestick', than our ancestresses did in a much higher rank on similar occasions. kinraid, though mortified by his public rejection, was more conscious of this than the inexperienced philip; he resolved not to be baulked, and watched his opportunity. for the time he went on playing as if sylvia's conduct had not affected him in the least, and as if he was hardly aware of her defection from the game. as she saw others submitting, quite as a matter of course, to similar penances, she began to be angry with herself for having thought twice about it, and almost to dislike herself for the strange consciousness which had made it at the time seem impossible to do what she was told. her eyes kept filling with tears as her isolated position in the gay party, the thought of what a fool she had made of herself, kept recurring to her mind; but no one saw her, she thought, thus crying; and, ashamed to be discovered when the party should pause in their game, she stole round behind them into the great chamber in which she had helped to lay out the supper, with the intention of bathing her eyes, and taking a drink of water. one instant charley kinraid was missing from the circle of which he was the life and soul; and then back he came with an air of satisfaction on his face, intelligible enough to those who had seen his game; but unnoticed by philip, who, amidst the perpetual noise and movements around him, had not perceived sylvia's leaving the room, until she came back at the end of about a quarter of an hour, looking lovelier than ever, her complexion brilliant, her eyes drooping, her hair neatly and freshly arranged, tied with a brown ribbon instead of that she was supposed to have forfeited. she looked as if she did not wish her return to be noticed, stealing softly behind the romping lads and lasses with noiseless motions, and altogether such a contrast to them in her cool freshness and modest neatness, that both kinraid and philip found it difficult to keep their eyes off her. but the former had a secret triumph in his heart which enabled him to go on with his merry-making as if it absorbed him; while philip dropped out of the crowd and came up to where she was standing silently by mrs. corney, who, arms akimbo, was laughing at the frolic and fun around her. sylvia started a little when philip spoke, and kept her soft eyes averted from him after the first glance; she answered him shortly, but with unaccustomed gentleness. he had only asked her when she would like him to take her home; and she, a little surprised at the idea of going home when to her the evening seemed only beginning, had answered-'go home? i don't know! it's new year's eve!' 'ay! but yo'r mother 'll lie awake till yo' come home, sylvie!' but mrs. corney, having heard his question, broke in with all sorts of upbraidings. 'go home! not see t' new year in! why, what should take 'em home these six hours? wasn't there a moon as clear as day? and did such a time as this come often? and were they to break up the party before the new year came in? and was there not supper, with a spiced round of beef that had been in pickle pretty nigh sin' martinmas, and hams, and mince-pies, and what not? and if they thought any evil of her master's going to bed, or that by that early retirement he meant to imply that he did not bid his friends welcome, why he would not stay up beyond eight o'clock for king george upon his throne, as he'd tell them soon enough, if they'd only step upstairs and ask him. well; she knowed what it was to want a daughter when she was ailing, so she'd say nought more, but hasten supper. and this idea now took possession of mrs. corney's mind, for she would not willingly allow one of her guests to leave before they had done justice to her preparations; and, cutting her speech short, she hastily left sylvia and philip together. his heart beat fast; his feeling towards her had never been so strong or so distinct as since her refusal to kiss the 'candlestick.' he was on the point of speaking, of saying something explicitly tender, when the wooden trencher which the party were using at their play, came bowling between him and sylvia, and spun out its little period right betwixt them. every one was moving from chair to chair, and when the bustle was over sylvia was seated at some distance from him, and he left standing outside the circle, as if he were not playing. in fact, sylvia had unconsciously taken his place as actor in the game while he remained spectator, and, as it turned out, an auditor of a conversation not intended for his ears. he was wedged against the wall, close to the great eight-day clock, with its round moon-like smiling face forming a ludicrous contrast to his long, sallow, grave countenance, which was pretty much at the same level above the sanded floor. before him sat molly brunton and one of her sisters, their heads close together in too deep talk to attend to the progress of the game. philip's attention was caught by the words-'i'll lay any wager he kissed her when he ran off into t' parlour.' 'she's so coy she'd niver let him,' replied bessy corney. 'she couldn't help hersel'; and for all she looks so demure and prim now' (and then both heads were turned in the direction of sylvia), 'i'm as sure as i'm born that charley is not t' chap to lose his forfeit; and yet yo' see he says nought more about it, and she's left off being 'feared of him.' there was something in sylvia's look, ay, and in charley kinraid's, too, that shot conviction into philip's mind. he watched them incessantly during the interval before supper; they were intimate, and yet shy with each other, in a manner that enraged while it bewildered philip. what was charley saying to her in that whispered voice, as they passed each other? why did they linger near each other? why did sylvia look so dreamily happy, so startled at every call of the game, as if recalled from some pleasant idea? why did kinraid's eyes always seek her while hers were averted, or downcast, and her cheeks all aflame? philip's dark brow grew darker as he gazed. he, too, started when mrs. corney, close at his elbow, bade him go in to supper along with some of the elder ones, who were not playing; for the parlour was not large enough to hold all at once, even with the squeezing and cramming, and sitting together on chairs, which was not at all out of etiquette at monkshaven. philip was too reserved to express his disappointment and annoyance at being thus arrested in his painful watch over sylvia; but he had no appetite for the good things set before him, and found it hard work to smile a sickly smile when called upon by josiah pratt for applause at some country joke. when supper was ended, there was some little discussion between mrs. corney and her son-in-law as to whether the different individuals of the company should be called upon for songs or stories, as was the wont at such convivial meetings. brunton had been helping his mother-in-law in urging people to eat, heaping their plates over their shoulders with unexpected good things, filling the glasses at the upper end of the table, and the mugs which supplied the deficiency of glasses at the lower. and now, every one being satisfied, not to say stuffed to repletion, the two who had been attending to their wants stood still, hot and exhausted. 'they're a'most stawed,' said mrs. corney, with a pleased smile. 'it'll be manners t' ask some one as knows how to sing.' 'it may be manners for full men, but not for fasting,' replied brunton. 'folks in t' next room will be wanting their victual, and singing is allays out o' tune to empty bellies.' 'but there's them here as 'll take it ill if they're not asked. i heerd josiah pratt a-clearing his throat not a minute ago, an' he thinks as much on his singin' as a cock does on his crowin'.' 'if one sings i'm afeard all on 'em will like to hear their own pipes.' but their dilemma was solved by bessy corney, who opened the door to see if the hungry ones outside might not come in for their share of the entertainment; and in they rushed, bright and riotous, scarcely giving the first party time to rise from their seats ere they took their places. one or two young men, released from all their previous shyness, helped mrs. corney and her daughters to carry off such dishes as were actually empty. there was no time for changing or washing of plates; but then, as mrs. corney laughingly observed,-'we're a' on us friends, and some on us mayhap sweethearts; so no need to be particular about plates. them as gets clean ones is lucky; and them as doesn't, and cannot put up wi' plates that has been used, mun go without.' it seemed to be philip's luck this night to be pent up in places; for again the space between the benches and the wall was filled up by the in-rush before he had time to make his way out; and all he could do was to sit quiet where he was. but between the busy heads and over-reaching arms he could see charley and sylvia, sitting close together, talking and listening more than eating. she was in a new strange state of happiness not to be reasoned about, or accounted for, but in a state of more exquisite feeling than she had ever experienced before; when, suddenly lifting her eyes, she caught philip's face of extreme displeasure. 'oh,' said she, 'i must go. there's philip looking at me so.' 'philip!' said kinraid, with a sudden frown upon his face. 'my cousin,' she replied, instinctively comprehending what had flashed into his mind, and anxious to disclaim the suspicion of having a lover. 'mother told him to see me home, and he's noan one for staying up late.' 'but you needn't go. i'll see yo' home.' 'mother's but ailing,' said sylvia, a little conscience-smitten at having so entirely forgotten everything in the delight of the present, 'and i said i wouldn't be late.' 'and do you allays keep to your word?' asked he, with a tender meaning in his tone. 'allays; leastways i think so,' replied she, blushing. 'then if i ask you not to forget me, and you give me your word, i may be sure you'll keep it.' 'it wasn't i as forgot you,' said sylvia, so softly as not to be heard by him. he tried to make her repeat what she had said, but she would not, and he could only conjecture that it was something more tell-tale than she liked to say again, and that alone was very charming to him. 'i shall walk home with you,' said he, as sylvia at last rose to depart, warned by a further glimpse of philip's angry face. 'no!' said she, hastily, 'i can't do with yo''; for somehow she felt the need of pacifying philip, and knew in her heart that a third person joining their _tete-a-tete_ walk would only increase his displeasure. 'why not?' said charley, sharply. 'oh! i don't know, only please don't!' by this time her cloak and hood were on, and she was slowly making her way down her side of the room followed by charley, and often interrupted by indignant remonstrances against her departure, and the early breaking-up of the party. philip stood, hat in hand, in the doorway between the kitchen and parlour, watching her so intently that he forgot to be civil, and drew many a jest and gibe upon him for his absorption in his pretty cousin. when sylvia reached him, he said,-'yo're ready at last, are yo'?' 'yes,' she replied, in her little beseeching tone. 'yo've not been wanting to go long, han yo'? i ha' but just eaten my supper.' 'yo've been so full of talk, that's been the reason your supper lasted so long. that fellow's none going wi' us?' said he sharply, as he saw kinraid rummaging for his cap in a heap of men's clothes, thrown into the back-kitchen. 'no,' said sylvia, in affright at philip's fierce look and passionate tone. 'i telled him not.' but at that moment the heavy outer door was opened by daniel robson himself--bright, broad, and rosy, a jolly impersonation of winter. his large drover's coat was covered with snow-flakes, and through the black frame of the doorway might be seen a white waste world of sweeping fell and field, with the dark air filled with the pure down-fall. robson stamped his snow-laden feet and shook himself well, still standing on the mat, and letting a cold frosty current of fresh air into the great warm kitchen. he laughed at them all before he spoke. 'it's a coud new year as i'm lettin' in though it's noan t' new year yet. yo'll a' be snowed up, as sure as my name s dannel, if yo' stop for twel' o'clock. yo'd better mak' haste and go whoam. why, charley, my lad! how beest ta? who'd ha' thought o' seeing thee i' these parts again! nay, missus, nay, t' new year mun find its way int' t' house by itsel' for me; for a ha' promised my oud woman to bring sylvie whoam as quick as may-be; she's lyin' awake and frettin' about t' snow and what not. thank yo' kindly, missus, but a'll tak' nought to eat; just a drop o' somethin' hot to keep out coud, and wish yo' a' the compliments o' the season. philip, my man, yo'll not be sorry to be spared t' walk round by haytersbank such a neet. my missus were i' such a way about sylvie that a thought a'd just step off mysel', and have a peep at yo' a', and bring her some wraps. yo'r sheep will be a' folded, a reckon, measter pratt, for there'll niver be a nibble o' grass to be seen this two month, accordin' to my readin'; and a've been at sea long enough, and on land long enough t' know signs and wonders. it's good stuff that, any way, and worth comin' for,' after he had gulped down a tumblerful of half-and-half grog. 'kinraid, if ta doesn't come and see me afore thou'rt many days ouder, thee and me'll have words. come, sylvie, what art ta about, keepin' me here? here's mistress corney mixin' me another jorum. well, this time a'll give "t' married happy, and t' single wed!"' sylvia was all this while standing by her father quite ready for departure, and not a little relieved by his appearance as her convoy home. 'i'm ready to see haytersbank to-night, master!' said kinraid, with easy freedom--a freedom which philip envied, but could not have imitated, although he was deeply disappointed at the loss of his walk with sylvia, when he had intended to exercise the power his aunt had delegated to him of remonstrance if her behaviour had been light or thoughtless, and of warning if he saw cause to disapprove of any of her associates. after the robsons had left, a blank fell upon both charley and philip. in a few minutes, however, the former, accustomed to prompt decision, resolved that she and no other should be his wife. accustomed to popularity among women, and well versed in the incipient signs of their liking for him, he anticipated no difficulty in winning her. satisfied with the past, and pleasantly hopeful about the future, he found it easy to turn his attention to the next prettiest girl in the room, and to make the whole gathering bright with his ready good temper and buoyant spirit. mrs. corney had felt it her duty to press philip to stay, now that, as she said, he had no one but himself to see home, and the new year so near coming in. to any one else in the room she would have added the clinching argument, 'a shall take it very unkind if yo' go now'; but somehow she could not say this, for in truth philip's look showed that he would be but a wet blanket on the merriment of the party. so, with as much civility as could be mustered up between them, he took leave. shutting the door behind him, he went out into the dreary night, and began his lonesome walk back to monkshaven. the cold sleet almost blinded him as the sea-wind drove it straight in his face; it cut against him as it was blown with drifting force. the roar of the wintry sea came borne on the breeze; there was more light from the whitened ground than from the dark laden sky above. the field-paths would have been a matter of perplexity, had it not been for the well-known gaps in the dyke-side, which showed the whitened land beyond, between the two dark stone walls. yet he went clear and straight along his way, having unconsciously left all guidance to the animal instinct which co-exists with the human soul, and sometimes takes strange charge of the human body, when all the nobler powers of the individual are absorbed in acute suffering. at length he was in the lane, toiling up the hill, from which, by day, monkshaven might be seen. now all features of the landscape before him were lost in the darkness of night, against which the white flakes came closer and nearer, thicker and faster. on a sudden, the bells of monkshaven church rang out a welcome to the new year, 1796. from the direction of the wind, it seemed as if the sound was flung with strength and power right into philip's face. he walked down the hill to its merry sound--its merry sound, his heavy heart. as he entered the long high street of monkshaven he could see the watching lights put out in parlour, chamber, or kitchen. the new year had come, and expectation was ended. reality had begun. he turned to the right, into the court where he lodged with alice rose. there was a light still burning there, and cheerful voices were heard. he opened the door; alice, her daughter, and coulson stood as if awaiting him. hester's wet cloak hung on a chair before the fire; she had her hood on, for she and coulson had been to the watch-night. the solemn excitement of the services had left its traces upon her countenance and in her mind. there was a spiritual light in her usually shadowed eyes, and a slight flush on her pale cheek. merely personal and self-conscious feelings were merged in a loving good-will to all her fellow-creatures. under the influence of this large charity, she forgot her habitual reserve, and came forward as philip entered to meet him with her new year's wishes--wishes that she had previously interchanged with the other two. 'a happy new year to you, philip, and may god have you in his keeping all the days thereof!' he took her hand, and shook it warmly in reply. the flush on her cheek deepened as she withdrew it. alice rose said something curtly about the lateness of the hour and her being much tired; and then she and her daughter went upstairs to the front chamber, and philip and coulson to that which they shared at the back of the house. chapter xiii perplexities coulson and philip were friendly, but not intimate. they never had had a dispute, they never were confidential with each other; in truth, they were both reserved and silent men, and, probably, respected each other the more for being so self-contained. there was a private feeling in coulson's heart which would have made a less amiable fellow dislike philip. but of this the latter was unconscious: they were not apt to exchange many words in the room which they occupied jointly. coulson asked philip if he had enjoyed himself at the corneys', and philip replied,-'not much; such parties are noane to my liking.' 'and yet thou broke off from t' watch-night to go there.' no answer; so coulson went on, with a sense of the duty laid upon him, to improve the occasion--the first that had presented itself since the good old methodist minister had given his congregation the solemn warning to watch over the opportunities of various kinds which the coming year would present. 'jonas barclay told us as the pleasures o' this world were like apples o' sodom, pleasant to look at, but ashes to taste.' coulson wisely left philip to make the application for himself. if he did he made no sign, but threw himself on his bed with a heavy sigh. 'are yo' not going to undress?' said coulson, as he covered him up in bed. there had been a long pause of silence. philip did not answer him, and he thought he had fallen asleep. but he was roused from his first slumber by hepburn's soft movements about the room. philip had thought better of it, and, with some penitence in his heart for his gruffness to the unoffending coulson, was trying not to make any noise while he undressed. but he could not sleep. he kept seeing the corneys' kitchen and the scenes that had taken place in it, passing like a pageant before his closed eyes. then he opened them in angry weariness at the recurring vision, and tried to make out the outlines of the room and the furniture in the darkness. the white ceiling sloped into the whitewashed walls, and against them he could see the four rush-bottomed chairs, the looking-glass hung on one side, the old carved oak-chest (his own property, with the initials of forgotten ancestors cut upon it), which held his clothes; the boxes that belonged to coulson, sleeping soundly in the bed in the opposite corner of the room; the casement window in the roof, through which the snowy ground on the steep hill-side could be plainly seen; and when he got so far as this in the catalogue of the room, he fell into a troubled feverish sleep, which lasted two or three hours; and then he awoke with a start, and a consciousness of uneasiness, though what about he could not remember at first. when he recollected all that had happened the night before, it impressed him much more favourably than it had done at the time. if not joy, hope had come in the morning; and, at any rate, he could be up and be doing, for the late wintry light was stealing down the hill-side, and he knew that, although coulson lay motionless in his sleep, it was past their usual time of rising. still, as it was new year's day, a time of some licence, philip had mercy on his fellow-shopman, and did not waken him till just as he was leaving the room. carrying his shoes in his hand, he went softly downstairs for he could see from the top of the flight that neither alice nor her daughter was down yet, as the kitchen shutters were not unclosed. it was mrs. rose's habit to rise early, and have all bright and clean against her lodgers came down; but then, in general, she went to rest before nine o'clock, whereas the last night she had not gone till past twelve. philip went about undoing the shutters, and trying to break up the raking coal, with as little noise as might be, for he had compassion on the tired sleepers. the kettle had not been filled, probably because mrs. rose had been unable to face the storm of the night before, in taking it to the pump just at the entrance of the court. when philip came back from filling it, he found alice and hester both in the kitchen, and trying to make up for lost time by hastening over their work. hester looked busy and notable with her gown pinned up behind her, and her hair all tucked away under a clean linen cap; but alice was angry with herself for her late sleeping, and that and other causes made her speak crossly to philip, as he came in with his snowy feet and well-filled kettle. 'look the' there! droppin' and drippin' along t' flags as was cleaned last night, and meddlin' wi' woman's work as a man has no business wi'.' philip was surprised and annoyed. he had found relief from his own thoughts in doing what he believed would help others. he gave up the kettle to her snatching hands, and sate down behind the door in momentary ill-temper. but the kettle was better filled, and consequently heavier than the old woman expected, and she could not manage to lift it to the crook from which it generally hung suspended. she looked round for hester, but she was gone into the back-kitchen. in a minute philip was at her side, and had heaved it to its place for her. she looked in his face for a moment wistfully, but hardly condescended to thank him; at least the sound of the words did not pass the lips that formed them. rebuffed by her manner, he went back to his old seat, and mechanically watched the preparations for breakfast; but his thoughts went back to the night before, and the comparative ease of his heart was gone. the first stir of a new day had made him feel as if he had had no sufficient cause for his annoyance and despondency the previous evening; but now, condemned to sit quiet, he reviewed looks and words, and saw just reason for his anxiety. after some consideration he resolved to go that very night to haytersbank, and have some talk with either sylvia or her mother; what the exact nature of this purposed conversation should be, he did not determine; much would depend on sylvia's manner and mood, and on her mother's state of health; but at any rate something would be learnt. during breakfast something was learnt nearer home; though not all that a man less unconscious and more vain than philip might have discovered. he only found out that mrs. rose was displeased with him for not having gone to the watch-night with hester, according to the plan made some weeks before. but he soothed his conscience by remembering that he had made no promise; he had merely spoken of his wish to be present at the service, about which hester was speaking; and although at the time and for a good while afterwards, he had fully intended going, yet as there had been william coulson to accompany her, his absence could not have been seriously noticed. still he was made uncomfortable by mrs. rose's change of manner; once or twice he said to himself that she little knew how miserable he had been during his 'gay evening,' as she would persist in calling it, or she would not talk at him with such persevering bitterness this morning. before he left for the shop, he spoke of his intention of going to see how his aunt was, and of paying her a new year's day visit. hepburn and coulson took it in turns week and week about to go first home to dinner; the one who went first sate down with mrs. rose and her daughter, instead of having his portion put in the oven to keep warm for him. to-day it was hepburn's turn to be last. all morning the shop was full with customers, come rather to offer good wishes than to buy, and with an unspoken remembrance of the cake and wine which the two hospitable brothers foster made a point of offering to all comers on new year's day. it was busy work for all--for hester on her side, where caps, ribbons, and women's gear were exclusively sold--for the shopmen and boys in the grocery and drapery department. philip was trying to do his business with his mind far away; and the consequence was that his manner was not such as to recommend him to the customers, some of whom recollected it as very different, courteous and attentive, if grave and sedate. one buxom farmer's wife noticed the change to him. she had a little girl with her, of about five years old, that she had lifted up on the counter, and who was watching philip with anxious eyes, occasionally whispering in her mother's ear, and then hiding her face against her cloak. 'she's thought a deal o' coming to see yo', and a dunnot think as yo' mind her at all. my pretty, he's clean forgotten as how he said last new year's day, he'd gi' thee a barley-sugar stick, if thou'd hem him a handkercher by this.' the child's face was buried in the comfortable breadth of duffle at these words, while the little outstretched hand held a small square of coarse linen. 'ay, she's noane forgotten it, and has done her five stitches a day, bless her; and a dunnot believe as yo' know her again. she's phoebe moorsom, and a'm hannah, and a've dealt at t' shop reg'lar this fifteen year.' 'i'm very sorry,' said philip. 'i was up late last night, and i'm a bit dazed to-day. well! this is nice work, phoebe, and i'm sure i'm very much beholden to yo'. and here's five sticks o' barley-sugar, one for every stitch, and thank you kindly, mrs. moorsom, too.' philip took the handkerchief and hoped he had made honourable amends for his want of recognition. but the wee lassie refused to be lifted down, and whispered something afresh into her mother's ear, who smiled and bade her be quiet. philip saw, however, that there was some wish ungratified on the part of the little maiden which he was expected to inquire into, and, accordingly, he did his duty. 'she's a little fool; she says yo' promised to gi'e her a kiss, and t' make her yo'r wife.' the child burrowed her face closer into her mother's neck, and refused to allow the kiss which philip willingly offered. all he could do was to touch the back of the little white fat neck with his lips. the mother carried her off only half satisfied, and philip felt that he must try and collect his scattered wits, and be more alive to the occasion. towards the dinner-hour the crowd slackened; hester began to replenish decanters and bottles, and to bring out a fresh cake before she went home to dinner; and coulson and philip looked over the joint present they always made to her on this day. it was a silk handkerchief of the prettiest colours they could pick out of the shop, intended for her to wear round her neck. each tried to persuade the other to give it to her, for each was shy of the act of presentation. coulson was, however, the most resolute; and when she returned from the parlour the little parcel was in philip's hands. 'here, hester,' said he, going round the counter to her, just as she was leaving the shop. 'it's from coulson and me; a handkerchief for yo' to wear; and we wish yo' a happy new year, and plenty on 'em; and there's many a one wishes the same.' he took her hand as he said this. she went a little paler, and her eyes brightened as though they would fill with tears as they met his; she could not have helped it, do what she would. but she only said, 'thank yo' kindly,' and going up to coulson she repeated the words and action to him; and then they went off together to dinner. there was a lull of business for the next hour. john and jeremiah were dining like the rest of the world. even the elder errand-boy had vanished. philip rearranged disorderly goods; and then sate down on the counter by the window; it was the habitual place for the one who stayed behind; for excepting on market-day there was little or no custom during the noon-hour. formerly he used to move the drapery with which the window was ornamented, and watch the passers-by with careless eye. but now, though he seemed to gaze abroad, he saw nothing but vacancy. all the morning since he got up he had been trying to fight through his duties--leaning against a hope--a hope that first had bowed, and then had broke as soon as he really tried its weight. there was not a sign of sylvia's liking for him to be gathered from the most careful recollection of the past evening. it was of no use thinking that there was. it was better to give it up altogether and at once. but what if he could not? what if the thought of her was bound up with his life; and that once torn out by his own free will, the very roots of his heart must come also? no; he was resolved he would go on; as long as there was life there was hope; as long as sylvia remained unpledged to any one else, there was a chance for him. he would remodel his behaviour to her. he could not be merry and light-hearted like other young men; his nature was not cast in that mould; and the early sorrows that had left him a lonely orphan might have matured, but had not enlivened, his character. he thought with some bitterness on the power of easy talking about trifles which some of those he had met with at the corneys' had exhibited. but then he felt stirring within him a force of enduring love which he believed to be unusual, and which seemed as if it must compel all things to his wish in the end. a year or so ago he had thought much of his own cleverness and his painfully acquired learning, and he had imagined that these were the qualities which were to gain sylvia. but now, whether he had tried them and had failed to win even her admiration, or whether some true instinct had told him that a woman's love may be gained in many ways sooner than by mere learning, he was only angry with himself for his past folly in making himself her school--nay, her taskmaster. to-night, though, he would start off on a new tack. he would not even upbraid her for her conduct the night before; he had shown her his displeasure at the time; but she should see how tender and forgiving he could be. he would lure her to him rather than find fault with her. there had perhaps been too much of that already. when coulson came back philip went to his solitary dinner. in general he was quite alone while eating it; but to-day alice rose chose to bear him company. she watched him with cold severe eye for some time, until he had appeased his languid appetite. then she began with the rebuke she had in store for him; a rebuke the motives to which were not entirely revealed even to herself. 'thou 're none so keen after thy food as common,' she began. 'plain victuals goes ill down after feastin'.' philip felt the colour mount to his face; he was not in the mood for patiently standing the brunt of the attack which he saw was coming, and yet he had a reverent feeling for woman and for age. he wished she would leave him alone; but he only said--'i had nought but a slice o' cold beef for supper, if you'll call that feasting.' 'neither do godly ways savour delicately after the pleasures of the world,' continued she, unheeding his speech. 'thou wert wont to seek the house of the lord, and i thought well on thee; but of late thou'st changed, and fallen away, and i mun speak what is in my heart towards thee.' 'mother,' said philip, impatiently (both he and coulson called alice 'mother' at times), 'i don't think i am fallen away, and any way i cannot stay now to be--it's new year's day, and t' shop is throng.' but alice held up her hand. her speech was ready, and she must deliver it. 'shop here, shop there. the flesh and the devil are gettin' hold on yo', and yo' need more nor iver to seek t' ways o' grace. new year's day comes and says, "watch and pray," and yo' say, "nay, i'll seek feasts and market-places, and let times and seasons come and go without heedin' into whose presence they're hastening me." time was, philip, when thou'd niver ha' letten a merry-making keep thee fra' t' watch-night, and t' company o' the godly.' 'i tell yo' it was no merry-making to me,' said philip, with sharpness, as he left the house. alice sat down on the nearest seat, and leant her head on her wrinkled hand. 'he's tangled and snared,' said she; 'my heart has yearned after him, and i esteemed him as one o' the elect. and more nor me yearns after him. o lord, i have but one child! o lord, spare her! but o'er and above a' i would like to pray for his soul, that satan might not have it, for he came to me but a little lad.' at that moment philip, smitten by his conscience for his hard manner of speech, came back; but alice did not hear or see him till he was close by her, and then he had to touch her to recall her attention. 'mother,' said he, 'i was wrong. i'm fretted by many things. i shouldn't ha' spoken so. it was ill-done of me.' 'oh, my lad!' said she, looking up and putting her thin arm on his shoulder as he stooped, 'satan is desiring after yo' that he may sift yo' as wheat. bide at whoam, bide at whoam, and go not after them as care nought for holy things. why need yo' go to haytersbank this night?' philip reddened. he could not and would not give it up, and yet it was difficult to resist the pleading of the usually stern old woman. 'nay,' said he, withdrawing himself ever so little from her hold; 'my aunt is but ailing, they're my own flesh and blood, and as good folks as needs be, though they mayn't be o' our--o' your way o' thinking in a' things.' 'our ways--your ways o' thinking, says he, as if they were no longer his'n. and as good folks as need be,' repeated she, with returning severity. 'them's satan's words, tho' yo' spoke 'em, philip. i can do nought again satan, but i can speak to them as can; an' we'll see which pulls hardest, for it'll be better for thee to be riven and rent i' twain than to go body and soul to hell.' 'but don't think, mother,' said philip, his last words of conciliation, for the clock had given warning for two, 'as i'm boun' for hell, just because i go t' see my own folks, all i ha' left o' kin.' and once more, after laying his hand with as much of a caress as was in his nature on hers, he left the house. probably alice would have considered the first words that greeted philip on his entrance into the shop as an answer to her prayer, for they were such as put a stop to his plan of going to see sylvia that evening; and if alice had formed her inchoate thoughts into words, sylvia would have appeared as the nearest earthly representative of the spirit of temptation whom she dreaded for philip. as he took his place behind the counter, coulson said to him in a low voice,-'jeremiah foster has been round to bid us to sup wi' him to-night. he says that he and john have a little matter o' business to talk over with us.' a glance from his eyes to philip told the latter that coulson believed the business spoken of had something to do with the partnership, respecting which there had been a silent intelligence for some time between the shopmen. 'and what did thou say?' asked philip, doggedly unwilling, even yet, to give up his purposed visit. 'say! why, what could a say, but that we'd come? there was summat up, for sure; and summat as he thought we should be glad on. i could tell it fra' t' look on his face.' 'i don't think as i can go,' said philip, feeling just then as if the long-hoped-for partnership was as nothing compared to his plan. it was always distasteful to him to have to give up a project, or to disarrange an intended order of things, such was his nature; but to-day it was absolute pain to yield his own purpose. 'why, man alive?' said coulson, in amaze at his reluctance. 'i didn't say i mightn't go,' said philip, weighing consequences, until called off to attend to customers. in the course of the afternoon, however, he felt himself more easy in deferring his visit to haytersbank till the next evening. charley kinraid entered the shop, accompanied by molly brunton and her sisters; and though they all went towards hester's side of the shop, and philip and coulson had many people to attend to, yet hepburn's sharpened ears caught much of what the young women were saying. from that he gathered that kinraid had promised them new year's gifts, for the purchase of which they were come; and after a little more listening he learnt that kinraid was returning to shields the next day, having only come over to spend a holiday with his relations, and being tied with ship's work at the other end. they all talked together lightly and merrily, as if his going or staying was almost a matter of indifference to himself and his cousins. the principal thought of the young women was to secure the articles they most fancied; charley kinraid was (so philip thought) especially anxious that the youngest and prettiest should be pleased. hepburn watched him perpetually with a kind of envy of his bright, courteous manner, the natural gallantry of the sailor. if it were but clear that sylvia took as little thought of him as he did of her, to all appearance, philip could even have given him praise for manly good looks, and a certain kind of geniality of disposition which made him ready to smile pleasantly at all strangers, from babies upwards. as the party turned to leave the shop they saw philip, the guest of the night before; and they came over to shake hands with him across the counter; kinraid's hand was proffered among the number. last night philip could not have believed it possible that such a demonstration of fellowship should have passed between them; and perhaps there was a slight hesitation of manner on his part, for some idea or remembrance crossed kinraid's mind which brought a keen searching glance into the eyes which for a moment were fastened on philip's face. in spite of himself, and during the very action of hand-shaking, philip felt a cloud come over his face, not altering or moving his features, but taking light and peace out of his countenance. molly brunton began to say something, and he gladly turned to look at her. she was asking him why he went away so early, for they had kept it up for four hours after he left, and last of all, she added (turning to kinraid), her cousin charley had danced a hornpipe among the platters on the ground. philip hardly knew what he said in reply, the mention of that pas seul lifted such a weight off his heart. he could smile now, after his grave fashion, and would have shaken hands again with kinraid had it been required; for it seemed to him that no one, caring ever so little in the way that he did for sylvia, could have borne four mortal hours of a company where she had been, and was not; least of all could have danced a hornpipe, either from gaiety of heart, or even out of complaisance. he felt as if the yearning after the absent one would have been a weight to his legs, as well as to his spirit; and he imagined that all men were like himself. chapter xiv partnership as darkness closed in, and the new year's throng became scarce, philip's hesitation about accompanying coulson faded away. he was more comfortable respecting sylvia, and his going to see her might be deferred; and, after all, he felt that the wishes of his masters ought to be attended to, and the honour of an invitation to the private house of jeremiah not to be slighted for anything short of a positive engagement. besides, the ambitious man of business existed strongly in philip. it would never do to slight advances towards the second great earthly object in his life; one also on which the first depended. so when the shop was closed, the two set out down bridge street to cross the river to the house of jeremiah foster. they stood a moment on the bridge to breathe the keen fresh sea air after their busy day. the waters came down, swollen full and dark, with rapid rushing speed from the snow-fed springs high up on the moorland above. the close-packed houses in the old town seemed a cluster of white roofs irregularly piled against the more unbroken white of the hill-side. lights twinkled here and there in the town, and were slung from stern and bow of the ships in the harbour. the air was very still, settling in for a frost; so still that all distant sounds seemed near: the rumble of a returning cart in the high street, the voices on board ship, the closing of shutters and barring of doors in the new town to which they were bound. but the sharp air was filled, as it were, with saline particles in a freezing state; little pungent crystals of sea salt burning lips and cheeks with their cold keenness. it would not do to linger here in the very centre of the valley up which passed the current of atmosphere coming straight with the rushing tide from the icy northern seas. besides, there was the unusual honour of a supper with jeremiah foster awaiting them. he had asked each of them separately to a meal before now; but they had never gone together, and they felt that there was something serious in the conjuncture. they began to climb the steep heights leading to the freshly-built rows of the new town of monkshaven, feeling as if they were rising into aristocratic regions where no shop profaned the streets. jeremiah foster's house was one of six, undistinguished in size, or shape, or colour; but noticed in the daytime by all passers-by for its spotless cleanliness of lintel and doorstep, window and window frame. the very bricks seemed as though they came in for the daily scrubbing which brightened handle, knocker, all down to the very scraper. the two young men felt as shy of the interview with their master under such unusual relations of guest and host, as a girl does of her first party. each rather drew back from the decided step of knocking at the door; but with a rebuffing shake at his own folly, philip was the one to give a loud single rap. as if they had been waited for, the door flew open, and a middle-aged servant stood behind, as spotless and neat as the house itself; and smiled a welcome to the familiar faces. 'let me dust yo' a bit, william,' said she, suiting the action to the word. 'you've been leanin' again some whitewash, a'll be bound. ay, philip,' continued she, turning him round with motherly freedom, 'yo'll do if yo'll but gi' your shoon a polishin' wipe on yon other mat. this'n for takin' t' roughest mud off. measter allays polishes on that.' in the square parlour the same precise order was observed. every article of furniture was free from speck of dirt or particle of dust; and everything was placed either in a parallel line, or at exact right-angles with every other. even john and jeremiah sat in symmetry on opposite sides of the fire-place; the very smiles on their honest faces seemed drawn to a line of exactitude. such formality, however admirable, was not calculated to promote ease: it was not until after supper--until a good quantity of yorkshire pie had been swallowed, and washed down, too, with the best and most generous wine in jeremiah's cellar--that there was the least geniality among them, in spite of the friendly kindness of the host and his brother. the long silence, during which mute thanks for the meal were given, having come to an end, jeremiah called for pipes, and three of the party began to smoke. politics in those days were tickle subjects to meddle with, even in the most private company. the nation was in a state of terror against france, and against any at home who might be supposed to sympathise with the enormities she had just been committing. the oppressive act against seditious meetings had been passed the year before; and people were doubtful to what extremity of severity it might be construed. even the law authorities forgot to be impartial, but either their alarms or their interests made too many of them vehement partisans instead of calm arbiters, and thus destroyed the popular confidence in what should have been considered the supreme tribunal of justice. yet for all this, there were some who dared to speak of reform of parliament, as a preliminary step to fair representation of the people, and to a reduction of the heavy war-taxation that was imminent, if not already imposed. but these pioneers of 1830 were generally obnoxious. the great body of the people gloried in being tories and haters of the french, with whom they were on tenter-hooks to fight, almost unaware of the rising reputation of the young corsican warrior, whose name would be used ere a dozen years had passed to hush english babies with a terror such as that of marlborough once had for the french. at such a place as monkshaven all these opinions were held in excess. one or two might, for the mere sake of argument, dispute on certain points of history or government; but they took care to be very sure of their listeners before such arguments touched on anything of the present day; for it had been not unfrequently found that the public duty of prosecuting opinions not your own overrode the private duty of respecting confidence. most of the monkshaven politicians confined themselves, therefore, to such general questions as these: 'could an englishman lick more than four frenchmen at a time?' 'what was the proper punishment for members of the corresponding society (correspondence with the french directory), hanging and quartering, or burning?' 'would the forthcoming child of the princess of wales be a boy or a girl? if a girl, would it be more loyal to call it charlotte or elizabeth?' the fosters were quite secure enough of their guests this evening to have spoken freely on politics had they been so inclined. and they did begin on the outrages which had been lately offered to the king in crossing st james's park to go and open the house of lords; but soon, so accustomed were their minds to caution and restraint, the talk dropped down to the high price of provisions. bread at 1_s_. 3_d_. the quartern loaf, according to the london test. wheat at 120_s_. per quarter, as the home-baking northerners viewed the matter; and then the conversation died away to an ominous silence. john looked at jeremiah, as if asking him to begin. jeremiah was the host, and had been a married man. jeremiah returned the look with the same meaning in it. john, though a bachelor, was the elder brother. the great church bell, brought from the monkshaven monastery centuries ago, high up on the opposite hill-side, began to ring nine o'clock; it was getting late. jeremiah began: 'it seems a bad time for starting any one on business, wi' prices and taxes and bread so dear; but john and i are getting into years, and we've no children to follow us: yet we would fain draw out of some of our worldly affairs. we would like to give up the shop, and stick to banking, to which there seemeth a plain path. but first there is the stock and goodwill of the shop to be disposed on.' a dead pause. this opening was not favourable to the hopes of the two moneyless young men who had been hoping to succeed their masters by the more gradual process of partnership. but it was only the kind of speech that had been agreed upon by the two brothers with a view of impressing on hepburn and coulson the great and unusual responsibility of the situation into which the fosters wished them to enter. in some ways the talk of many was much less simple and straightforward in those days than it is now. the study of effect shown in the london diners-out of the last generation, who prepared their conversation beforehand, was not without its parallel in humbler spheres, and for different objects than self-display. the brothers foster had all but rehearsed the speeches they were about to make this evening. they were aware of the youth of the parties to whom they were going to make a most favourable proposal; and they dreaded that if that proposal was too lightly made, it would be too lightly considered, and the duties involved in it too carelessly entered upon. so the _role_ of one brother was to suggest, that of the other to repress. the young men, too, had their reserves. they foresaw, and had long foreseen, what was coming that evening. they were impatient to hear it in distinct words; and yet they had to wait, as if unconscious, during all the long preamble. do age and youth never play the same parts now? to return. john foster replied to his brother: 'the stock and goodwill! that would take much wealth. and there will be fixtures to be considered. philip, canst thee tell me the exact amount of stock in the shop at present?' it had only just been taken; philip had it at his fingers' ends. 'one thousand nine hundred and forty-one pounds, thirteen shillings and twopence.' coulson looked at him in a little dismay, and could not repress a sigh. the figures put into words and spoken aloud seemed to indicate so much larger an amount of money than when quickly written down in numerals. but philip read the countenances, nay, by some process of which he was not himself aware, he read the minds of the brothers, and felt no dismay at what he saw there. 'and the fixtures?' asked john foster. 'the appraiser valued them at four hundred and thirty-five pounds three and sixpence when father died. we have added to them since, but we will reckon them at that. how much does that make with the value of the stock?' 'two thousand one hundred and seventy-six pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence,' said philip. coulson had done the sum quicker, but was too much disheartened by the amount to speak. 'and the goodwill?' asked the pitiless john. 'what dost thee set that at?' 'i think, brother, that that would depend on who came forward with the purchase-money of the stock and fixtures. to some folks we might make it sit easy, if they were known to us, and those as we wished well to. if philip and william here, for instance, said they'd like to purchase the business, i reckon thee and me would not ask 'em so much as we should ask millers' (millers was an upstart petty rival shop at the end of the bridge in the new town). 'i wish philip and william was to come after us,' said john. 'but that's out of the question,' he continued, knowing all the while that, far from being out of the question, it was the very question, and that it was as good as settled at this very time. no one spoke. then jeremiah went on: 'it's out of the question, i reckon?' he looked at the two young men. coulson shook his head. philip more bravely said,-'i have fifty-three pounds seven and fourpence in yo'r hands, master john, and it's all i have i' the world.' 'it's a pity,' said john, and again they were silent. half-past nine struck. it was time to be beginning to make an end. 'perhaps, brother, they have friends who could advance 'em the money. we might make it sit light to them, for the sake of their good service?' philip replied,-'there's no one who can put forwards a penny for me: i have but few kin, and they have little to spare beyond what they need.' coulson said-'my father and mother have nine on us.' 'let alone, let alone!' said john, relenting fast; for he was weary of his part of cold, stern prudence. 'brother, i think we have enough of this world's goods to do what we like wi' our own.' jeremiah was a little scandalized at the rapid melting away of assumed character, and took a good pull at his pipe before he replied-'upwards of two thousand pounds is a large sum to set on the well-being and well-doing of two lads, the elder of whom is not three-and-twenty. i fear we must look farther a-field.' 'why, john,' replied jeremiah, 'it was but yesterday thee saidst thee would rather have philip and william than any men o' fifty that thee knowed. and now to bring up their youth again them.' 'well, well! t' half on it is thine, and thou shall do even as thou wilt. but i think as i must have security for my moiety, for it's a risk--a great risk. have ye any security to offer? any expectations? any legacies, as other folk have a life-interest in at present?' no; neither of them had. so jeremiah rejoined-'then, i suppose, i mun do as thee dost, john, and take the security of character. and it's a great security too, lads, and t' best o' all, and one that i couldn't ha' done without; no, not if yo'd pay me down five thousand for goodwill, and stock, and fixtures. for john foster and son has been a shop i' monkshaven this eighty years and more; and i dunnot think there's a man living--or dead, for that matter--as can say fosters wronged him of a penny, or gave short measure to a child or a cousin betty.' they all four shook hands round with the same heartiness as if it had been a legal ceremony necessary to the completion of the partnership. the old men's faces were bright with smiles; the eyes of the young ones sparkled with hope. 'but, after all,' said jeremiah, 'we've not told you particulars. yo're thanking us for a pig in a poke; but we had more forethought, and we put all down on a piece o' paper.' he took down a folded piece of paper from the mantel-shelf, put on his horn spectacles, and began to read aloud, occasionally peering over his glasses to note the effect on the countenances of the young men. the only thing he was in the habit of reading aloud was a chapter in the bible daily to his housekeeper servant; and, like many, he reserved a peculiar tone for that solemn occupation--a tone which he unconsciously employed for the present enumeration of pounds, shillings, and pence. 'average returns of the last three years, one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, three shillings, and seven penny and one-sixth a week. profits thereupon thirty-four per cent.--as near as may be. clear profits of the concern, after deducting all expenses except rent--for t' house is our own--one thousand two hundred and two pound a year.' this was far more than either hepburn or coulson had imagined it to be; and a look of surprise, almost amounting to dismay, crept over their faces, in spite of their endeavour to keep simply motionless and attentive. 'it's a deal of money, lads, and the lord give you grace to guide it,' said jeremiah, putting down his paper for a minute. 'amen,' said john, shaking his head to give effect to his word. 'now what we propose is this,' continued jeremiah, beginning afresh to refer to his paper: 'we will call t' value of stock and fixtures two thousand one hundred and fifty. you may have john holden, appraiser and auctioneer, in to set a price on them if yo' will; or yo' may look over books and bills; or, better still, do both, and so check one again t'other; but for t' sake o' making the ground o' the bargain, i state the sum as above; and i reckon it so much capital left in yo'r hands for the use o' which yo're bound to pay us five per cent. quarterly--that's one hundred and seven pound ten per annum at least for t' first year; and after it will be reduced by the gradual payment on our money, which must be at the rate of twenty per cent., thus paying us our principal back in five years. and the rent, including all back yards, right of wharfage, warehouse, and premises, is reckoned by us to be sixty-five pound per annum. so yo' will have to pay us, john and jeremiah foster, brothers, six hundred and twelve pound ten out of the profits of the first year, leaving, at the present rate of profits, about five hundred and eighty-nine pound ten, for the share to be divided between yo'.' the plan had, in all its details, been carefully arranged by the two brothers. they were afraid lest hepburn and coulson should be dazzled by the amount of profits, and had so arranged the sliding-scale of payment as to reduce the first year's income to what the elder men thought a very moderate sum, but what to the younger ones appeared an amount of wealth such as they, who had neither of them ever owned much more than fifty pounds, considered almost inexhaustible. it was certainly a remarkable instance of prosperity and desert meeting together so early in life. for a moment or two the brothers were disappointed at not hearing any reply from either of them. then philip stood up, for he felt as if anything he could say sitting down would not be sufficiently expressive of gratitude, and william instantly followed his example. hepburn began in a formal manner, something the way in which he had read in the york newspapers that honourable members returned thanks when their health was given. 'i can hardly express my feelings' (coulson nudged him) 'his feelings, too--of gratitude. oh, master john! master jeremiah, i thought it might come i' time; nay, i've thought it might come afore long; but i niver thought as it would be so much, or made so easy. we've got good kind friends--we have, have we not, william?--and we'll do our best, and i hope as we shall come up to their wishes.' philip's voice quivered a little, as some remembrance passed across his mind; at this unusual moment of expansion out it came. 'i wish mother could ha' seen this day.' 'she shall see a better day, my lad, when thy name and william's is painted over t' shop-door, and j. and j. foster blacked out.' 'nay, master,' said william, 'that mun never be. i'd a'most sooner not come in for the business. anyhow, it must be 'late j. and j. foster,' and i'm not sure as i can stomach that.' 'well, well, william,' said john foster, highly gratified, 'there be time enough to talk over that. there was one thing more to be said, was there not, brother jeremiah? we do not wish to have this talked over in monkshaven until shortly before the time when yo' must enter on the business. we have our own arrangements to make wi' regard to the banking concern, and there'll be lawyer's work to do, after yo've examined books and looked over stock again together; may-be we've overstated it, or t' fixtures aren't worth so much as we said. anyhow yo' must each on yo' give us yo'r word for to keep fra' naming this night's conversation to any one. meantime, jeremiah and i will have to pay accounts, and take a kind of farewell of the merchants and manufacturers with whom fosters have had dealings this seventy or eighty year; and when and where it seems fitting to us we will take one of yo' to introduce as our successors and friends. but all that's to come. but yo' must each give us yo'r word not to name what has passed here to any one till further speech on the subject has passed between us.' coulson immediately gave the promise. philip's assent came lagging. he had thought of sylvia living, almost as much as of the dead mother, whose last words had been a committal of her child to the father of the friendless; and now that a short delay was placed between the sight of the cup and his enjoyment of it, there was an impatient chafing in the mind of the composed and self-restrained philip; and then repentance quick as lightning effaced the feeling, and he pledged himself to the secrecy which was enjoined. some few more details as to their mode of procedure--of verifying the fosters' statements, which to the younger men seemed a perfectly unnecessary piece of business--of probable journeys and introductions, and then farewell was bidden, and hepburn and coulson were in the passage donning their wraps, and rather to their indignation being assisted therein by martha, who was accustomed to the office with her own master. suddenly they were recalled into the parlour. john foster was fumbling with the papers a little nervously: jeremiah spoke-'we have not thought it necessary to commend hester rose to you; if she had been a lad she would have had a third o' the business along wi' yo'. being a woman, it's ill troubling her with a partnership; better give her a fixed salary till such time as she marries.' he looked a little knowingly and curiously at the faces of the young men he addressed. william coulson seemed sheepish and uncomfortable, but said nothing, leaving it as usual to philip to be spokesman. 'if we hadn't cared for hester for hersel', master, we should ha' cared for her as being forespoken by yo'. yo' and master john shall fix what we ought t' pay her; and i think i may make bold to say that, as our income rises, hers shall too--eh, coulson?' (a sound of assent quite distinct enough); 'for we both look on her as a sister and on alice like a mother, as i told her only this very day.' end of vol. i. [illustration: "it seemed scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness"--_page 231_] the secret garden by frances hodgson burnett _author of_ "_the shuttle_," "_the making of a marchioness_," "_the methods of lady walderhurst_," "_that lass o' lowries_," "_through one administration_," "_little lord fauntleroy_" "_a lady of quality_," etc. [illustration] new york frederick a. stokes company publishers _copyright, 1911, by_ frances hodgson burnett _copyright, 1910, 1911, by_ the phillips publishing co. _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian._ _august, 1911._ contents chapter page i there is no one left 1 ii mistress mary quite contrary 10 iii across the moor 23 iv martha 30 v the cry in the corridor 55 vi "there was some one crying--there was!" 65 vii the key of the garden 75 viii the robin who showed the way 85 ix the strangest house any one ever lived in 97 x dickon 111 xi the nest of the missel thrush 128 xii "might i have a bit of earth?" 140 xiii "i am colin" 153 xiv a young rajah 172 xv nest building 189 xvi "i won't!" said mary 207 xvii a tantrum 218 xviii "tha' munnot waste no time" 229 xix "it has come!" 239 xx "i shall live forever--and ever--and ever!" 255 xxi ben weatherstaff 268 xxii when the sun went down 284 xxiii magic 292 xxiv "let them laugh" 310 xxv the curtain 328 xxvi "it's mother!" 339 xxvii in the garden 353 the secret garden chapter i there is no one left when mary lennox was sent to misselthwaite manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. it was true, too. she had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in india and had always been ill in one way or another. her father had held a position under the english government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. she had not wanted a little girl at all, and when mary was born she handed her over to the care of an ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the mem sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. so when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. she never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the mem sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. the young english governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. so if mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all. one frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her ayah. "why did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "i will not let you stay. send my ayah to me." the woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the ayah could not come and when mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the ayah to come to missie sahib. there was something mysterious in the air that morning. nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. but no one would tell her anything and her ayah did not come. she was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. she pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call saidie when she returned. "pig! pig! daughter of pigs!" she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all. she was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. she was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. she had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from england. the child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. she always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the mem sahib--mary used to call her that oftener than anything else--was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. all her clothes were thin and floating, and mary said they were "full of lace." they looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. they were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face. "is it so very bad? oh, is it?" mary heard her say. "awfully," the young man answered in a trembling voice. "awfully, mrs. lennox. you ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago." the mem sahib wrung her hands. "oh, i know i ought!" she cried. "i only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. what a fool i was!" at that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants' quarters that she clutched the young man's arm, and mary stood shivering from head to foot. the wailing grew wilder and wilder. "what is it? what is it?" mrs. lennox gasped. "some one has died," answered the boy officer. "you did not say it had broken out among your servants." "i did not know!" the mem sahib cried. "come with me! come with me!" and she turned and ran into the house. after that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to mary. the cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. the ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. there was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows. during the confusion and bewilderment of the second day mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by every one. nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. she only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. the child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. it was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. the wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time. many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow. when she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. the house was perfectly still. she had never known it to be so silent before. she heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. she wondered also who would take care of her now her ayah was dead. there would be a new ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. mary had been rather tired of the old ones. she did not cry because her nurse had died. she was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. the noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. every one was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. when people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. but if every one had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her. but no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. she heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. she was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. he slipped under the door as she watched him. "how queer and quiet it is," she said. "it sounds as if there was no one in the bungalow but me and the snake." almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. they were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. no one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. "what desolation!" she heard one voice say. "that pretty, pretty woman! i suppose the child, too. i heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her." mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. she looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. the first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. he looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back. "barney!" he cried out. "there is a child here! a child alone! in a place like this! mercy on us, who is she!" "i am mary lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. she thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "a place like this!" "i fell asleep when every one had the cholera and i have only just wakened up. why does nobody come?" "it is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. "she has actually been forgotten!" "why was i forgotten?" mary said, stamping her foot. "why does nobody come?" the young man whose name was barney looked at her very sadly. mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away. "poor little kid!" he said. "there is nobody left to come." it was in that strange and sudden way that mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a missie sahib. that was why the place was so quiet. it was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake. chapter ii mistress mary quite contrary mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. she did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. if she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. what she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her ayah and the other native servants had done. she knew that she was not going to stay at the english clergyman's house where she was taken at first. she did not want to stay. the english clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. by the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious. it was basil who thought of it first. basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose and mary hated him. she was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. she was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and basil came and stood near to watch her. presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion. "why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?" he said. "there in the middle," and he leaned over her to point. "go away!" cried mary. "i don't want boys. go away!" for a moment basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. he was always teasing his sisters. he danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed. "mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row." he sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser mary got, the more they sang "mistress mary, quite contrary"; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her "mistress mary quite contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her. "you are going to be sent home," basil said to her, "at the end of the week. and we're glad of it." "i am glad of it, too," answered mary. "where is home?" "she doesn't know where home is!" said basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "it's england, of course. our grandmama lives there and our sister mabel was sent to her last year. you are not going to your grandmama. you have none. you are going to your uncle. his name is mr. archibald craven." "i don't know anything about him," snapped mary. "i know you don't," basil answered. "you don't know anything. girls never do. i heard father and mother talking about him. he lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. he's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. he's a hunchback, and he's horrid." "i don't believe you," said mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more. but she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when mrs. crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to england in a few days and go to her uncle, mr. archibald craven, who lived at misselthwaite manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. they tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when mrs. crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when mr. crawford patted her shoulder. "she is such a plain child," mrs. crawford said pityingly, afterward. "and her mother was such a pretty creature. she had a very pretty manner, too, and mary has the most unattractive ways i ever saw in a child. the children call her 'mistress mary quite contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it." "perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery mary might have learned some pretty ways too. it is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all." "i believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed mrs. crawford. "when her ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. colonel mcgrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room." mary made the long voyage to england under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. she was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman mr. archibald craven sent to meet her, in london. the woman was his housekeeper at misselthwaite manor, and her name was mrs. medlock. she was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. she wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident mrs. medlock did not think much of her. "my word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "and we'd heard that her mother was a beauty. she hasn't handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife said good-naturedly. "if she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. children alter so much." "she'll have to alter a good deal," answered mrs. medlock. "and there's nothing likely to improve children at misselthwaite--if you ask me!" they thought mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. she was watching the passing buses and cabs, and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. what sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? what was a hunchback? she had never seen one. perhaps there were none in india. since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. she had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive. other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be any one's little girl. she had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. she did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. she often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself. she thought mrs. medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. when the next day they set out on their journey to yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. it would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl. but mrs. medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. she was the kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones." at least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. she had not wanted to go to london just when her sister maria's daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at misselthwaite manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what mr. archibald craven told her to do. she never dared even to ask a question. "captain lennox and his wife died of the cholera," mr. craven had said in his short, cold way. "captain lennox was my wife's brother and i am their daughter's guardian. the child is to be brought here. you must go to london and bring her yourself." so she packed her small trunk and made the journey. mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. she had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crãªpe hat. "a more marred-looking young one i never saw in my life," mrs. medlock thought. (marred is a yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) she had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice. "i suppose i may as well tell you something about where you are going to," she said. "do you know anything about your uncle?" "no," said mary. "never heard your father and mother talk about him?" "no," said mary frowning. she frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. certainly they had never told her things. "humph," muttered mrs. medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. she did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again. "i suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. you are going to a queer place." mary said nothing at all, and mrs. medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on. "not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and mr. craven's proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. the house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. and there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground--some of them." she paused and took another breath. "but there's nothing else," she ended suddenly. mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. it all sounded so unlike india, and anything new rather attracted her. but she did not intend to look as if she were interested. that was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. so she sat still. "well," said mrs. medlock. "what do you think of it?" "nothing," she answered. "i know nothing about such places." that made mrs. medlock laugh a short sort of laugh. "eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. don't you care?" "it doesn't matter," said mary, "whether i care or not." "you are right enough there," said mrs. medlock. "it doesn't. what you're to be kept at misselthwaite manor for i don't know, unless because it's the easiest way. _he's_ not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. he never troubles himself about no one." she stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time. "he's got a crooked back," she said. "that set him wrong. he was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married." mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. she had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised. mrs. medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. this was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate. "she was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade o' grass she wanted. nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. but she didn't--she didn't," positively. "when she died--" mary gave a little involuntary jump. "oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. she had just remembered a french fairy story she had once read called "riquet ã  la houppe." it had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for mr. archibald craven. "yes, she died," mrs. medlock answered. "and it made him queerer than ever. he cares about nobody. he won't see people. most of the time he goes away, and when he is at misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the west wing and won't let any one but pitcher see him. pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways." it sounded like something in a book and it did not make mary feel cheerful. a house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor was--sounded dreary. a man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! she stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. if the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." but she was not there any more. "you needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said mrs. medlock. "and you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you. you'll have to play about and look after yourself. you'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. there's gardens enough. but when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. mr. craven won't have it." "i shall not want to go poking about," said sour little mary; and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for mr. archibald craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him. and she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. she watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep. chapter iii across the moor she slept a long time, and when she awakened mrs. medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. the rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. the guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and mrs. medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. she ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. it was quite dark when she awakened again. the train had stopped at a station and mrs. medlock was shaking her. "you have had a sleep!" she said. "it's time to open your eyes! we're at thwaite station and we've got a long drive before us." mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while mrs. medlock collected her parcels. the little girl did not offer to help her, because in india native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one. the station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. the station-master spoke to mrs. medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which mary found out afterward was yorkshire. "i see tha's got back," he said. "an' tha's browt th' young 'un with thee." "aye, that's her," answered mrs. medlock, speaking with a yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward mary. "how's thy missus?" "well enow. th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee." a brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. his long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included. when he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. she sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place mrs. medlock had spoken of. she was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on the edge of a moor. "what is a moor?" she said suddenly to mrs. medlock. "look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman answered. "we've got to drive five miles across missel moor before we get to the manor. you won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see something." mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. the carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. after they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. after that there seemed nothing different for a long time--or at least it seemed a long time to her. at last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. she could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. she leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt. "eh! we're on the moor now sure enough," said mrs. medlock. the carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. a wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound. "it's--it's not the sea, is it?" said mary, looking round at her companion. "no, not it," answered mrs. medlock. "nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep." "i feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said mary. "it sounds like the sea just now." "that's the wind blowing through the bushes," mrs. medlock said. "it's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom." on and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. the road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land. "i don't like it," she said to herself. "i don't like it," and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together. the horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. mrs. medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief. "eh, i am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "it's the light in the lodge window. we shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events." it was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault. they drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. at first mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner up-stairs showed a dull glow. the entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. it opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made mary feel that she did not want to look at them. as she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked. a neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them. "you are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "he doesn't want to see her. he's going to london in the morning." "very well, mr. pitcher," mrs. medlock answered. "so long as i know what's expected of me, i can manage." "what's expected of you, mrs. medlock," mr. pitcher said, "is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see." and then mary lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table. mrs. medlock said unceremoniously: "well, here you are! this room and the next are where you'll live--and you must keep to them. don't you forget that!" it was in this way mistress mary arrived at misselthwaite manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life. chapter iv martha when she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. she had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. the walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. there were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. there were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea. "what is that?" she said, pointing out of the window. martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also. "that there?" she said. "yes." "that's th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "does tha' like it?" "no," answered mary. "i hate it." "that's because tha'rt not used to it," martha said, going back to her hearth. "tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now. but tha' will like it." "do you?" inquired mary. "aye, that i do," answered martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate. "i just love it. it's none bare. it's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. it's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower. it smells o' honey an' there's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin' an' singin'. eh! i wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'." mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. the native servants she had been used to in india were not in the least like this. they were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. they made salaams and called them "protector of the poor" and names of that sort. indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. it was not the custom to say "please" and "thank you" and mary had always slapped her ayah in the face when she was angry. she wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. she was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made mistress mary wonder if she might not even slap back--if the person who slapped her was only a little girl. "you are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather haughtily. martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper. "eh! i know that," she said. "if there was a grand missus at misselthwaite i should never have been even one of th' under housemaids. i might have been let to be scullery-maid but i'd never have been let up-stairs. i'm too common an' i talk too much yorkshire. but this is a funny house for all it's so grand. seems like there's neither master nor mistress except mr. pitcher an' mrs. medlock. mr. craven, he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly always away. mrs. medlock gave me th' place out o' kindness. she told me she could never have done it if misselthwaite had been like other big houses." "are you going to be my servant?" mary asked, still in her imperious little indian way. martha began to rub her grate again. "i'm mrs. medlock's servant," she said stoutly. "an' she's mr. craven's--but i'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a bit. but you won't need much waitin' on." "who is going to dress me?" demanded mary. martha sat up on her heels again and stared. she spoke in broad yorkshire in her amazement. "canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said. "what do you mean? i don't understand your language," said mary. "eh! i forgot," martha said. "mrs. medlock told me i'd have to be careful or you wouldn't know what i was sayin'. i mean can't you put on your own clothes?" "no," answered mary, quite indignantly. "i never did in my life. my ayah dressed me, of course." "well," said martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn. tha' cannot begin younger. it'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. my mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair fools--what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an' took out to walk as if they was puppies!" "it is different in india," said mistress mary disdainfully. she could scarcely stand this. but martha was not at all crushed. "eh! i can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically. "i dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people. when i heard you was comin' from india i thought you was a black too." mary sat up in bed furious. "what!" she said. "what! you thought i was a native. you--you daughter of a pig!" martha stared and looked hot. "who are you callin' names?" she said. "you needn't be so vexed. that's not th' way for a young lady to talk. i've nothin' against th' blacks. when you read about 'em in tracts they're always very religious. you always read as a black's a man an' a brother. i've never seen a black an' i was fair pleased to think i was goin' to see one close. when i come in to light your fire this mornin' i crep' up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at you. an' there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me--for all you're so yeller." mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation. "you thought i was a native! you dared! you don't know anything about natives! they are not people--they're servants who must salaam to you. you know nothing about india. you know nothing about anything!" she was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. she sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured yorkshire martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. she went to the bed and bent over her. "eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "you mustn't for sure. i didn't know you'd be vexed. i don't know anythin' about anythin'--just like you said. i beg your pardon, miss. do stop cryin'." there was something comforting and really friendly in her queer yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on mary. she gradually ceased crying and became quiet. martha looked relieved. "it's time for thee to get up now," she said. "mrs. medlock said i was to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. it's been made into a nursery for thee. i'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. if th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up tha'self." when mary at last decided to get up, the clothes martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with mrs. medlock. "those are not mine," she said. "mine are black." she looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval: "those are nicer than mine." "these are th' ones tha' must put on," martha answered. "mr. craven ordered mrs. medlock to get 'em in london. he said 'i won't have a child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said. 'it'd make the place sadder than it is. put color on her.' mother she said she knew what he meant. mother always knows what a body means. she doesn't hold with black hersel'." "i hate black things," said mary. the dressing process was one which taught them both something. martha had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own. "why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when mary quietly held out her foot. "my ayah did it," answered mary, staring. "it was the custom." she said that very often--"it was the custom." the native servants were always saying it. if one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "it is not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter. it had not been the custom that mistress mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at misselthwaite manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her--things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. if martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. she was, however, only an untrained yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things. if mary lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at martha's readiness to talk, but mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. at first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, mary began to notice what she was saying. "eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "there's twelve of us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. i can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. they tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. she says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. our dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own." "where did he get it?" asked mary. "he found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. and it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. so she began to feel a slight interest in dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. when she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. it was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. a table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. but she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate martha set before her. "i don't want it," she said. "tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" martha exclaimed incredulously. "no." "tha' doesn't know how good it is. put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar." "i don't want it," repeated mary. "eh!" said martha. "i can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. if our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes." "why?" said mary coldly. "why!" echoed martha. "because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. they're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes." "i don't know what it is to be hungry," said mary, with the indifference of ignorance. martha looked indignant. "well, it would do thee good to try it. i can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "i've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. my word! don't i wish dickon and phil an' jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores." "why don't you take it to them?" suggested mary. "it's not mine," answered martha stoutly. "an' this isn't my day out. i get my day out once a month same as th' rest. then i go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest." mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade. "you wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said martha. "it'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat." mary went to the window. there were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry. "out? why should i go out on a day like this?" "well, if tha' doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?" mary glanced about her. there was nothing to do. when mrs. medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like. "who will go with me?" she inquired. martha stared. "you'll go by yourself," she answered. "you'll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. our dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. that's how he made friends with th' pony. he's got sheep on th' moor that knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand. however little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets." it was really this mention of dickon which made mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it. there would be birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep. they would be different from the birds in india and it might amuse her to look at them. martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way down-stairs. "if tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "there's lots o' flowers in summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." she seemed to hesitate a second before she added, "one of th' gardens is locked up. no one has been in it for ten years." "why?" asked mary in spite of herself. here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house. "mr. craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. he won't let no one go inside. it was her garden. he locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key. there's mrs. medlock's bell ringing--i must run." after she was gone mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. she could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years. she wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. when she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. there were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. but the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. this was not the garden which was shut up. how could a garden be shut up? you could always walk into a garden. she was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. she was not familiar enough with england to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing. she went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open. this was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it. she went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another. she saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables. fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames. the place was bare and ugly enough, mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. it might be nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now. presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden. he looked startled when he saw mary, and then touched his cap. he had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her--but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him. "what is this place?" she asked. "one o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered. "what is that?" said mary, pointing through the other green door. "another of 'em," shortly. "there's another on t'other side o' th' wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that." "can i go in them?" asked mary. "if tha' likes. but there's nowt to see." mary made no response. she went down the path and through the second green door. there she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open. perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years. as she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do, mary went to the green door and turned the handle. she hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard. there were walls all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green door to be seen anywhere. mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side. she could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song--almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her. she stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. if she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was "mistress mary quite contrary" she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. she listened to him until he flew away. he was not like an indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it. perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. she was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. why had mr. archibald craven buried the key? if he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? she wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing. "people never like me and i never like people," she thought. "and i never can talk as the crawford children could. they were always talking and laughing and making noises." she thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path. "i believe that tree was in the secret garden--i feel sure it was," she said. "there was a wall round the place and there was no door." she walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. she went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. he took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him. "i have been into the other gardens," she said. "there was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily. "i went into the orchard." "there was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered. "there was no door there into the other garden," said mary. "what garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment. "the one on the other side of the wall," answered mistress mary. "there are trees there--i saw the tops of them. a bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang." to her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. a slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. it made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. she had not thought of it before. he turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle--a low soft whistle. she could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound. almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. she heard a soft little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot. "here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child. "where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "i've not seen thee before to-day. has tha' begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? tha'rt too forrad." the bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. he seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. he hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. it actually gave mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. he had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs. "will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper. "aye, that he will. i've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. he come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. when he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me." "what kind of a bird is he?" mary asked. "doesn't tha' know? he's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds alive. they're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know how to get on with 'em. watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round at us now an' again. he knows we're talkin' about him." it was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. he looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him. "he's a conceited one," he chuckled. "he likes to hear folk talk about him. an' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. he's always comin' to see what i'm plantin'. he knows all th' things mester craven never troubles hissel' to find out. he's th' head gardener, he is." the robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little. mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity. it really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. the queer feeling in her heart increased. "where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked. "there's no knowin'. the old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. this one was a knowin' one an' he knew he was lonely." mistress mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard. "i'm lonely," she said. she had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross. she seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin. the old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute. "art tha' th' little wench from india?" he asked. mary nodded. "then no wonder tha'rt lonely. tha'lt be lonelier before tha's done," he said. he began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed. "what is your name?" mary inquired. he stood up to answer her. "ben weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, "i'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. "he's th' only friend i've got." "i have no friends at all," said mary. "i never had. my ayah didn't like me and i never played with any one." it is a yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old ben weatherstaff was a yorkshire moor man. "tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "we was wove out of th' same cloth. we're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. we've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, i'll warrant." this was plain speaking, and mary lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life. native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did. she had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as ben weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came. she actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." she felt uncomfortable. suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round. she was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. ben weatherstaff laughed outright. "what did he do that for?" asked mary. "he's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied ben. "dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "to me?" said mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. "would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "would you?" and she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that ben weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle. "why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. tha' said it almost like dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor." "do you know dickon?" mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry. "everybody knows him. dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. i warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him." mary would have liked to ask some more questions. she was almost as curious about dickon as she was about the deserted garden. but just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. he had made his visit and had other things to do. "he has flown over the wall!" mary cried out, watching him. "he has flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the garden where there is no door!" "he lives there," said old ben. "he came out o' th' egg there. if he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there." "rose-trees," said mary. "are there rose-trees?" ben weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig. "there was ten year' ago," he mumbled. "i should like to see them," said mary. "where is the green door? there must be a door somewhere." ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him. "there was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said. "no door!" cried mary. "there must be." "none as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. here, i must go on with my work. get you gone an' play you. i've no more time." and he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by. chapter v the cry in the corridor at first each day which passed by for mary lennox was exactly like the others. every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. she did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. she ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. but the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it. but after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty. "tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said martha. "it tastes nice to-day," said mary, feeling a little surprised herself. "it's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered martha. "it's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. there's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. you go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller." "i don't play," said mary. "i have nothing to play with." "nothin' to play with!" exclaimed martha. "our children plays with sticks and stones. they just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." mary did not shout, but she looked at things. there was nothing else to do. she walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. sometimes she looked for ben weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose. one place she went to oftener than to any other. it was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. there were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. there was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. it seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. the rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all. a few days after she had talked to ben weatherstaff mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. she had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, perched ben weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side. "oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" and it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she was sure that he would understand and answer her. he did answer. he twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. it seemed to mistress mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. it was as if he said: "good morning! isn't the wind nice? isn't the sun nice? isn't everything nice? let us both chirp and hop and twitter. come on! come on!" mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. poor little thin, sallow, ugly mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment. "i like you! i like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. but the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. at last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. that reminded mary of the first time she had seen him. he had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside. "it's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "it's the garden without a door. he lives in there. how i wish i could see what it is like!" she ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak. "it is the garden," she said. "i am sure it is." she walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door. "it's very queer," she said. "ben weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. but there must have been one ten years ago, because mr. craven buried the key." this gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to misselthwaite manor. in india she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. the fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little. she stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. she did not feel cross when martha chattered away. she felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. she asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire. "why did mr. craven hate the garden?" she said. she had made martha stay with her and martha had not objected at all. she was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall down-stairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in india, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her. she sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked. "art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "i knew tha' would. that was just the way with me when i first heard about it." "why did he hate it?" mary persisted. martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable. "listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "you could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night." mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. it must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. but one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire. "but why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. she intended to know if martha did. then martha gave up her store of knowledge. "mind," she said, "mrs. medlock said it's not to be talked about. there's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. that's mr. craven's orders. his troubles are none servants' business, he says. but for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. it was mrs. craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. an' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' an' talkin'. an' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. an' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. but one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. that's why he hates it. no one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it." mary did not ask any more questions. she looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." it seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. at that moment a very good thing was happening to her. four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to misselthwaite manor. she had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one. she was getting on. but as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. she did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. it was a curious sound--it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently mistress mary felt quite sure that this sound was inside the house, not outside it. it was far away, but it was inside. she turned round and looked at martha. "do you hear any one crying?" she said. martha suddenly looked confused. "no," she answered. "it's th' wind. sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. it's got all sorts o' sounds." "but listen," said mary. "it's in the house--down one of those long corridors." and at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere down-stairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever. "there!" said mary. "i told you so! it is some one crying--and it isn't a grown-up person." martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments. "it was th' wind," said martha stubbornly. "an' if it wasn't, it was little betty butterworth, th' scullery-maid. she's had th' toothache all day." but something troubled and awkward in her manner made mistress mary stare very hard at her. she did not believe she was speaking the truth. chapter vi "there was some one crying--there was!" the next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud. there could be no going out to-day. "what do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked martha. "try to keep from under each other's feet mostly," martha answered. "eh! there does seem a lot of us then. mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered. the biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there. dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. he goes out just th' same as if th' sun was shinin'. he says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather. he once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm. its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swum out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. he's got it at home now. he found a half-drowned young crow another time an' he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. it's named soot because it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about with him everywhere." the time had come when mary had forgotten to resent martha's familiar talk. she had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away. the stories she had been told by her ayah when she lived in india had been quite unlike those martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat. the children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies. mary was most attracted by the mother and dickon. when martha told stories of what "mother" said or did they always sounded comfortable. "if i had a raven or a fox cub i could play with it," said mary. "but i have nothing." martha looked perplexed. "can tha' knit?" she asked. "no," answered mary. "can tha' sew?" "no." "can tha' read?" "yes." "then why doesn't tha' read somethin', or learn a bit o' spellin'? tha'st old enough to be learnin' thy book a good bit now." "i haven't any books," said mary. "those i had were left in india." "that's a pity," said martha. "if mrs. medlock'd let thee go into th' library, there's thousands o' books there." mary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea. she made up her mind to go and find it herself. she was not troubled about mrs. medlock. mrs. medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's sitting-room down-stairs. in this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all. in fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants' hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal of lively romping went on when mrs. medlock was out of the way. mary's meals were served regularly, and martha waited on her, but no one troubled themselves about her in the least. mrs. medlock came and looked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do. she supposed that perhaps this was the english way of treating children. in india she had always been attended by her ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. she had often been tired of her company. now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on. "hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her. "our susan ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's only four year' old. sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head." mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several entirely new things. she stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone down-stairs. she was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library. she did not care very much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors. she wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them. were there a hundred really? why shouldn't she go and see how many doors she could count? it would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out. she had never been taught to ask permission to do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have thought it necessary to ask mrs. medlock if she might walk about the house, even if she had seen her. she opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings. it was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. there were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. she found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. she had never thought there could be so many in any house. she walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. she felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from india was doing in their house. some were pictures of children--little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks. she always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes. there was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. she wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. her eyes had a sharp, curious look. "where do you live now?" said mary aloud to her. "i wish you were here." surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. it seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about up-stairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked. since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true. it was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door. all the doors were shut, as mrs. medlock had said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it. she was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened. it was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom. there were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in india stood about the room. a broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever. "perhaps she slept here once," said mary. "she stares at me so that she makes me feel queer." after that she opened more doors and more. she saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not counted them. in all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them. there were curious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of them. in one room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room, the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory. they were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs. some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies. mary had seen carved ivory in india and she knew all about elephants. she opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time. when she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet. in all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something. just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. it made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come. in the corner of the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it. mary crept softly across the room to look. the bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there. six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. if there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all. "if they wouldn't be so frightened i would take them back with me," said mary. she had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she turned back. two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was. "i believe i have taken a wrong turning again," she said, standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall. "i don't know which way to go. how still everything is!" it was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness was broken by a sound. it was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful, childish whine muffled by passing through walls. "it's nearer than it was," said mary, her heart beating rather faster. "and it _is_ crying." she put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. the tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and mrs. medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face. "what are you doing here?" she said, and she took mary by the arm and pulled her away. "what did i tell you?" "i turned round the wrong corner," explained mary. "i didn't know which way to go and i heard some one crying." she quite hated mrs. medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next. "you didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper. "you come along back to your own nursery or i'll box your ears." and she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room. "now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself locked up. the master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would. you're one that needs some one to look sharp after you. i've got enough to do." she went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. she did not cry, but ground her teeth. "there _was_ some one crying--there _was_--there _was_!" she said to herself. she had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. she had found out a great deal this morning. she felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion. chapter vii the key of the garden two days after this, when mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to martha. "look at the moor! look at the moor!" the rain-storm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. the wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. never, never had mary dreamed of a sky so blue. in india skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. the far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray. "aye," said martha with a cheerful grin. "th' storm's over for a bit. it does like this at this time o' th' year. it goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. that's because th' springtime's on its way. it's a long way off yet, but it's comin'." "i thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in england," mary said. "eh! no!" said martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "nowt o' th' soart!" "what does that mean?" asked mary seriously. in india the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when martha used words she did not know. martha laughed as she had done the first morning. "there now," she said. "i've talked broad yorkshire again like mrs. medlock said i mustn't. 'nowt o' th' soart' means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. i told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. you'll want to get out on it at sunrise an' live out on it all day like dickon does." "could i ever get there?" asked mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. it was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color. "i don't know," answered martha. "tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. tha' couldn't walk five mile. it's five mile to our cottage." "i should like to see your cottage." martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. she was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. it looked just a trifle like little susan ann's when she wanted something very much. "i'll ask my mother about it," she said. "she's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. it's my day out to-day an' i'm goin' home. eh! i am glad. mrs. medlock thinks a lot o' mother. perhaps she could talk to her." "i like your mother," said mary. "i should think tha' did," agreed martha, polishing away. "i've never seen her," said mary. "no, tha' hasn't," replied martha. she sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively. "well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' good-natured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. when i'm goin' home to her on my day out i just jump for joy when i'm crossin' th' moor." "i like dickon," added mary. "and i've never seen him." "well," said martha stoutly, "i've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. i wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what dickon would think of thee?" "he wouldn't like me," said mary in her stiff, cold little way. "no one does." martha looked reflective again. "how does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know. mary hesitated a moment and thought it over. "not at all--really," she answered. "but i never thought of that before." martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection. "mother said that to me once," she said. "she was at her wash-tub an' i was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: 'tha' young vixon, tha'! there tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. how does tha' like thysel'?' it made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute." she went away in high spirits as soon as she had given mary her breakfast. she was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly. mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. she went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. she counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. the sunshine made the whole place look different. the high, deep, blue sky arched over misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. she went into the first kitchen-garden and found ben weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. the change in the weather seemed to have done him good. he spoke to her of his own accord. "springtime's comin'," he said. "cannot tha' smell it?" mary sniffed and thought she could. "i smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said. "that's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "it's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. it's glad when plantin' time comes. it's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. in th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. th' sun's warmin' 'em. you'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit." "what will they be?" asked mary. "crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. has tha' never seen them?" "no. everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in india," said mary. "and i think things grow up in a night." "these won't grow up in a night," said weatherstaff. "tha'll have to wait for 'em. they'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. you watch 'em." "i am going to," answered mary. very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. he was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked ben weatherstaff a question. "do you think he remembers me?" she said. "remembers thee!" said weatherstaff indignantly. "he knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. he's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. tha's no need to try to hide anything from _him_." "are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" mary inquired. "what garden?" grunted weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "the one where the old rose-trees are." she could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? are there ever any roses?" "ask him," said ben weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "he's the only one as knows. no one else has seen inside it for ten year'." ten years was a long time, mary thought. she had been born ten years ago. she walked away, slowly thinking. she had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and dickon and martha's mother. she was beginning to like martha, too. that seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. she thought of the robin as one of the people. she went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through ben weatherstaff's robin. she heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. but she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "you do remember me!" she cried out. "you do! you are prettier than anything else in the world!" she chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. it was as if he were talking. his red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. mistress mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds. oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! he knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. he knew it because he was a real person--only nicer than any other person in the world. she was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe. the flower-bed was not quite bare. it was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. he stopped on it to look for a worm. the earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole. mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. it was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. it was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time. mistress mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger. "perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "perhaps it is the key to the garden!" chapter viii the robin who showed the way she looked at the key quite a long time. she turned it over and over, and thought about it. as i have said before, she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things. all she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed garden, and she could find out where the door was, she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls, and what had happened to the old rose-trees. it was because it had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it. it seemed as if it must be different from other places and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years. besides that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind her, and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was, but would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the earth. the thought of that pleased her very much. living as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brain to working and was actually awakening her imagination. there is no doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it. just as it had given her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood, so the same things had stirred her mind. in india she had always been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things. already she felt less "contrary," though she did not know why. she put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. no one but herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it. the ivy was the baffling thing. howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly-growing, glossy, dark green leaves. she was very much disappointed. something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside. it seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in. she took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready. mrs. medlock had allowed martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits. "i got up at four o'clock," she said. "eh! it was pretty on th' moor with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'. i didn't walk all th' way. a man gave me a ride in his cart an' i can tell you i did enjoy myself." she was full of stories of the delights of her day out. her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way. she had even made each of the children a dough-cake with a bit of brown sugar in it. "i had 'em all pipin' hot when they came in from playin' on th' moor. an' th' cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin' an' there was a good fire, an' they just shouted for joy. our dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king to live in." in the evening they had all sat round the fire, and martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and martha had told them about the little girl who had come from india and who had been waited on all her life by what martha called "blacks" until she didn't know how to put on her own stockings. "eh! they did like to hear about you," said martha. "they wanted to know all about th' blacks an' about th' ship you came in. i couldn't tell 'em enough." mary reflected a little. "i'll tell you a great deal more before your next day out," she said, "so that you will have more to talk about. i dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers." "my word!" cried delighted martha. "it would set 'em clean off their heads. would tha' really do that, miss? it would be same as a wild beast show like we heard they had in york once." "india is quite different from yorkshire," mary said slowly, as she thought the matter over. "i never thought of that. did dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?" "why, our dickon's eyes nearly started out o' his head, they got that round," answered martha. "but mother, she was put out about your seemin' to be all by yourself like. she said, 'hasn't mr. craven got no governess for her, nor no nurse?' and i said, 'no, he hasn't, though mrs. medlock says he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn't think of it for two or three years.'" "i don't want a governess," said mary sharply. "but mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this time an' you ought to have a woman to look after you, an' she says: 'now, martha, you just think how you'd feel yourself, in a big place like that, wanderin' about all alone, an' no mother. you do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' i said i would." mary gave her a long, steady look. "you do cheer me up," she said. "i like to hear you talk." presently martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands under her apron. "what does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin. "i've brought thee a present." "a present!" exclaimed mistress mary. how could a cottage full of fourteen hungry people give any one a present! "a man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," martha explained. "an' he stopped his cart at our door. he had pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buy anythin'. just as he was goin' away our 'lizabeth ellen called out, 'mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an' blue handles.' an' mother she calls out quite sudden, 'here, stop, mister! how much are they?' an' he says 'tuppence,' an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an' she says to me, 'martha, tha's brought me thy wages like a good lass, an' i've got four places to put every penny, but i'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an' here it is." she brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly. it was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but mary lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. she gazed at it with a mystified expression. "what is it for?" she asked curiously. "for!" cried out martha. "does tha' mean that they've not got skippin'-ropes in india, for all they've got elephants and tigers and camels! no wonder most of 'em's black. this is what it's for; just watch me." and she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses. but martha did not even see them. the interest and curiosity in mistress mary's face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred. "i could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped. "i've skipped as much as five hundred when i was twelve, but i wasn't as fat then as i am now, an' i was in practice." mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself. "it looks nice," she said. "your mother is a kind woman. do you think i could ever skip like that?" "you just try it," urged martha, handing her the skipping-rope. "you can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practise you'll mount up. that's what mother said. she says, 'nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. it's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'" it was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in mistress mary's arms and legs when she first began to skip. she was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop. "put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said martha. "mother said i must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm." mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. she opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly. "martha," she said, "they were your wages. it was your twopence really. thank you." she said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her. "thank you," she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do. martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either. then she laughed. "eh! tha' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "if tha'd been our 'lizabeth ellen tha'd have give me a kiss." mary looked stiffer than ever. "do you want me to kiss you?" martha laughed again. "nay, not me," she answered. "if tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to thysel'. but tha' isn't. run off outside an' play with thy rope." mistress mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. yorkshire people seemed strange, and martha was always rather a puzzle to her. at first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. the skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. she counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born. the sun was shining and a little wind was blowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it. she skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another. she skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw ben weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. she skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression. she had wondered if he would notice her. she really wanted him to see her skip. "well!" he exclaimed. "upon my word! p'raps tha' art a young 'un, after all, an' p'raps tha's got child's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk. tha's skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's ben weatherstaff. i wouldn't have believed tha' could do it." "i never skipped before," mary said. "i'm just beginning. i can only go up to twenty." "tha' keep on," said ben. "tha' shapes well enough at it for a young 'un that's lived with heathen. just see how he's watchin' thee," jerking his head toward the robin. "he followed after thee yesterday. he'll be at it again to-day. he'll be bound to find out what th' skippin'-rope is. he's never seen one. eh!" shaking his head at the bird, "tha' curosity will be th' death of thee sometime if tha' doesn't look sharp." mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes. at length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it. it was a good long skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop. she did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty. she stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy. he had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp. as mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again. "you showed me where the key was yesterday," she said. "you ought to show me the door to-day; but i don't believe you know!" the robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off--and they are nearly always doing it. mary lennox had heard a great deal about magic in her ayah's stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was magic. one of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest. it was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand. this she did because she had seen something under it--a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it. it was the knob of a door. she put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside. thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron. mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement. the robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was. what was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in? it was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. she put the key in and turned it. it took two hands to do it, but it did turn. and then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming. no one was coming. no one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly--slowly. then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight. she was standing _inside_ the secret garden. chapter ix the strangest house any one ever lived in it was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. the high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. mary lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in india. all the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rose-bushes if they were alive. there were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. there were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. there were neither leaves nor roses on them now and mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. it was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. "how still it is!" she whispered. "how still!" then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. the robin, who had flown to his tree-top, was still as all the rest. he did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at mary. "no wonder it is still," she whispered again. "i am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years." she moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening some one. she was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. she walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "i wonder if they are all quite dead," she said. "is it all a quite dead garden? i wish it wasn't." if she had been ben weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere. but she was _inside_ the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own. the sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. the robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another. he chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all. all that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. she did not want it to be a quite dead garden. if it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side! her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. there seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss-covered flower urns in them. as she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping. there had once been a flower-bed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth--some sharp little pale green points. she remembered what ben weatherstaff had said and she knelt down to look at them. "yes, they are tiny growing things and they _might_ be crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils," she whispered. she bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. she liked it very much. "perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places," she said. "i will go all over the garden and look." she did not skip, but walked. she went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. she looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited again. "it isn't a quite dead garden," she cried out softly to herself. "even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive." she did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow. she searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them. "now they look as if they could breathe," she said, after she had finished with the first ones. "i am going to do ever so many more. i'll do all i can see. if i haven't time to-day i can come to-morrow." she went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. the exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down on to the grass and the pale green points all the time. the robin was tremendously busy. he was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate. he had often wondered at ben weatherstaff. where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil. now here was this new kind of creature who was not half ben's size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once. mistress mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. in fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours. she had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them. "i shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her. then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy. she had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that martha was delighted. "two pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. "eh! mother will be pleased when i tell her what th' skippin'-rope's done for thee." in the course of her digging with her pointed stick mistress mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. she had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if martha could tell her what it was. "martha," she said, "what are those white roots that look like onions?" "they're bulbs," answered martha. "lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissusis an' jonquils an' daffydowndillys. th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. eh! they are nice. dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden." "does dickon know all about them?" asked mary, a new idea taking possession of her. "our dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. mother says he just whispers things out o' th' ground." "do bulbs live a long time? would they live years and years if no one helped them?" inquired mary anxiously. "they're things as helps themselves," said martha. "that's why poor folk can afford to have 'em. if you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns. there's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by thousands. they're the prettiest sight in yorkshire when th' spring comes. no one knows when they was first planted." "i wish the spring was here now," said mary. "i want to see all the things that grow in england." she had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug. "i wish--i wish i had a little spade," she said. "whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked martha, laughing. "art tha' goin' to take to diggin'? i must tell mother that, too." mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. she must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. she wasn't doing any harm, but if mr. craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. she really could not bear that. "this is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. "the house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. so many places seem shut up. i never did many things in india, but there were more people to look at--natives and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing, and my ayah told me stories. there is no one to talk to here except you and ben weatherstaff. and you have to do your work and ben weatherstaff won't speak to me often. i thought if i had a little spade i could dig somewhere as he does, and i might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds." martha's face quite lighted up. "there now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother said. she says, 'there's such a lot o' room in that big place, why don't they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't plant nothin' but parsley an' radishes? she'd dig an' rake away an' be right down happy over it.' them was the very words she said." "were they?" said mary. "how many things she knows, doesn't she?" "eh!" said martha. "it's like she says: 'a woman as brings up twelve children learns something besides her a b c. children's as good as 'rithmetic to set you findin' out things.'" "how much would a spade cost--a little one?" mary asked. "well," was martha's reflective answer, "at thwaite village there's a shop or so an' i saw little garden sets with a spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied together for two shillings. an' they was stout enough to work with, too." "i've got more than that in my purse," said mary. "mrs. morrison gave me five shillings and mrs. medlock gave me some money from mr. craven." "did he remember thee that much?" exclaimed martha. "mrs. medlock said i was to have a shilling a week to spend. she gives me one every saturday. i didn't know what to spend it on." "my word! that's riches," said martha. "tha' can buy anything in th' world tha' wants. th' rent of our cottage is only one an' threepence an' it's like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. now i've just thought of somethin'," putting her hands on her hips. "what?" said mary eagerly. "in the shop at thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a penny each, and our dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an' how to make 'em grow. he walks over to thwaite many a day just for th' fun of it. does tha' know how to print letters?" suddenly. "i know how to write," mary answered. martha shook her head. "our dickon can only read printin'. if tha' could print we could write a letter to him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an' th' seeds at th' same time." "oh! you're a good girl!" mary cried. "you are, really! i didn't know you were so nice. i know i can print letters if i try. let's ask mrs. medlock for a pen and ink and some paper." "i've got some of my own," said martha. "i bought 'em so i could print a bit of a letter to mother of a sunday. i'll go and get it." she ran out of the room, and mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure. "if i have a spade," she whispered, "i can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds. if i have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won't be dead at all--it will come alive." she did not go out again that afternoon because when martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes down-stairs and when she got into the kitchen mrs. medlock was there and told her to do something, so mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. then it was a serious piece of work to write to dickon. mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her. she could not spell particularly well but she found that she could print letters when she tried. this was the letter martha dictated to her: "_my dear dickon:_ this comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present. miss mary has plenty of money and will you go to thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed. pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in india which is different. give my love to mother and every one of you. miss mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers. "your loving sister, "martha phoebe sowerby." "we'll put the money in th' envelope an' i'll get th' butcher's boy to take it in his cart. he's a great friend o' dickon's," said martha. "how shall i get the things when dickon buys them?" asked mary. "he'll bring 'em to you himself. he'll like to walk over this way." "oh!" exclaimed mary, "then i shall see him! i never thought i should see dickon." "does tha' want to see him?" asked martha suddenly, she had looked so pleased. "yes, i do. i never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. i want to see him very much." martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something. "now to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there; an' i thought i was goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. i asked mother--and she said she'd ask mrs. medlock her own self." "do you mean--" mary began. "what i said tuesday. ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an' butter, an' a glass o' milk." it seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. to think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue! to think of going into the cottage which held twelve children! "does she think mrs. medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite anxiously. "aye, she thinks she would. she knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage." "if i went i should see your mother as well as dickon," said mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "she doesn't seem to be like the mothers in india." her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. but just before martha went down-stairs for the tea-tray, mary asked a question. "martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again to-day?" martha certainly started slightly. "what makes thee ask that?" she said. "because when i waited so long for you to come back i opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. and i heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. there isn't a wind to-day, so you see it couldn't have been the wind." "eh!" said martha restlessly. "tha' mustn't go walkin' about in corridors an' listenin'. mr. craven would be that there angry there's no knowin' what he'd do." "i wasn't listening," said mary. "i was just waiting for you--and i heard it. that's three times." "my word! there's mrs. medlock's bell," said martha, and she almost ran out of the room. "it's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. chapter x dickon the sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. the secret garden was what mary called it when she was thinking of it. she liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. it seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. the few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. she had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at misselthwaite. she was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. she could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. the bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if mistress mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. the sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive. mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed. she worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. it seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. she found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. they seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. there were so many that she remembered what martha had said about the "snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making new ones. these had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. she wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers. sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom. during that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with ben weatherstaff. she surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. the truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. but, in fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company. then, also, she was more civil than she had been. he did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to do things. "tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him. "i never knows when i shall see thee or which side tha'll come from." "he's friends with me now," said mary. "that's like him," snapped ben weatherstaff. "makin' up to th' women folk just for vanity an' flightiness. there's nothin' he wouldn't do for th' sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. he's as full o' pride as an egg's full o' meat." he very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer mary's questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual. he stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over. "how long has tha' been here?" he jerked out. "i think it's about a month," she answered. "tha's beginnin' to do misselthwaite credit," he said. "tha's a bit fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. tha' looked like a young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. thinks i to myself i never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un." mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed. "i know i'm fatter," she said. "my stockings are getting tighter. they used to make wrinkles. there's the robin, ben weatherstaff." there, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. his red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. he seemed determined to make ben weatherstaff admire him. but ben was sarcastic. "aye, there tha' art!" he said. "tha' can put up with me for a bit sometimes when tha's got no one better. tha's been reddinin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. i know what tha's up to. tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere, tellin' thy lies to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on missel moor an' ready to fight all th' rest of 'em." "oh! look at him!" exclaimed mary. the robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. he hopped closer and closer and looked at ben weatherstaff more and more engagingly. he flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him. "tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said ben, wrinkling his face up in such a way that mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. "tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what tha' thinks." the robin spread his wings--mary could scarcely believe her eyes. he flew right up to the handle of ben weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. he stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away. he spoke quite in a whisper. "well, i'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something quite different. "tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'." and he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes. but because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, mary was not afraid to talk to him. "have you a garden of your own?" she asked. "no. i'm bachelder an' lodge with martin at th' gate." "if you had one," said mary, "what would you plant?" "cabbages an' 'taters an' onions." "but if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted mary, "what would you plant?" "bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses." mary's face lighted up. "do you like roses?" she said. ben weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered. "well, yes, i do. i was learned that by a young lady i was gardener to. she had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they was children--or robins. i've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." he dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "that were as much as ten year' ago." "where is she now?" asked mary, much interested. "heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording to what parson says." "what happened to the roses?" mary asked again, more interested than ever. "they was left to themselves." mary was becoming quite excited. "did they quite die? do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?" she ventured. "well, i'd got to like 'em--an' i liked her--an' she liked 'em," ben weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "once or twice a year i'd go an' work at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. they run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived." "when they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired mary. "wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain an' th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out." "how--how?" cried mary, forgetting to be careful. "look along th' twigs an' branches an' if tha' sees a bit of a brown lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what happens." he stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face. "why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he demanded. mistress mary felt her face grow red. she was almost afraid to answer. "i--i want to play that--that i have a garden of my own," she stammered. "i--there is nothing for me to do. i have nothing--and no one." "well," said ben weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true. tha' hasn't." he said it in such an odd way that mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for her. she had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much. but now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. if no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always. she stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as she dared. he answered every one of them in his queer grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her. he said something about roses just as she was going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond of. "do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked. "not been this year. my rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints." he said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with her, though she did not see why he should. "now look here!" he said sharply. "don't tha' ask so many questions. tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions i've ever come across. get thee gone an' play thee. i've done talkin' for to-day." and he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another minute. she went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. she liked old ben weatherstaff. yes, she did like him. she always wanted to try to make him talk to her. also she began to believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers. there was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. she thought she would skip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about. she enjoyed the skipping very much and when she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it was. it was a very strange thing indeed. she quite caught her breath as she stopped to look at it. a boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. he was a funny looking boy about twelve. he looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had mistress mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. and on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make. when he saw mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping. "don't tha' move," he said. "it'd flight 'em." mary remained motionless. he stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. he moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened. "i'm dickon," the boy said. "i know tha'rt miss mary." then mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was dickon. who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in india? he had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "i got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. a body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." he did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "did you get martha's letter?" she asked. he nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "that's why i come." he stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "i've got th' garden tools. there's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. eh! they are good 'uns. there's a trowel, too. an' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when i bought th' other seeds." "will you show the seeds to me?" mary said. she wished she could talk as he did. his speech was so quick and easy. it sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. as she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. she liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy. "let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said. they sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. he untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. "there's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "mignonette's th' sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's th' nicest of all." he stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up. "where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said. the chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and mary thought she knew whose it was. "is it really calling us?" she asked. "aye," said dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "he's callin' some one he's friends with. that's same as sayin' 'here i am. look at me. i wants a bit of a chat.' there he is in the bush. whose is he?" "he's ben weatherstaff's, but i think he knows me a little," answered mary. "aye, he knows thee," said dickon in his low voice again. "an' he likes thee. he's took thee on. he'll tell me all about thee in a minute." he moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter. the robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question. "aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled dickon. "do you think he is?" cried mary eagerly. she did so want to know. "do you think he really likes me?" "he wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered dickon. "birds is rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. see, he's making up to thee now. 'cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'." and it really seemed as if it must be true. he so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush. "do you understand everything birds say?" said mary. dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head. "i think i do, and they think i do," he said. "i've lived on th' moor with 'em so long. i've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge an' learn to fly an' begin to sing, till i think i'm one of 'em. sometimes i think p'raps i'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an' i don't know it." he laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. he told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them. "see here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "i'll plant them for thee myself. where is tha' garden?" mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. she did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. she had never thought of this. she felt miserable. and she felt as if she went red and then pale. "tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" dickon said. it was true that she had turned red and then pale. dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled. "wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he asked. "hasn't tha' got any yet?" she held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him. "i don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "could you keep a secret, if i told you one? it's a great secret. i don't know what i should do if any one found it out. i believe i should die!" she said the last sentence quite fiercely. dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. "i'm keepin' secrets all th' time," he said. "if i couldn't keep secrets from th' other lads, secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild things' holes, there'd be naught safe on th' moor. aye, i can keep secrets." mistress mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it. "i've stolen a garden," she said very fast. "it isn't mine. it isn't anybody's. nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. perhaps everything is dead in it already; i don't know." she began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life. "i don't care, i don't care! nobody has any right to take it from me when i care about it and they don't. they're letting it die, all shut in by itself," she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying--poor little mistress mary. dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. "eh-h-h!" he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy. "i've nothing to do," said mary. "nothing belongs to me. i found it myself and i got into it myself. i was only just like the robin, and they wouldn't take it from the robin." "where is it?" asked dickon in a dropped voice. mistress mary got up from the log at once. she knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. she was imperious and indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful. "come with me and i'll show you," she said. she led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. he felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's nest and must move softly. when she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. there was a door and mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly. "it's this," she said. "it's a secret garden, and i'm the only one in the world who wants it to be alive." dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again. "eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! it's like as if a body was in a dream." chapter xi the nest of the missel thrush for two or three minutes he stood looking round him, while mary watched him, and then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls. his eyes seemed to be taking in everything--the gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them. "i never thought i'd see this place," he said at last, in a whisper. "did you know about it?" asked mary. she had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her. "we must talk low," he said, "or some one'll hear us an' wonder what's to do in here." "oh! i forgot!" said mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly against her mouth. "did you know about the garden?" she asked again when she had recovered herself. dickon nodded. "martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside," he answered. "us used to wonder what it was like." he stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy. "eh! the nests as'll be here come springtime," he said. "it'd be th' safest nestin' place in england. no one never comin' near an' tangles o' trees an' roses to build in. i wonder all th' birds on th' moor don't build here." mistress mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it. "will there be roses?" she whispered. "can you tell? i thought perhaps they were all dead." "eh! no! not them--not all of 'em!" he answered. "look here!" he stepped over to the nearest tree--an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. he took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades. "there's lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said. "an' there's a lot o' old wood, but it made some new last year. this here's a new bit," and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray. mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way. "that one?" she said. "is that one quite alive--quite?" dickon curved his wide smiling mouth. "it's as wick as you or me," he said; and mary remembered that martha had told her that "wick" meant "alive" or "lively." "i'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper. "i want them all to be wick. let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are." she quite panted with eagerness, and dickon was as eager as she was. they went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful. "they've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest ones has fair thrived on it. the delicatest ones has died out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an' spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. see here!" and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch. "a body might think this was dead wood, but i don't believe it is--down to th' root. i'll cut it low down an' see." he knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the earth. "there!" he said exultantly. "i told thee so. there's green in that wood yet. look at it." mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might. "when it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that, it's wick," he explained. "when th' inside is dry an' breaks easy, like this here piece i've cut off, it's done for. there's a big root here as all this live wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an' it's dug round, an' took care of there'll be--" he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him--"there'll be a fountain o' roses here this summer." they went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. he was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it. in the course of half an hour mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade of moist green. the spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. he showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in. they were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise. "why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. "who did that there?" it was one of mary's own little clearings round the pale green points. "i did it," said mary. "why, i thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin'," he exclaimed. "i don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. so i made a place for them. i don't even know what they are." dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile. "tha' was right," he said. "a gardener couldn't have told thee better. they'll grow now like jack's bean-stalk. they're crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses," turning to another patch, "an' here's daffydowndillys. eh! they will be a sight." he ran from one clearing to another. "tha' has done a lot o' work for such a little wench," he said, looking her over. "i'm growing fatter," said mary, "and i'm growing stronger. i used always to be tired. when i dig i'm not tired at all. i like to smell the earth when it's turned up." "it's rare good for thee," he said, nodding his head wisely. "there's naught as nice as th' smell o' good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin' things when th' rain falls on 'em. i get out on th' moor many a day when it's rainin' an' i lie under a bush an' listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th' heather an' i just sniff an' sniff. my nose end fair quivers like a rabbit's, mother says." "do you never catch cold?" inquired mary, gazing at him wonderingly. she had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one. "not me," he said, grinning. "i never ketched cold since i was born. i wasn't brought up nesh enough. i've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th' rabbits does. mother says i've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold. i'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick." he was working all the time he was talking and mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel. "there's a lot of work to do here!" he said once, looking about quite exultantly. "will you come again and help me to do it?" mary begged. "i'm sure i can help, too. i can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. oh! do come, dickon!" "i'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "it's th' best fun i ever had in my life--shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden." "if you will come," said mary, "if you will help me to make it alive i'll--i don't know what i'll do," she ended helplessly. what could you do for a boy like that? "i'll tell thee what tha'll do," said dickon, with his happy grin. "tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th' robin same as i do. eh! we'll have a lot o' fun." he began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression. "i wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick an' span, would you?" he said. "it's nicer like this with things runnin' wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other." "don't let us make it tidy," said mary anxiously. "it wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy." dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look. "it's a secret garden sure enough," he said, "but seems like some one besides th' robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year' ago." "but the door was locked and the key was buried," said mary. "no one could get in." "that's true," he answered. "it's a queer place. seems to me as if there'd been a bit o' prunin' done here an' there, later than ten year' ago." "but how could it have been done?" said mary. he was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head. "aye! how could it!" he murmured. "with th' door locked an' th' key buried." mistress mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. when dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her. "are there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired. "lilies o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away with the trowel, "an' there's canterbury bells, an' campanulas." "let us plant some," said mary. "there's lilies o' th' valley here already; i saw 'em. they'll have growed too close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty. th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but i can bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden. why does tha' want 'em?" then mary told him about basil and his brothers and sisters in india and of how she had hated them and of their calling her "mistress mary quite contrary." "they used to dance round and sing at me. they sang- 'mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row.' i just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells." she frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth. "i wasn't as contrary as they were." but dickon laughed. "eh!" he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it, "there doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there's flowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wild things runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin' nests an' singin' an' whistlin', does there?" mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning. "dickon," she said. "you are as nice as martha said you were. i like you, and you make the fifth person. i never thought i should like five people." dickon sat up on his heels as martha did when she was polishing the grate. he did look funny and delightful, mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose. "only five folk as tha' likes?" he said. "who is th' other four?" "your mother and martha," mary checked them off on her fingers, "and the robin and ben weatherstaff." dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth. "i know tha' thinks i'm a queer lad," he said, "but i think tha' art th' queerest little lass i ever saw." then mary did a strange thing. she leaned forward and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking any one before. and she tried to ask it in yorkshire because that was his language, and in india a native was always pleased if you knew his speech. "does tha' like me?" she said. "eh!" he answered heartily, "that i does. i likes thee wonderful, an' so does th' robin, i do believe!" "that's two, then," said mary. "that's two for me." and then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner. "i shall have to go," she said mournfully. "and you will have to go too, won't you?" dickon grinned. "my dinner's easy to carry about with me," he said. "mother always lets me put a bit o' somethin' in my pocket." he picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quiet clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief. it held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them. "it's oftenest naught but bread," he said, "but i've got a fine slice o' fat bacon with it to-day." mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it. "run on an' get thy victuals," he said. "i'll be done with mine first. i'll get some more work done before i start back home." he sat down with his back against a tree. "i'll call th' robin up," he said, "and give him th' rind o' th' bacon to peck at. they likes a bit o' fat wonderful." mary could scarcely bear to leave him. suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. he seemed too good to be true. she went slowly half-way to the door in the wall and then she stopped and went back. "whatever happens, you--you never would tell?" she said. his poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly. "if tha' was a missel thrush an' showed me where thy nest was, does tha' think i'd tell any one? not me," he said. "tha' art as safe as a missel thrush." and she was quite sure she was. chapter xii "might i have a bit of earth?" mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink. her dinner was waiting on the table, and martha was waiting near it. "tha's a bit late," she said. "where has tha' been?" "i've seen dickon!" said mary. "i've seen dickon!" "i knew he'd come," said martha exultantly. "how does tha' like him?" "i think--i think he's beautiful!" said mary in a determined voice. martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too. "well," she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born, but us never thought he was handsome. his nose turns up too much." "i like it to turn up," said mary. "an' his eyes is so round," said martha, a trifle doubtful. "though they're a nice color." "i like them round," said mary. "and they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor." martha beamed with satisfaction. "mother says he made 'em that color with always lookin' up at th' birds an' th' clouds. but he has got a big mouth, hasn't he, now?" "i love his big mouth," said mary obstinately. "i wish mine were just like it." martha chuckled delightedly. "it'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said. "but i knowed it would be that way when tha' saw him. how did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden tools?" "how did you know he brought them?" asked mary. "eh! i never thought of him not bringin' 'em. he'd be sure to bring 'em if they was in yorkshire. he's such a trusty lad." mary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not. she was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only one moment when mary was frightened. this was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted. "who did tha' ask about it?" she inquired. "i haven't asked anybody yet," said mary, hesitating. "well, i wouldn't ask th' head gardener. he's too grand, mr. roach is." "i've never seen him," said mary. "i've only seen under-gardeners and ben weatherstaff." "if i was you, i'd ask ben weatherstaff," advised martha. "he's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed. mr. craven lets him do what he likes because he was here when mrs. craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh. she liked him. perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o' the way." "if it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one _could_ mind my having it, could they?" mary said anxiously. "there wouldn't be no reason," answered martha. "you wouldn't do no harm." mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but martha stopped her. "i've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "i thought i'd let you eat your dinner first. mr. craven came back this mornin' and i think he wants to see you." mary turned quite pale. "oh!" she said. "why! why! he didn't want to see me when i came. i heard pitcher say he didn't." "well," explained martha, "mrs. medlock says it's because o' mother. she was walkin' to thwaite village an' she met him. she'd never spoke to him before, but mrs. craven had been to our cottage two or three times. he'd forgot, but mother hadn't an' she made bold to stop him. i don't know what she said to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th' mind to see you before he goes away again, to-morrow." "oh!" cried mary, "is he going away to-morrow? i am so glad!" "he's goin' for a long time. he mayn't come back till autumn or winter. he's goin' to travel in foreign places. he's always doin' it." "oh! i'm so glad--so glad!" said mary thankfully. if he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least. "when do you think he will want to see--" she did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and mrs. medlock walked in. she had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. it was a colored photograph of mr. medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. she looked nervous and excited. "your hair's rough," she said quickly. "go and brush it. martha, help her to slip on her best dress. mr. craven sent me to bring her to him in his study." all the pink left mary's cheeks. her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. she did not even answer mrs. medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by martha. she said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed mrs. medlock down the corridors, in silence. what was there for her to say? she was obliged to go and see mr. craven and he would not like her, and she would not like him. she knew what he would think of her. she was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. at last mrs. medlock knocked at a door, and when some one said, "come in," they entered the room together. a man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and mrs. medlock spoke to him. "this is miss mary, sir," she said. "you can go and leave her here. i will ring for you when i want you to take her away," said mr. craven. when she went out and closed the door, mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. she could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white. he turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her. "come here!" he said. mary went to him. he was not ugly. his face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable. he looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her. "are you well?" he asked. "yes," answered mary. "do they take good care of you?" "yes." he rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over. "you are very thin," he said. "i am getting fatter," mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way. what an unhappy face he had! his black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her. "i forgot you," he said. "how could i remember you? i intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some one of that sort, but i forgot." "please," began mary. "please--" and then the lump in her throat choked her. "what do you want to say?" he inquired. "i am--i am too big for a nurse," said mary. "and please--please don't make me have a governess yet." he rubbed his forehead again and stared at her. "that was what the sowerby woman said," he muttered absent-mindedly. then mary gathered a scrap of courage. "is she--is she martha's mother?" she stammered. "yes, i think so," he replied. "she knows about children," said mary. "she has twelve. she knows." he seemed to rouse himself. "what do you want to do?" "i want to play out of doors," mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble. "i never liked it in india. it makes me hungry here, and i am getting fatter." he was watching her. "mrs. sowerby said it would do you good. perhaps it will," he said. "she thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess." "it makes me feel strong when i play and the wind comes over the moor," argued mary. "where do you play?" he asked next. "everywhere," gasped mary. "martha's mother sent me a skipping-rope. i skip and run--and i look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. i don't do any harm." "don't look so frightened," he said in a worried voice. "you could not do any harm, a child like you! you may do what you like." mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it. she came a step nearer to him. "may i?" she said tremulously. her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever. "don't look so frightened," he exclaimed. "of course you may. i am your guardian, though i am a poor one for any child. i cannot give you time or attention. i am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but i wish you to be happy and comfortable. i don't know anything about children, but mrs. medlock is to see that you have all you need. i sent for you to-day because mrs. sowerby said i ought to see you. her daughter had talked about you. she thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about." "she knows all about children," mary said again in spite of herself. "she ought to," said mr. craven. "i thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--mrs. craven had been kind to her." it seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife's name. "she is a respectable woman. now i have seen you i think she said sensible things. play out of doors as much as you like. it's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him. "do you want toys, books, dolls?" "might i," quavered mary, "might i have a bit of earth?" in her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. mr. craven looked quite startled. "earth!" he repeated. "what do you mean?" "to plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them come alive," mary faltered. he gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. "do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly. "i didn't know about them in india," said mary. "i was always ill and tired and it was too hot. i sometimes made little beds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. but here it is different." mr. craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. "a bit of earth," he said to himself, and mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. when he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "you can have as much earth as you want," he said. "you remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. when you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it come alive." "may i take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?" "anywhere," he answered. "there! you must go now, i am tired." he touched the bell to call mrs. medlock. "good-by. i shall be away all summer." mrs. medlock came so quickly that mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. "mrs. medlock," mr. craven said to her, "now i have seen the child i understand what mrs. sowerby meant. she must be less delicate before she begins lessons. give her simple, healthy food. let her run wild in the garden. don't look after her too much. she needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. mrs. sowerby is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes go to the cottage." mrs. medlock looked pleased. she was relieved to hear that she need not "look after" mary too much. she had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen as little of her as she dared. in addition to this she was fond of martha's mother. "thank you, sir," she said. "susan sowerby and me went to school together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you'd find in a day's walk. i never had any children myself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier or better ones. miss mary can get no harm from them. i'd always take susan sowerby's advice about children myself. she's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me." "i understand," mr. craven answered. "take miss mary away now and send pitcher to me." when mrs. medlock left her at the end of her own corridor mary flew back to her room. she found martha waiting there. martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service. "i can have my garden!" cried mary. "i may have it where i like! i am not going to have a governess for a long time! your mother is coming to see me and i may go to your cottage! he says a little girl like me could not do any harm and i may do what i like--anywhere!" "eh!" said martha delightedly, "that was nice of him wasn't it?" "martha," said mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together." she ran as quickly as she could to the garden. she had been away so much longer than she had thought she should and she knew dickon would have to set out early on his five-mile walk. when she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him. the gardening tools were laid together under a tree. she ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no dickon to be seen. he had gone away and the secret garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her. "he's gone," she said wofully. "oh! was he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?" something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. it was a piece of paper--in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for martha to send to dickon. it was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew dickon had left it there. there were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. at first she could not tell what it was. then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. underneath were the printed letters and they said: "i will cum bak." chapter xiii "i am colin" mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to martha. "eh!" said martha with great pride. "i never knew our dickon was as clever as that. that there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural." then mary knew dickon had meant the picture to be a message. he had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. oh, how she did like that queer, common boy! she hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning. but you never know what the weather will do in yorkshire, particularly in the springtime. she was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window. it was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house. mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry. "the rain is as contrary as i ever was," she said. "it came because it knew i did not want it." she threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. she did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." she could not go to sleep again. the mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. if she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. how it "wuthered" and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane! "it sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said. * * * * * she had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening. she listened and she listened. "it isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "that isn't the wind. it is different. it is that crying i heard before." the door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying. she listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more and more sure. she felt as if she must find out what it was. it seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key. perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold. she put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor. "i am going to find out what it is," she said. "everybody is in bed and i don't care about mrs. medlock--i don't care!" there was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room. the corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that. she thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry--the one mrs. medlock had come through the day she lost herself. the sound had come up that passage. so she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it. the far-off faint crying went on and led her. sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. was this the right corner to turn? she stopped and thought. yes it was. down this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again. yes, there was the tapestry door. she pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood in the corridor and could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was not loud. it was on the other side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on there was a door. she could see a glimmer of light coming from beneath it. the someone was crying in that room, and it was quite a young someone. so she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was standing in the room! it was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it. there was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the side of a carved four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy, crying fretfully. mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it. the boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to have eyes too big for it. he had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller. he looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain. mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath. then she crept across the room, and as she drew nearer the light attracted the boy's attention and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense. [illustration: "'who are you?--are you a ghost?'"--_page 157_] "who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper. "are you a ghost?" "no, i am not," mary answered, her own whisper sounding half frightened. "are you one?" he stared and stared and stared. mary could not help noticing what strange eyes he had. they were agate gray and they looked too big for his face because they had black lashes all round them. "no," he replied after waiting a moment or so. "i am colin." "who is colin?" she faltered. "i am colin craven. who are you?" "i am mary lennox. mr. craven is my uncle." "he is my father," said the boy. "your father!" gasped mary. "no one ever told me he had a boy! why didn't they?" "come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with an anxious expression. she came close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her. "you are real, aren't you?" he said. "i have such real dreams very often. you might be one of them." mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she put a piece of it between his fingers. "rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said. "i will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how real i am. for a minute i thought you might be a dream too." "where did you come from?" he asked. "from my own room. the wind wuthered so i couldn't go to sleep and i heard some one crying and wanted to find out who it was. what were you crying for?" "because i couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. tell me your name again." "mary lennox. did no one ever tell you i had come to live here?" he was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality. "no," he answered. "they daren't." "why?" asked mary. "because i should have been afraid you would see me. i won't let people see me and talk me over." "why?" mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment. "because i am like this always, ill and having to lie down. my father won't let people talk me over either. the servants are not allowed to speak about me. if i live i may be a hunchback, but i shan't live. my father hates to think i may be like him." "oh, what a queer house this is!" mary said. "what a queer house! everything is a kind of secret. rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you! have you been locked up?" "no. i stay in this room because i don't want to be moved out of it. it tires me too much." "does your father come and see you?" mary ventured. "sometimes. generally when i am asleep. he doesn't want to see me." "why?" mary could not help asking again. a sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face. "my mother died when i was born and it makes him wretched to look at me. he thinks i don't know, but i've heard people talking. he almost hates me." "he hates the garden, because she died," said mary half speaking to herself. "what garden?" the boy asked. "oh! just--just a garden she used to like," mary stammered. "have you been here always?" "nearly always. sometimes i have been taken to places at the seaside, but i won't stay because people stare at me. i used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from london to see me and said it was stupid. he told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air. i hate fresh air and i don't want to go out." "i didn't when first i came here," said mary. "why do you keep looking at me like that?" "because of the dreams that are so real," he answered rather fretfully. "sometimes when i open my eyes i don't believe i'm awake." "we're both awake," said mary. she glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim firelight. "it looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us. we are wide awake." "i don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly. mary thought of something all at once. "if you don't like people to see you," she began, "do you want me to go away?" he still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull. "no," he said. "i should be sure you were a dream if you went. if you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk. i want to hear about you." mary put down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the cushioned stool. she did not want to go away at all. she wanted to stay in the mysterious hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy. "what do you want me to tell you?" she said. he wanted to know how long she had been at misselthwaite; he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; if she disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came to yorkshire. she answered all these questions and many more and he lay back on his pillow and listened. he made her tell him a great deal about india and about her voyage across the ocean. she found out that because he had been an invalid he had not learned things as other children had. one of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking at pictures in splendid books. though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with. he never seemed to have been amused, however. he could have anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did not like to do. "every one is obliged to do what pleases me," he said indifferently. "it makes me ill to be angry. no one believes i shall live to grow up." he said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to matter to him at all. he seemed to like the sound of mary's voice. as she went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way. once or twice she wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze. but at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject. "how old are you?" he asked. "i am ten," answered mary, forgetting herself for the moment, "and so are you." "how do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice. "because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was buried. and it has been locked for ten years." colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows. "what garden door was locked? who did it? where was the key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested. "it--it was the garden mr. craven hates," said mary nervously. "he locked the door. no one--no one knew where he buried the key." "what sort of a garden is it?" colin persisted eagerly. "no one has been allowed to go into it for ten years," was mary's careful answer. but it was too late to be careful. he was too much like herself. he too had had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted her. he asked question after question. where was it? had she never looked for the door? had she never asked the gardeners? "they won't talk about it," said mary. "i think they have been told not to answer questions." "i would make them," said colin. "could you?" mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. if he could make people answer questions, who knew what might happen! "every one is obliged to please me. i told you that," he said. "if i were to live, this place would sometime belong to me. they all know that. i would make them tell me." mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. he thought that the whole world belonged to him. how peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living. "do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden. "i don't suppose i shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken before. "ever since i remember anything i have heard people say i shan't. at first they thought i was too little to understand and now they think i don't hear. but i do. my doctor is my father's cousin. he is quite poor and if i die he will have all misselthwaite when my father is dead. i should think he wouldn't want me to live." "do you want to live?" inquired mary. "no," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "but i don't want to die. when i feel ill i lie here and think about it until i cry and cry." "i have heard you crying three times," mary said, "but i did not know who it was. were you crying about that?" she did so want him to forget the garden. "i dare say," he answered. "let us talk about something else. talk about that garden. don't you want to see it?" "yes," answered mary, in quite a low voice. "i do," he went on persistently. "i don't think i ever really wanted to see anything before, but i want to see that garden. i want the key dug up. i want the door unlocked. i would let them take me there in my chair. that would be getting fresh air. i am going to make them open the door." he had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever. "they have to please me," he said. "i will make them take me there and i will let you go, too." mary's hands clutched each other. everything would be spoiled--everything! dickon would never come back. she would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest. "oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out. he stared as if he thought she had gone crazy! "why?" he exclaimed. "you said you wanted to see it." "i do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat, "but if you make them open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again." he leaned still farther forward. "a secret," he said. "what do you mean? tell me." mary's words almost tumbled over one another. "you see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows but ourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if we could slip through it together and shut it behind us, and no one knew any one was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--" "is it dead?" he interrupted her. "it soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on. "the bulbs will live but the roses--" he stopped her again as excited as she was herself. "what are bulbs?" he put in quickly. "they are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. they are working in the earth now--pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming." "is the spring coming?" he said. "what is it like? you don't see it in rooms if you are ill." "it is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth," said mary. "if the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive. don't you see? oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?" he dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face. "i never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to grow up. they don't know i know that, so it is a sort of secret. but i like this kind better." "if you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded mary, "perhaps--i feel almost sure i can find out how to get in sometime. and then--if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden." "i should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "i should like that. i should not mind fresh air in a secret garden." mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him. she felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp into it when they chose. "i'll tell you what i _think_ it would be like, if we could go into it," she said. "it has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle perhaps." he lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which _might_ have clambered from tree to tree and hung down--about the many birds which _might_ have built their nests there because it was so safe. and then she told him about the robin and ben weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the robin and it was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to feel afraid. the robin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at first mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself, with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair. "i did not know birds could be like that," he said. "but if you stay in a room you never see things. what a lot of things you know. i feel as if you had been inside that garden." she did not know what to say, so she did not say anything. he evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise. "i am going to let you look at something," he said. "do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?" mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. it was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture. "yes," she answered. "there is a cord hanging from it," said colin. "go and pull it." mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord. when she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture. it was the picture of a girl with a laughing face. she had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like colin's unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round them. "she is my mother," said colin complainingly. "i don't see why she died. sometimes i hate her for doing it." "how queer!" said mary. "if she had lived i believe i should not have been ill always," he grumbled. "i dare say i should have lived, too. and my father would not have hated to look at me. i dare say i should have had a strong back. draw the curtain again." mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool. "she is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like yours--at least they are the same shape and color. why is the curtain drawn over her?" he moved uncomfortably. "i made them do it," he said. "sometimes i don't like to see her looking at me. she smiles too much when i am ill and miserable. besides, she is mine and i don't want every one to see her." there were a few moments of silence and then mary spoke. "what would mrs. medlock do if she found out that i had been here?" she inquired. "she would do as i told her to do," he answered. "and i should tell her that i wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. i am glad you came." "so am i," said mary. "i will come as often as i can, but"--she hesitated--"i shall have to look every day for the garden door." "yes, you must," said colin, "and you can tell me about it afterward." he lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again. "i think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "i will not tell them until they find out. i can always send the nurse out of the room and say that i want to be by myself. do you know martha?" "yes, i know her very well," said mary. "she waits on me." he nodded his head toward the outer corridor. "she is the one who is asleep in the other room. the nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with her sister and she always makes martha attend to me when she wants to go out. martha shall tell you when to come here." then mary understood martha's troubled look when she had asked questions about the crying. "martha knew about you all the time?" she said. "yes; she often attends to me. the nurse likes to get away from me and then martha comes." "i have been here a long time," said mary. "shall i go away now? your eyes look sleepy." "i wish i could go to sleep before you leave me," he said rather shyly. "shut your eyes," said mary, drawing her footstool closer, "and i will do what my ayah used to do in india. i will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something quite low." "i should like that perhaps," he said drowsily. somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little chanting song in hindustani. "that is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. so she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound. chapter xiv a young rajah the moor was hidden in mist when the morning came and the rain had not stopped pouring down. there could be no going out of doors. martha was so busy that mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery. she came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing nothing else. "what's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat down. "tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say." "i have. i have found out what the crying was," said mary. martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes. "tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "never!" "i heard it in the night," mary went on. "and i got up and went to see where it came from. it was colin. i found him." martha's face became red with fright. "eh! miss mary!" she said half crying. "tha' shouldn't have done it--tha' shouldn't! tha'll get me in trouble. i never told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get me in trouble. i shall lose my place and what'll mother do!" "you won't lose your place," said mary. "he was glad i came. we talked and talked and he said he was glad i came." "was he?" cried martha. "art tha' sure? tha' doesn't know what he's like when anything vexes him. he's a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he's in a passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. he knows us daren't call our souls our own." "he wasn't vexed," said mary. "i asked him if i should go away and he made me stay. he asked me questions and i sat on a big footstool and talked to him about india and about the robin and gardens. he wouldn't let me go. he let me see his mother's picture. before i left him i sang him to sleep." martha fairly gasped with amazement. "i can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "it's as if tha'd walked straight into a lion's den. if he'd been like he is most times he'd have throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th' house. he won't let strangers look at him." "he let me look at him. i looked at him all the time and he looked at me. we stared!" said mary. "i don't know what to do!" cried agitated martha. "if mrs. medlock finds out, she'll think i broke orders and told thee and i shall be packed back to mother." "he is not going to tell mrs. medlock anything about it yet. it's to be a sort of secret just at first," said mary firmly. "and he says everybody is obliged to do as he pleases." "aye, that's true enough--th' bad lad!" sighed martha, wiping her forehead with her apron. "he says mrs. medlock must. and he wants me to come and talk to him every day. and you are to tell me when he wants me." "me!" said martha; "i shall lose my place--i shall for sure!" "you can't if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is ordered to obey him," mary argued. "does tha' mean to say," cried martha with wide open eyes, "that he was nice to thee!" "i think he almost liked me," mary answered. "then tha' must have bewitched him!" decided martha, drawing a long breath. "do you mean magic?" inquired mary. "i've heard about magic in india, but i can't make it. i just went into his room and i was so surprised to see him i stood and stared. and then he turned round and stared at me. and he thought i was a ghost or a dream and i thought perhaps he was. and it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of the night and not knowing about each other. and we began to ask each other questions. and when i asked him if i must go away he said i must not." "th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped martha. "what is the matter with him?" asked mary. "nobody knows for sure and certain," said martha. "mr. craven went off his head like when he was born. th' doctors thought he'd have to be put in a 'sylum. it was because mrs. craven died like i told you. he wouldn't set eyes on th' baby. he just raved and said it'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die." "is colin a hunchback?" mary asked. "he didn't look like one." "he isn't yet," said martha. "but he began all wrong. mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th' house to set any child wrong. they was afraid his back was weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin' him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. once they made him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill. then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take it off. he talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way. he said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin' him have his own way." "i think he's a very spoiled boy," said mary. "he's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said martha. "i won't say as he hasn't been ill a good bit. he's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him two or three times. once he had rheumatic fever an' once he had typhoid. eh! mrs. medlock did get a fright then. he'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th' nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said, 'he'll die this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an' for everybody.' an' she looked at him an' there he was with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensible as she was herself. she didn't know what'd happen but he just stared at her an' says, 'you give me some water an' stop talkin'.'" "do you think he will die?" asked mary. "mother says there's no reason why any child should live that gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lie on his back an' read picture-books an' take medicine. he's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o' doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill." mary sat and looked at the fire. "i wonder," she said slowly, "if it would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things growing. it did me good." "one of th' worst fits he ever had," said martha, "was one time they took him out where the roses is by the fountain. he'd been readin' in a paper about people gettin' somethin' he called 'rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn't know th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious. he threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd looked at him because he was going to be a hunchback. he cried himself into a fever an' was ill all night." "if he ever gets angry at me, i'll never go and see him again," said mary. "he'll have thee if he wants thee," said martha. "tha' may as well know that at th' start." very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting. "i dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit," she said. "i hope he's in a good temper." she was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a puzzled expression. "well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "he's up on his sofa with his picture-books. he's told the nurse to stay away until six o'clock. i'm to wait in the next room. th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, 'i want mary lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you're not to tell any one.' you'd better go as quick as you can." mary was quite willing to go quickly. she did not want to see colin as much as she wanted to see dickon, but she wanted to see him very much. there was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in the daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed. there were rich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the walls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite of the gray sky and falling rain. colin looked rather like a picture himself. he was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion. he had a red spot on each cheek. "come in," he said. "i've been thinking about you all morning." "i've been thinking about you, too," answered mary. "you don't know how frightened martha is. she says mrs. medlock will think she told me about you and then she will be sent away." he frowned. "go and tell her to come here," he said. "she is in the next room." mary went and brought her back. poor martha was shaking in her shoes. colin was still frowning. "have you to do what i please or have you not?" he demanded. "i have to do what you please, sir," martha faltered, turning quite red. "has medlock to do what i please?" "everybody has, sir," said martha. "well, then, if i order you to bring miss mary to me, how can medlock send you away if she finds it out?" "please don't let her, sir," pleaded martha. "i'll send _her_ away if she dares to say a word about such a thing," said master craven grandly. "she wouldn't like that, i can tell you." "thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "i want to do my duty, sir." "what i want is your duty," said colin more grandly still. "i'll take care of you. now go away." when the door closed behind martha, colin found mistress mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering. "why do you look at me like that?" he asked her. "what are you thinking about?" "i am thinking about two things." "what are they? sit down and tell me." "this is the first one," said mary, seating herself on the big stool. "once in india i saw a boy who was a rajah. he had rubies and emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him. he spoke to his people just as you spoke to martha. everybody had to do everything he told them--in a minute. i think they would have been killed if they hadn't." "i shall make you tell me about rajahs presently," he said, "but first tell me what the second thing was." "i was thinking," said mary, "how different you are from dickon." "who is dickon?" he said. "what a queer name!" she might as well tell him, she thought. she could talk about dickon without mentioning the secret garden. she had liked to hear martha talk about him. besides, she longed to talk about him. it would seem to bring him nearer. "he is martha's brother. he is twelve years old," she explained. "he is not like any one else in the world. he can charm foxes and squirrels and birds just as the natives in india charm snakes. he plays a very soft tune on a pipe and they come and listen." there were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one suddenly toward him. "there is a picture of a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed. "come and look at it." the book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he turned to one of them. "can he do that?" he asked eagerly. "he played on his pipe and they listened," mary explained. "but he doesn't call it magic. he says it's because he lives on the moor so much and he knows their ways. he says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so. i think he asked the robin questions. it seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps." colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his cheeks burned. "tell me some more about him," he said. "he knows all about eggs and nests," mary went on. "and he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live. he keeps them secret so that other boys won't find their holes and frighten them. he knows about everything that grows or lives on the moor." "does he like the moor?" said colin. "how can he when it's such a great, bare, dreary place?" "it's the most beautiful place," protested mary. "thousands of lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other. they are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather. it's their world." "how do you know all that?" said colin, turning on his elbow to look at her. "i have never been there once, really," said mary suddenly remembering. "i only drove over it in the dark. i thought it was hideous. martha told me about it first and then dickon. when dickon talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies." "you never see anything if you are ill," said colin restlessly. he looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was. "you can't if you stay in a room," said mary. "i couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone. mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold. "you might--sometime." he moved as if he were startled. "go on the moor! how could i? i am going to die." "how do you know?" said mary unsympathetically. she didn't like the way he had of talking about dying. she did not feel very sympathetic. she felt rather as if he almost boasted about it. "oh, i've heard it ever since i remember," he answered crossly. "they are always whispering about it and thinking i don't notice. they wish i would, too." mistress mary felt quite contrary. she pinched her lips together. "if they wished i would," she said, "i wouldn't. who wishes you would?" "the servants--and of course dr. craven because he would get misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. he daren't say so, but he always looks cheerful when i am worse. when i had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. i think my father wishes it, too." "i don't believe he does," said mary quite obstinately. that made colin turn and look at her again. "don't you?" he said. and then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were thinking. and there was quite a long silence. perhaps they were both of them thinking strange things children do not usually think of. "i like the grand doctor from london, because he made them take the iron thing off," said mary at last. "did he say you were going to die?" "no." "what did he say?" "he didn't whisper," colin answered. "perhaps he knew i hated whispering. i heard him say one thing quite aloud. he said, 'the lad might live if he would make up his mind to it. put him in the humor.' it sounded as if he was in a temper." "i'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps," said mary reflecting. she felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one way or the other. "i believe dickon would. he's always talking about live things. he never talks about dead things or things that are ill. he's always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying--or looking down at the earth to see something growing. he has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about. and he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries." she pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes. "see here," she said. "don't let us talk about dying; i don't like it. let us talk about living. let us talk and talk about dickon. and then we will look at your pictures." it was the best thing she could have said. to talk about dickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week--and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies. and about dickon's mother--and the skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on it--and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod. and it was all so alive that mary talked more than she had ever talked before--and colin both talked and listened as he had never done either before. and they both began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy together. and they laughed so that in the end they were making as much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going to die. they enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they forgot about the time. they had been laughing quite loudly over ben weatherstaff and his robin and colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgotten about his weak back when he suddenly remembered something. "do you know there is one thing we have never once thought of," he said. "we are cousins." it seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever, because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything. and in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walked dr. craven and mrs. medlock. dr. craven started in actual alarm and mrs. medlock almost fell back because he had accidentally bumped against her. "good lord!" exclaimed poor mrs. medlock, with her eyes almost starting out of her head. "good lord!" "what is this?" said dr. craven, coming forward. "what does it mean?" then mary was reminded of the boy rajah again. colin answered as if neither the doctor's alarm nor mrs. medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence. he was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderly cat and dog had walked into the room. "this is my cousin, mary lennox," he said. "i asked her to come and talk to me. i like her. she must come and talk to me whenever i send for her." dr. craven turned reproachfully to mrs. medlock. "oh, sir," she panted. "i don't know how it's happened. there's not a servant on the place that'd dare to talk--they all have their orders." "nobody told her anything," said colin, "she heard me crying and found me herself. i am glad she came. don't be silly, medlock." mary saw that dr. craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain that he dare not oppose his patient. he sat down by colin and felt his pulse. "i am afraid there has been too much excitement. excitement is not good for you, my boy," he said. "i should be excited if she kept away," answered colin, his eyes beginning to look dangerously sparkling. "i am better. she makes me better. the nurse must bring up her tea with mine. we will have tea together." mrs. medlock and dr. craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but there was evidently nothing to be done. "he does look rather better, sir," ventured mrs. medlock. "but"--thinking the matter over--"he looked better this morning before she came into the room." "she came into the room last night. she stayed with me a long time. she sang a hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep," said colin. "i was better when i wakened up. i wanted my breakfast. i want my tea now. tell nurse, medlock." dr. craven did not stay very long. he talked to the nurse for a few minutes when she came into the room and said a few words of warning to colin. he must not talk too much; he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forget that he was very easily tired. mary thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was not to forget. colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on dr. craven's face. "i _want_ to forget it," he said at last. "she makes me forget it. that is why i want her." dr. craven did not look happy when he left the room. he gave a puzzled glance at the little girl sitting on the large stool. she had become a stiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he could not see what the attraction was. the boy actually did look brighter, however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the corridor. "they are always wanting me to eat things when i don't want to," said colin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the sofa. "now, if you'll eat i will. those muffins look so nice and hot. tell me about rajahs." chapter xv nest building after another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot. though there had been no chance to see either the secret garden or dickon, mistress mary had enjoyed herself very much. the week had not seemed long. she had spent hours of every day with colin in his room, talking about rajahs or gardens or dickon and the cottage on the moor. they had looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes mary had read things to colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her. when he was amused and interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all, except that his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa. "you are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go following things up like you did that night," mrs. medlock said once. "but there's no saying it's not been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. he's not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends. the nurse was just going to give up the case because she was so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind staying now you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little. in her talks with colin, mary had tried to be very cautious about the secret garden. there were certain things she wanted to find out from him, but she felt that she must find them out without asking him direct questions. in the first place, as she began to like to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy you could tell a secret to. he was not in the least like dickon, but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted. but she had not known him long enough to be sure. the second thing she wanted to find out was this: if he could be trusted--if he really could--wouldn't it be possible to take him to the garden without having any one find it out? the grand doctor had said that he must have fresh air and colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in a secret garden. perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and knew dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think so much about dying. mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she had realized that she looked quite a different creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from india. this child looked nicer. even martha had seen a change in her. "th' air from th' moor has done thee good already," she had said. "tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so scrawny. even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha' head so flat. it's got some life in it so as it sticks out a bit." "it's like me," said mary. "it's growing stronger and fatter. i'm sure there's more of it." "it looks it, for sure," said martha, ruffling it up a little round her face. "tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks." if gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be good for colin. but then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see dickon. "why does it make you angry when you are looked at?" she inquired one day. "i always hated it," he answered, "even when i was very little. then when they took me to the seaside and i used to lie in my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin to whisper and i knew then they were saying i shouldn't live to grow up. then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks and say 'poor child!' once when a lady did that i screamed out loud and bit her hand. she was so frightened she ran away." "she thought you had gone mad like a dog," said mary, not at all admiringly. "i don't care what she thought," said colin, frowning. "i wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when i came into your room?" said mary. then she began to smile slowly. "i thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said. "you can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don't care." "would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?" mary asked uncertainly. he lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully. "there's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over every word, "there's one boy i believe i shouldn't mind. it's that boy who knows where the foxes live--dickon." "i'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said mary. "the birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking it over, "perhaps that's why i shouldn't. he's a sort of animal charmer and i am a boy animal." then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both laughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed. what mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about dickon. * * * * * on that first morning when the sky was blue again mary wakened very early. the sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. she drew up the blinds and opened the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her. the moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something magic had happened to it. there were tender little fluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert. mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun. "it's warm--warm!" she said. "it will make the green points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their might under the earth." she kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because she remembered what dickon's mother had said about the end of his nose quivering like a rabbit's. "it must be very early," she said. "the little clouds are all pink and i've never seen the sky look like this. no one is up. i don't even hear the stable boys." a sudden thought made her scramble to her feet. "i can't wait! i am going to see the garden!" she had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her clothes in five minutes. she knew a small side door which she could unbolt herself and she flew down-stairs in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall. she unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree. she clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it. she ran around the shrubs and paths toward the secret garden. "it is all different already," she said. "the grass is greener and things are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing. this afternoon i am sure dickon will come." the long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall. there were things sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. six months before mistress mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing. when she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. it was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed. she had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped away across the garden. she hoped he was not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would. when she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree, and under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red head of dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard. mary flew across the grass to him. "oh, dickon! dickon!" she cried out. "how could you get here so early! how could you! the sun has only just got up!" he got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky. "eh!" he said. "i was up long before him. how could i have stayed abed! th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. an' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. when th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' i was in the midst of th' heather, an' i run like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. an' i come straight here. i couldn't have stayed away. why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!" mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself. "oh, dickon! dickon!" she said. "i'm so happy i can scarcely breathe!" seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder. "this is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little reddish animal's head. "it's named captain. an' this here's soot. soot he flew across th' moor with me an' captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him. they both felt same as i did." neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of mary. when dickon began to walk about, soot stayed on his shoulder and captain trotted quietly close to his side. "see here!" said dickon. "see how these has pushed up, an' these an' these! an' eh! look at these here!" he threw himself upon his knees and mary went down beside him. they had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold. mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them. "you never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted her head. "flowers are so different." he looked puzzled but smiled. "eh!" he said, "i've kissed mother many a time that way when i come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an' comfortable." they ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low. he showed her swelling leaf-buds on rose branches which had seemed dead. he showed her ten thousand new green points pushing through the mould. they put their eager young noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low with rapture until mistress mary's hair was as tumbled as dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his. there was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful. swiftly something flew across the wall and darted through the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak. dickon stood quite still and put his hand on mary almost as if they had suddenly found themselves laughing in a church. "we munnot stir," he whispered in broad yorkshire. "we munnot scarce breathe. i knowed he was mate-huntin' when i seed him last. it's ben weatherstaff's robin. he's buildin' his nest. he'll stay here if us don't flight him." they settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving. "us mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close," said dickon. "he'd be out with us for good if he got th' notion us was interferin' now. he'll be a good bit different till all this is over. he's settin' up housekeepin'. he'll be shyer an' readier to take things ill. he's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. us must keep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an' trees an' bushes. then when he's got used to seein' us i'll chirp a bit an' he'll know us'll not be in his way." mistress mary was not at all sure that she knew, as dickon seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes. but he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves. but he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could. "it's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin' is," he said. "i warrant it's been goin' on in th' same way every year since th' world was begun. they've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things an' a body had better not meddle. you can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you're too curious." "if we talk about him i can't help looking at him," mary said as softly as possible. "we must talk of something else. there is something i want to tell you." "he'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said dickon. "what is it tha's got to tell me?" "well--do you know about colin?" she whispered. he turned his head to look at her. "what does tha' know about him?" he asked. "i've seen him. i have been to talk to him every day this week. he wants me to come. he says i'm making him forget about being ill and dying," answered mary. dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face. "i am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "i'm right down glad. it makes me easier. i knowed i must say nothin' about him an' i don't like havin' to hide things." "don't you like hiding the garden?" said mary. "i'll never tell about it," he answered. "but i says to mother, 'mother,' i says, 'i got a secret to keep. it's not a bad 'un, tha' knows that. it's no worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. tha' doesn't mind it, does tha'?'" mary always wanted to hear about mother. "what did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear. dickon grinned sweet-temperedly. "it was just like her, what she said," he answered. "she give my head a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'eh, lad, tha' can have all th' secrets tha' likes. i've knowed thee twelve year'.'" "how did you know about colin?" asked mary. "everybody as knowed about mester craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowed mester craven didn't like him to be talked about. folks is sorry for mester craven because mrs. craven was such a pretty young lady an' they was so fond of each other. mrs. medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to thwaite an' she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty. how did tha' find out about him? martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came home. she said tha'd heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an' she didn't know what to say." mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner. when she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes dickon shook his head. "them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always laughin', they say," he said. "they say as mr. craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an' it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an' yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face." "do you think he wants him to die?" whispered mary. "no, but he wishes he'd never been born. mother she says that's th' worst thing on earth for a child. them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. mester craven he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to forget as he's on earth. for one thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he's growed hunchback." "colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said mary. "he says he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death." "eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said dickon. "no lad could get well as thought them sort o' things." the fox was lying on the grass close by him looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence. presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden. "when first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything was gray. look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a difference." mary looked and caught her breath a little. "why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing. it is as if a green mist were creeping over it. it's almost like a green gauze veil." "aye," said dickon. "an' it'll be greener and greener till th' gray's all gone. can tha' guess what i was thinkin'?" "i know it was something nice," said mary eagerly. "i believe it was something about colin." "i was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier," explained dickon. "i was wonderin' if us could ever get him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th' trees in his carriage." "i've been wondering that myself. i've thought of it almost every time i've talked to him," said mary. "i've wondered if he could keep a secret and i've wondered if we could bring him here without any one seeing us. i thought perhaps you could push his carriage. the doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him. he won't go out for other people and perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us. he could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn't find out." dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched captain's back. "it'd be good for him, i'll warrant," he said. "us'd not be thinkin' he'd better never been born. us'd be just two children watchin' a garden grow, an' he'd be another. two lads an' a little lass just lookin' on at th' springtime. i warrant it'd be better than doctor's stuff." "he's been lying in his room so long and he's always been so afraid of his back that it has made him queer," said mary. "he knows a good many things out of books but he doesn't know anything else. he says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners. but he likes to hear about this garden because it is a secret. i daren't tell him much but he said he wanted to see it." "us'll have him out here sometime for sure," said dickon. "i could push his carriage well enough. has tha' noticed how th' robin an' his mate has been workin' while we've been sittin' here? look at him perched on that branch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he's got in his beak." he made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head and looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig. dickon spoke to him as ben weatherstaff did, but dickon's tone was one of friendly advice. "wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'll be all right. tha' knew how to build tha' nest before tha' came out o' th' egg. get on with thee, lad. tha'st got no time to lose." "oh, i do like to hear you talk to him!" mary said, laughing delightedly. "ben weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks as if he understood every word, and i know he likes it. ben weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather have stones thrown at him than not be noticed." dickon laughed too and went on talking. "tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin. "us is near bein' wild things ourselves. us is nest-buildin' too, bless thee. look out tha' doesn't tell on us." and though the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied, mary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secret for the world. chapter xvi "i won't!" said mary they found a great deal to do that morning and mary was late in returning to the house and was also in such a hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgot colin until the last moment. "tell colin that i can't come and see him yet," she said to martha. "i'm very busy in the garden." martha looked rather frightened. "eh! miss mary," she said, "it may put him all out of humor when i tell him that." but mary was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not a self-sacrificing person. "i can't stay," she answered. "dickon's waiting for me;" and she ran away. the afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been. already nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of the roses and trees had been pruned or dug about. dickon had brought a spade of his own and he had taught mary to use all her tools, so that by this time it was plain that though the lovely wild place was not likely to become a "gardener's garden" it would be a wilderness of growing things before the springtime was over. "there'll be apple blossoms an' cherry blossoms overhead," dickon said, working away with all his might. "an' there'll be peach an' plum trees in bloom against th' walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowers." the little fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and the robin and his mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning. sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared away over the tree-tops in the park. each time he came back and perched near dickon and cawed several times as if he were relating his adventures, and dickon talked to him just as he had talked to the robin. once when dickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first, soot flew on to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak. when mary wanted to rest a little dickon sat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little notes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened. "tha's a good bit stronger than tha' was," dickon said, looking at her as she was digging. "tha's beginning to look different, for sure." mary was glowing with exercise and good spirits. "i'm getting fatter and fatter every day," she said quite exultantly. "mrs. medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses. martha says my hair is growing thicker. it isn't so flat and stringy." the sun was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays slanting under the trees when they parted. "it'll be fine to-morrow," said dickon. "i'll be at work by sunrise." "so will i," said mary. * * * * * she ran back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her. she wanted to tell colin about dickon's fox cub and the rook and about what the springtime had been doing. she felt sure he would like to hear. so it was not very pleasant when she opened the door of her room, to see martha standing waiting for her with a doleful face. "what is the matter?" she asked. "what did colin say when you told him i couldn't come?" "eh!" said martha, "i wish tha'd gone. he was nigh goin' into one o' his tantrums. there's been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him quiet. he would watch the clock all th' time." mary's lips pinched themselves together. she was no more used to considering other people than colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best. she knew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too. when she had had a headache in india she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad. and she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that colin was quite wrong. he was not on his sofa when she went into his room. he was lying flat on his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in. this was a bad beginning and mary marched up to him with her stiff manner. "why didn't you get up?" she said. "i did get up this morning when i thought you were coming," he answered, without looking at her. "i made them put me back in bed this afternoon. my back ached and my head ached and i was tired. why didn't you come?" "i was working in the garden with dickon," said mary. colin frowned and condescended to look at her. "i won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me," he said. mary flew into a fine passion. she could fly into a passion without making a noise. she just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened. "if you send dickon away, i'll never come into this room again!" she retorted. "you'll have to if i want you," said colin. "i won't!" said mary. "i'll make you," said colin, "they shall drag you in." "shall they, mr. rajah!" said mary fiercely. "they may drag me in but they can't make me talk when they get me here. i'll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing. i won't even look at you. i'll stare at the floor!" they were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. if they had been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight. as it was, they did the next thing to it. "you are a selfish thing!" cried colin. "what are you?" said mary. "selfish people always say that. any one is selfish who doesn't do what they want. you're more selfish than i am. you're the most selfish boy i ever saw." "i'm not!" snapped colin. "i'm not as selfish as your fine dickon is! he keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows i am all by myself. he's selfish, if you like!" mary's eyes flashed fire. "he's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!" she said. "he's--he's like an angel!" it might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care. "a nice angel!" colin sneered ferociously. "he's a common cottage boy off the moor!" "he's better than a common rajah!" retorted mary. "he's a thousand times better!" because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. the truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor mary knew anything about that. he turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek. he was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself--not for any one else. "i'm not as selfish as you, because i'm always ill, and i'm sure there is a lump coming on my back," he said. "and i am going to die besides." "you're not!" contradicted mary unsympathetically. he opened his eyes quite wide with indignation. he had never heard such a thing said before. he was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at the same time. "i'm not?" he cried. "i am! you know i am! everybody says so." "i don't believe it!" said mary sourly. "you just say that to make people sorry. i believe you're proud of it. i don't believe it! if you were a nice boy it might be true--but you're too nasty!" in spite of his invalid back colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage. "get out of the room!" he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her. he was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet, but mary's face looked as pinched as a nutcracker. "i'm going," she said. "and i won't come back!" she walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again. "i was going to tell you all sorts of nice things," she said. "dickon brought his fox and his rook and i was going to tell you all about them. now i won't tell you a single thing!" she marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazing still--she was laughing. she was a big handsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to leave colin to martha or any one else who would take her place. mary had never liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief. "what are you laughing at?" she asked her. "at you two young ones," said the nurse. "it's the best thing that could happen to the sickly pampered thing to have some one to stand up to him that's as spoiled as himself;" and she laughed into her handkerchief again. "if he'd had a young vixen of a sister to fight with it would have been the saving of him." "is he going to die?" "i don't know and i don't care," said the nurse. "hysterics and temper are half what ails him." "what are hysterics?" asked mary. "you'll find out if you work him into a tantrum after this--but at any rate you've given him something to have hysterics about, and i'm glad of it." mary went back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she had come in from the garden. she was cross and disappointed but not at all sorry for colin. she had looked forward to telling him a great many things and she had meant to try to make up her mind whether it would be safe to trust him with the great secret. she had been beginning to think it would be, but now she had changed her mind entirely. she would never tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh air and die if he liked! it would serve him right! she felt so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about dickon and the green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down from the moor. martha was waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been temporarily replaced by interest and curiosity. there was a wooden box on the table and its cover had been removed and revealed that it was full of neat packages. "mr. craven sent it to you," said martha. "it looks as if it had picture-books in it." mary remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room. "do you want anything--dolls--toys--books?" she opened the package wondering if he had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do with it if he had. but he had not sent one. there were several beautiful books such as colin had, and two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures. there were two or three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand. everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind. she had not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite warm. "i can write better than i can print," she said, "and the first thing i shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him i am much obliged." if she had been friends with colin she would have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming. he had a way of doing that which she could not bear. it gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself. he said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. something he had heard mrs. medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. mrs. medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child. he had never told any one but mary that most of his "tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear. mary had been sorry for him when he had told her. "he always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to herself. "and he has been cross to-day. perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon." she stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking. "i said i would never go back again--" she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps, i will go and see--if he wants me--in the morning. perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but--i think--i'll go." chapter xvii a tantrum she had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. as she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself: "i'll go out before breakfast and work with dickon and then afterward--i believe--i'll go to see him." she thought it was the middle of the night when she was wakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. what was it--what was it? the next minute she felt quite sure she knew. doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and some one was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way. "it's colin," she said. "he's having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics. how awful it sounds." as she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them. she put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering. "i don't know what to do. i don't know what to do," she kept saying. "i can't bear it." once she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she remembered how he had driven her out of the room and thought that perhaps the sight of her might make him worse. even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears she could not keep the awful sounds out. she hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her. she was not used to any one's tempers but her own. she took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. "he ought to be stopped! somebody ought to make him stop! somebody ought to beat him!" she cried out. just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in. she was not laughing now by any means. she even looked rather pale. "he's worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "he'll do himself harm. no one can do anything with him. you come and try, like a good child. he likes you." "he turned me out of the room this morning," said mary, stamping her foot with excitement. the stamp rather pleased the nurse. the truth was that she had been afraid she might find mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes. "that's right," she said. "you're in the right humor. you go and scold him. give him something new to think of. do go, child, as quick as ever you can." it was not until afterward that mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as colin himself. she flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted. she felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. she slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. "you stop!" she almost shouted. "you stop! i hate you! everybody hates you! i wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death! you _will_ scream yourself to death in a minute, and i wish you would!" a nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. he had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. his face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little mary did not care an atom. "if you scream another scream," she said, "i'll scream too--and i can scream louder than you can and i'll frighten you, i'll frighten you!" he actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. the scream which had been coming almost choked him. the tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over. "i can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "i can't--i can't!" "you can!" shouted mary. "half that ails you is hysterics and temper--just hysterics--hysterics--hysterics!" and she stamped each time she said it. "i felt the lump--i felt it," choked out colin. "i knew i should. i shall have a hunch on my back and then i shall die," and he began to writhe again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn't scream. "you didn't feel a lump!" contradicted mary fiercely. "if you did it was only a hysterical lump. hysterics makes lumps. there's nothing the matter with your horrid back--nothing but hysterics! turn over and let me look at it!" she liked the word "hysterics" and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him. he was probably like herself and had never heard it before. "nurse," she commanded, "come here and show me his back this minute!" the nurse, mrs. medlock and martha had been standing huddled together near the door staring at her, their mouths half open. all three had gasped with fright more than once. the nurse came forward as if she were half afraid. colin was heaving with great breathless sobs. "perhaps he--he won't let me," she hesitated in a low voice. colin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs: "sh--show her! she--she'll see then!" it was a poor thin back to look at when it was bared. every rib could be counted and every joint of the spine, though mistress mary did not count them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn savage little face. she looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth. there was just a minute's silence, for even colin tried to hold his breath while mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she had been the great doctor from london. "there's not a single lump there!" she said at last. "there's not a lump as big as a pin--except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you're thin. i've got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as yours do, until i began to get fatter, and i am not fat enough yet to hide them. there's not a lump as big as a pin! if you ever say there is again, i shall laugh!" no one but colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish words had on him. if he had ever had any one to talk to about his secret terrors--if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions--if he had had childish companions and had not lain on his back in the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by himself. but he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days and months and years. and now that an angry unsympathetic little girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth. "i didn't know," ventured the nurse, "that he thought he had a lump on his spine. his back is weak because he won't try to sit up. i could have told him there was no lump there." colin gulped and turned his face a little to look at her. "c-could you?" he said pathetically. "yes, sir." "there!" said mary, and she gulped too. colin turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken breaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow. actually the tears meant that a curious great relief had come to him. presently he turned and looked at the nurse again and strangely enough he was not like a rajah at all as he spoke to her. "do you think--i could--live to grow up?" he said. the nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some of the london doctor's words. "you probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give way to your temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air." colin's tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and this perhaps made him feel gentle. he put out his hand a little toward mary, and i am glad to say that, her own tantrum having passed, she was softened too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up. "i'll--i'll go out with you, mary," he said. "i shan't hate fresh air if we can find--" he remembered just in time to stop himself from saying "if we can find the secret garden" and he ended, "i shall like to go out with you if dickon will come and push my chair. i do so want to see dickon and the fox and the crow." the nurse remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the pillows. then she made colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to mary, who really was very glad to get it after her excitement. mrs. medlock and martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm and in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away also. she was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her sleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at mary, who had pushed her big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding colin's hand. "you must go back and get your sleep out," she said. "he'll drop off after a while--if he's not too upset. then i'll lie down myself in the next room." "would you like me to sing you that song i learned from my ayah?" mary whispered to colin. his hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly. "oh, yes!" he answered. "it's such a soft song. i shall go to sleep in a minute." "i will put him to sleep," mary said to the yawning nurse. "you can go if you like." "well," said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance. "if he doesn't go to sleep in half an hour you must call me." "very well," answered mary. the nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone colin pulled mary's hand again. "i almost told," he said; "but i stopped myself in time. i won't talk and i'll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell me. have you--do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into the secret garden?" mary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her heart relented. "ye-es," she answered, "i think i have. and if you will go to sleep i will tell you to-morrow." his hand quite trembled. "oh, mary!" he said. "oh, mary! if i could get into it i think i should live to grow up! do you suppose that instead of singing the ayah song--you could just tell me softly as you did that first day what you imagine it looks like inside? i am sure it will make me go to sleep." "yes," answered mary. "shut your eyes." he closed his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice. "i think it has been left alone so long--that it has grown all into a lovely tangle. i think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground--almost like a strange gray mist. some of them have died but many--are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses. i think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark. now the spring has begun--perhaps--perhaps--" the soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on. "perhaps they are coming up through the grass--perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones--even now. perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl--and perhaps--the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping--and creeping over--everything. and the birds are coming to look at it--because it is--so safe and still. and perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--" very softly and slowly indeed, "the robin has found a mate--and is building a nest." and colin was asleep. chapter xviii "tha' munnot waste no time" of course mary did not waken early the next morning. she slept late because she was tired, and when martha brought her breakfast she told her that though colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crying. mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened. "he says he wishes tha' would please go and see him as soon as tha' can," martha said. "it's queer what a fancy he's took to thee. tha' did give it him last night for sure--didn't tha'? nobody else would have dared to do it. eh! poor lad! he's been spoiled till salt won't save him. mother says as th' two worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way--or always to have it. she doesn't know which is th' worst. tha' was in a fine temper tha'self, too. but he says to me when i went into his room, 'please ask miss mary if she'll please come an' talk to me?' think o' him saying please! will you go, miss?" "i'll run and see dickon first," said mary. "no, i'll go and see colin first and tell him--i know what i'll tell him," with a sudden inspiration. she had her hat on when she appeared in colin's room and for a second he looked disappointed. he was in bed and his face was pitifully white and there were dark circles round his eyes. "i'm glad you came," he said. "my head aches and i ache all over because i'm so tired. are you going somewhere?" mary went and leaned against his bed. "i won't be long," she said. "i'm going to dickon, but i'll come back. colin, it's--it's something about the secret garden." his whole face brightened and a little color came into it. "oh! is it!" he cried out. "i dreamed about it all night. i heard you say something about gray changing into green, and i dreamed i was standing in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves--and there were birds on nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still. i'll lie and think about it until you come back." in five minutes mary was with dickon in their garden. the fox and the crow were with him again and this time he had brought two tame squirrels. "i came over on the pony this mornin'," he said. "eh! he is a good little chap--jump is! i brought these two in my pockets. this here one he's called nut an' this here other one's called shell." when he said "nut" one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and when he said "shell" the other one leaped on to his left shoulder. when they sat down on the grass with captain curled at their feet, soot solemnly listening on a tree and nut and shell nosing about close to them, it seemed to mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness, but when she began to tell her story somehow the look in dickon's funny face gradually changed her mind. she could see he felt sorrier for colin than she did. he looked up at the sky and all about him. "just listen to them birds--th' world seems full of 'em--all whistlin' an' pipin'," he said. "look at 'em dartin' about, an' hearken at 'em callin' to each other. come springtime seems like as if all th' world's callin'. the leaves is uncurlin' so you can see 'em--an', my word, th' nice smells there is about!" sniffing with his happy turned-up nose. "an' that poor lad lyin' shut up an' seein' so little that he gets to thinkin' o' things as sets him screamin'. eh! my! we mun get him out here--we mun get him watchin' an' listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an' get him just soaked through wi' sunshine. an' we munnot lose no time about it." when he was very much interested he often spoke quite broad yorkshire though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that mary could better understand. but she loved his broad yorkshire and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself. so she spoke a little now. "aye, that we mun," she said (which meant "yes, indeed, we must"). "i'll tell thee what us'll do first," she proceeded, and dickon grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking yorkshire it amused him very much. "he's took a graidely fancy to thee. he wants to see thee and he wants to see soot an' captain. when i go back to the house to talk to him i'll ax him if tha' canna' come an' see him to-morrow mornin'--an' bring tha' creatures wi' thee--an' then--in a bit, when there's more leaves out, an' happen a bud or two, we'll get him to come out an' tha' shall push him in his chair an' we'll bring him here an' show him everything." when she stopped she was quite proud of herself. she had never made a long speech in yorkshire before and she had remembered very well. "tha' mun talk a bit o' yorkshire like that to mester colin," dickon chuckled. "tha'll make him laugh an' there's nowt as good for ill folk as laughin' is. mother says she believes as half a hour's good laugh every mornin' 'ud cure a chap as was makin' ready for typhus fever." "i'm going to talk yorkshire to him this very day," said mary, chuckling herself. the garden had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if magicians were passing through it drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with wands. it was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as nut had actually crept on to her dress and shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes. but she went back to the house and when she sat down close to colin's bed he began to sniff as dickon did though not in such an experienced way. "you smell like flowers and--and fresh things," he cried out quite joyously. "what is it you smell of? it's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time." "it's th' wind from th' moor," said mary. "it comes o' sittin' on th' grass under a tree wi' dickon an' wi' captain an' soot an' nut an' shell. it's th' springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely." she said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. colin began to laugh. "what are you doing?" he said. "i never heard you talk like that before. how funny it sounds." "i'm givin' thee a bit o' yorkshire," answered mary triumphantly. "i canna' talk as graidely as dickon an' martha can but tha' sees i can shape a bit. doesn't tha' understand a bit o' yorkshire when tha' hears it? an' tha' a yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! eh! i wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." and then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and mrs. medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "whoever heard th' like! whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" there was so much to talk about. it seemed as if colin could never hear enough of dickon and captain and soot and nut and shell and the pony whose name was jump. mary had run round into the wood with dickon to see jump. he was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. he was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. he had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then dickon had talked into his ear and jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. dickon had made him give mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "does he really understand everything dickon says?" colin asked. "it seems as if he does," answered mary. "dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but mary saw he was thinking. "i wish i was friends with things," he said at last, "but i'm not. i never had anything to be friends with, and i can't bear people." "can't you bear me?" asked mary. "yes, i can," he answered. "it's very funny but i even like you." "ben weatherstaff said i was like him," said mary. "he said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. i think you are like him too. we are all three alike--you and i and ben weatherstaff. he said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked. but i don't feel as sour as i used to before i knew the robin and dickon." "did you feel as if you hated people?" "yes," answered mary without any affectation. "i should have detested you if i had seen you before i saw the robin and dickon." colin put out his thin hand and touched her. "mary," he said, "i wish i hadn't said what i did about sending dickon away. i hated you when you said he was like an angel and i laughed at you but--but perhaps he is." "well, it was rather funny to say it," she admitted frankly, "because his nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have patches all over them and he talks broad yorkshire, but--but if an angel did come to yorkshire and live on the moor--if there was a yorkshire angel--i believe he'd understand the green things and know how to make them grow and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as dickon does and they'd know he was friends for sure." "i shouldn't mind dickon looking at me," said colin; "i want to see him." "i'm glad you said that," answered mary, "because--because--" quite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. colin knew something new was coming. "because what?" he cried eagerly. mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. "can i trust you? i trusted dickon because birds trusted him. can i trust you--for sure--_for sure_?" she implored. her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. "yes--yes!" "well, dickon will come to see you to-morrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him." "oh! oh!" colin cried out in delight. "but that's not all," mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement. "the rest is better. there is a door into the garden. i found it. it is under the ivy on the wall." if he had been a strong healthy boy colin would probably have shouted "hooray! hooray! hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath. "oh! mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "shall i see it? shall i get into it? shall i _live_ to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "of course you'll see it!" snapped mary indignantly. "of course you'll live to get into it! don't be silly!" and she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured. "it is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "it sounds just as if you had really seen it. you know i said that when you told me first." mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth. "i had seen it--and i had been in," she said. "i found the key and got in weeks ago. but i daren't tell you--i daren't because i was so afraid i couldn't trust you--_for sure_!" chapter xix "it has come!" of course dr. craven had been sent for the morning after colin had had his tantrum. he was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. in fact, dr. craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. on this occasion he was away from misselthwaite manor until afternoon. "how is he?" he asked mrs. medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "he will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. the boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence." "well, sir," answered mrs. medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. that plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him. how she's done it there's no telling. the lord knows she's nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her speak, but she did what none of us dare do. she just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop, and this afternoon--well just come up and see, sir. it's past crediting." the scene which dr. craven beheld when he entered his patient's room was indeed rather astonishing to him. as mrs. medlock opened the door he heard laughing and chattering. colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picture in one of the garden books and talking to the plain child who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all because her face was so glowing with enjoyment. "those long spires of blue ones--we'll have a lot of those," colin was announcing. "they're called del-phin-iums." "dickon says they're larkspurs made big and grand," cried mistress mary. "there are clumps there already." then they saw dr. craven and stopped. mary became quite still and colin looked fretful. "i am sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy," dr. craven said a trifle nervously. he was rather a nervous man. "i'm better now--much better," colin answered, rather like a rajah. "i'm going out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine. i want some fresh air." dr. craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him curiously. "it must be a very fine day," he said, "and you must be very careful not to tire yourself." "fresh air won't tire me," said the young rajah. as there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled. "i thought you did not like fresh air," he said. "i don't when i am by myself," replied the rajah; "but my cousin is going out with me." "and the nurse, of course?" suggested dr. craven. "no, i will not have the nurse," so magnificently that mary could not help remembering how the young native prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive his orders. "my cousin knows how to take care of me. i am always better when she is with me. she made me better last night. a very strong boy i know will push my carriage." dr. craven felt rather alarmed. if this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting misselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger. "he must be a strong boy and a steady boy," he said. "and i must know something about him. who is he? what is his name?" "it's dickon," mary spoke up suddenly. she felt somehow that everybody who knew the moor must know dickon. and she was right, too. she saw that in a moment dr. craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile. "oh, dickon," he said. "if it is dickon you will be safe enough. he's as strong as a moor pony, is dickon." "and he's trusty," said mary. "he's th' trustiest lad i' yorkshire." she had been talking yorkshire to colin and she forgot herself. "did dickon teach you that?" asked dr. craven, laughing outright. "i'm learning it as if it was french," said mary rather coldly. "it's like a native dialect in india. very clever people try to learn them. i like it and so does colin." "well, well," he said. "if it amuses you perhaps it won't do you any harm. did you take your bromide last night, colin?" "no," colin answered. "i wouldn't take it at first and after mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep--in a low voice--about the spring creeping into a garden." "that sounds soothing," said dr. craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at mistress mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet. "you are evidently better, but you must remember--" "i don't want to remember," interrupted the rajah, appearing again. "when i lie by myself and remember i begin to have pains everywhere and i think of things that make me begin to scream because i hate them so. if there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of remembering it i would have him brought here." and he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies. "it is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better." dr. craven had never made such a short stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things. this afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and he was spared any disagreeable scenes. when he went down-stairs he looked very thoughtful and when he talked to mrs. medlock in the library she felt that he was a much puzzled man. "well, sir," she ventured, "could you have believed it?" "it is certainly a new state of affairs," said the doctor. "and there's no denying it is better than the old one." "i believe susan sowerby's right--i do that," said mrs. medlock. "i stopped in her cottage on my way to thwaite yesterday and had a bit of talk with her. and she says to me, 'well, sarah ann, she mayn't be a good child, an' she mayn't be a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needs children.' we went to school together, susan sowerby and me." "she's the best sick nurse i know," said dr. craven. "when i find her in a cottage i know the chances are that i shall save my patient." mrs. medlock smiled. she was fond of susan sowerby. "she's got a way with her, has susan," she went on quite volubly. "i've been thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. she says, 'once when i was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' i ses to 'em all, "when i was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an' i found out before i was ten that th' whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. no one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. but don't you--none o' you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out without hard knocks." what children learns from children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole orange--peel an' all. if you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitter to eat.'" "she's a shrewd woman," said dr. craven, putting on his coat. "well, she's got a way of saying things," ended mrs. medlock, much pleased. "sometimes i've said to her, 'eh! susan, if you was a different woman an' didn't talk such broad yorkshire i've seen the times when i should have said you was clever.'" * * * * * that night colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. it was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. he felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. he did not know that dr. craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of dickon and his wild creatures. it was so nice to have things to think about. and he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and mary was at the door. the next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. "you've been out! you've been out! there's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried. she had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. "it's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "you never saw anything so beautiful! it has _come_! i thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. it is here now! it has come, the spring! dickon says so!" "has it?" cried colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat. he actually sat up in bed. "open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy. "perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!" and though he laughed, mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds' songs were pouring through. "that's fresh air," she said. "lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it. that's what dickon does when he's lying on the moor. he says he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and ever. breathe it and breathe it." she was only repeating what dickon had told her, but she caught colin's fancy. "'forever and ever'! does it make him feel like that?" he said, and he did as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to him. mary was at his bedside again. "things are crowding up out of the earth," she ran on in a hurry. "and there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden. and the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb." and then she paused for breath. the new-born lamb dickon had found three days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor. it was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it. he had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk. it was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs rather long for its body. dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak. a lamb--a lamb! a living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby! she was describing it with great joy and colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered. she started a little at the sight of the open window. she had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold. "are you sure you are not chilly, master colin?" she inquired. "no," was the answer. "i am breathing long breaths of fresh air. it makes you strong. i am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast and my cousin will have breakfast with me." the nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts. she found the servants' hall a more amusing place than the invalid's chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from up-stairs. there was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, "had found his master, and good for him." the servants' hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better "for a good hiding." when colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the table he made an announcement to the nurse in his most rajah-like manner. "a boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are coming to see me this morning. i want them brought up-stairs as soon as they come," he said. "you are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants' hall and keep them there. i want them here." the nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough. "yes, sir," she answered. "i'll tell you what you can do," added colin, waving his hand. "you can tell martha to bring them here. the boy is martha's brother. his name is dickon and he is an animal charmer." "i hope the animals won't bite, master colin," said the nurse. "i told you he was a charmer," said colin austerely. "charmers' animals never bite." "there are snake-charmers in india," said mary; "and they can put their snakes' heads in their mouths." "goodness!" shuddered the nurse. they ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them. colin's breakfast was a very good one and mary watched him with serious interest. "you will begin to get fatter just as i did," she said. "i never wanted my breakfast when i was in india and now i always want it." "i wanted mine this morning," said colin. "perhaps it was the fresh air. when do you think dickon will come?" he was not long in coming. in about ten minutes mary held up her hand. "listen!" she said. "did you hear a caw?" colin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear inside a house, a hoarse "caw-caw." "yes," he answered. "that's soot," said mary. "listen again! do you hear a bleat--a tiny one?" "oh, yes!" cried colin, quite flushing. "that's the new-born lamb," said mary. "he's coming." dickon's moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to walk quietly they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors. mary and colin heard him marching--marching, until he passed through the tapestry door on to the soft carpet of colin's own passage. "if you please, sir," announced martha, opening the door, "if you please, sir, here's dickon an' his creatures." [illustration: "dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile."--_page 251_] dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile. the new-born lamb was in his arms and the little red fox trotted by his side. nut sat on his left shoulder and soot on his right and shell's head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket. colin slowly sat up and stared and stared--as he had stared when he first saw mary; but this was a stare of wonder and delight. the truth was that in spite of all he had heard he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like and that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness that they seemed almost to be part of himself. colin had never talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and curiosity that he did not even think of speaking. but dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward. he had not felt embarrassed because the crow had not known his language and had only stared and had not spoken to him the first time they met. creatures were always like that until they found out about you. he walked over to colin's sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side. of course no boy could have helped speaking then. "what is it doing?" cried colin. "what does it want?" "it wants its mother," said dickon, smiling more and more. "i brought it to thee a bit hungry because i knowed tha'd like to see it feed." he knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket. "come on, little 'un," he said, turning the small woolly white head with a gentle brown hand. "this is what tha's after. tha'll get more out o' this than tha' will out o' silk velvet coats. there now," and he pushed the rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the lamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy. after that there was no wondering what to say. by the time the lamb fell asleep questions poured forth and dickon answered them all. he told them how he had found the lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago. he had been standing on the moor listening to a skylark and watching him swing higher and higher into the sky until he was only a speck in the heights of blue. "i'd almost lost him but for his song an' i was wonderin' how a chap could hear it when it seemed as if he'd get out o' th' world in a minute--an' just then i heard somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushes. it was a weak bleatin' an' i knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry an' i knowed it wouldn't be hungry if it hadn't lost its mother somehow, so i set off searchin'. eh! i did have a look for it. i went in an' out among th' gorse bushes an' round an' round an' i always seemed to take th' wrong turnin'. but at last i seed a bit o' white by a rock on top o' th' moor an' i climbed up an' found th' little 'un half dead wi' cold an' clemmin'." while he talked, soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window and cawed remarks about the scenery while nut and shell made excursions into the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored branches. captain curled up near dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from preference. they looked at the pictures in the gardening books and dickon knew all the flowers by their country names and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden. "i couldna' say that there name," he said, pointing to one under which was written "aquilegia," "but us calls that a columbine, an' that there one it's a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is garden ones an' they're bigger an' grander. there's some big clumps o' columbine in th' garden. they'll look like a bed o' blue an' white butterflies flutterin' when they're out." "i'm going to see them," cried colin. "i am going to see them!" "aye, that tha' mun," said mary quite seriously. "an tha' munnot lose no time about it." chapter xx "i shall live forever--and ever--and ever!" but they were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came some very windy days and then colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning to do and almost every day dickon came in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor and in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams. the things he had to tell about otters' and badgers' and water-rats' houses, not to mention birds' nests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy underworld was working. "they're same as us," said dickon, "only they have to build their homes every year. an' it keeps 'em so busy they fair scuffle to get 'em done." the most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden. no one must see the chair-carriage and dickon and mary after they turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls. as each day passed, colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms. nothing must spoil that. no one must ever suspect that they had a secret. people must think that he was simply going out with mary and dickon because he liked them and did not object to their looking at him. they had long and quite delightful talks about their route. they would go up this path and down that one and cross the other and go round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were looking at the "bedding-out plants" the head gardener, mr. roach, had been having arranged. that would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it at all mysterious. they would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls. it was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of march made by great generals in time of war. rumors of the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalid's apartments had of course filtered through the servants' hall into the stable yards and out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this, mr. roach was startled one day when he received orders from master colin's room to the effect that he must report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid himself desired to speak to him. "well, well," he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat, "what's to do now? his royal highness that wasn't to be looked at calling up a man he's never set eyes on." mr. roach was not without curiosity. he had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers. the thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him. "things are changing in this house, mr. roach," said mrs. medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber. "let's hope they're changing for the better, mrs. medlock," he answered. "they couldn't well change for the worse," she continued; "and queer as it all is there's them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under. don't you be surprised, mr. roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie and martha sowerby's dickon more at home than you or me could ever be." there really was a sort of magic about dickon, as mary always privately believed. when mr. roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently. "he'd be at home in buckingham palace or at the bottom of a coal mine," he said. "and yet it's not impudence, either. he's just fine, is that lad." it was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled. when the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying "caw--caw" quite loudly. in spite of mrs. medlock's warning, mr. roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward. the young rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa. he was sitting in an armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle. a squirrel was perched on dickon's bent back attentively nibbling a nut. the little girl from india was sitting on a big footstool looking on. "here is mr. roach, master colin," said mrs. medlock. the young rajah turned and looked his servitor over--at least that was what the head gardener felt happened. "oh, you are roach, are you?" he said. "i sent for you to give you some very important orders." "very good, sir," answered roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens. "i am going out in my chair this afternoon," said colin. "if the fresh air agrees with me i may go out every day. when i go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the long walk by the garden walls. no one is to be there. i shall go out about two o'clock and every one must keep away until i send word that they may go back to their work." "very good, sir," replied mr. roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe. "mary," said colin, turning to her, "what is that thing you say in india when you have finished talking and want people to go?" "you say, 'you have my permission to go,'" answered mary. the rajah waved his hand. "you have my permission to go, roach," he said. "but, remember, this is very important." "caw--caw!" remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely. "very good, sir. thank you, sir," said mr. roach, and mrs. medlock took him out of the room. outside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost laughed. "my word!" he said, "he's got a fine lordly way with him, hasn't he? you'd think he was a whole royal family rolled into one--prince consort and all." "eh!" protested mrs. medlock, "we've had to let him trample all over every one of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that's what folks was born for." "perhaps he'll grow out of it, if he lives," suggested mr. roach. "well, there's one thing pretty sure," said mrs. medlock. "if he does live and that indian child stays here i'll warrant she teaches him that the whole orange does not belong to him, as susan sowerby says. and he'll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter." inside the room colin was leaning back on his cushions. "it's all safe now," he said. "and this afternoon i shall see it--this afternoon i shall be in it!" dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and mary stayed with colin. she did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it. she wondered why and asked him about it. "what big eyes you've got, colin," she said. "when you are thinking they get as big as saucers. what are you thinking about now?" "i can't help thinking about what it will look like," he answered. "the garden?" asked mary. "the springtime," he said. "i was thinking that i've really never seen it before. i scarcely ever went out and when i did go i never looked at it. i didn't even think about it." "i never saw it in india because there wasn't any," said mary. shut in and morbid as his life had been, colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures. "that morning when you ran in and said 'it's come! it's come!' you made me feel quite queer. it sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music. i've a picture like it in one of my books--crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, every one laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. that was why i said, 'perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets' and told you to throw open the window." "how funny!" said mary. "that's really just what it feels like. and if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be! i'm sure they'd dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music." they both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so liked it. a little later the nurse made colin ready. she noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with mary all the time. "this is one of his good days, sir," she said to dr. craven, who dropped in to inspect him. "he's in such good spirits that it makes him stronger." "i'll call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in," said dr. craven. "i must see how the going out agrees with him. i wish," in a very low voice, "that he would let you go with him." "i'd rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it's suggested," answered the nurse with sudden firmness. "i hadn't really decided to suggest it," said the doctor, with his slight nervousness. "we'll try the experiment. dickon's a lad i'd trust with a new-born child." the strongest footman in the house carried colin down-stairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which dickon waited outside. after the manservant had arranged his rugs and cushions the rajah waved his hand to him and to the nurse. "you have my permission to go," he said, and they both disappeared quickly and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house. dickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. mistress mary walked beside it and colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. the arch of it looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness. the wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moor and was strange with a wild clear scented sweetness. colin kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they which were listening--listening, instead of his ears. "there are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out," he said. "what is that scent the puffs of wind bring?" "it's gorse on th' moor that's openin' out," answered dickon. "eh! th' bees are at it wonderful to-day." not a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took. in fact every gardener or gardener's lad had been witched away. but they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. but when at last they turned into the long walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers. "this is it," breathed mary. "this is where i used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder." "is it?" cried colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. "but i can see nothing," he whispered. "there is no door." "that's what i thought," said mary. then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on. "that is the garden where ben weatherstaff works," said mary. "is it?" said colin. a few yards more and mary whispered again. "this is where the robin flew over the wall," she said. "is it?" cried colin. "oh! i wish he'd come again!" "and that," said mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key." then colin sat up. "where? where? there?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in red riding-hood, when red riding-hood felt called upon to remark on them. dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped. "and this," said mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where i went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. and this is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green curtain. "oh! is it--is it!" gasped colin. "and here is the handle, and here is the door. dickon push him in--push him in quickly!" and dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push. but colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as dickon and mary had done. and over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. and the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch. and in wonder mary and dickon stood and stared at him. he looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him--ivory face and neck and hands and all. "i shall get well! i shall get well!" he cried out. "mary! dickon! i shall get well! and i shall live forever and ever and ever!" chapter xxi ben weatherstaff one of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. one knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the east almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. one knows it then for a moment or so. and one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes. and it was like that with colin when he first saw and heard and felt the springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. that afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowded everything it possibly could into that one place. more than once dickon paused in what he was doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly. "eh! it is graidely," he said. "i'm twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like i never seed one as graidely as this 'ere." "aye, it is a graidely one," said mary, and she sighed for mere joy. "i'll warrant it's th' graidelest one as ever was in this world." "does tha' think," said colin with dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for me?" "my word!" cried mary admiringly, "that there is a bit o' good yorkshire. tha'rt shapin' first-rate--that tha' art." and delight reigned. they drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with blossoms and musical with bees. it was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. there were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes. mary and dickon worked a little here and there and colin watched them. they brought him things to look at--buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. it was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained. "i wonder if we shall see the robin?" said colin. "tha'll see him often enow after a bit," answered dickon. "when th' eggs hatches out th' little chap he'll be kep' so busy it'll make his head swim. tha'll see him flyin' backward an' for'ard carryin' worms nigh as big as himsel' an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest when he gets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th' first piece in. an' gapin' beaks an' squawks on every side. mother says as when she sees th' work a robin has to keep them gapin' beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin' to do. she says she's seen th' little chaps when it seemed like th' sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though folk can't see it." this made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. he liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper. every moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew more golden. the wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when colin saw something he had not had time to notice before. "that's a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. dickon looked across the grass at the tree and mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness. "yes," answered dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound. mary gazed at the tree and thought. "the branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," colin went on. "it's quite dead, isn't it?" "aye," admitted dickon. "but them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. it won't look dead then. it'll be th' prettiest of all." mary still gazed at the tree and thought. "it looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said colin. "i wonder how it was done." "it's been done many a year," answered dickon. "eh!" with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on colin. "look at that robin! there he is! he's been foragin' for his mate." colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. he darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. "he's taking her tea to her. perhaps it's five o'clock. i think i'd like some tea myself." and so they were safe. "it was magic which sent the robin," said mary secretly to dickon afterward. "i know it was magic." for both she and dickon had been afraid colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way. "we mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "we couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. if he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful." "aye, that we mun," had answered mary. but she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. she wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing dickon had said. he had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. "mrs. craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "an' mother she thinks maybe she's about misselthwaite many a time lookin' after mester colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. they have to come back, tha' sees. happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here." mary had thought he meant something about magic. she was a great believer in magic. secretly she quite believed that dickon worked magic, of course good magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend. she wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when colin asked that dangerous question. she felt that his magic was working all the afternoon and making colin look like an entirely different boy. it did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. the faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away. he looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax. they saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that colin felt they must have some. "go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "and then you and dickon can bring it here." it was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. nut and shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp. the afternoon was dragging toward its mellow hour. the sun was deepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less often. dickon and mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was re-packed ready to be taken back to the house, and colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color. "i don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but i shall come back to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after." "you'll get plenty of fresh air, won't you?" said mary. "i'm going to get nothing else," he answered. "i've seen the spring now and i'm going to see the summer. i'm going to see everything grow here. i'm going to grow here myself." "that tha' will," said dickon. "us'll have thee walkin' about here an' diggin' same as other folk afore long." colin flushed tremendously. "walk!" he said. "dig! shall i?" dickon's glance at him was delicately cautious. neither he nor mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs. "for sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "tha'--tha's got legs o' thine own, same as other folks!" mary was rather frightened until she heard colin's answer. "nothing really ails them," he said, "but they are so thin and weak. they shake so that i'm afraid to try to stand on them." both mary and dickon drew a relieved breath. "when tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em," dickon said with renewed cheer. "an' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in a bit." "i shall?" said colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things. they were really very quiet for a little while. the sun was dropping lower. it was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon. colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. even the creatures had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them. soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes. mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute. in the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper: "who is that man?" dickon and mary scrambled to their feet. "man!" they both cried in low quick voices. colin pointed to the high wall. "look!" he whispered excitedly. "just look!" mary and dickon wheeled about and looked. there was ben weatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder! he actually shook his fist at mary. "if i wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o' mine," he cried, "i'd give thee a hidin'!" he mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her. "i never thowt much o' thee!" he harangued. "i couldna' abide thee th' first time i set eyes on thee. a scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin' questions an' pokin' tha' nose where it wasna' wanted. i never knowed how tha' got so thick wi' me. if it hadna' been for th' robin--drat him--" "ben weatherstaff," called out mary, finding her breath. she stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp. "ben weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!" then it did seem as if ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged. "tha' young bad 'un!" he called down at her. "layin' tha' badness on a robin,--not but what he's impidint enow for anythin'. him showin' thee th' way! him! eh! tha' young nowt,"--she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity--"however i' this world did tha' get in?" "it was the robin who showed me the way," she protested obstinately. "he didn't know he was doing it but he did. and i can't tell you from here while you're shaking your fist at me." he stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him. at the first sound of his torrent of words colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. but in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to dickon. "wheel me over there!" he commanded. "wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!" and this, if you please, this is what ben weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop. a wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of state coach because a young rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him. and it stopped right under ben weatherstaff's nose. it was really no wonder his mouth dropped open. "do you know who i am?" demanded the rajah. how ben weatherstaff stared! his red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost. he gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word. "do you know who i am?" demanded colin still more imperiously. "answer!" ben weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice. "who tha' art?" he said. "aye, that i do--wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at me out o' tha' face. lord knows how tha' come here. but tha'rt th' poor cripple." colin forgot that he had ever had a back. his face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright. "i'm not a cripple!" he cried out furiously. "i'm not!" "he's not!" cried mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation. "he's not got a lump as big as a pin! i looked and there was none there--not one!" ben weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough. his hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. he was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard. "tha'--tha' hasn't got a crooked back?" he said hoarsely. "no!" shouted colin. "tha'--tha' hasn't got crooked legs?" quavered ben more hoarsely yet. it was too much. the strength which colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way. never yet had he been accused of crooked legs--even in whispers--and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by ben weatherstaff's voice was more than rajah flesh and blood could endure. his anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength. "come here!" he shouted to dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. "come here! come here! this minute!" dickon was by his side in a second. mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale. "he can do it! he can do it! he can do it! he can!" she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could. there was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on to the ground, dickon held colin's arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass. colin was standing upright--upright--as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall--his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning. "look at me!" he flung up at ben weatherstaff. "just look at me--you! just look at me!" "he's as straight as i am!" cried dickon. "he's as straight as any lad i' yorkshire!" what ben weatherstaff did mary thought queer beyond measure. he choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together. "eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as white as a wraith, but there's not a knob on thee. tha'lt make a mon yet. god bless thee!" dickon held colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter. he stood straighter and straighter and looked ben weatherstaff in the face. "i'm your master," he said, "when my father is away. and you are to obey me. this is my garden. don't dare to say a word about it! you get down from that ladder and go out to the long walk and miss mary will meet you and bring you here. i want to talk to you. we did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret. be quick!" ben weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears. it seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back. "eh! lad," he almost whispered. "eh! my lad!" and then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "yes, sir! yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder. chapter xxii when the sun went down when his head was out of sight colin turned to mary. "go and meet him," he said; and mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy. dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. there were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling. "i can stand," he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite grandly. "i told thee tha' could as soon as tha' stopped bein' afraid," answered dickon. "an' tha's stopped." "yes, i've stopped," said colin. then suddenly he remembered something mary had said. "are you making magic?" he asked sharply. dickon's curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin. "tha's doin' magic thysel'," he said. "it's same magic as made these 'ere work out o' th' earth," and he touched with his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass. colin looked down at them. "aye," he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger magic then that there--there couldna' be." he drew himself up straighter than ever. "i'm going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him. "i'm going to be standing when weatherstaff comes here. i can rest against the tree if i like. when i want to sit down i will sit down, but not before. bring a rug from the chair." he walked to the tree and though dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady. when he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall. when ben weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he heard mary muttering something under her breath. "what art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face. but she did not tell him. what she was saying was this: "you can do it! you can do it! i told you you could! you can do it! you can do it! you _can_!" she was saying it to colin because she wanted to make magic and keep him on his feet looking like that. she could not bear that he should give in before ben weatherstaff. he did not give in. she was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. he fixed his eyes on ben weatherstaff in his funny imperious way. "look at me!" he commanded. "look at me all over! am i a hunchback? have i got crooked legs?" ben weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little and answered almost in his usual way. "not tha'," he said. "nowt o' th' sort. what's tha' been doin' with thysel'--? hidin' out o' sight an' lettin' folk think tha' was cripple an' half-witted?" "half-witted!" said colin angrily. "who thought that?" "lots o' fools," said ben. "th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never bray nowt but lies. what did tha' shut thysel' up for?" "every one thought i was going to die," said colin shortly. "i'm not!" and he said it with such decision ben weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. "tha' die!" he said with dry exultation. "nowt o' th' sort! tha's got too much pluck in thee. when i seed thee put tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry i knowed tha' was all right. sit thee down on th' rug a bit young mester an' give me thy orders." there was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner. mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the long walk. the chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that colin was getting well--getting well. the garden was doing it. no one must let him remember about having humps and dying. the rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree. "what work do you do in the gardens, weatherstaff?" he inquired. "anythin' i'm told to do," answered old ben. "i'm kep' on by favor--because she liked me." "she?" said colin. "tha' mother," answered ben weatherstaff. "my mother?" said colin, and he looked about him quietly. "this was her garden, wasn't it?" "aye, it was that!" and ben weatherstaff looked about him too. "she were main fond of it." "it is my garden now, i am fond of it. i shall come here every day," announced colin. "but it is to be a secret. my orders are that no one is to know that we come here. dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive. i shall send for you sometimes to help--but you must come when no one can see you." ben weatherstaff's face twisted itself in a dry old smile. "i've come here before when no one saw me," he said. "what!" exclaimed colin. "when?" "th' last time i was here," rubbing his chin and looking round, "was about two year' ago." "but no one has been in it for ten years!" cried colin. "there was no door!" "i'm no one," said old ben dryly. "an' i didn't come through th' door. i come over th' wall. th' rheumatics held me back th' last two year'." "tha' come an' did a bit o' prunin'!" cried dickon. "i couldn't make out how it had been done." "she was so fond of it--she was!" said ben weatherstaff slowly. "an' she was such a pretty young thing. she says to me once, 'ben,' says she laughin', 'if ever i'm ill or if i go away you must take care of my roses.' when she did go away th' orders was no one was ever to come nigh. but i come," with grumpy obstinacy. "over th' wall i come--until th' rheumatics stopped me--an' i did a bit o' work once a year. she'd gave her order first." "it wouldn't have been as wick as it is if tha' hadn't done it," said dickon. "i did wonder." "i'm glad you did it, weatherstaff," said colin. "you'll know how to keep the secret." "aye, i'll know, sir," answered ben. "an' it'll be easier for a man wi' rheumatics to come in at th' door." on the grass near the tree mary had dropped her trowel. colin stretched out his hand and took it up. an odd expression came into his face and he began to scratch at the earth. his thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watched him--mary with quite breathless interest--he drove the end of the trowel into the soil and turned some over. "you can do it! you can do it!" said mary to herself. "i tell you, you can!" dickon's round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a word. ben weatherstaff looked on with interested face. colin persevered. after he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke exultantly to dickon in his best yorkshire. "tha' said as tha'd have me walkin' about here same as other folk--an' tha' said tha'd have me diggin'. i thowt tha' was just leein' to please me. this is only th' first day an' i've walked--an' here i am diggin'." ben weatherstaff's mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by chuckling. "eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. tha'rt a yorkshire lad for sure. an' tha'rt diggin', too. how'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? i can get thee a rose in a pot." "go and get it!" said colin, digging excitedly. "quick! quick!" it was done quickly enough indeed. ben weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics. dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. when dickon had deepened the hole colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. he looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. "i want to do it before the sun goes quite--quite down," he said. mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. ben weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. he hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. he had begun to be excited, too. he knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. "here, lad," he said, handing the plant to colin. "set it in the earth thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place." the thin white hands shook a little and colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old ben made firm the earth. it was filled in and pressed down and made steady. mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. nut and shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree. "it's planted!" said colin at last. "and the sun is only slipping over the edge. help me up, dickon. i want to be standing when it goes. that's part of the magic." and dickon helped him, and the magic--or whatever it was--so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. chapter xxiii magic dr. craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. he had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the garden paths. when colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously. "you should not have stayed so long," he said. "you must not overexert yourself." "i am not tired at all," said colin. "it has made me well. to-morrow i am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon." "i am not sure that i can allow it," answered dr. craven. "i am afraid it would not be wise." "it would not be wise to try to stop me," said colin quite seriously. "i am going." even mary had found out that one of colin's chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about. he had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare himself with. mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had been at misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular. having made this discovery she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to colin. so she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after dr. craven had gone. she wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did. "what are you looking at me for?" he said. "i'm thinking that i am rather sorry for dr. craven." "so am i," said colin calmly, but not without an air of some satisfaction. "he won't get misselthwaite at all now i'm not going to die." "i'm sorry for him because of that, of course," said mary, "but i was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. i would never have done it." "am i rude?" colin inquired undisturbedly. "if you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man," said mary, "he would have slapped you." "but he daren't," said colin. "no, he daren't," answered mistress mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice. "nobody ever dared to do anything you didn't like--because you were going to die and things like that. you were such a poor thing." "but," announced colin stubbornly, "i am not going to be a poor thing. i won't let people think i'm one. i stood on my feet this afternoon." "it is always having your own way that has made you so queer," mary went on, thinking aloud. colin turned his head, frowning. "am i queer?" he demanded. "yes," answered mary, "very. but you needn't be cross," she added impartially, "because so am i queer--and so is ben weatherstaff. but i am not as queer as i was before i began to like people and before i found the garden." "i don't want to be queer," said colin. "i am not going to be," and he frowned again with determination. he was a very proud boy. he lay thinking for a while and then mary saw his beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face. "i shall stop being queer," he said, "if i go every day to the garden. there is magic in there--good magic, you know, mary. i am sure there is." "so am i," said mary. "even if it isn't real magic," colin said, "we can pretend it is. _something_ is there--_something_!" "it's magic," said mary, "but not black. it's as white as snow." they always called it magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed--the wonderful months--the radiant months--the amazing ones. oh! the things which happened in that garden! if you have never had a garden, you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. at first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. in its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. ben weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "she was main fond o' them--she was," ben weatherstaff said. "she liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. she just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." the seeds dickon and mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. and the roses--the roses! rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades--they came alive day by day, hour by hour. fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. even gray days pleased him. he would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. if you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country. a mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees' ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave him a new world to explore and when dickon revealed them all and added foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets' ways, squirrels' ways, and trout's and water-rats' and badgers' ways, there was no end to the things to talk about and think over. and this was not the half of the magic. the fact that he had really once stood on his feet had set colin thinking tremendously and when mary told him of the spell she had worked he was excited and approved of it greatly. he talked of it constantly. "of course there must be lots of magic in the world," he said wisely one day, "but people don't know what it is like or how to make it. perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. i am going to try and experiment." the next morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once for ben weatherstaff. ben came as quickly as he could and found the rajah standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling. "good morning, ben weatherstaff," he said. "i want you and dickon and miss mary to stand in a row and listen to me because i am going to tell you something very important." "aye, aye, sir!" answered ben weatherstaff, touching his forehead. (one of the long concealed charms of ben weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run away to sea and had made voyages. so he could reply like a sailor.) "i am going to try a scientific experiment," explained the rajah. "when i grow up i am going to make great scientific discoveries and i am going to begin now with this experiment." "aye, aye, sir!" said ben weatherstaff promptly, though this was the first time he had heard of great scientific discoveries. it was the first time mary had heard of them, either, but even at this stage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, colin had read about a great many singular things and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy. when he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you it seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself though he was only ten years old--going on eleven. at this moment he was especially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person. "the great scientific discoveries i am going to make," he went on, "will be about magic. magic is a great thing and scarcely any one knows anything about it except a few people in old books--and mary a little, because she was born in india where there are fakirs. i believe dickon knows some magic, but perhaps he doesn't know he knows it. he charms animals and people. i would never have let him come to see me if he had not been an animal charmer--which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy is an animal. i am sure there is magic in everything, only we have not sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us--like electricity and horses and steam." this sounded so imposing that ben weatherstaff became quite excited and really could not keep still. "aye, aye, sir," he said and he began to stand up quite straight. "when mary found this garden it looked quite dead," the orator proceeded. "then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things out of nothing. one day things weren't there and another they were. i had never watched things before and it made me feel very curious. scientific people are always curious and i am going to be scientific. i keep saying to myself, 'what is it? what is it?' it's something. it can't be nothing! i don't know its name so i call it magic. i have never seen the sun rise but mary and dickon have and from what they tell me i am sure that is magic too. something pushes it up and draws it. sometimes since i've been in the garden i've looked up through the trees at the sky and i have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. so it must be all around us. in this garden--in all the places. the magic in this garden has made me stand up and know i am going to live to be a man. i am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. i don't know how to do it but i think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it perhaps it will come. perhaps that is the first baby way to get it. when i was going to try to stand that first time mary kept saying to herself as fast as she could, 'you can do it! you can do it!' and i did. i had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her magic helped me--and so did dickon's. every morning and evening and as often in the daytime as i can remember i am going to say, 'magic is in me! magic is making me well! i am going to be as strong as dickon, as strong as dickon!' and you must all do it, too. that is my experiment. will you help, ben weatherstaff?" "aye, aye, sir!" said ben weatherstaff. "aye, aye!" "if you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through drill we shall see what will happen and find out if the experiment succeeds. you learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind forever and i think it will be the same with magic. if you keep calling it to come to you and help you it will get to be part of you and it will stay and do things." "i once heard an officer in india tell my mother that there were fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times," said mary. "i've heard jem fettleworth's wife say th' same thing over thousands o' times--callin' jem a drunken brute," said ben weatherstaff dryly. "summat allus come o' that, sure enough. he gave her a good hidin' an' went to th' blue lion an' got as drunk as a lord." colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes. then he cheered up. "well," he said, "you see something did come of it. she used the wrong magic until she made him beat her. if she'd used the right magic and had said something nice perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps--perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet." ben weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes. "tha'rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, mester colin," he said. "next time i see bess fettleworth i'll give her a bit of a hint o' what magic will do for her. she'd be rare an' pleased if th' sinetifik 'speriment worked--an' so 'ud jem." dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight. nut and shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself. "do you think the experiment will work?" colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking. he so often wondered what dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him or at one of his "creatures" with his happy wide smile. he smiled now and his smile was wider than usual. "aye," he answered, "that i do. it'll work same as th' seeds do when th' sun shines on 'em. it'll work for sure. shall us begin it now?" colin was delighted and so was mary. fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in illustrations colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy. "it will be like sitting in a sort of temple," said colin. "i'm rather tired and i want to sit down." "eh!" said dickon, "tha' musn't begin by sayin' tha'rt tired. tha' might spoil th' magic." colin turned and looked at him--into his innocent round eyes. "that's true," he said slowly. "i must only think of the magic." it all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. ben weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. mistress mary felt solemnly enraptured. dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "the 'creatures' have come," said colin gravely. "they want to help us." colin really looked quite beautiful, mary thought. he held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. the light shone on him through the tree canopy. "now we will begin," he said. "shall we sway backward and forward, mary, as if we were dervishes?" "i canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said ben weatherstaff. "i've got th' rheumatics." "the magic will take them away," said colin in a high priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. we will only chant." "i canna' do no chantin'," said ben weatherstaff a trifle testily. "they turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time i ever tried it." no one smiled. they were all too much in earnest. colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. he was thinking only of the magic. "then i will chant," he said. and he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "the sun is shining--the sun is shining. that is the magic. the flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. that is the magic. being alive is the magic--being strong is the magic. the magic is in me--the magic is in me. it is in me--it is in me. it's in every one of us. it's in ben weatherstaff's back. magic! magic! come and help!" he said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. mary listened entranced. she felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. ben weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. the humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. at last colin stopped. "now i am going to walk round the garden," he announced. ben weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "you have been asleep," said colin. "nowt o' th' sort," mumbled ben. "th' sermon was good enow--but i'm bound to get out afore th' collection." he was not quite awake yet. "you're not in church," said colin. "not me," said ben, straightening himself. "who said i were? i heard every bit of it. you said th' magic was in my back. th' doctor calls it rheumatics." the rajah waved his hand. "that was the wrong magic," he said. "you will get better. you have my permission to go to your work. but come back to-morrow." "i'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted ben. it was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. in fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. the rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. it really did look like a procession. colin was at its head with dickon on one side and mary on the other. ben weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. it was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. every few yards it stopped to rest. colin leaned on dickon's arm and privately ben weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. his head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "the magic is in me!" he kept saying. "the magic is making me strong! i can feel it! i can feel it!" it seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. he sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. when he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "i did it! the magic worked!" he cried. "that is my first scientific discovery." "what will dr. craven say?" broke out mary. "he won't say anything," colin answered, "because he will not be told. this is to be the biggest secret of all. no one is to know anything about it until i have grown so strong that i can walk and run like any other boy. i shall come here every day in my chair and i shall be taken back in it. i won't have people whispering and asking questions and i won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. then sometime when he comes back to misselthwaite i shall just walk into his study and say 'here i am; i am like any other boy. i am quite well and i shall live to be a man. it has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "he will think he is in a dream," cried mary. "he won't believe his eyes." colin flushed triumphantly. he had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. and the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. one of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "he'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "one of the things i am going to do, after the magic works and before i begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "we shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said ben weatherstaff. "tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all england." colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. you must not take liberties because you are in the secret. however much the magic works i shall not be a prize-fighter. i shall be a scientific discoverer." "ax pardon--ax pardon, sir," answered ben, touching his forehead in salute. "i ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. he really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. chapter xxiv "let them laugh" the secret garden was not the only one dickon worked in. round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days colin and mary did not see him, dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. in the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. while he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of yorkshire moor songs or talked to soot or captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "we'd never get on as comfortable as we do," mrs. sowerby said, "if it wasn't for dickon's garden. anything'll grow for him. his 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." when she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. after supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. she could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. she loved this time. there were not only vegetables in this garden. dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. the low wall was one of the prettiest things in yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "all a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. they're just like th' 'creatures.' if they're thirsty give 'em a drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. they want to live same as we do. if they died i should feel as if i'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." it was in these twilight hours that mrs. sowerby heard of all that happened at misselthwaite manor. at first she was only told that "mester colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with miss mary and that it was doing him good. but it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that dickon's mother might "come into the secret." somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." so one beautiful still evening dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret mistress mary had planned never to reveal. the coming of dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of mester colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of ben weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and mester colin's sudden indignant strength, made mrs. sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "my word!" she said. "it was a good thing that little lass came to th' manor. it's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin' o' him. standin' on his feet! an' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." she asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "what do they make of it at th' manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "they don't know what to make of it," answered dickon. "every day as comes round his face looks different. it's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. but he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "what for, i' mercy's name?" asked mrs. sowerby. dickon chuckled. "he does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. if the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell mester craven. mester colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. he's goin' to practise his magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. but him an' miss mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." mrs. sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' theirselves, i'll warrant. they'll get a good bit o' play actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. let's hear what they do, dickon lad." dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. his eyes were twinkling with fun. "mester colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "an' he flies out at john, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. he makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. an' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. him an' miss mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'poor colin! does it hurt you so much? are you so weak as that, poor colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. when we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. an' they have to stuff their faces into mester colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of 'em's about." "th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said mrs. sowerby, still laughing herself. "good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. that pair'll plump up for sure." "they are plumpin' up," said dickon. "they're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. mester colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. miss mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." mrs. sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty, that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and dickon laughed with her. "i'll tell thee what, lad," mrs. sowerby said when she could speak. "i've thought of a way to help 'em. when tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' i'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th' fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "eh! mother!" said dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! tha' always sees a way out o' things. they was quite in a pother yesterday. they didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "they're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said mrs. sowerby. then she smiled dickon's own curving smile. "eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. she was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. colin and mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. the idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by dr. craven himself. "your appetite is improving very much, master colin," the nurse had said one day. "you used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "nothing disagrees with me now," replied colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "at least things don't so often disagree with me. it's the fresh air." "perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "but i must talk to dr. craven about it." "how she stared at you!" said mary when she went away. "as if she thought there must be something to find out." "i won't have her finding out things," said colin. "no one must begin to find out yet." when dr. craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. he asked a number of questions, to colin's great annoyance. "you stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "where do you go?" colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "i will not let any one know where i go," he answered. "i go to a place i like. every one has orders to keep out of the way. i won't be watched and stared at. you know that!" "you seem to be out all day but i do not think it has done you harm--i do not think so. the nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "perhaps," said colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "i do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said dr. craven. "you are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "perhaps--perhaps i am bloated and feverish," said colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "people who are not going to live are often--different." dr. craven shook his head. he was holding colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "you are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. if we can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. your father will be very happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "i won't have him told!" colin broke forth fiercely. "it will only disappoint him if i get worse again--and i may get worse this very night. i might have a raging fever. i feel as if i might be beginning to have one now. i won't have letters written to my father--i won't--i won't! you are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. i feel hot already. i hate being written about and being talked over as much as i hate being stared at!" "hush-h! my boy," dr. craven soothed him. "nothing shall be written without your permission. you are too sensitive about things. you must not undo the good which has been done." he said no more about writing to mr. craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "the boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "his advance seems almost abnormal. but of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." mary and colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. from this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "i may be obliged to have a tantrum," said colin regretfully. "i don't want to have one and i'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. perhaps i couldn't have one at all. that lump doesn't come in my throat now and i keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. but if they talk about writing to my father i shall have to do something." he made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "i think we shall have to eat it all this morning, mary," colin always ended by saying. "we can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." but they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "i do wish," colin would say also, "i do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "it's enough for a person who is going to die," answered mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. i sometimes feel as if i could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." the morning that dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rose-bush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. what a wonderful thing for mrs. sowerby to think of! what a kind, clever woman she must be! how good the buns were! and what delicious fresh milk! "magic is in her just as it is in dickon," said colin. "it makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. she is a magic person. tell her we are grateful, dickon--extremely grateful." he was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. he enjoyed them. he liked this so much that he improved upon it. "tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." and then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. this was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. they actually awoke to the fact that as mrs. sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. so they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. you could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. every beautiful morning the magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. after the ceremony colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. and each day his belief in the magic grew stronger--as well it might. he tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was dickon who showed him the best things of all. "yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "i went to thwaite for mother an' near th' blue cow inn i seed bob haworth. he's the strongest chap on th' moor. he's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. he's gone all th' way to scotland for th' sports some years. he's knowed me ever since i was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' i axed him some questions. th' gentry calls him a athlete and i thought o' thee, mester colin, and i says, 'how did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, bob? did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' an' he says 'well, yes, lad, i did. a strong man in a show that came to thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body.' an' i says, 'could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' i says, 'no, but i knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' i wish i knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' i didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. he's friendly same as i said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' i imitated what he did till i knowed it by heart." colin had been listening excitedly. "can you show me?" he cried. "will you?" "aye, to be sure," dickon answered, getting up. "but he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "i'll be careful," said colin. "show me! show me! dickon, you are the most magic boy in the world!" dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. colin watched them with widening eyes. he could do a few while he was sitting down. presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. mary began to do them also. soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. from that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the magic was. it became possible for both colin and mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. but the little oven in the hollow and mrs. sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that mrs. medlock and the nurse and dr. craven became mystified again. you can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oat-cakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "they are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "they'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. and yet see how they look." "look!" exclaimed mrs. medlock indignantly. "eh! i'm moithered to death with them. they're a pair of young satans. bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals cook can tempt them with. not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair _invented_ a pudding for them--and back it's sent. she almost cried. she's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." dr. craven came and looked at colin long and carefully. he wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by colin's sofa and examined him. he had been called to london on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. when young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. the waxen tinge had left colin's skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. his once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. his lips were fuller and of a normal color. in fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. dr. craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "i am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "that will not do. you will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. you ate so well a short time ago." "i told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered colin. mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "what is the matter?" said dr. craven, turning to look at her. mary became quite severe in her manner. "it was something between a sneeze and a cough," she replied with reproachful dignity, "and it got into my throat." "but" she said afterward to colin, "i couldn't stop myself. it just burst out because all at once i couldn't help remembering that last big potato you ate and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through that thick lovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it." "is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?" dr. craven inquired of mrs. medlock. "there's no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees," mrs. medlock answered. "they stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but each other. and if they want anything different to eat from what's sent up to them they need only ask for it." "well," said dr. craven, "so long as going without food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselves. the boy is a new creature." "so is the girl," said mrs. medlock. "she's begun to be downright pretty since she's filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. her hair's grown thick and healthy looking and she's got a bright color. the glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and master colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones. perhaps they're growing fat on that." "perhaps they are," said dr. craven. "let them laugh." chapter xxv the curtain and the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. in the robin's nest there were eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings. at first she was very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful. even dickon did not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves--nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them--the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of eggs. if there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end--if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air. but they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it. at first the robin watched mary and colin with sharp anxiety. for some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch dickon. the first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or feathers. he could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other). to speak robin to a robin is like speaking french to a frenchman. dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. the robin thought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to understand feathered speech. his movements also were robin. they never startled one by being sudden enough to seem dangerous or threatening. any robin could understand dickon, so his presence was not even disturbing. but at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other two. in the first place the boy creature did not come into the garden on his legs. he was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skins of wild animals were thrown over him. that in itself was doubtful. then when he began to stand up and move about he did it in a queer unaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him. the robin used to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head tilted first on one side and then on the other. he thought that the slow movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do. when cats are preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very slowly. the robin talked this over with his mate a great deal for a few days but after that he decided not to speak of the subject because her terror was so great that he was afraid it might be injurious to the eggs. when the boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it was an immense relief. but for a long time--or it seemed a long time to the robin--he was a source of some anxiety. he did not act as the other humans did. he seemed very fond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying down for a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner to begin again. one day the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to learn to fly by his parents he had done much the same sort of thing. he had taken short flights of a few yards and then had been obliged to rest. so it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly--or rather to walk. he mentioned this to his mate and when he told her that the eggs would probably conduct themselves in the same way after they were fledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly interested and derived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of her nest--though she always thought that the eggs would be much cleverer and learn more quickly. but then she said indulgently that humans were always more clumsy and slow than eggs and most of them never seemed really to learn to fly at all. you never met them in the air or on tree-tops. after a while the boy began to move about as the others did, but all three of the children at times did unusual things. they would stand under the trees and move their arms and legs and heads about in a way which was neither walking nor running nor sitting down. they went through these movements at intervals every day and the robin was never able to explain to his mate what they were doing or trying to do. he could only say that he was sure that the eggs would never flap about in such a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was doing the thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions were not of a dangerous nature. of course neither the robin nor his mate had ever heard of the champion wrestler, bob haworth, and his exercises for making the muscles stand out like lumps. robins are not like human beings; their muscles are always exercised from the first and so they develop themselves in a natural manner. if you have to fly about to find every meal you eat, your muscles do not become atrophied (atrophied means wasted away through want of use). when the boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like the others, the nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace and content. fears for the eggs became things of the past. knowing that your eggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vault and the fact that you could watch so many curious things going on made setting a most entertaining occupation. on wet days the eggs' mother sometimes felt even a little dull because the children did not come into the garden. but even on wet days it could not be said that mary and colin were dull. one morning when the rain streamed down unceasingly and colin was beginning to feel a little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it was not safe to get up and walk about, mary had an inspiration. "now that i am a real boy," colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my body are so full of magic that i can't keep them still. they want to be doing things all the time. do you know that when i waken in the morning, mary, when it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy--even the trees and things we can't really hear--i feel as if i must jump out of bed and shout myself. and if i did it, just think what would happen!" mary giggled inordinately. "the nurse would come running and mrs. medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. colin giggled himself. he could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "i wish my father would come home," he said. "i want to tell him myself. i'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. i can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides i look too different. i wish it wasn't raining to-day." it was then mistress mary had her inspiration. "colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "about a thousand, i suppose," he answered. "there's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said mary. "and one rainy day i went and looked into ever so many of them. no one ever knew, though mrs. medlock nearly found me out. i lost my way when i was coming back and i stopped at the end of your corridor. that was the second time i heard you crying." colin started up on his sofa. "a hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "it sounds almost like a secret garden. suppose we go and look at them. you could wheel me in my chair and nobody would know where we went." "that's what i was thinking," said mary. "no one would dare to follow us. there are galleries where you could run. we could do our exercises. there is a little indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. there are all sorts of rooms." "ring the bell," said colin. when the nurse came in he gave his orders. "i want my chair," he said. "miss mary and i are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. john can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. then he must go away and leave us alone until i send for him again." rainy days lost their terrors that morning. when the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, colin and mary looked at each other delighted. as soon as mary had made sure that john was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, colin got out of his chair. "i am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other," he said, "and then i am going to jump and then we will do bob haworth's exercises." and they did all these things and many others. they looked at the portraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her finger. "all these," said colin, "must be my relations. they lived a long time ago. that parrot one, i believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts. she looks rather like you, mary--not as you look now but as you looked when you came here. now you are a great deal fatter and better looking." "so are you," said mary, and they both laughed. they went to the indian room and amused themselves with the ivory elephants. they found the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in the cushion the mouse had left but the mice had grown up and run away and the hole was empty. they saw more rooms and made more discoveries than mary had made on her first pilgrimage. they found new corridors and corners and flights of steps and new old pictures they liked and weird old things they did not know the use of. it was a curiously entertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same house with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were miles away from them was a fascinating thing. "i'm glad we came," colin said. "i never knew i lived in such a big queer old place. i like it. we will ramble about every rainy day. we shall always be finding new queer corners and things." that morning they had found among other things such good appetites that when they returned to colin's room it was not possible to send the luncheon away untouched. when the nurse carried the tray down-stairs she slapped it down on the kitchen dresser so that mrs. loomis, the cook, could see the highly polished dishes and plates. "look at that!" she said. "this is a house of mystery, and those two children are the greatest mysteries in it." "if they keep that up every day," said the strong young footman john, "there'd be small wonder that he weighs twice as much to-day as he did a month ago. i should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing my muscles an injury." that afternoon mary noticed that something new had happened in colin's room. she had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change might have been made by chance. she said nothing to-day but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel. she could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside. that was the change she noticed. "i know what you want me to tell you," said colin, after she had stared a few minutes. "i always know when you want me to tell you something. you are wondering why the curtain is drawn back. i am going to keep it like that." "why?" asked mary. "because it doesn't make me angry any more to see her laughing. i wakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the magic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that i couldn't lie still. i got up and looked out of the window. the room was quite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord. she looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad i was standing there. it made me like to look at her. i want to see her laughing like that all the time. i think she must have been a sort of magic person perhaps." "you are so like her now," said mary, "that sometimes i think perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy." that idea seemed to impress colin. he thought it over and then answered her slowly. "if i were her ghost--my father would be fond of me," he said. "do you want him to be fond of you?" inquired mary. "i used to hate it because he was not fond of me. if he grew fond of me i think i should tell him about the magic. it might make him more cheerful." chapter xxvi "it's mother!" their belief in the magic was an abiding thing. after the morning's incantations colin sometimes gave them magic lectures. "i like to do it," he explained, "because when i grow up and make great scientific discoveries i shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise. i can only give short lectures now because i am very young, and besides ben weatherstaff would feel as if he was in church and he would go to sleep." "th' best thing about lecturin'," said ben, "is that a chap can get up an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. i wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes." but when colin held forth under his tree old ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept them there. he looked him over with critical affection. it was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held itself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light he remembered in another pair. sometimes when colin felt ben's earnest gaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him. "what are you thinking about, ben weatherstaff?" he asked. "i was thinkin'," answered ben, "as i'd warrant tha's gone up three or four pound this week. i was lookin' at tha' calves an' tha' shoulders. i'd like to get thee on a pair o' scales." "it's the magic and--and mrs. sowerby's buns and milk and things," said colin. "you see the scientific experiment has succeeded." that morning dickon was too late to hear the lecture. when he came he was ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than usual. as they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they fell to work. they always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking rain. the moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold. colin was as good at weeding as any one in these days and he could lecture while he was doing it. "the magic works best when you work yourself," he said this morning. "you can feel it in your bones and muscles. i am going to read books about bones and muscles, but i am going to write a book about magic. i am making it up now. i keep finding out things." it was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel and stood up on his feet. he had been silent for several minutes and they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did. when he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to mary and dickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him do it. he stretched himself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly. color glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness. all at once he had realized something to the full. "mary! dickon!" he cried. "just look at me!" they stopped their weeding and looked at him. "do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?" he demanded. dickon was looking at him very hard. being an animal charmer he could see more things than most people could and many of them were things he never talked about. he saw some of them now in this boy. "aye, that we do," he answered. mary looked hard too, but she said nothing. "just this minute," said colin, "all at once i remembered it myself--when i looked at my hand digging with the trowel--and i had to stand up on my feet to see if it was real. and it _is_ real! i'm _well_--i'm _well_!" "aye, that tha' art!" said dickon. "i'm well! i'm well!" said colin again, and his face went quite red all over. he had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all through him--a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been so strong that he could not help calling out. "i shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "i shall find out thousands and thousands of things. i shall find out about people and creatures and everything that grows--like dickon--and i shall never stop making magic. i'm well! i'm well! i feel--i feel as if i want to shout out something--something thankful, joyful!" ben weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round at him. "tha' might sing th' doxology," he suggested in his dryest grunt. he had no opinion of the doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any particular reverence. but colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the doxology. "what is that?" he inquired. "dickon can sing it for thee, i'll warrant," replied ben weatherstaff. dickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer's smile. "they sing it i' church," he said. "mother says she believes th' skylarks sings it when they gets up i' th' mornin'." "if she says that, it must be a nice song," colin answered. "i've never been in a church myself. i was always too ill. sing it, dickon. i want to hear it." dickon was quite simple and unaffected about it. he understood what colin felt better than colin did himself. he understood by a sort of instinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding. he pulled off his cap and looked round still smiling. "tha' must take off tha' cap," he said to colin, "an' so mun tha', ben--an' tha' mun stand up, tha' knows." colin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as he watched dickon intently. ben weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old face as if he didn't know exactly why he was doing this remarkable thing. dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice: "praise god from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below, praise him above ye heavenly host, praise father, son, and holy ghost. amen." when he had finished, ben weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on colin. colin's face was thoughtful and appreciative. "it is a very nice song," he said. "i like it. perhaps it means just what i mean when i want to shout out that i am thankful to the magic." he stopped and thought in a puzzled way. "perhaps they are both the same thing. how can we know the exact names of everything? sing it again, dickon. let us try, mary. i want to sing it, too. it's my song. how does it begin? 'praise god from whom all blessings flow'?" [illustration: "'praise god from whom all blessings flow'"--_page 344_] and they sang it again, and mary and colin lifted their voices as musically as they could and dickon's swelled quite loud and beautiful--and at the second line ben weatherstaff raspingly cleared his throat and at the third he joined in with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and when the "amen" came to an end mary observed that the very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he found out that colin was not a cripple--his chin was twitching and he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet. "i never seed no sense in th' doxology afore," he said hoarsely, "but i may change my mind i' time. i should say tha'd gone up five pound this week, mester colin--five on 'em!" colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his expression had become a startled one. "who is coming in here?" he said quickly. "who is it?" the door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered. she had come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and looking at them. with the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of colin's books. she had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in--all of them, even ben weatherstaff and the "creatures" and every flower that was in bloom. unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all. dickon's eyes lighted like lamps. "it's mother--that's who it is!" he cried and he went across the grass at a run. colin began to move toward her, too, and mary went with him. they both felt their pulses beat faster. "it's mother!" dickon said again when they met half-way. "i knowed tha' wanted to see her an' i told her where th' door was hid." colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face. "even when i was ill i wanted to see you," he said, "you and dickon and the secret garden. i'd never wanted to see any one or anything before." the sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. she flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes. "eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "eh! dear lad!" as if she had not known she were going to say it. she did not say, "mester colin," but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. she might have said it to dickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her. colin liked it. "are you surprised because i am so well?" he asked. she put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes. "aye, that i am!" she said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my heart jump." "do you think," said colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father like me?" "aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick pat. "he mun come home--he mun come home." "susan sowerby," said ben weatherstaff, getting close to her. "look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? they was like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' i heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same time. look at 'em now!" susan sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh. "they're goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "let him go on playin' an' workin' in th' garden an' eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i' yorkshire, thank god for it." she put both hands on mistress mary's shoulders and looked her little face over in a motherly fashion. "an' thee, too!" she said. "tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'lizabeth ellen. i'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. our martha told me as mrs. medlock heard she was a pretty woman. tha'lt be like a blush rose when tha' grows up, my little lass, bless thee." she did not mention that when martha came home on her "day out" and described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what mrs. medlock had heard. "it doesn't stand to reason that a pretty woman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she had added obstinately. mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. she had only known that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. but remembering her pleasure in looking at the mem sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her. susan sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. colin walked on one side of her and mary on the other. each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them--a sort of warm, supported feeling. it seemed as if she understood them as dickon understood his "creatures." she stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were children. soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were dickon's. when they told her about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little mellow laugh in her throat. "i suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin' children to walk, but i'm feared i should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o' legs," she said. it was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that at last she was told about the magic. "do you believe in magic?" asked colin after he had explained about indian fakirs. "i do hope you do." "that i do, lad," she answered. "i never knowed it by that name but what does th' name matter? i warrant they call it a different name i' france an' a different one i' germany. th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin' an' th' sun shinin' made thee a well lad an' it's th' good thing. it isn't like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. th' big good thing doesn't stop to worrit, bless thee. it goes on makin' worlds by th' million--worlds like us. never thee stop believin' in th' big good thing an' knowin' th' world's full of it--an' call it what tha' likes. tha' wert singin' to it when i come into th' garden." "i felt so joyful," said colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at her. "suddenly i felt how different i was--how strong my arms and legs were, you know--and how i could dig and stand--and i jumped up and wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen." "th' magic listened when tha' sung th' doxology. it would ha' listened to anything tha'd sung. it was th' joy that mattered. eh! lad, lad--what's names to th' joy maker," and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again. she had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry hour came and dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. she was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. she told them stories in broad yorkshire and taught them new words. she laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that colin was still a fretful invalid. "you see we can't help laughing nearly all the time when we are together," explained colin. "and it doesn't sound ill at all. we try to choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever." "there's one thing that comes into my mind so often," said mary, "and i can scarcely ever hold in when i think of it suddenly. i keep thinking suppose colin's face should get to look like a full moon. it isn't like one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and suppose some morning it should look like one--what should we do!" "bless us all, i can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said susan sowerby. "but tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. mester craven'll come home." "do you think he will?" asked colin. "why?" susan sowerby chuckled softly. "i suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told him in tha' own way," she said. "tha's laid awake nights plannin' it." "i couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said colin. "i think about different ways every day. i think now i just want to run into his room." "that'd be a fine start for him," said susan sowerby. "i'd like to see his face, lad. i would that! he mun come back--that he mun." one of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage. they planned it all. they were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather. they would see all the twelve children and dickon's garden and would not come back until they were tired. susan sowerby got up at last to return to the house and mrs. medlock. it was time for colin to be wheeled back also. but before he got into his chair he stood quite close to susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast. "you are just what i--what i wanted," he said. "i wish you were my mother--as well as dickon's!" all at once susan sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been dickon's brother. the quick mist swept over her eyes. "eh! dear lad!" she said. "thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, i do believe. she couldna' keep out of it. thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" chapter xxvii in the garden in each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. in the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. in this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. at first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. one of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. to let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. if you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live. so long as mistress mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child. circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. they began to push her about for her own good. when her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired. so long as colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. when new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood. his scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was nothing weird about it at all. much more surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. two things cannot be in one place. "where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow." while the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming alive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away beautiful places in the norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains of switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. he had not been courageous; he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark ones. he had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. a terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to allow any rift of light to pierce through. he had forgotten and deserted his home and his duties. when he traveled about, darkness so brooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people because it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. most strangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden crime on his soul. he was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked shoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was, "archibald craven, misselthwaite manor, yorkshire, england." he had traveled far and wide since the day he saw mistress mary in his study and told her she might have her "bit of earth." he had been in the most beautiful places in europe, though he had remained nowhere more than a few days. he had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. he had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born. but the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened. he was in a wonderful valley in the austrian tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted any man's soul out of shadow. he had walked a long way and it had not lifted his. but at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. it was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness. sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones. he saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away. it seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. the valley was very, very still. as he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, archibald craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself. he wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not. he sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge. there was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago. he was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. he did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind--filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside. it was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark water away. but of course he did not think of this himself. he only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness. he did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself. something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly. "what is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead. "i almost feel as if--i were alive!" i do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him. neither does any one else yet. he did not understand at all himself--but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden: "i am going to live forever and ever and ever!" the singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. he did not know that it could be kept. by the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back. he left the valley and went on his wandering way again. but, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one. slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive" with the garden. as the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to the lake of como. there he found the loveliness of a dream. he spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep. but by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him. "perhaps," he thought, "my body is growing stronger." it was growing stronger but--because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were changed--his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. he began to think of misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes. he shrank from it. one marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. the stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in. he walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night. he felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep. he did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming. he remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was. he thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a voice calling. it was sweet and clear and happy and far away. it seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very side. "archie! archie! archie!" it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer than before, "archie! archie!" he thought he sprang to his feet not even startled. it was such a real voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it. "lilias! lilias!" he answered. "lilias! where are you?" "in the garden," it came back like a sound from a golden flute. "in the garden!" and then the dream ended. but he did not awaken. he slept soundly and sweetly all through the lovely night. when he did awake at last it was brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. he was an italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master might do. no one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night. the man held a salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until mr. craven took them. when he had gone away mr. craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake. his strange calm was still upon him and something more--a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as he thought--as if something had changed. he was remembering the dream--the real--real dream. "in the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "in the garden! but the door is locked and the key is buried deep." when he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an english letter and came from yorkshire. it was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew. he opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once. "_dear sir:_ "i am susan sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor. it was about miss mary i spoke. i will make bold to speak again. please, sir, i would come home if i was you. i think you would be glad to come and--if you will excuse me, sir--i think your lady would ask you to come if she was here. "your obedient servant, "susan sowerby." mr. craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope. he kept thinking about the dream. "i will go back to misselthwaite," he said. "yes, i'll go at once." and he went through the garden to the villa and ordered pitcher to prepare for his return to england. * * * * * in a few days he was in yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past. during those years he had only wished to forget him. now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind. he remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. he had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure it would die in a few days. but to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature. he had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all. he had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. the first time after a year's absence he returned to misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death. after that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. he could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail. all this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was "coming alive" began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply. "perhaps i have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "ten years is a long time. it may be too late to do anything--quite too late. what have i been thinking of!" of course this was the wrong magic--to begin by saying "too late." even colin could have told him that. but he knew nothing of magic--either black or white. this he had yet to learn. he wondered if susan sowerby had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse--was fatally ill. if he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched than ever. but the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in better things. "could it be possible that she sees that i may be able to do him good and control him?" he thought. "i will go and see her on my way to misselthwaite." but when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby. "our dickon," they volunteered, was over at the manor working in one of the gardens where he went several days each week. mr. craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. he smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to "our 'lizabeth ellen" who was the oldest. "if you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of you," he said. then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind. the drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing. why did it seem to give him a sense of home-coming which he had been sure he could never feel again--that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing nearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six hundred years? how he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed with the brocaded hangings. was it possible that perhaps he might find him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his shrinking from him? how real that dream had been--how wonderful and clear the voice which called back to him, "in the garden--in the garden!" "i will try to find the key," he said. "i will try to open the door. i must--though i don't know why." when he arrived at the manor the servants who received him with the usual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to the remote rooms where he usually lived attended by pitcher. he went into the library and sent for mrs. medlock. she came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered. "how is master colin, medlock?" he inquired. "well, sir," mrs. medlock answered, "he's--he's different, in a manner of speaking." "worse?" he suggested. mrs. medlock really was flushed. "well, you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neither dr. craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out." "why is that?" "to tell the truth, sir, master colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse. his appetite, sir, is past understanding--and his ways--" "has he become more--more peculiar?" her master asked, knitting his brows anxiously. "that's it, sir. he's growing very peculiar--when you compare him with what he used to be. he used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous--and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back just as they used to be. you never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. the things we've gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf. he'd throw himself into such a state that dr. craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. well, sir, just without warning--not long after one of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by miss mary and susan sowerby's boy dickon that could push his chair. he took a fancy to both miss mary and dickon, and dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night." "how does he look?" was the next question. "if he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. he laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's alone with miss mary. he never used to laugh at all. dr. craven is coming to see you at once, if you'll allow him. he never was as puzzled in his life." "where is master colin now?" mr. craven asked. "in the garden, sir. he's always in the garden--though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him." mr. craven scarcely heard her last words. "in the garden," he said, and after he had sent mrs. medlock away he stood and repeated it again and again. "in the garden!" he had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room. he took his way, as mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. the fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers. he crossed the lawn and turned into the long walk by the ivied walls. he did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. he felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why. as he drew near to it his step became still more slow. he knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--that buried key. so he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused he started and listened--asking himself if he were walking in a dream. the ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years--and yet inside the garden there were sounds. they were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices--exclamations and smothered joyous cries. it seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so--as their excitement mounted--would burst forth. what in heaven's name was he dreaming of--what in heaven's name did he hear? was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears? was it that the far clear voice had meant? and then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves. the feet ran faster and faster--they were nearing the garden door--there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained--and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms. mr. craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath. he was a tall boy and a handsome one. he was glowing with life and his running had sent splendid color leaping to his face. he threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes--eyes full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. it was the eyes which made mr. craven gasp for breath. "who--what? who!" he stammered. this was not what colin had expected--this was not what he had planned. he had never thought of such a meeting. and yet to come dashing out--winning a race--perhaps it was even better. he drew himself up to his very tallest. mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before--inches taller. "father," he said, "i'm colin. you can't believe it. i scarcely can myself. i'm colin." like mrs. medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly: "in the garden! in the garden!" "yes," hurried on colin. "it was the garden that did it--and mary and dickon and the creatures--and the magic. no one knows. we kept it to tell you when you came. i'm well, i can beat mary in a race. i'm going to be an athlete." he said it all so like a healthy boy--his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness--that mr. craven's soul shook with unbelieving joy. colin put out his hand and laid it on his father's arm. "aren't you glad, father?" he ended. "aren't you glad? i'm going to live forever and ever and ever!" mr. craven put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still. he knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment. "take me into the garden, my boy," he said at last. "and tell me all about it." and so they led him in. the place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together--lilies which were white or white and ruby. he remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves. late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one stood in an embowered temple of gold. the newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its grayness. he looked round and round. "i thought it would be dead," he said. "mary thought so at first," said colin. "but it came alive." then they sat down under their tree--all but colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story. it was the strangest thing he had ever heard, archibald craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. mystery and magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting--the coming of the spring--the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young rajah to his feet to defy old ben weatherstaff to his face. the odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept. the listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing. the athlete, the lecturer, the scientific discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing. "now," he said at the end of the story, "it need not be a secret any more. i dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me--but i am never going to get into the chair again. i shall walk back with you, father--to the house." * * * * * ben weatherstaff's duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants' hall by mrs. medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on the spot--as he had hoped to be--when the most dramatic event misselthwaite manor had seen during the present generation actually took place. one of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn. mrs. medlock, knowing ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with master colin. "did you see either of them, weatherstaff?" she asked. ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "aye, that i did," he answered with a shrewdly significant air. "both of them?" suggested mrs. medlock. "both of 'em," returned ben weatherstaff. "thank ye kindly, ma'am, i could sup up another mug of it." "together?" said mrs. medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her excitement. "together, ma'am," and ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp. "where was master colin? how did he look? what did they say to each other?" "i didna' hear that," said ben, "along o' only bein' on th' step-ladder lookin' over th' wall. but i'll tell thee this. there's been things goin' on outside as you house people knows nowt about. an' what tha'll find out tha'll find out soon." and it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the shrubbery a piece of the lawn. "look there," he said, "if tha's curious. look what's comin' across th' grass." when mrs. medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the servants' hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads. across the lawn came the master of misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him. and by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in yorkshire--master colin! the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: table of contents, an exclamation point was added to chapter vi's title to match the text. (there was!") page 34, quotation mark added. (india," said) page 62, apostrophe added to "an'". (readin' an') page 101, quotation mark added. (come to-morrow.") page 117, comma changed to period. (she ventured.) page 163, extraneous quotation mark removed. (the gardeners?) page 216, "it" changed to "if". (wondering if he) page 262, illustration: closing punctuation added. (wide smile.") page 272, period added. (he said.) page 284, apostrophe added. (dickon. "an') page 318, "every" changed to "very". (very easily) page 330, "eggs" changed to "eggs" to fit rest of text. (injurious to the eggs) ben o' bill's, the luddite: a yorkshire tale, by d. f. e. sykes, ll.b. ben o' bill's, the luddite: a yorkshire tale. by d. f. e. sykes, ll.b. and geo. henry walker london. simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, & co. ltd. huddersfield. the advertiser press, ltd about the author. d f e sykes was a gifted scholar, solicitor, local politician, and newspaper proprietor. he listed his own patrimony as 'fred o' ned's o' ben o' billy's o' the knowle' a reference to holme village above slaithwaite in the colne valley where many of the events in the novel take place. as the grandson of a clothier, his association with the woollen trade would be a valuable source of material for his novels, but also the cause of his downfall when, in 1883, he became involved in a bitter dispute between the weavers and the mill owners. when he was declared bankrupt in 1885 and no longer able to practise as a solicitor he left the area and travelled abroad to ireland and canada. on his return to england he struggled with alcoholism and was prosecuted by the nspcc for child neglect. eventually he was drawn back to huddersfield and became an active member of the temperance movement. he took to researching local history and writing, at first in a local newspaper, then books such as 'the history of huddersfield and its vicinity'. he also wrote four novels. it was not until the 1911 census, after some 20 years as a writer, that he finally states his profession as 'author'. in later life he lived with his wife, the daughter of a lincolnshire vicar, at ainsley house, marsden. he died of a heart attack following an operation at huddersfield royal infirmary on 5th june 1920 and was buried in the graveyard of st bartholomew's in marsden. introduction. although the book was initially credited to d. f. e. sykes and g. h. walker, g. h. walker's name is missing from the third edition, and it is essentially sykes' work. first published in 1898, it is a novel which deserves wider recognition, as it deals with surprisingly contemporary issues, but it is as a social history of the period that it stands out. sykes' use of the local dialect, the entertaining asides that he includes and his skill at sketching characters and their lives, at a period of such turmoil in the colne valley, add to its value. it is interesting that, as a historian, sykes chose to embellish the facts, that were available to him at the time, with fiction, and his purpose must have been literary. historians rightly take issue in this matter, but he is clear on his sympathy for their cause and the background and reasoning behind these events, though he draws back on the murder of horsfall. the luddites were not mindless machine breakers but desperate men, in poverty and despair, fighting for a voice to be heard against uncaring mill owners and a corrupt government. this is undoubtedly sykes' best novel, a sound history of the luddites and a good read. preface at the york special commission in 1812, sixty-six persons were tried for various offences in connection with the luddite rising against the introduction of machinery. of these sixty six seventeen were executed, one reprieved, six transported for seven years, seven were acquitted, seventeen were discharged on bail, fifteen by proclamation, and one stood over but was not called on. the story, ben o' bill's, is mostly true, and the authors have not felt called upon to vary in any material respects the story as it was gleaned in part from the lips and in part from the papers of the narrator. it is proper to say that the ben walker of the narrative was of kin to neither of the writers. the thanks of the authors are tendered to dr. edwin dean, of slaithwaite, and to the justices of the west riding for permission to reproduce the portraits of dr. dean and of sir joseph radcliffe. dedicated (without permission) to mary louisa sykes, the friend of both, and wife of one of the authors chapter i. it hurts me sore that folk in these days should so little understand the doings of us luddites. to hear young people talk, the luddites were miscreants that well, deserved the hanging they got--a set of idle, dissolute knaves and cut-throats the country was well rid of. nay, worse, many young lads with a college learning seem to know next to nothing about them, and talk as though all great deeds were done in far-of parts, and as though of heroes and martyrs england has none to show. i am little apt at writing, and my hand is stiff and cramped with years. but my memory is good still, and i can remember better the things of fifty years ago than those of yesterday. so, before hand and mind fail me altogether, i will set on record all i call mind of those memorable days that closed so black after that bloody york assize. and if to any reader i should seem garrulous or egotistical, be it remembered in excuse that i can only tell the tale as i now recall it, and that i write of things i saw and things i knew, and of doings i took part in. i risked my own neck, and had the good fortune to escape with my life, and with honour, too, which not all who escaped whole and safe could say. when i was a boy, in the last days of the past century, our folk lived at lower holme, above slaithwaite, in the old homestead in which my father's father and his father before him had lived. we were tenants of my lord dartmouth. the house is still there, and when i close my eyes of an evening, before the fire and my pipe goes out as i sit thinking, i can see the old place yet, as i knew it in my boyhood's days. my father, william bamforth--bill o' ben's--was a manufacturer, a small manufacturer we should say now; but no one thought of calling him a small manufacturer in those days. he was as big as most men thereabouts. he bought his wool of the stapler at huddersfield--old abe hirst;--it was scoured and dyed in the vats in the farmyard; my mother and my cousin mary, and martha, the servant lass, that cleaned the house and milked the cows, and kept my mother's mind on the rack and her tongue on the clack from morning till night, helped with the spinning. the warping and the weaving we did at home in the long upper chamber. we had four looms at home, and, moreover, we put our work out to the neighbours. it was a busy house you may be sure, what with the milking and the churning, and the calves, and the pigs, and the poultry, and the people coming for milk, and the men coming for their warps, and the constant work at the old hand-looms in the long, low chamber above, with its windows stretched right across the front to catch the precious light. what stir, too, there used to be when father and i set off for the fairs at nottingham and macclesfield and newcastle, for all those markets did bill o' ben's attend regular as the almanac itself. there was the loading, overnight, of the great covered waggon with the pieces of good linsey, and here and there a piece of broadcloth for the clergy and the better classes, and the grooming and shoeing of "old bess," the stout grey mare. then the start at early dawn, with the first lark in summer, in the starlight of the winter mornings. oh! it was grand in the summer across the moors, when the roads were plain to see, and only the crusted ruts to jolt our bones; but in the dark mornings of november, when the wind howled about the waggon's arch, and the rain beat like pellets about the tarpaulin, and the waggon wheels sunk deep in slush, and in the set winter-time, when the roads were lost in snow, it was cruel work for man and beast. it was gamesome, too, at the slimmer statutes at nottingham and macclesfield, when i had nothing to do but stand at the stall in the market-place and cut the suit-lengths for the customers, or carry their parcels to their inns. and grand it was to see the men servants and the buxom country lasses at the hiring, making their half-yearly holiday, and spending their money right cheerfully. my father had an old connection, and scarce ever had to return with pieces unsold. then, when the fair was over, and he sat in the parlour of the angel at nottingham, or the swan at macclesfield, smoking his long, "churchwarden" and drinking gin and water, i would off into the town to see the booths, and the actors, and the giants, and the fat women, and the dwarfs and two-headed monsters, and many other curiosities that may not now be seen. i used to sit for hours in the winter nights at home telling mary of the bearded woman, and the hen with five legs, and the learned pig, but of the country lasses, whose cheeks were so rosy and lips so ripe, she cared not to hear. the times were bad for most people, but at home we did not feel the pinch very much. we had the cows and the poultry and the pigs, and though oatmeal was terribly dear, twenty shillings the hoop, i never knew what it was to miss the oatmeal porridge and the abundant milk for breakfast and bacon and potatoes for dinner. on sundays we nearly always had beef or mutton and yorkshire pudding, and my mother's home-brewed was famous throughout all the country side. mr. wilson, the parson of the church, always called when he came to holme, though my father had grieved him sore by taking a pew at powle moor chapel, and sitting under that godly man, abraham webster; and mr. wilson always declared to my mother's own face that her home-brewed was better drinking than any to be got even at the black bull inn, at kitchen fold, which boasted the best "tap" outside huddersfield itself. sometimes on sundays, too, my mother had a guests' tea-drinking, and then we had buttered tea-cakes and eggs, and salad, and tea, and out were brought the silver cream jug and silver sugar tongs and spoons and the little fluted china cups and saucers, with little, pink primroses on them, that belonged to my great aunt, betty garside. the women-folk drank tea, but not so much, i think, that they liked it, for they had not the chance of getting used to it, but because the quality drank it, and it served to establish their rank and dignity. my father would never touch it, and i can't say i was ever partial to it myself. so you see we were not so badly-off at home. my father's custom lay mainly in the country market towns, and the high price of corn caused by the ceaseless wars kept squire and farmer in rich content, and they paid for their cloth like men. it was the manufacturers who had made and relied on a foreign market for their goods, who cursed napoleon, and cursed, too, our own government, that was ever at daggers drawn with him. why could we not let the french rule their country their own way they said. what was it to us whether king or directory or emperor ruled in france? my father was a whig, and swore by mr. fox; yet i think at first he was not sorry to see our corn so high, prices so good, and money so plentiful among the farmers. but in time the war told on all of us, our ships could not sail the seas, the mills and warehouses groaned with piled-up merchandise, and the pieces fetched so little, it was scarce worth while to cart our goods from town to town. then every manufacturer in the west riding called for peace, and, in time, peace at any price. i think it was at nottingham, in the back-end of 1811, i first saw any signs of a stir because of the new machinery. a man was shot at bullwell, near that town, when trying to get at some new stocking-frames, i saw his body brought into the town on a stretcher by two constables i can see his eyes and open mouth, with the yellow teeth, and the tongue thrust out between them, and blood trickling down the sides of his chin and his hands, the fingers of one wide outspread, the other gripping tight some grass and sand he had clutched, and his right knee drawn up so rigid they could not stretch the body, and he was buried in a chest. they laid him on a table in the tap-room of the first inn they came to, and i saw him through the window. when we rode home to slaithwaite, i remember my father was very silent, and would not talk about the new machinery, but i was soon to hear enough of it. i remember, as tho' it were yesterday, one winter's night about that time, my father was sat by the fire-side, smoking his pipe and taking a thoughtful pull at times at the yellow pewter pot from which he drank his ale; my mother in her rocking-chair knitting a pair of long, grey stockings for myself. i was reading by the candle-light a copy of mr. thomas paine's "rights of man," which i had bought at nottingham, and which, despite the groanings of mr. webster, our pastor at powle moor, i found a very sound and proper book, as, indeed, i still maintain it to be; and mary was looking at the prints in mr. miller's scripture history, with lives of the most celebrated apostles, and wondering for the hundredth time how it came about that the frontispiece exhibits father adam with a full beard, whilst the very next print depicts him, after the fall, with a chin as smooth as an egg: for there is no mention of razors in the garden of eden. martha was down in the village at a prayer-meeting; and siah, the teamer, had had his porridge and his pint and had gone to bed. we could hear him, through the rafters, snoring in the room above. it must have been a tuesday, for father had been to huddersfield to market, and had come home, as he always did on market-days, more talkative than his wont. "aw rode as far as th' warrener, wi' horsfall, o' ottiwell," i heard my father say. "he could talk o' nowt but th' new machines 'at he's bahn to put i' ottiwells. he's bahn, to ha' all his wark done under his own roof, he says. he's sick o' croppers an' their ways. an', he says, too, 'at it 'll noan be long afore there 'll be a new kind o' loom 'at 'll run ommost by itsen, an' pieces 'll come dahn to next to nowt. he says time's noan so far off when th' old hand-loom weavers 'll go dahn their own slot." "how long did you stop at th' warrener?" asked my mother, who had her own way of putting a point. "tha' means it wor th' ale were talking; but tha's mista'en. he meant it every word. an' he said, 'at them 'at lagged behind mun go to th' wall, an' he, for one, meant movin' wi' th' times. him an' enoch taylor's mighty thick, an' taylor's putting th' new machinery into bradley mills, and vickerman's. all th' market's talkin' on it. aw called at th' pack horse----". "i warrant yo' did," observed my mother. "at th' pack horse," proceeded my father, superior to innuendo, "an' horsfall wor there, an' he said 'at th' era o' manual labour wor over, an' th' triumph o' mechanic art had come. these were his very words. aw thowt aw'd remember them to tell, yo'." "an' little aw thank yo' for yo'r trouble, william bamforth," observed my mother, "for that nor any other o' your fine tales from th' pack horse. little it seems yo', or horsfall either, dandering about th' pack horse after th' market's done, an' me toiling my blood to water to make both ends tie. th' triumph o' mechanic art, indeed! triumph o' fiddlesticks. th' hand-loom's done well enough for thee, an' for thi father afore thee, an' where would you put yo' new machines if yo' got 'em, i'd like to know." "ther's that bit o' money lying idle at ingham's, an' we could build on th' intack, an' ther's a fine run o' water, as horsfall says it's a sin an' a shame to see running to waste, an' ther's that fortune of your aunt betty's, at's out at mortgage wi' lawyer blackburn." "aye, an' there it 'll stop for me," cried my mother, "let well alone, says i. wasn't tha tellin' me only th' other neet' o' that poor man at nottingham, 'at our ben couldn't sleep o' neets for seein' him starin' 'at him? dost tha want bringing home on a shutter, an' me lonely enough as it is, what wi' thee an' ben settin' off nearly every week, an' when yo'r back stopping at th' pack horse every tuesday till it's a wonder a decent man an' a deacon isn't ashamed to be seen coming up th' broo. i'll ha' na building wi' my brass. there's enough to follow as it is, an' that girl, martha, that soft as she thinks every man as says 'it's a fine day,' means puttin' t' spurrins in, and na, nowt 'll do but havin' th' masons and th' joiners all ovver th' place, an' them so fond o' drink too. aw'm moithered to death as it is, an' 'll ha' none on't, so tha' may put that maggot aat o' thi yed, william bamforth." "but mr. chew says".... now mr. chew was our new vicar, mr. wilson being not long dead. "oh, mr. chew. it 'ad seem him better if he washed th' powder out o' his own yed i'stead o' puttin' stuff an' nonsense into other folks!" "if yo mun talk your own business ovver wi' all th' countryside why can't you go to mr. webster, as is well known to ha' more o' th' root o' th' matter in him than all th' clergy, an him a weaver hissen, too." "why, and so i will," exclaimed my father, rising to wind up the clock, a solemn act that, in our house, served, except on sundays, instead of family prayers, and sent us all to bed. the very next lord's day my father and mother, mary, and myself, with martha and 'siah, must go to powle moor in the afternoon to hear a discourse by mr. webster, my father and i walking side by side, a thing which i liked not so much as to walk with mary. but it chanced that on this very sabbath my father explained to me what i had often pondered upon, why we should trudge a good two miles across the moor by a rude footpath to the baptist meeting house, when the church lay on a broad and good road almost at our feet, and we had there a large pew, our own freehold, which had been used aforetime by my grandfather and my great-grandfather. whatever the reason was it had not been apprehended by our old collie, for such is the sway of long habit, that every sunday when the cracked bell chimed for morning service at the church, it would rise from the hearth, yawn, and stretch itself, look about it as though enquiringly and reproachfully, and then sedately descending the hill, would enter the church, walk decorously to the old pew, now generally empty, and stretch itself by the door, in the aisle. nor, i confess, was i much wiser than the old dog, for my father's explanation of our desertion of the church of our fathers. "you see, ben," he said to me, when pressed on the point, speaking slowly, for he breathed with some difficulty in our way up the hill,--"you see, blood is thicker than water." now this is a truth there is no gainsaying. "and i shall allus hold," continued my father, "i shall allus hold 'at parson wilson had no reight to stir th' magistrates up to refuse th' license to th' 'silent woman' because some o' th' baptists 'at belonged to th' nook chapel used to go theer o' wet neets to sing an' pray an' expound for mutual edification, an' if one or two on 'em did happen tak' too mich ale at times, it's well known talkin's dry wark. then about them hens o' your mother's half-cousin, sammy sutcliffe, sam-o'-sall's. tha' knows it were agin all natur' for parson wilson to gi' it in as he did, an' it were but nateral we should side wi' our own kin." now it was about these hens i wished to learn, for it was because of them that it has ever been said that schism was hatched in slaithwaite--that th' dissenters layed away like hannah garside's hens, and had laid away ever since. "yo' see it wor this way," explained my father, "hannah were allus a very fractious woman, more particular as, do what she would, could never get wed, an' such drop o' th'milk o' human kindness as god had ge'en her to start wi' seemed to ha' soured on her. her an' sam-o'-sall's lived neighbour, an' it were like enough 'at her hens strayed into sammy's fowd, and into th' shippon too. hens is like other folk, they'll go' wheer they're best off, an' if hannah threw th' fowls nowt but bacon swards yo' needn't blame 'em if they went wheer they could get out o' th' reach o' her tongue an' a grain of meal an' corn as weel. onyway she pulled sammy up afore parson wilson for th' eggs, an' parson wilson gave it agen yor' mother's cousin. an' what i say is," said my father, pausing to' get his breath, and striking his stick into the ground by way of emphasis, "what i say is, there's no swearin' to eggs. moreovver hannah gloried ovver th' decision to that extent it wer' more nor flesh an' blood could bear, an' when she cam' an' set i' church, reight i' th' front o' yor' aunt, wi' a easter egg fastened i' her bonnet, sammy saw no way for peace but to join th' baptists. an', as i said afore, blood's thicker nor water, an' yor' mother an' me havin' prayed on it, and yor' aunt sayin' beside 'at no money o' hers, an' it's well known she's tidy well off, should ever go to th' erastian idolators, our duty seemed clear both to yo'r mother an' misen. not but what aw liked th' owd parson well enough, tho' he wer' a tory, an me a whig." we were by this time in the road that strikes across the top of the hill towards salendine nook, and by the side of which the powle moor chapel was built, with the house and outbuildings for the minister. we could see the men quitting the burial ground and the little public-house hard by, and, all in their sunday clothes, folk were coming from every part for the afternoon service, not hurrying, and with no air of business, but solemnly and seriously, talking little, and with thoughts, like their faces, set zion-wards. when we exchanged greetings, as we did with most, it was in grave tones, for it was not counted decent in my young days to be over cheerful on the sabbath day. and tho' as i have said, we at home had not felt the pinch of the hard times more than we could bear, there were few there so well off. most that went to th' powle were hand-loom weavers, with here an' there a little shop-keeper, and tho' meal was neither so bad nor so dear as it had been in barley time, nor work so scarce as it became later, yet most knew the pressure of want, and the shadow of worse things still to come seemed to brood over us all. it was a sight to see powle chapel at an afternoon service. every pew was filled, and every eye was fixed on parson webster as he gave out the hymns line by line, verse by verse, for few of us could read, tho' most made a point of having a hymn book. up in the loft was the music, the double bass, the viol, and the clarionet. between jim wood--jim o' slack--who played the double bass, and his colleagues of the viol and clarionet contention had raged from the very foundation of the church at powle. jim o' slack maintained that in every true view of harmony wedded to divinity, the notes of the double bass stood for the wrath of jehovah, and were designed to inspire awe and inward quaking. the feeble and futile utterances of the viol and the clarionet, he conceded, might represent the tender qualities of mercy and compassion, and, as such, might be worthy of some consideration among the methodies, whose spiritual food was as milk for babies, but in high calvinism, jim maintained, nought but the bulky instrument his soul loved could convey adequate conception of the majesty of god and the terrors of hell. it was grand to hear the singing. we all sang for our lives, and we all had a notion of singing in tune. then the praying! oh! it was fine to hear little parson webster. how he rejoiced over the elect! how he lamented over the unregenerate! it was very comforting to hear, for we were the elect, the erastians of the church and the arminians of the chapel in the valley we well understood to be those in outer darkness. with what a solid satisfaction, too, did the elders settle down to the discourse of an hour and forty minutes by the hour glass, which was the least we expected from mr. webster. i remember still his text of that very day, "behold i was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me." who could deny, he asked, the utter and natural depravity of man? why only he who by the very denial stood confessed of the sins of arrogancy and self-sufficiency. was not the natural man, since the fall, prone to murder, lust, evil imaginings, covetousness, hardness of heart, vain glory, malice, and all unworthiness, all being, by nature, the children of wrath, and only that small handful of the dust of zion, of all that great valley, called forth and justified before the foundation of the world that we should be holy and without blame before him in love. how awful, too, was the lot of those that went down quick into hell, whose steps took hold on the eternal fire whose flames were never quenched. but we were not of these, tho' on this we must not plume ourselves, for salvation was not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of god that sheweth mercy, for the potter had power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour. i was very glad for my part to have been made a vessel unto honour, and of this there could be no reasonable doubt, for when my father, moved thereto by my mother, after the split about hannah garside's eggs, finally asked for admission to the community of the powle and was dipped, cousin mary and i were required to state on which side we elected to stand. mr. webster, in a long and earnest discourse in the parlour at home, and with much praying, set before us, as he said, life and good, death and evil, blessing and cursing. i waited to hear what mary had to say, being for my part little troubled in my mind at that time about religion and not rightly understanding on what points of doctrine mr. chew differed from mr. webster, and liking the chapel the better because the singing was heartier, and the church the rather because the sermons were shorter, and it seemed to me your soul might be saved there with less pother. now mary, i know not why, said she should go with her aunt, and was commended for a good girl by mr. webster, and i, not wishful on the sunday to turn down the broo' to church whilst mary toiled up the hill to the powle, announced my resolve to walk in my father's steps. so mr. webster, much pleased, praised my filial obedience, and he being well content to take this as a sign of grace and effectual calling, i e'en took his word for it and joined the baptists. i say i remember well the text of that afternoon, and by this reason. my father and mother and mary were set in the one pew whilst 'siah and martha and myself were set behind them. now as i looked upon mary that afternoon it came into my mind very strongly that it was strange so fair and dainty a specimen of the potter's craft should be shapen in iniquity, and i was marvelling greatly to myself that out of the same lump of clay two vessels so unlike as cousin mary, and martha, our serving wench, should be fashioned by the potter's hands. for martha was broad shouldered and squat, and had coarse towzelled hair, very red, and her mouth was large and her lips thick, and her arms were rough of skin and red, and she waddled in her walk, and her breathing was heavy, and her eye dull, and her voice was not tuneful, tho' she would sing in the hymns, albeit my mother frowned at her and would have had her hold her peace, for my mother did not think it quite proper for the serving man and maid to sing with their betters: but as my father said "if you go to chapel, you must do as chapel does." but mary, oh! my children, you will never know what my cousin mary was like in those days, with her brown eyes, so warm and soft, and her brown hair all wavy, and with little love ringlets about the neck and her little hands not white but creamy brown, and her rosebud mouth, and her voice so musical, and her smile so sweet. and so, i say, thinking, perhaps, too much of these things, and wondering, too, at the marvellous skill of the potter, and opining, belike, that there must be a difference in the clay, but quite certain that mary was not fashioned in iniquity, and the day being hot and the air very heavy, and two suet dumplings i had eaten for dinner sitting heavy on me, i fell into a sort of doze as mr. webster reached his twelfthly. now, mary, seeing this, and being ever full of mischief, having looked to see that my father was intent on the discourse, and that my mother's eyes were closed--in thought--did lean over the pew and put into my mouth a lump of good-stuff and, i chancing at the moment to throw back my head, the sweet rolled into my gullet and had gone nigh to choke me. i had much ado to stifle my coughing, and all the congregation did look hard at me, save only mary herself, who listened with sweet gravity as mr. webster proceeded with his twelfthly. i walked home that evening with 'siah, for mary dallied behind with martha, and father and mother had gone on before with mr. webster, who was to take his supper at our house, as was now his almost weekly custom of a sunday. 'siah was a silent man, and was a good servant, loving his beasts and careful for them, but over fond of ale, and much to be feared when overtaken with drink, and noted that he had fought a great fight at the feast with one arm tied behind his back. "aw believe awn getten it, ben," said 'siah, as we went across the fields in the wintry gloom, homewards. "what's ta getten, 'si?" i asked. "th' conviction," said 'siah. "conviction, what conviction?" "why, th' conviction o' sin to be sure. how many convictions does ta' think there are?" said 'siah, in a pet. "why, 'siah, th' last conviction tha' had were afore justice ratcliffe at th' brigg, and more by token if my father hadn't sent me wi' th' fine, in th' stocks tha'd ha sat for six mortal hours by huddersfield church clock." "that were a different sort o' conviction all together, ben, that were for feightin', and this aw mean naa is th' conviction o' sin." "well, fighting's a sin," i said. "aw dooan't know as it is--not if it be for feightin' such a thing as th' ostler at th' pack horse for sayin' martha's bow-legged, when aw know better, but aw do believe at aw gat my conviction o' sin much i' t' same way." "how does ta' mean, 'siah," i asked, for i saw our teamer was in deadly earnest. "why, bi wrastlin', to be sure. so th' missis munnot tell me agean there's no gooid i' wrastlin'. it were after aw came back fra th' village last neet. aw leets o' martha an 'oo gav' me a bit o' her tongue for makkin' a swill tub o' mysen an' for lettin' a little chap like th' ostler at th' pack horse ha' th' law on me, an' so aw went into th' shippon an' set by mi' sen for happen two hours i' th' hay at aw'd pulled for th' beasts. an' aw said to mi' sen 'at it were no use tryin' to be good for aw were clear born to be damned. aw could ha' ta'en that hop o' mi thumb at th' pack horse awmost atween mi finger an' thumb an' pinched him i' two if it hadn't been at aw were mazed i' drink. an' so th' text com' into mi head at aw wer reight served for mi fuddlin' an' 'auv made up mi mind to just pay him aat next time aw goa to market, an' then awst turn religious an' happen gi' up drinking, except at th' feast an' christmas time, an' mebbe when aw get treated an' at a chersenin' or a weddin' or a wake, an' mebbe occasional o' a saterday, not to lose th' taste an' feel on it, an' i' th' way o' dooty as yo' may say." this was the longest speech i ever heard 'siah deliver. i thought his resolution a good one, only advising him when he brought the matter off with the man at the pack horse to be sure to make his opponent touch a button so as to have law on his side, and if possible to have witnesses that could be relied on to speak the truth, i mean, so as to make it a case of what lawyer blackburn called provocation. it was after supper that the momentous consultation about the machines began. full justice had been done to that evening meal. there had been cold beef and a chine, oatcakes that had been dried on the creel over the big fireplace before which a bullock might have been roasted whole, cheese and apple pie, and, to drink, a quart or more of my mother's famous home brewed. mr. webster, by grace of his office, was privileged to drink his ale out of the large two-handled silver flagon, a hundred years old at the least, that no common lips had ever touched. i do not think the supper was the worse for that we took it in the house instead of the parlour. there was the sanded floor to our feet and the smoked rafters above, and in the sill of the long diamond paned windows were red earth pots of geranium and musk and fuschia, that made the room smell sweet as a nosegay. the spinning wheels were away in the corner, a list hearthrug made by my mother's own hands stretched before the grate, a cushion whose covering worked by the same tireless fingers imaged the meeting of jacob and rebecca at the well, adorned the long oak settle under the window. the walls, washed yellow, were relieved by the framed funeral cards of departed relatives; the calf bound family bible containing entries of births, marriages and deaths for many generations back, my own birth being at that time last entry of all, tho' there have been added a goodly list since then, reposed on the chest; a celery glass, highly cut, on the one side and a decanter on the other. a beautiful enamelled tray, with hand-painted roses, was reared behind, and best pictures of all, my father always vowed, and richest ornaments of any room, a prime flitch of bacon and two sturdy hams hung on the hooks near the door, so as to catch the air to keep them sweet. i have been in many a fine room since then, notably when i went to woodsome hall to see my lord dartmouth and give the tenants' greeting to his bonnie bride; but for real home feeling and snug comfort never have i seen ought to compare with the old house at holme when it was tidied up for sunday. supper was over. mr. webster was sat in my father's arm chair, his little legs, with their worsted stockings, hardly reaching the ground, and i make no doubt he would have been more comfortable on the settle, which was lower; but it was a point of civility with my father to surrender the master's chair to an honoured guest. a long churchwarden sent its reek up the broad chimney, and a little glass of weak gin and water stood by the parson's right hand convenient on the table. not that mr. webster took much of either ale or strong waters; but this was sunday, and it is well known that when a minister has preached two sermons, with many a long prayer thrown in, to say nothing of hymns, sing he never so badly, his throat must needs be dry. my father sat opposite mr. webster on the other side of the hearth, my mother, in her low rocking chair with the iron rockers, swaying gently to and fro, and fingering her handkerchief for lack of her knitting needles, which must not be used on sundays. the case reserved, as a lawyer might say, had been put by my father with much aiding and commentary from the mother, who justified her interruption, under a look of remonstrance from both pastor and lord, by saying that a woman could jump over a wall while a man was going round and round seeking for the gate. "it is no small matter, friend bamforth," at length said mr. webster, "and one that i doubt not you have taken to the lord in prayer. well pleased too am i that you have seen fit to take counsel with me in this weighty business. for it is laid upon me to feed the sheep of our master's fold, and tho' you would not look to me for the bread that perisheth, but rather i to you, for it is written that the labourer is worthy of his hire, and ye may not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn, yet perchance in doubtful and perplexing times a pastor's counsel may be the more needful nourishment. now i would have you take heed against the besetting sin of this latter-day and corrupt generation, which i take to be that very making haste to be rich against which the book doth expressly warn us. you speak of building a mill for these new methods. hast thou not thought within thyself, like the man in the parable, saying 'what shall i do, because i have no room where to bestow my fruits? this will i do: i will pull down my barns, and build greater; and there will i bestow all my fruits and my goods.' and mark what to that man god said: 'thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided? so is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward god.' and now i ask you, brother bamforth, can you be rich toward god, if you build up your fortune on the ruin of your fellow men. you say one o' these new finishing frames will do the work of four, may be of six men. aye, also is there talk of looms that shall need neither skill nor care. it may be true, i know not. but oh! it will be a sore day for this hillside, and all the country round when that day shall be. what is to become of those who now keep a decent roof over their heads, and tho' times be bad can still give bit and sup to wife and bairns. you may make new machines but you cannot make new men to order. and see to it that it be not now with thee as in the days of pharaoh of old, when aaron's rod swallowed up the rods of the wise men and the sorcerers, and thy rod too be swallowed up. if that came to pass of which i have read and heard, there will be no room in this valley for men of but moderate means. yo' may build a mill, but bigger men will build bigger mills, and the bigger mills will swallow up the less, and thou and thy son, and even mary yonder may be fain, thou in thy old age and they in their prime, to take wage at another's hand, and to do a hireling's task in another's mill." "if i do may i be--" "william," said my mother, before my father could conclude, and we could only guess what awful doom my father was about to invoke upon himself. but enough had been said. whether the mind of our household's head were the more moved by the picture of his friends and neighbours reduced to want, or by the picture of himself and his working for others, who had always puts out work ourselves, i know not; but from that day forth there was no more thought for many a long day of any change in the ways we had used of old, and, for the new machines, my mother died in the belief that the curse of scripture was upon them. chapter ii. it was not often my father missed the audit dinner at the dartmouth arms, but for some reason i do not remember, he could not go to the november audit of 1811. so i went in his place, as was but my due, seeing that in the course of time and nature the homestead would be mine, and i tenant to my lord in my father's stead. so to the dinner i went in great state and no little fluster, having donned my sunday clothes, and showing as fine a leg (though i say it that should not) as ever passed slaithwaite church. i went by the churchyard corner where old mr. meeke rested in his grave, and i did not fail to doff my beaver, for was i not taught all i ever knew at the free school, founded by mr. meeke, and i was, too, ever a lover of the church, though we had joined the hard-bedders. there had been a wedding that day, and i should have been there, but none were invited save only family friends, owing to times being so bad. jack o' jamie's had wed sue lumb, and i knew jack o' jamie's and sue both, as indeed i knew every mother's son and lass in slaithwaite; and my mother could tell their pedigree for generations back. opposite the door of the dartmouth arms i came across a crowd different from ordinary, for in the midst was jack donned in his sunday best, and a great white rosette at his breast, and there was sue with a white veil over her head and clinging to jack's arm and crying and coaxing, and jack fuming and swearing and waving his arms and shaking his fist at his own father. sure a rare sight for a wedding day, and i stayed to hear what might be the meaning of it all. i knew jack for a decent, hard working lad that kept his father, a drunken neer-do-weel, from the rates. old jamie had a hang-dog look to be sure, as he kept away from his son's reach and cowered behind his new daughter-in-law. "it's too bad," jack was crying, "it's too bad; yo' all know 'at awn kept mi father awmost even sin' aw could addle a meg, an' him doing nowt but tidy th' house up an' go a rattin' with th' dog an' happen bring a rabbit home betimes--an' aw never grudged him owt, for he's mi own father, an' mi mother 'at's dead an' gone left him to me. but, its too bad aw say--gise 'ang, it ud make a worm turn--here its mi wedding day, an' aw thowt we'd have a bite an' sup by ordinar. so aw off to ned o' bill's an' bowt three p'und o' good wheat flour, tho' it's well known, what price it's at, an' ill aw could spare th' brass. but a felly doesn't get wed every day. we calc'lated it ud mak ten cakes, an' that ud be one round apiece an' two to put bye for sunday. mi father baked 'em hissen three days sin', for we thowt we munnot eit 'em till they were stale, new uns crumble so--an' aw bowt a piece of th' skirt o' beef at lay me in five good shillin'--so when aw set off to take sue here to th' chuch aw left mi father to watch th' beef afore t' fire, an' we borrowed some plates an' knives an' forks an' three chairs, for aw thowt we'd all have a feast at 'ud make th' weddin' party remember mi weddin' day as long as they lived. an' after th' knot wer' teed an' we were walkin' th' village so all could see what a lass awd gotten, we just looked in at th' house door to see if th' meat were nearly done--an would yo' believe it, th' owd glutton 'ud supped welly a gallon o' th' weddin' ale an' were wipin' his chops wi t' back o' his coat sleeve, 'at weren't his own, but borrowed o' mi uncle ben; an' ther' were nobbut four cakes left an' a good p'und cut off th' joint an' th' pan as bare o' gravy as if it had been new scoured. oh! tha' brussen guts; if tha' weren't mi own father!" and here jack shook his fist over jamie's head, and sue tried to turn aside his wrath and to play the peace-maker, as a good woman ever will. "for shame o' thissen," said one; "it 'ud sarve thi reight to put thee i' th' stocks," said another; "let's stang him," a woman cried. "many a decent body's been cucked for less," said moll o' stuarts, who knew what the cucking stool meant full well. and all felt that jamie thewlis had done as scurvy a trick as ever he had done in a scurvy life. even those that drank with him, the loafers and vagabonds of the village, got to the outskirts of the crowd, and left him alone to his defence. "yo' see it were this way," said thewlis, when he could get a hearing. "th' table' wor set all ready for th' weddin' party. aw'd laid a clean cloth on th' table. there were a plate an' a knife an' fork for every one that were comin'. th' house were tidied up an' as clean yo' could had etten yor dinner off th' floor. then jack started off to fetch susan. th' cakes were on th' table, one bi each plate. aw put th' joint on th' jack afore th' fire just as he'd told me bi th' clock. then aw set me dahn to watch it. it wor a grand joint. aw could ha' fair hugged it when aw took it up, so plump an' red and firm, wi' streaks o' fat runnin' in an' among th' lean like rivers o' cream in a bank o' strawberries. th' fire were just reight, banked down an' hot, an' aw ca-ered me dahn first o' one side o' th' hearth an' then on t' other, an' began to watch th' hands o' t' clock an' wish it wor dinner time. dinner time it were bi reights, but we'd put th' dinner back so's jim an' his frien's could walk through th' village. then th' skin o' th' joint began to crack, an' th' fat to fizzle an' ooze 'aat an spit. aw looked at th' clock. aw'll swear th' han's hedn't moved for half-an-hour, an' yet it were tickin' reg'lar--aw nivver felt hauf as hungry i' mi life afore. aw'd had no breakfas', for awd said to mi sen it 'ud nivver do to shame yar jack's weddin' dinner bi not doin' reight bi it. then all at once th' jack gay' a click an' summut splurted aat, an' all at once there wer' a smell at fair made mi belly leap inside me. but aw'd promised yar jack at aw'd do fair--so aw went to th' cellar-head to see if ther' wer' happen a crust or owt to stay mi innards, but ther' wer' nowt. then ther' wer' another click, an' another spurt, an' th' room wer' fair full o' th' smell. it awmost turned me dizzy. aw looked at th' clock agen, an' guise 'ang me, if th' hand had stirred aboon an inch, an' dinner seemed as far off as ivver. then aw thowt awd fetch th' ale. so aw got th' jug an' a milkin' can an' started off to th' globe. aw tried hard to strap a gill, but th' owd skin-flint wouldn't trust me. aw'd awmost talked her into it when t' thowt cam' into mi head at happen one o' th' naybors 'at hedn't bin axed to th' weddin' might be after th' joint; an' aw span home as fast as aw could for fear o' spillin'. then when aw oppened th' door ther' war' a fair blast o' th' smell o' gravy right i' mi face. it just took mi breath away, an' aw had to tak' a pull at th' jug to steady misen. that heartened me up a bit, an' aw just took one o' th' cakes, mi own at wer' to be an' set i' my own place at th' table, so it were no robbery,--an aw put it i' th' pan under th' meat; an', by gow, it wer' a sop an' gradely. aw think aw mun ha' put too much salt on it, for aw felt as dry as a lime-kiln. then aw had another swig at th' jug, an' looked aat for th' weddin', but aw could see no' signs on 'em. then aw bethowt me at th' fiddler were' nobbut a little un, an' could mak' hauf a cake do, so aw made hauf a sop. then th' gravy began to run red an' brown into th' pan, an' ow knew th' meat wer' near enuff--an' still ther' wer' no signs o' anybody. howsomever, aw thought my share shouldn't be spoiled for any tomfoolery such as walkin' th' village wi' a lass o' my arm, as if yo' couldn't do that ony time. so aw just cut a slice aat an' put it on a shive an et it o' mi knee, an' had a swallow out o' th' piggin' to make it equal wi' th' jug. then aw thowt aw meight as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, an' aw ate mi fill. tha' ma' poise me, jack, if tha' likes, but tha'll noan poise th' meat out o' me, that's one comfort. it's th' first time for six months 'at mi back an' mi belly ha' not shakken hands, an' aw'll ta' thi poisin', an' thank yo' for it." but long before jamie had done his story he was out of danger of a hiding. there was not one there that did not feel hungry with the very story, and the party trudged homewards with a laugh and a cheer to make out as best they could on what was left--jamie, forgiven and impenitent, not last in the joking throng. the partition of the upper story of the dartmouth arms had been removed, and thereby room was made for the poorer tenantry who came this year in great numbers, many there being who came to plead the hard times and escape their remit, but joined in the rude scramble for the thick slices of meat and bread and the brimming pewters that were their yearly gift from the lord. but in the long room, on the top floor, was more decent seeming and good manners; for the tenants of the larger holdings at that time paid to the host of the inn each man eighteenpence that there might be a well-spread board. mr. joseph scott, who lived at woodsome (none of my lord's family being then in residence), did sit at the head of the table, and gave us the health of the king, which we drank with a good will, for there was none that did not grieve for the old man so sore stricken in his latter days. then did mr. scott call upon us to toast his royal highness, the prince regent, and many did drink the health with a hip, hip, hurrah but for my part, though i hate to waste good liquor, i poured my ale into the spitoon, for stories not a few had come to our ears of the wild doings of the prince and of his cruel treatment of his consort. mr. fox, to be sure, and other leaders of the whigs in parliament, did excuse the wildness of the prince, and some did even bear a railing tongue against the hapless princess; but for me, who am perhaps too little learned to judge of princes and courts, i deemed such naughtiness should not be in high places more than in men of less degree, and my loyalty went into the sawdust. but i took a double draughty to the health of my lord and his lady. there was no lack of subjects for our tongues to wag upon when the ale had loosed them, and a well-lined waist set the oil of gladness on our faces. there was, for one, the never failing theme of lord wellington's doings among the dons. but a few days previous, general marmont had raised the siege of ciudad rodrigo, and our spirits had been greatly stirred by the discovery of one of his dispatches, in which he boasted that he would have pursued the british forces to the lines of lisbon "if the moment designed for the catastrophe of england had arrived." that put our english up, and was as good as a score of recruiting sergeants to our army. catastrophe, we knew well, might come to us as it has done to other nations; but never, we vowed, should or could it come through a frog-eating frenchman. we gladly turned from that topic to news nearer home. there was the great fight at thissleton gap, for instance, which showed what british grit and muscle and pluck could do; and we were all ready to wager all we had that if you searched france from north to south you could find no champion like crib, who had near been the death of molineux in a fight near grantham, breaking his jaw, and leaving him senseless on the field. there had not been a bed to be had for love or money for twenty miles round thissleton gap the night before the fight, said the "leeds mercury," and all the nobility and gentry of the county had been there; and after his great victory crib, carrying away a purse of â£400, had driven to london in a carriage and four, the postillions decked with blue ribands and streamers, and the whole populace in every town and hamlet by the way turning out to cheer the wearer of the belt. then, too, there was much talk of the progress making with the cutting of the new canal that was to tie the eastern and the western seas; and we had not yet done marvelling at the boring of the waterway under stanedge. then, again, we must gossip to one another anent that strange portent of the skies, the wondrous comet, that still made our early morns so beautiful and yet so fraught with dread. the wise men said its tail was over twenty million miles long, as it streamed away from charles's wain across the distant sky, and mr. mellor, the schoolmaster, did try to show me how the calculation had been made; whilst mr. varley, of the corn mill, who had a merry wit, did say that coals would soon be cheaper, for the welsh were counting on the comet coming so near, they might toast their cheese by it. mr. mellor was somewhat ruffled that his serious discourse should be turned to levity, and said that as perchance mr. varley could not be expected to understand the deep subtleties of astronomy, he would try him on a subject nearer his heart. "i will, to-morrow," said mr. mellor, "bring to your house twenty golden guineas, and in return you shall give me your written bond to give me therefor, one grain of good wheat, two grains and no more on the day following, four on the next, and so on each day thereafter for six months by the calendar, every day doubling the number of the day before." "done, and done to it," cried mr. varley, and all the company exclaimed that so rare a bargain the miller never made in his life before and for an hour after that i saw mr. varley was doing sums in his head, and chuckling feebly to himself but in time he ceased to laugh, and his brow wrinkled and his eye was anxious, and he was seen to add figures secretly in his bulky pocket-book, and ever as he worked he grew sadder; till at length he cried that not all the corn that grew that year in yorkshire could pay his wager, and he was fain to fill our measures round with best ale to be quit of his bargain. and all that went away sober that night told their wives how the schoolmaster had bested the miller, and were the more resolved their lads should mind their books and be good at figuring. and i was very glad that my old master had come off with so great credit, for mr. varley, by reason of being the lord's agent, was something prone to give himself an air. but mr. webster was not too pleased that mr. varley should have jested of the comet. it had exercised him sore in the searching of the scriptures, and oftentimes had he pointed to its presence in the heavens, and many a restless night had he given to my mother. mr. webster would have it that the comet did foretell the coming of the son of man in a cloud with power and great glory, and the good man rejoiced thereat, seeing nought to cause us grief, but rather joy, that there were "great earthquakes in divers places, and famines and pestilences, and fearful sights and great signs from heaven." and he would exultingly call us to witness the fulfilment of prophesy for that there were signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars, and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; men's hearts failing them for fear and for looking after those things which were coming on earth. but my mother lived to laugh at her fears, and even to wear a dress that became the fashion, of which the body was of pale red silk, a star of gold thread standing for the comet's head, and a fan shaped tail of silver spangles spreading out in likeness of the comet's tail. it was my great honour after the dinner, and whilst the company sat over their cups, to be invited to the head of the table by mr. joseph scott, of woodsome, who was then lately become a magistrate, a handsome man of some forty years. he asked most kindly after the health of my father and mother, and bade the tapster who waited on the upper end of the table charge me a bumper of the wine of oporto, which did fill my heart with a great warmth. then when i would have returned to my seat by the schoolmaster he bade me remain, and i listened with all my ears to the talk of my betters. i noticed that mr. scott spoke mostly with mr. william horsfall, of marsden. i knew mr. horsfall well by sight, having seen him often on the road as he went to or returned from market, a man in his prime, with a keen, resolute look; not easily turned from his purpose, i warrant you. impatient of opposition, i judged him even then, brusque, and a little petulant, but not unkindly of heart as i had heard, for those that worked for him had ever a good name for him--but a masterful man. the talk between these two was much of the coolness there then was between america and england. mr. horsfall was very bitter about this. "it is all the fault of those accursed orders in council," he said. "before our benighted government issued the orders in council, america took twelve million pounds worth of our manufactures--now not one penny-worth. withdraw the orders and you conciliate america; you bind her to us by the closest tie of all, the tie of self-interest. so long as these orders remain in force it is futile to talk of negotiations. it is beating the air. we are alienating our own flesh and blood, we are running grave risk of having another enemy on our hands, and that of our own household, our cousins if not our brothers. here are we pulling our own nose to spite napoleon's face. it is suicidal, it is criminal!"--and i know not how many other hard names mr. horsfall hurled at the poor government whilst mr. scott, with the ink scarce dry on his commission, fidgetted in his seat and was, i thought, hard put to it to defend the government. at last when mr. horsfall grew more vehement in his denunciation of ministers, mr. scott bade him remember that it was the whigs who in january, 1807, issued the first counterblast to napoleon's berlin decree; and then did these two englishmen, the one a whig and the other a tory, get so warm about whiggery and toryism that i had much to do to get to the truth of the matter. in a lull of the storm i did so far presume upon the great condescension that mr. scott had shewn to me, for my father's sake, as to ask him what these same orders in council might be, and how they bore upon us humble folk in slaithwaite, for save that every one did speak of them as the cause of much of our bad trade and sore distress, i knew little for certain about them. "you must know then," explained mr. scott, "that in 1806 napoleon issued from berlin a proclamation, addressed to all the world, declaring the island of great britain in a state of blockade, all british subjects, wherever found, prisoners of war, and all british goods, wherever taken, lawful prize, and excluding from all the ports of france every vessel which had touched at any british port, no matter to what nation such vessel might belong."---"but surely, sir," i said timidly, for i knew little of such great matters, "surely, that was to declare war on all the countries of the world." "'rem acu tetigisti'--thou hast touched the point with a pin," cried mr. mellor, who had drawn near, whereat i blushed mightily, for i knew a little of the latin, thank to much persistence of my good dominie, and by this time all the company had ceased their jesting and coffing and idle gossip, and all ears were cocked to hear what mr. scott and our neighbour horsfall were so hot about. "then did the whig government," continued mr. scott, triumphantly, "issue an order in council, declaring that england was authorized by the berlin decree to blockade the whole seaboard of france; to prohibit all vessels which had touched at a french port from entering our harbours, and making their cargoes fair prize. it was that order which estranged america, and has made it so that all our foreign trade has been cut off as with a knife." "nay but," said mr. horsfall, "you should not forget to say that mr. percival, your tory minister, has not only continued the order but extended it; that the whigs have admitted the error of their policy, that petition after petition has gone from the manufacturers of yorkshire, praying for a repeal of the order's, and that mr. brougham is never weary striving for that good end. but we know how it is--the war may ruin us manufacturers, but it pays the landowner. it keeps up the price of corn and stock, it finds pay and promotion for the young bloods of the aristocracy, it distracts the minds of the people at home from domestic reforms, it keeps up the hideous system of privilege, by which peer and prelate batten on the spoils of a people oppressed to the limits of endurance, and it is mighty convenient to keep napoleon as a bogy man to frighten the people withal when they cry for reform." and then did these two good men at it again hammer and tongs, and others joined in, and the ale and the wine talked louder than sense and knowledge, and you could make neither head nor tail of all the talk. but presently they simmered down, and mr. horsfall was drinking to the health of mrs. scott, whom he vowed he knew when she was the beauty of storthes hall, as if nothing had come between them to raise a dust, and all the more that, as good chance would have it, they hit on a subject on which they had little variance. "i hear," said mr. scott, "that you are trying these new finishing frames of the taylor's, at ottiwell's." "i am that," said mr. horsfall, "and well content i am with them. they finish the cloth better far than the best croppers ever did or could, and one machine can do the work of four men." "then you will need less men," said mr. scott, "and this is no time to be sacking men--i remember what happened twenty years ago when grimshaw, of manchester, arranged with dr. cartwright, the new bishop blaize as they called him, to set up four hundred looms at manchester to be run by a steam engine. grimshaw received hundreds of threatening letters, he was fired at more than once, his wife nearly fell into a decline from constant fear, and just when the mill was built, for four hundred looms, and part of the machines were in, mill and looms and all were swallowed up in a fire, and who made the fire you may well guess. it ruined grimshaw, and now he goes about saying he wishes bishop blaize had been in blazes 'fore ever he had tempted him with his fine stories. but you whigs will never be content with the wisdom of our forefathers. you must have something new fangled, either in mill or state"--and so they off again into politics; and having promised my mother to be home by milking time, and fearful if i stayed longer the fumes of the tobacco and the wine would be too much for an unseasoned head, i took my leave of mr. scott and won my way into the open air. by the stepping-stones that crossed the river, who should i see but soldier jack and a merry party that had been out with the harriers. they had come trooping down kitchen fold from over crosland moor way, and were in high feather, shouting and singing, while the hounds bayed in chorus. soldier jack was no man's lad, a bye-blow. he had been left on the workhouse steps tied in a bundle, and nought to show who was his father or who his mother. then when he was a lad of ten years old the overseer had 'prenticed him out to a shoemaker in huddersfield, but he had been a sore trial to his master--disappearing and appearing when he liked, and neither fair words nor the strap, of which his master was not sparing if jack spoke truth, availing to make him follow the old adage and stick to the last. then one fine day the recruiting sergeant, in all his bravery, had put up at the rose and crown, and called on all gallant lads to take the king's shilling and fight for glory and their country. "that's the colour for me to dye," thought jack, and braving the law, which would have laid him by the heels for breaking his writings, he 'listed in a foot regiment, and was off for the wars with a heart as light as the heels he showed his master. then many a year passed. jack was unseen and forgotten in the haunts of his youth, when lo! he appeared, from god knows where, straight as a picking rod, brown as a berry, minus the left arm, and with a limp of his right leg; but otherwise sound as a bell and tight as a drum. he had some money, in the coinage of all the countries of europe well nigh; and, as i heard tell, right royally did jack live while his money lasted. he had no fixed quarters in the early days of his return from the wars, but of recent years he had dwelt much among the burn platters, an uncanny race of outlaws that some said were frenchmen and some said were gypsies, that lived at burn platts on the moors on the edge of slaithwaite, and of whose savagery and evil ways many stories were told. but soldier jack ever kept himself spruce and trim, and was a welcome visitor at every house on all that country side. how he lived none did know for gospel. at times in his cups he talked mysteriously of golden crosses and rare stones that he had lighted on in the sack of holy houses in spain; but this, i think, was mere embroidery of his adventures. lord! what a life had been soldier jack's--what sieges he had seen, what pitched battles he had fought in, what prisoners he had taken, what forlorn hopes he had led, what distressed damsels he had rescued, how many haughty hidalgos he had slain with his own hand! even lord wellington himself had been under obligation to him, and he had all but seized with his own hands the awful person of napoleon himself. how he lived i say i know not. belike he had some small pension from the king. at haymaking time, too, he turned a good cock and an honest penny, despite his one arm. he never missed a market or a fair, could be trusted above the common to carry a message, and was something of a farrier. but set job he had none, and yet never wanted. to be sure he had free quarters in nigh every hostelry all the country round, and if truth were told could hang up his hat when he would, for good and all, at the black bull; for widow walker, who kept that house, was known to be widowing, and a fair and buxom dame withal. now on this night of the rent audit soldier jack was pleased to leave the hunters and walk homewards with me, though his comrades were clamorous for him to join them in another bout at the ale. though times were never so bad, it went hard with the weavers if they could not leave their shuttles and follow the hounds; and somehow they had ever wherewith to guzzle at the inn. but jack was maybe wearied with the trail, and we took our way past the church and up the hill towards holm. for some short distance jack walked with never a word, though i wanted news of the hunt, where they had killed, and whose hound showed the truer scent. then without prelude jack began. "ben, i want a word with thee. you and me has ever been friends, and your mother, god bless her, ever the soft word and the open hand. and yo'r father, a good man, though over hard on the slips o' youth"--now jack was forty if a week--"but there are things brewing it is right yo' should know on; for them tha's 'kin to yo' are like to be tangled in em." "whatever do yo' mean, jack?" i asked, trying to speer at him in the gloom, for i thought maybe the ale had got into his head. "there's a deal o' sufferin' about these parts, ben. more nor yo' think on. yo' happen think 'at because th' lads about are after th' hounds an' have a bit to spend on drink 'at they're better off nor they are. but yo' see i'm more about nor yo' an' more intimate like. folk is sellin' their bits o' stuff quiet like. mony a decent woman 'at wouldn't have it known has sent me wi' 'owd keepsakes an' heirlooms like to th' silversmith i' huddersfelt an' owdham. they put a brave face on it an' talk little, but aw know there's scores o' fam'lies i' this valley and on these hill sides, 'at's welly clammin'! it isn't them as goes 'afore the overseers 'at's the worst off. there's scores an' scores livin' on the town 'at go reg'lar every week for th' town 'lowance. they'n got th' length o' th' ovverseer's foot, an' its not for the like o' me to blame 'em." "crows shouldn't pike crows' 'een, eh jack?" i put in. "th' ovverseer's fair game," continued jack, unmoved. "but he's a fool for all his stuck up ways. aw tell yo' 'at there's hundreds awmost sucking their finger ends, like bears do their paws, 'at winnot go on to th' parish. an' mark yo', th' poor ha' borne wi' slack work an' mullocked on as best they could, as long as they thought th' wars and bad harvests were to blame. an' they've bided in hope, for harvests winnot all be bad, an' we'st beat the little corporal yet. but now th' mesters are for makin' bad worse wi' this new machinery. they're crying 'every man for hissen an' devil take the hindmost.' they're bringing wood and iron to do the work of willing hands and arms, an', by gow, the lads about won't see their craft ruined, an' them an' theirs pined to death, wi'out a blow struck. aw tell yo', ben, there's mischief brewin', or my name's not soldier jack; an' if yo' want to know more, yo' mun ask yon mettlesome cousin o' yours, judd mellor, o' th' brigg."-"what! george mellor?" i cried; "why, what has he to do with it?" for such an ending to the soldier's tale i never thought nor dreamed of. "i've said my say, ben, and yo'll get no more out o' me. it's no use pumpin' at a dry well tha' knows. so aw'll say good neet, an' my duty to thi father an' mother." and resisting my entreaty that he would go onwards to our house and take pot luck at supper, jack wheeled off into the dark, and i heard his stride, firm and martial still, despite the gamey leg, as he made across a footpath to the left, and his voice humming a stave of lillibulero. chapter iii. it was the christmas eve of 1811, a night beautiful, bright and clear. the moon was high in the heavens, and a myriad stars gemmed the sky. flakes of snow fell gently, like the lighting of grasshoppers, but not so thick as to cloud the air. it was cold, but not bitterly cold. the snow crunched cheerfully under your feet, the hedges were rather frosted than cumbered; but the wild waste of hill all around and above slaithwaite was white with a coverlet smoothed as with careful hands. the little homesteads on the hillsides stood out stark and black on the pale setting, their slender lights of lamp or candle declaring that many this night waked, who every other night in the year went to bed with the sun. we sat in the house, kitchen you would call it now--all our household save only 'siah, who, we made no doubt, was faithful to his yearly custom of honouring christmas by getting more ale than was good for him. only a candle burned on the table, but the fire was piled high, and cast a lurid light about the room, the yule log saved from last year's fire blazing bravely. my father was fidgeting and looking at the clock. he would have rather been in bed. we had had our supper, but a great currant loaf and a round of cheese was on the table, and the biggest pitcher of all our ware was ready for martha to fill from the barrel in the cellar, when the right moment should come. mother and mary had speculated, and wondered and then wondered again as to whether the church singers would this year sing a verse or two by our door. my mother argued they would not, as a mark of reprobation for our joining the baptists. mary, who knew that the hearts of the young men of a choir, church or chapel, are not in the keeping of vicar or minister, had her own reasons for maintaining a contrary view. my father stoutly declared he did not care a brass farthing one way or another. meat and drink and five good shillings were waiting them, he said, and if they were fools enough to turn up their noses at good victuals and good brass, that was their look out, not his. all the same we all knew he would have felt it keenly that our house should be passed over for the first time within the memory of any of us. then came the further problem--which set would be likely to reach us first, the church, who must sing first at the vicarage and dr. dean's, and at sammy sykes's, who was churchwarden; or the waits from powle moor, who had further to come and a rougher way. anyhow we hoped devoutly the two parties would not arrive together. we could hear, in the still night, the sound of music in the air, sad and wistful, floating among the hills. however we should soon be out of doubt, for midnight was hard upon us. the old clock warned the hour with a staggering click, and its clear metallic voice had rung out but six of the twelve hours, when we heard a footfall on the carpet of snow in the yard. there was no murmur of voices, none of the hawking and tuning and chuntering of a band of lads and lasses, but right out upon the still air, firm, strong and deep baritone, as from a singer well set up and fearless, music of itself, and with instrument neither of string nor reed to back it, came the grand old words and tune, like which no other words and tune do ever stir my heart- "christians awake! salute the happy morn, whereon the saviour of mankind was born. rise to adore the mystery of love which hosts of angels chanted from above; with them the joyful tidings first begun of god incarnate and the virgin's son." and then again- "of god incarnate and the virgin's son." who could it be? some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a march on church and chapel alike. "it's happen 'siah," hazarded martha. no 'siah had a voice like a frog. "it's th' sexton," said my father. now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the voice of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow. i looked to mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be came to my mind, and i was not best pleased that anyone should outstrip the choirs. and as i looked the voice without took up another strain. "then to the watchful shepherds it was told who heard the angelic herald's voice 'behold.'" and mary's face was a sight to see. she had dropped her knitting on her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face was as though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on her parted lips, a look half-glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her bosom seemed to flutter. "it's george," she said, very softly, "george mellor, fra' th' brigg." and then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose to open it right heartily, and in came my cousin, george mellor, with a great red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow, and his short brown beard and moustache wet with half-melted flakes; now stamping his feet and now kicking them against the door-post, and bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling of tiny feathery sprays that whisked in at his back. "a merry christmas to you, uncle william, and a happy new year." "and to you, aunt, with my mother's love." this with a hearty smacking kiss. "and to you, mary, and here's a christmas box for you," and i thought george would have kissed mary too, but she was away to the other side of the table. and so all round, with a noble smack at martha's lips, martha being nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set us all laughing. "a right proper lad is george mellor, and knows how to win a lass," i heard martha tell 'siah afterwards, when she was rating him by way of curing his aching head. and a right proper man george mellor was. six feet by the stick, and with shoulders well back, and strong, firm, warm hands that gripped you to make you tingle. his eyes were brown and full of fire, and dark auburn hair curled close upon a rounded head. he had a temper, if you like, but he never bore malice, and i never knew him do or say a mean thing, and if he was at times unjust he was quick to make amends. he was a prime favourite of my mother. her own sister was george mellor's mother. his father was dead, and my aunt mellor, to my mother's surprise and indignation, had married john wood, of longroyd bridge, a cloth finisher, in middle life, somewhat younger than my aunt, and a man it was hard to like. whatever could have possessed my aunt capped us all. she had a bit of money of her own, and could have pulled along in a middling way without a second marriage. but my father said, "you mun wait till yo're a widow yoursen, if yo want to know what makes a widdow get wed again." anyhow aunt matty had a hard time of it, for john wood was a hard man, cold-blooded and spiteful. he soon found out that he could hurt his wife through george, and he always seemed to rub george the wrong way. the lad ran away once, and none of us knew what became of him till long afterwards, not even his own mother, who nigh fretted herself into her grave over him. but he turned up again as suddenly as he had vanished, taller, stouter, firmer set, quieter. john wood thought his spirit was broken, made him so quiet. but he found out his mistake when he began to slur at him. "see here, john wood," george had said, for he would never call him father, "i have come back home for my mother's sake, because it was made clear to me my place was by her side. i will work for you, and do my duty by you, and i will pay you fair for my board and ask no favour of you as man or lodger. but you must speak me fair, and treat my mother kindly, or you'll rue the day you ever crossed george mellor." he had a quiet way with him when he was most roused, a sort of cold heat, had george; though over what you would have thought concerned him least, he would flare up and flush, and his eye would blaze and out his words would come like a pent-up torrent. i never feared george when he was in a temper, but it was dangerous to cross him when his cheek and lips paled and his words came soft and slow. "aw walked up th' cut side," he explained. "it seemed an age since aw saw yo' all; an' our house's none too cheerful just now. trade's fearful bad, an' john wood's as sore as a boil--an' i bowt this sprig o' mistletoe of a hawker for yo' to hang on th' bowk, an' who' should let you christmas in if not your own nevvy, aunt bamforth." "sakes alive, aw nivvir thowt on it," cried my mother all of a sudden. "ben, whip outside this minnit--doesn't ta see george's hair is awmost red an' it's black for luck--whatever could'st ta be thinking' on, george?" and so nothing must do but i must step outside and enter with due christmas greetings, to cross the luck, and the waits from powle moor arriving at the very nick of time, we all went in together; and mary and george and myself were soon busy enough handing round the cheese and cake and ale. george and i slept together that night, and next morning, we all, save my mother and martha, who must stop at home to cook the dinner, went to church, for we wouldn't for anything have missed hearing the christmas hymn; and near all slaithwaite was there, methodie and baptists and all; and even folk that went nowhere, owenwites they called them, made a point of going to church that one morning of the year. they said it was to give them an appetite for the beef and plum pudding; but i think it was more by way of keeping up a sort of nodding acquaintance with what they felt they might have to fall back on after all, for you may ever notice that the parson treads very close on the heels of the doctor. now after dinner my father must needs have a glass of hot spirits and water, and presently was fast asleep in his chair, and i would have been glad to have done likewise, for i was not used to sitting up half the night, and had dozed off more than once in church, only to be roused with a start by a nudge from mary. but george was all for a walk over stanedge to stretch his legs and get a mouthful of home-fed air after the foul smells of the town. i thought mary pouted a bit, and asked her to go with us, but she said two were company and three were none, and george maybe was too fine to walk out with a country lass. i expected george to disclaim any such slanderous thoughts, but he only laughed and said something about the wind being too nipping for the roses on mary's cheeks. so off we two set towards marsden at a good swinging pace. when we had dropped down into the village, and were thinking of calling at the red lion to get a glass of ale and a snack, whom should we come on but mr. horsfall, of marsden. "what, ben, lad!" he said to me heartily and shaking my hand most warmly--"a right good christmas to you, and my compliments to my good friends at holme." a pleasant man was mr. horsfall when he liked, but one you must not lightly sour or cross. he had an iron hand, folk said, but he kept it gloved. "and who's your friend, ben?" i made george known to him, and mr. horsfall could tell him of knowing his mother, my aunt, when she was a blithe young girl courting with my uncle mellor that was dead. but what surprised me was that george, generally so cheery and ready to meet civility more than half-way, seemed to freeze up and would scarce give his hand in greeting to mr. horsfall. "it'll be cold on the top, ben," said mr. horsfall. "come along to ottiwells and taste our spiced ale. my wife will be glad to have a crack with yau, and it'll be cozier by th' fireside nor ovver th' top i'll warrant you." my own good will went with this invitation, for i got enough and to spare of stanedge in my business rounds; but george hung back strangely, and mr. horsfall, not used to have his advances coldly met, ceased to press us, and with awkward apologies on my part, and a curt nod from george, we went our several ways. "i wonder you can speak civil to a man like yond," said george, when we had our faces straight set to climb the hill. "name o' wonder, why, george?" i asked, thinking nothing but that some private quarrel must have sprung up, of which i knew nothing, but ready enough to side with george, for in my young days families stood by each other, right or wrong. "don't you know that horsfall is foremost of all in pressing on the use of the new machines? don't you know that he has put them into ottiwells? don't you know he is sacking the old hands and will have none but young 'uns that will and can learn, for it isn't all that will that can, how to work the new frames? don't you know that there's many a family in marsden now, this very merry christmas that we're wishing each other like prating parrots, that has scarce a fire in the grate or a scrap of meat on the table, or warm clothing to the back, just because of horsfall and such as he? don't you know that in huddersfleld market horsfall has sworn hanging isn't good enough for the nottingham lads? if you don't know, you live with your eyes shut, ben, and your ears waxed, for aw'll never believe 'at your heart's shut, lad. and then you ask me why i couldn't take him hearty by the hand." "but what does it matter to thee, george?" i asked, wondering at his warmth and hardly keeping pace with him as he strode on in his excitement. "it matters nowt to me in a sense, ben, and yet it matters all to me. i suppose th' upshot would be that john wood might as well shut up shop, and little i'd care for that. john wood's cake's baked, and if it warn't, there's enough for my mother 'bout his brass. but it's not o' wood nor myself i'm thinking, ben, and i don't take it too kindly you should look at it that way. i tell you, ben, there's hundreds o' men and women and wee helpless bairns that's just clemming to death. yo, don't see as much of it up i' slowit nor on th' hill sides, though it's war there nor yo happen think. and now th' mesters are for doing th' work o' men an' women too wi' cunning contrivances that will make arms and legs o' no use, and water and steam in time will do the work that natur' intended to be done by good honest muscle." "aw think yo' exaggerate, george," i said. "a little saving o' manual labour here an' there's one thing, th' displacement o' human agency altogether's what yo' prophesy." "aw've no patience wi' thee, ben. tha' cannot see farther nor thi own nose end. aw tell yo unless the toilers of england rise and strike for their rights, there'll soon be neither rights nor toilers. aw've looked into this thing further nor you, an' aw can see th' signs o' th' times. th' tendency's all one way. there'll soon be no room for poor men in this country. its part of a system aw tell yo'. there's a conspiracy on foot to improve and improve till th' working man that has nowt but his hands and his craft to feed him and his childer, will be improved off th' face o' creation. aw've been reading aw tell you, an' aw've been listening an' aw've been seeing, an' aw've been thinking; an' what aw've read an' what aw've seen has burned into my soul. the natural rights of man are not thowt of in this country, th' unnatural rights o' property ha' swallowed 'em up. it's all property, property." "nay, george, yo're riding yo'r high horse again," i said; but i couldn't help admiring him, for he spoke well, and his face was all lit up with the glow of intellect and passion. "it's god's truth aw'm speaking, ben, and pity o't it 'tis true, as th' player says. what is it keeps folk so poor? bad trade. what is it keeps trade so bad? th' wars. allus wars. for twenty years it's been war and war to it. what are we fighting for, i ask you?" "to keep boney out o' england," i said very promptly. "nowt o' th' sort, ben--that's a bogey to frighten babbie's wi'--boney axed nowt better nor to be friends wi' england. th' french ha' more sense nor us. they saw all th' good things o' this life were grasped by th' nobles an' th' priests. they saw it were better to be born a beast of the field than a man child. they saw that the people made wealth by their toil; and the seigneurs, that's lords, and the church enjoyed the wealth they made, only leaving them bare enough to keep body and soul together. aye, they're careful enough not to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. that is, sometimes. time's they over do it. but a trodden worm will turn, an' they turned in france. they sent their proud lords and ladies packing. "to the guillotine," i interposed. "packing, i say, and the fat parsons, faithless shepherds of an abandoned flock, packing with them. then the people begin to put things to rights." "and a pretty mess they made of it," i put in. "but all the kings and, emperors in europe, an' all th' landlords an' all that had got rich by robbery, an' all th' bishops and clergy, little an' big, hangers on o' th' aristocrats to a man, took alarm. they thowt their turn would come next, an' they raised the cry of england in danger. it wasn't the people of england that wer' fleyed. not they. they knew well enough nowt could make them waur off nor they were. th' war were a put up job of th' king and th' nobles and th' squires. and who profited by it? the noble and the squire an' the sleek parson with his tithes. what has made corn as far beyond the poor man's reach as though a grain of wheat were a ruby or a pearl? the wars, always the wars. and the people, the thousands upon thousands of men and women who have no part nor parcel in this war, save to send their children to die on a gory bed, what voice or what part have they in all this? the part and the part of sheep driven to the slaughter"-"but what has horsfall to do with all this?" i asked, very naturally i think. "he has this to do with it, ben. ever since th' bad times began, englishmen ha' been told to stand together shoulder to shoulder agen a common enemy. th' poor ha' borne their sufferings wi'out much murmuring as long as they saw th' rich suffer wi' themselves. patriotism isn't a rich man's monopoly. poor folk love th' owd country, though aw wonder sometimes what they love it for. but now what do we see? these new machines offer th' masters th' chance o' supplying their customers at a less cost to theirsen than they ha' done up to now. aw'll give yo' an illustration of what aw mean. a lace frame such as they're putting up i' nottingham costs â£120. they say it'll save the work of four. th' master saves in a year more than th' cost o' th' machine. he saves it, but who loses it? why th' wage earners to be sure. and that's what they call standing shoulder to shoulder. aw call it deserting your comrade and leaving him to shift for his-sen. th' 'leeds mercury' only last week said there were twenty thousand stocking-makers out of employment in nottingham, and yo' may judge for yersen what that means." "but what can yo' do, george? yo' cannot fight agen th' law o' th' land. th' masters ha' th' law at their backs--yo'll nobbut get yersen into trouble. it's waur nor kickin' agen th' pricks. yo' surely wi'not ha' ought to do wi' machine breaking. that'll nobbut land thee i' towzer, an' happen waur nor towzer." "it isn't towzer 'll stop me, ben. aw'm groping i' th' dark just now. frame breaking and rick burning seems but spiteful work, but it is action, and action of some sort seems called for. if we submit like dumb cattle, our rulers say we are content and have no grievances; if we assemble in great numbers and proclaim our wrongs they hang us for sedition. what can we do, where shall we turn? aw cannot see daylight which ever way aw turn." "cannot yo' let things bide, george? happen things 'll shape theirsen. it's little such as us can do to mend things. if tha' were lord dartmouth na', tha' might do some good. but aw can see nowt but trouble for thee i' me'lling i' this wark, and what hurts thee tha' knows well will hurt me, george." "aw know that, ben. and aw've more reason nor ever o' late for keeping out o' trouble. is there ought between thee and mary, ben?" "what, our mary?" i asked, bewildered, somewhat by so sudden a change of subject, and not seeing the working of george's mind. "aye, your mary," said george. "what does ta' want to know for, george?" i asked; and i tried to ask as though i cared little for the answer, and yet i knew, all of a flash like, what the answer would be, and that somehow, and why i could scarce even myself say to myself, the answer would make me wince. "because, george, if ever aw wed, your mary will be the lass." "yo'll happen ask her first," i said, nettled. "p'raps tha's axed her already?" "tha' knows very well aw hannot, ben. it only came into my head last neet when 'oo were singing 'wild shepherds.' 'oo's a sweet voice, an' th' way she looks when 'oo sings makes yo' think a bit o' heaven's opened up, an' th' light inside is shinin' right down on her face--hasn't ta' noticed it, ben?" "mary's ower young for courtin'," i said. "but tha' hasn't told me, ben, is there owt between yo' and her? but there cannot be. tha'd ha' told me if there wor. besides she's too near o' kin to thee an' browt up i' th' same house too. she'll be more sister like to thee, ben, aw reckon. but is there owt?" "nay there's nowt, george. she's thine to win an' to wear for me. but 'oo's ovver young for courtin', george. an' if yo'r for our mary, tha' mun put all thowts out o' thi yed but stickin' to work an' makin' her a good home. and that reminds me. it 'ad welly slipt mi mind. soldier jack was hinting summat t'other day. tha' are'nt keeping owt back fra' me, are ta, george?" "can aw trust thee, ben?" "tha' knows that best thissen, george." we had reached the very crest of stanedge, and were looking down upon the diggle side and over towards pots an' pans an' where the road leads to st. chad's and winds round towards what is now called bills o' jack's. we came to a stand by common impulse. george stood right anent me. "can aw trust thee, ben," he asked again, and looked at me as though he would search my very heart. "tha' knows best thissen," i replied once more; for i should have thought to lower myself by protesting to him who had been my dearest, almost my only friend, since we were boys together. "with my life, ben," he said very solemnly, and took my hand. and then george told me something of what was afoot in huddersfield. steps were to be taken, he said, to dissuade the manufacturers from ousting manual labour in any of the various processes of the making and finishing of cloth, by the use of machinery. for this purpose the men were to bind themselves by solemn oath neither to work the new machines nor to work in any shop or mill into which they might be introduced. no violence of any sort was to be employed either against man or machine, at least not if the masters proved amenable to reason; and of that george thought there could be little question. "they cannot stand against us, if we are united," said george; "our weakness lies in action unconcerted and without method. if we set our faces resolutely against the use of these new fangled substitutes for human labour, we can at least compel the masters to wait till times are better and trade mends. it may be that when the wars are over and the market calls for a larger and a quicker output, machinery may be gradually introduced without hardship to those who have grown old in the old methods and who cannot use themselves to new ways. meantime we shall have learned the secret and the value of combination and we may turn our organization to the protection and the improvement of the worker and to the wresting of those rights that are now withheld." now to this i could see no mariner of objection, and partly from curiosity, partly because my blood had been fired by george's words, but much more because it was george who urged it, i promised to attend a meeting of some of george's friends who were' like-minded with himself; and promised too, though not so readily, to keep my own counsel about what he had talked on. the early evening of winter was falling, and we turned homewards. we did not speak much. my cousin was deep in thoughts of his own, and i, too, had enough to ponder on. i did not half like my new departure. i was not much of a politician, and had always thought my part in public affairs would be to ride to york once in a while and vote for the whigs as my father had done before me. as for setting the world straight, i had no ambition that way. in time i had no doubt i should be either a deacon at the powle or a churchwarden at the church, and probably constable of the manor if i thrived. to make fair goods, to sell them at a fair price, to live in peace with my neighbours, and in time to marry, such was the sum of my ambition. and that sent my mind in a bound to mary. the house would look strange and lonesome without mary. i should miss her saucy greeting of a morning; i should miss her gentle bantering, the sunshine of her sweet face and the music of her voice. the more i tried to think of the old place without mary, the less i liked the picture. and when i tried to console myself with thinking that there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, i failed dismally. when we reached home keen set for tea, there was the table laid all ready, and a scolding too for being late. but i turned away my mother's wrath by giving her mr. horsfall's greetings, and set her talking of him and his wife and all the family tree. for mother had a rare gift that way, knowing the relationship by blood and marriage of every family for miles around, and able, in a way you must hear to believe, to count up cousinships and half-cousins, and uncles and great uncles, till your brain turned round. except my lord's family and the folk at the vicarage, who had come from the south, i think she made us akin to all the folk in slaithwaite, linthwaite and lingards. as was natural, george took but little interest in this intimate pedigree, and about eight o'clock announced his resolve to take the road to the brigg. he was greatly pressed to stay to supper, but would not, much to my mother's concern, who had a firm persuasion, that town bred lads never got enough to eat, and cherished a suspicion that george, though as hale and hearty a youth as ever went on two legs, and one as little likely as any to be put on, was starved as to his body and broken as to his spirit by his step-father. it befell that night, whether by chance or that my mother schemed it so, that she and i sat up by the fireside after all the others had gone to bed. my mother had her eternal knitting, and i tried to settle my mind to a book; but could not, for thinking of matters not on the printed page. i gave up the effort after a while, and set my mind resolutely to think on my promise to join the plot against the masters; but all to no good, for do what i would, my thoughts strayed to what george had said of mary, and i liked it less and less. it gave me a turn when my mother said-"mary grows a fine lass and noan ill-favoured, think'st ta, ben? not 'at aw set much store on good looks, for beauty's but skin deep, as is weel known. but mary's one 'at 'll wear well, an' keep her looks to th' last," continued my mother, without waiting for the opinion she had asked from me. "aw was just such another misen when yo'r father begun a courting me." now i opened my eyes at this, for it had never occurred to me to think of my mother as a beauty. "not but what there's points in mary 'at could be mended," went on my mother serenely. "she's a notion o' keepin' things straight an' tidy, but 'oo's a bit too finickin' in her ways an' too mindful o' her hair an' careful o' her hands, an' happen too fond o' colour in her ribbons; but 'oo'l mend o' that when th' children come. an' she's mebbe too free o' her tongue." oh, mother! mother! "but that comes o' your father encouragin' her an' laughin' at her answerin' back, when it would seem her better to hearken to what i have to say an' be thankful 'oo has a aunt to tak' pains wi' her." "aw dunnot doubt 'oo is," i cried. "an' mary's noan 'bout brass, an' though awst allus hold 'at it's better to ha' a fortin' in a wife nor wi' a wife, there's summat i' what th' owd quaker said, 'at it wer' just as easy to fall i' love where brass was as where it wasn't. ever sin' my sister died, an' mary wer' left o' mi hands, her fortin' has been out at interest, an' we'n charged her nowt for her keep." "aw should think not, indeed," i cried, indignant at the very thought. "there's them 'at would," said my mother tartly. "we're not o' that breed, aw hope," i said. "anyways we ha' not, so tha needn't fluster thissen, though aw'll tell thee, ben, it's better to be a bit too keen about brass nor a lump too careless. so mary 'll ha' more nor her smock to her back, wed who she will, an' a handy lass in a house, an' th' best of trainin, as all the country side will tell yo'. an' for my part, when th' parents is agreeable, an' plenty o' room i' th' house, an' there's th' spare bedroom, an' we could fit th' lumber hoil up for th' childer, an' when yo've made up yo'r mind, it's no good wastin' time; an' easter'll soon be here, an' aw shouldn't like a weddin' 'atween easter an' whissunday. tha'd better see what mary says, an' aw'll speak to yo'r father afore th' week's out." "but, mother," i cried, "mary's nivver given me a thowt that way. aw'm sure she just thinks o' me as a brother. aw shud only fley her an' happen mak' it uneasy for her to live here, if aw said owt and she didn't like th' thowts on it." "who said she had given thee a thowt that way? aw sud think she knows what becomes her better nor to be lettin' her mind things till th' man speaks. but mary's a good lass, an' i'll go bail 'oll wed to please them as brought her up." "did yo, mother?" i asked with malice, for my father and mother had been married at almondbury out of our parish, taking french leave of her folk. and as my mother rallied her thoughts for a reply, i made my escape to bed. chapter iv. in february of 1812, it was borne in upon our minds that something more than distress and disaffection were in our midst. these we were used to, and they had come to seem matters of course. it was painful to go to the huddersfield market these days. the old brick rotunda was opened as usual, and as usual the stalls were piled with cloth. the manufacturers stood by their wares, or gathered in anxious groupes in the alleys between the stalls. but buyers were rare, and prices ruinous. shop-keepers in the new-street stood on their steps looking for a customer as eagerly as a becalmed captain for a cap of wind. round the old market cross the famished workmen stood sullen and scowling. they had not much to say. they were too far gone even for anger. their faces were now pinched and haggard. if a man had thrown a loaf among them they would have fought for it. it was said that at that time families had not twopence a head to live on each day. at the market dinners at the cherry tree and the pack horse the manufacturers dined together as usual but it was doleful work. we sat down to our meat as to funeral cakes. bad trade long drawn out had tired the staunchest of us, and there was not one ray of hope to brighten the outlook. war still dragged on, now a victory, now a defeat. but we had ceased to look for an issue from our troubles from the success of our arms. the contest seemed interminable, and meanwhile banks were breaking, credit was destroyed, old firms were failing; and men who had struggled on bravely, making goods to stock rather than close their mills and sack their old hands, saw no choice but to give up and own themselves beaten. wheat was eight shillings a stone, and so bad at that, that it could not be baked; the poor rate was at twelve shillings in the pound, and worst of all, the poor were cursing their masters in their hearts and thinking their sufferings lay at their master's doors. now i cannot for my part think such a time was fitting for bringing in machinery. i know full well that water power and steam power and improved machinery have been of untold good to the poor; but those who were to reap the first profit should to my thinking have bided their time. but mr. cartwright, of rawfold, mr. horsfall, of ottiwells and some others, seemed callous to the sufferings round them. perhaps it was they looked so intently at the distant object, that they could not see the things at their feet. they were both men impatient of obstacles; they resented interference; they pooh-poohed those who counselled delay. in that month of february we had the first news of any violence in our neighbourhood. late of a saturday night a number of men with faces blacked and their dress disguised, some wearing women's gowns and others strange hood gear, broke into the dressing shop of mr. joseph hirst, of marsh, destroyed the dressing frames, the shears and other furniture of a gig-mill. the same evil fate befell mr. james balderson, of crosland moor, and mr. william hinchcliffe, of leymoor. then came the soldiers, the scots greys and the second dragoon guards. they were billeted in the various hostelries of the town at free quarters, and it was not long before there was much scandal at their carrying on a drinking, swearing lot of men, a terror to decent girls, reeling on the streets in broad day with the loose women of the town, singing lewd songs, with no respect even to the gravest and most dignified magistrates in the town, paying heed only to their own officers, and that only when on guard or patrol. they were a bye-word and a reproach in the town, and of no sort of use at all. then, too, did the head constable of huddersfield call upon all men over seventeen, and under fifty, paying rates to the poor, to enrol themselves as special constables, and among them was none other than john wood, who looked mighty big with his constable's staff, and talked large to my aunt and george and to me, when i called at the brigg about the valiant deeds he would do if ever luddite fell into his hands. for by this time the name "luddite" had crept into the district, how i know not. and at his step-father's big talk george mellor smiled grimly. i say i called at mr. wood's house at longroyd bridge. i had meant to have a talk with george about the smashing of the machines of which, and of nothing but which, the market talk had been. i was not easy in my mind about the matter. i thought, after my promises to george, it was but my due to know if he had any share in these doings. but i was let. my aunt had her ailments to talk of, and burdened me with messages to my mother. then mr. wood was there whilst we took a dish of tea, and all his talk was of the dressing the luds would get. i asked him if he intended to try the new machines in his own shop, to which, for my aunt's sake, we sent our own goods to be finished. but i gathered that my astute uncle deemed it safe to see how the cat jumped before committing himself. he was ever one for letting others do the fighting, and then coming softly in and reaping the spoils. so with one thing and another i got no talk with my cousin, and started off by my lone to walk to slaithwaite over crosland moor. and near the brigg itself i came on soldier jack, with a poke slung over his shoulder. "bide your time, ben, and i'll be with you," he cried. "good company makes short miles. i've a little errand o' my own to see to on paddock brow. will ta come as far as th' nag's head and drink a glass and tarry there for me, or will ta company me to th' brow? i'st noan be long, for it's not exactly a wedding i'm bahn to." "oh, i'll go with you," i said, willingly enough, for jack was always well met. "it's tom sykes i'm bahn to see. yo' dunnot know him belike, a decent body but shiftless, and a ailing wife and a long family. there's a sight o' truth in what young booth was reading to us th' other neet from a great writer, a mr. malthus, 'at a man who is born into a world already possessed, or if society does not want his labour, has no claim or right to the smallest portion of food; and, in fact, has no business to be where he is. at nature's mighty feast there is no cover for him. that's what you call pheelosophy. i'm bahn to comfort tom sykes wi' a bit o' pheelosophy." "and is that philosophy you'n got i' your poke, jack?" i asked "it seems weighty matter." "noa, this is a few crumbs o' arrant nonsense, fra' th' kitchen o' th' cherry tree. th' cook there's a reight good sort, an' some day or other, aw don't say but i might--you know. but it's ill puttin' all yo'r eggs i' one basket. an' gi'ein' a shillin' to th' parson to tie you is a tighter job nor takin' th' king's shillin'. yo' can't hop out o' th' holy estate as aw did aat o' th' army--on a gamey leg. but here we are at tom's." it was a low stone thatched house on the lower brow, and overlooked the river. jack lifted the latch, and we walked into the living-room. it was bare of all furniture, save a round deal-topped table, three-legged, a low rocking chair by an empty fire-grate, a cradle and another, cane-bottomed chair, on which sat a man in his shirt sleeves, hushing a wailing child. the man was shock-headed. he had not been shaved for a week or more. his cheek bones stood out above shrunken cheeks. his eyes burned with an unnatural fire, and he had a hollow, hacking cough. he was trying to quiet the child, clumsily but patiently putting sips of a bluish fluid, milk and water, to its lips, with a crooked broken spoon. another child, about seven years old, i judged, with neither clogs nor socks, all her covering a smock and a short frock scarce to her knees, was stretched on its face in a corner of the chimney, over a litter of sacks. and under the sacks lay--a something. we could see the straight outlines of a figure--i felt what it was, and my heart stood still. but jack's eyes were not so young as mine. "where's yo'r missus, tom?" he asked, swinging his bundle on to the ricketty table. "th' cook at th' cherry tree has sent her a summat. see here's th' makin's o' a rare brew o' tea, screwed up i' this papper. aw carried it i' my weskit pocket, for fear o' accidents. an' there's broken bread an' moat an'--but what's ta starin' at? where is 'oo aw say?" "'oo's there, jack--in th' corner there, under milly. yo' needn't fear to wakken her--'oo sleeps very sound. gi' my compliments to fat ann at th' cherry tree an' tell her th' missus is much obliged. but 'oo isn't very hungry just now. th' parson says 'oo's gone where there's nother hunger nor sorrow. but aw reckon if there is such a shop, there'll be no room there for my owd woman. th' rich folk 'll ha' spokken for them parts, th' poor 'll be crowded out, same as they are here. an' yo', ben bamforth, an' yo' come to look on your handiwork? yo' may lift th' cuvverin' for yersen. novver mind milly 'oo'll greet hersen to sleep agen, when yo're gone. tak' a good look, man--it's nobbut a dead woman, improved off th' face o' th' earth--clemmed to death bi improvements. nay dunna flinch, man, 'oo'll nother flyte thee nor bite thee." but i could not look, and i went silently out into the rutty, dirty lane and the murk night so cold and raw. for i had no words of comfort for the man--i could not speak in that silent presence--so i slipped away, only minding to pass a coin or two into the hands of soldier jack--"light a fire and fetch a woman," i whispered, and jack nodded and made no effort to have me stay. i was in a distracted state of mind, drawn now this way and now that, as i made my way to slaithwaite. my promise to george lay heavy on me, and i loved the lad. the scene of which i had been just now the witness filled me with an intense sorrow for the suffering i knew to be rife around us. but i shrunk from violence of any kind and from conflict with the law, of which i had a wholesome dread. i confess here, once and for all, i am not made of the stuff of which captains, heroes and martyrs are made--i asked nothing better of the world than to go my own way quietly and doucely, earning by honest toil sufficient for my daily needs, sustained by the affection of those i loved and safe in the esteem and goodwill of my little world. i was not therefore best pleased when mary met me at the door and handed me a note which had been brought by an unknown messenger, who had been charged, he said, to give it into her own hands, and to impress upon her that she herself should convey it safely to me. it was addressed to me, and though i had had few letters from george mellor i knew his handwriting, and i judged, too, that mary knew it, and had all a woman's curiousness to know what the letter might say. it was brief enough, anyhow: "meet me on thursday night at nine o'clock at the inn at buckstones. --george." the inn at buckstones stands, or then stood, almost alone on the road from outlane to manchester. all around were desolate reaches of moorland, with here and there patches won by hard toil from the waste and enclosed by dry walling whose solidity bespoke the rich abundance of good stone and the little worth of human labour. there were no neighbours to make custom for the inn. the coach never stopped there. an occasional wayfarer, or holiday makers from the town, at times would call there, but mine host of the buck would have fared badly but for his pigs and poultry. it was a little inn, remote, unaccustomed, unobserved, and only those would chose it as a meeting place whose business was one that shunned the open day and the eye of man. i put the letter carefully in my breast pocket, putting aside mary's questioning words and ignoring mary's questioning looks as best i could. and at this, after a while, mary choose to take offence, tossing her head, and surmising that folk who had letters they could not show to their own cousins were up to no good. i was at the buck punctual to my time. the night was pitch dark. there was neither moon nor stars to light one along the road, and the road was bad enough in broad noon. a feeble light shone from the low window of the inn. the outer door was shut, and did not yield to my push when i lifted the sneck. it was opened from within by george mellor. "yo're to time, ben," he said in a low voice as he grasped my hand. "i knew tha' wouldn't fail us." "who's us?" i asked. "tha'll know soon enough. they're waitin' for us i' th' room upstairs--but come into th' snug an' have a glass o' ale. tha looks breathed and flustered, an' as if tha'd seen a boggart on th' road. there's a chap inside aw want thee to know--he's a rare 'un. he's a better scholard nor other thee nor me, ben, and aw'se warrant tha'll like him, when tha knows him." "who is it, george?" "they call him booth, john booth, th' parson's son at lowmoor." "is he one on yo'?" i asked. "as close as th' heft to th' blade," replied george. and i breathed more freely, for john booth i had seen many a time at mr. wright's, the saddler's, in huddersfield; and i, though i had had no speech with him, had heard much of his great learning and sweet temper. he was not one to harm a fly. his father was, i knew, the vicar at lowmoor church, and a master cropper to boot. surely the son of a parson and of a finisher was engaged in no enterprise that need daunt my father's son. he was sat in the snug, a pot of ale before him, scarce tasted; a youth not more than twenty-one or two years old, with pale face, long lank dark hair that fell on either side a high and narrow brow. his eye was dark and melancholy, his lip's somewhat thin. his face was bare of beard, of an oval shape, and womanish. he had a low, soft voice, and spoke more town like than i was used to. but he had a sweet smile and a winning, caressing way that partly irritated me because i thought it out of place in a man. but it was very hard to stand against all the same. "i am glad to see you, mr. bamforth," he said, placing a hand that, despite his trade, was small and white, in my own big, brawny fist. he looked very slim by the side of me as we stood hand in hand, for i am six feet and more and big built, and thanks be to god hard as nails and little bent even yet. but it is mind, my children, not matter, that rules the world. see how he tickled me at the very start,--"mr. bamforth"--there was a whole page of delicate flattery in the very words and way of breathing on it. it meant i was a man. it meant i was of some place and power in his reckoning of me. i felt myself flush, and i grew bigger to myself. why, i do not think anyone had ever called me "mr. bamforth" before. even 'siah, our teamer, called me "ben." the vicar at the church called me "ben," and ruffled me not a little by the patronizing way he had. mr. webster, at the powle, called me "ben;" but that i did not mind, for he said it as though he loved me. "i am glad to see you. any friend of george mellor's is welcome, but your father's son is thrice welcome. george, do you go in and prepare our friends to receive a new member. set all things in order, and i will talk meanwhile with your cousin." "and so, mr. bamforth," he continued. "nay, call me bamforth, or plain ben," i said. "well, ben be it then--and so, ben, you, too, are willing to strike a blow for the poor and oppressed." "i don't know about striking blows," i said. "to tell the truth i am here because i said i would be here; but what i am here for i do not know, except that i am here to learn why i am here. it's true enough my heart is heavy for the poor; but what i can do, and saving your presence what you can do, or george, or such as us, passes my wit." "we can try, at least, the force of union," he made answer. "we can try what the force of numbers will do. we can entreat; we can threaten"-"but what is a bark without a bite?" i asked. "and how can you bite without setting your own teeth on edge?" "ah! there's the rub," he said. "but we won't jump before we get to the stile. one step at a time and await developments, say i. but come, we will join our friends. it will be a comfort to me to have one cool head in our number. we have no lack of madcaps." the long low chamber which we now entered was in darkness, save for the light of two small lanthorns, placed on a long narrow table that ran down the centre of the room. forms ran round three sides of the room. at the head of the table was an arm chair of ancient oak. in the centre of the table, flanked on either side by lanthorns, which turned their lights each to the other, was a human skull. in the chair sat one whom i felt rather than saw to be my cousin george. by his right hand was a bible; on his left, one who acted as secretary and kept a roll of members, a precious document i would afterwards have given all i was worth to lay my hands on. the forms around the wall were close packed by masked men, in working dress, who rose as booth led me into the room and placed me at the foot of the table confronting the president. all rose as we slowly made our way to that place, booth holding me by the hand. i was in a cold sweat, and wished myself a thousand miles away. booth left me standing there peering straight at him i knew to be my cousin. "no. 20, i call upon you to explain to this candidate the principles of our order." "we are banded together," said a voice from the line of figures on my right, a voice i knew at once to be booth's; for no other man i ever knew, scarce any woman, had a voice so gentle, so plaintive. "we are banded together to assert the rights of labour, to resist the encroachments and the cruelty of capital. we seek to succour the needy and to solace the sorrowing. we aim to educate the toilers to a sense of their just rights, to amend the political, the social, and the economic condition of those whose only wealth is their labour, whose only birth-right is to toil. our methods are persuasion, argument, united representation of our claims, and if need be, the removal of those mechanic rivals of human effort by which callous and heartless employers are bent on supplanting the labour of our hands. but this only in the last resort, all other means exhausted, our righteous claims flouted, our fair demands denied." "benjamin bamforth," came my cousin's voice across the gloom. "you have heard the statement of our aims. are you willing to ally yourself with us and to aid us in our cause? if so, answer 'i am.'" "i am." "we are witnesses of your solemn obligation. who vouches for benjamin bamforth?" "that do i," said booth. "that, too, do i," said another voice that sounded familiar to my ears. "place before him the book. place your hands, brother bamforth, upon the bible and fix your eyes upon these emblems of mortality. as they are, so be you, if you falter, or if you fail. repeat after me the words of our oath." then, phrase by phrase, in a silence only broken by the voices of us twain and the heavy breathing of that grim group, i repeated after the playfellow of my boyhood and my manhood's friend the solemn words: "i, benjamin bamforth, of my own voluntary will, do declare and solemnly swear that i never will reveal to any person or persons under the canopy of heaven the names of the persons who comprise this secret committee their proceedings, meetings, places of abode, dress, features, complexion, or anything else that might lead to a discovery of the same, either by word, deed or sign, under the penalty of being sent out of the world by the first brother who shall meet me, and my name and character blotted out of existence, and never to be remembered but with contempt and abhorrence. and i further do swear, to use my best endeavours to punish by death any traitor or traitors, should any rise up among us, wherever i may find him or them, and though he should fry to the verge of nature i will pursue him with unceasing vengeance, so help me god and bless me, to keep this my oath inviolate." "kiss the book." i kissed the bible. "show more light." in each quarter of the room a light shone forth, its rays till now obscured. "brethren, unmask, and let our brother know his brethren." i looked around me blinking in the sudden glare. there were many i knew not. more than one i knew. the voice that had haunted was the voice of soldier jack, who looked, i thought, somewhat foolish as my eye fell on him. there was william thorpe, a cropper at fisher's, of the brigg, and ben walker and william smith, who worked at my uncle wood's. thorpe, i knew, was a mate of my cousin george, and i was not much surprised to see him. smith i knew only by sight, having seen him when i had taken work to be finished at the brigg. walker i knew somewhat better. his father was ever styled buck walker, having been somewhat of a gallant in his younger days, and even now fancying himself not a little. ben o' buck's was a young man of about my own age, dark and sallow, with deep set eyes and a sly fawning way. he had gone out of his way to be civil to me, and more than once in the summer-time had walked of a sunday from powle chapel, where his father was a deacon, across the fields home with us. he was attentive in a quiet way to mary to whom he spoke, i understood, chiefly about his sins, which troubled him greatly. martha said it was his stomach that was wrong. she knew it by his pasty face and by his hands, cold and damp, like a fish tail. martha was a lass of some prejudices. my father was rather partial to ben, a quiet harmless lad, he judged, that would run steady and show no nonsense. i did not greatly care for him myself, but i wondered rather to see him where he was, not having given him credit for so much spunk. but most i marvelled, at soldier jack, yet did i gather courage from his presence, for i leaned on his stout heart and his worldly knowledge, gleaned in many strange scenes and lands. but george was speaking to me again. "there are signs in our order, brother bamforth, and i will now communicate them to you. the first, the right hand passed behind the neck, thus, signifies 'are you a lud?' the party challenged should reply by placing two forefingers on his chin, thus. we have also a password which will admit you to our meetings, and to those of others in our movement. it is 'work, win.' you will now take your seat among the brethren and the business of the meeting will be resumed. 'any reports?'" "enoch taylors taken on six more men," said a marsden man. "they're making frames as fast as they can. orders are rolling in. horsfall's putting them into ottiwells as quick as they're made. th' owd hands are told they're no use, an' young 'uns is being browt fra' no one knows where, to work th' shearing frames. aw'n seen some cloth 'ats been finished on a frame, an' it welly broke my heart. aw'n been a cropper, lad and man, for thirty year, an' aw nivver turned aht owt like it. it were as smooth as a babby's cheek. an' th' frame can do th' work of four men awn heerd th' mester tell. it's ruination, stark ruination, an' me wi' five childer an' yar emma lying in." "that's noan hauf o' th' tale--horsfall's fair wild wi' joy. he says he'll feight napoleon wi' a finishin' frame. he cries shame on th' nottingham police. he says th' magistrates there owt to be drummed off th' bench. he says they're a pigeon-livered lot, an' if he'd been there, he'd a ridden up to th' saddle girths i' th' blood o' th' luds before he'd ha' been baulked o' his way." "shame on him, shame on him!" broke out fierce voices. "reports come from liversedge that cartwright, of rawfolds, has ordered a set of machines from taylor. william hall, have yo' owt to say?" a man about thirty, dirty and slovenly, with a blotched face and slouching look, who it turned out lived at hightown and had been dismissed from mr. jackson's there and had been taken on at wood's, then rose. he had a great deal to say. he spoke of mr. cartwright: more of a foreigner nor an englishmen, he called him. a quiet man with a cutting tongue. had ne'er a civil word for a man an' down on him in a jiffy if he looked at a pot o' beer. drank nowt himself, which hall looked on as a bad sign and unenglish. was sacking th' owd hands and stocking rawfolds with machines and parson roberson was worse nor him. i had a sight of that same fighting parson not many months after, and bill hall was not far off the mark. "has any brother owt more to say anent horsfall or cartwright?" asked mellor. "i move they're warned," cried one. "i'll second it," said another. "give it 'em hot," cried a third. "tell 'em plain we mean business. i'm sick o' letter writin'. they laugh at our letters." "let them laugh," said george; "they'll laugh at wrong side o' their mouths afore we'n done wi' them. and now, lads, enough o' business. th' landlord 'll be thinking we're poor customers. let's have some ale and drive dull care away. a song, boys; who'll sing us a song?" "that will i, george, but i mun drink first. my belly's beginnin' to think ahn cut mi throat." a brother had left the room, and now appeared with an immense jug of ale, and tots were handed round. cutty pipes were produced and coarse tobacco. who paid the shot i do not know. but i have heard tell that some masters who were threatened paid quit money, and others even gave money that their neighbours' mills might be visited. but this i know not of a certainty, and only set it down as a thing that was said. this i know, there was no lack of ale among the lads, and money, too, came from somewhere. "now for your song, soldier," said george, and the men settled themselves for a spree and a fuddle. the croppers were ever a free lot given to roystering and cock fighting and bull baiting and other vanities. and thus sang soldier jack, and all that knew the song joined lustily in the chorus, for that wild moor there was no fear of intruders, and our host had not love enough for the justices to set them on good customers. "come cropper lads of high renown, who love to drink good ale that's brown, and strike each haughty tyrant down, with hatchet, pike, and gun! oh, the cropper lads for me, the gallant lads for me, who with lusty stroke, the shear frames broke, the cropper lads for me! what though the specials still advance, and soldiers rightly round us prance, the cropper lads still lead the dance, with hatchet, pike, and gun! oh, the cropper lads for me, the gallant lads for me, tho with lusty stroke the shear frames broke, the cropper lads for me! and night by night when all is still and the moon is hid behind the hill, we forward march to do our will with hatchet, pike, and gun! oh, the cropper lads for me, the gallant lads for me, who with lusty stroke the shear frames broke, the cropper lads for me! great enoch still shall lead the van. stop him who dare! stop him who can! press forward every gallant man with hatchet, pike, and gun! oh, the cropper lads for me, the gallant lads for me, who with lusty stroke the shear frames broke, the cropper lads for me!" the song was chorused with gusto by most there, and it was plain enough to see that the meeting had more hopes from great enoch, as the luds called the hammer used in machine smashing, after enoch taylor of marsden, than they had from either persuasion or threats. that something more than words was in their minds was evident enough later on when we all turned out into a field at the back of the buck. there was a watery moon in the sky that gave a ghostly sort of light. by this light soldier jack drew up the twenty or thirty men who left their cups and followed him into the fold. and there did jack put us through our drill. one or two had muskets, a few had pikes. they had been fetched out of the mistal, where by day they lay concealed on the hay bowk. it was rare to see jack at his drilling. we were formed in line fronting him, and jack did gravely walk down the line, commenting on our appearance, and trying to bring us to some fashion of military time. and this was the style of drill. "hold thi head up, man; thi breast's noan th' place for thi chin." this to no. 1. "dal thi, no. 2, will ta' square thi shoulders back or will ta' not? hast ta' getten th' bellywark 'at tha' draws thissen in like that?" "turn th' toes 'aat, no. 3. i said heels together not toes, tha' gaumless idiot." "na' then, tenshun! eyes front. shoulder arms, right wheel. mar------ch!" and away walked jack with his head up and an old sabre over his shoulder, disguising his limp as best he could, at the head of his little column, as proud, i verily believe, as though he captained a company. it seemed to me poor fooling, then and always, but it gave such huge satisfaction to soldier jack, i never had the heart to tell him so, nor to shirk my drill. "a poor shiftless lot," he complained to me as we walked near midnight across cupwith common, the three rough miles that lay between the buck and lower holm. "a peer shiftless lot, but what could you expect from a lot of croppers?" "what do you think to make of them, jack?" i asked. "why, nowt," he answered. "just nowt; but then yo' see they mun do something. it's all very well to go to th' buck an' drink ale an' sing songs. i'll back th' croppers at drinkin' ale an' singing songs against th' best regiment the duke has in spain. but if all this meeting an' masking an' speechifyin' is to do any good and lead to owt, there must be action, sooner or later. and in that day it will be well for th' luds if there is even one voice which they have learned to obey. do you think it's the great generals that win battles?" "why, of course, it is?" i answered. "that's just where yo're out," said jack. "it's th' sergeants and th' corporals. yo' see in a feight yo' cannot see much further nor yo'r nose end. all yo'n got to do for th' most part is to keep your eye an' yo'r ear on th' sergeant that's drilled yo' sin' yon learned the goose step, an' do as he tells you. as long as he keeps his head an yo' hear his voice, calm an' cheerful, just as if yo' were in the barrack yard or on parade, yo'r all reight an' yo do as you're told, like tommy tun, whoever he wer." "i never heard on him, jack. whose lad was he?" "aw don't rightly know, but aw reckon he were famous for keepin' in step. howsomever, mark my words, george mellor's a good lad, wi' fire enough for hauf a dozen. that lad o' parson booth's, 'at 'ud be better employed if he wer' at home helpin' his mother to rock th' craddle, is a rare 'un to talk. thorpe's a good 'un if it comes to fisticuffs, but it'll be soldier jack they'll all look to when th' bullets is whizzing ovver their heads, an' what little wit they have is scattered an gone." "but, surely, jack, there'll be no whizzing of bullets?" "oh! won't there? aye that an' waur. do yo' know horsfall, o' ottiwell's, has got th' soldiers billetted in th' town, th' king's bays. aw've drunk wi' sum o' them, an' had a crack about old times. oh! curses on this gamey heel o' mine that keeps me limping o'er cupwith common when i might be stepping out behind the colours to the merry music of fife an' drum. yo'll never know, lad, the savage joy of battle. it is the wine o' life. when yo've once tasted it, even love an' liquor are flat beside it. but what can't be cured mun be endured. well aw say, aw'n talked wi' a sergeant at th' red lion i' marsden. they're patrolling th' district ivvery night. if we go to ottiwell's, there'll be a warm welcome for us." "but why are yo' in it, jack, that's what caps me?" i said. "yo're nawther a cropper nor th' son of a cropper." "no. what o' thissen ben?" "well, yo see, i promised george. i cannot run off mi word. an' george sees further, perhaps, nor i do. then young booth says its opposition or submission. opposition may mean imprisonment or worse, but submission can only mean pining to death." "then yo'r in for george?" jack asked. "well if you like to put it so, soldier, yo'll none be so far off th' mark." "well then say aw'm in it for yo' an' for sport, an' cause an' its i' mi natur. but most, ben bamforth, it's for yo' an' another lad or two, 'at'll need a true friend an' a shrewd head an' a tricky tongue before this work's through. and so, good neet, an' wipe th' muck off thi boots, else that saucy mary o' yours 'll be axing more questions nor yo'll care to answer." chapter v the last day of march of that year of 1812 was a big day for me. i came of age. it would little seem me to say what mariner of man i was in the flush and vigour of my early manhood, but i was such a one as simple habits and plain fare and mountain air make of most. i was tall above the common, though even then not come to my full stature. and i was strong with a strength that frightened me. folk marvelled at my height, for my father was but a small man, though wiry, and my mother matched my father. i had in those days ever to be careful of my head when i visited at folks' houses, for the doorways were low and there were joists in unexpected places, and many a rude knock did my poll sustain before i learned caution by hard dints. many youths do overgrow their strength, but that did not i, and though i had not 'siah's skill in wrestling, nor knew the tricks of the fall, 'siah could not throw me, and once i got him in my arms, though he was thick set and solid, i could strain him in my hug till his very bones could crack. but my inches, three score and fourteen, were much mocked by the lads about, who would make a spy-glass of their hands, and fixing an earnest gaze upon the crown of my head, would ask with mock concern if it were warm up there. now on this, my birthday, nought would satisfy my mother but that we should have a tea-drinking. i was in no great mood for such doings, but my mother must ever have her way. she said it was no, ordinary birthday. a man became a man but once in a life-time, and moreover, and this settled the matter with her, in no decent family was such an event allowed to pass unmarked. times were bad she granted, but it was not as though we were bound to live from hand to mouth. so i bid my friends. of course, george must come, and a handsomer, brighter lad never set foot in lower holme than george looked that night, all fun and laughter, with a jest for everyone. and he brought with him ben walker, whom i made welcome, as i should have made welcome the evil one himself had george brought him. and i liked walker as little. from the very first i misdoubted that man. i disliked his toad's hand, his shifty eye, his low speech. there was something sly in his very tread, and his laugh had no heartiness in it. then he was so cursedly civil to everybody. he praised my mother's cakes: never were such cakes, and though, god knows he was welcome enough to eat his fill, he did not praise them without fair trial. he praised the tea, he praised the pig-cheek, he set little mr. webster all of a glow by telling him how edified he was by his last discourse at powle moor, but he had like to have come to grief with soldier jack by belittling the great duke. then he fell to praising mary, and here he had like to have spoiled all, for as he spoke of her good looks he let his eye dwell upon her features with a look so gross that mary coloured red with wrath, and my mother told him sharply mary was not a slave for sale in the market, and we needed no inventory of her charms. so he at mr. webster again on religion, and as buck walker, his father, had turned pious in his latter days, and was now a leader at the powle, the good man and ben hit it rarely together. but his eye, i noted, ever wandered to mary, and it liked me not. i had asked, too, john booth and his sister faith, a demure young maid as ever made a courtesy. she was just all that mary was not, and yet she pleased, which, when you think of it, should set us marvelling at the great goodness of god that hath so fashioned our maids that even their very extremes are admirable. for mary was rosy and plump, with auburn curling hair, that would never be kept by net or string, but would escape and wanton over her face and neck, and had a laughing eye of blue, with rosy lips, and a saucy tongue. a very ray of warm sunshine was mary. but faith was dark as a sloe as to hair and eye, with a skin of delicate white, and slender as a lily's stalk, and gentle of speech and somewhat shy of manner, yet with no awkwardness withal. my heart, did warm to her from the first, and i think too she favoured me from the very day her brother made us acquaint at his master's shop in huddersfield. perhaps because i was so big and strong, whilst her brother, though wonderful far learned in books, and with as big a soul as was ever put in man's body, was only a short remove from a woman in those things which women love in man. and strange as it is that two maids so unlike should both be so sweet to live with and to think upon, is it not stranger still that two men so unlike as soldier jack and myself should be at one about faith's sweetness and loveableness. jack, if we might credit his own word in the matter, had a wide experience in the lists of love, but chiefly, i fear, among the hussies that followed the camp and the warm and yielding beauties of sunny spain. yet did this tried veteran surrender the garrison of his heart without parley and without terms to the gentle assault of this pure and modest lass, but with no thought of other love than a father's or a brother's, for jack was well into the forties, and had had his fill of the burnings of a warmer flame. now after our tea-drinking was done, my father and mr. webster settled down by the fireside to smoke their pipes and talk of town's affairs and the ever pressing sufferings of the poor. mr. webster's talk was heavy hearing. he knew every family on that hill-side, and scarce one was free from griping want. the parson's voice would falter and tears come to his eyes as he told his tale, and i could see my father shift uneasily in his chair and his hand wander to his pocket, and my mother would break in with "hear to him, now!" "the likes o' that," "god save us," and so on. and presently she went into the outer kitchen where leavings of our feast were spread, and when mr. webster went home that night josiah trudged by his side with a hamper of good things. not, be sure, for mr. webster himself, for of his own needs, though these were rather suspected than known for sure, the good man spoke not at all; and i will go bail he proved a trusty steward of the comforts borne on 'siah's broad shoulders. for us younger ones there was no lack of sport, postman's knock and forfeits and other games in which there is overmuch kissing to my present thinking though i did not think so then. and if, whenever the rules of the game did give me occasion, i chose faith rather than mary, had i not reason in that faith was the greater stranger to our house, and i was ever taught to be civil to our guests. and i was no little nettled by the carryings on of mary and george. in my heart i cried shame on mary, and said to myself it was unseemly that a maiden of a respectable family should so set herself at any man. it was "george" here and "george" there, and "cousin mellor" and "cousin mary," though what kinship of blood there was between them was so slight it was a manifest pretence and cloak to make so much of it. i do hate a forward girl, and it was not like our mary to make herself so sheap. why, but the week before, being moved thereto on seeing her more tantalizingly pretty than common, i had made to give her a cousinly salute, and she had smacked me smartly on the cheek and started away in a rare pet. but i took care this night she should see i could play the swain as well as any george among them, and faith seemed nothing loth. not that she was over-bold. when i would kiss her she would turn her cheek to me with a pretty readiness, and seemed in no wise to mind it; but when george could spare a thought for any but mary, and choose faith, the colour would crimson her cheeks and brow, and she would turn her face away, and then, lo! all her flush would fade and leave her pale and trembling. but we were perhaps getting over old for such games not yet old enough for the whist to which our elders had betaken themselves. so mary, after no little urging thereto, did seat herself at the spinnet, which was a new joy in our house and had been the occasion of some bitterness to our friends. and touching the keys softly thus she sang very roguishly:- "love was once a little boy, heigh ho! heigh ho! then with him 'twas sweet to toy heigh ho! heigh ho! he was then so innocent, not as now on mischief bent; free he came; and harmless went, heigh ho! heigh ho! love is now a little man, heigh ho! heigh ho! and a very saucy one, heigh ho! heigh ho! he walks so gay and looks so smart, as if he owned each maiden's heart i wish he felt his own keen dart, heigh ho! heigh ho'! love, they say, is growing old, heigh ho! heigh ho! half his life's already told, heigh ho! heigh ho! when, he's dead and buried too. what shall we poor maidens do? i'm sure i cannot tell--can you? heigh ho! heigh ho!" whereat my father and soldier jack shouted lustily "heigh ho'! heigh ho!" and my mother shook her head but with a smile, and mr. webster must confess it was a pretty air and taking one, and trusted the singing thereof was not a holding of the candle to the evil one. but mary made a mouth at him and said, 'twould be time enough to be sad when she was too old to be merry. now after the singing of this catch it so befell that my mother had some occasion to desire from the village some small matter for the supper table, and martha being intent upon getting ready the supper she bid mary privily slip away and fetch the things she needed. this did ben walker overhear, though it was no business of his, and when mary, watching her chance, had gone softly out of the one door, ben, making some excuse, did steal away by the other, a thing we thought nothing of, deeming it but natural that a young man should seek to company a maid, and i not uneasy on mary's account, the night being fine and clear, and decent women being not molested in our parts, where strangers came little, and all were as friends and neighbours. now she had been gone some three parts of an hour, when i heard the front door open hurriedly and then slam to. my mother rose quickly and went into the parlour. it was in darkness, for we seldom used it save for company, and for our company of this night it was not large enough. but despite the gloom i knew it was mary. my mother drew her into the house and placed her in her own rocking-chair. all had risen to their feet. mary's hat was hanging by its strings down her back. her decent neckerchief that covered her neck and bosom had been torn aside, and some of the fastenings of her dress undone. she was panting hard for breath, and for a time could form no word. "where's ben walker?" i said, and then mary found her voice. "aye," she cried, "where is he? oh! the coward, the coward!" and then she sobbed and cried again "oh! the coward, the coward." and just then the sneck was lifted and ben walker walked in. he stood in the door way; but i banged the door behind him; and soldier jack took him by the arm and drew him into the room, whilst faith soothed mary and straightened her dress. "and now, ben walker, give an account o' thissen," said george, standing before the shrinking man, with clenched fist and a flashing eye. and walker shamed and faltered. his eye wandered from one face to another, and found no comfort anywhere. "it's noan o' my doing, george. tha' needn't look so fierce. awn laid no hand on her, han aw mary? speak th' truth, choose what tha' does, it goes th' furthest." "oh! you coward, you pitiful coward!" was all that mary could say; but she was calmer now. "it wer' this way," continued walker reluctantly. "we'd done th' shopping at ned o' bill's, an' had passed th' church an' got well into th' lane comin' back. aw wer' carryin' th' basket." "where is th' basket?" cried my mother. "by gow, i reckon aw mun ha' dropped it. aw nivver gav' it a thowt', an' aw nivver missed it till nah. as aw wer' saying', aw wer' huggin' th' basket wi' one arm, an' aw'd axed mary to hold on to th' other." "as if aw'd link wi' sich as thee," said mary, bridling again. "an all at onst, about half-way up th' broo' a felly lope ovver th' wall. he wer' a big un, aw tell yo', an' ther' wer' more behind, aw heard 'em eggin' 'im on. if he'd been by hissen aw'd ha stood up to him if he'd been as big as a steeple. he said nowt to me, but he gate hold o' mary an 'oo started to scream an' struggle, an' aw heerd him say he'd have a kiss if he died for it. aw wer' for parting on 'em, but he gav' me such a look, an' aw thowt aw heerd others comin, so aw just made off across th' fields. tha' knows, george, duty afore everything, an' if th' soldiers is about they're happen comin' here an' tha' knows best whether tha' wants to see 'em." "a soldier was it," i cried. "what mak' o' man wor he?" "aw tell thee bigger nor thissen, wi' a black poll an' a eye like a dagger blade for keen, an' ther' were a scar across his face." "it were one o' them chaps 'at's stayin' at john race's at th' red lion i' marsden," said mary. "he stopped me once afore a week back, when aw wer' walkin' out that way on. but he spoke me civil then, an' aw thowt nowt on it. but he's been drinkin' to-neet an' used me rough an' fleyed me. but aw reckon he'll keep his distance another time. it'll be a lesson to him." "how does ta mean, mary?" said my mother. "aw got one o' his fingers between my teeth an' aw bit him, an' bit him, an' bit him, an' he had hard to do to throw me off. then he called me a vicious little devil, an' aw tucked up my skirts an' ran for it. aw wer' more fleyed nor hurt. but thee! ben walker, thee!" and she turned from him, with a look of such contempt and scorn that ben hung his head with a hang-dog look and mumbling something about outstaying his welcome and making his way shorter, he slunk off, no one staying him. and thus was my birthday party dashed. we could settle down to nought after that. mary was feverish, and laughed over much. my father talked of going down on the morrow to milnsbridge and laying complaint to justice radcliffe. little mr. webster said something, in a very half-hearted way, about praying for those that despitefully use us, and my mother flighted mary, most unjustly i thought, for having ever spoken to the man at all, and so encouraged him. soldier jack said little, but i know he resented the outrage, for it is one thing for soldiers to make light with other folks' women-kind and another guess sort of thing to have your own friends fall into their clutches. but george was warmest of all. he made us a grand speech agen the army and officers and men, which soldier jack swallowed with an ill grace. hetty listened to him with all her ears, and you could see she liked to hear him rave on. and mary, too, when first he began, harkened keen enough, but soon she turned away impatiently and busied herself with setting the supper, and i thought she had looked for something from george which did not come. for me, i am slow of speech, stupid, mary ever said. but i thought to myself: "a long, tall man, as big as a steeple, with a black poll, and a scar on his cheek," and long after george and john booth and pretty prim faith had started for huddersfield, and soldier jack and mr. webster had gone powle way, i lay awake in bed thinking of a thing. the next morning i was up betimes. my father was away after the forenoon drinking, to try to sell a piece or two, a thing that every week became more difficult. there was no work to be done after the cattle had been foddered. we had almost given up work at our trade. we bad as many pieces in stock as we had room for it had gone hard with us to stop the output of country work, but what would you with the best mind in the world, you cannot go on forever making to stock. so our looms were still and time hung heavy on our bands. in the shippon i had had a word with 'siah and when, dressed in my sunday best, i struck off towards marsden. i found him waiting for me on the road. "yo' mun keep' yo're head, ben," he said, "watch his een. face him square an' watch his een. he's a big 'un wi' a long reach. he'll likely come: at thee like a mad bull. keep out on his way when he rushes. let him tire hissen. keep thi' wind. dunnot let him blow thee, let him blow hissen. he'll be in bad fettle, wi' no stay in him. th' way these sogers ha' been living lately, he'll ha' more water nor wind in him, an' more ale nor water. then, when he shows signals o' distress, work slowly in, and when tha' gets a fair chance, hug him, break his ribs, squeeze th' guts out on him. glory hallelujah, he'll gasp like a cod!" then would 'siah, after looking carefully round to see we were not observed, stop in his walk and feel my arms and legs as if i were a horse he wished to buy; then at it again with more advice. once, with a wistful air, he surmised it might be better to fight by proxy, to let him pick a quarrel with long tom, as he said they called the soldier who had misused our mary so. but he did not try long on that tack and had to content himself with hoping that some day or night, one of the red coats would try his game on with martha and then--glory hallelujah! i smiled and 'siah read my thoughts but he only said: "oh! them sort's noan particular. an' there's points about martha, mind you, there's points about martha." at the red lion we found john race, the little, round, red faced landlord in no very good humour. it was early in the day for drinking, to my taste, but 'siah having a nice sense of honour in these matters, declared we must have some thing for the good of the house and offered, if i could not stomach a pint myself, to drink my share. so i called for a quart for 'siah. race handled my money very lovingly and then spit over it for luck. "it's little of the ready comes my way now, ben," he said. "what! and a houseful of soldiers, john?" "oh! dun-not speak on it, ben," he cried. "it's a ruined man i shall be if this goes on another month. it's 'john' here and 'landlord' there from morning till night or till next morning rather. and paying for their drink is just the last thing they think of. th' kitchen door is white wi' chalk, and, well i know it's no use keeping the scores. it's just force of habit. "but surely, john, you need not serve them unless they pay." "it's easy talking, ben. th' law's one thing, but a house full o' soldiers is another. and aw cannot be everywhere an' my dowter an' th' servant, an' for owt aw know th' missus hersen are all just in a league to ruin me. their heads are all turned wi' th' soldiers an' such carryin's on in a decent man's house wer nivver seen before or since." "but what about the officer in command?" "what, him! complaining to him is just like falling out with the devil an' going to hell for justice. sometimes he laughs at me, sometimes he swears at me, sometimes he sneers at me, and to cap all, when i turn, as a trodden worm will turn at times, he just tells me to go clean the pewters, and send mi dowter to amuse him. an' th' warst on it is 'oo's willin' enough to go. what will be th' end of it all, is fair beyond me. but nine months 'll tell a tale i' marsden, or my name's not john race." john would have run on for ever, but i was anxious to get my own business done so i bade him show me up to the captain's room. the landlord's own private sitting room and an adjoining bedroom had been appropriated by the officer, and i followed john up the narrow, creaking, stairs. at a door on the landing he knocked, and a thin voice within called on us to enter and be damned to us. the room was small and low and packed with furniture of all styles and ages, more like a dealer's shop than an ordinary room. folk said that many a quaint and costly ornament had found its way to john race's in settlement of ale shots and gone to deck the room which was his wife's delight. but captain northman or his friends had treated it with scant reverence. on a table in the centre were a pack or two of cards and a couple of candles, that had guttered in the socket. a decanter half full of brandy stood by their side, whilst another, empty, and the fragments of a glass, lay on the floor. boots, spurs, gloves, swords canes, were strewn about on the chairs, and the scent of stale tobacco reek and fumes of strong waters filled the room. a table, with an untasted breakfast set upon it, was drawn to the window, and by it, in a cushioned chair, sat a young man of some five and twenty years, dressed in his small clothes and a gaudy dressing-gown, yawning wofully and raising with unsteady hand a morning draught to his tremulous lips. he had evidently had a night of it and his temper was none the better for it. i raised my hand respectfully to my forehead as i had seen soldiers do, but he only stretched out his legs and stared me rudely in the face. "well, fellow," he said at length, "what's your pleasure of me that you must break in on my breakfast?" "my name, sir, is benjamin bamforth." "ben o' bill's o' holme," said the landlord. "well, why the devil can't he stop at home?" said my lord. "come, sir, your business." "captain northman," i said civilly, and speaking my finest, nothing daunted by his captaincy, but nettled by his slack manners, for even mr. chew, the vicar, treated me with civility as my father's son; "captain northman, you have in your company, a soldier known as long tom, his proper name i know not, nor his rank." "corporal tom, well, what of him?" "sir, i complain that last night he did wantonly and without enticement or other warrant insult my own cousin mary, as she was returning home late in the evening." "well, sir?" "and i lay this complaint that he may be punished as he deserves." "and is that all?" "and enough too, it seems to me, captain northman." "good god! was ever the like heard!" exclaimed the captain. "here i am half pulled out of my bed in the small hours by a giant boor, my head all splitting with this vile liquor not fit for hog wash, and all because long tom chooses to kiss a pretty girl, who ten to one was nothing loth." "captain northman," i said, very quietly, "i may be a boor, but i am one of the boors that pay your wages. neither is it the part of a gentleman to meet a request for redress by an added insult. but i see i mistook my man and now i shall take my own course." so i turned on my heels and strode down the steps. "long tom's in the kitchen," whispered 'siah, and to the kitchen i strode. here were about a dozen men in shirt sleeves, lounging and lolling about, some smoking, some pipe-claying their belts and polishing their arms, others drinking and at cards even thus early. it was not difficult to pick out my man. he was stood with legs outstretched before the fire. i made straight to him, and by the look he gave i knew he guessed my errand. i strode straight to him and without a word i smote him with the back of my hand across the face. the angry blood rushed to his cheeks, and he clenched his fist. the other soldiers jumped to their feet. "fair play" cried 'siah. "man to man and fair play." "a fight, a fight." "a ring, a ring." "into the yard with you my bully boys" said one who seemed to have authority, and into the yard we went, the whole company behind us, in great good humour at anything that promised sport. "two cans to one on long tom," i heard. "i lay even on the bumpkin," said another, and i was grateful even for that bit of backing. "keep thi' temper an' bide your chance," whispered 'siah, anxious to the last. and then we faced each other, long tom and i. he was stripped to the shirt and i stripped too. he was as big a man as i with more flesh and more skill. but all the loose living had told on him and he soon began to blow. he hammered at me lustily and i took it smiling. if he brayed my face to a pulp i meant to get one in at him. my chance came at last. i put all my force and all my weight into one blow full at his mouth. he guarded and made as tho' to counter. but his guard went back on himself, and my fist went plumb on his month. he went down like a felled ox and rolled on the ground kicking his heels and spitting out blood and his teeth. then 'siah raised a great shout and even some of the soldiers seemed not sorry to see the mighty fallen. and 'siah led me off, feeling dazed and weak as a woman, and with a strong bent to blubber like a baby, now it was all over, for i am not used to fighting, and would any day rather give a point or two than fratch. john race, in a quiet way, was as rejoiced as 'siah, but dare not show it too openly, for fear of angering the soldiers, of whom he was in great dread. but as i put my head under the pump and swilled my face he brought me a stiff runner of brandy and would take no pay. and presently others of the company came a round me and pressed me to drink, and the little captain, who had watched us from the window, came down and urged me to take the king's shilling. "faith," said he, "there's blood in you, man. i thought they put sizing in your veins, but it's blood after all." "aye, my little tom tit," said 'siah who had no reverence for dignities. "it's blood 'at wouldn't stand mastering by sich as thee. tha' need'nt fluster thissen. aw'm noan bahn to hurt thee. but if tha' can get any o' these felly's to back thee, aw'll be glad to feight the two on you. will'nt one on yo' oblige me? noa? weel nivver mind, cap'n, aw'll happen come across thee in a year or twi when th'art full grown, an' if thi' mother 'll let thee, tha' may happen ha' a bang at me. come, ben, let's go back to yar wark. this is nobbut babby lakin!" and so, 'siah bore me off, with colours flying. on our homeward way we had much scheming as to how i should account for my face, which began to puff and show divers colours. 'siah was for telling the story as it was, but i had no mind that mary's name should be mixed up in it. so we kept abroad the whole day and to my mother's great grief and my father's anger we presented ourselves late at night; 'siah really, and myself feigning to be drunk. and mary was so disgusted that she would scarce look at me, saying the sight of my face set her against her food. but towards the week end, martha musts have got the secret from 'siah and passed it on, for one night when i sat brooding by the fire, with no light but the glow of the embers, a light form stole softly behind my chair, and a pair of warm arms went round my neck and a tearful voice sobbed. "o! ben, yo' mun forgive me. but aw'll never forgive missen." what is the magic of a woman's kiss and how comes it that under some conditions the touch of her lips will stir you not at all, and under others will kindle in your heart a flame that lasts your life-time. till that moment i vow i had had no love for my cousin mary, save such as a brother may have for his sister, between which and a lover's love is, i take it, the difference between the light of the moon, and the light of the sun. i had sometimes kissed her and she had submitted as not minding. but of late she had eluded me when i had sought to salute her, which skittishness i had put down to what was going on between her and george. and now, unsought, she had put her arms about my neck and drawn back my head to the warm cushion of her breast and pressed a kiss upon my brow. and lo! love, glorious love, full grown and lusty, leaped into the ocean of my being and ruled it thenceforth for even. and yet when i sprung to my feet and held out my arms and would have taken mary to my heart, she sprung away and bade me keep my distance, and when i made to take what she would not grant, she grew angered, so that my heart fell and i was sick with doubts and sadness. and here, tho' little given to preaching, i would deliver my homily anent all shams and make-believes. here was mary setting my thoughts once more on a wrong tack so that i had no choice but return to what i had taken for granted, that it was a made up thing between her and george mellor. and but for that belief many things that happened might not have befallen. then, too, after my fight with long tom, my father gave me a talking to on my loose and raffish ways, and yet the very next market day, i heard of his boasting to all and sundry of my deeds, and the rumour thereof grew so much beyond the simple truth that i should not have some day been surprised to hear that i had routed a whole regiment. my mother, too, scolded me not a little and wept over my bruised skin, but among the women folk of our parish she bragged so much of my strength and my courage that i had like to become a laughing stock among the men. even little mr. webster, who spoke to me at nigh an hour's length on the sinfulness of brawling and on the christian duty of turning, the other cheek to the smiter, did ever after that honour me by asking the support of my arm when he returned late home, saying no one would molest him while i was by. only martha, among them all, was honest, for she made no secret of her delight in me, loading me with praises so that 'siah began to look at me with an evil eye, and she insisted on giving me each day to breakfast a double portion of porridge and piling up blankets on my bed till i was like to be smothered. but mary spoke of my doings not at all, whilst faith, when she heard of the fray, prattled prettily a whole afternoon, and said so many sweet things to me that mary became waspish and told her i was set up enough by nature without folk going out of their way to spoil me by soft sawder. then faith must unsay half she had said and finished by opining that, after all, the proper course would have been to horse-whip captain northman before his own company. and this, she thought, was what george would have done. chapter vi. it must not be supposed, because i have turned aside to tell of my own poor affairs, that the luddites were idle all this while. indeed it is very difficult for me to give any notion of the state of this part of the country at that time. trade was as bad as bad could be. nobody seemed to have any money to spend on clothes. it took most folk all their time to line the inside, and the outside had to make shift as best it could. it was cruel to see the homes of those who had no back set and depended on their daily toil for their daily bread. and yet some manufacturers persisted in putting in machines that could have but one effect, to turn adrift many of those who still had work. and with it all arose in the minds not only of the croppers but of all the working people for miles around a feeling of injustice, of oppression, a rankling sense of wrong. and the poor felt for the poor. they got it into their heads that the rich cared nought about them, that their only thought was to look after themselves, to fill their own pockets, and the working folk might rot in their rags for ought they cared. and added to this was a chafing sense of their own helplessness. they felt like prisoned birds dashing against the bars of a cage. you see they had no say in anything at all. they were englishmen only in name their lives, even when times were fairly good, were none of the brightest. it was mostly work and bed and not too much bed. hard work and scant fare and little pleasure. they had love and friendship, for these come by nature, but they had little else to bring a ray or two of sunshine into their lives. when people in those days met together to set forth their grievances they were persecuted for sedition; when they didn't meet and were quiet and law-abiding our betters said we had no grievances. nay, if there was no violence both of speech and action the wise-acres in london said and thought all things were for the best in the best of all possible worlds. you couldn't talk sense into them, you just had to poise it into them. so what would you? anyway, before the luddites had been banded together many weeks it was well understood that we existed for bigger things than to break shears and cropping frames. booth was always dinning this into me when i hinted at the wastefulness of smashing costly frames and other such like mischief. "we must arouse the conscience of our rulers," he said. "they cannot, or will not, see how desperate is our plight. besides, nine tenths of them have a personal interest in war, in prolonging shutting our ports. their sense of right will not move them: we must frighten them." then he would smile in his sweet, sad way and say something in the french which he explained to mean that folk cannot have pancakes without breaking eggs, and after that i never lifted a hammer to smash a frame but my mind went to shrove tuesday and i had a vision of mary with sleeves rolled up and face flushed by the heat of the fire, her dress tucked between her knees, tossing pancakes up the big chimney, and catching them sissing as they fell with the browned side up into the spurting fat. not that i did much machine breaking myself. there is a canny thriftiness in my nature that made me dislike such wantonness. besides george mellor was really the soul of the whole affair: and where george was there was no peace. he seemed like one possessed. from the shears inn at hightown to the nag's head at paddock, from the nag's head to the buck, night after night, swearing in men, arranging midnight visits, dropping into this shop, loitering by that, counselling one man, winning another, he seemed to be everywhere at once, to know every man's wants and every man's grievance. what master to leave alone, what to fley. how he did it all and when he slept is a mystery to me. and he never lost heart never wavered from his purpose and there never was a moment when we didn't, all trust him and all love him--save only one. i say i didn't handle enoch much myself. we called the big sledge hammer that we battered the frames with, enoch, after mr. taylor of marsden. george saw i did not like the work, and the distance of my home from longroyd bridge made a good excuse for me. but 'siah gloried in the work and when i saw him of a morning dull-eyed and weary and his clogs dirty with fresh clay i guessed what he had been at, and so in time did martha too. but i could not always shirk my share of this midnight work, little, as it was to my liking. 'siah had brought an earnest, message to me from george. "yo' mun go, ben. th' lads are talking," 'siah had said. and so, after milking time one night in the first week in april i told my mother i must go down to th' brigg, and she must not be uneasy if i did not come home that night, as i should probably stay at my aunt's; and my mother must needs send by me a basket of eggs and a cream cheese for her sister, and a rubbing bottle for her rheumatism with full directions for its use. i saw a look pass between martha and mary when i said i was going to th' brigg, and mary said: "mind yo' don't bring a black eye home wi' thee, i' th' mornin', ben. but if th' art so set up wi' thissen for feightin', do it by daylight. it's ill wark that winnot bear th' sun's face," and then i knew martha had been talking. but i reckoned not to understand her, and off i set with as poor a heart for my job as if i were going to be hanged. up by kitchen fold i came up with 'siah and soldier jack. it was a darkish night, wet, drizzling and cold. we made off over by crosland moor, and never a soul did we meet till we were falling into milnsbridge where justice radcliffe's house was. then we passed a patrol of horse. they challenged us, and each of us had to tell a different lie. but they had no ground for stopping us, and they went their way over the moor, their horses pacing slowly and the riders peering on either side into the darkness of the night. i never knew those horse soldiers one bit of use all the time, and with their loose ways they did much harm. those that had a tale which could pass muster would walk past them bold as brass. those that couldn't face them just avoided them, which was easy enough whether by day or night, for stone fences are good for men to hide behind, and at the best it is a hard country for men on cavalry horses. at the nag's head, at paddock, we found george mellor, william smith, thorpe, ben o' buck's, his brother john, tom brooke, bill hall, and two or three others who worked at wood's. we had a glass apiece, and we needed it, or thought we did, which comes to the same thing in the end. these new-fangled teetotal fads hadn't come in then, and when folk didn't drink it was because they couldn't get it. anyhow a glass of hot rum and water, on a perishing night, warms the cockles of your heart, and for my part i should have been well content to stretch my legs before the big kitchen fire at the nag's head and caress my stomach with another glass. but george was impatient for us to be off. so we up paddock, by jim-lane to the bottom of marsh. there is a two-storied stone house there looking over to gledholt, with a mill at the back of it. i knew the owner by sight well enough, a little spindle-shanked man, with a squeaky voice. i had seen him many's the time at the cherry tree. fond of his glass he was, and a great braggart when warmed with liquor. he was a foremost man in the watch and ward, and i had heard him boast oft enough of what he would do if the luddites ever came his way. so i sniggered a bit to myself when we came on to the road in front of the house. the windows were all dark in front. we went up the house side to the mill yard. here was a door barring the way into the yard. "give us a leg up, ben," whispered thorpe, and over the top of the door he went, dropping heavily, and with a curse, on the other side. "did ta think aw were a cricket ball?" we heard him say. "throw us a hammer." then there was a sharp blow or two, the rattle of a chain, the angry yapping of the yard dog. the door fell open on one lunge, and in we pushed pell mell. we could see a light spring out of the darkness in the chamber window, and we began to bray at the kitchen door. someone had fetched the dog a crack with a stick, and it had limped whining and growling into its kennel. "open the door," cried george. a bedroom window was opened about half-an-inch, and a piping voice, all tremulous, faltered, "what mean you, good gentlemen? what is your will? for heaven's sake go away quietly. the ward are on their rounds. they may be here any minute. my missus is shouting for them out o' th' front window. go home to bed, good masters, and i'll never tell." "go stop her mouth, and come down and let us in. quick now, or it will be worse for you," said george, sternly. we waited a while, only giving a reminder by a hammer tap on the door panels and breaking a window or two out of sheer mischief. then there was the fumbling at a chain, the bolt shot in its socket, and the kitchen door was opened. and there in the kitchen, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, stood little mr.------(i won't tell his name, for he was a worthy man, only with words bigger nor his heart) in his shirt, his pipe shanks all bare, and his knees knocking together quite audibly. well! it was a cold night. say it was the cold. and his hand that held the metal candlestick shook so, the tallow guttered all down the candle side, making winding sheets. at the bottom of the steps leading upstairs, i caught a sight of a vinegar-faced woman in night-dress and a filled cap. the remains of the supper were on the table, a very frugal supper, some cheese and haver bread. an empty pitcher was on the table. george thorpe got another candlestick from the high mantlepiece and went down the cellar steps, and we heard him blowing up a spigot and coaxing a barrel, and the ale coming into the pitcher with a gurgle, like you may fancy a man would swallow if he were half-throttled. it was a lean shop, i warrant you. there was an old oak armchair by the dutch clock, and george drew it to the fire. "sit down, mr. s----," he said. "and you, mrs. s----, go back to bed and keep warm and quiet. it's no use shouting. th' soldiers are away over bi crosland moor, th' constables are over lindley way. you'll only catch a cold and spoil your sweet voice. but mind you, no noise, or i'll send a man to keep you company. and now, mr. s our business is with you." poor mr. s----. i smile even yet as i write of him. he trembled so, the rails rattled in the chair, and kept looking this way and that, and jumping at every movement. and yet how he used to strut about the cherry tree yard, cursing the ostler, and cuffing the boys that pestered him for pence. "you have some of the finishing frames in the shed there?" said george. "y-e-e-s, good mr. ludd, y-e-e-s, but only little ones." "how many?" "one, or mebbe two." "how many more?" "well, mebbe three or four." "how many men have you sacked lately?" "a two or three." "and how many more?" "well, mebbe a score." "and how are they living?" "i dunnot know." "and their families?" "my missus gi'es 'em summot to eit whenever we'n more nor we can eit oursen?" "haven't yo' a pig?" "ay, well when th' pig's fed of course." "yo're one o' th' watch an' ward. where's your staff?" "by th' looking glass there, with th' lash an' comb; oh! dear, oh! dear." john walker pocketed the constable's staff. "where's your gun?" "i' th' chamber." "fetch it, no. 20." and soldier jack hopped up the stairs, and we heard a shrill shriek and a cry of "murder! thieves!" and then jack limped down again, whilst mrs. s---stood at the stair-head and hurled threats and bad language at his back. "where's th' key o' th' mill door," went on george, as cool as if he were eating his dinner. "oh! dear, oh! dear, you surely winnot harm th' frame's. they'n cost me a hundred and fifty pound apiece, an' i owe to th' bank for 'em yet." "the key, the key." then from a drawer in the dresser he drew the big, heavy key. "no. 22, 23, 25. do your duty." and john walker, thorpe and bill smith stalked across the mill yard with a lantern. the dog sprung at his chain again, poor animal. there was the creaking of the lock. then after a pause a voice from the dark sounded: "stand clear, bill," and bang, came the hammer, crash went wood and iron, and the costly frames were wrecked beyond repair. poor mr. s-groaned as if his heart were breaking, and his wife at the stair head gave a shriek every time the hammer fell. "and now," said george, producing a horse-pistol, "but one thing remains. here is a bible. you must swear never to make complaint of what has been said or done this night, lest worse befall you." "oh, yes, mr. ludd, i'll swear. i'll swear anything only go leave us. oh! my poor frame's! and if i don't die of rheumatism after this night, it'll be a miracle." "and to take back the men you have sacked?" "yes, yes." "and never more to put up machines to take the bread out of honest men's mouths?" "never, never, so help me god. oh! do go, good mr. ludd." and go we did; but not before george had very politely gone to the foot of the stairs and drunk out of the pitcher to mrs. s----'s health, and said how sorry he was that business had compelled him to pay his respects to so worthy a lady so late at night. then we hurried off, over the fields, into gledholt wood, where we took off our masks, and went by different ways to the nag's head. now could you believe that the very next market day i saw mr. s---at the market dinner. he was telling to a group of listeners how he had been roused in the night by the crash of machines, how he had jumped out of bed, seized his flint lock carbine, rushed down the steps into the mill yard, laid low one of the gang with the stock of his weapon, being anxious to avoid bloodshed, and the whole thirty or forty had fled before him carrying off their wounded, but not alas! till his machines had been broken. it must have been some other night. but mr. s---kept his promise. he put up no more frames, even when the troubled times were half forgotten and the luddites no more a terror. perhaps he had difficulties with the bank. but that is ahead of my tale, for i have not done yet with the night we broke the poor man's frames. going down from marsh to the foot of paddock, ben walker must need fasten himself on to me, though with half an eye he might have seen, even in the dark, that i wanted none of his company. but he linked his arm in mine, and put on that fawning way of his that fair made my flesh creep. "and how's thi father, ben, and yor good mother an' all the friends at holme?" it was in my mind to tell him none the better for his asking, but remembered in time that civility costs nought, and so made him as civil an answer as i could fashion. "and how's mary, sweet sonsy mary?" he went on, taking no note of what i was saying about my father's touch of asthma, which was plaguey bad at the back end of the year. it was just sickening to have him mouthing her name as if he were turning a piece of good stuff on his tongue, so i answered him short enough. "yo cannot tell, ben, how my heart warms to mary and to you, ben, for mary's sake, and to all that's kin to her, even to the third and fourth generation," he added, after a pause, to make it more solemn and convincing like. "aw'm sure we're much obliged to you," i said; "but yo'n a queer way o' showing your liking." "yo mean leaving her when long tom was so unmannerly. it isn't like thee, ben, to bear malice nor to cast up things in a friend's face. let byegones be byegones. aw know aw'm not a warrior, ben. aw'st never set up to be a man o' wrath. we'n all our failings, ben, an' feightin's noan my vocation, that's flat." "well, say no more about it," i said. "let's talk o' summot else. it's lucky for mary she's got somebody to stick up for her that'll noan turn tail an' leave her to do her own feightin'." "meaning thissen, ben; aw heard about th' setting down tha gave long tom." "nay, aw weren't thinking o' missen," i said, "tho' yo' may count me in. but it's no business o' thine. talk o' summot else, aw say." "but it is a concern o' mine, ben. it touches me quick does ought 'at touches mary. how would ta' like me for a cousin-i'-law?" "a what?" i said. "a cousin-i'-law. aw reckon that's what aw should be if aw wed mary." "thee wed mary!" i cried, half vexed but tickled withal "thee! why, ben, lad, if aw know ought of a woman she wouldn't look th' side o' th' road tha'rt on. besides she's noan for thee, ben." "happen she's bespoke nearer home?" he said. "aye, nearer thi own home," i said, for george and walker lived not so far off each other. "what, george mellor?" he cried. "aye, george mellor," i said, and strode on faster and would have said no more. and if i said more than my knowledge warranted me, i spoke no more than i deemed to be true. "nay, ben, dunnot be angered wi' me. it's no shame to anyone to lose his heart to such a lass as mary. aw know tha's set agen me, ben. aw know aw'm noan fit for her; an' if it comes to that where will ta find th' man that is?" i never liked ben walker half so much in my life, or i'd better say i never disliked him half so little as just at that moment, for false as he was and mean, one glimmer of truth and nobleness he had about him, and that was his love for mary. and yet it galled me to have him speak of mary at all. but he would not have done. "aw could do well by her," he said. "better nor yon fine spark we call general. why, man, his head's full of nonsense, just pack full. all about the rights o' man, and reform and striking down the oppressors of the poor. as if such as him can do owt! we're all melling wi' things too big for the likes o' us, ben, an' fools as we all are, george is the biggest o' th' lot, for he hasn't sense enough to know he is a fool." now there was just enough in this to make it sting the keener. so i pulled up short and said: "if that's your opinion about george, go tell him so thissen. an' if yo've ought more to say about our mary go say it to hersen. yo'll get your answer straight." and i spoke so rough any other man would have flared up; but ben walker could swallow more dirt when it suited his purpose nor any man i ever came across. "oh! it's easy enough for thee to talk, ben bamforth," he said. "tha cares nowt about her. aw thowt happen tha did. an' yet aw might ha known different. come to think on it, yo'd eyes t'other neet for nobbudy but faith booth. an' yo'll find her willing enough, an' one man's meat's another man's poison. a pawky ailing wench, but if yo' fancy her it's everything. aw wish yo' luck, ben, aw do indeed." "ha' done with yo," i cried in anger. "faith booth's as much aboon me as our mary is aboon you. and never speak again to me about such things as this. i want no secrets from you, and i'll tell none to you. we're in th' same boat as far as this business we're on to-night goes, but beyond that we've nought in common; and so, ben walker, without offence, give me as wide a berth as i'll give thee." and i fairly ran off and left him. in the kitchen of the nag's head, george mellor and soldier jack and some score or more of those who had joined the brotherhood, mostly men of the neighbourhood, but some from heckmondwike and liversedge way, others from outlane and the nook, were already in warm debate. the fire was roaring in the grate, pipes had been lighted, pewters filled, and the buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter filled the low room. george was in great fettle that night. he was always best and brightest in action. indeed he had much to put his head up. he was obeyed, without question, by many a hundred men; all bound together by a solemn oath, who had implicit trust in him. the military and the special constables were only our sport. they were never any serious hindrance, at first, to anything we took in hand. the mill owners were in fear for their machines, and would rather any night pay than fight. and for the great mass of the people, those who had to work for their living, they believed in general ludd. in some way they could not fathom nor explain the luddites were to bring back the good times, to mend trade, to stock the cupboard, to brighten the grate, to put warm clothes on the poor shivering little children. it is not much the poor ask, only warmth and food and shelter, and a little joy now and then. they are very ready to listen to anyone who will promise them this, and if they do not see exactly how it is all to come about, are they the only ones who mistake hope for belief? and george liked the people's trust. when an old hag stopped him in the road and praised his bonny face and bid him be true to the poor, anyone could see the words were sweet to him, and he would empty his pocket into her skinny, eager hand. and he liked too the sense of powers. to command, to be obeyed, to be trusted, to be feared--by your enemies who does not like it? find me the man who says he doesn't and i'll find you a liar. where george got his money from to treat as he did i don't know. he nearly always had money with him, and when he hadn't he had credit with the landlord. we never stinted for ale on the nights we were out on such jobs as that at marsh, and this night was no exception. and his good humour was shared by all of us. those who had been up to marsh had to tell the tale to those who hadn't, and there were roars of laughter as soldier jack showed the scratches left on his face by the sharp nails of mrs. s----. "we're winning all along the line," george cried. th' specials is fleyed on us. they take care to watch an' ward just where they know we're not. th' soldiers don't like their job. it's poor work for lads o' mettle hunting starving croppers. th' people are with us. but we must strike a decisive blow that will once and for all show our purpose and our power. every frame in the west riding must be broken into matchwood; every master must learn that he has resolute and united men to reckon with. let us once show our strength, and we will not rest till things are bettered for all of us. but we must strike a blow that will be felt the length and breadth of the land. it is baby work that we have been on to-night. we must go for the leaders of the masters, for those who hearten up such men as s----, of marsh, the men who have both the brains and the pluck, curse 'em, not for the sheep who follow the bell-wether. "cartwright, of rawfolds," cried a liversedge man. "horsfall, of ottiwell's," said a marsden cropper. and then men laid aside their pipes and drained their pewters. and a man was set at the door to see no strangers entered, and we saw to the fastening of the shutters, and that no clink made a spy-hole into the room. and those who spoke hushed their voice, and those who listened strained an anxious ear. it was no child's play now. "taylor's have sent out a big order of finishing frames for cartwright," said one marsden man. "aye, and cartwright swears he'll work them if not another mill owner in england dare," said william hall, of parking hole. "i like his mettle," said george. "that cartwright is a game cock, and we must cut his comb or he'll crow over th' lot on us. if we can only settle such as him, we'st have no bother wi' th' others. na, lads, my mind's made up. yo' all know what this cartwright is doing. aw've nowt agen him except th' machines. if we let him put up those frames he's ordered, and work 'em, we might as well chuck up. one encourages t' other, and if one succeed another will, nay must, follow suit." "there's nowt to choose between him an' horsfall," said the marsden man. "aw cannot tell what's come over horsfall. he allus used to be a decent master till this new craze came up. but naa' he talks o' nowt but machines, machines. an' th' way he raves on about th' luddites is enough to mak' a worm turn. if he's not lied on he said t' other day at th' market that he'd ha' his own way i' th' mill if he had to ride up to his saddle girths i' luddite blood." "well, well," said george with an ugly gleam in his eye; "horsfall can wait. what do you say, ben?" "aye, horsfall can wait," i said, and would have said more if need were, for i shrunk from having part or parcel in any attack on ottiwell's. "well there's an easy way to settle it," said william hall. "let's toss up." "aye, that's fair enough," said several voices. "heads for horsfall, tails for cartwright." and so it was settled. i live again that moment of my life. forty years roll away as though they had not been, and clear and vivid i see the group of eager men gathered round the hearth, with george erect and masterful in the centre. "who'll call for cartwright?" said george. "that will i," said hall. "then here goes," and george balanced a penny on his thumb and forefinger. "cry before it drops," he said, and span the coin in the air. "tail," said hall, and every man held his breath as george tossed the coin and caught it. he had to stoop over the fire to see the face of the coin after he caught it. "tail it is," he said, and thrust the penny into his fob. "by jinks i'm fain," said hall. "aw owe the b-----one, and now aw'll straighten wi' him. he'll rue the day he sacked bill hall for drinking." and for me i too was fain. for rawfolds seemed a long way off, but ottiwell's was close by home. "we'n got our work set," said george. "it mun be a reight do. cartwright sleeps in his mill every night. he has soldiers there, too, in the mill with him. the gates and doors have been strengthened. there are other soldiers billeted in the village. th' mill bell will alarm the country. but we can do it, lads, if yo' are the men i take yo' for. no flinching and we'll strike such a blow at rawfolds as will make old england ring again. and now, lads, to business." it were quite beyond me to tell all the plans we made that night. we fixed saturday the 11th of april for the job, and a man called dickenson promised to let his mates on that side know our arrangements. we were to meet at the dumb steeple by the three nuns at eleven of the night. there were to be men from liversedge, heckmondwike, gomersall, birstall, cleckheaton, and even from leeds; and on our side we promised a full muster. soldier jack was to see that everyone was warned, and such arms as could be begged, borrowed or stolen were to be got together. the boys were keen enough for work, and nothing doubted of success. we had had it all our own way up to now, and who was cartwright that he should check us? it was in the small hours when we stole out into the raw morning air, taking our several ways homewards. i had not far to go, for i was to sleep with george at the brigg. "i'm glad it fell on cartwright," i said to my cousin, as we doffed our things that night. "aw thought tha would be," said george. "it wer' a weight off me when it fell tails," i added. "but it were a head," said george with a quiet smile. "a head!" "aye, a head. but i knew tha wanted tails, so i turned it i' my palm when i stooped o'er th' fire." and yet men talk about fate. chapter vii. you may be sure such doings as those of which i have written were country's talk. people talked about nothing else. wherever you sent you heard of misery and want and of the men who were banded together to fight the masters. and the luddites had the approval of the people. i mean the general run of the people. not, of course, everybody. mr. chew, the church parson, was very bitter against them, and warned his congregation against them, and all those who loved darkness rather than light. but the working men, even those whose own handicraft was not threatened by the new frames, favoured the luddites. i remember that in may of that year a poor woman at berry brow, that was thought to have given some information to mr. radcliffe, was nearly torn to pieces by her neighbours. her skull was fractured by a stone. perhaps because the luddites felt secure in the general approval their secrets were ill kept. i do not know how it came about, but at holme i was soon made aware that i was well regarded. when i went to chapel at the powle, people made way for me as though i were somebody, and the women folk, in particular, took care i should know i stood well with them. if my father and i stopped to swap the news of the day with our friends and neighbours, and the talk turned on the great questions of the time, men would look to me to know what i had to say, and my words would be quoted from house to house as they had never been quoted before. who blabbed? i don't know. not i, in very truth. 'siah, i suspect, to martha. for me, i hated most genuinely the secrecy and underhandedness of the thing. i hated to slink about in the dark, to drop behind a hedge when i heard the fall of a horse's foot, the rattle of a scabbard, or the champing of a bit. i hated to put on a mask and a smock, and to steal about with my heart in my mouth, and i hated more than all to turn aside my face from the mute questioning of my mother's eyes. once there was questioning that was not mute. it was a sunday evening, about the time of the meeting at the nag's head. we had been to chapel, and mr. webster was home with us to supper. john booth and faith were there. the nights were lengthening, and there was a warmer breath in the air, and the cuckoo had been heard on wimberlee. after supper i had set myself to walk towards huddersfield with john and faith, and before we must start faith had said she would like me to show her the roan calf, new come, whilst martha made up a bottle of the beestings to carry home with her, so we went together into the shippon. the little straddling thing was in a corner by itself, warded off, and faith bent over it and let the ruddy little thing suck and slobber over her hand, whilst the mother with patient wistful eyes looked over her shoulder and lowed lovingly. then i must wipe faith's little hand with a wisp of hay, and i vow it was a monstrous pretty hand, white and thin, not like mary's, brown and firm and plump. and whilst i held her hand in my big palm, faith looked up to my face in the obscure light of the mistal and said very softly: "ben, you know our john is soft and easy led, not big and strong as your are. and oh! if harm come to john it would kill my father and go nigh to break my heart. and now he has secrets from me. he is anxious and ill at ease. he is no longer frank and glad, and he tells me nothing. and mrs. wright, the saddler's wife, where you know he is serving his time, tells me he is sore changed of late--stopping out to all hours, and strange men coming to their shop with letters and messages, and john whispering in corners with them as if he were plotting a murder. she says she cannot sleep o' nights for thinking of it all. and oh! ben, my heart tells me he is in danger, and what shall i do if harm befall him?" "nay, faith, lass," i said, stooping down to get a fresh wisp of hay, and maybe to hide my face from that gaze that seemed to read my thoughts too plain, "nay, faith, what harm should befall your john? you mustn't set too much store by what mrs. wright says. what if john does stop out a bit late at nights? saddlering's a confining job, and most like john needs a long walk to straighten his limbs after being at th' bench all day with his legs twisted all shapes like a turk. an' yo're never sure, yo' know, faith, o' young folk, even th' quiet 'uns. perhaps your john's doing a bit o' courting." "ah! ben, if i could think it were only that. for well i know if john were cour--; were doing what you say, you'd be like enough to know of it." now how should that be i wondered, but said nothing, only too glad to think i had set her thoughts on a false scent. "but it isn't that, ben. speak low. no one must hear us. i know john has a warm heart, and one that feels for the poor. and he is always reading and talking and thinking of politics and the doings of the parliament men, and sometimes the things he says take my breath away. and mrs. wright says--oh! ben, how can i tell it you?--that she sadly fears our john has taken up with th' luddites an' is going about the country with th' constables on his track, an' maybe th' soldiers watching him, an' some night he'll never come back and my father's grey hairs will be brought with sorrow to the grave." "mrs. wright's a cackling old fool," i said; but faith went on. "and, oh, ben, she says that it's all george mellor's doing. she says george will lead him to the gallows, and many a mother's son beside. it's awful to hear the things she says about george. i'm sure they aren't true. i'm sure george would never do anything that wasn't noble and good and true. i've always comforted myself with that. whatever it is, i've said to myself, if george has ought to do with it, it must be right. if it's right for george, it's right for john. i told mrs. wright so, though i don't like talking of these things, but she angered me so." "well, and what did the old beldame say to that?" "oh, shocking things. th' best she could find to say for him was that he wer' a conceited puppy that thowt he could set th' world to rights by talking big. but she thinks the world o' thee, ben--a steady, proper, young man, she called yo', wi' his head screwed on right, and not stuck full o' stuff an' nonsense, like george. she said she'd warrant yo'd sense enough to mind your own business, and those that had more had no sense. so, ben, i want yo' to promise me to say a word to john. he'll mind yo' if he won't me. he's all th' brother i have, ben, and oh! my heart mistrusts me, there's trouble coming, and i know not whence nor how." i had put the lanthorn on the bin and faith had both her hands in mine, and her pale, sweet face was turned up to mine, and she looked at me with eyes that were wet with tears, and her low sweet voice trembled and caught in a sob. i never was in such a fix in my life, and i found no way out of it by cursing mrs. wright in my mind for a meddlesome old harridan, though as decent a woman as ever lived. "and now, ben," pleaded faith, "you see what trust we all have in you. not but what i have trust in george, too, and i can't think what has set mrs. wright against him so. but perhaps he has overmuch spirit and pride, and it's no great fault in a man, is it? but you will speak to john, won't you, ben, and warn him not to break his father's heart, and to mind what he does and says." and just then, the mistal door flung open and mary came in, and i still had faith's hand in mine. "oh! i'm sure, i'm sorry if i intrude," said mary, "but i thought you'd come to show faith th' new calf." "and so i did." "it seems to me more like you were telling her her fortune," said mary in a very waspish way which she could put on very quick when she was not pleased. "but john's waiting for yo', and mi uncle says yo're to excuse ben setting yo' home tonight, he has summot to say to him while mr. webster's here. it's a pity, for happen if he walked home wi' yo' by moonlight, he might ha' seen to your fortin coming true." "for shame o' thissen, mary," i said angrily. "nay dunnot take on, faith; it's only mary's spiteful way. nobody heeds her." and i turned to go into the house. "and you promise, ben," cried faith, after me. "aye, i'll mind me, faith; i'll mind me." "i declare, faith," i heard mary say, "these may be town ways, colloguing wi' strangers i' th' dark. but we're none used to 'em at holme. yo' might be a pair o' luddites, such carryings on." it was easy enough to see something more than common was troubling our folk. my father was sat in his chair by the fireside, but his pipe lay discarded on the table, and his ale was untasted in the pewter. my mother was rocking nervously in her chair, and she was creasing and smoothing her silk apron as she only did when she was what she called "worked up," and little mr. webster first crossed his left leg over his right knee, and then his right leg over his left knee, and mopped his brow with his handkerchief as though it were the dog days. "the murther's out," i thought, for something told me what was coming. "sit you down, ben," said my father. "and put th' sneck on the door," said my mother. "i declare what wi' folk fra huthersfelt an' what wi' folk fra low moor, this house is getting waur nor lee gap, an' yo' never know who'll come next, nor when to call your house your own." now this was unlike my mother, who was not one to welcome people to their face and back-bite them when they were gone, like i have known some do. i put down the sneck and sat me down on the settle and waited. "mr. webster's been talking, to us, ben," said my father very gravely. "and blind as a bat i've been not to see it misen," snapped my mother. "talking to us about yo', ben," father went on, "and very kind and friendly of him we take it, and it explains a many things i've wondered at more nor a little. only last market day i met mr. horsfall i' th' cloth hall, and i said 'any more news o' th' luddites, mr. horsfall,' and he snapped out summot about it not being his way to carry coals to newcastle. aw wondered what he meant, but it's plain enough now what he were driving at." plain enough. but i must make a show of some sort, so i said: "perhaps yo'll make it plainer, father." "well, mr. webster, and i'm sure we thank you kindly and know it's well and neighbourly meant, and only what we should have looked for from you, mr. webster,--mr. webster says folk are talking about you, ben, and that our house, this very house i were born an' bred in, is known an' watched for a meeting place of th' luddites. mr. webster says he's had a hint or two from more nor one that's like to know 'at would be sorry to see a decent family that always held its head up an' paid its way, brought to trouble and maybe disgrace by carryings on that's agen the law an' cannot be justified. but there, mr. webster, aw'm a poor talker, tell him yersen, an' let him answer yo' if he can." "i'm' not at liberty to say who my informant was, ben," said mr. webster. "but briefly the matter is this. one of my deacons"... my thoughts flew, i know not why, to buck walker, ben's father--"asked me privately this morning if i knew whether it was true, that you and george mellor were strongly suspected of being of the party that broke into mr. s----'s mill at marsh. and others, too, have hinted at the same thing, and one of my brothers who labours in the lord's vineyard at milnsbridge says that it is common talk in those parts that george mellor and his cousin from slaithwaite way are the head and front of the grave doings that now distract the country and add crime and violence to poverty and hunger." "drat that george mellor, that ever i should live to say so of my sister's son. and him coming here so much of late and making him welcome to the best of everything, nothing too good for him, and couldn't be more done by if he were my own son. as is nothing but right by your own sister's son, and him wi' a stepfather that would aggravate a saint. who'd ha thowt it o' george, leading yar ben, that wouldn't harm a flea an' scarce pluck to say boo to a goose, into all maks o' mullock, an' dragging decent women out of their bed by th' hair o' th' head, an' goodness only knows what beside. but i'll lock thee in this very night wi' mi own hands, and out o' this house tha doesn't stir fra sunset to sunrise, or my name's not sarah bamforth. an' let george show his face here again if he dare. an' so nicely as i had it all planned out too. aw made no doubt he wer' companying that pale faced lass o' parson booth's, an' a rare catch for her aw thowt it would be to have a fine, handsome, well-set-up young man i' th' family that would bring some blood an' bone into th' breed, as it's easy to see their father's had all run to furin gibberish an' book learning, so at he'd none to give his own childer, poor warmbly things." thus my mother. "well, ben, has ta nowt to say for thissen?" said my father, not angrily, but with an unspoken reproach in his voice: and my conscience smote me sore. "you see, ben," said mr. webster, perhaps noticing my silence and to give me time to gather my thoughts. "you see, ben, a young man like you is scarcely his own master. if you had been 'siah, now, it would have been different. a decent man is your servant, brother bamforth, and helps my infirmity mightily when he lights me home of a dark night, a decent man though with still a strong leaven of the old adam and much given to the vanities of the flesh and idle conversation. but 'siah is his own master though your man. his family is under his own hat. he has neither kith nor kin, that he knows of, and he stands, so to speak, on his own bottom. but you, ben, are your father's son, and what you may do, be it for good or be it for evil, must reflect on your father's name and on this honoured house." ah! there was the rub. it was the thought of that had given me many a sleepless night, and made black care walk daily by my side. "cannot ta speak, man?" my mother cried. "are ta going to sit theer as gaumless as th' town fool, wi niver a word to throw at a dog. who yo' breed on aw cannot tell, not o' my side. it's not his bringing up, mr. webster, it's the company he's fallen into lately." but what to say i could not think. all sorts of old proverbs came into my head--"a little word's a bonny word," "least said, soonest mended," and so on. i loved my mother. i honoured my father. i revered mr. webster. but my secret was not my own; there was, too, that terrible oath. i wished for the thousandth time that i had had nought to do with the luds: and there were the three faces turned to me, all question, and waiting for me to find speech to answer. "father," i said at length, "have you ever known me tell you a lie?" "never, ben," he said with hearty emphasis. "would you have me begin now?" "tha knows better." "then ask me no questions, father, for the truth i may not tell, and lies i would not. that i am in great trouble you all can see. that i will seek to so bear my trouble that it shall touch only myself, you must trust me. god knows it grieves me to seem wanting in respect or confidence where respect and confidence should need no asking, but in this matter i must tread my own path, for i cannot turn back and yet i dread to go forward. press me no more, for if you do, i must leave home and that now. i thank you, mr. webster, that you have spoken to my parents. this was bound to come, and i have feared it more than ought either mr. radcliffe or any on 'em can do. and now, my say's said, an' with your good leave, i'll bid you a fair good night." and i lit my candle, and stooping over, kissed the cheek which my mother for the first time in my life did not offer to me, and went slowly and heavily to bed. long after i had drawn the clothes over me, i heard the murmur of conversation below, and when the morrow came i had not long to wait before i knew the upshot of the anxious debate that had lasted long after the usual time for bed. i had gone into the mistal, where i knew i should find 'siah. my father it seemed had risen earlier than usual. 'siah was grooming old bess, sissing over her flanks with much vigour, and prodding her loins with the comb with many a "stand over, lass," "whoa," "will ta?" and much make-believe that the old mare was a mettlesome beast, full of fire and vice, whereas in sooth a quieter animal never was shod. "yo're agate early this morning, 'siah," i said; "what's up?" "nay that's what caps me, ben summut's up, certain sure. thi father fot me out o' bed awmost afore aw'd shut mi een. 'tha mum fettle bess up an' see to th' gears' he said, 'we'st be off for macclesfilt as soon as we can mak' a load.'" "to macclesfilt? why there's no fair on this time o'th year, 'si. tha must ha' been dreamin'." "it's a dream at's fetched th' sweat on me, if it were a dream. aw'm noan gi'en to dreams 'at fetch me out o' bed i' th' middle o' th' neet. but dream or no dream we're off in a day or two, choose how. tha'll be going too, ben." "what do yo' make on it, 'si?" "why it's plain as th' nose on thi face. we're none bahn to sell pieces, for there's nobody got any brass to wear. an' aw reckon thi father's noan so weel off 'at he can afford to give 'em away. so if it isn't for business it mun be for pleasure or happen for health. p'r'aps it's for thy health, ben. tha looks delikit, tha great six feet o' beef an' bacon. a change o' air will do thee good." "tha knows well enough, 'si, i cannot go away just now, not before next saturday. yo' know what's fixed for next saturday." "aw know weel enough, an' more the reason for a change o' air, say i." "what 'si, turn traitor and leave our comrades in the lurch?" "hard words break no bones, ben, an' i, for one, am sick o' this trolloping about hauf th' neet through; often as not weet to th' skin; an' nawther beef nor beer, nor brass nor fun in it. aw'd rayther list for a sodger gradely. it's wearin' me to skin an' bone, an' all for what aw'd like to know?" "for th' cause 'si." "damn th' cause. let th' cause shift for itsen. aw'm noan a cropper nor a weaver, nor owt but a plain teamer, an' aw tell yo' ben, we'd both be a darn sight better out o' this job nor in it." "but our oath, 'si." "promises an' pie crusts wer' made to be broken aw'n heerd yo'r mother say." "but our honour, 'si." "fine words butter no parsnips, aw'n heard mary say. besides honour's for gentlefolk. it's too fine a thing for a teamer. stand ovver, tha brussen owd wastrel!" "when do we start for macclesfield?" "happen. wednesday, happen thursday. not o' friday if aw can help, for luck. any road as soon after next market day as we can load, bi what thi father says." "well, 'si, listen to me. i've promised george i would bear a hand i' this cartwright job, an' i cannot go back o' my word. besides i've promised more nor george. i cannot tell you all, 'si, but my word's passed to stand by john booth, an' see him safe out o' this muddle; an' see him safe out of it i will if i can." "petticoats again," muttered 'siah. "after that, i promise yo, 'si, i'll be main glad to be clear of the whole business, and so i'll tell my cousin george. if machinery's to come we must find some better way of meeting it than with a sledge hammer." "ah! that's th' sensiblest word tha ever spoke, ben bamforth." "but mark, 'si, bess must not be ready to start till after saturday. yo' understand: a nail in her hoof or a looseness i' th' bowels, i leave it to thee, 'si. but leave here till after saturday i won't, an' neither will yo', if yo're th' man i take thee for!" "a wilful man mun have his way. go to thi baggin', ben. don't let 'em see us talkin' together. aw understand thee, an' tha'st have thi way; but after saturday a team o' horses shan't drag me a foot after george mellor, an' there's my davy on it." and 'siah crossed two fingers and spat over them, and that i knew to be more binding on 'si than any bible oath. so i turned to go, much relieved and easier in my mind now i had shaped a clear course. but 'siah had not quite done. "hauf a minnit, ben. it had welly slipped mi mind. has mary said owt to thee about yon ben walker?" "no, what about him? ben o' buck's yo' mean?" "aye, t' same felly, him at run away fra long tom." "well, what on him?" "he's been after her agen." "who? tom?" "no', guise ang thee, ben o' buck's. martha tell'd me. but aw reckon he'll noan come agen in a hurry. 'oo sent him away wi' a flea in his yer 'oil, bi all accounts." "aye?" "aw cannot tell what t' ar' thinkin, on, ben. it's no bizzness o' mine, but there 'oo is, ripe an' bloomin' an' ready to be plucked. 'as ta no een i' thi yed, at tha leaves her for all th' gallus birds i' th' country to pluck at when 'oo's thine for th' askin'?" "stuff an' nonsense, 'si. we winnot talk about it. but what about walker?" "nay, aw dunnot know all th' tale. martha's ready enough to talk about some things, particular about th' iniquity o' a pint o' ale. but 'oo just gave me to understand 'at walker's popped to mary, an' mary's as cross as a bear wi' a sore ear." "tha doesn't know what she said to him, 'si? but theer aw've no right to ask, an' tha's noan to tell. maids' secrets are not for us to talk about." "aw didn't gather 'at 'oo said much. but martha said 'oo heard a smack, an' it didn't sound like th' smack o' a kiss, an' 'oo saw ben goin' down th' broo very white i' one cheek an' very red o' th' other, an' lookin as ugly as a cur that's lost a bone. so tha can draw thi own conclusions, ben, that is if thi, what d'ye call it, oh, thi honour, will let thee." and with this sarcasm, 'siah dug his head into bess's ribs and began a vigorous scrubbing that set the old mare dancing and stamping, and put an effective end to further confidences. that was a gloomy week at our house. mary was as contrary as contrary could be, my mother was sad and tearful, my father glum and stern. he told me that if it was all the same to me he intended going to macclesfield in a day or two, and bade me write to some of our customers there and by the way. but i knew that it was a needless journey, and taken only to get me out of harm's way. i dared not say i would go after saturday, for fear of starting enquiries as to my reasons for delay. so i merely said i should be ready when he was, and that seemed to cheer him a bit. i dreaded meeting my cousin george, but i knew it had to be done. my mind was fully made up to tell him i could not continue by his side in this organized attack on machines i had been busy thinking the matter out. the objection to machinery was that, it displaced human labour. well, i argued, a scythe is a machine, so is a pair of scissors. if i proposed to do away with the scythe at hay time and clip our three acre field with my mother's scissors, everyone would think me a lunatic. the more i thought of that illustration the more i liked it, and i wondered how george would get over it. but, somehow, as i walked down, to the brigg to have my talk with george, i got less and less comfort from my logic the nearer i drew to huddersfield. george was at home and fortunately we were not interrupted. he was in a towering rage, and i could not have found a worse time for my errand. "yo're just the man i wanted to see, ben," he said. "i feel i must talk to somebody and let th' steam off a bit. but somebody'st smart for this. an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth th' old book says, an' a blow for a blow too, say i. aye, by god, a blow for a blow, a hundred blows for one, insult for insult, outrage for outrage, and ruin for oppression. the proud insolence of the man! am i a dog that i should bear this thing? answer me that, ben bamforth." "whatever's up, george?" i asked. "do sit thee down and talk quiet and sensible. an' quit walking an' tearing up an' down like a tiger in a cage. one would think th'd lost thi wits, an' i particler wanted a quiet talk." "quiet, aye, yo'd be quiet if somebody cut thee across th' face wi' a whip. listen here. aw'd been up to linfit, an' were comin' quiet as a lamb along th' road back to th' cropping shop. an' just above th' warren house, by radcliffe's plantation, tha' knows, wer' a woman about thirty year old, crouched agen th' wall. i could see a pair o' men's shooin sticking out fra underneath her skirt, and it's my belief 'oo'd nowt on her but just that skirt an' an old thin black shawl. neither sock nor shift, an' it's none too warm o' neets yet. she wer' crying and moanin' an' rocking hersen to an' fro', swaying her body back'ards and for'ards, an 'oo'd a bundle o' summat in her arms lying across her breast, an' 'oo strained it to her and made her moan. her face were pale as death, an' her cheek bones seemed high an' sharp, an' th' skin drawn tight as a drum across 'em. an' her eyes were sunk in her yed, but black an' wild an' staring. an' her lips were thin and bloodless, an' there was a line of blood upon 'em as tho' she bled, an' her arms and hands were thin and skinny. aw didn't know her, but aw stopped to see what ailed her. she wouldn't, talk for a bit; she'd do nowt but moan. an' then 'oo told me she'd been down to huddersfielt to see th' relieving officer. her husband wer' a cropper. he'd been thrown out o' work. his master'd put in two frames, an' he had to leave. he's down wi' th' rheumatic fever. they'd nowt to eat, an' nowt to sup. 'oo'd been sucklin' th' babby, an' as time went on she'd no milk in her breasts for th' little one. 'oo'd fed it for days by soaking a rag i' warm milk an' water an' lettin' it suck at that. but th' little thing had pined and pined, crying an' wailin' and, o' a night, pressin' its little mouth to her dry breasts an' drawin' nowt but wind. an' then it had th' convulsions, an' she had to leave her man ravin' i' th' fever an' hug th' brat to huddersfield, an' there they'd nowt for her, an' 'oo must back agen wi' nother bite nor sup between her lips an' nowt the better for her tramp. she oppened her shawl, an' as i'm a livin' man, there wer' th' little 'un wi' a head no bigger nor mi fist, stark dead at its mother's breast; and its eyes starin' an' starin' an' its face all drawn wi' pain. it made my heart stand still, an' aw felt as if a strong man were clutchin' at my throat." "aw stood before her mute. aw couldn't speak. an' just then i heard th' sound o' a horse's trot, an' i turned round an' there wer' horsfall o' ottiwell's coming up th' road. he wer' wipin' his mouth wi' th' back o' his hand, and' aw judged he'd stopped for a glass at th' warrener. aw don't know what possessed me, but aw nipped up th' child fra' its' mother's arms an' stepped right i' th' front o' his horse it swerved, an' he swayed in his saddle." 'damn you, mind where yo're walking,' he said. 'stand aside and leave the road free, yo' drunken tramp.' "but aw stood stock still i' th' front o' his mare, an' aw held up th' child aboon th' horse's head an' i thrust it right to his face." 'look at thi work, william horsfall; look at thi work, an' be glad,' i cried. "th' horse reared a bit, an' he leaned over its shoulder an' peered, for it wer' gettin' dark. aw thrust th' poor mite close to his jowl, an' aw heard him catch his breath an' saw a great start in his e'en. an' then he drew his mare on to its haunches, an' lifted his stock high in th' air, an' before aw wer' aware on him, down he brought it wi' all his might an' main reight across mi face. tha' may see th' weal. but aw didn't seem to feel it much." "'out o' mi way, you villain,' he cried, an' he dug his spur into th' mare an' she sprang on wi' a bound, an' he wer off up th' road, turning in his saddle an' shouting: 'aw marked yo' george mellor; aw marked yo', an' know yo' for what yo' are. yo'n none heard th' last o' this.'" "but aw cared nought for what he said. i gave th' wee body back to its mother an' all th' brass i had on me. and 'oo went her way and i came mine. but, as the lord's above me, that blow shall cost william horsfall dear." i hated more than ever to do my errand now, but it had to be done. my neat little argument about machines went clean out of my head. i got george quieted down after a bit. it had done him good to let him tell his tale and storm on a bit. and then, when i thought he could talk sensibly, i said: "yo' won't like my errand, george, but i've settled to tell you, an' i thought i must come straight to yo' an' tell yo' what's in my mind." "well, what is it, lad, i'm easier now i've said my say." "yo' know what's fixed for next saturday?" "i do, that, ben, an' all goes rare an' well. aw've had word that a big force fra leeds will join us near rawfolds, an' some 'll be there fra bradford an' dewsbury. th' movement's spreading, lad, it's spreading an' it's growing, an' th' time's at hand when general lud will have an army that will sweep all before it." "i shall be there, george." "why, of course tha' will, ben. you an' 'siah must lead the hammer men. those doors o' cartwright's will stand some braying, but yo' an' 'siah can splinter his panels an' burst his locks, aw'm thinking." "i shall be there, george, for my word's passed. but after that night--yo' must do without me." "do without thee, ben? tha'rt none bahn to duff? tha'll noan turn tail, ben? why victory's at hand, man. one blow and the game's our own. tha'rt joking, ben." "aw never were more i' earnest, george. and it hurts me to tell thee. yo' know what store i set on yo', george. we've been more like brothers nor cousins, an' tha knows, tho' aw'm not clever like thee an' high mettled, aw'm neither coward nor traitor. aw've tried to think as yo' think, george, an' to see as yo' see. aw know it's all true tha says about th' sufferings o' th' poor; an' what's to become o' th' working folk when more an' more machines come up, aw cannot tell. but we're on a wrong tack, george. enoch's none going to stop machinery. th' mesters are stubborn, an' they're english, too. we may break a thousand frames, an' clear every machine out of every mill an' shop in england, but better ones will take their place. we cannot go on for ever wi' midnight raids an' secret meetings. the law's too strong for us, george, an' we're kicking against the pricks." "then what would yo' have us do, ben? are th' working classes to sit down wi' their hands i' their pockets an' watch their families die by inches? if yo' don't like my methods tell me better. do yo' think i like stealing about at night like a thief, or that i find any pleasure in smashing machines? if that were the be-all and end-all of our campaign, i'd have nowt to do wi' it. but it's only th' beginning, ben, only th' beginning." "and the end?" i asked. "we'll strike higher an' further. before many weeks are over i'll throw off all disguise. i'll call on every man that has a heart in his breast to join me in a march to london. we'll strike into the great north-road. we'll ransack every farm house by the way for arms and provisions. we'll take toll of every man in every town who has got rich by grinding down the poor. we'll make our presence and our power known at every hail and castle in the shires. we'll strike terror into the hearts of every aristocrat who abuses his hereditary privileges to press down and rob the poor. we'll march with swelling ranks and a purpose firmer by every step we take, till we stand, an army, at the very gates of westminster, and there we will thunder forth our claims and wring from an abject parliament the rights, without which we are driven slaves." "and have you counted the cost, george?" "aye, that i have. if we succeed, who can tell what we may not accomplish? these cruel lagging wars that keep corn beyond our reach, and are useful only to find riches and glory for the ruling families of the land, shall finish. the toiling masses of england shall clasp in friendship the hand of the uprisen people of france. we will drive from office and power those lords and landowners who for centuries have battened on the poor and used the great resources of this country, wrung from the helpless taxpayer, as their own privy purse. we will establish a parliament in which the poor man's voice will be heard. we will sound the death knell of privilege and inequality; we will herald the glorious reign of equality and righteousness. and if we fail, why then, ben, we shall have died in a glorious cause, and george mellor for one would rather shed his blood in such a cause than sit mute and consenting, a crushed and heartless unit of a people hugging its own chains. dost like the picture, ben?" "i'm with yo' george, in an open fight, tho' i seem to feel a rope round my neck as i say it. but, for heaven's sake, george, get into th' open as soon as tha' can. for aw've forgotten how to hold up mi head an' look th' market in th' face even sin' aw first put on a mask an' dodged behind a hedge at the sound of a trooper's horse. tha's cozened mi again, george. aw came to get out o' a conspiracy an' tha's nobbut pledged me to rebellion. i'm out o' th' frying pan into th' fire, wi' a vengeance. but at least i'st have mi own self respect, an' that's summot gained." "spoken like thi own self, ben, an' now lets talk o' saturday neet, an' no more looking back, an' yo' love me, lad." chapter viii. it was nigh ten o'clock of the saturday night when i slipped on my clothes, went on tiptoe across the bedroom floor into the little room where 'siah slept--how the rafters creaked!--and roused him from his deep sleep. 'siah sat up with a yawn that would have awakened any but those who slept the heavy slumbers born of honest toil and pure air, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, yawned again, thrust, a stockinged leg from under the blankets, muttered something that did not sound like a blessing, donned his trousers and his smock, and followed me, with a clumsy attempt at care, down the stairs. in the kitchen we shod our feet, 'siah in clogs, over which he drew a pair of socks, myself with thick hob-nailed boots. the dog rose from the hearth, stretched himself with a yawn, arched his back, and then lay down again with his jaw upon his fore-paw and eyes watchful from under shaggy brows. my mother had not kept her threat to lock me in o' nights, in fact i am not sure she could have done, had her will been ever so good. 'siah opened the door, motioned the dog back to its place, and we turned out into the yard, doubled the house side, and strode off down the hill. we met not a soul nor spoke a word till we came to kitchen fold, and here, by the black bull, we came upon soldier jack. he gave us a quiet greeting, almost in a whisper. he handed an axe to 'siah, and a huge sledge-hammer to myself. he showed us a pistol that he himself was to handle, and a small canvass bag of powder and ball. he fondled the weapon lovingly, and as we walked briskly along towards huddersfield, kept on cocking it at the startled birds that sprung twittering from the hedges. of watch and ward we saw no sign. there was half a moon in the sky, which was o'ercast by scudding clouds behind which she sailed, diving down as into troughs of ink, then showing a horn and riding triumphantly to the clear again, like a ship of fire in the billows of the sea. there was no rain, but the wind moaned, and save for its moan and the fall of our feet and the bark of a cur as we passed the scattered houses, and now and then a word from jack, all was very still. we did not dally in the town, for the order was that each man should make his own way to the dumb steeple, a sign well known to all of us, hard by the three nuns, on the road side, near the old convent of kirklees. as we neared the spot we saw other figures moving furtively and quickly in the same direction. some were dressed in smocks, and all had their faces part concealed, either by a mask or by a 'kerchief drawn across the lower face. one gaunt being strode on before us dressed in woman's skirts; but a pair of men's trousers, that showed at every step, and a manly stride were in ill keeping with the skirt. when we got near the steeple i put on my mask and 'siah and jack theirs. from all sides, across fields, down bye-ways, from roberttown, from hightown, men, singly and in small groups, were gathering. some were even coming out of the three nuns, where lights were showing through the lower windows. but all were curiously still. so still i gave a start when a slim form moved by my side, sprung from i know not where, and john booth's voice whispered: "i knew you by your height, ben, and the swing of your gait, and soldier jack is noan hard to tell by his limp. but here we are by th' steeple, and here should be our leader." we had not long to wait for george. he singled me out easily enough by my height, for i was a good three inches above any man there. "well in time, george. that's right, and 'siah too. give martha a buzz fra me, 'si, when tha' gets back to holme. what! soldier jack! ah! now we shall make a brave show, an' those leeds lads will know what it means to have a soldier to smarten us up." and he was here and there and in and among and seemed to have just the right word for every one, and soldier jack began at once to busy himself in seeing how each one was armed. 'siah slunk off towards the three nuns, muttering that if he had to die that night he should like to die with t' taste o' honest ale in his mouth. "come aside with me, ben," said john, when none was bye to note him. "we've a good half-hour to wait here before we start. there are not above a hundred of us here all told; and we counted on five times that number. the leeds men will meet us, or should meet us, nigher rawfolds. but bradford and dewsbury have sent a mere handful of those that should have come. george is putting a brave face on, but he's sore vexed all the same." "we've enough for th' job," i said. "if a hundred men cannot force rawfolds a thousand cannot. we'd do well to start and know our luck." "we must not start before i say my say, ben. we shall see the ranks forming from here, and i may have no other chance." "well, john lad, what is it. tha' looks as if tha'd seen a boggard." the pale light from the moon had fallen full on his face as we stood against the wall of kirklees park, a two or three hundred yards away from where the moving mass bulked large about the steeple. "don't jest to-night, ben. i cannot bear it. my heart is heavy with forebodings. i cannot, cannot shake them off, try as i will. this is my last venture, ben." "aye and mine by moonlight, john daylight or nowt, say i." "it is my last, ben. there will be sharp work at rawfolds. the mill is well garrisoned, cartwright is a bold, a resolute man. he will defend his machines at any hazard and at any cost. still you need not despair. if you can but win your way in, you may overpower him and the men he has with him. but, ben, have you thought of it? there will be bloodshed. there must be bloodshed. cartwright will not ask quarter, nor will he give it. my father knows him well. if you break down gate and door, you will find him there, pistol in hand, and he will not scruple to shoot his assailant down." "tha'rt none feart, are ta, john. tha can slip off, if tha likes. aw'll ma'e some mak' o' a story to quieten george. tha looks poorly enough for owt." "quit yo'r talking, ben. i would not turn back if i could. but, ben, this night's work will be my last. something tells me my days are numbered i do not know i need greet for that. it's a weary world, and i'st be well out on it." "yo're just talking daft," i said, but i felt somehow that he was telling truth. i could not make light of what he said, though i tried. "if i don't go back to huddersfield with you, ben, you'll find a paper at mrs. wight's, telling yo' what to do with my bits o' things. there's hume's history of england. yo've always said yo'd like to read it. mi bible's for faith, and this ring for mary, wi my love, an' give george th' silver buckles off my sunday shoon. it'll be for you to tell my father and faith. no one else must do it. promise me that." "do ho'd thi talkin, john, an' dall thee, dunnot look so solemn. i'st be angered wi' thee in a bit." i wanted to feel angry, to work myself into wrath, for i knew if this talk went on, i should soon be fit for nowt myself. "nay, ben, bear with me. faith will be a lone lass, when i am gone. she loves me, ben, with more than a sister's love. you see my mother died when i were born. i wish she were well wed, george. i should not fear leaving her if i knew she were plighted to a good man." "there's yo'r father," i said; "but what child's talk we're talking. tha'll noan fall, john; aw dunn't believe in forebodings an' such woman's fancies. it's thi liver, john. let's go back; george 'll be missing us. stick as close to me as tha can get, when we come to th' mill, an' aw'll see nobody touches thee, if i can help it." "my father's an old man," pursued booth, not heeding what i said. "an old man, wrapped in his books, and more helpless than faith herself. do you like faith, ben? i've fancied of late she turns to thee i know she trusts you and seems to lean on your strength. women like power in a man, ben, not wrecklings like me." "yo're noan a wreckling, lad. it's th' head folk measure men by, not legs an' arms." "ivy will cling to the oak, ben, for all that, an' faith's is a clinging nature. yo'll stand by her, if th' worst comes to th' worst. promise me, ben. on thi word as a man, ben, pledge me thi promise, an' i'll go to this night's work wi' a lighter heart." a whistle sounded shrill and clear from by the steeple. it was the signal to fall in. we turned to join our comrades. john held me by the hand, and his pale, thin face, with those large, soft, woman's eyes of his, was turned up to me, all entreaty. "it needs no promise, john; but if it 'll lighten thee owt an' help thee to play the man this night, there's mi hand on it. an' now put this nonsense, out o' thi head. stick close to me, all through. an' when it's ovver (end choose how it may) make straight for me or soldier jack, and we'll win home together. come, the men wait, an' our work's before us." george and thorpe and soldier jack were forming the party into companies. there might be some two hundred of us, but i never counted them. jack arranged us in the order deemed best. we were drawn up in a long line close by the steeple. the men of the first company had pistols or muskets, firearms, of any sort. they were to march first. if soldiers were about i suppose jack thought the men with firearms could drive them off if any of us could. but lord bless you! most of them couldn't have hit a hay stack at twenty yards. a few of them that had done a bit of poaching might give a better account of themselves. but, anyhow, they might fley the red-coats, and that would serve our ends just as well as shooting them. behind the shooters were drawn tip, two abreast, the hatchet men, and behind them were to march my own lads, about a score of us, big men all, either in height or breadth, and each of us slung a hammer over his shoulder. i was captain of the hammer-men, and on my shoulder i bore a mighty weapon that few could sling. behind my company was more or less of a rabble; men unarmed or with bludgeons only. what good they were, or expected to be, it would puzzle me to say. they were only in the way; but they were luds, and that was enough. soldier jack went down the line. ben walker moved by his side, carrying a lanthorn. i had not seen him till then. he looked sick and wretched. his hand trembled as he held aloft the light. jack called the roll by its rays as he moved down the line. "no. 1." "here." "no. 2." "aw'm here." "no. 3." no answer. "no. 4." "that'll be me." and so on down the line, while those who had made answer pulled their caps over their faces or fixed their masks more securely. "and now, lads," cried george. "we'll waste no time in talking. we've three good miles to rawfolds, and the night shortens. before day break our work must be done. show yourselves men but this night, and yo' bring the masters to their knees. yo' fight; for home and hearth and the right to live. if there is one among you whose heart fails him, let him step out and leave us. william hall, do you bring up the rear. if any turn tail, mark him. if yo' suspect treachery, shoot him. sam hartley, yo' know the way over hartshead, walk by my side, and we will lead the way." "and now, men, ready!" "one, two, one, two, steady!" cried soldier jack, and we beat time as he had taught us in our drill, "one, two, left, right, left, right." "forward!" cried george, and he placed himself at the head of the column, and we moved steadily on in the dark, glad of the motion, for our blood was chilled with standing, and i, for one, thought less when i was moving, and the less i thought the better i was suited. 'siah was in my company, and he, too, had a hammer, and well he knew how to use it. i took care he should not be far off me at all times. john booth was in the rear, for he could use neither axe nor hammer, and pistols he would have nought to do with. as we marched along over the moor, tramp, tramp, tramp, our feet falling pretty regular, and soldier jack sort of beating time for us by shouting "left, right, left, right." there was a bit of breeze by this, and it was none too warm, but my spirits were rising spite of john's gloomy words and little as i liked the job. every now and then george ran past me on his way down the ranks, and i could see his eye kindled and lit up with fire, for he had lost or thrown away his mask. near the white hart inn, we halted; for here, if anywhere, we should be joined by the leeds men; but there was neither sight nor sound of them. "shall aw go meet 'em an' hurry 'em up, general?" asked ben walker. "noa, tha winnot, tha'll stay here," said soldier jack, before george could reply. i saw george was a bit huffed at jack's putting his oar in so sharp, and he turned on him to say something jack mightn't have liked, but thought better of it and checked himself. "we cannot very well spare thee, ben, we mun send some'dy whose legs are more use nor his arms." "send john booth," i whispered. "why john booth?" "nivver mind, george, i'll tell thee at after; send him." "well, if it'll pleasure thee." but john booth wouldn't go. when george ordered him he flatly refused, and would only say that he had come out to fight, and not to run errands. john was a favourite with the men, who liked his pluck, and wondered often to each other such a fiery spirit was to be found in so frail a body. so they bore him out in his refusal, and a young lad from huddersfield, who had been, better at home with his mother, as indeed we should all have been, was packed off over the moor, to hurry up the laggards. i heard afterwards he met them a mile away; but when they heard the sound of musketry and our hoarse cries as we dashed at the barriers that kept us from our prey, they fair turned tail and slunk off to bed again. anyway we saw nought of them. "do yo' know where th' soldiers are billeted?" i asked george. "ay, mostly at haigh house in hightown, yonder way," he replied, pointing into the darkness. "hadn't we better send a party to engage them and cut them off?" asked jack. "there's more at millbridge yonder," said thorpe. "they're all around us. if yo' try to stop one lot coming up, why not another?" "there's summot i' that," said soldier jack; "anyway we mustn't stop shivering here. yo' mun keep 'em movin, general. there's nowt men hate worse nor waiting i' th' dark. they get fleyed at their own shadders, an' start at their own thowts. push us forward, george, an' let us get to close quarters, for every minute wasted now means a deserter." "right yo' are, soldier. aw've noticed more nor one slinking off; but aw thowt it best to say nowt," said thorpe. "then forward, men! th' leeds lot will be here in time for th' shouting. all the more glory will be ours. now forward and no more lagging." we moved on again, turning sharply down a lane that led from the moor towards the mill. we could see the buildings now, the mill itself, four stories high, with smaller buildings, the dyehouse, drying stove and such like, clustering near it. a brook ran rippling over rounded pebbles to the dam and from the goit to the great water-wheel. we could hear the water of the beck babbling when we started, but its murmur was lost in the thud of our feet as we closed on the mill. not a light was to be seen. the moon shone at moments on the windows, but no ray came from within. but smoke came in a thin stream from the long chimney, and showed that the boiler fire was banked up ready for monday's work. now we neared with quickened steps to the mill-yard, and out into the night came from within the fierce baying of the watch-dog. it hadn't bayed two minutes when a single light shone out from the counting house, and we could see it move from window to window, and other lights glowed now from other portions of the mill. the watchers within had heard the faithful hound, and were doubtless speeding to their post's and standing, to their arms. "rush for the gate, hatchets to the front!" shouted george. a band of men with hatchets sprang forward, and began to ply their weapons at the gates. "musket men line up," came the sharp command. "give them a volley at the windows. now, lads, spread yourselves. cover the windows. bullets and stones, mi lads, let 'em have it." i caught sight of booth. i seized the arm as he was hurrying past me. "stand by me, john; stand by me and 'siah. dunnot leave our side, as yo' love yo'r sister." "my place is elsewhere, ben." "stand by me, aw tell yo. 'siah, be with me. see! the outer door gives. they're in, they're in! now 'siah! follow me. come, john." i sprang forward, 'siah gave a shout like the bellowing of a mad bull. i rushed into the mill yard. the glass was falling from the frames with crash upon crash, sticks and stones were flying above our heads as we streamed forward. the volleys of musketry made their din, and now from loop holes and from windows came answering shots. we could see the streak of fire from the barrels and hear the sharp ping of the bullets as they whizzed about our heads. our men roared and roared again and yelled with frenzied cries. there were men there who could do nought but roar and yell and curse. they had only sticks and hatchets, and till the doors were down sticks and hatchets were of no avail. "way for enoch!" i cried. "'siah it's thee and me now." "way for enoch!" came a ringing cry from the roaring crowd, and the men fell aside as 'siah and i bounded to the front. the door stood staunch and true. i rushed at it with a curse and a cry and smote as i never smote before. you could hear the din of my every stroke rolling away into the emptiness of the mill within, and from the great bolt heads that studded the panels the sparks flew fast and thick as i thundered at the door. "bang up, ben!" cried the voices i knew so well. "damn the door, will it never yield?" 'siah was by my side. there was room only for us two, and above the roar of the mob, above the yells and curses and cries, above the thud of stones and the crash of falling lime and glass, above the clanging of the mill bell, above the din of gun and pistol, rang out the mighty sound of enoch's echoing thunder. with every blow that fell quivering shocks ran up my arm as the hammer dithered in my grasp, and still i pounded at the door, and still the stout timbers yielded not a jot. i wielded my maul fast and furious, but now with feebler blows, for my wind began to fail me; but 'siah pounded on calm and stolid as if he stood in the village smithy. "it's no use, ben," i heard his hoarse voice in my ear. "it's no use, aw'm feart, but we'll keep braying. howd thi strength, tha'll want it." "let's try at th' back," shouted george. "to the back, ben. there's a way in at th' back, they say." "to the back be it," i heard a voice within; "we'll be there to greet you." and that was near the last sound i heard. i fell back from the door that had stood so well our fury and looked up at the window front. i think i raised my hand to my head to wipe away the sweat that was blinding my eyes. then i was aware of a sharp burning boring pain in the muscle of my upper arm, and enoch fell with a clatter into the cobbles of the yard, and i turned sick and dizzy and faint. the crowd were rushing away from the mill front round to the back, and i tried to follow them. but my eyes had a film before them, and i reeled and swayed like a drunken man, and when i tried to lift my arm a hundred daggers seemed to dig deep into my shoulder, and my arm fell useless by my side. "he's hit! they'n hit th' mester," cried 'siah. "here, soldier, tha're wanted here. bear up, ben, tha' mustn't fall. brace thi' legs, man. by god he's wounded." and everything swam around me and i knew no more. when i came to my senses, i was, for a time, conscious only of my agony. i was stretched on a pile of straw in a lofty room with bare walls of undressed stone and great bowks and rafters crossing the arched roof. a mere slit, high up in one wall, let in a stream of light, but the corner in which i lay was almost wholly dark. someone was kneeling by my side and when i moaned in my pain an arm was passed under my head and a mug was pressed to my lips. "that's reight, ben, tha'rt better now. tak' a swig at this; it'll do thee good." it was 'siah's voice, and the brandy and water that he poured down my throat set me coughing and choking, and every cough gave me awful stabs of shooting pain. "where are we, 'si?" i murmured as i sank back again all faint and sick. "hanged if aw know, lad. but we're safe for a bit. it's som'dy soldier jack knows. we're noan far fra' fixby, that's all aw can tell thee, an' here we'st ha' to tarry till we can move thee." "an' th' mill? ha' we ta'en th' mill? where are all the boys? what am i doing lying here? oh! i mind me now. i was hit i' my arm. where's george an' thorpe, and--oh! tell me all, 'si." "tak another sup o' this an' lig quiet. tha'd best noan talk so mich. there's a caa or two i' th' mistal theer, an' if tha'll be still i'll see it i cannot squeeze a drop aat on 'em. there's been a lass milking noan so long sin'; aw expect 'oo's noan left 'em dry if 'oo's like th' rest on 'em. naa thee be still, an dunnot go swounding off agen, if tha' can help it, ben. tha' fleys me. aw thowt tha were done for. lig thee still, aw'll be wi' thee in a jiffy." and 'siah lumbered off in the gloom, and i heard him straining a thin, and coy stream of milk into a can, whilst a cow's hoof stamped as if in protest at this renewed demand upon her stores. the warm rich milk revived me, but when i strove to rise to my feet my strength failed me and i fell back again. "there's nowt for it, ben, but patience. th' farm man here's known to soldier jack, an' as good luck will have it, his mester's away. so we're right for th' day, an' as soon as neet comes we're off." "tell me what has happened--i shalln't settle till tha' does." "there's nowt much to tell. after tha' were hit aw caught thee i' my arms just as tha were falling like a felled bullock. gow! what a weight tha are, to be sure, ben. then aw dragged thee to one side. tha' were bleeding like a pig, but soldier jack were wi' thee i' no time. see yo' where he cut away thi' vest an' shirt. then he put his finger i' th' hole where th' bullet is, an' didn't ta' groan. but he could feel nowt, so he bun thi up wi' th' tail o' thi shirt an' a handkerchief. but theer tha' lay like a log, and what to do wi' thee wer' th' puzzle. aw' looked under a shed i' th' mill yard to see if ther' wer' owt we could hug thee on; but there wer' nowt. t'others were runnin' off i' all directions. some were crying out to 'em to run, some wer' orderin' 'em to stop. george wer' like one off his yed. aw see'd him jump on to th' sill o' th' lower window an' grasp a frame wi jagged glass all around an' shake it an' gnash his teeth at those in th' mill. but someone dragged him dahn. an' all th' while that damned bell wer' clanging like all that. then som'dy cried out at th' sojers wer' comin', an' aw thowt missen aw heerd th' gallopin' o' horses' hoofs; but aw winnot be sure. aw grabbed hold o' mellor an' telled him tha wer' hit." 'cannot yo' see to him?' he said. 'siah an' me'll see to ben,' said soldier jack, who wer' knelt down bi thi side. 'thee see to thissen, george.' so george just gave a look at thi an' gay' a groan an' threw up his hands, an' shook his fist as th' guns kept popping fra' th' mill in a way 'at made me duck mi head every half second, an' off he skeltered after t' others." "and what of john booth. i hope no harm's come to th' lad." "oh! nivver thee mind about booth. he's noan o' kin to thee at aw know on." "but did he get safe away, 'si? did he go with george?" "aw'm noan his keeper, am i? hannot aw enuff to do wi' thee o' mi hands wi'out john booth? go to sleep wi' thee, th'rt talking too much." "yo're hiding summot, 'si. na tell me, an' then aw'll be quiet." "well, there's nowt much to tell. booth wer' hit, that's all aw know. aw seed him liggin' on th' ground, an' he' wer' bleeding i' th' leg. but soldier 'll see to him." "soldier?" "aye, he said' tha wouldn't be easy if tha thowt john wer' left, so after we'd tugged an' tewed an' hustled thee here, an' sich a huggin' an' a tewin' an' a hustlin' aw nivver had i' mi life afore, what wi' thee keep on swounding every fifty yards o' so, jack first o' all went back an' gate some brandy. aw dunnot know wheer he sammed it up, but jack knows his way about, an' no mistake. we should ha' been fair done but for jack. then he said he'd hark back an' see what could be done for booth; but he shouldn't come back here till neet, an' then we'd see what could be done about movin' thee. an' we wer to ca'er here till he come back. naa, that's all aw know, except aw wish aw wer' a caa." i was feeling very drowsy now and just remember murmuring: "a caa; what for, 'si?" "so's aw could chew th' cud o' mi last meat, for aw'm awmost famished, an' aw cannot mak' a meal o' milk like a caulf." and then i must have dozed off, for i heard no more for a long time. the weary day dragged its lingering length. i slept by fits and starts. 'siah, worn out, slumbered heavily. a swallow darted through the slit high up in the wall, skimmed round the rafters, intent upon nest building in the thatch--a rat ran across my feet. i could hear the crowing of a cock and the clucking of hens in the yard outside, and the song of a lark soaring in the heavens made me long for light and freedom. after what seemed an eternity of time the kine were driven in from the pastures for milking. i heard a voice coaxing them in: "coop--coop--coop." then there were two voices, a man's and a woman's, and some talk i strained my ears to catch. "luds," "sojers," "dead," and "poor lad"--this from the woman; but i could not piece the fragments to make sense. then i judged the man was foddering his beasts, and i knew the hour of my deliverance was at hand. the gloom deepened, and all was still save for 'siah's heavy breathing. then i heard the sound of wheels, the door was opened cautiously, and a limp fell upon the flags. "are ta theer, 'siah?" and 'siah creeped upon his knees to the limit of the hay bowk. "ger up an' ma' as little noise as tha can." "can ta walk, ben?" 'siah held me by the left shoulder, and leaning heavily on him i gained the door. outside was our good old bess. i could have wept to see her: such a flood of sweet home memories swept over me. the bottom of the cart was covered with hay and in one corner of it was our new roan calf. soldier jack and 'siah between them lifted me into the cart,--and i sank exhausted by the effort and the pain, down by the dumb wondering brute that slobbered upon my face and gave a slimy lick at my lips. "tha mun drive, 'siah. go slow, by deanhead. aw'll walk on i' front, and if aw start whistlin' tha'll know som'dy's comin'. the sojers are scourin' th' country. th' luds are hidin' for their lives. there's small hell to play ovver this neet's work. tha munnot hurry, an' keep out o' th' ruts an' jolt him as little as tha can." "what's th' cauf doin' here?" muttered 'siah. "tha dunderhead. we' mun cover ben up wi' t' straw. leave him his nose aat an' nowt else; then if we meet a search party they'll happen think tha'rt fetchin' a cauf wom. tha' mun act as gaumless as tha' can, an' na' drive on an' ma' as if aw'd nowt to do wi' thee." "come up, bess, woa, steady!" and we lumbered off past the top of lindley, keeping well on the crest of the hill, whence we could see the light of longwood and golcar in the valley, and so, bearing towards the left, made for lower holme. we passed a party of mounted soldiers about half-way on our journey and, fortunately, at the very moment of our encounter the calf staggered straddling to its feet, putting its hoof upon my right hand and sending shooting torments up my arm. it rocked and swayed in the cart and moo'd feebly at the soldiers as they drew rein. "have you seen any suspicious characters on the road, my good man, higher up the hill?" asked their leader. "nay, nowt out o' th' common," said 'siah, "a tramp or two, an' a chap 'at looked as if he'd been feightin'." "ah! where was that?" "t'other side o' lindley; he wor makin' fra grimscar." "forward, men!" "good luck," said 'siah. "ger on, bess." and my heart began to beat again. how my mother met us at the door, how my father stood aloof and would not speak one word, how 'siah undressed me and put me into my own bed, what need to tell; nor yet set forth in detail how it came about that as i sank down into the cool, clean sheets, and laid my head upon the grateful feather pillow, stuffed with feathers plucked by mary's own fingers, i heard the kitchen door open and a quick step ascend the stairs. "now mrs. bamforth, well mary, where is he? let's have a look at him. off with you now, all but 'siah. 'siah, you cut-throat rebel, shut the door and hold the candle for me." it was dr. dean from slaithwaite, hearty, hale and cheery, who had ushered me into the world and given me powders and pills in the little ailments of childhood. he took command of the whole house as by divine right. even my mother recognised his prerogative and resigned her supremacy, and mary was his willing and adoring slave. before you could say "jack robinson" he had slit my sleeve with his scissors, lifted the rude bandages, now sodden and stiff with blood, and was handling my arm deftly and tenderly as a woman. "h'm, bullet in biceps, hoemorrhage of the artery, acute inflammation, temperature equatorial, fever, ravings, pandemonium generally!" all the while probing for the bullet as if he were picking a periwinkle. "mrs. bamforth," presently he said, "how do you feel?" "aw'm well enough i' body, doctor, but nowt to boast of i' mind." "i don't think you are very well, mrs. bamforth. i detect in you symptoms, my dear lady, that give me grave alarm." "why, good gracious, doctor, whatever do yo' mean? why my appetite's good . . . ." "that aggravates the complaint." "aw sleep well, leastwise aw did till a neet or two sin, when aw started dreamin' o' washing clothes, an' aw knew it were a sign o' a burial i' th' family. 'william bamforth,' aw said to th' mester, 'william bamforth, as sure as yo're a living man there'll be a death i' th' family afore yo'r a month older, but little did aw think o' yar ben bein' laid low. aw put it down to my sister matty. he did nowt but laugh, but he'll happen believe me now. it's a judgment on him for scoffing.'" "mrs. bamforth, you must take to your bed at once; and you must not stir out of it till i give you leave. you must send martha to the surgery at once and i'll make up a bottle, and three times a day you must take it." "but i ail nowt, doctor." "you may pour it down the sink." was the doctor off his head? but no, he went on: "you must impress it on martha, i'll tell her myself, that you are dangerously ill and every day i'll drive up myself to see you. you must tell martha to mind she says nothing about it in the village, and then i suppose it'll be all over the country in no time. and if anybody asks where ben is, he's gone on his rounds. now do you understand?" i did anyway, and i pressed his hand gratefully. "it may be a fortnight before ben's fit to be moved, and then, mark you, he must be moved, and for my credit's sake, if for no other reason, not a soul out of this house must know ben's within a hundred miles of this." "god bless you, doctor. aw've been wondering and wondering ever sin' 'si' brought him home, whatever we should say to th' neighbours. an' yo've found a way all in a minnit. see what it is to be eddicated. aw'll be i' bed afore yo're out o' th' house. an' mind yo' insense it into our william, for he's that stupid he'll spoil it all. an', for sure, aw don't feel very well; it's my heart, doctor." and i think my mother came as near winking as ever she did since she made lovers' signals across the pews, when my father was courting her. chapter ix. my father and siah left home that very day with the waggon. it was given out in the little village that i was gone too, and it was soon town's talk that mrs. bamforth was sick and that dr. dean was visiting her twice a day. 'siah came up to see me in bed before he started. "th' mester's awful put out," he told me. "aw heard thi mother askin' him if he weren't bahn to come up an' say good-bye to thee, ben. but he said nowt. tha's put his back up gradely this time, lad, an' i expect aw'st have a roughish time on it missen. but hard words an' foul looks break no bones, an' aw'd rather be i' macclesfield wi' awd harry hissen,' just nah, nor at wom among th' luds. no more sojerin' for me, ben. my yed's fair stunned wi' th' din. an' ne'er thee mind about thi father. he'll come rahnd, an' then he'll ma' it up to thee as if he'd been i' fault hissen. by gow, tha has getten a arm, to be sure. it looks like three pund o' lites, and they'd best keep th' cat out o' th' room when th'ar asleep, or 'oo'l be at thee, sure as god made little apples." and soon afterwards i heard the cart lumbering out of the yard to the usual accompaniment of the dog's excited barking and 'siah's apostrophes to old bess. then my mother and mary took possession of me, and i am persuaded that never did my mother enjoy herself so thoroughly as during the three weeks or more that i kept my bed. her own room adjourned the one in which i lay, and as she was supposed to be herself bedridden she had all the advantage of being at close quarters. she would come to my bedside a hundred times a day in her linsey petticoat and a red flannel jacket with big bone buttone that gave her quite a martial air, and at every knock at the house door she would skip back to her own room, tumble into bed, draw the clothes over her, and set to groaning as tho' in mortal agony. then, when retreating footsteps assured her the coast was clear, she would steal back with a shame-faced look and busy herself about the room. how many times a day she dusted the furniture of my room and arranged and rearranged the odds and ends on the little dressing table, i cannot hazard a guess at. she spent hours each day listening at the top of the staircase to what was going on below, for she was tortured by the conviction that things were going to rack and ruin in her absence and that martha and mary were in a conspiracy to do all things they ought not to do and leave undone the things they ought to do. nothing would persuade her that any cleaning was being done in the parlour, and she knew that when she was able to get about again she would be able to write her name in dust on the looking-glass and the chiffonier, that is if she should haply be able to get into the room at all, of which she was somewhat sceptical. when mary brought my chicken broth and rice pudding, my prescribed diet, on which by the bye i soon began to lose flesh at an alarming rate, my mother would meet her at the stair head and herself bring it to the bedside, very jealous, as was easy enough to see, that he could not cook it herself. such tasting of broth and puddings sure never was before nor since, nor such fault-finding. some days the rice hadn't been soaked long enough, other days too long. some days the broth was too strong, others too weak, or the salt was in excess, or the pepper, or a pinch of this or that would have improved the flavour. poor mary, did it ever set you thinking, i wonder, what an ideal mother-in-law your aunt would make? then, when the ball had been extracted from my arm and my shoulder began to look less like a lump of liver, it became clear to my mother that i was in need of spiritual comfort. the big family bible was brought from the parlour and placed on a little table by my bedside. i was perfectly capable of reading it for myself, but that would not have suited my nurse. she read with difficulty and had many a stubborn tussle with the hard words. at first i helped her with them but soon perceived she took a delight in the struggle and so left her to grapple with them. as she opined my illness would be a long one and she did not mean to be gravelled for lack of matter, she began at the first chapter of the book of genesis and advanced by slow stages to the tenth, when she floundered in a genealogical bog from which she brought forth, i fear, only one piece of abiding information, to wit, that the eldest son of eber bore the same name as the crippled son of the village postmaster--peg-leg. dr. dean was her great comfort during this enforced confinement. twice daily did that cheery visitor drive up to holme, and from the long stay that his champing, stamping mare made by our door, the neighbours drew gloomy auguries as to my mother's desperate state. if they could have seen him sat in an easy chair, profaning the chaste sanctity of the bedroom with tobacco smoke, and relishing our best hollands while he detailed the village gossip to my mother's delighted ears, they would have had less concern for the good soul's health. my mother declared the doctor's visits were worth a guinea apiece. "mrs. garside's been enquiring after yo' mrs. bamforth." now this was that hannah garside who had pulled up my mother's half-cousin, sam o' sall's, because of the eggs. "she met save her breath to cool her porridge," was my mother's ungrateful comment. "she says she freely forgives yo', ma'm." "the imperence on her. ah! wait till i get better, an' i'll gi'e her forgive me!" "she promises to pray for you, mrs. bamforth." "to pray for me! hannah garside, pray for me! oh! this must be stopped, doctor. it's too bad 'at she's none content wi' makin' th' village unbearable an' nah mun' be bringing me into bad odour wi' th' saints above." "she sends her compliments, ma'am, and says if i prescribe custards she won't venture to send any batter as it's well known your family knows a way o' never being short o' eggs." "oh! trust her for taking a mean advantage o' me, an' me laid o' mi back an' not able to stick up for missen. take her a cruet o' water, doctor, an' say i'd be glad if she'd look into it an' turn it to vinegar. but yo'r taking nothing, doctor. fill your glass, now do, and have another pipe. never mind th' smoke. it's good for moths." and thus did doctor dean pass the time in those professional visits the portentous length of which gave so much anxiety to our friends. it was soldier jack who told me the news of poor john booth's sad end. soldier had been chary of coming at first for fear of arousing the suspicions of our neighbours, but he was very useful in spreading the news of my mother's illness. he had her one day on the brink of death, another day rallying. one day it was current through the village that my mother had sent for lawyer blackburn, and the undertaker went about with a visibly expectant face. when mr. webster called, all hope was abandoned. when he went away without being admitted to the sick chamber, tho' my mother had to bite her tongue to prevent herself calling out to him from the stairhead, our kinsfolk of all degrees began to look up their mourning, and the stone-cutter at powle moor got ready a selection of appropriate head-lines. at length jack could keep away no longer and came one afternoon into my room, walking softly in on tip-toe of one foot and a limp of the other, as tho' i were dead or sleeping. poor jack, he looked sadly worn and harassed of these days and had lost all his swagger and even his cheerfulness. "yes, it's too true, ben. poor john booth's dead as a nit. shot through th' leg, an' no stamina to bear it. he died th' same neet. "tell me about it soldier? poor lad, poor lad." "he died at tommy sheard's at th' star i' roberdta'n. he wer' a good plucked 'un, an' his father a parson too. his mother mun ha' been a none such, aw reckon." "who was with him jack? was he in much pain? did he say owt? tell me all about it." "well, as far as aw can gather, after we carried yo' off t'others didn't stay long behind. th' game wor up." "how did we come to leave booth? we ought not to have left booth. i promised i'd see to him, and a pretty way i've kept my word." "dunnot yo' fash yersen, ben. yo'd your work set wi' enoch. john brought it on hissen. he wer' all ovver th' shop', egging th' men on. aw told him to keep i' covver, but he seemed fair to run agen th' bullets as if he wanted killing. well he gate what he wanted. still if we hadn't had our hands full wi yo', we might ha' carried him off. but he's dead, so we should nobbud ha' had our wark for nowt, an' a mort o' trouble to account for th' corpse. yo' mebbe hannot thowt o' that. what should we ha' done wi' a dead body wi' a leg smashed to mush, on our hands?" aye, what, i thought. "well, theer john lay among broken glass, an' stones, an' sticks, an' plaster, in front o' th' mill, an' sam hartley shot through th' lung an' vomiting quarts o' blood, not far off him. after a bit owd hammond roberson, th' feightin' parson, come gallopin' up wi' a lot o' soldiers, an' cartwright oppens th' mill door, an' him an' his men comes out, an' they do say cartwright took on rarely when he see'd th' mess we'd made o' th' mill front. poor john were beggin' some o' th' folk 'at had run up to fetch him a drop o' water. aw know what it's like when yo'r wounded. yo' feel as if yo'd got a little hell o' yo'r own inside yo'. but cartwright wer' noan for lettin' him have a drop, not even to wet his lips, till he'd gi'en th' names o' those 'at wer' th' leaders. but john tak' no notice nor hartley nawther, but nobbut begged for water. old roberson, dam him, wor as bad as cartwright. it wer' confession first, an' water after. but a chap called billy clough ran an' put a stone under john's yed, an' then fot him a drink. if awther th' parson or cartwright had stopped him, aw'm told th' folk round 'ud ha' mobbed 'em. aw can forgi'e cartwright, for it's none calc'lated to put a chap into th' best o' tempers to ha' his mill made such a mullock on; but, curse roberson, an' all such like, say i, an' him a parson, too!" "but what of john, soldier?" "well at last when he'd say nowt, water or no water, they put him on a gate an' carried him an' hartley to th' star. a doctor wer' noan long i' turnin' up, for them chaps smell blood like vultures. he said ther' wer' nowt for it but to hampotate th' leg, an' that wer' just more nor john could stand, an' he cheat both th' parson an' th' gallows, an' deed like a man an' a briton at he wor. "how cheat th' parson, jack?" "well owd roberson wouldn't let him die i' peace, but wer all th' time naggin' him to confess. then when booth knew his end were near, he called old roberson to stand ovver him, an' th' owd sinner's face lit up wi' glee, an' he stepped up to john as brisk as a bee." "you see, gentlemen, the power of the church! and now, my good man." "can yo' keep a secret, sir?" said john, in a whisper; but all were so still yo' could have heard a pin drop. even sammy hartley, who wer' deein' fast, stopped moanin', they say; tho' that mun be either accident or fancy." "can yo' keep a secret, sir?" whispered john. "i can, i can," said th' parson. "an' so can i," said john, "wi' a smile, an he put his head back an' never spak' no more; an', oh! ben, when aw talk on it aw'm fit to blubber like a child. he wer' a rare un, wer' john." mary was there and my mother, and mary's face was buried in the counterpane and i heard her sob, and a tear trickled down my mother's cheek, and i turned my face to the wall and mourned for my friend. "we got his body," went on jack after a long pause. "mr. wright, th' saddler, saw to that. it wer' brought to his house, an' th' funeral wer' fra' theer. he wer' buried i' huddersfield churchyard, an' all th' town wer' theer. george mellor and thorpe walked after th' hearse, an' all th' folk, hundreds on 'em, 'at could lay the'r hands on a bit, wore white crape around their arm. it wer' a gran' funeral." "and faith?" said mary. "'oo leaned o' mrs. wright, 'at wer' like a mother to her. th' owd father weren't theer. but faith looked just all brokken to pieces, poor wench." "i'll go to her, straight away," cried mary. "aye, do, mary," said my mother, "and bring her up to holme wi' yo'. she wants some kitchen physic as well as other folk." "yo' forget yo'r ill i' bed, aunt," said mary, "and ben's away to macclesfield." "well, if aw amn't, aw soon shall be, if this mak' o' wark goes on. oh! george, tha's a deal to answer for, an' it's much if tha doesn't break thi mother's heart afore tha's done, an' then there 'll be an end o' poor matty, too." i fret a deal over john booth's awful death and felt in a manner that it lay at my door. faith's sad face haunted my fevered dreams, and i reproached myself not a little that i had not taken more care of the lad. and yet, looking back, i do not see that i could have done other than i did. i spoke with mary on the matter. "it's a bad job for faith losing her brother like this, mary. i doubt she'll take it sore to heart. her whole life seemed centred and wrapped up in john. they might have been twins. i blame misen shocking that aw left him to shift for hissen." "i don't see how yo'r to blame, ben. from all i can make out, yo'd enough to do to look out for yersen; and it's only natural that 'siah an' soldier, anyway 'siah, our own man, should look to yo' first an' foremost, choose how others fared." "but i promised faith that i'd have an eye to him." "well you did your best, and th' best can do no more. it's no use thee working thissen into a fever, an' tossin' about as if tha wer' on a hot backstone, an' kickin' th' clo'es off thee as fast as aw can put them on, over summat at's done an' can't be undone." "yo'r only a job's comforter, mary. aw should have thought tha'd more feeling in thee." "feeling! aw've feeling enough. but it's time to talk a bit o' sense. there's been mischief enough an' to spare o' late about feeling. it's feeling baht sense 'at brought yo' into this mess, an' yo'r noan aht o' th' wood yet. happen tha'll live to envy john booth, an' wish tha'd been left for dead at rawfolds i'stead o' 'scaping to find a worse fate. i declare aw never hear a step come to th' door but my heart goes into mi mouth an mi knees shake so aw can hardly stand. there's feeling for yo', if yo' like. mr. chew says it's a hanging job for them 'at's caught." i flushed at this you may be sure, tho' mary only put into words the thought that had tortured my waking hours and made my dreams hideous. that was a subject not to be dwelt on. so i made haste to revert to faith. "aw hannot told yo' yet, mary, that i made a promise to john, too." "yo seem to ha' been precious free wi thi promises." "nay, mary, what's come ovver thee? its noan like thee to turn agen them 'at's i' trouble. it wer' at kirklees, just before we started for rawfolds." and i told mary of what had passed between john booth and me. "well, what is it all leading to?" she asked. "a've been turning things ovver i' mi mind, mary, as aw've laid o' mi back. yo' see, faith's nobbut a poor weak thing, an' fra all aw can hear her father's awmost as bad. don't yo' think we ought to do summat to help her?" "with all my heart--as how?" "nay, that's wheer aw'm fast. cannot yo' suggest summat?" "yo' might happen ask her if she wants a home--martha 'll mebbe be so accommodatin' as to mak' room for her i' th' house. martha could get another job fast enough, an' then yo'll have faith under yo'r own e'en, an' it'll be little trouble to look after her then." "the thing's preposterous, mary. the idea of faith scouring and, milking and such like." "yo' might perhaps offer her work at the spinning." "why, faith's been brought' up a lady," i cried. "it's no more nor yo'r mother an' me does every day of our lives. but to be sure i'm not a lady. but, perhaps, yo'd like to make faith a present or allow her a pension. i'm glad to see things are mending wi' yo', ben. aw allus thowt yo' had nought but what yo' addled, an' that's like to be little enough for many a month to come. but, perhaps, tha's come in for a fortin', an' been keepin' it secret for fear o' killin' us wi' joy. tell us on it, ben. aw'll try to bear it, if it isn't too dazzling." "do quit thi teasing, mary, an' talk some sense. it's no jesting matter for poor faith." "and that's true enough, cousin, and i'm a wicked girl to run on so. but yo' aggravate me so wi' thi wild schemes an' foolish talk." "how foolish!" "why, how can ta help faith? it were reight enough for poor john to speak to yo'. i expect his heart wer' full, an' it eased him to speak to thee. but now what can yo' do? tha has nowt, an' half nought's nought all th' world over." "i could be a brother to her, mary." "oh! a brother! i should ha' thowt yo'd had enough o' brotherhoods to sicken thi for life. aw've no patience wi' thee. there's faith living at low moor wi' her father, an' needed there, aw've little doubt, an' wi' her hands full enough, an' now yo' mun strike up a brotherhood wi' her. aw suppose we'st ha' yo', as soon as yo'r up, settin' off every week end to low moor to play the brother. yo'll ha' to take yo'r sister out for long walks aw suppose, an' to buy her rings an' keepsakes an' all that. yo'll find it cheaper to buy her a plain 'un to begin wi'." "well, and why not?" i said, getting nettled, for mary had told me some home truths that had been none too pleasant in the hearing and digestion. "and why not?" i repeated. "faith's a sweet lass, and a good one an' true. she's over pale an' thin mebbe, for everyone's fancy." "oh! beauty's in the eye of the beholder," put in mary, tossing her head. "but she'd cure o' that, wi' plenty o' good milk an' fresh air such as we han at holme. an' aw think she leans a bit to me. don't yo' think so yoursen, mary. "dunnot ask me. my head doesn't run on such trash. what's ta talking to me for? aw'm noan faith. yo'd soon have an answer, an' one 'at 'ud tak' th' conceit out on thee if owt could. ask hersen." "well! i happen will," i said. "aw've a good mind." "it's a pity to spoil a good mind then. i'd waste no time about it, chance some'dy snaps her up. an' while th' art abaht it, yo might ask her to come an' nurse thee, so's 'oo'll know what's afore her." and mary bounced out of the room in a tantrum. the frame of mind in which she left me was certainly not one that dr. dean could have desired for a feverish patient. it. was clear to me that my own position was anything but an enviable one. large rewards had been offered, i knew, for such information as would lead to the conviction of those concerned in the attack on rawfolds, and machine breaking had been made a capital offence. my own participation in that affair was known to scores, and suspected by hundreds more. an incident that befel shortly afterwards aggravated my alarm. my father was still away. a letter had come from him, written in an obviously bad temper, complaining of the awful state of trade and driving my mother to distraction by telling of the trial and punishment of the nottingham luddites. however, i had so far proceeded to convalescence as to leave my bed, and i was looking forwards to being out and about in a few days, and i was turning over in my mind the feasibility of leaving home for a few months till things blew over a bit. i did not feel safe at home and that's the fact, and i was on tenterhooks to put a hundred miles and more between me and justice radcliffe, who was scouring the district for luds. i was meditating on these matters and wondering why george mellor never came near me even to ask after my recovery, when i heard the dog give tongue in the yard and the sound of horses' hoofs. i managed to support myself to the stairhead. i heard a clatter at the door, which was opened by martha. "does william bamforth live here?" asked a voice, and there was the pawing of a horse's hoof, the jingling of a bit-chain, the sound of one swinging himself heavily to the ground, and the clinking of spurs. "does ta' mean bill o' ben's?" queried martha. "i mean william bamforth." "well yo'see, there's a seet o' bamforths i' holme, an' four on 'em's bills. it'll be bill o' luke's yo'r wantin', or happen bill o' nan's back side." "i mean william bamforth, who has a son called ben." "well, he's noan at wom. he's i' macclesfield. but aw munnot stop talkin' here. aw'm churnin', an' th' butter's just on th' turn. aw'll tell him a felly come to see him." "not so fast, my good woman." "i'll trouble yo' to keep a civil tongue in yo'r head. my name's martha. don't 'good woman' me, if yo' please." "where's yo'r mistress?" "'oo's i' bed. 'oo's ill. 'oo's getten th' small pox, an' tha'd better be off afore th' smell on it comes dahn stairs an' smittles thee." "i'm sorry to seem rude, my sweet martha. but duty's duty. i must search yo'r house." "if tha comes in aw'll set th' dog at thee. here vixen, vixen." and martha called to an imaginary bitch. there was a slight scuffle, and someone strode into the house. "no one here anyhow. now for upstairs." my mother had fled to her bed and drawn the clothes about her. for me, i lay back in my chair incapable of thought or movement. the stairs creaked under a heavy tread. mary stood by my side, my hand stole into hers, and she faced the door, battle in her eyes. a big, burly trooper pushed it open, ducking his head as he advanced over the threshold. it was long tom with whom i had fought at marsden. "what want you here?" cried mary. "how dare you force your way into decent folks' house in broad day?" "the gamesome wench that slapped my face!" cried long tom. "aye, and will slap it again if yo'r not off." "gently, mary, gently," i said. "the sergeant has doubtless business here. your errand, sir?" i said. "you see you intrude." "why this beats banagher, where the cows run barefoot!" exclaimed the soldier. "if this isn't the youngster spoiled my beauty for me. nay, sit still," he went on, as i tried to rise. "what! bandaged, too, and in the forearm. a queer treatment for small pox." "sir, if you have business here, i pray you do it." "is your name ben bamforth?" "it is." "the son of william bamforth?" "his son." "and what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? why in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?" "and what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? why in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?" "i am not accountable to you for my actions that i know of. again, your business?" my mother had issued from her room in petticoat and scarlet jacket. "keep your distance, good woman, if its yo' have the small pox. if i must be riddled let it be with pellets not pustules," cried the soldier, starting back in horror. "oh! good mr. soldier. what do yo' want with our ben? a quiet, harmless lad, as ever lived, that never harmed a flee. i'm sure he's done nothing wrong, and him bedfast these six months past." now heaven forgive you, mother! "he played a mighty heavy fist for a sick man not three months gone, anyhow, good dame. nay, keep your distance. good god! if the old lady isn't going to kneel to me." for my mother made as if she would throw herself at the soldier's feet. "mother, calm yourself," i said. "pray, sir, you see i am in no case to bear much talking. what is your will with me." "i'm sorry, i'm very sorry. a man like you that ought to be fighting mounseer, and a proper life guardsman yo'd make, for sure. well, well, of all the tomfoolery! however, i see no help for it." and long tom strode about the room in evident perplexity, muttering to himself: "a brave lad," "a sad case," "too good for the gallows," and "i owe the wench one, too." i seemed to watch the working of his mind, and hope stole trembling back into my heart. another too was scanning his face as anxiously as manner marks the witness of the skies. "and so, madam," he said, "you are his mother, and i suppose this tale of small pox is all flam. and you, miss, what is this long-limbed game cock to you?" "oh! sergeant," cried mary, "i am sure you have a good heart, and are a brave and generous man. you must not think ill of ben for besting you when yo' fought. it was all for me." "i don't' think any the worse of him, pretty. i think all the better of him. it served me right, and if i hadn't taken a drop too much, i shouldn't have tried to steal a kiss. tho' you will admit the provocation." and here the gallant sergeant doffed his shako and made a low bow to mary, who blushed and curtsied and cast down her eyes. "but i owe you some return, miss, for my ill manners, and as for the trouncing, a soldier bears no malice. but you haven't told me, yet, what is this ben here to you? your brother?" "no, good sir, my cousin!" "h'm. aught else?" then did mary catch her breath and hold me tighter by the hand; and for a moment i could hear my own heart beat. "he is my sweetheart, sir, an't please you. and we're to be wed when he's well. and oh! sir, it will kill me if yo' take him from me." "and a lucky dog he is to have so fair a bride. well, well, i'll risk it. but hark you, ben bamforth, you've had a narrow shave. i won't enquire how you came by that bandaged arm. perhaps i know more than yo think. a change of air will do you good. i say no more than this: 'next time yo' go out of nights, take missy with you. veils are dangerous, especially with such eyes behind them'"--another bow to mary--"but masks are worse. you take me." indeed i did take him. "and now i'm off. you need fear nothing from my report. but be careful of the company you keep. a wink's as good as a nod, they say, and there's a man in your confounded league who has no love for ben bamforth." "good day, ma'am, and i wish you better of the small pox." long tom clinked his heels together, drew himself up to the salute, nearly knocking his head against the rafters as he did it, and turned to go. he had reached the head of the stairs. "stay, sir," cried mary, her face as red as a peony. he looked back. "i thought yo' wanted a kiss t'other night." "aye, but yo' refused me smartly." "well," and here mary drooped her head and played with the corner of her apron. "well--i've, i've changed my mind." and tom laughed a great laugh and stooped over my cousin and she raised her crimson face to his. "gad! bamforth, my lad, i'd change places with you this minute and risk jack ketch. good luck and good day." and long tom strode down the stairs. there were three other mounted soldiers in the yard. "a false scent again," we heard him say. "only an old woman in a fever. the bird's flown." "it isn't often you stay upstairs so long with an old woman, sergeant!" laughed a trooper; and they shook their reins and clattered out of the yard, the hens scurrying with beating wings, and the ducks waddling, quacking loudly, out of their way. i made to thank mary, but she fled from my room and i saw her no more all that day, and when, the next morning, she brought me, instead of the bowl of porridge on which i break my fast when hearty, a dish of tea and a buttered egg, and i would have drawn her to my heart, as surely lover may draw his mistress, mary held aloof. "why, mary, lass, surely tha'll give me a kiss now?" "and why now?" she said, as cold as ice. "why, after what yo' said yesterday to long tom, 'at yo' an' me wer' engaged to be wed." "oh! that wer' nowt. i just said it because i thowt it might help thee." "and then, don't yo' mind, mary, that neet after i'd fought long tom at marsden--how yo' come behind th' chair an' kissed me." "well, what o' that?" "dost ta mean to say, after that, tha cares nowt about me more nor common?" "it it comes to that, ben, didn't yo' see me do much th' same wi long tom yesterday?" "in truth, i did, mary. and i think it was unnecessary, not to say unmaidenly." "thank yo', ben. i'll mind my manners better i' future. but at least yo' mun see that yo' munnot argy from what aw did when yo'r eye wer' blacked i' marsden; for bi the same token long tom might leap to conclusions. and heigh-ho! long tom's a proper sort o' man, and i'm awmost stalled o' sloughit. sup thi tea, ben, afore it gets cold, an' if tha'rt in such a hurry to get wed, remember yo'r more nor hauf promised to faith booth." long tom was true to his word. justice radcliffe was hot on the trail of the luddites. the patrols were more active than ever, and first one and then another was summoned to milnsbridge house and questioned keenly as to his doings, but for a time nothing came of all this questioning, except that there grew up among the luds an uneasy feeling that there was a tell-tale in their midst. i lived in daily dread of a visit from justice radcliffe, but i never came across him but once. it was about this time, when i was just beginning to get about a bit, my father and 'siah being back from the markets, and i supposed to be returned with them, i was going through milnsbridge when i was aware of mr. radcliffe on horseback riding towards me, a handsome hearty man as ever you saw in your life. "a fine old english gentleman," his friends all called him. he drew rein, and at his motion i stood by his saddle. "ben bamforth of holme, if i mistake not?" he questioned. "at your service, sir," i said, with confidence in my voice and little in my heart. "good mr. bamforth, the clothier's son. "the same, sir,--his only son." "and following his trade, i hear." "what there is of it, sir." "a worthy man is your father, master bamforth, and a loyal subject of his majesty. you have been sick of late they say." who said? i wondered but dared not ask, so muttered: "nowt to speak on, i'm all right now." "still yo' must be careful. who's your doctor?" "dr. dean." "what, my good friend dean? the sly dog! still a patient's a patient"--this rather to himself than to me. "and has dr. dean said nothing to you about avoiding the night air for a time?" "i don't know that he has, your worship." "well tell him you've seen me, and that my advice is that yo' keep in doors these spring nights, fine or dark, and ask him if he doesn't agree with me." "it is unnecessary, sir, i am entirely of that opinion myself." "come that's good hearing. mind you stick to it. and, hark ye, thank god as long as you live that you'd a good father before yo' and that justice radcliffe doesn't give heed to every idle tale that's brought to him." and he touched his hat as i uncovered and bent my head to him, for i knew all our precautions had been in vain, and that justice radcliffe had in his keeping a secret that could send me to the gallows. but who had betrayed me? chapter x. i have told how i met justice radcliffe and what he said to me. that was after i was better and about. but many things had happened before that, of which i have yet to tell, and i scarce know how to frame the telling. events so crowded one on the heels of the other that it is difficult to write of them connectedly and in order. it was tuesday, april 28th, something more than a fortnight after the affair at rawfolds, and i still kept my room but not my bed. i had seen nothing all this time of my cousin george, and took it hard that he should not have come near me, but found excuses for him in the thought that perhaps he feared to bring notice on our house by being seen to visit it. martha that night had gone into the village to meet the carrier's cart by which my mother expected sundry things that she had ordered from huddersfield. it drew late, and my mother began to fidget and to worrit about the difficulty of getting a servant that would not tarry to gossip whenever sent an errand and the readiness with which young women lent themselves to gallivanting, so different from what it was when she was a girl, when, she gave mary and me to understand, a self-respecting maid entrenched herself in a barricade of frigid reserve that only the most intrepid, the most persistent and the most respectful approaches could surmount. about nine o'clock, however, martha came home, and my mother called to her to come upstairs to give an account of herself, and presently we heard her panting up the steps. she dropped into the first chair she came to-"oh! my poor side," she gasped. "that broo 'll be the death on me yet. such a pain as awn got an' sich a gettin' up th' hill as never wor, an' th' pack hauf as heavy agen as ever it had used to be, an' me awmost running, all th' way for fear sum'dy sud be afore me an' no one to oppen th' door to 'em. aw do believe aw'st faint." and indeed martha was in a very bad way. "if yo' didn't stop talkin' wi' every young felly tha' met at's nowt better to do nor be tittle-tattlin' wi' ony idle wench he meets, tha could tak' thi time an' not come home an hour late an' lookin' as if tha'd been rolled i' th' hedge bottom, a sight not fit to be seen in a decent house," said my mother severely. "oh! mrs. bamforth, god forgive yo' those words. yo'll live to repent 'em, an' yo'll never die easy till yo'n said so, an' me that keeps misen respectable tho' sore tempted." now if ever kindly nature laboured to shield a helpless virgin from the craft and allurements of man, it had so laboured on behalf of honest martha. "but p'r'aps yo' dunnot want to be hearing th' news, an' aw'm sure aw can do wi' all th' wind awn got i'stead o' was-tin' it wheer its noan wanted. so aw'll just put th' shop stuff away an' yo'll happen count yo'r change an' i'st go to bed, for it's little supper aw'st want to neet or for mony a neet to come, if we live to see another neet. but yo' needn't be so sure o' that. it's more nor likely we'st all be murdered i' our beds, an' th' mester and 'siah away when they're most wanted." "what is it's upset yo', martha?" asked mary, giving martha a little cold tea which had been left in the pot. "it's about edmund eastwood." "what o' slough'it? what on him?" asked my mother. "i'll lay he's had a stroke. aw told their lucy only th' last time aw seed her he wor puttin' on flesh a deal too fast for a man o' his years." "well it's noan a stroke, so tha'rt off thi horse this time, missus, choose how, an' so's eastwood too, come to that." "don't be so aggravating, martha," said i. "if you've ought to tell, let's hear it." "well, there's all maks o' tales dahn i' th' village, an' aw stopped to get th' reights on it, if aw could, for aw thowt it wer' no use bringing hauf a tale, an' it's little thanks aw get for my trouble. but there's justice i' heaven, that's one comfort, for there's little on earth, certain sure. but as aw wer' sayin', eastwood wer' comin' fra' th' market, an' they do say he rode hard, for he wer' trying to catch up wi' horsfall o' ottiwells." "aye, they oft rode home together," i put in. "weel, they'll nivver ride home together again if all they sen be true," continued martha. "eastwood had just getten sight o' horsfall opposite radcliffe's plantation, when bang coom a shot out o' th' wood, an' he seed, they say, a felly jump on top o' th' wall an' wave his arms. an' horsfall fell off his horse just as eastwood wer riding up." "dead?" i gasped. "who said he wor dead? noa, but as good as dead by all accounts. eastwood's horse swerved at him as he ligged across th' road, an' edmund wer thrown off into th' road. but he sammed hissen up an' bent ovver horsfall, an' a lad caught th' mare up th' road as it wer' makin' for home as if owd harry wer' behind it, as he might be for owt aw can tell. but eastwood nivver stayed for th' mare. he set off for huddersfield as fast as he could split to fot a doctor." "and mr. horsfall?" "they carried him to th' warrener, an' in a bit eastwood comes back in th' gig wi' dr. houghton fra huddersfield, they say i' a hand gallop an' covered wi 'sweat. th' doctor jumps out o' th' trap an' runs into th' inn an' eastwood wer' following him. but th' doctor comes running out again. he'd left some on his tools behind him." "aye, aye, most haste least speed," from my mother. "and th' lad come up wi' eastwood's horse, an' he up into th' saddle an' galloped off to th' town helter-skelter, an' reight at th' corner o' th' churchyard, just as if th' sensible crittur knew that were where th' rider wer' bun for, it threw him agean. they sen he's twisted his innards, an' they do say it's a toss up which 'll go first, him or horsfall." "what! is mr. horsfall so badly hit?" "aye, he's at th' warrener. they cannot move him wom, and mr. scott o' woodsome's theer to tak' his dying speech an' confession." "deposition," i corrected. "well, it's th' same thing, an' aw'm no scholar to crack on. an' little use learnin' is, it seems to me, if folk cannot keep theirsen out o' such mullocks as this. it's a mercy 'siah's away, say i, for if they can they'll put it on to th' poor folk, an' let their betters go scot free, tho' its them as puts 'em up to it." i did not sleep a wink that night. horsfall shot dead! a man done to death in broad daylight by a shot from an assassin lurking behind a wall! it comes home to you when you know the man, when you know well the very spot on which he fell, when you can see in your mind's eye the murderers crouching behind the stones of a wall on which you have rested in many a homeward walk. how much more does it touch you when, as you ponder this picture of these crouched and waiting men, a face starts forth, with murder in its eyes, and the face is that of one you have loved and leaned on! i could not be certain, but i felt the hand of george mellor was in this awful deed, and every instinct of manliness, of fair play, of humanity, rose up within, me and cried shame on the bloody deed. i remembered what george had said the night horsfall had struck him with his riding-whip. i knew how his proud spirit must have chafed at our repulse at rawfolds. but murder! oh it is an ugly thing. to stand up in fair fight, to pit strength against strength, craft against craft, to stake limb for limb, life for life, why, that, who shall cry fie upon. but to steal upon your foe in the dark, to stab in the back, to smite him unawares, to speed him unsummoned and unfit to judgment--there is no cause so righteous as to redeem an act so dastard. and that george, so frank, so full of sunshine and gay candour, should do this cowardly deed, passed comprehension. and yet who of all the others would dare? and if the thing had to be done, was george one to leave to others what he shrank from doing himself? it was a night of torture. i looked back on the night i had passed in the barn after the fight at rawfolds, and it seemed by comparison a night of restful bliss. once, about midnight, i thought i heard the rattle of a pebble against the window pane. i stole softly out of bed and raised the window. but all was still around, and not far away in the little village a widow mourned a murdered husband and anguished hearts cried to heaven for just revenge. after breakfast my mother set off to the village in quest of news. work was out of the question. mary busied herself about the house, and i tried to fix my mind upon straightening the books, which, after a fashion, it was my duty to keep. alas! the invoices to be made out were few and slight, and an hour or so a week was enough for all the accountancy our business called for. to me, thus engaged, tho' with wandering thoughts, came martha, care upon her brow and secrecy in her gait. "there's som'b'dy in th' shippen wants thee, ben. oh! dunnot let mary know. he doesn't want any but thee to know he's here." "who is it?" i said beneath my breath. "it's him," said martha, and nodded to me significantly. "george?" "aye, george." just then mary came out of the parlour with a duster in her hand, and i made pretence to be wrapt up in my ledger. martha turned to go. "what are yo' two whispering about?" mary said suspiciously. "oh, nought," said martha. "summot an' nought," i said, for mary kept looking from one to the other. "i don't believe you, ben. what's agate? oh! ben, don't trifle wi' me this morn for aw feel as if th' world were coming to an end, and more mysteries and horrors will drive me mad." i reflected. if george were indeed anything to mary, who had so much right to see him now as she? anyway the day had gone by for me to be mixed up with any more secrets. "there's george in th' mistal, mary, he wants to see me by misen." "tell george mellor to come in here and show himself like, a man," cried mary. "go this minute, martha, and bid him come to his aunt's house as a man should come. tell him, i, mary, say so." and martha went. i rose from the little desk at which i sat and stood upon the hearth. mary stood by my side, her face pale, her eyes lustrous, her breath coming short. the door opened slowly, and george came in. my god! i see him yet! i had passed a sleepless night, but george looked as if he had known no sleep for weeks. his face was white and drawn. his eyes were deep sunk in his head, and even by this they had a hunted shifting look--and when they looked at you, which by rare times they did, they seemed as tho' they asked a question and feared the answer. his neckchief was all awry, his boots clay covered, his breeches soiled, his hands were stained with dirt and torn with thorns, and his whole body seemed bent and unstrung. he advanced but two uncertain paces into the house. i stood my stand upon the hearth. george half lifted his hand to meet mine. for the life of me i could not raise my own, and words died from my lips. and mary moved closer to my side, and half her figure drew behind me. "what ta, ben?" and george moaned and flung up his arms and sank upon a chair by the little round table in the kitchen centre and bowed his head on his arms and great sobs shook his frame. "leave us, mary," i said very soft. "i winna, aw'st see it aat. tha't too soft, ben." i shaped to lay my hand on george's shoulder, but even as i raised my arm the thought of the murdered man came like a shock at me again, and i stood stiff and still once more. the convulsion passed, and george lifted his face. "tha knows all, ben?" "all i fear, george." "and tha flings me off?" "i fling thee off." the angry colour came to his face, some of the old fire to his eye. he sprang to his feet, something of a man once more. "and is this thi trust and this thi loyalty; hast ta forgotten thi oath, ben?" "i have forgotten nought, george." "and yo' desert the luds? our greatest enemy lies low. i have struck the blow that others feared to strike, and terror palsies the oppressors of the poor. and in the supreme hour of our triumph you draw back?" "i draw back." "you brave the consequences of your broken oath, you earn for yourself the hatred of the poor, the obloquy and the doom of the traitor?" "i brave them." "then out upon you, ben bamforth, for a false and perjured knave. the hour of trial and of danger has come, and it finds thee false. oh! bitter the day and cursed the hour i took yo' to my heart, and bitter the rue thou'st sup for this. and yo' mary, i've a word to say to yo'. but cannot i speak to thee alone?" i made as tho' to leave the house, but mary stayed me by a touch. "say what yo' have to say before ben. yo' can have nought to say to me he cannot hear." "nay i care not if tha does'na. he may listen if tha likes. all th' world may know for me. it has to be said, as well now as another time, tho' it's a rum courting to be sure. tha knows aw love thee, mary; tha knows aw've sought thee and only thee this many a month back?" "i know yo've said so, george." "and yo' did not say me nay. yo' bid me bide my time, said yo' did not know yor own mind, that yo' were ower young to think o' such things yet, and put me off. but tha did not send me away wi'out hope, mary, and i thought that in the bottom of your heart there was a tiny seedling that in time would flower to love." "and so it might have done, george, but when it was a tender plant, a cold frost came and nipped it." "i cannot follow yo', mary, i am distraught in mind. all this night i have wandered the fields and in the lanes. a hundred times i have set my face over the hills to leave this cursed country." "and your work behind you!" i put in, but he heeded me not. "but the thought of you, mary, held me back. i must know your heart, your mind to me. if yo' will be mine, if yo' will give me your word to wed me in quieter days, i will quit this work. things will quieten themselves. a month or two and the luddites will be forgotten. our secrets are well kept. the government will be only too glad to let sleeping dogs lie, and in another country, under another sky under the flag of the free republic that has spurned the fetters of its english mother, you and i will seek fortune, hand-in-hand." "there is blood upon your hand, george mellor. mine it shall never clasp again." "so be it i need not stoop to woo too humbly. my star is o'ercast now, but a day shall come when yo' will regret the hour yo' spurned george mellor's love. and yo! ben bamforth, traitor to your friend's confided love," . . . . and he turned upon me fiercely with flashing eye and clenched fist, and all his wrath surged to his lips and he would have gladly poured it out on me. "nay, george, i have not said my say," mary broke in. "yo' have told me yo' loved me, and when first i knew you i think i could have been easy won to love. but you were here when ben walker told how long tom had outraged me. yo' heard every word he said, and i grant yo' you talked big. but what did you do? the girl yo' woo'd for your bride told her tale, and yo'--yo' made a speech and went home to bed, leaving to another arm to wreak the punishment you only threatened. my love, such as it was, died that night, that was the icy breath that killed it, and from that night i have almost loathed myself that ever i wasted a tender thought on you. but go, leave this house, your mind should be on other things than love. i ask no questions. but if my fears are true, it is of making your peace with an offended maker you should be thinking, and crying for mercy rather than suing for love." "you have had your answer, george," i said, as mary hastened from the room leaving us confronting each other. "aye, i have had my answer. yo' have stolen my love from me, yo'r desertion will wreck our cause, and now, finish what tha has begun, go to justice radcliffe, tell him george mellor did not sleep at his father's house last night, put the bloodhounds of the law upon my track, and when tha draws the price of blood make a merry wedding for thissen an' th' lass tha's stolen to lay her head upon thi false an' perjured heart!" and he waxed me off as i strode towards him, and made with quick step across the yard, and for many months i saw george mellor no more. horsfall's death had an effect just the opposite to that expected by the luds. it did not bring the masters to their knees: on the contrary it hardened and united them. it did not embolden the luddites; rather they became alarmed at their own extremes. a reward was offered for the discovery of those concerned in the attack on rawfolds, and a large sum, three thousand pounds, if my memory serves me, was put together by the millowners and given to mr. cartwright to mend his windows and to reward his pluck. another reward, of two thousand pounds, was offered by the government to anyone, not the actual murderer, who should betray to justice those who had shot mr. horsfall. justice radcliffe never rested. the least rumour that reached his ear was sufficient to justify an arrest, and no one knew when it would be his turn to be summoned to milnsbridge house and have an ugly half-hour in the sweating room where the magistrate examined the men, women and children he hauled before him. i do not know what warrant justice radcliffe had for such examinations--probably none. but, then, how were ignorant folk, half frightened out of their wits, to know this; or if they knew it, how was their knowledge to serve them? to refuse to answer would be construed as a sure sign of guilty knowledge, if not of actual partnership: so people made themselves as gaumless as they could, and when driven into a corner lied like blacks. the manufacturers who felt themselves or their goods in danger took heart. all eyes at this time were fixed on marsden. enoch and james taylor, who made the new cropping frames, were looked upon as marked men, and woodbottom mill was fortified as if for a siege; soldiers sleeping in the mill at night. "arthur hirst's a main clever chap," said 'siah, with unwilling admiration. arthur hirst was the engineer at woodbottom. "how so, 'siah?" i asked. "why mon he's laid a trap for th' luds 'at 'll give 'em what for, if they pay a visit to th' bottom. it's like th' owd nominy, 'walk into my garden said th' arrunder to th' flea.'" "what's the' trap, 'si?" "why he leaves a door open that leads ovver th' wheel race; an' there's a false flure ovver th' race, an' if anybody wer' to walk ovver it, it 'ud give way an' souse into th' race he'd go. then up wi' t' shuttle, in with th' watter, an' in a jiffy th' wheel 'ud be turnin' an' hauf-a-dozen luds turnin' wi' it, if so be as they be so obligin' as to walk into th' trap." but no one did. woodbottom was not attacked. the midnight raids became rare, and then ceased, and people went about saying the power of the luds was broken and that we should hear no more of them. for my part i asked for nothing better. mary was true to her promise. she went to low moor and returned with faith, a paler, thinner, sadder faith. and mary was very kind to her, very gentle with her, which surprised me not a little, for more than once she had been somewhat waspish whenever i had spoken of john's sister. but all that was past and over, and mary and faith seemed as thick as thieves. they slept in the same bed, and would go about the place with arms about each other's waists--a pretty picture: mary in her blue print, with rosy cheeks and plump figure, and dancing eye and saucy speech; faith in a plain close fitting dress of some black stuff, pale and pensive, with many a sigh and at times a tear of chastened sorrow when her mind fled back to the brother she had lost. of george mellor we never spoke, though he was not long absent from the minds of any one of us. mary put me on my guard. "yo' thought, ben, 'at faith wer' sweet on yo'!" i made haste to disclaim the impeachment. "now it's no use lying, ben, yo' six feet o' vanity that ye' are. an' what's more yo' were wi'in an ace o' bein' i' love wi' her." i vowed by all my gods that this was false. "oh, yo' may swear as hard as yo' like; but aw know ye', ben. yo'd gotten into yo'r head 'at it wer' yo'r mission i' life to look after folk i' general an' they'd nowt to do but look ailin' an' pinin' as if they couldn't stick up for theirsen, an' yo' wer' ready to tak' them an' their trouble on them big shoulders o' yo'rn. that wer' th' way thi vanity showed itsen." "i was sorry for faith, mary. but bein' sorry an bein' i' love 's two different things." "pity's o' kin to love," quoted mary. "an' aw tell ye', wi' precious little encouragement an' th' chapter o' accidents helpin', yo'd ha' been sprawling at faith's little feet, an 'ud ha' gone to yo'r grave believin' yo'd loved her sin' first yo' set eyes on her." "and who was it taught me the difference atween love and pity, mary?" i asked. "how should i know and why should i care quoth mary. "no voice has ever told me, mary, but the voice of my own heart; no words that maid e'er spoke, but a pair of arms around my neck and a maid's kiss upon my brow." "then if that's all yo'r warrant, i'd 'vise yo' not to be over certain on it. there's many a slip 'twixt the cup 'an the lip, an' a woman doesn't like a felly to be too sure." "nay, if yo'd have me plead on," i began and asked nothing better than to say my say; but mary had ever a way of slipping from my grasp. "do yo' think i've nowt better to do nor listenin' to this nonsense? we wer' talkin' about faith, an' how we wandered off aw' cannot tell." "well what of faith?" "aw tell yo', ben, faith thought more of george mellor's little finger nor of all yo'r big body. aye an' still thinks. he's her hero. her brother stuffed her head wi' such a pack o' nonsense that she thinks george the finest man that ever lived, and yo' not much better nor a coward for deserting him. she frets because he doesn't come here, and there's no tellin' what mak' o' folly her silly fancy mayn't lead her to." "but george cares nowt for her," i said. "what's that to do wi' it? let a felly go sighing an' pinin' after a wench--an' it's long odds she'll laugh i' his long face. let him seem beyond her reach an' it's just as likely she'll break her heart longing for him." "does she know about horsfall?" "of course she does." "what, all?" "aye, all. i took care she should." "well?" "well, she doesn't believe a word of it." chapter xi. may came, sweet, fair and smiling. the crops bade fair to be good, and we looked forward to hay-making time with every assurance of a rich harvest. everything was quiet as quiet could be. of george i saw nothing at all. true i did not seek him, rather i shrank from meeting him. our household settled down into its accustomed ways, and, such is the elasticity of the human mind, i began to look back upon the winter months as a troubled dream, only an occasional twinge in my right arm giving me a sharp reminder of the days i slung a hammer and pounded at the massive door of rawfolds. i was wondrous happy. health returned to my frame like the sap to the branch, and my heart was filled with all the sweet delight of love given and returned. there was no troth plighted as yet between mary and me, but there grew up between us an unspoken acknowledgment of our love that bettered words. faith was still with us, and as the weeks grew to months her melancholy melted away and a pensive content took its place. you did not find her singing like a lark, carolling the live-long day, as you did mary, but there was about her an air of serene restfulness and calm that won all our hearts. with mr. webster she was an especial favourite, and she began, to his great delight, to teach a class in the sunday school at powle moor. faith was a rare scholar, tho' not, of course, learned in foreign tongues like john had been. she could write a beautiful hand and draw beautiful designs of birds and flowers and faces, which she wove in a marvellous way into the flourishes in her copy-books. and her figures and summing were like print. she taught the girls at the powle to read and write, and she taught them so well that the boys rose in revolt and demanded that they too should join miss booth's class. it was a sight to see her leaving chapel of a sunday afternoon. the scholars, boys and girls both, would wait till service was done that they might walk homewards with miss faith, and it was as sweet a sight as ever gladdened the eye of man to see her crossing the fields by the narrow lanes through the waving, nodding, rustling grass, that now began to sigh its own dirge, for hay-time drew near, a crowd of children in her train, a toddling urchin on either side clutching with chubby hand the folds of her skirt, and an advanced guard of sturdy lads marching on in front prepared to face imaginary lions and tigers in defence of their beloved teacher. little joe gledhill and jim sugden fought a battle royal on wimberlee because faith had kissed joe, whereas she had only given a lollipop to jim, and on the strength of the kiss joe went about bragging that when he was a man he should wed faith and live happy ever after, the envy of all the boys in slaithwaite, lingards and outlane. wonders never cease. at this time soldier jack turned religious, and began to be very constant in his attendance at powle moor, and there was much rejoicing in the camp of the godly over this brand plucked from the burning. of a surety there is more rejoicing over one sinner that is saved than over ninety and nine righteous men. and jack announced his resolve to forswear sack and live cleanly. he took a little cottage in the village, which he minded himself, and it was a picture of cleanliness, tho' it was not over stocked with furniture. you should have seen jack polishing his fender, pipe-claying he called it. there was a stormy scene, folk said, between him and widow walker, the buxom landlady of the black bull, the day jack paid his last shot and announced his resolve to frequent that hostelry no more. the lady wept and stormed and even threatened jack with the terrors of the law; but jack was adamant. "dost think awn goin' to tak' up wi' that owd swill-tub's leavin's?" jack asked when i questioned him as to his rupture with the hostess of the black bull. "yo' used to crack on her famous," i replied. "ah! that wer' i' mi salat days, ben, an' aw'll thank yo' not to throw them days of darkness i' mi face." "but what's converted yo, soldier?" i asked. "parson webster." "h...m" "aye, tha may h...m, that's ever the way wi' scoffer's an' unbelievers. aw tell yo' th' little man's getten th' reight end o' th' stick an' owd chew at th' church isn't fit to fasten th' latchet o' his shoes, as th' book says: an' if tha thinks contrariwise i'll feight thee for it big as tha art." "that's what they call muscular christianity," i said. "an' a very good sort, too," quoth jack. anyhow a great change had undoubtedly come over the man, and none of us was surprised when he broached to my father and mother his schemes for establishing himself in life. "it's about time, mrs. bamforth, aw settled dahn. aw've had mi fling an' sown mi wild oats, an' nah it's time aw turned mi hand to a reg'lar job." "yo' should get wed," said my mother, very promptly. "would yo' reilly advise me so, maam?" asked jack. "indeed aw should an' th' sooner the better." "aw dunnot see as how i can afford." "oh, fiddlesticks, what 'll keep one 'll keep two, an' god never sends mouths but he sends meat." "that's cheering anyhow. but don't yo' think awm too old, mrs. bamforth?" "an' what age may yo' be, if aw may make so bold?" "well yo' see awm noan rightly sure. but put it at forty-two or three, an' a gamey leg to boot." "limps dunnot run i' fam'lies," replied my mother with conviction. "there was that lad o' crowthers 'at fell off a scaffold twenty foot high an' had to be taken to th' 'firmary at leeds, an' came back wi'out his arm an' went about wi' th' left sleeve o' his jacket pinned across his chest an' wed kerenhappuch hoyle, which aw shall allers say were no name to give a christian woman, tho' mr. webster did say it meant 'the horn of beauty': an' yet when th' first child came, an' kerenhappuch that anxious as never was an' not knowing for certain whether to mak th' long clo'es wi' one sleeve or two, it had two as fine arms as ever yo'd wish to see on a babe. so it's clear arms isn't like squints, which it's well known run i' families same as bald heads, an' it stan's to reason if arms dunnot legs winnot, not to name a bit of a limp." "that seems to settle it," admitted jack. "an' han yo' fixed yo'r mind on anyone particler, jack? awm sure yo'n ta'en time enough, an' reason enough too you should. marry i' haste an' repent at leisure's god's truth, an' aw've no patience wi' young folk weddin' 'at could awmost go to th' hedge an' see their nippins." "nay, ma'am," said the foxy warrior, "in so weighty a matter aw thowt it best to seek advice, and who can counsel me better nor yo'rsen." "aw thank yo' for the compliment, soldier, aw will say that it's th' army for puttin' a polish on a man if he do get but little moss. all i' good time for th' moss. an yo'll be lookin' maybe for a tidy body wi' summot o' her own put bye. a decent, quiet, god-fearing, steady woman, that could manage a house an' make yo' comfortable. there's betty lumb, now, o' th' town end. she's pretty warm, i'll be bun, for she spends nowt." "why she's forty, ma'am, if she's a month, an' wi' a tongue like a flail." "an' what age might yo' be thinkin' on, soldier?" asked my mother with asperity, suspicion in her voice. "well, aw haven't fixed to a year or two, but she mun be younger nor that. else what about discipline, ma'am, what about discipline? 'discipline must be maintained,' the duke always said, and, zounds, i agree with him." and jack made his escape leaving my mother the agreeable task of turning over in her mind all the single women of middle age for miles around, weighing their merits and by no means unmindful of their failings. with my father jack's converse was on sterner matters. it seemed the soldier was not without a little money laid by, and he was anxious to engage his modest capital in some enterprise in which his want of experience, would not be fatal. farming he rejected with little consideration as being too tame a pursuit, tho' mr. webster, who was also taken into council, pointed out the excellency of beating the sword into a plowshare and the spear into a pruning hook. jack's doubts were, as often happens to man, rather solved for him than by him. say what folk will, rawfolds was not attacked nor horsfall shot in vain. those two events pleaded harder with our masters in parliament than mr. brougham. they were arguments that could not be resisted. in june of that year, on the 18th to be exact, the orders in council were repealed, and our valley and all the west riding was soon busy with the stir of a revived industry. it was as tho' we breathed free after the weight and pressure of a long nightmare. the markets briskened at once, as tho' under a fairy's touch. men went about shaking each other by the hand and with glad smiles upon their faces and in their eyes. the idle looms began to click, the roads were again busy as of yore with the traffic of great waggons departing laden and returning empty of their load. the canal began to be used freely for the carriage of piles of pieces. we could not make goods fast enough. the ports were once more open, and it seemed as if, all the world over, the nations were crying for our goods. it was as if the waters of commerce, frozen and banked up, had been thawed by a sudden heat and hounded forth in tumultuous volume. the church bells all over the riding rang out the glad news. the manufacturers of our parts had a great dinner at the cherry tree and many another hostelry besides, and for the first time in my life and the last, i saw my father overcome by strong waters. he held down his head many a day at after before the awful face of my mother. we shared in this great outburst of glorious sunshine. our house was filled with pieces that my mother had vowed could have no other end than to be eaten by moths and rats. they found now a ready market, and the cry was still for more. we were all as busy as thropp's wife from morning till night. i could not be spared from my own loom and from the warping and seeing to the bunting and country work. and so it came about that jack went with my father on one of his rounds and proved himself so apt at cozening customers and became so great a favourite with the farmers' wives that came to buy suit lengths, that he was in time deemed fit to be trusted with a load on his own account. he bought a horse and waggon, established a round of his own, where he wouldn't clash with us, purchased his goods for the most part of us, and in a smallish way began to build a business, and laid the foundations of a thriving trade for his son and his son's son. but with it all soldier ever delighted to spend his nights at holme and his sundays at powle moor. i soon found he wanted none of my company. he had eyes only for faith. he would talk to faith by the hour of the singular virtues and the unparalleled learning of poor john, and that was a theme faith never wearied of. what a saint, what a hero, what a philosopher they made of him between them! i only hope jack believed half of what he said: else, there was a heavy account scoring against him somewhere. we were all very happy during those months of summer and early autumn, lulled in a false security. we might have known that sooner or later the authorities were bound to get the information for which they never ceased to seek. in the middle of october it was rumoured in the market that george mellor and ben walker had been arrested by justice radcliffe, but after a few hours detention had been released for lack of evidence. i breathed freely after this, and itched to go to george and hear all he had to tell. but i had to bite my thumb and wait, for, apart altogether from the coolness between george and me, it would never have done to be seen in his company just then. still it was something to know that the police could make out no case against him and walker, and we all felt that was more than a little in our favour. then, like a bolt from the blue, came a piece of news in the "leeds mercury." mr. webster was the first to tell us of it, for we did not, at holme, see the daily paper till after mr. mellor the schoolmaster had done with it, he and my father joining at the cost of it. i have the paper still before me as i write, tho' it is now yellow with age and hangs together very loosely and it is worn through at the creases. i may as well copy out what mr. webster read to us, and you may judge for yourself what a flustration it threw us into: "a man has been taken up and examined by that indefatigable magistrate, joseph radcliffe, esq., and has given the most complete and satisfactory evidence of the murder of mr. horsfall. the villains accused have been frequently examined before."--i never heard of but once--"but have always been discharged for want of sufficient evidence. the man charged behaved with the greatest effrontery till he saw the informer, when he changed colour and gasped for breath. when he came out of the room after hearing, the informer's evidence, he exclaimed 'damn that fellow, he has done me.' it appears that this man and another have been the chief in all the disgraceful transactions that have occurred in this part of the country, especially at rawfolds. this will lead to many more apprehensions." when he had read this aloud mr. webster handed the paper to me, and i read the bit he pointed out to me again and again, for i was too stunned to take the sense of it in at first. the paragraph referred to the murderers of mr. horsfall. well, i was clear of that at all events. you see my first thoughts were of myself and my own neck. it is no use pretending to be different from what i am, and i may as well confess that my first feeling was one of relief that the murderers of mr. horsfall only were indicated by the paragraph. but the feeling was short-lived. if walker, for of course it must be walker, it never entered my mind to question that, if walker had told about the murder of horsfall, would he hold his tongue about other matters. and if he told about the doings at rawfolds, how many weeks purchase was my life worth. "this will lead to many more apprehensions." these words stood out and stared me in the face, and i broke out into a cold sweat and my hand trembled as i gave the paper back to mr. webster. what was to be done? my father was all for flight, but mr. webster thought that would be of little use, for, said he, six feet two are not so easy hid as three feet one. he should like to see ben walker's father, who was or had been one of his deacons, and learn from him the exact truth of the matter. but he was fearful lest he should bungle the business, being as he said little used to the subtleties of the law and having a fatal habit of being prodigal in the matter of the truth. "there's soldier," said my father, who had unbounded confidence in our new foreman's resources, and who also probably felt that whatever qualms jack might feel about parsimony in the matter in which the parson was prodigal he would be able to overcome. "but jack's in it knee deep," i objected. "he'll wade out," said my father. and jack was fetched from the scourhole, and came in with his arms bare and sweating from the steam, and smelling abominably of lant. the paragraph was read to him. "phew! so george is nabbed. well he'll noan split aw hope." "it appears that the man and another have been the chief in all the disgraceful transactions that have occurred in this part of the country, especially at rawfolds' read mr. webster again. 'the man and another...especially at rawfolds?' you see the betrayal has not been confined to the murder of that unfortunate but headstrong man--'the man and another.' who can the other be?" i looked at soldier and soldier looked at me. "that'll be me," said jack. "nay, me," i said and the silence of dismay fell upon us all. "nay," said the good parson at length, and never did dying absolution from priestly lips bring more comfort to a penitent--"nay, that can hardly be. this paper was published in leeds yesterday morning. the information must have been in the possession of mr. radcliffe for some days. if either of you had been implicated you would have been under arrest ere this." i breathed again. "well, jack, what do yo' say?" asked my father. "say? well aw say i'm noan goin' to be kept on th' tenterhooks. awm goin' to know all at is to be known. i'm goin' to reconnoitre. they can't hang me for a spy, any road, an' that's what they nearly did in spain. just yo' cower quiet, ben. i'm off to th' brig. there'll be more known there. just you leave it to me; an' i'll be back wi' my budget bi th' afternoon drinkin." and jack set off without parley, and left us to our anxieties. he was back by four o'clock. mr. webster had been in and out half a dozen times, having passed the afternoon in reading the scriptures with a distraught air at the houses of those of his flock who lived at upper and lower holme. jack's face was very sober when he came into the house and found us waiting, mary and faith with us, for i had not thought it necessary to hide from them the serious aspect of our affairs, and we had all gone about all day, my mother declared, as if we had th' bailiffs in, which to her mind was far worse than a death. "it's walker's split, sure enough," said jack coming to the point at once. "him an' bill hall. george mellor and thorpe and smith have been taken and sent off to york under guard. that's for horsfall's job they say. john walker, ben's own brother, 's pinched for rawfolds. so's jon'than dean an' tom brook an' two or three others, but i couldn't reightly find out who an' how many more. but there's no gainsayin' them. an' more nor likely there's more to folly. when aw got to th' brigg there wer' a crowd round buck walker's house, booin' an' callin' out 'black sheep, black sheep.' but that'll do no gooid. there wer' some o' those new constables at mr. radcliffe's brought up i' th' front o' th' house, an' bar a stone or two thrown at th' windows no harm wer done. aw made mi way in, an' gate a word wi' mrs. walker, ben's mother." "but george--where was he taken? cannot yo' tell us more of him?" jack glanced covertly at faith. she sat with fingers tight interlaced upon her knee. her eyes were fixed on soldier, wide dilated. her lips were parted, and she scarce breathed. "oh, tell us of george," she sighed rather than spoke. "he wer' ta'en at th' shop. he wer' workin' with th' shears, an' like as not thinkin' o' nowt so little as th' sodjers. they'd come up, about six on 'em, very quiet, an' owd radcliffe hissen wer' with 'em wi't officer wi' th' warrant. radcliffe come reight up to th' door as bold as brass afore anyone i'side wer' aware on him, an' ben walker wer' wi' him. ben sidles into th' shop, an' george turns to speak to him but his eye fell o' mr. radcliffe stood i' th' door way." 'hows a wi' yo, george?' says ben, an' holds out his hand. "but george took it all in in a jiffy, an' he maks a spring at ben, an' they say he'd ha' run his shears into him if he'd got at him. but th' chap wi' th' warrant rushes for'ard an' th' soldiers run in at a word fra mr. radcliffe. 'judas,' hissed george, and fixed his eyes on ben an' nivver took them off him while they put th' darbies on him an' thorpe 'at wer' taken at th' same time. 'judas, yo' cursed judas!' and walker cowered behind th' stout owd magistrate like th' cur at he is. but, quick, look to faith." mary and my mother sprang to faith's side, and mary caught her in her arms as she was falling unconscious to the ground. the poor lass had swooned away. jack supported her to the parlour, and laid her on the horsehair sofa and my mother and mary busied themselves in bringing her round. "drat me for a tactless fool," said jack, when he returned to the kitchen. "aw cannot ha' th' wit aw wer' born wi' to be ramblin' on like that an' her there. well, well, it's a pity her heart's so set yonder, for awm feart her thowt's 'll be where her eyes 'll nivver rest again." and for a long time jack could not be moved to continue his story. it was only when mary returned to say that faith was quite recovered, and that the mother would stay with her in the parlour that he went on: "george wer' game to th' last, an' thorpe, they say, wer' just as unconcerned as if he wer' used to bein' charged wi' murder every day o' his life. when they thrust 'em into th' coach they had i' waitin', george raised his hand as well as he could for th' irons, an' called out, 'three cheers for general lud.' but th' crowd wer' fleyed to death. a lad or two in th' throng cried out i' answer, an' a woman waved her shawl, but everyone feart to be seen takin' his part, an' folk 'at had known him fra a lad held back fra him same as if he'd getten th' small-pox." "oh! the cowards, the heartless, ungrateful wretches!" cried mary with flashing eyes. "i wish i'd been there. i'd have, stood by him if his own mother had disowned him!" and i have no doubt mary would have been as good as her words. "well and then?" said my father to prod on soldier, who seemed to have only half his heart in the story, for he kept his eyes fixed on the door of the parlour, and seemed to be listening with all his ears for what might be passing within. "well, they hustled him off wi' a clatter, th' soldiers mounted their horses, three o' each side o' th' coach, an' off i' a gallop to leeds on their way to york. ther' wer' more dragoons waiting for them by th' brigg for they feared a rescue, but, lord bless yo', when they'd getten george they'd gotten all th' heart an' all th' pluck to be fun' wi' in a mile o' th' brigg. a rescue say yo'? a swarm o' rats not worth feightin' for. that's my judgment on 'em all." "but you saw mrs. walker yo' said?" queried my father. "had yo' no speech wi' ben?" "nay, they took good care o' that. owd radcliffe has him safe enough, an' he'll noan let him slip aat o' his clutches till he's kept his bargain an' put th' noose round george's neck. he's to be ta'en, they say, to chester, an' kept theer till th' york 'sizes. they'll noan gi' th' luds a chance o' stoppin' his mouth wi' an ounce o' lead, worse luck. for awm noan so sure aw wouldn't ha' a try at him misen." "and what had his mother to say?" "oh! lots. a cunning, contrary bitch, that aw sud say so! there's no wonder ben walker wer' what he wer' wi' a dam like yon, whinin' an' quotin' th' scriptures, enough to mak a man turn atheist." "but what did she say?" "oh! i cannot burden mi mind wi' all 'oo said, about it bein' th' lord's will, an' submission to th' ways of th' a'mighty, reg'lar blasphemy aw call it, callin' in religion to cover up a piece o' as damned rascality as ever wer' done by man. but there's something aw munnot forget. it concerns thee, mary." "me! what can she have to say to me." "that's what aw wanted to get at. but 'oo'd noan send any word bi me. she particler wanted to know if ther' wer' owt 'atween yo' an' ben here." mary flushed and tossed her head. "the impudence o' some folk," she said. "aw axed her what business that wer' o hers' an' towd her aw thowt 'oo'd best turn her thowts to prayin' for that scamp o' a son o' hers. but 'oo stuck to her guns. 'oo wants to see thee, mary." "'oo may want," said mary. "well it's for yo' to judge. she made out it mut be waur for ben here if tha didn't go." "mary 'll noan go near such like wi' my consent," i cried. "whativver can th' woman want?" mused mary. "aw've a good mind.... ben walker's away to chester yo' say? for good an' all?" "aye, they'll keep him fast enough yo' may rest content." "i've a good mind...," continued mary. "waur for our ben, did she say? i'll go." "yo'll do nowt o' th' sort!" i said. "an' since when wer' yo' mi mester, cousin ben?" she asked. "i'st go and aunt 'll mebbe go wi' me." "not an inch," snapped my mother, who had left faith in a great measure composed "aw'd be poisoned if aw' breathed th' same air." "then aw'st go by misen. yo' can see me to th' brigg, ben, if tha likes. but i'll hear what 'oo has to say. she cannot harm me, an i'st happen get to know something that may help us." "mary's right," said soldier. "my word, ben, thee's getten thi mester," he whispered to me on the sly. but it has been a sweet thraldom. when mary had made up her mind she was not one to let the grass grow under her feet, and the very next evening she told me to get me dressed if i meant to go with her to th' brigg. so off we set together by kitchen fold, over crossland moor, past the plantation where mr. horsfall had been shot, and so dropped down into th' brigg. i pointed out to mary the marks of the bullets on the wall on the road side opposite the little wood; but mary shivered and drew her shawl tighter about her and hurried on, casting frightened glances at the clump of trees and bush as if she feared to see a ghost. she would not let me go with her to walker's, bidding me meet her in an hour's time on the brigg and be ready to company her back. so i thought i might as well comfort myself with a glass at th' nag's head. it was not so long since that the landlord would have fussed about me as i drank my ale and offered me a treat. but now, as i sat aloof from the little company and took my drink, he talked pointedly to the other customers about the honest way he had always kept his house, saying he would have neither luds nor their brass at th' nag's head and their room was better nor their company. but i would not be hurried for the likes of him, and called for another gill and made it last out my hour just to spite him. mary did not keep me waiting long on th' brigg, and fain i was to be off, for little knots of people were clustered in the street and many a look was cast at me, not over friendly; and faces that i knew well enough looked stonily at me, and one or two that knew me well enough, and to whom i gave the day, made as tho' they did not know me from adam. it was plain as a pike-staff that the folk at th' brigg were fleyed out of their wits of being suspected of having ought to do with the luds. they altered their tune later on, when th' first panic had passed, but for a week or two after george and thorpe were taken every man was on his best behaviour, and a good many lived in hourly fear and trembling. be sure, then, we did not loiter in longroyd bridge. there was nothing there to tempt us to stay, and mary was in a greater hurry to be gone than even i. she was very pale. she had had no spirits to talk of since we had heard george was taken, but now she was more down nor ever. not a word spoke she right up th' moor till we got to th' top and turned round to look on th' town lying at our feet. she was panting for breath, and i drew her to the roadside and made her sit upon the wall. there was nobody about, and the early night of late autumn had closed in. i tried to steal my arm about her waist, tho' mary was ever coy of suffering any such show of my love. but she put away my arm very gently--"yo mustn't do that again, ben. it's all ovver now. we'n had our dream, an' it's been a sweet 'un. but i've had a rude wakening, an' it's all ovver, it's all ovver." and mary hid her face in her hands and bent over as she sat, and tears trickled from under her hands down upon her lap. i let her be, and she wept silently. then she sprang to her feet and dried her eyes and tried to smile and would have had me take the road again; but i would not budge, and she had to sit by my side. the road was quiet enough, and what mattered it if all the world saw us? we'd as much right there as anyone. "now, mary, tell me, like a sensible lass, what it all means." mary did not speak to me. i saw she was considering so i did not hurry her. i was getting used to the ways of women. there's nought like loving and courting for teaching a man th' way to handle 'em, tho' they're kittle cattle to shoe at the' best o' times. "there's summat aw hannot told thee, ben. happen aw should ha' done." "aw think aw can guess it." "tha nivver can." "is it about ben walker?" mary nodded. "martha towd me." "oh!" there was a look passed over mary's face which i took to mean that martha would have a piece of mary's mind first chance that offered. "well?" i said. "well, of course, i'd ha' nowt to do wi' him." "aw should think not," i said, moving a little closer to her. "and at first he thowt aw'd promised george." "that comes fra not knowin' thi own mind." mary drew further off. "i told him so misen," i said. mary sprang up as if she'd been shot. "yo' did?" "aw did." "then yo've a deal to answer for, ben bamforth. his mother says that's what made him peach on george." "the devil!" i said, and there was silence, and we sat thinking our own thoughts. "it wer' happen my fault," said mary at last, sitting down again. "anyway it's no use quarrelling about it." "nor crying over spilt milk," i said. "but that's not th' worst on it by a long chalk," said mary. "well, let's hear it?" "she's a horrid woman, that mrs. walker. just like an owd witch, an' such wicked, wicked eyes, a peerin' at yo' an' a peerin' at yo', an' wantin' to stroke yo'r hair like as if yo' wer' a cat. but aw'll begin at th' beginnin'." "that's th' best way," i said, and my arm now was where it should be, and mary reckoned not to know. i'd looked up th' road an' down th' road an' nobody was coming. "when aw got in, 'oo dusted a chair wi her apron, an' not afore it wanted it. th' house wer' like a pig-stye. but i sat down, an' 'oo stood afore me an' looked me up an' down same as if 'oo wer' vallyin' me. 'aw hope yo'll know me again next time yo' see me, an' that won't be soon if i've my way' aw thowt, but said nowt. 'an' so yo'r mary o' mally's?' 'oo said at last. 'at yo'r service,' aw said. 'yo're not much to look at,' 'oo said. 'thank yo' kindly,' aw answered as polite as never were. 'but yar ben's a reight to ha' his own way now he's a gentleman.' 'a what?' aw cried. 'a gentleman. a real gentleman at can ha' th' pick o' th' country side. he's nowt to do but howd up his finger naa. it'll be whistle an' aw'll come to yo', mi lad.' 'he's altered strangely,' aw said. 'aye, two thousand p'un' does mak' a differ,' says th' owd hag. "and then aw remembered about th' notice in th' paper. 'it'll do him no good,' aw says. 'it's blood money. there'll be a curse on it.' 'it's good gold, lass!' 'oo says. 'good gold, leastways it will be when th' 'sizes is ovver. an then yar ben's off to 'meriky, an' nowt 'll suit him but yo' mun go wi' him.' 'then he'll noan be suited,' aw says. 'hoity-toity, mi fine wench,' 'oo cries. 'don't thee be too sure o' that. yo'r happen thinkin' o' ta'in up wi' ben bamforth. leastways that's what yar ben heerd just afore he wer' off to chester. that's what aw've sent for yo' for.' 'what's it to him, who aw wed?' i asked, but aw wer' all of a tremble. 'it's this. it'll be yar ben or nobody sin he's set on it. 'see her yoursen, mother,' he said, an' these were awmost his last words afore he set off wi' justice radcliffe, two gentlemen together. 'see her yo'rsen, an' tell her that th' same tongue 'at's teed a rope round george mellor's neck can tee' one round ben bamforth's, an' will too, unless she speaks the word that'll stop my mouth.' now, what's ta say, mi fine lass?' "and what could i say, ben," sobbed mary, hiding her face on my shoulder. "aw saw she meant it. she gay' me a month to think on it, an' if aw don't say yes 'oo swears ben walker 'll give thee up to th' law, an' it's a hangin' job, sure an' certain." "what did yo' say, mary?" "at first i towd her aw wouldn't wed their ben if there weren't another man i' all england. aw'd rayther wed a toad, aw said, an' aw meant it. but oh, ben, tha'rt i' their power, an' aw'm noan worth hangin' for. and what would yo' have me do, ben? aw mun tell her in a month." "there's one thing tha shalln't do," i cried. "aw'd rayther hang a million times ovver nor tha should ha' a thing like him. let her do her worst. not if it would save me from ten thousand times ten thousand base deaths shall ben walker call thee wife. that aw'm fixed on. what say'st ta, mary?" "eh, awm fair moithered, ben. aw know this, if wed him i must aw'll mak' a hole i' th' cut th' same neet," and mary sobbed again. and i declare that i was happier whilst i soothed her and whispered words of bye and pressed kisses on her cheek and lips than ever before. for never till then had i realized to the full all the sweet privileges of our love. chapter xii. i had got my affairs into, a pretty tangle, and for the life of me i could not see my way out of the mess. i lived in daily terror of arrest. i was not even supported by what appeals so strongly to a young man's vanity--popular good-will. when a man gets older he comes to esteem the applause of the world at its proper worth, largely indifferent to it and content if happily he can be assured of the good-will of his own conscience. but even the poor solace of the public voice was just now denied the poor luds. the murder of mr. horsfall had revolted the general mind. so i found myself quaking at every step that approached the door when i kept the house, and met with looks averted or openly hostile when i took my walks abroad, which was not oftener than needs must be. then there was that diabolic threat of ben o' buck's, which i had no reason to hope he would not make good. i could not essay to save my own skin by counselling mary to have ben walker. even had i not loved her myself i could scarce have brought her to that. add to this the reflection that, innocently and honestly enough, i had probably been the means of drawing upon george mellor's head the spiteful hatred of the traitor by giving him to believe that it was a made up thing between mary and george. i tell you i could neither eat nor sleep these days for thinking of all these matters. and mary looked worn and ill. the rose's began to fade from her cheeks, she had scarce a word to throw at a dog, and as the days grew to weeks her gloom deepened and misery showed more plain upon her face. i took counsel of 'siah. i was in such straits that i could have found it in my heart to seek wisdom from the town fool. 'siah had a short cut out of the whole perplexity. "yo' mun get untwisted, ben," said 'si. "what's untwisted?" i asked. "i cannot tell wher' yo'r wits are these days," said 'siah impatiently. "theer tha sits by th' fireside, counting th' co'wks' an' glowerin' into th' ass-hoil, as if that 'ud do thi ony good. tha shud stir about, mon, an' hear whats a foot. there's more i'spiration, as th' parson calls it, to be fun' at th' black bull i' hauf an hour nor i' a week o' sulkin' at whom bi thissen." "aw've no faith i' th' counsel 'at's to be found at th' bottom o' an' ale-pot, 'si." "who want's thee to ha? th'art as bad as martha for preachin' these days. ther'll be no livin' for sermons soon. there's summat beside drinkin' goin' off in a public." "well, lets hear it?" i said passively, for i had not much faith in what 'siah might have picked up in his haunts. "aw tell thee tha should get untwisted." "well?" "well and well an' well. can ta say nowt but well? doesn't ta know what aw mean, or mun i tell thee straight out?" "aw've no' more notion nor th' babe unborn," i said. "yo' know mr. scott o' woodsome?" "of course aw do. didn't aw sit next to him at th' audit, last year?" "well yo' know he's a magistrate, an' main good to th' poor folk, everyone says he is. he's everyone's good word, an' that's summat out o' th' common for a justice." "and how can mr. scott help us in our troubles? i fear they're a bit aboon his power." "why, he can untwist thee, mon." "untwist?" "aye! untwist! there's doad o' jamie's an' lijah o' mo's an' a seet more on 'em 's gate untwisted, an' it costs nowt, an's just as easy as sinnin', an' a heap more comfortin' by what they say." "and what in the name o' wonder is it?" i asked, thinking 'siah might have penetrated deeper into the mysteries of the law than i, and having much respect for him, as one who had more than once slipped through the constable's hands and left him clinkin'. "yo' know th' oath we took at th' buck," replied 'siah, lowering his voice and looking cautiously round. i nodded. "well, mr. scott's untwisting th' oath off th' luds for miles around. yo'n nowt to do but go to woodsome an' say yo'r soary an' let on to tell all yo' know, an' that needn't be more nor yo' can see wi' both e'en shut, an' he untwists yo'. it's same as th' catholics, tha knows." "why that's king's evidence," i cried. "yo' may call it what yo' like, but it's cheap an' easy, an' 'll do nobody any harm." "what give evidence again mi own cousin? i'd be as bad as ben walker." "nowt o' th' sort. they'n getten witnesses enew baht thee, an' mr. scott 's a friend o' thi father's, an' 'll let thee dahn soft for auld acquaintance sake. it isn't as if tha wer' th' first to split, nor as if owt tha can other say or do 'ud pull george out o' th' boil or thrust him further in." "i'll ha none of it, 'si," i cried. "and what's more yo' an' me quarrel if yo' do owt o' th' sort thissen. why man, aw sud nivver sleep another wink nor howd up mi head agen if aw lowered misen to that, an' whativver tha does, 'si, keep thissen cleaner nor ben walker. aw'd never speak to thee agen, no more would any on us'. has ta' spoke to martha on it?" "well awm not free to say but what aw han." "and what does martha say?" "well if aw mun speak th' truth she says th' same as thee. all fools in a lump, say i, but gang thi own gate, an' dunnot fear aw'st cross thi will. but its hard liggin' for all that." so i got no comfort from 'siah. then, as if we hadn't troubles enough of our own, my aunt wood, george's mother, came from the brigg to see my father about george's case. it must not be thought we had not worried about him. we had, and more than a little. whenever i pictured to myself my cousin and more than friend, eating his heart out in a prison cell, i was near beside myself with grief. as for the end of it all, i dared not think of it. i had parted from george in anger; but i made no account of that. i was safe in mary's love, and those who win can afford to be generous. and if these luddite troubles had blown over, george might have come round, and tho' our relations might never have been what they had been, still we could have patched up a work-a-day friendship that would have served. but now george was in prison, charged with the most awful of all crimes, and tho' my gorge rose at the deed, i sorrowed for the man. it was sad to see the change in my aunt wood. she was never a strong woman, least-wise in my knowledge of her; but now she was piteous to look at. she was crushed by the burthen of sorrow and shame. sorrow's bad enough: but add shame to it, and it's more than human soul can bear. my mother fair wept over her. "eh, lass," she said, when she had taken my aunt's shawl and poke bonnet and got her seated by the fire, whilst mary busied about boiling the kettle and making some tea. "eh! lass, that ever we should live to see this day." my aunt drooped her head. she did not greet nor moan. i think the fountain of her tears was dry. "my heart's sore for yo', matty, and glad i am yo've come to me i' yo'r trouble." "i had to come, charlotte, for if yo'r william cannot help me, i dunnot know wheer to turn." "aw'll do owt aw can. yo' know that, matty. aw set a deal o' store on george. we all did. aw cannot think what possessed him. more aw think on it, more awm capped, for george wer' noan o' th' sort to . . . . it's fair beyond me. what does wood say?" "it's that's brought me here, william. it's a cruel thing to say; but in his heart o' hearts aw think mi husband's fair glad they'n fetched our george. he never took to th' lad, nor george to him. but yo'd ha' thowt at naa, when aw want all th' comfort aw can get, mi own husband 'ud be th' first to help." and aunt wood's lips trembled and she pressed her thin hand to her throat to keep down the sobs that choked her. "dunnot tak' on, matty," said my father. "we'st stand to yo', wet or fine." "aw shud think so i'deed," cried my mother; "my own sister. if yo' can't look to yo'r own in th' time o' need, what's relations for aw shud like to know. onybody 'll stan' yo'r friend when yo'r i' no need o' frien's. it's trouble tries folk. nah, thee drink this cup o' tea, matty, an' nivver heed drawin' to th' table. sit wher' tha art an' keep thi feet on th' fender. an', see yo', there's a drop o' rum i' thi tea, tho' aw dunnot hold wi' it as a reg'lar thing, for wilful waste ma'es woful want, but it'll warm thee an' hearten thi up. tha' looks as if tha hadn't a drop o' blood i' thi body, poor thing." "hast ta any notion o' what tha'd like doin' for george?" asked my father. "nay, it'll be a law job, that's all aw know. but see, awm noan come a beggin'. aw dunnot know what william 'ud say, if he knew; but yo'll noan tell." and my aunt lifted her dress and from under the skirt drew a linen bag, which she placed upon the table. "count that." she said. my father turned over the greasy, dirty notes, pound notes of the huddersfield commercial bank, ingham's, wetting his forefinger and counting aloud, very grave, as he always was whenever he counted money. he used to say it gave him a turn, when he went to the bank, to see the flippant way the young men handled the money across the counter--"but they don't know its valley, or they'd noan finger it so free," he would say. "a hundred pounds, neither more nor less," he said, after the third counting and blowing of each note to see two hadn't stuck together. "wherever did ta get it, matty?" "aw saved it out o' th' housekeepin' brass 'at wood gives me. aw'd meant it for george' on th' day he should be wed--but nah!" "it'll come in useful ony road," said my father. "am aw to keep it for thee?" "aye, it's for th' law." "has ta any fancy?" "nay, tha knows best." "what does ta say to 'torney blackburn? he's allus done my bit." "aw dunnot know. aw reckon there's not much to choose among 'em he mun be th' best brass can buy." "well there's young allison; aw don't know but what he'd be more cut out for a job like this. but they say he's for th' crown. him an' justice radcliffe ha' been here, there an' everywheer huntin' up evidence agen th' 'sizes." "aye, trust th' quality for havin' th' best o' everything," spoke my mother. "well, if tha thinks 'torney blackburn can be trusted, tha can set him on. but awm feart them lawyers is all in a string. yo' never know who yo' can trust these days." "well yo' see," said my father, "we'n got to trust 'em an' pray for th' best. aw supposes there's summot i' th' nature o' th' law 'at makes it difficult for th' best on 'em to be ony better nor he sud be; an' happen if they warn't a bit crooked theirsen, they'd noan be fit to straighten other folk's twists. but 'speak of a man as yo' find him,' say i, an' aw've allus fun 'torney blackburn as straight as they make 'em. but aw wish we could ha' had mr. allison all th' same." "why?" asked my aunt. "well, somehow he'st th' name o' bein' thicker wi' owd harry; an' that goes a long way i' law." and so it was settled that the defence of george should be entrusted to mr. blackburn, of the new street. i went with my father the very next day to see mr. blackburn. i did not like being seen about, but there seemed nothing for it but to brazen it out and take my luck. i had never been to a lawyer's office before, and felt as if i were going to have a tooth pulled; but my father opened the door of the outer office as bold as brass. there was a little old wizened man with a face like yellow crinkled sheepskin, and a suit that had once been black, maybe, but now was rusty brown and white at the seams. "is he in?" said my father. "sit down, mr. bamforth, sit down. come to the fire. your son, sir? pleased to know you, sir. a chip of the old block, mr. bamforth, a chip of the old block." and my father actually looked pleased, tho' if i were a chip of the old block there was a deal more chip than block. mr. blackburn was in, and presently we were ushered into an inner room. it would have turned my mother sick to see the dust that lay about, and the frosted windows that gave on to the new street looked as if they hadn't been washed for a century. mr. blackburn shook us both by the hand in a jerky way, and offered my father a pinch of snuff from a big silver box. my father took a pinch with the result that he never ceased sneezing till we were out into the street and he had hurried to the boot and shoe and drunk a pint of ale to wash the tickling out of his throat. "and now, mr. bamforth, what can i do for you?" asked mr. blackburn, pushing his spectacles on to his brow and laying a large brown silk handkerchief, snuff coloured, over his knee. "it's about george mellor, yo know," said my father. mr. blackburn did not look as if he did know. "him 'at's ta'en for horsfall's job, yo' know," explained my father. "well, what of him?" "he's my nevvy, yo' know." "yo'r nevvy? phew! this is an ugly business, an ugly business." "awm feart so." "well?" "aw want yo' to defend him at th' 'sizes." "why my good man, what defence is possible? allison tells me the case is as clear as crystal. not a loop hole in it." my father's face fell. then he pulled out the bag of notes. "there's a hundred pound here, mr. blackburn. george shalln't stand up i' court wi'out one soul to take his side. guilty or not guilty, whatever th' law can do for him shall be done. it'll happen soothe him at the last, if th' worst comes to th' worst, to know at some hearts felt for him, an' that what brass could do to get him off, wer' done." "it's a noble sentiment, mr. bamforth, and does you credit i'm sure. well, well, no man's guilty in this country, thank god, till he's proved guilty. but i can't make bricks without straw, you know. what's the defence?" "nay, that's for you to find out," said my father, more cheerfully. "that's' what th' hundred pound is for." "but we don't make evidence, my dear sir. there can be only one defence--an alibi. the man was shot, that's plain. it wasn't an accident, that's clear. who ever did it, did it of malice prepense. there can only be an alibi. this young man now"--turning to me--"the prisoner was your cousin?" "yes, sir." "and doubtless you were on good terms?" "the best." "and equally without doubt you saw a deal of each other?" "we did." "he visited you and you him?" "that's so." "and you remember the night of the--what day was it?" "tuesday the 28th of april last." "and you remember that day?" "only too well." "now perhaps--i only say, perhaps, mark you--your cousin george spent the evening of that day in your company? a respectable young man like you--your word would go a long way." but i shook my head. no, i could not swear i was with george that fateful day. "well, well, perhaps someone else can. i must see the prisoner, and when i've heard what he has to say, i shall be better able to judge what is best to be done. another pinch, mr. bamforth? no? a bad habit, a bad habit, don't you begin it, young sir, but clears the brain. good day--jones, give mr. bamforth a receipt for â£100. "rex versus mellor." good day--we'll do our best, and a case is never lost till it's won." "did' yo' notice th' books, ben?" asked my father, as we crossed the street to the boot and shoe. "wonderful isn't it? aw dunnot wonder a man wants some snuff or summat to life th' weight o' all them books off his brain. aw wonder how he crams it all in, for his yed's noan so much bigger nor other folk. wonderful." when we got home that night we had to tell in detail all that we had said to mr. blackburn and all that mr. blackburn had said to us. soldier jack and mr. webster were of our council. "it's a tickle business is an alibi," jack commented. "them lawyers turn a chap inside out. aw once tried to get a felly out o' a bit o' a mess afore th' justices at bristol. he wer' one o' th' line an' had used his belt in a street broil. i went to swear him off." "i hope, soldier, not to perjure yourself," said mr. webster earnestly. "well not to say perjure," said jack. "they say if yo' kiss yo'r thumb i'sted of th' book, it's noan perjury. but aw did better nor that, aw'd a ready reckoner i' th' palm o' my hand, an' aw kissed that. so aw reckon aw wer' clear ony road." mr. webster sighed and shook his head. "but it wer' o' no use. ther' wer' a little chap at wer' persecutin', an' he looked that innercent yo'd ha' thowt ony sort o' a tale 'ud go dahn wi' him. but aw nivver wer' so mista'en i' a chap i' my life. he began to cross-question me mild as milk. he wanted to know what aw'd had for mi breakfast an' wheer aw took my ale an' a hundred thousand things, an' raked out th' whole history o' mi life awmost fra mi pap bottle up'ards, an' he twisted mi answers so, an' th' magistrates began to look at me as if aw wer th' worst specimen o' a criminal they'd ivver seen; an' he back'ards an' for'ards, lopin' like a flea fra this spot to that spot o' mi tale, till aw didn't know whether aw wer' stood o' mi head or mi heels. an' he looked at mi wi' an eye like a gimlet, an' for th' life o' me aw couldn't tak' mi e'en fra his, tho' aw'd ha' given owt to do it. an' then aw saw aw'd contradicted misen, not exactly a lie, but a bit o' a slip, an' aw saw he'd twigged it, an' aw saw he saw aw saw he'd twigged it; an' ther' come a quiet smile o' his lips, an' he looked at me as much as to say 'what a clever fool yo' are,' an' he played wi' me like a cat lakin' wi' a mouse, an' aw broke out into a sweat an' aw'd ha' swapped places wi' th' prisoner an' given summat to boot. phew! it mak's me warm yet to think on it! it's risky wark is a haliby, aw tell yo', an chance it." "i suppose the crown will rely mainly on the evidence of ben walker?" asked mr. webster. my father nodded assent. "but i think i have read that a man cannot be hanged on the unsupported testimony of an informer. if they have only walker's evidence to go on, or indeed that of any other participator in the deed, the case may break down." "it's no go," said jack. "there's others beside ben o' buck's ha' leaked. as soon as it wer' known he'd split there wer' a reg'lar scramble to turn informer. everyone wer' anxious to be i' th' swim. there's joe sowden." "o' th' yews?" i asked. jack nodded. "th' same felly." "why what could he say?" "th' story is that th' day after th' job wer' done, george went into th' croppin' shop, an' him an' thorpe towd sowden all about it." "what, that they had shot mr. horsfall?" exclaimed my father, in a voice of horror. "nowt else. an' they made sowden tak' a oath to keep th' secret an' sweer all th' others to keep th' secret. everyone i' th' shop wer' sworn. there weren't a soul i' all john wood's that weren't sworn. and folk say george held a pistol at sowden's head while he read th' oath off a bit o' papper an' made 'em all kiss th' book." we stared at each other blankly. "but is this known to the crown?" asked mr. webster at length. "sowden's takin' his tea at this minnit i' chester castle, livin' o' th' fat o' th' land, a guest o' th' king, feastin' like a fightin' cock, an' yo'll nivver set eyes on him agen till yo see him i' th' witness-box at york 'sizes," said jack. "an' there's more to tell. they say george borrowed a russian pistol fra william hall." "well, i'll vouch for hall, ony road, for all awm worth," i burst out. "he'll noan turn traitor. he wer' allus th' keenest o' th' lot on us." "tha'd lose thi brass," said jack quietly. "hall's sat just nah opposite sowden, like as not drinkin' success to honesty. he lent his pistol to george the very day horsfall wer' shot, an' seed him load it with ball an' slugs." "why hall lodged at wood's an' slept wi' george, i' th' same room if not i' th' same bed," i murmured. "skin for shin, yea all that a man hath will he give for his fife,' so says the book." thus mr. webster. "and after horsfall wer' shot, choose who shot him," jack went on. "george mellor an' thorpe went to joe mellor's at dungeon wood an' hid two pistols, an' one on 'em, they do say, is th' self-same pistol 'at hall lent to george afore th' job wer' done." i do not know whether any of us till then, clung to a hope that george might be cleared of any share in the murder. for my own part i had known from the first minute i set eyes on george when he came to me at holme the day after the deed, known without a word spoken, that he was guilty. all the same the law's the law, and it was none of my business to tell what i thought. thinking's not evidence, and if there was a loop-hole for him anywhere i'd widen it for him rather than stop it. "all the evidence points one way," said mr. webster despondently. "oh, no! it doesn't, beggin' yo'r pardon for contradictin' yo'," said jack. "there's plenty think george 'll scrape through." "as how?" i asked. "why on th' halibey. mr. blackburn 'll have summat to go on. yo' know john womersley, th' watch maker' i' cloth hall street?" "aye, aye." "well he says he wer' talkin' wi' george just after six bi th' clock opposite th' cloth hall, an' had a glass wi' him at th' white hart." "well?" "why it wer' just on six when mr. horsfall wer' shot on crosland moor, an' if george were i' th' white hart at hauf past six, it stan's to reason he couldn't be shootin' folk on th' moor at six." "womersley's a decent man, and his word will have weight," said my father with relief in his tone. "perhaps we've been misjudgin' the lad after all." "let's hope so," said soldier. "an' like enough others 'll turn up 'at can give similar evidence. but it's a tickle job is a halibey, best o' times." and so our council ended, jack engaging to search high and low for any scrap of testimony that might help the prisoners. the month within which mary must give her answer to walker's mother stole on. i scarce could trust myself to look on mary so sad and wan was she. but one morning towards the middle of december after she had sided the breakfast things she donned her sunday clothes, a thing rarely done on week-days in our house, except for visits of more than common ceremony, or for weddings and parties. "i'm going to huddersfe'lt and mebbe a step beyond," she told my mother. "to see thi aunt matty?" "i'st happen see her." my heart quaked. "yo'r never goin' to walker's?" i asked when i could speak to her alone. "trust me for that," she said. "i'd rather walk a good few miles another way." "then where'st ta goin'?" i persisted, "an' winnot yo' tak' faith? th' walk 'll happen do her good if she wraps well up." "faith mun see to th' mixin' o' th' kersmas cake. awn towd her how to mix th' dough, an' aw'll hope 'oo'll mak' a better job on it nor 'oo did o' th' parkin o' bunfire day; but it's never too late to larn, an' awm thinkin' it won't be long afore she'll need to know summat more nor to play on th' spinnet an' to sing hymns an' love ditties. they'll boil no man's kettle." but of her errand to huddersfield i could get no inkling, and off she set in the forenoon through the snow with warm hood over her head and thick paisley shawl and mittens, and pattens to her feet, as sweet a picture as ever went down that hill before or since. it was night, eight o'clock, when she came home, and many a time i'd gone into the lane and strained my eyes across the valley to watch the road from kitchen fold. the snow was falling thick, and when mary entered her shawl was covered with the flakes and little feathery sprays were on the curls that twined and twisted from beneath the hood. her cheeks that had grown so pale were a rosy flush with the keen frosty air, her eyes were bright and glad and there was the first smile upon her lips had played there for many a doleful day. she shook her shawl at the house door, whilst vixen yapped and gambolled about her and faith made haste to remove her pattens and knock the clogged snow from the irons while mary smoothed her hair before the little glass by the window. "an' how's thi aunt matty?" asked my mother; "an dun yo' want owt to eit? yo'll be ready for yo'r porridge aw sud judge. is 'oo bearin' up pretty well, an' did ta see john wood, an' is he lookin' as ill favored as ivver?" "let th' lass get her breath," pleaded my father. "has ta met a fairy?" went on my mother. "for a month an' more tha's been mopin' an' turnin' thi nose up at good victuals an' comin' dalin o' a mornin' lookin' as if thi bed wer' made o' nettles i'stead o' honest feathers, as well aw know 'at plucked 'em, an' nivver a word nor a look for anyb'dy, an' wouldn't see th' doctor nor tak' th' herb-tea aw brewed thee, an' me thinkin' all th' time it wer' a tiff atween thee an' ben, an' him lookin' waur nor a whipped cur, which it's to be hoped yo'll both learn more sense when yo'r well wed, for it'll be as th' man said 'bear an' forbear' then or yo'll ha' a sorry time on it; an' now yo' set off wi'out a wi' yo'r leave or by yo'r leave an' come back fra goodness knows where lookin' as if yo'd been proved next o' kin to a fortin', which it's enough to make anyone think it wor all make believe, tho' me that anxious as aw sud be fit to shake yo' if so aw thowt." my mother paused to get breath. "i've summat to make me look cheerful," said mary. "yo' little know wheer i'n been this afternoon, an' who i've talked to and had a cup o' tea into th' bargain. aw don't feel it's real yet. nip me, faith, to let me know if i'm dreamin!" "it's a dream we should like to share in," said faith in her quiet way, taking my mother's hard, thin hand, much worn by work, and soothing it caressingly, a way she had that always ended by bringing a reposeful look upon that eager nervous face and made my mother declare faith was as good as hops in your pillow for restfulness. "well aw suppose i'st ha' to begin at th' beginnin'," said mary, settling herself for a long talk and smiling into the fire. my father filled another pipe, and my mother let her ball of wool roll upon the floor so as to have a long reach of work before her. "yo' maybe hannot guessed at ben walker wanted me to wed him." "what ben o' buck's o' th' brigg? him as turned informer?" asked my father, letting his pipe out in his amaze. mary nodded. "that comes o' thi flighty ways," commented my mother with severity. "if a lass dunnot keep hersen to hersen, but will ha' a nod for this an' a smile for that an' a joke for t' other, she may know what to expec'. there wor a differ between decent gells an' hussies when aw wer' young, but if there's ony now it's all i' favour o' th' hussies." mary flushed angrily. "nay, nay, charlotte, yo' dunnot mean that for yar mary, aw know," said my father. "go on wi' thi tale, lass. thi aunt's put out a bit, these days." "well he did," continued mary, "and of course aw'd his answer ready for him." "aw shud think so indeed. it was well for him aw didn't catch 'im at it. what did ta say, mary?" "nay, aunt, yo' wouldn't ha' me cumber mi mind wi' such trash. any road aw sent 'im packin'. then, about a three week sin', his owd mother sent for me." "did 'oo send a broom for thee to ride on, th' owd witch," put in the tireless tongue, more by way of expressing an opinion of ben walker's mother than a question. "and aw went," said mary. "more fool yo'." "and 'oo said 'oo'd heard aw'd ta'en up wi' ben here an' axed me if it wer' true." "an' of course tha'd thi answer to that too," said my mother triumphantly. "well, yes," admitted mary. "so that put a spoke i' that wheel," said my father, knocking his pipe head on the fire-grate bar. "not a bit on it," quoth mary. "on th' contrary she seemed rayther glad to hear it. but 'oo said he'd noan ha' to ha' me." "who, ya'r ben?" "aye, yo'r ben." "who's to stop him?" "mrs. walker o' th' brigg, by yo'r good leave, aunt. she said 'oo'd gie me a month to think on it, an' if aw didn't gi'e mi word to ha' their ben, she'd just speak a word to th' government ovver that rawfolds job as 'ud send ben here to keep george mellor company." the knitting fell from my mother's hand, the pipe from my father's they stared at mary and at me. "so that's what's ailed yo' this three week back. herb-tea might well be wasted on yo'," at length my mother managed to gasp. "that wer' just th' complaint we were suffering fra, wern't it, ben?" "an' beyond any physic aw ever heard on," i said. "but tha seems to ha' fun a cure." "but you won't have him," said faith eagerly. "oh! the wretched plotter. say you refused, mary?" "a varmint not fit to be touched wi' a pair o' tongs," remarked my mother. "but to save ben here?" asked mary, maliciously. and my parents looked at each other. it was a dilemma's horns. "don't look worried, ma'am," said faith. "mary's only plaguing us. she has found a way out, it's plain to see. she wouldn't look as she does if she hadn't." "then till beseems her to be fleyin' her elders out o' their wits an' mi heart goin' pit-a-pat that fast at aw may be took any minnit," said my mother. "awm sorry, aunt," said mary, quickly crossing the hearth and putting her arms round my mother's neck and kissing her brow. "aw shouldn't ha' done it if aw'd thowt; but awm so happy awm hardly misen. theer, aw'll tell mi tale." "well, then, yo' may be sure after aw heerd owd mother walker's threat aw wer' bothered aboon a bit. aw wer' noan for weddin' her lad, even if he hadn't turned informer, but what use 'ud ben here be to me hangin' i' irons off york gibbet. aw could na see a road aat, look choose which way aw would. well yesterday aw heerd uncle here say my lord an' lady dartmouth wer' at woodsome." my father gave a corroboratory nod. "so aw thowt it ovver all neet, an' to make a long story short awn been to woodsome this very day." "an' seen my lord?" cried my father. "aye, an' mi lady, too. when aw gate to th' big door lookin' on to th' lawn--an' yo' should ha' seen th' deer down th' big avenue made o' trees like th' pillars o' a cathedral aisle--when aw gate to th' door aw gav' a knock at th' big knocker, an' it made such a clatter aw could ha' fun it i' my heart to run, but aw thowt aw'd come so far aw'd see it through. a felly oppened th' door. a reg'lar nobob. 'it's mi lord hissen,' aw thowt. he'd a powdered wig, an' epaulettes, an' a brown plush coat wi' big buttons wi' figurin' on, an' a scarlet weskit, an' plush shorts an' silk stockin's an' oh! such an air o' haughty pride. he pulled hissen up when he seed me. 'yo' sud ha' gone to th' tradesmen's entrance,' he says. 'aw want to see his lordship,' aw says as loud as aw could, but aw could scarce hear my own voice, an' aw dropped a courtesy, 'an' a reckon yo' mun be him, tho' aw didn't reckon to see so big a man, for mr. scott told me ye' wer' nowt much to look at.' and then aw heerd a loud laugh, an' i' th' gloom o' th' big hall aw spied a littlish man very plain dressed. 'admit: the lady,' he said. and aw wer' shown into a room on th' reight hand, an' th' little man came in an' made me sit dahn, but not afore he'd helped me off wi' mi shawl, which wer' wet wi' snow, an' made that stuck up jackanapes tak' it to be dried. 'an ask her leddyship to spare me a minnit,' sez he. then there came in a young leddy, just such another as thee, faith, an' so pleasant i' th' face. an 'oo smiled at me, an' wouldn't hear a word till aw'd warmed misen by th' fire, an' 'oo made me drink a glass o' wine." "did yo' tell her who's lass tha wer'?" asked my father. "but he'd noan know me. th' owd lord 'ud ha' known me. but this 'un's nobbud been th' earl a year or two, an awn nobbud seen him once or twice." "well, anyway he didn't say he didn't," said mary diplomatically. "and then," continued mary, "aw up an' tell'd them all about it, about ben o' buck's pesterin' me an' about long tom an' about ben's arm an' about thee, aunt, bein' confined to thi bed an' havin' th' doctor to thee an' all time ailin' nowt...." "aye, an' what did they say to that?" "well, th' little lord laughed like a good 'un, an' said th' doctor 'ud ha' to be sent to th' 'sizes for bein' a summat after the fact, not a necessary, what wor it?--oh! an accessory. but aw seed he wer' jokin! then aw began to tell about ben walker's mother, an' her ladyship told th' little earl he'd better go out o' th' room, an' when he'd gone aw just down o' mi knees i' front on her, an' 'oo drew mi face to her an' aw had a good cry, an' 'oo drew mi face everything just as yo know it." "well, an' then?" "why she looked very grave and said it wer' a serious business an' a very delicate matter for his lordship to meddle in. she told me summat aw didn't quite mak' out about their party not bein' in just now." "of course not," said my father. "aw could ha' told yo' that." "but any way,' says she, 'my uncle's in the ministry and good friends with th' secretary of state. so cheer up, mary; th' men may manage th' state; but we know who manages th' men, an' my name's not fanny legge if yo'r lover shan't go free.'" "did she say fanny?" said my mother. "she did," replied mary, "just plain fan an' never a countess to it, and what's more she gave me this locket wi' her picture in it, an' told me to wear it o' mi weddin' day, an' wear it aw shall an' will, an' mebbe those 'at come after me." and mary drew from her bosom the portrait you, my children, know so well of that young countess who so untimely died. "aw think that settles it," said my father, smiting his thigh. "of course it does," said my mother. "an' aw hope, william bamforth, 'at after this yo'll vote blue an' side wi' th' quality. t'other lot's good enuff for shoutin', but gi' me th' owd fam'lies when it comes to th' stick an' lift." and this profound political aphorism may close a chapter too long drawn out. chapter xiii. i never in my life passed so gloomy a christmas as that of 1812. we killed a goose as usual, and there was the usual seasoned pudding and plum pudding, and faith and mary made a bit of a show with the holly and the mistletoe. but it was no use. we couldn't brighten up our hearts nor take our thoughts from the special commission which was to sit at york in the fore-end of january to try the luds. even our neighbours felt we could be in no mood for rejoicing, and neither the church singers nor the powle moor lot came near us, and as for wishing each other a merry christmas the farce would have been too ghastly. it was arranged that my father, mr. webster and i should go to york for the trial, and at the last moment faith pleaded for leave to accompany us. i wanted mary to go too, but she was very decided in her refusal. she wasn't going to leave her aunt alone these long wintry nights, she said, tho' i don't think that was the real reason, for was there not martha? i wonder if women ever give the real reasons for their actions. why should faith make a point of going, i asked myself, and mary demand to be left at home. on the first point mary herself enlightened me, being more ready to speak of faith's actions than her own. "it's plain enough why she wants to show george a kindness now," said mary. "aye?" "can't ta see her heart's reproaching itself? she were more nor hauf i' love wi' george, an' no doubt thowt she could never fancy another." "well?" "an' if there's one thing more nor another a woman sets store by, it's her own constancy." "indeed!" "yes, and indeed. and now faith feels herself slipping, an' she's going to try to make it up to george for a treachery he'll never know of by sitting through the trial. it's noan so much to please him as to satisfy hersen." anyhow it was my father and faith and mr. webster and myself that the cornwallis took up at ten of the clock one morning in january at the sign of the rose and crown in huddersfield. we might have joined it in slaithwaite on its way through the village from manchester, but we wanted to have as little talk and stir as possible. mr. blackburn's clerk had got us decent lodgings near the castle with a widow woman who made a living by letting her rooms to witnesses attending the assizes, and whose whole talk was of the counsellors she had heard plead. she was pleased to express her satisfaction when she learned we had secured mr. brougham to defend george. "is he so clever a lawyer then?" asked mr. webster as we rested in the parlour after our long, cold, tedious journey, and warmed ourselves as well as we could before a fire on which it seemed to me the coals were put on with the sugar tongs. "well," said mrs. cooke, for that was the garrulous old lady's name, "of course he is a clever lawyer, tho' they do say not so far learned nor so deep as some we've known in york in my time, but it isn't that will help you in a case like this." "i do not take you, madam," observed mr. webster. "you see mr. brougham has a great name in the city with the whigs, and if yo' can get a sprinkling of them gentry on the jury it will go a great way in the poor young man's favour." "all we ask is an upright and an intelligent jury," said mr. webster. "that's all very well for you, sir, that's safe and sound by a good fire and a clean soft bed before you. but from what i've read, sir, that young friend of yours will do better with a jury that will lean a bit; and trust mr. brougham for making the most of his chances with the jury." "will he be allowed to speak to them?" i asked. "dear me, no," said the lady, proud to air her knowledge of the law. "and a mercy it is it is so, for if such a counsellor as mr. brougham could talk to the jury for a prisoner, half the rogues now hanged would be walking the county. but there's ways an' means sides talking, a shrug, a question to a witness, a meaning look at the gentlemen in the box, and above all a quarrel with my lord." "what! quarrel with the judge?" exclaimed my father. "surely that would be fatal." "not a bit of it," explained our landlady. "it's the safest card of all to play. you see the judge is sure to be against the prisoner." "nay, my good lady, surely nay," remonstrated mr. webster. "ye shall do not unrighteousness in judgment: thou shalt not respect the person of the poor, nor honour the person of the mighty: but in righteousness shalt thou judge thy neighbour." "ah! that's in the bible, i take it," said mrs. cooke; "but the bible's one thing and york assizes is another, and so you'll find, unless i'm very much mistaken. the government will take care to send judges that mean hanging, and that's so well known that it sets the back of the jury up a bit, particler if a touch of politics can be dragged into the case. that's mr. brougham's chance, and if he can make the jury think the judge is pressing things too hard against your man, i won't say but he may have a chance. but it isn't much to cling to after all, poor lad." the night before the trial, which was fixed for wednesday the sixth of january, mr. blackburn was to see george in the castle cell. by much insistence he prevailed on the governor to permit mr. webster to accompany him, a great favour, and one, we understood, little to the liking of the prison chaplain. when the little man returned to our mean lodgings, he was pale and downcast and sat for a long time silent, bending over the sullen fire. "god preserve me from such a scene again," at length he said. "to think that one whose face i have seen upturned to mine in my own chapel should now be prisoned in yonder noisome cell. oh! my friends, 'surely the ways of transgressor are hard.'" "if it were not to distress yo' too much we should like to hear all from the beginning," said my father. "well, when we got to the gate of the gaol," said mr. webster, "mr. blackburn rang the bell. a jailor opened it after such unlocking and unbarring as you never heard." 'to see a prisoner,' said mr. blackburn. 'an attorney, sir? your name?' 'mr. blackburn, of huddersfield. for george mellor and others to be tried to-morrow.' 'and your friend?' 'mr. webster, a good minister of the gospel.' 'he cannot enter, sir, unless by special order of the governor.' 'it is here.' 'then enter and follow me. write your name and address in this book.' "he was a big, burly man, and treated mr. blackburn with great respect; but he looked hard at me from under his bushy eyebrows, till i bethought me to slip a crown piece into his hand, when he became more civil. he had a bunch of great keys by his side, and they jingled as he walked. we followed him across a courtyard, where there was more unlocking of gates and doors, and at length we were in a stone-flagged corridor with whitewashed walls, and on either side of these the cells. there was a little spy-hole in the door of every cell, through which, i judged, the warders might watch the wretches chained within. before one door the warder stopped." 'this is your man, sir,' he said, and selecting a key turned the lock and threw open the door. 'i'll stand outside, sir.' "mr. blackburn nodded and entered the cell, i at his heels, much daunted by the cold and the gloom. it was a little while ere my eyes got used to the darkness, but as we entered i heard the clank of irons, and was aware of some form in the gloom rising in the corner from under the grated window. it was george; but oh! how altered! he was gaunt and thin, and his eyes that i have known so bright and lit by the joy of life, were dull and fixed in sick despair. i forgot the crime of which he stands charged and saw only a brother, nay, a son, suffering in mortal agony, and all my heart bled for him." "poor george! poor matty," murmured my father, passing the back of his hand over his face, and faith's eyes were fixed with pained intentness on the preacher's face, her lips pale and parted as she held her breath and waited on his every word. "'mr. webster!' he cried, for he could see better than i, being used doubtless to the little light. 'mr. webster, oh! this is good of you!' and he seemed to take no heed of mr. blackburn, and as well as he could for the irons that cribbed his arms, he stretched out his hands to me, oh! so wildly and so lovingly, and i took both his hands in mine and must have done tho' i had seen the deed with my own eyes. and george bowed his head, and tears fell upon our clasped hands that were not wholly his nor wholly mine, and i drew down his head and kissed him on the brow." "the good lord bless yo'," sobbed faith. "and mr. blackburn stood a little way off fumbling with his papers and taking snuff very rapidly and in great quantities." 'have yo' seen mi mother lately?' asked george; 'does she bear up? is she here in york?' "his first thoughts were of her, poor lad." "yo' munnot forget to tell her that, faith," said my father, and faith nodded, and i know she did not forget, and it comforted my aunt matty in the after days. "i told him only you and ben were here," continued mr. webster. "'not mary?' he asked, and i told him no. 'better not, happen better not,' he said at last; but he seemed disappointed that mary should not be here, i know not why." "did he ask for me?" said faith, very softly. "nay," said mr. webster. "he did not ask for thee; but i told him yo' wer' here and would not be denied." "and what said he?" 'faith! faith booth? ah! poor john's sister. 'oo'd over a tender heart, an' i loved her brother next to ben.' "yes, he loved my brother," said faith, "but not as john loved him." and after that she was very silent; only once i heard her murmur to herself, "yes, he loved mi brother." "well then," said mr. webster, "for a while lawyer blackburn talked with george in a low voice so's the warder at the door might not hear what passed, and i tried to compose my thoughts, so that i might, if time and opportunity favoured, say some word that he might take to his heart to solace him withal. and when mr. blackburn began to tie up his papers and bid him bear himself like a man, on the morrow, and hope for the best, i asked george it he would pray with me. he did not refuse; but sat upon a little block that served for his seat, and i fell upon my knees and the lights streamed upon my face from between the bars. mr. blackburn turned his back and affected to busy himself with his bag, and the warder jingled his keys, impatient to be gone. and then i prayed the good god and father to send peace and comfort to our dear brother, that. he might be pleased that this great sorrow should pass and this black cloud be lifted; but throwing all upon the mercy and compassion of the heart that feels for all, for all, even for the outcast and the sinful. for the love of that heart passeth the love of man and of woman, else woe and still woe, aye even for the chosen ones of israel." and mr. webster's voice broke into a sob, and he bowed his head upon his breast and would say no more, and more we did not seek to know. in the evening i strolled into the city, walking round that great cathedral of the north, and marvelled at the piety that had raised so splendid a temple to the glory of god. then my steps turned towards the castle, and i gazed from afar at the gloomy keep, and wondered behind which of the barred windows so high and narrow, lay my helpless cousin, tossing, i doubted not, upon a sleepless pallet, his mind wracked with thoughts of the morrow and his pillow, perchance, haunted by the image of him whose blood, i could not but think, was upon his rash and impious hand. i wandered by the narrow streets that approach the castle, streets abandoned to squalor and to vice, my feet turned ever toward that monster dungeon, drawn by i know not what silent fascination. but as i walked as in a dream, i was brought to a stand by a gruff voice: "halt or i fire!" and peering into the dark, scarce lightened by the oil-lamps that swayed in the streets, i saw that a company of soldiers was drawn across the street, and a sergeant in command held his musket at my breast. "have you business at the castle and a pass?" he asked, and on my answering him nay he bid me begone. i turned sadly away, and when by chance i tried another street that led castle-wards my fate was the same. so i turned my back upon the gloomy fortress and wended my way back to our lodgings. the city was filled with troops, and every avenue to the castle strongly guarded; for a rescue was feared. had they known the luds as well as i they might have spared their pains. the morning of the trial came, dark and threatening, with snow that wrapped the city as in a winding sheet, which befitted well a day so pregnant with all ill. we were at the castle gates betimes, and yet the entrance to the court was besieged with those like ourselves furnished with a permit to view the trial. my inches stood me in good stead, and by dint of good play with my elbows, i made way through the crowd for those that companied me. it seemed to me that all the ways that led to the court were held by troops, and men stood to their arms on the very steps and to the great doors of the hall of justice. faith hung trembling upon my arm, but craned her neck nevertheless to see the gallant show when the judges drew up, clad in crimson robes, with the sheriff and his chaplain by their sides, the heralds blaring their trumpets and the soldiers grounding their arms to make the pavement ring. we made our way into the little court and gazed upon the arms of england fixed high above the judgment seat, and when we saw the wigged gentlemen below the bench rise to their feet we rose too, and when they bowed we bowed too, but the judges, tho' they bent their heads to the gentlemen of the long robe, took scant enough notice of our reverences, which methinks was neither in keeping with the civility that man owes to man nor yet in accord with our constitution: for if the judges draw their dignity from the crown, whence, i ask, does the crown derive its title and its lustre? but alas! the people of this country, even yet, are little conscious of their own strength and of what is due to the commons even from their princes and governors. "which is mr. brougham?" i asked my father, who i knew had heard him speak at a great meeting of the whig voters. "him that mr. blackburn's speaking to," answered my father, and i followed his eyes to the attorney's well and saw a little man, sallow and clean shaven, with a long lean face, something like a monkey's with its skin turned, to parchment. "what him?" i whispered in amaze. "aye, that's him sure enough." "what! the great brougham, our brougham?" "yes, yes," said my father testily. "he's not much to look at; but yo' should hear him talk." but soon there was a hush in court. the prisoners were being brought into the dock, and the cryer was calling his quaint "oyez." george mellor, william thorpe and william smith stood there, heavily ironed and guarded by armed warders, confronting the judges and the jury, arraigned for that they did feloniously, wilfully, and of their malice aforethought kill and murder william horsfall, against the peace of our lord the king, his crown and dignity. the jurors were sworn, the challenges allowed, the indictment read by the clerk of arraigns, and the prisoners given in charge to the jury, the clerk gabbling the words as i have heard a curate in a hurry read the lessons in church. "how say you, george mellor--guilty or not guilty," and george with a voice that did not falter and a look upon judges and the jury that did not flinch, cried "not guilty." i had eyes and ears only for him, neither then nor to the end. thorpe and smith might not have been there, for me. i kept my eyes fixed on him throughout, nor missed one single movement of his nervous fingers that clutched the rails of the dock, nor one glance of his eye. nay, even now, right through the years, i can see the curl of his lips when benjamin walker with craven look and uncertain step, his eyes shifting, his voice whining, stumbled into the witness-box. all through, i had eyes, i say, only for george. when mr. park, the counsel for the crown, addressed the jury, i scarce listened; i watched only george's face, and judged rather what was said by the play of his pale features than by ought i gathered from the long speech to the jury. and right through that weary trial, that lasted from nine o'clock of the morning till near the same hour of the night, never was there a moment that george bore himself save as those who loved him would have him. he almost looked at times as tho' he did not hear what passed around him, his eyes being fixed, not upon the judge but beyond him, with a far away gaze as tho' scenes were acting in a theatre none but he could see, and which concerned him more than what passed around. once when his eyes ranged the faces that thronged the court, and he saw our little group, a look of recognition passed upon his face, and he smiled faintly, with quivering lips; but presently turned away his head and glanced our way no more. only when ben walker stood in the box did he rouse himself to the full, and he looked the slinking wretch straight in the face with curling lip: and walker blanched and tottered and half raised his hand as tho' to ward off a blow. my god! rather would i raise my naked face to meet ten thousand blows from an iron hand than meet such a look as george cast upon that perjured miscreant. a low hiss went through the court, a sibilation of hatred and contempt; and even the counsellor that examined the man did not conceal his loathing. we looked for mr. brougham to cross-examine walker, but that was done by mr. hullock, whether that mr. hullock was the senior counsel and took this part as of right, or that, as some had it afterwards, mr. brougham knew from the first that the case was hopeless and did not care to be prominent, where defeat was certain. tho' this surely must be of malice. but it mattered not: the end was certain even before mr. justice le blanc summed up, and in a few words, not without their truth even we felt, brushed away the flimsy edifice of an alibi that had cost soldier jack so much scheming and ferreting out of witnesses. "even supposing the witnesses to come under no improper bias or influence in what they are saying, they are speaking," commented the judge, "of a transaction which not only took place a long time ago, but was not imputed to the prisoners at the bar till a considerable time after it had taken place, and nothing happened immediately after the transaction to lead persons who have spoken as to the prisoners' movements at the time of the murder, particularly to watch, so as to be accurate in the hour or time on that particular evening, when they saw these persons at a particular place, and we know how apt persons are to be mistaken, even when care is taken, in point of time." that was all we got from judge or counsel for our money, my aunt matty's hundred pounds, and many a good guinea to that which my father paid mr. blackburn, and i question whether it was worth the brass. but i would not have had george undefended for all that, even if it were all to do over again; for to have him spoken for was the only way now left us to show our care for him. i never saw sentence of death passed but that once, and it will do me my life-time. "that you, the three prisoners at the bar, be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence, on friday next, to the place of execution; that you be there severally hanged by the neck until you are dead; and your bodies afterwards delivered to the surgeons to be dissected and anatomized, according to the directions of the statute. and may god have mercy on your souls." "amen!" said many a hushed and awe struck voice, and i heard a moan and a hasty cry from mr. webster. a piercing shriek rent the stillness, and faith fell fainting into my arms. but one day intervened between the trial of mellor, thorpe and smith and their execution. mr. webster was allowed to see the three condemned men the night before the friday on which they were to make their piteous end. he shrank from that last interview in the cells with the sensitiveness of a woman; but he had a great soul in a little body and nerved himself to the painful ordeal. he told us something of what passed. thorpe was stolid as ever, and simply asked to be let alone, and not pestered with questions. george declared that he would rather be in the situation he was then placed, dreadful as it was, than have, to answer for the crime of his accuser; and that he would not change situations with him, even for his liberty and two thousand pounds. "well said," cried my father, when mr. webster, with many a sigh, brought his tale to an end: "well said, there spoke our george. there spoke the lad we used to be proud on, and he's in the right on it, and so folk will say for all time to come." "i urged him to forgive his enemies and to leave this sinful world in charity with all mankind." "an' what said he to that?" "he said he'd nought to forgive to anybody but ben walker." "well, and him?" "i urged him to forgive even walker. 'vengeance is mine: i will repay, saith the lord.'" "well, did he?" "nay, i found him obdurate on this point, though i pressed him hard. he reiterated that before he forgave walker he'd like to give him something to forgive too. i could not but tell him he was entering the presence of his maker in a most unchristian frame of mind." "are yo' clear, mr. webster," asked my father, "that religion calls on george to forgive ben walker?" "there can be no question of it," was the answer. "do we not pray 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us?'" my father shook his head pensively. "it may be scripture, parson, but it isn't yorkshire. hast ta never heard that a yorkshireman can carry a stone in his pocket for seven years, then turn it and after another seven years let throw and hit his mark?" "it is an evil, an unforgiving, an unchristian frame of mind," quoth the parson. "that's as may be," replied my father, doggedly. "but what's born in the bone will out in the flesh. for my part i'st uphowd george, an' if he'd said he forgave that spawn o' the devil i should ha' thowt he met be a saint, but he wer' a liar an' a hypocrite for all that. it's agen natur, mr. webster, it's agen natur." mr. webster hastened to change the subject. "george sent a message for yo', ben. he knows how it is between you and mary and he wishes you all happiness, and asks you to forget and forgive the hasty words he spoke when last you parted. he said you would know what he meant." "god bless him, sir, i had forgiven them long ago." "and if it will not go too hard against the grain he wants you to be at the execution and to stand where his eye can fall upon you. he says he should like his last thoughts to be of holme and the dear ones there. he seems strangely wrapped up in the old spot even to the exclusion of his own mother." "aye," said my father. "george never got over matty marryin' again. if 'oo'd never wed that john wood but made a home for her own flesh an' blood this met never ha' happened. but what is to be will be, an' that's good scripture anyway." "foreseen and foreordained even from the beginning," assented mr. webster. now this request of george was to me of all things most painful. it was common enough in those days for people to witness public executions; and public executions were common enough in all conscience. but i had ever a horror of such ghastly exhibitions. nay i liked not even the cock-fighting and bull-baiting that were as much our ordinary pastimes in my youth as cricket has come to be the sport of my grand-children. people called me miss nancy and mawkish and molly-coddle; but none the less, neither for such sports, if sports they must be called, nor for prize fighting, had i any stomach. but if it could give any help to george to know one was in that vast crowd whose heart bled for him and whose prayers went heavenwards with his soul, i could not but do his will. and so it befell that mr. webster and myself were in the crowd of many thousands that stood before the scaffold. two troops of cavalry were drawn up in front of the drop. we might be a hundred yards away, and when george, heavily ironed, was led to the verge of the platform to make his last dying speech and confession, there was a great silence on the multitude. even a party of the gentry, as i suppose they called themselves, that had secured the upper window of a house looking on to the scaffold, and that were drinking and jesting and exchanging coarse ribaldry with the light o' loves in the mob, ceased their unseemly revelries and lent ear to what might be said. but george spoke little. his eye fell on me and on mr. webster, whom i lifted from his feet so that george might know that the little parson at powle was faithful to the last, and hoping that even at the eleventh hour repentance might touch the stubborn and rebellious heart. and who knows but it did, for the last words on earth that george spoke were said with his eyes fixed on mr. webster's face, and they were spoken belike to him alone of that great and swaying crowd: "some of my enemies may be here. if there be, i freely forgive them," and then, after a pause and with an emphasis which we alone perchance of all that concourse understood, "i forgive all the world and hope all the world will forgive me." "the lord above be praised!" exclaimed mr. webster, as these words fell on his ears, and as the cap was fixed and the noose adjusted, he raised his voice in the well-known hymn, and strange tho' it may seem, yet none the less is it true, thousands of voices took up the words: "behold the saviour of mankind nailed to the shameful tree! how vast the love that him inclined to bleed and die for me! hark how he groans! while nature shakes, and earth's strong pillars bend: the temple's veil in sunder breaks; the solid marbles bend. 'tis done! the precious ransom's paid- 'receive my soul,' he cries; see where he bows his sacred head! he bows his head, and dies! but soon he'll break death's envious chain, and in full glory shine: o lamb of god! was ever pain, was ever love like thine!" there was a haze before my sight. i did not see the bolt withdrawn; only as through a mist see the quivering, swaying form. a long drawn sigh, that ended in a sob like one deep breath from a thousand hearts, proclaimed the end, and mr. webster and i made our way from that tragic scene. chapter xiv. after this, life for many months was very grey at holme. we did not talk much about the grim days we had passed through. they were pleasant neither to talk of nor think on. my father's mind was chiefly exercised about the portentous length of mr. blackburn's bill of costs, and upon some of the items he delivered himself at large: "'attending you,'" he quoted, "'when you instructed me to see john quarmby and james eagland with a view to procuring their proofs for this defence, 6s. 8d.'" "think o' that now," he would say, "actually charging me for calling to tell him what to do, to put him up to his work, so to speak. my certy, lawyers may well ma' their brass quick! aw've a good mind to ha' it taxed." "what's that?" asked my mother. "why, there's a chap i' london 'at's put on by th' lord chancellor to go through 'torneys' bills an' see they ha' not charged too much." "he'll be a lawyer hissen, 'aw reckon?" queried my mother. "aye, aye," said my father, 'set a thief to catch a thief,' tha knows." "tha'd best pay up, aw doubt na, awn heard folk tell o' fallin' out wi' the devil an' goin' below for justice, an' this taxin' 'll be after th' same fashion. th' first loss is th' least loss, an' 'what can't be cured mun be endured.' if folk will ha' law they mun pay for their whistle, an' you've had yo'r run for yo'r money." "aw could ha' thoiled it better if they'd let mr. brougham speik to th' jury. here's twenty guineas to him, to say nowt o' two guineas for his clerk, that did nowt 'at aw can hear tell but draw th' brass for his mester, an' him never allowed to oppen his mouth to th' jury!!" "but he's had th' brass ha' not be?" asked the partner of my father's joys and sorrows. "aye, he's had it safe enough." "well, by all accounts," concluded my mother, "it's ill gettin' butter out o' a dog's throat." and the bill was paid: the only discount my father got being a pinch of snuff from mr. blackburn's silver box. faith was not with us now, nor did she return till hay-time. she had gone home to her father at the vicarage at low moor, but not without a promise to return in the summer. and about that time too, soldier jack became slack in his attendance at powle moor, tho' abating nothing in his respect for mr. webster. he had been away for the week-end, having said nothing of his intentions, but it turned out he had been to low moor to see faith and her father, and after this jack began to go, in a rather shame-faced way at first, to church. i asked him what was the reason of this right-about face. "well, yo' see, ben," he explained, "th' service at th' church is more reg'lar like an' more constitutional." "as how?" "well, yo' see, i'm a soldier, an' aw believe i' discipline." "yo' broke it often enough, bi all accounts," i ventured to remind him. "na, ben, no back reckonin'! yo' mun consider that aw wer' young then an' lawless. aw'n sown mi wild oats nah, an' settled down an' aw begin to see that law an' order's a very guid thing, an' authority mun be respected." "well, cannot yo' respect it as much at th' powle as at th' church?" "now, aw cannot; an' yo cannot, nother. yo' see yo're dissenters at th' powle, an' heresy an' schism an' rebellion against constituted authority are i' th' air, so to speak, on powle moor. yo're all republicans at' heart up yonder, an' aw'll tell yo', another thing, if there'd been no dissenters there they'd ha' been no luds, an' george mellor 'd noan ha' danced out th' world on nowt." "but faith booth were church an' yet she went to th' powle while she wer' wi' us, an' had a class there into th' bargain." "faith's a woman," said soldier, "an' women ha' no sense o' principle. she wer' your guest, an' wouldn't pain yo' by going elsewheer. that's what yo' call nat'ral politeness, an' we should be none the worse i' sloughit for a little more on it. but what we're talkin' on now is a matter o' th' head not a matter o' th' heart, an' i' matters o' th' head a woman's nowt to go by. yo' shud hear her father, th' owd vicar at low moor!" "oh! he's yo'r text, is he?" "he put it i' this way. th' church o' christ is an army--the church militant, he called it. th' king, god bless him, is th' head o' th' church, jus' same as he's th' head o' th' army. th' archbishops is commanders-in-chief, th' bishops is generals, the rectors an' vicars is colonels an' captains, an' curates is th' lieutenants." "and what of corporals and sergeants?" i asked. "th' vicar's warden, to be sure," said jack promptly, "an' just yo' see if aw dunnot live to be vicar's warden afore aw dee o' old age: an' if yo' want to speer further into it, th' collect an' th' liturgy is th' orders o' th' day an' the surplice an' hood's nobbud a uniform. so theer!" and jack looked at me triumphantly. "an' wheer do th' dissenters come in then?" i asked. "well aw reckon you're like these volunteers 'at come up when folk wer' fleyed o' boney comin'. an' its th' same way i' religion. folk turn methodies when they're in a scare about their souls; but for reg'lar defence i' ordinary times, th' church, as by law established, is enough to ward off th' enemy o' mankind." "and what does faith say to all this?" i asked. "faith's a very sensible lass, an' wi' a very proper notion o' discipline," replied jack. "i tried her t'other day wi' th' text 'wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the lord. for the husband is the head of the wife, even as christ is the head of the church.'" "well?" i asked. "an' faith upholds every word of it, an' thinks 'at a woman 'at has a husband 'oo can respect an' look up to, 'll ma' no bones about obeyin' him in all things lawful." "well, well," i said, "i've no doubt some strapping young fellow will come along some day, and faith will have a chance o' squaring preaching wi' precept." "aw don't know so much about a strapping young felly," said jack, curtly. "yo' young chaps think a wench has no eyes for owt but inches an' spirits. faith's noan o' that breed. 'oo thinks a husband owt to be older nor th' wife, so's 'oo can lean on him an' look to him for guidance." "aye," i said, "faith's just turned twenty. th' man owt to be five-an-twenty." "five-an-forty, if a minnit," cried jack. and i laughed in his face. "what, jack! caught at last! and what about the decent elderly widow 'wi' summat i' th' bank 'at mi mother's lookin' for'?" "ben, quit thi jokin'; it's no jokin' matter, isn't this. aw tell yo', ben, if aw can win faith booth for mi wife, aw'st go dahn o' mi knees an' thank god wi' all mi heart for th' best gift even god can give--a pure an' good woman. th' owd book well says--'a crown unto her husband.' an' aw'm not wi'out my hope, ben. but aw'm fleyed on her, man; aw'm fleyed on her." "what! a soldier fleyed on a woman, jack?" "aye, ben, aw'm fleyed on her! sometime's when 'oo's sat quiet by th' hearth, there's a look comes on to her face, that aw shouldn't be surprised any minnit if th' ceiling oppened up, an' 'oo just floated away to heaven. an' yo' nivver see her in a temper, like other women, th' best on 'em; an' yo nivver hear a cross word fra her, nor hear her gigglin' an' laughin' like other lasses--peas in a drum, th' cracklin' o' thorns under a pot, that's what they mind me on. she's just too good to live, is faith, an' aw'm not worthy 'to touch the hem of her garment,' an' that's a fact." and jack made off with an agitated limp; but from such like talk and a hint or two that mary let fall, my mother ceased her quest for the prudent elderly widow, tho' not without giving a very uncompromising opinion that there was no fool like an old fool. "tho'," she added, "if it wer' to be a young 'un, it couldn't ha' been a better nor faith, an' that aw will say; but as for wives being obedient to their husbands"--for i had taken, occasion to enlighten her as to jack's views on the blessed estate--"it's well known st. paul, good man, was a bachelor, an' bachelors' wives is same as owd maids' childer, like nowt in heaven above, nor the earth beneath--nor in the water under the earth," she added, to complete the text. it was about this time that mary had an unexpected visitor. it would be in july, as near as i can remember. i was piking in the barn, and there being a good yield that year, it needed all my height and a long pike to reach to the top of the hay bowk when it neared the roof. mary and faith were raking in the field, and martha had been with the last bottle of home-brewed for the hay-makers. we had always three or four irishmen that came regularly year after year to earn their rent at the english harvesting. one of them, micky, taught me to count up to twenty in irish, so that i may claim to know a little of foreign languages, and if they are all like irish, i pity the man that has to learn more of them. i had gone to the barn door, looking placidly across the field where bob stood in the traces yoked to the hurdle on which we dragged the sweet new hay to the mistal; the sun was westering, and the grateful breezes fanned me with cool and gentle touch. the girls in the field had thrown off the large straw hats they wore in the noon heat, their tresses had escaped their coils, and they moved but slowly with the rakes, following the wake of the hurdle, for we had had a long and hard day, and all were fain our work was nigh done, and the hay, thank god, well won. my mother had gone into the house, for she had long ceased to take any part in the hay-making, and i made no question she was getting ready the baggin'. i saw her come to the house door, and heard her shout: "mary! ben! come hither; aw want yo;" and she waved her arms to motion us in. "throw yo'r rakes dahn, an' come naa," came another cry, and there was that in my mother's voice which told us this was no ordinary summons to a meal. mary and i made for the house hot-foot. my mother met us at the door. "there's ben walker i' th' parlour an' his mother," she said; "an they've come to talk to thee, mary--aw thowt ben had better come as weel." "aw winnot see 'em," said mary. "that's right," i said. "tell 'em to tak' their hook, mother. they're none wanted here." "tell 'em thissen, ben. it's more o' yo'r business nor mine, an' more or mary's nor yo'rs. both on yo' see 'em's my advice, an' if yo' think they'll eit yo', i'll stand by to see fair play." "aw'm none fit to be seen. wait till aw tidy misen up a bit," said mary, fastening her dress at the neck and prisoning some stray tresses of her hair. "yo're good enough for the likes o' them," said my mother, "an' aw'm none goin' to have 'em sittin' on th' best furniture i' th' house longer nor aw can help. they'll noan do it ony good. let's in, an' ha' it ovver, an' dunnot pick yo'r words, either, wi' that lot: aw shannot, yo' may depend." you never did see in your life such a beau as ben walker that day. his mother was fine dressed, with a big gold brooch and a gold chain round her neck and reaching like a rope down to her waist, and all the colours of the rainbow in the silks she wore. but ben! you should have seen him! it was a sight for sore eyes. they called his father "buck," but him i never saw in the days of his glory. but if he could out-buck ben he was a buck indeed. why, his vest was a flower garden in miniature, and if he'd dipped his head in the treacle pot it couldn't have been stickier. somebody must have crammed him that the tailor makes the man: but lord! a tailor from heaven, if there are such there, couldn't have made a man of ben walker. neither could ale nor strong waters. he had evidently been trying for a bit back to import courage from holland, for his face was patchy and mezzled and his eye was filmy and his body jerky. we had heard that he was making the money fly down at th' brigg, tho' it was not easy to get anyone to drink with him. however, here he was, and it was not difficult to guess his errand. my mother eyed the pair of them with a look of fine disdain and offered them neither a hand nor a chair. "well, what's your business here," she said, "onybody 'at knew owt 'ud know this is none a time for visitin', th' hay out an' th' glass goin' down wi' a run, 'at awst be' capped if it doesn't knock th' bottom out, one o' these days." "aye, the weather's very tryin' indeed for th' poor farmers," said mrs. walker, "an' for them 'at has to depend for their livins on a few pounds worth o' hay. but yo' see gentlefolk needn't bother their yeds abaat sich things. wet or fine doesn't matter so much to them. when it's too wet for walkin' they can ride." "aye," put in my mother, "we all know weel enough where a beggar rides to, if yo' put him on horse-back. but what's yo'r business, aw say?" "can't yo' speik, ben?" said mrs. walker, "what's ta stand theer for, like a moonstruck cauf?" "aw wud like to speak wi' mary here," said ben. "well, it's a free country," said mary, "an' there's no law agen speakin'." "by thissen, aw mean." "well, tha cannot, that's all. if tha's owt to say to me, tha mun say it afore ben bamforth." "ben bamforth, indeed!" said mrs. walker. "mind yo'r manners, lass, or it'll be worse for yo', an' speik more respectful when yo' speik to yo'r betters. does ta know tha'rt speikin' to two thousand pund?" "aw sud say t' same if aw wer' speikin' to th' king's mint, if ben walker wer' one o' th' stamps," retorted mary hotly. "yo'll alter yo'r tune afore th' week's out, my lass," put in mrs. walker. "in a word, will ta ha' our ben here? what he's so set on thee for 'mazes me. but he is set on thee, an' yo' sud be thankful he'll cast a look yo'r way when it's wi' th' quality he sud be speikin' at this very minnit, i'stead o' draggin' his mother up this rutty owd hill to a tumbledown ram-shackle owd sheep-pen not fit for a lady to put her foot inside on. will ta ha' him, an' be a lady in silk an' satins, an' a servant o' yo'r own, an' a gig to drive abaat in, an' th' fat o' th' land to live' on?" "noa, aw winnot, aw winnot, aw winnot, so there's yo'r answer, an' if he comes near me or after me agen, there's one'll fetch as many colours on his back as th' weaver's put in his weskit." "then awst dahn to milnsbrig this very neet," said ben walker, "an' tell owd radcliffe all aw know abaat rawfolds, an' that long-legged tally o' yo'rn shall go th' same gait as mellor an' thorpe." and now i had a lucky inspiration--like a flash came into my head what mr. radcliffe had said to me: 'thank your stars, justice radcliffe does not listen to every idle story that comes to his ears.' so i drew a bow at a venture: "go to mr. radcliffe and welcome," i said. "tha's been before, an' told him all tha knows, an' more nor yo' could prove, an' yo' know nowt came on it. dost think he'll tak more heed o' a second telling?" ben walker and his mother exchanged glances and their faces fell, so i gathered courage and pushed my advantage. "go! aw tell yo'. aw've known 'at yo' tell'd him long sin' all yo' knew about me, an' he put it aside. aw've noan yo' to thank 'at aw'm here to tell yo' on it." "who telled yo'?" gasped ben, off his guard. "mr. radcliffe hissen," i cried, with the ring of triumph in my voice, "an' he towd me, too, if ever i fun out who'd peached, aw'd his permission to break every bone in his body, an', by god, if yo'r not off this hillside before aw count twenty, aw'll take him at his word," and i strode with uplifted arm towards the craven that shrank away. he needed no second telling, and his mother followed him crest-fallen: and never but once again did ben walker, to my knowledge, set foot on the threshold he had trod so often as a tolerated if not a welcome guest. "whatever did ta mean, ben?" said my mother to me, when she had watched the pair part way down the hill, to make sure, she said, they pocketed nought: "whatever did ta mean?" "never yo' mind, mother," i replied. "there's no good i' talking overmuch about such things. anyway, it's been enough for yon' lot an' that should be good enough for you." "aw do believe he made it," said my mother to mary, in a tone of admiration. and from that day she conceived a higher respect for my intellect than years of honest truth had been able to inspire. only once again, i say, did ben walker, to my knowledge, sot foot on our doorstep. he tarried in huddersfield for some months and his money flowed like water. then he disappeared, and it was said he had gone to america with a woman who was no better than she should be. truth was, the brigg was getting too hot to hold him. the men who had been in the luddite business began to pluck up heart as the time went on and no more arrests were made. and one fine night the man who kept the toll-gate at the brigg heard loud cries for mercy, and rushing out was just in time to see the heels of a dozen men and to drag a drowning wretch out of the cut. it was ben walker, and he was all but done for. then, i say, he vanished, and for years i heard no word of him. then one wintry night--november i think it was--mary and i were sat in the house by the fireside, she in the rocking chair my mother had loved of old and knitting as i had seen her that was gone knitting so often that the thread seemed a very part of my own life's warp; and i was sat smoking my evening pipe in the chair he that was gone had made to us more sacred than any monument in church or chapel, and the old clock was ticking steadily on to the bed-hour as sturdily as it had ticked for more years than i can tell. only there was not to be heard through the rafters the heavy snoring of 'siah as it had been heard in my father's days. 'siah was snoring, i doubt not, but in a bed and a house of his own, and the not too gentle breathing of martha swelled the harmony of his own. there came a knock at the door that gave us both a start. we had heard no footstep, and vixen, a waspish daughter of the vixen of other days, had not given tongue. who could it be? "does mister bamforth live here?" queried a voice that stirred a memory of i knew not what, but something painful, and my mind, without my willing it, was off on the scent. "he does. dos't want him?" i said, barring the entrance but holding the door half open, whilst mary had risen to her feet and held the light above her head, to see the better. "aw've tramped fra manchester, an' awn had newt to eit sin break o' day, an' aw beg yo' for the love of god to gi' me a crust an' th' price o' a bed or let me lie me dahn i' th' mistal." and as he spoke and his face struck stronger at me, it all came back. "it's ben o' buck's," i cried. "it's ben o' buck's," he said in a low voice, and hung down his head and said no more. i was for banging the door in his face, the hot blood surging to my face and anger and scorn in my heart. but mary took the loaf and a slice of cheese from the table where our supper lay, and a coin from the window sill where the milk money was, and gave it to him, but turned her eyes from him as she gave it. and i knew that mary had taken the better part, and there was no longer anger in my heart and i closed the door upon the figure that slouched away into the cold dark night. yes: mary and i were wed, and for the life of me i cannot remember that i ever asked mary to be my wife. i always tell her she did all the love-making. did she not put her arms about my neck, and did she not tell long tom she meant to wed me. to be sure it was a leap year, and that accounts for it. i overheard mary telling martha that our wedding day was fixed. it was to be in october--on the sixteenth--to be exact. "then that settles it," said martha. "settles what?" asked mary. "th' day for t' spurrins," replied our maid; "'siah's been puttin' it off, an' puttin' it off, tho' awn egged him on never so; but nah, aw'll ha' no more dallyin'. aw'd fixed i' mi mind to be wed on th' same day as yo' and ben, if aw couldn't afore, an' not another day longer will aw wait. if 'siah winnot put 'em up aw'll do it misen, an' that aw'll let him know." "but perhaps 'siah doesn't want to get wed," suggested mary. "what's that to say to it?" asked martha. "if he doesn't know who'll mak' a good wife, aw know who'll mak' a good husband. an' 'siah's just that soft, aw sud be feart o' any other 'ooman puttin' on 'im, an' that 'ud just fret me to skin an' bone, to see onybody else puttin' on 'im an' me no right to stan' up for him." "but a woman cannot put th' spurrins up," objected mary. "then aw'st ma' 'si." "but how if he's loath?" "aw'st bray him." "what! 'siah?" "aye, mary, an' if yo'll tak' my advice, an' yo' may need it now yo're goin' to be wed yersen, never let on to be fleyed o' yo'r man. first time aw gay' 'si' a bat, mi heart come into mi mouth an' mi knees knocked one agen t'other, yo'd a thowt aw wer' playin' a tune on th' bones under mi petticoat; but, lor' bless yo', he just oppened his mouth an' gaped at me an' scratted his yed--'well awm dalled,' says he, 'if this doesn't beat th' longest day!'--an' so aw fot 'im another clout wi' mi neive, an' bar tellin' me to be careful aw didn't hurt misen, an' to hit wheer it wer' soft, if a soft place aw could find, 'siah said nowt; but it's done him gooid. he's more fleyed o' me nor ony two i' th' colne valley," concluded martha with legitimate pride. and soldier jack and faith made a match of it. we were all married on the same day, in the same church, by the same parson. it was mr. coates, the vicar at the parish church at huddersfield, tied us, for neither at the slaithwaite church nor at the powle could that then be done. and a gradely wedding we had, as is only right when three couples, all friends, and all of a family after a fashion o' speaking, get wed on the same day. faith and mary were just enough to send a man off his head, as they stood in their veils, and even martha looked comely, for love put its halo about her head. mr. coates couldn't keep his eyes off mary and faith, for i reckon he didn't see two such pictures every day, and when we went into the vestry to sign th' register: "the rose," says he, handing the quill pen for mary to sign her name. "and the lily," he added, with a smile and a courtly bow, like the gentleman he was, to faith. "nay, sir," said mary, with a happy laugh, "nay, sir, the lilies come fra golcar." and now, my children, my story is told. you know more about the luddites, perhaps, than when you began to read it. you know how vain was their attempt to stop the introduction of machinery. and no doubt machinery has been a great boon. why, i myself, as you know, run my own mill by it. but don't tell me the luds were a bad lot--misguided, short-sighted, ignorant, if you like, but rogues, and idle, dissolute n'er-do-weels----no! and still no! [the end.] windyridge by w. riley herbert jenkins limited york street, st. james's london s.w.1. 1915 _popular edition._ _printed in great britain by love & malcomson, ltd., london and redhill._ contents chapter i. the call of the heather ii. farmer goodenough states his terms iii. grace meets the squire iv. the studio v. farmer brown is photographed vi. over the moor to romanton vii. the cynic discourses on woman viii. christmas day at windyridge ix. mrs. brown explains x. introduces widow robertshaw xi. ginty runs away xii. the cynic exaggerates xiii. whitsuntide experiences xiv. barjona falls into the trap xv. rose arrives xvi. the cynic speaks in parables xvii. grace becomes dejected xviii. carrier ted receives notice to quit xix. barjona's downfall xx. the cynic's renunciation xxi. at zermatt xxii. the heather pulls xxiii. the parable of the heather xxiv. roger treffit introduces "miss terry" xxv. the return of the prodigal xxvi. the cynic brings news of ginty xxvii. mother hubbard hears the call xxviii. in the crucible xxix. the great storm xxx. calm after storm windyridge chapter i the call of the heather i am beginning to-day a new volume in the book of my life. i wrote the prologue to it yesterday when i chanced upon this hamlet, and my inner self peremptorily bade me take up my abode here. my inner self often insists upon a course which has neither rhyme nor reason to recommend it, but as i am a woman i can plead instinct as the explanation--or shall i say the excuse?--of my eccentric conduct. yet i don't think i have ever been quite so mad before as i fully realise that i am now, and the delight of it all is that i don't care and i don't repent, although twenty-four hours have passed since i impulsively asked the price of my cottage, and found that i could have it, studio and all, for a yearly rental of ten pounds. i have never been a tenant "on my own" before, and the knowledge that i am not going back to the attic bedroom and the hard "easy" chairs of the chelsea lodging-house which has been my home for the last three years fills me with a great joy. i feel as if i should suffocate if i were to go back, but it is my soul which would be smothered. subconsciously i have been panting for windyridge for months, and my soul recognised the place and leaped to the discovery instantaneously. yet how strange it all seems: how ridiculously fantastic! i cannot get away from that thought, and i am constantly asking myself whether providence or fate, or any other power with a capital letter at the beginning, is directing the move for my good, or whether it is just whimsicalness on my part, self-originated and self-explanatory--the explanation being that i am mad, as i said before. when i look back on the events of the last three days and realise that i have crossed my rubicon and burned my boats behind me, and that i had no conscious intention of doing anything of the kind when i set out, i just gasp. if i had stayed to reason with myself i should never have had the courage to pack a few things into a bag and take a third-class ticket for airlee at king's cross, with the avowed intention of hearing a yorkshire choir sing in a summer festival. yet it seems almost prophetic as i recall the incident that i declined to take a return ticket, though, to be sure, there was no advantage in doing so: no reduction, i mean. whether there was an advantage remains to be seen; i verily believe i should have returned rather than have wasted that return half. i dislike waste. that was on tuesday; on wednesday i went to the town hall and entered a new world. it cost me a good deal in coin of the realm--much more than i had dreamed of--but i got it all back in the currency of heaven before i came away. it may have been my excitable temperament--for my mother, i remember, used to condone my faults by explaining that i was "highly-strung," whatever that may mean--or it may have been the yorkshire blood in my veins which turned to fever heat as the vast volume of sweet sound rose and fell; one thing is certain, i lost myself completely, and did not find myself again until i discovered that the room was almost bare of people, and realised by the good-humoured glances of the few who remained that i appeared to be more vacant than the room, and was making myself foolishly conspicuous by remaining seated with my head in my hands and that far-away look in my eyes which tells of "yonderliness." to be quite candid, i am not quite sure that i _did_ find myself; i suspect some tenant moved out and another moved in that afternoon, and i am disposed to think that airlee explains windyridge. if i were to attempt to put down in cold words what i heard or what i felt i should fail, and it would seem very ordinary and uninspiring, so i shall not make the attempt. but when i got outside, the noise of the busy city grated on my senses, and the atmosphere--which was really not bad, for the day was bright and sunny--seemed heavy and stifling. i longed for something which i had not previously cared about; i did not understand my yearnings--i do not yet--but i wanted to get away from the wooden pavements, and the granite banks, and the brick warehouses, and the huge hotels, and the smoke and bustle and din, and lay my head in the lap of nature, and think. i slept a little, i am sure, but i tossed about a good deal in the cosy little bed of the modest hotel where i took lodging, and when morning came i found my inner self still harping on the same string, and more vigorously than ever. perhaps, if i had been sensible, i should have gone straight to the station, and by this time have been going through the old routine in bloomsbury and chelsea, instead of which i made my way into the street after breakfast, and asked a kind-faced clergyman which tramcar would take me farthest away from the turmoil. he was a fatherly man, but his answers were so vague, and he seemed in so much doubt of their reliability, that i disregarded them and accosted a bright young workman who crossed the square a moment later. "a good long ride?" he repeated; "right into the country, eh? take this car and go to the far end." with this he led me to one which bore the fateful sign "fawkshill." it was a lovely day even in the city, warm but not muggy. when i had found an outside seat at the extreme front of the upper deck of the car, the greater part of which was covered, and redolent of tobacco fumes, i made up my mind to enjoy the breeze and the experience. so far as i knew it was just a parenthesis in a chapter of my life, not the beginning of a new volume. in the background of my thoughts there was always chelsea, though i affected to forget it. meantime, in the foreground, there was a good deal to make even chelsea attractive by comparison. we made our way slowly along the grimy road, with its rows of monotonously uninteresting warehouses, and its endless drays filled with the city's merchandise. when the warehouses ended the grime remained. we passed street after street of brick-built cottages, over which spread a canopy of smoke from a hundred factory chimneys. when the country was reached--if the bleak and sad-looking fields could be called country--the mill chimneys were just as evident. they were everywhere, even on the horizon, and my spirits sank. the villages through which we passed were just suburbs, with the thumb-print of the city on them all. every cottage, every villa, spoke of the mill or the shop. as we neared the terminus i found to my dismay that so far from leaving these things behind we were entering a prosperous-looking little town which was just airlee on a smaller scale, with its full quota of smoke-producing factories. how i blamed myself for following the advice of the young workman and regretted that i had not trusted the parson! i had an early lunch at a confectioner's and then wandered, aimlessly enough, up a quiet road which led away from the town and the tram-lines. it was not very promising at first, but when i had passed the last row of houses and found myself hemmed in by green, moss-grown walls, my spirits rose. by and by i reached cross-roads and a broad, white highway, which was manifestly one of the great arteries of this thriving district. it had no attractions for me and i crossed it, and continued my upward path. a sign-post told me that i was on my way to windyridge. i was now in a rather pleasant country road, but one which certainly could boast few attractions. yet i was attracted, perhaps because i could see so little in front of me, perhaps because i could not see a single factory chimney, look where i would. fifteen minutes after leaving fawkshill i had reached the brow of the hill, and my spirits rose with a bound. just in front of me, on a rising knoll, some fine sycamores and beeches clustered together, guarding the approach to a grey, ivy-coated hall. the rooks cawed dismally in the highest branches of the sycamores, the leaves of which were already beginning to fall. autumn, apparently, lays her hand in good time upon the foliage in these northern regions, for some of the trees had already grown ruddy at her touch. when i came to the bend of the road i think my heart stood still for a second or two. there in front of me and to my left--almost, as it seemed, at my feet--were the heather-covered moors, gloriously purple, and the tears came into my eyes. i could not help it; it was so unexpected, and it unlocked too suddenly the chamber where a memory was preserved--a hallowed, never-to-be-forgotten memory. years ago, and long before his sufferings ended, my father was leaning back in his chair one day, his hand clasping its arms, as his custom was, when there came into his eyes a look of inexpressible longing, almost of pain. i went and knelt by his side, and passed my hand gently through his hair, and asked, "what is it, dad dear?" he drew my face to his and answered sadly--it was little more than a whisper, for he was very weak,--"it was the heather calling me, lassie; i felt its sweet breath upon my cheek for a moment, and longed to fall upon its comfortable breast. but it cannot be; it cannot be!" that was ten years ago, and now the heather was to call me and i was to respond to the call. how long i stood there, with the tear-drops dimming my vision, i do not know, but presently i became conscious of a village street, if the few houses which straggled back from the roadway could with any propriety be termed a village. i walked along the path and drank in every sight and sound, and thirsted for more. i thought, in the intoxication of that hour, that peace and contentment must be the portion of every dweller in that quiet spot. i know it will not be so, of course. i suppose sorrow and heartache may inhabit that quaint one-storeyed cottage from which the wreath of blue smoke curls so lazily; that the seeds of greed and falsehood and discontent may thrive and grow here, and be just as hateful and hideous as the flowers which fill the gardens around me are bright and beautiful. but for the moment i did not realise this. a woman was washing the flags at her cottage door, and she smiled upon me as i passed. it was my first human welcome to the moors. at the sound of my footsteps a whole regiment of hens flew from the hilly field which was their pasture, and perched in line upon the wall to give me greeting. i saw no sign of church or inn; no shop save a blacksmith's, and that was closed. the cottage windows and the little white curtains behind them were spotlessly clean. within, i caught a glimpse here and there of shining steel and polished brass which sparkled in the firelight; and the comfort and cosiness of it all appealed to me strongly. i do not think there are more than a score houses in the village, but before i had come to the end of the street my soul had made the discovery i referred to just now. "surely," i said to myself, "it is good to be here; this people shall be my people." it was doubtless a mad thing to say, but i was prospered in my madness. at the extreme end of the village, just past the little methodist chapel which by its newness struck a jarring note in the otherwise perfect harmony, i saw a long, low building, of one storey like most of its fellows, roofed with stone, and fronted by a large garden. it was separated by a field-length from its nearest neighbour, and the field was just the side of a hill, nothing more. two doors gave access to the building, which was apparently unevenly divided into two cottages, for a couple of windows appertained to the one door and one only to the other. a board at the bottom of the garden and abutting upon the road conveyed the information that this "desirable cottage" was "to let, furnished." then and there i gave hostages to fortune. if that cottage was to be had for a sum which came within the limits of my slender purse, it should be mine from that hour. for i saw at a glance that it faced the moors and the sunset; and i vowed that the windows should be always open, so that the breath of the heather might have free entrance. i pushed aside the little green gate and walked up the tiny path amid a profusion of flowers whose names are as yet unknown to me. i promise myself to know them all ere long: to know their habits and their humours: to learn their secrets and the story of their lives; but that is for the future. something almost as sweet and dainty as the flowers claimed my attention first. at the sound of the creaking gate, a dear old lady appeared at the door of the doll's house which was joined to my cottage and advanced to meet me. she had the pleasantest of faces, and was pink and pretty in spite of her sixty odd years. she wore a cap with strings, in the style of long ago: it was a rather jaunty cap and not devoid of colour. a faded shawl hung loosely around her shoulders, and a white apron protected her neat black frock. i saw at once that she was a nervous little body, yet there was dignity as well as deference in the face which looked smilingly into mine. but the manner of her address took my heart by storm. i had never been accosted in this way before, and i nearly took the old lady in my arms and kissed her. i have done since! "yes, love!" she said. it was not an inquiry exactly, though there may have been the faintest note of interrogation in her voice. it was as though i had told her of my desire to rent the cottage, and she was expressing a gratified assent. "i see this little house is to let," i began; "may i look at it, and will you tell me all about it?" "to be sure, love," was the reply. "now, just come inside my cottage and rest yourself, and i'll pour you out a cup of tea if you're in no hurry, for there's sure to be someone passing who will tell reuben goodenough to come hither." "how sweet of you!" i replied. "a cup of tea will be like the nectar of the gods. i will drink it thankfully." the inside of that room was a revelation to me. it was, oh, so very, very small--the smallest living-room i am sure that i ever set eyes upon--but so marvellously clean, and so comfortably homelike that i uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight as i crossed the threshold. the ceiling was of oak, with deep, broad, uneven beams of the same material, all dark and glossy with age. the stone floor was covered for the most part with druggeting, whilst a thick rug composed of small cuttings of black cloth with a design in scarlet was laid before the ample hearth. an old oak sideboard, or dresser, nearly filled the wall facing the window, and on its open shelves was an array of china which would make some people i know break the tenth commandment. a magnificent grandfather's clock, also in oak, with wonderful carving, ticked importantly in one corner, and a capacious cupboard filled another. the wall decorations consisted of a bright but battered copper warming-pan, which hung perpendicularly from the ceiling, looking like the immense pendulum of some giant clock; and three "pictures" which aroused my interest. two of them were framed examples of their owner's skill in needlework, as evidenced by the inscription, carefully worked in coloured wool--"mary jackson, her work, aged 13." the letters of the alphabet, and the numerals from 1 to 20, with certain enigmatical figures which i took to represent flowers, completed the one effort, whilst familiar texts of scripture, after the style of "thou god seest me," made up the other. the third frame was of mahogany like the others, and contained a collection of deep, black-edged funeral cards of ancient date. but the fireplace! my father's description of a real, old-fashioned yorkshire range was understood now for the first time, as i saw the high mantelpiece, the deep oven and the wide-mouthed grate and chimney, in which the yellow flames were dancing merrily, covering the whole room with the amber glow which made it so warm and enticing. through an open door i caught sight of a white counterpane, and found that there was, after all, a wee bedroom built out at the back. drawn quite close to the hearthrug was a round deal table covered with a snowy cloth. two minutes later i was seated there, sipping tea and eating toast, deliciously crisp and hot, and taking my new friend into my confidence. i confess it pleased me to find that my mad proposal was all as natural as the sunshine to her. the dear old soul never uttered one word of warning or suggestion. she was delighted with the scheme i rapidly evolved and ready to be my willing helper. i won her affection at once when i told her that i was a "yorkshireman," and she took me to her heart and begged me to let her "mother" me. i lost my own mother before i had learned to value her, and i think i shall like to be "mothered," though i shall be thirty-five in april. god bless mother hubbard! i must tell how i took the cottage to-morrow. chapter ii farmer goodenough states his terms a fee of one penny, paid in advance, lent wings to the feet of the small boy who was pressed into my service, and before many minutes had passed farmer goodenough appeared upon the scene. he shook hands with me, after mother hubbard had performed the ceremony of introduction, and i can feel the warmth of his greeting in my right hand yet. i shall be careful in future when i get to close grips with big, horny-handed yorkshire farmers. i almost regretted that i had felt it necessary to explain the situation to him when i heard his hearty and somewhat patronising laugh, but mother hubbard's previous treatment had emboldened me. "well, i do declare, miss..." he hesitated and looked at me inquiringly, for my hostess had not mentioned my name. "grace holden is my name, and i am unmarried," i said in reply. "oh!" he answered--only he pronounced it "aw!" "well now, miss, you must excuse _me_, for i mostly speaks straight and no offence meant, and i hope none taken; but isn't this just a little bit daft-like? 'marry in 'aste an' repent at leisure,' as t' owd book says. i'm thinkin' this'll be summat o' t' same sort. hadn't you better sleep on it, think ye? it'll happen be a mucky day to-morrow, an' windyridge 'll hev t' polish ta'en off it." i have written this down with mother hubbard's assistance, and i required a little help from her at the time in the interpretation of it. but the farmer's candour pleased me. "if the rent is more than i can afford to pay i shall return to london early to-morrow," i said; "but if it is within my means i shall certainly stay--at any rate for twelve months," i added guardedly. "now look you here, miss," returned the farmer; "i've got this cottage to let, an' if you take it for three months, _or_ for six months, _or_ for twelve months--for three months _or_ for six months _or_ for twelve months you'll hev it to pay for. right's right, an' a bargain's a bargain all the world over. frenchman, scotchman _or_ yorkshireman, a bargain's a bargain. but nob'dy shall say 'at reuben goodenough took advantage of a woman. i won't let you this cottage, if you like it so as never, an' whether you can afford it or no, not until to-morrow i won't. an' i'll tell you why. "you've just come an' seen windyridge when all t' glory o' t' sunshine's on it, an' t' birds is singin' an' t' flowers is bloomin'; but it isn't allus like that. not 'at i'm runnin' windyridge down. _i_'m content here, but then i were born here, an' my work's here, an' t' missus an' t' youngsters were brought up here. but when you've slept on it you'll happen see different. now you've no 'casion to speak"--as i was about to protest--"i've made up my mind, an' i'm as stupid as a mule when i set myself, an' there can be no harm done by waiting a toathree hours. come, i'll show you what i can let you have for a ten-pun' note a year, if so be as you decide to take it at t' finish." he unlocked the door and stepped aside to let us enter. the kitchen was almost a duplicate of mother hubbard's, but longer. there were the same oak rafters, the same oak sideboard, the same huge fireplace, the same cupboard. a horrible contrivance of cocoa-matting covered the floor, and a hearthrug, neatly folded, was conspicuous in one corner. a bedroom, of ample size for one woman of modest requirements, opened out of the kitchen, and i saw at a glance that i might have as cosy a home as mother hubbard herself. my mind was made up; but then so was farmer goodenough's, and as i looked at the square jaw and the thin lips i was convinced that this man with the good-natured face was not to be moved from his resolution. "i shall take the cottage for twelve months," i said; "but i recognise the force of your objection, and i will not ask you to make out an agreement until to-morrow--to-morrow morning. "but i claim to be a yorkshirewoman, and so can be just a wee bit stupid myself, and you know the proverb says, 'when a woman says she will, she _will_, you may depend on 't.' tell me, though, is not ten pounds per annum a very low rental, seeing that the cottage is furnished?" "low enough," he answered, "sadly too low; but it's as much as i can get. i charge fifteen shillin' a week in summer time, but then it never lets for more'n three months at t' outside, an' for t' rest o' t' year it 'ud go to rack an' ruin if i didn't put fires in it now an' then, an' get mrs. 'ubbard here to look after it. so i reckon it'll pay me as well to have someone in for a twelvemonth, even if i make no more money. but, miss"--he hesitated a moment, and thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets, whilst his eyes, as i thought, became tender and fatherly--"you must excuse _me_; i'm a deal older nor you, an' though i haven't knocked about t' world much, i've learned a thing or two i' my time, an' i have it on my mind to warn you. what t' owd book says is true: 'as you make your bed, so you must lie on 't,' an' it's uncommon hard an' lumpy at times. you know your own business best, an' i will say 'at i like t' look on you, an' it 'ud be a good thing for mrs. 'ubbard here to have you for a neighbour, but--think it well over, an' don't do nowt daft." i suppose some people would not have liked it, but i did, and i told him so. and really it had the opposite effect from that he intended, for it showed me that i might have at least two friends in windyridge, and that one of them would not be wanting in candour. these preliminaries settled, the farmer handed the key to mother hubbard, so that it would be handy for me, as he explained, if i should turn up again in the morning, and prepared to take his departure. just as he reached the gate, however, he turned back. "i should ha' said 'at you're welcome to t' use o' t' paddock. if so be as you care to keep a few hens there's pasture enough for 'em an' nob'dy hurt. an' if you want a greenhouse"--he laughed heartily--"why, here you are!" he motioned that i should follow him, and i stepped through a gate in the wall into the hilly field which he called the paddock. there, firmly secured to the end of the house, was a structure of wood and glass which seemed out of all proportion to the size of the cottage. "what in the world is this?" i exclaimed, but my landlord only laughed the louder. "now then, what d'ye think of that, eh? kind o' crystal palace, that is. strikes me i should ha' put this cottage in t' _airlee mercury_--'desirable country residence with conservatory. apply, goodenough, windyridge.' them 'at takes t' cottage gets t' conserva_tory_ thrown in at t' same rent. it was put up by t' last tenant wi' my consent, an' he was as daft as----" "as i am?" i suggested. "well, he _proved_ hisself daft. he kep' hens i' one part an' flowers in t' other, but he neither fed t' hens nor t' flowers, bein' one o' them menseless creatures 'at gets their heads buried i' books, an' forgets their own meals, let alone t' meals o' them 'at can't sing out for 'em. t' upshot of it all was he left t' cottage an' made me a present of all t' bag o' tricks." then and there the idea of my studio had its birth. with a very little alteration i saw that i could easily adapt it to photographic purposes; and i was more determined than before--if that were possible--to take possession of my yorkshire home. i know people will laugh and call me madder than ever. it does seem rather ridiculous to fit up a studio in a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants, but my inner self urges it, and i am going to live by faith and not by sight. i am irrational, i know, but i just don't care. i have got a theory of life--not a very definite one just now, though it is getting clearer--and i am sure i am taking a right step, though i could not explain it if i wished, and i don't wish. mother hubbard was tearful when i wished her good-night, and it was as an antidote to pessimism that i took the dear old soul into my arms and bade her stifle her tears and look confidently for my return. farmer goodenough's worldly wisdom had convinced her that the anticipations of a quarter-hour ago had been ill-founded. she had counted only too prematurely on my companionship, but the farmer's words had led her to see how unreasonable it was. she was stricken with remorse, too, at the selfishness of her conduct. "you see, love," she explained, as we sought her cottage again and drew our chairs up to the fire--she had turned back her skirt lest the heat should scorch it--"i was just thinking about myself. i'm a lonely old woman, love, and it's only natural i should like the company of a nice, friendly young lady like yourself; but that's just selfishness. you must think over what reuben has said, and don't do anything rash, but----" "mother hubbard," i said, "you need not crumple your apron by turning it into a handkerchief, nor wet it by shedding useless tears. and i'm not a hair-brained young lady, fresh from school, but a sensible woman of thirty-five. mark my word! at twelve o'clock to-morrow i shall be with you again, and i shall have lunch with you; and you'll oblige me by airing my bed for me, and getting things ship-shape, for to-morrow night i shall be your next-door neighbour." i went back to airlee by train from fawkshill. i had noticed the railway as i came in the morning, and i felt that the tram would be too slow. as a matter of fact it took nearly as long and cost me more money. but my mind was full of windyridge and i was oblivious to everything else. when i reached the coffee-room of the hotel i was calmer, for somehow the old familiar sights and sounds of the city threw my cottage into the background, and i was able to view the situation dispassionately. had i been a fool? was not farmer goodenough right, after all; and had not his sound common sense saved me from committing myself to a rash and quixotic adventure? "grace holden," i said, "you have got to face this question, and not make an ass of yourself. weigh up the pros and cons. get pencil and paper and make your calculations and strike your balance, and don't for goodness' sake be emotional." then my inner self said with great distinctness, "grace holden, the heather has called you! listen to it!" and i went to bed and slept the sleep of the just. my first sensation on awaking was one of exhilaration. not a single cloud of doubt or apprehension appeared upon the sky of my hopes; on the contrary, it was rosy bright with the promise of success. i like to trust my intuitions, for it seems to me you treat them unfairly and do not give them a chance of developing upon really strong lines if you don't do so. intuitions are bound to become weak and flabby if you are always coddling them and hesitating whether to let them feel their feet. an intuition that comes to you deprecatingly, and hints that it does not expect to be trusted, is a useless thing that is dying of starvation. _my_ intuitions are healthy and reliable because i believe in them and treat them as advisers, and am becomingly deferential. it's nice to feel that your inner self likes you too well to lead you astray. i wrote several letters and chuckled to myself when i thought of the effect they would produce in certain quarters. i am just a nonentity, of course, in the city of london, and nobody outside of it ever heard of me so far as i know, and i am my own mistress, without a relative of any kind to lay a restraining hand upon my actions; yet there are just two or three people who will be interested in this new phase of madness. i can see madam rusty adjust her pince-nez and scan the postmark carefully before unfolding my note. and i dare bet anything that the glasses will fly the full length of the chain when she finds she has to pack up my belongings and despatch them to windyridge. i always carry my cheque book with me in case of emergencies, so i have sent her a blank cheque "under five pounds" to cover her charges. i guess there won't be much change out of that when madam has filled it in. and rose! i wonder what rose will say. i think she will be rather sorry, but she has many other friends and will soon console herself. and, after all, she _did_ say i was "_swanky_"; but i daresay i shall ask her down some day, and i am sure she will attend to the little matters i have mentioned. i paid my bill, and by ten o'clock was once more in the fawkshill car; but i went inside this time, and closed my eyes and dreamed dreams. i got rid of the factory chimneys that way. it was approaching twelve when i walked up the garden path to my new abode, and heard the joyful "yes, love!" of my new mother. she could not forbear giving me one peep into my own cottage as we passed the door. a cheerful fire was blazing in the grate, the rug was in its place, the mattress and all its belongings were heaped around the hearth, and the clock upon the wall was ticking away in homeliest fashion and preparing to strike the noontide hour. there was not a speck of dust anywhere. evidently mother hubbard had been up early and had worked with a will, and i was touched by this evidence of her faith, and glad that i had proved worthy of it. "but what will farmer goodenough say?" i asked jocularly, as we discussed the appetising ham and eggs which she had prepared in her own kitchen. "reuben? oh, i take no notice of him, love. he called out as he passed, whilst i was in the garden this morning, that i was to remember that he had not yet let you the house, and that we might never see your face again; but i said, 'for shame! reuben goodenough,' though i will admit i was glad to see you, love. and now we'll just go in together and get everything made tidy. bless you! i'm glad you've come. i think the lord must have sent you to cheer a lonely old woman." chapter ii grace meets the squire i have spent my first sunday in windyridge, and have made a new acquaintance. i believe i shall soon feel at home here, for the villagers do not appear to resent the presence of a stranger, and there is no sign of the cranford spirit, perhaps because there is an entire lack of the cranford society. my adventure befell me as i walked back from church in the morning. it was too far for mother hubbard to accompany me to fawkshill if she had wished to do so, but she has no leanings in the direction of the establishment, being, as i have discovered, a staunch dissenter. she has asked me to go with her to the little methodist chapel one day, but i put her off with a caress. i was as full of the joy of life as a healthy woman can be, whose church-going garments are two hundred miles away, and i filled my lungs again and again with the sweet moorland air as i sauntered leisurely up the village street. a delightful breeze was blowing from the west, and i knew that my hair would be all about my ears before i reached the church; but that was a small matter, for who was there to care or criticise? the village rested in the calm of the sabbath: no sound of human voice or human feet disturbed its quiet. but the cocks crowed proudly from their elevated perches by the roadside, and the rooks cawed noisily in the sycamores as they saw their lofty homes rocked to and fro in the swell of the wind. i stood for a moment or two to watch the behaviour of the trees when boreas, rude as ever, flung himself upon them. how irritable and angry they became! how they shook their branches and shrieked their defiance, trembling all the time through every stem and leaf! as i passed the entrance gate at the farther end of the hall grounds a carriage was leaving it, and i caught sight of an old gentleman sitting alone within. i guessed him to be the owner of the place and dubbed him the squire, and i was right, except as to the title, which i find he disavows. i must have dawdled away more time than i realised, for they were well on with the prayers when i entered the church, but i will guard against that in future, for i pride myself on my methodical and punctual habits. but hurrying makes one hot, and churches are often chilly, as this one was! i was glad when the service was over and i could get out into the sunshine again. the squire's carriage passed me on its homeward way soon after i had left the church, but when i reached the cross-roads i saw that its owner must have sent it forward and decided to continue the journey on foot, for he was standing at the bend of the lane in conversation with farmer goodenough. the latter smiled as i approached and half raised his cap; and the squire turned and saluted me with grave politeness. "mornin', miss 'olden, mornin'," said my landlord. "so you've exchanged the 'eath for the 'assock, in a manner o' speakin'," and he laughed loudly at his alliterative success. "well, well, some must pray an' some must work. 'there's a time for everything,' as t' owd book says; that's it, isn't it, sir, eh?" and without waiting for an answer farmer goodenough strode off. in a few seconds, however, he was back. "excuse me, miss, but i should ha' made you two known to each other. miss 'olden, this is mr. evans of the 'all, an' this is my new tenant, sir; a lady from london, miss 'olden, who's taken the cottage for twelve months for a sort of a whim, as far as i can make out." he touched his cap, and turned on his heel once more. the situation was amusing and a little embarrassing, but i was left in no suspense. the old gentleman smiled and looked down into my eyes. he is a fine old man, something over seventy years of age, i should say, but very erect, with deep, rather cold eyes, surmounted by bushy eyebrows, and a head of thick, steely-grey hair. one glance at his face told me that he was a man of intellect and culture. "we may as well be companions, miss holden, if you do not object," he said smilingly. "i should like to ascertain for myself whether the village report is true, for i may inform you that i have heard all that my butler can tell me, which means all that he can ascertain by shrewd and persistent inquiry." "i am flattered by the attention of my neighbours," i replied, "and i can quite understand that in a little place like this the advent of a stranger will create a mild sensation, but i was not aware that there was anything so dreadful as a 'report' in circulation. the knowledge makes me uneasy; can you relieve my anxiety?" he was walking along with his hands holding the lapels of his jacket, his light overcoat blowing about behind him, and he looked quizzically at me for a moment or two before he replied: "i think you are able to take it in good part, for--if you will permit me to say so--i judge that you have too much common sense to be easily offended, and therefore i will admit that the villagers are prepared to look upon you as slightly 'daft,' to use their own expression. they cannot understand how, on any other supposition, you should act on a momentary impulse and leave the excitements of the metropolis for the simple life of a tiny village. i need hardly say that i realise that this is distinctly your own affair, and i am not asking you to give me your confidence, but you will not mind my telling you in what light the village regards this somewhat--unusual conduct." i laughed. goodness knows i am not touchy, and the opinion of my neighbours only amused me. but somehow i felt that i must justify my action to the squire, and my inner self put on her defensive armour in readiness for the battle. i seemed to know that this rather stern old man would regard my action as childish,--and indeed the scheme could not be regarded as reasonable; it was simply intuitive, and who can defend an intuition? i therefore replied: "you have certainly relieved my disquietude. i thought the villagers might have conceived the notion that i was a fugitive from justice, and had a good reason for hiding myself in an out-of-the-way place. if they consider me inoffensive in my daftness i am quite content; for, after all, there are hundreds of people of much wider experience who would be not a whit more lenient in their judgment. in fact, i suspect that you yourself would endorse it emphatically, especially when i admit that the premise is correct from which the conclusion is drawn." "you invite my interest," he returned, "but your silence will be a sufficient rebuke if my inquiries over-step the bounds of your indulgence. you tell me that the premise is correct. i understand, therefore, that you admit that you have acted on mere impulse; that, in fact, our friend goodenough was speaking truly when he called it bluntly a 'whim.'" "i am not skilled in dialectics," i said, feeling rather proud of the word all the same, and mightily astonished at my coolness; "but i should not call it a whim, but rather an intuition. i suppose there is a difference?" he bent his brows together and paused in his walk; then he replied: "yes: there is a distinct difference. i cannot deny or disregard the power of the mind to discern truth without reasoning, but the two have so much in common that i think a whim may sometimes be mistaken for an intuition. can you prove to me that this was an intuition?" "no," i said, and i think it was a wise answer; at any rate it seemed to please him; "nobody could do that. time alone can justify my action even to myself. i am going to be on the lookout for the proof daily." he smiled again. "you know what would have been said if a man had done this?" he said deliberately; "it would be asked, who is the woman?" i blushed furiously, and hated myself for it, though he was nearly old enough to have been my grandfather. "i always feel glad that eve did not blame the other sex," i replied, "and, in spite of the annoying colour in my face, i can say with a clear conscience that there is no man in the case at all." "do not be grieved with me," he said, just as calmly as ever. "i realised that i was taking a big risk, but i wished to clear the ground at the outset. i have done so, but i hesitate to venture further." his tone was so very kindly that i, too, determined to take a big risk, though i half feared he would not understand, or understanding would be amused. so i told him something of my life in london, and how its problems had perplexed and depressed me, and i told him of the heather and how it had called me; and i think something of the passion of life shook my voice as i spoke, and i expressed more than i had realised myself until then. he listened with grave and fixed attention, and did not reply at once. then, halting again in his walk, though only for a second, he said: "miss holden, subconscious influences have been at work upon you for some time past. you have experienced the loneliness which is never so hard to bear as when one is jostled by the crowd. i gather that the wickedness of london--its injustice and inequalities--have been weighing upon your spirits, and you feel for the moment like some escaped bird which has gained the freedom of the woods after beating its wings for many weary months against the bars of its city cage. you may have done well to escape, but beware of false ideals, and beware of the inevitable reaction when you discover the wickedness of the village, and learn that injustice and vice and slander, and a hundred other hateful things, are not peculiar to city life." "but surely," i interposed, "the overcrowding, and the sweating and the awful, awful wretchedness of the poor are wanting here." "my dear young lady," he said, "i suppose you think that the devil is a city gentleman whose attention is so much occupied with great concerns that he has had no time to discover so insignificant a place as windyridge. you will find out your mistake. there are times when he is very active here, but he has wit enough to vary his methods as occasion requires. "sometimes, as scripture and experience have shown you, he goes about as a roaring lion, and there is no mistaking his presence; but at other times he masquerades as an angel of light. you speak of the evils you know, and it may be admitted that most of these are absent from windyridge, at any rate in their aggravated forms. but analyse these various evils which have caused you to chafe against your environment, and you will find that selfishness is at the root of them all, and selfishness flourishes even in the soil which breeds the moorland heather. "don't let this discourage you, however," he continued, as he held out his hand, for we had now reached the gateway of the hall; "the devil has not undisputed possession here or elsewhere, and windyridge may help you to strike the eternal balance. "come to see me sometimes; i am an unconventional old man, and you need not hesitate. i can at least lend you good books, and give you advice from an experience dearly bought." he grasped the collar of his coat again and walked slowly up the drive. dinner had been waiting quite ten minutes when i reached home, and i found mother hubbard in a state of apprehension, partly lest some evil should have befallen me, and partly lest the yorkshire pudding, whose acquaintance i was to make for the first time, should be so spoiled as to prejudice my appreciation of its excellences from the beginning. but no such untoward event occurred, and my appetite enabled me to do full justice to mother hubbard's preparations. we have come to a convenient and economical arrangement by which we are to share supplies, mother hubbard being appointed cook, and i housemaid to the two establishments. in her delight at the prospect of my companionship the dear old lady was prepared to unite the two offices in her one person, but this was an impossible proposition, as i promptly pointed out. she might be prime minister, but not the entire cabinet. so we shall take our meals together in her cottage or in mine, as may be most convenient, and i think i shall be able to spare her some of the delightful drudgery which is harming her body whilst it leaves her spirit untouched. not that i shall ever be able to maintain the spotless cleanliness which she guards as jealously as a reputation; and i cannot help thinking that her unwillingness to consent to this part of the bargain was due in some degree to doubts of my competency. but i am willing to be taught and corrected, and i will encourage her not to spare the rod. chapter iv the studio i have been here a whole week, and as for being busy, i think the proverbial bee would have to give me points. monday was occupied with a variety of odd jobs which were individually insignificant enough but meant a good deal in the aggregate. first of all i attended to household duties under the keen but kindly supervision of mother hubbard, and acquitted myself fairly well. then i turned my attention to the studio and drew up my plans for its equipment. a young girl from the village readily undertook the work of cleaning, and the muscle she put into it was a revelation to me after my experience of the leisurely ways of london charwomen! i soon discovered that she is a sworn enemy of every form of dirt--or "muck" as she prefers to call it--that she has a profound contempt for all modern cleansing substances and mechanical methods, and a supreme and unshakable belief in the virtues of soft soap, the scrubbing-brush, and "elbow-grease." four hours of "sar'-ann" brought joy to my heart and sweetness to my studio. then, with some difficulty, for he was at work in the fields, i found a sturdy and very diffident young man who has had some experience of carpentry, and who can also wield a paint-brush. to him i explained my requirements, and also handed over the plan i had prepared. he stood chewing the neb of his cap, and repeated in most irritating fashion: "aw, yes 'm" whenever i paused to plumb the depths of his intelligence; but would only promise to do his best. as a matter of fact his "best" is not at all bad. sar'-ann informed me in his presence, when he showed a little difficulty in understanding one of my requirements, that he was "gurt and gawmless," whereat he blushed furiously, and most unnecessarily so far as i was concerned, for the description was greek to me. his awkwardness disappears, i find, when my back is turned; and he is really a very capable workman, and he and sar'-ann between them have made my studio most presentable. but i am anticipating. tuesday morning brought me a small budget of letters and several parcels. i opened madam rusty's first, with some mischievous anticipation of its contents. i knew the sort of thing i might expect: the quasi-dignified remonstrance, the pained surprise, and the final submission to the will of an inscrutable providence which had seen fit to relieve me of my senses and her of a great responsibility. i leaned back in my chair, put my feet upon thy fender, and prepared for a good time. the precise, angular handwriting was as plain as the estimable lady herself, and no difficulty in decipherment impeded my progress. "my dear miss holden," it ran, "i have received your most extraordinary communication, which i have perused with mingled feelings of astonishment, sorrow and dismay. i am astonished that you should leave my house, where i am sure you have been surrounded by every home comfort, without a single expression of your intention to do so, or one word of explanation or farewell to myself or your fellow-boarders. conduct of this kind i have never experienced before, and you must pardon me saying that next to an actual elopement it seems to me the most indelicate thing a young person in your position could do. and i am sorry because i feel sure there is more behind all this than you have been willing to inform me of, and i do think i have not deserved to be deceived, for i can honestly say that i have endeavoured to act a mother's part towards you; and as to any little differences we have had and complaints and so on, i did not think you had an unforgiving spirit. not that one expects gratitude from one's boarders in the ordinary way, which being human is unlikely, but there are exceptions, of which i thought you were one. but if you believe me i am dismayed when i think of you going out into these wild parts which i have always understood are as bad as a foreign country, and without anyone to look after you, and no buses and policemen, and what you would do in case of fire i don't know. however, they do say that providence takes care of babies and drunken people and the insane, and we can only hope for the best. i know it's no use trying to persuade you different, for if there's one thing about you that is known to all the boarders it is that you are self-willed, and you must excuse me telling the plain truth, seeing that it is said for your good. so i have had your things packed up, and carter patersons have taken them away to-day. you will find it all in the bill enclosed, and i have filled in the cheque accordingly. of course if you change your mind i shall try to accommodate you if i am not full up. i cannot help signing myself "yours sorrowfully, "martha russen. "n.b.--i may say that the other boarders are very shocked." poor old rusty! she is really not half a bad sort, and i am glad to have known her: almost as glad as i am to get away from her. it is my misfortune, i suppose, to be "nervy," and the sound and sight of madam in these latter days was enough to bring on an attack. i turned to the letter from rose, which was short, sharp and sisterly--sisterly, i mean, in its shameless candour and freedom from reserve. rose rather affects the rã´le of the superior person, and has patronised me ever since i discovered her. this is what she wrote: "my dear grace, "i am not sure that i ought not to write '_disgrace_.' i always have said that you are as mad as the march hare in 'alice' and now i am sure of it. your letter has not one line of sense in it from beginning to end except that in which you suggest that i may come to see you some time. so i may, if the funds ever run to it. it will be an education to do so. i would go to see you in your native haunts just as i would go to see any other natural freak in which i might be interested. but i won't pay ordinary railway fare, so that's flat. if the railway companies won't reduce their charges by running cheap excursions as they do for other exhibitions, i shall not come. for if you are not an exhibition (of crass folly) i don't know what an exhibition is. however, you have a bit of money and a trade (sorry! i mean a profession) at your finger-ends, so i can only hope you'll not starve whilst your native air is bringing you to your senses. i will see to your various commissions, and if i can be of further use to you up here, "i am, as i have ever been, "your humble, but not always obedient servant, "rose." this concluded what may be termed the social portion of my correspondence, and i took up the other letters with less zest. one, a mere formal acknowledgment of my changed address, was from the bankers who have the privilege of taking care of my money, and who have never manifested any sense of oppression under the responsibility. nevertheless, two hundred and forty odd pounds is something to fall back upon, and it looms large when it represents savings; and in any case it is all i have except the interest which comes to me from a few small investments--all that was rescued from the wreck of my father's fortunes. well, well! i am a good deal richer than some very wealthy people i have met. two others were business communications from firms which give me employment, and i may frankly admit that i was just a little relieved to find that distance was not going to affect our relationships. not that i had been actually uneasy on that score, for i have discernment enough to know my own value. i am not a genius, but what i _can_ do is _well_ done; and i have lived long enough to discover that that counts for much in these days. the parcels which accompanied the letters contained sufficient work for a month at least. then came a letter from shuter and lenz with all sorts of suggestions for the furnishing of my studio. the consideration of this occupied a couple of hours, but my list was made out at last, and i expect i shall receive the bulk of the goods before the end of next week. transit between london and windyridge is quick--much more so than i anticipated, for my boxes were delivered during the afternoon, and i spent the rest of the day and some part of the night in unpacking them. it was no easy matter to find storage for my small possessions, but i accomplished it in the end, and arranged all my household goods to the best possible advantage. since then i have been sewing for all i am worth. the joint establishments do not boast the possession of a sewing machine, so i have had to make my studio curtains by hand. mother hubbard was delighted to be able to help in this department, and between us we finished them yesterday, and with ginty's assistance i have hung them to-day! "ginty" is the carpenter. the "g" is hard and the name is unusual, but i am inclined to doubt whether it was ever bestowed upon him by his godparents in baptism. i suspect sar'-ann of having a hand in that nomenclature. if my landlord could see my studio now he would hardly recognise his conserva_tory_. one end has been boarded off for a dark-room, and the whole has been neatly painted slate colour. when my few backgrounds and accessories arrive i shall have a very presentable studio indeed. ginty is now engaged painting the outside in white and buff, and he is then going to make me a board which will be placed at the bottom of the garden to inform all and sundry that "grace holden is prepared to do all kinds of photographic work at reasonable prices." i don't anticipate that barriers will be needed to keep back the crowd. how tired i am, and yet how wonderfully fresh and buoyant! my limbs tremble and my head aches, but my soul just skips within me. i have had a week in which to repent, and i have never come within sight of repentance. and yet i have seen no more of windyridge. i have not been near the heather. i have not even climbed to the top of the hill behind my cottage in order to look over the other side. i have wanted to, but i dare not; i am terrified lest there should be factory chimneys in close proximity. once or twice it has been warm enough for me to stretch myself full length upon the grass, and i have lain awhile in blissful contemplation of the work of the great architect in the high vault of his cathedral. that always rests me, always fills me with a sense of mystery, always gives me somehow or other a feeling of peace and of partnership. i rise up feeling that i must do my best to make the world beautiful, and use all my abilities--such as they are--to bring gladness into the lives of other people. i cannot make clouds and sunsets, but i can paint miniatures, and i can take portraits (or i think i can), and these things make some homes bright and some folk happy. but i must not moralise. more often i bring out the deck-chair, which is one of my luxuries, and sit in front of the cottage with mother hubbard as a companion. she is splendid company. if i encourage her she will tell me interesting stories of her youth and married life, or repeat the gossip of the village; for none is better versed than she in all the doings of the countryside. if, however, i wish to be quiet she sits silently by my side, as only a real friend can. but whether she talks or is silent her knitting needles never stop their musical clatter. what she does with all the stockings is beyond my knowledge, but i believe sar'-ann could tell me if she would, and i am sure all this knitting contributes no little to mother hubbard's happiness. so i lean back in my chair and feast upon the scene before me and am satisfied. i wonder if it would appeal to many as it does to me. probably not, for, after all, i suppose there are many more beautiful places than windyridge, but i have never travelled and so cannot compare them. then again, this is yorkshire and i am "yorkshire," and that explains something. still, i ought to try to write down what it is that impresses me, so i will paint as well as i can the picture that is spread before me as i sit. first of all, as a fitting foreground, the garden--past its best, i can see, but still gay with all the wild profusion of flora's providing; plants whose names are as yet unknown to me, but which are a constant delight to sight and smell. then the road, with its border of cool, green grass, winding down into the valley between hedges of hawthorn and holly--ragged, untidy hedges, brown and green where the sun catches them, blue-grey and confused in the shadows. beyond them a stretch of fields--meadow and pasture, and the brown and kindly face of mother earth dipping steeply down to meet the trees which fill the narrow valley, and are just beginning to catch the colours of the sunset. footpaths cross the fields, and i see at times those who tread them and climb the stiles between the rough grey walls; and i promise myself many a good time there, but not yet. on the other side, beyond the trees, the climb is stiffer, and the hills rise, as it sometimes seems, into the low-lying clouds. i can see a few houses under the shelter of a clump of chestnuts and sycamores, the farthest outposts of their comrades in the valley, but far above them rises the moor, the glorious moor, heather-clad, wild, and, but for the winding roads, as god made it. far away to the west it stretches, and when the day is clear i catch the glow of the gorse and the daily decreasing hint of purple on the horizon miles away; but in these autumn days the distance is often wrapped in a diaphanous shawl of mist, which yet lends a charm to the glories it half conceals. high up the hill to the left is the village of marsland, with its squat, grey church, which i must visit one day; and farther away still--for i must be candid at all costs--there are a few factory chimneys, but they are too distant to be obtrusive. such is my picture: would that i could paint it better. looking upon it my spirit bathes and is refreshed. chapter v farmer brown is photographed my studio is complete at last, and i have already had one customer, not counting mother hubbard, who had the privilege of performing the opening ceremony, and who was my first sitter. i insisted upon that, all the more because the dear old soul had never been photographed before in her life, and was disposed to regard the transaction in the light of an adventure. she is altogether too gentle and pliant to oppose her will to mine on anything less important than a matter of principle, but i could see that she was grievously disappointed when i would not let her put on her very best garment, a remarkable black satin dress in the fashion of a past generation, which she keeps in lavender and tissue paper at the bottom of the special drawer which is full of memories and fading grandeur. i wanted her just as she was, with the shawl loose upon her shoulders, and the knitting-needles in her hand, and that pleasant expression of countenance which makes all soulful people fall in love with her at first sight. i succeeded in the end, and the delight of the old lady when i showed her a rough print a day or two later was good to see. "but i wish you could have taken me in my satin, love, and with the lace collar. matthew always thought i looked nice in them." "you look nice in anything," i replied, "and i am sure your husband thought so; but _i_ want the dear old mother hubbard of to-day; for, do you know, i am going to send you to a big news agency, and if you are accepted you and i will make holiday, and do it right royally." but my real customer arrived on the second wednesday in october. my board had been in position for several days, and had attracted a good deal of curiosity but no clients, which was as much as one had a right to expect. i knew, of course, that sitters would be rare, but i had my own plans for turning the studio to profitable use, and i did not worry. "everything comes to him who waits." i was busy with my miniatures, and was just deciding to lay them aside for a time and do a little re-touching on mother hubbard's negatives, when i happened to glance out of the window, and saw an elderly man stop to read my board. he stood quite a long time looking at it, and then turned in at the gate. i went to the door to meet him, and asked if he would like me to take his portrait, and he replied: "ay, if it doesn't cost too much, i should." i led the way into the studio and asked him to sit down, but he would not do so until we had discussed terms. i soon satisfied him on this point, for, of course, high charges in windyridge would be ridiculous, and then i inquired how he would like to be "taken." "i shan't make much of a picter, miss," he said, "but there's them 'at'll like to look at my face, such as it is. if you can make ought o' my head and shoulders it'll do nicely." i looked at him as i made my preparations, and was puzzled. he was a tall man, somewhat bent and grey, his face tanned with exposure to the weather. it was clean shaven, and there was character in the set of his features--the firm mouth, the square jaw, and the brown eyes. they were dreamy eyes just now, and i wondered why, and was surprised that he should seem so natural and free from constraint. i judged him to be a farmer clad in his sunday clothes, but why he should be so garbed on a bright afternoon in mid-week i could not guess. that he was no resident in the village was certain, for by this time i know them all; or rather i should say that i can recognise them all--to know them is another thing. he gave me no trouble, except that i had some difficulty in driving the sad look away from his eyes. it went at last, however, though only momentarily, yet in that moment i got my negative. it was in this way. "cheer up!" i said, when i was ready for the exposure. "your friends would think me a poor photographer if i should send them home such a sad-looking portrait." "ay, right enough," he agreed; "that 'ud never do. but i'm not much of a hand at looking lively." "i want to do you justice for my own sake as well as yours," i said. "now if _i_ wanted to have a pleasing expression i should just think of the moors, radiant in gold, and the cloud-shadows playing leap-frog over them, and that would be sufficient." "ay, ay, i can follow that," he said; and before the glow left his eyes i had gained my point. "shall i post the proof to you?" i asked. he did not understand, and i explained. "no, no," he replied; "if you're satisfied 'at they'll do it'll be right to me, miss. this is your line, not mine, and there's nobody at our end 'at knows ought much about photygraphs. and there's one thing more 'at i want to say, only i hardly know how to say it. but it comes to this: i don't want you to send any o' these photygraphs home until you hear from dr. trempest. when he lets you know, just send 'em on, and put a bit of a note in, like, to say 'at they're paid for. it'll none be so long--a matter o' five weeks, maybe." he unbuttoned a capacious pocket and drew out a bag of money, from which he carefully counted out the amount of my bill, but when i offered him a receipt he declined to take it. "nay, nay," he said, "i want nowt o' that sort. i can trust you; but you'll have 'em ready when t' time comes, won't you?" i assured him confidently, and as he turned to leave i expressed the hope that he would like the prints when he saw them. then it all came out. "i shall never see 'em. i shall be on t' moorside, with t' cloud-shadows you talk about playing loup-frog aboon me by then. that's why i wanted t' photygraphs. i only thought on 't when i passed t' board, but there's them at home 'at 'll be glad to have 'em when i'm gone." tears filled my eyes, for i am a woman as well as a photographer, and i felt that i was face to face with a tragedy. "cannot you tell me about it?" i asked. "believe me, i am very sorry. perhaps i could help. but please don't say anything if you would rather not." "there's not much to tell," he responded, "but what there is 'll soon be all round t' moorside. you see, i've lived at yon farm, two miles off, all my life, and i'm well known, and folks talk a good deal in these country places, where there isn't much going on. "i walked into fawkshill to see dr. trempest this morning, and he's been with me to airlee to see a big doctor there--one o' these consulting men--and he gives me a month or happen five weeks at t' outside. there's nought can be done. summat growing i' t' inside 'at can't be fairly got at, and we shall have to make t' best on 't. but it'll be a sad tale for t' missus and t' lass, and telling 'em is a job i don't care for. "you see, we none of us thought it was ought much 'at ailed me, for i've always been a worker, and i haven't missed many meals i' five and fifty year, and it comes a bit sudden-like at t' finish." what could i say? i saw it all and felt the pity of it. god knows i would have helped him if i could. the old wave of emotion which used to sweep over me so often surged forward again; and again i was powerless in the presence of the enemy. i said something of this, but my friend shook his head in protest. "nay, but i don't look at it i' that way. i'm no preacher, but there's one above 'at knows better than us, and i wouldn't like to think 'at t' old enemy 'ad ought to do wi' it. i've always been one to work wi' my hands, and book-learning hasn't been o' much account to me, but there's _one_ book, miss, 'at i have read in, and it says, 'o death, where is thy sting? o grave, where is thy victory? thanks be to god which giveth _us_ the victory through our lord jesus christ.'" i sat with my head in my hands for a long time after farmer brown had left, and when at length i raised my eyes the shadows had left the moor, and i saw that the sun would set in a clear sky. chapter vi over the moor to romanton we have had our promised holiday, mother hubbard and i, and a right royal one. on those rare occasions when work may be laid aside and hard-earned coin expended upon the gratification of the senses, our younger neighbours turn their steps to airlee or broadbeck, and seek the excitements of the picture palace or the music-hall; their elders are seldom drawn from the village unless to the solemn festivities of a "burying." we spent our day in the great alfresco palace of nature, amid pictures of god's painting, and returned at night, tired in body, but with heart and soul and brain refreshed by unseen dews of heaven's own distilling. fortunately we have had a spell of fine, dry weather, with occasional strong winds--at least, they were strong to me, but the folk about here dismiss them contemptuously as "a bit of a blow." had the weather been wet mother hubbard's cherished desire to "take me across the moor" to romanton would have had to be postponed indefinitely. we were to drive as far as "uncle ned's" in mr. higgins' market cart, mr. higgins having volunteered to "give us a lift," as it was "nowt out of his way." we started early, before the morning mists had forsaken the valleys, and whilst night's kindly tears still sparkled on the face of the meadows. it was good to lean back, my hand in mother hubbard's and my feet resting on the baskets in the bottom of the cart, and drink in sight and sound and crisp morning air. what a peaceful world it was! i thought for a moment of the mad rush of petrol-driven buses along holtorn, and the surging tide of sombre humanity which filled the footpaths there. this had been the familiar moving picture of my morning experience for more years than i care to remember, and now--this. beyond, the meadows and the shawl of mist in the valley, a long stretch of gold and golden-brown where gorse and bracken company together, the one in its vigorous and glowing prime, the other in the ruddy evening of its days, but not a whit less resplendent. overhead, a grey-blue sky, with the grey just now predominating, but a sky of promise, according to mr. higgins, with never a hint of breakdown. by and by the blue was to conquer, and the sportive winds were to let loose and drive before them the whitest and fleeciest of clouds, but always far up in high heaven. in the distance, just that delightful haze which the members of our photographic society so often referred to as "atmosphere"--a mighty word, full of mystic meaning. here and there we pass a clump of trees, heavily hung with bright scarlet berries, whose abundance, our conductor informs us, foretells a winter of unusual severity. "that's t' way providence provides for t' birds," he says. it may be so, though i daresay naturalists would offer another explanation. all the same, it is pleasing to see how the blackbirds and thrushes enjoy the feast, though they have already stripped some of the trees bare, and to that extent have spoiled the picture. mr. higgins was not disposed to leave us to the uninterrupted enjoyment of the landscape. he is a thick-set little man, on the wrong side of sixty, i should judge, with a clean top lip and a rather heavy beard; and i suspect that the hair upon his head is growing scanty, but that is a suspicion founded upon the flimsiest of evidence, as i have never yet seen him without the old brown hat which does service sundays and weekdays alike. he jogged along by the side of the steady mare, who never varied her four-miles-an-hour pace, and who, i am sure, treated her master's reiterated injunction to "come up" with cool contempt; but he fell back occasionally to jerk a few disjointed remarks towards the occupants of the cart. "fox," he said, inclining his head vaguely in the direction of a lonely farm away on the hillside to the right. "caught him yesterda' ... been playin' old 'arry wi' t' fowls ... shot him ... good riddance." we made no comment beyond a polite and inquiring "oh?" and he continued to be communicative. "just swore, did jake ... swore an' stamped about ... but t' missus ... now there's a woman for you ... she played old 'arry wi' him ... set a trap herself ... caught him." mother hubbard ventured to surmise that it was the fox which had been captured and not the husband, and mr. higgins acquiesced. "nought like women for ... settin' traps," he continued, with a chuckle, shaking his head slowly for emphasis; "they're all alike ... barrin' they don't catch foxes... man-traps mostly ... aye, man-traps." "that is just like barjona, love," mother hubbard whispered; "he has never a good word for the women." "you have managed to evade them so far, mr. higgins?" i suggested meekly. "nay ... bad job ... bad job ... been as big a fool as most ... dead this many a year ... dead an' buried twenty year ... wide awake now ... old fox now ... no traps ... no, no, no!" he strode forward to the mare's side again, but i saw him wagging his head for many a minute as he chewed the cud of his reflections. meanwhile mother hubbard, with some hesitation and many an apprehensive look ahead, told me something of his story. "his mother was a very religious woman, love, but she was no scholar, though she knew her bible well. and you know, love, the best of people have generally their little fads and failings, and she _would_ call all her boys after the twelve apostles. at least, love, you understand, she had four sons--not twelve--but she called the first john because he was the beloved disciple, and the next james because he was john's brother. then came andrew and afterwards simon barjona. they do say--but you know, love, how people talk--that she would have liked eleven boys, missing out judas because he was a thief and betrayed his master, but she had only nine children, and five of them were girls. "i have heard my husband say, love, that when they came to christen the youngest boy the minister was quite angry, and would not have the 'barjona,' but the mother was much bent on it, and would not substitute peter, which was what the parson suggested. anyhow, she registered him in his full name." "which name was he called by?" i inquired. "oh, barjona, love, always. and behind his back he is barjona yet, though he likes to be called mr. higgins. but you may give a man a good name when you cannot give him a good nature, and he might as well have been christened buonaparte for all it has done for him. oh yes, love, he is close-fisted, is barjona, and it is said that his wife was so tired of his nagging ways that she was quite pleased to go. i'm sure i thank the lord that i am not mrs. higgins, though they do say in the village that widow robertshaw would have had him this many a year back." "but he is an old fox now," i remarked, "and avoids the trap." it lacked still a couple of hours of noon when mr. higgins deposited us at uncle ned's lonely hostelry, and drove off in the company of the tired mare and his own complacent thoughts. ten minutes later i had completely forgotten his existence in the joy of a new experience. i was there at last! the moors of which i had dreamed so long were a conscious reality. before me, and on either hand, they stretched until they touched the grey of the sky. the glory of the heather was gone, though sufficient colour lingered in the faded little bells to give a warm glow to the landscape, and to hint of former splendour. my heart ached a wee bit to think that i had come so late, but why should i grudge nature's silent children their hour of rest? the morning will come when they will again fling aside the garb of night and deck themselves in purple. besides, there was the gorse, regal amid the sombre browns and olives and neutral tints of the vegetation; and there were green little pools and treacherous-looking bogs, and the uneven, stony pathway which made a thin, grey dividing line as far as the eye could see. what more could the heart of man desire? how sweet the breath of the air was as it covered my cheeks with its caresses! i _tasted_ the fragrance of it, and it gave buoyancy to my body, and the wings of a dove to my soul. i flew back down the years to the dingy sitting-room which held my sacred memories, and saw dear old dad painting his moorland pictures in the glowing embers on the hearth; and i flew upwards to the realms which eye hath not seen, and was glad to remember that the moors are not included amongst the things that are not to be. then, characteristically, my mood changed. the sense of desolation got hold of me. i looked for sound of throbbing life and found none: only tokens of a great, an irresistible power. it may seem strange, but in the silence of that vast wilderness i felt, as i had never felt before, that there must be a god, and that he must be all-powerful. i have not tried to analyse the emotion, but i know my heart began to beat as though i were in the presence of majesty, and a great awe brooded over my spirit. suddenly there was a fluttering of wings in the tangled undergrowth a few yards away, and as my soul came back to earth i saw a hawk swoop down and seize its prey, and then i choked. "if i take the wings of the morning and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth," i said to myself, "i cannot escape the tragedy of life and death--the mystery of suffering." mother hubbard put an arm around my waist and looked questioningly into my eyes, her own being bright with tears. i put my hands upon her cheeks and kissed her. "grace holden is a goose," i said. "how many hours have i been standing still or floating about in vacancy? i believe my dear old mother hubbard thought her companion had flown away and left only her chrysalis behind!" we moved on, and my spirits came out with the sun and the blue sky. after all, i fear i am an emotional creature, for i am my father's daughter, but i think my mother must have been a very practical woman, and bequeathed to me somewhat of the counterpoise, because on the whole i am sure i have more common sense than dreaminess. we had the moor pretty much to ourselves except for the game, which we rarely saw, and the snipe which frequented the swamps. the one outstanding recollection of the remainder of our two hours' tramp is of a young couple (of human beings, not snipe) who came sauntering along, sucking oranges and throwing the peel on the heath. it seemed like sacrilege, and i went hot with indignation. "i feel as if i could swear and stamp around, like the ineffective jake," i exclaimed. "yes, love," said mother hubbard, but i doubt if she understood. mother hubbard was in excellent trim, and i am beginning to think that there must be a good deal of reserve force in her delicate-looking little body. she led me to the brow of the hill whence one gets an unexpected view of the enchanting beauty of the romanton valley, and said "there!" with such an air of proud proprietorship, as if she had ordered the show for my special gratification, that i laughed outright. i negotiated the steep downward path with difficulty, but she went steadily on with the assurance of familiarity, pausing at intervals to point out the more notable landmarks. we had lunch at one of the large hotels, and if rose had seen the spread i ordered she would have had good cause to charge me with "swankiness," but i was having a "day out," and such occurrences at windyridge are destined to be uncommon. besides, no fewer than three magazines are going to print my old lady's picture, so the agents have sent me thirty shillings--quite a decent sum, and one which you simply _cannot_ spend on a day's frolicking in these regions. when it was over mother hubbard showed me all the lions of the place; and after we had drunk a refreshing cup of tea at a cafã© that would do no discredit to buckingham palace road we set out on the return journey. i was tired already, but i soon forgot the flesh in the spirit sensations that flooded me. we were now traversing the miniature high road which skirts the edge of the moor, and reveals a scene of quiet pastoral beauty along its entire length which is simply charming. i cannot adequately describe it, but i know that viewed in the opalescent light of the early setting sun it was just a fairy wonderland. the valley is beautifully wooded, and solomon and the queen of sheba together were not so gorgeously arrayed as were the trees on the farther side. a white thread of river gleamed for a while through the meadows, but was soon lost in the haze of evening. comfortable grey farms and red-tiled villas lent a homely look to the landscape, and at intervals we passed pretty cottages with old-fashioned gardens, where the men smoked pipes and stood about in their shirt-sleeves, whilst the women lounged in the gateways with an eye to the children whose bed-time was come all too soon for the unwilling spirit. and, best of all, my journey ended with a great discovery. we had climbed a steep hill, and after a last long look back over my fairy valley i set my face to the dull and level fields. two hundred yards farther and my astonished eyes saw down below--the back of my own cottage! that night no vision of factory chimneys disturbed the serenity of my sleep, for a haunting fear had been dispelled. chapter vii the cynic discourses on woman "woman," said the cynic sententiously, "may be divided into five parts: the domestic woman, the social woman, the woman with a mission, the new woman, and the widow." "nonsense!" snapped the vicar's wife, "the widow may be any one of the rest. the mere accident of widowhood cannot affect her special characteristics. the worst of you smart men is that you entirely divorce verity from vivacity. the domestic woman is still a domestic woman, though she become a widow." "no," returned the cynic, "the widow is a thing apart, if i may so designate any of your captivating sex. domestic she may still be in a certain or uncertain subordinate sense, just as the social woman or the woman with a mission may have a strain of domesticity in her make-up; but when all has been said she is still in a separate class; she is, in fact--a widow." "i remember reading somewhere," i remarked, "that a little widow is a dangerous thing. manifestly the author of that brilliant epigram was of your way of thinking. he would probably have classed her as an explosive." he turned to me and smiled mockingly. "i think all men who have seriously studied the subject, as i have, must have formed a similar opinion. the widow is dangerous because she is a widow. she has tasted of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. she knows the weak places in man's defensive armour. she has acquired skill in generalship which enables her to win her battles. added to all this is the pathos of her position, which is an asset of no inconsiderable value. she knows to a tick of time when to allure by smiles and melt by tears, and woe to the man who thinketh he standeth when she proposes his downfall." "my dear derwent," interposed the squire from the other side the hearth; "you speak, no doubt, from a ripe experience, if an outside one, and no one here will question your authority; but surely the new woman and the woman with a mission may be bracketed together." the squire was leaning back in a comfortable saddle-bag, one leg thrown easily over the other and his hands clasped behind his head. a tolerant half-smile hung about the corners of his lips and lurked in the shadows of his eyes. he has a grand face, and it shows to perfection on an occasion like this. the vicar sat near him. he is a spare, rather cadaverous man, who lives among egyptian mummies and assyrian tablets and palimpsests and first editions, and knows nothing of any statesman later than cardinal wolsey. an open book of antiquities lay upon his knee, and his finger-tips were pressed together upon it, but the eyes which blinked over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles were fixed upon space, and the cynic's vapourings were as unheeded as yesterday. the vicar's wife is the very antithesis of her husband. she is a plump, round-faced little body, and was tidily dressed in a black silk of quite modern style with just a trace of elegance, and a berthe of fine old lace which made me break the tenth commandment every time i looked at her. she was evidently on the best of terms with herself, and stood in no awe of anybody, and least of all of the cynic, whom she regarded with a half-affectionate, half-contemptuous air. she had a way of tossing her head and pursing her lips when he was more than usually aggressive that obviously amused him. i had soon found out that they were old antagonists. the cynic himself puzzled me. i scarcely dared to look at him very closely, for i had the feeling that none of my movements escaped his notice, and i had not been able to decide whether his age was thirty or fifty. he is of average height and build, and was somewhat carelessly dressed, i thought. his dinner jacket seemed rather loose, and his starched shirt was decidedly crumpled. i wondered who looked after his mã©nage. his hands are clean and shapely, and he knows where to put them, which is generally an indication of good breeding and always of a lack of self-consciousness, and from their condition i judged that he earned his bread in the sweat of his brain rather than of his brow. as to his face--well, i liked it. it is dark, but frank and open, and he has a good mouth, which can be seen, because he is clean shaven, and his teeth are also good. but then in these degenerate days anyone who has attained middle life may have good teeth: it is all a matter of money. i think it is the eyes that make the face, however. they are deep grey and remarkably luminous, and on this occasion they simply bubbled over with mischievousness. his smile was never very pronounced, and always more or less satirical, but his eyes flashed and sparkled when he was roused, though they had looked kindly and even plaintive when he arrived, and before he was warmed. he is the sort of man who can do all his talking with his eyes. a high forehead is surmounted by a mass of hair--once black, but rapidly turning grey--which he evidently treats as of no importance, for it lies, as the children say, "anyhow." but how old he is--i give it up. he passed his hand through his hair now, with a quick involuntary movement, as he turned to the squire. "you may bracket the new woman and the woman with a mission together, but you can never make them one. that they have some things in common is nothing to the point. the new woman, as i understand her, has no mission, not even a commission. the new woman is protest, embodied and at present skirted, but with a protest against the skirt. her most longed-for goal is the unattainable, and if by some chance she should reach it she would be dismayed and annoyed. meantime, with the vision before her eyes of the table of the gods, she cries aloud that she is forced to feed on husks, and as she must hug something, hugs a grievance." "philip derwent," interposed the vicar's wife, "you are in danger of becoming vulgar." "vulgarity, madam," he rejoined, "is in these days the brand of refinement. it is only your truly refined man who has the courage to be vulgar in polite society. no other dares to call a spade a spade or a lie a lie. those who wish to be considered refined speak of the one as an 'agricultural implement' and of the other as a 'terminological inexactitude.' but to return to our sheep who are clamouring for wolves' clothing----" "really, philip!" protested the vicar's wife, pursing her lips more emphatically than ever. "the latest incarnation of protest, if i may so speak, takes the form of a demand for the suffrage, and is accompanied by much beating of drums and----" "smashing of windows," i ventured. he bowed. "and smashing of windows. by and by they will get their desire." "and so have fulfilled their mission," the squire smiled. "by no means; they have no mission; they have simply a hunger, or rather a pain which goes away when their appetite is stayed, and comes on again before the meal has been well digested. then they go forth once more seeking whom or what they may devour." "tell us of the woman with a mission," i pleaded. "miss holden is anxious to discover in what category she is to be classed," laughed the squire. "you are treading on dangerous ground, derwent. let me advise you to proceed warily." "mr. evans, when a boy at school i learned the latin maxim--'truth is often attended with danger,' but i am sure miss holden will be merciful towards its humble votary." i smiled and he continued: "the woman with a mission, miss holden, is an altogether superior creature. she may be adorable; on the other hand she may be a nuisance and a bore. everything depends on the mission--and the woman." "a safe answer, philip," sneered the vicar's wife, and the squire smiled. "there is no other safe way, madam, than the way of truth, and i am treading it now. even if the woman be a nuisance, even if the mission be unworthy, she who makes it hers may be ennobled. let us assume that she believes with all her heart that she has been sent into the world for one definite purpose--shall we say to work for the abatement of the smoke nuisance? that involves, amongst other things----" "depriving poor weak man of his chief solace--tobacco," snapped the vicar's wife. "exactly. now see how this strengthens her character, and calls out qualities of endurance and self-sacrifice. the poor weak man, her husband, deprived of his chief solace, tobacco, turns to peppermints, moroseness and bad language. his courtesy is changed to boorishness, his placidity to snappishness. all this is trying to his wife, but being a woman with a mission she regards these things philosophically as incidental to a transition period, and she bears her cross with ever-increasing gentleness and----" "drives her husband to the devil and herself into the widows' compartment," interrupted the vicar's wife, with disgust in her voice. "miss holden, do you sing?" "i have no music," i replied, "but may i 'say a piece' instead, as the village children put it?" i turned to the cynic and made him a mock curtsey: "small blame is ours for this unsexing of ourselves, and worse effeminising of the male. we were content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain. all we have done, or wise or otherwise traced to the root was done for love of you. let us taboo all vain comparisons, and go forth as god meant us, hand in hand. companions, mates and comrades evermore; two parts of one divinely ordained whole." "bravo!" said the squire, and the vicar murmured, "thank you," very politely. the cynic laughed and rose from his chair. "i will take it lying down," he said. "mr. evans, may i look in the cabinet and see if there is anything miss holden can sing?" i had to do it, because the cabinet contained all the scotch songs i love so well. i was my own accompanist, _faute de mieux_, but the cynic turned the leaves, and contributed a couple of songs himself. he talks better than he sings. the squire wanted us to try a duet, and the vicar's wife was also very pressing, but one has to draw the line somewhere. the only pieces we both knew were so sentimental that my sense of humour would have tripped me up, i know, and i should have come a cropper. just as coffee was brought in the squire asked me if i would sing for him, "oh wert thou in the cauld blast." i saw he really wanted it, so i found the music, though i had to choke back the lump in my throat. i had never sung it since that memorable evening when we sat together--dad and i--on the eve of his death, and he had begged for it with his eyes. "i know, dad, dear," i said; "i must close with your favourite," and he whispered, "for the last time, lassie." and so it had been. the tears fell as i sang, and the hall and its inmates faded from my view. the cynic must have left my side, for when at length i ventured to look round he was across the room examining a curio. but the squire rose and thanked me in a very low voice, and his own eyes were bright with tears that did not fall. soon after, the vicar's carriage came, and the cynic accepted the offer of a lift to the cross-roads. i left at the same time, but the squire insisted on accompanying me. under cover of the darkness he remarked: "that was my wife's song. it gave me much pleasure and some pain to hear it again; but it hurt you?" i told him why, and he said quite simply, "then we have another bond in common." "another?" i inquired, but he did not explain; instead he asked: "how fares your ideal? have you met him of the cloven foot in windyridge yet?" "i fear i brought him with me," i replied, "and i fancy i have seen his footprints in the village. all the same, i do not yet regret my decision. i am very happy here and have forgotten some of my london nightmares, and am no longer 'tossed by storm and flood.' my inner self and i are on the best of terms." he sighed. "far be it from me to discourage you; and indeed i am glad that the moors have brought you peace. to brood over wrongs we cannot put right is morbid and unhealthy; it saps our vitality and makes us unfit for the conflicts we have to wage. and yet how easy it is for us to let this consideration lead us to the bypath meadows of indifference and self-indulgence. you remember tennyson: "'is it well that while we range with science, glorying in the time, city children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?' "i have led a strenuous life, and taken some part in the battle, but now i have degenerated into a lotus-eater, with no heart for the fray, 'lame and old and past my time, and passing now into the night.'" "nay," i said, "let me quote clough in answer to your tennyson: "'say not the struggle nought availeth, the labour and the wounds are vain. the enemy faints not nor faileth, and as things have been they remain, 'for while the tired waves, vainly breaking, seem here no painful inch to gain, far back, through creeks and inlets making, comes silent, flooding in, the main.' "you are no lotus-eater: no shirker. you are just resting in the garden in the evening of a well-spent day, and that is right." "for me there is no rest," he replied. "to-morrow i go to biarritz, and thence wherever my fancy or my doctor's instructions send me; but i shall carry with me the burdens of the village. it is selfish of me to tell you this, for i would not make you sad, but i am a lonely man, and i am going away alone, and somewhat against my will, but trempest insists. "i think it has done me good to unburden myself to you, and i will say only this one word more. always, when i return, there has been some tragedy, great or small, which i think i might have hindered." "surely not," i murmured, "in so small a place." he rested his arm upon my garden gate and smiled. "a week ago i witnessed a terrible encounter between two redbreasts in the lane yonder. they are very tenacious of their rights, and one of them, i imagine, was a trespasser from the other side the hedge. they are country birds, yet very pugnacious, and the little breasts of these two throbbed with passion. but when i came near them they flew away, and i hope forgot their differences. i never even raised a stick--my mere presence was sufficient. and therein is a parable. good-night, miss holden, and au revoir!" he opened the gate, raised his hat, and was gone. chapter viii christmas day at windyridge christmas has come and gone, and so far not a flake of snow has fallen. rain there has been in abundance, and in the distance dense banks of fog, but no frost to speak of, and none of the atmospheric conditions i have always associated with a northern yuletide. christmas day itself, however, proved enjoyable if not wildly exciting. the air was "soft," as the natives say, and the sun was shining mistily when i stepped into the garden, now bare of attractions save for the christmas roses, whose pure white petals bowed their heads in kindly greeting to the wrinkled face of earth, their mother. the starlings were whistling as cheerily as if spring was come, and a solitary missel-thrush was diligently practising a christmas ditty on the bare branches of the hawthorn. "a merry christmas, mother hubbard!" i called through the open window, with such unwonted vigour that the old lady, whose toilet was not completed, flung a shawl hastily around her shoulders, only to be reassured by my hearty laugh. over the breakfast table we drew up the day's programme. it was no difficult task. mother hubbard would occupy the morning in preparing the great dinner, and from these preparations i was to be rigorously excluded. to my old friend this was a holy-day, but one to be marked by a sacrificial offering of exceptional magnitude, she being the high priestess who alone might enter into the mysteries; but i did not mind, seeing that i was to be allowed to do my part in consuming the sacrifice. the afternoon was to be devoted to rest, and in the evening we were to go to farmer goodenough's, where the youngsters were already wild in anticipation of the glories of a christmas-tree. so i was dismissed to "make the beds" and dust my own room, and having done this i went to church in the temple which is not made with hands. i had intended going to fawkshill, but the angels of god met me on the way, and turned me aside into the fields which lead to marsland. when i reached the wood i knelt on the soft, thick carpet of fallen leaves and said my prayers amid the solitude, with the running brook for music and all nature for priest. what a loud voice nature has to those who have ears to hear, yet withal how sweet and forceful. they tell us that if our faculties were less dull we should hear in every stem and twig and blade of grass the throbbing of the engines and the whir and clatter of the looms which go on day and night unceasingly. it is well for us that we are not so highly tuned, but it is also well if our spiritual perceptions are keen enough to find tongues in trees and sermons in stones, and to interpret their language. i am but a dunce as yet, but i have learned one thing since i came to this northern school--i have learned to listen, and i am beginning to understand something of what god has to teach us by the mouth of his dumb prophets. anyhow, i went home with peace in my heart and goodwill to all men; also with a mighty hunger. the menu was roast turkey and plum pudding, to be followed by cheese and dessert, but on this occasion there was no "following." imagine two domesticated women, and one of them--the little one--with the appetite and capacity of a pet canary, seated opposite a bird like that the squire had sent us, which had meat enough upon it to serve a polytechnic party; and imagine the same couple, having done their duty womanfully upon the bird, confronted with a plum pudding of the dimensions mother hubbard's sense of proportion had judged necessary, and one of the twain compelled either to eat to repletion or to wound the feelings of the pudding's author--and then say whether in your opinion cheese and dessert were not works of supererogation! after we had cleared the things away and drawn our rocking chairs up to the fire, the old clock ticked us off to sleep in five minutes; and then that part of me which it is not polite to mention took its revenge for having been made to work overtime on a holiday. i dreamed! i was running away from chelsea in the dead of night, clothed in my night-dress and holding my bedroom slippers in my hand. a great fear was upon me that i should be discovered and frustrated in my purpose; and as i strove to turn the heavy key in the lock my heart thumped against my chest and the perspiration poured down my face. at first the bolt resisted my efforts, but at length it shot back with a great noise, which awakened madam rusty, who opened her bedroom window as i rushed out on to the pavement and cried "murder!" at the same time emptying the contents of the water jug upon me. fear gave wings to my feet and i fled, followed by a howling crowd which grew bigger every moment and gained on me rapidly. by this time i realised that i was carrying madam's best silver tea-pot under my arm, and i wanted to drop it but dared not. then i found myself in the lane at windyridge, with the squire dressed as a policeman keeping back the crowd, whilst mother hubbard, without her bodice, as i had seen her in the morning, took my hand--and the tea-pot--and hurried me towards the cottage. it was just in sight when madam rusty jumped out of a doorway in her night-cap and dressing-gown and shouted 'bo!' waving her arms about wildly, and as i hesitated which way to turn she flung herself upon me and seized my hair in both her hands. as i screamed wildly, i saw the cynic leap the wall in his golf suit, and woke just in time to save myself considerable embarrassment. "what was it, love?" inquired mother hubbard, who had been aroused by my screams and was genuinely alarmed. "i don't quite know," i replied; "but i think the turkey was quarrelsome and could not quite hit it with the plum pudding." mother hubbard composed herself to sleep again; and in order to prevent a repetition of my unhappy experience i got my books and proceeded to do my accounts. i have not been idle by any means during these months, and my balance is quite satisfactory. i have painted quite a number of miniatures, and have prepared and sold several floral designs for book covers and decorative purposes. i see plainly that i am not likely to starve if health is vouchsafed to me, and i was never more contented in my life. i wonder, though, what it really is that makes me so. it cannot be sufficiency of work merely, for that was never lacking in the london days; and as for friends, i have, besides mother hubbard, only farmer goodenough and the squire, and he is away and likely to be for months. i think it is the sense of "aliveness" that makes me happy. some folk would call my life mere existence, but i feel as if i never really lived until now; and i hanker after neither theatres, nor whist-drives, nor picture-shows, nor parties. parties! why, we have parties in windyridge, and the motherkin and i went to one that evening. we put on our best bibs and tuckers--not our very best, but i wore my blue voile with the oriental trimmings which even rose used to admit set off my figure to advantage, and mother hubbard donned the famous black satin, and added to its glories the soft shetland shawl which i had given her that morning. tea was prepared in the spacious kitchen, which had room enough and to spare for the fifteen people of all ages who were assembled there. it is a kitchen lifted bodily out of a story book, without one single alteration. the room is low, so that farmer goodenough touches the beams quite easily when he raises his hand, and his head only just clears the hams which are suspended from them; and it is panelled all the way round in oak. there are oak doors, oak cupboards, oak settles and tables, and an oak dresser, all with the polish of old age upon them and with much quaint carving; all of which is calculated to drive a connoisseur to covetousness and mental arithmetic. an immense fire roared up the great chimney, and its flames were reflected in the polished case of the mahogany grandfather's clock, which seemed to me rather out of place amongst so much oak, but which, with slow dignity, ticked off the time in one corner. on the far side of the room, near the deeply recessed window, was the christmas-tree--a huge tree for that low room, and gay with glittering glass ornaments in many grotesque shapes, brightly coloured toys, and wax candles, as yet unlighted. the younger members of the party were gathered near it in a little group, whispering excitedly, and pointing out objects of delight with every one of which each individual had made himself familiar hours before. grandpa goodenough, a hale old man of eighty, and to be distinguished from grand_father_ goodenough, his son, smoked a long clay pipe from his place on the settle near the hearth, and smiled on everybody. his daughter-in-law, who looked much too young to be a grandmother, bustled about in the scullery, being assisted in her activities by her eldest daughter, ruth, and her son ben's wife, susie, and obstructed by her husband who, with a sincere desire to be useful, contrived to be always in the most inconvenient place at the most awkward time. mother hubbard and i had been invited to step into the parlour, but preferred the more homely atmosphere of the kitchen, so we took our seats on the settle, opposite to that occupied by grandpa. by and by tea was ready and we were instructed to "pull our chairs up" and "reach to." what a time we had! if tables ever do groan that one ought to have done so, for it had a heavy load which we were all expected to lighten, but nobody seemed to think it might be necessary to press anybody to eat. "now you know you're all welcome," said farmer goodenough heartily, when the youngest grandchild had asked what i took to be a blessing. "we're not allus botherin' folks to have some more when there's plenty before 'em, an' all they've got to do is to reach out for 't; but if you don't all have a good tea it's your own fault, an' don't blame _me_. 'let us eat, drink, an' be merry,' as t' owd book bids us." the way the ham disappeared was a revelation to me. farmer goodenough stood to carve, and after a while took off his coat, apparently in order that he might be able to mop his face with his shirt sleeves and so not seriously interrupt his operations. plates followed each other in unbroken succession, until at last the good man threw down the knife and fork and pushed back his chair. "well, this beats all!" he said. "amos, lad, thee take hold. thou's had a fair innings: give thy dad a chance." where the little goodenoughs put the ham and the sponge cake, the tarts and the trifle, the red jelly and the yellow jelly and the jelly with the pine-apple in it i do not pretend to know. they expanded visibly, and when the youngest grandchild, a cherubic infant of three, leaned back and sighed, and whispered with tears in his voice, "reggie can't eat no more, muvver," i felt relieved. it was over at last and the table cleared in a twinkling. ben whisked away the remnants of the ham into the larder. the women folk carried the crockery into the scullery, and whilst they were engaged in washing it up the boys disappeared into remote places with the fragments of the feast, and mother hubbard swept the crumbs away and folded the cloth. "now," said reggie, with another little sigh, but with just a suspicion of sunshine in his eyes, "now we'se goin' to p'ay, an 'ave ze pwesents off ze kwismastwee." and so we did. amos, as the eldest son at home, lit the candles, and grandpa distributed the gifts, which were insignificant enough from the monetary point of view, but weighted in every case with the affection and goodwill of the burly farmer and his wife. there was even a box of chocolates for me, and with its aid i succeeded in winning the heart of the melancholy reggie. then came the games. i wish rose and the boarders at no. 8 could have seen the demure miss holden of former days walking round and round a big circle, one hand in reggie's and the other clasped by a red-cheeked farmer, whilst a dozen voices sang, and hers as loudly as any: "the farmer's dog was in the yard, and bingo was his name-o!" then came the mad scramble of "shy widow" and the embarrassments of the "postman's knock," though nobody had letters for me, except reggie, who had one--very sticky and perfumed with chocolate--and susie's little daughter, maud, who gave me three, very shyly, but accompanied by an affectionate hug, which i returned. after this, crackers, with all their accompaniments of paper caps and aprons, and by the time these had been worn and exchanged and torn the youngsters were clamouring for supper. supper! ye gods! when this repast was ended and the younger members of the party had been packed off to bed--for only mother hubbard and i were to leave the farmer's hospitable home that night--some of the grown-ups proposed a dance. grandpa shook his head in protest. "nay, nay," he said in his thin, piping voice; "i don't hold wi' dancin'. never did. you were never browt up to dance, reuben, you weren't." "reyt enough, father," responded his son, "but you know things has changed sin' i were a lad. you remember what t' owd book says; i don't just rightly call t' words to mind, but summat about t' owd order changin'. we mun let t' young uns have a bit of a fling." "they danced in t' bible, grandpa," said rebecca saucily. "well, they may ha' done," rejoined the old man, retiring to the settle; "but i weren't browt up i' that way, an' your father weren't neither. i were allus taught 'at it were a sort of a devil's game, were dancing." however, dance they did, and i played for them, doing my best with the crazy old box-o'-music in the parlour; and as i glanced through the open door i saw that grandpa was following it all with great interest, beating time the while, in uncertain fashion, with head and hand. chapter ix mrs. brown explains there was a funeral in the village on the wednesday of last week. on the previous sunday mother hubbard had assured me with great solemnity that something of the sort was going to happen, for had not a solitary magpie perched upon our garden wall and waved his handsome tail in full view of the window for at least a minute? what connection there was between his visit and the calamity which it foretold was not clear to me, but it appears that the magpie is a bird of omen, and there is an old rhyme which in these parts is considered oracular: "one for sorrow, and two for mirth; three for a wedding and four for a birth." however that may be, it is a fact that in the late afternoon dr. trempest called to inform me that farmer brown was dead. "he has lasted twice as long as anyone could have foreseen," he said. "poor chap, it's a mercy it's all over." the whole countryside was inches deep in snow when they buried him in the little god's acre that clings to the side of the hill at the point where the roads diverge. the grave-digger had a hard task, for we had had a fortnight of severe frost; but he bent to his work with the grim persistence of the man who knows that the last enemy is a hard master, and that there must be no tarrying in his service. all the village turned out to the funeral, and there was a great crowd of invited mourners. it struck me as strange that so many coaches should be provided and that the last sad rites should partake of the nature of a public spectacle, for surely when we have given our loved ones into god's keeping it is most seemly to lay all that is human of them in the lap of earth reverently and with simplicity; but the yorkshire folk make it an occasion of display, fearing, perhaps, to dishonour their dead, and dreading even more the criticism and displeasure of their neighbours. when the grave had been filled in and the upturned earth was covered with the evergreens and wreaths which loving hands had brought and left there, i went and stood beside the grave and thought of farmer brown's parting words. i suppose it is heretical to pray for the dead, but i did it. yesterday i went to see mrs. brown, taking the photographs and a framed enlargement with me. it was a hard tramp, and my arms ached before the journey's end was reached, but i am wonderfully "fit" just now, and i thoroughly enjoyed the walk. well--perhaps i must modify that. there was always present with me the anticipation of a depressing scene, and that marred the enjoyment somewhat, though it could not destroy it. yet to feel the sting of a north-easterly wind on one's cheek, and the sensation of crunching snow beneath one's feet, with a bright blue sky overhead and the far-away smell of spring in one's nostrils, was to experience something of the joy of life. here and there great drifts of snow were piled up against the banks and walls, and i knew that sheep and even men were sometimes lost in them, but i was safe enough, for the road was fairly well trodden, and when i left it and climbed the stile into the fields leading to the farm the track was quite discernible. it is a mistake to anticipate, and to dread what lies behind the veil is folly. mrs. brown taught me that in a very few moments. there was no gloom about the kitchen where she and her daughter jane, were busily engaged in household duties, though somehow one felt that sorrow dwelt there as a guest. i explained the purpose of my visit, and the mother's eyes grew dim with tears. "he never breathed a word," she said; "but that was just greenwood to nowt. he was allus tryin' to do someb'dy a good turn, but so as they shouldn't know it, and it was just like the dear lad to think o' them he was goin' to leave, an' try to pleasure 'em." "perhaps you would rather open the parcels yourselves when i am gone," i suggested, but the widow shook her head. "nay, i'd like to see them whilst you're here, miss, if you don't mind. jane, love, put the kettle on an' make a cup of tea for the young lady. i will confess 'at i had fret just a bit 'cos we haven't any picture of father, except one 'at was took soon after we were wed, and that's over thirty year sin'; and i can't tell you how glad i shall be to 'ave 'em." i had done my best, and i will admit that the enlargement pleased _me_, but i was ill prepared for the effect it produced upon the widow and the daughter. the girl was in her twenties, and looked matter-of-fact enough, but the moment she saw it she took the frame in her hands, pressed her lips to the glass, and cried with a dry sob, "oh, dad, dear, i cannot bear it!" and then knelt down on the broad fender and prepared some toast. but her mother placed the picture against the big bible on the high drawers and gazed steadily at it for a moment or two, after which she came up to me where i was standing, and throwing her arms around my neck drew my head on to her shoulder, for she is a tall woman, and kissed me again and again. but only one or two big tears fell upon my cheek, and she wiped them away hastily with her apron. "i can't help it, miss," she said, "you'll not take offence, i'm sure. but i can't do anything but love you for what you've done for me an' jane. you've brought more comfort to this house than i ever thought the lord 'ud send us, an' i hope he'll pay you back a hundredfold, for i cannot." i wonder why one should feel so warm and virtuous for having done one's duty. i had put my heart into the work, as i always do--for who would be a mere mechanic whom god meant for a craftsman?--but the farmer had paid me the price i asked, and the whole transaction had been conducted on strict business lines. what right had i to be pleased with the super-payment of love? but i was. over the teacups mrs. brown opened her heart to me. jane had gone away to the dairy, and i think her mother spoke more freely in her absence, or perhaps the feeling of strangeness had by that time been dispelled. i saw it did her good to talk and i rarely interrupted her. she sat with her cup on her knee, and her eyes fixed, for the most part, upon the hearth. "he seemed to suffer terrible towards the end," she said, "but he allus put a good face on it an' tried to keep it from us. but choose how he suffered you never 'eard one word of complaint, an' he wouldn't let us say ought hard against him above. and yet, you know, he was never what you might call a church member, an' he wasn't one 'at went regular to either church or chapel. you see, it's a matter o' two mile to t' chapel at windyridge, an' t' nearest church 'll be gettin' on for four mile away. "an' he wasn't one 'at spoke a deal about religion, neither, nobbut he wouldn't hear anybody speak a word agen it. there isn't a labourer or a farmer or t' doctor himself 'at 'ud use a bad word i' front o' greenwood, an' he never did himself. he used to sit i' that high-backed chair where you're sittin' now, every night of his life, wi' that big bible on his knee, an' read in it, but he never read it out loud, an' what scripture we got we'd to read for ourselves. nobbut he'd quote it now an' then, like, when there were any 'casion. "i've thought often sin' he came home that day an' told us what were goin' to happen, an' especially sin' he were laid up, 'at it 'ud maybe have been better if he'd read it up for us all to hear, an' talked about it a bit, but it wasn't his way, wasn't that. he was same as he couldn't, but i wonder sometimes if it 'ud have saved us this trouble." "but could anything really have saved it?" i inquired. "he told me it was something internal which could not be accounted for." "ah, miss," she replied, "there's a kind of illness 'at you can't get any doctor to cure, but greenwood's illness could be accounted for when you know all. it's true enough 'at there wasn't a stronger nor likelier man i' t' west ridin' than my 'usband, nor a steadier. and he never ailed owt, never. day in an' day out he did his work wi' t' best on 'em, an' took all his meals hearty. but he lived wi' a great big wound in his inside this last ten year for all that, an' they can say what they like, but i know if he hadn't had that sore in his soul he'd never have had that bad place in his body. "you can't go by appearances, miss. my husband was right enough in his body, but he was sick at heart. it's not easy tellin', but i can tell you, though i'm sure i don't know why. we never had but two children, jane an' her brother joseph. my husband was called after his mother--her name was greenwood afore she was married--so we called our lad joseph after his grandfather. he came within a year of our gettin' wed, and a brighter little lad never breathed. eh! he was that bonny an' sweet ... "how is it, miss, 'at some grows up so crook'd an' others i' t' same family never gives you a minute's trouble? our jane has been a comfort to us both all her life, but joe has broke our rest many a hundred nights. he was same as he took t' wrong road from bein' a little lad o' twelve. he would go his own road, an' it was allus t' wrong road. he'd work if it pleased him, an' he wouldn't if it didn't, an' you could neither coax him nor thrash him into it. his father tried both ways, an' i'm sure i did all i could. an' the way he sauced his father you wouldn't believe for a young lad. "he had his good points, too, for he wouldn't lie to save his own skin or anybody else's, an' he was as honest as they make 'em. but he was self-willed and 'eadstrong past all tellin'. he used to laugh about the devil, an' say it was all bosh an' old wives' tales, but if ever a man was possessed wi' one our joseph was when he were nineteen. "there isn't a church for four mile; no, but there are two drink shops easy enough to get at. oh, miss, why do they let the devil set traps to catch the souls o' men? they can't keep him out of us, god knows, but they've no need to build places for him to live in, and license him to do his devil's work. o lord, why didn't you save our joe? "he came home drunk the day he was nineteen, an' his father was just full up wi' grief an' vexation. an' men don't bear wi' it same as women do. he put the bible down on the table, greenwood did, an' he went up to t' lad, an' he said: "'i won't have it, joe. i've told you afore an' i tell you again, if you're goin' to come home drunk ye'll sleep in t' barn, for i won't have you in t' house.' "oh, i can't bide to think of it, but joe swore a great oath, an' clenched his fist an' hit his father in t' body; an' then greenwood seized him by t' coat collar an' flung him in t' yard, an' locked t' door agen him. i shall never forget it. i cried an' begged him to go out to t' lad, but he wouldn't. he said he could sleep in t' barn, but until he were sober he shouldn't come into t' house. "well, i said no more, but crept upstairs to bed an' sobbed for an hour, an' then i heard greenwood shouting 'at t' barn was afire. we all rushed out, an' there was soon plenty of 'elp, but we lost two cows an' a lot o' hay that night; but worse than that, we lost our joe. not 'at he were burned or ought o' that sort. he fired t' barn an' made off, an' his father never tried to follow him. but from that day to this we've never heard one word of our lad. "i can hear them beasts roaring with pain in the night yet, but you know, miss, that was soon over, an' they got their release. but it's different wi' us. we aren't beasts. greenwood could bear pain. he made nought o' the blow, though it was a savage 'un, but it was the thought of it 'at hurt him, an' the thought of him 'at did it, an' wondering what had come of him. pain's nought; any woman can bide pain--an' god knows 'at we have to do, oft enough--but when your soul gets hurt there's no putting any ointment on _it_, an' there's no doctor in t' world can do you any good. "god? oh yes, miss, i know, but i don't understand. i believe greenwood did, an' he went home peaceful, if not happy; an' i'm not murmuring. i believe the lord 'll work it all out i' time, but it's a puzzle. i should ha' lost heart an' hope but for greenwood; but i'm goin' to hold on for his sake an' jane's--an' for our joe's." as i walked home the lingering sun cast long, black shadows athwart the snow, but the shadows were only on the surface, and did not soil the purity of the mantle which god had thrown over the earth. chapter x introduces widow robertshaw i have been having quite an exciting time lately. if you have never lived in a small hamlet of a hundred souls or thereabouts, with smaller tributary hamlets dropped down in the funniest and most unlikely places within easy walking distance, you do not know how very full of excitement life can be. why, when i was living at no. 8 nobody displayed very much emotion when the jeweller at the end of the street suffered "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" as the result of the undesired patronage of connoisseurs in diamonds; and even when we learned that the poor man had been found gagged and bound to his office chair and more dead than alive, the languid interest of the company was sufficiently expressed in the "hard luck!" of the gentlemen, and the "what a shame!" of the ladies. "that's the fire-engine," someone would remark, as the horses dashed past to the clang of the warning bell; but we sent up our plates for a second helping of boiled mutton with never a thought as to the destination and fate of the brave fellows who might be about to risk their lives in a grim struggle with flame and smoke. murders and assassinations and suicides were discussed, if they had been conducted respectably, with the same air of commiseration as was employed when a fellow-boarder complained of headache; if they were not respectable we did not discuss them at all. it took a first-class society scandal to really stir us, and then we gathered in groups and became thoroughly interested--the women, i mean, of course. the men were just as interested but not so ready to admit it, and professed to be debating politics. i sometimes wonder if what the psalmist said in his haste might not have been affirmed more leisurely. however, that is nothing to the point; ordinarily, there is no denying the fact that we were bored, or perhaps i ought to adopt the modern expression and say "blasã©." here in windyridge that word and its significance are unknown. when old mrs. smithies' sow had a litter of seventeen pigs we all threw down our work and went across to congratulate her, and stopped each other in the street to discuss the momentous event, and to speculate on the difference it would make in that worthy lady's fortunes. on the other hand, when old woodman's dog, cã¦sar, was reported to have gone mad, we were wildly excited for the space of one whole day, and spent our time in telling each other what dreadful things _might_ have happened if he had not been securely chained up from the moment the symptoms became ominous; and recalling lurid and highly-imaginative stories of men who, as the result of dog-bites, had foamed at the mouth, and had to be roped down to their beds. which reminded someone else of the bull that old green used to have, away yonder past uncle ned's, which went mad one whitsuntide, and tore along the road three good miles to windyridge, roaring furiously, and scattering the school children, who were assembled for the treat, in all directions; and badly goring this very dog cã¦sar, who had pluckily charged him. this week's excitements began on monday, when young smiddles, who had been "gas-acting," according to his mother, ran his fist through the window-pane, and cut his arm very badly and even dangerously. smiddles' roaring must have rivalled that of old green's bull, and, supplemented by his mother's screams, it served to rouse the whole village. smiddles' sister, a buxom young woman of plain appearance but sound sense, threatened to box the sufferer's ears if he did not "stop that din," and though much alarmed at the flow of blood, made some efforts to staunch it with her apron. i had already gained an ill-deserved reputation for surgery, principally on account of the possession of a medicine chest and an "ambulance" certificate, and my services were speedily requisitioned by the fleet-footed son of the next door neighbour, who bade me come at once, as "smiddles' lad" was "bleeding to death on t' hearthstone." after i had prevented the realisation of this fatality by means of a tight bandage, and made the patient as comfortable as a sling permits, i despatched the mercuric youth to summon dr. trempest, as i was afraid some stitches would be necessary, and went out to find the street buzzing with excitement, and my humble self regarded as only slightly less than super-human. no sooner had this sensation died down than the village thermometer rose, two days later, to fever heat on the report that little willie jones had ventured to test the ice upon the huge water-butt which occupied a slightly elevated position at the end of his father's house and was "drownded dead for sure." not a soul in the village knew what course to pursue under the circumstances, and every eager helper might have avowed with truth and sincerity that he had done the things he ought not to have done, and left undone the things he ought to have done; and it was fortunate for poor little willie that my first aid lessons had qualified me for dealing with an emergency of this kind. farmer goodenough and i worked hard for an hour, and my arms ached with the effort, but at length the reluctant engine began to move, throbbing fitfully but with increasing strength; and hot flannels and heated bricks, with judicious but energetic rubbing, completed the treatment and brought life and colour back again, so that when the doctor arrived there was little left to be done. i believe i was excited myself when it was all over, and if my head had not been fixed very solidly upon my shoulders it would certainly have been turned that day by the ridiculous and extravagant eulogies of my neighbours. then followed the great blizzard. i suppose our cousins across the water would have small respect for such an unpretentious specimen as we experienced, but to me it was a revelation of what old mother nature can do when she clenches her teeth and puts her hand to it. a bright but grey sky overhung the earth when i set out soon after dinner for a brisk constitutional, and i never for a moment anticipated any change in the conditions. for some weeks past we had had alternations of frost and snow and thaw, and for several days the bare, brown earth had been frozen hard, and the roadway was furrowed as a field, with ice filling every rut and wrinkle. it was an ideal day for a sharp walk, provided one's organs were sound and one's limbs supple, and though a thousand needles pricked my cheeks and hands, and my ears smarted with the pinching they got, my whole body was soon aglow and i revelled in the encounter. i took the downward road which winds slowly round to marsland, and tried to discover the heralds of spring. on such a day everybody should be an optimist. i think i generally am as regards myself, whatever the weather may be like, but i must admit that so far i have had little cause for being anything else. it is only when i begin to dwell on the miseries of other people, and the wrongs which it seems impossible to put right, that the black mood settles upon me. but on this particular day i felt on good terms with the world, and thought of the sunny days which lay ahead, and of the coming morning, when the heather bells would feel the warm breath of summer upon their face, and open their eyes in loving response to her kiss. and here and there in the shelter of the hedges, and by the banks of the ice-bound stream where the bridge crosses it i found the heralds i sought--tiny shoots of green pushing their way through the hard soil or the warm coverlet of faded leaves. by and by the icy fingers will have to relax their grasp, and the woods and hedgerows will be gay with the little fairy creatures, who dress so daintily in colours of a hundred hues for our enjoyment, and who smile, perhaps, to think what a limited monarchy king frost maintains after all. i am well known by now, and every farmer's boy who passes me exchanges greetings, sometimes with a half-hearted movement of the hand in the direction of the cap, but oftener with the smile of recognition which betokens comradeship. for our relations are on the most cordial footing of strict equality; we are all workmen, each after his kind, servants of one master; and if god gives us grace to use our opportunities as we ought we may all enter, even now, into the joy of the lord. there is a vast difference, as i have learned, between servility and respectfulness, and i believe i am as much respected as the squire, though with less reason: and nobody is unduly deferential even to him. the good women in the cluster of cottages down the lane waved their hands as i passed, and a couple of maidens of tender years, one fair, the other with raven locks, ran out and seized each an arm, and escorted me a hundred yards along my way. i sat on the bridge for a while at the foot of the hill, and it may have been the network of trees in the little wood which hid from my eyes the approaching storm. for with the suddenness of a panther it sprang upon me. there had been a fairly stiff breeze at my back, which had helped me along famously, taking toll of my ears for its fee, but now, as if its playful humour had been changed to madness, it lashed me mercilessly with knotted whips of frozen rain. expecting every minute to reach the shelter of a farm i hurried forward, whilst the storm howled and raged behind and about me. it was well for me that the storm was at my back, for my face was entirely unprotected and the sleet was driven past me in straight, almost horizontal lines, which obliterated the landscape in a moment, and stung my neck so that i could have cried with pain. when i had rounded the bend and climbed the stiff ascent my plight was worse. there was no protection of any kind and my face suffered so terribly that i began to be alarmed. to add to my difficulties every landmark had been blotted out, and the road itself was becoming indistinguishable from the low-lying edge of moor over which it wound. like ten thousand shrouded demons let loose to work destruction the wind hissed and shrieked and roared, and tore across my path with a force i could scarcely resist. ten minutes after its commencement i was treading ankle-deep in snow, and i could see that drifts were beginning to form where the road had been brought below the level of the rising and lumpy moor. i would have given much to have been sitting by mother hubbard's side, listening to the click of the needles, but i was indeed thankful that she had not accompanied me. after the first sensation of alarm and dismay the novelty of the situation began to appeal to me. one can get accustomed even to being thrashed by the genii of the air, and i became conscious of a certain exhilaration which was almost pleasant, even whilst i was ardently longing for the sight of a friendly roof. i know now that i missed the broad road, and took a narrower one which sloped down at an acute angle, but i was unconscious of this at the time, and was only grateful to find some protection from the high wall upon my left. i know also that i had passed two or three farms where i might have been hospitably received, but no fog could have proved a thicker curtain than that impenetrable veil of driven snow, and i never even guessed at their existence. the moor now began to rise steeply upon my right, and as i stumbled forward, holding my hat upon my head with both hands, i suddenly found myself upon hard ground again, with scarcely a trace of snow to be seen, and with a whole row of cottages on one side of the road, in which blazing fires offered me a warm welcome. i could hardly realise that i had found refuge. the roadway was only wide enough to accommodate a good-sized dray, and was separated from the houses by the narrowest of footpaths, and flanked on the right by the bare side of the hill, which rose precipitously from the ground, to be soon concealed in the mantle of the storm. seen indistinctly as i saw it then it appeared more like a railway cutting than anything else, and i could only marvel at the eccentricity of man in erecting houses in such an unpromising locality. however, for the mariner in danger of shipwreck to criticise the harbour of refuge in which he finds himself is mean ingratitude. "nay, to be sure!" the ejaculation came from the mouth of a comely woman of considerable proportions who filled up the doorway of the cottage opposite to which i was standing. she wore a brown skirt protected by a holland apron, and surmounted by a paisley blouse bearing a fawn design on a ground of crudest green. the sleeves of the blouse buttoned and were turned back to the elbow, and as two hooks were loose at the neck i felt justified in assuming that my new acquaintance was an enemy of constraint. her feet were encased in carpet slippers of shameless masculinity, and a black belt encircled her ample waist, which at this moment was partly hidden by the outstretched fingers of her hands, as she stood, arms akimbo, in the doorway. her face, plump, pleasant and rosy, had for its principal feature two merry, twinkling eyes, which sparkled with humour as she gazed upon me; and her hair, which was beginning to turn grey, was drawn tightly back and coiled in one large plait upon the crown. altogether she was a very homely, approachable woman, who had seen, as i judged, some fifty summers, and i hailed her appearance with joy. "nay, to be sure!" she repeated; "are ye lot's wife? or has t' lads, young monkeys, planted a snow man at my door? here, bide a bit while i brush ye down, an' then come inside wi' ye." i laughed, and submitted to the operation, vigorously performed in the street, and then followed my rescuer indoors. all my explanations were greeted with the same expressive utterance. "to be sures" came as thickly as currants in a yorkshire tea-cake. we were unknown to each other by sight--for i was now, i found, in marsland gap, with the valley between me and windyridge--but my fame had preceded me. "well, to be sure! so you're t' young lady what takes fotygraphs up at windyridge. why, bless ye, i can show ye t' very house ye live in, an' t' glass place where i reckon ye take yer fotygraphs from this window in t' scullery. nay, to be sure! it's that wild ye cannot see an arm's length. well, well, let's hev yer wet things off, for ye're fair steamin' afore that fire." i protested in vain. my hat and coat had already been removed, and now my hostess insisted that my dress skirt should be hung upon the clothes-horse to dry. oh, rose, rose! what would you not have given to see me ten minutes later clad in a garment which was reasonable enough as to length, but which had to be pinned in a great overlapping fold half round my body? i looked at myself and roared, whilst the owner of the dress shook her sides with merriment. all the same, i had found the inn of the good samaritan, and my stay there did not even cost me the two pence of the story. what do you think we had for tea? muffins, toasted cheese, home-made jam and "spice cake"! i helped to "wash-up," and as the storm continued with unabated fury i resigned myself cheerfully to the snug rocking-chair and the glowing hearth. thoughts of mother hubbard's anxiety worried me a little, but i hoped she would realise that i had found shelter. "you have not told me your name yet," i began, when we were comfortably settled, i with my hands idle upon my lap, and she with a heap of "mending" upon her knee. "well, to be sure! so i haven't," she replied. "maria robertsha' 's my name, an' it's a name i'm noan ashamed on. not but what i'd change it if someb'dy 'ud give me a better. it's all right livin' by yerself if ye can't 'elp it; an' to be sure, when ye live by yerself ye know what comp'ny ye keep; but them can 'ave it 'at likes for me." "then do you live here quite alone?" i inquired. "barring the cat, i do. i did 'ave a parrot one time, 'cos it's nasty temper seemed to make it more 'omelike; but t' lads, young imps, taught it all sorts o' indecent stuff, which made it as i 'ad to part wi' it, an' it was nearly like losing a 'usband a second time. it used to be that gruff an' masterful you wouldn't think! no, i reckon nowt o' livin' by mysen." "it is not good that man should be alone," i quoted. "it's worse for woman," she said, "an' yet, to be sure, i don't know, for a woman 'at is a woman can allus make shift somehow, an' doesn't stand pullin' a long face an' cussin' providence. but men are poor menseless creatures when they're left to theirsens; an' it allus caps me to think 'at they call theirsens 'lords o' creation,' an' yet 'as to fetch a woman to sew a gallus button on, an' 'ud let t' 'ouse get lost i' muck afore they'd clean it. suppose a man lived 'ere by hissen, do you think this kitchen 'ud look like this?" "i am very sure it would not," i replied, "and it wouldn't if some women lived here." "well, anyway, it just goes to prove 'at men need women to look after 'em, but for all that it's bad enough for a woman to be alone. to be sure, she's a poor sort 'at hasn't more about 'er nor a man, an' it isn't 'at she's flayed o' bein' by hersen or can't manage for hersen, or owt o' that. no, no. but there's summat short, for all that. ye can take it from me, miss, 'at eve 'ud sooner have been driven out o' eden wi' her 'usband, nor have been left there to fend for hersen. women doesn't want to be t' boss: they want to be bossed, or anyway they like t' man to think 'at he's bossin' 'em. an' they like 'im to come in wi' his great dirty boots spreadin' t' muck all ovver t' floor, an' puttin' 'em on t' scoured 'earthstone, so as they can 'call' 'im an' clear up after 'im. "oh, aye, to be sure, an' they like to see 'im light his pipe an' then fratch wi' 'im for fillin' t' 'ouse wi' smoke; an' even if he knocks ye about a bit now an' then, he sidles up to ye at after, an' 'appen puts 'is arms round ye, an'--an' makes a fool of hissen; but ye feel t' want on it when ye've been used to 't." "but we cannot all have husbands," i objected; "there are not enough of the other sex to go round." "to be sure, that's so," she consented; "but that doesn't alter t' fact 'at we want 'em, does it? but i'd tax all t' men 'at isn't married, the selfish beggars. the almighty meant 'em to pair off. two an' two they went into t' ark, an' two an' two they should go yet if i'd my way. it's nature. an' i never could see yet why t' wimmen should 'ave to sit quiet an' wait for t' men to come an' ask for 'em. a woman knows better by 'alf what man 'ud suit 'er, an' 'er 'im, than t' man knows. she knows without knowing how she knows; whereas t' man just sees a pretty face, an' some dainty little feet i' 'igh-heeled boots, an' some frizzy 'air, 'at she's bought as like as not at a barber's, an' there ye are! but where are ye in toathree years' time? aye, to be sure, where are ye then?" "perhaps if conventionality had permitted, your state might have been changed again by now," i suggested slyly. "well, now, to be sure, miss holden," she replied, drawing her chair a little nearer to mine, and laying one hand upon my lap for emphasis, "i thought after robertsha' died 'at it were a case of 'once bitten, twice shy,' for there were odd times when he filled up the cup, so to speak. but, ye know, i missed 'im; an' though it's twelve year sin' come shrove-tide, i miss 'im yet; an' if i had the askin' i've known for a long time who it 'ud be 'at 'ud take his place; but ye see i 'aven't, so i bide as i am." i thought of the old fox, simon barjona, and laughed inwardly as well as outwardly. widow robertshaw little realised that i knew her secret. outside the storm raged furiously. the snow lay thick upon the ground, moist as it fell, but frozen in a moment, and to venture out seemed in my case impossible. we held a council of ways and means which resulted in the production of a young man of strong build from a cottage a few doors away, who smiled at the storm and readily undertook, in exchange for a shilling, coin of the realm--to convey a note to mother hubbard, describing my predicament. i enjoyed widow robertshaw's hospitality, perforce, for two days, and when i returned home it was in mr. higgins' market cart, he having called in the gap "casual-like" to see how mrs. robertshaw was "going on." chapter xi ginty runs away what a curious medley life is! how crowded with dramatic situations and sudden anti-climaxes! even in windyridge the programme of existence is as varied and full of interest as that of any picture palace. we have all the combinations of tragedy and pathos and humour, and he who has eyes to see and ears to hear and a heart to feel need not complain of the monotony of the village, nor pine for the manufactured excitements of the metropolis. a letter with a foreign postmark and an egyptian stamp was handed to me on monday morning, and i have been excited and troubled ever since, though it brought me a great joy. the handwriting was unfamiliar, but when i turned to the signature i found it was from the squire, and i began to read it eagerly. i was astonished to find how small and particularly neat his handwriting is. the letter ran thus, omitting certain descriptive and unimportant paragraphs: "assouan, upper nile, "_march_ 12_th_, 19--. "dear miss holden, "i wonder if i might claim an old man's privilege and call you 'grace'? i should like to do so, for do you know there is not one of your sex in the wide world whom i have a right to address by the christian name, and, what is perhaps more noteworthy, there is no other whose permission i have the least desire to ask. but somehow or other i am longing for kinsfolk to-day, and the sensation is almost inexpressibly acute, so much so that i actually feel the pain of loneliness, and that 'inner self' in which, i remember, you trust so completely, cries out for sympathy and companionship. if i mistake not we have common ideals and aspirations--you and i--which make us kin, and i am disposed to 'stretch out lame hands of faith' in your direction if haply i may find you and draw your soul to mine. so if it be your will, let us be friends, and do you send across the seas and deserts those mysterious waves of kindly feeling which will vibrate upon the heart of the solitary old man, to whom earth's messages of love come but seldom--now. "have i ever told you that i have not a relative on earth, and that i have outlived all my own friends? i sometimes feel to be like these old monuments on the banks of nile, which stand calm and impassive whilst the children of this age picnic around their ruins; yet i am no patriarch, for i have not much overstepped the natural span of man's existence. i hope you may never experience the sensation, but the fact that you are yourself amongst earth's lone ones is not the least of the links that connect you to me. "i stayed some weeks in biarritz ... but the weather turned cold and wet, and the doctors bade me journey to egypt. it is an unknown land to my material senses, but not to my spiritual. every stone preaches to me of the familiar past. i have always revelled in ancient history and have kept abreast of modern discovery and research. for a while i enjoyed the company of my imagination, and we trod together the courts and temple corridors of the mighty kings of ancient days, and reconstructed their history. sometimes, for brief periods, i have interesting conversations with men who are learned in all this lore; but imagination and learning are but cold companions, and i am longing for a hand-grasp and the look of love--longing, like the modern woman of whom derwent speaks--for the unattainable. "i am half ashamed of myself for writing in this strain, and half afraid of bringing a shadow over the spirit of the gentle soul whose sympathy i seek; but you must not worry on my account, for i am neither morbid nor unhappy, though sadness usually walks by my side. indeed, life is strangely and even unaccountably dear to me just now, though i am perfectly sure that the 'call' is not far away, and when it comes i shall pass behind the curtain and face the unknown without fear and without regret. "of late i have caught myself wondering whether i shall ever return home and see the brown and purple moors again, and the homely people whom i love; and when the thought that i may not do so grips me i have just one overwhelming desire--a curious desire for the 'archã¦ological old fossil' i am generally taken to be. perhaps i am becoming weak and sentimental, but when the time comes and i have to go, i want someone who cares for me to 'see me off.' i should like my eyes to close to the sound of a woman's voice, i should like to feel the touch of a woman's hand, and maybe the kiss of a woman's lips; and i should like a few verses of scripture and a simple hymn. "i am an old fool, but the thought brings sweetness and peace with it; and it is as a father to a daughter that i ask this boon of you: when i hear the summons, will you come to me? whether i am at home or abroad will you do me this service for love's sake? i have no claim upon anyone, and certainly none upon you, but my heart calls for you, and i believe yours will answer the call. "for the present, letters addressed to the british post office, cairo, will be forwarded to me, for i have no fixed address, but i shall look eagerly for your reply. let me say in one word that i shall make provision for the expense of your journey if i should send for you, and i shall not send unless the call is clear. "and now tell me of windyridge.... write to me when you can: give me all the news; tell me how the great quest for peace progresses, and believe that i am ever, "your very sincere friend, "george evans." womanlike, i watered this missive with my tears, but they were april showers, after all, with great patches of blue sky in between, and plenty of warm sunshine; for it was sweet to know that i was cared for and that someone wanted me. i hope none would mistake me. i am an emotional goose at times, i know, but thank goodness! i am no sentimentalist. i am not possessed with the idea that the squire wants to marry me and leave me his fortune, for i am perfectly sure that he does not. i heard his voice the night before he went away, and it told me the secret of his fidelity. besides, i wouldn't marry him if he did want it, for though my heart tells me that i have loved him instinctively from the first day of our acquaintance, and i love him now more than ever, it also tells me that the affection is filial and nothing more. what more should it be? it is all the more likely to be unselfish and sincere on both sides that it has nothing of passion in it. you see, unlike widow robertshaw, i am not eager to change my state. as to my decision, i did not hesitate for one moment. when he needs me i will go to him and, god helping me, i will act a daughter's part. act? nay, rather, i will do a daughter's loving duty. i wrote him yesterday, telling him all the news of the little world of windyridge, but painting the shadows lightly. in truth, they are heavy and full of gloom just now. i had just commenced work in my studio after reading the squire's letter when sar'-ann burst in upon me, and throwing herself into one of my ornamental chairs commenced to cry and sob hysterically, holding her apron to her eyes and rocking her body to and fro in a frenzy of abandonment. i saw there was trouble of some sort, but recognised at the same time the need of firmness. "sar'-ann," i said, "you will break that chair if you carry on in that fashion. restrain yourself, and tell me what is the matter." restraint and sar'-ann, however, were strangers to each other, and her only response was to redouble her groans, until i lost patience. "if you don't stop this noise, sar'-ann," i threatened, "i will get you a strong dose of sal-volatile and make you drink it. do you hear?" she did hear. sal-volatile, as a remedy, had been unknown in windyridge before my advent, but the few who had experienced it had not remained silent witnesses to its power, so that the very dread of the strange drug had been known to perform miraculously sudden cures in certain cases; and "that sally-stuff o' miss holden's" had become a word to charm with. sar'-ann's groans subsided, but her breast heaved heavily, and her apron still concealed her face. "cannot you speak, child?" i asked. "what is the matter? if you want me to help you, you must do more than sob and cry. now come!" "it's ginty!" she stammered; "he's run away an' robbed his mother of every penny, an' brokken her heart an' mine. oh, ginty! ginty! whatever shall i do?" and the rocking and sobbing began again. i got the sal-volatile this time and forced her to swallow it, taking no heed of her protests. mother hubbard came in, too, and added her entreaties to my commands; and after a while she became calmer, and then the whole story came out. ginty had been mixing in bad company for some months past. somewhere in the hollow of the moors a couple of miles away he had stumbled one sunday upon a gambling school, conducted, i imagine, by city rogues who come out here to avoid the police, and had been threatened with violence for his unwelcome intrusion. he had purchased immunity by joining the school, and, unknown to everybody except sar'-ann, he had visited it, sunday by sunday, with unfailing regularity, for the greed of gain soon got hold of him. sometimes he had won small sums, but more often he had lost all his wages and even pledged his credit, until he had not known where to turn for money. "i gave 'im all i had," said sar'-ann, "an' i begged him to drop it, but he said he couldn't, an' he'd only to go on long enough to be sure to get it all back an' more to it. an' now, oh dear! oh dear! he's robbed his poor mother an' made off; an' whatever i'm goin' to do i don't know. o god! i wish i was dead!" i left mother hubbard to console the stricken girl, fearing in my heart that she had not revealed the extent of her trouble, and went straight to ginty's cottage, where a half-dozen women were doing their best to comfort the poor mother, bereaved of her only support by what was worse than death. children were there, too, their fingers in their mouths and their eyes wide with wonder, staring vacantly at the object of universal commiseration, and silent in the presence of a sorrow they could feel but not understand. the little garden was gay from end to end with multi-coloured crocuses, and two or three men stood looking at them, not daring to venture within the house, but ready to offer help if required. one of them muttered: "bad job, this, miss!" as i passed; and the rest moved their heads in affirmation. ginty's mother was seated at the little round table, her head in her hands, and her eyes fixed upon an old cash box in front of her. the lid was thrown back and the box was empty. the picture told its own story; and to complete it a framed photograph of ginty, which i had given him only a few weeks previously, hung upon the wall opposite, so that the author and his work were closely associated. the women turned as i entered, and began to explain and discuss the situation before the poor woman who was its victim, in that seemingly callous manner with which the poor cloak and yet express their sympathy. "them's best off as has no bairns," said the blacksmith's wife; "ye moil an' toil for 'em, an' bring 'em up through their teethin' an' all make o' ailments, an' lay down yer varry life for 'em, an' this is how they pay you back in t' end." "ay," said sar'-ann's mother, "shoo'll hev to be thankful 'at it's no worse. so far as i know he's ta'en nob'dy's money but 'er's, so i don't suppose t' police 'll be after 'im. eh! but it's a sad job an' all, an' he were bahn to wed our sar'-ann in a toathree week. well, it's a rare good job for 'er 'at it's happened afore they were wed, rayther than at after." "but whativver is shoo goin' to do now 'at ginty's gone?" inquired the next door neighbour, susannah; "ginty kept 'er, an' _shoo_ can't do nowt, not wi' them rheumatics in her legs, an' all that pile o' money gone. nay, 'lizabeth, lass, i nivver thowt ye'd scraped so mich together. it 'ud ha' served ye nicely for yer old age, but ye sud ha' put it in a bank. whativver ye're bahn to do now, god only knows." "we must see what can be done," i interposed. "we must all be her friends now that this trouble has come upon her, and do not let us add to her distress by our discussion. you will let us help you, won't you?" i asked. she did not speak or move, but just stared stonily into the empty box; one would have said that she had not even heard. i withdrew my hand as susannah came forward. susannah is a good woman, with a kind heart, and had known 'lizabeth all her life. she knelt down on the stone floor and put an arm around her neighbour's waist. "'lizabeth, lass! ye munnot tak' on like this. 'e'll be comin' back i' now. it's 'appen nowt but a bit of a marlackin', an' ye shall come an' live wi' us while 'e turns up. now what say ye?" the mother's mouth set hard and her brow contracted. "i shall go into t' work'us, susannah; where else should i go?" there was a murmur of dissent, broken by susannah's: "no, no, lass, nowt o' t' sort. ye'll come an' live wi' us; one mouth more 'll none mak' that difference, an' mr. evans 'll be back i' now an' put things straight for ye." "do ye think, susannah, 'at your lasses 'll want to live wi' a thief's mother, an' do ye think 'at i'll let 'em? ginty's a thief, an' all t' worse thief because he's robbed his own mother, an' left 'er to starve. but i won't be beholden to none of ye; i never 'ave been, an' i never will be. i've worked hard while i could work, an' i've saved what i could an' lived careful, so as i wouldn't need to be beholden to nob'dy; an' if ginty has robbed me of my all 'e shall 'ave a pauper for his mother, an' 'e shall 'ear tell of 'er in a pauper's grave. i thank ye kindly, neighbours, but ye must all go an' leave me, for i amn't wantin' any comp'ny just now." i saw that i could not be of service just then, so i came away with some of the other women, intending to go again on the morrow. but though i went immediately after breakfast i found that she had gone. "she was off afore i'd well got t' fire lit," said mrs. smithies, who was my informant; "i looked across an' chanced to see 'er open t' door and pull it to behind 'er. she didn't lock it nor nowt, just like snecked it. she had a bundle in a red handkercher in 'er 'and, an' such a 'ard look on her face, an' she never once glanced be'ind nor at all them grand flowers, but just kept 'er eyes straight afore 'er. "but i runs out an' i says: 'nay 'lizabeth, wherever are ye off, like?' an' she says, 'i'm off to t' workus, so good-bye, 'becca; an' if there's ought in t' 'ouse after t' landlord's paid, you neighbours are all welcome to 't.' not 'at i'd touch ought there is, miss, unless it were that chiney ornament on t' mantelpiece, which i could like if it were goin' a-beggin'. "well, i couldn't 'elp cryin' a bit, an' i axed 'er if she wouldn't change 'er mind, but she were same as if she were turned to stone. so i went up t' road wi' her a bit, just a piece beyond t' 'all gates, an' there she turned me back. 'good-bye, 'becca,' she says, 'an' thank god on yer knees 'at ye've no son to rob his mother! an' if my lad ever comes back, tell 'im he'll find _his_ mother in a pauper's grave.'" i walked down the fields into the sanctuary of the wood, where understanding is sometimes to be found and freedom from painful thoughts. it was bitterly cold, but the sky was blue, so that in the clear atmosphere every twig stood out with microscopic sharpness, and it was impossible to miss the note of hope in the song of new-born spring. the trees were for the most part bare of colour--oak and elm and beech were alike in the grey garb of winter--but the sycamores had burst their buds and were clad in living green that delighted the eye and quickened the pulse, whilst great blotches of yellow celandine blazed in the sunshine of the open spaces like cloth of gold. but the wood was voiceless at first to the question of my heart, and i told myself that the "why?" of life is unanswerable. then suddenly there came into my mind the familiar words of tennyson: "behold, we know not anything; i can but trust that good shall fall at last--far off--at last, to all, and every winter change to spring," and at a bound my inner self found firm ground again. "grace," i said, "have you forgotten the closing verse of a preceding stanza?" and i repeated aloud: "so fret not, like an idle girl, that life is dash'd with flecks of sin. abide: thy wealth is gathered in when time hath sundered shell from pearl," and i determined to conquer my morbid tendencies and take a broader outlook on life. "an idle girl!" that stuck. "ineffective depression is a kind of idleness," i said to myself, "and i will kill it with industry." in obedience to this impulse i rose to my feet, and saw farmer goodenough crossing the brook just below. he smiled a greeting as he came up, and we walked homewards together. "now i durst bet a new bonnet to a new hat, miss 'olden," he began, "that i can guess at twice why you've come down 'ere, an' i'll throw one guess away. you're on what i should call in a manner o' speakin' a 'mopin' expedition;' now isn't that so?" "but i don't wear bonnets, my dear sir," i rejoined; "and if you should win a new hat you wouldn't wear it, being of such conservative leanings. nevertheless, i am going to plead guilty to your indictment, and i hope i shall be let off with nothing worse than a lecture." "nay, it's none for me to lecture anybody, for i know as little about the rights o' things as i know about bonnets, but i've lived long enough to know 'at' man's born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards,' as t' owd book puts it; an' if you're goin' to fret your heart out every time it comes your way you'll spend your life in a mournin' coach. "'cordin' to my way o' thinkin', miss 'olden, so long as human natur's what it is you'll never get rid o' sufferin' an' trouble, an' what good does it do to worrit yourself to death over what you can't mend? if you could mend it ever so little it 'ud be another matter. now look at it i' this way. we can all choose our own road when it comes to a question o' right an' wrong, an' we should be in a poor way if we couldn't. my plough goes where t' horse pulls it, an' t' horse goes where i guide it. now, neither t' plough nor t' horse has any responsibility, so to speak; but i'd rather be a man an' have t' power to choose where i go, even if i go wrong, nor be a beast or a machine. "now yon lad has gone wrong, an' i'm sorry for 'im, but accordin' to t' owd book it's no use cryin' over spilt milk, an' both 'im an' us 'll have to make t' best on 't. so will sar'-ann; so will ginty's mother. ginty knows he's done wrong, an' he's known t' difference between right an' wrong all along t' road. he's chosen, an' chosen badly, poor lad, an' he's sufferin' for it, wherever he is, an' 'e'll have to sup more sorrow still, there's no doubt about it, an' a bitter cup it'll be. "but don't you see, this same bitter cup is med'cine for t' lad at same time. he's gone into t' far country now, but like t' other prodigal he'll come to himself, as t' owd book says, one o' these days, an' we shall have to leave him there till that time comes. "but now, take t' lad's mother. she's chosen her own way an' all. ginty's sin were greediness an' love o' money, an' his mother's sin is pride. we haven't all t' same nature, an' i'm not settin' up for a preacher, for reuben goodenough doesn't live up to his name by a long chalk, so i'm not judgin' t' woman, like a pharisee. "but i know this, if she'd just ha' let t' neighbours 'elp her a bit, her 'eart wouldn't have been so sore, and t' blow 'ud have been lightened for her. we're a roughish lot i' windyridge, but there isn't many 'at wouldn't have made shift to help t' owd woman as well as they could, but she couldn't stomach bein' helped. "an' there's a taste o' revenge in it too, unless i'm sadly mista'en. she thinks she'll pay t' lad out better wi' goin' to t' workus nor ought else she could do; an' she likes to believe 'at he'll be 'eart-brokken if she's put in a pauper's grave. "that's how i size things up. all this trouble needn't have been, but it is there, an' you an' me has no 'casion to mope over it. mopin' won't help neither of 'em, but i daresay we can both 'elp 'em a bit if we try. i'm goin' to see if i can hear ought o' t' lad, an' if i do i shall follow 'im up; an' i shall do my best to bring a bit o' sense to his mother. an' if you'll excuse me, miss--well, you're a woman. try what a word o' prayer now an' again 'll do for 'em, i'stead o' frettin' over 'em; an' 'be strong an' of a good courage.' that's in t' owd book, an' it's good advice." chapter xii the cynic exaggerates easter is past and spring has burst upon us in all her glory. the landscape is painted in the freshest and daintiest tints: the beeches are a sight to make glad the heart of man; the chestnuts with their cones of cream and pink look in the distance like huge, newly-replenished candelabra; the slender birches, decked in silvery white and vivid green, stand gracefully erect, veritable "ladies of the woods," as coleridge called them. here and there a blackthorn bends beneath its burden of snowy blossom, and calls a challenge to the hedgerows which have wakened late, and are slow in their dressing. occasionally primroses may be seen, though they are not common in these parts; but on the banks of the lower lane modest violets peep out shyly from the shadows, and the dull purple flowers of a species of nettle offer their bashful welcome to spring. the gardens are gorgeous with daffodils, and the woods with celandine and wild hyacinth; whilst our humble friends, the buttercups, daisies, and dandelions, have sprung up in abundance, the merry children of field and wayside charming us all with their simple beauty. i spend almost all my leisure time in watching the birds, an occupation which is in itself a never-failing delight, and i puzzle myself with questions which no man can answer, but which are imperatively asked all the same. who guides these flocks of tiny travellers, who have journeyed by trackless routes from distant lands hundreds of miles away, depending only on the strength of their own wings, and the mysterious vital power with which god has endowed them? how do they recognise the familiar haunts of a year ago? how do they know that the woods in these northern regions are ready for habitation? i give it up; but i love to see them approach from the distance like a swiftly-moving cloud, and disappear into the haze again after circling over the trees which surround the hall; and i love to walk through the meadows and see how my feathered brothers and sisters are making the most of the sunshine and the softened soil. the blackbird is in full song now, and it darts past, me with its chirpy "tuck-tuck-tuck"; whilst the lark soars upwards into the azure with quivering song, full-throated, inimitable. the sagacious rooks have been busy for days past with household cares, and have gone about thieving (with a clear conscience, i trust) for strictly domestic purposes; and the thrushes are just as industrious in their search for dainties hidden in mother earth. east winds prevail, and rheumatism holds some of my neighbours in prison and in torment, but to me they bring exhilaration, a voracious appetite, and the joy of life. mother hubbard looks upon me with loving envy and sighs for the days that are beyond recall. poor mother hubbard! the hard winter has tried her severely, but she never complains and is always sweet and cheerful, and promises herself and me that she will be all right when summer comes. i hope so, for she has grown inexpressibly dear to her adopted daughter whom she does her level best to spoil, and if we were parted now we should miss each other sorely. i have discovered that she is an excellent chaperon, and enjoys the rã´le beyond my power of description. what a remarkable little woman she is! she knows that i keep a record of my experiences, and has got it into her head that i am writing a book, and she is therefore always on the look-out for the appearance of the hero. she has given me to understand that if she can only be in at the _dã©nouement_, when the hero leads the blushing bride to the altar amid the ill-restrained murmur of admiration from the crowd, she will be then ready to depart in peace. needless to say, it is _i_ who am to be the blushing bride! it is no doubt a very pleasing fancy, but i am afraid the dear old lady will have to find contentment in an abstraction. what amuses me most is her well-founded misgiving as to my ability to deal adequately with such a situation in my "book." "you are not very romantic, love," she said to me one evening, when she had been making unusually large demands upon her imagination, to my considerable amusement, "and i don't think you will ever be equal to the greatest writers unless you cultivate that side of your nature. you know, love, you are rather practical and common-sense and all that sort of thing, and the men might not know how very nice you are." she came across and kissed me, hoping i did not mind her candour. "you see, love, i was always rather romantic myself, and i think i could help you a bit; though, of course, i am not clever like you. but i could just tell you what i think ought to be put in, and you could find suitable language for it.... now you're laughing at me!" i believe she thought the hero had arrived when the cynic turned up on easter monday. it was a truly beautiful day, typically april, except that the showers were wanting, and the much-abused clerk who controls the weather department must have been unusually complaisant when he crowded so many pleasing features into his holiday programme. until the long shadows began to creep across the fields it was warm enough to sit out in the sunshine, whilst there was just sufficient "bite" in the air to make exercise agreeable. every cottage garden had on its gala clothing and smiled a friendly welcome to the passer-by, and a sky that was almost really blue bent over a landscape of meadow, moor, and wood that was a perfect fantasy in every delicate shade of green. and the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air lifted up their voices in their several degrees of melody. it had been a glorious easter day, and perhaps on that account i had risen early on the monday and gone out bareheaded to catch the spirit of the morning. farmer goodenough passed as i stood at the gate, and threw one of his hearty greetings over his shoulder without pausing in his walk. "look out for customers to-day, miss 'olden! there'll be scores in t' village this afternoon from broadbeck way." "but suppose i don't want them, mr. goodenough," i replied; "it's holiday to-day." "that 'ud be a sin," he shouted; "'make hay while t' sun shines,' as t' owd book says, holiday or no holiday." there was sense in this. customers had so far been scarce enough, for i had been favoured with the patronage of only three paying sitters, although i had been established in business for eight months. my total takings from the portraiture branch had not totalled thirty shillings; and if my neighbours had not grown accustomed to it, the sign at the bottom of the garden must have appeared very ridiculous indeed. i therefore anticipated the arrival of excursionists with no little eager interest. half a dozen houses in the village had got out brand new boards indicating that teas were provided within, and i knew that from this date forward until the autumn a very brisk trade would be done on sunny saturday afternoons and holidays. soon after half-past twelve i caught sight of the advance guard approaching. the footpaths between windyridge and marsland moor became dotted with microscopic moving figures which materialised usually into male and female, walking two and two, even as they went into the ark, as widow robertshaw might have observed. when they reached the village street the sight of my studio seemed to astonish them and tickle their fancy. "in the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love"--and portraiture. quite a group of young people gathered about my sign before two o'clock, and from that time until five i never sat down for one minute. as fast as i bowed out one couple another entered, amid a fusillade of good-humoured chaff and curtly-expressed injunctions to "be quick about it." i took so much money, comparatively speaking, in three short hours that i began to see visions and dream dreams--but the cynic dispelled them. he was standing in the garden, talking to mother hubbard, when i locked up the studio, and although he was in shorts i recognised him at once, for thus had i seen him in my dream. i involuntarily glanced at myself to make sure that i was correctly garbed and that it was really the key, and not madam rusty's teapot, that i held in my hand. he came forward smilingly and held out his hand. "how do you do, miss holden? i had intended asking you to take my photograph, but competition for your favour was so keen that the modesty which has always been my curse forced me to the background." "if it had forced you to the background you would have entered my studio, mr. derwent," i replied; "all those who have competed successfully for my favour were not deterred by dread of the background. i fear, however, it is now too late to endeavour to encourage you to overcome your bashfulness." "indeed, yes: "'the shadows of departing day creep on once more,' as the poet hath it, and when one has walked eight or nine miles across the moors the man within cries out for food and drink even more than for art. and therefore i have ventured to introduce myself to mrs. hubbard and to inquire if she would make me a cup of tea, and she has very kindly consented to do so." i looked at mother hubbard, who had sufficient sense of the appropriate to blush very becomingly. "you old sinner!" i said, "how dare you impose upon my good nature! are there so few neighbours of ours who cater professionally for the requirements of these 'men within' that we must needs enter into competition with them?" mother hubbard's nods and winks became so alarmingly expressive, however, during the course of my speech, that i was in real danger of becoming confused, so i turned to our guest and extricated myself. "be pleased to enter our humble abode, to which we make you heartily welcome. and in return for such poor hospitality as we can offer you, you shall regulate the clock, which has lately developed certain eccentricities, and nail up the creeper on the gable end. then if time permits you shall rest your limbs on the wicker chair in the garden and enlighten us as to what is going on in the world of men." "with all my heart," he agreed, "and i promise to make so good a tea that the debt will not be easily repaid." he did pretty well, i must admit, and when it was over mother hubbard, with a self-conscious cough, and a look that was eloquence itself, expressed her fixed determination to clear away without my help. "it's just a little fancy i have, love," she protested, as i tied on my apron; "i really would like to do it all myself. i am tired of sitting, and knitting seems to try my eyes to-day." "mother hubbard," i replied, "you are a hypocritical old humbug, and you are wanting to persuade mr. derwent that i am not domesticated, which is too bad of you. and you know that i take my share of the work." "really, love," said mother hubbard, who was almost in tears at the denseness of my intelligence, "i'm sure mr. derwent will understand my meaning." i am only too much afraid that he did, for he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes and said, with a merry twinkle which was provoking: "i shall certainly need some information about the clock, and a little assistance with the creeper. miss holden, you had better yield to mrs. hubbard's wishes." "if you cannot regulate a clock without a woman standing over you, or hold a bit of jasmine in one hand and a hammer in the other without a woman's assistance, you deserve to remain in your ridiculous background. you will find the tools in the top drawer of the dresser. if you will be good enough to get them and go on with your work, mother hubbard and i will soon finish ours." he grinned, and mother hubbard groaned; but before long we were sitting together in the garden, with the knitting needles making music as usual. the cynic leaned back in his chair and watched the blue smoke curl lazily from his cigarette. the laughter of the visitors had ceased in the streets, but the voice of song was wafted occasionally to our ears from the fields below. how is it that homeward-bound excursionists always sing? "i take it, miss holden, that you are a prototype, which i spell in capitals. but i venture to predict that you will not have a large following. the modern craze is for kudos, and in this particular the success of an enterprise like yours is not likely to be remarkable." "what, exactly, is my enterprise?" i inquired. "please interpret me to myself." "the surface reading is easy," he replied, "but the significance is hieroglyphic. who can read the riddle of woman's motives? they are past finding out, and man can only grope for the meaning with half-blind observation, having eyes indeed, but seeing not; hearing, but not understanding." "as, for instance?" i again inquired. "i will come to your case shortly," he continued, "and meantime i will speak in parables. i went into a fashionable draper's shop the other day, as i had business with one of the principals. he was engaged, and i elected to wait and was accommodated with a seat near the glove counter. my experiences were distinctly interesting, but i cannot yet read the riddle they offered me. before i was summoned to the office three customers had approached the counter at separate times, and the procedure was in all three cases on approximately similar lines. "the lady sailed up to the counter, deposited her parcels upon it, seated herself upon the waiting chair, adjusted her skirt, and then, turning to the deferential young gentleman whose head was inclined artistically to one side in the way that is characteristic of the most genteel establishments, murmured languidly: 'gloves, please.' "the deferential young gentleman brought his head to the perpendicular and replied: 'gloves! yes, madam,' and proceeded to reach down a half-dozen boxes from the shelves at his back. "'this, madam,' he said, bringing forth a pair of grey suedes, 'is a beautiful glove. one of flint's very best make, and they are produced specially for our firm. every pair is guaranteed. we can very strongly recommend them.' "the lady took the gloves in her hand, stretched them, and examined them slowly and critically, whilst the d.y.g.'s head dropped to the artistic angle again. "after having eyed them in silence for a minute or more, and half conveyed the impression that they were the very gloves she was seeking, the lady placed them without a word on the counter, and the d.y.g. with perfect understanding replaced them in the box. "he opened another box containing suede gloves in tan. "'this also is an excellent glove, madam,' he repeated, with all the precision of a gramophone; 'it is one of our best selling lines, and its wearing qualities are unsurpassed. you may buy more expensive gloves, but none of better value.' "this pair is subjected to the same slow and critical examination, after which the lady inquires: "'what is the price?' "'the price of these gloves, madam, is seven-and-six.' professing to confirm his statement by minutely examining the ticket, though, of course, he is perfectly well aware that there is no mistake, he repeats: 'yes, madam, seven-and-six.' "again the gloves are laid upon the counter, and again the d.y.g. replaces the lid and attacks another box! meanwhile the lady's gaze is wandering abstractedly around the shop; picking out an acquaintance here and there she smiles a recognition; and she seems a little vexed when a third pair of gloves is placed before her. the same performance follows, with the same serenity on both sides, but the price has dropped to five shillings. "then the kids are produced, in all shades and at all prices, and are in turn deposited upon the counter without comment. "at last the d.y.g. has exhausted his stock and his familiar recitations, but fortunately not his urbanity, and he looks at his customer with deprecation in his eyes. "'you had some white kid gloves in the window a week or two ago,' she murmurs, smiling sweetly; 'ten buttons; they were a special price, i think.' "'two-and-eleven, madam?' he asks, hopefully. "'i believe they were. yes, two-and-eleven,' she responds, as though consideration had confirmed her recollection; and in two minutes more her wants are satisfied, and she departs to another counter to the performance of scene 2 in the same act." "and this is typical of woman's methods?" i ask. "it serves to show," he replies, "how unfathomable her methods are to mere man. when _we_ unimaginative mortals enter a shop for a similar purpose we say: "'i want a pair of tan kids, seven and three-quarters, about three-and-six,' and before the current of cold air which came in with us has circulated round the shop, we are going out with the little parcel in our pocket. now why does not woman do the same? _you_ don't know--nobody knows; nobody really wants to know, or to see her act otherwise." "it is a very silly exaggeration," i said, "and if it is characteristic of _your_ methods they are certainly not past finding out." the cynic is really a very irritating person. he has a way of ignoring your rejoinders which is most annoying, and makes you want to rise up and shake him. besides, it isn't courteous. "now to return to your own case, miss holden. it is not typical and therefore i call it prototypical. _why_ you have forsaken london society (which in this case i spell with a small 's,' to guard against possible repudiation) is possibly known to yourself, though personally i doubt it. why, having found the hermitage and the simple life, you have adopted photography as a profession in a village where you will be fortunate if you make an annual profit of ten pounds is another enigma. but kudos is not everything, and i see in you the archetype of a race of women philosophers of whom the world stands sorely in need." "you talk like a book," i said, "and use mighty big words which in my case need the interpretation of a dictionary, but i'm afraid they cover a good deal of rubbish, which is typical, if i may say so, of the ordinary conversation of the modern smart man." "nay," said he, "but i am in downright earnest. for every effect there must be an adequate cause. you may not understand yourself. the why and wherefore of your action may be hard to discover, but i was wrong when i said that it was unfathomable. given skill and perseverance, the most subtle compound must yield its analysis, but it is not given to every man to submit a woman's actions to the test, and i beg you to believe that i was not impertinent enough to make any such suggestion." "nevertheless," i said, "i may some day allow you to put my actions into the crucible, and see if you can find my real motives. i confess i do not understand myself, and i have nothing to conceal. i think i should rather like to be analysed." "then i may come again?" he asked. "you may come to be photographed, of course," i replied. i wonder how old he is, and what he does! chapter xiii whitsuntide experiences new sensations have elbowed and jostled each other to secure my special attention this whitsuntide, until i have been positively alarmed for my mental equilibrium. the good people here seem so sedate on ordinary occasions that one fails to realise that after all there is a good deal of the peacock and the kitten in the make-up of many of them; but whitsuntide reveals this. the peacock in them manifests itself as they strut up and down in new clothing of brilliant dye, affecting an unconsciousness and unconcern which deceives nobody. the shocks i received during that memorable sunday, when the village turned out in its new finery, i still experience, like the after-tremors of an earthquake. pray do not imagine that windyridge knows nothing of the rule of fashion. every mother's daughter, though not every daughter's mother, owns her sway and is her devoted subject. if the imperious dame bids her votaries hobble, the windyridge belle limps awkwardly to and fro--on sundays and feast days--in proud and painful obedience, heedless of the unconcealed sneers and contempt of her elders. if headgear after the form of the beehive or the castle of the termite ant is decreed, she counts it a joy, like any fashionable lady of fortune, to suffer the eclipse of her good looks under the vilest monstrosity the milliner's ingenuity can devise. ah, me! how fine a line, after all, divides windyridge from mayfair! the kitten in them gambols and makes fun whole-heartedly for several hours at a stretch on the afternoon of whit monday, and with such kindliness and good humour that one cannot help feeling that the world is very young and one's self not so very old either. i thought the rain was going to spoil everything. day by day for a week it had come down with a steady determination that seemed to mean the ruin of holiday prospects. the foliage certainly looked all the fresher for it, and the ash took heart to burst its black buds and help to swell the harmony of the woods. but these are ã¦sthetic considerations which do not appeal to people who are looking forward to a good time--a time of fun and frolic for some, and harvesting of shekels for others. when i woke on the sunday, however, old father sol had shaken off his lethargy, bundled the surly clouds into the store-room, locked the door and put the key into his pocket, and strolled forth to enjoy the sight of his welcome. meadow, pasture and moor, green hedgerow and brown road were silvered over with sunshine, and the flowers looked up and laughed the tears away from their faces, and told themselves that everything had been for the best; and the cocks crowed lustily from the walls where they had flown to greet the sun, and all the birds came out from eave and tree and lowly nest, and sang their doxology in happy and tuneful notes which told how brimful they were of joy. long before church-time it was so hot that the fields were steaming like drying clothes before the fire, and as i walked back from fawkshill after the morning service i felt sure that there need be no misgiving about the dryness of the grass for the children's treat on the morrow. everybody was concerned for the children! young women of eighteen and young men of the same age had no real concern or interest in the weather except in so far as it involved disappointment to the children! well, well! how easily we deceive ourselves, and how unwilling we are to acknowledge the child within the man! in the afternoon i went to chapel with mother hubbard, and saw and heard that which made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, and i really do not know why i should have done either. my emotions seem to take holiday sometimes and enjoy themselves in their own peculiar way without restraint. let me set down my experiences. do you know what a "sitting-up" is? if you live in yorkshire or lancashire no doubt you do, but if you are a southerner or a more northern northerner the probability is that you do not. when mother hubbard told me that the children were to "sit up" at the chapel on whit sunday i stared at her without understanding. "do they usually stand up or lie down?" i inquired. then it occurred to me that this was, perhaps, a metaphorical way of speaking, and that there was, so to speak, a "rod in pickle" for the bairns on this special occasion, but why i could not imagine. yet i knew that when an irate windyridge father undertook to make his lad "sit up," it usually betokened some little difficulty in sitting at all until the soreness wore off. this, however, foreboded nothing of so unpleasant a nature. when i entered the light and airy little sanctuary i found thirty or forty children ranged in rows one above the other, in front of the little pulpit. not many boys were there, and there was nothing specially attractive about those who were, beyond the attractiveness that lurks within the face of every cleanly-washed child. but the girls were a picture; they were all in white, but most of them had coloured sashes round their waists, and coloured ribbons in their hair, and one or two were distinguished by black adornments, betokening the recent visit of that guest who is so seldom regarded as a friend. some of the frocks were new, but most of them were old; and it is safe to assume that the younger children were wearing what had served the turn of a past generation of "sitters-up." in some cases they were so inadequate to the requirements of the long-limbed, growing maidens who wore them, that it cannot be denied that the dresses "sat up" even more than their owners, so that the white cotton stockings were taxed to the utmost to maintain conventional decency. to listen to the children's performances, rather than to the address of the preacher, the chapel was uncomfortably crowded by what the handbills called "parents, relatives and friends." the door was wide open, and my eyes often strayed to it before the service began, for it framed a picture of yellow meadows and waving trees, of brown moorland and ultramarine sky, with drowsy cattle in the pastures a hundred feet below, which seemed strangely unfamiliar, and rather reminiscent of something i had once seen or dreamed of, than of what i looked upon every day of my life. the explanation is simple enough, of course. i saw just a _panel_ of the landscape, and with limited vision the eye observed more clearly and found the beauty of the scene intensified. but when the prayer was ended--a rather long and wearisome one, to my thinking, on such a fine day, when all nature was offering praise so cheerily--the children's part began. they sang children's hymns, the simple hymns i had sung myself as a child, which i hope all english-speaking christian children sing: the hymns which belong to the english language and to no one church, but are broad enough to embrace all creeds, and tender enough to move all hearts, and which must find an echo in the higher temple, where thousands of children stand around the throne of god. a wee lassie of five stood up to sing alone. as the thin, childish voice rose and fell my heart began to beat fast, and i looked at the fair little head through a veil of tears. they made an aureole which transformed roger treffit's firstborn into a heavenly cherub, and i was carried into that exalted state when imperfect speech and neglected aspirates are forgotten: "jesus, tender shep'erd 'ear me: bless thy little lamb to-night; through the darkness be thou near me; keep me safe till mornin' light." was there one present who did not at that moment feel very near to the sheep-fold of the good shepherd? i am a churchwoman, and by training and association inclined to look distrustfully upon dissent, but that child's lispingly tuneful prayer taught me that i was in the house of god; for surely i know at the heart of me that neither in the catholic mountain nor the anglican jerusalem is god solely to be worshipped, but wherever men seek him in spirit and in truth; and this afternoon a little child was leading us. "all this day thy 'and has led me. and i thank thee for thy care; thou 'ast clothed me, warmed an' fed me; listen to my evenin' prayer." it was not evening, for the sun was still high in the heavens and the shadows short upon the earth; but he with whom the night and the morning are one day heard and understood, i do not doubt. without a pause the sweet voice went on: "let my sins be all forgiven; bless the friends i love so well; take me, when i die, to 'eaven, 'appy there with thee to dwell." amen and amen, dear little lucy! surely no stain of sin as yet has darkened your soul, but the thought of the good lord who "forgiveth iniquity, transgression and sin" cannot come to us too soon. let it sink into the plastic wax of your memory and your heart, and harden into certainty, and then when the time comes for you to die--whether the day be near or distant--it will be well with you, "happy there with thee to dwell!" there were other solos, but none which moved me like this of little lucy's, and there were recitations by two of the boys which affected an entirely different compartment of my emotions. they were highly moral pieces, i know, and they exhorted us to a course of conduct which must have been beneficial if followed; the trouble was that the eye had so much employment that the ear was neglected and so missed its opportunities. each boy licked his lips vigorously to start with, and then glued his eyes upon one fixed spot, as if he saw the words in bold type there. if he did, an invisible compositor had set them up in the west window for the one lad, and on a corner of the ceiling for the other. the swiftness with which the words came out reminded me of a brakeless gramophone running at top speed; and it made the performers gasp for breath, which they dared hardly stop to renew lest memory should take wings and fly away. i am sure i was relieved when the final bob to the congregation was reached and the contortions ended. the address was tedious, like the prayer, but fortunately it was not long; then the preacher came in to tea, it being mother hubbard's turn to entertain him. the chapel people take the preachers according to an arranged plan with which they are all familiar. my old lady regards the privilege as in the nature of a heavenly endowment, and she has more than once reminded me that those who show hospitality to god's ministers sometimes entertain angels unawares. no doubt that is so, but the wings were very, very inconspicuous in the one who ate our buttered toast that sunday. all the same he is, i am sure, a very good man, and a man of large and cheerful self-sacrifice which calls for admiration and respect, and i do sincerely honour him; and it is no fault of his that his great big hands are deeply seamed over their entire surface, and that the crevices are filled with black. he works, i discovered, at an iron-foundry, and i believe his hands were really as clean as soap and water could make them. but when all has been said, he need not have spread them over all the plate whenever he helped himself to another slice of bread, and he might just as well have taken the first piece he touched. i suppose i am squeamish, but i cannot help it. i found some amusement in pressing him to eat all he had touched, however, and seeing that he did it. his conversation was chiefly remarkable for the use he made of the phrase "as it were." mother hubbard regards him as a genius, but i doubt if he is anything more than an intelligent eccentric. it must have been his flow of language which got him "on the plan" that is to say, into the ranks of the local preachers of the wesleyan church--for, like the brook, he could "go on for ever." he is a tall, heavy man, perhaps fifty years of age, with a mass of hair upon his head but none upon his face, except where thick eyebrows hang like brushwood over the twin caverns of his eyes. as he speaks he raises his right hand and holds the palm towards you, moving it slowly to and fro for emphasis, and he measures his words as he goes along. he was describing his experiences in a new chapel where he had recently preached, a gothic building, "more like a church, as it were, than a chapel." "ah yes, mrs. hubbard," he said (he never addressed me direct, perhaps because he suspected that i was not one of the confraternity), "i always mistrust a chapel with a spire to it; and the spirit of methodism, as it were, cannot dwell in transepts or chancels. there is not the heartiness, not the freedom, which we associate with our chapels. the air is heavy, as it were, with the spirit of sacerdotalism. why, ma'am, at this particular chapel--church, they call it--they had choir stalls, filled with men and boys, and a liturgical service, as it were. ah yes! no sound of 'hallelujah!' or 'praise the lord!' escaped the lips of the devout worshipper. they were stifled stillborn, as it were. it was cold, ma'am, cold and formal; john wesley would never have found his heart strangely warmed in such an atmosphere. no! "and yet, ma'am, there was something in the arrangements that stirred my feelings, as it were. here, on my right hand, were grouped the scholars; children in the springtime of life, as it were. yes! it was a moving sight, ma'am, to a man of feeling." (i wickedly thought of his hands.) "life was before them--spread out like a map, as it were, with nothing but the outline; or like a copy-book which would be soiled and disfigured with many blots, as it were, before the end was reached. yes! "and on my left were the elders of the flock, gathered there, i was told, because the acoustic properties, as it were, are excellent in the transepts: the grey-headed sires, who had almost fought through the battle and were now awaiting the recall, as it were. men and women in the late evening of life, as it were, who would soon pass behind the sunset. "and in front of me were the middle-aged, those who were bearing the burden and heat of the day, as it were. yes! labourers in life's vineyard; earning their bread in the sweat of their brow, going forth to their work until the evening, as it were. "yes! and as i looked upon them, young and middle-aged and old, i said to myself in the language of the preacher: 'all go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.'--ecclesiastes iii. 20, ma'am." i got up and went into the garden, and filled my nostrils with the fragrance which earth was sending to heaven--as it were--and felt better. whit monday was a hard day for me. after dinner my easter experiences were repeated, and sitters came thick and fast. i really believe my work is giving satisfaction, for some of my last holiday customers had sent their friends to be "taken"; and some called themselves to say "how d'ye do?" nothing eventful transpired, however, and no cynic turned up to disturb the serenity of my temper with sarcastic observations upon women, so i climbed the hill at the back of the house and joined the merry throng of school-children who were having a jolly time with their elders in a field at the top. and there i forgot my tiredness, and romped for a couple of hours with the wildest of them, having as much of the kitten in me as most folk. when the red had finally died out of the western sky the dustman came round, and the eyes of the little ones grew heavy. but the grown-ups were enjoying themselves far too much to think of leaving so soon, so i gathered the infants around me and told them all the wonderful stories which had been locked away in the dusty cabinets of my memory. not the ordinary nursery tales, which are as well known in windyridge as in westminster, but some of the simpler records of greek mythology, and extracts from the lives of the saints. little lucy came and laid her head upon my shoulder and asked if it was all true. i tried to show her the truth that was hidden in the make-believe, but i fear with small success. her eyelids were held open with difficulty as she continued to question me. "is comets true?" "comets?" i inquired; "what do you know of comets?" (one is about due now, and the children are on the tip-toe of excitement.) "dada says they has long tails, an' runs up an' down the sky when i'se asleep, like little mouseys." "you are not afraid of them, are you?" i asked. "dunno. i think i is afraid of them, but i always asks god." "what do you say?" i ventured. the little head was growing heavier, and it was a very sleepy voice that murmured: "god bless ev'ybody ... an' don't let them be 'ungry, so they won't die ... until you makes 'em ... 'cept it be comets an' things." now what could anybody make of that? i carried the child home, and she did not wake when i undressed her and put her to bed. chapter xiv barjona falls into the trap "arternoon, miss!" it certainly was afternoon, for only a few minutes earlier the little clock in my studio had chimed three, and i was not in the least expecting visitors, particularly of the paying kind, and was hard at work upon the accumulated negatives of whitweek, when the blunt ejaculation caused me to turn with a start. my astonished eyes fell upon a transformed barjona! barjona in a frock coat of modern cut, with a white waistcoat, and slate-coloured trousers, correctly creased! barjona, with a starched shirt and a satin tie, vividly blue! above all, barjona in a silk hat, which he was at that moment carefully removing from his head, as though anxious to prevent the escape of some bird imprisoned within! it was not a bird, however, that he captured and produced, but an elaborate "button-hole," properly wired, as one could see at a glance, and with its stems wrapped in silvered paper; and barjona chuckled as he stepped to the mirror and adjusted it in the lapel of his coat. "took that out quick, i can tell you.... gives the show away, that does ... thought once over i'd throw it in t' gutter ... but i says, 'nay, it cost fourpence' ... sixpence she asked for it ... sixpence ... mustn't waste it ... smarten up my photygraph, too.... no, no, mustn't waste fourpence!" "why, mr. higgins," i exclaimed, "you must surely have been to a wedding! but none of our friends in windyridge have been getting married to-day, have they?" "no, no ... marsland gap ... widow-woman ... name o' robertsha' ... now mrs. higgins ... mrs. s. b. higgins ... she's in the trap now," jerking his head towards the roadway. this was too much for my gravity. i had just enough presence of mind to shake hands with him and offer my congratulations, and then gave way to uncontrollable laughter. "it's your own fault, mr. higgins," i blurted out at length. "last october you told me that you were too old a fox to be caught again; there were to be no traps for you, and when you said mrs. higgins was in the trap it amused me vastly." "meanin' the cart, of course," he interrupted, looking somewhat sheepish, but still sufficiently pleased with himself. "i know," i replied, "but i was just wondering how you come to be caught in the other trap, the trap of wedlock--you, a man of years and experience, and pre-eminently a man of caution." he hung his hat on the support of my reflecting-screen, and passed his hand thoughtfully over his smooth crown--i had always felt sure that his head was bald--and i imagined i saw an uneasy look creep into his eyes. "it be very cur'ous, miss holden," he said, in a confidential tone, "very cur'ous.... said to myself many a time ... hunderds of times.... 'don't 'ee be a fool, simon ... women be kittle cattle,' i says ... some weepin' sort ... some blusterin' ... but all masterful ... an' costs a lot o' money ... awful lot o' money to keep up.... went into 't wi' my eyes open ... oh yes; very cur'ous.... come to think on 't ... dunno why i done it." "don't worry, mr. higgins," i said soothingly; "many animals flourish splendidly in captivity, and if they miss their freedom they never say anything about it, but look quite sleek and contented. and i am sure you have secured a very capable and good-natured wife, and are to be heartily congratulated. now fetch her in and i will be getting the camera ready." "fetch her in?" he inquired. "yes, i shall be ready by the time you return, and it will be the work of only a moment or two to arrange you suitably." "but she isn't goin' to have 'er photygraph taken," he said, with an emphatic shake of the head; "only me." "do you mean to tell me," i remarked severely, "that you will not be photographed together on your wedding day? mr. higgins, it is quite the customary thing, and i certainly never heard of such a procedure as you are suggesting. besides, it costs no more." "costs the same? ... for two as for one?" "certainly," i replied. "taken separate, like?" he continued. "no, if taken separately the cost would be doubled, but on wedding occasions the bride and bridegroom are almost invariably photographed together, and that involves no extra cost." he thought this over for half a minute and then made up his mind definitely. "i'll be taken by myself," he said, "... to match this 'ere."--he drew from his breast-pocket a rather faded photograph, cabinet size, which displayed a younger mrs. robertshaw in the fashion of a dozen years before.--"maria got these ... just afore robertsha' died ... has best part of a dozen on 'em .... gave robertsha' 's away ... pity to waste these ... 'll do nicely." "but mr. higgins," i protested, "these photographs are faded, and they are not the mrs. higgins of to-day. nobody wears that style of dress now, and she has actually a fringe! throw them away, and do as i propose." "i see nowt wrong wi' 't," he replied, examining it critically. "she's fatter now, an' isn't as good lookin' ... more wrinkles, like.... makes a nicer pictur, this does ... plenty good enough for 'er." "mr. higgins!" i exclaimed indignantly. "if--you--please--miss," he said emphatically, "it's me as gives the order ... one dozen, miss ... to match this 'ere." there was nothing more to be said, and i took two negatives of the wretched little man, in the first of which he is shown standing as erect as nature permits, with the silk hat fixed firmly upon his head, and one hand in his trousers' pocket, so that the white waistcoat might not be concealed; and in the second, sitting with one leg thrown over the other, and the silk hat upon his knee. it was in vain that i pointed out that neither pose would correspond with that of his wife, which was a mere vignetted head and shoulders; barjona had made up his mind, and was not to be moved, and i felt thankful, with mother hubbard, that i was not mrs. higgins. i went out to speak to her when the operation had been completed, and at our approach the neighbours who had been keeping her company smiled and drew back a little. "good-afternoon, mrs. higgins," i said. "i have already congratulated your husband; let me now wish you much happiness." "well, now, to be sure, miss holden," she replied, and accompanying the words with a most decided wink, "that remains to be seen. but if he doesn't give me much, he'll 'ave less, i can tell you. i think we shall get on when we've settled down a bit; an' anyway, time won't hang as 'eavy on my 'ands, so to speak." "come, lass, we must be going," interrupted barjona, who had climbed up beside her. "as soon as ever i've finished," replied mrs. higgins, smiling upon him sweetly. nevertheless, she tightened the reins and prepared to move. "i'll drive, lass," said barjona, holding out his hand. "i'll keep 'em mysen, lad," replied his wife; "i've 'eld 'em all this time while t' mare was still: i'll 'old 'em now when she's on t' move. come up, lass!" she threw me another portentous wink, and the mare moved slowly down the lane. "poor barjona!" murmured mother hubbard, as we sauntered back to the cottage. "i wonder if you are right," i remarked rather viciously. "i certainly hope you are. at present my sympathies lie in the other direction, and i am disposed to say 'poor maria!'" "yes, love," said mother hubbard, "perhaps she has the worse of the bargain; but i think the old fox has got into a trap that is going to hold him very tight this time, and it will nip hard." "i hope it nips until he squeals," i said impenitently. this was on the monday following whitweek. the next day brought me a long, chatty letter from the squire, who feels wonderfully better and talks of coming home again soon. he cannot understand why the doctors always say "not just yet." he is at sorrento now, and chaffingly condoles with me on the remote prospects of a continental trip, at any rate on his account. i wonder if he guesses how relieved i am, and how eagerly i anticipate his home-coming. in him i seem to have a friend who understands, and i am beginning to think that is the only real kind of friend. i have said all along that i do not understand myself. i am always coming across odd little tracts of territory in my nature which surprise me and make me feel something of an explorer, whereas i cannot help feeling, somehow or other, that the squire knows all about me, and could make a map of my character if he chose, with all my moods and whims and angularities accurately indicated, like so many rivers and mountains. and so far from resenting this i am glad of it, because he is so kind and fatherly with it all, and not a bit superior. now the cynic, although he is no doubt a mighty clever man, makes you so frightfully conscious of his cleverness. by the way, i have made a discovery about him. he is a barrister, and quite an eminent one in his way. i suppose i might have found this out long ago by asking any of the windyridge men, but for some occult reason i have never cared to inquire. the discovery came about in this way. when i had finished reading the squire's letter, and before proceeding to my work, i took up the _airlee despatch_ which farmer goodenough had left with us, solely because it contained a short paragraph on the "wedding of a well-known windyridge character"--no other, in fact, than our friend barjona. as my eyes travelled cursorily over the columns they were arrested by the following: "mr. philip derwent, whose brilliant advocacy admittedly secured a verdict for the plaintiff in the recently concluded case of lessingham v. mainwaring, which has occupied so much space in all the newspapers recently, is, as most of our readers will know, a native of broadbeck. his father, mr. stephen derwent, was engaged in the staple trade of that town, but was better known for the interest he took in many religious and philanthropic movements, and in those circles his death five years ago occasioned a considerable gap. if report may be relied upon mr. philip derwent's decision to read for the bar was a disappointment to his father, but the striking success which has attended him all through his legal career has sufficiently justified his choice. it was a matter of general comment in legal circles during the recent proceedings that mr. derwent more than held his own against such eminent luminaries as sir george ritson and mr. montgomery friend, who were the king's counsel opposed to him. he showed remarkable versatility in the conduct of his case, and his cross-examinations and repartees were brilliant in the extreme. whether his law is as reliable as his rhetoric may be open to question, but one looks forward to his future career with special interest, as he is still on the sunny side of forty, and is therefore young enough to win many laurels. his mother died when he was quite young, and he is himself unmarried." why i should have felt low-spirited when i put the paper down i do not know. it is just these unexplained "moodinesses" which make me feel so cross with myself. the squire's letter had been bright, and the paragraph about barjona amusing, and certainly the reference to mr. derwent was ordinary enough. still i stared at nothing quite intently for a few minutes after reading it. then i shook myself. "grace holden!" i said, "plunge your face into cold water, and go straight to your work in the studio. you have negatives to retouch, and prints to tone and develop, and nearly a dozen miniatures to paint, all of which are shamefully overdue; and no amount of wool-gathering will bring you in the thirty shillings which you have fixed as your weekly minimum. now be a sensible woman, and 'frame,' as your neighbours say." so i "framed," thinking the while how contemptuously the cynic would smile at my thirty shillings. chapter xv rose arrives the surprises of life are sometimes to be counted amongst its blessings. i daresay reuben goodenough, who is one of the most religious men i have met--though i am puzzled to know where his religion comes from, seeing that he rarely visits church or chapel--would affirm that all life's incidents are to be regarded as blessings. "all things work together for good," as "t' owd book" says. he argued this point with me at considerable length one day, and though he did not convince my head he secured the approval of my heart. he is distinctly a philosopher after his kind, with the important advantage that his philosophy is not too ethereal and transcendent, but designed for everyday use. he professes to believe that there are no such things as "misfortunes," and so takes each day's events calmly. for the life of me i cannot see it, but i rather cling to the thought when the untoward happens. be that as it may, the surprise which "struck me all of a heap," to use a common expression of my neighbours, in the last week of june was a blessing that one could count at the time. it was evening, and i was standing in the garden among the roses and pinks, engaged in removing the few weeds which had escaped mother hubbard's observant eye, and pausing occasionally to wonder which i admired the more--the stately irises in their magnificent and varied robes, or the great crimson peonies which made a glorious show in one corner--when the gate was pushed open, and an elegant young lady, in a smart, tailor-made costume and a becoming toque, glided towards me. i took another look and gasped for breath. "well, grace," said the apparition, holding out a neatly gloved hand, "one would say that you were astonished to see me." "rose, you darling!" i ejaculated, "come and kiss me this minute, and show me which particular cloud has dropped you at my feet! my dear girl, you have stunned me, and i feel that i must pinch you to see if you are really flesh and blood." "if there is to be any pinching, my dear grace, _i_ prefer to do it. it will prove my corporeal existence just as conclusively, and be less painful--to me. so this is windyridge?" "rose!" i exclaimed, "for goodness' sake don't be so absurdly practical and commonplace, but tell me why you have come, and where you are staying, and how everybody is at old rusty's, and how long you are going to be in the north, and all about yourself, and--and--everything." "all that will take time," replied rose calmly, as she removed her gloves; "but i will answer the more important parts of your questions. i am staying here, with you. if you are very nice and kind to me you will press me to remain ten days with you, and i shall yield to pressure, after the customary formal and insincere protests. then you will put on your hat and walk with me down to fawkshill station, and as there are no cabs to be had there we will bring up my bag between us." "_that_ we need not do," i said. "there are half a dozen strong boys in the village, any one of whom would fetch your belongings for love of me and threepence of your money." "happy grace!" she sighed; "'love rules the court, the camp, the grove,' as saith the poet. be it even so. summon the favoured swain, discharge his debt, and i will be in thine." "rose! rose! you are the same incorrigible, pert, saucy girl as of yore, but you have filled my heart with joy. i am treading on air and giddy with delight. we will have ten days of undiluted rapture. come inside and look round my home. mother hubbard is 'meeting for tickets' to-night, and will not be back for a good half-hour." "meeting for what?" inquired rose blankly. "meeting for tickets," i repeated. "my dear old lady is a methodist class leader, and to 'meet for tickets' is a shibboleth beyond your untutored comprehension. but the occasion is one of vast importance to her, and you are not to make fun of her." she was pleased with everything and expressed her pleasure readily. in spite of her composed manner she is a very dear girl indeed, and though she is years younger than i am she and i always hit it exactly. when she saw the tiny bed and realised that we should have to share it she laughed merrily. "_i_ will sleep next to the wall to-night," she said, "because i am very tired, and it would be annoying to be always falling out. i shall sleep so soundly that your bumping the floor will not disturb me, so you will have nothing to worry about. then to-morrow night i will take the post of danger, and so alternately." "we might rope ourselves together," i suggested, "and fasten the ends to a stake outside the window. i don't think the bumping idea appeals to me." but mother hubbard planned a better way on her return, and contrived a simple and ingenious addition to the width of the bed by means of chairs and pillows, which served our purpose admirably. over the supper table rose told us all about her visit. "you see, i have not been quite the thing lately: nervy and irritable and that sort of nonsense, which the chief charitably construed into an indication of ill-health. he was awfully decent about it and suggested that i should see a doctor. i told him i was all right, but he insisted, so i saw dr. needham, and he told me i was run down and required bracing air. 'mountain air would be better than the seaside,' he said. 'you haven't friends in scotland or yorkshire, i suppose?' then i thought of you. 'i have a friend who went wrong in her head about twelve months ago,' i said (or words to that effect), 'and she ran away to the yorkshire moors. she might take me in if i could get off.' 'the very thing,' he said. 'will you have any difficulty with your employer?' "'i don't think so,' i replied; 'not if it is really necessary. the chief is a discriminating man, and i believe realises that my services are invaluable, and he will put up with a little temporary inconvenience in order to retain them permanently, i imagine.' you are accustomed to my modesty, grace, and will not be surprised that i spoke with humility. "well, he smiled and said he would give me a certificate, so i took the certificate and my departure and interviewed the chief in his den! it was as i had anticipated. i was to get away at once. ten days on the moors would put the wine of life into my blood. that was theory. the practical assumed the form of a five-pound note, which enables me to play the part of the grand lady--a rã´le for which i was designed by nature, but which providence spitefully denied me. i stated my intentions to the rusty one, who coldly sent you her regards, but i determined to take you by surprise, hoping to catch you unprepared and unadorned, whereas you are neither the one nor the other. then i boarded the two o'clock scotch express at st. pancras, changed trains at airlee, and _me voilã _! by the way, what about my bag?" the bag came all right in due course, and in the days that followed rose and i gave ourselves up to enjoyment. it was like living one's life twice over to share the delight she showed in her surroundings. fortunately i had got abreast of my work, and we ordinarily devoted our afternoons to business and spent the mornings and evenings in nature's wonderland. during those ten glorious days the sun worked overtime for our special benefit, and put in seventeen hours with unfailing regularity. he smiled so fiercely on rose's cheeks that she would have justified her godmother's choice if she had not preferred the hue of the berry, and turned a rich chestnut. mowing was in full swing in the meadows, and we took our forks and tossed the hay about and drank barley-water with the rest. we followed the men whose heads were lost in the loads of hay which they carried on their backs, and saw how they dropped their burden in the haymow. we stood like children, open-mouthed, admiring the skill and industry of the man who there gathered it up and scattered it evenly round and round the mow. we went into reuben goodenough's farmyard, and i showed her the barn owls which have taken up their abode in his pigeon loft, and which live amicably with their hosts and feed on mice. we descended the fields to the woods, which the recent felling has thinned considerably, but which have all the rank luxuriance of summer, and revelled amid the bracken and trailing roses. we stood by the streamlet where the green dragon-flies flitted in the sunshine, and where millions of midges hovered in the air to become the prey of the swallows which rushed through with widely open mouths and took their fill without effort. we spent hours on the moor, where the heather, alas! had not yet appeared, but which was a perfect storehouse of novelties and marvels. who would have thought, for instance, that the little golden bundles which cling to the furze, and which we thought were moss, were just so many colonies of baby spiders? we watched the merlins, the fierce cannibals of the moors, which dash upon the smaller birds and are even bold enough to attack the young grouse at times. what did we not do! where did we not go! and neither of us suffered from surfeit. "grace," said rose, as we lay on our backs in my paddock, and gazed upon the white cumulus clouds which floated above, "i withdraw all i have said about your madness, and i now declare you to be particularly sane. if ever i go back to town, which is doubtful, i will describe your sanity in terms which will relieve the fears of all at no. 8. my personal appearance will give colour to my statements, and i shall probably observe, with the originality which is a mark of genius, that god made the country and man made the town. but i have not yet decided to return, although i took a ten days' ticket. your studio seems to have served its purpose: is there any opening in windyridge for a talented stenographer and typist?" "the prospects would not appear to be exactly dazzling," i replied, "but i'm willing to keep you here on the off-chance that something may turn up." "some_body_'s turning up," said rose, hurriedly assuming a sitting posture, "and we had better get up." i imitated her example, and saw that the cynic had leaped the wall and was coming towards us. i did the necessary introductions and we sat down again. "i called," said the cynic, "in the hope that there might be a clock to regulate or a creeper to nail up, in which case i might earn a cup of tea. also, to make arrangements for my photograph." "i couldn't expect you to do any work in those clothes," i replied. "is this a visit of ceremony, or have you come in your sunday best in order to have your portrait taken? all my local sitters insist upon putting on the clothes in which they feel and look the least comfortable." "no," he said, with a glance at his black trousers--the rest of him was hidden by a light dust-coat--"the fact is, i am dining with the vicar and spending the night at the vicarage. i must go to town on saturday, but to-day and to-morrow are free. i propose, with your gracious permission, to spend an hour here, walk on to fawkshill, and return to-morrow for the dread operation to which i have referred." "i am afraid it will not be convenient to-morrow," i said; "really i am very sorry to upset your plans, but miss fleming returns to town on saturday, and we have promised ourselves a full day on the moors. of course, if you could come very early----" rose interrupted. "don't let me hinder business, my dear grace, or i shall have you on my conscience, and that will be no light burden. we can modify our arrangements, of course." "what about my conscience, in that case?" said the cynic. "i am not really very particular about the photograph, especially in my 'sunday best,' and i can easily come up some other day. but--who is going to carry the luncheon basket?" "there is no basket," i returned; "our arrangements are much more primitive, and the burden grows lighter as the day proceeds. moreover, i don't think it is very nice of you to suggest that the photograph is of slight importance. don't you realise that it is my living?" "i realise the truth of the poet's assertion that woman is 'uncertain, coy, and hard to please.' a moment ago you were declining business--declining it with an air of polite regret, it is true, but quite emphatically. now, when i not only refuse to disturb your arrangements, but actually hint an offer of assistance, you scent a grievance." rose was looking very hard at me, and i felt vexed with the man for placing me in such an awkward position. and to make matters worse the consciousness of rose's stare upset my self-possession, and it was she who spoke first. "if mr. derwent would join us i think it would be very nice," she said, so demurely that i stared at her in my turn, "and it would be an--education for him. and he certainly could carry the sandwiches and our wraps, which are a bit of a nuisance." what could i say? i was annoyed, but i could only mutter something incoherent which my companions construed into an assent, and rose instructed the cynic to be at the cottage at ten o'clock in the morning. to add to my confusion, mother hubbard was manifestly excited when we went in to tea, and she telegraphed all sorts of meaning messages to rose when the cynic's back was turned. i was cross with myself for becoming embarrassed, but i hate to be placed in a false position. what on earth is the cynic to me? i thought he was rather subdued and not quite as satirical as usual, but he was obviously very much taken with rose, who was quite brilliant in her cuts and thrusts. she soon took the cynic's measure, and i saw how keenly he enjoyed the encounter. i left them to it very largely, much to the disappointment of mother hubbard, who developed a series of short, admonitory coughs, and pressed my foot beneath the table a score of times in a vain effort to induce me to shine. it was not my "night out," and her laudable endeavours simply resulted in a sore foot--the injured member being mine! we accompanied him a little way along the road, and when we left him rose turned upon me: "now 'fess!" she said. "rose, don't be a goose!" i replied, whilst the stupid colour flooded my face; "there is nothing to confess. i have seen mr. derwent only twice before in my life. he is little more than a stranger to me." "a remarkable circumstance, however, my dear grace, is that you have never mentioned his name in your rather voluminous correspondence, and yet you seem to be on familiar and even friendly terms; and our good friend mother hubbard----" "mother hubbard, rose, is romantic. the moment the man turned up at easter she designated him as my lover. let me be quite candid with you. if i was not so constituted that blushing comes as naturally to me as to a ripe cherry you would have had no reason to suspect anything. it is the innocent, i would remind you, who blush and look guilty. mr. derwent is a barrister--a friend of the vicar and of the squire--and he amuses himself by calling here when he is in the village--that is all. and if you are going to be as silly as mother hubbard it is too bad of you." i felt this was frightfully weak and unconvincing, as the truth so often is. "u-m!" said rose, spreading the ejaculation over ten seconds; "i see. then there's nothing more to be said about it. he isn't a bad sort, is he? why in the world you never mentioned him in your letters i cannot conceive." it was too bad of rose. chapter xvi the cynic speaks in parables "what makes you call me the cynic?" he inquired. it was rose's fault; she is really incorrigible, and absolutely heedless of consequences! if i had dreamed that she would have done such a thing i would never have told her, but that is the worst of blanket confidences. i call them "blanket" confidences because it was after we had gone to bed, when it was quite dark and rose was inclined to be reasonable, that i had explained to her calmly and quite seriously that i had not mentioned the cynic in my letters because there had been no reason to do so; and rose had accepted the explanation, like a good girl, and kissed me to show her penitence. then i told her of the nickname i had given him, which she thought very appropriate. but i would have held my tongue between my teeth if i had contemplated the possibility of her revealing the secret; and here she had blurted it out with a laugh, to my utter and dire confusion. we had had a glorious day, and i must admit that the cynic had added not a little to our enjoyment. he said he would have felt like a fool to be walking out in black west of englands, so he had called at the hall and got the butler to find up an old shooting jacket of the squire's, which was much too large for him, but in which he appeared quite unconcernedly a full ten minutes before the time appointed. "it isn't a good fit," he remarked with a laugh, "but the other toggery was impossible for the moors." under his guidance we had gone farther than we should otherwise have ventured, and he had pointed out a hundred beauties and wonders our untrained eyes would never have seen. he had interpreted the varying cries of the curlew, and shown us how intently the gamekeeper listened to them, so that he might know whether man or beast or bird was attracting the watcher's notice. he had pointed out the trustful little twite, which i should have mistaken for a linnet, and followed it to its abode, where he told us we should find a single feather stuck conspicuously in the edge of the nest; and it had been even so. our botanical knowledge would have been greatly increased if we had remembered all he told us, but though we did not do so we were deeply interested, for he had none of the air of the schoolmaster, and he did not expect us to take our lessons very seriously. and now the day was spent, and our energy, though not our spirits, had flagged considerably. we were sitting on the edge of the moor, a mile or so away from home, and the flush of evening spread over the valley and the distant hills, turning the landscape into mystery. the lamp of the setting sun was flickering out in the west, but the handmaidens of the night had lit their tiny torches here and there, and they shone faintly behind the veil of twilight, giving promise of greater radiance when the time should come for them to go forth to meet the crescent bride who tarried in her coming. i was gazing on it dreamily, and breathing out peace and goodwill towards men when rose dropped her bomb, and shattered my complacency. "what makes you call me the cynic?" he turned his eyes upon me and awaited my answer with evident curiosity. i looked at him in my turn. he had been bareheaded all day, for he had left his hat at the hall, and he was now leaning back against a rock, his hands clasped behind his head, and the mischievous look i have so often noticed sparkling in his eyes. he really is rather a fine man, and he has certainly a good strong face. i replied, calmly enough to outward seeming: "because it has seemed to me an apt description." "i hope not," he replied. "cynicism is the small change of shallow minds. all the same, it is interesting to be criticised. i did not know when i offered to analyse your character that i was being subjected to the same test." "indeed you were not," i protested; "it was an appellation that came to me spontaneously whilst you were discoursing so luminously on woman a few months ago, and it is not to be taken seriously. it was wicked of rose to tell you." rose laughed and put an arm around me. "never mind, old girl," she said, "i'm going back to-morrow, so you must forgive me." "i'm afraid you have not distinguished with sufficient care, miss holden, between satire and cynicism. i daresay there is a strain of satire in my composition, but i do not plead guilty to cynicism. a cynic is a surly, misanthropical man, with a disordered liver and a contempt for the good things of life." "oh, grace!" murmured rose in pathetic tones, "how could you!" "nonsense!" i said, "i am not going to allow you to pretend to take me seriously. do you think i subjected the word to subtle analysis before i adopted it? i tell you it came to me as an inspiration, heaven-born, doubtless, but if you don't like it pray forget it; and for your comfort i will add that i have never attached to the word the meaning you read into it. i know you have no contempt for art and poetry and the good things of life. now tell us what you see before you?" i wished to change the subject, and referred simply to the view, as anyone might have known. night was dropping her blue curtain as gently, as silently, as the nurse spreads the coverlet over the sleeping babe; but the stupid man professed to misunderstand me. "i see before me," he replied, "two interesting specimens of the sex which ruins the peace and creates the paradise of the bulk of mankind. i would call them charming but for the fear that my candour might be mistaken for cajolery, which my soul abhorreth." "oh, please stop this!" i pleaded, but rose said: "let him ramble on," and he continued: "the one whom i judge to be the elder is tall and well proportioned. she has a fairly deep brow which indicates some intellectual power, but whether this is modified or intensified by cranial depressions and protuberances, a mass of dark hair, arranged in a fashion that beggars my feeble powers of description, hides from my eyes. "her mouth is firm, and set above a determined chin, which would lead me to conclude that she has a will of her own and is accustomed to exercise it; but her eyes are tender and pleading, and so near the reservoir of her emotions that the waters readily overflow, and this in some measure counteracts the qualities of the chin. she has a pretty wit and a ready tongue--usually--and has lived long enough to be convinced of her own powers; rather masterful with the world at large, but not mistress of herself." "thank you!" i interrupted. he bowed. "she dresses with taste and has tidy and methodical habits; is ever ready with sympathy, but would never care deeply for anybody who did not show her a heap of affection." "do i cross your hand with silver?" i inquired. he ignored my interruption and turned his whimsical gaze upon rose. "her companion, whom i have had fewer opportunities of observing, is slight, fair, and small of stature. i should say she might be scheduled as 'dangerous,' for she flashes most unexpectedly. she is rather proud of her self-possession, and delights in appearing cool and unemotional, but in reality she is neither. she has simply cultivated repression for the sake of effect. she is intense in her likes and dislikes and quite capable of hating those whom she regards with aversion, whilst she would apotheosise anyone for whom she really cared. her wit is more brilliant but also more superficial than that of her friend, and her mental outlook is clearer and consequently more optimistic. she prides herself on unconventionality, and is at heart the slave of conventionalism. in a word she is a paradox, but a very agreeable and fascinating one." "i had much rather be a paradox than a paragon," said rose; "but after your very inadequate delineation of my character i am trying to determine in which pigeon-hole of my carefully concealed emotions i am to docket you." "is that quite true, miss fleming?" inquired the cynic, looking at her keenly. "i should have said you made up your mind on that point last evening." the tan upon her cheeks and the cloak of twilight covered rose's blushes to a large extent, but i am sure the colour deepened, and i am convinced the cynic saw it. he rose and gathered up the wraps. "it is getting chilly," he observed; "shall we be moving?" i turned the conversation into another channel. "you are going to town this week-end. is most of your time spent there?" "yes," he replied, "my work lies in london, though broadbeck is my home, and i ran down very often, merely, i believe, to breathe the murky air and refresh my soul with the yorkshire burr. i go back refreshed without knowing why. i have no relatives here now, and few friends, but the few i have, though they do not guess it, are my greatest comfort." "comfort!" ejaculated rose; "what can you know of the need of comfort? you, at any rate, are self-centred and self-possessed. you have evidently a sufficient income and lots of the good things of life; you are entirely your own master, and on the high-road to fame; what more can you want?" "much," he replied simply; "and chiefly the sympathy which understands without explanations, and i get that only amongst my own folk. do you know what that means? i have all the things you speak of: an increasing practice, an adequate income, good health, work that brings its own pleasure, an appreciation of life, consequent, no doubt, upon all these things, and an ardent longing for the relief which only real sympathy affords." "i don't understand," said rose, "notwithstanding my clear outlook on life." "do you?" the cynic turned to me. "partially," i replied. "i can understand that none of these things satisfies in itself, and that you may have 'all things and abound,' and yet crave something you cannot work for and earn. but i should have thought your profession would have left you little time for sentiment, even if it afforded scope for it." "you know, then, what my profession is?" "you are a barrister, and, as rose says, on the high-road to fame." "well," he replied, "i suppose that is true. i have as much work as i can undertake and i am well paid for it. success, in that sense, has come, though slowly, and i am considered by many a lucky fellow. my future is said to be full of promise. i have, in the sense in which you spoke, 'all things and abound,' and when i step into the arena of conflict i am conscious of this, and of this only. in the heat of the fray the joy of battle comes upon me, and i am oblivious to all else. "then comes the after-thought, when the fray is ended and the arena has been swept clean for the next encounter. 'what lack i yet?' in the process of gaining the whole world am i going to lose myself? and the throng presses upon me and slaps my back and shakes my hand and shouts, 'lucky dog!' into my ear, and i smile and look pleased--am pleased--until my good spirit drives me north, where the air is not soft, but biting, and men speak their minds without circumlocution and talk to you without deference, and give you a rough but kindly thrust if they think you need it. and there i find vision and comfort." "you are utterly beyond me," said rose. "you are soaring in the clouds miles above my head, and i cannot yet understand why you need comfort." "do you remember the young ruler who went away sorrowful?" he replied. he was looking straight ahead, with a sad, fixed look in his eyes such as i had not seen there before. "i wonder if he went north and found a friend who understood, and from him gained comfort. you see, he _knew_ that something was lacking, but could not make up his mind to pay the price of the remedy, and even the great physician, whilst he gave the unwelcome prescription, pitied and loved him. the world called him a lucky dog, and he called himself one--with a reservation. and he wanted comfort; not the comfort which simply says, 'buck-up, old man!' but that which says, 'brace-up, old man! if to sell all is the summum bonum, go, see the broker now and have done with it.' i wonder if he went eventually." this was a new mood, and i glanced at the cynic curiously. what had become of his cynicism? he was speaking quietly, contemplatively, and i felt sure there was meaning behind his words. i said nothing, but rose shook her head and muttered: "you speak in parables." "let me give you a parable," he continued. "once upon a time a certain boy on leaving school left also a large number of marbles. these were claimed by two of his companions, and one of the two took possession of them. then arose a great outcry on the part of him who would have taken them if he could, and he dragged his fellow before a council of their peers. the monitor was judge, and two sharp young fellows who were good in debate and of ready tongue acted as counsel for the claimant and his foe respectively. "in the end judgment was given for the claimant, who carried off triumphantly the spoils of battle. and this judgment was given, not because the defendant had no right to the marbles, but because the lad who championed his cause was not so glib of speech nor so ready in argument as the fellow on the other side. now it came to pass that the lad who won the case for his friend discovered soon after, what he had suspected all along--that the latter had no real claim to the marbles at all, and that they had been taken unjustly from the lad to whom they rightfully belonged. yet the judgment of the court could not be upset. what was he to do?" "nothing," replied rose promptly. "why?" inquired the cynic. "it was the fortune of war," she answered; "the case was properly tried by an impartial court, and the defendant should have taken care to secure the services of the smarter advocate. it would be a lesson to him for the future. the world would never get on if everyone worried about things of that sort." "and you?" he said, turning to me. "was there no chance of reversing the judgment?" i inquired. "none: it was irrevocable." "had the plaintiff's counsel reason to suspect, did you say, that his client's cause was unjust before the verdict was given?" "he became practically convinced of it as the case proceeded, but not absolutely certain. yet he fought for his client with might and main." "had the plaintiff's counsel any marbles of his own?" i continued. "he had. quite a fair store." "sufficient to pay back the lad who had suffered the unjust judgment?" "about sufficient; no more." my heart thumped painfully, but i did not hesitate to answer: "i think he ought to have parted with his own marbles, and so redressed the wrong and saved his soul." there was silence for a moment before the cynic spoke: "i think so, too." then, irrelevantly: "there is something about this northern air that is very bracing." chapter xvii grace becomes dejected i had no time to feel depressed after rose left on saturday, for the afternoon brought me more customers than i could well accommodate. my reputation must have travelled as far as broadbeck, for the greater number of my patrons are from that town. they consist for the most part of engaged couples, or couples that obviously intend to become engaged; and whether it is the excellence of my productions, or the low charges, or just the fun of being photographed by a woman in a hamlet like windyridge that attracts them, i have not been able to determine, and it does not very much matter. mother hubbard, on the other hand, finds the explanation simple. i am the most talented of artists, with all the indifference of the genuine genius to adequate remuneration. i was thoroughly tired when tea-time came and my day's labours ended, and was quite ready to be petted and made a fuss of by my dear old lady. by the way, the summer has unfortunately not brought back her old vigour, and i cannot help worrying a little about her, though she is as bright and optimistic as ever. i got a long letter from rose on monday morning. it had been written, of course, on the sunday, whilst the scent of the moors was still in her nostrils; but though she feels the change pretty badly i am sure she is not so depressed as i am. it must have taken her a heap of time to fill so many sheets of notepaper with her small, business-like handwriting. there were a good many sparkling sentences in the letter, but i cannot say that i felt particularly cheerful when i had finished it. it appears that the cynic was travelling by the midland express, and they were companions all the way from airlee. he was already in the train, which starts from broadbeck, and he caught sight of her on the platform. it seems strange that he should have gone round that way, for i remember he told us once that he always travelled by great northern, as it is the shorter route. i fancy he was rather taken with rose, and i know she liked him very much, for she said so quite openly. it would do the cynic good to be married, especially as he seems to need comforting, and rose is one of the dearest girls in existence, and would make him a good wife--at least, i hope she would. and although she has to earn her own living, she is really very well connected, and had a quite superior education. it was simply her father's recklessness that threw her on her own resources, and i should say that her origin is as good as the cynic's. and yet i should hardly have thought that she was just his sort. he is a man who will make large demands upon his wife if she is to be a real helpmeet, and he needs to be understood. i am sure rose did not understand him. but perhaps, after all, she would be very suitable in one way. she is ambitious, and would see that he did not hide his light under a bushel in social circles; though, to be sure, society might turn up its nose at _her_. it would worry me terribly if anything should come of this chance encounter under my chaperonage, and either party should be unhappy. it may be undue sensitiveness on my part, but i feel rather oppressed with a sense of responsibility. of course, looking at the matter quite calmly, it seems ridiculous to be building air-castles like this, but i am _very fond_ of rose and i would not for worlds have her marry unsuitably; and i cannot help respecting the cynic after what he said the other night. it would be just terrible if they were to make a mess of their lives. marriage is such a very serious undertaking, and lots of really sensible people appear to lose their heads altogether when they come to make the important choice. however, it is none of my business, and i won't refer to it again. rose says he was very attentive to her during the journey, and handed her quite a number of illustrated papers, including some ladies' journals. if i were a barrister i should never dream of buying papers which make their appeal to the other sex; but perhaps he finds it necessary to the study of human nature. a man in his profession must have to be as many-sided as a poet. i conclude that she did not read the magazines, for she says so much about their conversation that it is evident there was little opportunity, and besides, they lunched together in the diner, and that must have taken up a lot of time. she admits that she teased him, and that he seemed to like it, but she does not say what about. he said the other day that she was dangerous. i wonder if he really thought so, and is on his guard against the danger, for rose has always been somewhat of a flirt, and it would hurt a man like him deeply if he really cared and found she was only playing with him. he is the sort that--- but i said i would not refer to it, and here i am doing so. he told her he hoped to see something of her occasionally, and she was unconventional enough to hope the same. they are sure to make opportunities easily enough when they are both in london. i feel glad for rose, for he is the kind of man who will steady her a bit, but i hope she--- oh, bother it! madam rusty received my kind messages, it appears, with apparent indifference, so rose waxed eloquent over the sunday dinner table, and painted a picture of my surroundings in the most brilliant colours from the palette of her imagination. she stimulated the curiosity of the boarders, who showed a great interest in me and my adventures, and were eager to know what kind of fare was provided in the wilderness, and what was the character of the heathen in whose midst i dwelt; to all of which she replied in a strain of subdued enthusiasm which she assured me carried conviction. i was regarded, she informed them, with the same respect as was naturally accorded to the squire of the place, with whom i was on terms of extreme intimacy. good air and really good food (rose emphasised this for madam's benefit) had brought to my cheeks the glow of health; and my abilities had secured for me a clientele which would make a west end photographer think sad thoughts. this, goodness knows, was true enough. she went into ecstasies over mother hubbard's cooking, and caused the company to believe that the fatted calf, and all other makes of fatted beasts and birds of the primest and tenderest quality, appeared upon my table regularly during her visit. when i remember the "pot-luck" we had so often laughed over at dinner-time, my admiration for rose's imaginative faculties assumed huge proportions. the heathen amongst whom i dwelt were, it appears, nature's gentlefolk, hating unreality and humbug as they hated the devil. i think this was really rather clever of rose, for it hits off some of my neighbours exactly, though the devil with whom they are on speaking terms might possibly seem a mild and blunt-horned personage to some of my london acquaintances. there was a good deal more to the same effect, and having driven the rusty one to the verge of apoplexy, rose retired to her own room and penned her epistle. seclusion evidently induced reaction, and she confessed to the depression i have hinted at. i don't wonder, poor girl. i should hate to be going to work in the crowded city after having tasted the freedom of the moors. all the same, there are compensations if you look for them. if you have friends who are congenial you have more opportunities of seeing them in a place like london. everybody goes to london. perhaps the cynic will take her to see the new play at the st. james's theatre. i shall be very glad, i am sure, if they become firm friends. my only doubt is of rose. she is so thoughtless and flighty, and might do harm without meaning it.... oh, bother it again! i'm going to bed. chapter xviii carrier ted receives notice to quit i have not been sleeping very well lately, and my dreams have given me the creeps and left me so irritable that if i had only a considerate and philanthropic employer like the one rose patronises i am sure i should have been sent away somewhere for a change. being my own employer, i stay on and make mother hubbard look worried. and the worst of it is she does not discuss my state of health as a sensible woman should, but just pets me and tells me it "will all come right in the end." when i ask her what it is that is to come right she smiles and relapses into silence. if she were not so gentle and loving and altogether sweet i should feel inclined to shake her. did i not say that the devil had his intimates in windyridge? i nod to him myself just now, but simon barjona higgins has gone into business with him on quite a large scale, and my friend maria must surely be casting longing backward glances in the direction of widowhood. it makes one feel that matrimony is a snare which women are fools to enter with their eyes open; though i suppose all men are not given up to satan. fancy rose saying there were no humbugs about here, when such a man as barjona flourishes unabashed! but when i come to think of it, she didn't quite say that: she simply said that my neighbours hated humbug as they hate the devil, and barjona loves them both. the thought of him makes me sick, and when i found out what an old shylock the man is i went into the studio with a hammer and smashed his negatives into a hundred pieces, with as much zest as if i had been a militant suffragette breaking windows in regent street under the eyes of a scandalised policeman. if nature had been clothed in drab on wednesday afternoon when the report of unusual occurrences in the village drew me to the little group of excited people who were discussing them it would have been appropriate to the occasion. but she wasn't--she was dressed in her gayest and most captivating summer clothing. i think that in itself is vexing. why should nature look so pleased and happy when people are miserable, and so emphasise the contrast? if i am grumpy to begin with it makes me feel ever so much worse to know that nature is laughing at me, and is just as bright and optimistic as i am wretched. and, contrariwise, if i do wake up one morning determined to "bid dull care begone"--who was it used that expression recently?--and be merry and cheerful, the skies are sure to be like lead, and the ram is certain to drip, drip, in that sullen, persistent fashion that would drive mark tapley himself to pessimism. there is a law of cussedness, i am convinced, and i believe i have discovered it. mother hubbard says it is my liver, and prescribes pills! when i joined the group there were so many eager to tell me the story that it was some time before i could make out its purport. by the way, i ought to point out that i am _not_ becoming a gossip, but i am interested in the news of the village. we have no _daily mail_ to chronicle our doings, and our methods are therefore necessarily primitive. besides, to hold aloof from one's neighbours is a sign of what rose calls "snorkiness." one of the dearest little cottages in the village is inhabited by a man called carrier ted. i had never been inside it, but its picturesqueness appeals to me every time i pass it, and you may often see visitors leaning over the low wall of the garden and enthusing about it. it is just a little one-storeyed, two-roomed cot, not nearly so big as some gentlemen's motor garages, but large enough for one occupant, or even for two if their tastes are simple. the ground rises steeply behind it, and tall trees cover the hill from base to summit, so that the little white house is quite overshadowed by them. i call it a white house, but the walls are almost concealed by green and yellow and crimson, where the canary creeper and climbing roses stretch forth their slender arms to embrace the brown, thatched roof. the garden is evenly divided into two parts by the flagged footpath which leads straight to the door, and it is always ablaze with colour in the summer time; but the arrangement is more orderly than in some of our windyridge gardens, for carrier ted, albeit old-fashioned in his tastes, is an epicure in horticulture. only a few days ago rose and i had stopped to admire his bloom, and especially the wonderful moss roses which were his especial pride, and to have a word with the old man whose skill and industry had aroused my friend's enthusiasm. when i first came to the village i took him to be of weak intellect, principally, i believe, because he always wore a tall silk hat of antiquated pattern. it was a very rough silk of uncertain colour, and gave one the impression that it was constantly brushed the wrong way; but whether working in the garden or walking along the road, carrier ted might always be recognised by his peculiar headgear. but there is no daftness about him really. he is just a quiet, even taciturn old man, who is alone in the world and has saved sufficient money to enable him to spend the evening of life in comfort, and who finds in his home and garden both business, recreation and religion. he is a little, bent man, round-faced and ruddy in spite of his eighty odd years, with thick grey eyebrows, and a half-circle of beard stretching from ear to ear beneath his chin. when you praise his flowers he pauses for a moment, draws his sleeve across his brow in a confused sort of way, as if to remove perspiration, and smiles. the smile and the action always remind me of a bashful child who would like to be friendly but dare not all at once. the smile lights up his face and reveals the angel within him; but he answers only in monosyllables, and seems relieved when you pass on your way. it was this man and his cottage who were the subject of excited conversation. "it's a burnin' shame, miss 'olden, that's what it is!" exclaimed widow smithies, "an' if i'd my way i'd wring that old heathen of a barjona his neck for 'im, that i would; the good-for-nowt, graspin' old money-lender 'at he is." "he wants hoss-whippin'," said sar'-ann's mother, "an' if i were a man i'd do it! but our men fowk are no more use nor two penn'orth o' cowd gin, an' i'll be bound ther' isn't one on 'em 'at'll lift a little finger agen 'im." "an' i'm sure anyone 'at can find it in their 'eart to do ought wrong to poor old ted isn't fit to bide in t' village," said martha treffit; "an' one 'ud ha' thought wi' 'avin' been in t' same trade, like, barjona 'ud never ha' tried to 'urt ted." "they may have been in t' same trade, martha," interposed susannah, "but ted comes off a better pastur' nor ivver barjona wa' raised on. 'e's as keen as mustard, is barjona, an' 'ud mor'gage his soul for owt he took a fancy tul." "he's as 'ard as iron in his 'eart," snapped mrs. smithies, "but as soft as a boiled turnup in his 'ead. i'd like to put 'im through t' wringin' machine, an' squeeze 'im for once, as is so ready to squeeze other fowk. 'ere comes reuben. what'll reuben 'ave to say about it, i wonder?" reuben shook his head. "it's a sad job, neighbours, but law's law, an' we shall have to make t' best on 't." "hark to him!" said sar'-ann's mother; "didn't i tell you there isn't a man in t' village wi' as mich sperrit as a kitlin'? if reuben won't do nowt ye can go bail 'at t' rest 'll noan stir." "right's right, an' law's law, all the world over," said reuben, shaking his head; "an' it'll be no manner o' use tryin' to persuade barjona ought different. i could easy throw him on t' midden, but that wouldn't mend matters. 'ye can take t' horse to t' water, but ye can't make 'im drink,' as t' owd book says. it'll be a trial to t' owd man, but ted 'll have to make up 'is mind to flit." reuben walked home with me and gave me a connected account of what had happened. "you see, ted's lived i' yon cottage ever sin' i can remember, miss 'olden. i mind him bringin' his wife to it, maybe forty year sin', though i were just a lad at t' time, an' it'll be 'appen five year sin' she died. they were neither on 'em chickens when they were wed, an' they never 'ad any childer; but they allus seemed to get on right enough, an' i don't know 'at i ever 'eard tell of 'em 'aving a wrong word wi' one another, or wi' anyone else, for that matter. they lived peaceable wi' all men, as t' owd book puts it, an' kept theirselves to theirselves. but they never really made any friends, as you may say. if you looked in you were welcome, but you were never asked to stop, an' they never called in to see t' neighbours. his missis wasn't one o' t' gossipin' sort, an' 'e were away a good deal wi' his cart; an' so we got into t' 'abit o' leavin' 'em alone. "she must have been seventy--ay, more than seventy--when she died (i believe it tells on t' stone, but i never took that much notice), an' one or two o' t' neighbours did look in during t' time 'at she were ill, an' did what they could for 'em both, and he were very grateful. but he made no fuss, an' when they put her away 'e just wiped 'is sleeve across 'is face, an' walked back an' started diggin' a trench in t' garden. "well, it come out this mornin' 'at barjona's bought t' cottage, an' it appears he gave ted notice to quit last week-end, an' his time 's up on saturda'. they say he's goin' to live there himself, an' i daresay it's likely enough. it belonged to a young chap down i' fawkshill, an' barjona has a 'old on him somehow, an' he's forced 'im to sell. i've been to see t' chap just now, but barjona has got it right enough, deeds an' everything, an' law's law all the world over. ted's fair rooted in t' soil o' that land, but he'll 'ave to shift, an' quick too. 'e's as hard as nails, is barjona, an' ted 'll have to clear out on saturda'." "but what a shame!" i remarked; "could not someone be induced to buy it from barjona? perhaps he would sell at a profit." "i'm goin' to see him in t' mornin'," replied reuben, "but i durst bet a five-pun note to a toothpick 'at he won't sell at any figure. i know barjona. there's good wheat i' all men, but it's so lost among t' chaff i' barjona's case 'at only t' day o' judgment 'll find it." reuben called the next day to report the fruitlessness of his mission. "it's no use," he said, and for once the cheerful farmer had become gloomy; "i haven't got a right hang o' t' words, but t' owd book says summat, if i'm not mista'en, about ye can crush a man's 'ead up in a mortar wi' a pestle, an' if he's a fool at t' start, he'll be a fool at t' finish. barjona says he's stalled o' livin' down yonder i' maria's house in t' gap, an' he's set 'is 'eart on yon cottage o' ted's ever sin' he thought o' gettin' wed again. he's shut his teeth, an' ye couldn't prize 'em open wi' a chisel an' hammer." "could the squire do anything if i wrote him?" i asked. "mr. evans? what can 'e do? t' cottage isn't his. law's law, an' barjona has t' law on his side. ye can't fight agen law. ted 'll have to shift. it's a pity, but it's no killin' matter, an' 'e'll get over it i' time." "not if he's rooted to the soil," i said; "old plants often die when transplanted." "now look 'ere, miss 'olden," he replied kindly; "don't you take on over this job. you're too fond o' suppin' sorrow. we all 'ave our own crosses to carry, an' it's right 'at we should 'elp to carry other folkses. but it's no use carryin' theirs unless you can lighten t' load for 'em. frettin' for owd ted 'll none make it any easier for 'im. you want to learn 'ow to be sorry i' reason, without frettin' yourself to death. why aren't ye sorry for barjona?" "the miserable old fox!" i exclaimed. "i dunno but what he's more to be pitied nor ted," replied reuben thoughtfully. "now you just study a minute. don't ye think the lord 'll be more sorry to see barjona's 'eart shrivelled up like a dried pig-skin, so as it can't beat like other people's, nor what 'e will for ted, what's as 'armless as a baby? if i read t' owd book right 'e allus seemed t' sorriest for them 'at were t' worst. 'e wept over lazarus, i know, but 'e didn't fret about him an' his sisters in t' same way as 'e fret over t' city when 'e wept over it. you see, lazarus 'adn't gone wrong, an' t' city had. lazarus an' t' girls had suffered i' their bodies an' their minds, same as we all 'ave to do, an' same as ted is doin', but t' city 'at rejected 'im was sufferin' in its soul. "no, i pity ted, but i pity barjona more. it's t' sick 'at need t' physician, as t' owd book says, an' barjona's got t' fatal disease o' greed an' selfishness an' covetousness an' 'ard-'eartedness, wi' all sorts o' complications, an' it doesn't make me pity 'im any less 'at 'e doesn't know 'at 'e ails ought. you never found the lord ought but kind to them 'at 'e drave t' devils out of. now you think it over, an' keep your sperrits up." i have thought it over. just now, perhaps, i am not in the mood to view the case philosophically. my own feelings reflect the mood of the village generally. i don't doubt barjona's sickness, but my prescription would be a drastic one, and whipping with scorpions would be too good for him. there are some people whom kindness does not cure, and i imagine barjona to be one of them. i would go over to see maria, but farmer goodenough is emphatic that i ought not to interfere. "it's ill comin' between married fowk," he says. he is sure i should make trouble, and he is very likely right. i was astonished when i heard that barjona had left his lodgings and gone to live in the gap, for it certainly seems out of the way for his business; but he has no right to disturb poor old ted for his own convenience. i hope judgment will overtake him speedily. did i not say i had a nodding acquaintance with the devil? chapter xix barjona's downfall soon after breakfast on saturday a furniture cart stopped at carrier ted's gate, and the village turned out _en masse_. there had been a heavy downpour of rain during the night, but the sun struggled through the clouds at breakfast time, and by nine o'clock had gained the mastery. it was dirty on the roadway, so the half-dozen neighbourly men who were piling the household effects on to the cart had to be careful not to rest them in the mud. not that carrier ted cared anything about it. he stood in the garden with the old silk hat pushed deep down over his brow, and looked abstractedly at his peonies. he seemed oblivious to the busy scene that was being enacted about him: of all the spectators he was the least moved: he, the most interested of all, was less interested than any. by and by barjona drove up and was greeted with scowls and muttered imprecations. two or three of the women went a step beyond muttering, and expressed their views in terms that lacked nothing of directness. "you ought to be ashamed o' yerself, barjona higgins!" said one; "yes, you ought! to turn the old man out of his 'ome at his time o' life. you'd turn a corpse out of its coffin, you would!" barjona's cold eyes contracted. "what's wrong now, eh?" he jerked; "house is mine, isn't it? .... paid good money for it.... can do as i like wi' my own, can't i? ... you mind your business; i'll mind mine." he walked up the path to the house, merely nodding to ted as he passed; but ted did not see him. after a while he returned and went up to the old man, and shouted in his ear as though he were deaf, so that we all could hear: "there'll be a bit o' plasterin' to do ... your expense ... an' there's a cracked winda-pane ... ye'll pay for that, ted?" the old man looked up and passed his sleeve across his brow, then rubbed his knuckles in his eyes as though awaking from sleep. "owt 'at's right, barjona; owt 'at's right, lad." reuben goodenough's eldest son was passing at the time, with a heavy fender over his shoulder. hearing these words he stopped, and i thought for a moment that he was going to bring it down on barjona's head, but with an angry gesture he moved on and deposited his burden on the cart. then he went up to the new owner and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. how i admired the strong, well-set man, and the man within him. "mr. higgins," he said, "you can see for yourself 'at ted isn't fit for business. if you've ought to say, say it to me. i'm actin' for 'im." there had been no such arrangement, of course, but this provisional government met with the approval of the crowd. "that's right, ben lad, you tak' both t' reins an' t' whip!" shouted sar'-ann's mother; "i'm fain to see there's one man in t' village." "now, you look here, mr. higgins," continued ben, thus encouraged, "ought 'at it's right for ted to pay shall be paid, but you send your list an' bill in to me, an' if my father an' me passes it ye'll be paid, an' if we don't ye won't; so you can put that in your pipe an' smoke it." "keep cool, ben, keep cool!" said barjona, who himself was not in the least ruffled; "only want what's right, you know ... only what's right.... you or ted, ted or you ... all the same to me." "i feel dead beat, lad," said ted, who still seemed dazed; "i'll go inside an' lie down a bit." ben motioned to me, and i stepped through the gate and joined them. "ted's tired," he said, "and wants to lie down. would you mind taking him across to susannah's and askin' her to let 'im rest on t' sofa a bit?" then turning to the old man he said: "go with this lady, ted: go with miss holden. we've nearly finished packing all your stuff on t' cart, you know. but susannah 'll get you a sup o' something warm, an' you can lie down on her sofa, an' miss holden 'll talk to you a bit." he spoke soothingly, as to a child, and the old man turned his eyes upon me. "shoo's a stranger, ben?" "nay, she's lived here a twelvemonth, ted. now come, you go with 'er. she'll look after you nicely." he suffered himself to be led away, but when we reached the group about the gate he would go no farther, but suddenly found tongue, and began to speak in a ruminating way, looking first at one and then another, but keeping fast hold of my arm. "ye'll none o' ye mind my mother? no, no, ye're ower young, all o' ye. it'll be seventy year an' more sin' she died, an' i wor only a lad at t' time. that wor her rockin'-chair 'at they're puttin' on t' cart, an' when i browt my missis 'ome, shoo hed it. first my mother, neighbours, an' then t' missis; an' t' owd chair lasts 'em both out, an' 'll last me out. i nivver thowt but it 'ud stand there aside o' t' chimley till they carried me out o' t' door, feet for'most. t' old chair 'll feel kind o' lonesome, neighbours, kind o' lonesome, in a strange kit chin." "nivver 'eed, lad," said one of the older women; "ye'll be varry comfortable down i' t' clough." "aye, happen so," he replied, "but lonesome, neighbours, lonesome. there isn't a crack i' t' beams but what looked friendly-like, for we've grown old together; an' all t' furnitur' spake to me abaht old times, for i niwer shifted 'em out o' their places. an' them two chaney orniments o' t' chimley-piece, they wor allus comp'ny, too--duke o' wellington an' lord nelson they are. my mother wor varry proud on 'em i' her time, an' t' missis wor just t' same; an' sin' shoo went they've allus felt to be comp'ny like. i doubt they'll nivver look t' same on another chimley-piece." "it's a shame 'at 'e's turned ye out, ted," said susannah, "an' i 'ope 'e'll 'ave to suffer for it, i do." "aye, lass," he replied, "i could ha' liked well to ha' drawn my last breath i' t' old cottage, i could, for sure. i think barjona mud ha' let me live on i' t' old 'ome. i shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long--not so long." "come inside, ted," said susannah, whose eyes were filling with tears, "an' lie down while i get you a sup o' tea." he appeared not to hear her, however, but stared fixedly at the flagged footpath and muttered, as he slowly shook his head: "i shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long--not so long." somebody fetched him a stool, and he sat down outside the gate with his back against the wall, whilst the women sympathised volubly, arms akimbo. it was very pathetic, but no words of comfort came to my lips, though my heart ached for the silent old man who was leaving behind everything that counted in life, and who was sure to feel keenly the loss of familiar faces and friendly looks, even though he had not shown himself neighbourly. i said something of the sort to mother hubbard, who had now joined us, but she was doubtful. "well, love, i don't know. ted has never shown much feeling. i have known him nearly all his life, and i don't think he has very deep feelings, love. he always seemed friendly with his wife, but not what you would call affectionate, you know, love. of course, one doesn't know what he really felt when she died, but it didn't seem to trouble him very much." "that proves nothing," i replied, with the emphasis born of observation; "the proverb says that 'still waters run deep,' and it is never more true than in this connection. the wailing widower is usually easily consoled." "yes, love, but i have discovered that you are very imaginative, though at one time i didn't think so, and you may read your own feelings into ted's, you know. i really do think, love, that he has not very deep feelings." soon everything was piled upon the cart, and ben goodenough came up to the old man to inform him that they were ready to leave. "now, ted!" he said, with an assumption of cheerfulness; "we've got everything on nicely, an' we'll step down with you to t' clough an' get 'em into their places at t' other end. you'll want to have a look round, 'appen, before we leave." "aye, ben lad, i tak' it varry kindly 'at ye're givin' yerself all this trouble. it's friendly, lad, friendly. aye, i sud like to hev a look round for t' last time afore we start." he rose wearily and accompanied ben up the path. barjona was standing at the door, and all three went in. they came out before long, and there were no traces of emotion on ted's ruddy face. but as he looked up and down the garden his lips quivered, though he mastered himself with an effort. the gladioli and hollyhocks made a brave show amid the humbler sweet-williams and marigolds, but they would have to be left. he stopped opposite the rose-bush. "ben, lad," he said, "ye'll do me one more favour, willn't ye? get me a spade off o' t' cart, will ye? i've left it till t' last minute, for i can 'ardly bide to root it up, but i munnut leave that tree be'ind." one of the men had darted off at the mention of the word "spade," and the beloved implement--the old man's faithful friend--was placed in his hand. "thee an' me's hed monny a grand time together, lad," he said, apostrophising the spade, "but nivver such a sad job as this afore. a sad job, aye, a sad job. but we've got to do it, lad, ye an' me." he put his foot upon it and prepared to dig up the tree, when barjona interposed. every word was clearly heard by the group in the roadway. "steady there! ... what ye goin' to do?" "nobbut just dig t' tree up, barjona." "leave t' tree alone ... that tree's mine." ted looked at him and his hands began to tremble. "ye don't meean, barjona, 'at ye won't let me tak' t' rose-tree away wi' me?" "ye tak' nowt out of t' garden ... all what's rooted in t' soil belongs to me ... paid good money for it.... put yer spade away." "look 'ere, mr. higgins," interrupted ben, "do you mean to tell me 'at you're going to prevent ted takin' a bit of a rose-tree with him? if you do, you're a harder-'earted old wretch than i took you for." angry murmurs arose from the crowd, but barjona's jaw stiffened and there was no hint of yielding in his tone. "right's right," he said ... "that rose-tree's mine ... took a partic'lar fancy to it ... won't part with it for nob'dy." ted fumbled in his pocket and produced a wash-leather bag, the neck of which was tied round with string. with shaking fingers he felt for a coin and drew out a half-sovereign. "i'll pay ye for't, barjona. sitha, i'll give ye ten shillin' for t' plant." "put yer brass back, ted ... brass willn't buy it ... took my fancy, that tree has ... you mun buy another." sar'-ann's mother pushed her way through and strode up to the stubborn, grasping man, and shook her fist in his face. "you miserable old devil!" she cried. "oh, if i were only a man i'd thrash ye while ever i could stand over ye. yes, i would, if they sent me to gaol for 't. i wish the earth 'ud open an' swalla' ye up. but t' varry worms 'ud turn at ye." barjona thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets and assumed an air of weariness. "isn't there a man among ye?" continued the infuriated woman. "ben, haven't ye spunk enough to fell 'im to t' ground? eh, these men! god forgive me 'at i call 'em men!" she fell back, and burst into hysterical tears, and ben made another attempt. "what the hangment do ye mean by it, mr. higgins? have ye no 'eart at all? ye'll never miss t' tree. i'll give you two just as good out of our own garden, hanged if i won't. let him take t' tree, an' we'll be going." "he--leaves--that--tree--where--it--is," replied barjona with emphasis; "an' ye can all clear out o' this garden.... that tree's mine." ben took ted's arm, but the old man refused to move. a tear forced its way out of the corner of his eye, and he drew a red cotton handkerchief from his trousers' pocket and wiped it away. "barjona, lad," he pleaded tremulously, "only just this one tree--nowt else; just this one tree, there's a good lad." "i've said my say," replied barjona. "take no notice of him, ted," said ben. "i'll give you one o' t' grandest rose-trees i' yorkshire. let t' old skinflint have his tree." "nay, but i mun hev it, i mun hev it," moaned the old man. "i mun hev it, lad; i mun hev it." i wondered if i could influence barjona, and i stepped up to him. "mr. higgins, you see how distressed ted is. surely you will not make the parting more bitter for him. think how unpleasant it will be for you to live among us if you make us all your enemies." "much obliged, miss 'olden.... if you mind your business ... i'll mind mine." "but why are you so set upon it, mr. higgins?" "'cos i am ... that's enough ... that plant's mine, an' mine it's goin' to be." i turned to ted. "cannot you make up your mind to do without it?" i asked. "do you want it so very much?" he nodded, and the tears now followed each other fast down his cheeks. "i mun hev it; i mun hev it," he moaned. we were all gathered round now; not a soul was left in the roadway, and the flower-beds were suffering. "but why?" i persisted. "what makes you so very anxious to have it? you shall have another just as fine. why do you want this particular one so badly?" he shook his head, and raised his sleeve to his brow with the old nervous, familiar action. "cannot you tell me?" i asked. then the answer came, low but clearly heard by everybody: "_shoo_ liked it!" the shame of the confession made him shake from head to foot, but the revelation of unsuspected deeps thrilled us, every one, and set us on fire with indignation and contempt. "you heard him!" i said, turning to barjona. "now listen! i will give you five pounds for that rose-bush." "that--tree--will--bide--where--it--is," replied barjona doggedly. there was a movement in the crowd as a raging woman forced her way through. she was hatless, like the rest of us, but her arms were bare to the elbows. until i noticed the tightly-coiled hair i did not recognise barjona's wife, for the usually pleasant face was clouded in storm. she strode up to her husband and seized him by the collar of his coat with both hands. "you heartless rascal!" she hissed in his ears; "so this is your blessed secret 'at you've kept for a surprise, is it? i'll surprise ye, ye good-for-nowt old jew. what do ye mean by it, eh?" she shook him as if he had been a lad of ten, and he was helpless in her grip. "you leave me alone!" he threatened, but all the brag was gone from him. "leave--you--alone!" she hissed between her clenched teeth; "i wish to god i had; but i took ye for better or worse, an' it isn't goin' to be all worse, i can tell ye! i hearkened to ye while i could 'earken no longer. the lord gi' me grace to keep my 'ands off o' ye!" it was a remarkably futile prayer, seeing that she was holding him as in a vice, and shaking him at intervals. "d'ye think i'd ever live 'ere, an' let a poor old man like ted fend for hisself anywhere? what do ye take me for? ye knew better than to tell me while ye'd gotten yer dirty work done, but thank the lord i was just in time. 'ere, get away! i'm stalled o' talkin' to ye!" she pushed him away roughly, but he made one more sulky struggle for mastery. "are ye t' boss 'ere, or am i?" he growled; "i've bought it ... an' i'll live in it." "will ye?" she said with scorn, "then ye'll live by yersen. but i'll show ye who's t' boss. you may thank the lord 'at ye've got a wife wi' a bit o' gumption. ye shall be t' master when ye can master yersen. i'm fair shamed o' ye! we'll 'appen live 'ere when owt 'appens ted, but never as long as 'e wants it; so that's flat!" the crowd cheered, and maria brightened visibly. "nay, to be sure, miss 'olden, an' friends," she said, "to think 'at any 'usband o' mine should disgrace hisself an' me i' this fashion! i never knew a word, believe me, while 'alf an hour sin' when i chanced across young smiddles, an' he let into me right an' left. i can tell you i didn't let t' grass grow under my feet afore i set off 'ere. don't you fret, ted, lad! turn ye out? not we! sitha, barjona's fair shamed of hisself, an' well he might be. nay, to be sure, i stood at back on ye all an' hearkened while my blood boiled. he must ha' been wrong i' his 'ead, barjona must. come, friends, get out o' t' gate, an' we'll carry t' furnitur' in agen, an' soon hev t' place to rights. now you can stop that mutterin', barjona, an' just get into t' trap out o' t' road!" many willing hands made the task a light one, and in an hour's time the cottage had assumed its old aspect, and the women had swept and dusted and given the finishing touches to everything. mrs. higgins was critical, but expressed herself satisfied at last. then she climbed into the trap and seated herself beside her husband. "good-bye, friends," she shouted, as they drove off. "don't ye worry. he can drive t' owd mare, but 'e can't drive me. i'll bring 'im to 'is sops!" "gosh!" snapped sar'-ann's mother, "now that's some bit like! gi' me a woman for mettle an' sperrit i lord 'elp us, but i reckon nowt o' such a white-livered lot o' men as we hev i' windyridge. she'll mak' a man o' yon old rascal yet, will maria!" as i looked back on my way home i saw that ted had fetched his rake, and was busy getting the garden into order again. chapter xx the cynic's renunciation excitements tread upon each other's heels. after barjona, the cynic. he appeared unexpectedly on monday morning, and i took the long-promised photographs, which have turned out very badly; why, i don't know. he was not in his sunday best, so the fault did not lie there; and his expression was all right, but i could not catch it on the plate, try as i might. he was very much amused, and accused me of looking haggard over the business, which was absurd. every photographer is anxious to secure a satisfactory result, or if he is not he does not deserve to succeed. i think really i was afraid of his waxing sarcastic over my attempts at portraying his features. he is not a handsome man, as i may have remarked before, but he is not the sort that passes unnoticed, and i wanted to secure on the plate the something that makes people look twice at him; and i failed. i took several negatives, but none of them was half as nice as the original; and yet we are told that photography flatters! he professed an indifference which i am afraid he felt, and mother hubbard assured him over the dinner-table that there was not the slightest ground for anxiety. it will be a long time, i fear, before he gets the proofs. he stayed to dinner on his own invitation, and mother hubbard prepared one of her extra special yorkshire puddings in his honour. fortunately, we had not cooked the beef on the sunday, or he would have had to be content with the remains of the cold joint; and though i should not have minded, i know mother hubbard would have been greatly distressed. he spoke quite naturally about rose, and appeared to have enjoyed her company immensely, but he had not seen her again up to then. when the meal was over we went out into the garden and sat down, and somehow or other the sense of quiet and the beauty of the view soothed me, and i felt less irritable than for days past. i never get tired of the dip of green fields and the stretch of moor on the far side of the wood. "can you spare me a full hour, miss holden?" he asked. "i have come down specially to see you, principally because i have had a letter from mr. evans which in some measure concerns you, and also because i want to continue the discussion of the parable of the marbles which we were considering the other evening." how pretty the landscape looked from our garden! cloud shadows were racing each other across the pastures as i lay back and watched them, and i thought the view had never been bonnier. "i am not overworked," i replied, "and i can give up a whole afternoon, if necessary. what is the news from the squire? nothing serious, i hope; and yet it must be important to bring you down here specially." "i hardly know what to say. something in his letter conveys the impression that he is far from well again, though he does not definitely say so. but it appears that he has asked you to go out to him if he becomes seriously ill. that is so, isn't it?" "yes," i answered, "and i have promised to go. it touches me deeply that he should want me." "i don't wonder," he said; but whether at my emotion or the squire's proposal did not transpire. "if and when he sends for you," he continued, "he wishes you to communicate with me, and he asks me to make all the business arrangements for you. i need hardly say that it will afford me much pleasure to do whatever i can. i will give you my broadbeck and town addresses, and if you will wire me whenever you need my services i will reply at once. please don't feel obliged to look anything up for yourself, as i will see to every detail, and provide all that is necessary for the journey in accordance with my old friend's instructions." "it is extremely good of you," i said, "and very thoughtful on the squire's part. i accept your offer gratefully. but do you think there is much likelihood of my being sent for?" "candidly, i think there is; equally candidly, i hope the necessity may not arise. if the end comes whilst he is abroad, a man ought by all means to be present, for there will be no end of difficulties, and it will be absolutely necessary for someone to go out. but that takes time, and meanwhile the position would not be a pleasant one for you. i would go to him myself now but for two insuperable difficulties, one being that certain important duties keep me in london at present, and the other that mr. evans most distinctly does not want me." "i quite see what you mean," i said; "but if the worst happens, and i am there at the time, i shall do my best and not mind the unpleasantness." "i am sure of that," he returned, "but you don't at all realise what is involved. however, we won't discuss this further. on his account i should be heartily glad for you to go, and i am relieved that he has had the good sense to suggest it." "i regard him very highly," i said. "you do more: you love him," he remarked, with a sharp, keen glance at my face. "yes, i think i love him," i replied without confusion. "i could easily be his daughter; we have much in common." he said nothing for quite a long time, during which he threw his cigarette away and lit a pipe. then he turned to me: "now for my parable." "yes," i said; "tell me about it." "you guessed, of course, that it is a matter that affects me deeply and seriously?" "i was afraid so. i could not be certain, of course, but i felt that it was much more than an ethical conundrum." "god knows it was, and he knows, too, that i am grateful to you for the clear lead you gave, suspecting, as you must have done, that it meant much to me." had i suspected? i suppose i did, for my heart, i remember, beat painfully; yet i had not thought much more of it since. i looked at him, and saw that his face was white but resolute, and i said hesitatingly: "i am sorry if you are in trouble, but farmer goodenough thinks that troubles are blessings in disguise. i wish i could give you more than second-hand comfort." "i am going to tell you exactly where i stand," he said, "and you must not allow your woman's instinct of comfort to cloud or bias your judgment. goodenough may be right, but if i take the step i contemplate it will not be because i expect good to result to myself--though there may be, no doubt, a certain spiritual gain--but because it is the only course possible to me if i am to retain my self-respect. "you will hardly have heard of a rather prominent case in which i figured recently as counsel for the plaintiff." "lessingham _versus_ mainwaring?" i queried. "you have heard of it then? do you know the details?" "not at all. i simply read in the paper that you had won the case for your client." "i see. well, it would take too long, and would be too uninteresting to you to explain everything, but put briefly the case was this. mainwaring had got hold of a considerable sum of money--over â£7,000, as a matter of fact--which lessingham claimed belonged to him. there were a great many points which were interesting to lawyers, and when the plaintiff's brief was offered to me i jumped at it. a barrister has often to wait a long time before any plums fall to his share, but this was a big one, for the other side had engaged two of the most eminent counsel in the land; and i had a big figure marked on my brief. "we had a tremendous fight, and in the heat of the forensic duel i lost sight of everything except the one goal of triumphant and overwhelming victory. i have no desire to speak of my accomplishment in terms that may sound egotistical, but i may say without affectation that i found all the weak places in the defence and used every talent i could command to crush my opponents, and i succeeded, and became for a week one of the most talked-of men in london. outwardly collected, i was inwardly exalted above measure, for i knew what the winning of the case meant for me. "i say i knew. i should have said i thought i knew. all i realised was that briefs would now be showered upon me, as they have been--as they are being. what i failed to realise was that i should have to stand at the bar of my own conscience, and be tried by the inexorable judge whose sentences are without mercy. that came to pass quickly, and i was condemned, and on appeal you confirmed the judgment." "i? oh, mr. derwent!" "during the course of the trial i became convinced, or at any rate i had grave reasons for suspecting that my client was a scoundrel, and had no right to a penny of the money. the conviction came in part from what was revealed to me in conversation with him, and in part from what came out in evidence, but at the moment i did not care. i was paid to win my case, not to secure justice. that was for the judge and jury. there was more than that, however. it was not the lust of gain, but the lust of glory that obsessed me. i, philip derwent, was going to defeat ritson and friend at whatever cost. "but, miss holden, i have inherited certain qualities which are likely to put awkward obstacles in the path of ambition. my father was a good man. he was scrupulously, fastidiously honest. he believed that the principles of the sermon on the mount could and should be practised in everyday life. consequently he never made much money, and was terribly disappointed when his only son adopted the law as a profession. some--not all, but some--of his qualities are in my blood; and the voice of conscience is always telling me that the father was a better man than the son, and that, unless i am careful, i shall sell my life for power and possessions; and i have made up my mind to be careful. "well, i have made inquiries--carefully and without hurry--and i now know for a fact that mainwaring had every right to that money, and that lessingham is a fraud, so that my course is clear. i have seen lessingham, and he laughs in my face. 'you knew it at the time, old man!' he said; 'and a jolly good thing you've made out of it.' there was no chance of putting things right from that quarter." "but, mr. derwent," i interrupted, "surely in your profession this is an everyday occurrence. both sides cannot be right, and both need legal assistance." "true," he replied, "and you must quite understand my attitude. i am not judging any of my brethren: to their own master they stand or fall. but for myself, i am not going to support any case, in the future, which i am not convinced is a just one. if, after accepting a brief, i have reason to believe that i am espousing an unjust cause i will throw it up at whatever sacrifice." "i am afraid it will mean _great_ sacrifice," i murmured. "would you recommend me not to do it?" he asked. "you must obey your inner self, or suffer torment," i replied. "i must, and i will," he said firmly. "now listen to me. my father was not, as i have said, a wealthy man, and on his death i inherited little beyond good principles and good books. the waiting period for financial success was long, but latterly i have made money. i have â£7,000 in the bank, and a good income. and my judgment agrees with yours: i must part with my marbles." "oh, mr. derwent," i exclaimed; "think well before you take so serious a step! what is my hasty decision worth? it was given on the spur of the moment: it was the immature judgment of an inexperienced woman!" "it was the spontaneous expression of pure, instinctive truth," he replied. "yet do not feel any sense of responsibility. i had already reached the same conclusion: you merely confirmed it, and in doing so helped and strengthened me--though the decision set back a hope that had arisen within me." "but, mr. derwent"--i was groping around vainly for a loophole of escape--"this mr. mainwaring, is he poor? does he need the money? will he use it well?" "what does that matter?" he replied. "his wealth or poverty cannot affect the question of right or wrong. the money is his by right. _i_ robbed him of it by forensic cunning and rhetoric, and i will repay him. as a matter of fact he is fabulously wealthy, and â£7,000 is to him a mere drop in an ocean. and he spends his money on horses and dissipation. he is a bigger scoundrel than lessingham, and that is saying much." "but what a shame, mr. derwent! it does not seem right." "it can never be wrong to do right. besides, i misled you at the outset of our conversation--misled you purposely. i could not change my mind now if i wished to do so, for i posted mainwaring a cheque for the full amount this morning." i felt ready to cry, but there was as much joy as sorrow in my breast. i believe i smiled, and i held out my hand, which he grasped and retained a moment. at that instant a telegraph boy pushed open the gate and advanced towards me. "miss holden?" he inquired. i took the envelope and tore it open. it contained only a brief message: "zermatt. _july_ 22_nd._ "please come soon as possible. see derwent. "evans. hotel victoria." i burst into tears, and went into the house. chapter xxi at zermatt i cannot truthfully say that sad thoughts were uppermost during the hours that followed. after all, it was my first trip to the continent, and although i am thirty-six years old, and might be expected to have got over mere juvenile excitements, i confess to a feeling of cheerful anticipation. of course the squire was always in the background of my thoughts, but i had no sense of apprehension such as sometimes oppresses one before an approaching calamity. and it was so nice to have everything arranged for me, and to find myself in possession of time-tables and railway-coupons and a clear itinerary of the journey without the slightest effort or inconvenience on my part. undoubtedly man has his uses, if he is a clear-headed, kind-hearted fellow like the cynic. when the whistle sounded and the boat express glided out of charing cross i waved my handkerchief from the window as long as i could see him, and then settled down into the luxurious cushions and gave myself up to reflection. how nice and brotherly he had been all the way to town, and since! i do not wonder that rose enjoyed the journey. rose! i might have let her know that i was leaving by the morning train, but then she would have had to ask for an hour off; and when she has just been away for ten days her chief might not have liked it. besides, the cynic had such a lot of minute instructions and emphatic warnings to which i was forced to listen attentively. then there was mother hubbard, who had been set upon accompanying me on the ground that i ought not to travel alone and unchaperoned; but the cynic agreed with me that at my age chaperonage is unnecessary. i am not the sort that needs protection; and the little motherkin would merely have added to my anxieties. no, though there was a sick and perhaps dying man at the other end, and though sorrow might soon compass me about, i determined to enjoy the present moment, and i did. i enjoyed the breeze upon the channel, the glimpses of peasant life in france as the train rushed through the flat and rather tame country, the dinner in the northern railway station at paris, and the novel experience of the tiny bed which was reserved for my use on the night journey. i was travelling in luxury, of course, and am never likely to repeat the experience. but my chief enjoyment was one which could be shared by any who had eyes to see, though they were sitting upright on the bare and narrow boards of the miserable third-class compartments which i caught sight of occasionally in the stations when morning came. the glory of the dawn! of the sun rising behind the mountains, when a pink flush spread over the sky, dissolving quickly into rose and amber and azure, delicately pencilled in diverging rays which spread like a great fan to the zenith! the crags of a great hill caught the glow, and the mountain burned with fire. below, the grass was gold and emerald; there were fruit-laden trees in the foreground, and in the distance, away beyond the belt of low-lying mist and the vague neutral tints which concealed their bases, were the snow mountains! i pushed down the window and gorged myself with the heavenly vision. there was no time to see geneva, but the ride along the banks of the lake and through the fertile rhone valley was one long, delightful dream. luncheon was provided at visp, and then began the journey on the mountain railway which i can never forget. as the train snorted and grunted up the steep incline i rejoiced to realise that it could not travel more quickly. stream, mountain and forest; fertile valley, rushing waterfall and lofty precipice--all contributed to the charm of the experience. but the rush of the visp, as it poured down the narrow gorge, and boiled and fretted in turbulent cascades which hurled their spray through the windows of the passing train is the one outstanding remembrance. it was glorious! then the matterhorn came in sight for a moment, and just afterwards the toy train drew up at the toy platform in zermatt. the concierge of the hotel victoria took my bag and pointed me out to a diminutive young lady who was standing near. she at once came forward and held out her hand, whilst a winning smile spread over her pleasant face. "you are miss holden, are you not? i have stepped across to meet you, so that you might not feel so strange on your arrival. my husband is a doctor--dr. grey--and he has taken an interest in mr. evans, and continues to do so even though i have fallen in love with the old gentleman." i liked the girl straight away. she is quite young--only just twenty-three, as she told me frankly, and ever such a little creature, though she carries herself with the dignity of a duchess--in fact, with much more dignity than some duchesses i have seen. "now that is 'real good' of you, as the americans whose company i have just left would say," i replied; "and i think it was very nice of you to think of it. tell me first, please, if mr. evans is worse." "i really cannot say with certainty," she replied; "the zermatt doctor thinks he is not going to recover, and my husband says that he will live for months. now my husband, dear, is a _very clever man indeed_, though he is only young; and although the other man looks very formidable and wears spectacles i don't believe he is as clever as ralph." i smiled. "you have known the one doctor longer than the other," i said. "not much, as a doctor," she confided. "to let you into a secret which nobody here has discovered, ralph and i are on our honeymoon, so that my experience of his medical abilities is limited, but i am sure he is very clever. but come! the hotel is only just across the way." she accompanied me to my room and chatted incessantly whilst i was endeavouring to remove the grime and grit which the continental engines deposit so generously upon the traveller behind them. "there!" she said, as i emptied the water for the third time, and sponged my face and neck preparatory to a brisk towelling; "you have emerged at last. but you will never be quite yourself until you have washed your hair. do it to-night, dear. i know a splendid way of tying your head up in a towel so that you can sleep quite comfy." the squire's face brightened when he saw me. he was sitting near the window in a great easy-chair which was almost a couch, and his hair was whiter than when he left england, and his face was--oh! so thin and grey; but what a gentleman he looked! he held out both hands, but i bent over and kissed him. if it was a bold thing to do i don't mind. my inner self bade me do it and i obeyed. he held my face against his for a moment, and neither of us spoke. then he said: "look at my view, grace, and tell me if you like it." i sat on the arm of his chair and looked through the open window. i saw before me a scene of peaceful loveliness--a valley, richly green, with here and there oblong patches of yellow framed in olive hedges: a narrow valley, girded with mountains whose sides rise steeply to tremendous heights, jagged, scarped, and streaked with snow: a wooded valley, too, where sombre trees of fir and pine climb the heights and spread out into thickets which end only with the rock. quaint, brown-timbered structures, built on piles and with overhanging roofs, sometimes isolated, sometimes in little groups, were dotted about the landscape. a white road wound down the valley, and the yellow waters of the visp rushed, torrent-like, along the bottom, to be lost to view where the land dipped abruptly to the left. in the far distance mountains of snow lifted up their hoary heads into the luminous haze; and light clouds, rivalling their whiteness, gave the illusion of loftier heights still, and led the eye to the brilliant blue of high heaven. the sun was behind us, and banks of clouds must have intercepted his rays from time to time, for the play of light and shade varied like a kaleidoscope, and the bare, stony flanks of the mountains in the middle distance shone green or grey or red as the sun caught them. a rude bridge crossed the stream away below, and i could just make out some tourists in tyrolese caps and with knapsacks on their backs, leaning over the white rails. the squire put his arm on mine. "i will tell you the names of these giants later. meanwhile, tell me, have i chosen well?" "it is heavenly," i replied. "i should be content to sit here for days." "i am content," he said; "there is grander scenery than this around zermatt--grander by far. at the other end of the valley you will see and you will glory in the towering masses of crag and snow which the matterhorn and breithorn present. you will see miles of glaciers and sparkling waterfalls and a thousand wonders of god's providing; but it was too cold and massive and hard to suit the mood of a dying man. i wanted nature in a kindlier temper, so i sit by the window and commune with her, and she is always friendly." there was a stool in the room, and i drew it up and sat at his feet with one arm upon his knee, as i used to sit for hours in the days of old, before my father's death left me solitary; and when the squire placed a caressing hand upon my shoulder i could have thought that, a chapter had been re-opened in the sealed pages of my life. "who is this dr. grey," i inquired, "whose charming little wife met me at the station, and told me you are not going to die for a long time?--for which i love her." he smiled. "grey is an optimist, my dear, and a downright good fellow, and he has picked up a prize in his wife. they are on their wedding-tour, as anyone quite unversed in that lore can see at a glance; and they ought to have left zermatt a week ago or more but they have cheerfully stayed on to minister to the physical and mental necessities of an old man and a stranger. not many would have done it, for they are sacrificing one of the most attractive programmes that switzerland offers, for my sake." "what a lot of good people there are in the world," i said. "i am going to like dr. grey as much as i like his wife. he is a big, strong, well-developed man, of course?" "why 'of course?'?" he asked. "husbands of tiny wives invariably are; the infinitely small seems to have a remarkable affinity for the infinitely great." "well, he is certainly a strapping fellow, and he is devoted to the wee woman he has made his wife. i believe, too, he will get on in his profession." "his wife says he is a very clever man indeed," i remarked. "does she? an unbiassed opinion of that kind is valuable. all the same, he has done me good, not so much with physic--for i take the zermatt man's concoctions--as with his cheery outlook. i believe he thinks i am a trickster." "do you know what i believe, sir?" i asked. "no; tell me," he said. "i believe you are going to get better, and i shall take you back to windyridge and the moors." he sighed then, and laid a hand fondly upon mine. "grace, my child, i will say now what it may be more difficult to say later. you have caught me in a good hour, and my weary spirits have been refreshed by the sight of your face and the sound of your voice; but you must be prepared for darker experiences. sometimes i suffer; often i am terribly weak and depressed. gottlieb, i know, does not expect me to recover, and my inner self (that is your expression, child, and i often think of it) tells me he is right. you are too sensible to be unduly distressed before the time comes, and i want to tell you what i have planned, and to tell you quite calmly and without emotion. death to me is only a curtain between one room and the next, so that it does not disturb me to explain to you what i wish to be done when it is raised for me to pass through. "midway in the village you will find some gardens opposite the mont cervin hotel. pass through them and you will reach a little english church, surrounded by a tiny graveyard. there lie the bones of men who have been killed on the mountains, and of others who have found death instead of life in these health-giving heights. there is one sunny spot where i want my body to rest, and the chaplain knows it. you can bear to hear me speak of these things, can you?" yes, i could bear it. he spoke so naturally and with such ease that i hardly realised what it meant: it was unreal, far-off, fallacious. "at first," he continued, "the idea was repugnant. i longed to be laid side by side with my wife in the homeland, but that feeling passed. it was nothing more than sentiment, though it was a sentiment that nearly took me home, in spite of the doctors. but the more i have thought of it the more childish it has seemed. i am conscious of her presence here, always. metaphysicians would explain that easily enough, no doubt, but to me it is an experience, and what can one want more? why, then, should i run away to windyridge and fawkshill in order to find her, or be carried there for that purpose after death? no, no. heaven is about me here, and our spirits will meet at once when the silver thread is loosed which binds me to earth. am i right, grace?" i was crying a little now, but i could not contradict him. "gottlieb shakes his head, but grey says i may last for months. perhaps he is right, but i have no desire to live. why should i? and where could i end my days more pleasantly than amidst these masterpieces of the great architect?" mrs. grey came for me when the dinner bell sounded, and we went down together. it has been arranged that i am to lunch with the squire in his own room, but to have dinner with the rest at a little table which i share with the greys. the doctor is just a great bouncing boy, with merry eyes and thick brown hair. he is on good terms with everybody--guests of high degree and low, waiters, porters, chambermaids--all the cosmopolitan crowd. he adores his little wife, and it is funny to see so big a man worshipping at so small a shrine. i expressed my gratitude to them both as we sat at dinner, and he laughed--such a hearty, boisterous laugh. "it's my wife. dot wouldn't hear of leaving, and you cannot get a separation order in these wilds. she has spent so much time with the old gentleman that i have been madly jealous for hours at a stretch." "don't be untruthful, ralph," said mrs. grey. "you know perfectly well that you have spoiled our honeymoon with the simple and sordid motive of gaining professional experience. besides, you are nicest when you are jealous." "am i, by jove!" he laughed. "then 'niceness' will become habitual with me, for the way all the men look at you fans the flame of my jealousy. but this is poor stuff for miss holden, and i want to talk seriously to her." "what is your candid opinion of mr. evans?" i asked. "he is marked to fall, miss holden, but if he can be persuaded to make the effort to live he need not fall for months, perhaps even for years. the fact is, he has become indifferent to life, and that is against him." "what is really the matter with him?" "now, there you corner me," he replied. "he has a weak heart, bronchial trouble, some diabetic tendencies and disordered nerves; but what is really the matter with him i have not discovered. can you tell me?" "i should have thought all these things were matter enough," i answered; "but what really ails him, i believe, is what is commonly termed a 'broken heart.' he is always mourning the loss of his wife and always dwelling upon reunion." "he never told me that," replied the doctor thoughtfully; "i am glad to know it." "why should he remain abroad all this time?" i asked. "because he shouldn't!" he replied. "in my judgment he has been ill advised; but it is largely his own fault, too. i think he did well to leave england for the winter, but he ought to have gone home when the warm weather came. his medical advisers have always prescribed change of scene: told him to go anywhere he liked, and 'buck up' a bit, and he has gone. france, spain, egypt, italy, and now zermatt. and the old chap is dying of loneliness. gottlieb shakes his mournful old head, and goes out to arrange with the english chaplain where to bury him. i'd bury them both! if you take my advice you'll pet him and make him think the world is a nice place to live in, and then we'll take him home, and let old gottlieb find another tenant for his grave. if you will second me we'll have him out of this hole in a week's time." i felt so cheered, and i will certainly follow his lead. i wrote a long, explanatory letter to the cynic, an apologetic one to rose, and a picture postcard, promising a longer communication, to mother hubbard, and then turned in and slept like a top. chapter xxii the heather pulls the sensation of dazzling light and the sound of tinkling silvery bells woke me early, and i jumped up and looked out of the window. the bells belonged to a herd of goats which were being driven slowly to pasture. stalwart guides, with stout alpenstocks in their hands, and apparently heavy cloth bags upon their backs, were standing near the hotel and on the station platform. tourists of both sexes were getting ready to accompany the guides, and there was much loud questioning and emphatic gesticulation on both sides. a few mules stood near, presumably for the use of the ladies. it was all too provocative, and i flung myself into my clothes and went out. if i were writing a guide book i could wax eloquent, i believe, in my descriptions of zermatt; but i am not, and i therefore refrain. the squire was delighted with my enthusiasm, and insisted upon my "doing" the place thoroughly. he did not rise until noon, so that my mornings were always free, and the greys took me all the shorter excursions. one day we had quite a long trip to the top of the gorner grat, whence one gets an unrivalled view of snow peaks and glaciers; and from thence we walked to the schwarz see, where the matterhorn towers in front of you like an absolute monarch in loneliness and grandeur. oh, those ravines, where the glacier-fed streams rage furiously in their rapid descent! oh, those gorges, in whose depths the pent-up waters leap onward between high walls of rock to which the precarious gangway clings where you stand in momentary fear of disaster! oh, those woods, with the steep and stony footpaths, and the sudden revelation of unsuspected objects: of kine munching the green herbage; of the women who tend them, working industriously with wool and needle; of wooden _chã¢lets_ with stone-protected roofs; of trickling cascades and roaring waterfalls! oh, those pastures, green as emerald, soft as velvet, where one might lie as on a couch of down and feast the eye on mountain and vale and sky, and never tire! oh, those sunsets, and particularly the one which struck my imagination most, when the sky was not crimson, but topaz-tinted, and the huge cloud which hung suspended from the neck of the matterhorn was changed in a second into beaten gold, as though touched by the rod of the alchemist; when the breithorn flushed deep for a moment at the sun's caress, and the land lay flooded in a translucent yellow haze that spread like a vapour over the works of god and man, and turned mere stones and mortar into the fairy palaces of eastern fable! it seems now like a wonderful dream, but, thank god! it is something much less transient. for a memory is infinitely better than a dream: the memory of an experience such as this is a continual feast, whereas a dream too often excites hopes that may never be realised, and presents visions of delight which are as elusive as the grapes of tantalus. i stored up every detail for the squire's benefit. i cultivated my powers of observation more for his sake than my own, and reaped a double reward. all i saw is impressed still upon my brain with photographic sharpness, and it will be a long, long time before the image becomes faded or blurred. but what was better still, i saw the squire's eyes brighten and the "yonderly" look depart, as he came back to earth evening by evening and followed the story of my adventures. i believe he would have been content to stay on indefinitely and give me as good a time as my heart could have desired, but that would not have been right. i had not gone out to enjoy a frolic, and at times i felt almost ashamed of myself for enjoying life so much. "grace holden," i said, "you are a very considerable fraud. your special rã´le just now is supposed to be that of the ministering angel, whereas you are flinging away your own time and somebody else's money like an irresponsible tripper." dr. grey laughed when i told him that i had qualms of conscience on this score. "don't worry," he said; "providence has her own notions of how angels can best minister, and i fancy you are carrying out her scheme pretty successfully, it's three days since the old gentleman spoke a word about dying, and i'm certain he is not nearly as anxious to be gone as he was before you came. but cannot you tempt him back to england by any means? my wife and i cannot remain here much longer, and i would like to help you to take him home." i did my best, but i made little headway. the squire seemed to have lost all desire for home, and had quite made up his mind that his body would soon be laid to rest amid the eternal snows. he was constantly anticipating some further attack which would cut him down without warning, and gottlieb seemed to find a mournful satisfaction in encouraging these forebodings, less perhaps by what he said than by what he left unsaid. a tinge of annoyance began to mix with dr. grey's laugh, and he spoke to the squire with a touch of asperity. he had subjected him again to a thorough examination, and on its conclusion he broke out: "look here, mr. evans, i stake my professional reputation upon my verdict that you are not a dying man physically. if you die it's your own fault. there is no reason why we should not start for home to-morrow." the squire took his hand and held it. "grey," he said, "has science taught you that man has an inward voice that sometimes speaks more authoritatively and convincingly than doctor or parson, and that insists upon its dicta? miss holden knows it and calls it her 'inner self.'" "no, sir," he replied, "science has taught me nothing of the kind. i am no psychologist, for my business is with the body rather than the soul. but science has taught me what the body is and is not able to accomplish, and whatever your 'inner self' may say i am convinced that your body is quite competent to take that perverse autocrat home if he will let it. but it cannot otherwise." "intuition is sometimes more powerful than logic," said the squire. "grey, you are a good fellow and i owe you a debt of gratitude, but don't inconvenience yourself on my account. go home, if you must, and believe me, i am sincerely thankful for all your goodness and attention." the doctor tackled me again at dinner. "i'm not going home," he said, "and i'm not going to let him die without a struggle. but you'll have to make that inner self of his listen to reason. now put your thinking cap on, and good luck to you." "i cannot understand him," i replied; "he was always inclined to melancholy, but he was not morbid and listless as he now shows himself. he seems sometimes pitiably weak and childish, whereas ordinarily he is full of shrewd common sense." "of course he is," said the doctor, "and will be again. his inner self is sick just now, consequent upon his long seclusion from friends and home associations. it needs to be roused. if you can once make him _want_ to go home, his body will take him there hard enough. i can't do that: you must. can't you tell him you have got to go back?" i had thought of that. i had left my work at the busiest season of the year, and, after all, it was my living. and there was mother hubbard, who had learned to lean upon me, and had yielded me so willingly to the more pressing duty. i owed something to her. as i thought upon these things a feeling of homesickness stole over me, and i went in and sat at the squire's feet. it was falling dusk, and the cool breath of evening fanned our cheeks as we sat by the open window and watched the lights twinkling in the celestial dome, and the mountains growing more black and mysterious with the advancing night. "it is very lovely," murmured the squire. "yes," i said, "it is. but close your eyes and i will paint you a more attractive picture than this. you will not interrupt me, will you? and i will try to tell you what i saw not long ago, and what i am aching to see again." "no, my child," he replied, pressing my hand fondly "i will be quite still and you shall paint your picture on my brain." i hesitated a moment, and i think a wordless, formless prayer for help ascended to heaven. i endeavoured to visualise the scene in its fairest colours, and trembled lest my effort should be in vain. i closed my own eyes, too, for i feared distraction. then i began: "i am standing in a country lane, with ragged hedges on either hand. the hedges are brightly green, for they have been newly washed with the warm rain of summer, and they sparkle like gems in the bright sunshine of a glorious morning. there is a bank of grass, rank, luxurious grass, on one side of the roadway, and i clamber up to secure a wider view of the bounties nature has provided. "there is a merry, frolicsome breeze--a rude one, in truth, for it winds my skirt about my limbs and blows my hair over my ears and eyes; and yet i love it, for it means no harm, and its crisp touch braces my body and gives me the taste of life. "from my elevated standpoint i see the distant horizon, miles and miles away. far off upon my right the clouds lie in long grey strata, like closely-piled packs of wool, but on my left the remoter sky is washed in silver, with here and there a rent revealing wonderfully delicate tints of blue. "overhead the wool-packs have been burst open by the wind which is tearing them apart and scattering their contents over the deep blue zenith. they are dazzlingly white, whether heaped together in massive bulk, or drawn out--as so many of them are--into transparent fluff which drifts in the rapid air current like down of thistles. "the morning is cold and the air is keen, so that the sky-line is sharply defined and hints a threat of rain. but who cares about the evil of the hour after next when there are so many glories to delight the present sense? see, the sky-line of which i speak is dusky purple and reddish-brown, but broad, flat washes of verdigris stretch up to it, with here and there a yellow patch betokening fields of grain, and in the foreground meadows and pastures of brighter hue. "in front of me is a clump of trees--fine, tall trees they are, with shining grey boles--standing erect and strong in spite of the fury of the gales. sycamore and beech and elm, majestic, beautiful. i hear the cawing of the rooks from out the dark shadows. "i climb over the wall a little farther on and walk fifty paces forward. i now see a grey hall, a dear old place, stone-roofed and low, with tiny old-world window-panes around which the dark-hued ivy clings tenaciously. there are brightly coloured flower-beds in front, and a green lawn to one side, and a cluster of beeches stands sentinel before the closed door. for the door, alas! is closed, and as i look a thick thundercloud hangs over the house, and i turn away depressed and seek the sunshine on the other side. "and now it is waste land upon which my delighted eyes rest, and the west wind brings to my nostrils the scent of the moors. waste land! who shall dare to call that russet-coloured hillside with the streaks of green upon it, waste? that stretch of country, bracken-covered, ending in the long expanse of heath which is now violet-purple in tint, but will soon be glowing and aflame when the heather bursts its bonds--can that be waste? surely not! "i see tiny cottages from whose chimneys the blue smoke is being twisted into fantastic forms by the wind's vagaries, and gardens gay with bloom, and a green-bordered street, and through an open door the dancing flame on a homely hearth. it is all very lovely and peaceful, and when i turn for a last look at the old hall where the door is closed, lo! the thunder-cloud has gone, and the sky is blue over the smokeless stacks, and hope arises within my breast, and i go on my way with joy and peace in my heart. that is my picture!" i stopped and opened my eyes. a tear was stealing down the squire's face, and the grasp on my hand had tightened. "have you finished, grace?" "yes," i whispered. "i think i should like to go home," he said. "i believe i could manage it, after all." chapter xxiii the parable of the heather we left zermatt on the following day. i must say that i entered the squire's room with some trepidation, but it was quite unnecessary. he smiled as i bent over to kiss him, and relieved my apprehension at once. "it's all right, grace," he said; "the heather pulls. you know, don't you?" dr. grey was splendid. motor cars are of no use in zermatt, except to bring you there or take you away, so the smell of petrol does not often draw the tourist's attention from the sublime to the--nauseous; but it was characteristic of the almost impudent audacity of the man that he commandeered the only one there was at the victoria. "how have you managed it?" i asked, when i learned that we were all to travel as far as lausanne in the marquis d'olsini's luxurious automobile. "oh, easily enough," he replied in his hearty way; "the marquis is no end of a decent sort, and when i explained matters, and pointed out that the car was rusting for want of use, he placed it at my disposal with the grace and courtliness that distinguish your true italian nobleman." it was a veritable little palace on tyres, and we reached lausanne quickly and without inconvenience. the squire was not a bit worse for the effort, but the sight of old gottlieb turning away from the door when he had bidden us good-bye, with a shrug of the shoulders that said as plainly as any words could have done that he washed his hands of all responsibility and was disgusted at the capriciousness of the mad english, afforded me much delight and remains with me still. it took us four days to reach folkestone, and we stayed there a couple of nights before we went on to london. dr. and mrs. grey remained with us until we reached the st. pancras hotel, where the cynic was waiting to receive us. the squire will see a good deal of the greys, as the doctor is a manchester man and can easily run over. the cynic took to them at once, and mrs. grey, or "dot" as i have learned to call her, confided to me that my friend was a very nice fellow of whom she would be desperately afraid. fancy any woman being afraid of the cynic! mr. derwent is, in his way, quite as good an organiser as the doctor, though he goes about his work so quietly that you hardly realise it. instead of our having to change at airlee he had arranged for a saloon to be attached to the scotch express, so that we travelled with the utmost possible comfort. the squire was by this time so accustomed to travelling, and had borne the fatigue of the journey so well, that i should not have hesitated to accompany him alone, but it was very pleasant to have the cynic's company and to feel that he shared the responsibility. he seemed pleased to see me, i thought, and congratulated me warmly on the success of my mission. "you must thank dr. grey for all this," i said; "it was his persistence that brought mr. evans home." "nay, child," said the squire, "you and your word pictures sent me home." webster met us at fawkshill with the pair of bays, and his eyes shone as he greeted the squire. it was good to observe the sympathy that exists between the two as they grasped hands at the station gate. one was master and the other servant, but they were just old friends reunited, and neither of them was ashamed of his emotion. when we entered the lane the squire closed his eyes. "i will play at being a boy again, grace. tell me when we reach the brow of the hill, so that i may see it all at once." i knew what he meant, and none of the three spoke a word until webster pulled up his horses at my request. it was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the warm august sun was well on his way to the west. a thin haze hung over the distant hills, but the moors were glorious in brown and purple, and there was here and there the glint of gorse. "now, sir," i said, "look and rejoice!" he stood up in the carriage and looked around; and as he looked he filled his lungs with the sweet moorland air. then he said, with deep emotion: "thank god for this!--drive on, webster, please." i was anxious to see the motherkin, and leaving the squire to the companionship of mr. derwent i hastened to the cottage. it would be more correct to say that i did my best to hasten, but so many of the villagers stopped me to offer their greetings and inquire the news that my progress was considerably retarded. when i was nearing the cottage i met farmer goodenough, whose hearty hand-grasp i accepted cautiously. after the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered his voice became rather grave as he said: "miss 'olden, i don't want to worry ye, knowing 'at you're an extra speshul hand at findin' trouble, but i don't altogether like the looks o' mrs. hubbard. she's gone a bit thin an' worn, in a manner o' speakin'. ye'll excuse me saying ought, i know, but 'a stitch in time saves nine,' as t' owd book puts it." i thanked him, and hurried home, feeling very troubled and uneasy, but when the dear old lady came tripping down to meet me my fears retired into the background. she was so bright and sweet and altogether dainty, and she looked so happy and so well, with the pink flush of pleasure on her cheeks, that i concluded the worthy farmer had for once deceived himself. "yes, love!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around my neck as i stooped to kiss her; "but you are so brown, love, and you are really handsome. do come in and have some tea." she hovered about me all the time i was removing my hat and coat, anxious to render me service, and seizing every opportunity of stroking my hands and cheeks. "you foolish old pussy-cat!" i said at length, as i forced her into her easy-chair and placed the hot toast before her. "give over petting and spoiling me, and tell me all about yourself--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." she evaded all my questions, however, and insisted that i should describe for her every incident of my journey. when we had cleared away the things and drawn our chairs up to the fire i returned to the attack. perhaps she was a little thin, after all, and there was a tired look about the eyes that i did not like. "what have you been doing in my absence?" i asked; "not working yourself to death in the vain attempt to impart a brighter surface to everything polishable, eh?" "no, love, i have taken things very easily, and have just kept the cottages and your studio tidy. i have spent a good deal of time at reuben's, where they have been very kind to me; but i have missed you very much, love." "well, i am back now, and not likely to leave you again for a long time. we must have another full day's jaunt on the moors and see the heather in all its royal magnificence." her eyes brightened, but i noticed they fell again, and there was doubt in her voice as she replied: "yes, love. that will be nice. i think the heat has been very trying, and you may find it so, too. you must take care not to overtire yourself." then i knew that there was something wrong, and was glad that i had not consented to live at the hall. it had been a disappointment to the squire, but he had not pressed the point when he saw that i was unwilling, and i had, of course, readily agreed to spend a good deal of time with him. i know he would have welcomed my old lady as a permanent guest for my sake, but she would never have consented to abandon her own little hall of memories, though she would have sought by every cunning artifice which love could devise to induce me to leave her, and would have suffered smilingly. i registered a mental vow that she should never know, if i could keep the secret from her, and that i would do all in my power to make her declining days happy. "why are you so weary, dear?" i asked. "oh, it is nothing, love," she replied. "it is just the heat. i shall be better when the days are cooler. indeed, love, i am feeling better already." i slept soundly enough, in spite of my new anxiety, but the morrow brought me no alleviation. the old lady's vigour was gone, and she moved about the house without energy. but her cheerfulness never failed her, and her patience was something to marvel at. dr. trempest pulled up his horse at the gate and stopped to have a chat one day, and i took the opportunity of mentioning my uneasiness. "i'll pop in and look at her," he said. "why don't you give her the same magic physic you've poured down the throat of my old friend evans? he's taken on a new lease of life. i tell you it's a miracle, and he says you did it, but he won't divulge the secret. dear! dear! we old fogeys are no use at all in competition with the women! but come, let's have a look at the old girl." he walked brusquely in and sat astride a chair, leaning his chin on the high back, and talked with her for ten minutes. then he came out to me again. "can't say much without an examination, but appears to me the machinery's getting done. we can none of us last for ever, you know. keep her still, if you can, and tell her she needn't be up every two minutes to flick the dust off the fireirons. drive her out, now and then, and let her have exercise without exertion; and don't you pull a long face before her or get excited or boisterous." i pulled a face at _him_, and he grinned as he mounted his horse. "i'll send her up a bottle," he said; "works wonders, does a bottle, if it's mixed with faith in them that take it;" and the caustic old man moved slowly away. the bottle came, but so far it has wrought no miracle, and there has crept into my heart the unwelcome suggestion of loss. i have tried not to admit it, not to recognise it when admitted, but the attempt is vain. dr. trempest shakes his head and repeats his sagacious remark that we can't live for ever, and the squire presses my hand in sympathy, being too honest to attempt to comfort me with hollow hopes. only mother hubbard herself is cheerful, and as her physical strength decreases she appears to gain self-possession and mental vigour. when the squire suggested that she should be asked to accompany us on the drives which he so much enjoys i anticipated considerable opposition, and felt certain that she would yield most reluctantly, but to my surprise she consented without demur. "this is very kind of mr. evans, love," she said, "and if you do not mind having an old woman with you i shall be glad to go." she did not say much on these excursions, but when she was directly spoken to she answered without confusion, and was quite unconscious that she occasionally addressed the squire as "love." he never betrayed any consciousness of it, but i once noticed a repressed smile steal over webster's face as he sat upon the box. now it was that i saw the full beauty of the moorland which had made so strong an appeal to my father's heart. i felt my own strangely stirred, and my two companions were also full of emotion. i believe it spoke to each of us with a different voice, and had not quite the same message for any two of us. i have hardly analysed my own feelings, but i think the rich and yet subdued colouring got hold of my imagination, and the wildness of the scene impressed me powerfully. i had always known these moors--known them from my childhood; but only as one knows many things--the moon or the mauritius, for instance--from the description of others. the picture painted for me had been true to life, but not living; yet it had been sufficiently lifelike to make the reality strangely familiar. and now i looked at it with double vision--through my own eyes and my father's; and the thought of what he would have felt quickened my perceptions and attuned them to the spirit of my ancestors. the moors were sheeted in purple, brightened by clumps of golden gorse, and i could easily have followed the example of linnã¦us, who, when he first saw the yellow blossom, is said to have fallen on his knees and praised god for its beauty. the squire had known the moors always. to him the scene speaks of home. i do not think the actual beauty of it impresses him greatly, perhaps because of its extreme familiarity, and it does not arouse in him the same sensation of pleasure or appeal to his artistic sense in the same degree as the grander scenery he has so lately left behind. but this _contents_ him as nothing else does or could! it is as when one exchanges the gilded chairs of state for the old, familiar arm-chair which would appear shabby to some people, or the dress shoes of ceremony for the homely slippers on the hearth. he admits now that he is happier than he had ever been abroad, and that he is glad to spend the late evening of his days amid the friendly scenes of his youth and manhood. as for mother hubbard, she is quite unconsciously a mixture of poet and prophet. everything speaks to her of god. "yes, love," she said quite recently, "'he maketh everything beautiful in its season;'" and to her the country is always beautiful, because it is always as god made it. that is why she loves it so much, i am sure; and whether it glows and sparkles beneath the hot sun of august or lies dun and grey under the clouded skies of february it is always full of charm. to her, all god's paintings show the hand of the master, whether done in monochrome or in the colours of the rainbow, and none of them fails to satisfy her. and nature preaches to her, but the sermons are always comforting to her soul, for her inward ear has never been trained to catch the gloomy messages which some of us hear so readily. but where she finds consolation i discover disquietude. the horse had been pulled up at a point where the wide panorama stretched limitlessly before us, and for a time we had all been speechless. i had gathered a tiny bunch of heather and fastened it in my belt, and now stood, shading my eyes with my hand, as i looked across the billowy expanse. the squire had closed his eyes, but his face showed no trace of weariness, and i knew that he was happy. mother hubbard broke the silence, as she sank back into her seat with a little sigh, and when i sat down webster drove slowly on. "it is nice to think, love, that though you have gathered and taken away a sprig of heather the landscape is still beautiful. and yet, you know, the little flowers you have plucked gave their share of beauty to the whole, and helped god to do his work. i think, love, that thought encourages me when i know that the lord may soon stretch out his hand for me. your little flowers have not lived in vain. only their neighbours will miss them, but their little world would not have been quite as beautiful without them." i think the squire was astonished, but he remained quite still, and i replied: "that is very true, dear, but the heather has never thwarted its maker's purpose, but has lived the life he designed, and so has perfectly fulfilled its mission. with man, alas! it is not so. he too often makes a sad bungle of life, and is so full of imperfections that he cannot add much to the beauty of the landscape." mother hubbard shook her head and pointed to the moors. "yet _that_ is very beautiful, love, isn't it?" "it is perfect," i replied. "perfect, is it? look at the little flowers at your waist. see, one little bell has been blighted in some way, and there are several which seem to have been eaten away in parts, and here and there some have fallen off. i wonder if you could find a sprig, love, where every bell and tiny leaf is perfect. not many, i think. yet you say the view is perfect, though the parts are full of imperfections." the squire opened his eyes and bent them gravely upon her, but he did not speak, and she did not observe him. "ah, but, dear mother hubbard," i said, "the heather bells cannot help their imperfections. the blight and the insect, the claw of bird, the foot of beast, the hand and heel of man---how can they resist these things? but again i say, with man it is not so. he is the master of his destiny. he has freedom of will, and when he fails and falls and spoils his life it is his own fault." "not always, love," the gentle voice replied; "perhaps not often entirely his own fault. i used to think like that, but god has given me clearer vision now. here is poor sar'-ann, not daring to show her face outside the door; covered with shame for her own sin and ginty's. oh yes, love, she has spoiled her life. but think of how she has been brought up: in a little cottage where there was a big family and only two rooms; where the father was coarse and the boys--poor little fellows--imitated him; and the mother, though she has a kind heart, is vulgar and often thoughtless; where decency has been impossible and woman's frailty has been made a jest. it has not been sar'-ann's fault, love, that she has been placed there. she had no voice in the selection of her lot. she might have been in your home and you in hers. that little bunch of heather would have been safe yet if it had not been growing by the roadside where you stood." "then god is responsible for sar'-ann?" i asked. "god is her father, and he loves her very dearly," she replied simply. "there are lots of questions i cannot answer, love, but i am sure he will not throw sar'-ann away because she has been blighted and stained." the squire broke in now, and there was just a little tremor in his voice as he spoke: "'and when the vessel that he made of the clay was marred in the hands of the potter he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.'" mother hubbard's eyes lit up. "yes, sir," she said, "and i do not think he grieved too much because the first design went wrong. he just made it again another vessel. perhaps he meant at first to make a very beautiful and graceful vessel, but there were imperfections and flaws in the material, so he made it into a homely jug; and yet it was useful." "oh, mother hubbard!" i said, "there are all sorts of imperfections and flaws in your logic, and i know people who would shake it to pieces in a moment." "well, love, perhaps so; but they would not shake my faith: "'to one fixed ground my spirit clings, i know that god is good.'" "stick to that, mrs. hubbard," said the squire earnestly; "never let go that belief. faith is greater far than logic. i would sooner doubt god's existence than his goodness. problems of sin and suffering have oppressed my brain and heart all my life, but like you i have got clearer vision during these later days. the clouds often disperse towards the sunset, and my mental horizon is undimmed now. you and i cannot explain life's mysteries, but god can, and meanwhile i hold "'that nothing walks with aimless feet; that not one life shall be destroyed, or cast as rubbish to the void, when god hath made the pile complete.'" "tennyson was not paul," i remarked. "why should he have been?" he asked. "he was a christian seer, none the less, and he had the heavenly vision." "but you cannot call his theology orthodox," i persisted; "is it in any sense biblical?" "whence came his vision and inspiration if not from god?" he replied. then he turned to mother hubbard: "thank you, thank you much," he said; "i shall not forget your parable of the heather." chapter xxiv roger treffit introduces "miss terry" i had a letter from rose this morning. the lucky girl has got another holiday and is apparently having a fine time at eastbourne. she says the chief insisted that her trip north was not a holiday, but a tonic. if so, it was a very palatable one, i am sure, from the way she took it. whilst, therefore, i am exposing plates and developing negatives, she is enjoying refreshing sea-breezes, and listening to good music. it appears her chief recommended eastbourne, and i gather from her letter that he is there himself with his family. so is the cynic! the courts are closed for the most part, but he told me a while ago that there were one or two old bailey cases in which he was interested which would prevent him from going very far away, and he is taking week-ends on the south coast. it is curious that he should have hit upon eastbourne--quite by accident, rose assures me--and that they should have met so early. i am not surprised that they should have been together for a long ramble over the downs, though i imagine they would have liked it better without the presence of a third party. rose is not very clear about it, but apparently there were three of them. what a nuisance for them both! the cynic does not expect to be in windyridge again before the end of this month. i always think september seems a particularly long month, and yet it has only thirty days. meantime the village is affording me further opportunities of studying mother hubbard's theories of human nature and discovering the germ of goodness in things evil. it is a difficult hunt! little lucy treffit's father has come home, and the fact has a good deal of significance for lucy and her mother. i cannot bear the sight of the silly man. he struts about the village as though he were doing us a favour to grace it with his presence. he puts a thumb in each arm-hole of his waistcoat, wears a constant smile on his flabby face when in public, and nods at everybody as he passes, in the most condescending way imaginable. he is quite an under-sized man, but broad all the way down; it looks as though at some time in his life, when he may have been very soft and putty-like, a heavy hand had been placed on his head, and he had been compressed into a foot less height. what gives reality to the impression is the extreme length of his trousers, which hang over his boots in folds. the delight of his eyes and the joy of his heart is neither wife nor child, but a smooth-haired terrier which brings in the living, such as it is. during the summer months roger and his dog frequent the popular seaside resorts and give beach entertainments of "an 'igh-class character" to quote roger himself. in the winter months they secure engagements at music-halls, bazaars, school-entertainments and the like, when the income is more precarious. ordinarily the man is not home until october, but unfortunately the dog's health broke down in the latter part of august, and roger came home to save the cost of lodgings, and to get drink on credit. for, almost alone among the villagers, this man gets drunk day by day with marked consistency; and if he is irritating when sober he is nothing less than contemptible when intoxicated. he then becomes more suave than ever, and his mouth curves into a smile which reaches his ears, but he is more stupid and obstinate than the proverbial mule. and the worst of it is he drinks at home, for the nearest inn is above a mile away, so his unhappy wife has a rough time of it. yet he is not actively unkind to her; he does not beat her body--he merely starves and wounds her soul. she is a thin, wasted woman, about thirty years old, i suppose, of more than average intelligence, and one of the best needlewomen i have ever seen. she does beautiful work for which she is wretchedly paid, but it serves to keep the home together. i cannot help thinking that she is suffering from some serious disease, but she herself refuses to harbour any such thought. i am very much interested in her and little lucy, and during the summer have paid them many a visit and been cheered by the little girl's delightful prattle. they live in a very poor house, and a most peculiar one. it is two-storeyed, but unusually narrow, and the only window in the upper room is a fixture in the roof. it really is remarkable that in a place like windyridge so many of the windows cannot be opened, either because they were so constructed at first, or because their owners have painted and varnished them until they are glued fast. the stones in the walls are loose in many places and the stone slabs on the roof lie about at various angles, and seem to invite the thin, tall chimney-stack--and why it should be so tall i have never been able to surmise--to fall down and send them flying. it is a mean, rickety house, not worth the cost of repair. inside, however, it is as clean and comfortable as any other in the village. the floor is spotless, the deal tables are white as soap and water can make them, the steel fender and fire-irons shine like mirrors, and the short curtains at the window might always have come straight from the laundry. i did not know roger had come home when i raised the latch and entered the house, after the usual perfunctory knock, the other day, and i apologised for my unceremonious entrance with some confusion. roger waved his hand loftily. "quite all right, ma'am; quite all right. miss terry, oblige me by getting the lady a chair." the dog rose to its feet and with its nose and forepaws pushed a chair from the wall in the direction of the fireplace. "thank you, miss terry," remarked the man, "i am much obliged to you. pray be seated, ma'am." i was interested, in spite of myself. "yours is a very remarkable dog, mr. treffit," i said. "yes'm; very much so indeed. miss terry is the name i gave 'er, because she is a 'mystery.' see? ha! ha! very good that, eh? mystery--miss terry. miss terry and me, ma'am, has appeared before the nobility, clergy and gentry of a dozen counties." i expressed polite astonishment and inquired for mrs. treffit. "my wife, ma'am, is upstairs in the chamber. if you want her i will send for her. miss terry, will you convey my respects to the missis, and ask her to step this way?" the request was accompanied by a significant gesture in the direction of the narrow staircase, and the dog, with an inclination of the head which might have been intended for a bow, bounded up the steps and returned with its mistress. its mistress? no, i withdraw the word--with its master's wife. she coughed a good deal as she came down, and i suggested that a short walk in the sunshine would do her good, but she shook her head. "i'm sorry, miss 'olden, but i'm that busy i couldn't leave just now. i was wonderin' if you'd mind comin' upstairs while i get on with my work." "sit down a bit, can't you?" said the man; "i want miss terry to show this lady some of her tricks. you're always in such a desperate hurry, you are." "someb'dy has to be in a 'urry," she replied, "when there's naught comin' in, an' three mouths to feed, to say nothin' of the dog, which costs nearly as much as all t' rest put together." "you leave the dog alone," he growled; "miss terry brings in as much as all t' rest put together, doesn't she?" "i say nought against her," she answered wearily; "t' dog's right enough, but she's bringin' nought in now." she sat down, however, at my side, and miss terry proceeded to justify her name. she dressed herself in a queer little hobble-skirt costume, put on a hat and veil, raised a sunshade, and moved about the room in the most amusing way. she fetched a miniature bedstead, undressed and put herself to bed in a manner calculated to bring down the house every time. she removed the handkerchief (a very dirty one, by the way) from her master's pocket, sneezed, wiped her nose, and then replaced it without apparently arousing its owner's attention. she drank out of his glass, simulated intoxication, and fell into a seemingly drunken sleep, with much exaggerated snoring. and all the time roger treffit stood or sat, as circumstances required, addressing the dog in the politest and most deferential terms, with the smug smile of satisfaction threatening to cut the chin entirely, from his face. "now, miss terry," he said in conclusion, "you must not overtire yourself. we are very grateful for the hentertainment you have pervided. have the goodness to step up to the lady and say good-bye." the dog extended a paw, and martha and i were permitted to withdraw. "it really is a very clever dog," i remarked, when we were alone in the prison-like bedroom. "it's a very good dog, too," she replied; "it 'ud look after me more nor he would if he'd let it. it 'asn't a bit o' vice about it, an' i only wish i could say as much for its master." "why are you sitting up here in this wretched loft, where the light is so poor for such fine work?" "to be out of his way, an' that's the truth," she replied bitterly. "i shall go down when lucy comes in from t' school, and not afore. i've never no peace nor pleasure when he's at 'ome." "he doesn't ill-treat you, does he?" "no, but i cannot bear to see him all t' day through, soakin', soakin'. he can always walk straight, however much he takes, but 'e gets that nasty by tea-time there's no bidin' in t' 'ouse with 'im. and he natters so when i cough, an' i can't help coughin'. it's nought much, an' i've got used to it, but it vexes 'im, an' he says it worries t' dog." "he's a brute!" i said; "anybody can see that he thinks more of his dog than of you." "well, you see, his dog's his business. i don't know 'at he's worse nor lots more 'at makes their business into their god, but it isn't always easy to bide. an' when i get to t' far end i answer back, an' that makes fireworks. i wish he wor at blackpool yet." at that moment a loud report rang through the house, and i sprang from my seat in alarm. "it's nothin'," said martha; "there's nought to be frightened of. he's teachin' t' dog some new fool's trick with a pistol, but i don't believe there's a bullet in it. he nearly frightened me an' our lucy out of our wits t' first time he did it." i sat down again, but my heart was still beating violently. "i fear i couldn't live with such a companion," i said. "you'd 'ave to, if you were i' my shoes," she replied. "i'm tied up to 'im, ain't i? tell me what _you'd_ do. you couldn't get a divorce even if you'd plenty o' money, for he never bothers wi' other women. an' t' court wouldn't give me an order, 'cos he doesn't thrash me; an' t' vicar's wife says 'at it was for better or worse 'at i took 'im, an' i must kill him wi' kindness. but kindness doesn't kill 'im; nought does. oh god, if it wasn't for our lucy i'd be glad to go where he couldn't follow." "you won't think i am preaching, will you, dear," i said, "if i ask you if you have tried really hard to make him love you? i don't quite know what you could do, but there must be some way of reaching his heart. and think how happy you would all be if you could change his heart and win his love." "miss 'olden, there comes a time when you give up tryin', becos you fair 'aven't strength an' 'eart to go on. i've done all i could for that man. he's asked nought of me i 'aven't let 'im 'ave. i'm the mother of his child, an' i've tried to learn t' little lass to be as good as she's bonny, bless her! an' i keep her as neat as i know how; an' he thinks more o' t' dog. i've worked early an' late to keep t' 'ome together, an' he's never once found it ought but tidy, for i get up afore he wakes to scrub and polish. i've gone without food to give 'im luxuries, an' he never says so much as 'thank ye'; but he thanks t' dog for every trick he's trained it to. i've smiled on 'im when my heart's been like lead, an' talked cheerful when it 'ud 'a done me good to cry--an' all for what? not for curses: not for kicks. i could stand curses an' kicks when he wor i' drink, if he'd love me an' be sorry when he wor sober. no, after all i've done for 'im he just takes no notice of me. i'm his woman, not his wife, an' i'm too broken-hearted now to try any more." one solitary tear stole down her cheek--a tiny tear, as though the fountain from which it had escaped were nearly dry; and she did not stop to wipe it away. i bent over and kissed her. "the darkest night ends in day," i said. "don't lose heart or hope. i cannot preach to you, and i fear if i were in your place i should not do so well as you. i should lose my temper as well as my spirits. but don't let love die if you can help it. i suppose you loved him once?" "yes, i loved him once," she said. "and you still love him?" i ventured. "no, i don't. i neither love 'im nor 'ate 'im. but i love his child. that's our lucy's voice. i must be goin' down now." chapter xxv the return of the prodigal i have been one whole year in windyridge, and like a good business woman i have taken stock and endeavoured to get out a balance sheet in regular "profit and loss" fashion. i am afraid a professional accountant would heap scorn upon it, as my methods are not those taught in the arithmetics; but that consideration does not concern me. my net profits from the portraiture branch amount to the huge sum of nine pounds, eighteen shillings and sevenpence. if these figures were to be published i do not think they would attract competitors to windyridge, and i can see plainly that i shall not recoup my initial outlay on the studio for several years. but that matters little, as my london firms have kept me well supplied with work, and would give me a great deal more if i were willing to take it. but i am _not_ willing. man does not live by bread alone, nor by painting miniatures and designing book illustrations, and i am determined to live and not just exist, and i _have_ lived during these twelve months. and even from the monetary point of view i am better off than i was when i came, because if i have lost in the way of income i have gained by a saving in expenditure. you simply cannot spend money in windyridge, and, what is more, the things best worth having cannot be bought with money. these "more excellent" things appear upon another page in my balance sheet--a page which would make the professional auditor gasp for breath. my experiences have made me a richer woman, though not a more important personage to my bankers. i am healthier and happier than i was a year ago. i have a living interest in an entire community, and an entire community has a living interest in me. and i have a few real friends in various stations of life, each of whom would do a great deal for me, and each of whom has taught me several valuable lessons without fee or reward. the moors and the glens, too, have had me to school and opened to me their secret stores of knowledge, and who shall compute the worth of that education? as a result, i have a saner outlook and a truer judgment, and that counts for much in my case. undoubtedly the balance is on the right side, and i have no regrets as i turn and look back along the track of the year. the anniversary day itself was marked by an incident of uncommon interest. the weather was atrocious, and in marked contrast to that of the previous year on the corresponding date. had such conditions prevailed when i first saw windyridge the village would not have known me as one of its householders. it rained as though the floodgates of heaven had been opened and got rusted fast. for three days there had been one endless downpour, but on the fateful wednesday it degenerated into a miserable, depressing drizzle which gave me the blues. the distance disappeared behind an impenetrable wall of mist, and the horizon was the hedge of the field fifty yards away. the drip, drip, drip from a leak in the glazing of my studio so got on my nerves that in the afternoon i put on my strong boots and a waterproof and set out for a walk. but though the rain could not conquer me the sticky mud did. after covering a mile in half an hour i was so tired with the exertion that i turned back, and was relieved when the distance has been almost covered and only a few hundred yards separated me from the cottage. i had had the road to myself so far, but as i came down the hill which skirts the graveyard i saw a stranger in the act of opening the gate and entering. at the same moment, apparently, he caught sight of me, and we scrutinised each other with interest as the distance between us lessened. he was a well-dressed young fellow of about thirty, with a stern expression on an otherwise rather pleasing face. his mouth was hidden by a heavy moustache, but i liked his eyes, which had a frank look in them. his rather long raincoat was dripping wet, and he had no other protection from the rain, for he carried in his hand a stout stick of peculiar shape. his hands and face were brown from exposure, and i took him to be a prosperous, intelligent farmer. he raised his hat at my approach. "i am sorry to detain you, even for a moment, in this rain," he said, "but i wondered if you could tell me whether anyone of the name of brown--greenwood brown--is buried here." oh! thought i, you have come back, have you? but i merely replied: "yes, mr. brown's grave is near the top of the hill. i will show you which it is." "please do not put yourself to that trouble," he protested; "if you will be good enough to direct me i shall be able to find it." "you could not identify it," i said, "for there is no stone, but just a grassy mound, like many of the rest. let me point it out to you, and then i will go on my way." he made no further objection, but held the gate open for me to enter. there are no paths, and he protested again when he saw me plunge into the long, wet grass, but i laughed at his fears and led the way to the spot where all that was mortal of poor farmer brown lay beneath the sod. "this is his grave," i said, and he thanked me with another courteous inclination of the head. as i turned to leave he asked a further question. "can you tell me if any of his people still live in this neighbourhood? i--i have a message for them." "if you will call at my cottage," i replied, indicating the little house a stone's-throw away, "i will tell you all i know. pray do not stay too long in the rain. you have no umbrella." "thank you," he said, "i shall take no harm, and i will call at your house shortly, as you are so very kind." i left him, but i could not forbear looking from the window in mother hubbard's bedroom, and i could distinctly see him standing with head bent and uncovered in an attitude of deep dejection over his father's grave. i had no misgiving on that point. in spite of the thick moustache the likeness was too strong to admit of doubt. i went into the studio and brought out the copy of farmer brown's portrait which i had retained, and placed it on the chest of drawers where he could hardly fail to see it; but i said nothing to mother hubbard, who was laying the cloth for tea. the kettle was boiling when he came in, and i fetched a third cup and saucer and invited him to the table. i could see that reluctance struggled with desire, but mother hubbard's added entreaties turned the scale, and he removed his soaking overcoat with many apologies for the trouble he was causing. he drank his tea, but appeared to have little appetite for the crisp buttered toast which mother hubbard pressed upon him, and he took a rather absent part in the desultory conversation which accompanied the meal. i did not think it right to reveal the curiosity i felt, but after a while he made an opening. "i only heard of farmer brown's death as i entered the village," he said. "i met a boy, of whom i inquired, and he told me the farmer was buried here in the beginning of the year." mother hubbard put on her glasses and looked at him with a new interest, and removed them again in a minute or two as if satisfied. "he died early in january," i said; "did you know him?" "yes," he said, and there was no sign of emotion in his voice or face; "but i have not seen him for several years. he had a wife and daughter; are they living, and still at the old place? i forgot to ask the boy." i thought it curious that he should have overlooked so natural a question, if, as seemed likely, he had come to the neighbourhood with the intention of finding them; but after all, the explanation lay upon the surface--he manifestly did not wish to arouse too much curiosity. "yes, they are still at the farm, and both are well," i replied; "i often see them. if you knew the farmer you will perhaps recognise his photograph. it was taken only a little while before he died." i got up and handed it to him, and i saw his mouth twitch at the corners as he took the card in his hand. all the same he examined it critically, and his voice was still firm as he replied: "he had evidently aged a good deal since i knew him, but i am sure it was a good likeness." "it was trouble that aged him, joe," broke in mother hubbard's gentle voice; "the good lord overrules all things for good, but it was you who brought his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave." there was a mild severity of tone which astonished me and revealed mother hubbard in a new light, but i was too interested in the change which came over the startled man's face to think much of it at the time. "so you recognise me," he said. "i thought your face was familiar, though the young lady's is not so. well, everybody will know of my return soon, so i need not complain that you have anticipated the news by a few hours. yes, the prodigal has come home, but too late to receive his father's blessing." "not too late to receive _a_ father's blessing, joe," replied mother hubbard; "not too late to find forgiveness and reconciliation if you have come in the right spirit; but too late to bring the joy-light into your earthly father's eyes: too late to hear the welcome he would have offered you." "i do not ask nor deserve to be spared," he said, with some dignity, "and my first explanations shall be offered to those who have most right to them. but this i will say, for i can see that you speak with sincerity. i came back to seek forgiveness and to find peace, but i am justly punished for my sin in that i forfeit both. you have not said much, but you have said enough to let me realise that the curse of cain is upon me." "it is not," said mother hubbard calmly and with firmness; "your father would have told you so. go home to your mother, and you will find in her forgiveness and love a dim reflection of the forgiveness and love of god, and peace will follow." he rested one elbow upon the table and leaned his head upon his hand, whilst his fingers tapped a mechanical tune upon his forehead, but he did not speak for several minutes--nor did we. then he rose and took the still damp overcoat from the clothes-horse before the fire, and said as he put it on: "since i left home i have had many hard tasks to perform, but the hardest of them all now lies before me, and though i have made some little money i would give every penny i possess if the past could be undone and that grey-haired man brought back to life. i am accounted a bold man, but i would sooner face a lion in the rhodesian jungle than my mother and sister on yonder farm." "go in peace!" said the little mother. "god stands by the side of every man who does his duty, and your mother, remember, is about to experience a great joy. let them see that you love them both, and that you loved your father too, and that will heal the wound more quickly than anything else." he shook mother hubbard's hand, bowed to me, and stepped out into the rain; and i watched him walk briskly forward until the mist swallowed him up. two days afterwards i heard the sequel. the rain had cleared away and the roads were fairly dry when i set off with the intention of walking as far as uncle ned's. before i had gone very far i overtook farmer goodenough, who was journeying in the same direction, and almost immediately afterwards we met jane brown. "i was just comin' to see you, miss holden," she said, "but as you're going my way i'll walk back with you if you'll let me. mother wants to know if you can take our photographs--hers and joe's and mine--on monday." i told her it would be quite convenient, and farmer goodenough began to question her about her brother's home-coming. i hardly expected much response, for jane is not usually very communicative, but on this occasion she was full of talk. "i came o' purpose to say my say," she explained, "for i must either talk or burst." we encouraged the former alternative, and she began: "if you want to be made a fuss of, and have people lay down their lives for you, you mustn't stop at 'ome and do your duty; you must go wrong. only you mustn't go wrong just a little bit: you must go the whole hog an' be a rank wrong 'un--kill your father or summat o' that sort--and then when you come back you'll be hugged an' kissed an' petted till it's fair sickenin'." "gently, lass, gently!" said farmer goodenough; "that sounds just a trifle bitter." "i may well be bitter; you'd be bitter if you saw what i see," she replied. i endeavoured to turn the conversation and to satisfy my curiosity. "where has your brother been, and what has he been doing all these years?" i inquired. "oh, he tells a tale like a story-book," she replied impatiently. "i'm bound to believe him, i suppose, because whatever else he was he wasn't a liar, but it's more like a fairy tale than ought else. after he hit father an' ran away he got to liverpool, an' worked his passage on a boat to cape town, an' for a long time he got more kicks than ha'pence--and serve him right, too, _i_ say. he tried first one thing an' then another, and landed up in rhodesia at last, an' sought work from a man who employed a lot o' labour. he says he wouldn't have been taken on if the gentleman hadn't spotted him for a yorkshireman. 'thou'rt yorkshir', lad?' he said; an' our joe said: 'aye! bred an' born.' 'let's hear ta talk a bit o' t' owd tongue, lad,' he said; 'aw've heeard nowt on 't for twelve yeear, an' t' missis willn't hev it spokken i' t' haase.' "well, of course, joe entered into t' spirit of it, an' the old gentleman was delighted, an' gave him a job, an' he always had to speak broad yorkshire unless the missis was there. it wasn't exactly a farm, but they grew fruit an' vegetables and kept poultry an' pigs an' bees an' such like, and it was just to our joe's taste. i won't deny but what he's clever, and he was always steady an' honest. he says the old gentleman took to him an' gave him every chance, an' t' missis liked him too, because he always spoke so polite an' proper. an' then he fell in love wi' one o' t' daughters, an' they were married last year, an' by what i can make out he's a sort of a partner in t' business now. anyway, he says it's his wife 'at brought him to see what a wrong 'un he'd been, and when he'd told 'em all t' tale nothing 'ud do but he was to come to england and make it up with his father. so he's come, an' mother blubbers over him, an' holds his 'and, an' strokes his 'air till i'm out of all patience." farmer goodenough looked grave, but he did not speak, so i said: "isn't this rather unworthy of you, jane? your mother is naturally glad to see her boy back again, and if she had not been here you would have welcomed him just as cordially." "would i?" she replied. "no fear! he gave father ten years of sorrow an' brought him to 'is grave. i loved my dad too well to forgive his murderer that easy. he's taken no notice of us all this time, an' while he's been makin' money an' courtin' a rich girl we might all have been in t' workhouse for ought he knew or cared. and then he's to come home, an' it's to be all right straight off, an' we must have t' best counterpane on t' bed, an' t' china tea-service out 'at were my grandmother's, an' we must go slobberin' round his neck the minute he puts his head in at t' door. bah! it makes me sick. you've only got to be a prodigal, as i say, an' then you can have t' fatted calf killed for you." "now look you here, lass," said farmer goodenough kindly, "i've said nought so far, 'cos it does you good to talk. it's poor policy to bung t' kettle up when t' water's boilin', but i think ye've let off enough steam now to keep from burstin', so we'll just look into this matter, an' see what we can make on 't." "oh, i know you of old, reuben goodenough," replied the girl; "you'd be every bit as bad as my mother." "you'll be every bit as bad yerself, lass, when ye've as much sense; but now just let me ask you a question or two. t' owd book says, if i remember right, when t' father came out to talk to t' sulky brother: 'it was meet to make merry an' be glad,' an' i take that to mean 'at it was t' right an' proper thing to do. now why were they glad, think ye?" "just because he'd come home," replied jane bitterly, "an' his brother, like me, had never gone away. i don't wonder 'at he was sulky. but that prodigal hadn't killed his father." "well, now, jane," replied the farmer, "'cordin' to my way o' sizin' that tale up, you've got hold of a wrong notion altogether. i don't know what t' parsons 'ud make of it, but it seems to me 'at t' owd man was glad, not so much because t' lad had come back, but because he'd come to hisself, an' that's a very deal different thing." "i don't see no difference," said jane. "you will do if you think a minute, lass. suppose a lad loses his senses an' runs away from 'ome, an' comes back one fine day as mad as ever. there'll be as much sorrow as joy, won't there, think ye, in that 'ome? but suppose while he's away his reason comes back to 'im, an' he gets cured, an' as soon as he's cured he says: 'i must go 'ome to t' owd folks,' an' he goes, an' they see 'at he's in his right mind, don't you think they'll make merry an' be glad? wouldn't you?" "our joe didn't lose his senses," the girl replied sullenly; "he was as clear-headed then as he is now. it's a different thing when they're mad." "nay, lass," he replied, "but unless i'm sadly mista'en all sin is a sort o' madness. you said just now 'at joe went wrong. now where did he go wrong--i mean what part of 'im?" jane made no reply. "you'd say he was wrong in his 'ead to have treated his father as he did, but if 'is 'ead wasn't wrong 'is 'eart was, an' that's a worse kind o' madness. doesn't t' owd book talk about 'em bein' possessed wi' devils? they mightn't be t' sort 'at has 'orns on, but they were t' sort 'at tormented 'em into wrong-doin', an' surely it was summat o' that sort 'at got hold o' your joe. now, if his wife has brought him to hisself, an' he's come 'ome to say he's sorry, 'it was meet to make merry an' be glad.'" "it's hard on them that don't go wrong," said jane. "well, now, how is it 'ard on them?" asked the farmer. "talkin' quite straight, where does t' 'ardship come in?" "well, mother doesn't cry round _my_ neck, an' stroke my hands, an' make a big fuss," replied the girl, "an' it's hard to see her thinkin' a deal more o' one 'at's done her so much wrong." "now you know better, jane. your mother thinks no more o' your joe than she does o' you, only, as you say, she makes more fuss of him 'cos he's come round. it 'ud 'a been just t' same supposin' he'd been ill for ten year an' then got better. you'd ha' made a fuss over 'im then as well as your mother, an' you wouldn't ha' thought 'at your mother loved 'im more than you, if she did fuss over 'im a bit. now you just look at it i' this way: joe's been mad--clean daft--but he's come to hisself, an' it's 'meet to make merry an' be glad.'" jane is not at all a bad sort. she gave a little laugh as she said: "eh, reuben! i never heard such a man for talkin'. however, i daresay you're right, an' my bark's worse than my bite, anyway. i was just feelin' full up when i came out, but i'm better now. i'll see if i can manage not to be jealous, for we shan't have 'im long. he's in a hurry to be back to his precious wife, an' he wants mother an' me to go with him, but mother says she'll have her bones laid aside father's, so he'll have to go by himself." i took the photographs this morning, and was pleased to find that the reconciliation between brother and sister was complete. in the afternoon i went into the graveyard and found some beautiful flowers on farmer brown's grave, and a man was taking measurements for a stone. he told me that there was to be a curious inscription following the usual particulars, and fumbling in his pocket he drew forth a piece of paper on which i read these words: "a foolish son is a grief to his father." "a good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children." chapter xxvi the cynic brings news of ginty it is the middle of october, and autumn is manifested on every side. it makes me rather sad, for bound up with these marvellous sunset tints which ravish the eye there is decay and death. the woods are carpeted in russet and gold; the green of the fields is dull and faded; every breath of wind helps to strip the trees a little barer; and as though nature could not, unaided, work destruction fast enough, the hand of man is stretched forth to strip the glowing bracken from the moors, and great gaps on the hillsides tell of his handiwork. i know, of course, that nature is kindly and beneficent, and that death in this connection is a misnomer. i know that after the falling leaf and the bare branch and twig there will come the glory of spring, the glory of bursting bud and fragrant flower; but though that mitigates the feeling of sadness it does not entirely dispel it. the flowers and the foliage, the heather and the bracken have been my companions during these sunny days of summer, and it is hard to lose them, though only for a while. and when i look on dear old mother hubbard, as she sits quietly by the fire, with her needles clicking ever more slowly, and the calm of a peaceful eventide deepening upon her face, my heart sinks within me, and i dare not look forward to the wintry months that lie ahead. what windyridge will be to me when her sun sinks behind the hill i will not try to realise. i attempt to be cheerful, but my words mock me and my laugh rings hollow, and she, good soul, reads me through and through. i know i do not deceive her, and my inner self warns me that one of these days the motherkin will have it out with me and make me face realities, and i stand in dread of that hour. the squire, on the other hand, looks far better than when he came home. he is still feeble, and he has his bad days, but the light in his eyes is not the light of sunset. dr. trempest means to be convincing, though he is merely vague when he assures the squire that he will "outlive some of us yet." i am glad he is better, for i cannot be with him as much as i should if mother hubbard did not claim my devotion. i had tea with him and the cynic on sunday afternoon when some of her chapel friends were keeping mother hubbard company. the cynic was in the garden when i reached the hall, and he told me that the squire was asleep in the library, so we drew two deck-chairs into the sunshine and sat down for an hour on the lawn. he lit a cigarette, clasped his hands behind his head, and began: "well, i suppose you will want to know what is being done in the city of destruction from which you fled so precipitately. i have not noticed any tendency on your part to stop your ears to its sounds, though you may not hanker after its fleshpots." "do not be horrid," i replied; "and if you are going to be cynical i will go in and chat with the housekeeper. i am not particularly anxious to know what is happening in your city of destruction." he elevated his eyebrows. "miss fleming, for instance?" he queried. "of course i shall be glad to hear of rose. i always am. and that reminds me that her letters are few and unsatisfactory. have you seen anything of her since the holidays?" "yes," he replied, "we have met several times; once at the house of a mutual friend, once at olympia, and i believe twice at the theatre." "do people 'meet' at the theatre?" i inquired. "they do if they arrange to do so, and keep their appointments," he replied provokingly. "i am fortunate in being acquainted with some of miss fleming's friends. i am sorry her letters leave something to be desired, but you need not be uneasy; she herself is as lively and fascinating as ever." i should have liked to ask him who the friends were, for rose has never mentioned them, and she had none who could possibly have been in the cynic's set in the old days; but friends can generally be found when the occasion demands them. i said nothing, of course, and he looked at me quizzically. "your comments," he remarked, "if i may quote, are 'few and unsatisfactory.'" it was true, but he need not have noticed it. the fact is, i had nothing to say at the moment. that being the case there was plainly nothing for it but to abuse _him_. "you are the cynic to-day," i said, "and i foresee that you are going to sharpen your wit upon poor me. but i am not in the mood. you see, it is sunday, and in windyridge we are subdued and not brilliant on sundays." perhaps his ear caught the weariness in my voice, for i was feeling tired and depressed; at any rate his tone changed immediately. "i saw at once you were off colour," he said, "and i was making a clumsy attempt to buck you up; but, seriously, have you no questions you wish to ask me about the old place?" "i should like to know how matters are progressing with you," i said. "i often wonder what the world thinks of your pronunciation." "the world knows nothing of it. i have never mentioned what i have done to anyone but you, and i do not propose to do so. as for myself--but what makes you wonder? are you afraid i may have repented?" "no," i replied, "you will never repent, you are not that sort. not for one moment have i doubted your steadfastness." "thank you," he said simply; and then, after a moment's pause: "i don't think it is anything to my credit. if i had been differently constituted the sacrifice would have entailed suffering, even if it had not proved too great for me. it was a lot of money, and if money is in any sense a man's god it must hurt him to lose so much. my god may be equally base, but it is not golden. in that respect i am like those ancient athenians of whom plato speaks, who 'bare lightly the burden of gold and of possessions,' though i fear i am not like them in despising all things except virtue. besides, even now i am not exactly poor, for i have a good income." "i have thirty shillings a week on the average," i interposed, "and i consider myself quite well to do." "exactly," he replied; "you and i take pleasure in our work for its own sake, and we are each paid, i suppose, fair value for what we do. having food and clothing and a roof to shelter us we have all that is necessary, but we have luxuries thrown in--true friendships, for instance, which money cannot purchase. in my own case i am hoping to be quite wealthy if things turn out as i am beginning to dare to expect." "i am glad to hear it," i said; "i am sure you deserve to succeed, and i trust you will be very happy in the possession of wealth when your expectation is realised." he laughed, but with some constraint, i thought, and then said: "we shall have to go in presently, miss holden, and before we do so, and whilst we are not likely to be interrupted, i have something to say to you which i find it difficult to mention." i believe the colour left my face, and i know my stupid heart lost control of its beats again. his voice was so grave that i felt sure he had some communication to make which i should not relish, though i could not guess at its nature. i controlled myself with an effort, and encouraged him to proceed with an inquiring "oh?" he looked down at his boots for a moment and then continued: "if it had not been for this i should not have come here this week-end, but i wanted to tell you what i have done, and to give you a message from one in whom you are interested. i have hesitated because i fear it may give you pain, though in one way it does not concern you in the slightest degree." why anything should give me pain which did not concern me was puzzling, and i wished the man would get to the story and skip the introduction. i never could bear to have news "broken gently" to me, it always seems like a mere prolongation of the agony; but i did not dare to interrupt. "i had to be in attendance at the central criminal court last tuesday," he continued; "and the case in which i was interested was delayed by one in which the prisoner on trial was a young fellow whom you know." it was very silly of me, but the revulsion of feeling was so great that i nearly cried, though goodness only knows what i had been expecting. the cynic saw my emotion and mistook it for sympathy. "i was afraid it would trouble you," he said kindly, "but you must not worry about it. "the charge was quite an ordinary one and i had scarcely listened to the case at all, for my mind was occupied with what was to follow, but i heard sufficient to know that the man was one of a gang of sharpers, and that he had been caught red-handed whilst his companions had escaped. he had no one to defend him, but the judge nominated a junior who was present to be his counsel, and the lad did his best for him. but the youth had been in trouble before, and it was likely to go hard with him. all at once my neighbour nudged me: 'he's meaning you, derwent,' he said. "'what's that?' i asked. "'i have just asked the prisoner if he has anyone who can speak to his character, and he says you know him slightly,' said the recorder with a smile. "'to the best of my knowledge i never saw the man in my life before,' i replied. "'yes, you have, mr. derwent,' the prisoner said in a low voice--and you will understand what silence there was in the court--'you have seen me working at windyridge 'all, sir, afore i sank to this. you remember, sir, i was allus known as ginty.'" i started, and the cynic continued: "i looked at him closely then, and saw that it was indeed he, ginty, ten years older than he was a year ago: haggard, seamed with lines of care, unkempt, but, unless i am mistaken, not altogether hardened. "i turned to the recorder. 'i do know the prisoner, sir,' i said, 'but i did not recognise him, and therefore i have not paid attention to the case;' and as briefly as i could i told the court how he had been led astray. it was you, miss holden, who described it all so graphically, you may remember, and i repeated the story as you told it, and i pleaded hard for the young chap. he got off with three months, which was less than might have been expected." "poor ginty!" i interrupted. "i wonder if his mother will hear of it. i suppose news of that kind rarely filters through the walls of a workhouse?" "no walls are impervious to bad news," he replied, "but ginty's concern was less for his mother than for his sweetheart, sarah ann. at bottom i believe ginty is penitent, and would like to break with the rogues who have led him on; but the poor beggar is weak-willed, and the easy prey of his blustering companions. i managed to get an interview with him, and he wished me to ask you to tell the girl everything, and to beg her to pity and forgive him; and he promises to turn over a new leaf, and will marry her eventually if she is willing." "sarah ann must not be told at present," i replied; "she is far from well, and the shock might be too much for her. she is a highly emotional girl, who would go into violent hysterics incontinently." "well," he said, "i can leave the matter to your discretion. i have fulfilled my promise, and i am sure you will do what is best. would it be possible to tell the girl's mother?--if she has a mother." "she has a mother," i answered, "but she is a woman entirely destitute of tact. to tell her would be to publish the news to the whole village, and to have it conveyed to sarah ann in the crudest manner conceivable. i think it will be best to hold back the message until i have a fitting opportunity of delivering it to the girl herself. but believe me, the present time is most inopportune." "i do believe you," he said, "and i suppose it is hardly likely that information will reach the village in any other way. 'ill news flies fast,' but the case was too insignificant to be reported in the provincial papers. anyhow, we must take the risk, and you can deliver your soul of the message when you think fit. i am sorry to have laid this burden upon you." "i accept it willingly," i said, "and am glad that i can be of service to these poor young folk." i had a pleasant evening with the squire and the cynic, both of whom were at their best in discussing disendowments, in regard to which they held opposite views. the squire showed the possession of a wealth of knowledge which aroused my admiration, and he was so courteous in argument, so magnanimous and altogether gentlemanly, that i could have hugged him for very pride; but i am bound to say that i think the cynic had the best of it. he is just as generous and courtly as the squire, and he is absolutely sure of his facts and figures; but when he does corner his opponent he does not gloat over him. in my judgment--and i am sure i am impartial, for i like them both so much--he was more convincing than the squire; but then i don't think i ever met a more convincing speaker. of course i have met very few good speakers, but i doubt if there are many to surpass mr. derwent. he took me home about ten o'clock, and i saw that the village had got some new excitement, but the cynic's presence barred me from participating in it. at the cottage, however, i learned everything, for a gossip had, as usual, hastened to tell mother hubbard the news, and she was still discussing it on my arrival, though my invalid ought to have been in bed. nobody in windyridge takes a sunday newspaper, but a visitor from airlee had left a _news of the world_ at smiddles's, and after his departure smiddles had glanced down its columns and found a report of ginty's trial and sentence. mrs. smiddles, bursting with importance, hurried off to impart the information to sar'-ann's mother. sar'-ann's mother, as might have been anticipated, had expressed her opinion of ginty's moral character in loud and emphatic language which echoed round the village and awakened a like response. i closed the door wearily on the woman and went to bed, for it was too late to see sar'-ann that night. i wish i had made the endeavour now, for with the morning there came news that distressed me terribly. sar'-ann's baby had been born at midnight, and poor sar'-ann was dead! chapter xxvii mother hubbard hears the call the world is very drab to-day, as i look out of my bedroom window at the hall and once more open the book in which i set down the experiences of my pilgrimage. i am living in luxury again, a luxury which has, alas! more of permanency in it than before. the little room in which i am writing is charming in the daintiness of its colouring and the simplicity of its furnishings. there is just a suspicion of pink in the creamy wallpaper, and the deeper cream of the woodwork. the bed, like the dressing table and the chairs, is in satinwood, beautifully inlaid, and the wardrobe is an enormous cavern in the wall, with mirrored doors behind which my few belongings hang suspended like ghostly stalactites. the floor is nearly covered with a wilton rug, and the rest of it is polished until it looks like glass. a few choice etchings and engravings hang upon the walls--elaine dreaming of lancelot, dante bending over the dead body of beatrice, helen of troy, and similar subjects, with two of leader's landscapes. the counterpane gleams, snowy white, beneath the lovely satin eider-down, which gives a splash of colour to the room; and the room is _mine_! mine! yes, but the world is very drab all the same. the sky is grey to its farthest limits--an unrelieved greyness which presses upon one's spirits. the landscape is grey, with no solitary touch of brightness in it until you come to the lawn in front of my window, where there is a gorgeous display of chrysanthemums. the cawing of the rooks is a shade more mournful than usual, and the grey smoke from the stacks above my head floats languidly on the heavy air. and for the moment i would have it so, for it harmonises with my mood and gives me the inspiration i need in order to write down the occurrences of these later days. it is not that i am morbid or downcast; i am sad, but not depressed; the outlook is not black--it is just drab. i suppose if anyone were to read what i have written thus far they would guess the truth--that my dear old mother hubbard has been taken from me. we laid her to rest a week ago in the little plot of ground which must ever henceforward be very dear to me, and my heart hungers for the sound of her voice and the sight of her kindly face. but i cannot doubt that for her it is "far better," so i will not stoop to self-pity. and, after all, there is not a streak of grey in the picture i have to reproduce. as i live over again those few last days of companionship i feel the curtains to be drawn back from the windows of my soul; i experience the freshness of a heaven-born zephyr. i find myself smiling as one only smiles when memory is pleasing and there is deep content, and i say to myself: "thank god, it was indeed 'sunset and evening star' and there was no 'moaning of the bar' when the spirit of the gentle motherkin 'put out to sea,' and she went forth to meet her 'pilot face to face.'" i think the shock of sar'-ann's death upset her, for, like her master, she was easily touched with the feeling of other people's infirmities, and though outwardly she was unexcited i knew that the deeps within her were stirred. we always slept together now, for i was uneasy when i was not with her. for months past my cottage had been rarely used except as a bedroom, but now i abandoned it altogether and had my bed brought into mother hubbard's cottage and placed in the living-room, quite near to her own, so that i could hear her breathing. far into the night i would lie awake and watch the dying embers on the hearth, and the light growing fainter upon the walls, and listen for any sound of change. each morning she rose at the same hour, dressed with the same care, and sought to follow the old, familiar routine; but she did not demur when i placed her in her chair and assumed the air and authority of commander-in-chief. "i must work while it is day, love," she said, smiling up at me in the way which always provoked a caress. "martha, martha," i always replied, "thou art anxious and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful, and that in your case is rest." she drew my head on to her breast one day as i said this for the hundredth time--i had knelt down upon the rug, and mockingly held her prisoner--and she said very, very softly: "grace love, i am going to give in. the voice within tells me you are right, and i do not fret. 'in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.' it is because i am so strong in spirit that i do not recognise how weak i am in body; but i think, love, i am beginning to realise it now. and as i have you to look after me i have much to thank god for. do you know, grace love, i am sure the lord sent you to windyridge for my sake. it is wonderful how he makes things work together for the good of many. he knew this poor old martha would soon need somebody to pet her and look after her, so he sent you to be an angel of comfort." "well," i said, as cheerfully as i could with my spirit in chains, "he has paid me good wages, and i have a royal reward. why, my own cup is filled to overflowing, 'good measure, pressed down, running over'--isn't that the correct quotation? i wouldn't have missed these twelve months of mother-hubbardism for a king's ransom." she pressed my head still more closely to her. "are you very busy this morning, love?" she asked. "i feel that i can talk to you just now if you have time to listen, and it will do me good to speak." it had come at last, and i braced myself to meet it. "what have you got to say to me, motherkin? speak on. i am very comfy, and my work will wait." "yes, love," she said--and it was so unlike her to acquiesce so readily that my heart grew heavier still--"work can wait, but the tide of life waits for no man, and there is something i want to say before the flood bears me away." "are you feeling worse, dear?" i asked; "would you like me to ask dr. trempest to call? i can telephone from the hall." "no, love," the gentle voice replied, "i am past his aid. i shall slip away some day without pain; that is borne in upon me, and i am thankful, for your sake as well as for my own. the doctor will just call to see me in the usual way, but you will not have to send fer him. no; i just want to discuss one or two things with you, love, whilst my mind is clear and my strength sufficient. and you are going to be my own cheerful, business-like grace, aren't you, love?"' "yes," i said, swallowing my lump, and summoning my resources. "well, now, love, i want to make my will, and you shall do it for me when we have talked about it. i have neither chick nor child, and if i have relatives i don't know them, and once over i thought of leaving all i have to you, love, for you have been more than a daughter to me; but after thinking it over i am not going to do so." "it was sweet of you to think of it, dear," i said, "but i really do not need it, and i am glad you have changed your mind. tell me." she stroked my face with a slow, patting movement as she continued: "you won't need it, love. you have a little of your own, and you are young and can work; but i would have added my little to yours if that had been all, but i _know_ you will not need it, and i am glad. but you will like to have something which i have valued, and you shall have whatever i hold most dear." she paused a moment or two, but i knew she would not wish me to speak just then. "there are three things, love, which are very precious to me," she continued; "one is the ring which matthew gave me when he asked me to be his wife. i have never worn it since he died, but it is in the little silver box in my cap drawer. i want you to wear it, love, in remembrance of me. then there is the little box itself. besides the ring, it contains my class tickets--tickets of membership, you know, love; i have them all from the very first, and matthew bought the little box for me to put them in, and he called it my 'ark.' i am so pleased to think that you will have it, but i would like the tickets to be buried with me." she broke off and laughed. "that sounds silly, love, doesn't it? it looks as if i thought the tickets would help me to the next world; but, of course, i didn't mean that. they are just bits of printed paper, but i don't want them to be burned or thrown into the rubbish heap, that's all. "last and dearest of all, there's my bible. it wouldn't fetch a penny anywhere, for it's old and yellow and thumbed, and the back is loose; but its value to me, love, is just priceless, and i should hardly die happy unless someone had it who would love it too. now that's your share." i drew her hand to my lips and kissed it; she knew what i was feeling. "give reuben the old grandfather's clock. it is oak and will match his furniture, and he can give his mahogany one to ben. reuben has always admired the clock, and he will be pleased i remembered him. let my clothes go to any of the neighbours who are poor and need them. and the lamp which his scholars gave matthew when his health failed and he had to give up teaching-----" she paused, and i held my peace. it was a chaste and artistic production in brass, which had always seemed to me rather out of place amid its homely surroundings, and i should not have been sorry if it had been amongst the treasures to be bequeathed to me... "yes, dear," i said at length, "the lamp?" "i want you to ask mr. derwent, love, to accept the lamp. he admired it very much, and he has been so very nice to me; and give him the china, too. "you will not live here alone, grace, when i am gone. mr. evans will want you, and you will not have to deny him then as you have done previously for my sake. these old eyes have seen more, love, than you have realised, and i am very grateful. the lord bless you! "both the cottages are mine. i bought this one when matthew died, and reuben sold me the other one, just as it stands, whilst you were away, and we arranged to keep it a secret for a while. then there will be about â£1,500 in the bank and building society when everything has been paid. i have thought a great deal about what to do with it, and i am going to leave both the cottages, with all the furniture, for the use of poor widows who otherwise might have to go to the workhouse; and the interest on the money will keep them from want. "i haven't much head for business, but a lawyer will work it out all right. you see, love, i was left comfortably off by matthew, and i think the lord would like me to remember that all widows are not so fortunate; and i don't want to forget that it is his money i have to dispose of." the tears came into my eyes now and i could not speak. the sun was shining brightly outside, but within that humble room there was a radiance that outshone that of the sun, even the reflected splendour of heaven. after a while she continued: "i want you and reuben to decide who are to live in the cottages, but i should like ginty's mother to have the first offer, love, and i think she will not refuse for my sake; and you must arrange about the other. you will see lawyer simpson in fawkshill, love, and tell him all this. go this afternoon, for i shall be restless now until all is done. and now let me tell you what no lawyer need know." again she rested for a while and then continued: "they are sure to want a service at the chapel, for i am the oldest member, and a class leader. but i do so dislike doleful singing, so i have been thinking it over and i have put down on a paper which you will find in my bible the hymns which i should like to have sung. ask them to sing first 'my god, the spring of all my joys,' to the tune of 'lydia.' you won't know the tune, love, for it is a very old-fashioned one, but i have always liked it, and it goes with a rare swing. then i _must_ have 'jesu, lover of my soul' to 'hollingside,' for that is the hymn of my experience; and to conclude with let them sing a child's hymn. i'm afraid you will laugh at me, grace, but i would like to have 'there is a better world, they say.' i think these will be sufficient, and they are all very cheerful hymns and tunes." "and the minister?" i asked, for her calmness was infectious. "oh, either of them, love," she said; "they are both good men, and they must arrange to suit their own convenience. now give me a kiss. i am so glad to have got this done, and though i am tired i feel ever so much better." i saw the lawyer in the afternoon, and he called with the draft on the following day, and by the next it had been signed, witnessed and completed. mother hubbard did not go to chapel on the sunday, but on the thursday she expressed her fixed determination to take her class. i protested in vain; the motherkin had made up her mind. "i must, love; it is laid upon me, and i am not at all excited." "but, dear," i urged, "i shall worry terribly whilst you are out of my care. you are not fit to go--you are not strong enough." "it is only a step, love," she replied, "and the evening is warm; why need you worry when you can come with me?" she had never suggested this before--indeed, when i had laughingly suggested it she had been visibly alarmed, and i admit that the idea was not attractive. somehow or other i distrusted the methodist class meeting. but my love for the class leader prevailed. "very well," i said; "if you go, i go too." we went together and found eight or nine women of various ages assembled in the little vestry. mother hubbard took her seat at the table, and i sat next to widow smithies, who moved up to make room for me. we sang a hymn, and then mother hubbard prayed--prayed in a gentle voice which had much humility in it, but an assured confidence which showed her to be on intimate terms with her lord; and when she had finished i read the 103rd psalm at her request, and we sang again. then she spoke, and her voice gathered strength as she proceeded. i cannot write down all she said, but some of the sentences are burned into my memory, though the connections have escaped me. "we will not have an experience meeting to-night, my friends, because i want to speak to you, and god has given me strength to do so. i am weak in body, but my spirit was never stronger. it is the spirit which is the real life, so i was never more alive. i have thought a good deal lately on those words: "'even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. but they that wait upon the lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.' "'they that wait upon the lord' shall do this. not just the strong and powerful, but poor, weak old women like me; aye, those weaker still who are helpless on sick-beds; the paralysed and lame who cannot walk at all--all these shall 'renew their strength.' they are unable even to totter to the old pew in the house of god, so weak and shaky is their poor human frame; aye, but they shall 'mount up with wings as eagles.' the eagle is a strong bird; it makes its nest on the cliffs of high mountains, it soars up and up into the clouds, and it can carry sheep in its talons, so great is its strength. and, do you realise it? they that wait upon the lord are like that. weak and worn out in body, but "'strong in the strength which god supplies through his eternal son.' "my friends, i thank god that in that sense i am strong to-night; and do you think that when i am so strong i am going to die? never! life is going to be fuller, richer, more abundant." i gazed upon mother hubbard in astonishment. she was not excited, but she was exalted. no earthly light was in her eyes, no earthly strength was in those triumphant tones. death had laid his hand upon her but she shook him off and spoke like a conqueror. i looked at her members, and saw that every eye was fixed upon her, and that reverential fear held them immovable. there was a clock over the mantelpiece, and it ticked away slowly, solemnly, but no other sound disturbed the stillness. "i have heard some of you speak often of your crosses, and god knows how heavy some of them have been, and how i have pitied and tried to help you. you will not think i am boasting when i say that i have had crosses to carry, too, but i have always endeavoured to make light of them, and i am so glad of that to-night. because, dear friends, i realise very clearly now that to carry a cross that is laid upon us is to help the master. i think simon was a strong, kindly man, who was glad to carry the cross for christ's sake. i like to think of him as pushing his way through the crowd and saying: 'let me help the master: i will gladly carry it for him.' and i want to say this: that all through my life when i have tried to carry my cross cheerfully the master has always taken the heavier end--always! "you will go on having crosses to carry so long as ever you love the lord jesus christ; but remember this--all troubles are not crosses. god has nothing to do with lots of our troubles. indeed, i am not sure that what we call a trouble is ever a cross. that only is a cross which we carry for his sake. it is a privilege to carry a cross, and we ought to be glad when we are selected. "'but suppose we fall under it?' some of you may say. listen: 'they that wait upon the lord shall renew their strength.' you forgot that. 'when i am weak then i am strong.' why? because the good lord never asks us to carry a cross without giving us strength for the burden. his grace is always sufficient for us. never forget my words--they are perhaps the last i shall speak as your leader, and oh, my dear friends, how my heart yearns over you! how very dear to me is your truest welfare!--no trouble need ever o'erwhelm you, no temptation need ever cause you to fall, no weakness of the body need ever affect the strength of the soul, no darkness of earth need ever shut out the light of heaven, because--listen, 'lo, i am with you always, even unto the end of the world'!" she paused, and the women, unaccustomed to self-control, were sobbing audibly into their handkerchiefs, and mother hubbard noticed it. "we will not sing a closing hymn," she said; "let us pray." the women knelt; but she merely leaned forward, with her hands clasped on the table in front of her, and commended them all to god. she prayed for each of them individually, using their christian names, and remembering all their families and family difficulties. she prayed for the absent ones, for the toilworn and the sick; and she prayed for me--and may god in his mercy answer that prayer, then shall my life be blessed indeed. when she had pronounced the benediction in a very low voice we rose from our knees, and saw her with her face uplifted to heaven, and the calm of heaven spread over it, like the clear golden calm of a cloudless sunset. then, slowly, the head dropped upon her hands; and when at length we tried to rouse her we found that she was beyond our call. chapter xxviii in the crucible despite the squire's protests i remained in my own cottage until the monday when mother hubbard's frail body was laid to rest in the little graveyard. there was nothing to fear, and i felt that i could not leave her there alone. she would have rebuked me, i know, and would have read me the lesson of the cocoon and the butterfly; but i am most contented when i trust implicitly to my instincts, and my inner self bade me stay. practically all the village turned out to the funeral, and the chapel was crowded to its utmost capacity. it was a cheerful service, too, in spite of our tears, for the ministers and members had caught her spirit, and "lydia" was sung with a vigour and heartiness which i should have liked the dear old lady to witness. perhaps she did: who knows? the squire and i occupied the position of chief mourners, but the entire village sorrowed, as those only sorrow who have lost a friend that cannot be replaced. there is no other mother hubbard here, and how much she will be missed when trouble sits by the hearths of the people only time can make known. when all was over i went straight to my new home at the hall, and entered into possession of the lovely room which had been prepared for me. every morning and afternoon i go to my work at the studio, but without the zest which makes duty a delight. the squire would like me to abandon the studio altogether and do my regular work at the hall, but i cannot quite reconcile myself to the idea. after all, the studio is there, and as the weeks go by i shall lose the sense of desolation which is now associated with the place, and which hangs like lead upon the wings of my spirit. yet what cause for gratitude is mine! though i have lost one true friend another is here to comfort and cheer me with never-failing insight and sympathy. how i enjoy these long evenings in the library, the quiet talks in the firelight, the hour which follows the lighting of the lamp, when i read aloud from the squire's favourite authors or the learned quarterlies; and best of all, the comments and discussions which enable me to plumb the depths of his mind and make me marvel at the extent of his knowledge. he likes me to sit on a stool at his feet as i did, ages ago, at zermatt, resting my arm or book upon his knee and within easy reach of his caressing hand. whatever i may have lost by coming to windyridge i have certainly found affection, and i am woman enough to value it above all my losses. so far, mr. derwent has come down each week-end and has remained at the hall over the sunday. for some reason which he does not explain the squire seems rather amused with him just now, and indulges occasionally in a mild form of banter which leaves the younger man quite unruffled. he asks him how he can possibly tear himself away so often from the attractions and duties of the metropolis; and i cannot help thinking that he suspects the existence of an attractive force there. i wonder if the cynic has told him anything of rose. for myself, i am not surprised that he comes to broadbeck for the week-ends, because the habit is ingrained in him, and bachelors of his age do not readily abandon old customs. we had a very interesting evening on saturday. the vicar is away on a stone-hunt of some kind, so his wife came to dinner, and gave spice to the conversation, as she invariably does. i am always delighted when she forms one of the company that includes the cynic, for she is refreshingly blunt and frank with him, and he does not get all his own way. and at the same time he seems to enjoy drawing her out--i suppose he would say "pulling her leg," if she were not a lady. on this particular occasion she attacked him the moment we were comfortably settled in the library, and for a long time the battle was a mere duel of wits. she was extremely scornful because he had chosen to remain a bachelor, and he defended himself with more than his usual cynicism. something had been said about the growing spirit of brotherhood, when she broke in: "bah! don't talk to me about your altruism or any other 'ism. in these days you men make high-sounding phrases take the place of principle. if i know anything of the meaning of words altruism is the very opposite of selfishness--and who is more selfish than your bachelor?" the cynic blew a thin column of smoke towards the ceiling and spoke languidly: "stevenson says--i mean r. l., of course--that if you wish the pick of men and women you must take a good bachelor and a good wife." "stuff and nonsense!" replied the vicar's wife; "if there were such a thing as a good bachelor i should say that he got amongst the pick of men only when he took to himself a good wife. but who ever yet saw or knew a 'good' bachelor? it's a contradiction of terms. mind you, i don't call boys bachelors; bachelors are men who might be married if they would, but they won't. good men are unselfish, and bachelors are brazenly self-centred, and usually unbearably conceited. and you are as bad as any of them, philip." "veritatis simplex oratio est," muttered the cynic. "didn't i say so?" ejaculated the vicar's wife triumphantly. "it is a sure sign of conceit when a man hurls a bit of school latin at his ignorant opponent and so scores a paltry advantage." she pursed her lips in scorn. "i beg your pardon," replied the cynic calmly;. "i got the quotation from a cyclopã¦dia, but i will substitute a line from an english poet which accurately expresses the same meaning: "'how sweet the words of truth, breathed from the lips of love!' but is there no excuse for me and others in like case? are we unmarried men sinners above all the rest? granted that we are selfish, conceited, corrupt and vile, is there yet no place for us in the universe? no lonely corner in the vineyard where we can work with profit to the state?" "i suppose you think you work 'with profit to the state,'" returned the vicar's wife with a curl of the lip, "when you persuade one of his majesty's judges to send some poor wretch to gaol, where he will be provided for at the country's expense whilst his wife and children are left to starve. you would be of far more use to it, let me tell you, if you became the father of a family and----" the cynic held up his hand: "the prey of some conceited bachelor who should wickedly persuade one of his majesty's judges to send me to gaol, whilst my wife and children were left to starve. the reasoning does not seem very clear. if i had remained a bachelor i might have become a wretch, and i might have suffered imprisonment, but at least my sins would not have been visited upon the innocent heads of wife and children. and then it occurs to me that i have known bachelors to be sent to gaol at the instance of married men who persuaded the judges to send them there. no, no, madam, you are too deep for me! i give it up!" "rubbish!" snorted the vicar's wife, "you evade the issue, which is simple enough. are--bachelors--selfish--or--are--they--not?" the cynic shook his head mournfully. "they are more to be pitied than blamed, believe me. they are too often the sport of cruel fate--tossed here and there upon the wave of circumstance--unable, alas! and not unwilling to find safety in the harbour of matrimony. their lot is indeed a sad one. don't call them hard names, but drop for them--and me--the silent tear of sympathy." "oh, of course," broke in the vicar's wife, "i knew that dodge was sure to be employed sooner or later. i was on the watch for it. it is the old excuse that there is nobody to marry. the wave of circumstance does not toss you into the arms of some captivating nymph, and so you remain all at sea--more ornamental, perhaps, but hardly more useful than a cork on the ocean. if you really wanted to get into the harbour of matrimony, let me tell you, you would turn about and swim there, instead of blaming fate for not rolling you in on the crest of a wave." we laughed, and the cynic said: "after all, madam, selfishness is not confined to those who have no intention of marrying. when your good husband took to himself the most charming of her sex he doubtless grudged every smile that was thrown to his rivals. altruism, as you very sagaciously remarked a moment or two ago, is the very antithesis of selfishness, and hence it is unpopular except as an ideal for others. the popular altruist is he who denies himself to minister to my selfishness. we are all selfish, with certain rare exceptions--to be found, fortunately, within the circle of my friends." "i am sure i am selfish," i interjected; "i wonder if that is because i am unmarried." "my dear," said the vicar's wife, "your case is not on all fours with philip's and other bachelors'. _you_ are the sport of fate, and not these men who can easily find some woman silly enough to have them, but who prefer their own selfish ease and comfort, and then entreat sympathy, forsooth! when women are unmarried it is rarely their own fault." "all this is very puzzling," drawled the cynic. "i am groping in the darkness with a sincere desire to find light, and no success rewards my patient efforts. i hear that it is silliness on the women's part to accept our offers, and still we are blamed for saving them from themselves. no doubt you are right, but to me it seems inconsistent." "bother your casuistry!" replied the vicar's wife, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. "philip, you make me tired. what makes you sure you are selfish, dear? i have seen no signs of it." the question was addressed to me, and i answered: "i am beginning to think it was selfishness that brought me here, and i am not sure that it is not selfishness which keeps me here. at the same time i have no wish to leave, and the question arises, is it only the disagreeable which is right? is selfishness never excusable?" "in other words," remarked the cynic, whose eyes were closed, "is not vice, after all, and at any rate sometimes, a modified form of virtue?" "listen to him!" exclaimed the vicar's wife; "the embodiment of selfishness is about to proclaim himself the apostle of morality. the unfettered lord of creation will expound to a slave of circumstance the ethical order of the universe, for the instruction of her mind and the good of her soul." "the fact is," continued the cynic, without heeding the interruption, "miss holden, like many other sensitive people of both sexes, has a faulty conception of what selfishness is. there are many people who imagine that it is sinful to be happy, and a sign of grace to be miserable, which is about as sensible as to believe that it is an indication of good health when you are irritable and out of sorts. to be selfish is to be careless of the interests of others, and miss holden is certainly not that." "it is good of you to say so," i said, "but i sometimes wonder if i am not shirking duty and evading responsibility by enjoying myself here." the squire gave my hand an affectionate squeeze, but only his eyes spoke; and the vicar's wife turned to me. "what brought you up here, dear? i don't think i ever knew." "i am sure i don't," i replied, and before i had time to continue the cynic leaned forward and looked at me. "i know," he said. "you once promised to explain me to myself," i said, smiling, "is this the day and the hour?" "that is for you to say," he replied. "you may object to analysis in public. true, there are some advantages from your point of view. you will have one of your own sex to hold a brief for you, and a very partial judge to guarantee fair play." "i do not mind," i replied; and the squire smiled contentedly. the cynic threw his cigarette into the fire and began: "as i understand the case, before you left london your duties kept your hands busily employed during working hours, but allowed you ample opportunity for the consideration of those social problems in which for the previous year or two you had been deeply interested, and a certain portion of your leisure was devoted to social and philanthropic work?" i assented with a nod. "very well. yielding to what appeared to be a sudden impulse, but to what was in reality the well-considered action of your subconscious self, you bound your burden of cares upon your back and fled from your city of destruction." "like a coward," i interposed, "afraid to play the game of life because of its hazards. i might have remained and faced the problems and helped to fight the foe i loathed." "i will come to that shortly," he said, and every trace of irony had left his voice; "at present i am considering why your subconscious self decided upon this line of action. the world's sorrows were oppressing you like a nightmare. do you know that few of us can meet sorrow face to face and day by day and retain our strength, and particularly if we seek to meet it unprepared, unschooled? one of two things usually happens: we become hardened, or we go mad. from these alternatives it is sometimes wise to flee, and then flight is not cowardice, but prudence." "i certainly obeyed my inner self," i said, "but is there not such a thing as a false conscience?" "your 'inner self' did not betray you," he continued. "unwittingly you sought, not oblivion, but enlightenment and preparation. all earnest reformers are driven of the spirit into the wilderness." "yes, but for what purpose, derwent?" interposed the squire; "to be tempted of the devil?" "to face the tempter, sir. to test their own armour in private conflict before they go forth to strike down the public foe. to discover the devil's strength, his powers and his limitations, before they match themselves against legions. to discover their own strength and limitations, too. the first essential in successful warfare is to know yourself and your enemy, and you gain that knowledge in solitude. it was so with jesus, with paul, with savonarola, with scores of other reformers. miss holden was driven into the wilderness--if you care to put it so--for a similar purpose." "but ought one to avoid opportunities of usefulness?" i urged. "i was in the fray and i withdrew from it." "a raw soldier, invalided home, though you did not know it," he continued, "and sent into the country for rest and renewal, and quiet preparation for effective service. here you have gained your perspective. you survey the field of battle from the heights, and yet you have come in contact with the enemy at close quarters, too, and you know his tactics. you will face the problems of sin and suffering and social injustice again, but with new heart and less of despair." "you are too generous, i fear. i should like to think that my motives were so pure, but----" "what is motive? motive is what excites to action. your motive was not less pure because it was intuitive and unrecognised. but let me ask you: what idea are you disposed to think you left unaccomplished? what object ought you to have pursued?" i thought a moment before i replied: "it seems to me that when there is so much sin and suffering in the world we should try to alleviate it, and to remedy the wrongs from which so much of it springs. and from these things i fled, though i knew that the labourers were few." "you fled from the devil, did you? and you found windyridge a paradise from which he was barred!" i remained silent. "london has no monopoly of sin and suffering. evil has not a merely local habitation. if it was a wile of the devil to remove you out of his way it has been singularly unsuccessful, i conclude, for i understand you have found him vigorously at work here all the time. have you then discovered no opportunities of service and usefulness in the wilderness?" "if happiness is gained by administering it to others," said the squire with some emotion; "if to break up the hard ground of the heart and sow in it the seed of peace is to defeat the devil and his aims, then has miss holden reached her ideal and earned her happiness. i told her a year ago that the devil was a familiar presence in this village, but i thank god, as others do and have done, that she has helped to thwart him." perhaps i ought not to write all this down, for it has the savour of vanity and conceit, but i do not see how i can well avoid doing so. there are times when the heart speaks rather than the judgment, and the squire's heart is very warm towards me; and though i would not doubt his sincerity it is certain that he is not impartial where i am concerned. the cynic looked pleased. "i quite agree, sir," he said; "miss holden has used her opportunities--not simply those which presented themselves, but those which she has sought and found, which is higher service. hence, i conclude that the policy of her subconscious self has been justified, and that she is absolved from any charge of selfishness." "really, philip!" said the vicar's wife, "your eloquence has almost deprived me of the power of speech, which you will acknowledge is no mean achievement. i thought i was appointed counsel for the defence and that you were to prefer the indictment and prove miss holden guilty of some heinous crime. _my_ office has been a sinecure, for a better piece of special pleading for the defence i have never listened to." "i must be fair at all costs," he replied; "miss holden had no misgivings, i imagine, when she came here at first. doubts arose, as they so often do with the conscientious, when the venture prospered. the martyr spirit distrusts itself when there is no sign of rack and faggot. i seek now to reveal miss holden to herself." "you are wonderfully sure of yourself," returned his opponent, "but let us be fair to our pretensions. if you are for the defence let me be for the prosecution. does one serve his country better when he leaves the thick of the fray to study maps and tactics? if one has the opportunity to live is it sufficient to vegetate? for every opportunity of usefulness that windyridge can offer london can provide a score, and miss holden's lot was cast in london. is she living her life? that, i take it, is her problem." "yes," i said, "it is something like that." "i accept your challenge," replied the cynic, "and i agree that it is not what we do but what we are capable of doing that counts. but the most effective workman is not he who undertakes the largest variety of jobs, but he who puts himself into his work. you speak of vegetating, and you ask if miss holden is living her life. what is life? the man who rises early and retires late, and spends the intervening hours in one unceasing rush does not know the meaning of life; whereas the farmer who goes slowly and steadily along the track of the hours, or the student who devotes only a portion of his time to his books and spends the rest in recreation, or the business man who declines to sacrifice himself upon the altar of mammon--these men live. and it is the man who lives who benefits his fellows. to visit the sick, to clothe the naked, to dole out sympathy and charity to the poor is noble work, but it is not necessarily the most effective way of helping them. the man who sits down to study the problem of prevention--the root causes of misery and injustice--and who discovers and publishes the remedy, is the truer and more valuable friend, though he never enter a slum or do volunteer work in a soup kitchen." "and whilst we are diagnosing the conditions rather than the case the patient dies," said the vicar's wife. "we stop our sick visiting and our soup kitchens, and bid the people suffer and starve in patience whilst we retire into our studies to theorise over causes." "to refer to your illustration of a moment ago, my dear madam, the battle need not stop because one or two men of insight retire to serve their country by studying maps and tactics. we need not chain up the good samaritan, but we shall be of far greater service to humanity if, instead of forming a league for the supply of oil and wine and plasters, we inaugurate measures to clear the road of robbers. 'this ought ye to do and not to leave the other undone.'" "you admit, then, that some may find their opportunity of service in work of this baser sort?" "no work is base which is done with a pure motive and done well. all i contend for is that when instinct bids any of us withdraw for a time, or even altogether, it is wise to trust our instincts. if miss holden had devoted herself to a life of pleasure and selfish isolation she might have been charged with cowardly flight from duty. we all know she has done nothing of the kind, and therefore i say her intuition was trustworthy, and she must not accuse herself of selfishness." "i agree with all my heart," said the vicar's wife; "but the problems which she left unsolved are no nearer solution." "how do you know that?" he asked. "the war may be nearer its end because your unheroic soldier sheathed his sword and put on his thinking-cap. that unsoldier-like action may have saved the lives of thousands and brought about an honourable peace. i do not know that miss holden has done much to solve the general problem, but i dare assert that she views it more clearly, and could face it more confidently than she could have done a year ago--that is to say, she has solved her own problem." "there is some truth in that," i said. "windyridge has given me clearer vision, and i am more optimistic on that account. mr. evans told me on the occasion of our first meeting that i should find human nature the same here as elsewhere, and that is so. but the type is larger in the village than it is in the town, and i can read and understand it better. yet one thing town and country alike have proved to me, and that is what you, mr. evans, asserted so confidently--that selfishness is the root of sin. how are we to conquer that?" "only by patient effort," replied the squire. "shallow reformers are eager to try hasty and ill-considered measures. zealous converts, whose eyes have been suddenly opened to the anomalies and injustices of society, are angry and impatient because the wheels of progress revolve so slowly, and they become rebellious and sometimes anarchical. and their discontent is a sign of life, and it is good in its way, but ordinarily it is ineffective. you may blow up the council house in jericho because the councillors have not done their duty, and you may shoot the robbers because they have wounded the traveller, and the zealous reformer will commend you and say: 'now we are beginning to make things move!' but the man who goes to work to destroy the seeds of greed and selfishness, so that men will no longer either need or covet the possessions of others, is the real reformer; but reformation is a plant of slow growth. yet everyone who sows the antidote to selfishness in the heart of his neighbour is to be accounted a reformer." the vicar's carriage was announced at that moment and the conversation was interrupted. "we will continue it next week, sir," said the cynic, "if you will allow me to pay you another visit. i cannot be here until the evening of saturday; may i stay the week-end?" "certainly," said the squire with a smile, "if your engagements permit. i think we must all realise that you seek to carry your theory of life into practice." that was on saturday. the cynic left by the early train this morning, and he had no sooner gone than the post brought me a letter from rose. it was short and sweet--very sweet indeed. "my dear grace, "congratulate me! i am engaged to be married to the best of men, _not excepting your cynic_. you will blame me for keeping it quiet, but how can i tell what is going to happen beforehand? besides, you don't tell me! "i am to marry my chief, who is henceforward to be known to you and me as 'stephen.' he is two or three years older than i am; good-looking, of course, or he wouldn't have appealed to me, and over head and ears in love with "your very affectionate and somewhat intoxicated "rose. "ps.--he has known your cynic for years, but he (i mean your cynic) is too good a sportsman to spoil the fun. "pps.--it is a beautiful ring--diamonds!" i am delighted to think that rose is so happy, and can excuse the brevity of the communication under the circumstances. but i _am_ surprised. i never dreamed that her chief was young and unmarried. why she should always say "your" cynic, however, and underline it, too, i cannot understand. i wish ... chapter xxix the great storm my book is nearly full, and i do not think i shall begin another, for my time is likely to be fully occupied now. but i must set down the events of the last week-end and tell of the wonderful climacteric that i have passed through. then the curtain may be allowed to fall on my unimportant experiences. they have not been unimportant to me, and my recent adventures have provided sufficient excitement to keep the tongues of the villagers busy for months. incidentally i have discovered that windyridge does not belie its name, but that the storm fiend makes it the stage for some of his most outrageous escapades. we had samples of all the different kinds of weather england provides last week--rain, snow, sleet, light breezes, fleecy clouds sailing slowly across the blue, dull and threatening times when the skies were leaden. saturday was the gloomiest day of all. it was gusty from the beginning, but until the afternoon the wind was only sportive, and contented itself with rude schoolboy pranks. by five o'clock, however, its mood had changed and its force increased fourfold, and by six o'clock it had cast off all restraint and become a tempest. whilst i remained in the hall i hardly realised its fury, for the house is well built and shielded from the full force of the northerly winds. it was when i ventured out to visit martha treffit soon after dinner that i became aware of it. the squire had left the table with a severe headache, and retired to his own room where, with drawn blinds and absolute quietude, he usually finds ease, and i was left to my own devices and the tender mercies of the cynic, when he should arrive. but his train was not due until eight, and it would take him a good thirty minutes to walk from the station, so i had more than an hour at my disposal, and i was anxious to find out how little lucy was progressing. she had been under the care of the doctor for several days, and was still in bed and very feverish. i put on my ulster, wound a wrap about my head, and stepped out on to the drive, and it was then that i became aware of the raging elements around me. the wind blew bitingly from the north, charged with smarting pellets of sleet. i had known strong winds before, but never anything like this. it howled and roared, it hissed and shrieked; it was as much as i could do to force my way forward against the pressure of its onrush; but though my head was bent i saw that every bush and shrub was shaken as by some gigantic titan, and that the tall and naked trees swayed towards me with groans that sounded human and ominous. on the topmost branches, black bundles which i knew to be deserted nests were rocked violently to and fro, like anchored boats in the trough of a storm-lashed sea. the night was grim and black, save when for a brief moment the full moon gleamed down upon the angry scene from the torn rifts of the scurrying clouds. the thought crossed my mind that it might be wiser to return, but fate or providence urged me forward, and i laughed at my fears and set my shoulder to the storm. phew! if it was a gale along the drive it was a hurricane in the village street, and a hot-headed, impetuous hurricane, too. pausing for a second in its mad rush it leaped upon one the next moment with a sudden fury that seemed almost devilish and was well-nigh irresistible. twice i was flung against the wall, but as i was hugging it pretty closely i suffered no harm. as i struggled onward the wind was in my teeth; a dozen steps farther and it leaped the wall on my right with a roar, like a pack of hounds in full cry, and tore down the fields with reckless velocity to hurl itself into the black mystery of the wood. not a soul was to be seen, but the clatter of a dislodged slate upon the pavement brought a frightened woman to the door of one of the cottages, and i stepped inside for a moment's breathing-space. "lord! miss 'olden, is it you?" she said. "i don't know how you dare stir out. i'm a'most flayed to death to stay in t' 'ouse by myself, but my master is off wi' most o' t' other men to gordon's farm to give 'em a hand." "what is the matter there?" i inquired. "ye 'aven't 'eard, then? they say 'at t' wind's uprooted t' big sycamore an' flung it again' one o' t' barns, or summat, an' it's like to fall in, so they've gone to see what can be done." i did my best to encourage her and then made what haste i could to the house of roger treffit, which stood lank and dark against the black sky. as it was saturday night i hoped that roger would be away, but it was his voice that bade me enter, and the dog rose to give me welcome. the fire roared up the chimney and the wind met it there with answering roar. roger was sitting with his feet stretched out to the blaze, one arm resting upon the table and encircling a half-empty whiskey bottle. in his right hand he held a tumbler nearly full of spirits. i saw at a glance that he was very drunk, but i believed him to be harmless. "is mrs. treffit upstairs? may i go to her at once?" i asked. "quite all right, ma'am, quite all right. show lady ... way, miss t'ry.... missis ill ... kid ill ... miss t'ry ill ... ev'yb'dy ill. doctor says mus' keep kid quiet, mus'n' disturb 'er. won't let 'em disturb 'er, i won't.... go forw'd, ma'am." he rose steadily enough, and held the door open for me to pass through, and i heard him mutter as he returned to his chair: "won't let 'em disturb 'er, i won't." martha greeted me in her usual sadly-cordial fashion, and motioned me to a chair near the bed where the little one lay, flushed and asleep. "she's a bit better," she whispered, "but she's to be kept quiet, an' whatever i do i haven't to miss 'er med'cine every hour. but he says wi' care an' good nursin' she'll pull through." "and how is your cough?" i asked. "oh, about as usual," she replied indifferently. "i have to cough into my apron when lucy's asleep, but i should soon be right enough if i'd nought to worrit about. it's yon chap downstairs 'at 'll be t' death of us both." "has he no engagement to-night? i thought he was never free on saturdays." "it's t' dog. she's poorly again, an' he can't work her. my opinion is 'at t' poor brute's about done, an' i believe roger knows it an' it's drivin' 'im mad. he drinks t' day through, an' in a bit there'll be nought for us but t' work'us, for i can't keep 'im i' whiskey; an' whativver's goin' to come o' our poor little lucy i don't know. i've been lookin' at her as she lay there, miss 'olden, so sweet an' pretty, like a little angel, an' i a'most asked the lord to take 'er out of all t' trouble, but i couldn't bide to lose 'er." the overwrought woman buried her face in her apron and sobbed convulsively--deep-drawn, quiet sobs which told of her soul's agony. a solitary candle was burning upon the dressing-table, and the room looked eerie in the half darkness. outside the storm was at its height, and in the stillness which neither of us broke i heard it shriek with the shrillness which one associates with spirits in torment. but it was the savage thrust of the wind that frightened me most, and the heavy and repeated thuds which struck the end of the house like the battering blows of a heavy ram. it is no exaggeration to say that the house rocked, and i began to fear lest it should collapse. i remembered what a shaky, decrepit structure it was, and i turned to martha to see if she shared my alarm. she caught the question in my eyes: "i think it's safe enough," she said; "it allus rocks a bit in a 'igh wind. i've got while i take no notice of it." poor woman! there was a storm within her breast which dwarfed the tempest outside into insignificance; but i held my breath again and again, and tried in vain to stay the tumultuous beatings of my heart as the mad wind rained blow after blow upon the quivering walls with a persistency and ever growing fury which seemed to make disaster inevitable. by and by i could stand it no longer. "are you sure the house is safe, martha?" i asked. "listen to the wind now; it makes me shudder to hear it, and the wall on yonder side absolutely heaves. had we not better wrap lucy up well, and take her downstairs?" "you aren't used to it, miss 'olden, an' it's gettin' on your nerves. you needn't fear. i've seen it like this oft enough afore. but you ought to be gettin' back 'ome, for it's hardly a fit night for you to be out." i was reluctant to leave, and yet i saw that i was likely to do more harm than good if i remained, so i said good-night and left her; but at the foot of the narrow staircase i found my way blocked and the door barred. angry voices came from within the room, and my knocks were unheard or unheeded. roger's back appeared to be against the door, and i put my ear to it and listened. they were mostly women's voices, and their angry tone convinced me that they had been protesting in vain. "don't be a fool, roger! i tell you t' stack 'll fall in another minute, an' where 'll you all be then? oppen t' door, an' let's bring your martha an' lucy out, or ye'll all be killed!" "ye shan't disturb 'er," said the maudlin voice on the other side the door; "doct'r said mus'n' disturb 'er ... keep 'er quiet ... won't let anyb'dy disturb 'er." "can't you understand, you gawmless fool," shouted another woman, "'at t' chimley's rockin' an' swayin', an' is bound to come down on t' top on us all while we're standin' 'ere? oppen t' door, you drunken beggar, an' let your missis an' child come out!" "i'll shoot anyb'dy 'at disturbs 'er," stuttered roger; "hang me if i don't. doct'r said mus'n be disturbed ... won't have 'er disturbed. clear, all of ye!" there was a sound of sudden movement, and i gathered that roger had raised his weapon. sick at heart i groped my way upstairs again and discussed the situation with martha. she was alarmed in good earnest now, as much for my sake as for lucy's, and we went down and battered the door in vain. we could hear voices faintly, but the crowd was evidently in the road, and roger was still guarding the door. we returned to the bedroom, and martha flung herself upon her knees and broke into fervent prayer to god. what happened afterwards has been told me since. afraid of the tottering chimney-stack, and cowed by roger's revolver, the group of women and boys had fallen back into the road, when barjona appeared upon the scene with his cart. with one accord the women rushed up to him and explained the peril of roger and his family, and the drunken man's insane refusal of help and warning. a glance above showed barjona that their fears were only too well founded, and--let me say it to his credit--he did not hesitate for a moment. "can only die once," he muttered, and without another word he seized his whip and strode towards the house. as he entered the door roger covered him with his weapon and defied him to advance, but with a hoarse growl the sturdy old man flung himself forward, lashed his whip around the legs of the drunken man, and as the revolver discharged itself harmlessly into the air, he seized his opponent round the waist, and with super-human strength hurled him into the corner, where he lay stupefied, if not senseless. the faithful dog sprang at his master's assailant, but he kicked it quickly aside. it was the work of a moment to draw back the heavy bolt and rush up the creaking stairs. "out with you!" he cried ... "out at once! ... no time to lose ... t' chimney's fallin' ... bring lucy, martha ... i'll go down an' watch roger. 'urry up, now!" we needed no second admonition. barjona hurried down the steps, and martha darted to the bed, seized her child and a blanket, and followed him. i had almost reached the foot of the stairs when i remembered the medicine on which so much depended, and i ran back to fetch it. as i did so i thought i heard a warning cry from the street, and fear gave wings to my feet. but it was too late. just as i reached the dressing-table there came a fearful crash, and through an opening in the roof an avalanche of stones and tiles and mortar descended with terrific force. then, to the accompaniment of an awful roar, a dark and heavy mass hurled itself through the gap, and the crunch of broken beam and splintered wood told where it had disappeared into the room below. a pit opened almost at my feet, and there came up a blinding, suffocating mist of dust, like the breath of a smouldering volcano. one whole end of the house fell over into the field, and i felt the floor slope away beneath me as i made an agonised clutch at the framework of the bed. loosened stones fell upon and around me in showers, but i was conscious of no pain. choked and terrified, however, and certain that my last hour had come, i lost my senses and fell upon the littered bed in a swoon. i came back to semi-consciousness in a land of shadows. i thought i was in egypt, lying among the ruins of the great nile temples about which i had been reading to the squire only a day or two before. overhead the moon was looking down, full orbed, and tattered clouds were racing along the path of the skies. the jagged piles of masonry were the giant walls of philae, and the roar of the wind was the rush of waters over the great dam. it was not unpleasant to lie there and dream, and listen to the spirit voices which came indistinctly from the pillared courts. then the figure of a man bent over me and an arm was placed beneath my neck, and a familiar voice whispered in tones that sounded anguished, and oh! so distant: "grace, my darling! speak to me!" i tried to speak, but could only smile and lean upon his arm in deep content, and the figure bent over me and placed his cheek against my lips, and laid a hand upon my heart, and seemed to cry for help; but the cry was faint and indistinct, like that of a distant echo. then another form appeared--taller and more stalwart--and i felt myself raised from the ground and carried to the top of the masonry, where formless hands grasped me, and i sank--sank--with a feeling that i was descending into the bowels of the earth--into oblivion again. when i next awoke my mind was clearer, but i was still dazed. i half opened my eyes and found myself in my own bed, with the housekeeper seated at my side, and dr. trempest and the squire talking together in quiet tones by the fire. "how in thunder did they get her down?" the doctor was asking. "derwent heard the story as he got to the hall and he fetched a short ladder and climbed up as far as he could, and did some wonderful gymnastics," replied the squire; "but goodenough's sons came hurrying up with longer ladders, and they lashed three together side by side, and managed in that way. derwent couldn't lift her, but ben goodenough has the strength of an ox. but it was a tough job in a high wind on a rickety floor." "well, it's a miracle, that's all i can say. i must go see martha treffit's child now, but i'll look in to-morrow, early on." "you are sure there is no cause for anxiety?" inquired the squire anxiously; "she will come round all right?" "as right as a bobbin," replied the doctor cheerfully. "there's only the least bit of concussion. she was more frightened than hurt. i'll send her up a bottle when i get back." "you needn't trouble," i ejaculated; "it won't be mixed with faith this time." "she'll do!" chuckled the doctor, and he turned to me: "go to sleep now and behave yourself." chapter xxx calm after storm of course the cynic had to explain, because he did not realise at first how shadowy the whole occurrence had been to me. you see, i really was not fully conscious at the time, and might easily have concluded that i had dreamt it. however, he is _my_ cynic now, really, so i can talk quite freely to him; and i tell him that after he called me "darling" and whilst he was trying to make sure that i still breathed, he kissed me; but he says that convinces him that i really was dreaming. but we have agreed not to quarrel about it, as one more or less doesn't much matter. his professional duties must be pretty elastic, for it is now wednesday and he has not gone back; though, to be sure, he has done a fair amount of pleading in a local court and has won the first part of his case and seems likely to be successful in the next. a remarkable thing about these bachelors who have waited so long is that they cannot afford to wait the least bit longer. they are no sooner engaged than they must be married. but in this instance things are going to be done decently and in order. the squire says we do not know each other well enough yet, and suggests two years as the term of our engagement, but i think we shall compromise on four months. "what about my studio, philip?" i asked this morning. "i have not seen it for days, and it is as dear to me as a lover." "is it?" he said; "can you bear to walk as far?" "why, of course," i replied; "i'm all right now." "you'll have to take my arm," he remarked; "you are only shaky yet." it was merely an excuse, but i did it to please him. of course all the village knows what has happened, and a dozen friendly folk nodded, or smiled or shouted their congratulations according to the measure of their intimacy or reserve. when we came in sight of my cottage the studio was nowhere to be seen, and, greatly surprised, i turned to the cynic for an explanation, but he merely pressed my arm and said: "farmer goodenough is there. he will tell you all about it." i held my peace until we entered the field and stood by my late landlord's side. explanation was unnecessary, for the field was still littered with splintered wood and broken glass, though much of it had been cleared away. "so you're about again, miss! well, i'm downright glad to see you." then, indicating the _dã©bris_ with an inclination of the head: "i've sorted out all 'at seemed to be worth ought. all t' glass picturs 'at weren't reight smashed i've put into a box an' ta'en into t' 'ouse. but there isn't much left. them 'at saw it say 'at t' stewdio cut up t' paddock like a hairyplane, an' it must ha' collapsed in t' same way." "it knew it was doomed," remarked the cynic, "supplanted--and it promptly put an end to itself." "well, never mind, miss," put in reuben, "there's nought to fret about. 'off wi' the old love an' on with the new!' i'd nearly put that down to t' owd book, but i should ha' been mista'en. however, ye've made a good swop, an' i don't know which on ye's got t' best o' t' bargain." "i have, reuben," said the cynic heartily. i wasn't going to contradict him, of course, though i know he is "mista'en." "i was just thinkin', miss, if it's all t' same to you," continued the farmer, "'at it 'ud be a charity to let martha an' her little lass have your cottage. you see----" "but you forget they are only for widows, mr. goodenough," i interrupted. he glanced quickly at philip. "they haven't told you then, miss? well, it's out now. martha is a widow. barjona got clear by t' skin of his teeth, but roger an' t' dog were killed on t' spot; an' though it sounds a 'ard sayin', it's no loss to martha an' lucy. are we to let 'em have t' cottage, think ye?" i agreed, of course; but the tragic death of roger had saddened me, and as usual reuben noticed my clouded expression. "now don't you take on, miss. you'll 'ave to leave these things to them above. after all, as t' owd book says, 'it's an ill wind 'at blows nobody iny good,' an' t' storm has blown you two into one another's arms an' martha into t' cottage, in a manner o' speakin'; so we must look on t' cheerful side. however, i must be stirring." he raised his cap and left us, and i turned to the cynic. "philip," i said, and i know the tears filled my eyes, "the sight of the cottage brings back to me sweet memories of dear old mother hubbard. how delighted she would have been to welcome us! how pleased she would have been if she had known!" "she did know, grace," he replied. "i called to see her when you were away, and the good soul spoke to me about you in such loving terms that i could not help making her my confidante; and do you know, she asked if she might kiss me before i left. she hoped to live to see the consummation, but if that were denied her she bade me tell you how earnestly she had prayed for our happiness, and how fervently she had longed to see us united." now i have reached the very last line in my book. how could i end it better than with mother hubbard's blessing? the end ====================================================================== _some early press opinions_ windyridge _pall mall gazette_.--"'windyridge' can be heartily recommended." _saturday review_.--"oh, 'windyridge' were paradise enow." _academy_.--"'windyridge'is an arresting, fascinating book, one to read and read again." _atheneum_.--"there is a quaint charm about this story of a yorkshire village." _nation_.--"'windyridge' is a book that should give genuine pleasure to tens of thousands of people." _methodist recorder_.--"a white novel.... this book has real vital qualities and we can heartily recommend it." _outlook_.--"a revelation of how much pleasure can be got from the perusal of a sincere and simple description of the real things of life." _bookman_.--"the story has an atmosphere and a curious charm of its own that are not easy to define; there is a sort of dream-magic about it; a delicate lavender-like fragrance." _globe_.--"a notable new novel.... few who take it up will care to lay it down before the last page is reached. it is a novel of the genus to which 'cranford' belongs, and we are not sure that it may not challenge comparison with mrs. gaskell's classic." _standard of empire_.--"here is a book about which one prophecy may be made with safety: it will be read, quoted, and enthusiastically admired by a multitude of people; and that for the simple reason that it will appeal to the hearts of the multitude.... 'windyridge' will be much talked of and read this autumn; and its publishers are to be congratulated." tom pinder, foundling, by d. f. e. sykes, ll.b. part 1. tom. ...... pinder,... foundling. (a story of the holmfirth flood.) by d.f.e. sykes, ll.b. price one penny ______________ slaithwaite: f. walker, commercial and artistic printer, britannia works. 2,000-2-06 later published under the title "dorothy's choice" about the author d f e sykes was a gifted scholar, solicitor, local politician, and newspaper proprietor. he listed his own patrimony as 'fred o' ned's o' ben o' billy's o' the knowle' a reference to holme village above slaithwaite in the colne valley. as the grandson of a clothier, his association with the woollen trade would be a valuable source of material for his novels, but also the cause of his downfall when, in 1883, he became involved in a bitter dispute between the weavers and the mill owners. when he was declared bankrupt in 1885 and no longer able to practise as a solicitor he left the area and travelled abroad to ireland and canada. on his return to england he struggled with alcoholism and was prosecuted by the nspcc for child neglect. eventually he was drawn back to huddersfield and became an active member of the temperance movement. he took to researching local history and writing, at first in a local newspaper, then books such as 'the history of huddersfield and its vicinity'. he also wrote four novels. it was not until the 1911 census, after some 20 years as a writer, that he finally states his profession as 'author'. in later life he lived with his wife, the daughter of a lincolnshire vicar, at ainsley house, marsden. he died of a heart attack following an operation at huddersfield royal infirmary on 5th june 1920 and was buried in the graveyard of st bartholomew's in marsden. introduction tom pinder, foundling is a romance and moral tale, set in the early part of the 19th century, to the backdrop of the greenfield and holme valleys when both were a part of west yorkshire. it deals with the life of a foundling, victorian values, the burgeoning of the cooperative movement and the holmfirth flood. the book was first published c. 1902 and subsequently published under the title dorothy's choice (a rushing of the waters). sykes is one of few novelists who chose to portray the lives of common people in this period and for this reason alone it is a valuable resource as a social history. his use of the local dialect, ability to sketch interesting characters and their relationships adds greatly to its readability. chapter i. the _hanging gate_ is a public-house of venerable aspect. it stands at the corner of one of four cross ways, where the road from the summit of harrop edge cuts the turnpike from leeds to manchester. it pays rates in the township of diggle, and to diggle it properly belongs; but the small cluster of tumble-down cottages that constitutes a very small hamlet rejoices in the name of wakey, a name whose origin has hitherto baffled the researches of local antiquarians. the inn itself is a low, two-storied, rambling building. its rooms are so low that a moderately tall man must dodge the oaken rafters. there is much stabling, now largely abandoned to the rats, for the pristine glory of the _hanging gate_ departed with the stage coach. a long horse-trough by the side of the inn front still stands to remind the wayfarer of the days when the highway was quick with traffic, but the sign itself bears eloquent testimony of decay and fallen fortunes though it still flaunts its ancient legend on a miniature crate that rocks and creaks over the narrow doorway: "this gate hangs well and hinders none; refresh and pay and travel on." but on a certain winter's night of 183--, when this story opens, the guest more bent upon refreshing than travelling on might have pleaded good excuse. outside, the snow lay upon field and road knee-deep, the thatches, gables, and very faces of the scattered houses of wakey were splashed and bespattered with snow, which for days had fallen in big flakes, silent and sad as the grey leaves of latest autumn, making thick the air as with the lighting of grasshoppers. the moon in the low-hanging sky was veiled by heavy masses of dark cloud that stole across the heavens like mutes oppressed by the sombre garb of woe. signs of life about the wakey there seemed none, save the mellowed light that shone across the bisecting roads from the curtained lattices of the _hanging gate_. it was eight o'clock and the hand-loom weavers or mill-hands habiting the small stone-build houses that straggled from the valley up the bleak sides of harrop edge had gone to bed, not so much because they were weary as to save fire and light. the village smithy flanking the stables of the _hanging gate_ was closed and the smith himself, big burly jim o' little hannah's had forged his last shoe and blown the last blast from his bellows, poured his last pint down his throat in the neighbouring taproom and trudged home to his little wife and large family. the few frequenters of the tap-room had tarried till tarry they might no longer, for times were bad, money was scarce and the credit given by the best of innkeepers has its limits. mrs. betty schofield, the buxom hostess of the _hanging gate_ was no wise dismayed by the slackness of her custom. rumour had it that betty was a very warm woman. she had been some years a widow, and her husband had left her, as the gossips said, well worth picking up. look at her as she sits in the long kitchen before a roaring fire of mingled coal, peat and logs. below the medium height, with wavy brown hair, a soft brown eye, a dimpled chin, now inclined to the double, a full and swelling bust, a mouth not too small and smiling lips that parted only to display a perfect set of teeth--it does one good to look upon her rosy cheek.--happy the man, you say, who shall own those ample charms and for whom shall beam the ready smile or soften the warm brown eyes. there are another two seated in the brick-tiled kitchen. mary o' stuart's commonly called moll o' stute's, and mr. william black. moll shall have precedence in honour of her sex and calling, a noble calling, of a verity, for mary was the midwife of the valley. she is scantily clad for the time of the year, yet you judge that it is not from cold that she huddles by the fireside, but rather for convenience of lighting the black clay pipe she so intently sucks, one long skinny brown arm resting on her knee, her eyes fixed upon the glowing fire that casts its flickering light upon the sharp hard-featured face. her black hair is long and though streaked with grey is still abundant, and rebellious locks, escaped from the coil, stray over the scraggy shoulders, round which a shabby, faded, flannel shawl hangs loosely. no one knows where moll lives, if it be not at the _hanging gate_, which, if not her home, is for moll a sort of _poste restante_, and if not there to be always seen there she can always be heard of. moll has less need of fixed abode than ordinary mortals. she has reached the age of fifty or more, and still bears her virgin name and owns to neither chick nor child, though there were that breathed mysterious hints of wild passages of thirty years gone bye, when moll's cheek was soft and rosy and her form, though tall, lacked nought of grace and suppleness. "a saucy queen," the village grannies said, "and one that always thought herself too good for common folk; but pride had had its fall,"--a reflection that seemed to bring comfort to the toothless, hollow-cheeked beldames as they wheezed asthmatically of the scandals of a youth long fled, when mary's foot light upon the village green and her laugh was readiest at feast or wakes. on the opposite side of the hearth sat mr. black, the village schoolmaster, a little lean man well past his meridian, his hair sparse and thin, and sparse and thin all his form and frame. he is clean shaven, but his lips are firm and his eye bright and keen. though he has the lean and hungry look of the born conspirator, never did such a look so belie a man; for a gentler being never breathed than william black, nor one more secure in the affection and esteem of high and low for many miles around. he was not a that country man and how or by what fate, driven by what adversity or sore mischance, he had drifted to that wild neighbourhood none presumed to know. he kept a day school for boys and girls, whose parents paid fourpence a child per week when they could afford it, and less when they couldn't--generally less. then on alternate week-nights he kept a night-school where strapping and ambitious youths from loom or farm or bench, whose education had been neglected in their tender youth sought painfully to learn to read and write and sum. these were known to pay as much as twopence a lesson. mr. black--even in those irreverent days and parts, where few even of the better sort escape a nick-name, he was always called _mr_. black,--was a bachelor, and his modest household and mr. black himself were ruled by a spinster sister, shrill of voice, caustic of speech, with profound contempt for her brother's softness, but unceasing and untiring in the care of the household gods, and happiest in those "spring cleanings" that were not confined to spring. but to-night mr. black has fled before his sister's voice and twirling mop, and a look of seraphic content rests upon his face as he meditatively puffs his long churchwarden and sniffs the fragrant odour of the mulled ale that simmers in the copper vessel, shaped like a candle-snuffer, or, as mr. black reflected, like a highly burnished dunce's cap, and which the plump hand of mrs. schofield had thrust nigh to its rim in the very heart of the ruddy fire. the schoolmaster's thin legs, clad in stout stockings of native wool, knit by miss black's deft fingers, were crossed before the blaze and the grateful warmth falls upon them, the while the clogging snow slowly melts from his stout boots. "redfearn o' fairbanks is late to-night," he said at length, after a silence broken only by the click of mrs. schofield's steel knitting needles. "aye, it's market day in huddersfilt, yo' know, mr. black, an' th' roads 'll be bad to-neet. but fairbanks 'll win through if th' mare dunnot fall an' break his neck." "th' mare's nooan foaled 'at 'll break tom o' fairbank's neck," said moll o' stuart's, grimly. "it's spun hemp that bides for him, if there's a god i' heaven." "whisht yo' now, moll, an' quit speakin' o' your betters, leastwise if you canna speak respectful." "betters! respectful! quo' she," retorted molly with a defiant snort, pulling hard at her filthy cuddy. "aye betters!" snapped the landlady, or as nearly snapped as lips like hers could snap. "it's me as says it, an' me as 'll stand to it. wheer i' all th' parish will yo find a freer hand or a bigger heart nor tom o' fairbanks? tell me that, yo' besom." "aye free enew," said molly curtly. mrs. schofield bridled indignantly. "oh! it's weel for yo' to sit by mi own fireside an' eat o' mi bread an' nivver so happy as when yo're castin' up bye-gones 'at should be dead an' buried long sin." "aye, aye, let the dead past bury its dead," put in the schoolmaster soothingly. "an' what if redfearn o' fairbanks ware a bit leet gi'en i' his young days," went on the irate hostess. "he's nooan th' first an' he'll nooan be th' last. he's nobbut human like most folk 'at ivver i heard tell on. he's honest enough now, if he's had to wear honest. an' it's weel known...." but what was so well known that the voluble tongue of mrs. schofield was about to repeat it at large shall not be here set down, nor was destined that night to enlighten the company; for the outer door was opened, and a gust of keen wind laden with feathery flakes of snow whirled up the narrow passage, well nigh extinguishing the slender light of the oil lamp on the wall, and causing the great burnished metal dishes and the very warming-pan itself to sway gently on their hooks. "it's fairbanks, hissen," said mrs. schofield "talk o' the de'il," muttered the irrepressible moll but no one heeded. then was heard much stamping of feet in the outer passage and kicking of boot toes on the lintel of the door and not a little coughing and clearing of the throat. "ugh! shut the door to, man," cried a hearty voice; "do yo' want me to be blown into th' back-yard?" the heavy bolt-studded door was pressed back and there strode into the room a tall well-built man. top-booted, spurred, with riding-whip in hand, and wearing the long heavy-lapetted riding-coat of the period--a hale, hearty man fresh-complexioned, with close cropped crisping hair, the face clean shaven after the fashion of the times, a masterful man, you saw at a glance, and one who knew it. though he was over the borderland of his fifth decade, time had neither wrinkled his ruddy face nor streaked his crisp brown hair. behind him as he strolled into the kitchen, shambled a thick-set, saturnine, grim-visaged churl, who knew more of his master's business and far more of his master's secrets than the mistress of fairbanks herself. it was aleck, the shepherd and general factotum of fairbanks farm, aleck the silent, aleck the cynic, aleck the misogynist, against whose steeled heart successive milk-maids and servant wenches had cast in vain the darts and arrows of amorous eyes and who was spitefully averred to care only for home-brewed ale, and the sheep-dog, pinder that now, already, was shaking the snow oft his shaggy coat preparatory to curling himself up before the fire. "sakes alive! it's a rough 'un, good folk," said the master of fairbanks, "good night to yo' betty, an' to yo', mr. black. i was feart aw should miss yo'. give me a stiff 'un o' rum hot wi' sugar an' a splash o' lemon; an' yo' aleck, will't ha' a pint o' mulled?" which redolent compound mrs. schofield was now pouring into a capacious pitcher. "tha knows better, mester," was aleck's blunt reply. "a quart o' ale, missis, an' nooan too much yead on it--no fal-lals for me, mi stummack's too wake." this was an unusually long speech for aleck, and he sank exhausted on a settle that ran beneath a long narrow window, whilst the dog prone upon the hearth, his jaws resting on his fore paws, feigned sleep, but blinked at times from beneath twitching eyebrows at the rugged visage of the tanned, weather-beaten herdsman. "an' yo' stabled th' mare aw nivver heerd th' stable door oppen?" queried mrs schofield. "nay, i left bess at th' _floating lights_. she cast a shoe coming over th' top. so we'n walked daan an welly up to mi chin aw've bin more nor once--it's th' heaviest fall aw mind on." "but you're late fairbanks," said mr black. "i looked for you this hour and more. have you had a good market?" "aye nowt to grumble at, an' we aleck? sold forty head o' beast an' bought thirty as fine cattle as ever yo' clapped e'en on, eh, aleck? an' we're nooan strapped yet," he laughed, as he drew a leather pouch from an inner pocket and cast it jingling on to the table. "here betty, put that i'th cupboard." "have yo' counted it?" asked mrs. schofield, handling the greasy bag gingerly. "count be danged," said mr. redfearn, "saving your presence, schoolmaster. gi' me another jorum. sup up, aleck." aleck supped up and silently handed his pewter to mrs schofield. "but it wasn't the market that kept me so late," went on mr redfearn. "there were a meeting o' th' free holders o' th' district to consider the new reform bill. we met i' th' big room at th' _george_, but it all came to nowt; though harry brougham talked and talked fit to talk a hen an' chickens to death. gosh! our mary's a good 'un, but she couldn't hold a can'le to brougham." "aye, did you hear mr. brougham?" asked mr black, with interest. "what manner of man is he?" "why nowt much to look at--aw could blow him away like thistle down; more like a monkey up a stick nor owt 'at i can think on. but talk! you should hear him! but he didn't talk my vote out o' me for all that. king and church for me, say i. th' owd ways were good enough for my father an' my father's father an' aw reckon they'll do for me." "but he's a marvellous man," said mr. black. "who but he could leave the assizes at york, travel, there and back, over two hundred miles after the rising of the court, address half-a-dozen meetings and be back next day taking his briefs--i think they call them--as fresh as new paint." "aye, but that wern't brougham," said redfearn. "it wer' owdham browies." "eh?" queried the schoolmaster. "aye, owdham browies. i had it from a sure source. th' other day i' th' court harry wer' fair done an' it wer' getting late. 'won't your ludship adjourn, now?' he says, as mild as milk." "'no, sir,' says th' judge,'i shall finish this case if i sit till midnight.' yo' see he knew harry only wanted to be off spoutin' an' th' owd judge wer' a tory." "'very well, my lord,' says harry an' turns to his clerk, an' in a jiffy there war a basin o' haver-bread wi' hot beef drippin' poured on it an pepper an salt an' a pint o' old port wine stirred in, an' harry spooinnin' it into him like one o'clock, slap under th' owd judge's nose. th'owd felly wer' a bit hungry hissen, an' th' smell set his mouth a watterin' an' he jumped up an' adjourned th' court, an' if he didn't say 'curse yo',' they say he looked it. but what ails pinder?" the sheep-dog had pricked its ears, then listened intently, then gone into the passage whining and growling. "pinder thinks it's time to be goin' whom'," said aleck, as he followed the cur into the passage. the dog laid its nose to the bottom of the thick door; whined and began frantically to scratch at the door beneath which the snow had drifted in thin sprays. when aleck neared the dog it leaped on him and then with looks more eloquent than speech compelled him to the door. "ther's summat up," said aleck, as he opened the door. "bring th' lantern, missus." the dog bounded out, set its head to the ground and howled dismally. aleck stooped, his big hands swept away a big mound of snow and he lifted something in his arms. "mak' way theer," he cried, as nearly excited as ever aleck had been known to be; "mak' way; it's a woman an' oo's dead, aw'm thinkin'." he bore his burthen, almost covered with its cold winding sheet of snow, into the warm kitchen, and laid it before the fire. mrs. schofield had snatched a cushion from the settle and placed it under the head of the lifeless figure. the men had risen to their feet and gazed helplessly at the rigid form. they saw the fair young face, marble white and set, fair tresses, sodden through. upon the feet were shoes of flimsy make, the heel gone from one of them. a slight cape covered a thin dress of good make and material, but far too tenuous for winter wear, and all was travel-stained and soaked through. moll o' stute's thrust the men aside. "go whom," she said, "yo're nooan wanted here." she put her hand into the woman's bosom. "gi' me some brandy," she said. it was there already, held in mrs. schofield's trembling hand. a little passed the lips and gurgled down the throat. a little more and the potent spirit did its saving work. the white thin hand twitched, the eyes partly opened, then closed again as a faint sigh breathed from the pallid lips. "put th' warming pan i' th' best bed, an' leet a fire upstairs," commanded moll. "i'st be wanted afore mornin' or aw'st be capped." "shall aleck fetch dr. garstang?" ventured mr. redfearn. "garstang fiddlesticks," snapped moll. "this is wark for me, aw tell yo'. there'll be one more i' this house bi morn, and happen one less, god save us. but get you gone an' moither me no more." chapter ii. mr. black did not sleep well that night. he had fevered visions of alpine crevasses, of st. bernard dogs and of fair blanched faces set in long dank tresses of clinging hair. he had had, too, before seeking his narrow pallet, a rather bad and disquieting quarter of an hour with his sister, who had demanded in acrid tones to be told what made him so late home. he was losing his character, the irate priscilla had declared, spending every spare moment at the _hanging gate_, whose landlady everyone knew to be a designing women and openly and unblushingly "widowing." a nice howdyedo it must be for him, a scholar, to have his name bandied about in every tap-room between diggle and greenfield. but she would see mr whitelock the vicar of st chad's, and perhaps her abandoned brother would take more notice of his spiritual adviser than he did of those that were his own flesh and blood so to speak. but if he meant to go on that gate, drinking and roistering and maybe even worse, she, for one, wouldn't stand it, and nevermore would she set scrubbing brush to desk and floor or duster to chair, no not if dirt lay so thick, you could write your name in it with your finger--and so forth. mr. black had smiled when mr whitelock was mentioned, for well he knew the worthy vicar's cob stopped without hint from rein as it reached the _hanging gate_, and no one knew better than the reverend gentleman the virtues of those comforting liquids mrs. schofield reserved for favoured guests. priscilla, however, had been somewhat mollified and allowed the cauldron of her righteous wrath to simmer down, when her brother told her he had been detained by mr. redfearn of fairbanks, and that she might expect a basket of butter and eggs, with maybe a collop, as a mark of friendship and esteem from mrs. redfearn herself. mr. black struggled hard with his early breakfast of porridge and milk, but it was no use. he pushed away bowl and platter and murmuring something about being back in time to open school he seized his beaver, donned frieze coat and made off to the _hanging gate_. his heart sank within him when he found the door closed though not bolted, and every window shrouded by curtain or blind. mrs. schofield was rocking herself in the chair and looked, as was indeed the case as if she had known no bed that night. there were marks of tears upon her, cheeks, and her glossy hair, was all awry and unkempt. "eh, but mr. black," she half sobbed, "but it's good for sair e'en to see yo' or any other christian soul after such a time as aw've passed through this very neet that's passed and gone. glory be to god. and oh! mi poor head, if it doesna crack it's a lucky woman betty schofield will be. if it hadn't been for a cup o' tay goodness only knows but what aw'd ha' sunk entirely, and moll o stute's wi' no more feelin' nor a stone. but sit yo' down, sir, an' drink a dish o' tea." now black tea in those days was 8s. a pound and a tea-drinking was almost as solemn a function as a church sacrament. tea was not to be lightly drunk, and indeed was reserved chiefly for funerals and christenings. the women folk of the middle classes drank it at times to mark their social status, as people now-a-days emblazon emblems of spurious heraldry on the panels of their broughams. the men held it in derision as a milksop's beverage and swore by the virtues of hops and malt. but mr. black was fain to forget his manhood nor resisted over much when a certain cordial, darkly alluded to as "brown cream" and commonly supposed to mellow in the plantations of jamaica, was added to the fragrant cup. "and the poor woman?" he asked timidly at last. "ah! poor woman well may yo' call her, though mebbe now she's richer nor any on us, for if ever misguided wench looked like a saint i' heaven she does--an' passed away as quiet as a lamb, at two o'clock this mornin' just as th' clock theer wer strikin' th' hour. eh! but she's a bonnie corpse as ever aw seed but she looks so like an angel fro' heaven aw'm awmost feart to look at her. yo'll like to see her, but fairbanks 'll be comin' down aw doubt na an' yo'll go up together." "did she speak, is there anything to show who or what she is?" "not a word, not a sign, not a mark on linen or paper; but oo's no common trollop that aw'st warrant, tho' she _had_ no ring on her finger." "maybe her straits compelled her to part with it," suggested mr. black. "weel, weel, mebbe, mebbe, tho' it's th' last thing a decent woman parts wi', that an' her marriage-lines. but, as i said, th' poor thing med no sign. 'oo just oppened her sweet e'en as moll theer laid th' babby to her breast, an' her poor hand tried to touch its face, an' just th' quiver o' a smile fluttered on her lips, an' then all wer' ovver, but so quiet like, so quiet, 'twere more a flutterin' away nor deein'. eh! but awm thankful 'oo deed i' my bed an' not o'th moor buried i' a drift"--and the tears once more trickled down mrs. schofield's rounded cheek. mr. black took the plump left hand that rested on the widow's lap and gently pressed it in token of the sympathy his lips could not express. could mortal man do less? "it's times like these a poor widow feels her lonesome state," murmured mrs. schofield. mr. black withdrew his hand, and the grim visage of priscilla flashed across his vision. the twain had been so absorbed that moll o' stute's had glided into the kitchen, and now was seated on her accustomed stool by the fireside. she had a soft bundle of flannel in her arms and as she sat she swayed gently to and fro murmuring, not unmusically, some crooning lullaby of the country side. "the babe?" whispered mr. black, and mrs. schofield nodded silently, and then, sinking her voice, "moll's got another maggot i' her head. she thinks th' poor lass 'ats dead an' gone wer' seeking tom o' fairbanks. yo' know how daft she is when 'oo sets that way." "aye, give a dog a bad name and hang him. an old saying and true. we all know fairbanks was a sad fellow in his young days, but bar a quip and maybe a stolen kiss from ready and tempting lips, he's steady enough now". "aye, aye, worn honest, as they say," acquiesced the hostess. "but here he comes. aw med sure he'd be anxious to know the end o' last neet's doin's--an' wheer fairbanks is aleck's nooan far off, nor pinder far off aleck." nor was mrs. schofield wrong in her surmise, mr redfearn came almost on tip-toe through the passage into the kitchen. the presence of death needs neither the whispered word nor the silent signal. its hush is upon the house of mourning as the sabbath stillness rests upon the fields. even the phlegmatic aleck had composed his rugged features to a more impressive rigidity than was their use, and the very dog stole to the hearth with downcast head and humid eyes. "it came to th' worst then?" asked mr. redfearn, after a solemn silence. he needed no reply. "well, well, we all mun go someday; but she wer' o'er young an' o'er bonnie to be so cruel o'erta'en." "aye it's weel to hear you talk, fairbanks," broke in the irrepressible molly, as she strained the child closer to her shrunken breast. "but there's someb'dy 'll ha' to answer for this neet's wark an' who it is mebbe yersen can tell." redfearn checked a hasty retort. there were, perhaps, reasons why he must bear the lash of molly's tongue. "is she i' th' chamber?" he asked. "yo'd like to see her," said mrs schofield. softly, the farmer and the schoolmaster followed their guide up the narrow creaking steps that led from the passage to the best bedroom, the room of state of the _hanging gate_. upon a large four-poster lay the lifeless form fairer and more beautiful than in life. mrs. schofield drew the curtain of the window and the morning light streamed upon the couch and cast a halo on the pure child-like face. the long silken hair, deftly tended, had been drawn across each shoulder and in rippling streams fell about the bosom. it was hard to think that death was there--'t was more as though a maiden slept. the men stood by the couch side gazing reverently on the fragile form. redfearn drew a short and gasping breath and passed his hand furtively across his eyes. "a good woman, schoolmaster, a good woman. i'd stake my life on that." the dominie moved his head in silent assent, then with broken voice breathed low, "let us pray," and mrs. schofield flung her apron over her head as she sank upon her knees, and redfearn and mr. black knelt by the bedside. 'twas but a simple prayer that god's mercy might have been vouchsafed to the sister who had passed away, far from her friends and home, a nameless wanderer, with none to help but the father who had called his wandering child to the land where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest,--his own sweet home; a prayer, too, that god would raise up friends for the orphaned bairn that would never know a mother's love nor perchance a father's care. and as he prayed redfearn's hand pressed heavy on his arm and in hoarse tones the farmer muttered. "god forgive me all my sins--i'll find the wee lad's father, if he's in the three ridings, an' if aw dunnot th' lad shall nivver want for bite nor sup." then as though ashamed, he groped his way down the dingy stair-case and flung himself into the big oaken arm-chair that none ventured to dispute with him. but it was not in the nature of the man to be long oppressed by brooding thought or to abandon himself to the bitter-sweet reflections of sombre-visaged melancholy. his active, restless temperament was impatient of reflection and his practical mind turned to the present need. "aleck, yo'll go to sam sykes's an' order th' coffin, an' tell him to see about th' grave i' saddleworth churchyard. gi' my respects to th' vicar an' ask him to fix all about th' buryin', an sykes 'll see about th' undertaker. yo'll see th' poor lass put away, betty, an' yo' too, moll, an' yo'll want a black gown, aw dessay. well, thank god ther's a shot i' th' locker yet. give us th' bag out o'th cupboard, betty. it's weel aw left it last neet, aw med ha' known. an' now what wi one thing an' another awm fair done an' yo mun bring me summat to put a bit o' heart i' me." "it's weel talkin' o' puttin' folk away," broke in moll, in no way softened by the prospect of a new gown. "th' dead's soon away wi'; but what abart th' child here?" and molly turned aside the flannel covering the infant face. "dooms! aw'd fair forgetten th' bairn," said fairbank, "let's ha' a look at it bi th' winder mi eyes are none so good as they used to be." molly reluctantly placed the little one in the farmer's outstretched arms and he bore it to the light. "a fine child as ivver yo' seen," said mrs. schofield. "it's gotten my benny's things on, leastwise them at 'aw made for him wi' my own fingers, but it warn't to be, for th' poor lad nivver breathed but once. eh! it's a queer warld; them as could do wi childer an' thank the lord for 'em cannot ha' 'em, an' them as sudna ha' 'em,--they come a troopin'. it passes me altogether." mr. black was casting anxious glances at the long sleeve clock, its long brass hand now marching upwards to that ninth hour of the morn that every schoolboy dreads. "i must be going," he said. "nay, rest you," urged the widow. "gi th' childer a holiday--. yer' none yersen tha morn, an' to be sure which on us is? i'll ha' some ham in th' pan i' a jiffy, an' it's fairbanks fed, an yo know what that means." "nay, nay, tempt me not, tempt me not. those lads o' mine e'en now are up to their eyes in mischief. there'll be a crooked pin in the cushion of my chair, a chalk drawing of priscilla, none too flattering, on the map of europe, and those of them that are not playing cots and tyes for buttons will be playing 'follow mi leader' over the forms and desks. it's much if the windows arn't broken and there wont be a button left on some of their clothes--inveterate gamblers as though they shook a box at brighton spa." mr. black's tone was harsh, but there was a gleam in his eye that took away the sting of his speech. "yo're a good churchman, aw know," said redfearn, "for yo' do as th' owd book tells us--yo' spare the rod an' spoil the child. but we mun settle summat about th' bairn here, an' aw'll be down to-neet as soon as i can get." mr. black bent over the sleeping babe nestling in its nurse's arms. "come early," whispered molly, "aw've summat to say to yo' partic'ler." it was but a distracted mind the teacher gave that day to the budding genius of his school. he was lost in conjecture as to what moll might have to say to him, and not less in surprise that she should have aught at all, for though that hard-featured damsel of the rasping tongue treated him with a deference shown to no other he could think of no subject demanding the secrecy molly's manner had seemed to ask. he did not fail to be early at the _hanging gate_, indeed mrs. schofield, her wonted serenity restored by an afternoon's nap on the settle, had but just sided the tea-things, after that meal which is locally called a "baggin'"--(another term whose origin is shrouded in mystery) and was still in the sacred retreat upstairs, where she was accustomed to array herself as beseemeth the landlady of a thriving hostelry, with money in the bank, and that could change her condition by holding up her little finger. molly no longer held the child in her arms. it had been transferred into the highly polished mahogany cradle, which molly worked gently with her foot, and which also had doubtless been purchased for the use of that disappointing benny. "eh! aw'm glad yo'n come," she said eagerly, as mr. black removed his wraps. "speak low, th' missis is upstairs, an' these rafters is like sounding boards." she thrust her hand deep into one of those long linen pockets beneath the upper gown and that only a woman can find. "here tak' it," she said, "tak' it. it's welly burned a hoil i' mi pocket. dunnot let me han'le it again or aw'll nooan answer for missen. it's gowd, man, gowd, aw tell yo' an' there's figgerin on it i' some mak o' stones at glitter an' dazzle till yo'd think the varry devil wer' winkin' at yo', an whisperin' i' yo'r lug to keep it quiet an' say nowt to nobody." she placed a trinket in the schoolmaster's hand and heaved a sigh of relief. it was a locket of gold, heart-shaped. on the one side was worked, in small diamonds, a true-lovers' knot, on the reverse, in pearls, a monogram. a.j. the like neither dominie nor nurse had ever gazed upon before, save, perhaps, through the tantalizing barrier of a jeweller's window in huddersfield or manchester, and, it is safe to say, never before had either held in hand article of so much value. "yo' know aw helped to put her to bed," whispered molly, with a motion of head towards the best bedroom, "an' aw undressed her, an' when th' missis wer' airin' a neet-gown for th' poor thing aw' spied that teed round her neck wi' a bit o' velvet. so aw' snipped it off, for aw seed weel enough oo'd nivver want it again. aw'd meant to keep it till aw could mak it i' my way to go daan to huddersfilt; but aw stood at th' bottom o' th' stairs when yo' wer prayin' yesterday, an' oh, mr. black, it wor' a tussle, but aw couldna keep it, aw couldna keep it after that." mr. black was much moved. he took molly's hand in his and bowed over it. "you are a good woman molly, and one who seeth in secret will reward you openly." "dunnot tell th' misses," urged molly, flushing even through the tan of her hard face at a tribute seldom paid to her. "oo'll mebbe think aw sud ha' gien it to her; an' though aw've no patience wi' her airs an' her greetin' (crying) an' settin her cap at's aboon her, thof poor they may be, but still oo's reet at t'core, an awd be sorry to fa' out wi' her." mr. black nodded, and carefully placed the locket in the pocket of his vest. "i must think over this. i don't like secrets; but you shall go harmless. this trinket, valuable as it doubtless is of itself, may be more precious still as a clue to that poor child's parentage and i must take counsel with mr redfearn." molly shook her head in emphatic dissent. "you wrong fairbanks, indeed you do, molly." "ah, yo' ken, yo' ken," said molly, brokenly, "who but fairbanks ruined my young life?" "and hath he not repented and would have made amends? as you stand in need of forgiveness, molly, learn to forgive. 'tis a lesson we all must learn." the entrance of redfearn himself precluded the further discussion of a delicate and painful subject. molly assumed with some difficulty the control of her features, but there was lacking, for a time at least, that resentful defiance and general contrariness his presence seemed generally to arouse. drawing back into the shade of her favourite corner she devoted herself to the assiduous care of the cradle, whilst mrs. schofield, now resplendent in her evening finery of black silk, with massive gold brooch and long gold watch chain that reached in double folds from neck to waist, with her own fair hand decocted the soothing compound demanded by the master of fairbanks, nor disdained to pump the humming ale that was the nectar of the attendant herdsman. "well, aleck, tha wer' tellin' me," said redfearn, "tha's seen mr. whitelock an' th' sexton an' th' undertaker, an' all's arranged?" aleck made no reply till he had lowered the pewter two-handled quart measure, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand--a good pint had disappeared, and you might have heard it gurgling down his throat like water down a bent and choked drain. he nodded his reply: then gruffly: "to-morrow, three o'clock. th' hearse an' coaches here at two." "an' now what's to be done about th' little 'un?" queried the farmer. "i've thowt an' thowt, an' better thowt. an' aw'm nooan a bit nearer. aw thowt mebbe yo' could tak' care on it, till its own folk wer' found. what ses ta, betty?" but mrs. schofield shook her head. "it wouldn't do fairbanks, it 'ud nivver do. aw met manage if moll wor allus here to look after it an 'oo could give a hand i' th' taproom o' saturday neets and sundays. but wi' her, nivver to be depended on five minutes together, knocked up i' th' middle o' th' neet when least yo' look for it, an' nivver knowin' when oo'll be back or wheer oo'll be next more like a gipsy or willy-wisp nor a regular lodger, an' me a sound sleeper--yo' can see for yorsen it 'ud nivver act." "why dunno yo' offer to tak' him to fairbanks?" molly could not forbear asking, with some malice. "one more or less 'll mak' no differ to yo', an' th' lad 'ud sooin be o' use on th' farm." "not for a thousand golden guineas," exclaimed redfearn. "our mary's th' best o' women; but if 'oo has a fault it's jalousin' about every bye-blow that's born i'th' village. there's her an' your priscilla, schoolmaster, bin collogin' o'er this job already, bi what aw can speer, an mary looked sour enough to turn a field o' red cabbage into pickles, when aw started fro' fairbanks to-neet. didn't 'oo, aleck?" concluded redfearn, with his usual appeal to his faithful henchman. "oo did that," said aleck, starting out of a deep reverie. "yo' might lay it to me," at last aleck said, "awst nooan mind, an' aw say pinder 'd get used to it in a bit." "what could yo' do wi' a child i' th' hut, you numskull?" laughed the farmer. "well, settle it yo'r own gate--it's all a price to me. best chuck it i' th' cut an' ha' done wi' it." if a look could have blasted man, as lightning blasts the oak, never more would aleck have herded flock on the lofty heights and stretching moors that edge diggle valley and its rippling brook. "out on yo', aleck no-name," cried molly, springing hotly to her feet. "eh! but if aw could nobbut see mi way, yo' bonnie bairn, none sud ha' yo' but mysen. these hands received yo', an' these hands sud tew for yo', if aw worked 'em to skin an' bone. but it canna be, my bonnie pet,"--she apostrophised the unconscious babe--"an' moll o' stute's nooan fit to ha' th' rearin' o' such as thee, quality-born if ivver ther' wor one." "that reminds me," interposed the schoolmaster, as he drew forth the locket and told its tale. "well, aw nivver did," gasped mrs. schofield, eyeing the keepsake and with some difficulty prizing it open with the point of her scissors. "black hair an' leet, crossed an' knotted. th' leet coloured 'll be th' poor lass's, silk isn't in it for fine, an' th' black 'll be th' father's, aw'll be bun'." even aleck could not refrain from admiration. "it'll come in handy some day," he predicted, "aw sudn't wonder if it fot enough to breech th' lad, when th' time comes." "breech th' lad, in sooth; hear him. why, yo' stupid, it 'ud buy twenty o't best sheep ivver tha seed i' pen. our mary's nowt to marrow it, wi her mother's an gret-aunt keziah's thrown in." "twenty ship!" repeated aleck. "weel, weel, fooils an' ther brass is soon parted." "but we get further off i'stead o' nearer th' point," pursued the farmer. "yo'n said nowt, mr. black; what's to be done wi' th' child?" "well, first and foremost we must advertise i' th' _leeds mercury_ an' th' _manchester courier_, for you see we've nothing to guide us which way she came. it may well be sorrowing parents, perhaps a conscience-stricken lover, or indeed, perchance, a distracted husband, at this very moment is seeking far and near for the poor wanderer. what tale of wrong those sealed lips could tell we may not even surmise. but the locket and these initials may put us on the right track. anyway it won't cost much, and it's our clear and bounden duty to both the living and the dead." "it's reet weel thowt on, schoolmaster. see what it is to be educated. thof aw will say aw hannot much hope. aw onest lost a cow for three week--yo' moind on it, aleck?" "three week an' three days," muttered the shepherd. "an' aw 'vertised an 'vertised but nowt cam' on it. but pinder fan her didn't ta, lad?" pinder winked his dexter eye and lazily stirred his tail. "an' if th' advertisin' comes to nowt, what then?" said molly. aye, what then! there was indeed the rub. "mr. black's nooan finished yet," said mrs schofield. the schoolmaster thoughtfully stirred his rum toddy with the metal crusher. "i should dearly like to take the child as my own and rear him up to follow me when i've closed the school door for the last time and the long vacation begins for the old dominie. i could bring the lad on in arithmetic, grammar, the use of the globes, mensuration, algebra up to quadratic equations, latin as far as caesar _de bello_ and the greek testament as far as matthew," and mr. black's eyes glistened at the alluring prospect. "to be sure yo' could, no man better," assented mr. redfearn, none the less stoutly that he did not know what mr. black meant. "aw'd a dog once called caesar, but bello's beyond me." "it's to 'prentice him to th' blacksmith, can't ta see?" said aleck. "aw see, an' a very gooid notion too." "but i cannot take the child on, though fain i'd be to do it. you know priscilla's never wed. she says it's for my sake, and doubtless she knows best. but she isn't as young as she was, and those plaguy boys have tried her temper. i wouldn't say it to anyone, but priscilla is a little, just a little, mind you, tetchy, so to speak, and certain sure i am she'd neither be willing nor able to do for a helpless bairn." "aw see how it'll end," cried molly. "sakes alive! farmer, missus, an' schoolmaster all backin aat, like those folk i' th' bible 'at wer' bid to th' weddin', an' nooan on 'em could come. there's nobbut one end for yo' an' that's th' work'us, th' big hoil o'th' hill yonder, as weel say it as think it," and the incensed virago bounced out of the kitchen and joined the company in the taproom in a game of "checkers" and sparing neither partner nor opponent the rasp of her biting tongue. "yo' could make it, easy for th' bairn?" went on mr. black. "an' th' matron's a motherly body wi' childer o' her own," put in the hostess. "an' we needn't lose sight o' th' lad," added mr. redfearn. "and i could spare an hour or two a day, when he's big enough. i'll make a course of study this very day. it's the very thing. good molly, _rem acu tetigisti_, as we say in the classics." "exactly," assented the farmer. "by the way, aleck, did yo' say owt to mr. whitelock about th' chrisenin'? aw'd welly (well-nigh) forgetten it." "after th' buryin', t' same day," said aleck the terse. "yo'll be god-mother, betty, na' who'll stand godfather?" "i've always understood in case of a foundling it takes the finder's name," said mr. black. "that's aleck," said the landlady. "nay it wer' pinder theer," protested aleck. "the very thing," exclaimed mr. redfearn, smiting the table so the glasses danced. "tom pinder, fit him like a glove. we'll weet his yed i' glasses round an' then whom (home) and bed, say i." mr. redfearn glanced at the schoolmaster, the schoolmaster at mr. redfearn. "you're the chairman of the guardians," said the teacher mildly. "an' th' biggest ratepayer, worse luck," said his crony. chapter iii. the workhouse for the saddleworth union is a low stone building of no great dimensions, standing on about as bleak and cold a site as could well i have been selected. it stands on the hill-side on your left hand as you walk from diggle to saddleworth, part of that dorsal pennine range we call "the back bone of old england." its exterior is grim and forbidding, nor is the external promise redeemed by any extravagance of luxury inside. it is in unenviable contrast to the palatial structures modern architects design for the option of the sick and destitute. but it is healthily situated, and that counts for much. all in front as you look down the valley, are the green fields; at its rear stretch the moors on which sheep graze and lambs bleat and gamble conies sport and burrow and where the warning "go-back, go-back" of the grouse salutes the ear as summer softens into autumn, and the purple heather hides the luscious bilberry. at the time of which i write no mill chimney belched their smoke into the air and the breezes that swept the workhouse on every side though blowing at times with unwelcome force, were pure and sweet. the workhouse kine yielded milk so abundantly that adulteration was never thought of; the kitchen-garden, tended by the pauper hands, was rich in its herbs and vegetables, and a small flower garden gave forth the fragrance of the hardier roses, of musk and mignonette, whilst sweet williams, forget-me-nots and stocks gave colour and variety, dear to the eye of the female paupers. it is true the wards were low, the benches hard, the light and ventilation far removed from modern notions; but in this respect they differed in no wise, or if they differed, differed for the better, from the houses of the well-to-do farmers and tradesmen of the district. anyway there the young foundling of my story was in babyhood and boyhood tended, petted, and made much of. consigned to the charge of an elderly pauper he had a not unkindly foster-mother. rare, thank god, the women whose hearts do not soften to the helpless child. tom sucked his bottle like a hero, waxing chubby and rosy, "poiting" with his legs on which the flesh lay in creases, and crowing lustily as he grew. mr. redfearn, it has been said, was the chairman of the guardians and did not conceal the interest he felt in the lad; mr. black, a privileged visitor everywhere for miles around, had to be restrained by the nurse from gorging his protege with lollipops. the story of his birth had spread in all those parts and lost nothing in the telling. for anything the master and matron knew the workhouse might be entertaining, if not an angel, unawares, at least a baronet. the lad, when able to run about, was transferred to the particular care of "workhouse jack," a pauper of some thirty years of age, supposed to be "not altogether there," or as it is sometimes put, to have at least a half slate off. jack was the messenger or mercury of the workhouse. he fetched the masters newspaper from the village post-office, he was entrusted with commissions to the grocer and draper by the matron, and smuggled snuff and twist and forbidden luxuries to the inmates. he knew every farm-house and every shop for miles around, and never wanted for a meal or a copper when he went his rounds. but, best of all, he knew the habits and the haunts of every bird that nested in the tree or hedge, on the greensward or, like the stone-chat, in the crevices of the long, grey dry-walling of the pastures. he knew, too, to an inch, the curvature of the field drains, their exits and their entrances. he kept surreptitiously in the old, two-stalled stable of the house a sharp-toothed ferret, which he oft-times carried in his pocket and that allowed him to handle and fondle it with quite appalling familiarity. it took tom a long time to overcome his shrinking awe of that lithe and stealthy ferret, but he did it, and once nearly sent mrs. schofield into convulsions by insinuating it from his own into the capacious pocket of this steadfast friend. for i regret to say that jack was a daily visitor at the _hanging gate_, and was doubly welcome when the little tommy toddled, _haud aquis passibus_, by his side. but jack had a seasoned head and though he called, on one pretext or another, at many an hostelry, was never overcome and had the rare good sense to inculcate sobriety on his admiring charge by many a precept if not by example. to tom, jack was the very incarnation of wisdom, and his very first battle was fought at the back of the workhouse stable with another foundling who had called his guide, philosopher, and friend by no less derogatory a title than "silly billy." from that encounter tom emerged with streaming eyes and nose, but in the proud consciousness of victory. nor was jack's lore confined to the creatures of the air and land. down the mountain sides trills many a gushing stream to join the diggle brook, pellucid waters murmuring over the worn pebbles and larger fragments of volcanic rock that still, to this day, resist the action of the fretting air and pelting storm. who so deft a hand as jack at tickling the shy trout that darted among the sedges and rushes of the banks or lurked beneath leaf and boulder motionless as the stones themselves. and if the matron, when the dainty fish graced her table was not scrupulous to ask whence came this toothsome addition to the dietary approved by my lords in london town, whose business was it to interfere? ah! it is grand upon the billowing hills to wander idly in the sweet spring-time; to mark the lark rising above its nest high in the azure sky, trilling joyous melody, to hear the lambs calling to their dams, to see the kine cropping pensive, in the meadows the sweet new blades of the greening grass; sweet is it to bask at mid-day nodding on the heather and lulled to sleep by the hum that, like distant muffled music, just falls upon the ear, and sweet too, is it as the western sun drops to its rosy curtained couch, to call the cows with their swelling udders from pasture to their byre; sweet to stand by rustic maid of rosy cheek and buxom form as, piggin betwixt her knees and head pressed on the flanks of patient and grateful beast, she strains the warm and frothy fluid to the can. glorious, too, to hearken to the whetstone drawn by practised hand across the scythe, to bear its swish as the swathe lengthens out before the steady strokes of the mower; glorious to strew the damp, green grass upon the ground to catch the morning sun, and grander still to mount upon the load of fragrant hay and be borne triumphant with the gathered harvest of the fields. who that has passed his early youth on the hill sides of marsden and diggle can ever forget the changing raptures of those early days or weary in recalling them when the brain is distraught by the turmoil of the town, and the heart turns sickening from the searing sorrows of thwarted schemes and fallen hopes. it may seem to the reader that tom pinder's workhouse life was not the life depicted by the immortal genius who told the piteous tale of a pinched and bruised oliver asking for more. but be it remembered that all masters were not and still less are not bumbles. the saddleworth workhouse in the thirties of last century had few inmates. the people on the sparsely populated hill-sides were mostly hand-loom weavers; not a few of them had a patch of land, a cow, a pig, and poultry. they were as clannish as the scotch and when age, infirmity, or affliction overtook the declining years it was counted shame even of distant kin to suffer one of their name and blood to go to the big house. the poor then were mindful of the poor, and though the pinch of want was felt in the long winter days it went hard with folk if a neighbour's cupboard was left bare or his grate without the mountain peat. add to this that the master and matron were good, easy-going folk; that the guardians knew well every inmate of the house; had perchance played truant with them in their youth and been birched by the same cane, or employed them in their prime, and, to cap all, forget not that saddleworth was an obscure union, scarce worth the expenditure of red-tape or the visit of an inspector. mr. black did not forget his promise to see to tom's education. almost before the child could lisp he was at him with the alphabet, and with his own hands designed alluring capital letters and emblematic animals so that to his dying day tom never saw the letter d without thinking of a weaver's donkey going "a-bunting," or in other words, taking in his master's warp. at six tom could read big print, and at seven was set to read chapters of the bible to the old grannies of the women's side of the house; at eight he could do sums in practice and was not afraid of tare and tret. but beyond this he stubbornly refused to budge. in vain mr. black wooed him to decline _rosa_, a rose, or to conjugate _amo_. tom feigned indeed an interest he did not feel, but promptly forgot on one day all the latin he had learned the day before. mr. black was fain to confess with a sigh that tom was not bent by nature to a clerkly calling. "well, he's none the worse for that," said mr. redfearn, consolingly. "look at me, schoolmaster. i can read a newspaper, make out a bill though it's seldom called for i' my trade, thank the lord, write a letter, and what more do i want? how could i tell the points of horse or beast if mi head wer' allus running on th' olden times an' chokefull o' a lot o' gibberish, saving your presence, an' no offence, mr. black, as well yo' know. we can't all be schoolmasters, nor yet parsons an' as for lawyers and doctors aw've very little opinion o' awther on 'em, an' th' less yo' have to do wi' 'em th' better. not but what a cow doctor's a handy man to ha' wi'in call; but th' lawyers! aw've had three trials at th' assizes abaat one watter-course on another. an' lost one case an' won two, an' th' two aw won cost me no more nor th' one aw lost. no! th' lad's fit for better things nor a black gown. he's getten th' spirit o' a man choose wheer it comes fro'. aw put him on bess's back t'other day, wi'out a saddle an' his little legs could hardly straddle fro' flank to flank, an' he catched her bi th' mane an' med her go round th' field like a good 'un. he rolled off into th' hedge at th' bottom intack, an' 'steead o' sqwawkin' and pipin' he swore at bess like a trooper an' wanted puttin' up again. oh! he's a rare 'un, that he is. larnin's thrown away on him. it 'ud nobbut over-weight an' handicap him, so to speak." "i'm sorry to hear of the lad swearing," interposed mr. black. "that's work'us jack's teachin'," commented mrs. schofield. "it's surprisin' how easy th' young 'uns 'll pick up owt they shouldn't know, when ther's no brayin' what they should know into their little heads." "well, well," went on mr. redfearn, to get out of a sore subject, for he had recognised some of his favourite expletives in tom's scholeric words; "th' point is, th' lad's handier wi' his hands nor his head piece. yo' can tak' a horse to th' watter but yo' cannot mak' him drink. an' talkin' o' watter, th' young scoundrel gave me a turn t' other day an' no mistake. yo' know th' dam aboon hall's papper-mill? weel it's th' deepest dam bi a seet for miles round here. aw'd gone up wi mi gun to see if aw could pick up a rabbit or two for th' pot an' theer wor tom reight i' th' middle o th' dam, throwin' up his arms an' goin' dahn like a stun, and then he cam up blowin' like a porpus. aw' sent th' retriever in after 'im an' th' young devil, 'at aw should say so, cocked his leg over th' dog's back an' med him, carry 'im to th' bank, an' 'im laughin' all th' time fit to crack his young ribs. he'd nobbud pretended to drown to fley me." "jack's doing again," said mr. schofield. "well, but, what's to be done with him?" persisted mr black. "can't you take him on to th' farm, fairbanks?" "'tisn't good enough," said fairbanks. "he's fit for better things. at best he could never be much more nor a sort of bailiff an' _they're_ noan wanted about here. if we could send him out to canada now, or australey, theer's no tellin' what he med come to be. at least so they sen. but i' th' owd country farmin's nowt wi'out brass, an then it's nowt much but a carryin' on. nah, i've thowt o' a plan. we could 'prentice th' lad out to a manufacturer. th' lad's sharp an' 'ud sooin sam up owt there is to larn. th' guardians 'ud pay th' premium for him' an' nobbut a fi' pun note or so an' aw think aw know th' varry man to tak' him an' sud do well by 'im if ther's owt i' religion?" "who is it?" asked mr. black. "it's jabez tinker, o' th' wilberlee mill, i' holmfirth. he's the main man at aenon chapel,--a pillar they call 'im an' preaches hissen o' sundays, so he suld be fit to be trusted wi' a lad." "i'd rather he'd ha' bin church," commented mrs. schofield. "aw've often noticed 'at those 'at put it on so mich o' sundays tak' it aat o' th' mondays. devil dodgers, aw call 'em." "there are good men among the dissenters." mr black's spirit of fairness compelled him to testify, "though i wish they could find their way to heaven without making so much pother on earth." the days of the salvation army were not as yet, and sound and salvation were not convertible terms. "there's one gooid thing abaat it," was the landlady's opinion. "holmfirth's nobbut over th' hill, so to speak, an' th' lad could come to see his old friends at whissunday and th' feast, when th' mills are lakin'." "aye, aye, a lot better nor them furrin' parts," agreed the farmer. "owd england for me, say i." "and i have not lost hopes of clearing up the mystery of the boy's birth," concluded mr. black. "he must stay near us." to this time nothing had been said to tom about his parents. he knew he had no father and no mother--that was all. he knew other lads had fathers and mothers, and how he came to be without did not concern him very much. once, indeed, one of the village lads had jeered at him as a love-child. he did not understand what this might mean, but he had sense to perceive something offensive was meant. "what is a love-child?" he asked mrs. schofield one day, suddenly. "all childer's love childer," fenced mrs. schofield, but tom was not satisfied. "what's a love child, jack?" he asked his bosom friend. jack ruminated. definition was not his forte. "it means a lad's mother's nooan as good as she should be." tom flushed hotly, and said nothing: but that night a village lad with lips much swollen slept with a raw beefsteak over his eye. the germ of thought had been sown in the youthful mind. _why_ was he different from other lads? time had been when in some confused sort of fashion he had looked on mrs. schofield as his mother and mr. black as his father. "mr. black," he asked one day, "where is my mother?" it was a question that the schoolmaster had looked for at every recent visit that he courted and yet dreaded. it was on a sunday noon as the congregation left the porch of st. chad's some lingering by the gateway to exchange neighbourly greeting, others sauntering with an air of unconcern to the door of the church inn across the way, whilst yet others still made with leaden foot to a recent grave to pay the tribute of the mourner's tears. tom had been with other pauper lads in the gallery, a spot of vantage screened from the verger's eye, and where it mattered to nobody what heed you took of the service or sermon so long as you did not make too much noise. he had made haste to get outside the churchyard so that he might not miss his ever gentle friend, the schoolmaster, and now stood by the village stocks outside the graveyard wall and watched the stream of worshippers pass slowly by. presently his hand was in the schoolmaster's, who turned his face to the road which led past the workhouse boundaries down to his own home at diggle. "mr. black, where is my mother?" the schoolmaster paused, hesitated. they had left the rough and narrow road and crossed a stile into the fields. they were on the higher ground and could plainly see the churchyard. the loiterers had gone their homeward way or drifted into the inn to seek a solace that is supposed to be appropriate alike in the glad hours of rejoicing and the heavy time of affliction. "your mother lies yonder," said mr. black, solemnly and sadly. "show me," said the boy, simply. they retraced their steps and sought the ancient burial ground with it's sunken crosses and mouldering mossy stones, and those little mounds without a name that cover the humble dead. in a distant corner mr. black stood with uncovered head by a small marble cross and stone slab. sacred to the memory of a. j. an unknown wanderer who died in childbed at the hanging gate, diggle. jan. 11th, 183--. tom gazed upon the simple monument till he could gaze no more, for blinding, scalding tears welled into his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "let us go home," he said, "let me stop with you to-day." in the evening of that peaceful sunday the school-master told the foundling all he knew: he placed in his hand the precious locket taken from the mother's neck and promised that it should be transferred to tom's, keeping when he should be old enough to keep it safely. "you will treasure it as the immediate jewel of your soul," he said; "for thereby you may clear your mother's name." then, falling on his knees he read the evening prayer, and with his blessing dismissed the lad. chapter iv the ancient village of holmfirth on the river holme was, in former days, of considerably more pretension than it is to-day, when the neighbouring town of huddersfield dwarfs the surrounding communities. holmfirth stands near the head of the valley of the holme, and at one time was looked up to as a petty capital by the straggling hamlets that intervened between the river's head and the spot where, some nine miles below, its tortuous course joins the river colne at king's mill in huddersfield, whence the united currents sweep in broader stream to blend with the calder at cooper bridge, and so onwards to the capacious bosom of the humber. best known and best accustomed of all the shops in holmfirth was that of ephraim thorpe, sometimes; known as eph o' natt's o' th' thong, but more as "split," from a tradition current in the village that he would split a pea rather than be guilty of giving over-weight or measure. the shop was low and dark, it's floor of blackened stone seldom scrubbed. the two counters were not cleanly, their surface much worn by the friction of heavy vessels and the testing of doubtful coins. but what article of household provision you failed to get at "split's" you might despair of purchasing anywhere nearer than huddersfield itself. a candle rack ran round three sides of the shop, just above the counters, and the sickly odour of tallow pervaded all the spot, dominating even the smell of treacle and "shilling-oil" as the oil used for lamps was called. flitches of bacon hung from the rafters; bags of flour and of oatmeal with open necks were propped up in corners. bars of soap, piles of soft-stone and white stone, tins of tea and coffee, pats of butter, skins of lard, papers of blacking and black-lead, pots and pans, and brushes hard and soft, eggs and herrings, peas and beans and indian corn for poultry, gridirons and porringers, thimbles and shoelaces, clogs and pocket-handkerchiefs--all these and sundry others were the articles of commerce retailed at fifty per cent, profit to a grateful public by mr. ephraim thorpe. that public consisted for the most part of those employed in the neighbouring mills, and few were the families of the humbler sort entirely out of ephraim's debt. he was always willing to trust a man that he knew to be fairly sober and in fair work, and to his regular customers at the crisis of a funeral or a wedding, lend a guinea or so at the easy interest of sixpence in the pound per week; so long as the interest was paid regularly he never pressed for the principal. but woe betide any housewife who took her ready money to a rival tradesman, or ventured to go shopping at the flaunting stores of huddersfield. the court of requests and the "bum" were words of terrible portent, and ephraim knew every trick of the law. he knew, too, the wages of every working family in the district how much they ought to spend when they bought in for the week, and how far it was safe to trust when work was slack or sickness rife and ready-money not forthcoming. truly no lord of the manor in the good old days of dungeon-keep, thumb-screw and rack, was held more in awe than the red-headed, freckled, yellow-fanged, parchment-skinned, ferret-eyed "split," general dealer and deacon of the baptist flock that gathered at aenon chapel, holmfirth, "the altar by the rushing waters." for ephraim was as zealous in his chapel-going as in his shop-keeping. sunday morning and afternoon saw him in his pew, dressed in sable doeskin, but with a subtle flavour of soap and chandlery exhaling from his pores. he rented a high, uncompromising pew, in which he could coop himself up and barricade himself from the non-elect. it was a capital sentinel-box, whence he could espy the gaps in the ranks of the faithful. he could note when ned o' ben's, or bill o' sue's absented himself from service, and speculate at his leisure whether a bull-baiting or a cock-fight had lured to sinful delight, and recall to a nicety the amount that stood to the delinquent's debit in the long narrow, greasy, skin-bound ledger of hieroglyphics that only ephraim understood, and at whose sight the stoutest good dame's heart would sink and the shrillest-tongued virago's voice be hushed. mr. thorpe was a widower, and though it is possible--such is the amiable of a women for the bereaved and afflicted--that more than one might have been willing and lend attentive ear had he wooed again, a widower, ephraim announced, he meant to live and die. his daughter, and only child, martha, was old enough to keep the house above the shop, in which the father and daughter dwelt. the spiteful gossips of the village said she was not only old enough, but ugly enough. but said gossips suffered their critical judgment of the daughter to be warped by their unfavourable opinion of the father. it cannot be denied that martha's hair was not only of somewhat harsh and coarse texture, but of hue from her sire. it is true also that her face was angular and pinched, and freckled to boot, and that her form displayed none of the graceful curves so suggestive of clinging warmth and seductive softness; nor was her voice the soft and dulcet fluting that disarms not less than melting eye or witching smile. poor martha had been crushed and stifled and starved all her life. she had never loved nor been loved but the timid, wistful, yearning look that stole unbidden from her grey eyes told of a heart that hungered for the love that makes a woman's life. though she lived, and had lived for years under the same roof with her father, she could not remember to have heard from his lips one caressing word, to have received from his hand one gentle touch, or; seen from his eye one glance of affection. he was not unkind to her, save in the negative way which is the withholding of kindness; nay, if in any way. ephraim could be said to be extravagant it was in the lavish adornment of his daughter's person. the vicar's wife had not a richer silk or costlier shawl; no manufacturer's daughter finer feathers or more elegant bracelet. but martha would have preferred a much homelier garb and a necklace of beads or jet; she asked only to slink unnoticed through her chill life, and had an half-formulated idea that her father dressed her as he did his shop windows, in the way of trade and to abash his neighbours. martha had practically no friends. the daughters of the manufacturers could, of course, not be expected to have more than a go-to-meeting, bowing acquaintance with a shop-keeper's daughter, though that shop-keeper was popularly supposed to be able to buy up any two mill-owners put together. to be sure the rev. david jones, the pastor at aenon chapel, and mrs. david jones and miss lydia jones called at times and dutifully partook of tea and muffins in the sitting-room above the shop from which no ingenuity had been efficient to bar the insidious blend of many odours from the store beneath, and true also martha was a constant attender at dorcas meetings, class meetings, prayer meetings, and chapel and sunday school tea-parties, called by the scoffing and ungodly herd, "muffin-worrys." but martha was constrained, awkward, _gauche_, and though her heart, was ready to go half-way to meet an overture, she could not make an advance. little children were not allured to her, girls of her own age ridiculed whilst they envied her dress jewellery, staider matrons thought it shame that grasping miser's scarecrow daughter should "peark" herself out in dainty raiment whilst their own well favoured ones went in cheap cottons or plain home-spun. of all the worshippers at aenon chapel, none was more considered than jabez tinker. there were many reasons for this. one undoubtedly was that jabez tinker was one of the leading manufacturers in the valley. no one, not old daft tommy, who was reputed to be over a hundred years old, could remember a time when the tinkers were not a great name in holmfirth and when wilberlee mill was not run by them. the very name of tinker is, curiously enough, significant the family connection with the staple industry of the valleys of the colne and the holme. it is said to be derived from the latin, _tinctor_, a dyer, and to have come down from those far off times when the roman conquerors introduced the arts of civilisation to the aboriginal celts of these northern wilds. certainly jabez tinker's father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him made cloth and doubtless dyed it. and they had made good cloth, buckskin and doeskin of the best. they were not a pretentious nor an ambitious race. they worked hard made shrewd bargains, paid their way expected to be paid, and put by money slowly but steadily. they had mostly married money too, not, perhaps marrying for money, but taking care to marry where money was. they were just to their work people and were slow either to put a man on or to take a man off. once get a job at wilberlee mill and you were there for good, if you behaved yourself--or, as the heads said, if tinker didn't know when he had a good man, the man knew when he had a good master. it was not that the tinkers paid more than ruling prices for their labour. they made no pretence at being industrial philanthropists--that would not have been business; but they contrived to keep the mill running, shine or shower. times must be parlous bad indeed if the great water-wheel did not turn at proper times in the race at wilberlee; and constant employment is more to a man than high wages, with slack times in between, if men had only the sense to see it. it is not necessary to go far back into the ancestry of the tinkers, though, in a quiet way, they were not a little proud of it. old william tinker had left two sons, both of whom had been brought up to the business, and to both, as partners, the business had been left. jabez, the elder, i shall have much to say. richard, the younger, might not have been a tinker at all. he did not "favour" the tinkers, who were traditionally tall lean, wiry, big-boned men, somewhat sallow of complexion, with dark straight hair, scant of speech, inflexible of will, their word their law, neither grasping nor prodigal, and as strict at chapel as the counting-house. but dick tinker, dick o' will's o'th wilberlee, had been a "non-such." he had blue eyes that always sparkled with mirth; curling chestnut hair, that affronted puritanic sense; and he was a sad spendthrift. he had a hearty word for everyone. he liked to go of a night to the _rose and crown_, and led the revels there. he never missed a meet of the harriers, and he kept his own game-cock. he had a very appreciative eye for a pretty face, even though it was half-hid under a weaver's shawl, and for a neat ankle, though cased in clogs. during his widowed father's life he had gone dutifully to chapel, when he couldn't make any plausible excuse for shirking attendance, for it was no small matter to stand up against the old man's will. but when the father died, dick stoutly declared, with not a few oaths, that he was sick to death of the hard-bedders--such was his irreverent term for the particular, very particular, baptists--and contented himself by going to the parish church, on those rare occasions when he felt need of spiritual solace. then he capped all his follies by marrying the pretty, penniless, governess at the vicarage, a girl said to be from down lincolnshire way, who spoke with refined accent, had gentle, graceful ways, and was so clearly a lady that every woman in the district, save the vicar's wife and the working folk, resented it. but the moors were too bleak for her and she had the grace to die after two years--which had been like paradise to dick--leaving him an infant daughter, dorothy. jabez had not liked his brother's marriage. he had nothing to say against his sister-in-law, except that it would have been better if she had been a "that country's" woman. why couldn't dick have done as the tinker's had done from time immemorial, and married in the valley. "there were lasses anew, and to spare," he said, "well favoured, and only waiting to be asked." then dick's bride had brought him nothing but the clothes she stood up in, and that was another grievance. but dick had laughed, in his careless way, and said it was time to mend the tinker breed, by bringing some grace and beauty into the family, and "my louie has that, you can't deny." and jabez could not deny it. "why don't you marry yourself, jabez? you, all alone i' th' old homestead, with nobody but old betty to look after you! dreadful lonesome you must be. th' house is none too cheerful at th' best o' times. but a woman's pretty face, an' a soft voice, an' th' patter o' little feet 'll lighten it up if now't else will. and tak' advice, jabez, look further afield, not among th' wrigleys, an' wimpennys, an' th' brookes. their lasses are weel enough, an' there's money with all on 'em. but they run too much to bone, an' they've been chapelled, an' missionarized, an' dragooned till religion 's soured on 'em, an' when they love they love by rule o' three." but jabez had winced, and changed the subject. after his wife's death dick had gradually fallen back into his old courses. he loved his little wench, as he called his daughter, passionately; but a full-blooded, hearty man, still in the very pink and flower of his manhood, one used all his life to the bustle of the market, the free and easy ways of an inn and the sports of the field is not very much at home in a nursery. so dick, who had felt, when the cruel blow fell, that life had nothing left for him was once more to be seen o' nights at the _rose and crown_, roaring out a hunting song, or arranging the details of a coursing match, a pigeon shooting, or a cock fight--and the maidens of the valley of the holme took heart once more, and began to feel a lively concern for the poor orphaned babe in the lonely house. they forgave dick--handsome, rollicking dick--his passing aberration, his one overt act of treason to their charms, and reflected, with satisfaction, that his married life had been so brief, it might be considered as not counting at all--an episode, not a history. but the rising hopes of these speculative spinsters were rudely dashed. one bright winter's morning, when a sudden thaw had softened the iron fields and promised the scent would lie, dick rode forth cheerily on his hunter to the meet at thongsbridge. there was a substantial breakfast at mr. hinchliffe's a brother manufacturer and a county magistrate. dick did ample justice to the cold beef and ham but declined coffee for old october. then he must needs drain a stiff glass of brandy and water "to warm the old ale," he said; and in very merry mood was dick when the hounds broke covert. now save the stone walls of galway there are no worse fences than those of the valley of the holme. you must clear them at the peril of your neck. there is no crashing through a dry-walling,--a "topping" _may_ give once in a way; but it is odds that it wont. dick--dare-devil dick they called him in the hunting-field,--rode straight. the ground in the higher reaches had not yielded to the thaw or the morning sun. his horse baulked at an awkward fence, slipped, and failed to recover itself, and before dick could disengage boot from stirrup, fell upon its side, with dick crushed beneath. the broken ribs were pressed into the lungs, and though he lingered a few days at mr. hinchliffe's house, he was borne from it a corpse. "you will be good to dorothy?" he said to jabez and jabez had pressed the clammy hand in silent promise. "you'll take her to live with you. she's a bright little lass, like a ray of sunshine in the house. you wont let her forget her mother or her worthless dad, will you, jabez? you'll be taking a wife someday yourself, lad, an' have childer o' your own. but you won't be hard on th' little lass, will yo', jabez?" and jabez said she should be as his own. "she won't be bout brass, yo know, jabez," gasped the dying man, the sweat standing in heads upon his pale brow. "there's my share i'th' business, and odds and ends. yo' know all about 'em. i'd never no secrets fro' yo, jabez, though yo' wer' always a bit close, weren't tha, lad? i've left everything to dorothy an' made yo' her guardian an' th' executor. i know yo'll do right bi th' little 'un. i'm none feared for that. th' tinkers aren't that sort; but don't be hard wi' her. she's nooan as tough as some, her mother's bairn, god bless her." and so poor dick was gathered to his fathers and lay in the old churchyard at holmfirth by the fair, fragile wife's side in the grim vault of the tinkers. not a mill worked in the district as they carried him to his grave. men and women "jacked work" with one accord and lined the route from the dead man's house to the very side of the grave. for dick with all his faults, perhaps, because of them, was dear to the simple folk of the valley, and many, a tale was told in the village inns, of cheery word and ready jest, and helping hand in time of need; and many a buxom housewife, as she stirred porridge for good man and bairns, smiled sadly and gave a gentle sigh as she saw herself again a sprightly wench chased at whitsuntide round the ring at "kiss in the ring" or "choose the lad that you love best," and found herself a willing captive, but panting and struggling still, whilst dick saluted the rosy cheek. for at the sunday school treats at "whis-sunday," all classes were on a level, and even the parson himself must run as fast as legs could carry him if tap of maiden greatly daring fell upon his shoulder, or her kerchief dropped at his feet. whether it was the necessity of having some other companionship than old betty for the young niece so solemnly committed to his charge, or whether he was weary of his bachelor solitude and felt the need of a woman's presence in the old homestead in which he had been born and which he had inherited on his father's death, certain it is that jabez tinker began seriously to think about a wife. he was now nearing his fiftieth year, and the romance of youth--love's young dream--he sadly told himself was not for him. perhaps he had never been young; but be that as it may he was now a staid, prosaic man, who looked all his years and more, his whole soul in his business, in parish affairs and in other spheres in which the gentler emotions have no concern. business was with him as the breath of his nostrils. had he liked, he could have retired on a fair competence; had he been asked he could have given no solid reason why he should continue to toil and moil and put by money. dorothy was his nearest relative, though of remoter ones--cousins and half-cousins, agnates and cognates as the roman lawyers said, he had them by the score. but it certainly was neither for dorothy nor other relative, near or distant, he spent more and more time in mill and counting-house, planning fresh outlets for the produce of his looms, building additions to the old mill, and watching eagerly every improvement in the machinery of his trade. he did it simply because he must, as a successful lawyer takes briefs upon briefs, or a popular doctor case upon case. and he resolved that in his choice of a bride he would look for money that would buy out dick's share in the business, and leave him sole master of wilberlee mill. and in this mood his thoughts turned to martha thorpe; he scarce knew why, except, perhaps, that he was used to the sight of her sunday after sunday, and at the weekly services and social functions of the chapel and sunday school. all the world knew that martha would have money, but none the less did all the world--of holmfirth--gape and exclaim with its "did yo' evver?" and its "aw nivver did," when the reserved master of wilberlee was seen, not once or twice, but, in time, sunday after sunday, pacing slowly by martha and old split's side from the chapel gates to the modest home above the shop in victoria street. but when it become known that jabez tinker actually took his roast beef, and yorkshire pudding, and apple pie (with cheese) at splits, the spinsterdom of the village was divided between wrath and scorn. "such a letting down to th' tinkers," declared one. "i'll never believe it till i see it," affirmed another. "it's money he's after," a third alleged. "he's enough o' his own." "there's no telling. happen he's speculated. besides, much will have more, an' tinkers wer' allus rare 'uns for th' main chance," was the general conclusion. "all but poor dick," said his old cronies of the _rose and crown_. "by gosh! but ginger o' split's 'ud be a pill as 'ud bide some gilding for my taste," vowed the jolly landlord. "jabez mun ha' a good stomach." and what thought martha? it was inconceivable to her at first that the visits of mr. tinker, of wilberlee, could be anything but visits of business to her father; doubtless some matter connected with the chapel or the sunday school. but ephraim dropped hints. "how would ta like to be wed, lass? "father!" "aye, it's father now. it 'll be happen gran'father afore long," and the old man chuckled a greasy chuckle. it could not be true, murmured martha to her heart. that anyone should come a wooing to her, unless, perchance it were some needy parson after her money, seemed preposterous. and yet everyone said mr. tinker was more than well-to-do. and, after all, was she so very plain? is there in this wide, wide world a woman's glass that does not tell a flattering tale to one, at least? and, as she looked, a warm glow tinged the pale cheeks, and a light shone in her eyes they had never known before. to be loved! to be loved for her own sake! to get away from that horrid shop; to be jabez tinkers lady; to queen it over those who had sneered at her behind her back! there was rapture in the thought. and oh! she would love him so; she would be his very slave; no house should be like theirs. never did the heart of andromeda leap to meet the coming perseus, as martha's heart went out to this prince, come, if come indeed he were, to break the chains that bound her to the cruel rock of barren life. her heart overflowed with gratitude, and humbly she thanked her god that his handmaiden had found favour in this great lord's sight. she did not ask for the fervent worship of an ardent wooer's love. she only asked to be allowed to love, and to be loved a little--oh! just a little, in return--as the parched ground thirsts for the grateful shower, so thirsted the heart of the patient martha for a good man's love. chapter v. happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing, and jabez tinker, his mind resolved, was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. martha was not the one to insist on all the formularies of a protracted siege; she surrendered the citadel of her heart at the first blast of trumpet. she only insisted that the wedding should be a quiet one. as this jumped entirely with her lover's notions she had her own way, though ephraim protested. "we don't kill a pig every day, and blow th' expense. if aw pay th' piper surely i ought to chuse th' tune." but he was not suffered to choose the tune, though none questioned that he paid the piper, and paid him handsomely. exactly how many thousands of pounds made over his humble counter went to swell mr. tinker's balance at the bank no one but he and his son-in-law and the bankers knew, and is no concern of ours. jabez took his bride to london for the honeymoon. the wool-sales were on at the time, so that the manufacturer was able to combine business with pleasure, and to avoid that exclusive devotion to his wife which even more ardent husbands are said to have found somewhat irksome. but he took care that martha should see some of the sights of london--the houses of parliament, the abbey, st. paul's, and the tower. theatres were, of course, not to be thought of, but on one never-to-be-forgotten saturday, the two went up the river to hampton court. then for the first time martha realized that the world is very beautiful and often amid the bleak hills and stone walls and hideous mills of her mountain home, her thoughts would dwell upon the green fields and rich hedges and rustling, swaying, leafy branches and deep flowing waters of the fair valley of the thames. the portraits at hampton court shocked her, and she hurried through the rooms with crimson face. but her heart was very light and glad as she entered her own home at wilberlee. the ancient homestead of the tinkers was hard by the mill. it was a long two-storied building of rude ashlar, now dark with age. there was a sitting room or company room, low and gloomy even on a bright day, for the windows were overhung by the ivy that covered the house front. the furniture was massive, dark mahogany. there were but few pictures or ornaments in the room, the pictures mostly oil-paintings of dead and gone tinkers in stiff stocks, precise coats, with thick watch-chains and seals hanging from the fob; the women with smooth plaited hair, long stomachers, and severe looks. by the looking-glass over the mantel-piece were deep-edged mourning cards, in ornate frames, recording the deaths of defunct ancestors, with pious texts and verses expressive of a touching confidence in the departed's eternal welfare. the bedrooms of the upper story were furnished in the same enduring fashion, were even gloomier than the dismal sitting room, the vast four-posted mahogany bedsteads with their voluminous drapery casting heavy shadows, and as the narrow windows were never opened, the chamber air, in summer time, was heavy laden with the blended smell of feathers, flocks, and lavender. it is marvellous what a dread our forefathers, who lived so much in the open, had of fresh air and thorough ventilation in the sleeping rooms of their homes. but, after all, the kitchen or living room was the main thing. a roaring fire in winter time, walls yellow-washed, floor ochred and sanded, dark rafters overhead, flitches, hams, ropes of onions, dried bushes of sage and parsley, burnished tins that caught and reflected rays of fire and gleam of sun, a long table, its top white as soap and scrubbing brush can make the close-grained sycamore, long shelves laden with delf and ancient crockery--ah! it was a paradise for a good housewife. and a good housewife martha proved to be. there was not a cleaner house in all that country side. she had kept on betty for dorothy's sake, and there was besides, peggy, scullery maid and general help. betty and peggy would very much have preferred that their mistress had been neither so keen of eye nor sharp of tongue--for the mistress who, as callers said, could not say boh to a goose, could talk thirteen to the dozen, so betty averred, anent a grease spot or an iron-mould. martha's lot, it may be said, if not an ideal, was now a serene one. had she but had child of her own, she thought no happier woman could have been found in the wide west riding. but in this fate was unkind, and the withholding of the crowning blessing of a woman's life, to hold her own babe to her breast, was all the harsher measure, that martha knew her husband in his secret heart brooded over their long disappointment and nursed it as a grievance. poor martha! how many prayers, how many vows, were thine for this boon so freely granted to your husband's poorest workman! it was in vain that martha tried to stay her heart's longings by filling a mother's place to the little niece left by that graceless richard. all that duty dictated martha did; did ungrudgingly conscientiously. but there is one thing in this world that is absolutely beyond the human will: it is the human heart. love knows no reason, and is uninfluenced by the sternest logic. it is like the wind that bloweth where it listeth. school herself as martha would she came, in time, to have a smouldering jealousy of little dorothy, and the child's quick perception taught it to shun the eye, and soon the company, of her aunt, and turn for comfort to buxom, homely betty. it is a sunday afternoon in the summer of the year '45--a glorious summer's afternoon. the garden at wilberlee, stretching below the parlour window right down to the river-side--no great stretch, indeed--is ablaze with colour. the sky overhead is of rich deep blue, flecked with trailing wisps of feathery cloudlets. the lark sings high in mid ether. from the meadows round about comes the scent of the hay, and the garden gives forth its fragrance of musk and rose. in a low basket-chair, placed beneath the shades of an umbrageous chestnut tree, mrs. tinker sits, stiff, erect, unyielding. she is dressed in rich dark silk, and the lace of collar and cuffs have come from the skilled fingers of the nuns of belgian convents. a religious periodical, the "baptist magazine," lies unheeded on her lap, for martha is watching, with wistful eyes, the graceful movements of a young girl, who flits from flower to flower, and bends occasionally to snip a bloom or leaf. "why are you getting flowers of a sunday: dorothy? you know your uncle would not like it. i'm sure we don't want any more in the house--the parlour smells almost sickly with them--besides, it's sunday." "i don't want them for the parlour, aunt martha. they are for poor lucy garside." "who's lucy garside?" "why, aunt, how can you forget? she worked in uncle's mill till she had to leave. it is something the matter with her legs and spine. don't you mind that pretty, rosy lucy garside, that used to be in your class at the sunday school? but she isn't rosy now--oh! so pale and thin, and has to lie all day on the settle." "you mean the sofa, child." "no, aunt, the kitchen settle i mean, they have no sofa; but they try to make it comfortable for her with shawls and things; and her mother is making a list hearth-rug for her to lie on, and then, may-be, she'll be easier--and she loves flowers. you will let me take them, aunt martha, won't you?" "well, they're gathered now, and it's no use wasting them. but, in future, you must ask my leave before you cut more. and i don't quite know how your uncle would like you going trashing about among those low mill-girls." "but, aunt"--and here dorothy lowered her voice and glanced timorously at the opened window of the parlour--"but, aunt martha, they say--in the village, i mean, not lucy's mother--that lucy's hurt her spine and crooked her legs working too long in the mill--hours and hours, and hours, they say, all the day and nearly all the night, and sleeping under the machines because she was too tired to go home to bed; and that, and not enough to eat, the doctor says, has made poor lucy a cripple for life." "then dr. wimpenny ought to be whipped for saying such things, and i won't have you listening to these tittle-tattling stories. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, to let folks tell you lies about your uncle's mill. folk ought to be glad they can send their children to work, to earn their own living. how would they live if they couldn't? but there's no gratitude left in the world--that's a fact. but there's your uncle finished his nap, and you'd best be off; and don't let me hear any more of your silly tales about things you don't understand." it was a very prim and demure maiden that walked sedately from the side-gate of the house at wilberlee, a large bunch or posy of flowers grasped in one little hand, a basket in the other. dorothy had coaxed sundry delicacies from the not reluctant betty--a loaf of bread, some slices of meat, a pot of jam, a glass of calves'-foot jelly, and a small packet of tea. "bless her bonny face," remarked betty to peggy, the underling, "it isn't i' my heart to refuse her owt. but it's to be hoped th' missus 'll never find it out." "saints preserve us," devoutly ejaculated peggy, who was shrewdly suspected to have milesian blood in her veins. "isn't she a pictur'?" said betty, as her eyes followed her little mistress until the gate shut her from admiring gaze. "'deed, then, she is--an' as good as she's purty," assented peggy. "it's mr. richard's own child, she is," went on betty, reminiscently--"th' same dancin' e'en, an' gladsome look, an' merry smile; and yet, sometimes, when she's thoughtful-like, an' dreamy, you'd think she wer' her own mother, as i could fancy her as a lass,"--and betty heaved a very deep sigh, from a very capacious bosom. and, indeed, dorothy was a picture to gladden the eyes of man. the small coal-scuttle bonnet of leghorn straw, with its drab strings, could not hide the pure oval of the face, nor its shade conceal its rich, warm complexion. the auburn ringlets, not corkscrewed to mechanic stiffness, but loosely curling, fell in clusters about her shoulders; and the child moved with an instinctive grace. once out of the view of the garden and the house windows her pace quickened, she began to skip along joyously, her bonnet thrown back from the head, and her little feet, peeping and twinkling from beneath her shortened skirts, beat measure to the snatches of songs, that were not hymnal in their wording or their melody. as she passed the cottage doors, the good folk--standing by their thresholds to breath the air, or bask in the grateful sun, or while away the sleepy hours of unwonted rest in friendly gossip with "my nabs"--would turn to look upon the sweet and glad young face, and not one but had a hearty word and a friendly greeting for miss dorothy. "eh! but oo's a bonny wench. a seet ov her 's fair gooid for sore e'en. oo'll be a bright spot i' some lucky chap's whom some fine day, please the pigs." and dorothy had a nod, and a smile, too, for everyone; for she knew them all by name, and most of them worked for her uncle, either in the mill, or at their own loom in the long upper chamber of their little cottages. "oo's bahn to see poor lucy garsed, ben's lass, aw'll be bun; an' oo's noan empty-handed noather. see th' posy oo's getten; an' mi mouth fair watters when aw think o' what there'll be i'th basket--noan o' th' missus' sendin', aw'll go bail." "aye, there'll be summat beside tracks, if miss dorothy's had a finger i' th' pie,"--and so the old wives' tongues ran on. the cottage of ben garside was barely furnished, but all was spick and span. ben was a hand-loom weaver, and, of a week-day, by earliest day, til sunset in the spring and summer-tide, you could have heard the clack of his loom overhead as the nimble shuttle with its trail of weft sped across the warp. but to-day ben has gone to stretch his legs on the moors, and it is lucy's mother who bids dorothy welcome and relieves her of her parcels. a long oaken settle runs under the deep window of the "house" or living room. the window ledge is full of pots of geranium, fuchsia, musk and rose that turn their petals to bathe in the glorious sunshine that streams with tempered warmth through the thick glazing of the long low window. poor lucy lies upon the couch, her cheeks so hollow, her skin so transparent, her brown soft eyes so unnaturally large and her look of patient suffering, and of the resignation of abandoned hope so heart-rending when it is stamped on the face of youth. but the large eyes brighten as dorothy comes to the couch, and her thin hand, so white and bloodless, rests in loving, lingering caress upon dorothy's glossy tresses as she stoops over the invalid and leaves a kiss upon the pallid lips. "better to-day, i hope, lucy." and lucy, with a suspicious catch in her voice, says: "oh! yes, better to-day, miss dorothy, almost well." alas! there will be no well for lucy till that best of all days shall dawn for her, where sickness and suffering enter not, and tears forget to flow. "see what aunt martha has sent you," said dorothy presently,--may heaven forgive the fib,--"no, not the flowers. i gathered them all myself because i know just what you like best, and now all the afternoon, when i'm gone, you know, you must just do nothing but arrange them in that big glass on the drawers there. and this jam is for you, too, and the calves'-foot jelly to make you strong, you know, and the tea is for you, mrs. garside, when you've been washing and feel just like sinking through the ground, as i've heard you say you do." "and thank the missus kindly, miss dorothy, my respects; but whativver's this?" and mrs. garside extracted the bread and meat. "oh! i'd forgotten them. these are for ben." "eh! but aw'm feart they'll nivver keep till next sunday i' this welterin' weather. to be sure aw might rub 'em wi' salt, but ben do want such a power o' ale a'ter salt meat. but we'll see, we'll see. eh! miss dorothy, but it's yo' that thinks o' ivverybody an' thof yo' say it's yor aunt, it's well aw know--but least said, sooinest mended. but sit yo dahn an' aw'll dust that cheer i' hauf a tick-tack--it's fair cappin wheer all th' muck comes fro' this warm weather, fit to fry yo' like a' rasher o' bacon; sit yo' dahn, do, an' throw yo'r hat off an' yo'll read ith book a bit; not 'at aw held so much religion but lucy theer likes it an' it's cheap, that's one gooid thing or th' poor folk 'ud get little enew on it." mrs. garside, who, it will be observed, did not allow her power of speech to rust for want of use, paused to draw breath for another effort. "what shall i read, lucy?" "oh! just that story about jesus at the pool of bethesda. how i wish i could have been there." mrs. garside composed herself to listen, putting on that look of impenetrable stolidity and unreceptiveness that a good many people seem to think most appropriate for a scripture-reading. "in these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the waters.... 'sir, i have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool; but while i am coming, another steppeth down before me.'" "nah! if that isn't holmfirth all ovver, my name's not hannah garsed" broke in that lady. "holmfirth all ovver. aw can see just how it wer'. th' poor man wer' ligged theer all bi hissen, an' nobbudy to help 'im. then fust one an' then another comes up an' thruts 'im o' one side. an' if them watters wer' owt like th' booik says, yo may mak' sure 'at there'd be th' rich folk theer wi' their sarvants, an' lackeys, an' nusses an' lady's maids, to put 'em i'th' watter an' they'd ha' th' pick o' ivverything. an' yar ben sez 'at if th' heealin' o' th' man wi a infirmary wer' a miracle, it's a bigger miracle 'at someb'dy hadn't bowt that pool up an' med a fortin' out o' it. not 'at aw hold wi' all yar ben says, for there's gooid folk amang th' quality, as we'd no need to look further nor wilberlee," she concluded, with a penitent glance at the table. "but i've some news for you, mrs. garside," interrupted dorothy, "and i hope it will be good news." "it'll be summat fresh if it is," murmured the irrepressible dame, "weel, out wi' it." "you know uncle has been very busy lately, putting in new machinery?" mrs. garside nodded. _that_ did not concern her, except perhaps that it might mean either more or less country-work to the hand-loom weavers. but that would be to try for. "and he is going to take another apprentice," continued dorothy. "i heard him tell aunt martha so and ask her where she should lodge him. aunt martha said she hadn't an idea, anywhere would do for an apprentice. so i managed to catch uncle all by himself, and i said perhaps you would be glad to do for a boy." "and that's what yo' ca' gooid news, is it, dorothy? as if aw hadn't enough to do wi' th' house-work and th' cookin', though that's easy enough, god knows, an' me bobbin-windin' to keep ben agate at th' loom, an' th' little lass theer at might ha' been a help an' a comfort laid o' her back fro' morn to neet an' neet to morn an' all to do for, not but what it's a pleasure to do for yo', my pet, an' it's more aw wish your owd mother could do, an' aw wodn't swap her agen ony lass i' all th' valley; but a noisy lad a rampagin' all abaat th' haase an' whistlin' an' happen stoppin' out o' neets till all hours, an nivver' wipin' his feet except upo' th' fender rails, an' makkin' enough noise to wakken th' deead, an' eitin' enough for two! not but what th' bit o' brass 'ud be welcome, an' thank yo' kindly. we'll see when th' time comes; its no use meetin' trouble hauf way nor lawpin' afore yo get to th' stee, an' doubtless yo'r aunt 'll be speikin' to me or yar ben, an' that 'll be time enough, which awm obliged to yo' all th' same, miss, for givin' a thowt o' us an speikin' a gooid word for us, though yo'r aunt knows weel as if aw _did_ ha' a boy aw'd do for 'im as well as here an' theer a one, though aw say it, mebbe, as suldn't." who can unravel the tangled skein of life and say, as the foolish say, "this is fate," or as the wise, "this the foreordaining of god, the will and fashioning of the great designer, from the foundation of the world?" but call it fate or what you will, certain enough it is that the very day after dorothy's visit to dame garside's cottage, jabez tinker mounted his stout cob and rode up the road that leads past the bilberry reservoir, past the isle of skye and far-famed bill's o' jack's, past the grey pile of st. chad's, and so to the workhouse on the hill. his horse was taken at the gate by workhouse jack and tom pinder, and led to the stabling in the rear to have a draught of meal-and-water and a feed of oats. jack and tom lingered in the stable admiring the gloss of the horse's coat, running fingers through its mane, smacking its warm flanks with many a "whooa hup" and "stan' ovver, lass," examining its hocks and its teeth, and generally doing those knowing things affected by the veriest tyro who would be thought wise in the deep and subtle matter of horseflesh. but presently came the workhouse porter: "tom pinder, th' master wants you in th' office. no, not you, jack; you can go into th' potato patch and don't let me catch you here again or you'll know about it." the porter was a much more dignified man and more important in his own esteem than the master himself, so it is just as well he had not eyes at the back of his head to see that sign made by a certain application of thumb and outspanned fingers which in all times and countries has been deemed significant of contempt unutterable. tom followed the porter wondering to the office. the master was closeted with a tall, broad-shouldered, sparer, man, with clean shaven face, keen grey eyes, and hair tinged with grey at tee tell-tale temples. he sat by the table, a tankard of ale at his side, and his hand swinging his riding whip idly to and fro. "this is the lad, then, mr. redfearn wrote to me about? he seems a likely lad enough, but somewhat overgrown. how old are you boy?" "rising fifteen, sir." mr. tinker eyed the youth from head to foot and turned him round and round, feeling the muscles of his arm and the thews of his thigh and calf as though he was appraising a horse at the cattle fair. "sound in wind and limb, i should judge," he concluded, "but his age is against him. a lad should go into a mill young, master, before his bones are set and his fingers stiff, if he's to be any good. i'm not in your union or i would have seen to this. the guardians have no business to keep a big lumbering lout of a lad lazying about the house and eating his head off. it's demoralising to the lad and is enough to pauperize a whole neighbourhood. what's his name?" "pinder sir, tom pinder," answered the master, and, whilst tom stared with all his eyes on the stranger, wondering vastly who he might be and what this interview might portend and wondering too if workhouse jack would remember to feed his rabbit and find a fresh sod of grass for his lark, the master made apology for tom's height and girth. "you see, mr. tinker, pinder's been kept longer than usual. there's a sort of mystery about him, and both the chairman and mr. black have taken uncommon interest in him. indeed the schoolmaster's so wrapt up in him he couldn't have been more if th' lad had been his own son, which i'd almost think he was myself if it wasn't so ridiculous. but there's never no telling, is there, mr. tinker? these quiet uns is often as deep an' dark as a pit, bu' we're all human, eh?" and master winked a wink meant to be a summary of profound knowledge of the universal fallibility of the human race. but mr. tinker was not a man to be winked at or joked with, nor apparently was he disposed to discuss the tempting topic of man's--and woman's--depravity--with a workhouse master, the sole audience a workhouse foundling. "pinder,"--he said musingly, strumming meditatively on the table, and somewhat brusquely declining the master's hospitable offer to have in another jug of october ale, or something shorter if a cordial for the stomach would be more acceptable.--"pinder--tom pinder? it isn't a this country name. there was a pinder at marsden, a clothier in a small way--took to drink, banked, and showed his creditors a clean pair of heels; but you wouldn't have a marsden brat in this union." "but he wasn't called after his father," said the master, somewhat curtly, for if jabez tinker could be curt, curt too could the master be, and any way, he was sovereign there except on guardian days. "damme, i can crow on my own dunghill," he thought, "or i'm th' poorest cock ever crowed this side of stanedge." "oh! i forgot, mr. redfearn said something about his being a bastard, a chance child--a rambling tale. i didn't mind it, i was thinking about something else. 'twill be his mother's name?" "no, nor his mother's," said the master. "i don't rightly know who he was called after. it had something to do with mr. redfearn's shepherd. but it's a long time since, and i forget. but what's the odds? there th' lad is. you can either take him or leave him, it's all a price to me, and i reckon to th' guardians too." "when can he come?" "next week. there'll be th' papers to make out. th' overseers will sign th' indentire. five pounds they've to pay, i think t'was settled." "yes, five pounds; but if i'd known his age and size i'd have stood out for more. but it's too late for haggling you'd send him over this day week. i'll arrange about him. tell him to bring the cob round, tom, and so good day to you, master. time's money these days, and i've wasted a whole forenoon over this job. pinder, pinder, it's a strange name and yet there seems a look i' the lad's eye i've seen before somewhere. my respects to mr. redfearn when you see him, and tell him he should be too old a farmer by this to keep his cattle till they're almost too far gone for the market." the master smiled the official smile at a guardian's jest; but it was no very friendly glance that followed the erect form of the holmfirth manufacturer as he turned his good mare's head over the hills. "tom's in for a bad time of it, i'm thinking," said the master. it was mr. black who conveyed the lad with a father's love from the workhouse to holmfirth. and the lad went with a heart light enough, though on his cheek the tears were wet he had shed at parting from the faithful jack. he had solemnly made over to the lamenting workhouse drudge his boyish treasures,--the lark, that obstinately refused to sing, the lop-eared rabbit, and the hedgehog he had rescued from the clogs and sticks of a posse of village urchins--captive not of bow and spear, but of fist and toe. moll o' stuarts, too, had been to bid him farewell, and, as a parting gift, had bestowed on him a child's caul. "keep that all th' days o' your life; nivver part wi' it, wet or fine. yo'll allus know th' weather by it, as guid as a glass an' better nor bi a mony on 'em. an' as long as that caul's thine, drowneded bi watter yo' canna be. there's mony a fine spark at sails the seas 'ud be main glad o' that same. hanged yo' may be, tho' god forbid, but drownded nivver." and in after years, of which the reader shall read in good time, moll o' stuarts was able to invoke her prophetic soul, and to attribute to her own prescience the wonderful deliverance this story shall narrate. moll, too, brought a pair of stout stockings knit by the widow schofield's own plump hands, and a crown-piece, that the night before had jingled in tom o' fairbank's well-filled leathern purse. over the hills trudged the schoolmaster and his ward; the dominie thoughtful, and not a little sorrowful. "pray god we've done for the best," was his pious hope, as they reached the low wall of the church of st. chad's, and one at least thought of the fair unknown, whose son was setting forth into the untried paths of life, with all the glad, unquestioning undoubting confidence of eager youth. hard by the church inn they turned to the face of the steep ascent of almost unbroken moorland, threaded by a rude and rutty path, strewn with rubble and boulders, torn and wrenched from the crags above by the driving storms and angry raging winds of the rolling years. on the lower face of the hill they passed, here and there, the rude shelter of a moorland cottier, whose cow and pig and poultry gained precarious living in the lean enclosures won from the sweeping stretch of heather and coarse grass or the lowly cottage whence the familiar clack of the hand-loom told of swaying beam and scudding shuttle. anon they reached the summit; mr. black, notwithstanding the help from tom's sturdy arm, fain to rest upon one of the vast rocks belched forth from the bowels of the earth in some angry vomiting of the prisoned airs, and now, rounded and smooth-worn and dark with the gloom of ages, resting massive on the commanding summit called pots and pans. "yes, that indeed, is bill's o' jack s," panted mr. black, in answer to tom's eager questioning. "that is where the murder was done, murder most foul. poor hapless bill and tom, i knew them well, a hale and hearty farmer, and his son a strapping gamekeeper. done to death, whether for gain or revenge, none knew for certain, though it was shrewdly guessed, but nothing was ever proved and for ought is known, the murderers may dwell in our very midst. see yon little window left of the door, 'twas the old man's bedroom. there, in a pool of blood, his lifeless body was found; his son,--his head cleaved by a heavy bill-lay lifeless in the kitchen. it was a little wench, who went betimes for milk, gave the alarm." "was it long gone sir?" asked tom, gazing spellbound at the farmhouse in the valley's dip. "in '32--the year of the great reform bill. you were a bouncing baby then, tom. but see how thick the bilberries lie snugly in the heather, and how a film settles on the ripened fruit as though the mist of the hills had kissed them with a lingering kiss. better fill your kerchief, for well i guess they'll be right welcome at mrs. garside's, where you must make your home. "and now, lad, turn your eyes once more upon the old church and towards the fields you know so well. remember in that valley you were born and bred, and in that valley are those that love you well and who have knit you to their hearts. yonderwards, in the other valley, is your future home; what trials, what labours there await you, who shall say? but as david said to his _son_, say i to you: "'be thou strong and shew thyself a man, and keep the charge of the lord thy god, to walk in his ways, to keep his statutes, and his commandments, and his judgments and his testimonies that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest thyself.' and now, come, lad, 'tis a brave step from here to holmfirth and the way will be long for me when i come back without thee." chapter vi. tom pinder was "apprenticed"--so the phrase ran--to jabez tinker with all the form and circumstance and not a little of the verbal exuberance of the law. the manufacturer bound himself to the overseers of saddleworth who stood to the foundling in _loco parentis_, to teach his apprentice the art and calling of a clothier--so manufacturers were then styled, when men were less fond of high-sounding terms and preferred plain english to foreign-fangled names. he also undertook, under his hand and seal, to feed the said tom and provide him one new suit of clothing each year until he should attain the age of twenty-one years. the overseers, on their part, engaged that the "said tom should faithfully serve the said jabez tinker and his wife and family, his and their lawful orders should do, his secrets should keep, and his goods protect," likewise that the said tom, so long as his indenture should endure, taverns should not frequent, bowls nor dice should play, fornication should not commit, and marriage should not contract. as the delicate subject of wages was not so much as hinted at in this formidable document, it seemed pretty certain that the ingenuous apprentice would not be exposed to much temptation either from tavern or dice-box; and mr. black, after reading, no less than three times, the articles of this solemn covenant could not withhold his admiration of the zealous care the law manifested for the morals of the young. he should think better, he averred, of lawyers ever after, and was inclined to believe they must be a much maligned body of men. if there had only been some mention of the catechism, he said, the deed might have been framed by a bishop. mr. redfearn to whom he thus unbosomed himself said nothing, but there were volumes in the wink he conveyed to the stolid aleck. "i could ha' thoiled th' absence o' ony mention o' th' catechism if there'd been some mention o' wage," was his only spoken comment. "but think of the immense advantage of learning the whole art and commerce of a clothier under such a teacher as mr. tinker," urged mr. black. mr. redfearn apparently did think, and what he thought was again conveyed to aleck by a surreptitious wink. tom was not long in proving for himself the advantages of being an apprentice. they consisted, so far as he could make out, of being harder worked and more harshly treated than a paid hand, and as for instruction or initiation into the mysteries of the clothier's craft, he was left to learn so much as his own eyes could teach him and his gumption acquire. it was fortunate for him that ben garside, with whom he lodged, lived at no great distance from the mill, for he had to be at his work by daybreak in the summer months, and long before the first uplifting of night's black curtain in the cold winter morns. many who worked in the same mill, young boys and girls not yet in their teens, had to trudge in all weathers from distant homes on the raw hill sides, often by lanes and footpaths deep in mud or slush, often by the light of the many stars, sometimes by the pale glimmer of the lanthorn, sometimes in egyptian darkness, feeling their way by the touch of walls or hedges or trees, drenched by rain or sleet, pelted by hail, sinking into deep ruts or forging through the drifted snow, lightly clad, the warmest garment of the girls the shawl about their head and ears, their faces pinched and blue with cold, their fingers aching with the shrewd wintry pinch, starting from home without breakfast and hurrying with empty stomachs to their dreary work, ill-clad, ill-shod, worse-fed, and still worse paid. the hours of labour were long. wilberlee mill was, though not exclusively, mainly a water-mill, the motive power being led from the mill-dam by a head-goit to the great waterwheel, and from the wheel-race restored by the tail-goit, little diminished, to the river's course, to serve the turn of mill owners lower down the stream. often in dry seasons the supply of water was scant enough and hence it came that when the dam was flush of water the manufacturer reversed the process of making hay while the sun shone by making pieces while the rain fell. there was little or no restriction in the age at which a child might be sent to work, or the hours for which it might be kept there. it was of so common occurrence as to be almost regarded as a matter of course, not calling for comment, that a child nine or ten years of age should stand to its work sixteen or seventeen hours at a stretch, cramming its meal of water-porridge down its throat in the fluff-laden air of the weaving shed or spinning room, afraid to break off work even to eat a hurried and unsavoury meal. sometimes the children were locked in the mill all night, and many would fall asleep as they stood, or drop exhausted by their machines only to be roused by a kick from the slubber's clogs, a blow from a roller, or a resounding smack from the slubber's strap. tom had been set to billy-piecing, but it was found that his fingers were too big and his joints too set for such work, so, to his great delight, he ceased to rub the skin off his knuckles till they bled again, and was transferred to the "scouring-hoil" and in time had charge of a willey, or as it was sometimes called a "devil," or "fearnowt," an iron monster into whose maw he threw the scoured wool just fresh from the "drying-hoil," to be torn and "teased" by the hundred fangs of the insatiable mouth, digest as it were, in its mechanic stomach, and thence cast out in a light and airy fluff ready to be scribbled, slubbed and in time spun into warp and weft. but though, for a time, tom escaped the most arduous and confining and debilitating part of an operative's daily lot, his lines were hard enough. he looked back upon his workhouse life with a sickening yearning, and when he remembered the regular and abundant meals of the house, his gorge rose at the ever-recurring surfeit of water-porridge to breakfast, water-porridge to dinner, water-porridge to supper, and water-porridge between meals. but for all that tom grew apace, and his was not the willowy, weedy growth of the towns. if the advocates of vegetarianism want to press their proofs, let them recur to the country-bred, porridge-fed youngsters of a by-gone generation, when they were not cooped up in mills and worked beyond the endurance of nature. as tom was often sent out with the lant-barrel to collect from the cottages for miles around the scouring liquid for which ammonia is the modern substitute, he had ample opportunity to stretch his legs and broaden his chest and brace his sinews; so that when, as time went on; he attained to the dignity of a loom, he was as well-set-up a youth as one would meet in a day's march, straight, old hannah garside vowed, as any "picking rod," with strong limbs and corded muscles, and, best of all, with a sound head and a warm heart,--a happy contrast to the many of his comrades whose shoulders were rounded, and backs bent and legs curved by weary hours of standing and stooping at tasks and under burdens beyond the immature powers of ill-nurtured bodies. it was a common saying in those days that nine out of every ten of the mill-hands of holmfirth could not stop a pig with their legs. but the happiest chance that befell the young apprentice was that which made him a lodger with ben and hannah garside. it was long enough before he had much more than a nodding acquaintance either with them or their invalid daughter; for, of weekdays, he took his meals at the mill, and at night he was so dead-beat that he was fain to wash himself and steal to bed; and on sundays, for many a week of his early apprenticeship it was his glad custom to bolt his morning meal and make off as fast as his legs could carry him over the moors to saddleworth, generally arriving at st. chad's church in time to be late for the morning service, but ample time to accompany mr. black or mr. redfearn home to a better dinner than hannah garside had ever seen, or even dreamed of. but as the summer mellowed into autumn and the autumn drooped to winter, there came sundays when wind and rain made the tramp over the storm-beaten moors a matter not to be undertaken merely for a jaunt's sake, and tom had, perforce to put up with the somewhat meagre fare furnished by hannah garside. sunday was the one day in the week when there was meat hot and fresh to dinner-roast beef and yorkshire pudding with pickled cabbage, and sometimes rice pudding. one can imagine what a welcome day that weekly day of rest and feasting was, the day when the village "knocker-up" forbore to rattle at the door or tap the chamber window with long stick, calling out belike: "ger up, tom, an' howd th' dog while aw wakken thee." daily use would break the morning sleep of the wearied toiler, but, oh! how sweet to remember with your first yawn that it was sunday, and that if you liked you could spend the livelong day in bed, or at least, forego your morning meal and stretch between the blankets till the steaming fragrance from the revolving spit saluted your nostrils and sent you with yearning stomach down the rickety steps to cozen a sop from hannah, stooping with reddened face over the spit, basting the revolving joint as it shed its dripping over the yorkshire pudding, whilst lucy, propped up with many pillows, peeled potatoes, or, on rare and great occasions, pared the apples for pie or pudding, chatting pleasantly, and soothing the ruffled temper of her mother. and it was of sunday afternoons that began those long talks with ben garside that had no less influence on tom's destiny than the earlier monitions of mr. black, or the shrewd worldly axioms of tom o' fairbanks. it had been a matter of less surprise than delight for ben to find that tom could not only read, but read without having to spell out or slur over long words. the joy of hannah was great thereat, for so was ben deprived of any pretext for sneaking out of a sunday morning to the nearest public to hear the paper read. now, she managed to produce each week a penny, by virtue of which ben became one in a partnership of six, whose united contributions purchased a weekly paper. it mattered not at all that when it reached ben's house it was much thumbed and soiled and beer-stained, for in virtue of receiving it when truly it was a week old and much the worse for wear, ben was allowed to retain it in perpetual proprietorship, and, had made a cover of "rolling boards" in which the copies were tenderly hoarded up and treasured. now ben was a great politician, and if pressed upon so close and home a matter would profess and express himself an owenite. add to this that he very rarely troubled either chapel or church except on christmas day, and that he made a point of slinking out of the house if he chanced to be in when the vicar of the parish or the shepherd of a dissenting fold called at the cottage. "aw cannot abide parsons," he confided to tom one day. "though aw wodn't let yar lucy yer me say so for worlds." now tom, as we know, had been taught to respect the church, and he was absolutely against when ben garside, a little wiry, keen faced, middle-aged man, eager of speech and not a little fond of the sound of his own voice, went on: "weel, tom, aw'm nowise minded to hurt yo'r feelin's, an' if th' parsons wer owt like that mister black 'at yo set such store by, an' well yo've a reet to by all accaants, if they tuk after him, aw'd happen ha' cause to alter mi mind. but "ifs" an' "buts" ma' all th' differ i' this world, an' they simply isn't." "well, they couldn't be better," said tom, pleased with this tribute to his benefactor. "noah, but they set up to be. nah aw'll nooan go as fur as some folk 'at aw know, 'at say as parson's bun' to be oather a rogue or a fooil." "that's strong, ben, isn't it?" "aye, lad, it's nooan exactly what yo'd call meeat for babes; but aw reckon it meeans summat like this--'at if a parson believes all he preeaches he's a fooil, an' if he dunnot he's t'other thing." "but surely," began tom. "aye, aye, aw know what yo'd say--'at they _do_ believe. weel then aw'll tell yo' i'm too mich respeck for their intellec's to think at them, wi' all their college larnin', can believe one hawf o' what ther paid to teach. nooah, nooah, religion as them mak' o' preachers mis-ca' their teachin' is nobbut fit for women an' childer, an' to keep th' ignorant i' awe. nah! _aw'm_ a _reely_ religious man missen, an' that's why aw dunnot hold wi parsons." this seemed a somewhat novel reason for discrediting ministers, and tom could but look his surprise, which was exactly what ben wanted. "nah! aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance," he said, sitting on a low wall--they were out for a walk--and bidding tom follow his example. "aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance. yo'n bin to th' baptis' chapel, wheer jabez tinker goes?" tom nodded. "nah, then, if yo'll swallow all th' parson says at aenon yo' mun believe that afore aw wer' born aw wer' predestined awther to heaven or hell--yo' follow me?" "weel, tak' it 'at aw wer' predestined for hell, just for argyment's sake." tom thought it more than probable that this dreadfully free-spoken man was at least in danger of the fire, so he conceded the postulate. "nah! do yo' think it fair o' god almighty to send a poor weak sprawlin' infant into th' world, knowin' full weel 'at after mebbe sixty or seventy yer o' moilin' an' toilin' an' scrattin', he'd end up wi' weepin' an' wailin' an' gnashin' o' teeth for all eternity. aw put it to yo' tom, wod yo' ha' done it yersen?" "but if you were to go to church, ben, or even to chapel," began tom. "that doesn't touch th' point. th' point is at one they sen is love, suld suffer a bairn to be born i'to this world, weel knowin' its awful end." "and don't _you_ believe in god?" asked tom, sinking his voice almost to a whisper and edging a little further off his companion. "aw do that, lad, but nooan i' siccan a god as that'n. but aw'n nooan done wi' th' parsons yet--one thing at a time. yo' know aw can read th' bible, though nooan so glib-like as yo' can, but aw think on what aw read. nah chew this tex' ovver th' next time yo' go to th' church. yo'll find it i'th' general epistle o' james:-"'for if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment, an' yo' hav' respec' to him 'at weareth the gay clothin', an' say unto him, sit yo' here in a guid place; an' say to th' poor, stan' yo' theer, or sit under my fooitstooil.' well, lad, tha's bin a workhus lad thissen, an' yo' know weel enough wheer they towd yo' to sit." tom did know, and reflected that on the whole he had very much preferred the dark corners of the gallery to the chief places in the synagogue; but he had the sense to know his reasons were not of grace. "aye, an' it's th' same all through," went on the little hand-loom weaver, growing excited and warming to his topic. "it's th' same all through. they're all tarred wi' th' same brush, or welly (well-nigh) all on 'em. they uphowd th' rich, an' they patronize th' poor, aw' most to a man. why, see yo', we'n been feightin' for th' factory act i' this district ivver sin sir oastler tuk his coit off an' put his neck to th' collar i' 1830, afore yo' were born. how many o'th' parsons i' this district, dun yo' think, has sided wi' th hand agen th' maisters? ther' wer th' reverend madden, o' woodhouse, _he_ com' aat like a man, but he had to dare to be a daniel an' dare to stand alone, as th' hymn says. yo'st take all th' progress 'at's bin made i'th' world sin th' days o' adam, an' tak' it broadly speikin' yo'll find 'at th' parsons ha' bin agen it. there's stephen's th' wesleyan minister an' chartist he cam' to huddersfield wheer had he to talk do'st think? i'th' parish church? not he, faith. i'th' wesleyan chapel? not he. i'th hall 0' science, man, i' bath buildings, a infidel shop, th' bigots ca'ad it." "but surely, ben, you believe in something. you say you believe in god. you believe in christ too, don't you?" "aye i' th' _natural_ christ, but nooan i'th' travesty o' jesus o' nazareth 'at th' owd monks twisted an' fashioned out o' th' natural man till his own mother wouldn't ha' known him. _aw_ believe in him, but th' parsons don't." "nay, nay, ben," expostulated tom, bewildered, shocked, but interested. "they dooan't. they sen they do, an' they happen think they do, for it's wonderful, just fair cappin', how folk can cheeat their own sen. nah! aw'll just ax yo' if yo' wer to steal th' vicar's cooat, or poise his shins for 'im, wheer do'st think tha'd sleep to-neet? i' th' towzer,[1] wouldn't ta." [1] a lock-up or a police-cell. tom thought this highly likely. "but that's nooan what jesus towd folk. an' what abaat heeapin' up stores o' riches i' this world wheer moth an' rust doth corrupt an' thieves break through an' steal? weel, if there's a chap i' all this valley at's keener after brass nor some o'th' parsons _aw_ know an' some o'th' deacons _yo_' kno, aw dooant want to have ony truck wi' 'em for one." tom thought of ephraim thorpe, and was mute. "but that's nooan th' warst aw han agen th' parsons. they're nobbud men, though they set thersen up for saints, an' there's good an' bad amang 'em same as there is amang other folk, aye, an' allus will be as long as th' world goes round, but ther's just one doctrine 'at sticks i' my gizzard waur nor all th' others." tom thought it must be a particularly lumpy doctrine, if this were so, for ben seemed to have a narrow and constricted throat. "yo' heard th' parson tell folk to be content wi' that station i' life to which it has pleased providence to call 'em." "well, it's no use being anything else that i can see," said tom, getting tired of being talked down and jumped on, in a manner of speaking. "a'm ashamed on yo', tom. aw thowt better things on yo', after all my talkin' to yo'. nah, my motto is, be content just as long as yo' can't better yo'sen; but it's yo'r bounden duty to yo'r sen an' yo'r fam'ly, when yo' get one, an' yo'r fellow-men, to be as discontented as ever yo'n reason to be, an' to try all yo' know to better yo'sen an' them. discontent, lad, 's th' basis o' all progress, an' yo'll nooan be a reformer till yo'r chock full on it. look at moses, nah!" but mrs. garside might be seen at the cottage door beckoning them to tea, for there was ever a cup of tea on sunday afternoon with wheat bread and fresh butter, and lettuce or watercress and radishes and spring onions, when the season served, and these fresh pulled from ben's little garden patch, or gathered from the brim of the purling brook. tea over, ben seated himself by the hearth on which was spread the large warm list rug, like joseph's coat of many colours, lists which lucy had herself cut and her own mother stitched into the stout canvas backing. ben justly regarded this rug as a work of art, and when he ventured to plant his feet upon it of a sunday night, did so, as it were, apologetically. "but we hannot finished our talk yet, tom," he began, puffing vigorously at his clay pipe to assure that well-gripped glow that permits of soliloquy or monologue. "aw wer' sayin' when hannah ca'ed us in." "now, father," interrupted lucy, "remember what day it is, don't let us have any o' those horrid politics, they only put yo' in a fash an' a tantrum." "tom 'll ha' to bide it," said hannah, who was pleased to see her husband settle down by his own fireside and cross his legs upon his own hearth, as what wife is not. "tom 'll ha' to bide it. yo'r father's like a eight-day clock. if tom's wun' 'im up, tom mun let 'im run daan." "well, aw wer' sayin'--at what wer' aw sayin'?--guise-'ang-me if aw hannot forgotten wheer aw left off--oh! abaat moses. nah, tak' th' book theer. reick it daan, hannah, reick it daan, tom 'll happen mash a ornament or crumple a fal-de-lal" and ben winked at tom in token that this must be taken as a subtle innuendo at hannah's over-tidiness. but hannah was impervious to innuendo, and carefully lifted down the ponderous family bible, bound in stout leather covers with brass corners, and containing on the front leaf in faint ink and sprawling characters the brief records of marriages, births and deaths. the book had been given to hannah by her grandmother on her death-bed, and never did priest of levi touch the ark of the covenant with more reverent hand than hers as it held the sacred volume. "nah, lad, read that abaat th' ovverseer an th' hebrew." tom looked at lucy for further explication. "father allus picks th' fightin' bits i' th' scriptures," she said.--"i like th' stories o' jesus best, myssen--but as long as it's i' th' bible it must be good, so best humour him. it's wheer moses felled th' taskmaster." and tom read: "'and it came to pass in those days, when moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren and looked on their burdens: and he spied an egyptian smiting an hebrew, one of his brethren. 'and he looked this way and that way and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the egyptian and hid him in the sand.'" "aye, aye, blood's thicker nor watter, all th' warld ovver," commented hannah, who sat rocking herself softly before the dying embers of the fire, her nervous fingers playing with the corners of her apron, lacking the knitting needles that are to a woman what a pipe is to a man. "eh! that moses wer' a man after mi own heart," burst in ben. "just think on it; theer he wer', browt up o' th' fat o' th' land, wi' th' best o' ivverything to eit an' drink, an' brass for owt; an' nowt to do but scrape his leg to th' powers 'at be an' he wer' a made man for life. there isn't one man in a thaasand, pampered an' fed an' thrussen up as he wer', but thrussen up as he thrussen up as he 'ud a left th' poor bondslaves to shift for theirsens, yo' needn't go aat o' holmfirth to see that e'ry day o' yo'r life. gi' a workin' man a bit o' power an' a bit more wage an' set 'im ovver t' others an' he'll what-do-you-ca' it?--'out-herod herod,'" and ben paused in evident gratification at this rounding of his period, but added on reflection, "or mebbe, aw sud say, out-pharaoh pharaoh. but moses nah"... "yes but, father," said the gentle voice of lucy, as she laid her thin white hand caressingly on her father's knee--"yar lucy can leead th' father wi' a threed o' silk," thought the mother.--"yes but, father, moses had a direct order from god; 'i will send _thee_ unto pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people out of egypt.'" "true enough, lass, true enough: but yo'll obsarve 'at th' angel o' the lord didn't appear to moses till he'd shown th' stuff he wer' made on. aw tak' it god likes to know summat abaat folk afore he sets 'em on to gaffer a job. us workin' folk didn't go to oastler i' that gret haase o' his at fixby, aboon huddersfilt yonder, till he'd written to th' pappers an' spokken aat like a man abaat th' ill-usage o'th' little childer. it's a long day sin' but we'st win yet, as sure as god's i' heaven, for he has surely heard the cry of the little uns, an' he has seen the oppression wherewith the egyptians oppress them." "but, ben," said tom, "we aren't living in egypt, an' queen victoria isn't pharaoh, and we aren't bond slaves." "oh! th' warst kind o' slave's him," retorted ben, "as doesn't know he is a slave. look at lucy theer, her 'at sud ha' bin, aye an' wod ha' bin', as strong as a young colt, on' what is 'oo nah, a lily brokken on its stalk--mi poor lass, mi poor lass"--and the father's voice broke and the mother's face was turned aside. "dunno greet, father i'm very happy, for aw nivver knew till aw wer bed-ridden how sweet life can be wheer love is." "wheer's yo'r een, tom?" went on ben very fiercely, to hide his softer feelings, "wheer's thi e'en? aw say. isn't sam buckley th' spinner at wilberlee yet?" tom nodded. "weel, aw know sam. 'as to ivver seen him peilin' an' cuffin' th' young 'uns abaat th' yed, wi' them big fists o' his'n, little, wee, puny, ramshackle things o' scorn an' eight yer owd, all skin an' bone, so to speak, an' precious little bone at that. hasn't ta seen 'im strappin' 'em an' layin' abaat 'im reet an' left wi' a roller as thick ay yo'r shackle, an' crack'd 'em abaat t' poll till th' blood's come, when he's getten 'is skin full o' four-ale? things ha' altered strangely if tha hasn't, or else tha'rt stone-blind and past prayin' for." now tom had seen this and felt it too; but he had supposed it was all part of the day's work. he saw others put up with it, and he had put up with it--it might, for aught he knew, be involved in that all-controlling indenture of apprenticeship. "aye, it's true enough," he said, "i've wondered about it, ben. isn't ther' a law against it? mr. black says there's one and the same law for the rich and the poor." "then mr. black's nooan as knowin' as aw tak' 'im to be. law! law fiddlesticks! tak' an' overseer afore th' magistrates--most on 'em manufacturers theirsen--for beeatin' a child, nivver name a 'prentice--why, yo' might as weel fall out wi' owd harry an' go to hell for justice.--but it's time yo wor i' bed, lad, if tha meeans to gooa to-neet, an' nivver tha forget abaat moses. gooid neet to yo'." now it so befell that on the afternoon of the very next day it was tom's ill-fortune to become embroiled with that same sam buckley. the foreman spinner was a big, burly fellow, broad-shouldered and vast of paunch. he had the fishy eye and mottled face of the heavy drinker and a short and uncertain temper; not, perhaps an ill-meaning man, but quick and heavy with his shoulder-of-mutton hands. it chanced that mr. tinker had been obliged to go to huddersfield that day and was not expected at the mill till late in the afternoon. as the day lengthened, the sky had become overcast, the air sultry with the unseasonable warmth and closeness that tells of a brooding storm or the artillery of the heavens. the upper room of the mill, where the billy-pieceners were mostly engaged, was a long, low chamber. its walls had once been whitewashed but were now a dull, dirty colour from mingled grease and fluff and dust. the floors were cased with grease. there was little ventilation, except the air that entered when the door opened or through an odd broken window; pane or so. the inner air was hot to sultriness, laden with the breath of a score or so of workers and with the rancid smell of machine oil. the spinner had gone to his dinner, and it was seldom he missed "calling" on his way back to the mill. it was a toss-up whether he would return in a good or a bad temper. if in a good one he would probably spend a half-hour or so in the weaving-shed among the grown-up girls who worked there, making jests and taking the coarse liberties they dared not resent if they would keep their looms. if in a bad temper he would make for the "billy-hoil," where it would be safe to vent it. now this afternoon he was in a particularly bad temper.--monday is often given up to bad temper. the overeating of sunday conduces to it, the fact that monday is, in the parts of which i write, as sacred to the wash-tub as sunday is to the chapel, does not soothe it. the moment sam shoved open the door, with thunder on his brow and lightning in his eye, the quick-witted hands, sharp beyond their tender years, sniffed the threatening storm, and bent with intent looks and nimble fingers over their work. but little "billy-come-a-lakin" had succumbed to the drowsy influences of the time and place. sat upon the floor, his little legs outstretched, his back against the greasy wall, his dinner can by his side, billy slept. he had just time to start from his slumber and his dreams when sam pounced upon him and dragged him to the central gangway of the long chamber, the lad shrinking within himself, cowering and whimpering, and but half awake. "so aw've caught o', have aw, yo' young gallows bird? this is th' way yo' rob yo'r mester, as soon as a man's back's turned." "please sir aw couldn't help it; summat cam' ovver me, an' mi legs seemed to ha' nooa feel in 'em, an' oh! aw wer so tired. don' beeat me, sam, it'll mak mi mother greet so, if 'oo sees th' marks on me when aw doff missen to-neet." "aw'll mark yo' nivver fear, aye an' gi' yo' summat 'at 'll keep yo wakken, too, yo' idle good-for-nowt," and sam swung in with a piece of belting thicker and broader than a navvy's belt. now it was at just this moment that tom took the door. he had come from the dyehouse to match a cop. "hold," he cried, and strode quickly up the room, "you won't beat that child, sam, wi' that strap. drop it, i say." "an' who'll stop me?" roared sam. "i will." "then tak' that for thi' impudence yo' d----d, meddlin' workhouse bastard," and sam brought the stinging leather right across tom's flashing cheek. then, quick as lightning, sped a downright blow, straight from the shoulder true between the eyes, and sam fell like a stricken ox, ignominious, into a skep of cops. there was the quick catching of breath from a score of throats as two score eyes watched the bully's fall, and tom, as he looked about him, felt prouder and gladder than all his life before. "eh! but aw'st catch it for this," whispered billy-come-a-lakin. "aw'll run for it whilst aw've th' chance," and he fled the place, and his billy knew him no more that week. "yo'n nooan heerd th' last o' this," said buckley, as he slowly picked himself up, dazed and scowling. "aw'll mak' yo' pay for this day's wark, if aw swing for it, mind yo'r piecenin', yo' young limbs o' satan, an' quit yo'r gapin'," and the irate spinner stalked out of the "scribbling boil." tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. he had to cross the mill-yard. mr. tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale sam was pouring into his ear. tom saw his master's brow contract. "send him to me," tom heard, "i'll deal with him. it's rank mutiny." tom stepped forward and stood by the horse's side. "i'm here, sir," he said quickly, tho' he could hear the beating of his own heart. the riding-whip was raised with quick and angry menace. tom never flinched, he only dug his nails into his palms to stay his tingling nerves. but the blow fell not. "_where_ do you say you come from?" "diggle, sir," and tom's quiet grey eye looked his master in the face. "you hired me yourself at the workhouse." jabez tinker peered, in the falling autumn light, into the lad's pale set face and scanned it searchingly. "how came that weal across your cheek?" "sam can tell you best," was the quiet reply. "you said nothing of this buckley," said the master. "mind when you come to me again, you don't come with half a tale. go your ways, pinder, but let me have no more of this broiling or you'll soon regret it." and jabez tinker dismounted, threw the reins to buckley, who stood surlily by, waiting the upshot of his complaint, and walked without another word to the office. but he had sighed as he watched tom's upright, sinewy figure cross the mill yard, and a lingering, longing look followed the unwitting 'prentice. chapter vii. time passed, as it will pass even in holmfirth. tom is still an apprentice, but in no fear of stick or strap from sam buckley, or any other sam. the first factory act has become law, ben garside had a grievance the less, though when the night drew long it was still delight fighting his battles o'er again, to tell the oft-told tale of that famous march to york, when from huddersfield, and all the parts contiguous, men, women, and little children made their weary way to york, to cry aloud that the iron-heel of capital might not crush out the infant life of the nation's self. ben's limbs are stiffer by many a year since that historic tramp, but he straightens them and erect with flashing eye, as he dwells upon the heroic patience, the grim resolve of those who trod the long, long miles, and tells how weary men stayed with their arms the feeble, halting steps of bent and grey-headed sires, and worn and foot-sore women carried in their arms drooping children, not their own; how the rain fell in torrents, and the wind beat the cold showers in upon their drenched garments and many stole behind the hawthorn hedges, and the gray low stone walls, and slept the sleep of an exhaustion that was well nigh unto death; of how, as they came by some kindly waggoner, carting sacks of corn, or bales of wool, or barrels of good ale, the women and the children were taken up and given a sore-needed lift; how, as they passed through village and hamlet, hard-featured men and homely women came running into the road, and pressed upon them meat and drink, and wished them god-speed, and a safe return; of how when they reached the castle yard in york itself, the clogs of many were clotted with the blood of their bruised and lacerated feet, and last, of how when their hearts were sick with hope deferred, the glad hour of triumph came, and the groans of the workers pierced the ears of parliament, and the joy-bells rang to herald in the great charter of the toiler's freedom. but tom had that to protect him which was better fashioned than any statute ever made, incomprehensible by amplitude of words. now, in his nineteenth year, he is nearing the six feet of manhood, and his frame is well knit and strong. simple fare has agreed with him, anyway, simple, fare and simple, cleanly ways. he is the delight of hannah garside's eyes, and of eyes, too, younger and brighter than hers, though the winsome mill-hands of the valley declare that tom pinder is as dateless as a stone. "it's time wasted on him," they say, "he thinks o' nowt but his books an' his wark, an' maybe o' that poor ill-shaped lucy garsed." it is saturday afternoon, and hannah's cottage is all "red up," and hannah herself is washed and dressed and ready to don herself, and sally forth a-shopping, when the clacking of ben's loom shall cease in the upper chamber. lucy still tenants the settle under the window, but it is a stronger, bonnier lucy than the wan frail lucy of former days. deformed she will always be, but some measure of bodily strength has been vouchsafed to her, and the bobbin-wheel by her side, presently to be put by, and a basket of bulky cops, and another of plenished bobbins tell that lucy is no longer an unwilling divine in that busy hive, but can, with nimble fingers and pliant wrist, do the winding once her mother's care. "now stand you there, beauty, and stir a foot if you dare," a voice is heard outside, a pleasant girlish voice; and without knock or ceremony the latch is lifted and a merry face, all smiles and sunshine, roses and dimples, peers in at the half-opened door. "may i come in, and _do_ you mind my fastening beauty to the door-hasp, he is so restive, and always in a hurry to rush off home," and without waiting for permission the speaker trips into the room and kisses lucy on both cheeks, and gives mrs. garside a hearty hug. "why, if it isn't miss dorothy!" exclaimed the good old dame. "my word, how yo' dun grow, miss, to be sure. deary me, an' it only seems t' other day aw held yo' i' mi arms an' nussed yo' o' mi lap, an' yo' a wee-bit babbie kickin' an' croonin' an' little dreeamin' o' what yo'd lost upstairs, an' yo'r father awmost off his head wi' grief--deary, deary, how time dun fly, to be sure. but sit yo' daan, nah do." how beautiful, how utterly bewitching and distracting a picture was dorothy tinker my art would utterly fail to tell. image to yourself a lissom maiden of sweet seventeen, just of that happy medium height that reaches to a tall man's heart, and of that rounded proportioning of form, with outline of graceful curve that company with health and exercise; dream of an oval face in which the blush rose dwells, a rounded dimpled chin, violet eyes dancing with mirth, carnation lips and ivory teeth, and the small head crowned with wealth of auburn hair, rippling in waves like a dimpling streamlet;--dream of all this, and still 'tis but a dream, and only eye and ear could tell you how sweet and dainty a maid was dorothy. men drew their breath sharp when first they looked on her, and young men ravished and betook themselves to poetry and woeful sighs, and wandering far and lone by moonlit ways. "we don't see much of you now-a-days, miss dorothy," said lucy, smiling fondly at her visitor. "an what mak' o' a gown do yo' ca' that?" said the mother. "oh! this, mistress hannah garside, wife of benjamin of that ilk, is my riding-habit and to be respected accordingly. it is, i believe, the only one in holmfirth. neat, isn't it?" "yo' look like a lad i' petticoits. is it quite decent for a wench?" asked mrs. garside, somewhat anxiously. "decent! why, it's the very pink of the latest fashion: the only wear, in fact, though i _think_ i would rather be without the skirt on a windy day. _then_ there'd be an uplifting of hands and a searching of hearts, if you like." mrs. garside only looked half-satisfied. "yo'r th' same, an' yet not th' same," she said. "not the same! hannah, why i should hope not indeed, or my good uncle's money would be sadly wasted, and you know that wilful waste makes woeful want. i know or should know, for aunt tinker dins it in my ear every time i buy a new ribbon or a pair of gloves. the same, indeed! why do you know, hannah, i'm being _finished_," and dorothy dropped her voice as though she spoke a word of doom. "finished?" queried lucy, "finished?" "aye finished, in very sooth. fashioned, moulded, formed taught carriage and deportment, and several other extras at miss holmes's highly fashionable, strictly select academy for young ladies in huddersfield, and thither and thence i ride on beauty every day of the blessed week bar sundays and missin's--but that's an improper word and not to be spoken in genteel society." "a 'cademy! lor, think o' that now," said hannah much impressed "an' what do they larn yo' now, furrin languages i'll be bun." "oh dear, yes! i can already relieve my feelings to my aunt in french that she cannot understand, and which i dare say, would puzzle mons. feugley, our french master, and i know some german words that sound so like swearing that aunt tinker gasps and grows pale when i use them, and i can tinkle on the piano and sing indifferently well for a screechy voice." "that's nooan gospel, my word," put in hannah, stoutly, and lucy held up a reproving finger. "and oh! tell it not in gath, publish it not in the streets of ascalon." "more furrin' parts" groaned hannah. "i can, sh! speak low my voice, bend your heads and lend your ears.--i can dance!" "dance!" gasped hannah. "yes, _vraiment_, which is french or german, i forget which, for of a verity and in good sooth--but they don't know at home. it's an extra extra, dancing is and aunt martha wouldn't hear of it, and uncle declared it was a vanity. but i learn all the same." "how do you manage it?" asked lucy, with an admiring, caressing but wistful look at the beaming face. "why the other girls teach me, silly, in the bedroom. we dance in our nightdresses, when _fraulein_ has put out the gas. but it isn't as nice, they say, as dancing with professor blanc, _de paris, vous savez_." "oh, dorothy, how can you say such things!" and lucy looked really shocked. "but you, lucy, you are altered too. ah! how my tongue runs on. but there, it is such a relief to let it run just once in a way, for at school, it's 'miss tinker, give silence, if you please,' and 'miss tinker, less noise.' and 'miss tinker, cease laughing,' till i'm miss tinkered to death, and you know what it is at home. i vow if it weren't for old betty and irish peggy, i'd soon be competent to conduct a school for the deaf and dumb. yes, lucy, you are altered too; you're stouter and rosier, altogether happier looking, what's come over the child, hannah!" "ah! that's all tom's doing," said hannah, "and god's, mother dear," softly added lucy. "tom?" queried dorothy, "who in the name of goodness is tom?" "why, tom,--oh, tom is just tom," said lucy, "you can't have forgotten him, miss dorothy, you must remember to have seen him." "not a remembrance!" exclaimed dorothy emphatically; "but it's an ugly name enough. tom what? or maybe it's the cat." "ah! now aw see you're only playing, miss," said hannah. "noah, sen yo'? why, wheerivver han' yo'r e'en bin not to see yar tom, tom pinder, yo' know--he's warked for yo'r uncle these how mony years is't, lucy, lemme see, aye these five year an' more, an' if yo' hannot seen him i'se warrant yo're th' only wench i' holmfirth 'at ha not. "but what's this admirable crichton to do with lucy's better looks?" "why, ivverything, if truth be spokken, as ever it shall be i' this haase whiles hannah garsed has a tongue to speik. yo' mind what a pale peaky helpless critter 'oo wor five yer back, none fit to do a hand-stir for hersen. that wer' after 'oo'd worked 'at yor' uncle's for a spell--but that's nother here nor theer. an' then, who but yo'r own sen up an' spak' to yo'r uncle 'at aw could, mebbe do wi' a lodger, an' didn't he come--yo'r uncle, aw meean--an' 'gree wi' me to tak' tom an' do for 'im, an' he--yo'r uncle aw meean--wer' to pay me hauf-a-craan a week for him, at first, an' rise to four shillin' afore tom wer' out o' his writin's, which awm sure it's little enough when th' weshin's considered, an' 'im that hearty yo'd think sometimes he'd eit a man off his horse, not but what he's welcome to all he can howd an' more till it, for aw couldn't think more on 'im nor do more for 'im, if he wer' my own lad, which aw sometimes awmost think he is, an' yar ben that set up wi' 'im, an' 'im so clivver at his books 'at it's as gooid as a sermon an' better nor some to yer th' father an' 'im a argeyfyin' an' a argeyfyin' till yo'd think they'd nivver ha' done." "but what about lucy?" "weel, weren't aw tellin' yo'? weel, at first when he come he wer' a bit shy, like, o' lucy, an' her o' 'im; bud one day, a sunday afternooin it wer, an' th' sun shinin', an' th' sky as blue as weshin'-powder, tom says it wer' a shame o' lucy to be cooped up i' th' haase an' ne'er taste th' taste o' fresh air; an' he just up wi' her in his arms, same as yo'd lift a babby, an' carried her aat into garden, an' th' hedge wer' all thick wi' may-blossom, both white and red, an' he gate a lot, an' made a posy for her; an' after that it wer' a regular outin' for her as long as th' weather held, an' after he'd come fro' th' mill, fit to drop, so to speik, he wer' nivver too tired to gi' lucy her outin'. and then it wer' tom 'at put into yar ben's yed to ha' a cheer on wheels, an' he poo'd it hissen up an' daan th' loin, though lads and lasses, shameless hussies some on 'em, made nowt bud fun on 'im an' ca'd him dree-nurse. bud he sooin garr'd th' lasses howd their tongues an' keep aat o' th' loin--trust tom for that--an' when th' lads went th' lasses followed, trust _them_ for that." "and how did he make them?" asked dorothy, laughing. "oh! weel, he ca's it moral suasion; but it looked uncommon like feightin th' time aw' see'd it. ben says it wer' effectual callin'." "h'm, i don't think i shall like this same master tom of yours. he's a paragon, and i don't think paragons and i quite hit it." "aw dooan't know what yo' meean bi a paragon, miss, but there's a paragon what's a public-haase i' westgate i' huddersfielt, an' yo' nivver wer' further off yo'r horse, miss dorothy, though aw mak' bold to say so. why, yar tom nivver touches a drop stronger nor teea, an's awmost 'verted yar ben, leastwise he tak's nowt no stronger nor whom-brew'd an' _aw_ see that'll nooan hurt 'im." "aye, aye, i see, a paragon, a saint. oh! i can picture him. tall, you say? yes, tall and thin and hollow-chested, stooping, pale, with long black hair as straight as a yard of pump-water; and he turns his eyes up and his toes in, and groans dismally, and his clothes don't fit him, and he wears black cotton gloves on sundays, an inch too long in the fingers, and he goes to temperance meetings and prayer meetings, and regularly to chapel twice on sundays, and attends experience meetings and turns his soul inside out for the world--of aenon chapel--to gaze at. oh! i think i see him now, that quite too precious tom!" "weel, so yo' may, miss dorothy," said hannah with a quiet smile. "he's had his bath upstairs--nivver such a one there wer' sin adam for weshin' hissen all ovver once a week whether he wants it or not--an' nah, aw'll be bun he's mankin' i' th' garden." and hannah went into the back kitchen or scullery at the back of the "house" and, still smiling, beckoned to dorothy. "aye, he's theer, sure enough." and this is what dorothy saw: a young hercules, stripped, save his vest, to the belted waist, his heels together, his toes out-turned, his knees braced, his breast expanded, his chin in air, and in his outstretched brawny arms whirled about his head a mighty pair of clubs--"it's a windmill," whispered dorothy--"oh! but he's a proper man." "as ever yo'd see in a day's walk," chuckled hannah,--"more o' a samson nor a saint, accordin' to my readin' o' th' scriptur's,--but ther's neer a dalilah o' 'em all 'll ha' to cut tom's hair for 'im, trust owd hannah for that." "h'm, that's as may be," said dorothy in the maturity of wisdom, finished and formed at a select academy, and, turning to take her leave of lucy. "i must run away now, dear lucy; 't will never do to let your handsome lover catch me in this fright of a gown. i'll come again some day when you're likely to be by yourself. and, lucy, dear, i daresay he isn't at all a paragon. there, now, and don't blush any more, or you'll be struck so." now although from this time forth dorothy tinker made more than one occasion to visit her sick friend, popping in at uncertain times of the day, as mrs. garside said, "promis'us-like" it was not till nigh up upon christmas time, that she ever had speech with tom. and this is how that came to pass. one day, a week or so before yule-tide, when the snow lay heavy upon all the hills, no other than workhouse jack presented himself in wilberlee mill yard, looking very like a middle-aged, beardless, lean and hungry image of father christmas. he was met in the yard by sam buckley. "we don't want no hands: we're puttin' no fresh 'uns on this side easter, so off yo' pack abaat yo'r business." "be yo' mr. tinker, sir?" said jack. "nooah," answered sam, somewhat mollified by the implied compliment; "nooah, what do you want?" "isn't this th' spot at tom pinder works at?" asked jack. "aye, if yo' ca' it workin'; some folk 'ud ca' it lakin'. what does ta want to kno' for? no good awm sure." "well, aw'n getten a letter for him." "a letter! who's it fro'?" "aw reckon th' letter tell that for itsen." "well, hand it here, aw'll see he gets it." "it's varry partickler, yo' see," demurred jack. "it's fro' a woman, an' oo' telled me at aw wor to 'liver it to nob'dy but tom hissen, an' 'oo's a woman 'at generally has her own way i' our parts." "well, yo' can oather gi' it to me or wait outside th' gate till he comes aat. yo'll nooan see pinder afore th' mills lose." "tha'rt a liar; aw see 'im nah. hey tom lad, aw want thee!" and jack adroitly dodged past the protesting slubber and ran up to tom. buckley deemed discretion the better part of valour and took himself off. "sithee, tom," almost gasped jack in his eagerness, and casting a triumphant glance at the discomfited obstructionist, "sithee, there's a letter for thee. it's fro betty schofield at th' wakey, an' tha's to go back wi me. 'oo'd ha' put that i't' letter, aw wer to tell thee, but 'oo'd no more ink, an' th' pen gate cross-legged." and tom read as follows: "deer tom, this is to let yew 'no at mr. black's bin took vary bad, an's frettin' becos yo' dont com' to see 'im. he's i' bed; wi' a stroke i'th reight side, hopin' you're well which it leaves me, so no more at present from yours trewly, betty schofield." tom's heart smote him. he was conscious that latterly he had been remiss in his visits to his friends beyond the hill. his new life was growing on him, and new interests filling his mind. "is it serious, do you know, jack?" he asked. "moll 'o stute's says another do 'll finish him. he's had two doctors till 'im, an' moll says his constitooshun' whativver 'oo meeans bi that, couldn't ha' stooid one, ne'er name two. but yo'll come, tom, an' betty says yo'll do him more gooid nor physic." it would have been nothing out of the common for a hand to "jack" his work without saying "by your leave," or "with your leave," but that was not tom's way. he sought mr. tinker in the dingy little office, but he was not there,--he might be in the house, someone suggested; and tom made for the house, a mere stride, not a stone-throw from the mill-gate. jack trotted by his side like a faithful dog. "weel, i declare, if there beeant big tom pinder comin' up th' walk, miss," exclaimed betty, the cook, wiping her hands on her coarse apron, "an' as shallockin' a lookin' felley wi 'im as ivver yo' clapped een on," and a knock at the kitchen door coincided with her wondering "what's to do naah!" now dorothy was in the very thick of that daintiest of all household doings the making of pastry for the christmas fare. she was garbed in a pretty print dress, and a white bib and apron, spotlessly clean, became her vastly. her small and shapely hands were cunningly turning the well-greased tins, and shaping the dough within and above a noble array of large and portly tins crammed with the makings of pork-pies and jimping the edges of lesser tins designed for the mince-meat that, not innocent of the flavour of brandy, scented the warm kitchen air. the sleeves of her dress were rolled up and gave play to as white and rounded an arm, with a dainty dimple at the elbow, as ever delighted the eyes of man. her cheek was flushed either with the heat of the roaring fire or confusion at being so discovered by eyes whose sudden glance, quick withdrawn, betrayed a startled admiration more speakingly than speech. "i beg your pardon, miss, but is mr. tinker at home? he isn't in the office, nor about the mill," said tom, whilst jack alternate gaped and sniffed. "can't yo' shut th' door after yo', tom pinder," exclaimed betty, "or do yo' think yo're big enough to do for a door yersen?" "uncle's not at home; he's gone to huddersfield, i think," said dorothy, hastily unrolling her sleeves, and hiding the glistening ivory of her arms. "mrs. tinker, perhaps?" hazarded tom. "and aunt's in bed, as bad as can be with a sick head-ache. a pretty christmas _we_ are likely to have; but is it any message you can leave?" for tom had turned to go, "you look in trouble." "jack here has brought me a message, miss. it's from an old friend, perhaps from the oldest, and it concerns the best friend i have in the world. my more than guardian mr. black, the schoolmaster at diggle, is sick, it is feared unto death, and jack here has won over th' top through th' snow to fetch me to him." "an' dun yo' meean to say, tom pinder," broke in betty, "'at this yer drowned rat of a man 'at stann's theer gaupin' as if he wer mooin-struck an' drippin' all ovver my cleean floor like a leeakin' piggin' 's come all th' way fro' diggle i' this weather 'at's nooan fit for a dog to be aat in." "aye, betty," said tom,--he was a prime favourite with betty of old, and he knew it,--"not so warm as your kitchen, but it was urgent you see, and jack's an old friend too, aren't you, jack?" but jack's eye and jack's thoughts were fixed upon something more to a hungry man's purpose than mere matters of friendship--he had caught the whiff from the oven door--it was the scent of pork pie piping hot. dorothy caught the glance that waywards. "why how thoughtless i am. now, jack, i'm sure, as it's christmas time"--needless qualification--"you can eat some christmas fare. and they're the very first pies i've ever made, and i _do_ hope they'll be nice. peggy, why don't you set some plates?" "and mind yo' hot 'em afore th' fire. its simply beyond all belief how aw've to tell that girl to put hot plates wi' hot meeat, an' cowd wi' cowd, i'steead o' cowd wi' hot an' hot wi' cowd." "and you tom,"--and then with a hesitation as though in doubt, "i mean, mr. pinder, you will take something before you cross those terrible hills?" if dorothy had there and then asked tom to sit down and make a comforting meal of dynamite washed down with prussic acid it is odds that he would have set to bowl and platter with a cheerful heart; but to put knife and fork into a rich brown crust that crunched beneath the blade and to see the hot jelly gush out over the plate and to catch the fragrance of the red and brown pork with judicious blending of lean and fat cut into squares like dice, and to see all this flanked by a crested jug of foaming beer.--oh! don't talk to me of nectar and ambrosia. "yo'r health, miss," said jack, politely and as distinctly as he could with his mouth full, "and yo'rs, too, aw'm sure"--this to betty, whose ample form he surveyed with lingering approval "and a merry chersmas when it comes." but tom, even as he plied his knife and fork heard ringing in his ears the words that some instinct or some dim apprehension or prompting of native delicacy had compelled from dorothy's lips.--"mister pinder". tom had never been called mister pinder before in all his life "gentleman tom" and "dandy tom" he heard occasionally from the lasses of the mill, smarting from that worst of feminine ailments--_injuria formal spietal_,--the quiet unconsciousness of or indifference to advances none too coy. but "mr. tom"--'t was the baptism into a new life, the stirring of a new manhood, his accolade; it fell on his senses as falls the sovereign's sword on shoulder of kneeling knight. it was a new and nobler tom that turned his face that afternoon over the hills to diggle. "go to see your sick friend?" dorothy had cried. "why, of course you'll go. i'm sure uncle would say so, and anyway if he faults anyone, why he must fault me." "an' aw hope his first mince-pie may choke him if he does," wished betty, but kept her wishes to herself. tom was shocked at the change a few weeks had made in the old schoolmaster mr. black had, truly, been failing ever since the sudden and unexpected death of the shrill priscilla some twelve months before. his devoted if exacting sister had gone to that land where there is neither dusting nor teaching, and where she must have received a shaking of cherished convictions if she found any schoolboys. since then her brother had lived alone, cooking and generally doing for himself, save that one of the boys scrubbed the schoolroom floor and scrubbed the desks, in consideration of being put on the school free-list. more and more as the days wore on the schoolmaster had seemed to shrink within himself, and find a placid joy in the not wholly unpleasing melancholy of reflection and regret. perhaps priscilla's faithful girding had been to him like a tonic and an irritant, and saved him from a natural tendency to the introspective absorption of a lonely life. gradually the nightly symposia at the _hanging gate_ were abandoned, much to the wrath of good mistress schofield, who roundly declared that "if th' schooilmaster had nobbut gone theer o' neets, takin' th' best chair, an' sittin' i'th' warmest corner, just to be out o' reick o' his sister's tongue, she for one fun' his room as gooid as his company." perhaps one reason for mr. black's inconstancy might be found in the fact that so long as priscilla lived, he knew there was a shield and buckler between him and the engines and weapons of attack the buxom widow knew so well how to employ. priscilla gone, he felt himself as a city girt round and besieged, but helpless and defenceless, its strong tower razed to the ground. reason be what it might the angle nook of the sanded kitchen knew him no more and the friendly circle had a very sensible gap. and ere long the news, the all but incredible news, spread through t' village, and up the valley, and about the steep hill-sides, that "owd black wer' givin' up teeachin', and what to do wi' th' lads and lasses 'at wer' allus under yo'r feet, or up to some mak' o' devilment till they we' owd enough to go to th' mill, 'ud pass a weary woman's wits to tell." tom felt as he neared the school a strangely depressing air of solitude and desertion. the playground no more resounded to the eager cries of boys revelling in a brief freedom, nor from the open windows came the murmuring buzz of unwilling voices droning in unison the tables of multiplication. the schoolmaster he found in his little bedroom, not in bed, indeed, but looking far fitter for bed than up. to tom's surprise, he found moll o' stuarts in attendance on the sick man. she had, it transpired, carried the citadel of the sick-room by assault and taken possession with characteristic coolness and determination, and there she had announced her resolve to abide till the schoolmaster should be either better or worse. as for her more legitimate profession she declared: "they mun get someb'dy else. onyb'dy wer' gooid enough to bring a fooil into th' world, but it wer' worth while tryin' to keep a wise man in it. th' best of men's poor feckless things when i'th' best o' health, but if they nobbut cut their little finger, they're as useless as babes unborn, an' it were well there wer somebody to look after him, sin' those 'at had most reight to kept away for weeks at a time, an' ne'er cam' near till they wer' sent for." and with this parthian shaft, molly at a sign from the invalid, withdrew, to give jack, who had stayed below, gazing open-mouthed at the maps and globes, the benefit of her pent storm of wrath. "i'm glad you've come, tom. i knew you would, but hesitated to send for you. i know you have little time away from work, and youth companies best with youth when work is laid aside." "indeed, mr. black, i had no notion you were so ill or nothing could or should have kept me away. i would have come to help and nurse you if i had had to break my indentures and go before the magistrates for it." "i know it, lad, i know it; and it was pleasant to think there was one not so many miles away who had a warm place in his heart for the old man. you have been to me, tom, as a son since first i held you in my arms, and i have even thanked god that to my childless life he sent the blessing of one i could cherish and foster as my own." tom could find no words. he pressed the thin and shrunken hand that rested, oh! so feebly, on the arm of the pillowed chair. "and now, lad, that you are here, you must let me say my say, for my strength is waning fast and a voice within tells me my days remain but few. nay, lad, never greet my course is run, my work is done, and the vespers ring for eventide. i do not dread its shadows, lad, for a hand will hold mine when i tread the unknown way. take this key, unlock that topmost drawer and bring me the case you will find there." tom silently, treading softly did the master's bidding. mr. black raised the lid of the little casket and thence a small bundle of letters, their ink now faded to a pale yellow. they were tied together with a thin blue ribbon. mr. black touched them lovingly and sunk into a reverie from which tom made no stir to rouse him. the vacant eyes of the invalid seemed to be looking through and beyond the stalwart youth or to be intent on the unforgotten scenes of a buried past. then with a wan smile and a gentle sigh the faint voice said: "if i die, tom, i trust you to place these with me." then, like a maiden confessing her heart's secret: "ah! tom, even your old dominie was young once--but there was priscilla, you know." and what tragedy of a sacrificed life those letters revealed was never betrayed to the eyes of tom or other man, for unopened and unread they laid upon the faithful, uncomplaining heart that treasured them. "and, now, tom, to business. this you see is my will. a man doesn't die any sooner you know for making his will. when i lost priscilla, a rare woman, tom, but over tender for this world, a matchless woman,--i made a new will. i haven't much to leave, but what there is will be yours. i should like you to keep the books--don't part with them. they have been very precious to me. perhaps some day you will know how precious books can be. i had hoped, fondly hoped, that you would turn to scholarship and take my seat by the old desk--but it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be," and the schoolmaster shook his head sadly. again tom could find no words--what could he say, how could he tell the master that a few hours before the glance of a young maid's eye and the trill of her glad young voice and the touch of her soft white hand had been of more moving eloquence than a guardian's pleading, and that, as he pushed over the hills that day through depth of snow and stress of storm to the sickbed side, revolving many things in his awakened mind, he had made a great resolve and vowed a deep and binding vow. "there remains but this," continued mr. black. "you have seen this locket before. it was your mother's. the time has come when i may place it where it belongs. you know its story. wear it ever, and may god in his own good time raise the veil and grant light where now is darkness and certainly where all is fruitless conjecture." tom took the locket, pressed it to his quivering lips and hid it in his bosom. "lucy shall twine it about my neck," he said, "and i will wear it ever." "send for moll now. i must lie down. you won't forget moll, when i am gone. she is a good soul, and has tended me well." the old man was assisted to his bed, and sank exhausted on the pillow. there was silence in the darkling chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the fast failing man. "read me the twenty-first psalm," he said, presently. but tom's voice failed him, and broke as he read: "'yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'" and tom kneeled by the bedside, and hid his face in the coverlet, nor restrained his tears. and the light trembling hand of him who had so loved him rested on the bowed head, and the feeble voice was raised in prayer and benediction. and the night fell and the "peace that passeth all understanding" entered therein and there abode. chapter viii. the legacy left him by mr. black amounted to no less than a hundred pounds, which seemed to tom a vast sum. mr. redfearn was sole executor of the will. tom took possession of the books,--a few choice latin authors, the greek testament, and many educational works. he selected, besides, a few articles of furniture, of which he made a present to mrs. garside; he did not forget moll o' stuarts. out of the proceeds of the portion of the furniture which he sold, there was just enough to pay for a mourning suit of good broadcloth for himself, and strangely ill at ease he felt when first he beheld himself arrayed in the glossy doeskin. but after the funeral, he had only to wear it on sundays, when most people who could manage it by hook or crook contrived to wear decent suits, mainly of black,--black was the general, if not "the only wear." the reason is not far to seek. among the working-classes the better suit is a very distinct garment from what are called emphatically "wartday clo'es," and is seldom worn except on sunday, and at funerals. there remained the hundred pounds, and the question was not easy of answer, what should he do with it? under the will, mr. redfearn had power to apply the money for tom's advancement in life, even before his majority when it was to pass into his uncontrolled disposition. tom cudgelled his brain so much and so vainly as to the ultimate application of this immense sum that he came to be thankful he could not, as yet, touch the bulk, or he would have been tempted to throw it into the river. he did not get much help from mr. redfearn. "yo' see, tom," said his guardian, "a hundred pounds is a very awk'ard sum o' money. it's summat like a gooise, which is too much o' a meal for one, an' not enuff for two. nah this legacy o' yo'rs is summat i'th' same fashion. it's too much to go on th' spree wi', an' ha' done wi' it, an' off yo'r mind, so to speeak, and it's too little to set up i' business on yo'r own account,--at leastwise i' ony business 'at's likely to suit thee. yo' might start i'th' grocery line, to be sure, but i doubt th' little childer 'ud be feart to come into th' shop if they seed six feet of brawn and muscle behind th' counter. besides they say it tak's a very light hand to weigh grocer's stuff aat to ony profit. i can think o' nowt else. you might go into th' public line on yo'r furtin in a smallish way, an' there's one thing 'at's i' yo'r favour, yo'd nooan want a chuckor aat." tom shook his head emphatically: "nay," he said, "i will never make my living by giving my brother strong drink to his hurt." redfearn laughed, "they'll call yo' 'parson tom' in a bit, lad. but happen yo'r i'th' reight on it. for one gooid word yo' can find to say for drink yo' can find a hundred to say agen it, an' then start afresh an' tack another hundred to it. folk will have it, but them as get's th' leeast has th' best share, an' i'll nivver be one to set a young lad i' th' way o' temptation. but has ta thowt o' onything thi sen?" tom shook his head. "i've thought till i'm almost stalled of the thought of the money." "well, there's no hurry, that's one comfort. th' brass 'll nooan get less so long as it's ith' bank, that's a sure thing. an' yo're not be out o' your indentures yet. tak' yo'r time i' makin' up your mind, an' remember 'at it's th' easiest thing i' th' world to put good money into business, but it's quite another thing getting it back after yo'n once let go yo'r how'd." on one point tom was quite resolved. so soon as his apprenticeship should be at an end, and sooner if might be, he would be his own master. he would not live and die a weaver, nor yet be content even to live and die a slubber. other men had conquered fate and he was resolved that by god's help, he, too could and would. why, the whole valley in which he did his daily task abounded with men who could tell of early privations, of years of patient unremitting toil, of spartan endurance, of privations self-imposed and cheerfully borne, and of a notable success crowning and rewarding in middle life, the efforts of their youth and manhood's prime. and tom felt that he had him the makings of a man and though he had, as yet, unbosomed the inner workings of his soul to man nor woman, being, indeed more given to seek commune with himself rather than another, yet was his mind firmly fixed either to make a spoon or spoil a horn, as the saying goes. but how? he had said nothing at home, as he now considered ben garside's, about his little fortune, and as for the furniture which he had placed in the little cottage, hannah declared, and meant it, that though it was "gooid on 'im to think o' old fr'en's, an' like 'im, 'oo wer' nooan so greedy as to do owt but store th' thin's for 'im, till such times as he wer' wed, and warst wish 'at 'oo could wish 'im wer' 'at he'd wed a lass 'at 'ud put as gooid a shine on th' owd table, an' cheers, an' th' oak-chest an' linen-press and charney-cupboard as 'oo'd done, but that wer' past prayin' for now-a-days." there is no question that in this time of electricity and daily papers, news travels faster than in the times of our grandfathers but it travelled fast enough even then. and somehow it began to be whispered about the village that gentlemen tom "had come in for a fortin'." with that delicacy of reserve which is nowhere more to be found than among the better end of the working classes, neither ben, nor hannah, nor lucy spoke to him on the matter. it was his concern, and if he choose to have secrets from his best well-wishers they were not going to force his confidence; though it cannot be denied that when neighbours questioned hannah on the subject, as she stood with her flour-poke and basket waiting her turn at split's counter of a saturday afternoon she could give to her sibs no more satisfactory reply, than to tell them "to mell (meddle) o' their own business, an' 'ood try, god helping her, to mell o' hers,"--a reply which was no more satisfactory to herself than to her gossips, for it not only brought a discussion of a highly interesting domestic topic to an untimely end, but it deprived hannah of that assumption of exclusive intelligence which is as dear to a woman of conversational gifts as to a newspaper editor. but when tom became aware by many subtle signs that not only had people heard something of his windfall, but that hannah was piqued by his silence he resolved to take counsel with ben. even should he get no better advice than to seek advice. "ah, it's a seet o' brass lad, is a hunderd paands, an' a gret responsibility. aw dunnot think aw ivver seed more nor ten all at onc't, an' that fair med me gip." it was thus ben delivered himself one sunday afternoon as he smoked his pipe before the kitchen fire. "aw knew tha'd do nowt wi'out speikin' to me or yar hannah abaat th' job, an' we thowt no waur o' thi' for howdin' thi tongue abaat it i'steead o' makkin a spreead abaat it waur nor a peeacock wi' it's tail as some 'ud ha' done. an' as for wearin' th' brass o' drink an' wenchin', as some 'ud ha' done; why it wer better for thi' 'at tha' sud ha' had a millstone then raand thi neck an' bin plumped fair i' th' middle o' th' mill-dam." "yes, but ben, i can discover for myself what i should _not_ do with the money; what i want to settle is what i _should_ do with it." "it's safe enew wheer it is, isn't it?" asked hannah, anxiously. "well, it' as safe as the bank, any way," tom assured her. hannah seemed dubious. "aw dunnot ma' mich accaant o' them banks. ther' wer' ingram's, tha'll mind oo', ben, i' hundersfild. it went dahn th' slot an' lots o' folk lost ther brass through it. aw'd just as sooin put my bit i' th' teea-caddy--but we're nivver safe, as th' lad said when he fun' a sov'rin'." ben had puffed his pipe in silence, but now waved the long churchwarden to bespeak attention. "there's yo'r writin's to think on," he said. "yo' munnot forget as yo'r bun' to jabez tinker till y'or twenty-one, an' thof mebbe nob'dy could blame yo' if yo' just went yo'r own gate as if th' writin's weren't ther; still aw misdoubt me th' law 'ud ha' summat to say: an' if yo' once get into th' lawyers' han's aw reely dunnot think yo' need bother yo'rsen abaat what yo' mun do wi' yo'r fortin'." "but, ben, whatever comes i mean to do the square thing by mr. tinker. i've served him faithfully up to now, and i don't mean to end up by doing otherwise. but don't you think he would release me, if it were fairly put to him, and he received some equivalent." "he mote," said ben, "an' then agen he moten't. but ther's no harm i' axin'." "aye, that's just like yo' men," said hannah, "nowt'll do but goin' at a thing like a bull at a red rag. tom mun step i' to th' caantin'-haase, an' say: 'if yo' please mr. tinker, aw'd like yo' to breik mi writin's, aw'n had some brass left me.' nah, that's nooan my way." "well, what is it, hannah?" "sayin's tellin', an' if aw tell'd yo', yo'd be as wise as me. th' question is, what mun tom do when he's free?" "aye, that's it," said tom. "well aw 've my plan, tom, if th' missus, theer 'll let a man get a word in edgeways. nah! hannah, if th'rt fair run daan aw 'll go on." hannah disdained to make reply. "nah! my advice is," said ben, "just go on, as it were, quiet, for the next few months; but i'stead o' bein' satisfied i' th' mill wi' just doin' what tha'rt set to, keep thi een oppen an' tak' th' cotton wool aat o' yo'r ears, if yo' happen to have ony in, an' larn all ther' is to larn at tinker's. he 'greed to teeach thee th' trade o' a clothier, an' aw'll be bun' he has'nt swopped ten words wi' yo' sin a 'prentice yo'n bin an' as for that druffen swill-tub, th' slubber, he might teich yo' th' differ atween th' feel o' a strap an' th' feel o' a pickin'-rod abaat yo'r back, an' that's abaat all. but till th' time comes for thee to oppen aat to tinker, aw'd recommend yo in a quiet way, to larn all tha can. get to know th' feel an' th' qualities o' wool, an' th' prices, an' th' natur' o'th' dyes an' acids, an' aboon all mak frien's wi' th' tuner, an' larn to gear a machine, an' tune it when it's aat o' gear." tom nodded. "weel," went on ben, "as aw'n said. a hunderd paand 's a seet o' brass, an' if yo' know yo'r way abaat yo' can get a set o' machines wi' it--what 'll do for a start ony road i' a sma'ish way, which is th' best rooad an' choose hah! yo'll ha nooa difficulty i' gettin' room an' power, an' what's more, if yo' winnot think awm sayin' one word for thee an' two for mysen, if yo' like to start i' manifactorin' o' thi own accaant, owd ben garsed's mony a yer o' gooid wark in him yet an' he'll be yo'r man, an' that's more nor he'd say for ony other being 'at walks o' two legs atween here an' th' next spot." tom's eyes sparkled with a sudden light, and he leaped to his feet to the imminent peril of his head against the rafters. "the very thing," he cried, "the very, very thing. 'oh! wise king, oh! prudent king'--stupid that i was never to think of it before, couldn't see wood for trees.--lucy, you shall be our book-keeper. let me see--garside and pinder, woollen manufacturers holmfirth. carried unanimously. put it. lucy, put it and hold up both your hands. my word, ben, but you've a headpiece if you like. we'st nivver mend o' that idea if we talk fro' now till doomsday. but will th' money run to it?" "ben 'll ha' considered that," said hannah. "he's a deep un, is ben, an' if he wadn't talk so much wod mak' heead way yet; but it's 'im for goin' round an' round a thing an' under it an' ovver it afore he's made his mind up. yo'n awmost to shak' him to get an opinion aat on him sometimes." "aw waren't long i' makkin' up mi mind abaat one thing ony road th' time aw clapt mi e'en o' thee, lass," said ben, with a wink that comprehended both tom and lucy. "aye, an' aw didn't gi' time to unmak' it, noather," chuckled hannah, and cast a glance at ben that made her look thirty years younger and set him thinking of the days when an apparently chance shaft from hannah's eyes set his heart a pit-a-pat. "aye, lad," said ben, "there's folk started i' this valley wi' less nor a hundred pun', 'at fairly stinks o' brass naah. it's noan th' brass altogether 'at does th' trick; there's more i' knowin' haa to use it, an' more still in knowin' haa to keep what yo' mak' an' turn it ovver an' ovver like a rolling snowball. there's mony a man can mak' brass but it's stickin' to it bothers 'em." and so it was settled that tom should bide his time, making haste slowly, as the roman sage advises, and that, meanwhile, ben should keep his weather-eye open for room and power. and tom was not content with such knowledge as could be acquired in the mill. although his hours at the loom were long enough in all conscience, and he certainly led laborious days, he resolved also to shun luxurious nights, if idling through the evenings with a novel of sir walter scott or doing odd jobs about the house for hannah garside or, in the summer, strolling about the lanes and over the moors could be said to constitute a luxury. he joined the classes at the mechanics' institute and nightly wrestled with the mysteries of euclid, chevied the elusive _x_ through algebraic equations, acquired enough of statics and dynamics to be appalled by the height, depth, and breadth of his own ignorance, and enough of chemistry to bring him to the same conclusion that the highway to ruin would be to trust to his own knowledge of that weird and fascinating science. but if of learning to be likely to be really useful in the career he had marked out for himself, tom attained to little enough, his mind was all the better for the mental gymnastics his studies compelled. the books he conned demanded close application and sustained thought, and so, had he learned nothing from them at all, were an intellectual discipline that would tell in the battle of life, and rescued him from that flabby habit of mind that comes from desultory and random reading. it was noticed too, that about this time tom forsook in some measure his first love, the services of the established church, and became a very frequent worshipper at aenon chapel. ben declared that he couldn't make head or tail of this change from country walks turned to profitable account, as ben conceived, by ben's discursive utterances _de omnibus rebus et aliis praterca_, but more particularly and recurringly concerning the high metaphysics of calvinistic theology. "there's a screw loose, somewhere," he remarked solemnly to hannah one sunday afternoon when tom, after brushing his suit of woe very sedulously and looking more than once in the little cracked glass to see if his tie were rightly bunched and his "toppin" duly "lashed" and parted had sidled rather shamefacedly out of the house with a hymn-book in one hand, whilst with the fore-finger of the other he assured himself that the coin destined for the collection box nestled securely in the corner of his waistcoat pocket. hannah stayed her rocking and smoothed the sheen of her silken apron, but was mute. "aye," continued ben, "aw cannot tell whativver's come ovver th' lad. aw say nowt agen his buryin' his nose i' books e'ery neet, an' hardly goin' to bed till aw'm thinkin o' gettin' up. that's improvin' his mind, that is, at least aw hope so--it's only to be hoped he won't addle it i'th process. but this chapel-goin's beyond me. mind yo', aw nivver said so mich abaat his gooin' to th' church o' a mornin'. he wer' browt up so, and mr. black set a deal o' store on it, so it wer' like honourin' yo'r father an yo'r mother, in a fashion o' speikin'. but, dal me, chapel-goin's like turnin' his back on th' church altogether. what does _ta_ mak on it, hannah?" "nowt," said hannah, and ben knew from experience that the wife of his bosom thought more than she was minded to tell. "if it hadn't been tom," continued ben in a meditative and perhaps something of a tentative strain, "tom 'at's as steady as a booat-hoss aw sud be enclined to speckilate ther' wer' a wench at th' bottom on it. what do'st think, lucy, has he said owt to yo' abaat it?" "no, father. tom has said nothing but that the new minister at aenon 's a very good preacher. one o' th' new school, he says." "aye, aye, aw'n yerd abaat him. 'a wind-bag,' some o'th owd hands ca' 'im. bi all aw can mak' aat he's a trimmer 'at sets his sails to catch the wind o' approval fro' th' upper seats o' th' 'orthodox, orthodox sons o' auld john knox,' an' the gale o' applause fro' th' young 'uns 'at 'ud like to kick ovver th' traces. he's noather fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, nor gooid red herrin'--so folk sen, an' goes on refinin' an' refinin' and explainin' till deacon whiteley says he's refined and explained th' owd trust deed away, an' ther's lots o'th owder end dunnot know whether they're stood o' their heads or their heels. an' they dunnot hauf like th' band o' hope 'at he's started i' connection wi' th' sunday schooil, though aw'll say nowt agen that missen." "it 'ud be a gooid thing if they'd ha' a band o' hope for th' grown-up childer," said hannah. "i fancy from what tom said to me t'other neet--i mean night," began lucy. "neet's gooid enew," interrupted her mother in a sharper tone than lucy often heard. "though awm awmost forced to be dumb, when yo'r father's got owt to say, awm noather deaf nor blind, thank god; an' aw'n noticed lately 'at tom's getten into a fine way o' speikin',--miss nancyfied aw ca' it,--an' yo'r followin' suit. there'll be no livin' wi' oather on yo' sooin if it goes on." "well, what is it yo' wouldn't be capped at?" asked ben, by way of diversion. "if tom joined the band of hope," said lucy quietly, and, one would have judged, sadly. "th' lad's clean off," said ben. "that brass has bin too mich for his yed. wi' most folk it runs to drink, but aw reckon it depends o' th' constitooshun. but, dal me, if aw dunnot don missen up very next sunday 'at ever is, an' gooa wi' 'im to th' chapel an' hear for missen; so, dooant forget, hannah, to ha' me a clean shirt, for aw munnot shame th' lad." "aye," assented hannah, "gooa, bi all meeans, an' if a fooil's advice worth's takkin', please thissen abaat keepin' thi ears on th' pulpit, but keep thi e'en on th' pews." and with this delphic utterance mrs. garside began to lay the little round table for tea, with a clatter that threatened the longevity of the "chaney" cups and saucers that had descended with the family bible, and were almost as venerated. and lucy looked troubled with that trouble that seeks disguise in constrained cheerfulness. "it's a woman, then," said ben to himself. "who'd ha' thowt it, but whooa i' th' name o' wonder can it be?" pursuant to his resolve, ben, the next sunday, volunteered to accompany tom to chapel, to tom's undisguised surprise. "well, yo' see, lad," explained the senior, inwardly congratulating himself on the astuteness of his reply, "what's gooid enough for thee 'll daatless be gooid enough for thi partner 'at is to be." the rev. david jones was a man of middle stature, quick and nervous in his movements, and quick and nervous in his delivery. he had all the fire and not a little of the poetic feeling and imagination of his welsh ancestry. he had the great gift of being able to see and understand the very crux of an abstruse problem and to state it lucidly. then, when you held your breath for the solution, he would break into a rhapsody, and, in a torrent of words, metaphor piled upon metaphor in dazzling extravagance of phrase, he would scale the gamut of the emotions, and close the exordium as in the wild frenzy of an ancient seer. "ther's a gooid deeal o'clout, tom," whispered ben, "but aw'n nooan come to th' puddin'." but ben spoke to ears that heard not. the rhapsodies of the eloquent gael were thrown away on tom. his eyes were fixed on the ample pew in which mr. and mrs. tinker sat erect and listening apparently with much attention to the sermon. mr. tinker's regard indeed, appeared to be more critical than appreciative. "jabez is too owd a bird to be ta'en wi' chaff," thought ben. "th' parson's main clever, reight enough, but there's one yonder's gotten his measure, or awm mista'en." but neither on his employer nor on the severe face of mrs. tinker was tom's wrapt look so intently fixed. by her uncle's side sat dorothy, looking, said ben, in his afternoon account to hannah, "just as if butter wouldn't melt in her maath. she nivver took her e'en fro' off her bible or her hymn book or th' parson, barrin' once, an' if 'oo didn't look plainly at tom then 'oo looked at me, that's all aw can say. but it weren't a look straight out o' her e'en, yo' mun understand, nor wi' her eyes starin' out o' her yead, like some wenches 'll look at a young felly; but just a sort o' a squint aat o'th tail o' her e'en, an' then th' lashes fell part way ovver 'em, an' theer 'oo wer' gazin' at th' parson as if 'ood nivver blinked. it's a mercy 'oo didn't look at me th' same way again, or i'd ha' made a fooil o' missen some road or other, an' chance it. an' tom, why he went as red as a peony, an' his hand trem'led so he dropped a book an' had to scrat it up wi' his feet by reason o'th pew bein' too narrow for him to get his yed dahn to reick it up wi' his hand i' th' ordinary way. aw poised his shin for 'im under th' seeat to make him mind his manners for when aw _do_ go to a chapel aw like to behave some-bit-like, an' after that he listened to th' sarmon as good as gowd." "and do you remember the text, father?" "to be sure aw do, trust me for that. aw gate tom to nick it with his thumb in his book, an aw wer' settlin' dahn comfortable to th' exposition when aw gate th' full blast o' miss dorothy's look, choose 'oo it wer' meant for. it had liked to ha' bowled me ovver, but aw poo'd missen together, an' aw'n getten th' heads o'th discoorse. reick us th' bible, missus. it wer' eighth romans, thirtieth. read it up, lucy." "moreover whom he did predestinate, them he also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified." "nah! i thowt to missen, we're in for it. aw liked th' chap's courage. it's holus-bolus, nah, says i, an' th' owder end they looked up at th' parson wi' a grim sort o' look as much as to say, 'get ovver that if yo' can' an' then they glowered at th' younger end wi' a look 'at said as plain as a pikestaff, 'he's bahn to throw yo' ovver' nah, wi' yo'r new criticism an' yo'r refinin's.'" "an' did he?" asked lucy and her mother in a breath. and it may be just as well to say here and once for all, for the benefit of those who through no fault of their own, to be sure, but to their great loss notwithstanding, have not the privilege of being yorkshire bred and born, that half-a-century ago theological discussion was, among the mill-hands of the west riding, as common as ratting or dog-fighting or as disputing over the form of a foot-ball player in these degenerate days. any fine sunday of the year, if you walked in the country, you would come across a group of men, gravely excited, discussing with acumen, and all the artillery of text and commentary, original sin, predestination, effectual calling and the inefficiency of works. "and did he?" ben shook his head. "he's a deep 'un is yon'. they ca' folk 'at go to church o' a mornin' an' chapel i' th' afternooin, devil-dodgers; but yon's waur, he's a deacon-dodger. he knew as weel as he knew his dinner 'd be spoilin' bi hauf-past twelve 'at ther' wer' owd split an' tommy shaw, not to say jabez tinker, at's happen more charity, just simply waitin' to lay howd on a word here an' a sentence theer to condemn; but he slipped past 'em a'. it wer' clivver aw'll nooan gainsay, but it wer' nooan honest. yo've happen no reight to expect brains i' a parson, but th' leeast he can do is to be honest." "but yo' dunnot tell us ha he han'led th' text," said his wife impatiently. "why th' cream on it wer' this: 'at th' almighty fro' th' beginnin' had foreordained th' law o' righteousness, just th' same as he foreordained th' law o' gravitation an' he elected to salvation them as walked therein, an' them as didn't were rejected. same as th' law o' combustion," he said, "if yo' put yo'r finger i'th' fire god had pre-arranged 'at yo' sud be burned, an' sarve yo' reight." "why that's common sense enough to please you, father, you couldn't find fault with that." "aye' that wer' reight enough; but yo' should ha' heeard th' way he wrapped it up an' dressed it i'th catch words o' th' hard-an'-fast baptists, so as to mak' them o' th' owder end think it wer' all th' owd dish sarved up a bit different. but it wern't; it wer' common sense an' nat'ral religion dressed up to mak' 'em sound like calvinism. he caught th' deacons sleepin', as he thowt, an' stole their clo'es; but jabez tinker saw through him, aw tell yo', an' so did ben garsed, if he _is_ an' owd foo." "and what did tom say to it all?" asked lucy. "tom! aw've no patience wi' tom. he walked all th' way whom as if he wer' dreamin', an' all 'at aw could get out on him wer' 'at pale blue went varry well wi some shades o' yoller. he wer' thinkin o' his dyein', yo' see." "was he for sure?" asked mrs. garside, "which dun yo' think's th' blindest, lucy, a bat or a mole?" but lucy was looking out of the window and answer made none. chapter ix. nehemiah wimpenny, of holmfirth, "gentleman, one of her majesty's &c.," in other words a solicitor, was the only legal practitioner in the village or neighbourhood, and though not more than thirty years of age, enjoyed a considerable practice. his father, ebenezer, had been a successful manufacturer and a zealous methodist. presumably he believed that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. certainly he shared the common belief that lawyers are very scarce in the celestial regions. but these convictions did not deter him from storing up riches in this world, nor from bringing up his son to the legal profession. perhaps he had confidence in the axiom that exceptions prove the rule. nehemiah was well cut-out for a country lawyer: he had the native shrewdness and common sense, and if he did not know much law he found common-sense a very good substitute for it. his local knowledge was like that of a historic character extensive and peculiar, and his father's acquaintances and business connections who, at first from friendship, gave their business to young nehemiah, had no reason to complain of lack of his attention to their interests or ability to protect them. in person he was of medium height, of sandy hair and pale complexion, with a cold and fishy eye and a cold and clammy hand. he dressed loudly and flashily, but as the extravagance of his raiment was attributed to a twelve months' stay in london in the office of a town agent its fashion or propriety few questioned. he was fond of jewellery, and displayed a good deal of it on his person, and was supposed by envious young manufacturers and merchants to be a "devil among the women,"--a reputation of which he was not a little vain, and which he sustained by the amorous glances and _doubles entendres_ of refreshment rooms and bars. he had spent a week in paris, and hinted that he could an' he would tell a thing or two about the iniquities of the gay city. this did not prevent nehemiah from attending with laudable regularity at the methodist chapel, and anxious mammas with marriageable daughters, secure in the assurance that a reformed rake makes a very passable saint, viewed with complacency the attentions which it pleased this very common-place lothario to pay to the virgins of their flock and fold; and the pastor of zion chapel himself, doubtless reflecting that he was sent to the lost sheep of the house of israel, and to heal those that were sick and not those that were whole, was very tender indeed to a church-member who gave weekly signs of grace in the form of substantial contributions to the collection box, and whose quarterly pew-rent could always be depended on. it is only fair to nehemiah to say that he never permitted his dissipations which were possibly much exaggerated, to interfere with business, and that, however deep his potations of the previous night, he was always to be found at his desk with a clear head and a steady hand, a circumstance, of itself, that secured nehemiah more appreciation in a hard-drinking community, than would have been inspired by an intimate acquaintance with the whole _corpus juris_. among his clients nehemiah numbered mr. jabez tinker, and he was therefore not surprised when the master of wilberlee presented himself in the small, dingy, stuffy office which nehemiah found sufficient for his needs. mr. tinker, of course, was well aware of the somewhat dubious moral character of the gentleman he had come to consult; but then he did not go to nehemiah for morals but for professional assistance. "well, mr. tinker, and how do you find yourself this morning--warm, isn't it." "very," said mr. tinker--"it's warm, and it's close for the time of the year. but any sort of weather 'll do for your kind of work, i guess, wimpenny." "rather,--the warmer the better--get me used to a sultry climate. it's as well to be prepared for the future, eh?"--mr. wimpenny's expansive smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his client's countenance was not responsive. "h'm," said mr. tinker. "well, wimpenny, let's get to business. i want to make my will, and it's no use putting the thing off. i can always alter it?" "yes, yes, certainly--as long as a man lives he can alter his will, always supposing he remain _compos mentis_; and we're all human, mr. tinker, we're all human." "it shouldn't be a very complicated affair either," went on mr. tinker. "unfortunately, except the house i live in." "snug little hole, but too near the mill," thought his adviser. "except that, practically all i have is tied up in my business." "and a very good business too, mr. tinker, by all accounts." "i've nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as things have turned out that i did not arrange differently. you see, i've no son to carry on the concern after my death." the lawyer nodded assent. "i must provide for my widow, of course. she must have the house and furniture for her life, and i thought of, say, three hundred a year--not a penny more, she'd only give it to the chapel." again the lawyer nodded, making notes, as he listened, on a sheet of foolscap. "that's plain speaking," went on mr. tinker, "but where's the â£300 to come from? that's the difficulty. mills aren't easy to let, and the bigger they are the fewer people want them. i suppose there's nothing for it but the hammer. it's enough to make us tinkers all turn in our graves. but there it is.--even if dick--you won't remember my brother, richard,--if he'd had a son, it would have been different." "but we all know he left a very charming daughter," said wimpenny with a bow and a smirk. "dorothy's right enough," said her uncle, curtly. "but you can't turn her into a manufacturer. though she's a sort of partner all the same. you know her father died suddenly." of course wimpenny knew. "and her father was part owner of the mill and business. well, the girl's money is in the business still." "phew! that's bad, mr. tinker." "i know it is, and the worst of it, i've kept no separate accounts. i've treated richard's share just as my own. but my will must put all that right. subject to my wife's provision dorothy must have all. there'll be nob'dy else for it." wimpenny did not speak for some time. he chewed the end of his quill instead, a way he had when absorbed in thought. "it's a bad business mr. tinker;" he said at length; "it was scarcely like you to confound accounts in that loose fashion and to put trust money into what was practically your own business. people might call it by an ugly name." jabez flushed angrily. "what do you mean, sir? i treated my niece as my daughter, brought her up in my house as my own child, and now i propose to leave her my sole heiress. nothing very ugly about that, i should think." "not as things have turned out," was the reply, "but you know as well as i do they _might_ have turned out differently, and where would your ward's money have been? however, it's to-day and tomorrow we're concerned with, not yesterday. has it occurred to you that miss dorothy may marry?" "of course she may. one doesn't need to pay six-and-eight to learn that." "exactly," said the unruffled lawyer. "now an adopted daughter and an adopted daughter's husband are often quite two different beings, and should miss tinker marry it's the husband we should have to reckon with." "well, i could pay him out, i suppose?" "of course you could--by selling wilberlee at a sacrifice, a great sacrifice, or by putting a heavy mortgage on the property if it would carry it. we must remember that there are eighteen years of profits to set-off against miss dorothy's up-bringing, and the court of chancery does not weigh trustees' profits in a hair-balance, i can tell you." mr. tinker rose impatiently. "i didn't come here to have you raise difficulties but to meet them, nor yet to be frightened by bug-bears." "now you are unreasonable, mr. tinker. i shouldn't be worth my salt if i didn't put the situation plainly before you. you don't go to a doctor for smooth sayings nor yet for sweetmeats instead of pills. no use getting huffed, you know." but mr. tinker was huffed. he was a tinker and a magistrate, and had been a man of mark these thirty years, and was not pleasant to be told these things by a young lawyer who might have been his son. but he had the good sense to know that what nehemiah said was truth. "ah, well," he said, "i dare say we are meeting trouble half-way. you know what i want doing. i did everything for the best, and i don't know that i care very much what the world says or your infernal court of chancery either, if it comes to that. when will you have the will ready, wimpenny?" "let me see. to-day's monday. say thursday of next week. we close for whitsuntide, you know." "very good, so be it. i'll call in on that day. i'll be glad to have the thing off my mind before the holidays. mrs. tinker's at harrogate, and i was thinking of running over for a few days. till thursday, then," and mr. tinker went his way feeling less comfortable in his mind than he had done for many a long day. "confound the fellow," he said to himself, wiping his brow, "and confound his stuffy little office, too. it's worse than the sweating-room at the bank." left to himself nehemiah wimpenny sunk into a deep reverie; and, to judge from the faint smile that occasionally played upon his face, a not unpleasing one. "so miss dorothy's to be old tinker's heiress," thus ran his thoughts, "and that means probably old eph. thorpe's into the bargain. guess i rather frightened the immaculate jabez with that hint of a probable chancery suit. talk about men starting at their own shadows, as if any possible suitor for the fair dorothy would dream of muddling away not only her fortune, but her expectations by going to law with a man who could leave him or not leave him thousands of pounds just as the fancy took him. should have thought tinker was more level headed. it isn't the money he's frightened of, it's the scandal. these cold, reserved, proud men are always so devilish thin-skinned. wonder who the happy man 'll be.--haven't heard of anyone nosing around." "by jove! why shouldn't i cut in myself? she's a pretty little filly and a high-stepper too. i've had my fling, and it's about time i looked around for mrs. nehemiah. wonder i never meet her out anywhere. tinker keeps her up pretty close apparently, perhaps she doesn't care for high-teas, small talk, and cribbage. shows her sense." "wonder how i can get to know her. no use fishing for an invitation to tinker's. jove! i have it. didn't he say he was off to harrogate to cheer up the old woman. let's see, jabez is an aenonite. h'm, i must sweeten the reverend david--well that's easy enough. pity i don't go to aenon; but that's soon got over. one chapel's as good as another to a broad-minded man. all retail the same blooming rot. i mean they all lead to the same place. different roads to the same city--that's the phrase." "whitsuntide is it, next week? shouldn't mind a run over to scarborough. better than sulphur-water at harrogate, friend tinker. why! there'll be the sunday school treats, band, flags, processions stale buns and coffee grounds. the sportive dorothy's pretty sure to be doing the cheap philanthropic with the kids--and nehemiah 'll be there or thereabouts, you bet." "but i'll make sure how richard left his money. hearsay's all very well, but matrimony on hearsay might turn out a sell. i'll get a copy of his will. but that'll be all right, i fancy. gad, it's dry work thinking. i'll step across and have a tiddley at the crown, and i might as well take little polly that pair of gloves i promised her. heigho, i guess i'll have to swear off lovely pollys, at any rate till the honeymoon 's over." but before the sagacious wimpenny abandoned himself to the delights of gin-and-bitters and the lively sallies of the lovely polly, he dropped a confidential note to his london agent to procure a copy of richard tinker's will and such information as the archives of somerset house could furnish to the interested or the curious as to the residuary and legacy accounts filed by the deceased's executor, mr. jabez tinker, to wit. this missive despatched with his own hand nehemiah turned his steps towards the crown, feeling very much at peace with himself and fully entitled to bask in the sunshine of polly's ready smile. on the way he chanced across the pastor of aenon chapel, who was devoting his morning to calling upon sundry of his flock and getting up an appetite for his mid-day dinner. "good morning, mr. jones the very man i wanted to see. i've a crow to pull with you. won't there be the usual school treat this whitsuntide?" "certainly, mr. wimpenny we'd a special prayer last meeting for a fine day." "well, now, i go to zion. but we nonconformists are not so narrow as our church friends, eh? so long as the good work goes on, that's the main thing isn't it?" "most assuredly, mr. wimpenny, most assuredly. we're only tools in the great worker's hands." "quite so, mr. jones, quite so; my sentiments to a t, only better expressed. now i know these efforts of the sunday school cost money. i'm not good enough to be a teacher; but you must let me help in my own way. i hoped you would have called, as your predecessor did, and asked for a subscription, then we could have had a comfortable chat," and nehemiah slipped a sovereign into the parson's palm. now mr. jones had gone very recently over the list of subscribers to the various efforts and celebrations of aenon chapel, and flattered himself that he knew to a nicety the amount for which every inhabitant of holmfirth "was good;" but he certainly could not remember to have seen nehemiah wimpenny's name for so much as a widow's mite. but perhaps the lawyer was one of those worthy men who do good by stealth and blush to find it known. so he had no qualms about pocketing the coin. "they say open confession 's good for the soul," went on nehemiah. "i was just on my way to have a nip and a snack at the crown--just a glass of bitter, you know"--oh! nehemiah, nehemiah!--"no use asking you, i know. the old vicar, now, always had a glass of sherry with me when we met. but they say you are just ruining the trade, with your temperance sermons and your temperance missions. you mustn't do that mr. jones; for if you shut up public-houses _i_ might as well shut up shop too. well, good day, good day." mr. jones's face was beaming. "do they really say so?" he asked. "of course they do, and mean it. there isn't a publican in the town but would rejoice to have you popped off like an irish rack-renter. oh! by the bye, whose field do you have on monday for your gala? i might manage to have an hour's romp with your youngsters--any road i could squander a few nuts and have them racing for oranges." "mr. tinker has kindly let us have the loan of his paddock at the rear of wilberlee. we've had it for years, till the school almost expect it as a right." "i see, i see--a prescriptive right. a better sort of prescription than a doctor's, eh?" mr. jones accorded the tribute of a smile. "you don't allow your drier studies to dull your sense of humour, i perceive. by the way, the dear children of zion are joining us this year both in the procession and the after proceedings, so you will not be hampered by any sense of a divided duty. i must not omit to thank you for your generous donation, but i assure you we shall value your presence among us more highly than any gift." "don't mention it--a bagatelle. wish it were more. make it yearly. but now i really must be off or i shall miss my snack." "and your glass of--bitter? i think you said," "ah, well, i'll make it mild to-day. that's next to teetotal, you know. again, good day. hope to have the pleasure of an introduction to mrs. jones on monday." "what a very excellent young man," mused the reverend divine, as he scurried through his calls. "i wish brother brown of zion put more fervour into temperance work.--he might win that young man to the cause"--a conclusion mr. jones might have modified had he seen the wink with which the very excellent young man favoured himself as he took the steps of the crown hotel and called for his "usual, and a smile with it, please, polly." "miah's in extra spirits this morning. wonder who's feathers he's been plucking so early," was the mental comment of the slim-waisted damsel as she handed the "usual" with a coquettish air and neatly evaded the proffered salute. "there's someone coming!" she whispered, as she skipped away. "there always is, damn 'em," said that very excellent young man. whit-monday in yorkshire is the saturnalia of the sunday schools, a festival to which both teachers and taught look forward with delighted anticipation. a committee of the teachers and those members of the congregation who are supposed to be musically gifted, select the hymns to be sung at the services and at the halts of the procession on its route, and the discussion and final settling of the hymn-sheets are not always attended by the harmony appropriate to the occasion. the lives of the organist and the choirmaster are made a burden to them, and before the sheet reaches the printer there is often a coolness between ladies who had vowed eternal friendship. the scholars are very zealously drilled by the choirmaster, the girls singing with zest at the "practices," the boys stimulating their attention by pulling their hair, but lifting up their own voices under protest. the young ladies of the sunday school wear a subdued modification of their sunday best at the week-night practices and as they have neither father nor mother to escort them home at the somewhat late hour to which the practices are prolonged, have to make shift with the arm of a blushing and embarrassed teacher from the boys' school, and, to do them justice, the young ladies cheerfully submit to be thus accompanied. if it should be discovered during the homeward walk of this sober minded phyllis and stephen of the mills that their voices go well together, the practising at the school not unfrequently conduces to domestic duets, never, let us hope, to matrimonial discords. an ingenuous bride, not long ago, assured the writer that she simply doted on the sunday school. when asked for the reason, she naively confessed that it was there she first met her billy. as this frank young lady has since sent in her resignation as a teacher, it is to be assumed that she now dotes on billy to the detriment of the sunday school; but she has not thought it necessary to return the time-piece presented to her by her fellow-teachers on the eve of her wedding-day. he must be a very callous individual indeed who does not delight in the sight of the scholars as they marshal under the folds of the school flag, blazoned with the name of the chapel and borne in a somewhat staggering fashion by sturdy teachers who find consolation for their tribulations in the honour of being standard-bearers. even a slattern mother and a drunken father will make a shift at sacrifice to turn the "childer" out decent for the "whissun treat." it is indeed the time of year when the yearly sunday suit is chosen. poverty must indeed have made its home in the house of a yorkshire mill-hand if a white muslin frock and brilliant sash and a new straw hat with bright ribbons cannot be found for the girls, and a new suit, be the material never so rough, for the lads. it is a feast to the eyes to see the young coquettes--a maid of five is often a promising if not a quite accomplished coquette--arrayed in all their glory, conscious of their charms and severely critical of the gowns of their comrades. there is the exhilaration of the strains of the brass band--which in all probability will be comfortably drunk before the day is out; there is the fluttering of the silken banners in the summer breeze, and, above all, there is the consciousness of being the beheld of all beholders. the boys look either bored or ashamed of themselves and wish they were nearer the buns and nuts, for which they are gloomily conscious they will have to pay by submitting to the humiliating exactions of kiss-in-the-ring. every door of the village is open as the long procession winds through the narrow streets, and anxious matrons and elder sisters watch for their own to see the sash has retained its bunch and the flounces have not given: also to receive the soothing assurance that annie or lizzie is dressed as smart as the best of them. then there is the singing of a hymn at the minister's house and before the deacons' and--pleasantest feature of all the day's proceedings--the lifting of the sweet young voices under the window of a sick companion who listens from a tear-stained pillow to the air she may never sing again. the distinction almost compensates for pain. among those watched the procession was ben garside, hannah, and lucy. she had been wheeled to the open door. her father and mother stood on the other side. tom was in his bedroom, "fettling hissen," as hannah put it. ben had put on his better suit, and shaved himself in honour of the holiday,--the last holiday of the year for working-folk till christmas should come again. there were no bank holidays in those days. hannah had put on her somewhat rusty silk dress, and would have scorned to acknowledge that it pinched round the waist more than it did a year before. as the rear rank of the scholars and the last banner disappeared up the street, tom's feet were heard descending the stairs. "tom 'll be for off, nah," said hannah, "pity he couldn't ha' his baggin' so's things wouldn't be lyin' abaat all hours." "now ben," said tom, cheerily, "i'm ready, are you?" "by gosh! aw sud think yo' are ready: stan' ther an' let's ha' a looik at yo'." tom laughed, and stood to attention. "do the creases show very much?" he asked, "i feel like a draper's parcel wrapped in brown paper." it was a great event. tom had got a suit of navy blue serge for the summer, and it fitted him like a glove. "aw mun gi' yo' a pinch for new," said hannah, nipping the upper arm. "an' put a penny in his pocket," added lucy, "for luck." "it should be a shilling if it's to match the pinch," laughed tom, rubbing his arm. "but where's your bonnet, hannah, and your hat, lucy?" "what's ta thinkin' on, tom?" asked ben. "why that we're all going to the field together. i'm going to wheel lucy and stand by her, and you and hannah are to enjoy yourselves with the other young folk." ben protested he wouldn't budge an inch. "not but what he liked to see th' childer enjoy theirsen, but whissunday wer' a heathenish festival an' a relic o' superstition." "but you've knocked off work and donned--i mean dressed yourself," remonstrated tom. "aye at nooinin'. who could wark wi' that blethrin' brass band brayin' up an' down th' street?" mrs. garside looked at lucy. "it 'ud be a treeat for th' lass," she said. "i should like it, but i should only be a hindrance. fancy tom standing by me for hours at a stretch and all the other young men in the field enjoying themselves. take mother, father, and i'll stop at home. no one will run away with _me_." she added bravely, but there was a tear in her voice. "if you stop at home, i stop," said tom emphatically. "besides, as for being tied to your side all the time, when you get tired of me, and mother there's tired of mooning about with ben, we can take turn and turn about. i couldn't enjoy myself a bit if you were stuck here all by yourself, and what's more, i won't try." "well, then, that sattles it," said hannah. "we'll all go, an' th' haase mun tak' care on itsen. awst put mi silver spooins i' mi pocket, an' there's nowt else 'at means owt. nah! ben, stir thee, mon, an' dunnot stan' theer like a stuck sheep." "_aw'm_ ready," said ben, "aw'n nowt to do but don mi cap an' that won't tak me as long as it'll tak' thee to don thi bonnet. tom an' me could go to the field an' be back afore yo' an' lucy 'll be ready." "aw said stir thee. put th' kettle on. what's th' use o' goin' to th' field an hour afore there'll be ony theer. tha doesn't want a whole field to thissen, does ta? we'll ha' us baggin afore we start, an' then we'st ha' th' day i' front on us." "but aw could put mi finger dahn mi throit an' feel mi dinner yet," demurred ben. "it's nooan three o'clock bi th' church." "that's noah odds. aw'm nooan baan to ha' thee worritin' me all th' afternooin becos yo'n nooan had thi baggin, an happen sneakin' off into th' village to get a pint becos tha's a sinkin' i' thi' stomach, an' me lookin' for thi all ovver th' field, wanderin' abaat gawpin' as if aw'd just bin let loise aat o'th 'sylum, an' thee stuck at th' _cropper's arms_ as large as life, makkin' a beeast on thisen becos it's whissunday. nooah! if yo' dunnot want yo'r baggin nah, yo' mun ha' it agen yo' do want it." hannah's feet and hands had been as busy as her tongue. she had turned up the skirt of her gown and put an apron over all, spread the cloth, fetched up the bread and the butter, cut and spread thick slices for herself and the men, and thin ones for lucy, washed the lettuce, radishes, and shallots, smoothed the top of the salt-cellar, set tom to toasting a couple of currant teacakes, produced a jar of raspberry jam and mashed the tea before you could say jack robinson. "aw've getten a caa-heel for thi supper, an' tha can bring thisen a pint o' timmy (best ale) for supper as it's holiday time," she conceded to ben, evidently in great good humour with herself at the prospect of their outing. and so as the large field near mr. tinker's house--there was but a privet hedge separating it from the house garden--began to fill, as the boys and girls gathered from their respective school-rooms, flushed from their hasty tea-drinking, the lads not without a guilty consciousness of a filched bun bulging their trousers pocket, as the brass band played their final tune before withdrawing to the nearest inn to partake of something better than "spotted dick an' washin'-up watter," as a member irreverently styled the scholars' repast, ben garside sauntered into the field trying to look as if sunday school treats were an every-day occurrence of his life, hannah sailed behind, whilst tom with lucy brought up the rear. there grew a large beech tree on the slope of the ground, and under its full-leaved branches tom drew the chair in which lucy sat, her cheeks faintly tinged with a delicate bloom and her eyes sparkling with the unwonted excitement. her mother raised her to a sitting posture and settled the cushions and wraps as only she could, and "theer yo' are, lass," she concluded, with a fond look at her darling child, "theer yo' are as right as ninepence." but the mother's heart was full as she remembered the day, but as yesterday, when lucy's little feet would have skimmed the greensward light as a fairy's dance. but hannah was not long suffered to indulge in reflections sad or otherwise she was a popular character in the village, and everyone knew that hannah's bark was worse than her bite. soon the good wives of the village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others' dresses, and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of parliament and the misdeeds of ministers. a small group gathered round lucy's chair, some of them rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with lucy in the mill, and who now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of conquest. and lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where lucy held her little court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned. "eh! but it's gran' to see yo', hannah," one would say, "why aw declare aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd susan o' 'lijah's under th' graand. an' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo', hannah. and your lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. yo're lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, lucy, an' tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. see yo' hannah, theer's yar jud (george) an' yo'r ben t'other side o'th' field, an' jud's shakkin' his fist i' ben's face, an' ben's dancin' like peeas on a bake-ston'. it's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen. an' theer's yar 'tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an jim sykes after her. run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. th' clumsy felly, he'll rive all th' clo'es off her back. gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. eh! it fair ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen." lucy had insisted on tom joining the revels of the field, the gay and innocent sports of the youths and maidens, and her eyes followed him as he joined in the games at "tirzy," hand ball, and what not. but tom's thoughts seemed elsewhere, and lucy knew that his eyes wandered from the laughter-ringing throngs to the rustic gate that led from wilberlee to the pasture land. "he's watching for dorothy," she thought, and there passed, maybe, a shadow over lucy's gentle face, "and there comes dorothy herself. ah! well, i knew it long ago. god send it may not spoil our tom's young life." there was a rush of twinkling little feet to meet the young mistress of wilberlee as she passed slowly through the gateway, and moved into the field, clad in a loose gown of sprayed muslin of palest blue. she swung her hat in one hand that the soft cool air might play about her face, and the rays of the declining sun gleamed upon the auburn tresses, and gave them a golden sheen. a dozen youngsters danced up to her, shouting their childish welcome, and more than one little toddlekin did dorothy catch up in her arms and kiss. they danced round her as she walked up the field, or clasped her hand to claim her for some favourite game. and dorothy smiled down upon the uplifted faces, and made feint to run away from them, but was captured and prisoned in their midst. and so, surrounded by bright and happy faces, dorothy moved about the field, speaking to many, and giving a pleased recognition to all she knew,--and there was not a man or woman of aenon chapel she did not know, not a worker at her uncle's mill she could not address by name. "as free as th' air, miss dorothy is," said one, "but she never demeans herself nor forgets she's th' young mistress." and the hands respected her, the more for it. the working people of the mills knew their place, and were not ashamed of it, nor servile to those above them. they did not care that anyone should assume a familiarity they knew must be feigned and which they were bound to suspect. the rev. david jones was in his glory. he had shaken hands with everyone there above the age of thirteen, had inquired about everyone's health as though he loved them, and their pains were his, had narrowly escaped being decoyed into a game at romps, and had looked as though he liked it when a hand-ball knocked off his hat. this did not prevent him confiding to mrs. jones, a placid little woman who took life serenely, that he should be glad when it was all over. as the afternoon wore to evening and the pastor, wearied of parading the field and repeating stale vacuities, he saw, with the pleasure we experience when we realize what we had hoped for rather than expected, that young wimpenny had not forgotten his half-promise of a day or two ago. wimpenny was speaking to the minister of his own chapel, a meek, timid man, but hard-working, sincere and self-sacrificing, beloved of little children and their mothers, and for whom even the hard-hearted operatives had a good word. the lawyer was not long in making his way towards mr. jones. "you see i have been able to come, though i'm afraid i'm a late scholar. won't you introduce me to mrs. jones?" and the introduction was duly made. the three paced together through the changing throng, parted occasionally when some eager urchin, in full cry after the flying ball, darted under the parson's arms or a breathless daphne, with ringlets streaming in the breeze, fled in simulated fright from a pursuing swain. "miss tinker seems to be enjoying herself," said nehemiah to mrs. jones, after he had duly admired her own numerous offspring whom she had indicated in various quarters of the field. "is she as nice as she is pretty?" "yes, she is very nice, and seems fond of the people. she spoils the children though,--my husband is sometimes a little put out. she does not take life seriously enough, she says, and he is vexed she won't be baptised, though she is quite old enough to become a full church member. i asked her if she had religious scruples that mr. jones could assist her to banish; but she only laughed and said the immersion costume of the girls was hideous enough to account for a bushel of scruples without searching further. but then you know she is mr. tinker's niece, and i daresay she is indulged too much at home." nehemiah did not think this very likely, but, all the same, he replied that it was a great pity. "do you now," he said, "i have never had the pleasure of meeting miss tinker in society. she doesn't go out much. i fancy. would you mind----?" "certainly, mr. wimpenny, if you wish it. see, she is resting now and fanning herself with that outlandish hat of hers. shall we join her?" and presently the diplomatic wimpenny was making a somewhat exaggerated bow before the heiress of wilberlee. and tom's eyes followed the graceful girl as she walked by the side of nehemiah, chatting gaily and seeming well content with his companionship; and tom plunged his hands deep into his pockets and stalked moodily with clouded brow about the field, deaf to every entreaty from tempting lips to "choose the girl that he loved best," and feeling that for him life had lost its zest. the blue of the sky was dulled, the music of the lark soaring in the azure might have been the cawing of the rooks, and the gentle summer breeze that scarce stirred the leaves an icy blast from eastern shores. "what a fool i am, crying for the moon. i, tom pinder, apprentice to jabez tinker, esquire and justice of the peace. go to yonder rosy faced weaver with sparkling eyes and towzled hair. _she_ will lend a ready ear, you can send her home to-night, her heart in a tumult of delight; in her dreams heaven will open to her, and she will wake with your name upon her lips. or go down yonder to the _clothiers' arms_. there are some jolly fellows there, and you will be all the more welcome because you have been set down as a strait-laced, sour-faced curmudgeon with lead in your veins for blood. go drink with them and join in their drunken chorus; better that than eat your heart out after fruit that is not for you." and so with head down-bent he makes for where he had left hannah and lucy; and in his abstraction nearly walks into wimpenny and dorothy. mrs. jones had remembered the wise saying that two are company and three are none. "mind where you're walking, will you?" exclaimed wimpenny, cut short in a very flowery compliment which dorothy was perhaps not sorry to have curtailed. "i beg your pardon, miss tinker, i'm afraid i was very careless. i did not see. i was thinking." "now that is not a very gallant speech, tom--i mean mr. pinder. mr. wimpenny would have assured me that he never thought at all except of me, and that he would have divined my presence by instinct a mile off." but wimpenny was not to be rallied into good humour. he had put on a very tight-fitting pair of patent-leather shoes, and he suffered from the usual infliction of those who wear tight boots,--and tom had grazed his foot. "mr. pinder! indeed," he thought, "why, damme, it's one of old tinker's mill hands." now tom, having made his apologies to dorothy, was for pursuing the tenor of his way, being by no means disposed to offer any to mr. wimpenny. "oh, you mustn't go, mr. pinder, you must take me to lucy; but first you must help me to gather some flowers. you know paris so well, mr. wimpenny, and must excuse my accent. shall i say _au revoir_ or _a bientot_, and without waiting for a reply she turned in the direction of the garden at the house, leaving nehemiah dumbfounded. "curse the jade," he muttered to himself, "chucked over for a dirty weaver, by jove. but i'll be even with her yet. it doesn't do to play tricks with miss dorothy, and so you'll find some day. but i can bide my time. i'll go and have a drink at the _crown_, polly 'll be glad to see me anyhow." and tom walked as in a dream. the sky was blue again, and the lark trilled a clearer note, and all the earth was glad in its summer joyousness. chapter x it is one thing for a maiden to invite a young man to a garden, and quite another to know what to do with him when she gets him there. it would have puzzled dorothy to say exactly why she had asked tom pinder to help her cull flowers. the ostensible pretext given had been the gathering of a bouquet for lucy; but we all know that a woman's ostensible pretexts are--well, ostensible pretexts. for one thing dorothy had had enough of nehemiah wimpenny, and wanted to be decently free of him for the rest of the day. she had wearied of the mild pleasure of poking fun at his french. but in truth dorothy had acted from impulse and regretted her words all the more when she saw the sudden light of glad surprise that sprung to tom's dark eyes. but there is safety in numbers, reflected dorothy. the back door of the house was not locked. dorothy looked into the kitchen, into the parlour,--neither betty nor peggy was there. she called their names at the bottom of the staircase, whilst tom bided in the garden, but there was no answering cry from betty or from peggy, those handmaidens having very properly conceived that whitsuntide comes alike for bond and free, and betaken themselves, in gay attire, to the delights of the field. peggy, at this moment, indeed, was flying, with fleet foot, from the outstretched arms of an amorous young butcher, who 'livered the daily joint at wilberlee, and the staider betty was listening with all too ready ears to the somewhat halting wooing of the village constable, who, even in plain clothes, was still a proper man and had, perhaps, a prophetic vision of a village-inn with himself as keeper of order and the purse-strings, and betty as buxom but bustling hostess. "it is very tiresome," said dorothy, as she returned to the garden where tom was pretending to be wrapt in the contemplation of the beauties of a _gloire de dijon_, "i did so want a cup of tea, but betty and peggy have played me truant. don't you think, mr. pinder, you had better go find them, and say i want one of them, no matter which, very particularly." but tom had taken possession of the handbasket and the scissors, and was oblivious to hints. "some of these blooms want cutting very badly," was his only answer, "they will fall in another day." then there was silence save for the clicking of the scissors, the humming of the bees, the good-night song of the birds, and the laughter and cries from the field. unconsciously, as the basket filled, the steps of dorothy had turned the gable of the house. the merry crowd was hid from view. the garden here sloped to the river side, and by its brim was a rustic seat. dorothy sank upon it weariedly. "i confess i'm tired," she exclaimed "i seem to have been on my feet for a week," and she put out the tiniest point of a shoe-toe and contemplated it ruefully. "now, what do you mean, mr. pinder, standing there swinging that basket like one of those boats in a fair that make you dizzy to look at them? can't you find a seat somewhere?" tom looked all around. he might have found a seat by climbing on the branch of an adjacent tree. some such thought may have crossed his mind, for by that magic of association that passes the wit of man came to him the couplet that he had read long ago: "fain would i climb, but that i fear to fall," with its answering "if thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all." tom did not climb. he sat instead on the edge of the garden seat, as far from dorothy as space permitted. "i wish you wouldn't call me 'mr. pinder'," he said. "i never feel quite sure you are not making mock of me." dorothy had taken a rose from the basket and was looking for leaves to bind it with. "well you see, you are getting rather too big for me to call you tom. and besides, you are a man now, and besides, oh!--lots of things." this did not seem very lucid. tom went on: "i was never called 'mr. pinder' in my life till you called me so. then i was very glad and very proud. it put new thoughts into my mind. it was like a 'new birth,' as the chapel-folk might say. but it has done its work now, and i should like once more to be plain 'tom' to you." "well, plain tom then be it, if that will please you; but we really must be going, or we shall miss lucy. hark! many of the people must have left the ground already. i can hear them talking as they go past the mill. bring along the basket, tom, and don't spill more than you can help." "i don't think i should take the flowers to lucy in the field. people would say you favoured lucy more than other folk's children." "and what do i care what people say; i do like lucy more than any other girl in the village." "i was not exactly thinking of what you might care about miss. i was thinking more of what lucy would feel." "oh! of course," said dorothy, not without a suspicion of pettishness in her tone. really, this young man was too frank. to say exactly what one thinks is no doubt commendable in the abstract. but then we should be careful to think only what will fall pleasingly on the ear, if we wish to please. "oh! of course," said dorothy. tom felt he had blundered. "the air comes very sweet and fresh from the hills" he said, to change the subject. "how clear the stream looks to-night and how softly it warbles over the stones." "yes," assented dorothy, "i love the river when its waters are crystal as now; but you know it is so seldom we see it so bright and sparkling. the dye-water from the mill makes it all the colours of the rainbow, but you take care the colours are dirty enough." "there's something i wanted to tell you, miss dorothy," said tom, after a lull in the conversation which both felt to be embarrassing. "well?" "you see, miss dorothy, i shall be of age soon." "really! well that seems to me a thing you need not look so solemn about. it happens to everyone, more or less, if they live long enough. i shall be of age myself someday, i dare say, but i will try to bear it submissively, if not cheerfully. you'll get over it, tom. you may even in time get used to it." "yes, but it will make a great difference to me. for one thing my apprenticeship to your uncle will be at an end." "oh!" said dorothy, "well, i should think you'll be glad of that. uncle is sure to want you to stop on at the mill--i know he thinks well of you." "it is very good of him" said tom and smiled as he thought of the day when his master had lifted his riding whip in quick, passionate anger. but that was long gone bye. "but i don't think i shall stop on, in fact i'm sure i shan't." "you won't leave holmfirth, will you, tom?" and she was surprised at the interest with which she awaited his reply. "you see," said tom, slowly, and colouring as if he were confessing to a crime "i've had a bit of money left and ben and me, that is ben and i." "oh! bother the grammar" cried dorothy. "ben and me's going into partnership, and there's a little mill at hinchliffe mill where we can get room and power. higher up the river, you know. we will try not to send you more dye-water down stream than we can help. i shall always think when i draw the plugs that the water will pass your window, miss dorothy." tom was distinctly improving. "it's a great venture," said dorothy gravely. "a very great venture. i don't mean so much for you, you have all life before you, but for ben, and what hurts ben will hurt lucy. you see other people besides you can think of lucy." now there was a piece of malice here, but dorothy thought she could now cry quits. "yes, it's a venture, miss dorothy, a great venture. it is one that perhaps would never have been made if you had never called me 'mr. pinder,' so don't throw cold water on our scheme. but it isn't just that i wanted to talk about. there's something more." "'pon my word, tom, you're worse than the brook. the teachers have come and the teachers have gone, but you go on for ever. but in for a penny, in for a pound. what more is there?" "well, ben and i have talked it over and over. don't think me a pharisee, miss dorothy, but we're going to try to run the mill on new lines." "h'm; that sounds like adding venture to venture, doesn't it?" "perhaps: you see, ben and i both belong to the working class." dorothy bent her head in a somewhat hesitating assent. "i suppose so," she said. "and we know something of what working folk have to put up with, how hard they have to work, and how little they often get in return." "come to that," said dorothy, "i dare say a masters' lot isn't quite a bed of roses. you'll find that out soon enough for yourselves i'm afraid." "granted," said tom, "but fat sorrow's better than lean; but i don't mean to be a master." dorothy rose. "it is later than i thought. betty must have come in by this, or peggy. and the field's well-nigh deserted. whit-monday's come and gone, tom, and i must e'en go too. you must take the flowers home to lucy, and give her my love. say i will call for the basket some fine day." but tom ventured to touch her arm as she made as though to go. "nay, miss dorothy, i would i might say my say--but, perhaps, you don't care to know our plans?"--this wistfully. "oh! but indeed i do. just five minutes then. and indeed it is vastly pleasanter here than indoors. no more romping for me this day," and dorothy sat down again. "i said just now i did not mean to be a master, ben and i are indeed going to add venture to venture. you know something about co-operation?" "why, what a question! of course i do. doesn't mr. thorpe tell us every time he comes to see my aunt that the co-op's ruining him--and serve him right, betty says. aunt says that things at the co-op are nasty without being cheap, for what they give you in 'divvy'--isn't that the word?--they take out in quality. i hope you're not going to start a co-op, tom. i really cannot fancy you in a white apron, simpering over a counter and asking me 'what's the next article, miss?'" "then you would give us your custom?" he asked with a smile. "oh! perhaps i might sneak in occasionally for a trifle--for lucy's sake, you know." "but you forget, i told you we had taken part of a mill at hinchliffe mill. it's there we're going to have _our_ co-op." "isn't it rather out of the way? fancy, having to send all that way for a pound of candles. oh! i beg ben's pardon; there'll be no need of candles with such a luminary as he in the shops. you'll be selling philosophy by the yard and theology by the stone. but seriously, tom, i don't see what a co-op has to do with a mill." "and that's just what i want to speak to you about. you see ben's a socialist, and all his life he has been crying out against capitalists and capital. now he declares i want to turn him into a capitalist for we are to be partners in this venture upon a venture." dorothy shook her head. "i'm just as much in the fog now as ever," she said, "i see if i want to know anything about this wonderful new departure i must ask lucy. do get on; you and your co-op that isn't a co-op after all. but you will not be a very bloated capitalist, will you, tom?" she concluded mischievously. "we aren't going to be capitalists at all. i'm just going to start the concern with my bit of a fortune--it doesn't look so much of a fortune as it did, now i know what a little way it will go. but any way ben and i are going to work in it, side by side with the hands. we are all going to be hands together. of course, in a sense, there'll be a master; but he will be a master in a different sense from what we're all used to. every one of us that can do a full man's work is to have an equal share in the profit, always provided he does the work he is capable of. there will be shorter hours and less work for the youngsters. but the share of all will depend on the profits we make, and no one is to have a greater share than another." "but that seems ridiculous, tom. if you are to turn manufacturer like my uncle, why, you must be a manufacturer. you will have to go to market as he does, and meet and bargain with your customers, to dress like them, to mix with them as an equal. how can you do that on the lines you are laying down? i am only a silly girl, may be, and certainly i don't know much about business, but go on,--this grows interesting." "i know the difficulties, miss dorothy, but the difficulty will not be in ben, and i hope not in me. the difficulty will be in getting a sufficient number of men, capable, reliable, sober, industrious men who can be brought to see that in our scheme there will not only be an escape from the thraldom of the capital they denounce so hotly, but a realization of that equality and fraternity for which men and women have gone to their graves like bed. the difficulty will be to persuade men not merely that they will be better off themselves, but that they must be content to take part of their wage in seeing a worse workman than themselves better off too. labour is just as selfish as capital. but in our mill no matter what a man's allotted task, so long as he does his work faithfully, he shall share and share alike." "but that seems just a little absurd, don't you think?" asked dorothy, now genuinely interested. "you must make all this clear to me. you don't mean to say that if you, say, are the designer or the traveller, you are to draw no more profit out of the concern than a teamer?" "that's it, exactly--not a stiver. we're all to be partners together. we'll know neither master nor man at our mill. we're going to try an experiment in grim earnest, and oh! miss dorothy, for heaven's sake, don't shake your head and look so glum about it. i feel sure we can succeed. we _will_ succeed. i am young and there is no hardship, no sacrifice, no work for which i am not prepared. perhaps i might get a situation under another; perhaps in time i might start on the usual lines and perhaps in time i might make a fortune for myself. but will it not be a grander thing and in itself a better, a more heart-satisfying future should we be able to gather round ourselves a band of workers, all knit together not merely by the selfish bonds of personal interest, but each rejoicing that he is advancing, too, his brother's welfare, and that in his well-being and in his well-doing each and everyone of us is concerned." tom had risen in the earnestness of his soul's unburthening, and now paced the narrow strip of gravelled garden path which skirted the river-bank. his eyes were lit with unwonted fire, a flush was on his cheek, his voice gained strength and cadence as the long-pondered thoughts forced themselves to utterance, and the natural unstudied motions of his hands kept harmony with the spoken word. "oh! miss dorothy, it may all be a dream, but if a dream it be, surely it is such a one as was dreamed by the lake of galilee or the slopes of olive's mount. is it not meet that old men in the time to come should dream dreams, and the young men see visions. had ben garside, good, staunch, true man that i know him to be, had not he dreamed dreams and seen visions could he have had it in his heart to strive and suffer as i know he did, not for himself but for the oppressed ones of his class. and shall not we of a newer time have _our_ visions, and mine is of a glad day when the band of man shall be against his neighbour, when this unresting, cruel strife of brother seeking to outvie his brother, building ever the fabric of his success upon the undoing of another shall cease from the land, and the kingdom of which seers have dreamed and prophets foretold shall be indeed at hand." dorothy gazed in wrapt regard at the young enthusiast. she drank in the music of his words with greedy ears, and they sank into her soul. never had man so spoken to her before. words like these, if spoken at all, were not, in her experience, words for every day life. they should be reserved to be voiced on sunday from the pulpit and devoutly ignored and disregarded on the monday. but as the unpent stream of cherished conviction flowed its impetuous course dorothy felt that she too was being swept with it, and forgot that she was the daughter of a proud and exclusive race, and he who paced before her with rapid, agitated stride, the humblest of her guardian's henchmen. but withal dorothy was a practical common-sense young woman, and as little likely as any of her very practical sex to forget the stern necessities of work-a-day life, in a momentary abandon to the transcendental schemes of an enthusiast. "don't you think we had better know more about your co-op?" she said. "these grand ideas may be all very well as abstract theories. i want to know how you propose to put them into practice and live. i seem to remember that st. john not only permits dreams and visions to you men; he also allows us daughters to prophesy." "well?" "now i venture to prophesy that if you and ben set about your new venture in the manner you seem to have contemplated, it is not only good-bye to your small fortune, which, perhaps wouldn't matter very much--but it would be to handicap you at the very threshold of your life with the deadening sense of failure, and perhaps fill your whole future with the bitterness of blighted hopes and unrealized aspirations. now i think i can suggest to you an attainable utopia. it would not, perhaps, be such a neck-or-nothing affair as yours, but it should have enough of other-worldliness in it for a sane man." tom sat down again by dorothy's side, but this time he did not take the edge of the seat. his nervous shyness had vanished in the abandonment of his speech. "ben says women can neither see nor feel an inch outside their own doorsteps," he said with a smile. "and a good thing for men, whose wives at all events are centred in their homes and families. but i am not ben's wife, nor--nor anyone else's," concluded dorothy lamely, flushing slightly at some unspoken thought. "and what is your attainable utopia, miss dorothy?" asked tom, very quietly. "well, you must let me think, and, as it were, feel my way to a conclusion; for to tell the truth i have not read or thought much on such difficult problems as the subject seems to bristle with. tell me, at our village co-op doesn't a member's dividend depend on the amount of his purchases?" "i believe so." "and, roughly speaking, doesn't a man's spending power bear a sort of proportion to his earning power?" "practically, no doubt." "then you see that practical co-operation benefits a man according to his ability and application." "clearly." "well, i think that is right. now if i understand _your_ principle of socialism it makes no distinction between the skilled and incapable. granting only equality of industry you reward all alike. now that is not common justice." "i think it is," said tom, stoutly, "a man can but do his best." "all the same, it isn't. take the case of a man, a designer, say, in a mill, or a lawyer, or a doctor. he devotes money, time, and the hard sweating of his brains to becoming master of his calling. whilst he is studying he is earning just nothing at all, in fact less than nothing. when he is qualified for it he rightly expects to be better paid than a man who knows how to handle a spade or pickaxe when his life of toil begins, and knows just as much and no more when his life ends in the workhouse or the grave." "you say 'rightly expects,' why rightly?" asked tom. "because when the skilled and educated labourer in whatever sphere you like _does_ begin to be paid it is common justice that he should be paid, not merely for the present years of harvest, but also for the years of seeding, cultivation, and growth. it is merely the analogy of the farmer. it simply means that the toil of preparation is paid for at a later day. it is payment deferred, but none the less payment of what is justly due. now your navvy or artisan gets his payment from the first day he touches the mattock or throws a shuttle." "there seems some justice in what say, miss dorothy; but i thought you were going to show me the way to your attainable utopia." "so i am. i should imagine that the current rate of wages is very much the measure of a man's comparative worth in this life-absorbing soul-cramping pursuit of wealth you call business. when these are paid and other outlays deducted, there remains, or doesn't remain sometimes, what the capitalist calls his profit?" tom nodded. "and it is against this profit your sensitive soul rebels, your dainty fingers will not touch?" "if it pleases you to put it so, miss dorothy." "then quell your soul's rebellion, let not your fingers touch. distribute your profit among all the workers in the concern, yourself and ben included, for i suppose your stomach will insist on its elemental right to be filled; but distribute to each a share of the profits proportioned to his wage. for taking it that a man's wage is a rough and ready measure of a man's share in building up the wealth, so, too, would it be a rough and ready method of determine your share in the profits. and now most potent, grave, and reverend seigneur, thy hand-maiden hath spoken, and lud-ha'-mercy, 'tis sick to death i am of long faces and your miserable economics. did ever before a young man lure a maiden to flowery bower and discourse to her sweet--political economy! i warrant you have smoother sayings for lucy's ear. and, now, good-night. i heard betty shouting for me down the paddock this quarter gone. don't forget my love to lucy." and dorothy tripped away, and tom made homewards, carrying the basket very tenderly; but the rose that dorothy had toyed with and cast aside he picked up, pressed to his lips and hid in his pocket-book. someone found its yellow leaves years afterwards, and made-believe to be jealous because of them. "law! betty," said dorothy that night, as she uncoiled the tresses of her gleaming locks. "i declare your tom pinder is as mad as a hatter; and faith, i think it's catching." "smittling, yo' meean, miss. well, some ailments be if yo' bide _very_ near them as has 'em." and ben and tom sat long that night talking over their plans for the near future. ben conceded there was something in what miss dorothy had said. "by gow, who'd ha' thowt yon' wench had it in her, to pounce reet daan on th' weak spot, what yo' may ca' th' flaw o'th system, all in a jeffy like. but she's a head piece in a hundred. it'll be her uncle 'oo favvers, for her father had more heart nor yead." "an' what for should'nt dorothy see what yo' two men blinked yo'r een at?" asked hannah indignantly, "haven't aw towd yo' scores o' times 'at a woman 'll lawp ovver a wall whilst a man's gooin' raand gropin' for th' gate. aw'm fain someb'dy can ding sense into oather on yo'--it doesn't matter which, for what one on yo' says t'other 'll swear to. if 'oo's persuaded tom theer 'at ther's sich a thing as lookin' after other folks consarns till yo'r own's gone to rack an' ruin, it's more nor e'er aw could do bi thee, ben. happen aw'd ha' had more chance if aw'd tried afore we were wed i'stead o' after, but ther's no tellin'. some folk are born so; an' ther ne'er wer' a fooil brought into th' world but there wer' a bigger born to match him. but aw see hah it is, we'st burn more can'les talkin' abaat th' new venture, as yo ca' it, nor th' takkin's 'll run to i' a gooid season. get thee to bed, tom, an' dunnot yo' forget yo're jabez tinker's 'prentice lad yet, whativver yo' may be some day when me an' ben's both under th' sod." the end of tom's apprenticeship drew near. stories of his project had already been whispered about the village, and some of the quidnuncs of the barber's shop, which was the central exchange of local news tapped their foreheads significantly. "talk abaat a slate off," the slubber at wilberlee had been heard to say, "yon' ben garside's got a whole roof off, and that d--d young bastard fro' saddleworth's worse nor ben." but in time the real nature of the new enterprise was bruited abroad and was much discussed. the novel theme was felt to be a perfect godsend in a community which, like others of its size, becomes more agitated over a runaway horse in its main street than over a european convulsion. the landlord of the croppers' arms began to feel quite a glow of gratitude towards the sober, drink-shunning pinder, so many pints of ale did his nightly customers feel necessary for the ample criticism of tom's scheme. "aw know for certain room an' power's ta'en at hinchliff mill," said jim thewlis, the landlord. "th' agent for lettin' denham's mill, as was, called in on his way fro' huddersfilt' other day. we wer' speerin' abaat this young pinder. weel, aw wanted to do fair like so aw said at th' country talk wor' he'd had a fortin' left; th' worst there wer' agen him, so far as ivver aw'd heer'd, wer' 'at he wer' a teetotaller. aw thowt that wer' enuff, but th' agent seemed no ways taken a-back. said it were common as measles nah a days," concluded jim, heaving a sigh over the degeneracy of the times. "but what's all this talk abaat a newfangled road o' payin' th' hands?" asked the village bellman, whose pimply face and swollen nose seemed to indicate that "oyez! oyez!" were thirsty words. "they're all to have a 'divvy,' same as they han at th' co-op," explained one. "there'll be a new job for thi, bellman," said another. "tha'll ha to go round th' village cryin' th' divvy at co-op mill" "aye, aye," said another, "oh! yes, oh! yes, lost, lost and can't be found, a han'some divvy thowt safe an' sound.'" thus josh o' jonah's, the village wit and poet. but the light esteem in which their design was held by the topers of the croppers' arms did not disturb the equanimity of either ben or tom. "th' more th' job's talked abaat, th' better for it," was ben's expressed opinion. "an' if it's nobbut fooil's talk, talk's talk, an' that's why we want to start a co-op. when folk get to know th' lines we're bahn to work on, there'll be plenty ready to throw in wi' us, _yo_' see if ther' isna, tom lad. we'll ha' th' pick o'th mill hands i' this village if th' consarn goes--an' it _mun_ go, tom; it mun go. aw'st break mi heart if it doesn't. we'll mak it gee if we'n to sell ivvery stick we'n got to buy coil to fire up wi'. but we'st nooan need to do that. aw've nooan bin idle, an' what does ta think aw've getten to tell thee?" ben had not indeed been idle. it has been said that he was a popular character in the district. men knew him for a shrewd, hard-working man, "wi' his yead screwed on th' reight road, if he _is_ a bit loose i' th' tongue." of more moment still their wives knew him for a sober man, and the daughters of a good many of them evinced a very sympathetic interest in the scheme in which tom's name was so prominently associated. moreover, co-ops were appreciated by the housewives. co-operative distribution they understood; co-operative production they had not before heard of but were quite prepared to take it on trust, as a sort of twin-brother of the system of trading they were already familiar with. "aw know one thing," many a good dame declared, "it wer' a gooid thing for yar haase 'at aw put into th' co-op. aw allus know th' rent 'll be theer at th' quarter end, an' there'll be summat to buy cloes wi' at whissunday, an' a bit o' summat extra at kersmas, an' it's all mi eye an' peggy martin abaat th' stuff bein' dear an' nasty. that's eph. thorpe's tale, that is. ther's nob'dy nah'll go to eph's bud them as cannot pay ready brass for their stuff." more than one good workman, old friends and cronies of ben's, had already had long talks with him about the matter. they were men who had a bit laid by and were ready to join the enterprise. "we will have no one with us," said tom emphatically, "but those who work in the mill. we will have no one's money unless he gives his labour too. every worker on the job must have his flesh and blood in it as well as his money. if we take money at all it must be as a loan at low interest. the thing is to have every hand a co-operator in production and a sharer in the profits." "tak' as few in as possible till yo' see how th' job frames," was hannah's prudent counsel. "if it goes all reet yo'll ha' plenty o' backers, an' plenty as'll want to ha' a finger i' th' paw (pie). aw nobbut hope it winnot be like the gradely 'holmfirth paw.'" "what's that?" asked tom. "brokken eggs," said hannah, shortly, "cow-pie,--custard, for fine." of course jabez tinker heard of the thing. a few days before the expiration of tom's apprenticeship he sent for him into the office. the indenture was spread on the desk before him. "sit down, tom," his master said in a not unkindly voice. "so i suppose you are going to shake the dust of wilberlee mill off your feet." "something like it, sir, i suppose, if you've no objections." "nay, it's with my leave or without my leave now. well, i've had no fault to find with you. are your plans settled once for all?" "i've put my hand to the plough, sir." "well, of course it's no concern of mine. but don't you think you might have consulted me?" "i should have been glad of your advice, sir," said tom. then added firmly, "but you have never given me any reason to suppose you would have been willing to give it me." mr. tinker glanced sharply at the youth. he saw nothing of impertinent suggestion in tom's face. tom had spoken, simply and plain, what was to him a plain and simple matter of fact. "what do you mean, pinder? have you any complaint to make. haven't i always done my duty by you?" "i don't know, sir. if your duty was to let me severely alone, you have done your duty. you know better than i whether that is a master's duty to an apprentice. i'm no lawyer. but mr. black always told me i was to be taught your trade." "well, it seems you fancy you know enough about it to start for yourself." "little thanks to you," thought tom, but what use to say? "but i didn't send for you to-day, pinder, to discuss my duty or yours. i think you're foolish to begin on your own account. i have had it in my mind for some time back to put you forward in the mill. i'm weary of sam buckley and his drunken ways. he gets beyond bearing. i had thought of putting you in his place--at a lower wage, of course. 'twould have been a big lift for you, but i've had my eye on you, and i think you'd have done." tom's feelings at these unexpected words were of mingled pride, gratitude, and self-reproach. he had never suspected that his conduct in the mill was observed by the reserved, self-contained master. he had done his duty as he conceived it, simply because it was his duty. he knew, of course, that many of the apprentices shirked their work and gave as much trouble as possible. in acting otherwise tom had neither sought nor expected notice and approbation. he was conscious-stricken both in that he had attributed mr. tinker's reserve to callous indifference, and in that the first use he contemplated making of his freedom was to start in what might seem to be a competition with one whom he knew now to have had his advancement in view. "i am getting older," continued mr. tinker, "as you know i have no son. i must look for a younger man to take some of the work from my shoulders. of late i have felt the constant strain more than i used to. but, there, it's no use talking, i suppose. i think you're a young idiot all the same to start as they say you're going to. take an old man's word for it, tom pinder, business and philanthropy don't mix. make your money in trade and give what you don't want yourself in charity, if you like; but business must be run on business lines. it's some of ben garside's hatching, i expect; but then ben was always crackbrained." "i am sure i don' know how to thank you, sir," began tom. "oh! i don't want your thanks. i was looking out for myself as much as you. nothing for nothing--that's business you'll find. the question is, are you content to stop on at wilberlee or 'gang your ain gate,' as the scotch say. yea or nay, or would you like to think it over?" now tom knew if he consulted ben, just the advice that ben would give--stop on at wilberlee. he knew also that though ben would say this promptly, and to all seeming cheerfully, it would be the shattering of the brightest dream his friend had ever dreamed. besides, to fill sam buckley's place would bring him very little nearer--he knew what. no! he could wait and work, and tom believed in the future foretold for him who knows _how_ to wait. mr. tinker took up the indenture, and seemed to read it. "h'm," he said, more to himself than tom, "i've signed so many of these things that i forget what they bind a man to. but it's a mere form." "i'll burn this now, anyway," he said aloud. "put it into the stove, pinder." tom did as he was bid, and as the stiff paper caught the flames, and the smell from the wax seals invaded the stuffy office he felt as though chains fell from his limbs and incense burned on the altar of freedom. "well?" said mr. tinker at length. "i think i must go, sir. but i go thanking you from my heart," was tom's reply. "so be it," said mr. tinker, curtly. "when you're done up dish and spoon don't come here for work, that's all." "i won't," said tom, and went. and as he walked slowly homewards he resolved to keep his own counsel and say nothing to ben or hannah about the offer that had been made to him. it would disquiet ben and lead to no good. best say nothing about the matter; let it lie between him and mr. tinker. besides if it got talked of in the village those who believed his statement would call him a fool, those who didn't a liar. it was all the easier to dismiss the subject from his mind when he found the following letter awaiting him: "dear tom, seein it will be your berthday nex sunday, an you will be twenty-one, me an mister redfearn have fixed it up to have a bit of a do here seein as it wer here you was borne. an fairbanks has sent a goos an a turkey, an moll has maid a puddin an you are to bring mester an missus garsed wi my respecks to em an welcome, likewise their dowter too. also to say as fairbanks will send his trap bi workus jack for missus an dowter an yo an ben mun cum o shanks mare. dinner at nooin an no waitin. so no more at present hopeing this finds yo well as it leaves me. yure affeckshinit, betty schofield" go! of course they would go; all of them. where else could the auspicious day be better spent than in the very house he first saw the light, and among the friends of his infancy. go! yes though the snow lay three feet deep on moor and fell, and the wintry wind howled round pots and pans and whirled the stinging atoms in a very blast hurricane and tornado of blinding blizzard. "goa!" exclaimed hannah, "aw'st goa if aw've to crawl o' mi han's an' knees. yo' mun write a letter back, tom, an' say we'st be theer at eleven i' th' forenooin if it's convenient to mrs. schofield, an' aw'll gi' a hand wi' th' bastin' an' sarvin' up, so's 'oo can cooil dahn afore 'oo sits dahn to th' table. aw reckon aw'st want no cooilin' dahn long afore we're ovver th' top." and then hannah and lucy fell to at such a preparation, adjusting, re-adjusting, snipping, snipeing, cutting, hemming, tuckering of shawls and dresses, to such a trimming of hat and bonnet, and such a littering of the house with female finery, that if a wedding or a coronation had been afoot, matters could not have been worse. "aw'st nivver howd aat till sunday, tom," ben confided to him. "aw haven't set tooith into a turkey sin' aw can't remember when an' ivvry time aw think on it mi maath watters soa aw can hardly speik. do'st think there'll be sossidge wi' it? tha mieet ha' just nudged her abaat th' sossidge when yo' wrote if yo'd gi'en it a thowt, but aw'm feart it's too lat' nah. an' gooise an' apple sauce, an stuffin', an' plum puddin' wi' brandy sauce--eh, lad, it's a pity tha cannot come o' age onst a week. but aw munnot show greedy. aw onst knew a felly at a club supper 'at e't a whull leg o' mutton to his own cheek, wi' capers and onion sauce an' breead, an' supped two gallon o' ale. they'd to gie him kester oil for aboon a week at after afore he fair gate shut on it. nah! aw ca' that a fair abuse o'th' kindly fruits o'th' earth. nah! tha'll ha' studied ettiket nah tha's ta'en to talkin' townified. how mony helpin's dun yo reely think aw mieet ha' wi' out bein thowt greedy? aw'm nooan a glutton, like that chap at gowcar 'at went to a club dinner--bill o' natt's, aw think they ca'ed him--an' when he gate whom he rolled o'th' floor, an' all he could say wer' 'howd, belly, howd, for if tha brusts awm done.' and ben looked anxiously at tom for a reply. but tom only smiled, for he knew that ben was merely talking to let off steam. so the excited little man went on: "tha'll nooan be teetotal that day, tom. it 'ud be a sort o' slur o' missus schofield. aw tak' it at goin' to a feeast at a public wi' a publican an' ca'in' for cowd watter 'ud be just as bad manners as feedin' wi' a teetotaller an' axin for a pint o' drink. nah! doesn't it strike yo' i' that leet, tom?" but tom explained that he had had that point over with his good friend betty many a time before and that he wasn't going to begin his manhood by breaking the pledge he had taken with himself. "you'll have to drink my share too, ben." "an' lucy's, for 'oo's tarred wi' th' same brush as thee, tom. aw do believe 'at if yo' took to runnin' abaat th' village wi' a caa's tail atween yo'r teeth like them niggers yo'n read on o'th' banks o'th river ganges, yar lucy 'ud do th' same as well as her legs 'ud let her. an' thank god!--an' yo', tom, 'oo can walk wi'out sticks nah." and ben pressed tom's arm as caressingly as ever maiden conveyed message to favoured swain. "you'll have to be careful, ben, if you're going to drink for three." "aye, aye, if all's weel aw'st be poorly th' day after, sha'not aw? but wi' one thing an' another aw just feel as if aw cud turn cart wheels slap daan th' sides o' pots an' pans till aw poo'd up at th' _hanging gate_. it is na th' eitin', lad, nor th' drinkin', though them's nooan things to be sneezed at, let me tell yo'. it's thowts at' mi tom's so well thowt on bi all at's knowd him sin' he wer' a suckin' babe. aw tell thee, lad, mi heart's so full aw could blubber like a cawf, if aw didn't howd missen in." and then tom knew it was time for him to look intently in any direction but that of honest ben's face. sunday came, and with sunday came workh'us jack, such a beaming radiant jack as never village saw before: jack, with a great white rosette on his breast and a white ribbon on the end of the whip with which he flicked the mare with many a soothing "so-ho, so-ho," and hortatory "come up;" an older jack by many a biting winter's lapse since first we met him; a stouter, plumper, rosier jack, but with the same smiling face and unfailing cheerfulness. how, with infinite tenderness, lucy was lifted into the trap, how tom smothered her with wraps and shawls, how hannah declared she would rather walk through the village because everybody was, she knew, stopping from chapel on purpose to gaup at her, and how she was hoisted bodily in under protest; how, as a matter of fact the neighbours and the neighbour's children turned out into the street braving the whipping of the gusty snow or peered from chamber window; how it was all over holmfirth in no time that gentleman tom and lucy garside were "off over th' isle of skye to be wed at st. chad's," how every gossip in the village insisted that she had expected nothing else these months back, and called upon her neighbour to testify that she had often been heard to say so; how the demure young maidens declared that lucy for all her quiet ways was a deep one and a sly one, and that it was a shame a fine strapping young fellow should be trapped into wedding a pale faced useless thing, little better than a cripple; how ben and tom walked far ahead of the trap all the way up the ascent of road to the isle of skye, but were overtaken just as they reached the inn there: how ben insisted on jack taking "summat short" to keep the cold out, and tom would have hannah drink some hot port-wine negus to keep jack company, and how jack had another drink for the good of the house; how the exhilarating influence of the liquor passed by some mysterious process from the driver to the driven so that the old mare rattled down from bill's o' jack's to greenfield, and from greenfield to the _church inn_, at saddleworth; how it stopped there of its own accord and positively refused to budge till jack descended from his seat and had another drink; how hannah made sure that ben and tom would be foolish enough to try a short cut over the moors and untimely perish like tom's mother before them; and how finally the chaise drew up in fine style before the _hanging gate_, and lucy almost fell into betty schofield's welcoming arms--all this the reader must imagine. and there, sure enough in the big room upstairs, with its mysterious cupboard labelled r.a.o.b., the sacred room in which the royal antedeluvian order of buffaloes declared every lodge night that they would "hunt the buff, would hunt the buff, would hunt the buffalo," though where to find it thereabouts would have puzzled them to tell. in this great room a glorious fire roared and cast its welcome warmth and the walls were hung with the christmas decorations of the lodge, and the christmas holly and mistletoe looked yet fresh and green, and the long narrow table down the centre was white with betty's best napery, and moll, feigning mighty indignation because tom had caught her round the waist and kissed her smackingly under the mistletoe, busied about making a great clattering of plates and spoons and knives and forks, whilst a distracting odour of roast goose came up the narrow staircase. mr. redfearn was there betimes, and aleck, all in his sunday best. then came the down-sitting, mr. redfearn at the table-head, tom at the foot. aleck facing ben, and hannah, and lucy supporting the chair and vice-chair. moll o' stute's and jack had their dinner later on. how many helps of turkey _with_ sausage and of goose _with_ stuffing and apple sauce, and of plum-pudding _with_ brandy-sauce ben had i entirely refuse to tell, but only say with all his talk he came in a very lame second to aleck. "it only wanted mr. black to make it just perfect," said mr. redfearn, "but we'll drink in silence to the memory of as good a man as ever walked i' shoe-leather." i refuse to tell, too, in what glowing terms mr. redfearn proposed the health of tom pinder, and many a happy return of the day, and of how tom completely broke down in acknowledging the toast, and of how ben proposed mr. redfearn's health, and mr. redfearn ben's, and tom the ladies, and then how they drank mrs. schofield's and the ladies with a three times three and god bless 'em, and then started the toast list all over again, till lucy was more than glad when moll brought in the tea-pot and cups, and they all drew round the fire, and the men lighted their pipes and sobered down to rational talk. be sure tom had to tell of what he was going to do now he was his own master, and of how ben had "weighed in" to help him, and he had to explain till he was nearly hoarse before betty could understand what a co-op mill was to be like. and then nothing would satisfy betty but she must offer to put â£50 "into th' consarn, sink or swim, it were all one to her if it 'ud do 'em any good;" and then tom had to begin all over again and make it clear that only the actual workers were to have any interest in the mill. "an' wheer are yo' buyin' yo'r wool?" asked tom o' fairbanks. and tom and ben looked grave, for they would have precious little left for wool-buying when the machinery was bought and set up. "at hirst's, the wool stapler, in huddersfield, i suppose," said tom. "now i don't take it friendly of you, or either of you," commented mr. redfearn. "i've bales and bales left over from th' last shearing, haven't we, aleck?" and aleck said "to be sure we have, an' fair gettin' maggoty for want o' usin'." "you must take it off my hands, tom and co.," said redfearn. "i'll let you have it cheap, and you can pay me for it when you've had time to turn yourselves round." it is very sad that such things should be in a christian land; but it is none the less true that the wool which later on aleck carted to co-op mill had never coated the back of any sheep that grazed on fairbank's field or moors, and why, about the same time, farmer redfearn should be buying wool in huddersfield, charles hirst, the huddersfield wool stapler, spent many an hour in vain attempt to divine. it was a glorious feast and a happy gathering, and happy folk those whose faces shone in the dancing rays of the glowing fire; but happiest of all the happy there was workh'us jack when ben and tom offered him the post of teamer and handy man at co-op mill, for co-op mill, the low grey mill at hinchliffe mill, had been christened without informal ceremony. "aw'd ha' come mysen an' helped i'th mill," confided aleck to tom, as he walked a part of the homeward way with him and ben. "but yo' see aw'm th' only one 'at stan's atween th' mester an' ower mich liquor. it's his only failin'. nivver thee tak' to sperrits tom. be teetotal off _them_. stick to ale an' nivver sup more nor five quarts at a sittin'. tha'll nooan get fur wrang on that if th' ale's saand. gooid neet, lad." chapter xi that was a grand moment for ben and tom when the shuttle of the goit at co-op mill was drawn, and the water from the dam began to stream into the wheel-race and catch the buckets of the great wheel, transmitting its revolutions to the main shafting and machines. little enough stock of wool and dye wares had they, and few indeed the engines for transforming by multiple processes the greasy, clotted fleeces into warp and weft and good broad pieces. but both knew every branch of the manufacturer's art, and each was more than willing to take his part, and more than his part, at scouring, dyeing, scribbling, or weaving. they employed very few hands, and each of these thoroughly understood that he was to be paid not only a fair day's wage for a fair day's work, but also a share of the profits; and it did not take long for yorkshire shrewdness to discover that the better, the more thoroughly, each one worked, the better for one and all. there was no scamping the work, no idling. and there was no breaking time for sprees, no "laiking" because a chap felt mondayish, and wanted an off-day or two to get over the effects of saturday's and sunday's debauch. every hand at co-op mill began in a very brief time to shake off the enervating consciousness of the subservience of a hired labourer. he would not only not idle himself, he would tolerate no idling in a fellow labourer. there are tricks in every trade, or every trade is solely maligned. there are ways of shirking work, of making time pass in merely _seeming_ labour that one would think one as irksome in the long run to the operative as they are undoubtedly unjust to the employer. there was none of that at co-op mill. set a thief to catch a thief, and a man who shirks and dawdles at his work steals the time that is indeed money. but let the man who works by your side be personally interested in the work you do, and the way you do it; there is no room there for shirking and dawdling. the lever of labour is, after all, self-interest, and so ingrained is self-interest that the only thing that can be asked of average human nature is that self-interest should not impinge on the self-interests of another. now matters were so arranged at co-op mill that self interest was necessarily and unavoidably altruistic, and when this great truth was once fairly grasped and assimilated by the hands a spirit prevailed from scouring house to pressing-room that secured ready, willing abundant and thorough work, and the quality and the quantity of the work soon made themselves manifest in the final output. the finished pieces were a delight to the eye and to the touch. there was no occasion to employ a traveller to push their goods. the goods sold themselves. it had been resolved that suit-lengths might be bought at the mill at a little below ordinary retail prices. this was to contravene the commercial code; but tom did not see why a man should be compelled to go to a tailor and the tailor to a merchant and pay the profits to two middlemen because of a commercial code that chiefly benefited the middlemen and never the consumer. no, the difficulty did not consist in finding purchasers; the difficulty was in putting out goods enough to supply the demand. but as ben had predicted, so soon as the system began to be understood, and especially after the first "divvy" had been declared and actually taken home by the men and handed to their wives, there was no lack of proffers of service from men who were able, ready, and willing to put their "bit" into co-op mill. at present there was some demur to terms--bare interest on invested capital, no participation in profits over that limit. on this point ben and tom were inexorable, adamantine. "it shall _not_ be a capitalists' concern, it _shall_ be a workers'." and it was wonderful too, and heartening to note the harmony, the goodwill, the general sense of brotherhood that prevailed from counting-house downwards. there was no cringing, no toadying, no tale-hearing. there was the very presence, spirit, and revelation of a moral resolution. nothing so ennobles a man as to feel that, so far as man can ever be in this network of human organism in which no thread is self-sufficient and self-dependent, he is his own man, with need to go cap in hand to no other. it is a feeling that, in yorkshire is perhaps apt to run to truculence and the very savagery of self-assertion; but even so it is better than the cringing, fawning self-abasement of the rural districts of the midland villages where squire and priest are gods of earth and heaven. a man who threw in at the co-op was a marked and envied man. the pick of the operatives were willing to take the looms as fast as they could be put up. it was lucy who suggested that the new concern should go into the making of shawls. everyone who knows the manufacturing districts of yorkshire and lancashire knows the shawl of the mill girl. it is to her what the cloak is to the irish butter-woman, the plaid to the scotch shepherd, or the mantilla to the spanish donna. it was dorothy who designed the pattern for the first shawl and, as time went on, the warm, bright-coloured covering might be seen over the head and shoulders of the women and girls in every mill in the valley of the holme. there was no need to be concerned about the texture or the fastness of the colours. it was a co-op shawl. that was guarantee enough. tom and ben worked early and late. tom indeed had had a bed fixed up in a small room of the lower story of the mill. many a night, indeed often for weeks together every night except saturday and sunday, he slept in the mill. he was the one to open the mill-gate in the morning and greet the hands as they streamed into the yard and hand them their time checks. his was the hand that, when the long day, yet all too short for his endless round of duties, lagged to its weary close, fastened the gate upon the last of the toilers; and oft and oft, far into the silent hours, he would bend over stock-book and ledger or, when the moon shone high above the mill, would walk round the mill dam and up the rugged hank of the babbling stream that fed it. his constant companion was jack, no longer workh'us jack, but jack, plain jack, or jack o' th' co-op, or tom pinder's jack, anything but workh'us jack; a new, transformed jack, wearing his corduroys and smock as proudly as if they had been a field marshal's uniform. sometimes a wag, further learned than others, would dub him "man friday;" but it was all one to jack. he was tom's body servant, his dog, if need be, to fetch and carry. and who so popular all through that beautiful valley and who so welcome at the hill-side farms and cottages as cheery, smiling, cherry-faced jack with his kindly jest and merry quip and crank? why, he was worth a dozen commercial travellers rolled into one. when he led the cart from the mill to the coal-shoots and back, or went his round with the great red-coloured barrel on wheels in quest of the ammonia laden refuse of the house-hold it was a sorry day for jack when he did not bring back two or three orders for the pretty, taking shawls, and what insight into the delightful vanities of lovely maiden jack did not acquire on his rounds was really not worth noticing. but it was on a shawl for lucy that jack spent his first week's earnings at co-op mill, a dainty, modest shawl of softest fleece, a shawl, jack declared, you could draw through a finger ring, and perhaps one might if the finger were one of jack's. the rosy-cheeked, brown-eyed lasses of the little farms and homesteads, and the more forward wenches of the valley mills wasted their becks and nods and wreathed smiles on jack. he took them all as a matter of course; but a look from lucy's soft warm eyes, from which the pathetic wistfulness of long suffering had not yet worn away, would set jack "all of a dither." it was for lucy, when the season came, that he ransacked the hill sides for the peeping snowdrop, and the hedge-bottoms for the shy primrose; for lucy that he bore home the nodding blue-bells and the blushing fox-glove, or the rare wild rose; for lucy that he searched the brambles for the luscious blackberry, and bent his back o'er the purple heather for the nestling bilberry; for lucy that he brought the thrilling thrush; for lucy that he nearly broke his neck down the steps of the church belfry the day he secured the wild young jackdaw; and for lucy that he weaned the perverse bird of its natural addition to choleric speech and general bad language. in jack's eyes lucy was fair and beautiful as any angel--and indeed her pale face was very sweet to look upon--and for him lucy's lightest word--nay, such is the divination of affection--lucy's unspoken thought was as law. and who so surely as jack could rouse lucy from the sad reveries into which her thoughts would sometimes stray, and bring back to her lips the pleasant smile and the gentle repartee that had neither sting nor lash? who was it but jack that nearly killed the barman at the _rose and crown_ because he soiled his lips with an unseemly jest involving both tom and lucy; who but jack that, however urgent his business errands might be, never passed ben's cottage without solicitous enquiry as to lucy's health, and what sort of a night she had had, and how she had felt that day; and for whom but lucy did jack forswear cakes and ale? but now the last wild rose of the summer has blushed in the hedgerows, and the bracken of the moors is greying to sickly death; the brooks and rivulets fall from the heights in fuller stream and muttering a gloomier song and the long nights are at hand when men-folk of a social mind seek the creature comforts and the good-fellowship of taproom and bar. and this was the season which ben and tom deemed fitting for the launching of still another experiment. they had resolved of a saturday night--that most dangerous of nights, when the wages in the breeches' pockets seem as if they would stand any inroad for the quenching pint throughout the winter months to have night classes at the mills for their own hands, and for as many of their friends as liked to come. there were to be first of all lessons in english history, and with history was to be taught in the only way it can be effectively taught, the geography of the wide, wide world. and the lessons in history were to be enlivened and made the more seductive by the reading of books of fiction and romance, of fable and poem dealing with the period under study, so that by the light of such heroes as _hereward the wake_, and _the last of the saxon kings_, and _the last of the barons_, by the deathless pages of avon's swan, by the muse of chaucer, of spenser, and of milton, the ages of the past lived before the eyes of these eager sons of toil, and they dwelt in the stately company of kings and warriors, cloistered saints and beautiful sinners, and saw, as in a waking dream, the stately drama of their country's making. there were lessons, too, in chemistry: and in the explosions of gases, the evolving of composite stenches and the pyrotechnics of phosphorescent combustion the younger hands found a joy that knew no satiety or abatement. but tom confined his teaching to the veriest elements of inorganic chemistry, those whose interest in the subject clamoured for more must seek their further advancement in the fascinating subject elsewhere. it was to teach, to drive home, the great truth of fixed, unchanging, ruthless law that had been, from the first, the dominating idea. and when his pupils had once grasped thoroughly the idea of the all-pervading law in the material world, what was easier than to lead them, without their realising his drift and purpose, to the conception of the fixed, the immutable in the moral law, and what more easy to expel from minds so prepared the baneful influence of the extra-natural creeds that led so many to repose their confidence in the adventitious, the possible interposition of a _deus ex machina_ to rescue them from the disasters they had courted for themselves. that twice two make four, neither more nor less, is a great fact; that h and cl make hydrochloric acid and not devonshire cream is also a fact; that happiness ensues upon well-doing and suffering upon sin, this also is a fact; but one the churches attenuate to men's minds by insisting upon a rote punishment that may be averted by timely repentance. tom taught that punishment, mediate or immediate, direct or indirect, is here, and in this present time. now tom was not such a fool as to dub his discourses lectures on religion. he knew well enough that to do so would be to talk to empty benches. the orthodox are suspicious of religious instruction unless they receive it wearing a sunday dress, and a sunday face, and in a conventional conventicle established by the state, or by that force which is more powerful than the state, the approval of madam grundy. the unorthodox, for quite different reasons, would have shunned his class-room, though it was the weaving shed at co-op mill they would have suspected a snare to trap them into saintliness. so the astute tom called his theses "lectures on the science of living," and succeeded insidiously in making his hearers perceive that the science of living and religion are one and the same thing; by religion, of course, not being understood that _olla podrida_, or hotch-potch of legend, fable, history, surmise poetry, rhapsody, and morals which so many confound with religion. the expositions of this quite unheard of science of living were delivered on the sunday afternoons and in the weaving shed at the mill. another novelty was that there was no collection. and the lectures began to be talked about and be popular. "what are ta' fidgettin' abaat, luke?" a constant caller at the _croppers' arms_ would ask as the minute-hand of the clock plodded towards the third hour of the sunday afternoon. "a'm nooan fidgettin'; but aw mun be stirring." "sit thee still, mon. there's time enough afore turnin'-aat time. th' churchwardens wi'not be raand afore three an' after. sup up an' let's fly for another quart. it'll be a long while till th' oppenin' time to-neet." "nay aw'll ha' no more. i'm thinkin' aw'll just ha' a bit o' a stretch to sattle mi dinner." "aye, weel, aw dunnot mind if aw've a bit o' a walk missen to stretch mi legs. which way did ta think o' takkin'?" "weel there's a nice stretch o' country up by hinchliffe mill way, an' we'st get a mouthfu' o' fresh air." "tha's no bahn to th' co-op gospel-shop, are ta?" "weel, aw winnot say but what aw meet look in, just to wind missen. its' a bit o' a poo' fro' here to th' top. an' there's no wheer aw can ca' to-day, worse luck." "tha'll get nowt at th' co-op, chuse ha. it's nobbut dry drinkin' they han on tap theer, folk say. but aw dunnot set thi on th' road a bit, an' if tha can stand tom pinder's preichin' aw reckon aw can. it's nooan like a regular chapel tha sees." and thus the lecture room filled. now there were two men of all others who received the doings at co-op mill with disfavour. one was the rev. david jones. that very energetic preacher did not like to hear anyone's praises sung but his own. his welsh fluency, his striking, daring flights of rhetoric, his excursions into tempting but dangerous speculations on the fundamental truths of the creed embodied, consecrated, and enshrined in the trust deed of aenon chapel, had secured for him the admiring following of considerable numbers of men who, whilst still clinging as for dear life to the shattered remnants of the old dogmas, turned longing eyes to the rationalism of a new criticism and a faith grounded upon human experience. they were like the frail ones of the softer sex, who concede all favours but the last, their heart or their passions consenting, their timidity restraining. aenon chapel was now packed with a new set of worshippers whose presence was not too welcome to the "old end," as the conservative adherents of calvinistic theology and tradition were styled. "owd fire an' brimstone" the irreverent styled their leader and spokesman. but the objections of those chiefly responsible for the maintenance and carrying on of the chapel and school, whose father's money had built and furnished the edifice in which mr. jones declaimed his mild heresies, were stripped of their accustomed force by one all-persuasive consideration--the collection box. never before in all the history of aenon chapel had the anniversaries of church and schools yielded so profitable a harvest to the anxious treasurer. the debt, without which it is commonly supposed no religious work can prosper, was reduced. mr. jones's stipend was increased. the deacons of former days were consumed with envy, and dolefully acknowledging that mr. jones had gone up like a rocket, expressed their hope that he might not come down like a stick, but expressed it in a tone that indicated their hope and expectation were not as one. but the new officers of the chapel exulted in their swelling money-bags, in the well-filled pews, and idolized the preacher of the new inspiration. and not only in his own chapel, but far and near spread the fame of the rev. david jones, and to chapel openings and consecrations, to missions and special efforts, invitations came in showers. he became the rage, and though he protested at any term that savoured of episcopacy and the scarlet woman, he, in his heart of hearts, acknowledged the discernment of an ardent admirer who had publicly referred to him as the bishop of the holme valley. at nights he dreamed of the presidency of the union. and now, when all things seemed to go well, people began to talk of the sunday meetings at co-op mill, and of tom pinder, who, folk said, spoke out what jones only hinted at. "aw'll tell yo' what it is," said one shrewd level-headed critic, "aw've heard that pea-i'-a-bladder preich at aenon chapel, and aw've heard co-op tom fro' th' same text, but pinder doesn't ca' it preichin', he ca's it explainin'." "an' what wer' text?" "why t' eleventh commandment, and mi own opinion is 'at pinder sees as far as th' purson, an' spits it aat like a man, upright and dahnwright, and a babby could tell what he meeans: but th' other chap, he goes as far as pinder, but he beats abaat th' bush, an' he 'perhaps this' and 'may it not be that?' an' he watches th' deacons an' th' chief pew-howders to see ha' it gooas dahn, an' he lets hissen aat an' he poo's hissen in like th' cap'n of a sailin' booat wi' one eye on the clouds an' t'other on th' shoals an' reefers." "nah, pinder just says what's in him, an' if yo' dunnot like it yo can lump it. an' what's more, at th' end o' ivvery lectur', yo' can get up an' just ha' a few minnit's enjoyment o' yo'r own accaant an' pitch into th' discourse like owd billy, an' th' harder yo' hit th' more pinder seems to like it." "an' why canno' jones speik it aat plain same as pinder?" "well, there's some folk so constitooted, yo' see, 'at they like to swim wi' th' tide an' 'll tak' uncommon gooid care nevver to waste their puff swimmin' up-stream. an' then yo' see, jones has a large fam'ly, an' my misses says 'at mrs. jones wi' her rings an' mantles, an' feathers, an' faldelals can do wi' all 'at jones can addle an' more at th' top on it." now, of course talk of this kind in a village like holmfirth not only circulates, it percolates and in time the gist and substance of it reached mr. jones. he had had hopes of tom at one time. he had observed with satisfaction that this very intelligent-looking, well-behaved, well-spoken, neatly dressed young man had been an attentive listener and frequent worshipper at his own chapel, and that, on occasions, he had brought with him that quite-past-praying-for ben garside, a notorious mocker and a scoffer. mr. jones had accepted their presence as one of many just tributes to his zeal and eloquence. one had been rescued from the tepid waters of the church, the other was a brand plucked from the burning depths of infidelity, and mr. jones had duly rejoiced. and lo! now the neophytes had backslided and people "of a sunday" would pass the inviting doors of aenon chapel and walk some two miles of a sultry or wintry afternoon to listen to one who was not only not one of the covenant, but who was ordained neither by bishop, presbytery, nor congress. he resolved to speak seriously to this erring sheep; and chancing to meet tom one day descending the hill from hinchliffe mill to the village, stopped him, smiling affably and holding out a condescending hand: "good morning, pinder, i'm glad to see you. how are we this morning?" "very well, thank you, jones. how are you?" "ahem! mr. jones, if _you_ please." "certainly; mr. pinder, if you please." "oh! certainly; you see in my position--" "exactly--and in mine." now this was not a very promising beginning. "well?" said tom. "i'll turn with you, _mr_. pinder. you are doubtless more pressed for time than i. parson's monday, you know, is parson's sunday." "parsons seem to have a fair share of sundays to the week," said tom, but without any malice in the remark. "i remember good old mr. whitelock of st. chad's couldn't bear to see a visitor on saturday--preparing for sunday, i suppose. then of course there was sunday itself, and on monday every parson i've ever met declares that he feels like a wet rag or a squeezed orange." "well it takes it out of a man to have to preach two sermons a day. but you should know something about it. i understand you have a sort of service at your mill on sunday afternoons?" "you can scarcely call our meetings services," tom replied. "we have no hymns, no sermon, and no collection. we have no preacher and no deacons." "but i thought you were the preacher." "then you have been misinformed. it is true that i select some reading, generally not always, from the scriptures. then i try to make its meaning, or the meaning of some particular verse or verses, clear as i understand them. that's all; it's really more of a chat than a set discourse." "i see." "then again the discoursing or preaching or chatting is not all done by one man. my experience is that the combined experience and wisdom of an audience are greater than those of any ordinary individual. we are so fashioned that most of what we read in the bible is read by the light of the reader's own experience of life, his observations and his reflection." "well?" "and so when i get around me twenty or thirty men of divers habits of thought and each with his own views of life, i have the chance of getting at twenty or thirty different commentaries on a text. that is a gain: another is that no single one of _my_ commentators is concerned to square his construction of a passage with a hide-bound creed or with the convictions of any one of his hearers. the only thing we are concerned about is to get at the truth." "and cannot you get at it in the recognised places of worship. doesn't it savour of conceit to set yourselves apart as people better and wiser than their neighbours?" "oh! well, come to that, mr. jones, you are a dissenter yourself, you know. you dissented from established orthodoxy. we aren't afraid of dissenting from orthodox dissent." "but there must be limits, young man; there must be limits." "yes," assented tom. "there must be limits. there are the limitations of the human mind. we don't seek to go beyond them." mr. jones was now thoroughly roused. he was a man of no mean intelligence and of a wide range of reading. if also he was a man of insatiable vanity and inordinate ambition, perhaps the atmosphere of adulation in which he lived, the incense of incompetent judges, were the chief causes. he felt now that he was talking to a man of sense and fearlessness. now it is a treat to talk with a man who has the sense and the patience and the disposition to think for himself, and the courage to speak his thoughts. mr. jones walked in silence for a time, tom moderating his longer stride to keep time with the cleric's shorter pace. "i hope," said mr. jones, at length, "i hope your teaching is based on the cardinal principles of christianity?" "and those?" "the immaculate conception and the resurrection of our lord." "those are not principles mr. jones. they are either facts or inventions." "and you declare them as facts?" "i don't myself touch on them at all. i confine myself to the cardinal principles about which you have enquired." "and those?" enquired mr. jones, in his turn. "the fatherhood of god, the majesty, the wisdom, the sanctity of his laws, and--the brotherhood of man." mr. jones shook his hand sadly. "that is merely natural religion," he commented. "men will find it but a broken reed in the hour of temptation and the time of sorrow." "it suffices," said tom "for some of the wisest, the best-living, the most benevolent of men." "aye?" questioned mr. jones. "the jews," said tom quietly. "contrast the life of the average jew with that of the average christian. will you find the difference always in favour of the christian?" "surely, yes," said mr. jones. "an unbeliever can never have the impregnable assurance that we find in the crucified christ." "not in the loving-kindness of the father," said tom. "you exalt the son at the expense of the father?" "dear me, dear me," said mr. jones. "this is worse than i thought. i am afraid you are all astray, my young friend. i beseech you consider your ways, reflect on the danger you are in, the perils that compass you round about. above all pray without ceasing, pray for light and guidance." "i do pray, mr. jones. i pray every day; i pray at my bed-side, i pray at my work, in my daily walks." "ah! but prayer without faith is but a beating of the air. you must have an intercessor with your offended god, a sacrifice for his outraged laws." "mr. jones, i respect your zeal and think you mean well. i do sacrifice. i offer myself as a living sacrifice. it is all i have to offer. when the great account is made up my life must plead for me. if that will not avail, i have little confidence in any other plea. but i did not seek this interview, mr. jones nor choose this topic, or is this, main street of holmfirth, the best place for such discussion as we have drafted into. my main business to-day is to determine how much a bale i can afford to give for the best spanish wool that is the part of my master's business that i am intent on just now. if i remember that it _is_ my master's business, i shan't be so far wrong, shall i? and i'm going to try to make a bargain with a jew wool-stapler, and i'm no more afraid of being overreached than if he were a christian. but come up to co-op mill, and have a fling at my class you'll be made heartily welcome. fix your own time, but come." "god forbid," said mr. jones, as tom darted into the railway station, just in time to catch the huddersfield train. jabez tinker was as little pleased as his spiritual guide with the rumours to which he could not well be deaf, concerning the success of the novel enterprise of his former apprentice. from the first he had predicted disaster for the venture. it was the crack-brained scheme of an addle-pated enthusiast and a misguided, self-opinionated youth. that was his opinion, and he did not keep his opinion to himself. but as time went on and the bankruptcy he had foretold did not overwhelm the co-op mill; as old and tried hands who had been with him for years, one after the other, left wilberlee for the small concern higher up the stream, jabez began to feel the irritation of the prophet whose vaticinations have come to nought. it would not be fair to say that jabez begrudged tom and ben their success. that success could scarcely be considered to have injured him in his business. the operations, the rise or fall of co-op mill, were in his eyes beneath anything but contemptuous notice. but he could not conceal from himself that he would have better pleased to have seen tom coming to him, cap in hand, to sue for reinstatement at wilberlee. he had a sort of rankling resentment against tom for refusing his own proffer of protection and advancement. when he had made that offer he had plumbed himself on his magnanimity--and, indeed, it was a generous offer. jabez tinker's pride was wounded, and jabez tinker was a proud man. one day he chanced to meet nehemiah wimpenny, the lawyer. it was near the time for the elections to the local board, of which mr. tinker had been so long the chairman and autocrat that the other members of the board might just as well have stopped at home as attended the monthly meetings. wimpenny was the clerk. "well, we shall soon have the elections upon us, mr. tinker, and i suppose you have heard the news. rum start, isn't it? what next, i wonder." "i've heard no particular news that i'm aware of, wimpenny. i'm no gad-about, as you know." "ah, well! it's an old saying that we've to go from home to hear news, especially if it happens to concern ourselves. not that this is likely to give you much uneasiness." "well what is it?" asked tinker, uneasily. "oh! it's hardly worth retailing. sorry i mentioned it; but they are saying in the village you are to be opposed at the next election." "me! opposed! well, i'm ready, and pray, who is to be my 'honourable opponent,'--that's the expression, isn't it? 'pon my word, i'll relish a good stand-up fight. i've been returned unopposed so often that a good, vigorous opposition will do me good." "well," said wimpenny slowly, "i'm not sure you'll think your honourable opponent a foeman worthy of your steel. you'll never guess who they're talking about." mr. tinker rapidly reviewed, mentally, all men of the neighbourhood likely to enter the lists against him. "i'm a bad hand at conundrums," he said, "i give it up." "what would you say to that insolent young upstart at co-op mill?" "what! tom pinder! confound the puppy. why, there'd be little honour in defeating him. d----n his impudence. but you're joking, wimpenny, and i tell you i like joking as little as conundrums. but there,--the fellow isn't worth a thought. a nameless workhouse bastard oppose me! well, you've had your joke, wimpenny; next time we meet try and think of a better one." and tinker strode angrily away, without much ceremony. as a matter of fact there had been talk of nominating tom for a seat on the board, and the matter had been even broached to tom himself. but tom had from the first scouted the idea. he had enough on his hands looking after his own concerns, and he had sense enough to know that if a man won't stick to his business his business won't long stick to him. but when it transpired that, had he consented, he would have had to fight his old master, tom was indignant. what did people take him for, he wondered. he felt that for him to pit himself against mr. tinker would have been a gratuitous insult to the man who had been his master for so many years. he knew that it would be to wound that master in his most sensitive spot, and he had a respect for family pride all the greater, perhaps, because he himself had no family ties or traditions to be proud of. and he shuddered to think what dorothy might say to his presumption and ingratitude should the mere suggestion of his possible candidature reach her ears. but of tom's way of meeting the proposal mr. tinker was, of course, as yet, quite unaware. he had taken it for granted that wimpenny was well informed, that he would not have repeated to him a vulgar _canard_. and mr. tinker was therefore in high dudgeon when he spoke to dorothy on the subject. "does that tom pinder live at garside's yet?" he asked. dorothy opened her eyes in wonderment. it was the first time she remembered her uncle to have so much as mentioned tom's name to her. "i believe so, off and on. but i think lucy garside, ben's daughter, told me they see very little of him except on sunday night. he seems to spend both day and night at his mill. lucy says he does the work of three men." "you seem to be very intimate with these garsides. 'lucy' comes very pat to your lips. do you see much of them? do you ever meet this pinder there?" "oh, yes, sometimes." "i think you might remember you are my niece. such people as we are not fit associates for the garsides; still less for their lodger." "law! uncle, what have they done now? i've known lucy ever since i could toddle almost." "that may be. it's your aunt's fault, i suppose. i can't attend to everything. and now your aunt's illness keeps her at harrogate you do pretty much as you like, i suppose." "when the cat's away the mice will play," thought dorothy; but only thought it. "well," continued jabez, "you mustn't visit the house any more. i won't have it. if you don't respect yourself, you must respect me. you must drop these garsides and pinder too. by the bye, come to think of it, wimpenny told me something about you seeming to be very familiar with pinder at the whitsuntide gathering. i didn't take much notice of it at the time. but be good enough to ignore him next time you chance to meet him." "i'm sure i'm much obliged to mr. wimpenny for his interest in my movements," said dorothy. "are you acting on his advice, uncle? did he charge you 'six--an'-eight' for it? he must be very smart, for i'm sure it isn't worth half the money." "this is no laughing matter miss, i'd have you know, i tell you, you must drop these garsides, and that young puppy too." "who? mr. wimpenny?" "d----n mr. wimpenny," roared jabez. "you know my meaning very well. see to it that you heed it. people will be saying next that you are running after the jackanapes." dorothy blushed scarlet. there was an angry gleam in her eye. she drew herself up proudly. "i am a tinker, sir, no less than you. i was left to choose my friends when i was young and needed, perhaps, a guide. i call lucy garside my friend, and so long as lucy garside deems me hers, be sure i shall not do as you command. as for mr. pinder----" "your precious pinder," snarled jabez. "you had better go to him and learn from him how your brother's daughter and your niece should be addressed." dorothy swept out of the room. oh! jabez! jabez! how little you know the heart of woman. it is safe to say that from that hour dorothy never thought of the unconscious tom without resentment against her uncle, and a feeling that certainly was not resentment for tom. mr. tinker felt in anything but a christian spirit when his niece so defiantly left the room, and he knit his brow in angry meditation. "am i never to be done with that tom pinder?" ran his thoughts. "i pick him up out of the workhouse; he knocks my overseer head over heels; he refuses the handsomest offer i ever made to anyone in my life; starts in business on his own account, and now, forsooth, has the audacity to try conclusions with me at the polling-booth. i've a good mind to let him have a walk-over. there'll be no credit in beating him--that i'm sure to do but if by any chance he should head the poll--but that's not to be thought of. i'll give the cub something else to think of besides canvassing, or my name's not jabez tinker. if a man will play at bowls he must expect rubbers." and as a result of his deliberations the manufacturer once more found himself in the office of mr. nehemiah wimpenny. "come to sign your will, mr. tinker? it's been ready for you this--i don't know how long. i thought you'd forgotten all about it, and yet you seemed in a precious hurry about it when you gave me the instructions." "no, it's not about my will i've come. that can wait, i think. in fact i may have to vary my instructions. i'm not quite satisfied with my niece's conduct lately. but we won't go into that at present. it's another, a more important one." nehemiah settled himself in his chair and gave all his mind to his client; but jabez seemed for the nonce to have lost his usual promptitude and decision. he had to pick his words. "it's a question of water-right," he said at last. "h'm, ticklish things, very," said nehemiah. "nothing more so." "so i've always understood," said jabez--"and costly." "yes, costly. you might almost pave holmfirth with the gold that's been spent on law over disputes about water. but let me have the facts. perhaps it may not be a complicated case at all." but his client seemed in no hurry to state the facts. he seemed to be more interested in the question of cost. "suppose i have a complaint to make against a firm higher up the stream, what are the proceedings to be taken?" "what do you complain about, fouling or improperly tapping your supply?" mr. tinker took time to reply. "i don't quite follow you," he said. "why," said nehemiah, "water-right cases are usually complaints that a man has fouled the stream with dye-water or chemicals or by diverting ochre-water from above his own head-goit so that it may enter the river below his own mill but above his neighbour's. that's one class of case, and a comparatively easy one. the other is when a mill-owner fancies that the water that has passed over his neighbour's water-wheel is not returned to the stream for his own use lower down the stream. now that's always a very delicate question, and one for experts. and it's well known that for one surveyor you get to swear on your side, another can be got to swear on the other. they're as bad as vets, in a horse-warranty case. now which class of infringement do you complain of?" again mr. tinker had to pause for a reply. "o both," he said. "yes, certainly, both." "why," exclaimed wimpenny, "whose mill is it?" "the co-op mill," said his client, somewhat shamefacedly, as the lawyer thought. "what! that fellow, pinder! by jove, i'm glad of this. gad! i'm as pleased as if you'd told me i was own brother to the prince of wales. but"--and his face fell. "but what?" asked jabez, sharply. "it'll be lean picking, even if we win. i don't suppose the whole concern's worth powder and shot." "and why are you anxious powder and shot should be spent on pinder?" asked tinker, suspiciously. "oh, well i don't mind telling you, mr. tinker. the fact is, i was rather hard hit by your beautiful niece, if you'll excuse my saying so." "well?" said mr. tinker, stiffly. "but she seemed to prefer that low fellow pinder's company to mine, and if she's no better taste than that, well, i'm not the one to enter the running against a screw." mr. tinker winced. "you seem to lose heart very easily, mr. wimpenny. young men weren't so easily discouraged in my young days." "much you know about it," thought the lawyer. "a spirited young woman like dorothy tinker's rather a different sort of an undertaking from old split's scarecrow of a daughter." by mutual consent to the men reverted the less embarrassing question of water rights. "just explain to me, wimpenny, what must be done to vindicate my rights." "well, you must file a bill in the court of chancery, and you must file affidavits by the oldest inhabitants as to the customary service of the water, and by analysts as to pollution, and you must go for damages, and you'll have to get other manufacturers to assess the damages, and, oh!--yes, you might try for an _interim_ injunction." "and pinder'll have to set another lawyer on?" "of course he will." "and that'll cost _him_ money, win or lose?" "rather." "then go at him hammer and tongs, and the sooner you begin and the hotter you go at him, the better you'll please me." "but the evidence?" "you must find the evidence, sir. i don't care whether i win or lose. but co-op mill must stop. for want of water if we win: for want of funds if we lose." "do you understand me?" "you bet i do, and i'll tell you this, i never went into a case with better heart. you may rest easy, mr. tinker. co-op mill's as good as broke." it was but a week or so after this interview that workhouse jack, loitering about the mill yard, espied a seedy looking fellow peering in at the mill-gates. it was a saturday afternoon. the engine was stopped, the hands had trooped home, tom and ben had gone for a walk, and jack was in sole charge. he was dressed in his sunday best, and meditating a visit to the village, and, of course, lucy. he knew the visitor at once for wimpenny's process server. the process server did not know jack. "can i see mr. pinder?" the man asked. "aye, if yo're none blind," answered jack. "what's your will?" "oh, beg your pardon, sir. didn't know it was you. this is for you, sir, and he slipped a paper into jacks hand." "it's a petition in chancery filed by our client, mr. jabez tinker, against you, sir." "a 'tition, is it," said jack "an' what mun aw do wi' it nah aw've getten it?" "better see your lawyer about it." "oh! an' what 'ud ha' happened, now, just for argyment's sake, if yo'd dropped this ere precious dockyment i'stead o' 'liverin' it to me?" the clerk was not prepared to say. "i don't know indeed. perhaps the action couldn't go on." "oh! it couldn't, eh?" "i'm not sure. but any way, i _have_ served it: so it's no use going into that." "aye, yo'n sarved it," assented jack. "just step this way, will yo', while aw run mi e'en ovver it," and so saying, jack led the way into the boiler-house. then jack deliberately locked the door. "what does this mean?" asked the clerk. "it just meeans this. yo' look as if a square meeal 'ud do yo' all th' gooid i'th' warld, an' aw reckon yo've got to eit this bit o' papper afore yo' cum aat." jack flung it at him and sat quietly down. "yo' may ta' yo'r time, aw'm no ways pressed mi sen. if yo' feel it a bit dry aw'll find yo' a can o' watter to wesh it dahn wi'; but eit it yo' do afore yo' see dayleet agen." "but, mr. pinder!" "mr. pinder, indeed yo' gorm fooil. a'm nooan mr. pinder. mr. pinder's a gentleman. aw'm nobbut his man. nah, ger agate: sooiner yo'r' at it, an' sooiner yo'll ha' done." and in the boiler-house tom found the custodian of co-op mill and his prisoner. to jack's indignation tom quietly pocketed the petition and released the clerk with an apology and a solatium. chapter xii to say that the service of the bill in chancery on tom was like a bolt from the blue would be but feebly to describe the consternation with which he perused the portentous document, and in time realized its meaning and effect. tom was absolutely unconscious that either in thought, word, or deed he had wronged any of his neighbours below stream. he had not, to his knowledge, turned more dye-water into the river, or taken more pure water from it than the reasonable working of his mill demanded, and had been afore-time accustomed by his predecessor. he had received no complaint from mr. tinker, no request for abatement of any nuisance he might unwittingly have committed, or infringement he might innocently have caused, nehemiah wimpenny in his zeal to do his client's behests, and in the animus he himself cherished against tom, had even pretermitted the usual letter of courtesy preceding the firing of the first shot, the letter which in litigation is like the pourparlers of ambassadors preparatory to the formal declaration of war--an omission by the way, which nehemiah had subsequent occasion to repent in sack-cloth and ashes. but for the present nehemiah was jubilant and elate. affidavits simply rained upon tom. photographers and surveyors swarmed about the banks of the holme above and below co-op mill, and its waters were analysed and tested qualitatively and quantitatively as though the fate of empires depended on the issue. it was plain that wimpenny meant to press the motion for an interim injunction, the effect of which would be to stop, if but temporarily, the work at co-op mill, and would of itself be as disastrous to its tenant as a final decree after full trial. tom and ben discussed the situation in all its bearings. "aw'll tell yo' what it is," said ben, "it's nowt but spite. aw've known this stream, man and boy, for ovver fifty year, an' th' co-op mill as mony. an' a hangel fro' heaven couldn't mak' me believe as we'n done owt 'at jabez tinker's a reight to complain on. it's nowt but spite, tom, it's th' owd tale ovver agen o' th' wolf an' th' lamb. he meeans to eit us up flesh an' bone, that's th' long an' th' short on it. an' what for? that lays ovver me entirely. tha's nivver crossed him i' owt, has ta, tom?" and then, for the first time tom told his friend of the offer tinker had made to him at the close of his apprenticeship. "an' what didn't ta tak' th' shop for, tom? it 'ud ha' been a seet easier for thee nor startin' at th' co-op?" "well, you see ben, we'd made all our arrangements and--" "aye, aye, aw see, lad, tha wer' feeart aw sud think tha'd thrown me ovver. eh, lad, me and yar hannah an' lucy too, for that matter, 'ud ha' gone to th' big house afore yo' sud ha' gone agen yo'r best interests for us." "oh, nonsense, ben. i preferred the co-op scheme. i never enjoyed my life so much as i have done since we went into it, and i shall never cast a regretful thought over either the labour or the wee bit money it has cost me. what worries me, ben, so i can't sleep o'nights, is the thought of the men who have joined us and put their life-savings into the concern. i shall never hold up my head again if they are to lose their money through their confidence in me." "and i' me, tom, i' me, too. yo' see, lad, yo' wer' i' a manner o' speikin' a stranger; but they'd known me all my life. but aw'm nooan feeart they'll blame oather on us, after th' first shock's ovver. but if they dunnot ma' jabez tinker sweeat for this job, they're nooan th' lad's aw tak' 'em for. if yo' know onybody 'at's interested i' insurance companies just yo' tell 'em to fight shy o' wilberlee mill," answered ben savagely. "that's nonsense, ben, and yo know it. now what's to be done?" "let's go see mister re'fearn," suggested ben. "i'm afraid he may think we want to ask him to help us out. we must take no money, ben, from anybody. we'll keep our good names if we lose every stick we have." "oh! tha needn't be so tetchy, tom, redfearn's nooan fooil enough to lend us money to throw away. but yo' know he's had more deealin's wi' th' law nor us, an' though it gooas agen th' grain, aw expec' we'st ha' to put a lawyer on to this job. we mun set a thief to catch a thief, aw ma' no daat." so tom and ben set off for fairbank's and were fortunate enough to find mr. redfearn at home. he would hear no talk of business till all had sat down to a good dinner in his own well-furnished sitting room. "folk always look on th' gloomy side of things when their belly's empty," he observed, "an' taking too doleful a way o' lookin' at things is just as foolish as takin' too cheerful a one," from which profound truism it will be seen that the farmer had learned something in the school of life that is not taught in academies or college. he listened at first to the story that tom unfolded with the utmost attention and gravity. he even insisted on tom reading to him the chancery bill and the pile of affidavits, but the prolixity and tautology of the legal phrasing soothed him like a soporific. "it's like bein' i' church," he muttered drowsily; and presently to complete the analogy, fell into a slumber from which he was only aroused by the entrance of mrs. redfearn with decanters, lemon, sugar and hot water, and a bottle of home-made rhubarb wine for the special cheer of tom, whose habits she knew. "yo' munnot think aw've been asleep" said fairbanks. "aw wer' thinkin', an' aw can allus think best wi' mi e'en shut. th' missus theer 'll tell yo' aw speik th' truth, for 'oo often thinks awm asleep when 'oo's givin' me a leckter upstairs; but aw know ivvery word oo's said th' next mornin' better than 'oo does hersen." "an' much good my talkin' does you, and much notice you take of it," said mrs. redfearn, "but if yo' _have_ been thinkin' let's hear what you've thowt on." "tell aleck to put bob i' th' shafts. we'r' bahn to huddersfilt. this is a lawyer's job, tom, an' aw think aw know th' varry man for yo'. yo' know sykes 0' wrigley mill. he's a lad i' huddersfilt 'at used to be a sort o' teacher wi' mr. black, an' then wer' 'prenticed to a 'torney in th' taan. he's started for hissen now. he's as full o' law as an egg's full o' meit, so folk sayn. but he'll neer ma' much aat awm feeart, for when he gets on his hind legs to speik, d-me if he can say boh! to a gooise. his wits all go a wool gatherin' but he knows th' law, none better, aw'm towd. an' believe me or believe me not aw do think he's honest so that wi' his narvousness an' his honesty, he'll not mak' much aat as a 'torney. aw'm feart oather on 'em's a drawback i' his job; but _both_ together's enough to sink a clivverer man nor edwin sykes 'll ever be." it cannot be said that the anxious trio got much comfort from mr. sykes. he told them frankly that at the very best the litigation must be costly and prolonged, and that in the long run the court would probably be guided by the weight and authority of the expert evidence. "now that means purse against purse. and i'm afraid, mr. pinder, that our guns are neither so many nor so heavy as our opponent's. and wimpenny won't give us much rest." one grain of consolation they did bear away with them, however. mr. sykes was able to assure them that there was small likelihood of the court granting an _interim_ injunction. "the judge will know that to stop the work at the mill, even temporarily, would mean a probably irreparable loss. he won't prejudge the case on an interlocutary proceeding. that will give you time to turn yourself round, mr. pinder, and i should say your best plan would be to look out for a mill lower down the stream, _below_ mr. tinker's. then perhaps you can have a fling at him some fine day." "eh! he's a deep 'un is ned for all his quiet ways. talks like a judge doesn't he? what's that word--inter summat?" "interlocutory," said tom. "an' just think 'at aw've cuffed that lad mony a time when aw've found him moonin abaat fairbanks wi' a book i' his hand. it's just wonderful what education 'll do." it did not remain a secret in holmfirth that the new co-op was in chancery--name of dread import. _omne ignotum pro magnifico_. the utmost that even the fairly well-informed could tell about chancery was that it was a bottomless pit from which there was no escape, or a kind of legal den where the lawyers fed on the oysters called estates, flinging out the shells for the suitors to quarrel or get reconciled over. that was the utmost; but it was enough. tom called a private meeting of all the hands and told them the facts. their first feeling was one of blank dismay, their next and abiding feeling one of dogged resistance. "it's the devil's plot, and hatched in hell," said the spokesman of the men who had money in the concern. "but we'll fight to the finish, an' bi what we'n heard abaat this here chancery, th' finish 'll be abaat th' same time as th' day o' judgment." the news reached dorothy through the faithful betty. "well, the law can't hurt mr. pinder if he's done nothing wrong," said her young mistress "the law is for evil-doers, and i suppose mr. pinder is not an evil-doer. he's a very innocent looking one if he is." "ah! it's little yo' know about th' law, or me oather, come to that. but aw keep mi ears oppen an' they _do_ say,--" "which, being interpreted, means 'serjeant ramsden of the county constabulary,'" interrupted dorothy, with an arch smile. "well, what do they, _alias_ serjeant ramsden, say." "why," answered betty in no wise abashed. "he, aw meean they, say 'at it doesn't matter a brass farden i' chancery whether a man's i' th' reight or th' wrang. it's th' longest purse at wins i' th' long run. th' serjeant says, miss, 'at if tom wins i' one court yo'r uncle can peeal to a higher court, an' on an' on till it reaches th' lord hissen." "the lords, you mean, perhaps, betty." "weil, it's all as one, for ought aw can see. it's naked we come into th' world, and naked we go aat on it, an aw reckon tom 'll be stripped pretty stark afore th' case gets up to th' lords." "but what's it all about, betty? dear me, if being in love makes a woman so tiresome as you are, i hope such a calamity will never befall me. what _has_ mr. pinder done?" "oh!" said betty, "there's no hope o' yo'r escapin' it unless so be as yo'r minded to play a very one-sided game. but if yo' ax me what th' law stir's abaat, as far as aw can mak' aat th' _mester_ says it's abaat th' watter-reets to th' mill, but _folk_ sen it's nowt but spite, so nah yo' han it plump an' fair." "meaning that my uncle has gone to law with his former apprentice from some petty feeling of jealousy, or just to cripple him or even ruin him?" "that's th' talk o'th village, choose ha." "well, i don't believe it, betty. my uncle is incapable of such conduct. but i'll soon find out for myself. get me my hat and cape this moment. i'm going out." and dorothy walked with quick, resolute steps to ben garside's house. she was fortunate enough to find lucy alone, and of this she was glad, for she was in no humour to enjoy hannah's garrulous speech. "what's this i hear, lucy, about my uncle going to law with mr. pinder. i can make neither head nor tail of betty at home, so i've come to you. it seems to me there's something about law that forbids people to be intelligible when they're talking of it?" "your uncle," said lucy very gravely, "has served a bill in chancery, i think they call it, on tom." "what in the name of common sense is a bill in chancery? i know what a dressmaker's bill is, but the other variety is beyond me." "i don't quite know all the ins and outs of it," replied lucy, still very seriously. "but so far as i can make out your uncle complains that tom fouls the stream and takes more water out than he's any right to, and of course as wilberlee is lower down the stream it must injure your uncle if it's true." "and is it true?" asked dorothy. "both tom and father say there isn't a word of truth in it." "and you believe them?" "of course i do," said lucy simply. "then what is there to look so gloomy about? 'pon my word, lucy, if you go on in the dumps like that i'll shake you. i only wish somebody would bring a false charge against me. there's nothing i should enjoy more than making them prove their words at no end of trouble and expense, and then laughing at the faces they'd pull when they failed to do it. if that's chancery i call chancery a very good joke." "aye, but tom says it will take all they have in the world to prove that they're in the right, and that month after month, for goodness knows how long, the money that should go for wages and in carrying on the mill must go to their lawyer. so it means ruin, win or lose." "and that's what they call law, is it?" exclaimed dorothy. "anybody could see a set of men noodles made it. but what are they going to do?" "just carry on as long as they can, and then i don't know what. it doesn't matter so much for father. he can take to his hand-loom again, and now i'm so much stronger i hope to be a help to him. i can spin wonderful. but it will be a sad blow for tom. his whole heart and soul were in the mill. not for the money. i never knew anyone care less for money than tom. but the hands were so contented and father says it was to prove a social and economic revolution, whatever that may mean." "it means apparently," said dorothy "ruining yourself for the general good. does tom,--mr. pinder, take it much to heart?" "he pretends not to, always tries to put a cheerful face on when he talks to mother. but i know it's just crushing the youth out of him. but it's because those that went in with him may have to lose their money. and father says there'll be no room for tom in these parts if th' co-op's stopped. the other manufacturers are sure to side with your uncle, and they'll none of them give tom a job if he asked for it." "oh! they wouldn't, eh?" then suddenly. "is tom _very_ dear to you, lucy?" lucy flushed, and her eyes fell before dorothy's questioning look. but her voice, though low, was very steady as she spoke. "i love him very much, dorothy. next to the love i have for mother and father there is no one in the world to me like tom. he is my big brother, you know," she added, with a faint smile. "oh! those big brothers have a way of turning into big lovers," said dorothy. "that's just their artful way. they get a poor innocent confiding girl to feel like a sister, and then when she begins to feel she cannot very well do without him, nothing will do but a ring and a parson. i know them," said dorothy viciously. "tom will never be _my_ lover, dorothy," said lucy, quietly. "and why pray, miss pale-face?" "because he loves someone else. he has loved her for years." "what parson tom engaged! tragedy upon tragedy. there are two blighted beings then; the course of their true love, ruffled by this dreadful chancery. and who's the luckless she? this is a world of surprises. tom was not such a bat as to look outside this house for a prettier face and a sweeter heart than he'll find inside it." "i didn't say tom was engaged," said lucy. "i know you didn't. well, if it isn't i'll not venture another guess. still, i'm a daughter of eve after all, and i confess i hope mr. pinder is not going to throw himself away on some good-looking empty-head of a girl--a calf-love. you said it was a malady of standing, contracted young, if i remember." "yes, she's good-looking," said lucy. "_and_ empty-headed?" "you wouldn't like me to say so." "i! what have my likes to do with it? it's no concern of mine. really, you stimulate my curiosity. is it anyone i know? does she go to our chapel?" "yes, she goes to aenon," said lucy. "but there, i'll tell you no more." "oh! i can guess, and thank you for nothing. it's that apprentice of miss baxter's, the milliner. now don't deny it. i saw mr. pinder looking at her very much the last sunday he honoured aenon. the girl with the green gloves. the taste of some men--in dress i mean." "have it your own way," said lucy, "you'll find out someday, perhaps." "oh! bother tom pinder and his lady-loves green gloves as well. however did we get talking of such a trifle! now, seriously, lucy, do your father and the other want to fight this case, and can they win if they can fight." "they say so. but what's the use of talking. if ifs and buts were apples and ducks!" "and who knows but they are," said dorothy, springing to her feet. she kissed lucy with a bright face. "don't lose heart, little pale-face. they aren't beaten yet. tell them not to give in. i say so. now, good-bye,--you're sure it's green gloves?" "you know i never said so. but good-bye." it is never safe to be certain about anything connected with the law; but the opinion may be hazarded that never in the long years of his tenancy did the office of mr. edwin sykes receive a fairer client than the young lady who was closeted with that sedate professor of the gloomy science not long after the interview just recorded. the young lady did not seem in the least impressed by the sombre volumes of statutes and reports that lined the walls of the room, nor yet by the tape-bound bundles of foolscap, draft, and brief, neatly docketed, that were spread on a table by the lawyer's side, so many pot-eggs, the ribald alleged, to tempt the unwary to lay. dorothy had accepted the chair mr. sykes had handed her, but flicked its horse-hair cushion with a delicate cambric handkerchief before complying with his invitation to be seated. "how very musty everything is," she remarked in explanation. "if i'd walked the length of new street after sitting on your chair without first dusting it, everyone would have said either that i'd been knocked down by a tramp and robbed on my way from holmfirth, or been to visit an attorney. there mayn't be much difference in the consequences," she added reflectively, "but i don't want all the world to know my business. you can keep a secret, i suppose, mr. sykes?" "it is part of my business," the lawyer answered. "even from mrs. sykes--there is a mrs. sykes, i suppose." "well, yes, as you are good enough to ask, there _is_ a mrs. sykes,--and till to-day i thought her the most daring of her sex" he would have liked to add. "ah! that's a comfort. now i can tell you everything. you wouldn't think now i'm in great trouble, and i want you to help me out of it, and not a living soul but you must know about it." as dorothy looked radiantly happy as she made this doleful plaint it may be assumed that mr. sykes argued her case was not so desperate as her words. "if you will tell me, miss tinker, the nature of your trouble i may be able to prescribe for you. we poor lawyers are not so clever as the doctors. we can't diagnose by the looks, or, i confess, i should not advise you to abandon hope." "and this is the lawyer ben said couldn't say boh! to a goose," thought dorothy. "now, how shall i begin?" she said. "suppose you try the beginning," he suggested. "you know mr. pinder, of holmfirth?" asked dorothy, glancing at a formidable pile of papers on the desk labelled "pinder at the suit of tinker." "if you mean mr. tom pinder, of co-op mill, hinchliff mill, i think i may go so far as to say i do." "come, that's something," said dorothy. "you are so very cautious you might have added 'without prejudice.' now is it a very bad case?" she concluded. "really! miss tinker." "now i don't want any humming and ha-ing, you know, mr. sykes. i take a very great interest in mr. pinder--well, not in him you know. that's ridiculous: but in lucy, you know" and dorothy nodded with great significance, whilst the lawyer felt that he was getting deeper and deeper into a bog. "i confess i don't know," he said, "and i must ask you to be a little more explicit." "well,--dear me! how tiresome you are--it's about this quarrel between uncle jabez and mr. pinder." "are you mr. tinker's niece? then really, miss tinker, i think if your uncle wants to open up any negotiations towards a settlement he'd better send his lawyer." "what! nehemiah wimpenny! how could he? didn't i tell you no one was to know anything of my visit but you and me, and mr. wimpenny's the very last man in the world i'd chose for any errand of mine." "but in what can i help you, miss tinker? you will understand, of course, that i cannot discuss my client's affairs with anyone without his knowledge and privilege,--no, not though an angel drop from the clouds." "i suppose that's a _rechauffã©_ from one of your pretty sayings to lizzie hudson. oh! yes! i know all about it mr. sykes. lizzie and i were at school together, and i thought it just odious of her not to ask me to her wedding." "and only a minute ago she asked me if there were a mrs. sykes," reflected the harassed young man. "will she ever get to her story?" "and that's what gave me confidence to come to you, mr. sykes. not the not being asked to the wedding, but because you were lizzie's husband, and i did think of calling on her and bringing her with me, but she'd have guessed,"--and here dorothy stopped abruptly. "yes, she'd have guessed?" said mr. sykes, encouragingly. "never you mind what lizzie would have guessed. it's about this lawsuit i've come. i suppose i'd better come to the point." "wish to heaven you would," thought the lawyer. "now which do you think will win, uncle or mr. pinder?" "if law and justice were one, miss tinker, there could only be one answer--mr. pinder." "but they aren't,--so that means tom, that's mr. pinder, will lose." "you really must excuse me, miss tinker, i've said, even now, more than i'd any right to say." "but don't you see, i want to help mr. pinder to win. that's what i came for. didn't i tell you? dear me, i wish i'd gone to lizzie first. _she_ isn't slow, at any rate." mr. sykes smiled. "no, my wife is not slow-witted, and i'm afraid i am. perhaps that's why she took pity on me." "shouldn't wonder. now the question is, how can we help mr. pinder, i mean lucy, of course." mr. sykes felt his brain beginning to give way in the vain striving after his visitor's drift. "lucy," he murmured hopelessly. "yes, lucy. she's my dearest friend. and she's to marry tom,--mr. pinder i mean. that is to say she would if he would; but she says he wont, and perhaps she's right. anyway, she wanted him to win this case, and i want him to win this case, and what's more, i mean him to win this case,--for lucy's sake, of course, because she says it's all spite, and neither law nor justice, and you say so too, don't you?" "yes, i do." "now lucy says it's all a matter o' money, i don't mean matrimony; for goodness sake _don't_ repeat that stupid jest. but i've had a long talk with lucy, and she says it will cost tom and ben, that's lucy's father, you know, heaps and heaps of money to fight the case to the end, and that's just what they haven't got. you're the blood-sucker, i suppose?" "yes, miss tinker, i'm afraid i'm one of them--for lizzie's sake, of course." dorothy looked sharply at mr. sykes, and there was a slight flush of colour on her cheek as she repeated "oh, yes, for lizzie's sake, of course." was it possible that this very sedate young man could guess beyond his brief? "now _i've_ got some money; at least i suppose so; though i've never seen it. but i've always understood my poor father that i don't remember, made a will, and i was the only child. now you must get to know all about that, and mr. pinder and ben are not to go to the wall for want of money. do you understand that?" "but am i really to understand, miss tinker, that you propose to spend your money in helping my clients in fighting your own uncle?" "i don't care if he's twenty times my uncle, though once time once is enough, thank you. but if he's mean enough to try to ruin ben garside--" "and mr. pinder?" put in the lawyer, quite casually. "and i thought this lawyer stupid," thought dorothy, but ignored the interruption. "then i'm mean enough to fight him with his own weapons, uncle or no uncle." "it sounds parlously like champerty and maintenance," said mr. sykes, more to himself than to dorothy. "there's no sham about it, sir. i mean every word of it. i'll let my uncle see he can't treat me as he does poor aunt, like dirt under his feet." "god grant i'm spared the aunt," groaned edwin sykes inwardly "what with her lucy and her own quite bewildering self there are quite women enough in the case, without introducing an aunt." "if i follow you, miss tinker, you are desirous, for your friend lucy's sake, to help my client with money to carry on this unfortunate litigation. have you any idea what the costs may amount to?" "not the slightest. but that doesn't matter. the money shall be found." "i've another question to ask, miss tinker, and a very delicate one. may i ask how old you are?" "and this is the man that can't say boh! to a goose," again thought dorothy. "i suppose if i'd assurance enough for a lawyer i should tell you i'm as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth," replied dorothy merrily. "that's exactly what i'm driving at," was the reply very seriously uttered. "i'm not at all sure that i should be justified in taking your money without my client's knowledge and consent even if you were of full age, but from a minor!" "pshaw, i sha'n't be a minor all my life. i shall be twenty one next birthday, and that's on may 21st." "there's many things may happen between now and your birthday.'' "exactly, your client may be ruined and lucy may be broken-hearted, and all because of a silly punctilio." "have you a copy of your father's will." "ah! now you're talking. i haven't; but i suppose one can be procured. i should like to see one any way, for even a woman may be allowed a little curiosity as to her own fortune. after all, i may be as poor as a church mouse. but you can find out that for me and have no qualms, i hope." "oh, yes, i shall be pleased to get you a copy of the will. i apprehend that you come to your inheritance in the general way." "and that is?" "if and when you attain the age of twenty-one years, or marry under that age. by the way, that suggests one simple solution of the difficulty, you might marry." "oh! that's out of the question." "not for, ahem!"--the young lawyer raised his long white hand to his mouth and coughed very slightly "not for lucy's sake?" dorothy rose with some dignity to close the interview. "let me know please when have got the copy of the will. meanwhile, i suppose i can rely on your discretion," and dorothy made to go. "nay, miss tinker, you have not permitted me to say my say. i am well aware that mr. pinder is a poor man. i am also a poor man. i had not intended to trouble my client in the event of defeat for more than the actual costs out of pocket. those i couldn't afford to advance. if you give me your simple word that these shall be paid sooner or later by someone, no matter who," and here there was the barest suspicion of a twinkle in the young man's eyes as he added, "or for whose sake, rest assured i shall not allow mr. pinder's cause to fail for want of professional assistance. more i cannot promise." dorothy extended her hand. "and you have my word that if i live you shall not suffer. i do so want tom, i mean mr. pinder, to win if he's in the right. i'll do almost anything rather than he should be borne down simply by his poverty. i say _almost_ anything. i draw the line at marrying, you know; besides," and a look of sudden remembrance sprung to dorothy's eyes. "yes, besides?" "oh, it's something you wouldn't understand, about a horrid girl with green gloves," and dorothy tripped away with a smile and a nod. "this case fairly bristles with women," mused edwin sykes. quintilian was right: _nulla causa sine femina_. and the months went by and the trial of the great cause of "pinder at the suit of tinker" seemed as far off as ever. first blood had been drawn by the defendant: the motion for an _interim_ injunction and an account of profits had been refused by the court, and the judge had made certain observation as to the precipitancy with which the action had been commenced that made that respectable practitioner, mr. nehemiah wimpenny, who was present at the hearing of the motion, long that the floor of the court would gape and swallow him to the bowels of the earth,--anywhere out of hearing of that calm, gentle voice dropping vitriol in honeyed accents. in proportion as tom and ben and the friends of co-op mill rejoiced, so did mr. tinker rage and storm. from the very filing of the bill he had regretted that in his anger he had instituted proceedings that none knew better than himself were purely vexatious and vindictive. the monitor of the night watches had left him little peace. in vain he had tried to silence the still small voice by arguing to himself that to stop co-op mill would be to stop the irreligious services which more and more abundantly attracted men from the orthodox ministrations of mr. jones and the other chapels of the district. mr. tinker was no jesuit. again and again he more than half-resolved to bid mr. wimpenny stay his hand he would have been glad to be quit of the lawsuit, even if he had to pay the defendant's costs as well as his own. but now that he was smarting under a rebuff, and his enemy was exulting in a momentary triumph,--give way now! no! that was not the stuff jabez tinker was made of. to be bested by a boy, a nobody that owed all he was and all he had to him, a serpent whom he had warmed in his breast,--it could not, it should not be. and nehemiah wimpenny artfully fanned the flames of mr. tinker's wrath. he pooh-poohed the temporary check. "it wasn't an engagement, my dear sir; an interlocutory motion is a mere skirmish, a sort of reconnoitering expedition, a simple device to draw the enemy's fire. now we know where they are. they have had to show their hand, sir. we know where their weak spots are." "that's all very fine," grumbled tinker, gloomily. "we may have found _their_ weak spot; but it seems to me they've found one or two of ours--and one sore one, too, judging by the way you squirmed when my lord rubbed it into you." "oh! that's nothing," laughed wimpenny. "i took his salt _cum grano_, and i don't doubt you'll attach the same importance to this little _contretemps_. the trial's the thing.'' "you must win this case, wimpenny, if money can win it.'' "money can do anything in this world," said wimpenny, "at least that's my professional experience." mr. tinker left the lawyer's office in anything but a tranquil frame of mind. he felt like a conspirator in a sordid crime. the very paltriness of the issues and the insignificance of his opponent galled and fretted him. but how retreat now that all the world was saying that tom pinder was more than a match for jabez tinker? chapter xiii. from this time onward for some months there is little to record. the parties to the great law suit awaited with what patience they might the final trial of the all-important issue. the failure of the attempt to stay the work at co-op mill pending the final decision secured for tom pinder and his colleagues a welcome breathing space. if it were possible all hands bent themselves to their respective tasks with increased energy. the check to the plaintiff gave them heart for the present and hope for the future. every precaution was taken to guard against any fouling or minishing of the stream. the people of the holme valley are even to this day a litigious, disputatious race. they are law-loving in an inverted sense. an average native does not feel that he has lived his life unless he has at least once been prosecutor or plaintiff in a "law do." with the poet he may be supposed to sing- "'tis better to have sued and lost than never sued at all." and the pros and cons of any _cause celebre_ are discussed wherever men foregather long before the fierce light of the courts beat upon the matter. the "company" of the village public constitute themselves into an informal jury. generally each side has its adherents. the witnesses, or such of them as frequent the houses of entertainment, tell and tell again the story they are to repeat in court. the strong and the weak points of the evidence are discussed, criticized, cross-examined, as it were, with all the acumen of the native mind, and all the freedom of irresponsibility, and of the license that ignores the trammelling confines of the laws of evidence. the peculiar qualifications of the local lawyers engaged are discussed with a particularity that would very much surprise, and not always gratify the gentlemen whose merits and demerits are so freely appraised. illustrations drawn from previous forensic contests are liberally drawn upon. there is generally in the company some man who has purchased by bitter experience the right to speak with authority, who airs his knowledge of the intricate mazes of legal proceedings. his conversation bristles with technical terms. he speaks glibly of writs, summonses, subpoenas, judgments, appeals, bills of costs and the taxation thereof. if by good fortune he possesses a copy of an ancient text-book and can produce text and verse in support of his assertions he is an opponent to be admired, but shunned. in public-house controversy the man who is most dogmatic, who can shout loudest and longest is usually adjudged the victor, especially if he is prepared to back his opinion and table the money; but even he must yield to the visible _dicta_ of the printed word. by the time the cause is ripe for hearing, bets have been made and taken; the adherents of the adversaries have ranged themselves; there are the village montagues and capulets, and the local attorney goes into court the champion of a score of clients whose very existence he is unaware of. now in holmfirth jabez tinker's defeat had been celebrated at the _cropper's arms_ by a beast-heart supper. the landlord had provided the beast-heart in the due recognition of the policy of throwing a sprat to catch a mackerel. there had been some talk of inviting edwin sykes to preside at the supper, but even holmfirth hardihood has its bounds. tom pinder, the landlord had shrewdly surmised, would prove a kill-joy, and as for ben garside, though every feeling of his heart said "yes" to the invitation, he was kept away partly by his own sense of propriety, but still more by the emphatic injunctions of his better half. "tha'rt nooan bahn to shaat, ben, afore tha'rt aat o' th' wood, an' when tha does shaat, tha mun do thi shaatin' i' decent company, an' not amang yon' beer-swillin' hogs at th' _cropper's arms_. what do they care whether yo' win or looise? there isn't one on 'em but 'ud sell yo' for a quart o' ale. yo'r nooan bahn to lower yo'rsen bi mixin' amang that lot, it says i'th book theer 'at i' vain the net is spread i' th' seet o' ony bird; but th' kind o' bird at th' net o' th' _cropper's_ is set for mun be bats darkened wi' brewer's grain, an' that's all t' grain some on 'em feed on." it did not lessen jabez tinker's irritation and general sense of all things being awry that he was in many ways made conscious that the only public opinion that he really cared about--that of his own neighbourhood--was dead against him. mr. tinker affected to despise the sentiments of his neighbours, and he certainly could not be accused of stooping to court popularity. but no man is really indifferent to the good or ill-word of his own little world. and jabez was aware that even his own household was not on his side. to be sure in the rare visits he paid to his ailing wife at harrogate he was sure of one sympathetic listener as he unfolded in brief, terse sentences the story of his wrongs, in which he had almost persuaded himself to believe, and of the indignities which he concluded must be patent to everyone. but dorothy he knew to be openly and avowedly in the camp of the enemy, and this was an ever rankling sore. jabez had declared to himself that his niece was the illest of all birds fouling its own nest. she was a tinker, his brother's daughter, and it was her bounden duty to take his side and fight his battle whether he were right or wrong. the mere stranger and passer-by, they might scan and scrutinize; but for the girl who slept under his roof and sat at his table to condemn her heart, was the blackest treason and gross ingratitude jabez had never heard of walpole's reply to the county member who promised his vote whenever he should think the member in the right. "i want men who'll back me right or wrong: through thick and thin." but jabez had the same views as to the countenance he was entitled to expect from his niece. and dorothy was made to feel that her uncle's feelings were very bitter towards her. the subject of the lawsuit was never referred to, but jabez, never a demonstrative or genial relative, now became cold, repellent, caustic. if there was a death in the house, betty declared, it could not be gloomier, and if it wasn't for leaving miss dorothy she wouldn't care how soon she changed her name and state. all this was, one may be sure, not conducive to dorothy's serenity. she had, too, at times, a sense of treachery to her uncle. was she justified in secretly aiding and abetting his enemy, even if that enemy were an enemy _malgrã© lui_? how was she to be certain that what most people said was true, that her uncle was merely persecuting a rival in trade to crush him? could she, indeed, believe that of that stern, austere man, the pillar of aenon chapel, quoted and esteemed throughout the whole baptist denomination who of all other men, she had thought, however unlovable was at least a just man. these considerations were of themselves sufficient to disquiet a young and sensitive mind. there was another. was dorothy honest with herself? it was dorothy who asked the question. and when man or maid has come to the pass of asking so searching a question it is odds that conscience has a ready "no." was it _par exemple_, quite the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, that it was only for her friend's sake, and for the triumph of abstract justice against an unholy conspiracy that dorothy had so overleaped the bounds of maidenly reserve and perilled her fortune in the quicksands of the law. and when dorothy, in the still watches of the night, thus put dorothy's self into the witness box, and her fluttering heart gave its blunt reply, dorothy was fain to draw the coverlet over a winsome face and hide the crimson blushes e'en from the sightless eyes of night, and toss and turn upon her uneasy couch courting and yet dreading the sleep that brought dreams that should not be for maids uncourted and unwon. and to nights thus harassed followed days embittered by her uncle's harsh, forbidding aloofness, and, to fill her cup to the brim, by the now unmistakable attentions of nehemiah wimpenny. that young ornament of the law had fully satisfied himself that dorothy was worth the winning. he had even gone so far as to transfer his valued custom from the _rose and crown_, and polly was left lamenting but sustaining her desertion with more philosophy than ariadne or dido. "good riddance of bad rubbish," was all she said, and forthwith reserved her sweetest smiles and most languishing glances for the village surgeon, who had long sighed in vain, eclipsed by the greater attractions or,--may it be suggested?--by the deeper purse of the village attorney. nehemiah was now a constant visitor at wilberlee, and by jabez tinker was always welcomed with a warmth that increased when the manufacturer perceived that the attorney's visits were not purely professional. jabez saw in his niece's marriage relief from a daily source of irritation. true, the day drew nigh when he must be prepared to produce and vouch his accounts as executor and trustee of his late brother. but jabez flattered himself that if anyone could be counted on to keep wilberlee out of chancery it would be nehemiah wimpenny, if nehemiah wimpenny were also dorothy's husband. "lawyers are fond of law, but it must be at somebody else's expense," he argued. "wimpenny won't be such a fool as to share my cake with others, when sooner or later he can have it all himself." but nehemiah found the wooing of dorothy up-hill work. the holmfirth "don juan" was accustomed to the easy conquests of the bar-room and the side-wings of the huddersfield theatre. he found it difficult to teach his tongue the language to which it was a stranger, and after a painful hour or so spent in the parlour of wilberlee in the attempt to interest or amuse the young heiress, his whole being cried out for the unrestrained freedom of polly's conversation, and for the ready appreciation polly had always vouchsafed to his jests and innuendos which even nehemiah knew would ensure his prompt expulsion from wilberlee, probably at the point of the owner's toe. but as yet, at all events, he felt himself securely in mr. tinker's goodwill. he had even gone so far as to drop a not obscure hint as to the aspirations he cherished in what he was pleased to call his heart. "win this accursed law-suit for me," jabez had said, "and we will talk about matters less important. meanwhile, you had better make as sure of my niece's consent as you may of mine. not that dorothy would stay for that. i wish you joy of her, that's all. women are kittle-cattle to shoe. i don't think you'll find my niece an exception to her sex." but nehemiah, despite the guardian's favour, confessed to himself that if he progressed at all in dorothy's good graces, his progress was crab-wise--backwards. what _could_ he talk about? he feigned an interest in the sermons of the rev. david jones. but dorothy yawned at the very mention of the minister's name. then he affected an interest in her sunday school class, but dorothy said sunday school classes were generally a combination of scholars who didn't want to learn and teachers who didn't know how to teach, and as she felt herself to be one of the latter class, she was determined to give her class up. then the desperate lover essayed his powers at the retailing of local gossip, telling with unction how young d-was supposed to be casting sheep's eyes at nancy n--; how the plain daughter of the vicar's warden was shamelessly setting her cap at the new curate, and how the hue of mrs. j--'s nose-end was erroneously attributed to poverty of blood. in one topic only could he prevail on dorothy to take an interest at all, and that was a topic on which nehemiah was eloquent enough at first, but of which in time he became uncommonly shy,--the vexed question of water rights, with especial reference to the great case of "pinder at the suit of tinker." "so you've lost your application for an _interim_ injunction?" dorothy said demurely one night after tea, when her uncle had hurried off to a deacon's meeting, promising speedy return, and hospitably pressing his guest to stay for the substantial supper of cold meats and pastry with which our hardier fathers braved the terrors of nightmare and dyspepsia. "oh, that's nothing, miss dorothy," said nehemiah jauntily, glad of a subject of conversation in which he flattered himself he could shine, "nothing at all, i can assure you." "then you expected to lose?" "well, not say expect, but fortune of war you know, fortune of war, glorious uncertainty, and all that, don'tcherknow." "but you are certain to win in the end, or is there a glorious uncertainty about that?" "oh! yes, sure to win in the long run. pinder can't stand the racket. expected he'd have caved in long since. can't understand it. sykes must be risking more than i'd like to. sticks like a leech at all points." "there's an old saying, mr. wimpenny, that tear'em's a good dog, but holdfast's a better. perhaps mr. sykes is one of your holdfast breed." "ah! ah! very good, indeed, miss tinker. must remember that. but we shall shake him off yet, you bet." "thank you, i don't bet." "beg pardon, miss tinker, only a way of speaking, don'tcherknow. no offence," and nehemiah told himself that dorothy was a very difficult girl indeed. "so you think you'll wear mr. pinder out. do you mean his patience or his means?" "oh! patience is cheap enough. i dare say pinder has plenty of that. it's the poor man's assets, don'tcherknow." "i'm afraid that's often too true, mr. wimpenny." "well, i could have sworn it was about all the stock-in-trade pinder had to break him in. but somebody's finding the money, or else sykes is a bigger fool than i take him to be." "money, money, money, you men seem to talk and think of nothing but money." "and they say, miss tinker, that women have a very pretty notion of spending what the men think and talk about." "well, i for one would rather talk of something else. you're sure, now, uncle is going to win this case?" "well, of course i _think_ so, or i shouldn't have advised the proceedings." "but i suppose you advised the application for a what-do-you call it injunction. but you failed in that? now i want you to tell me all about uncle's grievances against mr. pinder. it is so delightful to find a lawyer who can make things so beautifully simple to a poor ignoramus of a girl like me. i can see now why you have so many cases in the courts." "oh! dorothy, dorothy." and forthwith the willing victim of woman's guile talked at large of water encroachment, of unlawful ochre-water diverted from its natural course so that it passed by the head-goit of co-op mill, and only entered the river as it sped on to wilberlee, to mr. tinker's great damage and detriment. never was nehemiah more eloquent, never had he so wrapt and intent a listener. "she's just the woman for a lawyer's wife," thought nehemiah, as he talked. "i'll practise my speeches on her." "but, after all, it's no use wearying you with all these details, miss tinker. we shall never reach a final trial. your uncle isn't the man to take a beating, and if we're trounced in one court we shall go to another. pinder can't stand the racket. i call it downright dishonest of him taking the savings of those deluded co-opers, as they call them, and spending it on sykes. of course it's all the better for me. but the whole thing'll fizzle out in the bankruptcy court, and i take it there'll be no necessity to wait for the court of chancery's decision. want of shekels will decide the question before we're much older, mark my words." "how very charming!" quoth dorothy. "really, mr. wimpenny, i don't know how to thank you for making everything so clear to me. now these water-foulings by mr. pinder, i suppose anyone can see them? you've interested me so much i've a good notion to turn myself into an amateur expert; if that isn't a contradiction in terms." "not more anomalous than a woman with sense," reflected nehemiah. but he said with something of an effort. "well, the fact is miss tinker, there isn't very much to see. it's the eye of science, don'tcherknow, that we go by in these cases. the eye of science," he repeated, evidently pleased with that phrase. "well, anyway, i'll try what the eye of a woman can see some fine day. perhaps i may find out something that has escaped all you clever men, and then you'll have to take me up to london as a witness, i hope." it was, perhaps, in pursuance of this quite commendable resolve, that dorothy one bright, cloudless day in august, clad in a close-fitting costume that permitted the graceful movement of her limbs without concealing the charming lines of her form came suddenly upon tom pinder in the neighbourhood of the isle of skye. dorothy, who had, as far as the nature of the ground permitted, followed the course of the stream as it flowed from its source down the valley, was warm and flushed from the toilsome ascent, but the glow of health was on her cheek and its sparkle in her eye. tom, on the contrary, was pale and careworn. too sedulous devotion to his necessary work, too little rest of mind and body, but above all the constant anxiety and uncertainty for the future were telling their tale upon his robust, vigorous, elastic frame. but a glad light sprang to his eyes, and a happy smile to his lips as he met dorothy's outstretched hand. "you are quite a stranger, mr. pinder; it is ages since i caught more than a glimpse of you. betty is quite fretting that you never go to see her now. vows she is wearing to skin and bone; but it must be by the eye of faith she attests the process." "no. i do not often get to betty's kitchen now," said tom, with something very like a sigh. "more's the pity; you see, i can't very well go openly, and you wouldn't have me go like a thief in the night." "no, i would not. it's all this wretched law business, of course. but which way were you going, uphill, or down?" "bilberry! well, there'll be a breeze from the water's face. but i think i ought to be turning homewards." "may i accompany you, miss tinker? you pass near my own mill, you know." "la! _my_ mill! how grand it sounds. i think i should like to say _my_ mill, and to feel that the hands were _my_ people. 'tis a relic of feudalism, i suppose." tom raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. he had not credited dorothy with much historical knowledge. "oh, you needn't look so superior, mr. wiseacre. i've read a book or two, though i don't teach classes on sunday, like a naughty, defiant unbeliever, as some folk are. but there, you shan't accompany me homewards. that will perhaps teach you to veil your superiority." "i assure you, miss tinker," began tom, but boggled at his disclaimer, for he was a poor liar, and dorothy had; divined his thoughts shrewdly. "instead," said dorothy, enjoying his confusion, "instead i will go on with you to bilberry reservoir: i've as much right to the cool breeze from its surface as you have, and if you've no very great objection, mr. pinder, you may give me your arm up the hill." tom flushed to the brow and, feeling weak as water, hoped that dorothy's ears were not as quick, as her eyes, for sure she would have heard the beating of his heart. "do you know, miss dorothy, i think it's the very first time i've been asked to give a lady my arm." "been asked?" said dorothy, and part withdrew her little hand. "or given it, of course. i should never dream of giving it unasked." "oh!" said dorothy, and her hand stole back again. "what, not to lucy?" "oh, well, you know. well, perhaps lucy may have taken it sometimes when she felt overdone can't say for sure. one doesn't think of these things." "oh! don't they?" queried dorothy, and her hand again made for retreat. "not with lucy, i mean," added tom. "oh!" and the hand now was restful. they walked slowly towards the reservoir, leaving the highway, and treading on the soft close-cropped grass that fringed the moor. a grouse, occasionally, whirring low near the heather, cried its alarmed "go-back, go-back," and the faint sound of the sportsman's gun was borne upon the wind. silence fell upon the two, a silence that tom knew not, nor cared to break. "and what about miss baxter's apprentice?" at last spoke dorothy, very softly. tom did not seem to hear. in truth he walked in a blissful trance. the question fell upon his ear, but the words, as words will when the mind is dreaming, tarried ere they reached his senses. it seemed to dorothy as if there had been a long gap in their conversation when he spoke. "i beg your pardon, what did you say, miss dorothy?" "i said, what about miss baxter's apprentice?" and there was no mistaking the withdraw of the hand now. "miss baxter's apprentice!" said tom, blankly. "miss baxter, the milliner, you mean." "of course i mean her _and_ her apprentice." "well, what about them?" asked tom, "and how came we to be talking about them?" "what's her name? i hope it's a pretty one." "why, miss baxter, to be sure." "stupid! i mean her apprentice. the one that wears green gloves. she's one of the teachers in our sunday school. oh! you know very well, sir." "i suppose you mean miss pounder." "what a horrid name: but what could you expect from a girl that wears green gloves. you really must buy her a pair of another colour. but there's no great change from pounder to pinder. that will be one comfort for her. but i meant her christian name." "upon my word," said tom, "i haven't an idea. it may be jezebel for aught i know or care." "but i thought...." "yes, you thought?" "oh! nothing," said dorothy, "and here, thank goodness, we're at the reservoir at last. oh! isn't the view down the valley just lovely?" "it is," said tom, but his eyes were on dorothy's beaming face. they lingered for some moments on the embankment of the vast sheet of water, each wrapt in thought. it was dorothy who spoke. "wherever does all the water come from and how could they manage to trap it like this?" "oh, this reservoir is almost made by nature. yonder is hoobrook hill and there is lum bank. it needed but to throw a bank across the intervening space, and behold, the reservoir was made. the water comes from holme moss and the hills running up to saddleworth. you would scarce think that this huge dam contains nigh a hundred million gallons of water, and that there is a pressure of several hundred thousand ton weight on the bank on which we stand." "oh! tom! if it were to burst!" pinder looked very grave. "i have often thought of that. it would be a calamity such as daunts the heart but to think of. i come here often of a moonlight night when i have made up my books for the day. it is sweet to be alone with god, and thoughts that come from god and turn to him. but there seems some weird fascination that draws my steps hitherwards. had i ever contemplated suicide...." dorothy's hand sought his involuntarily "never that tom, never that." "i should have thought there was an unseen hand beckoning, me hither. this great expanse of water, so still, when the clouds brood over it, so sullen, so seeming peaceful confined, so terrible for infinite woe if it should i o'erleap its barrier, has cast its spell over me." "how gloomily you talk, mr. pinder!" "it was 'tom' but a moment gone." "well, tom, then--as we are such old friends." "yes, miss dorothy, my heart misgives me about this slumbering giant. i doubt the strength of his chains. see here"--and he led toward the centre of the embankment. "where we stand the surface is nearly a yard lower than the mouth of the culvert." "what's the culvert for?" asked dorothy. "it is the safety valve of the reservoir." "i'm afraid i'm rather stupid." "you see, when the reservoir gets over full the excess should go down the culvert. as things are it would begin to overflow just where we stand. indeed, more than once when the wind has set this way, i've seen the water trickle over here. let that trickle be but continuous and a rill would become a gap, the gap a yawning aperture and this huge burthen of nature's most innocent fluid would hurl itself down the valley, and what or who could withstand it!" "but, tom, whose duty is it to see to these things?" "the commissioners. your uncle is one of them." "oh! i will speak to him, i promise you, and that right urgently. would you, could you speak instead of me? uncle is very wroth with me these days, and, oh! tom, life is so dree at wilberlee, i could find it in my heart at times to cry my very eyes out. and it's all your fault." "_my_ fault!" he repeated. "yes, yours, tom why couldn't you let uncle alone with your horrid law. you know he will have his own way, and, i think, your having been his apprentice makes it more galling." "and a workhouse brat at that," said tom, bitterly. "oh! never think of that, tom. no one does. i don't, and i don't care if i do. it isn't that: but uncle cannot bear to be thwarted. can't you let it drop?" "faith, i'd only be too glad. but it is mr. tinker that attacked me, and there is only one way to stop the law that i know of. your uncle must give the word. but he wont, and i can't." "couldn't you just let him have his own way; it will please him, and it won't hurt you, nor your precious co-op either." "i don't know what you call hurting me: it will just ruin me, and what's worse it will ruin a dozen others or so, poor ben garside among them." "but couldn't you go lower down the stream? mr. sy---, i mean somebody,... i mean" and here dorothy lost herself altogether, and stood dumb-founded. but tom's mind had seized upon the first suggestion of her words and he was unconscious of her embarrassment. "yes, if some good fairy would transport co-op mill below wilberlee, we might manage very well. say we had that carpet we read of in the _arabian nights_. but what's the use of talking? i cannot stop the litigation, and your uncle wont." "couldn't you allow him the name of a victory if he promised to let things go on just as they were, and you had nothing to pay those greedy lawyers? i'm sure he is not an unreasonable man, only you've crossed him, somehow, tom." "i couldn't send him more water or power if i tried, i know that." "and do you think he doesn't know it? will you just go to him and humble yourself to him. i'll engage he shall meet you half-way." "i'm shot if i do," said tom stoutly, "he began it and he must end it." "i thought you preached the gospel, tom." "aye, aye, that's all very well; but there's nothing in the bible about eating dirt, or letting a man make a door mat of you for him to wipe his feet on. besides, there's others to think of, miss dorothy. there's ben, for one, and all those whose money is in the concern. they'd never be willing." "you shan't hide behind ben, nor yet the others. you know very well they'll say aye to anything you said. i know i should, tom." is there ought so subtle in this world as a woman's cozening tongue. "do promise, tom," and here dorothy seemed parlously near letting flow the tears she had threatened a while back; "for ben's sake, for lucy's sake." "i cannot, miss dorothy, do not ask me. you do not know how hard it is for me to say you nay." "for _my_ sake, tom; because _i_ ask you. oh! i am so unhappy amid it all. i know not what i say, nor ask." "for your sake? miss dorothy, for your sake!" "for mine, tom," whispered dorothy, with down cast eyes and burning cheek. how tom at that moment constrained himself, and withheld the words that leapt to his lips, he could never tell. "for your sake then, dorothy," was all he said. she placed her hand within his arm, and in a silence that neither cared to break, they turned by mutual impulse to descend the hill homewards. chapter xiv. tom pinder lost no time in waiting upon his solicitor and acquainting him with his desire that the proceedings should be stayed even if to stay them meant an ignominious surrender. mr. sykes did not conceal his surprise. "what about the plaintiff's costs?" he asked. tom said he had reason to hope these would not be insisted on. "it is yours i'm much concerned about." "as to them, make your mind easy. i shall make out an account of my actual disbursements, and you must pay me off by such instalments as you find convenient." "but your labour?" protested tom, "the days of manna are over long ago, and i suppose that if popular opinion were ought to go by lawyers would be the last body of men in the world for whom a special dispensation from the general rule would be made." "ah well! popular opinion is sometimes wrong, let us hope, despite the saying, _vox populi vox dei_." "i thought you were a radical, mr. sykes." "yes, yes, but i am not so ardent a lover as to be blind to the faults of my mistress. but about this stay of proceedings. i must sound wimpenny. i'm afraid he'll be for his pound of flesh and all the other blood he can squeeze out of you. he's very sore about that interim injunction and the judge's remarks at the time would scarcely be as balm of gilead to him." "i suppose mr. wimpenny will take his orders from his client." "oh! of course. well, we shall see what we shall see. that's oracular, if it doesn't convey much information. what about your scheme of co-operative production on advanced lines? is that to die an untimely death? it seemed to me a most promising essay in social economics. so long as you were content to work like a slave and be a poor man, with no prospect of being anything but a poor man, the system seemed flawless." "systems for the regulation of human affairs will never be flawless, mr. sykes, till the men and women who are the flesh and blood of all systems are also flawless. now i am far from being that." "i presume not," said the lawyer, with something like a sigh. "i suppose you've got tired of this sacrificial altar and have secured a lucrative berth, and, like all the others, are going to worship the golden calf. _sic transit gloria mundi_. i shed a tear to the memory of co-op mill and all the high resolves it enshrines. who shall write its cold '_hic jacet_.'" "nay, mr. sykes, i am not a latin scholar; but if you will change your goose quill for the graver's chisel, you shall inscribe on the corner stone of co-op mill a proud, a defiant _resurgam_." "what! you intend to try again?" "certainly, i am already looking for premises _below_ mr. tinker's mill. unless the holme takes to flowing uphill, i shall be safe from my present adversary, at all events." mr. sykes rose and grasped his client's hand warmly. "that is good hearing, mr. pinder; you are a man. ah! i don't wonder at miss --"; but here the man of law checked himself. "confound it. the murther was nearly out," he muttered. "i'll write to wimpenny at once," he said, "but i mustn't seem too hot for a settlement or he'll hold out for all he knows. i shall begrudge him every penny that goes from your pocket to his. well, good day. i wish i were a manufacturer, i'd turn world-mender too." "oh! if you shew the world the example of one lawyer who has an idea beyond his bill of costs, you'll have done your share," laughed tom. "convert nine others and huddersfield need not fear the fate of sodom and gomorrah." pinder had more trouble with ben garside and his colleagues than he had encountered from his solicitor. ben was for a fight to the finish. "tinker's shewing th' blue feather," he opined. "what's come ovver thee, tom? tha'rt nooan bahn to duff when things are lookin' up a bit? besides, th' best terms we can mak 'll be to pay us own 'torney an' gi' up co-op mill. we med as weel be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and if we're to be ruined we med as well be ruined gradely as hauf ruined. aw reckon th' bailies 'll be bun to leeave us a bed to lig on, an we'st scrat along some rooad till they put th' coffin lid ovver us. aw say feight to th' deeath. talk abaat bowin' th' knee to baal?" "baal!" quoth hannah curtly. "baal wer' a respectable sort compared wi jabez tinker; an' as for that wimpenny, oh! if aw wer' a man, wouldn't aw just. that's all." what "just" the irate dame would have done, words failed her to express, but judging from hannah's gestures it was something that would not have improved nehemiah's personal appearance. but the negotiations with that gentleman which mr. sykes opened up did not promise to bear immediate fruit. it is possible that mr. wimpenny saw everything to be gained and nothing to be lost--by himself--in the sweetness long drawn out of proceedings in chancery. the defendant's overtures were not met in a conciliatory spirit, and sykes advised that nothing further should be attempted in that direction. tom felt that he could do no more, and when he told dorothy the steps he had taken to fulfil the promise she had wrung from him, dorothy expressed herself content. "you can hold out till may 21st?" she only asked. "oh, dear me, yes. from what i can judge when a lawyer in a chancery suit contemplates a move in the proceedings, he takes a month to think it over, then he takes counsel's opinion, then he takes another month to think over counsel's opinion, then he rests for a month to recuperate his energies after their unwonted strain, then he writes to his london agent indicating the step he wishes to be taken, the agent takes a month to think over his principal's letter, and another month to reply to it, and at the end of all the country solicitor changes his mind, and the process circumbendibus begins _de novo_." "you ought to have been a lawyer, tom," commented lucy. "you have been thinking over a certain step to my knowledge for more than twelve months, and you haven't taken it yet." "and what's that, lucy?" asked dorothy. "oh! you'll know soon enough when he takes it," was the most explicit answer that dorothy could obtain, and with that she had to be content. "i wonder why dorothy mentioned the twenty-first of may next?" asked tom of lucy, when they were alone together. "why she comes of age then, stupid," said lucy, as shortly as ever she was known to speak. but some months must elapse before that eventful day was due in the ordinary progress of the leaden-footed months. the christmas of 1851 was for all in whose fortunes we are concerned, but a cheerless and anxious season. work continued fairly good, and on that score there was nothing much to complain of. the winter months were open and depressing. the old adage that a green yule makes a fat churchyard was amply verified. low fevers were rife. the strains of the waits on christmas eve failed to arouse the sense of christmas in the heart. plum pudding and roast beef failed to stimulate to cheerfulness when all around was a damp, drizzly, clinging blanket of rain-charged atmosphere. for days together a pall of moisture settled over the valley. the moors were soaked, and oozed like surcharged sponges. every rill became a rivulet, every rivulet a river. the lower lands contiguous to the holme were flooded. the dams were charged to the brinks, and in the mill-races the pressing waters strained the stoutest shuttles. from the hillsides the swollen streams brought rocky fragments rolling, tumbling, splashing. it was a man's work to watch the river immediately below the tail-goits of every mill, to prevent the goit being blocked by the flotsam of the stream, and the water-wheel thrown into back-water. it was an anxious time for tom and ben on more than one account. the apprehensions that had long possessed tom as to the safety of bilberry reservoir did not leave him. rather he saw daily reasons for the more concern. the new year of 1852 saw little improvement in the weather, almost daily tom made his way to the banks of the great dam, surveying it with anxious eye. when he spoke his fears to old residents, they were pooh-poohed. it was the old cry of "wolf." the people in most immediate danger had been told so often that something was wrong with bilberry embankment, and for so long had the gloomy predictions of the local cassandras come to nought, that tom spoke to deaf ears. none heeded him. even ben accorded him only the attention of politeness. the people lower down the valley based their indifference to his suggestions of possible peril upon the indifference of those nearer the reservoir. if the people who lived cheek by jowl as it were with the big dam could afford to laugh at tom's dismal forebodings, why should they put themselves about. they recommended tom to permit the commissioners to know something about their business, and more than hinted that he had enough to do to look after his own particular concerns without worrying himself about what was after all a matter for the public authorities. it did not occur to them to reflect that if a man is drowned it does not matter much to him whether he has met his death through public or private defeasance. on tuesday, the 4th of february tom had been as usual to market. he had done his business early in the afternoon, but had been detained in town by the necessity of seeing mr. sykes in connection with the eternal lawsuit. then he had to wait for a train so that it was long past the hour for the evening meal when he reached ben garside's house in holmfirth. the tea-things had long been cleared away, but hannah was soon bustling about preparing an appetising meal of broiled rashers, poached eggs, and tea and toasted teacake. the meal was grateful after the long wearying day. it had been a depressing day. the market had been slackly attended: the weather had something to do with that. it had rained pitilessly all day, a steady, persistent, dogged downpour, ceasing at times for the fragment of an hour, only to commence again, and so on, as if it never meant to stop. and as it was on the tuesday, so it had been for three or four days before. at the "ordinary" at the queen hotel, kept by mrs. beevers, in the market street, the manufacturers from the valleys of the colne and the holme were full of talk of choked tail-goits water piled back into the wheel-race so that the wheel refused to turn upon its axis. the merchants shook their heads gloomily over the mild, open weather. they declared, as their grandchildren declare to-day, that when they were boys winter was winter; but now there was no depending on the weather, and the almanac was a snare and a delusion. tom lingered over his meal, luxuriating in the warmth of the room, and the pleasing rest of mind and body. but about nine o'clock the rain abated. the moon glided high in the heavens, sailing in and out among the masses of the drifting clouds. it looked as if the weather might take up after all. it was time it did. but wet or fine tom had work to do he had fixed to do that night, work which could only be done at the mill, and which were better done that night. that done, the morrow would be clear for the morrow's work. he would have an hour at his account books, he told ben, and sleep at the mill, and jack--you have not, reader, forgotten work'us jack--should bear him company. hannah protested in vain that "tom was killing himself with overwork. flesh and blood couldn't stand it, and tom would never make old banes if he went on at that noit. it was bad enough to kill one's self to keep one's self, but it was ten times worse to kill one's self building a house o' cards, only to be blown down by that jabez tinker." so tom and jack turned out into the night and set forth up the valley toward hinchliffe mill. their road lay at times by the winding serpentine course of the river, and when the watery moon glanced downwards with bleared eye from among the clouds they could see the swollen waters. they met scarce a soul. it was late and a'ready the lights in the village and on the hillsides were being extinguished in the "house" or chamber. an occasional cur sadly bayed the moon. the swollen waters of the river rolled in their bed with sullen sob. it was a night of dread through which the growing wind wailed amid its tears. the gloom of the hour and scene fell upon the comrades. scarce a word passed between them, as with bent heads and cloaks close drawn they made their way through the mire of the high-road and the sloughs of known bye-paths little trod. it was hard on ten of the night when the mill was reached. jack kindled a fire in the office-grate and sat beside it for a time to dry his shoon. he made a brew of strong coffee for his master to cheer him through his task. then jack in stocking-feet sought the wool-hole where he had improvised a bed of unscoured pieces, greasy, but snug and warm, and anon his loud breathing might be heard above the beating of the storm without. up to something near the weird midnight hour tom bent over his invoices and books, fighting against the waywardness of thoughts that seemed intent on anything but accounts. at length he abandoned his task half done. he felt strangely wake and alert. at all times able to do with little sleep,--that is a feature of your mill-worker--to-night he felt that he should woo slumber in vain. donning his pilot jacket that had been steaming and drying on a chair-back before the fire, and lighting a lanthorn and taking in his hand his stout gnarled shillelagh, bought from an irish hay-maker last harvest-time, he set forth alone on his usual round of the mill-yard, leaving the outer door of the mill on the latch. his round finished, led by what impulse, moved by that presentment he did not stay to consider, he left the mill-yard and began to climb the hill towards bilberry reservoir. he walked sharply, for the night air was biting shrewdly, and tom was a noted walker. his long strides soon covered the distance that lay between the mill and the reservoir bank. tom hummed an air to keep him company in that vast solitude. the sky was clearer now than an hour or two before, but the night was still dark enough to make the feeble glimmer of the lanthorn grateful. tom moderated his pace as he neared the embankment. was it worth while to climb its steep face or should he turn his steps downhill. he could hear the water above his head lapping against the copings of the bank. still, as he had come so far he might, he thought, as well walk the round of the embankment. he was on the huge abutment that turned its breast towards the valley the long barricade that cooped up the vast pile of water, and slowly, the lanthorn dangling by his side and swaying in the wind, he began to tread the path on the embankment top, slowly for in the uncertain light, a slip might cost him a sousing, and it was no hour for a cold bath. but, as he walked, peering ahead to pierce the gloom, and watching carefully his steps by the lanthorn's pale glimmer, he came, midway in his course, upon a sight that checked him with sudden halt, and made his heart stand still. there, at his very feet the water was trickling over the bank, and down the outside. a thin flow, perhaps, a couple of feet in width, had worn the upper soil, and now a continuous stream, not a quarter of an inch in depth, was gently, silently ebbing over the embankment. even as tom gazed spell-bound, he was sensible that the opening widened, the water that overflowed was deeper, and its escape in quicker time. a great fear seized on tom, a dreadful thought well-nigh crushed his brain. he felt powerless to move. then, with a cry, he rushed heedless along the embankment to the culvert. not a drop of water flowed over the culvert's lip. the pent giant had found an outlet for itself, and was making for it. tom ran back to the gap he had but just left. even by this faint light he saw the breach was wider, the furrow deeper. sick at heart, scarce realising what he did, tom with stick and hand tried to tear up stones, cobbles, or sods that might stem the growing current. he spent his time and in vain. fast as he made his tiny barrier, the licking wavelets undermined it and washed it gently down the embankment side; and the stream that now, oh! so silently, so grimly wore away the surface layers, bit and gnawed into the vast barrier and the clinging earthwork. but to tom, with action had come perception. vivid as lightning's flash the whole sequence of the possible, nay, the seeming inevitable, was borne upon his mind. he sprang to his feet, dashed down the embankment side. not two hundred yards below the reservoir some houses stood darkling in the night, their inmates locked in sleep. with fist and stick tom hammered at the door, thrust his stick, his fist through the windows of the bottom room, where oft the turn-up bed was stretched. "rouse ye, rouse ye!" he cried. "the reservoir! flee for your lives!" down to the co-op mill he dashed, racing as sure only as those do speed who know that death follows hard upon their heels, and ever as he sped and passed some silent, lowly cot he paused a breathing space to rend the midnight silence with wild, yet wilder cry, "the flood! the flood! haste ye, save yourselves." he reached the gates of his own mill, dashed to the corner where jack still slept in dreamless sleep. he kicked his prostrate form, he shook him, dragged him to his feet. "don yo'r breeches. here's yo'r' clogs. haste, man! bilberry's brust. damn yo' wakken. ar't deead?" in that time of frenzied haste the language of his childhood came back to his lips. then as jack, half awake, bewildered, donned his nether garments with but one idea, that co-op mill was on fire, tom rushed to the stable where their one horse was housed. he threw a halter over its head; there was no time, no need for saddle. jack had followed, thrusting his arms into his coat sleeves as he came. tom sprang to the horse's back. the gate still opened wide. "clutch mi leg, jack, an' stick to me an' yell wi' all thi might." tom's first thought had not been of ben or his household; but gratitude, duty alike, made them his first care. he must reach ben at any cost. the horse, urged by tom's prodding heels and by the sticks that beat upon its flanks, galloped down the hill. jack could not keep pace; panting, gasping, clinging, he stumbled and fell. "make for ben garside's," shouted tom, and was swallowed up in the night, the horse's hoof beating the rain washed road with dull thuds, its heavy pants audible afar. it was one o'clock and after when tom made ben's cottage he thundered at the door, and in a marvellously short time that seemed eternity to tom, the upper window was raised, and ben's capped head thrust forth. "th' pub's lower dahn, tha' druffen fooil," said ben's voice drowsily. "open, ben, open for god's sake. th' embankment's burst at bilberry." but ere ben had ceased to gape out of the lattice, hannah, in her petticoat, had run down the slender, narrow stairs, and unbolted the door. "quick, quick, where's lucy? wakken her! don yo', hannah. ben, ben, haste thee, man. oh, here's jack; that's reight lad, aw feart tha'd be longer." lucy, pale, trembling, but calm, had come down, part dressed. "ar't sure, tom?" asked ben. "it's giving bi inches, it cannot howd. what shall we do? oh! what shall we do?" "mak' for th' hills, for sure," gasped jack, as he drew deep draughts of breath. then tom felt a quiet hand upon his own, and lucy by his side drew him part aloof. "there's dorothy lower down," she whispered, "and if flood come, oh! woe is me for all at wilberlee. hark! the alarm is spread. race to wilberlee; and tom! kiss me, it may be good-bye." tom kissed the tremulous lips raised to his. "god keep you, lucy, god keep us all. i cannot leave you." but hannah, too, had thought of wilberlee. "there's dorothy. yo' mun give th' alarm at wilberlee." "and you?" asked tom: but even as he asked he had turned to the door where the horse, all untethered, stood. "ben an' me 'll manage," said jack. "up wi' thee, tom. by gosh! hark to 'em screechin' up the valley." aye, aye, the warning cries had been heard and heeded, and as tom wrung ben's hand and vaulted to patient bess's back the wind bore to his ears the startled cry, "the flood! the flood! it's come at last," and as the mare, spinning cobbles and pebbles behind its clattering feet, galloping as though the foul fiend pursued, dashed past farm and mill and house tom cried loud and ever tender, "oh, rouse yo', good folk, rouse yo'. bilberry's on yo'. the bank's brust," and the small-paned windows were raised with quick grasp from within, and startled faces with widening eyes peered forth into the night, and still tom raised the cry, now hoarse, now shrill, in voice that almost failed. "the flood, the flood!" and loud and louder still behind him grew the cries, deep toned of men, anguished shrill of women, wailing tones of children roused from cradle and from cot. the sleepy valley behind him slept no more. it had roused to panic, to the sudden apprehension of ravage, ruin, death. whither flee? how save the little hoarded wealth; how bear the infirm mother, who by inglenook declined daily to her grave cheered by the babbling prattle of her daughter's bairns; how save the bairns themselves! and even as tom rode the cries behind him swelled in volume till they fell upon his ears as a hoarse roar, broken by shrill and piercing shriek, and if his ears betrayed him not, above the din of human voice he heard the growl of gathered waters loosed. no use to look behind, the darkening skies veiled the sight. thank god! here is wilberlee. well tom knew the entrance to the yard. pray god the gate yielded to his thrust! it did. by there, through the yard, was the shortest cut to the house. he swung from the back of the beast, now blown and trembling. the panic had seized upon it. grasping its mane tom led it through the yard, round the mill gable. here the noises from above were broken by the mill's flank and hushed. not a light shone through the windows of the house. all was silent within, but at the garden foot the river roared, and tom in the dim light saw that on its foaming breast it bore objects, strange, hideous, torn from the fields, floating stacks of hay, ponderous engines and machines, the dark outline of animals swept quickly by. "oh! rouse yo'! rouse yo'!" shrieked tom. he tore a boulder from a rockery by, and with it crashed at the stout outer door. it shook and groaned but yielded not. tom remembered that the window of the sitting-room or drawing-room came to within a foot's step from the ground. it was a moment's work to dash the window open with his feet, and tom amid the falling of the glass and the creaking crash of wood-work was within the dark room, his clothes rent, his face scratched, his hands bleeding. there were sounds above of awakening life. tom sprung to the foot of the passage stairs, finding the inner door he knew not how. "wake ye, wake ye," he cried hoarsely. then a light glimmered above, on the landing. it was jabez tinker in his dressing gown. a candle was in his hand that he shaded from the upward current. "thank god, yo're up," shouted tom, bounding up the steps. "dress yo', quick. rouse the house. bilberry's burst. oh! hark yo'." some building higher up the river had fallen with a groan into the stream and frantic cries rent the leaden skies mingling with the crash of stone and iron and stout timbers torn like mere sprigs. suddenly from the well of darkness shone the gleam of a lanthorn. it was impossible to see who held it. mr. tinker cried out: "who's that?" "it's me, sergeant ramsden," said a calm, stentorian voice. "glad you're up, sir. time to flit. had to wade here. where's betty?" "i'm here, george; but yo' munnot think o' coming up till aw've med mysen some bit like." but the tramp of the sergeant was on the stairs already. his was a welcome presence. the hurry and agitation of the past hour had told on tom. he felt sorely the need of help. mr. tinker seemed paralysed not so much from fear as the sudden waking from sleep to stand face to face with what perils none could tell. betty clung to her constable, but he was probably used to being clung to for protection by the weaker sex. "where's peggy?" asked tom. "gone to harrogate to fetch aunt home." it was dorothy who spoke. she had partially dressed, but her long, curling, beautiful glossy hair fell like a veil upon her shoulders to her waist she was pale and anxious, but she retained a great measure of composure. she had drawn to her uncle's side but her eyes were on tom. "are we safe here?" asked mr. tinker. "is there any chance of my being able to get across the yard to the office?" "can't be done, sir," said the sergeant, touching his high hat as well as he could with the hand that held the lanthorn. his other arm supported betty. "the garden's three feet deep and more. same in mill yard, no doubt, and rising every second; had to wade in. glad to find window broken down." there was a sudden shriek from betty. through the door of the parlour that opened into the passage at the stair feet came a torrent of water nigh as high as the doorway itself. it flooded the passage, and, step by step, quicker than a man could mount them, scaled the staircase to the landing on which they stood. small articles of furniture and ornaments were borne from the room, tossing and colliding as if in a grotesque dance. "make for the attic," said mr. tinker, and led the way, followed by the women. tom was hard upon them. the sergeant followed with an agile departure from his professional staidness, deliberation, and dignity of gait that only stress of circumstances constrained. if a withering glance could have arrested it the rapidly rising, gaining flood would have stayed its inroad. the attic was a low, barely furnished room, immediately under the roof. it was lighted from above by a thick sky-window. it held two low beds of plain deal--the chaste couches of betty and peggy. there were two chests of drawers, one doubtless sacred to each maid. there were two chairs, a washstand, a portrait of the sergeant, staff-in-hand, and the like of a soldier over which peggy was supposed to weep out her heart in moments of despondency. "i doubt we're not out of it here," whispered the sergeant to tom. he cast his light through the doorway. "see, the water mounts quickly. 'twill be on us, and we mun drown like rats in a hole." "can you swim?" asked tom, under his breath. the sergeant nodded. "doff your boots; keep your cloak and breeches nothing else. get into that corner. give me the light. don't let them see you doff. they're fleyed enough." there was no time even for suspense. the water was already in the attic. tom dragged a bed beneath the skylight and with a blow from his stick shivered the thick glass. "yo' mun get through th' skylight, ramsden," he bawled. the turmoil of the waters drowned all lower speech. "i'll pass t'others to you." ramsden nodded. the habit of discipline is invaluable in the hour of emergency. tom had taken the command even in his old master's house, and it seemed natural that he should order and others obey. with difficulty he twisted the portly constable through the aperture. it was a tight squeeze. "tear up some of the slates. widen th' hole," shouted tom, as he dragged a trunk to the top of the bed to stand on. "now dorothy," he whispered, "you next." "no, uncle," she said, drawing back. this was no hour for ceremony. tom almost lifted mr. tinker bodily on to the trunk, the sergeant from above seized his wrists, and tom, with a mighty heave, hoisted him aloft. "now you, betty," said dorothy. it was well for betty the stone slabs had been wrenched with little difficulty from the sounding lines of the aperture. she was stout and heavy as seemeth a cook, and if there had not been strong braced thighs on the stack, and arms like iron beneath her, betty would have slept that morn her last sleep on earth in the tiny attic she had known so long. "now, dorothy," said tom. she was already on the chest. he pressed her hand tenderly as she turned her face towards the gap through which the sergeant had passed. tom lifted her through almost bodily. "come you, now," she said as she left his arms. "here, sergeant," bawled tom, "take these blankets and things. it'll be cold up there." and tom hastily passed blankets, sheets, and counterpanes through the window. then those above heard him tearing at the bedsteads like one possessed. he rove them asunder by main force and passed the sections to the sergeant. then springing on to the chest he thrust his arms to either side of the roof, and with a thrust of the feet that sent the box flying, forced and prised himself to the roof. they could see little even by the light which the constable still retained. they were sure only that wilberlee house was all but submerged, and that the devouring waters as they swept by them crawled up the sloping roof. from the thick darkness came shouts and wails and cries, and the thundering crash of falling buildings. by the lanthorn's glare and the casual glimpsing of the moon they saw, as they strained their visions to pierce the black encircling pall, what looked like huge pieces of machinery that broke from the tomb of the night before their eyes and then were gone again. more than once, almost level with the house eaves, a face of a man or woman, a white, pallid, drawn face, with eyes distended in speechless horror, would flash above the waters and then be borne away like chaff in a mighty blast, or the long white trailing of a woman's dress would shoot beneath their feet, come and go ere they realised it was come. and ever and anon those awful, thrilling, sickening cries, whose dread import they but too surely guessed. the night was bitter cold. they clung together, crouching low, their absorbing thought--would the house stand the shock of those pounding waters, would the dinning flood go on for ever? tom only had been engaged. getting what hold he could by the low chimney of the house, he fastened together with the cording of the beds the disjointed laths, making a very passable raft. this he lowered to the verge of the roof. it might be needed, who might say? the very house seemed to shake under them as they crouched and waited in agonised suspense. had it been less stoutly built it must ere this have been swept bodily away as rows upon rows of houses that night of doom were swept away by the devouring torrent--many bearing with them husband, wife and child, scarce roused from sleep ere the flood clasped them in the embrace of death. and still the surging water rose higher and higher, now creeping slowly up the thatch, now sweeping swiftly upwards and now falling as suddenly for a foot or two, giving a momentary hope the violence of the storm was over--but only to surge nearer and nearer to those who now clung to the ridge of the arched roof. tom contrived to crawl cautiously to mr. tinker's side. with difficulty making the dazed man hear him above the roar of the waters and the dinn that stunned their sense, tom made him understand that they must now trust to the frail raft he had improvised. "it's our only chance, sir. the bindings of the roof are giving. and look, look!" tom pointed across the mill-yard. the moon was clear of the clouds, and for a few moments the scene of desolation and the waste of waters might be seen by the silver light. mr. tinker's gaze followed the direction of the outstretched arms. across the yard towered the long mill chimney, and it was rocking and swaying like a drunken man. there was not a moment to be lost. the sergeant and tom slipped the raft on to the bosom of the racing flood. it was all but torn from their grasp. "get you on it with the women," cried tom. betty was with difficulty placed upon the frail support. mr. tinker followed her. the sergeant, obedient to tom's gesture, sprang upon it. "now, dorothy, jump for your life"; but even as the words left his lips, the bark was torn from his grasp. there was a shriek of terror from those aboard, and ramsden cried, "the chimney. oh! god! it's falling!" tom breathed a prayer. "it's you and me for it, dorothy. can you trust me?" he passed his arm around her; she pressed her lips to his, and tom, with his almost unconscious charge, leaped far out into the centre of the headlong current. and even as he leaped the great chimney-stack, its base destroyed, swayed towards the house, and in one unbroken mass fell upon the roof that had been their refuge, and tom and dorothy were lost in the crested billows that leaped with angry roar to meet the very skies. chapter xv. some ten days or so after the events recorded in the last chapter, a stout woman past the middle age sat by a large four-posted bed in a spacious and well-furnished bedroom. the eider-down coverlet of the bed, its damask hangings, the prie-dieu by its side, the rich covering of the walls, the silken curtaining of the windows, the full pile of the carpets, the costly paintings on the walls indicated the abode of wealth and refinement. the woman by the bedside, on whom fell the genial rays of a bright-burning fire, was plainly but neatly dressed. the anxious glances she cast upon the figure stretched upon the bed seemed to bespeak a greater, a tenderer concern than that of the ordinary professional nurse. there was no sound in the room save the ticking of the massive marble clock upon the mantel, and the regular breathing of the patient. the nurse turned the pages of a ponderous family bible, but as her attention was confined to the highly coloured illustrations it is probable the printed page was a dead letter to her eyes. so absorbed was she in the contemplation of the ornate plate depicting the sale of joseph by his brethren that she almost dropped the heavy book from her knees as a faint voice issued from between the curtain folds. "has th' buzzer gone, hannah?" "sakes, alive! if he isn't wakken," the nurse exclaimed, drawing back the curtain. "eh! tom, lad, it's fain aw am to yer thi voice. but tha munnot talk nor fash thisen." "has th' buzzer gone?" the invalid asked again. then his eyes wandered slowly and somewhat vacantly about the room. "where am i?" he asked. "aye, tha may weel ax, lad. thou'rt at mester willie brooke's at northgate house i' honley, an' here tha's been awmost ivver sin they sammed thi up i'th churchyard all swoonded away; an' long it wer' afore they knowed reightly whether tha wer' wick or deead." "have i been poorly?" asked tom. "what am i doing here? where's ben? is he at th' mill? there's those pieces for skilbeck's want 'livering. why isn't lucy here?" "poorly! tha may weel say that, an' off thi yed for days together, an' of all th' stuff 'at ivver a man talked, all abaat 'junctions, an' love, an' ferrets, an' rabbits, an' then tryin' to swim, an' it took two on us to howd thi i' bed. but theer, it's time tha had thi physic, an' then thi mun go to sleep agen, an' th' cook 'll mak thi some arrowroot, an' thou'rt to have a glass o' port wine in it, th' doctor says, teetotal or no teetotal, which aw nivver did howd wi' i' time o' sickness, an' agen th' law o' natur' in a way o' speikin'." but hannah's views on this grave question were lost upon the invalid. he had again sunk into deep and refreshing sleep, and as hannah laid her hand gently upon his brow, the slight moisture told that the fever in which he had tossed and raved had succumbed to care and treatment. when tom awoke hannah's place had been taken by a tall, grey-haired man of spare form, broad shoulders and slightly bent, his forehead lined with the tracery of time and care. his eyes had been long fixed upon the features of the sleeping youth and seemed from their expression to seek for some flitting transient likeness they bore a moment but to lose the next. it was jabez tinker. from the face so often, so minutely scanned, the eyes of the watcher turned at times to a small gold locket he held in his palm. it bore in pearls the letters. a.j. it was the locket taken by moll o' stuarts from the slender neck of the way-worn woman the _hanging gate_ had received more than twenty years before, the locket confided to tom by mr. black, and which, ever since, night and day, sleeping or waking, he had worn beneath his vest. presently mr. tinker became aware by that subtle uneasy sense we all have felt, that tom's eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face. he rose somewhat stiffly to his feet and bent over the bed. he took the hand that lay upon the coverlet. "are you better, tom?" he asked, very gently. "we have been very anxious about you." tom looked upon the features, usually so stern, with puzzled interest. he seemed to be searching for some elusive memory of the past. "i dreamed you were dead, drowned," he said at length. "but i seem to remember so many strange things for an instant or two. then it is all blank again. but mostly i seem to be fighting with some awful, pitiless enemy that tosses and whirls and throttles me till i choke. and then again all is dark and vague, and i remember nothing." "well, you see, i am not dead yet, tom, thanks be to god, and under god to you. 'tis you, tom, that have been nearer jordan than i." "jordan!" said tom, musingly. "jordan! i was right then. i knew there was a flood, somehow, but i thought it was bilberry burst." then, as if the very words brought a flash of crowding memory and peopled his mind with vivid visions, he cried aloud: "dorothy! dorothy! where is dorothy! oh god, i've let her slip again," and a look of anguish, of hopeless despair was on his face, and with trembling hands he covered his face, and burying his head in the pillow, sobbed as though his whole being would dissolve in tears. mr. tinker beckoned to one who stood by the door. she had entered the room very quietly, fearing to wake the patient. it was dorothy, looking frail and fragile, but not unhappy, for hannah had told her that tom was coming to his senses, and the long, weary waiting and fearing was at an end. as dorothy with noiseless step approached the bed mr. tinker drew aside. dorothy touched gently the hand bent upon the pillow, and stooped low, very low, so that her lips were very near, and her breath played upon his cheek. "no, tom!" she whispered. "not lost--won." and as tom raised his face and gazed upon her as men upon the lineaments that are dearer to them than life, when life is sweetest, her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze, and the mantling colour suffused her cheek. she stole her hand into his, and for a while they were still. jabez came and stood by his niece's side. "leave us for a time, dorothy," he said. it was the voice of jabez; but not the voice she had so long been used to hear. it was almost caressing in its gentleness. dorothy smiled her assent. "i'm to bring your arrowroot up, tom, and i've made it myself. i know the port wine's nice. i tasted it. don't let the food be spoiled, uncle, and, remember, tom's not to be bothered or upset. if he is, won't hannah give it you, that's all," and she tripped away with a glance at tom that did him more good belike than arrowroot or wine. mr. tinker waited until the door had closed upon her, then he drew a chair to the bedside. "i mustn't agitate you, tom," he spoke. "but, oh! if you could realise what my feelings have been since you have lain between life and death, my dread lest you might pass away and make no sign, the fears, the hopes alternate holding sway, the doubts, the prayers you would forgive much to an old and stricken man." he opened the hand in which he still held the locket. involuntarily tom raised his to feel for the trinket he had so long cherished. "can you tell me the meaning of this locket? it was found upon your neck, they say, when you were picked up unconscious, scarce breathing, your heart but flickering, in the churchyard yonder, after the flood had abated. you had saved dorothy, how, she scarce seems to know. but she lay very near to you, her head upon your breast. they thought you both dead. but dorothy was soon no worse. but this locket, speak, tom, what does it mean?" "it was my mother's," said tom. "and she?" "she died the night i was born." "but her name? who was she? for heaven's sake, tom, tell me all you know. you cannot divine how much hangs on your words. they mean perhaps as much to me as you." then tom told him the tale of the night on which this story opened. "and fairbanks, the landlady, the midwife? they can tell me more, they can speak to this. does this moll o' stute's still live?" "oh, yes, moll's safe enough. did you know my mother, mr. tinker?" "know her! oh! my god, know her! but ask me no more now, tom. not a moment must be lost. brook will lend me a horse. mine went with the flood. i'll see you to-morrow. now have your arrowroot and sleep and get strong and well. whether my hopes are well founded or not, you're my son from this day, tom, for you saved my life, lad, and you saved dorothy's. and i'm proud of you, lad, i'm proud of you--tom pinder, foundling, and there isn't a man in the valley that wouldn't like to call you son, nor a girl you couldn't win. hannah and dorothy'll look after you till tomorrow, then." it was the afternoon of the next day before jabez tinker returned from his quest. in the interval between his departure and return, hannah had yielded to tom's importunity, and sent for ben. "eh! lad," was ben's greeting, as he wrung the invalid's hand with a grip that made tom wince, "aw could awmost find it i' mi heart to call it an answer to prayer. yo' munnot let on to hannah, but mony a time a day this last ten days an' more, aw've been dahn o' my marrow-bones a prayin' tha med be spared th' laws o' natur's all vary weel, tom, for th' intellec' but there's times, lad, when th' heart o' man turns to its maker like a babby to its mother i' its pain. an' this has been sich a time, aw reckon. eh! man! its fair heart-breakin' to gooa dahn th' valley. near on eighty folks drahned, caantin' th' childer in, an' as for th' damage to property, a quarter million pund willn't cover it, folk sayn. th' co-op. mill's gone, choose yah, an' wilberlee house an' all. yar bit o' a whomstid's safe, an' that's summat to be thankful for; but, eh, mon, aw dunnot know wheer we'st all ha' to turn for summat to do, there's thaasan's an' thaasan's o' folk aat o' wark, an' no prospec' o' ther getting onny, an' i' thick o' winter, too." "it's all a dreadful muddle to me, ben, i can't seem to remember much about it. how did you escape, and how came i here?" "well, aw nivver did!" exclaimed ben. "didn't yo' com' an' wakken me up, an' didn't jack an' me awmost carry th' missus an' yar lucy till we gate 'em on to th' 'ill-side. an' if we couldn't see mich on account o' th' dark we could hear enough. by god! aw thowt th' end o' th' world wer' come. an' th' skrikin'! eh! lad, it wer' enough to freeze th' blood i' yo'r veins. but that didn't last long. it were short shrift for most on 'em. an' then wonderin' an' wonderin' what had come on yo'. aw thowt lucy'd go fair daft abaat yo'. that's a heart for feelin', if yo' like. then jack couldn't stand it no longer. he said he could swim down to wilberlee if he could nobbut be sure of findin' th' road. he said 'at if tha wer' deead he'd as lief be deead, too, an' aat o' th' gate. an', by gosh, he off, an' 'atween runnin' an' wadin' an' swimmin' he gate theer, but theer wer nooa signs o' thee, or onybody else, for that matter, an' nowt but part o' th' mill truck to be seen. th' chimbley wer' clean gone. but it wer' jack that fun' thee all th' same up in honley churchyard liggin' ovver a gravestooan. an' miss dorothy. gow! lad, ha tha mun ha' hugged her. it's a mercy tha didn't squeeze th' life aat on her. aw've nooan seen 'em missen, 't isn't likely," and, ben winked; "but yar hannah says oo's black an blue wheer thi arm held her. but oo'll think none th' worse of thee for that." "get on with your story, ben, and don't be frivolous. where's jack?" "oh, jack's all reight, barrin' 'at he says he's supped soa mich watter o' late that nowt but owd ale an' plenty on it 'll tak' th' taste aat of his maath." "but you mustn't let jack get into evil courses ben." "oh! jack 'll be reight enough when he's getten summat to do. but it's the owd tale. 'satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' yo' see ther's a seet o' folk come fro' all th' parts o' yorkshire an' lancashire to see th' course o' th' flood and th' deborah, as th' newspapper ca'd th' muck an' th' rubbish 'at's left. holmfirth's more like a fair nor owt else. it's as bad as honley feeast time. an' all th' seet-seers 'at can get howd o' jack mun treeat him. if he does get a bit fuddled afore bed-time it's little wonder. aw've often noticed 'at folk 'll pay for a pint o' ale for a chap 'at wouldn't gi' him a penny-teea-cake if he wer clammin'. dun they let yo' smoke i' this fine room, tom? aw'm fair dyin' for a reek o' baccy." but now dorothy entered with a tray covered with a napkin snowy-white and on it a basin of arrowroot, and ben slipped his clay and flat tin box into his pocket. "aw rekkon aw'll be gooin', tom, or hannah 'll be flytin' me. nivver yo' get wed, tom, if yo' want to ca' yo'r soul yo'r own. it's just awful' th' way a felly's put on after he's once getten th' noose raand 'is neck. tak a frien's advice tom an' be warned i' time." and with a wink that meant volumes, ben conveyed himself away, walking on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeper to whom sleep might mean life or death. "now, tom, you've got to eat this just now," said dorothy, "wait till i see if it's cool enough," and she touched the lip of the spoon with hers and affected to taste the odorous compound with the air of a connoisseur. "it's just nice, sir, and if that doesn't cure you, nothing will." "i could drink a bucketful," protested tom. couldn't i have a chop or a steak? i'm as hungry as a hunter.'' "chop, indeed! i should think not. later on you shall have a cup of chicken-broth and the weest slice of toast. you've no idea how ill you are." dorothy spoke lightly, but suddenly the woman gushed into her eyes, and it was a poor, faltering voice that said, "but you're better now, thank god. oh! tom, if you had died!" "would you have cared very much, dorothy?" asked tom. "is that what you call eating arrowroot, sir? listen, that's uncle. how soon he's back." dorothy had gone to the window and drawn aside the curtains. "the horse is covered with foam, and uncle looks ten years younger and as glad as a bridegroom." a quick step was heard on the stairs, and jabez tinker stood at the door of the sick-room. "is he awake, dorothy?" whispered mr. tinker. "awake, yes, and likely to be, as far as i can see, what with one and another. call this a sick-room. better call it a show and charge for admission. it takes one maid's time to attend to the door. if mr. brooke doesn't send in a bill for a new knocker and fresh paint, he's a saint." "there, there, chatterbox," exclaimed jabez, gaily. "out you go, dorothy, and don't come up again till i ring. then you may come, no one else." mr. tinker looked radiant, and, as dorothy had said, younger by ten good years. in his impatience he almost pushed his niece from the room. then he strode to the bed and held out both his hands to tom. "it's true, tom, it's true, every word of it. oh! that ever i should live to see this day. i've dreamed of it, i've prayed for it, and now it has come to me, this my great joy, out of the deep waters. truly god moves in a mysterious way." tom had risen to a sitting posture. jabez flung a loose shawl--it was dorothy's--over his shoulders. "you mustn't risk taking cold," he said, very gently. "are you quite sure you feel strong enough to hear a rather long story, tom, or would you rather wait?" "i would rather hear it now, sir." "then hear me to the finish and don't judge me too harshly. god knows i've suffered enough without your condemnation. but it might have been worse, it might have been worse." mr. tinker was silent for a time, as if to arrange his thoughts or choose his words. then very gravely he spoke: "my father, tom, was a very strict, stern man" ("i'm not surprised to hear that," thought his listener) "and with an overweening sense of family pride. he was very proud that he was a tinker, and, indeed, tom, we are as old a family as there is in the valley. never forget that. and we have an unsullied name. my father had another failing, if failing it be called. he was inordinately fond of money. he expected, he took it for granted, that both dick and myself would marry not for money, of course, but where money was. "but both his sons disregarded their father's wishes. i, secretly, while he yet lived; richard, as you know, after his death. it was my fate, at the house of a customer in liverpool, to meet sweet annie lisle, the family governess. she was an orphan, alone and unfriended, in the world. what else she was, how sweet, how winsome, how patient, how true and how trustful i cannot bear to think of, still less speak. i won her love. i dared not speak of my passionate devotion at home. my father with the burden of age had become each year more exacting, less tolerant of opposition to his will. i feared to anger him. it was in his power to disinherit me by his will. i was absolutely dependent on him. the homestead was his, the mill, the business, were his. i was not man enough to face poverty, expulsion from my home, loss of social status--not even for my loved one's sake. call me a poltroon, tom, a coward, a cur, if you like. i have used bitterer words than those to myself. i knew it would be hopeless to ask my father's consent. he would have had one word--'go!' then i began, with a satisfaction i strove in vain to banish, to observe, nay, to gauge, the sign of my father's failing health. i persuaded myself he was not long for this world, and in my heart of hearts i was glad. but my passion ill brooked delay. i urged annie to a secret wedding. reluctantly she consented. she procured a week's holiday from her employer, and we were married by special license at the parish church of seaford, on the south coast, a small fishing hamlet little frequented by the tourist or holiday-maker. it was a week of paradise. then my wife returned to her employment, i was to find a favourable opportunity of breaking the news to my father. meantime anything might happen. i conjured my wife to keep our secret. i kept the certificate of our marriage, so afraid was i lest it should fall into another's hand. my wife was not even to write to me lest my father's suspicions should be aroused. i continued to call on my liverpool customer as usual, and when he asked me as usual to dine or sup at his house, i treated my own wife with the distant courtesy one shows to a governess. one day, early in the winter of 1830, i called at the house of mr.----, i was determined to take my wife away. my father had softened much during the past few months. he had agreed to pay me a fixed salary, instead of doling out a pound or two for pocket money. i had resolved to place annie in some small cottage not far from holmfirth i had thought of greenfield. i could see her there each week. and there was another reason why another home should be found for her. judge of my consternation when mrs.--, in answer to the inquiry which i made with assumed indifference as to the health of the children and their governess, told me that miss lisle had been dismissed her service, dismissed ignominiously, without a character. i controlled myself as well as i could. mrs. ---said enough to convince me that my darling had been dismissed under the darkest suspicion that can rest upon a pure, unsullied woman. but even then i did not disclose the truth. my wife had vanished and left no trace behind her. she had been true to her promise to me, even when a word would have cleared her name and confounded the angry jealous woman who spurned her from her home. almost penniless she turned into the world. she never wrote to me or sent me word. judge how i searched in all places likely and unlikely for her. secretly, with what scant means i could procure. i instituted inquiries on every side; but my wife had disappeared as effectively as though she had never been. she had never worn her wedding ring; she had borne my name only during all that too brief week of wedded bliss at seaford. time went by; i knew my wife, if she still lived, must be a mother. i feared, then at last i persuaded myself, that in her shame and grief she had destroyed herself. i called upon my head the curse of the almighty, but god seemed heedless of my blasphemous ravings. from that time life for me had lost its savour. i lived only for work, for business success. they were my distraction. then, as you know, i married. but of that i need not speak. my wife bore me no children, and when i took dorothy as my ward i almost hated the child because i could not love her as my own." there was a long silence. tom feared to speak. he guessed the rest too surely. "one present only had i given to my sweetheart. it was a locket with our initials intertwined, and a love-knot of our hair inside. it was a whim of annie's. tom, my boy, my son, you have worn that locket about your neck. can you forget the wrong i did your mother, and forgive the father who can never forgive himself?" "nay, mr. tinker, nay, father, if indeed i am your son," faltered tom. "i've seen moll o' stute's. i've seen mrs. schofield. they remembered the features of your mother as though she died but yesterday. besides--but there can be no question of it." "well, father," said tom, very solemnly, "i thank god that i am indeed your son. it is not for me to judge or to forgive. i will try to be to you all your son should be." jabez bent over the bed and kissed tom's brow, and the tears streamed down the face of the elder man, his pride humbled, his cold reserve broken down, the man of iron melted to a gentleness he had never known before. "do you know, tom," he half laughed, half sobbed, "you're not unlike what i was at your age. you're a tinker, whether you like it or not." "and a lisle," added tom, and lay back upon his pillow in great comfort. then he added: "so dorothy's my cousin." jabez nodded. "can i come in?" spoke dorothy's voice outside. "open the door, uncle, i've both hands full." "i'll leave you together, tom. i know more than you think i know," whispered the old man, and quitted the room. "of all the born conspirators commend me to jabez tinker, esq., j.p., of wilberlee mill, that was, and to mr. tom pinder, of co-op. mill, also that was. here's your chicken-broth, sir, and you're to drink a glass of champagne--doctor's orders." "put it on the table, dorothy, for a moment. i want to speak to you. come, stand here, please." dorothy pouted, but obliged, "behold, thine handmaiden," she said, "what wills my lord?" "dorothy, be serious for a moment. your uncle has told me a strange story. i cannot repeat it all. can you credit it? i am your cousin!" "oh! poor fellow, he's raving again. i knew how it would be, all this talking. i'm sorry to hear it, tom--i do so hate cousins. i've dozens of 'em, and not one nice one in the lot." "and i'm not tom pinder, either." "and who may you please to be?" "only tom tinker, son of jabez tinker, of wilberlee mill that was and is to be." dorothy part withdrew from the bedside and looked long and fixedly on tom. "and is that all you have to tell me, mr. tom tinker?" "no, dorothy, i have another secret to tell you. but you must come closer, closer still. dorothy, i love you. i have loved you for years. will you be my wife?" dorothy made answer none. but when tom drew her face to his she suffered him. "my darling, oh, my darling! i love you more than life," murmured tom in her ear. "and is that what you call telling me a secret? you silly boy, i've known it ever so long." "and you, dorothy, how long have you loved me?" "ah! that's my secret." the story i set about to tell is told. another house stands by wilberlee mill; another mill stands upon the ruins of wilberlee, and tom tinker is master of the mill, and nominal master of the house. there is a young jabez plays about an old man's knee, and a sweet fair-haired lucy prattles and babbles on its godmother's knee. lucy garside was bridesmaid at dorothy's wedding, and was sponsor for her daughter at the font. she remained unmarried through her life, and she, too, had a secret; it was one that was never told. wilberlee mill prospered. the hands were paid on the same principles as tom and ben had introduced at co-op. mill, and prospered with the mill. if tom was never rich as this world counts riches, he was rich in a wealth above a miser's dream. "what about the action 'pinder at the suit of tinker,'" asked nehemiah wimpenny of his client. "judgment for the defendant with costs," was the curt reply. "happy to draw the marriage settlements," ventured the unabashed attorney. "thank you, edwin sykes will do that," was the reply. wimpenny returned to his siege of the facile heart of the lively polly, and in time wedded her. but their marriage was not a happy one. nehemiah's attachment to the bar of the _rose and crown_ survived polly's translation to a loftier sphere of life. he became a confirmed tippler, and his clients left him one after the other. he became in time that most pitiable of objects--a pot-house lawyer, and only escaped the last disgrace of a lawyer's life because no one would trust him with their money. ben garside took to methodism in his old age, and wore glossy black-cloth o' sundays. but he always averred that he had fallen from his best ideals, and suffered the fear for his own soul to deaden his concern for the souls of others. he and jack smoked many a pipe together in the calm summer months of peaceful and prosperous years, seated on the crumbling walls of co-op. mill, and mourning over a vanished dream. the last sage dictum of ben to be recorded in this narrative suggested its title. it was uttered on the eve of his friend's wedding. "aw reckon, tom, as ha' tha'll be goin' to aenon chapel after tha'rt wed?" "why so?" asked tom "cost tha'rt one o' th' elect." "i don't take you, ben." "why, mon, doesn't elect mean chossen." "i suppose so, ben." "why, doesn't ta see, tha'rt dorothy's choice?" the end. the holmfirth flood. as many of the readers of "dorothy's choice" may not be conversant with the facts upon which that story is based, and as those who are may wish to have in concise form a historical narrative of that great catastrophe the following account, taken from the author's "history of huddersfield and its vicinity," is appended:-"the bilberry reservoir is situated at the head of a narrow gorge or glen, leading from the holme valley, at holme bridge, to a high bluff of land called good bent, and was supplied by two streams flowing through the cloughs running to the north-east and south-east of good bent, and draining the moors of holme moss on the one side and the hills running up to saddleworth on the other, including some thousands of acres of moorland. the confluence of the streams takes place between two large hills, called hoobrook hill and lum bank, and which run parallel to each other for a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards, when they open out and form an extensive oval basin of not less than three hundred yards diameter. the reservoir formed by blocking up the valley below the basin enclosing some twelve acres of surface. it was defective in its original construction, and was for a long time known to be in a most dangerous condition. at the time when the embankment gave way the quantity of water in the reservoir would not be less than eighty-six million two hundred and forty-eight thousand gallons or the enormous and fearful amount of three hundred thousand tons in weight. it burst a little before one o'clock in the morning of february 5th, 1852. the moon shone bright over the varied and romantic landscape; the streamlets swollen by recent heavy rains, filled the river to its banks; the industrious population were recruiting their wasted energies by sleep, when all at once, in a moment, the ponderous embankment was carried away by the force and weight of the pent-up waters, and desolation, ruin, and death overspread the rich and fertile valley for miles around. trees were torn up by the roots and hurried onwards by the rush of waters, roaring with renewed fury as they swept each successive obstruction. the death-shrieks of scores were hushed as the flood passed forwards to new scenes of destruction and death, leaving in its track ponderous pieces of rock weighing many tons; the dead carcases of horses, cows, goats, and other cattle; here and there broken machinery, bags of wool, carding machines, dye pans, steam engine boilers, timber, spars, looms, furniture, and every variety of wreck. it would seem as if the whole body of accumulated waters had tumbled down the valley together, sweeping all before them, throwing a four-storey mill down like a thing of nought, tossing steam engine boilers about like feathers, and carrying death and destruction in their progress. in consequence of the narrowness between the mountain bluffs on either side, a vast volume of water was kept together, which spent its force upon holmfirth, where the mass of houses, shops, mills, warehouses, and other buildings was expected to present a formidable barrier to its further progress. the check, however, was but momentary for the flood, with the mass of floating wreck which it carried in its bosom, shot through buildings, gutted some, and tumbled others down, until it found a further outlet and passed on, doing more or less damage lower down the valley at thongs bridge, honley, and armitage bridge. after passing the last place mentioned the flood got more into the open country spreading itself out in the fields, and swelling the river down below huddersfield. much might be written on the details and incidents connected with the catastrophe. a few of the most striking may be mentioned. a few hundred yards below the reservoir stood a small building two storeys high called bilberry mill, the occupation of joseph broadhead, and used as a scribbling and dressing mill. the end of the mill was caught by the sudden swell, and about ten feet in length and its gable were washed down the valley. a little further down the valley, and on the same side as bilberry mill, stood digley upper mill, lately occupied by mr. john furniss, woollen manufacturer. the building was a block of stone work, consisting of a factory, a large house, farm buildings, and outhouses. the end of the mill was washed away, a quantity of machinery, and a large amount of property in the shape of pieces, warps, etc., destroyed, and the gable end of the house, which was comparatively new, and the farm buildings swept away. in the latter were twelve tons of hay, three cows, a horse, and several head of poultry, which were all carried down the stream. a short distance below stood digley mill property, which consisted of a large building sixty yards square, four storeys high, built of stone; a weaving shed, containing thirty-four looms and other machinery; two dwelling-houses, seven cottages, farm, and other outbuildings, making altogether a small town. adjacent to it in the valley and on the hill side were several fields of rich and fertile land; the whole forming a secluded but compact estate, valued at from twelve to fifteen thousand pounds. in one of the houses built on the river side, resided mrs. hirst, widow of the late george hirst; and in the other resided henry beardsall, her son-in-law. the cottages were occupied by work people. the buildings formed a mass of solid stone work; but the torrent swept it away like a straw, carrying its ponderous machinery down the valley, and tossing its boilers about with the greatest ease. the engine was carried from its place, and became embedded in the mud lower down in the valley. the house built on the hill-side remained, but the cottages and all the other buildings were carried away, except a tall engine chimney. with the buildings were swept away four cows and a valuable horse. bank end mill was the next building in the valley. its gable end and one window from the top to the bottom of the building were washed away. it was completely gutted in the lower rooms and the machinery in the upper storeys was thrown together in heaps. the dye house and stove, about twenty yards long, were completely cleared away, leaving nothing of them standing above the ground. the property belonged to joe roebuck whose loss was estimated at from two to three thousand pounds. the valley here widens until it reaches holme bridge, a small village composed of a few hundred inhabitants. the stream here is crossed by a bridge of one arch, about forty yards on one side of which stands holme church, in the centre of a graveyard; and about the same distance on the other side stood a toll gate and a number of dwellings. the bridge was swept away to its foundations. the wall surrounding the church was ravished by the speeding torrent, and the few trees planted in the yard were uprooted and carried down the stream. the interior of the church and the graveyard, as seen a day or two after the flood, presented a melancholy spectacle. inside the church the water had risen about five feet. the floor was torn up--the pews had been floating, and the floor was covered with sand and mud several inches thick. in the centre of the aisle was laid the body of a goat which had been washed from upper digley mill, and within a few feet of it, resting on the seat of one of the pews, lay the coffin and remains of a full grown man. both these relics, with others not found, had been washed up from their graves by the whirlpools formed by the current, as it passed over the churchyard. the roads and fields from the reservoir downwards to this point were almost covered with huge masses of stone and other loose substances, of which the bank of the reservoir had been formed. down to this point no human life appears to have been lost; but a little lower down, at the village of hinchliffe mill, the loss of life was very great. this village was on the left bank of the river, and consisted principally of cottage houses. the factory, which gave its name to the village, was a large building five storeys high, built on the opposite side of the river, and which remained, though the water had passed its first and second floor, and done great damage to the machinery. the mill was for some time blocked up to the windows in the second storey with huge pieces of timber, broken machinery, and wreck of various descriptions, which the torrent brought down from the mills above. on the village side of the river, six dwellings which formed "water street," were swept down and hurled forward with the flood, and thirty-five of the inmates perished. the following is the list of the occupants of the houses that were swept down. the first house was occupied by miss marsden and three others; the second by joseph todd, his wife and children; the third by j. crosland and seven others; the fourth by james metternick, and nine others; the fifth by joshua earnshaw, his little girl, and two sons; and the sixth by john charlesworth, and nine others. the houses in this neighbourhood not washed down, were in some cases flooded into the chambers; and in one of them--the endmost left standing--were sixteen individuals, who saved their lives by getting on an adjoining roof. in the adjoining houses, five persons perished. of the five persons who were overcome by the waters in the houses above hinchliffe, three were drowned in one house, viz.--james booth, his wife, and a lodger. in the same pile of buildings, the wife of joseph brook (who was endeavouring to save herself and child) was drowned with her infant in her arms. the country grows wilder below the last-mentioned place; and in the centre of a wide valley stood bottom's mill. from the open country here offered to the stream, the factory, which was a very large one, sustained comparatively little damage. after leaving the mill, the torrent assailed the machine shops and works of messrs. pogson and co.; proceeding thence to harpin's victoria woollen mill, doing great damage. machinery was broken, cottages carried away, and much property destroyed. at the time of the calamity twenty persons were in these cottages, and were only rescued by a communication being opened up through the walls with the end house which was rather higher up away from the flood. here in one chamber, the poor creatures were huddled together expecting momentary death, when at last the water abated sufficiently to allow of their being removed which was scarcely effected before the house fell in. within a short distance of victoria mill stood dyson's mill, which was occupied by mr. sandford in the yard of which mr. sandford resided. his house was swept away, and with it himself, his two children, and servant. the factory sustained very serious damage, both in its walls and machinery. mr. sandford was a person of considerable property, and is said to have had three or four thousand pounds in the house at the time. however this may be, it is known that he had just before been in treaty for the purchase of a considerable estate at penistone, and that he had only that very week given instructions to a share broker at huddersfield to buy for him a large amount of london and north western railway stock. his life was also insured for a large sum. the bodies of mr. sandford's two daughters and his housekeeper were found a few days after the flood; but the body of mr. sandford was not found till february 20th. his friends wished to find the body in order to prove his death, without which they would not have been entitled to receive the amount secured by his policy of insurance. a reward of ten pounds was therefore offered in the first instance for the recovery of his body, which sum was increased to one hundred pounds. procklington or farrars' upper mill stood next, the large dyehouse of which was completely destroyed. the damage was estimated at two, or three thousand pounds; and one of the boilers, weighing six tons, was carried by the water to berry brow, a distance of three miles. these were the property of mr. j. farrar. the factory known as the tower mill, situate a little below, was built across the stream; but the torrent rushed onward and carried the greater portion of the mill along with it, leaving the two ends standing. the mill was filled with valuable machinery and woollen material, and was the property of mr. hodson farrar. in the factory yard two children were drowned, and a little further down a third child was found dead. at the _george_ inn, near this place, nine bodies, principally recovered from the stream, were laid. at holmfirth, hundreds of dwellings were inundated, some of them were filled to the top storey, compelling the inmates to escape through and get upon the roof for safety; indeed, the houses were thoroughly gutted. happily no lives were lost; but the most heart-rending scenes occurred to the inhabitants of some of the houses on the opposite side of the street. on the left hand side of what the day previous was a narrow street stood the toll-bar house, kept by s. greenwood, who, with his wife and child, were swept away. he was seen to come out of the house with a lighted candle in his hand return into the house, close the door after him, and in a moment or two not a vestige of the house was to be seen. lower down, on the same side of the street, was an extensive warehouse occupied by messrs. crawshaw, carriers, which was swept away. to the left were some extensive blue dye works; the destruction of these premises was most complete. a little above the mill and between that building and a stable, stood two small cottages, one occupied by s. hartley and his family, the other by r. shackleton and family. all the members save three of these families, were swept away with the cottages. victoria bridge was dismantled. on the right hand side, over the bridge, was a new row of shops, built in the modern style, every one of which was flooded. the loss sustained by the various occupants was great. at smithy place (a hamlet about two miles north-east of holmfirth) the water rose to a fearful height, and but for the alarm which had been given, the loss of life must have been great. whole families had to leave their beds and betake themselves out of the way of the flood with no other covering than what they slept in some quite naked; and the shrieks and cries of children for their parents, and parents for their children, were heartbreaking. the damage done in this place was very great. from honley to armitage bridge the wreck was fearful, the front and back walls of st. paul's church, at the latter place, being completely destroyed. two children were found dead above the "golden fleece" inn, one of them on the water side, the other washed into a tree; they were conveyed to the inn. a young woman, about eighteen years of age, was found dead and naked in a field near armitage fold. beyond this part there was some slight damage done. from a statement published soon after the occurrence, it appears, that so far as could be ascertained, 77 lives had been lost, 38 of them being adults, and 39 children; 26 were married, 12 unmarried, and 12 children were left destitute. the estimated damage and summary of property, in addition to the loss from devastated land under tillage was as follows :--buildings destroyed: 4 mills, 10 dyehouses, 3 stoves, 27 cottages, 7 tradesmen's houses, 7 shops, 7 bridges, 10 warehouses, 8 barns and stables. buildings seriously injured: 5 dyehouses, 17 mills, 3 stoves, 129 cottages, 7 tradesmen's houses, 44 large shops, 11 public-houses 5 bridges, 1 county bridge, 4 warehouses, 13 barns, 3 places of worship, and 2 iron foundries. hands thrown out of work: adults, 4,896; children, 2,142 total, 7,038. the total loss of property was estimated at â£250,000. the coroner's jury, who viewed the bodies of the persons drowned by the flood, in addition to the usual verdict of "found drowned," made a statement to the effect that the holme reservoir commissioners had been guilty of great and culpable negligence in allowing the reservoir to remain for several years in a dangerous state, with a full knowledge thereof, and that had they been in the position of a private individual or firm they would certainly have subject themselves to a verdict of "manslaughter." generous subscriptions were raised for the sufferers in various parts of the country, amounting altogether to â£68,000. a large surplus of the fund was left after relieving the sufferers, which was devoted towards the erection of five almshouses, the first stone being laid in 1856. a brass plate bears the following inscription:-"the foundation stone of the holmfirth monumental alms houses, erected to commemorate the great flood caused by the bursting of the bilberry reservoir, on the 5th of february, 1852 (by which upwards of eighty lives were lost), and also the munificent liberality of the british public, was laid by the provincial grand lodge of freemasons of west yorkshire, on monday, the 24th of april, 1856, 5856." yorkshire lyrics. poems written in the dialect as spoken in the west riding of yorkshire. to which are added a selection of fugitive verses not in the dialect. by john hartley, author of "clock almanack," "yorkshire puddin," "yorkshire tales" &c, &c, "it has not been my lot to pore o'er ancient tomes of classic lore, or quaff castalia's springs; yet sometimes the observant eye may germs of poetry descry in plain and common things." london: w. nicholson & sons, limited, 26, paternoster square, e. c. and albion works, wakefield. dedication. to my dear daughter, annie sophie, this collection of dialect verses is dedicated, as a token of sincere love. john hartley. christmas, 1898. contents. mi darling muse. to a daisy, found blooming march 7th. mi bonny yorksher lass. give it 'em hot. a tale for th' childer, on christmas eve. words ov kindness. a brussen bubble. th' little stranger. th' traitle sop. once agean welcome. still true to nell. bide thi time. a cold dooas. a jolly beggar. aw wodn't for all aw could see. come thi ways! what is it? awst nivver be jaylus. lamentin' an repentin'. bite bigger. second thowts. a neet when aw've nowt to do. ther's much expected. coortin days. sweet mistress moore. waivin mewsic. jimmy's choice. old moorcock. th' short-timer. sol an' doll. their fred. love an' labor. nooan so bad. th' honest hard worker. peevish poll. the old bachelor's story. did yo ivver! a quiet tawk. lines, on startling a rabbit. nivver heed. gronfayther's days. awr dooad. whear natur missed it. that's all. mary hanner's peanner. grondad's lullaby. sixty, turned, to-day. that lad next door. a summer shaar. awr lad. bonny mary ann. that christmas puddin. a bad sooart. fairly weel-off. a warnin. to w. f. wallett. the queen's jester. lads an lasses. a new year's gift. matty's reason. uncle ben. a hawporth. th' better part. th' lesser evil. take heart! they all do it. to let. lost love. (appeared twice in the paper book) drink. duffin johnny. (a rifleman's adventure.) plenty o' brass. the new year's resolve. a strange stooary. what wor it? billy bumble's bargain. aght o' wark. that's a fact. babby burds. queen ov skircoit green. th' little black hand. my native twang. sing on. shoo's thi sister. another babby. to a roadside flower. an old man's christmas morning. settin off. to th' swallow. a wife. heart brokken. lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. rejected. persevere. a pointer. an acrostic. help thisen. bless 'em! act square. his dowter gate wed. all we had. th' first o'th sooart. poor old hat. done agean. what it is to be a mother. what they say. young jockey. missed his mark. when lost. mak a gooid start. stop at hooam. advice to jenny. jockey an dolly. dooant forget the old fowks. soa bonny. the linnet. mary jane. aw dooant care. my lass. a gooid kursmiss day. mi love's come back. a wife. all tawk. aw can't tell. happen thine. contrasts. to mally. th' state o' th' poll. a nop tickle illusion. try a smile. growin old. gooid bye, old lad. that drabbled brat. song for th' hard times, (1879.) stir thi lass! tother day. happy sam's song. gradely weel off. is it reight? a yorksher bite. lily's gooan. what aw want. latter wit. a millionaire. mi fayther's pipe. let th' lasses alooan! a breet prospect. missin yor way. heather bells. a lucky dog. my doctrine. that lass. mi old umberel what it comes to. hold up yer heeads. a quiet day. lass o'th haley hill. ditherum dump. my polly. love one another. dick an me. briggate at setterdy neet. awr annie. peter prime's principles. cuckoo! fowk next door. dad's lad. willie's weddin. somdy's chonce. to a true friend. warmin pan. it may be soa. a safe investment. red stockin. plain jane. cash v. cupid. mary's bonnet. prime october. old dave to th' new parson. tom grit. th' demon o' debt. th' lad 'at loves his mother. matilda jane. modest jack o' wibsey slack. work lads! bonny yorksher. sixty an sixteen. come thi ways in. horton tide. mi old slippers. a friend to me. a pair o' black een. a screw lawse. a sad mishap. if. a true tale. peter's prayer. mak th' best ont. on strike. be happy. its true. natty nancy. fugitive poems. angels of sunderland. in memoriam, june 16th, 1893. trusting still. shiver the goblet. little sunshine. passing events. those days have gone. i'd a dream. to my harp. backward turn, oh! recollection. alice. looking back. i know i love thee bachelors quest. waiting at the gate. love. do your best and leave the rest. to my daughter on her birthday. remorse. my queen now and then. the open gates. blue bells. a song of the snow hide not thy face. in my garden of roses. the match girl. de profundis. nettie. the dean's brother. i would not live alway. too late. on the banks of the calder. lines on receiving a bunch of wild hyacinths by post. november's here. mary. when cora died. the violet. repentant. sunset. poetry and prose. years ago. somebody's. claude. all on a christmas morning. once upon a time. nearing home. those tiny fingers. lilly-white hand. shut out. charming may. who cares? mi darling muse. mi darlin' muse, aw coax and pet her, to pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better; an' if aw find aw connot get her to lend her aid, into foorced measure then aw set her, the stupid jade! an' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly, nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly, place all the blame,--yo'll place it reightly, upon her back; to win her smile aw follow neetly, along her track. maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly, an let me taste o' melancholy; but just to spite her awl be jolly, an say mi say; awl fire away another volley tho' shoo says "nay." we've had some happy times together, for monny years we've stretched our tether, an as aw dunnot care a feather for fowk 'at grummel, we'll have another try. aye! whether we stand or tummel. sometimes th' reward for all us trubble, has been a crop o' scrunty stubble, but th' harvest someday may be double, at least we'll trust it; an them 'at say it's but a bubble, we'll leeav to brust it. to a daisy, found blooming march 7th. a'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin, little daisy! pray, whativer wor ta doin? are ta crazy? winter winds are blowin' yet,-tha'll be starved, mi little pet. did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee, an' deceive thee? niver let appearance charm thee, for believe me, smiles tha'll find are oft but snares, laid to catch thee unawares. still aw think it luks a shame, to tawk sich stuff; aw've lost faith, an' tha'll do th' same, hi, sooin enuff. if tha'rt happy as tha art trustin' must be th' wisest part. come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan, raand thi dwellin'; they may screen thee when aw've gooanm, ther's no tellin'; an' when gentle spring draws near aw'll release thee, niver fear. an' if then thi pretty face, greets me smilin'; aw may come an' sit bith' place, time beguilin'; glad to think aw'd paar to be, of some use, if but to thee. mi bonny yorksher lass. aw've travelled east, west, north, an south, an led a rooamin' life; aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth, aw've shared wi joy an strife; aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip, whativver's come to pass: but th' captain of mi fortun's ship, has been mi yorksher lass. storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost, a toy for wind an wave; mid blindin' fog an snow an frost, aw've thowt noa power could save; but ivver in the darkest day, wi muscles strong as brass, to some safe port shoo's led the way,- mi honest yorksher lass. shoo's fair,--all yorksher lasses are,- shoo's bonny as the rest, her brow ne'er shows a line o' care, shoo thinks what is, is best. shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck, an it seems as clear as glass, 'at th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck 'at weds a yorksher lass. ther's oriental beauties, an' grand fowk ov ivvery grade, but when it comes to honest worth, shoo puts 'em all ith' shade, for wi her charms an virtues, shoo stands at top o'th' class; ther's nooan soa rare as can compare, wi a bonny yorksher lass, then here's to th' yorksher lasses! whearivver they may be; ther worth ther's nooan surpasses, an ther's nooan as brave an free! if awd to live life o'er ageean, awd think misen an ass, if aw didn't tak for company, a bonny yorksher lass. give it 'em hot. give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins! souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words! out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins! daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's! what does it matter if truth be unpleasant? are we to lie a man's pride to exalt! why should a prince be excused, when a peasant is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault? o, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin; an honest man still should be fearless and bold; but at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin, an' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold. give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en, if aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee; aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden, nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee. let ivery man by his merit be tested, net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back; let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested, an' what they're entitled to, that let em tak. give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin, all yo 'at profess others failins to tell, 'at yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin, if yo set an example, an' improve yorsel. a tale for th' childer, on christmas eve. little childer,--little childer; harken to an old man's ditty; tho yo live ith' country village,- tho yo live ith' busy city. aw've a little tale to tell yo,- one 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,-it's abaat one who to save yo, here amang men made his dwellin. riches moor nor yo can fancy,- moor nor all this world has in it,-he gave up becoss he loved yo, an he's lovin yo this minnit. all his power, pomp and glory, which to think on must bewilder,-all he left,--an what for think yo? just for love ov little childer. in a common, lowly stable he wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin, as if angel's 'een wor peepin on his face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin. an one star, like a big lantern, shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin, saw, an foller'd till it rested just aboon whear he wor sleepin. then strange music an sweet voices seem'd to sing reight aght o' heaven, "unto us a child is born! unto us a son is given!" then coom wise men thro strange nations,- young men an men old an hoary,-an they all knelt daan befoor him, an araand him shone a glory. then a king thowt he wod kill him, tho he reckoned net to mind him, but they went to a strange country, whear this bad king couldn't find him. an he grew up strong and sturdy, an he sooin began his praichin, an big craads stood raand to listen, an they wondered at his taichin. then some sed bad things abaat him, called him names, laft at an jeered him;-sed he wor a base imposter, for they hated, yet they feeard him. some believed in his glad tidins,- saw him cure men ov ther blindness,-saw him make once-deead fowk livin, saw him full o' love an kindness. wicked men at last waylaid him, drag'd him off to jail and tried him, tho noa fault they could find in him, yet they cursed an crucified him. nubdy knows ha mich he suffered; but his work on earth wor ended:-from the grave whear they had laid him, into heaven he ascended. love like his may well bewilder,- sinners weel may bow befoor him;-nah he waits for th' little childer, up in heaven whear saints adore him. think when sittin raand yor hearthstun, an the kursmiss bells are ringing, ha he lived an died at yo may join those angels in ther singin. words ov kindness. 'tis strange 'at fowk will be sich fooils to mak life net worth livin', fermentin' rows, creatin' mooils, detractin' an' deceivin'. to fratch an' worry day an' neet, is sewerly wilful blindness, when weel we know ther's nowt as sweet, as a few words spoke i' kindness. ther is noa heart withaat its grief, the gayest have some sadness; but oft a kind word brings relief, an' sheds a ray ov gladness. we ought to think of others moor, nor ov ther pains be mindless; we may bring joy to monny a door wi' a few words spoke i' kindness. a peevish spaik, a bitin' jest, 'at may be thowtless spokken, may be like keen edged dagger prest throo some heart nearly brokken. then let love be awr rule o' life, this world's cares we shall find less; for nowt can put an end to strife, like a few words spoke i' kindness. a brussen bubble. bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass, shoo lived near woodus moor;-an varry keen shoo wor for brass, tho little wor her stoor. shoo'd wed for love--and as luck let, it proved a lucky hit; a finer chap yo've seldom met, or one wi better wit. his name awm net inclined to tell, but he'd been kursend john; an he wor rayther praad hissel, an anxious to get on. at neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan, some way to mend ther state; "what one chap's done another can," sed bet, "let's get agate." "this morn wol darnin socks for thee this thowt coom i' mi nop, an do't we will if tha'll agree;- let's start a little shop. we'll sell all sooarts o' useful things 'at ivverybody needs; like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins, an buttons, sooap, an threeds. an spice for th' childer,--castor oil, an traitle drink, an pies, an kinlin wood, an maybe coil, fresh yeast an hooks an eyes. corn plaisters, bristol brick, an clay, puttates, rewbub an salt; an if that can't be made to pay, it willn't be my fault." "th' idea's a gooid en," john replied, "we should ha done 't befoor; aw raillee think at if its tried, we'st neer luk back noa moor. but whear's th' stock commin throo, mi lass? that's moor nor aw can tell; fowk willn't come an spend ther brass, unless yo've stuff to sell." "why, wodn't th' maister lend a hand? tha knows he's fond o' me; a five paand nooat wod do it grand- awd ax if aw wor thee." an john did ax, an strange to say he gat it thear an then; an bet wor ne'er i' sich a way- fairly besides hersen. soa th' haase wor turned into a shop, an praad they wor,--an bet sed to hersen--"it luks tip top, aw'st be a lady yet." an th' naybors coom throo far an near, to buy a thing or two, what they'd paid tuppence for,--why, here bet made three awpence do. when john coom home at neet, his wife wor soa uncommon thrang, at th' furst time in his wedded life, his drinkin time coom wrang. he did his best to seem content, till shuttin up time coom; "why, lass, he said, "thar't fairly spent, tha's oppen'd wi a boom." an ivvery day, to th' end o'th' wick browt customers enuff; but th' stock wor lukkin varry sick, for shoo'd sell'd all her stuff. but then, shoo'd bowt a new silk gaon, an john a silk top hat, an th' nicest easy chair ith' taan, an bits o' this an that. an th' upshot wor, shoo'd spent all th' brass, an shoo'd nowt left to sell; an what john sed,--aw'll let that pass for 'tisn't fit to tell. soa th' business brust, but bet declares, 'twor nobbut want o' thowt, for shoo'd sooin ha made a fortun, if th' stock had cost 'em nowt. th' little stranger. little bonny, bonny babby! how tha stares, an' weel tha may, for its but an haar or hardly sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day. a'a tha little knows, young moppet, ha awst have to tew for thee; but may be when forced to drop it, 'at tha'll do a bit for me. are ta maddled mun amang it? does ta wonder what aw mean? aw should think tha does, but dang it, where's ta been to leearn to scream? that's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thi, dunnot peawt thi lip like that; mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thi, feared awst hurt thi, little brat. come, aw'll tak thi to thi mother, shoo's more used to sich nor me, hands like mine worn't made to bother wi sich ginger-breead as thee. innocent an' helpless craytur, all soa pure an' undefiled, if ther's ought belangs to heaven, lives o'th' earth, it is a child. an' its hard to think 'at someday, if tha'rt spared to weather throo, 'at tha'll be a man, an' someway have to feight life's battles too. kings an' queens, an' lords an' ladies, once wor nowt noa moor to see, an' th' warst wretch at hung o'th' gallows, once wor born as pure as thee. an' what tha at last may come to, god aboon us all can tell; but aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky, even tho aw fail mysel. do aw ooin thi? its a pity, hush! nah prathi dunnot freat; goa an' snoozle to thi titty, tha'rt too young for trouble yet. th' traitle sop. once in a little country taan a grocer kept a shop, and sell'd amang his other things, prime traitle-drink and pop; teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice, soft soap an' paader blue, presarves an' pickles, cinnamon, allspice an' pepper too. an' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff to sell to sich as came, as figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice, too numerous to name. one summer's day a waggon stood just opposite his door; an' th' childer all gaped raand as if they'd ne'er seen one afoor. an' in it wor a traitle cask, it wor a wopper too, to get it aght they all wor fast which iver way to do. but wol they stood an' parley'd thear, th' horse gave a sudden chuck, an' aght it flew, an' bursting threw all th' traitle into th' muck. then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands, to them it seem'd rare fun; but th' grocer ommost lost his wits when he saw th' traitle run. he stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared he wodn't pay a meg! an' th' carter vow'd until he did he wodn't stir a peg. he said he'd done his business reight,- he'd brought it up to th' door, an' thear it wor, an' noa fair chap wod want him to do moor. but wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore, an' vented aght ther spleen, th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure, all plaisterd up to th' een. a neighbor chap saw th' state o' things, an' pitied ther distress, an' begg'd em not to be soa sour abaht soa sweet a mess; "an' tha'd be sour," th' owd grocer sed, "if th' job wor thine owd lad, an' somdy wanted thee to pay for what tha'd niver had." "th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver, "my duty's done i hope? i've brought him traitle, thear it is, an' he mun sam it up." soa th' neighbor left em to thersen, he'd nowt noa moor to say, but went to guard what ther wor left, an' send th' young brood away. this didn't suit th' young lads a bit,- they didn't mean to stop, they felt detarmin'd that they'd get another traitle sop. they tried all ways but th' chap stood firm, they couldn't get a lick, an' some o'th' boldest gate a taste o'th neighbor's walkin stick. at last one said, "i know a plan if we can scheme to do it, we'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt, an' let him roll reight throo it;" "agreed! agreed!" they all replied, "an here comes little jack, he's foorced to pass cloise up this side, we'll do it in a crack." poor jack wor rayther short, an' came just like a suckin duck; he little dream'd at th' sweets o' life wod ivver be his luck. but daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd heead first bang into th' mess, an' aght he coom a woeful seet, as yo may easy guess. they marched him off i' famous glee, all stickified an' clammy, then licked him clean an' sent him hooam to get lick'd by his mammy. then th' cartdriver an th' grocer came, booath in a dreadful flutter, to save some, but they came too lat, it all wor lost ith gutter: it towt a lesson to em booath befoor that job wor ended, to try (at stead o' falling aght) if owt went wrang to mend it. for wol fowk rave abaht ther loss, some sharper's sure to pop, an' aght o' ther misfortunes they'll contrive to get a sop. once agean welcome. once agean welcome! oh, what is ther grander, when years have rolled by sin' yo left an old friend? an what cheers yor heart, when yo far away wander, as mich as the thowts ov a welcome at th' end? yo may goa an be lucky, an win lots o' riches; yo may gain fresh acquaintance as onward yo rooam; but tho' wealth may be temptin, an honor bewitches, yet they're nowt when compared to a welcome back hooam. pray, who hasn't felt as they've sat sad an lonely, they'd give all they possessed for the wings ov a dove, to fly far away, just to catch a seet only ov th' friends o' ther childhood, the friends 'at they love. hope may fill the breast when some old spot we're leavin, bright prospects may lure us throo th' dear land away, but it's joy o' returnin at sets one's breast heavin, it's th' hopes ov a welcome back maks us feel gay. long miles yo may trudge ovver moor, heath, or mire, till yor legs seem to totter, an th' stummack feels faint; but yor thowts still will dwell o' that breet cottage fire, till yo feel quite refreshed bi th' fancies yo paint. an when yo draw nearer, an ovver th' old palins yo see smilin faces 'at welcome yo back, ther's an end to being weary! away wi complainin's! yo leeave all yor troubles behind on yor track. then if ther's sich joy in a welcome receivin, let us ivvery one try sich a pleasure to gain; an bi soothin' fowk's cares, an ther sorrows relievin, let us bind em all to us, wi' friendship's strong chain. let us love an be loved! let's be kind an forgivin, an then if fate forces us far from awr hooam, we shall still throughout life have the joy o' receivin a tear when we part, an a smile when we come. still true to nell. th' sun wor settin,--red an gold, wi splendor paintin th' west, an purplin tints throo th' valley roll'd, as daan he sank to rest. yet dayleet lingered looath to leeav a world soa sweet an fair, wol silent burds a pathway cleave, throo th' still an slumb'rin air. aw stroll'd along a country rooad, hedged in wi thorn an vine; which wild flower scents an shadows broad, converted to a shrine. as twileet's deeper curtains fell aw sat mi daan an sighed; mi thowts went back to th' time when nell, had rambled bi mi side. aw seemed to hear her voice agean, soft whisperin i' mi ear, recallin things 'at once had been, when th' futur all wor clear. when love,--pure, honest, youthful love had left us nowt to crave; an fancies full ov bliss we wove;- alas! nell's in her grave. oh, nell! i' that fair hooam ov thine, whear all is breet an pure,--say,--is ther room for love like mine? can earthborn love endure? do angels' hearts past vows renew, to mortals here who dwell? it must be soa;--if my heart's true, aw cannot daat thee, nell. it's weel we cannot see beyond that curtain deeath lets fall; lest cheerin hooaps, an longins fond, should be denied us all. better to live i' hooap nor fear,- 'tis mercy plan'd it soa; for if my nelly isn't thear, aw shouldn't care to goa. bide thi time. bide thi time! it's sure to come, tho' it may seem tardy,-thine's a better fate nor some: if tha's but a humble home, yet thart strong an hardy; then cheer up an ne'er repine, be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! if fortun's blind, rail not at her givin; if tha thinks shoo's ovver kind to thi neighbor, nivver mind, if tha gets a livin; woll thi life is in its prime, be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! for ther's a endin to a loin, haivver long: things at th' warst mun start o' mendin; ther's noa wind but what's befriendin one or other, tho' its strong: remember, poverty's noa crime-be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! tho none are near thee to stretch out a helpin hand; let noa darken'd prospect fear thee, ther's a promise yet should cheer thee as tha nears a breeter land: tho thi rooad is hard to climb, be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! "i will not leave thee nor forsake thee," he hath said. let not worldly smiles deceive thee, trust in him--he will relieve thee- he that gives thy daily bread: fill'd with faith and love sublime, still contented, bide thi time. a cold dooas. one neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell, but it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel. furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes, aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes. thinks aw--tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will! but aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still; soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed, thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed. when awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas, aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors; soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath, an ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath. when aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang, for it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang; it wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hurt, but still, aw wor lockt aght o' door i' mi shirt. thinks aw its noa use to be feared ov a din, awst be foorced to rouse betty to let me get in. an to mend matters snow wor beginnin to fall, an a linen shirt makes but a poor overall. aw knockt at first pratly, for fear ov a row, but her snooarin aw heeard plain enuff daan below. mi flesh wor i' gooise-lumps, mi feet wor like ice, to be frozzen to deeath, thinks aw, willn't be nice; soa as knockin wor useless aw started to bray, till at last one oth pannels began to give way. all th' neighbors ther heeads aght oth windows did pop, but aw couldn't wake betty, shoo slept like a top. at last a poleeceman coom raand wi his lamp, an he spied mi an thowt mi some murderin scamp; aw tried to explain, but he wodn't give heed, for he wanted a job like all th' rest ov his breed. he tuk me to th' lock-up, an thear made a charge, at aw wor a lunatic rooamin at large. in a cell aw wor put, whear aw fan other three, 'twor a small _cell_ for four, but a big _sell_ for me; an shiv'rin an shudd'rin an pairt druffen sick, that neet seem'd to me twice as long as a wick. next mornin they dragg'd me to th' cooart-haase to tell what it meant, an to give an accaant o' misel; an they fined me five shillin, but ha could aw pay, when mi brass wor ith pockets oth clooas far away? then they sent betty word, an shoo coom, for it seems shoo wor up i' gooid time, for shoo'd had ugly dreeams; an shoo browt me mi clooas, an shoo set me all streight, but her pity wor nobbut, "it just sarves thee reight." sin then yo've noa nooation what awve to endure, for aw gate sich a cold 'at noa phisic can cure; an if aw complain betty says i' quicksticks, "tha sees what tha gets wi thi wrang-headed tricks." soa aw grin an aw bide it as weel as aw can, but awve altered mi tactics, an nah it's mi plan if mi mates ivver tempt me an get me to rooam, aw sup pop when awm aght an sup whisky at hooam. an betty declares it's been all for mi gooid, for awd long wanted summat to cooil mi young blooid; but this lesson it towt me awl freely confess,-to mak sewer th' gate's made fast befoor aw undress. a jolly beggar. aw'm as rich as a jew, tho aw havn't a meg, but awm free as a burd, an aw shak a loise leg; aw've noa haase, an noa barns, soa aw nivver pay rent, but still aw feel rich, for awm bless'd wi content, aw live, an awm jolly, an if it is folly, let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent. mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up oth moor, an at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor, an a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop, wol aw listen to th' stormcock at pipes up oth top; aw live, an awm jolly, &c. aw nivver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak, unless it's thease tatters at hing o' mi back; an if they prig them, they'll get suck'd do yo see, they'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me. aw live, an awm jolly, &c. fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me ith rooad an get aght oth gate as if fear'd ov a tooad; but aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell, for th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel. aw live, an awm jolly, &c. tho philosiphers tawk, an church parsons may praich, an tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich; yet aw nivver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise, for he's nowt to be fear'd on at's nowt he can loise. aw live, an awm jolly, &c. aw wodn't for all aw could see. why the dickens do some fowk keep thrustin, as if th' world hadn't raam for us all? wi consarn an consait they're fair brustin, one ud think th' heavens likely to fall. they fidge an they fume an they flutter, like a burd catched wi lime on a tree, and they'll fratch wi ther own breead an butter:- but aw wodn't for all aw could see. bless mi life! th' world could get on withaat em! it ud have to do if they wor deead; they may be sincere but aw daat em, if they're honest, they're wrang i' ther heead. they've all some pet doctrine, an wonder why fowk wi ther plans disagree, they expect yo should all knuckle under, but aw wodn't for all aw could see. my old woman may net be perfection, but we're wed soa we know we've to stick; an if shoo made another selection, aw mightn't be th' chap at shoo'd pick. but we get on reight gradely together, an her failins aw try net to see, some will bend under th' weight ov a feather, but aw wodn't for all aw could see. a chap at aits peaches and cherries, mun expect to be bothered wi stooans; an he's nobbut a fooil if he worries coss yearins arnt made withaat booans. to mak th' best o' things just as aw find em, seems th' reight sooart o' wisdom to me; an when things isn't reight aw neer mind em, for aw wodn't for all aw could see. all araand me aw see ther's moor pleasure nor aw can enjoy wol aw live; an contentment is this world's best treasure, then why should aw sit daan an grieve? if they enjoy naggin an growlin, it maks little difference to me, but wi th' world full o' pleasure to roll in:- why, aw wodn't for all aw could see. come thi ways! bonny lassie, come thi ways, an let us goa together! tho' we've met wi stormy days, ther'll be some sunny weather. an if joy should spring for me, tha shall freely share it; an if trouble comes to thee, aw can help to bear it. tho' thi mammy says us nay, an thi dad's unwillin'; wod ta have me pine away wi this love at's killin'? come thi ways, an let me twine mi arms once moor abaght thee; weel tha knows mi heart is thine, aw couldn't live withaat thee. ivvery day an haar at slips, some pleasure we are missin', for those bonny rooasy lips awm nivver stall'd o' kissin'. if men wor wise to walk life's track withaat sith joys to glad 'em, he must ha made a sad mistak at gave a eve to adam. what is it? what is it maks a crusty wife forget to scold, an leeave off strife? what is it smoothes th' rooad throo life? it's sooap. what is it maks a gaumless muff grow rich, an roll i' lots o' stuff, woll better men can't get enough? it's sooap. what is it, if it worn't theear, wod mak some fowks feel varry queer, an put em i' ther proper sphere? it's sooap. what is it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, to goa to th' church, becoss they know 'at th' squire's at hooam an sure to goa? it's sooap. what is it gains fowk invitations, throo them at live i' lofty stations? what is it wins mooast situations? it's sooap. what is it men say they detest, yet allus like that chap the best 'at gives em twice as mich as th' rest? it's sooap. what is it, when the devil sends his agents raand to work his ends, what is it gains him lots o' friends? it's sooap. what is it we should mooast despise, an by its help refuse to rise, tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes? it's sooap. what is it, when life's wasting fast, when all this world's desires are past, will prove noa use to us at last? it's sooap. awst nivver be jaylus. "awst nivver be jaylus, net aw!" sed nancy to th' love ov her heart, "aw couldn't, lad, if awd to try, for aw know varry weel what tha art. aw could trust thee to th' world's farthest point, noa matter what wimmen wor thear, they'd nooan put mi nooas aght o'th joint, tha'd come back to thi lass tha left here. though tha did walk leweezy to th' church, an fowk wink'd an dropt monny a hint, aw knew tha'd nooan leav me i'th lurch, for a dowdy like her wi a squint. an ellen at lives at th' yard end, may simper an innocent look, but aw think shoo'll ha' farther to fend, befoor shoo's a fish to her hook. nay, jaylussy's aght o' my line, or else that young widdy next door, wod ha heeard some opinions o' mine, at wodn't quite suit her awm sewer. what tha can see in her caps me, for awm sewer shoo's as faal as old flue, an aw think when shoo's tawkin to thee, shoo mud find surnmat better to do. 'shoo's a varry nice lass,' does ta say? 'an luks looansum tha thinks?' oh! that's it! tha'd better set off reight away, an try to console her a bit. shoo's a two-faced deceitful young freet! aw wish shoo wor teed raand thi neck! but goa to her an tell her to-neet, at nancy has given thi th' seck. awm nooan jaylus! aw ammot that fond! aw think far too mich o' mysen to care for sich a poucement as yond, at hankers for other fowk's men! aw tell thi aw'll net hold mi tongue! awm nooan jaylus tha madlin! it's thee!* an aw allus shall trust thee as long as tha nooatices nubdy but me." lamentin' an repentin'. awst be better when spring comes, aw think, but aw feel varry sickly an waik, awve noa relish for mait nor for drink, an awm ommost too weary to laik. what's to come on us all aw can't tell, for we havn't a shillin put by; ther's nowt left to pop nor to sell, an aw cannot get trust if aw try. my wife has to turn aght to wark, an th' little uns all do a share; an they're tewin throo dayleet to dark, to keep me sittin here i' mi chair. it doesn't luk long sin that day when bessy wor stood bi mi side; an shoo promised to love an obey, an me to protect an provide. shoo wor th' bonniest lass i' all th' taan, an fowk sed as they saw us that day, when we coom aght o' th' church, arm i' arm, shoo wor throwin' hersen reight away. but shoo smiled i' mi face as we went, an her arm clung moor tightly to mine; "aw feel happy," shoo sed, "an content to know at tha'rt mine an awm thine." aw wor praad ov her bonny breet een,- aw wor praad ov her little white hand,-an aw thowt shoo wor fit for a queen, for ther wornt a grander ith' land. we gat on varry weel for a bit, an aw stuck to mi wark like a man, an enjoying mi hooam, thear awd sit, as a chap at works hard nobbut can. we hadn't been wed quite a year, when they showed me a grand little lad, an th' old wimmen sed, "sithee! luk here! he's th' image exact ov his dad." but mi mates nivver let me alooan, till aw joined i' ther frolics and spree, an tho' bessy went short, or had nooan, shoo wor kinder nor ivver to me. sometimes when shoo's ventur'd to say, "come hooam an stop in lad, to-neet." awve felt shamed an awve hurried away, for her een have been glist'nin wi weet. an awve sed to misen 'at awd mend, for it's wrang to be gooin on soa; but at neet back to th' aleus awd wend, wi th' furst swillgut at ax'd me to goa. two childer wor added to th' stock, but aw drank, an mi wark went to th' bad; an awve known em be rooarin for jock, wol awve druffen what they should ha had. aw seldom went hooam but to sleep, tho bessy ne'er offered to chide; but grief 'at is silent is deep, an sorrow's net easy to hide. if th' childer wod nobbut complain, or bessy get peevish an tart, aw could put up wi th' anguish or pain, but ther kindness is braikin mi heart. little emma, poor child, ov a neet does th' neighbours odd jobs nah and then, an shoo runs hersen off ov her feet, for a hawpny, they think for hersen. an shoo saved em until shoo gat three, but this mornin away shoo went aght, an spent em o' bacca for me, 'coss shoo thowt aw luk'd looansum withaat. it's a lesson awst nivver forget, an awve bid a gooid-bye to strong drink; an theyst hev ther reward yo can bet;- awst be better when spring comes aw think. an if spendin what's left o' mi life for ther sakes can mak up for lost time, ther shan't be a happier wife, nor three better loved childer nor mine. aw can't help mi een runnin o'er, for mi heart does mi conduct condemn; but awl promise to do soa noa moor, if god spares me to bessy and them. bite bigger. as aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark, (aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,) aw happen'd to hear a remark, at ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan.-it wur raanin, an snawin, an cowd, an th' flagstoans wur covered wi muck, an th' east wind booath whistled an howl'd, it saanded like nowt but ill luck; when two little lads, donn'd i' rags, baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet, coom trapesin away ower th' flags, booath on em sodden'd wi th' weet.-th' owdest mud happen be ten, th' young en be hauf on't,--noa moor; as aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen, god help fowk this weather at's poor! th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand, an aw luk'd just to see what 't could be; 'twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand, an they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee: an he sed, "come on, billy, may be we shall find summat else by an by, an if net, tha mun share thease wi me when we get to some spot where its dry." leet-hearted they trotted away, an aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad; but aw thowt awd ne'er seen sich a day- it worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad. sooin th' big en agean slipt away, an sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck, an he cried aght, "luk here, bill! to-day arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? here's a apple! an th' mooast on it's saand: what's rotten aw'll throw into th' street-worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand? nah booath on us con have a treat." soa he wiped it, an rubb'd it, an then sed, "billy, thee bite off a bit; if tha hasn't been lucky thisen tha shall share wi me sich as aw get." soa th' little en bate off a touch, t'other's face beemed wi pleasur all throo, an' he sed, "nay, tha hasn't taen much, bite agean, an bite bigger; nah do!" aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,- thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me! tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor: th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee! tuppince wur all th' brass aw had, an awd ment it for ale when coom nooin, but aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad, he desarves it for what he's been dooin. soa aw sed, "lad, here's tuppince for thee, for thi sen,"--an they stared like two geese; but he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, "nay, it'll just be a penny a piece." "god bless thi! do just as tha will, an may better days speedily come; tho clam'd, an hauf donn'd, mi lad, still tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nur some." second thowts. aw've been walkin up th' loin all ith weet, aw felt sure tha'd be comin that way; for tha promised tha'd meet me to-neet, an answer me "aye" or else "nay." tho aw hevn't mich fear tha'll refuse, yet awd rayther mi fate tha'd decide, for this trailin abaat is no use, unless tha'll at last be mi bride. aw dooant like keepin thus i' suspense, an aw think tha'rt too full o' consait; if aw get thee tha'll bring me expense, to provide thee wi clooas an wi mait. if tha fancies all th' gain's o' my side tha'rt makkin a sorry mistak, for when a chap tackles a bride, he's an extra looad on his back. an in fact, when aw study things o'er, awm nooan sorry tha hasn't shown up, for awm nooan badly off nah awm sure, for awve plenty to ait an to sup. aw've noa wife to find fault if awm lat, aw've noa childer to feed nor to clam, an when aw put this thing to that, aw think aw shall stop as aw am. a neet when aw've nowt to do. why lad, awm sewer tha'rt ommost done, this ovvertime is killin; 'twor allus soa sin th' world begun, they put o' them at's willin. tha's ne'er a neet to call thi own,- tha starts furst thing o' mundy, an works thi fingers fair to th' booan, booath day an neet wol sundy. aw know tha addles extra pay,- we couldn't weel do baght it, but if tha'rt browt hooam sick some day, we'st ha to do withaat it. aw seldom get to see thi face, exceptin when tha'rt aitin; neet after neet aw caar ith' place wol awm fair sick o' waitin. an when tha comes, tha'rt off to bed, befoor aw've chonce o' spaikin, an th' childer luk, aw've ofttimes sed, like orphans when they're laikin. come hooam at six o'clock to-morn, an let wark goa to hummer, thi face is growin white an worn:- tha'll nivver last all summer. besides ther's lots o' little jobs, at tha can tak a hand in,-that kist o' drawers has lost two nobs, an th' table leg wants mendin. ther's th' fixin up oth' winderblind, an th' chaymer wants whiteweshin, th' wall's filled wi marks o' ivvery kind,- (yond lads desarve a threshin.) aw can't shake th' carpet bi misen, nor lig it square an straightly;-th' childer mud help me nah an then, but they ne'er do nowt reightly. that bed o' awrs wants shakin up, all th' flocks has stuck together, tha knows they all want braikin up, or they'll get tough as leather. an th' coilhoil wants a coit o' lime, then it'll smell mich sweeter, an th' cellar should be done this time, it maks it soa mich leeter. ther's lots o' little things beside;- all th' childer's clogs want spetchin, jack's hurts his toa, tha'll mak em wide, wi varry little stretchin. besides, tha raillee wants a rest, for a neet, or maybe two, an tha can fix theas trifles best, some neet when tha's nowt to do. awm net like some at connot feel for others, aw assure thi: tha's tewd until tha'rt owt but weel; an nowt but rest can cure thi. soa come hooam sooin an spend a neet, wi me an jack an freddy, they'll think it's ivver sich a treat; an aw'll have th' whitewesh ready. ther's much expected. life's pathway is full o' deep ruts, an we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble; man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts," it seems pairt ov his natur to grumble. but if we'd all anxiously tak to makkin things smooth as we're able, ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back, an' monny a better spread table. it's a sad state o' things when a man cannot put ony faith in his brother, an fancies he'll chait if he can, an rejoice ovver th' fall ov another. an it's sad when yo see some at stand high in social position an power, to know at ther fortuns wor plann'd, an built, aght oth' wrecks o' those lower. it's sad to see luxury rife, an fortuns being thowtlessly wasted; while others are wearin out life, with the furst drops o' pleasure untasted. some in carriages rollin away, to a ball, or a rout, or a revel; but ther chariots may bear em some day varry near to the gates ov the devil. oh! charity surely is rare, or ther'd net be soa monny neglected; for ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare, an from them varry mich is expected. an tho' in this world they've ther fill of its pleasures, an wilfully blinded, let deeath come--an surely it will- they'll be then ov ther duties reminded. an when called on, they, tremblin wi fear, say "the hungry an nak'd we ne'er knew," that sentence shall fall o' ther ear- "depart from me; i never knew you." then, oh! let us do what we can, nor with this world's goods play the miser; if it's wise to lend money to man, to lend to the lord _must_ be wiser. coortin days. coortin days,--coortin days,--loved one an lover! what wod aw give if those days could come ovver? weddin is joyous,--its pleasur unstinted; but coortin is th' sweetest thing ivver invented. walkin an talkin, an nursin love's spark, charmin an warmin tho th' neet may be dark. oh! but it's nice when yor way's long and dreary, to walk wi yor arm raand th' waist ov yor dearie; tellin sweet falsehoods, the haars to beguile em, (if yo tell'd em ith' dayleet they'd put yo ith' sylum.) but ivverything's fair i' love an i' war, but be sewer to act square;- an do if yo dar! squeezin an kissin an kissin an squeezin,-laughin an coughin an ticklin an sneezin,-but remember,--if maybe, sich knowledge yo lack, allus smile in her face, but, sneeze at her back. yo may think, if a fooil, sich a thing nivver mattered, but a lass, as a rule, doesn't want to be spattered. when th' coortin neet comes, tho' yor appetite's ragin, dooant fill up wi oonions, wi mar'gum an sage in, remember, the darlin, where centred yor bliss is, likes to fancy, yor livin on love an her kisses. an yor linen, if plain, have all spotless an fresh: then shoo connot complain, when shoo has it to wesh. when love's flame's been lit, an burst into a glow, th' best thing yo can do,--(that's as far as aw know;) is to goa to a parson an pay him his price, an to join yo together he'll put in a splice, then together yo'll face this world's battle an bother, an if that isn't th' case, yo can feight for each other. sweet mistress moore. mistress moore is johnny's wife, an johnny is a druffen sot; he spends th' best portion of his life ith' beershop wi a pipe an pot. at schooil together john an me set side by side like trusty chums, an nivver did we disagree till furst we met sweet lizzy lumbs. at john shoo smiled, an aw wor riled; shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me; her bonny e'en aw've seldom seen sin that sad day shoo slighted me. aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want, for johnny ofttimes gets oth' spree; he spends his wages in a rant, an leeaves his wife to pine or dee. an monny a time awve ligged i' bed, an cursed my fate for bein poor, an monny a bitter tear awve shed, when thinkin ov sweet mistress moore. for shoo's mi life is johnny's wife, an tho to love her isn't reet, what con aw do, when all th' neet throo awm dreamin ov her e'en soa breet. aw'll goa away an leeave this spot, for fear at we should ivver meet, for if we did, as sure as shot awst throw me daan anent her feet. aw know shoo'd think aw wor a fooil, to love a woman when shoo's wed, but sin aw saw her furst at schooil, it's been a wretched life aw've led. but th' time has come to leeave mi hooam, an th' sea between us sooin shall roar, yet still mi heart will nivver part wi' th' image ov sweet mistress moore. waivin mewsic. ther's mewsic ith' shuttle, ith' loom, an ith frame, ther's melody mingled ith' noise; for th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame, if they'd harken to th' saand of its voice. an when flaggin a bit, how refreshin to feel as you pause an look raand on the throng, at the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel, sing this plain unmistakable song:- nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laikin; twist an twine, reel an wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own makin. to see workin fowk wi a smile o' ther face as they labour thear day after day; an hear th' women's voices float sweetly throo th' place, as they join i' some favorite lay; it saands amang th' din, as the violet seems at peeps aght th' green dockens among, diffusing a charm ovver th' rest by its means, thus it blends i' that steady old song; nick a ting, nock a ting, wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laikin; twist an twine, reel an wind, keep a contented mind, troubles are oft ov a body's own makin. an then see what lessons are laid out anent us, as pick after pick follows time after time, an warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us from strivin by little endeavours to climb; th' world's made o' trifles, its dust forms a mountain, then nivver despair as yor trudgin along, if troubles will come an yor spirits dishearten, yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady owd song; nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketin; workin for little is better nor laikin; twist an twine, reel an wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own makin. life's warp comes throo heaven, th' weft's faand bi us sen, to finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath; th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty, how then? noa waiver ith' world can produce a gooid clooath. then let us endeavour by workin an strivin, to finish awr piece so's noa fault can be fun, an then i' return for awr pains an contrivin, th' takker in 'll reward us and whisper "well done." clink a clank, clink a clank, workin withaat a thank, may be awr fortun, if soa nivver mind it, strivin to do awr best, we shall be reight at last, if we lack comfort now, then shall we find it. jimmy's choice. one limpin jimmy wed a lass; an this wor th' way it coom to pass-he'd saved a little bit o' brass, an soa he thowt he'd ventur to tak unto hissen a wife, to ease his mind ov all its strife, an be his comfort all throo life- an, pray, what should prevent her? "awve brass enuff," he sed, "for two, an noa wark at awm foorced to do, but all th' day long can bill an coo, just like a little pigeon. aw nivver have a druffen rant; aw nivver praich teetotal cant; aw nivver booast at awm a saint, i' matters o' religion. "then with a gradely chap like me, a lass can live mooast happily; an awl let all awr neighbors see we'll live withaat a wrangle; for if two fowk just have a mind to be to one another kind, they each may be as easy twined as th' hannel ov a mangle. "for love's moor paar nor oaths an blows, an kind words, ivverybody knows, saves monny a hundred thaasand rows; an soa we'll start wi kindness; for if a chap thinks he can win love or respect wi oaths an din, he'll surely find he's been let in, an sarved reight for his blindness." soa jimmy went to tell his tale to a young lass called sally swale, an just for fear his heart should fail, he gate a drop o' whiskey. net mich, but just enuff, yo see, to put a spark into his e'e, an mak his tongue a trifle free, an mak him strong an frisky. young sally, shoo wor varry shy, an when he'd done shoo breathed a sigh, an then began to sob an cry as if her heart wor brokken. "nay, sally lass,--pray what's amiss?" he sed, an gave a lovin kiss, "if awd expected owt like this, awm sewer awd ne'er ha spokken." at last shoo dried her bonny een, an felt as praad as if a queen; an nivver king has ivver been one hawf as praad as jimmy. an soa they made all matters sweet, an one day quietly stroll'd up th' street, till th' owd church door coom into seet- says jim, "come, lass, goa wi me." then wed they wor an off they went to start ther life ov sweet content; an sally ax'd him whear he meant ther honey-mooin to spend at? says jim, "we're best at hooam, aw think, we've lots o' stuff to ait an drink." but sally gave a knowin wink, an sed, "nay, awl net stand that. "tha needn't think aw meean to be shut up like in a nunnery; awm fond o' life, an love a spree, as weel as onny other." "tha cannot goa," sed jim, "that's flat." "but goa aw shall, awl tell thee that! what wod ta have a woman at? shame on thee for sich bother!" jim scrat his heead, "nah lass," sed he, "one on us mun a maister be, or else we'st allus disagree, an nivver live contented." sed sal, "awd ne'er a maister yet, an if tha thowt a slave to get, tha'll find thisen mista'en, awl bet; awm sewer aw nivver meant it." jim tried his best to change her mind, but mud as weel ha saved his wind; an soa to prove he worn't unkind, he gave in just to pleeas her. he's allus follow'd th' plan sin then, to help her just to pleeas hersen; an nah, he says, "they're fooilish men at wed a wife to teeas her." old moorcock. awm havin a smook bi misel, net a soul here to spaik a word to, awve noa gossip to hear nor to tell, an ther's nowt aw feel anxious to do. awve noa noashun o' writin a line, tho' awve just dipt mi pen into th' ink, towards warkin aw dooant mich incline, an awm ommost too lazy to think. awve noa riches to mak me feel vain, an yet awve as mich as aw need; awve noa sickness to cause me a pain, an noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed. awr dolly's crept off to her bed, an aw hear shoo's beginnin to snoor; (that upset me when furst we wor wed, but nah it disturbs me noa moor.) like me, shoo taks things as they come, makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot, shoo's content wi her own humble hooam, for her world's i' this snug little cot. we know at we're booath growin old, but time's traces we hardly can see; an tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd, shoo's still th' same young dolly to me. her face may be wrinkled an grey, an her een may be losin ther shine, but her heart's just as leetsome to-day as it wor when aw furst made her mine. awve mi hobbies to keep me i' toit, awve noa whistle nor bell to obey, awve mi wark when aw like to goa to it, an mi time's all mi own, neet an day. an tho' some pass me by wi a sneer, an some pity mi lowly estate, aw think awve a deeal less to fear nor them at's soa wealthy an great. when th' sky stretches aght blue an breet, an th' heather's i' blossom all round, makkin th' mornin's cooil breezes smell sweet, as they rustle along ovver th' graand. when aw listen to th' lark as he sings far aboon, ommost lost to mi view, aw lang for a pair ov his wings, to fly wi him, an sing like him, too. when aw sit under th' shade of a tree, wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen, aw think them at's sooary for me had far better pity thersen. when wintry storms howl ovver th' moor, an snow covers all, far an wide, aw carefully festen mi door, an creep cloise up to th' fire inside. a basin o' porridge may be, to some a despisable dish, but it allus comes welcome to me, if awve nobbut as mich as aw wish. mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say, an aw havn't a daat but it's true; yet they answer ther purpose to-day just as weel as if th' fashion wor new. let them at think joys nobbut dwell wheear riches are piled up i' stoor, try to get a gooid share for thersel' but leave me mi snug cot up o'th' moor. mi bacca's all done, soa aw'll creep off to bed, just as quite as a maase, for if dolly's disturbed ov her sleep, ther'll be a fine racket i'th' haase. aw mun keep th' band i'th' nick if aw can, for if shoo gets her temper once crost, all comforts an joys aw may plan is just soa mich labour at's lost. th' short-timer. some poets sing o' gipsy queens, an some o' ladies fine; aw'll sing a song o' other scenes,- a humbler muse is mine. jewels, an' gold, an silken frills, are things too heigh for me; but wol mi harp wi vigour thrills, aw'll strike a chord for thee. poor lassie wan, do th' best tha can, although thi fate be hard. a time ther'll be when sich as thee shall have yor full reward. at hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed, an off tha goes to wark; an gropes thi way to mill or shed, six months o'th' year i'th' dark. tha gets but little for thi pains, but that's noa fault o' thine; thi maister reckons up _his_ gains, an ligs i bed till nine. poor lassie wan, &c. he's little childer ov his own 'at's quite as old as thee; they ride i' cushioned carriages 'at's beautiful to see; they'd fear to spoil ther little hand, to touch thy greasy brat: it's wark like thine at makes em grand- they nivver think o' that. poor lassie wan, &c. i' summer time they romp an' play where flowers grow wild and sweet; ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay, they thrive throo morn to neet. but tha's a cough, aw hear tha has, an oft aw've known thee sick; but tha mun work, poor little lass, foa hauf-a-craan a wick. poor lassie wan, &c. aw envy net fowks' better lot- aw shouldn't like to swap. aw'm quite contented wi mi cot; aw'm but a workin chap. but if aw had a lot o' brass aw'd think o' them at's poor; aw'd have yo' childer workin less, an mak yor wages moor. poor lassie wan, &c. "there is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign, infinite day excludes the night, and pleasures banish pain." noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear, i' that sweet home ov love; an' those at scorn thi sufferins here may envy thee above. poor lassie wan, &c. sol an' doll. awm a young yorksher lad as jolly an gay, as a lark on a sunshiny mornin, an dolly's as fair as the flaars i' may, an trubbles we meean to be scornin. if we live wol to-morn aw shall make her mi wife, an we'll donce to a rollickin measure, for we booath are agreed to begin wedded life, as we mean to goa throo it, wi pleasure. then we'll donce an be gay, an we'll laff care away, an we'll nivver sit broodin o'er sorrow, an mi dolly an me, ax yo all to a spree; come an donce at awr weddin to-morrow. awst be bashful awm sewer, aw wor ne'er wed befoor, an aw feel rayther funny abaat it; but dolly aw guess can drag me aght o'th' mess, an if ther's owt short we'll do baat it. mi mother says "sol, if tha'll leave it to doll, tha'll find shoo can taich thee a wrinkle, shoo's expectin some fun befoor it's all done aw can tell, for aw saw her e'en twinkle." then we'll donce &c. we've a haase to step in, all as smart as a pin, an we've beddin an furnitur plenty; we've a pig an a caah, an aw connot tell ha monny paands, but aw think abaat twenty. we've noa family yet, but ther will be aw'll bet, for true comfort aw think ther's nowt licks it an if they dooant come, aw'll just let it alooan, an aw'll leave it for dolly to fix it. then we'll donce &c. their fred. "he's a nowt! if ther's owt at a child shouldn't do, he mun try, or know why, befoor th' day's getten throo. an his dad, ov his lad taks noa nooatice at all, aw declare it's net fair for job's patience he'd stall. awm his mam,- that aw am, but awm ommost worn aght, a gooid lick wi a stick, he just cares nowt abaght. thear he goes, wi a nooas like a chaneller's shop! aw may call, or may bawl, but th' young imp willn't stop. thear's a cat, he spies that, nah he's having a race!- that's his way ivvery day if a cat's abaght th' place. but if aw wor near by, awd just fotch him a seawse! come thee here! does ta hear? come thi ways into th' haase! who's that flat? what's he at? if he touches awr fred, if aw live aw'll goa rive ivvery hair off his head! what's th' lad done? it's his fun! tried to kill yor old cat? well suppooas at he does! bless mi life! what bi that? he's mi own, flesh an' booan, an aw'll net have him lickt; if he's wild, he's a child, pray what can yo expect! did um doy! little joy! let's ha nooan o' them skrikes nowty man! why he can kill a cat if he likes. hush a bee, hush a bye, little freddy munnot cry." love an' labor. th' swallows are buildin ther nests, jenny, th' springtime has come with its flowers; th' fields in ther greenest are drest, jenny, an th' songsters mak music ith' bowers. daisies an buttercups smile, jenny, laughingly th' brook flows along;-an awm havin a smook set oth' stile, jenny, but this bacca's uncommonly strong. aw wonder if thy heart like mine, jenny, finds its love-burden hard to be borne; do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, jenny, as they glistened an shone yestermorn? ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, jenny, aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate;-but aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, jenny, for aw can't live baght summat to ait. like a nightingale if aw could sing, jenny, aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet, an mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, jenny, an lull thi to rest soft an sweet. or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, jenny, aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish;-but theas porridge are salty as brine, jenny, an they'll mak me as dry as a fish. a garland ov lillies aw'd twine, jenny, an place on thy curls golden bright, but aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, jenny, i' despair at thy brow's purer white. them angels 'at fell bi ther pride, jenny, wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt;-but yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, jenny, aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt. varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, jenny, an awr cot shall a paradise be; tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, jenny, if aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee. if ther's happiness this side oth' grave, jenny, tha shall sewerly come in for thi share;-an aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, jenny, when aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare. nooan so bad. this world is net a paradise, tho' railly aw dooant see, what fowk should growl soa mich abaat;- its gooid enuff for me. it's th' only world aw've ivver known, an them 'at grummel soa, an praich abaat a better land, seem varry looath to goa. ther's some things 'at awm apt to think, if aw'd been th' engineer, aw might ha changed,--but its noa use,- aw connot interfere. we're foorced to tak it as it is; what faults we think we see; it mayn't be what it owt to be,- but its gooid enuff for me. then if we connot alter things, its folly to complain; to hunt for faults an failins, allus gooas agean my grain. when ther's soa monny pleasant things, why should we hunt for pain, if troubles come, we needn't freeat, for sunshine follows rain. if th' world gooas cruckt,--what's that to us? we connot mak it straight; but aw've come to this conclusion, 'at its th' fowk 'at isn't reight. if ivverybody 'ud try to do ther best wi' th' means they had, aw think 'at they'd agree wi' me,- this world is nooan soa bad. th' honest hard worker. it's hard what poor fowk mun put up wi'! what insults an snubs they've to tak! what bowin an scrapin's expected, if a chap's a black coit on his back. as if clooas made a chap ony better, or riches improved a man's heart; as if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart. give me one, hard workin, an' honest, tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse; if it's muck 'at's been getten bi labor, it doesn't mak th' man onny worse. awm sick o' thease simpering dandies, 'at think coss they've getten some brass, they've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers, an' curl up their nooas as they pass. it's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin, to be curlin an partin ther hair; an seekin one's own fun and pleasure, nivver thinkin ha others mun fare. it's all varry weel to be spendin ther time at a hunt or a ball, but if th' workers war huntin an doncin, whativer wod come on us all? ther's summat beside fun an frolic to live for, aw think, if we try; th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky. tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful, an' awve oft felt a want on't misen, yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin, but it wodn't do long withaat men. one truth they may put i' ther meersham, an smoke it--that is if they can; a man may mak hooshuns o' riches, but riches can ne'er mak a man. then give me that honest hard worker, 'at labors throo mornin to neet, tho' his rest may be little an seldom, yet th' little he gets he finds sweet. he may rank wi' his wealthier brother, an rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some; for a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor is a passport to th' world 'at's to come. for we know it's a sin to be idle, as man's days i' this world are but few; then let's all wi' awr lot be contented, an continue to toil an to tew. for ther's one thing we all may be sure on, if we each do awr best wol we're here; 'at when th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on, we shall have varry little to fear. an at last, when we throw daan awr tackle, an are biddin farewell to life's stage, may we hear a voice whisper at partin, "come on, lad! tha's haddled thi wage." peevish poll. aw've heeard ov mary mischief, an aw've read ov natterin nan; an aw've known a grumlin judy, an a cross-grained sarah ann; but wi' all ther faults an failins, they still seem varry tame, compared to one aw'll tell yo on, but aw dursn't tell her name. aw'll simply call her peevish poll, that name suits to a dot; but if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her, yo bet, aw'st get it hot. shoo's fat an fair an forty, an her smile's as sweet as spice, an her voice is low an tender when shoo's tryin to act nice. shoo's lots ov little winnin ways, 'at fit her like a glove; an fowk say shoo's allus pleasant,- just a woman they could love. but if they nobbut had her, they'd find aght for a start, it isn't her wi' th' sweetest smile at's getten th' kindest heart. haivver her poor husband lives an stands it,--that licks doll! aw'st ha been hung if aw'd been cursed wi' sich a wife as poll! her children three, sneak in an aght as if they wor hawf deead they seem expectin, hawf ther time, a claat o'th' side o'th' heead. if they goa aght to laik, shoo storms abaat her looanly state; if they stop in, then shoo declares they're allus in her gate. if they should start to sing or tawk shoo tells 'em, "hold yor din!" an if they all sit mum, shoo says, "it railly is a sin to think ha shoo's to sit an mope, all th' time at they're away, an when they're hooam they sit like stoops withaat a word to say." if feelin cold they creep near th' fire, they'll varry sooin get floored; then shoo'll oppen th' door an winder declarin shoo's fair smoored. when its soa swelterin an hot they can hardly get ther breeath, shoo'll pile on coils an shut all cloise, an sware shoo's starved to deeath. whativver's wrang when they're abaat, is their fault for bein thear; an if owt's wrang when they're away, it's coss they wornt near. to keep 'em all i' misery, is th' only joy shoo knows; an then shoo blames her husband, for bein allus makkin rows. poor chap he's wearin fast away,- he'll leeav us before long; a castiron man wod have noa chonce wi' sich a woman's tongue. an then shoo'll freeat and sigh, an try his virtues to extol; but th' mourner, mooast sincere will be that chap 'at next weds poll. the old bachelor's story. it was an humble cottage, snug in a rustic lane, geraniums and fuschias peep'd from every window-pane; the dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls, houseleek adorned the thatch; the door was standing open wide,- they had no need of latch. and close besides the corner there stood an old stone well, which caught a mimic waterfall, that warbled as it fell. the cat, crouched on the well-worn steps, was blinking in the sun; the birds sang out a welcome to the morning just begun. an air of peace and happiness pervaded all the scene; the tall trees formed a back ground of rich and varied green; and all was steeped in quietness, save nature's music wild, when all at once, methought i heard the sobbing of a child. i listened, and the sound again smote clearly on my ear: "can there,"--i wondering asked myself- "can there be sorrow here?"-i looked within, and on the floor was sat a little boy, striving to soothe his sister's grief by giving her a toy. "why weeps your sister thus?" i asked; "what is her cause of grief? come tell me, little man," i said, "come tell me, and be brief." clasping his sister closer still, he kissed her tear-stained face, and thus, in homely yorkshire phrase, he told their mournful case. -----"mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear, i' th' shut-up bed i'th' nook; an' tho aw've tried to wakken her, shoo'll nawther spaik nor look. mi sissy wants her porridge, an its time shoo had 'em too; but th' foir's gooan aght an th' mail's all done- aw dooant know what to do. an o, my mammy's varry cold- just come an touch her arm: aw've done mi best to hap her up, but connot mak her warm. mi daddy he once fell asleep, an nivver wakken'd moor: aw saw 'em put him in a box, an tak him aght o'th' door. he nivver comes to see us nah, as once he used to do, an let mi ride upon his back- me, an mi sissy too. an if they know mi mammy sleeps, soa cold, an white, an still, aw'm feeard they'll come an fotch her, sir; o, sir, aw'm feeard they will! aw happen could get on misen, for aw con work a bit, but little sissy, sir, yo see, shoo's varry young as yet. oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam! help me to rouse her up! an if shoo wants her physic, see,--it's in this little cup. aw know her heead wor bad last neet, when putting us to bed; shoo said, 'god bless yo, little things!' an that wor all shoo sed. aw saw a tear wor in her e'e- in fact, it's seldom dry: sin daddy went shoo allus cries, but nivver tells us why. aw think it's coss he isn't here, 'at maks her e'en soa dim; shoo says, he'll nivver come to us, but we may goa to him. but if shoo's gooan an left us here, what mun we do or say?-we connot follow her unless, somebody 'll show us th' way." ---my heart was full to bursting, when i heard the woeful tale; i gazed a moment on the face which death had left so pale; then clasping to my heaving breast the little orphan pair, i sank upon my bended knees, and offered up a prayer, that god would give me power to aid those children in distress, that i might as a father be unto the fatherless. then coaxingly i led them forth; and as the road was long, i bore them in my arms by turns- their tears had made me strong. i took them to my humble home, where now they may be seen, the lad,--a noble-minded youth,- his "sissy,"--beauty's queen. and now if you should chance to see, far from the bustling throng, an old man, whom a youth and maid lead tenderly along;-and if you, wondering, long to know the history of the three,-they are the little orphan pair- the poor old man is me: and oft upon the grassy mound 'neath which their parents sleep, they bend the knee, and pray for me; i pray for them and weep. did yo ivver! "gooid gracious!" cried susy, one fine summer's morn, "here's a bonny to do! aw declare! aw wor nivver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born! aw neer saw sich a seet at a fair. here, sally! come luk! there's a maase made its nest reight i'th' craan o' mi new sundy bonnet! haivver its fun its way into this chist, that caps me! aw'm fast what to mak on it! it's cut! sithee thear! it's run reight under th' bed! an luk here! what's these little things stirrin? if they arn't some young uns 'at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred, may aw be as deead as a herrin! but what does ta say? 'aw mun draand 'em?' nooan soa! just luk ha they're seekin ther mother; shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa; for awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother. but its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear; for mi old en's net fit to be seen in; an this new en, awm thinkin, 'll luk rayther queer after sich a rum lot as that's been in. but shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say; yo mun keep a sharp eye or shoo'll chait us; ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! an pray what mun become o' these poor helpless crayturs? a'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet, 'at's a roof o' ther own to cawer under, for if we'd to seek ony nook we could get, whativver'd come on us aw wonder? we should nooan on us like to be turned aght o' door, wi' a lot o' young bairns to take care on; an altho' awm baght bonnet, an think misen poor, what little aw have yo'st have't share on. that poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm, shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me; all shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an warm an a gooid two-o'-three shillin its lost me. aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk, they'll be aristocratical varmin; but awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk, an na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin. bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! if we try awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em, but as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly! nivver mind if aw dooant! harum scarum!" a quiet tawk. "nah, lass, caar thi daan, an let's have a chat,- it's long sin we'd th' haase to ussen; just give me thi nooations o' this thing an that, what tha thinks abaat measures an men. we've lived a long time i' this world an we've seen, a share of its joys an its cares; tha wor nooan born baght wit, an tha'rt net varry green, soa let's hear what tha thinks of affairs." "well, jooany, aw've thowt a gooid deal i' mi time, an aw think wi' one thing tha'll agree,-if tha'd listened sometimes to advice sich as mine, it mud ha been better for thee. this smookin an drinkin--tha knows tha does booath, it's a sad waste o' brass tha'll admit; but awm net findin fault,--noa indeed! awd be looath! but aw want thi to reason a bit." "then tha'rt lawse i' thi tawk, tho' tha doesn't mean wrang, an tha says stuff aw darnt repeat; an tha grumels at hooam if we chonce to be thrang, when tha comes throo thi wark of a neet. an if th' childer are noisy, tha kicks up a shine, tha mud want 'em as dummy as wax; an if they should want owt to laik wi' 'at's thine, they're ommost too freetened to ax." "an they all want new clooas, they're ashamed to be seen, an aw've net had a new cap this year; an awm sewer it's fair cappin ha careful we've been, there's nooan like us for that onnywhear." "come, lass, that's enuff,--when aw ax'd thi to talk, it worn't a sarmon aw meant, soa aw'll don on mi hat, an aw'll goa for a walk, for dang it! tha'rt nivver content!" lines, on startling a rabbit. whew!--tha'rt in a famous hurry! awm nooan baan to try to catch thi! aw've noa dogs wi' me to worry thee poor thing,--aw like to watch thi. tha'rt a runner! aw dar back thi, why, tha ommost seems to fly! did ta think aw meant to tak thi? well, awm fond o' rabbit pie. aw dooan't want th' world to misen, mun, awm nooan like a dog i'th' manger; yet still 'twor happen best to run, for tha'rt th' safest aght o' danger. an sometimes fowks' inclination leads 'em to do what they shouldn't;-but tha's saved me a temptation,- aw've net harmed thi, 'coss aw couldn't. aw wish all temptations fled me, as tha's fled throo me to-day; for they've oft to trouble led me, for which aw've had dear to pay. an a taicher wise aw've faand thi, an this lesson gained throo thee; 'at when dangers gether raand me, th' wisest tactics is to flee. they may call thi coward, bunny, but if mine had been thy lot, aw should fail to see owt funny, to be stewin in a pot. life to thee, awm sewer is sweeter, nor thi flesh to me could prove; may thy lot an mine grow breeter, blest wi' liberty an love. nivver heed. let others boast ther bit o' brass, that's moor nor aw can do; aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class, 'at's strugglin to pool throo; an if it's little 'at aw get, it's little 'at aw need; an if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit, aw try to nivver heed. some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts, an mourn ther sorry fate, becoss they can't keep sarvent men, an dine off silver plate; aw think they'd show more gradely wit to listen to my creed, an things they find they connot get, why, try to nivver heed. ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls, an letters to ther name; but happiness despises walls, it's nooan a child o' fame. a robe may lap a woeful chap, whose heart wi' grief may bleed, wol rags may rest on joyful breast, soa hang it! nivver heed! th' sun shines as breet for me as them, an' th' meadows smell as sweet, th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead, an th' flaars smile at mi feet. an when a hard day's wark is done, aw ait mi humble feed; mi appetite's a relish fun, soa hang it, nivver heed. gronfayther's days. 'a, johnny! a'a, johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! but come thi ways to me, an sit o' mi knee; for it's shockin to hearken to th' words 'at tha says;-ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days. when aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then; but nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; for they smook, an they drink, an get other bad ways; things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days. aw remember th' furst day aw went cooartin a bit,-an walked aght thi gronny;--aw'st nivver forget; for we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;-it wor noa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days, ther's noa lasses nah, john, 'at's fit to be wed; they've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; they're a mak-up o' buckram, an waddin, an stays,-but a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days. at that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor, but nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; he's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's chimleys an factrys i' ivvery nook nah, but ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; an ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways, whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days. we're tell'd to be thankful for blessin's 'at's sent, an aw hooap 'at tha'll alius be blessed wi' content; tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, but aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days. awr dooad. her ladyship's getten a babby,- an they're makkin a famous to do,-they say,--providence treated her shabby- shoo wor fairly entitled to two. but judgin bi th' fuss an rejoicin, it's happen as weel as it is; for they could'nt mak moor ov a hoilful, nor what they are makkin o' this. he's heir to ther titles an riches, far moor nor he ivver can spend; wi' hard times an cold poverty's twitches, he'll nivver be called to contend. life's rooad will be booarded wi' flaars, an pleasur will wait on his train, he can suck at life's sweets, an its saars will nivver need cause him a pain. aw cannot help thinkin ha diff'rent it wor when awr dooady wor born; aw'd to tramp fifteen mile throo a snow storm, one bitterly, cold early morn. aw'd to goa ax old mally-o'th'-hippins, if shoo'd act as booath doctor an nurse;-an god bless her! shoo sed, "aye, an welcome," tho' aw had'nt a meg i' mi purse. 'twor hard scrattin to get what wor needed, but we managed someha, to pool throo'; an what we wor short we ne'er heeded, for that child fun us plenty to do. but we'd health, an we loved one another, soa things breetened up after a while; an nah, that young lad an his mother, cheer mi on wi' ther prattle an smile. them at th' hall, may mak feeastin an bluster, an ther table may grooan wi' its looad; but ther's one thing aw know they can't muster,- that's a lad hawf as grand as awr dooad. for his face is like lillies an rooases, an his limbs sich as seldom are seen; an just like his father's his nooas is, an he's getten his mother's blue een. soa th' lord an his lady are welcome, to mak all they like o' ther brat; they may hap him i' silk an i' velvet,- he's net a bit better for that. i' life's race they'll meet all sooarts o' weather, but if they start fair on th' same rooad, they _may_ run pratty nearly together, but aw'll bet two to one on awr dooad. whear natur missed it. as rueben wor smookin his pipe tother neet, bi th' corner o'th' little "slip inn;" he spied some fowk marchin, an fancied he heeard a varry queer sooart ov a din. as nearer they coom he sed, "bless mi life! what means all this hullaballoo? if they dooant stop that din they'll sewer get run in, an just sarve 'em reight if they do." but as they approached, he saw wi' surprise, they seemed a respectable lot; an th' hymn at they sung he'd net heeard for soa long, wol he felt fairly rooited to th' spot. i'th' front wor a woman who walked backards rooad, beatin time wi' a big umberel, an he sed, "well, aw'll bet, that licks all aw've seen yet, what they'll do next noa mortal can tell." on they coom like a flood, an shoo saw rueben stood,- an her een seemed fair blazin wi' leet; "halt!" shoo cried, an shoo went an varry sooin sent rueben's pipe flyin off into th' street. "young man," shoo began, "if yo had been born to smoke that old pipe, then insteead, ov a nice crop o' hair natur wod a put thear a chimly at top o' thi heead." rueben felt rather mad, for 'twor all th' pipe he had, an he sed, "well, that happen mud be; but aw'm nobbut human, an thee bein a woman has proved a salvation to thee. if a chap had done that aw'd ha knocked him daan flat, but wi' yo its a different thing; but aw'm thinkin someha, th' same law will allaa me too smook, at allaas yo to sing." shoo gloored in his face an went back to her place, as shoo gave him a witherin luk; an swung her umbrel,--ovverbalanced, an fell an ligg'd sprawlin her length amang th' muck. all her army seemed dumb, an th' chap wi' th' big drum, turned a bulnex, an let on her chest; wol th' fiddles an flute wor ivvery one mute, an th' tamborines tuk a short rest. then rueben drew near, an he sed in her ear, as he lifted her onto her feet; "sometimes its as wise when we start to advise, to be mindful we're net indiscreet. if yo'd been intended to walk backardsway, to save yo from gettin that bump, dame natur, in kindness, aw'll ventur to say, wod ha planted a e'e i' yor bustle." that's all. mi hair is besprinkled wi' gray, an mi face has grown wrinkled an wan;-they say ivvery dog has his day, an noa daat its th' same way wi a man. aw know at mi day is nah passed, an life's twileet is all at remains; an neet's drawin near varry fast,- an will end all mi troubles an pains. aw can see misen, nah, as a lad, full ov mischief an frolic an fun;-an aw see what fine chonces aw had, an regret lots o' things at aw've done. thowtless deeds--unkind words--selfish gains,- time wasted, an more things beside, but th' saddest thowt ivver remains,- what aw could ha done, if aw'd but tried. aw've had a fair share ov life's joys, an aw've nivver known th' want ov a meal; aw've ne'er laiked wi' luxuries' toys, nor suffered what starvin fowk feel. but aw'm moor discontented to-day, when mi memory carries me back, to know what aw've gethered is clay, wol diamonds wor strewed on mi track. aw can't begin ovver agean, (maybe its as weel as it is,) soa aw'm waitin for th' life 'at's to be, for ther's nowt to be praad on i' this. when deeath comes, as sewerly it will, an aw'm foorced to respond to his call; fowk'll say, if they think on me still,- "well, he lived,--an that's abaat all." mary hanner's peanner. when aw cooarted mary hanner, aw wor young an varry shy; an shoo used to play th' peanner wol aw sheepishly sat by. aw lang'd to tell her summat, but aw railly hadn't th' pluck, tho' monny a time aw started, yet, somha aw allus stuck. aw'm sewer shoo must ha guess'd it, but shoo nivver gave a sign; shoo drummed at that peanner;- a'a! aw wish it had been mine! aw'd ha chopt it into matchwood,- aw'd ha punced it into th' street, it wor awful aggravatin, for shoo thumpt it ivvery neet. aw'd getten ommost sickened, when one day another chap aw saw thear, an he'd getten mary hanner on his lap. aw didn't stop to argyfy,- but fell'd him like an ox; an mary hanner tried to fly on top o'th' music box. but he wor gam,--an sich a job aw'd nivver had befor, we fowt, but aw proved maister, an aw punced him aght o'th' door. then like a tigercat, at me flew ragin mary hammer;-yo bet! shoo could thump summat else, besides her loud peanner! aw had to stand an tak her blows, until shoo'd geeten winded; "tha scamp!" shoo says, "tha little knows what bargainin tha's hindered! awr jack had nobbut coom to pay, becoss he's bowt th' peanner, an nah tha's driven him away!" "forgie me, mary hanner." aw ran aghtside an sooin fan jack, an humbly begged his parden;-"all reight,"--he sed, "aw'm commin back," he didn't care a farden. he paid her th' brass, then fetched a cart, an hauled away th' peanner;-we're wed sin then, an nowt shall part, me an mi mary hanner. grondad's lullaby. sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near, noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear; innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik, grondad wod give up his life for thy sake, sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. through the thick mist of past years aw luk back, vainly aw try to discover the track buried, alas! for no trace can aw see, ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee, sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. smilin in slumber,--dreamin ov bliss, feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss; richer bi far nor a king on his throne, fearlessly facing a future unknown. sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. what wod aw give could aw once agean be, innocent, spotless an trustin as thee; may noa grief give thee occasion to weep, blessins attend thee!--sleep, beauty, sleep. sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. sixty, turned, to-day. aw'm turned o' sixty, nah, old lass, yet weel aw mind the time, when like a young horse turned to grass, aw gloried i' mi prime. aw'st ne'er forget that bonny face 'at stole mi heart away; tho' years have hurried on apace:- aw'm sixty, turned, to-day. we had some jolly pranks an gams, e'en fifty year ago, when sportive as a pair o' lambs, we nivver dreeamed ov woe. when ivvery morn we left us bed, wi' spirits leet an gay,-but nah, old lass, those days have fled:- aw'm sixty, turned, to-day. yet we've noa reason to repine, or luk back wi' regret; those youthful days ov thine an mine, live sweet in mem'ry yet. thy winnin smile aw still can see, an tho' thi hair's turned grey; tha'rt still as sweet an dear to me, tho' sixty, turned, to-day. we've troubles had, an sickness too, but then in spite ov all, we've somha managed to pool throo, whativver might befall. awr pleasurs far outweighed the pain we've met along life's way; an losses past aw caant as gain,- when sixty, turned, to-day. awr childer nah are wed an gooan, to mak hooams for thersels; but we shall nivver feel alooan, wol love within us dwells. we're drawin near awr journey's end, we can't much longer stay; yet still awr hearts together blend, tho' sixty, turned, to-day. then let us humbly bow the knee, to him, whose wondrous love, has helpt an guided thee an me, on th' pathway to above. his mercies we will ne'er forget, then let us praise an pray, to him whose wings protect us yet; tho' sixty, turned, to-day. that lad next door. aw've nowt agean mi naybors, an aw wod'nt have it sed 'at aw wor cross an twazzy, for aw'm kind an mild asteead. but ther's an end to patience, e'en job knew that aw'm sewer;-an he nivver had noa dealins wi' that lad 'at lives next door. it wod'nt do to tell 'em what aw think abaat that lad, one thing aw'm sarten sewer on, is, he's ivverything 'at's bad. he's nivver aght o' mischief, an he nivver stops his din,-he's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape, nor he's another in. if he wor mine aw'd thresh him, wol th' skin coom off his back; aw'd cure him teein door-snecks, then givin th' door a whack. aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' me wi' chalk on th' nessy door, an mak mud pies o' awr front steps an leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar. he's been a trifle quieter for this last day or two; he's up to some new devilment,- aw dooant know what he'll do. but here's his father comin, he's lukkin awful sad,-noa wonder,--aw'st be sad enuff if aw had sich a lad. aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feel sich sorrow, or should grieve, but little dick is varry sick, they dunnot think he'll live. aw'd nivver nowt agean him! aw liked that lad aw'm sure! pray god, be merciful, an spare that lad 'at lives next door. a summer shaar. it nobbut luks like tother day, sin jane an me first met; yet fifty years have rolled away, but still aw dooant forget. th' sundy schooil wor ovver, an th' rain wor teemin daan an shoo had nowt to cover her sundy hat an gaan. aw had an umberella, quite big enuff for two, soa aw made bold to tell her, shoo'd be sewer to get weet throo, unless shoo'd share it wi' me. shoo blushed an sed, "nay, ben, if they should see me wi' thi, what wod yo're fowk say then?" "ne'er heed," says aw, "tha need'nt care what other fowk may say; ther's room for me an some to spare, soa let's start on us way." shoo tuk mi arm wi' modest grace, we booath felt rayther shy; but then aw'm sewer 'twor noa disgrace, to keep her new clooas dry. aw tried to tawk on different things, but ivvery thowt aw'd had, seem'd to ha flown as if they'd wings, an left me speechless mad. but when we gate cloise to her door, aw stopt an whispered, "jane, aw'd like to walk wi' thee some moor, when it doesn't chonce to rain." shoo smiled an blushed an sed, "for shame!" but aw tuk courage then. aw cared net if all th' world should blame, aw meant to pleas misen, for shoo wor th' grandest lass i'th' schooil an th' best,--noa matter what;-aw should ha been a sackless fooil, to miss a chonce like that. soa oft we met to stroll an tawk, noa matter, rain or shine; an one neet as we tuk a walk, aw ax't her to be mine. shoo gave consent, an sooin we wed:-sin' then we've had full share ov rough an smooth, yet still we've led a life ov little care. an monny a time aw say to jane, if things luk dull an bad;-cheer up! tha knows we owe to th' rain all th' joys o' life we've had. awr lad. beautiful babby! beautiful lad! pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad! full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;- two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays; two little een ov heavenly blue,- wonderinly starin at ivverything new, two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,- an planted between em a wee little nooas. a chin wi' a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;- nivver wor bonnier babby nor this. two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,- except when asleep in thy snug little nest. two little feet 'at are kickin all day, up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play. welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars, soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs. what tha may come to noa mortal can tell;- we hooap an we pray 'at all may be well. we've other young taistrels, one, two an three, but net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee. sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat, becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get. poverty sometimes we have as a guest, but tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best. what are fowks' riches to mother an me? all they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee. aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe, 'at labor an worry wod keep a chap low,-'at love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee, when poverty coom in at th' door,--but aw see old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark, for love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark. ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild, 'at wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child. then why should we envy his wealth an his lands, tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands? for we have the treasures noa riches can buy, an aw think we can keep 'em,--at leeast we can try; an if it should pleeas him who orders all things, to call yo away to rest under his wings,-tho' to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n, we shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' heaven, whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy, nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy. blessins on thi! wee thing,--an whativver thi lot, tha'rt promised a mansion, tho' born in a cot, what fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see, but christ coom to call just sich childer as thee. an this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan, tha may yet be a jewel to shine in his craan. bonny mary ann. when but a little toddlin thing, i'th' heather sweet shoo'd play, an like a fay on truant wing, shoo'd rammel far away; an even butterflees wod come her lovely face to scan, an th' burds wod sing ther sweetest song, for bonny mary ann. shoo didn't fade as years flew by, but added day bi day, some little touch ov witchery,- some little winnin way. her lovely limbs an angel face, to paint noa mortal can; shoo seemed possessed ov ivvery grace, did bonny mary ann. to win her wod be heaven indeed, soa off aw went to woo; mi tale o' love shoo didn't heed, altho' mi heart spake too. aw axt, "what wants ta, onnyway?" shoo sed, "aw want a man," then laffin gay, shoo tript away,- mi bonny mary ann. thinks aw, well, aw'll be man enough to leeav thi to thisen, some day tha'll net be quite as chuff, aw'll wait an try thi then. 'twor hard,--it ommost braik mi heart to carry aght mi plan; but honestly aw played mi part, an lost mi mary ann. for nah shoo's wed an lost yo see, but oh! revenge is sweet; her husband's less bi th' hawf nor me, his face is like a freet; an what enticed her aw must own, to guess noa mortal can; for what it is, is nobbut known,- to him an mary ann. that christmas puddin. ha weel aw remember that big christmas puddin, that puddin mooast famous ov all in a year; when each lad at th' table mud stuff all he could in, an ne'er have a word ov refusal to fear. ha its raand speckled face, craand wi' sprigs o' green holly seem'd sweeatin wi' juices ov currans an plums; an its fat cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly, for it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums, that big christmas pudding,--that rich steamin puddin,- that scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made. ther wor father an mother,--awr hannah an mary, uncle tom an ont nancy, an smart cussin jim; an jim's sister kitty, as sweet as a fairy,-an sam wi' his fiddle,--we couldn't spare him. we'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin, boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind; an fooamin hooam brewed,--why,--aw think we'd enuff in, to sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined. an then we'd that puddin--that thumpin big puddin- that rich christmas puddin, mi mother had made. sam sat next to mary an jim tuk awr hannah, an kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,-an th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner, 'at mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see. they wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended, an all seem'd as happy as happy could be; an aw've nivver repented, for kitty consented, an shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me. an aw think o' that puddin,--that fateful plum puddin,- that match makkin puddin mi mother had made. a bad sooart. aw'd rayther face a redwut brick, sent flyin at mi heead; aw'd rayther track a madman's steps, whearivver they may leead; aw'd rayther ventur in a den, an stail a lion's cub; aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave in an old leaky tub. aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray, whear bullets thickest shower; nor trust a mean, black hearted man, at's th' luck to be i' power. a redwut brick may miss its mark, a madman change his whim; a lion may forgive a theft; a leaky tub may swim. bullets may pass yo harmless by, an leeav all safe at last; a thaasand thunders shake the sky, an spare yo when they've past. yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease; mak poverty yo're friend; but wi' a mean, blackhearted man, noa mortal can contend. ther's malice in his kindest smile, his proffered hand's a snare; he's plannin deepest villany, when seemingly mooast fair. he leads yo on wi' oily tongue, swears he's yo're fastest friend; he get's yo once within his coils, an crushes yo i'th' end. old nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght, an seeks whom to devour; but he's a saint, compared to some, 'at's th' luk to be i' power. fairly weel-off. ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,-ov drink aw seldom want a gill; aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm, should winds be cold or th' sun be warm. aw rarely have a sickly spell,-mi appetite aw'm fain to tell ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me, nowt ivver seems to disagree. aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,-sometimes aw laik a day or two,-mi wage is nobbut small, but yet, aw manage to keep aght o' debt. mi wife, god bless her! ivvery neet has slippers warmin for mi feet; an th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid, an th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made. an th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed, wi' health an happiness are blest; an th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen, is th' grandest babby ivver seen. aw've friends, tho' humble like misen, they're gradely, upright, workin-men, they're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;-they do what's reight as near's they con. aw tak small stock i' politics, for lib'ral shams an tooary tricks, have made me daat 'em one an all;-ther words are big, but deeds are small. aw goa to th' chapil, yet confess aw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less, for th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa, ne'er seem in onny haste to goa. to me, religion seems quite plain;-aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain, aw do a kind act when aw can, an hooap to dee an honest man. aw hooap to live till old an gray, an when th' time comes to goa away, aw feel convinced some place ther'll be, just fit for sich a chap as me. green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars, are treasures we can all call awrs, an when hooam is earth's fairest spot one should be thankful for his lot. aw'm nooan contented,--nay, net aw! aw nivver con be tho' aw try; but aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have, an if aw for moor blessins crave, it's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns, to spare them my life's ups an daans. well, yo may laff, an sneerin say, aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;-maybe aw am,--but yo'll agree, ther's few fowk better off nor me. a warnin. a'a dear, what it is to be big! to be big i' one's own estimation, to think if we shake a lawse leg, 'at th' world feels a tremblin sensation. to fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill, wod be empty if we worn't in it, 'at th' universe wheels wod stand still, if we should neglect things a minnit. to be able to tell all we meet, just what they should do or leeav undone; to be crammed full o' wisdom an wit, like a college professor throo lundun. to show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,- to show whear philosifers blunder; to prove parsons an doctors all quacks, an strike men o' science wi' wonder. but aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men, 'at strut along th' streets like a bantam, nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen, for they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em. at ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in, yo may find 'em booath humble an civil, wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din, bi yellin an raisin the devil. a'a dear, what it is to be big! but a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it, for th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig, an a thaasand to one doesn't know it. consait, aw have often heeard say, is war for a chap nor consumption, an aw'll back a plain chap onny day, to succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun. my advice to young fowk is to try to grow honestly better an wiser; an yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,- true merit's its own advertiser. false colors yo'll seldom find fast, an a mak-believe is but a bubble, it's sure to get brussen at last, an contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble. to w. f. wallett. the queen's jester. born at hull, november, 1806. died at beeston, near nottingham, march 13th, 1892. wallett, old friend! thy way's been long;- few livin can luk farther back; but tha has left, bi jest an song, a sunny gleam along thy track. aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns, yet aw remember when a lad, sittin an listnin to thy yarns, an thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had. full monny a lesson, quaintly towt, wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still; nor can aw call to mind ther's owt tha sed or did, to work me ill! noa laff tha raised do aw regret,- wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan, which had aw heeded, aw admit, aw should ha been a better man. aw'd like to meet thee once agean, an clink awr glasses as of yore, an hear thi rail at all things meean, an praise an cheer the honest poor. aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld, 'at nobbut tha knows ha to tell;-unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;- a'a dear! aw'm growin owd misel. we'st miss thee, wallett, when tha goas, (may that sad time be far away; for when tha doffs thi motley clooas, an pays that debt we all mun pay,) we'st feel ther's one link less to bind, us to this 'vain an fleetin show,' an we'st net tarry long behind,- we may goa furst for owt we know. well,--if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,- noa moor enjoy thy social chat,-aw send thi from this distant land, true friendship's greetin,--this is that. may ivvery comfort earth can give, be thine henceforward to the end, an tho' the sea divides, believe ther's one who's proud to call thee friend. lads an lasses. lads an lasses lend yor ears unto an old man's rhyme, dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers, it's all a waste o' time. some little wisdom yo may gain, some trewth yo'll ne'er forget: soa blame me net for spaikin plain, yo'll find it's better net. for yo, life's journey may be long, or it may end to-day; deeath gethers in the young an strong, along wi' th' old an gray. then nivver do an unkind thing, which yo will sure regret, nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,- yo'll find it's better net. if yo've a duty to get throo, goa at it with a will, dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do, that mak's it harder still. dooant think to-morn is time enuff for what to-day is set, nor trust to others for ther help, yo'll find it's better net. if little wealth falls to yor share, try nivver to repine; but struggle on wi' thrift an' care,- some day the sun will shine. it's better to be livin poor, than running into debt, an bavin duns coom to yor door;- yo'll find it's better net. when tempted bi some jolly friend, to join him in a spree, remember sich things sometimes end i' pain an misery. be firm an let temptations pass as if they'd ne'er been met, an nivver drain the sparklin glass;- yo'll find it's better net. mak trewth an honesty yor guide, tho' some may laff an rail, fear net, whativver ills betide, at last yo must prevail. contented wi' yor portion be nor let yor heart be set, on things below 'at fade an dee,- yo'll find it's better net. a new year's gift. a little lad,--bare wor his feet, his 'een wor swell'd an red, wor sleepin, one wild new year's neet,- a cold doorstep his bed. his little curls wor drippin weet, his clooas wor thin an old, his face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,- his limbs wor numb wi' cold. th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, an snowflakes whirled abaat,-it wor a sorry sooart o' neet, for poor souls to be aght. 'twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, could shine throo sich a storm;-unless some succour turns up sooin, god help that freezin form! a carriage stops at th' varry haase,- a sarvent oppens th' door; a lady wi' a pale sad face, steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. her 'een fell on that huddled form, shoo gives a startled cry; then has him carried aght o'th' storm, to whear its warm an dry. shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, an monny a tear shoo shed; for shoo'd once had a darlin lad but he, alas! wor dead. this little waif seemed sent to cheer, an fill her darlin's place; an to her heart shoo prest him near, an kissed his little face. matty's reason. "nah, matty! what meeans all this fuss? tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be; ther must be some reason, becoss it used to be diff'rent wi' thee. aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoor if aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain; ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer, tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein. if tha's met wi' a hansomer chap, aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way; but tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,- if tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay. but tha knows 'at for monny a wick aw've been savin mi brass to get wed; an aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pick aght some chairs an a table an bed. aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart; an tha seemed to be fain to ha booath; but if its thi wish we should part, to beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath. an th' warst wish aw wish even yet,- is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;-gooid neet, matty lass, nivver freeat, tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean." "nah, jimmy lad, try to be cooil,- mi excuse tha may think is a funny en; aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil, but thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion." wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght wi' cold an wind an weet. then tenderly shoo tuckt him in a little cosy bed, an kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, an stroked his curly head. noa owner coom to claim her prize, tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, it seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies a new year's gift throo god. an happiness nah fills her heart, 'at wor wi' sorrow cleft; noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, wi' her heaven sent new year's gift. a new year's gift. a little lad,--bare wor his feet, his 'een wor swell'd an red, wor sleepin, one wild new year's neet,- a cold doorstep his bed. his little curls wor drippin weet, his clooas wor thin an old, his face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,- his limbs wor numb wi' cold. th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, an snowflakes whirled abaat,-it wor a sorry sooart o' neet, for poor souls to be aght. 'twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, could shine throo sich a storm;-unless some succour turns up sooin, god help that freezin form! a carriage stops at th' varry haase,- a sarvent oppens th' door; a lady wi' a pale sad face, steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. her 'een fell on that huddled form, shoo gives a startled cry; then has him carried aght o'th' storm, to whear its warm an dry. shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, an monny a tear shoo shed; for shoo'd once had a darlin lad but he, alas! wor dead. this little waif seemed sent to cheer, an fill her darlin's place; an to her heart shoo prest him near, an kissed his little face. wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght wi' cold an wind an weet. then tenderly shoo tuckt him in a little cosy bed, an kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, an stroked his curly head. noa owner coom to claim her prize, tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, it seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies a new year's gift throo god. an happiness nah fills her heart, 'at wor wi' sorrow cleft; noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, wi' her heaven sent new year's gift. uncle ben. a gradely chap wor uncle ben as ivver lived i'th' fowd: he made a fortun for hissen, an lived on't when he'r owd. his yed wor like a snow drift, an his face wor red an breet, an his heart wor like a feather, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas he'd worn sin aw wor bred; an th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, an th' same hat for his yed; his cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing throo braik o' day till neet; his conscience nivver felt a sting, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wod'nt swap his humble state wi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land; he nivver wanted silver plate, nor owt 'at's rich an grand; he did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk drawn raand him ov a neet, but he slept noa war for th' want o' that, for he'd done the thing 'at's reet. owd fowk called him "awr benny," young fowk, "mi uncle ben,"-an th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," or what best pleased thersen. a gleam o' joy coom o'er his face when he heeard ther patterin feet, for he loved to laik wi th' little bairns an he did the thing 'at's reet. he nivver turned poor fowk away uncared for throo his door; he ne'er forgate ther wor a day when he hissen wor poor; an monny a face has turned to heaven, all glistenin wi' weet, an prayed for blessins on owd ben, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he knew his lease wor ommost spent, he'd sooin be called away; yet he wor happy an content, an waited th' comin day. but one dark neet he shut his e'en, an slept soa calm an sweet, when mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'at did the thing 'at's reet. a hawporth. whear is thi daddy, doy? whear is thi mam? what are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place. what do they call thi, lad? tell me thi name; have they been ooinion thi? why, its a shame. here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice, rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; thear,--tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man. he wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat, an he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; but his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:-a'a!--its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do. th' better part. a poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, wi' body bent, an snowy pate, aw met one day;-an daan o'th' rooad side grassy banks he sat to rest his weary shanks; an aw, to while away mi time, o'th' neighbourin hillock did recline, an bade "gooid day." said aw, "owd friend, pray tell me true, if in your heart yo nivver rue th' time 'at's past? does envy nivver fill yor breast when passin fowk wi' riches blest? an do yo nivver think it wrang at yo should have to trudge along, soa poor to th' last?" "young man," he sed, "aw envy nooan; but ther are times aw pity some, wi' all mi heart; to see what trubbl'd lives they spend, what cares upon their hands depend; then aw in thowtfulness declare 'at 'little cattle little care' is th' better part. gold is a burden hard to carry, an tho' dame fortun has been chary o' gifts to me; yet still aw strive to feel content, an think what is, for th' best is meant; an th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, is still to keep mi conscience clear, from dark spots free. an while some tax ther brains to find what they'll be foorced to leeav behind, when th' time shall come; aw try bi honest word an deed, to get what little here aw need, an live i' hopes at last to say, when breeath gooas flickerin away, 'aw'm gooin hooam.'" aw gave his hand a hearty shake, it seem'd as tho' the words he spake sank i' mi heart: aw walk'd away a wiser man, detarmined aw wod try his plan i' hopes at last 'at aw might be as weel assured ov heaven as he; that's th' better part. th' lesser evil. young harry wor a single chap, an wod have lots o' tin, an monny a lass had set her cap, this temptin prize to win. but harry didn't want a wife, he'd rayther far be free; an soa escape all care an strife 'at wedded couples see. but when at last his uncle deed, an left him all his brass, 'twor on condition he should wed, some honest yorksher lass. soa all his dreamin day an neet abaat what sprees he'd have; he had to bury aght o'th' seet, deep in his uncle's grave. to tak a wife at once, he thowt wor th' wisest thing to do, soa he lukt raand until he browt his choice daan between two. one wor a big, fine, strappin lass, her name wor sarah ann, her height an weight, few could surpass, shoo'r fit for onny man. an t'other wor a little sprite, wi' lots o' bonny ways, an little funny antics, like a kitten when it plays. an which to tak he could'nt tell, he rayther liked 'em booath; but if he could ha pleased hissen, to wed one he'd be looath. a wife he thowt an evil thing, an sewer to prove a pest; soa after sometime studyin he thowt th' least wod be th' best. they sooin wor wed, an then he faand he'd quite enuff to do, for a'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand, an tongue enuff for two. an if he went aght neet or day, his wife shoo went as weel; he gat noa chonce to goa astray;- shoo kept him true as steel. his face grew white, his heead grew bald, his clooas hung on his rig, he grew like one 'at's getten stall'd, ov this world's whirligig. one day, he muttered to hissen, "if aw've pickt th' lesser evil, th' poor chap 'at tackles sarah ann, will wish he'd wed the d---l." take heart! roughest roads, we often find, lead us on to th' nicest places; kindest hearts oft hide behind some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces. flaars whose colors breetest are, oft delight awr wond'ring seet; but ther's others, humbler far, smell a thaasand times as sweet. burds o' monny color'd feather, please us as they skim along, but ther charms all put together, connot equal th' skylark's song. bonny women--angels seemin,- set awr hearts an brains o' fire; but its net ther beauties; beamin, its ther gooidness we admire. th' bravest man 'at's in a battle, isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray; he best proves his might an' mettle, who remains to win the day. monkey's an vain magpies chatter, but it doesn't prove 'em wise; an it's net wi noise an clatter, men o' sense expect to rise. 'tis'nt them 'at promise freely, are mooast ready to fulfill; an 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely 'at are last at top o'th' hill. bad hauf-craans may pass as payment, gaudy flaars awr e'en beguile; women may be loved for raiment, show may blind us for a while; but we sooin grow discontented, an for solid worth we sigh, an we leearn to prize the jewel, tho' it's hidden from the eye. him 'at thinks to gether diamonds as he walks along his rooad, nivver need be tired wi' huggin, for he'll have a little looad. owt 'at's worth a body's winnin mun be toiled for long an hard; an tho' th' struggle may be pinnin, perseverance wins reward. earnest thowt, an constant strivin, ever wi' one aim i'th' seet; tho' we may be late arrivin, yet at last we'st come in reet. he who will succeed, he must, when he's bid false hopes farewell, if he firmly fix his trust in his god, and in hissel. they all do it. they're all buildin nests for thersen, one bi one they goa fleetin away; a suitable mate comes,--an then, i'th' old nest they noa longer can stay. well,--it's folly for th' old en's to freeat, tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,-an we sigh,--let a tear drop,--an yet, we bless 'em, an give 'em a start. they've battles to feight 'at we've fowt, they've trubbles an trials to face; i'th' futer they luk an see nowt 'at can hamper ther coorse i' life's race. th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them, they walk on uncertainty's brink, an they see in each teardrop a gem. happy dreams 'at they had long ago, too sweet to believe---could be true, are realized nah, for _they know_ th' world's pleasures wor made for them two. we _know_ 'at it's all a mistak, an we pity, an yet we can pray, 'at when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back wi' regret to that sweet weddin day. god bless 'em! may happiness dwell, i' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot; an if in a palace,--well,--well,- shall ther young love be ever forgot. nay,--nay,--tho' old time runs his plough, o'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove; may they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow, till two lives blend i' one sacred love. bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en! bless th' husband, who does weel his part; aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been, the joy an the pride ov ther heart. may health an prosperity sit at ther table soa long as they live! an accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ, for they're all 'at aw'm able to give. to let. aw live in a snug little cot, an' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt, cloise by, in a big garden plot, stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let." twelve month sin or somewhear abaat, a fine lukkin chap donned i' black, coom an luk'd at it inside an aght an decided this mansion to tak. ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove an masons, an joiners, an sweeps, an a blacksmith to fit up a cove, an bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps. ther wor painters, an glazzeners too, to mend up each bit ov a braik, an a lot 'at had nowt else to do, but to help some o'th t'others to laik. ther wor fires i' ivvery range, they nivver let th' harston get cooiled, throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change, an ivverything all in a mooild. th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' hall, is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, but if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; he tells me to do it mysel. this hall lets for fifty a year, wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; when th' day come mi rent's allus thear, an that's a gooid thing in its way. at th' last all th' repairers had done, an th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, for aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din. then th' furnitur started to come, waggon looads on it, all spankin new, rich crimson an gold covered some, wol some shone i' scarlet an blue. ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, an picturs enuff for a show? they fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure, throo th' garret to th' kitchen below. one day when a cab drove to th' gate, th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife, (an tawk abaat fashion an state! yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.) ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, an aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;" as th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "a'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass." ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs, an grocers, an milkmen, an snips, all seekin for orders an jobs, an sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips. aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day, "ha long does ta trust sich fowk, ike? each wick aw'm expected to pay," "fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like." things went on like this, day bi day, for somewhear cloise on for a year; wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way, altho' aw wor livin soa near. but one neet when aw'd finished mi wark, an wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, a chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire. says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" says aw, "lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "they've bolted an diddled us cleean." aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word, he cursed as he put on his hat, an he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, an paid nubdy owt, an that's what." he left, an aw crept off to bed, next day aw'd a visit throo ike, but aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "fine fowk tha knows pay when they like." ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let," an aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; they'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me. but aw let 'em do just as they pleease, aw'm content tho' mi station is low, an awm thankful sich hard times as thease if aw manage to pay what aw owe. this precept, friends, nivver forget, for a wiser one has not been sed, be detarmined to rise aght o' debt tho' yo go withaat supper to bed. lost love. shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass, her e'en as black as sloas; her hair a flyin thunner claad, her cheeks a blowin rooas. her smile coom like a sunny gleam her cherry lips to curl; her voice wor like a murm'ring stream 'at flowed throo banks o' pearl. aw long'd to claim her for mi own, but nah mi love is crost; an aw mun wander on alooan, an mourn for her aw've lost. aw could'nt ax her to be mine, wi' poverty at th' door: aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine wi' love for one so poor; */ 92 */ but nah ther's summat i' mi breast, tells me aw miss'd mi way: an lost that lass i loved the best throo fear shoo'd say me nay. aw long'd to claim her for, &c. aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, an oft i'th' dark o'th' neet, aw've knelt mi daan i'th' loin to find prints ov her tiny feet. an under th' window, like a thief, aw've crept to hear her spaik; an then aw've hurried hooam agean for fear mi heart wod braik. aw long'd to claim her for, &c. another bolder nor misen, has robb'd me o' mi dear; an nah aw ne'er may share her joy, an ne'er may dry her tear. but tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad, an tho' hope's star is set; to know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'd wod mak me happy yet. aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c. drink. when yo see a chap covered wi' rags, an hardly a shoe to his fooit, gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags, wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit; an he tells yo he's aght ov a job, an he feels wellny likely to sink,-an he hasn't a coin in his fob, yo may guess what he's seekin--it's drink. if a woman yo meet, poorly dressed, untidy, an spoortin black e'en; wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast, neglected an shame-to-be-seen; if yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true, what's th' cause of her trouble? aw think, yo'll find her misfortuns are due to that warst o' all enemies,--drink. ax th' wretches convicted o' crime, what caused 'em to plunge into sin, an they'll say ommost ivvery time, it's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin. even th' gallus, if it could but tell ov its victims dropt ovver life's brink; it wod add a sad lot moor to swell the list ov those lost throo strong drink. yet daily we thowtlessly pass, the hell-traps 'at stand like a curse; bedizened wi' glitter an glass, to mak paupers, an likely do worse. some say 'at th' millenium's near, but they're reckonin wrang aw should think, when they fancy the king will appear, in a world soa besotted wi' drink. duffin johnny. (a rifleman's adventure.) th' mooin shone breet wi' silver leet, an th' wind wor softly sighin; th' burds did sleep, an th' snails did creep, an th' buzzards wor a flying; th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, an th' buttercups wor weary, when jenny went to meet her john, her rifleman, her dearie. her johnny seemed as brave a lad as iver held a rifle, an if ther wor owt in him bad, 'twor nobbut just a trifle. he wore a suit o' sooity grey, to show 'at he wor willin to feight for th' queen and country when perfect in his drillin. his heead wor raand, his back wor straight, his legs wor long an steady, his fist wor fully two pund weight, his heart wor true an ready; his upper lip wor graced at th' top wi' mustache strong an bristlin, it railly wor a spicy crop; yo'd think to catch him whistlin. his buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war, he long'd for battles' clatter, he grieved to think noa foeman dar to cross that sup o' watter; he owned one spot,--an nobbut one, within his heart wor tender, an as his darlin had it fun, he'd be her bold defender. at neet he donn'd his uniform, war trials to endure, an helped his comrades brave, to storm a heap ov horse manure! they said it wor a citidel, fill'd wi' some hostile power, they boldly made a breach, and well they triumph'd in an hour. they did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (that spoils one's britches sadly,) but th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, an scented 'em as badly; ther wor noa slain to hug away, noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, they lived to feight another day, an spend ther neets i' rantin. brave johnny's rooad wor up a loin where all wor dark an shaded, part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slime but quickly on he waded; an nah an then he cast his e'e an luk'd behund his shoulder. he worn't timid, noa net he! he crack'd, "he knew few bolder." but once he jumped, an sed "oh dear!" becoss a beetle past him; but still he wor unknown to fear, he'd tell yo if yo asked him. he could'nt help for whispering once, "this loin's a varry long un, a chap wod have but little chonce wi thieves, if here amang 'em." an all at once he heeard a voice cry out, "stand and deliver! your money or your life, mak choice, before your brains i shiver;" he luk'd all raand, but failed to see a sign of livin craytur, then tremlin dropt upon his knee, fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur. "gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, mi belts, mi ammunition, aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi back oh pity mi condition; aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass, aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin; aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass, at tate's berry garden." "aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where, its her fault aw've to suffer;" just then a whisper in his ear said, "johnny, thar't a duffer," he luk'd, an' thear cloise to him stuck wor jenny, burst wi' lafter; "a'a, john," shoo says, "aw've tried thi pluck, aw'st think o' this at after." "an when tha tells what things tha'll do, an booasts o' manly courage, aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, go hooam an get thi porrige." "why jenny wor it thee," he sed, "aw fancied aw could spy thi, aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid, aw did it but to try thi." "just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis aw hear thi heart a beatin, an tak this claat to wipe thi phiz, gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin. thar't brave noa daat, an tha can crow like booastin cock-a-doodle, but nooan sich men for me, aw vow, when wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'" plenty o' brass. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! it's grand to be able to spend a trifle sometimes on a glass for yorsen, or sometimes for a friend. to be able to bury yor neive up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd, an, 'baght pinchin, be able to save a wee bit for th' time when yo're owd. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! to be able to set daan yor fooit withaat ivver thinkin--bi'th' mass! 'at yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit. to be able to walk along th' street, an stand at shop windows to stare, an net ha to beat a retreat if yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! to be able to goa hooam at neet, an sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass, an want nawther foir nor leet. to tak th' childer a paper o' spice, or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice for yor friends, if they happen to call. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! then th' parsons'll know where yo live; if yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, an call where fowk's summat to give. yo may have a trifle o' sense, an yo may be booath upright an trew, but that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expense ov a whole or a pairt ov a pew. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! an to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard, this world seems as smooth as a glass, an ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad; but him 'at's as poor as a maase, or, happen, a little i' debt, he mun point his nooas up to th' big haase, an be thankful for what he can get. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink! but dooan't let it harden yor heart: yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think an try to do gooid wi' a part! an then, as yo're totterin' daan, an th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass. the new year's resolve. says dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed, for th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life, an aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, if aw knew who to get for a wife. aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, for aw've nawther to booast on misel; what aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass, an ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell. to be single is all weel enuff nah an then, but it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes; for aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; they turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs. an aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; an th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, an mi back warks as if it 'ud split. aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best; soa one day aw bethowt me to try, but aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, soa aw mud as weel offered to fly. aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me! abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, an saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink. but a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; for mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, an thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad. soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel, afoor shoo can alter her mind." a strange stooary. aw know some fowk will call it crime, to put sich stooaries into ryhme, but yet, contentedly aw chime mi simple ditty: an if it's all a waste o' time, the moor's the pity. ------o'er wibsey slack aw coom last neet, wi' reekin heead and weary feet, a strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; he made mi start; but pluckin up, aw did him greet wi' beatin heart. his dress wor black as black could be, an th' latest fashion aw could see, but yet they hung soa dawderly, like suits i' shops; bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten three sich legs i'th' slops. says aw, "owd trump, it's rayther late for one 'at's dress'd i' sich a state, across this slack to mak ther gate: is ther some pairty? or does ta allus dress that rate- black duds o'th' wairty?" he twisted raand as if to see what sooart o' covy aw could be, an grinned wi' sich a maath at me, it threw me sick! "lor saves!" aw cried, "an is it thee 'at's call'd owd nick?" but when aw luk'd up into th' place, whear yo'd expect to find a face; a awful craytur met mi gaze, it took mi puff: "gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, aw've seen enuff!" then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, he tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, an soa aw stop't a bit to hear what things he'd ax; but as he spake his teeth rang clear, like knick-a-nacks. "a'a, jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' thee net knowin sich a chap as me; for oft when tha's been on a spree, aw've been thear too; but tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, tha's just edged throo. mi name is deeath--tha needn't start, an put thi hand upon thi heart, for tha may see 'at aw've noa dart wi' which to strike; let's sit an tawk afoor we part, o'th edge o'th dyke." "nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad, for bobby burns tells me tha had a scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, gad! tha worn't dress'd i' fine black clooath; tha wore a plad across thi breast!" "well, jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat to find me wanderin abaght; but th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat a job to do; mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, mi arrows too." "yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'at fowk noa moor will ha to dee?" "noa, hark a minnit an tha'll see when th' truth aw tell! fowk do withaat mi darts an me, thev kill thersel. they do it too at sich a rate wol mi owd system's aght o' date; what we call folly, they call fate; an all ther pleasur is ha to bring ther life's estate to th' shortest measur. they waste ther time, an waste ther gains, o' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, throo morn to neet they keep ther brains, for ivver swimmin, an if a bit o' sense remains, it's fun i'th wimmen. tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, nor yet misen wi' scythe or shaft, e'er made as monny deead or daft, as gin an rum, an if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft at me, bi gum! but if they thus goa on to swill, they'll not want wilfrid lawson's bill, for give a druffen chap his fill, an sooin off pops he; an teetotal fowk moor surely still, will dee wi' th' dropsy. it's a queer thing 'at sich a nation can't use a bit o' moderation; but one lot rush to ther damnation throo love o'th' bottle: wol others think to win salvation wi' bein teetotal." wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "let liquors be, sup ale asteead, an tha'll be better, an dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard like a deead letter." "why deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, yo come to fotch us chaps away! but this seems strange, soa tell me pray, ha wor't yo coom? wor it to tell us keep away, yo hav'nt room?" "stop whear tha art, jack, if tha dar but tha'll find spirits worse bi far sarved aght i' monny a public bar, 'at's thowt quite lawful; nor what tha'll find i'th' places parsons call soa awful." "gooid bye!" he sed, an off he shot, leavin behind him sich a lot o' smook, as blue as it wor hot! it set me stewin! soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot ov us own brewin. --------if when yo've read this stooary throo, yo daat if it's exactly true, yo'll nobbut do as others do, yo may depend on't. blow me! aw ommost daat it too, so thear's an end on't. what wor it? what wor it made me love thee, lass? aw connot tell; aw know it worn't for thi brass;- tho' poor misel aw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt, an what _aw_ had wor next to nowt. aw didn't love thi 'coss thi face wor fair to see: for tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place, an as for me, they called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop," an sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop. aw used to read i' fairy books ov e'en soa breet, ov gowden hair, angelic looks, an smiles soa sweet; aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown, aw'd claim some lovely fairy for mi own. an weel aw recollect that neet,- 'twor th' furst o'th' year, aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet, an aw'd a fear lest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat, an be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat. what fun they made, when we went in;- they cried, "yo're catched!" an then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din "they're fairly matched, an beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say, an they've booath been gooid childer, onyway." an then aw saw a little tear, unbidden flow, that settled it!--for then an thear aw seemed to know, 'at we wor meant to share each others lot, an fancy's fairies all could goa to pot. full thirty years have rolled away, sin that rough time; what won mi love aw connot say, but this is mine, to know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee, but pray, whativver made thee fancy me? billy bumble's bargain. young billy bumble bowt a pig, soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say; an monny a mile he had to trig one sweltin' summer day; but billy didn't care a fig, he sed he'd mak it pay; he _knew_ it wor a bargain, an he cared net who said nay. he browt it hooam to ploo croft loin, but what wor his surprise to find all th' neighbors standing aght, we oppen maaths an eyes; "by gow!" sed billy, to hissen, "this pig _must_ be a prize!" an th' wimmen cried, "gooid gracious fowk but isn't it a size?" then th' chaps sed, "billy, where's ta been? whativver has ta browt? that surely isn't crayture, lad, aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt? it luks moor like a donkey, does ta think 'at it con rawt?" but billy crack'd his carter's whip. an answered 'em wi' nowt. an reight enuff it wor a pig, if all they say is true, its length wor five foot eight or nine, its height wor four foot two; an when it coom to th' pig hoil door, he couldn't get it throo, unless it went daan ov its knees, an that it wodn't do. then billy's mother coom to help, an hit it wi' a mop; but thear it wor, an thear it seem'd detarmined it 'ud stop; but all at once it gave a grunt, an oppen'd sich a shop; an finding aght 'at it wor lick'd, it laup'd cleean ovver th' top. his mother then shoo shook her heead, an pool'd a woeful face; "william," shoo sed, "tha should'nt bring sich things as theas to th' place. aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink thi mother i' disgrace; but if tha buys sich things as thease aw'm feared it will be th' case!" "nah, mother, nivver freat," sed bill, "its one aw'm gooin to feed, its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know, but that's becoss o'th' breed; if its a trifle long i'th' grooin, why hang it! nivver heed! aw know its net a beauty, _but its cheap, it is, indeed!"_ "well time 'ul try," his mother sed,- an time at last did try; for nivver sich a hungry beeast had been fed in a sty. "what's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, billy!" wor th' neighbors' daily cry; "aw connot tell yo yet," sed bill, "aw'll weigh it bye an bye." an hard poor billy persevered, but all to noa avail, it swallow'd all th' mait it could get, an wod ha swallow'd th' pail; but billy tuk gooid care to stand o'th' tother side o'th' rail; but fat it didn't gain as mich as what 'ud greeas its tail. pack after pack o' mail he bowt, until he'd bowt fourteen; but net a bit o' difference i'th' pig wor to be seen: its legs an snowt wor just as long as ivver they had been; poor billy caanted rib bi rib an heaved a sigh between. one day he mix'd a double feed, an put it into th' troff; "tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed, "aw'll awther stawl thee off, or else aw'll brust thi hide--that is unless 'at its to toff!" an then he left it wol he went his mucky clooas to doff. it worn't long befoor he coom to see hah matters stood; he luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor, five simple bits o' wood, as cleean scraped aght as if it had ne'er held a bit o' food; "tha slotch!" sed bill, "aw do believe tha'd ait me if tha could." next day he browt a butcher, for his patience had been tried, an wi a varry deeal to do, its legs wi' rooap they tied; an then his shinin knife he drew an stuck it in its side-it mud ha been a crockadile, bi th' thickness ov its hide. but blooid began to flow, an then its long legg'd race wor run; they scalded, scraped, an hung it up, an when it all wor done, fowk coom to guess what weight it wor, an monny a bit o' fun they had, for billy's mother sed, "it ought to weigh a ton." billy wor walkin up an daan, dooin nowt but fume an fidge! he luk'd at th' pig--then daan he set, i'th nook o'th' window ledge, he saw th' back booan wor stickin aght, like th' thin end ov a wedge; it luk'd like an owd blanket hung ovver th' winterhedge. his mother rooar'd an th' wimmen sigh'd, but th' chaps did nowt but laff; poor billy he could hardly bide, to sit an hear ther chaff-then up he jumped, an off he run, but whear fowk nivver knew; an what wor th' war'st, when mornin coom, th' deead pig had mizzled too. th' chaps wander'd th' country far an near, until they stall'd thersen; but nawther billy nor his pig coom hooam agean sin then; but oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet, near shibden's ruined mill, the gooast o' billy an his pig may be seen runnin still. moral. yo fowk 'at's tempted to goa buy be careful what yo do; dooant be persuaded 'coss "it's _cheap_," for if yo do yo'll rue; dooant think its lowerin to yor sen to ax a friend's advice, else like poor billy's pig, 't may be bowt dear at onny price. aght o' wark. aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, an aw can't get a day's wark to do! aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick an aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo. aw've a wife an three childer at hooam, an aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, for they think it's high time aw should come, an bring 'em a morsel 'o jock. a'a dear! it's a pitiful case when th' cubbord is empty an bare; when want's stamped o' ivvery face, an yo hav'nt a meal yo can share. today as aw walked into th' street, th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; an aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet, for aw had'nt brokken mi fast. them horses, aw knew varry weel, wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, had nivver known th' want of a meal, or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold. even th' dogs have enuff an to spare, tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; but ther maisters forget they should care for a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife. they give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet, an ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar, an all th' windows are blazin wi' leet, but they seldom give dinners to th' poor. i' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; an unless we can get it o'th' strap, we mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail. but hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs to them three little lambs an ther dam;-aw wish they wor horses or dogs, for its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam. but they say ther is one 'at can see, an has promised to guide us safe throo; soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, he'll find a chap summat to do. that's a fact. "a'a mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure;-aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, aw wor nivver i' this way afoor. aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm, an' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too-tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form. aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght-but promise tha'll keep it reight squat; for aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght, but aw can't keep it in--tha knows that. we'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet, an jimmy wor thear,--tha's seen jim? an he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, to ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, for he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; an he just did th' same thing tother wick,-it made fowk tak nooatice, dos't see. an when aw wor gooin towards hooam, aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'twor pitch dark, an aw thowt if they coom, aw should varry near sink into th' graund. aw knew it wor jim bi his traid, an aw tried to get aght ov his gate; but a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, aw wor nivver i' sich en a state. then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, an aw said, "nah, leeav loise or aw'll screeam! can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" but he stuck to mi arm like a leach, an he whispered a word i' mi ear; it tuk booath mi breeath an mi speech, for aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, an he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: aw says, "jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" as sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath. but he wod'nt be quiet, for he sed 'at he'd loved me soa true an soa long-aw'd ha geen a ear off o' my ye'd to get loise--but tha knows he's soa strong.-then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, an he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;-aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, aw wor fesen'd whativver to say; 'coss tha knows aw've a likin for jim; but yo can't allus say what yo meean; for aw tremb'ld i' ivvery limb, wol he kussed me agean an agean. but at last aw began to give way, for, raylee, he made sich a fuss, an aw kussed him an all--for they say, ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. then he left me at th' end o' awr street, an aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; but if aw should see him to neet, what wod ta advise me to do? but dooant spaik a word--tha's noa need, for aw've made up mi mind ha to act, for he's th' grandest lad ivver aw seed, an aw like him th' best too--that's a fact!" babby burds. aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, across a meadow newly shorn; th' sun wor shinin breet and clear, an fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, an all wor still. when, as my steps wor idly rovin, aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! it fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, as daan aw sank beside it, kneelin o'th' edge o'th' hill. it wor a little skylark's nest, an two young babby burds, undrest, wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, callin for mammy to provide ther mornin's meal; an high aboon ther little hooam, th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom; ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear, like breathins throo a purer sphere, he sang soa weel. ther mammy, a few yards away, wor hoppin on a bit o' hay; too feeard to coom, too bold to flee; an watchin me wi' troubled e'e, shoo seem'd to say: "dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! ther daddy does the best he can to cheer yo with his sweetest song; an thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, soa let 'em stay." "tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm-come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! for aw've a little nest misel, an two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'at's precious too; an they've a mammy watching thear, 'at howds them little ens as dear, an dearer still, if that can be, nor what thease youngens are to thee, soa come,--nah do! "a'a well!--tha'rt shy, tha hops away,-tha doesn't trust a word aw say; tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder, an aw confess aw dunnot wonder- but tha's noa need; aw'll leave yo to yorsels,--gooid bye! for nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; he's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; he loves yo better nor his song- he does indeed." aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear caught up the saand o' warblin clear; thinks aw, they're happy once agean; aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meean to rob that nest; for they're contented wi' ther lot, nor envied me mi little cot; an in this world, as we goa throo, it is'nt mich gooid we can do, an do awr best. then let us do as little wrong to onny as we pass along, an never seek a joy to gain 'at's purchased wi' another's pain, it isn't reet. aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, to mend awr johnny's little cart: (he allus finds me wark enuff to piecen up his brocken stuff, for ivvery neet.) an sally--a'a! if yo could see her! when aw sit daan to get mi teah, shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, an maks me sing it "hush a bee," i'th' rocking chear; then begs some sugar for it too; what it can't ait shoo tries to do; an turnin up her cunnin e'e, shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, it gets its share." sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear! then starts a little tremblin tear, 'at, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew swimmin within a wild flaar blue, falls fro ther e'e; but as the sun in april shaars revives the little droopin flaars, a kind word brings ther sweet smile back: aw raylee think mi brain ud crack if they'd ta dee. then if aw love my bairns soa weel, may net a skylark's bosom feel as mich consarn for th' little things 'at snooze i'th' shelter which her wings soa weel affoards? if fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind how mich is gained by bein kind; ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, an fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell even o'th' burds. queen ov skircoit green. have yo seen mi bonny mary, shoo lives at skircoit green; an old fowk say a fairer lass nor her wor nivver seen. an th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar, 'at's bloomin thear to-day; an one an all are scared to deeath, lest shoo should flee away. shoo's health an strength an beauty too, shoo's grace an style as weel: an what's moor precious far nor all, her heart is true as steel. shoo's full ov tenderness an love, for onny in distress; whearivver sorrows heaviest prove, shoo's thear to cheer an bless. her fayther's growin old an gray, her mother's wellny done; but in ther child they find a stay, as life's sands quickly run. her smilin face like sunshine comes, to chase away ther cares, an peeace an comfort allus dwells, in that dear hooam ov theirs. each sundy morn shoo's off to schooil, to taich her bible class; an meets a smilin welcome, from ivvery lad an lass; an when they sing some old psalm tune, her voice rings sweet an clear, it saands as if an angel's tongue, had joined in worship thear. aw sometimes see her safely hooam, an oft aw've tried to tell, that precious saycret ov a hooap 'at in mi heart does dwell. but when aw've seen the childlike trust, 'at glances throo her e'e, to spaik ov love aw nivver durst;- shoo's far too gooid for me. but to grow worthy ov her love, is what aw meean to try; an time may my affection prove,- an win her bye-an-bye. then aw shall be the happiest chap 'at yorksher's ivver seen, an some fine day aw'll bear away, the queen ov skircoit green. th' little black hand. ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, an it may be poetical fire: an suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire? aw'm detarmined to scribble away-soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; an tho' aw turn neet into day, if aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed! aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; but then ther's abundance o' care, an them 'at's contented wi' strife may allus mak sure o' ther share. but aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,-tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; an if butter be aght o' mi raik, aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk. it's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'at's getten all th' pleasure, net it! when aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, aw con thoil 'em whativver they get. but sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, an aw see fowk hawf-clam'd, an i' rags, wi' noa bed to lig daan on at neet but i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags; then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut knew what ther brothers i' poverty feel, they'd a trifle moor charity show, an help 'em sometimes to a meal. but we're all far too fond of ussen, to bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; an we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'at's noa bed nor noa supper at neet. but ther's monny a honest heart throbs, tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'at wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'at booasts better blooid in his veins. see that child thear! 'at's workin away, an sweepin that crossin i'th' street: he's been thear ivver sin it coom day, an yo'll find him thear far into th' neet. see what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, an ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! what care they tho' he smothered a sigh, or wiped off a tear as they coom? but luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! he's gien th' poor child summat at last: ha his e'en seem to twinkle an start, as he watches th' kind gentleman past! an thear in his little black hand he sees a gold sovereign shine! he thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, an he says, "sure it connot be mine!" an all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, an tell him to cut aght o'th seet; but he clutches it fast,--an nah see ha he's threedin his way along th' street. till he comes to that varry same man, an he touches him gently o'th' back, an he tells him as weel as he can, 'at he fancies he's made a mistak. an th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, with his little nak'd feet, as he stands, an his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad woll he taks one o'th little black hands, an he begs him to tell him his name: but th' child glances timidly raand-poor craytur! he connot forshame to lift up his e'en off o'th graand. but at last he finds courage to spaik, an he tells him they call him poor joa; 'at his mother is sickly an' waik; an his father went deead long ago; an he's th' only one able to work aght o' four; an he does what he can, throo early at morn till it's dark: an he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man. an he tells him his mother's last word, as he starts for his labor for th' day, is to put all his trust in the lord, an he'll net send him empty away.-see that man! nah he's wipin his e'en, an he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; an th' lad sees i' that image o'th queen what'll keep his poor mother throo th' cowd. an monny a time too, after then, did that gentleman tak up his stand at that crossing an watch for hissen the work ov that little black hand. an when years had gooan by, he expressed 'at i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, an all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'at wor towt by that poor little lad. tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate, an booast o' ther riches and land, some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rate to that lad with his little black hand. my native twang. they tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, an ow't to goa to th' schooil to leearn to talk like other fowk, an net be sich a fooil; but aw've a noashun, do yo see, although it may be wrang, the sweetest music is to me, mi own, mi native twang. an when away throo all mi friends, i' other taans aw rooam, aw find ther's nowt con mak amends for what aw've left at hooam; but as aw hurry throo ther streets noa matter tho aw'm thrang, ha welcome if mi ear but greets mi own, mi native twang. why some despise it, aw can't tell, it's plain to understand; an sure aw am it saands as weel, tho' happen net soa grand. tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, they call that vulgar slang; but if aw tell 'em they're engaged, that's net mi native twang. mi father, tho' he may be poor, aw'm net ashamed o' him; aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, an tho' her e'en are dim; aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk its crucken'd streets amang; for thear it is aw hear fowk tawk mi own, mi native twang. aw like to hear hard-workin fowk say boldly what they meean; for tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, may be ther hearts are cleean. an them 'at country fowk despise, aw say, "why, let 'em hang;" they'll nivver rob mi sympathies throo thee, mi native twang. aw like to see grand ladies, when they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en throo th' carriage winders shine; mi mother wor a woman, an tho' it may be wrang, aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'at tawk mi native twang. aw wish gooid luck to ivvery one; gooid luck to them 'ats brass; gooid luck an better times to come to them 'ats poor--alas! an may health, wealth, an sweet content for ivver dwell amang true, honest-hearted, yorkshire fowk, 'at tawk mi native twang. sing on. sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; aw connot sing; a claad hings ovver me, do what aw con fresh troubles spring. aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day. mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine, but nah it's sad; aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, sich faith aw had;-but he who promised aw should be his wife has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life. sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; yet, when aw hear thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong, aw feel a tear roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, a gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief. this little darlin, cuddled to mi breast, it little knows, when snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'at all mi woes are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik but just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake. sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see that faithless swain, whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, strike up thy strain, an if his heart yet answers to thy trill fly back to me, an we will love him still. but if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel all hope is o'er, an he that aw believed an loved soa weel be loved noa more; for that hard heart, bird music cannot move, is far too cold a dwellin-place for love. shoo's thi sister. (written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.) gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; on her feet ther's monny a blister: see ha painfully shoo drags her tired limbs to some quiet corner: shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her. daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin- shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor; schooil'd for years her grief to smother, still shoo's human--tha'rt her brother. tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, a kid glove o' awther hand, dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-shoo's thi sister, understand: th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters? luk ha sharp her elbow's growin, an ha pale her little face; an her hair neglected, showin her's has been a sorry case; o, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, when tha shov'd her into th' street. ther wor once a "man," mich greater nor thisen wi' all thi brass; him, awr blessed mediator,- wod he scorn that little lass? noa, he called 'em, an he blessed 'em, an his hands divine caress'd 'em. goa thi ways! an if tha bears net some regret for what tha's done, if tha con pass on, an cares net for that sufferin little one; then ha'ivver poor shoo be, yet shoo's rich compared wi' thee. oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, to awr duties here below! for we're forced to leeav behind us all awr pomp, an all awr show; why then should we slight another? shoo's thi sister, unkind brother. another babby. another!--well, my bonny lad, aw wodn't send thee back; altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, tha's fun some in a crack. it maks me feel as pleased as punch to see thi pratty face; ther's net another child i'th' bunch moor welcome to a place. aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee, i' some nook o' mi cage; but if another comes, raylee! aw'st want a bigger wage. but aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want- we'll try to pool thee throo, for him who has mi laddie sent, he'll send his baggin too. he hears the little sparrows chirp, an answers th' raven's call; he'll nivver see one want for owt, 'at's worth aboon 'em all. but if one on us mun goa short, (altho' it's hard to pine,) thy little belly shall be fill'd whativver comes o' mine. a chap con nobbut do his best, an that aw'll do for thee, leavin to providence all th' rest, an we'st get help'd, tha'll see. an if thi lot's as bright an fair as aw could wish it, lad, tha'll come in for a better share nor ivver blessed thi dad. aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt, if, when deeath comes, aw find aw leeav some virtuous lasses an some honest lads behind. an tho' noa coat ov arms may grace for me, a sculptor'd stooan, aw hooap to leeav a noble race, wi' arms o' flesh an booan. then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, wi' health, we'll persevere, an try to find a brighter track- we'll conquer, nivver fear! an may god shield thee wi' his wing, along life's stormy way, an keep thi heart as free throo sin, as what it is to-day. to a roadside flower. tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined to tak thee wi' me: but yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, tha'd ne'er forgie me; for i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, an life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee. here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, whear scoors may pass thee; some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish may stop an bless thee: then bloom, mi little pooasy! tha'rt a beauty! sent here to bless: smile on--tha does thi duty. aw wodn't rob another of a joy sich as tha's gien me; for aw felt varry sad, mi little doy until aw'd seen thee. an may each passin, careworn, lowly brother, feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another. an old man's christmas morning. its a long time sin thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,- soa pull up thi cheer, an sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee: thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,--yet mi heart feels glad, to see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek, an a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e. thi limbs seem to totter an shake, like a crazy owd fence, 'at th' wind maks to tremel an creak; but tha still fills thi place; an it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense, 'at i' spite o' thi years an thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face. come fill up thi pipe--for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,- an tha'll find a drop o' hooam-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say; an nah, wol tha'rt tooastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an aw'll side thi owd stick, then aw'll tell thi some things 'at's happen'd sin tha went away. an first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd, for trials an troubles have come, an mi heart has felt well nigh to braik; an mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an mi fortuns has shared, shoo bent under her griefs, an shoo's flown far, far away aght o' ther raik. my life's like an owd gate 'at's nobbut one hinge for support, an sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely- at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust; but it hasn't to be, for it seems life maks me his spooart, an deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust. last neet as aw sat an watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire, as it crackled, an sparkled, an flared up wi sich gusto an spirit, an when it wor touched it shone breeter, an flared up still higher, till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it; th' dull saand o'th' church bells coom to tell me one moor christmas mornin, had come, for its welcome--but ha could aw welcome it when all alooan? for th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an th' cold wind wor mooanin, an them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stooan. soa aw went to bed an aw slept, an then began dreamin, 'at mi wife stood by mi side, an smiled, an mi heart left off its beatin, an aw put aght mi hand, an awoke, an mornin wor gleamin; an its made me feel sorrowful, an aw connot give ovver freatin. for aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha' been, if awd gooan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow, for aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. it's forty long summers an winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye," an as fine a young fella tha wor, as ivver aw met i' mi life; when tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try, an aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife. an shoo wor a bonny young wench, an better nor bonny,- aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee; an we called it ann, for aw liked that name best ov onny, an fowk said it wor th' pictur o'th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me. an th' next wor a lad, an th' next wor a lad, then a lass came,- that made us caant six,--an six happier fowk nivver sat to a meal, an they grew like hop plants--full o' life--but waikly i'th' frame, an at last one drooped, an deeath coom an marked her with his seal. a year or two moor an another seemed longin to goa, an all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter-then th' third seemed to sicken an pine, an we couldn't say "noa," for he said his sister had called, an he wor most anxious to meet her-an how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen, for we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish; at last her call came, an shoo luked sich a luk at us then, which aw ne'er shall forget, tho' mi mem'ry ov all other things perish. a few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten, mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an strong? an aw nivver saw at her face wor beginnin to whiten, till shoo grew like a shadow, an aw could'nt even guess wrong. then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel, an he sed, "this last maks five, an aw think ther's just room for another," an aw went an left him, lonely an heartsick to travel, till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an ther mother. an aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha been if aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow; an aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should nivver ha seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. settin off. it isn't 'at aw want to rooam an leeav thi bi thisen: for aw'm content enuff at hooam, aw'm net like other men. but then ther's thee an childer three, to care for an protect, it's reight 'at yo should luk to me, an wrang should aw neglect. aw'm growin older ivvery day, my race is ommost run, time's growin varry precious, lass, an lots remains undone. if aw wor called away, maybe, tha'd find some other man, but tha cannot find a father, for them lads,--do th' best tha can. another husband might'nt prove as kind as aw have been; an wedded life's a weary thing, when love's shut aght o'th' scene. aw know aw've faults, aw'll own a lot,- but then, tha must agree, aw've allus kept a tender spot within mi heart for thee. an if aw've spokken nowty words at's made thee cry an freeat; aw've allus suffered twice as mich, an beg'd thi to forget. tha'rt th' only woman maks me mad, then soothes me wi' a smile, then maks mi fancy aw'm a king, an snubs me all the while, nay,--nay,--old lass! it isn't fun nor frolics that allure,-aw'm strivin for thisen an bairns, to mak yor futur sure. it's duty at aw think aw owe to them young things an thee, the thowts o' which may cheer mi heart, when aw lay daan to dee. to th' swallow. bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, for tha tells ov breeter weather; but aw connot quite forgie thee,- connot love thee altogether. 'tisn't thee aw fondly welcome- 'tis the cheerin news tha brings, tellin us fine weather will come, when we see thi dappled wings. but aw'd rayther have a sparrow,- rayther hear a robin twitter;-tho' they may net be thi marrow, may net fly wi' sich a glitter; but they nivver leeav us, nivver- storms may come, but still they stay; but th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver, up tha mounts an flies away. ther's too monny like thee, swallow, 'at when fortun's sun shines breet, like a silly buzzard follow, doncin raand a bit o' leet. but ther's few like robin redbreast, cling throo days o' gloom an care; soa aw love mi old tried friends best- fickle hearts aw'll freely spare. a wife. wod yo leead a happy life? aw can show yo ha,-get a true an lovin wife,- (yo may have one nah.) if yo have, remember this, be a true man to her, an whativver gooas amiss, keep noa secrets throo her. some chaps think a wife's a toy, just for ther caressin; but sichlike can ne'er enjoy, this world's richest blessin. some ther are who think 'em slaves, fit for nowt but drudgin, an if owt ther fancy craves, give it to 'em grudgin. dooant forget yor patient wife, like yorsen is human, for yo owe yor precious life, to another woman. mak her equal wi' yorsen, (ten to one shoo's better,) tell her all yor plans, an then if shoo'll help yo, let her. oft yo'll find her ready wit, an her keen perception, help yo're slower brains a bit wi' some new conception. dooant expect 'at wives should be like dumb breedin cattle, spendin life contentedly wi' ther babby's prattle. if yo happen to be sick, then they nurse an tend yo, an when trubbles gether thick, they can best befriend yo. an if sympathy yo need, thear yo'll sure receive it, yo accept it, but indeed, yo but seldom give it. if life's journey yo'd have breet, mak yor wife yor treasure, trustin her booath day an neet, sharin grief an pleasure. then yo'll find her smilin face, ivver thear to cheer yo, an yo'll run a nobler race, knowin 'at shoo's near yo. heart brokken. he wor a poor hard workin lad, an shoo a workin lass, an hard they tew'd throo day to day, for varry little brass. an oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin day, an lang'd for th' happy time, when poverty noa moor should part, two lovers i' ther prime. but wark wor scarce, an wages low, an mait an drink wor dear, they did ther best to struggle on, as year crept after year. but they wor little better off, nor what they'd been befoor; it tuk 'em all ther time to keep grim want aghtside o'th' door. soa things went on, wol hope at last, gave place to dark despair; they felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts, an want an toil to share. at length he screw'd his courage up to leeav his native shore; an goa where wealth wor worshipped less, an men wor valued moor. he towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear just glistened in her e'e; then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen, but think sometimes o' me: an whether tha's gooid luck or ill, tha knows aw shall be glad to see thee safe at hooam agean, an welcome back mi lad." "awl labor on, an do mi best; tho' lonely aw must feel, but awst be happy an content if tha be dooin weel. but ne'er forget tho' waves may roll, an keep us far apart; tha's left a poor, poor lass behind, an taen away her heart." "dost think 'at aw can e'er forget, whearivver aw may rooam, that bonny face an lovin heart, aw've prized soa dear at hooam? nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this, 'at till next time we meet tha'll be mi first thowt ivvery morn, an last thowt ivvery neet." he went away an years flew by, but tidins seldom came; shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh, but breathed noa word o' blame; when one fine day a letter came, 'twor browt to her at th' mill, shoo read it, an her tremblin hands, an beating heart stood still. her fellow workers gathered raand an caught her as shoo fell, an as her heead droop'd o' ther arms, shoo sighed a sad "farewell." poor lass! her love had proved untrue, he'd play'd a traitor's part, he'd taen another for his bride, an broke a trustin heart. her doleful stooary sooin wor known, an monny a tear wor shed; they took her hooam an had her laid, upon her humble bed; shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come her burial fees to pay; but some poor comrade's undertuk, to see her put away. each gave what little helps they could, from aght ther scanty stooar; i' hooaps 'at some 'at roll'd i' wealth wod give a trifle moor. but th' maisters ordered 'em away, abaat ther business, sharp! for shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice, an shoo hadn't fell'd her warp. lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. nay surelee tha's made a mistak; tha'rt aght o' thi element here; tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack, thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear. aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms saand queer sooart o' music to thee; an tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes o' miln-greease,--what th' quality be. maybe tha'rt disgusted wi' us, an thinks we're a low offald set, but tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, for ther's hooap an ther's pride in us yet. tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, an as humble as humble could be; an tho we nah are like tha wor then, we may yet be as nobby as thee. tha'd to see thi own livin when young, an when tha grew up tha'd to spin; an if labor like that wornt wrong, tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.' but tha longs to be off aw con tell: for tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content; soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell off tha goas, bonny fly!--an it went. rejected. gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss is hard to bide! for it wod ha' been a shame, had tha ivver been the bride of a workin chap like me; one 'ats nowt but love to gie. hard hoof'd neives like thease o' mine. surely ne'er wor made to press hands so lily-white as thine; nor should arms like thease caress one so slender, fair, an' pure, 'twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure. but thease tears aw cannot stay,- drops o' sorrow fallin fast, hopes once held aw've put away as a dream, an think its past; but mi poor heart loves thi still, an' wol life is mine it will. when aw'm seated, lone and sad, wi mi scanty, hard won meal, one thowt still shall mak me glad, thankful that alone aw feel what it is to tew an' strive just to keep a soul alive. th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form, an' wild winds rush madly raand, but it whistles to the storm, in the barren home it's faand; natur fits it to be poor, an 'twor vain to strive for moor. if it for a lily sighed, an' a lily chonced to grow, when it found the fair one died, powerless to brave the blow of the first rude gust o' wind, which had left its wreck behind. then 'twod own 'twor better fate niver to ha' held the prize; whins an' lilies connot mate, sich is not ther destinies; then 'twor wrang for one like me, one soa poor, to sigh for thee. then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss it's hard to bide, for it wod ha' been a shame had tha iver been mi bride; content aw'll wear mi lonely lot, tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not. persevere. what tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, th' sun's just waitin to peep throo; let us buckle to awr wark, for ther's lots o' jobs to do: tho' all th' world luks dark an drear, let's ha faith, an persevere. he's a fooil 'at sits an mumps 'coss some troubles hem him raand! man mud allus be i'th dumps, if he sulk'd 'coss fortun fraand; th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:- let's ha faith, an persevere. if we think awr lot is hard, nivver let us mak a fuss; lukkin raand, at ivvery yard, we'st find others war nor us; we have still noa cause to fear! let's ha faith, an persevere. a faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, nivver won a lady fair: have a will! yo'll find a way! honest men ne'er need despair. better days are drawin near:-then ha faith, an persevere. workin men,--nah we've a voice, an con help to mak new laws; let us ivver show awr choice lains to strengthen virtue's cause, wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer; this awr motto--'persevere.' let us show to foreign empires loyalty's noa empty booast; we can scorn the thirsty vampires if they dar molest awr cooast: to awr queen an country dear still we'll cling an persevere. the printed version in yorkshire lyrics finishes here these two extra verses are from yorkshire ditties first series. but as on throo life we hurry, by whativver path we rooam, let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, true reform begins at hooam: then, to prove yorsens sincere, start at once; an persevere. hard wark, happen yo may find it, some dear folly to forsake, be detarmined ne'er to mind it! think, yor honor's nah at stake. th' gooid time's drawin varry near! then ha faith, an persevere. a pointer. just listen to mi stooary lads, it's one will mak yo grieve; it's full ov sich strange incidents; yo hardly can believe. that lass aw cooarted, went one neet aght walkin wi' a swell; they ovvertuk me on mi way, an this is what befell. they tuk me for a finger pooast; aw stood soa varry still; an daan they set beside me, just at top o' beacon hill. he sed shoo wor his deary; shoo sed he wor her pet; 'twor an awkward sittiwation which aw shall'nt sooin forget. aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill,- they set daan at mi feet; he hugged her up soa varry cloise, aw thowt ther lips must meet. he sed he loved wi' all his heart, shoo fainted reight away; aw darsn't luk,--aw darsn't start, but aw wished misen away. they tuk me for, &c. he bathed her temples from the brook; he sed shoo wor his life, it made me queer, becoss aw'd sworn to mak that lass mi wife. shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead, upon his heavin breast; an then shoo skriked, an off aw ran, but aw cannot tell the rest. they tuk me for, &c. they wedded wor, sooin after that, aw thowt mi heart wod braik;-it didn't,--soa aw'm livin on, an freeatin for her sake. but sweet revenge,--it coom at last, for childer shoo had three, an they're all marked wi' a finger pooast whear it didn't owt to be. they tuk me for, &c. an acrostic. h a! if yo'd nobbut known that lass, a w'm sure yo'd call her bonny; n oa other could her charms surpass, n oa other had as monny. a n ha aw lost mi peace o' mind, h ark! an aw'll tell if yor inclined. c awered in a nook one day aw set, r aand which wild flaars wor growin; o, that sweet time aw'st ne'er forget, s oa long as aw've mi knowin. t hear aw first saw this lovely lass; i n thowtful mood shoo tarried, "c ome be mi bride, sweet maid!" aw cried: "k eep off!" shoo skriked, "aw'm married!" help thisen. "come, help thisen, lad,--help thisen!" wor what mi uncle sed. we'd just come in throo makkin hay, to get some cheese an breead. an help misen aw did,--yo bet! aw wor a growin lad; aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet, 'twor th' grandest feed aw'd had. when aw grew up aw fell i' love,- shoo wor a bonny lass! but bein varry young an shy, aw let mi chonces pass. aw could'nt for mi life contrive a thing to do or say, for fear aw should offend her, soa aw let her walk away. but what aw suffered nooan can tell;- aw loved her as mi life! but dursn't ax her for the world to be mi darlin wife. aw desperate grew,--we met,--aw ax'd for just one kuss,--an then, shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls, but let me help misen. it's varry monny years sin then,- mi hair's nah growin gray; but oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard that same owd farmer say,-when in some fix aw've vainly sowt for aid from other men,-"tha'rt wastin time,--if tha wants help pluck up, an help thisen." if th' prize yo long for seems too heigh, dooant let yor spirits drop; ther may be lots o' thrustin, but yo'll find ther's room at th' top. yo connot tell what yo can do until yo've had a try; it may be a hard struggle, but yo'll get thear, by-an-bye. nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind an let it be yor creed, for sooin yo'll find fowk's promises are but a rotten reed. feight yor own battles bravely throo, yo'll sewerly win, an then yo'll find ther's lots will help yo, when yo con help yorsen. bless 'em! o, the lasses, the lasses, god bless 'em! his heart must be hard as a stooan 'at could willingly goa an distress 'em, for withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan. tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin for adam, wor scented soa sweet, he ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin, he trampled 'em under his feet. he long'd to some sweet one to whisper; an wol sleepin eve came to his home; he wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her, an ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come. an tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented, an anxious fowk's saycrets to know, pluck'd an apple,--noa daat shoo repented when shoo saw at it made sich a row. tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her; for aw'm fairly convinced an declare, 'at aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her, nor all th' world an noa woman to share. then let us be kind to all th' wimmin, throo th' poorest to th' queen up oth' throne, for if, eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin, it's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own. act square. "another day will follow this," ah,--that shall sewerly be, but th' day 'at dawns to-morn, my lad, may nivver dawn for thee, this day is thine, soa use it weel, for fear when it has passed, some duty has been left undone on th' day at proved thy last. what's passed an gooan's beyond recall, an th' futer's all unknown; dooant specilate on what's to be, neglect in what's thi own. when morn in comes thank god tha'rt spared to see another day; an when tha goas to bed at neet, life's burdens on him lay. although thy station may be low, thy life's conditions hard, mak th' best o' what falls to thi lot, an tha shall win reward. man's days ov toil on earth are few compared to that long rest 'at stretches throo eternity, for them 'at's done ther best. though monny rough hills tha's to climb, an bogs an becks to wade; though thorns an brambles chooak thi path, yet, push on undismayed. detarmination, back'd wi' faith, an hope to cheer thi on, shall gie thi strugglin efforts strength, until thi journey's done. let thi religion be thi life,- let ivvery word an deed be prompted bi a love for all, whativver be ther creed. let wranglin praichers twist an twine, ther doctrines new an old; act square,--an ther is one will see tha'rt net left aght i'th' cold. his dowter gate wed. he'd had his share ov ups an daans, his sprees an troubles too; ov country joys an life i' taans, he'd run th' whoal gamut throo. he labored hard to mak ends meet, an keep things all ship-shap: an th' naybor's sed, 'at lived i'th' street, "he's a varry daycent chap." he paid his rent an gave his wife enuff for clooas an grub, to pleas her he'd insured his life, an joined a burial club. his childer,--grander nivver ran to climb a father's knee; noa better wife had onny man,- noa praader chap could be. he tuk noa stock i' fleetin time, he nivver caanted th' years; for he wor hale, just in his prime, an nowt to cause him fears. he nivver dreamt ov growin old, sich thowts ne'er made him freat, he sed,--"why aw'm as gooid as gold, aw'm but a youngster yet!" his childer thrave like willow wands, an made fine maids an men, but th' thowt ne'er entered in his nut, 'at he grew old hissen. his e'en wor oppened one fine day, his dreams o' youth all fled; an th' reason on it wor, they say,- his dowter,--shoo gate wed. "e'a, gow!" he sed, "but this licks me! shoo's but a child hersen,-ov all things!--why,--it connot be her thowts should turn to men!" "whisht!" sed his wife, "we wed as young, an shoo's moor sense bi far,-an then tha knows shoo's th' grandest lass 'at lives at batley carr." he gave a grooan, for on his lass he'd set a deal o' stooar. he lit his pipe an filled his glass, then fixed his e'en o'th' flooar. "by gum!" he sed, "but this is rough, aw ne'er knew owt as bad, if shoo's a wife, its plain enuff aw connot be a lad." "aw must be old,--aw say,--old lass,- does't think aw'm growin grey? gooid gracious! but ha time does pass! but tha doesn't age a day. tha'rt just as buxum nah as then, aw'st think tha must feel shamed, tha luks as young as her thisen,- or could do, if tha framed." "aw'st ha to alter all mi ways,- noa moor aw'st ha to rooam;-just sattle daan an end mi days cronkt up bith' hob at hooam. an 'fore owts long, as like as net, wol crooidled up i'th' nook, ther'll be some youngster browt, aw'll bet, to watch his grondad smook." "do stop! aw wonder ha tha dar, behave thi soa unkind! does't think 'at th' lads i' batley carr are all booath dumb an blind? shoo's wed a steady, honest chap, an shoo's booath gooid an fair, ther's net another fit to swap,- they mak a gradely pair." "'man worn't made to live alooan,' tha tell'd me that thisen:-tha needn't shak thi heead an grooan;- tha's happen changed sin then. but if ther ivver wor a crank, it's been my luck to see, it wor my childer's father when he furst coom coortin me." "but rest content, its all for th' best;- an then tha must ha known,-shoo thowt it time at shoo possest a nice hooam ov her own." "well--may they prosper! that's my prayer,- they'st nivver want a friend wol aw'm alive,--but aw'st beware, an watch theas younger end." all we had. it worn't for her winnin ways, nor for her bonny face but shoo wor th' only lass we had, an that quite alters th' case. we'd two fine lads as yo need see, an' weel we love 'em still; but shoo war th' only lass we had, an' we could spare her ill. we call'd her bi mi mother's name, it saanded sweet to me; we little thowt ha varry sooin awr pet wod have to dee. aw used to watch her ivery day, just like a oppenin bud; an' if aw couldn't see her change, aw fancied' at aw could. throo morn to neet her little tongue wor allus on a stir; awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp, but nooan at lispt like her. sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks, 'at childer shouldn't play; but then, they wor soa nicely done, we let her have her way. but bit bi bit her spirits fell, her face grew pale an' thin; for all her little fav'rite toys shoo didn't care a pin. aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads, wi monny a doleful nod; aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still aw couldn't think shoo wod. day after day my wife an' me, bent o'er that suff'rin child, shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me, then shut her een an' smiled. at last her spirit pass'd away; her once breet een wor dim; shoo'd heeard her maker whisper 'come,' an' hurried off to him. fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve, for god's will must be best; but when yo've lost a child yo've loved, it puts yor faith to th' test. we pick'd a little bit o' graand, whear grass and daisies grew, an' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon ther solemn shadows threw. we saw her laid to rest, within that deep grave newly made; wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall, on th' handle ov his spade. it troubled us to walk away, an' leeav her bi hersen; th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide, we'd niver felt till then. but th' hardest task wor yet to come, that pang can ne'er be towld; 'twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't, an' locked her aat i'th' cowld. 'twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek, 'twor then aw felt mooast sad; for shoo'd been sich a tender plant, an' th' only lass we had. but nah we're growin moor resign'd, although her face we miss; for he's blest us wi another, an we've hopes o' rearin this, th' first o'th sooart. aw heeard a funny tale last neet-aw could'nt howd fro' laffin-'twor at th' bull's heead we chonced to meet, an' spent an haar i' chaffin. some sang a song, some cracked a joak, an' all seem'd full o' larkin; an' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, an' ivery e'e'd a spark in. long joa 'at comes thro th' jumples cluff, wor gettin rayther mazy; an' warkus ned had supped enuff to turn they're betty crazy;-an bob at lives at th' bogeggs farm, wi' nan throo th' buttress bottom, wor treating her to summat wanm, (it's just his way,--"odd drot em!") an' jack o'th' slade wor theear as weel, an' joa o' abe's throo waerley; an' lijah off o'th' lavver hill, wor passing th' ale raand rarely.-throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, to hear or tell a stoory; but th' gem o' all aw heard last neet wor one bi dooad o'th' gloory. he bet his booits 'at it wor true, an' all seem'd to believe him; tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue-but 't wodn't ha done to grieve him his uncle lived i' pudsey taan, an' practised local praichin; an' if he 're lucky, he wor baan to start a schooil for taichin. but he wor takken varry ill; he felt his time wor comin: (they say he brought it on hissel wi' studdyin his summin.) he call'd his wife an' neighbors in to hear his deein sarmon, an' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin ther lot ud be a warm en. then turin raand unto his wife, said--"mal, tha knows, owd craytur, if awd been bless'd wi' longer life, aw might ha' left things straighter. joa sooitill owes me eighteen pence-aw lent it him last lovefeast." says mal--"he has'nt lost his sense-thank god for that at least!" "an ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, we owe him one paand ten.".-"just hark!" says mally, "there he goas! he's ramellin agean! dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk! yo see, poor thing, he's ravin! it cuts me up to hear sich talk-he spent his life i' savin! "an mally lass," he said agean, "tak heed o' my direction: th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean my share o'th' last collection.-tha'll see to that, an have what's fair when my poor life is past."-says mally, "listen, aw declare, he's sensible to th' last." he shut his een an' sank to rest-deeath seldom claimed a better: they put him by,--but what wor th' best, he sent 'em back a letter, to tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; an' ha he gate to enter; an' gave 'em rules to act upon if ever they should ventur. theear peter stood wi' keys i' hand: says he, "what do you want, sir? if to goa in--yo understand unknown to me yo can't sir.-pray what's your name? where are yo throo? just make your business clear." says he, "they call me parson drew, aw've come throo pudsey here." "you've come throo pudsey, do you say? doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; aw've kept thease doors too long a day, aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." says drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, for th' sake o' all ther's in it: if yo've a map o' england by, aw'll show yo in a minit." soa peter gate a time-table-they gloored o'er th' map together: drew did all at he wor able, but could'nt find a stiver. at last says he, "thear's leeds taan hall, an thear stands braforth mission: it's just between them two--that's all: your map's an old edition. but thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, an' if yo've niver known it, yo've miss'd a bonny yorksher taan, tho mony be 'at scorn it." he oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "it's time some body coom--aw'll trust thee. tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo pudsey." poor old hat. poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown an fowk call us old fashioned an odd; but monny's the storm we have met sin that day, when aw bowt thee all shiny an snod. as aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo, fowk's manners wor cappin to see; an aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,' but aw know nah they nodded at thee. poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside, for awr friendship has lasted too long; tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride, tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng. dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind, if another aw put i thi place; for aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind, tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace. poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be, aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen; an be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee an have nubdy to care for me then. but one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel, an tha gave thi best days to mi use; noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel, for aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse. poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door, tha may happen be punced abaat th' street, for like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor, it wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet. wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass, an fowk rave ov antique this an that, an they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas! ther's nubdy respects an old hat. poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do, to burn thi aw havnt the heart, if aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo, an thart seedy enuff as tha art. tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead, soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin, for aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead, an aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin. poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot, if thart useful what moor can ta be? better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot, an remember thart useful to me. though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized, tha but does what all earthly things must, for though we live honored, or perish despised,- we're at last but a handful o' dust. done agean. aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish, we've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack, we've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish, an wi' currens its varry near black; we've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink, we've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock, we've a load o' puttates under th' sink, so we're pretty weel off as to jock. aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide, but the cause aw dar hardly let aat; it suits me moor nor all else beside: aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw can nah have a spree to misel; aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass; an' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tell my old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass. some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed, he should nivver keep owt thro' his wife; if he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed, 'at it's sure to breed trouble an strife; if it does aw'm net baan to throw up, though awd mich rayther get on withaat; but who wodn't risk a blow up, for a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet, for fear it dropt aat o' mi fob, coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't, 'at mi frolic wod prove a done job. but aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face, to mak sure at its safe in its nick;-but aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place! why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick. whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me, an' who's taen it aw connot mak aat, for it connot be th' wife, coss you see it's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat. but thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side, an' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin; to chait her aw've monny a time tried, but i think it's nah time to give in, a chap may be deep as a well, but a woman's his maister when done; he may chuckle and flatter hissel, but he'll wakken to find at shoo's won. it's a rayther unpleasant affair, yet it's better it's happened noa daat; aw'st be fain to come in for a share o' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat. what it is to be a mother. a'a, dear! what a life has a mother! at leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, an' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee. ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder old joab, wol his patience wor done. they're i' mischief i' ivery corner, an' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; ther's one shaatin' "little jack horner," an' another "the realms o' the blest." aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, they mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; for quiet yo niver can catch 'em unless they're asleep an' i' bed. for ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'at one on em's takken wi' fits; or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, an' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits. in a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, but bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; to keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, yo know 'at ther's summat to do. when my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', aw try to be gradely, an' straight; for when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', he enjoys better what ther's to ait. if aw tell him aw'm varry near finished wi allus been kept in a fuss, he says, as he looks up astonished, "why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does." but aw wonder who does all ther mendin', weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags? but for me they'd have noa spot to stand in- they'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags. but it allus wor soa, an' it will be, a chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; but it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, for men havn't a morsel o' thowt. but just harken to me wol aw'm tellin' ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; an' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', for aw want nowt but what aw think's reight. ov a monday aw start o' my weshin', an' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; ov a tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, an' mangle, an' iron beside. ov a wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; ov a thursday aw reckon to brew; ov a friday all th' carpets want shakin', an' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo. then o'th' setterday, after mi markets, stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend, then aw've all th' sundy clooas to luk ovver, an' that brings a week's wark to its end. then o'th' sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, it's ther only warm meal in a wick; tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, for it's paving mi way to old nick. but a chap mun be like to ha' summat, an' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang. but if yor a wife an' a mother, yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, an' to yor own comforts be blind. but still, just to seer all ther places, when they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; it's nooan a despisable seet. an, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'at if single, aw sooin should be playin' coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean. what they say. they say 'at its a waste o' brass--a nasty habit too,-a thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do; maybe they're reight; they say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,-aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft, at ther consait. at morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet, an aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet, it comforts me. an if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day, aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away, an off they flee. they tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show; aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow, an bad to tell; they say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war; but aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as far as me misel. they say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,-for owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget, that's varry true. but aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee, to smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me: aw'st manage throo, they say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,-it may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs; aw work mi share. if it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men, 'twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;- they've time to spare. but what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan, if th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can, at morn or neet; they may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse, but aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use. pass me a leet. young jockey. young jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin! young jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, for he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin; an he went to ax jenny his wife for to be, but shoo sed, "nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee, thi legs luk too lanky, thi heead is too cranky, its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!" young jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, un, un, ry diddle dun! young jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, for his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done; an he went an tell'd jenny, to end all his pains, he'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains, but shoo cared net a pin, an shoo sed wi' a grin,-"befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in." missed his mark. aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim, an even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame; its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success, th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less. aw envy nubdy fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,-but them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then. an them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark, an nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark. we connot allus hit it,--an ther's monny a toilin brain, has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain; an monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away, an all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay; wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame, an ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game; let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark, just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark. aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,-sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains! aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,-for if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod. aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride, who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side! aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark, yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark. give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;-who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes; tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,-if he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below. an when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end, he'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend. an when they gently put him by,--unconscious, stiff an stark, his epetaph shall be, 'here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.' when lost. if at hooam yo have to tew, though yor comforts may be few, an yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad; yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight, wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt, but yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad. though yo've but a humble cot, an yore share's a seedy lot; though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad, yet yo'll find its mich moor wise, what yo have to fondly prize, for yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad. mak a gooid start. let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear what grum'lers an growlers may say; that nivver need cause yo a tear, for whear ther's a will ther's a way. if yo've plenty to ait an to drink, nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough; if yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think, yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff. if yor temper gets saar'd an cross, an yor mind is disturbed an perplext; or if troubled wi' sickness an loss, an yor poverty maks yo feel vext;-nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeat abaat things at yo connot prevent; an i'th futer ther may be a treeat, 'at'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent, i' this new life beginnin,--who knows what for each on us may be i' stoor? for th' river o' time as it flows, weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door. at some it leeavs little, may be, an at others deposits a prize; but if yo be watchful yo'll see ther's a trifle for each one 'at tries. ther's a time booath to wish an decide;- for a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews;-if yo snuff aght ambition an pride, yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes, wish for summat 'at's honest an reight, an detarmine yo'll win it or dee! yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate, an th' black claads o' daat quickly flee. young men should seek labor an gains, old men wish for rest an repose;-young lasses want brave, lovin swains, an hanker for th' finest o' clooas. old wimmin,--a cosy foirside, an a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah; little childer, a horse they can ride, or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee. one thing a chap cant do withaat, is a woman to share his estate; an mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat, think life a dull thing baght a mate. ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise, an its one at should be acted upon;-yo'll do weel, to accept its advice,- to, "begin as yo meean to goa on." stop at hooam. "tha wodn't goa an leave me, jim, all lonely by mysel? my een at th' varry thowts grow dim- aw connot say farewell. tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless tha saw me every day, an' said tha knew noa happiness when aw wor foorced away. an th' tales tha towld, i know full weel, wor true as gospel then; what is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel soa strange--unlike thisen? ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find, i'th taan whear tha wor born, to mak a livin, if tha'll mind to ha' faith i' to-morn. aw've mony a time goan to mi wark throo claads o' rain and sleet; all's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark, it ommust mud be neet. but then, when braikfast time's come raand, aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray, an' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk like skulkin lads away. an' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet aw've sowt some shade to rest, an' as aw've paddled hooam at neet, glorious it's sunk i'th west. an' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee, (an' trouble's hard to bide), have patience, lad, an' wait an' see what's hid o'th' tother side. if aw wor free to please mi mind, aw'st niver mak this stur; but aw've a mother ommust blind, what mud become o' her? tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik an' helpless ivery limb, aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik if aw'd to leave her, jim. aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees 'at tower up to th' sky, an' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze, lie glitterin' jewels fly. woll th' music of a shepherd's reed may gently float along, lendin its tender notes to lead some fair maid's simple song; an' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side, such as we niver see; but here at hooam, at ivery stride, there's flaars for thee an' me. aw care net for ther suns soa breet, nor warblin melody; th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet saands sweeter, lad, to me. an' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan, a claat is noa disgrace; tha'll niver find a heart moor warm beat under silk or lace. then settle daan, tak my advice, give up this wish to rooam! an' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice worth stoppin' for at hooam." "god bless thee, jenny! dry that e'e, an' gi'e us howd thi hand! for words like thoase, throo sich as thee, what mortal could withstand! it isn't mich o'th' world aw know, but aw con truly say, a faithful heart's too rich to throw withaat a thowt away. so here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, aw'll tew for thine and thee, an' seek for comfort when cast daan, i'th' sunleet o' thi e'e." advice to jenny. jenny, jenny, dry thi ee, an' dunnot luk soa sad; it grieves me varry mich to see tha freeats abaat yon lad; for weel tha knows, withaat a daat, whearivver he may be, tho fond o' rammellin' abaat, he's allus true to thee. tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while, for wisdom comes wi' time, an' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile at troubles sich as thine; a faithful chap is better far, altho' he likes to rooam, nor one 'at does what isn't reight, an' sits o'th' hearth at hooam. tha needn't think 'at wedded life noa disappointment brings; tha munnot think to keep a chap teed to thi appron strings. soa dry thi een, they're varry wet, an' let thi heart be glad, for tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet, tha's wed a honest lad. ther's mony a lady, rich an' great, 'at's sarvents at her call, wod freely change her grand estate for thine tha thinks soa small: for riches cannot buy content, soa tho' thi joys be few, tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,- a heart 'at's kind an' true. soa when he comes luk breet an' gay, an' meet him wi' a kiss, tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay wi treatment sich as this; but if thi een luk red like that, he'll see all's wrang at once, he'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat, an' bolt if he's a chonce. jockey an dolly. th' sun shone breet at early morn, burds sang sweetly on the trees; larks wor springin from the corn, tender blossoms sowt the breeze. jockey whistled as he went o'er rich meadows wet wi' dew; in his breast wor sweet content, for his wants an cares were few. dolly passed him on his way, fresh an sweet an fair wor she; jockey lost his heart that day, to the maid ov salterlee. jockey an dolly had allus been jolly, till love shot his arrow an wounded the twain; their days then pass sadly, yet man an maid madly, in spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain. since that day did jockey pine, dolly shyly kept apart; still shoo milk'd her willin kine, tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart, but one neet they met i'th' fold, when a silv'ry mooin did shine; jockey then his true love told, an he axt, "will't thou be mine?" tears ov joy filled dolly's een, as shoo answered modestly; dolly nah is jockey's queen, th' bonniest wife i' salterlee. jockey an dolly, are livin an jolly, may blessins for ivver attend i' ther train; ther days they pass gladly, noa moor they feel sadly, for two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' love's chain. dooant forget the old fowks. dooant forget the old fowks,- they've done a lot for thee; remember tha'd a mother once, who nursed thi on her knee. a father too, who tew'd all day to mak thi what tha art, an dooant forget tha owes a debt, an strive to pay a part. just think ha helpless once tha wor,- a tiny little tot; but tha wor given th' cosiest nook i' all that little cot. thy ivvery want wor tended to, an soothed thy ivvery pain, they didn't spare love, toil or care, an they'd do it o'er ageean. an all they crave for what they gave, is just a kindly word;-a fond "god bless yo parents," wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard. then dooant forget the old fowks, &c. tha's entered into business nah,- tha'rt dooin pratty weel; tha's won an tha desarves success,- aw know tha'rt true as steel. tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style, tha's sarvents at thi call; but dooant forget thi mother, lad, to her tha owes it all. thi father totters in his walk, his hair is growin grey; he cannot work as once he did, he's ommost had his day. but th' heart 'at loved thi when a child, is still as warm an true; his pride is in his lad's success,- he hopes tha loves him too. but what they long for mooast ov all, is just that kindly word, "god bless yo, my dear parents!" wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard. then dooant forget the old fowks, &c, soa bonny. aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea, an aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be; but aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad, like her,--for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad. shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot, an when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot; an it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad, but oh! shoo wor bonny!--soa bonny mi lad. consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt, an shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt; an shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;--for shoo knew shoo wor bonny,--soa bonny mi lad. fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand, but whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand; for th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad, for shoo wor soa bonny,--soa bonny mi lad. but shoo wor like th' rest,--false,--false in her heart; shoo made me to love her,--an cupid's sharp dart wor nobbut her fun,--wi' decait it wor clad;-but then, shoo wor bonny;--soa bonny mi lad. shoo sooin wed another,--noa better nor me, an aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree; an aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad, but oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad. ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled, shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled; shoo may seek me agean;--if shoo does,--well, by gad! aw'll welcome her back. shoo's soa bonny mi lad. the linnet. little linnet,--stop a minnit,- let me have a tawk with thee: tell me what this life has in it, maks thee seem so full o' glee? why is pleasure i' full measure, thine throo rooasy morn to neet, has ta fun some wondrous treasure, maks thi be for ivver breet? ---------sang the linnet,--"wait a minnit, let me whisper in thine ear; life has lots o' pleasure in it, though a shadow's oftimes near. ivvery shoolder has its burden, ivvery heart its weight o' care; but if bravely yo accept it, duty finds some pleasure thear. lazy louts dooant know what rest is,- those who labor find rest sweet; grumling souls ne'er know what best is,- blessins wither 'neath ther feet. sorrow needs noa invitation,- joy is shy an must be sowt; grief seeks onny sitiwation,- willin to accept for nowt. all pure pleasure is retirin, allus modest,--shrinkin,--shy,-like a violet,--but goa seek it, an yo'll find it by-an-bye. birds an blossoms,--shaars an sunshine, strive to cheer man on his way; an its nobbut them 'at willn't, 'at cant taste some joy each day. awm a teeny little songster,- all mi feathers plainly grave; but aw wish noa breeter plumage, awm content wi' what aw have. an mi mate is just as lovin, an he sings as sweet to me,-an his message nivver varies,- 'love me love, as aw love thee.' an together, o'er awr nestlins, we keep watch, i' hooaps to see, they may sooin share in awr gladness full ov love,--from envy free. grumbler,--cast a look araand thi;- is this world or thee to blame? joys an blessins all surraand thi,- dar to grummel?--fie,--for shame!" ---------an that linnet, in a minnit, flitted off, the trees among; an those joys its heart had in it, ovverflowed i' limpid song. an it left me sittin, blinkin, as it trill'd its nooats wi glee;-an truly,--to my way o' thinkin, th' linnet's far moor sense nor me. mary jane. one easter mundy, for a spree, to bradforth, mary jane an me, decided we wod tak a jaunt, an have a dinner wi mi hont; for mary jane, aw'd have yo know, had promised me, some time ago, to be mi wife,--an soa aw thowt aw'd introduce her, as aw owt. mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,-to mak fowk welcome nivver looath,-an th' table grooaned wi richest fare, an one an all wor pressed to share, mi sweetheart made noa moor to do. shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe; mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass,-"well, god bless thi belly, lass!" mi mary jane is quite genteel, shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel; shoo luks soa delicate an fair, yo'd fancy shoo could live on air. but thear yo'd find yor judgment missed, for shoo's a mooast uncommon twist; whear once shoo's called to get a snack, it's seldom at they've axt her back. to a cookshop we went one neet, an th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet, made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin, but shoo went on an tuckt it in; an when aw axt ha mich we'd had, he sed, "it's worth five shillin, lad." aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,-"well, god bless thi belly lass!" but when a lass's een shine bright, yo ne'er think ov her appetite; her love wor what aw lang'd to gain, nor did mi efforts prove in vain, for we wor wed on leeds fair day, an started life on little pay. but aw've noa reason to regret, her appetite shoo keeps up yet. eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine, an nah awr family numbers nine. a chap when wedded life begins, seldom expects a brace o' twins; but mary jane's browt that for me,-shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee; an as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass, aw say, "god bless thi belly lass!" we have noa wealth i' gold or lands, but cheerful hearts, an willin hands; altho soa monny maaths to fill, we live i' hooaps an labor still. ther little limbs when stronger grown, will be a fortun we shall own. we're in a mooild thro morn to neet, but rest comes to us doubly sweet, an fowk learn patience, yo can bet, when they've to care for sich a set. but we can honestly declare, ther isn't one at we can spare. ther little tricks cause monny a smile, an help to leeten days o' toil. an joyfully aw say, "bith' mass! well, god bless thi childer, lass." my lass. fairest lass amang the monny, hair as black as raven, o. net another lass as bonny, lives i'th' dales ov craven, o. city lasses may be fairer, may be donned i' silks an laces, but ther's nooan whose charms are rarer, nooan can show sich bonny faces. yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre, show thou art no craven, o; in thy strains 'at mooast inspire, sing the praise ov craven, o. purest breezes toss their tresses, tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, o, an old sol wi' warm caresses, mak 'em bloom like pooasies, o. others may booast birth an riches, may have studied grace ov motion, but they lack what mooast bewitches,- hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion. perfect limbs an round full bosoms, sich as set men ravin, o, only can be faand i' blossoms, sich as bloom i' craven, o, an amang the fairest,--sweetest, ther's net sich a brave en, o; for her beauty's the completest, yo can find i' craven, o. ivvery charm 'at mother nature had to give, shoo placed upon her,--modest ways, an comely feature- health ov body,--soul ov honor isn't shoo a prize worth winnin? an a gem worth savin, o? smile on,--sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin, when my lass leeaves craven, o. a gooid kursmiss day. it wor kursmiss day,--we wor ready for fun, th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done; th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin, an th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in. th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas, an th' lasses,--they each luckt as sweet as a rooas; an th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob, an th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob, an aw sed, "nah, old lass, tho we havn't mich brass, we shall celebrate kursmiss to-day." th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock, yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock, but we winkt one at tother as mich as to say, they mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay. then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside, an they couldn't ha made mich moor din if they'd tried, for they skriked an they giggled an shaated like mad, an th' wife sed, "they're happy," an aw sed, "awm glad, an be thankful old lass, tho we havn't mich brass, we shall celebrate kursmiss to-day." when twelve o'clock struck, th' wife says "aw'll prepare, an ov ivvery gooid thing they shall all have a share; but aw think some o'th' lasses should help me for once," an aw answered, "ov coorse,--they'll be glad ov a chonce." soa aw went to call em, but nivver a sign could aw find o' them strackle-brained childer o' mine; an when th' wife went ith' cellar for th' puddin an th' beef, an saw th' oppen winder, it filled her wi grief, an shoo sed, "nay old lad, this is rayther too bad, we can't celebrate kursmiss to-day," aw went huntin raand, an ith' weshus aw faand, some bits o' cold puddin, beef, spicecake an cheese; then aw heard a big shaat, an when aw lukt agivt, them taistrels wor laffin as hard as yo pleeas. aw felt rayther mad,--but ov coorse awm ther dad, an as it wor kursmiss aw tuk it as fun; but what made me capt, wor th' ale worn't tapt, soa mi old wife an me stuck to that wol 'twor done. an aw railly did feel we enjoyed ussen weel, an we had a gooid kursmiss that day. mi love's come back. let us have a jolly spree, an wi' joy an harmonie, let the merry moments flee, for mi love's come back. o, the days did slowly pass, when awd lost mi little lass, but nah we'll have a glass, for mi love's come back. o, shoo left me in a hig, an shoo didn't care a fig, but nah aw'll donce a jig, for mi love's come back, an aw know though far away, 'at her heart ne'er went astray, an awst ivver bless the day, for mi love's come back. when shoo axt me yesterneet, what made mi een soa breet? aw says, "why cant ta see'ts 'coss mi love's come back," then aw gave her sich a kiss, an shoo tuk it nooan amiss;-an awm feeard awst brust wi bliss, for mi love's come back. nah, awm gooin to buy a ring, an a creddle an a swing, ther's noa tellin what may spring, nah, mi love's come back; o, aw nivver thowt befooar, 'at sich joy could be i' stooar, but nah aw'll grieve noa moor, for mi love's come back. a wife. who is it, when one starts for th' day a cheerin word is apt to say, at sends yo leeter on yor way? a wife. an who, when th' wark is done at neet, sits harknin for yor clogs i'th' street, an sets warm slippers for yor feet? a wife. an who, when yo goa weary in, bids th' childer mak a little din, an smiles throo th' top o'th' heead to th' chin? a wife. an who, when troubled, vext an tried, comes creepin softly to yor side, an soothes a grief 'at's hard to bide? a wife. an when yor ommost driven mad, who quiets yo daan, an calls yo "lad," an shows yo things are nooan soa bad? a wife. who nivver once forgets that day, when yo've to draw yor bit o' pay, but comes to meet yo hawf o'th' way? a wife. who is it, when yo hooamward crawl, taks all yo have, an thinks it small; twice caants it, an says, "is this all?" a wife. all tawk. some tawk becoss they think they're born wi' sich a lot o' wit; some seem to tawk to let fowk know they're born withaat a bit. some tawk i' hooaps 'at what they say may help ther fellow men; but th' inooast 'at tawk just tawk becoss they like to hear thersen. aw can't tell. aw nivver rammel mich abaat, aw've summat else to do; but yet aw think, withaat a daat, aw've seen a thing or two. one needn't leeav his native shoor, an visit foreign lands,-at hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moor nor what he understands. aw can't tell why a empty heead should be held up soa heigh, or why a suit o' clooas should leead soa monny fowk astray. aw can't tell why a child 'at's born to lord or lady that, should be soa worship'd, wol they scorn a poor man's little brat. aw can't tell why a workin man should wear his life away, wol maisters grasp at all they can, an grudge a chap his pay. aw can't tell why a lot o' things are as they seem to be; but if its nowt to nubdy else, ov coorse its nowt to me. happen thine. then its o! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know! who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow, who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise, an who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways. shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam, shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come; shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may, shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way. at morn when her husband sets off to his wark, shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark; an at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back, an if worried forgets all his cares in a crack. if onny naybor is sick or distressed, shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best; an if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace, they fly straight to her and they tell her ther case. shoo harkens--an then in a motherly tone sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own; shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way, to return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray. soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight, yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight. shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,-shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born. shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had, for her principal joy is to see others glad; shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own, has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan. if failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,-shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;-to know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;-if shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad. contrasts. if yo've a fancy for a spree, goa up to lundun, same as me, yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see, to pleeas yo weel. if seem isn't quite enuff, yo needn't tew an waste yor puff, to find some awkard sooarts o' stuff at yo can feel. yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe on some poleeceman's tender toa,-a varry simple thing to do,- an wi a crack enuff to mak a deead man jump, daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump, an then he'll fling yo wi a bump, flat o' yor back. if signs o' riches suit yo best, yer een can easily be blest; or if yo seek for fowk distrest, they're easy fun, wi faces ommost worn to nowt, an clooas at arn't worth a thowt, yet show ha long wi want they've fowt, till fairly done. like a big ball it rolls along, a nivver ending, changing throng, mixt up together, waik an strong,- an gooid an bad. virtues an vices side bi side,-poverty slinkin after pride,-wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide, some gay, some sad. it ommost maks one have a daat, (to see some strut, some crawl abaat, one in a robe, one in a claat,) if all's just square. it may be better soa to be, but to a simpleton like me, it's hard to mak sich things agree; it isn't fair. to mally. its long sin th' parson made us one, an yet it seems to me, as we've gooan thrustin, toilin on, time's made noa change i' thee. tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,- tha's nivver stopt it yet; an aw expect tha'll growl away th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get. growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind! it nivver troubles me; aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,- ther's lots 'at's war nor thee. an if tha's but a hooamly face, framed in a white starched cap, ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,- ther's nooan aw'd like to swap. soa aw'll contented jog along,- it's th' wisest thing to do; aw've seldom need to use im tongue, tha tawks enuff for two. tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed, an finds me clooas to don; an if to-day aw worn't wed, aw'd say to thee,--"come on." th' state o' th' poll. a nop tickle illusion. sal sanguine wor a bonny lass, ov that yo may be sewer; shoo had her trubbles tho', alas! an th' biggest wor her yure. noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart, but oft shoo'd heeard it sed, they thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart, it wor soa varry red. young fowk we know are seldom wise,- experience taiches wit;-some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes is net as black as jet. wol others seem quite in a stew, an can't tell whear to bide, 'coss they've black een asteead o' blue,- an twenty things beside. aw'm foorced to own sal sanguine's nop, it had a ruddy cast; an once shoo heeard a silly fop, say as he hurried past-"there goes the girl i'd like to wed,- 'twould grant my heart's desire; in spring pull carrots from her head,- in winter 'twould save fire." her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,- shoo made a fearful vow, to have to some fresh color turned that yure upon her brow. shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop, an dyed all sooarts o' things; an off shoo went withaat a stop, as if shoo'd flown wi' wings. shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale, an tears stood in her ee; "why, sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail if axt, to dye for thee. what color could ta like it done? aw'll pleeas thi if aw can; we'st ha some bother aw'll be bun, but aw think aw know a plan." "why mak it black, lad, if tha can; black's sewer to suit me best; aw dooant care if its black an tan,- mi life's been sich a pest. for tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't, ther's lots noa better bred, curl up ther nooas an cut me straight, becoss mi yure's soa red." "come on ageean to-morn at neet, aw'll have all ready, lass; an if aw connot do it reight aw'll ax thi for noa brass." soa sally skuttered hooam agean, an into bed shoo popt, her fowk wor capt what it could meean, for thear th' next day shoo stopt, when th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd, an off shoo went to th' place; shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd, or one i' dire disgrace. "come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah, it's stewin here i'th' pan; aw'll dip thi heead,--hold,--steady nah! just bide it if tha can." poor sally skriked wi' all her might, but as all th' doors wor shut, he nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet, it weant do baght its wut. to leearn mi trade, for twenty year, throo morn to neet aw've toiled, an know at nawther hanks nor heeads, are weel dyed unless boiled. but as tha'rt varry tender, an aw've takken th' job i' hand, aw'll try it rayther cooiler,- but then, th' color might'nt stand." an for a while he swilled an slopt, wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd; an when he wrung it aght an stopt, he varry near wor floored. for wol thrang workin wi' her yure, he'd been soa taen wi' th' case, he'd nivver gein a thowt befooar, abaat her neck an face. but nah he saw his sad mistak, yet net a word he sed; her skin wor all a deep blue black, her yure, a dark braan red. he gate her hooam sooin as he could, shoo slyly slipt up stairs; an chuckled to think ha shoo should tak all th' fowk unawares. shoo slept that neet just like a top, next morn shoo rose content, shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop, an then daan stairs shoo went. all th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,- th' old fowk they stared like mad;-"nay, sally! has ta lost thi wits? or has ta seen th' old lad?" shoo smil'd an sed, "well, what's to do?" "gooid gracious! whear's ta been? thi face has turned a breet sky blue, thi yure's a bottle green!" shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see, an then her heart stood still; "that villan sed 'he'd dee for me,' aw'll swing for him, aw will!" an then shoo set her daan o'th flooar, as if her heart wod braik; an th' childer gethered raand to rooar, but th' old fowk nivver spaik. i' time her grief grew less, ov course, shoo raased hersen at last; shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse, for th' color still proved fast. they sent a bobby after th' chap, he browt him in a crack; says he, "it's been a slight mishap, aw've made a small mistak. but just to prove aw meant noa ill, mi offer, friends, is this; if shoo'll consent to say 'i will,' aw'll tak her as shoo is. tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed, that's sewer to wear away; aw'd like to own her yure soa red, until time turns it grey." says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks, tha'rt strivin to misleead." "nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks, but tha's fair turned my heead." "aw think yo'd better far agree," sed th' old fowk in a breeath; "will ta ha me?" "will ta ha me?" "an nah we'll stick till deeath." sooin after that th' law made 'em one, an sin that time awm sewer; he ne'er regretted th' job he'd done, nor shoo her ruddy yure. an when fowk ax'd her ha to get sich joy as hers, shoo sed, "if anxious for some gradely wit, just goa an boil thi heead." try a smile. this world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it, yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain; some grummel at times when they might do withaat it, an oft withaat reason complain. a fraan on a face nivver adds to its beauty, then let us forget for a while theas small disappointments, an mak it a duty, to try the effect ov a smile. though the sun may be claaded he'll shine aght agean, if we nobbut have patience an wait, an its sewer to luk breeter for th' shadda ther's been; then let's banish all fooilish consait, if we'd nivver noa sorrow joys on us wod pall, soa awr hearts let us all reconcile to tak things as they come, makkin th' best on 'em all, an cheer up a faint heart wi' a smile. growin old. old age, aw can feel's creepin on, aw've noa taste for what once made me glad; mi love ov wild marlocks is gooan, an aw know awm noa longer a lad. when aw luk back at th' mile stooans aw've pass'd, as aw've thowtlessly stroll'd o'er life's track, awm foorced to acknowledge at last, 'at its mooastly been all a mistak. aw know aw can ne'er start agean, an what's done aw can nivver undo, all aw've gained has been simply to leearn ha mi hooaps, one bi one's fallen throo. when a lad, wi' moor follies nor brains, aw thowt what awd do as a man; an aw caanted mi profits an gains, as a lad full ov hooap only can. an aw thowt when mi beard 'gan to grow, aw could leead all this world in a string, yet it tuk but a few years to show 'at aw couldn't do onny sich thing. but aw tewd an aw fowt neet an day, an detarmined awd nivver give in, hooap still cheered me on wi' her ray, an awd faith 'at i'th' long run awst win. a fortun aw felt wor for me, an joy seem'd i'th' grasp o' mi list; an aw laffd as aw clutched it wi' glee, but someha or other it miss'd. still, aw pluckt up mi courage once moor, an aw struggled wi' might an wi' main, but awd noa better luck nor befooar, an mi harvest wor sorrow an pain. an nah, when mi best days are passed, an mi courage an strength are all spent; aw've to stand o' one side an at last, wi' mi failures an falls rest content, in this world some pleasures to win, aw've been trubbled an tried an perplext, an aw've thowtlessly rushed into sin, an ne'er cared for a treasure i'th' next. as mi limbs get moor feeble an waik, an aw know sooin mi race will be run; mi heart ommost feels fit to braik, when aw think what aw've left all undone. nah, aw've nobbut th' fag end o' mi days to prepare for a world withaat end; soa its time aw wor changin mi ways. for ther's noa time like the present to mend gooid bye, old lad. ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend, mi own is all aw ha to gie thi; let friendship simmer on to th' end;- god bless thi! i an gooid luck be wi' thi! aw prize thee just for what tha art;- net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station; but just becoss aw know thi heart, finds honest worth an habitation. ther's monny a suit ov glossy black, worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it: wol monny a true, kind heart may rack, lapt in a tattered fushten jacket. ther's monny a smilin simperin knave, wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,' 'at wodn't gie a meg to save a luckless mate, or ease his sorrow. praichers an taichers seem to swarm, but sad to tell,--th' plain honest fact is, they'd rayther bid yo shun all harm, nor put ther taichin into practice. but thee,--aw read thee like a book,- aw judge thi booath bi word an action; an th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look, an th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction. soa once agean, gooid bye, old lad! an till we meet agean, god bless thi! may smilin fortun mak thi glad, an may noa ills o' life distress thi. that drabbled brat. goa hooam,--tha little drabbled brat, tha'll get thi deeath o' cold; whear does ta live? just tell me that, befooar aw start to scold. thart sypin weet,--dooant come near me! tha luks hawf pined to deeath; an what a cough tha has! dear me! it ommost taks thi breeath. them een's too big for thy wee face,- thi curls are sad neglected; poor child! thine seems a woeful case, noa wonder tha'rt dejected. nah, can't ta tell me who tha art? tha needn't think aw'll harm thi; here, tak this sixpence for a start, an find some place to warm thi. tha connot spaik;--thi een poor thing, are filled wi' tears already; tha connot even start to sing, thi voice is soa unsteady. it isn't long tha'll ha to rooam, an sing thi simple ditty; tha doesn't seem to be at hooam, i' this big bustlin city. it's hard to tell what's best to be when seets are soa distressin; for to sich helpless bairns as thee, deeath seems to be a blessin. some hear thi voice an pass thi by, an feel noa touch o' sorrow; an, maybe, them at heave a sigh, laff it away to-morrow. for tha may sing, or sigh, or cry; nay,--tha may dee if needs be; an th' busy craads 'at hurries by, streeams on an nivver heeds thee. but ther is one, hears ivvery grooan, we needn't to remind him; an he'll net leeav thi all alooan; god give thee grace to find him! an may be send his angels daan, thi feet throo dangers guidin; until he sets thee in his craan,- a gem, in light abidin. song for th' hard times, (1879.) nah chaps, pray dooant think it's a sarmon awm praichin, if aw tell yo some nooations at's entered mi pate; for ther's nubdy should turn a cold shoulder to taichin, if th' moral be whoalsum an th' matter be reight. we're goin throo a time o' bad trade an depression, an scoors o' poor crayturs we meet ivvery day, 'at show bi ther faces they've had a hard lesson:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. aw couldn't but think as throo th' streets aw wor walkin, an lukt i' shop winders whear fin'ry's displayed, if they're able to sell it we're fooils to keep tawkin, an liggin all th' blame on this slackness o' trade. tho times may be hard, yet ther's wealth, aye, an plenty, an if fowk do ther duty aw'll venter to say, ther's noa reason a honest man's plate should be empty:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. when it's freezin an snowin, an cold winds are blowin, aw see childer hawf covered wi two or three rags; as they huddle together to shelter throo th' weather, an think thersen lucky to find some dry flags; wol others i' carriages, gay wi fine paintin, lapt up i' warm furs, they goa dashin away; do they think o' them poor little childer at's faintin?- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. all honor to them who have proved thersen willin, to help the unfortunate ones from their stooar; an if freely bestowed, be it pence, pound, or shillin, they shall nivver regret what they've given to th' poor. an if we all do what we can for our naybor, we shall sooin drive this bitter starvation away; till th' time when gooid wages reward honest labor:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. but theas trubbles an trials may yet prove a blessin, if when th' sun shines agean we all strive to mak hay; an be careful to waste nowt o' drinkin an dressin, but aght ov fair wages put summat away. when adversity's claad agean hangs o'er the nation, we can wait for th' return ov prosperity's ray; an noa mooar find awr land i' this sad situation:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. an ther's one matter mooar, at aw cannot but mention, for it points aght a moral at shouldn't be missed; can't yo see ha they use ivvery aid an invention, to grind daan yor wage when yo cannot resist. if yo strike, they dooant care, for yor foorced to knock under, yor net able to live if they stop off yer pay; will it bring workin men to ther senses aw wonder?- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. some are lukkin for help from this chap or tother, an pinnin ther faith on pet parliament men; but to feight ther own battles finds them lots o' bother, an if help's what yo want yo mun luk to yorsen. if we're blessed wi gooid health, an have brains, booans, an muscle, an keep a brave heart, we shall yet win the fray; an be wiser an stronger for havin this tussle:- that's a nooation held then, an it holds to this day. stir thi lass! come lassie be stirrin, for th' lark's up ith' lift, an th' dew drops are hastin away; an th' mist oth' hillside is beginnin to shift, an th' flaars have all wakkened for th' day. tha promised to meet me beside this thorn tree, an darlin, thi sweet face awm langing to see; when tha arn't here ther's noa beauty for me; soa stir thi lass, stir thi, or else awst come for thi, for tha knows what tha tell'd me last neet tha wod be. come lassie be stirrin, awm here all alooan; tha'rt sewerly net slumb'rin still; th' lark's finished his tune an th' dewdrops have gooan, an th' mist's rolled away ovver th' hill. net a wink have aw slept sin aw left thee last neet, lukkin forrad to th' time when tha sed we should meet; but it's past, an mi sweetheart is still aght oth' seet; but its cappin, lass, cappin, 'at tha should be nappin, when tha knows what tha promised at th' end o' awr street. awm weary o' waitin, aw'll off to mi wark, awst be bated a quarter,--that's flat;-if tha's nobbut been fooilin me just for a lark, tha may find thi mistak when to lat. aw wanted to mak thi mi wife, for aw thowt, tha'd prove thisen just sich a mate as aw sowt; but it seems tha'rt a false-hearted, young gooid-for-nowt! but aw see thi, lass, see thi! god bless thi! forgie me! for tha'rt truer an fairer an dearer nor owt. tother day. as awm sittin enjoyin mi pipe, an tooastin mi shins beside th' hob, aw find ther's a harvest quite ripe, o' thowts stoored away i' mi nob. an aw see things as plainly to-neet, 'at long years ago vanished away,-as if they'd but just left mi seet, tother day. aw remember mi pranks when at schooil, when mischievous tricks kept me soa thrang; an mi maister declared me a fooil,- an maybe, he wor net soa far wrang. ha mi lessons awd skip throo, or miss, to give me mooar chonces for play; an aw fancy aw went throo all this, tother day. aw remember mi coortin days too,- what a felly aw fancied misen; an aw swore at mi sweetheart wor true,- for mi faith knew noa falterin then. aw remember ha jealous an mad, aw felt, when shoo turned me away, an left a poor heartbrokken lad, tother day. aw remember when hung o' mi arm, to th' church went mi blushin' young bride; ha aw glooated o'er ivvery charm, an swell'd like a frog i' mi pride. an th' world seem'd a fooitball to me, to kick when inclined for a play; an life wor a jolly gooid spree,- tother day. aw remember mi day dreeams o' fame, an aw reckoned what wealth aw should win but alas! aw confess to mi shame,- aw leeav offwhear aw thowt to begin, mi chief joy is to dreeam o' what's pass'd, for mi future, one hope sheds its ray, an awm driftin along varry fast, to that day. happy sam's song. varry monny years ago, when this world wor rather young, a varry wicked sarpent, wi' a varry oily tongue, whispered summat varry nowty into mistress adam's ear; an shoo pluckt a little apple 'at soa temptingly hung near. then shoo ait this dainty fruit shoo'd been tell'd shoo mudn't touch, an shoo gave some to her husband, but it wornt varry much:-but sin that fatal day, he wor tell'd, soa it wor sed, 'at henceforth wi' a sweeaty broo, he'd have to earn his breead. an all awr lords an princes, an ladies great an grand, have all sprung off that common stock a laborer i' the land; soa aw think ther airs an graces are little but a sham, an aw wodn't change 'em places wi' hardworkin, happy sam. awm contented wi' mi share, rough an ready tho' mi fare, an aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor; if yo wonder who aw am, well,--mi name is happy sam; awm a member ov the multitude who labor. when aw've worked throo morn to neet for a varry little brass, yet a smilin welcome greets me from mi buxom, bonny lass; an two tiny little toddles come to meet me at mi door, an they think noa less ov daddy's kiss becoss that daddy's poor; an as aw sit to smook mi pipe, mi treasures on mi knee; aw think ther's net a man alive 'at's hawf as rich as me; aw wodn't change mi station wi' a king upon his throne, for ivvery joy araand me, honest labor's made mi own. an we owe noa man a penny 'at we're net prepared to pay, an we're tryin hard to save a bit agean a rainy day. soa aw cry a fig for care! awm contented as aw am,-an bless the fate 'at made me plain, hardworkin, happy sam. awm contented wi' mi share, rough an ready tho' mi fare, an aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor; if yo wonder who aw am, well, mi name is happy sam, awm a member ov the multitude who labor. gradely weel off. draw thi cheer nigher th' foir, put th' knittin away, put thi tooas up o'th' fender to warm: we've booath wrought enuff, aw should think, for a day, an a rest willn't do us mich harm. awr lot's been a rough en, an tho' we've grown old, we shall have to toil on to its end; an altho' we can booast nawther silver nor gold, yet we ne'er stood i'th' want ov a friend. soa cheer up, old lass, altho' we've grown grey, an we havn't mich brass, still awr hearts can be gay: for we've health an contentment an soa we can say, 'at we're gradely weel off after all. as aw coom ovver th' moor, a fine carriage went by, an th' young squire wor sittin inside; an wol makkin mi manners aw smothered a sigh, as for th' furst time aw saw his young bride. shoo wor white as a sheet, an soa sickly an sad, wol aw could'nt but pity his lot; thinks aw, old an grey, yet awm richer to-day, for aw've health an content i' mi cot. soa cheer up, old lass, &c. gie me th' pipe off o'th' hob, an aw'll tak an odd whiff, for aw raillee feel thankful to-neet; an altho' mi booans wark, an mi joints are all stiff, yet awm able to keep mi heart leet. if we've had a fair share ov th' world's trubble an care, we mun nivver forget i' times past, ther wor allus one friend, his help ready to lend, an he'll nivver forsake us at last. soa cheer up, old lass, &c. tho' we've noa pew at th' church, an we sit whear we can, an th' sarmon we dooant understand; an th' sarvice is all ov a new fangled plan, an th' mewsic's suppooased to be grand,-we can lift up awr hearts when we come hooam at neet, as we sing th' old psalms ovver agean; an tho' old crackt voices dooant saand varry sweet, he knows varry weel what we mean. soa cheer up, old lass, altho' we've grown grey, an we havn't mich brass, still awr hearts can be gay; for we've health an contentment, an soa we can say, 'at we're gradely weel off after all. is it reight? awm noa radical, liberal nor toory, awm a plain spokken, hard-workin man; aw cooart nawther fame, wealth nor glory, but try to do th' best 'at aw can. but when them who hold lofty positions, are unmindful of all but thersen,-an aw know under what hard conditions, thaasands struggle to prove thersen men, it sets me a thinkin an thinkin, ther's summat 'at wants setting reight; an wol th' wealthy all seem to be winkin, leeavin poor fowk to wonder an wait,-is it cappin to find one's hooap sickens? or at workers should join in a strike? when they see at distress daily thickens, till despairin turns into dislike? is it strange they should feel discontented, an repine at ther comfortless lot, when they see lux'ry rife in the mansion, an starvation at th' door ov the cot? is it reight 'at theas hard-handed workers should wear aght ther life day bi day, an find 'at th' reward for ther labors is ten per cent knockt off ther pay? but we're tell'd 'at we owt to be thankful if we've plenty to ait an to drink; an its sinful to question one's betters,- we wor sent here to work, net to think. then lets try to appear quite contented, for this maathful o' summat to ait; its for what us poor fowk wor invented,- but awm blowed if aw think at its reight. a yorksher bite. bless all them bonny lasses, i' yorksher born an bred! ther beauty nooan surpasses, complete i'th' heart an th' heead. an th' lads,--tho aw've seen monny lands, ther equal aw ne'er met; for honest hearts an willin hands, they nivver can be bet. aw nivver hold mi heead soa heigh, or feel sich true delight, as when fowk point me aght an say, "thear gooas a yorksher bite." lily's gooan. "well, robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; thi een luk as red as a sun-aw saw that across th' width of a street; aw hope 'at yor lily's noa war-surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead? tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar-what means ta bi shakin thi heead? well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e at shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, when youngens like her hap ta dee, they miss troubles as some live to hit. tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, but give over freatin, becoss it's for th' best if shoo's been taen away." "a'a! daniel, it's easy for thee to talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; but its ommost deeath-blow to me, shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; an' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, mi feelins noa mortal can tell; mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, an' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel. aw shall think on it wor aw to live to be th' age o' methusla or moor; tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, we should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: an' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; but shoo could'nt for th' life goa away till they call'd for her daddy an' all. an' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; an' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, an' listened to all 'at shoo's said; shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, when shoo's been ov a sundy to th' schooil, an ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill an' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, an whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; aw'm gooin to a happier land; an' aw'll tell jesus when aw get thear, 'at aw've left yo here waitin his call; an' he'll find yo a place, niver fear, for ther's room up i' heaven for all.' an' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, an' aw find at aw hardly can see.-gooid bye!--kiss yor lily agean,-let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast! aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; then lily shoo went to her rest." what aw want. gie me a little humble cot, a bit o' garden graand, set in some quiet an' sheltered spot, wi' hills an' trees all raand; an' if besides mi hooam ther flows a little mumuring rill, at sings sweet music as it gooas, awst like it better still. gie me a wife 'at loves me weel, an' childer two or three, wi' health to sweeten ivery meal, an' hearts brimful o' glee. gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil mi efforts to engage, gie me a maister who can smile when forkin aght mi wage. gie me a friend 'at aw can trust, 'an tell mi secrets to; one tender-hearted, firm an' just, who sticks to what is true. gie me a pipe to smook at neet, a pint o' hooam-brew'd ale, a faithful dog 'at runs to meet me wi a waggin tail. a cat to purr o'th' fender rims, to freeten th' mice away; a cosy bed to rest mi limbs throo neet to commin day. gie me all this, an' aw shall be content, withaat a daat, but if denied, then let me be content to live withaat. for 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess can purchase pleasures true; for he's th' best chonce o' happiness, whose wants are small an' few. latter wit. awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat, wheear last aw set wi' thee; it seems long years sin' last we met, awm sure it must be three. awm wond'rin what aw sed or did, or what aw left undone: 'at made thi hook it, an' get wed, to one tha used to shun. aw dooant say awm a handsom chap, becoss aw know awm net; but if aw wor 'ith' mind to change, he isn't th' chap, aw'll bet. awm net a scoller, but aw know a long chawk moor ner him; it couldn't be his knowledge box 'at made thi change thi whim. he doesn't haddle as mich brass as aw do ivery wick: an' if he gets a gradely shop, it's seldom he can stick. an' then agean,--he goes on th' rant; nah, that aw niver do;-aw allus mark misen content, wi' an odd pint or two. his brother is a lazy lout,- his sister's nooan too gooid,-ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,- vice seems to run ith' blooid. an yet th'art happy,--soa they say, that caps me moor ner owt! tha taks a deal less suitin, lass, nor iver awst ha' thowt. aw saw yo walkin aat one neet, befoor yo'd getten wed; aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho aw dooant know what he sed. but he'd his arm araand thi waist, an tho' thi face wor hid, aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:- that's what aw niver did. aw thowt tha'd order him away, an' mak a fearful row, but tha niver tuk noa nooatice, just as if tha didn't know. awm hawf inclined to think sometimes, aw've been a trifle soft, aw happen should a' dun't misen? aw've lang'd to do it oft. thar't lost to me, but if a chonce should turn up by-an-by, if aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits, that isn't t'reason why. a millionaire. aw wodn't gie a penny piece to be a millionaire, for him 'at's little cattle, is the chap wi' little care. jewels may flash o'er achin broos, an silken robes may hide bosoms all fair to look upon, whear braikin hearts abide. gie me enuff for daily needs, an just a bit to spend; enuff to pay mi honest way, an help a strugglin friend. aw'll be contented it aw keep the wolf from off mi door; aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass, an nivver dream awm poor. dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn are diamons for me. an jewels glint i' ivvery tint, on th' hill or daan i'th' lea. my sweet musicianers are burds at tune their joyous lay, araand mi cottage winder, an nivver strike for pay. aw lang for noa fine carriages to drag me raand about! shanks galloway my purpose fits far better, beyond daat. an when at times aw weary grow, an fain wod have a rest; aw toddle hooam an goa to bed,- that allus answers best. "insomnia;" ne'er bothers me,- it's tother way abaght; aw sleep throo tummelin into bed, wol th' time to tummel aght. aw nivver want a "pick-me-up," to tempt mi appetite; aw ait what's set anent me, an aw relish ivvery bite. what pleasure has a millionaire 'at aw've net one to match? awd show 'em awm best off o'th' two, if they'd come up to th' scratch. ov one thing aw feel sartin sewer, they've mooar nor me to bear; yo bet! its net all "lavender," to be a millionaire. mi fayther's pipe. aw've a treasure yo'd laff if yo saw, but its mem'ries are dear to mi heart; for aw've oft seen it stuck in a jaw, whear it seem'd to form ommost a part. its net worth a hawpny, aw know, but its given mooar pleasure maybe, nor some things at mak far mooar show, an yo can't guess its vally to me. mi fayther wor fond ov his pipe, an this wor his favorite clay; an if mi ideas wor ripe, awd enshrine it ith' folds ov a lay; but words allus fail to express what aw think when aw see its old face; for aw know th' world holds one friend the less, an mi hearth has one mooar vacant place. ov trubbles his life had its share, but he kept all his griefs to hissen; tho aw've oft seen his brow knit wi care, wol he tried to crack jooaks nah an then. but one comfort he'd ivver i' stooar, an he'd creep to his favorite nook, an seizin his old pipe once mooar, all his trubbles would vanish i' smook. if his fare should be roughish or scant, he nivver repined at his lot; he seem'd to have all he could want, if he knew he'd some bacca ith' pot. an he'd fill up this little black clay, an as th' reek curled away o'er his heead, ivvery trace ov his sorrow gave way, an a smile used to dwell thear asteead. he grew waiker as years rolled along, an his e'eseet an hearin gave way; an his limbs at had once been soa strong, grew shakier day after day. yet his heart nivver seem'd to grow old, tho life's harvest had long been past ripe for his ailments wor allus consoled, when he'd getten a whiff ov his pipe, aw'll keep it as long as aw can, for its all aw've been able to save, to bind mi heart still to th' old man, at's moulderin away in his grave. he'd noa strikin virtues to booast, noa vices for th' world to condemn; to be upright an honest an just, in his lifetime he ne'er forgate them, as a fayther, kind, patient and true, his mem'ry will allus be dear; for he acted soa far as he knew, for th' best to all th' fowk he coom near. an aw ne'er see this blackened old clay, but aw find mi een dimmed wi a tear; an aw ne'er put th' old relic away but aw wish mi old fayther wor here. let th' lasses alooan! what a lot ov advice ther is wasted;- what praichin is all thrown away;-young fowk lang for pleasures untasted, an its little they'll heed what yo say. old fowk may have wisdom i' plenty, but they're apt to forget just one thing; what suits sixty will hardly fit twenty, an youth ivver will have its fling. __________ old jenny sat silently freeatin,- sed alec, "pray lass, what's to do?" but his old wife went on wi her knittin, as if shoo'd a task to get throo. then shoo tuk off her specs, and sed sadly, "awm capt ha blind some fowk can be; ther's reason for me lukkin badly, but nowt maks a difference to thee." ther's awr reuben, he's hardly turned twenty, an awr jim isn't nineteen wol may;-aw provide for em gooid things i plenty, an ne'er a wrang word to em say; but they've noa sooiner swoller'd ther drinkin, nor they're don'd, an away off they've gooan, an awm feared,--for aw connot help thinkin, at they dunnot let th' lasses alooan. ther's that forrad young hussy, sal sankey, awm thankful shoo's noa child o' mine:-when awr reuben's abaat shoo's fair cranky;- an shoo's don'd like some grand lady fine. an reuben's soa soft he can't see it, an aw mud as weel praich to a stooan, he does nowt but grin when aw tell him, to mind, an let th' lasses alooan. awr jim follers reuben's example, he hasn't a morsel o' wit! an yond lass o' braans,--shoo's a sample ov a gigglin, young impitent chit. an he'd cheek to tell me shoo wor bonny,- one like her!!--why, shoo's just skin an booan awd have better nor her if awd onny, but he'd better let th' lasses alooan. "all th' four went to th' meetin last sundy,- aw dursn't think what they'll do next; an ther worrit one on em at mundy could tell what th' chap tuk for his text. tha may laff, like a child at a bubble, but thi laff may yet end in a grooan; for they're sartin to get into trubble, if they dunnot lei th' lasses alooan." "aw connot help laffin, old beauty! tho' aw know at tha meeans to do reight; tha's nivver neglected thi duty, an tha's kept thi lads honest an straight. just think ha ther father behaved when he met thee i'th' days at are gooan; tha knows ha aw beg'd, an aw slaved, then to win th' lass at aw ne'er let alooan." "aw've nivver regretted that mornin, when aw made thi mi bonny young bride, an although we're nah past life's turnin, we still jog along, side bi side. we've shared i' booath pleasures an bothers, an ther's noa reason why we should mooan; an its folly to try to stop others, for lads willn't let th' lasses alooan," a breet prospect. as aw passed wit'orth chapel 'twor just five o'clock, aw'd mi can full o' teah, an a bundle o' jock; an aw thowt th' bit o' bacca aw puffed on mi way wor sweeter nor ivver aw'd known it that day. an th' burds sang soa sweetly, an th' sun shone soa breetly, an th' trees lukt soa green;--it wor th' furst day i' may. aw wor lazy that mornin, an could'nt help thinkin, as aw'd getten booath braikfast, an dinner, an drinkin, an bacca, an matches,--'at just a odd day for a stroll, could'nt braik monny squares onnyway, but it tuk me noa little, to screw up mi mettle, for if th' wife gate to know aw'd a guess what shoo'd say. soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit, its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat; but aw'll have a day aght just bi th' way ov a change, for aw've moped i' yond miln wol aw raylee feel strange: for mi heead's full o'th' whirlin, o'th' twistin an twirlin;-mun aw'm feeard aw'st goa crackt if aw've nivver a change. then aw thowt o' mi wife an mi childer at hooam, an says aw, aw shall loise a day's wage if aw rooam; green fields an wild flaars wor ne'er meant for me, aw mun tew ivvery day wol mi time comes to dee; an then fowk 'll mutter, as aw'm tossed into th' gutter, "it's nobbut a wayver;--oh, fiddle-de-dee!" missin yor way. it wor dark an mi way wor across a wild mooar, an noa signs could aw find ov a track, 'twor a place whear aw nivver had rambled befooar; an aw eearnestly wished misen back. as aw went on an on mooar uneven it grew, an farther mi feet seem'd to stray, when a chap made me start, as he shaated "halloa! maister, yor missin yor way!" wi' his help aw contrived to land safely back hooam, an aw thowt as o'th' hearthstun aw set, what a blessin 'twod be if when other fowk rooam, they should meet sich a friend as aw'd met. an aw sat daan to write just theas words ov advice, soa read 'em young yorksher fowk, pray; an aw'st think for mi trubble aw'm paid a rare price, if aw've saved one throo missin ther way. yo lads 'at's but latly begun to wear hats, an fancy yor varry big men; yo may fancy yor sharps when yor nowt nobbut flats,- be advised an tak care o' yorsen. shun that gin palace door as yo'd shun a wild beast, nivver heed what yor comrades may say, tho' they call yo a fooil, an they mak yo ther jest, stand stedfast,--they're missin ther way. shun them lasses, (god help 'em!) 'at wander throo th' streets, an cut sich a dash an a swell,-who simper an smirk at each chap 'at they meet, flingin baits to drag victims to hell. they may laff, they may shaat, they may join in a dance, they may spooart ther fine clooas an seem gay; but ther's sorrow within,--yo may see at a glance,- poor crayturs! they're missin ther way. luk at yond,--but a child,--what's shoo dooin thear? shoo sewerly is innocent yet? her face isn't brazen,--an see, ther's a tear in her ee an her checks are booath wet, they are tears ov despair, for altho' shoo's soa young, shoo has sunk deep i' sin to obtain fine feathers an trinkets, an nah her heart's wrung wi' remorse, an shoo weeps wi' her pain. but shoo's gooin away,--let us follo an see whear her journey soa hurried can tend; some danger it may be shoo's tryin to flee, or maybe shoo's i' search ov a friend. her hooam, once soa happy, shoo durs'nt goa thear, for shoo's fill'd it wi' sorrow an grief; an shoo turns her een upward, as if wi' a fear, even heaven can give noa relief. nah shoo's takken a turn, an we've lost her,--but hark! what's that cry? it's a cry o' distress! an o'th' bridge we discover when gropin i'th' dark, a crushed bonnet, a mantle an dress. an thear shines the river, soa quiet an still, o'er its bed soa uncertain an deep; can it be? sich a thowt maks one's blooid to run chill,- has that lass gooan for ivver to sleep? alas! soa it is. for shoo's takken a bound, an rashly life's river shoo's crost; an th' wind seems to whisper wi' sorrowful sound, "lost,--lost,--another one lost!" o, lads, an o, lasses! tak warnin i' time, shun theas traps set bi satan, whose bait may seem temptin; beware! they're but first steps to crime, act to-day,--lest to-morrow's too late. heather bells. ye little flowrets, wild an free, yo're welcome, aye as onny! ther's but few seets 'at meet mi ee 'at ivver seem as bonny. th' furst gift 'at lizzie gave to me, wor a bunch o' bloomin heather, shoo pluckt it off o'th' edge o'th' lea, whear we'd been set together. an when shoo put it i' mi hand, a silent tear wor wellin within her ee;--it fell to th' graand, a doleful stooary tellin. "it is a little gift," shoo sed, "an sooin will fade an wither, yet, still, befooar its bloom is shed, we two mun pairt for ivver." i tried to cheer her trubbled mind, wi' tender words endearin; an raand her neck mi arms entwined, but grief her breast wor tearin. "why should mi parents sell for gold, ther dowter's life-long pleasure? noa charm 'at riches can unfold, can match a true love's treasure." "but still, aw mun obey ther will,- it isn't reight to thwart it; but mi heart's love clings to thee still, an nowt but deeath can part it, forgie me if aw cause a pang,- aw'll love thee as a brother,-mi heart is thine, an oh! its wrang, mi hand to give another." "think on me when theas fields grow bare, an cold winds kill the flowers, ov bitterness they have a share; their lot is like to awrs. an if aw'm doomed to pine away, wi' pleasure's cup untasted, just drop a tear aboon the clay, 'at hides a young life wasted." "why should awr lot soa bitter be, theas burds 'at sing together, when storms are commin off they flee, to lands ov sunny wreather? an nah, when trubbles threaten thee what should prevent thee gooin, an linkin on thi fate wi' me, withaat thi parents knowin?" "tha knows my love is soa sincere, noa risk can mak it falter, soa put aside all daat an fear, an goa wi' me to th' altar i' one month's time my wife tha'll be,- or less if tha'll but shorten it." "well then," says lizzy, "aw'll agree, tha'st have me in a fortnit." shoo laft an cried,--aw laft as weel, aw feear'd shoo did'nt meean it; but lizzie proved as true as steel,- her fowk sed nowt ageean it. an who that wealthy chap could be, aw nivver shall detarmin, for if aw ax shoo glints wi' glee. an says, "thee mind thi farmin." an soa aw till mi bit o' graand, an oft when aght together, i'th' cooil o'th' day we saunter raand an pluck a sprig o' heather. soa sweethearts nooat theas simple facts, an trust i' one another; a lass i' love ne'er stops to ax, her fayther or her mother. a lucky dog. tha'rt a rough en;--aye tha art,--an aw'll bet just as ready. tha ne'er lived as a pet, aw can tell. ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead; net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead, like mysel. tha'rt noa beauty;--nivver wor;--nivver will; ther's lots like thee amang men,--but then still, sich is fate; an its fooilish for to be discontent at a thing we've noa paar to prevent. that's true mate. why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell; if tha'rt seekin better luck,--its a sell, as tha'll find; nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet, aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet. nivver mind. here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part,-gently, pincher! tak thi time. here tha art; that's thy share. are ta chooakin? sarve thi reight! tak thi time! why it's wasted, owt 'at's gien thee 'at's prime. aw declare. are ta lukkin for some mooar? tha's a cheek tha mud nivver had a taste for a week, tha'rt soa small; aw've net tasted sin this nooin,--soa tha knows! thi maath watters,--awm a fooil,--but here gooas, tak it all. tha luks hungry even yet,-aw believe tha'd caar thear as long as awd owt to give, but it's done. are ta lost? aw'll tell thi what tha'd best do draand thisen! or let's toss up which o'th' two, just for fun. come, heead or tail? if its heead then its thee, but net furst time,--we'll have two aght o' three,- one to me. nah, it's tail,--one an one,---fairly tost,-if its tail a second time, then aw've lost; two to thee. soa it's sattled, an tha's won;--aw've to dee, but aw think it weant meean mich to thee if aw dull; for if awm poor, life is still sweet to all, deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call, sooin enuff. aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet, aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leet aw expect. if tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog, tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog, recollect. my doctrine. aw wodn't care to live at all, unless aw could be jolly! let sanctimonious skinflints call all recreation folly. aw still believe this world wor made for fowk to have some fun in; an net for everlastin trade, an avarice an cunnin. aw dooant believe a chap should be at th' grinnel stooan for ivver; ther's sewerly sometime for a spree, an better lat nor nivver. it's weel enuff for fowk to praich an praise up self denial; but them 'at's forradest to praich, dooant put it oft to trial. they'd rayther show a thaasand fowk a way, an point 'em to it; nor act as guides an stop ther tawk, an try thersens to do it. aw think this world wor made for me, net me for th' world's enjoyment; an to mak th' best ov all aw see will find me full employment. "my race," they say, "is nearly run, it mightn't last a minnit;" but if ther's pleasure to be fun, yo bet yor booits awm in it. aw wodn't care to live at all, weighed daan wi' melancholy; my doctrine is, goa in for all, 'at helps to mak life jolly. that lass. awm nobbut a poor workin man, an mi wage leeavs me little to spare; but aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can, an tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair. 'at aw live bi hard wark is mi booast, tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean; but th' one thing awm langin for mooast, is that grand yorksher lass 'at aw've seen. they may call me a fooil or a ass, to tawk abaat wantin a wife; but there's nowt like a true hearted lass, to sweeten a workinman's life. an love is a feelin as pure in a peasant as 'tis in a queen, an happy aw could be awm sewer, wi' that grand yorksher lass 'at aw've seen. aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet, an aw think o' nowt else durin th' day; an aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet, but its melted i'th' distance away. at mi lot aw cant help but repine, when aw think ov her bonny black een, for awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine; that grand yorksher lass 'at aw've seen. mi old umberel what matters if some fowk deride, an point wi' a finger o' scorn? th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride, befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born. but aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend, tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen; but aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end, tho' thart nobbut an old umberel. whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day, but for th' old ens they turn into fun? who wor wearm thersen bent an grey, when their days had hardly begun. ther own youth will quickly glide past; if they live they'll ail grow old thersel; an they'll long for a true friend at last, tho' its nobbut an old umberel. tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn, yet thi inside is honest an strong; but thi coverin's tattered an torn, an awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long. but when th' few years 'at's left us have run, an to th' world we have whispered farewells; may they say at my duty wor done, as weel as mi old umberel's what it comes to. young alick gate wed, as all gradely chaps do, an tuk sally for better or war; a daycenter felly ne'er foller'd a ploo,- th' best lad ov his mother's bi far. an shoo wor as nice a young lass as yo'll see in a day's march, aw'll wager mi hat; but yo know unless fowk's dispositions agree, tho' they're bonny,--noa matter for that. they'd better bi hawf have a hump o' ther rig, or be favvor'd as ill as old flew; if ther temper is sweet, chaps 'll net care a fig, tho' his wife may have one ee or two. young sally had nivver been used to a farm, an shoo seem'd to know nowt abaat wark; shoo set wi' her tooas up o'th' fender to warm, readin novels throo mornin to dark. alick saw 'at sich like gooins on wod'nt do, soa one neet when they'd getten to bed, he tell'd her he thowt shoo'd best buckle too, or else we'st be ruined, he sed. says sally, "its cappin to hear thi awm sewer, for tha tell'd me befooar we wor wed, tha'd be happy wi me, an tha wanted nowt mooar if aw nivver stirred aght o' mi bed." "tha sed aw wor bonny, an th' leets o' mi een wor enuff for thi sunshine throo life; an tha tell'd me tha wanted to mak me a queen,- but it seems 'at tha wanted a wife." "aw'm willin to own love's all reight in its way, an aw'm glad aw've discovered soa sooin 'at love withaat labor sooin dwindles away,- for fowk can't live o' billin an cooin." "that's my nooation too,--but aw thowt tha should try, what a wife as a laikon could be; noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry, for aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee." hold up yer heeads. hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men simple rich ens may laff an may scorn; maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen, somdy else lived befooar they wor born. as noble a heart may be fun in a man, who's a poor ragged suit for his best, (an who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,) as yo'll find i' one mich better drest. soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be, i'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle; an the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free, or rob us o'th' wages we haddle! a quiet day. a'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen! to get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way! mine's all off for a trip up to th' glen, an aw've th' haase to misen for a day. if aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean, aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak; what they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn, except to spooart clooas o' ther back. nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once, aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut; an its seldom a chap has a chonce;- whear the dickens has th' matches been put? well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,- it will'nt tak long will'nt that, an as sooin as its gotten burned breet, aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat. aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,- guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp! it does nowt but splutter an smook, an this hue's ov a varry poor stamp. it's lukkin confaandedly black,- its as dismal an dull as mi hat; nah, sal leets a foir in a crack,- aw will give her credit for that. ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,- aw could ait em to ivvery meal; aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,- its some trouble aw know varry weel. th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me! aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet! next time they set off for a spree, they'st net leeav me th' foir to leet. aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah, aw can do wi' some milk an a cake; an fried taties they ne'er seem to me, worth th' bother an stink 'at they make. whear's th' milk? oh, its thear, an aw'm blest, that cat has its heead reight i'th' pot; s'cat! witta! a'a, hang it aw've missed! if aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot! an th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane; it wor fooilish to throw it, that's true; them 'at keep sich like cats are insane, for aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do. aw think aw'il walk aght for a while, but, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt! aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style, an aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt. it doesn't show varry mich thowt, when aw'm left wi' all th' haasewark to do, for fowk to set off an do nowt, net soa mich as to blacken a shoe. it'll be dinner time nah varry sooin,- an ther's beefsteaks i'th' cubbord aw know; but aw can't leet that foir bi nooin, an aw can't ait beefsteak when its raw. aw tell'd sal this morn 'at shoo'd find, a rare appetite up i' that glen; an aw think if aw dooant change mi mind, aw shall manage to find one misen. aw wor fooilish to send 'em away, but they'll ha to do th' best at they can; but aw'st feel reight uneasy all th' day,- wimmen's net fit to goa baght a man. they've noa nooation what prices to pay, an they dooant know th' best places to call; aw'il be bun it'll cost 'em to-day, what wod pay my expences an all. it luks better, aw fancy, beside, when a chap taks his family raand; nah, suppooas they should goa for a ride, an be pitched ovver th' brig an be draand. aw ne'er should feel happy ageean, if owt happen'd when aw wor away; an to leeav 'em i' danger luks meean, just for th' sake o' mi own quiet day. aw could catch th' train at leeavs abaat nooin; e'e, gow! that'll be a gooid trick! an aw'st get a gooid dinner for gooin, an th' foir can goa to old nick. its a pity to miss mi quiet day, but its better to do that 'at's reight; an it matters nowt what fowk may say, but a chap mun ha summat to ait, lass o'th haley hill. o winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow, o sun, an stars an mooin! aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know, an watched yo neet an nooin. but nah, yor paars to charm all flee, altho' yor bonny still, but th' only beauty i' mi e'e, is th' lass o'th haley hill. her een's my stars,--her smile's my sun, her cheeks are rooases bonny; her teeth like pearls all even run, her brow's as fair as onny. her swan-like neck,--her snowy breast,- her hands, soa seldom still; awm fain to own aw love her best,- sweet lass o'th' haley hill. aw axt her i' mi kindest tone, to grant mi heart's desire; a tear upon her eyelid shone,- it set mi heart o' foir. wi' whispers low aw told mi love, shoo'd raised her droopin heead; says shoo, "awm sooary for thi lad, but awm already wed; an if awr isaac finds thee here,- as like enuff he will,-tha'll wish 'at tha wor onnywhear, away throo th' haley hill. ditherum dump. ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump, an he grummel'd throo mornin to neet, on his rig he'd a varry respectable hump, an his nooas end wor ruddy an breet. his een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed, an his clooas he could don at a jump; an th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed, wor mi naybor old ditherum dump. ditherum dump he lived behund th' pump, an he grummel'd throo mornin to neet; an he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect, an blow me, if aw think 'at its reet! yo mun know this old ditherum lived bi hissen, for he nivver had met wi' a wife; an th' lasses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men, for he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life. but he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold, an he called hissen "jolly old trump!" an he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old, still ther's lots wod bi mistress dump." ditherum dump,--jolly old trump! tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet, yet ther's monny a lass wod be fain o' mi brass, for mi guineas are bonny an breet. soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old, wi' noa woman to sweeten his life; till one day a smart lass chonced his winder to pass. an he cried, "that's the wench for my wife!" soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold, an he axt her this question reight plump; "tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old, will ta come an be my mistress dump?" "for mistress dump shall have gold in a lump, if tha'll tak me for better or worse;" soa shoo says, "awm yor lass, if yo'll leeav me yor brass, an aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse." soa ditherum dump an this young lass gate wed, an th' naybors cried, "shame! fie,--for--shame!" but shoo cared net a button for all at they sed, for shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game. then ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed, an he left her as rich as a jew, an shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead, an shoo went into black for him too. nah, mistress dump, soa rooasy an plump, in a carriage gooas ridin up th' street; an th' lasses sin then all luk aght for old men, an they're crazy to wed an old freet. my polly. my polly's varry bonny, her een are black an breet; they shine under her raven locks, like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet. her little cheeks are like a peach, 'at th' sun has woo'd an missed; her lips like cherries, red an sweet, seem moulded to be kissed. her breast is like a drift o' snow, her little waist's soa thin, to clasp it wi' a careless arm wod ommost be a sin. her little hands an tiny feet, wod mak yo think shoo'd been browt up wi' little fairy fowk to be a fairy queen. an when shoo laffs, it saands as if a little crystal spring, wor bubblin up throo silver rocks, screened by an angel's wing. it saands soa sweet, an yet soa low, one feels it forms a part ov what yo love, an yo can hear its echoes in yor heart. it isn't likely aw shall win, an wed soa rich a prize; but ther's noa tellin what strange things man may do, if he tries. love one another. let's love one another, it's better bi far; mak peace wi yor brother--it's better nor war! life's rooad's rough enuff,--let's mak it mooar smooth, let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love. ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim, ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim; ther's want an misfortun,--ther's crime an ther's sin; let's feight 'em wi love,--for love's sarten to win. give yor hand,--a kind hand,--to yor brother i' need, dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed,-nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight, for, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight. dooant set up as judge,--it's a dangerous plan, luk ovver his failins,--he's nobbut a man; suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,' what might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place? fowk praich abaat 'charity,'--'pity the poor,' but turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door;-"indiscriminate charity's hurtful," they say, "we hav'nt got riches to throw em away!" noa! but if that grand book,--th' grandest book ivver writ, (an if ther's a true book aw think at that's it,) says "what yo have done to th' leeast one o' theas yo did unto me;"--reckon that if yo pleeas. awm nooan findin fault,--yet aw cant help but see ha some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee; they grooan "it's a pity;--poverty is a curse!" but they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse. ther's few fowk soa poor, but they could if they wod, do summat for mankind.--do summat for god. it wor jesus commanded 'to love one another,' ther's no man soa lost but can claim thee as brother. then let us each one, do what little we can, to help on to comfort a less lucky man; remember, some day it may fall to thy lot to feel poverty's grip, spite o' all at tha's got. but dooant help another i' hooaps at some day. tha'll get it all back.--nay, a thaasand times nay! be generous an just and wi th' futer ne'er bother;-tha'll nivver regret bein a friend to thi brother. dick an me. two old fogies,--dick an me,-old, an grey as grey can be. a'a,-but monny a jolly spree we have had;-an tha ne'er went back o' me;- bonny lad! all thi life, sin puppy days we've been chums:--tha knows mi ways;-an noa matter what fowk says, on we jog. 'spite what tricks dame fortun plays,- tha'rt my dog. th' world wod seem a dreary spot,-all mi joys wod goa to pot;-looansum be mi little cot, withaat thee; a'a, tha knows awst freeat a lot if tha'd to dee. once on a time we rammeld far o'er hills an dales, an rugged scar; whear fowk, less ventersum, ne'er dar to set ther feet; an nowt wor thear awr peace to mar;- oh, it wor sweet! but nah, old chap, thi limbs are stiff;-tha connot run an climb--but if tha wags thi tail,--why, that's eniff to cheer me yet; an th' fun we've had o'er plain an cliff, awst ne'er forget. if aw, like burns, could sing thi praise; could touch the strings to tune sich lays-tha'd be enshrined for endless days i' deathless song; but fate has will'd it otherways. yet, love is strong. blest be that heart 'at finds i' me what nubdy else could ivver see;-summat to love.--aye! even thee, tha knows its true; we've shared booath wealth an poverty, an meean to do. when fowk wi kindly hearts aglow, say, "poor old fogies," they dooant know 'at all they own is far below thy worth to me; an all the wealth at they could show wod ne'er tempt thee, time's creepin on,--we wait a chonce, when we shall quit life's mazy donee; but, please god! tak us booath at once, old dick an me; when's time to quit,--why--that announce when best suits thee. briggate at setterdy neet. sin leeds wor a city it puts on grand airs, an aw've noa wish to bother wi' others' affairs; 'at they've mich to be praad on aw freely admit, but aw think thier's some things they mud alter a bit. they've raised some fine buildings 'at's worth lookin at,-they're a credit to th' city, thers noa daat o' that; but ther's nowt strikes a stranger soa mich as a seet o'th' craad 'at's i' briggate at setterdy neet. aw've travelled a bit i' booath cities an taans, an aw've oft seen big craads when they've stept aght o' baands;-well,--excitement sometimes will lead fowk astray, when they dooant meean owt wrang, but just rollikin play, but leeds is a licker,--for tumult an din,-for bullies an rowdies an brazzen-faced sin. aw defy yo to find me another sich street,-as disgraceful, as briggate at setterdy neet. poleecemen are standin i' twos an i' threes, but they must be stooan blinnd to what other fowk sees; it must be for ornaments they've been put thear,-it cant be nowt else, for they dooant interfere. young lads who imagine it maks 'em seem men if they hustle an shaat and mak fooils o' thersen. daycent fowk mun leeav th' cawsey for th' middle o'th' street for its th' roughs at own briggate at setterdy neet. an if yo've a heart 'at can feel, it must ache when yo hear ther faal oaths an what coorse jests they make; yet once they wor daycent an wod be soa still, but they've takken th' wrang turnin,--they're gooin daan hill. them lasses, soa bonny, just aght o' ther teens, wi' faces an figures 'at's fit for a queen's. what is it they're dooin? just watch an yo'll see 't, what they're hawkin i' briggate at setterdy neet. they keep sendin praichers to th' heathen an sich, but we've heathen at hooam at require 'em as mich: just luk at that craad at comes troopin along, some yellin aght th' chorus o'th' new comic song; old an young,--men an wimmen,--some bummers, some swells, turned aght o' some dnnkin an singin room hells;-they seek noa dark corners, they glory i'th' leet, this is briggate,--their briggate, at setterdy neet. is it axin too mich ov "the powers that be," for a city's main street from sich curse to be free? shall morality's claims be set all o' one side, sich a market for lewdness an vice to provide? will that day ivver come when a virtuous lass, alone, withaat insult, in safety may pass? its time for a change, an awm langin to see 't,-a respectable briggate at setterdy neet. them well-meeanin parents, at hooam at ther ease, are oft wilfully blind to sich dangers as theas; their sons an their dowters are honest an pure,-that may be,--an pray god it may ivver endure. but ther's noa poor lost craytur, but once on a time, wor as pure as ther own an wod shudder at crime. the devil is layin his snares for ther feet,-an they're swarmin i' briggate at setterdy neet. awr annie. saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een? that's awr annie. shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,' shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen; shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo,-shoo does just what shoo likes to do,-but then shoo's loved,--an knows it too;- that's awr annie. if ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,- that's awr annie. shoo's sharp as onny sheffield blade, shoo puts all others into th' shade. at times shoo'll sing or laff or cry, an nivver give a reason why: sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy; that's awr annie. roamin throo meadows green an sweet, that's awr annie; trippin away wi' fairy feet, noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet; or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars deckin her golden curls wi' flaars; singin like happy burd for haars, that's awr annie. chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit, that's awr annie;-but shoo'li grow steadier in a bit, shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit. but could aw have mi way i' this, aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,-th' same innocent an artless miss, that's awr annie. child ov mi old age, dearest, best! that's awr annie; cloise to mi weary bosom prest, far mooar nor others aw feel blest;-jewels an gold are nowt to me, for when shoo's sittin o' mi knee, ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me, unless it's annie. peter prime's principles. "sup up thi gill, owd peter prime, tha'st have a pint wi' me; it's worth a bob at onny time to have a chat wi' thee. aw like to see thi snowy hair, an cheeks like apples ripe,-come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer, draw up, an leet thi pipe. tho' eighty years have left ther trace, tha'rt hale an hearty yet, an still tha wears a smilin face, as when th' furst day we met. pray tell me th' saycret if tha can what keeps thi heart soa leet, an leeavs thi still a grand owd man, at we're all praad to meet?" "why lad, my saycret's plain to see, an th' system isn't hard; just live a quiet life same as me, an tha'll win th' same reward. be honest i' thi dealins, lad, that keeps a easy mind; shun all thi conscience says is bad, an nivver be unkind. if others laff becoss tha sticks to what tha knows is reight, why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricks prevent thee keepin straight. if blessed wi' health, an strong to work dooant envy them at's rich; if duty calls thi nivver shirk, tha'rt happier far nor sich. contentment's better wealth nor gold, an labor sweetens life,-ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old, like idleness an strife. dooant tawk too mich, but what tha says be sewer it's allus true; an let thi ways be honest ways, an that'll get thi throo. if tha's a wife, pray dooant forget shoo's flesh an blooid like thee; be kind an lovin, an aw'll bet a helpmate true shoo'll be. dooant waste thi brass i' rants an sprees, or maybe when tha'rt old,-wi' body bent an tott'rin knees, tha'll be left aght i'th' cold. luk at th' breet side o' ivverything an varry sooin tha'll see, whear providence has placed thi, is whear tha owt to be. dooant live as if this world wor all, for th' time will come someday, when that grim messenger will call, an tha mun goa away. tha'll nivver need to quake or fear, if tha carries aght this plan, an them tha's left behind shall hear 'thear lies an honest man.'" cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! just a word i' thi ear,- aw hooap we shall net disagree; but aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year, at tha seems a big humbug to me. we know at tha brings us glad tidins ov spring, an for that art entitled to thanks; but tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing, an tha plays some detestable pranks. too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel, tha lives but a poor vagrant life; an thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell, shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife. shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest, an shirks what's her duty to do; noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast, ov this selfish, hard-hearted cuckoo. some other poor burd mun attend to her young, an work hard to find 'em wi' grubs, an all her reward, is to find befooar long at her foster child treeats her wi' snubs. tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind 'at ruffles thi feathers a bit, yo gather together an all i' one mind turn yor tails,--fly away, an forget. ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base, they dooant care what comes or what gooas; if they can just manage to live at ther ease, ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas, cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,- aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to part;-an i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet, tha'rt a humbug!--that's just what tha art. fowk next door. said mistress smith to mistress green, aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit; twelve year i' this same haase we've been, an should be stoppin yet, i'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend if need be twelve year mooar; but all awr comfort's at an end, sin th' fowk moved in next door. yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea, all th' years at aw've been here; an fowk's affairs are nowt to me,- aw nivver interfere. we've had gooid naybors all this while,- all honest fowk tho' poor; but aw can't tolerate sich style as they put on next door. aw dooant know whear they get ther brass, it's little wark they do;-ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lass is gaddin raand th' day throo. they dress as if they owned a mint, throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat, noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint, but aw've nowt to do wi' that. ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat, an sometimes smooks cigars!-an owd clay pipe or sich as that is gooid enuff for awrs. when th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride i' cabs or else i'th' buss; but aw mun walk or caar inside; ov coorse that's nowt to us. aw wonder if they've paid ther rent? awr landlord's same as theirs; if we should chonce to owe a cent, he'll put th' bums in he swears. an th' butcher wodn't strap us mait, noa, net if we'd to pine, aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight, but it's noa affair o' mine. one can't help havin thowts yo know, when one meets sich a case; an nivver sin we lived i'th' row did such like things tak place. wi' business when it isn't mine, aw nivver try to mell, an if they want to cut a shine they're like to pleas thersel. but stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,- an pride will have a fall. aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried, aw wish aw could, that's all! aw dunnot envy 'em a bit, aw'm quite content, tho' poor, but one on us will ha to flit, us or them fowk next door. dad's lad. little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet, runnin raand throo morn to neet; banishin mi mornin's nap,-little bonny, noisy chap,-but aw can't find fault yo see,-for he's dad's lad an he loves me. he loves his mother withaat daat, tho' shoo gies him monny a claat; an he says, "aw'll tell mi dad," which ov coorse maks mother mad; then he snoozles on her knee, for shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me. he's a bother aw'll admit, but he'll alter in a bit; an when older grown, maybe, he'll a comfort prove to me, an mi latter days mak glad, for aw know he's daddy's lad. if he's aght o' sect a minnit, ther's some mischief, an he's in it, when he's done it then he'll flee; an for shelter comes to me. what can aw do but shield my lad? for he's my pet an aw'm his dad. after a day's hard toil an care, sittin in mi rockin chair; nowt mi wearied spirit charms, like him nestlin i' mi arms, an noa music is as sweet, as his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet. willie's weddin. a'a, willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear tha's won a wife at last; tha'll have a happier time next year, nor what tha's had i'th' past. if owt can lend this life a charm, or mak existence sweet, it is a lovin woman's arm curled raand yor neck at neet. an if shoo's net an angel, dooant grummel an find fault, for eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find are seldom worth ther salt. they're far too apt to flee away, to spreead ther bonny wings; they'd nivver think o'th' weshin day nor th' duties wifehood brings. a wife should be a woman, an if tha's lucky been; tha'il find a honest yorksher lass, is equal to a queen. for if her heart is true to thee, an thine to her proves true,-tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies, an tha need nivver rue. tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes, when mooar inclined to sware; but recollect, no precious things bring joy unmixed wi' care. an when her snarlin turns to smiles, an bitterness to bliss, tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles, an mak up wi' a kiss. tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil, an thy superior wit will allus win, an keepin cooil tha'll triumph in a bit. shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee an holds thi in love's tether, well, nivver heed,--they best agree when two fooils mate together. somdy's chonce. what's a poor lass like me to do, 'at langs for a hooam ov her own? aw'm a hale an bonny wench too, an nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown. aw want nawther riches nor style, just a gradely plain felly will do; but aw'm waitin a varry long while an ov sweethearts aw've getten but two. but th' trubble's just this,--let me tell, what aw want an will have if aw can, to share wedded life wi' misel, is a man 'at's worth callin a man. but harry's as stiff as a stoop, an jack, onny lass wod annoy,-harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop, an jack's just a hobble-de-hoy. if caarin at th' hob ov a neet, wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil; aw should order him aght o' mi seet, or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil. his wage,--what it wor,--couldn't bring joy enuff to mak up for life's pains, if aw fan misen teed to a thing, at could work, ait an live, withaat brains. "but ther's love," yo may say,--hi that's it! but aw nivver could love a machine; an aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit, net if he could mak me a queen. aw'd like one booath hansum an strong, an honest, truehearted an kind, but aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along, wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind. soa harry will ha to be seckt, for a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line; as for jack,--he could nivver expect to win sich a true heart as mine. ther's lasses enuff to be had, 'at'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy, they'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad, quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy. aw dooant want to spend all mi life, like a saar, neglected old maid; aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife, nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade. soa if onny young chap wants a mate, tho' he may net be hansum nor rich, if he's getten some sense in his pate, aw'm his chonce.--an he need'nt have mich. to a true friend. here'sa song to mi brave old friend, a friend who has allus been true; his day's drawin near to its end, when he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do. his teeth have quite wasted away, he's grown feeble an blind o' one ee, his hair is all sprinkled wi' gray, but he's just as mich thowt on bi me. when takkin a stroll into th' taan, he's potterin cloise at mi heels; noa matter whearivver aw'm baan, his constancy nivver once keels. his feyts an his frolics are o'er, but his love nivver offers to fail; an altho' some may fancy us poor, they could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail. if th' grub is sometimes rayther rough, an if prospects for better be dark; he nivver turns surly an gruff, or shows discontent in his bark. ther's nubdy can tice him away,- he owns but one maister,--that's me, he seems to know all 'at aw say, an maks th' best ov his lot, what it be. aw've towt him a trick, nah an then, just when it has suited mi whim; but aw'm foorced to admit to misen, at aw've leearned far mooar lessons throo him. he may have noa soul to be saved, an when life ends i' this world he's done; but aw wish aw could say aw'd behaved hawf as weel, when my life's journey's run. yo may call it a fooilish consait,- but to me he's soa faithful an dear, 'at whativver mi futer estate, aw'st feel looansum if dick isn't thear. but if foorced to part, once for all, an his carcase to worms aw mun give, his mem'ry aw oft shall recall, for he nivver can dee wol aw live. warmin pan. that old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face, has hung thear for monny a day; 'twor mi gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place, if we tuk th' owd utensil away. we ne'er use it nah,--but aw recollect th' time, when at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks; an ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine, for they sed it wornt meant for young fowks. when old gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest, an mi mother coom in for all th' lot; an shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest, an shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot. aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff, things willn't goa long on th' old plan; th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff, an mak gam o' mi old warmin pan. but aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet, an aw seem to live ovver once mooar; them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet, an aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar. aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day, an aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit; but aw've this consolation,--aw think aw may say, aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit. it may be soa. this world's made up ov leet an shade, but some things strange aw mark; one class live all on th' sunny side, wol others dwell i'th' dark. wor it intended some should grooap, battlin with th' world o' care, wol others full ov joy an hooap have happiness to spare? it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, opinions should be free;- aw'm nobbut spaikin as a friend,- but it seems that way to me. should one class wear ther lives away, to mak another great; wol all their share will hardly pay, for grub enuff to ait? an is it reight at some should dress i' clooas bedeckt wi' gold, wol others havn't rags enuff, to keep ther limbs throo th' cold? it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c, when gazin at th' fine palaces, whear live the favoured few; aw cant help wonderin sometimes if th' inmates nobbut knew, at th' buildins next to their's i' size are workhaases for th' poor, an if they'd net feel some surprise at th' misery raand ther door? it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c. sometimes aw wonder what chaps think when shiverin wi' th' cold, abaat th' brass at they've spent i' drink, whear th' landlords caant ther gold. they couldn't get a shillin lent, to buy a bit o' breead, whear all ther wages have been spent,- they'd get kickt aght asteead. it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c. aw wonder if they'll leearn some day, at th' best friend they can find, when th' shop's shut daan, an stopt ther pay, is ther own purse snugly lined? aw wonder, will th' time ivver come, when th' darkest day is done, when they can sing of home sweet home. an know they've getten one? it may be soa, aw hooap it will, for then we'st all be free; when ivvery man's his own best friend,- gooid by to poverty. a safe investment. yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest, luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce! aw'll gie yo a tip,--one o'th' best, whear ther's profit an safety for once. yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust, or at onny false 'jabez' will chait,-depend on't its one yo can trust, for th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight. yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar,- but mooast fowk are apt to forget;-yet yo know if yo give to the poor, at yo're gettin the lord i' yor debt. its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face, an its true too,--believe it or net,-it's a bargain god made i' this case, an he'll nivver back aght on't,--yo bet. all th' wealth yo may have can't prevent grim deeath commin to yo some day; an yo'll have to give up ivvery cent, when yor time comes for gooin away. but yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart, an for what yo leeav care net a straw, earth's losses will cause yo noa smart, if i' heaven yo've summat to draw. its useless to pray an to praich,- yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd; put summat to ait i' ther raich, an then lectur em all yo've a mind; ther's poor folk on ivvery hand, yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry;-a wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land, which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye. yo can't expect chaps who have wives, an childer at's clammin i'th' cold, to be patient an quiet all ther lives, when they see others rollin i' gold. when th' workers are beggin for jobs, an th' helpless are starvin to deeath, it's just abaat time some o'th' nobs wor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth. if ther duties they still will neglect, an ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue, they may find when they little expect, 'at they've getten thersen in a stew. yo may trample a worm wol it turns,- an ther's danger i' starvin a rat;-a man's passion inflamed wol it burns, is a danger mooar fearful nor that. but why should ther be sich distress, when ther's plenty for all an to spare? sewerly them at luck's blest can't do less nor to help starvin fowk wi' a share. rich harvests yo'll win from the seed when theas welcome words fall on yor ear,-"what yo did to th' leeast brother i' need, yo did unto me;--come in here." red stockin. shoo wor shoeless, an shiverin, an weet,- her hair flyin tangled an wild: shoo'd just been browt in aght o'th street, wi drink an mud splashes defiled. th' poleece sargent stood waitin to hear what charge agean her wod be made, he'd scant pity for them they browt thear, to be surly wor pairt ov his trade. "what name?" an he put it i'th' book,- an shoo hardly seemed able to stand; as shoo tottered, he happened to luk saw summat claspt in her hand. "what's that? bring it here right away! you can't take that into your cell;" "it's nothing." "is that what you say? let me have it and then i can tell." "nay, nay! yo shall nivver tak this! it's dearer nor life is to me! lock me up, if aw've done owt amiss, but aw'll stick fast to this wol aw dee!" "no nonsense!" he sed wi a frown, an two officers speedily came; shoo seem'd to have soberer grown, but shoo fowt like a fiend, just the same. "is it money or poison?" he sed,- an unfolded it quickly to see; when sum in at fell aght,--soft an red, an it rested across ov his knee. 'twor a wee babby's stockin,--just one, but his hard face grew gentle and mild, as he sed in his kindliest tone, "this stockin was worn by your child?" "yes, sir,--an its all at aw have to remind me ov when aw wor pure, for mi husband an child are i'th' grave;- yo'll net tak it throo me, aw'm sewer!" "no, not for the world would i take your treasure round which love has grown; pray keep it for poor baby's sake;- i once lost a child of my own." and he folded it up wi much care as he lukt at her agonized face;-a face at had once been soa fair, but nah bearin th' stamp ov disgrace. "you seem soberer now,--do you think you could find your way home if you tried?" "oh! yes, sir! god help me! it's drink at has browt me to this, sir," shoo cried. "god help you! be sure that he will; if you seek him, he'll come to your aid; he is longing and waiting there still to receive you;--none need be afraid. the mother whose heart still retains the love for her babe pure and bright, may have err'd, but the hope still remains that she yet will return. now, good night." ---------with his kindly words still in her ears, an that little red sock in her breast; shoo lukt up to heaven through her tears; an her faith, in christ's love did the rest. plain jane. plain jane--plain jane; this wor owd butterworth's favourite strain: for wealth couldn't buy, such pleasur an joy. as he had wi his owd plain jane. ther wor women who oft, maybe, thinkin him soft, who endeavoured to 'tice him away, but tho ther breet een, an ther red cheeks had been quite enuffto lead others astray,- all ther efforts wor lost, for he knew to his cost, 'at th' pleasur they promised browt pain, soa he left em behind, wol he went hooam to find, purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain jane. plain jane,--plain jane,-owd butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain: shoo wor hearty an strong, an could troll aght a song, an trubbles shoo held i' disdain, he'd not sell her squint for all th' brass i'th' mint, nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas; he's no rival to fear, soa he keeps i' gooid cheer, an cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas. cats are all gray at neet, soa when puttin aght th' leet, as he duckt under th' warm caanterpain, he sed, "beauty breeds strife oft between man an wife, but it ne'er trubbles me nor awr jane." plain jane,--plain jane,-to cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain; shoo wod cook, stew or bake, wesh and scaar for his sake, an could doctor his ivvery pain. tho his wage wor but small shoo ne'er grummeld at all, an if th' butter should chonce to run short; her cake shoo'd ait dry, if axt why? shoo'd reply, becoss aw know weel ther's nowt for't. but th' harstun wor cleean, tho th' livin wor meean, an her karacter hadn't a stain; an owd butterworth knows, as his bacca he blows, ther's war wimmen ith' world nor owd jane. cash v. cupid. aw dooat on a lass wi' a bonny face, wi' a twinkle ov fun in her ee;-an aw like a lass 'at's some style an grace, an aw'm fond o' one winnin an shy. an ther's one 'at's a lot o' curly hair, an a temptinly dimpled chin, an one 'at's sedate an cold tho' fair, but shoo wod'nt be easy to win. ther's one 'at's a smile ivvery time we meet, an ther's one 'at seems allus sad; yet ther's sum mat abaat 'em all seems sweet,- just a sum mat aw wish aw had. but somha aw connot mak up mi mind, which one to seek for a wife; an its wise to be careful if love is blind, for a weddin oft lasts for a life. ther's one 'at has nawther beauty nor wit,- just a plain lukkin, sensible lass; but shoo's one thing 'at adds to her vally a bit,- an that is 'at shoo's plenty o' brass. an beauty will fade an een will grow dim, ther's noa lovin care can help that; an th' smartest young woman, tho' stylish an slim, may i' time grow booath clumsy an fat. soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by, for a workin chap must be a crank, 'at sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye, nor in a snug sum in a bank. some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this, an its nowt but her brass 'at aw want, well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss, if they can,--why, they may,--but aw cant. mary's bonnet. have yo seen awr mary's bonnet? it's a stunner,--noa mistak! ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it, an a feather daan her back. yollo ribbons an fine laces, an a cock-a-doodle-doo, an raand her bonny face is a string o' pooasies blue. when shoo went to church last sundy, th' parson could'nt find his text; an fat old mistress grundy sed, "a'a, mary! pray what next!" th' lads wink'd at one another,- th' lasses snikered i' ther glee, an th' whooal o'th' congregation had her bonnet i' ther ee. sooin th' singers started singin, but they braik daan one bi one, for th' hymn wor on "the flowers of fifty summers gone." but when they saw awr mary, they made a mullock on it, for they thowt 'at all them flaars had been put on mary's bonnet. then th' parson sed mooast kindly, "ther wor noa offence intended; but flaar shows wor aght o' place, i'th' church whear saints attended. an if his errin sister wished to find her way to glory; shoo should'nt carry on her heead, a whooal consarvatory." nah, mary is'nt short o' pluck,- shoo jumpt up in a minnit, shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church, an ivverybody in it. "parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare,- nowt in it an nowt on it; suppooas yo put some flaars thear, like theas 'at's in my bonnet." prime october. ther's some fowk like watter, an others like beer; it doesn't mich matter, if ther heead is kept clear. but to guzzle an swill, as if aitin an drinkin wor all a chap lives for, is wrang to my thinkin. ivvery gooid thing i' life should be takken i' reason; even takkin a wife should be done i'th' reight season. tho' i' that case to give advice is noa use, aw should ne'er win fowk's thanks but might get some abuse. but if ther's a fault 'at we owt to luk ovver, it's when a chap's tempted wi' "prime old october." an to cheer up his spirits as nowt else on earth could, he keeps testin its merits, an gets mooar nor he should. ov coorse he'll be blamed if he gets ovver th' mark; an noa daat he'll feel shamed when he's throo wi' his lark. an he'll promise "it nivver shall happen agean," tho' he's feelin all th' time just as dry as a bean. but who can resist, when it sparkles an shines; an his nooas gets a whif at's mooar fragrant nor wines? aw'd forgie a teetotaller at sich times, if he fell;-for aw know ha it is, 'coss aw've been thear mysel. old dave to th' new parson. "soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo? well, awm fain to see yo've come; yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst, but mak yorsen at hooam. aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me, if aw tell what's in mi noddle, remember, if we dooant agree, it's but an old man's twaddle. but aw might happen drop a hint, 'at may start yo to thinkin; awd help yo if aw saw mi way, an do it too, like winkin. awm net mich up o' parsons,- ther's some daycent ens aw know; they're smart enuff at praichin, but at practice they're too slow. for dooin gooid nooan can deny ther chonces are mooast ample; if they'd give us fewer precepts, an rayther moor example. we need a friend to help waik sheep, oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;-ther's a big responsibility rests on a parson's shoulders. but oft ther labor's all in vain, noa matter ha persistent; becoss ther taichin an ther lives are hardly quite consistent. ther's nowt can shake ther faith in god, when bad is growing worse; an nowt abate ther trust, unless it chonce to touch ther purse. they say, "who giveth to the poor, lends to the lord," but yet, they all seem varry anxious, net to get the lord in debt. but wi my fooilish nooations mayhap yo'll net agree,-its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,- but it seems that way to me. if yo hear a clivver sarmon, yor attention it command's, if yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white as what he keeps his hands. ther's too mich love ov worldly ways, an too mich affectation; they work i'th' vinyard a few days, then hint abaat vacation. he has to have a holiday because he's worked soa hard;-well, aw allus think 'at labor is desarvin ov reward. what matters, tho' his little flock a shepherd's care is wantin: old nick may have his run o'th' fold wol he's off galavantin. aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one, yo seem a gradely sooart; but if yo' th' gospel armour don, yo'll find it isn't spooart. dooant sell yor heavenly birthright, for a mess ov worldly pottage: but spend less time i'th' squire's hall an moor i'th' poor man's cottage. point aght the way an walk in it, they'll follow, one bi one, an when yo've gained yor journey's end, yo'll hear them words, "well done." a christian soldier has to be, endurin, bold an brave; strong in his faith he'll sewerly win, as sewer as my name's dave." tom grit. he'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e, an his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be; for each one he met he'd a sally o' wit, for a jovjal soul wor this same tom grit. he climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride, for he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried; but he had noa fear, for he knew he could drive as weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive. soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand, an prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned; but some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave, for they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave. it set off wi' a jerk when tom touched it wi' th' whip, but his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip, an he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait, but it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight. two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on, an ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none; soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin,-then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in. it had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed, an it plunged an reared madly,--an then as if crazed it dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse, woll tom tried his utmost to steady his course. wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tight he strained ivvery muscle,--but saw wi' affright 'at the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd, wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd, "let it goa! let it goa!" they cried aght as it pass'd, an tom felt his strength givin way varry fast; his hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check, but he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck. that jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit, an new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to tom grit, an tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt, th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt. then chaps went to hold it, an help poor tom daan, for tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan; "tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght, thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!" but tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled, "i'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child, an aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan, for he's all th' lad we have. have yo nooan o' yer own?" th' demon o' debt. we read ov a man once possessed ov a devil, an pity his sorrowful case; but at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil, an noa mooar have that trubble to face. but dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger, ther's a trap for yor feet ready set, an if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger, be careful to keep aght o' debt. for debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity, an when once yor fast in his grip, yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty, but he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip. he tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst, an then deeper an deeper yo get, till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst, an yo grooan under th' burden o' debt. then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care, yo wearily wear neet away; an yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair, an yo tremmel at th' commin o' day. yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street, an yo shun friends yo once gladly met, the burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't;- that soul-crushin burden o' debt. tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble, an let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan; tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double, an yo'll hold up yor heead like a man, better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee, till yo're able a new suit to get, nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be, to be dog'd wi' that demon o' debt. th' lad 'at loves his mother. aw like to see a lot o' lads all frolicsome an free, an hear ther noisy voices, as they run an shaat wi' glee; but if ther's onny sooart o' lad aw like better nor another, 'at maks mi heart mooast truly glad, it's th' lad 'at loves his mother. he may be rayther dull at schooil, or rayther slow at play; he may be rough an quarrelsome,- mischievous in his way; he may be allus in a scrape, an cause noa end o' bother; but ther's summat gooid an honest in the lad 'at loves his mother. he may oft do what isn't reight, but conscience will keep prickin; he dreeads far mooar his mother's grief, nor what he'd fear a lickin. her trubbled face,--her tearful een, her sighs shoo tries to smother, are coals ov foir on the heead ov th' lad 'at loves his mother. when years have passed, an as a man he faces toil an care; an whear his mother used to sit is but a empty chair;-when bi his side sits her he loves, mooar dear nor onny other, he still will cherish, love an bless, the mem'ry ov his mother. a guardian angel throo life's rooad, her spirit still will be; an in the shadow ov her wings, he'll find security. a better husband he will prove, a father or a brother; for th' lad 'at maks the noblest man, is th' lad 'at loves his mother. matilda jane. matilda jane wor fat an fair, an nobbut just sixteen; shoo'd ruddy cheeks an reddish hair, an leet blue wor her een. shoo weighed abaat two hundred pund, or may be rayther mooar, shoo had to turn her sideways when shoo went aght o'th' door. shoo fairly dithered as shoo walked, shoo wor as brooad as long; but allus cheerful when shoo tawk'd, an liked to sing a song; an some o'th' songs shoo used to sing, aw weel remember yet; aw thowt it sich a funny thing, shoo pickt soa strange a set, "put me in my little bed," aw knew they couldn't do; for onny bed to put her in, must be big enuff for two. "aw wish aw wor a burd," shoo sang, aw nivver could tell why,-for it wod be a waste o' wings becoss shoo couldn't fly. "i'd choose to be a daisy," aw didn't wonder at, for it must ha made her crazy to hug that looad o' fat. then "flitting like a fairy;"- to hear it gave me pain, for ther wor novvt soa airy abaat matilda jane. last time aw heeard her singin, shoo sang "you'll remember me," an mi arm crept pairtly raand her, as aw held her on mi knee. ther's noa fear aw shall forget her, tho' shoo's ne'er set thear agean, but if shoo will, aw'll let her, for aw like matilda jane. modest jack o' wibsey slack. at wibsey slack lived modest jack, no daat yo knew him weel; his cheeks wor red, his een wor black, his limbs wor strong as steel. his curly hair wor black as jet, his spirits gay an glad, an monny a lass her heart had set on jack the wibsey lad. sal simmons kept a little shop, an bacca seld, an spice, an traitle drink, an ginger pop, an other things as nice. shoo wor a widow, fat an fair, an allus neat an trim; an jack seem'd fairly stuck on her; an shoo wor sweet on him. but other lasses thowt they had a claim on jack's regard; a widow to win sich a lad, they thowt wor very hard; they called her a designin jade, an one an all cried "shame!" but sally kept on wi her trade, an jack went just the same. one neet when commin hooam throo wark, they stopt him on his way, an pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark, to say what they'd to say. they sed they thowt a widow should let lasses have a share, an net get ivvery man shoo could; they didn't think it fair, jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat, his face wor burnin red; his heart wor touched,--noa daat o' that, but this wor what he sed. "awd like to wed yo ivvery one, an but for th' law aw wod, but weel yo know if th' job wor done, they'd put me into quod." "as aw can mak but one mi wife,- sal simmons suits me weel; for aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life, an dooan't know ha awst feel. but if aw wed a widow, an aw fail mi pairt to play; shoo'll varry likely understand, an put me into th' way. work lads! work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor; if able, show willin,--ther's plenty to do, ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre, but if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo. ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin, an waitin for fortun to gie yo a lift; for ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin, an him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift. ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on, if he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife; a chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on, unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife. but nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter, be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat, 'at th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter, an th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat. do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power, but i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view; 'at the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower, an pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do. bonny yorksher. bonny yorksher! how aw love thi! hard an rugged tho' thi face is; ther's an honest air abaat thi, aw ne'er find i' other places. ther's a music i' thi lingo, spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley, as a drop ov yorksher stingo warms an cheers a body's bally. ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter, nor thy modest moorland blossom, th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter nor on thy green mossy bosom. hillsides deckt wi' purple heather, guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin hand i' hand wi' peace, together tales ov sweet contentment tellin. on the scroll ov fame an glory, names ov yorksher heroes glisten; history tells noa grander stooary, an it thrills me as aw listen. young men blest wi' brain an muscle, swarm i' village, taan an city, nah as then prepared to tussle, wi' the brave, the wise, the witty. an thy lasses,--faithful,--peerless,- matchless i' ther bloom an beauty,-modest, lovin, brave an fearless, praad ov hooam an firm to duty. aw've met nooan i' other places can a cannle hold beside 'em; rich i' charms an winnin graces;- aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em. balmy breezes, blow yer mildest! sun an shaars yer blessins shed! thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildest skylarks trill heigh ovverheead! robin redbreast,--little linnet, sing yor little songs wi' glee; till wi' melody each minnit, makin vocal bush an tree. wild flaars don yer breetest dresses, breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale; stately trees wave heigh yer tresses, flingin charms o'er hill an dale. dew fall gently,--an sweet luna, keep thy lovin watch till morn;-all unite to bless an prosper, that dear spot whear aw wor born. sixty an sixteen. we're older nor we used to be, but that's noa reason why we owt to mope i' misery, an whine an grooan an sigh. we've had awr shares o' ups an daans, i' this world's whirligig; an for its favors or its fraans we needn't care a fig. let them, at's enterin on life be worried wi' its cares; we've tasted booath its joys an strife, they're welcome nah to theirs. to tak things easy owt to be an old man's futer plan, till th' time comes when he has to dee,- then dee as weel's he can. it's foolish nah to brood an freeat, abaat what might ha been; at sixty we dooant see wi' th' een, we saw wi at sixteen. young shoolders worn't meant to bear old heeads, an nivver will; youth had its fling when we wor thear, an soa it will have still. aw wodn't live life o'er agean, unless 'at aw could start quite free throo knowledge o' this world, quite free in heead an heart. that perfect trust 'at childer have, gives life its greatest charm; noa wisdom after years can give, will keep ther hearts as warm. when nearin th' bottom o' life's hill, if we, when lukkin back, can see some seeds ov gooid we've sown, are bloomin on awr track; wol th' evil deeds we did shall be all trampled aght o' seet; awr journey's end will peaceful be, an deeath itsen be sweet. then let's give thanks for mercies past, that've kept awr hearts still green; for thar't just as dear at sixty, lass, as when tha wor sixteen. come thi ways in. come thi ways in, an god bless thi, lad! come thi ways in, for thar't welcome, joy! a'a! tha'rt a shockin young taistrel, lad, but tha artn't as bad as they call thi, doy. tha'rt thi father upheeaped an daanthrussen, lad, it's his mother 'at knows what a glaid wor he;-but thi britches' knees are booath brussen, lad, an thi jacket, its raillee a shame to see. it's weel for thee tha's a gronny, lad,- if it wornt for me tha'd be lost i' muck! tha'rt wild, but tha'rt better ner monny, lad, an aw think 'at tha'll yet bring thi gronny gooid luck. nah, pool up to th' table an dry thi nooas;- (awd nooan leearn mi appron to onny but thee,) wol tha'rt fillin thi belly aw'll patch up thi clooas, then aw'll send thi hooam daycent an cleean tha'll see. nah, what are ta dooin wi' th' pussy cat, pray? if tha'll leeav it alooan it'll mell nooan o' thee, put th' mustard spooin daan! does ta hear what aw say! let goa that cat tail! ha tha aggravates me! tha mooant dip thi finger i'th' traitle pot, doy, (tho' aw reckon tha follers th' example tha's set,) mothers, nah days, dooan't know ha to train childer, joy, but tha'll heed what thi gronny says,--willn't ta, pet? a'a, dear! nah tha's upset thi basin o' stew! all ovver thisen an mi cleean scarrd flooar:-tha clumsy young imp; what next will ta do? tha'd wear aght job's patience, an twice as mich mooar! hold thi din! or aw'll gie thi a taste o' that strap! tha maks it noa better wi' yellin like that! come, whisht nah,--'twor nobbut a little mishap;- nah, whisht,--an tha'll see ha we'll leather yond cat. nah, dooan't touch mi thimel or needle an threead; sit daan like a gooid little child as tha art; wol aw wipe up this mess, an side th' butter an breead, then aw'll gie thi a penny to buy thi a tart. for tha puts me i' mind ov a time long ago, when thi father wor just sich a jockey as thee; an tho' aw'm a widdy, an poor as a crow, ther'll be allus a bite an a sup for thee. tak thi booits off that fender! tha's made it fair black; just see ha tha's scratched it! aw'm sewer it's a sin! jump into theas clooas an fly hooam in a crack, or aw'll braik ivvery booan 'at tha has i' thi skin! an stop hooam, until tha knows ha to behave, tha'd worrit my life aght i' less nor a wick! tell thi mother aw'm net gooin to be just a slave to a taistrel like thee! soa nah, off tha gooas--quick! horton tide. wor yo ivver at horton tide? it wor thear 'at aw won mi bride; an the joy o' mi life, is mi dear little wife, an we've three little childer beside. aw wor donn'd in a new suit o'clooas, a cigar wor stuck under mi nooas, aw set aght for a spree, an some frolics to see, full o' fun throo mi heead to mi tooas. aw met lijah an amos, an bill, an ov coorse wi' each one aw'd a gill; till aw felt rayther mazy, but net at all crazy, for aw didn't goa in for mi fill. as a lad aw'd been bashful an shy, an aw blushed if a woman went by, but this day bi gooid luck, aw felt chock full o' pluck, soa to leet on aw sattled to try. as aw wandered abaat along th' street, who, ov all i' this world should aw meet! but mary o' jooas, lukkin red as a rooas, a'a! but shoo wor bonny an sweet. aw nodded an walked bi her side, to mak misen pleasant aw tried, but shoo smiled as shoo sed, 'aw wor wrang i' mi heead,' an aw'm sewer aw dooan't think 'at shoo lied. then aw bowt her some parkin an spice, an owt else 'at shoo fancied lukt nice, then we tuk a short walk, an we had a long tawk; then aw axt if shoo thowt we should splice. what happen'd at after yo'll guess,-it wor heaven to me, an nowt less;- for aw left horton tide, wi' a promised fair bride, soa mi frolic wor craand wi' success. for shoo's one i' ten thaasand yo see; an shoo shows 'at shoo's suited wi' me, an yo chaps 'at want wives 'at will gladden yer lives, up at horton yo'll find 'em to be. mi old slippers. aw'm wearily trudgin throo mire an weet, for aw've finished another day's wark; an welcome to me is that flickerin leet, 'at shines throo mi winder i'th' dark. aw know ther's mi drinkin just ready o'th' hob, an a hearthstun as cleean as can be, for that old wife o' mine allus maks it her job, to have ivverything gradely for me. it isn't mich time aw can spend wi' th' old lass, for aw'm tewin throo early till lat, an its all aw can do just to get as mich brass as we need, an sometimes hardly that. but we keep aght o' debt, soa mi heart's allus leet, an aw sweeten mi wark wi' a song; an we try to mak th' best ov what trubbles we meet, an contentedly struggle along. two trusty old friends anent th' foir are set, they are waitin thear ivvery neet; they're nobbut a pair o' old slippers, but yet, they give comfort an rest to mi feet. like misen an mi wife, they're fast wearin away,- they've been shabby for monny a year; they have been a hansum pair once, aw can say, yet to me they wor nivver mooar dear. aw hooap they may last wol aw'm summon'd away, an this life's journey peacefully ends; for to part wod feel hard, for at this time o'th' day, it's too lat to be makkin new friends. aw know varry weel 'at ther end must be near, for aw see ha they're worn daan at th' heel; but they've sarved me reight weel, an aw'st ha nowt to fear, if aw've sarved his purpose as weel a friend to me. poor dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done, deeath shut off his steam tother day; his engine, long active, has made its last run, an his boiler nah falls to decay. maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well, an tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree; if he did onny harm it wor done to hissel:- he wor allus a gooid friend to me. his heart it wor tender,--his purse it wor free, to a friend or a stranger i' need; an noa matter ha humble or poor they might be, at his booard they wor welcome to feed. wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit, yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree, an tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit, he wor allus a gooid friend to me. his word wor his bond, for he hated a lie, an sickophants doubly despised; he wor ne'er know to cringe to a rich fly-bi-sky, it wor worth an net wealth 'at he prized. aw shall ne'er meet another soa honest an true, as aw write ther's a tear i' mi ee; nah he's gooan to his rest, an aw'll give him his due,- he wor allus a gooid friend to me. a pair o' black een. one neet as aw trudged throo mi wark, thinks aw, nah mi labor is done, aw feel just inclined for a lark, for its long sin aw had onny fun. an ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind, shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that! for when on a spree aw'm inclined, aw could nivver get on baght awr mat. sally slut wor a croney o' hers, a bonny an warm-hearted lass, an shoo'd latly been wed to a chap, 'at could booast booath some brains an some brass. but someha, awr mat seemed to think, 'at sally, soa hansum an trim; for a partner throo life owt to luk wi' somdy mich better nor him. an shoo profiside trubble an care, wor i' stoor at noa far distant day, an shoo muttered "poor sal, aw declare, tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away." as sooin as aw gate hold o'th' sneck, aw walked in wi' a sorrowful face, then aw sank like a hawf empty seck into th' furst seeat aw coom to i'th' place. "gooid gracious, alive! what's to do?" says matty, "whativver's amiss?" "a'a, lass! tha'll nooan think at its true,- it's a tarrible come-off is this," "tha knows sally slut,--a'a dear me! to-day as aw went across th' green, aw met her,--an what should aw see,- why, shoo'd getten a pair o' black een," "that scamp! but aw'll sattle wi' him!" says mat, as shoo threw on her shawl,-"aw warned her agean weddin tim,- but aw'll let him see;--sharply an all!" off shoo flew an left me bi misen, an aw swoller'd mi teah in a sniff, an aw crept up to bed, thear an then,- for aw knew shoo'd come back in a tiff. an shoo did, in a few minnits mooar; an worn't shoo mad? nivver fear! an th' laader aw reckoned to snooar, an th' laader shoo skriked i' mi ear. tha thowt tha'd put me in a stew,- but aw treeat sich like conduct wi' scorn! but tha didn't fooil me, for aw knew, shoo'd black een ivver sin shoo wor born. shoo can booast ov her een,--that shoo can! but shoo's nowt at aw envy,--net me! unless it's her bavin a man, asteead ov a hawbuck like thee. a screw lawse. when rich fowk are feastin, an poor fowk are grooanin, ther's summat 'at connot be reight. wol one lot are cheerin, another lot's mooanin for want ov sufficient to ait. ther must be a screw lawse i'th' social machine, an if left to goa on varry long, ther'll as sewer be a smash as befoortime ther's been, when gross wrangs ov thooas waik mak em strong. discontent may long smolder, but aght it'll burst, in a flame 'at ther efforts will mock; an they'll leearn when too lat, 'at they've met the just fate, ov thooas who rob th' poor o' ther jock. a sad mishap. "come, john lad, tell me what's to do, tha luks soa glum an sad; is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass? or are ta poorly, lad? has sombdy been findin fault, wi' owt tha's sed or done? or are ta bothered wi' thi loom, wi' th' warp tha's just begun? whativver 'tis, lad, let me know,- aw'll help thi if aw can; sometimes a woman's ready wit is useful to a man. tha allus let me share thi joys,- let's share when grief prevails; tha knows tha sed aw should, john, i'th' front o'th' alter rails. we've just been wed a year, lad, come sundy next but three; but if tha sulks an willn't spaik, aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me. aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, john, to be a wife to thee; come tell me what's to do, john, wol aw caar o' thi knee." ---------"aw've brass enuff to pay mi way,- aw'm hearty as needs be;-ther's noabdy been findin fault, an aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee. but aw'm soa mad aw connot bide,- for commin hooam to-neet, mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth, an smashed to bits i'th' street. aw cant think what aw could be doin, to let the blam'd thing drop! an a'a! it wor a beauty, an colored reight to th' top." if. dear jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot, mi own bonny wife tha shall be; for trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot, for we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee. we'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back, an aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens; then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack, when thi fancy to sich a thing tends. some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans, some pots an a kettle for tea; a bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers, an a rockin-cheer, lass,--that's for thee. some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall, to mak th' place luk nobby an neat; an a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm, an some slippers to put on thi feet. an when sundy comes,--off to th' chapel or church, an when we get back we'll prepare, some sooart ov a meal,--tho its hooamly an rough, if its whooalsum we nivver need care. if we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght, if it shows us its tempers an tiffs; soa jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state, depends varry mich on theas "ifs." a true tale. ther's a squire lives at th' hall 'at's lukt up to, as if he wor ommost a god. he's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver, an fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod. he keeps carriages, horses an dogs, for spooartin, or fancy, or labor, he's a pew set apart in a church, an he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor. ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet, crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest; her een strangely breet,--her face like a sheet, an her long hair hings ovver her breast. want's shrivell'd her body to nowt, an vice has set th' stamp on her face; an her heart's grown soa callous an hard, 'at it connot be touched wi' disgrace. ther's a child bundled up i' some rags, 'at's whinin its poor life away; neglected an starvin on th' flags, on this wild, cold an dree winter's day. an its father is dinin at th' hall, an its mother is deein wi' th' cold, withaat even a morsel o' breead, yet its father is rollin i' gold. ther's a grey heeaded man an his wife, who are bow'd daan wi' grief,--net wi' years:-ivver mournin a dowter they've lost, ivver silently dryin ther tears. shoo wor th' hooap an pride o' ther life, till a squire put strange thowts in her heead; then shoo fled an they ne'er saw her mooar, soa they mourn her as if shoo wor deead. ther's one up aboon sees it all; he values noa titles nor brass, he cares noa mooar for a rich squire, nor he does for a poor country lass, his messengers now hover near, till that mother an child yield ther breath, an th' squire has noa longer a fear, for his secret is lockt up in death. peter's prayer. his face wor varry thin an pale, his een wor strangely breet; his old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale, an shooless wor his feet. his teeth they chattered in his heead, his hands had lost ther use, he humbly begg'd a bite o' breead, but nobbut gate abuse. a curse wor tremblin on his tongue, but with a mad despair, he curbed it wi' an effort strong, an changed it for a prayer. "oh, god!" he cried, "spare,--spare aw pray! have mercy an forgive; befooar too lat, show me some way my wife an bairns can live!" "aw read i'th' papers ivvery day, ov hundreds,--thaasands spent for shot an shell, an things to swell this nation's armament. into fowk's hearts, oh, god! instil a love ov peace, an then, maybe we'st have some better times, an men can help thersen. aw nobbut want a chonce to live, one cannot wish for less; wars fill this world wi' misery,- peace gives us happiness. if monarchs dooant get quite as mich, ther joys need not decrease;-pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;- we've but one soul apiece." mak th' best ont. mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--tho' th' job be a bad en, god bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat! this world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en, if we all started rooarin for what we cant get. who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet, are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess; let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it, 'at noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less. mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--ne'er heed if yor naybor can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave; ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor, an it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave. ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit, 'twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front; it's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,--is it? soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt. mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--if fortune should favor, an a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap, 'twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor, if yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap. depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly, as just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot; for freeatin at best is a waste an a folly, an it nivver will help to mend matters a jot. on strike. he wandered slipshod through the street, his clothes had many a rent; his shoes seemed dropping from his feet, his eyes were downward bent. his face was sallow, pale and thin, his beard neglected grew, upon his once close shaven chin, like bristles sticking through. i'd known him in much better state, as "old hard-working mike," i asked, would he the cause relate? said he, "awm aght on th' strike. yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus, aw'm shamed to meet a friend; it's varry hard on th' mooast on us, we wish 't wor at an end. aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase, an see mi childer pine; they havn't what'll feed a maase, but that's noa fault o' mine. th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan,- shoo addles all we get, wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan, i' sorrow, rags an debt. but then yo know it has to be, th' committee tells us that; they owt to know,--but as for me, aw find it's hard,--that's flat. they say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar nor we can ivver guess;-but th' sufferin they may endure, maks mine noa morsel less. but then th' committee says it's reight; soa aw mun rest content, an we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight, what comes o' jock or rent. aw dooant like to desart mi mates, but one thing aw dooant like; when th' table shows but empty plates it's hard to be on th' strike. gooid day,--for cake awst ha to fend, them childer's maaths to fill; th' committee say th' strike sooin will end; aw hooap to god it will." be happy. some fowk ivverlastinly grummel, at th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it; if across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel, they try to pick faults in a minnit. we all have a strinklin o' care, an they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble, but aw think its unkind, an unfair, to mak ivvery misfortun seem double. some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,- if it does they find cause for complainin; discontented when th' weather wor fine, they start findin fault if its rainin. aw hate sich dissatisfied men, an fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa, aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen, aght o'th' world,--like a robinson crusoe. to mak th' pleasures surraandin us less, ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful; when ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless, ov happiness let's have a skinful. aw truly mooast envy that man, who's gladly devotin his leisure, to mak th' world as breet as he can, an add to its stock ov pure pleasure. it's true ther's hard wark to be done, an mooast on us drop in to share it; but if sprinkled wi' innocent fun, why, we're far better able to bear it. may we live long surraanded wi' friends, to enjoy what is healthful an pure; an at last when this pilgrimage ends, we shall nivver regret it aw'm sure. its true. ther's things i'plenty aw despise;- false pride an wild ambition; tho' ivvery man should strive to rise, an better his condition. aw hate a meean an grovlin soul, i' breast ov peer or ploughman, but what aw hate the mooast ov all, is th' chap 'at strikes a woman. for let ther faults be what they may, he proves 'at he's a low man, who lifts his hand bi neet or day, an strikes a helpless woman. ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,- ther tempers may be fiery, but passions even dwell inside the convent an the priory. an all should think where'er we dwell, greek, saxon, gaul or roman; we're net sich perfect things ussel, as to despise a woman. for let ther faults, &c. it's true old eve first made a slip, an fill'd this world wi' bother; but adam had to bite his lip,- he couldn't get another. an tho' at th' present day they swarm, that chap proves his own foeman, who doesn't tak his strong reight arm, an twine it raand a woman. for let ther faults, &c. a chap may booast he's number one, an lord it o'er creation; may spaat an praich, but when he's done, he'll find his proper station. he may be fast when at his best, but age maks him a slow man, an as he sinks, he's fain to rest, on some kind-hearted woman. for let ther faults, &c. aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt, for that cold-hearted duffer, who glories o'er a woman's fault, an helps to mak her suffer. ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing, 'at had th' same reight to crow, man; as th' chap who wi' a weddin ring, has made a happy woman. then let ther faults be what they will, ther net for me to show, man; but if yo seek for comfort, still, yo'll find it in a woman. natty nancy. "mooar fowk get wed nor what do weel," a've heeard mi mother say; but mooast young lads an lasses too, think just th' contrary way. an lasses mooar nor lads it seems, to wed seem nivver flaid; for nowt they seem to dreead as mich as deein an old maid. but oft for single life they sigh, an net withaat a cause, when wi' ther tongue they've teed a knot, ther teeth's too waik to lawse. days arn't allus weddin days, they leearn that to ther sorrow, when panics come an th' brass gets done, an they've to try to borrow. when th' chap at th' strap shop's lukkin glum, an hardly seems to know yo; an gooas on sarvin other fowk as if he nivver saw yo. an when yo're fain to pile up th' foir, wi' bits o' cowks an cinders;-when poverty says, "here' aw've come," love hooks it aght o'th' winders. friends yo once had are far too thrang to ax yo to yer drinkin; they happen dunnot meean owt wrang,- but one cannot help for thinkin. an when yo're lukkin seedy like, wi' patched an tattered clooas; yo'll find when yer coit elbows gape, sich friends oft shut ther doors. ther are poor fowk 'at's happier far, nor rich ens,--ther's noa daat on't, for brass cannot mak happiness, but sewerly it's a pairt on't. aw'll tell yo ov a tale aw heeard,- it's one 'at tuk mi fancy,-abaat a young chap an his wife, they called her natty nancy. they called her natty, yo mun know becoss shoo wor soa clivver, at darnin, cookin, weshin clooas or onny job whativver. well, they began as monny do 'at arn't blest wi' riches; he hugg'd all th' fortun he possessed i'th' pocket ov his britches. it worn't mich, it wodn't raich aboon a two-o'-three shillin; but they wor full ov hooap an health, an they wor strong an willin. an fowk wor capt to see ha sooin ther little cot grew cooasy; shoo'd allus summat cheerful like, if't nobbut wor a pooasy. soa time slipt on, an all went weel when dick sed, "natty, lass, a-latly aw've begun to feel aw'st like a bigger haase. for when aw tuk this cot for thee, we'd nubdy but ussen; but sin that lad wor born ther's three, an ther'll sooin be four, an then?" "why, dick," shoo sed, "just suit thisen, here's raam enuff for me; but if tha'rt anxious for a change, aw'm willin to agree." soa sooin they tuk a bigger haase, they tew'd throo morn to neet, to mak it smart, an varry sooin 'twor th' nicest haase i'th' street. an when a little lass wor born they thowt ther pleasur double; but dick, alas! had nah to taste a little bit o' trubble. for times wer growin varry hard, an wark kept gettin slacker; he'd furst to goa withaat his ale, an then to stop his bacca. but even that did net suffice to keep want at a distance, an they'd noa whear i'th' world to turn, to luk for some assistance. an monny a time he left his meal untouched, tho' ommost pinin; an trail'd abaat, i' hooaps to find some breeter fortun shinin. for long he sowt, but sowt in vain, although his heart wor willin to turn or twist a hundred ways, to get an honest shillin. one day his wife coom back throo th' shop, her heart seem'd ommost brustin; shoo sob'd, "oh, dick,--what mun we do, th' shop keeper's stall'd o' trustin. we've nowt to ait, lad, left i'th' haase,- aw know th' fault isn't thine, but th' childer's bellies mun be fill'd tho' thee an me's to pine." dick seized his hat an aght o'th' door he flew like somdy mad, detarmined 'at he'd get some brass, if brass wor to be had. he furst tried them he thowt his friends, an tell'd his touchin stooary; they button'd up ther pockets as they sed, "we're varry sooary." they tell'd him to apply to th' taan, or sell his goods an chattels; dick felt at last 'at he'd to feight one o' life's hardest battles. for when he'd tried 'em ivvery one he fan aght to his sorrow, 'at fowk wi' brass have far mooar friends, nor them 'at wants to borrow. wi' empty hands, hooamwards he went, an thear on th' doorstep gleamin, wor ligg'd a shillin, raand an white;- he thowt he must be dreamin. he rub'd his een, an eyed it o'er, a-feeard lest it should vanish, he sed, "some angel's come aw'm sewer, awr misery to banish." he pickt it up an lifted th' sneck, then gently oppen'd th' door, an thear wor nancy an his bairns, all huddled up o'th' flooar. "cheer up!" he sed, "gooid luck's begun, here,--tak this brass an spend it; it isn't mine, lass, but aw'm sewer aw think the lord has sent it." a'a! ha her heart jumpt up wi' joy! shoo felt leet as a feather; an off shoo went an bowt some stuff, then they set daan together. befooar they'd weel begun, at th' door, they heeard a gentle tappin, "goa dick," shoo sed, "luk sharp,--awm sewer aw heead sombody rappin." it wor a poor old beggar man who ax'd for charity; "come in!" sed dick, "it's borrow'd stuff, but tha shall share wi' me. soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,- it's whooalsum, nivver heed it, an if tha ivver has a chonce, pay back to them 'at need it." wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied, an but few words wor spokken, till th' old chap pushed his plate aside, an silence then wor brokken. "aw'm varry old an worn," he sed, this life's soa full o' cares, yet have aw sometimes entertained an angel unawares. ther's one aboon reads ivvery heart, an them 'at he finds true, altho' he tries 'em sooar,--at last, he minds to pool 'em throo. then nivver let yor faith grow dim, altho yo've hard to feight; just let yer trust all rest o' him, an he'll put all things straight, he quietly sydled aght o'th' door, an when they lukt araand, a purse they'd nivver seen befooar wor liggin up o'th' graand. dick pickt it up--what could it be? he hardly dar to fancy;-"why, its addressed to thee an me! to dick an natty nancy!" ---------they oppened it wi' tremblin hands, an when they saw the treasure; 'twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast, astonishment or pleasur. ther wor a letter for 'em too, an this wor ha it ended,-"you once helped me, may this help you,- from one you once befriended," --------they nivver faand aght who he wor, altho' they spared noa labor; but for his sake they ne'er refuse to help ther needy naybor. fugitive poems. by john hartley. not written in the yorkshire dialect. angels of sunderland. in memoriam, june 16th, 1893. on the sixteenth of june, eighteen eighty-three, the children of sunderland hastened to see, strange wonders performed by a mystic man, believing,--as only young children can. and merry groups chattered, as hand in hand, they careered through the streets of sunderland. in holiday dress, and with faces clean, and hearts as light as the lightest, i ween;- the hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes, expressed their delight at each fresh surprise; the sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,-such a mass of fair blossoms of sunderland. with wonder and laughter the moments fly, and the wizard at last bade them all good-bye, but not till he promised that each one there, in his magical fortune should have a share;-such a wonderful man with such liberal hand, had never before been in sunderland. they danced, and they shouted, and full of glee, they rushed to find out what these presents could be, and the sea of young faces was borne along, until checked by a barrier, stout and strong; and then the bright current was brought to a stand, and a heart piercing shriek rang through sunderland. then the hearts of the little ones filled with fear, with a sickening sense of a danger near; and with frantic efforts they strove to flee, to the homes where they knew there would safety be; and deaf alike to request or command, rushed to death,--the sweet flowers of sunderland. swift flew the alarm from street to street, and swiftly responded the hurrying feet. fathers and mothers with grief gone wild, cried as they ran, "oh, my child! my child!" women half fainting, and men all unmanned,-'twas a sad, sad day for sunderland. pen cannot tell what keen anguish wrung, their bleeding hearts, as the fair and young, were dragged from the struggling, groaning mass, mangled, disfigured and dead, alas! and offers of help came from every hand, for they were the children of sunderland. quickly and tenderly, one by one, they were brought to light, till the task was done; the wounded were tended with kindness and skill; side by side lay the dead,--all so ghastly and still;-what a terrible tale told that silent band, as the sabbath sun rose over sunderland. in the promise of beauty and strength cut down, two hundred spirits from earth had flown; two hundred frail caskets that love could not save, awaiting their last earthly home in the grave; and a crowd of white angels expectant stand, to welcome the angels from sunderland. woe in the cottage, and woe in the hall;- woe in the hearts of the great and the small;- woe in the streets,--in the houses of prayer; woe had its dwelling place everywhere. suffering and sorrow on every hand,-woe-woe-woe throughout sunderland. who can give comfort in grief such as this? man's arm is helpless,--no power is his. there is but one unto whom we can flee, one who in mercy cries, "come unto me." one who in pity outstretches his hand, to the heart-broken mourners of sunderland. sad will the homes be for many a day, where the light of the household has been snatched away; but through the dull cloud of our sorrow and pain, shines the hope that at last we may meet them again; for on the bright shores of the 'better land,' are gathered the treasures of sunderland. trusting still. when shall we meet again? one more year passed; one more of grief and pain;- maybe the last. are the years sending us farther apart? or love still blending us heart into heart? do love's fond memories brighten the way, or faith's fell enemies darken thy day? oh! could the word unkind be recalled now, or in the years behind buried lie low, how would my heart rejoice as round it fell, sweet cadence of thy voice, still loved so well. sometimes when sad it seems whisperings say: "cherish thy baseless dreams, yet whilst thou may, try not to pierce the veil, lest thou should'st see, only a dark'ning vale stretching for thee." but hope's mist-shrouded sun once more breaks out, chasing the shadows dim, heavy with doubt. and far ahead i see, two rays entwine; one faint, as soul of me, one bright like thine. and in that welcome sign, clearly i view, proof of this trust of mine,- thou art still true. shiver the goblet. shiver the goblet and scatter the wine! tempt me no more with the sight! i care not though brightly as ruby it shine, like a serpent i know it will bite. give me the clustering fruit of the vine,- heap up my dish if you will,-but banish the poison that lurks in the wine, that dulls reason and fetters the will. oft has it lured me to deeds i detest,- filled me with passions debased; robbed me of all that was dearest and best, and left scars that can ne'er be effaced. oh! that the generous rich would but think, as they scatter their wealth far and wide, of the evil that lives in the ocean of drink, of the thousands that sink in its tide. they give of their substance to help the poor wretch, the victim of custom and laws; but never attempt the strong arm to outstretch, to try to abolish the cause. the preacher as well may his eloquence spare, nor his tales of "glad tidings" need tell, if by precepts he urge them for heaven to prepare, whilst his practice leads downward to hell. erect new asylums and hospitals raise,- build prisons for creatures of sin;-can these be a means to improve the world's ways? or one soul from destruction e'er win? no!--license the cause and encourage the sale of the evil one's strongest ally, and in vain then lament that the curse should prevail,- and in vain o'er the fallen ones sigh. strike the black blot from the laws of the land! and take the temptation away; then give to the struggling and weak one's a hand, to pilot them on the safe way. can brewers, distillers, or traffickers pray for the blessing of god, on the seed which they sow for the harvest of men gone astray? of ruin, the fruit of their greed? no bonds can be forged the drink-demon to bind, that will hinder its power for ill; for a way to work mischief it surely will find, let us watch and contrive as we will. then drive out the monster! the plague-breathing pest; and so long as our bodies have breath, let us fight the good fight, never stopping for rest, till at last we rejoice o'er its death. little sunshine. winsome, wee and witty, like a little fay, carolling her ditty all the livelong day, saucy as a sparrow in the summer glade, flitting o'er the meadow came the little maid. a youth big and burly, loitered near the stile, he had risen early, just to win her smile. and she came towards him trying to look grave, but she couldn't do it, not her life to save. for the fun within her, well'd out from her eyes, and the tell-tale blushes to her brow would rise. then he gave her greeting, and with bashful bow, said in tones entreating, "darling tell me now, you are all the sunshine, this world holds for me; be my little valentine, i have come for thee." but she only tittered when he told his love, and the gay birds twittered on the boughs above; he continued pleading, calling her his sun-said his heart was bleeding,- which seemed famous fun. then he turned to leave her. but she caught his hand, and its gentle pressure made him understand, that in spite of teasing, he her heart had won, and through life hereafter, she would be his sun. ---------now they have been married twenty years or more, but she's just as wilful as she was before. and she's just as winsome in his eyes to-day, as when first be met her, mischievous and gay. will the years ne'er tame her? will she ne'er grow old? does the grave man blame her? does he never scold? does he never weary of her ready tongue? does he love her dearly as when he was young? yes--she was the sunshine of his youthful day, and her light laugh cheers him now he's growing gray. happy little woman, that time cannot tame; happy sober husband, loving still the same. happy in her lightness when life's morn was bright, happy in her brightness as draws on the night. passing events. passing events,--tell, what are they i pray? are they some novelty?--nay, nay, nay! ever since the world its course began, since the breath of life was breathed into man, still rolling on with the wane of time, through every nation, in every clime; in every spot where man has his home, ever they long for events to come. hours or days or years it may be, before hopes realization they see; and no sooner it comes than it hastes away, and others rush after no longer to stay. and there scarcely is time to know its in sight, e'er its found to be leaving with marvellous flight, and what had been longed for with eager intent, is chronicled but as a passing event. hope's joys are uncertain;--anxiety rules, expectancy's paradise, peopled by fools; and the present has oft so much bustle and care, that the joys spread around we have no time to share. he is surer of peace who leaves future to fate, and the present joy snatches before it's too late; but he's safest by far, who in mem'ry holds fast, the sweet tastes and joys of events that are past. those days have gone. those days have gone, those happy days, when we two loved to roam, beside the rivulet that strays, near by my rustic home. yes, they have fled, and in the past, we've left them far behind, yet dear i hold, those days of old, when you were true and kind. you dreamed not then of wealth or fame, the world was bright and fair, i seldom knew a grief or game, that you, too, did not share. and though i mourn my hapless fate, in mem'ry's store i find, and dearly hold those days of old, when you were true and kind. say, can the wealth you now possess, such happiness procure, as did our youthful pleasures bless, when both our hearts were pure? no,--and though wandering apart, i strive to be resigned; and dearer hold those days of old, when you were true and kind. and if your thoughts should turn to me, with one pang of regret, know that this heart, still beats for thee, and never will forget; those tender links of long ago are round my heart entwined, and dear i hold those days of old, when you were true and kind. i'd a dream. i'd a dream last night of my boyhood's days, and the scenes where my youth was spent; and i roamed the old woods where the squirrel plays, full of frolicsome merriment. and i walked by the brook, and its silvery tone, seemed to soothe me again as of yore; and i stood by the cottage with moss overgrown and the woodbine that trailed round the door. no change could i see in the garden plot, the flowers bloomed brightly around, and one little bed of forget-me-not in its own little corner i found. the sky had a home-look, the breeze seemed to sigh, in the strain i remembered so well, and the little brown sparrows looked cunning and shy, as though anxious some story to tell. but as quietness reigned and a loneliness fell, o'er the place that had once been so gay; its sunlight had saddened since i bade farewell, and left it for lands far away. the door stood ajar and i sought for a face, of the dear ones i longed so to see; but others i knew not were now in the place, and their presence was painful to me. a pang of remorse seemed to shoot through my heart, as i left with a sorrowing tread, from all the familiar objects to part; for i knew that the loved ones were dead. the home once my own, now knows me no more, the treasures that bound me all gone, and i woke with cheeks tear-stained, and heart sadly sore, to find that a home i had none. to my harp. wake up my harp! thy strings begin to rust! has the soul fled that once within thee dwelt? idle so long, shake off that coat of dust! are there no souls to cheer, no hearts to melt? are there no victims under tyrants' yoke, whose wrongs thy stirring music should proclaim? or have the fetters of mankind been broke? or are there none deserving songs of fame? awake! awake! thy slumber has been long! and let thy chords once more arouse the heart; and teach us in thy most impassioned song, how in our sphere we best may play our part. tell the down-trodden, who with daily toil, wear out their lives, another's greed to fill; that they have rights and interests in the soil, and they can win them if they have the will. tell the high-born that chance of birth ne'er gave to them a right to carve another's fate; nor yet to make the humbler born a slave, whose heart with goodness may be doubly great. tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man, that though through roughest ways of life he plod, nature hath placed upon his birth no ban,- all men are equal in the sight of god. and yet a softer, pitying strain let pour, to soothe the anguish of the troubled soul, and fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more, and from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll. cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight,- and warn oppression of the gathering storm, and drag the deeds of false ones to the light,- and herald in the day of true reform. nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung, compassionate the maiden's tender woes, revive the faint who are with fears unstrung, and solace them who writhe in suffering's throes. awake! awake! there's need enough of thee, nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue, and may thy constant effort henceforth be, to plant the right, and to uproot the wrong. backward turn, oh! recollection. backward turn, oh! recollection! far, far back to childhoods' days; to those treasures of affection, 'round which loving memory plays show to me the loving faces of my parents, now no more,-fill again the vacant places with the images of yore. conjure up the home where comfort seemed to make its cosy nest; where the stranger's only passport, was the need of food and rest. show the schoolhouse where with others, i engaged in mental strife, and the playground, where as brothers running, jumping, full of life. now i see the lovely maiden, that my young heart captive led; like a sylph, with gold curls laden, and her lips of cherry red. now fond voices seem to echo, tones as when i heard them last; and my heart sighs sadly, heigh, ho! for the joys for ever past. from the past back to the present, come, ye wandering thoughts again; memories however pleasant, will not rid to-day of pain, now we live, the past is buried,- we are midway in life's stream; onward, onward! ever hurried,- and the futures but a dream. alice. dear little alice lay dying;- i see her as if 'twas to-day, and we stood round her snowy bed, crying, and watching her life ebb away. 'twas a beautiful day in the spring, the sun shone out warmly and clear; and the wee birds, their love songs to sing came and perched on the trees that grew near. in the distance, the glistening sea, could be heard in a deep solemn tone, as if murmuring in sad sympathy, for our griefs and our hopes that had flown. the windows, wide open, allowed the soft wind to fan her white cheek, as with uncovered heads, mutely bowed, we stood watching, not daring to speak. we were only her playmates,--no tie of relationship drew us that way, we'd been told that dear alice must die, and she'd begg'd she might see us that day. we were all full of sorrow, and tears we all shed,--but not one showed surprise; of her future we harboured no fears, for we knew she was fit for the skies. ever gentle and kind as a dove, to each one she knew she had been; she had ruled her dominion by love, and we all paid her homage as queen. her strange beauty, now, as i look back, i can see as i ne'er saw it then; but words to describe it i lack, it could never be told by a pen. half asleep, half awake, as she lay, with her golden curls round her pale face; a smile round her lips 'gan to play, and her eyes gazed intently on space. with an effort she half raised her head, and looked lovingly round us on all, then she motioned us nearer the bed; and we silently answered her call. then she put out her tiny white hand, the friend nearest her took it in his; and so faintly she whispered "good-bye," as he printed upon it a kiss. one by one, boy and girl, did the same, and she bade them 'farewell' as they passed calling everyone by their name, 'till it came to my turn;--i was last, "good-bye, harry," she breathed very low, and her eyes to my soul seemed to speak; and she strove not to let my hand go, till i stooped down and kissed her pale cheek. then she wearily laid down her head, and she closed her blue eyes with a sigh;-"don't forget me, dear harry, when dead, but meet me in heaven by-and-bye." and that whisper i never forgot, and her hand's dying clasp i feel still; for i swore, that whatever my lot, i'd be true to that child,--and i will. it may be a foolish conceit, but it oft is a solace for me, to think, when life's troubles i meet, there's an angel in heaven cares for me. friends deplore my lone bachelor state, some may pity, and others deride; but they know not for alice i wait, who took with her my heart when she died. looking back. i've been sitting reviewing the past, dear wife, from the time when a toddling child,-through my boyish days with their joys and strife,- through my youth with its passions wild. through my manhood, with all its triumph and fret, to the present so tranquil and free; and the years of the past that i most regret, are the years that i passed without thee. it was best we should meet as we did, dear wife,- it was best we had trouble to face; for it bound us more closely together through life, and it nerved us for running the race. we are nearing the end where the goal is set, and we fear not our destiny, and the only years that i now regret, are the years that i passed without thee. 'twas thy beauty attracted my eye, dear wife, but thy goodness that kept me true; 'twas thy sympathy soothed me when cares were rife, 'twas thy smile gave me courage anew. thy bloom may be faded by time, but yet, thou hast still the same beauty to me, and no part of my past do i now regret, save the years that i passed without thee. we have struggled and suffered our share, dear wife, but our joys have been many and sweet; and our trust in each other has taken from life, the heartaches and pangs others meet. i still bless the day, long ago, when we met, and my prayer for the future shall be, that when the call comes and thy life's sun has set, i may never be parted from thee. i know i love thee. i shall never forget the day, annie, when i bid thee a fond adieu; with a careless good bye i left thee, for my cares and my fears were few. true that thine eyes seemed brightest;- true that none had so fair a brow,-i _thought_ that i loved thee then, annie, but i _knew_ that i love thee now. i had neither wealth nor beauty, whilst thou owned of both a share, i bad only a honest purpose and the courage the fates to dare. to all others my heart preferred thee, and 'twas hard to part i know; for i _thought_ that i loved thee then, annie, but i _know_ that i love thee now. oh! what would i give to-night, love, could i clasp thee once again, to my heart that is aching with loving,- to my heart where my love does reign. could i hear thy voice making music, so gentle, so sweet and so low, i _thought_ that i loved thee then, annie, but i _know_ that i love thee now. i have won me wealth and honour,- i have earned a worldly regard, but alas they afford me no pleasure, nor lighten my lot so hard. oh come for my bosom yearneth, all its burden of love to bestow,-once i _thought_ that i really loved thee, but i _know_ that i love thee now. canst thou ever forgive me the folly, of failing to capture the prize, of thy maiden heart, trustful and loving, that shone thro' thy tear bedimmed eyes. but i knew not until we had parted, how fiercely love's embers could glow; or how _truly_ i loved thee then, annie, or how _madly_ i'd love thee now. bachelors quest. she may be dark or may be fair, if beauty she possesses; but she must have abundant hair- i doat on flowing tresses. her skin must be clear, soft and white her cheeks with health's tints glowing, her eyes beam with a liquid light,- red lips her white teeth showing. she must be graceful as a fawn, with bosom gently swelling, her presence fresh as early dawn,- a heart for love to dwell in. she must be trusting, yet aware that flatterer's honey'd phrases are often but a wily snare, to catch her in love's mazes. accomplishments she must possess, these make life worth the having; and taste, especially in dress yet still inclined to saving. in cookery she must excel, to this there's no exception, and serve a frugal meal as well as manage a reception. untidyness she must abhor, in every household matter; and resolutely close the door to any gossip's chatter. she must love children, for a home ne'er seems like home without 'em. and women seldom care to roam, who love their babes about 'em, should she have wealth, she must not boast or tell of what she brought me; content that i should rule the roost,- (that's what my father taught me.) if i can find some anxious maid who all these charms possesses, i shall be tempted, i'm afraid, to pay her my addresses. waiting at the gate. draw closer to my side to-night, dear wife, give me thy hand, my heart is sad with memories which thou canst understand, its twenty years this very day, i know thou minds it well, since o'er our happy wedded life the heaviest trouble fell. we stood beside the little cot, but not a word we said; with breaking hearts we learned, alas, our little claude was dead, he was the last child born to us, the loveliest,--the best, i sometimes fear we loved him more than any of the rest. we tried to say "thy will be done," we strove to be resigned; but all in vain, our loss had left too deep a wound behind. i saw the tears roll down thy cheek, and shared thy misery, but could not speak a soothing word, i could but grieve with thee. he looked so calm, so sweet, so fair why should we stand and weep? death had but paused a moment there, and put our pet to sleep. the weary hours crept sadly on, until the burial day; then in the deep, cold, gravel grave, we saw him laid away. his little bed was taen apart, his toys put out of sight; his brother and his sister soon grew gay again and bright. but we, dear wife, we ne'er threw off, the sorrow o'er us cast; and even yet, at times, we grieve, though twenty years have passed. we know he's in a better land, a heaven where all is bliss; nor would we try if we'd the power to bring him back to this. draw closer to my side, dear wife, and wipe away that tear, heaven does not seem so far away, i seem to feel him near. he'll come no more with us to dwell, for our life's lamp burns dim; but he who doeth all things well, will draw us up to him. come closer, wife, let us not part, we have not long to wait; a something whispers to my heart, "claude's waiting at the gate." love. love--love--love--love,-a tiny hand in a tiny glove; a witching smile that means,--well,--well, whether little or much its hard to tell. a tiny foot and a springy tread, short curls running riot all over her head; a waist that invites a fond embrace, yet by modesty girt seems a holy place; not a place where an arm should be idly thrown, but should gently rest, as would rest my own. an angel whose wings are but hid from view, whose charms are many and faults so few, as near perfection as mortal can be, is the one that i love and that loves but me. they tell me that love is blind,--.oh, no! they can never convince a lover so; love cannot be blind for it sees much more, then others have ever discovered before. oh, the restless night with its pleasing dreams, sweet visions through which her beauty beams; the pleasant pains that find vent in sighs,-and the hopes of a earthly paradise where we shall dwell and heart to heart in unison beat. of the world a part yet so full of our love for each other that we shall sail all alone on life's troublesome sea, in a charmed course, of perpetual calm, away from all danger, sccure from harm. ah, yes,--such is love to the maiden and youth, that have implicit trust in each others truth;-such love was mine, but alas, alas! the things i had hoped for ne'er came to pass. but i thank the star of my destiny, that guided a true plain woman to me; that amid the bustle and worry and strife, has proved a good mother and faithful wife, though the fates did not grant me an angel to wed, they gave me a woman for helpmate instead. do your best and leave the rest. as through life you journey onward many a hill you'll have to climb; many a rough and dang'rous pathway, you'll encounter time and time. now and then a gleam of sunshine, will bring hope to cheer your breast; then press onward,--ever trusting,- do your best and leave the rest. though your progress may be hindered, by false friends or bitter foes; and the goal for which you're striving, seems so far away,--who knows? you may yet have strength to reach it, e'er the sun sinks in the west; ever striving,--still undaunted;- do your best and leave the rest. if you fail, as thousands must do, you will still have cause for pride; you will have advanced much further, than if you had never tried. never falter, but remember, life is not a foolish jest; you all are in the fight to win it;- do your best and leave the rest. if at last your strength shall fail you, and your struggles have proved vain; there is one who will sustain you;- soothe your sorrow,--ease your pain, he has seen your earnest striving, and your efforts shall be blest; for he knows, that you, though failing, did your best,--he'll do the rest. to my daughter on her birthday. darling child, to thee i owe, more than others here will know; thou hast cheered my weary days, with thy coy and winsome ways. when my heart has been most sad, smile of thine has made me glad; in return, i wish for thee, health and sweet felicity. may thy future days be blest, with all things the world deems best. if perchance the day should come, thou does leave thy childhood's home; bound by earth's most sacred ties, with responsibilities, in another's life to share, wedded joys and worldly care; may thy partner worthy prove,-richest in thy constant love. strong in faith and honour, just,-with brave heart on which to trust. one, to whom when troubles come, and the days grow burdensome, thou canst fly, with confidence in his love's plenipotence. and if when some years have flown, sons and daughters of your own bless your union, may they be wellsprings of pure joy to thee. and when age shall line thy brow, and thy step is weak and slow,-and the end of life draws near may'st thou meet it without fear; undismayed with earth's alarms,-sleeping,--to wake in jesus' arms. remorse. none ever knew i had wronged her, that secret she kept to the end. none knew that our ties had been stronger, than such as should bind friend to friend. her beauty and innocence gave her such charms as are lavished on few; and vain was my earnest endeavour to resist,--though i strove to be true. she had given her heart to my keeping,- 'twas a treasure more precious than gold; and i guarded it, waking or sleeping, lest a strange breath should make it grow cold. and i longed to be tender, yet honest,- alas! loved,--where to love was a sin,-and passion was deaf to the warning, of a still small voice crying within. i feasted my eyes on her beauty,- i ravished my ears with her voice,-and i felt as her bosom rose softly, that my heart had at last found its choice. 'twas a wild gust of passion swept o'er us,- just a flash of tumultuous bliss;-then life's sunlight all vanished before us, and we stood by despair's dark abyss. 'tis past,--and the green grass grows over, the grave that hides her and our shame; none ever knew who was her lover, for her lips never uttered his name. but at night when the city is sleeping, i steal with a tremulous tread, and spend the dark solemn hours weeping, o'er the grave of the deeply wronged dead. my queen annie--oh! what a weary while it seems since that sad day; when whispering a fond "good bye," i tore myself away. and yet, 'tis only two short years; how has it seemed to thee? to me, those lonesome years appear like an eternity. we loved,--ah, me! how much we loved; how happy passed the day when pouring forth enraptured vows, the charmed hours passed away. in every leaf we beauty saw,- in every song and sound, some sweet entrancing melody, to soothe our hearts we found. and now it haunts me as a dream,- a thing that could not be!-that one so pure and beautiful could ever care for me. but i still have the nut-brown curl, which tells me it is true; and in my fancy i can see the brow where once it grew. those eyes, whose pensive, loving light, did thrill me through and through: still follow me by day and night, as they were wont to do. thy smile still haunts me, and thy voice, at times i seem to hear; and when the scented zephyrs pass i fancy thou art near. 'twill not be long, dear heart, (although it will seem long to me;) until i clasp thee once again; to part no more from thee. though storms may roar, and oceans rage and furies vent their spleen;-there's naught shall keep me from my love; my beautiful;--my queen! now and then. did we but know what lurks beyond the now; could we but see what the dim future hides; had we some power occult that would us show the joy and sorrow which in then abides; would life be happier,--or less fraught with woe, did we but know? i long, yet fear to pierce those clouds ahead;- to solve life's secrets,--learn what means this death. are fresh joys waiting for the silent dead? or do we perish with am fleeting breath? if not; then whither will the spirit go? did we but know. 'tis all a mist. reason can naught explain, we dream and scheme for what to-morrow brings; we sleep, perchance, and never wake again, nor taste life's joys, or suffer sorrow's stings. will the soul soar, or will it sink below? how can we know. "you must have faith!"--how can a mortal weak, pin faith on what he cannot comprehend? we grope for light,--but all in vain we seek, oblivion seems poor mortal's truest friend. like bats at noonday, blindly on we go, for naught we know. yet, why should we repine? could we but see our lifelong journey with its ups and downs! ambition, hope and longings all would flee, indifferent alike to smiles and frowns. 'tis better as it is. it must be so. we ne'er can know. the open gates. my heart was sad when first we met; 'yet with a smile,- a welcome smile i ne'er forget, thou didst beguile my sighs and sorrows;-and a sweet delight shed a soft radiance, where erst was night. i dreamed not we should meet again;- but fate was kind, once more my heart o'er fraught with pain, to joy inclined. it seemed thy soul had power to penetrate my inmost self, changing at will my state. then sprang the thought:--be thou my queen! i will be slave; make here thy throne and reign supreme, 'tis all i crave. let me within thy soothing influence dwell, content to know, with thee all must be well. i knew not that another claimed by prior right, those charms that had my breast inflamed with fancies bright. ah! then i recognized my loneliness:-my dreams dispelled;--still i admired no less. time wearily dragged on its way,- we met once more, and thou wert free! oh, happy day! as sight of shore cheers the worn mariner;--so sight of thee, made my heart beat with sweet expectancy. is it too much to hope,--someday this heart of mine, that beats alone for thee,--yet may thy love enshrine? all things are said to come to him who waits, i'm waiting, darling.--love, opes wide the gates. blue bells. bonny little blue-bells mid young brackens green, 'neath the hedgerows peeping modestly between; telling us that summer is not far away, when your beauties blend with blossoms of the may. sturdy, tangled hawthorns, fleck'd with white or red, whilst their nutty incense, all around is shed. bonny drooping blue-bells, happy you must be with your beauties sheltered 'neath such fragrant tree. you need fear no rival,- other blossoms blown, with their varied beauties but enhance your own. steals the soft wind gently, 'round th' enchanted spot, sets your bells a-ringing though we hear them not. idle fancy wanders as you shake and swing, our hearts shape the message we would have you bring. dreams of happy springtimes we hope yet to share; vague, but pleasant visions all to melt in air. children's merry voices break your witching spells, chubby hands are clasping languishing blue-bells. gay and happy children hop and skip along, with their ringing laughter, sweet as skylark's song. slowly soon i follow through the rustic lane, but the sight that greets me gives me pang of pain. strewed upon the pathway, fairy blue-bells lie, trampled, crushed and wilted, cast away to die. yet they lived not vainly though their life was brief, shedding gleams of gladness o'er a world of grief. and they taught a lesson,- rightly understood; by their mute endeavour striving to do good. a song of the snow oh the snow,--the bright fleecy snow! isn't it grand when the north breezes blow? isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er, with a jovial friend or the one you adore? how the ice crackles, and how the skates ring, how friends flit past you like birds on the wing. how the gay laugh ripples through the clear air, how bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair! few are the pleasures that life can bestow, to equal the charms of the beautiful snow. oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow! cruel and cold, as the shelterless know; huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags, wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags. gently it rests on the roof and the spire, and filling the streets with its slush and the mire, freezing the life out of poor, starving souls, wild whirling and drifting as boreas howls. hard is their lot who have no where to go, to shelter from storm and the merciless snow. oh, the snow,-the treacherous snow! up in a garret on pallet laid low! dying of hunger,--oh, sad is her fate;-no food in the cupboard,--no fire in the grate. a widening streak of frost crystals are shed, through the window's broke pane on the comfortless bed, and the child that she clasps to her chill milkless breast, has ended its troubles, and gone to its rest. husbandless,--childless, and friendless.--go slow,- she sleeps with her babe, and their shroud is the snow. oh, the snow, the health-giving snow! setting the cheeks of the children aglow, father and mother,--well fed and well clad, join in the frolic like young lass and lad. little they dream of the suffering and woe, of those shivering outcasts with nowhere to go. then they read from their paper with quivering breath, accounts of poor wand'rers found frozen to death, and their hearts with pure pity perchance overflow, but it vanishes soon, like the beautiful snow. hide not thy face. hide not thy face,--and though the road be dark and long and rough, with cheerfulness i'll bear my load, thy smile will be enough. all other helps i can forego, if with faith's eye i trace, through earthly clouds of grief and woe, the presence of thy face. hide not thy face;--weak, worn and oppressed with doubt and fear; still will i utter no complaint,- content if thou art near. thy loving hand my steps shall guide, and set my doubts at rest; in loving trust, whate'er betide, for thou, lord, knowest best. hide not thy face;--the tempter's wiles around my feet are spread; the world's applause,-the wanton's smiles, beset the path i tread. alone, too weak to fight the host of pleasure's vicious train, 'tis then i need thy succour most;- let me not seek in vain. hide not thy face, but day by day, shine out more clearly bright; until this narrow, thorny way, shall end in death's dark night. then freed from all the taints of sin, through thine abundant grace; the crown of righteousness i win, and see thee face to face. in my garden of roses. oh! come to me, darling! my sweet! here where the sunlight reposes; pink petals lie thick at my feet, here in my garden of rose's. oh! come to my bower! my queen! sweet with the breath of the flow'rs; shaded with curtains of green;- here let us dream through the hours. the sky is unfleck'd overhead,- trees languish in sol's fervid ray,-the earth to the heavens is wed, and robin is piping his lay. lost is their sweetness upon me; vainly their beauties displaying;-cheerless i wander, and lonely,- hoping and longing and praying. oh! come to me, queenliest flower! reign in my garden of roses; humbly we bow to thy power, loving the sway thou imposes. hark! 'tis her tinkling footfall! robin desist from thy singing; mar not those sounds that enthrall,- faint as a fairy bell's ringing. she cometh! my lily! my rose! queenlier,--purer, and sweeter! haste, every blossom that blows, pour out your perfumes to greet her! panting she rests in my arms;- now is my bower enchanted! essence of all this world's charms;- my heart has won all that it wanted. the match girl. merrily rang out the midnight bells, glad tidings of joy for all; as crouched a little shiv'ring child, close by the churchyard wall. the snow and sleet were pitiless, the wind played with her rags, she beat her bare, half frozen feet upon the heartless flags; a tattered shawl she tightly held with one hand, round her breast; whilst icicles shone in her hair, like gems in gold impressed, but on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears that fell too fast to freeze, rolled down, as soft she murmured, "do buy my matches, please." wee, weak, inheritor of want! she heard the christmas chimes, perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams, of by-gone, better times, the days before her mother died, when she was warmly clad; when food was plenty, and her heart from morn to night was glad. her father now is lying sick, she soon may be alone; he cannot use his spade and pick, as once he could have done. the workhouse door stands open wide, but should he enter there, they'd tear his darling from his side and place her anywhere. they'd call it charitable help, though breaking both their hearts; but then, when in adversity folks have to bear the smarts. some carriages go rolling by, gay laughter greets her ears; she envies not their better lot, she only sheds more tears, and now and then a passing step, will cause the tears to cease; as fainter, fainter, comes the plaint, "do buy my matches, please." darker the sky, colder the wind,- the bells are silent now;-she creeps still closer to the wall, and sinks upon the snow. the sound of revelry no more disturbs her weary ear, sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;- oblivion shuts out fear. the snow drifts to the churchyard wall, the graves with white are spread; but those gray walls do not enclose all of the near-by dead. the wind has ta'en the snowflakes, and gently as it might, has spread a shroud o'er one more lost and hid it from the sight. i would not wake her if i could, 'twas well for her she died; her spirit floated out upon the bells of christmastide, she breathed no prayer, nor thought of heaven,- her last faint words were these;-as time merged in eternity, "do buy my matches, please." but surely angels would be there, to shield her from all harm; and in christ's loving bosom, she could nestle and get warm. the wifeless, childless, stricken man, lies moaning in his pain-"come, let me bless thee e'er i die!" but she never came again. de profundis. down in the deeps of dark despair and woe;- of death expectant;--hope i put aside; counting the heartbeats, slowly, yet more slow,- marking the lazy ebb of life's last tide. sweet resignation, with her opiate breath, spread a light veil, oblivious, o'er the past, and all unwilling handmaid to remorseless death, shut out the pain of life's great scene,--the last. when, lo! from out the mist a slender form took shape and forward pressed and two bright eyes shone as two stars that gleam athwart the storm, grandly serene, amid the cloud-fleck'd skies. "not yet," she said, "there are some sands to run, ere he has reached life's limit, and no grain shall lie unused. then, when his fight is done, pronounce the verdict,--be it loss or gain." i felt her right hand lightly smooth my brow, her left hand on my heart; and a sweet thrill swept all the strings of being, and the flow of a full harmony aroused the dormant will. death slunk away, sweet resignation paled, and hope's bright star made all the future bright; the clouds were rent;--a woman's love prevailed, and dragged a sinking soul once more to love and light. angels there are who walk this troublous world, whose wings are hid beneath poor mortal clay, lest their effulgence to man's eyes unfurled, might scare the timid-hearted ones away. the whispered word, the smile, the gentle tone, love-prompted from a woman's heaving breast, enforce her claim to make the world her throne, beyond compare,--of all god's gifts the best. nettie. nettie, nettie! oh, she's pretty! with her wreath of golden curls; none compare with charming nettie, she's the prettiest of girls. not her face alone is sweetest,- nor her eyes the bluest blue, but her figure is the neatest of all forms i ever knew. but she has a fault,--the greatest that a pretty girl could have; when she's looking the sedatist, and pretending to be grave,-you discover, 'spite of hiding, what i feel constrained to tell; that she knows she is a beauty,- knows it,--knows it,--aye, too well. may be when the bloom has vanished; which we know in time it will; and her foolish fancies banished, may be, she'll be lovely still. for though time may put his finger, on her dainty-fashioned face; there will still some beauty linger, round her form so full of grace. and her heart,--the priceless treasure, which so many long to win, still shall prove a fount of pleasure, to the love that enters in. pity 'tis that fairest blossoms must in time fall from the tree; pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms must yield up their symmetry. brightest eyes will lose their love-light, fairest cheeks grow pale and gray;-golden locks will lose their sunlight, and the loveliest limbs decay. but whilst life is left we hunger for a taste of earthly bliss; but the man need seek no longer, who can call sweet nettie his. the dean's brother. a little lad, but thinly clad, all day had roamed the street; with stitled groans and aching bones, he beg'd for bread to eat. the wind blew shrill from o'er the hili, and shook his scanty rags; whilst cold and sleet benumbed his feet, as plodding o'er the flags. the night drew on with thick'ning gloom,- he hailed each passer by, for help to save, but nought they gave,- then he sat down to cry. it was a noble portico, 'neath which the beggar stept, and none would guess, one in distress there shiv'ring sat and wept. but soon the door was open thrown,- the dean, a goodly man; who lived within, had heard a moan, and came the cause to scan. "ah, little boy, what want you here, on such a bitter night? run home at once, you little dunce, or you'll be frozen quite." the boy looked at his cheery face, yet hid his own in dread; "i meant no harm, the place was warm, and i am begging bread; "and if you can a morsel spare, i'll thank you, oh! so much, for all day long i've begged and sung, and never had a touch." "step in," then said the kindly man, "and stand here in the hall, you shall have bread, poor starving child, i promise you you shall." and off he went, and soon returned with a thin, tempting slice, and little jemmy dapt his hands and cried, "oh, sir, that's nice!" "and what's your name, come tell me that?" "my name is jimmy pool." "and do you always beg all day instead of going to school? "and can you read, and can you write?" poor jimmy shook his head, "no, sir, i have to beg all day, at night i go to bed. "my mother lays me on the floor, upon a little rug; and i ne'er think of nothing more, when i'm so warm and snug. "sometimes i wake, and when i do, unless it's almost day, she's always there, upon her chair, working the night away. "it isn't much that she can make,- sometimes i think she'd die, but for her little jimmy's sake,- there's only her and i." "and do you ever pray, my boy?" "no, sir, i never tried, i never heard a praying word since my poor daddy died." "then let me teach you, little boy, just come now, let me see,-i know you'll manage if you try,- now say it after me. "our father,"--"our father,"--"right," "that art in heaven," "go on!" jimmy repeated every word, until the prayer was done. then turning up his hazel eyes, which questioning light shone through, he said, "that prayer sounds very nice,- is he your father too?" "yes, he is mine as well as yours, and lord of all you see." "far as i know, if that be so, my brother you must be." "yes we are brethren, every one, all equal in his sight." "well, i will _try_ to think so, sir, but i can't believe it _quite_. "it seems so strange that you should be akin to such as me, for you are rich, and great, and grand and i'm so poor you see." "but it is true, my little lad, and if to him you pray, he'll make your little heart feel glad,- he'll turn you not away." "well, if that's so, i'll learn to pray, i'll take your kind advice,-but if you are my brother, give me just one thicker slice. "and if he's father of us all,- now, as i'm going home, from your big share perhaps you'll spare your widowed sister some?" the dean's face wore a puzzled look, and then a look of joy; then said, "'tis you the teacher are, i am the scholar, boy." that night the widow's eyes were wet, but they were tears of joy,-'when she beheld the load of things brought by her little boy. and jimmy danced upon the flags, and cried, "there's few have seen, and ever thought that in these rags, stands brother to a dean." i would not live alway. "i would not live alway," why should i wish to stay, now, when grown old and grey, enduring slow decay? when power to do has fled, 'twere better to be dead-the tree that's ceased to bear, has no right to be there. who cares to keep a bird whose note is never heard? yet many things abound, encumbering the ground; useless, unsightly wrecks, that only serve to vex the sight of those who boast all that those wrecks have lost. if god gave me this life,-now, when worn out with strife, may i not give it back and move from out the track? this world is not for drones! the right to live each owns; but he to earn that right must work with all his might. when power to do has fled, 'twere better to be dead. the dog has had its day;-"i would not live alway." too late. how should i know, that day when first we met, i would be a day i never can forget? and yet 'tis so. that clasp of hands that made my heartstrings thrill, would not die out, but keeps vibrating still? how should i know? how should i know, that those bright eyes of thine would haunt me yet? and through grief's dark cloud shine, with that same glow? that thy sweet smile, so full of trust and love, should, beaming still, a priceless solace prove? how should i know? how should i know that one so good and fair, would condescend to spare a thought, or care, for one so low? i dared not hope such bliss could be in store;-how dare i who had known no love before? how should i know? but now i know- too late, alas! the prize can ne'er be mine, yet do i hug the pain, and bless the blow, knowing i love, and am loved in return, is bliss undying whilst life's lamp shall burn. yes, now i know. on the banks of the calder. on calder's green banks i stroll sadly and lonely, the flowers are blooming, the birds singing sweet, the river's low murmur seems whispering only, the name of the laddie i came here to meet. he promised yestre'en, by the thorn tree in blossom, he'd meet me to-night as the sun sank to rest, and a sprig of may blossom he put on my bosom, as his lips to my hot cheeks he lovingly prest. oh, where is my laddie? oh, where is my johnnie? oh, where is my laddie, so gallant and free? he's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, oh, johnnie,--my johnnie,--i'm waiting for thee. the night's growing dark and the shadows are eerie, the stars now peep out from the blue vault above; oh, why does he tarry? oh, where is my dearie? oh, what holds him back from the arms of his love? i know he's not false, by his kind eyes so blue,- and his tones were sincere when he called me his own; oh, he promised so fairly he'd ever be true,- but why does he leave me to wander alone? oh, where is my laddie? oh, where is my johnnie? oh, where is my laddie so gallant and free? he's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, oh, johnnie,--my johnnie, i'm waiting for thee. the moon now is up,--the owl hoots in the wood, the trees sigh and moan, and the water runs black; the tears down my cheeks roll a sorrowful flood,- and my heart throbs to tell me he'll never come back. oh, woe, woe is me! did he mean to betray? must my ruin the price of his perfidy be? no, the river shall hide me and bear me away; cold calder receive me, i'm coming to thee. oh, where is her laddie? oh, where is her johnnie? oh, where is her laddie that treated her so? but the voice of the river shall haunt him for ever, and his base heart shall never more happiness know. lines on receiving a bunch of wild hyacinths by post. sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells, how dear you are; bringing the scent of shady dells, to me from far; telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours,-nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers! oh, for a stroll when opening day silvers the dew, kissing the buds, whilst zephyrs play as though they knew their gentle breath was needed, just to shake your slumbering beauties, and to bid you wake. far from the moilding town and trade, how sweet to spend an hour amid the misty glade, and find a friend in every tiny blossom, and to lie, and dream of him whose love can never die. ye are gael's messengers, sent here to make us glad; mute, and yet eloquent, to cheer the heart that's sad; to turn our thoughts from sordid earthly gains, to that bright home where peace for ever reigns. how dare we murmur, when around on every side, such proofs of his great love abound, o'er the world wide? faith cannot die within these hearts of ours, if we but learn the lessons of the flowers. thanks to the one whose kindly heart was moved to send this gift, when we were far apart, to cheer a friend. sweet meditation now my mind employs; a pleasure pure, and one which never cloys. november's here. dullest month of all the year,-suicidal atmosphere, everything is dark and drear, filling nervous minds with fear, skies are seldom ever clear, fogs are ever hov'ring near,-'tis a heavy load to bear. were it not that life is dear, we should wish to disappear, for it puts us out of gear. but in vain we shed the tear, we must still cling to the rear of the year that now is near. though our eyes begin to blear, with fogs thick enough to shear, and we feel inclined to swear, at the month that comes to smear all things lovely, all things dear; we must bear and yet forbear. but some thoughts our spirits cheer, christmas time will soon be here, then at thee we'll scoff and jeer, smoke our pipes and drink our beer,-sit until brave chanticleer tells us that the morn is here. do thy worst, november drear! we can stand it, never fear,-christmas time will soon be here. mary. my mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow, by the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot; her brow is as fair as the fresh fallen snow, and the gleam of her smile can be never forgot. her figure is lithe and as graceful i ween as was venus when paris awarded the prize, she's the wiles of a fairy,--the step of a queen, and the light of true love's in her bonny brown eyes. to see was to love her,--to love was to mourn,- for her heart was as fickle as april days when you'd given her all and asked some return, you got but a taste of her false winsome ways. you never could tell, though you knew her so well, that her sweet fascinations were nothing but lies, like a fool you loved on when of hope there was none and your heart sought relief in her bonny brown eyes. yet 'tis sad to relate, though unhappy my fate, i would sacrifice all that on earth i hold dear, if she would but consent to be true, and content, with the heart that is faithful when distant or near. through pleasure and pain we together again, may never commingle our smiles and our sighs, but when sleeping or waking, i struggle in vain, to forget the sweet maid with the bonny brown eyes. oh, mary, my love! with the coo of the dove, i would woo thee to win thee, and ever to live, where thy bright loving face and thy figure of grace, could surround me with joys that none other can give. oh, say but a word, and i'll fly like a bird, to the one whom my heart will beat for till it dies, bid me come to my home, bid me come, bid me come, and bask in the light of thy bonny brown eyes. when cora died. bells ring out a joyful sound, old and young alike seem gay; one more year has gone its round, again we greet a new year's day. whilst to some they tell of cheer, other hearts may grief betide, for 'twas in the glad new year when our darling cora died. like a snowdrop, pure and fair, she had blossomed in our home; her we nursed with tender care, lest death's blighting frost should come. and we prayed to keep her here, but our pleading was denied;-early in the glad new year, little darling cora died. death had taken some before, some from whom 'twas hard to part; and their voices now no more, come to cheer the longing heart. in that one frail blossom dear, centered all our hope and pride; alas! then came the sad new year, when our darling cora died. since that time the pealing bells wake sad echoes in the heart; and the grief that in us dwells makes the tears unbidden start. though they ring so loud and clear, flinging gladness far and wide, they to me recall the year, when our darling cora died. the violet. little simple violet, glittering with dewy wet, hidden by protecting grass all unheeded we should pass were it not the rich perfume, leads us on to find the bloom which so modestly does dwell, sweetly scenting all the dell. simple little violet;-lessons i shall ne'er forget by thy modest mien were taught,-rich in peace,--with wisdom fraught. oft i've laid me down to rest, with thy blossoms on my breast; screen'd from noontide's sunny flood, by some monarch of the wood. i have thought and dreamed of thee, clad in such simplicity; yet so rich in fragrance sweet, that exhales from thy retreat; and i've seen the gaudy flower blest alone with beauty's dower;-have looked,--admired,--then bid them go,-violet,--i love thee so. rival, thou hast none to fear, for to me thou art most dear;-buttercups and daisies vie, 'with thy charms to please the eye, roses red and lillies white, all enchanting to the sight; yield me joys sincere, but yet thou'rt my favorite,--violet. repentant. oh lend me thy hand in the darkness, lead me once more to the light, bear with my folly and weakness, point me the way to do right. long have i groped in the shadow of error, temptation and doubt, in the maze i've strayed hither and thither, vainly seeking to find a way out. when i grasp thy firm hand in the darkness, courage takes place of my fear; no more do i shudder and tremble, when i know that my loved one is near. from sorrow and trouble, oh, lead me;- from dangers that sorely affright, till at last every terror shall leave me, and i rest in thine own loving light. rest! aye, rest! if i have thy forgiveness, if thy strong arm about me is twined; let the past, like a horrible vision, be for ever cast out of thy mind. when i wilfully all my vows slighted, and sought joy in a glittering sin, i found but two lives that were blighted, two hearts filled with ruin within. oh, take me again to thy bosom, with a kiss, tho' it be on my brow; and forgive one who wayward and sinful, ne'er knew how she loved thee till now. and keep me away from the darkness, let thy hand lead me on evermore, let me cling to thee, bless thee, and love thee, as no loved one was e'er loved before. sunset. last eve the sun went down like a globe of glorious fire; into a sea of gold i watched the orb expire. it seemed the fitting end for the brightness it had shed, and the cloudlets he had kissed long lingered over head. all vegetation drooped, as if with pleasure faint: the lily closed its cup to guard 'gainst storm and taint. the cool refreshing dew fell softly to the earth, all lovely things to cheer, and call more beauties forth. and as i sat and thought on nature's wond'rous plan, i felt with some regret, how small a thing is man. however bright he be, his efforts are confined, yet maybe, if he will, leave some rich fruits behind. the sun that kissed the flowers, and made the earth look gay, was culling, through the hours, rich treasures on his way. and when the day was dead, his stored up riches fell, and to the moon arose incense from hill and dell. and when our span of life is ended, will it be through such a glorious death we greet eternity? what have we said or done in all the long years passed! and may not such as me, forgotten, die at last? poetry and prose. do you remember the wood, love, that skirted the meadow so green; where the cooing was heard of the stock-dove, and the sunlight just glinted between. the trees, that with branches entwining made shade, where we wandered in bliss, and our eyes with true love-light were shining,- when you gave me the first loving kiss? the ferns grew tall, graceful and fair, but none were so graceful as you; wild flow'rs in profusion were there, but your eyes were a lovelier blue; and the tint on your cheek shamed the rose, and your brow as the lily was white, and your curls, bright as gold, when it glows, in the crucible, liquid and bright. and do you remember the stile, where so cosily sitting at eve, breathing forth ardent love-vows the while, we were only too glad to believe? and the castles we built in the air, oh! what glorious structures were they! no temple all earth was so fair,- but alas! they all vanished away. and do you remember the time, when cruel fate forced us apart, when with resignation sublime we obeyed, though with pain in each heart. then years dragged their wearisome round, and we ne'er again met as of yore,-but we did meet at last and we found, things were not as they had been before. you'd a child on your rough sunburned arm, and your husband had one on his knee, and i had my own little swarm, for i was the father of three. and i know we both thought of the days when love and romance filled each heart, now, we both have our children to raise,- you're washing,--i'm driving a cart. years ago. annie i dreamed a strange dream last night, at my bedside, i dreamed, you stood clad in white; your dark curly hair 'round your snow-white brow,-(are those locks as raven and curly now?) and those rosebud lips, which in days lang syne, i have kissed and blest, because they were mine. and thine eyes soft light, shone as mellow and bright, as it did years ago,- years ago. and i fancy i heard the soft soothing sound of thy voice, that sweet melody breathed all around, whilst enraptured i gazed, and once more the sweet smile, made sunshine, my sorrowing heart to beguile, and thy milkwhite hands stroked my heated brow;-(oh! what would i give could i feel them now!) but alas! woe is me! no more can it be, as it was years ago,- years ago. i awoke with a gnawing pain at my heart, the vision had vanished,--but oh, the smart of the wound, which no time can ever heal, was a torment, which only lost souls can feel. yet in spite of the pain, the woe, the despair, i dote, as i look on a lock of dark hair, that i culled from the head, of the loveliest maid; many long years ago,- years ago. will fate ever bring us together again? will my heart never know a surcease from pain? are the dark locks i worshipped, now mingled with grey? has time stolen brightness and beauty away? i care not,--for years have but made thee more dear; but my longing is vain, thou wilt ne'er come again. lost,--lost,--years ago,- years ago. somebody's. oh, isn't it nice to be somebody's?- somebody's darling and pet, to be shrined in the heart of a dear one, whose absence fills soul with regret? to be dreamed of, and longed for, and courted, as the queen whom his heart holds in thrall,-as the one--the great one, priceless jewel, that outweighs and outvalues them all? oh,--i'd rather my head should be resting, on the breast of the man that i love; and my hand in his strong grasp be nestling, and bask in the light of his love:-i would rather,--far rather, my darling should be loving, and faithful, and brave, than be titled, and wealthy, and fickle;- e'en though poverty held him a slave. oh, my heart yearns for one that is noble,- in mind, not in riches or birth, who would love me, and value my love too, then my lot would be heaven on earth. but where, alas, where shall i find him? this man, that my heart longs for so? this idol i picture and dream of,- does he live? i'm inclined to say, no. he is merely a fanciful hero, that my heart has pictured so fair: i must stoop from my realm of wild fancy, and take what may fall to my share. some plain, honest, working mechanic, may be the prize i may call mine, but if shaped like a man he'll be better, nor be left lonely, without valentine. claude. i named him claude, 'twas a strange conceit, 'twas a name that no relatives ever bore; yet there lingered around it a mem'ry sweet, of a face and a voice i miss evermore. i was pacing the deck of a captive ship, that was straining its cables to get away, from the parched up town, and its crowded slip, to its home on the wave and its life in the spray. when i saw the beautiful, sorrowful dame,-and never, oh, never, shall i forget the sweet chord struck as she spoke the name, that thrilled through my being and lingers yet. 'twas a winsome woman with raven hair, and a lovely face, and a beaming eye, with a smile that of joy and sorrow had share, and her form had the charms for which sculptors vie. i never had seen such a lovely hand, as the one that she pressed to her snowy brow; and her parted lips, showed a glistening band, of pearly teeth in an even row. a fragrant scent like a rose's breath, hung round her and seemed of herself a part, and a bouquet of lillies as pale as death, drooped sadly above her beating heart. she only uttered the one word, "claude," but oh! 'twas so touchingly, sweetly said;-a volume of grief expressed in a word, as she stedfastly gazed through the void overhead. then i noticed the sombre garments she wore, and i knew the grim reaper had gathered her flower 'twas the sense of the heart-crushing sorrow she bore, invested that name with such marvellous power. she went ashore, and we sailed away, 'twas the first and the only time ever we met, but my memory limns her as lovely to-day, as she was on that day i can never forget. months after, my baby boy came unto me, and i gave him the name she had breathed in her sigh, he was fair and sweet as the bloom on the tree, yet he never felt mine, though i could not tell why. but that musical note floated round in the air,-"claude!--claude!" sang the zephyrs that softly sped by, and his eyes had a far-a way look, as if there, far beyond, he could see what i failed to descry. one eve, in the gloaming, i hushed him to rest, and the trees whispered "claude" as they waved overhead, he smiled as he nestled more close to my breast,-and i wept,--for i knew that my darling was dead. all on a christmas morning. the wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick, deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew; a young mother lay in her cottage, sick,- her needs were many, her comforts few. clasped to her breast was a newborn child, unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe; and away, far away, in the tempest wild, was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow. all on a christmas morning, long ago. the lamp burned low, and the fire was dead, and the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack: as she tossed and turned in her lowly bed, and murmured, "good lord, bring my husband back." the clocks in the city had told the hour with a single stroke, for young was the day but no swelling note from the loftiest tower, could reach that lone cot where a mother lay. all on a christmas morning, long ago. high on the moorland that crowned the hill, bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep, fighting for life with a desperate will, lost,--wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep, was the husband and father, with grief almost wild, bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed, that he'd been to obtain for his wife and child;- then exhausted he sank.--and it snowed,--and it snowed. all on a christmas morning, long ago. the sun arose on a world so white, that glistened and sparkled beneath his ray: and the children's faces looked just as bright, as they cried, "what a glorious christmas day!" in a lowly cot lay a stiff white form,- and all was still, save a pitiful wail;-no more should that mother fear sickness or storm;- together, two spirits sped through the dark vale. all on a christmas morning, long ago. friends who were coming to bring good cheer, found a young babe sucking a cold white breast. noiselessly, reverently, gathering near, the orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed. the parents were laid side by side in the grave, and the babe grew in beauty of face and of form; and they still call her snowdrop, the name that they gave,- sweet snowdrop,--the frail little flower of the storm. all on a christmas morning, long ago. once upon a time. when dull november's misty shroud, all nature's charms depress, flinging a damp, dark, deadening cloud, o'er each heart's joyousness. our fancies quit their lighter vein, and out from memory's shrine, we marshal thoughts of grief and pain, known,--once upon a time. 'tis then that faces, long forgot, in shadows reappear;-voices, that once we heeded not, come whispering in the ear; and ghosts of friends whom once we met, when life was in its prime, recall acts we would fain forget, done,--once upon time. regretfull sighs for thoughtless deeds, that worked another wrong; vows that we broke, like rotten reeds like spectres glide along; tears naught avail to heal the smart, we caused--nor deemed it crime, whilst selfishly we wrung a heart, loved,--once upon a time. oh, could we but, as on we go, care more for other's weal, nor deem all joys earth can bestow, are but for us to feel; then howe'er humble, howe'er poor, our lives would be sublime, nor should we dread to ponder o'er, days,--once upon a time. nearing home. we are near the last bend of the river, soon will the prospect be bright; already the waves seem to quiver, as touched with celestial light. since first we were launched on its bosom, strange hap'nings and perils we've passed, but we've braved and endured them together and we're nearing the haven at last. we are near the last bend of lifes river, around, all is tranquil and calm; the tempests that passed us can never, again strike our souls with alarm. we are drifting,--unconsciously gliding, down time's river--my darling and me. and soon in love's sweet trust abiding, we shall sail on eternities sea. oh, how the soul strains with its yearning to see what is hid beyond this, this life, with its pain and heartburning- the beyond, where is nothing but bliss. our life's sun has touched the horizon, it will speedily dip out of sight, and then what? will a new morn be rising? or will it for ever be night? those tiny fingers. she has gone for ever from earth away, yet those tiny fingers haunt me still; in the silent night, when the moons pale ray, silvers the leaves on the window sill. just between sleeping and waking i lie, makebelieve feeling their velvet touch, darling! my darling! oh, why should you die! leaving me lonely, who loved so much? those tiny fingers that used to stray over my face which is wrinkled now; those little white hands--how they used to play, with the wanton curls round my once fair brow. thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks, i seem to see now as i saw them then; and a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks,- 'thou shalt meet her again,'--but when? oh, when? deep in the grave was the coffin laid, and buried with it was my purest love; oh, how i'd hoped, and watched, and prayed, that death would pass by and spare my dove, was it in mercy god took thee hence? was it because i had worshipped thee so? was my devotion to thee an offence? i was thy mother,--and god must know. if it were sinful, my tears have atoned; at last i can murmur, "thy will be done," sweet little cherub, to me but loaned, now safe at home, far beyond the sun. soon the dark river i too shall cross, and hopefully climb up that golden stair, and all this world's riches will be but dross, if those tiny fingers beckon me there. lilly-white hand. place thy lilly-white hand in mine, maid with the wealth of golden hair;-tresses, that gleaming like gold, entwine, round about a sweet face so fair. sweetheart, oh! whisper once more the words, that came from those coral lips of thine, and bound thee to me by those silken cords,- and place thy lilly-white hand in mine, place thy lilly-white hand in mine, that its gentle pressure may tell my heart that the idol round which i had reared a shrine, is mine,--mine,--never from me to part. sweetest and fairest of woman kind! gentlest, kindest, lovingest, best,-virtues with beauties are so combined, that manhood pays homage at love's behest. place thy lilly-white hand in mine, let its velvet touch on my horny palm, comfort, encourage, embolden, refine,- this grosser clay, by its subtle charm. long as life lasts let me clasp thy hand, as a pledge of our oneness, existing now; and when i depart for the better land, let it rest for a while on my death-cold brow. falsehood, treachery, sickness, pain,- i have endured, yet hopefully stand strong in the thought i have lived not in vain. had i won but this treasure,--this lilly-white hand. shut out. _"the drunkard shall not enter the kingdom of heaven."_ far, far beyond the skies, the land of promise lies; when death our souls release, a home of love and peace, has been prepared for all, who heed the gracious call, drunkards that goal ne'er win,-they cannot enter in. time noiselessly flits by, eternity draws nigh; will the fleet joy you gain, compensate for the pain, that through an endless day, will wring your soul for aye? slave to beer, rum, or gin, you cannot enter in. dash down the flowing bowl, endanger not thy soul; ponder those words of dread, that god himself has said. hurl the vile tempter down, and win and wear the crown, drunkard, forsake thy sin, thou mayst then enter in. charming may. "o! charming may!" that's what they say. the saying is not new,-the saying is not true;- o! may! bare fields and icebound streams, sunshine in fitful gleams, may smile beguile, and dispel poets' dreams. was ever may so gay as what the poets say? if so, we know, we live not in their day. a cosy coat and wrap, you may not find mishap- propo you know when comes the next cold snap. a heavy woollen scarf, strong boots that reach the calf,- away we go through snow and slush and wet,-and can we once forget 'tis may? oh, no! best is the old advice which we so oft despise, "cast not a clout till may goes out." may like a maiden, lies. a maypole dance.--o, my! such sport is all "my eye," just try, i tried it and i know, the snow, the blow, the aching toes, the smarting nose. i all defied, and loudly cried "come on, each one, be gay! be gay!--'tis may! tis may" they laughed and shook the head, and this is what they said, "old skunk, he's drunk." still we do love her so,- her truth? o, no! she's like some fancy fickle, she lands you in a pickle, you grin and bear, maybe you swear in manner most alarming, and yet--sweet may is charming. who cares? down in a cellar cottage in a dark and lonely street, was sat a widow and her boy, with nothing left to eat. the night was wild and stormy, the wind howl'd round the door, and heavy rain drops from above kept dripping to the floor. they had no candle burning, the fire was long since dead, a wretched heap of straw was all they had to call a bed. they nestled close together, on the cold and dampy ground, and as the storm rush'd past them, they trembled at the sound. "mother," the poor boy whispered, "may i not go again? i do not heed the wind, mother, i'm not afraid of rain. "may i not go and beg, mother, for you are very ill; some one will give me something, mother, i'm sure they will? "do let me go and try, mother, you know i won't be long; i did feel weak and tired, mother, but now i feel quite strong. "give me a kiss before i go, and pray whilst i'm away, that i may meet some christian friend, who will not say me nay." "dear boy, the night is stormy, your ragged clothes are thin, and soon the heavy rain-drops will wet you to the skin. "i would go out myself, boy, but, oh! i cannot rise, i am too weak to dry the tears that roll down from my eyes. "i fear i soon must go, love, and leave my boy alone. and oh! what can you do, love, when i am dead and gone?" "mother, you set me weeping, don't talk in such a strain, your tears are worse for me to bear than all the wind and rain. "wait till i'm rather bigger, and then i'll work all day, and shan't we both be happy when i bring you home my pay? "then you shall have some tea, mother, and bread as white as snow; you won't be sickly then, mother, you'll soon get well, i know. "and when that time shall come, mother, you shall have some sunday clothes, then you can go to church, mother- you cannot go in those. "and then i'll take you walking, and you shall see the flowers, and sit upon the sweet green grass beneath the trees for hours. "but i will haste away, mother, i won't be long--good bye!" "farewell, my boy," she murmured, then she laid her down to die. ---------the lamps were dimly shining, and the waters in a flood, came rolling o'er the pavement, where the little beggar stood. he listened for a footstep, then he hurried on the street, but the wind roared with such fury, till he scarce could keep his feet. a few there were who passed him, but they had no time to stay; they did not even stop to look, but hurried quick away. he passed the marts of business, where the gaslights were ablaze, and saw the countless heaps of things displayed to meet the gaze. one window held him spell-bound- from end to end 'twas piled with loaves of bread a tempting sight to a half-famished child. he clapped his little cold wet hands, and almost danced for joy, it seemed a glimpse of paradise to that poor hungry boy. with timid step he ventured in, and, trembling, thus began:-"please, sir, i've come to beg for bread- do help me if you can. "i do not want it for myself, my mother, too, shall share; do give me just one little crust, if you've a crust to spare." "give!" cried the shopman in a rage- "what shall we live to see? go tell your mother she must work, and earn her bread, like me." "but mother, sir, is very sick, she cannot work, i'm sure; father died some months ago, and left us very poor. "she has not tasted food for days. and die i fear she must. unless you'll help us, christian sir; do spare a little crust!" "i'll spare you nothing, saucy imp! away this moment! run! and tell your sickly mother i cannot thus be done!" he left the shop, and in the street he sat him down to cry, he heard the trampling of the feet of those who passed him by. he could not ask another, for his every hope had fled,-('tis sad that in a land like this a child needs beg for bread.) wet, cold, and faint, he reached his home, no richer than before, and noiselessly he entered in, and gently closed the door. there is no sound, the mother sleeps- then groping for the bed, he bent his weak and stiffened knees, and bowed his weary head, and pray'd "that god would grant them help, and bring them safely through." the whisper'd prayer was borne above, was heard, and answered too: and when the morning's sun looked in, and filled the place with light, two lifeless bodies on the straw was all that met the sight. thus were they found, alone, and dead, no reason left to show how they had come to that sad end; and no one cared to know. the revellers by louis tracy author of "the wings of the morning," "the postmaster's daughter," etc., etc. new york edward j. clode copyright, 1917, by edward j. clode all rights reserved printed in the united states of america _by_ louis tracy the wings of the morning the captain of the kansas the wheel o' fortune a son of the immortals cynthia's chauffeur the message the stowaway the pillar of light the silent barrier the "mind the paint" girl one wonderful night the terms of surrender flower of the gorse the red year the great mogul mirabel's island the day of wrath his unknown wife the postmaster's daughter the revellers contents chapter page i. questionings 1 ii. strangers, indeed 13 iii. the seeds of mischief 27 iv. the feast 40 v. "it is the first step that counts" 55 vi. wherein the red blood flows 71 vii. george pickering plays the man 88 viii. showing how martin's horizon widens 100 ix. the wildcat 115 x. deepening shadows 128 xi. for one, the night; for another, the dawn 140 xii. a friendly argument 153 xiii. a dying deposition 172 xiv. the storm 190 xv. the unwritten law 206 xvi. undercurrents 225 xvii. two moorland episodes 243 xviii. the seven full years 272 xix. out of the mists 292 xx. the rigor of the game 307 xxi. nearing the end 323 chapter i questionings "and the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, o my son absalom, my son, my son absalom! would god i had died for thee, o absalom, my son, my son!" the voice of the reader was strident, his utterance uneven, his diction illiterate. yet he concluded the 18th chapter of the second book of samuel with an unctuous force born of long familiarity with the text. his laborious drone revealed no consciousness of the humanism of the jewish king. to suggest that the bible contained a mine of literature, a series of stories of surpassing interest, portraying as truthfully the lives of the men and women of to-day as of the nomad race which a personal god led through the wilderness, would have provoked from this man's mouth a sluggish flood of protest. the slow-moving lips, set tight after each syllabic struggle, the shaggy eyebrows overhanging horn-rimmed spectacles, the beetling forehead and bull-like head sunk between massive shoulders, the very clutch of the big hands on the bible held stiffly at a distance, bespoke a triumphant dogmatism that found as little actuality in the heartbroken cry of david as in a description of a seven-branched candlestick. the boy who listened wondered why people should "think such a lot about" high priests and kings who died so long ago. david was interesting enough as a youth. the slaying of goliath, the charming of saul with sweet music on a harp, appealed to the vivid, if unformed, imagination of fourteen. but the temptation of the man, the splendid efforts of the monarch to rule a peevish people--these were lost on him. worse, they wearied him, because, as it happened, he had a reasoning brain. he refused to credit all that he heard. it was hard to believe that any man's hair could catch in an oak so that he should be lifted up between heaven and earth, merely because he rode beneath the tree on the back of a mule. this sounded like the language of exaggeration, and sturdy little martin court bolland hated exaggeration. again, he took the winged words literally, and the ease with which david saw, heard, spoke to the lord was disturbing. such things were manifestly impossible if david resembled other men, and that there were similarities between the ruler of israel and certain male inhabitants of elmsdale was suggested by numberless episodes of the very human history writ in the book of kings. "the lord" was a terrific personality to martin--a personality seated on thunder-cloud, of which the upper rim of gold and silver, shining gloriously against a cerulean sky, was heaven, and the sullen blackness beneath, from which thunder bellowed and lightning flashed, was hell. how could a mere man, one who pursued women like a too susceptible plowman, one who "smote" his fellows, and "kissed" them, and ate with them, hold instant communion with the tremendous unseen, the ruler of sun and storm, the mover of worlds? "david inquired of the lord"; "david said to the lord"; "the lord answered unto david"--these phrases tortured a busy intelligence, and caused the big brown eyes to flash restlessly toward the distant hills, while quick ears and retentive brain paid close heed to the text. for it was the word, not the spirit, that john bolland insisted on. the boy knew too well the penalty of forgetfulness. during half an hour, from five o'clock each day, he was led drearily through the sacred book; if he failed to answer correctly the five minutes' questioning which followed, the lesson was repeated, verse for verse, again, and yet again, as a punishment. at half-past four o'clock the high tea of a north-country farmhouse was served. then the huge bible was produced solemnly, and no stress of circumstances, no temporary call of other business, was permitted to interfere with this daily task. at times, bolland would be absent at fairs or detained in some distant portion of the farm. but martin's "portion of the scriptures" would be marked for careful reading, and severe corporal chastisement corrected any negligence. such was the old farmer's mania in this regard that his portly, kind-hearted wife became as strict as john himself in supervising the boy's lesson, merely because she dreaded the scene that would follow the slightest lapse. so martin could answer glibly that ahimaaz was the son of zadok and that joab plunged three darts into absalom's heart while the scapegrace dangled from the oak. of the love that david bore his son, of the statecraft that impelled a servant of israel to slay the disturber of the national peace, there was never a hint. bolland's stark gospel was harshly definite. there was no channel in his gnarled soul for the turbulent life-stream flowing through the ancient text. the cold-blooded murder of absalom, it is true, induced in the boy's mind a certain degree of belief in the narrative, a belief somewhat strained by the manner of absalom's capture. through his brain danced a _tableau vivant_ of the scene in the wood. he saw the gayly caparisoned mule gallop madly away, leaving its rider struggling with desperate arms to free his hair from the rough grasp of the oak. then, through the trees came a startled man-at-arms, who ran back and brought one other, a stately warrior in accouterments that shone like silver. a squabble arose between them as to the exact nature of the king's order concerning this same absalom, but it was speedily determined by the leader, joab, snatching three arrows from the soldier's quiver and plunging them viciously, one after the other, into the breast of the man hanging between the heaven and the earth. martin wondered if absalom spoke to joab. did he cry for mercy? did his eyes glare awfully at his relentless foe? did he squeal pitiful gibberish like tom chandler did when he chopped off his fingers in the hay-cutter? how beastly it must be to be suspended by your own hair, and see a man come forward with three barbed darts which he sticks into your palpitating bosom, probably cursing you the while! and then appeared from the depths of the wood ten young men, who behaved like cowardly savages, for they hacked the poor corpse with sword and spear, and made mock of a gallant if erring soldier who would have slain them all if he met them on equal terms. this was the picture that flitted before the boy's eyes, and for one instant his tongue forgot its habitual restraint. "father," he said, "why didn't david ask god to save his son, if he wished him to live?" "nay, lad, i doan't knoä. you mun listen te what's written i' t' book--no more an' no less. i doan't ho'd wi' their commentaries an' explanations, an' what oor passon calls anilitical disquisitions. tak' t' word as it stands. that's all 'at any man wants." now, be it observed that the boy used good english, whereas the man spoke in the broad dialect of the dales. moreover, bolland, an out-and-out dissenter, was clannish enough to speak of "our" parson, meaning thereby the vicar of the parish, a gentleman whom he held at arm's length in politics and religion. the latter discrepancy was a mere village colloquialism; the other--the marked difference between father and son--was startling, not alone by reason of their varying speech, but by the queer contrast they offered in manners and appearance. bolland was a typical yeoman of the moor edge, a tall, strong man, twisted and bent like the oak which betrayed absalom, slow in his movements, heavy of foot, and clothed in brown corduroy which resembled curiously the weatherbeaten bark of a tree. there was a rugged dignity in his bearded face, and the huge spectacles he had now pushed high up on his forehead lent a semblance of greater age than he could lay claim to. yet was he a lineal descendant of gurth, the swineherd, gurth, uncouth and unidealized. the boy, a sturdy, country-built youngster in figure and attire, had a face of much promise. his brow was lofty and open, his mouth firm and well formed, his eyes fearless, if a trifle dreamy at times. his hands, too, were not those of a farmer's son. strong they were and scarred with much use, but the fingers tapered elegantly, and the thumbs were long and straight. certainly, the heavy-browed farmer, with his drooping nether lip and clumsy spatulate digits, had not bequeathed these bucolic attributes to his son. as they sat there, in the cheerful kitchen where the sunbeams fell on sanded floor and danced on the burnished contents of a full "dresser," they presented a dissimilarity that was an outrage on heredity. usually, the reading ended, martin effaced himself by way of the back door. thence, through a garden orchard that skirted the farmyard, he would run across a meadow, jump two hedges into the lane which led back to the village street, and so reach the green where the children played after school hours. he was forced early to practice a degree of dissimulation. though he hated a lie, he at least acted a reverent appreciation of the chapter just perused. his boyish impulses lay with the cricketers, the minnow-catchers, the players of prisoner's base, the joyous patrons of well-worn "pitch" and gurgling brook. but he knew that the slightest indication of grudging this daily half-hour would mean the confiscation of the free romp until supper-time at half-past eight. so he paid heed to the lesson, and won high praise from his preceptor in the oft-expressed opinion: "martin will make a rare man i' time." to-day he did not hurry away as usual. for one reason, he was going with a gamekeeper to see some ferreting at six o'clock, and there was plenty of time; for another, it thrilled him to find that there were episodes in the bible quite as exciting as any in the pages of "the scalp-hunters," a forbidden work now hidden with others in the store of dried bracken at the back of the cow-byre. so he said rather carelessly: "i wonder if he kicked?" "you wunner if wheä kicked?" came the slow response. "absalom, when joab stabbed him. the other day, when the pigs were killed, they all kicked like mad." bolland laid down the bible and glanced at martin with a puzzled air. he was not annoyed or even surprised at the unlooked-for deduction. it had simply never occurred to him that one might read the bible and construct actualities from the plain-spoken text. "hoo div' i knoä?" he said calmly; "it says nowt about it i' t' chapter." then martin awoke with a start. he saw how nearly he had betrayed himself a second time, how ready were the lips to utter ungoverned thoughts. he flushed slightly. "is that all for to-day, father?" he said. before bolland could answer, there came a knock at the door. "see wheä that is," said the farmer, readjusting his spectacles. a big, hearty-looking young man entered. he wore clothes of a sporting cut and carried a hunting-crop, with the long lash gathered in his fingers. "oah, it's you, is it, mr. pickerin'?" said bolland, and martin's quick ears caught a note of restraint, almost of hostility, in the question. "yes, mr. bolland, an' how are ye?" was the more friendly greeting. "i just dropped in to have a settlement about that beast." "a sattlement! what soart o' sattlement?" the visitor sat down, uninvited, and produced some papers from his pocket. "well, mr. bolland," he said quietly, "it's not more'n four months since i gave you sixty pounds for a thoroughbred shorthorn, supposed to be in calf to bainesse boy the third." "right enough, mr. pickerin'. you've gotten t' certificates and t' receipt for t' stud fee." martin detected the latent animosity in both voices. the reiterated use of the prefix "mr." was an exaggerated politeness that boded a dispute. "receipts, certificates!" cried pickering testily. "what good are they to me? she cannot carry a calf. for all the use i can make of her, i might as well have thrown the money in the fire." "eh, but she's a well-bred 'un," said bolland, with sapient head-shake. "she might be a first-prize winner at the royal by her shape and markings; but, as matters stand, she'll bring only fifteen pounds from a butcher. i stand to lose forty-five pounds by the bargain." "you canna fly i' t' feäce o' providence, mr. pickerin'." "providence has little to do with it, i fancy. i can sell her to somebody else, if i like to work a swindle with her. i had my doubts at the time that she was too cheap." john bolland rose. his red face was dusky with anger, and it sent a pang through martin's heart to see something of fear there, too. "noo, what are ye drivin' at?" he growled, speaking with ominous calmness. "you know well enough," came the straight answer. "the poor thing has something wrong with her, and she will never hold a calf. look here, bolland, meet me fairly in the matter. either give me back twenty pounds, and we'll cry 'quits,' or sell me another next spring at the same price, and i'll take my luck." perhaps this _via media_ might have been adopted had it presented itself earlier. but the word "swindle" stuck in the farmer's throat, and he sank back into his chair. "nay, nay," he said. "a bargain's a bargain. you've gotten t' papers----" it was the buyer's turn to rise. "to the devil with you and your papers!" he shouted. "do you think i came here without making sure of my facts? twice has this cow been in calf in your byre, and each time she missed. you knew her failing, and sold her under false pretenses. of course, i cannot prove it, or i would have the law of you; but i did think you would act squarely." for some reason the elder bolland was in a towering rage. martin had never before seen him so angry, and the boy was perplexed by the knowledge that what pickering said was quite true. "i'll not be sworn at nor threatened wi' t' law in my own house," bellowed the farmer. "get out! look tiv' your own business an' leave me te follow mine." pickering, too, was in a mighty temper. he took a half stride forward and shook out the thong of the whip. "you psalm-singing humbug!" he thundered. "if you were a younger man----" martin jumped between them; his right hand clenched a heavy kitchen poker. pickering half turned to the door with a bitter laugh. "all right, my young cub!" he shouted. "i'm not such a fool, thank goodness, as to make bad worse. it's lucky for you, boy, that you are not of the same kidney as that old ranter there. catch me ever having more to do with any of his breed." "an' what affair is it of yours, mr. pickerin', who the boy belongs to? if all tales be true, _you_ can't afford to throw stones at other folks's glass houses!" mrs. bolland, stout, hooded, aproned, and fiery red in face, had come from the dairy, and now took a hand in the argument. pickering, annoyed at the unlooked-for presence of a woman, said sternly: "talk to your husband, not to me, ma'am. he wronged me by getting three times the value for a useless beast, and if you can convince him that he took an unfair advantage, i'm willing, even now----" but mrs. bolland had caught the flicker of amazement in martin's eye and was not to be mollified. "who are you, i'd like to know?" she shrilled, "coomin' te one's house an' scandalizin' us? a nice thing, to be sure, for a man like you to call john bolland a wrongdoer. the cow won't calve, won't she? 'tis a dispensation on you, george pickerin'. you're payin' for yer own misdeeds. there's plenty i' elmsdale wheä ken your char-ak-ter, let me tell you that. what's become o' betsy thwaites?" but pickering had resigned the contest. he was striding toward the "black lion," where a dogcart awaited him, and he laughed to himself as the flood of vituperation swelled from the door of the farm. "gad!" he muttered, "how these women must cackle in the market! one old cow is hardly worth so much fuss!" still smiling at the storm he had raised, he gathered the reins, gave fred, the ostler, a sixpence, and would have driven off had he not seen a pretty serving-maid gazing out through an upper window. her face looked familiar. "hello!" he cried. "you and i know each other, don't we?" "no, we doan't; an' we're not likely to," was the pert reply. "eh, my! what have i done now?" "nowt to me, but my sister is betsy thwaites." "the deuce she is! betsy isn't half as nice-looking as you." "more shame on you that says it." "but, my dear girl, one should tell the truth and shame the devil." "just listen to him!" yet the window was raised a little higher, and the girl leaned out, for pickering was a handsome man, with a tremendous reputation for gallantry of a somewhat pronounced type. fred, the stable help, struck the cob smartly with his open hand. pickering swore, and bade him leave the mare alone and be off. "i was sorry for betsy," he said, when the prancing pony was quieted, "but she and i agreed to differ. i got her a place at hereford, and hope she'll be married soon." "you'll get me no place at hereford, mr. pickerin'"--this with a coquettish toss of the head. "of course not. when is the feast here?" "next monday it starts." "very well. good-by. i'll see you on monday." he blew her a kiss, and she laughed. as the smart turnout rattled through the village she looked after him. "betsy always did say he was such a man," she murmured. "i'll smack his feäce, though, if he comes near me a-monday." and fred, leaning sulkily over the yard gate, spat viciously on pickering's sixpence. "coomin' here for t' feäst, is he?" he growled. "happen he'd better bide i' nottonby." chapter ii strangers, indeed pickering left ruffled breasts behind him. the big farm in the center of the village was known as the white house, and had been owned by a bolland since there were bollands in the county. it was perched on a bank that rose steeply some twenty feet or more from the main road. cartways of stiff gradient led down to the thoroughfare on either hand. a strong retaining wall, crowned with gooseberry bushes, marked the confines of the garden, which adjoined a row of cottages tenanted by laborers. then came the white house itself, thatched, cleanly, comfortable-looking; beyond it, all fronting on the road, were stables and outbuildings. behind lay the remainder of the kitchen garden and an orchard, backed by a strip of meadowland that climbed rapidly toward the free moor with its whins and heather--a far-flung range of mountain given over to grouse and hardy sheep, and cleft by tiny ravines of exceeding beauty. across the village street stood some modern iron-roofed buildings, where bolland kept his prize stock, and here was situated the real approach to the couple of hundred acres of rich arable land which he farmed. the house and rear pastures were his own; he rented the rest. of late years he had ceased to grow grain, save for the limited purposes of his stock, and had gone in more and more for pedigree cattle. pickering's words had hurt him sorely, since they held an element of truth. the actual facts were these: one of his best cows had injured herself by jumping a fence, and a calf was born prematurely. oddly enough, a similar accident had occurred the following year. on the third occasion, when the animal was mated with bainesse boy iii, bolland thought it best not to tempt fortune again, but sold her for something less than the enhanced value which the circumstances warranted. from a similar dam and the same sire he bred a yearling bull which realized £250, or nearly the rent of his holding, so pickering had really overstated his case, making no allowance for the lottery of stock-raising. the third calf might have been normal and of great value. it was not. bolland suspected the probable outcome and had acted accordingly. it was the charge of premeditated unfairness that rankled and caused him such heart-burning. when mrs. bolland, turkey-red in face, and with eyes still glinting fire, came in and slammed the door, she told martin, angrily, to be off, and not stand there with his ears cocked like a terrier's. the boy went out. he did not follow his accustomed track. he hesitated whether or not to go rabbiting. although far too young to attach serious import to the innuendoes he had heard, he could not help wondering what pickering meant by that ironical congratulation on the subject of his paternity. his mother, too, had not repelled the charge directly, but had gone out of her way to heap counter-abuse on the vilifier. it was odd, to say the least of it, and he found himself wishing heartily that either the unfortunate cow had not been sold or that his father had met mr. pickering's protests more reasonably. a whistle came from the lane that led up to the moor. perched on a gate was a white-headed urchin. "aren't ye coomin' te t' green?" was his cry, seeing that martin heard him. "not this evening, thanks." "oah, coom on. they're playin' tig, an' none of 'em can ketch jim bates." that settled it. jim bates's pride must be lowered, and ferrets were forgotten. but jim bates had his revenge. if he could not run as fast as martin, he made an excellent pawn in the hands of fortune. had the boy gone to the rabbit warren, he would not have seen the village again until after eight o'clock, and, possibly, the current of his life might have entered a different runnel. in the event, however, he was sauntering up the village street, when he encountered a lady and a little girl, accompanied by a woman whose dress reminded him of nuns seen in pictures. the three were complete strangers, and although martin was unusually well-mannered for one reared in a remote yorkshire hamlet, he could not help staring at them fixedly. the normandy nurse alone was enough to draw the eyes of the whole village, and martin knew well it was owing to mere chance that a crowd of children was not following her already. the lady was tall and of stately carriage. she was dressed quietly, but in excellent taste. her very full face looked remarkably pink, and her large blue eyes stared out of puffy sockets. beyond these unfavorable details, she was a handsome woman, and the boy thought vaguely that she must have motored over from the castle midway between elmsdale and the nearest market town of nottonby. yet it was on the child that his wondering gaze dwelt longest. she looked about ten years old. her elfin face was enshrined in jet-black hair, and two big bright eyes glanced inquiringly at him from the depths of a wide-brimmed, flowered-covered hat. a broad blue sash girdled her white linen dress; the starched skirts stood out like the frills of a ballet dancer. her shapely legs were bare from above the knees, and her tiny feet were encased in sandals. at trouville she would be pronounced "sweet" by enthusiastic admirers of french fashion, but in a north-country village she was absurdly out of place. nevertheless, being a remarkably self-possessed little maiden, she returned with interest martin's covert scrutiny. he would have passed on, but the lady lifted a pair of mounted eyeglasses and spoke to him. "boy," she said in a flute-like voice, "can you tell me which is the white house?" martin's cap flew off. "yes, ma'am," he said, pointing. "that is it. i live there." "oh, indeed. and what is your name?" "martin court bolland, ma'am." "what an odd name. why were you christened martin court?" "i really don't know, ma'am. i didn't bother about it at the time, and since then have never troubled to inquire." now, to be candid, martin did not throw off this retort spontaneously. it was a little effusion built up through the years, the product of frequent necessity to answer the question. but the lady took it as a coruscation of rustic wit, and laughed. she turned to the nurse: "il m'a rendu la monnaie de ma pièce, françoise." "j'en suis bien sûr, madame, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?" said the nurse. the other translated rapidly, and the nurse grinned. "ah, il est naïf, le petit," she commented. "et très gentil." "oh, maman," chimed in the child, "je serais heureuse si vous vouliez me permettre de jouer avec ce joli garçon." "attendez, ma belle. pas si vite.... now, martin court, take me to your mother." not knowing exactly what to do with his cap, the boy had kept it in his hand. the foregoing conversation was, of course, so much greek in his ears. he realized that they were talking about him, and was fully alive to the girl's demure admiration. the english words came with the more surprise, seeing that they followed so quickly on some remark in an unknown tongue. he led the way at once, hoping that his mother had regained her normal condition of busy cheerfulness. silence reigned in the front kitchen when he pressed the latch. the room was empty, but the clank of pattens in the yard revealed that the farmer's thrifty wife was sparing her skirts from the dirt while she crossed to the pig tub with a pailful of garbage. "will you take a seat, ma'am?" said martin politely. "i'll tell mother you are here." with a slight awkwardness he pulled three oaken chairs from the serried rank they occupied along the wall beneath the high-silled windows. feeling all eyes fixed on him quizzically, he blushed. "ah, v'là le p'tit. il rougit!" laughed the nurse. "don't tease him, nurse!" cried the child in english. "he is a nice boy. i like him." clearly this was for martin's benefit. already the young lady was a coquette. mrs. bolland, hearing there were "ladies" to visit her, entered with trepidation. she expected to meet the vicar's aunt and one of that lady's friends. in a moment of weakness she had consented to take charge of the refreshment stall at a forthcoming bazaar in aid of certain church funds. but bolland was told that the incumbent was adopting ritualistic practices, so he sternly forbade his better half to render any assistance whatsoever. the established church was bad enough; it was a positive scandal to introduce into the service aught that savored of rome. poor mrs. bolland therefore racked her brain for a reasonable excuse as she crossed the yard, and it is not to be wondered at if she was struck almost dumb with surprise at sight of the strangers. "are you mrs. bolland?" asked the lady, without rising, and surveying her through the eyeglasses with head tilted back. "yes, ma'am." "ah. exactly. i--er--am staying at the elms for some few weeks, and the people there recommended you as supplying excellent dairy produce. i am--er--exceedingly particular about butter and milk, as my little girl is so delicate. have you any objection to allowing me to inspect your dairy? i may add that i will pay you well for all that i order." the lady's accent, no less than the even flow of her words, joined to unpreparedness for such fashionable visitors, temporarily bereft mrs. bolland of a quick, if limited, understanding. "did ye say ye wanted soom bootermilk?" she cried vacantly. "no, mother," interrupted martin anxiously. for the first time in his life he was aware of a hot and uncomfortable feeling that his mother was manifestly inferior to certain other people in the world. "the lady wishes to see the dairy." "why?" "she wants to buy things from you, and--er--i suppose she would like to see what sort of place we keep them in." no manner of explanation could have restored mrs. bolland's normal senses so speedily as the slightest hint that uncleanliness could harbor its microbes in her house. "my goodness, ma'am," she cried, "wheä's bin tellin' you that my pleäce hez owt wrong wi't?" now it was the stranger's turn to appeal to martin, and the boy showed his mettle by telling his mother, in exact detail, the request made by the lady and her reference to the fragile-looking child. mrs. bolland's wrath subsided, and her lips widened in a smile. "oah, if that's all," she said, "coom on, ma'am, an' welcome. ye canna be too careful about sike things, an' yer little lass do look pukey, te be sure." the lady, gathering her skirts for the perilous passage of the yard, followed the farmer's wife. martin and the girl sat and stared at each other. she it was who began the conversation. "have you lived here long?" she said. "all my life," he answered. pretty and well-dressed as she was, he had no dread of her. he regarded girls as spiteful creatures who scratched one another like cats when angry and shrieked hysterically when they played. "that's not very long," she cried. "no; but it's longer than you've lived anywhere else." "me! i have lived everywhere--in london, berlin, paris, nice, montreux--o, je ne sais--i beg your pardon. perhaps you don't speak french?" "no." "would you like to learn?" "yes, very much." "i'll teach you. it will be such fun. i know all sorts of naughty words. i learnt them in monte carlo, where i could hear the servants chattering when i was put to bed. watch me wake up nurse. françoise, mon chou! cré nom d'un pipe, mais que vous êtes triste aujourd'hui!" the _bonne_ started. she shook the child angrily. "you wicked girl!" she cried in french. "if madame heard you, she would blame me." the imp cuddled her bare knees in a paroxysm of glee. "you see," she shrilled. "i told you so." "was all that swearing?" demanded martin gravely. "some of it." "then you shouldn't do it. if i were your brother, i'd hammer you." "oh, would you, indeed! i'd like to see any boy lay a finger on me. i'd tear his hair out by the roots." naturally, the talk languished for a while, until martin thought he had perhaps been rude in speaking so brusquely. "i'm sorry if i offended you," he said. the saucy, wide-open eyes sparkled. "i forgive you," she said. "how old are you?" "fourteen. and you?" "twelve." he was surprised. "i thought you were younger," he said. "so does everybody. you see, i'm tiny, and mamma dresses me in this baby way. i don't mind. i know your name. you haven't asked me mine." "tell me," he said with a smile. "angèle. angèle saumarez." "i'll never be able to say that," he protested. "oh, yes, you will. it's quite easy. it sounds frenchy, but i am english, except in my ways, mother says. now try. say 'an'----" "ang----" "not so much through your nose. this way--'an-gèle.'" the next effort was better, but tuition halted abruptly when martin discovered that angèle's mother, instead of being "mrs. saumarez," was "the baroness irma von edelstein." "oh, crikey!" he blurted out. "how can that be?" angèle laughed at his blank astonishment. "mamma is a german baroness," she explained. "my papa was a colonel in the british army, but mamma did not lose her courtesy title when she married. of course, she is mrs. saumarez, too." these subtleties of burke and the almanach de gotha went over martin's head. "it sounds a bit like an entry in a stock catalogue," he said. angèle, in turn, was befogged, but saw instantly that the village youth was not sufficiently reverent to the claims of rank. "you can never be a gentleman unless you learn these things," she announced airily. "you don't say," retorted martin with a smile. he was really far more intelligent than this pert monitress, and had detected a curious expression on the stolid face of françoise when the baroness von edelstein's name cropped up in a talk which she could not understand. the truth was that the canny norman woman, though willing enough to take a german mistress's gold, thoroughly disliked the lady's nationality. martin could only guess vaguely at something of the sort, but the mere guess sufficed. angèle, however, wanted no more bickering just then. she was about to resume the lesson when the baroness and mrs. bolland re-entered the house. evidently the inspection of the dairy had been satisfactory, and the lady had signified her approval in words that pleased the older woman greatly. the visitor was delighted, too, with the old-world appearance of the kitchen, the heavy rafters with their load of hams and sides of bacon, the oaken furniture, the spotless white of the well-scrubbed ash-topped table, the solemn grandfather's clock, and the rough stone floor, over which soft red sandstone had been rubbed when wet. by this time the tact of the woman of society had accommodated her words and utterance to the limited comprehension of her hearer, and she displayed such genuine interest in the farm and its belongings that mrs. bolland gave her a hearty invitation to come next morning, when the light would be stronger. then "john" would let her see his prize stock and the extensive buildings on "t' other side o' t' road.... t' kye (the cows) were fastened up for t' neet" by this time. the baroness was puzzled, but managed to catch the speaker's drift. "i do not rise very early," she said. "i breakfast about eleven"--she could not imagine what a sensation this statement caused in a house where breakfast was served never later than seven o'clock--"and it takes me an hour to dress; but i can call about twelve, if that will suit." "ay, do, ma'am," was the cheery agreement. "you'll be able te see t' farmhands havin' their dinner. it's a fair treat te watch them men an' lads puttin' away a beefsteak pie." "and this is your little boy?" said the other, evidently inclined for gossip. "yes, ma'am." "he is a splendid little fellow. what a nice name you gave him--martin court bolland--so unusual. how came you to select his christian names?" the question caused the farmer's wife a good deal of unnoticed embarrassment. the baroness was looking idly at an old colored print of york castle, and the boy himself was far too taken up with angèle to listen to the chat of his elders. mrs. bolland laughed confusedly. "martin," she said. "tak t' young leddy an' t' nurse as far as t' brig, an' show 'em t' mill." the baroness was surprised at this order, but an explanation was soon forthcoming. in her labored speech and broad dialect, the farmer's wife revealed a startling romance. thirteen years ago her husband's brother died suddenly while attending a show at islington, and the funeral took john and herself to london. they found the place so vast and noisy that it overwhelmed them; but in the evening, after the ceremony at abney park, they strolled out from their hotel near king's cross station to see the sights. not knowing whither they were drifting, they found themselves, an hour later, gazing at st. paul's cathedral from the foot of ludgate hill. they were walking toward the stately edifice, when a terrible thing happened. a young woman fell, or threw herself, from a fourth-floor window onto the pavement of st. martin's court. in her arms was an infant, a boy twelve months old. providence saved him from the instant death met by his mother. a projecting signboard caught his clothing, tore him from the encircling arms, and held him a precarious second until the rent frock gave way. but john bolland's sharp eyes had noted the child's momentary escape. he sprang forward and caught the tiny body as it dropped. at that hour, nearly nine o'clock, the court was deserted, and ludgate hill had lost much of its daily crowd. of course, a number of passers-by gathered; and a policeman took the names and address of the farmer and his wife, they being the only actual witnesses of the tragedy. but what was to be done with the baby? mrs. bolland volunteered to take care of it for the night, and the policeman was glad enough to leave it with her when he ascertained that no one in the house from which the woman fell knew anything about her save that she was a "mrs. martineau," and rented a furnished room beneath the attic. the inquest detained the bollands another day in town. police inquiries showed that the unfortunate young woman had committed suicide. a letter, stuck to a dressing-table with a hatpin, stated her intention, and that her name was not martineau. would the lady like to see the letter? "oh, dear, no!" said the baroness hastily. "your story is awfully interesting, but i could not bear to read the poor creature's words." well, the rest was obvious. mrs. bolland was childless after twenty years of married life. she begged for the bairn, and her husband allowed her to adopt it. they gave the boy their own name, but christened him after the scene of his mother's death and his own miraculous escape. and there he was now, coming up the village street, leading angèle confidently by the hand--a fine, intelligent lad, and wholly different from every other boy in the village. not even the squire's sons equaled him in any respect, and the teacher of the village school gave him special lessons. perhaps the lady had noticed the way he spoke. the teacher was proud of martin's abilities, and he tried to please her by not using the yorkshire dialect. "ah, i see," said the baroness quietly. "his history is quite romantic. but what will he become when he grows up--a farmer, like his adopted father?" "john thinks te mak' him a minister," said mrs. bolland with genial pride. "a minister! do you mean a preacher, a nonconformist person?" "why, yes, ma'am. john wouldn't hear of his bein' a parson." "grand dieu! quelle bêtise! i beg your pardon. of course, you will do what is best for him.... well, ma belle, have you enjoyed your little walk?" "oh, so much, mamma. the miller has such lovely pigs, so fat, so tight that you can't pinch them. and there's a beautiful dog, with four puppy dogs. i'm so glad we came here. j'en suis bien aise." "she's a queer little girl," said mrs. bolland, as martin and she watched the party walking back to the elms. "i couldn't tell half what she said." "no, mother," he replied. "she goes off into french without thinking, and her mother's a german baroness, who married an english officer. the nurse doesn't speak any english. i wish i knew french and german. french, at any rate." chapter iii the seeds of mischief preparations for the forthcoming "feast" were varied by gossip concerning "the baroness," her daughter, and the normandy _bonne_. elmsdale had never before set eyes on any human beings quite so foreign to its environment. at first, the canny yorkshire folk were much intrigued by the lady's title. a princess or a duchess they had read of; a marchioness and a countess they had seen, because the county of broad acres finds room for a great many noble houses; and baronets' wives, each a "lady" by perspective right, were so plentiful as to arouse no special comment. but a "baroness" was rather un-english, while elmsdale frankly refused to pronounce her name other than "eedelsteen." the village was ready to allude to her as "her ladyship," but was still doubtful whether or not to grant her the prefix "lady," when the question was settled in a wholly unexpected way by the announcement that the baroness preferred to be addressed as "mrs. saumarez." in fact, she was rather annoyed that angèle should have flaunted the title at all. "i am english by marriage, and proud of my husband's name," she explained. "he was a gallant officer, who fell in the boer war, and i have long since left the use of my german rank for purely official occasions. it is no secret, of course, but angèle should not have mentioned it." elmsdale liked this democratic utterance. it made these blunt yorkshire folk far readier to address her as "your ladyship" than would have been the case otherwise, and, truth to tell, she never chided them for any lapse of the sort, though, in accordance with her wish, she became generally known as mrs. saumarez. she rented a suite at the elms, a once pretentious country mansion owned by a family named walker. the males had died, the revenues had dwindled, and two elderly maiden ladies, after taking counsel with the vicar, had advertised their house in a society newspaper. mrs. saumarez said she was an invalid. she required rest and good air. françoise, since angèle had outgrown the attentions of a nurse, was employed mainly as her mistress's confidential servant. françoise either could not or would not speak english; mrs. saumarez gave excellent references and no information as to her past, while angèle's volatile reminiscences of continental society had no meaning for elmsdale. but it was abundantly clear that mrs. saumarez was rich. she swept aside the arrangements made by the misses walker for her comfort, chose her own set of apartments, ordered things wholly her own way, and paid double the terms originally demanded. the day following her visit to the white house she descended on the chief grocer, whose shop was an emporium of many articles outside his trade, but mostly of a cheap order. "mr. webster," she said in her grand manner, "few of the goods you stock will meet my requirements. i prefer to deal with local tradesmen, but they must meet my wants. now, if you are prepared to cater for me, you will not only save me the trouble of ordering supplies from london, but make some extra profit. you have proper agents, no doubt, so you must obtain everything of the best quality. you understand. i shall never grumble at the prices; but the least inferiority will lead me to withdraw my custom." it was a sore point with mr. webster that "the squire" dealt with the stores. he promised implicit obedience, and wrote such instructions to leeds, his supply town, that the wholesale house there wondered who had come to live at elmsdale. the proprietress of the "black lion," hearing the golden tales that circulated through the village, dressed in her best one afternoon and called at the elms in the hope of obtaining patronage for wines, bottled beer, and mineral waters. mrs. saumarez was resting. the elder miss walker conveyed mrs. atkinson's name and business. some conversation took place between mrs. saumarez and françoise, with the result that mrs. atkinson was instructed to supply schweppe's soda water, but "no intoxicants." so mrs. saumarez was a teetotaller. the secretary of the local branch of the good templars donned a faded black coat and a rusty tall hat and sent in a subscription list. it came out with a guinea. the vicar was at the elms next day. mrs. saumarez received him graciously and gave him a five-pound note toward the funds of the bazaar which would be opened next week. most decidedly the lady was an acquisition. when miss martha walker was enjoined by her sister, miss emmy, to find out how long mrs. saumarez intended to remain at elmsdale--on the plausible pretext that the terms would be lowered for a monthly tenancy--she was given a curt reply. "i am a creature of moods. i may be here a day, a year. at present the place suits me. and angèle is brimming over with health. but it is fatal if i am told i must remain a precise period anywhere. that is why i never go to carlsbad." miss martha did not understand the reference to carlsbad; but the nature of the reply stopped effectually all further curiosity as to mrs. saumarez's plans. it also insured unflagging service. hardly a day passed that the newcomer did not call at the white house. she astounded john bolland by the accuracy of her knowledge concerning stock, and annoyed him, too, by remarking that some of his land required draining. "your lower pastures are too rank," she said. "so long as there is a succession of fine seasons it does not matter, but a wet spring and summer will trouble you. you will have fifty acres of water-sodden meadows, and nothing breeds disease more quickly." "none o' my cattle hev had a day's illness, short o' bein' a trifle overfed wi' oil cake," he said testily. "quite so. you told me that in former years you raised wheat and oats there. i'm talking about grass." martin and angèle became close friends. the only children of the girl's social rank in the neighborhood were the vicar's daughter, elsie herbert, and the squire's two sons, frank and ernest beckett-smythe. mr. beckett-smythe was a widower. he lived at the hall, three-quarters of a mile away, and had not as yet met mrs. saumarez. angèle would have nothing to do with elsie. "i don't like her," she confided to martin. "she doesn't care for boys, and i adore them. she's trop reglée for me." "what is that?" "well, she holds her nose--so." angèle tilted her head and cast down her eyes. "of course, i don't know her, but she seems to be a nice girl," said martin. "why do you say, 'of course, i don't know her'? she lives here, doesn't she?" "yes, but my father is a farmer. she has a governess, and goes to tea at the hall. i've met her driving from the castle. she's above me, you see." angèle laughed maliciously. "o là là! c'est pour rire! i'm sorry. she is--what do you say--a little snob." "no, no," protested martin. "i think she would be very nice, if i knew her. you'll like her fine when you play with her." "me! play with her, so prim, so pious. i prefer jim bates. he winked at me yesterday." "did he? next time i see him i'll make it hard for him to wink." angèle clapped her hands and pirouetted. "what," she cried, "you will fight him, and for me! what joy! it's just like a story book. you must kick him, so, and he will fall down, and i will kiss you." "i will not kick him," said the indignant martin. "boys don't kick in england. and i don't want to be kissed." "don't boys kiss in england?" "well ... anyhow, i don't." "then we are not sweethearts. i shan't kiss you, and you must just leave jim bates alone." martin was humiliated. he remained silent and angry during the next minute. by a quick turn in the conversation angèle had placed him in a position of rivalry with another boy, one with whom she had not exchanged a word. "look here," he said, after taking thought, "if i kiss your cheek, may i lick jim bates?" this magnanimous offer was received with derision. "i forbid you to do either. if you do, i'll tell your father." the child had discovered already the fear with which martin regarded the stern, uncompromising methodist yeoman--a fear, almost a resentment, due to bolland's injudicious attempts to guide a mere boy into the path of serious and precise religion. never had martin found the daily reading of scripture such a burden as during the past few days. the preparations for the feast, the cricket-playing, running and jumping of the boys practicing for prizes--these disturbing influences interfered sadly with the record of david's declining years. even now, with angèle's sarcastic laughter ringing in his ears, he was compelled to leave her and hurry to the front kitchen, where the farmer was waiting with the bible opened. at the back door he paused and looked at her. she blew him a kiss. "good boy!" she cried. "mind you learn your lesson." "and mind you keep away from those cowsheds. your nurse ought to have been here. it's tea time." "i don't want any tea. i'm going to smell the milk. i love the smell of a farmyard. don't you? but, there! you have never smelt anything else. every place has its own smell. paris smells like smoky wood. london smells of beer. here there is always the smell of cows...." "martin!" called a harsh voice from the interior, and the boy perforce brought his wandering wits to bear on the wrongdoing of david in taking a census of the people of israel. he read steadily through the chapter which described how a pestilence swept from dan to beersheba and destroyed seventy thousand men, all because david wished to know how many troops he could muster. he could hear angèle talking to the maids and making them laugh. a caravan lumbered through the street; he caught a glimpse of carved wooden horses' heads and gilded moldings. his quick and retentive brain mastered the words of the chapter, but to-day there was no mysterious and soul-awakening glimpse of its spirit. "what did david say te t' lord when t' angel smote t' people?" said bolland when the moment came to question his pupil. "he said, 'lo, i have sinned; but what have these sheep done?'" "and what sin had he deän?" "i don't know. i think the whole thing was jolly unfair." "what!" john bolland laid down the bible and rested both hands on the arms of the chair to steady himself. had he heard aright? was the boy daring to criticize the written word? but martin's brain raced ahead of the farmer's slow-rising wrath. he trembled at the abyss into which he had almost fallen. what horror if he lost an hour on this saturday, the saturday before the feast, of all days in the year! "i didn't quite mean that," he said, "but it doesn't say why it was wrong for a census to be taken, and it does say that when the angel stretched his hand over jerusalem the lord repented of the evil." bolland bent again over the book. yes, martin was right. he was letter perfect. "it says nowt about unfairness," growled the man slowly. "no. that was my mistake." "ye mun tak' heed ageän misteäks o' that sort. on monday we begin t' third book o' kings." so, not even the feast would be allowed to interfere with the daily lesson. angèle had departed with the belated françoise. martin, running through the orchard like a hare, doubled to the main road along the lane. in two minutes he was watching the unloading of the roundabout in front of the "black lion." jim bates was there. "here, i want you," said martin. "you winked at angèle saumarez yesterday." "winked at wheä?" demanded jim. "at the young lady who lives at the elms." "not afore she pulled a feäce at me." "well, if you wink at her again i'll lick you." "mebbe." "there's no 'mebbe' about it. come down to the other end of the green now, if you think i can't." jim bates was no coward, but he was faced with the alternative of yielding gracefully and watching the showmen at work or risking a defeat in a needless battle. he chose the better part of valor. "it's neän o' my business," he said. "i deän't want te wink at t' young leddy." at the inn door mrs. atkinson's three little girls were standing with kitty thwaites, the housemaid. the eldest, a bonnie child, whose fair skin was covered with freckles, ran toward martin. "where hae ye bin all t' week?" she inquired. "are ye always wi' that saumarez girl?" "no." "i heerd tell she was at your pleäce all hours. what beautiful frocks she has, but i should be asheämed te show me legs like her." "that's the way she dresses," said martin curtly. "how funny. is she fond of you?" "how do i know?" he tried to edge away. evelyn tossed her head. "oh, i don't care. why should i?" "there's no reason that i can tell." "you soon forget yer friends. on'y last whit monday ye bowt me a packet of chocolates." there was truth in this. martin quitted her sheepishly. he drew near some men, one of whom was fred, the groom, and fred had been drinking, as a preliminary to the deeper potations of the coming week. "ay, there she is!" he muttered, with an angry leer at kitty. "she thinks what's good eneuf fer t' sister is good eneuf fer her. we'll see. oad john bollan' sent 'im away wiv a flea i' t' lug a-tuesday. i reckon he'll hev one i' t' other ear if 'e comes after kitty." one of the men grinned contemptuously. "gan away!" he said. "george pickerin' 'ud chuck you ower t' top o' t' hotel if ye said 'booh' to 'im." but fred, too, grinned, blinking like an owl in daylight. "them as lives t' longest sees t' meäst," he muttered, and walked toward the stables, passing close to kitty, who looked through him without seeing him. suddenly there was a stir among the loiterers. mrs. saumarez was walking through the village with mr. beckett-smythe. behind the pair came the squire's two sons and angèle. the great man had called on the new visitor to elmsdale, and together they strolled forth, while he explained the festivities of the coming week, and told the lady that these "feasts" were the creation of an act of charles ii. as a protest against the puritanism of the commonwealth. martin stood at the side of the road. mrs. saumarez did not notice him, but angèle did. she lifted her chin and dropped her eyelids in clever burlesque of elsie herbert, the vicar's daughter, but ignored him otherwise. martin was hurt, though he hardly expected to be spoken to in the presence of distinguished company. but he could not help looking after the party. angèle turned and caught his glance. she put out her tongue. he heard a mocking laugh and knew that evelyn atkinson was telling her sisters of the incident, whereupon he dug his hands in his pockets and whistled. a shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its glories soon dispelled the gloom of angèle's snub. the long tube was supported on stays, the target put in place, the gaudy front pieced together, and half a dozen rifles unpacked. the proprietor meant to earn a few honest pennies that night, and some of the men were persuaded to try their prowess. martin was a born sportsman. he watched the competitors so keenly that angèle returned with her youthful cavaliers without attracting his attention. worse than that, evelyn atkinson, scenting the possibility of rustic intrigue, caught martin's elbow and asked quite innocently why a bell rang if the shooter hit the bull's-eye. proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was a hole in the iron plate, and that no bell, but a sheet of copper, was suspended in the box at the back where the lamp was. both angèle and evelyn appreciated the situation exactly. the boy alone was ignorant of their tacit rivalry. angèle pointed out martin to the beckett-smythes. "he is such a nice boy," she said sweetly. "i see him every day. he can fight any boy in the village." "hum," said the heir. "how old is he?" "fourteen." "i am fifteen." angèle smiled like a seraph. "regardez-vous donc!" she said. "he could twiddle you round--so," and she spun one hand over the other. "i'd like to see him try," snorted the aristocrat. the opportunity offered itself sooner than he expected, but the purring of a high-powered car coming through the village street caused the pedestrians to draw aside. the car, a new and expensive one, was driven by a chauffeur, but held no passengers. mr. beckett-smythe gazed after it reflectively. "well, i thought i knew every car in this district," he began. "it is mine, i expect," announced mrs. saumarez. "i've ordered one, and it should arrive to-day. i need an automobile for an occasional long run. for pottering about the village lanes, i may buy a pony cart." "what make is your car?" inquired the squire. "a mercedes. i'm told it is by far the best at the price." "it's the best german car, of course, but i can hardly admit that it equals the french, or even our own leading types." "oh, i don't profess to understand these things. i only know that my banker advised me to buy none other. he explained the matter simply enough. the german manufacturers want to get into the trade and are content to lose money for a year or so. you know how pushful they are." beckett-smythe saw the point clearly. he was even then hesitating between a panhard and an austin. he decided to wait a little longer and ascertain the facts about the mercedes. a month later he purchased one. mrs. saumarez's chauffeur, a smart young mechanic from bremen, who spoke english fluently, demonstrated that the buyer was given more than his money's worth. the amiable briton wondered how such things could be, but was content to benefit personally. he, in time, spread the story. german cars enjoyed a year's boomlet in that part of yorkshire. with nearly every car came a smart young chauffeur mechanic. surely, this was wisdom personified. they knew the engine, could effect nearly all road repairs, demanded less wages than english drivers, and were always civil and reliable. "go-ahead people, these germans!" was the general verdict. chapter iv the feast an elmsdale sunday was a day of rest for man and beast alike. there could be no manner of doubt that the horses and dogs were able to distinguish the sabbath from the workaday week. prince, six-year-old cleveland bay, the strongest and tallest horse in the stable, when his headstall was taken off on sunday morning, showed his canny yorkshire sense by walking past the row of carts and pushing open a rickety gate that led to a tiny meadow kept expressly for odd grazing. after him, in indian file, went five other horses; yet, on any other day in the week they would stand patiently in the big yard, waiting to be led away singly or in pairs. curly and jim, the two sheep-dogs--who never failed between monday and saturday to yawn and stretch expectantly by the side of john bolland's sturdy nag in the small yard near the house--on the seventh day made their way to the foreman's cottage, there attending his leisure for a scamper over the breezy moorland. for, sunday or weekday, sheep must be counted. if any are missing, the almost preternatural intelligence of the collie is invoked to discover the hollow in which the lost ones are reposing helplessly on their backs. they will die in a few hours if not placed on their legs again. turn over unaided they cannot. man or dog must help, or they choke. even the cocks and hens, the waddling geese and ducks, the huge shorthorns, which are the pride of the village, seemed to grasp the subtle distinction between life on a quiet day and the well-filled existence of the six days that had gone before. at least, martin thought so; but he did not know then that the windows of the soul let in imageries that depend more on mood than on reality. personally he hated sunday, or fancied he did. he had sunday clothes, sunday boots, sunday food, a sunday face, and a sunday conscience. things were wrong on sunday that were right during the rest of the week. though the sky was as bright, the grass as green, the birds as tuneful on that day as on others, he was supposed to undergo a metamorphosis throughout all the weary waking hours. his troubles often began the moment he quitted his bed. as his "best" clothes and boots were so little worn, they naturally maintained a spick-and-span appearance during many months. hence, he was given a fresh assortment about once a year, and the outfit possessed three distinct periods of use, of which the first tortured his mind and the third his body. he being a growing lad, the coat was made too long in the sleeves, the trousers too long in the legs, and the boots too large. at the beginning of this epoch he looked and felt ridiculous. gradually, the effect of roast beef and suet dumplings brought about a better fit, and during four months of the year he was fairly smart in appearance. then there came an ominous shrinkage. his wrists dangled below the coat cuffs, there was an ever-widening rim of stocking between the tops of the boots and the trousers' ends, while mrs. bolland began to grumble each week about the amount of darning his stockings required. moreover, there were certain quite insurmountable difficulties in the matter of buttons, and it was with a joy tempered only by fear of the grotesque that he beheld the "best" suit given away to an urchin several sizes smaller than himself. happily for his peace of mind, the feast occurred in the middle stage of the current supply of raiment, so he was as presentable as a peripatetic tailor who worked in the house a fortnight at christmas could make him. but this sunday dragged terribly. the routine of chapel from 10:30 a.m. to noon, sunday-school from 3 p.m. to 4:30 p.m., and chapel again from 6:30 p.m. to 8 p.m., was inevitable, but there were compensations in the whispered confidences of jim bates and tommy beadlam, the latter nicknamed "white head," as to the nature of some of the shows. the new conditions brought into his life by angèle saumarez troubled him far more than he could measure. her mere presence in the secluded village carried a breath of the unknown. her talk was of london and paris, of parks, theatres, casinos, luxurious automobiles, deck-cabins, and pullman cars. she seemed to have lived so long and seen so much. yet she knew very little. her ceaseless chatter in french and english, which sounded so smart at first, would not endure examination. she had read nothing. when martin spoke of "robinson crusoe" and "ivanhoe," of "treasure island" and "the last of the mohicans"--a literary medley devoured for incident and not for style--she had not even heard of them, but produced for inspection an astonishingly rude colored cartoon, the french comments on which she translated literally. he was a boy aglow with dim but fervent ideals; she, a girl who had evidently been allowed to grow up almost wild in the midst of fashionable life and flippant servants, all exigencies being fulfilled when she spoke nicely and cleverly and wore her clothes with the requisite chic. the two were as opposed in essentials as an honest english apple grown in a wholesome garden and a rare orchid, the product of some poisonous equatorial swamp. he tried to interest her in the sights and sounds of country life. she met him more than halfway by putting embarrassing questions as to the habits of animals. more than once he told her plainly that there were some things little girls ought not to know, whereat she laughed scornfully, but switched the conversation to a topic on which she could vex him, as was nearly always the case in her references to elsie herbert or john bolland's bible teaching. yet he was restless and irritable because he did not see her on the sunday. mrs. saumarez, it is true, sped swiftly through the village about three o'clock, and again at half-past seven. on each occasion the particular chapel affected by the bollands was resounding with a loud-voiced hymn or echoing the vibrant tones of a preacher powerful beyond question in the matter of lungs and dogmatism. the whir of the mercedes shut off these sounds; but martin heard the passing of the car and knew that angèle was in it. it was a novel experience for the misses walker to find that their lodgers recognized no difference between sunday and the rest of the week. mrs. saumarez dined at 6:30 p.m., a concession of an hour and a half to rural habits, but she scouted the suggestion that a cold meal should be served to enable the "girls" to go to church. the old ladies dared not quarrel with one who paid so well. they remained at home and cooked and served the dinner. as françoise, to a large extent, waited on her mistress, this development might not have been noticed had not angèle's quick eyes seen miss emmy walker carrying a chicken and a dish of french beans to a small table in the hall. she told her mother, and mrs. saumarez was annoyed. she had informed miss martha that if the servants required a "night out," the addition of another domestic to the household at her expense would give them a good deal more liberty, but this ridiculous "sunday-evening" notion must stop forthwith. "it gets on my nerves, this british sabbath," she exclaimed peevishly. "in london i entertain largely on a sunday and have never had any trouble. do you mean to say i cannot invite guests to dinner on sunday merely to humor a cook or a housemaid? absurd!" miss martha promised reform. "let her have her way," she said to miss emmy. "another servant will have nothing to do, and all the girls will grow lazy; but we must keep mrs. saumarez as long as we can. oh, if she would only remain a year, we'd be out of debt, with the house practically recarpeted throughout!" unfortunately, mrs. saumarez's nerves were upset. she was snappy all the evening. françoise tried many expedients to soothe her mistress's ruffled feelings. she brought a bundle of illustrated papers, a parcel of books, the scores of a couple of operas, even a gorgeous assortment of patterns of the new autumn dress fabrics, but each and all failed to attract. for some reason the preternaturally acute angèle avoided her mother. she seemed to be afraid of her when in this mood. the misses walker, seeing the anxiety of the maid and the unwonted retreat of the child to bed at an early hour, were miserable at the thought that such a trivial matter should have given their wealthy tenant cause for dire offense. so sunday passed irksomely, and everyone was glad when the next morning dawned in bright cheerfulness. from an early hour there was evidence in plenty that the elmsdale feast would be an unqualified success, though shorn of many of its ancient glories. time was when the village used to indulge in a week's saturnalia, but the march of progress had affected rural yorkshire even so long ago as 1906. the younger people could visit leeds, york, scarborough, or whitby by saturday afternoon "trips"--special excursion trains run at cheap rates--while "week-ends" in london were not unknown luxuries, and these frequent opportunities for change of scene and recreation had lessened the scope of the annual revels. still, the trading instinct kept alive the commercial side of the feast; the splendid hospitality of the north country asserted itself; church and chapels seized the chance of reaching enlarged congregations, and a number of itinerant showmen regarded elmsdale as a fixture in the yearly round. so, on the monday, every neighboring village and moorland hamlet poured in its quota. the people came on foot from the railway station, distant nearly two miles, on horseback, in every sort of conveyance. the roads were alive with cattle, sheep, and pigs. the programme mapped out bore a general resemblance on each of the four days. the morning was devoted to business, the afternoon and evening to religion or pleasure. the proceedings opened with a horse fair. an agent of the german government snapped up every cleveland bay offered for sale. george pickering, in sporting garb, and smoking a big cigar, was an early arrival. he bid vainly for a couple of mares which he needed to complete his stud. germany wanted them more urgently. a splendid mare, the property of john bolland, was put up for auction. the auctioneer read her pedigree, and proved its authenticity by reference to the stud book. "is she in foal?" asked pickering, and a laugh went around. bolland scowled blackly. if a look could have slain the younger man he would assuredly have fallen dead. the bidding commenced at £40 and rose rapidly to £60. then pickering lost his temper. the agent for germany was too pertinacious. "seventy," he shouted, though the bids hitherto had mounted by single sovereigns. "seventy-one," said the agent. "eighty!" roared pickering. "eighty-one!" nodded the agent. "the reserve is off," interposed the auctioneer, and again the surrounding farmers guffawed, as the mare had already gone to twenty pounds beyond her value. pickering swallowed his rage with an effort. he turned to bolland. "that's an offset for my hard words the other day," he said. but the farmer thrust aside the proffered olive branch. "once a fule, always a fule," he growled. pickering, though anything but a fool in business, took the ungracious remark pleasantly enough. "he ought to sing a rare hymn this afternoon," he cried. "i've put a score of extra sovereigns in his pocket, and he doesn't even say 'thank you.' well, it's the way of the world. who's dry?" this invitation caused an adjournment to the "black lion." the auctioneer knew his clients. pickering's allusion to the hymn was not made without knowledge. at three o'clock, on a part of the green farthest removed from the thronged stalls and the blare of a steam-driven organ, bolland and a few other earnest spirits surrounded the stentorian preacher and held an open-air service. they selected tunes which everybody knew and, as a result, soon attracted a crowd of older people, some of whom brought their children. martin, of course, was in the gathering. meanwhile, along the line of booths, a couple of leather-lunged men were singing old-time ballads, dealing for the most part with sporting incidents. they soon became the centers of two packed audiences, mainly young men and boys, but containing more than a sprinkling of girls. the ditties were couched in "broad yorkshire"--sometimes too broad for modern taste. whenever a particularly crude stanza was bawled forth a chuckle would run through the audience, and coppers in plenty were forthcoming for printed copies of the song, which, however, usually fell short of the blunt phraseology of the original. the raucous ballad singers took risks feared by the printer. mrs. saumarez, leading angèle by the hand, thought she would like to hear one of these rustic melodies, and halted. instantly the vendor changed his cue. the lady might be the wife of a magistrate. once he got fourteen days as a rogue and a vagabond at the instance of just such another interested spectator, who put the police in action. quickly surfeited by the only half-understood humor of a song describing the sale of a dead horse, she wandered on, and soon came across the preacher and his lay helpers. to her surprise she saw john bolland standing bareheaded in the front rank, and with him martin. she had never pictured the keen-eyed, crusty old farmer in this guise. it amused her. the minister began to offer up a prayer. the men hid their faces in their hats, the women bowed reverently, and fervent ejaculations punctuated each pause in the preacher's appeal. "i do believe!" "amen! amen!" "spare us, o lord!" mrs. saumarez stared at the gathering with real wonderment. "c'est incroyable!" she murmured. "what are they doing, mamma?" cried angèle, trying to guess why martin had buried his eyes in his cap. "they are praying, dearest. it reminds one of the covenanters. it really is very touching." "who were the covenanters?" "when you are older, ma belle, you will read of them in history." that was mrs. saumarez's way. she treated her daughter's education as a matter for governesses whom she did not employ and masters to whose control angèle would probably never be entrusted. the two entered the white house. there they found mrs. bolland, radiant in a black silk dress, a bonnet trimmed with huge roses, and a velvet dolman, the wings of which were thrown back over her portly shoulders to permit her the better to press all comers to partake of her hospitality. several women and one or two men were seated at the big table, while people were coming and going constantly. it flustered and gratified mrs. bolland not a little to receive such a distinguished visitor. "eh, my leddy," she cried, "i'm glad to see ye. will ye tek a chair? and t' young leddy, too? will ye hev a glass o' wine?" this was the recognized formula. there was a decanter of port wine on the sideboard, but most of the visitors partook of tea or beer. one of the men drew himself a foaming tankard from a barrel in the corner. mrs. saumarez smiled wistfully. "no wine, thank you," she said; "but that beer looks very nice. i'll have some, if i may." not until that moment did mrs. bolland remember that her guest was a reputed teetotaller. so, then, mrs. atkinson, proprietress of the "black lion," was mistaken. "that ye may, an' welcome," she said in her hearty way. angèle murmured something in french, but her mother gave a curt answer, and the child subsided, being, perhaps, interested by the evident amazement and admiration she evoked among the country people. to-day, angèle was dressed in a painted muslin, with hat and sash of the same material, long black silk stockings, and patent-leather shoes. she looked elegantly old-fashioned, and might have walked bodily out of one of caran d'ache's sketches of french society. suddenly she bounced up like an india-rubber ball. "tra la!" she cried. "v'là mon cher martin!" the prayer meeting had ended, and martin was speeding home, well knowing who had arrived there. angèle ran to meet him. "she's a rale fairy," whispered mrs. summersgill, mistress of the dale end farm. "she's rigged out like a pet doll." "ay," agreed her neighbor. "d'ye ken wheer they coom frae?" "frae lunnon, i reckon. they're staying wi' t' miss walkers. that's t' muther, a mrs. saumarez, they call her, but they say she's a jarman baroness." "well, bless her heart, she hez a rare swallow for a gill o' ale." this was perfectly true. the lady had emptied her glass with real gusto. "i was so hot and tired," she said, with an apologetic smile at her hostess. "now, i can admire your wonderful store of good things to eat," and she focussed the display through gold-rimmed eyeglasses. truly, the broad kitchen table presented a spectacle that would kill a dyspeptic. a cold sirloin, a portly ham, two pairs of chickens, three brace of grouse--these solids were mere garnishings to dishes piled with currant cakes, currant loaves and plain bread cut and buttered, jam turnovers, open tarts of many varieties, "fat rascals," queen cakes, sponge cakes--battalions and army corps of all the sweet and toothsome articles known to the culinary skill of the north. "i'm feared, my leddy, they won't suit your taste," began mrs. bolland, but the other broke in eagerly: "oh, don't say that! they look so good, so wholesome, so different from the french cooking we weary of in town. if i were not afraid of spoiling my dinner and earning a scolding from françoise i would certainly ask for some of that cold beef and a slice of bread and butter." "tek my advice, ma'am, an' eat while ye're in t' humor," cried mrs. bolland, instantly helping her guest to the eatables named. mrs. saumarez laughed delightedly and peeled off a pair of white kid gloves. she ate a little of the meat and crumbled a slice of bread. mrs. bolland refilled the glass with beer. then the lady made herself generally popular by asking questions. did they use lard or butter in the pastry? how was the sponge cake made so light? what a curious custom it was to put currants into plain dough; she had never seen it done before. were the servants able to do these things, or had they to be taught by the mistress of the house? she amused the women by telling of the airs and graces of london domestics, and evoked a feeling akin to horror by relating the items of the weekly bills in her town house. "seven pund o' beäcan for breakfast i' t' kitchen!" exclaimed mrs. summersgill. "wheä ivver heerd tell o' sike waste?" "eh, ma'am," cried another, "but ye mun addle yer money aisy t' let 'em carry on that gait." martin, who found angèle in her most charming mood--unconsciously pleased, too, that her costume was not so _outré_ as to run any risk of caustic comment by strangers--came in and asked if he might take her along the row of stalls. mrs. bolland had given him a shilling that morning, and he resolved magnanimously to let the shooting gallery wait; angèle should be treated to a shilling's worth of aught she fancied. but mrs. saumarez rose. "your mother will kill me with kindness, martin, if i remain longer," she said. "take me, too, and we'll see if the fair contains any toys." she emptied the second glass of ale, drew on her gloves, bade the company farewell with as much courtesy as if they were so many countesses, and walked away with the youngsters. at one stall she bought martin a pneumatic gun, a powerful toy which the dealer never expected to sell in that locality. at another she would have purchased a doll for angèle, but the child shrugged her shoulders and declared that she would greatly prefer to ride on the roundabouts with martin. mrs. saumarez agreed instantly, and the pair mounted the hobby-horses. among the children who watched them enviously were jim bates and evelyn atkinson. when the steam organ was in full blast and the horses were flying round at a merry pace, mrs. saumarez bent over jim bates and placed half a sovereign in his hand. "go to the 'black lion,'" she said, "and bring me a bottle of the best brandy. see that it is wrapped in paper. i do not care to go myself to a place where there are so many men." jim darted off. the roundabout slackened speed and stopped, but mrs. saumarez ordered another ride. the whirl had begun again when bates returned with a parcel. "it was four shillin's, ma'am," he said. "thank you, very much. keep the change." even evelyn atkinson was so awed by the magnitude of the tip that she forgot for a moment to glue her eyes on angèle and martin. but angèle, wildly elated though she was with the sensation of flight, and seated astride like a boy, until the tops of her stockings were exposed to view, did not fail to notice the conclusion of jim bates's errand. "mamma will be ill to-night," she screamed in martin's ear. "françoise will be busy waiting on her. i'll come out again at eight o'clock." "you must not," shouted the boy. "it will be very rough here then." "c'la va--i mean, i know that quite well. it'll be all the more jolly. meet me at the gate. i'll bring plenty of money." "i can't," protested martin. "you must!" "but i'm supposed to be home myself at eight o'clock." "if you don't come, i'll find some other boy. frank beckett-smythe said he would try and turn up every evening, in case i got a chance to sneak out." "all right. i'll be there." martin intended to hurry her through the fair and take her home again. if he received a "hiding" for being late, he would put up with it. in any case, the squire's eldest son could not be allowed to steal his wilful playmate without a struggle. probably adam reasoned along similar lines when eve first offered him an apple. be that as it may, it never occurred to martin that the third chapter of genesis could have the remotest bearing on the night's frolic. chapter v "it is the first step that counts" mrs. saumarez and angèle returned to the elms, but martin had to forego accompanying them. he knew that--with bible opened at the third book of kings--john bolland was waiting in a bedroom, every downstairs apartment being crowded. he ran all the way along the village street and darted upstairs, striving desperately to avoid even the semblance of undue haste. bolland was thumbing the book impatiently. he frowned over his spectacles. "why are ye late?" he demanded. "mrs. saumarez asked me to walk with her through the village," answered martin truthfully. "ay. t' wife telt me she was here." the explanation served, and martin breathed more freely. the reading commenced: "now king david was old and stricken in years; and they covered him with clothes, but he gat no heat. "wherefore his servants said unto him, let there be sought for my lord the king a young virgin: and let her stand before the king, and let her cherish him, and let her lie in thy bosom, that my lord the king may get heat." martin, with his mind in a tumult on account of the threatened escapade, did not care a pin what method was adopted to restore the feeble circulation of the withered king so long as the lesson passed off satisfactorily. with rare self-control, he bent over the, to him, unmeaning page, and acquitted himself so well in the parrot repetition which he knew would be pleasing that he ventured to say: "may i stay out a little later to-night, sir?" "what for? you're better i' bed than gapin' at shows an' listenin' te drunken men." "i only ask because--because i'm told that mrs. saumarez's little girl means to see the fair by night, and she--er--would like me to be with her." john bolland laughed dryly. "mrs. saumarez'll soon hev more'n eneuf on't," he said. "ay, lad, ye can stay wi' her, if that's all." martin never, under any circumstances, told a downright lie, but he feared that this was sailing rather too near the wind to be honest. the nature of angèle's statement was so nebulous. he could hardly explain outright that mrs. saumarez was not coming--that angèle alone would be the sightseer. so he flushed, and felt that he was obtaining the required permission by false pretense. he could have pulled angèle's pretty ears for placing him in such a dilemma, but with a man so utterly unsympathetic as bolland it was impossible to be quite candid. he had clear ideas of right and wrong. he knew it was wrong for angèle to come out unattended and mix in the scene of rowdyism which the village would present until midnight. if she really could succeed in leaving the elms unnoticed, the most effectual way to stop her was to go now to her mother or to one of the misses walker and report her intention. but this, according to the boy's code of honor, was to play the sneak, than which there is no worse crime in the calendar. no. he would look after her himself. there was a spice of adventure, too, in acting as the chosen squire of this sprightly damsel. strong-minded as he was, and resolute beyond his years, angèle's wilfulness, her quick tongue, the diablerie of her glance, the witchery of her elegant little person, captivated heart and brain, and benumbed the inchoate murmurings of conscience. oddly enough, he often found himself comparing her with elsie herbert, a girl with whom he had never exchanged a word, and angèle saumarez invariably figured badly in the comparison. the boy did not know then that he must become a man, perhaps soured of life, bitter with experience, before he would understand the difference between respect and fascination. with housewife prudence, mrs. bolland hailed him as he was passing through the back kitchen. "noo, then, martin, don't ye go racketin' about too much in your best clothes. and mind your straw hat isn't blown off if ye go on one o' them whirligigs." "all right, mother," he said cheerfully, and was gone in a flash. two hours must elapse before angèle could appear. jim bates, who bore no malice, stood treat in gingerbread and lemonade out of the largesse bestowed by mrs. saumarez. martin, carried away by sight of a champion boxer who offered a sovereign to any local man under twelve stone who stood up to him for three two-minute rounds, spent sixpence in securing seats for himself and jim when the gage of combat was thrown down by his gamekeeper friend. there was a furious fight with four-ounce gloves. the showman discovered quickly that velveteens "knew a bit." repeated attempts to "out" him with "the right" on the "point" resulted in heavy "counters" on the ribs, and a terrific uppercut failed because of the keeper's quick sight. the proprietor of the booth, who acted as timekeeper, gave every favor to his henchman, but at the end of the third round the professional was more blown than the amateur. the sovereign was handed over with apparent good will, both showmen realizing that it might be money well spent. and it was, as the black eyes and swollen lips among the would-be pugilists of elmsdale testified for many days thereafter. martin, who had never before seen a real boxing match, was entranced. with a troop of boys he accompanied the two combatants to the door of the "black lion," where a fair proportion of the sovereign was soon converted into beer. george pickering had witnessed the contest. generous to a fault, he started a purse to be fought for in rounds inside the booth. wanting a pencil and paper, he ran upstairs to his room--he had resolved to stay at the inn for a couple of nights--and encountered kitty thwaites on the stairs. she carried a laden tray, so he slipped an arm around her waist, and she was powerless to prevent him from kissing her unless she dropped the tray or risked upsetting its contents. she had no intention of doing either of these things. "oh, go on, do!" she cried, not averting her face too much. he whispered something. "not me!" she giggled. "besides, i won't have a minnit to spare till closin' time." pickering hugged her again. she descended the stairs, laughing and very red. the boys heard something of the details of the proposed elmsdale championship boxing competition. entries were pouring in, there being no fee. george pickering was appointed referee, and the professional named as judge. the first round would be fought at 3 p.m. next day. the time passed more quickly than martin expected; as for his money, it simply melted. tenpence out of the shilling had vanished before he realized how precious little remained wherewith to entertain angèle. she said she would have "plenty of money," but he imagined that a walk through the fair and a ride on the roundabout would satisfy her. not even at fourteen does the male understand the female of twelve. a few minutes before eight he escaped from his companions and strolled toward the elms. the house was not like the suburban villa which stands in the center of a row and proudly styles itself oakdene. it was hidden in a cluster of lordly elms, and already the day was so far spent that the entrance gate was invisible save at a few yards' distance. the nearest railway station was situated two miles along this very road. a number of slow-moving country people were sauntering to the station, where the north train was due at 9:05 p.m. another train, that from the south, arrived at 9:20, and would be the last that night. a full moon was rising, but her glories were hidden by the distant hills. there was no wind; the weather was fine and settled. the elmsdale feast was lucky in its dates. martin waited near the gate and heard the church clock chime the hour. two boys on bicycles came flying toward the village. they were the beckett-smythes. they slackened pace as they neared the elms. "wonder if she'll get out to-night?" said ernest, the younger. "there's no use waiting here. she said she'd dodge out one evening for certain. if she's not in the village, we'd better skip back before we're missed," said the heir. "oh, that's all right. pater thinks we're in the grounds, and there won't be any bother if we show up at nine." they rode on. the quarter-hour chimed, and martin became impatient. "she was humbugging me, as usual," he reflected. "well, this time i'm pleased." an eager voice whispered: "hold the gate! it'll rattle when i climb over. they've not heard me. i crept here on the grass." angèle had changed her dress to a dark-blue serge and sailor hat. this was decidedly thoughtful. in her day attire she must have attracted a great deal of notice. now, in the dark, neither the excellence of her clothing nor the elegance of her carriage would differentiate her too markedly from the village girls. she was breathless with haste, but her tongue rattled on rapidly. "mamma _is_ ill. i knew she would be. i told françoise i had a headache, and went to bed. then i crept downstairs again. miss walker nearly caught me, but she's so upset that she never saw me. as for fritz, if i meet him--poof!" "what's the matter with mrs. saumarez?" asked martin. "trop de cognac, mon chéri." "what's that?" "it means a 'bit wobbly, my dear.'" "is her head bad?" "yes. it will be for a week. but never mind mamma. she'll be all right, with françoise to look after her. here! you pay for everything. there's ten shillings in silver. i have a sovereign in my stocking, if we want it." they were hurrying toward the distant medley of sound. flaring naptha lamps gave the village street a rembrandt effect. love-making couples, with arms entwined, were coming away from the glare of the booths. their forms cast long shadows on the white road. "ten shillings!" gasped martin. "whatever do we want with ten shillings?" "to enjoy ourselves, you silly. you can't have any fun without money. why, when mamma dines at the savoy and takes a party to the theater afterwards, it costs her as many pounds. i know, because i've seen the checks." "that has nothing to do with it. we can't spend ten shillings here." "oh, can't we? you leave that to me. mais, voyez-vous, imbécile, are you going to be nasty?" she halted and stamped an angry foot. "no, i'm not; but----" "then come on, stupid. i'm late as it is." "the stalls remain open until eleven." "magnifique! what a row there'll be if i have to knock to get in!" martin held his tongue. he resolved privately that angèle should be home at nine, at latest, if he dragged her thither by main force. the affair promised difficulties. she was so intractable that a serious quarrel would result. well, he could not help it. better a lasting break than the wild hubbub that would spring up if they both remained out till the heinous hour she contemplated. in the village they encountered jim bates and evelyn atkinson, surrounded by seven or eight boys and girls, for jim was disposing rapidly of his six shillings, and evelyn bestowed favor on him for the nonce. "hello! here's martin," whooped bates. "i thowt ye'd gone yam (home). where hev ye----" jim's eloquence died away abruptly. he caught sight of angèle and was abashed. not so evelyn. "martin's been to fetch his sweetheart," she said maliciously. angèle simpered sufficiently to annoy evelyn. then she laughed agreement. "yes. and won't we have a time! come on! everybody have a ride." she sprang toward the horses. martin alone followed. "come on!" she screamed. "martin will pay for the lot. he has heaps of money." no second invitation was needed. several times the whole party swung round with lively yelling. from the roundabouts they went to the swings; from the swings to the cocoanut shies. here they were joined by the beckett-smythes, who endeavored promptly to assume the leadership. martin's blood was fired by the contest. he was essentially a boy foredoomed to dominate his fellows, whether for good or evil. he pitched restraint to the winds. he could throw better than either of the young aristocrats; he could shoot straighter at the galleries; he could describe the heroic combat between the boxer and velveteens; he would swing angèle higher than any, until they looked over the crossbar after each giddy swirl. the beckett-smythes kept pace with him only in expenditure, jim bates being quickly drained, and even they wondered how long the village lad could last. the ten shillings were soon dissipated. "i want that sovereign," he shouted, when angèle and he were riding together again on the hobby-horses. "i told you so," she screamed. she turned up her dress to extricate the money from a fold of her stocking. the light flashed on her white skin, and frank beckett-smythe, who rode behind with one of the atkinson girls, wondered what she was doing. she bent over martin and whispered: "there are _two_! keep the fun going!" the young spark in the rear thought that she was kissing martin; he was wild with jealousy. at the next show--that of a woman grossly fat, who allowed the gapers to pinch her leg at a penny a pinch--he paid with his last half-crown. when they went to refresh themselves on ginger-beer, martin produced a sovereign. the woman who owned the stall bit it, surveyed him suspiciously, and tried to swindle him in the change. she failed badly. "eleven bottles at twopence and eleven cakes at a penny make two-and-nine. i want two more shillings, please," he said coolly. "be aff wid ye! i gev ye seventeen and thruppence. if ye thry anny uv yer tricks an me i'll be afther askin' where ye got the pound." "give me two more shillings, or i'll call the police." mrs. maguire was beaten; she paid up. the crowd left her, with cries of "irish molly!" "where's mick?" and even coarser expressions. angèle screamed at her: "why don't you stick to ginger-beer? you're muzzy." the taunt stung, and the old irishwoman cursed her tormentor as a black-eyed little witch. angèle, seeing that martin carried all before him, began straightway to flirt with the heir. at first the defection was not noted, but when she elected to sit by frank while they watched the acrobats the new swain took heart once more and squeezed her arm. evelyn atkinson, who was in a smiling temper, felt that a crisis might be brought about now. there was not much time. it was nearly ten o'clock, and soon her mother would be storming at her for not having taken herself and her sisters to bed, though, in justice be it said, the girls could not possibly sleep until the house was cleared. ernest beckett-smythe was her cavalier at the moment. "we've seen all there is te see," she whispered. "let's go and have a dance in our yard. jim bates can play a mouth-organ." ernest was a slow-witted youth. "where's the good?" he said. "there's more fun here." "you try it, an' see," she murmured coyly. the suggestion caught on. it was discussed while martin and jim bates were driving a weight up a pole by striking a lever with a heavy hammer. anything in the shape of an athletic feat always attracted martin. angèle was delighted. she scented a row. these village urchins were imps after her own heart. "oh, let's," she agreed. "it'll be a change. i'll show you the american two-step." frank had his arm around her waist now. "right-o!" he cried. "evelyn, you and ernest lead the way." the girl, flattered by being bracketed publicly with one of the squire's sons, enjoined caution. "once we're past t' stables it's all right," she said. "i don't suppose fred'll hear us, anyhow." fred was at the front of the hotel watching the road, watching kitty thwaites as she flitted upstairs and down, watching george pickering through the bar window, and grinning like a fiend when he saw that somewhat ardent wooer, hilarious now, but sober enough according to his standard, glancing occasionally at his watch. there was a gate on each side of the hotel. that on the left led to the yard, with its row of stables and cart-sheds, and thence to a spacious area occupied by hay-stacks, piles of firewood, hen-houses, and all the miscellaneous lumber of an establishment half inn, half farm. the gate on the right opened into a bowling-green and skittle-alley. behind these lay the kitchen garden and orchard. a hedge separated one section from the other, and entrance could be obtained to either from the back door of the hotel. the radiance of a full moon now decked the earth in silver and black; in the shade the darkness was intense by contrast. the church clock struck ten. half a dozen youngsters crept silently into the stable yard. angèle kicked up a dainty foot in a preliminary _pas seul_, but evelyn stopped her unceremoniously. the village girl's sharp ears had caught footsteps on the garden path beyond the hedge. it was george pickering, with his arm around kitty's shoulders. he was talking in a low tone, and she was giggling nervously. "they're sweetheartin'," whispered a girl. "so are we," declared frank beckett-smythe. "aren't we, angèle?" "sapristi! i should think so. where's martin?" "never mind. we don't want him." "oh, he will be furious. let's hide. there will be such a row when he goes home, and he daren't go till he finds me." master beckett-smythe experienced a second's twinge at thought of the greeting he and his brother would receive at the hall. but here was angèle pretending timidity and cowering in his arms. he would not leave her now were he to be flayed alive. the footsteps of pickering and kitty died away. they had gone into the orchard. evelyn atkinson breathed freely again. "even if kitty sees us now, i don't care," she said. "she daren't tell mother, when she knows that we saw her and mr. pickerin'. he ought to have married her sister." "poof!" tittered angèle. "who heeds a domestic?" someone came at a fast run into the yard, running in desperate haste, and making a fearful din. two boys appeared. the leader shouted: "angèle! angèle! are you there?" martin had missed her. jim bates, who knew the chosen rendezvous of the atkinson girls, suggested that they and their friends had probably gone to the haggarth. "shut up, you fool!" hissed frank. "do you want the whole village to know where we are?" martin ignored him. he darted forward and caught angèle by the shoulder. he distinguished her readily by her outline, though she and the rest were hidden in the somber shadows of the outbuildings. "why did you leave me?" he demanded angrily. "you must come home at once. it is past ten o'clock." "don't be angry, martin," she pouted. "i am just a little tired of the noise. i want to show you and the rest a new dance." the minx was playing her part well. she had read evelyn atkinson's soul. she felt every throb of young beckett-smythe's foolish heart. she was quite certain that martin would find her and cause a scene. there was deeper intrigue afoot now than the mere folly of unlicensed frolic in the fair. her vanity, too, was gratified by the leading rôle she filled among them all. the puppets bore themselves according to their temperaments. evelyn bit her lip with rage and nearly yielded to a wild impulse to spring at angèle and scratch her face. martin was white with determination. as for master frank, he boiled over instantly. "you just leave her alone, young bolland," he said thickly. "she came here to please herself, and can stay here, if she likes. i'll see to that." martin did not answer. "angèle," he said quietly, "come away." seeing that he had lived in the village nearly all his life, it was passing strange that this boy should have dissociated himself so completely from its ways. but the early hours he kept, his love of horses, dogs, and books, his preference for the society of grooms and gamekeepers--above all, a keen, if unrecognized, love of nature in all her varying moods, an almost pagan worship of mountain, moor, and stream--had kept him aloof from village life. a boy of fourteen does not indulge in introspection. it simply came as a fearful shock to find the daughter of a lady like mrs. saumarez so ready to forget her social standing. surely, she could not know what she was doing. he was undeceived, promptly and thoroughly. angèle snatched her shoulder from his grasp. "don't you dare hold me," she snapped. "i'm not coming. i won't come with you, anyhow. ma foi, frank is far nicer." "then i'll drag you home," said martin. "oh, will you, indeed? i'll see to that." beckett-smythe deemed angèle a girl worth fighting for. in any case, this clodhopper who spent money like a lord must be taught manners. martin smiled. in his bemused brain the idea was gaining ground that angèle would be flattered if he "licked" the squire's son for her sake. "very well," he said, stepping back into the moonlight. "we'll settle it that way. if _you_ beat _me_, angèle remains. if _i_ beat _you_, she goes home. here, jim. hold my coat and hat. and, no matter what happens, mind you don't play for any dancing." martin stated terms and issued orders like an emperor. in the hour of stress he felt himself immeasurably superior to this gang of urchins, whether their manners smacked of elmsdale or of eton. angèle's acquaintance with popular fiction told her that at this stage of the game the heroine should cling in tears to the one she loved, and implore him to desist, to be calm for her sake. but the riot in her veins brought a new sensation. there were possibilities hitherto unsuspected in the darkness, the secrecy, the candid brutality of the fight. she almost feared lest beckett-smythe should be defeated. and how the other girls must envy her, to be fought for by the two boys pre-eminent among them, to be the acknowledged princess of this village carnival! so she clapped her hands. "o là là!" she cried. "going to fight about poor little me! well, i can't stop you, can i?" "yes, you can," said one. "she won't, anyhow," scoffed the other. "are you ready?" "quite!" "then 'go.'" and the battle began. chapter vi wherein the red blood flows they fought like a couple of young bulls. frank intended to demolish his rival at the outset. he was a year older and slightly heavier, but martin was more active, more sure-footed, sharper of vision. above all, he had laid to heart the three-pennyworth of tuition obtained in the boxing booth a few hours earlier. he had noted then that a boxer dodged as many blows with his head as he warded with his arms. he grasped the necessity to keep moving, and thus disconcert an adversary's sudden rush. again, he had seen the excellence of a forward spring without changing the relative positions of the feet. assuming you were sparring with the left hand and foot advanced, a quick jump of eighteen inches enabled you to get the right home with all your force. you must keep the head well back and the eye fixed unflinchingly on your opponent's. above all, meet offense with offense. hit hard and quickly and as often as might be. these were sound principles, and he proceeded to put them into execution, to the growing distress and singular annoyance of master beckett-smythe. ernest acted as referee--in the language of the village, he "saw fair play"--but was wise enough to call "time" early in the first round, when his brother drew off after a fierce set-to. the forcing tactics had failed, but honors were divided. the taller boy's reach had told in his favor, while martin's newly acquired science redressed the balance. martin's lip was cut and there was a lump on his left cheek, but frank felt an eye closing and had received a staggerer in the ribs. he was aware of an uneasy feeling that if martin survived the next round he (frank) would be beaten, so there was nothing for it but to summon all his reserves and deliver a napoleonic attack. the enemy must be crushed by sheer force. he was a plucky lad and was stung to frenzy by seeing angèle offer martin the use of a lace handkerchief for the bleeding lip, a delicate tenderness quietly repulsed. so, when the rush came, martin had to fight desperately to avoid annihilation. he was compelled to give way, and backed toward the hedge. behind lay an unseen stackpole. at the instant when beckett-smythe lowered his head and endeavored to butt martin violently in the stomach, the latter felt the obstruction with his heel. had he lost his nerve then or flickered an eyelid, he would have taken a nasty fall and a severe shaking. as it was, he met the charge more than halfway, and delivered the same swinging upper stroke which had nearly proved fatal to his gamekeeper friend. it was wholly disastrous to beckett-smythe. it caught him fairly on the nose, and, as the blow was in accord with the correct theory of dynamics as applied to forces in motion, it knocked him silly. his head flew up, his knees bent, and he dropped to the ground with a horrible feeling that the sky had fallen and that stars were sparkling among the rough paving-stones. "that's a finisher. he's whopped!" exulted jim bates. "no, he's not. it was a chance blow," cried ernest, who was strongly inclined to challenge the victor on his own account. "get up, frank. have another go at him!" but frank, who could neither see nor hear distinctly, was too groggy to rise, and the village girls drew together in an alarmed group. such violent treatment of the squire's son savored of sacrilege. they were sure that martin would receive some condign punishment by the law for pummeling a superior being so unmercifully. angèle, somewhat frightened herself, tried to console her discomfited champion. "i'm so sorry," she said. "it was all my fault." "oh, go away!" he protested. "ernest, where's there a pump?" assisted by his brother, he struggled to his feet. his nose was bleeding freely and his face was ghastly in the moonlight. but he was a spirited youngster. he held out a hand to martin. "i've had enough just now," he said, with an attempt at a smile. "some other day, when my eye is all right, i'd like to----" a woman's scream of terror, a man's cry of agony, startled the silent night and nearly scared the children out of their wits. someone came running up the garden path. it was kitty thwaites. she swayed unsteadily as she ran; her arms were lifted in frantic supplication. "oh, betsy, betsy, you've killed him!" she wailed. "murder! murder! come, someone! for god's sake, come!" she stumbled and fell, shrieking frenziedly for help. another woman--a woman whose extended right hand clutched a long, thin knife such as is used to carve game--appeared from the gloom of the orchard. her wan face was raised to the sky, and a baleful light shone in her eyes. "ay, i'll swing for him," she cried in a voice shrill with hysteria. "may the lord deal wi' him as he dealt wi' me! and my own sister, too! out on ye, ye strumpet! 'twould sarve ye right if i stuck ye wi' t' same knife." with a clatter of ironshod boots, most of the frightened children stampeded out of the stable yard. martin, to whom angèle clung in speechless fear, and the two beckett-smythes alone were left. the din of steam organ and drums, the ceaseless turmoil of the fair, the constant fusillade at the shooting gallery, and the bawling of men in charge of the various sideshows, had kept the women's shrieks from other ears thus far. but kitty thwaites, though almost shocked out of her senses, gained strength from the imminence of peril. springing up from the path just in time to avoid the vengeful oncoming of her sister, she staggered toward the hotel and created instant alarm by her cries of "murder! help! george pickering has been stabbed!" a crowd of men poured out from bar and smoking-room. one, who took thought, rushed through the front door and snatched a naphtha lamp from a stall. meanwhile, the three boys and the girl on the other side of the hedge, seeing and hearing everything, but unseen and unheard themselves, took counsel in some sort. "i say," ernest beckett-smythe urged his brother, "let's get out of this. father will thrash us to death if we're mixed up in this business." the advice was good. frank forgot his dizziness for the moment, and the two raced to secure their bicycles from a stall-holder's care. they rode away to the hall unnoticed. martin remained curiously quiet. all the excitement had left him. if elmsdale were rent by an earthquake just then, he would have watched the toppling houses with equanimity. "i suppose you don't wish to stop here now?" he said to angèle. the girl was sobbing bitterly. her small body shook as though each gulp were a racking cough. she could not answer. he placed his arm around her and led her to the gate. while they were crossing the yard the people from the hotel crowded into the garden. the man with the lamp had reached the back of the house across the bowling green, and a stalwart farmer had caught betsy thwaites by the wrist. the blood-stained knife fell from her fingers. she moaned helplessly in disjointed phrases. "it's all overed now. god help me! why was i born?" already a crowd was surging into the hotel through the front door. martin guided his trembling companion to the right; in a few strides they were clear of the fair, only to run into mrs. saumarez's german chauffeur. he was not in uniform; in a well-fitting blue serge suit and straw hat, he looked more like a young officer in mufti than a mechanic. he was the first to recognize angèle, and was so frankly astonished that he bowed to her without lifting his hat. "_you_, mees?" he cried, seemingly at a loss for other words. angèle recovered her wits at once. she said something which martin could not understand, though he was sure it was not in french, as the girl's frequent use of that language was familiarizing his ears with its sounds. as a matter of fact, she spoke german, telling the chauffeur to mind his own business, and she would mind hers; but if any talking were done her tongue might wag more than his. at any rate, the man did then raise his hat politely and walk on. the remainder of the road between elmsdale and the elms was deserted. martin hardly realized the pace at which he was literally dragging his companion homeward until she protested. "martin, you're hurting my arm! what's the hurry?... did she really kill him?" "she said so. i don't know," he replied. "who was she?" "kitty thwaites's sister, i suppose. i never saw her before. they were not bred in this village." "and why did she kill him?" "how can i tell?" "she had a knife in her hand." "yes." "perhaps she killed him because she was jealous." "perhaps." "martin, don't be angry with me. i didn't mean any harm. i was only having a lark. i did it just to tease you--and evelyn atkinson." "that's all very fine. what will your mother say?" the quietude, the sound of her own voice, were giving the girl courage. she tossed her head with something of contempt. "she can say nothing. you leave her to me. you saw how i shut fritz's mouth. what was the name of the man who was killed?" "george pickering." "ah. he walked down the garden with kitty thwaites." "indeed?" "yes. when i get in i can tell miss walker and françoise all about it. they will be so excited. there will be no fuss about me being out. v'là la bonne fortune!" "speak english, please." "well, it is good luck i was there. i can make up such a story." "good luck that a poor fellow should be stabbed!" "that wasn't my fault, was it? good-night, martin. you fought beautifully. kiss me!" "i won't kiss you. run in, now. i'll wait till the door opens." "then _i'll_ kiss _you_. there! i like you better than all the world--just now." she opened the gate, careless whether it clanged or not. martin heard her quick footsteps on the gravel of the short drive. she rattled loudly on the door. "good-night, martin--dear!" she cried. he did not answer. there was some delay. evidently she had not been missed. "are you there?" she was impatient of his continued coldness. "yes." "then why don't you speak, silly?" the door opened with the clanking of a chain. there was a woman's startled cry as the inner light fell on angèle. then he turned. not until he reached the "black lion" and its well-lighted area did he realize that he was coatless and hatless. jim bates had vanished with both of these necessary articles. well, in for a penny, in for a pound! there would be a fearful row, and the thrashing would be the same in any case. he avoided the crowd, keeping to the darker side of the street. a policeman had just come out of the inn and was telling the people to go away. all the village seemed to have gathered during the few minutes which had elapsed since the tragedy took place. he felt strangely sorry for betsy thwaites. would she be locked up, handcuffed, with chains on her ankles? what would they do with the knife? why should she want to kill mr. pickering? wouldn't he marry her? even so, that was no reason he should be stabbed. where did she stick him? did he quiver like absalom when joab thrust the darts into his heart? at last he ran up the slight incline leading to the white house; there was a light in the front kitchen. for one awful moment he paused, with a finger on the sneck; then he pressed the latch and entered. john bolland, grim as a stone gargoyle, wearing his sunday coat and old-fashioned tall hat, was leaning against the massive chimneypiece. mrs. bolland, with bonnet awry, was seated. she had been crying. a frightened kitchenmaid peeped through the passage leading to the back of the house when the door opened to admit the truant. then she vanished. there was a period of chill silence while martin closed the door. he turned and faced the elderly couple, and john bolland spoke: "so ye've coom yam, eh?" "yes, sir." "an' at a nice time, too. afther half-past ten! an hour sen yer muther an' me searched high and low for ye. where hev ye bin? tell t' truth, ye young scamp. every lie'll mean more skin off your back." mrs. bolland, drying her eyes, now that martin had returned, noticed his disheveled condition. his face was white as his shirt, and both were smeared with blood. a wave of new alarm paled her florid cheeks. she ran to him. "for mercy's sake, boy, what hev ye bin doin'? are ye hurt?" "no, mother, not hurt. i fought frank beckett-smythe. that is all." "t' squire's son. why on earth----" "go to bed, martha," said john, picking up a riding whip. but mrs. bolland's sympathies discerned a deeper reason for martin's escapade than a mere boyish frolic which deserved a thrashing. he was unnaturally calm. something out of the common had happened. he did not flinch at the sight of the whip. "john," she said sternly, "ye shan't touch him t'-night." "stand aside, martha. if all my good teachin' is of no avail----" "mebbe t' lad's fair sick o' yer good teachin'. you lay a hand on him at yer peril. if ye do, i don't bide i' t' house this night!" never before, during thirty years of married life, had martha bolland defied her husband. he glowered with anger and amazement. "would ye revile the word te shield that spawn o' satan?" he roared. "get away, woman, lest i do thee an injury." but his wife's temper was fierce as his own when roused. she was a meynell, and there have been meynells in yorkshire as long as any bollands. "tak' yer threats te those who heed 'em," she retorted bitterly. "d'ye think folk will stand by an' let ye raise yer hand te me?... david, william, mary, coom here an' hold yer master. he's like te have a fit wi' passion." there was a shuffling in the passage. the men servants, such as happened to be in the house, came awkwardly at their mistress's cry. the farmer stood spellbound. what devil possessed the household that his authority should be set at naught thus openly? it was a thrilling moment, but martin solved the difficulty. he wrenched himself free of mrs. bolland's protecting arms. "father, mother!" he cried. "don't quarrel on my account. if i must be beaten, i don't care. i'll take all i get. but it's only fair that i should say why i was not home earlier." now, john bolland, notwithstanding his dealing in the matter of the pedigree cow, prided himself on his sense of justice. indeed, the man who does the gravest injury to his fellows is often cursed with a narrow-minded certainty of his own righteousness. moreover, this matter had gone beyond instant adjustment by the unsparing use of a whip. his wife, his servants, were arrayed against him. by the lord, they should rue it! "aye," he said grimly. "tell your muther why you've been actin' t' blackguard. mebbe she'll understand." mrs. bolland had the sense to pass this taunt unheeded. her heart was quailing already at her temerity. "angèle saumarez came out without her mother," said martin. "mrs. saumarez is ill. i thought it best to remain with her and take her home again. frank beckett-smythe joined us, and he--he--insulted her, in a way. so i fought him, and beat him, too. and then george pickering was murdered----" "what?" bolland dropped the whip on the table. his wife sank into a chair with a cry of alarm. the plowmen and maids ventured farther into the room. even the farmer's relentless jaw fell at this terrific announcement. "yes, it is quite true. frank and i fought in the yard of the 'black lion.' george pickering and kitty thwaites went down the garden--at least, so i was told. i didn't see them. but, suddenly, kitty came screaming along the path, and after her a woman waving a long knife in the air. kitty called her 'betsy,' and said she had killed george pickering. she said so herself. i heard her. then some men came with a light and caught hold of betsy. she was going to stab kitty, too, i think; and jim bates ran away with my coat and hat, which he was holding." the effect of such a narration on a gathering of villagers, law-abiding folk who lived in a quiet nook like elmsdale, was absolutely paralyzing. john bolland was the first to recover himself. a man of few ideas, he could not adjust his mental balance with sufficient nicety to see that the tragedy itself in no wise condoned martin's offense. "are ye sure of what ye're sayin', lad?" he demanded, though indeed he felt it was absurd to imagine that such a tale would be invented as a mere excuse. "quite sure, sir. if you walk down to the 'black lion,' you'll see all the people standing round the hotel and the police keeping them back." "well, well, i'll gan this minit. george pickerin' was no friend o' mine, but i'm grieved te hear o' sike deeds as these in oor village. i was maist angered wi' you on yer muther's account. she was grievin' so when we failed te find ye. she thowt sure you were runned over or drownded i' t' beck." this was meant as a graceful apology to his wife, and was taken in that spirit. never before had he made such a concession. "here's yer stick, john," she said. "hurry and find out what's happened. poor george! i wish my tongue hadn't run so fast t' last time i seed him." bolland and the other men hastened away, and martin was called on to recount the sensational episode, with every detail known to him, for the benefit of the household. no one paid heed to the boy's own adventures. all ears were for the vengeance taken by betsy thwaites on the man who jilted her. even to minds blunted almost to callousness, the _crime passionel_ had a vivid, an entrancing interest. the women were quick to see its motive, a passive endurance stung to sudden frenzy by the knowledge that the faithless lover was pursuing the younger sister. but how did betsy thwaites, who lived in far-off hereford, learn that george pickering was "making up" to kitty? the affair was of recent growth. indeed, none of those present was aware that pickering and the pretty maid at the "black lion" were so much as acquainted with each other. and where did betsy spring from? she could not have been staying in the village, or someone aware of her history must have seen her. did kitty know she was there? if so, how foolish of the younger woman to be out gallivanting in the moonlight with pickering. the whole story was fraught with deepest mystery. martin could not answer one-tenth of the questions put to him. boy-like, he felt himself somewhat of a hero, until he remembered angèle's glee at the "good luck" of the occurrence--how she would save herself from blame by telling miss walker and françoise "all about it." he flushed deeply. he wished now that bolland had given him a hiding before he blurted out his news. "bless the lad, he's fair tired te death!" said mrs. bolland. "here, martin, drink a glass o' port an' off te bed wi' ye." he sipped the wine, wondering dimly what frank beckett-smythe was enduring and how he would explain that black eye. he was about to go upstairs, when hasty steps sounded without, and bolland entered with a policeman. this was the village constable, and, of course, well known to all. during the feast other policemen came from neighboring villages, but the local officer was best fitted to conduct inquiries into a case requiring measures beyond a mere arrest. his appearance at this late hour created a fresh sensation. "martin," said the farmer gravely, "did ye surely hear kitty thwaites say that betsy had killed mr. pickering?" "yes, sir; i did." "and ye heerd betsy admit it?" "oh, yes--that is, if betsy is the woman with the knife." "there!" said bolland, turning to the policeman. "i telt ye so. t' lad has his faults, but he's nae leear; i'll say that for him." the man took off his helmet and wiped his forehead, for the night was close and warm. "well," he said, "i'll just leave it for the 'super' te sattle. mr. pickerin' sweers that betsy never struck him. she ran up tiv him wi' t' knife, an' they quarrelled desperately. that he don't deny. she threatened him, too, an' te get away frev her he was climin' inte t' stackyard when he slipped, an' a fork lyin' again' t' fence ran intiv his ribs." "isn't he dead, then?" exclaimed mrs. bolland shrilly. "not he, ma'am, and not likely te be. he kem to as soon as he swallowed some brandy, an' his first words was, 'where's betsy?' he was fair wild when they telt him she was arrested. he said it was all the fault of that flighty lass, kitty, an' that a lot of fuss was bein' made about nowt. i didn't know what te deä. beäth women were fair ravin', and said all soarts o' things, but t' upshot is that betsy is nussin' mr. pickerin' now until t' doctor comes frae nottonby." he still mopped his head, and his glance wandered to the goodly cask in the corner. "will ye hev a pint?" inquired bolland. "ay, that i will, mr. bolland, an' welcome." "an' a bite o' bread an' meat?" added mrs. bolland. "i doan't min' if i do, ma'am." a glance at a maid produced eatables with lightning speed. mary feared lest she should miss a syllable of the night's marvels. the policeman had many "bites," and talked while he ate. gradually the story became lucid and consecutive. fred, the groom, was jealous of pickering's admiration for kitty. having overheard the arrangement for a meeting on monday, he wrote to betsy, sending her the information in the hope that she would come from hereford and cause a commotion at the hotel. he expected her by an earlier train, but she did not arrive until 9:20 p.m., and there was a walk of over two miles from the station. meanwhile, he had seen kitty and pickering steal off into the garden. he knew that any interference on his part would earn him a prompt beating, so, when betsy put in a belated appearance, he met her in the passage and told her where she would find the couple. instantly she ran through the kitchen, snatching a knife as she went. before the drink-sodden meddler could realize the extent of the mischief he had wrought, kitty was shrieking that pickering was dead. all this he blurted out to the police before the injured man gave another version of the affair. "martin bears out one side o' t' thing," commented the constable oracularly, "but t' chief witness says that summat else happened. there was blood on t' knife when it was picked up; but there, again, there's a doubt, as betsy had cut her own arm wi't. anyhow, betsy an' kitty were cryin' their hearts out when they kem out of mr. pickerin's room for towels; and he's bleedin' dreadful." this final gory touch provided an artistic curtain. the constable readjusted his belt and took his departure. after another half-hour's eager gossip among the elders, in which fred suffered much damage to his character, martin was hurried off to bed. mrs. bolland washed his bruised face and helped him to undress. she was folding his trousers, when a shower of money rattled to the floor. "marcy on us!" she cried in real bewilderment, "here's a sovereign, a half-sovereign, an' silver, an' copper! martin, my boy, whatever...." "angèle gave it to me, mother. she gave me two pounds ten to spend." "two pund ten!" "yes. i suppose it was very wrong. i'll give back all that is left to mrs. saumarez in the morning." martha bolland was very serious now. she crept to the door of the bedroom and listened. "i do hope yer father kens nowt o' this," she whispered anxiously. then she counted the money. "you've spent sixteen shillin's and fowerpence, not reckonin' t' shillin' i gev ye this mornin'. seventeen an' fowerpence! martin, martin, whatever on?" such extravagance was appalling. her frugal mind could not assimilate it readily. this sum would maintain a large family for a week. "we stood treat to a lot of other boys and girls. but don't be vexed to-night, mother, dear. i'm so tired." "vexed, indeed. what'll mrs. saumarez say? there'll be a bonny row i' t' mornin'. you tak' it back t' first thing. an', here. if she sez owt about t' balance, come an' tell me an' i'll make it up. you fond lad; if john knew this, he'd never forgive ye. there, honey, go te sleep." there were tears in her eyes as she bent and kissed him. but he was incapable of further emotion. he was half asleep ere she descended the stairs, and his last sentient thought was one of keen enjoyment, for his knuckles were sore when he closed his right hand, and he remembered the smashing force of that uppercut as it met the aristocratic nose of master beckett-smythe. chapter vii george pickering plays the man martin was awakened by the rays of a bright autumn sun. he sprang out of bed in a jiffy, lest he should be late for breakfast, a heinous offense at the farm; but the sight of william feeding the pigs in the yard beneath told him that it was only half-past six. the first puzzle that presented itself was one of costume. should he wear his commonplace corduroys, or don all that was left of his gray tweeds? during the feast he was supposed to dress in his best each day; he decided to obey orders as far as was possible. he missed the money from his trousers pocket and knew that his mother had taken it. also, he found that she had selected a clean shirt and collar from the drawer and placed them ready for use. by degrees his active brain recalled the startling events of the previous evening in their proper sequence, and he found himself speculating more on the reception mrs. saumarez might accord than on the attitude john bolland would certainly adopt when the overnight proceedings arranged themselves in a slow-moving mind. he was downstairs long before seven. the farmer was out. mrs. bolland, immersed in the early cares of the household, showed no traces of the excitement of eight hours earlier. "martin," she cried as soon as she caught sight of him, "i heerd a hen cluckin' a bit sen at t' bottom o' t' garth. just look i' t' hedge an' see if she's nestin'?" this was a daily undertaking in a house where poultry were plentiful as sparrows in piccadilly. martin hailed the mission as a sign that normal times were come again. a gate led into the meadow from the garden, but to go that way meant walking twenty yards or more, so the boy took a running jump, caught a stout limb of a pear tree, swung himself onto a ten-foot pile of wood, and dropped over into the field beyond. mrs. bolland witnessed the feat with some degree of alarm. in the course of a few hours she had come to see her adopted son passing from childhood into vigorous adolescence. "drat that lad!" she cried irately. "does he want to break his neck?" "he larnt that trick t' other day, missus," commented william, standing all lopsided to balance a huge pail of pig's food. "he'll mek a rare chap, will your martin." "he's larnin' a lot o' tricks that i ken nowt about," cried mistress martha. "nice doin's there was last night. how comes it none o' you men saw him carryin' on i' t' fair wi' that little french la-di-dah?" "i dunno, ma'am." william grinned, though, for some of the men had noted the children's antics, and none would "split" to the farmer. "but i did hear as how martin gev t' squire's son a fair weltin'," he went on. "one o' t' grooms passed here an oor sen, exercisin' a young hoss, an' he said that beäth young gentlemen kem yam at half-past ten. master frank had an eye bunged up, an' a nose like a bad apple. he was that banged about that t' squire let him off a bastin' an' gev t' other a double allowance." mrs. bolland smiled. "gan on wi' yer wark," she said. "here's it's seven o'clock, half t' day gone, an' nothin' done." martin, searching for stray eggs, suddenly heard a familiar whistle. he looked around and saw jim bates's head over the top of the lane hedge. jim held up a bundle. "here's yer coat an' hat," he said. "i dursent bring 'em last neet." "why did you run away?" inquired martin, approaching to take his property. "i was skeert. yon woman's yellin' was awful. i went straight off yam." "did you catch it for being out late?" "noa; but feyther gev me a clout this mornin' for not tellin' him about t' murder. he'd gone te bed." "nobody was murdered," said martin. "that wasn't betsy's fault. it's all my eye about mr. pickerin' stickin' a fork into hisself. there was noa fork there." "how do you know?" "coss i was pullin' carrots all saturday mornin' for mrs. atkinson, an' if there'd bin any fork i should ha' seen it." "martin," cried a shrill voice from the garth, "is that lookin' fer eggs?" jim bates's head and shoulders shot out of sight instantaneously. "all right, mother, i'm only getting back my lost clothes," explained martin. he began a painstaking survey of the hedge bottom and was rewarded by the discovery of a nest of six hidden away by a hen anxious to undertake the cares of maternity. at breakfast john bolland was silent and severe. he passed but one remark to martin: "happen you'll be wanted some time this mornin'. stop within hail until mr. benson calls." mr. benson was the village constable. "what will he want wi' t' lad?" inquired mrs. bolland tartly. "martin is t' main witness i' this case o' pickerin's. kitty thwaites isn't likely te tell t' truth. women are main leears when there's a man i' t' business." "more fools they." "well, let be. i'm fair vexed that martin's neäm should be mixed up i' this affair. fancy the tale that'll be i' t' _messenger_--john bolland's son fightin' t' young squire at ten o'clock o' t' neet in t' 'black lion' yard--fightin' ower a lass. what ailed him i cannot tell. he must ha' gone clean daft." the farmer pushed back his chair angrily, and mrs. bolland wondered what he would say did he know of martin's wild extravagance. mother and son were glad when john picked up a riding-whip and lumbered out to mount sam, the pony, for an hour's ride over the moor. evidently, he had encountered benson before breakfast, as that worthy officer arrived at half-past ten and asked martin to accompany him. the two walked solemnly through the fair, in which there was already some stir. a crowd hanging around the precincts of the inn made way as they approached, and martin saw, near the door, two saddled horses in charge of a policeman. he was escorted to an inner room, receiving a tremulous, but gracious, smile from evelyn as he passed. to his very genuine astonishment and alarm, he was confronted not only by the district superintendent of police but also by mr. frank reginald de courcy beckett-smythe, the magnate of the hall. "this is the boy, your wuship," said benson. "ah. what is his name?" "martin court bolland, sir." "one of john bolland's sons, eh?" "no, sir. mr. bolland has no son. he adopted this lad some thirteen years ago." had a bolt from the blue struck martin at that moment he could not have been more dumbfounded. both john and martha had thought fit to keep the secret of his parentage from his knowledge until he was older, as the fact might tend to weaken their authority during his boyhood. the adults in elmsdale, of course, knew the circumstances thoroughly, and respected mr. and mrs. bolland's wishes, while the children with whom he grew up regarded him as village-born like themselves. it took a good deal to bring tears to martin's eyes, but they were perilously near at that instant. though the words almost choked him, he faltered: "is that true, mr. benson?" "true? it's true eneuf, lad. didn't ye know?" "no, they never told me." a mist obscured his sight. the presence of the magistrate and superintendent ceased to have any awe-inspiring effect. what disgrace was this so suddenly blurted out by this stolid policeman? whose child was he, then, if not theirs? could he ever hold up his head again in face of the youthful host over which he lorded it by reason of his advanced intelligence and greater strength? there was comfort in the thought that no one had ever taunted him in this relation. the veiled hint in pickering's words to the farmer was the only reference he could recall. benson seemed to regard the facts as to his birth as matters of common knowledge. perhaps there was some explanation which would lift him from the sea of ignominy into which he had been pitched so unexpectedly. he was aroused by mr. beckett-smythe saying: "now, my lad, was it you who fought my son last night?" "yes--sir," stammered martin. the question sharpened his wits to some purpose. a spice of dread helped the process. was he going to be tried on some dire charge of malicious assault? "hum," muttered the squire, surveying him with a smile. "a proper trouncing you gave him, too. i shall certainly thrash him now for permitting it. what was the cause of the quarrel?" "about a girl, sir." "you young rascals! a girl! what girl?" "perhaps it was all my fault, sir." "that is not answering my question." "i would rather not tell, sir." then mr. beckett-smythe leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. "'pon my honor," he said to the superintendent, "these young sparks are progressive. they don't care what happens, so long as the honor of the lady is safeguarded. my son refused point-blank to say even why he fought. well, well, martin, i see you did not come out of the fray scatheless; but you are not brought here because you decorated frank's ingenuous countenance. i want you to tell me exactly what took place in the garden when mr. pickering was wounded." somewhat reassured, martin told all he knew, which was not a great deal. the magistrate, who, of course, was only assisting the police inquiry, was perplexed. "there were others present?" he commented. "yes, sir. master frank and master ernest----" "master frank could not see much at the moment, eh?" martin blushed. "but ernest--surely, he might have noted something that you missed?" "i think not, sir. he was--er--looking after his brother." "and the other children?" "several boys and girls of the village, but they were frightened by the screaming, sir, and ran away." "including the young lady who caused the combat?" no answer. martin thought it best to leave the point open. again mr. beckett-smythe laughed. "i suppose this village belle is one of mrs. atkinson's daughters. gad! i never heard tell of such a thing. all right, martin, you can go now, but let me give you a parting word of advice. never again fight for a woman, unless to protect her from a blackguard, which, i presume, was hardly the cause of the dispute with frank." "i don't think he was to blame at all, sir." "thank you. good-day, martin. here's a half-crown to plaster that damaged lip of yours." left to themselves, the magistrate and superintendent discussed the advisability of taking proceedings against betsy thwaites. "i'm sure pickering made up his story in order to screen the woman," said the police officer. "a rusty fork was found in the stackyard, but it was thirty feet away from the nearest point of the track made by the drops of blood, and separated from the garden by a stout hedge. moreover, pickering and kitty were undoubtedly standing in the orchard, many yards farther on. then, again, the girl was collared by thomas metcalfe, of the leas farm, and the knife, one of mrs. atkinson's, fell from her hand; while a dozen people will swear they heard her sister calling out that she had murdered george pickering." beckett-smythe shook his head doubtfully. "it is a queer affair, looked at in any light. do you think i ought to see pickering himself? you can arrest betsy thwaites without a warrant, i believe, and, in any event, i'll not sit on the bench if the case comes before the court." the superintendent was only too glad to have the squire's counsel in dealing with a knotty problem. the social position of the wounded man required some degree of caution before proceedings were commenced, in view of his emphatic declaration that his wound was self-inflicted. if his state became dangerous, there was only one course open to the representatives of the law; but the doctor's verdict was that penetration of the lung had been averted by a hair's breadth, and pickering would recover. indeed, he might be taken home in a carriage at the end of the week. meanwhile, the hayfork and the blood-stained knife were impounded. the two men went upstairs and were shown to the room occupied by the injured gallant. kitty thwaites, pale as a ghost, was flitting about attending to her work, the hotel being crowded with stock-breeders and graziers. her unfortunate sister, even more woebegone in appearance, was nursing the invalid, at his special request. it was a puzzling situation, and mr. beckett-smythe, who knew pickering intimately, was inclined to act with the utmost leniency that the law allowed. betsy thwaites, who was sitting at the side of the bed, rose when they entered. her white face became suffused with color, and she looked at the police officer with frightened eyes. the magistrate saw this, and he said quite kindly: "if mr. pickering is able to speak with us for a little while, you may leave us with him." "no, no," interrupted the invalid in an astonishingly strong and hearty voice. "there's nothing to be said that betsy needn't hear. is there, lass?" she began to tremble, and lifted a corner of her apron. notwithstanding her faithless swain's statement to her sister, she was quite as good-looking as kitty, and sorrow had given her face a pathetic dignity that in no wise diminished its charm. she knew not whether to stay or go. the superintendent took the hint given by the squire. "it would be best, under the circumstances, if we were left alone while we talk over last night's affair, mr. pickering." "not a bit of it. don't go, betsy. what is there to talk over? i made a fool of myself--not for the first time where a woman was concerned--and betsy here, brought from hereford by a meddlesome scamp, lost her temper. no wonder! poor girl, she had traveled all day in a hot train, without eatin' a bite, and found me squeezing her sister at the bottom of the garden. there's no denying that she meant to do me a mischief, and serve me right, too. i'll admit i was scared, and in running away i got into worse trouble, as, of course, i could easily have mastered her. kitty, too, what between fear and shame, lost her senses, and poor betsy cut her own arm. you see, a plain tale stops all the nonsense that has been talked since ten o'clock last night." "not quite, george." mr. beckett-smythe was serious and magisterial. "you forget, or perhaps do not know, that there were witnesses." pickering looked alarmed. "witnesses!" he cried. "what d'you mean?" "well, no outsider saw the blow, or accident, whichever it was; but a number of children saw and heard incidents which, putting it mildly, tend to discredit your story." betsy began to sob. "i told you you had better leave the room," went on the squire in a low tone. pickering endeavored to raise himself in the bed, but sank back with a groan. the unfortunate girl forgot her own troubles at the sound, and rushed to arrange the pillow beneath his head. "it comes to this, then," he said huskily; "you want to arrest, on a charge of attempting to murder me, a woman whom i intend to marry long before she can be brought to trial!" betsy broke down now in real earnest. beckett-smythe and the superintendent gazed at pickering with blank incredulity. this development was wholly unlooked for. they both thought the man was light-headed. he smiled dryly. "yes, i mean it," he continued, placing his hand on the brown hair of the girl, whose face was buried in the bedclothes. "i--i didn't sleep much last night, and i commenced to see things in a different light to that which presented itself before. i treated betsy shamefully--not in a monied sense, but in every other way. she's not one of the general run of girls. i promised to marry her once, and now i'm going to keep my promise. that's all." he was desperately in earnest. of that there could be no manner of doubt. the superintendent stroked his chin reflectively, and the magistrate could only murmur: "gad, that changes the venue, as the lawyers say." one thought dominated the minds of both men; pickering was behaving foolishly. he was a wealthy man, owner of a freehold farm of hundreds of acres; he might aspire to marry a woman of some position in the county and end his days in all the glory of j. p.-dom and county aldermanship. yet, here he was deliberately throwing himself away on a dairymaid who, not many hours since, had striven to kill him during a burst of jealous fury. the thing was absurd. probably when he recovered he would see this for himself; but for the time it was best to humor him and give official sanction to his version of the overnight quarrel. "don't keep us in suspense, squire," cried the wounded man, angered by his friend's silence. "what are you going to do?" "nothing, george; nothing, i think. i only hope your accident with the pitchfork will not have serious results--in any shape." the policeman nodded a farewell. as they quitted the room they heard pickering say faintly: "now, betsy, my dear, no more crying. i can't stand it. damn it all, one doesn't get engaged to be married and yelp over it!" on the landing they saw kitty, a white shadow, anxious, but afraid to speak. "cheer up," said beckett-smythe pleasantly. "this affair looks like ending in smoke." gaining courage from the magistrate's affability, the girl said brokenly: "mr. pickering and--my--sister--are quite friendly. you saw that for yourself, sir." "gad, yes. they're going to be--well--er--i was going to say we have quite decided that an accident took place and there is no call for police interference--so long as mr. pickering shows progress toward recovery, you understand. there, there! you women always begin to cry, whether pleased or vexed. bless my heart, let's get away, mr. superintendent." chapter viii showing how martin's horizon widens the sufferings of the young are strenuous as their joys. when martin passed into the heart of the bustling fair its glamour had vanished. the notes of the organ were harsh, the gay canvas of the booths tawdry, the cleanly village itself awry. the policeman's surprise at his lack of knowledge on the subject of his parentage was disastrously convincing. the man treated the statement as indisputable. there was no question of hearsay; it was just so, a recognized fact, known to all the grown-up people in elmsdale. tommy beadlam, he of the white head, ran after him to ask why the "bobby" brought him to the "black lion," but martin averted eyes laden with misery, and motioned his little friend away. tommy, who had seen the fight, and knew of the squire's presence this morning, drew his own conclusions. "martin's goin' to be locked up," he told a knot of awe-stricken youngsters, and they thrilled with sympathy, for their champion's victory over the "young swell frae t' hall" was highly popular. the front door of the white house stood hospitably open. already a goodly number of visitors had gathered, and every man and woman talked of nothing but the dramatic events of the previous night. when martin arrived, fresh from a private conversation with the squire and the chief of police, they were on the tip-toe of expectancy. perhaps he might add to the store of gossip. even mrs. bolland felt a certain pride that the boy should be the center of interest in this _cause célèbre_. but his glum face created alarm in her motherly breast. "why, martin," she cried, "what's gone wrong? ye look as if ye'd seen a ghost wi' two heäds!" the all-absorbing topic to martin just then was his own history and not the half-comprehended tragedy of the rural lovers. if his mother's friends knew that which was hidden from him, why should he compel his tongue to wag falsely? somehow, the air seemed thick with deception just now, but his heart would have burst had he attempted to restrain the words that welled forth. "mother," he said, and his lips quivered at the remembrance that the affectionate title was itself a lie, "mr. benson told the squire i was not your boy--that father and you adopted me thirteen years ago." mrs. bolland's face glowed with quick indignation. no one spoke. martin's impetuous repudiation of his name was the last thing they looked for. "it is true, i suppose," he went on despairingly. "if i am not your son, then whose son am i?" martha lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "well, of all the deceitful scoundrels!" she gasped. "te think of me fillin' his blue coat wi' meat an' beer last neet, an' all t' return he maks is te worry this poor lad's brains wi' that owd tale!" "oh, he's sly, is benson," chimed in stout mrs. summersgill. "a fortnight sen last tuesday i caught him i' my dairy wi' one o' t' maids, lappin' up cream like a great tomcat." a laugh went round. none paid heed to martin's agony. a dullness fell on his soul. even the woman he called mother was angered more by the constable's blurting out of a household secret than by the destruction of an ideal. such, in confused riot, was the thought that chilled him. but he was mistaken. martha bolland's denunciations of the policeman only covered the pain, sharp as the cut of a knife, caused by the boy's cry of mingled passion and sorrow. she was merely biding her time. when chance served, she called him into the larder, the nearest quiet place in the house, and closed the door. "martin, my lad," she said, while big tears shone in her honest eyes, "ye are dear to me as my own. i trust i may be spared to be muther te ye until ye're a man. john an' me meant no unkindness te ye in not tellin' ye we found ye i' lunnun streets, a poor, deserted little mite, wi' nather feyther nor muther, an' none te own ye. what matter was it that ye should know sooner? hev we not done well by ye? when ye come to think over 't, ye're angered about nowt. kiss me, honey, an' if anyone says owt cross te ye, tell 'em ye hev both a feyther an' a muther, which is more'n some of 'em can say." this display of feeling applied balm to martin's wounds. certainly mrs. bolland's was the common sense view to take of the situation. he forbore to question her further just then, and hugged her contentedly. the very smell of her lavender-scented clothes was grateful, and this embrace seemed to restore her to him. his brightened countenance, the vanishing of that unwonted expression of resentful humiliation, was even more comforting to martha herself. "here," she said, thrusting a small paper package into his hand, "i mayn't hev anuther chance. ye'll find two pun ten i' that paper. gie it te mrs. saumarez an' tell her i'll be rale pleased if there's no more talk about t' money. an' mebbe, later i' t' day, i'll find a shillin' fer yersen. but, fer goodness' sake, come an' tell t' folk all that t' squire said te ye. they're fair crazed te hear ye." "mother, dear!" he cried eagerly, "i was so--so mixed up at first that i forgot to tell you. mr. beckett-smythe gave me half a crown." "ye doan't say! well, i can't abide half a tale. let's hae t' lot i' t' front kitchen." it was noon, and dinner-time, before martin could satisfy the cackling dames as to all within his cognizance concerning betsy thwaites's escapade. be it noted, they unanimously condemned fred, the groom; commiserated with betsy, and extolled george pickering as a true gentleman. p. c. benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle for his broad back, strolled in about the eating hour. mrs. bolland, brindling with repressed fury, could scarce find words wherewith to scold him. "well, of all the brazen-faced men i've ever met--" she began. "so you've heerd t' news?" he interrupted. "heerd? i should think so, indeed! martin kem yam----" "martin! did he know?" "know!" she shrilled. "wasn't it ye as said it?" "no, ma'am," he replied stolidly. "mrs. atkinson told me, and she said that mr. pickerin' had ta'en his solemn oath te do't in t' presence of t' super and t' squire!" "do what?" was the chorus. "why, marry betsy, to be sure, as soon as he can be led te t' church. what else is there?" this stupendous addition to the flood of excitement carried away even martha bolland for the moment. in her surprise she set a plate for benson with the others, and, after that, the paramount rite of hospitality prevented her from "having it out wi' him" until hunger was sated. then, however, she let him "feel the edge of her tongue"; he was so flustered that john had to restore his mental poise with another pint of ale. meanwhile, martin managed to steal out unobserved, and made the best of his way to the elms. although in happier mood, he was not wholly pleased with his errand. he was not afraid of mrs. saumarez--far from it, but he did not know how to fulfill his mission and at the same time exonerate angèle. his chivalrous nature shrank from blaming her, yet his unaided wits were not equal to the task of restoring so much money to her mother without answering truthfully the resultant deluge of questions. he was battling with this problem when, near the elms, he encountered the rev. charles herbert, m.a., vicar of elmsdale, and his daughter elsie. martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have passed, but the vicar hailed him. "martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard of the 'black lion' last night and saw something of this sad affair of mr. pickering's?" he inquired. "yes, sir." martin blushed. the girl's blue eyes were fixed on his with the innocent curiosity of a fawn. she knew him well by sight, but they had never exchanged a word. he found himself wondering what her voice was like. would she chatter with the excited volubility of angèle? being better educated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words and slang? angèle was quiet as a mouse under her mother's eye. was elsie aping this demure demeanor because her father was present? certainly, she looked a very different girl. every curve of her pretty face, each line in her graceful contour, suggested modesty and nice manners. why, he couldn't tell, but he knew instinctively that elsie herbert would have drawn back horrified from the mad romp overnight, and he was humbled in spirit before her. the worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer's sturdy son was capable of deep emotion. he interpreted martin's quick coloring to knowledge of a discreditable episode. he said to the girl: "i'll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear." martin thought that an expression of disappointment swept across the clear eyes, but elsie quitted them instantly. the boy had endured too much to be thus humiliated before one of his own age. "i would have said nothing to offend the young lady," he cried hotly. very much taken aback, mr. herbert's eyebrows arched themselves above his spectacles. "my good boy," he said, "i did not choose that my daughter should hear the--er--offensive details of this--er--stabbing affray, or worse, that took place at the inn." "but you didn't mind slighting me in her presence, sir," was the unexpected retort. "i am not slighting you. had i met mr. beckett-smythe and sought information as to this matter, i would still have asked her to go on to the vicarage." this was a novel point of view for martin. he reddened again. "i'm sorry, sir," he said. "everything has gone wrong with me to-day. i didn't mean to be rude." the vicar deemed him a strange youth, but tacitly accepted the apology, and drew from martin the story of the night's doings. it shocked him to hear that martin and frank beckett-smythe were fighting in the yard of the "black lion" at such an hour. "how came you to be there?" he said gently. "you do not attend my church, martin, but i have always regarded mr. bolland as a god-fearing man, and your teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligence and qualities beyond your years or station in life." "i was there quite by accident, sir, and i couldn't avoid the fight." "what caused it?" "we fought to settle that question, sir, and it's finished now." the vicar laughed. "which means you will not tell me. well, i am no disbeliever in a manly display of fisticuffs. it breaks no bones and saves many a boy from the growth of worse qualities. i suppose you are going to the fair this afternoon?" "no, sir. i'm not." "would you mind telling me how you will pass the time between now and supper?" "i am taking a message from my mother to mrs. saumarez, and then i'll go straight to the black plantation"--a dense clump of firs situate at the head of the ghylls, or small valleys, leading from the cultivated land up to the moor. "dear me! and what will you do there?" the boy smiled, somewhat sheepishly. "i have a nest in a tree there, sir, where i often sit and read." "what do you read?" "just now, sir, i am reading scott's poems." "indeed. what books do you favor, as a rule?" delighted to have a sympathetic listener, martin forgot his troubles in pouring forth a catalogue of his favorite authors. the more mr. herbert questioned him the more eager and voluble he became. the boy had the rare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, the noble sentiments, the very words of the heroes of romance, and in this scholarly gentleman he found an auditor who appreciated all that was hitherto dumb thought. several people passing along the road wondered what "t' passon an' oad john bolland's son were makkin' sike deed about," and the conversation must have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar heard the chimes of the church clock. he laughed genially. although, on his part, there was an underlying motive in the conversation, martin had fairly carried it far afield. "you have had your revenge on me for sending my daughter away," he cried. "my lunch will be cold. now, will you do me a favor?" "of course, sir; anything you ask." "nay, martin, make that promise to no man. but this lies within your scope. about four o'clock leave your crow's nest and drop over to thor ghyll. i may be there." overjoyed at the prospect of a renewed chat on topics dear to his heart, the boy ran off, light-heartedly, to the elms. his task seemed easier now. the wholesome breeze of intercourse with a cultivated mind had momentarily swept into the background a host of unpleasing things. he found he could not see mrs. saumarez, so he asked for miss walker. the lady came. she was prim and severe. instantly he detected a note of hostility which her first words put beyond doubt. "my mother sent me to return some money to mrs. saumarez," he explained. "mrs. saumarez is ill. mrs. bolland must wait until she recovers. as for you, you bad boy, i wonder you dare show your face here." martin never flinched from a difficulty. "why?" he demanded. "what have i done?" "can you ask? to drag that poor little mite of a girl into such horrible scenes as those which took place in the village? be off! you just wait until mrs. saumarez is better, and you will hear more of it." with that, she slammed the door on him. so angèle had posed as a simpleton, and he was the villain. this phase of the medley amused him. he was retreating down the drive, when he heard his name called. he turned. a window on the ground floor opened, and mrs. saumarez appeared, leaning unsteadily on the sill. "come here!" she cried imperiously. somehow she puzzled, indeed flustered, him. for one thing, her attire was bizarre. usually dressed with unexceptionable taste, to-day she wore a boudoir wrap--a costly robe, but adjusted without care, and all untidy about neck and breast. her hair was coiled loosely, and stray wisps hung out in slovenly fashion. her face, deathly white, save for dull red patches on the cheeks, served as a fit setting for unnaturally brilliant eyes which protruded from their sockets in a manner quite startling, while the veins on her forehead stood out like whipcord. martin was utterly dismayed. he stood stock-still. "come!" she said again, glaring at him with a curious fixity. "i want you. françoise is not here, and i wish you to run an errand." save for a strange thickness in her speech, she had never before reminded him so strongly of angèle. she had completely lost her customary air of repose. she spoke and acted like a peevish child. anyhow, she had summoned him, and he could now discharge his trust. in such conditions, martin seldom lacked words. "i asked for you at the door, ma'am," he explained, drawing nearer, "but miss walker said you were ill. my mother sent me to give you this." he produced the little parcel of money and essayed to hand it to her. she surveyed it with lackluster eyes. "what is it?" she said. "i do not understand. here is plenty of money. i want you to go to the village, to the 'black lion,' and bring me a sovereign's worth of brandy." she held out a coin. they stood thus, proffering each other gold. "but this is yours, ma'am. i came to return it. i--er--borrowed some money from ang--from miss saumarez--and mother said----" "cease, boy. i do not understand, i tell you. keep the money and bring me what i ask." in her eagerness she leaned so far out of the window that she nearly overbalanced. the sovereign fell among some flowers. with an effort she recovered an unsteady poise. martin stooped to find the money. a door opened inside the house. a hot whisper reached him. "tell no one. i'll watch for you in half an hour--remember--a sovereign's worth." the boy, not visible from the far side of the room, heard the voice of françoise. the window closed with a bang. he discovered the coin and straightened himself. the maid was seating her mistress in a chair and apparently remonstrating with her. she picked up from the floor a wicker-covered eau de cologne bottle and turned it upside down with an angry gesture. it was empty. martin, whose experience of intoxicated people was confined to the infrequent sight of a village toper, heavy with beer, lurching homeward in maudlin glee or fury, imagined that mrs. saumarez must be in some sort of fever. obviously, those in attendance on her should be consulted before he brought her brandy secretly. back he marched to the front door and rang the bell. lest miss walker should shut him out again, he was inside the hall before anyone could answer his summons, for the doors of country houses remain unlocked all day. the elder sister reappeared, very starchy at this unheard-of impertinence. "i was forced to return, ma'am," he said civilly. "mrs. saumarez saw me in the drive and asked me to buy her some brandy. she gave me a sovereign. she looked very ill, so i thought it best to come and tell you." the lady was thoroughly nonplussed by this plain statement. "oh," she stammered, so confused that he did not know what to make of her agitation, "this is very nice of you. she must not have brandy. it is--quite unsuitable--for her illness. it is really very good of you to tell me. i--er--i'm sorry i spoke so harshly just now, but--er----" "that's all right, ma'am. it was all a mistake. will you kindly take charge of this sovereign, and also of the two pounds ten which miss angèle lent me?" "which miss angèle lent you! two pounds ten! i thought you said your mother----" "it is mine, please," said a voice from the broad landing above their heads. angèle skipped lightly down the stairs and held out her hand. martin gave her the money. "i don't understand this, at all," said the mystified miss walker. "does mrs. saumarez know----" "mrs. saumarez knows nothing. neither does martin." with wasp-like suddenness, the girl turned and faced a woman old enough to be her grandmother. their eyes clashed. the child's look said plainly: "dare to utter another word and i'll disgrace your house throughout the village." the woman yielded. she waved a protesting hand. "it is no business of mine. thank you, martin, for coming back." angèle lashed out at him next. "allez, donc! i'll never speak to you again." she ran up the stairs. he stood irresolute. "anyhow, not now," she added. "i may be out in an hour's time." miss walker was holding the door open. he hurried away, and françoise saw him, wondering why he had called. and for hours thereafter, until night fell, a white-faced woman paced restlessly to and fro in the sitting-room, ever and anon raising the window, and watching for martin's return with a fierce intensity that rendered her almost maniacal in appearance. happily, the boy was unaware of the pitiful tragedy in the life of the rich and highly placed mrs. saumarez. while she waited, with a rage steadily dwindling into a wearied despair, he was passing, all unconsciously, into the next great phase of his career. he took one forward step into the unknown before leaving the tree-lined drive. he met fritz, the chauffeur, who was so absorbed in the study of a folding road-map that he did not see martin until the latter hailed him. "hello!" was the boy's cheery greeting. "that affair is ended. please don't say anything to mrs. saumarez." the german closed the map. "whad iss ented?" he inquired, surveying martin with a cool hauteur rare in chauffeurs. "why, last night's upset in the village." "ah, yez. id iss nod my beeznez." "i didn't quite mean that. but there's no use in getting miss angèle into a row, is there?" "dat iss zo. vere do you leeve?" "at the white house farm." "vere de brize caddle are?" martin smiled. he had never before heard english spoken with a strong german accent. somehow he associated these resonant syllables with a certain indefinite stress which mrs. saumarez laid on a few words. "yes," he said. "my father's herd is well known." fritz's manner became genial. "zome tay you vill show me, yez?" he inquired. "i'll be very pleased. and will you explain your car to me--the engine, i mean?" "komm now." "sorry, but i have an engagement." there was plenty of time at martin's disposal, but he did not want to loiter about the elms that afternoon. this man was a paid servant who could hardly refuse to carry out any reasonable order, and it would have been awkward for martin if mrs. saumarez asked him to give fritz the sovereign she had intrusted to his keeping. "all aright," agreed the chauffeur, whose strong, intellectual face was now altogether amiable; in fact, a white scar on his left cheek creased so curiously when he grinned that his aspect was almost comical. "we vill meed when all dis noise sdops, yez?" and he waved a hand toward the distant drone of the fair. thus began for martin another strange friendship--a friendship destined to end so fantastically that if the manner of its close were foretold then and there by any prophet, the mere telling might have brought the seer to the madhouse. chapter ix the wildcat it was nearly three o'clock when martin re-entered the village. outside the boxing booth a huge placard announced, in sprawling characters, that the first round of the boxing competition would start punctually at 3 p.m. "owing to the illness of mr. george pickering, deeply regretted," another referee would be appointed. it cost the boy a pang to stride on. he would have dearly liked to watch the display of pugilism. he might have gone inside the tent for an hour and still kept his tryst with mr. herbert, but john bolland's dour teaching had scored grooves in his consciousness not readily effaced. the folly of last night must be atoned in some way, and he punished himself deliberately now by going straight home. the house was only a little less thronged than the "black lion," so he made his way unobserved to the great pile of dry bracken in which he hid books borrowed from the school library. ten minutes later he was seated in the fork of a tree full thirty feet from the ground and consoling himself for loss of the reality by reading of a fight far more picturesque in detail--the homeric combat between fitzjames and roderick dhu. from his perch he could see the church clock. shortly before the appointed hour he climbed down and surmounted the ridge which divided the black plantation from thor ghyll. it was a rough passage, naught save gray rock and flowering ling, or heather, growing so wild and bushy that in parts it overtopped his height. but martin was sure-footed as a goat. across the plateau and down the tree-clad slope on the other side he sped, until he reached a point whence he could obtain a comprehensive view of the winding glen. on a stretch of turf by the side of the silvery beck that rushed so frantically from the moorland to the river, he spied a small garden tent. in front was a table spread with china and cakes, while a copper kettle, burnished so brightly that it shone like gold in the sunlight, was suspended over a spirit lamp. mr. herbert was there, and an elderly lady, his aunt, who acted as his housekeeper--also elsie and her governess and two young gentlemen who "read" with the vicar during the long vacation. evidently a country picnic was toward; martin was at a loss to know why he had been invited. perhaps they wished him to guide them over the moor to some distant glen or to the early british camp two miles away. sometimes a tourist wandering through elmsdale called at the farm for information, and martin would be dispatched with the inquirer to show the way. it was a pity that mr. herbert had not mentioned his desire, as the daily reading of the bible was due in an hour, and most certainly, to-day of all days, martin must be punctual. if his brain were busy, his eye was clear. he sprang from rock to rock like a chamois. once he swung himself down a small precipice by the tough root of a whin. he knew the root was there, and had already tested its capabilities, but the gathering beneath watched him with dismay, for the feat looked hazardous in the extreme. in a couple of minutes he had descended two hundred feet of exceedingly rough going. he stopped at the beck to wash his hands and dry them on his handkerchief. then he approached the group. "do you always descend the ghyll in that fashion, martin?" cried the vicar. "yes, sir. it is the nearest way." "a man might say that who fell out of a balloon." "but i have been up and down there twenty times, sir." "well, well; my imaginary balloonist could make no such answer. sit down and have some tea. elsie, this is young martin bolland, of whom i have been telling you." the girl smiled in a very friendly way and brought martin a cup of tea and a plate of cakes. so he was a guest, and introduced by the vicar to his daughter! how kind this was of mr. herbert! how delighted mrs. bolland would be when she heard of it, for, however strict her nonconformity, the vicar was still a social power in the village, and second only to the beckett-smythes in the estimation of the parish. at first poor martin was tongue-tied. he answered in monosyllables when the vicar or mrs. johnson, the old lady, spoke to him; but to elsie he said not a word. she, too, was at a loss how to interest him, until she noticed a book in his pocket. when told that it was scott's poems she said pleasantly that a month ago she went with her father to a place called greta bridge and visited many of the scenes described in "rokeby." unhappily, martin had not read "rokeby." he resolved to devour it at the first opportunity, but for the nonce it offered no conversational handle. he remained dumb, yet all the while he was comparing elsie with angèle, and deciding privately that girls brought up as ladies in england were much nicer than those reared in the places which angèle named so glibly. but his star was propitious that day. one of the young men happened to notice a spot where a large patch of heather had been sliced off the face of the moor. he asked mr. herbert what use the farmers made of it. "nothing that i can recall," said the vicar, a man who, living in the country, knew little of its ways; "perhaps martin can tell you." "we make besoms of it, sir," was the ready reply, "but that space has been cleared by the keepers so that the young grouse may have fresh green shoots to feed on." here was a topic on which he was crammed with information. his face grew animated, his eyes sparkled, the words came fast and were well chosen. as he spoke, the purple moor, the black firs, the meadows, the corn land red with poppies, became peopled with fur and feather. on the hilltops the glorious black cock, in the woods the dandy pheasant and swift pigeon, among the meadows and crops the whirring partridge, became actualities, present, but unseen. there were plenty of hares on the arable land and the rising ground; as for rabbits, they swarmed everywhere. "this ghyll will be alive with them in little more than an hour," said martin confidently. "i shouldn't be surprised, if we had a dog and put him among those whins, but half-a-dozen rabbits would bolt out in all directions." "please, can i be a little bow-wow?" cried elsie. she sprang to her feet and ran toward the clump of gorse and bracken he had pointed out, imitating a dog's bark as she went. "take care of the thorns," shouted martin, making after her more leisurely. she paused on the verge of the tangled mass of vegetation and said, "shoo!" "that's no good," he laughed. "you must walk through and kick the thick clumps of grass--this way." he plunged into the midst of the gorse. she followed. not a rabbit budged. "that's odd," he said, rustling the undergrowth vigorously. "there ought to be a lot here." "you know angèle saumarez?" said the girl suddenly. "yes." he ceased beating the bushes and looked at her fixedly, the question was so unexpected. yet angèle had asked him the selfsame question concerning elsie herbert. one girl resembled another as two peas in a pod. "do you like her?" "i think i do, sometimes." "do you think she is pretty?" "yes, often." "what do you mean by 'sometimes,' 'often?' how can a girl be pretty--'often'?" "well, you see, i think she is nice in many ways, and that if--she knew you--and copied your manner--your voice, and style, and behavior--she would improve very greatly." martin had recovered his wits. elsie tittered and blushed slightly. "really!" she said, and recommenced the kicking process with ardor. suddenly, with a fierce snarl, an animal of some sort flew at her. she had a momentary vision of a pair of blazing eyes, bared teeth, and extended claws. she screamed and turned her head. in that instant a wildcat landed on her back and a vicious claw reached for her face. but martin was at her side. without a second's hesitation he seized the growling brute in both hands and tore it from off her shoulders. his right hand was around its neck, but he strove in vain to grasp the small of its back in the left. it wriggled and scratched with the ferocity of an undersized tiger. martin's coat sleeves and shirt were slashed to shreds, his waistcoat was rent, and deep gashes were cut in his arms, but he held on gamely. mr. herbert and the others ran up, but came unarmed. they had not even a stick. the vicar, with some presence of mind, rushed back and wrenched a leg from the camp table, but by the time he returned the cat was moving its limbs in its final spasms, for martin had choked it to death. the vicar danced about with his improvised weapon, imploring the boy to "throw it down and let me whack the life out of it," but martin was enraged with the pain and the damage to his clothing. in his anger he felt that he could wrench the wretched beast limb from limb, and he might have endeavored to do that very thing were it not for the presence of elsie herbert. as it was, when the cat fell to the ground its struggles had ended, but mr. herbert gave it a couple of hearty blows to make sure. it was a tremendous brute, double the size of its domestic progenitors. at one period in its career it had been caught in a rabbit trap, for one of its forelegs was removed at the joint, and the calloused stump was hard as a bit of stone. a chorus of praise for martin's promptitude and courage was cut short when he took the table leg and went back to the clump of gorse. "i thought it was curious that there were no rabbits here," he said. "now i know why. this cat has a litter of kittens hidden among the whins." "are you gug-gug-going to kuk-kuk-kill them?" sobbed elsie. he paused in his murderous search. "it makes no matter now," he said, laughing. "i'll tell the keeper. wildcats eat up an awful lot of game." his coolness, his absolute disregard of the really serious cuts he had received, were astounding to the town-bred men. the vicar was the first to recover some degree of composure. "martin," he cried, "come this instant and have your wounds washed and bound up. you are losing a great deal of blood, and that brute's claws may have been venomous." the boy obeyed at once. he presented a sorry spectacle. his arms and hands were bathed in blood and his clothes were splashed with it. elsie herbert's eyes filled with tears. "this is nothing," he said to cheer her. "they're only scratches, but they look bad." as a matter of fact, he did not realize until long afterwards that were it not for the fortunate accident which deprived the cat of her off foreleg, some of the tendons of his right wrist might have been severed. from the manner in which he held her she could not get the effective claws to bear crosswise. the vicar looked grave when a first dip in the brook revealed the extent of the boy's injuries. "you are plucky enough to bear the application of a little brine, martin?" he said. suiting the action to the word, he emptied the contents of a paper of salt into a teacup and dissolved it in hot water. then he washed the wounds again in the brook and bound them with handkerchiefs soaked in the mixture. it was a rough-and-ready cauterization, and the pain made martin white, but later on it earned the commendation of the doctor. mr. herbert was pallid himself when elsie handed him the last handkerchief they could muster, while mrs. johnson was already tearing the tablecloth into strips. "it is bad enough to have your wrists scored in this way, my lad," he murmured, "but it will be some consolation for you to know that otherwise these cuts would have been in my little girl's face, perhaps her eyes--great heaven!--her eyes!" the vicar could have chosen no better words. martin's heart throbbed with pride. at last the bandages were secured and the tattered sleeve turned down. all this consumed nearly half an hour, and then martin remembered a forgotten duty. "what time is it?" he said anxiously. "a quarter past five." "oh, bother!" he murmured. "i'll get into another row. i have missed my bible lesson." "your bible lesson?" "yes, sir. my father makes me read a portion of scripture every day." the vicar passed unnoticed the boy's unconsciously resentful tone. he sighed, but straightway resumed his wonted cheeriness. "there will be no row to-day, martin," he promised. "we shall escort you home in triumphal procession. we leave the things here for my man, who will bring a pony and cart in a few minutes. now, you two, tie the hind legs of that beast with a piece of string and carry it on the stick. the cat is martin's _spolia opima_. here, elsie, guide your warrior's faltering footsteps down the glen." they all laughed, but by the time they reached the white house the boy was ready to drop, for he had lost a quantity of blood, and the torment of the saline solution was becoming intolerable. john bolland, after waiting with growing impatience long after the appointed time, closed the bible with a bang and went downstairs. "what's wrang wi' ye now?" inquired his spouse as he dropped morosely into a chair and answered but sourly a hearty greeting from a visitor. "where's that lad?" he growled. "martin. hasn't he come yam?" she trembled for her adopted son's remissness on this, the first day after the great rebellion. "yam!"--with intense bitterness--"he's not likely te hearken te t' word when he's encouraged in guile." "eh, but there's some good cause this time," cried the old lady, more flustered than she cared to show. "happen he's bin asked to see t' squire again." "t' squire left elmsdale afore noon," was the gruff reply. then the vicar entered, and elsie, leading martin, and the two pupils carrying the gigantic cat. mrs. johnson and the governess-companion had remained with the tent and would drive home in the dogcart. mr. herbert's glowing account of martin's conduct, combined with a judicious reference to his anxiety when he discovered that the hour for his lesson had passed, placed even bolland in a good humor. once again the boy filled the mouths of the multitude, since nothing would serve the farmhands but they must carry off the cat to the fair for exhibition before they skinned it. the doctor came, waylaid on his return from the "black lion." he removed the salt-soaked bandages, washed the wounds in tepid water, examined them carefully, and applied some antiseptic dressing, of which he had a supply in his dogcart for the benefit of george pickering. "an' how is mr. pickerin' te-night?" inquired mrs. bolland, who was horrified at first by the sight of martin's damages, but reassured when the doctor said the boy would be all right in a day or two. "not so well, mrs. bolland," was the answer. "oh, ye don't say so. poor chap! is it wuss than ye feared for?" "no; the wound is progressing favorably, but he is feverish. i don't like that. fever is weakening." no more would the doctor say, and mrs. bolland soon forgot the sufferings of another in her distress at martin's condition. she particularly lamented that he should be laid up during the feast. at that the patient laughed. "surely i can go out, doctor!" he cried. "go out, you imp! of course, you can. but, remember, no larking about and causing these cuts to reopen. better stay in the house until i see you in the morning." so martin, fearless of consequences, hunted up "rokeby," and read it with an interest hardly lessened by the fact that that particular poem is the least exciting of the magician's verse. at last the light failed and the table was laid for supper, so the boy's reading was disturbed. more than once he fancied he had heard at the back of the house a long, shrill whistle which sounded familiar. curiosity led him to the meadow. he waited a little while, and again the whistle came from the lane. "who is it?" he called. "me. is that you, martin?" "me" was tommy beadlam, but his white top did not shine in the dark. "what's up?" "come nearer. i mustn't shout." wondering what mystery was afoot, martin approached the hedge. "yon lass," whispered tommy--"i can't say her name, but ye ken fine wheä 'tis--she's i' t' fair ageän." "what! angèle?" "that's her. she gemme sixpence te coom an' tell yer. i've bin whistlin' till me lips is sore." "you tell her from me she is a bad girl and ought to go home at once." "not me! she'd smack my feäce." "well, i can't get out. i've had an accident and must go to bed soon." "there's a rare yarn about you an' a cat. i seed it. honest truth--did you really kill it wi' your hands?" "yes; but it gave me something first. can you see? my arms and left hand are all bound up." "an' it jumped fust on elsie herbert?" "yes." "an' yer grabbed it offen her?" "yes." "gosh! yon lass is fair wild te hear all about it. she greeted when evelyn atkinson telt her yer were nearly dead, but yan o' t' farmhands kem along an' we axed him, an' he said ye were nowt worse." martin's heart softened when he heard of angèle's tears, but he was sorry she should have stolen out a second time to mix with the rabble of the village. "i can't come out to-night," he said firmly. "happen ye'd be able to see her if i browt her here?" the white head evidently held brains, but martin had sufficient strength of character to ask himself what his new friends, the herbert family, would think if they knew he was only too willing to dance to any tune the temptress played. "no, no," he cried, retreating a pace or two. "you must not bring her. i'm going to supper and straight to bed. and, look here, tommy. try and persuade her to go home. if you and jim bates and the others take her round the fair to-night you'll all get into trouble. you ought to have heard the parson to-day, and miss walker, too. i wouldn't be in your shoes for more than sixpence." this was crafty counsel. beadlam, after consulting jim bates, communicated it to angèle. she stared with wide-open eyes at the doubting pair. "misericorde!" she cried. "were there ever such idiots! because he cannot come himself, he doesn't want me to be with you." there was something in this. their judgment wavered, and--and--angèle had lots of money. but she laughed them to scorn. "do you think i want you!" she screamed. "bah! i spit at you. evelyn, ma chérie, walk with me to the elms. i want to hear all about the man who was stabbed and the woman who stabbed him." thereupon, evelyn and one of her sisters went off with a girl whom they hated. but she was clever, in their estimation, and pretty, and well dressed, and, oh, so rich! above all, she was not "stuck up" like elsie herbert, but laughed at their simple wit, and was ready to sink to their level. martin, taking thought before he slept, wondered why angèle had not come openly to the farm. it did not occur to him that angèle dared not face john bolland. the child feared the dour old farmer. she dreaded a single look from the shrewd eyes which seemed to search her very soul. chapter x deepening shadows the doctor came late next morning. he did not reach elmsdale until after eleven o'clock. he called first at the white house and handed mrs. bolland a small package. "these are the handkerchiefs i took away yesterday," he said. "i suppose they belong to mr. herbert's household. my servant has washed them. will you see that they are returned?" "mercy o' me!" cried martha. "i nivver knew ye took 'em. what did ye want 'em for, docthor?" "there might have been some malignant substance--some poisonous matter--in the cat's claws, and as the county analyst was engaged at my place on some other business i--oh, come now, mrs. bolland, there's no need to be alarmed. martin's wounds were cleansed, and the salt applied to the raw edges so promptly, that any danger which might have existed was stopped effectually." yet the doctor's cheery face was grave that morning and his brow was wrinkled as he unfastened the bandages. beyond a slight stiffness of certain sinews and the natural soreness of the cut flesh, martin had never felt better in his life. after a disturbed slumber, when he dreamed that he was choking a wildcat--a cat with angèle's face which changed suddenly in death to elsie herbert's smiling features--he lay awake for some hours. then the pain in his wrists abated gradually, he fell sound asleep, and mrs. bolland took care that he was left alone until he awoke of his own accord at half-past eight, an unprecedented hour. so the boy laughed at his mother's fears. her lips quivered, and she tried to choke back a sob. the doctor turned on her angrily. "stop that!" he growled. "i suppose you think i'm hoodwinking you. it is not so. i am very much worried about another matter altogether, so please accept my assurance that martin is all right. he can run about all day, if he likes. the only consequence of disturbing these cuts will be that they cannot heal rapidly. otherwise, they will be closed completely by the end of the week." while he talked he worked. the dressings were changed and fresh lint applied. he handed mrs. bolland a store of materials. "there," he said, "i need not come again, but i'll call on monday, just to satisfy you. apply the lotion morning and night. good-by, martin. you did a brave thing, i hear. good-by, mrs. bolland." he closed his bag hurriedly and rushed away. mrs. bolland, drying her eyes, and quite satisfied now, went to the door and gazed after him. "he's fair rattled wi' summat," she told another portly dame who labored up the incline at the moment. "he a'most snapped my head off. did he think a body wouldn't be scared wi' his talk about malignous p'ison i' t' lad's bluid, i wonder?" the doctor did not pull up outside the "black lion." he drove to the vicarage--a circumstance which would most certainly have given mrs. bolland renewed cause for alarm, were she aware of it--and asked mr. herbert to walk in the garden with him for a few minutes. the two conversed earnestly, and the vicar seemed to be greatly shocked at the outcome of their talk. at last they arrived at a decision. the doctor hastened back to the "black lion." he did not remain long in the sick room, but scribbled a note downstairs and gave it to his man. "take that to mr. herbert," he said. "i'll make a few calls on foot and meet you at the bridge in a quarter of an hour." the note read: "there is no hope. things are exactly as i feared." the vicar, looking most woebegone, murmured that there was no answer. he procured his hat and walked slowly to the inn, which was crowded, inside and out. nearly every man knew him and spoke to him, and many noted that "t' passon looked varra down i' t' mooth this mornin'." he went upstairs. the conjecture flew around at once that pickering was worse. someone remembered that kitty thwaites said the patient had experienced a touch of fever overnight. surely, his wound had not developed serious symptoms. the chief herd of his nottonby estate had seen him during the preceding afternoon and found his master looking wonderfully well. indeed, pickering spoke of attending to some business matter in person on saturday, or on monday for certain. why, then, the vicar's visit? what did it portend? people gathered in small groups and their voices softened. by contrast, the blare of lively music and the whistle of the roundabout were intolerably loud. in the quiet room at the back of the hotel, with its scent of iodoform mingling with the sweet breath of the garden wafted in through an open window, pickering moved restlessly in bed. his face was flushed, his eyes singularly bright, with a glistening sheen that was abnormal. by his side sat the pallid betsy, reading a newspaper aloud. she followed the printed text with difficulty. her mind was troubled. the fatigue of nursing was nothing to one of her healthy frame, but her thoughts were terrifying. she lived in a waking nightmare. had she dared to weep, she might have felt relief, but this sure solace of womankind was denied her. the vicar's entrance caused a sensation. betsy, in a quick access of fear, dropped the paper, and pickering's face blanched. some secret doubt, some inner monitor, brought a premonition of what was to come. he flinched from the knowledge, but only for a moment. mr. herbert essayed most gallantly to adopt his customary cheerful mien. "dr. macgregor asked me to call and see you, george," he said. "i hope you are not suffering greatly." "not at all, thanks, vicar. just a trifle restless with fever, perhaps, but the wound is nothing, a mere cut. i've had as bad a scratch and much more painful when thrusting through a thorn hedge after hounds." "ah. that is well." the reverend gentleman seemed to be strangely at a loss for words. he glanced at betsy. "would you mind leaving me alone with mr. pickering for a little while?" he said. the wounded man laughed, and there was a note in his voice that showed how greatly the tension had relaxed. "if that's what you're after, mr. herbert," he said promptly, "you may rest assured that the moment i'm able to stir we'll be married. i told mr. beckett-smythe so yesterday." "indeed; i am glad to hear it. nevertheless, i want to talk with you alone." the vicar's insistence was a different thing to the wish expressed by a magistrate and a police superintendent. betsy went out at once. for an appreciable time after the door had closed no word was spoken by either of the men. the vicar's eyes were fixed mournfully on the valley, through which a train was winding its way. the engine left in its track white wraiths of steam which vanished under the lusty rays of the sun. the drone of the showman's organ playing "tommy atkins" reached the hardly conscious listeners as through a telephone. from a distant cornfield came the busy rattle of a reaping machine. the harvest had commenced a fortnight earlier than usual. once again was the bounteous earth giving to man a hundredfold what he had sown. "as ye sow, so shall ye reap." out there in the field were garnered the wages of honest endeavor; here in the room, with its hospital perfume, were being awarded the wages of sin, for george pickering was condemned to death, and it was the vicar's most doleful mission to warn him of his doom. "now, mr. herbert, pitch into me as much as you like," said the patient, breaking an uneasy silence. "i've been a bad lot, but i'll try to make amends. betsy's case is a hard one. you're a man of the world and you know what the majority of these village lasses are like; but betsy----" the vicar could bear the suspense no longer. he must perform his task, no matter what the cost. "george," he broke in tremulously, "my presence here to-day is due to a very sad and irrevocable fact. dr. macgregor tells me that your condition is serious, most serious. indeed--indeed--there is no hope of your recovery." pickering, who had raised himself on an elbow, gazed at the speaker for an instant with fiery eyes. then, as though he grasped the purport of the words but gradually, he sank back on the pillow in the manner of one pressed down by overwhelming force. the vicar moved his chair nearer and grasped his friend's right hand. "george," he murmured, "bear up, and try to prepare your soul for that which is inevitable. what are you losing? a few years of joys and sorrows, to which the end must come. and the end is eternity, compared with which this life is but a passing shadow." pickering did not answer immediately. he raised his body again. he moved his limbs freely. he looked at a square bony wrist and stretched out the free hand until he caught an iron rail, which he clenched fiercely. in his veins ran the blood of a race of yeomen. his hardy ancestors had exchanged blow for blow with scottish raiders who sought to steal their cattle. they had cracked the iron rind of many a marauder, broken many a border skull in defense of their lives and property. never had they feared death by flood or field, and their descendant scoffed at the grim vision now. "what nonsense is this macgregor has been talking?" he shouted. "die! a man like me! by gad, vicar, i'd laugh, if i wasn't too vexed!" "be patient, george, and hear me. things are worse than you can guess. your wound alone is a small matter, but, unfortunately, the knife----" "there was no knife! it was a pitchfork!" "bear with me, i pray you. you will need to conserve your energy, and your protest only makes my duty the harder. the knife has been submitted to analysis, as well as corpuscles of your blood. alas, that it should fall to me to tell it! alas, for the poor girl whom you have declared your intention to marry! the knife had been used to carve grouse, and some putrid matter from a shot wound had dried on the blade. this was communicated to your system. the wound was cleansed too late. your blood was poisoned before the doctor saw you, and--and--there is no hope now." the vicar bowed his head. he dared not look in the eyes of the man to whom he was conveying this dire sentence. he felt pickering subsiding gently to the pillow and straightening his limbs. "how long?" the words were uttered in a singularly calm voice--so calm that the pastor ventured to raise his sorrow-laden face. "soon. perhaps three days. perhaps a week. but you will be delirious. you have little time in which to prepare." again a silence. a faint shriek reached them from afar, the whistle of the train entering nottonby, the pleasant little town which pickering would never more see. "what a finish!" he muttered. "i'd have liked it better in the saddle. i wouldn't have cared a damn if i broke my neck after hounds." another pause, and the vicar said gently: "have you made your will?" "no." "then it must be attended to at once." "yes, of course. then, there's betsy. oh, god, i've treated her badly. now, help me, won't you? there's a hundred pounds in notes and some twenty-odd in gold in that drawer. telegraph first to stockwell, my lawyer in nottonby. bring him here. then, spare no money in getting a license for my marriage. i can't die unless that is put right. don't delay, there's a good chap. you have to apply to the archbishop, don't you? you'll do everything, i know. will you be a trustee under my will?" "yes, if you wish it." "it'll please me more than anything. of course, i'll make it worth your while. i insist, i tell you. go, now! don't lose a moment. send betsy. and, vicar, for heaven's sake, not a word to her until we are married. i'll tell her the fever is serious; just that, and no more." "one other matter, george. mr. beckett-smythe will come here to-day or to-morrow to take your sworn deposition. you must not die with a lie on your conscience, however good the motive." "i'll jump that fence when i reach it, mr. herbert. meanwhile, the lawyer and the license. they're all-important." the vicar left it at that. he deemed it best to take the urgent measures of the hour off the man's mind before endeavoring to turn his thoughts toward a fitting preparation for the future state. with a reassuring handclasp, he left him. the two sisters waylaid him in the passage. "ye had but ill news, i fear, sir," said betsy despairingly, catching mr. herbert by the arm. the worried man stooped to deception. "now, why should you jump to conclusions?" he cried. "dr. macgregor asked me to look up his patient. am i a harbinger of disaster, like mother carey's chickens?" "oh, parson," she wailed, "i read it i' yer face, an' in t' doctor's. don't tell me all is well. i know better. pray god i may die----" "hush, my poor girl, you know not what you say. go to mr. pickering. he wants you." he knew the appeal would be successful. she darted off. before kitty, in turn, could question him, he escaped. it was easier to run the gantlet of friendly inquirers outside. he telegraphed to the solicitor and sent a telegraphic remittance of the heavy fees demanded for the special license. within two hours he had the satisfaction of knowing that the precious document was in the post and would reach him next morning. mr. stockwell's protests against pickering's testamentary designs were cut short by his client. "look here, stockwell," was the irritated comment, "you are an old friend of mine and i'd like this matter to remain in your hands, but if you say another word i'll be forced to send for someone else." "if you put it that way----" began the lawyer. "i do, most emphatically. now, what is it to be? yes or no?" for answer the legal man squared some foolscap sheets on a small table and produced a stylographic pen. "let me understand clearly," he said. "you intend to marry this--er--lady, and mean to settle four hundred a year on her for life?" "yes." "suppose she marries again?" "god in heaven, man, do you think i want to play dog-in-the-manger in my grave?" "then it had better take the form of a marriage settlement. it is the strongest instrument known in the law and avoids the death duties." pickering winced, but the lawyer went on remorselessly. he regarded the marriage as a wholly quixotic notion, and knew only too well that betsy thwaites would be tried for murder if pickering died. "have you no relatives?" he said. "i seem to recollect----" "my cousin stanhope? he's quite well off, an m.p., and likely to be made a baronet." "he will not object to the chance of dropping in for £1,500 a year." "do you think the estate will yield so much?" "more, i imagine. did you ever know what you spent?" "no." "well, is it to be this mr. stanhope?" "no. he never gave me a thought. why should i endow him and his whelps? let the lot go to the county council in aid of the county orphanage. by jove, that's a good idea! i like that." "anything else?" demanded the lawyer. "yes. you and mr. herbert are to be the trustees." "the deuce we are. who said so?" "i say so. you are to receive £50 a year each from the estate for administering it." "ah. that gilds the pill. next?" "i have nearly a thousand in the bank. keep half as working capital, give a hundred to my company in the territorials, and divide the balance, according to salary, among all my servants who have more than five years' service. and--betsy is to have the use of the house and furniture, if she wishes it." "anything else?" pickering was exhausted, but continued to laugh weakly. "yes; i had almost forgotten. i bequeath to john bolland the shorthorn cow he sold me, and to that lad of his--you must find out his proper name--my pair of hammerless guns and my sword. he frames to be a sportsman, and i think he'll make a soldier. he picked up a poker like a shot the other day when i quarreled with old john." "what was the quarrel about?" "when you send back the cow, you'll be told." mr. stockwell scanned his notes rapidly. "i'll put my clerks to work at this to-night," he said. "as i am a trustee, my partner will attend to-morrow to get your signature. of course, you know you must be married before you make your will, or it will be invalid? before i go, george, are you sure it is all over with you?" "macgregor says so. i suppose he knows." "yes, he knows, if any man does. yet i can't believe it. it seems monstrous, incredible." they gazed fixedly at each other. of the two, the man of law was the more affected. before either could speak again they heard betsy's agonized cry: "oh, for god's sake, miss, don't tell me i may not be with him always! i've done my best; i have, indeed. i'll give neither him nor you any trouble. don't keep me away from him now, or i'll go mad!" the lawyer, wondering what new frenzy possessed the woman who had struck down his friend, opened the door. he was confronted by a hospital nurse sent by dr. macgregor. she looked like a strong-minded person and was probably a stickler for the etiquette of the sick room. he took in the situation at a glance. "there need be no difficulty, nurse, where miss thwaites is concerned," he said. "she is to be married to mr. pickering to-morrow, and as he has only a few days to live they should see as much of each other as possible. any other arrangement would irritate your patient greatly, and be quite contrary to dr. macgregor's wishes, i am sure." the nurse bowed, and betsy sobbed as the secret that was no secret to her was revealed. none of the three realized that several men standing in the hall beneath, whose talk had been silenced by betsy's frenzied exclamation, must have heard every word the lawyer uttered. chapter xi for one, the night; for another, the dawn so elmsdale was given another thrill, and a lasting one. the feast was ruined. not a man or a woman had heart for enjoyment. if a child sought a penny, it was chided sharply and asked what it meant by gadding about "when poor george pickerin' an' that lass of his were in such trouble." martin heard the news while standing outside the boxing booth, waiting for the sparring competition to commence. he went in, it is true, and saw some hard hitting, but the tent was nearly empty. when he and jim bates came out an hour later, elmsdale was a place of mourning. a series of exciting events, each crowding on its predecessor's heels as though some diabolical agency had resolved to disturb the community, had roused the hamlet from its torpor. five slow-moving years had passed since the village had been stirred so deeply. then it endured a fortnight's epidemic of suicide. a traveling tinker began the uncanny cycle. on a fine summer's day he was repairing his kettles on a corner of the green, when he was observed to leave his little handcart and to go into a neighboring wood. he did not return. search next day discovered him swaying from a branch of a tall tree, looking like some forlorn scarecrow suspended there by a practical joker. the following morning a soldier on furlough, one of the very men who helped to cut down the tinker's body, went into a cow-house at the back of his mother's cottage and suspended himself from a rafter. an odd feature of this man's exit was that the rope had yielded so much that his feet rested on the ground. before the hanging he had actually cut letters out of his red-cloth tunic and formed the word, "farewell" in a semicircle on the stable floor. a girl soon afterwards selected the mill-dam for a consoling plunge; and, to crown all, the vicar, mr. herbert's forerunner, having received a telegram announcing the failure of a company in which he had invested some money, opened his jugular vein with a sharp scissors. that these tragedies should happen within a fortnight in a community of less than three hundred people was enough to give a life-insurance actuary an attack of hysteria. but each lacked the dramatic flavor attached to the ill-governed passion of betsy thwaites and her fickle swain. kitty was known to all in elmsdale, betsy to few, but george pickering was a popular man throughout the whole countryside. it was sensation enough that one of his many amours should result in an episode more typical of paris than of an english sleepy hollow. but the sequel--the marriage of this wealthy gentleman-farmer to a mere dairymaid, followed by his death from a wound inflicted by the bride-to-be--this was undiluted melodrama drawn from the repertoire of the petit guignol. that night the story spread over england. a reporter from the _messenger_ came to elmsdale to glean the exact facts as to mr. pickering's "accident." owing to the peculiar circumstances, he, perforce, showed much discretion in compiling the story telegraphed to the press association. not even the use of that magic word "alleged" would enable him to charge betsy thwaites with attempted murder, after the police had apparently withdrawn the accusation. but he contrived to retail the legend by throwing utter discredit on it, and the rest was plain sailing. moreover, he was a smart young man. he pondered deeply after dispatching the message. he was employed on the staff of a local weekly newspaper, so his traveling allowance was limited to a third-class return ticket and a shilling for "tea." yet he decided to remain in elmsdale at his own expense. the departure of the german government agent for another horse-fair left a vacant bedroom at the "black lion." this he secured. he foresaw a golden harvest. luck favored him. conversing with a village solon in the bar, he caught a remark that "john bolland's lad" would be an important witness at the inquest. of course, he made inquiries and was favored with a full and accurate account of the wanderings of the farmer and his wife in london thirteen years earlier, together with their adoption of the baby which had literally fallen from the skies. to the country journalist, fleet street is the mecca of his earthly pilgrimage, and st. martin's court, ludgate hill, was near enough to newspaperdom to be sacred ground. the very name of the boy smacked of "copy." john bolland, lumbering out of the stockyard at tea-time, encountered dr. macgregor. the farmer had been thinking hard while striding through his diminished cornfields, and crumbling ears of wheat, oats, and barley in his strong hands to ascertain the exact date when they would be ripe. already some of his neighbors were busy, but john was more anxious about the condition of the straw than the forwardness of the grain; moreover, men and women did not work so well during feast-time. next week he would obtain full measure for his money. "i reckon martin'll soon be fit?" he said. the doctor nodded. "he's a bright lad, yon?" went on the farmer. "yes. what are you going to make of him?" dr. macgregor knew the ways of elmsdale folk. they required leading up to a subject by judicious questioning. rarely would they unburden their minds by direct statements. "that's what's worryin' me," said john slowly. "what d'ye think yersen, docthor?" "it is hard to say. it all hinges on what you intend doing for him, bolland. he is not your son. if he has to depend on his own resources when he's a man, teach him a useful trade. no matter how able he may be, that will never come amiss." the farmer gazed around. as men counted in that locality, he was rich, not in hard cash, but in lands, stock, and tenements. his expenses did not grow proportionately with his earnings. he ate and dressed and economized now as on the day when martha and he faced the world together, with the white house and its small meadows their only belongings. in a few years the produce of his shorthorn herd alone would bring in hundreds annually, and his cleveland bays were noted throughout the county. he took the doctor's hint. "i've nayther chick nor child but martin," he said. "when martha an' me are gone te t' lord, all that we hev'll be martin's. that's settled lang syne. i med me will four years agone last easter." there was something behind this, and macgregor probed again. "isn't he cut out for a farmer?" "i hae me doots," was the cautious answer. the doctor waited, so john continued. "i was sair set on t' lad being a minister. but i judge it's not t' lord's will. he's of a rovin' stock, i fancy. when he's a man, elmsdale won't be big eneuf te hold him. he cooms frae lunnon, an' te lunnon he'll gang. it's in his feäce. lunnon's a bad pleäce for a youngster wheä kens nowt but t' ways o' moor folk, docthor." then the other laughed. "in a word, bolland, you have made up your mind, and want me to agree with you. of course, if martin succeeds you, and you have read his character aright, there is but one line open. send him to a good school, leave the choice of a profession to his more cultivated mind, and tie up your property so that it cannot be sold and wasted in a young man's folly. when he is forty he may be glad to come back to elmsdale and give thanks for your foresight on his bended knees. in any event, a little extra book lore will make him none the worse stock-raiser. eh, is that what you think?" "you're a sound man, docthor. there's times i wunner hoo it happens ye cling te sike nonsense as that mad dutchman----" macgregor laughed again, and nudged his groom's arm as a signal to drive on. he favored neither church nor chapel, but claimed a devoted adherence to the doctrines of emanuel swedenborg, thus forming a sect unto himself. there was not a swedenborgian temple within a hundred miles. mayhap the doctor's theological views had a geographical foundation. the farmer lumbered across the street and took a corner of the crowded tea-table. mrs. summersgill was entertaining the company with a description of george pickering's estate. "it's a meracle, that's what it is!" she exclaimed. "te think of betsy thwaites livin' i' style in yon fine hoos! there's a revenue o' trees quarther of a mile long, an' my husband sez t' high-lyin' land grows t' best wuts (oats) i' t' county. an' she's got it by a prod wi' a carving-knife, while a poor body like me hez te scrat sae hard for a livin' that me fingers are worn te t' bone!" mrs. summersgill weighed sixteen stone, but she was heedless of satire. her eye fell on martin, eating silently, but well. "some folks git their bread easy, i'm sure," she went on. "ivver sen i was a bit lass i've tewed and wrowt an' mead sike deed ower spendin' hawpenny, whiles uthers hev a silver spoon thrust i' their gob frae t' time they're born!" "t' lord gives, an' t' lord taks away. ye munnot fly i' t' feäce o' t' lord," said bolland. "i'm not built for flyin' anywhere," cried the old lady. "i wish i was. 'tis flighty 'uns as wins nowadays. look at betsy thwaites! look at mrs. saumarez! she mun hae gotten her money varra simple te fling it about as she does. my man telt me that her little gal, t' other neet----" "yer cup's empty, mrs. summersgill," put in martha quickly. "bless my heart, ye talk an' eat nowt. speakin' o' mrs. saumarez, hez anyone heerd if she's better? one o' miss walker's maids said she was poorly." martin caught his mother's eye, and rose. he went upstairs; the farmer followed him. the two sat near the window; on the broad ledge reposed the bible; but bolland did not open the book. he laid his hand on it reverently and looked at the boy. "martin," he began, "yer muther tells me that benson med yer mind sair by grabbin' te t' squire aboot yer bringin' up. nay, lad, ye needn't say owt. 'tis no secret. we on'y kept it frae ye for yer good. anyhow, 'tis kent noo, an' there's nae need te chew on 't. what troubled me maist was yer muther's defiance when i was minded te punish ye for bein' out late." "it won't occur again, sir," said martin quietly. "mebbe. t' spirit is willin', but t' flesh is wake. noo, i want a straight answer te a straight question. are these bible lessons te yer likin'?" it was so rare for the farmer to speak in this downright fashion that the boy was alarmed. he knew not what lay behind; but he had not earned his reputation for honesty on insufficient grounds. "no, they're not," he said. bolland groaned. "t' minister said so. why not?" "i can hardly explain. for one thing, i don't understand what i read. and often i would like to be out in the fields or on the moor when i'm forced to be here. all the same, i do try hard, and if i thought it would please you and mother, i'd do much more than give up half an hour a day." "ay, ay. 'tis compulsion, not love. i telt t' minister that paul urged insistence in season an' out o' season, but he held that the teachin' applied te doctrine, an' not te bible lessons for t' young. well, martin, i've weighed this thing, an' not without prayer. i've seen many a field spoiled by bad farmin', an', when yer muther calls my own hired men te help her ageän me; when a lad like you goes fightin' young gentlemen aboot a lass; when yon frenchified ninny eggs ye on te spend money like watter, an' yer muther gies ye t' brass next day te pay mrs. saumarez, lest it should reach my ears--why, i've coom te believe that my teachin' is mistakken." martin was petrified at hearing his delinquencies laid bare in this manner. he had not realized that the extravagant display of monday must evoke comment in a small village, and that bolland could not fail to interpret correctly his wife's anxiety to hush up all reference to it. he blushed and held his tongue, for the farmer was speaking again. "t' upshot of all this is that i've sought counsel. ye're an honest lad, i will say that fer ye, but ye're a lad differin' frae those of yer age i' elmsdale. if all goes well wi' me, ye'll nivver want food nor lodgin', but an idle man is a wicked man, nine times out o' ten, an' i'd like te see ye sattled i' summat afore i go te my rest. you're not cut out fer t' ministry, ye're none for farmin', an' i'd sooner see ye dead than dancin' around t' countryside after women, like poor george pickerin'. soa ye mun gang te college an' sharpen yer wits, an' happen fower or five years o' delvin' i' books'll shape yer life i' different gait te owt i can see at this minnit. what think you on't?" "oh, i should like it better than anything else in the world." the boy's eyes sparkled at this most unlooked-for announcement. never before had his heart so gone out to the rugged old man whose stern glance was now searching him through the horn-rimmed spectacles. what magician had transformed john bolland? was it possible that beneath the patriarchial inflexibility of the rugged farmer's character there lay a spring of human tenderness, a clear fountain hidden by half a century of toil and narrow religion, but now unearthed forcibly by circumstances stronger than the man himself? the boy could not put these questions into words. he was too young to understand even the meaning of psychological analysis. he could only sit there mute, stunned by the glory of the unexpected promise. of course, if a thinker like dr. macgregor were aware of all the facts, he would have seen that the rebellion of martha had been a lightning stroke. the few winged words she shot at her husband on that memorable night had penetrated deeper than she thought. it chanced, too, that the revivalist preacher whom bolland took into his confidence was a man of sound common sense, and much more acute in private life than anyone could imagine who witnessed his methods of hammering the gospel into the dullards of the village. he it was who advised a timely diminution of devotional exercises which were likely to become distasteful to a spirited lad. he recommended the farmer to educate martin beyond the common run, while the choice of a profession might be left to maturer consideration. among the many influences conspiring in that hour to mold the boy's future life, none was more wholesome than that of the tub-thumping preacher. bolland seemed to be gratified by martin's tongue-tied enthusiasm. "well," he said, rising. "noo my hand's te t' plow i'll keep it there. remember, martin, when ye tak te study t' word o' yer own accord, ye can start at t' second chapter o' t' third book o' kings. i'll be throng wi' t' harvest until t' middle o' september, but i'll ax mr. herbert te recommend a good school. he's a fair man, if he does lean ower much te t' romans. soa, fer t' next few days, run wild an' enjoy yersen. happen ye'll never hae as happy a time again." he patted the boy's head, a rare sign of sentiment, and walked heavily out of the room. martin saw him cross the road and clout a stable-boy's ears because the yard was not swept clean. then he called to his foreman, and the two went off to the low-lying meadows. bolland had been turning over in his mind mrs. saumarez's remarks about draining; they were worthy of consideration and, perhaps, of experiment. martin remained standing at the window. so he was to leave elmsdale, go out into the wide world beyond the hills, mix with people who spoke and acted and moved like the great ones of whom he had read in books. he was glad of it; oh, so glad! he would learn greek and latin, french and german. no longer would the queer-looking words trouble his eyes. their meaning would be made clear to his understanding. he would soon acquire that nameless manner of which the squire, the vicar, mrs. saumarez, the young university students he met yesterday, possessed the secret. elsie herbert had it, and angèle was veneered with it, though in her case he knew quite well that the polish was only skin deep. it was what he had longed for with all his heart, yet now that the longing was to be appeased he had never felt more drawn to his parents; his only by adoption, it was true; but nevertheless father and mother by every tie known to him. by the way, whose child was he? no one had told him the literal manner in which he fell into the hands of the bollands. probably his real progenitors were dead long since. were it not for the kindness of the farmer and his wife he might have been reared in that awful place, the "union," of which the poverty-stricken old people in the parish spoke with such dread. his own folk must have been poor. those who were well off were fond of their children and loth to part from them. well, he must be a real son to john and martha bolland. they should have reason to be proud of him. he would do nothing to disgrace their honored name. what was it his father said just now? when he studied the bible of his own accord he might begin at the second chapter of the second book of kings. it would please the old man to know that he gave the first moment of liberty to reading the word which was held so precious. he opened the book at the page where the long, narrow strip of black silk marked the close of the last lesson. for the first time in his life the boy brought to bear on the task an unaided and sympathetic intelligence, and this is what he read: "now the days of david drew nigh that he should die; and he charged solomon his son, saying, "i go the way of all the earth: be thou strong therefore, and shew thyself a man; "and keep the charge of the lord thy god, to walk in his ways, to keep his statutes, and his commandments, and his judgments, and his testimonies, as it is written in the law of moses, that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest thyself: "that the lord may continue his word which he spake concerning me, saying, if thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me in truth with all their heart and with all their soul, there shall not fail thee (said he) a man on the throne of israel." not even a boy of fourteen could peruse these words unmoved, coming, as they did, after the memorable interview with bolland. the black letters seemed to martin to have fiery edges. they burnt themselves into his brain. in years to come they were fated to stand out unbidden before the eyes of his soul many a time and oft. he read on, but soon experienced the old puzzled feeling when he encountered the legacy of revenge which david bequeathed to his son after delivering that inspired message. it reminded martin of the farmer's dignified and quite noble-hearted renunciation of his own dreams in order to follow what he thought was the better way, to be succeeded by his passage to the farm buildings across the road in order to box the ears of a lazy hind. ere he closed the book, martin went over the opening verses of the chapter. he promised himself to obey the injunctions therein contained, and it was with a host of unformed ideals churning in his brain that he descended the stairs. mrs. bolland was gazing through the front door. "mercy on us," she cried, "if there isn't mrs. saumarez coomin' doon t' road wi' t' nuss an' her little gell. an' don't she look ill, poor thing! i'll lay owt she hez eaten summat as disagreed wi' her, an' it gev her a bilious attack." "dod, ay," said mrs. summersgill. "some things are easy te swallow, but hard te digest. ye could hev knocked me down wi' a feather when our tommy bolted a glass ally last june twelve months." chapter xii a friendly argument mrs. saumarez did indeed look unwell. it was not that her pallor was marked or her gait feeble; obviously, she had applied cosmetics to her face, and her carriage was as imposing and self-possessed as ever. but her cheeks were swollen, her eyes bloodshot, her eyelids puffy and discolored. to a certain extent, too, she simulated the appearance of illness by wearing a veil of heliotrope tint, for it was part of her intent to-day to persuade elmsdale that her complete seclusion from its society during the past forty-eight hours was due to a cause beyond her own control. in very truth this was so; she suffered from a malady far worse than any case of dyspepsia ever diagnosed by doctor. the unfortunate woman was an erratic dipsomaniac. she would exist for weeks without being troubled by a craving for drink; then, without the slightest warning or contributory error on her part, the demon of intoxication would possess her, and she yielded so utterly as to become a terror to her immediate associates. the normandy nurse, françoise, exercised a firmer control over her than any other maid she had ever employed; hence, françoise's services were retained long after other servants had left their mistress in disgust or fright. this distressing form of lunacy seemed also to account for the roving life led by mrs. saumarez. she was proud, with the inbred arrogance of the junker class from which she sprang. she would not endure the scorn, or, mayhap, the sympathy of her friends or dependants. whenever she succumbed to her malady she usually left that place on the first day she was able to travel. but the elmsdale attack, thanks to a limited supply of brandy and eau de cologne, was of brief duration. françoise knew exactly what to do. every drop of alcoholic liquor--even the methylated spirit used for heating curling-irons--must be kept out of her mistress's way during the ensuing twenty-four hours, and a deaf ear turned to frantic pleadings for the smallest quantity of any intoxicant. threats, tears, pitiable requests, physical violence at times, must be disregarded callously; then would come reaction, followed by extreme exhaustion. françoise, despising her german mistress, nevertheless had the avaricious soul of a french peasant, and was amassing a small fortune by attending to her. the misses walker were so eager to retain their wealthy guest that they pretended absolute ignorance of her condition. they succeeded so well--their own dyspeptic symptoms were described with such ingenuous zeal--that the lady believed her secret was unknown to the household at the elms. oddly enough, certain faculties remained clear during these attacks. she took care that the chauffeur should not see her, and remembered also that young martin bolland had conversed with her while she was in the worst paroxysm of drink-craving. he was a quick boy, observant beyond his age. what did he know? what wondrous tale had he spread through the village? a visit to his mother, a meeting with the gossip-loving women sure to be gathered beneath the farmer's hospitable roof, would tell her all. she nerved herself for the ordeal, and approached slowly, fearfully, but outwardly dignified as ever. mrs. bolland's hearty greeting was reassuring. "eh, my lady, but ye do look poorly, te be sure. i've bin worritin' te think ye've mebbe bin upset by all this racket i' t' place, when ye kem here for rest an' quiet." mrs. saumarez smiled. "oh, no, thank you, mrs. bolland," she said. "i cannot blame elmsdale, except, perhaps, that your wonderful air braced up my appetite too greatly, and i had to pay the penalty for so many good things to eat." "ay, i said so," chimed in mrs. summersgill, in the accents of deep conviction. "ower much grub an' nowt te do is bad for man or beast." mrs. saumarez laughed frankly at that. "in which category do you place me, mrs. summersgill?" she inquired. meanwhile, her eyes wandered to where martin stood. she was asking herself why the boy should gaze so fixedly at angèle. the stout party did not know what a category was. she thought it was some species of malady. "well, ma'am," she cried, "if i was you, i'd try rabbit meat for a few days. eat plenty o' green stuff an' shun t' teapot. it's slow p'ison." she stretched out a huge arm and poured out a cup of tea. there was a general laugh at this forgetfulness. mrs. summersgill waved aside criticism. "ay, ay!" she went on, "it's easier te preach than te practice, as t' man said when he fell off a haystack efther another man shooted tiv him te ho'd fast." mrs. saumarez took a seat. thus far, matters had gone well. but why did martin avoid her? "martin, my little friend," she said, "why did you not come in and see me yesterday when you called at the elms?" "miss walker did not wish it," was the candid answer. "i suppose she thought i might be in the way when you were so ill." "there nivver was sike a bairn," protested martha bolland. "he's close as wax sometimes. not a wud did he say, whether ye were ill or well, mrs. saumarez." the lady's glance rested more graciously on the boy. she noticed his bandaged arms and hands. "what is the matter?" she asked. "have you been scalding yourself?" martin reddened. it was angèle who answered quickly: "you were too indisposed last night to hear the story, chère maman. it was all over the village. il y a tout le monde qui sait. martin saved elsie herbert from a wildcat. it almost tore him into little pieces." and so the conversation glided safely away from the delicate topic of mrs. saumarez's sudden ailment. she praised martin's bravery in her polished way. she expressed proper horror when the wildcat's skin was brought in for her edification, and became so lively, so animated, that she actually asked mrs. bolland for some tea, notwithstanding mrs. summersgill's earnest warnings. she made a hearty meal. françoise, too, joined in the feast, her homely norman face perceptibly relaxing its grim vigilance. her mistress was safe now, for a month, two months, perchance six. the desire for food was the ultimate sign of complete recovery--for the time. had mrs. saumarez dared ask for a glass of beer from the majestic cask in the corner, françoise would have prevented her from taking it, using force if necessary. the sturdy peasant from tinchebrai was of stronger moral fiber than the born aristocrat, and her mistress knew it. martin stood somewhat shyly near the broad ingle. angèle approached. she caressed his lint-wrapped arms, saying sweetly: "do they pain you a great deal?" "of course not. they're just a bit sore to the touch--that's all." his manner was politely repellant. he wished she would not pat him with her nervous fingers. she pawed him like a playful cat. to-day she wore the beautiful muslin frock he had admired so greatly on the first day of the fair. the deep brim of her hat concealed her eyes from all but his. "i am quite jealous of elsie," she murmured. "it must be simply lovely to be rescued in that way. poor little me! at home nursing mamma, while you were fighting for another girl!" "the thing was not worth so much talk. i did nothing that any other boy would not have done." "my wud," cried mrs. summersgill suddenly, "it'd do your little lass a power o' good te git some o' that fat beäcan intiv her, mrs. saumarez." from the smoke-blackened rafters over the spacious fireplace were hanging a dozen sides of home-cured bacon, huge toothsome slabs suggesting mounds of luscious rashers. the sturdy boy beneath gave proof that there was good nutriment in such ample store, but the girl was so fragile, so fairy-like in her gossamer wings, that she might have been reared on the scent of flowers. the attention thus drawn to the two caused martin to flush again, but angèle wheeled round. "do all pigs grow fat when they are old?" she asked. "nay, lass, that they don't. we feed 'em te mak' 'em fat while they're young, but some pigs are skinny 'uns always." mrs. saumarez smiled indulgently at this passage between two such sharp-tongued combatants. angèle's eyes blazed. françoise, eating steadily, wondered what had been said to make the women laugh, the child angry. angèle caught the astonished expression on the nurse's face. quickly her mood changed. françoise sat near. she bent over and whispered: "tiens, nanna! voici une vieille truie qui parle comme nous autres!" françoise nearly choked under a combination of protest and bread crumbs. before she could recover her breath at hearing mrs. summersgill described "an old sow who talks like one of us!" angèle cried airily to martin: "take me to the stables. i haven't seen the pony and the dogs for days and days." he was glad to escape. he dreaded mrs. summersgill's mordant humor if a war of wits broke out between her and the girl. "all right," he said. "i'll whistle for curly and jim at the back and join you at the gate." but angèle skipped lightly toward her hostess. "please, mrs. bolland," she said coaxingly, "may i not go through the back kitchen, too?" "sure-ly, honey," cried martha. "one way's as good as another. martin, tak t' young leddy anywheres she wants te go, an' dinnat be so gawky. she won't bite ye." the two passed into the farmyard. "you see, martin," explained angèle coolly, "i must find out how jim bates and tommy beadlam always get hold of you without other people being the wiser. show me the lane and the paddock they tell me of." "i don't see why it should interest you," was the ungracious reply. "you dear boy! are you angry yet because i wouldn't let you kiss me the other night?" he was compelled to laugh at the outrageous untruth. "i'm afraid i spoke very crossly then," he admitted, thinking it best to avoid argument. "oh, yes. i wept for hours. my poor little eyes were sore yesterday. look and see if they are red now." they were standing behind the woodpile. she thrust her face temptingly near. her beautiful eyes, clear and limpid in their dark depths, blinked saucily. her parted lips revealed two rows of white, even teeth, and her sweet breath mingled with the fragrance that always clung to her garments. he experienced a new timidity now; he was afraid of her in this mood, though secretly flattered by the homage she was paying. "martin," she whispered, "i like you better than any of the other boys, oh, a great deal better, even though evelyn atkinson does say you are a milksop." what a hateful word to apply to one whose flesh was scarred by the claws of an infuriated wildcat conquered in fair fight. milksop, indeed! he knew angèle's ways well enough by this time to give convincing proof that he was no milksop. he placed his bandaged right arm around her waist, boldly drew her toward him, and kissed her three times--on the lips. "that is more than i ever did to evelyn atkinson," he said. she returned the embrace with ardor. "oh, martin, i do love you," she sighed. "and you fought for me as well as for elsie, didn't you?" if the thought were grateful to angèle, it stung the boy's conscience. under what different circumstances had he defended the two girls! he grew scarlet with confusion and sought to unclasp those twining arms. "someone may see us," he protested. "i don't care," she cooed. "tommy beadlam is watching us now over the hedge. tell him to go away." he wrenched himself free. true enough, "white head" was gazing at them, eyes and mouth wide open. "hello, tommy!" shouted martin. "by gum!" gasped tommy. but the spell was broken, and the three joined company to make a tour of the farm. angèle was quite unembarrassed and promptly rescued both boys from sheepishness. she knew that the observant "white head" would harrow evelyn atkinson's soul with a full description of the tender episode behind the big pile of wood. this pleased her more than martin's gruff "spooning." inside the farmhouse conversation progressed vigorously. mrs. saumarez joined in the talk with zest. the quaint gossip of the women interested her. she learnt, seemingly with surprise, that these, her humble sisters, were swayed by emotions near akin to her own. some quiet chronicle of a mother's loss by the death of a soldier son in far-off south africa touched a dormant chord in her heart. "my husband was killed in that foolish war," she said. "i never think of it without a shudder." "i reckon he'd be an officer, ma'am," said martha. "yes; he was shot while leading his regiment in a cavalry charge at the modder river." "it's a dreadful thing, is war," observed the bereaved mother. "my lad wouldn't hurt a fly, yet his capt'in wrote such a nice letter, sayin' as how willie had killed four boers afore he was struck down. t' capt'in meant it kindly, no doot, but it gev me small consolation." "it is the wives and mothers who suffer most. men like the army. i suppose if my child were a boy he would enter the service." "thank the lord, martin won't be a sojer!" cried martha fervently. "you're going to make him a minister, are you not?" "noa," said john bolland's deep voice from the door. "he's goin' to college. i've settled it to-day." none present appreciated the force of this statement like martha, and she resented such a momentous decision being arrived at without her knowledge. her head bent, and twitching fingers sought the ends of her apron. john strode ponderously forward and placed a huge hand on her shoulder. "dinnat be vexed, martha," he said gently. "i hadn't a chance te speak wi' ye sen dr. macgregor an' me had a bit crack about t' lad. i didn't need te coom te you for counsel. who knew better'n me that yer heart was set on martin bein' browt up a gentleman?" this recognition of motherly rights somewhat mollified his wife. "eh, but i'm main pleased, john," she said. "yet i'll be sorry to lose him." "ye'll wear yer knuckles te t' bone makkin' him fine shirts an' fallals, all t' same," laughed her husband. mrs. saumarez had seen the glint of tears in mrs. bolland's eyes, and came to the rescue with a request for a second cup of tea. "england is fortunate in being an island," she said. "now, in my native land every man has to serve in the army. it cannot be avoided, you know. germany has france on the one hand and russia on the other, each ready to spring if she relaxes her vigilance for a moment." "is that so?" inquired bolland. "i wunner why?" the lady smiled. "that is a wide political question," she replied. "to give one reason out of many, look at our--at germany's thousand miles of open frontier." "right enough, ma'am. but why is jarmany buildin' such a big fleet?" mrs. saumarez raised her lorgnette. she had not expected so apt a retort. "she is gathering colonies, and already owns a huge mercantile marine. surely, these interests call for adequate protection?" "nobody's threatenin' 'em, so far as i can see," persisted bolland. "not at present. but a wise government looks ahead of the hour. germany's aim is to educate the world by her culture. she is doing it already, as any of your own well-informed leading men will tell you; but the time may come when, in her zeal for advancement, she may tread on somebody's toes, so she must be prepared, both on land and sea. fortunately, this is the one country she will never attack." john shook his head. "i'm none so sure," he said slowly. "i hevn't much time fer readin', but i did happen t' other day on a speech by lord roberts which med me scrat me head. beg pardon, ma'am. i mean it med me think." "lord roberts!" began the lady scornfully. then she sipped her tea, and the pause gave time to collect her wits. "you must remember that he is a professional soldier, and his views are tainted by militarism." "isn't that the trouble i' jarmany?" mrs. saumarez drank more tea. "circumstances alter cases," she said. "the broad fact remains that germany harbors no evil designs against great britain. she believes the world holds plenty of room for both powers. and, when all is said and done, why should the two nations quarrel? they are kith and kin. they look at life from the same viewpoints. even their languages are alike. hardly a word in your quaint yorkshire dialect puzzles me now, because i recognize its source in the older german and in the current speech of our baltic provinces. germany and england should be friends, not enemies. it will be a happy day for england when she ceases worrying about german measures of self-defense, but tries, rather, to imitate her wonderful achievements in every field of science. any woman who uses fabrics need not be told how germany has taught the whole world how to make aniline dyes, while her chemists are now modernizing the old-time theories of agriculture. you, mr. bolland, as a practical farmer, can surely bear out that contention?" "steady on, ma'am," said bolland, leaning forward, with hands on knees, and with eyes fixed on the speaker in an almost disconcerting intensity. "t' jarmans hev med all t' wo'ld _buy_ their dyes, but there hezn't been much _teachin'_, as i've heerd tell of. as for farmin', they coom here year after year an' snap up our best stock i' horses an' cattle te improve their own breeds. _i_ can't grummel at that. they compete wi' t' argentine an' t' united states, an' up go my prices. still, i do think our government is te blame for lettin' our finest stallions an' brood mares leave t' country. they differ frae cattle. they're bowt for use i' t' army, an' we're bein' drained dhry. that's bad for us. an' why are they doin' it?" mrs. saumarez pushed away her cup and saucer. she laughed nervously, with the air of one who had gone a little further than was intended. "there, there!" she cried pleasantly. "i am only trying to show you germany's open aims, but some englishmen persist in attributing a hostile motive to her every act. you see, i know germany, and few people here trouble either to learn the language or visit the country." "likely not, ma'am," was the ironical answer. "mr. pickerin' went te some pleäce--bremen, i think they call it--two year sen this july, te see a man who'd buy every cleveland bay he could offer. george had just been med an officer i' t' territorials--which meant a week's swankin' aboot i' uniform at a camp, an' givin' his men free beer an' pork pies te attend a few drills--an' he was fule enough te carry a valise wi' his rank an' regiment painted on it. why, they watched him like a cat watchin' a mouse. he couldn't eat a bite or tak a pint o' their light beer that a 'tec wasn't sittin' at t' next table. they fairly chased him away. even his friend, the hoss-buyer, got skeered at last, an' advised him te quit te avoid arrest." "that must have been a wholly exceptional case," said mrs. saumarez, speaking in a tone of utter indifference. "had _i_ known him, for instance, and given him a letter of introduction, he would have been welcomed, not suspected. by the way, how is he? i hear----" the conversation was steered into a safer channel. they were discussing the wounded man's condition when mrs. saumarez's car passed. the door stood open, so they all noted that the vehicle was white with dust, but the chauffeur was the sole occupant. "her ladyship" was pleased to explain. "it is a new car, so fritz took it for a long spin to-day," she said. "you will understand, mr. bolland, that the engine has to find itself, as the phrase goes." "expensive work, ma'am," smiled john, rising. "an' now, good folk," he continued, "wheä's coomin' te t' love feast?" there was a general movement. the assembly dear to old-time methodism appealed to the majority of the company. mrs. saumarez raised her lorgnette once more. "what is a love feast?" she asked. "it's a gathering o' members o' our communion, ma'am," was bolland's ready answer. "may i come, too?" instantly a rustle of surprise swept through her hearers. even john bolland was so taken aback that he hesitated to reply. but the lady seemed to be in earnest. "i really mean it," she went on. "i have a spare hour, and, as i don't care for dinner to-night, i'll be most pleased to attend--that is, if i may?" the farmer came nearer. he looked at the bulbous eyelids, the too-evenly tinted skin, the turgid veins in the brilliant eyes, and perhaps saw more than mrs. saumarez dreamed. "happen it'll be an hour well spent, ma'am," he said quietly. "admission is by membership ticket, but t' minister gev' me a few 'permits' for outside friends, an' i'll fill yan in for ye wi' pleasure." he produced some slips of paper bearing the written words, "admit brother" or "sister ----," and signed, "eli todd." with a stubby pencil he scrawled "saumarez" in a blank space. the lady thanked him, and gave some instructions in french to françoise. five minutes later "sister saumarez," escorted by "brother" and "sister" bolland, entered the village meetinghouse. the appearance of a fashionable dame in their midst created a mild sensation among the small congregation already collected. they were mostly old or middle-aged people; youngsters were conspicuous by their absence. there was a dance that night in a tent erected in a field close to the chapel; in the boxing booth the semi-final round would be fought for the elmsdale championship. against these rival attractions the gospel was not a "draw." gradually the spacious but bare room--so unlike all that mrs. saumarez knew of churches--became fairly well filled. as the church clock chimed the half-hour after six the rev. eli todd came in from a neighboring classroom. this was the preacher with the powerful voice, but his bell-like tones were subdued and reverent enough in the opening prayer. he uttered a few earnest sentences and quickly evoked responses from the people. the first time john bolland cried "amen!" mrs. saumarez started. she thought her friend had made a mistake, and her nerves were on edge. but the next period produced a hearty "hallelujah!" and others joined in with "glory be!" "thy will, o lord!" and kindred ejaculations. one incident absolutely amazed her. the minister was reciting the lord's prayer. "give us this day our daily bread," he said. "and no baccy, lord!" growled a voice from the rear of the chapel. the minister had a momentary difficulty in concluding the petition, and a broad grin ran through the congregation. mrs. saumarez learned subsequently that the interrupter was a converted poacher, who abandoned his pipe, together with gun and beer jug, "when he found christ." eli todd was a confirmed smoker, and the two were ever at variance on the point. all stood up when their pastor gave out the opening verses of a hymn: _o what a joyful meeting there, in robes of white arrayed; palms in our hands we all shall bear and crowns upon our heads._ the joyous energy of his declamation, the no less eager volume of sound that arose from the congregation, atoned for any deficiencies of meter or rhyme. the village worshipers lost themselves in the influence of the moment. with spiritual vision they saw the last great meeting, and thundered vociferously the closing lines of the chorus: _and then we shall in heaven reign, and never, never part again._ "grace before meat" was sung, and, to mrs. saumarez's great discomfiture, bread and water were passed round. each one partook save herself; bolland, with real tact, missed her in handing the tray and pitcher to the other occupants of their pew. "grace after meat" followed, and forthwith eli todd began to deliver an address. his discourse was simple and well reasoned, dealing wholly with the sustenance derived from god's saving spirit. it may be that the unexpected presence of a stranger like mrs. saumarez exercised a slightly unnerving influence, as he spoke more seriously and with less dramatic intensity than was his wont. suddenly he rebelled against this sensation of restraint. changing, with the skill of a born revivalist, from the rounded periods of ordinary english to the homely vernacular of the district, he thundered out: "there's noa cittidell o' sin 'at god cannot destroy. ay, friends, t' sword o' t' spirit s'all oppen a way through walls o' brass an' iron yats (gates). weän't ye jine his conquerin' army? he's willin' te list ye noo. there's none o' yer short service whilst ye deä t' lord's work--it's for ivver an' ivver, an' yer pension is life ivverlastin'." and so the curious service went to its end, which came not until various members of the congregation made public confession of faith, personal statements which often consisted of question and answer between pastor and penitent. it was a strange interrogatory. eli todd had a ready quip, a quick appreciation, an emphatic or amusing disclaimer, for each and every avowal of broad-minded christianity or intolerant views. for these dalesfolk did not all think alike. some were inclined to damn others who did not see through the myopic lenses of their own spiritual spectacles. the preacher would have none of this exclusive righteousness. as he said, in his own strenuous way: "the lord is ivverywhere. he isn't a prisoner i' this little room te-night. he's yonder i' t' street amang t' organs an' shows. he's yonder i' t' tent where foolish youths an' maidens cannot see him. if ye seek him ye'll find him, ay, in the abodes of sin and the palaces of wantonness. no door can be closed to his saving mercy, no heart too hardened to resist his love." as it happened, his glance fell on mrs. saumarez as he uttered the concluding words, and his voice unconsciously tuned itself to suit her understanding. she dropped her eyes, and the observant minister thought that she was reading a personal meaning into his address. at once he began the "doxology," which was sung with great fervor, and the love feast broke up after a brief prayer. mr. todd overtook mrs. saumarez on the green. bolland and his wife were escorting her to the elms. "i hope you liked the service, madam," he said politely. "i thought it most interesting," she answered slowly. "i think i shall come again." he took off his hat and assured her that she would always be welcome at bethel chapel. he, worthy man, no less than the bollands, could little guess this woman's motives in thus currying favor with the villagers. had an angel from heaven laid bare her intent, they would scarce have believed, or, if conviction came, they would only have deemed her mad. a breathless françoise met her mistress at the gate. angèle was not to be found anywhere, and it was so late, nearly eight o'clock. nor was martin to be seen. madam would remember, they had gone off together. mrs. saumarez explained what all the gesticulation was about. "if she's wi' martin, she'll be all right," said bolland. "he'll bring her yam afore ye git yer things off, ma'am." he was right. angèle had discovered that elsie herbert would be at the church bazaar that evening, and planned the ramble with martin so that the vicar's daughter might meet them together on the high road. it delighted her to see the only rival she feared flash a quick side glance as she bowed smilingly and passed on, for mr. herbert did not wholly approve of angèle, so elsie thought it best not to stop for a chat. martin, too, was annoyed as he doffed his cap. he thought elsie would surely ask how he was. moreover, those hot kisses were burning yet on his lips; the memory made him profoundly uncomfortable. that was all. when he left angèle at the gate she did not suggest a rendezvous at a later hour. not only would it be useless, but she had seen frank beckett-smythe earlier in the day, and he said there was a dinner party at the hall. perhaps he might be able to slip away unnoticed about nine. chapter xiii a dying deposition before mr. beckett-smythe sat down to dinner that evening a very unpleasant duty had been thrust on him. the superintendent of police drove over from nottonby to show him the county analyst's report. divested of technicalities, this document proved that george pickering's dangerous condition arose from blood poisoning caused by a stab from a contaminated knife. it was admitted that a wound inflicted by a rusty pitchfork might have had equally serious results, but the analysis of matter obtained from both instruments proved conclusively that the knife alone was impregnated with the putrid germs found in the blood corpuscles, which also contained an undue proportion of alcohol. moreover, dr. macgregor's statement on the one vital point was unanswerable. pickering was suffering from an incised wound which could not have been inflicted by the rounded prongs of a fork. the doctor was equally emphatic in his belief that the injured man would succumb speedily. in the face of these documents it was necessary that george pickering's depositions should be taken by a magistrate. most unwillingly, mr. beckett-smythe accompanied the superintendent to the "black lion hotel" for the purpose. they entered the sick room about the time that mrs. saumarez was crossing the green on her way to the methodist chapel. a glance at pickering's face showed that the doctor had not exaggerated the gravity of the affair. he was deathly pale, save for a number of vivid red spots on his skin. his eyes shone with fever. were not his malady identified, the unskilled observer might conclude that he was suffering from a severe attack of german measles. betsy was there, and the prim nurse. the contrast between the two women was almost as startling as the change for the worse in pickering's appearance. the nurse, strictly professional in deportment, paid heed to naught save the rules of treatment. the word "hospital," "certificate," "method," shrieked silently from her flowing coif and list slippers, from the clinical thermometer on the table, and the temperature chart on the mantelpiece. poor betsy was sitting by the bedside, holding her lover's hand. she was smiling wistfully, striving to chatter in cheerful strain, yet all the time she wanted to wail her despair, to petition on her knees that her crime might be avenged on herself, not on its victim. when the magistrate stepped gingerly forward, pickering turned querulously to see who the visitor was, for the nurse had nodded permission to enter when the two men looked through the half-open door. "oh, it's you, squire," he said in a low voice. "i thought it might be macgregor." "how are you feeling now, george?" "pretty sick. i suppose you've heard the verdict?" "the doctor says you are in a bad state." "booked, squire, booked! and no return ticket. i don't care. i've made all arrangements--that is, i'll have a free mind this time to-morrow--and then, well, i'll face the music." he caught sight of the police officer. "hello, jonas! you there? come for my last dying depositions, eh? all right. fire away! betsy, my lass, leave us for a bit. the nurse can stay. the more witnesses the merrier." betsy arose. there was no fear in her eyes now--only dumb agony. she walked steadily from the room. while mr. beckett-smythe was thanking providence under his breath that a most distressing task was thus being made easy for him, they all heard a dreadful sob from the exterior landing, followed by a heavy thud. the nurse hurried out. betsy had fainted. with a painful effort pickering raised himself on one arm. his forced gayety gave place to loud-voiced violence. "confound you all!" he roared. "why come here to frighten the poor girl's life out of her?" he cursed both the magistrate and superintendent jonas by name; were he able to rise he would break their necks down the stairs. the policeman crept out on tip-toe; mr. beckett-smythe sat down. pickering stormed away until the nurse returned. "miss thwaites is better," she said. "she was overcome by the long strain, but she is with her sister now, and quite recovered." betsy was crying her heart out in kitty's arms: fortunately, the sounds of her grief were shut out from their ears. jonas came back and closed the door. the doomed man sank to the pillow and growled sullenly: "now, get on with your business, and be quick over it. i'll not have betsy worried again while i have breath left to protest." "i am, indeed, very sorry to disturb you, george," said the magistrate quietly. "it is a thankless office for an old friend. try and calm yourself. i do not ask your forbearance toward myself and mr. jonas, but there are tremendous issues at stake. for your own sake you must help us to face this ordeal." "oh, go ahead, squire. my bark is worse than my bite--not that i have much of either in me now. if i spoke roughly, forgive me. i couldn't bear to hear yon lass suffering." thinking it best to avoid further delay, mr. beckett-smythe nodded to the police officer, who drew forward a small table, which, with writing materials, he placed before the magistrate. a foolscap sheet bore already some written words. the magistrate bent over it, and said, in a voice shaken with emotion: "listen, george. i have written here: 'i, george pickering, being of sound mind, but believing myself to be in danger of death, solemnly take oath and depose as follows': now, i want you to tell me, in your own words, what took place last monday night. you are going to the awful presence of your creator. you must tell the truth, fully and fearlessly, not striving to determine the course of justice by your own judgment, but leaving matters wholly in the hands of god. you are conscious of what you are doing, fully sensible that you will soon be called on to meet one who knoweth all things. i hope, i venture to pray, that you will give testimony in all sincerity and righteousness.... i am ready." pickering heard this solemn injunction with due gravity. his features were composed, his eyes fixed on the distant landscape through the open window. no disturbing noise reached him save the lowing of cattle and the far-off rattle of a reaping machine, for the police had ordered the removal of the shooting gallery and roundabout to the other end of the green. he remained silent so long that the two men glanced at him anxiously, but were reassured by the belief that he was only collecting his thoughts. indeed, it was not so. he was striving to bridge that dark chasm on whose perilous verge he tottered--striving to frame an excuse that would not be uttered by his mortal lips. at last he spoke. "on monday night, about five minutes past ten, i met kitty thwaites, by appointment, at the wicket gate which opens into the garden from the bowling green of the 'black lion hotel,' elmsdale. we walked down the garden together. we were talking and laughing about the antics of a groom in this hotel, a fellow named fred--i do not know his surname--who was jealous of me because i was in the habit of chaffing kitty and placing my arm around her waist if i encountered her on the stairs. this man fred, i believe, endeavored to pay attentions to kitty, which she always refused to encourage. kitty and i stopped at the foot of the garden beneath a pear tree which stands in the boundary fence of the paddock. "i had my arm around her neck, but was only playing the fool, which kitty knew as well as i. there was a bright moon, and, although almost invisible ourselves in the shadow of the hedge and tree, we could see clearly into both paddock and garden. my back was toward the hotel. suddenly, we heard someone running down the gravel path. i turned and saw that it was betsy thwaites, kitty's sister, a girl whom i believed to be then in a situation at hereford. i had promised to marry betsy, and was naturally vexed at being caught in an apparently compromising attitude with her sister. betsy had a knife in her hand. i could see it glittering in the moonlight." he paused. he was corpse-like in color. the red spots on his face were darker than before by contrast with the wan cheeks. he motioned to the nurse, who gave him a glass of barley water. he emptied it at a gulp. catching mr. beckett-smythe's mournful glance, he smiled with ghastly pleasantry. "it sounds like a coroner's inquest, doesn't it?" he said. then, while his eyes roved incessantly from the face of the policeman to that of the magistrate, he continued: "i imagined that betsy meant to do her sister some harm, so sprang forward to meet her. then i saw that she was minded to attack me, for she screamed out: 'you have ruined my life. i'll take care you do not ruin kitty's.'" the words, of course, were spoken very slowly. they alternated with the steady scratching of the pen. others in the room were pallid now. even the rigid nurse yielded to the excitement of the moment. her linen bands fluttered and her bosom rose and fell with the restraint she imposed on her breathing. george pickering suddenly became the most composed person present. his hearers were face to face with a tragedy. after all, did he mean to tell the truth? ah, it was well that his affianced wife was weeping in an adjoining room, that her soul was not pierced by the calm recital which would condemn her to prison, perchance to the scaffold. "her cry warned me," he went on. "i knew she could not hurt me. i was a strong and active man, she a weak, excited woman. she was very near, advancing down the path which runs close to the dividing hedge of the garden and the stackyard. to draw her away from kitty, i ran toward this hedge and jumped over. it was dark there. i missed my footing and stumbled. i felt something run into my left breast. it was the prong of a pitchfork." the pen ceased. a low gasp of relief came from the nurse, for she was a woman. the superintendent looked gravely at the floor. but the magistrate faltered: "george--remember--you are a dying man!" pickering again lifted his body. his face was convulsed with a spasm of pain, but the strong voice cried fearlessly: "write what i have said. i'll swear it with my last breath. i'll tell the same story to either god or devil. write, i say, or shall i finish it with my own hand?" they thought that by some superhuman effort he would rise forthwith to reach the table. the nurse, the policeman, leaped to restrain him. mr. beckett-smythe was greatly agitated. "if i cannot persuade you--" he began. "persuade me to do what? to bolster up a lying charge against the woman i am going to marry? by the lord, do you think i'm mad?" they released him. the set intensity of his face was terrible. it is hard to say what awful power could have changed george pickering's purpose in that supreme moment. yet he clenched his hands in the bedclothes, as if he would choke some mocking fiend that grinned at him, and his voice was hoarse as he murmured: "oh, man, if you have a heart, end your inquisition, or i'll die too soon!" again the pen resumed its monotonous scrape. it paused at last. the fateful words were on record. "and then what happened?" the magistrate's question was judicially cold. he held strong convictions regarding the deeper mysteries of life; his faculties were benumbed by this utter defiance of all that he believed most firmly. "i said something, swore very likely, and staggered into the moonlight, at the same time tearing the fork from my breast. betsy saw what i was doing, and screamed. i managed to get over the hedge again, and she ran away in mortal fright, for i had pulled open my waistcoat, and she could see the blood on my shirt. she fell as she ran, and cut herself with the knife. by that time kitty had reached the hotel, screaming wildly that betsy was trying to murder me. that is all. betsy never touched me. the wound i am suffering from was inflicted by myself, accidentally. it was not caused by the knife, as is shown by the fact that i am dying of blood poisoning, while betsy's cuts are healing and have left her unharmed otherwise." his hearers were greatly perturbed, but they knew that further protest would be unavailing. and there was an even greater shock in store. pickering turned in the bed and poised his pain-racked frame so as to reach the manuscript placed before him for signature. with unwavering hand he added the words: "so help me god!" then he wrote his name. "now, sign that, all of you, as witnesses," he commanded, and they did not gainsay him. it was useless. why prolong his torture and their own? mr. beckett-smythe handed the sheets of paper to jonas. he seemed inclined to leave the room without another spoken word, but humane impulse was stronger than dogma; he held out his hand. "good-by, george," he said brokenly. "'judge not,' it is written. let my farewell be a prayer that you may die peacefully and painlessly, if, indeed, god in his mercy does not grant your recovery." "good-by, squire. you've got two sons. find 'em plenty of work; they'll have less time for mischief. damn it all, hark to that reaper! it'll soon be time to rouse the cubs. i'll miss the next hunt breakfast, eh? well, good luck to you all! i've had my last gallop. good-by, jonas! do you remember the fight we had that morning with the poachers? look here! when you meet rabbit jack, tell him to go to stockwell for a sovereign and swim in beer for a week. nurse, where's betsy? i want her before it is dark." and in a few minutes betsy, the forlorn, was bending over him and whispering: "i'll do it for your sake, george! but, oh, it will be hard to face everybody with a lie in my mouth. the hand that struck you should wither. indeed, indeed, i shall suffer worse than death. if the lord took pity on me, he would let me be the first to go." he stroked her hair gently, and there were tears in his eyes. "never cry about spilt milk, dearie. at best, or worst, the whole thing was an accident. come, now, no more weeping. sit down there and write what i tell you. i can remember every word, and kitty and you must just fit in your stories to suit mine. stockwell will defend you. he's a smart chap, and you need have no fear. bless your heart, you'll be twice married before you know where you are!" she obeyed him. with careful accuracy he repeated the deposition. he rehearsed the evidence she would give. when the nurse came in, he bade her angrily to leave them alone, but recalled her in the next breath. he wanted kitty. she, too, must be coached. at his command she had placed the fork where it was found. but she must learn her story with parrot-like accuracy. there must be no contradiction in the sisters' evidence. martin was eating his supper when mrs. bolland, bustling about the kitchen, made a discovery. "i must be fair wool-gatherin'," she said crossly. "here's a little pile o' handkerchiefs browt by dr. macgregor, an' i clean forgot all about 'em. martin, it's none ower leät, an' ye can bide i' bed i' t' mornin'. just run along te t' vicarage wi' these, there's a good lad. they'll mebbe be wantin' 'em." he hailed the errand not the less joyfully that it led him through the fair. but he did not loiter. perhaps he gazed with longing eyes at its vanishing glories, for some of the showmen were packing up in disgust, but he reached the vicarage quickly. it lay nearer the farm than the elms, and, like that pretentious mansion, was shrouded from the highroad by leafy trees and clusters of laurels. a broad drive led to the front door. the night was drawing in rapidly, and the moon would not rise until eleven o'clock. in the curving avenue it was pitch-dark, but a cheerful light shone from the drawing-room, and through an open french window he could see elsie bending over a book. she was not deeply interested, judging by the listless manner in which she turned the leaves. she was leaning with her elbows on the table, resting one knee on a chair, and the attitude revealed a foot and ankle quite as gracefully proportioned as angèle's elegant limbs, though elsie was more robust. hearing the boy's firm tread on the graveled approach, she straightened herself and ran to the window. "who is there?" she said. martin stepped into the light. "oh, it's you!" "yes, miss herbert. mother sent me with these." he held out the parcel of linen. "what is it?" she asked, extending a hesitating hand. "it is perfectly harmless, if you stroke it gently." she could see the mischief dancing in his eyes, and grabbed the package. then she laughed. "our handkerchiefs! it was very kind of mrs. bolland----" "i think dr. macgregor had them washed." this puzzled her, but a more personal topic was present in her mind. "i saw you a little while ago," she said. "you were engaged, or i would have asked you if you were recovering all right. your hands and arms are yet bound up, i see. do they hurt you much?" "no. not a bit." he felt absurdly tongue-tied, but bravely continued: "i was told to take miss saumarez home. that is how you happened to meet us together." "indeed," she said, drawing back a little. her tone conveyed that any explanation of miss saumarez's companionship was unnecessary. no other attitude could have set martin's wits at work more effectually. he, too, retreated a pace. "i'm very sorry if i disturbed you," he said. "i was going to ring for one of the servants." she tittered. "then i am glad you didn't. they are both out, and auntie would have wondered who our late visitor was. she has just gone to bed." "but isn't your--isn't mr. herbert at home?" "no; he is at the bazaar. he asked me to sit up until one of the maids returns." again she approached the window. one foot rested on the threshold. "i've been reading 'rokeby,'" ventured martin. "do you like it?" "it must be very interesting when you know the place. just imagine how nice it would be if sir walter had seen elmsdale and written about the moor, and the river, and the ghylls." "do you think he would have found a wildcat in thor ghyll?" "i hope not. it might have spoiled the verse; and thor ghyll is beautiful." "i'll never forget that cat. i can see it yet. how its eyes blazed when it sprang at me! oh, i don't know how you dared seize it in your hands." she was outside the window now, standing on a strip of turf that ran between house and drive. "i didn't give a second thought to it," said martin in his offhand way. "i can never thank you enough for saving me," she murmured. "then i'll tell you what," he cried. "to make quite sure you won't forget, i'll try and persuade mother to have the skin made into a muff for you. one of the men is curing it, with spirits of ammonia and saltpeter." "do you think i may need to have my memory jogged?" "people forget things," he said airily. "besides, i'm going away to school. when i come back you'll be a grown-up young lady." "i'm nearly as tall as you." "indeed you are not." "well, i'm much taller than angèle saumarez, at any rate." "there's no comparison between you in any respect." and this young spark three short hours ago, behind the woodpile, had gazed into angèle's eyes! "do you remember--we were talking about her when that creature flew at me?" he laughed. it was odd how angèle's name kept cropping up. the church clock struck nine. they listened to the chimes. neither spoke until the tremulous booming of the bell ceased. "i'm afraid i must be going," said martin, without budging an inch. "did you--did you--find any difficulty--in opening the gate? it is rather stiff. and your poor hands must be so sore." from excessive politeness, or shyness, elsie's tongue tripped somewhat. "it was a bit stiff," he admitted. "i had to reach up, you know." "then i think i ought to come and open it for you." "but you will be afraid to return alone." "afraid! of what?" "i really don't know," he said, "but i thought girls were always scared in the dark." "then i am an exception." she cast a backward glance into the room. "the lamp is quite safe. it will not take me a minute." they walked together down the short avenue. the gate was standing open. "really," laughed martin, "i had quite forgotten." "so boys have weak memories, too?" "of gates, perhaps." "well, now, i must be off. good-night, and thank you so much." she held out her hand. he took it in both of his. "i do hope mr. herbert will ask me to another picnic," he said. a boy on a bicycle rode past slowly. instinctively, they shrank into the shadow of a tree. "wasn't that frank beckett-smythe?" whispered elsie, forgetting to withdraw her imprisoned hand, and turning a startled face to martin. "yes." "where can he be going at this time?" martin guessed accurately, but sheer chivalry prevented him from saying more than: "to the fair, i suppose." "at this hour; after nine o'clock?" "s-s-h. he's coming back." she drew closer. there was an air of mystery in this nocturnal bicycle ride that induced bewilderment. martin's right hand still inclosed the girl's. what more natural than that his left arm should go around her waist, merely to emphasize the need for caution, concealment, secrecy? most certainly his knowledge of womankind was striding onward in seven-leagued boots. the trot of a horse sounded sharply on the hard road. it was being ridden by someone in a hurry. the young scion of the hall, who appeared to be killing time, inclined his machine to the opposite hedge. but the rider pulled up with the skill of a practiced horseman. even in the dim light the boy and girl recognized one of mr. beckett-smythe's grooms. "is that you, master frank?" they heard him say. "hello, williams! what's up?" "what's up, indeed! t' squire has missed ye. a bonny row there'll be. ye mun skip back lively, let me tell ye." "oh, the deuce!" "better lose nae mair time, master frank. i'll say i found ye yon side o' t' elms." "what has the elms got to do with it?" the man grinned. "noo, master frank, just mount an' be off in front. t' squire thinks ye're efther that black-eyed lass o' mrs. saumarez's. don't try an' humbug him. he telt me te lay my huntin'-crop across yer shoulders, but that's none o' my business. off ye go!" the heir, sulky and in deep tribulation, obeyed. they heard the horse's hoofbeats dying away rapidly. elsie, an exceedingly nice-mannered girl, was essentially feminine. the episode thrilled her, and pleased her, too, in some indefinable way, for her companion was holding her tightly. "just fancy that!" she whispered. "oh, he will only get a hiding." "but, surely, he could not expect to meet angèle?" "it looks like it. but why should we trouble about it?" "i think it is horrid. but i must be going. good-night--martin." he felt a gentle effort to loosen his clasp. "good-night, elsie." their faces were very close. assuredly, the boy must have been a trifle light-headed that day, for he bent and kissed her. she tore herself from the encircling arm. her cheeks were burning. at a little distance--a few feet--she halted. "how dare you?" she cried. he came to her with hands extended. "forgive me, elsie; i couldn't help it." "you must never, never do such a thing again." he had nothing to say. "promise!" she cried, but her voice was less emphatic than she imagined. "i won't," he said, and caught her arm. "you--won't! how can you say such a thing?" "because i like you. i have known you for years, though we never spoke to each other until yesterday." "oh, dear! this is terrible! you frightened me so! i hope i didn't hurt your poor arms?" "the pain was awful," he laughed. the girl's heart was beating so frantically that she could almost hear its pulsations. the white bandages on martin's wrists and hands aroused a tumult of emotion. the scene in the ghyll flashed before her eyes; she saw again the wild struggles of the snarling, tearing, biting animal, the boy's cool daring and endurance until he crushed the raging thing's life out of it and flung it away contemptuously. an impulse came to her, and it was not to be repelled. she placed both hands on his shoulders and kissed him, quite fearlessly, on the lips. "i think i owed you that," she said, with a little sob, and then ran away in good earnest, never turning her head until she was safe within the drawing-room. martin, his brain in a whirl and his blood on fire, closed the gate for himself. when the vicar came, half an hour later, his daughter was busy over the same book. "what, elsie! none of the maids home yet?" he cried. "no, father, dear. but martin bolland brought these." "oh, our handkerchiefs. what did he say?" "nothing--of any importance. i understood that dr. macgregor caused the linen to be washed, but forgot to ask him why." "is that all?" "practically all, except that his arms and hands are all bound up, so i went with him as far as the gate. it is stiff, you know. and--yes--he has been reading 'rokeby.' he likes it." the vicar filled his pipe. he had had a trying day. "martin is a fine lad," he said. "i hope john bolland will see fit to educate him. such a youngster should not be allowed to vegetate in a village like this." "ah!" said elsie, "that reminds me. he told me he was going away to school." "capital!" agreed the vicar. "out of evil comes good. it required an earthquake to move a man like bolland!" chapter xiv the storm on the morrow rain fell. at first the village regarded the break in the weather as a thunderstorm, and harvesters looked to an early resumption of work. "a sup o' wet'll do nowt any harm," they said. but a steadily declining "glass" and a continuous downpour that lost nothing in volume as the day wore caused increasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilings not a few of the fickle elements. the moorland becks became raging torrents. the gorged river rose until all the low-lying land was flooded, hundreds of pounds' worth of corn in stook swept away, and all standing crops were damaged to an enormous extent. cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, were caught by the rushing waters and drowned. a bridge became blocked by floating debris and crumbled before the flood. three men were standing on the structure, idly watching the articles whirling past in the eddies; one, given a second's firm footing, jumped for dear life and saved himself; the bodies of the others were found, many days afterwards, jammed against stakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent fish poachers from netting an open reach. this deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, wrecked the feast. every booth was dismantled, each wagon and caravan packed. the van dwellers only ceased their labors when all was in readiness for a move to the next fair ground; the elmsdale week, usually a bright spot in their migratory calendar, was marked this year with absolute loss. at the best, and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of expenses. farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert further disaster. stock were driven from pastures where danger threatened; cut corn was rescued in the hope that the next day's sun might dry it; choked ditches were raked with long hoes to permit the water to flow off. at last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle, though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in the village street and began comparing notes. everyone had suffered in some degree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruined goods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods. but the farmers endured the greatest damage. some had lost their half-year's rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy. thrice fortunate now were the men with capital--those who could look forward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havoc inflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped. john bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between the stockyard and the white house about eight o'clock. "eh, mr. bollan', but this is a sad day's wark," said a friend who encountered him. "ah, it's bad, very bad, an' likely te be worse," replied john, lifting his bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor. "i've lost t' best part o' six acres o' wuts," (oats) growled his neighbor. "it's hard to know what spite there was in t' clouds te burst i' that way." "times an' seasons aren't i' man's hands," was the quiet answer. "there'd be ill deed if sunshine an' storm were settled by voates, like a county-council election." "mebbe, and mebbe nut," cried the other testily. "'tis easy to leave ivvrything te providence when yer money's mostly i' stock. mine happens te be i' crops." "an' if mine were i' crops, mr. pattison, i sud still thry te desarve well o' providence." this shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from pattison, who was not a chapel-goer. "gosh!" he laughed, "some folks are lucky. they pile up riches both i' this wulld an' t' wulld te come. hooivver, we won't argy. hev ye heerd t' news fra' te t' 'black lion'?" "aboot poor george pickerin'? noa. i've bin ower thrang i' t' cow-byre." "he's married, an' med his will. betsy is mrs. pickerin' noo. but she'll be a widdy afore t' mornin'." "is he as bad as all that?" "sinkin' fast, they tell me. he kep' up, like the game 'un he allus was, until mr. croft left him alone wi' his wife. then he fell away te nowt. he's ravin', i hear." "croft! i thowt stockwell looked efther his affairs." "right enough! but stockwell's ya (one) trustee, mr. herbert's t' other. so croft had te act." "well, i'm rale sorry for t' poor chap. he's coom tiv a bad end." "ye'll be t' foreman o' t' jury, most like?" "noa. i'll be spared that job. martin is a witness, more's t' pity. good-night, mr. pattison. it'll hu't none if y' are minded te offer up a prayer for betther weather." but the prayers of many just men did not avail to save elmsdale that night. after a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty malevolence. black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where george pickering died. dr. macgregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man's life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady. at the foot of the stairs were waiting p. c. benson and the reporter of the _messenger_. "it is all over," said the doctor. "he died at a quarter past ten." "the same hour that he was--wounded," commented the reporter. "what was the precise cause of death?" "failure of the heart's action. it was a merciful release. otherwise, he might have survived for days and suffered greatly." the policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap. "i mun start for nottonby," he said. "t' inquest'll likely be oppenned o' satherday at two o'clock, doctor." "yes. by the way, benson, you can tell mr. jonas that the county analyst and i are ready with our evidence. there is no need for an adjournment, unless the police require it." the constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. he crossed the footbridge over the beck--the water was nearly level with the stout planks. "i haven't seen a wilder night for monny a year," he muttered. "there'll be a nice how-d'ye-do if t' brig is gone afore daylight." he trudged the four miles to nottonby. nearing the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying face down in the roadway. the pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. he managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man's head. then, after several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. one glance sufficed. "rabbit jack!" he growled. "and blind as a bat! get up, ye drunken swine. 'twould be sarvin' ye right te lave ye i' the road until ye were runned over or caught yer death o' cold." from the manner of p. c. benson's language it may be inferred that his actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. he managed to shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. rabbit jack, wobbling on his feet, lurched against the policeman. "hello, ole fell', coom along wi' me," he mumbled amiably. "nivver mind t' brass. i've got plenty. good soart, george pickerin'. gimme me a sov', 'e did. fo-or, 'e's a jolly good feller----" a further shaking was disastrous. he collapsed again. the perplexed policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. he dragged the nondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee side of the shelter. "he'll be sober by mornin'," he thought. "i hev overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi' this varmint." and so ended the first of the dead man's bequests. the gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquest like that occasioned by george pickering's death is a solemn function. care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the present instance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service because their children would be called as witnesses. the inquest was held, by permission, in the national schoolhouse. no room in the inn would accommodate a tithe of the people who wished to attend. many journalists put in an appearance, the _messenger_ reporter's paragraphs having attracted widespread attention. it was noteworthy, too, that superintendent jonas did not conduct the case for the police. he obtained the aid of a solicitor, mr. dane, with whom the coroner, dr. magnus, drove from nottonby in a closed carriage, for the rain had not ceased, save during very brief intervals, since the outbreak on thursday morning. the jury, having been sworn, elected mr. webster, grocer, as their foreman, and proceeded to view the body. when they reassembled in the schoolroom it was seen that betsy, now mrs. pickering, was seated next her sister. with them were two old people whom a few persons present recognized as the girls' parents, and by betsy's side was mr. stockwell. among the crowd of witnesses were martin, frank and ernest beckett-smythe, and angèle. the mortification, the angry dismay of mrs. saumarez when her daughter was warned to attend the inquest may well be imagined. the police are no respecters of persons, and p. c. benson, of course, ascertained easily the name of the girl concerning whom martin and young beckett-smythe fought on the eventful night. she might be an important witness, so her mother was told to send her to the court. mrs. saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in person, and françoise was deputed to act as convoy. the normandy nurse's white linen bands offered a quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other women and gave material for a descriptive sentence to every journalist in the room. mr. beckett-smythe, the vicar, dr. macgregor, and the county analyst occupied chairs beside the coroner. the latter gentleman described the nature of the inquiry with businesslike brevity, committing himself to no statements save those that were obvious. when he concluded, mr. dane rose. "i appear for the police," he said. "and i," said mr. stockwell, "am here to watch the interests of mrs. pickering, having received her husband's written instructions to that effect." a deep hush fell on the packed assembly. the curious nature of the announcement was a surprise in itself. the reporters' pencils were busy, and the coroner adjusted his spectacles. "the written instructions of the dead man?" he exclaimed. "yes, sir. my friend, my lifelong friend, mr. george pickering, was but too well aware of the fate that threatened him. i have here a letter, written and signed by him on thursday morning. with your permission, i will read it." "i object," cried mr. dane. "on what grounds?" asked the coroner. "such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the minds of the jury. they are here to determine, with your direction, a verdict to be arrived at on certain evidence. this letter cannot be regarded as evidence." mr. stockwell shrugged his shoulders. "i do not press the point," he said. "i fail to see any harm in showing a husband's anxiety that his wife should be cleared of absurd imputations." mr. dane reddened. "i consider that a highly improper remark," he cried. the other only smiled. he had won the first round. the jury knew what the letter contained, and he had placed the case for the police in an unfavorable light. the first witness, pickering's farm bailiff, gave formal evidence of identity. then the coroner read the dead man's deposition, which was attested by the local justice of the peace. dr. magnus rendered the document impressively. its concluding appeal to the deity turned all eyes on betsy. she was pale, but composed. since her husband's death she had cried but little. her mute grief rendered her beautiful. sorrow had given dignity to a pretty face. she was so white, so unmoved outwardly, that she resembled a clothed statue. kitty wept quietly all the time, but betsy sat like one in a dream. "catherine thwaites," said the coroner's officer, and kitty was led by mr. jones to the witness stand. the girl's evidence, punctuated by sobs, was practically a résumé of pickering's sworn statement. from mr. dane's attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witness as untruthful. "of course," he said, with quiet satire in word and look, "as mr. pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plunge a knife into his breast?" "no, sir." "nor did you run down the garden shrieking: 'oh, betsy, betsy, you've killed him.' you did not cry 'murder, murder! come, someone, for god's sake'?" "yes, sir; i did." this unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. he darted a sharp side glance at stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. every pulse in court quickened. "oh, you did, eh? but why charge your sister with a crime you did not see her commit?" "because she had a knife in her hand, and i saw mr. pickering stagger across the garden and fall." "in what direction did he stagger?" "away from the stackyard hedge." "this is a serious matter. you are on your oath, and there is such a thing as being an accessory after----" up sprang stockwell. "i protest most strongly against this witness being threatened," he shouted. "i think mr. dane is entitled to warn the witness against false testimony," said the coroner. "of course, he knows the grave responsibility attached to such insinuations." mr. dane waved an emphatic hand. "i require no threats," he said. "i have evidence in plenty. do you swear that mr. pickering did not lurch forward from beneath the pear tree at the foot of the garden after being stabbed by your sister, who surprised him in your arms, or you in his arms? it is the same thing." "i do," was the prompt answer. the lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders. "any questions to put to the witness, mr. stockwell?" said the coroner. "no, sir. i regard her evidence as quite clear." "will you--er--does your client mrs. pickering wish to give evidence?" "my client--she is not my client of her own volition, but by the definite instructions of her dead husband--will certainly give evidence. may i express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her too harshly? she is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day." mr. dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. he declined to help his adversary's adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had mr. stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card. betsy was duly warned by the coroner that she might be charged with the wilful murder of george pickering, notwithstanding the sworn deposition read in court. she could exercise her own judgment as to whether or not she would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down in writing, and might be used as evidence against her. she never raised her eyes. not even those terrible words, "wilful murder," had power to move her. she stood like an automaton, and seemed to await permission to speak. "now, mrs. pickering," said dr. magnus, "tell us, in your own words, what happened." she began her story. no one could fail to perceive that she was reciting a narrative learnt by heart. she used no words in the vernacular. all was good english, coherent, simple, straightforward. on the monday morning, she said, she received a letter at hereford from fred marshall, ostler at the "black lion hotel." "have you that letter?" asked the coroner. "yes," interposed mr. stockwell. "here it is." he handed forward a document. a buzz of whispered comment arose. in compliance with dr. magnus's request, betsy identified it listlessly. then it was read aloud. apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as follows: "dear miss thwaites.--this is to let you know that george pickering is carrying on with your sister kitty. he has promised to meet her here on monday. he has engaged a bedroom here. you ought to come and stop it. i inclose p.o. for one pound toward your fare.--yours truly, fred marshall, groom, 'black lion,' elmsdale." the fact that this meddlesome personage had sent betsy her railway fare became known now for the first time. a hiss writhed through the court. "silence!" yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes. "there must be no demonstrations of any sort here," said the coroner sternly. "well, mrs. pickering, you traveled to elmsdale?" "yes." "with what purpose in view?" "george had promised to marry me. kitty knew this quite well. i thought that my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. it was very wrong." "none will dispute that. but i prefer not to question you. tell us your own story." "i traveled all day," she recommenced, "and reached elmsdale station by the last train. i was very tired. at the door of the inn i met fred marshall. he was waiting, i suppose. he told me george and kitty were at the bottom of the garden." a quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching, and they feared expulsion. "he said they had been there ten minutes. i ran through the hotel kitchen. on a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. i picked it up, hardly knowing what i was doing, and went into the garden. when i was halfway down kitty saw me and screamed. george turned round and backed away toward the middle hedge. i remember crying out--some--things--but i do not--know--what i said." she swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. but she clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. mr. jones offered her a glass of water, but she refused it. "i can go on," she said bravely. and she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister's evidence. when mr. dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling. the girl's parents were pallid with fear. kitty sat spellbound. mr. stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client. "why did you pick up the knife, mrs. pickering?" was the first question. "i think--i am almost sure--i intended to strike my sister with it." this was another bombshell. mr. dane moved uneasily on his feet. "your sister!" he repeated in amazement. "yes. she was aware of my circumstances. what right had she to be flirting with my promised husband?" "hum! you have forgiven her since, no doubt?" "i forgave her then, when i regained my senses. she was acting thoughtlessly. i believe that george and she went into the garden only to spite fred marshall." mr. dane shook his head. "so, if we accept your statement, mrs. pickering, you harmed no one with the knife except yourself?" "that is so." he seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made up his mind to leave the evidence where it stood. "i shall not detain you long," said mr. stockwell when his legal opponent desisted from further cross-examination. "you were married to mr. pickering on thursday morning by special license?" "yes." "he had executed a marriage settlement securing you £400 a year for life?" "yes." "and, after the accident, you remained with him until he died?" "yes--god help me!" "thank you. that is all." "just one moment," interposed the coroner. "were you previously acquainted with this man, marshall, the groom?" "no, sir. i saw him for the first time in my life when he met me at the hotel door and asked me if i was miss thwaites." "how did he obtain your hereford address? it appears to be given in full on the envelope." "i don't know, sir." fred marshall was the next witness. he was sober and exceedingly nervous. he had been made aware during the past week that public opinion condemned him utterly. his old cronies refused to drink with him. mrs. atkinson had dismissed him; he was a pariah, an outcast, in the village. his evidence consisted of a disconnected series of insinuations against kitty's character, interlarded with protests that he meant no harm. mr. stockwell showed him scant mercy. "you say you saw mrs. pickering, or betsy thwaites, as she was at that time, seize a knife from the table?" "i did." "what did you think she meant to do with it?" "what she did do--stick george pickerin'. i heerd her bawlin' that oot both afore an' efther." the man was desperate. in his own parlance, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and he would spare no one. "oh, indeed! you knew she intended to commit murder?" "i thowt so." "then why did you not follow her?" "i was skeered." "what! afraid of a weak woman?" "well, i didn't give a damn if she did stab him! there, ye hev it straight!" mr. stockwell turned to mr. dane. "if you are looking for accessories in this trumped-up case, you have one ready to hand," he exclaimed. "you must be careful what you are saying, marshall," observed the coroner severely. "and moderate your language, too. this court is not a stable." "he shouldn't badger me," cried the witness in sullen anger. "i'll treat you with great tenderness," said mr. stockwell suavely, and a general smile relieved the tension. "how did you obtain miss thwaites's address at hereford?" no answer. "come, now. where are your wits? will you accuse me of badgering you, if i suggest that you stole a letter from kitty thwaites's pocket?" "i didn't steal it. it was in a frock of hers, hangin' in her bedroom." "you are most obliging. and the sovereign you sent her? did you, by any chance, borrow it from mrs. atkinson?" "frae mrs. atkinson? wheä said that?" "oh, i mean without her knowledge, of course. from mrs. atkinson's till, i should have said." the chance shot went home. the miserable groom growled a denial, but no one believed him. quite satisfied that he had destroyed the man's credibility, mr. stockwell sat down. "martin court bolland!" said the coroner's officer, and a wave of renewed interest galvanized the court. mr. dane arranged his papers and looked around with the air of one who says: "now we shall hear the truth of this business." martin came forward. it chanced that the first pair of eyes he encountered were angèle's. the girl was gazing at him with a spiteful intensity he could not understand. he did not know then of the painful exposé which took place at the elms when mrs. saumarez learnt on the preceding day that her daughter was a leading figure among the children in the "black lion" yard on the night of the tragedy. angèle blamed martin for having betrayed her to the authorities. she did not know how resolutely he had declined to mention her name; he loomed large in her mind, to the exclusion of the others. she regarded him now with a venomous malice all the more bitter because of the ultra-friendly relations she had forced on him. he looked at her with genuine astonishment. she reminded him of the wildcat he choked to death in thor ghyll. but he had to collect his wandering faculties, for the coroner was speaking. chapter xv the unwritten law martin's evidence was concise. he happened to be in the "black lion" yard with other children at a quarter past ten on monday night. he heard a woman's scream, followed by a man's loud cry of pain, and both sounds seemed to come from the extreme end of the garden. kitty thwaites ran toward the hotel shrieking, "oh, betsy, betsy, you've killed him!" she screamed "murder" and called for someone to come, "for god's sake!" she fell exactly opposite the place where he was standing. then he saw betsy thwaites--he identified her now as mrs. pickering--running after her sister and brandishing a knife. she appeared to be very excited, and cried out, "i'll swing for him. may the lord deal wi' him as he dealt wi' me!" she called her sister a "strumpet," and said it would "serve her right to stick her with the same knife." he was quite sure those were the exact words. he was not alarmed in any way, only surprised by the sudden uproar, and he saw the two women and the knife as plainly as if it were broad daylight. mr. dane concluded the examination-in-chief, which he punctuated with expressive glances at the jury, by touching on a point which he expected his acute rival to raise. "what were you doing in the 'black lion' yard at that hour, bolland?" "i was having a dispute with master frank beckett-smythe." "what sort of a dispute?" "well, we were fighting." a grin ran through the court. "he is an intelligent boy and older than you. can you suggest any reason why he should have failed to see and hear all that you saw and heard?" martin paused. he disliked to pose as a vainglorious pugilist, but there was no help for it. "i got the better of him," he said quietly. "one, at least, of his eyes were closed, and i had just given him an uppercut on the nose." "but his brother was there, too?" "master ernest was looking after him." "how about the other children?" "they ran away." "all of them?" "well, nearly all. i can only speak for myself, sir. no doubt the others will tell you what they saw." obviously, mr. dane was unprepared for the cool self-possession displayed by this farmer's son. he nodded acquiescence with martin's views and sat down. mr. stockwell, watching the boy narrowly, had caught the momentary gleam of surprise when his look encountered that of the pretty dark-eyed child whose fashionable attire distinguished her from the village urchins among whom she was sitting. "by the way," he began, "why do you call yourself bolland?" "that is my name, sir." "are you john bolland's son?" "no, sir." "then whose son are you?" "i do not know. my father and mother adopted me thirteen years ago." the lawyer gathered by the expression on the stolid faces of the jury that this line of inquiry would be fruitless. "what was the cause of the fight between you and young beckett-smythe?" this was the signal for an interruption from the jury. mr. webster, the foreman, did not wish any slight to be placed on mrs. saumarez. the upshot might be that he would lose a good customer. the squire dealt at the stores. let him protect his own children. but mrs. saumarez needed a champion. "may i ask, sir," he said to the coroner, "what a bit of a row atween youngsters hez te do wi' t' case?" "nothing that i can see," was the answer. "it has a highly important bearing," put in mr. stockwell. "if my information is correct, this witness is the only one whose evidence connects mrs. pickering even remotely with the injuries received by her husband. i assume, of course, that marshall's testimony is not worth a straw. i shall endeavor to elicit facts that may tend to prove the boy's statements unreliable." "i cannot interfere with your discretion, mr. stockwell," was the ruling. "now, answer my question," cried the lawyer. martin's brown eyes flashed back indignantly. "we fought because i wished to take a young lady home, and he tried to prevent me." "a young lady! what young lady?" "i refuse to mention her name. you asked why we fought, and i've told you." "why this squeamishness, my young squire of dames? was it not angèle saumarez?" martin turned to the coroner. "must i reply, sir?" "yes.... i fail still to see the drift of the cross-examination, mr. stockwell." "it will become apparent quickly. yes, or no, bolland?" "yes; it was." "was she committed to your care by her mother?" "no. she came out to see the fair. i promised to look after her." "were you better fitted to protect this child than the two sons of mr. beckett-smythe?" "i thought so." "from what evil influences, then, was it necessary to rescue her?" "that's not a fair way to put it. it was too late for her to be out." "when did you discover this undeniable fact?" "just then." "not when you were taking her through the fair in lordly style?" "no. there was no harm in the shows, and i realized the time only when the clock struck ten." every adult listener nodded approval. the adroit lawyer saw that he was merely strengthening the jury's good opinion of the boy. he must strike hard and unmercifully if he would shake their belief in martin's good faith. "there were several other children there--a boy named bates, another named beadlam, mrs. atkinson's three girls, and others?" "bates was with me. the others were in the yard." "ah, yes; they had left you a few minutes earlier. now, is it not a fact that these children, and you with them, had gone to this hiding-place to escape being caught by your seniors?" "no; it is a lie." "is that your honest belief? do you swear it?" "i shirked nothing. neither did the others. hundreds of people saw us. as for miss saumarez, i think she went there for a lark more than anything else." "a questionable sort of lark. it is amazing to hear of respectable children being out at such an hour. did your parents--did the parents of any of the others realize what was going on?" "i think not. the whole thing was an accident." "but, surely, there must be some adequate explanation of this fight between you and beckett-smythe. it was no mere scuffle, but a severe set-to. he bears even yet the marks of the encounter." master frank was supremely uncomfortable when the united gaze of the court was thus directed to him. his right eye was discolored, as all might see, but his nose was normal. "i have told you the exact truth. i wished her to go home----" "did she wish it?" "she meant to tease me, and said she would remain. frank beckett-smythe and i agreed to fight, and settle whether she should go or stay." "so you ask us to believe that not only did you engage in a bout of fisticuffs in order to convoy to her home a girl already hours too late abroad, but that you alone, of all these children, can give us a correct version of occurrences on the other side of the hedge?" "i don't remember asking you that, sir," said martin seriously, and the court laughed. mr. stockwell betrayed a little heat. "you know well what i mean," he said. "you are a clever boy. are you not depending on your imagination for some of your facts?" "i wish i were, sir," was the sorrowful answer. quite unconsciously, martin looked at betsy. some magnetic influence caused her to raise her eyes for the first time, and each gazed into the soul of the other. mr. stockwell covered his retreat by an assumption of indifference. "fortunately, there is a host of witnesses to be heard in regard to these particular events," he exclaimed, and martin's inquisition ceased. the superintendent whispered something to mr. dane, who rose. "a great deal has been made out of this quarrel about a little girl," he said to the boy. "is it not the fact that you have endeavored consistently to keep her name out of the affair altogether?" "yes." "why?" "because mrs. saumarez is only a visitor here, and her daughter could not know anything of village ways. i was mostly to blame for allowing her to be there at all, so i tried to take it onto my shoulders." it was interesting to note how angèle received this statement. her black eyes became tearful. her hero was rehabilitated. she worshiped him again passionately. someone else had peached. she brushed away the tears and darted a quick look at the squire's eldest son. he was the next witness. he saw george pickering and kitty go down the garden, the man's arm being around kitty's neck. then he fought with martin. afterwards he heard some screaming, but could not tell a word that was said--he was too dazed. "is it not possible the hubbub was too confused that you should gain any intelligible idea of it?" asked mr. stockwell. "yes, that might be so." "you are a bigger boy than young bolland. surely he could not pummel the wits out of you?" "i don't think he will next time. he caught me a stinger by chance." a roar of laughter greeted this candid confession of future intentions. even mr. beckett-smythe and the vicar joined in. "why did you wish to keep this girl, angèle saumarez, away from her residence?" "she's a jolly sort of girl, and i think we were all a bit off our heads," said frank ruefully. "but you had some motive, some design. remember, you fought to retain her." "i wish i hadn't," said the boy, glancing at his father. his most active memory was of a certain painful interview on wednesday night. "_you_ were not groggy on your legs," was mr. stockwell's first remark to ernest. "what did you hear or see beyond the garden hedge?" "there was a lot of yelling, and two women ran toward the hotel. the woman with a knife was threatening to stick it into somebody, but i couldn't tell who." "ah. she was running after the other woman. don't you think she might have been threatening her only?" "it certainly looked like it." "can't you help us by being more definite?" "no. frank was asking for a pump. i was thinking of that more than of the beastly row in the garden." he was dismissed. "angèle saumarez." the strangers present surveyed the girl with expectant interest. she looked a delightfully innocent child. she was attired in the dark dress she wore on the monday evening. her hat, gloves, and shoes were in perfect taste. no personality could be more oddly at variance with a village brawl than this delicate, gossamer, fairy-like little mortal. she gave her evidence without constraint or shyness. her pretty continental accent enhanced the charm of her manners. in no sense forward, she won instant approbation, and the general view was that she had drifted into an unpleasant predicament by sheer force of circumstances. the mere love of fun brought her out to see the fair, and her presence in the stackyard was accounted for by a girlish delight in setting boys at loggerheads. but she helped the police contention by declaring that she heard betsy say: "i'll swing for him." "i remember," she said sweetly, "wondering what she meant. to swing for anybody! that is odd." "might it not have been 'for her' and not 'for him'?" suggested mr. stockwell. "oh, yes," agreed angèle. "i wouldn't be sure about that. they talk queerly, these people. i am certain about the 'swing'." really, there never was a more simple little maid. "you must never again go out at night to such places," remarked the coroner paternally. she cast down her eyes. "mamma was very angry," she simpered. "i have been kept at home for days and days on account of it." she glanced at martin. that explanation was intended for him. as a matter of fact, mr. beckett-smythe called at the elms on thursday morning and told mrs. saumarez that her child needed more control. he had thrashed frank soundly the previous evening for riding off to a rendezvous fixed with angèle for nine o'clock. he whispered this information to mr. herbert, and the vicar's eyes opened wide. the other non-professional witnesses, children and adults, did not advance the inquiry materially. many heard kitty shrieking that her sister had murdered george pickering, but kitty herself had admitted saying so under a misapprehension. p. c. benson raised an important point. the pitchfork was first mentioned about eleven o'clock, when mr. pickering was able to talk coherently, after being laid on a bed and drinking some brandy. neither of the two women had spoken of it. and there were footprints that did not bear out the movements described in the dead man's deposition. "but mr. pickering's first lucid thought referred to this implement?" said mr. stockwell. "neäbody was holdin' him, sir." the policeman imagined the lawyer had said "loosened." "i mean that the first account he ever gave of this accident referred to the pitchfork, and his subsequent statements were to the same effect." "oah, yes. there's no denyin' that." "and you found the fork lying exactly where he described its position?" "why, yes; but he was a desp'rate lang time i' studdyin' t' matter oot afore he's speak." "do you suggest that someone placed the fork there by his instructions?" "noa, sir. most like he'd seen it there hissen." "then why do you refuse to accept his statement that an accident took place?" "because i f'und his footprints where he ran across t' garden te t' spot where he was picked up." "footprints! after a month of fine weather!" "it was soft mold, sir, an' they were plain enough." "were not a dozen men running about this garden at twenty minutes past ten?" "ay--quite that." "and you tell us coolly that you could distinguish those of one man?" "there was on'y one man's track i' that pleäce, sir." benson was not to be flurried. mr. jonas and a police sergeant corroborated his opinion. dr. macgregor followed. he described pickering's wound, the nature of his illness, and the cause of death. the stab itself was not of a fatal character. had it diverged slightly it must have reached the lung. as it was, the poison, not the knife, had done the mischief. the county analyst was scientifically dogmatic. his analyses had been conducted with the utmost care. the knife was contaminated, the pitchfork was only rusty. the latter was a dangerous implement, but in no way responsible for the state of pickering's blood corpuscles. mr. dane, of course, made the most of these witnesses, but mr. stockwell wisely forbore from pressing them, and thus hammering the main items again into the heads of the jury. the coroner glanced at his watch. it was six o'clock. neither of the solicitors was permitted to address the court, and he made up his mind to conclude the inquiry forthwith. "there is one matter which might be cleared up," he said. "where is marshall, the groom?" it was discovered that the man had left the court half an hour ago. he had not returned. p.c. benson was sent to find him. the two came back in five minutes. their arrival was heralded by loud shouts and laughter outside. when they entered the schoolroom marshall presented a ludicrous spectacle. he was dripping wet, and not from rain, for his clothes were covered with slime and mud. it transpired that he had gone to a public house for a pint of beer. several men and youths who could not gain admittance to the court took advantage of the absence of the police and amused themselves by ducking him in a convenient horse pond. the coroner, having expressed his official annoyance at the incident, asked the shivering man if he followed betsy into the garden. no; he saw her go out through the back door. "then the threats you heard were uttered while she was in the passage of the hotel or in the kitchen?" yes; that was so. "it is noteworthy," said the coroner, "that none of the children heard this young woman going toward the couple. she must have run swiftly and silently down the path, and the witnesses were so absorbed in the fight that she passed them unheard and unseen." mr. stockwell frowned. if this gave any indication of the coroner's summing-up, it was not favorable to his client. dr. magnus showed at once that he meant to cast aside all sentimental considerations and adhere solely to the judicial elements. he treated george pickering's deposition with all respect, but pointed out that the dying man might be actuated by the desire to make atonement to the woman he had wronged. the human mind was capable of strange vagaries. a man who would slight, or, at any rate, be indifferent, to one of the opposite sex, when far removed from personal contact, was often swayed by latent ties of affection when brought face to face with the woman herself. in a word, the coroner threw all his weight on the side of the police and against betsy. he regarded fred marshall and young bolland as truthful witnesses, though inspired by different motives, and deemed the medical evidence conclusive. betsy sat sphinx-like through this ordeal. her unhappy parents, and even more unhappy sister, were profoundly distressed, and stockwell watched the jury keenly as each damning point against his client was emphasized. "the law is quite clear in affairs of this kind," concluded dr. magnus gravely. "either this unfortunate man was murdered, in which event your verdict can only take one form, or he met with an accident. most fortunately, the last word does not rest with this court, or it would be impossible to close the inquiry to-day. the deceased himself raised a pertinent question: why did his wife escape blood-poisoning, although he became infected? but the solicitors present apparently concur with me that this is a matter which must be determined elsewhere----" "no, no," broke in mr. stockwell. "i admit nothing of the sort." the coroner bowed. "you have the benefit of my opinion, gentlemen," he said to the jury. "you must retire now and consider your verdict." the jury filed out into a classroom, an unusual proceeding, but highly expedient in an inquiry of such importance. tongues were loosened instantly, and a hum of talk arose, while the witnesses signed their recorded statements. kitty endeavored to arouse her sister from the condition of stupor in which she remained, and the girl's mother placed an arm around her shoulders. but betsy paid little heed. her mind dwelt on one object only--a sheet-covered form, lying cold and inanimate in a room of the neighboring hotel. angèle sidled toward martin when a movement in court permitted. françoise would have restrained her, but the child slid along a bench so quickly that the nurse's protest came too late. "martin," she whispered, "you behaved beautifully. i was so angry with you at first. but it was not you. i know now. evelyn atkinson told." "i wish it had never happened," said the boy bitterly. he hated the notion that his evidence was the strongest link in the chain encircling the hapless betsy. "oh, i don't find it bad, this court. one is all pins and needles at first. but the men are nice." "i am not thinking of ourselves," he growled. "tiens! of whom, then?" "angèle, you're awfully selfish. what have we to endure, compared with poor mrs. pickering?" "oh, pouf! that is her affair. mamma beat me on thursday. beat me, look you! but i made her stop, oh, so quickly. miss walker pretends that mamma was ill. i know better, and so do you. i said if she hit me again----" he caught her wrist. "shut up!" he said in a firm whisper. "don't. you are hurting me. why are you so horrid? do you want me to be beaten?" "no; but how can you dare threaten your mother?" "i would dare anything rather than be kept in the house--away from you." frank beckett-smythe, sitting near his father, was wondering dully why he had been such a fool as to incur severe penalties for the sake of this "silly kid," who was now ogling his rival and whispering coyly in that rival's ear. martin was welcome to her, for all he cared. no girl was worth the uneasiness of the chair he occupied, for his father's hunting-crop had fallen with such emphasis that he felt the bruises yet. the jury returned. they had been absent half an hour. mr. webster was flustered--that was perceptible instantly. he, as foreman, had to deliver the finding. "have you agreed as to your verdict?" said the coroner. "we have." "and it is?" "not guilty!" "what are you talking about? this is not a criminal court. you are asked to determine how george pickering met his death." "i beg pardon," stammered mr. webster. he turned anxiously to his colleagues. some of them prompted him. "i mean," he went on, "that our verdict is 'accidental death.' that's it, sir. 'accidental death,' i should hev said. mr. pickerin's own words----" the coroner frowned. "it is an amazing verdict," he said. "i feel it my bounden duty----" mr. stockwell, pale but determined, sprang to his feet. "do hear me for one moment!" he cried. the coroner did not answer, so the solicitor took advantage of the tacit permission. "i well recognize that the police cannot let the matter rest here," he pleaded. "on your warrant they will arrest my client. such a proceeding is unnecessary. in her present state of health it might be fatal. surely it will suffice if you record your dissent and the inquiry is left to other authorities. i am sure that you, that mr. dane, will forgive the informality of my request. it arises solely from motives of humanity." the coroner shook his head. "i am sorry, mr. stockwell, but i must discharge my duty conscientiously. the verdict is against the weight of evidence, and the ultimate decision rests with me, not with the jury. they have chosen deliberately to ignore my directions, and i have no option but to set aside their finding. i am compelled to issue a warrant charging your client with 'wilful murder.' protests only render the task more painful, and i may point out that, under any circumstances, the date of arrest cannot be long deferred." a howl of vehement indignation came from the packed court. nearly everyone present sympathized with betsy. they accepted george pickering's dying declaration as final; they regarded the coroner's attitude as outrageous. for an instant the situation was threatening. it looked as though the people would wrest the girl from the hands of the police by main force. old mrs. thwaites fainted, kitty screamed dreadful words at the coroner, and the girl's father sprawled across the table with his face in his hands and crying pitifully. mr. beckett-smythe rose, but none would listen. there was a scene of tense excitement. already men were crowding to the center of the room, while an irresistible rush from outside drove a policeman headlong from the door. mr. herbert strove to make himself heard, but an overwrought member of the jury bellowed: "mak' him record oor vardict, parson. what right hez he te go ageän t' opinion o' twelve honest men?" solicitors and reporters gathered their papers hastily, fearing an instant onslaught on the coroner, and someone chanced to step on angèle's foot as she clung in fright to martin. the child squealed loudly; her toes had been squeezed under a heavy boot. françoise, whose broad norman face depicted every sort of bewilderment at the tumult which had sprung up for some cause she in no way understood, rose at the child's cry of anguish, and incontinently flung two pressmen out of her path. she reached angèle and faced the crowd with splendid courage. the voluble harangue she poured forth in french, her uncommon costume, and fierce gesticulations gained her a hearing which would have been denied any other person in the room, save, perhaps, betsy. and betsy was striving to bring her mother back to consciousness, without, however, departing in the least particular from her own attitude of stoic despair. the coroner availed himself of the momentary lull. françoise paused for sheer lack of breath, and dr. magnus made his voice heard far out into the village street. "why all this excitement?" he shouted. "the jury's verdict will be recorded, but you cannot force me to agree with it. the police need not arrest mrs. pickering on my warrant at once. i hope they will not do so. surely, as men of sense, you will not endeavor to defy the law? you are injuring this poor woman's cause by an unseemly turmoil. make way, there, at the door, and allow mrs. pickering to escort her mother to the hotel. you are frightening women and children by your bluster." mr. stockwell joined the superintendent in appealing to the crowd to disperse, and the crisis passed. in a few minutes the members of the thwaites family were safe within the portals of the inn, and the schoolroom was empty of all save a few officials and busy reporters. françoise held fast to angèle, but the girl appealed to martin to accompany her a little way. he yielded, though he turned back before reaching the vicarage. "mother and i are coming to tea to-morrow," she cried as they parted. "all right," he replied. "mind you don't vex her again." "not i. she will want to hear all about the inquest. it was as good as a play. wasn't françoise funny? oh, i do wish you had understood her. she called the men 'sacrés cochons d'anglais!' it is so naughty in english." on the green, and dotted about the roadway, excited groups discussed the lively episode in the schoolroom. they were rancorous against the coroner, and not a few boohed as he entered his carriage with mr. dane. "ay, they'd hang t' poor lass, t' pair of 'em, if they could," shouted a buxom woman. "sheäm on ye!" screamed another. "i'll lay owt ye won't sleep soond i' yer beds te-night." but these vaporings broke no bones, and the coroner drove away, glad enough that so far as he was concerned a distasteful experience had ended. the persistent rain soon cleared loiterers from the center of the village. john bolland came to the farm while martin was eating a belated meal. "a nice deed there was at t' inquest, i hear," he said. "i don't know what's come te elmsdale. it's fair smitten wi' a moral pestilence. one reads o' sike doin's i' foreign lands, but i nivver thowt te see 'em i' this law-abidin' counthry." then martha flared up. "wheä's i' t' fault?" she cried. "can ye bleäm t' folk for lossin' their tempers when a daft crowner cooms here an' puts hissen up ageän t' jury? if he had a bit o' my tongue, i'd teng (sting) him!" so elmsdale declared itself unhesitatingly on betsy's side. a dead man's word carried more weight than all the law in the land. chapter xvi undercurrents undoubtedly the coroner's expedient had prevented a riot in the village. the police deferred execution of the warrant, and mr. stockwell, recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, co-operated with them in making arrangements which would serve to allay public excitement. the dead man was removed unobtrusively to his nottonby residence on sunday evening. accompanying the hearse was a closed carriage in which rode mrs. pickering and kitty. at the door of wetherby lodge, mr. stockwell met the cortège, and when the coffin was installed in the spacious library the solicitor introduced the weeping servants to their temporary mistress, since he and mr. herbert had decided that she ought to reside in the house for a time. such a fact, when it became known, would help to mold public opinion. an elderly housekeeper was minded to greet betsy with bitter words. her young master had been dear to her, and she had not scrupled earlier to denounce in scathing terms the woman who had encompassed his death. but the sight of the wan, white face, the sorrow-laden eyes, the graceful, shrinking figure of the girl-widow, restrained an imminent outburst, and the inevitable reaction carried the housekeeper to the other extreme. "how d'ye do, ma'am," she said brokenly. "'tis a weary homecomin' ye've had. mebbe ye'll be likin' a cup o' tea." betsy murmured that she had no wants, but yorkshire regards food as a panacea for most evils, and the housekeeper bade one of the maids "put a kettle on." so the ice was broken, and mr. stockwell breathed freely again, for he had feared difficulty in this quarter. on monday pickering was buried, and the whole countryside attended the funeral, which was made impressive by the drumming and marching of the dead man's company of territorials. on tuesday morning a special sitting of the county magistrates was held in the local police court. betsy attended with her solicitor, the coroner's warrant was enforced, she was charged by the police with the murder of george pickering, and remanded for a week in custody. the whole affair was carried out so unostentatiously that betsy was in jail before the public knew that she had appeared at the police court. in one short week the unhappy dairymaid had experienced sharp transitions. she had become a wife, a widow. she was raised from the condition of a wage-earner to the status of an independent lady, and taken from a mansion to a prison. bereft of her husband by her own act and separated from friends and relatives by the inexorable decree of the law, she was faced by the uncertain issue of a trial by an impartial judge and a strange jury. surely, the furies were exhausting their spite on one frail creature. on sunday evening mrs. saumarez drove in her car through the rain to tea at the white house. she was alone. her manner was more reserved than usual, though she shook hands with mrs. bolland with a quiet friendliness that more than atoned for the perceptible change in her demeanor. her wonted air of affable condescension had gone. her face held a new seriousness which the other woman was quick to perceive. "i have come to have a little chat with you," she said. "i am going away soon." the farmer's wife thought she understood. "i'm rale sorry te hear that, yer leddyship." "indeed, i regret the necessity myself. but recent events have opened my eyes to the danger of allowing my child to grow up in the untrammeled freedom which i have permitted--encouraged, i may say. it breaks my heart to be stern toward her. i must send her to the south, where there are good schools, where others will fulfil obligations in which i have failed." and, behold! mrs. saumarez choked back a sob. "eh, ma'am," cried the perturbed martha, "there's nowt to greet aboot. t' lass is young eneuf yet, an' she's a bonny bairn, bless her heart. we all hae te part wi' 'em. it'll trouble me sore when martin goes away, but 'twill be for t' lad's good." "you dear woman, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. i have. your fine boy would never dream of rending your soul as angèle has rent mine to-day--all because i wished her to read an instructive book instead of a french novel." "mebbe you were a bit hard wi' her," said the older woman. "to be sure, ye wouldn't be suited by this nasty inquest; but is it wise to change all at once? slow an' sure, ma'am, is better'n fast an' feckless. where is t' little 'un now?" "at home, crying her eyes out because i insisted that she should remain there." "ay, i reckon she'd be wantin' te see martin." "do you think i may have been too severe with her?" "it's not for t' likes o' me to advise a leddy like you, but yon bairn needs to be treated gently, for all t' wulld like a bit o' delicate chiney. noo, when martin was younger, i'd gie him a slap ower t' head, an' he'd grin t' minnit me back was turned. your little gell is different." "in my place, would you go back for her now?" "no, ma'am, i wouldn't. that'd show weak. but i'd mek up for't te-morrow. then she'll think all t' more o' yer kindness." so the regeneration of angèle commenced. was it too late? she was only a child in years. surely there was yet time to mold her character in better shape. mrs. saumarez hoped so. she dried her tears, and, with bolland's appearance, the conversation turned on the lamentable weather. she was surprised to hear that august was often an unsettled month, though this storm was not only belated but almost unprecedented in its severity. mr. herbert went to nottonby early next day. he attended the funeral, heard the will read at wetherby grange in the presence of some disappointed cousins of the dead man, visited betsy to say a few consoling words, and drove back to the vicarage through the unceasing rain. tea awaited him in the drawing-room, but his first glance at elsie alarmed him. her face was flushed, her eyes red. she was a most woebegone little maid. "my dear child," he cried, "what is the matter?" "i want you--to forgive me--first," she stammered brokenly. "forgive you, my darling! forgive you for what?" "i've been--reading the paper." he drew her to his knee. "what crime is there in reading the paper, sweet one?" "i mean that horrid inquest, father dear." "oh!" the smiling wonder left his face. elsie looked up timidly. "i ought to have asked your permission," she said, "but you were away, and auntie has a headache, and miss holland (her governess) has gone on her holidays, and i was so curious to know what all the bother was about." yet he did not answer. hitherto his daughter, his one cherished possession, had been kept sedulously from knowledge of the external world. but she was shooting up, slender and straight, the image of her dead mother. soon she would be a woman, and it was no part of his theory of life that a girl should be plunged into the jungle of adult existence without a reasonable consciousness of its snares and pitfalls. so ideal were the relations of father and daughter that the vicar had deferred the day of enlightenment. it had come sooner than he counted on. elsie was frightened now. her tears ceased and the flush left her cheeks. "are you very angry?" she whispered. he kissed her. "no, darling, not angry, but just a little pained. it was an unpleasing record for your eyes. there, now. give me some tea, and we'll talk about it. you may have formed some mistaken notions. tell me what you thought of it all. in any case, elsie, why were you crying?" "i was so sorry for that poor woman. and why did the coroner believe she killed her husband, when mr. pickering said she had not touched him?" the vicar saw instantly that the girl had missed the more unpleasing phases of the tragedy. he smiled again. "bring me the paper," he said. "i was present at the inquest. perhaps the story is somewhat garbled." she obeyed. he cast a critical glance over the leaded columns, for the weekly newspaper had given practically a verbatim report of the evidence, and there was a vivid description of the scene in the schoolroom, with its dramatic close. "it is by no means certain, from the evidence tendered, that the coroner is right," said mr. herbert slowly. "in these matters, however, the police are compelled to sift all statements thoroughly, and the only legal way is to frame a charge. although mrs. pickering may be tried for murder, it does not follow that she will be convicted." "but," questioned elsie, "martin bolland said he heard her crying out that she had killed mr. pickering?" "he may have misunderstood." "just imagine him fighting with frank, and about angèle saumarez, too." "you may take it from me that martin behaved very well indeed. angèle is a little vixen, a badly behaved, spoilt child, i fear. young beckett-smythe is a booby who encouraged her wilfulness. martin thrashed him. it would have been far better had martin not been there at all; but if he were my son i should still be proud of him." the girl's face brightened visibly. there was manifest relief in her voice. "i am so glad we've had this talk," she cried. "i--like martin, and it did seem so odd that he should have been fighting about angèle." "he knew she ought to be at home, and told her so. frank interfered, and got punched for his pains. it served him right." she helped herself to a large slice of tea-cake. "i don't know why i was so silly as to cry--but--i really did think mrs. pickering was in awful trouble." the vicar laid the paper aside. his innocent-minded daughter had not even given a thought to the vital issues of the affair. he breathed freely, and told her of the funeral. nevertheless, he had failed to fathom the cause of those red eyes. a servant clearing the tea-table bethought her of a note which came for mr. herbert some two hours earlier. she brought it from the study. it was from mrs. saumarez, inviting him and elsie to luncheon next day. "angèle will be delighted," she wrote, "if elsie will remain longer than usual. it is dull for children to be cooped within doors during this miserable weather. i am asking martin bolland to join us for tea." mr. herbert was a kind-hearted man, yet he wished most emphatically that mrs. saumarez had not proffered this request. to make an excuse for his daughter's non-attendance would convey a distinct slight which could only be interpreted in one way, after the publicity given to angèle's appearance at the inquest. he shirked the ordeal. bother angèle! he glanced covertly at elsie. all unconscious of the letter's contents, the girl was looking out ruefully at the leaden sky. there might be no more picnics for weeks. "mrs. saumarez has invited us to luncheon," he said. "when?" she asked unconcernedly. "to-morrow. she wishes you to spend the afternoon with angèle." elsie turned, with quick animation. "i don't care to go," she said. "why not? you know very little about her." "she seems to me--curious." "well, i personally don't regard her as a desirable companion for you. but there is no need to give offense, and it will not hurt you to meet her for an hour or so. your friend martin is coming, too." "oh," she cried, "that makes a great difference." her father laughed. "between you, you will surely manage to keep angèle out of mischief. and, now, my pet, what do you say to an hour with la fontaine, while i attend to some correspondence? where are my pupils?" "they went for a long walk. mr. gregory said they would not be home until dinner-time." next morning, for a wonder, the clouds broke, and an autumn sun strove to cheer the scarred and drowned earth. mrs. saumarez met her guests with the unobtrusive charm of a skilled hostess. angèle, demure and shrinking, extended her hand to elsie with a shy civility that was an exact copy of elsie's own attitude. during luncheon she behaved so charmingly and spoke with such sweet naturalness when any question was addressed to her that mr. herbert found himself steadily recasting his unfavorable opinion. the conversation steered clear of any reference to the inquest. mrs. saumarez was a widely read and traveled woman, and versed in the art of agreeable small talk. once, in referring to angèle, she said smilingly: "i have been somewhat selfish in keeping her with me always. but, now, i have decided that she must go to school. i'll winter in brighton, with that object in view." "will you like that?" said the vicar to the child. "i'll not like leaving mamma; but school, yes. i feel i want to learn a lot. i suppose elsie is, oh, so clever?" she peeped at the other girl under her long eyelashes, and made pretense of being awe-stricken by such eminent scholastic attainments in one of her own age. "elsie has learnt a good deal from books, but you have seen much more of the world. if you work hard, you will soon make up the lost ground." "i'll try. i have been trying--all day yesterday! eh, mamma?" mrs. saumarez sighed. "i ought to have engaged a governess," she said. "i cannot teach. i have no patience." mr. herbert did not know that angèle's educational efforts of the preceding day consisted in a smug decorum that irritated her mother exceedingly. this luncheon party had been devised as a relief from angèle's burlesque. she termed it "jouer le bon enfant." after the meal they strolled into the garden. the storm had played havoc with shrubs and flowers, but the graveled paths were dry, and the lawn was firm, if somewhat damp. mrs. saumarez had caused a fine swing to be erected beneath a spreading oak. it held two cushioned seats, and two propelling ropes were attached to a crossbar. it made swinging a luxury, not an exercise. "by the way," cried mrs. saumarez to the vicar, "do you smoke?" he pleaded guilty to a pipe. "then you can smoke a cigar. françoise packed a box among my belongings--the remnants of some forgotten festivity in the savoy. do try one. if you like it, may i send you the others?" the vicar discovered that the gift would be costly--nearly forty villar y villars, of exquisite flavor. "do you know that you are giving me five pounds?" he laughed. "i never learn the price of these things. i am so glad they are good. you will enjoy them." "it tickles a poor country vicar to hear you talk so easily of lucullian feasts, mrs. saumarez. what must the banquet have been, when the cigars cost a half-crown each!" "oh, i am not hard up. colonel saumarez had only his army pay, but my estates lie near hamburg, and you know how that port has grown of recent years." "do you never reside there?" mrs. saumarez inclined a pink-lined parasol so that its reflected tint mingled with the rush of color which suffused her face. had the worthy vicar given a moment's thought to the matter, he would have known that his companion wished she had bitten her tongue before it wagged so freely. "i prefer english society to german," she answered, after a slight pause. oddly enough, this statement was literally true, but she dared not qualify it by the explanation that an autocratic government exacted heavy terms for permitting her to draw a large revenue from her hamburg property. blissfully unaware of treading on anyone's toes, mr. herbert pursued the theme. "in my spare hours i take an interest in law," he said. "your marriage made you a british subject. does german law raise no difficulty as to alien ownership of land and houses?" "my family, the von edelsteins, have great influence." this time the vicar awoke to the fact that he might be deemed unduly inquisitive. he knew better than to apologize, or even change the subject abruptly. "land tenure is a complex business in old-established countries," he went on. "take this village, for example. you may have noticed how every garth runs up the hillside in a long, narrow strip. ownership of land bordering the moor carries the right of free grazing for a certain number of sheep, so every freeholder contrives to touch the heather at some point." "ah!" said mrs. saumarez, promptly interested, "that explains the peculiar shape of the bolland land at the back of the white house. an admirable couple, are they not? and so medieval in their notions. i attended what they call a 'love feast' the other evening. john bolland introduced me as 'sister saumarez.' when he became wrapped up in the service he reminded me, or, rather, filled my ideal, of a high priest in israel." "was eli todd there?" "the preacher? yes." "he is a fine fellow. given to use a spiritual sledge-hammer, perhaps, but the implements of the lord are many and varied. far be it from me to gainsay the good work done by the dissenting congregations. if there were more chapels, there would be more churches in the land, mrs. saumarez." they had strolled away from the girls, and little did the vicar dream what deeps they had skirted in their talk. angèle led elsie to the swing. "try this," she said. "it's just lovely to feel the air sizzing past your ears." "i have a swing," said elsie, "but not like this one. it is a single rope, with a little crossbar, which i hold in my hands and propel with my feet. it is hard work, i assure you." "grand dieu! so i should think." "oh!" cried elsie, "you shouldn't say that." "vous me faites rire! you speak french?" "yes--a little." "how stupid of me not to guess. i can say what i like before martin bolland. he is a nice boy--martin." "yes," agreed elsie shortly. she blushed. they were in the swing now, and swooping to and fro in long rushes. angèle's black eyes were searching elsie's blue ones. she tittered unpleasantly. "what makes you so red when i speak of martin?" she demanded. "i am not red--that is, i have no reason to be." "you know him well?" "do you mean martin?" "sapristi!--i beg your pardon--who else?" "i--i have only met him twice, to speak to. i have known him by sight for years." "twice? the first time when he killed that thing--the cat. when was the second?" angèle was tugging her rope with greater energy than might be credited to one of her slight frame. the swing was traveling at a great pace. her fierce gaze disquieted elsie, to whom this inquisition was irksome. "let us stop now," she said. "no, no. tell me when next you saw martin. i _must_ know." "but why?" "because he became different in his manner all at once. one day he kissed me----" "oh, you _are_ horrid." "i swear it. he kissed me last wednesday afternoon. i did not see him again until saturday. then he was cold. he saw you after wednesday." by this time elsie's blood was boiling. "yes," she said, and the blue in her eyes held a hard glint. "he saw me on wednesday night. we happened to be standing at our gate. frank beckett-smythe passed on his bicycle. he was chased by a groom--sent home to be horsewhipped--because he was coming to meet you." "o là là!" shrilled angèle. "that was nine o'clock. does papa know?" poor elsie crimsoned to the nape of her neck. she wanted to cry--to slap this tormentor's face. yet she returned angèle's fiery scrutiny with interest. "yes," she said with real heat. "i told him martin came to our house, but i said nothing about frank--and you. it was too disgraceful." she jerked viciously at her rope to counteract the pull given by angèle. the opposing strains snapped the crossbar. both ropes fell, and with them the two pieces of wood. one piece tapped angèle somewhat sharply on the shoulder, and she uttered an involuntary cry. the vicar and mrs. saumarez hurried up, but the swing stopped gradually. obviously, neither of the girls was injured. "you must have been using great force to break that stout bar," said mr. herbert, helping angèle to alight. "yes. elsie and i were pulling against each other. but we had a lovely time, didn't we, elsie?" "i think i enjoyed it even more than you," retorted elsie. the elders attributed her excited demeanor to the accident. "if the ropes were tied to the crossbeam, they would be safer, and almost as effective," said the vicar. "ah! here comes martin. perhaps he can put matters right." "i don't want to swing any more," vowed elsie. "but martin will," laughed angèle. "we can swop partners. that will be jolly, won't it?" blissfully unaware of the thorns awaiting him, the boy advanced. to be candid, he was somewhat awkward in manner. he did not know whether to shake hands all round or simply doff his cap to the entire company. moreover, he noted elsie's presence with mixed feelings, for mrs. saumarez's note had merely invited him to tea. there was no mention of other visitors. he was delighted, yet suspicious. elsie and angèle were flint and steel. there might be sparks. mrs. saumarez rescued him from one horn of the dilemma. she extended a hand and asked if mr. bolland were not pleased that the rain had ceased. "now, martin," said the vicar briskly, "shin up the pole and tie the ropes to the center-piece. these strong-armed giantesses have smashed a chunk of timber as thick as your wrist. don't allow either of them to hit you. they'll pulverize you at a stroke." "i fear it was i who broke it," admitted elsie. "then it is you he must beware of." the vicar, in the midst of this chaff, gave martin a "leg-up" the pole, and repairs were effected. when the swing was in order he slid to the ground. mr. herbert resumed the stroll with mrs. saumarez. there was an awkward pause before martin said: "you girls get in. i'll start you." he spoke collectively, but addressed elsie. he wondered why her air was so distant. "no, thank you," she said. "i've done damage enough already." "martin," murmured angèle, "she is furious because i said you kissed me." this direct attack was a crude blunder. mischievous and utterly unscrupulous though the girl was, she could not measure this boy's real strength of character. the great man is not daunted by great difficulties--he grapples with them; and martin had in him the material of greatness. he felt at once that he must now choose irrevocably between the two girls, with a most unpromising chance of ever again recovering lost ground with one of them. he did not hesitate an instant. "did you say that?" he demanded sternly. "ma foi! isn't it true?" "the truth may be an insult. you had no right to thrust your schemes into elsie's knowledge." "my schemes, you--you pig. i spit at you. isn't it true?" "yes--unfortunately. i shall regret it always." angèle nearly flew at him with her nails. but she contrived to laugh airily. "eh bien, mon cher martin! there will come another time. i shall remember." "there will come no other time. you dared me to it. i was stupid enough to forget--for a moment." "forget what?" "that there was a girl in elmsdale worth fifty of you--an english girl, not a mongrel!" it was a boyish retort, feeble, unfair, but the most cutting thing he could think of. the words were spoken in heat; he would have recalled them at once if that were possible, but angèle seized the opening with glee. "that's you!" she cried, stabbing her rival with a finger. "parbleu! i'm a mixture, half english, half german, but really bad french!" "please don't drag me into your interesting conversation," said elsie with bitter politeness. "i am sorry i said that," put in the boy. "i might have had two friends. now i have lost both." he turned. his intent was to quit the place forthwith. elsie caught his arm with an alarmed cry. "martin," she almost screamed, "look at your left hand. it is covered with blood!" surprised as she, he raised his hand. blood was streaming down the fingers. "it's nothing," he said coolly. "i must have opened a deep cut by climbing the swing." "quelle horreur!" exclaimed angèle. "i hate blood!" "i'm awfully sorry--" began martin. "nonsense! come at once to the kitchen and have it bound up," said elsie. they hurried off together. angèle did not offer to accompany them. martin glanced at elsie through the corner of his eye. her set mouth had relaxed somewhat. anger was yielding to sympathy. "i was fighting another wildcat, so was sure to get scratched," he whispered. "you needn't have kissed it, anyhow," she snapped. "that, certainly, was a mistake," he admitted. she made no reply. once within the house she removed the stained bandage without flinching from the ugly sight of half-healed scars, one of which was bleeding profusely. cold water soon stopped the outflow, and one of the maids procured some strips of linen, with which elsie bound the wound tightly. they had a moment to themselves in recrossing the hall. martin ventured to touch the girl's shoulder. "look here, elsie," he said boldly, "do you forgive me?" something in his voice told her that mere verbal fencing would be useless. "yes," she murmured with a wistful smile. "i'll forgive, but i can't forget--for a long time." on the lawn they encountered mrs. saumarez. learning from angèle why the trio had dispersed so suddenly, she was coming to attend to martin herself. the vicar joined them. "really," he said, "some sort of ill luck is attached to that swing to-day." and then françoise appeared, to tell them that tea was ready. "what curious french she talks," commented the smiling elsie. "yes," cried angèle tartly. "bad french, eh? and i know heaps and heaps of it." she caught mr. herbert's eye, and added an excuse: "i'm going to change all that. people think i'm naughty when i speak like a domestic. and i really don't mean anything wrong." "we all use too much slang," said the tolerant-minded vicar. "it is sheer indolence. we refuse to bother our brains for the right word." chapter xvii two moorland episodes though all hands were needed on the farm in strenuous endeavor to repair the storm's havoc, dr. macgregor forbade martin to work when he examined the reopened cut. thus, the boy was free to guide fritz, the chauffeur, on the morning the man came to look at bolland's herd. fritz bauer--that was the name he gave--had improved his english pronunciation marvelously within a fortnight. he no longer confused "d's" and "t's." he had conquered the sibilant sound of the "s." he was even wrestling with the elusive "th," substituting "d" for "z." "i learnt from a book," he explained, when martin complimented him on his mastery of english. "dat is goot--no, good--but one trains de ear only in de country where de people spik--speak--de language all de time." the sharp-witted boy soon came to the conclusion that his german friend was more interested in the money value of the cattle as pedigreed stock than in the "points"--such as weight, color, bone, level back, and milking qualities--which commended them to the experienced eye. bauer asked where he could obtain a show catalogue, and jotted down the printer's address. when they happened on a team of cleveland bays, however, fritz was thoroughly at home, and gratified his hearer by displaying a horseman's knowledge of a truly superb animal. "dey are light, yet strong," he said, his eyes roving from high-set withers to shapely hocks and clean-cut fetlocks. "each could pull a ton on a bad road--yes?" martin laughed. he was blind to the cynical smile called forth by his amusement. "a ton? two tons. why, one day last winter, when a pair of belgians couldn't move a loaded lorry in the deep snow, my father had the man take out both of 'em, and prince walked away with the lot." "so?" cried the german admiringly. "but you understand horses," went on martin. "yet i've read that men who drive motors don't care for anything else, as a rule." "ah, dat reminds me," said the other. "it is a fine day. come wid me in de machine." "that'll be grand," said martin elatedly. "can you take it out?" "oh, yes. any time i--dat is, i'll ask mrs. saumarez, and she will permit--yes." quarter of an hour later the chauffeur was explaining, in german, that he was going into the country for a long spin, and mrs. saumarez was listening, not consenting. "going alone?" she inquired languidly. "no, madam," he answered. "martin bolland will come with me." "why not take miss angèle?" the man smiled. "i want the boy to talk," he explained. mrs. saumarez nodded. she treated the matter with indifference. not so angèle, who heard the car purring down the drive, and inquired fritz's errand. she was furious when her mother blurted out the news that martin would accompany bauer. "ce cochon d'allemand!" she stormed, her long lashes wet with vexed tears. "he has done that purposely. he knew i wanted to go. but i'll get even with him! see if i don't." "angèle!" and mrs. saumarez reddened with annoyance; "if ever you say a word about such matters to fritz i'll pack you off to school within the hour. i mean it, so believe me." angèle stamped a rebellious foot, but curbed her tongue and vanished. she ran all the way to the village and was just in time to see the mercedes bowling smoothly out of sight, with martin seated beside the chauffeur. she was so angry that she stamped again in rage, and evelyn atkinson came from the inn to inquire the cause. but angèle snubbed her, bought some chocolates from mr. webster, and never offered the other girl a taste. it happened that martin, for his part, had suggested a call at the vicarage. fritz vetoed the motion promptly. "impossible!" he grinned. "i had to dodge de odder one, yes." evidently fritz had kept both eyes and ears open. they headed for the moors. wise martin had counseled a slow speed in the village to allay mrs. bolland's dread of a new-fangled device which she "couldn't abide"; but once on the open road the car breasted a steep hill at a rate which the boy thought neck-breaking. "dat is nodding," said fritz nonchalantly. "twenty--twenty-five. wait till we are on de level. den i show you fifty." within six minutes martin flew past mrs. summersgill's moor-edge farm. never before had he reached that point in less than half an hour. the stout party was in the porch, peeling potatoes for the midday meal. she lifted her hands in astonishment as her young friend sped by. martin waved a greeting. he could almost hear her say: "that lad o' bolland's must ha' gone clean daft. i'm surprised at martha te let him ride i' such a conthraption." on the hedgeless road of the undulating moor, even after the ravages of the gale, fifty miles an hour was practicable for long stretches. fritz was a skilled driver. he seemed to have a sixth sense which warned him of rain-gullies, and slowed up to avoid straining the car. he began explaining the mechanism, and halted on the highest point of a far-flung tableland to lift the bonnet and show the delighted boy the operations of the otto cycle. in those days the self-starter was unknown, but martin found he could start the heated engine without any difficulty. fritz permitted him to drive slowly, and taught him the use of the brakes. finally, this most agreeable teuton produced a packet of sandwiches. he was in no hurry to return. "dese farms," he said, pointing to a low-built house with tiled roof, and a cluster of stables and haymows, "dey do not raise stock, eh? only little sheep?" "they all keep milk-cows, and bring butter to the market, so they often have calves and yearlings," was the ready answer. "and horses?" "always a couple, and a nag for counting the sheep." "how many sheep?" "never less than a hundred. some flocks run to three or four hundred." "ah. where are dey?" martin, proud of his knowledge, indicated the position and approximate distance of the hollows, invisible for the most part, in which lay the larger holdings. "do you understand a map?" inquired fritz. "yes. i love maps. they tell you everything, when you can read them properly." "not everyding," and the man smiled. "some day i want to visit one of dose big farms. can you mark a few?" he spread an ordnance map--a clean sheet--and gave his guide a pencil. soon martin had dotted the paper with accurate information, such as none but one reared in that wild country could have supplied. he was eager to prove his familiarity with a map, and followed each bend and twist of the prehistoric glacier beds, where the lowland becks had their origin. he was not "showing off" before a foreigner. he loved this brown moor and was only too pleased to have found a sympathetic listener. "the heather is losing its color now," he said, pausing for a moment in his task. "you ought to see it early in august, when it is all one mass of purple flowers, with here and there a bunch of golden gorse--'whin,' we call it. our moor is almost free from bog-holes, so you can walk or ride anywhere with safety. i have often thought what a fine place it would be for an army." "wass ist das?" cried fritz sharply. he corrected the slip with a laugh. "an army?" he went on, though his newly acquired accent escaped him. "vot woot an army pe toing here?" "oh, just a camp, you know. we hold maneuvers every year in england." "yez. you coot pud all your leedle army on dis grount. bud dere iss von grade tefecd. dere iss no water. a vell, in eej farm, yez; bud nod enough for a hundret dousand men, und de horses of four divisions." this point of view was novel to the boy. he knit his brows. "i hadn't thought of that," he confessed. "but, wait a bit. there's far more water here than you would imagine. stocks have to be watered, you know. some of the farmers dam the becks. why, in the dickenson place over there," and out went a hand, "they have quite a large reservoir, with trout in it. you'd never guess it existed, if you weren't told." fritz nodded. he had turned against the breeze to shield a match for a cigarette, and his face was hidden. "you surprise me," he murmured, speaking slowly and with care again. "and dere are odders, you say?" "five that i know of. mrs. walker, at the broad ings, rears hundreds of ducks on her pond." fritz took the map and pencil. "you show me," he chuckled. "i write an essay on yorkshire moor farms, and perhaps earn a new suit of clo'es, yes? our cherman magazines print dose tings." * * * * * that same afternoon a party of guns on a scottish moor had been shooting driven grouse flying low and fast over the butts before a strong wind. the sportsmen, five in number, were all experts. around each shelter, with its solitary marksman and his attendant loader, lay a deep crescent of game, every bird shot cleanly. the last drive of the day was the most successful. one man, whose bronzed skin and military bearing told his profession, handed the empty 12-bore to the gillie when the line of beaters came over the crest of the hill, and betook himself, filling his pipe the while, to a group of ponies waiting on the moorland road in the valley beneath. he joined another, the earliest arrival. "capital ground, this," he said. "i don't know whose lot is the more enviable, heronsdale--yours, who have the pains as well as the pleasure of ownership, or that of wandering vagabonds like myself whom you make your guests." lord heronsdale smiled. "you may call yourself a wandering vagabond, grant--the envy rests with me," he said. "it's all very well to have large estates, but i feel like degenerating into a sort of head gamekeeper and farm bailiff combined. of course, i'm proud of cairn-corrie, yet i pine sometimes for the excitement of a life that does not travel in grooves." the other shook his head. "don't tempt fate," he said. "my life has been spent among the outer beasts. it isn't worth it. for a few years of a man's youth, yes--perhaps. but i am forty, and i live in a club. there, you have my career in a nutshell." "there is a fine kernel within. by gad! grant, why don't you pretend i meant that pun? i didn't, but i'll claim it at dinner. gad, it's fine!" colonel grant laughed. his mirth had a pleasant, wholesome ring. "if you bribe me with as good a berth to-morrow," he said, "i'll give you the chance of throwing it off spontaneously during the first lull in the conversation. the best impromptus are always prepared beforehand, you know." others came up. the shooters mounted, and the wise ponies picked their way with cautious celerity over an uneven track. colonel grant again found himself riding beside his host. "tell you what," said lord heronsdale suddenly, "you're a bit of an enigma, grant." "i have often been told that." "gad, i don't doubt it. a chap like you, with five thousand a year, to chuck the guards for the indian staff corps, exchange town for the northwest frontier, go in for potting afghans instead of running a drag to sandown; and, to crown all, remain a bachelor. i don't understand it." "yet, ten minutes ago you were growling about the monotony of existence at cairn-corrie and half a dozen other places." "not even a _tu quoque_ like that explains the mystery." "some day i'll tell you all about it. when the time comes i must ask lady heronsdale to find me a nice wife, with a warranty." "gad, that's the job for mollie. _she'll_ put the future mrs. grant through her paces. you're not flying off to india again, then?" "no. i heard last week that a post is to be found for me in the intelligence department." "capital! you'll soon have a k. before the c. b." "possibly. some fellows wear themselves to the bone in trying for those things. my scheming for years has been to avoid the humdrum of cantonment life. and, behold! i am spotted for promotion. i don't know how the deuce they ever heard of me in pall mall." "gad! don't you read the papers?" "never." "my dear fellow, they were full of you last year. that march through the snow, pulling those guns through the pass, the final relief of the fort--gad, molly has the cuttings. she'll show 'em to you after dinner." "i sincerely hope lady heronsdale will do no such thing. why on earth does she keep such screeds?" his lordship dropped his bantering air. "do you really imagine, grant," he said seriously, "that either she or i will ever forget what you did for arthur at peshawar?" the other man reddened. "a mere schoolboy episode," he growled. "yes, in a sense. yet arthur told me that he had a revolver in his pocket when you met him that night at the mess and persuaded him to leave the business in your hands. you saved our boy, grant. gad, ask mollie what she thinks!" "has he been steady since?" "a rock, my dear chap--adamant where women are concerned. his mother is beginning to worry about him; he wouldn't look at helen forbes, and madge bolingbrooke does her skirt-dances in vain. both deuced nice girls, too." colonel grant had navigated the talk into a safe channel, and kept it there. he never spoke of the past. at dinner a man asked him if he was reading the elmsdale sensation. he had not even heard of it, so the tale of betsy and george pickering, of martin bolland and angèle saumarez was poured into his ears. "i am interested," said his neighbor, "because i knew poor pickering. he hunted regularly with the york and ainsty." "saumarez!" murmured colonel grant. "i once met a man of that name. he was shot on the modder river." "this girl may be his daughter. the paper describes her mother as a lady of independent means, visiting the moors for her health." "poor saumarez! from what i remember of his character, the child must be a chip of the same block--he was an irresponsible daredevil, a terror among women. but he died gallantly." "there's a lot about her in the local paper, which reached me this morning. would you care to see it?" "newspapers are so inaccurate. they never know the facts." yet the colonel, not caring to play bridge, asked later for the loan of the journal named by his informant, and read therein the story of the village tragedy. as fate willed it, the writer was the reporter of the _messenger_, and his account was replete with local knowledge. yes, mrs. saumarez was the widow of colonel saumarez, late of the hussars. but--what was this? "martin court bolland, a bright-faced boy, of an intelligence far greater than one looks for in rustic youth, has himself a somewhat romantic history. he is the adopted son of the sturdy yeoman whose name he bears. mr. and mrs. bolland were called to london thirteen years ago to attend the funeral of the farmer's brother. one evening while seeing the sights of the great metropolis they found themselves in ludgate hill. they were passing the end of st. martin's court, when a young woman named martineau----" the colonel laid aside his cigar and twisted his body sideways, so that the light of the billiard-room lamps should fall clearly on the paper yet leave his face in the shade. "--a young woman named martineau threw herself, with a baby in her arms, from the fourth story of a house in the court, and was killed by the fall. the baby's frock was caught by a projecting sign, and the child hung perilously in air. john bolland, whose strong, stern face reveals a character difficult to surprise, impossible to daunt, jumped forward and caught the tiny mite as it dropped a second time. mrs. bolland still treasures a letter written by the infant's unhappy mother, and prizes to the utmost the fine boy whom she and her husband adopted from that hour. the old couple are childless, though with martin calling them 'father' and 'mother,' they would scoff at the statement. this, then, is the well-knit, fearless youngster who fought the squire's son on that eventful night, and whose evidence is of the utmost importance in the police theory of crime, as opposed to accident." colonel grant went steadily through the neat sentences on which the _messenger_ correspondent prided himself. he was a man of bronze; he showed no more emotion than a statue, though the facts staring from the printed page might well have produced external signs of the tempest which sprang into instant being in his soul. he read each line of descriptive matter and report. for the sorrows of betsy, the final daring of george pickering, he had no eyes. it was the boy he sought in the living record: the boy who fought young beckett-smythe to rescue the thoughtless child--for so angèle figured in the text; the boy who repudiated with scorn the solicitor's suggestion that he formed part and parcel of the crowd of urchins gathered in the hotel yard; the farmer's adopted son, who spoke so fearlessly and bore himself so well that the newspaper noted his intelligence, his bright looks. at last colonel grant laid down the sheet and lighted a fresh cigar. he smoked for a few minutes, watching the pool players, and declining an invitation to join in the game. he seemed to be planning some line of action; soon he went to the library and unrolled a large scale map of england. he found nottonby--elmsdale was too small a place to be denoted--and, after consulting a railway timetable, wrote a long telegram. these things accomplished, he seized an opportunity to tell lord heronsdale that business of the utmost importance would take him away by the first train next morning. of course, his host was voluble in protestations, so the soldier explained matters. "you asked me to-day," he said, "why i turned my back on town thirteen years ago. i meant telling you at a more convenient season. will it suffice now to say that a kindred reason tears me away from your moor?" "gad, i hope there is nothing wrong. can i help?" "yes; by letting me go. you will be here until october. may i return?" "my dear grant----" so they settled it that way. about three o'clock on the second day after the colonel's departure from cairn-corrie he and an elderly man of unmistakably legal appearance walked from elmsdale station to the village. the station master, forewarned, had procured a dogcart from the "black lion," but the visitors preferred dispatching their portmanteaux in the vehicle, and they followed on foot. thus it happened--as odd things do happen in life--that the two men met a boy walking rapidly from the village, and some trick of expression in his face caused the colonel to halt him with a question: "can you tell me where the 'black lion' inn is?" "yes, sir. on the left, just beyond the bend in the road." "and the white house farm?" the village youth looked at the speaker with interest. "on the right, sir; after you cross the green." "ah!" the two men stood and stared at martin, who was dressed in a neat blue serge suit, obtained by post from york, the wildcat having ruined its predecessor. the older man, who reminded the boy of mr. stockwell, owing to the searching clearness of his gaze, said not a word; but the tall, sparsely-built soldier continued--for martin civilly awaited his pleasure-"is your name, by any chance, martin court bolland?" the boy smiled. "it is, sir," he said. "are you--can you--that is, if you are not busy, you might show us the inn--and the farm?" the gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking, and his eyes dwelt on martin with a queer look in them: but the answer came instantly: "i'm sorry, sir; but i am going to the vicarage to tea, and you cannot possibly miss either place. the inn has a signpost by the side of the road, and the white house stands by itself on a small bank about a hundred and fifty yards farther down the village." the older gentleman broke in: "that will be our best course, colonel. we can easily find our way--alone." the hint in the words was intended for the ears that understood. colonel grant nodded, yet was loath to go. "is the vicar a friend of yours?" he said to martin. "yes, sir. i like him very much." "does a mrs. saumarez live here?" "oh, yes. she is at the vicarage now, i expect." "indeed. you might tell her you met a colonel grant, who knew her husband in south africa. you will not forget the name, eh--grant?" "of course not, sir." martin surveyed the stranger with redoubled attention. a live colonel is a rare sight in a secluded village. the man, seizing any pretext to prolong the conversation, drew out a pocketbook. "here is my card," he said. "you need not give it to mrs. saumarez. she will probably recognize my name." the boy glanced at the pasteboard. it read: lieut.-col. reginald grant, "indian staff corps." now, it chanced that among martin's most valued belongings was a certain monthly publication entitled "recent british battles," and he had read that identical name in the july number. as was his way, he remembered exactly the heroic deeds with which a gallant officer was credited, so he asked somewhat shyly: "are you colonel grant of aliwal, sir?" he pronounced the indian word wrongly, with a short "a" instead of a long one, but never did misplaced accent convey sweeter sound to man's ears. the soldier was positively startled. "my dear boy," he cried, "how can you possibly know me?" "everyone knows your name, sir. no fear of me forgetting it now." the honest admiration in those brown eyes was a new form of flattery; for the first time in his life colonel grant hungered for more. "you have astonished me more than i can tell," he said. "what have you read of the aliwal campaign? all right, dobson. we are in no hurry." this to his companion, who ventured on a mild remonstrance. "i have a book, sir, which tells you all about aliwal"--this time martin pronounced the word correctly; no wonder the newspaper commented on his intelligence--"and it has pictures, too. there is a grand picture of you, riding through the gate of the fort, sword in hand. do you mind me saying, sir, that i am very pleased to have met you?" the man averted his eyes. he dared not look at martin. he made pretense to bite the end off a cigar. he was compelled to do something to keep his lips from trembling. "i hope we shall meet often again, martin," he said slowly. "i'll tell you more than the book does, though i have not read it. run off to your friends at the vicarage. good-by!" he held out his hand, which the boy shook diffidently. there was no doubt whatever in martin's mind that colonel grant was an extraordinarily nice gentleman. "my god, dobson!" cried the soldier, turning again to look after the alert figure of the boy; "i have seen him, spoken to him--my own son! i would know him among a million." "he certainly bears a marked resemblance to your own photograph at the same age," admitted the cautious solicitor. "and what a fine youngster! by jove, did you twig the way he caught on to the pronunciation of aliwal? bless that book! it shall be bound in the rarest leather, though i never rode through that gate--i ran, for dear life! i--i tell you what, dobson, i'd sooner do it now than face these people, the bollands, and explain my errand. i suppose they worship him." "the position differs from my expectations," said the solicitor. "the boy does not talk like a farmer's son. and he is going to tea at the vicarage with a lady of good social position. can the bollands be of higher grade than we are led to believe?" "the newspaper is my only authority. ah, here is the 'black lion.'" mrs. atkinson bustled forward to assure the gentlemen that she could accommodate them. colonel grant was allotted the room in which george pickering died! it was the best in the hotel. he glanced for a moment through the window and took in the scene of the tragedy. "that must be where the two young imps fought," he murmured, with a smile, as he looked into the yard. "gad! as heronsdale says, i'd like to have seen the battle. and my boy whipped the other chap, who was bigger and older, the paper said." soon the two men were climbing the slight acclivity on which stood the white house. the door stood hospitably open, as was ever the case about tea-time in fine weather. in the front kitchen was martha, alone. the colonel advanced. "is mr. bolland at home?" he asked, raising his hat. "noa, sir; he isn't. but he's on'y i' t' cow-byre. if it's owt important----" he followed her meaning sufficiently. "will you oblige me by sending for him? and--er--is mrs. bolland here?" "i'm mrs. bolland, sir." "oh, i beg your pardon. of course, i did not know you." he thought he would find a much younger woman. martha, in the close-fitting sunbonnet, with its wide flaps, her sleeves rolled up, and her outer skirt pinned behind to keep it clear of the dirt during unceasing visits to dairy and hen-roosts, looked even older than she was, her real age being fifty-five. "will you kindly be seated, gentlemen?" she said. she was sure they were county folk come about the stock. her husband's growing reputation as a breeder of prize cattle brought such visitors occasionally. she wondered why the taller stranger asked for her, but he said no more, taking a chair in silence. she dispatched a maid to summon the master. "hev ye coom far?" she asked bluntly. colonel grant looked around. his eyes were searching the roomy kitchen for tokens of its occupants' ways. "we traveled from darlington to elmsdale," he said, "and walked here from the station." "my goodness, ye'll be fair famished. hev summat te eat. there's plenty o' tea an' cakes; an' if ye'd fancy some ham an' eggs----" "pray do not trouble, mrs. bolland," said the colonel when he had grasped the full extent of the invitation. "we wish to have a brief talk with you and your husband. afterwards, if you ask us, we shall be most pleased to accept your hospitality." he spoke so genially, with such utter absence of affectation, that martha rather liked him. yet, what could she have to do with the business in hand? anyhow, here came john, crossing the road with heavy strides. the farmer paused just within the threshold. his huge frame filled the doorway. he wore spectacles for reading only, and his deep-sunken eyes rested steadily, first on colonel grant, then on the solicitor. then they went back to the colonel and did not leave him again. "good day, gentlemen," he said. "what can i deä for ye?" the man who stormed forts on horseback--in pictures--quailed at the task before him. he nodded to the solicitor. "dobson," he said, "you know all the circumstances. oblige me by stating them fully." the solicitor, who seemed to expect this request, produced a bulky packet of papers and photographs. he prefaced his explanation by giving his companion's name and rank, and introduced himself as a member of the firm of dobson, son and smith, solicitors, of lincoln's inn fields. "fifteen years ago," he went on, "colonel grant was a subaltern, a junior officer, in the guards, stationed in london. a slight accident one day outside a railway station led him to make the acquaintance of a young lady. she was hurrying to catch a train, when she was knocked down by a frightened horse, and might have been injured seriously were it not for lieutenant grant's prompt assistance. he escorted her to her lodgings, and discovered that she was what is known in london as a daily governess--in other words, a poor, well-educated woman striving to earn a respectable living. the horse had trampled on her foot, and she required proper attention and rest; a brief interview with her landlady enabled mr. grant to make the requisite arrangements, unknown to the young lady herself. he called a week later and found that she was quite recovered. she was a very beautiful girl, of a lively disposition, only twenty years of age, and working hard in her spare time to perfect herself as a musician. she had no idea of the social rank of her new friend, or perhaps matters might have turned out differently. as it was, they met frequently, became engaged, and were married. i have here a copy of the marriage certificate." he selected a long, narrow strip of blue paper from the documents he had placed before him on the kitchen table. he opened it and offered it to bolland, as though he wished the farmer to examine it. john did not move. he was still looking intently at colonel grant. martha, all a-flutter, with an indefinite anxiety wrinkling the corners of her eyes, said quickly: "what might t' young leddy's neäm be, sir?" "margaret ingram. she was of a gloucestershire family, but her parents were dead, and she had no near relatives." martha cried, somewhat tartly: "an' what hez all this te deä wi' us, sir?" "let be, wife. bide i' patience. t' gentleman will tell us, neä doot." john's voice was hard, almost dissonant. the solicitor gave him a rapid glance. that harsh tone boded ill for the smooth accomplishment of his mission. martha wondered why her husband gazed so fixedly at the other man who spoke not. but she toyed nervously with her apron and held her peace. mr. dobson resumed: "the young couple could not start housekeeping openly. lieutenant grant depended solely on the allowance made to him by his father, whose ideas of family pride were so extreme that such a marriage must unquestionably have led to a rupture. moreover, a campaign in northern india was then threatening. it broke out exactly a year and two months after the marriage. mr. grant's regiment was ordered to the front, and when he sailed from southampton he left his young wife and an infant, a boy, four months old, installed in a comfortable flat in clarges street, piccadilly. it is important that the exact position of family affairs at this moment should be realized. general grant, father of the young officer, had suffered from an apopletic stroke soon after his son's marriage, and to acquaint him with it now meant risking his life. young grant's action was known to and approved by several trustworthy friends. he and his wife were very happy, and mrs. grant was correspondingly depressed when the exigencies of the national service took her husband away from her. the parting between the young couple was a bitter trial, rendered all the more heartrending by reason of the concealment they had practiced. however, as matters had been allowed to drift thus far, no one will pretend that there was any special need to worry general grant at the moment of his son's departure for a campaign. lieutenant grant hoped to return with a step in rank. then, whatever the consequences, there must be a full explanation. he had not a great deal of money, but sufficient for his wife's needs. he left her two hundred pounds in notes and gold, and his bankers were empowered to pay her fifty pounds monthly. his own allowance from general grant was seventy-five pounds a month, and it was with great difficulty that he maintained his position in such an expensive regiment as the guards. the campaign eased the pressure, or he could not have kept it up for long." "are all these details quite necessary, dobson?" said the colonel, for the steady glare of the farmer, the growing pallor of poor martha, around whose heart an icy hand was taking sure grip, were exceedingly irksome. "they are if i am to do you justice," replied the lawyer. "never mind me. tell them of margaret--and the boy." "i will pass over the verification of my statement," went on mr. dobson, bending over the folded papers. "seven months passed. mrs. grant expected soon to be delivered of another child. she heard regularly from her husband. his regiment was in the khyber pass, when one evening she was robbed of her small store of jewelry and a considerable sum of money by a trusted servant. the theft was reported in the papers, and general grant read of his son's wife being a resident in clarges street. he went to the flat next day, saw the poor girl, behaved in a way that can only be ascribed to the folly of an old man broken by disease, and cut off supplies at once. within a week mrs. grant found herself in poverty, and her husband at least a month's post distant. she did not lose her wits. she sold her furniture and raised money enough to support herself and her baby boy for some time. of course, she was very much distressed, as general grant wrote to her, called her an adventuress, and stated that he had disinherited his son on her account. this was only partly true. he tore up one will, but made no other, and forgot that there was a second copy in possession of my firm. mrs. grant then did a foolish thing. she concealed her troubles from her husband's friends, who would have helped her. she took cheap lodgings in another part of london, and changed her name. this seems to be accounted for by the fact that general grant, in his insane suspicions, set private detectives to watch her. moreover, the bankers wrote her a curt letter which added to her miseries. she rented rooms in st. martin's court, ludgate hill, and gave her name as mrs. martineau." martha sprang at the solicitor with an eerie screech: "hev ye coom to steal oor bairn, the bonny lad we've reared i' infancy an' childhood? leave this house! john--husband--will ye let 'em drive me mad?" john took her in his arms. "martha," he said, with a break in his voice that shook his hearers and stilled his wife's cries; "dinnat mak' oor burthen harder te bear. a man's heart deviseth his way, but the lord directeth his steps!" servants, men and women, came running at their mistress's scream of terror. they stood, abashed, in the kitchen passage. none paid heed to them. colonel grant rose and approached the trembling woman cowering at her husband's side. her old eyes were streaming now; she gazed at him with the pitiful anguish of a stricken animal. he took her wrinkled hand and bent low before her. "madam," he said, "god forbid that my son should lose his mother a second time!" he could say no other word. even in her agony, martha felt hot tears falling on her bare arm, and they were not her own. "eh, but it's a sad errand ye're on," she sobbed. "wife, wife!" cried john huskily, "if thou faint in the day of adversity thy strength is small. colonel grant is a true man. it's in his feäce. he weän't rive martin frae yer arms, an' no man can tak' him frae yer heart." colonel grant drew himself up. he caught bolland's shoulder. "bear with me," he said. "i have suffered much. i lost my wife and two children, one unborn. they were torn from me as though by a destroying tempest. one is given back, after thirteen long years of mourning. can you not spare me a place in his affections?" "ay, ay," growled john. "we're nobbut owd folk at t' best, an' t' lad was leavin' oor roof for school in a little while. we can sattle things like sensible people, if on'y martha here will gie ower greetin'. it troubles me sair to hear her lamentin'. we've had no sike deed i' thirty-fower years o' married life." the man was covering his own distress by solicitude in his wife's behalf. she knew it. she wiped her eyes defiantly with her apron and made pretense to smile, though she had received a shock she would remember to her dying day. some outlet was necessary for her surcharged feelings. she whisked around on the crowd of amazed domestics, dairymaids and farmhands, pressing on each other's heels in the passage. "what are ye gapin' at?" she cried shrilly. "is there nowt te deä? if tea's overed, git on wi' yer work, an' be sharp aboot it, or i'll side ye quick!" the stampede that followed relieved the situation. the servants faded away under her fiery glance. colonel grant smiled. "i am glad to see," he said, "that you maintain discipline in your regiment." "they're all ears an' neä brains," she said. "my, but i'm that upset i hardly ken what i'm sayin'. mebbe ye'll finish yer tale, sir. i'm grieved i med sike a dash at ye, but i couldn't bide----" "there, there," said john, with his gruff soothing, "sit ye doon an' listen quietly. i guessed their business t' first minnit i set eyes on t' colonel. why, martha, look at him. he hez martin's eyes and martin's mouth. noo, ye'd hev dark-brown hair, i reckon, when ye were a lad, sir?" for answer, colonel grant stooped to the lawyer's papers and took from them a framed miniature. "that is my portrait at the age of twelve," he said, placing it before them. "eh, but that caps owt!" cried martha. "it's martin hissel! oh, my honey, how little did i think what was coomin' when i set yer shirt an' collar ready, an' med ye tidy te gan te tea wi' t' fine folk at t' vicarage. an' noo ye're a better bred 'un than ony of 'em. the lord love ye! here ye are, smilin' at me. they may mak' ye a colonel or a gin'ral, for owt i care: ye'll nivver forgit yer poor old muther, will ye, my bairn!" she kissed the miniature as if it were martin's own presentment. the men left her to sob again in silence. soon she calmed herself sufficiently to ask: "but why i' t' wulld did that poor lass throw herself an' her little 'un inte t' street?" mr. dobson took up his story once more: "she explained her action in a pathetic letter to her husband. she was ill, lonely, and poverty-stricken. she brooded for days on general grant's cruel words and still more cruel letter. they led her to believe that she was the unwitting cause of her husband's ruin. she resolved to free him absolutely and at the same time preserve his name from notoriety. therefore she wrote him a full account of her change of name, and told him that her children would die with her." "that was a mad thing te deä." "exactly. the doctor who knew her best told her husband six months later that mrs. grant was, in his opinion, suffering from an unrecognized attack of puerperal fever. it was latent in her system, and developed with the trouble so suddenly brought upon her." "yon was a wicked owd man----" "the general was called to account by a higher power. mrs. grant wrote him also a statement of her intentions. next morning he read of her death, and a second attack of apoplexy proved fatal. her letter did not reach her husband until after a battle in which he was wounded. he cabled to us, and we made every inquiry, but it was remarkable how chance baffled our efforts. in the first instance, the policeman whom you encountered in ludgate hill and who knew you had adopted the child, had left the force and emigrated, owing to some unfortunate love affair. in the second, several newspapers reported the child as dead, though the records of the inquest soon corrected that error. thirdly, someone named bolland died in the hotel where you stayed and was buried at highgate----" "my brother," put in john. "yes; we know now. but conceive the barrier thus placed in our path when the dates of the two events were compared long afterwards." the farmer looked puzzled. the solicitor went on: "of course, you wonder why there should have been any delay, but the coroner's notes were lost in a fire. nevertheless, we advertised in dozens of newspapers." "we hardly ever see a paper, sir," said martha. "yet, the wonder is that some of your friends did not see it and tell you. finally, a sharp-witted clerk of ours solved the highgate cemetery mystery, and the advertisements were repeated. colonel grant was back in india by that time trying hard to leave his bones there, by all accounts, and perhaps we did not spend as much money on this second quest as if he were at home to authorize the expenditure." "when was that, sir--t' second lot o' advertisements, i mean?" asked john. "quite a year after mrs. grant's death." bolland stroked his chin thoughtfully. "i remember," he said, "a man at malton fair sayin' summat aboot an inquiry for me. but yan o' t' hands rode twenty miles across counthry te tell me that martin had gotten t' measles, an' i kem yam that neet." "naturally, i can give you every proof of my statements," said mr. dobson. "they are all here----" "mebbe ye'll know this writin'," interrupted martha, laying down the miniature for the first time. she unlocked a drawer, took out a small tin box, and from its depths produced, among other articles, a crumbling sheet of note paper. on it was written: "my name is not martineau. i have killed myself and my boy. if he dies with his unhappy mother he will never know the miseries of this life." it was unsigned, undated, a hurried scrawl in faded ink. "margaret's handwriting," said colonel grant, looking at the pathetic message with sorrow-laden eyes. "it was found on t' poor leddy's dressin'-table, fastened wi' a hatpin. an' these are t' clothes martin wore when he fell into john's arms. nay, sir," she added, as colonel grant began examining the little frock, "she took good care, poor thing, that neäbody should find oot wheä she was. ivvery mark hez bin picked off." "martin is his feyther's son, or i ken nowt aboot stock," cried john bolland, making a fine effort to dispel the depression which again possessed the little gathering at sight of these mournful mementoes of the dead past. "coom, gentlemen, sit ye doon an' hev some tea. ye'll not be for takkin' martin away by t' next train. martha, what's t' matter wi' ye? i've nivver known folk be so lang i' t' hoose afore an' not be asked if they had a mooth." "ye're on t' wrang gait this time, john," she retorted. "i axed 'em afore ye kem in. by this time, sure-ly, ye'll be wantin' soom ham an' eggs?" she added to the visitors. "by jove! i believe i could eat some," laughed the colonel. martha smiled once more. she liked martin's father. each moment the first favorable impression was deepening. she was on the point of bustling away to the back kitchen, when they all heard the patter of feet, in desperate haste, approaching the front door. elsie herbert dashed in. she was hatless. her long brown hair was floating in confusion over her shoulders and down her back. she was crying in great gulps and gasping for breath. "oh, mr. bolland!" she wailed. "oh, mrs. bolland!--what shall i say? martin is hurt. he fell off the swing. angèle did it! i'll kill her! i'll tear her face with my hands! oh, come, someone, and help father. he is trying to bring back martin's senses. what shall i do?--it was all on my account. oh, dear! oh, dear!" and she sank fainting to the floor. chapter xviii the seven full years but martin was not dead, nor even seriously injured. at first, the affair looked so ugly--its main features were so incomprehensible--that mr. herbert was startled into somewhat panic-stricken action. here was martin lying unconscious on the ground, with elsie kneeling by his side, passionately beseeching him in one breath to speak to her, and in the next accusing angèle saumarez of murder. the vicar was not blameworthy, in that he failed to grasp either the nature of the accusation or its seeming unreasonableness. the single rope of the gymnastic swing erected in the garden for elsie's benefit had been cut deliberately with a sharp knife a few inches above the small bar on which the user's weight was supported by both hands. of the cutting there could be no manner of doubt. the jagged edges of the few strands left by a devilish ingenuity--so that the swing must need be in violent motion before the rope snapped--were clearly visible at the point of severance. but who had done this thing, and with what deadly object in view? and why did elsie pitch on angèle saumarez so readily, glaring at her with such eyes of vengeance that the vicar was constrained to order, with the utmost sternness of which he was capable, that the torrent of words should cease. indeed, he dispatched her to acquaint the bollands with tidings of the disaster as a haphazard pretext to get her out of the way. apart from sensing the accident's inexplicable motive, its history was simple enough. before tea was served, martin and elsie were using the swing alternately, vying with each other in the effort to touch with their toes the leaves of a tree nearly twenty feet distant from the vertical line of the rope. angèle, of course, took no part in this contest; she contented herself with a sarcastic incredulity when elsie vowed that she had accomplished the feat twice already. martin, stronger, but less skilled in the trick of the swing than the girl, strove hard to excel her. yet he, too, fell short by a few inches time after time. at last, elsie vowed that when she was rested after tea she would prove her words, and threw a pebble at the branch which she claimed to have reached a week ago. neither mrs. saumarez nor the vicar attached any weight to the somewhat emphatic argument between the two girls. it was a splendid contest between martin and elsie. it interested the elders for conflicting reasons. to see the graceful girl propelling herself through the air in a curve of nearly forty feet at each pendulum stroke of the swing was a pleasing sight to her father, but it caused mrs. saumarez to regret again that her daughter had not been taught to think more of athletic exercises and less of dress. while the young people were following their seniors to the drawing-room, angèle said to elsie: "i think i could do that myself with a little practice." "you are not tall enough," was the uncompromising answer, for elsie's temper was ruffled by the simpering unbelief with which the other treated her assurances. "not so tall, no; but i can bend back like this, and you cannot." without a second's hesitation angèle twisted her head and shoulders around until her chin was in a line with her heels. then she dropped lightly so that her hands rested on the grass of the lawn, straightening herself with equal ease. the contortion was performed so quickly that neither mr. herbert nor mrs. saumarez was aware of it. it was a display not suited to the conditions of ordinary costume, and it necessarily exhibited portions of the attire not usually in evidence. martin had eyes only for the girl's acrobatic agility, but elsie blushed. "i don't like that," she said. "i can stand on my head and walk on my hands," cried angèle instantly. "martin, some day i'll show you." conscious though she was that these things were said to annoy her, elsie remembered that angèle was a guest. "how did you learn?" she asked. "were you taught in school?" "school! me! i have never been to school. education is the curse of children's lives. i never leave mamma. one day in nice i saw a circus girl doing tricks of that sort. i practiced in my bedroom." "does your mother wish that?" "she doesn't know." "i wonder you haven't broken your neck," said the practical martin, who felt his bones creaking at the mere notion of such twisting. angèle laughed. "it is quite easy, when you are slim and elegant." her vanity amused the boy. "you speak as though elsie were as stiff as a board," he said. "if you had watched her carefully, angèle, you would have seen that she is quite as supple as you, only in a different way. and she is strong, too. i dare say she could swing with one hand and carry you in the other, if she had a mind to try." this ready advocacy of a new-found divinity angered angèle beyond measure. possibly she meant no greater harm than the disconcerting of a rival; but she slipped out of the room when mr. herbert sent elsie to the library to bring a portfolio of old prints which he wished to show mrs. saumarez. although it was never definitely proved against angèle, someone tampered with the rope before a move was made to the garden after tea. the cause, the effect, were equally clear; the human agent remained unknown. "now, i'll prove my words," cried elsie, darting across the lawn in front of the others. "here, it's my turn," shouted the boy gleefully. "i'll race you." "martin! martin! i want you!" shrieked angèle, running after him. he paid no heed to her cries. outstripping both girls in the race, he sprang at the swing, and was carried almost to the debated limit of the tree by the impetus of the rush. when he felt himself stopping he threw up his feet in a wild effort to touch the leaves so tantalizingly out of reach, and in that instant the rope broke. he turned completely over and fell with a heavy thud on the back of his bent head. the screaming of the girls brought the vicar from his prints in great alarm, and his agitation increased when he discovered that the boy could neither move nor speak. elsie was halfway to the white house before martin regained his breath. once vitality returned, however, he was quickly on his feet again. "what happened?" he asked, craning his head awkwardly. "i thought someone fired a gun!" "you frightened us nearly out of our wits," cried the vicar. "and i was stupid enough to send elsie flying to your people. goodness knows what she will have said to them!" promptly the boy shook himself and tried to break into a run. "i must--follow her," he gasped. but not yet was the masterful spirit able to control relaxed muscles; he collapsed again. mrs. saumarez cried aloud in a new fear, but the vicar, accustomed to the minor accidents of the cricket field and gymnasium, was cooler now. "he's all right--only needs a drink of water and a few minutes' rest," he explained. he bade one of the maids go as quickly as possible to the bollands' farm and say that the mischief to martin was a mere nothing, and then busied himself in more scientific fashion with restoring his patient's animation. unfastening the boy's collar and the neckband of his shirt, mr. herbert satisfied himself that the clavicle was uninjured. there was a slight abrasion of the scalp, which was sore to the touch. in a minute, or less, martin was again protesting that there was little the matter with him. he would not be satisfied until the vicar allowed him to start once more for the village, though at a more sedate pace. then mrs. saumarez, in a voice of deep distress, asked mr. herbert if the rope had really been cut. "yes," he said. "you can see yourself that there is no doubt about it." "but your daughter charged angèle with this--this crime. my child denies it. she has no knife or implement of any sort in her pocket. i assure you i have satisfied myself on that point." "the affair is a mystery, mrs. saumarez. it must be cleared up. thank god, martin escaped! he might be lying here dead at this moment." "are you sure it was not an accident?" "what am i to say? here is a stout hempen cord with nearly all its strands severed as if with a razor, and the other torn asunder. and, from what i can gather, it was elsie, and not martin, for whose benefit this diabolical outrage was planned." the vicar spoke warmly, but the significance of the incident was dawning slowly on his perplexed mind. providence alone had ordained that neither the boy nor the girl had been gravely, perhaps fatally, injured. mrs. saumarez was haggard. she seemed to have aged in those few minutes. "angèle!" she cried. the girl, who was sobbing, came to her. "can it be possible," said the distracted mother, "that you interfered with the swing? why did you leave the drawing-room during tea?" "i only went to stroke a cat, mamma. indeed, i never touched the swing. why should i? and i could not cut it with my fingers." "on second thoughts," said the vicar coldly, "i think that the matter may be allowed to rest where it is. of course, one of my servants may be the culprit, or a mischievous village youth who had been watching the children at play. but the two girls do not seem to get on well together, mrs. saumarez. i fear they are endowed with widely different temperaments." the hint could not be ignored. the lady smiled bitterly. "it is well that i should have decided already to leave elmsdale," she said. "it is a charming place, but my visit has not been altogether fortunate." mr. herbert remembered the curious phrase in after years. he understood it then. at the moment he was candidly relieved when mrs. saumarez and angèle took their departure. he jammed on a hat and hastened to the white house to learn what sort of sensation elsie had created. a week later he made a discovery. he had a curious hobby--he was his own bootmaker, and elsie's, having taught himself to be a craftsman in an art which might well claim higher rank than it holds. when next he rummaged among his implements for a shoemaker's knife it was missing. it was found in the garden next spring, jammed to the top of the hilt into the soft mold beneath a rhododendron. the tools were kept on a bench in the conservatory; so angèle might have accomplished her impish desire in a few seconds. on reaching the white house he was mildly surprised at finding martin propped against the knee of a tall, soldierly stranger, who was consoling the boy with a reminiscence of a far worse toss at polo, by which a hard _sola topi_ was flattened on the iron surface of an indian _maidan_. elsie, white, but much interested, was sipping a glass of milk. "eh, vicar," cried mrs. bolland, in whose face mr. herbert saw signs of recent excitement, "your lass gev us a rare start. she landed here like a mad thing, screamed oot that martin was dead, an' dropped te t' flure half dead herself." "the fault was mine, mrs. bolland. there was an accident. at first i thought martin was badly hurt. i am, indeed, very sorry if elsie alarmed you." his words were meant to reassure the others, but his eyes were fixed on the girl's pallid face. john bolland laughed in his dry way. "nay, passon, dinnat fret aboot elsie. she's none t' warse for a sudden stop. she was ower-excited. where's yon lass o' mrs. saumarez's?" "gone home with her mother. i hear they are leaving elmsdale." "a good riddance!" said john heartily. he turned to martin. "ye'll be winded again, i reckon?" "yes, sir." "well, i left my ash stick i' t' low yard. mebbe you an' t' young leddy will fetch it. there's noa need te hurry." this was an oblique instruction to the boy to make himself scarce for half an hour. with elsie as a companion he needed no urging. they set off, happy as grigs. "noo, afore ye start te fill t' vicar wi' wunnerment," cried martha, "i want te ax t' colonel a question." "what is it, mrs. bolland?" colonel grant was smiling at the vicar's puzzled air. these good people knew naught of formal introductions. "how old is t' lad?" "he was fourteen years old on the sixth of last june." "eh, but that's grand." she clapped her hands delightedly. "i guessed him tiv a week or two. we reckoned his birthday as a twel'month afore we found him, and that was june the eighteenth. and what's his right neäm?" "he was christened after me and after his mother's family. his name is reginald ingram grant." "may i ask who in the world you are talking about?" interposed the perplexed vicar. "wheä? why, oor martin!" cried martha. "he's a gentleman born, god bless him!" "and, what is much more important, mrs. bolland, he is a gentleman bred," said the colonel. * * * * * the scene in the kitchen of the white house had been too dramatic that some hint of it should not reach the village that night. soon all elmsdale knew that the mystery of martin's parentage had been solved, and great was the awe of the boy's playmates when they heard that his father was a "real live colonel i' t' army." a garbled version of the story came to mr. beckett-smythe's ears, and he called on colonel grant at the "black lion" next day. he arrived in state, in a new mercedes car, handled by a chauffeur replica of fritz bauer. beckett-smythe had hardly mastered his surprise at the colonel's confirmation of that which he had regarded as "an incredible yarn" when mrs. saumarez drove up. she, too, recalling the message brought by martin from her husband's comrade-in-arms, came to verify the strange tale told by the misses walker. angèle accompanied her, and the girl's eyes shot lightning at martin, who was on the point of guiding his father to the moor when mr. beckett-smythe put in an appearance. the lawyer had departed for london by the morning train; the three older people and the two youngsters gathered in the room thus set at liberty, mrs. atkinson having remodeled it into a sitting-room for the colonel's use. mrs. saumarez hailed the stranger effusively. "it is delightful to run across anyone who knew my husband," she said. "in this remote part of yorkshire none seems to have ever heard of him. believe me, colonel grant, it is positively a relief to meet a man who recognizes my name." she may have intended this for an oblique thrust at beckett-smythe, relations between the hall and the elms having been somewhat strained since the inquest. the squire, a good fellow, who had no inkling of angèle's latest escapade, hastened to make amends. "you two must want to chat over old times," he said breezily. "why not come and dine with me to-night? i have only one other guest--an admiralty man. he's prowling about the coast trying to select a suitable site for a wireless station." now, mrs. saumarez would have declined the invitation had beckett-smythe stopped short at the first sentence. as it was, she accepted instantly. "do come, colonel grant," she urged. "what between the navy and the intelligence department it should be an interesting evening.... oh, don't look so surprised," she went on, with an engaging smile. "i still read the _gazette_, you know." "and what of the kiddies?" said beckett-smythe. "they know my boys. your chauffeur can bring them home at nine. by the way, the meal will be quite informal--come as you are." "what do you say, martin?" said the colonel. "i shall be very pleased, sir; but may i--ask--my mother first?" the boy reddened. his new place in the world was only twenty-four hours old, and his ideas were not yet adjusted to an order of things so astounding that he thought every minute he would wake up and find he had been dreaming. "oh, certainly," and a kindly hand fell on his shoulder. "i am glad you spoke of it. mrs. bolland is worthy of all the respect due to the best of mothers." "i'll go with you, martin," announced angèle suddenly. martin hesitated. he was doubtful of the reception mrs. bolland might give the minx who had nearly caused him to break his neck, and, for his own part, he wanted to avoid angèle altogether. she was a disturbing influence. he feared her not at all as a spitfire. it was when she displayed her most engaging qualities that she was really dangerous, and he knew from experience that her mood had changed within the past five minutes. on alighting from the car she would like to have scratched his face. now he would not be surprised if she elected to walk with him hand in hand through the village street. his father came to the rescue. "let us all go and see mrs. bolland," he said. "it is only a few yards." they went out into the roadway. then beckett-smythe was struck by an afterthought. "if you'll excuse me, i'll run along to the vicarage and ask herbert and his daughter to join us," he said. mrs. saumarez bit her lip. "i think i'll leave angèle at home," she said in a low tone. "the child is delicate. during the past week i have insisted that she goes to bed at eight every evening." colonel grant understood why the lady did not want the two girls to meet, but it was borne in on him that she herself was determined not to miss that impromptu dinner party. in a vague way he wondered what her motive could be. "ah, that's a pity," he heard beckett-smythe say. "she can be well wrapped up, and the weather is mild." he moved a little ahead of the two. martin, determined not to be left alone with angèle, hastened to greet his friend, fritz. the two chauffeurs were conversing in german. apparently, they were examining the engine of the new car. "martin," murmured angèle, "don't bother about fritz. he'll snap your head off. he's furious because he lost a map the other day." but martin pressed on. no longer could angèle deceive him--"twiddle him around her little finger," as she would put it. "hello, fritz!" he cried. "what map did you lose? not the one i marked for you?" fritz turned. the new chauffeur closed the bonnet of the engine. "no," he said, speaking slowly, and looking at angèle. "it was a small road map. you haf not seen it, i dink." "was it made of linen, with a red cover?" "yez," and the man's face became curiously stern. "oh, i saw you studying it one day at the elms, but you didn't have it on the moor." fritz's scowl changed to an expression of disappointment. "i haf mislaid it," he grunted, and again his glance dwelt on angèle, who met his gaze with a bland indifference that seemed to gall him. colonel grant drew near. he had been eyeing the two spick-and-span chauffeurs. "who is your friend, martin?" he said. he was interested in everything the boy did and in everyone whom he knew. "oh, this is fritz bauer, mrs. saumarez's chauffeur.... fritz, this is colonel grant, of the indian army." instantly the two young germans straightened as though some mechanism had stiffened their spines and thrown back their heads. the newcomer's heels clicked and his right hand was raised in a salute. fritz, better schooled than his comrade by longer residence in england, barely prevented his heels from clicking, and managed to convert the salute into a raising of his cap. there could be no doubt that he was flustered, because he said not a word, and the open-air tan of his cheeks assumed a deeper tint. apparently, colonel grant saw nothing of this, or, if he noticed the man's confusion, attributed it to nervousness. "two mercedes cars in one small village!" he exclaimed laughingly. "you germans are certainly conquering england by peaceful penetration." mrs. saumarez elected, after all, not to visit the white house that afternoon, so angèle, having said good-by to the colonel and martin in her prettiest manner, was whisked off in the car. "by the way, martin," said his father as the two walked to the farm. "mrs. saumarez is german by birth. have you ever heard anything about her family?" martin had a good memory. "yes, sir," he said. "she is a baroness--the baroness irma von edelstein." the colonel was surprised at this glib answer. "who told you?" he inquired. "angèle, sir. but mrs. saumarez did not wish people to use her title. she was vexed with angèle for even mentioning it." mrs. saumarez sent her car to bring colonel grant and his son to the hall. she was slightly ruffled when fritz told her that they had gone already, mr. beckett-smythe having collected his guests from both the inn and the vicarage. she might have been positively indignant if she had overheard grant's comments to the admiralty official while the two strolled on the lawn before dinner. "a couple of prussian officers, if ever i saw the genuine article," said the colonel. "real junkers--smart-looking fellows, too. mrs. saumarez is the widow of a british officer--a fine chap, but poor as a church mouse--and she belongs to a wealthy german family. _verbum sap._" "nuff said," grinned the sailor. "but what is one to do? no sooner is this outfit erected but it'll be added to the display of local picture postcards, and the next german bigwig who visits this part of the country will be invited to amuse himself by ringing up bremen." at any rate, mrs. saumarez was told that night that the yorkshire coast was too highly magnetized to suit a wireless station. the sailor thought an inland town like york would provide an ideal site. "you see," he explained politely, "when the german high seas fleet defeats the british navy it can shell our coast towns all to smithereens." she smiled. "you fighting men invariably talk of war with germany as an assured thing," she said. "yet i, who know germany, and have relatives there, am convinced that the notion is absurd." "the emperor has been twenty years on the throne and has never drawn sword except on parade," put in the vicar. "there may have been danger once or twice in his hot youth, but he has grown to like england, and i cannot conceive him plunging a great and thriving country into the morass of a doubtful campaign." "ninety-nine per cent of englishmen like to think that way," said the admiralty man. "in a multitude of counselors there is wisdom, so let's hope they're right." when the young folk got together on the terrace, frank beckett-smythe asked martin why his neck was stiff. "i took a toss off elsie's swing yesterday," was the airy answer. not a word did he or elsie say as to angèle, and the beckett-smythes knew better than to introduce her name. * * * * * mrs. saumarez left for the south rather hurriedly. she paid no farewell visits. she and angèle traveled in the car; françoise followed with the baggage. the misses walker were consoled for the loss of a valued lodger by receiving a less exacting one in the person of martin's father. the boy himself, when his mental poise was adjusted to the phenomenal change in his life, soon grew accustomed to a new environment. mr. herbert undertook to direct his studies in preparation for a public school, and martha bolland became reconciled gradually to seeing him once or twice daily, instead of all day, for he, too, lived at the elms. officially, as it were, he adopted his new name, but to the small world of elmsdale he would ever be "martin." even his father fell into the habit. the colonel drove him to the adjourned petty sessions at nottonby when betsy's case came on for hearing. mr. stockwell abandoned his critical attitude and concurred with the police that there was no need to bring angèle saumarez from london to attend the trial. mrs. saumarez gave no thought to the fact that the girl might be needed to give evidence, but the authorities decided that there were witnesses in plenty as to the outcry raised in the garden after pickering was wounded. it was november before betsy appeared at the county assizes. when she entered the dock, those who knew her were astonished by the improvement in her appearance. it was probable that the enforced rest, the regular exercise, the judicious diet of the prison had exercised a beneficial effect on her health. her demeanor was calm as ever, and the able barrister who defended her did not scruple to suggest that it would create a better effect with the jury if she adopted a less unemotional attitude. her reply silenced him. "do you think," she said, "that i will be permitted to atone for my wrongdoing by punishment? no. i live because my husband wished me to live. i will be called to account, but not by an earthly judge or jury." she was right. the assize judge held the scales of justice impartially between the sworn testimony of george pickering and betsy's witnesses, on the one hand, and the evidence of martin and the groom, backed by the scientists, on the other. the jury gave her the benefit of the doubt and acquitted her, but it was noticed by many that his lordship contented himself with ordering her discharge from custody. he passed no opinion on the verdict. so betsy was installed as mistress of wetherby lodge, the trustees having decided that she was well fitted to manage the estate. tongues wagged in elmsdale when mr. stockwell drove thither one day and solemnly handed over to martin the sword and the double-barreled gun, and to john bolland the pedigree cow bequeathed by george pickering. the farmer eyed the animal grimly. "'tis an unfortunate beast," he said. "mebbe if i hadn't sold her te poor george he might nivver hae coom te elmsdale just then." "do not think that," the solicitor assured him. "pickering would most certainly have visited the fair. i know, as a matter of fact, that he wished to purchase one of your brood mares." "ay, ay. she went te jarmany. well, if i'm spared, i'll send a good calf to wetherby." the lawyer and he shook hands on the compact. yet pickering's odd bequest was destined to work out in a way that would have amazed the donor, could he but know it. martin was at winchester--his father's old school--when he received a letter in bolland's laborious handwriting. it read: "my dear lad--yours to hand, and this leaves your mother and self in good health. we were glad to hear that the box arrived all right and that your mates think well of yorkshire cakes. you may learn a lot of useful things at school, but you will not often meet with a better cook than your mother. she is sore upset just now about a mishap we have had on the farm. i turned out nearly all my shorthorns to graze on the low pastures. the ground was a bit damp, and a strange cow broke in at night to join them. i don't rightly know what to blame, but next day they showed signs of rinderpest. i sent for the vet, and they had to be slaughtered--all but one two-year-old bull, bainesse boy iv., and mr. pickering's cow, which were not with them in the meadow. it is a great loss, but i don't repine, now that you are provided for, and it is not quite like starting all over again, as i have my land and my cleveland bays, and i am in no debt. in such matters i turn to the lord for consolation. i have just read this verse to martha: 'i have been young, and now am old; yet i have not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' if you are minded to look it up, you will find it in the thirty-seventh psalm. "i don't want to pretend that the blow has not been a hard one, but, god willing, there will be a hamper for you at christmas, if colonel grant is too busy to bring you north. your mother joins in much love. "your affect., "john bolland." "p. s.--maybe you will not have forgotten that mrs. saumarez said the land needed draining. she was a clever woman in some ways." the boy's eyes filled with tears. he understood only too well the far-reaching misfortune which had befallen the farmer. the total value of the herd was £5,000, and he remembered that experts valued the young surviving bull at £300 as a yearling. in all, twenty-three animals had been slaughtered by the law's decree, and the compensation payable to bolland would not cover a twentieth part of the actual loss. martin not only wrote a letter of warm sympathy to his adopted parents but sent bolland's letter to his father, with an added commentary of his own. colonel grant obtained short leave and traveled to elmsdale next day. it took some trouble to bring john round to his point of view, but the argument that the farm should be restocked in martin's interests prevailed, and negotiations were opened with prominent breeders elsewhere which resulted in the purchase of a notable bull and eight heifers, for which bolland and the colonel each found half the money. the farmer would listen to no other arrangement, though he promised that if he experienced any tightness for money he would not hesitate to apply for further help. the need never made itself felt. the first animal to produce successful progeny was george pickering's cow! no man in the north riding was more pleased than john that day. throughout the whole of his life the only person who ever brought a charge of unfair dealing against him was pickering. the memory rankled, and its sting was none the less bitter because of a secret dread that he had perhaps been guilty of a piece of sharp practice. now his character was cleared. pattison, his old crony, asked him, by way of a joke, how much "he'd tak' for t' cauf." john blazed into unexpected anger. "at what figger de you reckon yer own good neäm, mr. pattison?" "i don't knoä as i'd care te sell it at onny price, mr. bollan'." "then ye'll think as i do aboot yon cauf. neyther it nor any other of its dam's produce will ivver leave my farm if i can help it." chapter xix out of the mists this record of a yorkshire village--a true chronicle of life among the canny folk who dwell on the "moor edge"--might well be left at the point it reached when one of its chief characters saw before him the smooth and sunlit road of a notable career. but history, though romantic, is not writ as romance, and the story of elmsdale is fact, not fiction. after eight years of somnolence the village awoke again. it was roused from sleep by the tumult of a world at war; mayhap the present generation shall pass away before the hamlet relapses into its humdrum ways. martin was twenty-two when his father and he journeyed north to attend the annual sale of the elmsdale herd, which was fixed for the two opening days of july, 1914. each year colonel grant brought his son to the village for six weeks prior to the twelfth of august; this year there was a well-founded rumor in the little community that the colonel meant to buy the elms. the announcement of bolland's sale brought foreign agents from abroad and well-known stock-raisers from all parts of the kingdom. no less than forty animals entered the auction ring. one bull, bainesse boy iv., realized £800. bainesse boy iv. held a species of levee in a special stall. he had grown into a wonder. on a table, over which sergeant benson mounted guard, were displayed five championship cups he had carried off, while fifteen cards, arranged in horseshoe pattern on the wall, each bore the magic words, "first prize," awarded at islington, birmingham, the royal, and wherever else in britain shorthorns and their admirers most do congregate. the village hummed with life; around the sale ring gathered a multitude of men arrayed in melton cloth and leather leggings, whose general appearance betokened the wisdom of dr. johnson's sarcastic dictum: "who drives fat oxen should himself be fat." martha and a cohort of maids boiled hams by the dozen and baked cakes in fabulous quantities. john graced the occasion by donning a new suit and new boots, in which the crooked giant was singularly ill at ease. mrs. pickering drove over from nottonby--kitty was married two years before to a well-to-do farmer at northallerton--and someone rallied her on "bein' ower good-lookin' te remain a widow all her days." she laughed pleasantly. "i'm far too busy at wetherby to think of adding a husband to my cares," she said; but those who knew her best could have told that she had refused at least two excellent offers of matrimony and meant to remain mrs. pickering during the rest of her days. at the close of the second day's sale, when the crowd was thinned by the departure of a fleet of cars and a local train at five o'clock, the white house was thronged by its habitués, who came to make a meal of the "high tea." colonel grant and john had just concluded an amicable wrangle whereby it was decided that they should jointly provide the considerable sum needed to acquire the elms and some adjoining land. the house and grounds were to be remodeled and the property would be deeded to martin forthwith. the young gentleman himself, as tall as his father now, and wearing riding breeches and boots, was standing at the front door, turning impatient eyes from a smart cob, held by a groom, to the bend in the road where it curved beyond the "black lion." a smartly-dressed young lady passed, and although martin lifted his hat with a ready smile his glance wandered from her along the road again. evelyn atkinson wondered who it was that thus distracted his attention. a few yards farther on, elsie herbert, mounted on a steady old hunter, passed at a sharp trot. evelyn's pretty face frowned slightly. "if _she_ is home again, of course, he has eyes for nobody else," she said to herself. and, indeed, it was true. elsie had been to dresden for two years. she had returned to elmsdale the previous day, and a scribbled note told martin to look for her after tea. the two set off together through the village, bound for the moor. many a critical look followed them. "eh, but they're a bonny pair," cried mrs. summersgill, who became stouter each year. "martin allus framed to be a fine man, but i nivver thowt yon gawky lass o' t' vicar's 'ud grow into a beauty." "this moor air is wonderful. look at the effect it has on you, mrs. summersgill," said colonel grant with a twinkle in his eye. "oh, go on wi' ye, colonel, pokin' fun at a poor owd body like me. but i deän't ho'd wi' skinny 'uns. martha, what's become o' mrs. saumarez an' that flighty gell o' hers. what did they call her--angel? my word!--a nice angel--not that she wasn't as thin as a sperrit." "miss walker told me, last christmas twel'month, they were i' france," said martha. "france? ay, maist like; it's a god-forsaken place, i'll be boun'." "nay," interposed bolland, "that's an unchristian description of onny counthry, ma'am. ye'll find t' lord ivverywhere i' t' wide wulld, if ye seek him. there's bin times when he might easy be i' france, for he seemed, iv his wisdom, to be far away frae elmsdale." mrs. summersgill snorted contempt for all "furriners," but martha created a diversion. "goodness me!" she cried, "yer cup's empty. i nivver did see sike a woman. ye talk an' eat nowt." martin, now in his third year at oxford, was somewhat mystified by the change brought about in elsie by two years of "languages and music" passed in the most attractive of german cities. though not flippant, her manner nonplussed him. she was distinctly "smart," both in speech and style. she treated a young gentleman who had already taken his degree and was reading for honors in history with an easy nonchalance that was highly disconcerting. the last time they parted they had kissed each other, she with tears, and he with a lump in his throat. now he dared no more offer a cousinly, or brotherly, or any other sort of salute in which kissing was essential, than if she were a royal princess. "you've altered, old girl," he said by way of a conversational opening when their horses were content to walk, after a sharp canter along a moorland track. "i should hope so, indeed," came the airy retort. "surely, you didn't expect to find the elmsdale label on me after two years of _kultur_?" "whatever the label, the vintage looks good," he said. "you mean that as a compliment," she laughed. "and, now that i look at you carefully, i see signs of improvement. of course, the oxford swank is an abomination, but you'll lose it in time. father told me last night that you were going in for the law and politics. is that correct?" martin, masterful as ever, was not minded to endure such supercilious treatment at elsie's hands. he had looked forward to this meeting with a longing that had almost interfered with his work; it was more than irritating to find his divinity modeling her behavior on the lines of the girton "set" at the university. they had reached a point of the high moor which overlooked thor ghyll. martin pulled up his cob and dismounted. "let's give the nags a breather here," he said. "shall i help you?" "no, thanks." elsie was out of the saddle promptly. she rode astride. in a well-fitting habit, with divided skirt and patent-leather boots, she looked wonderfully alluring, but her air of aloofness was carried almost to the verge of indifference. she showed some surprise when martin took her horse's reins and threw them over his left arm. "are you going to lecture me?" she said, arching her eyebrows. "it would be just like a fledgling b. a., who is doubtless a member of the officers' training corps, to tell me that my german riding-master taught me to sit too stiffly." "he did," said martin, meeting the sarcastic blue eyes without flinching. "but a few days with the york and ainsty and lord middleton's pack will put that right. you'll come a purler at your first stone wall if you ride with such long stirrup leathers. however, i want you to jump another variety of obstacle to-day. you asked me just now, elsie, if i was going in for the law. yes. but i'm going in for you first. you know i love you, dear. you know i have been your very humble but loyal knight ever since i won your recognition down there in the valley, when i was only a farmer's son and you were a girl of a higher social order. i have never forgotten that you didn't seem to heed class distinctions then, elsie, and it hurts now to have you treat me with coldness." elsie, trying valiantly to appear partly indignant and even more amused at this direct attack, failed most lamentably. first she flushed; then she paled. she faced martin's gaze confidently enough at the outset, but her eyes dropped and her lips quivered when she heard the words which no woman can hear without a thrill. still, she made a brave attempt to rally her forces. "i didn't--quite mean--what you say," she faltered, which was a schoolgirl form of protest for one who had achieved distinction in a course of english literature. martin took her by the shoulders. the two horses nosed each other. they, perforce, were dumb, but their wise eye's seemed to exchange the caustic comment: "what fools these mortals be! why don't they hug, and settle the business?" "i must know what you do mean," said martin, almost fiercely. "i love you, elsie. will you marry me?" she lifted her face. the blue eyes were dim with tears, but the adorable mouth trembled in a smile. "yes, dear," she murmured. "but what did you expect? did you--think i would--throw my arms around you--in the village street?" after that martin had no reason to accuse elsie of being either stiff or cold. when the vicar heard the news that night--for martin and the colonel dined at the vicarage--he stormed into mock dissent. "god bless my soul," he cried, "my little girl has been away two whole years, and you come and steal her away from me before she has been home twenty-four hours!" then he produced a handkerchief and yielded, apparently, to a violent attack of hay fever. yet it was a joyous company which gathered around the dinner table, for elsie herself, casting off the veneer of dresden, drove posthaste to summon the bollands to the feast. john was specially deputed by colonel grant to make a significant announcement. "we're all main pleased you two hev sattled matters so soon," he said, peering alternately at martin's attentive face and elsie's blushing one. "yer father an' me hev bowt the elms, an' a tidy bit o' land besides, so ye'll hev a stake i' t' county if ivver ye're minded te run for parlyment. the miss walkers (john pronounced the name "wahker") are goin' te live in a small hoos i' nottonby. they've gotten a fine lot o' spanish mahogany an' owd oak which they're willin' te sell by vallyation; so the pair of ye can gan there i' t' mornin' an' pick an' choose what ye want." elsie looked at her father, but neither could utter a word. martha bolland put an arm around the girl's neck. "lord luv' ye, honey!" she said brokenly, "it'll be just like crossin' the road. may i be spared te see you happy and comfortable in yer new home, for you'll surely be one of the finest ladies i' yorkshire." no shadow darkened their joy in that cheerful hour. even next day, when a grim specter flitted through elmsdale, the ominous vision evoked only a passing notice. colonel grant and the vicar, each an expert in old furniture, accompanied the young people to the elms and examined its antique dressers, sideboards, tables, and the rest. many of the bedroom chests were of solid mahogany. the misses walker had cleared the drawers of the lumber of years, so that the prospective purchasers could note the interior finish. miss emmy, not so tactful as her elder sister, brought in a name which the others present wished to forget. "mrs. saumarez used this room as a dressing-room," she said, "and while turning out rubbish from a set of drawers i came across this." she displayed a small red-covered folding road-map, such as cyclists and motorists use. martin thought he recognized it. "i believe that is the very map lost by fritz bauer, mrs. saumarez's chauffeur," he said. "probably, sir. he made a rare row with miss angèle about it. i was half afraid he meant to shake her. no one knew what had become of it, but either miss angèle or her mother must have hidden it. why, i can't guess." elsie helped to smooth over an awkward incident. she took the map and began to open it. "it couldn't have been such an important matter," she said. then she shook apart the folded sheet, and they all saw that it bore a number of entries and signs in faded ink, black and red. the written words were in german, and elsie scanned a few lines hurriedly. she looked puzzled, even a trifle perturbed, but recovered her smiling self-possession instantly. "the poor man, being a foreigner, jotted down some notes for his guidance," she said. "may i have it?" "with pleasure, miss," said the old lady. it was not until the party had returned to the vicarage that elsie explained her request. she spread the map on a table, and her smooth forehead wrinkled in doubt. "this is serious," she said. "i have lived in germany long enough to understand that one cannot mix with german girls in the intimacy of school and at their homes without knowing that an attack on england is simply an obsession of their menfolk, and even of the women. they regard it as a certainty in the near future, pretending that if they don't strike first england will crush them." "i wish to heaven she would!" broke in colonel grant emphatically. "in existing conditions this country resembles an unarmed policeman waiting for a burglar to fire at him out of the darkness." mr. herbert, man of peace that he was, might have voiced a mild disclaimer, had not elsie stayed him. "listen, father," she said seriously. "here is proof positive. that chauffeur was a military spy. see what is written across the top of the map: 'gutes wasser; futter in fülle; überfluss von vieh, schafen und pferden. einzelheiten auf genauen ortlichkeiten angegeben.' that means 'good water; abundance of fodder; plenty of cattle, sheep, and horses. details given on exact localities.' and, just look at the details! could a child fail to interpret their meaning?" elsie's simile was not far-fetched, yet gray-headed statesmen, though they may have both known and understood, refused to believe. that little road-map, on a scale of one mile to an inch, contained all the information needed by the staff of an invading army. the moor bore the legend: "platz für lager, leicht verschanzt; beherrscht hauptstrassen von whitby und pickering nach york. rote kreise kennzeichnen reichlichen wasservorrat für kavallerie und artillerie." (site for camp, easily entrenched. commands main roads from whitby and pickering to york. red circles show ample water supply for cavalry and artillery.) every road bore its classification for the use of troops, showing the width, quality of surface, and gradients. each bridge was described as "stone" or "iron." even cross-country trails were indicated when fordable streams rendered such passage not too difficult. the little group gazed spellbound at the extraordinarily accurate synopsis of the facilities offered by the placid country of yorkshire for the devilish purposes of war. martin, in particular, devoured the entries relating to the moor. on metcalf's farm he saw: "six hundred sheep here," and at the broad ings, "four hundred sheep, three horses, four cows." well he knew who had given the spy those facts. his glowing eyes wandered to the village. a long entry distinguished the white house, and though he knew a good deal of german he was beaten by the opening technical word. "what is that, elsie?" he said, and even his father wondered at the hot anger in his utterance. the girl read: "stammbaum vieh hier; drei stiere, achtzehn kühe und färsen, nicht zum schlachten, sehr wertvoll. neben bei sechs stuten, besten types zur zucht." then she translated: "pedigree cattle here; three bulls, eighteen cows and heifers, not to be slaughtered; very valuable. also six brood mares of best type for stud." "the infernal scoundrel!" blazed out martin. "so the bolland stock must be taken to the fatherland, and not eaten or drafted into service! and to think that i gave him nearly all that information!" "you, martin?" cried elsie. "yes. he pumped me dry. i even showed him the site of every pond on the moor." "don't blame the man," put in colonel grant. "i knew him as a prussian officer at the first glance. but he was simply doing his duty. blame our criminal carelessness. we cannot stop foreigners from prowling about the country, but we can and should make it impossible for any enemy to utilize such data as are contained in this map." "but, consider," put in the perturbed vicar. "this evil work was done eight years ago, and what has all the talk of german preparation come to? isn't it the bombast of militarism gone mad?" "it comes to this," said the colonel. "we are just eight years nearer war. i am convinced that the break must occur before 1916--and for two reasons: germany's financial state is dangerous, and in 1916 russia will have completed on her western frontier certain strategic lines which will expedite mobilization. germany won't wait till her prospective foes are ready. france knows it. that is why she has adopted the three years' service scheme." "then why won't you let me join the army, dad?" demanded martin bluntly. colonel grant spread his hands with the weary gesture of a man who would willingly shirk a vital decision. "in peace the army is a poor career," he said. "the law and politics offer you a wider field. but not you only--every young man in the country should be trained to arms. as matters stand, we have neither the men nor the rifles. our artillery, excellent of its type, is about sufficient for an army corps, and we have a fortnight's supply of ammunition. i am not an alarmist. we have enough regiments to repel a raid, supposing the enemy's transports dodged the fleet; but heaven help us if we dream of sending an expeditionary force to france or egypt, or any single one of a score of vulnerable points outside the british isles!" "beckett-smythe retained one of those german chauffeurs in his service for a whole year," said the vicar, on whom a new light had dawned with the discovery of the telltale map. "are there many of the brood in the district now?" inquired the colonel. "i fancy not." "there is no need, they have done their work," said elsie. "last winter i met a young officer in dresden, and he told me he had taken a walking tour through this part of yorkshire during the summer. he knew elmsdale quite well. he remembered the vicarage, the elms, and the white house. yet he said he was here only a day!" "fritz bauer's maps are the best of guides," commented colonel grant bitterly. the vicar was literally awe-stricken. he stooped over the map. "is this sort of thing going on all over the country?" he gasped. "more or less. naturally, the east coast has been the chief hunting ground, as that must provide the terrain of any attack. of course, so long as the political sky remains fairly clear, as it is at this moment, there is always a chance that humanity will escape armageddon for another generation. the world is growing more rational and its interests are becoming ever more identical. even the junkers are feeling the pressure of public opinion, and the great masses of the people demand peace. that is why i want martin to learn the power of voice and pen rather than of the sword. i have been a soldier all my life, and i hate war!" the man who had so often faced death in his country's cause spoke with real feeling. he longed to make war impossible by making victory impossible for an aggressor. he claimed no rights for britain that he would deny germany or any other country in the comity of nations. suddenly he took the map off the table and folded it. "i'll send this curio to whitehall," he said with a smile. "it will form part of a queer collection. now, let's talk of something else.... martin, after the valuer has inspected that furniture, you might see to it that the whole lot is stored in the east bedrooms. the architect will not disturb that part of the house." "oh, when can we look at the plans?" chimed in elsie. these four people, who in their way fairly represented the forty millions of great britain, discussed the spy's map in the drawing-room of elmsdale vicarage on july 6th, 1914. on the sixth of august, exactly one month later, two german army corps, with full artillery and commissariat trains, were loaded into transports and brought to the mouth of the elbe. they hoped to avoid the british fleet, and their objective was the yorkshire coast between whitby and filey. once ashore, they meant entrenching a camp on the elmsdale moor. obviously, they did not dream of conquering england by one daring foray. their purpose was to keep the small army of britain fully occupied until france was humbled to the dust. they would lose the whole hundred thousand men. but what of that? german soldiers are regarded as cannon fodder by their rulers, and the price in human lives would not be too costly if it retained british troops at home. it was an audacious scheme, and audacity is the first principle of successful war. its very spine and marrow was the knowledge of the north and east ridings gained in time of peace by the officers who would lead the invading host. that it failed was due to england's sailors, the men who broke napoleon, and were destined, by god's good grace, to break the robber empire of germany. chapter xx the rigor of the game elmsdale at war is very like elmsdale in peace. at least, that was martin's first impression when he and general grant motored to the village from york on a day in september, 1915. father and son had passed unscathed through the hellfire of loos, general grant in command of a brigade, and martin a captain in a kitchener battalion. they were in england on leave now, the middle-aged general for five days, and the youthful captain for ten, and the purpose of this joint home-coming was martin's marriage. when it became evident that the world struggle would last years rather than months, general grant and the vicar put their heads together, metaphorically speaking, since the connecting link was the field post-office, and arranged a war wedding. why should the young people wait? they argued. every consideration pointed the other way. with martin wedded to elsie, legal formalities as to bolland's and the general's estate could be completed, and if heaven blessed the union with children the continuity of two old families would be assured. so, to martin's intense surprise, he was called to the telephone one saturday morning in the trenches and told that he had better hand over his company to the senior subaltern as speedily as might be, since his ten days' leave began on the monday, such being the amiable device by which commanding officers permit juniors to reach blighty before an all-too-brief respite from the business of killing germans begins officially. he met his father at boulogne, and there learnt that which he had only suspected hitherto: he and elsie were booked for an immediate honeymoon on a scottish moor--at cairn-corrie, to be exact. by chance the two travelers ran into frank beckett-smythe, a gunner lieutenant in london, and he undertook to rush north that night to act as "best man." father and son caught a train early on sunday and hired a car at york, elmsdale having no railway facilities on the day of rest. they arrived in time to attend the evening service at the parish church, to which, _mirabile dictu_, john and martha bolland accompanied them. the war has broken down many barriers, but few things have crumbled to ruin more speedily than the walls of prejudice and sectarian futilities which separated the many phases of religious thought in britain. the church, with its small graveyard, stood in the center of the village, and the grants had to wring scores of friendly hands before they and the others walked to the vicarage for supper. martin and elsie contrived to extricate themselves from the crowd slightly in advance of the older people. they felt absurdly shy. they were wandering in dreamland. early next morning martin strolled into the village. he wanted to stir the sluggish current of enlistment, for england was then making a final effort to maintain her army on a voluntary basis. elmsdale was so unchanged outwardly that he marveled. he hardly realized that it could not well be otherwise. he had seen so many french hamlets torn by war that the snug content of this sheltered nook in rural yorkshire was almost uncanny by contrast. the very familiarity of the scene formed its strangest element. its sights, its sounds, its homely voices, were novel to the senses of one whose normal surroundings were the abominations of war. here were trim houses and well-filled stockyards, smiling orchards and cattle grazing in green pastures. everywhere was peace. he was the only man in uniform, until sergeant benson appeared in the doorway of a cottage and saluted. the village had its own liveries--the corduroys of the carpenter, redolent of oil and turpentine, the tied-up trouser legs of the laborer, the blacksmith's leather apron, ragged and burnt, a true vulcan's robe, the shoemaker's, shiny with the stropping of knives and seamed with cobbler's wax. the panoply of mars looked singularly out of place in this sleepy hollow. but, by degrees, he began to miss things. there were no young men in the fields. all the horses had gone, save the yearlings and those too old for the hard work of artillery and transport. he questioned benson and found that little elmsdale had not escaped the levy laid on the rest of europe. jim bates was in the yorkshire regiment. tommy beadlam's white head was resting forever in a destroyed trench at ypres. tom chandler had fallen at gallipoli. evelyn atkinson was a nurse, and her two sisters were "in munitions" at leeds. yes, there were some shirkers, but not many. for the most part, they were hidden in the moorland farms. "t' captain" would remember georgie jackson? well, he was one of the stand-backs--wouldn't go till he was fetched. the village girls made his life a misery, so he "hired" at the broad ings, miles away in the depths of the moor. one night about a month ago one of those "d--d zeppelines" dropped a bomb on the heather, which caught fire. a second, following a murder trail to newcastle, saw the resultant blaze and dropped twelve bombs. a third, believing that real damage was being done, flung out its whole cargo of twenty-nine bombs. "so, now, sir," grinned benson, "there's a fine lot o' pot-holes i' t' moor. georgie was badly scairt. he saw the three zepps, an' t' bombs fell all over t' farm. next mornin' he f'und three sheep banged te bits. an' what d'ye think? he went straight te whitby an' 'listed. he hez a bunch o' singed wool in his pocket, an' sweers he'll mak' some jarman eat it." so martin only recruited a wife that day, and evidently secured a sensible one, for elsie, taking thought, on hearing certain vivid descriptions of trench life on the sunday evening, vetoed the wedding trip to scotland, and persuaded her husband to "go the limit" in london, where plenty of society and a round of theaters acted as a wholesome tonic after the monotony of high-explosive existence in a dugout. * * * * * in february, 1917, martin was "in billets" at armentières. he had been promoted to the staff, and had fairly earned this coveted recognition by a series of daring excursions into "no man's land" every night for a week, which enabled him to plan an attack on the german lines at chapelle d'armentières. never thinking of any personal gain, he drew up a memorandum, which he submitted to his colonel. the latter sent the document to divisional headquarters; the scheme was approved. fritz was pushed forcibly half a mile nearer lille, and "captain reginald ingram grant" was informed, in the dry language of the _gazette_, that in future he would wear a red band around his field service cap and little red tabs on the shoulders of his tunic. that was a great day for him, but his elation was as nothing compared with the joy of elmsdale when the _messenger_ reprinted the announcement. elsie, of course, imagined that her husband was now comparatively safe for the rest of the war, and he has never undeceived her. as a matter of fact, his first real "job" was to carry out a fresh series of observations at a point south of armentières along the road to arras. this might involve another six days of lurking in dugouts at the front and six nights of crawling through and under german barbed wire. his companion was a sapper sergeant named mason. they suspected that the german position was heavily mined in anticipation of an attack at that very point, and it was part of their business at the outset to ascertain whether or not this was the case. the enemy's lines were about one hundred and fifty yards away, and all observers agree that the chief difficulty experienced in the pitch-black darkness of a cloudy, moonless night is to estimate the distance covered. crawling over shell-torn ground, slow work at the best, is rendered slower by the frequent waits necessary while rockets flare overhead and verrey lights describe brilliant parabolas in unexpected directions. martin, up to every trick and dodge of the "listening post," surveyed the field of operations through a periscope, and noticed that one of the ditches which mark boundaries in northern france ran almost in a straight line from the british trenches to the german, and had at one time been reinforced by posts and rails. the fence was destroyed, but many of the posts remained, some intact, others mere jagged stumps. he estimated that the nineteenth was not more than a couple of yards from the enemy's wire, and knew of old that it was in just such an irregular hollow he might expect to find a weak place in the entanglement. mason agreed with him. "we can save a lot of time by following that trail, sir," he said. "there's only one drawback----" "that fritz may have hit on the same scheme," laughed martin. "possible; but we must chance it." mason and he were old associates. they had perfected a code of signals, by touch, that enabled them to work in absolute silence. thus, a slight hold meant "halt"; a slight push, "advance"; a slight pull, "retire." each carried a trench knife and a revolver, the latter for use as a last resource only. they were not going out for fighting but for observation. if enemy patrols were encountered, they must be avoided. germans are not phlegmatic, but, on the contrary, highly nervous. continuous raids by british bombing parties had put sentries "on the jump," and the least noise which was not explained by a whispered password attracted a heavy spray of machine-gun fire. especially was this the case during the hour before dawn. by hurrying out immediately after darkness set in, the two counted on nearing the german front-line trench at a time when reliefs were being posted and fatigue parties were plodding to the "dump" for the next day's rations. "what time will you be back?" inquired the subaltern in charge of the platoon holding that part of the british trench. it was his duty to warn sentries to be on the lookout for the return of scouting parties. martin glanced at the luminous watch on his wrist. it was then seven o'clock, and the night promised to be dark and quiet. the evening "strafe" had just ended, and the german guns would reopen fire on the trenches about five in the morning. during the intervening hours the artillery would indulge in groups of long shots, hoping to catch the commissariat or a regiment marching on the _pavé_ in column of fours. "about twelve," said martin. "well, so long, sir! i'll have some coffee ready." "so long!" and martin led the way up a trench ladder. no man wishes another "good luck!" in these enterprises. by a curious inversion of meaning, "good luck!" implies a ninety per cent chance of getting killed! the two advanced rapidly for the first hundred yards. then they separated, each crawling out into the open for about twenty yards to right and left. snuggling into a convenient shell hole, they would listen intently, with an ear to the ground, their object being to detect the rhythmic beat of a pick, if a mining party was busy. each remained exactly ten minutes. then they met and compared notes, always by signal. if necessary, they would visit a suspected locality together and endeavor to locate the line of the tunnel. it was essential that the british side of "no man's land" should not be too quiet. every few minutes a rocket or a verrey light would soar over that torn golgotha. but there was method in the seeming madness. the first and second glare would illuminate an area well removed from martin's territory. the third might be right over him or mason, but they were then so well hidden that the sharpest eye could not discern their presence. by nine o'clock they had covered more than a hundred yards of the enemy's front, skirting his trip-wire throughout the whole distance. they had heard no fewer than six mining parties. each had advanced some thirty yards. in effect, if the german trench was to be taken at all, the attack must be made next day, and the artillery preparation should commence at dawn. instead of returning to the subaltern's dugout at midnight, martin wanted to reach the telephone not later than ten, and hurry back to headquarters. the staff would have another sleepless night, but a british battalion would not be blown up while its successive "waves" were crossing "no man's land." mason and he crept like lizards to the sunk fence. all they needed now was a close scrutiny of the german parapet in that section. it was a likely site for a machine-gun emplacement and, in that case, would receive special attention from a battery of 4.7's. they reached the ditch shortly before a rocket was due overhead. making assurance doubly sure, they flattened against the outer slope of a shell hole, took off their caps, and each sought a tuft of grass through which to peer. simultaneously, by two short taps, both conveyed a warning. they had heard a slight rustling directly in front. a verrey light, and not a rocket, flamed through the darkness. its brilliancy was intense. but the verrey light has a peculiar property: far more effective than the rocket when it reveals troops in motion, it is rendered practically useless if men remain still. working parties and scouts counteract its vivid beams by absolute rigidity. the uplifted pick or hammer, the advanced foot, the raised arm, must be kept in statuesque repose, and the reward is complete safety. a rocket, on the other hand, though not half so deadly in exposing an attack, demands that every man within its periphery shall endeavor forthwith to blend with the earth, or he will surely be seen and shot at. the two britons, looking through stalks of withered herbage, found themselves gazing into the eyes of a couple of germans crouching on the level barely six feet away. it seemed literally impossible that the enemy observers should not see them. but strange things happen in war. the germans were scanning all the visible ground; the englishmen happened to be on the alert for a recognized danger in that identical spot. so the one party, watching space, saw nothing; the other, prepared for a specific discovery, made it. what was more, when the light failed, the germans were assured of comparative safety, while their opponents had measured the extent of an instant peril and got ready to face it. they knew, too, that the germans must be killed or captured. one was a major, the other a noncommissioned officer, and men of such rank were seldom deputed by the enemy to roam at large through the strip of debated land which british endeavor, drawn by its sporting uncertainties, had rendered most unhealthy for human "game" of the hun species. a dark night in that part of french flanders becomes palpably black during a few seconds after a flare. the englishmen squatted back on their heels. neither drew his revolver, but each right hand clutched a trench knife, a peculiarly murderous-looking implement with an oval handle, and shaped like a corkscrew, except that the screw is replaced by a short, flat, dagger-pointed blade. no signal was needed. each knew exactly what to do. the accident of position allotted the major to martin. the germans came on stealthily. they had noted the shell-hole, and sat on its crumbling edge, meaning to slide down and creep out on the other side. martin's left hand gripped a stout boot by the ankle. in the fifth of a second he had a heavy body twisted violently and flung face down in the loose earth at the bottom of the hole. a knee was planted in the small of the prisoner's back, the point of the knife was under his right ear, and martin was saying, in quite understandable german: "if you move or speak, i'll cut your throat!" the words have a brutal sound, but it does not pay to be squeamish on such occasions, and the german language adapts itself naturally to phrases of the kind. sergeant mason had to solve his own problem by a different method. the quarry chanced to be leaning forward at the moment a vicious tug accelerated his progress. as a result, he fell on top of the hunter, and there was nothing for it but the knife. a ghastly squeal was barely stifled by the englishman's hand over the victim's mouth. at thirty yards, or thereabouts, and coming from a deep hole, the noise might have been a grunt. nevertheless, it reached the german trench. "wer da?" hissed a voice, and martin heard the click of a machine-gun as it swung on its tripod. he did not fear the gun, which only meant a period of waiting while its bullets cracked overhead. what he did dread was a search party, as german majors are valuable birds, and must be safeguarded. the situation called for the desperate measure he took. the point of the knife entered his captive's neck, and he whispered: "tell your men they must keep quiet, or you die now!" he allowed the almost choking man to raise his head. the german knew that his life was forfeit if he did not obey the order. a certain gurgling, ever growing weaker, showed that his companion would soon be a corpse. "shut up, sheep's head!" he growled. it sufficed. that is the way german majors talk to their inferiors. the engineer sergeant wriggled nearer. "couldn't help it, sir," he breathed. "i had to give him one!" "go through him for papers and bring me his belt." within a minute the officer's hands were fastened behind his back. then he was permitted to rise and, after being duly warned, told to accompany mason. martin followed, and the three began the return journey. a german rocket bothered them once, but the german was quick as they to fall flat. evidently he was not minded to offer a target for marksmen on either side. soon mason was sent forward to warn the sentries. quarter of an hour after the episode in the shell hole martin, having come from the telephone, was examining his prisoner by the light of an electric torch in a dugout. "what is your name?" he inquired. "freiherr georg von struben, major of artillery," was the somewhat grandiloquent answer. "do you speak english?" "nod mooch." some long dormant chord of memory vibrated in martin's brain. he held the torch closer. von struben was a tall, well-built prussian. he smiled, meaning probably to make the best of a bad business. his face was soiled with clay and perspiration. a streak of blood had run from a slight cut over an eyebrow. but the white scar of an old saber wound, the outcome of a duelling bout in some university _burschenschaft_, creased down its center when he smiled. then martin knew. "fritz bauer!" he cried. the german started, though he recovered his self-control promptly. "you haf nod unterstant," he said. "i dell you my nem----" "that's all right, fritz," laughed martin. "you spoke good english when you were in elmsdale. you could fool me then into giving you valuable information for your precious scheme of invading england. now it's my turn! have you forgotten martin bolland?" blank incredulity yielded to evident fear in the other man's eyes. with obvious effort, he stiffened. "i was acting under orders, captain bolland," he said. "not bolland, but grant," laughed martin. "i, too, have changed my name, but for a more honorable reason." the words seemed to irritate von struben. "i did noding dishonorable," he protested. "i was dere by command. if it wasn't for your d--d fleet, i would have lodged once more in de elms eighdeen monds ago." "i know," said martin. "we found your map, the map which angèle stole because you wouldn't take her in the car the day we went on the moor." in all likelihood the prisoner's nerves were on edge. he had gone through a good deal since being hauled into the shell hole, and was by no means prepared for this display of intimate knowledge of his past career by the youthful looking briton who had manhandled him so effectually. be that as it may, he was so disconcerted by the mere allusion to angèle that a fantastic notion gripped martin. he pursued it at once. "we english are not quite such idiots as you like to imagine us, major," he went on, and so ready was his speech that the pause was hardly perceptible. "mrs. saumarez--or, describing her by her other name, the baroness von edelstein--was a far more dangerous person than you. it took time to run her to earth--you know what that means? when a fox is chased to a burrow by hounds--but our intelligence department sized her up correctly at last." now this was nothing more than the wildest guessing, a product of many a long talk with elsie, the vicar, and general grant during the early days of the war. but von struben was manifestly so ill at ease that he had to cover his discomfiture under a frown. "i have not seen de lady for ten years," he said. this disclaimer was needless. he had been wiser to have cursed angèle for purloining his map. "perhaps not. she avoided berlin. but you have heard of her." again was the former spy guilty of stupidity. he set his lips like a steel trap. doubtful what to say, he said nothing. martin nodded to sergeant mason. "just go through the major's pockets," he said. "you know what we want." mason's knowledge was precise. he left the prisoner his money, watch, pipe, and handkerchief. the remainder of his belongings were made up into a bundle. highly valuable treasure-trove was contained therein, the major having in his possession a detailed list of all arms in the fifty-seventh brandenburg division and a sketch of the trench system which it occupied. a glance showed martin that the fifty-seventh division lay directly in front. he turned to the subaltern whose dugout he was using and who had witnessed the foregoing scene in silence. "can you send a corporal's guard to d.h.q. in charge of the prisoner?" he asked. "certainly," said the other. "by the way, come outside and have a cigarette." cigarettes are not lighted in front-line communication trenches after nightfall--not by officers, at any rate--nor do second lieutenants address staff captains so flippantly. martin read something more into the invitation than appeared on the surface. he was right. "about this mrs. saumarez you spoke of just now," said the subaltern when they were beyond the closed door of the dugout. "is she the widow of one of our fellows, a hussar colonel?" "yes." "do you know she is living in paris?" "well, i heard some few years since that she was residing there." "she's there now. she runs a sort of hostel for youngsters on short leave. she's supposed to charge a small fee, but doesn't. and there's drinks galore for all comers. she's extraordinarily popular, of course, but i--er--well, one hates saying it. still, you made me sit up and take notice when you mentioned the intelligence department. mrs. saumarez has a wonderful acquaintance with the british front. she tells you things--don't you know--and one is led on to talk--sort of reciprocity, eh?" martin drew a deep breath. he almost dreaded putting the inevitable question. "is her daughter with her--a girl of twenty-one, named angèle?" "no. never heard mrs. saumarez so much as mention her." "thanks. we've done a good night's work, i fancy. and--this for yourself only--there may be a scrap to-morrow afternoon." "fine! i want to stretch my legs. been in this bally hole nine days. well, here's your corporal. good-night, sir." "good-night!" and martin trudged through the mud with sergeant mason behind von struben and the escort. chapter xxi nearing the end sixty hours elapsed before martin was able to unwrap the puttees from off his stiff legs and cut the laces of boots so caked with mud that he was too weary to untie them. in that time, as the official report put it, "enemy trenches extending from rue du bois to houplines, over a front of nearly three miles, were occupied to an average depth of one thousand yards, and our troops are now consolidating the new territory." a bald announcement, indeed! martin was one of the few who knew what it really meant. he had helped to organize the victory; he could sum up its costs. but this record is not a history of the war, nor even of one young soldier's share in it. martin himself has developed a literary style noteworthy for its simple directness. some day, if he survives, he may tell his own story. when the last of twelve hundred prisoners had been mustered in the grande place of armentières, when the attacking battalions had been relieved and the reserve artillery was shelling fritz's hastily formed gun positions, when the last ambulance wagon of the "special" division had sped over the _pavé_ to the base hospital at bailleul, martin thought he was free to go to bed. as a matter of fact, he was not. utterly spent, he had thrown himself on a cot and had slept the sleep of complete exhaustion for half an hour, when a brigade major discovered that "captain grant" was at liberty, and detailed him for an immediate inquiry. the facts were set forth on army form 122: "on the night of the 10th inst. a barrel of rum, delivered at brigade dump no. 35, was stolen or mislaid. it was last seen in trench 77. for investigation and report to d.a.q.m.g. 50th div." that barrel of rum will never be seen again, though it was destined to roll through reams of variously numbered army forms during many a week. but it did not disturb martin's slumbers. a brigadier general happened to hear his name given to an orderly. "who's that?" he inquired sharply. "grant, did you say?" "yes, sir," answered the brigade major. "don't be such a heaven-condemned idiot!" said the general, or, rather, he used words to that effect. "grant was all through that push. find some other fellow." brigade majors are necessarily inhuman. it is nothing to them what a man may have done--they think only of the next job. they are steeled alike to pity and reproach. this one was no exception among the tribe. he merely thumbed a list and said to the orderly: "give that chit to mr. fortescue." so a subaltern began the chase. he smelt the rum through a whole company of gordons, but the barrel lies hid a fathom deep in the mud of flanders. that same afternoon martin woke up, refreshed in mind and body. he secured a hot bath, "dolled up" in clean clothes, and strolled out to buy some socks from "madame," the famous frenchwoman who has kept her shop open in armentières throughout three years of shell fire. a yorkshire battalion was "standing at ease" in the street while their officers and color sergeants engaged in a wrangle about billets. the regiment had taken part in the "push" and bore the outward and visible signs of that inward grace which had carried them beyond the third line german trench. a lance corporal was playing "tipperary" on a mouth-organ. someone shouted: "give us 'home fires,' jim"--and "jim" ran a preliminary flourish before martin recognized the musician. "why, if it isn't jim bates!" he cried, advancing with outstretched hand. the lance corporal drew himself up and saluted. his brown skin reddened as he shook hands, for it is not every day that a staff captain greets one of the rank and file in such democratic fashion. "i'm main glad te see you, sir," he said. "i read of your promotion in t' _messenger_, an' we boys of t' owd spot were real pleased. we were, an' all." "you're keeping fit, i see," and martin's eye fell to a _pickelhaube_ tied to the sling of bates's rifle. "pretty well, sir," grinned bates. "i nearly had a relapse yesterday when that mine went up. did ye hear of it?" "if you mean the one they touched off at l'epinette farm, i saw it," said martin. "i was at the crossroads at the moment." "well, fancy that, sir! i couldn't ha' bin twenty yards from you." "queer things happen in war. do you remember mrs. saumarez's german chauffeur, a man named fritz bauer?" "quite well, sir." "we caught him in 'no man's land' three nights ago. he is a major now." jim was so astonished that his mouth opened, just as it would have done ten years earlier. "by gum!" he cried. "that takes it! an' it's hardly a month since i saw miss angèle in amiens." martin's pulse quickened. the mouth-organ in bates's hand brought him back at a bound to the night when he had forbidden jim to play for angèle's dancing. and with that memory came another thought. mrs. saumarez in paris--her daughter in amiens--why this devotion to such nerve centers of the war? "are you sure?" he said. "you would hardly recognize her. she is ten years older--a woman, not a child." bates laughed. he dropped his voice. "she was always a bit owd-fashioned, sir. i'm not mistakken. it kem about this way. it was her, right enough. our colonel's shover fell sick, so i took on the car for a week. one day i was waitin' outside the hotel dew nord at amiens when a french red cross auto drove up, an' out stepped miss angèle. i twigged her at once. i'd know them eyes of hers anywheres. she hopped into the hotel, walkin' like a ballet-dancer. hooiver, i goes up to her shover an' sez: 'pardonnay moy, but ain't that mees angèle saumarez?' he talked a lot--these frenchies always do--but i med out he didn't understand. so i parlay-vooed some more, and soon i got the hang of things. she's married now, an' i have her new name an' address in my kit-bag. but i remember 'em, all right. i can't pronounce 'em, but i can spell 'em." and lance corporal bates spelled: "la comtesse barthélemi de saint-ivoy, 2 bis, impasse fautet, rue blanche, paris." "it looks funny," went on jim anxiously, "but it's just as her shover wrote it." martin affected to treat this information lightly. "i'm exceedingly glad i came across you," he said. "how would you like to be a sergeant, jim?" bates grinned widely. "it's a lot more work, but it does mean better grub, sir," he confided. "very well. don't mention it to anyone, and i'll see what can be done. it shouldn't be difficult, since you've earned the first stripe already." martin found his brigadier at the mess. a few minutes' conversation with the great man led him to a greater in the person of the divisional general. yet a few more minutes of earnest talk, and he was in a car, bound for general grant's headquarters, which he reached late that night. it was long after midnight when the two retired, and the son's face was almost as worn and care-lined as the father's ere the discussion ended. few problems have been so baffling and none more dangerous to the allied armies in france than the german spy system. it was so perfect before the war, every possible combination of circumstances had been foreseen and provided against so fully, that the most thorough hunting out and ruthless punishment of enemy agents has failed to crush the organization. the snake has been scotched, but not killed. its venom is still potent. every officer on the staff and many senior regimental officers have been astounded time and again by the completeness and up-to-date nature of the information possessed by the germans. surprise attacks planned with the utmost secrecy have found enemy trenches held by packed reserves and swarming with additional machine-guns. newly established ammunition dépôts, carefully screened, have been bombed next day by aeroplanes and subjected to high-angle fire. troop movements by rail over long distances have become known, and their effect discounted. flanders, in particular, is a plague-spot of espionage which has cost britain an untold sacrifice of life and an almost immeasurable waste of effort. small wonder, then, that martin's forehead should be seamed with foreboding. if his suspicions, which his father shared, were justified, the french intelligence department would quickly determine the truth, and no power on earth could save angèle and her mother from a firing party. france knows her peril and stamps it out unflinchingly. of late, too, the british authorities adopt the same rigorous measures. the spy, man or woman, is shown no mercy. and now the whirligig of events had placed in martin's hands the question of life or death for mrs. saumarez and angèle. it was a loathsome burden. he rebelled against it. during the long run to paris his very soul writhed at the thought that fate was making him their executioner. he tried to steel his resolution by dwelling on the mischief they might have caused by thinking rather of the gallant comrades laid forever in the soil of france because of their murderous duplicity than of the woman who was once his friend, of the girl whose kisses had once thrilled him to the core. worst of all, both general grant and he himself felt some measure of responsibility for their failure to institute a searching inquiry as to mrs. saumarez's whereabouts when war broke out. but he was distraught and miserable. he had a notion--a well-founded one, as it transpired--that an approving general had recommended him for the military cross; but from all appearance he might have expected a letter from the war office announcing his dismissal from the service. at last, after a struggle which left him so broken that at a cordon near paris he was detained several minutes while a _sous-officier_ who did not like his looks communicated with a superior potentate, he made up his mind. whate'er befell, he would give angèle and her mother one chance. if they decided to take it, well and good. if not, they must face the cold-eyed inquisition of the quai d'orsay. luckily, as matters turned out, he elected to call on mrs. saumarez first. for one thing, her house in the rue henri was not far from a hotel on the champs elysées where he was known to the management; for another, he wished to run no risk of being outwitted by angèle. if she and her mother were guilty of the ineffable infamy of betraying both the country of their nationality and that which sheltered them they must be trapped so effectually as to leave no room for doubt. he was also fortunate in the fact that his soldier chauffeur, when given the choice, decided to wait and drive him to the rue henri. the man was candid as to his own plans for the evening. "when i put the car up i'll have a hot bath and go to bed, sir," he said. "i've not had five hours' sleep straight on end during the past three weeks, an' i know wot'll happen if i start hittin' it up around these bullyvards. me for the feathers at nine o'clock! so, if you don't mind, sir----" martin knew what the man meant. he wanted to be kept busy. one hour of enforced liberty implied the risk of meeting some hilarious comrades. even in paris, strict as the police regulations may be, britons from the front are able to sit up late, and the parties are seldom "dry." so officer and man removed some of the marks of a long journey, ate a good meal, and about eight o'clock arrived at mrs. saumarez's house. life might be convivial enough inside, but the place looked deserted, almost forbidding, externally. indeed, martin hesitated before pressing an electric bell and consulted a notebook to verify the street and number given him by the subaltern on the night von struben was captured. but he had not erred. his memory never failed. there could be no doubt but that his special gift in this direction had been responsible for a rapid promotion, since military training, on the mental side, depends largely on a letter-perfect accuracy of recollection. when he rang, however, the door opened at once. a bareheaded man in civilian attire, but looking most unlike a domestic, held aside a pair of heavy curtains which shut out the least ray of light from the hall. "_entrez, monsieur_," he said in reply to martin, after a sharp glance at the car and its driver. martin heard a latch click behind him. he passed on, to find himself before a sergeant of police seated at a table. three policemen stood near. "your name and rank, monsieur?" said this official. martin, though surprised, almost startled, by these preliminaries, answered promptly. the sergeant nodded to one of his aides. "take this gentleman upstairs," he said. "is there any mistake?" inquired martin. "i have come here to visit mrs. saumarez." "no mistake," said the sergeant. "follow that man, monsieur." assured now that some dramatic and wholly unexpected development had taken place, martin tried to gather his wits as he mounted to the first floor. there, in a shuttered drawing-room, he confronted a shrewd-looking man in mufti, to whom his guide handed a written slip sent by the sergeant. evidently, this was an official of some importance. "shall i speak english, captain grant?" he said, thrusting aside a pile of documents and clearing a space on the table at which he was busy. "well," said martin, smiling, "i imagine that your english is better than my french." he sat on a chair indicated by the frenchman. he put no questions. he guessed he was in the presence of a tragedy. "is mrs. saumarez a friend of yours?" began the stranger. "yes, in a sense." "have you seen her recently?" "not for ten years." obviously, this answer was disconcerting. it was evident, too, that martin's name was not on a typed list which the other man had scanned with a quick eye. martin determined to clear up an involved situation. "i take it that you are connected with the police department?" he said. "well, i have come from the british front at armentières to inquire into the uses to which this house has been put. a number of british officers have been entertained here. our people want to know why." he left it at that for the time being, but the frenchman's manner became perceptibly more friendly. "may i examine your papers?" he said. martin handed over the bundle of "permis de voyage," which everyone without exception must possess in order to move about the roads of western france in wartime. "ah!" said the official, his air changing now to one of marked relief, "this helps matters greatly. my name is duchesne, captain grant--gustave duchesne. i belong to the bureau de l'intérieur. so you people also have had your suspicions? there can be no doubt about it--the baroness von edelstein was a spy of the worst kind. the mischief that woman did was incalculable. of course, it was hopeless to look for any real preventive work in england before the war; but we were caught napping here. you see, the widow of a british officer, a lady who had the best of credentials, and whose means were ample, hardly came under review. she kept open house, and had lived in paris so long that her german origin was completely forgotten. in fact, the merest accident brought about her downfall." one of the policemen came in with a written memorandum, which m. duchesne read. "your chauffeur does not give information willingly," smiled the latter. "the sergeant had to threaten him with arrest before he would describe your journey to-day." it was clear that the authorities were taking nothing for granted where mrs. saumarez and her visitors were concerned. martin felt that he had stumbled to the lip of an abyss. at any rate, events were out of his hands now, and for that dispensation he was profoundly thankful. "i think i ought to tell you what i know of mrs. saumarez," he said. "i don't wish to do the unfortunate woman an injustice, and my facts are so nebulous----" "one moment, captain grant," interposed the frenchman. "you may feel less constraint if you hear that the baroness died this morning." "good heavens!" was martin's involuntary cry. "was she executed?" "no," said the other. "she forestalled justice by a couple of hours. the cause of death was heart failure. she was--intemperate. her daughter was with her at the end." "madame barthélemi de saint-ivoy!" "you know her, then?" "i met her in a yorkshire village at the same time as her mother. the other day, by chance, i ascertained her name and address from one of our village lads who recognized her in amiens about a month ago." "well, you were about to say----" martin had to put forth a physical effort to regain self-control. he plunged at once into the story of those early years. there was little to tell with regard to mrs. saumarez and angèle. "fritz bauer" was the chief personage, and he was now well on his way to a prison camp in england. monsieur duchesne was amused by the map episode in its latest phase. "and you were so blind that you took no action?" he commented dryly. "no. we saw, but were invincibly confident. my father sent the map to the intelligence department, with which he was connected until 1912, when he was given a command in the north. he and i believe now that someone in whitehall overlooked the connection between mrs. saumarez and an admitted spy. she had left england, and there was so much to do when war broke out." "ah! if only those people in london had written us!" "is the affair really so bad?" "bad! this wretched creature showed an ingenuity that was devilish. she deceived her own daughter. that is perfectly clear. the girl married a french officer after the battle of the marne, and, as we have every reason to believe, thought she had persuaded her mother to break off relations with her german friends. we know now that the baroness, left to her own devices, adopted a method of conveying information to the boches which almost defied detection. owing to her knowledge of the british army she was able to chat with your men on a plane of intimacy which no ordinary woman could command. she found out where certain brigades were stationed and what regiments composed them. she heard to what extent battalions were decimated. she knew what types of guns were in use and what improvements were coming along in caliber and range. she was told when men were suddenly recalled from leave, and where they were going. need i say what deductions the german staff could make from such facts?" "but how on earth could she convey the information in time to be of value?" "quite easily. there is one weak spot on our frontier--south of the german line. she wrote to an agent in pontarlier, and this man transmitted her notes across the swiss frontier. the rest was simple. she was caught by fate, not by us. years ago she employed a woman from tinchebrai as a nurse----" "françoise!" broke in martin. "exactly--françoise dupont. well, madame dupont died in 1913. but she had spoken of her former mistress to a nephew, and this man, a cripple, is now a paris postman. he is a sharp-witted peasant, and, as he grew in experience, was promoted gradually to more important districts. just a week ago he took on this very street, and when he saw the name recalled her aunt's statements about mrs. saumarez. he informed the sûreté at once. even then she gave us some trouble. her letters were printed, not written, and she could post them in out-of-the-way places. however, we trapped her within forty-eight hours. have you a battery of four 9.2's hidden in a wood three hundred meters north-west of pont ballot?" martin was so flabbergasted that he stammered. "that--is the sort of thing--we don't discuss--anywhere," he said. "naturally. it happens to be also the sort of thing which mrs. saumarez drew out of some too-talkative lieutenant of artillery. luckily, the fact has not crossed the border. we have the lady's notepaper and her secret signs, so are taking the liberty to supply the boches with intelligence more useful to us." "then you haven't grabbed the pontarlier man?" "not yet. we give him ten days. he has six left. when his time is up, the germans will have discovered that the wire has been tapped." martin forced the next question. "what of madame de saint-ivoy?" "her case is under consideration. she is working for the croix rouge. that is why she was in amiens. her husband has been recalled from verdun. he, by the way, is devoted to her, and she professes to hate all germans. thus far her record is clean." martin was glad to get out into the night air, though he had a strange notion that the quietude of the darkened paris streets was unreal--that the only reality lay yonder where the shells crashed and men burrowed like moles in the earth. his chauffeur saluted. "glad to see you, sir," said the man. "those blighters wanted to run me in." "no. it's all right. the police are doing good work. take me to the hotel. i'll follow your example and go to bed." martin's voice was weary. he was grateful to providence that he had been spared the ordeal which faced him when he entered the city. but the strain was heavier than he counted on, and he craved rest, even from tumultuous memories. before retiring, however, he wrote to elsie--guardedly, of course--but in sufficient detail that she should understand. next morning, making an early start, he guided the car up the rue blanche, as the north road could be reached by a slight detour. he saw the impasse fautet, and glanced at the drawn blinds of numéro 2 bis. in one of those rooms, he supposed, angèle was lying. he had resolved not to seek her out. when the war was over, and he and his wife visited paris, they could inquire for her. was she wholly innocent? he hoped so. somehow, he could not picture her as a spy. she was a disturbing influence, but her nature was not mean. at any rate, her mother's death would scare her effectually. it was a fine morning, clear, and not too cold. his spirits rose as the car sped along a good road, after the suburban traffic was left behind. the day's news was cheering. verdun was safe, the armentières "push" was an admitted gain, and the united states had reached the breaking point with germany. thank god, all would yet be well, and humanity would arise, blood-stained but triumphant, from the rack of torment on which it had been stretched by teuton oppression! "hit her up!" he said when the car had passed through crueil, and the next cordon was twenty miles ahead. the chauffeur stepped on the gas, and the pleasant panorama of france flew by like a land glimpsed in dreams. * * * * * every day in far-off elmsdale elsie would walk to the white house, or john and martha would visit the vicarage. if there was no letter, some crumb of comfort could be drawn from its absence. each morning, in both households, the first haunted glance was at the casualty lists in the newspapers. but none ever spoke of that, and elsie knew what she never told the old couple--that the thing really to be dreaded was a long white envelope from the war office, with "o.h.m.s." stamped across it, for the relatives of fallen officers are warned before the last sad item is printed. elsie lived at the vicarage. the elms was too roomy for herself and her baby boy, another martin bolland--such were the names given him at the christening font. so it came to pass that she and the vicar, accompanied by a nurse wheeling a perambulator, came to the white house with martin's letter. and, heinous as were mrs. saumarez's faults, unforgivable though her crime, they grieved for her, since her memory in the village had been, for the most part, one of a gracious and dignified woman. martha wiped her spectacles after reading the letter. the word "hotel" had a comforting sound. "it must ha' bin nice for t' lad te find hisself in a decent bed for a night," she said. then elsie's eyes filled with tears. "i only wish i had known he was there," she murmured. "why, honey?" "because, god help me, on one night, at least, i could have fallen asleep with the consciousness that he was safe!" she averted her face, and her slight, graceful body shook with an uncontrollable emotion. the vicar was so taken aback by this unlooked-for distress on elsie's part that his lips quivered and he dared not speak. but john bolland's huge hand rested lightly on the young wife's shoulder. "dinnat fret, lass," he said. "i feel it i' me bones that martin will come back te us. england needs such men, the whole wulld needs 'em, an' the lord, in his goodness, will see to it that they're spared. sometimes, when things are blackest, i liken mesen unto job; for job was a farmer an' bred stock, an' he was afflicted more than most. an' then i remember that the lord blessed the latter end of job, who died old and full of days; yet i shall die a broken man if martin is taken. o lord, my god, in thee do i put my trust!" the end transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. new fiction. +the forge in the forest.+ by professor charles g. d. roberts. with seven full-page illustrations by henry sandham, r.c.a. crown 8vo, 5s. an historical novel, of which the scene is laid in arcadia. +marcus warwick, atheist.+ by alice m. dale. post 8vo, 6s. deals with english criminal law. +a man of the moors.+ by halliwell sutcliffe, author of "the eleventh commandment," "a tragedy in grey," etc. post 8vo, 6s. a novel of the haworth country. +down by the suwanee river.+ by aubrey hopwood. post 8vo, 6s. a florida romance. london: kegan paul, trench, trübner & co., ltd. a man of the moors by halliwell sutcliffe author of "the eleventh commandment," "a tragedy in grey," etc. london kegan paul, trench, trübner & co., ltd. paternoster house, charing cross road 1897 (_the rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._) contents. chapter page i. the moor man comes back to his own 1 ii. the perversion of gabriel hirst 13 iii. a moor woman 28 iv. at the sign of the dog and grouse 37 v. concerning parsley and strong drink 45 vi. the rising wind 55 vii. 'twixt wynyates and ling crag 63 viii. kate strangeways asserts herself 72 ix. confession 81 x. the woman of sorrowstones spring 89 xi. the ghost of wynyates 95 xii. release 104 xiii. a moonlight introduction 110 xiv. frender's folly 123 xv. a home-coming 136 xvi. roddick's wife 145 xvii. in which mrs. lomax grows angry 152 xviii. the cutting of peats 161 xix. the link that bindeth man and wife 172 xx. the fight at the quarry edge 183 xxi. afterwards 198 xxii. white heather 207 xxiii. a "revival" 218 xxiv. a tale from the heart of the night 226 xxv. the beginning of the rift 236 xxvi. how they fought round the peat-rick 244 xxvii. the rift gapes wide 253 xxviii. janet 258 xxix. what the snowflakes fell upon 264 xxx. by way of wynyates 272 xxxi. the moor man goes out to his own 280 a man of the moors. chapter i. the moor man comes back to his own. joe strangeways the husband was called; and if roughness could make any man a diamond, then he was emphatically of the purest water. but, apart from his roughness, the untrained eye could detect few good qualities in him; his wife had searched, with tears and prayer, for any redeeming point in his character, and now, at the end of five years, she found herself further than ever from the goal. a harsh man he was, indifferent when not jealous, callous when not actively cruel: his speech was coarse, his voice harsh and raucous, and he was in a perpetual state of growing a beard--a thick, black scrub, as rough as his uncouth tongue. once a week he got very drunk, and his wife, before she learned to know the signs of the times and to prepare herself accordingly, was apt to suffer physical discomfort. kate strangeways, the wife, was in all things the opposite of her husband: strong, while he was blustering; sensitive, while he was callous; careful of speech and of her personal appearance, while he cared not a pipeful of shag for these things. she was of the fine moor breed, and she had grown up under the eye of the great god who dwells between the hill-summits and the clouds. why she had married joe strangeways, it would have been hard to say; his position as master-quarryman of the works at the edge of the moor was not one to tempt the recognized belle of a country that knew how to rear fine women; his manners did not atone in any way for deficiencies of appearance; her own folk were opposed to the marriage. perhaps it was just because he had everything against him that the woman in her drove her into his arms. if you leave the village of marshcotes behind you, and strike straight across the moor, at the end of three miles or so you will see a biggish house frowning down on you from the top of the ridge which divides the counties of yorkshire and lancashire. it had been a roystering spot once on a time, this peewit house, when a race of sturdy moor squireens held it; but the old breed had died out, and people were not eager, even in those days, to cross three miles of heath in search of a dwelling. joe strangeways had obtained a long lease of the place at a nominal rental; he liked to think his wife had no neighbours, for his cur-bred kind of jealousy resented the thought that she was able to hold converse with her fellows while he was away at the quarries. the tale of kate strangeways' life might have run so to the end, had it not been for a certain charitable old lady who lived in the manor house at the end of marshcotes village. mrs. lomax had the reputation of being mad; but, so long as her madness took the form of distributing money, wine, and food broadcast through the district, no one resented it. she certainly was eccentric, this gaunt old lady: she made a practice of walking at least ten miles every day of her life, winter and summer alike, and the habit had reduced her to an extraordinary leanness of person; her clothes were always too large for her, and her voice was harsh as a man's, through constant exposure to wind and rain. but she was a lady, and a soft-hearted one to boot, despite her gauntness and her shabbiness; and her one consuming pride lay in the fact that the lomaxes had held the manor since marshcotes was a village, a matter of some five hundred odd years. kate strangeways fell ill one spring, and mrs. lomax chanced to drop in during one of her lengthy walks. "h'm," observed the old lady, as she rose to take her leave, "you want fattening. good red port is the thing for you, and i shall bring you some to-morrow." "oh, there is nothing the matter with me!" protested the sick woman. "i won't think of your troubling." "now, my dear, you are falling a victim to pride, which is a bane. i have had my own way for sixty-three years, and i shall not submit to dictation from a child of twenty-five. you will see me again to-morrow." strangeways looked black when he heard of the visit; he had no pride in the matter of accepting good red port--he was, in fact, already drinking it in anticipation--but it was a shock to him to learn that mrs. lomax and his wife had seen as much of each other in the past as kate admitted, in a thoughtless moment, to have been the case. "keep thyseln to thyseln, and let other fowk do th' same!" he growled, betaking himself to the kitchen sink for a wash. hannah, the maid-of-all-work, was washing a dishcloth when strangeways entered; she was no friend of kate's, because they both happened to be women with wills of their own, and she never wearied of insinuating spokes into her mistress's wheel. "there's a sight o' fuss an' clatter, to my thinking, when some fowks is poorly," she said, settling her square jaw into firmer lines. "th' missus, just becos she feels a bit out o' sorts, like, gets a notion that she's going to dee: she mun hev this, an' she mun hev that, an' mrs. lummax, th' girt gawk, comes an' fal-lals her to th' top on her bent, till there's no doing nowt wi' her nohow. gie me a man to live wi', says i, what doesn't sicken becos his little finger hes a pimple on't." "hod thy din, woman, an' let me wash myseln!" muttered joe, thrusting her aside, and taking his place at the sink. hannah's little speech, however, had had its effect, and strangeways already found himself doubly aggrieved at the intrusion of mrs. lomax into his home. "there'll no good come on it," he said, as he buried his brawny arms in the soapsuds: "what does she, a lady born, want to mak free an' easy wi' my wife for? comes here for a cup o' tea now an' then, does she, when she gets tired o' trapesing about th' moor? well, i'll be heving summat to say to that i' a while." mrs. lomax, however, true to her word, brought a basket of good things to peewit house on the following morning; and the sight of two cobwebby bottles did much to put strangeways in a better humour, when he came home at the end of the day's work. after the tea-things had been removed, he settled himself in the ingle nook, lit his pipe, and took one of the bottles in his hand. "tha needs summat sustaining, lass," he observed, knocking the bottle-neck against the mantel-shelf; "an' happen i'll join thee, for fear tha should feel lonely, like." "you're not to drink it, joe; it was only meant just for a glass now and then, and i won't have mrs. lomax put on." "oh, tha willun't, willun't tha? we'll see about that," retorted joe, with grim levity. he reached down a pewter mug from the wall, filled it to the brim, and took a long gulp: then he passed it across to his wife, but she refused to touch it. as the evening wore on, joe grew mellow with the unaccustomed vintage; he opened the second bottle, and kate, having exhausted entreaty and abuse alike, left him in disgust. she locked the bedroom door, as her custom was at such times, and left her husband to pass the night as best he could. a few days later mrs. lomax dropped in again. "now, my dear, are you feeling any better for the wine?" she asked, in a voice that was more suited to a battle-field than to an invalid's room. "you're not looking one scrap better, at any rate. come, have you obeyed my orders?" kate flushed. "i--i don't care to drink it," she stammered. mrs. lomax glanced sharply at her; she had some acquaintance with joe strangeways' habits, and she read the situation aright. "you must. bring out a bottle this moment, and i shall watch you drink two glasses at the least." again the younger woman flushed, then grew pale with shame; she could answer nothing, with those two hawk-like eyes looking through and through her. the old lady's lips took to themselves a grim smile. "about what time does your husband return from his work?" she demanded. "he leaves the quarries at the half after five--but--you wouldn't be thinking of saying anything, mrs. lomax?" "that is just what i am thinking of, my dear; it is five o'clock now, and i have not walked as much as i should like to-day. i will go towards the quarries and give your husband a straightforward piece of my mind. no, you need offer no excuses for him; when i make up my mind to a thing, i make it up, and there is an end of it." and with this the old lady marched out at the door, her back stiffened, her right hand flourishing the belligerent-looking stick which was her inseparable companion. strangeways, crossing the dip in the moor this side the quarries, was aware of a bony figure, three inches his master in point of height, standing across his path. "joe strangeways, i want a word with you." joe thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and tried to assume an air of ease; but he did not feel at home with the situation. "well, here i stand, my masterful lady; i'm hearkening." "you have a wife who is a hundred times too good for you; she falls ill through no cause whatever but your treatment of her, and then--you drink the wine which i brought to strengthen her." "it's a lie!" cried joe, his face blackening. "is it a lie, joe strangeways?" said the old lady, that merciless eye of hers driving his own under shelter. there was a pause; then, "who telled ye?" he blurted out. "war it kate?" "no, it was not kate. you think me mad, you people hereabouts--oh yes, i know all about it--but, let me tell you, i can see as far as my neighbours into the heart of a stone wall. i am not a fool, my man, and i guessed well enough what would happen if a drunkard and a bottle came together." joe's face grew blacker than ever. he half removed one hairy fist from his pocket. "an' who are ye, i'd like to know, to come telling a man he's a drunkard?" mrs. lomax straightened herself and grasped her stick by the middle. "i am a woman who can support her own opinions. joe strangeways, i'm in two minds whether to give you a sound thrashing or not." strangeways became limp. his mind was not quick of movement, and this reversal of a natural law dazed his perceptions; the gaunt figure seemed to tower above him in a way that was uncanny--even terrifying. "i will let you go this time, for your wife's sake," went on the old lady, with grim pleasantry. "i will give you another chance; but, mark my words--if you touch the next bottle of port i bring, you will have to account to me for it." away she strode through the heather with that, and left the man agape with wonder. "begow," he muttered, "she's a limb of the devil, yon, an' proper." by the time he gained peewit house he had realized fully that he had been beaten by a woman, and a consuming hatred took him by the throat. "i'll be even wi' her yet--by god, i will!" he cried, as he stamped into the kitchen. but he left all succeeding bottles of port severely alone. kate strangeways got a little better when the summer came; but it was utter loss of heart from which she was suffering, and there are few cures for that complaint. joe had been gentler in his treatment of her since the interview with mrs. lomax, for the old lady was in and out of the house a great deal, and a superstitious awe of her was gaining on strangeways; the more he thought of her appearance on that memorable evening, the more was he disposed to accredit her with satanic powers--and joe, for all his bluster, was sorely afraid of the devil. they were cutting the aftermath in the upland meadows, and the heather was losing its purple, when mrs. lomax's son came home to marshcotes. griff lomax had made his way in the world by this time, as the hill-men are bound to do, once they can persuade themselves to seek the valleys. he had painted a score of pictures that had brought him popularity, and two which had earned him something more: kindly elders, whose opinions had not hardened into the grooves of their own little techniques, said great things of his future, and regarded even present performances with an instinctive laying-by of critical acumen; devoted youngsters, who kicked at the graver and loved the lighter paintings, urged him to bid for the academy and creep into the easy-chairs reserved for society pets. and these same easy-chairs had shown an alluring softness for awhile. after the rough-and-tumble fellowship of moor gales, there was a plausible imitation of comfort to griff in the tinkle of dainty tea-cups, the scent of delicate draperies, the mincing mock-profundity of clever young men and women who pelted their deepest passions with the mud of paradoxical phrasing. it was ten years now since he had set off for london, with a portfolio of crude moor sketches in his bag, and in his heart a measureless yearning to conquer something. what the something was, he neither knew nor cared to realize; perhaps he would win fame, perhaps love, or the gold that spelt "power"--but, whatever direction his more settled desires might take, he meant to conquer. the glare of the city-bound life, the eager running to and fro in a laden atmosphere, the desperate, thin-lipped eagerness to shut down a trap-door on all that made for dignity, or purpose, or enthusiasm--these things had dazzled him for awhile; he had learned the strange tongue with a quickness native to him, and he told himself from time to time that the wider life had opened before him. but deep under all this there was a still, small voice that would insist on a hearing now and then; it was a voice more powerful than conscience--the voice of an instinct--and it cursed him for a fool when he babbled of the wider life. for five hundred years the lomaxes, generation after generation, had grown to manhood with the taste of the peat in their mouths, and the quickening heath-winds in their vein; his london folly was the folly of those who build their houses on the lava of a sleeping volcano, and think themselves secure. it was this underlying sense of honesty that roused lomax, from time to time, to endeavours which were worthy of him; that made him expose rough edges, sudden elemental passions, to the startled gaze of the friends who thought they knew him. there was a little hothouse woman, named sybil ogilvie, who had chained him with silk, and who enjoyed what was to her merely a prudent flirtation with the tremulous zest of one who is teaching a half-tamed bear to dance. to lomax the affair was not a flirtation--and, if it were not love, it hurt him just as much as if it had been. mrs. ogilvie had a talent for drawing out all that was paltry in a man, and a genius for making him believe that she had touched his strongest passions. but the end had come at last. griff lomax began to be restless under his yoke, contemptuous of the butterfly canvases that won him flattery. the still, small voice of the moor grew louder; he yearned for the wide-eyed hill-spaces, where the heather was free to stretch away and away till it gained the far sky-line; the streets, the houses, the hurry and empty bustle of chattering crowds, grew nauseous. he had dwelt among the flesh-pots and loved them for a space, and had learned, once for all, the sorry wisdom they had at command. he saw at last--what his friends had seen from the first--that his passion for sybil ogilvie was a pitiful chase after moonbeams. without a word of good-bye to her, he packed up his things and set off for the north, and every swing of the coach set his heart beating faster, because it carried him nearer _home_. people had wondered at those two moor pictures of his, which had shown him capable of depth. they could not understand that indefinable something about them which set people's veins tingling as if they had been out in a gale from the fresh north-west. the painter knew, though, what that "something" was; he had come to the heath that had mothered him for more of it. and here he was, home again at the old manor house, aglow with the deep under-love of his own moor folk and his old moor life. he rushed into the manor hall like a whirlwind, and took that gaunt five-foot-ten of motherhood into his arms, and made just as much of her as his heart prompted. "yes, griff, you will do; you will do very well. i am proud of you," said mrs. lomax, standing away from him, and revelling in the sight of a son who found it necessary to stoop to the level of her lips. "and i am proud of you, mother--proud, too, of the moors that reared us both. you can't tell how _lifted_ i felt as i came up the rickety main street, with the old black bull at the top. mother, what fools people are! they wonder where i get my inspiration, and they would never believe if i told them." "it doesn't signify, griff; you and i know, don't we? now, how long are you going to give me? i don't mean to let you go under a month." "i want to winter here, if you will let me; a whole year i have been away, and now i am to have a spell of home." "thank you for that word _home_, dear. you are sound at the core, i think, griff." "but rotten in the rind, eh, mother? it sounds rather as if you meant that." again the old lady surveyed him critically. "no, you are moor-oak from bark to heart--in spite of the feeble women you have been painting lately. i wish your father were alive to see you, griff." "you'll turn my head, foolish mother. give me something to eat, instead of naming me in the same breath with father; it is a long stride to _that_." he followed her into the kitchen, with its polished dish-covers on the wall, its sand on the floor, its glorious old fireplace, big enough for ten ordinary fires. he teased rebecca, the cook, into mock indignation, as he had done time and again in years gone by. he tickled the tail of the tom-cat that lay dozing on the hearth, and laughed like a boy when the grizzled old fellow awoke and spat at him. "now, becky, i want a really square meal--a downright, yorkshire meal," he cried. "you have a remarkably fine ham there; down with it, and cut me some slices. as many eggs as you like. oat-cake, too--yes, i must have oat-cake and cheese to finish with. phew, mother, it's good to be back!" when the meal was over, and griff had smoked a couple of pipes in the ingle-nook; when the mother and he had fired off questions and answers at each other, and had taken joy of their being together once more, griff rose and bent over the old lady. "may i go out and have a chat with the moors? i won't be long away," he laughed. "of course, griff. i have no say in the matter, really, have i?" responded the mother, with a lover-like affectation of pique. "in that case i won't go." "nonsense, boy! off with you, and don't stay longer than you can help. will i come with you? certainly not! you want to have your chat in private; two's company, and i shall have my revenge when you return. away with you!" yes, griff did want his talk with the moor to be a private one. as he crossed the churchyard, and followed the path through a couple of pasture fields, and up the narrow lane that led to the first of the heather, he was full of anxious eagerness. would the old holy places be holy still? would that changeless, everlasting sweep of brown and grey speak to his heart as it once had done? he had been blind; he had roved among lighter allegiances--how if the moor were sick of his inconstancy, and would stretch out no hand of fellowship? but all that passed. the heath admits few to its friendship, but it never falters in its choice. as griff swung over the rise, past the rubble heaps thrown out by the quarries; as he saw the well-remembered undulations of heather and marsh-land and peat, he knew that he was taken home again. the old swift thrill ran through him: strength restrained, pathos that scorned to voice itself, roughness that hid a mighty, yearning tenderness--he understood it all, felt it all, as he had done in the days of his freedom. no words can touch this feeling a moor man has for his country; it is a religion he never seeks to express--a vitality that helps him to do his work in the world. up against the furthest sky-line, showing gallows-black athwart the sunset, stood the threefold timbers of a rotting crane, dismantled long ago when the quarry ceased working. perhaps no other details of the landscape seem more to express the whole than these gaunt creatures of wood: wherever a marshcotes man sets eye on a quarry-crane climbing into the sky, he thinks of the marshcotes moor and the soughing of wind through the heather. a fat old grouse got up as lomax approached, and winged its way towards the sunset. griff, wondering if he had forgotten his ancient cunning, dropped into a clump of crowberry bushes and imitated the call of the hen. soon a second cock grouse came whirring across the moor--but towards him this time, not away from him--and responded in a hoarse bass. griff tried his voice at all the signals--warning and invitation, desperate love and the preliminaries of a mere flirtation; and the cock bird was taken in by them all. griff laughed, in a round, wholesome way, as he rose to his feet again. it was only the london life that had passed away. he stood for a long while gazing into the wonderful sunset flames: from south to north the sweep of colour stretched itself, and a little north of west the half of a ruddy sun was taking its farewell of the heath. he watched till the red sun-rim had altogether gone, till the orange had faded to yellow, and the yellow to grey; till the dips in the moor plateau were filled with a mystical gloom which seemed to well upward from the peat, rather than downward from the sky; till the rotting crane, that stood on the verge of the under-world, grew ghostlike and dim as the twilight deepened to the hue of its own black timbers. and still the old love was the new. still the moor reached out a lover's arms to griff, and held him close to her breast. he was a moor man again. chapter ii. the perversion of gabriel hirst. a mile and a half due west of marshcotes, on the highroad that takes you straight to the lancashire border, lies another village--little more than an overgrown hamlet it is--which is just as compact as its neighbour is straggling. marshcotes runs down one hill and up another, branching off into queer little streets on the way: but ling crag stands square to the moor-top winds, and gets a sight of the sun long after the shelter-seeking marshcotes houses are greying with twilight. to this day they are a people to themselves, the villagers of ling crag, and, though you come but a league's distance from their boundaries, they account you a foreigner. slow to speak well of a neighbour, and quick to help him in need; keen as can be when a bargain is toward; more respectful to their conceptions of tangible, everyday duty than to class distinctions; assured, beyond reach of doubt or argument, that their village is the hub of the universe--of such sort are the people of ling crag. a generation or two ago, however, they were a rougher folk than now, leading rougher lives. a soul-searching, hell-fearing methodism was the dominant note of their existence; and methodism has ever since been a vital force with them, though it has changed with the change it has wrought in the people. with their rugged strength, their fearlessness of purpose, it was only natural that religion, when first it came into the midst of their wild, strenuous lives, should fit itself in a measure to the soil. they were harsh by example of the winds and the storms that had reared them, generation after generation, and the religion that sought to teach them must also be harsh in its precepts. so their preachers went in and out, and spoke the language of the folk they had to deal with, and led them, little by little, into the quieter places of charity and long-suffering. but ling crag was young to religion then, and fear was the larger part of their faith. they were much addicted to superstition, too, these upland folk; and when they sinned, they sinned with groanings of the spirit and retrospective shakings of the head at the old adam who was responsible for it all. there is one biggish house in ling crag, planted down shoulder to shoulder with its cottage neighbours. it stands on the right hand of the road as you come from marshcotes; the strip of front garden, with its boundary wall, round-topped and sombre, gives it an air that narrowly escapes haughtiness by contrast with the other dwellings in the hamlet. the hirsts had lived here almost as long as the lomaxes had held marshcotes manor. they were roysterers once, and the family fortunes were like to evaporate in cards and drink and horseflesh, when old tom hirst, luckily for his only son, "took religion"--took it whole-heartedly: he pondered hourly upon his latter end, and fell to crying loud "amens" in ebenezer chapel whenever a gathering was toward, and laboured hard to bring up gabriel, the child of his old age, in the way of godliness. gabriel was born just when the reformation heat was strongest, and old hirst, in the choice of his son's name, thought to hall-mark him for life with the brand of piety. at ten the boy had already learned to believe himself singled out by the almighty, with peculiar care, for the receipt of punishment; had learnt to pray against the lusts of the flesh; had learnt to feel himself the loathliest and most persistent sinner of all god's creatures. as he grew up, he trained himself more and more to pit his gaining strength against the devil, and wrestled mightily by night and day. old tom died, and his wife followed him a twelvemonth after; and gabriel, each time that he stood by the grave-side in the wind-swept burial-ground, longed to bury his own flesh also out of sight; the worms of earth, it seemed to him, were gentler than that other worm that dieth not, and longer life meant but a longer space in which to sin. but heaven shut its ears to his prayers, and would not give him that coveted six-by-three of rest. he walked in perpetual fear--a fear that sometimes wrung the sweat from his body--and could lay his hands to nothing; he could only stride restlessly across the sheep-tracks of the moor, or ride like a madman along the naked upland highways. he avoided chapel and the society of his fellows, feeling himself a leper among clean men; he was like to go mad from isolation and self-commune. it was then that the wesleyan minister at marshcotes got hold of him, and drew him a comforting picture of the joys of being saved. he went to a revival; he heard men and women all about him crying on god that they were saved--others groaning in the throes of their final wrestling-bout with the adversary--others again laughing with hysterical delight. his soul kindled to the spiritual fire. he felt himself lifted on mighty pinions; the sound of swinging chants of praise was in his ears, the swirl of countless rushing angels fanned his cheeks. he closed his eyes, and a great sob broke from him. he was saved. from that day onward he began to preach; his long experience of such sort of fight lent him substance for his sermons, and his inborn strenuousness of character made an orator of him. he did not join the regular ministry, but became established as a local preacher. his fame, little by little, grew big among the congregations of such chapels as lay on the line of his quarterly circuit, till in time "gabriel hirst" grew to be a name to conjure with. all marshcotes and cranshaw, every scattered hamlet for miles around, knew gabriel "by sight and by speech," and the ling crag folk were mightily proud of their preacher. things have altered with methodism since then, but in those days it was a matter of course that gabriel should have a special band of admirers who would go as far even as ludworth to hear him preach on a sunday morning. so devoted, indeed, was the preacher's "following," that it was much as if he had a regular congregation of his own; whether he held forth in ling crag or marshcotes, ludworth or cranshaw, always the same knot of familiars grouped themselves round the chapel doors after service, and estimated to a nicety the amount of gabriel's recent inspiration. indeed, when the fire of certain newly-roused passions began to drive him into the wilderness, the change might be gauged with tolerable accuracy by listening to such comments on his sermons. if a young man were reluctant to amend his ways, or a maiden showed herself over-flighty, gabriel hirst's sermons were the infallible remedy. he could invoke the thunders of god, and paint hell-fire, with greater vigour than any of his fellows, and even the most careless of sinners quailed before his description of the judgment in store for them. perhaps the maidens of ling crag were less satisfied with the preacher than his piety warranted. he was well off, "straight set up," and had good looks of a rugged kind. had he asked one of them to marry him, she would probably have given favourable consideration to the proposal. but gabriel scarcely seemed to understand that they were women. they might don their best hats and infuse rough coquetry into their glances, but he was not aware of it; they were just fellow-sufferers with himself in a world whose keynote was original sin, and they gained interest in his eyes only through the effort that was necessary to keep them in the right path. yet, underneath it all, gabriel hirst had the faults and the virtues of his own folk developed to their furthest extremes. the old moor blood, pagan to its last drop, was quick in his veins. reared to the conviction that he had a "call," he strove night and day to keep the spirit working within him, strove to deaden the voice of the moor wind at his ear and the cry of remoter fathers in his heart. he was a strong man, and a passionate man, and for the five years since his first sermon he had, with an energy almost savage, forced his strength into the service of his religion. for the rest, gabriel was a gentleman farmer, who delegated most of his work in this direction to one jose binns, a godly, lean-flanked man, who was wont to class betty his wife, the master, and the uncertainty of hay-crops, all as dire responsibilities sent to him by the lord as a punishment for his overwhelming sinfulness. yet jose managed the farm excellently, and was a rare hand at "selling or swopping a beäst." griff lomax and the preacher had run about the countryside together as boys, and many a time of late, when lomax came home to the manor for his brief spells of holiday, gabriel had striven to save him as a brand from the burning. london, the devil, and an artistic life were synonymous to gabriel hirst, and it was torture to him to think that the friend of his boyhood was going the way of perdition. he loved griff, now that they had left boyhood well behind, with a certain wild adoration which no effort could stifle; and, just as he prayed his hardest and painted hell in its most vivid colours when the yearning for freedom was strongest upon him, so he would avoid lomax for a week at a time, would refuse to walk across to marshcotes in search of him until he was persuaded that he had a genuine call to attempt conversion once again. on the friday after griff's return for the winter, the preacher caught sight of him at a bend of the road that ran from marshcotes to ling crag. he hastily slipped under shelter of a barn and let him pass. he dared not go out to meet him, because the desire was too strong upon him; but when he reached home, and learned from betty binns, his housekeeper, that griff had been in search of him, he sorrowed over the meeting which he had lost of his own free will. then he dined off tea and dry bread, lest the adversary should turn stronger food to his own ends, and set off in the rain, and walked the moors for six hours. when he returned, his sunday morning's sermon was prepared. with sunday the short michaelmas summer began; the clouds had been squeezed dry of rain, and the morning was clear and fresh. gabriel was down on the circuit plan to preach both morning and evening at the ling crag chapel. he preached for fifty minutes in the morning--preached himself into a frenzy--thundered and bellowed and cried from the little pulpit of unpolished deal, until his hearers felt the leaven of damnation working to their finger-tips. "eh, but it war grand, grand!" passed from mouth to mouth, as the congregation gathered round the door after service. the softer sort of methodists were to be found here and there; but these rarely lifted their voices after service, being quiet men and women who did not care to entangle themselves in argument. this morning, however, the harsher spirits were not having things all their own way. old jose binns had just had his say about the sermon. "there's a deal o comfort i' listening to the likes o' yon," he had said, in his tone of grudging praise. "ye could see by th' face on him 'at t' sperrit war moving him, an' proper. there's not a mony like gabriel hereabouts." "he can preach, can th' lad, an' there's no denying it," spoke up a tall, spare man on the outskirts of the group. "but's he's ower young, to my thinking, to ponder so mich on th' dark side o' this world an' th' next, an' niver gie us a taste o' th' gooid there is about. he mud be softer by th' half, an' niver be th' war for't." old binns screwed up his mouth a shade tighter. "we're hard folk up here, ebenezer, an' softness is nowt i' our way." "hard folk we be, an' all th' more call there is for a bit o' softness now an' again. if religion warn't gi'en us to soften our hearts, what mak o' use is't, jose binns?" "ay, ay, tha'rt right there," chimed in another voice. "ye mark my words, lads. i'm fourscore year an' ower, an' i've seen what i've seen, an' i tell ye, there'll a day come when all this shutting up o' th' gooid side o' human natur--fair as if 'twere summat to be shamed on--'ull pass away for gooid an' all. ye willun't listen to th' preachers 'at wants to leäd instead o' frightening ye, though we've a mony as 'ud be glad for ye to hear 'em. ye mun ha' nowt but judgment an' wrath, an' ye willun't bide owt softer. what do gabriel hirst know o' th' better side o' things? he's nobbut a kittling yet, as hes niver known th' love of a woman." "shame on thee, shame on thee!" growled jose binns. "an old man like thee to be talking o' love an' sich-like lightness, when a man o' god has just been telling thee to shun th' sinful flesh an' all its warks. dost call thyseln a methodist?" "ay, lad; i call myseln a methodist, an' there's nowt i' th' doctrine what forbids a man to see th' gooid i' hisseln as well as th' bad. thee bide till th' little pracher hes getten his hand round th' heft of a straight love for a woman--they're th' best that god has gi'en us, is women, when all's said--an' tha'll find his praching summat godlier, like, nor it hes been." "women!" said jose binns, turning down the corners of his wry old mouth. "women's better nor th' men, ony way," put in mrs. binns, sharply. "an' what call hast tha, jose, to go making fooil's faces at thy own wedded wife? i've a mind to dress thy jacket for thee, that i hev." old binns retreated into the background a little; he no longer felt a prophet in his own country. and a laugh went up from the group, and they fell to talking of this and that, in a hushed, sabbath fashion. but the preacher saw no one, heard no one. he staggered out of the graveyard and into the road. he turned through an open gate on his left, and crossed some scanty, sheep-shaven pasture land; the half-starved sheep looked blankly at him, and a bare-ribbed cow stared at him in surprise over a neighbouring wall. gabriel hirst awoke to reality; he saw the sunlight on the ridges, and the warm shadows in the hollows; he felt the fresh wind on his face; he heard the call of a linnet from a village garden behind him: and one and all were agony to the would-be man of god. he felt himself full of the lusts of the flesh--a vague, idealistic flesh whose boundaries were infinite, whose sinfulness knew no limits; he could not understand the sunshine, save as a light to search out his own evil-doing; and he magnified his worthlessness, because he could remember no tangible sin by which to reduce his wild imaginings to a sober standard. he went through a gap in the wall which confronted him, and stood looking dreamily down on a little wooded dell, through which a moor stream bubbled its way to the river. on a sudden his body grew rigid, his eyes lost their glow of introspection and fixed themselves on a rounded basin of the stream. a girl was paddling in the water, and was singing a love-ballad, in a rich, south-country voice that contrasted oddly with her northern surroundings. the preacher pressed one hand close upon his heart, and let his eyes note the slender lines of the girl's figure, fast ripening towards womanhood. she seemed fresh and sweet as the wind and sun and water that played with her. gabriel hirst looked at the lassie's face, and his pulses leaped to a new delight. he lost his rigid set of body, and stretched out both arms wide to the moors; this was his apology for past misrepresentations. down the steep hillside he went, stumbling into rabbit-holes, pricking his ankles with thistle-needles, falling and picking himself up again. the girl became aware of an intruder: she glanced up the hill, and left the water, and seated herself on a pine-log that lay beside the stream. by the time that gabriel hirst had reached the brook and jumped it, her little white feet were safely under cover. he stopped; the inspiration that had led him here was at an end, and he had no knowledge of the things that young men say to maidens. "why didn't you turn back when you saw me?" demanded the girl. a red flush, of shame and anger mixed, had risen to her cheeks. not a word spoke gabriel hirst. his late fervour at the chapel, his lifetime of repression and battling against the vital part of himself, seemed to have been swept clear away; he could do nothing but wonder at this new-found form of grace. she laughed, a little, musical, defiant laugh. "i thought i was safe for a good half-hour yet, mr. hirst. you keep them so long at chapel when you preach, and i counted on that. besides, i was only watching the path up the dene; no one ever comes the way you came just now." he winced, and the girl laughed again. "i--i preached for close on an hour," he said slowly. "gracious! i'm glad i was not there. but is it really so late? time seems to pass so quickly, when one is being a sinner." "_a sinner!_" gasped the preacher. it had been so clear, a moment ago, that sin was at an end; and now the old battle-cries were beginning to ring in his ears; they clashed with that rounded, human laugh. "did you preach well?" she asked, after a pause. there was irony in her tones. the preacher passed a hand across his eyes, and shuddered. "i--thought so--at the time," he murmured. "ah, well, i have missed something, then. some day--when the sunshine is gone--i am coming to hear you. you are in love with hell, aren't you?" in that moment gabriel feared, not for his retreating faith, but for the girl's safety. the years were slow to loosen their hold on him, and he could not see how impiety--childish though it was--could escape the summary vengeance of heaven. but nothing happened to the girl-woman who was seated on the pine-log, her feet gathered under her skirts; and the preacher breathed more freely. old habit rushed in, and the words slipped out of his mouth. "greta rotherson," said he, "are you prepared to die? have you ever thought of eternal flames----" "ready to die? not a bit. i'm much too fond of life." gabriel hirst could find no answer. but he looked at her face, and he knew she could _mean_ no wrong. "can i come to see you?" he said abruptly. "come to see us? yes. we are dull in this stupid village of yours, where every one looks on us with suspicion, just because we come from the south. but--mr. hirst--you won't mind my saying something?" her tone was graver now, almost supplicating. "father doesn't want to be converted, and he won't see you if you insist upon it. do you understand? come just as a friend, and talk like--like a man." without knowing it, she had protruded one white and coral foot beyond the protecting skirt. gabriel hirst saw it, and stood irresolute. then he cried--a bitter, stifled cry, as of a dumb creature in pain--and raced for his life down the bank. at the end of the wood he ran into the arms of griff lomax. "hallo, what brings you here? why, man, you look as if you had seen a ghost!" cried griff. the preacher was not so strong as he once had been. tea and bread, his exclusive diet for days at a time, were beginning to tell on him. the excitement of the sermon, the more violent frenzy that had followed it, the clean pair of heels which he had finally shown to temptation, all had their effect. he was breathless, and the sweat was trickling down his face. his body was shaking as with ague. he leaned heavily against a gate; griff saw that his eyes looked hunted. "i've lost my ghosts, lomax," he said brokenly. "they were what i lived by; my father handed them down to me, and i never thought to let them go. i can't see them any more, griff--the spirit coming down with a sweep of wings, and the avenging angel with a bloody sword in his hands, and the red hell flames licking at the unclean lips of the evil doers. they're lost--all lost." he left the gate and began to pace up and down the path. lomax put a strong arm through his. "you're talking nonsense, old fellow!" he said quietly. the preacher grew calmer for a while; the muscular grip on his arm, and the big voice telling him not to be a fool, gave him a childish feeling of security. he let his friend take him up through the wood and out among the moors on the other side; he opened his mouth wide and drank in great gulps of the wind. then, on a sudden, he remembered the full measure of his sinning, and he shut his mouth with a click, and he groaned in bitterness of spirit. "griff," he said gravely, "you don't know what i've done. i came out of the chapel wrestling with the devil: man, i could hear god rebuking me for my sins one minute and cheering me on to the fight the next. and then--i fell away. i saw a woman's face, and i lost every other thought, and i tumbled down the hillside like a madman." lomax gave a low mutter of surprise; he glanced sharply at the other's face, and saw that remorse was cutting deep furrows across the brow and beneath the eyes. "but that is not the worst," went on the preacher, with desperate calm. "i listened to the woman's voice, talking of hell as if--as if it was a joke, almost; _and i felt no anger_. i was only afraid that heaven would strike her dead, and take her out of my reach. man, it's fearful, fearful! i tried to rebuke her--when fear for her life had passed--but the words might as well have come out of a tin kettle, for all the heart that went with them. i can't believe any longer, lomax." the preacher's agony was so real, and it was all about so trifling a matter from his friend's standpoint, that griff could have laughed aloud. that a man should have come to hirst's age, and be frightened by one overmastering impulse of love--surely there was something absurdly askew in it. but he did not laugh: he just tightened his grip of the other's arm, and-"gabriel hirst," said he, "you've been preaching too much and eating too little. you're going to listen to me now, whether you like it or not. i take my painting about as seriously as you take your religion; i eat it, and live it, and breathe it every moment of my life." the preacher made a faint murmur of protest, but griff's hand crushed it out of him, still-born. "sometimes, old fellow, i paint too much, just as you have been preaching too much; and i _lose my faith in art_. i go about like a lunatic, and i think perdition has found me at last." "perdition has never had far to seek for you, and more's the pity." gabriel hirst was beginning to tingle with fight again--which was just what the other wanted. "not _my_ perdition; that only comes near when i've been playing the fool with myself. i try not to be a muff at these times, hirst; i go out, and walk or ride, till i can do nothing but stumble into bed and sleep the clock round. i generally get up _healthy_." "you mean--you mean that i'm being a muff?" asked the preacher, in surprise. there was no resentment in his tones. "yes; that's just about it. have you to preach to-night?" "i have; though god knows i'm not fit to do it." "then straight home you come with me. mother will look to it that you don't feed off skim-milk and a crust of bread. you'll preach to-night, hirst--better than ever you did in your life." again the preacher tried to fight, but he was exhausted; he could only follow the lead of this overmastering pagan. mrs. lomax was sitting down to dinner when they came in. "i had given you up, griff," she said. "you are never to be depended on when once you get to the moors, and i was too hungry to wait. gabriel, i am glad to see you; what have you been doing to your face? it looks like an old man's." "he's been fasting, mother, and overworking himself. i put him in your hands; i don't think you will let him starve, much as he wants to." "no, i don't think i shall," responded the old lady, grimly. gabriel hirst's father and griff's father had been close friends; dissimilarity of outlook upon every aspect of life had brought them together, just as it had brought the sons together. on both counts--the son's and the father's--mrs. lomax was warmly disposed towards gabriel. so he sat down, and ate meekly, as he was bidden, of strong meat and apple-pie and cheese. he drank two glasses of good red port; fain would he have asserted himself on this matter, but mrs. lomax reminded him of timothy, and he was altogether too bewildered to do battle on a point of scripture. greta rotherson, when the preacher disappeared at the corner of the wood, had laughed a little, and frowned a good deal, and had finally put on her stockings and boots. "i wish he had never come," she cried. "it is such a quiet nook, and no one has disturbed me before. i like gabriel hirst, though, for all his hardness and his dangling of hell before poor old father's eyes. _hardness?_" she laughed again at that, softly and musically; for she remembered how the preacher had looked at her a few minutes ago. "he only wants taking in hand by--by a woman who isn't afraid; he's not a fool at the bottom of him." then she tossed her hair back from her forehead and went briskly up the wooded cleft of the hills, until she reached a weather-stained corn-mill. the great wooden wheel was creaking intermittently on its axle, as if the jar and fret of work-a-day motion were more to its liking than this enforced sabbath rest. old rotherson, the miller, with his iron-grey hair and shrewd, clean-shaven face, was smoking a churchwarden pipe at his door; the bees had deserted the heather once more in favour of his bit of a garden, and a peacock-butterfly was sunning itself on the house wall. it was hard to believe that the storm-god had his temple so near to this sheltered cranny of the moors. "well, greta, lass, have you paddled to your heart's content?" cried the old man, as his daughter came in sight. "yes, father--and a little more. gabriel hirst came down the hillside before i had finished, and he would stop to talk. i had to sit on a log with my legs tucked up under me, and i nearly got cramp before i rid myself of him." the miller chuckled quietly to his churchwarden. "he'd never have noticed, child, so you might have spared yourself the trouble. was he as sour as ever?" greta turned her head to watch the peacock butterfly on the wall. her dimpled cheeks grew rosy. "not quite, father. he wanted to know if he could come to see us." "lass, lass, i wish folks would let a man's soul alone. what did you say?" groaned the miller. "that we were proof against conversion, and sick of it. that he might come as a friend if he cared to, and we'd give him a hearty welcome." "good, good!" muttered the old man, approvingly. "but i doubt him, greta; he'll never be able to keep his tongue off that subject for long." "well, we shall see. there's nancy, father, coming to tell us that dinner is ready. i'm ready, too; put down your pipe, dear." when gabriel hirst mounted the pulpit of ebenezer chapel that evening, he felt none of the old red-hot lava of damnation rising to his lips; he was strangely calm, and at peace with this world and the next; the thought of little children was running, like a silver thread, through every working of his mind. decent food and a couple of glasses of honest wine had much to do with it; re-action after his two wild extremes of the morning counted for a good deal; but more powerful than either had been those two hours he spent at marshcotes manor, under the influence of griff's cheery optimism and mrs. lomax's sane, practical grip of things. he was just about to give out his text when there was a clatter of hob-nailed boots on the stone floor, and he saw old binns, who was caretaker of the little chapel, showing greta rotherson into a seat near the pulpit. for one moment his heart leaped into his mouth, and he thought that it would be impossible to get the words out; but he looked at greta steadily, and his passion of the morning was gone, and he wondered that the girl's presence should seem to round off some hitherto incomplete ideas. as griff had prophesied, he preached better than he had ever done in his life: there was no wild denunciation, no fever-heat of appeal, as in other sermons; it was all clear, and crisp, and kindly; above all, it was convincing. greta rotherson paused now and then, on her way out of chapel, to hear the scattered comments of the villagers. some were glad of the glimpse which had been given them of a better life than their daily round of hardness and care afforded. others did not like their preacher under his new aspect; they had too long been supplied with strong stuff to descend willingly to fare on which only women and children could be expected to thrive. "well, i'm saying that gabriel hirst is noan th' man he war this morning," said one. "he's like as he's lost all fire; not a word o' warm hell-fire did he gie us, an' that's noan like gabriel." "thee hod thy whisht for a while," broke in another. "he war powerful moved this morning, an' it doan't stan' to reason 'at th' sperrit will wark i' a man fro' morn to neet. let him bide; he'll ingather some thunder o' th' lord afore another week comes round." "ay, but summat hes come to gabriel sin' th' morning," said an old woman, with a dry laugh. "i see'd him forebye th' owd corn-mill after his preaching so fine and large about th' lusts o' t' flesh. miller rotherson's daughter--ye marked her i' chapel mebbe, to-neet?--war alongside of him, and he war just gaäping an' gaäping at her doll's face of a woman. gabriel is noan th' man he war, to my thinking." "well, now, i did think this morning, while he war fair agate wi' his praching, an' th' words came out as thick as chaff at threshing-time, i did think he warn't exactly what he hed been. ay, ay, it's a sad to-do when a man o' god goes speering after a pretty wench. an' her noan ling crag born, nawther. nay, i misdoubt th' lad, i' th' latter end. may the almighty keep me from women, and pardon all my sins, amen." "th' women'll see to that for theirseln, ephraim; doan't thee put thyseln about," chimed in an irreverent youngster from the rear. greta rotherson had passed out of earshot before the old woman launched her tit-bit of gossip, and she went home with a smile on her face. she was wondering at the change in the preacher--and thinking of that look on his face when first she came out of the water and sat on the pine-log with her little white feet tucked up under her dress. chapter iii. a moor woman. griff lomax bethought him, early on monday morning, that his friend the preacher would be better for a little more of the same treatment to which he had subjected him yesterday. he found gabriel just coming down the stairs. "well, old fellow, how are things with you to-day? you're late down, at any rate, and that means you have slept." "ay, like a child," said the preacher, with a half-rueful, half-ashamed air. "like a child, griff--and that after i'd sinned grievously against the lord." "confound it, man," laughed griff, "i wish i could drive it into you that you're a poorer hand at sinning than most of us. just you tell yourself, hirst, that the lord has a pretty handful to look after, and that he can't spare you the exclusive attention you seem to count on: i should be ashamed to expect it, myself." "griff, lad, don't make mock; try to soften your heart to the lord, and his ways will come clear to you." the preacher's voice was tender. his yesterday's excitement had left him weak, and his heart turned to lomax with a mixed feeling that the lad was at once a tower of strength and a weak unbeliever. "i don't mock in my heart, and you know it, hirst. but i want to kick some of the nonsense out of you, and that's the truth of it. now, i'm going to watch you eat your breakfast: what is there on the table? humph! three slices of bread and butter, and tea--the tea is unconscionably weak, too, by the look of it." "here--i say, griff--what are you going to do?" cried gabriel, as his visitor strode out of the room, and across the stone flags of the hall. lomax, however, was in the kitchen by this time. the housekeeper was ironing one of gabriel's coarse cotton shirts. "betty binns," said the intruder, "do you call yourself a woman of sense?" mrs. binns fairly gasped at that. it was bad enough that young lomax should march into her kitchen without permission, but that he should forthwith give battle to her in this foolhardy way--"well, it did beät all." "if so be as i'm not, i'm ower old to learn!" she retorted, waiting till her opponent should give her some sure ground for combat. griff, spoiling for one of his old-time fights with the redoubtable betty, put on just that air of smiling effrontery which most annoyed her. "a woman is as old as she looks, mrs. binns, and there's heaps of time yet for you to learn." "tak your fal-lal lunnon manners to them as wants 'em!" snorted mrs. binns, viciously laying to on the wristbands of the shirt, and glaring bellicosely at the intruder. she broke a button during the process--a piece of carelessness which did not tend to soothe her ruffled feelings. "all right; i'm off in a moment. what i wanted to say to you was just this--a woman of sense would never let her master starve as you do. gabriel hirst will die before long, if he goes on with these precious slops you give him, and his death will be at your door." this was an aspect of the situation which had not occurred to betty. she was not going to confess as much, though, so she merely growled an invitation to lomax to go on with what he had to say. "just put a pan of water on the fire, and a couple of good fresh eggs in the pan--no, you can put four. i've breakfasted already, but i'll start again by way of example." "an' who gave ye leave, if i may mak so bold as to axe to come lording it i' _my_ kitchen?" "no one; but i'm here all the same. you don't know the food a strong man needs, and i've come to teach you." betty binns was in two minds whether she should throw her iron at griff's head; but she restrained herself, and tried her hand at grim satire instead. "th' maister is a man o' god, mr. lummax, which _tha'll_ niver be nohow tha tries. it's nobbut likely he should want his vittals different fro' other fowks's." "the more he's a man of god, the more strength he needs to fight the devil.--now come, mrs. binns, we've had many a set-to in times gone by, and i'll acknowledge you generally have the best of it: won't you do my way this once?" he was talking sense now, betty could not but admit. of course she always had the best of it--it took something more than a mere man to vanquish betty binns--and she always had said "there war summat she liked i' th' lad;" and perhaps he was not as far wrong on this occasion as bothersome men-folk generally were. "well, happen ye've hit on a bit o' common sense once i' a while. th' maister, he do look main poorly when th' sperrit keeps strong meät out on him. ay, well, well, we'll be seeing." lomax chuckled at the overthrow of betty binns; he had expected more fight from her. truth to tell, however, the housekeeper had been sorely bothered of late to see gabriel growing leaner and leaner; he was a solid, square-built man, as his father had been before him, when nature had her own way, but his increasing mania for slops was playing havoc with him. so that betty was really a good deal relieved to find an ally in young lomax. "didn't i say you were a woman of sound sense?" said griff, with barefaced disregard of his first statement. "you're jolly fond of me, too, betty, under all that bluster of yours." betty raised a rolling-pin from the table, and pursued her tormentor as far as the kitchen door. "and, betty, as you love me," he said, by way of a last parthian shot, "make a couple of rounds of buttered toast. you will, won't you?" "i'll lay this about your lugs," retorted betty, brandishing her weapon, "if ye're not off in a brace o' shakes." gabriel hirst was standing by the window when griff returned. "well, what have you been doing?" he demanded. "oh, nothing. i felt a bit hungry after the walk from marshcotes, and i asked mrs. binns to boil four eggs." "i thought you'd had breakfast, or i should have offered it long ago." "i have had one, but i intend to tackle another. two eggs for me, two for you; a round of toast each. your betty binns isn't half the sport she was, gabriel; she gives in like a lamb." "he's a gooid for naught, is griff lummax," muttered betty, as she cut the bread and held it before the fire; "but there's summat i like about him; ay, i willun't deny 'at he hes a way wi' him." gabriel made a last stand when the eggs were set down before him with a clatter. "you don't know, griff, how religion takes a man; he wants to be always subduing, subduing, and it's a fearful sin to pamper the carnal body." "fiddlesticks! you look after your body, and the lord will look after your soul; play the fool with your body a year or two longer, and you'll begin to wonder whether you have a soul at all." "but, griff--john the baptist lived on locusts and wild honey, and----" "you're not john, though, and you happen to have some one to look after you. chip that egg." gabriel obeyed meekly, though he sorely doubted griff's way of putting things. he ate with a relish, however, and at the end of it lomax got to the real subject in hand. "what about this girl? who is she?" he asked abruptly. the preacher flushed. "all last night i was dreaming of her, and that was why i slept so quietly: i forgot that it was the flesh, and we went over the moor together till we got to the thorntop road. she was more like a spirit than a woman, and her eyes were as quiet and deep and far away as the stars. i whispered, 'greta,' and she took my head to her breast, and 'hush!' she said; 'the fight is over and done with, and the reward is here.' griff, man, it's hard, hard, coming back to the sin." griff watched him curiously. the innocence of this broad-shouldered man, his childish outspokenness--he could not tell whether more to pity or admire them. "greta? it doesn't sound like one of the names hereabouts. who is she, gabriel?" "greta rotherson. she lives at the corn-mill in hazel dene." "what? is some one running the old mill again? it was standing when i left here last year." "yes; miller rotherson came from the low country in the spring, saw the mill, and bought it out of hand. you should hit it off, you and he; many's the time i've sought to save his soul alive, but he always has the one answer. 'give it up, mr. hirst,' says he. 'some men were made to take religion, as your saying is, and some were not; and there's about the end of it. i don't need it, and i couldn't take it if i tried from now till doomsday.'" griff smiled; he recognized a kindred spirit. "did you ever try to convert the daughter?" he asked, after a pause. again the preacher flushed, and the lines on his face deepened. "i've been thinking that over, and it seems as though that fit of mine was not a matter of yesterday, nor the day before nor the day before that. it's been coming on a long while, griff, though i never guessed it till i saw her, winsome as a fairy, paddling in the beck. i _did_ try to convert her, just once; but the words wouldn't come, and when she laughed, with a kind of coo at the tail of her voice, i fell soft and hadn't the heart to upbraid her. ay, griff, it's been coming this long while." "and the best thing that has come to you since you were born," cried lomax, cheerily. "what with the girl, and enough to eat, and a rap over the knuckles now and then from me--for old times' sake, you know--we'll make a moor man of you yet, gabriel. do you ever feel the swish of a gale making you drunk?" for a moment the preacher yielded to that storm-suggestion; his whole face lit up, his eyes sparkled. "yes, drunk. when the heather lies low against the peat, and the rain belches out of the sky--it's almost like freedom at times." "you'll do," growled lomax. the light went out of gabriel's eyes. "but it's the old adam; it has to be beaten under." "i wish you'd let your old adam alone a bit, gabriel. he's not half as bad as some who followed him. come for a ride to-night; the moon is at full, and lassie is eating her head off in the stable." "yes, i'll come. it's good to have you back again, griff." "as good as to be back? i doubt it. i must be off now, anyway, or that mother of mine will be seeking me with a hunting-crop; i promised to take her for a walk this morning. it's a pity about the mill, gabriel; i used to bathe regularly in the stream, and there is an end of that now; i was coming for a bathe when you ran into me yesterday." "shall you be going to see miller rotherson?" asked gabriel, wistfully, as they stood at the gate. "of course, old fellow, if only to give him a helping hand; you're a terrible chap when you set your mind on conversion." "because if--if you liked me to go with you--i know them, you see." "yes, i see," smiled griff. "all right; i'll call for you on the way." the preacher's brow was clouded as he went back through the fading stocks and asters that lined the garden path. "just the same, just the same," he muttered; "when you're serious, a devil of passion, and when you're gay, a scoffer. but, god knows, lad, how i love you!" "i'm late, mother," said griff, rushing into the manor parlour at his usual hurricane speed. "old gabriel has been in a poor sort of way, lately, and i had to bully him. where are we going to-day?" "anywhere you like, griff. let us take the first path we come to, and go straight ahead. we won't bind ourselves to anything." every day since he returned, the mother and griff had had a long walk together. the man's zest for the moors was increasing apace; the more heather he got, the more he wanted, and the two of them found so much to talk about, that kate strangeways, the quarry-master's wife, went clean out of the old lady's head. their cross-country tramp this morning, however, chanced to bring them in sight of peewit house. "were you ever in that house up there?" asked mrs. lomax. "never; but i have often thought of exploring it. who lives there? some one must do, as there is smoke coming out of the chimney." "the worst-assorted couple you can imagine; a husband who ought to be horse-whipped every day of his life, and a wife who is, in my judgment, as fine a woman as i know anywhere. i want to drop in, by the way; mrs. strangeways has been ill for a long while, and i stop for a chat now and then. will you come?" "of course i will. i happen to be in search of a type of the genuine moor woman, too, and perhaps she will oblige me." "griff, griff! always on the hunt for people to dip your brush into. i sometimes wish you were not quite so full of your work." "it's all right, mother," laughed the other, as he made her take advantage of his arm up the side of the brae; "i try to keep a tight hand on it, and only let it out when it _ought_ to be let out." but the laugh died on his lips: they were close to the bit of intake that guarded peewit from the moor, and kate strangeways was leaning over the gate. griff had dreamed of that pure-bred moor woman of his for many a year, and it seemed to him that he had found her at last in the flesh; she had the lissom strength of figure, the lips that were clear-cut for tenderness or scorn, the resolute hazel eyes, all just as he had imagined them. "mother, she is beautiful!" he whispered. the old lady looked hard at him; then laughed, a dry, uncertain laugh. "let her be just a type, griff, dear; don't dwell too much on the flesh and blood." once the first shock of surprise was over, lomax was disposed to laugh at himself touching his half-second of emotion. he warmed to the thought of canvas and palette; he saw fine capabilities in the handling of this moor woman by a man who had the same peat salt in his fibres. "well, mother, i have my chance at last," he said, as they came away. "that type is absolutely new in art; i can only pray that i may not spoil her in the drawing." her laugh had no uneasiness in it now; she saw that kate strangeways, the actual, had very little to do with that swift light of enthusiasm on griff's face. "if you are a very good boy, i may bring you again--but i warn you that her husband is jealous; are you afraid for your skin, griff?" "not i; i would not forego that model if there were fifty husbands, each with a hundred jealousies. when will you bring me again?" "just like your father, just! you must take life at a gallop. we will see; perhaps at the end of the week." when joe strangeways went to the kitchen sink that night for his evening wash, hannah, the maid of all work, took care to be at hand. hannah had lost no whit of her spite against her mistress, and she saw that something was to be made out of that morning's visit. "it's a doiting bird 'at leaves its nest for another," she observed, polishing a knife on a leather board. "if tha's getten owt to say, speak up, lass, an' doan't go dithering an' mumbling to thyseln." "mrs. lummax war playing th' grand lady here again the morn." "oh, she war, war she? a limb o' th' devil, i call her, and a limb o' th' devil i say she is, choose who hears me. hast 'a nowt else to say?" "she warn't by herseln. that long-legged son of hers came along wi' her. seems like as if he fancies hisseln, thinks hisseln fearful fine, wi' his lunnon slithery spache; he'd mak a likely pair o' tongs, yon, i'm thinking." "lang i' th' leg an' short i' th' heäd, as t' saying is," chuckled joe. "what wod my fine gentleman be after, think ye?" hannah tossed her head, and her thin black hair stood up straight from her forehead in token of outraged scruples. "what should fine gentlemen be after, when they cross three miles o' moor to see a man's wife--and him away all th' day at th' quarries? some fowk are fearful slow to see which way their noses point." joe reflectively washed the soap-suds from his face and buried his head in a towel. he was indebted to hannah for a suggestion that might bear fruit in the near future. chapter iv. at the sign of the dog and grouse. the bar of the dog and grouse hostelry at ling crag was very noisy on wednesday night. the serving-maid was beginning to show signs of temper, for orders were being hurled at her with confusing rapidity, and with reiterated requests that she should hurry. from the girl's snappishness, and the density of the tobacco-smoke that filled the bar, an _habitué_ of the inn could have guessed the time--close upon ten o'clock--with almost as much certainty as if he had used the ordinary form of chronometer. the clatter of mugs, the burr of weather-roughened voices, ceased on a sudden. the men took their pipes from their mouths and gaped interrogatories one at the other. for they had heard a horse ridden up to the door at a gallop, and a stamp of feet on the sanded floor, and an abrupt demand on the part of some unknown male to see the landlord. "begow, there's summat agate!" said a burly carter. "what dost think it mud be, jim?" "nay, how should i know?" muttered jim, scratching his head. "there's summat i' th' wind, for sure, but it's noan for me to say what it mud be." "murder, happen, or high treason, an' yon's a constable chap come i' search o' th' fugitive!" this suggestion, made with an air of wise importance, came from the village cobbler. a thrill went through the company. murder was a fearsome thing, yet they knew exactly what it was; but that ingenious touch of the cobbler's set their minds working on an unknown quantity. high treason might mean anything, and, "if it war, so to say, at their own doorstuns, a man mun look to hisseln and not be ower rash wi' his tongue." so, in wonder and trepidation, they crowded to the door of the bar, the less valiant peeping over the shoulders, or between the arms, of their comrades in front. one and all felt aggrieved when the stranger, who was still standing in the passage, showed himself to be much like other men. he wore no special dress, save the customary one of a gentleman who has reached his destination on horseback, and there was about him no trace of any peculiar odour, such as might have been associated with high treason or other of the black arts. furthermore, when the landlord at last stepped in from the mistal at the rear of the house, he was met by the commonplace request that he would get ready a room for the night. by dint of setting the serving-maid to sleep on a sofa downstairs--her ruffled temper was not soothed by the inconvenience--the landlord was able to oblige his guest, and the horse was led round to the stables. the company in the bar returned to their mugs. they felt hurt that the stranger had offered so little excitement, though the cobbler hinted darkly that, when a man fell quiet-like and tried his hardest not to make a fuss, it was a safe thing to suspect him of having some deep-laid project on hand. perhaps the cobbler was right; but the stranger's plans, whatever they might be, seemed to be confined just now to the matter of substantial food. "something hot, landlord, and plenty of it!" he said briskly. "i've ridden twenty miles since my last meal." "right, sir; i'll see to it. will ye have it in this little room here, sir, or in th' kitchen? th' kitchen is a sight snugger, and it's none ower warm at neets for th' time o' year." "the kitchen, by all means. this way? don't be long with the cooking, my friend, or i shall starve." the stranger, who certainly found the ling crag temperature none too high on this night of early september, retired to the ingle-nook after supper, and lit a pipe. ten sounded across the valley from marshcotes parish church, and the occupants of the bar slouched out one by one; each, as he reached the passage, turned his eyes towards the kitchen. "what's his business, think ye?" murmured dick the cobbler. the landlord, with his hand on the street door, grinned pleasantly. "tha'rt a sight too curious, dicky. maybe he's some sort of a land-agent--squire daneholme's, happen. i remember, now i come to think, tha wert boasting a neet or two back about a matter of a hare--tha'd best be keeping a quiet tongue in thy heäd, dick the cobbler." "begow!" said dick, laying an arm on his host's sleeve. "dost 'a think that?" "out ye get, the lot of ye! do ye think i want constable lee i' my public, an' th' magistrates on friday?" cried boniface, not heeding dick's frightened appeal. "constable lee knows which side on his mug th' beer is, and i'm thinking he'll noan be hard on ye," put in one of the departing crowd. the landlord joined in the laugh that followed, and locked his door for the night. "he's a bit of a softy, is cobbler dick," he observed. "they're a sight too thin-skinned, this younger breed o' poachers. well, well, i'd like to know, myseln, what the gent's business might be." the landlord felt that he had a right to be the first recipient of any news whatsoever; for was he not named jack o' ling crag, and had he not the reputation of being able to see further into the heart of a haystack than any man in the parish? they are much given, these dwellers on the uplands, to naming a man after the house or cottage in which he lives; and since the dog and grouse was in a sense--the most cheerful possible sense--the representative building of the village, jack was accredited with the proudest surname a man could have up there. and before another hour had passed, jack did become partially enlightened as to the stranger's object in coming to ling crag. his visitor asked him to join him in a pipe, and he sat down on the other side of the hearth. they talked of indifferent topics for awhile--the crops, the grouse shooting, the fishing in scartop water--until the stranger turned abruptly in his seat. "do you know of a house to let anywhere near? i want to be out on the moors, and yet not too far from a village like this of yours." "it's a bit o' shooiting, likely, ye'd be after?" insinuated the host. the stranger paused a moment before replying, and smiled a little to himself. "yes, that's just what i want--some good shooting. any house will do, but it must have shooting attached to it." the landlord already had his eye on exactly the place required, but he was not disposed to give away the situation too lightly; he felt that ling crag ought to uphold its motto of "keeping itseln to itseln." "there's none too many houses hereabouts," he observed slowly; "and what there is is fearful sought after." "are they, now? i should have thought, being so far away from a town, and----" "ay, sir, but--begging your pardon--it's a fine thing to be able to say ye come fro' ling crag: there's a sort o' respect goes with th' name in fowks's minds, an' we stay on here fro' generation to generation, seeing as how we could nobbut exchange for th' war. an' that maks houses scarce, like." the stranger, beginning to understand his man better, laughed easily. "i shall try to be worthy of the honour, landlord, if you'll only find me the house." the host rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then slapped his thigh with a great show of impromptu delight. "now that's queer; all th' time ye've been talking i niver once thought o' wynyates hall. why, it's just th' place for ye, sir; two score acre o' shooiting, an' a regular old-fashioned sort o' house--just such as th' painter chaps come for to paint." "that sounds all right. how far is it from here?" "a mile an' a bittock; an' a good highroad from there to here. first ye pass scartop water--as i was telling ye about--an' then ye come right to wynyates hall, standing i' a bit o' wood of its own, wi' th' moors just aboon. oh, ay, it's a grand place, is wynyates!" "any houses near?" "well, there's what we call wynyates hamlet a quarter-mile away, but it's nowt mich to crack on--just a two or three cottages an' a farm or so." "it is to let, is it, this wynyates hall?" "ay, it's to let right enow, sir. but i mind me there's some queer tales abroad; happen ye're not feared o' ghosts?" a shadow passed over the stranger's face, and seemed more at home there than his previous air of cheery carelessness. "ghosts?" he muttered. "i've got too many of my own to be afraid of other people's." his face cleared again, and he laughed a denial at his host. but the grizzled old man shook his head doubtfully. "best not laugh at 'em, sir, an' that's my belief," he said gravely. "there's been some fearful goings-on up at wynyates. two brothers there war lived up at th' hall, an' they'd been trained in a school ye don't find i' these ower-eddicated days. ay, they war of th' owd breed, for sure; as lusty an' devil-paced limbs as ye'd light on th' countryside through." "you seem to be rather proud of them, if one may judge from the look in your eyes," said the stranger, breaking into a reflective pause on the part of his host. boniface chuckled. "well, the fact is, sir, they war a tidy pair at th' poaching, an' my heart allus did go out to a poacher, god bless 'em! i war fifty, an' they war nobbut a bit th' wrang side o' thirty i' those days, but i could teach 'em nowt--nowt at all. sakes alive, they hadn't no call to poach! they'd plenty o' brass an' land o' their own; but it war just i' th' blood, so to say, an' they did it for plain love o' sport. ay, they war likely chaps, them two." "and what was the end of them? end there must have been, or wynyates would not be to let." "to tell ye t' truth, sir, i doan't like to speak on it. they war i' drink one neet--summat about a woman, for young 'uns will be youngs 'uns th' world ower----" "you're right there," interrupted the stranger, and shut his lips down on his tell-tale mouth. his companion glanced shrewdly at him, but made no comment. "as i war saying, they war i' their cups, an' they fell a-fighting. th' younger he shied a brandy-bottle, an' caught t' other fair on th' forehead, an' killed him deäd as a door-nail. then he hanged hisseln to one o' th' parlour rafters, an' that war th' end of th' owd family. ay, sad, sad, for sure; but they war bonny lads at a bit o' poaching." "and their ghosts haunt the old hall?" "so fowks say, an' i've no reason to doubt it. dirt cheap th' owd place is going; for them two brothers, being ling crag born, doan't part in a hurry, an' they mak it fair too hot to bide in for them as comes to live there." "they won't trouble me, at any rate. it will be a little excitement. what sort of ghosts are they?" the landlord frowned on the other's levity, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "they do say--and what am i to deny it?--that th' ghost o' th' brandy-bottle is th' hardest to bear; it shooits up i' th' air, an' dithers around, an' then strikes t' other ghost so as to bring a bloody stream from his forehead.--but idle chaps will allus be telling idle tales," he finished, replenishing his pipe. the discrepancy between the opening of his speech and the finish was easily accounted for. pride in the village ghost had led him on to wax eloquent in description, but monetary interest induced him not to put hindrances in the way of a good bargain. doubtless there would be pickings for himself if his guest took wynyates hall. a long silence followed. "ye come fro' th' low country, i'm thinking?" said boniface at length. "from--from the low country?" repeated the stranger. "ay--from t' south, as some fowk call it." "oh, yes, i'm from the south." "i thowt as mich fro' your spache. happen, then, ye'll know miller rotherson, what's ta'en th' mill i' hazel dene?" "no, i don't know him." the stranger was trying to realize a new point of view. evidently the people of ling crag regarded themselves as one village, and the rest of england as another. they expected all south-country people to know each other, just as the landlord here knew betty binns, or gabriel hirst, or dick the cobbler. such isolation took the stranger's breath away. another silence. "i mind me that th' agent what looks after wynyates hall--an' a sight more property, too--comes here to-morrow to collect th' rents," said the landlord. "him an' ye might come to an agreement." "i think we might. what time is he due?" "fro' nooin onwards to six o' th' clock." "very well. call me at nine, will you, and give me bacon and eggs for breakfast. it's high time we turned in." the stranger took his candle and slowly mounted the stairs. as he went, he muttered softly to himself, "such isolation--it is fatuous--it is magnificent. i have come to the right kind of place. gossips, of course; but so there are everywhere. do i know miller rotherson from the low country? ha, ha!" a draught at the stair-head blew out his candle, but the door of his room stood open, and a flood of moonlight came across the landing to show the way. he did not trouble to relight the candle, but clashed the door to after him and went to the uncurtained window. he had a clear view across the moors; one after another the dark rises swept to the broken sky-line, striding the misty hollows, till his eye caught that queer sense of _endlessness_ which the moor people know from their birth. his face went grey as he watched, and through the greyness leaped a wild expectancy. like a boy this man of forty stretched out his arms to the heath, and talked as if it had ears to hear him. "janet--i wonder if you're there. in the heart of the moor, you told me--it must be down in one of those white hollows." then he paused, and his voice went out again in one yearning cry of "janet!" the stranger pulled himself together. he laughed bitterly, as men do who have once safely passed these things and find it hard to have to go back again. then he kicked off his boots, undressed, and lay for an hour on his back, watching the moon through the window. _one_ boomed from marshcotes church, and every hollow of the moors seemed to catch the sound, to pass it on, till the heath was to the already dozing man one everlasting succession of striking clocks. "get to sleep, you fool!" he muttered drowsily. "curse the bells--they sound uncanny; it'll be long before they ring for _that_ wedding. god knows she's taken the heart clean out of my body--_one_, _one_, _one_; curse the bells!" chapter v. concerning parsley and strong drink. at eight of the next evening, griff lomax was surprised by a visit from the preacher--surprised, because only a few hours ago they had parted at the end of a long ride together. gabriel wore an air of clumsy craftiness which sat laughably ill upon him. "it's time you paid your respects at the mill, don't you think?" he said, shifting from foot to foot. "oh, the wind blows there, does it?" laughed griff, noting that the preacher's face was more carefully shaven than usual, and that he wore a shirt of fine linen. "i know them, griff, and you don't. it seems but neighbourly to go together." "you saw her this afternoon, i fancy? gabriel, boy, you're in a bad way. i have work to do; can't you wait till to-morrow?" lomax was in a teasing humour, and refused to take the preacher's--or any other--matters seriously. "well, of course--if you can't come," murmured gabriel, with crestfallen looks. "he can come, gabriel; and, what is more, i shall see that he does," said mrs. lomax, who had entered unobserved. griff had given her a hint as to how matters stood, and the old lady was entirely of her son's mind, "that it would make a man of gabriel." griff took his mother in both arms and lifted her as if she had been a baby. "oh, you threaten me, little mother, do you?" cried he looking fierce. "griff, what a boy you are--put me down again. i shall never be able to train you properly," she added whimsically. "i can't learn the trick of being angry with you." "honour thy father and thy mother," murmured gabriel hirst, scandalized for the hundredth time by griff's relations with the old lady. "i wish griff was more respectful." the end of it was, of course, that lomax set off with his friend. through the churchyard they gained the moor, and thence struck across to the foot of ling crag village. the last of the sunset was dying over the heath, and something in the aspect of that well-loved country of his touched an inner chord in the preacher. "it's sweet and clean, griff," he said presently. "it seems to be telling me not to take shame if----" he broke off there, and griff supplied finish and answer alike in his brief, "you can believe it, hirst." they crossed the stile on their left, and pushed up the darkening valley. the stream brawled beside them; from a farm on the crest of the ridge came the clatter of milking-pails and the guttural cries of the farmer's men. the tail of a stiff west wind blew down the dene, and gabriel hirst, for a few brief moments, threw his sins to the breeze and let it make what it would of them. but his heart misgave him when they stood at miller rotherson's door. the maid was long in responding to his knock, and his disquietude grew almost to a panic; he would have turned and fled, had he been alone. then, after nancy had admitted them and shown them into the parlour where the miller was smoking his pipe, gabriel could find no word to say, and lomax had to take the initiative. old rotherson took stock of the stranger, decided that he liked the hang of him, and declared it was downright neighbourly to pay him a call in this way. "well," laughed griff, "apart from anything else, i was curious to see the man who could make dene mill pay. when i was last at home the old place had been unlet for years, and people said that the big millers near the towns had it all their own way nowadays." "and there was no room for the smaller men, they told you? oh, yes, they told me that tale, too, when i started here. they were wrong, mr. lomax. i said, the first time i saw the mill, that a man who could let all that water-power run to waste, day in and day out, deserved to starve. i trusted a little in providence, and a good deal in my own head, and i got the place dirt cheap on a long lease. i supply half the countryside now, and am bidding fair to secure the other half. the big towns are too far from marshcotes and ling crag and the scattered farmhouses that hug the moor." "providence, mr. rotherson----" gabriel began, then stopped. his spiritual arguments grew tangled, for his carnal ear had detected the swish-swish of skirts along the passage. "so this is gabriel's lady," thought lomax, as greta came in, with a pretty bashfulness that suited her well. "there seems more excuse for his lunacy than there did." "this is my little girl, mr. lomax," said the miller, with an explanatory wave of his churchwarden pipe. gabriel hirst watched the girl's unformed bow, and the shy uplifting of her eyes to griff's. a sudden pang struck through him, taking him unawares. not till this moment had he seen his friend in the light of a possible rival. greta was perverse to-night. instinctively she fell to comparing the little points of manner, dress, speech, in which the two men differed. she grew angry with the preacher for compelling such comparison; now and then she blushed for gabriel hirst, as she had not blushed when he came upon her with her little bare feet paddling in the water. she had taken the only vacant chair, which chanced to be close to griff's: hirst sat by the miller at the other side of the room, and tried to talk, listening eagerly the while for scraps of the conversation that was passing between the other two. "and how do you like our wild country?" asked griff, by way of making idle chit-chat. gabriel was in the middle of a polemical discussion with old rotherson, but he paused for greta's answer. she glanced across at the preacher and saw that he was listening. "well enough," she said, with a toss of the head. "but the people are like the country--rather too wild, don't you think?" the preacher writhed in his chair; it was a girl's unbalanced coquetry, yet it cut straight to his simple heart. and the two on the other side of the fireplace went on with their light talk, and greta let no chance of a stab go by, knowing well that the man who presumed to care for her would hear her every word. lomax, seeing by the man's face how things were going, strove to lead his companion into quieter channels; but her wit was nimble, and, no matter what the topic might be, she made it good for a covert gibe at gabriel. "greta, lass, it's about time we had some glasses in," said the miller at length. "smoking's dry work without a drop of whisky to help it down. you take a dram now and then, mr. lomax?" "that i do." "i thought you looked that sort, somehow," said the miller, with an involuntary glance at gabriel. when the whisky had been brought in, with icy, beaded water from the well-spring just without the house door; when old rotherson had allowed his guest to mix him a glass, and had entreated him, with a jovial twinkle, "not to drown the miller;" when griff had helped himself to a liberal half-and-half, which the strength of his head warranted--it occurred to lomax to effect a redistribution of seats. gabriel, seeing him hovering vaguely on the outskirts of the hearthrug, at length divined that he had an opportunity of sitting beside the girl; he moved clumsily across the floor, and greta frowned as she watched him. "i was at chapel on sunday night," she observed. "so i saw. did you--did you----" "like your sermon?" she finished demurely. "i suppose i did, only--i was disappointed. you have such a reputation for--wildness--and i wanted to hear you really inspired." the miller caught her words. "greta, don't be so forward with your tongue. it isn't fair to badger a man on a week-day about the work he does on sunday." "but mr. hirst badgers people on a week-day, father, about the things they _don't_ do on sunday. it's only tit for tat." "god knows i mean it for the best," muttered gabriel, too low for any but greta to hear. she glanced at him, and dropped her air of mockery. a softer light came into her grey eyes. then again she looked across the hearth, and saw how at home the two men were with their pipes and glasses; and back her eyes travelled to the preacher, in his ill-cut clothes of black, glooming there with neither pipe in his mouth nor glass at his side, his hands sitting lonely on his knees. "if only he weren't such a _woman_," she murmured, and rose to bid them all good night. gabriel sat in his corner, after she had gone, without word or motion. he felt like one who has sold his soul to the devil, and been cheated of his price at the end of it all. where was the swift enthusiasm for the word that had braced him to ten years of fervid preaching? gone. where was his feud with the flesh? swallowed up in the depths of two grey eyes. what had he gained? scorn that was harder to bear than sin, mockery which no wrestling with the adversary had taught him how to parry. griff, meanwhile, talked glibly to the miller, hoping to cover his friend's moroseness. "there is land attached to the mill yet? do you farm it, as your predecessor did?" old rotherson smiled grimly. "yes, i farm it--after a fashion. but it's sadly like trying to skin a flint, as the saying goes. you've a hard country up here, mr. lomax." "for grass, yes. but we're fine when it comes to growing heather." "and what good is heather, i'd like to know?" quoth the practical miller. "it will make a broom to sweep my floors with, but what else can you do with it? there's one other thing that grows well hereabouts, though; one of my fields is as full as it will hold of parsley, and i can't make it out. never a bit of parsley-seed have i sown; yet up it comes as if the seed had been raining from the sky." griff chuckled, and his host glanced at him inquiringly. "hares are very fond of parsley; wonderfully fond," murmured the younger man, with a sly look in his eyes. "well, so they are. only last night i was looking out of my bedroom window, and i counted five all at once in the field. but that doesn't help me to know how the parsley came there." "it _is_ curious," said griff. but he hinted never a word of the old-time nights when he and jack o' ling crag had gone out salting their neighbours' fields with parsley-seed. they rambled on from this topic to that, till they were startled by a mighty sob that came from across the hearth. gabriel hirst, wrapped all this while in his own miserable thoughts, had instinctively given vent to the despair at his heart. "nay, nay, lad," said the miller, kindly. "you're overwrought a bit. take a drop of strong drink, and you'll see the world in a better light." he got up from his armchair, and poured out a tolerable measure of the spirit, never stopping to think that his goodwill might be misdirected. the preacher took the glass from his hands. "i wouldn't, if i were you, old fellow," interposed lomax; "you're not used to it, and----" but a devil had come into gabriel's eyes. "i'll go my own way," he said sullenly, and swallowed the tumblerful in three big gulps. they said good night to the miller soon after--it was past eleven--and the preacher's step was uneven as he left the room. the mill stream was dancing with the moonbeams through hazel dene, but gabriel was in no humour to mark such trivial beauty. he stopped when they reached the little pool with the pine-log on its bank. he gripped lomax's arm and gazed into his face. "she was mine that day, griff lomax. i wish to god i'd never brought you here, to spoil a blessed sabbath's work." "man, you're a fool. come home to bed, before you pick a quarrel with some one who is _not_ your friend." "friend? yes, and a pretty friend you've shown yourself." a hiccough had intruded itself into the preacher's voice, as the fresh air made headway with the whisky. he laughed like a madman, and sat himself down heavily on the log. "the flesh, the flesh, the flesh!" he yelled, with a hiccough between each word. then he fell to crooning like a child; he tucked his sable legs under him, and swore that the preacher was topping the rise on the opposite side of the stream. finally, he rose from his seat, and regarded the other with grave inquiry. "why does the stream want to get to the sea?" he demanded. "the ways of the lord are surely strange?" "i give it up, old chap. come home to bed, i tell you." griff threaded his arm through hirst's, and led him, steadier on his feet now and meek as a lamb, to his own door. latches were unknown in ling crag, but the preacher always carried the door-key with him; he was often abroad at nights, and neither betty binns nor her husband, who slept in the house, could be expected to wait up for him at these times. gabriel hirst made two or three ineffectual assaults on the door, then handed the key to lomax. "griff," he said, with unsober cunning, "i'm a sinful man, and vengeance shall come like a thief in the night--but i shouldn't like betty to hear. help me to bed, griff, for old times' sake." when lomax came out into the moonlight again, after locking up the house and pushing gabriel's key under the mat, the smile on his lips was a tender one. "the pace is a bit swift for old gabriel nowadays," he muttered. "he's been drunk for the first time in his life, and in love for the first time. it will do him good in the long run, because there's solid bottom under that hysterical piety of his. but, lord, what a time of retribution he will make for himself!" he strolled along the highroad in the direction of wynyates: the night was calm, and he felt in no humour to return. greta and her queer, two-sided lover slipped gradually from his mind, and kate strangeways, his treasure-trove, took their place. his pulses quickened, with a passion that was entirely artistic; this moor woman, as he saw her now, was a being wonderful, remote, magnificent; he almost feared to handle her, lest he should spoil her in the drawing. yet he must certainly ask her to sit to him, whether he made the best of his chances or not. he turned at last and started home at a brisk pace. at the door of the dog and grouse he espied the landlord, swallowing a mouthful of fresh air before he turned in for the night. "good night to you, mr. lummax," called jack o' ling crag. "hallo, jack! i thought you'd be in bed long ago." "well, so i should be, sir, in a orn'ary sort o' way. but things hes been happening, sir--such things as keep a plain man out o' bed thinking on 'em." griff cocked his head a little on one side, and gave jack a look which suggested that some kind of freemasonry existed between them. "have you been taking a little midnight exercise, jack? i feared they'd catch one or both of us many a time last year." jack o' ling crag gurgled complacently. "nay, now, mr. lummax, is it likely 'at they'd nobble an owd bird like me wi' gamekeeper chaff? it's all right, i says, an' none 'ud deny it, that chaps like dick the cobbler should be cotched: they're green hands meeting green hands--for all th' owd lot o' keepers, an' a smart set they war, is gone--an' it's a toss up whether it ends in th' coort-house for dicky an' his mates, or i' broken heäds for th' keepers. but me--lord, sir, i thowt ye knew me better nor to go thinking owt o' that sort!" "still," said griff, with a slow, retrospective smile, "still, we ran it pretty close that night in birch wood. do you remember? by jove, but it was sport!" "i remember varry weel, mr. lummax; for that war th' first time i felt sartin sure ye'd getten a heädpiece on your shoulders--ay, lad, your father's heädpiece. it do seem queer," he added, meditatively, "that even th' gentry up hereabouts is allus itching for a bit o' poaching. there war old tom hirst, now; he war a regular nipper afore religion stuck in his gizzard an' choked th' life out on him. mony's the time---but it gets chilly, like, standing i' th' road. what say ye to a glass o' th' blend 'at a two or three on us knows about?" "i say that nothing would suit me better, if our friend lee has not grown wide-awake since i used to know him." "i've a great respect for constable lee, sir," observed jack, gravely, as he led the way indoors, "an' constable lee hes an ekal respect for jack o' ling crag. we've niver hed a wrang word sin' a little scrape 'at it took me all my time to get him clear of: he's a man what bears gratitude, an' ye may tak my word for that." "and, in any case, i'm coming in as your guest. bless me, it's odd if a respectable innkeeper can't entertain a friend to a glass of whisky." "that's so, sir; an' proud to be named your friend." "about this matter that has been keeping you out of your bed?" said griff presently, holding his glass to the light and looking through it with the eye of a man on whom good drink is not wasted. "oh, that? it's nowt so varry special, when all's said; only it's not ivery day 'at a gent comes to ling crag a-house-hunting--nor ivery twelvemonth that he leaves a ten-pun note behind him." "and who was he? from these parts?" "nay, he war fro' th' low country; as to his name, i mind me now he niver mentioned it. at after he'd had a bite o' supper, he asks me fair an' square if i could light my eye on a likely house i' th' neighbourhood; he wanted a bit o' shooiting, said he. well, i bethowt me o' wynyates, an' telled him 'at th' agent war coming this varry morn to collect his bits o' rents; an' what does my gentleman do but settle it all right off wi' th' agent, an' gi'e me a ten-pun note--to settle his bill wi', as he put it. then, sooin as he'd settled about a couple o' rooms being got ready i' th' hall afore th' week war out, off he rides again to saxilton." "saxilton? what should he find to do in saxilton?" "nay, that i can't say, save that he'd left some traps there an' wanted to fetch 'em. summat a bit queer-like, eh, i' sich a whirlwind o' a man coming to wynyates?" "it does seem odd. i say, jack, we'll have a night at his game some time; it's a year and three months since we went out together, and that is fifteen months too long." "well, if it's all th' same to ye, mr. lummax, i'd rather tak th' squire o' saxilton's game: he niver give me nowt, didn't squire, save a cut on th' side o' th' heäd wi' his riding-whip; there warn't no bank-notes parted company wi' _him_." this was a touch of morality that tickled griff mightily. "the old squire is that kind of man," he laughed. "if he takes to a man, he can't do too much for him; but if he doesn't----" "the lord help him!--he's a rough customer, is roger daneholme: i reckon ye'll know him?" "only by repute. perhaps you'll introduce me some night, jack?" "happen i will, sir--wi' the stock of a gun for salute. what!--going? well, good neet, sir; good neet." chapter vi. the rising wind. they dined in the middle of the day at marshcotes manor, and they dined well. mrs. lomax, consequently, liked to have a clear hour's sleep in the afternoon--a luxury which griff made the basis of one of those tender little accusations that were constantly passing between mother and son. "and now, i suppose, you will want to _reflect_ for awhile," he said, when thursday's dinner was over and mrs. lomax had risen from the table. "you need not put that ironical emphasis on the 'reflect,' griff. i want to sleep, and am not ashamed to confess it." "yet you grumble when my work takes me away from you. i'm going to be jealous, too: i grudge you that wasted hour." "foolish boy! you may kiss me, if you like, just as a bribe to get rid of you. there, there; away you go. are you going to ride?" "yes; for an hour or so." "of course. if it is not your ridiculous work that stands in the way, then you must needs rush off to the stable. it is lucky for me, griff, that i _can_ sleep with such a thankless son on my conscience." "talk to lassie about it, mother: she will have exercise, and no one but i can manage her properly. that's what i like about the mare; she is twice as faithful as any woman i have come across--except my mother." mrs. lomax frowned, a real frown; she did not like griff's occasional flippancies about women. "i think, boy, if you had stayed at marshcotes, your opinions might have kept more wholesome. your south-country women must be curious, griff." he smiled a little at her prejudices, and patted her on her rough grey hair, and went out. but a cloud was on his face as he mounted lassie, standing saddled at the door. "i think," he murmured, "that if mother knew about sybil ogilvie, and the dance she led me, she would never speak to me again." the blood rushed hot to his cheeks, and lassie was surprised by an impatient jerk of the snaffle. she would stand a good deal from griff, but an unprovoked assault of this kind, before ever they had cleared the garden gravel, was too much for any mare of good breeding. she shook her head just once, and tore through the open gate like a thing bewitched. "i hope he won't break his neck; it is rather a failing in the family," sighed mrs. lomax, patiently, as she watched him down the highroad. griff soon brought the mare to reason, and explained to her that, having lately dined, he was in no mood for such violent exercise. lassie took this as an apology and forgave him; and they ambled contentedly round by ling crag, wynyates, and back again. as they were crossing the moor close to marshcotes, griff espied a tall figure making towards them. it proved to be kate strangeways, returning from the village grocery with a well-filled basket. he drew rein and slipped off his nag. "you're looking tired," he said, in his direct way, with a keen glance at her face. "i am tired, but it can't be helped. i think i'm falling lazy nowadays, mr. lomax." "lazy? well, if you like the word. mother tells me a different tale. you're coming to have tea with us before you walk the three miles back to peewit." she coloured slightly. "oh, no, thank you! it's time i was home." "nonsense!" put in griff, brusquely. "i say you are coming." "up here we are not accustomed to being ordered about," said kate, between vexation and amusement. "except by one of your own kind. come, mrs. strangeways, i'm moor-born, too, and you know what that means. i intend to have my way." she gave in at last, and it was not until they struck the village that griff bethought him there was a certain oddity in the situation. when they reached the manor, he learned from rebecca that mrs. lomax had been called out to see some sick body in the village; and he was rather sorry that he had given his off-hand invitation to kate strangeways. he told becky, however, to bring in the tea, and speedily found himself launched into such a brisk discussion that he entirely forgot his mother's absence. they got, by a round-about route, to literature, and from that to some books which griff had lately lent her. they were all novels of the day, some of them written by friends of his own, and he had thought them exceedingly good when he had first read them. griff knew that kate and his mother had been friends for a long while past, yet it staggered him a little to discover that this wife of a master-quarryman was capable, not only of reading, but of digesting, the novels he had lent her. "i don't understand story-writing," she explained, with a half-hesitating air. "i only know about the life we live, all of us; and that is a different thing." he looked hard at her, with a puzzled air. "it ought not to be. what these men are striving for, they would tell you, is to get life _as it is_. they seemed to me to ring true when i read them." yet he faltered on the words. to what did they ring true, he could not help asking himself? to the falsity he had cherished through ten long years of his life, answered conscience. but he was stubborn: it was one thing for him to ridicule his late acquaintances, and quite another to listen to some one else doing the same; from sheer contrariety he grew warm in defence of the novels. "but those books--you won't think me silly, mr. lomax? you are so much cleverer--they don't describe women, as i know them." kate, too, was holding her ground, despite a feeling that this argumentative being must know a hundred times as much as she did about the art of character-drawing. griff got up and leaned against the mantelshelf. he was nettled. it was all so true, he felt--and it was bitter to have to admit that this woman, whom he had vaguely patronized as affording a valuable model, should be able to tell him what it had taken him so long to learn. "i--i thought they did," he said lamely. "of course, you know best. only they seem to me either too good or too bad--and far too clever. there isn't one real _heart-sob_ in all these books--and women, god knows, live by heart-sobs in real life." she remembered herself at that, and flushed. it was too easy to forget how clever mr. lomax was, and she was surely a very silly woman. but griff knew she was right; he said nothing for that very reason, because he felt so cross. then the mother came in, and smothered her surprise at finding the two of them chatting so snugly together, and gave kate a hearty welcome. "mrs. strangeways has been abusing my judgment of women," laughed griff, his good temper restored. kate tried to expostulate, but mrs. lomax cut her short. "quite right, my dear, quite right. all griff's pet women are like dough that has been badly kneaded. i tell him so, often, and he doesn't half like it. perhaps he took it more kindly from you?" "i say, two to one! this isn't fair," protested her son. "you will weather the storm, griff," retorted the old lady, imperturbably. "after all, you have made a name for yourself; a knowledge of women was not necessary there. the whirr of a gale across the heather carried you through; you forgot your weaknesses sometimes." "would you like some tea, mother?" ventured griff, mildly. when kate strangeways finally rose to go, lomax insisted on "setting her on her way." "i'll go agatards wi' ye," he laughed, translating his intentions into the language of the country, as he loved to do when talking to mrs. strangeways. kate, laughing too, congratulated him on his knowledge of the tongue, and they set off in high good spirits. he did not leave her till they reached the top of the last rise that lay between themselves and peewit house; and when they said good-bye, he had secured a half-promise that she would sit to him for her portrait. a surly-looking rascal, with a beard an inch long and a cutty pipe rammed tight in one corner of his mouth, was leaning over the fence; lomax judged him to be a farm-hand, said his farewells to kate, and set off back across the moor. "well, i'm beggared!" muttered joe strangeways, removing the cutty pipe from his jaws. griff went to look up his friend the preacher on the following afternoon. he found him in a state of wild self-castigation. gabriel's eyes were far too bright, and his fingers twitched to the tune of each fresh thought. that marvellous straight-forwardness of his came to the front at once. "well, griff, lad, i was drunk the night before last." "not quite that, old fellow; a bit bothered by the road, that's all; it's not an easy path through hazel dene." "i was drunk, i tell you. yes, and i was mortal sick in the night, griff. but it wasn't the sickness of the carnal body i cared for; the trouble went deeper than that." "your head was bad the next morning?" queried griff, innocently. "man, yes! but it's not that i mean. think of the sin: think of a preacher of god's word showing himself no more than a cutting from the old stock." this was gabriel's unconquerable pride coming out; he was humble in theory only. "when you've understood that a little better," said the other gravely, "you'll be fit to preach. good-bye, old chap; just ponder on that for a while. when are you coming for another ride?" the preacher looked through and beyond his friend. "i never thought to come to this. let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall. look here," he broke off, with a sudden flash of fury, "they say that the lord looks after his own. well, i don't believe it. why did he bring that girl across my path?" "to make a man of you," said griff, and vanished. betty binns was lying in wait for him without. a subdued exultation was visible in her face. "i war sure, mr. lummax," cried she--"i war sure ye didn't rightly know what war good for th' innards of a man o' god. th' maister, yester-morn, war as yaller as hen-corn, an' his heäd warked fit to burst. _that's_ what comes along o' strong meät when th' sperrit hes hold on a man." "betty," said griff, "you mustn't be hard on me. i meant it for the best." "ay, ay, them as is for meaning th' best is allus for doing th' worst!" and betty was retiring in triumph, when the other called her back. "just tell your master, will you, that i shall be here at nine sharp to-morrow night, and shall expect him to be ready for a ride. you have no objection to offer, have you, betty?" he added, with an air of humble deference. "get along wi' ye! there's no mak o' shame i' th' young fowk nowadays, no shame at all. it taks a likelier nor ye, mr. griff, to trail betty binns. now, will ye let me shut th' door, or willun't ye?" "parting, betty, is such sweet sorrow, that i----?" he found himself talking to the bare oak of the door, and laughed mightily, in his boy's way, as he swung down the garden-path and into the highroad. remembering, later in the evening, that his whisky had run out, he slipped across to the bull to buy a bottle. a crowd of idlers was hanging about the steps, with joe strangeways conspicuous in their midst. joe was in his usual condition of semi-drunkenness, and he scowled on seeing lomax approach. "that's him," muttered a companion; "tha wert talking big, joe, about what tha'd do to him when tha cotched him. now's thy chance." the tone was ironical, and did not suggest any great confidence in the quarryman's practical bravery. strangeways felt that he must make a demonstration of some kind, in view of a few recent utterances of his. he squared his shoulders so as to dispute possession of the doorway, thrust out his lower jaw, and regarded griff with an air of sullen mockery. "there's a saying, griff lummax, that lang i' th' leg spells soft i' th' heäd," he observed, repeating his favourite little pleasantry. a chuckle sounded from the bystanders. griff stopped on the lowest step, took his pipe out of his mouth, and regarded strangeways with an air of quiet gravity; when he spoke, it was with a good yorkshire brogue that not one of the bystanders could have bettered. "there's another saying, mate. lang i' th' drink spells short i' th' wit." a big laugh went up at that. they were fond of griff at marshcotes, and they liked to find him ready with his tongue. joe's face grew red, with a dash of purple about the gills. he had nothing to say, so confined himself to filling the doorway a little more completely. "i want to pass," said griff. "oh, tha dost, dost 'a? well, it's gooid for young 'uns to want." "i want to pass," repeated griff. "so tha said," responded the quarryman, emboldened by the other's quietness. "and how if tha'rt not going to be let pass?" griff said not another word, but took the four steps in one easy bound, twisted joe round in his hands, set his foot to the man's heel and his right arm to his chest, and lowered him gently to the ground, where he lay with his feet on the threshold and his head on the bottom step. then he went indoors and did his business. "it's time tha wert wending home, joe," suggested one of the crowd. "it taks a likelier nor thee to tackle griff lummax." "lang i' th' leg, an' strong i' th' arm," laughed another. joe, having got to his feet again, shambled off towards the churchyard gate. "bide a bit, lads," he growled. "bide till i've getten my fist round th' heft of a knife, and i'll cut th' bleeding heart out on him." lomax, unaware of joe's delicately-expressed intentions, sketched the adventure to his mother when he got back, and wondered what particular quarrel the man had with him. "what was he like, griff?" asked mrs. lomax. "oh, i don't know. short and thickset, with a stubbly chin and a beery eye." "would you like to know who he is?" "i should, rather. i don't seem to remember his face a bit, and i prided myself on knowing all the moorside." "he is joe strangeways--your moor woman's husband." "nonsense, mother! it can't be." "haven't they taught you, griff, during all those years you have been away, that there is no such word as 'can't'? he _is_ her husband." griff kicked the fender, for no apparent reason, and brought down the fire-irons with a rattle. "but, mother--he was a brute--a drunken beast--a----" "that does not alter facts, though, does it? i know joe strangeways very well, griff; i had to teach him a lesson once." she told him of that afternoon when she had gone to meet the quarryman on his return from work and had given him "a piece of her mind." griff laughed rarely at the fierceness of this mother whom he was wont to tease beyond all limits of endurance. but he went out presently, and his step was heavy; he felt angry with kate strangeways because she had descended to the level of this unshaven clown. it was the first bit of real feeling he had experienced towards the woman who had heretofore struck him in the light of a valuable model. chapter vii. 'twixt wynyates and ling crag. it was nine o'clock of the next evening when lomax, remembering his arrangement with the preacher, went to saddle his good mare lassie. lassie had almost forgotten what a gallop was like during the year that her master had been away from marshcotes. the preacher came now and then to give her a turn, and the groom took perfunctory rides on her, but none save griff could move the mare to the least show of enthusiasm. gabriel thought her a dull nag, and wondered what lomax saw in her; the groom voted her "a quarrelsome, skew-natured beast"; but lassie could do a good deal when she felt griff's legs astride of her and knew that it was worth while. she whinnied, and arched her black neck, and kicked splinters out of her stall, when griff came to her to-night. "we're off for a scramble, old girl," he explained. and the mare, who had long ago guessed as much, almost harnessed herself, so eager was she to be off. she didn't want to pull up at gabriel's door, but a touch of the curb gave her a broad enough hint that she was to subdue inclination for once. the preacher came to the gate; he looked worth two of his usual self, what with the light of anticipation in his face, and the spick-and-span riding togs which replaced his sober gear of the morning. "are you ready?" lomax shouted. "ay, and waiting," answered gabriel, in a clear, ringing voice. "the chestnut has been saddled this half-hour past." away they went at a swinging pace along the good hard road that leads across the lancashire border. they rattled down the hill and up again on the other side, past the wooded rise where wynyates hamlet looks over scartop water. they slackened half-way up the hill, and griff jerked his whip towards wynyates hall as they went by. "a fine old place, that. it's taken at last, so jack o' ling crag tells me." "taken, is it? i wouldn't change places with whoever is going to live there," muttered the preacher. "why, hirst, i believe you're as bad as the rest of them. do you put your trust in that ridiculous ghost of a brandy-bottle which jack is always talking about?" "there were men who came to an evil end up there," said gabriel, slowly, "and it stands to reason they won't rest quiet in their graves." he drew his horse close up to lassie, and peered into griff's face. "lad, it's all very well to talk and laugh and joke when you're above ground: but what is it when you've got six feet of earth above you, and there comes a rap-rap at the coffin-lid, and you ask who's knocking--and a voice comes out of the blackness and whispers of judgment day--and your body is mad to move, and can't--and your spirit breaks clean through for very suffering, and walks the earth till the world's end, thinking on the vengeance of the lord----" griff looked out over the moor, quiet as death, with the moonlight dappling the hollows, and the road stretching on, on before him, a streaky grey, far as the silent sky. he trembled at the preacher's imagery; ghosts and another world seemed the only realities in this night-girdled land. then he felt the mare's belly under his legs, and the breath of life in his body. "gabriel," he laughed, "you've got a fine imagination. damn your superstitions!" "lad, you're over proud in your strength of limb," groaned hirst. "give a thought to the soul that can be burned in hell fire for ever----" "i won't!" snapped griff, digging his heels into lassie. both riders and horses were content to take things easily by the time they re-passed wynyates. the exercise had driven out half gabriel's morbid fancies, and his thoughts were set on greta. "griff," he ventured at last; "have you seen the miller lately?" "yes--and the miller's daughter, too; which is more to the point, i take it. i looked in this morning on my way through hazel dene." a long silence. a light that was not of spiritual worries came into the preacher's face--a hot, ugly light of jealousy. "she's a lass in a thousand, griff, and you're a better man to look at than i; do you mean to play me false?" "gabriel hirst, if you want me to think you drunk again, go on in that strain," cried the other, harshly. gabriel winced. "sober or drunk, lad, i fear you," he said, quietly. "then you're a fool for your pains. haven't i eyes in my head, old chap? didn't i watch you two the other night, and see the hide-and-seek in her eyes, and hear her cut you to ribbons with her little red tongue?" "what of that? i don't see that it helps me." "no, of course you don't see, because you know as much of women as you did the day you were born. it means just this--you can go in and win her. only you won't; you're so damnably humble in the wrong places, and cock-a-whoop when soberness would fit you better." "do you mean that, griff? do you think--nay, nay, it's too good; it can't be. she as much as tells me i'm a canting fool--and sometimes she almost makes me believe it," he added reflectively. "do you good. what an ass you are, old fellow, somehow." the preacher bit his lip, and seemed minded to retort; but he thought better of it, and struck off into a fresh channel of talk. "there are changes in the countryside," he ventured presently. "the old mill is taken, frender's folly is taken, and now wynyates----" "frender's folly let?" echoed griff. "i thought it was past hope by this time. who has taken it?" "some sporting chap that has his pockets lined with gold." "frender's pockets were lined with gold, too, when he set out to build the folly. i wish to the deuce these foreigners would spend their money elsewhere, instead of building palaces in the middle of the moor; the moor doesn't want them." "_foreigners_, griff?" said the preacher, with a good, hearty laugh. "it's easy to tell that you come from hereabouts." "well, so they are foreigners. what does a moor house want with a couple of ball-rooms, terraces and gardens and hot-houses? thank goodness, it lies outside marshcotes moor, at any rate; they must make the best of it on the cranshaw side." "captain laverack--the man who's taken it--has a daughter, and they say she is pretty to look at," observed gabriel, after another long pause. griff laughed to himself; he could read very clearly what was in the preacher's mind--his clumsy attempt to divert his rival's attentions to other quarters. "oh, has he? does she ever stray as far as ling crag?" "now and then she rides this way. there's something queer about the business--so folk say--for the lass goes about with a face as long as a fiddle, and now and then she rides her horse shamefully hard, as if the devil was in her. month in and month out they live at frender's folly, the girl and her father, and never get away for a holiday, as great folk mostly do." "gabriel, it does one good to hear you talking gossip! man, you're changing in spite of yourself." "i was thinking," went on gabriel, in his honest, stubborn way, "that perhaps she is not as happy as she might be, and--it's time you were settled in life, griff." the other did not reply. his eyes went out across the moor again. the preacher's homely phrase had brought a host of sudden longings to the front. _settled in life_, he muttered to himself; was that what was amiss with him? then the thought of kate strangeways came to him--the picture of her husband, as he had last seen him with his head on the flagstones of the bull doorway--the quick understanding that he had met no other woman who could grip his fancy just as kate did. then he remembered the husband again. "don't talk rot," he said, and fell into silence. another horseman showed round the bend in the road that hid ling crag. he drew rein as he neared them. "can you direct me to wynyates?" he asked. griff started and looked at the stranger's face twice before he could make up his mind on some question suggested by the voice and figure. he put out his hand at last. "why, roddick!" he cried. "how the mischief do you come to be scouring the country at this time of night?" "what, it's never you, lomax? here, let me get a closer look at your face. by the powers it is, though! you've pulled me up with one question, and i'll pull you up with another; how the mischief do _you_ come to be here?" "i live here; and that is more than you can say for yourself, at any rate," griff chuckled. "there you're wrong, my boy. i've taken wynyates, and am at this moment on my way to it." "then, why ask your road? you didn't take the place on trust, did you, without ever seeing it?" "yes, but i did. the road seemed as plain as a pikestaff, while the landlord at the inn there was giving me directions; but these bothersome moors of yours put a man off--from sky-line to sky-line they never vary, and they upset one's notions confoundedly." lassie began to show signs of impatience; she wanted to be back in her stall again, and it did not fit with her ideas of good sense that her master should keep her waiting while he talked to a casual stranger on the highroad. "all right, lassie, all right," said griff; "a mile or two out of our way, and then home in good earnest. i'll see you as far as wynyates, roddick." then, remembering the preacher, "hirst, you won't mind my leaving you here? we must have another ride before long." "as soon as you like, old fellow; it has done me a world of good," returned the preacher, cheerily. "now, roddick, what on earth brings you here?" said griff, as they went down the hill. "honours easy," retorted the other nonchalantly. "i thought you were in town, at the tail of sybil ogilvie; what brings _you_ here?" "sybil ogilvie herself, and a longing for fresh air." there was a testiness in griff's voice. "ah--she played a little _too_ fast and loose with you, did she? well, i commend your sense, lomax; she was worth about as little as any woman i ever saw, and that is saying a good deal." "you still don't tell me why----" "a longing for fresh air--and a few other trifles with which i won't burden you just now. enough that i'm here, and here i mean to stay until it pleases providence to kick me out." "then you've given up london, and political economy, and the writing of tracts for the people?" "yes, the whole lot. political economy palls after fifteen years of it, and socialism is stale. i have taken a turn for sport, and that's the truth of it; they tell me there is good shooting to be had round about wynyates." roddick's face wore a guilelessness that was far from convincing his companion. "i don't believe a word of it. you always were a secretive beggar, roddick; if you won't tell me your motive, though, you won't, and there's an end of it. you're looking seedy," he added, taking a long look at his face. "possibly; it would be funny if i didn't.--is this wynyates? the place looks gloomy enough, in all conscience." "yes, that's wynyates. are you afraid of ghosts, by the way? they are said to simply swarm hereabouts." "so i've been told. let 'em swarm." roddick dropped his exaggerated listlessness; he leaned over to griff, just as the preacher had done not long ago. "lomax," he said, gruffly, "have you ever _touched_ a ghost--not a filmy white affair, decently clothed, but a sort of hag from hell-pit, with lips that are wet and cling, and a body that--ugh! don't babble to me about your country ghosts; they fight with a brandy-bottle, don't they, that pretty pair of brothers in there? well, they can fight till doomsday, for all i care. you don't mind good clean ghosts when once you have seen what i see every other day or so." "roddick," said griff, slowly, "it is no affair of mine, i suppose, but you're in a bad way. the man who just left us is great on hell-pit and these sinuous terrors of yours; i'm trying to bring him round to sanity." roddick gave a great guffaw, and set his voice to a rasping shout. "you baby, you unutterable fool, to come and preach sanity to me, after your samson-and-delilah farce with sybil ogilvie! i believe in my ghost, i tell you, because it won't let me forget; go home to your bed, and pray for experience." griff sat quietly in his saddle; he was undismayed by the outbreak, though lassie was growing restive again. "damned hospitable you are," he murmured. the other came to himself. "come in, and have something to drink. i told the old ruffian at the inn to send me some whisky, and if he's failed me, we'll amuse ourselves by going back and breaking his senile neck." "you can, if you like," grinned lomax, as he slipped out of the saddle; "for my part i would rather tackle jack o' ling crag another day. wait till you have seen him with two keepers in front, and three more coming up hot-foot behind him." "have you?" roddick demanded, turning sharp on his heel. "well, once or twice; and we licked them all to pieces." "i didn't think you had it in you. that ogilvie woman must have rotted you more than we dreamed of. you really are a bit of a man, are you, lomax?" "just a bit, when the fit is on me. moonlight seems to be good for your temper, by the way; i wish you would not be so absurdly polite, roddick." griff had thought little of the preacher's gossip touching frender's folly; but as he rode home from wynyates, in the small hours of the morning, the name of its new owner came to his mind, and stuck there with irritating persistency; there was some elusive, half-remembered association with the name, but he could not focus it. the matter was still troubling him--as trifles sometimes will--when he came down to breakfast. "mother, where have i heard the name _laverack_ before?" he demanded. mrs. lomax was pouring him his second cup of tea at the moment, and a sudden nervous movement of her hand flooded saucer and tray alike. "there, griff, you always were so abrupt! you know how i hate spilling things," cried the old lady, with an uneasy laugh. griff, seeing her trouble, came very near to gripping his fugitive memory fair and square. "never mind the tea; who _is_ captain laverack?" "i had rather you left that question alone, dear," she said slowly; "but if you must have an answer, you must. long before you were born, there was a certain lying rumour set abroad; it was said that joe strangeways' mother had--had suffered at your father's hands; every one believed it at the time." "i know now. and it was this same captain laverack who had really done the harm?" "yes, he got into difficulties soon after, you may remember, and went away to america. your father wrote to him just before he sailed, asking him to put matters straight so far as he could; and captain laverack wrote back that he had enough discovered sins to face, without gratuitously adding to the list. this was the last we heard of him." "well, he has returned, it seems, with a mint of money. gabriel told me yesterday that he had come to live at frender's folly." mrs. lomax frowned; her memory seemed to be busy with things of long ago. "i remember your father taking him to see frender's folly one day," she said at last. "he was curiously attracted by the place, and bored me for a whole hour that evening by describing how he meant to buy it as soon as he could, and the alterations he intended to make. i am sorry he has come, griff; it will open up the old sores." chapter viii. kate strangeways asserts herself. griff, during the next few months, was greatly exercised in mind touching his friend the preacher. gabriel hirst's moods were swinging to wider extremes nowadays; the constant sight of greta kept the inner fires going, and whether they flamed or smouldered was a question largely of the way she treated him. not altogether, though: there were times when he wrenched himself free of his fetters, and set his thoughts on the word instead of on greta, and made his congregations quake with his whirlwind eloquence. but he was what old jose binns termed "wobbly-like"; his temper was uncertain, his attitude towards his fellows harsh beyond all his old-time limits of justice. if for an hour or so he could persuade himself into the belief that greta cared for him, then he spent the rest of the day in self-denunciation, because his heart was fixed on carnal welfare: if the girl ran across his path and chanced to mock him, as she frequently did, he forgot that she was not the highest goal man could have, and railed at the destiny which showed him a heaven with shut gates. on and off, he sickened with hate of lomax, thinking him an unacknowledged rival; and after the stormy scenes, which generally followed hot-foot on the heels of such humours, came abasement of himself before lomax--an abasement that hurt griff far more than the passion which preceded it. gabriel hirst suffered, during these months, as he had not known how to suffer before that meeting with greta rotherson on the sunny sabbath morning. he grew more sensitive than ever to changes in the face of the moor and sky. when the day was bright and the wind blew soft, there seemed excuse for his gaining passion--even a hope sometimes; but when the storm-skies opened, and the wind came ravening out of the north, and the moor streams swelled themselves to rivers, gabriel hirst would awake to the sins of the world and his own wrongdoing--would hark back to his scanty fare, and his wrestlings with the adversary. but the adversary, with that practical, vivid imaginativeness of his, showed nowadays in the guise of a woman. greta, for her part, was growing out of all patience with the preacher. he could not speak to her but the words tripped each other up as they came from his mouth; he was awkward with his hands and feet directly he found himself near her; he looked a hundred proposals out of his eyes, but never approached the utterance of one. she cared for him--if he would only let her--and she was angry with him, ashamed of, sorry for, him; so that amongst it all the girl, like gabriel himself, was like to spoil her temper for good. what angered her most was that gabriel was always like this in _her_ company; she had seen him riding with griff, and had noticed how manly, and neat, and broad-shouldered he looked. why would he never come to her in decent clothes, or square his shoulders when he stood before her? and why, in the name of goodness, did she care _how_ he came to her? it was a matter of surprise to the villagers that their preacher should be so given to "fits and starts." one sunday he would rain brimstone from the pulpit, while the next would find him tender almost to the verge of tears. "nay, nay, i doubt it's too mich for gabriel; he should tak hisseln off ivery other week an' rest a bit," commented a member of his following. "that's so, lad, that's so," assented jose binns; "he's nobbut poorly like, is th' pracher, or he'd niver gie us such pap sermons as that'n we hed yester morn. oh, ay, he'd better tak a rest, an' that's plain to ony man 'at can see to th' end on his nose." but greta's comments on the preacher were of a different sort. "he's such _a woman_, father," she said to miller rotherson one day. it was her usual remark when gabriel had particularly angered her. "don't be too sure, lass. i've no call to fight his battles, seeing how often he's bothered and bothered me about my soul--but this i'll say for gabriel hirst: he's no woman at the heart of him. greta, i'd think shame if i was you to set so much store by the outside." "i don't like an apple with an ugly rind, however good it be inside," said greta, crossly. "and there you make your mistake, as women-folk mostly do. give me the ugliest-looking apple you can find, and i'll know it's worth eating." "but gabriel isn't ugly," flashed the girl, perversely. the miller laid down his pipe, and looked quizzically at his daughter. "has he snared thy heart, lass, this preacher fellow?" greta tossed her head, got half-way through a denial, and ended with a storm of sobs. "there, there, greta, don't cry," murmured miller rotherson, as she came to his knee and buried her head out of sight. "supposing he _is_ too blind, this gabriel hirst, to know a good thing when he sees it--there are other men in the world." she lifted up her head at that and pushed back the hair from her eyes. "but not one that can come near him, father." "well, well; i never did understand the twists and the turns of you women, and i never shall, as i told your poor mother most every day of her life. he's such a woman, sings the lass one minute, and the next----" "so he is," quoth greta, and ran from the room to tidy herself. and all this, as has been said, bothered griff lomax no little. he felt like a father to these two young people, and had set his heart on their making a match of it. he was in and out of the mill a good deal; old rotherson took kindly to him, and greta grew to regard him in the light of a hail-fellow-well-met sort of comrade, who showed no disposition to make love, and who was yet willing to serve as a friendly basis of jealousy when the occasion demanded it. and all the while griff never once guessed that he was himself walking--nay, running--into deep waters. the mother and he went very often across the three miles of moor that lay between marshcotes and peewit house. almost as often kate strangeways walked to the manor; sometimes she sat by the parlour fireside, with her hands in her lap, enjoying the sensation of being thoroughly idle; sometimes she played the model in the snug little studio upstairs, and watched griff as he plied his brushes. true, he had asked permission simply to paint her portrait; but he wanted more than that--and, wanting it, contrived in his usual headstrong way to obtain it. there was no trace of self-deception in his enthusiasm for kate's strong, lithe type of beauty. it was with an artist's zeal that he seized this and that new pose, or altered expression; and if he was gentler with her after the fatigue of posing, more solicitous that she should not tire herself unduly, than was altogether necessary--well, how could he help it, when he had, in very fact, been searching after this treasure-trove of his ever since he took to painting? mrs. lomax buzzed in and out of the studio while they were at work, and was disposed to blame griff for what she called his callousness in the matter of his model's welfare; at times she even went so far as to be indignant that the boy could be so blinded by his art as to lose sight of the good red gold that lay beneath the surface of kate's quiet manners. but she never stopped to picture what must happen should griff once dig down to the gold and set his heart on wealth that belonged to his neighbour. only roddick guessed which way the wind was blowing, and he kept his opinions to himself. griff would ride over to wynyates two or three times a week, and he rarely left without a word or two about the woman who lived across the moor. "across the moor she lives, do you say?" roddick had asked, with a start, the first time griff had mentioned her. "yes; what of that? you look as if there were some one hereabouts in whom you are interested. is that the reason----" "pish, romantic boy! i'm interested in grouse, trout, and rabbits; don't saddle me with your women." but he recurred to the topic for all that, as griff was mounting lassie at the gate. "does she live on the marshcotes moor?" he asked suddenly. "no, the cranshaw side," said lomax, with deliberate intent to take roddick unawares. "by god!" muttered roddick, under his breath. griff saw the contraction of his brows and laughed. "so that is the trend of your secret, is it? put your mind at rest, old fellow; she lives on the marshcotes moor right enough, and she is the wife of a master-quarryman." "you're a fool," said roddick, gruffly, and shut the door with a bang.--"why the devil won't lomax let my secret alone?" he muttered, stirring up the fire in his parlour. "jove, though, i fancied for the moment that frender's folly was his destination; janet might care for a man of lomax's build--the lord knows why she picked _me_ out from the crowd--and that's just the rub of it all. oh, my god, if only i were free!" after that evening roddick learnt a good deal about kate strangeways--or, at any rate, about griff's conception of her. he was an astute man where other people's follies were concerned, and he could have told lomax that the adventure was bound to end in one of two ways. "he wouldn't believe me, so where is the use of telling him?" roddick argued. "for a clever man, old lomax is pretty blind--yes, a confounded ass whenever a woman is toward. this is biting deeper than he'll like, though, when he comes to open his eyes; it's not the trashy stuff he called love while the ogilvie woman had him in tow. well, i'll wait; there'll be a cheerful blow-up one of these days." but neither griff nor the old lady of the manor thought of coming evil. they walked far and wide by day, and at night they chatted of old times, of new endeavours, by the parlour fire. the itch for work, too, was taking a surer hold of griff, and he was well satisfied with the progress of his picture. autumn had long ago failed to winter, and the moors were looking their best; the heather had lost its gaudy raiment of purple, and stretched away in patches of rusty brown, of sober red, that fitted better with its savage dignity. overhead, on the fine days, were wonderful shifting tints of sapphire and clear-cut green, with sunsets that stretched, purple and crimson, along half the horizon edge; then, again, the wind would shift to rain, and the sullen banks of yellow would come crowding across the sky from over ling crag, and the tremor and stress of storm would sweep into the man's heart. and all the while the woman across the moor grew dearer to him; she was part and parcel of the heath he loved, the sunsets that fired him to endeavour, the wind that made him drunker than wine could ever do. if he failed to look at the situation squarely, it was because kate was always there, to be seen whenever the wish moved him; had a rival stepped in, or had she left marshcotes for a space, griff would better have understood it all. kate strangeways, too, began to find heart again, began to feel the old use of her limbs and the old relish for a gale; she wondered, now and then, what had wrought this change in her, but it was long ere she was brought to confess that she counted the days between visit and visit of a man who had troubled himself to bring fresh interest into her dull round of care. her manner towards her husband changed; she found courage to fight him, and she conquered; she furbished up a little bedroom facing south, and maintained her rights of property therein, and did not stop to inquire what instinct prompted her to privacy. as for joe, he got drunk oftener nowadays; his will held altogether too much parley with the shadowy places, and, as a consequence, he blustered more and was less capable than ever of backing up his bluster. just once he tried to trespass on kate's private domain; it was a night of late november, and he had sat up chatting with hannah, the maid-of-all-work, after his wife had gone to bed. hannah was even a little sourer than her wont, and she gave strangeways a lengthy account of young lomax's comings and goings. "i'd be shamed, if i war a man, to put up wi' my wife's hoity-toity ways, same as tha does," she snarled, with a freedom born of the sense that she was talking to one of her own class. "she mun sleep i' her own bedroom, mun she? happen there's more i' that nor there seems, if tha'd getten a couple of een i' thy heäd." "what dost 'a meän? come, out wi' it; i cannot abide thy ins an' thy outs, an' thy shammocky ways o' talk. there's no mouse-holes about me, an' i look to find other fowk talking fair an' square. what dost 'a meän, woman?" "nay, if tha cannot guess, it's noan for a honest woman to tell thee. didn't i say 'at young lummax comes an' goes for all th' world as if he war th' maister? if that isn't enow, i'd like to know what is?" joe brought the bowl of his pipe down hard on the grate and smashed it. "she shall shift her quarters to-neet, or i'll shift mine," he muttered. "fine talking," sneered hannah. "hod thy whisht, wench! i tell thee i'll teach the wife to come it ower me; ay, that i will," said joe, doggedly. he kicked off his boots and went shambling up the stairs; tried the handle of kate's door, and found it locked; swore at her and commanded her to open. she did open at last, and stood on the threshold. she had taken off the bodice of her dress, and her bust and beautiful bare arms showed faintly by light of the candle behind her. joe, despite his sodden state, felt something of the old desire as his eyes took in the contour of her figure. "what do you want?" she demanded. "it's lonely wark, kate, living wi' a wife that's no wife, an' i willun't stand it." "when you had me, joe," said she bitterly, "you were never so free with kindness. a woman gets tired of being kicked out of bed, and i'm not going to risk it again." "when fowks is wed, they're wed. me an' thee's teed fast as parson could tee us, an' i've a right to thee--ay, that i hev--a right o' law, an' a right o' parson." a swift smile came to kate's lips, as she straightened herself and sought his eye in the semi-darkness. "then, joe strangeways, you can go for the parson and bring him to help you; for you'll never touch me again, if i have to fight the lot of you." "i'm a honest man," joe declared, after a disconcerted pause. "it's a queer country that would call you honest, joe." the wife was feeling almost flippant for the moment, as the stronger sort of women do in moments of strain. a long silence followed, broken only by the shuffling of joe's feet, and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen down below, and the rattle of mice behind the wainscoting. "i'm a honest man," reiterated joe at last; "an' dang me if i'll see my wife go wrang wi' th' first fine gent what taks a fancy to her." "go wrong!" she cried, with a sudden blaze of fury. "you dare to come to me and----" joe felt vaguely that he was getting the advantage now that he had made her angry. "ay, go wrang; that's what it's leading to," he responded doggedly. all the fight went out of kate. he had brought home to her at last what she had hidden from herself all these months: she was face to face with the truth, and she saw in a flash the dreary stretch of years that spread before her--after she had proved true to her conscience--after she had said good-bye to griff, and they had each gone their ways. without a word she turned; before joe had divined her purpose, she had locked the door in his face and left him on the cold landing to marvel at the queer ways of women. she threw herself on the bed and cried her heart out, while her husband growled his way to his own room. she wanted never, never to see griff again. but griff himself chanced to ride over the very next morning, and he altered her outlook on things. the clear, friendly look in his eyes--the easy talk on this or that topic of interest which they shared in common--his kindly insistence that she was far from well, and that he meant to tell his mother when he got home how little care she took of herself--all helped her to view the last night's misery in a quieter light. with a quick feminine subterfuge she told herself that his regard for her did not go very deep; if her own went deeper, need she make herself foolish in his eyes by bidding him never come near her again? after he had gone--with a faint wonder in his mind at her changed manner--kate went over all that she had suffered at her husband's hands; and across her honesty of purpose struck a swift desire to take life while she had it and enjoy it to the full. she put the desire away from her; but it returned day by day, and she grew less eager to cast it out. gradually she let the old life go its way; griff came and went, and she was glad to see him; she would not look behind. but roddick, in amongst his own perplexities, found time now and then for a sardonic grin, and a wonder as to how soon the climax would be reached. and the climax came sooner than he expected. chapter ix. confession. kate strangeways, after her sudden collapse before joe's accusation, nerved herself to the fight once more. joe attempted to take up the same line on the next night, and was beaten; at heart he was afraid of her, because he knew her to be stronger, finer in breed, than himself. then, gradually, he grew mortally sick of her, now that she showed so uncompromising a determination to stand on her own level. he conceived an idea, and soaked the idea in much strong ale until it mellowed. "when a gentleman born," said he to his mug, "when a gentleman born taks th' trouble to come aboon three miles i' search on a wench, he allus hes one notion. well, i'll let 'em bide, that i will, an' i won't break th' bones i' his body, 'cos he's ower big for that kind o' marlaking. they shall just go their own foul gate, an' we'll see what'll come o' my fine lady's airs an' graces when this lummax hes dragged her in th' mire. she puts up her high-bred nose, does she, when i get a bit on th' booze now and again? well, it'll be six o' one an' half a dozen o' t' other sooin." so kate, thanks to a resolve of which she guessed nothing, had a whole month's respite from her husband. he went out every night directly after tea, and rarely spoke to her during the few moments when they were together. she took the respite gladly, and flattered herself that the trouble with griff was assuming no more alarming proportions as the days went on. yet she wondered, and ached, and cried at rare intervals, just because he could maintain his friendly attitude so easily; freely would she have forgiven him if he had faltered once or twice in well-doing. "shall we go to peewit to-morrow? i promised to take kate some books," said mrs. lomax to griff, one evening, as they sat in their favourite nook by the parlour fire. "you oughtn't to, with that cold of yours. why will you never look after yourself, mother?" "don't coddle me, griff. my cold must be driven out by some good frosty air; the walk will do me good." but she was worse on the next morning, and griff put his foot down in a way that even his mother understood. he sat with her until three o'clock, and then she insisted on his going for a run on the moors. "i'll walk across to peewit, if you like, and take the books with me," he said, turning at the door. "it will give me an object in going out." "very well, dear. you will find them in my room, on the table near the window." he stowed away the books in sundry capacious pockets, and set off towards the moor at a swinging pace. it was near the end of march, but the frost, repenting the easy winter it had given the marshcotes folk, had suddenly bestirred itself and gripped the moorside shrewdly. just as griff left the churchyard, he met greta rotherson on her way to the village. "you're enjoying the frost, too?" he said, coming to rest against a gate. "no, i'm not," retorted greta, crossly; "it's far too cold, and the end of one's nose gets red." "not _your_ nose, at any rate; your cheeks have used up the supply.--i saw gabriel this morning for five minutes." "did you?" disdainfully. "yes; he called at the mill last night, and came round to tell me how disappointed he was to find you out." "to find father out? he would be: we were with friends in the village." "look here, miss rotherson--why do you treat poor old hirst as you do?" queried griff, bluntly. "i don't know what you mean, mr. lomax. why should i treat him differently?" "because--well, being a woman, you know more than i can tell you. it seems a pity, that's all; he worries about things." greta dropped her air of aloofness. "gabriel hirst," she snapped, "will never get rid of his preaching. if he was making love to a woman, he'd quote scripture in the middle of it--and a woman doesn't want that." "well, no, she doesn't. but women were made to put up with things. can't you get at the man in gabriel, and let the preacher go hang?" "i can do the last thing certainly. good day, mr. lomax: you seem very anxious to get your friend settled in life." the sun was dying bloodily behind peewit house as griff climbed the last stretch of rising ground. the clouds showed stormy. a dun mist hugged the skirts of the moor. "this is cheery after the cold look of things outside," he cried, as he stretched his legs before the fire. "it was kind of you to bother about the books: you will have a stormy walk back, i'm afraid." the trouble of contact with him weighed heavily on kate for the first moment; she could scarcely find words in which to answer him. "ah, but that doesn't matter when you can see in the dark, as we moor folk can." he was curiously insistent on that moor bond between them. "will you let me smoke just one pipe, and then i must be off; mother is down with a cold, and i promised not to be away for long." he lit his pipe, and kate strangeways went out in a little while, to return with tea and buttered toast; they fell into some out-of-the-way topics over the tea, and continued them until another pipe, and yet another, had been smoked. griff had forgotten all about the time, and his companion, while she remembered it, remembered also that sunday was a day which her husband invariably spent at the marshcotes inn, and that he would not be back much before midnight at the earliest; she had felt lonely before griff came, and she wanted him to stay as long as forgetfulness of the hour would let him. but he rose at last and looked at his watch. "i really must be off; do you know what time it is, mrs. strangeways? the mother will think i have strayed into a bog, or something, if i keep her waiting much longer. good night. no, don't come to the door; it is too cold for you." "too cold for you." there was a tenderness in the thought that soothed the woman; there was an off-hand friendliness in the tone that hurt her in some unexplained way. he opened the heavy oak door, with its armour of nails and bolts and its out-of-date lock. a solid wall of fog came up close to the steps in front; snow showed white on the threshold, and drifting fog and snow combined took traveller's leave of the ingress afforded by the open door. "you can't cross the moor until the fog lifts," said kate, at his elbow. "but i must. mother will be sick with fear when she sees how bad the night is." instinctively she laid a hand on his arm. "better that than death," she said quietly. "i can find my way in a fog; it is only a little extra darkness, and i know every inch of the way." "nonsense!" she said sharply. "no one can be sure of the road in a fog, and there is snow as well. i tell you, it is madness to venture out." griff lomax could not but admit as much, as he obeyed the pressure of the hand on his arm. "it will clear presently," he said, shutting the door, and following the woman into the parlour. "there's more nor one kind o' storm brewing, i fancy," muttered hannah, peering through a nick in the kitchen door. the evening wore on. from time to time lomax went to see if there were any change in the weather, but the fog showed no sign of lifting, and the snow crept earthward in bigger flakes than ever. "you must spend the night here," said kate. her voice was peremptory, but a hot blush came to her cheeks. "i ought to make an attempt to reach marshcotes," muttered the other, doubtfully. reason told him how foolhardy such an undertaking would be. "with the snow covering every track? how can you, even if the fog clears?" he gave in at last, as he was bound to do; but, once the point was settled, there was ample room for other disturbing thoughts. hannah put her head in at the door presently. "shall you be wanting owt more to-neet?" she demanded. "no; you can go to bed. good night, hannah." "good neet, mum." hannah's tread on the upstairs journey was heavy; her downward steps, some few minutes later, were correspondingly light. there was a silence between the two who were seated on either side of the great peat fire in the parlour. lomax pulled at his pipe and stared into the glowing peat-ash; the woman watched his face. he grew conscious of her gaze, and turned his eyes suddenly to hers. the months had been slow to teach him, but he learned their lesson now. as the seasons had run their course, the man's great love had been growing--growing so silently, so little at a time, that he had not once pulled himself up to say, "this is love that has you by the throat; thrust it off while you can." and now--now, all in the space of that quick uplifting of his eyes to hers, he had come to understand. nothing he had felt, read of, dreamed about, was like this masterful reality; it hurried him along blindfold, as the welter and swing of a gale from the north had now and then driven him clean off the moor-track--into the bogland, it might be. he leaped from his chair, and crossed over to her, and put his arms about her. she spoke no word, and he was silent; but her lips went out to his. the reaction followed. he set her free, and strode restlessly up and down the room, with its black oak panels, its ridiculous china dogs on the mantelshelf, its fiery eye of smouldering ash. she followed his steps with her eyes, and cared not one whit save that he loved her. "see, kate," he said, coming close to her again, "you are the wife i should have had, but you are not free to hear me tell you so. we must go apart, you and i, lest--my darling, my darling, how i want you!" conscience, stilled for awhile, raised its voice. the woman warded off that second caress with which the man was minded to point his logic. "let me alone, griff! let me go. you know it is not right." he stood irresolute. the worst and the best in him fell to blows, and fought the quarrel out to the bitter end. then he put his lips to her hand, and raised her very gently. "show me to my room, kate. it is time you were asleep; you look tired," he said, as nearly in the tones of the friend of yesterday as he could contrive. she lit two candles, gave him one, and preceded him up the creaking wooden stairs. she let her hand rest in his for a space at the door of his room, then left him. at eleven of the same morning, the godly folk of marshcotes, clothed in their sunday best, were singing lustily within the bleak walls of the primitive methodist chapel; other godly villagers were singing with slightly less vigour in the parish church across the way. joe strangeways' mind, however, was set on other things, as he shambled across the ill-paved square that fronts the churchyard. he glanced at the church clock, and leered at large upon the village. "eleven of a sunday morn, an' me noan drunk yet," he observed. "dang me, but that beäts all." by way of repairing this slight omission, strangeways entered the bull. the fog was thick in his brain, and thick on the landscape, when he emerged. a friend in need guided him to the verge of the moor, but it was clear that there was to be no getting home that night; so the friend guided him back to the bull, and it was seven of the next morning when he set off for peewit, to change into his working clothes before going to the quarries. hannah clattered to meet him as he entered. "i telled thee how it 'ud be," she said, with a toss of the head. "griff lummax war up yester afternooin an' stayed his tea." "stayed his tea, did he? can't he get decent pickings at home?" muttered joe, whose head and temper were alike impaired by his carouse. "an' after that he stayed th' neet. they reckoned it war too wild for him to cross th' moor. too wild! i'd hev crossed myseln, it war that bright." "nay, lass, tha'rt wrang there. it war thick, main thick, or i'd hev been home long sin'." "drink maks a man see thick," observed hannah, dispassionately. and joe took to himself a shamefaced look. "did tha see owt?" he asked presently. "see? ay, a bonny sight too mich. i saw 'em kissing by th' parlour fire. an' at after that--well, th' missus knaws best what happened at after. see yonder, he's coming dahn th' stair now, fair as if he owned th' place." joe's face grew black with rage. he never doubted hannah's story, to its uttermost detail. this, then, was what he had worked and hoped for--the wife who had scorned him was on his own level at last. yet he was not pleased, when it came home to him how well his plan had succeeded; his jealousy was roused; he felt the need of kate more than he had yet done in his six years of courtship and marriage. he stood with his hands behind him and watched griff come down step by step. "tha'rt i' th' wrang house, seemingly," he growled. "through no fault of mine. why didn't you return last night?" retorted lomax, quickly. he had not given thought enough to kate's danger; but he realized now that he must carry the thing through with a high hand, if the ugly brute at the stair-foot were to be silenced. "'cos i war drunk," retorted joe, succinctly. "well, if you had been sober enough to take a square look at the weather, you'd have seen the snow and fog. i preferred a roof over my head last night, and your wife offered me one. i'm obliged to you both, strangeways." "oh, th' wife offered it, did she? then th' wife shall pay for it," muttered joe. griff went up to strangeways, and took him roughly by the coat-collar. "and you shall pay double if you lay a finger on her. you surly brute! to threaten your wife because she kept a man from starving on the moor. strangeways, i've a mind to give you one thrashing on account--another to follow if you don't behave yourself." he took a square look at joe's eyes, saw that the man feared him beyond all promptings of rage, and swung out of the house. but he was sorely troubled about kate as he went across the glittering frost-flakes to marshcotes manor. chapter x. the woman of sorrowstones spring. between marshcotes and cranshaw the highroad runs for a mile and a half. from cranshaw to ludworth in lancashire is a very good six. the hill rises sharp after you pass cranshaw church and the wild, wind-swept burial ground; and well towards the top, soon as you gain the open moor, a grim line of "stoups" guards the right hand of the way. it is an eerie road to travel, especially if night has fallen and brought you no company. the stoups, huge blocks of millstone-grit, white-washed at the base, blackened at the top, seem to stand out from the darkness, to move towards you almost. year after year they have stood there, pointing the way to travellers: if snow be thick on the highway, their black crowns show clear against the white; if the moor lie black, their white bodies point the way of safety. year after year, with frost and rain and snow, the rough moor weather has made sport of the stoups; they are workers of charity, and buffets are their fit reward. it is vain to call them senseless stone, and pass them by, and think no more of it; they stop you, willy-nilly, with their rough-hewn, tragic faces; they have lived in the silent places, and the mystery of a long loneliness is theirs. a true man done to death by the cold was the cause of their being, and many a true man killed by harsher foes has gone to swell the tale since then. more than once, or twice, or thrice, has murder walked beside those silent, ghostly stoups, and the bogs to right of them could tell some fearsome stories if they chose. it was then some five and twenty years since joshua lomax, griff's father, tried to cross from ludworth one bitter winter's night; they found him a mile from the highroad, dead from exposure, and his widow, as soon as she could bring herself to read other people's welfare through the crystal of her own trouble, made haste to build the sentinel line of stoups, lest more good lives should be sacrificed. griff could not bear to walk that road for many a long day after the tragedy, and even now he shuddered as he gained the outposts. tinker's pool glooms down in the hollow, just beyond the last of the stoups, and the gamekeeper's house stands at the top of the road; between the two lies sorrowstones spring--a two-roomed, crumbling cottage that gets its name from the well-spring at the door. rachel strangeways, the quarrymaster's grandmother, had lived here time out of mind, and she would have found it hard to chance on a dwelling more to her liking. rachel was reputed a witch throughout the countryside; maidens came to her, in fear and trembling, to have their fortunes told, and burly farmers sought her aid whenever the evil eye was working havoc among their cattle. she dealt in drugs, too, and great virtue was attached to an infusion she prepared of a certain bitter herb which only grew on the marsh that hugged her door. her eighty-five years had bowed her body to the proportions of a hunchback's, and there was an evil light in her blue-green eyes that did not fit ill with her reputation. whenever joe found himself in straits he repaired to the maternal roof-tree, for mistress strangeways could show good common sense on occasion. joe walked over to the cottage on the night following griff's stay at peewit house. he entered the living-room without knocking, and found mistress strangeways huddled over the embers of a poverty-stricken fire. "well, mother," said he, "i'm i' a queer way." rachel gibbered over her ashes awhile, then looked up. her blue-green eyes grew almost soft as they rested on this scrubby-bearded clown, who was yet bone of her bone. for there had been a time when the old witch's hand was not against the world, nor the world's hand against her; that was in the days when she and her man had a spruce little cottage at the edge of the moor, and a strip of garden where the peonies and the sweet marjoram and the ladslove grew, and one little lass to fend for. the little lass had grown up into a slim, well-favoured maid, and the mother had loved her after the profligate fashion of these rough-speeched, tender-hearted women of the uplands. and mother strangeways' heart was broken, once for all, when the girl died in bringing joe to a shameful birth; she did not rail against her daughter, but against the world that had wronged her, as the way of her class is; and she hardened herself against all men living, and buried her husband in due course, and came to this battered, wind-swept cottage to live out her days. and joe strangeways, who had inherited neither his mother's fearlessness nor his father's breeding, was all she had left in the world to cherish and frame plans for. "so tha'rt come to me?" she muttered, still with her eyes on joe's face. "so tha'rt come to me? ay, it brings men to their women-folk, does trouble; year in an' year out, i niver see thy black face, joe, without there's trouble agate. sit thee dahn, lad; sit thee dahn, and let's know what's toward." "just this--my wife's gone wrang wi' a gentleman. i could ha' borne it better if he'd hed rough talk an' a rough pair o' hands." rachel stiffened her dwarfed old body. "an' who may it be, joe?" "griff lummax, out to marshcotes manor. i knew how it 'ud be when th' mother--th' girt, ugly man of a figure--got coming it ower kate." the blue-green eyes shot fire. "then why didn't tha get him by t' throat, and squeeze th' life out on his body?" "'cos he's ower strong," growled joe. "ower strong, ower strong!" flashed the crone. "i didn't talk i' that way when i hed th' use of my body an' wits. tha'rt noan o' my flesh, joe--no, nor bone o' my bone, nawther--shame on thee, lad, for a shammocky nowt of a man." she pushed her skinny face close up to his. "dost mind what joshua lummax, griff's father, did to thy mother five an' thirty year agone?" her voice crackled and hissed like the fall of water on live coal. "dost mind how he came wi' his fine airs, just same as th' son hes done to thy wife, an' witched th' heart out on her? dost'a know i' what fashion i sarved him?" "tha did nowt," muttered joe, surlily; "tha gabbled an' gabbled for a fearful deal o' years, an' th' cold took him off i' th' end. dunnot thee talk to me till tha's getten summat to show for t' to-do tha'rt making." still closer the lean face pressed to his. she whispered something in his ear, and he glared at her with an admiration touched by fear. "art 'a leeing, mother?" he demanded. "leeing? no, by god! i hed my rights i' th' end, an' th' lass sleeps quiet i' her grave. thee see to thy own porridge, joe. i'm ower owd to cook for other fowk." "tha'rt a sight fuller i' th' wit nor me, owd or young. what mun i do, mother?" "do? kill him, i tell thee, an' off wi' them lummax peacocks for gooid an' all. that's th' porridge _tha_ hes to cook." "she came it high an' mighty ower me, did mrs. lummax; reckoned she'd gie me a bit o' stick, she did. more nor once her son hes hed th' laugh on me, i' sight o' all th' marshcotes fowk. i owe him a two or three hard knocks--ay, that i do." "then gie 'em, tha lout! childless am i this day--not counting a six ha'porth o' copper like thee--an' childless tha'll mak th' lummax woman. ower strong, is he? lig i' a hedge-bottom, then, an' crack his skull wi' a pickaxe." joe kicked at the smouldering peat, but his face showed no responsive enthusiasm. "tha itches to see me dangling at th' end on a hangman's rope, that's easy to be seen. dost 'a think a plain man can kill gentlefowk same as he'd lake at a bit o' pigeon-shooiting, an' niver hear no more on't?" "hes mother strangeways swung for joshua lummax? nay, tha shames me, joe, tha shames me. i mun ha' kept thee ower long at th' bottle; tha'rt a mammy's lad, a right mammy's lad." she rose from her bench, and her hands moved swiftly, the claw fingers keeping time to her thoughts. "christ! if i war only young again!" she shrieked. "if i could han'le a knife--or an iron bar, mebbe--i'd hev my rights o' yon lummaxes." she fell once again to a sitting posture, making hideous mouths at the fire. then a fresh train of ideas was started, and she looked up at joe with a cunning leer. "blood's blood," she crackled, "but swinging's swinging; an' happen tha can hurt him war nor even killing 'ud do. they're fearful proud, them lummaxes; break 'em, lad, break 'em wi' law; set their names on th' housetops, an' mak 'em a bye-word i' th' land. ay, hev th' law on 'em, an' bide thy own time for th' rest." "th' law?" snarled joe. "th' law is a matter o' brass, an' nowt but brass. him 'at's getten th' fattest purse can allus best a poor man. nay, doan't thee talk to me about law." "wilt 'a hearken to sense, or willun't 'a? thee go to-morn, i' th' dinner-hour, to lawyer french i' marshcotes. he's a sharp un, yon, an' he kep' me my bit o' freehold when squire war minded to set me, bag an' baggage, on th' roadside. ay, lawyer french bested th' squire an' proper." "an' charged thee a pretty penny, i'll be bound." "not more nor a poorish woman could pay; an' he'll noan charge thee more nor tha can pay." "well, i mak nowt o' sich things. what sort of a figure should i cut i' th' witness-box, afore judge, jury an' all, swearing away my pride i' my own wedded wife?" "oh, ay, tha's showed thyseln mighty proud on her, hesn't 'a, joe?" snapped the mother. "it'll break thy heart, willun't it, to lose thy lass? what tale didst 'a come to me wi' a four months back? that she wouldn't do this, an' she wouldn't do that, an' tha wert main weary o' th' sight on her." "but i'm noan for making her free to marry this lummax lad." "_marry_, sayst 'a? he'll noan marry her, if i know th' gentry. tha'll hev one less mouth to feed, an' kate 'ull hev to set to an' fend for herseln." "begow," muttered her son, after a lengthy silence, "tha allus did gie a chap a bit o' gooid, straightforrard sense. i'll off to this lawyer chap to-morn, dang me if i don't!" rachel crouched over her fire after he had left her. "to hev a babby like yon for a grandson," she grumbled. "cannot move hand nor foot by hisseln. eh, eh, to hev the free swing o' my own arms again, an' young lummax at t' other end on a mattock! but i'm owd, owd; nawther spells, nor muscles, wark as they once did. almighty god, if tha'd only mak me strong for a day--just for a day!" chapter xi. the ghost of wynyates. vague rumours began to come to griff's ears nowadays, and people stared curiously at him as he passed them in the street. "look here, gabriel, what's in the wind?" he asked bluntly, while the preacher and he were taking a walk together one afternoon. although the summer was well advanced now, joe strangeways, despite his ready acquiescence in the old witch's advice, had but lately summoned resolution enough to take him to lawyer french's office. but his tongue had not been idle in the meanwhile. gabriel was not the man to break any news gently, nor to beat about the bush; he lacked the guile. so he rested a steady eye on griff, and--"they say that matters are wrong between you and kate strangeways," he said. lomax met the preacher's eye squarely. "do you believe their tales?" "i want not to. lad, it would break my heart to believe it of you. can you give me your word it's false?" "as false as the liar who set it abroad. you can believe it or not as you like; but we're free of that charge." griff was hurt that the story was going abroad--hurt by a remembrance of his part in the scene which was responsible for it, hurt by the preacher's momentary doubt. "forgive me, griff; i might have known," said gabriel hirst, and accepted his friend's word for good and all. a night or two later, as lomax was coming home from the moor, he saw joe strangeways go in at the bull doorway; the oil-lamp at the corner showed an evil look on the quarrymaster's face. without pause or hesitation, griff followed him into the noisy public bar. there was a shuffling of feet, followed by a silence. "strangeways, a word with you," said griff, standing in the middle of the floor. joe laughed, and never so much as glanced at his enemy. "stand up, and come over here." still the quarrymaster did not look up, and lomax crossed the floor. "you're a heavy weight to lift, and i'd rather you came without fetching; but----" joe abandoned his defiant attitude on a sudden; he remembered that evening when griff had laid him prone, with his feet on the top, and his head on the bottom, step of the bull doorway. he got up reluctantly, growling as he went. griff set him with his face to the company. "you have heard strange tales of me lately, neighbours?" a subdued hum was the only answer. "they came from joe strangeways here, if i'm not mistaken. speak up, joe! what have you got to say by way of proof?" "hannah see'd wi' her own een----" began joe, then stopped. lomax was so confoundedly cool about it all. "can you swear to that? or am i right in guessing that hannah lied to you, and taught you the lie pat off?" this new suggestion staggered joe's muddled wits; his knees shook under him, and he could make no answer. griff waited for a space, nodding meanwhile at the landlord, who had come to the door to hear what was going on. "then i think i needn't keep you any longer, friends," he laughed at length. "landlord, drinks round; it's thirsty work watching a liar try to moisten his tongue." he turned to leave; and joe was never the one to neglect the chance afforded by an adversary's back. he seized a pewter-pot and hurled it with all his strength across the room. griff felt it whizz past his ear, turned sharp round, and made for strangeways in a fit of mad fury. he already had his hands at his throat, when a sudden thought pulled him up--a brute the man might be, and a liar, but he was kate's husband. nay, he himself was, in a measure, the quarrymaster's debtor--he had filched a kiss that was rightly his; he had stolen his wife's love from him. "you were born a liar, joe strangeways. i'll leave you to it," he said, and went out. but a shout followed him through the door. "i'll be even wi' ye yet, griff lummax!" yelled joe, in impotent fury. "tha'rt ower big to be talked sense to; but thy wench's body shall pay for what tha's said an' done to me. ay, by god! we'll see which on us is th' maister up to teewit house! twice tha's called me a liar, an' i'll blacken her een for that--one for th' first time ye called me, an' one for th' second." "hod thy blethering din!" cried one of his mates, roughly. "tha'rt nobbut a windbag, joe, an' a foul-mouthed bag at that." again lomax came back. a cold fear seized him, as he caught the drift of the drunkard's threats; he had forgotten that his hasty method of self-defence might place kate in jeopardy. again he stood in the middle of the room and looked at the company; but his throat was parched; he was sick with pity, wild with the thought that kate's name would soon be on every tongue here--would be bandied across this reeking bar, among the shag-smoke, the dirty pots, the beer-droppings on the floor. "tha'rt noan so pleased wi' thyseln, seemingly, as tha war a while back," jeered strangeways, seeing that griff made no further forward movement, but just stood there like one dazed. "thee wend home to thy mammy-bird, lad, an' let other fowks's wives alone for th' future." still lomax did not move. the wondering faces to right and left of him showed so many blurred spots of white through the smoke clouds. every second that he stood there made against them--against kate and himself--yet the words would not come. the quarrymaster grew bolder, and rose to an effort of wit. "landlord," said he, taking two greasy coppers from his pocket and laying them on the table, "we're fine an' freehanded i' marshcotes parish. 'drinks round,' says mr. lummax; an', 'drinks for mr. lummax,' says joe strangeways---come, griff," he went on, with brutal familiarity, "we'll sink th' woman i' beer; tak her for gooid an' all if tha wants, an' we'll be mates, thee an' me. let fowk talk. _i_ bear thee no malice, lad." griff found his tongue at last. the less sober of the company afterwards declared that "it war as if fork-leetning war playing round his face, an' his words came out like thunner." "strange ways, i never yet gave my word to a thing and then went back on it. and i promise you now that if you lay a finger on kate, i'll smash every bone in your body." "an' swing for 't?" sneered joe. "ay, and swing for it, if need be," griff answered, his voice falling to a quietness that appalled the quarrymaster. the landlord followed him into the passage. "i'm fair sick o' yon strangeways, sir. he's a surly wastril, as is allus kicking up a row i' my public. only, ye wouldn't be thinking o' persecuting him for shying that there mug at ye? it 'ud be brought in drunk and disorderly, sure as sure, an' that harms a respectable public." "prosecuted?" murmured griff. "no, of course not." the landlord turned with a sigh of relief. truth to tell, griff scarcely grasped what he had said. he was face to face with a situation which, until now, he had realized but dimly. that swift understanding of the thing called love had so lifted him out and beyond the little world about him, had given him such new forces, new hopes, that he had hardly paused to ask himself "what next?" to-night, though, the matter was practical, urgent. instinctively he made for wynyates, quickening his pace with every stride. gabriel hirst was coming out of his gate as he passed through ling crag. "is that you, griff? i thought it looked like your stride, though it's almost too dark to see." "yes, it's i. i'm off for a tramp." "where to?" asked the preacher, trying to fall in with his step. "the devil." "griff, griff, what's this? to speak so to the man who's loved and looked up to you--ay, looked up to you, for all your wild ways. lad, do you want to--to make an end of our friendship?" gabriel had grown very sensitive of late to changes in those he loved. griff put out a hand into the darkness and gripped his friend's. "don't be a fool, old fellow. it isn't that--only, i want to be alone; i've troubles to think out, and there seems to be no way to it yet." "can't you tell them to me, griff? i might be able to help." griff hesitated a moment, then laughed to himself, as he put the thought from him. the preacher was such a baby in women-matters; how could he appeal to him? "thanks, gabriel, but i couldn't explain--not just yet. i'll come to you when the way shows a bit clearer.--roddick has lived, and he's tough. he ought to be good for something," he added, after he had said good-night to gabriel, and quickened his stride again. he reached wynyates, opened the door without knocking, and stamped into the hall. "who's there?" came a voice from the room to his right. griff followed the voice. he found roddick seated at the table, which was covered with a jumble of cold beef, bread, apple-pie, cheese, and beer. "oh, you, is it?" said roddick, cutting himself another slice of beef. "why the deuce can't you enter in a christian way? have some food." "so i will. i'd clean forgotten supper." "forgotten supper, had you?" snapped his host, when he was fairly launched. "a healthy man never does that. what's amiss, lomax?" griff looked at him thoughtfully across the table. "something serious. i don't come for advice unless i need it." "and then you don't take it. you always were a cross-grained beggar. well?" "there's a woman in the case." "damn the women!" growled roddick. "have some more beef." griff said no more on the subject till they had turned their chairs to the fire; then he made a plain statement of fact. "so it's come at last, has it?" said roddick, gruffly. griff flushed. "hold hard, roddick; you're going a bit too far," he muttered, in answer to the spirit rather than the matter of the other's words. "we are innocent, i tell you!" "matter of terms, my boy. you kissed her, you say? it amounts to much the same thing." "it does nothing of the kind. besides, what fault there was lies at my door; she is not to blame." "i never insinuated that either of you were to blame. i only said that it amounted to the same thing." a silence followed, broken at length by griff. "it's pretty hopeless, either way," he finished. "if i leave things as they are, she runs a constant danger of being murdered by that brute. if we cut the whole thing, and go away together, it will break mother's heart." roddick had been oddly moved during this recital. twice he had been on the point of blurting out something that lay at the top of his mind; thrice his face had grown soft with pity. it would not have been roddick if he had allowed these lapses to go without correction. "well, you've got to choose," he said bluntly. "we always have to choose when anything serious is at stake. which is more to you, the lover or the mother?" griff frowned at him. "roddick," he said, with just the trace of a catch in his voice, "when i speak of my mother, i don't mean any conventional rot. all my life she has been a lover and a friend to me." the older man softened, and jeered again to hide it. "you sound like a tract, lomax. give the woman up, then, and stick to the feeding-bottle." "you're a brute!" muttered griff, savagely, and said no more. for ten minutes they sat and stared into the fire. the trees without--starveling sentries that challenged the moor winds, but were fain to let them pass--whimpered sorrowfully. a spit or two of rain sounded against the windows. "god! i ought to have been born up here; i feel like that," cried roddick, at last, pointing to the window on his right. griff had his back to the window and his eyes on the fire. had he glanced at roddick, he would have seen the sweat standing out on his forehead; the whole look of the man was changed since that casual glance at the window. but griff noted nothing; he sat there moodily until his host should find something useful to say. roddick recovered himself with an effort. "old fellow, if i seem a brute at times, i have very good reason. it is hard, lomax, to have to go on day after day without telling one's troubles to a living soul.--your case and mine run on all fours." "your case and mine?" repeated griff. "what do you mean?" the other checked himself. "there are some things best left untold. chuck another log on the fire, will you?" another silence followed. griff could stand it no longer, and rose to leave. "man, you're clean daft," he said irritably, "what is the use of asking you what i am to do?" roddick gripped the arm of his chair. "do?" he cried, with sudden energy. "if you take warning from me, you'll choose the nearest road to happiness, and have done with it. wait, and wait, and wait, till you're sick with effort and half dead with hunger; yes, wait if you like, and be hanged to you--but you'll regret it." "i begin to understand," muttered griff. "roddick, why did you never hint at this before?" "hint? i've hinted at nothing; i can't, for the girl's sake. look here, lomax," he added, more sanely, "if your mother is really a friend to you, and as sensible as you think her, she'll give you her blessing. cut and run--it isn't orthodox advice, but it's level-headed. cut and run, you fool; and get a look at happiness before you or the woman dies." griff moved to the door. clearly his host was not in a fit state either to give or to take advice, and his suggestions tallied altogether too closely with the promptings of inclination. "good night, old man," he muttered; "we'll talk it over when--when you're more yourself. no, don't bother to come to the door with me; i found my way in without help, and i can go out the same way." he closed the door after him. roddick moved swiftly to the window, and peered through. there was nothing to be seen. he rattled his hand against the glass with pitiful impotence. "you--devil!" he said, slowly. when griff opened the front door, a storm of wind and rain struck him full in the face. he pushed his way out with a laugh; wind and rain were staunch old friends, and this sort of horse-play was to his liking. he had barely crossed the threshold, and was about to turn and pull to the door after him, when a thing leaped out of the darkness. something hard and bony went round his neck; something flabby and wet pressed close to his lips. he put out his arms and grasped a bundle of rags. "it's cold and dark," said a voice. "and what call have you, leo, to keep your true love waiting?" griff thrust the loathsome thing away, not without effort--those lean arms round his neck gripped like a vice. a hollow laugh went up into the darkness, and from the mingled odours griff singled out the reek of brandy. "oh, i'm drunk," went on the voice; "but you took me for better or worse, leo; yes, you did, so help me god!--and here you keep me waiting in the cold and the wet--in the cold and the wet. but you'll kiss me just once, leo? that'll make it all right. take me in, i tell you, and give me warmth; give me food and drink--drink, yes, drink!" "roddick!" shouted griff. he feared this evil creature as he had never yet feared man. a shadow came before the hall lamp, and roddick stood at his side. "what is it?" he demanded testily. "a vampire, or a mad witch, or something. why the devil can't she come into the light and give us a fair chance?" they heard the sound of heavy footsteps crunching the gravel; the gate opened and clashed again; there was nothing to be seen but darkness, nothing to be felt but the clean, fresh wind. "you have guessed half my secret now, i fancy--the wrong half," said roddick, with a harsh laugh. "good night. i must go and find her." chapter xii. release. as griff was dressing, on the morning after his discovery of roddick's secret, there flashed into his brain just a single word. "divorce!" he cried. "why did i never think of that before? why didn't roddick suggest it last night? if only strangeways will do it, we shall have our chance of happiness." so wonderful was the thought of freedom that he scarcely paused to look on the darker side of the question, to realize what it would mean to kate to be branded for life. "you are looking better than i have seen you look for a week past," said mrs. lomax, when he came down to breakfast. "i'm feeling better, mother. things have been a bit askew with me lately, but there are signs of clearing." "you don't usually keep your troubles from me, griff." the old lady was watching him keenly. he hesitated a moment, then-"i will tell you all about it to-night," he said. and she was satisfied. breakfast over, he went and saddled lassie, and rode to peewit. kate was looking drearily out of the window facing marshcotes when he came in. he strode across the room and took her face in his two big hands and kissed her; it seemed so natural that she well-nigh forgot to rebuke him. "i have not been here since--since that night--because i was blind to your need," he began. "i never guessed that matters had gone so far. little woman, have they bullied you while i was away?" in her present mood she could not withstand just that kind of tenderness. she crept into his arms, and hid her face, and fondled him nervously with her hands, as if she were afraid of his escaping her. "griff, it is hard to bear," she whispered, and broke down utterly. "so long you have kept away from me--it was right, of course--but----" she looked up after awhile, and dried her eyes, and put him away. "what are we going to do?" she asked. he caught at the underlying suggestion, and for the life of him he could not keep the gladness out of his voice. "does he mean to apply for a divorce?" he asked. "yes." he pulled himself together. surely, if he were a man at all, it was the time to think of her needs, not of his own. "kate, i have brought all this on you." but her hands were over his mouth before the words were half out. "don't say that, dear. do you think i didn't help you to it?" there was no touch of the outside world then. the frank abandonment of that confession left nothing more to be said, or hoped, or striven for. the feeling passed, and they struggled slowly back to reality, as children make their first tottering attempts to walk. "we can fight them, kate, if we will. they have no evidence," said griff, with an effort. "they have evidence. hannah saw us in the parlour that night." "there was little to see; and in any case her word won't stand alone." "no; but joe is ready to swear---griff, i will not tell you. you can guess, can't you? he came back in time to see you--and he means to swear that he saw more. griff, griff, how can you make me tell you such things?" "are you sure of this, kate?" "yes; quite. he blurted it all out to me a few nights ago in one of his drunken fits. the marshcotes lawyer has told him what to say, so as best to help hannah's evidence, and i don't see how we can face it." a long pause. "kate, are you sorry?" she looked at him--once. a heartful of neglected yearnings came to the front with a rush, and swept her away with them. "no, no, no," she sobbed. "kate," he said, "come back with me to mother. it is the only way. i daren't leave you here an hour longer." "but, griff, i can't! think of how your mother would take it if---no; i can't! i won't!" "it's not safe for you here, child; and you are coming," he said peremptorily. she yielded at last. there did, indeed, seem to be no other way, and she could not bear to let griff leave her. so together they set off across that well-known strip of heath, griff leading lassie by the bridle. mrs. lomax was just going out at the manor gates when they arrived. "mother," said griff, simply, "i have brought kate to you. you will not bother her with questions, will you? she is tired and ill, and i'll tell you all about it later, as i promised. will you take her upstairs, and get her to lie down a bit?" mrs. lomax, feeling that some grave trouble was in the air, turned without a word. she took kate up to her own room, and, because griff had asked it, she would not let her make excuse of any kind, but forced her to lie down on the bed, with its dimity hangings and its quaint, old-world fragrance of lavender. "get to sleep if you can, my dear; you look wearied, and it will be the best thing for you," she said, and went downstairs to griff. he was turning a sheet of blue foolscap over and over in his hands. it had come while he was away, and was lying on the hall table when he followed the women indoors. he passed it over to his mother. "read that, and don't be shocked, mother," he said quietly. she settled her spectacles carefully on her nose, and waded through the legal formulæ. "i didn't think it of you, griff," was all she said, as she laid the paper down. but the lines on her old face were working pitiably, and griff knew what she was suffering. he made a clean breast of it then, and the cloud on the mother's face lifted a little. "we shall not defend the action," he finished. again the lines of pain struck across the woman's forehead and about her eyes. "but why, griff? surely, after what you have told me, you are not----" "guilty? no; but in the eyes of any court we are. the servant was spying on us--kate told me so to-day. she saw enough to prejudice our case from the start. then strangeways returned in time to see me at peewit the next morning, so the evidence as to my passing the night there is clear enough." "yes; but you can prove that it was impossible for you to get home." "i can; but why was i there as late as eight o'clock--the snow didn't fall thickly till then--with her husband away? don't you see, mother, everything tells against us? besides, we have burnt our bridges now; there can be no return for kate." she was silent for a space, then-"do you want strangeways to get the divorce, griff?" she flashed. "honestly, yes. but we have no choice in the matter; the verdict is bound to go against us, and it will spare kate a great deal if we don't appear at all." again mrs. lomax was silent. "griff," she said, with another sudden glance, "do you intend to marry her?" "i do, mother." "look me straight in the eyes, dear. i don't mean to doubt you, you know, if you will only answer me one question. you kissed each other that night; it was a grave wrong-doing. was there no worse sin than that, griff? are you trying to shield the woman by lying to your mother?" "mother, mother! have i ever lied to you?" there was keen reproach in his voice. "never, griff; but, then, you have never been in love before." "with my mother--always. i swear to you that we are innocent." "thank god for that, dear! i am behind the times in such things. it would have killed me, griff, to think that you could stoop----" "hush, mother! kate is above it, whatever i may be." a long silence, broken by the patter of sleet against the window. "you might have married well, griff." "mother, that is not like you. leave distinctions of that kind to people who cannot claim five hundred years of moor life." the old lady rose abruptly and went to the window. blurred eyes saw through blurred panes some gallant hopes she had entertained on her son's behalf--saw the wife she had planned for him; saw jealousy, too, the fierce resentment of a mother who is robbed of her young; saw, finally, the way that meant happiness for griff. "you are right, dear," she said, turning and taking his hands in her own lean, weather-stained palms. "if you will always follow your heart, i don't think it will take you far wrong." the divorce suit was the talk of the artistic sets in london that winter. griff's society friends chattered about it; the little people who had fumed at his success laughed stridently at his fall. "mr. lomax," purred belgravia. "griff lomax, you know. of course you have heard? isn't it _shocking_? to think that a man of his genius should stoop to an intrigue with a low quarryman's wife!" "kissing an' sich; it's fair shameful," muttered jose binns to his cows. "ye mark my words, beästies, there'll no gooid come on 't." but it was not a matter of the public to griff lomax. it was between the woman, the moors, and himself; and he saw full life before him. chapter xiii. a moonlight introduction. "well?" growled mother strangeways, as her grandson pushed his way in between the rickety doorposts of sorrowstones spring. "well, it's ower an' done wi', for sartin sure. kate's gone off wi' griff lummax." the old hag toasted her claws at the red peat ashes and chuckled. "gone wi' him, didst 'a say? afore iver yon lawyer chap hed sent 'em his bits o' paper? they mun ha' getten it on their minds, an' proper, not to bide till th' law set 'em free." joe shuffled uneasily towards the hearth. "i misdoubt it, mother; ay, i misdoubt it. sure as there's a fooil aboon ground, it's young lummax. he meäns to wed her, an' she'll live off th' fat o' th' land. it war just what they wanted, it war." "tha'rt a bonny un, joe, wi' thy dog i' th' manger ways," croaked the grandmother. "tha'll be shut o' thy wife for gooid an' all, an' here tha'rt come whining 'cos kate's made thee a free man." "but it war just what they wanted, it war," persisted joe, doggedly. "without ever a 'by your leave' comes lummax to teewit yester morn, an' cuddles an' kisses kate, an' away they wend to marshcotes manor, same as if a man's wife war fair ony fowks's belonging but hisn what wedded her. ay, an' th' mother took 'em in, too." "joe, tha's been lang i' coming. why didn't 'a slip across th' moor yestreen to tell a body?" "'cos i war ower drunk, if tha wants to know." a long-tried sense of the efficacy of this excuse had made it almost a formula with joe. she looked at him with a grin of good fellowship; yet under the grin was a touch of wistfulness, a weird, abortive echo of the yearning which had once centred itself round joe's mother. "it taks a lot to bring thee to thy grandam, lad. tha willun't wend a step out o' thy way to clap een on her, without tha's harder set to 't nor or'nary. tha mud ha' getten drunk here, joe, if tha'd fashed thyseln to come for 't," she finished, in a plaintive key. joe's face cleared perceptibly. "hast 'a getten owt to sup, mother?" mother strangeways scrambled to the cupboard, and took out a black bottle. "rum, begow!" muttered the son. "fetch us a mug, mother, an' let's be making a start." he did make a start, in good earnest, and the old witch joined him. there was but one pewter-pot in the cottage, and this they passed freely from one to the other. the glowing peat lit up their faces, as they sat on either side of the hearth. a little soughing wind was creeping round the chimney-stack. "it's fine an' lonely up here," said mother strangeways at last. "canst 'a hear th' wind a-sobbing i' th' chimbley, lad? oh ay, it's easy to mak free wi' th' devil, come storm or calm.' she hugged the bottle to her breast, waiting till joe should have finished the last of the mugful. "doan't! nay, doan't," he pleaded, with a shiver. "i war niver so fearful fond o' th' devil, an' he flairs me." "flairs thee, tha sawny? he's a better mak of a stay-by, let me tell thee, than this god 'at th' pious folk prate on. he made th' marsh, i tak it, what grows a herb to cure all ills. he made th' snaw an' th' frost--ay, th' snaw an' th' frost, what taks th' gentlefolk off now an' again." she paused to chew the cud of some tasty reminiscence. then she glanced furtively towards the grandfather's clock that stood in the corner. whatever the size of the cottage, and mean as its every other appointment might be, there was always a brave old eight-day clock to be seen in the dwellings on marshcotes moor. the beldame pointed one hand at the clock, while the fingers of the other went scrabbling up and down her ragged skirt. "sitha, lad! it wobbles summat fearful, does th' owd clock. first to right, then to left, it wobbles reg'lar. _tick-tack, tick-tack_, goes th' inside--an' _tick-tack, tick-tack_ goes th' outside, keeping time. it's a sign, joe; i'm noan long for this world, now that th' owd clock hes ta'en to wobbling. five an' eighty year we've bided together--_tick-tack, tick-tack_, me an' th' clock--an' now it's started to dither. tha'll noan hev a grandam sooin, joe." "tha'rt drunk," muttered strangeways, succinctly. she set her hands on her hips, and grinned into joe's face. "drunk, babby, sayst 'a? me drunk while tha's sober, tha kittling? nay, it taks a bottle or two to come it ower mother strangeways. i tell thee it wobbles, does th' eight-day clock. lad, tha mud do thy grandam a sarvice." her eyes grew bright with a sudden earnestness. "bring a two or three screw-nails wi' thee th' next time tha comes, an' fasten th' clock to th' wall; it'll happen keep me a while longer." "tha'rt feared o' th' grave, seemingly, if tha'rt noan feared o' th' devil," sneered the man. she was quiet for awhile; then she kicked the smouldering peat into a whirr of angry sparks. "ay, that i am, till i've settled old scores wi' them lummaxes. it's little rest there'd be for rachel strangeways, ligging i' her grave, if griff an' his mother war laughing aboon sod. an' all to be done by myseln," she added reflectively; "me eighty an' more, wi' only a misbegotten fooil of a man to help me--an' him sitting, stark-witted, wi' his clumsy hands i' his pockets. joe, durst 'a kill young griff, if tha'd getten him safe to grund, nobbut wanting a stamp o' thy foot to finish him?" "i durst that; thee bide till i've getten th' chance; thee bide a bit." "i've bided ower long a'ready." they fell into a moody silence. a gleam of triumph shot into rachel's skinny face. "lad, it's th' best news i've heärd for mony a long day, this o' young lummax's wedding kate. let 'em be, an' griff 'ull find his mistake out; she's noan his sort, an' he's noan hers--they'll fratch, an' proper, after a two or three week. teed by th' tail, teed by th' tail; lad, they'll scrat each other's een out!" the bottle was finished, and joe felt no further inducement to stay. "good neet, mother. i'm wishing tha'd talk a bit less an' do a bit more." rachel gave vent to her tongue at that, and rated him till her face went purple. but she changed her key just as joe was shutting the door behind him. "joe, lad!" she called. he pushed his head round the corner. "hast a' nearly done wi' thy foulness, or how like?" he demanded. "ay, i've done. tha willun't forget th' screw-nails, wilt 'a? day in an' day out th' owd clock wobbles summat fearful." "i'll noan forget." and he shuffled off into the moonlight. about the time that mother strangeways was cursing her grandson by every epithet known to the brisk upland vocabulary, lomax and kate were talking together in the cosy manor parlour. "don't plead against me, kate," he was saying. "you know i oughtn't to stay here till we are free to marry." "but that will be months yet, you say--a whole six months at the soonest. griff, i shall want you to death before the waiting is over." his arms went round her at that; but he had made up his mind, and nothing could turn him aside. "we must give ourselves a chance," he said gruffly, setting her away from him. "what can folk help but think, if you and i live here while the case is pending? you might help me a little, kate; it is not too easy for me." she gripped his arm with quick, passionate strength. "you shan't go back to london, if i have to hang round your neck like a millstone. they are too fond of you there; you'll go to your fine ladies, and you'll talk and laugh and flirt, and they will make me look silly in your thoughts. you shan't go there, i tell you!" griff laughed mightily; and "wife," said he--she quickened to the premature tenderness of the word--"wife, i was never sure till this moment that you loved me; but now i know it. what! you're jealous." "jealous or not," she retorted--but the softness was gaining in her cheeks--"it will break my heart if you go to london." "then i won't! there, does that satisfy you?" with a woman's swift returning on her own paces, "griff," she whispered, "do you want to go? i'm foolish, and if you really want----" "it's the last place i should think of, child. i shall go only as far as the other end of yorkshire, where i shall be within hail if you really want me. you'll write every day?" she lowered her eyes shamefacedly. "i write a poor letter, griff. they'd only shame you." again he laughed, a frank, untroubled laugh. "we shall see about that, wife. every day you will write to me, and every day i'll write to you. god! how long those months will be!" mrs. lomax decided at this juncture that they had had quite enough time together, and she entered abruptly. "off with you to bed, kate," she said. "griff is sadly dependent on the look of a woman's face, and if you spoil yours by late hours, i won't be answerable for the consequences." "but i will!" cried lomax, gaily. "you have arranged it all?" asked the mother, when they were left alone. "yes; i am to leave to-morrow, to return when--we are free." "well, griff?" "you are a brick! to treat kate as you have done----" "be quiet, boy! you are either the wisest man in the world, or the veriest fool. i love kate; so do you. we can only wait and see how it all turns out. are you coming to bed, too?" "not just yet. i must have a mouthful of fresh air before i turn in." he held open the door for her, and they walked upstairs together, his arm threaded through hers. "good night, mother," he said, as they gained the landing; "don't worry about things, will you?" "not too much, griff; i am a woman of sound common sense. good night." he went downstairs again, picked up a cap from the hall table, and went out. he was restless to the point of fever, and nothing but the sharp night air and the free use of his limbs could give him a wink of sleep that night. swinging off into the marshcotes moor, he speedily found himself at the farm that fronted hazel dene; then, bethinking him of that parsley-field which had so mystified miller rotherson, and remembering, as a natural corollary, certain of the poaching fraternity of ling crag, he turned up the dene. a light was burning in greta's room as he passed the mill, and he glanced up at it with a warm splash of feeling at his heart. "poor lassie!" he muttered. "i wonder how soon that witless preacher will get at a pretty woman's meaning?" he paused, with a poacher's instinct, as he neared the gate that opened into the parsley-field. the moon was scarcely past full, and every bent and clump of bracken stood out clear in the bluish light. in the middle of the field a hare was squatting--a big fellow, with a body as still as sleep, and a head that shifted warily this way and that, to learn if there were any danger abroad. the night air crawled into griff's throat, and he could not keep back one little gasp of a cough. straight as a die the hare made for a point in one of the boundary walls; there was a succession of sharp cries, like the cries of a teething baby, and after that a silence. "there's one of the boys over there; i'll have a word with him," thought griff. he crossed the field quietly, and skimmed over the wall through which the hare had disappeared. a surly "who's there?" greeted him as he dropped on to the grass, almost into the arms of a burly, grizzled five-feet-ten of iniquity, standing with the dead body of a hare in his hands. "you ought to know me by this time, will reddiough," laughed griff, softly. "it's ye, sir, is 't? that shapes things different, like." a genial grin overspread will's knotty features as he recognized the intruder. "what luck?" "nobbut a couple, an' i've carred two hour under th' wall for 'em." "well, it's poor sport, netting, at the best of times. first, you have to slink round here in the daytime, and see which way the hares take home again; then you've to wait under a wall till the frost nips you; and at the end of it all you have precious little to show. i say, will, what fools these hares are always to go through the same hole!" "no more fooils nor men-folk, what allus taks th' same stile through a field. an' if they war sharper, sir, what 'ud be th' use o' setting a net?" will smiled at the transparency of his own reasoning; he could not conceive a scheme of the universe in which poaching-nets played no part. "but look here, will," said lomax, after a pause of rumination, "if my training goes for anything, i know that a hare never starts home from its feed till the day is breaking, unless some one disturbs it." "rarely, sir, not _never_. to speak plain, i war main stalled o' ligging on th' kitchen settle, so i like as i thowt i'd try a bit o' sport for myseln. it's a matter o' chance, so to say. i've getten two to-neet just by carring an' biding; another neet i mud ha' hed to bide till morn, an' niver cotch an odd 'un." "why didn't you bring dan o' smick's or some of the others along with you?" will reddiough drew his lips in, and thrust his cheeks out; he gave forth a low whistle of disgust, tempered with charity for a fellow-mortal's failings. "dan's a-coorting, an' he wouldn't stir till latter on. ye'll be knowing what a sight o' folly a wench can pump into a decent man's body. then jack o' ling crag, he couldn't come afore his public shut, an' so wi' th' rest. so i like as i thowt----" "till later on," echoed griff, softly. "does that mean there is fun on hand?" "well, sir, i willun't deny there's a mak on a party, like, what's due to meet i' cringle wood for a bit o' pheasant-shooiting, soon as th' mooin gets ower cranshaw kirk." "the old lot--dan o' smicks, jack o' ling crag, you and ned kershaw?" "ay, th' owd lot. jack war for sending word to ye, but ned kershaw, he up and said----" "said what?" "well, 'at ye'd getten your hands full a'ready. ned allus war one for making a crack," added reddiough, apologetically. griff cursed a little under his breath, then laughed. "as it happens, i am as free as can be till the daylight comes. gad, will, i feel the old stuff working in me! do you care to take me with you?" "ay, and proud to do it, sir! just like thy father--just," he muttered approvingly, as he bundled his net together and took the hares in his left hand. "it'll be close on th' time, i'm thinking. let's get a squint at cranshaw." will scrambled to the top of an adjacent knoll, used the church as a guide to other matters than that for which it was primarily intended, and intimated that they might as well be setting off. cringle wood lay half a mile west of wynyates--a steep-sided crack in the moor face, sparsely set with oak and birch, and a favourite haunt of such pheasants as had grown tired of the preserves further down the valley. kershaw and dan o' smick's were there before them, and jack o' ling crag was not long in putting in an appearance. jack's face, when he espied lomax, left no doubt as to his satisfaction touching the addition to their little shooting-party. it was a marvellous night; just a touch of frost, but not enough to whiten the masses of ruddy brown bracken that grew between the dotted tree-stems; here and there a fat old pheasant-father, standing out clear against the sky as he perched on his branch of oak. _pop-pop_ went the guns. griff did not trouble about the fact that he was unarmed; the mere potting at sitting birds was dull sport in itself, and the adventure was all that he cared about. "the keepers have been pretty quiet lately, haven't they?" said griff to jack o' ling crag, as the latter picked up a bird. "oh, ay, sir, quiet as church mice. there's noan so mony pheasants i' cringle wood as there war, an' they've enough to do to look after th' regular preserves down below. 'tain't worth while, th' squire thinks, to meddle wi' cringle wood. it warn't allus so, though, by a long chalk, as you an' me mind, i'll warrant. dost recall that neet----" he stopped. five shouts came from five different quarters of the wood. dan o' smicks and ned kershaw came running downhill to join their comrades, and five men converged towards them at a steady run. "no shooiting, lads!" cried jack, getting the hang of the situation in a moment. "at 'em wi' th' butt-end, but doan't shooit. fair fight, an' a race for home after ye've settled 'em. blazes! but there's squire hisseln!" his last item of information was lost to all but lomax, who was nearest him. they were all at close quarters now, and the tussle began in earnest. as luck had it, the four keepers and griff's three allies were well to one side when the fight was fairly started. griff was aware of a big, rough-hewn man fronting him; his face showed knotty in the moonlight, and he laughed a great, hearty laugh from his belly upwards. it was the squire of saxilton. "you've no gun!" cried old roger daneholme. "no; but i've got the fists that god gave me. drop your gun, and come on." the squire chucked his weapon into the bracken, and they ran together like steel to magnet. in and out darted the blows; roger daneholme took a crack on the mouth that rattled his teeth in their sockets, and griff lost the aid of his left eye for the time being. it was neck or nothing with griff. in among the stress, he found time to wonder how he could have been fool enough to mix himself up with a poaching affray, now that kate had made things matter so much more; it was all very well in his bachelor days, but he should have had more sense now. suppose he were collared and run in, along with these jolly boon companions of his? he pondered a trifle too long on that aspect of the case, for the squire got in a body-blow, that came dangerously near to taking his adversary's wind. all the while the tussle of four against four was running a brisk course on the left; curses and blows thwacked through the frosty air with cheery impartiality; but jack o' ling crag was laughing, and griff gathered that the three were having the best of it--though his notions of everything outside the radius of the squire's fists were of necessity in the shadowy background of his mind. at last griff got his chance, and took it. old roger again aimed a bit too high for his wind, and he responded with a clean-cut drive from his left that got the squire full between the eyes, planting him squarely in the bracken. he showed no disposition to come up to scratch again, and griff looked to see if he were needed elsewhere. but the keepers had had the worst of the tussle; they had been driven back towards the wood-bottom, and the poachers four were making the best of their way towards wynyates. jack o' ling crag stopped at the top of the wood to see how it fared with lomax; the others were well ahead of him, and did not notice the stoppage, their guiding rule on these occasions being to take a bee-line for home. and somehow it fell about that jack, the old reprobate, grew so keen on the mighty battle going on below him that he forgot all about his own safety. the keepers rallied, just as griff put in his farewell smack at his opponent; two went to tackle lomax, and two made up the hill towards jack o' ling crag. "come on!" shouted jack. "run for your life, ye fool! what are ye stopping for?" to tell the truth, griff had characteristically lost sight of prudence; how could he leave the squire, stretched stark before him, without at least a passing attempt to bring him round? he looked towards the stream that tumbled through cringle wood, and was setting off to fetch water in his cap when a pair of lusty arms gripped him from behind. his next clear conception of outward things was, that he was lying on his back, looking up at the milky way. "the game's up at last," he groaned. "dad would never have been such a dolt--and how will it strike kate?" "much as you struck squire," put in one of the keepers, facetiously--"straight atween the eyes." griff bit his lip; he had not known that he was talking aloud. then, to make matters worse, down came the other pair of the squire's party, with jack o' ling crag between them. old roger daneholme opened his eyes presently; they doused him with cold water, and before long he was on his feet again. "we've got two of 'em, squire," said a keeper. "eh? got what?" he muttered, still dazed. "two of the poaching wastrels." the squire looked at griff and grinned. "_wastrels_, say you? well, if you feel that way, i'll watch while any one of you four have a go at our friend there. you don't seem anxious. let him free, then, you fools, and don't sit on his chest as if he was a damned armchair." griff, freed from constraint, leaped to his feet; he began to think that there was hope for him yet if he had to deal with roger daneholme. "what's your name?" queried the squire, taking a long pull at his flask. "griff lomax." "what, joshua lomax's son? gad, i wish he'd been alive to see you fight! i knew him well; we were lads together, and many a night he's helped me to take my father's game. that's it, you see. the light's a bit queer down in the wood here, and i thought you were walter, my son. time and again i've tried to spot him at the old game--runs in the family, you'll observe--and i wanted to see if i was a match for him yet. you're about his build and height--but, by hell, you've a better notion of your fists! i never knew a cleaner shot than that you felled me with--not that i saw it very clearly--but it was such a devilish kingdom-come blow for me. lomax, i'm proud to meet you." the keepers stared open-eyed at this last freak of the squire's. they fancied they knew the ins-and-outs of their master pretty well by this time, but they were not prepared for this. jack o' ling crag swore a soft oath, and decided that old roger was a likelier man than he'd thought him. the squire turned sharply. "who's that? why, it's jack o' ling crag, if i'm not mistaken. so we've got you at last, jack, have we? well, you've had a fair run." "you're not going to run him in?" said griff, quickly. "why not? he's the rankest poacher in the county." "so am i, then." "oh, that's another matter! you do it for fun, god bless you! you're a sportsman--but jack here does it by profession. i never could stand a man who does things by profession." "all right, squire," responded griff; "we'll go together, jack and i." old roger looked hard at him, and saw that he meant it. he stamped up and down for a while; then-"i'm a precious fool to do it, but, if you put it that way, jack shall have a bit longer run. off you go, the pair of you. i say, lomax, by the way, you'd better come and dine with me." "i can't, i'm sorry to say--i leave here to-morrow." "for good?" "for six months or so." "why couldn't you say so? ride over to saxilton when you come back--send a line to plover court, you know. men mostly can't fight nowadays; they're rare birds, not to be missed." "well, i'm blowed!" muttered jack, as he and griff picked their way homewards. "exactly," answered lomax. and never a word besides did they utter till they parted at the door of the dog and grouse. chapter xiv. frender's folly. when griff reached home and looked at himself in the glass, he was struck by the disarrangement of his features. the left eye was swollen and rapidly discolouring; his upper lip was pretty badly bruised; and a deepish cut in one cheek was still bleeding fitfully. these, and a few minor blemishes, helped to make up a picture that was far from prepossessing; it occurred to him that kate would think it a bad start, if he appeared on the morrow in this guise. the more he thought of it, the more clearly he saw that he must get away from marshcotes before the household was up, leaving a good-bye behind him. he stole out of his room and across the landing. a light shone under mrs. lomax's door, and he knocked gently. "come in!" called the old lady, who had long ago recognized his footfall on the stairs. she was sitting up in bed, with a thick shawl drawn close about her shoulders and a book on her knees. "what! reading in the middle of the night? fie, mother." "i have been troubled lately, dear; it takes an old woman longer to reconcile herself to a change--do you understand? why, griff, what _have_ you been doing to your face?" "i don't look exactly pretty, do i? i've had a lively discussion touching the rights of property, and this is the outcome." "poaching again, boy?" sighed the mother. "i had hoped, since you came back--but, there, i might as well try to keep a duck from the water. let me be doing something to your face, at any rate." "no, don't bother. i'll get a slice of raw beef and paste it over the eye. i want you to do something else for me, though, mother." "well?" "you have seen me like this before, but kate hasn't. i was going to leave to-morrow in any case. if i pack my bag now and slip off by the early coach from heathley, will you make matters right with kate?" "but where are you going?" "up to north yorkshire. i had a letter from framlingham the other day--you remember framlingham?--he is playing the hermit up there in an out-of-the-way shooting-box of his, and he gave me _carte blanche_ to run up when, and for as long as, i liked. after i leave him, i must put on my time as best i can until the divorce business is through. mother, you will look after _my wife_? i hate to leave her. strangeways may be up to mischief, you know. don't let her go out alone, will you?" the old lady smiled at him, very tenderly and a little ruefully. "you are a muddle of a man, griff; i sometimes wonder how you manage to come through things as well as you do. first, you rush off on a harum-skarum prank the night but one after taking big responsibilities on your shoulders; then, you come to me with all kinds of suggestions for taking care of kate; finally, you will leave us in the lurch, us two poor women, to fight out a trying time together." "i'll stay, mother! it was your suggestion, to start with, that i should----" "you can't stay," said mrs. lomax, quietly. "well, but you seem----" "don't bother me with logic, when i am suffering from feelings. off you go, boy; you can trust me with your treasure-trove. don't forget to put the beef on your eye; you have no idea what a fright you look." so griff was well on his way north by the time that kate had opened her eyes and had wondered anew at the strangeness of her surroundings. mrs. lomax contrived an explanation of her son's early departure, not without sundry concessions to her principles of honesty, and the two women began their dreary, uneventful waiting time. there were legal delays, first of all; and when at last the case had come on for trial, and strangeways had obtained the verdict of the court, there was a further wait until the decree could be made absolute. the interval, indeed, was then only half what it is to-day, but to kate, in her present condition of nervous dread, three months seemed a veritable eternity. it was a wretched winter, too, for gabriel hirst. he was troubled, to begin with, by the difficulty of reconciling griff's innocence with his action in carrying off kate strangeways to the manor. griff had given his word that they were innocent, and innocent therefore they must be--yet, "it looked queer to a plain man's way of thinking." then, greta was becoming positively vixenish; the preacher's helplessness, his dog-like devotion, his womanish beating about the bush, got on the poor lassie's nerves at last, till she was driven, from sheer inability to bear it any longer, to follow griff's example and migrate for a while to an atmosphere less strained. she met gabriel as she was lumbering across the square that fronted the black bull, in the one rickety chaise which marshcotes possessed. "how do you do, mr. hirst?" she said, leaning out of the window and beckoning him to approach. the driver pulled up his nag--never a matter of serious difficulty--and gabriel came to the door. "good morning; are you--are you leaving us?" he stammered, keeping the little gloved hand in his, for very forgetfulness of all that lay without the pretty, frost-kindled face, with its mocking lips. "yes, for a few weeks. it is so dull here, month in and month out, isn't it? _such_ a bother i had to get father to let me go--but aunt has begged me to stay with her for such a long while past, that i could hardly have got out of it this time. do you never go away, mr. hirst?" "i? not often. i like the old place well enough, when----" "yes, when?" "when folks treat a man as if he was something better than the mud under their high-heeled boots," said the preacher, with sudden savagery. this pretty scrap of womanhood, with her warm white flesh nestling cosily into her wraps--why did he let himself be driven by her out of his wonted sober courses? for a half-moment, the man of god could have strangled this mocking daughter of eve. "i never was treated in that way, so i can't tell; besides, my boots aren't high-heeled," she added inconsequently. the driver was beating his hands across his chest to keep the cold out, and greta bethought her of the coach. "you'll make me late for the coach at heathley, mr. hirst. good-bye; won't it be a relief to you to have me out of the village? i tease you so, and i believe you don't half like it." gabriel hirst stood there like a fool in the middle of the road, and watched the chaise disappear over the crest of the ill-paved street. anger had gone from him; religion had gone from him; he was only dazedly conscious of that furry vision which had left him with a careless gibe. he never knew of the bitter tears shed by this same furry vision, who was really no more than a healthy young maiden, with all a life's desires before her; never guessed that she wept through half her journey, and wanted to weep out the other half, had there been tears enough to draw upon, and no one to see them fall. altogether, when christmas day came and the bells rang out their message, in the hearty country way, there was little responsive joy in the hearts of many of the dwellers by marshcotes moor. mrs. lomax, though every day seemed to bring kate nearer to her, was as yet far from accepting the situation; she remembered other christmases, when she had had griff all to herself--further back, too, when her husband was alive, and they had framed great plans for the future of a certain toddling hopeful. who was this strange woman, that she should upset a lifetime of hopes and fears, lightly as if they had been a card-house? and kate felt her position keenly; she was soon to be branded in the eyes of all who knew her as a woman of bad repute, and it cut her pride to the quick. then she would cease, for a whole day together, to care what any one thought of her, so long as she had griff; but after that would come a bitter sense that he was far away from her, and a dread of what might happen in the interim. like all superstitious people, she thought of providence as an agent whose unalterable aim it was to defeat the plans of mortals when they were aiming for the highest happiness; it seemed inconceivable that nothing should step in to thwart them at the last. griff was shooting--there was a whole crop of terrors to be gleaned from that knowledge alone; accidents were so easy, and the chance fall of a trigger was as simple an agent as providence could well find. it was in vain that mrs. lomax, with her cheery common sense, strove to put such dreads away from her; and griff's frequent letters--they came, if the truth must out, three times a week--did less to comfort kate than one good, hearty hand-grip could have effected. but there was more than theoretic dread abroad; there was real tragedy between ling crag moor to the west and cranshaw moor to the east--as roddick knew to his cost. roddick was shaving when the sound of the marshcotes bells came through the frosty air on christmas morn. he grinned savagely at his own reflection in the glass, and cut himself badly on the chin, under the delusion that he was uttering a biting sarcasm. "peace on earth," he muttered, as he sought for a cobweb on the well-lined walls of his bedroom. "good-will towards men; i know the old tomfoolery by heart," he growled, applying the cobweb to his chin. the old woman who came for a few hours each morning--his only servant--was planting a smoking coffee-pot on the table when he came downstairs. "a merry kirsmas, sir, to ye," she croaked. "thanks; the same to you," said roddick, dryly. "oh, by the way, isn't there some superstition about the season--something about coin of the realm, and other things that really touch people's hearts? mrs. whitaker, would you like a christmas-box?" he amused himself for a while, as his way was, in watching the old creature squirm from one embarrassment to another. first, she feared he would see how anxious she was in the matter, and then she feared he wouldn't; it was an unfair advantage, she felt, to take of a woman "that had allus had her own living to addle, but what war noan dependant on onybody's charity, for all that." roddick grew swiftly weary of her--weary, with one of his hot, insane frenzies. he tossed her a sovereign, as he would have thrown a bone to his dog, and turned to his eggs and bacon. "that will do for to-day," he snapped. "you can leave as soon as your legs will carry you." "but there's th' kitchen not fettled up yet, an' th' bedroom----" began the woman. "well, they must wait till to-morrow. i can't stand your clatter, clatter, clatter, upstairs and down. heaven knows why it allowed man to hit on the notion of clogs!" mrs. whitaker was not insensible to fear of her master's black moods; but it shocked her sense of decency that the domestic rites should go unperformed. "axing your pardon, sir, what'll you do for th' kirsmas dinner? there's th' turkey to be roasted, an' th' sauce to be made, an' th' plum pudding----" "confound the lot of them! i shall dine off cheese and bread. good day, mrs. whitaker." the woman made off with what speed she could muster, realizing that roddick was not all a god-fearing man should be, yet inclined--in the light of the golden sovereign clutched in her withered palm--to make allowance for the most sinful of masters on the blessed christmas day. roddick finished his breakfast, and pulled round his chair to the fire. "humph!" growled he, lighting his pipe. "now we'll salute the happy morn, and be as jolly as we're bound to be. what a rum sort of place the world is!" he read till twelve o'clock, and had just thrown down his book in disgust, when there came a knock at the outer door. his face brightened as he saw the wiry little man in velveteen who stood on the threshold. "oh, it's you, riggs, is it? come in. have you got a message for me?" "yes, sir; from miss laverack. i'm to wait for an answer, sir." roddick jerked open the envelope, and ran his eye over the note. he tried to keep back any hint of the passion that warmed his blood at sight of the well-known handwriting; but the man in velveteen had not been a keeper for fifteen years without acquiring a quick eye. "all right. i'll scribble an answer at once. what will you take, riggs? beer--whisky?" he was not long in returning with his reply to the letter, and riggs also left wynyates with a well-defined feeling that mr. roddick came very seasonably. "only, what i fear is, that i'll be blabbing about the business to the wife one day," muttered the keeper; "and then it would be as good as all up with the young miss. what them two would do without a well-meaning, close-mouthed chap like me to help 'em, beats me. i wonder what's wrong with this mr. roddick, and why they can't make a clean breast of it to the captain? it's plain to be seen they're over ears in love one with t'other; he's just got to that time of life, has mr. roddick, when it does take a man mortal hard if he once let's himself be collared. well, well, there'll be a pretty reckoning between me and the captain if ever my share in the game comes out." as for roddick, the brief message contained in janet laverack's note had altered his mood completely. "i begin to believe in the good-will nonsense," he said to his pipe. even so short a spell of solitude as he had already tried had sufficed to induce the bad habit of talking aloud. he went and looked out of doors. "a fine day, too--just the sort of day one always reads about, but which doesn't usually turn up in practice. every meeting means so much more sheer madness, but what of that? we'll make a good day of it, and leave the rest to the providence i was kicking at a moment ago." the ground was too slippery to encourage riding. he swallowed some food standing, and set off on foot at a brisk pace across ling crag moor. thence he gained marshcotes moor, struck into an ill-defined track that brought him out at sorrowstones spring, went a little way down the highroad at this point, and turned into the fields behind the quarryman's arms. soon he was on the moor again, with frozen peat for a road, and sharp, dry air for stimulus. on he strode till lawfoot water lay below him, with the reddening sun shimmering across the ice. another turn, sharp to the right, past the further edge of the water, led him at the end of half an hour more to the crest of the ridge overlooking frender's folly. fifty years before, luke frender had ridden safely and well on the top of the rising trade-tide. when he sold his cotton-mill at lutherton, and the business appertaining thereto, he was still a young man, with a taste for high living, and half a million sterling in the bank. being a man of some imagination, and anxious to use his money in ways that had not occurred to his neighbours, he built himself a huge place in the very heart of the moors--not an ordinary square-built mansion with stuccoed walls, but a faithful imitation of the mediæval. there is a spacious courtyard on the north side, with a fountain in the middle, guarded by four great stone dogs. loop-holes grin from the castle walls, and at one corner the steps of an unbuilt tower climb up to the second-floor windows. the windows are long, narrow, deep-browed; and here and there crumbling warts of masonry are tacked on to the walls. as it stands to-day, blackened by fifty years of the wind and rain and frost that is no child's play in the heart of cranshaw moor, castle frender--better known to the neighbourhood as frender's folly--has a certain dignity of its own. if it be palpably an imitation, it is at least not jerry-built. its walls are thick and well knit; its situation is harsh to the verge of terror; and the smooth lawns, the sweeping circle of carriage drive, the banked masses of rhododendron that climb the valley sides, serve only to accentuate the unshorn roughness that hems them in. nor is the folly wanting in tradition of a sombre sort; short as its life has been, it has lived fast, just as its stones have greyed before their time. luke frender gambled away his money, his credit--his wife, too, some say--within its walls; and he shot himself in the big room overlooking the courtyard, which, half in mockery, he had built to serve as a private chapel. then the friend who had robbed him of money and wife alike, lived on at the castle, and took to hard drinking, and died in raving delirium; his son, succeeding to the property, married one of his own housemaids, realized in a very brief time that he, too, had sold his honour to the devil, and avenged luke frender's end, in a fashion, by hanging himself to a beam in the same private chapel overlooking the great gateway and the courtyard. this was five years before captain laverack bought the place. its history had become common talk throughout the countryside; prospective buyers shunned alike the grimness of its surroundings and the uncanny trend of its history, and laverack had been able to buy it for a tithe of the amount which had originally been spent on the building. the shooting was excellent, and the situation exactly such a one as the captain, in the present state of his domestic affairs, would have chosen before all others. roddick knew nothing of the story attaching to frender's folly, except that the building was almost of yesterday; yet now, as he looked down on that level circle of lawn and shrubbery, with the gloomy pile at its centre, he felt no whit disposed to gibe at the pretentiousness of what he had once termed the cotton castle. the sun, a crimson ball, was touching the moor-edge with its lower rim; a grey gloaming crept across the everlasting waste of heath; the wind sobbed piteously. a strip of green, a fringe of naked branches, a broad band of moor, were mirrored dimly in the big lake that stretched to the northern end of the valley. it was all inexpressibly lonesome, terrible beyond words. the sun died wholly, while roddick crept down the hill-side towards the trysting-place. he awoke from his sense of awe to find that his eyes were wet and his throat troubled. he cursed himself for a fool, but the pity had gripped his heart, for all that; the pathos that underlies all this bluster and wildness of the moors had struck to some inner sense, and made him womanish. he shivered as he stood beneath the grim old fir-tree that had found it hard work enough to stick to its post halfway up the hill-side. a sheep, away above him on the moor, bleated its half-witted protest against the fate that had set it there. if only a good, honest dog would give one good, honest bark, thought roddick, he would not mind it half as much. but the ungainly brute--half mastiff, half collie--that came creeping up towards the trysting-oak uttered no bark. he crouched close to roddick's side, and wagged his rope of a tail, and smuggled his head into the man's hand for approbation; but he had been trained to hold his tongue, and he feared rebuke from the girl who followed him a few paces behind. "janet!" no other word came to roddick's lips. the tragedy, the desolation, the pathos,--they were all absorbed in that slim, girlish figure whose every line betokened eagerness. wreck and ruin were chiselled deep into the stones below them; yearning that had no limits, aloofness that dared not seek for sympathy, were above them; but they two were close in each other's arms, and looked neither above nor below. "leo," she said at last, "was i foolish to drag you so far across the moor?" "be quiet, child!" "i would have met you nearer wynyates, but i could not get away for long enough. there is a crowd of people down there, dear, all expecting me to entertain them." "let them expect," muttered roddick, gruffly. as of old, he understood the folly of these meetings; the strain was greater than any sane man would subject himself to willingly. "but i shall be missed if i stay here long, and i dread father finding us out; it would put an end to--to all the world, i think, leo." "janet!" he said sharply. "yes?" she looked up, shocked by his tone. "you shall not say those things. do you know what it makes me ready to do--when you show your naked heart to me like that? it makes me tell myself that i have only to carry you away from all this to put an end to the struggle. you are such a flimsy weight, too; i could carry you with ease, whether you liked it or not, and then----" he stopped. a supple strength came into the girl's figure--a strength one would not have expected from its slenderness. "leo," she said slowly, "i ask nothing better. i am not afraid to face it." he hesitated--just for one half-moment. then he shook her as if she had been a naughty child. "you little fool! who _is_ afraid to face a danger that he does not understand? if ever you dare to try me as far as that again, i'll---good god, janet!" he broke off, with irritable tenderness, "you mustn't cry. can't you see that a man who wants to be--unselfish, you know, and nonsense of that kind--has to behave like a fiend incarnate. it's easy to be soft when you have not to keep the fight hot in you." "leo," said she, "if you don't kiss me at once, i shall hate you for ever.--have you stopped to think," she went on, as if in apology for obtaining her demand, "to think what the life here means to me? i loathe the moors; they frighten me; it is all so dreary. and the people father brings to make things livelier for me, they only aggravate the loneliness. leo, if i were one little bit _more_ of a fool, i should either cry myself blind or--well, the lake is deep enough, and the cold would only be for the first minute or two." roddick's voice was in rags when he spoke. "i'm a brute, child; why didn't you learn it in time?" he took her to him, and petted her with a helpless mixture of the father and the lover that was infinitely pitiable. "leo," she whispered, looking up and smiling through her sobs, "is this our happy christmas?" before roddick could reply, the dog began to whine in a way that called for attention. he had his nose to the ground, and evidently scented something not to his liking. then he was off like a rocket, and a dismal shriek came from a clump of heather just above them. the night was clear, with stars enough to show things in a sort of gloaming light. in the middle of the clump was a writhing mass of rags and dishevelled hair. "my wife, by----! janet, call off the dog and run back home. it is no place for you!" cried roddick. but tramp was too excited to hear the girl's call. he was running round and round the figure, a stifled bark cutting into his growls now and then. janet ran forward and gripped him by the collar--none too soon, for every moment he was on the point of making a spring. the figure got up out of the heather. roddick cursed the light, because it was enough to show janet the hideous contortions of the creature's face. the silence grew unbearable. "well, what are you doing here?" demanded roddick. "nay, leo, you mustn't speak to me like that, when i've followed you, mile on mile, across the desolate places. will you never learn what a true woman's love means?" janet winced cruelly. roddick's eyes blazed as he watched the delicate girl shrink from this evil hag who was yet his wife. "how often must i tell you to stay where you are bidden?" the effort to keep his hands off was trying him sorely. "i can't obey when i'm drunk, leo--i can't. i go wild for you, i---who's the white girl standing there?" "janet, go, i tell you! go!" she shook off the numbness that held her. "i can't, i won't, leave you! leo, are not your battles mine? how can i leave you to face--that?" "why didn't we let the dog do its work?" muttered roddick. janet caught the words and gripped him by the arm. "no, no--not that, leo. that is what i meant--you will kill her if i leave you, and we should lose our chance of happiness, you and i, for ever. oh, can't you see it? you who shook the breath out of my body because i asked you to take me away." the creature glared from one to another and tried to speak, but roddick checked her roughly. "it is better to run away than commit murder," went on the girl, with eager persistence. "will nothing make you understand, leo?" he pulled himself together. "it is well to do neither, child. you can trust me." "will you swear to do--that thing--no harm?" "yes, i swear it. now go." she hesitated, glanced at the bundle of rags, then held up her face. he kissed it gravely. "that is our protest, dear," she said. he watched her out of sight. he turned to the wife of his bosom. "come along, you devil!" he said dispassionately. together they set off across the moor. roddick laughed harshly from time to time. chapter xv. a home-coming. the mistal at the rear of gabriel hirst's house was noisy, this may evening, with the clatter of milking-pails, the mooing of cattle in their stalls, and the semi-audible running comments of jose binns. jose, it will be remembered, in addition to looking after the chapel and giving sound advice to the preacher, was gabriel's right hand in the management of the farm. now the ling crag folk were keen as nails in their bargainings with the almighty, and they were just as keen in their conduct of more carnal transactions. jose binns, indeed, had a really remarkable aptitude for trafficking of both sorts; it was his favourite occupation, while milking or engaged in any other work that left his thoughts free, to drive imaginary bargains with non-existent purchasers touching property which was not his to sell. this was his substitute for the reading of fiction, and it certainly betokened a higher order of intelligence than that of the merely practical man who chaffers with realities. the mistal door stood open to-night. jose and the roan cow he was milking showed vague at the far end of the byre; the honey-rich flavour of kine mingled with the summer dusk within. the roan cow was more patient than usual, and jose, feeling himself in consequence at liberty to take a little imaginative run, dropped his mumbled adjurations. his voice grew distinct and earnest as he commenced a spirited duologue, with one william feather as second party, jose acting as sponsor for william in that individual's absence. "now, william, i've getten a grand beäst for sale. what mud tha be after gieing?" "nay, i see nowt so mich i' her. nay, i'm noan so set on naming a price." "lad, tha'rt daft, letting sich a chance go by. she gi'es sixteen quart a day, that she does--eight i' th' morn, an' eight at neet. she hesn't a bad trick wi' her, an' milks quiet as a lamb. now, come, william; she's dirt cheap at twelve pun ten." "twelve pun ten, say'st 'a? what! for a ill-fettled beäst like yon? fiddle o' that tale! i'll gie thee nine pun, an' mak thee shut on a bad bargain for old sake's sake." "nay, nay, i willun't tak a ha'penny less nor twelve pun. there's not another like her i' ling crag--nay, nor for twenty mile round, nawther. she's muck cheäp, i tell thee, at twelve pun. only yestermorn dick o' rag war here, an' he tried to beat me down to eleven pun; but i warn't sich a softy, i warn't, an' i telled dick he could tak her at twelve pun ten or lump it, just as it suited him. i'll mak it twelve, though, as it's thee, lad, an' that's more nor i'd do for dick. he'll be back to-morn, likely, wi' th' brass i' his pocket; an' a sorry chap tha'll be, william, when tha sees thy bargain goan." the argument went on briskly till jose was nearly through with his last pair of udders; william had certainly the lesser half of the talking to do, but this was a pardonable human trait in old binns. finally, a compromise was effected at ten pounds, and jose binns got up from his stool. he smacked the roan cow's flanks, uttering the while a quiet cackle of delight. "tha girt lanky bitch," cried he, "tha artn't worth seven pun, let alone ten. tha knows tha kicks th' pail ower ivery time ony but me shapes to milk thee, an' oftens then; tha ho'ds thy milk; tha's as full o' jade's tricks as a egg is full o' meät. eh, lass! but william mun ha' bin doiting when he gie ten pun for thee." "is that my cow you're selling, jose?" asked the preacher, from the doorway. "ay, i war doing part bargaining. i selled th' owd roän cow for ten pun. eh, it war grand--grand! he's noan what he war at a bargain, isn't william." gabriel laughed, as one accustomed to these visionary sales. "i want the trap to-morrow. see that it's well cleaned--spick and span as you can make it." "isn't it allus well cleäned?" grumbled jose, settling himself to the last of the cows. "well, yes; but this is a special occasion. mr. lomax comes home with his wife in the afternoon, and i'm going to meet them at heathley. it isn't every day, jose, i have to meet a honeymoon couple." "not _sich_ a couple," said jose, slowly. "what do you mean, man? you look as sour as a winter apple over it." "i've heärd tales as are like to set a man's back up. oh, ay, there's been queer goings on up to teewit house." partly from habit, partly from the spirit of the country, gabriel was wont to humour old binns; but he frowned to-night as jose touched on matters about which he himself had been sorely exercised. "nonsense! i wonder at you, jose, listening to such old woman's talk." "wondering won't shape things different, an' that's bible truth. what for doesn't th' manor trap wend to th' station, i' place o' yourn?" "because," said the preacher, with an accent there was no mistaking--"because i asked mrs. lomax to let me go and meet them. there are too many idle tongues about; but i fancy folks know i shouldn't run after wastrels--and it may be as well to show what i think at once, and have done with it." "i doan't hold wi' kissing," muttered jose, doggedly--"leastways, while thy wife's another chap's. afore marriage, i allus did say, fowks ought to think shame to kiss an' slaver ower one another; an' after ye're wed--well, ye're noan so set on it, an' there's no harm done. them's _my_ views--gie ower, lass! dost 'a want to upset th' pail, tha silly wench?" the set of jose's shoulders indicated that the subject was closed, so far as he was concerned; so gabriel, with another reminder about the conveyance, went back to the house, there to reckon up, for the hundredth time, the twisted ways of his friend's wooing. but the may sun was shining bravely as he drove to heathley at three of the following afternoon, and loyalty to griff seemed just part and parcel of the quickening landscape. step by step with the loyalty ran that unalterable egoism of the preacher's. if he could feel himself singled out, now for divine wrath, now for commendation at the deity's hands, how much easier was it for him to believe that marshcotes and ling crag set great store by his example? they knew him, all these villagers who had been shaken by the scandal in their midst; they saw in him a resolute and a god-fearing man, one whose opinion on a point of morals was worth the having; how could it fail to make griff's road the smoother for him if he, gabriel hirst, ostentatiously went forward to greet him on his arrival? perhaps, then, it was almost a disappointment to gabriel when he reached heathley and discovered that certain daring minds had chosen to act on their own initiative. the good coach "airedale" ran from landford to heathley in those days, and it had been noised abroad among those who knew lomax that he and his wife would reach the spotted heifer at two of the afternoon. the preacher found the inn-yard black with chattering groups of marshcotes folk, gathered from widely different sections of the community. some had walked to heathley, others had come by omnibus; all, by the look of their faces, were prepared to give young lomax as hearty a greeting as he could wish for. the same impulse which had moved the preacher to side with the weaker cause was not likely to leave unmoved others of these sturdy dwellers on the moors. the weak, the irresolute and the ultra-pious were dead against griff and his wife; they forgot old likings, and remembered only what had been proved up to the hilt in a court of law. and this attitude had roused the more independent men and women; they brought to mind the fact that no one in marshcotes had had a word to say against griff until this trouble came; none could urge that the lad's treatment of kate was simply a corollary of previous conduct of his; but plenty of people were mindful of the open-handed way in which griff and his mother had gone in and out among their neighbours. before the trouble with strangeway's wife, indeed, there had been a remarkable unanimity in the mind of the countryside as to the lomaxes. some were wont to style griff "a raffle-coppin," meaning thereby a kind of ne'er-do-weel whom everybody loved; but that was the worst name you were likely to hear attached to him through the length and breadth of marshcotes parish. and though they had their faults--these upland folk--forgetfulness of old friendships was not among their vices. so the preacher, as he jumped from the trap and threw the reins to a boy who chanced to be near, felt as though a little cold water had been sprinkled over the fine warmth of his enthusiasm. he recommenced the searchings of soul, the anxious appeals to providence as to whether he were doing the right thing, now that he stood as one of a band of well-wishers, not as a solitary ally against a crowd of backbiters. but the waiting groups were unmistakably glad to see gabriel hirst come into the inn-yard. if they had failed to look to him for inspiration to perform a kindly act, they were at least deeply sensible of the sanction given to that act by the presence of one who was pre-eminently a man of god. even jack o' ling crag, with his satellites, will reddiough and the rest, warmed to the conviction "that gabriel hirst war noan sich a bad sort of a chap, when he left his praching-tackle behind him." the coach was late, according to a precedent not unknown at heathley; but no diminution of good spirits was apparent in the jolly crowd that thronged the yard. the demonstration had none of the dreary formality peculiar to organized gatherings. each little handful of men and women had come here on its own account, expecting to be the sole representative of the village, and casting uneasy glances at its neighbours as it set off down the village street, lest its destination should be guessed and commented on; each little knot, on arriving at the inn, looked at the next group, first with surprise, then with broadening grins. every one--with the exception of the preacher--felt that it was pleasant to have company while arguing for the doubtful side of a moral question. as for jack o' ling crag, he was all a-bubble with suppressed glee. when reddiough observed that there was a fine welcome in store for the travellers, jack winked very knowingly, and, "thee bide a bit," he answered darkly; "happen there's summat i' th' way on a extra surprise i' store." at last the coach came in, with a mighty screech of the horn and a rattling of horses' hoofs on the cobbles. gabriel hirst sent his self-communing to the winds as he saw griff--old griff--standing on the top of the coach, his head somewhere up about the level of the spotted heifer's chimney-stacks, his face one comprehensive laugh of satisfaction. three-times-three went up from the crowd, and old jim, of cheery memory, gave a gallant blast from his horn, and a mixed collection of children, dogs, and loafers gathered round the outskirts of the throng, to see what all the fuss was about. "i've brought the trap for you; we'll be at the manor in no time, with the chestnut between the shafts," said the preacher, salutations over. "axing your pardon, sir," interrupted jack o' ling crag, "th' chestnut isn't no longer atween th' shafts; there's shanks's mare i' place o' horseflesh, if so be as mr. lummax----" "here, i say!" broke in griff, with a jolly laugh; "a joke's a joke, jacky boy, but it's four good miles to marshcotes manor; you can't pull us all the way?" "an' a home-coming's a home-coming, an' a welcome's a welcome," answered mine host of the dog and grouse; "an' what's four mile to marshcotes lads? we'll tak turn an' turn about; there's plenty on us for that little journey." "and there's a house-side called marshcotes main street at the end of it. have you thought of that, boys?" said griff, still laughing. "tak what the lord gi'es ye, sir, an' mak no bones about it. up ye get, an' away we go; an' if we're as willing as your wife's bonny, ye won't be lang on th' roäd." jack o' ling crag, having exhausted himself in this effort of gallantry, ran forward and took his place at the left shaft of the conveyance. kate was a little bewildered, and vastly pleased, by the unexpected symptoms of good-will; but her confusion did not signify in the least, since she was only expected to blush rosy red and look her best. they had cheered for griff, and they had cheered for kate, this crowd of hard uplanders, who could let themselves out for a holiday on occasion. so up went another three-times-three for the "little pracher," and gabriel found himself swung by mighty arms on to the back seat of the trap. jack was joined by five other stalwart volunteers, and away they rattled through the market-place, along the rutty, narrow streets, and so into the smooth highway that led to marshcotes. all who had come on foot kept pace beside the gig; a little behind followed the green omnibus from the bull, and the red 'bus from the white hart just across the way. at the foot of marshcotes main street was the surprise which old poacher jack's innocent heart had devised, as likely to give his comrade about as much pleasure as a man could hold without unduly stretching his anatomy. the local band struck up its own private version of the wedding-march, and headed the triumphal procession with a vigour that was unimpeachable. "now, sir, hes marshcotes gi'en ye a welcome, or hesn't it?" demanded jack, relinquishing his post at the shaft and going to griff's side. "it has that! we'll not forget to-day, kate, will we?" "durn it, it's nowt so mich to crack on--on'y we thowt as we'd just try our best, mr. lummax," muttered jack, and dropped modestly to the rear of the procession. mrs. lomax was at the manor gate when they arrived. she had heard the shouting, and a tune that seemed vaguely connected with wedding festivals, and the clatter of clogs on the stones; but she could scarcely believe her eyes when she saw the fashion of griff's home-coming, nor her ears when she heard the shouts of good fellowship. the old lady's eyes dimmed with tears; it was good to believe in such friendliness as had prompted these rackety demonstrations. much would have more, and up went three cheers for the mother. griff helped kate down, kissed his mother, and turned to the crowd. "we can't entertain you all here," he laughed, "but come in, as many as can squeeze a way." "an' them as can't, will find quarters at th' dog an' grouse!" cried jack o' ling crag. "an' th' bull can mak room for a two or three," chimed in the rival landlord. after the noisy crowd had been got rid of, they had supper, the three of them; and after that griff lit his pipe, and stretched out his long legs to the blaze, and looked from the mother on one side of the hearth to the wife on the other--wondering the while that this vexed problem of marriage worked itself out so exceeding smoothly in practice. it seemed odd to kate to find herself once again in that firelit parlour, where she had waited till griff might return to claim her, where she had sickened with dread lest an ever-watchful providence should snatch the coming happiness from her grasp. she had forgotten, in the midst of her dread, that it is only the things we fear most abjectly which never happen; keen terror would seem to act as a buffer between its object and its fulfilment, but she had not stopped to think of that. and now she was here, with griff beside her--with an earnest, too, from those she had known, her life through, that they were minded to esteem her a woman of honour. impulsively she put her arms round griff's neck and drew his face down. "i had never dreamed such things could be," she whispered. the honeymoon had left her with her illusions sweet and sound. she was no girl, to be outraged by necessities, to quiver under the little jars that make up the wear and tear of a privacy shared with another. her idols were a woman's; her hopes of the new life were of tougher fabric than the girl's peach-bloom romanticism, to be rubbed bare by any passing sleeve; and those two months they had had together, she and griff, had given her no cause to doubt the future. whether the providence she held in superstitious dread had chosen prose instead of poetry, had elected to rob her, hour by weary hour after she had once settled into her new life, of the happiness that now almost hurt her by its intensity--whether providence thought surfeit a subtler cruelty than the mere dashing away of an untasted cup, remained to be seen--but kate's dreads did not lie that way, and her home-coming had not a drop of bitter in among the sweets. the mother's keen eyes took stock of them both, and the doubt in her face resolved itself slowly as she watched. like all homely women, she had a quick scent for harmony or discord between married people, and she felt that kate and griff were "all right." "well, mother?" said griff, when kate had left them. "that is a big question to ask, dear, is it not? but you will do, i fancy, the pair of you. i have been anxious, terribly anxious, about the effect these eight weeks would have on you. you went away gaily enough, boy, but _i_ knew that it was kill or cure." "what do you mean, quite?" "you would not have asked me that if the experiment had gone wrong. suppose you had made a mistake, griff? considering your impulsiveness, it is the least one could have expected of you--to make a mistake. don't you think two months in each other's company, with no one to fill up the gaps, would have made the truth clear to you?" "if you knew kate as i do, mother," said the son, with a ridiculous air of possession, "you would see there _could_ have been no mistake." "very proper, dear. you sound just like a lover, and i wouldn't be in any hurry, if i were you, to become a mere husband. your father always forgot, to the end of the chapter, that we hadn't tumbled into love with each other the day before." chapter xvi. roddick's wife. "well?" demanded roddick, as griff thrust his head in at the open window of the wynyates parlour. "how does marriage go?" "like the weather, old man; soft, variable winds, no showers to speak of, and a touch of green showing everywhere." "come in, can't you? why do you stand there with that perennial grin on your face, as if you were posing for a full-length portrait of the happy bridegroom? away with you newly-married people!" "thanks," said griff, striding over the low window-sill. "you think the whole world must be looking through your rose-tinted spectacles. wait till the glass gets smoked, and walk delicately in the meanwhile; you're not a degree higher than a cat on a glass-bottled wall, and if you go prancing along in this style----" "you are in very good form this morning, roddick. it does a man good to listen to your breadth of epithet." "breadth of epithet! why talk like a book, lomax? call them swears, and have done with it. what have you come for?" "to be congratulated. i couldn't miss your pretty way of putting things, so here i am, the very morning after my return." "i suspect you want comfort," snarled roddick. "i can give you that. there's a heap of fools in the same box with you, so you won't run a chance of feeling lonely. about how soon do you think of bolting for good and all?" "roddick, you're going a bit too far----" began griff, hotly. but he caught a wicked light of satisfaction in the other's face, and made up his mind that he would not be guyed--"trailed," as they called it in marshcotes--however much the amusement might give roddick a vent for his ill-humour. "i mostly am. once i went very much too far, and--have some tobacco." they smoked on in silence for awhile. griff ventured a remark at length; his companion took no notice whatever, but went on frowning at the live peats in the grate. "about that woman," said roddick, finally. "which woman?" "the thing you mistook for a vampire when you were last here. what did the pretty little beast do to you, lomax, out there in the darkness?" griff shuddered; he had almost forgotten the incident under stress of the quick march of later events. "she leaped out of the wind and rain like a storm-elf, and glued her flabby lips to mine, and called me 'leo.'" "only that? you'd get used to it with practice," said roddick, with a grim caricature of cheeriness; "one does to anything. leo happens to be my own name, if you remember. on my soul, lomax, i'm jealous! you've stolen one of the kisses that are my exclusive property. gad, i've a mind to horsewhip you!" roddick was swung by passion into the very worst of his moods. all through this bitter levity ran a streak of blasphemy--a silent, strenuous blasphemy that was worse than any red-hot flow of words could have been. "but who is she?" said his companion, gravely. "who is she?" roddick's laugh burst out as if it had been half-strangled on its way to his mouth. "innocent friend, who is a woman usually that prowls round one's doorway in the dark, and leaps into one's arms, and--the rest of it? the woman is my wife, of course." another dead silence. the first of the summer's bees forsook the white arabis that was coming into blossom under the parlour window, and flew into the room. roddick watched it as it buzzed from wall to wall; then it wanted to escape, and made a dive for the upper window, banging itself against the glass. "it's fun getting in, but how are you going to get out again, little fool?" muttered roddick. he went to the window and squashed the bee flat against the glass; then returned to his place. "lomax," he said quietly, "you'd better hear all about it; half a true story is worse than a whole lie. you want to know how this venus became my cherished wife?" "oh, drop that tone, old man!" cried griff. "you don't mean it, and it grinds at one's nerves horribly. is she really your wife? from what i could see of her in the dark, she seemed too old--any age she might have been----" "she's forty-five, as you are rude enough to call a lady's age in question," said roddick, still in the same voice. "drink has delicate fingers, you know, for modelling a woman's face, and she looks older. as to her being my wife, there is no question: she carries her marriage-lines like a talisman next to her breast. she brought the paper out, only a day or two ago, and asked me to gloat over it with her in darby and joan fashion; but you can understand that i find it rather difficult nowadays to play the _rôle_ of dutiful husband." griff had abandoned thought of interruption. it was frightful to listen to the man's cold-blooded rendering of his tragedy, but roddick must tell his story in his own way, or not at all. "we'll begin with the idyllic stage, lomax, as you've rather a taste for sweetmeats. when i was twenty, and charmingly innocent, i went for a week's fishing in devonshire. i put up at a little inn, a hundred miles from anywhere, and the landlord's daughter--who was scarcely innocent, i believe, at the moment she was born--took me in hand. you know what that means, when a young cub just let loose from school is flattered and fawned on by a woman five years his senior. the girl was passably pretty, too. well, i came down again to the inn a few months later, and i was greeted with news--news, and tears, and entreaties from the girl that i would marry her. i was soft in those days--tender, you know--and i did marry her, more out of pity than anything else. i have never been tender since," he added, with a sudden deepening of his voice. "then--you were married all the five years we knew each other in town? did dereham, or any others of our set, know about it?" "no, though i nearly blurted it out more than once, when they came to me with their doll's-house prettinesses about women. _you_ thought you were a cynic, now and then, didn't you, lomax, when the ogilvie woman touched you up a bit too hard? lord, i could have taught you a cynicism that grips your vitals! you'll never learn it now, so it's lucky you've struck into optimism--it fits you better." "never mind me, roddick. finish your story." "six months after i married my picturesque maid of the inn--the child died a day or two after its birth--she began to take opium for sleeplessness; she continued it as a luxury. from that she passed, with true catholicity, to wine, brandy, whisky--or, failing these, gin. she grew more beast-like every year, till now it's only the clothes and the walking on her hind legs that stamp her as a woman. three times she has tried to kill me, and once--my cursed conscience won't let me do anything else--i have saved her from death." "i thought you disclaimed tenderness just now," put in griff, scarce knowing what to say. "in your place, i should have let her die." "you wouldn't, when it came to the point," snapped roddick. "we've most of us been murderers in theory, but it rings differently when it comes to practice. not that tenderness has anything to do with it. i loathe her, and wish she were dead: it's my fool of a conscience, i tell you, that ought to have perished of _ennui_ years ago. but neither will die; they're tough as nails, both the wife and the conscience. wherever i go, i take the woman with me, like a monkey in a cage, with a nurse to look after her. when i lived in town, i planted my menagerie down in hampstead; when i came here, i put her in a cottage as far in the heart of the moor as i could manage--she's there at this moment, unless she has given her nurse the slip again and come in search of me." "and you see her often?" "i have to," said roddick, with bitter weariness; "sometimes it takes a strong pairs of arms to hold her. but her tantrums are the part of our married life i find the easiest to bear. she is not always mad, you know. she only tries to throttle me in and between whiles, by way of variety; at other times she loves me dearly, she fawns on me, she---never mind, lomax; it makes me sick to talk of it." "poor old chap--poor old chap!" muttered griff, vaguely. "why the devil can't she die? a year or two of such a life would finish off any ordinary woman." "don't repeat that!" cried roddick, sharply. "the next step is, what a fool i am not to kill her, and i kick ideas of that kind out of my mind before they get a chance." "roddick," said griff--with a sudden glimpse of the reason that had brought his friend to this out-of-the-way moor--"roddick, have you told me all?" the other was silent for a space. his brows came together, overhanging his deep-sunken eyes like a jagged thatch. "no, it is not all. when i said i had shelved tenderness, i lied. dereham learned that end of my story, because he happened to know the girl's people." griff bethought him of frender's folly--of the coincidence between the coming of laverack and the letting of wynyates hall--of the hint that gabriel hirst had once given him as to the distress of laverack's daughter. "the laveracks, you mean?" he said bluntly. "how did you guess that?" "i remembered that you and they turned up almost together, that was all." "well, it doesn't signify, i suppose. you're not the man to gabble, are you, lomax? i used to wonder at what you artistic people call illicit passions; close upon forty, with a wife who had taught me my lesson, it never occurred to me that i should be bothered by love. but dereham took me one afternoon to the laveracks'; why i went with him, the lord only knows, hating tea-cup frippery as i did. anyhow, i went, and janet was there; you can piece the beginning together for yourself. the thing was as inevitable, lomax, as thunder after lightning; we had been waiting all our lives for each other, and--there i go, slipping into the old, weather-beaten tags. a man can't touch love with words, any more than he can describe a sunrise." "did you strive against it?" the question was out and away before griff could capture it. he was curious to know how a man of roddick's stamp would behave under such an unexpected stress. "strive? no, you fool! it's the half-way people who flutter and beat their wings against the cage. a man either cuts the whole thing at once, or yields unconditionally. i yielded. then laverack got wind of it, and took the folly in a hurry, and carried off janet to the moors here." roddick got up from his chair, and began to pace about the room. "old man," he cried suddenly, "thank your god you have never had that to fight against--to live chained to a woman you loathe, and to know that a word will give you the love you crave for. and sometimes"--his voice sank to a whisper--"sometimes my little lady, in her innocence and passion, entreats me to take her away somewhere, and end it all. then, lomax, it is just hell." griff was driven to bay, as we all are when our friends force us to be helpless spectators of their distress. "do you remember the advice you once gave me--to cut and run, and snatch happiness while i could? a man, you say, doesn't beat his wings against the cage--but you are doing it," he said, impotently. roddick turned and blazed out on him. "do you know what that would mean for janet? do you know that i'd pawn my beggarly soul to save her little finger an ache?" "can't you get a divorce?" said griff, breaking a long silence. "no valid excuse, or shouldn't i have jumped at it? a woman may drink one's good name away and attempt one's life, and be faithful for all that. drink comes under the sickness or health, richer or poorer, clause." griff also rose from his chair and fidgeted nervously up and down the floor. "i'm off, roddick," he said at last. "god help you, old fellow!" roddick grinned. "i used to say that, but i had less experience then. you're not going to leave me yet. i'll saddle the grey, and we must have a gallop together. there's nothing like a horse for driving sanity into a man." but all along the road, gallop, canter, or trot, griff could not rid himself of the burden-"if only the woman would die; if only the woman would die." chapter xvii. in which mrs. lomax grows angry. they had been at the manor for a week, kate and he, before it seriously occurred to griff that they could not go on living here for ever. mrs. lomax had been very urgent, more than once since his return, that they should make the manor their home; but griff knew his mother too well to dream for a moment that she could endure a second mistress in the house. kate was as strong and unbending in some ways as the older woman, and the position was sure to be productive, in the long run, of jar and discomfort. so griff went for a long walk one afternoon, in order to think out what was best to be done. to tell his mother straightforwardly that it was time he sought a house elsewhere seemed likely to result in a quarrel between them; and he shirked the idea of that more instinctively than he shrank from the thought of letting their lives drift into a state of perpetual, half-felt friction. at the end of his walk he was no nearer to a solution of the difficulty than when he started, and he turned into the bull, not feeling over anxious to meet his women-folk while he was still in this pitiable state of doubt. "you're looking bothered, like, mr. lummax," said the landlord, bustling in to serve his favourite customer. "i _am_ bothered, crabtree. give me a scotch whisky, and we'll see if that will help me." crabtree loitered about, as his habit was, after bringing the whisky. he finally came to rest against the window, pointing his meditations by an up-and-down motion of the straw between his teeth. "well, how's the world?" asked griff. "nobbut sadly, sir, nobbut sadly. they tell us it's th' best world we've getten, but i niver did see how that helped a body. what wi' th' sheep lambing too forrard-like i' th' spring, an' th' frost taking half th' lambkins off, an' th' rain when i should hev been leäding my hay, an' th' drought when th' tummits wanted watter, an' th' wife slipping away under-sod fair at t' thrangest time she could ha' chosen--nay, it's a poor mak on a world, tak it how ye will. thank ye, mr. lummax, i will hev a fill; baccy an' strong drink is all as us poor men can look to for comfort." "you're a fine hand at the grumbles, crabtree. i warrant you've turned over a tidy penny this year, for all your growls. as to your wife, you've soon found another, eh?" there was the faintest trace of a smile at that corner of the landlord's mouth which was not occupied by the straw; but the rest of his face was expressive of sad rebuke. "it's easy to jest, sir, when ye've getten the lump of your troubles afore ye. she war a grand lass, th' first 'un, an' niver a wrang word between us, save when it jumped out accidental-like. but what can a feckless man do wi' a public on his hands, an' none to see to th' sarving-maid, an' th' washing, an' th' cooking? i've nowt agen t' other missuses, ye'll understand, but they're more, as a man might say, i' th' way o' meät an' drink--a thing 'at cannot be done without. but th' first wife--it war more i' th' way of a pleasure, like, nor a business, my marrying her. well, well, it's up an' it's down i' this life, an' afore ye've rightly getten used to one position, ye're shifted to t' other. my head fair swims, whiles, when i fall to thinking o' th' whirligig." griff's eyes had wandered from his host to the half-dozen bills of sale that lined the opposite wall. "i say, crabtree!" he interrupted; "i didn't know gorsthwaite hall was for sale. have you noticed that bill up there--the middle one?" "i can't say as i hev, sir. they come an' they go, does farms--like wives, in a manner o' speaking--an' a man gets ower used to th' shiftings to pay much heed to 'em." crabtree moved to the printed sheet and slowly read out the contents. "mr. crowther crowther is honoured, by the executors of the late thomas widdop, with instructions to sell that valuable freehold property known as gorsthwaite hall, with all the farm buildings, implements, live and dead stock, as under." then followed a list of horses, heifers, cows in calf, waggons, turnip and hay choppers, and the like; and an exposition of the agricultural merits of the "three closes of land adjoining thereto, comprising in all about thirty acres." "a fine old place it is, too," said griff, thoughtfully. "it's like a sight of other fine old places hereabouts, sir--gone to wrack an' ruin. ay, i mind th' time when there war more widdops at gorsthet nor old thomas: he war nobbut a young 'un' then, an' i war nobbut a young 'un, an' there war three as bonny lasses--sisters o' thomas's--as ever stepped i' shoe leather used to cross th' gorsthet doorstuns day in an' day out. but they're all owered wi', is th' widdops, an' i misdoubt th' owd spot will be selled, so to say, for th' price of a pint." "there's no telling. well, crabtree, your whisky has set me up again, and i think it's about time i was off." "afore ye go, sir, there's a bit of a matter i wanted to tell ye on. happen ye've forgetten joe strangeways?" griff perceptibly changed colour. "not likely," he said brusquely. "meaning no offence, mr. lummax--me that hes known ye, man an' boy, these thirty year. but he's getting forrarder i' drink, is joe, an' there comes a time when drink 'ull mak th' softest mammy's lad i' th' land shape courageous-like. he's a wind-bag, says t' others; but i've getten my own notions about that, an' he swears at ye summat fearful, sir, nowadays--says he'll hev your life; an' a mak o' foul-mouthed words he's getten to say it in. i'd advise ye to hev a care, an' that's what i set out to tell ye, sir." "it's good of you to bother, crabtree--but you can trust me to look after myself. good day." "short an' sharp, as th' gentry allus is when their women-folk is in case. nay, nay, they're kittle cattle, is women, an' kittle they mak their men; an' i _should_ hev a right to know," muttered crabtree, as he strolled into the kitchen to watch the fourth of his wives rolling out the dough for a gooseberry-pasty. griff went straight back to the manor, his good spirits restored now that he had made up his mind how to act. but he said nothing of his resolve, and merely told his mother, when mare lassie and he set off after breakfast the next morning, that he had to go to saxilton on business. his destination was a certain office, half-way up the narrow main street of saxilton, which had been given at the bottom of the poster as the address of the trustees of the late thomas widdop's estate. griff, though he knew there was a reckoning in store for him, felt something of a lad's blithe glee in truantry as he rode down the trough of the valley, and up the other side, and down again till he came to the wood-road that lies between saxilton and plover court, where old squire daneholme lived. the air was moist and kindly, and the young green things were sprouting up through the withered leaves of the under-brush: cock-pheasants were exhibiting their charms to admiring wives in many a glade of the open park-land that divided the woods here and there; weasels and stoats kept peeping at him from clefts in the mossy walls, and squirrels lay flat along their tree-branches at his approach, in a well-feigned stiffness that was suggestive of death. griff laughed as he passed the sweep of sandy carriage-drive that struck up the hill to plover court. "you gave me a merry time not long since, squire. shall i take you at your word, and drop in to dinner to-night?" he thought. and no sooner had he turned the corner where the highway runs over the river-bridge and past the corn-mill, than whom should he meet but the bluff old squire himself, coming cantering home on a chestnut thoroughbred. griff saluted him merrily with his whip at his cap, and the squire pulled up. "you're young lomax, aren't you? we've met before, i fancy." "we have. i hope you were no worse, sir, for the meeting?" "worse for it? no, you young sinner; it did me good, after my jaws unstiffened enough to let me eat. your face was scratched a bit, by the way, wasn't it?" they laughed heartily at that, the squire's chestnut fidgeting all the while as if he thought to take his master unawares at last. old daneholme swore most pleasantly at the brute, and then looked griff up and down. "you've a pretty seat on horseback, lad. i like to look at a figure like yours, in these damned round-shouldered, narrow-chested times. if you had seen all the changes for the worse in the race that i have, you'd be sorry that you were not born when i was--a generation sooner. well, are you coming home with me to lunch?" "not to-day, i'm afraid. i have business to attend to in saxilton, and after that i must put my best foot forward to marshcotes." "ah, yes! i remember now--something in the papers--you're married, eh?" "yes. just what did you see in the papers, mr. daneholme?" said griff, with a sudden flush. "something about a divorce, and then a notice that you were married. humph! a riskier enterprise, marriage, than poaching an old fool's game." griff thought that the poaching of game was merely a simile, and he resented the innuendo. if he had known the squire better, he would not have credited him with any such beating about the bush. "the divorce came through no fault of ours, sir; the story was a trumped-up lie," said he, hotly. roger daneholme opened his mouth for a guffaw that showed his splendid double row of teeth, scarce one of which was a whit the worse for wear. "what do i care about that, eh?" said he, good-humouredly. "bless me, a young man must love, or he's no man at all. but marriage--it's risky. so you'll take plover on your way back, will you?" there was no resisting the cheery, persistent hospitality of the man, and griff gave in. he could well believe now that the marshcotes folk had spoken a true word when they said that the squire was a devil to those he hated, and the best of good fellows to any who happened to take his fancy. the stocks and the old market-place have gone from saxilton main street now, but in those days they fronted the lawyer's office of which griff had come in search. after saying good-bye to the squire, he cantered up the narrow street, hitched lassie's bridle to a ring at the end of the stocks, and went inside to get through his business with what expedition he might, since they lunched sharp at one at plover. gorsthwaite hall, as crabtree of the bull had prophesied, was to be had for a song; the lawyers were only too glad to get rid of it at a trifle over the price which griff first named, and the place was his in a very short space of time. then, his business settled, he set off for plover court, and reached it within five minutes of the luncheon hour. it was lucky that griff had a good head for liquor; for the squire kept him drinking long after mrs. daneholme had left the table, with the avowed intention of seeing which was the better man at the bottle. "you worsted me with your fists, you puppy--not that you would find it easy to do as much a second time--but i'm hanged if i haven't the stronger head for port." "we can only decide that in one way," laughed griff, who was always quick to take up a challenge. they cracked a second bottle, and a third, the squire chatting ceaselessly of this and that harum-scarum adventure in which he had taken part--when he was younger, he never failed to add. and the longer griff listened, the better he liked the man's healthy energy. old daneholme had no conscience whatever, save on certain points where a rough-and-tumble honesty was concerned. by his own showing, he had indulged in some rough vices, and even generosity he carried recklessly past the point where it ceased to be a virtue. yet, with it all, there was a fresh, inborn strenuousness about old roger; he never stopped to ask himself if he were good or bad--could not have been certain, indeed, what so absurd a question implied--but just took life at a gallop, over hedge and ditch, and enjoyed such frolic as heaven sent in his way. there was a vein of sound humour in him, too,--a trifle rough and biting to the taste, may be, but sound for all that--and his fine grey eyes looked out at you with a twinkle which said, as plainly as possible, that he cared not one button for your opinion. a man of the true old yorkshire breed. "get on to your legs, my boy," said the squire, when they were half through with the fourth bottle. griff complied with the request, and stood looking down at his host with humorous gravity. then he went the length of the room and back again, with the action of a horse being put through its paces. finally, he resumed his seat, with a-"can you do as much, sir?" "can i do as much?" roared the squire. "confound your impertinence, sir! i'm scarcely warmed with the wine as yet. gad, though, you don't turn a hair! i wish that son of mine had been at home to see you; it would have knocked some of the conceit out of him. he can't touch me, lomax, not if i give him one bottle handicap. come, drink up!" he went over to the bell and put his hand on the rope. not for a fortune would griff have suggested that they had drunk enough, though he could see only one end to the adventure--and that a most annoying one, with kate awaiting his return. but the squire thought better of it, and flashed round on his guest with merry boisterousness. "well, well, i'll let you off another bottle. you are young in marriage yet, and your wife might not altogether like it if you turned up happily drunk. women are such fools about these matters." when griff succeeded at last in making his escape, squire daneholme walked with him down the drive as far as the saxilton highroad. there was a faint tinge of regret in his tone as he held out his hand to his guest. "i thought the fresh air might help a bit, lomax. but you're as steady as a rock, confound you! you must come again when marriage wears thin, and we'll make a night of it. bless you, boy, i have not taken to any one for years as i have to you." griff, laughing off the compliment, sprang into the saddle. "stay, lad!" shouted the squire, as lassie was breaking into a trot. "a piece of parting advice. ride straight, drink level, never repent of your sins, and die as i find you--a jolly good fellow. good-bye." late that evening, when kate had left him alone with the mother, griff summoned up all his courage and blurted out what had been the trend of his morning's business. "i have bought gorsthwaite hall, mother." she looked up sharply at him. "so it has come at last, griff? i feared it would, some day--but scarcely as soon as this." "now, old lady, don't be foolish about it. do you want it to be said that i beat you in the matter of common sense? kate and i must leave you sooner or later." she fell into an obstinate silence, her face averted from her son's; it seemed as if she heard nothing of his fragmentary explanations. then, at last-"it is i who ought to leave. the manor is yours, not mine." "mother, how can you!" he knelt at her feet, and took her hands, and tried to force her eyes to meet his. but she would neither look at him nor suffer his endearments. "get up, griff, and leave me alone. i don't want to hear any more excuses." there was such a peremptory sharpness in her voice that griff had no choice but to obey. the quarrel had come, but he had not dreamed that his mother would have taken it as badly as this. the fire had burnt very low when he next ventured into the room. the old lady was still in the same attitude. "mother," whispered griff. she made no answer for awhile; then the tears ran slowly down her cheeks--those scanty tears of the old, which are so much bitterer, so much more heavily laden, at the end of a lifetime's disappointments. "it is time i went, griff. you are tired of the old woman, you and kate." then there followed such a storm of lover-like protestations, such a fondling of the wrinkled face and hands, that these two might never have been mother and son at all, but just a pair of newly-married youngsters getting through the business of their first quarrel. and griff vowed, at the end of it all, that nothing would induce him to leave the manor, since the dearest old lady in the world wanted him to stay. whereupon the mother got up from her chair, wiped her eyes, smoothed out the rumples in her dress, and put twice as much asperity as usual into her voice. "now you are ridiculous, griff. dear, dear; here have i been wasting my time in crying--it was only a tear or two, though, was it?--when i should have been supplying you with wits. stay on at the manor, when you have bought gorsthwaite? waste your money, and let the house drop to pieces for want of looking after? boy, where _is_ your common sense?" and that was how griff came to take his wife to gorsthwaite hall. chapter xviii. the cutting of peats. the marshcotes moor was bounded, on the side remote from the village, by a broad stretch of "intake"--sparsely covered grass land, wrested from the heath by long years of sweat and perseverance. beyond this again was an undulating valley, scarcely more than a dip in the moor plateau, which was full of rushes and swampy tracts, with here and there a bog. above this valley lay gorsthwaite moor, where ling and bilberry-plants had less of their own way than on the marshcotes side; great patches of gorse dotted the moor, and the sun never rose, summer or winter, without finding at least a few outstanding spots of yellow on which to shine. at one corner of this moor, some two miles away from marshcotes village, stood gorsthwaite hall, a fine specimen of the grim architecture in which the old moor squires delighted. the rectangular windows peered out at you, watchful and cold, from under their rugged brows of blackened sandstone. the door, plainly fashioned and massive, seemed to grudge the wonted breadth of entry, though its narrowness was more in appearance than in fact. the round-topped walls that guarded its paved courtyard harboured few of the kindly green sorts of mosses, but they were friends with bleak, grey lichens. the very chimney-stacks looked stiff and unbending, as if they had little to do with the roof that supported them; and the water-butt under the eaves, with its round black belly, was suggestive, in some vague, elusive way, of tragedies half-forgotten. yet griff and his wife were as merry as the old house was sad. the spring had come and gone, and summer had run well on into august, and still they would hug themselves, these two, in the thought of their isolation. there were a couple of attics at the top of the house, well-lighted from the roof, which griff had knocked into one room and fitted up as a studio. the itch for painting had taken hold of him with more than its old-time vigour, and the one perpetual ground of disagreement between kate and himself was the fact that he would insist on making some fresh sketch of his wife's face every other day or so. "what do you find to talk about all your time?" roddick had snarled one day. "we live; we don't talk much about it," griff had assured him, with a laugh that was entirely one of satisfaction. that was just it. he had known wittier women than kate, and some that were more beautiful in their own way; but kate--well, she rounded off his life for him, and there was an end of it. mrs. lomax, who often ran across from the manor to spend a night or two with them, was speedily convinced that griff's foolhardy experiment had proved a success. now and then, indeed, she would throw out tentative warnings to "the children," a suggestion that they should see more people, or a doubt lest presently they might find themselves suffering from an overdose of a very good thing; and to all these hints griff always made the same response--that they would fly in search of outside help directly the first symptoms of weariness set in. but the marshcotes doctor, who had grown grey in friendship with the lomaxes, used to shake his head when he came away from his periodical visits to kate. it was no use bothering griff about it--or, at least, he could find no heart to do it--but not all kate's brightness of spirits served to hide that underlying weakness of hers from the old man's eyes. sometimes, as he recrossed the moor to marshcotes, he would swear softly to himself, in a way ill-befitting the whiteness of his hair, and would murmur that it was a damned shame young lomax had not come into kate's life in time to save her. griff, when he was not at work, or at play, with his wife, was generally to be found somewhere about the farm. there had been a farm attached to the manor for many years after his father's death, and he had picked up a good deal of practical knowledge as a lad, which simeon, his farm-man at gorsthwaite, helped him to furbish up from day to day. simeon distrusted his master's interference in these matters, as being "one what nobbut laked at wark," but he was bound to admit, underneath all his sneers, that griff must have been to the manner born, so kindly did he take to the details of his education. it was in the middle of august that lomax, taking a short cut home one morning, discovered a pleasing fact in connection with gorsthwaite moor. the moor folk know well enough that gorse never grows on a peaty soil, and few of them guessed that gorsthwaite, for all its splashes of yellow bloom, had a rich peat-bed on the side away from marshcotes. griff, chancing this morning to have his eyes on the bilberry clumps, to see if the second crop of berries would be worth the gathering, saw a rusty spade on the ground in front of him--a long, narrow spade, turned over at the right-hand side perpendicularly to the main face. a little further some crumbling peats were scattered on the top of a reddish-brown gash in the cheek of the moor. "simeon," said he to his farm-man, directly he got home, "there's peat to be had for the asking a mile away. why should i go on paying for the stuff they bring from cranshaw moor?" "it's noan o' th' best, isn't th' cranshaw peät, but i niver heärd tell on there being peäts just hereabouts. besides, it's ower late i' th' year to dry 'em now." "we'll see about that. the time of year doesn't matter a button, so long as there is sun enough to dry them. our stack is not big enough, i fancy, to last us through the winter." simeon growled. your upland labourer is a terrible radical in respect of persons, but hopelessly conservative whenever farming operations are in question. "cut peäts i' august? ye mud as weel mak hay at kersmas: th' back-end o' may, or th' for-end o' june--that's when simeon hey leärned to cut an' dry an' stack 'em; nay, ye cannot get ower what is, an' is to be." "can't i? just go and hunt up a spade, simeon; i saw one in the lathe not long ago--back of the turnip-chopper, if i remember rightly. we'll go this afternoon." mid-day dinner over, simeon slouched along at his master's heels, like a dog that is loth to accompany an indifferent sportsman. griff took the spade and set to work at the peat-bed. first, he removed a few inches of the top layer of heather stumps and bilberry roots; then he drove the blade straight down, prized out the sod, and so moved along the whole line from left to right, the upturned perpendicular edge and flat back of the spade shaping clean faces to the peats. "ye may know nowt about th' time to cut, but ye frame weel at th' cutting," muttered simeon, with grudging praise, as he picked up the falling peats and spread them out on the heather. "and the sun will frame well at the drying, if the sweat of my body just now is anything to go by. why, man, you don't often get a dry heat like this in june." "well, i'm noan saying th' peäts willun't dry. what i says is, it isn't nat'ral; an', dry 'em or no, there'll no gooid come on't. they willun't burn like good chirstian peäts what's been led i' june." but griff only laughed, and shed his waistcoat, and went on with the cutting. the crack-crack of guns came to their ears from over cranshaw way. "part shooiting about," dropped simeon. "yes, that must be some of the frender's folly party. how far does captain laverack's shooting come, simeon?" "fair across to a mile this side o' wynyates. he's by way o' heving us know he's a tip-topper, is th' captain; so he mun needs tak gorsthet moor, an' a slice out o' ling crag moor, too, as if his own waren't big enow for fifty sich. _sport?_ ay, he knows a sight about sport, does yon. i seed him ower this way a two or three day back, an' i fair laughed to see th' legs on him--as thin as a bog-reed, wi' a smattering o' striped stocking ower 'em to keep th' wind fro' bending 'em double-ways." griff leaned on his spade, and laughed as he watched simeon's dispassioned face. "but he doesn't shoot with his legs. come now, he may be a decent shot, for all that." "what, driving th' birds an' sich? nay, there's no mak o' sport i' driving. he mud as weel sit i' his own back parlour, an' hev th' grouse driven in at th' door. i reckon nowt o' your new-fangled, snipper-legged sporting chaps." griff's trust in the weather seemed likely to be justified. in a very few days the peats were dry enough to be set up on end, two and two, one leaning against the other in the form of an upturned v; and, as simeon had to go to saxilton to buy six head of cattle, the master saw to the work in person. august was more than half through, but there was no diminution of the heat. griff had again doffed coat and waistcoat alike; the sleeves of his coarse woollen shirt were rolled up to the shoulder, and a broad leather strap held up his corduroy trousers. he had his back to a man who was approaching him, with a gun under his arm and a dog at his heels; the first griff heard of his approach was a thin, querulous shout. "here, i say, my man. damn it all!" piped the voice. griff arranged his couple of peats to his satisfaction, and turned slowly round. "i beg your pardon?" he observed. then he smiled, rather broadly, as he saw the legs of the spokesman, and thought of simeon's version of the reed shaken with the wind. "i said, _damn it all_!" "not a particularly original remark, but i don't see why you shouldn't make it. is that all, sir?" griff knew, quite as well as his assailant, what was amiss, but he had no intention of relinquishing his peats. "all, all? no, it is not all. what are you doing on my moor? what do you mean by digging here while the shooting season is on? no wonder we've had poor sport this morning, with you here to frighten every bird for a mile round. didn't you hear our shots?" another figure appeared on the crest of the rise some two hundred yards away, and moved towards them. "i believe i did, but they seemed a good distance off, and i was too busy to trouble. it is a serious matter, you see, to be short of peats for the winter, and a poor man must make the most of the weather." the little man in knickerbockers began to jerk himself up and down. the stiff grey hair, close-cropped round the crown of his head, seemed to stick up straighter than ever. for the stranger was not only furious, but a little non-plussed; he could not reconcile griff's speech and bearing with his occupation and his clothes. "do you know who i am, my man?" he sputtered at length. "rather too well. captain laverack, if i am not mistaken?" griff's voice was quiet, but the smile had died from his lips, and his eyes showed hard. "yes, i am captain laverack. perhaps you know, then, that i have rented the shooting over this moor?" the little man was tempering wrath with an air of faint irony. "i know that you played my father one of the lowest tricks i ever heard of. i am pleased to meet you, captain laverack; it will do me good to tell you what a rascally little cad i think you." laverack was speechless with amazement. before he could find words, the second stranger had come up. griff looked hard at the new-comer, and looked again; then he held out his hand. "how do you do, dereham?" he said nonchalantly. dereham hesitated a moment, then shook the proffered hand with as near an approach to warmth as he ever exhibited. "lomax--griff lomax--by all that's wonderful! i didn't recognize you at first--how could i, when i suddenly came upon you masquerading as a son of toil? i always thought you were as mad as a hatter, lomax, and now i know it." "lomax? was joshua lomax your father?" interrupted laverack. his self-assertiveness had crawled away out of sight. griff neither looked at him nor answered. the man was too much his senior, he felt, to admit of his knocking him down, and the temptation bore rather heavily on him just now. dereham stared at them both, and wondered. laverack shuffled his feet noiselessly among the peat-rubble; twice he made as if to speak, then thought better of it; finally, he turned on his heel, whistled to his dog, and set off across the moor. he turned after awhile. "are you coming, dereham?" he asked. "directly. if we miss each other we shall meet at the lodge for lunch?" again laverack hesitated, glancing from dereham to lomax, and making a rapid mental calculation as to the chances of griff's silence. "all right, one o'clock, sharp," he said, and went forward. "what the deuce are you playing at, you and laverack?" asked dereham. "nothing; we don't like each other, that's all. if he asks you, when you rejoin him, how much i have told you--he is sure to do that--say to him from me that the lomaxes carry their own burdens and never gossip about other people's." dereham laughed easily. "by jove, it sounds intense; but you always had a twist for intensity, lomax, so i'm prepared for it.--do you know, by the way, that sybil ogilvie is staying at laverack's place?" he added, with a swift glance of inquiry. griff caught the glance full, but seemed untroubled. then he looked down at his corduroys, and tightened his leather belt with a pleased chuckle. "i hope we may meet; she would like me in this sort of rig. there's a good deal of stable-manure on my boots, too, which would round off the idyll. bah! dereham, you wasted me a lot of my time, you little people in london." dereham lit a cigar before responding, and perched himself on a heathery knoll. "i always did like you, lomax," he drawled at last. "you're such an engaging original, and this last piece of foolery suits you better than any you've tried yet. still that air of the almighty about you, only a little more so. where's the poor devil of a woman?" griff's face took an ugly shade. "whom do you mean?" "why, the cattle-dealer's wife--quarryman's--what was it? it would have done your vanity good--or your love, was it? only a matter of terms--to see the way mrs. ogilvie sickened when the affair became common gossip in our set." "dereham!" dereham removed his eyes from their lazy contemplation of the heat-waves dancing across the heather. something in the other's voice startled him--some odd mixture of trouble and resentment. "have i put my foot in it? i'm beastly sorry if i have; i always was too lazy to think before i spoke. was it--er--a bit serious?" "any man who speaks against _my wife_ runs the risk of getting his neck broken." dereham changed colour; but he held out his hand with unaffected regret, and-"old fellow," said he, "i hadn't the least idea. you'd better kick me and have done with it." griff took the proffered hand and tried to laugh. "all right, dereham; only, i wish you hadn't." "well, yes; i fancy we both do. coming, rover, boy!" this to the pointer, who, after much uneasiness, had started off on his own account with a very business-like air. dereham, glad of a break in the discomfort, followed hard after the dog. presently rover put up a brace, and dereham claimed one with each barrel. he returned to his former seat, and rover brought the birds to him, eyeing him the while with encouraging approval. "i've made my peace with rover," said dereham, nodding lazily at the dog. "you never saw his equal for intelligence, lomax. before i sighted you this morning, he put up three almost under my nose, and i missed with both barrels. and that dog just turned his head round and said to me, as plain as could be, 'what a fool of a shot _you_ are.' but i've retrieved my good name, haven't i, old boy?" rover implied an affirmative with his tail, and dereham, for lack of certainty as to how he should proceed with his friend, began to stuff the grouse slowly into his game-bag. "well?" said griff at length. "exactly. i was thinking that you've improved since i last saw you. by jove, i like the way you flashed out on me just now! you're like a horse that has been out to grass for a month. honestly, lomax, i'm confoundedly glad you have dropped the ogilvie nonsense. you didn't seem either excited or surprised when i told you how near she is at this moment." "what is it? there shall the eagles be gathered together--something. you were always the alternate string to her bow." "ah, well, i find her excellent comedy, and that is the most you can expect from any woman. that was what irritated me, you know, when you took her in such screaming sincerity. you won't mind my saying, will you, that you were an astonishing fool in that particular?" "i shan't mind in the least. i like it." "too much fetch and carry, too little compensation, unless you took it funnily. the fair sybil was altogether too fond of pets in the old days." "has she changed particularly?" dereham grinned pleasantly at his friend. "she treated you badly, in my opinion, and i'm hanged if i don't give you your revenge now--even at the price of your modesty. when you left town suddenly, after making an intolerable bear of yourself for three months on end, we all prophesied--and mrs. ogilvie was sure--that you would come back. but you didn't, and sybil began to feel it. the others said that she merely missed the most pronounced of those delicate little flirtations of hers, which did no one the least harm in the world--except the odd idiots who took her seriously. but i fancied it was more than that, and i've proved it since. the woman is wild for you; if i were to tell her you were here, she would forget--the interim--would forget every mortal thing except that she wanted you; she'd come----" "then for god's sake keep her away!" cried griff, fervently. "her husband died in the spring, you know. sybil is a changed woman, but she hasn't the heart even to pretend that it is due to his death. she just mopes, lomax, and if revenge is any satisfaction to you, you've got it--as much as a man could want." griff went back through those fevered months--recalled how the touch of her hand had maddened him, how the curve of her baby lips had seemed to be the end and aim of all things. yet, for the life of him, he could not make a substantial working memory of it now. the thing he had called love showed merely as a spineless, filmy ghost; the thing he knew to be love stood between him and the woman who had seduced him in all but the letter. "dereham," he said abruptly, "will you come and see my wife?" "i was going to ask if i might. it's generous of you to suggest it after----" "never mind that. will you come?" "yes; when?" "to-morrow, if you can get off. drop in for lunch--i call it dinner now--and we'll give you mutton and apple-dumplings." "i bar the dumplings, but otherwise you may depend on me. is your quarrel with laverack serious, by the way?" "yes; it goes back to my father, and that means it is unforgivable.--it will make matters awkward for you?" "then let it. laverack is all very well, but he's not going to stand between you and me. if he doesn't like it, i'll remove my traps to a pub, and spend the rest of my time helping you to farm." chapter xix. the link that bindeth man and wife. after griff had done with his peats, and had eaten a dinner proportionate to his labours, he set off for marshcotes. mrs. lomax, with a cross-country tramp in mind, was just coming out of the gate when he arrived at the manor. "what, going for a walk? absurd, little mother, under such a blazing sun." "it is, rather; but what would you have, griff? i must fill up my time somehow." "that is another of your covert reproaches. i believe you are horribly jealous of kate, if the truth were known." the mother looked him wistfully up and down. "yes, i am--as jealous as possible. i miss you so, dear." griff, in a man's way, had not been wont to give an over-careful regard to the looks of those who were constantly about him. something in his mother's tone, however, a certain touch of helplessness that was foreign to her character, set him scrutinizing her face. she seemed older and more worn, he thought, than when he first returned home, a year ago. "you don't look quite yourself, old lady," he said tenderly. "let's spend the afternoon in the garden, under that ridiculous lilac-tree which thinks it can grow at the edge of a moor." "it is a very fine lilac, griff," snapped mrs. lomax. "ah, i thought the fight wasn't all dead in you. well, i won't abuse the lilac, and i'll even drink your home-made wine without a murmur, if only you will promise to amuse me this afternoon. i'm lazy, mother; don't let us go for a walk." "which means that you think _me_ feebler than i was. oh, yes, you do! i saw it in your face as you looked at me just now. i have a good mind to show you what i can do when i choose." by way of answer griff threaded his arm through hers, led her into the garden, and set her down by main force in the shady seat under the lilac-bushes. "i have good news for you, mother," he said, breaking a long pause. "about kate?" flashed the old lady, with a woman's perspective, and a mother's half-resentful pride where a grandchild is in question. but griff missed her point utterly. "no; what good news could i bring of her except that she is just as much kate as ever? it is about laverack; you remember telling me father's relations with him?" "yes, i remember well. only--it is not a topic that pleases me, griff." "not if i tell you that i met him this morning, and made myself known to him, and called him a cad to his face?" her keen old eyes brightened. "you did that, griff? yes, it _is_ good news. it may be unchristian, but i loathe that man. and if one is framed to love well, how can one help hating with a will, too?" "mother, mother, i despair of you! you're a dreadful pagan, like the rest of us," laughed the son, anxious to glance off to other topics, now that he had conveyed his piece of information. "well, your father was a pagan, right through to the core of him. i have had worse examples to follow, griff." "did you object to his poaching, i wonder?" said griff, teasingly. "after he was married, i mean." "that, rude boy, is a question i don't choose to answer. it is unwise, though, they say, to deny a man his luxuries; but the pursuit is a discreditable one at best." "i've done with it, at any rate." an impatient half-sigh accompanied the words. "i am glad of it." "but, mother, you have no idea of the glorious rough-and-tumbles we used to have. kate, though, has made me promise to keep a whole skin, and there's an end of it. heigho! i'm glad the squire and i made a decent finish to my career in that line." a rattling of the garden gate came to them round the corner of the house. "some one seems to be trying to get in," said mrs. lomax. "just run and open the gate, will you, griff? you always bang it so hard, and the latch, like myself, is getting worn out." again that helpless note in her voice. griff did not like it at all. "worn out?" he echoed. "not till you give better proof of it, foolish mother." "boy, kindly flatter your wife, and leave tag-ends of sincerity for your mother." she tried to laugh, but the effort was not very successful. griff did as he was bid, and went to open the gate. at the other side stood greta rotherson. "how do you do?" he observed, holding out his hand across the top bar. "i'm very hot, rather cross, and exceedingly anxious to get under shelter. how would it be, mr. lomax, if you opened the gate?" "not just yet. i enjoy making you really angry; it brings such a quaint little flush to your cheeks." "i don't want compliments," protested greta, blushing rosier with pleasure all the same. "you'll have to put up with them, i fear, if you won't change your looks. even a staid married man like myself----" "married you may be, sir, but staid you will never become," said greta, demurely. "i am going to knock at the back door, if you won't let me in at the front." he opened at that, after weighty argument with the latch, and greta tripped in, looking like a bit of fleecy, fair-weather cloud in her muslin dress. griff could never quite rid himself of the notion that she was just a pretty child, and he treated her accordingly. he wondered, in a way, at the preacher's infatuation; and, with his mole-like outlook on women as a whole, he asked himself sometimes if little greta would be able to weather foul days as well as fair. mrs. lomax brightened as she saw the girl. she had a better notion of these matters than her son, and never felt the least doubt but that greta, for all her butterfly prettiness, was just the sort of woman to come out strong in a crisis. "you are earlier than i expected you, my dear. i am glad," said the old lady, simply. "yes, father had to go off to saxilton on business, and i thought you might like a chat--which means that i wanted one badly myself." then she and griff began teasing each other, till greta was likely to have the worst of it, and mrs. lomax interfered. and after awhile there came another rattling at the gate, followed by the scrunch of heavy boots on the gravel. greta talked faster, without waiting for any one to answer her, and her cheeks were an honest crimson. gabriel hirst, for once in a way, had come in a garb that was likely to advance his cause; though the accident of his taking marshcotes manor at the end of a long ride must not be set down to any cunning forethought on the preacher's part. he bungled less than usual as he came across the grass, and griff smiled as he noted that his horseback humour was on him. presently mrs. lomax snared griff into the house, on the pretext of talking over some business matters with him. "did you arrange this meeting, mother?" he asked, as he opened the parlour door for her. "didn't i tell you," she smiled, "that i have to find things to do nowadays?" "i like the notion of your turning matchmaker. pray, is this kind of meeting a regular occurrence?" "i have very few luxuries, griff.--not that it is the least good in the world. gabriel seems always to be falling between two stools. he can't work properly, because he is in love with the girl, and he won't speak out like a man, because he is not sure yet whether she is a temptation of the flesh or not. you men--you men! if only you understood what a true woman's love is worth." "the lassie would have him--eh, mother?" "the lassie, sir, will wait till she is asked," retorted the mother. when griff reached gorsthwaite that evening, it struck him that something was amiss with kate. his late uneasiness about his mother had sharpened his eyes, and he was awake to the restlessness in kate's movements. from time to time, too, she looked wistfully at him, and seemed on the point of speaking. more than all, he noted that she was disposed to be lavish of caresses, in a way that fitted ill with her wonted undemonstrative strength. "what ails you, wife?" he ventured once. "nothing--nothing at all, dear. why do you ask?" "you are so unlike yourself. have i left you alone too much lately? say the word, katey, and i'll give up the farming, and--and the horse. they take me away a good deal between them." "nonsense, griff. you are going to give up nothing at all, except your foolish suspicions of me. i am the happiest woman in the world at this moment." alas for his inexperience! in that curious, half-hysterical assertion of happiness, he might have read all that she longed to tell him. but he missed it, and went on to talk of dereham's coming on the morrow. "he is rather fastidious, you know," laughed griff; "what can we give him to eat? luckily we have a brace of grouse ready for cooking. how would an omelette be?" "i can't make them," protested kate, vaguely uneasy at the mention of dereham's fastidiousness. "but i can--beauties! it is high time you learned; i'll give you a lesson in the morning. oh, yes, we shall manage famously! tell the cook, wifey, that she can have a morning off to-morrow, because i mean to turn her kitchen upside down." "indeed, i shall tell her nothing of the kind. i don't trust you, griff--you talk too glibly about it." griff stroked her cheek playfully. "you think that omelette will turn out like the women i used to paint--half-cooked inside, and dried to a cinder outside? well, we shall see." as a matter of fact, the omelette, as well as the rest of the dinner, turned out remarkably well. dereham had entered gorsthwaite with an uncomfortable feeling that he was here to be bored by a friend's wife, to make the best of a foolish job; but as the meal went on, and kate, in her straightforward way, took up his tentative comments on men and matters, emphasizing points of view which were too simple ever to have occurred to him, he began to wonder. from wonder he passed to interest; he clean forgot the passivity which was his especial pride; he talked little, and listened much to the words he enticed by strategy from his hostess. finally, he felt regretful when kate left them to their smoke. "i begin to understand," observed dereham, after he had silently worked his way through the half of a cigar. "what do you understand, you oracle?" "there you're off it, old fellow. oracles never understand--they only pretend to. that is by the way, though. what i meant was, that you seem to be really established here." "why, yes. i should be sorry to desert gorsthwaite in favour of any place you could name." "i thought it was just a pose, you see; we all thought so. you're a different man altogether, lomax, from the ogilvie lap-dog i used to know. suits you better, i think." "dereham, will you let mrs. ogilvie alone? you have exacted penance enough for that folly already." "all right, my dear chap; i plead guilty. what i want to know, though, is, when are we to have another picture? are you sinking into an animal pure and simple--a sort of superior hog, that eats and drinks, and fills in the between-times with sleep?" griff, by way of answer, took dereham up to the room he used as a studio. a large canvas stood on an easel in the middle of the floor. dereham went close to the picture, to which the finishing touches had been put early that morning, and stood regarding it attentively. "humph!" he dropped at length. "same style as the two eccentric daubs that the elderly critics profess to think so much of. gad, though, there's something in it! why, bless my soul, the figure in the foreground is your wife!" yes, griff had struck a fine idea, undoubtedly. the background was a rush-fringed tarn, with a sweep of rust-coloured bracken on the right and a clump of heathery knolls on the left; in the foreground, standing on a peat-bed of brownish-black, was the figure of a woman, her eyes looking steadfastly out from the canvas, her body set to a careless strength of pose. one corner of the tarn, and the bracken to the right of it, were lit by the dying sun; the rest of the moorscape lay in brooding darkness. on the face of the woman was just that blending of light and sombre shade in which the moor-features themselves had been picked out. it was impossible to say which was the more alive, the woman or the lonely strip of heath; each seemed able to stand alone, yet each helped the other's strength. "anything else?" asked dereham, after a pause, in his usual nonchalant tone. "yes; the companion to this. one i call 'moor calm,' the other 'moor storm.'" griff uncovered a second canvas lying against the wall. this time the background was a swirling sea of heather-tips below; and above, lightning and tempest and wind-driven, scudding night-clouds. the naked figure of a man held the foreground--a man eye to eye with the lightning, shoulder to shoulder with the storm; on his lips sat determination, but grim laughter lay in his eyes. the whole smote one with a sense of fearless, fate-defying nudity. dereham shuddered a little as he looked--then shrugged his shoulders when he saw that griff was watching him. "very fine, my friend, for those who understand it. i don't, for my part; it makes me feel cold and wet through." "but i understand it!" interrupted griff, giving a loose rein to his enthusiasm. "i never see the moor without thanking god that i took to painting instead of literature. the moor shifts her expression every hour, every minute: you can't stir without getting a fine, strong bit of canvas-work. yet fools go wasting their time on waterfalls, and buttercup meadows, and milkmaids going kine-wards. does it never occur to them that there is something worth painting, if they will only take the trouble to climb a few hundred feet to get it?" "well, i dare say it will bring you _kudos_," said dereham, with a yawn that was intended as an apology for certain twinges of enthusiasm discernible in his own person. "for my part, i find these moors of yours devilish healthy, and devilish dull. i'm frankly in love with houses, and warm fires, and theatres, and the rest of it. if i hadn't met you, i think not even the shooting would have compensated me for coming." "like it or not, old chap," laughed griff, "you will hear of me again when these pictures appear. have another weed." "i daren't, in this temple of the rough, the savage, and the naked. you can't imagine primitive man sitting with a cigar-stump in his mouth. no, it shall be a pipe.--lomax," he went on, after he had lit up, "how do you find time to paint? i thought you were farming all day long." "i only work when it suits me. my man is dependable enough, and he keeps things going. but farming puts me into condition, and that saves me from conceiving the flabby subjects which boomed me. i'm in the thick of it up here, too--right in the middle of human nature that isn't ashamed of its simpleness. every day of my life i rub against good, sharp angles, and every day i thank the lord that i am not planed down to a model human yet." "lomax," put in the other, with an air of grave profundity, "don't begin thanking the lord that you are a publican and sinner, or you may be turned into a pharisee." "away with your word-twists! i've done with them.--i say, dereham, let's have a round with the gloves," he broke off, as his eyes fell on a couple of pairs that had been tossed into one corner. dereham looked griff's lengthy muscularity up and down. "hit a man your own size," he observed, with a pleasant grin. but he put on the gloves for all that, and they went at it hammer-and-tongs, as of old. griff was more than a match for his opponent in height and driving power, but the slighter man had the advantage in quickness; and at the end of the bout they were on pretty equal terms with regard to blows given and received. "that does one good," panted griff. "i am not allowed to slip out at nights now, dereham; little moonlight picnics have been knocked on the head. it's a big responsibility getting married." "of course it is. preserve me from having a woman pin her heart to my coat-tails; it must be no end of a drag." "you are an ass, old fellow," retorted griff, tranquilly; "it is the finest spur a man can have." "lord, lord! this life is dulling you; i knew it would. let's talk of the weather." "it is odd to think of four of the old set coming together on one narrow strip of moor," said griff, breaking a lengthy silence. "four? who's the fourth?" asked dereham, sharply. griff, remembering roddick's secret, bit his lips and answered nothing. "i think i can guess," said the other, presently. "the other night i saw something up above the folly that gave me a clue; it was lucky for them that the stars and i had the sight to ourselves. roddick disappeared from town as suddenly as you did. is that the secret? well, it is safe enough with me. roddick may be a fool for his pains, but he's a jolly good sort. as to the oddity, i don't quite see it. i have been due to come to the folly for a fortnight's shooting ever since last winter; so has sybil ogilvie; roddick follows for the best, and the worst, of all possible reasons--and, hey presto! where has your mystery gone?" "shall you go to see him?" "yes. where does he live? i can't leave without saying how-d'ye-do to him. do you know his story, by the way?" "from start to finish. poor beggar, he's in a tight place." "i sometimes think," said dereham, with a carelessness that sat oddly on his words, "i sometimes think that if i had lost all that makes life worth living, i should go and strangle that beast-wife of roddick's. not that i should, really; but it would be the truest service one could do him." "i have played with that notion, too; it would be a tough problem to settle, if----," said lomax, musingly. when dereham had gone, kate came and stood by the mantelshelf, and looked down at her husband, who was sprawling contentedly in his big easy-chair. he was well satisfied with their little luncheon-party. truth to tell, he had been anxious as to the effect which kate would produce on this half-tender, half-cynical friend of his butterfly days; it was not, he told himself, that he really cared a straw that his own opinion should be endorsed, but he did shrink from the thought that dereham might go away and vaguely pity him--that smacked too much of insult to his wife. dereham, however, had left no doubt of his admiration for kate. as he shook griff's hand at the door, he had muttered, "you'll do, old fellow. can i come to see your wife again?" and this meant more than it seemed--it meant, in brief, that he envied his friend his prize. and a man likes to feel this, be he never so secure in his own judgment. so, being content, it did not occur to griff that there was any underlying trouble in his wife's eyes--though the trouble was more in evidence than it had been when he noticed it the night before. she crept to his knee presently, and took his two big hands in hers. "griff!" "yes, little woman? how very solemn we sound." "you won't be angry if i ask you a question? did i--did i shame you, griff, before your friend? i know so little of the world, and----" "child, be quiet! how dare you hint at such a thing?" griff was frowning more than he knew of. he hated this resurrected doubt, after it had been laid to rest once and for all; he had not been proud of himself for feeling it, and kate had no business to allow it to come into her head. she saw the frown. her lip trembled. the next moment she had buried her face, and was sobbing like a child. "wife, wife! what is it all about? did i speak harshly? i didn't mean to; only, it was so absurd that you could shame me in any one's eyes, and--kate, what is it? you have never given way like this before." she made no answer for a long while; when she did raise her head at last, it was to whisper something that set strange new pulses beating in the man. he understood now; and as he took her on his knee and let her cry it out against his shoulder, all his wildness seemed to have merged into one steady wave of tenderness. and then kate laughed, low and soft, with a note in her voice that dated forward. "he is to be a boy, griff--he _must_ be a boy--and--and--you will not be ashamed of _him_ when he comes, will you, dear?" chapter xx. the fight at the quarry edge. griff lomax, waking at half-past five of a morning towards the end of august, lay on his back for awhile, and thought how fine the moors would be looking at this time of day. then he pictured that wooded cleft below ling crag, where the water came down sweet and cold from the uplands. he had not had a dip there since he learned that the old mill was occupied again; the aloofness of what he had once regarded as his own private bathing-place seemed to be violated, and he had not cared to risk a meeting, while under water, or during the process of towelling himself, with either of the miller's women-folk. but he argued, as he lay on his back this morning and watched the sun-chequers on the ceiling, that no one would be abroad at this time of day, and that if he made shift to slip into flannels forthwith, and run to the stream, he could enjoy his bath in peace. so he jumped out of bed without more ado, leaving kate fast asleep, and crossed the moor at a gentle trot. he made his way through the dew-weighted grass, and reached the pool where greta rotherson had paddled on that long-ago sunday when the preacher came over the crest of the ridge above. the rains had been heavy of late, and the water came dancing down at a rattling pace, white with foam-flecks, and brown with moorland peat. the pool, though neither deep nor wide enough for a swim, could give a tolerable bath to one who knew it as griff did. he slipped out of his flannels, plunged in, grasped an outstanding branch of hazel that leaned low to the water, and let the current carry the rest of him as far as his six-feet-three would go; the stream broadened into shallows an inch beyond his toes, and griff had always flattered himself with the belief that the pool had been made expressly for him. he shouted with glee, and kicked up his heels, and buried his head among the scattering minnows; and when he had had enough of it, he sought the fallen pine-log on the bank. the log, too, was an old friend; time and weather had stripped it of its bark, and the surface, smooth and porous, was quick at catching the sun-rays and keeping them. griff filled a big pipe and lit it; then he lay along the log, and mutely thanked heaven for a good many things, and left all drying operations to the sun and the log between them. the sound of a door creaking on its hinges came to him round the bend of the stream. "by jove, they get up early at the mill!" he cried. "i suppose i had better tumble into my clothes." he had slipped into his trousers and shirt, and was stooping for his coat, when greta rotherson ran lightly down the path. she stopped on seeing the intruder and half turned her head, as if meditating flight. "good morning, miss rotherson," laughed griff. "i've been having a bathe. may i put on my coat in your presence?" "i think you had better, mr. lomax." the girl came forward a few steps, smiling at the absurdity of his question. "i have no right to be here, i'm afraid; but i used to bathe in this pool a good deal, and i could not resist the thought of it this morning." "how did you find it out? i thought no one bathed here but myself." "how did i find it out? do you know how long i have lived on marshcotes moor?" "i couldn't guess," said miss rotherson, demurely, seating herself on one end of the log. "thirty odd years. is it likely, now, that i should miss a stream as good as this one is?" "you are like the rest of them, mr. lomax. you're awfully proud of having lived here all your life, and you--not exactly look down on, but you--_pity_ us who come from the south." "do i?" smiled griff. "how do you know that?" "oh, you do; you all do! i don't like your people up here; they're too _hard_." "did you ever get to the heart of one of us? we're as soft as butter, once you smash through the rind." "but you never confess it when--when people want you to." greta rotherson blushed, as she spoke, in a vexed kind of way, and griff knew, as well as could be, that she was thinking of the preacher. but he daren't so much as hint that he knew the state of affairs, though he was always jogging gabriel's elbow, and striving to push the silly fellow nearer to his goal. "we are crossed in the grain, i fear. don't be too hard on us, miss rotherson," he laughed. and so, what with one thing and another, they talked for half an hour, these two, seated one on each end of the warm pine-log. they laughed, and jested, and teased each other, from sheer vigour of youth and good spirits, until griff looked at the sun, which was a reliable watch to him. "it is getting late," he said, rising and stretching his long legs. "have i been keeping you from your bath all this time?" "you have, but it doesn't matter. i daren't ever risk it again, though, now that i know people intrude. good-bye. when are you coming to have a pipe with father?" "as soon as i can, if you'll have me. good-bye." "they are hard in a way," mused greta, when he had gone, "but they're _grit_ somehow. why on earth hasn't gabriel a little of mr. lomax's easiness? it is so silly being in love with a man you have to give a helping hand to. and gabriel isn't a bit sure yet whether i am a wile of the devil or merely an angel. did i say i loved him? well, i don't. he's stupid. i am going for a run on the moors instead of thinking about him." griff strolled gently homeward across the moor, with the tingle of cold water on his skin and the morning wind fresh in his face. what was left a man to desire, he wondered? he opened his shoulders, his mouth, his nostrils, to the wind and the peat-reek, and watched the sun-rays dance across the moor. cobwebs were slung, like fairy hammocks, from heather-bough to heather-bough; the peat was springy to the tread; a lark was vowing that he'd never grow tired of singing, and a moor-emperor moth, a dandy gallant in gorgeous raiment, flitted across his path. "what fools there are in the world!" said griff to himself. "when i think of people living in the valleys--as i did myself for a goodly number of years--it makes me laugh." but gabriel hirst, at that moment, felt no gratitude towards the sun, nor did he realize how good it was to be alive. five minutes after miss rotherson had perched herself on the log, the preacher turned out of the ling crag high-road and walked quickly towards the mill. it was his wont nowadays to creep about the mill purlieus, in the hope of catching a glimpse of greta--or a glimpse of her casement, if the greater boon were denied him. he could not live through the twenty-four hours without this pilgrimage of his; sometimes he came at noon, oftener at twilight, but he rarely had courage to step forward and claim a word with the girl; it never occurred to him that a passion so overmastering as his could meet with a like response, and he feared to blurt out the sum-total of his folly if he spoke with her overmuch. greta, of course, knew a good deal about his stealthy approaches to the mill, as women will get to know these things; and she wondered how a man could be a man in all else, and yet be such a sorry fool in matters of love. this morning gabriel hirst had awakened at four, and could not get to sleep again for thinking of greta. he tried to drive the thought away; for one of his old frenzies had been coming to a head lately, and he was keenly alive to the wiles of the flesh. he ran over st. peter's words on the subject of plaitings of the hair, and cringed at the thought that he had only yesterday feasted his eyes on the brown glory coiled above greta's shapely little head. he told himself, as he turned into the wood-path through hazel dene, that this must be the last of his tributes to carnal desire, that he must never---but down below him sat greta on her pine-log, with lomax jesting at her side. like a man struck blind was the preacher; he stood quite still at the gap in the bushes that had first shown him the scene, but his eyes were too full of dancing lights to see more than the one quick glance had shown him. away went doubts of the spiritual future in dread of the concrete present. this could be no chance meeting; the hour was too early, the dene too far out of griff's way. were they laughing at himself, at his clumsy ways and honest love-fears? he pressed his hand tight above his heart, as if he had received a mortal hurt. griff was false--that was the thought which shaped itself in his mind, after long struggling with the numbness. vaguely he crept away from the spot--up the steep hillside, through the pastureland above, on into the moor. no lust for vengeance had yet crept in to goad his manhood; he followed the instinct of all sorely stricken creatures and tottered to some unknown hiding-place--anywhere, so long as he got out of reach of his fellows. slowly the need of vindication slid into his consciousness. he quickened his pace a little. righteous anger followed stealthily, telling him that griff had stooped to the meanest treachery that a man can play his friend. his feet went forward more bravely. finally, he was all aglow with a rage that swept clean away every despairing thought of loss. he ran like a wild thing through the purpling heather, till hazel dene lay a good three miles behind him; he was out of breath by this time, and he sat down in a clump of cranberries to rest awhile. he had gone out that morning with a copy of "baxter's call to the unconverted" under his arm--a book, much in vogue with an earlier generation, in which gabriel was wont to find strong stuff of a quality he loved. he opened the book at random, hoping to chance upon some counsel fitted to the occasion; but he drew blank, and shut the stained old pages with a snap. one solitary quotation from the scriptures assailed him with untiring pertinacity. "vengeance is mine, saith the lord," he muttered. he got up from the cranberry-bushes and strode off again across the moor. it hurt him to feel that excuse for action rested, not with himself, but with a higher power. a sense of futility weighed him down. the sun was dropping westward before hunger insisted on a hearing. he had been fasting lately, and his body was weakened; old stubbornness bade him fight the hunger, but he remembered that there was no longer a reason for self-castigation--no longer a reason, it seemed, for anything in earth or sky. the scepticism which, years before, had preceded his conversion came and went, alternating with the dulling consciousness that vengeance belonged to the lord, not to himself. gabriel hirst was rudderless in the depths of a stormy sea. desire for food was the one straightforward agent. he looked across the moor and saw a black-walled cottage standing up against the sky; without conscious thought he took a bee-line, over bog-land and dry, to the cottage. at another time he would have recognized sorrowstones spring, but this afternoon the country showed only a blurred, unknown waste. a surly admonition to enter greeted his knock, and he went in. old mother strangeways was taking down a canister of tea from her cupboard; she turned and looked him up and down. "oh, it's thee, gabriel hirst?" she croaked. "what dost 'a want?" "food. i'm like to drop with hunger." she laughed mirthlessly. "then drop, tha praching crow. i know thee well; tha'rt friends wi' young lummax, if i'm noan mista'en." the preacher winced. "i'm no friend of his, nor he of mine." "art'n't 'a? sin' when?" "since the morning. he's played me false, and it's a pity that vengeance belongs to the lord." rachel dropped into her chair and motioned gabriel to take the other. "tha looks too mich of a fooil to be a liar, gabriel hirst," she said meditatively; "what's agate atween thee an' him?" the preacher was tired and disposed to seek sympathy. the aptness of mother strangeways' questions seemed to call for straightforward answers. he told her what he had seen in hazel dene. the woman's face ran into queer wrinkles as she listened; it seemed that her prayers had brought to sorrowstones spring a man well fitted to compass what was now her one aim in life. "it's i' th' breed; it's a trick of his father's, yon. he'll hev his way wi' th' lass, an' then he'll leave her i' th' mud, to fend for herseln an' th' babby," she muttered eagerly. the preacher rose, his face on fire. "woman!" he cried, "if you frame your unclean lips to such words again, i'll----" "nay, nay, lad. it's noan me 'at wants to hurt thee. tak a bit o' that sperrit wi' thee when next tha wends to griff lummax.--summat to eat, sayst 'a? ay, an' gladly, though i'd hev seen thee starve on th' doorstun if tha'd been a friend o' lummax's." gabriel's fire went out; there was no bodily fuel to keep it going. he ate of the coarse stuff that was set before him, and drank of mother strangeways' rum. she watched him from under her white eyelashes. "vengeance is th' lord's, tha says?" she muttered. "happen it is, if tha taks th' thing far enow back. but this i tell thee, gabriel hirst, th' lord 'ull damn thee for a fooil if tha waits for him to help thee. dost think summat is bahn to shooit out on th' sky an' strike this lummax deäd? i thowt that myseln, lad, for a while; but now i know 'at just as mich as a man fends for hisseln, so mich will th' lord fend for him. it's share an' share alike wi' wark o' yon kind, an' tha cannot look to get all an' do nowt." gabriel muttered incoherently to himself, and rachel strangeways thought that a new intensity of purpose was gripping him. "if tha's getten a doubt i' thy heäd still, tha can mind what griff lummax did to my joe's wife. he telled thee he war innocent as a sucking lamb, likely. well, a man that 'ull do one kind o' dirty wark 'ull do another. what's a two or three lies when a lummax hes owt to gain by telling 'em? an' now he's tired o' th' wench, an' off he goes speering after thy sweetheart. it's th' talk o' th' moorside; tha mun be daft to sit so long wi' thy hands i' thy lap." gabriel hirst, in the simplicity of his nature, was always apt to fall into the delusion that, if any one prefaced a statement by a generous exposure of some other person's falsity, then the statement in question became at least doubled in value. it was easy just now to attribute dishonesty to griff, and griff's accuser shone by the contrast in the light of a rigid truth-teller. he pushed his empty plate from him and leaned his head on his arms. "well, tha's etten enow, seemingly," croaked the witch; "put thy mouth to th' bottle again, an' off tha wends to griff lummax, to settle thy scores like a man." the preacher would have taken well-nigh any counsel in his present shiftlessness of mind. the withered hag, glowering across the peat-smoke at him, seemed to be preaching a new, an inspired, gospel. her words smacked more of the old testament, which he loved, than of the new, which in his wilder moods he only tolerated. slowly he got up from the table and went to the door. "lad, i've summat to ask of thee afore tha goes," said mother strangeways, shifting her voice to a whine. gabriel turned and glared at her, but said no word. "tha knows how th' owd clock goes a-wobbling, wobbling, wobbling, hour in an' hour out? well, it's getten past all; it dithers fit to drive a body dizzy-crazy, an' my lad joe, th' gaumless wastrel, willun't bring me a two or three screw-nails--nobbut a two or three screw-nails; that's all i'm fashed for, an' he willun't bring 'em--an' me that hes reared him fro' being a babby. tha'll happen along wi' th' screw-nails, willun't tha, lad, sooin as tha's done wi' griff lummax?" but gabriel, before she had finished her appeal, was out of the door and off across the heather towards gorsthwaite hall. now that he had a purpose, he could see the moor as he had known it from boyhood; he knew his way. kate was going in at the door of gorsthwaite as he came up. she turned and smiled a welcome on him. "it's long since you've been here, mr. hirst," she said. "will you come in and wait for griff? he has gone to the manor for the afternoon." the preacher stood dumbfounded. he had had the one simple plan in his head, and this deviation from the settled order of things left him witless. kate decided that he had been wrestling with the devil on an empty stomach, and pitied him. "i--i'll not come in," he stammered at last. "i'll--walk back--to marshcotes. i may meet him on the way." "i can't promise that you will. sometimes he stays late--but you'll find him at the manor, if you are anxious to see him." "yes, i'm anxious--anxious; that is just it," he muttered. the preacher turned and set off towards the village. he passed a wide-lipped tarn that lay in the valley between gorsthwaite and marshcotes moor, and stared at its sulky waters; he hesitated awhile, then passed on. another mile brought him to a disused shaft--whins quarry, it was called--and a look that was almost of joy came into his face as he peered over the fifty feet of rock-face, down to the pool that swallowed up the old cart-track on the far side. "i can't face other folk--his mother, say. i'll just wait here till he comes," muttered gabriel. the sun crept lower, and still gabriel lay among the heather. the sun went to bed, and the long summer twilight drew to its close; still the preacher waited. a four days' moon showed in the paling sky--a mere wisp of yellowish light, that served, for all that, to make some sort of atonement for the vanished day. a light-hearted song came drifting across the quiet moor. gabriel hirst leaped to his feet. a quick thought seized him; he raised his head proudly, as if he were looking god straight between the eyes. "vengeance is thine, o lord!" he cried. "but thou knowest i am the fulfiller of thy desire." the song came clearer. gabriel could hear the words now. "the fulfiller--o lord of heaven, give me strength!" he prayed. a figure swung into view and neared the quarry with easy strides. the preacher went to meet him. "griff lomax!" he called. "at your service; but who the deuce are you?" "gabriel hirst." "of course you are. i ought to have known your voice anywhere. have you come from gorsthwaite?" "i've come to tell you that you are false--a liar and a thief." griff took the preacher by the arm, but he shook it off. "gabriel, you're out of your mind. what ails you, man?" "you thought it was safe to meet in hazel dene, before folk were out of their beds. you laughed to yourself often, i'll warrant, when i told you what store i set by greta--and all the while you were----" his friend broke in with a hearty laugh. "is that all? i knew you were a tolerable ass, old fellow; but i didn't credit you with going quite so far as this. the last time you turned jealous, you were very drunk; are you sober now? why, the girl has eyes for none but you, and i've done all i can to plead your cause. this very morning i was telling her that we are soft at the core up here, though hard in the rind; and she said, with a pout in her voice, 'but you never confess it when people want you to.'" "she said that?" cried the preacher, hoarsely. "she did. you should know best what she meant, gabriel." again griff laughed, and hirst fancied the laugh was one of mockery. he had his settled view of that meeting by the stream, and griff was assuredly taunting him with greta's own avowed preference for his rival. "you're a liar, and i'll fight to prove it," he yelled, and leaped on his adversary. despite ill-treatment of his body, the preacher was tough; but lomax was the better man in a tussle. they were locked close together now, swaying this way and that. griff, though, was not heated as hirst was; he was conscious of the mistaken cause of fight and felt loth to do his mad friend a hurt; and gabriel, consequently, had the better of it at the first. then griff roused himself; he hoisted the other well into the air and let him drop with a thud. "it's soft falling, gabriel; lie there awhile till you're cool enough to listen to reason." but the preacher was up again. he knew little of wrestling in the theory, yet by force of blind instinct he compassed a good imitation of the trick known to cornishmen as the "flying mare." one hand he planted in the pit of griff's stomach; with the other he seized him by the right arm, and lifted him clean over his head. the force of his own throw sent gabriel staggering back; he was conscious of coming to rest against some hard body, while down below he heard the splash, splash, splash, of loosened stones and rubble--that, and the deeper sound of some heavy mass plunging into the water that filled the pit-shaft. the preacher began to understand matters, as he recovered from the struggle, from the surprise consequent on the miraculous fashion in which he had lifted griff. there had been death in his mind when he chose the quarry as the meeting-place--a hazy, theoretic notion that one of them had better go over the edge. but he had lost all that in the stress of the fight; he had been bent only on throwing his enemy; he had never stopped to think how close they might be to the low wall that guarded the quarry from the moor. yet here was he, leaning against the wall--it had saved him from falling--and peering down at the stagnant pool which lay, fifty feet below, at the bottom of whins quarry. that dull splash echoed and re-echoed in his ears; the faint light showed him no more than a few feet of the rock-face, but memory brought that surly pool before his eyes as plainly as if it had been broad day--and in fancy he saw there the body of his friend lying face upward to the stars. with a start the preacher came to himself. he did not pause to call himself a murderer; he only knew that, if lomax were dead, he had cut one half of himself clean away for ever. the man's great love for his friend--never quite realized till now--made the thought of griff's death such unbearable agony that perforce he must do something. yes, he must act. he had but one thought now--he might save old griff, if that clear drop of fifty feet had not broken his neck. perhaps he was now struggling in the water, too weak to save himself from drowning. he raced along the path of sliding shale that flanked the left of the quarry-edge, caught his foot against a rock less yielding than the rest, and fell headlong down the hill, at the foot of which he lay for awhile, stunned, among the rubble. when he next opened his eyes, the moon had set. still half dazed, he groped his way to the cart-track that led to the quarry; the starlight, faint above, was quenched altogether by the surly face of rock that towered above the pool. a night-jar, away up on the moor, railed at the silence; only the lurid fires of god's vengeance lit the darkness, and these were powerless to break the physical gloom. he shook off his stupor. there was a wild humour in his striking a lucifer-match to show him what god's fires had failed to render clear--but he saw not the humour. the light shone fitfully across the pool, and was swallowed up by the glooming quarry-face. there was nothing floating on the surface, save the rotting carcase of a dog. the preacher stood motionless, almost calm. he was predestined to damnation, and the striving was over, once for all; there could be no return to the old life of fruitless prayer, of wasted fight. a loosened stone dropped into the water, and that fall, too, was predestined. all, all was foreknown: the good works of the just, the evil living of the sinful, were alike predestined; there was neither virtue in holiness, nor blame in wrong-doing, since both alike had been fixed from the beginning. all responsibility was shifted from the preacher's shoulders, and he felt happier than he had yet done through the long years of strife. gabriel hirst grew almost curious, with a dumb, passionless curiosity. he wondered what form his punishment would take; whether retribution would be swift and final, or tortuous and long drawn out. perhaps--nay, certainly--a touch of pride lay, all unguessed, at the bottom of his heart; it was, in a sense, a fine thing to be the very focus of an avenging universe. he went out by the cart-road, and moved faster as he gained the heather. the motion warmed his blood and quickened his pulses; he remembered greta--greta, who shared his heart with the dead. he fell weak at that, and must have comfort. there was none on earth to give him comfort, save greta. as a dumb brute eats the healing herb, not knowing the reason that underlies its instinct, so the preacher went straight to hazel dene and knocked at the miller's door. the kitchen clock struck ten as he waited under the porch. "who's there?" came greta's voice, a little tremulous. "gabriel hirst. for god's sake, open!" the bolts flew back and greta stood on the threshold. "you frightened me, mr. hirst. father is away for the night, and nancy is in bed. i thought you might be----" "a murderer," finished the preacher, with horrible calm. "you were right. i have killed my friend." she looked at his face, and sickened. but there was strength under that maiden timidity of hers, and she loved this man. she put her arm through his and led him into the parlour; then she went to lock the door again--it gave her a moment's respite--and crept back to the preacher's side, and did not care now if her secret showed plain in her eyes. "gabriel, what is it? i have a right to know," she said. he saw it all now. it was very plain to be read, even by gabriel hirst, who had ever been slow to learn these womanish matters. the swift knowledge that she loved him seemed to give him nerve to go forward with his tale. "i came up hazel dene this morning," he began, without any beating about the bush. "i saw you and griff lomax--the woman i loved, and the friend i trusted--sitting beside the stream. you were laughing and jesting--at me and my blundering love-ways, i told myself--i thought you had met there often. i waited for griff on the moor, and we fought. it was close to the edge of whins quarry, though it had gone clean out of my head how near we were. the devil entered fairly into me at last, and i closed with griff a second time and flung him over my shoulder. he dropped clean into the quarry, and i heard him splash into the water at the bottom." she loosened her hold of him and fell back with a moan. there could be no doubting his story. soon she began to frame excuses for him, with a woman's nimble wit. she spoke after a long while. "gabriel, it was a fair fight. you did not know of the quarry; you---gabriel, did you do it for my sake?" "not for your sake," he muttered huskily. "don't think, child, that _the sin_ was for your sake; that couldn't be. i was mad with jealousy." "but the jealousy was mine?" strange how she had already set aside the catastrophe, as being a matter of lighter moment. "i loved you too well, greta, and the lord grudged it," said the preacher simply. the girl got up from her chair and stood eye to eye with him. "love!" she cried, with a little sobbing catch in her voice. "what do you mean by love, gabriel hirst?" a quiver ran through the preacher. his eyes dilated. his hands went out and gripped invisible shapes. "love is a thing that makes you run mad and grovel like a beast--that makes you run sane and soar like an angel. love is more than the law and the prophets, and a lifetime of fighting with the devil.--nay, greta, forgive me. lass, i yearn for you so--and--i--forget that i am a murderer." "you love like that?" said greta, slowly. "then, dear, you can take me and do what you will with me." the preacher felt two arms about his neck, and a warm mouth against his own. murder, and sin, and vengeance of the lord, they were all blotted out for one full moment. he knew himself a man. chapter xxi. afterwards. just as greta and the preacher, in miller rotherson's parlour, were struggling out of their dream--just as the woman was beginning to wonder how it would fare with gabriel if lomax were really dead, while the man was framing a resolve that touched the present--there came a rattle, and a whirr, and a grinding of iron against iron from outside the house. the rattle settled into a steady, rhythmic boom. gabriel thought of invisible powers, but greta could have cried tears of joy because of the relief afforded by the interruption. "the mill-wheel has broken loose; we must go and see to it," she said. it was a queer old building. the mill was separated from the house by a strip of kitchen garden, but a rickety wooden bridge crossed from the upper floor of the mill to the miller's bedroom; the bridge dated back to a time when most of the house itself was used as a granary, and old rotherson still crossed by it whenever the fancy took him. greta led the way upstairs to-night; sound sleeper as nancy was, her mistress did not care to risk unbarring the heavy kitchen door; she and gabriel wanted no third person to intrude just now. across the swaying bridge they went, the preacher silent, greta chattering glibly, with hysterical eagerness to hoodwink her knowledge of calamity. gabriel's eyes were devouring her greedily, hopelessly; the shadow of a parting stood between them and that short-lived happiness of a moment ago. "the sluice-gates must have given way," said greta. "father said, not long since, they were getting too old to see much more service, but he thought they would last a little longer." "the beck was in flood as i came up the dene to-night." the preacher's voice had a far-away note in it, as if his words had no bearing on the matter in hand. "yes, that must be it. do you know anything about the machinery, gabriel? we can't stop the wheel. what will happen if we let it turn the whole night through?" they were standing close to a pair of mill-stones. gabriel, still regardless of aught beyond the bitter expiation that lay before him, let his eyes wander to the "shoe" which fed the stones. "know about the machinery?" he repeated vaguely. "yes, i know the ins and outs. your father explained it all to me one afternoon." he no longer dared to look at greta, but kept his eyes upon the grain, as the hopper doled it out to the shoe, and the shoe to the running-stone. the supply of grain stopped; a curious grating noise sounded from below, as the upper stone found no better work to do than to grind at its neighbour's face. suddenly gabriel recalled what the miller had told him about the danger of leaving the stones unsupplied with grist. like a flash he was down the ladder and across the littered floor to where the driving-belt was going its merry round. he took a stick that was lying close to his hand, and pushed the belt from one of the supporting pulleys; the belt hung limp, and the mill-wheel might turn as it would now for all gabriel cared. the sweat was running off his face as he came back to greta's side. "what is the matter? what have you been doing?" she asked, at a loss to account for this fresh perturbation of his. "switching off the belt. lass, if we had let those stones grind much longer, they would have blown the place up." "blown the mill up? but how?" "they'd have grown hot enough to set fire to the dust between them--and that would have meant death to all in the house, greta." greta, troubled with the glimmerings of a new hope, rested her forehead against the cool stonework of the window. the idea took shape at last; she turned to the preacher with a motherly, protecting air. "gabriel, suppose you have kil--suppose some one did fall over the quarry-edge--haven't you saved two lives to-night? if you had not come, i should never have known the danger, and--gabriel, isn't it worth something to have saved my life?" for a moment the preacher clutched at this specious solace. he had paid two human lives for the one he had taken--would not the almighty think that a fair exchange? but he lost the hope. "there's no expiation, save one. come away, greta, and get to bed," he said doggedly. as they re-crossed the bridge, gabriel glanced instinctively towards the swirling water on their left. what gleams of light were abroad caught the tips of the wavelets, the slimy paddles of the wheel. he shivered as he watched; his mind flew back to that other stretch of water, where his friend was lying. the din and hurry of the mill-wheel seemed cheery by contrast with the silence of the quarry. they passed through the door that opened into the miller's room. greta set down her candle on the washing-stand. "you want to get rid of me. what are you going to do, gabriel?" "never mind, lass, never mind." she took fright at his wildness of look; she feared he would do himself an injury if left alone. forgetful of all else, she just held open her arms, and-"gabriel," she said softly, "stay with me. i can't bear to let you go." her cheeks grew red with shame when she had got half way through with the words; but what did anything--anything--matter, so only she could keep gabriel from harm? so long she had waited for him; was she to lose him in the first flush of possession? whatever there was of passion in the preacher--and he was full of it, to the finger-tips--leaped to the front. he trembled from head to foot; those soft arms seemed to draw him beyond all resistance. with a cry he stepped towards her--then stopped. the habit of a lifetime, in this supreme moment, was not minded to stand idly by, taking no part in the struggle; were his sins against god so slight that he dared add one more to their number? he moaned in the agony of repression. and down the girl's crimsoned cheeks ran tears of helplessness. the candle went out and left them in darkness. "greta," said the preacher at last, "his wife will be waiting up for him." the quiet voice, the commonplace words, sounded odd after the stress that had preceded them. "whose wife?" she whispered, not daring to acknowledge the certain answer. "griff's. my way lies plain, lass; i must go and tell her." he went out to the stair-head; greta followed him into the lamplight. "you shan't--you shan't! no one need know. no one saw you. perhaps he isn't dead, after all, gabriel? you fell and lost your senses, you say. it may have been all a dream--a kind of nightmare--and you said there was no body to be seen. we will wait, and if"--she crept close and looked at him with horror-stricken eyes--"if an accident did happen, we must go away together, you and i--i shan't mind it a bit, dear; we will begin in a new country, and----" she had forgotten her father in the first wild panic for gabriel's safety. "no, greta. my way lies clear, and you can't turn me. first to tell his wife, and then to give myself up--it's as plain as can be." "and what of me?" cried the girl. "don't you understand that there are two to reckon for now? for your own peace of mind you must go--but what of mine?" the tears rose in the preacher's eyes. "lass, don't make it too hard to bear. i am not fit to claim you, and you'll be well rid of a scoundrel. let me go, and have done with it." she put her arms round his neck, but he forced them away and went down the stairs. without one backward look he left the house and struck up towards the moor; it was the hardest effort--save one--that he had made in all his life of conflict. he did not hear the footsteps that sounded behind him all the way up from the mill. as he gained the moor he started to feel a hand laid in his. greta was nestling to his side. "go back, go back, i tell you!" he cried. "never, gabriel. you thought it was a light thing to win a woman's heart? you thought i should stay safe indoors, while you went across the moor--in the darkness? if you must go to his wife, i go with you, and tell her the things you leave out of your story." he turned, desperately. it seemed that his every instinct towards the right was being frustrated. "greta, haven't i enough to bear? your shoulders are over young, lass, to take their share. go back; and put me out of mind." for answer she took his hand and led him towards gorsthwaite. he gave up the contest, suffering himself to be led. together, in an awful quiet, they crossed the nodding sweep of heather. late as it was, a light shone out from the old hall. "she is waiting up; i knew how it would be," whispered the preacher. "can you see her there, greta, listening to the wind--starting up at each fresh sound--thinking her husband's come home at last? can you see her face when she opens the door for us? can you see her drop on the floor, as i blurt out the truth, never stopping to break it gently, for fear of going mad if i didn't get it over at once?" "hush, dear, hush!" pleaded greta. he was quiet for a space; then, "vengeance is thine, o lord!" he cried. "vengeance is thine; only make me less of a coward for this one short while!" the back-thrust from his sense of failing purpose made him beat noisily on the door with his fists. from within they heard a man's shout-"he's here! i knew he'd come." the preacher leaned heavily against the door-post. it was griff's voice--griff's, who was lying at the bottom of whins quarry. but greta was quicker to hope than he, and she guessed the truth. "you are later than i expected; come in, old fellow," said the figure on the doorstep. "what! you're not alone! miss rotherson, is that you?" she came and rested both hands on his shoulders, out of sheer gratitude to him for being alive. "i have brought gabriel to tell you"--she stopped, and laughed like a child--"to tell you we can't live without one another." the preacher moved forward, groping his way till he found lomax. he ran his hands over him, this way and that, like a blind man. "griff, is it true; is it true, lad?" griff caught him by the hands and wrung them till the preacher's arms were like to start from their sockets. "do i feel like a dead man?" he laughed. then he pulled them both indoors. a couple of tumblers and a spirit-case stood on the table. "do you see those, gabriel?" he asked, pointing to the glasses. "i was so sure of your coming that i made ready for you. don't look so scared, man! put down this brandy, and you'll see things a bit more squarely." the brandy did wonders for gabriel; it gave him nerve, and discounted the supernatural. griff showed plainly enough now as a being of flesh and blood. "tell me about it," he said at last. "there is little to tell. a touch of fight wasn't amiss, but we were fools to stand at the edge of the quarry. you got me over your head--the devil knows how you did it--and the next thing was that i found myself stuck in the middle of a thorn-bush growing out of the rock-side. my face will show you that i had a pretty warm reception. when i got the hang of things again, and began to wonder how i was to climb out of the mess, i remembered that hospitable thorn-bush well; i used to come bird's-nesting there when i was a boy, and i reached it by a broadish ledge of rock that jutted out from side to side of the quarry just below the bush. i let the dizziness get clear, and a crawl of a few yards brought me safe across. that's the whole story." "but i heard you splash into the water," said gabriel. "that you didn't! i'll warrant that, and i ought to know. what you heard, i fancy, was a big stone that came tumbling down from above while i was stuck in the bush; it missed my head by about six inches." "then i nearly killed you twice," murmured the preacher. "i remember loosening a piece of the wall when i fell back against it. griff, lad, i have done you a fearful wrong." "fudge; drop that sickly over-sentimentality of yours. misses don't count in the rough-and-tumble of life, and anyhow it was a sheer mischance.--so you've arranged matters, you two, at last? well, it was about time. gabriel is so dull-witted, miss rotherson, where his happiness is concerned." greta wondered that he could stoop to light banter at such a time. but she looked at him more closely, and she read in his face what the effort meant to him. yet griff was smiling a moment later with genuine merriment; he was thinking that it was a more awkward scene for gabriel than if he had really been dead, instead of very much alive. "does your wife know?" asked gabriel, suddenly. "of course not. no one knows but we three. i told kate i had slipped over the quarry accidentally--so i had, in a way. i said you might be coming in to-night to talk over your worries, because i guessed you would rush off here to blurt out what had happened. i know you to a hair's-breadth, gabriel, you see. make your mind easy on that score, old chap." "i shall tell her," said the preacher, quietly. "tell her? you'll do nothing of the kind! nay, gabriel, there is a limit. once let you do this, and the next thing you will be standing on the churchyard steps to admit all marshcotes to the secret." "your wife must know," persisted gabriel. greta stole a look at him; and dearly she loved that rugged light of determination in his face--the face that had once seemed plain to her. so absorbed were they in their own affairs that they had not noted the figure standing in the doorway. it was kate, her hair tumbled about her nightgown, her bare feet heedless of the cold oak on which they were resting. "gabriel hirst," she said, "was it you who sent him over the quarry-edge?" the preacher tried to look her in the face, and failed; tried to speak, but his throat was dry. kate repeated her question, in the same deep, relentless tone. "it was," whispered gabriel, hoarsely. "then god forgive you, for it's little forgiveness you'll ever get from me." griff, for the first time since he had known her, was furious with his wife. "kate, for shame--for shame!" he thundered. but across the room she sent him such a look of tenderness--of idolatry, almost--that his anger died within him, and the shame returned on himself. the preacher stood with head downcast; he had not come here to plead against a fair judgment, he had come to bear his punishment. a hush settled over the two men, and over the women who loved them. then it was borne in on greta that the man of her choice was being cruelly ill-used. an anger, fierce as kate's own, gave her words with which to meet the crisis. "have you never loved your husband, kate lomax?" she cried. "have you never felt what it would mean if some other woman came between you--some woman who pretended to be your friend, and played you false behind your back? would you want to kill her, or is this talk of your moor-bred women so much idle chatter?" kate looked at her husband again. that graphic touch of rivalry brought a grim smile to her lips. "i think i should kill her," she said quietly. "yet you rail at gabriel, just because he made the like jealousy a cause for fighting. you have not heard the whole tale yet. your husband met me by chance this morning in the dene; gabriel saw us laughing and talking together, and jumped to a stupid conclusion." "is that all your defence?" said kate, with a curl of the lip. "was that his excuse for--what he did?" "it was enough. he was blind, because he loved me and feared everything; he was strong, because he thought he had right on his side. and now, since he showed himself the better man, he crawls in the dust before you. i would not have done; i am proud that he fought so well for me." kate had ever been too quick in passion to dwell long with resentment. her nature was generous, too, and no doubt of her husband's share in the adventure stepped in to mar her generosity. she admired this quiet girl for the way in which she had suddenly blazed forth in defence of the man she loved. she had a struggle with her pride, and then proved it by submission. she came across to greta and took her by both hands. "i will forgive him," she said, in her grave way, "because a good woman has pleaded well for him." not till greta had given way and sobbed out furtive little apologies in kate's arms did it occur to the older woman that her costume left certain details wanting. from the moment when she had first heard the voices outside her window, until the last clearing storm, she had thought of nothing but the new light that was thrown on griff's recent danger. but now she looked down at her ten pink toes, and flushed dismayedly. "come upstairs with me," she said to the girl, and fled. "well, old fellow, i hope this is the last word about an unlucky job," said griff, venturing at last to break the silence. "nay, not the last," answered the preacher, gravely. "there is expiation, lad, ahead of me." chapter xxii. white heather. "kate," said lomax, a few days after his adventure with the preacher, "not a stroke of work shall i do this morning; the sun is hot, and the breeze cool, and altogether it's a day in a hundred. come out with me, and we'll lie in the heather and look up at the sky. it will do you good, little woman." the sweetness of a wifely confession came between their glances nowadays. there was a new wonder in meeting each other's eyes, and kate nestled close to his arm on the slightest pretext. she came to him now, and ruffled the hair away from his forehead. "what a forgetful boy you are. one day you make your mother promise to come and see me, and the next you forget all about it. only, i wish we could have had our morning together," she added wistfully. "fie on you for a witch! i never used to forget anything to do with mother before i knew you. would you like to walk as far as marshcotes, and we can all come back together?" "i don't think i ought, griff. the doctor may know nothing about it--he probably doesn't--but he was very anxious that i should not do much walking." "then you shall wait here for us. get the maid to pack up a hamper; i'll bring mother, and we will find a picnic ground somewhere on gorsthwaite moor. you need not walk more than a mile all told, and it is a sin for you to miss a day like this." but griff did not reach marshcotes. his stride slackened to a saunter, and even the saunter was too much exertion by the time he had gone half the distance. knowing that mrs. lomax would pass him on her way to gorsthwaite, he tumbled into a warm bed of heather, lit his pipe, and watched the shifting colours of the moor. the pulsing crimson-purple of the heather, shot here and there with fainter splashes of heliotrope, the hoarse chuckle of the grouse, and shriller wail of the plover, the peaty reek creeping from a rush-girdled marsh on his right--all these things were emphatic in their assertion that it was exceeding good to be alive. his thoughts went out to the child that was to be born to him: pride in his race, and zeal for its continuance, quickened the paternal instinct in him; he travelled far into the future, and saw another lomax at the manor, strong as himself, who would poach as his fathers had poached before him, who would ride fearlessly and fight like a man, and keep a big slice of his heart for the love that should one day come to him. the sunlight grew fainter. a fitful breeze ruffled the heather-tops. a haze crept across the sky, from the horizon upwards. the sun failed altogether, and flying squadrons of mist appeared, now making eager forward rushes, now wheeling, gyrating, eddying to and fro in their efforts to dodge the pursuing breeze. the mist-wreaths grew denser; they turned but little now, and fled across the darkening purple like a band of hunted witches. still griff did not move. he was watching the elfin-revel, and thinking of the old moor legend that a white lady rides on the swirling mist, tempting men to their doom in the bogs that take, but render never again. "it would need a marvellous white lady to tempt me astray nowadays," murmured griff, and laughed as he thought of kate. a voice came out of the mist. "bertie, is that you? how can you lie on your back there, while i am dying of fright in the middle of this horrid moor?" griff knew the voice at once; it had thrilled him too often in times past to admit of doubt. he rose slowly and lifted his cap to a figure that loomed out of the fog-wall a few yards away. "no, i'm not dereham. perhaps you have forgotten me, mrs. ogilvie?" he said. she came close up to him--a little hothouse woman, with a delicate, rounded waist, and lips that were always either pouting or pleading. the blush-rose tints deepened against the waxy white of her cheeks, as she held out her hand. after a pause-"who would have thought of meeting you here, griff?" broke out the woman, impetuously. "and yet i--half expected it. bertie told me you had buried yourself in this wretched place, and i--yes, i did--i _hoped_ i should run across you here. there! i should never, never have confessed the half of that, if i had not been so awfully frightened." she was devouring him with her eyes, in a strange, famine-stricken way that startled this quondam slave of hers. griff, remembering certain remarks of dereham's, realized vaguely that she would be in his arms before the end of the scene, unless he took strong measures. "frightened by what? a touch of mist in the middle of a summer's morning? you are a baby, sybil." she fell back a step. her mouth trembled, her eyes filled with tears. over and over again she had reasoned out griff's faithlessness to her by woman's logic. his flight from london, his vulgar after-dissipation--or what had seemed such to her--his failure to come back to her side--they had all been twisted into proofs of his hopeless captivity under her yoke. it had been so easy to believe this, while away from him--and now, he showed hard and cold as an iceberg. she tried to smile with her old winning artlessness. "you are awfully rude, griff, but perhaps i shall forgive you that; it is not a new _rôle_, this of the barbarian. still, you might at least say you are glad to meet an old--friend. i haven't approved of you lately, you know, and you were horribly brusque before you left town, but----" "i am always glad to meet an old friend. do you mind if i smoke?" said griff, refilling his pipe. sybil ogilvie saw that the battle was to be to the strong, and she kept back her tears, though again they were very near the surface. neither spoke for awhile. griff was stinging under the lash of remembered follies. he saw, as if it had been written under his eyes, how this woman had fooled him in the past; he writhed as he looked at her, and understood what flimsy excuse he had had for raving about her. and now that he was out of reach, her passion had ceased to be a plaything; spoiled to the last, she only cared to have what was beyond her grasp. her voice, her eyes, her hair, all irritated him beyond measure; chivalry was out of court, and he would not pity her. "how did you get here?" he asked, in a hard, matter-of-fact voice. "i walked up with bertie dereham to hunt for white heather. the mist came on; he went ever such a little distance away to find the track, and the fog swallowed him up. we shouted to each other, but 'here' sounded to be just anywhere, and i rushed about the moor till i nearly dropped with terror and weariness. then i found you, and--i don't mind the mist, griff, any longer." "your compliments were always pretty, sybil. i used to believe them." "when you were half a bear only, it didn't matter; but now i am getting awfully afraid lest you should eat me up." yet her playfulness was dulled by the pitiful tremor in her voice. "you came in search of white heath? our blood runs red up here, and so does the heather. it was a wild-goose chase at best," said griff, deliberately, with a meaning she could not fail to catch. still she would not give in. it had become her life, this yearning for the love she had trifled away. "griff, you don't, you can't mean to be so brutal! when are you coming to live in town again? you are more yourself there." "never," said griff, bluntly. she laid one hand on his sleeve. "griff, dear, haven't you a little--just a little--consideration for us poor wretches who happen to be--to be fond of you? it is a sin to hide yourself among these barren moors." still he felt no twinge of pity--only the goad of past weakness. "it is a sin to _seek_ at times, sybil. you have told me as much--often. you were so very good that you shamed me into virtue, and sent me up here out of the reach of temptation; why do you not let well alone?" the irony in his voice made her wince. she turned and moved away from him, into the whirling mist. the first suggestion of pity touched him. "don't go like this," he said, more gently. "let us part friends, for old times' sake." she faltered and came back. even those few steps away from him had taught her what a final separation would mean, and she resolved to risk all on a single throw. without parley, with a suddenness that left griff resourceless, she was in his arms. "griff, will you never understand? take me, take me, for i can't live without you. things are all changed, dear; i am free now, and--griff, i love you so." her voice broke, her helplessness was pitiably real. once, sybil ogilvie would have said that it was only country hoydens who indulged in these crude lapses of taste. yet there were few farm-wenches in all the marshcotes moorside who could have brought themselves to show so little restraint, so little of the pride of shame; this dainty, well-bred child of the world had outfaced them all. griff held her away from him, looking straight into her eyes, with a glance that was half of contempt, half of impatient pity. "you never stopped to ask, sybil, if we were both free." in this supreme moment of his revenge, vengeance seemed a sorry thing. men cannot but deaden themselves to the faults of a woman who is wise enough to love them; yet under all this griff was chivalrously ashamed that any woman should so have humbled herself before him. mrs. ogilvie looked at him with startled eyes. "what do you mean? not that--oh, griff, not that _you_ are bound--married?" he nodded silently. he was marvelling that he, or any man, had been able to strike down to a bit of real feeling in this baby-temptress. "do you care for her, griff?" she asked suddenly. again he nodded. protestations seemed out of place. sybil turned her face from him, and looked for inspiration to the white-armed maidens of the mist. the gambler's madness was on her now. if griff were to be won, she must stake, not pride only, but honour and good fame; it was too late to draw back to half measures. four walls of fog shut in their little square of beaded heather, giving the woman courage to believe that no hint from the outside world could reach them there. "griff," she cried, stamping one little foot on the ground, "i won't believe that you love her--i won't--i won't! you were mine two years ago, you are mine now. how dare you mock me with this talk of another woman!" the anger died; her voice grew low and soft; her baby lips pleaded with him. "such a warm little nest i have always kept for you, dear, in my heart--warmer than ever you dreamed of in the old days. and when my husband died, i thought you would come back to me, i thought you would ask me to tell you what i was free to tell without staining my honour. but you never came, and i feared i should lose every bit of prettiness i had, griff, in crying my eyes out for you." she was watching his face, and the pity in it nerved her to the last effort. "i have gone too far, too far. oh, my dearest! what is honour if it goes with a barren life?" griff moved impatiently up and down, gnawing at the stem of his pipe. what an utter baby she was--spoiled and selfish, with never a thought for any happiness but her own. his anger was rising quickly. what would kate say to all this, he wondered? before he could speak, another figure staggered out of the mist--a short, thick-set man with a scrubby beard and a flushed face. he tripped over a clump of cranberries, and fell prone at mrs. ogilvie's feet. she clung to griff's arm in terror. "it's thee, is't?" said joe strangeways, scrambling to his feet again and looking from one to the other, his hands in his pockets, his legs moving backwards and forwards to maintain their perilous equilibrium. "it's thee, griff lummax--robbing another chap of his wench, i'll go bail. tha'rt a bonny un, thou art, an' proper." he turned to sybil. "clout his lugs for him, woman, an' send him trapesing home again. he'll bring thee to shame, will griff. it's all th' trade he's getten." mrs. ogilvie began to laugh, in a false key. griff had seen her in hysterics once, and he knew the symptoms; without more ado he gave her a good, hearty smack on the cheek, and, "don't be a little fool, sybil!" he muttered harshly. then he took joe by the arm, and led him into a sheep-track that crossed the gorsthwaite path at right angles. "that is your road, strangeways," he said quietly. "the mist is clearing already. you'll get home by night with luck." both his victims stood irresolute from surprise. sybil had forgotten hysterics altogether in the smart of the blow and her anger at such unwarrantable treatment. joe found it hard to meet his enemy's matter-of-fact item of information. finally, the quarryman, swearing and grumbling, took himself off along the track indicated, and griff returned to mrs. ogilvie. "i'm very sorry," he said, laughing at the absurdity of this last scene in the drama; "i'm very sorry if i hurt you, sybil, but i was not going to have you on my hands in the middle of the moor. see, we shall have the sun out again in a minute or two. i believe we went to sleep, you and i, and dreamed we were in a fog, and you, or i, or both of us, said a quantity of foolish things, which we can't remember now. shall i put you on your way to the folly?" she went with him passively. nothing mattered very much now; it was kind of him, she felt vaguely, to smooth over his denial, but what did words signify? her passion crept under shelter, whimpering. the mist dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. the piled banks melted to fleecy, lace-like bits of scudding vapour. the moor was a twinkling sea of mist-beads, that shamed to fainter crimson the heather-tips from which they hung. gorsthwaite hall showed clear at the top of the rising ground ahead. "who was that brute? he seemed to have some quarrel with you," said mrs. ogilvie, at last. "i robbed him of the best woman god ever made. let him be," griff answered, with a warm impulse to acknowledge the place which kate held in his regard. sybil flashed round on him, her eyes ablaze. "then i have loved a fool--just a fool?" she shrugged her pretty shoulders, and laughed mirthlessly. "i have made a mess of my self-respect," she went on, with bitter frankness; "i should have minded less if the woman who claims you had been other than the cast-off wife of a clown. griff, you will make me hate you yet; love cannot survive the jar of absurdity." griff answered nothing, for kate herself was standing at the hall gate. he had thought of skirting the house at the rear, instead of risking this meeting by following the proper track; but he disliked the suggestion of cowardice in such a plan. as he glanced from the delicate bundle of drapery and affectation at his side to the steady, splendid grace of the wife he loved, he was glad of the meeting. "kate, here is an old friend of my london days, whom i have just rescued from the mist. mrs. ogilvie, this is my wife." for a fleeting moment griff understood that revenge may be exceeding sweet; then he crushed the feeling. kate inclined her head, and smiled with the ease of a woman who trusts her husband. sybil ogilvie, too, tried to smile; but she did not mind one whit the less now that she found her rival worthier than she had thought her. "you will come in and rest after your walk?" suggested kate, in her even, rounded voice. "thank you, no. i shall be late for luncheon as it is, i am afraid. if your--your husband will be kind enough to show me my way----" "i'll come with you; you will never find it alone." "no, _please_ don't. i can manage quite well if you put me into the road." "nonsense. you would drown in a bog, or something. kate, if mother walks over now the mist has cleared, will you tell her i shall be back in the afternoon? don't wait dinner." at the end of ten minutes' walking-"you were very careful to call me mrs. ogilvie before your wife. is she jealous in these cases, griff?" cooed sybil, feeling it wiser to taunt than to cry, since she had only the two alternatives from which to choose. griff muttered something softly to himself, and they walked on in unbroken silence for another mile. the cold, impersonal bearing of her companion roused something of mrs. ogilvie's pitiful prudence. "you won't--how shall i put it?--i have made myself ridiculous--you won't breathe a word of it to any one, will you--to bertie dereham, i mean, or----" he simply stared at her in unfeigned wonder. ill-advised her late confession might have been, but it had seemed passionate enough. surely she might have let this old hedging mood of hers wait until another day. "don't look so shocked, griff!" she went on hurriedly. "of course i don't for a moment think you will--be unlike yourself in that way--only----" "only you are not sure; thanks," put in griff, curtly, looking straight before him. she put her hand on his sleeve. "don't be harsh, dear; we have not long together." he shook off her touch, laughing bitterly. how could he feel compassion for her, when she let her detestable little suspicions kill pity before it was half awake? "no, we have not long together, sybil. let us talk of the last new play, or the old after-theatre suppers, or some topic we are sure to agree upon." "be quiet!" she cried, the tears starting to her eyes. but the tears were wasted, for griff would not look at her. mrs. ogilvie, now that she had disposed of her mean instinct towards prudence, came swiftly back to the desire for a forbidden plaything which she mistook for love; she shivered at thought of her coming loneliness; she was ready to accept this half-tamed bear on his own terms, though he had laughed at her pleading and slighted her tenderness. she wanted him either to kiss or to thrash her--it scarcely mattered which, so long as she broke through his indifference. they reached the wind-driven fir-tree under which roddick and janet laverack had kept their christmas tryst. the sun was warm on frender's folly, but no sunshine could overlay the brooding sadness of the place; rather, there seemed an added desolation, as when light shines dumbly on a dead man's eyes. sybil stopped, and pointed across the smooth-shaven lawns that lay beneath them. "isn't it like a grave? griff, you don't know how eerie it is down there; i dread going back to it." "come, sybil, don't talk about graves in the middle of a september day. the folly is well enough; eat a good lunch, and you'll find it twice as desirable a place. good-bye; i must turn back here." she clutched at him with her little gloved hands. "you shan't go in this way, you shan't! _eat a good lunch_--is that your farewell, griff, after--after all that has been?" "_and_ drink a half-bottle of burgundy; i forgot that." not at any cost was he going to have a repetition of the scene on marshcotes moor. and that unwarrantable pity was beginning to touch him again. she looked from the castle keep to the sweeping purple of the moor. twice she was on the point of speaking, and twice she stopped herself. then she crept close to him, and held up her face, and pursed out her baby-mouth. "sweetheart, have you no pity?" she murmured. he took her two hands and touched them lightly with his lips. "it would do us no good, child. go back to the old life; you'll forget me soon enough, if you only make up your mind to it. there, don't cry! i'm a brute, and there is an end of it. good-bye." he turned sharp on his heel and left her. sorry he was, but nothing more; he knew that she would forget, and the present trouble seemed to him scarcely more than a child's first taste of toothache. he forgot that the agony of a fall into a two-foot pond is very real if the victim imagines it to be as deep as the sea. once he looked back. amid the glowing waste stood a little hothouse figure of a woman, with yellow hair and a dimpled white-and-pink face. he thought it a quaint picture, and waved his hand twice, and swung off across the heather to the wife who would be impatiently awaiting his home-coming. chapter xxiii. a "revival." things had gone hard with the preacher since greta and he went hand-in-hand, like a couple of guilty children, across the moor to gorsthwaite. it was out of the question that greta should return that night, whatever the result of her absence might be when it came to her father's ears. gabriel, too, was induced to spend the night at gorsthwaite; so tired out was he with trouble and the quick succession of trying scenes. but the preacher was tough in the fibre, and the night's rest well-nigh cured his body, while it gave his mind fresh vigour to understand his own titanic worthlessness. had he been able to fly from greta--lest he should contaminate her--it is probable that his first instinct on awakening would have been towards showing a clean pair of heels, under the delusion that he was doing the lassie a service; but luckily his duty ran with his pleasure for once, for it was clear, even to his perceptions, that the miller would hear of greta's leaving home the night before, and that a sufficient explanation must be forthcoming. so gabriel took the girl home about eleven of the next morning, and, finding miller rotherson just returned from his journey, gave the kindly old man a full and faithful account of the whole affair. the miller rubbed his chin when gabriel had finished, and looked at him quizzically. "so you want to marry my daughter? well, i don't know about that. it seems to me you're far too hot-headed to be comfortable as a son-in-law. for all that, i can't rightly see that you show up so badly in the matter. you fought because--but we won't go into that. at any rate, if it weren't for you, i should have neither daughter nor mill at this moment. but to marry her--it's asking a deal; well, we must think about it." and soon after that it was known through the length and breadth of ling crag village and marshcotes parish that gabriel hirst and the miller's daughter were "bahn to be wed." betty binns named greta "a forrard young hussie, about as fit to be a godly man's wife as skim-milk is fit to butter your bread;" and the rest of the village thought as much--for was not poor greta "a furriner"? and this was the beginning of a hard time for the preacher. he had trafficked too little in happiness to accept it quietly when it came. he felt an earnest need for some set-off in the shape of misery, and he had that fight with griff ready to his conscience. the more he pondered over it, the greater seemed his offence. true, griff looked at him nowadays with a kindlier eye than ever before; true, the sin had brought him his heart's desire (next after god, he added, but the parenthesis carried little conviction even to himself). but was the sin any the less in that it had borne good fruit? if he held that, he was no better than a papist, an idolater--and that was almost the hardest rap gabriel could give himself. in the middle of his troublous time, there came a strange preacher to the ling crag chapel, to conduct the anniversary services there. he was known throughout the country, the rev. abel bell, as a powerful mover of men's hearts, and the ling crag folk expected great things of him. nor were they disappointed; the stranger, at the end of half a dozen sentences, had put himself out of reach of the captious criticism to which the villagers were wont to treat their superiors in godliness; before they had recovered from this unwonted sense of inability to carp, they were snared into enthusiasm. there was a meeting of the class-leaders after morning service, and they unanimously decided to ask the new preacher to stay for a few days and conduct a series of "revival" services. gabriel hirst was ripe for any wildness when wednesday came. the three sunday services, with the evening calls to the unconverted on monday and tuesday, had already wrought him to a high pitch of nervous tension; contact with greta and that growing sense of his unworthiness combined to bring him up to fever heat. the "revival" enthusiasm spreads like a contagion when once it is set going. from ling crag and marshcotes and the scattered farms for miles around, the people came. on wednesday evening there was not a seat to be had; the pews were full, the long wooden benches were full, and there was scarce standing room for those at the back of the chapel. near the front sat griff lomax, who had not witnessed a "revival" for years, and who felt a purely irreligious and unbiassed interest in proceedings which were calculated to draw the naked hearts out of his usually taciturn neighbours. the rev. abel bell mounted into the pulpit, and talked with homely vigour. no simile was too wild, no illustration too commonplace, so long as he held captive the imagination of his hearers. divinity, he held, had once walked in rough mortal garb, and in rough mortal metaphor only could the divine truth be understood by men. the subtle fire ran in and out among the congregation. hearts that were wont to keep within the limits of their own hardened shells leaped out to one another; as they had been strong in restraint, so they were strong in abandonment now that the fitting time had come. each man looked at his neighbour, and yearned over him, and prayed that salvation might reach all present. the minister grew frenzied. "the devil is trembling!" he shouted, with a voice that seemed to be tearing at the lining of his throat. "heaven and hell are fighting for the souls of men. the devil is trembling--heaven is winning. into the fight, brothers; give the devil a oner! ('praise the lord!' 'glory!' 'hallelujah!') into the thick of it, friends, and smite with the arm of god! ('hallelujah!')" he pointed with his hand to the chapel door. "see him there--see the devil scuttering out with his tail between his legs! angels are rejoicing; the battle is won. the gates of heaven stand open--one and all, come in." ("praise the lord!" "glory!" "hallelujah!" reiterated the congregation.) his voice fell to a pleading quietness, but mounted and mounted till it rang like a trumpet-call. "heaven, my brothers and sisters--if you knew what was meant by heaven, there's none here to-night but would search for jesus till he found him. we are blinded by folly and sin, but we've got eyes that can see the sky, which is the window of heaven. when the earth wants warming, out comes the sun, and laughs over moors and woods and fields. when the earth gapes with thirst, then god almighty sends the blessed rain-clouds--packed up ready, carriage paid, free of charge. ('glory! glory!') this night we must gather the sinners in to the lord--gather them in ('hallelujah!'). there's a table spread in the courts of heaven, and all that are saved can sit down to it. ask for what you will, and you've only to pass up your plates--and all the while the golden harps will be playing, and the cymbals clashing, and god will be there at the top of the table, ready to smile on one and all and send them down whatever they ask for. why will the sinners stay on the wrong side of the golden gates? it's cold out there, and it's wet, with a keen east wind that cuts you to the bone. will you come in to the lord, friends, out of the cold, out of the wet? think what it means! if once you let the gates be shut on you, from the cold you'll be hurried away to the burning lake, and you'll burn there for ever and ever. hallelujah! hallelujah! unstop the ears of the hardened, lord; conquer their deafness; gather them into thy bosom. glory, glory!" when the sermon was finished, the minister and the class-leaders went in and out among the congregation, exhorting them to effort, aiding them in the desperate struggle to "find jesus." groans and cries went up on every hand. the agony of doubt was bitterly real, the swift flash of belief a true and priceless blessing. griff was the only one present who looked on the proceedings from a dispassionate, outside standpoint. there had been a little--just a little--pitying contempt at the bottom of his interest in the revival; but now that he was in the thick of it, now that the cries of "hallelujah!" "found pardon!" "glory, glory!" came thick and fast, drowning the anxious calls for aid, now that the uncouthness of his neighbours was lost in their strenuous sincerity, griff knew that he had been minded to scoff at what was above and beyond cheap raillery; the thrill of contact with this seething enthusiasm shot through his nerves and gripped him with awed amazement. a rude bench was carried to the foot of the communion-table. those who had found salvation rose, one by one, and went to the bench and knelt with their arms on it, to wrestle with the remnants of their unbelief. class-leaders and minister went busily to and fro, like bees at heather-time, arguing, pleading, praying with those whose hearts would not be softened unto grace. surely, if man's whole prayerful effort, man's utmost power of will, could bring a presence from the unknown without, then god was in this little moorside chapel. but gabriel hirst was not forward with exhortation, as of old. he stood in a shadowed corner, his arms folded on his breast, his eyes wild with a battle of terror and determination. griff, glancing up with an uneasy consciousness that some one was looking through and through him, met the preacher's eyes. in a flash it came to him what gabriel was finding heart to do; he made a movement as if to cross to him, but stopped. what could he say or do to keep back this confession of a deed that was finished with long ago? he could do nothing, save watch the preacher move forward to the front, and listen to his stumbling words of introduction. then gabriel, finding his manhood, faltered no more, but walked steadily up the pulpit steps. his voice was low and firm; only the piteous working of his face betrayed his torment. he told how, upon a certain day, the seed of a thorn-tree was dropped in the cleft of a quarry-face; he described the breaking of the seed-shell, the growth of the sapling; he brought before the eyes of those present the picture of a merciful god watering the tree, tending it with jealous watchfulness. then he talked of another seed, the seed of jealousy and hate. years were needed to measure the growth of god's handiwork; but the evil in man increased by days, by hours, by minutes. then, on a sudden, his voice went deeper. he leaned over the pulpit and looked across the sea of anxious faces to the place where griff was sitting. "stand up, griff lomax, and come to the front, and tell them all what a man did to you on the brink of whins quarry." but griff made no movement, and the preacher told his own story. "the seed of jealousy was set in this man, and it grew in the space of a single day, till he was ripe for blows--nay, for worse. he waited for his friend at the edge of the quarry-face, and murder was in his heart." "glory, glory!" shouted a woman at the rear of the chapel. she was in the throes of her own personal need for salvation, and her shout of joy came with a weird irrelevancy. "the man was myself," went on gabriel, "and the friend that i waited for was griff lomax, whom i had loved as my own brother--ay, as david yearned over jonathan i had loved the lad. but the seed of hate was planted, and grew apace. he came along by the path at the quarry-side, and i closed with him. the devil had gripped my heart; i forgot that the edge was close behind us; i cared for nothing in heaven or hell but vengeance. the devil strengthened my arms. i lifted the lad and threw him over my shoulder." "hallelujah! found jesus, found jesus!" yelled a weather-beaten quarryman, seated under the pulpit. gabriel paused and dashed his hand across his forehead; the sweat ran off in a stream and dripped to the pulpit ledge. a hoarse murmur went from lip to lip of the listening crowd. "i heard the rumbling of stones as he went over the brink, and then a splash in the pool at the bottom." every eye turned to griff, sitting with a rigid face, like one returned from the dead. a superstitious awe gained on the folk; they were ripe to credit a miracle in their present exalted state. "i ran down the hill and fell, and lay in a swoon for a while," went on the preacher. "when i went to the pool, there was no body there, and i pictured him lying in the mud at the bottom--lying, and waiting till the trump of the judgment day called him to tell what he knew." griff hardened his face yet further. he found it a strain not to wince under those keen eye-shafts, focussed on him from every quarter of the chapel, like needles about a magnet. the preacher, regarding him steadfastly, rose to a splendid height of egoism. "but god had been watching over this moment, watching over the feet of gabriel hirst, the least and most sinful of his servants. before i came into the world, he had set the seed of a thorn-tree in the side of the quarry; the tree grew, till its branches were strong to support the fall of a man. the brother i loved, the brother i had all but killed in my hate, fell safe into the bush, as god in his mercy had ordained. the sin of will is mine, black as ever, but the sin of the deed has been lightened. lift up your hearts, ye children of god, and thank your father for his mercies, and take heed by my own fall how you let the devil creep into your hearts." his voice was weakening, his grip of the ledge in front of him grew less firm. but he had something yet to say. "griff lomax, i have laboured to bring you into the straight way of faith. the lord has delivered you; turn to the lord and believe in him." the rev. abel bell struck up the doxology, obeying instinct rather than the prompting of reason. the little chapelful of people joined in with one voice, till the walls seemed to rock with the clashing waves of sound. but gabriel hirst had fainted on the floor of the pulpit. quietly griff moved down the aisle, and took his friend in his arms. he carried him into the vestry, and was sprinkling water over his face before the congregation was fairly alive to what had happened. when the doxology had been sung--and sung again--there began a great harvesting of souls. few of those present could withstand the swift excitement of such a confession as they had lately listened to. never before had the rev. abel bell witnessed so goodly a gathering in to the lord. when the fervour had subsided a little, and the time was at hand for an adjournment to the class-room, there to enroll the converted, griff moved up to the pulpit and mounted the stair. he gave them a level narrative of what had happened at whins quarry, and he so over-rated gabriel's cause for hate that his after-action showed excusable; he went further, moving warily step by step, till he had proved that any man, with manhood in him, must have acted as the preacher had done. and then, as he turned to go-"gabriel hirst has bidden me thank god for my escape," he said. "i do thank god, from my whole heart fervently. neighbours, we are going to forget what has passed to-night, remembering only that we have a man among us--a man to the tips of his fingers. and his name is gabriel hirst." chapter xxiv. a tale from the heart of the night. lomax, feeling a sudden desire to stretch his legs, set off at five of an october afternoon to walk to ludworth. his mother was staying at gorsthwaite for a day or two, and there was no chance of kate's feeling lonely if he were late in getting back. though it was fine enough overhead when he set off, he found it heavy-going on the rutty old packroad, superseded long ago by the good hard road that leads past the stoups and sorrowstones spring. the rains had been heavy of late; already the clouds were thickening again as he gained tinker's pool, and not a trace of the moon was to be seen. repairing, sharp-set, to the white swan for one of the solid meals which that hostelry affected, he chanced to meet a horse-dealer of his acquaintance in the bar; the dealer had a neat little bay for sale, and griff was in need of another horse. it was agreed, finally, that the bay should be brought to gorsthwaite the next morning for inspection, and griff began to talk of starting off again. but a look out-of-doors made him think twice about it. the night showed black as pitch, and rain was coming down in bucketsful. "you'll none be crossing the moor to-night, mr. lomax?" said the dealer, peering over his shoulder. "i must, sometime; but it might be as well to wait a bit and see if it lifts. we'll have another drink, at any rate." at the end of an hour or so the rain slackened pace, and the moon tried hard to elbow her way through the clouds. griff, grown impatient of sitting in the musty bar-room, would hear of no more delay. "my advice to you, sir, is--keep to the new road through cranshaw; it'll be fearful dark the other way, and ankle-deep in water," was the dealer's parting injunction. griff decided to take his advice. the way was a good two miles further round, but it was better, on a night like this, to have solid ground underfoot. the sky cleared for awhile as he mounted the hill; ahead of him, shining white under the full moon, stood the first of the stoups. his thoughts went back to the father who had died on this very road--to the father whom he could barely remember, who yet had stood to him throughout life as a wonderful example of tenderness, strength, and devotion. he recalled how, when he was sixteen, he had heard an old scandal raked up, to the effect that this perfect father of his had brought old mother strangeways' daughter to shame; how he had leaped up, his face on fire, and knocked down the man who had thought it manly to sneer at the father in the son's presence; how he had gone straightway to his mother, and blurted out what had happened; how she had wept over him, and comforted him, and told him the whole truth of the matter. he drew near to sorrowstones spring; so full had he been of the old-time sadness that he had scarcely noted the quick return of clouds and rain. a vivid lightning flash awakened him; hot-foot came the thunder in pursuit; from cranshaw far ahead of him to ludworth in his rear, the meeting of moor and sky seemed to be one rolling line of din. then all was still, save for the rain, the cries of frightened grouse. he pushed on. sorrowstones spring was close on his left now. he could hear the wind swirling round the rickety chimney-stack. on a sudden there came a cry that was neither of wind nor bird--a harsh, protracted wail that sliced through the tempest like a knife-stroke. no words could be heard--only that inarticulate wail--yet lomax knew that blasphemy was abroad; he felt the skin creep on his scalp, and his sodden cap seemed to lift itself clean off his head. he came to a halt and listened; sweat and rain joined issue and rolled down his face; in all his life he had never, till now, known what real fear meant. the wind and the rain grew quieter, the wailing louder. he traced it to the cottage, and, just because his legs would scarce carry him for fright, he forced himself to draw near. "it was _her_ daughter that was mixed up with father's name," he muttered, remembering on the sudden who it was that lived here. he did not know whether it were sheer obstinacy that dragged him to the door, or the instinct to help a fellow-creature in need, or whether some overmastering ghostly force were at work; but he could not draw back now. he felt for the sneck of the door, found it after a moment's groping, and pushed his way into the cottage. for a moment he could see nothing for the peat-smoke; his eyes smarted, and the reek crept down to the bottom of his throat and set him coughing till he was hoarse. the wailing had ceased, but still the silence seemed pregnant with that sense of blasphemy. gradually his vision cleared; he could see a farthing rushlight, almost burnt through, guttering in a dirty bottle-neck. beyond the candle was a huddled heap of straw and blanket and human hair--something bright gleamed out from the tangled hair, something skinny and brown scratched up and down the blanket. dazed as he was, it was some time before he grasped that this was mother strangeways, that the little bright circles were eyes, that the twitching object was her lean right hand. swiftly his thoughts went back to that other hag who had pressed her lips to his just without roddick's door. could they be the same?--but he had little time for reflection. a crackling laugh came from the bed in the corner. mother strangeways was lifting herself to a sitting posture, and her shrivelled bosom showed through the tattered nightgown that made pretence of covering her. "griff lummax--his father's son--an' he's come to shrive me i' th' latter end!" she mocked. "hast 'a nowt to say for thyseln, lad? i war praying, a while back, to set een on thee afore i deed, an' th' devil he's answered my prayer, an' there tha stands as quiet as th' grave i'm bound for." the old homely turns of speech helped to pull griff together. it was flesh and blood he had to deal with, at any rate, and that was so much to the good. "i heard your cries as i was passing, and came in to help you. what can i do for you?" he asked. "do? nowt, nowt, i say, save come a step or two nearer, so as i haven't to shout to mak myseln heärd. i'm sickening to my deäth, griff lummax, an' afore i fetched thee out o' th' dark an' th' storm, th' pain war fit to drive me crazy. but tha's come, lad, an' i'll dee happy yet. step closer, i tell thee!" he halved the distance between himself and the bed; nearer he could not force himself to go just yet. "what do you want?" he muttered. mother strangeways watched him warily. she worked her arms up and down, as if testing their strength; she measured the distance between them, as if she were bent on reaching him with her bony fist. the glitter in her eyes failed to a cunning softness, while the lines of her mouth grew hard. "i can't talk loud, lad; bend ower me," she whispered. he made himself come to the bedside, and stooped to hear what she had to say. in a twinkling her fingers were clawing at his throat. death-ridden as she was, the old hatred gave the woman a nervous strength of grip. half-strangled, griff felt for her hands, and seized them, and forced them down. "so that's your game, is it?" he laughed. "a pretty specimen of a dying woman you are, mother strangeways." just that touch of fight had strung up his nerves to their normal pitch. she lay back on the bed, a little stream of red trickling from her mouth. griff stood and watched her, not knowing what to say or do, until at last she spoke in a quavering voice. "it war truth i spoke, griff lummax, when i said i war deeing. another hour--a half-hour, mebbe--'ull see me ready for th' coffin. i tried to kill thee, then, lad, but tha worsted me. tha'd best be going thy ways, an' leave me to it." surely, griff thought, there was no pretence this time. the pallor on her face, with the bluish tint dusting it here and there, could mean nothing short of death. how could he leave her there to wrestle with the end? "mother strangeways," he said roughly, "i bear you no malice. what's done is done, and you must square the reckoning when you get to the other side. can i ease the journey for you a bit?" she turned over on her side and looked at the rushlight, which, like herself, was sputtering to an end. she pointed to the cupboard, then to the candle and back again. griff, obeying her gesture, took a bundle of rushlights from the bottom shelf of the cupboard, lit one and rammed it tight in the bottle-neck. "ay," muttered the old woman, "that's th' tale, fro' generation to generation. th' owd light dees, an' out it's chucked, an' in goes th' smooth-faced young un. an' it's little fowk think o' th' light that's gone, so only they've getten a fresh un to show 'em their way. but there's summat wrang, griff lummax--ay, grievous wrang--when th' young uns is ta'en first, an' th' owd uns fizzle on to th' last drop o' greäse. it's nigh on five an' thirty year sin' th' bonny lass went under-sod; why warn't it me that war ta'en? why warn't it me, i say?" she screamed. "doan't come to me an' crack o' thy god a'mighty, what taks young lassies i' their prime an' leaves th' owd 'uns to rot i' their skins for grief an' worry." she sank back, weak with the effort, and the ooze ran faster from her mouth. she lay quiet for awhile, but the workings of her face showed that she was thinking hard. and her thoughts were with the daughter who had died in childbirth--childbirth to a nameless father. the memory roused her old set purpose, forgotten for the moment. the cunning came into her eyes again, and the twitching of her hands began afresh. "i'm sooin gone," she said; "tha can keep me a two or three minutes longer, if tha will." "ay, that i will! what have i to do?" "wend to th' cupboard again. tha'll find a green bottle there; fetch it." griff found the bottle, and put it into her hands. "there's a little mug on th' table," she muttered. he turned to get the mug, and mother strangeways, quick as a flash, brought the bottle down on his skull. it smashed into little bits, and a spirt of blood broke through griff's close-cropped hair. the hag laughed, and hugged herself into her blankets. "i've sworn to do for th' lot on ye, an' tha'll be wi' thy father sooin!" she croaked. griff retreated to the wall. he meant to see this play played through, but it was as well to take due precautions. the cut on his head was of no great depth, luckily, and the bleeding soon stopped. "mother strangeways," he said, "you didn't count on a lomax having a thick skull. that's where you made a mistake. it takes a bigger bottle than that to kill the old breed off." mother strangeways had never been one to doubt fatality, and she gave up the fight. it was clear that griff would outlive her. she lay on her back and cursed till the man grew cold with horror. then she half rose and leaned on her elbow. "may tha be cursed, griff lummax, till hell is too cold to hold thee; an' thy childer after thee, till hell-fire hes getten th' lot o' ye. amen." the fire was burning low, and griff, anxious not to let uncanny notions get the better of him, turned his attention to replenishing it from the peat-stack in the corner opposite the bed; but all the while he kept the tail of one eye on the old woman's doings. then he dropped into the solitary chair that the room possessed, and listened to the howling of the wind in the chimney-stack. only mother strangeways' stertorous breathing broke the silence within. "griff lummax," she called at last. "well?" "i've a tale to tell thee." "i'm listening." "tha minds how thy father war lost on cranshaw moor, mony a year back?" "ay, i mind it." "that's what th' tale is about. listen, lad; it's bonny telling. five an' twenty year back come a neet like this as brought thee here. it blew, an' it blew, an' th' snaw war thick on th' grund i' place o' rain. i war sitting ower th' fire, thinking on th' daughter that war gone, an' ill-wishing th' man 'at hed killed her, when there comes a knock to th' door. i oppens it wide, an' who should stand on th' door-stun but th' man i'd been ill-wishing--joshua lummax, lad, thy father. he taks a two or three steps inside, and his eye cotches mine fair and square, same as if he'd bin as honest as he'd like fowk to think him. he'd crossed fro' ludworth, seemingly, an' th' snaw war that thick 'at he couldn't tell which war th' highroad an' which war th' moor; he mun ha' been dazed wi' th' white, or he'd ha' known, seeing he'd getten so far, that he'd nobbut to keep on straight as iver his nose 'ud lead him. but he didn't know, an' he'd come to mother strangeways to leärn." she paused, laughing quietly. "i _leärned him_, lad. i set him straight into th' heart o' th' moor, an' i knew 'at he war sartin sure to walk into a bog or dee o' th' cold. well, he missed th' bog, it 'ud seem, for they fund him stiff an' stark a two mile fro' th' cottage here. when i heärd th' news, i saw th' sun for th' first time sin' th' lass dee'd, an' '_one_,' says i to myseln; 'i'll bide th' lord's gooid time for th' rest.' but i war ta'en wi' th' rheumatiz afore tha war rightly growed up, griff, an' i could no ways get at thee, as i mud ha' done wi' health an' strength to help me. eh, lad, lad, but i made fooil's play wi' my chances this neet! there's nowt i want on earth, nowt i pray for, but just to see thee an' thy mother ligging stiff an' stark one beside t' other." griff had risen, and stood dumbly watching the interlude which death allowed this sorry victim. he could not grasp it at first. his father's death seemed a topic of far-away interest; his mind had room only for the figure of this strenuous witch, with the candle-light glimmering on her eager, wasted face. there was a long silence between them, until mother strangeways let a moan escape her. the pain was gripping her heart-strings now, but she had to say her say. on her face was the transfiguration that comes to any who fight with death, be they good or vile. "tha's nowt to say, lad? tha stands there like a witless nat'ral, an' tha listens to th' tale i've getten to tell. well, hod thy whisht for awhile; it 'ull be thy turn next." she clapped one hand on her breast with a shriek; but the spasm passed, and she resumed her talk, griff listening dizzily the while. "i warn't allus like tha's known me. i war a god-fearing wife once, an' a mother 'at yearned to her babby. mary war my first an' my last, an' it seemed 'at she'd ta'en all th' love i hed to gie. there war nowt but mary i' my mind when i wakened i' th' morn, an' nowt but mary at my heart when i coddled her up for th' neet. then--tha knows th' rest; lad, can tha wonder 'at i sent thy father to his deäth?" she finished, half in fury, half in pleading. still lomax could not grip the full meaning of the thing. he grew dreamily awake to the fact that some one was taking his father's name in vain, and he knew that he must defend him. "father never touched your girl," he said hoarsely. "has it taken you all these years to learn the truth? did you never see captain laverack hanging round your cottage, nor see the lust in his face? laverack it was that led her wrong; he was a friend of father's till then, and he used to stay at the manor. he left soon after--fled the country for awhile, because of other things he was mixed up with--and your girl put it all on father's shoulders, thinking to get help from him when the child was born." the woman on the bed was following griff closely. "laverack! laverack!" she muttered, shutting her eyes. "where hev i heärd th' name lately?" "laverack has come back to these parts and bought frender's folly," said griff. mother strangeways peered across the smoke reek. "come nearer, lad; i want to see thy een--nay, i'm ower far gone to try my pranks again," she added, seeing him hesitate. he came close and she watched his eyes. "is't truth tha'rt speaking, griff lummax?" "truth? ay, bitter truth." "i believe thee. thowts come thranging back now; i niver thowt to pitch on laverack, for all th' lass war busy wi' his name while she lay a-child-bed. but i see it now, i see it now." she sprang up in bed and clutched him by the arm. "griff, if tha's getten ony love for thy own mother, think on me; think what it meäns, lad, to lose a daughter an' see th' man what killed her go free. kill him, griff; he's not aboon three mile away this very minute, an' there's no snaw to stop thee. run hot an' fast, an' tak him by t' throat, an' say mother strangeways sent ye." she was growing delirious now. still griff could not throw off the full weight of his stupor. instinctive stubbornness was his only ally. "i won't," he said bluntly. "tha might ha' childer o' thy own, lad--bonny wenches 'at war biding th' time of a gooid man's coming; think what it meäns, an' if tha's getten ony bowels o' compassion, help a deeing woman to her rights." "i won't, curse you!" her voice grew coaxing. death might win her, to have and to hold, in a very few moments; but meanwhile the ruling passion would let her take no rest. "i'm reckoned poor, griff, because i lives i' a poor way. but wend to th' cupboard once again, an' tha'll find summat worth heving--summat bright an' gold, fastened up i' a worsted stocking. tak it all, lad, if tha'll wend to frender's folly, an' do what mun be done." at last griff awoke to reality. he saw it all now. this woman on the bed had murdered his father; why was he dallying with justice? the hatred that had kept up mother strangeways for close on five and thirty years, the quick lust for vengeance that had sent joshua lomax to his grave--they had joshua's son in their grasp now. he made a step towards the bed, then stopped; between him and his father's murderess sounded the death-rattle in the woman's throat, driving him back, stunning him with a sense of some power beyond his ken. the rushlight guttered in its stand. the shadows came out of their corners, and played with the ruddy glow from the peats. the wind sang for rain in the chimney-stack. as any frightened youngster might have done, griff bent his head, and trembled before the majesty of death, and sobbed for the littleness of his understanding. chapter xxv. the beginning of the rift. it was three of the morning when griff got back to gorsthwaite. kate heard him push the key into the lock and was down in a moment. "griff, where have you been?" "what! not asleep, wifey? it is against orders for you to be up at this time of night." he reached out his arms for her into the dark, and found her, and stroked her tumbled hair, mutely thanking god that he had time to collect himself before she could see his face. "i couldn't sleep, dear. i have been so nervous about everything of late, and i feared--i don't know what." she cried a little then, for her nerves were highly strung nowadays, and the relief from a molehill of dread was commensurate with a mountainous terror. "i know, kate, i know. i will not take such long walks till you are well and strong again, and able to come with me." "why are we stopping out here? you are wet through. i built up a big fire in the parlour not long ago, thinking you would be cold and wet when you reached home." his grasp tightened on her almost harshly. "do you mean that you came downstairs from your bed to look after my comfort?" he demanded. "kate, you make me ashamed of myself." "but i wasn't asleep, dear, and this dressing-gown is as warm as warm. come and see what a beautiful blaze there is; i put on a heap of logs, as well as peat." a ruddy glow welcomed them as they went in, and lit up every wrinkle and furrow that the past night had brought into griff's face--lit up, too, the clotted patch of hair around the place where mother strangeways had struck him with the bottle. kate, seeing this, gave a little cry. "where have you been?" she repeated. "griff, you haven't been out with the poachers again? you promised so faithfully." "no, wife," he laughed, uneasily, "i have not been poaching. don't worry about it; it is only just a bruise." but kate had made up her mind not to be put off. "you _shall_ tell me. do you think i'm a baby, griff, that i must needs have everything unpleasant kept from me?" "you know where old mother strangeways' cottage is? i passed it on my way back to-night, and heard cries from within. i went in and found her dying. that is why i was so late in getting home. i had to slip across to marshcotes for the doctor before coming on here." "yes, but the cut on your head?" persisted kate. "she hated me for some reason or other, and threw a bottle at me. that is all. tut, child, the woman is dead; it is too late to tremble for what she might have done. now, off you run to bed, while i go and change these wet things. i won't waste your fine blaze, katey, but i'll read for an hour or so and have a whisky hot." "can't i stay with you, dear? i don't want to sleep a bit, and----" "no, you can't! off with you; i'm too tired to carry you upstairs by main force." she kissed him good night. just as she was going griff called her back. "don't say anything about this to the mother, will you? it would only bother her." "no, not a word, if you had rather i didn't.--mother is not well, griff; i wish she would have the doctor." "she will have the doctor, kate, when she is too weak to forbid him to cross the threshold," laughed griff. "nothing serious, is it?" "i don't think so. only, she seemed rather feverish to-night when she went to bed. i made her drink some black-currant tea." "poor old lady! she'll be well by morning, never fear, lest you should give her another dose." but the old lady was far from well on the morrow, and griff began to grow anxious. at the end of the day he would hear of no refusal, but set off on lassie to fetch the doctor from marshcotes. the doctor pronounced it a case of pleurisy, and anticipated no great danger so far as the patient's present condition went. "she will get wet through, that mother of yours, and go about afterwards without changing. you're an obstinate lot, you lomaxes, and why you haven't died out long ago as a race, passes my wits." the old doctor had known griff's father, and he exercised his privilege as a friend of the family to grumble on the slightest pretext. "carelessness toughens people, if they begin early enough. it is coddling that sends up the death-rate," laughed griff. "nonsense! there's a mean in all things. only the other day i called to see a patient down in the village, and there was your mother, reading away by the fire as if her clothes were not filling the room with steam. she had been out for a walk in the rain, she told me, and hadn't had time to change. well, now she has time to be ill. i wish you good day, young man. you're an obstinate lot." mrs. lomax weathered her illness so easily that she thought lightly of it, and fumed at the ridiculous fuss they were making about her convalescence. one morning she announced her intention of going out; the october sun shone temptingly over the heather, and there was a fresh breeze blowing. "not for another week, mother," pleaded griff, "you know what the doctor said." "fiddlesticks, griff! because he's an old woman himself, he likes to think i am one, too. but i'm not. out i go this morning, to get the cobwebs blown away." griff argued, entreated, and finally went out to the farm-buildings in the rear, thinking that his mother had given up the idea. whereupon mrs. lomax, smiling like a truant child, crept upstairs, past the room where kate was reading away the two hours' rest enjoined on her each morning, put on her bonnet and cloak, and stepped out into the moor with a rather feeble imitation of her old swinging gait. she returned at the end of an hour, feeling more tired than she would admit, and she laughed at griff's face of concern when she confessed to her escapade. that night she was worse, and by the morning all the old symptoms had set in with renewed vigour. but she was persistent in her assertion that going out had nothing whatever to do with the relapse; she even went so far as to hint that her yesterday's walk in the fresh air had given her a better chance to grapple with the enemy. a couple of days later griff rode to saxilton for one or two sick-room necessaries which could not be got in marshcotes. when he returned kate met him in the hall. her eyes were red, and her voice uncertain. "mother has been asking for you ever since the doctor left. will you go up at once?" "is she worse?" asked griff, a sudden fear seizing him. for answer she burst into tears, and griff went sadly up the stairs. the old lady stretched out her hand to him eagerly. he sat down on the edge of the bed and took both hands in his; he was shocked to notice the rapid change for the worse in her since he left. "i have wanted you, griff. they told me you had gone to saxilton to buy me some things. you always have taken a great deal of trouble on my account. but i wish you hadn't gone to saxilton. i shall not need what you brought." "it was no trouble, dear. why do you--mother, why do you speak in that tone about--not needing----?" "because i am going to die," said the old lady, quietly. "mother, mother, not that!" "yes, griff. the doctor did not say it in so many words, but my eyes are sharp. i never did pay much attention to people's words--especially a doctor's. but i watched his face when he thought i was not looking, and it said, as plain as could be, 'you will die.' so there's an end of it, griff." "what do we care about his opinion? tell yourself you will live, little mother; there's fight in you yet." "very little, now. i have done; the doctor only clinched what i felt in myself--otherwise, of course, i should not have believed him." "mother, you won't die!" cried griff, at a loss to meet this quiet acceptance of the inevitable. it seemed so foreign to all the sick woman's characteristics. she looked at him with a whimsical, half-pathetic smile. "don't try to fool me, griff; you should know how i hate it. do you think i am afraid?" he made no answer, only pressed her hands a little closer in his own. after a long silence she spoke again, in a soft, measured voice. "i think people make far too much of dying, and the dread of facing the unknown. i am sorry to leave you, and i would stay if any effort could keep me here; but i fear nothing. perhaps i _hope_ more than my life has given me any right to do. i never understood religion, griff, and i went my own way through everything, and i believe i have been a very selfish, bad old woman." "mother----" "boy, i never would have you flatter me, and i don't mean to now. how did you find kate?" "well enough--quite well, dear. don't worry about her." "she will fret about me a good deal. be very careful of her, griff; there are not many women in the world i should admit to be worthy of you. you see what a foolish mother i am." griff did not understand how it came about, but his tears were pouring fast on to the thin old hands. the mother ruffled away the hair from his forehead, and comforted him with a hundred soothing gestures, laid aside long ago with the end of his childhood. the dying strove to calm the living. "come, dear, come. i am an old woman, and i had to go some time. don't fret so about it. i have had a good life, and you have been a good son to me, griff. we might almost have been lovers, you and i, from the way we behaved at times." she fell into a reverie, a little smile flitting now and then across her lips as she recalled this or that pleasant memory. and griff went softly from the bedside; he could not bear up against the pathos of it all. but she heard his footfall, faint as it was, and called him back. "only a word, dear, and then you can leave me to sleep. the end won't be just yet, i think; you can come back for the good-bye. it is about the child. don't be too fearful about it; don't hedge it round with carefulness, and shut out the fresh air from it. kate will know what i mean when it comes. a baby, griff--one's own baby--seems so wonderful, and frail, and precious, till one gets used to it. you must fight that down, and try to believe it will grow without being shut up in a glass case." she laughed, and her sharp old eyes fastened themselves on griff with a touch of roguishness in them. "if any one asks how i died, boy, tell them that i died as i lived--trying to teach you good common sense. and--yes, tell them this, too--i died glad of my life, and proud of the grand old stock. you have the lomax pride in you, marrow-deep: cling to it, griff, and pass it on to your children." a week later griff stood in the wind-swept graveyard at marshcotes. a bitter, roving gale chased the fallen leaves in and out among the tombstones. the parson droned his "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," but the sexton's scattered handful of earth was forestalled by the rattle of hail upon the coffin-lid. the moor would have none of man's tawdry symbols; it loved the dead too well. and griff took heart from the blustering weather. as of old, the heath was one with him in sympathy, and mourned, in its own wild way, for the fearless woman who was gone. the old doctor passed an arm through his as he turned towards gorsthwaite. "i will go with you, griff, if you'll let me. i have not seen your wife to-day." neither spoke till they were well out on the moor. griff, striving hard to look ahead, not backward, began to talk of kate. "she is not strong, doctor, and this has been a sad blow to her. what are her chances?" the doctor glanced at him nervously, and fumbled with the buttons of his great-coat. "oh, good enough, good enough! she'll pull through all right. it's not for a good while yet, you know, and there is time to get over all this before then." "you sound shifty," said lomax, curtly; "do you mean there is danger?" "well--we shall all of us have to be careful. she is not strong--never has been since the first year of her marriage. i have attended her off and on since she was a child. the healthiest woman i ever saw till she married. her weakness is all owing to that brute strangeways; he led her a dog's life for years." they went on for another half-mile, till the doctor, anxious to turn his companion's attention from his troubles, struck off into another topic. "by the way, talking of strangeways, do you remember the night, not long ago, when you knocked me up to go to sorrowstones spring? phew, it was a night, too! i blessed you pretty heartily on the way. the old hag was dead as a door-nail, and she might have waited for me till the morning without a touch of impatience. joe, i fancy, is of the same breed; he has taken up his quarters in the maternal cottage." "what is he doing?" asked griff, more from a feeling that he had to say something than from any interest in the answer. "what has he been doing for years past? drink, drink, only more now than of old. he has failed in his quarry business, and they say he hasn't a penny in the world. well, well, let him pass; he's a fine object-lesson for those who believe in the inherent worth of the animal man. cross between a gentleman-rake and a woman of the soil--a bad cross always--children inherit worst of both sides. heigho! here we are at gorsthwaite. now, mind that you pull yourself well together, griff. your wife wants no molygrubs from you, let me tell you; she will manufacture enough and to spare for herself. oh, and another thing. i don't know whether you think of moving into the manor soon. you had better not, till your wife is strong again. the moving would only worry her." but old jose binns, milking his cows in the mistal that same evening, nodded his head sagely, and a dour look was on his face. "i said 'at there'd no gooid come on it, an' there's war i' th' making. no gooid could ha' come on it, choose how a mon looks at it." chapter xxvi. how they fought round the peat-rick. for generations past gorsthwaite moor had been a meeting place for gamblers from the little manufacturing towns that encroached on the furthest limits of the heath. town-bred they were, for the most part, stunted and sickly-bodied; they spoke the uncouth, hybrid yorkshire of the streets, not the rich doric of the moor-folk. but here and there you would find moor-reared men among them, a poacher may be, or one of the fast-dying race of moor-squireens. the police knew well enough that never a fine sunday went by without adding its quota to the countless games of pitch-and-toss that had already been played on the moor; they had known it for years past, but had never been able to make a successful raid. the moor ran down sharply to the valley on every side, and outposts stationed at the edges could command every way of access, recognized or otherwise, to their open-air gambling haunt. periodically the detectives pitted their ingenuity against that of the gamblers, and periodically they found, on reaching the middle of gorsthwaite moor, an innocent company of workingmen, engaged in no more illegal occupation than the smoking of very black clay pipes. the pickets knew their business far too well to admit of surprises; their rule was, to pass the one word "stranger" to their comrades, whenever an unknown figure appeared below; no matter if the figure were that of a woman or child--the word was passed along just the same, and operations were suspended until the intruder had got out of sight. treachery among their number was the only thing they had to fear, and it was a standing wonder to griff--who made himself free of every out-of-the-way society afforded by the moors--that none of them had ever sold their secret. joe strangeways, whenever he was not employing his sabbath in getting most royally drunk at the bull, was sure to be found at the meetings on gorsthwaite moor; and on the sunday following lomax's fight with the preacher at the edge of whins quarry, it fell to joe's lot to guard the approach to the moor on the side overlooking gorsthwaite hall. involuntarily his eyes took stock of his enemy's house; the day was clear and bright, and he could see the smoke curling up from the hall chimneys, as if the mile that lay between were but a few score yards. the quarryman's heart was still sore within him; he would not let himself forget how griff lomax had filched his wife from him; he remembered that he had sworn vengeance on him, and that his only steps in this direction, up to the present, had given lomax exactly the thing he most wanted. "if only i warn't so dull-witted like," muttered joe, "i might think o' summat. but the beer doan't seem to help a chap, an' my fine gen'leman ower yonder, what plays at running a farm an' reckons to be fine an' condescending to us plain-natured devils, smiles i' my face fro' nooin to neet. i've thowt, whiles, o' waiting on th' moor for him after dark, an' spoiling his pretty mug wi' th' heft of a good stout crowbar; but a mon hes to keep sober for that sort o' game--an' he's ower big, ony way ye tak him." he paused in the midst of his reflections to watch a black dot on the landscape. the dot grew bigger, and moved in a bee-line between gorsthwaite hall and himself. soon he could see that it was a man's figure, and presently he recognized lomax. a sudden inspiration ran athwart joe strangeways' muddled brain. he rammed his pipe hard into the left corner of his mouth, thrust both hands deep into his pockets, and gave a prolonged growl of satisfaction. then he slouched across the heather to where his companions were gaming. "well, joe?" said a little man, with a red nose and ferret eyes, who had the air of being in some sort a leader among them. "what art 'a coming away for now? tha's not watched thy time." "i've come, dave jefferson, to tell ye there's one on th' way ye'll noan be ower glad to see," said the quarrymaster, slowly. the pence and the halfpence disappeared like magic. an air that refuted suspicion crept over the faces of all present. "then why didn't tha pass t' word, yer lumbering fool?" said the little man, whose temper was altogether disproportionate to his size. "mebbe tha'd like to go round by thornborough town t' next time, an' come to tell us an hour or two after t' magistrates have given us the straight tip for gaol?" joe squirted his tobacco-quid, with careless accuracy, at a bumble-bee that was sipping the heather in front of him. "if tha thowt twice afore tha spoke, dave, tha'd be a likelier lad; an' happen tha'd be likelier still if tha never spoke at all. it's noan a stranger 'at's coming; it's a chap ye think a powerful deal on, some on ye." "an' who may that be, mr. strangeways?" queried jefferson, ironically. "tha'rt grown mighty sharp all on a sudden; for it takes a more nor ordinary sharp feller to fool dave jefferson." "that's as may be. it's griff lummax that's creeping, sly as a fox, up th' hillside." three of the poaching set that foregathered at the dog and grouse were on the moor that afternoon, and jack o' ling crag spoke up for his absent friend. "if that's all tha hes to tell us, joe, tha mud as weel gang back th' way tha came. he's a proper set up chap, is mr. lummax, an' it's noan his breed that peaches on a mate." "oh, ay, he's a grand un!" echoed joe, with beery derision. "he prigged my wife, he did; an' a man that 'ull do that, 'ull do owt." "he did thy wife a sarvice, anyhow, i'm thinking," snapped will reddiough. they all laughed at that, and their laughter braced up joe's wits to further effort. "well, seeing's believing," he muttered. "eh? speak out, mon, if tha's getten owt to say." the little group was pressing close about him now; the sulkiness of his tones seemed to give added weight to his innuendo. "i war passing th' bull one neet a while back----" began joe. "nay, lad, nay," put in jack o' ling crag, with a mellow chuckle. "_passing_, did'st say? it's not oftens _tha_ passes by a public, joe." "an' i thowt as i'd turn in for a glass o' bitter," went on the quarrymaster, doggedly, not heeding the interruption. "there war no one i' th' back room, an' i stood waiting i' th' passage till somebody should come to sarve me. i heärd voices i' th' front bar, an' i fell to listening to 'em. one war griff lummax's, an' he war agate wi' telling all about these here sprees up o' gorsthet moor. i crept a-tip-toe an' peeped in at th' door; an' i see'd 'at t' other chap war a police inspector. well, lummax, he said as how he hed fooiled th' lot on ye, an' that it 'ud be an easy job to land ye all i' quad. is that enow for ye, or mun i wend back th' way i came, an' say niver a word to this lummax chap?" the poaching trio was silent, and the rest looked ominously black. "is this gospel truth?" said jefferson, at last. "gospel truth, so help me god!" joe answered. griff lomax, meanwhile, had topped the rise, and was sauntering easily towards them. they watched him cross the two hundred yards of heather that divided them; they listened to his cheery "good-day," but answered never a word. he felt that there was trouble in the air. "what the deuce is the matter with you all? do you think i'm a spy, or what?" he laughed. that emphasizing of what lay uppermost in the mind of each was an unlucky move for griff. "mebbe that's about the size of it," growled jefferson. lomax paused awhile. then-"what's all this nonsense about?" he demanded sharply. jefferson, in his turn, halted before speaking. "joe strangeways slipped into t' bull, mr. lomax, a neet or two back, without your hearing him. ye'd best hearken to what he has to say." "i will. speak up, strangeways." joe shifted under his enemy's steady gaze. then, with his eyes on the ground, he repeated his story. every one watched griff's face. "well," said jefferson, "what have ye to say to yon?" "say? that it is a damned lie!" retorted lomax, coolly. "are ye for denying that t' inspector chap war wi' ye in t' bull that night?" "he was." the three poachers crept a little apart; they were loth to hear young lomax condemn himself so openly. "then what have ye to say for yourseln?" griff, once he was roused, was stubborn as a mule. he kicked against little jefferson's domineering tone, and he resented the facile way in which these comrades of his had given their verdict against him at a word from a man like strangeways. "nothing; i've nothing to say," he repeated. "there's plenty that i could say, but nothing that i will; so put that in your pipe, dave jefferson, and smoke it till you're sick." a low murmur rose from the company--only the poachers were silent. "that means fighting, i fancy," said lomax, after another long pause. "there are twenty-two of you, so far as i can count, and that's rather long odds. but it happens that you have three sound men amongst you." he stopped to look the three poachers square between the eyes. "you, will reddiough--and you, jack o' ling crag--and you, ned kershaw--you'll all take an honest man's word against a cur's like strangeways here. have i dealt fair by you in the past?" those three purloiners of their neighbours' game warmed to the man's pluck. "ay, that ye hev, mr. lummax." "i tell you this is all a lie, and i'll prove it when we've had a taste of good hard blows. come over here, you three, and we'll fight the lot of them. they're a weakly crew at best, and they ought never to show themselves on a moor." they hung irresolute for a second or two. then their love of griff, right or wrong, their instinctive response to his appeal against town-bred folk, above all, their zest for adventure, settled the question. they crossed to griff's side, and the nineteen gamesters felt slightly less eager for the fray than they had been a moment ago. lomax took advantage of their hesitation to throw a rapid glance about him: he saw, not ten yards on his left, the peat-rick which he had built up a few days ago, and which his farm-man was to cart away at the end of the week; and he framed his plan of action on the spot. "come with me," he cried. "you have sticks, all of you; so have i. take a side a-piece of that peat-rick, and i'll look after the front. _and hit hard_: we have our work cut out." the hesitation in the enemy's camp was over. no sooner had griff and his three allies set their backs to the peats, than they were in the thick of it. most of the nineteen had sticks, and the rest came on with their fists, trusting to run in under guard. _thwack, thwack, thwack_ sounded griff's heart-of-oak on three separate skulls, and he was left free for a breathing space. "how goes it behind?" he called, with a laugh that had the true fighting ring in it. "fine, sir, fine," answered will reddiough, in between two resounding blows; and "beautiful!" cried jack o' ling crag, with his big mouth all a-grin and his crisp grey hair on end with excitement. sixteen of the attacking party fell back in disorder; the other three were left on the ground as a barricade for lomax. a second wild rush, in the middle of which griff could make out the master-quarryman's square-set figure, and a naked knife-blade in his hairy red hands. strangeways jumped with a yell on the three prostrate bodies, and his blade caught a dancing sun-shaft as he drew it back to strike. quick almost as the sun-shaft itself, griff's stick went out, and took the knife, and whirled it high up in the air. the stick made another circuit, and the barricade was increased to the number of four. but it was his last stroke. jefferson, close behind joe strangeways, took griff neatly between the eyes, and down he went like a log on top of the other four. a wild yell came from those in jefferson's rear, but will reddiough and the rest had their hands too full to be able to glance behind them. strangeways grunted a curse, and picked up himself and his knife from the heather. "by hell, i'll settle accounts between us!" he muttered. gabriel hirst felt his sins weigh heavily on him that afternoon. he had gone up the stream-side to the miller's, but had turned before coming in sight of the house. the deep hollow of the sky seemed, as of old, to be full of god's vengeance: as of old, the vengeance was all for him--for him, the chiefest of sinners. he had striven to murder his friend; save for that accident of the tree, he was at this moment a murderer; how dare he draw near to greta--beautiful greta, warm, human, all-sufficing--with the brand of cain on his brow? he cursed himself for ever telling his love. he turned every single act, every thought and desire of his life, into blackest sins, with all his old-time ingenuity. he saw--physically saw--a devil with flaming eyes, who stood in his path and mocked him on to the wrestling for which his arms were no longer strong. he leaped up the hillside, with the pauseless spring of the hunted, and went out on the moors to pay his full tribute of remorse. for gabriel hirst was a man who could be well trusted to ensure his own punishment. "'behold, i was shapen in wickedness: and in sin hath my mother conceived me,'" he wailed at last. he had travelled far across the moor, and his strength was spent, and the tears were running apace down his hollowed cheeks. the sound of shouting came from near at hand. he lifted his face, that showed pitiful as a child's, and looked across the gorse. he saw four men with their backs to a peat-rick, and a crowd of others rushing to the attack. he heard the rattle of sticks, and a clear, wild laugh that could come from none but griff. the childishness smoothed itself out of his face, and his mouth grew firm. he forgot that he was a miserable sinner, forgot that he had been like to drop with weariness, forgot everything in earth or sky, except the rain of body-blows. the old moor-blood, swift and hot, was awakened; not for nothing had his forebears, like griff's own, been reared through long centuries on the peaty uplands. he ran towards the peat-rick, and as he ran he found time to think that now he could wipe out that blood-stain once for all: griff lomax, his friend, was fighting against odds up there, and he would save him. another flash, and he saw that god had given him one more clear chance, that the almighty had stooped to work directly on his behalf. so, with a jumble of sheer fighting instinct, a sense of god's personal intervention, and an itch for the squaring of accounts, he rushed into the thick of it; but the moor instinct was uppermost. strangeways had his knife a shade too close to his enemy's heart, and griff could not move a muscle to defend himself. but strangeways got no further: he felt a pair of big, vice-like hands at his throat, and he thought his time was come. the preacher flung him back, half strangled, and picked up a stick lying at his feet, and laid about him merrily. they fell like acorns in a gale, till gabriel hirst shouted to reddiough and the rest to leave their peat-rick. they rushed forward elbow to elbow, and those who were left of the nineteen broke and fled, crying for quarter. then gabriel hirst cried, "stop!" and the three poachers and the one man of god looked into each other's faces, and gripped each other's hands, and went to see what was amiss with their fallen comrade. lomax was sitting up on his elbow by this time. "what is it, old fellow?" asked the preacher, fondling his hand in a silly, motherly way. "a bit dazed--nothing at all--have we licked the beggars?" "licked 'em all to fits, sir; an' a grand fight it war," spoke up will reddiough. griff laughed at that, and got on to his feet. his victims had, one by one, done the same; for griff's blows were hard, but their skulls were harder still. then, after awhile, the defeated band came slinking back in twos and threes, and lomax leaned against the peat-rick while he said his say. "i _have_ something to tell you now. first of all, my best thanks for as merry a picnic as i am likely to have for many a long day to come. you're not a bad lot, take you all in all, but you can't make up your minds quick enough, and you get hit while you're thinking. next, joe strangeways--he's not here, by the way--joe strangeways was quite right about my being in the bull with the stranger, and i've no doubt he listened at the keyhole. the stranger had got a notion into his head that i knew a good deal about these pleasant sunday afternoons on the moor, and he came to marshcotes expressly to pump me. well, i told him a lot--but it was all wrong, every word of it. i put him as far off the track as i could, and i set him homewards with a glass of good scotch whisky inside him. now, do you believe me, or don't you?" chapter xxvii. the rift gapes wide. january was here, and the frost had long ago set a sharp finger and thumb on the world. the grouse were visibly tamer than they had been a week ago; the peewits came nearer to farmsteads at the lowest point of their wheeling flight; the smaller feathered fry looked more than ever like desolate waifs and strays, as they fluttered from patch to frozen patch, above the whitened heather. so keen was the air that at gorsthwaite could be heard the busy clatter of the quarry which hugged the ling crag end of marshcotes moor. at eleven of a wednesday morning, griff was being soundly rated by his wife's nurse, a slim little energetic body who had seen to the bringing of too many infants into the world to feel much reverence for useless males. "mr. lomax, i wish you'd go somewhere out-of-doors and stay there, that i do. here you be, upstairs and down; now listening at the door, and popping out at me like a firebrand whenever i leave her room, to ask if there's any change for the worse; now tramping about the floor downstairs, till a body would think you'd fair set your mind on making the most noise you could." "i--i didn't know you could hear me," said griff, meekly. "i took my boots off, but the boards are all old and crazy. i must sit down, i suppose." "sit down? nay, that you never will! as well ask you to sit on a hornet's nest as a chair, in your present feckless state. the only chance for us is to bundle you out-of-doors. i'd do it myself if i was a bit bigger. dear, dear! it's a puzzle to me to know how the first man could grow a rib decent enough to make a woman out of. such poor, shiftless mortals as you are--cannot sit still a minute--unless there happens to be real work for you to do----" "i'll put on my hat, i think," murmured griff, swept towards the door by the speed of the little woman's utterances. when he got out-of-doors, and had time to collect his thoughts, he remembered that gabriel hirst was to be married that morning. he had been anxious to put in an appearance and give his friend a good handshake at the chapel door, but kate's illness had driven the matter clean out of his mind. he set off now by the short cut to ling crag, past smithbank and the foot of hazel dene. the village was all astir, and he found the little chapel full to the doors when he reached it. they made way for him instinctively, partly from sympathy with his recent trouble, partly through a feeling that the preacher's best friend ought not to have to stand outside the door while his marriage-service was being read. the ceremony was half through when griff finally squeezed himself into a corner at the back of the chapel. a flood of confused thoughts came to him, dizzying his brain--remembrance of the time when he had stood at the altar with kate--his mother's death--the ever-present anxiety about his wife. it was over at last. griff hurried forward, and took a hand of each as they came out on to the prim little pavement of the chapel graveyard. "good luck to you both," he murmured. "we owe it to you a good deal, i fancy," said greta, with pretty friendliness. "that we do!" cried the preacher. "if it hadn't been for the quarrel, griff, i should never have found heart to ask greta to marry me. and if it hadn't been for the fight round the peat-stack, i should never have known what it was to feel the use of my arms. man, it was worth living for, that fight!" "that is not nice of you, gabriel," laughed the girl, softly; "you have something more important to live for now." but it was clear that she was far from disapproving of this new phase in her husband's character. "we shall make a pagan of you yet, old fellow. good-bye, good-bye." and griff, with many final handshakes, was off across the moor to gorsthwaite, running hard in his anxiety to hear the latest news of kate. the doctor was coming down the stairs as griff opened the front door. "well?" he cried, forgetting altogether, in his eagerness, to regulate his voice properly. the old doctor had been present at such scenes often enough, but he had never felt an equal desire to turn tail and give necessity the slip. he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose; then he fidgeted with the buttons of his rough tweed coat--thinking all the while that it would have been a trifle easier in the telling if he had had the pluck to give griff a plainer hint months ago. finally, he looked up with a kind of desperation in his eyes. "your wife is dead," he answered, in a harsh, grating voice. griff put his hand to his forehead and stood there for a moment; the blood rushed to his face, and ebbed away again, as quickly as if some one had struck him. "wait a moment, doctor," he said, after a while; "do you know just what that means? you ought to be very sure----" "she is dead, griff; i'm not going to lie to you." not a word said griff, but set his feet on the stairs, and began to mount them slowly. the doctor followed, put a hand on his shoulder, and led him down again to the hall. "not just yet, lad. when people die in great pain, it is not good to--can you understand me?--i want you to say good-bye to a calm face, griff." "yes, yes. she was very beautiful, doctor, wasn't she? too beautiful, i fancy; i should have reckoned on that." his dull, passionless voice jarred on the old man terribly. "see, lad, you must pull yourself together. the child is alive; keep up heart for the bairn's sake." "the child? what do i want with the child? it is kate i want." "a boy, too--you always wanted a boy, you know," went on the other, not heeding griff's fretful interruption. the door stood open, and griff, looking out across the moor, saw the crimson sun sinking into a grey bank of haze. "we shall have snow to-night," he said, and glanced at the doctor as if prepared to meet dissent with argument. "yes, i fancy we shall--a heavy fall, too." griff straightened his shoulders presently, and held out his hand. "you've done your best, doctor, and i thank you for it. i can't get used to the idea just at once; perhaps--if you left me to think it out a bit--i might get the hang of things better." "god forgive me!" muttered the doctor, as he went out; "it is only staving off utter hopelessness for the lad. the child is as good as dead; it may live a day or two--a week, perhaps--it would have been better if it had never lived at all. lord, lord, what a mess life makes of itself!" without, gorsthwaite showed itself in touch with the black weather. a sullen frost had hold of the land, and the stained old walls answered the sky with frown for frown. the plover wheeled ceaselessly about the chimney-stacks, and the voice of the damned rang dryly through their sable throats. within, the rooms were darkened, and the oaken panels creaked at the burden of their own sad thoughts. the mistress had been taken to her rest, and the master was battling for his reason, with a face that aped the stones which shut him in. all that he had in him of dogged resistance was pushing its way to the front: one blow had followed another, and the end, perhaps, was not yet--but he would fight till his own end came. he got up from the bed where she had died, and moved stiffly up and down the room. he thought of the child, and forced himself to recall, one by one, the goodly plans he had framed for him. yes, he should grow up strong--a lomax to the backbone--he should take his fill of life, and help his father to live again in watching him. steady! the boy would have need of his father, as his father had of him: there must be no knuckling under to circumstance now. on a sudden the child began to cry most piteously, disturbing his father's gaining resolution. griff's thoughts wandered out again to that ice-bound moorland graveyard, where kate was lying in the cold. it was surely a monstrous unfairness that she had died to give the boy his taste of life--that she must evermore lie naked and friendless, while he would some day eat and drink in the lusty fulness of his manhood. but where did such thoughts carry him? into the tangled places of shade, where neither hope nor light could show themselves. he fought them back, time after time, and slowly won his way to calm. by sheer strength of will he set his baby on the heights where its mother had had her dwelling, and fell down and worshipped the rising dawn now that the older day had set. and all the while, the child within sent up its piteous cries. and all the while, the plovers, wheeling round the chimney-stacks, ceased not to wail, and screech, and whimper. and night settled dumbly over the silent heather places. chapter xxviii. janet. they talk yet of that winter in marshcotes parish. some recall it for its twelve weeks of frost, others for the depth of snow that covered all but the tallest tombstones in the cemetery for a week and a day; but one and all remember the bitter night that heralded the storm, because of a deed which the snow did its best to hide. at four of the afternoon the sun went down behind the surly spur of moor that guarded the western side of frender's folly. a black frost had made iron of the marshy ground, and glass of the sullen lake. all was bitter and dark, and the folly walls seemed one with the gloom about them. the sky was a dead, expressionless grey. then, on a sudden, yellowish banks of cloud crept up from the moor-edge, as though puffed by a noiseless wind. the grouse ceased their complaining, the curlews dropped earthward. one by one the snowflakes floated out of the cheerless sky, like tears from a frozen heart; one by one they clung to the heather sprays, blackening their murky green by contrast, or nestled in he clefts of their stalks. and every flake might have been a ghost, so subtle and lonely and sad was its wandering fall. white of snow, black of night--there was nothing over all the moor but these. the guests at the folly, while they were dressing for dinner, peeped out from under their blinds and saw the snowflakes silting against the window-panes. they shrugged their shoulders at the lunacy that had brought them here in winter weather, and went downstairs resolved to make the best of a bad business. laverack, feeling that he would have much to answer for if the snow should fasten them up in the house, exerted himself to keep the ball rolling. laughter and jest increased apace, till janet, facing her father from the opposite end of the table, thought she must surely go mad. her mind was made up, and she feared lest the storm should render it impossible to cross the moor that night--feared lest some cause from within should detain her--feared, finally, lest the dinner should never end. when they had gained the drawing-room, and the men below had grown noisily insistent on their freedom, janet slipped to the side of the lady-companion who helped her to do the honours of the house. "look after these people, will you?" she said. "i have an atrocious headache, and i can't bear their foolishness." "really, my dear, you sound quite vindictive. i am sorry you are so unwell; shall i send your maid up with some tea?" "please don't. i would rather be left alone till to-morrow; talk and fuss jar on me so when i am like this. you will explain to every one? i mean to slip away quietly." a moment later she was speeding along the corridor that led to her bedroom. she panted with excitement, with dread of frustration at this eleventh hour; but her mouth was firm, and her eyes resolute. "what it is to have to lie! i _hate_ it," she muttered. "only, i had to. what will leo say, even if i do reach him safely?" she added, with a disturbed wrinkling of her forehead. she put on a cloak, and drew the pretty frilled hood over her head; then waited till she heard the men come up, and the drawing-room door close on the last of them. she went softly out by the side door, cutting short the growl of a chained-up mastiff by telling him who she was. then across the whitened lawn, and up the rise till the open moor was gained--a slender, girlish figure, flitting shadow-like amongst the silent flakes. her heart failed her as she reached the top; she seemed to be the sport of the storm-elves, and there was no living thing to help her to battle with the loneliness. she tried to sing, that so she might trick herself into the thought that she had company; but her voice was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and it sank affrighted by its own power to people the stillness with re-echoing cries. her knees shook under her, and the bridle track showed dimly--more dimly, it seemed, with each succeeding step. not till now had she understood what was meant by her foolhardy resolve to cross the five miles of desolation that lay between herself and wynyates. at the end of a mile, just after she had turned into the cart-road that ran past lawfoot water, she clashed against some one walking in the opposite direction. "beg pardon," said a gruff voice. "i didn't fancy there'd be more nor one fooil abroad to-neet." at any other time the girl would have been frightened out of her senses; but the voice rang honest, and any human company was better than that awful silence which had gone before. "stay!" she cried, as the stranger was about to pass on. "where are you going?" the man slewed round on his heels and began to make a queer cackling noise in his throat, suggestive of sour merriment. "to which i'd answer, who the devil may _ye_ be, an' what is't to ye where i'm wending? ye've a lass's voice, an' a snod sort of a figure, what i can see on't--but it beäts me to know what ye're after, scampering across th' moor at this time of a wild neet." "i want to get to wynyates, and you are going to show me the way." janet, fearless now, had come close up to her companion, and rested a hand on his sleeve. "begow, tha'rt a cool un!" he muttered, half admiringly. "but i can't do't; there's a wife an' three waiting at home, an' i mun put th' best foot forrard to reach 'em come ten o'clock." "i _must_ cross to wynyates, i tell you, and i'm afraid of losing my way if i go alone. can you find it with snow on the ground?" "well, i reckon i can. i've known it, man an' boy, these forty year." "if money will persuade you, you can take my purse and welcome. i don't know how much there is in it, but if it isn't enough----" "i don't want your money," growled the man. "i niver said a word to leäd ye to think i wanted that." "then you won't come?" she said impatiently. he shuffled from one foot to another, continued his growls in an undertone, and finally started off in the direction of wynyates. "ay, i'll come. ye may be up to no godliness, but ye've got some sperrit in ye--an' that's saying a deal for a woman. come on." as captain laverack was playing whist in the drawing-room, and inwardly reviling his partner's experimental style of play, the butler came behind his chair and asked for a word with him. "all right, denman; it will wait till we've finished our rubber, i suppose?" "it _will_ wait, sir, but----" laverack saw from the man's air that the matter was a grave one, and rose from the table as soon as the hand was played, leaving his place to a youngster who had been much more pleasantly employed at the piano. "well?" he demanded, standing just outside the door, which he had closed behind him. "it's about miss laverack, sir. she is not in her room, nor anywhere else in the house, that we can find. mrs. rigby, sir, was looking out of doors an hour or so ago, and she saw a figure in a cloak go past sultan's kennel." laverack wiped his forehead. "yes, yes; go on," he said irritably. "why didn't you tell me before?" "i've only just heard it, sir; and mrs. rigby didn't like to come and tell you, seeing that the figure was come and gone so quick that she had scarcely time to make sure of it. it was snowing, too, at the time." "did she recognize miss laverack?" "it was about her height and figure. besides, she stopped and patted sultan, and he left off growling at once. it must have been miss laverack, sir." laverack began to pace up and down the long corridor, talking to himself in his quick, nervous way. "i can't raise the alarm, because that would give the confounded girl away to every guest in the house. oh, damn it, why didn't i do as i intended to do at first, and leave here a week ago? it would have meant putting off the house-party, but anything would have been better. where does this fellow roddick live? wynyates, isn't it? five miles away, they tell me. she is sure to have gone there. well, i must get on to a horse, i suppose, and follow as fast as i can: it will be all up with janet if i don't bring her back to-night." he came opposite denman again, and the butler coughed apologetically-"have you any orders for me, sir?" "orders? yes; have the bay saddled, and waiting at the end of the drive in ten minutes. not a word of this, denman, to any one." it was not very long since rigby, whose fears on the point may be remembered, had been constrained to tell his wife of the disinterested part he was playing as messenger between miss laverack and mr. roddick of wynyates. and mrs. rigby, though pledged to absolute secrecy by all she held sacred in the world, had nevertheless been unable to refrain from repeating the story, in confidence, to her friend the cook. from the cook it had travelled round, still strictly in confidence, to the ears of denman, the butler; and denman, having lately endangered his comfortable post here by a rather glaring misdemeanour, promptly repeated what he had heard to his master, hoping by this means to re-establish his shaken credit. laverack, being a man who was not over-nice in his own methods, credited his keeper with like principles; and his certainty that rigby would spread the tale far and near, if dismissed, was his sole reason for keeping man and wife in his employ. poor rigby, whose only faults were an inordinate love of mystery and a tendency to give others the benefit of his experiences, had been almost heart-broken when he learned that it was all over with the meetings between roddick and janet. laverack had stormed and raved, and had with difficulty been persuaded to stay at the folly till the invited guests should have come and gone. even as it was, janet was never sure from day to day that he would not get rid of everyone on some excuse of sickness or bereavement; and she resolved to bring matters to a crisis before she was again dragged away from roddick. "by gad, what a night!" muttered laverack, as he went quietly out of the house and crossed to the bend of the drive where his horse was waiting for him. "why heaven gives a man daughters, heaven only knows. i shall be wet to the skin before i get back. cranshaw first, if that knave rigby told me right, and after that i must ask the way." chapter xxix. what the snowflakes fell upon. at four of the same afternoon, while the sun was setting redly into the snow-banks, griff lomax sat in the parlour of gorsthwaite, with his child's dead body on his knees. the grate was fireless, and the failing twilight left all but the table and a chair near the window in darkness. the two maid-servants, and simeon, the farm-man, moved uneasily about the kitchen, and asked one another in muffled tones how it was likely to fare with the master. early that morning the child had followed its mother, and griff, alone here in the parlour, was dumbly kicking against the pricks. one after another, all that he had in the world had gone into that shadowy beyond of which he had neither fear nor hope. on his knees lay the refutation of all the dreams he had cherished, the plans he had framed, for the future of another lomax who should carry down the name, who should add one more to the list of moor-men that had thriven under the old manor roof. from time to time he stroked the little cold body with his own cold hands, and laughed softly to himself: it seemed a hideous jest that this scrap of tissue, which would soon be worse than the earth that covered it, should have caused such fantasies. it was to have grown to a lusty manhood, and fought and loved and hated--and now--and now-such utter vacuum, of mind and purpose, could not go on. no man, with strength at his command, can see life for long as an empty mirror of his own emptiness. something must be done, was the thought that flashed into griff's mind. he got up from his chair and laid the body on it; then walked slowly up and down the darkened room, striking against the furniture, and feeling vaguely glad of the smarts. a cry broke from him. round and round his brain, in a dizzy, never-ending circle, ran those words of the doctor's-_it is all owing to that brute strangeways; he led her a dog's life for years._ the frightened servants, listening by the kitchen fire, heard the door of the parlour open with a clash. the master went heavily down the passage and out at the front door. there was work for him yet in the world. "poor lad!" murmured the cook, who was older than her master, and eager to mother him with her phrases. "poor lad, it fair goes to a body's heart to see th' way he's taking on." "he war bad enow when th' missus died; but it's nowt to what's ta'en him since," said the housemaid, with a tug at her apron-corner. "we've getten to dee, all on us. he mun grin an' bear it, same as other fowk do." but there was a huskiness in simeon's voice that belied his avowed philosophical outlook on the tragedy. one thought only held griff--that he must find his enemy and exact an eye for an eye, a death for a death. not a hint of carrying out a moral law, of ensuring justice where the law was powerless to demand it, lay at the bottom of his mind. such weak shifts for the excusing of his deed were foreign to all griff's ways: the splendid vengefulness of the savage was on him now, unspotted by weakness or self-questioning. instinct drove him back to the stables after he had traversed half a mile of the moor: he might have far to go in search of his quarry, and a horse would serve him better. the roads were bad enough for riding, but lassie was well-sharpened against the frost, and she was sure-footed. at any rate, his neck mattered little, so long as he could reach joe strangeways before it was broken. off they went, he and lassie, through the thickening snow to sorrowstones spring, where strangeways had come to live since the old witch's death. griff leaped from the mare's back and ran to the door. it was locked, and no trace of light showed through the unshuttered window on the left. he kicked at the door till the bottom panels gave way; then crept through the opening. but the cottage was empty. "where shall we go next, old girl?" he cried, with a hoarse laugh, as lassie turned her head at his approach. but lassie had no counsel to give, and his eyes went up to the line of sentinel stoups: the white under-part could not be seen, and each blackened tip seemed to hang, self-supported, in mid air. vague echoes of a sorrow spent long ago came to griff: the stoups seemed to speak to him in some sad, far-off way. perhaps they pointed the road he should go--at least he might try a mile or two of it, and gallop an inspiration into his musty brain. a marshcotes man, trudging lumpily down the hill, stopped in amazement as horse and rider clattered past him. "griff lummax, i'll warrant, though it's ower dark to be sartin sure. what's agate wi' th' lad, ony way?" he muttered. griff turned as soon as he gained the top of the hill. what fool's errand was this--riding straight to ludworth, when the man he sought was to be found either in cranshaw or marshcotes? he must go first to cranshaw, straight down the highroad, and search the inns there; then to marshcotes; and, if that failed, he would look in at jack o' ling crag's hostelry. joe strangeways, meanwhile, was drinking in the bar of the bull at marshcotes. he had failed in his quarry-business since his wife left him, and he laid the blame of this on griff. if, he reasoned, he had not been robbed of his one inducement to keep sober, he would have gone less on the drink; and if he had gone less on the drink, then he would have kept his quarries. he forgot how little influence of any kind kate had had over him; he grew to believe that she had been the pole-star of his life, and he thought with lachrymose tenderness of the cosy hearth that had once tempted him away from the bull. and now here he was, spending his last half-crown in the beer that had leagued with griff lomax to ruin him. "has tha heärd o' young lummax's trouble?" some one dropped to his neighbour. "ay; an' they say th' bairn is nobbut weakly like, an' noan like to live. it's been a sorry winter for young lummax, that it hes." "a sorry winter?" flashed joe from his corner. "it'll be a sorrier afore i've done wi' him." "we've heärd a like tale afore now, joe. happen tha's getten to think there's summat in it, same as a cock makes fine sense out on his crowing when he's been at it a bit." "thee bide, lad, thee nobbut bide." "we _hev_ bided--a seet o' months; an' nowt has come on 't yet, as i can see on." "tha's getten thy chance, if tha wants it," chimed in another. "i war coming ower th' ludworth road a while back, an' just by sorrowstones spring a horse comes racketting by me. it war main dark, save for a kind o' glint on th' snaw, but i knew who th' rider war: he war tearing along fair as if owd nick hed hold on his coat-tails, an' there's none hereabouts, saving griff lummax, what flies about at that fooil's pace. he war off to ludworth, likely, an' tha'll be i' nice time to meet him as he comes back." joe looked savagely from one to another. "ye think yourselns a fearful clever lot, doan't ye? i'll show ye--ay, th' whole damned lot on ye--whether i'm talking straight or no. gie us a crowbar, i'stead o' sitting there like grinning gawks, an' let me be off about my business." a shout of laughter went up as one of the company dived into his tool-bag, and, fetching out a neat little two-foot crowbar, handed the weapon to joe with a face of great solemnity. joe seized it and lurched out into the passage, muttering as he went. "he'll be back afore long. a rare old wind-bag is joe," laughed the owner of the crowbar. and they all fell to at their mugs again, waiting for the fun that was in store, when joe should return, shambling and shamefaced, for another pint of beer. but joe, in his own way, was as desperate as griff. he was a beggar, and likely to remain so; his body was a worn-out machine, and work of any kind seemed little short of torture. and then he had nursed that feud of his till it had grown into a mania. the fight on the moor came to him to-night--the fight in which he had had his knife close at griff's throat. there should be no mistake this time. and so, while the snow fell ever thicker, these two, lomax and strangeways, went hither and thither across the moor, one in search of the other. only the tallest heather-plants kept their heads above ground, and even they were bound to go under soon. nothing stirred but the flakes, and these had a ghastly dumbness. joe came to sorrowstones spring at last, and cowered under the highroad wall, a field's-length off from his cottage. "hell alive, it's fit to rot a man's heart in his body, is wark on a neet like this!" he muttered. "if he'd nobbut come afore my fingers are stark an' stiff!" he handled the crowbar lovingly, and began to talk to it. first he confided to it what he was set on doing, and then, as the waiting grew more tedious, he told it all that had gone before--dilating on kate's beauty, their happiness before griff came to spoil it, his lonely after-life, with only drink to sweeten it. and to all this the slim, two-foot crowbar listened patiently; but it was cold in his grasp when he began, and cold when his story was done. it seemed callous to all claims of sympathy. the cold and the beer between them sent joe off into a fit of dizziness. he leaned hard against the wall to recover himself, and laughed thickly to the little iron bar. "it's gooid hot blood we want, my beauty, thee an' me--thee to warm thy heart, an' me to warm my belly. well, lass, we'll bide a bit longer; he can't be such a fearful while i' coming now.--what's that?" away up the road, far beyond the last of the stoups that could be seen from sorrowstones, there sounded a faint _pit-pat_. on it came--_pit-pat, pit-pat_--the muffled beat of hoofs, striking through the snow to the frozen underground. joe moved from his sheltering wall. his sickness was forgotten, his crowbar passively awaited commands. out of the whirling whiteness came a man and a horse, creeping warily down the steepest bit of the hill. the road ran between high banks of ling and bents, and on the right bank the quarrymaster waited. nearer and nearer came the two figures; they moved from side to side of the road, to lessen the steepness of the descent, until at last they passed close to where strangeways was cowering in the snow. like a flash joe sprang at his victim, and brought the crowbar down on his skull. the rider's shoulders dropped forward, his head lying heavy between them. the horse, not counting on this sudden slackening of the reins, lost his footing, and came heavily to ground, his fore-feet doubled under him. his master flew out of the saddle, and lay, a shapeless heap, in the middle of the road. the horse had broken both knees, and was crying piteously; but strangeways never so much as heard it. he went to the dead man's body, and sat on his upturned breast. into his brain stole the words of a grim jest that a comrade had passed with him not many days before. "thy next suit will be thy coffin; thy next suit will be thy coffin, griff! griff, lad, i've getten thee at last; bide still an' wait for thy shroud." he paused to chuckle at the flavour of his little phrase, then repeated it again and again. "thy next suit will be thy coffin." after a while he found his seat a hard one, and knelt in the snow to see what it was that inconvenienced him. he felt in the man's breast-pocket, and brought out a large brandy-flask, three-parts full. "strong, by god! it'll be a merry neet an' a warm now," he laughed, as he reseated himself on the corpse, after an experimental pull at the flask. "shut thy din, wilt 'a!" he cried to the horse, a moment later, as the poor brute shrieked in agony. then he turned to the brandy again, and drank it slowly, rocking himself to and fro on the body and setting to a kind of guttural chant his two-line hymn--"thy next suit--next suit--next suit--thy next suit will surely be thy coffin and a shroud--coffin and--coffin and--coffin and a shroud." gradually his eyelids fell upon his cheeks, tried to lift themselves, and failed. he rolled off into the snow, and clasped his victim tight in his arms, snoring with drunken noisiness. but the horse cried and whimpered, whimpered and cried, till the hurrying snowflakes seemed to be running this way and that in search of aid. up the highroad from cranshaw, griff and lassie were toiling heavily. they had had a hard cross-country night of it, and both were fagged out. "all right, lassie, all right, girl; just to sorrowstones spring, to see if he's back yet, and then home," murmured griff. he had stopped at every inn in marshcotes and cranshaw and ling crag, and only at the bull had he found news of strangeways. surely he must be home by this time. but lassie had her head low down and her ears set back; she was shivering from head to foot, for that cry of one of her own race had reached her long before griff was aware of it. every forward step made her more restive, till at last they reached the two black splashes on the snow. griff slid from the saddle, and stooped to examine the first splash. he found his father's foe, laverack, locked tight in the arms of the enemy he sought. into the gloom ahead, between the sentinel stoups, pointed a little, deep ravine, where the blood had melted the snow. he stood up and cursed the providence that had robbed him of his right of action. he turned joe's body over with his foot. the snoring, that had grown fainter and fainter, ceased altogether; a dull kind of grunt was joe's only acknowledgment of the attention. "you hog! why aren't you fit to stand on your legs and fight me?" cried griff. he halted awhile, his hands going nervously to and fro above the body. "no, i can't do it," he muttered dully, and went to that other patch of black. in a trice his sympathies were awake, though they had seemed stone dead a moment ago. he knelt beside the quivering beast, and his tears dropped hot on the sweating coat. "they needn't have mixed _you_ up with our quarrels," he said softly. he felt the broken limbs, and saw that there was only one thing to be done. but how to do it? he looked at the crowbar lying in the snow at his feet; that was useless. then he bethought him of the cottage, and ran hot-foot to see if strangeways had left a gun about. he crept through the broken panels again, felt round the room till his hands fell on a tinder-box, and lit a rushlight that stood on the chimney-piece. a cumbersome muzzle-loader lay in one corner--the same corner in which mother strangeways' bed had stood that night when she called him in out of the storm. he took up the gun, found it loaded and primed, and went back to the highroad. "there will be a row soon, old lady. i'd better fasten you up," he said quietly, as he hitched lassie's reins to the gate-post. he put the gun-muzzle close to the ear of the horse lying on the ground, and pulled the trigger. "god forgive me!" he muttered. "i had it in mind to kill a man just now--but a horse----" he went to the two men lying a little further down the hill. laverack's heart made no response to the hand that was laid on it, and the snow lay unmelted on joe's set lips. "come, lassie; it's home now," said griff, as he untethered the mare. chapter xxx. by way of wynyates. by the time that lassie had been put up in the stable, groomed, and fed, the snow had ceased, though the frost bit harder than ever. griff fastened the stable-door, and moved irresolutely towards the house. then he remembered what was inside, on the seat in the parlour where he had laid it. the bairn, indeed, was lying on a bed upstairs, washed and laid out by the women-folk; but to griff's fancy it was still in the chair, and he shrank from the thought of entering. out there in the cold he stood and tried to feel, and wondered at the hideous blank that stretched on, on before him, characterless as the even plain of snow to north and south and east and west of this mid-moor house. he cried aloud in his desolation, and hard on the heels of the need to voice his trouble came the need for fellowship. he must have touch of human sympathy; that was the one thing needful, the one thing vital. then, slowly, he began to think of the preacher, of greta, of leo roddick. and roddick seemed the strongest of them all, the fittest to give him help. yes; he would hurry across to wynyates. old roddick was never the man to mind being knocked up in the middle of the night, if there were need for it. and god knew there _was_ need for it now; he must save his reason, since all else had gone by the board. the snow was crisping under the frost fingers, and the stars shone clear. he tried not to let the quick motion, the keen air, bring back his scattered impressions of all that had happened during the past few days. when a memory cut at his heart, he walked faster, thinking to drive it out; when the memory returned, he quickened to a run, as if to dodge it by flight. he reached wynyates at last, and pounded at the door with his fists. from within sounded a low cry, in a woman's voice, and the patter of feet across the hall. "is that you, leo?" said the voice. "dear, i have waited so long for you." the door was opened, and on the threshold stood janet laverack, never doubting but that it was roddick who waited on the other side. she was dressed as she had been for dinner that night at the folly; but she had taken off her sodden shoes and stockings, and her little white feet peeped out from a pair of roddick's old slippers, absurdly too large for her. the bottom of her skirt, too, was grievously bedrabbled. griff stepped into the light. "i am roddick's friend," he said vaguely. the girl looked and looked at him. he would have been an alarming object enough in broad daylight, and with help to be had for the asking; but to-night he showed ghastly, dishevelled as he was, his clothes steaming like a moor fog now that he had come into the warmth. janet, however, knowing that she must face the danger by aid of her wits alone, neither screamed nor gave way. "who are you?" she asked in a low voice. "griff lomax. i--i came to ask roddick's help. isn't he at home?" a curious half-smile played about the girl's lips. "_i_ came to ask his help, too; so we are friends so far. i know you well by name. you have had trouble lately?" griff went light-headed for a moment. the oak panelling of the hall circled round him; he lifted his eyes to the girl's to steady himself. "trouble?" he repeated, with an empty laugh. "oh, nothing to speak of--wife and child left me for good, that is all--died, you know----" "come and sit down here; you are not yourself," said the girl, peremptorily. the last of her fear had vanished at sight of his helplessness, and she was feeling that same need for action which had weighed so heavily on griff a while ago. he dropped obediently into the armchair. "when did you last have food?" went on janet. "i--i forget. some time this morning, i believe--just before the child died." she went off to the pantry without another word, and brought out cold beef and bread. a bottle of whisky was standing on the sideboard, and she poured him out a liberal allowance. "now, eat and drink. it was high time you sought some one who could look after you." griff shook his head. "i can't," he muttered obstinately. "you shall," she answered quietly, putting a plate on his knee, and the tumbler on the hob beside him. again he succumbed to the stronger will, and did as he was bid. his appetite grew with each mouthful, and he passed his plate for more when he had finished. and after that he mechanically pulled out his pipe, filled and lit it. "there!" said janet, approvingly. "smoke away, and tell me all about it." griff almost smiled at her quaint, elderly air. it seemed very much like a dream, all this; and easily as in a dream he found himself telling janet all that had happened. she was quiet for a little after he had finished; then-"we were talking about you, leo and i, not long ago. he told me of your wife's death, and i was, oh, so sorry for you, though i had never even seen you. only, i can guess what the feeling must be. if leo were to die, i think i should just stop living and have done with it." she was craftily drawing him away from his own trouble, and into hers. "you won't think it odd of me to be talking to you like this? because, you see, leo tells me you know all our story." "how do you come to be here?" said griff, abruptly. "i couldn't bear it any longer, so i came; that's why. and leo was--was _a brute_ to me. that is why i hadn't the heart to be afraid of you when you came." "a brute? how do you mean?" "he talked of my sacrificing myself, and he lectured me, just as if i had been a silly school-girl, following the first romantic notion she had got into her head. if leo _could_ have killed my love, he would have done it long ago: he shocks and hurts me when he is angry. poor old boy!" she broke off suddenly. "he is doing more for that--that woman, than i would ever do. and here am i blaming him for being a brute." "which woman?" asked griff, who was still struggling with his faculties. "the woman who calls herself his wife. the nurse sent across, soon after i came, to say that she was unmanageable, and leo went with her. i expect him home every minute. i want him back, too, though i know he will be angrier than ever with me; he always is after these struggles. it costs him so much not to let her die at these times." "did roddick allow you to stay here?" this was another of griff's childishly direct questions. he had got a little away from his own worries, and was growing responsive to the interest in his friend's situation. somewhere, too deep down to be brought to the surface as yet, was a feeling that a certain plan, if he could once hit on it, would give all three of them relief. "he had to. there could be no question of my returning across the moors, so he was going to sit up here all night, leaving his room to me. he had packed me off to bed a moment before the nurse came, but i listened at the head of the stairs and slipped down when he had gone, to see that everything was nice and warm for him on his return." "just as kate used to do, just as kate used to do for me," muttered griff. "but it will all have to be fought out again to-morrow," the girl went on. "and father will guess where i am and fetch me, when they find out in the morning that i have run away; and that will be the end of it, if leo won't let me be strong, instead of just good in a worldly way." she felt, somehow, that this shaggy, unkempt man was rather on the plane of the animals, to whom we talk freely of the things that lie nearest our hearts. she was already losing sight of the bitter personal grief that had brought him here. griff remembered that her father could never in this world come to fetch her; but that seemed a matter of lighter moment, and he waited to hear more from her. that fugitive idea was taking more definite shape in his brain. "do you think we ought to wait, year after year, till my hair is grey, and my face wrinkled, and i'm too unspeakably hideous to give him a moment's pleasure?" demanded the girl, after a reflective pause. she leaned forward eagerly for his answer. "no, i don't," said griff, with sudden energy. "take your chance while you have it, and thank the lord for every scrap of happiness you snatch out of the fire." "ah, i thought you would be on my side. will you tell leo that? will you help me to show him that waiting is the only real sacrifice? it is only me he thinks of, you know, all through, and that makes it all the harder to bear when i know how blind he is to my needs." that nascent idea leaped in griff's brain. "i can help you to more than that, if once i see my way clear," he said. she looked doubtfully at him, fearing a return of his first distraught condition. but his mouth was firm, his eyes bright. "i don't understand you," she murmured. "i don't understand myself yet. give me time.--there's roddick. shall i let him in?" he broke off, as a strong hand was laid on the outer door. she flushed a little. "no, i can't let you do that. it is my privilege." griff, sitting quietly by the fire, knew that she was lying in roddick's arms out there, and for a moment he grudged them their partial happiness. then he smiled gravely, and tried to understand how he might help these two. if only he could find a deed of real charity to do, he might yet win peace for himself. in the midst of his pondering, roddick stamped across the hall and into the parlour. "so you're here," he began, with more than his usual gruffness. but he stopped at sight of his friend's face. "old man, what has happened to you? you look like a corpse, and your clothes are dripping wet!" "i came to talk things over with you, and found miss laverack here instead. she has done me a world of good," said griff, simply. "she ought never to have been out of bed at this time. janet, off you go. lomax and i will make an all-night sitting of it, and thrash our troubles out together." she came and gave griff her hand, smiling at him with royal friendliness. "good night," she whispered. "try to make the best of it." then, turning before she had got half across the room, "leo, can't you give your friend a change? i ought to have thought of it sooner. he will catch his death of cold." "i won't bother. i'm used to getting wet through." "yes, you will bother," put in roddick. "upstairs you come, and put dry things on at once. janet, can you wait down here a little? we shan't be long." when at last they were alone together, roddick drew griff on to talk of his troubles, and afterwards--just as janet had done, but with less of self in his motive--he tried to beguile him with details of his own sufferings. "this place goes by the name of wynyates--'gates of the wind,' it means, they tell me; and, god, i can well believe it! they couldn't have hit on a better name. half a mile north lives a woman i go out of my way to take care of, lest she should give me my liberty; five miles to the other side janet lives. a cold blast and a warm wind screech and whimper, day and night, round wynyates. they seem to blow clean through me, lomax; but i daren't evade them. it gets on the nerves in time," he finished, tranquilly. griff sat up in his chair and glared across the hearth. "you're an immaculate fool, roddick. every time you save your wife, conscience or no conscience, you stab the woman you are in love with.--was she bad to-night?" "worse than i've seen her yet. the poor devil of a nurse is half-killed with the work. she said i could leave her for the rest of the night; but i shouldn't have done if janet had not been here. i expect to have the nurse on my hands next. then there's janet; how am i going to steer her through the pretty mess she has got herself into?" griff had got hold of the right end of his idea now. "tell me more about your wife," he said eagerly. "where does she live?" "at a cottage called bents foot, half a mile further up the hill. you seem interested in the woman; are you thinking of dropping a piece of paste-board on her?" snapped roddick, with bitter levity. "you're sure you can't get a divorce?" went on griff, with the same eager persistence. "no, i tell you!" the other gave vent to a sigh that was oddly suggestive of relief. "she can live any length of time, can't she?" "heaven only knows. years ago she ought to have died; years ahead she may be living. and meanwhile my little darling is killing herself by inches." again that quick, sharp sigh from griff. "killing herself by inches?" he repeated. "yes, damn you! why play the parrot to a beggarly statement of fact?" griff threw a couple of peats on a fire that needed no replenishing. "well," he said, settling back into his seat, "let us put away our worries, old man; we're getting morbid. perhaps a talk about old times will do us good." roddick failed to notice a something that lay very near to the surface of the other's apparent carelessness; after chatting of this and that, he began to nod, then to doze; until finally he was sleeping as soundly as if there were no perplexities to be faced on the morrow. but griff had no inclination to sleep. he sat there, watching now the live peats, now his friend's face. as the dawn crept white over the white snow, he went quickly from the house towards a cottage called bents foot. chapter xxxi. the moor man goes out to his own. at the top of the rise that overlooked wynyates, the chimney-stack of bents foot stood out, black and rigid as a funeral mute, against the grey-white of the sky. griff plodded his way through the snow, till he stood at the cottage window. a figure was standing inside, its queer, distorted face pressed close against the glass. he motioned towards the door, and the figure fell back a little, so that he could no longer see anything more than a faint shadow moving up and down in the twilight of the room. he tried the door, and found it locked, as he had expected. but he felt no impatience; he only stood and looked out over the snow-sea, wondering at his calm and thinking it sanity. after awhile he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. roddick's wife crept out, and came and peered into his face. "what do you want? have you come to take me to leo?" she mumbled. "no." "then you can go away. i must find him myself." she, too, looked across the waste of snow, and shivered. "it's only a little way off, but the road is hid. i might fall in the snow and die; and leo, for all his rough ways, would break his heart if he lost me." she was in one of her cringeing moods; her words came ramblingly, and dropped with the helpless fall of a withered leaf. "he'd break his heart if he lost me," she wailed. "so he would," said griff, with equal gravity. "wait till he comes for you. i'll stay with you, if you'll give me something to drink." her eyes brightened as she clutched at his arm. "drink? how can i give you drink, when he--he, and she, the woman in there--lock it all up out of reach?" "we can soon alter that. what's the nurse doing?" she rubbed her hands together and chuckled softly. "fast asleep. after leo went, her eyes were too tired to keep open. it isn't often _she_ goes to sleep." griff followed her into the room, through the window of which he had first seen her. the nurse was half-sitting, half-lying in a long cane-chair near the fireplace. the peats were smouldering dully in the grate. roddick's wife pointed across at her, but would not go near; when her quieter fits were on, she dreaded the great, raw-boned woman in the chair, who helped leo to keep the drink from her. "it's all in here," she whispered, scratching at the door of a cupboard just above her head. "the key is in her pocket." with the deftness of a pickpocket griff felt for the key and took it out. he unlocked the cupboard, and crossed over to the window. "take what you want," he said. the mad woman peered into the cupboard, uttering little screams of delight. she ran her hand caressingly along the bottles. the nurse moved in her sleep, then opened her eyes. "it's all right," murmured griff; "i am looking after her." "mind you do. it's death if she touches a drop to-day," said the nurse, drowsily, and closed her eyes again. when griff came out into the road again, the sun was sparkling on the frozen snow. the strain of his great endeavour was not past yet; his face showed strong, his mind was clear. he was thinking--not of what he had done, but of the happiness he had secured for two of his friends. it seemed almost better than if he had won happiness for himself. the glow of a fine altruism lit up his eyes. he walked quickly down till he came opposite wynyates hall, and turned as if to go through the garden gate. but he thought better of it. "good news is better for the keeping; i will wait a while," he said to himself softly. then he fell to wondering what the old home looked like, and a yearning to see it again took hold of him. he went down the hill, and up the other side, and on until he gained ling crag. as he passed gabriel hirst's house, the preacher was standing in the doorway, kissing greta good-bye before he went out. griff smiled in a fatherly way, and called to gabriel by name. "what, you?" cried the preacher, hastening across the newly-swept flagstones to the gate. greta followed him, and they stood there, staring at griff's dishevelled hair and happy face. "you mean to make a honeymoon of your whole lives, you two?" said griff. the preacher's hand went out to him. "i've lived a life of fear, griff--constant fear. and now i'm free at last; free to look the sun in the face, and hob-nob with the wind, and feel that god's strength is his mercy, too. there is none like greta." "except gabriel," whispered the lass. but the laugh died on her lips, for she remembered the man's troubles. "what can any one say to help you?" she asked simply. "help? i don't need help. all's for the best in the long run. god bless you both! good-bye." "but, man----" began gabriel. his friend did not hear--or, hearing, disregarded it. he swung out along the road to marshcotes. greta looked after him, and shook her head. "he is not in his senses, gabriel." "likely not, poor chap. he's had enough to turn any man's head. but i never dreamed it would take him like this--he might be off to his wedding. greta, lass, you must never leave me as griff's wife left him." instinctively his arms went round her--to protect her even against god; and old jose binns, coming round at that moment from the lathe, set his mouth to a cynical shape. "kissing an' cuddling," muttered joe. "nay, there's no mak o' gooid can come o' yon." the hard weather had driven grouse and plover alike to tameness. they walked up and down the streets of marshcotes, and perched on the window-sills in search of crumbs, and looked at passers-by in the light of old foes turned allies. a mirthless old cock grouse, and a drabbled hen, sat on the manor wall as griff came up, and made their plaints to him; but the cock-bird's call had none of that noisy self-assurance about it which had startled griff many a time in the darkness of the moors. the same tenderness that had prompted his pity for laverack's horse bade him go to the baker's at the corner and buy a quartern loaf. he took the bread with him into the manor garden and crumbled it on the doorstep. it was an act his father would have applauded, he thought. he stood for awhile, looking at the grey old walls with eyes that saw only the past. but the sharp stab of the present took him unawares, and blinded his eyes with tears. he turned, knowing himself for evermore an outcast. the reaction came on apace, as he crossed the churchyard and struck into the moor. he had an old man's look, an old man's droop of the shoulders. he began to mutter as he walked, in a disjointed, senile way. the clear conception of duty, the needlessness of self-excuse, were fast disappearing; he had to explain to himself _why_ his course had been the right one. "no one can say i have wasted my life now. but for me, she might have lived for years; and roddick and the girl would have grown old in misery. so easy, too: it wasn't as if i killed her; she did it herself. strange--to watch her drink and drink--her head falling lower--how could any sane man have stopped her? just a bit of filthy clay she was, standing between roddick and his heart's desire. roddick, old man, you are free of your love at last; may she stick to your side longer than---god, how still the moor is! why doesn't it blow and rain and hail, in the good moor way? nothing but snow, and snow on the top of that, with mile on mile of that devilish, everlasting sun-shimmer." he stopped and gazed fearfully across the waste. it seemed that even the moor-face, his friend, had hid itself in anger at his deed. he was homeless altogether. his hands clawed fitfully through the air. "what's that whisper going abroad? _murder._ no, no; merely a drinking bout, and a good riddance. i must be the first to tell roddick. it seems further to wynyates than it used to do." he crossed at the head of hazel dene, and the drone of the mill-wheel sounded below him. "they are grinding corn for bread down there," he said; then laughed at some odd side-shaft of incongruity that the thought suggested. he hurried on till he gained wynyates. one window of the parlour was open to the dry, sharp air, and he heard voices within. cautiously he crept under the window and raised his head a few inches above the sill. roddick was standing with his back to the window. facing him was janet, her eyes red with weeping, her whole body shaken with sobs. "listen, child," roddick was saying; "you must go back at once. i will walk home with you across the moor. come quickly, for god's sake! i am arguing against myself all the while, and i cannot hold out much longer. come!" he dropped her hands, and turned to the chair over which her cloak was hanging. he took the cloak and tried to place it round her shoulders. she struggled, threw it aside, put both hands about his neck. "leo, leo!" she sobbed; "i won't, i can't go back! i have eaten my heart out long enough. we have waited and waited, you and i, for that other woman to die, and we have done enough." a feeble chuckle came from without, but they did not hear it. "wait a little longer, sweetheart," roddick pleaded. his voice was strained and husky. "it cannot be for long. think of the future; suppose we went away together to-night, and she died to-morrow--should we ever forgive ourselves?" "yes, we should. it may be years yet--and meanwhile it is killing _us_. soon we shall be too old, too grey, too riven by the strain of it all. leo, darling, come away while we can!" she kissed him, wildly, beseechingly. for a moment he trembled, fell weak, all but gave in. but he was made of stubborn stuff; love was to conquer desire, so long as he had a trace of will-power left to him. the man outside, with his pale face peering above the window-ledge, forgot everything in the excitement of this terrible drama. mile on mile of desolate moor, and in the middle of it two people, a man and a woman, taking opposite sides in a conflict of honour; the man pleading for what he knew to be the woman's gain, and she pleading for a change of misery. not a hope of interruption; the battle to be fought out just by these two. the impartial moor was willing to show them a path of flight, if they needed it--or a way to honour, if so the issue ran. not a sound stirred; the wind and griff spoke not a word. "wait!" gasped roddick. "i have waited too long, too long," she wailed, with childish repetition. "leo, do you care for me so much, after all? you cannot, or you would not be hard like this." he made as if to kiss her, then drew back. he dared not risk it. "oh, hush, janet! you know i care for you. if i cared less, should i hesitate like this? you don't understand what you are asking me to do--you see only the first few steps." "no, i have set it all before me--all. i will risk it, leo." the man outside, seeing the girl's full beauty, the tearfulness of her entreaty, scrabbled with his finger-nails up and down the stone of the window-sill. "roddick, you fool," he gasped, "why don't you take love in your two hands while you have the chance! life is so damnably short--and liable to accident--yes, accidents--the girl mayn't live. oh, you unutterable fool, why don't you take the bit between your teeth? cut and run; you told me to do as much once." but roddick was answering janet in the same tone of eager entreaty. and griff, forgetting his own feelings again, lost himself in the progress of the drama. "such a life, janet, would grind you into the dust. it is easy to say you will face it--now. but wherever we went, however we hid ourselves, some one would drive it home to us. they would shatter your peace of mind, janet, and i should go mad for pity of what i had brought you to. come, little girl," he finished, with quiet decision. "i know you will trust me to do what is best." "bravo, roddick! a plucky fight you're making!" cried the man without, breathlessly. the intensity of his excitement hurt him. he wanted the scene to close now. roddick had taken the girl in his arms with his last words; he was whispering tender incoherencies to her, as one does to a frightened child. then he wrapped her, unresisting this time, in her cloak. the tears had dried in long stains down her white face, and she was gazing at him apprehensively. "leo." "yes, sweetheart?" "you are right, quite right, and i am wrong. it was wicked of me to come here and tempt you. only, you don't know how hard the home life is. others come and make love to me, leo, and it seems such an insult--to both of us. yet i can say nothing, do nothing. but i oughtn't to have tempted you. can you forgive me?" "forgive you? come along, little woman, and we won't talk about forgiveness till we have struck home across the moor; and then----" "and then, dear?" she asked wistfully. it seemed so cold, this homeward journey. "then _i_ shall plead for _your_ forgiveness. you must have thought me a brute, janet." the man outside the window breathed again. the play, to all intents and purposes, was finished. roddick had won, and there was only that twitching of the mouth to show how much it had cost him. griff lomax awoke to a sense of his own importance in the drama. he remembered that a certain disreputable waif-and-stray, with a shipwrecked heart and a partially deranged understanding, held the key of the situation. he went to the door, opened it without ceremony, and stepped into the room. roddick turned quickly on the intruder. janet cowered back against the window. "what do you want?" demanded roddick. the room was low and gloomy, and he failed to recognize griff at a first glance. "don't you know me? i'm lomax," laughed the new-comer. roddick stood staring at him for awhile; then went up to him. "god in heaven, man! what have you been doing? last night you looked wild enough in all conscience, but now----" "doing?" interrupted griff. "something you will approve of, you two. i've tramped across the moor--and a pretty cold moor it is, by the way--to tell you that your wife is dead." they noticed nothing out of the way in his voice or manner of giving the information. the tidings were too great to allow room for any thought of the bearer's looks. "dead?" cried roddick. "yes, dead. i saw her not long ago." roddick fell back against the mantelpiece. a giddiness came over him. he could move neither hand nor foot, he could not speak, though he realized vaguely that he ought to shake his friend by the hand and give him hearty thanks. but janet made ample atonement for his remissness. she fell at griff's feet, and kissed his hands, and named him the dearest man in the world. she was beside herself with joy; she scarcely knew what she was doing. griff raised the girl and gravely put her away from him. "i killed her," he said, quietly. roddick stared at him from his place against the mantel-shelf. he had had a stiff fight with conscience not long ago, and the pace of these new developments was altogether too fast for him. janet shuddered, and put the width of the room between herself and the man whom she had lately named a saviour. "you--killed--her?" she whispered. "yes. don't look at me like that. it is a mere nothing." his manner was growing wild. he laughed causelessly at intervals, and seemed to think his story rather humorous than otherwise. "i came last night, you remember, to see if old roddick here could help me. i was going mad for want of a purpose. i felt like a derelict ship that has been tossing about aimlessly, day after day, week after week. i was willing to give anything to the man who would fit me out with sails and a rudder. well, i found you, instead of roddick, and you stood me a true friend--told me there was a woman to be killed--fitted a purpose to my hand at once. god bless you both!" he ceased. down the side of roddick's nose a ridiculous tear was creeping, but griff smiled, with a sort of paternal tenderness, on the two people for whom he had lately performed a trifling service. "old man!" cried roddick. his voice was a woman's, inaudible almost in its desperate pity. "don't trouble about that," put in the other briskly, as if in answer to unspoken words of gratitude. "the least said, the soonest mended. you want to thank me, i know, and talk nonsense generally. i won't have it. why, man, it's the easiest thing i ever did in my life!" on the sudden his face fell. he gibbered dumbly, like some voiceless ghost. "the moor, the moor," he whispered at last. "how still and white it is. it's not the moor i have known--not the moor i have loved my life through--it seems to shudder." still roddick watched him. he could not break through the miserable, obstinate silence that hid his sympathy. reason came back to griff's face, and firmness to his voice. "there are two pictures in my studio at gorsthwaite. i seem to care so little for that sort of thing now, but i know they are good. will you look after them, roddick, old man? send them out into the world; they are the best work i ever did--and kate lives in one of them." janet had forgotten griff while teaching herself to realize the glad news he had brought them. in the utter selfishness of her love, in the sudden lifting of a burden she had borne too long, she surrendered herself wholly to delight. her joy grew intolerable; she had to cry aloud. "leo, leo, you are mine, mine altogether!" she said, in a voice between laughter and tears. but roddick, thinking of his true friend in need, was silent. he turned his back on them, and leaned his forehead on the mantelshelf, and wondered what would be the end of it for lomax. and griff, meanwhile, passed quietly out into the stillness of the moor. the end. printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. transcribers' note italic text in the original is marked with _underscores_ bold text is marked with =equals= text in an alternate blackletter gothic font is marked with #hashes# a month in yorkshire. [illustration: yorkshire.] a month in yorkshire. by walter white, author of "a londoner's walk to the land's end," "all round the wrekin," and other books of travel. "know most of the rooms of thy native country, before thou goest over the threshold thereof; especially, seeing england presents thee with so many observables."--fuller. fourth edition. london: chapman and hall, 193, piccadilly. 1861. [_the right of translation is reserved._] by the same author. a londoner's walk to the land's end; and a trip to the scilly isles. _second edition._ on foot through tyrol. a july holiday in saxony, bohemia and silesia. northumberland and the border. _second edition._ all round the wrekin. _second edition._ foreword to the fourth edition. the first two editions of this work had not long been published when i was pelted with animadversions for the "scandalous misrepresentation" conveyed in my report of a conversation held with a villager at burnsall; which conversation may be read in the twenty-second chapter. my reply was, that i had set down less than was spoken--that i had brought no accusation, not having even mentioned the "innocent-looking country town" as situate in any one of the three ridings--that what i had seen, however, in some of the large towns, led me to infer that the imputation (if such it were) would hardly fail to apply; and, moreover, if the yorkshire conscience felt uneasy, was i to be held responsible? my explanation that the town in question was not in yorkshire, was treated as of none effect, and my censors rejoined in legal phrase, that i had no case. so i went about for awhile under a kind of suspicion, or as an unintentional martyr, until one day there met me two gentlemen from leeds, one of whom declared that he and others, jealous of their county's reputation, and doubting not to convict me of error, had made diligent inquiry and found to their discomfiture, that the assemblages implied in the villager's remark, did actually take place within yorkshire itself. the discovery is not one to be proud of; but, having been made, let the county strive to free itself from at least that reproach. another censurable matter was my word of warning against certain inns which had given me demonstration that their entertainment, regulated by a sliding scale, went up on the arrival of a stranger. yorkshire wrote a flat denial of the implication to my publishers, and inclosed a copy of what he called "his tariff," by way of proof, which would have been an effectual justification had my grievance been an invention; but, as it happened, the tariff presented testimony in my favour, by the difference between its prices and those which i had been required to pay. i only notice this incident because of the general question, in which all who travel are more or less interested. why should an englishman, accustomed to equitable dealings while staying at home, be required to submit so frequently to the reverse when journeying in his own country? shopkeepers are ready to sell socks, or saddles, or soap without an increase of price on the plea that they may never see you again, and without expecting you to fee their servants for placing the article before you; and why should innkeepers claim a privilege to do otherwise? the numerous complaints which every season's experience calls forth from tourists, imply a want of harmony between "travelling facilities" and the practice of licensed victuallers; and if english folk are to be persuaded to travel in their own country, the sooner the required harmony is established, the better. it would be very easy to exhibit a table of charges and fees by which a tourist might ascertain cost beforehand, and choose accordingly. holland is a notoriously dear and highly-taxed country, yet fivepence a day is all the charge that dutch innkeepers make for "attendance." in one instance the discussion took a humorous turn:--the name of a certain jovial host, with whom i had a talk in swaledale, appeared subscribed to a letter in the _richmond chronicle_, and as it furnishes us with a fresh specimen of local dialect, i take leave to quote a few passages therefrom. after expostulating with the editor for "prentan" a letter which somebody had written in his "neame," the writer says, "but between ye an' me, i believe this chap's been readin' a buke put out by yan white, 'at was trailin' about t' deales iv hay-time, an' afoare he set off to gang by t' butter-tubs to t' hawes, he ast me what publick-house he was to gang te, an' i tell't him t' white hart; an' becoz he mebby fand t' shot rayther bigger than a lik'd, he's gi'en t' landlord a wipe iv his buke aboot t' length of his bill, an' me aboot t' girth o' me body--pity but he'd summat better to rite aboot; but nivver heed, it nobbut shows 'at my meat agrees wi' me, an' 'at t' yal 'at i brew 's naythur sour ner wake, an' 'at i drink my shar' on't mysel: but if i leet on him, or can mak' oot t' chap 'at sent ye t' letter, i'll gi' 'em an on-be-thinkin." sheffield, too, has not yet ceased to reprove me for having published the obvious fact, that the town is frightfully smoky, and unclean in appearance and in its talk. if i were to make any alteration in this particular, it would be to give emphasis, not to lighten the description. a town which permits its trade to be coerced by ignorance, and where the ultimate argument of the working-classes is gunpowder or a knock on the head, should show that the best means have been taken to purify morals as well as the atmosphere and streets, before it claims to be "nothing like so bad as is represented." but, the proverb which declares that "people who eat garlic are always sure it doesn't smell," will perhaps never cease to be true. of the £14,000,000 worth of woollen and worsted goods exported in 1859, yorkshire supplied the largest portion; and still maintains its reputation for "crafty wit and shrinking cloth," as shewn by the increase in the manufacture of shoddy. one of the manufacturers at batley has made known in a printed pamphlet, that 50,000,000 pounds of rags are at the present time annually converted into various kinds of so-called woollen goods. we walk on shoddy as it covers our floors; and we wear shoddy in our stockings and under-garments, as well as in capes and overcoats. turning to mineral products, we find that in 1859, yorkshire raised 1,695,842 tons of ironstone, and 8,247,000 tons of coal, worth in round numbers £3,573,000. and with all this there is an increase in the means and results of education, and an abatement of pauperism: in 1820, the poor's-rate in hull was seven shillings and eightpence in the pound, in 1860, not more than eightpence. and to mention facts of another kind:--by the digging of a drain on marston moor, a heap of twenty-five or thirty skeletons was discovered, around which the clay retained the form of the bodies, like a mould; a bullet fell from one of the skulls, and in some the teeth were perfectly sound, 213 years after the battle. at malton, during a recent excavation of the main street, one hundred yards of the roman highway leading from derby to york were laid bare, three feet below the present surface. scarborough is building new batteries on her castled cliff, and replacing old guns by new ones; and hull is about to add to its resources by the construction of a new dock. the much-needed harbour of refuge is, however, not yet begun, as wrecks along the coast after easterly storms lamentably testify. this _month in yorkshire_ was the second of my books of home-travel; and it was while rambling along the cliffs and over the hills of the famous county, that i conceived it possible to interest others as well as myself in the past and the present, in the delightful natural aspects and the wonderful industry of our native country to a yet wider extent; and therein i have not been disappointed. to the objection that my works are useless as guide-books, i answer, that no intelligent reader will find it difficult to follow my route: distances are mentioned with sufficient accuracy, the length of my longest day's walk is recorded, whereby any one, who knows his own strength, may easily plan each day's journey in anticipation. by aid of the map which accompanies the present volume either planning or reference will now be facilitated. next to ourselves, there is perhaps nothing so interesting to us as our own country, which may be taken as a good reason why a book about england finds favour with readers. for my part let me repeat a passage from the foreword to the second edition:--"i know that i have an earnest love for my subject; feeling proud of the name of englishman, and the freedom of thought, speech, and action therein involved; loving our fields and lanes, our hills and moorlands, and the shores of our sea, and delighting much to wander among them. happy shall i be if i can inspire the reader with the like emotions." w. w _london, march, 1861._ contents. chapter i. page. a short chapter to begin with 1 chapter ii. estuary of the humber--sunk island--land _versus_ water--dutch phenomena--cleathorpes--grimsby--paul--river freaks--mud- stukeley and drayton--fluvial parliament--hull--the thieves' litany--docks and drainage--more dutch phenomena--the high church --thousands of piles--the citadel--the cemetery--a countryman's voyage to china--an aid to macadam 5 chapter iii. a railway trip--more land reclamation--hedon--historical recollections--burstwick--the earls of albemarle--keyingham--the duke of york--winestead--andrew marvell's birthplace--a glimpse of the patriot--patrington--a church to be proud of--the hildyard arms--feminine paper-hangers--walk to spurn--talk with a painter --welwick--yellow ochre and cleanliness--skeffling--humber bank- miles of mud--kilnsea--burstall garth--the greedy sea--the sandbank--a lost town, ravenser odd--a reminiscence from shakspeare--the spurn lighthouse--withernsea--owthorne--sister churches--the ghastly churchyard--a retort for a fool--a word for philologists 14 chapter iv. northern manners--cottingham--the romance of baynard castle- beverley--yorkshire dialect--the farmers' breakfast--glimpses of the town--antiquities and constables--the minster--yellow ochre- the percy shrine--the murdered earl--the costly funeral--the sisters' tomb--rhyming legend--the fridstool--the belfry 27 chapter v. a scotchman's observations--the prospect--the anatomy of beverley --historical associations--the brigantes--the druids--austin's stone--the saxons--coifi and paulinus--down with paganism--a great baptism--st. john of beverley--athelstan and brunanburgh--the sanctuary--the conqueror--archbishop thurstan's privileges--the sacrilegious mayor--battle of the standard--st. john's miracles- brigand burgesses--annual football--surrounding sites--watton and meaux--etymologies--king athelstan's charter 33 chapter vi. the great drain--the carrs--submerged forest--river hull--tickton --routh--tippling rustics--a cooler for combatants--the blind fiddler--the improvised song--the donkey races--specimens of yorkshiremen--good wages--a peep at cottage life--ways and means- a paragraph for bachelors--hornsea mere--the abbots' duel--hornsea church--the marine hotel 40 chapter vii. coast scenery--a waning mere, and wasting cliffs--the rain and the sea--encroachment prevented--economy of the hotel--a start on the sands--pleasure of walking--cure for a bad conscience--phenomena of the shore--curious forms in the cliffs--fossil remains--strange boulders--a villager's etymology--reminiscences of "bonypart" and paul jones--the last house--chalk and clay--bridlington--one of the gipseys--paul jones again--the sea-fight--a reminiscence of montgomery 48 chapter viii. what the boarding-house thought--landslips--yarborough house--the dane's dike--higher cliffs--the south landing--the flamborough fleet--ida, the flamebearer--a storm--a talk in a limekiln- flamborough fishermen--coffee before rum--no drunkards--a landlord's experiences--old-fashioned honesty 56 chapter ix. men's and women's wages--the signal tower--the passing fleet--the lighthouse--the inland view--cliff scenery--outstretching reefs- selwick's bay--down to the beach--aspect of the cliffs--the matron --lessons in pools--caverns--the king and queen--arched promontories--the north landing--the herring-fishers--pleasure parties--robin lyth's hole--kirk hole--view across little denmark --speeton--end of the chalk--walk to filey 60 chapter x. old and new filey--the ravine--filey brig--breaking waves--rugged cliffs--prochronic gravel--gristhorp bay--insulated column--lofty cliffs--fossil plants--red cliff--cayton bay--up to the road--bare prospect--cromwell hotel and oliver's mount--scarborough--the esplanade--watering-place phenomena--the cliff bridge--the museum --the spa--the old town--the harbour--the castle rock--the ancient keep--the prospect--reminiscences: of harold hardrada; of pembroke's siege; of the papists' surprise; of george fox; of robin hood--the one artilleryman--scarborough newspapers- cloughton--the village inn, and its guests--tudds and pooads 66 chapter xi. from cloughton to haiburn wyke--the embowered path--approach to the sea--rock, water, and foliage--heavy walking--staintondale cliffs--the undercliff--the peak--raven hall--robin hood's bay--a trespass--alum works--waterfalls--bay town--manners and customs of the natives--coal trade--the churchyard--epitaphs--black-a-moor- hawsker--vale of pickering--robin hood and little john's archery- whitby abbey--beautiful ruin--st. hilda, wilfrid, and coedmon- legends--a fallen tower--st. mary's church--whitby--the vale of esk--specimens of popular hymns 78 chapter xii. whitby's attractions--the pier--the river-mouth--the museum- saurians and ammonites--an enthusiastic botanist--jet in the cliffs, and in the workshop--jet carvers and polishers--jet ornaments--the quakers' meeting--a mechanics' institute--memorable names--a mooky miner--trip to grosmont--the basaltic dike- quarries and ironstone--thrifty cottagers--abbeys and hovels--a stingy landlord--egton bridge--eskdale woods--the beggar's bridge 89 chapter xiii. to upgang--enter cleveland--east row--the first alum-maker- sandsend--alum-works--the huge gap--hewing the alum shale- limestone nodules: mulgrave cement--swarms of fossils--burning the shale--volcanic phenomena--from fire to water--the cisterns- soaking and pumping--the evaporating pans--the crystallizing process--the roching casks--brilliant crystals--a chemical triumph --rough epsoms 97 chapter xiv. mulgrave park--giant wade--ubba's landing-place--the boggle boggarts--the fairy's chase--superstitions--the knight of the evil lake--lythe--st. oswald's church--goldsborough--kettleness--rugged cliffs and beach--runswick bay--hob-hole--cure for whooping-cough --jet diggers--runswick--hinderwell--horticultural ravine- staithes--a curious fishing-town--the black minstrels--a close neaved crowd--the cod and lobster--houses washed away--queer back premises--the termagants' duel--fisherman's talk--cobles and yawls--dutch and french poachers--tap-room talk--reminiscences of captain cook 104 chapter xv. last day by the sea--boulby--magnificent cliffs--lofthouse and zachary moore--the snake-killer--the wyvern--eh! packman- skinningrave--smugglers and privateers--the bruce's privileges- what the old chronicler says--story about a sea-man--the groaning creek--huntcliff nab--rosebury topping--saltburn--cormorant shooters--cunning seals--miles of sands--marske--a memorable grave --redcar--the estuary of tees--asylum harbour--recreations for visitors--william hutton's description--farewell to the sea 115 chapter xvi. leave redcar--a cricket-match--coatham--kirkleatham--the old hospital--the library--sir william turner's tomb--cook, omai, and banks--the hero of dettingen--yearby bank--upleatham--guisborough --past and present--tomb of robert bruce--priory ruins- hemingford, pursglove, and sir thomas chaloner--pretty scenery- the spa--more money, less morals--what george fox's proselytes did --john wesley's preaching--hutton lowcross--rustics of taste- rosebury topping--lazy enjoyment--the prospect: from black-a-moor to northumberland--cook's monument--canny yatton--the quakers' school--a legend--skelton--sterne and eugenius--visitors from middlesbro'--a fatal town--newton--digger's talk--marton, cook's birthplace--stockton--darlington 123 chapter xvii. locomotive, number one--barnard castle--buying a calf on sunday- baliol's tower--from canute to the duke of cleveland--historic scenery--a surprised northumbrian--the bearded hermit--beauty of teesdale--egliston abbey--the artist and his wife--dotheboys hall --rokeby--greta bridge--mortham tower--brignall banks--a pilgrimage to wycliffe--fate of the inns--the felon sow--a journey by omnibus--lartington--cotherstone--scandinavian traces- romaldkirk--middleton-in-teesdale--wild scenery--high force inn- the voice of the fall 136 chapter xviii. early morn--high force--rock and water--a talk with the waitress- hills and cottages--cronkley scar--the weel--caldron snout- soothing sound--scrap from an album--view into birkdale--a quest for dinner--a westmoreland farm--household matters--high cope nick --mickle fell--the boys' talk--the hill-top--glorious prospect--a descent--solitude and silence--a moss--stainmore--brough--the castle ruin--reminiscences 146 chapter xix. return into yorkshire--the old pedlar--oh! for the olden time- "the bible, indeed!"--an emissary--wild boar fell--shunnor fell- mallerstang--the eden--a mountain walk--tan hill--brown landscape --a school wanted--swaledale--from ling to grass--a talk with lead miners--stonesdale--work for a missionary--thwaite--a jolly landlord--a ruined town--the school at muker--a nickname- buttertubs pass--view into wensleydale--lord wharncliffe's lodge- simonstone--hardraw scar--geological phenomenon--a frozen cone- hawes 157 chapter xx. bainbridge--"if you had wanted a wife"--a ramble--millgill force- whitfell force--a lovely dell--the roman camp--the forest horn, and the old hornblower--haymaking--a cockney raker--wensleydale scythemen--a friend indeed--addleborough--curlews and grouse--the first teapot--nasty greens--the prospect--askrigg--bolton castle- penhill--middleham--miles coverdale's birthplace--jervaux abbey- moses's principia--nappa hall--the metcalfes--the knight and the king--the springs--spoliation of the druids--the great cromlech- legend--an ancient village--simmer water--an advice for anglers- more legends--counterside--money-grubbers--widdale--newby head 165 chapter xxi. about gimmer hogs--gearstones--source of the ribble--weathercote cave--an underground waterfall--a gem of a cave--jingle pot--the silly ducks--hurtle pool--the boggart--a reminiscence of the doctor--chapel-le-dale--remarkable scenery--ingleborough--ingleton --craven--young daniel dove, and long miles--clapham--ingleborough cave--stalactite and stalagmite--marvellous spectacle--pillar hall --weird music--treacherous pools--the abyss--how stalactite forms --the jockey cap--cross arches--the long gallery--the giant's hall --mysterious waterfall--a trouty beck--the bar-parlour--a bradford spinner 177 chapter xxii. by rail to skipton--a stony town--church and castle--the cliffords --wharfedale--bolton abbey--picturesque ruins--a foot-bath--scraps from wordsworth--bolton park--the strid--barden tower--the wharfe --the shepherd lord--reading to grandfather--a cup of tea- cheerful hospitality--trout fishing--gale beck--symon seat--a real entertainer--burnsall--a drink of porter--immoralities- threshfield--kilnsey--the crag--kettlewell--a primitive village- great whernside--starbottom--buckden--last view of wharfedale- cray--bishopdale--a pleasant lane--bolton castle--penhill- aysgarth--dead pastimes--decrease of quakers--failure of a mission --why and wherefore--aysgarth force--drunken barnaby--inroad of fashion 191 chapter xxiii. a walk--carperby--despotic hay-time--bolton castle--the village- queen mary's prison--redmire--scarthe nick--pleasing landscape- halfpenny house--hart-leap well--view into swaledale--richmond- the castle--historic names--the keep--st. martin's cell--easby abbey--beautiful ruins--king arthur and sleeping warriors--ripon- view from the minster tower--archbishop wilfrid--the crypt--the nightly horn--to studley--surprising trick--robin hood's well- fountains abbey--pop goes the weasel--the ruins--robin hood and the curtall friar--to thirsk--the ancient elm--epitaphs 206 chapter xxiv. sutton: a pretty village--the hambleton hills--gormire lake- zigzags--a table-land--boy and bull pup--skawton--ryedale- rievaulx abbey--walter l'espec--a charming ruin--the terrace--the pavilion--helmsley--t' boos--kirkby moorside--helmsley castle--a river swallowed--howardian hills--oswaldkirk--gilling--fairfax hall--coxwold--sterne's residence--york--the minster tower--yorke, yorke, for my monie--the four bars--the city walls--the ouse legend--yorkshire philosophical society--ruins and antiquities- st. mary's lodge 217 chapter xxv. by rail to leeds--kirkstall abbey--valley of the aire--flight to settle--giggleswick--drunken barnaby again--nymph and satyr--the astonished bagman--what do they addle?--view from castleber- george fox's vision on pendle hill--walk to maum--companions- horse versus scenery--talk by the way--little wit, muckle work- malham tarn--ale for recompense--malham--hospitality--gordale scar --scenery versus horse--trap for trout--a brookside musing--malham grove--source of the aire--to keighley 226 chapter xxvi. keighley--men in pinafores--walk to haworth--charlotte brontë's birthplace--the church--the pew--the tombstone--the marriage register--shipley--saltaire--a model town--household arrangements --i isn't the gaffer--a model factory--acres of floors--miles of shafting--weaving shed--thirty thousand yards a day--cunning machinery--first fleeces--shipley feast--scraps of dialect--to bradford--rival towns--yorkshire sleuth-hounds--die like a britoner 235 chapter xxvii. bradford's fame--visit to warehouses--a smoky prospect--ways and means of trade--what john bull likes--what brother jonathan likes --vulcan's head-quarters--cleckheaton--heckmondwike--busy traffic --mirfield--robin hood's grave--batley the shoddyopolis--all the world's tatters--aspects of batley--a boy capt--the devil's den- grinding rags--mixing and oiling--shoddy and shoddy--tricks with rags--the scribbling machine--short flocks, long threads--spinners and weavers--dyeing, dressing, and pressing--a moral in shoddy--a surprise of real cloth--iron, lead, and coal--to wakefield--a disappointment--the old chapel--the battle-field--to barnsley- bairnsla dialect--sheffield 245 chapter xxviii. clouds of blacks--what sheffield was and is--a detestable town- razors and knives--perfect work, imperfect workmen--foul talk--how files are made--good iron, good steel--breaking-up and melting- making the crucibles--casting--ingots--file forgers--machinery baffled--cutting the teeth--hardening--cleaning and testing- elliott's statue--a ramble to the corn-law rhymer's haunt--rivelin --bilberry gatherers--ribbledin--the port's words--a desecration- to manchester--a few words on the exhibition 256 chapter xxix. a short chapter to end with 266 a month in yorkshire. chapter i. a short chapter to begin with. i had cheerful recollections of yorkshire. my first lessons in self-reliance and long walks were learned in that county. i could not forget how, fresh from the south, i had been as much astonished at the tall, stalwart forms of the men, their strange rustic dialect and rough manners, as by their hearty hospitality. nor could i fail to remember the contrast between the bleak outside of certain farm-houses and the rude homely comfort inside, where a ruddy turf fire glowed on the hearth, and mutton hams, and oaten bread, and store of victual burdened the racks of the kitchen ceiling. nor the generous entertainment of more than one old hostess in little roadside public-houses, who, when i arrived at nightfall, weary with travel, would have me sit at the end of the high-backed settle nearest the fire, or in the 'neukin' under the great chimney, and bustle about with motherly kindness to get tea ready; who, before i had eaten the first pile of cakes, would bring a second, with earnest assurance that a "growing lad" could never eat too much; who talked so sympathisingly during the evening--i being at times the only guest--wondering much that i should be so far away from home: had i no friends? where was i going? and the like; who charged me only eighteenpence for tea, bed, and breakfast, and once slily thrust into my pocket, at parting, a couple of cakes, which i did not discover till half way across a snow-drifted moor, where no house was in sight for many miles. all this, and much more which one does not willingly forget, haunted my memory. the wild scenery of the fells, the tame agricultural region, and the smoky wapentakes, where commerce erects more steeples than religion, were traversed during my rambles. while wandering in the neighbourhood of keighley, i had seen charlotte brontë's birthplace, long before any one dreamed that she would one day flash as a meteor upon the gaze of the "reading public." rosebury topping had become familiar to me in the landscapes of cleveland, and now a desire possessed me to get on the top of that magnificent cone. in the villages round about its base i had shared the pepper-cake of christmas-tide; and falling in with the ancient custom prevalent along the eastern coast from humber to tyne, had eaten fried peas on carlin sunday--mid-lent of the calendar--ere the discovery of that mineral wealth, now known to exist in such astonishing abundance, that whether the british coal-fields will last long enough or not to smelt all the ironstone of cleveland, is no longer a question with a chief of geologists. i had mused in the ruin where richard the second was cruelly murdered, at pontefract; had looked with proper surprise at the dropping well, at knaresborough, and into st. robert's cave, the depository of eugene aram's terrible secret; had walked into wakefield, having scarcely outlived the fond belief that there the vicar once dwelt with his family; and when the guard pointed out the summits as the coach rolled past on the way from skipton to kirkby lonsdale, had no misgivings as to the truth of the saying: "penigent, whernside, and ingleborough, are the three highest hills all england thorough." unawares, in some instances, i had walked across battlefields, memorable alike in the history of the county, and of the kingdom; where marauding scots, dissolute hainaulters, plantagenets and tudors, cavalier and roundhead had rushed to the onslaught. marston moor awoke the proudest emotions, notwithstanding my schoolboy recollections of what david hume had written thereupon; while towton was something to wonder at, as imagination flew back to the time when "palm sunday chimes were chiming all gladsome thro' the air, and village churls and maidens knelt in the church at pray'r; when the red rose and the white rose in furious battle reel'd; and yeomen fought like barons, and barons died ere yield. when mingling with the snow-storm, the storm of arrows flew; and york against proud lancaster his ranks of spearmen threw. when thunder-like the uproar outshook from either side, as hand to hand they battled from morn to eventide. when the river ran all gory, and in hillocks lay the dead, and seven and thirty thousand fell for the white and red. * * * * * when o'er the bar of micklegate they changed each ghastly head, set lancaster upon the spikes where york had bleached and bled. * * * * * there still wild roses growing- frail tokens of the fray- and the hedgerow green bear witness of towton field that day." did the decrepit old shambles, roofed with paving-flags, still encumber the spacious market-place at thirsk? did the sexton at ripon minster still deliver his anatomical lecture in the grim bone-house, and did the morality of that sedate town still accord with the venerable adage, "as true steel as ripon rowels?" was york still famous for muffins, or northallerton for quoits, cricket, and spell-and-nurr? and was its beer as good as when bacchus held a court somewhere within sight of the three ridings, and asked one of his attendants where that new drink, "strong and mellow," was to be found? and "the boon good fellow answered, 'i can tell north-allerton, in yorkshire, doth excel all england, nay, all europe, for strong ale; if thither we adjourn we shall not fail to taste such humming stuff, as i dare say your highness never tasted to this day.'" hence, when the summer sun revived my migratory instinct, i inclined to ramble once more in yorkshire. there would be no lack of the freshness of new scenes, for my former wanderings had not led me to the coast, nor to the finest of the old abbeys--those ruins of wondrous beauty, nor to the remote dales where crowding hills abound with the picturesque. here was novelty enough, to say nothing of the people and their ways, and the manifold appliances and results of industry which so eminently distinguish the county, and the grand historical associations of the metropolitan city, once the "other rome," of which the old rhymester says- "let london still the just precedence claim, york ever shall be proud to be the next in fame." i was curious, moreover, to observe whether the peculiar dialect or the old habits were dying out quite so rapidly as some social and political economists would have us believe. quaint old fuller, among the many nuggets imbedded in his pages, has one which implies that yorkshire being the biggest is therefore the best county in england. you may take six from the other thirty-nine counties, and put them together, and not make a territory so large as yorkshire. the population of the county numbers nearly two millions. when within it you find the distances great from one extremity to the other, and become aware of the importance involved in mere dimensions. in no county have briton, roman, and dane left more evident traces, or history more interesting waymarks. speed says of it: "she is much bound to the singular love and motherly care of nature, in placing her under so temperate a clime, that in every measure she is indifferently fruitful. if one part of her be stone, and a sandy barren ground, another is fertile and richly adorned with corn-fields. if you here find it naked and destitute of woods, you shall see it there shadowed with forests full of trees, that have very thick bodies, sending forth many fruitful and profitable branches. if one place of it be moorish, miry, and unpleasant, another makes a free tender of delight, and presents itself to the eye full of beauty and contentive variety." considering, furthermore, that for two years in succession i had seen the peasantry in parts of the north and south of europe, and had come to the conclusion (under correction, for my travel is brief) that the english labourer, with his weekly wages, his cottage and garden, is better off than the peasant proprietor of germany and tyrol,--considering this, i wished to prove my conclusion, and therefore started hopefully for yorkshire. and again, does not emerson say, "a wise traveller will naturally choose to visit the best of actual nations." chapter ii. estuary of the humber--sunk island--land _versus_ water--dutch phenomena--cleathorpes--grimsby--paul--river freaks--mud- stukeley and drayton--fluvial parliament--hull--the thieves' litany--docks and drainage--more dutch phenomena--the high church--thousands of piles--the citadel--the cemetery--a countryman's voyage to china--an aid to macadam. as the _vivid_ steamed past the spurn lighthouse, i looked curiously at the low sandy spit on which the tall red tower stands, scarcely as it seems above the level of the water, thinking that my first walk would perhaps lead thither. at sight of the pharos, and of the broad estuary alive with vessels standing in, the yorkshiremen on board felt their patriotism revive, and one might have fancied there was a richer twang in their speech than had been perceptible in the latitude of london. a few who rubbed their hands and tried to look hearty, vowed that their future travels should not be on the sea. the _vivid_ is not a very sprightly boat, but enjoys or not, as the case may be, a reputation for safety, and for sleeping-cabins narrower and more stifling than any i ever crept into. but one must not expect too much when the charge for a voyage of twenty-six hours is only six and sixpence in the chief cabin. not without reason does old camden remark of the humber, "it is a common rendezvous for the greatest part of the rivers hereabouts," for it is a noble estuary, notwithstanding that water and shore are alike muddy. it is nearly forty miles long, with a width of more than two miles down to about three leagues from the lighthouse, where it widens to six or seven miles, offering a capacious entrance to the sea. the water has somewhat of an unctuous appearance, as if overcharged with contributions of the very fattest alluvium from all parts of yorkshire. the results may be seen on the right, as we ascend. there spreads the broad level of sunk island, a noteworthy example of dry land produced by the co-operation of natural causes and human industry. the date of its first appearance above the water is not accurately known; but in the reign of charles ii. it was described as three thousand five hundred acres of "drowned ground," of which seven acres were enclosed by embankments; and was let at five pounds a year. a hundred years later fifteen hundred acres were under cultivation, producing a yearly rental of seven hundred pounds to the lessee; but he, it is said, made but little profit, because of the waste and loss occasioned by failure of the banks and irruptions of the tides. in 1802 the island reverted to the crown, and was re-let on condition that all the salt marsh--nearly three thousand acres--which was "ripe for embankment," should be taken in, and that a church and proper houses should be built, to replace the little chapel and five cottages which ministered as little to the edification as to the comfort of the occupants. in 1833 the lease once more fell in, and the woods and forests, wisely ignoring the middlemen, let the lands directly to the 'sunk farmers,' as they are called in the neighbourhood, and took upon themselves the construction and maintenance of the banks. a good road was made, and bridges were built to connect the island with the main, and as the accumulations of alluvium still went on, another 'intake' became possible in 1851, and now there are nearly 7000 acres, comprising twenty-three farms, besides a few small holdings, worth more than 12,000_l._ of annual rent. it forms a parish of itself, and not a neglected one; for moral reclamation is cared for as well as territorial. the clergyman has a sufficient stipend; the parishioners supplemented the grants made by government and the council of education, and have now a good schoolhouse and a competent schoolmaster. the island will continue to increase in extent and value as long as the same causes continue to operate; and who shall set limits to them? already the area is greater than that described in the last report of the woods and forests, which comprehends only the portion protected by banks. the land when reclaimed is singularly fertile, and free from stones, and proves its quality in the course of three or four years, by producing spontaneously a rich crop of white clover. another fact, interesting to naturalists, was mentioned by mr. oldham in a report read before the british association, at their meeting in hull. "when the land, or rather mud-bank, has nearly reached the usual surface elevation, the first vegetable life it exhibits is that of samphire, then of a very thin wiry grass, and after this some other varieties of marine grass; and when the surface is thus covered with vegetation, the land may at once be embanked; but if it is enclosed from the tide before it obtains a green carpet, it may be for twenty years of but little value to agriculture, for scarcely anything will grow upon it." this is not the only place on the eastern coast where we may see artificial land, and banks, dikes, and other defences against the water such as are commonly supposed to be peculiar to the netherlands. the windows of cleathorpes twinkling afar in the morning sun, reveal the situation of a watering-place on the opposite shore much frequented by lincolnshire folk. beyond rises the tall and graceful tower of grimsby docks, serving at once as signal tower and reservoir of the water-power by which the cranes and other apparatus are worked, and ships laden and unladen with marvellous celerity. these docks cover a hundred acres of what a few years ago was a great mud-flat, and are a favourable specimen of what can be accomplished by the overhasty enterprise of the present day. grimsby on her side of the river now rivals hull on the other, with the advantage of being nearer the sea, whereby some miles of navigation are avoided. turning to the right again we pass foul holme sand, a long narrow spit, covered at half-tide, which some day may become reclaimable. a little farther and there is the church of paghill or paul, standing on a low hill so completely isolated from the broken village to which it belongs, that the distich runs: "high paul, and low paul, paul, and paul holme, there was never a fair maid married in paul town." the vessel urges her way onwards across swirls and eddies innumerable which betray the presence of shoals and the vigorous strife of opposing currents. the spring tides rise twenty-two feet, and rush in with a stream at five miles an hour, noisy and at times dangerous, churning the mud and shifting it from one place to another, to the provocation of pilots. it is mostly above hull that the changes take place, and there they are so sudden and rapid that a pilot may find the channel by which he had descended shifted to another part of the river on his return a few days afterwards. there also islands appear and disappear in a manner truly surprising, and in the alternate loss or gain of the shores may be witnessed the most capricious of phenomena. let one example suffice: a field of fourteen acres, above ferriby, was reduced to less than four acres in twenty years, although the farmer during that time had constructed seven new banks for the defence of his land. some notion of the enormous quantity of mud which enters the great river may be formed from the fact that fifty thousand tons of mud have been dredged in one year from the docks and basins at hull. the steam-dredge employed in the work lifts fifty tons of mud in an hour, pours it into lighters, which when laden drop down with the tide, and discharge their slimy burden in certain parts of the stream, where, as is said, it cannot accumulate. stukely, who crossed the estuary during one of his itineraries, remarks: "well may the humber take its name from the noise it makes. my landlord, who is a sailor, says in a high wind 'tis incredibly great and terrible, like the crash and dashing together of ships." the learned antiquary alludes probably to the bore, or ager as it is called, which rushes up the stream with so loud a _hum_ that the popular mind seeks no other derivation for humber. professor phillips, in his admirable book on yorkshire, cites the gaelic word _comar_, a confluence of two or more waters, as the origin; and dr. latham suggests that humber may be the modified form of aber or inver. drayton, in _polyolbion_, chants of a tragical derivation; and as i take it for granted, amicable reader, that you do not wish to travel in a hurry, we will pause for a few minutes to listen to the debate of the rivers, wherein "thus mighty humber speaks:" "my brave west riding brooks, your king you need not scorn, proud naiades neither ye, north riders that are born, my yellow-sanded your, and thou my sister swale that dancing come to ouse, thro' many a dainty dale, do greatly me enrich, clear derwent driving down from cleveland; and thou hull, that highly dost renown, th' east riding by thy rise, do homage to your king, and let the sea-nymphs thus of mighty humber sing; that full an hundred floods my wat'ry court maintain which either of themselves, or in their greater's train their tribute pay to me; and for my princely name, from humber king of hunns, as anciently it came, so still i stick to him: for from that eastern king once in me drown'd, as i my pedigree do bring: so his great name receives no prejudice thereby; for as he was a king, so know ye all that i am king of all the floods, that north of trent do flow; then let the idle world no more such cost bestow, nor of the muddy nile so great a wonder make, though with her bellowing fall, she violently take the neighbouring people deaf; nor ganges so much praise, that where he narrowest is, eight miles in broadness lays his bosom; nor so much hereafter shall be spoke of that (but lately found) guianian oronoque, whose cataract a noise so horrible doth keep that it even neptune frights: what flood comes to the deep, than humber that is heard more horribly to roar? for when my higre comes, i make my either shore even tremble with the sound, that i afar do send." the view of hull seen from the water is much more smoky than picturesque. coming nearer we see the _cornwallis_ anchored off the citadel, looking as trim and earnest as one fancies an english seventy-four ought to look, and quite in keeping with the embrasured walls through which guns are peeping on shore. the quay and landing-places exhibit multifarious signs of life, especially if your arrival occur when the great railway steam-ferry-boat is about to start. there is, however, something about hull which inspires a feeling of melancholy. this was my third visit, and still the first impression prevailed. it may be the dead level, or the sleepy architecture, or the sombre colour, or a combination of the three, that touches the dismal key. "memorable for mud and train oil" was what etty always said of the town in which he served an apprenticeship of seven weary years; yet in his time there remained certain picturesque features which have since disappeared with the large fleet of greenland whale-ships whereof the town was once so proud:--now migrated to peterhead. however, we must not forget that hull is the third port in the kingdom; that nearly a hundred steamers arrive and depart at regular intervals from over sea, or coastwise, or from up the rivers; that of the 4000 tons of german yeast now annually imported, worth nearly £200,000, it receives more than two-thirds; that it was one of the first places to demonstrate the propulsion of vessels by the power of steam. nor will we forget that we are in one of the towns formerly held in wholesome dread by evil-doers when recommendation to mercy was seldom heard of, as is testified by the thieves' litany of the olden time, thus irreverently phrased: "from hull, hell, and halifax, good lord deliver us." halifax, however, stood pre-eminent for sharp practice; a thief in that parish had no chance of stealing twice, for if he stole to the value of thirteenpence halfpenny, he was forthwith beheaded. andrew marvell need not have been so severe upon the dutch, considering how much there was in his native county similar in character and aspect to that which he satirised. you soon discover that this character still prevails. is not the southern landing place of the steam-ferry named new holland? and here in hull, whichever way you look, you see masts, and are stopped by water or a bridge half open, or just going to open, whichever way you walk. it is somewhat puzzling at first; but a few minutes' survey from the top of the high church affords an explanation. following the line once occupied by the old fortifications--the walls by which parliament baffled the king--the docks form a continuous water-communication from the river hull on one side to the humber on the other, so that a considerable portion of the town has become an island, and the sight of masts and pennons in all directions, some slowly moving, is accounted for. at the opening of the junction dock in 1829, whereby the desired connection was established, the celebration included circumnavigation of the insular portion by a gaily decorated steamer. the amphibious dutch-looking physiognomy thus produced is further assisted by the presence of numerous windmills in the outskirts, and the levelness of the surrounding country. a hundred years ago, and the view across what is now cultivated fields would have comprehended as much water as land, if not more. should a certain popular authoress ever publish her autobiography, she will, perhaps, tell us how mr. stickney, her father, used when a boy to skate three or four miles to school over unreclaimed flats within sight of this church tower of hull, now rich in grass and grain. only by a system of drainage and embankment on a great scale, and a careful maintenance, has the reclamation of this and other parts of holderness been accomplished. taylor, the water-poet, who was here in 1632, records, "it yearly costs five hundred pounds besides to fence the towne from hull and humber's tydes, for stakes, for bavins, timber, stones, and piles, all which are brought by water many miles; for workmen's labour, and a world of things, which on the towne excessive charges brings." british liberty owes something to this superabundance of water. hull was the first town in the kingdom to shut its gates against the king and declare for the people, and was in consequence besieged by charles. in this strait, sir john hotham, the governor, caused the dikes to be cut and sluices drawn, and laid the whole neighbourhood under water, and kept the besiegers completely at bay. the royalists, to retaliate, dug trenches to divert the stream of fresh water that supplied the town,--a means of annoyance to which hull, from its situation, was always liable. in the good old times, when the neighbouring villagers had any cause of quarrel with the townsfolk, they used to throw carrion and other abominations into the channel, or let in the salt-water, nor would they desist until warned by a certain pope in an admonitory letter. the church itself, dedicated to the holy trinity, is a handsome specimen of florid gothic, dating from the reign of edward ii. you will perhaps wish that the effect of the light tall columns, rising to the blue panelled roof, were not weakened by the somewhat cold and bare aspect of the interior. if you are curious about bells, there are inscriptions to be deciphered on some of those that hang in the tower; and in the belfry you may see mysterious tables hanging on the wall of 'grandsire bobs,' and 'grandsire tripples;' things in which the ringers take pride, but as unintelligible to the uninitiated as babylonish writing. there, too, hangs the ringers' code of laws, and a queer code it is! one of the articles runs:--"every person who shall ring any bell with his hat or spurs on, shall forfeit and pay sixpence, for the use of the ringers." and the same fine is levied from "any person who shall have read any of these orders with his hat upon his head;" from which, and the characteristic touches in the other "orders," you will very likely come to some strange conclusions respecting the fraternity of ringers. the market-place is in the main street, where a gilt equestrian statue of william iii. looks down on stalls of fruit, fish, and seaweed, and the moving crowd of townsfolk and sailors. by the side of the humber dock rises the wilberforce monument, a tall column, bearing on its capital a statue of the renowned advocate of the negroes. and when you have looked at these and at the hospital, and walked through the garrison, you will have visited nearly all that is monumental in hull. at low water, the little river hull is a perfect representation of a very muddy ditch. while crossing the ferry to the citadel, the old boatman told me he could remember when every high tide flowed up into the streets of the town, but the new works for the docks now keep the water out. hundreds of piles were driven into the sandy bank to establish a firm foundation for the massive walls, quays, and abutments. at the time when timber rose to an enormous price in consequence of napoleon's continental blockade, the piles of the coffer-dam which had been buried seven years, were pulled up and sold for more than their original cost. government gave the site of some old military works and 10,000_l._ towards the formation of the first dock, on condition that it should be made deep enough to receive ships of fifty guns. in records of the reign of henry viii. there appears--"item: the kinges ma'tes house to be made to serve as a sitidell and a speciall kepe of the hole town." the present citadel has an antiquated look, and quiet withal, for the whole garrison, at the time i walked through it, numbered only twenty-five artillerymen. judging from my own experience, one part of the sergeant's duty is to shout at inquisitive strangers who get up on the battery to look through an embrasure, and the more vehemently as they feign not to hear till their curiosity is satisfied. there is room in the magazines for twenty thousand stand of arms, and ordnance stores for a dozen ships of the line. a ditch fed from the hull completely separates the fortifications from the neighbouring ship-yards. half a day's exploration led me to the conclusion that the most cheerful quarter of hull is the cemetery. i was sitting there on a grassy bank enjoying the breeze, when a countryman came up who perhaps felt lonely, for he sat down by my side, and in less than a minute became autobiographical. he was a village carpenter, "came forty mile out of lincolnshire" for the benefit of his health; had been waiting three days for his brother's ship, in which he meant to take a voyage to china, and feeling dull walked every day to the cemetery; for, he said, "it's the pleasantest place i can find about the town." i suggested reading as a relief; but he "couldn't make much out o'readin'--'ud rather work the jack-plane all day than read." the long voyage to china appeared to offer so good an opportunity for improving himself in this particular that i urged him to take a few books on board, and gave an assurance that one hour's study every day would enable him to read with pleasure by the time he returned. "oh, but we be on'y three days a-going," he answered. i had played the part of an adviser to no purpose, for it appeared, on further questioning, that his brother's ship was a small sloop trading to some port beyond the north sea about three days distant; he did not know where it was, but was sure his brother called it china. i mentioned the names of all the ports i could think of to discover the real one if possible, but in vain; nor have i yet found one that has the sound of china. one thing i saw on my way back to the town, which london--so apt to be self-conceited--might adopt with signal advantage. it was a huge iron roller drawn by horses up and down a newly macadamised road. under the treatment of the ponderous cylinder, the broken stone, combined with a sprinkling of asphalte, is reduced to a firm and level surface, over which vehicles travel without any of that distressing labour and loss of time and temper so often witnessed in the metropolis, where a thousand pair of wheels produce less solidity in a week than the roller would in a day; especially on the spongy roads presided over by st. pancras. late in the evening, while walking about the streets, even in the principal thoroughfares, i saw evidences enough of--to use a mild adjective--an unpolished population. the northern characteristics were strongly marked. chapter iii. a railway trip--more land reclamation--hedon--historical recollections--burstwick--the earls of albemarle--keyingham- the duke of york--winestead--andrew marvell's birthplace--a glimpse of the patriot--patrington--a church to be proud of- the hildyard arms--feminine paper-hangers--walk to spurn--talk with a painter--welwick--yellow ochre and cleanliness- skeffling--humber bank--miles of mud--kilnsea--burstall garth- the greedy sea--the sandbank--a lost town, ravenser odd--a reminiscence from shakspeare--the spurn lighthouse--withernsea --owthorne--sister churches--the ghastly churchyard--a retort for a fool--a word for philologists. by the first train on the morrow i started for patrington. the windmills on the outskirts of the town were soon left behind, and away we went between the thick hedgerows and across the teeming fields, which, intersected by broad deep drains, and grazed by sleek cattle, exhibit at once to your eye the peculiarities of holderness. all along between the railway and the river there are thousands of acres, formerly called the 'out-marshes,' which have been reclaimed, and now yield wonderful crops of oats. after the principal bank has been constructed, the tide is let in under proper control to a depth of from three to five feet, and is left undisturbed until all the mud held in suspension is deposited. the impoverished flood is then discharged through the sluices, and in due time, after the first has stiffened, a fresh flow is admitted. by this process of 'warping,' as it is called, three or four feet of mud will be thrown down in three years, covering the original coarse, sour surface with one abounding in the elements of fertility. far inland, even up the trent, and around the head of the humber within reach of the tide, the farmers have recourse to warping, and not unfrequently prefer a fresh layer of mud to all other fertilisers. about every two miles we stop at a station, and at each there is something to be noted and remembered. hedon, a dull decayed town, now two miles from the river, once the commercial rival of hull, has something still to be proud of in its noble church, "the pride of holderness." here, too, within a fence, stands the ancient cross, which, after several removals, as the sea devoured its original site--a royal adventurer's landing-place--found here a permanent station. at burstwick, two miles farther, lay the estates, the _caput baroniæ_, of the renowned earls of albemarle. a few minutes more and another stop reminds us of keyingham bridge, where a party of the men of holderness opposed the passage of edward iv. with his three hundred flemings, some carrying strange fire-weapons, until he replied to their resolute question that he had only come to claim his dukedom of york. a "dukedom large enough" for a wise man. and, as tradition tells, keyingham church was the scene of a miracle in 1392, when all the doors were split by a lightning-stroke, and the tomb of master philip ingleberd, formerly rector, sweated a sweetly-scented oil, perhaps out of gratitude to the patron saint for the escape of thirteen men who fell all at once with the ladder while seeking to put out the fire in the steeple, and came to no harm. then winestead, which was, if the parish-register may be believed, the birthplace of andrew marvell--not hull, as is commonly reported of the incorruptible yorkshire man. his father was rector here, but removed to hull during the poet's infancy, which may account for the error. the font in which he was christened having fallen into neglect, was used as a horse-trough, until some good antiquary removed it into the grounds of mr. owst, at keyingham, where it remains safe among other relics. andrew represented hull in parliament for twenty years, and was the last member who, according to old usage, received payment for his services. one's thought kindles in thinking of him here at this quiet village, as a friend of milton, like him using his gifts manfully and successfully in defence of the englishman's birthright. what a happy little glimpse we get of him in the lines- "climb at court for me that will- tottering favour's pinnacle; all i seek is to lie still, settled in some secret nest, in calm leisure let me rest, and far off the public stage, pass away my silent age. thus, when without noise, unknown, i have lived out all my span, i shall die without a groan, an old honest countryman." then patrington--erst patrick's town--one of those simple-looking places which contrast agreeably with towns sophisticated by the clamour and bustle of trade; and although a few gas-lamps tell of innovation, a market not more than once a fortnight upholds the authority of ancient usage. you see nearly the whole of the town at once; a long, wide, quiet street, terminated by a graceful spire, so graceful, indeed, that it will allure you at once to the church from which it springs; and what a feast for the eye awaits you! truly the "pride of holderness" is not monopolised by hedon. the style is that which prevailed in the reign of edward ii., and is harmonious throughout, from weathercock to door-sill. you will walk round it again and again, admiring the beauty of its design and proportion, pausing oft to contemplate the curious carvings, and the octagonal spire springing lightly from flying buttresses to a height of one hundred and ninety feet. the gargoyles exhibit strange conceits; chiselled to represent a fiddler--a bagpiper--a man holding a pig--a fiend griping a terrified sinner--a lion thrusting his tongue out--and others equally incongruous. how i wished the architect would come to life for an hour to tell me what he meant by them, and by certain full-length figures carved on the buttresses, which accord so little with our modern sense of decency, much less with the character of a religious house! inside you find a corresponding lightness and gracefulness, and similarly relieved by a sprinkling of monsters. the east or 'ladye aisle' contains three chantry chapels; the 'easter sepulchre' is a rare specimen of the sculptor's art, and the font hewn from a single block of granite displays touches of a master hand. st. patrick's church at patrington is an edifice to linger in; an example of beauty in architecture in itself worth a journey to yorkshire. there are relics, too, of an earlier age: embankments discovered some feet below the present surface, fragments of buildings, an altar, and other objects of especial interest to the antiquary, for they mark patrington as the site of a roman station. an important station, if the supposition be correct that this was the prætorium of antoninus--the place where some of the legions disembarked to subjugate the brigantes. to eat breakfast under the sign of the _hildyard arms_--a name, by the way, which preserves in a modified form the old saxon _hildegarde_--seemed like connecting one's-self with remote antiquity. the ancestors of the hildyards were here before the conquest. one of the family, sir christopher, is commemorated by a handsome monument in winestead church. the landlord, willing to entertain in more ways than one, talked of the improvements that had taken place within his remembrance. the railway was not one of them, for it took away trade from the town, and deadened the market. visitors were but few, and most of those who came wondered at seeing so beautiful a church in such an out-of-the-way place. he could show me a garden near the churchyard which was said to be the spot where the building-stone was landed from boats; but the water had sunk away hundreds of years ago. patrington haven--a creek running up from the humber--had retreated from the town, and since the reclamation of sunk island, required frequent dredging to clear it of mud. the farmers in the neighbourhood were very well content with the harvests now yielded by the land. in 1854 some of them reaped "most wonderful crops." i had seen a woman painting her door-posts, and asked him whether that was recognised as women's work in patrington. "sure," he answered, "all over the country too. women do the whitewashing, and painting, ay, and the paper-hanging. look at this room, now! my daughter put that up." i did look, and saw that the pattern on the walls sloped two or three inches from the perpendicular, whereby opposite sides of the room appeared to be leaning in contrary directions. however, i said nothing to disparage the damsel's merits. from patrington to spurn the distance is thirteen miles. hoping to walk thither and back in the day, i snapped the thread of the landlord's talk, and set out for the lighthouse. presently i overtook a man, and we had not walked half a mile together before i knew that he was a master-painter in a small way at patrington, now going to paper a room at skeffling, a village five miles off. to hear that he would get only sixpence a piece for the hanging surprised me, for i thought that nowhere out of london would any one be silly enough to hang paper for a halfpenny a yard. "you see," he rejoined, "there's three in the trade at patrington, and then 'tis only the bettermost rooms that we gets to do. the women does all the rest, and the painting besides. that's where it is. but 'taint such a very bad job as i be going to. they finds their own paste, and there's nine pieces to hang: that'll give me four and sixpence; and then i shall get my dinner, and my tea too, if i don't finish too soon. so it'll be a pretty fair day's work." and yet the chances were that he would have to wait six months for payment. we passed through welwick--place of wells--a small, clean village, with a small, squat church, with carvings sadly mutilated on the outside, and inside, a handsome tomb. at plowland, near this, lived the wrights, confederates in the gunpowder plot. nearly all the cottages are models of cleanliness; the door-sill and step washed with yellow ochre, and here and there you see through the open door that the walls of the room inside are papered, and the little pictures and simple ornaments all in keeping. you will take pleasure in these indications, and perhaps believe them to be the result of an affection for cleanliness. the walls of some of the houses and farm-yards are built of pebbles--'sea-cobbles,' as they are called--placed zigzag-wise, with a novel and pretty effect: and the examples multiply as we get nearer the sea, where they may be seen in the walls of the churches. at skeffling the painter turned into a farm-house which looked comfortably hospitable enough to put him at ease regarding his dinner, and as if it had little need to take six months' credit for four and sixpence, while i turned from the high-road into a track leading past the church--which, by the way, has architectural features worthy examination--to the coarse and swarthy flats where the distant view is hidden by a great embankment that runs along their margin for miles. once on the top of this 'humber-bank,' i met a lusty breeze sweeping in from the sea, and had before me a singular prospect--the bank itself stretching far as the eye can see in a straight line to the east and west, covered with coarse grass and patches of gray, thistle-like, sea-holly--_eryngo maritima_. its outer sloop is loose sand falling away to the damp line left by the tide, beyond which all is mud--a great brown expanse outspread for miles. the tide being at its lowest, only the tops of the masts of small vessels are to be seen, moving, as it seems, mysteriously: the river itself is hardly discernible. in places the mud lies smooth and slimy; in others thickly rippled, or tossed into billows, as if the water had stamped thereon an impression of all its moods. fishermen wade across it in huge boots from their boats to the firm beach, and dig down through it two or three feet to find stiff holding-ground for their anchors. yonder rises the lighthouse, surprisingly far, as it seems, to seaward, at times half hidden by a thin, creeping haze. and from spurn to sunk island this whole northern shore is of the same brown, monotonous aspect: a desert, where the only living things are a few sea-birds, wheeling and darting rapidly, their white wings flashing by contrast with the sad-coloured shore. i walked along the top of the bank to kilnsea, deceived continually in my estimate of distance by the long dead level. here and there a drain pierces the bank, and reappears on the outer side as a raised sewer, with its outlet beyond high-water mark; and these constructions, as well as the waifs and strays--old baskets and dead seagulls--cheat the eye strangely as to their magnitude when first seen. at times, after a lashing storm has swept off a few acres of the mud, the soil beneath is found to be a mixture of peat and gravel, in which animal and vegetable remains and curious antiquities are imbedded. now and then the relics are washed out, and show by their character that they once belonged to burstall priory, a religious house, despoiled by the sea before king harry began his reformation. burstall garth, one of the pastures traversed by the bank, preserves its name: the building itself has utterly disappeared. suddenly a gap occurs in the bank, showing where the unruly tide has broken through. for some reason the mischief was not repaired, but a new bank was constructed of chalk and big pebbles, about a stone's throw to the rear. a green, slimy pool still lies in a hollow between the two. the entertainment at the _crown and anchor_ at kilnsea by no means equals the expectations of a stranger who reads the host's aristocratic name--_metforth tennison_--over the door. i found the bread poor; the cheese poorer; the beer poorest; yet was content therewith, knowing that vicissitude is good for a man. the place itself has a special interest, telling, so to speak, its own history--a history of desolation. the wife, pointing to the road passing between the house and the beach, told me she remembered kilnsea church standing at the seaward end of the village, with as broad a road between it and the edge of the cliff. but year by year, as from time immemorial the sea advanced, the road, fields, pastures, and cottages were undermined and melted away. still the church stood, and though it trembled as the roaring waves smote the cliff beneath, and the wind howled around its unsheltered walls, service was held within it up to 1823. in that year it began to yield, the walls cracked, the floor sank, the windows broke; sea-birds flew in and out, shrieking in the storm, until, in 1826, one-half of the edifice tumbled into the sea, and the other half followed in 1831. the chief portion of the village stands on and near the cliff, but as the waste appears to be greater there than elsewhere, houses are abandoned year by year. in 1847, the _blue bell inn_ was five hundred and thirty-four yards from the shore; of this quantity forty-three yards were lost in the next six years. kilnsea exists, therefore, only as a diminished and diminishing parish, and in the few scattered cottages near the bank of the humber. the old font was carried away from the church to skeffling, where it is preserved in the garden of the parsonage. her reminiscences ended, the good woman talked of the rough walking that lay before me. it was a wild place out there, not often visited by strangers; but sometimes "wagon loads o' coontra foak cam' to see t' loights." at one time, as i have heard, a stage-coach used to do the journey for the gratification of the curious. a short distance beyond the _crown and anchor_ stands a small lone cottage built of sea-cobbles, with a sandy garden and potato-plot in front, and a sandy field, in which a thin, stunted crop of rye was making believe to grow. once past this cottage, and all is a wild waste of sand, covered here and there with reedy grass, among which you now and then see a dusty pink convolvulus, struggling, as it were, to keep alive a speck of beauty amid the barrenness. here, as old chronicles tell, the king once had 'coningers,' or rabbit-warrens, and rabbits still burrow in the hillocks. presently, there is the wide open sea on your left, and you can mark the waves rushing up on either side, hissing and thundering against the low bank that keeps them apart. "a broad long sand in the shape of a spoon," is the description given of spurn in a petition presented to parliament nearly two hundred years ago; and, if we suppose the spoon turned upside down, it still answers. it narrows and sinks as it projects from the main shore for about two miles, and this part being the weakest and most easily shifted by the rapid currents, is strengthened every few yards by rows of stakes driven deeply in, and hurdle work. you see the effect in the smooth drifts accumulated in the space between the barriers, which only require to be planted with grass to become fixed. as it is, the walking is laborious: you sink ankle-deep and slide back at every step, unless you accept the alternative of walking within the wash of the advancing wave. for a long while the lighthouse appears to be as far off as ever. a little farther, and we are on a rugged embankment of chalk: the ground is low on each side, and a large pond rests in the hollow between us and the sea on the left, marking the spot where, a few years ago, the sea broke through and made a clean sweep all across the bank. every tide washed it wider and deeper, until at last the fishing-vessels used it as a short cut in entering or departing from the river. the effect of the breach would, in time, had a low-water channel been established, have seriously endangered the shore of the estuary, besides threatening destruction to the site of the lighthouse. as speedily, therefore, as wind and weather would permit, piles and stakes were driven in, and the gap was filled up with big lumps of chalk brought from the quarry at barton, forming an embankment sloped on both sides, to render the shock of the waves as harmless as possible. the trucks, rails, and sleepers with which the work had been accomplished were still lying on the sand, awaiting removal. henceforth measures of precaution will be taken in time, for a conservator of the river has been appointed. the depth of the bay formed by the spoon appears to increase more and more each time you look back. how vast is the curve between this bank of chalk and the point where we struck the shore from skeffling! the far-spreading sands--or rather mud--are known as the trinity dry sands. at this moment they are disappearing beneath the rising tide, and you can easily see what thousands of acres might be reclaimed were a barrier erected to keep out the water. "government have been talkin' o' doing it for years," said a fisherman to whom i talked at kilnsea, "but 'taint begun yet." desolate as is now the scene, it was once enlivened by the dwellings of men and the stir of commerce. off the spot where we stand, there lay, five hundred years ago, a low islet, accessible by a flat ridge of sand and yellow pebbles, known as ravenser odd, or ravensrode, as some write it. "situate at the entry to the sea," it was a port regarded with envy and fear by the merchants of grimsby and hull, for its pilots were skilful, and its traders enterprising. for a time it flourished; but while the rival roses wasted the realm, the sea crept nearer, and at length, after an existence of a century and a half, distinctly traceable in ancient records and old books, a high tide, enraged by a storm, ended the history of ravenser odd with a fearful catastrophe. a gravelly bank, running outwards, still discoverable by excavation, is believed to be the foundation of the low, flat ridge of sand and yellow pebbles along which the folk of the little town passed daily to and fro; among them at times strange seamen and merchants from far-away lands, and cowled monks and friars pacing meekly on errands of the church. and yonder, near the bottom of the curve, stood the town variously described as ravenser, ravenspurne, and ravenspurg--a town that sent members to parliament in the reigns of the first two edwards, and was considered of sufficient importance to be invited to take part in the great councils held in london, when the "kinge's majestie" desired to know the naval forces of the kingdom. now, twice a day, the tide rolls in triumphantly over its site. "the banish'd bolingbroke repeals himself, and with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd at ravenspurg," writes shakspeare, perpetuating alike the name of the place and the memory of the duke of lancaster's adventure,--an adventure brought before us in an invective by the fiery hotspur, which i may, perhaps, be pardoned for introducing here: "my father, my uncle, and myself, did give him that same royalty he wears: and,--when he was not six and twenty strong, sick in the world's regard, wretched and low, a poor unminded outlaw, sneaking home,- my father gave him welcome to the shore: and,--when he heard him swear a vow to god, he came but to be duke of lancaster, to sue his livery, and beg his peace; with tears of innocency and terms of zeal,- my father, in kind heart and pity mov'd, swore him assistance, and performed it too. now, when the lords and barons of the realm perceived northumberland did lean to him, the more and less came in with cap and knee; met him in boroughs, cities, villages; attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, laid gifts before him, proffered him their oaths, gave him their heirs; as pages follow'd him, even at the heels, in golden multitudes. he presently,--as greatness knows itself,- steps me a little higher than his vow made to my father, while his blood was poor, upon the naked shore at ravenspurg." the cross set up to commemorate the landing was shifted from place to place when endangered by the sea, and lastly to hedon, where it still remains, as already mentioned. it was at the same port that edward iv. landed, with an excuse plausible as that of the duke whose exploit he imitated. though it be "naked" still, and toilsome to walk on, the shore is by no means barren of interest. by-and-by we come to firm ground, mostly covered with thickly-matted grass; a great irregular, oval mound, which represents the bowl of the spoon reversed. near its centre is a fenced garden and a row of cottages--the residence of the life-boat crew. a little farther, on the summit of the ridge, stands the lighthouse, built by smeaton, in 1776, and at the water's edge, on the inner side, the lower light. the principal tower is ninety feet in height, and from the gallery at the top you get an excellent bird's-eye view over sea and land. most remarkable is the tongue of sand along which we have walked, now visible in its whole extent and outline. it is lowest where the breach was made, and now that the tide has risen higher, the chalk embankment seems scarcely above the level of the water. beyond that it broadens away to the shore of the estuary on one side, and the coast of holderness on the other--low, sweeping lines which your eye follows for miles. by the waste of that coast the spurn is maintained, and the trinity sands are daily enlarged, and the meadows fattened along ouse and trent. first the lighter particles of the falling cliffs drift round by the set of the current, and gradually the heavier portions and pebbles follow, and the supply being inexhaustible, a phenomenon is produced similar to that of the chesil bank, on the coast of dorsetshire, except that here the pebbles are for the most part masked by sand. i looked northwards for flamborough head, but dimlington hill, which lies between, though not half the height, hides it completely. beyond dimlington lies withernsea, a small watering-place, the terminus of the hull and holderness railway, to which the natives of the melancholy town betake themselves for health and recreation, tempted by a quadrille band and cheap season-tickets. adjoining withernsea is all that remains of owthorne, a village which has shared the doom of kilnsea. the churches at the two places were known as 'sister churches;' that at withernsea yet stands in ruins; but owthorne church was swept into the sea within the memory of persons now living. the story runs that two sisters living there, each on her manor, in the good old times, began to build a church for the glory of god and the good of their own souls, and the work went on prosperously until a quarrel arose between them on the question of spire or tower. neither would yield. at length a holy monk suggested that each sister should build a church on her own manor; the suggestion was approved, and for long years the sister churches resounded with the voice of prayer and praise, and offered a fair day-mark to the mariner. but, as of old, the devouring sea rushed higher and higher upon the land, and the cliff, sapped and undermined, fell, and with it the church of owthorne. in 1786, the edge of the burial-ground first began to fail; the church itself was not touched till thirty years later. it was a mournful sight to see the riven churchyard, and skeletons and broken coffins sticking out from the new cliff, and bones, skulls, and fragments of long-buried wood strewn on the beach. one of the coffins washed out from a vault under the east end of the church contained an embalmed corpse, the back of the scalp still bearing the gray hairs of one who had been the village pastor. the eyes of the villagers were shocked by these ghastly relics of mortality tossed rudely forth to the light of day; and aged folk who tottered down to see the havoc, wept as by some remembered token they recognised a relative or friend of bygone years, whom they had followed to the grave--the resting place of the dead, as they trusted, till the end of time. in some places bodies still clad in naval attire, with bright-coloured silk kerchiefs round the neck, were unearthed, as if the sea were eager to reclaim the shipwrecked sailors whom it had in former time flung dead upon the shore. but, to return to the lighthouse. according to smeaton's survey this extremity of the spoon comprehends ninety-eight acres. it slopes gently to the sea, and is somewhat altered in outline by every gale. at the time of my visit, rows of piles were being driven in, and barriers of chalk erected, to secure the ground on the outer side between the tower and the sea; and a new row of cottages for the life-boat crew, built nearer to the side where most wrecks occur than the old row, was nearly finished. beyond, towards the point, stands a public-house, in what seems a dangerous situation, close to the water. there was once a garden between it and the sea; now the spray dashes into the rear of the house; for the wall and one-half of the hindermost room have disappeared along with the garden, and the hostess contents herself with the rooms in front, fondly hoping they will last her time. she has but few guests now, and talks with regret of the change since the digging of ballast was forbidden on the spurn. then trade was good, for the diggers were numerous and thirsty. that ballast-digging should ever have been permitted in so unstable a spot argues a great want of forethought somewhere. the paved enclosure around the tower is kept scrupulously clean, for the rain which falls thereon and flows into the cistern beneath is the only drinkable water to be had. "it never fails," said the keeper, "but in some seasons acquires a stale flavour." he was formerly at flamborough, and although appointment to the spurn was promotion, he did not like it so well. it was so lonesome; the rough, trackless way between, made the nearest village seem far off; now and then a boat came across with visitors from cleathorpes, a seven miles' trip; there had been one that morning, but not often enough to break the monotony. and he could not get much diversion in reading, for the trinity board, he knew not why, had ceased to circulate the lighthouse library. the lesser tower stands at the foot of the inner slope, where its base is covered by every tide. its height is fifty feet, and the entrance, approached by a long wooden bridge, is far above reach of the water. this is the third tower erected on the same spot; the two which preceded it suffered so much damage from the sea that they had to be rebuilt. about the time that ambitious bolingbroke landed, a good hermit, moved with pity by the number of wrecks, and the dangers that beset the mouth of the estuary, set up a light somewhere near ravenser. but finding himself too poor to maintain it, he addressed a petition to the "wyse commons of parliament," for succour, and not in vain. the mayor of hull, with other citizens, were empowered "to make a toure to be up on daylight and a redy bekyn wheryn shall be light gevyng by nyght to alle the vesselx that comyn into the seid ryver of humbre." in the seventeenth century, mr. justinian angell, of london, obtained a license to build a lighthouse on the spurn. it was an octagonal tower of brick, displaying an open coal fire on the top, which in stormy weather was frequently blown quite out, when most wanted. wrecks were continually taking place; and it is only since smeaton completed his tower, and the floating-light was established in the offing, and the channel was properly buoyed, that vessels can approach the humber with safety by night as well as by day. it was full tide when i returned along the chalky embankment, and the light spray from the breakers sprinkled my cheek, giving me a playful intimation of what might be expected in a storm. i was passing a tilery near welwick, when a beery fellow, who sat in the little office with a jug before him and a pipe in his mouth, threw up the window and asked, in a gruff, insolent tone, "a say, guvner, did ye meet father mathew?" "yes." "what did he say to ye?" "he told me i should see a fool at the tileworks." down went the window with a hearty slam, and before i was fifty yards away, the same voice rushed into the road and challenged me to go back and fight. and when the owner of the voice saw that the stranger took no heed thereof, he cried, till hidden by a bend in the road, "yer nothin' but t' scram o' t' yerth!--yer nothin' but t' scram o' t' yerth!" thinking _scram_ might be the yorkshire for _scum_, i made a note of it for the benefit of philologists, and kept on to patrington, where i arrived in time for the last train to hull, quite content with six-and-twenty miles for my first day's walk. chapter iv. northern manners--cottingham--the romance of baynard castle- beverley--yorkshire dialect--the farmers' breakfast--glimpses of the town--antiquities and constables--the minster--yellow ochre--the percy shrine--the murdered earl--the costly funeral --the sister's tomb--rhyming legend--the fridstool--the belfry. journeying from hull to beverley by 'market-train' on the morrow, i had ample proof, in the noisy talk of the crowded passengers, that yorkshire dialect and its peculiar idioms are not "rapidly disappearing before the facilities for travel afforded by railways." nor could i fail to notice what has before struck me, that taken class for class, the people north of coventry exhibit a rudeness, not to say coarseness of manners, which is rarely seen south of that ancient city. in staffordshire, within twenty miles of birmingham, there are districts where baptism, marriage, and other moral and religious observances considered as essentials of christianity, are as completely disregarded as among the heathen. in some parts of lancashire and yorkshire similar characteristics prevail; but rude manners do not necessarily imply loose morality. generally speaking the rudeness is a safety-valve that lets off the faults or seeming faults of character; and i for one prefer rudeness to that over-refinement prevalent in middlesex, where you may not call things by their right names, and where, as a consequence, the sense of what is fraudulent, and criminal, and wicked, has become weakened, because of the very mild and innocent words in which 'good society' requires that dishonesty and sin should be spoken of. if we alight at cottingham and take a walk in the neighbourhood we may discover the scene of a romantic incident. there stood baynard castle, a grand old feudal structure, the residence of lord wake. when henry viii. lay at hull, he sent a messenger to announce a royal visit to the castle, anticipating, no doubt, a loyal reception; but the lord instead of pride felt only alarm, for his wife, whom he loved truly, was very beautiful, and he feared for the consequences should the amorous monarch set eyes on her beauty. he resolved on a stratagem: gave instructions to his confidential steward; departed at dead of night with his wife; and before morning nothing of the castle remained but a heap of smoking ruins. the king, on hearing of the fire, little suspecting the cause, generously sent a gift of two thousand pounds, with friendly words, to mitigate the loss; but the wary lord having evaded the visit, refused also to receive the money. and now, after lapse of centuries, there is nothing left but traces of a moat and rampart, to show the wayfarer where such an ardent sacrifice was made to true affection. even among the farmers, at whose table i took breakfast at the _holderness hotel_, at beverley, there was evidence that broad yorkshire is not bad dutch, as the proverb says: "gooid brade, botter, and cheese, is gooid yorkshire, and gooid friese." the farmers talked about horses, and, to my surprise, they ate but daintily of the good things, the beef, ham, mutton, brawn, and other substantial fare that literally burdened the table. not one played the part of a good trencherman, but trifled as if the victim of dinners fashionably late; and still more to my surprise, when the conversation took a turn, they all spoke disdainfully of walking. that sort of exercise was not at all to their liking. "i ha'n't walked four mile i don't know when," said one; and his fellows avowed themselves similarly lazy. my intention to walk along the coast to the mouth of the tees appeared to them a weakminded project. beverley has a staid, respectable aspect, as if aware of its claims to consideration. many of the houses have an old-world look, and among them a searching eye will discover unmistakable bits of antiquity. a small columnar building in the market-place is called the market-cross; beyond it stands a rare old specimen of architecture, st. mary's church, the scene of the accident recorded by the ancient rhymer:- "at beverley a sudden chaunce did falle, the parish chirche stepille it fell at evynsonge tyme, the chaunce was thralle, ffourscore folke ther was slayn thay telle." beyond the church, one of the old town gates, a heavy stone arch, bestrides the street. at the other end of the town, screened by an ancient brick wall, you may see the house of the black friars--more venerable than picturesque--besides little glimpses of the middle ages on your straggling saunter thither. among these are not a few of that sort of endowments which give occasion for abuses, and perpetuate helplessness. and of noticeable peculiarities you will perhaps think that one might be beneficially imitated in other towns. a constable lives here is a notification which you may read on sundry little boards, topped by a royal crown, nailed here and there over the doors. but the minster is the great attraction, rich in historical associations and architectural beauty. the edifice, as it now appears, has all been built since the destruction by fire, in 1138, of an older church that stood on the same spot. the style is diverse, a not uncommon characteristic of ancient churches: early english at the east end, decorated in the nave, and perpendicular in the west front and some minor portions. this western front is considered the master-work, for not one of its features is out of harmony with the others--a specimen of the perpendicular, so rickman signifies, not less admirable than the west front of york minster of the decorated. the effect, indeed, is singularly striking as you approach it from a quiet back street. i found a seat in a favourable point of view, and sat till my eye was satisfied with the sight of graceful forms, multiplied carvings, the tracery and ornament from base to roof, and upwards, where the towers, two hundred feet in height, rise grandly against the bright blue sky. however much you may admire yellow ochre on door-steps, door-posts, and in the passages and on the stairs of dwelling-houses, you will think it out of place when used to hide the natural colour of the masonry in a noble church. for me, the effect of the interior was marred by the yellow mask of the great pillars. the eye expects repose and harmony, and finds itself cheated. apart from this, the lofty proportions, the perspective of the aisles, the soaring arches, the streaming lights and tinted shadows, fail not in their power to charm. your architect is a mighty magician. all the windows, as is believed, were once filled with stained glass, for the large east window was glazed in 1733 with the numerous fragments that remained after the destroyers of ecclesiastical art had perpetrated their mischief. the colours show the true old tone; and the effect, after all, is not unpleasing. the percy shrine on the north side of the choir is one of the monuments to which, after viewing the carved stalls and the altar screen, the sexton will call your special attention. it is a canopied tomb of exquisite workmanship, enriched with various carvings, figures of knights and angels, crockets and finials; marking the resting-place, as is supposed, of the lady idonea clifford, wife of the second lord percy of alnwick. the percys played a conspicuous part in yorkshire history. another of the family, grandson of hotspur, reposes, as is said, under a tomb in the north transept. he was not a warrior, but a prebend of beverley. then, at the east end, the percy chapel, which has lost its beauty through mutilation, commemorates henry, the fourth earl of northumberland, who was massacred at his seat, maiden bower, near topcliffe, in 1489. authorized by henry vii. to answer the appeal of the leading men of his neighbourhood against a tax which levied one-tenth of their property, by a declaration that not one penny would be abated, he delivered his message in terms so haughty and imperious, that the chiefs losing patience, brought up their retainers, sacked the house and murdered the earl. the corpse was buried here in the minster; and the funeral, which cost a sum equivalent to 10,000_l._ present value, is described as of surpassing magnificence. among the numerous items set down in the bill of charges is twopence a piece for fourteen thousand "pore folk" at the burial. in the south aisle of the nave stands another canopied tomb, an altar tomb of elegant form, covered by a slab of purbeck marble, which appears never to have had a word of inscription to tell in whose memory it was erected. neither trace nor record: nothing but tradition, and venerable bede. st. john of beverley had only to send a cruse of water into which he had dipped his finger to a sick person to effect a cure. he once restored the wife of earl puch, who lived at bishop burton, a few miles distant. the lady drank a draught of holy water, and recovered forthwith from a grievous sickness. she had two daughters who, overawed by the miracle, entered the nunnery at beverley, where they won a reputation for holiness and good works. it was they who gave the two pastures on which freemen of the town still graze their cattle. the rest of their story is told in the ballad: it was christmas-eve, says the rhymer, the customary service had been performed in the chapel; the abbess and her nuns slowly retired to pursue their devotions apart in their cells, all save two, who lingered and went forth hand in hand after the others. whither went they? on the morrow they were missing; and "the snow did melt, the winter fled before the gladsome spring, and flowers did bud, the cuckoo piped, and merry birds did sing: "and spring danced by, and crowned with boughs came lusty summer on: and the bells ring out, for 'tis the eve, the eve of blessed st. john. "but where bide they, the sisters twain? have the holy sisters fled? and the abbess and all her nuns bewail'd the sisters twain for dead. "then walk they forth in the eventide, in the cool and dusky hour; and the abbess goes up the stair of stone high on the belfry tower, "now christ thee save! thou sweet ladye, for on the roof-tree there, like as in blessed trance y-rapt, she sees the sisters fair. "whence come ye, daughters? long astray: 'tis but an hour, they tell, since we did chant the vesper hymn, and list the vesper bell. "nay, daughters, nay! 'tis months agone: sweet mother, an hour we ween; but we have been in heaven each one, and holy angels seen." a miracle! cries the rhymer; and he goes on to tell how that the nuns repair to the chapel and chant a hymn of praise, after which the two sisters, kneeling, entreat the abbess for her blessing, and no sooner has she pronounced _vade in pace_, than drooping like two fair lilies, two pale corpses sink to the floor. then the bells break into a chime wondrously sweet, rung by no earthly hand; and when the sisters are laid in the tomb, they suffer no decay. years passed away, and still no change touched those lovely forms and angelic features: "and pilgrims came from all the land, and eke from oversea, to pray at the shrine of the sisters twain, and st. john of beverley." another noteworthy object is king athelstan's _fridstool_, or chair of peace; the centre of a sanctuary which extended a mile from the minster in all directions. any fugitive who could once sit therein was safe, whatever his crime. when richard ii. encamped at beverley, on his way to scotland, his half-brother, sir john holland, having aided in the atrocious murder of lord ralph stafford, fled to the _fridstool_, nor would he leave it until assured of the king's pardon. "the countess of warwick is now out of beverley sanctuary," says sir john paston, writing to his brother in june, 1473--the days of edward iv. the chair, hewn from a single block of stone, is very primitive in form and appearance; and as devoid of beauty as some of the seats in the soulages collection. athelstan was a great benefactor to the church. you may see his effigy, and that of st. john, at the entrance to the choir and over a door in the south transept, where he is represented as handing a charter to the holy man, of which one of the privileges is recorded in old english characters: #als fre make i the as hert may thynke or egh may see.# such a generous giver deserved to be held in honour, especially if the eye were to see from the height of the tower, to the top of which i now mounted by the narrow winding-stair. while stopping to take breath in the belfry, you will perhaps be amused by a table of ringer's laws, and a record of marvellous peals, the same in purport as those exhibited at hull. you can take your time in the ascent, for sextons eschew climbing, at least in all the churches i visited in yorkshire. chapter v. a scotchman's observations--the prospect--the anatomy of beverley--historical associations--the brigantes--the druids- austin's stone--the saxons--coifi and paulinus--down with paganism--a great baptism--st. john of beverley--athelstan and brunanburgh--the sanctuary--the conqueror--archbishop thurstan's privileges--the sacrilegious mayor--battle of the standard--st. john's miracles--brigand burgesses--annual football--surrounding sites--watton and meaux--etymologies- king athelstan's charter. "on my first coming to england i landed at hull, whose scenery enraptured me. the extended flatness of surface--the tall trees loaded with foliage--the large fat cattle wading to the knees in rich pasture--all had the appearance of fairy-land fertility. i hastened to the top of the first steeple--thence to the summit of beverley minster, and wondered over the plain of verdure and rank luxury, without a heathy hill or barren rock, which lay before me. when, after being duly sated into dulness by the constant sight of this miserably flat country, i saw my old bare mountains again, my ravished mind struggled as if it would break through the prison of the body, and soar with the eagle to the summit of the grampians. the pentland, lomond, and ochil hills seemed to have grown to an amazing size in my absence, and i remarked several peculiarities about them which i had never observed before." this passage occurs in the writings of the late james gilchrist, an author to whom i am indebted for some part of my mental culture. i quote it as an example of the different mood of mind in which the view from the top of the tower may be regarded. to one fresh from a town it is delightful. as you step on the leads and gaze around on what was once called "the lowths," you are surprised by the apparently boundless expanse--a great champaign of verdure, far as eye can reach, except where, in the north-west, the wolds begin to upheave their purple undulations. the distance is forest-like: nearer the woods stand out as groves, belts, and clumps, with park-like openings between, and everywhere fields and hedgerows innumerable. how your eye feasts on the uninterrupted greenness, and follows the gleaming lines of road running off in all directions, and comes back at last to survey the town at the foot of the tower! few towns will bear inspection from above so well as beverley. it is well built, and is as clean in the rear of the houses as in the streets. looking from such a height, the yards and gardens appear diminished, and the trim flower-beds, and leafy arbours, and pebbled paths, and angular plots, and a prevailing neatness reveal much in favour of the domestic virtues of the inhabitants. and the effect is heightened by the green spaces among the bright red roofs, and woods which straggle in patches into the town, whereby it retains somewhat of the sylvan aspect for which it was in former times especially remarkable. apart from its natural features, the region is rich in associations. the history of beverley, an epitome of that of the whole county, tempts one to linger, if but for half an hour. it will not be time thrown away, for a glimpse of the past may beneficially influence our further wanderings. here the territory of the brigantes, which even the romans did not conquer till more than a hundred years after their landing in kent, stretched across the island from sea to sea. here, deep in the great forest, the druids had one of their sacred groves, a temple of living oaks, for their mysterious worship and ruthless sacrifices. hundreds of tumuli scattered over the country, entombing kysts, coffins, fragments of skeletons, and rude pottery, and not less the names of streets and places, supply interesting testimony of their existence. drewton, a neighbouring village, marks, as is said, the site of druid's-town, where a stone about twelve feet in height yet standing was so much venerated by the natives, that augustine stood upon it to preach, and erected a cross thereupon that the worshipper might learn to associate it with a purer faith. it is still known as austin's stone. the saxon followed, and finding the territory hollow between the cliffs of the coast and the wolds, named it höll-deira-ness, whence the present holderness. it was in the forest of deira that the conference was held in presence of edwin and ethelburga, between the missionary paulinus and coifi, the high-priest of odin, on the contending claims of christianity and paganism. the right prevailed; and coifi, convinced by the arguments he had heard, seized a spear, and hurrying on horseback to the temple at godmanham, cursed his deity, and hurled the spear at the image with such fury that it remained quivering in the wall of the sacred edifice. the multitude looked on in amazement, waiting for some sign of high displeasure at so outrageous a desecration. but no sign was given, and veering suddenly from dread to derision, they tore down the temple, and destroyed the sacred emblems. edwin's timorous convictions were strengthened by the result, and so great was the throng of converts to the new faith, that, as is recorded, paulinus baptized more than ten thousand in one day in the swale. according to tradition, the present church at godmanham, nine miles distant, a very ancient edifice, was built from the ruins of the pagan temple. st. john of beverley was born at harpham, a village near driffield--deirafeld--in 640. diligent in his calling, and eminently learned and conscientious, he became archbishop of york. in 700 he founded here an establishment of monks, canons, and nuns, and rebuilt or beautified the church, which had been erected in the second century; and when, after thirty-three years of godly rule over his diocese, he laid aside the burden of authority, it was to the peaceful cloisters of beverley that he retired. "he was educated," says fuller, "under theodorus the grecian, and archbishop of canterbury, yet was he not so famous for his teacher as for his scholar, venerable bede, who wrote this john's life, which he hath so spiced with miracles, that it is of the hottest for a discreet man to digest into his belief." he died in 721, and was buried in his favourite church, with a reputation for sanctity which eventually secured him a place in the calendar. was it not to st. john of beverley that athelstan owed the victory at brunanburgh, which made him sole monarch of northumbria? the fame of the "great battle" remains, while all knowledge of the site of brunanburgh has utterly perished, unless, as is argued in the proceedings of the literary and historical society of liverpool, it was fought near burnley, in lancashire. it was celebrated alike in anglo-saxon song and history. greater carnage of people slain by the edge of the sword, says the ancient chronicle, had never been seen in this island, since angles and saxons, mighty war-smiths, crossed the broad seas to britain. athelstan, in fulfilment of his vow, laid up his sword at the shrine of st. john, and added largely to the revenues and privileges of the church. a stone cross, erected on each of the four roads, a mile from the minster, marked the limits of the sanctuary which he conferred. one of these yet remains, but in a sadly mutilated condition. when the conqueror came and laid the country waste from humber to tees, trampling it into a "horrible wilderness," he spared beverley and the surrounding lands, yielding, as was believed, to the miraculous influence of the patron saint. one of his soldiers, who entered the town with hostile intent, became suddenly paralysed, and smitten with incurable disease; and a captain falling, by accident, as it seemed, from his horse, his head was turned completely round by the shock. these were warnings not to be disregarded; and beverley remained a scene of fertile beauty amid the desolation. one of john's successors, archbishop thurstan, took pleasure also in fondling beverley. he cut the canal, a mile in length, from the river hull to the town: he gave to the inhabitants a charter of incorporation conferring similar privileges to those enjoyed by the citizens of york, whereby they were free from all fines and dues in england and normandy; had the right to pontage--that is, a toll on all the barges and boats that passed under a bridge, as well as on the vehicles over it; and to worry debtors as rigorously as they chose, without fear of retaliation. in these anti-church-rate days it is surprising enough to read of the power exercised by an archbishop in the twelfth century. thurstan had rule over the baronies of beverley and five other places, with power to try and execute criminals, and punish thieves without appeal. in all the baronies the prisons were his; to him belonged the gibbet, pillory, and cucking-stool in the towns; the assize of bread and beer; waifs and wrecks of the sea; the right to 'prises' in the river hull, diligently enforced by his watchful coroners; besides park and free warren, and all his land released from suit and service. that taking of prises, by the way, was a standing cause of quarrel between the burghers of hull and beverley. the right to seize two casks of wine from every vessel of more than twenty tons burthen that entered the river, one before, the other behind the mast, was a grievance too much akin to robbery to be borne with patience. the merchants, wise in their generation, tried to save their casks by discharging the cargoes into smaller vessels before entering the port; but the coroners detected the evasion, and took their prises all the same. hence bitter quarrels; in which the beverley ships, dropping down the stream to pursue their voyage, were many times barred out of the humber by the men of hull. once, when the archbishop appeared at the port to defend his right, the mayor, losing temper, snatched the crosier from the dignitary's hand, and, using it as a weapon, actually spilt blood with the sacred instrument. never was the saint's influence more triumphantly felt than when thurstan's fiery eloquence roused the citizens of york to march against david of scotland. the scottish king, to support maud's claim against stephen, ravaged northumbria with such ferocious devastation, that it seemed but a repetition of the norman havoc, and provoked the saxon part of the population to join in repelling the invader. after threatening york, david moved northwards, followed by the yorkshire army, which had rendezvoused at the castle of thirsk. to inspire their patriotism, a great pole, topped by a crucifix, and hung with the standards of st. john of beverley, st. peter of york, and st. wilfred of ripon, was mounted on wheels, and placed where every eye could behold it. the scottish army was overtaken three miles beyond northallerton, on the 22nd of august, 1138. the king, seeing the threefold standard from afar, inquires of a deserter what it means; whereupon he replies, in the words of the ballad: "a mast of a ship it is so high, all bedeck'd with gold so gay; and on its top is a holy cross, that shines as bright as day. "around it hang the holy banners of many a blessed saint: st peter, and john of beverley, and st. wilfrid there they paint." the king begins to have misgivings, and rejoins: "oh! had i but yon holy rood that there so bright doth show, i would not care for yon english host, nor the worst that they could do." but in vain: the yorkshire blood was up, no quarter was given, and ten thousand scotchmen bit the dust. so complete was the victory, that the oppressed saxons boasted of it as an indemnity for their former sufferings; and the battle of the standard remains memorable among the greatest battles of yorkshire, and the standard hill among her historical places. was it not the same st. john who afterwards appeared in full pontificals to stephen, and warned him to stay his purpose of building a castle at beverley? and was it not again his banner, saved from the fire when the town and minster were burnt in 1186, which rendered edward i. victorious in his invasion of scotland? did not his tomb sweat blood on that famous day of agincourt, and the rumour thereof bring henry v. and his lovely kate hither on a pilgrimage? then the chronicler tells us that one while the provost and burgesses, resolving to enlarge and beautify the minster, brought together the best workmen from all parts of england; and later, that the corporation repaired the edifice with stones taken from the neighbouring abbey of watton. and so bitter became the quarrels between hull and beverley, that some of the chief men encouraged the insurrectionary movements known as the _rising of the north_ and the _pilgrimage of grace_, with no other purpose than to damage their rivals. the burgesses of beverley, not having the fear of the marshal before their eyes, were accused of unfair trading: of keeping two yard measures and two bushels: unlawfully long and big to buy with--unlawfully short and small to sell with. and when in process of time the trade of the town decayed, evil-minded persons looked on the change as a judgment. at present there is little of manufacture within it besides that of the implements which have made the name of crosskill familiar to farmers. some old customs lingered here obstinately. the cucking-stool was not abolished until 1750, which some think was a hundred years too soon. ducking-stool-lane preserves its memory. and down to 1825, an annual match at football was played on the sunday before the races, to which there gathered all the rabble of the town and adjacent villages, who for some years successfully resisted the putting down of what had become a nuisance. instead of abolishing the game, it would have been better to change the day, and hold weekly football matches on the race-course. from the tower-top the eye takes in the site of leckonfield, where the percys had a castle; of watton abbey, where an english abelard and heloise mourned and suffered; of the scanty remains of meaux abbey, founded about 1140, by william le gros, earl of albemarle. concerning this nobleman, we read that he had vowed a pilgrimage to the holy land, but grew so fat as to be detained at home against his will. feeling remorse, he consulted his confessor, who advised him to establish a convent of cistercians. a monk from fountains, eminent alike for piety and skill in architecture, was invited to choose a site. he selected a park-like tract commanding a view of the humber. the earl, loving the place, bade him reconsider his choice; but the monk, striking his staff into the ground, replied, "this place shall in future be called the door of life, the vineyard of heaven, and shall for ever be consecrated to religion and the service of god." the abbey was built and tenanted by cowls from fountains, and flourished until floods and high tides wasted the lands, and the reformation destroyed the house. but though one man may write a poem while "waiting on the bridge at coventry," another may hardly, without presumption, write a long chapter on the top of a tower. let me end, therefore, while descending, with a scrap of etymology. beaver lake, that is, the lake of floating islands, sacred to the druids, is said by one learned scribe to be the origin of the name beverley. another finds it in the beavers that colonized the river hull, with lea for a suffix, and point to an ancient seal, which represents st. john seated, resting his feet on a beaver. did not the wise men of camelford set up the figure of a camel on the top of their steeple, as a weathercock, because their river winds very much, and camel is the aboriginal british word for crooked? other scholars trace beverley through bevorlac, back to _pedwarllech_--the four stones. and here, by way of finish, are a few lines from athelstan's charter: "yat witen all yat ever been yat yis charter heren and seen yat i ye king athelstan has yaten and given to st. john of beverlike yat sai you tol and theam yat wit ye now sok and sake over al yat land yat is given into his hand." chapter vi. the great drain--the carrs--submerged forest--river hull- tickton--routh--tippling rustics--a cooler for combatants--the blind fiddler--the improvised song--the donkey races--specimens of yorkshiremen--good wages--a peep at cottage life--ways and means--a paragraph for bachelors--hornsea mere--the abbots' duel--hornsea church--the marine hotel. about a mile from the town on the road to hornsea, you cross one of the great holderness drains, broad and deep enough for a canal, which, traversing the levels, falls into the sea at barmston. it crosses the hollow lands known as 'the carrs,' once an insalubrious region of swamp and water covering the remains of an ancient forest. so deep was the water, that boats went from beverley to frothingham, and some of the farmers found more profit in navigating to and fro with smuggled merchandise concealed under loads of hay and barley than in cultivating their farms. for years a large swannery existed among the islands, and the "king's swanner" used to come down and hold his periodical courts. the number of submerged trees was almost incredible: pines sixty feet in length, intermingled with yew, alder, and other kinds, some standing as they grew, but the most leaning in all directions, or lying flat. six hundred trees were taken from one field, and the labourers made good wages in digging them out at twopence a piece. some of the wood was so sound that a speculator cut it up into walking sticks. generally, the upper layer consists of about two feet of peat, and beneath this the trees were found densely packed to a depth of twenty feet, and below these traces were met with in places of a former surface: the bottom of the hollow formed by the slope from the coast on one side, from the wolds on the other, to which holderness owes its name. the completion of the drainage works in 1835 produced a surprising change in the landscape; green fields succeeded to stagnant water; and the islands are now only discoverable by the 'holm' which terminates the name of some of the farms. a little farther, and there is the river hull, flowing clean and cheerful to the muddy humber. then comes tickton, where, looking back from the swell in the road, you see a good sylvan picture--the towers of the minster rising grand and massy from what appears to be a great wood, backed by the dark undulations of the wolds. in the public-house at routh, where i stayed to dine on bread-and-cheese, the only fare procurable, i found a dozen rustics anticipating their tippling hours with noisy revelry. the one next whom i sat became immediately communicative and confidential, and, telling me they had had to turn out a quarrelsome companion, asked what was the best cure "for a lad as couldn't get a sup o' ale without wanting to fight." i replied, that a pail of cold water poured down the back was a certain remedy; which so tickled his fancy that he rose and made it known to the others, with uproarious applause. for his own part he burst every minute into a wild laugh, repeating, with a chuckle, "a bucket o' water!" there was one, however, of thoughtful and somewhat melancholy countenance, who only smiled quietly, and sat looking apparently on the floor. "what's the matter, massey?" cried my neighbour. "nought. he's a fool that's no melancholy yance a day," came the reply, in the words of a yorkshire proverb. "that's you, tom! play us a tune, and i'll dance." "some folk never get the cradle straws off their breech," came the ready retort with another proverb. "just like 'n," said the other to me. "he's the wittiest man you ever see: always ready to answer, be 't squire or t' parson, as soon as look at 'n. he gave a taste to sir clifford hisself not long ago. he can make songs and sing 'em just whenever he likes. i shouldn't wunner if he's making one now. he's blind, ye see, and that makes 'n witty. we calls 'n massey, but his name's mercer--tom mercer. sing us a song, tom!" true enough. nature having denied sight to him of the melancholy visage, made it up with a rough and ready wit, and ability to improvise a song apt to the occasion. he took his fiddle from the bag and attempted to replace a broken string; but the knot having slipped two or three times, three or four of his companions offered their aid. the operation was, however, too delicate for clumsy fingers swollen with beer and rum, and as they all failed, i stepped forward, took the fiddle in hand, and soon gave it back to the minstrel, who, after a few preliminary flourishes, interrupted by cries of "now for 't!" struck up a song. with a voice not unmusical, rhythm good, and rhyme passable, he rattled out a lively ditty on the incidents of the hour, introducing all his acquaintances by name, and with stinging comments on their peculiarities and weaknesses. the effect was heightened by his own grave demeanour, and the fixed grim smile on his face, while the others were kicking up their heels, and rolling off their seats with frantic laughter. "didn't i tell ye so!" broke in my neighbour, as he winced a little under a shaft unusually keen from the singer's quiver. i was quite ready to praise the song, which, indeed, was remarkable. the cleverest 'ethiopian minstrel' could not chant his ditty more fluently than that blind fiddler caught up all the telling points of the hour. he touched upon the one who had been turned out, and on my hydropathic prescription, and sundry circumstances which could only be understood by one on the spot. without pause or hesitation, he produced a dozen stanzas, of which the last two may serve as a specimen: "rebecca sits a shellin' peas, ye all may hear 'em pop: she knows who's comin' with a cart: he won't forget to stop: and frank, and jem, and lazy mat, got past the time to think, with ginger-beer and rum have gone and muddled all their drink. with a fol lol, riddle, liddle, lol, lol, lol! "here's a genelman fro' lunnon; 'tis well that he cam' doun; if he'd no coom ye rantin' lads would happen had no tune: ye fumbled at the fiddle-strings; he screwed 'em tight and strong; success to lunnon then i say, and so here ends my song. with a fol lol, riddle, liddle, lol, lol, lol!" lusty acclamations and a drink from every man's jug rewarded the fiddler, and a vigorous cry was set up for "the donkey races," another of his songs, which, as lazy mat told me, "had been printed and sold by hundreds." the blind man, nothing loth, rattled off a lively prelude, and sang his song with telling effect. the race was supposed to be run by donkeys from all the towns and villages of the neighbourhood: from patrington, hedon, hull, driffield, beverley, and others, each possessed of a certain local peculiarity, the mention of which threw the company into ecstacies of merriment. and when the "donkey from york" was introduced along with his "sire gravelcart" and his "dam work," two of the guests flumped from their chairs to laugh more at ease on the floor. the fiddler seemed to enjoy the effect of his music; but his grim smile took no relief; the twinkle of the eye was wanting. he was now sure of his game, for the afternoon at least. while looking round on the party, i had little difficulty in discerning among them the three principal varieties of yorkshiremen. there was the tall, broad-shouldered rustic, whose stalwart limbs, light gray or blue eyes, yellowish hair, and open features indicate the saxon; there was the scandinavian, less tall and big, with eyes, hair, and complexion dark, and an intention in the expression not perceptible in the saxon face; and last, the celt, short, swarthy, and irish looking. the first two appeared to me most numerous in the east and north ridings, the last in the west. on the question of wages they were all content. here and there a man got eighteen shillings a week; but the general rate was fifteen shillings, or "nine shill'n's a week and our meat" (diet), as one expressed it. whatever folk might do in the south, yorkshire lads didn't mean to work for nothing, or to put up with scanty food. "we get beef and mutton to eat," said lazy mat, "and plenty of it." the road continues between fat fields and pastures, skirts a park bordered by noble trees, or tall plantations, in which the breeze lingers to play with the branches: here and there a few cottages, or a hamlet, clean in-doors, and pretty out of doors, with gay little flower-gardens. frequent thunder-showers fell, and i was glad to shelter from the heaviest under a roof. always the same cleanliness and signs of thrift, and manifest pleasure in a brief talk with the stranger. and always the same report about wages, and plenty of work for men and boys; but a slowness to believe that sending a boy to school would be better than keeping him at work for five shillings a week. i got but few examples of reading, and those far from promising, and could not help remembering how different my experiences had been the year before in bohemia. one of the cottages in which i took shelter stands lonely in a little wood. the tenant, a young labourer, who had just come home from work, "not a bit sorry," as he said, "that 'twas saturday afternoon," entered willingly into conversation, and made no secret of his circumstances. his testimony was also favourable as regards wages. he earned fifteen shillings a week, and didn't see any reason to complain of hard times, for he paid but three pounds a year for his cottage, which sum he recovered from his garden in vegetables and flowers, besides sundry little advantages which at times fall to the lot of rustics. he eat meat--beef or mutton--"pretty well every day," and was fully persuaded that without enough of good food a man could not do a fair day's work. while we talked his wife was putting the finishing touch to the day's cleaning by washing the brick floor, and without making herself unclean or untidy, as many do. her husband had shown himself no bad judge of rustic beauty when he chose her as his helpmate, and her good looks were repeated in their little daughter, who ran playfully about the room. i suggested that the evening, when one wished to sit quiet and comfortable, was hardly the time to wet the floor. "i'd rather see it wet than mucky" (_mooky_, as he pronounced it), was the answer; and neither husband nor wife was ready to believe that the ill-health too plainly observable among many cottagers' children arises from avoidable damp. to wash the floor in the morning, when no one had occasion to sit in the room, would be against all rule. "stay a bit longer," said the young man, as i rose when the shower ceased; "i like to hear ye talk." and i liked to hear him talk, especially as he began to praise his wife. it was such a pleasure to come home when there was such a lass as that to make a man comfortable. nobody could beat her at making a shirt or making bread, or cooking; and he opened the oven to show me how much room there was for the loaves. scarcely a cottage but has a grate with iron oven attached, and in some places the overpowering heat reminded me of my friend's house in ulrichsthal. then we had a little discourse about books. he liked reading, and had a bible for sundays, and a few odd volumes which he read in the evenings, but not without difficulty; it was so hard to keep awake after a day out of doors. meanwhile i made enticing signs to the merry little lassie, and at last she sat without fear on my knee, and listened with a happy smile and wondering eyes to my chant of the pastoral legend of _little bopeep_. such good friends did we become, that when at length i said "good-bye," and shook hands, there was a general expression of regret, and a hope that i would call again. i certainly will the next time i visit holderness. often since has this incident recurred to my mind, and most often when the discussion was going on in the newspapers concerning the impropriety of marriage on three hundred a year. i wished that the writers, especially he who sneered at domestic life, could go down into yorkshire, and see how much happiness may be had for less than fifty pounds a year. as if any selfish bachelor enjoyments, any of the talk of the clubs, were worth the prattle of infancy, the happy voices of childhood, the pleasures and duties that come with offspring! sandeau deserved to be made _académicien_, if only for having said that "un berceau est plus éloquent qu'une chaire, et rien n'enseigne mieux à l'homme les côtés sérieux de sa destinée." a mile or two farther and water gleams through the trees on the right. it is hornsea mere, nearly two miles in length, and soon, when the road skirts the margin, you see reedy shallows, the resort of wild-fowl, and swans floating around the wooded islands; and at the upper end the belts and masses of trees under which the visitors to hornsea find pleasant walks while sauntering out to the sylvan scenery of wassand and sigglesthorne. the lake, said a passing villager, averages ten feet in depth, with perhaps as much more of mud, and swarms with fish, chiefly pike and perch. he added something about the great people of the neighbourhood, who would not let a poor fellow fish in the mere, and ordered the keeper to duck even little boys poaching with stick and string. and he recited with a gruff chuckle a rhyming epitaph which one of his neighbours had composed to the memory of a clergyman who had made himself particularly obnoxious. it did not flatter the deceased. in henry the third's reign, as may be read in the _liber melsæ_, or chronicle of the abbey of meaux, the abbot of st. mary's at york quarrelled with him of meaux, about the right to fish in the mere, and not being able to decide the quarrel by argument, the pious churchmen had recourse to arms. each party hired combatants, who met on the appointed day, and after a horse had been swum across the mere, and stakes had been planted to mark the abbot of st. mary's claim, they fought from morning until nightfall, and meaux lost the battle, and with it his ancient right of fishery. in elizabeth's reign, the countess of warwick granted to marmaduke constable the right to fish and fowl for "the some of fyftye and five pounds of lawful english money." this marmaduke, who thus testified his love of fin and feather, was an ancestor of sir clifford constable, the present "lord paramount," upon whom the blind fiddler exercised his wit. hornsea church stands on an eminence at the eastern end between the mere and the village. its low square tower once bore a tall spire, on which, as is said, the builder had cut an inscription:- hornsea steeple, when i built thee, thou was 10 miles off burlington, ten miles off beverley, and 10 miles off sea; but it fell during a gale in 1773. the edifice is a specimen of fifteenth-century architecture, with portions of an earlier date. the crypt under the chancel was at one time a receptacle for smuggled goods, and the clerk was down there doing unlawful work when the tempest smote the spire, and frightened him well-nigh to death. the memory of the last rector is preserved by an altar tomb of alabaster, and of william day, gentleman, who "dyed" in 1616, by a curious epitaph: if that man's life be likened to a day, one here interr'd in youth did lose a day by death, and yet no loss to him at all, for he a threefold day gain'd by his fall; one day of rest in bliss celestial, two days on earth by gifts terrestryall- three pounds at christmas, three at easter day, given to the poure until the world's last day. this was no cause to heaven; but, consequent, who thither will, must tread the steps he went. for why? faith, hope, and christian charity, perfect the house framed for eternity. hornsea village is a homely-looking place, with two or three inns, a post-office, and little shops and houses furbished up till they look expectant of customers and lodgers. many a pair of eyes took an observation of me as i passed along the street, and away up the hill, seeking for quarters with an open prospect. half a mile farther, the ground always rising, and you come to the edge of a clay cliff, and a row of modern houses, and the _marine hotel_ in full view of the sea. even at the first glance you note the waste of the land. as at kilnsea, so here. a few miles to the south, between us and owthorne, stands the village of aldborough, far to the rear of the site once occupied by its church. the sea washed it away. that church was built by ulf, a mighty thane, in the reign of canute. a stone, a relic of the former edifice, bearing an inscription in anglo-saxon, which he caused to be cut, is preserved in the wall of the present church. this stone, and ulf's horn, still to be seen in york minster, are among the most venerable antiquities of the county. hornsea is a favourite resort of many yorkshire folk who love quiet; hence a casual traveller is liable to be disappointed of a lodging on the shore. there was, however, a room to spare at the hotel--a top room, from which, later in the evening, i saw miles of ripples twinkling with moonlight, and heard their murmur on the sand through the open window till i fell asleep. chapter vii. coast scenery--a waning mere, and wasting cliffs--the rain and the sea--encroachment prevented--economy of the hotel--a start on the sands--pleasure of walking--cure for a bad conscience- phenomena of the shore--curious forms in the cliffs--fossil remains--strange boulders--a villager's etymology- reminiscences of "bonypart" and paul jones--the last house- chalk and clay--bridlington--one of the gipseys--paul jones again--the sea-fight--a reminiscence of montgomery. i was out early the next morning for a stroll. the upper margin of the beach, covered only by the highest tides, is loose, heavy sand, strewn with hardened lumps of clay, fatiguing to walk upon; but grows firmer as you approach the water. the wheels of the bathing-machines have broad wooden tires to prevent their sinking. the cliffs are, as we saw near the spurn, nothing but clay, very irregular in profile and elevation, resembling, for the most part, a great brown bank, varying in height from ten feet to forty. the hotel stands on a rise, which overtops the land on each side and juts out farther, commanding a view for miles, bounded on the north by that far-stretching promontory, flamborough head; and to the south by the pale line, where land and water meet the sky. the morning sun touching the many jutting points, while the intervals lay in thin, hazy shadow, imparted something picturesque to the scene, which vanished as the hours drew on, and the stronger light revealed the monotonous colour and unclothed surface of the cliffs. towards evening the picturesque reappears with the lights falling in the opposite direction. a short distance south of the hotel, a stream runs from the mere to the sea. the land is low here, so low that unusually high tides have forced their way up the channel of the stream to the lake, and flooded the grounds on both sides; and the effect will be, as professor phillips says, the entire drainage of the mere, and production of phenomena similar to those which may be seen on the other parts of the coast of holderness: a depression in the cliffs exposing a section of deposits such as are only formed under a large surface of standing water. the result is a mere question of time; and if it be true that hornsea church once stood ten miles from the sea, within the historical period, the scant half-mile, which is now all that separates it from the hungry waves, has no very lengthened term of existence before it. more than a mile in breadth along the whole coast from bridlington to spurn has been devoured since the battle of the standard was fought. an old man of eighty who lives in the village says there are no such high tides now as when he was a boy; and if he be not a romancer, the low ground from the sea to the mere must, at least once, have presented the appearance of a great lake. but the wasting process is carried on by other means than the sea. i saw threads of water running down the cliffs, produced by yesterday's rain, and not without astonishment at the great quantities of mud they deposit at the base, forming in places a narrow viscous stream, creeping in a raised channel across the sand, or confused pasty heaps dotted with pools of liquid ochre. mr. coniton, the proprietor of the hotel, told me that he believed the rain had more influence than the sea in causing the waste of land, and he showed me the means he employed to protect his territory from one and the other. to prevent the loss by rain, which he estimates, where no precautions are taken, at a foot a year, he at first sloped his cliff at such an angle that the water runs easily down and with scarcely appreciable mischief. then, to protect the base, he has driven rows of piles through the sand into the clay beneath, and these, checking the natural drift of the sand to the southward, preserve the under stratum. where no such barrier exists, the waves in a winter storm sweep all the sand clean off, and lay bare the clay, and tumbling upon it with mighty shocks, sometimes wear it down a foot in the course of a tide. by this lowering of the base, the saturated soil above, deprived of support, topples over, leaving a huge gap, which only facilitates further encroachments; and in the course of a few tides the fallen mass is drifted away to enlarge the shoals in the estuary of the humber. mr. coniton entered into possession fifteen years ago, and in all that time, so effectual are the safeguards, has lost none of his land. the edge, he says, has not receded, and, to show what might be, he points to his neighbour's field, which has shrunk away some yards to the rear. the space between the hotel and the edge of the cliff is laid out as a lawn, which, sheltered by a bank on the north, forms an agreeable outlook and lounging-place, while gravelled paths lead to an easy descent to the sands at each extremity of the premises. the house is well arranged; there is no noise, no slackness in the service; and families may live as privately as in a private residence. the charge for adults is four shillings a day; for young children, half a guinea a week, without stint as to the number of meals: to which must be added the cost of rooms and attendance. the charges to casual guests are as reasonable as could be desired, contrasting favourably in this particular with my experiences at hull and in certain of the inland towns and villages. ninepence a day for service and boots is charged in the bill; hence you can depart without being troubled to "remember" anybody. an omnibus arrives every day from beverley during the season--may to november. the distance is thirteen miles. the falling tide had left a breadth of comparatively firm sand by the time i was ready to start, and along that i took my way to bridlington: another stage of thirteen miles. the morning was bounteous in elements of enjoyment: a bright sun, great white clouds sailing high across the blue, a south-westerly breeze, which made the sea playful and murmurous: all gratifying to the desire of a wayfarer's heart. i could not help pitying those farmers at beverley, who saw no pleasure in walking. no pleasure in the surest promotion of health and exercise! no pleasure in the steady progressive motion which satisfies our love of change without hindering observation! no pleasure in walking, that strengthens the limbs and invigorates the lungs! no pleasure in arming the sling against the giant! no pleasure in the occasion of cheerful thoughts and manifold suggestions which bring contentment to the heart! walking is an exercise which in our days might replace, more commonly than it does, the rude out-door recreations of former times; and if but a few of the many hundreds who put on their sunday clothes to lounge the hours away at the corner of a street, would but take a ten miles' walk out to the country lanes or breezy moorlands, they would find benefit alike to their manhood and morals. if i remember rightly, it is one of the old greeks who says that walking will almost cure a bad conscience; and, for my part, i am never so ready to obey the precept of neighbourly love as when my sentiments are harmonized by walks of seven or eight leagues a day. the sands are of varying consistency. in some places you leave deep footprints; and nowhere is the firmness equal to that we shall find farther north, except on the wet border from which the wave has just retired. mile after mile it stretches before you, a broad slope of sand, sparely roughened here and there by pebble drifts. at times you see numerous rounded lumps lying about of many sizes, which at a distance resemble sleeping turtles, and on a nearer view prove to be nothing but masses of hardened clay, water-worn, and as full of pebbles as a canon's pudding is of plums. these are portions of the bottoms of lakes overrun by the sea; stubborn vestiges, which yield but slowly. at times the shortest route takes you through watery flats, or broad shallow streams, where little rivers are well-nigh swallowed by the sand as they run across to the sea. a little farther and you come to a low bank, everywhere cut up by glistening ripple-marks, or to a bare patch of clay, which feels like india-rubber under your foot. and the cliffs taken thus furlong by furlong offer a greater variety than appears at first sight. here, the clay is cracked in such a way as to resemble nothing so much as a pile of huge brown loaves; now it falls away into a broken hollow patched with rough grass; now it juts again so full of perpendicular cracks that you liken it to a mass of starch; now it is grooved by a deep gully; now a buttress terminates in a crumbling pyramid--umber mottled with yellow; now it is a rude stair, six great steps only to the summit; now a point, of which you would say the extremity has been shaped by turf-cutters; now a wall of pebbles, hundreds of thousands of all sizes, the largest equal in bigness to a child's head; now a shattered ruin fallen in a confused heap. such are some of the appearances left by the waves in their never-ending aggressions. in one hollow the disposition of the clay was so singular, and apparently artificial, and unlike anything which i had ever seen, that i could only imagine it to be a recess in which a party of assyrian brickmakers had been at work and left great piles of their bricks in different degrees of finish. it was easier to imagine that than to believe such effects could be produced by the dash of the sea. the greatest elevation occurs about atwick and skirlington, places interesting to the palæontologist, on account of fossils--an elephant's tusk, and the head and horns of the great irish elk--found in the cliffs. farther on the cliff sinks to a mere bank, six feet in height, but, whether high or low, you need not fear a surprise by the rising tide, for you can scramble up anywhere out of reach of the water. looking inland from these points you see always the same character of scenery, and where a path zigzags up you will notice large trays used for carrying up the heaps of pebbles there accumulated, for the construction of drains, fences, and walls. among remarkable curiosities are two large boulders--one of a slaty rock, the other of granite half embedded in the sand. from what part of the country were they drifted to their present position? here and there i fell in with a villager taking a quiet walk on the beach, and leading two or three little children. one of them told me that the stricklands, a well-known family in holderness, derived their name from strikeland; that is, they were the first to _strike_ the _land_ when they came over. collectors of folk-lore will perhaps make a note of this rustic etymology. he remembered hearing his father talk of the alarm that prevailed all along the coast when there was talk of "bonypart's" invasion; and how that paul jones never sailed past without firing a ball at rolleston hall, that stood on a slope in sight of the sea, where dwelt mr. brough, who, as marshal to the court of admiralty, had to direct the proceedings on the trial of admiral byng. here and there are parties of country lads bathing; or trying which can take the longest jump on the smooth sand; or squatting in soft places idly watching the waves, and exasperating their dogs into a fight. after passing skipsea, and the northern end of the barmston drain, the lone house in the distance catches your eye; the last house of auburn, a village devoured by the sea. the distance is deceptive along the level shore; but when at length you come to the spot, you see a poor weather-beaten cottage on the top of the cliff, and so close to the edge that the eastern wall forms but one perpendicular line with the cliff itself. you can hardly help fancying that it will fall at any moment, even while you are looking; but so it has stood for many years; a fact the more remarkable, as in this place the cliff projects as if in defiance of the ruthless waters. look at the old maps, and you will read: "here auburn washed away by the sea;" and the lone house remains a melancholy yet suggestive monument of geological change. now bridlington comes in sight, and immediately beyond you see a change in the aspect of the cliffs. the chalk formation which stretches across england from hampshire to yorkshire, makes its appearance here as a thin white band under the clay, becoming thicker and thicker, till at length the whole cliff is chalk from base to summit, and the great promontory, of snowy whiteness, gleams afar in the sunlight along the shores and across the sea. the chalk opposes a barrier, which, though far less stubborn than the volcanic rocks of cornwall, is yet more enduring than the clay: hence the land rushes proudly out on the domain of ocean. nearness, however, while it shows you the mouths of caverns and gullies, like dark shades in the chalk, markedly shortens the headland to the eye. the last mile of cliff, as you approach bridlington is diversified by a pale chalky stratum, about four feet thick along the top. it dips down in places basin-like, and contrasts strangely with the clay. bridlington quay, as the seaward part of the town is named, though situated at the very rear of the head, is, as i saw on turning the last point, not safe from the sap and shock of the breakers. the cliff, sunken in places, exhibits the effect of landslips in rough slopes and ugly heaps. two legs of the seat fixed at the corner overhang the edge and rest upon nothing, and you see that the remainder are doomed to follow, notwithstanding the numerous piles driven in for protection. the two arms of the pier enclose a small harbour, one of the few places of refuge for vessels caught by easterly gales on the yorkshire coast--a coast deficient in good and easily-accessible harbours. a chalybeate spring bursts from the cliff on the northern side; and near the middle of the port an artesian well throws up a constant stream, varying with the rise and fall of the tide. the noisy brook which you cross, on entering the principal street, has its sources in those remarkable springs which, known as 'the gipseys,' gush out from the foot of the wolds. bridlington attracts numbers of that class of visitors for whom hornsea is too quiet and scarborough too gay. in fine weather, steamers arrive with pleasure parties from hull and whitby, flamborough head being the great attraction. the boatmen ask fifteen shillings a day for a boat to sail round the head, and give you opportunity to peer into caverns, or to shoot seafowl should your desire be for "sport." and besides their pay, the tough old fellows like to have a voice in provisioning the boat, resolute to demonstrate how much your pleasure depends on "laying in plenty of bottled porter." the church, situate in the town about half a mile from the quay, was at one time as large and handsome as the minster of beverley; but of late years the visitor has only been able to see the remains of beauty through grievous dilapidations, in which the hand of man was more implicated than the weather. paul jones is still held responsible for some of the mischief. now, however, the work of restoration is commenced, and ere long the admirable details and proportions of the edifice will reappear. here it was that, attended by a convoy of seven dutch vessels of war, commanded by van tromp, queen henrietta maria landed in 1643; and there are people yet living who remember the terror inspired by the redoubtable privateer aforementioned, while the north-american colonies were battling for their liberties. on the 20th of september, 1779, a messenger came in hot haste from scarborough to bridlington with news that an enemy had been espied off the coast, and in the evening of the same day the yankee squadron was in sight from flamborough head. preparations were at once made to send the women and children into the interior; money and valuables were hastily packed, and some of the inhabitants, panic-stricken, actually fled. the drum beat to arms; the northumberland militia, then quartered in the neighbourhood, were called out; and all the coasting-vessels bore up for bridlington bay, and crowded for protection into the little harbour. scarcely a town or village on the yorkshire coast but has its story of alarms and unwelcome visitations from the american privateers. on the 24th the timid population witnessed a sea-fight from the cliffs. jones, with the _bonhomme richard_, and the _pallas_ and _alliance_ frigates, intercepted the _serapis_, of forty-four, and _countess of scarbro'_, of twenty-two guns, convoying a fleet of merchant-vessels, and at once commenced action. the two largest ships grappled, and fired into each other for two hours, the two frigates meanwhile sailing round, and doing their best to cripple the englishman. the american at length struck; but only as a feint, for when the crew of the _serapis_ boarded, they fell into an ambush prepared for them, and suffered so much loss, that the _serapis_ hauled down her colours, and the _countess of scarbro'_ was taken by the _pallas_. the victory, however, was dearly won: the _bonhomme richard_ lost three hundred men in killed and wounded, and was so grievously cut up in her hull, that the next day she went to the bottom. captain pearson, of the _serapis_, in his despatch to the admiralty announcing the capture of his ship, had good reason to write, "i flatter myself with the hopes that their lordships will be convinced that she has not been given away." the scene of three of montgomery's sonnets is laid at bridlington. turn to the volume and read them, before you go farther. chapter viii. what the boarding-house thought--landslips--yarborough house- the dane's dike--higher cliffs--the south landing--the flamborough fleet--ida, the flamebearer--a storm--a talk in a limekiln--flamborough fishermen--coffee before rum--no drunkards--a landlord's experiences--old-fashioned honesty. the party--four gentlemen and one lady--at the boarding-house where i tarried to dine, agreed unanimously that to pass a whole sunday morning in walking, was especially blameworthy. besides being wrong in itself, it was "setting such a bad example;" nor would they hear reason on the question. with them, indeed, it was no question: they quoted the fourth commandment, and that settled it. any departure from that was decidedly wrong, if not sinful. and then, perhaps out of a benevolent desire for my spiritual welfare, they urged me to stay till the morrow, when i might join them in a boat-trip to the head and help to fire guns at the seafowl. it surprised me somewhat to hear them discuss their project with as much animation as if they had not just administered a homily to me, or the day had not been sunday. the possibilities of weather, the merits of cold pies, sandwiches, and lively bottled drinks, powder and shot moreover, and tidal contingencies, were talked about in a way that led me to infer there was nothing at all wrong in consuming the holy day with anticipations of pleasure to come in the days reckoned unholy. then one of the party set off to walk to a village three miles distant; and presently, when i started for flamborough, the other three accompanied me as far as the path along the cliff was easy to the foot. so i could only infer again that there is nothing wrong in short walks on a sunday. it is simply the distance that constitutes the difference between good and evil. some folk appear to believe that if they only sit under a pulpit in the morning, they have earned a dispensation for the rest of the day. the cliffs now are sixty feet in height, broken by frequent slips in the upper stratum of clay, and numerous cracks running along the path marks the limits of future falls. one of the slips appeared to be but a few hours old, and the lumps, of all dimensions, with patches of grass and weeds sticking out here and there, lying in a great confused slope, suggested the idea of an avalanche of clay. ere long you come to yarborough house, a stately mansion standing embowered by trees about a furlong from the shore. holding that an englishman has an inherent right of way along the edge of his own country, i gave no heed to the usual wooden warning to trespassers, erected where the path strikes inland at the skirt of the grounds, and kept along the pathless margin of the cliff. nothing appeared to be disturbed by my presence except a few rabbits, that darted as if in terror to their burrows. once past the grounds you come into large fields, where the grain grows so close to the brink of the precipice, that you wonder alike at the thrift of the yorkshire farmers, and the skill with which they drive their ploughs in critical situations. as you proceed, the cliffs rise higher, interrupted in places by narrow gullies, one of which is so deep and the farther bank so high as to appear truly formidable, and shut out all prospect to the east. after a difficult scramble down, and a more difficult scramble up, you find yourself on the top of a ridge, which, stretching all across the base of the headland from sea to sea, along the margin of a natural ravine, remains a monument, miles in length, of the days "when denmark's raven soar'd on high, triumphant through northumbrian sky." it is the "dane's dike," a barrier raised by our piratical scandinavian forefathers to protect their settlements on the great promontory. with such a fence, they had always a refuge to fall back upon where they could hold their own, and command the landing-places till more ships and marauders arrived with succours. as the eye follows the straight line of the huge grass-grown embankment, you will feel something like admiration of the resolute industry by which it was raised, and perhaps think of the fierce battles which its now lonely slopes must have once witnessed. still the cliffs ascend. farther on i came to a broader and deeper ravine, at the mouth of which a few boats lay moored; and others hauled up on the beach, and coming nearer, i saw boat after boat lodged here and there on the slopes, even to the level ground above, where, judging from the number, the fleet found its rendezvous. it was curious to see so many keels out of their element, most of them gay with stripes of blue and red, and bearing the names of the wives and daughters of _flambro'_. the little bay, however, known as the south landing, is one of the two ports of flamborough: the other, as we shall see after passing the lighthouse, is similar in formation--a mere gap in the cliffs. they might be called providential landing-places, for without them the fishermen of flamborough would have no access to the sea, except by ladders down the precipice. as it is, the declivity is very steep; and it is only by hauling them up to every available spot, that room is found for the numerous boats. here it was that ida, the flamebearer, is supposed to have landed, when he achieved the conquest of northumbria; and here the galleys of the sea-kings found a precarious shelter while the daring northmen leapt on shore to overrun the land in later centuries, when tradition alone preserved the remembrance of the former invaders and their warlike deeds. i was prowling hither and thither in the ravine, entertained with the present while imagining the past, when the clouds, grown every minute blacker since noon, let fall their burden with something like tropical vehemence. for some time there was no perceptible pause in the lightning or thunder, and against the accompanying rain an umbrella was but as gauze. i rushed into the arch of a neighbouring limekiln, and once in, was kept there two hours by the roaring storm. presently two fishermen, speeding up from the landing, made for the same shelter, and of course, under the circumstances, we fraternised at once, and talked the time away. clean and well clad, they were favourable--and as i afterwards saw--not exceptional specimens of their class. in their opinion the flamborough fishermen bear as good a character as any in yorkshire--perhaps better. about seven years ago they all resolved to work but six days a week, and on no account to go to sea on sundays. they held to their resolve, and, to the surprise of most, found themselves the better. they earn quite as much as before, if not more, and go to work with better spirit. during the herring season it is a common practice with them to put into scarborough on saturday evening, and journey home by rail for the sunday, taking advantage of the very low fares at which return tickets are issued to fishermen. and as for diet, they take a good store of bread and meat, pies even, in their boats, seeing no reason why they should not live as well as their neighbours. a glass of rum was acceptable, especially in cold and blowing weather: but so far as they knew, there were very few fishermen who would not "choose hot coffee before rum any day." there was none of that drinking among fishermen now as there used to be formerly. you could find some in flamborough "as liked their glass," but none to be called drunkards. there is a national school in the village; but not so well attended as it might be, and perhaps would be if they had a better schoolmaster. the people generally had pretty good health, which is possibly the occasion why the last two doctors, finding time hang heavy on their hands, drank themselves to death. there is, or rather was in july, 1857, an opening for a doctor in flamborough. the rain still fell heavily when we left our shelter, and it kept on till past midnight. luckily the village was not a mile distant, and there i took a comfortable chair by the kitchen fire of _the ship_. the landlord corroborated all that the fishermen had told me, with the reservation that he found it difficult to clear his room of tipplers on saturday night, although none could be set down as drunkards. at times he put on his clock ten minutes, to ensure a clearance before the sunday morning, resolutely refusing to refill the glasses after twelve. the guests would go away growling out a vow never to return to such an inhospitable house; but not one kept the vow more than a fortnight. when, nineteen years ago, he determined not to open his house on sunday to any but strangers who might chance to arrive from a distance, the village thought itself scandalized, and the other public-houses predicted his ruin. they were, however, mistaken. _the ship_ still flourishes; and the host and his family "find themselves none the worse for going to a place of worship, and keeping the house quiet one day in seven." "sometimes," he ended, "we don't think to fasten the front door when we go to bed; but it's all the same; nobody comes to disturb us." which may be taken as an indication that honesty has not yet abandoned flamborough. chapter ix. men's and women's wages--the signal tower--the passing fleet- the lighthouse--the inland view--cliff scenery--outstretching reefs--selwick's bay--down to the beach--aspect of the cliffs- the matron--lessons in pools--caverns--the king and queen- arched promontories--the north landing--the herring-fishers- pleasure parties--robin lyth's hole--kirk hole--view across little denmark--speeton--end of the chalk--walk to filey. a fresh, bright morning succeeded the stormy night, and it was but a few hours old when, after a look at the old danish tower at the west of the village, i walked across the fields to the lighthouse. a woman trudging in the same direction with a hoe on her shoulder said, after i had asked her a few questions, she wished she were a man, for then she would get nine shillings a week and her meat, instead of one shilling a day and feeding herself, as at present. however, 'twas better than nothing. presently her daughter came up, a buxom maiden, wearing her bonnet in a way which saved her the affliction of shrugs and the trouble of tying. it was front behind: a fashion which leaves no part of the head exposed, shelters the poll, and looks picturesque withal. it prevails, as i afterwards noticed, among the rustic lasses everywhere. as i passed the old stone tower near the coast-guard station, the signal-man was busy raising and lowering his flag, for a numerous fleet of coasting-vessels was running by to the southward, each telling its name as it came within signal distance. the man sends a daily list of the names to london for publication, whereby coal-merchants and others hear of cargoes on the way, and calculate the time of their arrival. it is a peculiarity of flamborough head, an enlivening one, that ships can keep so close in that the men on their decks are distinctly seen, and their voices heard by one standing on the cliff. the lighthouse, a circular white tower, eighty-two feet in height, stands on the verge of the cliff, displaying inside and out all that admirable order and cleanliness characteristic of british lighthouses. there is no difficulty in obtaining admittance; you sign your name in a book, and are forthwith conducted up to the lantern by the chief or one of his aids. the light is revolving, alternately white and red, and can be seen at a distance of thirty miles. but here, elevated two hundred and fifty feet above the sea, you feel most interested in the prospect. no "shadowy pomp of woods" arrests the eye looking landwards, but a region bleak and bare in aspect rolling away to the distant wolds, the line of uplands which, sweeping round, approaches the coast about scarborough. the village with its windmill, and the few farms that are in sight, look naked and comfortless: not an inviting territory for an invader given to the picturesque. but seawards, and along the rugged front of the cliffs, grandeur and variety exert their charm. here the up-piled chalk flings out a bold perpendicular buttress, solid from base to summit; there the jutting mass is isolated by yawning cracks and chasms, and underneath, as we shall presently see, is fretted into fantastic shapes, pierced through and through, or worn into caverns by the headlong billows. in places a broken slope of rocky hummocks and patches of grass, weeds, and gravel descends, more or less abruptly, to the beach, opening a view of the long weed-blackened reefs that, stretching out from the head, afford a measure of the amazing encroachments of the sea. northwards, the bluff crowned by scarborough castle, backed by higher elevations, closes the view; to the south you have the low, fading coast of holderness; and all the while brigs, ships, and schooners are sailing past, more than a hundred in sight, some of them so near that you fancy they will hardly escape the lurking points of the dark reef. one small vessel, the keeper told me, had touched the day before, and lay fast and helpless till, the weather being calm, she floated off by the succeeding tide. you can look down into selwicks bay, and see men and boys quarrying chalk, and donkeys laden with heavy panniers of the lumps, toiling painfully up the steep winding road which forms the only approach. the farther horn of the little bay is arched and tunnelled, and, taken with the waterfall plunging down in its rear and the imposing features of the points beyond, invites to further exploration. the residents at the lighthouse enjoy an abundant supply of water from a spring within their enclosure: their garden produces cabbages and potatoes; the neighbours are friendly, and visitors numerous. hence life is more cheerful to them than to the amphibious hermits who dwell at the spurn. while looking for a practicable descending-place, i noticed many tufts of thrift as thick with flowers as in an antiquated garden where the old favourites are still cherished. "even here hath nature lavished hues, and scent, and melody; born handmaids of the ocean: the frowning crags, with moss and rock-flowers blent, dazzle the eyes with sunlight, while the motion of waves, the breezes fragrant from the sea, and cry of birds, combine one glorious symphony!" the time--dead low water--being favourable for a stroll on the beach, i scrambled down a rough slope to the south of the lighthouse, and across the rougher beach to the rocks beyond the outmost point, where, turning round, i could view the cliffs in either direction. and a striking scene it is! a wild beach, as rugged with water-worn lumps of chalk as any lover of chaos could desire. here the cliff jutting proudly, the white patches gleaming brightly where masses of chalk have recently fallen, and the harder portions presenting a smooth, marble-like appearance; there receding into the shade, and terminating in darksome hollows, the mouths of gullies and caverns; and everywhere broken up with buttresses, piers, and columnar projections, the bases of which are garnished with a belt of shelly incrustation, and a broad brown fringe of weed. above, the white surface is varied by streaks and stains of yellow and green; and seafowl innumerable crowd on all the ledges, or wheel and dart in restless flight, as if proud to show their white wings to the sun. the reef stretches out a quarter of a mile, as one may guess, worn here and there with channels narrow and deep, along which the water rolls with intermittent rush and roar, reminding the loiterer here in the slumberous july weather of tremendous energies lulled to repose. i walked round the matron--an isolated pyramid of chalk--and patted her on the back; and strode from one little pool to another, taking an unscientific lesson in natural history while watching the animal and vegetable occupants, and those that seemed to be as much one as the other. i picked up a fine specimen of the hermit crab, and proved the strength of local attachment: it would not be coaxed from its hermitage--the shell of a whelk. i saw a limpet give its shell half a rotation, then grow tall for an instant, and then shut itself snugly down upon the rock. at times, while i stood quite still, 'ninnycocks,' that is, young lobsters, would venture out from their crevices, and have a frolic in their weedy basin; but they would tolerate no intruder, and darted into undiscoverable retreats on my slightest movement. and the animated flowers that displayed their orange and crimson petals at the bottom of the basin were equally mistrustful, and shut themselves up if i did but put my hand in the water, even after they had looked on without winking at the gambols of the ninnycocks. there are times when ignorance has a charm, and this was one of them. how much happier to sit and watch a crowd of weeds, a very forest in miniature, tenanted by creeping things innumerable, and to have your faculty of wonder excited as well as admiration while observing them in full liberty, than to come prepared to call one an ascidian, another an entomostracan, and so on, and to assign to each its place in the phycological handbook, or the zoological catalogue! in some of the smallest and deepest caverns which curve as they enter the cliff, you get effects of cross lights from their inner extremity, and see the glistening of the walls, which, worn smooth by the water, appear to be varnished. in all the floor rises more or less rapidly; and in one, a hundred paces deep, the rush and roar of the surge outside comes only as a gentle murmur, and a slow drip-drip from the crevices has an impressive sound there in the gloom where the entrance cannot be seen. i took advantage of the opportunity, and explored most of the openings, catching sight now and then of belemnites and other curious fossils in the chalk, wading at times knee-deep in weed, and scrambled round the bays on each side of the point, and failed not to salute the venerable king and queen. having rambled about till the rising tide began to cut off the way round the promontories, and the crabbers came in from their raid on the reefs, i climbed the rough slope, and paced away for the north landing. beyond selwicks bay the cliff is more broken and cut up into romantic coves and bays, with confused landslips here and there, and in places the green turf rushing half way down masks the chalk; and everywhere are thousands of birds, with their ceaseless cry and clang. isolated masses are numerous; and from one point i could count eight headlands, each pierced by an arch. and here the water, no longer stained with clay, shows green and bright along the base of the cliff, beautifully pellucid where it rolls over a bottom of chalk, contrasting strangely with darksome gulfs and broad beds of weed. and mingling with the cry of birds, there comes from time to time to your ear the noisy report of the guns, or the chant of the fishermen, as rocked on the swell, they sit watching their nets. the north landing is a gap similar to the south, but broader, and with an outlet wide enough to be described as a bay. here i saw some sixty or eighty boats perched from top to bottom of the steep slope; and groups of fishermen with their families, men, women, and children, all busy with preparations for the herring fishery. while some sorted the nets, others lifted in big stones for ballast, or set up the masts, and others pushed their boats down to meet the tide, and all in high good humour; while all about there prevailed a strong fishy smell. and besides the fishermen, there were parties of young men with their guns embarking for a sporting cruise; some armed only with parasols and accompanied by ladies, setting off for a sail round the head; for this is the chief port of flamborough, and the _north star_, a public-house at the top of the hill, is convenient for victual. the advance of the tide prevented my seeing robin lyth's hole, a cavern on the eastern side of the landing; named, as some say, after a certain smuggler who kept his unlawful merchandise therein; or to commemorate the name of a man who was caught in the cavern by the tide, and saved his life by clinging to the topmost ledge till the water fell. another cavern is known as the dovecote; another as kirk hole, and of this the tradition runs that it extends far underground to the village churchyard. i climbed up the western side of the gap, and continued my way along the cliffs, which maintain their elevation. soon i came to the northern end of the dike, a height of three hundred feet, and from the top beheld the whole territory of little denmark, and the sea all the way round to the lighthouse, and the southern end of the dike. according to professor phillips, this remarkable bank was probably already in existence when the danes landed: "perhaps earlier than the anglian invasion," he says; "perhaps it is a british work, like many other of the entrenchments on these anciently peopled hills." a mile farther, and the cliff rises to a height of more than four hundred feet. in some places the bank which encloses the fields is broad enough for a footpath; but you must beware of the landslips. the fences, which are troublesome to climb, project beyond the edge of the cliff to keep the cows, as an old farmer said, "from persevering after the grass and tumbling over." then at speeton the chalk turns inland away from the coast, and the cliff makes a deep hollow curve, chiefly gravel and dark blue clay, abounding in fossils. to avoid the curve, i zigzagged down to the beach; but was presently stopped by a point against which the waves were dashing breast high. i scrambled over it, and was struck by its curious appearance. it seemed to be a high clay buttress, which had fallen perhaps within a few weeks, and was broken up into masses of somewhat regular form, resembling big loaves, and the long grass that had once waved on the surface now looked like dishevelled thatch. it was an interesting example of the way in which the sea commences its ravages. farther on the cliffs diminish in height, and are furrowed by numerous streamlets, and the rugged, stony beach changes to smooth, yielding sand. filey comes in sight, and filey brig, a long black bar stretching into the sea from the extreme point of the great bay, half concealed at times by a quivering ridge of foam. then we pass from the east to the north riding, and ere long we look up at filey--a _royal hotel_, a crescent, and rows of handsome houses, coldish of aspect, a terrace protected by a paved slope, and gravelled paths and a stair for easy access to the beach. the terrace commands a view over the bay, and of the cliffs all the way to flamborough. chapter x. old and new filey--the ravine--filey brig--breaking waves- ragged cliffs--prochronic gravel--gristhorp bay--insulated column--lofty cliffs--fossil plants--red cliff--cayton bay--up to the road--bare prospect--cromwell hotel and oliver's mount- scarborough--the esplanade--watering-place phenomena--the cliff bridge--the museum--the spa--the old town--the harbour--the castle rock--the ancient keep--the prospect--reminiscences: of harold hardrada; of pembroke's siege; of the papists' surprise; of george fox; of robin hood--the one artilleryman--scarborough newspapers--cloughton--the village inn, and its guests--tudds and pooads. here at filey you begin to see a special characteristic of these sea-side resorts;--the contrast between the new and old--the nineteenth century looking proudly across a narrow debatable ground at the sixteenth and seventeenth, putting even still earlier periods out of countenance. were it not for its churches, the olden time would on occasions be made to feel ashamed of itself. a breezy commanding outlook in front; a large handsome church, with low square tower, in the rear; a few shops trying to reconcile themselves to the new order of things while supplying the wants of fifteen hundred inhabitants; more than a few true to the old order, and here and there behind the dim panes, eggs of sea-birds, and shells, and marine stores, in the literal sense; and two or three quiet-looking, respectable inns, open to visitors whom the style of the _royal hotel_ intimidates; the new town on the south, and a wooded ravine on the north; and such is old filey. into this ravine i descended from the church. heavy rain had fallen nearly all night, and the paths were so sticky and slippery, that i wondered so pretty a spot, so capable with bushes and trees and a little brook of contributing to recreation, should not be better kept. there is no lack of material for solid paths in the neighbourhood; but judging from appearances the ravine gets none of it. the path follows the course of the brook, and brings you out upon a beach where fishing-boats, and nets, and lobster-pots, and heaps of ballast, and a smoky fire, and fishy refuse and a smell of tar, and sturdy men and women, make up divers pictures for the eye, and odours for the nostrils. as, on approaching flamborough, we saw the chalk begin to appear at the base of the cliff, so here we see a stratum of sandstone slanting up beneath the clay, rising higher towards the northern horn of the bay, and thence stretching out for three furlongs into the sea, forming the remarkable reef known as filey brig. camden describes it as "a thin slip of land, such as the old english called file; from which the little village filey takes its name." we may suppose that the cliff once projected as far, sheltering an indentation so deep that ptolemy might well call it the _well-havened bay_; though on this particular there are different opinions among the learned. even now, stripped of its cap of clay, the reef forms a natural breakwater, of which the effect is best seen in the quiet of the small vessels at anchor behind it. i was fortunate in the time, for a strong north wind was blowing, and the great waves, checked in their career, dashed headlong against the stony barrier, and broke into little mountains of foam, bursting up here and there in tall white intermittent jets as from a geyser; here one solid surge tumbling over another, mingling with rush and roar in a wide drift of spume; there flinging up gauzy whiffs of spray as if mermaids in frolic were tossing their veils. so mighty were the shocks at times as to inspire a feeling of insecurity in one who stood watching the magnificent spectacle. you can walk out to the end of the reef, and get good views of scarborough, about six miles distant in one direction, and away to flamborough on the other. the floor is generally level, interrupted in places by great steps, channels, and boles; and by huge blocks of many tons' weight scattered about, testifying mutely to the tremendous power of the sea. it is a wild scene, and wilder beyond the point, where the whole beach is strewn with broken lumps, and ledge succeeds to ledge, now high, now low, compelling you to many an up-and-down, stooping under a rude cornice, or scrambling over a slippery ridge. in places the cliff overhangs threateningly, or, receding, forms an alcove where you may sit and feast your eye with the wondrous commotion, and your ear with the thundering chorus of many waters. the upper stratum of clay is worn by the twofold action of rain and spray into singularly fantastic forms, and where it has been deeply excavated, there, kept in by the rim of stone, lies a salt-water pool so bright and pellucid that the temptation to bathe therein is irresistible. i thought to get round to gristhorp bay, but came presently to a recess where the breakers rushing half way up the cliff barred all further progress. to lean against the rocky wall and feel it throb with the shock within the shower of spray, produced an almost painful emotion; and it seemed to me that the more tumultuous the sea the better did it harmonize with a promontory so rugged and grim. i retraced my steps to a stair that zigzags up the cliff on the inner side of the point. near this certain visitors have cut their initials in the hard rock floor, of such dimensions that you can only imagine a day must have been spent in the task with mallet and chisel. vain records! the sea will wash them out some day. when on the summit i was struck more than before by the contrast between the rage and uproar on the outside of the ridge, and the comparative calm inside; nor was it easy to leave a view to which, apart from all the features of the shore, the restless sea added touches of the sublime, wherein wrought fascination. and all the while men, looking like pigmies in the distance, were groping for crabs along each side of the far-stretching reef. a little way north of the point a rustic pavilion standing in a naked garden indicates where the visitor will find a jutting buttress whence to contemplate the scene below. more exposed on this side, the cliff is more cut up and broken in outline, jutting and receding in rugged ledges, and in every hollow rests one of those limpid pools, so calm and clear that you can see the creeping things moving between the patches of weed at the bottom. and the beach is thickly strewn with boulders of a size which perhaps represents the gravel of the "prochronic" era. the elevation increases as we advance, and by-and-by looking round on filey, we see how it lies at the mouth of a broad vale which it requires no great effort of imagination to believe may have been an estuary at some very remote period, near to the time "when the indian ocean did the wanton play mingling its billows with the balticke sea, and the whole earth was water." and far as you can see inland the prospect is bare, even to the distant hills and wolds which loom large and mountainous through the hazy atmosphere. now the cliff shows bands of colour--brown, gray, and ochre, and the lower half capped by a green slope forms a thick projecting plinth to the perpendicular wall above. scarborough begins to be visible in detail, and soon we descend into gristhorp bay, where rough walking awaits us. at its northern extremity stands an insulated columnar mass, somewhat resembling the cheesewring, on a rude pedestal shaped by the waves from the rocky layers. situate about fifty yards from the point, it marks the wear of the cliff from which it has been detached, while the confused waste of rocks left bare by the ebb suggests ages of destruction prior to the appearance of the stubborn column. the cliffs are of imposing height, nearly three hundred feet: a formidable bulwark. it is heavy walking along their base, but as compensation there are strata within reach in which you may find exhaustless deposits of fossil plants, giant ferns, and others. and so the beach continues round red cliff into cayton bay, where another chaos of boulders will try your feet and ability to pick your way. to vary the route, i turned up at cayton mill, past the large reservoir from which scarborough is supplied with water, along the edge of the undercliff to the high road, leaving carnelian bay unvisited. at the hill-top you come suddenly upon a wide and striking prospect--a great sweep of hilly country on one hand, on the other the irregular margin of the cliffs all the way to the town, and a blue promontory far beyond the castle bluff, which marks our course for the morrow. the road is good and the crops look hopeful; but the hedgerows are scanty and stunted, and not improved by the presence of a few miserable oaks; nor do the plantations which shelter the farm-houses and stingy orchards appear able to rejoice though summer be come. in some places, for want of better, the banks are topped by a hedge of furze. on the left of the road, long offshoots from the bleak uplands of the interior terminate with an abrupt slope, presenting the appearance of artificial mounds. another rise, and there is scarborough in full view, crowding close to the shore of its bay, terminated by the castle rock, the most striking feature. bright, showy houses scattered on the south and west indicate the approaches to the fashionable quarter, and of those farthest from the sea you will not fail to notice the _cromwell hotel_--a new building in swiss-like style of architecture, at the foot of oliver's mount. the mount--so named from a tradition that the protector planted his cannon there when besieging the castle--is another of those truncated offshoots, six hundred feet in height, and the summit, which is easily accessible and much visited, commands an interesting prospect. you see the tree-tops in the deep valley which divides the new town from the old, and rearwards, broken ground sprinkled with wood, imparting some touches of beauty to the western outskirts. then, turning to the right, you come upon a stately esplanade, and not without a feeling of surprise after a few days' walking by yourself. for here all is life, gaiety, and fashion. long rows of handsome houses, of clean, light-coloured sandstone, with glittering windows and ornamental balconies, all looking out on the broad, heaving sea. in front, from end to end, stretches a well-kept road, where seats, fixed at frequent intervals, afford a pleasurable resting-place; and from this a great slope descends to the beach, all embowered with trees and shrubs, through which here and there you get a glimpse of a gravelled path or the domed roof of a summer-house. and there, two hundred feet below, is the spa--a castellated building protected by a sea-wall, within which a broad road slopes gently to the sands. you see visitors descending through the grove for their morning draught of the mineral water, or assisting the effect by a 'constitutional' on the promenade beneath; while hundreds besides stroll on the sands, where troops of children under the charge of nursemaids dig holes with little wooden spades. and here on the esplanade elegant pony barouches, driven by natty little postilions, are starting every few minutes from the aristocratic looking hotel to air gay parties of squires and dames around the neighbourhood. and turning again to the beach, there you see rows of bathing-machines gay with green and red stripes, standing near the opening of the valley, and now and then one starts at a slow pace laden with bathers to meet the rising tide. and beyond these the piers stretch out, and the harbour is crowded with masts, and two steamers rock at their moorings, waiting for 'excursionists:' the whole backed by the houses of the old town rising picturesquely one above the other, and crowning the castle heights. nearly an hour passed before i left that agreeable resting-place, whence you get the best view of scarborough and its environment. of all the strollers i saw none go beyond what appeared to be a conventional limit; nature without art was perhaps too fatiguing for them. in the whole of my walk along the coast, i met but two, and they were young men, who had ventured a few miles from head-quarters for a real walk on the cliffs. a bridge, four hundred feet long and seventy-five high, offers a level crossing for foot passengers from the esplanade to the opposite side of the deep valley above mentioned, on payment of a toll. it is at once ornamental and convenient, saving the toil of a steep ascent and descent, and combining the advantage of an observatory. from the centre you get a complete view of the bay, one which the eye rests on with pleasure, though you will hardly agree with a medical author, that it is a "bay of naples." in the other direction, you look up the wooded valley, and down upon the museum, a doric rotunda, built by the members of the scarborough philosophical society, for the preservation of geological specimens. the contents are admirably classified, rocks and fossils in their natural order; amid them rests the skeleton of an ancient british chief; and near the entrance you may see the clumsy oak coffin in which it was found, about twenty-five years ago, in a barrow at gristhorp. descend into the valley, and you will find pleasure in the sight of the bridge, and miles of water seen through the light and graceful arches. then take a walk along the sands, and look up at the leafy slope, crowned by the esplanade, and you will commend the enterprise which converted an ugly clay cliff into a hanging wood. and enterprise is not to stop here: sir joseph paxton, as i heard, has been consulted about the capabilities of the cliff to the south. some residents, however, think that scarborough is already overdone. in a small court within the spa you may see the health-giving waters flowing from two mouths, known from their position as north well and south well. the stream is constant, and, after all the wants of the establishment are supplied, runs across the sand to the sea. the water has a flavour of rusty iron and salt, differing in the two wells, although they are but a few feet apart; and the drinkers find it beneficial in cases of chronic debility and indigestion with their remorseless allies. the contrast is more marked between new and old than at filey. there is, however, a good, respectable look about the streets of the old town, and signs of solid business, notwithstanding the collections of knick-knackery and inharmonious plate-glass. from the broad main street you descend by a narrow crooked street--from old through oldest to the harbour, where old anchors, old boats, old beams and buttresses dispute possession with the builders of new boats, who make the place noisy with their hammering. here as a yorkshireman would say, were assembled all the 'ragabash' of scarborough, to judge by what they said and did. boys and men were fishing from the pier-head under the lighthouse, watched by grizzly old mariners, who appeared to have nothing better to do than to sit in the sun; children paddled in the foamy shallows of the heavy breakers; carts rumbled slowly to and from the coal brigs, followed by stout fellows carrying baskets of fish; a sight which might have shamed the dissolute throng into something like industry. enclosed by the three piers which form the harbour stands a detached pile of masonry, seemingly an ancient breakwater--all weather-beaten, weedy, and grass-grown, with joints widely gaping, looking as if it had stood there ever since leland's day--a remarkable object amid the stir of trade and modern constructions, but quite in harmony with the old pantile-roofed houses that shut in the port. among these you note touches of the picturesque; and your eye singles out the gables as reminiscences of the style which, more than any other, satisfies its desire. but let us go and look down on the scene from the castle rock. the ascent is steep, yet rich in recompense. st. mary's church, near the summit, and the fragments of old walls standing amidst the graves, remind us of its former dimensions, and of the demolitions it suffered during the siege. and there rises in massive strength, to a height of ninety feet, a remnant of the castle keep--an imposing ruin full before us, as we cross the drawbridge, pass under the barbican, and along the covered way, to the inner court. but the court is a large, rough pasture, fenced on the north and east, where the cliff is bare and perpendicular, and towards the town shut in by a range of old wall, pierced by a few embrasures, some low buildings, and the remains of an ancient chapel. there is no picturesque assemblage of ruins; but little indeed besides the shattered keep, and that appears to best effect from without. near the chapel, our lady's well, a spring famous from time immemorial, bubbles silently up in a darksome vault. northwards the view extends along the rugged coast to the peak, a lofty point that looks down on robin hood's bay, and to hazy elevations beyond whitby. to get a sight of the town you must return to the barbican, where you can step up on the wall and securely enjoy a bird's-eye view: from the row of cannon which crown the precipice sheer down to the port and away to the spa, all lies outspread before the curious eye. a great height, as we have already proved, appears to be favourable to musing, especially when the sun shines bright. and here there is much to muse about. harold hardrada, when on his way to defeat and death at stamford brig, landed here, and climbing the "scarburg" with his wild sea-rovers, lit a huge bonfire, and tossed the blazing logs over the cliff down upon the town beneath. the burg, or fortress, was replaced in the reign of stephen by a castle, which, renewed by henry ii., became one of the most important strongholds of the kingdom. piers gavestone defended it vigorously against the earl of pembroke, but was starved into a surrender, with what result we all know. the roman catholics attempted it during their pilgrimage of grace, but were beaten off. in 1554, however, when queen mary was trying to accomplish the pilgrims' work, a son of lord stafford and thirty confederates, all disguised as rustics, sauntered unsuspected into the outer court, where on a sudden they surprised the sentries, and immediately admitting a reserve party carrying concealed arms, they made themselves masters of the place. the success of this surprise is said to have given rise to the adage "scarborough warning; a word and a blow, and the blow first." but after three days the earl of westmoreland regained possession, and mr. stafford underwent the same sharp discipline as befel edward the second's favourite. at length came the struggle between prerogative and people, and in the triumph of the right the castle was well-nigh demolished; and since then, time and tempest have done the rest. among the unfortunates who suffered imprisonment here, george fox, the aboriginal quaker, has left us a most pathetic account of his sufferings. brought hither from lancaster castle, he was put into a chamber which he likened to purgatory for smoke, into which the rain beat, and after he had "laid out about fifty shillings" to make it habitable, "they removed me," he writes in his _journal_, "into a worse room, where i had neither chimney nor fireplace. this being to the sea-side and lying much open, the wind drove in the rain forcibly, so that the water came over my bed and ran about the room, that i was fain to skim it up with a platter. and when my clothes were wet, i had no fire to dry them; so that my body was benumbed with cold, and my fingers swelled, that one was grown as big as two." for more than a year did the resolute peacemaker endure pain and privation, and vindicate his principles on this tall cliff; and when three years later, in 1669, he again went preaching in yorkshire, he revisited scarborough, and "the governor hearing i was come," he writes, "sent to invite me to his house, saying, 'surely i would not be so unkind as not to come and see him and his wife.' so after the meeting i went up to visit him, and he received me very courteously and lovingly." five hundred years earlier, and, as the ballad tells, the merry outlaw, robin hood, who "the yorkshire woods frequented much," being a-weary of forest glades and fallow deer, exclaimed, "the fishermen brave more money have than any merchants two or three; therefore i will to scarborough go, that i a fisherman brave may be." but though the "widow woman" in whose house "he took up his inn," lent him a stout boat and willing crew, he caught no fish, and the master laughed at him for a lubber. however, two or three days later, he espied a ship of war sailing proudly towards them, and then it was the master's turn to lament, for the french robbers spared no man. to him then robin: "'master, tye me to the mast,' saith he, 'that at my mark i may stand fair, and give me my bent bow in my hand, and never a frenchman will i spare.' "he drew his arrow to the very head, and drew it with all might and maine, and straightway, in the twinkling of an eye, to the frenchman's heart the arrow's gane. * * * * * "then streight they boarded the french ship they lyeing all dead in their sight; they found within that ship of warre twelve thousand pound of mony bright." the castle is national property, and as the bluff affords a good site for offence and defence, a magazine and barracks for a company of men have been built. for all garrison, at the time of my visit, there was but one invalid artilleryman, who employs his leisure in constructing models of the ruins for sale along with bottles of ginger beer. he will talk to you about the nice water of our lady's well; the cavern in the cliff, where the officers once dined; of the cannon balls that cromwell sent across from oliver's mount; about the last whale caught on the shore, and about the west indies, where he lost his health; but he remembers little or nothing of piers gavestone or george fox, and is not quite sure if he ever heard that robin hood went a-privateering. his duties, he told me, were not heavy; he did not even lock the gate at night, because folk came very early in the morning to fetch their cows from the pasture. since then, that is, in the autumn of 1857, the rains occasioned a landslip, which nearly obliterated the cavern; a whale thirty feet long was caught floundering in the shallows; and on seamer moor, about three miles distant, ancient gold and silver rings and ornaments, beads and broken pottery, and implements of bronze and iron and a skeleton, were found on excavating a chalky knoll. of course, a town of thirteen thousand inhabitants must have its newspapers. the _scarborough gazette_ is a curiosity for its long list of visitors, filling sometimes two pages. a cheap paper--the title of which i have lost--was a curiosity to me in another way, for i could not have believed that yorkshire folk would read anything so stupid as the wordy columns therein passed off for politics. the shadows were lengthening towards the east when, after satisfying myself with another look at the coast to the north, i took the road for cloughton, leaving the town by the north esplanade, where blenheim-terrace shows the sober style of the first improvements. many visitors, however, prefer the view from those plain bay-windows to that seen from the stately houses to the south. cloughton is a small quiet village, with a _red lion_ to match, where you may get good rustic fare--cakes, bacon, and eggs--and a simple chamber. the landlord, a patriarch of eighty-five, still hale, and active, who sat warming his knees at the turf fire, opened his budget of reminiscences concerning scarborough. the change from what it was to what it is, was wonderful. he went there at election times. had once been to vote at york, years ago, "when there was a hard fight betuxt a milton and a lascelles." had never been to london, but his niece went up to the great exhibition. while we talked, in came a shabby-looking fellow with a six days' beard, for a pint of beer. he had been trout-fishing all day on the moors--one of his means of living. he stayed but a few minutes, and as he went out the patriarch said, "he's a roughish one to look at, but he can make powetry." it was too late to call him back, or i might perhaps have got a specimen. then came in the rustics in twos and threes for their evening pint and pipe, most of them preferring hard porter to the ale, which was really good. not one had a complaint to make of hard times: wages were one and sixpence a day, and meat, and good meat, too--beef and mutton and pies--as much as they could eat. they didn't want to emigrate; yorkshire was quite good enough for them. while talking to them and listening to their conversation among themselves, my old conviction strengthened that the rural folk are not the fools they are commonly taken to be. choose such words as they are familiar with--such as john bunyan uses--and you can make them understand any ordinary subject and take pleasure in it. and how happy they are when you can suggest an illustration from something common to their daily life! i would have undertaken to give an hour's lecture on terrestrial magnetism even, to that company; and not one should have wished it shorter. and once having broken through their crust of awkwardness, you find them possessed of a good fund of common sense, quick to discern between the plausible and what they feel to be true. flattering speeches made at hay-homes and harvest-homes are taken for what they are worth; and the sunburnt throng are everywhere ready to applaud the sentiment conveyed in a reaper's reply to a complimentary toast: "big bees fly high; little bees make the honey: poor men do the work; rich men get the money." one of the party, lively enough to have lived when the island was "merry england," hearing that i intended to walk through bay town on the morrow, said, laughingly, "you'll find nought but _tudds_ and _pooads_ down there;" meaning that todd and poad were the prevalent names. chapter xi. from cloughton to haiburn wyke--the embowered path--approach to the sea--rock, water, and foliage--heavy walking--staintondale cliffs--the undercliff--the peak--raven hall--robin hood's bay --a trespass--alum works--waterfalls--bay town--manners and customs of the natives--coal trade--the churchyard--epitaphs- black-a-moor--hawsker--vale of pickering--robin hood and little john's archery--whitby abbey--beautiful ruin--st. hilda, wilfrid, and coedmon--legends--a fallen tower--st. mary's church--whitby--the vale of esk--specimens of popular hymns. the next morning looked unpromising; the heavy rain which began to fall the evening before had continued all night, and when i started, trees and hedges were still dripping and the grass drooping, overburdened with watery beads. bye-paths are not enticing under such circumstances: however, the range of cliffs between haiburn wyke and robin hood's bay is so continuously grand and lofty that i made up my mind to walk along their summit whether or not. about half an hour from cloughton brought me to a 'crammle gate,' as the natives call it; that is, a rustic gate with zigzaggy rails, from which a private road curves down through a grove to a farm-house on the right. here, finding no outlet, i had to inquire, and was told to cross the garden. all praise to the good-nature which trusts a stranger to lift the "clinking latch" and walk unwatched through a garden so pretty, teeming with fruit, flowers, and vegetables; where a path overarched by busy climbers leads you into pleasing ins and outs, and along blooming borders to the edge of a wooded glen, and that is haiburn wyke. the path, not trimly kept as in the garden, invites you onwards beneath a thick shade of oak, ash, and hazel; between clumps of honeysuckle and wild roses, and broken slopes hung with ferns and ivy, and a very forest of grasses; while, to heighten the charm, a little brook descends prattling confidingly to the many stones that lie in its crooked channel. the path winds, now steep, now gradual, and at the bends a seat offers a resting-place if you incline to pause and meditate. there was another charm: at first a fitful murmur which swelled into a roar as i sauntered down and came nearer to the sea. the trees grow so thickly that i could see but a few yards around, and there seemed something almost awful in the sound of the thundering surge, all the heavier in the damp air, as it plunged on the rugged beach: so near, and yet unseen. but after another bend or two it grows lighter overhead, crags peep through the foliage on both sides, and then emerging on a level partly filled by a summer-house, you see the narrow cove, the jutting cliffs that shelter it, and every minute the tumultuous sea flinging all round the stony curve a belt of quivering foam. i could not advance far, for the tide had but just begun to fall; however, striding out as far as possible, i turned to look at the glen. it is a charming scene: the leafy hollow, the cliffs rounding away from the mantling green to present a bare front to the sea, yet patched and streaked with gray and yellow and white and brown, as if to make up for loss of verdure. there the brook, tumbling over stony ledges, shoots into a cascade between huge masses of rock, and hurries still with lively noise across the beach, talking as freely to boulders of five tons' weight as to stones of a pound; heedless, apparently, that its voice will soon be drowned for ever in the mighty voice of the sea. it is a charming scene, truly, even under a gloomy sky: you will see none fairer on all the coast. on a sunshiny day it should attract many visitors from scarborough, when those able to walk might explore cloughton wyke--less beautiful than this--on the way. to get up the steep clay road all miry with the rain on the northern side of the glen, was no easy task; but the great ball of clay which clung to each of my feet was soon licked off by the wet grass in the fields above. i took the edge of the cliffs, and found the ascent to the staintondale summit not less toilsome. there was no path, and wading through the rank grass and weeds, or through heavy wheat and drenched barley on ground always up-hill, wetted me through up to the hips in a few minutes, and gave me a taste of work. for the time i did not much admire the yorkshire thriftiness which had ploughed and sown so close to the bank leaving no single inch of space. however, i came at times to a bare field or a pasture, and the freshening breeze blew me almost dry before climbing over awkward fences for another bath of weeds and grain. and besides, a few faint watery gleams of sunshine began to slant down upon the sea, and the increasing height of the cliffs opened wide views over land and water--from misty hills looming mountainous on one side, to the distant smoke of a coasting steamer on the other. and again there are two or three miles of undercliff, a great slope covered with a dense bush threaded here and there by narrow paths, and forming in places an impenetrable tangle. to stand on the highest point, five hundred and eighty-five feet above the sea, and look down on the precipitous crags, the ridges and hollows and rounded buttresses decked with the mazy bush where birds without number haunt, is a sight that repays the labour. at the corner of one of the fields the bushes lean inwards so much from the wind, that the farmer has taken advantage of the overshoot to construct a bower wherein to sit and enjoy the prospect. these tall cliffs are the sudden termination of a range of hills stretching from the interior to the coast. taken with the undercliff, they present many combinations which would delight the eye and employ the pencil of an artist. and to the geologist they are of abounding interest, exhibiting shale, shelly limestone, sandstones of various qualities in which belemnites and ferns, and other animal and vegetable fossils, are embedded in surprising quantities. you can descend here and there by a zigzag path, and look up at the towering crags, or search the fallen masses, or push into the thicket; that is, in dry weather. after about two miles the bush thins off, and gives place to gorse, and reedy ponds in the hollows, and short turf on which cattle and sheep are grazing. the range continues for perhaps five miles and ends in a great perpendicular bluff--a resort of sea-birds. here on getting over the fence i noticed that the pasture had a well-kept, finished appearance; and presently, passing the corner of a wall, i found myself on a lawn, and in front of raven hall--a squire's residence. an embrasured wall built to represent bastions and turrets runs along the edge of the cliff, and looking over, you see beneath the grand sweep of robin hood's bay backed by a vast hollow slope--a natural amphitheatre a league in compass, containing fields and meadows, shaly screes and patches of heath, cottages, and the peak alum-works. we are on the peak, and can survey the whole scene, away to bay town, a patch of red capped by pale-blue smoke just within the northern horn of the bay. a lady and gentleman were trying in defiance of the wind to haul up a flag on the tall staff erected at the point, to whom i apologised for my unintentional trespass. they needed no apology, and only wondered that any one should travel along the cliffs on such a morning. "did you do it for pleasure?" asked the lady, with a merry twinkle in her eye, as she saw how bedraggled i looked below the knees. the gentleman left the flapping banner, and showed me from the rear of the premises the readiest way down to the beach--a very long irregular descent, the latter portion across the alum shale, and down the abrupt slope of cinder hill, where the buildings are blackened by smoke. at first the beach is nothing but a layer of small fragments of shale, of a dark slate-colour, refuse from the works; and where the cliffs reappear there you see shale in its natural condition, and feel it beneath your feet while treading on the yielding sand. numerous cascades leap down from these cliffs; at the time i passed swollen by the rain, and well set off by the dark precipice. one of them was a remarkably good representation of the _staubbach_ on a small scale. about half way i met a gig conveying visitors to the hall at a walking pace, for the wheels sank deep. it was for them that the flag was to be raised, as a signal of welcome; and looking back i saw it flying proudly, on what, seen from below, appeared a castle on the cliff. at this moment the sun shone out, and lit up the peak in all its magnificent proportions; and the effects of my trudge through drip and mire soon disappeared. another mile and the rocks are thickly strewn with periwinkles, and great plashy beds of seaweed must be crossed, and then we see that the outermost houses rest on a solid weather-stained wall of boulders, through which descends a rugged incline of big stones--the foot of the main street of bay town. there is no lack of quarters, for within a few yards you may count seven public-houses. it is a strange place, with alleys which are stairs for side streets, and these leading into queer places, back yards and pigstyes, and little gardens thriving with pot-herbs. everything is on a slope, overtopped by the green hill behind. half way up the street, in what looks like a market-place, lie a number of boats, as if for ornament. you can hardly imagine them to have been hauled up from the beach. some of the shops are curiosities in their appearance and display of wares; yet there are traders in bay town who could buy up two or three of your fashionable shopkeepers in the watering-places. "yer master wants ye," said a messenger to a young fellow who sat smoking his pipe in the _king's head_, while martha, the hostess, fried a chop for my dinner. "tell him i isn't here: i isn't a coomin'," was the answer, with a touch of yorkshire, which i heard frequently afterwards. from the talk that went on i gathered that bay town likes to amuse itself as well as other places. all through the past winter a ball or dance had been held nearly every evening, in the large rooms which, it appears, are found somewhere belonging to the very unpretending public-houses. on the other hand, church and chapel are well attended, and the singing is hearty. weddings and funerals are made the occasion of festivals, and great is the number of guests. martha assured me that two hundred persons were invited when her father was buried; and even for a child, the number asked will be forty or fifty; and all get something to eat and drink. it was commonly said in the neighbourhood that the head of a bay town funeral procession would be at the church before the tail had left the house. the church is on the hill-top, nearly a mile away. a clannish feeling prevails. any lad or lass who should chose to wed with an outsider, would be disgraced. ourselves to ourselves, is the rule. on their way home from church, the young couple are beset by invitations to drink at door after door, as they pass, and jugs of strong liquor are bravely drained, and all the eighteen hundred inhabitants share in the gladness. hence the perpetuation of todds and poads. however, as regards names, the most numerous which i saw were granger and bedlington, or bettleton, as the natives call it. the trade in fish has given place to trade in coal; and bay town owns about eighty coal brigs and schooners, which sail to edinburgh, to london, to ports in france, and one, which belongs to a man who a few years ago was a labourer, crosses the ocean to america. there are no such miserable paupers as swarm in the large towns. except the collier crews, the folk seldom leave the parish; and their farthest travel is to hartlepool in the steamer which calls in the bay on her way from scarborough. i chose to finish the walk to whitby by the road; and in a few minutes, so steep is the hill, was above bay town, and looking on the view bounded by the massy peak. near where the lane enters the high road stands the church, a modern edifice, thickly surrounded with tombstones. black with gilt letters, appears to be the favourite style; and among them are white stones, bearing outspread gilt wings and stars, and an ornamental border. the clannish feeling loves to keep alive the memory of the departed; and one might judge that it has the gift of "powetry," and delights in epitaphs. let us read a few: we shall find "drowned at sea," and "mariner," a frequent word in the inscriptions: partner dear my life is past, my love for you was to the last; therefore for me no sorrow take, but love my children for my sake. an old man of eighty-two is made to say: from raging storms at sea the lord he did me save, and here my tottering limbs is brought to moulder in the grave. lancelot moorsom, aged seventy-four, varies the matter thus: tho' boreas blast and neptune waves hath toss'd me too and fro', by god's decree you plainly see, i'm harbour'd here below, but here i do at anchor ride with many of our fleet, and once again i must set sail, my saviour christ to meet. of a good old wife, we read something for which the sex would be the better were it true of all: she was not puff'd in mind, she had no scornful eye, nor did she exercise herself in things that were too high. childhood claims a tender sentiment; and parents mourn thus for their little ones: one hand they gave to jesus, one to death, and looking upward to their father's throne, their gentle spirits vanish'd with their breath, and fled to eden's ever blooming zone. the road runs along the high ground near enough to the sea for you to hear its roar, and note the outline of the cliffs, while inland the country rolls away hilly to the dreary region described by old writers as "black-a-moor." another half-hour, and having passed through hawsker, you see a strange-looking building a long way off. it is the abbey of whitby. and now a view opens into the vale of pickering; and there, in the fields on the left, are the stones which mark where the arrows fell, when robin hood and little john, who had been treated to a dinner at the abbey, went up on the roof to gratify the monks with a specimen of their skill, and proved the goodness of their bows, and their right to rank as foremost of english archers. as your eye measures the distance, more than a mile, your admiration of the merry outlaws will brighten up, unless like the incredulous antiquary, you consider such stories as only fit to be left "among the lyes of the land." seen from the road, over the wall-top, the abbey reveals but few of the beautiful features which charm your eye on a nearer view. to gain admission you have to pass through an old mansion belonging to the cholmley family, in which, by the way, there are rooms, and passages, and a stair, weapons, furniture, and tapestry that remind you of the olden time; and in the rear a delightful garden, with a prospect along the vale of esk. from the garden you enter a meadow, and may wander at will about the ruin. i saw it to perfection, for the sky had cleared, and the evening sun touched the crumbling walls and massy columns and rows of graceful arches with wondrous beauty, relieved by the lengthening shadows. the effect of the triple rows of windows is singularly pleasing, and there are carvings and mouldings still remaining that will bear the closest inspection, although it was a mason of the thirteenth century who cut them. three distinct styles are obvious, and you will notice that the whitest stone, which is the oldest, is the least decayed. an aisle still offers you the shelter of its groined roof, the transept still shows the corbels and niches, and carved roses that fed the eyes of robin hood's entertainers, and on the sedilia where they sat you may now repose. every moment you discover some new beauty, something to increase your admiration, and wonder that so much should be left of a building which has not a tree to shelter it from the storms of the sea. for twelve hundred years the ground has been consecrated. here the blessed st. hilda founded a monastery, and dedicated it to st. peter, in 658. here it was that the famous debate was held concerning the proper time of easter between the christians who were converted by culdee missionaries from ireland before st. augustine's visit, and those of the later time. it was st. john and the practice of the eastern church against st. peter and the western; and through the eloquent arguments of wilfrid of ripon, the latter prevailed. here coedmon, one of the menial monks, was miraculously inspired to write the poem which immortalises his name; and here st. john of beverley was educated. then came the danish pirates under ubba, and destroyed the monastery, and the place lay waste till one of william the conqueror's warriors, grieved to the heart on beholding the desolation, exchanged his coat of steel for a benedictine's gown, and rebuilt the sacred house. few who come hither will need to be reminded of that inspiriting voyage along the coast, when "the abbess of st. hilda placed with five fair nuns the galley graced," nor of the sisters' evening talk, while "--whitby's nuns exulting told, how to their house three barons bold must menial service do; while horns blow out a note of shame, and monks cry 'fye upon your name! in wrath, for loss of sylvan game, st. hilda's priest ye slew.'- this on ascension day, each year, while labouring on our harbour-pier, must herbert, bruce, and percy hear.- they told how in their convent cell a saxon princess once did dwell, the lovely edelfled; and how of thousand snakes, each one was changed into a coil of stone when holy hilda pray'd; themselves, within their holy bound, their stony folds had often found. they told how seafowls' pinions fail, as over whitby's towers they sail, and sinking down, with flutterings faint, they do their homage to the saint." the stately tower, the glory of the ruin, fell in 1830, at the close of a reign, during which things good and beautiful were unhappily but too much neglected. a rugged heap, with lumps of stone peeping out from tufts of coarse grass, marks the spot where the fall took place; the last, it is to be hoped, that will be permitted in so striking a memorial of the architecture of the past. standing in private grounds and surrounded by a light iron fence, it is now safe from the intrusion of cattle and from wanton spoilers. a few yards beyond the abbey, you cross st. mary's churchyard to the top of a long flight of steps, where a remarkable scene opens suddenly beneath. whitby, lying on each side of the esk, the river winding from a wooded vale, expanding to receive the numerous vessels of the inner harbour, and flowing away between the houses and the two piers to the sea. the declivity is so abrupt, that the houses appear strangely huddled together, tier above tier, in irregular masses, as if resting one on the other, and what with the colour and variety of forms, the shipping, the great depth of the valley, the great bluffs with which it terminates, and line upon line of breakers beginning to foam at two furlongs from the shore, make up a scene surpassingly picturesque; one that you will be in no hurry to lose sight of. if the whitby church-goers find it toilsome to ascend nearly two hundred steps every sunday, they have a goodly prospect for recompense, besides the service. one wall of the church is said to be older than any portion of the abbey; but the edifice has undergone so many alterations, that meritorious architecture is not now to be looked for. a more breezy churchyard it would not be easy to find. opposite, on the farther cliff, is a cluster of new stone houses, including a spacious hotel, built to attract visitors; an enterprise promoted by king george hudson in his palmy days. i lingered, contemplating the view, till it was time to look for an inn; i chose the _talbot_, and had no reason to repent my choice. on the way thither, i bought two religious ballads at a little shop, the mistress of which told me she sold "hundreds of 'em," and that they were printed at otley. as specimens of a class of compositions which are relished and sung as hymns by a numerous section of the community, they are eminently suggestive. do they supply a real want? are they harmless? are they edifying? can they who find satisfaction therein be led up to something better? to close this chapter, here follows a quotation from _the railway to heaven_: "o! what a deal we hear and read about railways and railway speed, of lines which are, or may be made; and selling shares is quite a trade. * * * * * allow me, as an old divine, to point you to another line, which does from earth to heaven extend, where real pleasures never end. * * * * * of truth divine the rails are made, and on the rock of ages laid; the rails are fix'd in chairs of love, firm as the throne of god above. * * * * * one grand first-class is used for all, for jew and gentile, great and small, there's room for all the world inside, and kings with beggars here do ride. * * * * * about a hundred years or so wesley and others said they'd go: a carriage mercy did provide, that wesley and his friends might ride. 'tis nine-and-thirty years, they say, whoever lives to see next may, another coach was added then unto this all important train. * * * * * jesus is the first engineer, he does the gospel engine steer; we've guards who ride, while others stand close by the way with flag in hand. chorus. "my son, says god, give me thy heart; make haste, or else the train will start." the other, entitled _daniel the prophet_, begins with: "where are now the hebrew children? where are now the hebrew children? where are now the hebrew children? saved into the promised land;" and after enumerating the prophet, the fiery furnace, the lion, tribulation, stephen, and the great apostle, in similar strain, ends: "where is now the patriarch wesley? where is now the patriarch wesley? where is now the patriarch wesley? saved into the promised land." chorus. "when we meet we'll sing hallelujah, when we meet we'll shout hosannah, when we meet we'll sing for ever, saved into the promised land." though good taste and conventionality may be offended at such hymns as these, it seems to me that if those who sing them had words preached to them which they could understand and hearken to gladly, they would be found not unprepared to lay hold of real truth in the end. chapter xii. whitby's attractions--the pier--the river-mouth--the museum- saurians and ammonites--an enthusiastic botanist--jet in the cliffs, and in the workshop--jet carvers and polishers--jet ornaments--the quakers' meeting--a mechanics' institute- memorable names--a mooky miner--trip to grosmont--the basaltic dike--quarries and ironstone--thrifty cottagers--abbeys and hovels--a stingy landlord--egton bridge--eskdale woods--the beggar's bridge. whitby, and not scarborough, would be my choice had i to sojourn for a few weeks on the yorkshire coast. what it lacks of the style and show which characterize its aristocratic neighbour, is more than made up by its situation on a river and the beauty of its neighbourhood; and i regretted not having time to stay more than one day in a place that offers so many attractions. woods and waterfalls beautify and enliven the landscape; shady dells and rocky glens lie within an easy walk, and the trip by rail to pickering abounds with "contentive variety." and for contrast there is always the wild black-a-moor a few miles inland; and beyond that again the pleasant hills and vales of cleveland. and few towns can boast so agreeable a promenade as that from the bridge, along the spacious quay, and out to the pier-head, a distance of nearly half a mile. thence can be seen all the life and movement on the river, all the picturesque features of the heights on each side crowded with houses, and to seaward the foaming crests of waves chasing one another towards the land. you can see how, after rolling and plunging on the rocky bar, they rush up the stream with a mighty swell even to the bridge. in blowing weather their violence is such that vessels cannot lie safely in the lower harbour, and must shift to the upper moorings above the bridge. on the pier-head stands a lighthouse, built in the form of a fluted doric column, crowned by a gallery and lantern; and here, leaning on the encircling parapet, you can admire the solid masonry, or watch the furious breakers, while inhaling the medicinal breath of the sea. the pier on the opposite side is more exposed, serving the purpose of a breakwater; and at times clouds of spray leap high from its outer wall, and glisten for an instant with rainbow hues in the sunshine. it surprises a stranger on first arrival to hear what seems to him the south bank of the river spoken of as the east bank, and the north bank as the west; and it is only by taking into account the trend of the coast, and the direction of the river's course, that the cardinal points are discovered to be really in their true position, and you cease to look for sunrise in the west. one of the buildings at the rear of the quay contains the baths, and on the upper floor the museum, and a good subscription library. the museum, which belongs to the literary and philosophical society, dates from 1823, a time when whitby, with the sea on one side and wild tracts of moorlands on the other, was in a manner shut out from the rest of the world, and compelled to rely on its own resources. not till 1759 was any proper road made to connect it with neighbouring towns. warm hospitality was thereby nourished, and, as regards science, the result is highly meritorious. to say nothing of the collections which represent antiquity, ethnology, natural history, and mineralogy, the fossil specimens are especially worth attention. side by side with a section of the strata of the coast from bridlington to redcar is a collection of the fossils therein contained; among which those of the immediate neighbourhood, such as may be called whitby fossils, occupy the chief place, all classed and labelled in a way that shows how much may be done with small means when the curator is in earnest. there are saurians in good preservation, one of which was presented to the museum for 150_l._, by the nobleman on whose estate it was found embedded in lias. the number of ammonites of all sizes is surprising. these are the headless snakes of st. hilda's nuns, and the "strange frolicks of nature," of philosophers in later days, who held that she formed them "for diversion after a toilsome application to serious business." perhaps it is to some superstitious notion connected with the snake-stones that the town owes the three ammonites in its coat of arms. in all, the fossil specimens in the museum now amount to nearly nine thousand. i had the advantage of explanations from mr. simpson, the curator, during my visit, and afterwards of accompanying him and some of his friends on a walk. one of the party, a botanist, was the first to discover the _epilobium alpinum_ (alpine willow herb) in england, while walking one day on the hills near whitby. no sooner did he set eyes on it, than, as his companions said, they thought he had taken leave of his senses, for he leaped, shouted, danced, sang, and threw his hat up in the air, and made other enthusiastic demonstrations around the plant, which, up to that time, was believed not to exist south of the tweed. i asked him if he would have exchanged his emotions for california. "no," he answered, "that i wouldn't! at all events, not for the first three minutes." besides its traffic in ship-building, alum, and stone, whitby has a trade in works of art which makes at least its name known to fashionable society; and for this, as for its fossils, it depends on the neighbouring cliffs. for many miles along the shore, and at places inland, jet is found embedded with other formations. drayton makes mention of it: "the rocks by moulgrave too, my glories forth to set, out of their crany'd cleves can give you perfect jet." and the shaping of this remarkable substance into articles for ornament and use gives employment to five hundred men, women, and children in whitby. i was favoured with a sight of mr. greenbury's manufactory, and saw the processes from beginning to end. there is nothing mysterious about them. the pattern of the desired object, a scroll, leaf, flower, or whatever else, is scratched with a steel point on a piece of jet sawn to the required dimensions; the workman then with a knife cuts away the waste portions, brings out the rude form, and by using various knives and chisels, according to the delicacy of the design, he in no long time has the article ready for the polisher. the work looks very easy, as you watch the men cutting, apparently with less concern than some folk bestow on the whittling of a stick, and making the chips fly in little heaps. the nature of the jet favours rapidity of hand. it has somewhat the appearance of compressed pitch, and when under the knife sends off a shower of chips and splinters as hard pitch does. some specimens have been found with fossils so embedded therein, as to confirm the opinion of those who hold jet to be a species of petroleum, contrary to the common belief that it is wood partly converted into coal. after the knives, the grindstones come into play, to work up and smooth all the accessible surfaces; and next swift-whirling wheels encircled with list, which give the polish. the deep incisions and hollows which cannot be touched by the wheel are polished on narrow slips of list. this is the work of boys: the slips of list are made fast by one end to the bench, and taking hold of the other, and shifting or tightening as the work may require, the boys rub the deep parts of the ornaments backwards and forwards till the polish is complete. the finishing touch, which imparts the brilliance, is given by a sprinkling of rouge, and a light hand with the rubber. armlets and bracelets composed of several pieces are cemented together, forming a complete hoop, while in course of manufacture, to ensure accuracy of workmanship, and are separated at last for the drilling of the holes for the elastic cord whereby they are held together in the finished state. the drilling of these holes through each separate piece is a nice operation, for any departure from the true line would appear as an imperfection in the ornament. what with the drilling lathes, the rapid grindstones and polishing-wheels, and the busy artificers, from those who cut up the jet, to the roughers-out, the carvers, the polishers in their order, to the boys with their list rubbers, and the finishers, the factory presented a busy scene. the boys earn from three-and-sixpence to five shillings a week; the men from three to four times as much. i made an inquiry as to their economical habits, and heard in reply that the landlord of the _jetmen's arms_ could give the surest information. no means have yet been discovered of working up the chips and splinters produced in cutting the jet, so as to form solid available blocks, as can be done with black-lead for pencils; there is, therefore, a considerable amount of waste. the value of jet varies with the quality; from ten to eighteen shillings a pound. according to the report on mineral products, by mr. robert hunt, the value of the jet dug and manufactured in england is twenty thousand pounds a year. some of the best shops in whitby and scarborough are those where jet is sold; and not the least attractive of the displays in regent-street, is that labelled _finest whitby jet_, and exhibited as vases, chains, rings, seals, brooches, taper-stands, and obelisks. here in whitby you may buy a small ammonite set in jet. jet is not a new object of luxury. it was used for ornamental purposes by the ancient britons, and by their conquerors, as proved by articles found in their tombs. a trade in jet is known to have existed in whitby in 1598. camden, translating from an old _treatise of jewels_, has "jeat-stone almost a gemm, the lybians find, but fruitful britain sends a wondrous kind; 'tis black and shining, smooth, and ever light, 'twill draw up straws if rubb'd till hot and bright, oyl makes it cold, but water gives it heat." the amber mines of prussia yield a species of jet which is burnt as a coal. whitby presents signs of a social phenomenon which is observable in other places: the decline of quakerism. i was invited to look at the mechanics' institute, and found it located in the quakers' meeting house. the town was one of george fox's strongholds, and a considerable number of quakers, including some of the leading families, remained up to the last generation. death and secession have since then brought about the result above-mentioned. is it that quakerism has accomplished its work? or that it has been stifled by the assiduous painstaking to make itself very comfortable? i went up once more to the abbey, and to enjoy the view from the churchyard steps. the trouble of the ascent is abundantly repaid by such a prospect: one should never tire of it. on moonlight nights, and in a certain state of the atmosphere, there is another attraction. it is a sight of saint hilda. incredulous as you may be, there are maidens in whitby who will tell you that the famous abbess is still to be seen hovering near the abbey she loved so well. and when the moon is in the right place, and a thin, pale mist floats slowly past, then, in one of the windows, appears the image of the saintly lady. scott and other writers mention it; and professor rymer jones tells me that he once saw it, and with an illusion so complete, as might easily have deceived a superstitious beholder. while looking down on the river you will hardly fail to remember that cook sailed from it, to begin his apprenticeship to a seafaring life; and profiting in later years by his early experience, he chose whitby-built ships for his memorable voyage of discovery. and from the esk sailed the two scoresbys, father and son--two of the latest names on the list of yorkshire worthies. during the summer many an excursion train, or 'chape trip,' as the natives say, brings thousands of the hardworking population of the west riding, to enjoy a brief holiday by the sea. there once arrived a party of miners two of whom hastened down to the beach to bathe. as they undressed one said to the other "hey, sam, hoo mooky thou is!" "aw miss'd t' chape trip last year," was the laconic and significant reply. towards evening i took a trip by railway to grosmont (six miles), or the tunnel station as it is commonly called, for a glance at the pretty scenery of the lower part of eskdale. the river bordered by rocks and wooded hills enlivens the route. from the tunnel i walked about half a mile down the line to a stone quarry, where a section of that remarkable basaltic dike is exposed, which, crossing the country in a north-westerly direction for about seventy miles, impresses the observer with a sense of wonder at the tremendous force by which such a mass was upheaved through the overlying strata. here it has the form of a great wedge, the apex uppermost; and the sandstone, which it so rudely shouldered aside, is scorched and partially vitrified along the line of contact. the labourers, who break up the hard black basalt for macadamising purposes, call it 'chaney metal.' this is a pleasant spot to loiter in; but its sylvan character is marred by the quarrying, and by the great excavations where busy miners dig the ironstone which abounds in the district, after the rate, as is estimated, of twenty-two thousand tons to the acre; no unimportant item in the exports of whitby, until blast furnaces shall be built to make the iron on the spot. "the path 'll tak' ye up to a laan," said the quarryman, with a dutch pronunciation of lane; "and t' laan 'll bring ye doon to egton, if ye don't tak' t' wrang turning." so up through the wood i went, and came presently to the lane, where seeing a lonely little cottage, and a woman nursing a few flowers that grew near the door, i tarried for a short talk. 'twas but a poor little place, she said, and vera lonesome; and she thought a few flowers made it look cheerful-like. the rent for the house and garden was but a pound a year; but 'twas as much as she could afford, for she had had ten children, and was thankful to say, brought 'em all up without parish help. 'twas hard work at times; but folk didn't know what they could do till they tried. it animated me to hear such honest words. a little farther there stands a long low cottage with a garden in front, an orchard at the side, and a row of beehives in a corner, presenting a scene of rural abundance. i stopped to look at the crowding flowers, and was drawn into another talk by the mistress, who came out on seeing a stranger. i could not help expressing my surprise at the prosperous look of the garden, and the shabby look of the house, which appeared the worse from a narrow ditch running along the front. "'tis a miserable house," she answered, "damp and low; but what can we do? it's all very well, sir, to talk about the beautiful abbeys as they used to build in the old days, but they didn't build beautiful cottages. i always think that they built the wall till they couldn't reach no higher standing on the ground, and then they put the roof on. that's it, sir; anything was good enough for country-folk in them days." some modern writers contend that the abbeys and cathedrals were but the highest expression of an architecture beautiful and appropriate in all its degrees; but i doubt the fact, and hold by the yorkshirewoman's homely theory. i suggested that the landlord might be asked to build a new house. "ah, sir, you wouldn't say that if you knew him. why, he won't so much as give us a board to mend the door; he'll only tell us where to go and buy one." i might have felt surprised that any landlord should be willing to allow english men and women to dwell in such a hovel; but she told me his name, and then there was no room for surprise. ere long the view opens over the valley, and a charming valley it is; hill after hill covered with wood to the summit. then the lane descends rapidly, and we come to the romantically situated hamlet of egton bridge. this is a place which, above all others, attracts visitors and picnic parties from whitby, and the _oak tree_ is the very picture of a rustic hostelry. here you may fancy yourself in a deep wooded glen; and, if limited for time, will have an embarrassing choice of walks. arncliffe woods offer cool green shades, and a fine prospect from the ridge beyond, with the opportunity to visit an ancient british village. but few can resist the charm of the beggar's bridge, a graceful structure of a single arch, which spans the esk in a sequestered spot delightful to the eye and refreshing to the ear, with the gurgling of water and rustling of leaves. there is a legend, too, for additional charm: how that a young dalesman, on his way to say farewell to his betrothed, was stopped here by the stream swollen with a sudden flood, and, spite of his efforts to cross, was forced to retrace his steps and sail beyond the sea to seek fortune in a distant land. he vowed, if his hopes were gratified, to build a bridge on his return; and, to quote mrs. george dawson's pretty version of the legend, "the rover came back from a far distant land, and he claimed of the maiden her long-promised hand; but he built, ere he won her, the bridge of his vow, and the lovers of egton pass over it now." a pleasant twilight walk among the trees, within hearing of the rippling esk, brought me back to the tunnel in time for the last train to whitby. chapter xiii. to upgang--enter cleveland--east row--the first alum-maker- sandsend--alum-works--the huge gap--hewing the alum shale- limestone nodules: mulgrave cement--swarms of fossils--burning the shale--volcanic phenomena--from fire to water--the cisterns --soaking and pumping--the evaporating pans--the crystallizing process--the roching casks--brilliant crystals--a chemical triumph--rough epsoms. it was yet early the next morning when i descended from the high road to the shore at upgang, about two miles from whitby. here we approach a region of manufacturing industry. wagons pass laden with mulgrave cement, with big, white lumps of alum, with sulphate of magnesia; the kilns are not far off, and the alum-works at sandsend are in sight, backed by the wooded heights of mulgrave park, the seat of the marquis of normanby. another half-hour, and crossing a beck which descends from those heights, we enter cleveland, of which the north riding is made to say, "----if she were not here confined thus in me, a shire even of herself might well be said to be." hereabouts, in the olden time, stood a temple dedicated to thor, and the place was called thordisa--a name for which the present east row is a poor exchange. the alteration, so it is said, was made by the workmen on the commencement of the alum manufacture in 1620. the works, now grimy with smoke, are built between the hill-foot and the sea, a short distance beyond the beck. the story runs that the manufacture of alum was introduced into yorkshire early in the seventeenth century by sir thomas chaloner, who had travelled in italy, and there seen the rock-beds from which the italians extracted alum. riding one day in the neighbourhood of guisborough, he noticed that the foliage of the trees resembled in colour that of the leaves in the alum districts abroad; and afterwards he commenced an alum-work in the hills near that town, sanctioned by a patent from charles i. one account says that he smuggled over from the papal states, concealed in casks, workmen who were acquainted with the manufacture, and was excommunicated by the pope for this daring breach of his own monopoly. the sandsend works were established a few years later. subsequently certain courtiers prevailed on the king to break faith with sir thomas, and to give one-half of the patent to a rival, which so exasperated the knight that he became a roundhead, and one of the most relentless foes of the king. a great monopoly of the alum-works was attempted towards the end of the last century by sir george colebroke, who, being an east india director, got the name of shah allum. his attempt failed. my request for permission to view the works was freely granted, and i here repeat my acknowledgments for the favour. the foreman, i was told, took but little pains with visitors who came, and said, "dear me! how very curious!" and yawned, and wanted to go away at the end of ten minutes; but for any one in earnest to see the operations from beginning to end, he would spare no trouble. just the very man for me i thought; so leaving my knapsack at the office, i followed the boy who was sent to show me the way to the mine. up the hill, and across fields for about half a mile, brought us to the edge of a huge gap, which at first sight might have been taken for a stone quarry partially changed into the crater of a volcano. at one side clouds of white sulphureous smoke were rising; within lay great heaps resembling brick rubbish; and heaps of shale, and piles of stony balls, and stacks of brushwood; and while one set of men were busily hacking and hewing the great inner walls, others were loading and hauling off the tramway wagons, others pumping, or going to and fro with wheelbarrows. there was no proper descent from the side to which we came, and to scramble down three or four great steps, each of twenty feet, with perpendicular fronts, was not easy. however, at last i was able to present to the foreman the scrap of paper which i had brought from the office, and to feel sure that such an honest countenance and bright eye as his betokened a willing temper. nor was i disappointed, for he at once expressed himself ready to show and explain everything that i might wish to see. "let us begin at the beginning," i said; and he led me to the cliff, where the diggers were at work. the formation reminded me of what i had seen in the quarries at portland: first a layer of earth, then a hard, worthless kind of stone, named the 'cap' by the miners; next a deposit of marlstone and 'doggerhead,' making altogether a thickness of about fifty feet; and below this comes the great bed of upper lias, one hundred and fifty feet thick; and this lias is the alum shale. where freshly exposed, its appearance may be likened to slate soaked in grease: it has a greasy or soapy feel between the fingers, but as it oxidises rapidly on exposure to the air, the general colour of the cliff is brown. here the shale is not worked below seventy-five feet; for every fathom below that becomes more and more bituminous, and more liable to vitrify when burnt, and will not yield alum. at some works, however, the excavation is continued down to ninety feet. embedded in the shale, most abundant in the upper twenty-five feet, the workmen find nodules of limestone, the piles of balls i had noticed from above, about the size of a cricket-ball; and of these the well-known mulgrave cement is made. the marquis, to whom all the land hereabouts belongs, requires that his lessees shall sell to him all the limestone nodules they find. the supply is not small, judging from the great heap which i saw thrown aside in readiness for carting away. alum shale prevails in the cliffs for twenty-seven miles along the coast of yorkshire, in which are found one hundred and fifty kinds of ammonites. besides balls of limestone, the shale abounds in fossils. it was in this--the lias--that nearly all the specimens, including the gigantic reptiles of the ancient world which we saw in the museum at whitby were found. every stroke of the pick brings them out; and as the shale is soft and easily worked, they are separated without difficulty. you might collect a cartload in half a day. for a few minutes i felt somewhat like a schoolboy in an orchard, and filled my pockets eagerly with the best that came in my way. but ammonites and mussels, when turned to stone, are very heavy, and before the day was over i had to lighten my load: some i placed where passers-by could see them; then i gave some away at houses by the road, till not more than six remained for a corner of my knapsack. and these were quite enough, considering that i had yet to walk nearly three hundred miles. after the digging comes the burning. a layer of brushwood is made ready on the ground, and upon this the shale is heaped to the height of forty or fifty feet until a respectable little mountain is formed, comprising three thousand tons, or more. the rear of the mass rests against the precipice, and from narrow ledges and projections in this the men tilt their barrow-loads as the elevation increases. the fire, meanwhile, creeps about below, and soon the heap begins to smoke, sending out white sulphureous fumes in clouds that give it the appearance of a volcano. such a heap was smouldering and smoking at the mouth of the great excavation, the sulphate of iron, giving off its acid to the clay, converting it thereby into sulphate of alumina. all round the base, and for a few feet upwards, the fire had done its work, and the mass was cooling; but above the creeping glow was still active. the colour is changed by the burning from brown to light reddish yellow, with a streak of darker red running along all the edges of the fragments; and the progress of combustion might be noted by the differences of colour: in some places pale; then a mottled zone, blending upwards with the sweating patches under the smoke. commonly the heap burns for three months; hence a good manager takes care so to time his fires that a supply of _mine_--as the calcined shale is technically named--is always in readiness. fifty tons of this burnt shale are required to make one ton of alum. we turned to the heap which i have mentioned as resembling a mound of brick rubbish at a distance. one-third of it had been wheeled away to the cisterns, exposing the interior, and i could see how the fire had touched every part, and left its traces in the change of colour and the narrow red border round each calcined chip. the pieces lie loosely together, so that on digging away below, the upper part falls of itself. the man who was filling the barrows had hacked out a cavernous hollow; it seemed that a slip might be momentarily expected, for the top overhung threateningly, and yet he continued to hack and dig with apparent unconcern, and replied to the foreman's caution, "oh! it won't come down afore to-morrow. it'll give warning." now for the watery ordeal. on the sloping ground between the cliffs and the sea, shallow pits or cisterns are sunk, nearly fifty feet long and twenty wide, and so placed, with a bottom sloping from a depth of one foot at one end to two feet at the other, as to communicate easily with one another by pipes and gutters. whether alum-works shall pay or not, is said to depend in no small degree on the proper arrangement of the pits. each pit will contain forty wagon-loads of the mine. as soon as it is full, liquor is pumped into it from a deep cistern covered by a shed, and this at the end of three days is drawn off by the tap at the lower end, and when drained the pit is again pumped full and soaked for two days. yet once more is it pumped full, but with water--producing first, second, and third run, and sometimes a fourth--but the last is the weakest, and is kept to be pumped up as liquor on a fresh pit for first run. it would be poor economy to evaporate so weak a solution. each pit employs five men. all this is carried on in the open air, with the sea lashing the shore but a few yards off, and all around the signs of what to a stranger appears but a rough and ready system. and in truth there must be something wasteful in it, for all the alum is never abstracted. after the third or fourth washing, the mine is shovelled from the pits and flung away on the beach, where the sea soon levels it to a uniform slope. in one of the so-called exhausted pits i saw many pieces touched, as it were, by hoar frost, which was nothing but minute crystals of alum formed on the surface, strongly acid to the taste. the rest of the process was to be seen down at the works, so thither we went; not by the way i came, for the foreman, scrambling up the side of the gap, conducted me along the ledge at the top of the burning heap. he walked through the stifling fumes without annoyance, while on me they produced a painful sense of choking, with an impulse to run. before we had passed, however, he pushed aside a few of the upper pieces, and showed me the dull glow of the fire beneath. then we had more ledges along the face of the cliff, and now and then to creep and jump; and we crossed an old digging, which looked ugly with its heaps of waste and half-starved patches of grass. all the way extends a course of long wooden gutters, in which the first-run liquor was flowing in a continuous stream to undergo its final treatment--another trial by fire. then into a low, darksome shed, where from one end to the other you see nothing but leaden evaporating pans and cisterns, some steaming, and all containing liquor in different states of preparation. that from which the most water has been evaporated--the concentrated solution--has a large cistern to itself, where its tendency to crystallize is assisted by an admixture of liquor containing ammonia in solution, and immediately the alum falls to the bottom in countless crystals. the liquor above them, now become 'mother liquor,' or more familiarly 'mothers,' is drawn off, the crystals are washed clean in water, are again dissolved, and once more boiled, mixed with gallons of mothers remaining from former boilings. when of the required density, the liquor is run off from the pan to the 'roching casks'--great butts rather, big as a sugar hogshead, and taller; and in these is left to cool and crystallize after its manner, from eight to ten days, according to the season. the butts are constructed so as to take to pieces easily, and at the right time the hoops are knocked off, the staves removed, and there on the floor stands a great white cask of alum, solid all over, top, bottom, and sides, except in its centre a quantity of liquor which has not crystallized. this having been drawn off by a hole driven through, the mass is then broken to pieces, and is fit for the market; and for the use of dyers, leather-dressers, druggists, tallow-chandlers; for bakers even, and other crafty traders. looked at from the outside, there is no beauty in the cask of alum; but as soon as the interior is exposed, then the numberless crystals shooting from every part, glisten again as the light streams in upon them; and you acknowledge that the cunning by which they have been produced from the dull slaty shale is a happy triumph of chemical art--one that will stand a comparison with a recent triumph, the extraction of brilliantly white candles from the great brown peat-bogs of ireland, or from rangoon tar. perhaps some readers will remember the beautiful specimen of alum crystals--an entire half-tun that stood in the nave of the great exhibition. alum is made near glasgow from the shale of abandoned coal mines, soaked in water without burning. after the works had been carried on for some years, and the heap of refuse had spread over the neighbourhood to an inconvenient extent, it was found that on burning this waste shale, it would yield a second profitable supply of alum. moreover, artificial alum is manufactured in considerable quantities from a mixture of clay and sulphuric acid. in going about the works it was impossible not to be struck by the contrast between the sooty aspect of the roofs, beams, and gangways, and the whiteness of the crystal fringes in the pans, and the snowy patches here and there where the vapour had condensed. and in an outhouse wagon-loads of 'rough epsoms' lay in a great white heap on the black floor. this rough epsoms, or sulphate of magnesia, is the crystals thrown down by the mother-liquor after a second boiling. in our goings to and fro, we talked of other things as well as alum; of that other mineral wealth, the ironstone, to which cleveland owes so important a development of industry within the past fifteen years. the existence of ironstone in the district had long been known; but not till the foreman--jointly with his father--discovered a deposit near skinningrave, and drew attention to it, was any attempt made to work it. geologically the deposit is known as clayband ironstone; hence clay will still make known the fame of this corner of yorkshire, as when the old couplet was current- "cleveland in the clay, carry in two shoon, bring one away." if i liked the foreman at first sight, much more did i like him upon acquaintance. he won my esteem as much by his frank and manly bearing, as by his patient attentions and intelligent explanations; and i shook his hand at parting with a sincere hope of having another talk with him some day. chapter xiv. mulgrave park--giant wade--ubba's landing-place--the boggle boggarts--the fairy's chase--superstitions--the knight of the evil lake--lythe--st. oswald's church--goldsborough--kettleness --rugged cliffs and beach--runswick bay--hob-hole--cure for whooping-cough--jet diggers--runswick--hinderwell- horticultural ravine--staithes--a curious fishing-town--the black minstrels--a close-neaved crowd--the cod and lobster- houses washed away--queer back premises--the termagants' duel- fisherman's talk--cobles and yawls--dutch and french poachers- tap-room talk--reminiscences of captain cook. i shouldered my knapsack, and paced once more up the hill: a long and toilsome hill it is; but you can beguile the way nevertheless. behind the hedge on the left stretches mulgrave park, hill and dale, and running brooks, and woods wherein the walks and drives extend for twenty miles. i had procured a ticket of admission at whitby; but having spent so much time over the alum, had none to spare for the park, with its gothic mansion, groves and gardens, and fragment of an old castle on an eminence surrounded by woods; and the hermitage, the favourite resort of picnic parties. according to hoary legend, the original founder of the castle was giant wade, or wada, a personage still talked of by the country-folk, who give his name to the roman causeway which runs from dunsley to malton, and point out certain large stones at two villages a few miles apart as wade's graves. it was in dunsley bay, down there on the right, that ubba landed with his sea-rovers in 867, and the hill on which he planted his standard is still called ravenhill. and here were the haunts of the boggle-boggarts--a yorkshire fairy tribe. at kettleness, whither we shall come by and by, they used to wash their linen in a certain spring, named claymore well, and the noise of their 'bittle' was heard more than two miles off. jeanie, one of these fairies, made her abode in the mulgrave woods, and one day a young farmer, curious to see a bogle, mounted his horse, rode up to her bower, and called her by name. she obeyed the call, but in a towering rage at the intrusion, and the adventurer, in terror, turned and fled, with the nimble sprite close at his heels. at length, just as he was leaping a brook, she aimed a stroke with her wand and cut his horse in two; but the fugitive kept his seat, and fell with the foremost half on the farther bank, and the weird creature, stopped by the running water, witnessed his escape with an evil eye. we may remember, too, that cleveland, remote from great thoroughfares, was a nursery of superstitions long after the owlish notions died out from other places. had your grandmother been born here she would have been able to tell you that to wear a ring cut from old, long-buried coffin-lead, would cure the cramp; that the water from the leaden roof of a church, sprinkled on the skin, was a specific for sundry diseases--most efficacious if taken from over the chancel. biscuits baked on good friday would keep good all the year, and a person ill with flux had only to swallow one grated in milk, or brandy-and-water, and recovery was certain. clothes hung out to dry on good friday would, when taken down, be found spotted with blood. to fling the shirt or shift of a sick person into a spring, was a sure way to foreknow the issue of the malady: if it floated--life; if it sank--death. and when the patient was convalescent, a small piece was torn from the garment and hung on the bushes near the spring; and springs thus venerated were called rag-wells. the lands of mulgrave were given by king john to peter de malolacu as a reward for crime--helping in the cruel murder of prince arthur. by this knight of the evil-lake--evil heart, rather--the castle was rebuilt; and, pleased with the beauty of the sight, he named it moult grace; but because that he was hard-hearted and an oppressor, the people changed the _c_ into _v_; whence, says tradition, the origin of the present name. on the crown of the hill we come to lythe, which--to borrow a term from lord carlisle--is a "well-conditioned" village, adorned with honeysuckle and little flower-gardens. the elevation, five hundred feet, affords an agreeable view of whitby abbey, and part of the intervening coast and country. the church is dedicated to st. oswald, the royal northumbrian martyr; and inside you may see a monument to constantine john, baron mulgrave, who as captain phipps sailed to spitzbergen in 1773, on one of those arctic explorations to which, from first to last, england owes no small share of her naval renown. here i struck into a lane for goldsborough, the village which claims one of wade's graves; and along byeways down to the shore at kettleness--a grand cliff nearly four hundred feet high, so named from hollows or 'kettles' in the ground near it. here, descending the steep road to the beach, you pass more alum-works, backed by the precipitous crags. everywhere you see signs of fallen rocks and landslips. in a slip which happened in 1830, the labourers' cottages were carried down and buried; but with sufficient warning to enable the inmates to escape. once the cliff took fire and burned for two years. from this point the way along the shore is wilder and rougher--more bestrewn with slabs and boulders than any we have yet seen. up and down, in and out; now close under the cliff; now taking to the weedy rocks to avoid an overhanging mass that seems about to fall. here and there jet-diggers and quarrymen are busy high above your head, and make the passage more difficult by their heaps of rubbish. among the boulders you will notice some perfectly globular in form, as if finished in a lathe. one that i stooped to examine was a singular specimen of nature's handiwork. it proved to be a hemisphere only, smooth and highly polished, so exact a round on one side, so true a flat on the other, that no artificer could have produced better. in appearance it resembled quartz. i longed to bring it away; but it was about the bigness of half an ordinary dutch cheese, and weighed some five or six pounds. all i could do was to leave it in a safe spot for some after-coming geologist. having passed the bluff, we see to the bottom of runswick bay, and the village of runswick clustered on the farther heights. a harbour of refuge is much wanted on this shelterless coast, and some engineers show this to be the best place for it; others contend for redcar, at the mouth of the tees. here, again, the cliff diminishes in elevation, and the ground slopes upwards to higher land in the rear. about the middle of the bay is hob-hole, a well-known cave, once more than a hundred feet deep, but now shortened by two-thirds, and in imminent danger of complete destruction by jet-diggers. cattle used to come down from the pastures and betake themselves to its cool recesses in hot summer days, and if caught by the tide instinctively sought the inner end, which, as the floor rose by a gentle acclivity, was above the reach of the water. i could scarcely help fancying that the half-dozen cows standing up to their knees in a salt-water pool were ruminating sadly over their lost resort. what would the grandmothers say if they could return and see the spoiling of hob's dwelling-place: hob, whose aid they used to invoke for the cure of whooping-cough? standing at the entrance of the cave with the sick child in their arms, they addressed him thus: "hob-hole hob! my bairn's gotten t'kin cough: tak 't off--tak 't off!" if hob refused to be propitiated, they tried another way, and catching a live hairy worm, hung it in a bag from the child's neck, and as the worm died and wasted away so did the cough. if this failed, a roasted mouse, or a piece of bread-and-butter administered by the hands of a virgin, was infallible; and if the cough remained still obstinate, the child, as a last resort, was passed nine times under the belly of a donkey. to avoid risk of exposure, it was customary to lead the animal to the front of the kitchen fire. i found a party of jet-diggers at work in the low cliff near the cave, and stayed to watch their proceedings. eleven weeks had they been labouring, and found nothing. it was astonishing to see what prodigious gaps they had made in that time, and the heap of refuse, which appeared twice as big as all the gaps put together. i thought the barrow-man gave himself too little trouble to wheel the waste out of the way; but he, who knew best, answered, "bowkers! why should i sweat for nothin'? the sea'll tak 't all away the fust gale." judging from what they told me, jet-digging is little, if any, less precarious than gold-digging. their actual experience was not uncommon; and at other times they would get as much jet in a week as paid them for six months' labour. then, again, after removing tons of superincumbent rock, the bed of jet would be of the hard stony-kind, worth not more than half-a-crown a pound; or a party would toil fruitlessly for weeks, losing heart and hope, and find themselves outwitted at last by another crafty digger, who, scanning the cliff a few yards off with a keen eye, would discover signs, and setting to work, lay bare a stratum of jet in a few days. the best kind is thoroughly bitumenized, of a perfect uniform black, and resembles nothing so much as a tree stem flattened by intense pressure, while subjected to great heat without charring. if bay town be remarkable, much more so is runswick, for the houses may be said to hang on the abrupt hill-side, as martens' nests on a wall, among patches of ragwort, brambles, gorse, elders, and bits of brown rock, overtopped by the summit of the cliff. boats are hauled up on the grass, near the rivulet that frolics down the steep; balks of pine and ends of old ship timbers lie about; clothes hung out to dry flutter in the breeze; and the little whitewashed gables, crowned by thatch or red tiles, gleam in the sunshine. there is no street, nothing but footpaths, and you continually find yourself in one of the little gardens, or at the door of a cottage, while seeking the way through to the heights above. two public-houses offer very modest entertainment, and _the ship_ better beer than that at kilnsea. about the end of the seventeenth century the alum shale, on which the village is built, made a sudden slip, and with it all the houses but one. since then it has remained stationary; but with a rock so liable to decomposition as alum shale, a site that shall never be moved cannot be hoped for. the view from the brow in the reverse direction, after you have climbed the rough slope of thorns and brambles above the village, is striking. kettleness rears its head proudly over the waters; and looking inland from one swelling eminence to another, till stopped by a long bare hill, which in outline resembles the hog's-back, your eye completes the circle and rests at last on the picturesque features of the bay beneath. there is no finer cliff scenery on the yorkshire coast than from kettleness to huntcliff nab. then turning my face northwards, i explored the shortest way to staithes, now on the edge of the cliff, now cutting across the fields, and leaving on the left the village of hinderwell--once, as is said, st. hilda's well, from a spring in the churchyard which bore the pious lady's name. about four miles of rough walking brought me to a bend in the road above a deep ravine, which, patched or fringed with wood towards its upper end, submits its steep flanks to cultivation on approaching the sea. garden plots, fenced and hedged, there chequer the ground; and even from the hither side you can see how well kept they are, and how productive. facing the south, and sheltered from the bitter north-easters, they yield crops of fruit and vegetables that would excite admiration anywhere, and win praise for their cultivators. in some of the plots you see men at work with upturned shirt-sleeves, and you can fancy they do their work lovingly in the golden evening light. the ravine makes sharp curves, each wider than the last, and the brook spreads out, with a few feet of level margin in places at which boats are made fast, and you wonder how they got there. then the slope, with its gardens, elders, and flowers, merges into a craggy cliff, near which an old limekiln comes in with remarkably picturesque effect. a few yards farther and the road, descending rapidly, brings you in sight of the sea, seemingly shut in between two high bluffs, and at your feet, unseen till close upon it, lies the little fishing-town of staithes. and a strange town it is! the main street, narrow and painfully ill-paved, bending down to the shore of a small bay; houses showing their backs to the water on one side, on the other hanging thickly on a declivity so steep that many of the roofs touch the ground in the rear: frowsy old houses for the most part, with pantile roofs, or mouldy thatch, from which here and there peep queer little windows. some of the thatched houses appear as if sunk into the ground, so low are they, and squalid withal. contrasted with these, the few modern houses appear better than they are; and the draper, with his showy shop, exhibits a model which others, whose gables are beginning to stand at ease, perhaps will be ambitious to follow. men wearing thick blue guernsey frocks and sou'-westers come slouching along, burdened with nets or lobster-pots, or other fishing gear; women and girls, short-skirted and some barefooted, go to and from the beck with 'skeels' of water on their head, one or two carrying a large washing-tub full, yet talking as they go as if the weight were nothing; and now and then a few sturdy fellows stride past, yellow from head to foot with a thick ochre-like dust. they come from the ironstone diggings beyond penny nab--the southern bluff. imagine, besides, that the whole place smells of fish, and you will have a first impression of staithes. the inns, i thought, looked unpromising; but the _royal george_ is better than it looks, and if guests are not comfortable the blame can hardly lie with mrs. walton, the hostess--a portly, good-humoured dame, who has seen the world, that is, as far as london, and laughs in a way that compels all within hearing to laugh for company. though the tap-room and parlour be sunk some three feet below the roadway, making you notice, whether or not, the stout ankles of the water-bearers, you will find it very possible to take your ease in your inn. i was just sauntering out after tea when a couple of negro minstrels, with banjo and tambourine, came down the street, and struck up one of their liveliest songs. instantly, and as if by magic, the narrow thoroughfare was thronged by a screeching swarm of children, who came running down all the steep alleys, and from nooks and doorways in the queerest places, followed by their fathers and mothers. i stepped up the slope and took a survey of the crowd as they stood grinning with delight at the black melodists. good-looking faces are rare among the women; but their stature is remarkably erect--the effect probably of carrying burdens on the head. how they chattered! "eh! that caps me!" cried one. "that's brave music!" said another. and a third, when tambourine began his contortions, shrieked, "eh! looky! looky! he's nobbut a porriwiggle;" which translated out of yorkshire into english, means, "nought but a tadpole." and to see how the weather-beaten old fishermen chuckled and roared with laughter, showing such big white teeth all the while, was not the least amusing part of the exhibition. such lusty enjoyment i thought betokened an open hand; but when the hat went round the greater number proved themselves as 'close-neaved,' to use one of their own words, as misers. near the end of the street, and under the shadow of penny nab, there is an opening whence you may survey the little bay, or rather cove, which forms the port of staithes, well protected by the bluff above-named, and colburn nab on the north. here the _cod and lobster_ public-house, with a small quay in front, faces the sea, as if indifferent to consequences, notwithstanding that the inmates are compelled from time to time to decamp suddenly from threatened drowning. even as i stood there i was fain to button my overcoat against the spray which swept across and sprinkled the windows, for there was a heavy 'lipper' on, and huge breakers came tumbling in with thunderous roar. you see piles driven here and there, and heaps of big stones laid for protection; and not without need, you will think, while looking at the backs of the houses huddling close around the margin of the tide. in the month of february, twenty-seven years ago, thirteen houses were swept away at once, and among them the one in which cook was first apprenticed. judging from what staithes is now, it must have been a remarkably primitive and hard-featured place in his day. then, crossing over, i threaded the narrow alleys and paths to look at the backs of the houses from the hill-side. you never saw such queer ins and outs, and holes and corners as there are here. pigstyes, little back yards, sheds, here and there patches of the hill rough with coarse grass and weeds, and everywhere boat-hooks and oars leaning against the walls, and heaps of floats, tarred bladders, lobster-pots and baskets, and nets stretched to dry on the open ground above. if you wished to get from one alley to another without descending the hill, it would not be difficult to take a short cut across the pantiles. indeed, that seems in some places the only way to extrication from the labyrinth. i was on my way to look at the cove from the side of colburn nab, when a woman, rushing from a house, renewed a screeching quarrel with her opposite neighbour, which had been interrupted by the negro interlude. the other rushed out to meet her, and there followed a clamour of tongues such as i never before heard--each termagant resolute to outscold the other. they stamped, shook their fists and beat the air furiously, made mouths at one another, yelled bitter taunts, and at last came to blows. the struggle was but short, and then the weaker, not having been able to conquer by strength of arm, screamed hoarsely, "never mind, bet--never mind, you faggot! i can show a cleaner shimmy than you can." and, turning up her skirt, she showed half a yard of linen, the cleanness of which ought to have made her ashamed of her tongue. a loud laugh followed this sally, and the men, having maintained their principle that "it's always best to let t' women foight it out," straggled away to their lounging-places. the beck falls from the ravine into the cove at the foot of the nab, having a level wedge of land between it and the cliff. this was more than half covered by fishing-boats and the carts of dealers, who buy the fish here and sell it in the interior, or convey it to the tunnel station for despatch by railway. two smoke houses for the drying of herrings are built against the cliff, and in one of these a man was preparing for the annual task, and shovelling his coarse-grained salt into tubs. "the coarser the better," he said, "because it keeps the fish from layin' too close together." a fisherman, who seemed well pleased to have some one to talk to, assured me that i was a month too soon: the middle of august was the time to see the place as busy as sand-martens. and with an overpowering smell of fish, he might have added. six score boats of one kind or another sailed from the cove, and they took a good few of fish. some boats could carry twenty last, and at times a last of herrings would fetch ten or eleven pounds. in october, '56, the boats were running down to scarbro', when they came all at once into a shoal, and was seven hours a sailin' through 'em. one boat got twelve lasts in no time, came in on sunday, cleared 'em out, sailed again, and got back with twelve more lasts on wednesday. that was good addlings (_i. e._ earnings). he knowed the crew of one boat who got sixty pound a man that season. some liked cobles, and some liked yawls. a coble wanted six men and two boys to work her: a yawl would carry fifty tons, and some were always out a fishin'. now and then they went out to the silver pit, an oyster-bed about twenty-five miles from the coast. he thought the french and dutch were poachers in the herring season, especially the french. they'd run their nets right across the english nets, and pretend they didn't know or didn't understand; and though the screw steamer from dunkirk kept cruising about to warn 'em not to come over the line, the english fishermen thought 'twas only to spy out where the most fish was, and then let the foreign boats know by signal. yorkshire can't a-bear such botherments, and retaliates between whiles by sinking the buoy barrels. this is an old grievance. in former times, no dutchmen were permitted to fish without a license from scarborough castle, yet they evaded the regulation continually; "for," to quote the old chronicler, "the english always granted leave for fishing, reserving the honour to themselves, but out of a lazy temper resigning the gain to others." he remembered the gale that swallowed the thirteen houses. 'twas a northerly gale, and that was the only quarter that staithes had to trouble about. whenever the wind blew hard from the north, the _cod and lobster_ had to get ready to run. but the easterly gales, which made everything outside run for shelter, never touched the place, and you might row round the port in a skiff when collier ships were carrying away their topmasts in the offing, or drifting helplessly ashore. he saw the thirteen houses washed away, and at the same time a coble carried right over the bridge and left high and dry on the other side. the mouth of the beck would make a good harbour for cobles were it not for the bar, a great heap of gravel 'fore-anenst' us, which, by the combined action of the stream and tide, was kept circling from side to side, and stopping the entrance. it would be all right if somebody would build a jetty. of the two hundred and fifty species of fish known to inhabit the rivers and shores of britain, one hundred and forty have been found in and around yorkshire. returned to my quarters, i preferred a seat in the tap-room to the solitude of the parlour. the hour to "steck up" shops had struck, and a few of the "bettermy" traders had come in for their evening pipe and glass of ale. the landlord, who is a jet-digger, confirmed all that the three men had told me at runswick: jet-digging was quite a lottery, and not unattended with danger. in some instances a man would let himself half way down the cliff by a rope to begin his work. and the doctor--a talkative gentleman--corroborated the old fisherman's statements. in an easterly gale the little port was "as smooth as grease," and, if it were only larger, would be the best harbour on the eastern coast. he, too, remembered the washing away of the thirteen houses, and the consternation thereby created. would the sea be satisfied with that one mouthful? was a terrible question in the minds of all. i had heard that among the few things saved from the house in which cook was apprenticed, was the till from which he stole the shilling; but although i met with persons who thought the relic was still preserved somewhere in the town, not one could say that he had ever seen it. as regards the story of the theft, the popular version is that cook, after taking the coin, ran away from staithes. but, according to another version, there was no stealing in the case. tempted by the sight of a bright new south-sea company's shilling in the till, he took it out, and substituted for it one from his own pocket; and his master, who combined the trades of haberdasher and grocer, was satisfied with the boy's explanation when the piece was missed. cook, however, fascinated by the sight of the sea and of ships, took a dislike to the counter, and, before he was fourteen, obtained his discharge, and was learning the rudiments of navigation on board the _freelove_, a collier ship, owned by two worthy quakers of whitby. chapter xv. last day by the sea--boulby--magnificent cliffs--lofthouse and zachary moore--the snake-killer--the wyvern--eh! packman- skinningrave--smugglers and privateers--the bruce's privileges --what the old chronicler says--story about a sea-man--the groaning creek--huntcliff nab--rosebury topping--saltburn- cormorant shooters--cunning seals--miles of sands--marske--a memorable grave--redcar--the estuary of tees--asylum harbour- recreations for visitors--william hutton's description- farewell to the sea. it is the morning of our last day by the sea; and a glorious morning it is, with a bright sun, a blue sky, and a cool, brisk breeze, that freshens still as the hours glide on to noon. it is one of those days when merely to breathe, to feel that you are alive, is enjoyment enough; when movement and change of scene exert a charm that grows into exhilaration, and weariness, the envious thief, lags behind, and tries in vain to overtake the willing foot and cheerful heart. in such circumstances it seems to me that from all around the horizon the glowing sunlight streams into one's very being laden with the delight-fullest influences of all the landscapes. though the hill be steep and high by which we leave staithes, there are gaily painted boats lying on the grass at the top. you might almost believe them to be placed there as indications that the town, now hidden from sight, really exists below. northwards, the cliffs have a promising look, for they rise to a higher elevation (six hundred and sixty feet) than any we have yet trodden on this side of flamborough. again we pass wagon-loads of alum and sulphate, and come to the boulby alum-works, beyond which a wild heathery tract stretches sharply upwards from the edge of the cliff, and shuts out the inland prospect. up here the breeze is half a gale, and the sea view is magnificent. more than a hundred vessels of different sizes are in sight, the greater number bowling along to the southward, with every stitch of canvas spread, and so near the shore that you can see plainly the man at the wheel, and the movements of the crew on deck. by the roadside runs a stream of alum liquor along the wooden trough, and on rounding the bluff, we discover more alum-works on a broad undercliff, with troughs, diggings, and refuse heaps, extending farther than you can see. you may continue along the broken ground below, or mount to the summit by a rude stair chopped in the face of the cliff. the higher the better, i thought, and scrambled up. it is a strange scene that you look down upon: a few lonely cottages, patches of garden, and a chaos of heaps, some grass-grown, with numerous paths winding among them. and now the view opens towards the west, great slopes of fields heaving up as waves one beyond the other, till they blend with the pale blue hill-range in the distance; and glimpses of hartlepool and tynemouth can be seen in the north. the earl of zetland is the great proprietor hereabouts: the alum-works are his, and to him belongs the estate at lofthouse--a village about two miles inland--once owned by the famous zachary moore, whose lavish hospitality, and eminent qualities of mind and heart, made him the theme for tongue and pen when pitt was minister: "what sober heads hast thou made ache! how many hast thou kept from nodding! how many wise ones for thy sake have flown to thee and left off plodding!" and who, having spent a great fortune, discovered the reverse side of his friends' characters, accepted an ensign's commission, and died at gibraltar in the prime of his manhood. and it was near lofthouse that sir john conyers won his name of snake-killer. a sword and coffin, dug up on the site of an old benedictine priory, were supposed to have once belonged to the brave knight who "slew that monstrous and poysonous vermine or wyverne, an aske or werme which overthrew and devoured many people in fight; for that the scent of that poison was so strong that no person might abyde it." a gray stone, standing in a field, still marks the haunt of the worm and place of battle. tradition tells, moreover, of a valiant youth, who killed a serpent and rescued an earl's daughter from the reptile's cave, and married her; in token whereof scaw wood still bears his name. as i went on, past street houses, diverging hither and thither, a woman cried, from a small farm-house, "eh! packman, d'ye carry beuks?" she wanted a new spelder-beuk[a] for one of her children. we had a brief talk together. she had never been out of yorkshire, except once across the tees to stockton, twenty-two miles distant. that was her longest journey, and the largest town she had ever seen. 'twas a gay sight; but she thought the ladies in the streets wore too many danglements. she couldn't a-bear such things as them, for she was one of the audfarrand[b] sort, and liked lasty[c] clothes. [a] spelling book. [b] old-fashioned. [c] lasting. while talking, she continued her preparations for dinner, and set one of her children to polish the "reckon-crooks." the "reckon" is the crane in the kitchen fireplace, to which pots and kettles are suspended by the "crooks." in old times, when a pot was lifted off, the maid was careful to stop the swinging of the crook, because, whenever the reckon-crooks swung the blessed virgin used to weep. skinningrave--a few houses at the mouth of a narrow valley, a brook running briskly to the sea, a coast-guard station on the green shoulder of the southern cliff--makes up a pleasing scene as you descend to the beach. the village gossips can still talk on occasion about the golden age of smugglers, and a certain parish-clerk of the neighbourhood, who used to make the church steeple a hiding-place for his contraband goods. smuggling hardly pays now on this coast. they can repeat, too, what they heard in their childhood concerning paul jones; how that, as at whitby, the folk kept their money and valuables packed up, ready to start for the interior, watching day and night in great alarm, until at length the privateers did land, and fell to plundering from house to house. but when the fugitives returned they found nothing disturbed except the pantries and larders. this was one of the places where the bruce, proudest of the lords of cleveland, had "free fisheries, plantage, floatage, lagan, jetsom, derelict, and other maritime franchises." and an industrious explorer, who drew up a report on the district for sir thomas chaloner, in that quaint old style which smacks of true british liberty, gives us a glimpse of skinningrave morals in his day. the people, he says, with all their fish, were not rich; "for the moste parte, what they have they drinke; and howsoever they reckon with god, yt is a familiar maner to them to make even with the worlde at night, that pennilesse and carelesse they maye go lightly to their labour on the morrow morninge." and, relating a strange story, he tells us that about the year 1535, certain fishers of the place captured a sea-man, and kept him "many weekes in an olde house, giving him rawe fish to eate, for all other fare he refused. instead of voyce he skreaked, and showed himself courteous to such as flocked farre and neare to visit him; faire maydes were wellcomest guests to his harbour, whome he woulde beholde with a very earnest countenaynce, as if his phlegmaticke breaste had been touched with a sparke of love. one day when the good demeanour of this newe gueste had made his hosts secure of his abode with them, he privily stole out of doores, and ere he could be overtaken recovered the sea, whereinto he plunged himself; yet as one that woulde not unmannerly depart without taking of his leave, from the mydle upwardes he raysed his shoulders often above the waves, and makinge signes of acknowledgeing his good entertainment to such as beheld him on the shore, as they interpreted yt. after a pretty while he dived downe, and appeared no more." give me leave, reader, to quote one more passage, in which our narrator notices the phenomenon now known as the calling of the sea. "the little stream here," he says, "serveth as a trunke or conduite to convey the rumor of the sea into the neighbouring fieldes; for when all wyndes are whiste, and the sea restes unmoved as a standing poole, sometimes there is such a horrible groaninge heard from that creake at the least six myles in the mayne lande, that the fishermen dare not put forth, thoughe thyrste of gaine drive them on, houlding an opinion that the sea, as a greedy beaste raginge for hunger, desyers to be satisfyed with men's carcases." i crossed the beach where noisy rustics were loading carts from the thick beds of tangle, to the opposite cliff, and found a path to the top in a romantic hollow behind the point. again the height increases, and presently you get a peep at handale, traceable by its woods; and freeburgh hill, which was long taken for a tumulus, appears beyond. after much learned assertion in favour of its artificial formation, the question was settled by opening a sandstone quarry on its side. still higher, and we are on huntcliff nab, a precipice of three hundred and sixty feet, backed by broad fields and pastures. farther, we come to broken ground, and then to a sudden descent by a zigzag path at the saltburn coast-guard station; and here the noble range of cliffs sinks down to one of the pleasantest valleys of cleveland--an outlet for little rivers. pausing here on the brow we see the end of our coast travel, redcar, and the mouth of the tees five miles distant, and all between the finest sandy beach washed by the north sea: level and smooth as a floor. the cliff behind is a mere bank, as along the shore of holderness, and there is a greater breadth of plain country under our eye than we have seen for some days past. among the hills, picturesquely upheaved in the rear of the plain, i recognized the pointed summit of rosebury topping; and with almost as much pleasure as if it had been the face of a friend, so many recollections did the sight of the cone awaken of youthful days, and of circumstances that seemed to have left no impression. and therewith came back for a while the gladsome bounding emotions that consort with youth's inexperience. some time elapsed before i could make up my mind to quit the turfy seat on the edge of the cliff, and betake myself to the nether ground. the path zigzags steeply, and would be dangerous in places were it not protected by a handrope and posts. at the public-house below the requisites of a simple dinner can be had, and excellent beer. while i ate, two men were busy casting bullets, and turning them out to cool in the middle of the floor. they were going to shoot cormorants along huntcliff nab, where the birds lodge in the clefts and afford good practice for a rifle. concerning the nab, our ancient friend describes it as "full of craggs and steepe rocks, wherein meawes, pidgeons, and sea-fowle breade plentifully; and here the sea castinge up peble-stones maketh the coaste troublesome to passe." and seals resorted to the rocks about its base, cunning animals, which set a sentry to watch for the approach of men, and dived immediately that the alarm was given. but "the poore women that gather cockles and mussels on the sandes, by often use are in better credyte with them. therefore, whosoe intends to kill any of them must craftely put on the habyte of a woman, to gayne grounde within the reache of his peece." the sands at the mouth of the valley are furrowed and channeled by the streams that here find their outlet; and you will get many a splash in striding across. the view of the valley backed by hills and woods is a temptation, for yonder lie fair prospects, and the obscure ruins of kilton castle; but the sea is on the other side, and the sands stretch away invitingly before us. their breadth, seen near low water, as when i saw them, may be guessed at more than half a mile, and from saltburn to redcar, and for four or five miles up the estuary of the tees they continue, a gentle slope dry and firm, noisy to a horse's foot, yet something elastic under the tread of a pedestrian. at one time the redcar races were always held on the broad sands, and every day the visitors to the little town resort to the smooth expanse for their exercise, whether on foot or on wheels. for my part, i ceased to regret leaving the crest of the cliffs, and found a novel sense of enjoyment in walking along the wide-spread shore, where the surface is smooth and unbroken except here and there a solitary pebble, or a shallow pool, or a patch left rough by the ripples. and all the while a thin film, paler than the rest, as if the surface were in motion, is drifting rapidly with the wind, and producing before your eyes, on the margin of the low cliff, some of the phenomena of blown sands. smugglers liked this bit of the coast, because of the easy access to the interior; and many a hard fight has here been had between them and the officers of the law in former times, and not without loss of life. the lowlands, too, were liable to inundation. marske, of which the church has been our landmark nearly all the way from saltburn, was once a marsh. if we mount the bank here we shall see the marine hotel, and the village, and the mansion of mr. pease, who is the railway king of these parts. and there is marske hall, dating from the time of charles the first, which, associated with the names of fauconberg and dundas, has become historical. in the churchyard you may see the graves of shipwrecked seamen, and others indicated by a series of family names that will detain you awhile. here in april, 1779--that fatal year--was buried james cook, the day-labourer, and father of the illustrious navigator. and truly there seems something appropriate in laying him to rest within hearing of that element on which his son achieved lasting renown for himself and his country. providence was kind to the old man, and took him away six weeks after that terrible massacre at owhyhee, thereby saving his last days from hopeless sorrow. numerous are the parties walking, riding, and driving on the sands within a mile of redcar; but so far as a wayfarer may judge, liveliness is not one of their characteristics. now, the confused line of houses resolves itself into definite form; and, turning the point, you find the inner margin of the sand loose and heavy, a short stair to facilitate access to the terrace above, all wearing a rough makeshift appearance: the effect, probably, of the drift. there is no harbour; the boats lie far off in the shallow water, where embarkation is by no means convenient. once arrived at the place, it appeared to me singularly unattractive. wide as the estuary looks, its entrance is narrowed by a tongue of sand, seaton-snook, similar to the spurn, but seven miles long, and under water, which stretches out from the durham side; and on the hither side, off the point where we are standing, you can see the long ridges of lias which are there thrust out, as if to suggest the use that might be made of them. twenty years ago mr. richmond drew up a report on what he names an "asylum harbour" at redcar, showing that at that time forty thousand vessels passed in a year, and that of the wrecks, from 1821 to 1833, four hundred and sixty-two would not have happened had the harbour then existed. "to examine and trace," he remarks, "during a low spring-ebb, the massive foundations, which seem laid by the cunning hand of nature to invite that of man to finish what has been so excellently begun, is a most interesting labour. in their present position they form the basis on which it is projected to raise those mounds of stone by whose means, as breakwaters, a safe and extensive harbour will be created, with sufficient space and depth of water for a fleet of line-of-battle ships to be moored with perfect security within their limits, and still leave ample room for merchant vessels." there is no lack of stone in the neighbourhood; and seeing what has been accomplished at portland and holyhead, there should be no lack of money for such a purpose. cockles and shrimps abound along the shore: hence visitors may find a little gentle excitement in watching the capture of these multitudinous creatures, or grow enthusiastic over the return of the salmon-fishers with their glistening prey. and in fine weather there are frequent opportunities for steam-boat trips along the coast. but the charm of the place consists in the broad, flat shore, and, looking back along the way you came, you will find an apt expression in the lines: "next fishy redcar view marske's sunny lands, and sands, beyond pactolus' golden sands; till shelvy saltburn, clothed with seaweed green, and giant huntcliff close the pleasing scene." william hutton, at the age of eighty-five, journeyed hither for a summer holiday, and wrote a narrative of his adventures, from which we may get an idea of the place as he saw it. "the two streets of coatham and redcar," he says, "are covered with mountains of drift sand, blown by the north-west winds from the shore, which almost forbid the foot; no carriage above a wheelbarrow ought to venture. it is a labour to walk. if a man wants a perspiring dose, he may procure one by travelling through these two streets, and save his half-crown from the doctor. he may sport white stockings every day in the year, for they are without dirt; nor will the pavement offend his corns. the sand-beds are in some places as high as the eaves of the houses. some of the inhabitants are obliged every morning to clear their doorway, which becomes a pit, unpleasant to the housekeeper and dangerous to the traveller." i saw no sand-beds up to the eaves, but there were indications enough that the sand-drift must be a great annoyance. the town is comprised chiefly in one long, wide street, which looks raw and bleak, even in the summer. there are a few good shops at the end farthest from the sea; and if you ask the bookseller to show you the weekly list of visitors, it will perhaps surprise you to see the number so great. the church was built in 1829; before that date church-goers had to walk three miles to marske. and now my travel from humber to tees is accomplished, and i must say farewell to the wide rolling main with its infinite horizon--to the ships coming up from the unseen distance, and sailing away to the unseen beyond--to the great headlands, haunted by swift-winged birds, which, when winds are still, behold a double firmament, stars overhead and stars beneath; and so, not without reluctance, i turn my back on what the rare old greek calls "the countless laughter of the salt-sea waves." chapter xvi. leave redcar--a cricket-match--coatham--kirkleatham--the old hospital--the library--sir william turner's tomb--cook, omai, and banks--the hero of dettingen--yearby bank--upleatham- guisborough--past and present--tomb of robert bruce--priory ruins--hemingford, pursglove, and sir thomas chaloner--pretty scenery--the spa--more money, less morals--what george fox's proselytes did--john wesley's preaching--hutton lowcross- rustics of taste--rosebury topping--lazy enjoyment--the prospect: from black-a-moor to northumberland--cook's monument --canny yatton--the quakers' school--a legend--skelton--sterne and eugenius--visitors from middlesbro'--a fatal town--newton- digger's talk--marton, cook's birthplace--stockton--darlington. however, we will be of good cheer, for nature forsakes not the trustful heart. hill and dale, breezy moorland, craggy mountains, and lovely valleys stretch away before us well-nigh to the western tides; and there we shall find perennial woods, where rustling leaves, and rushing waterfalls will compensate us for the loss of the voice of the sea. i started for guisborough, taking a short cut across the fields to kirkleatham. in the first field, on the edge of the town, i saw what accounted to me for the lifelessness of redcar--a cricket-match. as well might one hope to be merry at a funeral as at a game of cricket, improved into its present condition; when the ball is no longer bowled, but pelted, and the pelter's movements resemble those of a jack-pudding; when gauntlets must be worn on the hands and greaves on the shins; and other inventions are brought into use to deprive pastime of anything like enjoyment. that twenty-two men should ever consent to come together for such a mockery of pleasure, is to me a mystery. wouldn't dr. livingstone's makalolo laugh at them! the only saving point attending it is, that it involves some amount of exercise in the open air. no wonder that the french duchess, who was invited to see a game, sent one of her suite, after sitting two hours, to enquire, "vhen the creekay vas going to begin." the guisborough band was doing its best to enliven the field; but i saw no exhilaration. read miss mitford's description of a cricket-match on the village green; watch a schoolboys' game, consider the mirth and merriment that they get out of it, and sympathise with modern cricket if you can. the fields are pleasant and rural; haymakers are at work; we cross a tramway, one of those laid to facilitate the transport of cleveland ironstone; we get glimpses of coatham, and come nearer to the woods, and at length emerge into the road at kirkleatham. here let us turn aside to look at the curious old hospital, built in 1676 by sir william turner, citizen and woollen-draper of london, and lord mayor, moreover, three years after the great fire. there it stands, a centre and two wings, including a chapel, a library and museum, and a comfortable lodging for ten old men, as many old women, and the same number of boys and girls. the endowment provides for a good education for the children, and a benefaction on their apprenticeship; and the services of a chaplain. among the curiosities shown to visitors are a waxen effigy of sir william, wearing the wig and band that he himself once wore; the likeness of his son and heir in the stained glass of one of the windows; st. george and the dragon, singularly well cut out of one piece of boxwood; the fragment of the tree from newby park, presented by lord falconberg, on which appears, carved:- this tre long time witnese beare of toww lovrs that did walk heare. it was no random hand that selected the library; some of the books are rare. one who loves old authors, will scan the shelves with pleasure. "i could easily have forgotten my dinner in this enchanting room," says william hutton. interesting in another way is the ledger of the worthy citizen and woollen-draper here preserved: it shows how well he kept his accounts, and that he was not vain-glorious. on one of the pages, where the sum of his wealth appears as 50,000_l._, he has written, "blessed be the almighty god, who has blest me with this estate." the church, not far from the hospital, is worth a visit. conspicuous in the chancel are the monuments of the turners, adorned with sculptures and long inscriptions. of sir william, we read that he lies buried "amongst the poor of his hospital--the witnesses of his piety, liberality, and humility." there is the mausoleum erected by cholmley turner, in 1740, to the memory of his son, who died at lyon, of which schumacher was the sculptor, and near it the tomb of sir charles turner, the last of the family. cook, accompanied by omai and sir joseph banks, paid him a visit in 1775. some of the church plate was presented by sir william; but that used for the communion was thrown up by the sea about a century ago, within the privilege of the lord of the manor. this quiet little village of kirkleatham was the birthplace of tom browne the famous dragoon, who at the battle of dettingen cut his way single-handed into the enemy's line, recovered the standard of the troop to which he belonged, and fought his way back in triumph; by which exploit he made his name ring from one end of england to the other, and won a place for his likeness on many a sign-board. you may see his portrait here if you will, and his straight basket-hilted sword. after a glance at the hall, a handsome building, we return to the road, and ascend yearby bank--a bank which out of yorkshire would be called a hill. look back when near the top, and you will have a pleasing prospect: kirkleatham nestled among the trees, the green fields refreshing to the eye; eston nab and the brown estuary beyond. here we are on the verge of the earl of zetland's richly wooded estate- "behold upleatham, slop'd with graceful ease, hanging enraptur'd o'er the winding tees"-and the breeze makes merry among the branches that overhang us on both sides till a grand fragment of a ruin appears in sight--the tall east window of a once magnificent priory--rising stately in decay from amidst the verdure of a fertile valley, and we enter the small market-town of guisborough. having refreshed myself at _the buck_, i took an evening stroll, not a little surprised at the changes which the place had undergone since i once saw it. then it had the homely aspect of a village, and scarce a sound would you hear after nine at night in its long wide street: now at both ends new houses intrude on the fields and hedgerows, the side lanes have grown into streets lit by gas and watched by policemen. tippling iron-diggers disturb the night with noisy shouts when sober folk are a-bed, and the old honest look has disappeared for ever. in the olden time it was said, "the inhabitants of this place are observed by travellers to be very civil and well bred, cleanly in dressing their diet, and very decent in their houses." the old hall is gone, but the gardens remain: you see the ample walnut-trees and the primeval yew behind the wall on your way to the churchyard. seven centuries have rolled away since that norman gateway was built, and it looks strong enough to stand another seven. under the shadow of those trees was a burial-place of the monks: now the shadow falls on mutilated statues and other sculptured relics, and on the tomb of robert brus, one of the claimants of the scottish throne and founder of the abbey, who was buried here in 1294. even in decay it is an admirable specimen of ancient art. from the meadow adjoining the churchyard you get a good view of the great east window, or rather of the empty arch which the window once filled; and looking at its noble dimensions, supported by buttresses, flanked by the windows of the aisles, and still adorned with crumbling finials, you will easily believe what is recorded of guisborough priory--that it was the richest in yorkshire. it was dedicated to st. augustine, and when the sacred edifice stood erect in beauty, the tall spire pointing far upwards, seen miles around, many a weary pilgrim must have invoked a blessing on its munificent founder--a bruce of whom the church might well be proud. hemingford, whose chronicle of events during the reigns of the first three edwards contains many curious matters of ecclesiastical history, was a canon of guisborough; and among the priors we find bishop pursglove, him of whom our ancient gossip izaak makes loving mention. another name associated with the place is sir thomas chaloner, eminent alike in exercises of the sword, and pen, and statesmanship. it was here in the neighbourhood that he discovered alum, as already mentioned, led thereto by observing that the leaves of the trees about the village were not so dark a green as elsewhere, while the whitish clay soil never froze, and "in a pretty clear night shined and sparkled like glass upon the road-side." skeletons and stone coffins have been dug up from time to time, and reburied in the churchyard. on one occasion the diggers came upon a deposit of silver plate; and from these and other signs the presence of a numerous population on the spot in former days has been inferred. our quaint friend, who has been more than once quoted, says: "cleveland hath been wonderfully inhabited more than yt is nowe ... nowe all their lodgings are gone; and the country, as a widow, remayneth mournful." and among the local traditions, there is the not uncommon one, which hints obscurely at a subterranean passage, leading from the priory to some place adjacent, within which lay a chest of gold guarded by a raven. situate near the foot of a finely-wooded range of hills, the ruin shows effectively with the green heights for a background. more delightful than now must the prospect have been in the early days, and even within the present century, when no great excavations of ironstone left yellow blots in the masses of foliage. the sun went down while i sauntered about, and when i took my last look at the great east window the ruddy blaze streamed through its lofty space, and as each side grew dark with creeping glooms, filled it with quivering beams whereunto all the glory of glass would be but a mockery. guisborough may claim to rank among watering-places, for it has a spa, with appliances for drinking and bathing, down in a romantic nook of spa wood, watered by alumwork beck. the walk thither, and onwards through waterfall wood to skelton, is one of the prettiest in the neighbourhood. and on the hill-slopes, bellman bank--formerly bellemonde--still claims notice for pleasing scenery. the medicinal properties of the spring were discovered in 1822. the water, which is clear and sparkling, tastes and smells slightly of sulphur and weak alkaline constituents, and is considered beneficial in diseases of the skin and indigestion. and in common with other small towns in yorkshire, guisborough has a free grammar-school, which, at least, keeps alive the memory of its founder. mine host of _the buck_ said, as we talked together later in the evening about the changes that had taken place, that although more money came into the town than in years gone by, he did not think that better habits or better morals came in along with it. a similar remark would be made wherever numbers of rude labourers earn high wages. even in the good old times there was something to complain of. george fox tells us, concerning his proselytes in cleveland, that they fell away from their first principles and took to ranting; and at the time of his later visits "they smoked tobacco and drank ale in their meetings, and were grown light and loose." and john wesley, on his first visit to guisborough, in 1761, found what was little better than practical heathenism. he preached from a table standing in the market-place, where "there was," as he writes, "so vehement a stench of stinking fish as was ready to suffocate me." the people "roared;" but as the zealous apostle of methodism went on in his sermon they gradually became overawed, and listened in silence. did their forefathers ever roar when paulinus preached to them from a mossy rock, or under the shadow of a spreading oak? wesley, however, made an impression, and followed it up by visits in four subsequent years. at any rate, there was no noise to disturb the sunday quiet when i went forth on the morrow. while passing along the street i noticed many cottagers reading at their doors, and exposing a pair of clean white shirt-sleeves to the morning sun. turning presently into a road on the left, which rises gently, you get an embowered view of the town, terminated by the soaring arch. then we come to hutton lowcross, a pleasant hamlet, which suggests a thought of the days of old, for it once had an hospital and a cistercian nunnery. hutton joined to the name of a village is a characteristic of cleveland. in one instance--a few miles from this--it helps out an unflattering couplet: "hutton rudby, entrepen, far more rogues than honest men." we cross the railway near a station, which, as a cottager told me is "mr. pease's station; built for hisself, and not for everybody;" and take a bridle road leading to the hill. i fell in with a couple of rustics, who were able to enjoy the scenery amid which they had lived for years. they lay under a tree, at a spot open to the prospect down the valley; and as i commended their choice, one replied "i do like to come and set here of a sunday better than anything else. 'tis so nice to hear the leaves a-rustlin' like they do now." but the view there was nothing to what i should see from the hill-top: there couldn't be a prettier sight in england than that. i felt willing to believe them; and a few minutes later strode from the steep, narrow lane, where ferns, foxgloves, wild roses, and elders overhang the way, to the open expanse of guisborough moors. here a track runs along the undulating slope to the foot of the hills, which roll away on the left to the wild region of black-a-moor, with many a pleasant vale and secluded village between, while on the right spreads the cultivated plain, of which, ere long, we shall get a wider view; for now rosebury topping comes clear in sight, from gorse-patched base to rocky apex, and your eye begins to select a place for ascent. it is approachable on all sides; no swamp betrays the foot, but the steepness in some places compels you to use hands as well as feet. the morning was already hot, and i was fain to sit down in the belt of bracken above the gorse and breathe awhile, glad to have climbed beyond reach of the flies. from the fern you mount across clean, soft turf to the bare wall of rock which encircles the northern half of the summit, where the breeze of the plain is a brisk wind, cooling and invigorating as it sweeps across. i threw off my knapsack, and choosing a good resting-place, lay down in idle enjoyment of being able to see far enough. who that has travelled knows not what an enjoyment it is to recline at length on a hill-top, the head reposing on a cushion of moss, and to have nothing to do but let the eye rove at will over the wide-spread landscape below? sheltered by the rock, you breathe the coolness of upper air without its rapid chill, and indulge for a while in lazy contemplation. it is the very luxury of out-door existence. perhaps you are somewhat overcome by the labour of the ascent, and unconsciousness steals gently on you; and a snatch of slumber in such a spot, while the winds whisper of gladness in your ear, and a faint hush floats to and fro among the blades of grass, is a pleasure which can be imagined only by one who beholds at his awaking the blue sky and the broad earth of the great giver. at length curiosity prevails. here we are a thousand and twenty-two feet above the sea--an elevation that sounds small after switzerland and tyrol; but a very little experience of travelling convinces one that the highest hills are not those which always command the most pleasing views. standing on the top of the crag you may scan the whole ring of the horizon, from the sea on the east to the high summits of the west; from the bleak ridges of black-a-moor to the headlands of northumberland, seen dimly through the smoky atmosphere of the durham coal-fields. considering, reader, that i may please myself at times, as well as you, i borrow again from our honest friend, whose admiration of the picturesque appears to have equalled his ability to note the useful. "there is," he says, "a most goodly prospecte from the toppe of thys hyll, though paynefully gayned by reason of the steepnesse of yt.... there you may see a vewe the like whereof i never saw, or thinke that any traveller hath seen any comparable unto yt, albeit i have shewed yt to divers that have paste through a greate part of the worlde, both by sea and land. the vales, rivers, great and small, swelinge hylls and mountaynes, pastures, meadows, woodes, cornefields, parte of the bishopricke of durham, with the newe porte of tease lately found to be safe, and the sea replenyshed with shippes, and a most pleasant flatt coaste subjecte to noe inundation or hazarde make that countrye happy if the people had the grace to make use of theire owne happinesse, which may be amended if it please god to send them trafique and good example of thrifte." all this is still true; but tees has now other ports, and middlesborough, which has grown rapidly as an american town, and the iron furnaces, spread a smoky veil here and there across the landscape, which, when our narrator looked down upon it, lay everywhere clear and bright in the sunshine. the name of the hill is said to be derived from _ross_, a heath or moor; _burg_, a fortress; and _toppen_, danish for apex. if you incline to go back to very early days--as the germans do--try to repeople the rows of basin-like pits which, traceable around the slope of the hill, are, so the students of antiquity tell us, the remains of ancient british dwellings. were they inhabited when the brigantes first mustered to repel the romans? rebuild the hermitage which, constructed once by a solitary here in the rock, was afterwards known as the smith's forge or cobbler's shop; and restore the crevice which, far-famed as wilfrid's needle, tempted many a pilgrim to the expiatory task of creeping through the needle's eye. no traces of them are now left, for the remains which time respected were destroyed some years ago by quarrymen, and with them the perfect point of the cone. rosebury topping was once talked of as the best site for a monument to the memory of cook, where it would be seen from his birthplace and for miles around. but another spot was chosen, and looking to the south-east you see the tall, plain column on easby heights, about three miles distant. it was erected in 1827, at the cost of mr. robert campion, of whitby. at the foot of the hill, in the same direction, partly concealed by trees, and watered by the river leven, lies the village of great ayton--canny yatton--where cook went to school after finishing his course of mary walker's lessons. in the churchyard is a stone, which records the death of cook's mother, and of some of his brothers and sisters, supposed to have been wrought by his father, who was a working mason. it is said, however, that the old man was unable to read until the age of seventy-five, when he learned in order that he might have the pleasure of reading the narrative of his son's voyages of discovery. of other noteworthy objects in the village are a monument to commodore wilson in the church; a chapel-well of the olden time; and an agricultural school, with seventy-five acres of good land attached, belonging to the quakers. farming work and in-doors work are there taught to boys and girls in a thoroughly practical way, carrying out the intentions of the chief promoter, who gave the land and 5000_l._ to establish the institution. a few yards below the rocks a spring trickles slowly into a hollow under a stone, but the quantity of water is too small to keep itself free from the weeds and scum which render it unfit for drinking. it can hardly be the fatal spring of the tradition, wherein is preserved the memory of a northumbrian queen and prince oswy, her son. soothsayers had foretold the boy's death by drowning on a certain day: the mother, to keep him from harm, brought him to this lofty hill-side early on the threatened day, where, at all events, he would be in no danger from water. fondly she talked with him for a while and watched his play: but drowsiness stole over her and she fell asleep. by-and-by she woke, and looked hastily round for her darling. he was nowhere to be seen. she flew hither and thither, searching wildly, and at last found him lying dead, with his face in the spring. looking to the north-east we see skelton, backed by the upleatham woods. though but a speck in the landscape, it has contributed more to history than places which boast acres of houses. "from this little nook of cleveland," says the local historian, "sprang mighty monarchs, queens, high-chancellors, archbishops, earls, barons, ambassadors, and knights, and, above all, one brilliant and immortal name--robert bruce." we hear of a robert de brus, second of the name, trying to dissuade david of scotland from awaiting the attack of the english army near northallerton: but the king chose to fight, and lost, as we have already read, the battle of the standard. and the sixth baron, peter de brus, was one of the resolute band who made his mark at runnymede, and helped to wrest the right of liberty from a royal craven. then taking a stride to later years, we find the author of _crazy tales_, john hall stephenson, the occupant of skelton castle, an esquire hospitable and eccentric, the eugenius of sterne, who was his willing guest: "in this retreat, whilom so sweet, once tristram and his cousin dwelt." there it was that sterne bribed a boy to tie the weathercock with its point to the west, hoping thereby to lure the host from his chamber; for eugenius would never leave his bed while the wind blew from the east, even though good company longed for his presence. in one of his poems the "crazy" author describes the hill country such as we see it stretching away beyond cook's monument: "where the beholder stands confounded at such a scene of mountains bleak; where nothing goes except some solitary pewit, and carrion crows, that seem sincerely to rue it: where nothing grows, so keen it blows, save here and there a graceless fir, from scotland with its kindred fled, that moves its arms and makes a stir, and tosses its fantastic head." on eston nab, that bold hill between us and the tees, is an ancient camp, and graves supposed to be two thousand years old. kildale, in the opposite direction, had once a diabolical notoriety; for there the devil played many a prank, and drank the church-well dry, so that the priest could get no holy water. ingleby manor, an antique tudor house, belonged to the foulis family, who gave a noteworthy captain to the army of the parliament. and other historic names--the d'arcys, eures, percys, and baliols--all had estates overlooked by rosebury. wilton castle, not far from the foot of eston nab, was built by sir john lowther, about fifty years ago, on the site of a fortress once held by the bulmers. now to return for a moment to the hill itself: the topmost rocks are of the same formation as those we saw stretching into the sea at redcar, uptilted more than a thousand feet in a distance of ten miles. and lower down, as if to exemplify the geology of the north riding in one spot, a thick stratum of alum-rock is found, with ironstone, limestone, jet and coal, and numerous fossil shells. and it illustrates meteorological phenomena, for, from time immemorial, weatherwise folk have said, "when rosebury topping wears a cap, let cleveland then beware a clap." more than an hour slipped away while i lounged and loitered, making the round of the summit again and again, till it seemed that the landscape had become familiar to me. then the solitude was broken by the arrival of strangers, who came scrambling up the hill, encouraging one another, with cheerful voices. they gained the rocks at last, panting; two families from middlesborough, husbands, wives, boys and girls, and a baby, with plenty to eat and drink in their baskets, come from the murky town to pass the sunday on the breezy hill-top. how they enjoyed the pure air and the wide prospect; and how they wondered to find room for a camp-meeting on a summit which, from their homes, looked as if it were only a blunt point! they told me that a trip to rosebury topping was an especial recreation for the people of middlesborough--a town which, by the way, is built on a swampy site, where the only redeeming feature is ready access to a navigable river. i remember what it was before the houses were built. a drearier spot could not be imagined: one of those places which, as _punch_ says, "you want never to hear of, and hope never to see." "'tis frightful to see how fast the graves do grow up in the new cemetery," said one of the women, whose glad surprise at the contrast between her home and her holiday could hardly express itself in words. "it can't be a healthy place to bring up a family in. that's where we live, is it--down there, under all that smoke? ah! if we could only come up here every day!" middlesborough, as we can see from far off, is now a large town, numbering nearly 8000 inhabitants in 1851, and owes its sudden growth to coal and iron. there the smelting furnaces, roaring night and day, convert hundreds of tons of the cleveland hills every week into tons of marketable iron. the quantity produced in 1856 in the cleveland district was 180,000 tons. and there is the terminus of the "quakers' railway;" a dock, of nine acres, where vessels can load at all times of the tide; an ingenious system of drops for the coal; branch railways running in all directions; and a great level of fifteen acres, on which three thousand wagons can stand at once. i stayed two hours on the hill-top, then taking a direct line down the steepest side, now sliding, now rolling, very few minutes brought me to the village of newton at the foot. with so sudden a change, the heat below seemed at first overpowering. in the public-house, which scrupled not to open its door to a traveller, i found half a dozen miners, who had walked over from a neighbouring village to drink their pint without molestation. each recommended a different route whereby the ten miles to stockton might be shortened. one insisted on a cut across the fields to nunth_ar_p. my ear caught at the sharp twang of the _ar_--a yorkshire man would have said nunthurp--and turning to the speaker i said, "surely that's berkshire?" "ees, 'tis. i comes not fur from read'n'." true enough. tempted by high wages in the north, he had wandered from the neighbourhood of _our village_ up to the iron-diggings of cleveland. i took it for granted that, as he earned more than twice as much as he did at home, he saved in proportion. but no; he didn't know how 'twas; the money went somehow. any way he didn't save a fardin' more than he did in berkshire. i ventured to reply that there was little good in earning more if one did not save more, when a tall brawny fellow broke in with, "look here, lad. i'd ruther 'arn fifty shillin's a week and fling 'em right off into that pond there, than 'arn fifteen to keep." just the retort that was to be expected under the circumstances. it embodies a touch of proud sentiment in which we can all participate. i found the short cut to nunthorp, struck there the high road, and came in another hour to marton--the birthplace of cook. it is a small village with a modernised church, and a few noble limes overshadowing the graves. the house where the circumnavigator was born was little better than a clay hovel of two rooms. it has long since disappeared; but the field on which it stood is still called "cook's garth." the parish register contains an entry under the date november 3rd, 1728: "james, ye son of james cook, day-labourer, baptized." the name of mary walker, aged 89, appears on one of the stones in the churchyard; she it was who taught the day-labourer's son to read while he was in her service, and who has been mistakenly described as dame walker the schoolmistress. i caught the evening train at stockton, which travelling up the durham side of the tees--past yarm, where havelock's mother was born--past the "hell kettles" and dinsdale spa, where drinking the water turns all the silver yellow in your pockets--and so to darlington, where i stayed for the night. chapter xvii. locomotive, number one--barnard castle--buying a calf on sunday--baliol's tower--from canute to the duke of cleveland- historic scenery--a surprised northumbrian--the bearded hermit --beauty of teesdale--egliston abbey--the artist and his wife- dotheboys hall--rokeby--greta bridge--mortham tower--brignall banks--a pilgrimage to wycliffe--fate of the inns--the felon sow--a journey by omnibus--lartington--cotherstone- scandinavian traces--romaldkirk--middleton-in-teesdale--wild scenery--high force inn--the voice of the fall. facing the entrance to the railway station, elevated on a pedestal of masonry, stands the first locomotive--_number one_. with such machines as that did the quakers begin in 1823 to transport coal from the mines near darlington to middlesborough along their newly-opened railway. compared with the snorting giants of the great western, its form and dimensions are small and simple. no glittering brass or polished steel bedeck its strength; it is nothing but a black boiler, mounted on wheels, with three or four slender working-rods standing up near one end, and the chimney with its saw-toothed top at the other. yet, common as it looks, it is one of george stephenson's early triumphs: one of the steps by which he, and others after him, established more and more the supremacy of mind over mere brute matter. it was a happy thought to preserve _number one_ on the spot where enlightened enterprise first developed its capabilities. tees is one of those streams--the "silly few"--which owe a divided allegiance, watering two counties at once. rising high amidst the wildest hills of the north-west, it takes a course of eighty-three miles to the sea through many scenes of romantic beauty. yesterday we looked down from rosebury on the last two or three leagues of its outfall; to-day if all go well we shall see the summit from which it springs. it is a glorious morning; the earliest train arrives, interrupts our examination of the old locomotive, and away we go to breakfast at barnard castle, on the durham side of the river. there is so much of beautiful and interesting in the neighbourhood, scenes made classic by the pen of scott, that i chose to pass the day in rambling, and journey farther in the evening. the town itself, old-fashioned in aspect, quiet enough for grass to grow here and there in the streets, was one of the ancient border-towns, and paid the penalty of its position. it has a curious market-cross, and touches of antiquity in the byeways; and owing to something in its former habits or history, is a butt for popular wit. "barney-cassel, the last place that god made," is one way of mentioning the town by folk in other parts of the county; if you meet with a fellow more uncouth than usual, he is "barney-cassel bred;" any one who shoots with the long bow is silenced with "that wunna do, that's barney-cassel;" and as barney-cassel farmers may be recognised by the holes in their sacks, so may the women by holes in their stockings. one sunday morning, a farmer, while on his way to chapel, noticed a fine calf in his neighbour's field, and when seated in his pew, was overheard to ask the owner of the animal, "tommy, supposin' it was monday, what wad ye tak' for yer calf?" to which tommy replied in an equally audible whisper, "why, supposin' it was monday, aw'd tak' two pun' fifteen." "supposin' it was monday aw'll gie two pun' ten." "supposin' it was monday, then ye shall hev't." and the next day the calf was delivered to the scrupulous purchaser. the pride of the town is the castle--ruined remains of the stronghold erected by bernard baliol to protect the lands bestowed on him by william the red. seen from the bridge, the rocky height, broken and craggy, and hung with wood, crowned by baliol's tower, is remarkably picturesque. the tees sweeps round the base, as if impatient to hide itself once more under green woods, to receive once more such intermingled shadows of rock and leafage as fell on it through marwood chase, and where balder rushes in about a league above. a mile of sunlight, and then the brawling stream will play with the big stones and crowd its bed all through the woods of rokeby. let us mount the hill and ascend the tower. the bearded hermit who inhabits therein points the way to the stone stair constructed within the massive wall, and presently we come to the top, where, although there is no parapet, the great thickness admits of your walking round in safety. the view is a feast for the eye--thick woods marking the course of the river, the trees thinning off as they meet the uplands, where fields and hedgerows diversify the landscape away to the hills; while in the distance the sight of dark, solemn moorlands serves but to heighten the nearer beauty. we can see lands once held by king canute, now the property of the duke of cleveland: we passed his estate, the park and castle of raby, about six miles distant on our way hither; and whichever way we look there is something for memory to linger on: "staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, salutes proud raby's battled towers; the rural brook of egliston, and balder, named from odin's son; and greta, to whose banks ere long we lead the lovers of the song; and silver lune, from stanmore wild, and fairy thorsgill's murmuring child, and last and least, but loveliest still, romantic deepdale's slender rill." barnard castle was lost to the baliol family by the defeat of john baliol's pretensions to the crown of scotland. later it was granted, with the adjoining estates, to the earls of warwick, and on the marriage of anne neville with royal gloucester, the duke chose it as his favourite residence. you may still see his cognizance of the boar here and there on the walls, and on some of the oldest houses in the town. the earl of westmoreland had it next, but lost it by taking part in _the rising of the north_. the couplet:- "coward, a coward, of barney castel, dare not come out to fight a battel," is said to have its origin in the refusal of the knight who held the castle, to quit the shelter of its walls and try the effect of a combat with the rebels. and so the game went on, the crown resuming possession at pleasure, until the whole property fell by purchase, in 1629, to an ancestor of the present owner--the duke of cleveland. "whoy! 'tis but a little town to ha' such a muckle castle," exclaimed one of three men who had just arrived with a numerous party by excursion train from newcastle, and ventured to the top of the tower. "eh! the castle wur bigger nor the town." whatever may have been, the thick-voiced northumbrian was wrong in his first conclusion, for the town has more than four thousand inhabitants. but, looking down, we can see that the castle with its outworks and inner buildings must have been a fortress of no ordinary dimensions. nearly seven acres are comprehended within its area, now chiefly laid out in gardens, where, sheltered by the old gray stones, the trees bear generous fruit. if you can persuade the hermit to ascend, he will point out brackenbury's tower, a dilapidated relic, with dungeons in its base, now used as stables; and near it a cow-stall, which occupies the site of the chapel. examine the place when you descend, and you will discover, amid much disfigurement, traces of graceful architecture. the hermit himself--a man of middle age--is a subject for curiosity. so far as i could make him out, he appeared to be half misanthropist, half misogynist. he quarrelled with the world about eighteen years ago, and, without asking leave, took possession of a vault and a wall-cavity at the foot of the great round tower, and has lived there ever since, supporting himself by the donations of visitors, and the sale of rustic furniture which he makes with his own hands. his room in the wall is fitted with specimens of his skill, and it serves as a trap, for you have to pass through it to ascend the tower. he showed me his workshop, and pointed out a spot under the trees at the hill-foot where flows the clear cold spring from which he draws water. the duke, he said, sometimes came to look at the ruin, and gave him a hint to quit; but he did not mean to leave until absolutely compelled. i heard later in the day that he had been crossed in love; and that, notwithstanding his love of solitude, he would go out at times and find a friend, and make a night of it. but this may be scandal. i went down and took a drink at the spring which, embowered by trees and bushes, sparkles forth from the rocky brink of the river; and rambled away to rokeby. there are paths on both sides of the stream, along the edge of the meadows, and under the trees past the mill, past cottages and gardens, leading farther and farther into scenes of increasing beauty. then we come to the abbey bridge, whence you get a pleasing view of a long straight reach of the river, terminated by a glimpse of rokeby hall, a charming avenue, so to speak, of tall woods, which, with ferns, shrubs, and mazy plants, crowd the rocky slopes to the very edge of the water. from ledge to ledge rushes the stream, making falls innumerable, decked with living fringes of foam, and as the noisy current hurries onward it engirdles the boulders with foamy rings, or hangs upon them a long white train that flutters and glistens as sunbeams drop down through the wind-shaken leaves. strong contrasts of colour enrich the effect: "here tees, full many a fathom low, wears with his rage no common foe; for pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, o'er solid sheets of marble gray." on the yorkshire side, a few yards above the bridge, the remains of egliston or athelstan abbey crown a pleasant knoll surrounded by wood. they are of small extent, and, on the whole, deficient in the picturesque; but as an artist said who sketched while his wife sat sewing by his side, "there are a few little bits worth carrying away." the east window, in which the plain mullions still remain, is of unusual width, the chancel exhibits carvings of different styles; two or three slabs lying on the grass preserve the memory of an abbot, and of a rokeby, who figures in the still legible inscription as #bastard;# and the outbuildings are now occupied as a farm. some years hence, when the ivy, which has begun to embrace the eastern window, shall have spread its evergreen mantle wider and higher, the ruins will be endowed with a charm wherein their present scanty nakedness may be concealed. yet apart from this the place has natural attractions, a village green, noble trees, thorsgill within sight; and just beyond the green a mill of cheerful clatter. the artist and his wife were enjoying a happy holiday. they had come down into yorkshire with a fortnight's excursion ticket, and a scheme for visiting as many of the abbeys and as much picturesque scenery as possible within the allotted time. sometimes they walked eight or ten miles, or travelled a stage in a country car, content to rough it, so that their wishes should be gratified. they had walked across from stainmoor the day before, and told me that in passing through bowes they had seen the original of dotheboys hall, now doorless, windowless, and dilapidated. nicholas nickleby's exposure was too much for it, and it ceased to be a den of hopeless childhood--a place to which heartless fathers and mothers condemned their children because it was cheap. what a contrast! wackford squeers and the thracian cohort. bowes, under the name of lavatræ, was once a station on the great roman road from lincoln to carlisle. ere long it will be a station on the railway that is to connect stockton with liverpool. now, returning to the bridge, we plunge into the woods, and follow the river's course by devious paths. gladsome voices and merry laughter resound, for a numerous detachment of the excursionists from newcastle are on their way to view the grounds of rokeby. delightful are the snatches of river scenery that we get here and there, where the jutting rock affords an outlook, and the more so as we enjoy them under a cool green shade. leaving the northumbrians at the lodge to accomplish their wishes, i kept on to greta bridge, and lost myself in the romantic glen through which the river flows. it will surprise you by its manifold combinations of rock, wood, and water, fascinating the eye at every step amid a solitude profound. this was the route taken by bertram and wilfrid when the ruthless soldier went to take possession of mortham. you cannot fail to recognize how truly scott describes the scenery; the "beetling brow" is there, and the "ivied banners" still hang from the crags as when the minstrel saw them. we can follow the two to that "----grassy slope which sees the greta flow to meet the tees:" and farther, where "south of the gate, an arrow flight, two mighty elms their limbs unite, as if a canopy to spread o'er the lone dwelling of the dead; for their huge boughs in arches bent above a massive monument, carved o'er in ancient gothic wise, with many a scutcheon and device." you will long to lengthen your hours into days for wanderings in this lovely neighbourhood. you will be unwilling to turn from the view at mortham tower--one of the old border peels, or fortresses on a small scale--or that which charms you from the dairy bridge. then if the risk of losing your way does not deter, you may ramble to "brignall banks" and scargill, having the river for companion most part of the way. and should you be minded to pursue the road through richmondshire to richmond, the village and ruins of ravensworth will remind you of "the baron of ravensworth prances in pride, and he views his domains upon arkindale side. the mere for his net and the land for his game, the chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; yet the fish of the lake, and the door of the vale, are less free to lord dacre than allen-a-dale!" or, if inspired by a deeper sentiment, you prefer a pilgrimage to a spot of hallowed memory to every englishman, choose the river-side path to wycliffe, and see how ever new beauties enchant the way, and say on arrival if ever you saw a prettier village church or a more charming environment. shut in by woods and hills here, as some writers show, is the birthplace of john wycliffe, to whom freedom of conscience is perhaps more indebted than to luther. one may believe that nature herself desires to preserve from desecration the cradle of him who opened men's hearts and eyes to see and understand the truth in its purity; cleansed from the adulterations of priestcraft; stripped of all the blinding cheats of papistry; who died faithful to the truth for which he had dared to live; who bequeathed that truth to us, and with god's blessing we will keep it alive and unblemished, using it manfully as a testimony against all lies and shams whatsoever and wheresoever they may be found. the church was restored, as one may judge, in a loving spirit in 1850. it contains a few interesting antiquities, and is fraught with memories of the wycliffes. one of the brasses records the death of the last of the family. sir antonio a-more's portrait of the great reformer still hangs in the rectory, where it has been treasured for many generations. you may return from this pilgrimage by the way you went, or walk on through ovington to winston, and there take the train to barnard castle. i preferred the banks of tees, for their attractions are not soon exhausted. one of the houses at greta, which was a famous hostelry in the days of stage-coaches, is now a not happy-looking farm-house. it has seen sore changes. once noise and activity, and unscrupulous profits, when the compact vehicles with the four panting horses rattled up to the door at all hours of the day or night, conveying passengers from london to edinburgh. now, a silence seldom disturbed save by the river's voice, and time for reflection, and leisure to look across to its neighbour, wherein the wayfarer or angler may still find rest and entertainment. from greta bridge to boroughbridge was considered the best bit of road in all the county. now it is encroached on by grass, and the inns which are not shut up look altogether dejected, especially that one where the dining-room has been converted into a stable. if you have read the ballad of _the felon sow_, we will remember it while repassing the park: "she was mare than other three, the grisliest beast that e'er might be, her head was great and gray: she was bred in rokeby wood, there were few that thither goed, that came on live away. "her walk was endlong greta side, there was no bren that durst her bide, that was froe heaven to hell; nor ever man that had that might, that ever durst come in her sight, her force it was so fell. * * * * * "if ye will any more of this, in the fryers of richmond 'tis in parchment good and fine; and how fryar middleton that was so kend, at greta bridge conjured a feind in likeness of a swine." i got back to barnard castle in time for the omnibus, which starts at half-past five for middleton-in-teesdale, nine miles distant on the road to the hills. i was the only passenger, and taking my seat by the side of the driver, found him very willing to talk. the road ascends immediately after crossing the bridge to a finely-wooded district, hill and dale, rich in oak, ash, and beech. deepdale beck yawns on the left, and every mile opens fresh enjoyment to the eye, and revives associations. lartington is a pretty village, which hears night and morn and all day long the tremulous voice of innumerable leaves. "them's all roman catholics there," said the driver, as we left it behind; and by-and-by, when we came to cotherstone--cuthbert's town--"here 'tis nothin' but cheese and quakers." there is, however, something else, for here it was "----the northmen came, fix'd on each vale a runic name, rear'd high their altar's rugged stone, and gave their gods the land they won. then, balder, one bleak garth was thine, and one sweet brooklet's silver line, and woden's croft did title gain from the stern father of the slain; but to the monarch of the mace, that held in fight the foremost place, to odin's son, and sifia's spouse, near stratforth high they paid their vows, remembered thor's victorious fame, and gave the dell the thunderer's name." a delightful day might be spent hereabouts in exploring the glen of the balder, and the romantic scenery where it flows into tees; the hagg crowned by fragments of a stronghold of the fitzhughs; and the grand rock on the river's brink known as pendragon castle. the whole region for miles around was once thickly covered by forest. the pace is sober, for some of the hills are steep. we come to romaldkirk, and the folk, as everywhere else along the road, step from their houses to inquire for parcels or replies to messages, and the driver has a civil word for all, and discharges his commissions promptly. he is an important man in the dale, the roving link between the villagers and the town--"barn'd cas'l'," as they say, slurring it into two syllables. it does one good to see with how much good-nature the service can be performed. hill after hill succeeds, the woods are left behind, the country opens bare and wild, rolling away to the dark fells that look stern in the distance. big stones bestrew the slopes; here and there a cottage seems little better than a pile of such stones covered with slabs of slate or coarse thatch. "poorish wheat hereabouts," says the driver, as he points to the pale green fields. the farms vary in size from seventy to one hundred and fifty acres; and he thinks it better to grow grass than grain. then we come in sight of middleton, and presently he pulls up, while a boy and girl get inside, and he tells me they are his children, who have come out half a mile to meet him. middleton, with its eighteen hundred inhabitants, has the appearance of a little metropolis. there are inns and shops which betoken an active trade, maintained probably by the lead mines in the neighbourhood. i did not tarry, for we had spent two hours on the journey, and i wished to sleep at the _high force inn_, nearly five miles farther. we are still on the durham side of the tees, with the river now in sight, winding along its shallow, stony bed. the road is an almost continuous ascent, whereby the landscape appears to widen, and every minute the shadows grow broader and darker across the vale. at last the sun drops behind the hill-top, and the lights playing on the summits of the fells deepen into purple, umber, and black, darkest where the slopes and ridges intersect. cliffs topped with wood break through the acclivities on the left, and here and there plantations of spruce and larch impart a sense of shelter. every step makes us feel that we are approaching a region where nature partakes more of the stern than the gentle. there is room for improvement. i interrupted three boys in their pastime of pelting swallows, to examine them in reading; but they only went "whiles to skule," and only one could read, and that very badly, in the "testyment." i left winch bridge and the cascade which it bestrides about three miles from middleton, unvisited, for i was tired with much rambling. the clean white front of _high force inn_ gleaming at last through the twilight was a welcome sight; and not less so the excellent tea, which was quickly set before me. cleanliness prevails, and unaffected civility; and the larder, though in a lone spot a thousand feet above the sea, contributes without stint to the hungry appetite. it happened that i was the only guest: hence nothing disturbed the tranquil hour. ere long i was looking from my chamber window on the dim outlines of the hills, and the thick wood below that intercepts the view of the valley beneath. then i became aware of a solemn roar--the voice of high force in its ceaseless plunge. fitfully it came at times, now fuller, now weaker, as the night breeze rose and fell, and the tree-tops whispered in harmony therewith. i listened awhile, sensible of a charm in the sound of falling water; then pushing the sash to its full height, the sound still reached me on the pillow. strange fancies came with it: now the river seemed to utter sonorous words; anon the hills talked dreamily one with another, and the distant sea sent up a reply; and then all became vague--and i slept the sleep of the weary. chapter xviii. early morn--high force--rock and water--a talk with the waitress--hills and cottages--cronkley scar--the weel--caldron snout--soothing sound--scrap from an album--view into birkdale--a quest for dinner--a westmoreland farm--household matters--high cope nick--mickle fell--the boys' talk--the hill-top--glorious prospect--a descent--solitude and silence--a moss--stainmore--brough--the castle ruin--reminiscences. the next day dawned, and a happy awaking was mine, greeted by the same rushing voice, no longer solemn and mysterious, but chanting, as one might imagine, a morning song of praise. i looked out, and saw with pleasurable surprise the fall full in view from the window: a long white sheet of foam, glistening in the early sunbeams. all the slope between the inn and the fall is covered by a thick plantation of firs, ash, hazel, and a teeming undergrowth, and through this by paths winding hither and thither you have to descend. now the path skirts precipitous rocks, hung with ivy, now drops gently among ferns to an embowered seat, until at a sudden turn the noise of the fall bursts grandly upon you. a little farther, and the trees no longer screening, you see the deep stony chasm, and the peat-stained water making three perpendicular leaps down a precipice seventy feet in height. it is a striking scene, what with the grim crags, the wild slopes, and the huge masses lying at the bottom and in the bed of the stream; and the impressive volume of sound. we can scramble down to the very foot of the limestone bluff that projects in the middle, leaving a channel on each side, down one of which a mere thread of water trickles; but in time of flood both are filled, and then the fall is seen and heard in perfection. now we can examine the smooth water-worn cliff, and see where something like crystallization has been produced by a highly-heated intrusive rock. and here and there your eye will rest with pleasure on patches of moss and fern growing luxuriantly in dripping nooks and crannies. you see how the water, rebounding from its second plunge, shoots in a broken mass of foam into the brown pool below, and therein swirls and swashes for a while, and then escapes by an outlet that you might leap across, talking to thousands of stones as it spreads itself out in the shallow bed. standing with your back to the fall, and looking down the stream, the view, shut in by the trees on one side, by a rough grassy acclivity on the other, is one that lures you to explore it, striding along the rugged margin, or from one lump of rock to another. then returning to the diverging point in the path, we mount to the top of the fall. here the scene is, if possible, wilder than below. the rock, as far as you can see, is split into a thousand crevices, and through these the river rushes to its leap. such a river-bed you never saw before. the solid uprising portions are of all dimensions, and you step from one to the other without first feeling if they are steady. here and there you climb, and coming to the top of the bluff you can look over and watch the water in its headlong plunge. the brown tinge contrasts beautifully with the white foam; and lying stretched on the sun-warmed rock, your eye becomes fascinated by the swift motion and the dancing spray. then sit awhile on the topmost point and look up stream, and enjoy the sight of the rapids, and the multitudinous cascades. though the rocks now lift their heads above water you will notice that all are smoothly worn by the floods of ages. the view is bounded there by a mighty high-backed fell; and in the other direction brown moorlands meet the horizon, all looking glad in the glorious sunshine. i loitered away two hours around the fall in unbroken solitude, and returned to the inn to breakfast before all the dew was dry. the house was built about twenty-five years ago, said the waitress, when the road was made to connect the lead mines of alston moor, in cumberland, with the highways of durham. there was not much traffic in the winter, for then nobody travelled but those who were compelled--farmers, cattle-dealers, and miners; but in summer the place was kept alive by numerous visitors to the fall. most were contented with a sight of high force; but others went farther, and looked at caldron snout and high cope nick. sometimes a school came up for a day's holiday; they had entertained one the day before--two wagon-loads of roman catholic children. true enough, our omnibus had met them returning. the house looks across the valley to holwick fell, and were it not for the trees in front, would have but a bare and, at times, desolate prospect. the whole premises are as clean as whitewash can make them; even the stone fences are whitewashed. the duke of cleveland is proprietor: he ought to be proud of his tenants. how glad the morning seemed when i stepped forth again into the sunshine to travel a few miles farther up the tees. the road still ascends and curves into the bleak and lonely fells, which stretch across the west of durham and into cumberland. in winter they are howling wastes, and in snow-storms appalling, as i remember from painful experience. but in summer there is a monotonous grandeur about them comparable only with that of the ocean. just beyond the sixteenth milestone from alston i got over the fence, and followed a path edging away on the left towards the river. it crosses pastures, little meadows, coarse swampy patches sprinkled with flowers; disappears in places; but while you can see the river or a cottage you need not go astray. there is something about the cottages peculiar to a hill-country: the ground-floor is used as a barn and stable, and the dwelling-rooms are above, approached by a stone stair on the outside. with their walls freshly whitewashed, they appear as bright specks widely scattered in the wilderness; and though no tree adorns or shelters them, they betoken the presence of humanity, and there is comfort in that. and withal they enjoy the purest breezes, the most sparkling water, flowery meadows, and hills purple with heather when summer is over. if you go to the door the inmates will invite you to sit, and listen eagerly to the news you bring. meanwhile you may note the evidences of homely comfort and apparent contentment. a girl who was pulling dock-leaves--"dockans," as she called them--told me they were to be boiled for the pig. ere long cronkley scar comes in sight--a tremendous sombre precipice of the rock known to geologists as greenstone, in which, if learned in such matters, you may peruse many examples of metamorphic phenomena. and hereabouts, as botanists tell us, there are rare and interesting plants to be discovered. the scar is on the yorkshire side; but the stream is here so shallow and full of stones, that to wade across would only be an agreeable footbath. now the stream makes a bend between two hills, and looking up the vale we see the lower slopes of mickle fell--the highest mountain in yorkshire. we shall perhaps climb to its summit ere the day be many hours older. from the last dwelling--a farm-house--i mounted the hill, and followed a course by compass to hit the river above the bend. soon all signs of habitation were left behind, and the trackless moorland lay before me, overspread with a dense growth of ling, wearisome to walk through. and how silent! a faint sound of rushing water comes borne on the breeze, and that is all. then we come to the declivity, and the view opens to the north-west, swell beyond swell, each wilder in aspect, as it seems, than the other. and there beneath us glisten the shining curves of the tees. the compass has not misled us, and we descend to the weel, as this part of the river is called, where for about a mile its channel deepens, and the current is so tranquil that you might fancy it a lengthened pool. we go no higher, but after gazing towards the fells in which the river draws its source, we turn and follow the weel to a rift in the hill-side. the current quickens, the faint sound grows louder, and presently coming to the brink of a rocky chasm we behold the cataract of caldron snout. the tees here makes a plunge of two hundred feet, dashing from rock to rock, twisting, whirling, eddying, and roaring in its dark and tortuous channel. the foam appears the whiter, and the grass all the greener, by contrast with the blackness of the riven crags, and although no single plunge equals that at high force, you will perhaps be more impressed here. you are here shut out from the world amid scenes of savage beauty, and the sense of isolation begets a profounder admiration of the natural scene, and enjoyment of the manifold watery leaps, as you pause at each while scrambling down the hill-side. about half-way down the fall is crossed by a bridge--a rough beam only, with a rude hand-rail--from which you can see the fall in either direction and note the stony bends of the river below till they disappear behind the hill. from near its source to caldron the tees divides durham from westmoreland, and in all its further downward course from yorkshire. let me sit for an hour by the side of a fall, and watch the swift play of the water, and hear its ceaseless splash and roar, and whatever cobwebs may have gathered in my mind, from whatever cause, are all swept clean away. serenity comes into my heart, and the calm sunshine pervades my existence for months--nay, years afterwards. and what a joy it is to recall--especially in a london november--or rather to renew, the happy mood inspired by the waterfall among the mountains! i have at times fancied that the effect of the noise is somewhat similar to that described of narcotics by those who indulge therein. the mind forgets the body, and thinks whatsoever it listeth. whether or not, my most various and vivid day-dreams have been dreamt by the side of a waterfall. it seems, moreover, at such times, as if memory liked to ransack her old stores. and now i suddenly recollected hawkeye's description of the tumbling water at glenn's falls, as narrated in _the last of the mohicans_, which i had read when a boy. turn to the page, reader, and you will admire its faithfulness. anon came a rhyme which a traveller who went to see the falls of the clyde sixty years ago, tells us he copied from the album at lanark: "what fools are mankind, and how strangely inclin'd, to come from all places with horses and chaises, by day and by dark, to the falls of lanark. "for good people after all, what is a waterfall? it comes roaring and grumbling, and leaping and tumbling, and hopping and skipping, and foaming and dripping, and struggling and toiling, and bubbling and boiling, and beating and jumping, and bellowing and thumping- i have much more to say upon both linn and bonniton; but the trunks are tied on, and i must be gone." southey, who read everything, perhaps saw this before he wrote his _fall of lodore_. and we, too, must be gone; and now that we have seen "where tees in tumult leaves his source thund'ring o'er caldron and high force," we will gather ourselves up and travel on. but whither? i desired a public-house; but no house of any sort was to be seen--nothing but the scrubby hill-side, and mossy-headed rocks peeping out with a frown at the mortal who had intruded into their dominion. the end of a a meadow, however, comes over the slope on the other side of the bridge; perhaps from the top of the slope something may be discerned. yes, there was a cottage. i hastened thither, but it proved to be an old tenement now used as a byre. i looked farther, and, about a mile distant, saw two farm-houses. the view had opened into birkdale, and there, on the left, rose the huge, long-backed form of mickle fell, whose topmost height was my next aim, and i could test the hospitality of the houses on the way thither. we are now in a corner of westmoreland which, traversed by birkdale, presents diversified alpine features. the valley is green; the meadows are flowery and dotted with cattle; the hills, stern and high, are browsed by sheep; and maize beck, a talkative mountain stream, flows with many a stony bend along the bottom--the dividing line between westmoreland and yorkshire. there are no trees; and for miles wide the only building is here and there a solitary byre. my inquiry for dinner at the first of the two houses was answered by an invitation to sit down, and ready service of bread, butter, milk, and cheese. i made a capital repast, and drank as much genuine milk at one sitting as would charge a londoner's supply for two months. the father was out sheep-shearing, leaving the mother with a baby and four big children at home. but only the eldest boy looked healthy; the others had the sodden, unwashed appearance supposed to be peculiar to dwellers in the alleys of large towns. no wonder, i thought, for the kitchen, the one living room, was as hot and stifling as a bohemian cottage. the atmosphere was close and disagreeably odorous; a great turf fire burned in the grate, and yet the outer door was kept as carefully shut as if july breezes were hurtful. i tried to make the good woman aware of the ill consequences of bad air; but old habits are not to be changed in an hour. she didn't think that overmuch wind could do anybody good, and it was best for babies to keep them warm. they managed to do without the doctor: only fetched him when they must. there was none nearer than middleton. six weeks previously, when baby was born, they had to send for him in a hurry; but tees was in flood, and caldron snout so full that the water ran over the bridge; her boy, however, got across, and rode away the nine miles at full speed on his urgent errand. what with chairs and tables, racks and shelves, the dresser, the clock, the settee under the window, three dogs, a cat, and a pigeon--to say nothing of the family--the room was almost as crowded as the steerage of a ship. the pigeon--the only one in the dale--had come from parts unknown a few weeks before of its own accord, and was now a household pet, cooing about the floor, and on civil terms with the cat. but the children feared it would die in winter, as they had no peas in those parts, nothing but grass. sixty acres of "mowing grass" and a run for sheep comprise the farm. while the ordnance survey was in westmoreland, two sappers lodged in the house for months; and the eldest son, an intelligent lad, had much to tell concerning their operations. what pains they took; how many times they toiled to the top of mickle fell only to find that up there it was too windy for their observations, and so forth. sometimes a stranger came and wanted a guide to high cope nick, and then he went with his father. two photographers had come the preceding autumn, and took views of the nick on pieces of paper with a box that had a round glass in it; but the views wasn't very good ones. high cope nick, as its name indicates, is a deep notch or chasm in the hills overlooking the low country of westmoreland about four miles from this birkdale farm. "it's nigh hand as brant[d] as a wall," said the boy; "you can hardly stand on't." it is one of the scenes which i reserve for a future holiday. [d] steep. the woman could not hear of taking more than sixpence for my dinner, and thought herself overpaid with that. the two boys were going up the fell to look after sheep, so we started together, crossed the beck on stepping-stones, followed by two dogs, and soon began the long ascent. there is no path: you stride through the heather, through the tough bent, across miry patches, and stony slopes, past swallow-holes wherein streams of water disappear in heavy rains; and find at times by the side of the beck a few yards of smooth sweet turf. the beck is noisy in its freakish channel, yet pauses here and there and fills a sober pool, wherein you may see fish, and perchance a drowned sheep. i saw four on the way upwards, and the sight of the swollen carcases made me defer drinking till nearer the source. i could hardly believe the lads' word that fifteen hundred sheep were feeding on the hill, so few did they appear scattered over the vast surface. "how many sheep do you consider fair stock to the acre?" asked sir john sinclair during one of his visits to the hills. "eh! mun, ye begin at wrang end," was the answer. "ye should ax how many acres till a sheep." of such land as this the north riding contains four hundred thousand acres. besides the sheep, added the youth, "there's thirty breeding galloways on the hill. there's nothing pays better than breeding galloways. you can sell the young ones a year or year and a half old for eight pounds apiece, and there's no much fash wi' 'em." when the time came to part, i sat down and tried to give the boys a peep at their home through my telescope. but in vain; they could distinguish nothing, see nothing but a haze of green or brown. on the other hand, they could discern a sheep or some moving object at a great distance which i could not discover at all with the glass. they turned aside to their flock, and i onwards up the hill. the beck had diminished to a rill, and presently i came to its source--a delicious spring bubbling from a rock, and took a quickening draught. at length the acclivity becomes gentle, the horizon spreads wider and wider, and we reach the cairn erected by the sappers on the summit of mickle fell, 2580 feet above the sea--the highest, as before remarked, of the yorkshire mountains. glorious is the prospect! hill and dale in seemingly endless succession--there rolling away to the blue horizon, here bounded by a height that hides all beyond. in the west appears the great gathering of mountains which keep watch over the lake country, there skiddaw, there helvellyn, yonder langdale pikes, and the old man of coniston; summit after summit, their outlines crossing and recrossing in picturesque confusion. conspicuous in the north cross fell--in which spring the head-waters of tees--heaves his brown back in majestic sullenness some three hundred feet higher than the shaggy brow we stand on. hence you can trace the vale of tees for miles. then gazing easterly, we catch far, far away the cleveland hills, and, following round the circle, the blue range of the hambletons, then penyghent, whernside, and ingleborough, with many others, bring us round once more to the west. again and again will your eye travel round the glorious panorama. mickle fell is one of the great summits in the range described by geologists as the pennine chain--the backbone of england. its outline is characteristic of that of the county; bold and abrupt to the west; sloping gradually down to the east. hence the walk up from high force or birkdale calls for no arduous climbing, it is only tedious. from the western extremity you look down into the vale of the eden, where the green meadows, the broad fields of grain, dotted with trees and bordered with hedgerows, appear the more beautiful from contrast with the brown tints of the surrounding hills. now for the descent. i scanned the great slope on the south for a practicable route, and fixed beforehand on the objects by which to direct my steps when down in the hollows--where scant outlook is to be had. lowest of all lies what appears to be a light green meadow; beyond it rises a mickle fell on a small scale: i will make my way to the top of that, and there take a new departure. all between is a wild expanse of rock and heather. a sober run soon brought me to the edge of a beck, and keeping along its margin, now on one side, now on the other, choosing the firmest ground, i made good progress; and with better speed, notwithstanding the windings, than through the tough close heather. every furlong the beck grows wider and fuller, and here and there the banks curve to the form of an oval basin smooth with short grass; favourite haunts for the sheep. the silly creatures take to flight nimbly as goats at the appearance of an intruder, and i lie down to enjoy the solitude. the silence is oppressive--almost awful. shut in already by the huge hill-sides, i am still more hidden in this hollow. the beck babbles; the fugitive sheep all unseen bleat timidly; a curlew comes with its melancholy cry wheeling round and round above my head; but the overwhelming silence loses nothing of its force. at times a faint hollow roar, as if an echo from the distant ocean, seems to fill all the air for an instant, and die mysteriously away. it is a time to commune with one's own heart and be still: to feel how poor are artificial pleasures compared to those which are common to all--the simplest, which can be had for nothing--namely, sunshine, air, and running water, and the fair broad earth to walk upon. onwards. the beck widens, and rushes into a broad stony belt to join a stream hurrying down the vale from the west. i crossed, and came presently to the supposed bright green meadow. it was a swamp--a great sponge. to go round it would be tedious: i kept straight on, and by striding from one rushy hummock to another, though not without difficulty in the middle, where the sponge was all but liquid, and the rushes wide apart, i got across. then the smaller hill began: it was steep, and without a break in the heather, compelling a toilsome climb. however, it induces wholesome exercise. from the top i saw stainmoor, and as i had anticipated, the road which runs across it from barnard castle into westmoreland. i came down upon it about four miles from brough. it is a wild region. a line of tall posts is set up along the way, as in an alpine pass, suggestive of winter snows deep and dangerous. by-and-by we come to a declivity, and there far below we see the vale of eden, and descend towards it, the views continually changing with the windings of the road. then a hamlet, with children playing on the green, and geese grazing among the clumps of gorse, and trees, and cultivation; and all the while the hills appear to grow more and more mountainous as we descend. then brough comes in sight--the little hard-featured westmoreland town--whitewashed walls, blue slate roofs, the church a good way off on an eminence, and beyond that, on a grassy bluff, the ruins of a castle partly screened by trees. i wanted rest and refreshment, and found both at the _castle inn_. an hour later i strolled out to the ruin. the mount on which it stands rises steeply from the helbeck, a small tributary of the eden, and terminates precipitously towards the west. the keep still rears itself proudly aloft, commanding the shattered towers, the ancient gateway, the dismantled walls and broken stair, and the country for miles around. fallen masses lie partly buried in the earth, and here and there above the rough stonework overhangs as if ready to follow. while sauntering now within, now without, you can look across the cultivated landscape, or to the town, and the great slope of helbeck fell behind it; and you will perhaps deem it a favourable spot to muse away the hour of sunset, when the old pile is touched with golden light. thick as the walls are, time and dilapidations have made them look picturesque. one of the spoilers was william the lion of scotland, who finding here a norman fortress in 1174, took it, along with other westmoreland strongholds; and was taken himself in the course of the same year at alnwick. the rey cross on stainmoor--still a monumental site--marked the southern limit of the scottish principality of cumberland; hence, the hungry reivers north of tweed had always an excuse for crossing over to beat the bounds after their manner. twice afterwards was brough castle repaired, and burnt to a shell. the second restoration was carried out in 1659 by the lady anne clifford, countess dowager of pembroke, who recorded the fact on a stone over the entrance, enumerating all her titles, among which were "high sheriffess by inheritance of the county of westmoreland, and lady of the honour of skipton," and ending with a text of scripture--isaiah lviii, 12. after the last fire, whosoever would pillaged the castle; the stone bearing the countess's inscription was taken down, and used in the repair of brough mill, and the ruins became a quarry, out of which were built sheds and cottages. the large masses of masonry, which now lie embedded in the earth, fell in 1792. according to antiquaries the castle occupies the centre of what had been a roman station; for brough was the ancient verteræ, where coins of the emperors have been dug up, and the highway along which the legions marched to and from carlisle, or the picts' wall, is still traceable, known in the neighbourhood as the maiden way. it was a lovely evening. the sun went down in splendour behind the cumbrian hills, and when the radiance faded from the topmost summits, and gave place to dusky twilight, i went back to mine inn. chapter xix. return into yorkshire--the old pedlar--oh! for the olden time- "the bible, indeed!"--an emissary--wild boar fell--shunnor fell --mallerstang--the eden--a mountain walk--tan hill--brown landscape--a school wanted--swaledale--from ling to grass--a talk with lead miners--stonesdale--work for a missionary- thwaite--a jolly landlord--a ruined town--the school at muker- a nickname--buttertubs pass--view into wensleydale--lord wharncliffe's lodge--simonstone--hardraw scar--geological phenomenon--a frozen cone--hawes. my next morning's route took me back into yorkshire by a way which, leaving the road to kirkby stephen on the right, approaches nine standards, high seat, and the other great summits which guard the head of swaledale. the sight of these hills, and the gradual succession of cultivation and woods by untilled slopes patched with gorse and bracken, impart an interest to the walk. a modern battlemented edifice--hougill castle--appears on the left, the residence of a retired physician, and beyond it the wild region of stainmoor forest; and here even upon its outskirts we can see how appropriate is the name stonymoor. when near the hills i overtook an old pedlar, and slackened my pace to have a talk with him. at times i had fancied my knapsack, of less than ten pounds' weight, a little too heavy; but he, though aged sixty, carried a pack of forty pounds, and when in his prime could have borne twice as much. he took matters easily now; walked slowly and rested often. from talking about schools, he began to contrast the present time with the past. things were not half so good now as in the olden time, when monasteries all over the land took proper care alike of religion and the poor. where was there anything like religion now-a-days, except among the roman catholics? without them england would be in a miserable plight; but he took comfort, believing from certain signs that the old days would return--that england would once more acknowledge the supremacy of the pope. "never," i replied; "that's not possible in a country where the bible circulates freely; and where all who will may read it." "the bible!" he answered sneeringly--"the bible! what's the bible? it's a very dangerous and improper book for the people to read. what should they know about it? the church is the best judge. the bible, indeed!" such talk surprised me. i had heard that the papists employ emissaries of all degrees in the endeavour to propagate their doctrines; but never met with one before who spoke out his notions so unreservedly; and i could have imagined myself thrown back some five hundred years, and the old fellow to be the spokesman in the somersetshire ballad: "chill tell thee what good vellowe, before the vriers went hence, a bushell of the best wheate was zold for vourteen pence, and vorty egges a penny, that were both good and newe: and this che zay my zelf have zeene, and yet ich am no jewe. * * * * * "ich care not for the bible booke, 'tis too big to be true. our blessed ladyes psalter zhall for my money goe; zuch pretty prayers, as therein bee, the bible cannot zhowe." i began to defend the rights of conscience, when, as we came to the foot of the first great hill, the old packman advised me to reconsider my errors, bade me good day, and turned into a cottage; perhaps to sell calico; perhaps to sow tares for the keeper of the keys at rome. i made a cut-off, and came upon the road half way up the hill, leaving sultriness for a breezy elevation. soon wide prospects opened all around me: vast green undulations, dotted with sheep and geese, swelling up into the distant hills and moorlands. that great group of heights on the right--wild boar fell and shunnor fell--wherein nature displays but few of her smiles, is the parent of not a few of yorkshire's dales, becks, and waterfalls. in those untrodden solitudes rise swale and ure; there lurks the spring from which eden bursts to flow through gloomy mallerstang, and transfer its allegiance, as we have seen, to other counties, and the fairest of cumbrian vales. our topographical bard, makes the forest of the darksome glen thus address the infant stream: "o, my bright lovely brook whose name doth bear the sound of god's first garden-plot, th' imparadised ground, wherein he placed man, from whence by sin he fell: o, little blessed brook, how doth my bosom swell with love i bear to thee, the day cannot suffice for mallerstang to gaze upon thy beauteous eyes." talk of royal tapestries, what carpet can compare with the springy turf that borders the road whereon you walk with lightsome step, happier than a king, and having countless jewels to admire in the golden buds of the gorse? it is a delightful mountain walk, now rising, now falling, but always increasing the elevation; so cool and breezy in comparison with the sultry temperature of the road we left below. and the grouping of the summits around the broad expanse changes slowly as you advance, and between the shades of yellow and green, brown and purple, the darker shadows denote the courses of the dales. wayfarers are few; perhaps a boy trudges past pulling a donkey, which drags a sledge laden with turf or hay; or a pedlar with crockery; but for miles your only living companions are sheep and geese. with increasing height we have less of grass and more of ling, and at ten miles from brough we come to the public-house on tan hill, situate in the midst of a desolate brown upland, in which appear the upreared timbers of coalpits, some abandoned, others in work. the house shows signs of isolation in a want of cleanliness and order; but you can get oaten bread, cheese, and passable beer, and have a talk with the pitmen, and the rustics who come in for a drink ere starting homewards with cartloads of coal. seeing the numerous family round the hostess, i inquired about their school; on which one of the black fellows--a rough diamond--took up the question. there had been a dame school in one of the adjacent cottages, but the old 'oman gave it up, and now the bairns was runnin' wild. 'twasn't right of mr. ----, the proprietor of the mines, to take away 5000_l._ a year, and not give back some on't for a school. it made a man's heart sore to see bairns wantin' schoolin' and no yabble to get it. 'twasn't right, that 't wasn't. apparently an honest miner lived beneath that coaly incrustation, possessed of good sense and sensibility. i quite agreed with him, and recommended him to talk about a school whenever he could get a listener. about a mile from the public-house the road leaves the brown region, and descends rapidly to the swale, crossing where the stream swells in rainy weather to a noisy cataract, and swaledale stretches away before us, a grand mountain valley, yet somewhat severe in aspect. gentle, as its name imports, appears misapplied to a rushing stream; but a long course lies before it: past grinton, past picturesque richmond, ancient ruins, towers of barons, and cloisters of monks, and to the broad vale of york, where, calmed by old experience, it flows at myton gently into the ure. and not only gentle but sacred, for swale has been called the jordan of yorkshire, because of the multitudinous baptism of the earliest converts therein by paulinus; "above ten thousand men, besides women and children, in one day," according to the chronicler, who, perhaps to disarm incredulity, explains that the apostle having baptized ten, sent them into the stream to baptize a hundred, and so multiplied his assistants as the rite proceeded, while he prayed on the shore. by-and-by we meet signs of inhabitants--a house or two; a few fields of mowing grass; the heaps of refuse at lead-mines, and our walk derives a pleasurable interest from the hourly change, the bleak, barren, and lonely, for the sheltered, the cultivated, and inhabited. more and more are the hill-sides wavy with grass as we descend, field after field shut in by stone fences, and the dalesmen are beginning to mow. the time of the hay harvest has come for the mountains: a month later than in the south. how beautifully the bright green contrasts with the dark purple distances, and softens the features of the dale! and as i looked from side to side, or around to the rear, as the fallen road made the hills seem higher, and saw how much swaledale has in common with a valley of the alps, i felt that here the desire for mountain scenery might be satisfied; and i found myself watching for the first field of grain with as much interest as i had watched for vines in the val mont joie. i overtook a party of lead-miners, boys and men, going home from work. the boys could read; but there was only one of them who really liked reading. "he's a good quiet boy," said the father; "likes to set down wi' his book o' evenin's; t'others says they is tired. he can draw a bit, too; and i'd like well to send'n to a good skule; but i only gets two pounds a month, and that's poor addlings." and one of the young men wished that digging for lead didn't make him so tired, for readin' made him fall asleep, and yet he wanted to get on with his books. "it don't seem right," he added, "that a lad should want a bit o' larnin' and not get it." i said a few words about the value of habit, the steady growth of knowledge from only half an hour's application continued day after day at the same hour, and the many ways of learning offered to us apart from books. the whole party listened with interest, and expressed their thanks when we parted at the hamlet of stonesdale. the lad thought he'd try. he'd emigrate, only his wage was too low for saving. if i had the missionary spirit, i would not go to patagonia or feejee; but to the out-of-the-way places in my own country, and labour trustfully there to remove some of the evils of ignorance. any man who should set himself to such a work, thinking not more highly of himself than he ought to think, would be welcomed in every cottage, and become assured after a while, that many an eye would watch gladly for his coming. one of my first tasks should be to go about and pull up that old pedlar's mischievous tares, and plant instead thereof a practical knowledge of common things. with unlimited supplies of stone to draw on, the houses of stonesdale are as rough and solid as if built by druids. every door has a porch for protection against storms, and round each window a stripe of whitewash betrays the rudimentary ornamental art of the inmates. a little farther, and coming to the village of thwaite, i called at the _joiners' arms_ for a glass of ale. the landlord, mistaking my voice for that of one of his friends, came hastily into the kitchen with a jovial greeting, and apparently my being a stranger made no difference, for he sat down and began a hearty talk about business; about his boyhood, when he used to run after the hounds; about his children, and the school down at muker. i laughed when he mentioned running after the hounds, for, as i saw him, he was, as southey has it, "broad in the rear and abdominous in the van." his agility had been a fact, nevertheless. i praised the beer. that did not surprise him; he brewed it himself, out of malt and hops, too; not out of doctor's stuff. i asked a question about hawes, to which i was going over the pass. "oh!" said he, "it's terribly fallen off for drink. i used to keep the inn there. a man could get a living in that day by selling drink; but now the methodists and teetotallers have got in among 'em, and the place is quite ruined." manifestly my heavy friend looked at the question from the licensed victualler's point of view. concerning the school down at muker, however he was not uncharitable. 'twas a good school--a church school. there was a chapel of ease there to grinton. mr. lowther did the preaching and looked after the school, and the people liked his teaching and liked his preaching. he brought the children on well, gals as well as the boys; that he did. if, reader, you should go to thwaite, and wish to have a chat with a jolly landlord, enquire for matty john ned, the name by which he is known in all the country round; remembering what happened in my experience. for when, late in the evening, i intimated to mine host of the _white hart_ at hawes that mr. edward alderson had recommended me to his house, he replied, doubtfully, "alderson--alderson at thwaite do you say?" "yes, alderson at thwaite: a big man." "o-o-o-o-h! you mean matty john ned." below thwaite the dale expands; trees appear; you see muker about three miles distant, the chief village of upper swaledale: still nothing but grass in the fields; and the same all the way to reeth, ten miles from muker. there you would begin to see grain. not far from thwaite i turned up a very steep, stony road on the right, which leads over the buttertubs pass into wensleydale, and soon could look down on the village, and miles of swaledale, and the hills beyond. among those hills are glens and ravines, and many a spot that it would be a pleasure to explore, to say nothing of the lead mines, and the 'gliffs' of primitive manners; and any one who could be content with homely head-quarters at muker or thwaite might enjoy a roaming holiday for a week or two. and for lovers of the angle there are trout in the brooks. the ascent is long as well as steep, and rough withal; but the views repay you every time you pause with more and more of the features of a mountain pass. there are about it touches of savage grandeur, and the effect of these was heightened at the time i crossed by a deep dark cloud-shadow which overspread a league of the hills, and left the lower range of the dale in full sunshine. for a while the road skirts the edge of a deep glen on the left; it becomes deeper and deeper; there are little fields, and haymakers at work at the bottom; then the slopes change; the heather creeps down; the beck frets and foams, sending its noise upward to your ear; screes and scars intermingle their rugged forms and variations of colour; a waterfall rushes down the crags; and when these have passed before your eyes you find yourself on a desolate summit. more desolate than any of the heights i had yet passed over. a broad table-land of turf bogs, coffee-coloured pools, stacks of turf, patches of rushes, and great boulders peeping everywhere out from among the hardy heather. the dark cloud still hung aloft, and the wind blew chill, making me quicken my pace, and feel the more pleasure when, after about half an hour, the view opened into wensleydale. a valley appears on the right, with colts and cattle grazing on the bright green slopes; the road descends; stone abounds; fences, large gate-posts, all are made of stone; the road gets rougher; and by-and-by we come to shaw, a little village under stag fell, by the side of a wooded glen, from which there rises the music of a mountain brook. on the left you see lord wharncliffe's lodge, to which he resorts with his friends on the 12th of august, for the hills around are inhabited by grouse. yonder the walls and windows of hawes reflect the setting sun, and we see more of wensleydale, where trees are numerous in the landscape. then another little village, simonstone, where, passing through the public-house by the bridge, we find a path that leads us into a rocky chasm, about ninety feet deep and twice as much in width, the limestone cliffs hung with trees and bushes, here and there a bare crag jutting out, or lying shattered beneath; while, cutting the grassy floor in two, a lively beck ripples its way along. a bend conceals its source; but we saunter on, and there at the end of the ravine, where the cliffs advance and meet, we see the beck making one leap from top to bottom--and that is hardraw scar. the rock overhangs above, hence the water shoots clear of the cliff, and preserves an irregular columnar form, widening at the base with bubbles and spray. you can go behind it, and look through the falling current against the light, and note how it becomes fuller and fuller of lines of beads as it descends, until they all commingle in the flurry below. dr. tyndall might make an observatory of this cool nook, the next time he investigates the cause of the noise in falling water, with the advantage of looking forth on the romantic and pleasing scene beyond. the geologist finds in the ravine a suggestive illustration on a small scale of what niagara with thunderous plunge has been accomplishing through countless ages--namely, wearing away the solid rock, inch by inch, foot by foot, until in the one instance a river chasm is formed miles in length, and here, in the other, a pretty glen a little more than a furlong deep. at the time i saw it, the quantity of water was probably not more than would fill a twelve-inch tube; but after heavy rains the upper stream forms a broad horseshoe fall as it rushes over the curving cliff. in the severe frost of 1740, when the londoners were holding a fair on the thames, hardraw scar was frozen, and, fed continually from the source above, it became at last a cone of ice, ninety feet in height, and as much in circumference at the base: a phenomenon that was long remembered by the gossips of the neighbourhood. hawes cheats the eye, and seems near, when by the road it is far off. on the way thither from simonstone we cross the ure, the river of wensleydale, a broad and shallow, yet lively stream, infusing a charm into the landscape, which i saw at the right moment, when the evening shadows were creeping from the meadows up the hill-sides, and the water flashed with gold and crimson ripples. i lingered on the bridge till the last gleam vanished. so grim and savage are the fells at the head of wensleydale, that the country folk in times past regarded them with superstitious dread, and called the little brooks which there foster the infancy of ure, 'hell-becks'--a name of dread. but both river and dale change their character as they descend, the one flowing through scenes of exquisite beauty ere, united with the swale, it forms the ouse; and the dale broadens into the richest and most beautiful of all the north riding. chapter xx. bainbridge--"if you had wanted a wife"--a ramble--millgill force--whitfell force--a lovely dell--the roman camp--the forest horn, and the old hornblower--haymaking--a cockney raker --wensleydale scythemen--a friend indeed--addleborough--curlews and grouse--the first teapot--nasty greens--the prospect- askrigg--bolton castle--penhill--middleham--miles coverdale's birthplace--jervaux abbey--moses's principia--nappa hall--the metcalfes--the knight and the king--the springs--spoliation of the druids--the great cromlech--legend--an ancient village- simmer water--an advice for anglers--more legends--counterside --money-grubbers--widdale--newby head. four miles from hawes down the dale is the pleasant village of bainbridge, where the rustic houses, with flower-plots in front and roses climbing on the walls, and yellow stonecrop patching the roofs and fences, look out upon a few noble sycamores, and a green--a real village green. the hills on each side are lofty and picturesque; at one end, on a flat eminence, remains the site of a roman camp; the bain, a small stream coming from a lake some three miles distant, runs through the place in a bed of solid stone, to enter ure a little below, and all around encroaching here and there up the hill-sides spread meadows of luxuriant grass. the simple rural beauty will gladden your eye, and--as with every stranger who comes to bainbridge--win your admiration. wensleydale enjoys a reputation for cheese and fat pastures and wealth above the neighbouring dales, and appears to be fully aware of its superiority. the folk, moreover, consider themselves refined, advanced in civilization in comparison with the dwellers on the other side of buttertubs: those whom we talked with yesterday. "mr. white, if you had wanted a wife, do you think you could choose one out of swaledale?" was the question put to me by a strapping village lass before i had been three hours in bainbridge. fortune favoured me. i found here some worthy quaker friends of mine, who had journeyed from oxfordshire to spend the holidays under the paternal rooftree. it was almost as if i had arrived at home myself; and although i had breakfasted at hawes, they took it for granted that i would eat a lunch to keep up my strength till dinner-time. they settled a plan which would keep me till the morrow exploring the neighbourhood--a detention by no means to be repined at--and introduced me to a studious young dalesman, the village author, who knew every nook of the hills, every torrent and noteworthy site, and all the legends therewith associated for miles round, and who was to be my guide and companion. away we rambled across the ure to a small wooded hollow at the foot of whitfell, in the hills which shut out swaledale. it conceals a hardraw scar in miniature, shooting from an overhanging ledge of dark shale, in which are numerous fossil shells. from this we followed the hill upwards to millgill force, a higher fall, on another beck, overshadowed by firs and the mountain elm, and which nature keeps as a shrine approachable only by the active foot and willing heart. now you must struggle through the tall grass and tangle on the precipitous sides high among the trees; now stride and scramble over the rocky masses in the bed of the stream. to sit and watch the fall deep under the canopy of leaves, catching glimpses of sunshine and of blue sky above, and to enjoy the delicious coolness, was the luxury of enjoyment. i could have sat for hours. wordsworth came here during one of his excursions in yorkshire; and if you wish to know what millgill force is, as painted by the pen, even the minute touches, read his description. but there is yet another--whitfell force--higher up, rarely visited, for the hill is steep and the way toilsome. my guide, however, was not less willing to lead than i to follow, and soon we were scrambling through the deepest ravine of all, where the sides, for the most part, afford no footing, not even for a goat, but rise in perpendicular walls, or lean over at the top. here again the lavish foliage is backed by the dark stiff spines of firs, and every inch of ground, every cranny, all but the impenetrable face of the rock, is hidden by rank grasses, trailing weeds, climbers, periwinkle, woodbine, and ferns, among which the hart's-tongue throws out its large drooping clusters of graceful fronds. for greater part of the way we had to keep the bed of the stream; now squeezing ourselves between mighty lumps of limestone that nearly barred the passage, so that the stream itself could not get through without a struggle; now climbing painfully over where the crevices were too narrow; now zigzagging from side to side wherever the big stones afforded foothold, not without slips and splashes that multiplied our excitement; now pausing on a broad slab to admire the narrowing chasm and all its exquisite greenery. my companion pointed out a crystal pool in which he sometimes bathed--a bath that naiads themselves might envy. in this way we came at length to a semicircular opening, and saw the fall tumbling from crag to crag for sixty feet, and dispersing itself into a confused shower before it fell into the channel beneath. we both sat for a while without speaking, listening to the cool splash and busy gurgle as the water began its race down the hill; and, for my part, i felt that fatigue and labour were well repaid by the sight of so lovely a dell. then by other paths we returned to the village, and mounted to the flat-topped grassy mound, which professor phillips says, is an ancient gravel heap deposited by the action of water. the romans, taking advantage of the site, levelled it, and established thereon a small camp. a statue and inscription and some other relics have been found, showing that in this remote spot, miles distant from their main highway, the conquerors had a military station, finding it no doubt troublesome to keep the dalesmen of their day in order. then we looked at a very, very old millstone, which now stands on its edge at the corner of a cottage doing motionless duty as one end of a kennel. the dog creeps in through the hole in the middle. there it stands, an unsatisfactory antique, for no one knows anything about it. of two others, however, which we next saw, something is known--the old horn and the old hornblower. bainbridge was chief place of the forest of wensleydale--of which the duke of leeds is now her majesty's ranger, and at the same time hereditary constable and lord of middleham castle--and from time immemorial the "forest horn" has been blown on the green, every night at ten o'clock, from the end of september to shrovetide, and it is blown still; for are not ancient customs all but immortal in our country? the stiff-jointed graybeard hearing that a curious stranger wished to look at the instrument, brought it forth. it is literally a horn--a large ox-horn, lengthened by a hoop of now rusty tin, to make up for the pieces which some time or other had been broken from its mouth. he himself had put on the tin years ago. of course i was invited to blow a blast, and of course failed. my companion, however, could make it speak lustily; but the old man did best, and blew a long-sustained note, which proved him to be as good an economist of breath as a pearl-diver. for years had he thus blown, and his father before him. i could not help thinking of the olden time ere roads were made, and of belated travellers saved from perishing in the snow by that nightly signal. now it was tea-time, and we had tea served after the wensleydale manner--plain cakes and currant cakes, cakes hot and cold, and butter and cheese at discretion, with liberty to call for anything else that you like; and the more you eat and drink, the more will you rise in the esteem of your hospitable entertainers. and after that i went down to the hay-field, for it was a large field, and the farmer longed to get the hay all housed before sunset. they don't carry hay in the dales, they 'lead' it; and the two boys from oxfordshire were not a little proud in having the 'leading' assigned to them, seeing that they had nothing to do but ride the horse that drew the hay-sledge to and fro between the barn and the 'wind-rows.' another difference is, that forks are not used except to pitch the hay from the sledge to the barn, all the rest--turning the swath, making into cocks--is done with the rake and by hand. so i took a rake, and beginning at one side of the field at the same time with an old hand, worked away so stoutly, that he had much ado to keep ahead of me. and so it went on, all hands working as if there were no such thing as weariness, load after load slipping away to the barn; and i unconsciously growing meritorious. "you're the first cockney i ever saw," said the stalwart farmer, "that knew how to handle a rake." had i stayed with him a week, he would have discovered other of my capabilities equally praiseworthy. we should have accomplished the task and cleared the field; but a black cloud rose in the west, and soon sent down a heavy shower, and compelled us to huddle up the remaining rows into cocks, and leave them till morning. must i confess it? haymaking with the blithesome lasses in ulrichsthal is a much more sprightly pastime than haymaking with the quakers in wensleydale. the hay harvest is an exciting time in the dales, for grass is the only crop, and the cattle have to be fed all through the long months of winter, and sometimes far into the backward spring. hence every thing depends on the hay being carried and housed in good condition; and many an anxious look is cast at passing clouds and distant hill-tops to learn the signs of the weather. the dalesmen are expert in the use of the scythe; and numbers of them, after their own haymaking is over, migrate into holderness and other grain-growing districts, and mow down the crops, even the wheat-fields, with remarkable celerity. many a hand had i to shake the next morning, when the moment came to say farewell. the student would not let me depart alone; he would go with me a few miles, and show me remarkable things by the way; and what was more, he would carry my knapsack. "you will have quite enough of it," he said, "before your travel is over." so i had to let him. we soon diverged from the road and began the ascent of addleborough (_edel-burg_,) that noble hill which rises on the south-east of bainbridge, rearing its rocky crest to a height of more than fifteen hundred feet. we took the shortest way, climbing the tall fences, struggling through heather, striding across bogs, and disturbing the birds. the curlews began their circling flights above our heads, and the grouse took wing with sudden flutter, eight or ten brace starting from a little patch that, to my inexperience, seemed too small to hide a couple of chickens. my companion talked as only a dalesman can talk--as one whose whole heart is in his subject. none but a dalesman, he said, could read wordsworth aright, or really love him. he could talk of the history of the dale, and of the ways of the people. his great-grandmother was the first in bainbridge who ever had a teapot. when tea first began to be heard of in those parts, a bagman called on an old farmer, and fascinated him so by praising the virtues of the new leaf from china, that with his wife's approval he ordered a 'stean' to begin with. the trader ventured to suggest that a stone of tea would be a costly experiment, and sent them only a pound. some months afterwards he called again for "money and orders," and asked how the worthy couple liked the tea. "them was the nastiest greens we ever tasted," was the answer. "the parcel cam' one morning afore dinner, so the missus tied 'em up in a cloth and put 'em into t' pot along wi' t' bacon. but we couldn't abear 'em when they was done; and as for t' broth, we couldn't sup a drop on 't." having climbed the last steep slope, we sat down in a recess of the rocky frontlet which the hill bears proudly on its brow, and there, sheltered from the furious wind, surveyed the scene below. we could see across the opposite fells, in places, to the summits on the farther side of swaledale, and down wensleydale for miles, and away to the blue range of the hambleton hills that look into the vale of york. bainbridge appears as quiet as if it were taking holiday; yonder, askrigg twinkles under a thin white veil of smoke; and farther, bolton castle--once the prison of the unhappy queen of scots--shows its four square towers above a rising wood: all basking in the glorious sunshine. yet shadows are not wanting. many a dark shade marks where a glen breaks the hill-sides: some resemble crooked furrows, trimmed here and there with a dull green fringe, the tree-tops peeping out, and by these signs the beck we explored yesterday may be discerned on the opposite fell. wherever that little patch of wood appears, there we may be sure a waterfall, though all unseen, is joining in the great universal chorus. ure winds down the dale in many a shining curve, of which but one is visible between bright green meadow slopes, and belts, and clumps of wood, that broaden with the distance; and all the landscape is studded with the little white squares--the homes of the dalesmen. four miles below the stream rushes over great steps of limestone which traverse its bed at aysgarth force, and flows onwards past penhill, the mountain of wensleydale, overtopping addleborough by three hundred feet; past witton fell and its spring, still known as diana's bath; past leyburn, and its high natural terrace--the shawl, where the 'queen's gap' reminds the visitor once more of mary riding through surrounded by a watchful escort; past middleham, where the lordly castle of the king-maker now stands in hopeless ruin, recalling the names of anne of warwick, isabella of clarence, edward iv., and his escape from the haughty baron's snare; of richard of gloucester, and others who figure in our national history; past coverdale, the birthplace of that miles coverdale whose translation of the bible will keep his memory green through many a generation, and the site of coverham abbey, of which but a few arches now remain. it was built in 1214 for the premonstratensians, or white canons, who never wore linen. where the cover falls into the ure, spreads the meadow ulshaw, the place from which oswin dismissed his army in 651. tradition preserves the memory of hugh de moreville's seat, though not of the exact site, and thus associates the neighbourhood with one of the slayers of becket. and at east witton, beyond coverham, are the ruins of the cistercian abbey of jervaux--jarvis abbey, as the country folk call it--a relic dating from 1156. plunderers and the weather had their own way with it until 1805, when the earl of aylesbury, to whom the estate belongs, inspired by his steward's discovery of a tesselated pavement, stayed the progress of dilapidation, and had the concealing heaps of grass-grown rubbish dug away. old jenkins, who died in 1670, remembered jervaux as it stood in its prime: he had shared the dole given by the monks to poor wayfarers. he remembered, too, the mustering of the dalesmen under the banner of the good lord scroop of bolton for the battle of flodden, when "with him did wend all wensleydale from morton unto morsdale moor; all they that dwell by the banks of swale with him were bent in harness stour." at spennithorne, a village over against coverham, were born john hutchinson, the opponent of newton, and hatfield the crazy, who fired at george iii. the philosopher--who was a yeoman's son--made some stir in his day by publishing _moses's principia_, in opposition to sir isaac's, and by his collection of fossils, out of which he contrived arguments against geologists. this collection was bequeathed to dr. woodward, and eventually became part of the museum in the university of cambridge. looking across the dale, somewhat to the right of bainbridge, we see nappa hall, long the seat of the metcalfes. in queen mary's time, sir christopher metcalfe was sheriff, and he met the judges at york at the head of three hundred horsemen, all dressed alike, and all of his own name and family. the name is still a common one in the north riding, as you will soon discover on the front of public-houses, over the door at toll-bars, and on the sides of carts and wagons. the present lord metcalfe had a guisborough man for his father. a metcalfe, born at coverhead, is said to have made napoleon's coffin at st. helena. one of the fighting men who distinguished themselves at agincourt was a metcalfe. the queen of scots' bedstead is still preserved at nappa. raleigh once visited the hall, and brought with him--so the story goes--the first crayfish ever seen in the dale. another visitor was that cruel pedant, royal jamie, who scrupled not to cut off raleigh's head--a far better one than his own--and concerning him we are told that he rode across the ure on the back of one of the serving-men. perhaps the poor serving-man felt proud all his life after. if to dream about the past by the side of a spring be one of your pleasures, you may enjoy it here in wensleydale with many a change of scene. besides diana's bath, already mentioned, st. simon's spring still bubbles up at coverham, st. alkelda's at middleham, and the fairies' well at hornby. to this last an old iron cup was chained, which a late local antiquary fondly thought might be one of those which king edwin ordered to be fastened to running springs throughout his territories. celt and northman have left their traces. the grandmothers of the children who now play in the village could remember the beltane bonfires, and the wild dances around them. the danes peopled the gloomy savage parts of the glen with their imaginary black alfs. an old couplet runs: "druid, roman, scandinavia stone raise, on addleboro'." so we sat and talked, and afterwards scrambled up the rocks to the summit. here is, or rather was, a druid circle of flat stones: but my companion screamed with vexation on discovering that three or four of the largest stones had been taken away, and were nowhere to be seen. the removal must have been recent, for the places where they lay were sharply defined in the grass, and the maze of roots which had been covered for ages was still dense and blanched. and so an ancient monument must be destroyed either out of wanton mischief, or to be broken up for the repair of a fence! whoever were the perpetrators, i say, "oh, be their tombs as lead to lead!" we walked across the top to stain-ray, or stone raise, a great cromlech or cairn 360 feet in circumference. you would perhaps regard it as nothing more than a huge irregular mound of lumps of gritstone bleached by the weather, with ferns and moss growing in the interstices, but within there are to be seen the remains of three cysts, of which only one retains a definite form. it is said that a skeleton was discovered therein. tradition tells of a giant who once travelling with a chest of gold on his back from skipton castle to pendragon, felt weary while crossing addleborough, and let his burden slip, but recovering himself, he cried, "spite of either god or man, to pendragon castle thou shalt gang." when it fell from his shoulders, sank into the earth, and the stones rose over it. there the chest remained, and still remains, only to be recovered by the fortunate mortal to whom the fairy may appear in the form of a hen or an ape. he has then but to stretch forth his arm, seize the chest, and drag it out, in silence if he can, at all events without swearing, or he will fail, as did that unfortunate wight, who, uttering an oath in the moment of success, lost his hold of the treasure, and saw the fairy no more as long as he lived. we descended into the hollow between addleborough and stake fell, crossing on the way the natural terrace that runs along the southern and western sides of the hill, to look at a cluster of heaps of stone, and low, irregular walls or fences, the plan of which appears to show a series of enclosures opening one into the other. my friend had long made up his mind that these were the remains of an ancient british village. for my part, i could not believe that a village old as the roman conquest would leave vestiges of such magnitude after the lapse of nearly two thousand years; whereupon, arguments, and learned ones, were adduced, until i half admitted the origin assigned. but a few days later i saw an enclosure in wharfedale identical in form with any one of these, used as a sheepfold, and all my doubts came back with renewed force. in the ordnance maps, the description is "ancient enclosures;" and, to give an off-hand opinion, it appears to me probable that this outlying hollow may have been chosen as a safe place for the flocks in the troublous days of old. stake fell is 1843 feet in height, rising proudly on our left. beneath us, in the valley ray or roedale, a branch of wensleydale, spreads simmer water, a lake of one hundred and five acres. shut in by hills, and sprinkled with wood around its margin, it beautifies and enlivens the landscape. it abounds in trout, moreover, and bream and grayling, and any one who chooses may fish therein, as well as in the ure, all the way down to bainbridge, and farther. the river trout are considered far superior to those of the lake. we made haste down, after a pause to observe the view, for dinner awaited us in a pleasant villa overlooking the bright rippling expanse. when we started anew, some two hours later, our hospitable entertainer would accompany us. we walked round the foot of the lake, and saw on the margin, near the break where the bain flows out, two big stones which have lain in their present position ever since the devil and a giant pelted one another from hill to hill across the water. to corroborate the legend, there yet remain on the stones the marks--and prodigious ones they are--of the evil one's hands. to me the marks appeared more like the claws of an enormous bird, compared with which dr. mantell's _dinornis_ would be but a chicken. long, long ago, while the apostles still walked the earth, a poor old man wandered into raydale, where a large city then stood, and besought alms from house to house. every door was shut against him, save one, an humble cot without the city wall, where the inmates bade him welcome, and set oaten bread and milk cheese before him, and prepared him a pallet whereon to sleep. on the morrow the old man pronounced a blessing on the house and departed; but as he went forth, he turned, and looking on the city, thus spake: "semer water rise, semer water sink, and swallow all the town save this little house where they gave me meat and drink." whereupon followed the roar of an earthquake, and the rush of water; the city sank down and a broad lake rolled over its site; but the charitable couple who lodged the stranger were preserved, and soon by some miraculous means they found themselves rich, and a blessing rested on them and their posterity. besides the satanic missiles, there are stones somewhere on the brink of the lake known as the 'mermaid stones,' but not one of us knew where to look for them, so we set our faces towards counterside, the hill on the northern side of the vale and trudged patiently up the steep ascent in the hot afternoon sun, repaid by the widening prospect. we could see where waterfalls were rushing in the little glens at the head of the dale, and the shadow of hills in the lake, and the remotest village, stalling busk, said to be a place of unusual thrift. even in that remote nook, you would find the dalesmen's maxim kept from rusting, as well in the villages lower down and nearer the world: it is--"i don't want to chate, or to be chated; but if it must be one or t'other, why, then, i wouldn't be chated." it is no scandal to say that money-grubbing in the dale is proverbial. "look at that man," said my quaker friend at bainbridge, pointing out what looked like a labourer driving a cart; "that man is worth thousands." i did not hear, however, that he made an offensive use of his talent, as certain money-grubbers do in the neighbourhood of large towns. "he's got nought," exclaimed a coarse, rich man near hull, slapping his pocket, of a poor man who differed from him in opinion: "he's got nought--what should he know about it?" we went down on the other slope of counterside with hawes in sight, and cam fell, a long ridgy summit more than 1900 feet high. i preferred to double it rather than go over it, and having shifted the knapsack to my own shoulders, shook hands with my excellent friends, and choosing short cuts so as to avoid the town, came in about an hour to the steep lonely road which turns up into widdale, beyond the farther end of hawes. we shall return to wensleydale a few days hence; meanwhile, good-natured reader, widdale stretches before us, the road rising with little interruption for miles. two hours of brisk walking will carry us through it between great wild hill slopes, which are channeled here and there by the dry, stony bed of a torrent. the evening closes in heavy and lowering, and cam fell and widdale fell uprear their huge forms on the right and left in sullen gloom, and appear the more mountainous. ere long thick mists overspread their summits, and send ragged wreaths down the hollows, and much of the landscape becomes dim, and we close our day with a view of nature in one of her mysterious moods. we ascend into the bleak region, pass the bare little hamlet of redshaw, catch a dull glimpse of ingleborough, with its broad flat summit, and then at six miles from hawes, come to the lonesome public-house at newby head. of such wild land as that we have traversed. arthur young once bought a large tract, having in view a grand scheme of reclamation, but was diverted therefrom by his appointment as secretary to the board of agriculture. "what a change," he says, "in the destination of a man's life! instead of entering the solitary lord of four thousand acres, in the keen atmosphere of lofty rocks and mountain torrents, with a little creation rising gradually around me, making the desert smile with cultivation, and grouse give way to industrious population, active and energetic, though remote and tranquil; and every instant of my existence, making two blades of grass to grow where not one was found before--behold me at a desk, in the smoke, the fog, the din of whitehall!" the public-house is a resort for cattle-dealers from scotland, and head-quarters for shepherds and labourers. the fare is better than the lodging. three kinds of cakes, eggs, and small pies of preserved bilberries, were set before me at tea; but the bed, though the sheets were clean, had a musty smell of damp straw. chapter xxi. about gimmer hogs--gearstones--source of the ribble- weathercote cave--an underground waterfall--a gem of a cave- jingle pot--the silly ducks--hurtle pool--the boggart--a reminiscence of the doctor--chapel-le-dale--remarkable scenery --ingleborough--ingleton--craven--young daniel dove, and long miles--clapham--ingleborough cave--stalactite and stalagmite- marvellous spectacle--pillar hall--weird music--treacherous pools--the abyss--how stalactite forms--the jockey cap--cross arches--the long gallery--the giant's hall--mysterious waterfall--a trouty beck--the bar-parlour--a bradford spinner. on the way hither, i had noticed what was to me a novel mode of bill-sticking; that is, on the sharp spines of tall thistles by the wayside. the bills advertised _gimmer hogs_ for sale, a species of animal that i had never before heard of, and i puzzled myself not a little in guessing what they could be. for although _gimmer_ is good honest danish, signifying a ewe that has not yet lambed, the connexion between sheep and swine is not obvious to the uninitiated. however, it happened that i sat down to breakfast with a scottish grazier who had arrived soon after daybreak, and he told me that sheep not more than one year old are called gimmer hogs; but why the word hogs should be used to describe ewes he could not tell. the morning was dull and drizzly, and by the time i had crossed to ingleton fell, from the north to the west riding, a swift, horizontal rain came on, laborious to walk against, and drove me for shelter into the _gearstones inn_. of the two or three houses hereabouts, one is a school; and in this wild spot a wednesday market is held. ingleborough is in sight; the hills around form pleasing groups, and had we time to explore them, we should find many a rocky glen, and curious cave, catknot hole, alum pot, long churn, and dicken pot; and many a sounding ghyll, as the folk here call it--that is, a waterfall. not far from the inn is gale beck, the source of the ribble; and as we proceed down the now continuous descent, so do the features of the landscape grow more romantic. for more than an hour did the rain-storm sweep across the hills, holding me prisoner. at length faint gleams of sunshine broke through; i started afresh, and three miles farther was treading on classic ground--chapel-le-dale. turn in at the second gate on the right beyond the public-house, and you will soon have speech with mr. metcalfe, who keeps the key of weathercote cave. standing on a sheltered valley slope, with a flower-garden in front and trees around, his house presents a favourable specimen of a yeoman's residence. no lack of comfort here, i thought, on seeing the plenteous store of oaten bread on the racks in the kitchen. nor is there any lack of attention to the visitor's wishes on the part of mr. metcalfe. he unlocks a door, and leads the way down a steep, rude flight of steps into a rocky chasm, from which ascends the noise of falling water. a singularly striking scene awaits you. the rocks are thickly covered in places with ferns and mosses, and are broken up by crevices into a diversity of forms, rugged as chaos. a few feet down, and you see a beautiful crystalline spring in a cleft on the right, and the water turning the moss to stone as it trickles down. a few feet lower and you pass under a natural bridge formed by huge fallen blocks. the stair gets rougher, twisting among the big, damp lumps of limestone, when suddenly your guide points to the fall at the farther extremity of the chasm. the rocks are black, the place is gloomy, imparting thereby a surprising effect to the white rushing column of water. a beck running down the hill finds its way into a crevice in the cliffs, from which it leaps in one great fall of more than eighty feet, roaring loudly. look up! the chasm is so narrow that the trees and bushes overhang and meet overhead; and what with the subdued light, and mixture of crags and verdure, and the impressive aspect of the place altogether, you will be lost in admiration. to descend lower seems scarcely possible, but you do get down, scrambling over the big stones to the very bottom, into the swirling shower of spray. here a deep recess, or chamber at one side, about eight feet in height, affords good standing ground, whence you may see that the water is swallowed up at once, and disappears in the heap of pebbles on which it falls. conversation is difficult, for the roar is overpowering. after i had stood some minutes in contemplation, mr. metcalfe told me that it was possible to get behind the fall and look through it, taking care to run quickly across the strong blast that meets you on starting from the recess. i buttoned my overcoat to my chin, and rushed into the cavity, and looked upwards. i was in a pit 120 feet deep, covered by a tumultuous curtain of water, but had to make a speedy retreat, so furiously was i enveloped by blinding spray. to make observations from that spot one should wear a suit of waterproof. through the absence of sunshine i lost the sight of the rainbow which is seen for about two hours in the middle of the day from the front of the fall. it is a horizontal bow with the convex side towards the water, shifting its position higher or lower as you mount or descend. although it might now be properly described as a pit, the chasm gives you the impression of a cave of which the roof has fallen in. if this be so, the fall was once entirely underground, roaring day and night in grim darkness. it may still be regarded as an underground fall, for the throat from which it leaps is more than thirty feet below the surface. in the cleft above this throat a thick heavy slab is fixed in a singular position, just caught, as it seems, by two of its corners, so that you fancy it ready to tumble at any moment with the current that shoots so swiftly beneath it. as you pause often on returning to look back at the roaring stream, and up to the impending crags, you will heartily confirm professor sedgwick--who by the way is a yorkshireman--in his opinion, that if weathercote cave be small, it is a very gem. nor will you grudge the shilling fee for admission. the extreme length of the pit is about 180 feet. in rainy weather it becomes a sink-hole into which the streams pour from all the slopes around, at times filling it to the brim and running over. mr. metcalfe shewed me the stem of a tree entangled in the crevices near the top, which had been floated there by the floods of the previous winter. while coming slowly up, i could not fail to notice the change of temperature, from the chill damp that made me shiver, to a pleasant warmth, and then to the heavy heat of a dull day in july. a little way below the house, going down the narrow dale, you come to another mossy crevice in the rocks among the trees to which the country folk have given the name of gingle, or jingle pot, because of a certain jingling sound produced by stones when thrown therein. to my ear there was no ring in the sound. it is quite dry, with a bottom sloping steeply and making a sudden turn to a depth of eighty feet. mr. metcalfe had let himself down into the pot by a rope, two days before my arrival, to look for a young cow that had fallen in while on the gad, and disappeared in the lowest hole. he saw the animal dead, and so tightly wedged in under the rock, that there he left it. this was his second descent. the first was made in winter some years ago to rescue his ducks, which, perhaps deceived by the dark crevice, that looked like a deep narrow pond when all the ground was white with snow, took all together a sudden flight to settle on it, and of course went to the bottom. mr. metcalfe was driving them home at the time; he looked over the edge of the pot, and invited the silly birds to fly out. but no, they would not be persuaded to use their wings, and remained crowded together on the highest part of the slope, stretching their necks upwards. so there was nothing for it but to fetch them out. their owner let himself down; yet after all his trouble the ungrateful creatures refused as long as possible to be put into the bag. farther down again, and you come to hurtle pot, a gloomy cavity overhung by trees, and mantled with ivy, ferns, and coarse weeds. at the bottom rests a darksome pool, said to be twenty-seven feet deep, which contains small trout, and swallows up rocks and stones, or whatever may be thrown into it, without any perceptible diminution of the depth. you can get down to the edge of the water by an inconvenient path, and feel the gloom, and find excuses for the rustics who believe in the existence of the hurtle pot boggart. in olden time his deeds were terrible; but of late years he only frightens people with noises. both this and jingle pot are choked with water from subterranean channels in flood time, and then there is heard here such an intermittent throbbing, gurgling noise, accompanied by what seem dismal gaspings, that a timorous listener might easily believe the boggart was drowning his victims. one evening a loving couple, walking behind the trees above the pot, heard most unearthly noises arise from the murky chasm; never had the like been heard before. surely, thought the turtle-doves, the boggart is coming forth with some new trick, and they fled in terror. a friend of mr. metcalfe's was playing his flute down on the edge of the pool. again farther, and there is the little chapel from which the dale takes its name. as i have said, we are here on classic ground. that is the edifice, and this is the place described by southey. here dwelt that worthy yeoman, daniel dove's father, and his fathers before him, handing down their six-and-twenty acres, and better yet, an honest name, from one to the other through many generations--yea, from time immemorial. one of those good old families which had ancestors before the conquest. give me leave, good-natured reader, to complete my sketch by the description as it appears, with masterly touches, in _the doctor_. "the little church called chapel-le-dale, stands about a bowshot from the family house. there they had all been carried to the font; there they had each led his bride to the altar; and thither they had, each in his turn, been borne upon the shoulders of their friends and neighbours. earth to earth they had been consigned there for so many generations, that half of the soil of the churchyard consisted of their remains. a hermit who might wish his grave to be as quiet as his cell, could imagine no fitter resting-place. on three sides there was an irregular low stone wall, rather to mark the limits of the sacred ground, than to enclose it; on the fourth it was bounded by the brook, whose waters proceed by a subterraneous channel from weathercote cave. two or three alders and rowan-trees hung over the brook, and shed their leaves and seeds into the stream. some bushy hazels grew at intervals along the lines of the wall; and a few ash-trees as the winds had sown them. to the east and west some fields adjoined it, in that state of half cultivation which gives a human character to solitude: to the south, on the other side the brook, the common with its limestone rocks peering everywhere above ground, extended to the foot of ingleborough. a craggy hill, feathered with birch, sheltered it from the north. "the turf was as soft and fine as that of the adjoining hills; it was seldom broken, so scanty was the population to which it was appropriated; scarcely a thistle or a nettle deformed it, and the few tombstones which had been placed there, were now themselves half buried. the sheep came over the wall when they listed, and sometimes took shelter in the porch from the storm. their voices and the cry of the kite wheeling above, were the only sounds which were heard there, except when the single bell which hung in its niche over the entrance tinkled for service on the sabbath day, or with a slower tongue gave notice that one of the children of the soil was returning to the earth from which he sprung." is not that charming?--a word-picture, worthy of a master's pen. one error, however, has slipped in. there is no porch, nor any sign that one has ever been. the chapel will hold eighty persons, and is, as mr. metcalfe, informed me, "never too small." a week or more might be spent in explorations in this neighbourhood. five miles down towards kirkby lonsdale, there is thornton force. near it is yordas cave--once the haunt of a giant; gatekirk cave is distant about half an hour's walk; douk hole is in the neighbourhood of ingleton; and in all the region, and over the westmoreland border, there is a highly picturesque succession of caves, ravines, glens, and torrents dashing through rocky chasms, and of all the magnificent phenomena only to be seen amid the limestone. many a tourist hurries past on his way to the lakes all unmindful of scenery which, in its kind, surpasses any that he will see between windermere and bassenthwaite. i went up to the public-house and dined with the haymakers, and enjoyed the sight of sunburnt rustics eating smoking mutton-pie without stint, as much as i did my own repast. the host's daughter brought me a book, which had only recently been provided to receive the names of visitors. among them was the autograph of a russian gentleman who had called within the week, and who, as i heard, did nothing but grumble at english customs, yet could not help praising the scenery. he was on foot, and with knapsack on shoulder. i crossed his track, and heard of him sundry times afterwards, and hoped to meet him, that i might ask leave to enlighten him on a few points concerning which he appeared to be distressingly ignorant. i had planned to ascend and cross ingleborough, and drop down upon clapham from its southern side; but when a hill is half buried in mist, and furious scuds fly across its brow, it is best to be content with the valley. so i took up my route on the main road, and continued down the dale, where the limestone crags breaking out on each side form a series of irregular terraces, intermingled green and gray, pleasing to the eye. in the bottom, on the right, the subterranean river bursts forth which goldsmith mentions in his _natural history_. the height of ingleborough is 2361 feet. its name is supposed to be derived from _ingle-burg_--a word which embodies the idea of fire and fortress. it is a table-mountain, with a top so flat and spacious that an encampment of more than fifteen acres, of which the traces are still visible, was established thereon, probably by the brigantes, if not by an earlier race. it is a landmark for vessels on the coast of lancashire. st. george's channel is visible from the summit; and one who has looked on the eastern sea from flamborough head may find it convenient to remember that yorkshire, on its westernmost extremity, is but ten miles from the western sea. in a short hour from weathercote you come to the end of the fells, an abrupt descent, all rough with crags and boulders, where the view opens at once over the district of craven, and the little town of ingleton is seen comfortably nestled under the hill. craven lies outspread in beauty--woods, hills, fields, and pastures charming the eye of one who comes from the untilled moors, and suggestive of delightful rambles in store. the ribble flows through it, watering many a romantic cliff and wooded slope. and for the geologist, craven possesses especial interest, for it is intersected by what he calls a 'fault,' on the southern side of which the limestone strata are thrown down a thousand feet. i left ingleton on the right, and turned off at the cross-roads for clapham, distant four miles. here, as in other parts of my travel, the miles seemed long--quite as long as they were found to be years ago. we are told that when young daniel dove walked dutifully every day to school, "the distance was in those days called two miles; but miles of such long measure that they were for him a good hour's walk at a cheerful pace." on the way from mickle fell to brough i met with a more unkindly experience; and that was an hour's walking for a single mile. the road undulating along the hill-side commands pleasing views, and for one on foot is to be preferred to the new road, which winds among the fields below. and with a brightening evening we come to clapham--a cheerful, pretty village, adorned with flowers, and climbers, and smooth grass plots, embowered by trees, and watered by a merry brook, lying open to the sun on the roots of ingleborough. looking about for an inn, i saw the _bull and cave_, and secured quarters there by leaving my knapsack, and set out to seek for the guide, whom i found chatting with a group of loungers on the bridge. bull and cave seemed to me such an odd coupling, that i fancied cave must be a yorkshire way of spelling calf; but it really means that which it purports, and the two words are yoked together in order that visitors, who are numerous, may be easily attracted. here in clapdale--a dale which penetrates the slopes of ingleborough--is the famous ingleborough cave, the deepest and most remarkable of all the caves hitherto discovered in the honeycombed flanks of that remarkable hill. intending to see this, i left unvisited the other caves which have been mentioned as lying to the right and left of the road as you come down from _gearstones_. the fee for a single person to see the cave is half-a-crown; for a party of eight or ten a shilling each. the guide, who is an old soldier, and a good specimen of the class, civil and intelligent, called at his house as we passed to get candles, and presently we were clear of the village, and walking up-hill along a narrow lane. below us on the right lay cultivated grounds and well-kept plantations, through which, as the old man told me, visitors were once allowed to walk on their way to the cave--a pleasing and much less toilsome way than the lane; but the remains of picnics left on the grass, broken bottles, orange-peels, greasy paper and wisps of hay, became such a serious abuse of the privilege, that mr. farrer, the proprietor, withdrew his permission. "it's a wonder to me," said the guide, "that people shouldn't know how to behave themselves." in about half an hour we came to a hollow between two grassy acclivities, out of which runs a rapid beck, and here on the left, in a limestone cliff prettily screened by trees, is the entrance to the cave, a low, wide arch that narrows as it recedes into the gloom. we walked in a few yards; the guide lit two candles, placed one in my hand and unlocked the iron gate, which, very properly, keeps out the perpetrators of wanton mischief. a few paces take us beyond the last gleam of daylight, and we are in a narrow passage, of which the sides and roof are covered with a brown incrustation resembling gigantic clusters of petrified moss. curious mushroom-like growths hang from the roof, and throwing his light on these, the guide says we are passing through the inverted forest. so it continues, the roof still low, for eighty yards, comprising the old cave, which has been known for ages; and we come to a narrow passage hewn through a thick screen of stalagmite. it was opened twenty years ago by mr. farrer's gardener, who laboured at the barrier until it was breached, and a new cavern of marvellous formation was discovered beyond. an involuntary exclamation broke from me as i entered and beheld what might have been taken for a glittering fairy palace. on each side, sloping gently upwards till they met the roof, great bulging masses of stalagmite of snowy whiteness lay outspread, mound after mound glittering as with millions of diamonds. for the convenience of explorers, the passage between them has been widened and levelled as far as possible, wherein the beck that we saw outside finds a channel after unusual rains. you walk along this passage now on sand, now on pebbles, now bare rock. all the great white masses are damp; their surfaces are rough with countless crystallized convolutions and minute ripples, between which trickle here and there tiny threads of water. it is to the moisture that the unsullied whiteness is due, and the glistening effect; for wherever stalactite or stalagmite becomes dry, the colour changes to brown, as we saw in the old cave. a strange illusion came over me as i paced slowly past the undulating ranges, and for a moment they seemed to represent the great rounded snow-fields that whiten the sides of the alps. the cavern widens: we are in the pillar hall; stalactites of all dimensions hang from the roof, singly and in groups. thousands are mere nipples, or an inch or two in length; many are two or three feet; and the whole place resounds with the drip and tinkle of water. stalagmites dot the floor, and while some have grown upwards the stalactites have grown downwards, until the ends meet, and the ceaseless trickle of water fashions an unbroken crystal pillar. some stalactites assume a spiral twist; and where a long thin fissure occurs in the roof they take the form of draperies, curtains, and wings--wings shaped like those of angels. the guide strikes one of the wings with a small mallet, and it gives out a rich musical note; another has the deep sonorous boom of a cathedral bell, another rings sharp and shrill, and a row of stalactitic sheets answers when touched with a gamut of notes. your imagination grows restless while you listen to such strange music deep in the heart of a mountain. and there are pools on the floor, and in raised basins at the side--pools of water so limpid as to be treacherous, for in the uncertain light all appears to be solid rock. i stepped knee deep into one, mistaking it for an even floor. well for me it was not the abyss which yawns at the end of pillar hall. the guide, to show the effect of light reflected on the water, crawls up to the end of one of the basins with the two candles in his hand, while you standing in the gloom at the other end, observe the smooth brilliant surface, and the brightness that flashes from every prominence of roof or wall. although geologists explain the process of formation, there is yet much food for wonder in remembering that all these various objects were formed by running water. the water, finding its way through fissures in the mighty bed of limestone overhead, hangs in drops, one drop pushes another off, but not idly; for while the current of air blowing through carries off their carbonic acid, they give up the salt of lime gathered during percolation, and form small stony tubes. and these tubes, the same cause continuing to operate, grow in course of ages to magnificent stalactites; and where thin, broad streams have appeared, there the draperies and wings and the great snow-fields have been fashioned. the incrustation spreads even over some of the pools: the film of water flowing in deposits its solid contents on the margin, and these, crystallizing and accumulating, advance upon the surface, as ice forms from the edge towards the centre of a pond, and in time bridge it over with a translucent sheet. among the stalagmites are a few of beehive shape; but there is one named the jockey cap, an extraordinary specimen for bigness. its base has a circumference of ten feet, its height is two feet, all produced by a succession of drops from one single point. advantage has been taken of this circumstance to measure the rate of its growth. mr. farrer collected a pint of drops, and ascertained the fall to be one hundred pints a day, each pint containing one grain of calcareous matter; and from this daily supply of a hundred grains the jockey cap was built up to its present dimensions in two hundred and fifty-nine years. in six years, from 1845 to 1851, the diameter increased by two, and the height by three inches. probably owing to the morning's rain, the drops fell rapidly while i stood looking at the cap--splash--splash--splash--into a small saucer-like depression in the middle of the crown, from which with ceaseless overflow the water bathes the entire mass. around it is the most drippy part of the cave. in places there are sudden breaks in the roof at right angles to the passage--cracks produced by the cooling of this great limestone bubble in the primeval days--which look as if nature had begun to form a series of cross aisles, and then held her hand. some of these are nests of stalactites; one exhibits architectural forms adorned with beads and mouldings as if sculptured in purest marble. the farther you penetrate the loftier do they become; impressing you with the idea that they are but the ante-chambers of some majestic temple farther within. the abyss appears to be a similar arch reversed in the floor. then we came to a bend where the roof rushing down appears to bar all further advance, but the guide puts a thing into your hand which you might take to be a scrubbing-brush, and telling you to stoop, creeps into a low opening between the rising floor and descending roof, and you discover that the scrubbing-brush is a paddle to enable you to walk on three legs while crouching down. it keeps your right hand from the slippery rock; and your left has always enough to do in holding the candle. the creeping continues but for a few yards, and you emerge into one of the cross vaults, and again sand and pebbles form the floor. then comes the cellar gallery, a long tunnel-like passage, the sides perpendicular, the roof arched, which, like all the rest, has been shaped by currents of water, aided in this case by the grinding action of sand and pebbles. continuing through thousands of years, the result is as we behold it. the tunnel appears the more gloomy from the absence of ornament: no stalactites, no wings, reflect the dim candle-flame; for which reason, as well as to avoid the creeping, many visitors refuse to advance beyond the entrance of the long gallery. but the tunnel leads you into the giant's hall, where stalactites and draperies again meet your eye, and where your light is all too feeble to illumine the lofty roof. and here is the end, 2106 feet from the entrance--nearly half a mile. from the time that the gardener broke through the barrier in the old cave, two years were spent in gradual advances till the giant's hall was reached. the adventurous explorers endeavoured to get farther, for two small holes were discovered leading downwards from one side of the hall to a lower cave, through which arose the sound of falling water. they braved the danger, and let themselves down to a level, where they were stopped by a deep pool--the receiver of the fall. it must have looked fearfully dismal. yet might there not be caverns still more wonderful beyond? fixing a candle to his cap and with a rope round his body, mr. james farrer swam across the murky lake, and found it closed in by what appeared to be an impassable wall of limestone--the heart of ingleborough. it was a courageous adventure. i stretched out my candle and peered down the two holes. one is dry and sandy, the other slimy with a constant drip. i heard the noise of the fall, the voice of the water plunging for ever, night and day, in deep darkness. it seemed awful. a current of air blows forth continually, whereby the cave is ventilated throughout its entire length, and the visitor, safe from stagnant damps and stifling vapours, breathes freely in a pure atmosphere. i walked once more from end to end of the hall; and we retraced our steps. in the first cross aisle the guide made me aware of an echo which came back to the ear as a hollow moan. we crept through into pillar hall, and i could not help lingering once more to admire the brilliant and delicate incrustations, and to scramble between or over the great stalagmitic barriers to see what was in the rear. here and there i saw a mass resembling a font, filled with water of exquisite purity, or raised oval or oblong basins representing alabaster baths, wherein none but vestal virgins might enter. except that the path has been levelled and widened, and openings enlarged, and planks laid in one place to facilitate access to a change of level, the cave remains as when first discovered. mr. farrer's precautions against mischief have prevented that pillage of the interior so much to be deplored in other caves of this region, where the first-comers made prize of all the ornaments within reach, and left little but bare walls for those who follow. yet even here some of the smaller stalactites, the size of a finger, have been missed after a party has gone through; and once a man struck a group of stalactites and broke more than a foot off the longest, in sheer wantonness, as it seemed, for the fragment was too heavy to carry away. and there the mutilation remains, a lasting reproach to a fool. my candle burnt out, and the other flickered near its end, but the old man had two halves which he lit, and these more than sufficed for our return. the red light of sunset was streaming into the entrance when we came forth after a sojourn of nearly two hours in the bowels of the mountain. the guide had been very indulgent with me; for most visitors stay but an hour. those who merely wish to walk through, content with a hasty glance, will find little to impede their movements. there is nothing, indeed, which need deter a woman, only she must leave her hoop at home, wear thick boots, and make provision for looping-up her skirts. many an english maiden would then enjoy a visit to ingleborough cave. the beck flows out from under the cliff a few yards above the entrance through a broad low vault. i crept in for some distance, and it seemed to me that access to the cave might be gained by wading up the stream. then as we went down the hill, the old soldier thought that as there were but two of us, we might venture to walk through the grounds, where we saw the lake, the bridge, and the cascade, on our way to the village. delicious trout from the neighbouring brook, and most excellent beer, awaited me for supper, and made me well content with the _bull and cave_. afterwards i joined the party in the little bar-parlour, where among a variety of topics, the mountain was talked about. the landlord, a hale old fellow of sixty, said that he had never once been on the summit, though he had lived all his life at the base. a rustic, though a two years' resident in clapham, had not been up, and for a reason: "you see," he said, "if a man gets on a high place, he isn't satisfied then; he wants to get higher. so i thinks best to content myself down here." then spoke another of the party, a man well dressed, in praise of rural quiet, and the enjoyment of fresh air, contrasting the tranquillity of clapham at that hour with the noise and confusion at bradford, where the streets would be thronged till after midnight. he was an 'operative' from bradford, come as was his wont, to spend sunday in the country. he grew eloquent on the subject of masters and men, averring that masters, as a body, would never do anything for the benefit of workmen unless compelled thereto by act of parliament. well might he say so. would the mills be ventilated; would dangerous machinery be boxed off; would schools have been interposed between children and slavery, had parliament not interfered? the number of yorkshire factory children at school on the last day of october, 1857, was 18,000, from eight to thirteen years of age. on this latter particular our spinner could not say enough in praise of the house of commons: there was a chance for the bairns now that the law punished the masters who did not allow time for school as well as for work. "it's one of the grandest things," he said, "parliament ever did for the factory hands." he had too much reason to speak as he did; but we must not suppose that the great millowners are worse than other masters. owing to the large numbers they employ, the evils complained of appear in a violent and concentrated form; but we have only to look at the way in which apprentices and domestic servants are treated everywhere, especially in large towns (with comparatively few exceptions,) to become aware that a want of fair-play is by far too prevalent. no wonder that dr. livingstone finds reason to say we are not model christians. chapter xxii. by rail to skipton--a stony town--church and castle--the cliffords--wharfedale--bolton abbey--picturesque ruins--a foot-bath--scraps from wordsworth--bolton park--the strid- barden tower--the wharfe--the shepherd lord--reading to grandfather--a cup of tea--cheerful hospitality--trout fishing --gale beck--symon seat--a real entertainer--burnsall--a drink of porter--immoralities--threshfield--kilnsey--the crag- kettlewell--a primitive village--great whernside--starbottom- buckden--last view of wharfedale--cray--bishopdale--a pleasant lane--bolton castle--penhill--aysgarth--dead pastimes--decrease of quakers--failure of a mission--why and wherefore--aysgarth force--drunken barnaby--inroad of fashion. the railway station at clapham, as well as others along the line, is built in the old timbered style, and harmonizes well with the landscape. a railway hotel stands close by, invitingly open to guests who dislike the walk of a mile to the village; and the landlord, as i was told, multiplies his profits by renting the cave. a short flight by the first train took me to breakfast at skipton, all through the pretty country of craven, of which the town is the capital. the houses are built of stone taken from the neighbouring hills. the bells were just beginning their chimes as i passed the church, and, seeing the door open, i went in and looked at the stained glass and old monuments, the shields and sculptures which commemorate the cliffords--lords of the honour of skipton--the lady ellinor, of the house of brandon; the earls of cumberland, one of whom was queen elizabeth's champion against the spaniard, as well as in tilt and tournament. the castle, which has played a conspicuous part in history, stands beside the church, and there, over the gateway, you may still see the shield bearing two griffins, and the motto #desormais#. within, you view the massive, low, round towers from a pleasant garden, where but few signs of antiquity are to be seen; for modern restorations have masked the old grim features. here dwelt the cliffords, a proud and mighty family, who made a noise in the world, in their day. among them was lord john, or black clifford, who did butcher-work at the battle of wakefield, and was repaid the year after at towton. in the first year of edward iv. the estates were forfeited because of high treason, and henry, the tenth lord of the honour of skipton, to escape the ill consequence of his father's disloyalty, was concealed for twenty-five years among the shepherds of cumberland. another of the line was that imperial-minded countess, the lady anne clifford, who, when she repaired her castle of skipton, made it known by an inscription in the same terms as that set up on her castle at brough, and with the same passage of scripture. now it is a private residence; and the ancient tapestries and pictures, and other curiosities which are still preserved, can only be seen after due pains taken by the inquiring visitor. the life of the shepherd lord, as he was called, is a touching episode in the history of the cliffords; heightened by the marked contrast between the father and son--the one warlike and revengeful, the other gentle and forgiving. we shall come again on the traces of the pastoral chief ere the day be over. there is a long stretch of the old castle wall on the left as you go up the road towards knaresborough. from the top of the hill, looking back about a mile and a half distant, you get a pleasing view of skipton, lying in its cheerful green valley; and presently, in the other direction, you see the hills of wharfedale. everywhere the grass is waving, or, newly-mown, fills all the air with delightful odour. i walked slowly, for the day was hot--one of the hottest of that fervid july--and took till noon to accomplish the seven miles to bolton abbey. the number of vehicles drawn up at the _devonshire arms_--a good inn about two furlongs from the ruin--and the numerous visitors, betokened something unusually attractive. since landseer painted his picture, bolton abbey has become a household word. it seems familiar to us beforehand. we picture it to our minds; and your imagination must be extravagant indeed if the picture be not realized. it is a charming scene that opens as you turn out of the road and descend the grassy slope: the abbey standing, proud and beautiful in decay, in a green meadow, where stately trees adorn the gentle undulations; the wharfe rippling cheerfully past, coming forth from wooded hills above, going away between wooded hills below, alike "with mazy error under pendent shades;" the bold perpendicular cliff opposite, all purple and gray, crowned and flanked with hanging wood; the cascade rushing down in a narrow line of foam; the big mossy stones that line the bank, and the stony islets in the bed of the stream; and, looking up the dale, the great sweeps of wood in bolton park, terminated by the wild heights of symon seat and barden fell. all around you see encircling woods, and combinations of rock, and wood, and water, that inspire delightful emotions. but you will turn again and again to the abbey to gaze on its tall arches, the great empty window, the crumbling walls, over which hang rich masses of ivy, and walking slowly round you will discover the points whence the ruins appear most picturesque. and within, where elder-trees grow, and the carved tombstones of the old abbots lie on the turf, you may still see where the monks sat in the sanctuary, and where they poured the holy water. and whether from within or without, you will survey with reverent admiration. a part of the nave is used as a church for the neighbourhood, and ere i left, the country folk came from all the paths around, summoned by the pealing bell. i looked in and saw richly stained windows and old tombs. on the rise above the abbey stands a castellated lodge, embodying the ancient gate-house, an occasional resort of the late duke of devonshire, to whom the estate belonged. of all his possessions this perhaps offered him most of beauty and tranquillity. you may ramble at will; cross the long row of stepping-stones to the opposite bank, and scramble through the wood to the top of the cliff; or roam over the meadows up and down the river, or lounge in idle enjoyment on the seats fixed under some of the trees. after strolling hither and thither, i concealed myself under the branches overhanging the stream, and sat there as in a bower, with my feet in the shallow water, the lively flashing current broad before me, and read, "from bolton's old monastic tower the bells ring loud with gladsome power; the sun shines bright; the fields are gay with people in their best array of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, along the banks of crystal wharfe, through the vale retired and lowly, trooping to that summons holy. and, up among the moorlands, see what sprinklings of blithe company!" and while i read, the bell was ringing, and the people were gathering together, and anon the priest "all tranquilly recites the holy liturgy," but no white doe of rylstone came gliding down to pace timidly among the tombs, and make her couch on a solitary grave. and reading there on the scene itself, i found a new charm in the pages--a vivid life in the old events and old names: "pass, pass who will, yon chantry door; and through the chink in the fractured floor look down, and see a grisly sight; a vault where the bodies are buried upright! there, face by face, and hand by hand, the claphams and mauleverers stand; and, in his place, among son and sire, is john de clapham, that fierce esquire, a valiant man, and a name of dread in the ruthless wars of the white and red; who dragged earl pembroke from banbury church, and smote off his head on the stones of the porch! look down among them, if you dare; oft does the white doe loiter there." and here, as at skipton, we are reminded of the cliffords, and of the shepherd lord, to whom appeared at times the gracious fairy, "and taught him signs, and showed him sights, in craven's dens, on cumbrian heights; when under a cloud of fear he lay, a shepherd clad in homely gray." i left my mossy seat and returned to the bank, thoroughly cooled, on coming to the end of the poem, and started for a travel up the dale. the road skirts the edge of bolton park; but the pleasantest way is through the park itself, for there you have grand wooded slopes on each side, and there the river rushing along its limestone bed encounters the far-famed strid. a rustic, however, told me that no one was allowed to cross the park on sunday; but having come to see a sight, i did not like to be disappointed, and thought it best to test the question myself. i kept on, therefore, passing from the open grounds to delightful paths under the woods, bending hither and thither, and with many a rise and fall among rocks and trees. presently, guided by the roar, i struck through the wood for the stony margin of the river. here all is rock: great hummocks, ledges and tables of rock, wherein are deep basins, gullies, bays, and shallow pools; and the water makes a loud noise as it struggles past. here and there a rugged cliff appears, its base buried in underwood, its front hung with ivy; and there are marks on the trees, and portentous signs on the drifted boulders, which reveal the swollen height of floods. there are times when all these yorkshire rivers become impetuous torrents, roaring along in resistless might and majesty. a little farther and the rocks form a dam, leaving but a narrow opening in the centre, across which a man may stride, for the passage of the stream--and we behold the strid. piling itself up against the barrier, the water rushes through, deep, swift and ungovernable, and boils and eddies below with never-ceasing tumult. the rock on each side of the sluice is worn smooth by the feet of many who have stridden across, caring nothing for the tales that are told of terrible accidents from a slip of the foot or from giddiness. once a young lady, fascinated by the rapid current, fell in and was drowned in sight of her friends. and "----mounting high to days of dim antiquity; when lady aaliza mourned her son, and felt in her despair the pang of unavailing prayer; her son in wharfe's abysses drowned, the noble boy of egremound. from which affliction--when the grace of god had in her heart found place- a pious structure, fair to see, rose up, the stately priory!" for about a mile upwards the river-bed is still rocky, and you see many a pretty effect of rushing water, and perhaps half a dozen strids, but not one with only a single sluice, as the first. no one stopped or turned me back; no peremptory shout threatened me from afar; and truly the river is so shut in by woods, that intruders could only be seen by an eye somewhere on its brink. not a soul did i meet, except three countrymen, who, when i came suddenly upon them on doubling a crag, seemed ready to take to flight, for instead of coming the beaten way to view the romantic, they had got over the fence, and scrambled down through the wood. they soon perceived that i was very harmless. a little farther and we leave the rocks; the woods recede and give place to broad grassy slopes; high up on the right stands the keeper's house; higher on the left the old square block of barden tower peeps above the trees; before us a bridge spans the river, and there we pass into the road which leads through the village of barden to pateley bridge and nidderdale. the wharfe has its source in the bleak moorlands which we saw flanking cam fell during our descent from counterside a few days ago. rocks and cliffs of various formations beset all its upper course, imparting a different character to the dale every few leagues--savage, romantic, picturesque, and beautiful. no more beautiful scenery is to be found along the river than for some miles above and below bolton abbey. five miles farther down, the stream flows past those two delightful inland watering-places, ilkley and ben rhydding, and onwards between thick woods and broad meadows to wetherby, below which it is again narrowed by cliffs, until leaving tadcaster, rich in memories of rome, it enters the ouse between selby and york. the sight of barden tower reminds us once more of the shepherd lord, for there he oft did sojourn, enjoying rural scenes and philosophical studies, even after his restoration to rank and estate in his thirty-second year. "i wish i could have heard thy long-tried lore, thou virtuous lord of skipton! thou couldst well from sage experience, that best teacher, tell how far within the shepherd's humble door lives the sure happiness, that on the floor of gay baronial halls disdains to dwell, though decked with many a feast, and many a spell of gorgeous rhyme, and echoing with the roar of pleasure, clamorous round the full-crowned bowl! thou hadst (and who had doubted thee?) exprest what empty baubles are the ermined stole, proud coronet, rich walls with tapestry drest, and music lulling the sick frame to rest! bliss only haunts the pure contented soul!" but the blood of his ancestors flowed in his veins, and on the royal summons to arm and array for flodden, he, at the age of sixty, led his retainers to the field: "from penigent to pendle hill, from linton to long addingham, and all that craven coasts did till, they with the lusty clifford came." i crossed the bridge and went up the hill for a view of the ruin. at the top, a broken slope, sprinkled with trees, serves as village green to the few houses which constitute the place known as barden tower. near one of these houses i saw a pretty sight--a youth sitting on a bench under a shady tree reading to his old grandfather from one of those venerable folios written by divines whose head and heart were alike full of their subject--the ways of god towards man, and man's duty. wishing to make an inquiry concerning the road, i apologized for my interruption, when both graybeard and lad made room for me between them on the bench, and proffered all they knew of information. but it soon appeared that the particulars i wanted could only be furnished by "uncle, who was up-stairs a-cleaning himself;" so to improve the time until he was ready i passed round the end of the house to the tower in the rear. the old gateway remains, and some of the ancient timbers; but the upper chambers are now used as lofts for firewood, and the ground-floor is a cow-stall. the external walls are comparatively but little decayed, and appear in places as strong as when they sheltered the cliffords. uncle was there when i returned to the front. he knew the country well, for in his vocation as a butcher he travelled it every week, and enabled me to decide between kettlewell and pateley bridge for my coming route. and more, he said he would like to walk a mile or two with me; he would put on his coat, and soon overtake me. i walked slowly on, and was out of sight of the house, when he came running after me, and cried, "hey! come back. a cup o' tea 'll do neither of us any harm, so come back and have a cup afore we start." i went back, for such hospitality as that was not to be slighted; and while we sipped he talked about the pretty scenery, about the rooms which he had to let, and the lodgers he had entertained. sometimes there came a young couple full of poetry and sentiment, too much so, indeed, to be merry; sometimes a student, who liked to prowl about the ruin, explore all its secrets, and wander out to where "high on a point of rugged ground, among the wastes of rylstone fell, above the loftiest ridge or mound where foresters or shepherds dwell, an edifice of warlike frame stands single--norton tower its name- it fronts all quarters, and looks round o'er path and road, and plain and dell, dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream, upon a prospect without bound." and he talked, too, about the trout in the river, and the anglers who came to catch them. but the fishing is not unrestricted; leave must be obtained, and a fee paid. anyone in search of trout or the picturesque, who can content himself with rustic quarters, would find in mr. williamson, of barden tower, a willing adviser. presently we took the road, which, with the river on the right, runs along the hill-side, sheltered by woods, high above the stream. a few minutes brought us to a gate, where we got over, and went a little way down the slope to look at gale beck, a pretty cascade tumbling into a little dell, delightfully cool, and green with trees, ferns, and mosses. my companion showed that he used his eyes while driving about in his cart, and picked out the choice bits of the scenery; and these he now pointed out to me with all the pride of one who had a personal interest in their reputation. ere long we emerged from the trees, and could overlook the pleasing features of the dale; fields and meadows on each side of the stream, bounded by steep hills, and crags peeping out from the great dark slopes of firs. the rocky summit of symon seat appeared above a brow on the left bank, coming more and more into view as we advanced, till the great hill itself was unveiled. from those rocks, on a clear day, you can see rosebury topping, and the towers of york and ripon. for four miles did my entertainer accompany me, which, considering the fierce heat of the evening, i could only regard as an honest manifestation of friendliness--to me very gratifying. we parted in sight of burnsall, a village situate on the fork of the river, where the littondale branch joins that of wharfedale proper. a man who sat reading at his door near the farther end of the village looked up as i passed, and asked, "will ye have a drink o' porter?" hot weather justified acceptance; he invited me to sit while he went to the barrel, and when he came forth with the foaming jug, he, too, must have a talk. but his talk was not what i expected--the simple words of a simple-minded rustic; he craved to know something, and more than was good, concerning a certain class of publications sold in holywell-street; things long ago condemned by the moral law, and now very properly brought under the lash of the legal law by lord campbell. having no mission to be a scavenger, i advised him not to meddle with pitch; but he already knew too much, and he mentioned things which help to explain the great demand for the immoral books out of the metropolis. one was, that in a small northern, innocent-looking country town, adam and eve balls regularly take place, open to all comers who can pay for admission. from burnsall onwards we have again the grass country, the landscape loses the softened character of that in our rear; we follow a bad cross-road for some miles, passing wide apart a solitary farm or cottage, and come into a high-road a little to the right of threshfield. here and there a group of labourers are lounging on a grassy bank, smoking, talking quietly, and enjoying the sunset coolness; and i had more than one invitation to tarry and take a friendly pipe. louder sounds the noise of the river as the evening lengthens; the dark patches of firs on the hill-sides grow darker; the rocks and cliffs look strange and uncertain; the road approaches a foaming rapid, where another strid makes the water roar impatiently; and so i completed the ten miles from harden tower, and came in deep twilight to the _anglers' inn_ at kilnsey as the good folk were preparing for bed. as its name denotes, the house is frequented by anglers, who, after paying a fee of half-a-crown a day, find exercise for their skill in the rippling shallows and silent pools of the river which flows past not many yards from the road. i am told that the sport is but indifferent. a short distance beyond the inn there rises sheer from the road a grand limestone cliff, before which you will be tempted to pause. a low grassy slope, bordered by a narrow brook, forms a natural plinth; small trees and ivy grow from the fissures high overhead, and large trees and bush on the ledges; the colony of swallows that inhabit the holes flit swiftly about the crest, and what with the contrast of verdure and rock, and the magnitude of the cliff, your eye is alike impressed and gratified. by taking a little trouble you may get to the top, and while looking on the scene beneath, let your thoughts run back to the time when wharfedale was a loch, such as loch long or loch fyne, into which the tides of the sea flowed twice a day, beating against the base of the kilnsey crag, where now sheep graze, and men pass to and fro on business or pleasure. to take my start the next morning from so lofty a headland: to feel new life thrill through every limb from the early sun; to drink of the spring which the cliff overshadows where it gushes forth among mossy stones at the root of an ash; to inhale the glorious breeze that tempered the heat, was a delightful beginning of a day's walk. soon we cross to the left bank of wharfe, and follow the road between the river and a cliffy range of rocks to kettlewell, enjoying pleasing views all the way. and the village itself seems a picture of an earlier age--a street of little stone cottages, backed by gardens and orchards; here and there a queer little shop; the shoemaker sitting with doors and windows open looking out on his flowers every time he lifts his eyes; the smith, who has opened all his shutters to admit the breeze, hammering leisurely, as if half inclined for a holiday with such a wealth of sunshine pouring down; and _nancy hardaker, grocer and draper_, and dealer in everything besides, busying herself behind her little panes with little preparations for customers. it is a simple picture: one that makes you believe the honest outward aspect is only the expression of honesty within. for one who had time to explore the neighbourhood, kettlewell would be good head-quarters. it has two inns, and a shabby tenement inscribed _temperance hotel_. hence you may penetrate to the wild fells at the head of the dale; or climb to the top of great whernside; or ramble over the shoulder of the great mountain into coverdale, discovering many a rocky nook, and many a little cascade and flashing rill. great whernside, 2263 feet high, commands views into many dales, and affords you a glimpse of far-off hills which we have already climbed. the great one has a brother named little whernside, because he is not so high by nearly three hundred feet. the "limestone pass" between great whernside and buckden pike is described as a grand bit of mountain scenery. from kettlewell the road still ascends the dale, in sight of the river which now narrows to the dimensions of a brook. crags and cliffs still break out of the hill-slopes, and more than any other that we have visited, you see that wharfedale is characterized by scars and cliffs. the changing aspect of the scenery is manifest; the grass is less luxuriant than lower down, and but few of the fields are mown. starbottom, a little place of rude stone houses, with porches that resemble an outer stair, reminds us once more of a mountain village; but it has trim flower-gardens, and fruit-trees, and a fringe of sycamores. i came to buckden, the next village, just in time to dine with the haymakers. right good fare was provided--roast mutton, salad, and rice pudding. who would not be a hay-maker! beyond the village the road turns away from the river, and mounts a steep hill, where, from the top of the bend, we get our last look down wharfedale, upwards along langstrothdale, and across the elevated moorlands which enclose penyghent. everywhere the gray masses of stone encroach on the waving grass. still the road mounts, and steeply; on the left, in a field, are a few small enclosures, all standing, which, perhaps, represent the british dwellings at the foot of addleborough. still up, through the hamlet of cray, with rills, rocks, and waterfalls on the right and left, and then the crown of the pass, and a wide ridgy hollow, flanked by cliffs, the outliers of buckden pike, which rears itself aloft on the right. then two or three miles of this breezy expanse, between stake fell on one side and wasset fell on the other, and we come to the top of kidstone bank, and suddenly bishopdale opens before us, a lovely sylvan landscape melting away into wensleydale. it will tempt you to lie down for half an hour on the soft turf and enjoy the prospect at leisure. the descent is alike rough and steep, bringing you rapidly down to the first farm. a cliff on the right gradually merges into the rounded swell of a green hill; we come to a plantation where, in the open places by the beck, grow wild strawberries; then to trees on one side--ash, holly, beech, and larch, the stems embraced by ivy, and thorns and wild roses between; then trees on both sides, and the narrow track is beautiful as a berkshire lane--and that is saying a great deal--and the brook which accompanies it makes a cheerful sound as if gladdened by the quivering sunbeams that fall upon it. everywhere the haymakers are at work, and with merry hearts, for the wind blows lustily and makes the whole dale vocal. by-and-by the lane sends off branches, all alike pretty, one of which brings us down into the lowest meadows, and on the descent we get glimpses of bolton castle, and on the right appears penhill, shouldering forward like a great promontory. a relic of antiquity may yet be seen on its slopes--obscure remains of a preceptory of the knights templars. the watcher on penhill was one of those who helped to spread the alarm of invasion in the days of napoleon the great, for he mistook a fire on the eastern hills for the beacon on rosebury topping, and so set his own a-blaze. we come to thoralby, a village of comfortable signs within, and pleasant prospects without; and now wensleydale opens, and another half-hour brings us to aysgarth, a large village four miles below bainbridge. a tall maypole stands on the green, the only one i remember to have seen in yorkshire. it is a memorial of the sports and pastimes for which wensleydale was famous. the annual feasts and fairs would attract visitors from twenty miles around. here, at aysgarth, not the least popular part of the amusements were the races, run by men stark naked, as people not more than forty years old can well remember. but times are changed; and throughout the dale drunkenness and revelry are giving way to teetotalism, lectures, tea-gatherings, and other moral recreations. and the change is noticeable in another particular: the quakers, who were once numerous in the dale, have disappeared too. some two or three years ago a notion prevailed in a certain quarter that the time was ripe for making proselytes, and establishing a meeting once more at aysgarth. the old meeting-house, the school-room, and dwelling-house, remained; why should they not be restored to their original uses? was it not "about wensleydale" that george fox saw "a great people in white raiment by a river-side?" did he not, while on his journey up the dale, go into the "steeple-house" and "largely and freely declare the word of life, and have not much persecution," and afterwards was locked into a parlour as "a young man that was mad, and had run away from his relations?" from certain indications it seemed that a successful effort might be made; an earnest and active member of the society volunteered to remove with his family from london into yorkshire to carry out the experiment; and soon the buildings were repaired, the garden was cultivated anew, the doors of the meeting-house were opened; the apostle went about and talked to the people, and gave away tracts freely. the people listened to him, and read his tracts, and were well content to have him among them; but the experiment failed--not one became a quaker. at the beginning of the present year (1858) an essay was advertised for, on the causes of the decline of quakerism, simultaneously with a great increase in the population at large. it appears to me that the causes are not far to seek. one of them i have already mentioned: others consist in what friends call a "guarded education," which seeks rather to ignore vice than to implant abhorrence of it; in training children by a false standard: "do this; don't do that;" not because it is right or wrong, but because such is or is not the practice of friends, so that when the children grow old enough to see what a very foolish mrs. grundy they have had set before them as a model, they naturally suspect imposition, become restive, and kick over the traces. moreover, to set up fidgetty crotchets as principles of truth, whereby the sense of the ludicrous is excited in others, and not reverence, is not the way to increase and multiply. many quakers now living will remember the earnest controversy that once stirred them as to whether it might be proper to use umbrellas, and to wear hats with a binding round the edge of the brim; and the anxious breeches question, of which a ministress said in her sermon, that it was "matter of concern to see so many of the young men running down into longs, yet the lord be thanked, there was a precious remnant left in shorts." and again, silent worship tends to diminish numbers, as also the exceeding weakness--with rare exceptions--of the words that occasionally break the silence; and the absence of an external motive to fix the attention encourages roving thoughts. hence darlington railway-shares, and the shop-shelves, and plans for arbours and garden-plots, employ the minds of many who might have other thoughts did they hear--"be not deceived, god is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." there is my essay. it is a short one, freely given; for i must confess to a certain liking for the quakers, after all. their charities are noble and generous; their views on many points eminently liberal and enlightened; and though themselves enslaved to crotchets, they have shown bravely and practically that they abhor slavery; and their recent mission to finland demonstrates the bounty and tenderness with which they seek to mitigate the evils of war. there is in oxfordshire a little quaker burial-ground, on the brow of a hill looking far away into the west country, where i have asked leave to have my grave dug, when the time comes: that is, if the sedate folk will admit among them even a dead philistine. * * * * * i saw the quaker above-mentioned standing at his door: we were total strangers to each other, but my bainbridge friend had told him there was a chance of my visiting aysgarth, and he held out his hand. soon tea was made ready, and after that he called his son, and led me across the hill-slopes to get the best views, and by short cuts down to aysgarth force, a mile below the village, where the ure rushes down three great breaks or steps in the limestone which stretch all across the river. the water is shallow, and falling as a white curtain over the front of each step, shoots swiftly over the broad level to the next plunge, and the next, producing, even in dry weather, a very pleasing effect. but during a flood the steps disappear, and the whole channel is filled by one great rapid, almost terrific in its vehemence. the stony margin of the stream is fretted and worn into many curious forms, and for a mile or more above and below the bed is stone--nothing but stone--while on each side the steep banks are patched and clothed with trees and bush. the broken ground above the force, interspersed with bush, is a favourite resort of picnic parties, and had been thronged a few days before by a multitude of festive teetotallers. the bridge which crosses the river between the force and the village, with its arch of seventy-one feet span springing from two natural piers of limestone, is a remarkably fine object when viewed from below. above, the river flows noisily from ledge to ledge down a winding gorge. drunken barnaby, who, by the way, was a yorkshireman, named richard braithwaite, came to wensleydale in one of his itineraries. "thence," says the merry fellow- "thence to wenchly, valley-seated, for antiquity repeated; sheep and sheep-herd, as one brother, kindly drink to one another; till pot-hardy, light as feather, sheep and sheep-herd sleep together. * * * * * "thence to ayscarthe from a mountaine, fruitfull valleys, pleasant fountaine, woolly flocks, cliffs steep and snewy, fields, fens, sedgy rushes, saw i; which high mount is called the temple, for all prospects an example." the church stands in a commanding position, whence there is a good prospect down the dale. besides the landscape, there are times when the daring innovations made by fashion on the old habits may be observed. wait in the churchyard on sunday when service ends, and you will see many a gay skirt, hung with flounces and outspread by crinoline, come flaunting forth from the church. and in this remote village, miss metcalfe and miss thistlethwaite must do the bidding of coquettish parisian milliners, even as their sisters do in may fair. chapter xxiii. a walk--carperby--despotic hay-time--bolton castle--the village --queen mary's prison--redmire--scarthe nick--pleasing landscape--halfpenny house--hart-leap well--view into swaledale --richmond--the castle--historic names--the keep--st. martin's cell--easby abbey--beautiful ruins--king arthur and sleeping warriors--ripon--view from the minster tower--archbishop wilfrid--the crypt--the nightly horn--to studley--surprising trick--robin hood's well--fountains abbey--pop goes the weasel --the ruins--robin hood and the curtall friar--to thirsk--the ancient elm--epitaphs. my friend had for some time wished to look into swaledale; he therefore accompanied me the next morning, as far as the route served, through the village of carperby, where dwells a quaker who has the best grazing farm in the north riding. we passed without calling, for he must be a philosopher indeed, here in the dales, who can endure interruptions in hay-time, when all who can work are busy in the fields. ask no man to lend you a horse or labourer in hay-time. servants give themselves leave in hay-time, and go toiling in the sunshine till all the crop is led, earning as much out of doors in three or four weeks as in six months in-doors. what is it to them that the mistress has to buckle-to, and be her own servant for a while, and see to the washing, and make the bread? as i saw in my friend's house, knowing that in case of failure the nearest place where a joint of meat or a loaf of bread can be got is at hawes, eight miles distant. what is it to them? the hay must be made, whether or not. a few light showers fell, refreshing the thirsty soil, and making the trees and hedgerows rejoice in a livelier green. it was as if summer were overjoyed: "even when she weeps, as oft she will, though surely not for grief, her tears are turned to diamond drops on every shining leaf." so our walk of four miles to bolton castle was the more agreeable. the old square building, with its four square towers rising above a mass of wood, looks well as you approach from the road; and when you come upon the eminence on which it stands, and see the little village of bolton, little thatched cottages bordering the green, as old in appearance as the castle, it is as if you looked on a scene from the feudal ages--the rude dwellings of the serfs pitched for safety beneath the walls, as in the days of richard lord scrope, who built the castle four hundred years ago. a considerable portion of the edifice is still habitable; some of the rooms look really comfortable; others are let as workshops to a tinker and glazier, and down in the vaults you see the apparatus for casting sheet-lead. we saw the room in which the hapless mary was confined, and the window by which, as is said, she tried, but failed, to escape. we went to the top, and looked over into the inner court; and got a bird's-eye view of the village and of bolton park and hall, amid the wooded landscape; and then to the bottom, down damp stone stairs, to what seemed the lowest vault, where, however, there was a lower depth--the dungeon--into which we descended by a ladder. what a dismal abode! of gloom too dense for one feeble candle to enliven. the man who showed the way said there was a well in one corner; but i saw nothing except that that spot looked blacker than the rest. to think that such a prison should have been built in the "good old times!" on leaving the village, an old woman gave me a touch of the broadest dialect i had yet heard: "eh! is ye boun into swawldawl?" she exclaimed, in reply to my inquiry. we were going into swaledale, and, taking a byeway above the village of redmire, soon came to a road leading up the dale to reeth, into which my friend turned, while i went on to the northern slope of wensleydale. you ascend by a steep, winding road to scarthe nick, the pass on the summit, and there you have a glorious prospect--many a league of hill and hollow, of moor and meadow. from bolton castle and its little dependency, which lie well under the eye, you can look down the dale and catch sight of the ruined towers of middleham; aysgarth force reveals itself by a momentary quivering flash; and scattered around, seven churches and eight villages, more or less environed by woods, complete the landscape. the scene, with its wealth of quiet beauty, is one suggestive of peace and well-being, dear to the englishman's heart. to one coming suddenly upon it from the dreary moorlands which lie between wensleydale and richmond, there would be something of enchantment in the far-spreading view. i turned my back on it at last, and followed the road across the moors, where the memory of what you have just left becomes fairer by contrast. the route is solitary, and apparently but little frequented, for in ten miles i met only a man and a boy; and the monotony is only relieved after a while by a falling away of the brown slopes on the right, opening a view of the hambleton hills. there is one public-house on the way, the _halfpenny house_, down in a hollow, by no means an agreeable resting-place, especially for a hungry man with a liking for cleanliness. not far from it is hart-leap well, sung by wordsworth: "there's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, will wet his lips within that cup of stone; and oftentimes when all are fast asleep, this water doth send forth a dolorous groan." by-and-by, perhaps, ere you have done thinking of the poem, you come to the brow of a long declivity, the end of the moors, and are rewarded by a view which rivals that seen from scarthe nick. swaledale opens before you, overspread with waving fields of grain, with numerous farmsteads scattered up and down, with a long range of cliff breaking the opposite slope, and, about four miles distant, richmond on its lofty seat, crowned by the square castle-keep, tall and massive. i saw it lit by the afternoon sun, and needed no better invitation for a half-hour's halt on the heathery bank. you descend to the wheat-fields, and see no more of the town until close upon it. swale, as you will notice while crossing the bridge, still shows the characteristics of a mountain stream, though broader and deeper than at thwaite, where we last parted company with it. very steep is the grass-grown street leading from the river up to the main part of the town, where, having found a comfortable public-house, i went at once to the castle. it occupies the summit of a bluff, which, rising bold and high from the swale, commands a noble prospect over what whitaker calls "the piedmont of richmondshire." on the side towards the river, the walls are all broken and ruinous, with here and there a loophole or window opening, through which you may look abroad on the landscape, and ponder on the changes which have befallen since alan the red built a fortress here on the lands given to him in reward for prowess by the conqueror. it was in 1071 that he began to fortify, and portions of his masonry yet remain, fringed with ivy and tufts of grass, and here and there the bugloss growing from the crevices. perhaps while you saunter to and fro in the castle-garth the keeper will appear and tell you--though not without leave--his story of the ruins. if it will add to your pleasure, he will show you the spot where george iv. sat when prince of wales, and declared the prospect to be the finest he had ever beheld. you will be told which is robin hood's tower, which the gold tower--so called because of a tradition that treasure was once discovered therein--and which is scolland's hall, where knights, and nobles, and high-born dames held their banquets. and here you will be reminded of fitzhughs and marmions, randolph de glanville, and william the lion, of nevilles and scropes, and of the lennox--a natural son of charles ii.--to whom the dukedom of richmond was given by the merry monarch, and to whose descendants it still belongs. one side of the garth is enclosed by a new building to be used as barracks or a military depôt, and near this, at the angle towards the town, rises the keep. what a mighty tower it is! ninety-nine feet high, the walls eleven feet thick, strengthened on all sides by straight buttresses, an impressive memorial of the normans. it was built by earl conan, seventy-five years after red alan's bastions. the lowest chamber is dark and vaulted, with the rings still remaining to which the lamps were hung, and a floor of natural rock pierced by the old well. the chief entrance is now on the first floor, to which you mount by an outer stair, and the first things you see on entering are the arms and accoutrements of the yorkshire militia, all carefully arranged. the view from the top delights your eye by its variety and extent--a great sweep of green hills and woods, the winding dale, and beyond, the brown heights that stretch away to the mountains. you see the town and all its picturesque features: the towers of st. mary's and of the old gray friars' monastery, and trinity chapel at one side of the market-place, now desecrated by an intrusion of petty merchandise. and, following the course of the river downwards, you can see in the meadows among the woods the ruins of the abbey of st. agatha, at easby. a few miles farther, and the stream flows past catterick, the cattaractonium of the romans; and bolton-on-swale, the burial-place of old jenkins. on leaving the castle, make your way down to the path which runs round the face of the precipice below the walls, yet high enough above the river for pleasing views: a good place for an evening stroll. then descend to a lower level, and look back from the new bridge near the railway station; you will be charmed with the singularly picturesque view of the town, clustered all along the hill-top, and terminated by the imposing mass of ruins and the lordly keep. and there is something to be seen near at hand: the station, built in gothic style, pleasantly situate among trees; st. martin's cell, founded more than seven hundred years ago, now sadly dilapidated, and used as a cow-stall. beyond, on the slope of the hill, stands the parish church, with a fine lofty tower; and near it are the old grammar school, famous for good scholars; and the tate testimonial, a handsome gothic edifice, with cloisters, where the boys play in rainy weather. it was in that churchyard that herbert knowles wrote the poem "methinks it is good to be here," which has long kept his name in memory. turn into the path on the left near the bridge, follow it through the wood which hangs on the slope above the river, then between the meadows and gardens, and past the mill, and you come to easby abbey, a charming ruin in a charming spot. you see a gentle eminence, rich in noble trees--the "abbot's elm" among them--with a mansion on the summit, and in the meadow at the foot the group of ruins, not so far from the river but that you can hear it murmuring briskly along its stony channel. they occupy a considerable space, and the longer you wander from kitchen to refectory, from oratory to chapter-house, under broken arches, from one weedy heap of masonry to another, the more will you become aware of their picturesque beauties. the effect is heightened by magnificent masses of ivy, and trees growing out from the gaping stones, and about the grounds, screening and softening the ancient walls with quivering verdure. here, for centuries, was the burial-place of the scropes, that powerful family who became possessors of easby not long after the death of roald, constable of richmond, founder of the abbey in 1152. hence the historical associations impart a deeper interest to the loveliness of nature and the beauty of architecture. the gate-house, also mantled with ivy, stands isolated in the meadow beyond, and easby church between it and the ruins. and a pretty little church it is--a very jewel. ivy creeps over it, and apparently through it, for a thick stem grows out of the wall three feet from the ground. above the porch you may see three carved shields, time-worn memorials of conyers, aske, and scrope. to linger here while the sun went down, and the shadows darkened behind the walls, and the glory streamed through the blank windows, was a rare enjoyment. it was dusk when i returned to the town, and there i finished with another stroll on the path under the castle, thinking of the ancient legend, and wishing for a peep at the mysterious vault where king arthur's warriors lie asleep. long, long ago, a man, while wandering about the hill, was conducted into an underground vault by a mysterious personage, and there he saw to his amazement a great multitude lying in deep slumber. ere he recovered, his guide placed in his hands a horn and a sword; he drew the blade half out of the sheath, when lo! every sleeper stirred as if about to awake, and the poor mortal, terror-stricken, loosed his hold, the sword slid back, and the opportunity of release was lost, to recur no more for many a long day. the unlucky wight heard as he crept forth a bitter voice crying: "potter, potter thompson! if thou had either drawn the sword or blown that horn, thou'd been the luckiest man that ever was born." by nine o'clock the next morning i was in ripon, having been obliged to content myself with a glimpse of northallerton from the railway; and to forego a ramble to the standard hill. i was soon on the top of the minster tower looking abroad on the course of the ure, no longer a dale, as where we last saw it, but a broad vale teeming with corn, and adorned with woods, conspicuous among which are the broad forest-like masses of studley royal--the site of fountains abbey. norton conyers, the seat of the nortons, whose names figure in wordsworth's poem, lies a few miles up the stream; and a few miles in the other direction are boroughbridge and aldborough, once important british and roman stations. there the base cartismandua, betrayer of caractacus, held her court? there the vast rude camp of the legions grew into a sumptuous city; and there was fought one of the battles of the roses, fatal to lancaster; and there for years was a stronghold of the boroughmongers. the horizon no longer shows a ring of bleak moorlands, but green swells and wood all round to the east, where the hills of cleveland terminate the view. then, while sauntering on the floor of the stately edifice we may remember that in 661 the king of northumbria gave a piece of land here to one of his abbots for the foundation of a religious house: that wilfrid, the learned bishop, replaced the first modest structure by a magnificent monastery, which the heathen danes burnt and wasted in 860; but wilfrid, who was presently created archbishop of york, soon rebuilt his church, surpassing the former in magnificence, and by his learning and resolute assertion of his rights won, for himself great honour, and a festival day in the calendar. the anniversary of his return from rome whither he went to claim his privileges, is still celebrated in ripon, by a procession as little accordant with modern notions as that which perpetuates peeping tom's infamous memory at coventry. the present edifice was built by roger of bishopbridge, archbishop of york in the twelfth century, and renowned for his munificence; but the variations of style--two characters of norman, and perpendicular, and a medley in the window, still show how much of the oldest edifice was incorporated with the new, and the alterations at different times. the crypt is believed to be a portion of the church built by wilfrid; to reach it you must pass through narrow, darksome passages, and when there, the guide will not fail to show you the hole known as wilfrid's needle--a needle of properties as marvellous as the garment offered to the ladies of king arthur's court--for no unchaste maiden can pass through the eye. the bone-house and a vault, walled and paved with human bones, still exists; and the guide, availing himself of a few extraordinary specimens, still delivers his lecture surrounded by ghastly accompaniments. without seeing the minster, you would guess ripon to be a cathedral town; it has the quiet, respectable air which befits the superiorities of the church. the market cross is a tall obelisk, and if you happen to be near it at nine in the evening, you will, perhaps, think of the sonorous custom at bainbridge, for one of the constables blows three blasts on the horn every night at the mayor's door, and three more by the market cross. and so the days of victoria witness a custom said to have been begun in the days of alfred. the horn is an important instrument in ripon; it was brought out and worn on feasts and ceremonial days by the "wakeman," or a serjeant; certain of the mayors have taken pride in beautifying it, and supplying a new belt, and the town arms show a golden horn and black belt ornamented with silver. at beverley there are few signs of visitors; here, many, attracted by fountains abbey. carriage after carriage laden with sight-seers rattled past as i walked to studley, a distance of nearly three miles. even at the toll-bar on the way you can buy guide-books, as well as ginger-beer. beyond the gate you may leave the road for a field-path, which crosses the street of studley, and brings you to a short cut through the park. soon we come to the magnificent beechen avenue, and standing at the upper end we see a long green walk, with the minster in the distance, and beyond that the dark wold. then by another avenue on the left we approach the lake and the lodge, where you enter your name in a book, pay a shilling, and are handed over, with the party that happens to be waiting, to the care of a guide. he leads you along broad gravelled paths, between slopes of smooth green turf, flower-beds, shrubberies, rock work, and plantations, to vistas terminated by statues, temples, and lakes filled with coffee-coloured water. to me, the trees seemed more beautiful than anything else; and fancy architecture looked poor by the side of tall beeches, larches, and magnificent norway pines. and i could not help wishing that earl de grey, to whom the estate belongs, would abolish the puerile theatrical trick called _the surprise_. arrived on the brow of an eminence, which overlooks the valley of the little river skell, you are required to stand two or three yards in the rear of a wooden screen. then the guide, with a few words purporting, "now, you shall see what you shall see," throws open the doors of the screen, and fountains abbey appears in the hollow below. as if the view of such a ruin could be improved by artifice! then a descent to robin hood's well--a spring of delicious water, which you will hardly pass without quaffing a draught to the memory of the merry outlaw. and now we are near the ruin, and, favoured by the elevation of the path, can overlook at once all the ground plan, the abbot's quarters--under which the skell flows through an arched channel--the dormitory, the refectory, the lofty arches of the church, and the noble tower rising to a height of one hundred and sixty-six feet. we were admiring the great extent and picturesque effects of the ruins, when a harsh whistle among the trees on the left struck up _pop goes the weasel_; singularly discordant in such a place. i could not help saying that the whistler deserved banishment, to the edge of the park at least--when the guide answered, "yes, but he blows the whistle with his nose." if earl de grey would abolish that nosing of a vulgar melody, as well as _the surprise_, many a visitor would feel grateful. presently we cross the bridge, and there are the yew-trees, one of which sheltered the pious monks, who, scandalized by the lax discipline of the brethren in the benedictine abbey of st. mary's, at york, separated from them, migrated hither in december, 1132, and lived for some months, enduring great privations, with no other roof but the trees. skelldale was then a wild and desolate spot; but the cistercians persevered; thurstan befriended them, and in course of years one of the grandest monastic piles that england could boast arose in the meadow bordering the narrow stream. its roll of abbots numbers thirty-nine names, some of high distinction, whose tombs may yet be seen. after taking you aside to look at fountains hall, a tudor mansion, the guide leads the way to the cloisters, and, unlocking a door, admits you to the interior of the ruins. the view of the nave, with its norman pillars and arches extending for nearly two hundred feet, is remarkably imposing; and as you pace slowly over the soft green carpet into the transept, thence to the choir and lady chapel, each more beautiful than the last, you experience unwonted emotions of delight and surprise. once within the lady chapel, you will hardly care to leave it for any other portion of the ruins, until the door is unlocked for departure. the return route is on the opposite side of the valley to that by which you approach. from a hollow in the cliff, a little way on, you may, on turning to take a last look of the ruins, waken a clearly articulate echo; but, alas! the lurking voice is made to utter overmuch nonsense. what would the devout monks say could they hear it? however, if history is to be depended on, even they were not perfect; for towards the close of their career, they fell into evil ways, and became a reproach. as we read: "in summer time, when leaves grow green, and flowers are fresh and gay, robin hood and his merry men were disposed to play." and when robin, overjoyed at little john's skill, exclaims that he would ride a hundred miles to find one to match him, "that caused will scadlocke to laugh, he laught full heartily: there lives a curtall fryer in fountaines abbey will beate both him and thee." a right sturdy friar, who with his fifty dogs kept robin and his fifty men at bay, until little john's shooting brought him to terms: "this curtall fryer had kept fountaines dale seven long yeares and more, there was neither knight, lord, nor earle could make him yeeld before." of old jenkins, it is recorded that he was once steward to lord conyers, who used to send him at times with a message to the abbot of fountains abbey; and that the abbot always gave him, "besides wassel, a quarter of a yard of roast beef for his dinner, and a great black jack of strong beer." the abbot of fountains was one of three yorkshire abbots beheaded on tower-hill for their share in the _pilgrimage of grace_. judging from the one to whom we were allotted, the guides are civil, and not uninformed as to the traditions and history of studley royal and its neighbourhood. they are instructed not to lose sight of their party, and to conduct them only by the prescribed paths. so there is no opportunity for wandering at will, or a leisurely meditation among the ruins. i walked back to the railway-station at ripon, and journeyed thence to thirsk, where a pleasant stroll finished the evening. of the castle of the mowbrays--the rendezvous of the english troops when marching to the battle of the standard--the site alone remains on the south-west of the town. the chantry, founded by one of the mowbrays in old thirsk, has also disappeared. and the great tree that stood on the green in the same suburb has gone too. it was under the tree on thirsk green, and not at topcliffe, as some say, that the fourth earl percy was massacred; certain it is, that the elections of members to serve in parliament were held under the wide-spreading branches even from the earliest times. it was burnt down in 1818 by a party of boys who lit a fire in the hollow trunk. but the ugly old shambles had not disappeared from the market-place: their destruction, however, so said the bookseller, was imminent. the church, dating from the fifteenth century, has recently been restored, and well repays an examination. among the epitaphs on the tombstones, i noticed a variation of the old familiar strain: afflictions sore he long time bore, which wore his strength away, that made him long for heavenly rest which never will decay. and another, a curiosity in its way: corruption, earth, and worms, shall but refine this flesh, till my triumphant spirit comes to put it on a fresh. chapter xxiv. sutton: a pretty village--the hambleton hills--gormire lake- zigzags--a table-land--boy and bull pup--skawton--ryedale- rievaulx abbey--walter l'espec--a charming ruin--the terrace- the pavilion--helmsley--t' boos--kirkby moorside--helmsley castle--a river swallowed--howardian hills--oswaldkirk--gilling --fairfax hall--coxwold--sterne's residence--york--the minster tower--yorke, yorke, for my monie--the four bars--the city walls--the ouse legend--yorkshire philosophical society--ruins and antiquities--st. mary's lodge. the morning dawns with promise of a glorious day, and of glad enjoyment for us in our coming walk. our route will lead us through a rich and fertile region to the hambleton hills--the range which within the past two weeks has so often terminated our view with its long blue elevations. we shall see another ruin--rievaulx abbey, and another old castle at helmsley--and if all go well, shall sleep at night within the walls of york. a few miles on the way and we come to sutton, a pretty village, where nearly every house has its front garden bright with flowers, with tall proud lilies here and there, and standard roses. and every lintel and door-sill is decorated with yellow ochre, and a border of whitewash enlivens even the humblest window. and the inside of the cottages is as clean as the outside, and some have the front room papered. it is truly an english village, for no other country can show the like. now the hills stand up grandly before us, showing here and there a scar above the thick woods that clothe their base. the road rises across the broken ground: we come to a lane on the left, marked by a limekiln, and following it upwards between ferny banks and tangled hedges, haunted by the thrush, we arrive presently at gormire lake, a pretty sheet of water, reposing in a hollow at the foot of whitstoncliffe. it is best seen from the bold green bank at the upper end, for there you face the cliff and the hill which rises behind it, covered with copse and bracken. the lake is considerably above the base of the hill, and appears to have been formed by a landslip; it is tenanted by fish, and has, as i heard subsequently at york, a subterranean outlet somewhere among the fallen fragments at the foot of the cliff. returned to the road, we have now to ascend sharp alpine zigzags, for the western face of hambleton is precipitous; and within a short distance the road makes a rise of eight hundred feet. the increasing ascent and change of direction opens a series of pleasing views, and as you look now this way, now that, along the diversified flanks of the hills, you will wish for more time to wander through such beautiful scenery. all that comparatively level country below was once covered by a sea, to which the hills we now stand on opposed a magnificent shore-line of cliffs; some of their summits more than a thousand feet in height. great is the contrast when you arrive on the brow: greenness and fertility suddenly give place to a bleak table-land, where the few patches of cultivation appear but meagre amid acres of brown ling. we have taken a great step upwards into a shrewish region. that white patch seen afar is a hunting and training colony, and there go two grooms riding, followed by a pack of hounds. what a chilly-looking place! a back settlement in michigan could hardly be more lonely. the boys may well betake themselves for amusement to the education of dogs. was it here, i wonder, that the yorkshire boy lived who had a bull pup, in the training of which he took great delight? one day, seeing his father come into the yard, the youngster said, "father, you go down on your hands and knees and blare like a bull, and see what our pup'll do." the parent complied; but while he was doing his best to roar like a bull, the dog flew at him and seized him by the lip. now the man roared in earnest, and tried to shake off his tormentor, while the boy, dancing in ecstacy, cried, "bear it, father! bear it! it'll be the makin' o' t' pup." by-and-by comes a descent, and the road drops suddenly into a deep glen, crowded with luxuriant woods. many a lovely view do we get here, as the windings of the road bring us to wider openings and broader slopes of foliage. we pass the hamlet of skawton; a brook becomes our companion, and woods still shut us in when we cross the rye, a shallow, lively stream, and get a view from the bridge up ryedale. a short distance up the stream brings us to the little village of rivas--as the country folk call it--and to rievaulx abbey. the civil old woman who shows the way into the ruin, will tell you that lord feversham does not like to see visitors get over the fence; and then, stay as long as you will, she leaves you undisturbed. what a pleasure awaits you!--a charm which bolton and fountains failed alike to inspire: perhaps because of the narrowness of the dale, and the feeling of deep seclusion imparted by the high thickly wooded hills on each side, the freedom allowed to vegetation in and around the place, and to your own movements. the style is early english, and while surveying the massive clustered columns that once supported the tower, the double rows of arches, and the graceful windows now draped with ivy of the nave, you will restore the light and beautiful architecture in imagination, and not without a wish that time would retrace his flight just for one hour, and show you the abbey in all its primitive beauty, when ryedale was "a place of vast solitude and horror," as the old chronicler says. walter l'espec, lord of the honour of helmsley, a baron of high renown in his day, grieving with his wife, the lady adeline, over the death of their only son by a fall from a horse, built a priory at kirkham, the scene of the accident, and in 1131 founded here an abbey for cistercian monks. and here after some years, during which he distinguished himself at the battle of the standard, he took the monastic vows, and gave himself up to devout study and contemplation until his death in 1153. and then he was buried in the glorious edifice which he had raised to the service of god, little dreaming that in later days when, fortress and church would be alike in ruins, other men would come with different thoughts, though perhaps not purer aims, and muse within the walls where he had often knelt in prayer, and admire his work, and respect his memory. much remains to delight the eye; flying buttresses, clerestory windows, corbels, capitals, and mouldings, some half buried in the rank grass and nettles. and how the clustering masses of ivy heighten the beauty! one of the stems, that seems to lend strength to the great column against which it leans, is more than three feet in circumference, and bears aloft a glorious green drapery. an elder grows within the nave, contributing its fair white blossoms to the fulness of beauty. the refectory, too, is half buried with ivy, and there you walk on what was once the floor of the crypt, and see the remains of the groins that supported the floor above: and there at one side is the recess where one of the monks used to read aloud some holy book while the others sat at dinner. adjoining the refectory is a paddock enclosed by ash-trees, which appears to have been the cloister court. now the leaves rustle overhead, and birds chirrup in the branches, and swallows flit in and out, and through the openings once filled by glass that rivalled the rainbow in colour. for two hours did i wander and muse; now sitting in the most retired nook, now retreating to a little distance to find out the best points of view. and my first impression strengthened; and i still feel that of all the abbeys rievaulx is the one i should like to see again. but the day wore on, and warned me, though reluctant, to depart. a small fee to the quiet old woman makes her thankful, and prompts her to go and point out the path by which you mount zigzagging through the thick wood to the great terrace near the summit of the hill. it will surprise you to see a natural terrace smooth and green as a lawn, of considerable width, and half a mile in length; that is, the visible extent, for it stretches farther round the heights towards helmsley. at one end stands a pavilion, decorated in the interior with paintings, at the other a domed temple, and from all the level between you get a glorious prospect up ryedale--up the dale by which we came from thirsk, and over leagues of finely-wooded hills, to a rim of swarthy moorland. and beneath, as in a nest, the ancient ruin and the little village repose in the sunshine, and the rapid river twinkles with frequent curves through the meadows. the gardener who lives in the basement of the pavilion will show you the paintings and a small pamphlet, in which the subjects are described; and perhaps tell you that the family used to come over at times from duncombe park and dine in the ornamented chamber. he will request you, moreover, to be careful to shut the gate by which you leave the terrace at a break in the shrubbery. the road is at the edge of the next field, and leads us in about an hour to helmsley, a quiet rural town very pleasantly situated beneath broad slopes of wood. it has a good church, a few quaint old houses, some still covered with thatch, a brook running along the street, a market cross, and a relic of the castle built by de roos, when yorkshire still wept the conquest. it had surprised me while on the way from thirsk to find more difficulty in understanding the rustic dialect than in the remoter parts of the north and west. the same peculiarities prevail here in the town; and the landlord's daughter, who waited on me at the house where i dined, professed a difficulty in understanding me. my question about the omnibus for gilling completely puzzled her for a few minutes, until light dawned on her, and she exclaimed joyfully, "oh! ye mean t' boos!" a few miles east of helmsley is kirkby moorside, where the proud duke of buckingham died, though not "in the worst inn's worst room;" and near it is kirkdale, with its antiquated church, and the famous cave in which the discovery of the bones of wild animals some thirty years ago established a new epoch for geologists. from kirkby you can look across to the hilly moors behind whitby; and if you incline to explore farther, castle howard will repay a visit, and you may go and look into the gorge through which the derwent flows, at malton, keeping in mind what geologists tell us, that if the gorge should happen to be closed by any convulsion, the vale of pickering would again become a sea. of helmsley castle the remains are but fragmentary; a portion of the lofty keep stands on an eminence, around which you may still trace the hollows once filled by the triple moat. the gateway is comparatively sound, the barbican is sadly dilapidated; and within other parts of the old walls which have been repaired, lord feversham's tenants assemble once a year to pay their rents. the ruin is so pleasantly embowered by trees and ivy, so agreeable for a lounge on a july day, that i regretted being summoned away too soon by "t' boos" driver's horn. there was no time for a look at feversham house, about half a mile distant, nor for a few miles' walk to byland abbey--another cistercian edifice--founded in 1143 by roger de mowbray. i could only glance at the skirts of the park, where preparations were making for a flower-show, and at the shield on the front of the lodge, bearing the motto, _deo, regi, patriæ_. the rye here is a smaller stream than at rievaulx, owing to the loss of water by the 'swallows' in duncombe park; half a mile lower down it reappears in full current. but the driver is impatient; we shall be too late for the train at gilling, and the steep howardian hills are to be crossed on the way. fine views open over the woods; then we leave the trees for a while; a vast prospect appears of the vale of york, and at oswaldkirk--a picturesque village--the road falling rapidly brings us once more into a wooded region, and in due time we come to gilling, on the branch railway to malton. there was not time, or i would have run up the hill behind the station to look at the noble avenue of beeches that forms a worthy approach to fairfax hall--the home of a family venerated by all who love liberty. i felt an emotion of regret when the station-clerk told me that the present fairfax is an aged man and childless; for ere long the name will disappear, and the estate become a possession of the cholmleys. the train arrives; five miles on it stops at coxwold, where sterne passed seven years of his life; then two leagues more, and we have to wait ninety minutes for a train down from the north, at pilmoor junction--a singularly unattractive spot. luckily i had a book in my knapsack, and so beguiled the time till the bell rang that summoned us to york. in my wanderings i have sometimes had the curiosity to try a _temperance hotel_, and always repented it, because experience showed that temperance meant poor diet, stingy appliances, and slovenly accommodations. so it was not without misgivings that i resolved to make one more experiment, and see what temperance meant in the metropolis of yorkshire. the _hotel_, which did not displease me, looks into micklegate, not far from the bar on which the heads of dukes and nobles were impaled, as mentioned in the _lay of towton field_. considering how many quartos have been filled with the history and description of york, into how many little books the big books have been condensed, every traveller is supposed to know as much as he desires concerning the ancient city, ere he visits it. for one who has but a day to spare, the best way of proceeding is of course to get on the top of the minster tower, and stay there until his memory is refreshed by the sight of what he sees below. at a height of two hundred feet above the pavement you can overlook the great cluster of clean red roofs, and single out the twenty-five churches that yet remain of the fifty once visible from this same elevation. clifford's tower, a portion of the old castle, stands now within the precincts of the gaol; the line of the city walls can be seen, and the situation of the four bars; there, by the river, is the guildhall where king charles was purchased from the scots; there the small river foss, that rises in the howardian hills, and once filled the roman ditches, joins the ouse. outside the walls, severus hill marks the spot where the emperor, who died here in 210, was burnt on his funeral pile with all the honours due to a wearer of the purple; another hill shows where scrope was beheaded. to the south lies bishopthorpe, the birthplace of guy fawkes, and residence of the bishops. eastward is stamford brig, where the hard norwegian king, flushed with victory, lost the battle and his life--where the spoil in gold ornaments was so great, "that twelve young men could hardly carry it upon their shoulders"--whence the victor harold marched to lose in turn life and crown at hastings. on the west lies marston moor, and farther to the south-west the field of towton. and then, from wandering afar over the broad vale, your eye returns to the minster itself, and looks down on all its properties, and comfortable residences, snug gardens, and plots of greenest turf, all covering ground on which the romans built their camp, and where they erected a temple for the worship of heathen deities. as regards the interior, whatever may have been your emotions of admiration or wonder in other cathedrals, they become fuller and deeper in this of york. after two long visits, i still wished for more time to pace again the lofty aisles, to hear the organ's rolling notes, while marvelling at the glory of architecture. in roger north's time, as he relates, the interior of the cathedral was the favourite resort of fashionable strollers: in an earlier time, when archery was practised keenly as rifle-shooting in our day, and the prophecy as to the pre-eminence of york was not yet forgotten, a ballad was written in praise of the city: thus "the maior of yorke, with his companie, were all in the fieldes, i warrant ye, to see good rule kept orderly, as if it had been at london. which was a dutifull sight to see the maior and aldermen there to bee for the setting forth of archerie, as well as they doe at london. "yorke, yorke, for my monie, of all the citties that ever i see, for mery pastime & companie, except the cittie of london." from the minster walk as far as may be along the city walls: you will see the four bars--monk, micklegate, walmgate, and bootham; the first-named still retaining the barbican. in some of the narrow lanes near the water-side you may discover old mansions, the residences of the magnates of york two hundred years ago, now tenanted by numbers of working-people, and grand staircases and panelled rooms, looking dingy and squalid. then go forth and take a turn under the trees of the new walk on the bank of the ouse, and see a much-frequented resort of the citizens, who certainly cannot boast that their environs are romantic. you would hardly believe that the stream flowing so placidly by embosoms the rapid rivers we crossed so often while in the mountains. if legends deceive not, any one who came and threw five white pebbles into a certain part of the ouse as the hour of one struck on the first morning of may, would then see everything he desired to see, past, present, and to come, on the surface of the water. once a knight returning from the wars desired to see how it fared with his lady-love: he threw in the pebbles, and beheld the home of the maiden, a mansion near scarborough, and a youth wearing a mask and cloak descending from her window, and the hiding of the ladder by the serving-man. maddened by jealousy, he mounted and rode with speed; his horse dropped dead in sight of the house; he saw the same youth ascending the ladder, rushed forward, and stabbed him to the heart. it was his betrothed. she was not faithless; still loved her knight, and had only been to a masquerade. for many a day thereafter did the knight's anguish and remorse appear as the punishment of unlawful curiosity in the minstrel's lay and gestour's romance. return, and take a walk in that pleasant ground, half park, half garden, which we saw from the tower, and see how enviable a site has fallen to the yorkshire philosophical society for their museum. to have such a scope of smooth green turf, flower-beds, shrubs, and trees in the heart of a city, as the shelter of remarkable antiquities and scientific collections, is a rare privilege. at one side stand the remains of st. leonard's hospital--norman and early english--sheltering, when i saw it, something far, far more ancient than itself--a huge fossil saurian. the ruins of st. mary's abbey appear on the other side; and between the two the doric edifice, containing the museum, library, and offices of the society. in another part of the grounds, the hospitium of the monks, which in a country village would pass for a mediæval barn, now contains the admirable collection of roman and british antiquities for which york is celebrated. seeing the numerous tiles stamped with latin words and numerals, the tombs and altars, the household utensils, and personal ornaments, your idea of the roman occupation will, perhaps, become more vivid than before; and again, while you examine the fragment of the wall and tower, supposed to have been built by hadrian, strong and solid even after the lapse of nineteen centuries. and when you look once more at the abbey and the hospital, you will regret the ravages of plunderers. for years the ruins were worked as a quarry by all who wanted stone for building purposes, and, as if to accelerate the waste, great heaps were burnt in a limekiln erected on the spot; and it is said that stone pillaged from st. mary's at york was used for the repair of beverley minster. however, the spirit of preservation has prevented further dilapidation, and old time himself is constrained to do his wasting imperceptibly. st. mary's lodge, adjoining the abbey, long neglected, and degraded into a pothouse, was restored some years ago, and occupied as a residence by professor phillips, whose connexion with the society will not soon be forgotten. a charming residence it is; and an evening and a morning spent within it, enable me to affirm that its chambers, though clothed in a modern dress, witness hospitality as generous as that of the monks of the olden time. chapter xxv. by rail to leeds--kirkstall abbey--valley of the aire--flight to settle--giggleswick--drunken barnaby again--nymph and satyr --the astonished bagman--what do they addle?--view from castleber--george fox's vision on pendle hill--walk to maum- companions--horse versus scenery--talk by the way--little wit, muckle work--malham tarn--ale for recompense--malham- hospitality--gordale scar--scenery versus horse--trap for trout --a brookside musing--malham cove--source of the aire--to keighley. on the second morning of my stay in york, after a farewell visit to the minster, i travelled by rail to leeds. i had little time, and, remembering former days, less inclination to tarry in this great, dismal, cloth-weaving town; so after a passing glance at the new town-hall, and some other improvements, i walked through the long, scraggy suburb such as only a busy manufacturing town can create, to kirkstall abbey. this also was an abode of the cistercians, founded in 1152 by henry de lacy; and they who can discourse learnedly on such subjects pronounce it to be, as a ruin, more perfect than some which we have already visited. but it stands only a few yards from a black, much-frequented road, and within sight and hearing of a big forge, and the aire flows past, not pellucid, but stained with the refuse liquor of dye-works. still the site is not devoid of natural beauty; and an hour may be agreeably passed in sauntering about the ruin. it must have been a delightful haunt when leeds was loidis in elmete. i had expected to see the valley of the aire sprinkled with the villa residences of the merchants of leeds; but the busy traders prefer to live in the town, and in all the nine miles on the way to bradford, you have only a succession of factories, dye-works, and excavations, encroaching on and deforming the beauty of the valley, while the vegetation betrays signs of the harmful effect of smoke. as the afternoon drew on, i bethought myself that it was the last day of the week, and a desire came over me for one more quiet sunday among the hills. so i turned aside to newlay station, and took flight by the first train that came up for settle, retracing part of my journey through craven of the week before. on the way from the station to the town, i made a détour to giggleswick, a village that claims notice for its grammar-school, a fine cliff--part of the craven fault--and a remarkable spring. of his visit to this place drunken barnaby chants: "thence to giggleswick most steril, hem'd with shelves and rocks of peril, near to th' way, as a traveller goes, a fine fresh spring both ebbs and flows; neither know the learn'd that travel what procures it, salt or gravel." drayton helps us to a legend which accounts for the origin of the spring. suppose we pause for a few minutes to read it. coming to this place, he says: "at giggleswick where i a fountain can you show, that eight times in a day is said to ebb and flow, who sometime was a nymph, and in the mountains high of craven, whose blue heads for caps put on the sky, amongst th' oreads there, and sylvans made abode (it was ere human foot upon those hills had trod), of all the mountain kind and since she was most fair, it was a satyr's chance to see her silver hair flow loosely at her back, as up a cliff she clame, her beauties noting well, her features, and her frame, and after her he goes; which when she did espy, before him like the wind the nimble nymph doth fly, they hurry down the rocks, o'er hill and dale they drive, to take her he doth strain, t' outstrip him she doth strive, like one his kind that knew, and greatly fear'd his rape, and to the topick gods by praying to escape, they turn'd her to a spring, which as she then did pant, when wearied with her course, her breath grew wondrous scant: even as the fearful nymph, then thick and short did blow, now made by them a spring, so doth she ebb and flow." it was supper-time when i came to the _lion_ at settle. a commercial traveller, who was in the town on his first visit, looked up from his accounts while i sat at table to tell me of a strange word which he had heard during the day, and with as much astonishment as if it had been esquimaux. indeed, he had not recovered from his astonishment, and could not help having a good laugh when he thought of the cause. seeing a factory on the outskirts of the town, he asked a girl, "what do they make in that factory?" "what do they addle?" replied the girl, inquiringly. and ever since he had been repeating to himself, "what do they addle?" and always with a fresh burst of laughter. "pretty outlandish talk that, isn't it?" he said, as he finished his story. settle is a quiet little town, built at the foot of castleber, another of the grand cliffs of craven. to the inhabitants the huge rock is a recreative resort: seats are placed at its base; a zigzag path leads to the summit, whence the views over the valley of the ribble are very picturesque and pleasing. on the north-west the broad top of ingleborough is seen peeping over an intervening height; penyghent appears in the north; and southerly, pendle hill rises within the borders of lancashire. very beautiful did the dewy landscape seem to me the next morning as i sat on the cliff top while the sunlight increased upon the green expanse. "as we travelled," says george fox in his _journal_, "we came near a very great hill, called pendle hill, and i was moved of the lord to go up to the top of it; which i did with difficulty, it was so very steep and high. when i was come to the top, i saw the sea bordering upon lancashire. from the top of this hill the lord let me see in what places he had a great people to be gathered. as i went down, i found a spring of water in the side of the hill, with which i refreshed myself, having eaten or drunk but little for several days before." the spring is still there, and known in the neighbourhood as george fox's well. after breakfast i set out to walk to malham, about seven miles distant, and was mounting the hill at an easy pace behind the town, when two men came up, and presently told me they also were going to maum--as they pronounced it. so we joined company, all alike strangers to the road, and came soon to the bye-path of which the ostler at the _lion_ had advised me: "it would save a mile or more if i could only find the way." a greater attraction for me was, that it led across the silent pastures on the top of the hills. as i got over the stile, an old man who was passing strongly urged us to keep the road; we should be sure to lose ourselves, and happen never to get to maum at all. to which i replied, that if a londoner and two yorkshiremen could not find their way across six miles of hill-country they deserved to lose it; and away we went across the field. ere long we were on breezy slopes, which, opening here and there on the left, revealed curious rocky summits beyond, and as we trod the springy turf, my companions told me they had come by rail from bentham, and were going to malham for no other purpose than to see a horse which one of them had sent there "to grass" a few weeks previously. they were as much amused at my admiration of the scenery as i was at their taking so long a journey to look at a quadruped. they would not go out of their way to see malham cove, or gordale scar, not they: a horse was worth more than all the scenery. and yet, judging by their dress and general conversation, they were men in respectable circumstances. presently, as we passed a rocky cone springing all yellow and gray from a bright green eminence, i stopped and tried to make them understand why it was admirable, pointing out its form, the contrasts of colour, and its relation to surrounding objects: "well!" said one, "i never thought of that. it do make a difference when you look at it in that way." neither of them had ever been to london, and what pleased them most was to hear something about the great city. they were as full of wonder, and as ready to express it, as children; and not one of us found the way wearisome. we had taken a new departure when in sight of stockdale, a solitary farm-house down in a hollow, as instructed, and gained a rougher elevation, when the track, which had become faint, disappeared altogether, and at a spot where no landmark was in sight to guide us. "the old man was right," said the yorkshiremen; "we have lost the way;" and they began a debate as to the course now to be followed. at length one strode off in a direction that would have taken him in time to the top of penyghent. i looked at the sun, and declared for the east. but no, the other remained resolute in his opinion, and would not be persuaded. "let him go," i said to his companion, who sided with me; "little wit in the head makes muckle work for the heels;" and we took a course to the east. after a while the other repented, and came panting after us; and before we had gone half a mile we saw malham tarn, broad and blue, at a distance on the left; then the track reappeared; then malham came in sight, lying far down in a pleasant valley; and then we came into a rough, narrow road, descending steeply, and the yorkshireman acknowledged his error. "eh! that's maum cove, is it?" he said, as a turn in the road showed us the head of the valley; "that's what we've heard so much talk about. well, it's a grand scar." he seemed to repent of even this morsel of admiration, and helped his neighbour with strong resolutions not to turn aside and look up at the cliff from its base. we each had a glass of ale at the public-house in the village. before i was aware, one of my companions paid for the three, nor would he on any terms be persuaded otherwise. "hoot, lad," he rejoined, "say nought about it. i'd pay ten times as much for the pleasure of your talk." and with that he silenced me. although gordale scar is not more than a mile from malham, they refused to go and see it. however, when we came to the grazier's house, and they heard that the scar lay in the way to the pasture where the horse was turned out, they thought they wouldn't mind taking a look just, as they went. the good wife brought out bread, cheese, butter, and a jug of beer, and would have me sit down and partake with the others; regarding my plea that i was a stranger, and had just taken a drink, as worthless. a few minutes sufficed, and then her son accompanied us, for without him the horse would never be found. we followed a road running along the base of the precipitous hills which cross the head of the valley, to a rustic tenement, dignified with the name of gordale house; and there turned towards the cliffs by the side of a brook. at first there is nothing to indicate your approach to anything extraordinary: you enter a great chasm, where the crags rise high and singularly rugged, sprinkled here and there with a small fir or graceful ash, where the bright green turf, sloping up into all the ins and outs of the dark gray cliff, and the little brook babbling out towards the sunshine, between great masses of rock fallen from above, enliven the otherwise gloomy scene. you might fancy yourself in a great roofless cave; but, ascending to the rear, you find an outlet, a sudden bend in the chasm, narrower, and more rocky and gloomy than the entrance. the cliffs rise higher and overhang fearfully above, appearing to meet indeed at the upper end; and there, from that grim crevice, rushes a waterfall. the water makes a bound, strikes the top of a rock, and, rushing down on each side, forms an inverted /\ of splash and foam. and now you feel that gordale scar deserves all the admiration lavished upon it. "well!" exclaimed one of the yorkshiremen, "who'd ha' thought to see anything like this? and we living all our life within twenty mile of it! 'tis a wonderful place." "so, you do believe at last," i rejoined, "that scenery is worth looking at, as well as a horse?" "that i do. i don't wonder now that you come all the way from london to see our hills." we crossed the fall, climbed up the rock into another bend of the chasm, where the water makes its first plunge, unseen from below, shut in by crags that wear a sterner frown. you look up to the summit and see the water tumbling through a ring of rock, so strangely has the disruptive shock there broken the cliff. the effect both on ear and eye as the torrent breaks into spray and dashes downwards in fantastic channels, is surprisingly impressive. only on one side is the pass accessible, and there so steep that your hands must aid in the ascent. we scrambled to the top and found ourselves on the margin of a table-land sloping gently upwards from the edge of the precipice, so bestrewn with upheaved rocks and lumps of stone, that but for the grass which grows rich and sweet between, whereof the sheep bite gladly, the aspect would indeed be savage. along an irregular furrow, as it may be called, which deepens as it nears the precipice, flows the beck--coming, as the boy told us, from malham tarn. there was another small stream, he said, which disappeared in a 'swallow' on his father's pasture; and in that swallow he had many times found large trout, struggling helplessly in their unexpected trap. and, pointing to the highest shoulder of the cliff, he said that a fox, once hard pressed by the hounds, had leaped over, followed by a dog, and both were killed by the fall. after a few minutes of admiration, the yorkshiremen and their guide began to move off across the fell, in search of the horse. one of them hoped we should meet again on the way back. the other said, "not much hope o' that; for he won't go away from this till he have learnt it all by heart." then we shook hands, and they promised to set up a pile of stones at a certain gate on their return, as a signal to me that they had passed through. true enough, i was in no haste to depart, and there was much to admire as well as "to learn." the sight of the innumerable shelves, with their fringe of grass, the diversity of jagged rocks thrusting their gray heads up into the sunlight, of the rugged and broken slopes, set me longing for a scramble. hither and thither i went; now to a point where i could see miles of the cliffs, and mark how, in many places, owing to the splitting and shivering, the limestone wall resembles a row of organ pipes. now into a gap all barren and stony with immemorial screes; where, however, you could hear the faint tinkle of hidden water, and pulling away the stones, discover small ferns and pale blades of grass along the course of the tiny current. anon, returning to the scar, i climbed to the top of the crag that juts midway in the rear of the chasm, surveying the scene below; then selecting a nook by the side of the beck, a little above its leap through the ring, i lay down and watched the water as it ran with innumerable sparkling cascades from the rise of the fell. here the solitude was complete, and the view limited to a few yards of the hollow water-course patched with green and gray, and the bright blue sky above. and while i lay, soothed by the murmur of the water, looking up at the great white clouds floating slowly across the blue, certain thoughts that had haunted me for some days shaped themselves in order in my brain; and with your permission, gracious reader, i here produce them: a cloud of care had come across my mind; ill-balanced hung the world: here pleasure all; there hopeless toil, and cruel pangs that fall on poverty, to which but death seemed kind. and so, with heart perplexed, i left behind the crowd of men, the town with smoky pall, and sought the hills, and breathed the mountain wind. hath god forgotten then the mean and small? i mused, and gazed o'er purple fells outroll'd; when, lo! beneath an old thatched roof a gleam that kindled soon with sunset's gorgeous gold: broad panes, nor fretted oriel brighter beam. if glories thus on lattice rude unfold, of life unlit by heaven we may not deem. the sun was beginning to drop towards the west before i left the pleasant hollow; and then with reluctance, for my holiday was near its close, and months would elapse before i should again hear the voice of a mountain brook, and slake myself in sunshine. having returned to the village, i kept along the river bank to the head of the valley, where copse and enormous boulders, scattered about the narrow grassy level and in the bed of the stream, make a fine foreground to the magnificent limestone cliff of malham cove. rising sheer to a height of nearly three hundred feet, the precipice curving inwards, buttressed on each side by woody slopes, realizes wordsworth's description--"semicirque profound;" and while you look up at its pale marble-like surface, broken only by a narrow shelf--a stripe of green--accessible to goats and adventurous boys, you will be ready to say with the bard, "oh, had this vast theatric structure wound with finished sweep into a perfect round, no mightier work had gained the plausive smile of all-beholding phoebus!" at a distance you might well imagine it to be a towering ruin, from which time has not yet gnawed the traces of fallen chambers and colonnades. and perhaps yet more will you desire to see the cataract which once came rushing down in one tremendous plunge from the summit, as is said, owing to some temporary stoppage of the underground channels. what a glorious fall that must have been! more than twice the height of niagara. from a low flat arch at the base of the cliff, about twenty feet in width, the river aire rushes out, copiously fed by a subterranean source. the water sparkles as it flows forth into the light of day, and begins its course clear and bright as truth, yet fated to receive many a defilement ere it pours into the ouse. could the naiads forsee what is to befall, how piteous would be their lamentations! the stream is at once of considerable volume, inhabited by trout, and you may fish at the very mouth of the arch. here, too, i scrambled up and down, crossed and recrossed the stream, to find all the points of view; then ascending to the hill-top i traced the line of cliff from the cove to gordale. it is a continuation of that great geological phenomenon already mentioned--the craven fault--which, extending yet farther, terminates near threshfield, the village by which we passed last sunday on our way to kettlewell. my return walk was quiet enough, and favourable to meditation. the yorkshiremen had set up the preconcerted signal by the gate. i hope the horse did not drive the scar quite out of their memory. perhaps a lasting impression was made; for "gordale-chasm" is, as wordsworth says, "----terrific as the lair where the young lions couch." i left settle by the last evening train, journeying for the third time over the same ground, and came to the _devonshire arms_ at keighley just before the doors were locked for the night. chapter xxvi. keighley--men in pinafores--walk to haworth--charlotte brontë's birthplace--the church--the pew--the tombstone--the marriage register--shipley--saltaire--a model town--household arrangements--i isn't the gaffer--a model factory--acres of floors--miles of shafting--weaving shed--thirty thousand yards a day--cunning machinery--first fleeces--shipley feast--scraps of dialect--to bradford--rival towns--yorkshire sleuth-hounds- die like a britoner. keighley is not pronounced kayley, as you might suppose, but keatley, or keithley, as some of the natives have it, flinging in a touch of the guttural. like skipton, it is a stony town; and, as the tall chimneys indicate, gets its living by converting wool into wearing apparel of sundry kinds. you meet numbers of men clad in long blue pinafores, from throat to instep; wool-sorters, who thus protect themselves from fluff. the factory people were going to work next morning--the youngsters clattering over the pavement in their wooden clogs--as i left the town by the halifax road, for haworth, a walk of four miles, and all the way up-hill. the road runs along one side of a valley, which, when the houses are left behind, looks pretty with numerous trees and fields of grass and wheat, and a winding brook, and makes a pleasing foreground to the view of the town. the road itself is neither town nor country; the footpaths, as is not uncommon in yorkshire, are paved nearly all the way; and houses are frequent, tenanted by weavers, with here and there a little shop displaying oaten bread. an hour of ascent and you come to a cross-road, where, turning to the right for about a furlong, you see haworth, piled from base to summit of a steep hill, the highest point crowned by the church. the road makes a long bend in approaching the acclivity, which, if you choose, may be avoided by a cut-off; but coming as a pilgrim you will perhaps at first desire to see all. you pass a board which notifies _haworth town_, and then begins the ascent painfully steep, bounded on one side by houses, on the other--where you look into the valley--by little gardens and a line of ragged little sheds and hutches. what a wearisome hill; you will half doubt whether horses can draw a load up it. presently we have houses on both sides, and shops with plate-glass and mahogany mouldings, contrasting strongly with the general rustic aspect, and the primitive shop of the _clogger_. some of the windows denote an expectation of visitors; the apothecary exhibits photographs of the church, the parsonage, and mr. brontë; and no one seems surprised at your arrival. the _black bull_ stands invitingly on the hill-top. i was ready for breakfast, and the hostess quite ready to serve; and while i ate she talked of the family who made haworth famous. she knew them all, brother and sisters: mr. nicholls had preached the day before in the morning; mr. brontë in the afternoon. it was mostly in the afternoon that the old gentleman preached, and he delivered his sermon without a book. the people felt sorry for his bereavements; and they all liked mr. nicholls. she had had a good many visitors, but expected "a vast" before the summer was over. from the inn to the churchyard is but a few paces. the church is ugly enough to have had a puritan for architect; and there, just beyond the crowded graves, stands the parsonage, as unsmiling as the church. after i had looked at it from a distance, and around on the landscape, which, in summer dress, is not dreary, though bounded by dark moors, the sexton came and admitted me to the church. he points to the low roof, and quotes milton, and leads you to the family pew, and shows you the corner where _she_--that is, charlotte--used to sit; and against the wall, but a few feet from this corner, you see the long plain memorial stone, with its melancholy list of names. as they descend, the inscriptions crowd close together; and beneath the lowest, that which records the decease of her who wrote _jane eyre_, there remains but a narrow blank for those which are to follow.[e] [e] this stone, as stated in the newspapers, has since been replaced by a larger one, with sculptured ornaments. then the sexton, turning away to the vestry, showed me in the marriage register the signatures of charlotte brontë, her husband, and father; and next, his collection of photographs, with an intimation that they were for sale. when he saw that i had not the slightest inclination to become a purchaser, to have seen the place was quite enough; he said, that if i had a card to send in the old gentleman would see me. it seemed to me, i replied, that the greatest kindness a stranger could show to the venerable pastor, would be, not to intrude upon him. on some of the pews i noticed small plates affixed, notifying that mr. mudbeck of windytop farm, or some other parishioner of somewhere else, "hath" three sittings, or four and a quarter, and so forth; and this invasion by 'vested rights' of the house of prayer and thanksgiving, appeared to me as the finishing touch of its unattractive features. the sexton invited me to ascend the tower, but discovered that the key was missing; so, as i could not delay, i made a brief excursion on the moor behind the house, where heather-bloom masked the sombre hue; and then walked back to keighley, and took the train for shipley, the nearest station to saltaire. it was the day of shipley feast, and the place was all in a hubbub, and numbers of factory people, leaving for a while their habitual manufacture of woollen goods out of a mixture of woollen and cotton, had come together to enjoy themselves. but no one seemed happy except the children; the men and women looked as if they did not know what to do with themselves. i took the opportunity to scan faces, and could not fail to be struck by the general ill-favoured expression. whatever approach towards good looks that there was, clearly lay with the men; the women were positively ugly, and numbers of them remarkable for that protruding lower jaw which so characterizes many of the irish peasantry. saltaire is about a mile from shipley. it is a new settlement in an old country; a most noteworthy example of what enterprise can and will accomplish where trade confides in political and social security. here, in an agreeable district of the valley of the aire--wooded hills on both sides--a magnificent factory and dependent town have been built, and with so much judgment as to mitigate or overcome the evils to which towns and factories have so long been obnoxious. the factory is built of stone in pure italian style, and has a truly palatial appearance. what would the plantagenets say, could they come back to life, and see trade inhabiting palaces far more stately than those of kings? the main building, of six stories, is seventy-two feet in height, and five hundred and fifty feet in length. in front, at some distance, standing quite apart, rises the great chimney, to an elevation of two hundred and fifty feet; a fine ornamental object, built to resemble a campanile. the site is well chosen on the right bank of the aire, between the leeds and liverpool canal, and the leeds and lancaster railway. hence the readiest means are available for the reception and despatch of merchandise. a little apart, extending up the gentle slope, the young town of saltaire is built, and in such a way as to realize the aspirations of a sanitary reformer. the houses are ranged in parallelograms, of which i counted sixteen, the fronts looking into a spacious street; the backs into a lane about seven feet in width, which facilitates ventilation, admits the scavenger's cart, and serves as drying-ground. streets and lanes are completely paved, the footways are excellent; there is a pillar post-office, and no lack of gas-lamps. the number of shopkeepers is regulated by messrs. salt, the owners of the property; and while one baker and grocer suffices to supply the wants of the town others will not be allowed to come in. a congregational chapel affords place for religious worship, and a concert-hall for musical recreation, or lectures, the men who wish to tipple must go down to shipley, for saltaire, as yet, has no public-house. if i mistake not, the owners are unwilling that there shall be one. my request for leave to look in-doors was readily granted. the ordinary class of houses have a kitchen with oven and boiler, a sink and copper; a parlour, or 'house' in the vernacular, two bedrooms, and a small back-yard, with out-offices. the floors, mantlepiece, and stairs, are of stone. the rent is 3s. 1d. a week. gas is laid on at an extra charge, and the tenant finds burners. the supply of water is ample, but the water is hard, and has a smack of peat-bog in its flavour. a woman whom i saw washing, told me the water lost much of its hardness if left to stand awhile. each house has a back-door opening into the lane; and every stercorarium voids into the ash-pit, which is cleared out once a week at the landlord's cost. the pits are all accessible by a small trap-door from the lane; hence there is no intrusion on the premises in the work of cleansing. the drainage in other respects is well cared for; and the whole place is so clean and substantial, with handsome fronts to the principal rows, that you feel pleasure in observing it. the central and corner houses are a story higher than the rest, and what with these and the handsome rows above referred to, there is accommodation for all classes of the employed--spinners, overlookers, and clerks. after building two or three of the parallelograms, it was discovered that cellars were desirable, and since then every house has its cellar, in which, as the woman said, "we can keep our meat and milk sweet in hot weather." what a contrast, i thought, to the one closet in a lodging in some large town, where the food is kept side by side with soap and candles, the duster, and scrubbing-brush! and though the stone floors look chilly, coal is only fivepence-halfpenny a hundred-weight. no one is allowed to live in the town who is not in some way employed by the firm. most of the tenants to whom i spoke, expressed themselves well satisfied with their quarters, but two or three thought the houses dear; they could get a place down at shipley, or shipla, as they pronounced it, for two-and-sixpence a week. i put a question to the baker: "i isn't the gaffer," he answered. "never mind," i replied; "if you are not the master, we can talk all the same." he thought we could; and he too was one of those who did not like the new town. 'twas too dear. he lived at shipla, and paid but four pounds a year for a house with a cellar under it, and a garden behind; and there he kept a pig, which was not permitted at saltaire. there was "a vast" worked in the mill who did not live under mr. salt; they came from bradford, and a train, called the saltaire train, "brought 'em in the morning, and fetched 'em home at night." the railway runs between the town and the factory. you cross by a handsome stone bridge, quite in keeping with the prevalent style of architecture. the hands were returning from dinner as i approached after my survey of the colony, and the prodigious clatter of clogs was well-nigh deafening. my letter of introduction procured me the favour of mr. george salt's guidance. first, he showed me a model of the premises, by which i saw that a six-story wing, if such it may be called, comprising the warehouses, projects at a right angle from the rear of the main building, with the combing-shed on one side, the weaving-shed on the other. in that combing-shed 3500 persons sat down in perfect comfort to a house-warming dinner. the weaving-shed is twice as large. then there are the workshops of the smiths, machinists, and other artisans; packing, washing, and drying-rooms, and a gasometer to maintain five thousand lights; so that in all the buildings cover six acres and a half. include the whole of the floors, and the space is twelve acres. rails are laid from the line in front into the ground-floor of the building; hence there is no porterage, no loading and unloading except by machinery; and the canal at the back is equally convenient for water-carriage. in front the ground is laid out as an ornamental shrubbery, terminated at one corner by the graceful campanile. then i was conducted to the boilers, a row of ten, sunk underground in the solid rock, below the level of the shrubbery. they devour one hundred and twenty tons of coal in a week; but with economy, for the tall chimney pours out no clouds of dense black smoke. the prevention is accomplished by careful feeding, and leaving the furnace-door open half an inch, to admit a full stream of air. i was amazed at the sight of such a range of boilers, and yet they were not enough, and an excavation was making to receive others. then to the engine-room, where the sight of the tremendous machinery was a fresh surprise. here are erected two separate pairs of engines, combining 1250-horse power, by fairbairn, of manchester. you see how beauty of construction consorts with ponderous strength. polished iron, glittering brass, and shining mahogany, testify to the excellence of lancashire handicraft in 1853, the date of the engines. the mahogany is used for casing; and here, as with the boilers, every precaution is used to prevent the escape of heat. as you watch the great cogged fly-wheels spinning round with resistless force, you will hardly be surprised to hear that they impart motion to two miles of 'shafting,' which weighs in all six hundred tons, and rotates from sixty to two hundred and fifty times a minute. and this shafting, of which the diameter is from two to fourteen inches, sets twelve hundred power-looms going, besides fulfilling all its other multifarious duties. then we went from one noisy floor to another among troops of spinners, finding everywhere proofs of the same presiding judgment. all is fire-proof; the beams and columns are of cast-iron; the floors rest on arches of hollow bricks; and the ventilation, maintained by inlets a few inches above the floor, and outlets near the ceiling, where hot-water pipes keep up a temperature of sixty degrees, is perfect, without draughts. the top room in the main building, running from end to end for five hundred and fifty feet without a break, said to be the largest room in europe, is an impressive sight, filled with ranks of busy machines and busy workers. in the weaving-shed, all the driving gear is placed beneath the floor, so that you have a clear prospect over the whole area at once, uninterrupted by the usual array of rapid wheels and flying straps. vast as is the appetite of those twelve hundred looms for warp and weft, it is kept satisfied from the mill's own resources; and in one day they deliver thirty thousand yards of alpaca, or other kinds of woollen cloth. multiply that quantity, reader, by the number of working days in a year, and you will discover to what an amazing extent the markets of the world are supplied by this one establishment of titus salt and co. some portions of the machinery do their work with marvellous precision and dexterity, "----as if the iron thought!" and it seemed to me that i could never have tired of watching the machine that took the wool, one fringe-like instalment after another, from assiduous cylinders, and delivered it to another series of movements which placed the fibres all in one direction, and produced the rough outline of the future thread. another ingenious device weaves two pieces at once all in one width, and with four selvages, of which two are, of course, in the middle of the web, and yet there is no difference in appearance between those two inner ones and those on the outer edges. the piece is afterwards divided along the narrow line left between them. even in the noisome washing-room there was something to admire. the wool, after a course of pushing to and fro in a cistern of hot water by two great rakes, is delivered to an endless web by a revolving cylinder. this cylinder is armed with rows of long brass teeth, and as they would be in the way of the web on their descent, they disappear within the body of the cylinder at the critical moment, and come presently forth again to continue their lift. in the warehouse, i was shown that the wool is sorted into eight qualities, sometimes a ninth; and the care bestowed on this preliminary operation may be judged of from the fact, that every sorting passes in succession through two sets of hands. there, too, i learned that the first fleece of gimmer hogs is among the best of english wool; and, indeed, it feels quite silky in comparison with other kinds. the quality loses in goodness with every subsequent shearing. the clippings and refuse are purchased by the shoddy makers, those ingenious converters of old clothes into new. where alpaca and other fine cloths are so largely manufactured, the question as to a continuous supply of finest wool becomes of serious importance. mr. salt has done what he can to provide for a supply by introducing the alpaca sheep into australia and the cape of good hope. on my coming, i had thought the counting-house, and offices, and visitors' room too luxurious for a mere place of business; but when i returned thither to take leave, with the impression of the enormous scale of the business, and the means by which it is accomplished fresh on my mind, these appeared quite in harmony with all the rest. and when i stood, taking a last look around, on the railway bridge, i felt that he whose large foresight had planned so stately a home for industry, and set it down here in a sylvan valley, deserved no mean place among the worthies of yorkshire. i walked back to shipley, and there spent some time sauntering to and fro in the throng, which had greatly increased during the afternoon. there was no increase of amusement, however, with increase of numbers; and the chief diversion seemed to consist in watching the swings and roundabouts, and eating gingerbread. now and then little troops of damsels elbowed their way through, bedizened in such finery as would have thrown a negro into ecstacies. "that caps me!" cried a young man, as one of the parties went past, outvying all the rest in staring colours. "there's a vast of 'em coom t' feast, isn't there?" replied his companion; "and there 'll be more, afore noight." "look at bobby," said an aunt of her little nephew, who had been disappointed of a cake; "look at bobby! he's fit to cry." "what's ta do?" shouted a countryman, as he was pushed rudely aside; "runnin' agean t' foaks! what d'ye come poakin yer noase thro' here for?" "ah'm puzzeld wi' t' craad" (crowd), answered the offender. after hearing many more fragments of west riding dialect, i forced my way to the railway-station, and went to bradford. few towns show more striking evidences of change than this; and the bits of old bradford, little one-story tenements with stone roofs, left standing among tall and handsome warehouses, strengthen the contrast. bradford and leeds, only nine miles apart, have been looked upon as rivals; and it was said that no sooner did one town erect a new building than the other built one larger or handsomer; and now bradford boasts its st. george's hall, and leeds its town hall, crowned by a lofty tower. but what avails a tower, even two hundred and forty feet high, when a letter was once received, addressed, "_leeds, near bradford!_" your yorkshireman of the west riding is, so mrs. gaskell says, "a sleuth-hound" after money. as there is nothing like testimony, let me end this chapter with a brace of anecdotes, and you, reader, may draw your own inference. not far from bradford, an old couple lived on their farm. the good man had been ill for some time, when the practitioner who attended him advised that a physician should be summoned from bradford for a consultation. the doctor came, looked into the case, gave his opinion; and descending from the sick-room to the kitchen, was there accosted by the old woman, with, "well, doctor, what's your charge?" "my fee is a guinea." "a guinea,--doctor! a guinea! and if ye come again will it be another guinea?" "yes; but i shall hardly have to come again. i have given my opinion, and leave the patient in very good hands." "a guinea, doctor! hech!" the old woman rose, went upstairs to her husband's bedside, and the doctor, who waited below, heard her say, "he charges a guinea. and if he comes again, it'll be another guinea. now what do ye say?--if i were ye, i'd say no, like a britoner; and i'd die first!" though very brief, the other illustration is not less demonstrative. a friend of mine, whose brother had just been married, happening to mention the incident to a friend of his, during a visit to the town, was immediately met by the question:-"money?" "no." "fool!" was bradford's reply. chapter xxvii. bradford's fame--visit to warehouses--a smoky prospect--ways and means of trade--what john bull likes--what brother jonathan likes--vulcan's head-quarters--cleckheaton--heckmondwike--busy traffic--mirfield--robin hood's grave--batley the shoddyopolis --all the world's tatters--aspects of batley--a boy capt--the devil's den--grinding rags--mixing and oiling--shoddy and shoddy--tricks with rags--the scribbling machine--short flocks, long threads--spinners and weavers--dyeing, dressing, and pressing--a moral in shoddy--a surprise of real cloth--iron, lead, and coal--to wakefield--a disappointment--the old chapel --the battle-field--to barnsley--bairnsla dialect--sheffield. "what is bradford famous for?" was the question put at a school-examination somewhere within the west riding. "for its shoddy," answered one of the boys. an answer that greatly scandalized certain of the parents who had come from bradford; and not without reason, for although shoddy is manufactured within sight of the smoke of the town, bradford is really the great mart for stuffs and worsted goods, as leeds is for broadcloth. i had seen how stuffs were made, and wished now to see in what manner they were sent into the market. a clerk who came to the inn during the evening for a glass of ale and gossip, invited me to visit the warehouse in which he was employed, on the following morning. i went, and as he had not repented of his invitation, i saw all he had to show, and then, at his suggestion, went to the 'crack' warehouse of bradford, where business is carried on with elegant and somewhat luxurious appliances. i handed my card to a gentleman in the office, and was not surprised to hear for answer that strangers could not be admitted for obvious reasons, and was turning away, when he said, musingly, that my name seemed familiar to him, and after a little reflection, he added: "yes, yes--now i have it. it was on the title-page of _a londoner's walk to the land's end_. how that book made me long for a trip to cornwall! and you are the londoner! well, of course you shall see the warehouse." so i was introduced into the lift, and away we were hoisted up to the fifth or sixth story, when i was first led to the gazebo on the roof, that i might enjoy the prospect of the town and neighbourhood. what a prospect! a great mass of houses, and rounded heights beyond, dimly seen through a rolling canopy of smoke. the sky of london is brilliant in comparison. may it never be my doom to live in bradford, or leeds, or sheffield, or manchester! we soon exchanged the dismal outlook for the topmost floor, where i saw heaps of 'tabs,' stacks of boards, boxes, and paper for packing. the tabs, which are the narrow strips that hang out from the ends of the pieces while on show, are kept for a time as references. the number and variety of the boards, on which the pieces are wound, are surprising: some are thick, to add bulk and weight to the piece of stuff in which it is to be enveloped; some thin, to save cost in transport; some broad, some narrow, so that every market may have its whims and wants gratified. the germans who pay heavily for carriage, prefer thin boards: brother jonathan as well as john bull, likes the sight of a good pennyworth, and gets a thick board. the preparation of these boards alone must be no insignificant branch of trade in bradford; and remembering how many warehouses in other towns use up stacks of boards every month, we see a large consumption of norway timber at once accounted for. i saw the press cutting the slips of white paper in which the pieces are tied, and tickets and fancy bands and labels intended to tickle the eyes of customers, without end. a peculiar kind of embossed paper, somewhat resembling a rough towel, is provided to wrap up the american purchases; and brother jonathan requires that his pieces should be folded in a peculiar way, so that he may show the quality without loss of time when selling to his own impatient countrymen. nimble machines measure the pieces at the rate of a thousand yards an hour, and others wind the lengths promptly on the boards; and, judging from appearances, clerks, salesmen, and porters work as if they too were actuated by the steam. and then, while descending from floor to floor, to see the prodigious piles of pieces on racks and shelves, or awaiting their turn in the hydraulic press which packs them solid as a bastion, was a wonder. there were moreen, bombazine, alpaca, camlet, orleans, berége, australian cord, cable cord, and many kinds as new to me as they would have been to a fakir. one heavy black stuff was pointed out as manufactured purposely for the vestments of romish priests. and running through each room i saw a small lift, in which account books, orders, patterns, and such like, are passed up and down, and now and then a signal to a clerk to be cautious of pushing sales. and, lastly, on the ground-floor i saw the handsome dining-room, wherein many a customer had enjoyed the hospitality of the firm, and drunk the generous sherry that inspired him to buy up to a thousand when he purposed only five hundred. this brief sketch includes the two warehouses; one, however--the elegant one--confines itself to the home trade. i made due acknowledgments for the favour shown to me, and hastening to the railway-station, took the train for mirfield. the line passes the great lowmoor iron-works, where furnaces, little mountains of ore, coal, limestone, and iron, and cranes and trucks, and overwhelming smoke, and a general blackness, suggest ideas of vulcan and his tremendous smithy. and besides there is a stir, and a going to and fro, that betoken urgent work; and you will believe a passenger's remark, that "lowmoor could of itself keep a railway going." we pass cleckheaton and heckmondwike, places that have something sylvan in the sound of their names; but although the country if left to itself would be pretty enough, it is sadly disfigured by smoke and the remorseless inroads of trade. yet who can travel here in the west riding and not be struck by the busy traffic, the sight of chimneys, quarries, canals, and tramways, and trains heavy laden, coming and going continually! and connected with this traffic there is one particular especially worthy of imitation in other counties: it is, that nearly every train throughout the day has third-class carriages. mirfield is in the pleasant valley of the calder. while waiting for a train to batley, i walked along the bank of the stream thinking of robin hood, who lies buried at kirklees, a few miles up the valley, where a treacherous hand let out his life: "lay me a green sod under my head, and another at my feet; and lay my bent bow by my side, which was my music sweet; and make my grave of gravel and green, which is most right and meet. "let me have length and breadth enough, with a green sod under my head; that they may say when i am dead, here lies bold robin hood." the object of my visit to batley was to see the making of shoddy. to leave yorkshire ignorant of one of our latest national institutions would be a reproach. we live in an age of shoddy, in more senses than one. you may begin with the hovel, and trace shoddy all through society, even up to the house of peers. i had not long to wait: there was a bird's-eye view of dewsbury in passing, and a few minutes brought me to batley, the head-quarters of shoddy. on alighting at the station, the sight of great pockets or bales piled up in stacks or laden on trucks, every bale branded _anvers_, and casks of oil from _sevila_, gave me at once a proof that i had come to the right place; for here were rags shipped at antwerp from all parts of northern europe. think of that. hither were brought tatters from pediculous poland, from the gipsies of hungary, from the beggars and scarecrows of germany, from the frowsy peasants of muscovy; to say nothing of snips and shreds from monks' gowns and lawyers' robes, from postilions' jackets and soldiers' uniforms, from maidens' bodices and noblemen's cloaks. a vast medley, truly! and all to be manufactured into broadcloth in yorkshire. no wonder that the _univers_ declares england is to perish by her commerce. the walk to the town gives you such a view as can only be seen in a manufacturing district: hills, fields, meadows, and rough slopes, all bestrewn with cottages, factories, warehouses, sheds, clouded here and there by smoke; roads and paths wandering apparently anywhere; here and there a quarry, and piles of squared stone; heaps of refuse; wheat-fields among the houses; potato-plots in little levels, and everything giving you the impression of waiting to be finished. add to all this, troops of men and women, boys and girls--the girls with a kerchief pinned over the head, the corner hanging behind--going home to dinner, and a mighty noise of clogs, and trucks laden with rags and barrels of oil, and you will have an idea of batley, as i saw it on my arrival. having found the factory of which i was in search, i had to wait a few minutes for the appearance of the principal. a boy, who was amusing himself in the office, remarked, when he heard that i had never yet seen shoddy made: "well, it'll cap ye when ye get among the machinery; that's all!" he himself had been capt once in his life: it was in the previous summer, when his uncle took him to blackpool, and he first beheld the sea. "that capt me, that did," he said, with the gravity of a philosopher. seeing that the principal hesitated, even after he had read my letter, i began to imagine that shoddy-making involved important secrets. "come to see what you can pick up, eh?" he said. however, when he heard that i was in no way connected with manufactures, and had come, not as a spy, but simply out of honest curiosity, to see how old rags were ground into new cloth, he smiled, and led me forthwith into the devil's den. there i saw a cylinder revolving with a velocity too rapid for the eye to follow, whizzing and roaring, as if in agony, and throwing off a cloud of light woolly fibres, that floated in the air, and a stream of flocks that fell in a heap at the end of the room. it took three minutes to stop the monster; and when the motion ceased, i saw the cylinder was full of blunt steel teeth, which, seizing whatever was presented to them in the shape of rags, tore it thoroughly to pieces; in fact, ground it up into flocks of short, frizzly-looking fibre, resembling negro-hair, yet soft and free from knots. the cylinder is fed by a travelling web, which brings a layer of rags continually up to the teeth. on this occasion, the quality of the grist, as one might call it, was respectable--nothing but fathoms of list which had never been defiled. so rapidly did the greedy devil devour it, that the two attendant imps were kept fully employed in feeding; and fast as the pack of rags diminished, the heap of flocks increased. and so, amid noise and dust, the work goes on day after day; and the man who superintends, aided by his two boys, earns four pounds a week, grinding the rags as they come, for thirty shillings a pack. the flocks are carried away to the mixing-house. as we turned aside, the devil began to whirl once more; and before we had entered the other door, i heard the ferocious howl in full vigour. the road between the buildings was encumbered with oil-casks, pieces of cloth, lying in the dust, as if of no value, and packs of rags. "it will all come right by-and-by," said the chief, as i pointed to the littery heaps; and, pausing by one of the packs which contained what he called 'mungo,' that is, shreds of such cloth as clergymen's coats are made of, he made me aware that there is shoddy and shoddy. that which makes the longest fibre is, of course, the best; and some of the choice sorts are worked up into marketable cloth, without a fresh dyeing. great masses of the flocks, with passage-ways between, lay heaped on the stone floor of the mixing-house. here, according to the quality required, the long fibre is mixed in certain proportions with the short; and to facilitate the subsequent operations, the several heaps are lightly sprinkled with oil. a dingy brown or black was the prevalent colour; but some of the heaps were gray, and would be converted into undyed cloth of the same colour. it seemed to me that the principal ingredient therein was old worsted stockings; and yet, before many days, those heaps would become gray cloth fit for the jackets and mantles of winsome maidens. i asked my conductor if it were true, as i had heard, that shoddy-makers purchased the waste, begrimed cotton wads with which stokers and 'engine-tenters' wipe the machinery, or the dirty refuse of wool-sorters, or every kind of ragged rubbish. he did not think such things were done in batley; for his part, he used none but best rags, and could keep two factories always going. he had heard of the man who spread greasy cotton-waste over his field, and who, when the land had absorbed all the grease, gathered up the cotton, and sold it to the shoddy-makers; but he doubted the truth of the story. true or not, it implies great toleration among a certain class of manufacturers. rags, not good enough for shoddy, are used as manure for the hops in kent; so we get shoddy in our beer as well as in our broadcloth. in the next process, the flocks are intimately mixed by passing over and under a series of rollers, and come forth from the last looking something like wool. then the wool, as we may now call it, goes to the 'scribbling-machine,' which, after torturing it among a dozen rollers of various dimensions, delivers it yard by yard in the form of a loose thick cable, with a run of the fibres in one direction. the carding-machine takes the cable lengths, subjects them to another course of torture, confirms the direction of the fibres, and reduces the cable into a chenille of about the thickness of a lady's finger. this chenille is produced in lengths of about five feet, across the machine, parallel with the rollers, and is immediately transferred to the piecing-machine, by a highly ingenious process. each length, as it is finished, drops into a long, narrow, tin tray; the tray moves forward; the next behind it receives a chenille; then the third; then the fourth; and so on, up to ten. by this time, they have advanced over a table on which lies what may be described as a wooden gridiron; there is a momentary pause, and then the ten trays, turning all at once upside down, drop the chenilles severally between the bars of the gridiron. at one side of the table is a row of large spindles, or rollers, on which the chenilles--cardings, is the factory word--are wound, and the dropping is so contrived that the ends of those which fall overlap the ends of the lengths on the spindles by about an inch. now the gridiron begins to vibrate, and by its movement beats the ends together; joins each chenille, in fact, to the one before it; then the spindles whirl, and draw in the lengths, leaving only enough for the overlap; and no sooner is this accomplished than the ten trays drop another supply, which is treated in the same expeditious manner, until the spindles are filled. no time is lost, for the full ones are immediately replaced by empty ones. now comes the spinners' turn. they take these full spindles, submit them to the action of their machinery by dozens at a time, and spin the large, loose chenilles into yarns of different degrees of strength and fineness, or, perhaps one should say, coarseness, ready for the weavers. and in this way those heaps of short, uncompliant negro-hair, in which you could hardly find a fibre three inches long, are transformed into long, continuous threads, able to bear the rapid jerks of the loom. i could not sufficiently admire its ingenuity. who would have imagined that among the appliances of shoddy! moreover, wages are good at batley, and the spinners can earn from forty to forty-five shillings a week. the women who attend the looms earn nine or eighteen shillings a week, according as they weave one or two pieces. next comes the fulling process: the pieces are damped, and thumped for a whole day by a dozen ponderous mallets; then the raising of the pile on one or both sides of the cloth, either by rollers or by hand. in the latter case, two men stretch a piece as high as they can reach on a vertical frame, and scratch the surface downwards with small hand-cards, the teeth of which are fine steel wire. genuine broadcloth can only be dressed by a teazel of nature's own growing; but shoddy, far less delicate, submits to the metal. so the men keep on, length after length, till the piece is finished. then the dyers have their turn, and if you venture to walk through their sloppy, steamy department, you will see men stirring the pieces about in vats, and some pieces hanging to rollers which keep them for a while running through the liquor. from the dye-house the pieces are carried to the tenter-ground and stretched in one length on vertical posts; and after a sufficient course of sun and air, they undergo the finishing process--clipping the surface and hot-pressing. from what i saw in the tenter-ground, i discovered that pilot cloth is shoddy; that glossy beavers and silky-looking mohairs are shoddy; that the petershams so largely exported to the united states are shoddy; that the soft, delicate cloths in which ladies feel so comfortable, and look so graceful, are shoddy; that the 'fabric' of talmas, raglans, and paletots, and of other garments in which fine gentlemen go to the derby, or to the royal academy exhibition, or to the evening services in westminster abbey, are shoddy. and if germany sends us abundance of rags, we send to germany enormous quantities of shoddy in return. the best quality manufactured at batley is worth ten shillings a yard; the commonest not more than one shilling. broadcloth at a shilling a yard almost staggers credibility. after that we may truly say that shoddy is a great leveller. the workpeople are, with few exceptions, thrifty and persevering. some of the spinners take advantage of their good wages to build cottages and become landlords. a walk through batley shows you that thought has been taken for their spiritual and moral culture; and in fine weather they betake themselves for out-doors recreation to an ancient manor-house, which i was told is situate beyond the hill that rears its pleasant woods aloft in sight of the factories. the folk of the surrounding districts are accustomed to make merry over the shoddy-makers, regarding them as gibeonites, and many a story do they tell concerning these clever conjurors, and their transformations of old clothes into new. once, they say, a portly quaker walked into batley, just as the 'mill-hands' were going to dinner: he came from the west, and was clad in that excellent broadcloth which is the pride of gloucestershire. "hey!" cried the hands, as he passed among them--"hey! look at that now! there's a bit of real cloth. lookey, lookey! we never saw the like afore:" and they surrounded the worthy stranger, and kept him prisoner until they had all felt the texture of his coat, and expressed their admiration. * * * * * again, while waiting at mirfield, was i struck by the frequency of trains, and counted ten in an hour and a half. in 1856, a million and quarter tons of iron ore were dug in the cleveland and whitby districts; and the quantity of pig-iron made in yorkshire was 275,600 tons, of which the west riding produced 96,000. in the same year 8986 tons of lead, and 302 ounces of silver were made within the county; and yorkshire furnished 9,000,000 towards the sixty millions tons and a half of coal dug in all the kingdom. i journeyed on to wakefield; and, as it proved, to a disappointment. i had hoped for a sight of walton hall, and of the well-known naturalist, who there fulfils the rites of hospitality with a generous hand. through a friend of his, mr. waterton had assured me of a welcome; but on arriving at wakefield, i heard that he had started the day before for the continent. so, instead of a walk to the hall, i resolved to go on to sheffield, by the last train. this left me time for a ramble. i went down to the bridge, and revived my recollections of the little chapel which for four hundred years has shown its rich and beautiful front to all who there cross the calder, and i rejoiced to see that it had been restored and was protected by a railing. it was built--some say renewed--by edward the fourth to the memory of those who fell in the battle of wakefield--a battle fatal to the house of york--and fatal to the victors; for the cruelties there perpetrated by black clifford and other knights, were repaid with tenfold vengeance at towton. the place where richard, duke of york, fell, may still be seen: and near it, a little more than a mile from the town, the eminence on which stood sandal castle, a fortress singularly picturesque, as shown in old engravings. after a succession of stony towns and smoky towns, there was something cheerful in the distant view of wakefield with its clean red brick. it has some handsome streets; and in the old thoroughfares you may see relics of the mediæval times in ancient timbered houses. leland describes it as "a very quick market town, and meatly large, the whole profit of which standeth by coarse drapery." you will soon learn by a walk through the streets that "very quick" still applies. signs of manufactures are repeated as wakefield, with its green neighbourhood, is left behind, and at barnsley the air is again darkened by smoke. we had to change trains here, and thought ourselves lucky in finding that the sheffield train had for once condescended to lay aside its surly impatience, and await the arrival from wakefield. as we pushed through the throng on the platform, i heard many a specimen of the vernacular peculiar to bairnsla, as the natives call it. how shall one who has not spent years among them essay to reproduce the sounds? fortunately there is a _bairnsla foaks' almanack_ in which the work is done ready to our hand; and here is a passage quoted from _tom treddlehoyle's peep at t' manchister exhebishan_, giving us a notion of the sort of dialect talked by the queen's subjects in this part of yorkshire. tom is looking about and "moralizin'," when "a strange bussal cum on all ov a sudden daan below stairs, an foaks hurryin e wun dereckshan! 'wot's ta do?' thowt ah; an daan t' steps ah clattard, runnin full bump agean t' foaks a t' bottom, an before thade time to grumal or get ther faces saard, ah axt, 'wot ther wor ta do?'--'lord john russel's cum in,' sed thay. hearin this, there diddant need anuther wurd, for after springin up on ta me teppytoes ta get t' lattetude az ta whereabaats he wor, ah duckt me head underneath foaks's airms, an away a slipt throo t' craad az if ide been soapt all ovver, an gettin as near him az ah durst ta be manardly, ah axt a gentleman at hed a glass button stuck before his ee, in a whisperin soart of a tone, 'which wor lord john russel?' an bein pointed aght ta ma, ah lookt an lookt agean, but cuddant believe at it wor him, he wor sich an a little bit ov an hofalas-lookin chap,--not much unlike a horse-jocky at wun's seen at t' donkister races, an wot wor just getherin hiz crums up after a good sweatin daan for t' ledger,--an away ah went, az sharp az ah cud squeaze aght, thinkin to mesen, 'bless us, what an a ta-do there iz abaght nowt! a man's but a man, an a lord's na more!' we that thowt, an hevin gottan nicely aght a t' throng, we t' loss a nobbat wun button, an a few stitches stretcht a bit e t' coit-back, ah thowt hauf-an-haar's quiat woddant be amiss." we went on a few miles to a little station called wombwell, where we had again to change trains. but the train from doncaster had not arrived; so while the passengers waited they dispersed themselves about the sides of the railway, finding seats on the banks or fences, and sat talking in groups, and wondering at the delay. the stars shone out, twinkling brightly, before the train came up, more than an hour beyond its time, and it was late when we reached sheffield. i turned at a venture into the first decent-looking public-house in _the wicker_, and was rewarded by finding good entertainment and thorough cleanliness. chapter xxviii. clouds of blacks--what sheffield was and is--a detestable town --razors and knives--perfect work, imperfect workmen--foul talk --how files are made--good iron, good steel--breaking-up and melting--making the crucibles--casting--ingots--file forgers- machinery baffled--cutting the teeth--hardening--cleaning and testing--elliott's statue--a ramble to the corn-law rhymer's haunt--rivelin--bilberry-gatherers--ribbledin--the poet's words --a desecration--to manchester--a few words on the exhibition. when i woke in the morning and saw what a stratum of 'blacks' had come in at the window during the night, i admired still more the persevering virtue which maintains cleanliness under such very adverse circumstances. we commonly think the london atmosphere bad; but it is purity compared with sheffield. the town, too, is full of strange, uncouth noises, by night as well as by day, that send their echo far. i had been woke more than once by ponderous thumps and sounding shocks, which made me fancy the cyclops themselves were taking a turn at the hammers. sheffield raised a regiment to march against the sepoys; why not raise a company to put down its own pestiferous blacks? who would think that here grew the many-leagued oak forests in which gurth and wamba roamed; that in a later day, when the talbots were lords of the domain, there were trees in the park under which a hundred horses might find shelter? here lived that famous talbot, the terror of the french; here george, the fourth earl, built a mansion in which wolsey lodged while on his way to die at leicester; here the queen of scots was kept for a season in durance; here, as appears by a court roll, dated 1590, the right honorable george earl of shrewsbury assented to the trade regulations of "the fellowship and company of cutlers and makers of knives," whose handicraft was even then an ancient one, for chaucer mentions the "shefeld thwitel." now, what with furnaces and forges, rolling mills, and the many contrivances used by the men of iron and steel, the landscape is spoiled of its loveliness, and silence is driven to remoter haunts. on the other hand, sheffield is renowned for its knives and files all over the world. it boasts a people's college and a philosophical society. with it are associated the names of chantrey, montgomery, and ebenezer elliott. when you see the place, you will not wonder that elliott's poetry is what it is; for how could a man be expected to write amiable things in such a detestable town? ever since my conversation with the _mechaniker_, while on the way to prague, when he spoke so earnestly in praise of english files, my desire to see how files were made became impatiently strong. sheffield is famous also for razors; so there was a sight of two interesting manufactures to be hoped for when i set out after breakfast to test my credentials. fortune favoured me; and, in the works of messrs. rodgers, i saw the men take flat bars of steel and shape them by the aid of fire and hammer into razor-blades with remarkable expedition and accuracy. so expert have they become by long practice, that with the hammer only they form the blade and tang so nicely, as to leave but little for the grinders to waste. i saw also the forging of knife-blades, the making of the handles, the sawing of the buckhorn and ivory by circular saws, and the heap of ivory-dust which is sold to knowing cooks, and by them converted into gelatine. i saw how the knives are fitted together with temporary rivets to ensure perfect action and finish, before the final touches are given. and as we went from room to room, and i thought that each man had been working for years at the same thing, repeating the same movements over and over again, i could not help pitying them; for it seemed to me that they were a sacrifice to the high reputation of english cutlery. something more than a people's college and mechanics' institute would be needed to counteract the deadening effect of unvarying mechanical occupation; and where there is no relish for out-door recreation in the woods and on the hills, hurtful excitements are the natural consequence. i had often heard that sheffield is the most foul-mouthed town in the kingdom, and my experience unfortunately adds confirmation. while in the train coming from barnsley, and in my walks about the town, i heard more filthy and obscene talk than could be heard in wapping in a year. not to trust to the impressions of the day, i inquired of a resident banker, and he testified that the foul talk that assailed his ears, was to him, a continual affliction. on the wall of the grinding-shop a tablet, set up at the cost of the men, preserves the name of a grinder, who by excellence of workmanship and long and faithful service, achieved merit for himself and the trade. at their work the men sit astride on a low seat in rows of four, one behind the other, leaning over their stones and wheels. for razors, the grindstones are small, so as to produce the hollow surface which favours fineness of edge. from the first a vivid stream of sparks flies off; but the second is a leaden wheel; the third is leather touched with crocus, to give the polish to the steel; and after that comes the whet. to carry off the dust, each man has a fan-box in front of his wheel, through which all the noxious floating particles are drawn by the rapid current of air therein produced. to this fan the grinders of the present generation owe more years of health and life than fell to the lot of their fathers, who inhaled the dust, earned high wages, and died soon of disease of the lungs. i was surprised by the men's dexterity; by a series of quick movements, they finished every part of the blade on the stone and wheels. from the razors i went to the files, at moss and gamble's manufactory, in another part of the town. there is scarcely a street from which you cannot see the hills crowned by wood which environ the town--that is, at intervals only, through the thinnest streams of smoke. the town itself is hilly, and the more you see of the neighbourhood, the more will you agree with those who say, "what a beautiful place sheffield would be, if sheffield were not there!" my first impression of the file-works, combined stacks of swedish iron in bars; ranges of steel bars of various shape, square, flat, three-cornered, round, and half-round; heaps of broken steel, the fresh edges glittering in the sun; heaps of broken crucibles, and the roar of furnaces, noise of bellows, hammer-strokes innumerable, and dust and smoke, and other things, that to a stranger had very much the appearance of rubbish and confusion. however, there is no confusion; every man is diligent at his task; so if you please, reader, we will try and get a notion of the way in which those bars of swedish iron are converted into excellent files. swedish iron is chosen because it is the best; no iron hitherto discovered equals it for purity and strength, and of this the most esteemed is known as 'hoop l,' from its brand being an =l= within a hoop. "if you want good steel to come out of the furnace," say the knowing ones, "you must put good iron in;" and some of them hold that, "when the devil is put into the crucible, nothing but the devil will come out:" hence we may believe their moral code to be sufficient for its purpose. the bars, at a guess, are about eight feet long, three inches broad, and one inch thick. to begin the process, they are piled in a furnace between alternate layers of charcoal, the surfaces kept carefully from contact, and are there subjected to fire for eight or nine days. to enable the workmen to watch the process, small trial pieces are so placed that they can be drawn out for examination through a small hole in the front of the furnace. in large furnaces, twelve tons of iron are converted at once. the long-continued heat, which is kept below the melting-point, drives off the impurities; the bars, from contact with the charcoal, become carbonized and hardened; and when the fiery ordeal is over, they appear thickly bossed with bubbles or blisters, in which condition they are described as 'blistered steel.' now come the operations which convert these blistered bars into the finished bars of steel above-mentioned, smooth and uniform of surface, and well-nigh hard as diamond. the blistered bars are taken from the furnace and broken up into small pieces; the fresh edges show innumerable crystals of different dimensions, according to the quality of the iron, and have much the appearance of frosted silver. the pieces are carefully assorted and weighed. the weighers judge of the quality at a glance, and mix the sorts in due proportion in the scales in readiness for the melters, who put each parcel into its proper crucible, and drop the crucibles through holes in a floor into a glowing furnace, where they are left for about half a day. the making of the crucibles is a much more important part of the operation than would be imagined. they must be of uniform dimensions and quality, or the steel is deteriorated, and they fail in the fire. they are made on the premises, for every melting requires new crucibles. in an underground chamber i saw men at work, treading a large flat heap of fire-clay into proper consistency, weighing it into lumps of a given weight; placing these lumps one after the other in a circular mould, and driving in upon them, with a ponderous mallet, a circular block of the same form and height as the mould, but smaller. as the block sinks under the heavy blows, the clay is forced against the sides of the mould; and when the block can descend no further, there appears all round it a dense ring of clay, and the mould is full. now, with a dexterous turn, the block is drawn out; the crucible is separated from the mould, and shows itself as a smooth vase, nearly two feet in height. the mouth is carefully finished, and a lid of the same clay fitted, and the crucible is ready for its further treatment. when placed in the furnace, the lids are sealed on with soft clay. the man who treads the clay needs a good stock of patience, for lumps, however small, are fatal to the crucibles. when the moment arrived, i was summoned to witness the casting. the men had tied round their shins pieces of old sacking, as protection from the heat; they opened the holes in the floor, knocked off the lid of the crucible, and two of them, each with tongs, lifted the crucible from the intensely heated furnace. how it quivered, and glowed, and threw off sparks, and diffused around a scorching temperature! it amazed me that the men could bear it. when two crucibles are lifted out, they are emptied at the same time into the mould; not hap-hazard, but with care that the streams shall unite, and not touch the sides of the mould as they fall. neglect of this precaution injures the quality. another precaution is to shut out cold draughts of air during the casting. to judge by the ear, you would fancy the men were pouring out gallons of cream. the contents of two crucibles form an ingot, short, thick, and heavy. i saw a number of such ingots in the yard. the next process is to heat them, and to pass them while hot between the rollers which convert them into bars of any required form. i was content to forego a visit to the rolling-mill--somewhere in the suburbs--being already familiar with the operation of rolling iron. we have now the steel in a form ready for the file-makers. two forgers, one of whom wields a heavy two-handed hammer, cut the bars into lengths, and after a few minutes of fire and anvil, the future file is formed, one end at a time, from tang to point, and stamped. for the half-round files, a suitable depression is made at one side of the anvil. then comes a softening process to prepare the files for the men who grind or file them to a true form, and for toothing. to cut the teeth, the man or boy lays the file on a proper bed, takes a short, hard chisel between the thumb and finger of his left hand, holds it leaning from him at the required angle, and strikes a blow with the hammer. the blow produces a nick with a slight ridge by its side; against this ridge the chisel is placed for the next stroke, and so on to the next, until, by multiplied blows, the file is fully toothed. the process takes long to describe, but is, in reality, expeditious, as testified by the rapid clatter. some of the largest files require two men--one to hold the chisel, the other to strike. for the teeth of rasps, a pyramidal punch is used. the different kinds of files are described as roughs, bastard cut, second cut, smooth, and dead smooth; besides an extraordinary heavy sort, known as rubbers. according to the cut, so is the weight of the hammer employed. many attempts have been made to cut files by machinery; but they have all failed. there is something in the varying touch of human fingers imparting a keenness to the bite of the file, which the machine with its precise movements cannot produce--even as thistle spines excel all metallic contrivances for the dressing of cloth. and very fortunate it is that machinery can't do everything. after the toothing, follows the hardening. the hardener lays a few files in a fire of cinders; blows the bellows till a cherry-red heat is produced; then he thrusts the file into a stratum of charcoal, and from that plunges it into a large bath of cold water, the cleaner and colder the better. the plunge is not made anyhow, but in a given direction, and with a varying movement from side to side, according to the shape of the file. the metal, as it enters the water, and for some seconds afterwards, frets and moans piteously; and i expected to see it fly to pieces with the sudden shock. but good steel is true; the man draws the file out, squints along its edge, and if he sees it too much warped, gives it a strain upon a fulcrum, sprinkling it at the same time with cold water. he then lays it aside, takes another from the fire, and treats it in a similar way. the hardened files are next scrubbed with sand, are dried, the tangs are dipped into molten lead to deprive them of their brittleness; the files are rubbed over with oil, and scratched with a harder piece of metal to test their quality--that is, an attempt is made to scratch them. if the files be good, it ought to fail. they are then taken between the thumb and finger, and rung to test their soundness; and if no treacherous crack betray its presence, they are tied up in parcels for sale. i shall not soon forget the obliging kindness with which explanations were given and all my questions answered by a member of the firm, who conducted me over the works. when we came to the end, and i had witnessed the care bestowed on the several operations, i no longer wondered that a bohemian _mechaniker_ in the heart of the continent, or artisans in any part of the world, should find reason to glory in english files. some people are charitable enough to believe that english files are no unapt examples of english character. * * * * * sheffield is somewhat proud of chantrey and montgomery, and honours elliott by a statue, which, tall of stature and unfaithful in likeness, sits on a pedestal in front of the post-office. i thought that to ramble out to one of the corn-law rhymer's haunts would be an agreeable way of spending the afternoon and of viewing the scenery in the neighbourhood of the town. i paced up the long ascent of broome hill--a not unpleasing suburb--to the glossop road, and when the town was fairly left behind, was well repaid by the sight of wooded hills and romantic valleys. amidst scenery such as that you may wander on to wentworth, to wharncliff, the lair of the dragon of wantley, to stanedge and shirecliff, and all the sites of which elliott has sung in pictured phrase or words of fire. we look into the valley of the rivelin, one of the "five rivers, like the fingers of a hand," that converge upon sheffield; and were we to explore the tributary brooks, we should discover grinding wheels kept going by the current in romantic nooks and hollows. what a glorious sylvan country this must have been "----in times of old, when locksley o'er the hills of hallam chas'd the wide-horn'd stag, or with his bowmen bold wag'd war on kinglings." troops of women and girls were busy on the slopes gathering bilberries, others were washing the stains from their hands and faces at a roadside spring, others--who told me they had been out six miles--were returning with full baskets to the town. how they chattered! about an hour's walking brings you to a descent; on one side the ground falls away precipitously from the road, on the other rises a rocky cliff, and at the foot you come to a bridge bestriding a lively brook that comes out of a wooded glen and runs swiftly down to the rivelin. this is the "lone streamlet" so much loved by the poet, to which he addresses one of his poems: "here, if a bard may christen thee, i'll call thee ribbledin." i turned from the road, and explored the little glen to its upper extremity; scrambling now up one bank, now up the other, wading through rank grass and ferns, striding from one big stone to another, as compelled by the frequent windings, rejoiced to find that, except in one particular, it still answered to the poet's description: "wildest and lonest streamlet! gray oaks, all lichen'd o'er! rush-bristled isles, ye ivied trunks that marry shore to shore! and thou, gnarl'd dwarf of centuries, whose snak'd roots twist above me! oh, for the tongue or pen of burns, to tell ye how i love ye!" the overhanging trees multiply, and the green shade deepens, as you ascend. at last i came to the waterfall--the loneliest nook of all, in which the rhymer had mused and listened to the brook, as he says: "here, where first murmuring from thine urn, thy voice deep joy expresses; and down the rock, like music, flows the wildness of thy tresses." it was just the place for a day-dream. i sat for nearly an hour, nothing disturbing my enjoyment but now and then the intrusive thought that my holiday was soon to end. however, there is good promise of summers yet to come. i climbed the hill in the rear of the fall, where, knee-deep in heath and fern, i looked down on the top of the oaken canopy and a broad reach of the valley; and intended to return to the town by another road. but the attractions of the glen drew me back; so i scrambled down it by the way i came, and retraced my outward route. the one particular in which the glen differs from elliott's description is, that an opening has been made for, as it appeared to me, a quarry or gravel-pit, from which a loose slope of refuse extends down to the brook, and encroaches on its bed, creating a deformity that shocks the feelings by what seems a desecration. i thought that ribbledin, at least, might have been saved from spade and mattock; and the more so as sheffield, poisoned by smoke, can ill afford to lose any place of recreative resort in the neighbourhood. it may be that i felt vexed; for after my return to london, i addressed a letter on the subject to the editor of the _sheffield independent_, in the hope that by calling public attention thereto, the hand of the spoiler might be stayed. as i walked down to the railway-station the next morning in time for the first train, many of the chimneys had just began to vent their murky clouds, and the smoke falling into the streets darkened the early sunlight; and labour, preparing to "bend o'er thousand anvils," went with unsmiling face to his daily task. away sped the train for manchester; and just as the art treasures exhibition was opening for the day, i alighted at the door. less than half an hour spent in the building sufficed to show that it was a work of the north, not of the south. there was a manifest want of attention to the fitness of things, naturally to be looked for in a county where the bulk of the population have yet so much to learn; where manufacturers, with a yearly income numbered by thousands, can find no better evening resort than the public-house; where so much of the thinking is done by machinery, and where steam-engines are built with an excellence of workmanship and splendour of finish well-nigh incredible. for seven hours did i saunter up and down and linger here and there, as my heart inclined--longest before the old engravings. and while my eye roved from one beautiful object to another, i wondered more and more that the _times_ and some other newspapers had often expressed surprise that so few comparatively of the working-classes visited the manchester exhibition. those best acquainted with the working-classes, as a mass, know full well how little such an exhibition as that appeals to their taste and feelings. to appreciate even slightly such paintings and curiosities of art as were there displayed, requires an amount of previous cultivation rare in any class, and especially so in the working-classes. for the cream of manchester society, the exhibition was a fashionable exchange, where they came to parade from three to five in the afternoon--the ladies exhibiting a circumference of crinoline far more ample than i have ever seen elsewhere; and of them and their compeers it would be safe to argue that those attracted by real love of art were but tens among the thousands who went for pastime and fashion. to me it seems, that of late, we have had rather too much talk about art; by far too much flattery of the artist and artificer, whereby the one with genius and the one with handicraft feel themselves alike ill-used if they are not always before the eyes of the world held up to admiration. and so, instead of a heart working inspired by love, we have a hand working inspired by hopes of praise. the masons who carved those quaint carvings at patrington worked out the thought that was in them lovingly, because they had the thought, and not the mere ambitious shadow of a thought. and their work remains admirable for all time, for their hearts were engaged therein as well as heads and hands. but now education and division of labour are to do everything; that is, if flattery fail not; and in wood-engraving we have come to the pass that one man cuts the clouds, another the trees, another the buildings, and another the animal figures; while on steel plates the clouds are "executed" by machinery. for my part, i would be willing to barter a good deal of modern art for the conscience and common honesty which it has helped to obscure. we are too apt to forget certain conclusions which ought to be remembered; and these are, according to mr. penrose, that "no government, however imperial, can create true taste, or combine excellence with precipitation; that money is lavished in vain where good sense guides neither the design nor the execution; and that art with freedom, of which she is one manifestation, will not condescend to visit the land where she is not invited by the spontaneous instincts, and sustained by the unfettered efforts of the people." chapter xxix. a short chapter to end with. here, reader, we part company. the last day of july has come, and whatever may be my inclinations or yours, i must return to london, and report myself to-morrow morning at head-quarters. there will be time while on the way for a few parting words. if the reading of my book stir you up to go and see yorkshire with your own eyes and on your own legs, you will, i hope, be able to choose a centre of exploration. for the coast, flamborough and whitby would be convenient; for teesdale, barnard castle; for craven, with its mountains, caves, and scars, settle; and for the dales, kettlewell and aysgarth. ripon is a good starting-point for wensleydale; and york, situate where the three ridings meet, offers railway routes in all directions. my own route, as you have seen, was somewhat erratic, more so than you will perhaps approve; but it pleased me, and if a man cannot please himself while enjoying a holiday, when shall he? a glance at the map will show you how large a portion of the county is here unnoticed; a portion large enough for another volume. the omissions are more obvious to you than to me, because i can fill them up mentally by recollections of what i saw during my first sojourn in yorkshire. a month might be well spent in rambles and explorations in the north-west alone, along the border of westmoreland; knaresborough and the valley of the nidd will generously repay a travel; hallamshire, though soiled by sheffield smoke, is full of delightful scenery; and if it will gratify you to see one of the prettiest country towns in england, go to doncaster. and should you desire further information, as doubtless you will, read professor phillips's _rivers, mountains, and sea coast of yorkshire_--a book that takes you all through the length and breadth of the county. it tells you where to look for rare plants, where for fossils; reveals the geological history; glances lovingly at all the antiquities; and imparts all the information you are likely to want concerning the inhabitants, from the earliest times, the climate, and even the terrestrial magnetism. i am under great obligations to it, not only for its science and scholarship, but for the means it afforded me, combined with previous knowledge, of choosing a route. as regards distances, my longest walk, as mentioned at the outset, was twenty-six miles; the next longest, from brough to hawes, twenty-two; and all the rest from fourteen to eighteen miles. hence, in all the rambles, there is no risk of over-fatigue. i would insert a table of distances, were it not best that you should inquire for yourself when on the spot, and have a motive for talking to the folk on the way. as for the railways, buy your time-table in yorkshire; it will enlighten you on some of the local peculiarities, and prove far more useful than the lumbering, much-perplexed _bradshaw_. of course the ordnance maps are the best and most complete; but considering that the sheets on the large scale, for yorkshire alone, would far outweigh your knapsack, they are out of the question for a pedestrian. failing these, you will find walker's maps--one for each riding--sufficiently trustworthy, with the distances from town to town laid down along the lines of road, and convenient for the pocket withal. much has been said and written concerning the high cost of travelling in england as compared with the continent, but is it really so? experience has taught me that the reverse is the fact, and for an obvious reason--the much shorter distance to be travelled to the scene of your wanderings. in going to switzerland, for example, there are seven hundred and fifty miles to basel, before you begin to walk, and the outlay required for such a journey as that is not compensated by any trifling subsequent advantage, if such there be. some folk travel as if they were always familiar with turtle and champagne at home, and therefore should not complain if they are made to pay for the distinction. but if you are content to go simply on your own merits, wishing nothing better than to enjoy a holiday, it is perfectly possible, while on foot, to travel for four-and-sixpence a day, sometimes even less. and think not that because you choose the public-house instead of the hotel you will suffer in regard to diet, or find any lack of comfort and cleanliness. the advantage in all these respects, as i know full well, is not unfrequently with the house of least pretension. moreover, you are not looked on as a mere biped, come in to eat, drink, and sleep, by a waiter who claims his fee as a right; but a show of kindly feeling awaits you, and the lassie who ministers to your wants accepts your gift of a coin with demonstrations of thankfulness. and, again, the public-house shows you far more variety of unsophisticated life and character than you could ever hope to witness in an hotel. certain friends of mine, newly-wedded, passed a portion of their honeymoon at the _jolly herring_ at penmaenmawr, with much more contentment to themselves than at the large hotels they afterwards visited in the principality, and at one-half the cost. the sum total of my walking amounts to three hundred and seventy-five miles. if you go down to yorkshire, trusting, as i hope, to your own legs for most of your pleasure, you will perhaps outstrip me. at any rate, you will discover that travelling in england is not less enjoyable than on the continent; maybe you will think it more so, especially if, instead of merely visiting one place after another, you really do travel. you require no ticket-of-leave in the shape of a passport from cowardly emperor or priest-ridden king, and may journey at will from county to county and parish to parish, finding something fresh and characteristic in each, and all the while with the consciousness that it is your own country: "our birth-land this! around her shores roll ocean's sounding waves; within her breast our fathers sleep in old heroic graves; our heritage! with all her fame, her honour, heart, and pow'rs, god's gift to us--we love her well--she shall be ever ours." index. addleborough, 169, 173 aire, river, 226 ---source of, 233 aldborough, 47 alum, manufacture of, 98; hewing, 99; roasting, 100; soaking, 101; crystallizing, 102 alum shale cliffs, 99 arncliffe, 95 askrigg, 170 atwick, 52 auburn, 52 austin's stone, 34 aysgarth, 202 ---force, 170, 204 bain, river, 165, 174 bainbridge, 165, 170 balder, river, 137, 144 barden fell, 193 ---tower, 196 barmston, 40, 52 barnard castle, 137 barnsley, 254 batley, 248 bay town, 81 beverley, 28, 34, 39 birkdale, 151 bishopdale, 201 bishopthorpe, 223 black-a-moor, 84 bolton abbey, 192 ---castle, 170, 202, 207 boroughbridge, 143 boulby, 115 bowes, 141 bradford, 243 bridlington, 53 brignall banks, 142 brough, 155 brunanburgh, 35 buckden, 201 ---pike, 200 burnsall, 198 burstall garth, 19 burstwick, 15 buttertubs pass, 163 byland abbey, 221 calder, river, 247, 253 caldron snout, 149 cam fell, 175 carnelian bay, 69 carperby, 206 carrs, the, 40 cayton bay, 69 chapel-le-dale, 178, 181 clapdale, 184 clapham, 183 cleathorpes, 7, 25 cleckheaton, 217 cleveland, 89, 97, 119, 127, 212 cloughton, 76 coatham, 122, 124 cotherstone, 144 cottingham, 27 counterside, 175 coverdale, 170 coverham abbey, 171 coxwold, 222 craven, 183, 191, 227 cray, 201 cronkley scar, 148 cross fell, 154 dane's dike, 57, 64 darlington, 135 deira, 35 derwent, river, 221 dewsbury, 248 dimlington, 23 dinsdale spa, 135 drewton, 34 driffield, 35 dunsley, 104 easby heights, 131 ---abbey, 210 east row, 97 ---witton, 171 eden, river, 154, 159 egliston abbey, 140 egton, 94 ---bridge, 95 esk, vale of, 84, 86, 96 eston nab, 125, 132 filey, 65, 68 ---brig, 65, 67 flamborough, 59, 64 ---head, 48, 54, 60 ---lighthouse, 61 ---north landing, 64 ---south landing, 58 fountains abbey, 214 freeburgh hill, 118 frothingham, 40 gatekirk cave, 182 gearstones, 177 george fox's well, 228 giggleswick, 227 gilling, 222 godmanham, 35 goldsborough, 106 gordale scar, 231 gormire lake, 217 great ayton, 131 greta bridge, 141 grimsby, 7 grinton, 160, 162 gristhorp bay, 69 grosmont, 94 guisborough, 125 ---moors, 129 ---priory, 126 haiburn wyke, 78 hambleton hills, 154, 170, 208, 218 handale, 118 hardraw scar, 163 harpham, 35 hart-leap well, 208 hawes, 163, 164, 175 haworth, 235 hawsker, 84 heckmondwike, 247 hedon, 14 helbeck, the, 155 helmsley, 220 high cope nick, 152 high force, 146 high seat, 157 hinderwell, 109 holderness, 11, 14, 23, 34, 40 holwick fell, 148 hornby, 172 hornsea, 46 ---mere, 45 howardian hills, 222 hull, 9 ---river, 10, 12, 41 humber, the, 5, 8, 18 huntcliff nab, 119 hurtle pot, 180 hutton lowcross, 128 ---rudby, 128 ingleborough, 154, 175, 183, 228 ---cave, 184 ---giant's hall, 188 ingleton, 183 ---fell, 177 ironstone, 94, 103, 134, 253 jervaux abbey, 171 jet, 91 manufacture of, 92 ---diggers, 107 jingle pot, 180 keighley, 235 kettleness, 104, 106 kettlewell, 200, 233 keyingham, 15 kildale, 132 kilnsea, 19 kilnsey, 199 kilton, 120 kirkby moorside, 221 kirkdale, 221 kirkleatham, 124 kirklees, 247 kirkstall abbey, 226 langstrothdale, 201 lartington, 143 leeds, 226, 243 leyburn, 170 lofthouse, 116 lowmoor, 247 lowths, the, 33 lythe, 105 maiden way, the, 156 maize beck, 151 malham, 228 ---cove, 233 ---tarn, 231 mallerstang, 159 malton, 104, 221 marske, 120 marston moor, 223 marton, 134 marwood chase, 137 meaux, 39 mickle fell, 149, 151, 153 middleham, 170, 207 middlesborough, 133 middleton-in-teesdale, 144 millgill force, 166 mirfield, 247, 253 mortham, 141 muker, 162 mulgrave, 97, 104 ---cement, 99 nappa, 171 newby head, 176 newlay, 227 newton, 134 nine standards, 157 northallerton, 211 nunthorp, 134 oswaldkirk, 222 ouse, river, 224 ovington, 142 owthorne, 24, 47 patrington, 16 paul, 7 peak, the, 81 pendle hill, 228 pendragon castle, 144 penhill, 170, 202 penyghent, 154, 201, 228 pickering, vale of, 84, 221 pilmoor, 222 plowland, 18 raby, 138 raven hall, 80 ravenhill, 104 ravenser odd, 22 ravensworth, 142 raydale, 173 redcar, 121 red cliff, 69 redmire, 207 redshaw, 175 reeth, 162 rey cross, the, 156 ribble, river, 178, 183, 228 ribbledin, the, 263 richmond, 142, 208 rievaulx abbey, 219 ripon, 211 rivelin, the, 262 robin hood, 74, 84 ---hood's bay, 73, 78 rokeby, 140 rolleston hall, 52 romaldkirk, 144 rosebury topping, 119, 129 routh, 41 runswick, 106, 108 rye, river, 219, 222 ryedale, 220 sandsend, 97 ---alum-works, 98 saltaire, 237 saltburn, 119 scarborough, 61, 67 spa, 71 castle, 73 scarthe nick, 207 seamer moor, 75 selwicks bay, 61, 63 settle, 227 shaw, 163 sheffield, 255 shipley, 237, 242 shirecliff, 262 shunnor fell, 158 sigglesthorne, 45 simmer water, 174 simonstone, 163 skawton, 218 skeffling, 18 skelton, 127, 131 skinningrave, 117 skipsea, 52 skipton, 191 skirlington, 52 speeton, 65 spennithorne, 171 spurn, the, 20, 23 ---lighthouse, 5, 25 stainmoor, 141, 155, 157 staintondale cliffs, 79 staithes, 109 stake fell, 173, 201 stalling busk, 175 stamford brig, 223 standard hill, 38, 211 stanedge, 262 starbottom, 201 stockdale, 229 stockton, 135 stonesdale, 161 street houses, 117 strid, the, 195 studley, 213 sunk island, 6, 17 sutton, 217 swale, river, 159, 160 swaledale, 157, 160, 162, 208 symon seat, 193, 198 tan hill, 159 tees, river, 119, 121, 130, 136, 140, 145, 149 thirsk, 216 thoralby, 202 thornton force, 182 thorsgill, 140 threshfield, 199, 233 thwaite, 161 tickton, 41 topcliffe, 30, 216 towton, 223 ulshaw, 171 upgang, 97 upleatham, 125, 131 ure, river, 159, 164, 170, 204, 211 wakefield, 253 wassand, 45 watton, 39 weathercote cave, 178 welwick, 18 wensleydale, 163, 167, 170, 201, 207 wentworth, 262 wharfe, river, 193, 196 wharfedale, 192, 201 wharncliff, 262 whernside, great and little, 154, 200 whitby, 73, 86 ---abbey, 84 whitfell, 166 whitfell force, 166 widdale, 175 wild boar fell, 158 winch bridge, 145 winestead, 15 winston, 142 withernsea, 23 witton fell, 170 wombwell, 255 wycliffe, 142 yarborough house, 57 yarm, 135 yearby bank, 125 yordas cave, 182 york, 222 york, vale of, 222 the end. fletcher, printer, norwich. transcribers' notes page xv: bronte's standardised to brontë's in chapter xxvi description for consistency page 3: bonehouse standardised to bone-house after "lecture in the grim" for consistency page 10: half-penny standardised to halfpenny after "to the value of thirteenpence" for consistency page 10: wind-mills standardised to windmills after "presence of numerous" for consistency pages 14, 268: unfrequently as in the original page 16: weather-cock standardised to weathercock after "harmonious throughout, from" for consistency page 18: "its outer sloop is loose sand" as in the original page 19: re-appears standardised to reappears after "pierces the bank, and" for consistency page 22: skilful as in the original page 24: grey standardised to gray after "still bearing the" for consistency page 25: . added after "that they had to be rebuilt" page 28: ffourscore as in the original page 31, 166: inconsistent hyphenation of roof-tree left as in the original as part of a quotation page 43: ecstasies standardised to ecstacies after "which threw the company into" for consistency page 44: "he eat meat" as in the original page 48: re-appears standardised to reappears after "evening the picturesque" for consistency page 53: . added after "strangely with the clay" page 66: seabirds standardised to sea-birds after "eggs of" for consistency page 68: harmonise changed to harmonize after "the better did it" for consistency page 72: weatherbeaten standardised to weather-beaten after "an ancient breakwater--all" for consistency page 74: befel as in the original page 78: byepaths changed to bye-paths before "are not enticing" for consistency page 80: seabirds standardised to sea-birds after "a resort of" for consistency page 82: "should chose to wed" as in the original page 88: enumerationg corrected to enumerating before "the prophet, the fiery furnace" page 89: wonld corrected to would after "whitby, and not scarborough," page 89: characterise standardised to characterize after "and show which" for consistency page 92: . added after "could give the surest information" page 111: course corrected to coarse before "grass and weeds," page 123: water-falls standardised to waterfalls after "rustling leaves, and rushing" for consistency page 126: inconsistent hyphenation of road-side left as in the original as part of a quotation page 129: widespread standardised to wide-spread after "rove at will over the" for consistency page 131: , corrected to . after "prince oswy, her son" page 141: out-look standardised to outlook after "rock affords an" for consistency page 142: reedom corrected to freedom after "john wycliffe, to whom" page 149: grasss corrected to grass after "the foam appears the whiter, and the" page 151: duplicate a removed before "meadow, however, comes" page 155: a corrected to an after "a good way off on" page 166: inpenetrable corrected to impenetrable after "cranny, all but the" page 167: gray-beard standardised to graybeard after "the stiff-jointed" for consistency page 170: inconsistent non-hyphenation of abear left as in the original as part of a quotation page 172: , corrected to . after "was a metcalfe" page 177: betweeen corrected to between after "not yet lambed, the connexion" page 177: galebeck standardised to gale beck after "not far from the inn is" page 184: uphill standardised to up-hill after "village, and walking" for consistency page 188: were corrected to where after "let themselves down to a level," page 192: unusally corrected to unusually after "betokened something" page 193: gatehouse standardised to gate-house after "embodying the ancient" for consistency page 197: inconsistent hyphenation of up-stairs left as in the original as part of a quotation page 199: plinthe corrected to plinth after "forms a natural" page 213: minister corrected to minster after "without seeing the" page 215: over-much standardised to overmuch after "voice is made to utter" page 233: forsee as in the original page 235: bronte's standardised to brontë's in heading for consistency page 236: bronte standardised to brontë three times for consistency page 248: boddices corrected to bodices after "from maidens'" page 271: shirecliffe standardised to shirecliff page 271: shunner standardised to shunnor general: spelling of cleathorpes as in the original general: the musician normally called caedmon is rendered as coedmon as in the original general: punctuation and formatting of the index has been standardised; changes have not been individually noted yorksher puddin' a collection of the most popular dialect stories from the pen of john hartley. born 1839 died 1915. author of "yorkshire ditties," "clock almanack," "seets i' london," etc. "this life, sae far's i understand, is an enchanted fairy land, where pleasure is the magic wand, that weilded right, maks hours like minutes, hand in hand dance by fir' light." _burns._ the copyright of this book is entirely the property of w. nicholson and sons, and no one will be allowed to print any portion of it without their permission. preface the numerous applications for the productions of mr. hartley's pen, the majority of which have been out of print for many years, warrants us in believing that this collection of yorkshire stories, will be welcomed to a large circle of his admirers. dedication to my dear sister hannah, to whose love and motherly care i owe more than i can ever repay, i dedicate this little book as a token of sincere affection. john hartley christmas 1876. contents frozen to death or the cottage on the hill. pill jim's progress wi' johns bunion. moravian knight's entertainment. sperrit rappin. ther's a mule i' th' garden. a neet at "widup's rest." tinklin' tom. th' new schooil booard. tha caps me nah! nay fer sewer! th' battle o' tawkin. "owd tommy." (a yorkshire sketch.) it mud ha' been war. ha a dead donkey towt a lesson. one, two, three. sammy bewitched. hard to pleeas. ratcatchin'. owd moorcock. peace makkin. awr emma--a false alarm. niver judge by appearances. mi first testimonial. five paand nooat. silly billy. put up wi' it. a queer dream. the mystery of burt's babby mak th' best on't. mrs spaiktruth's pairty. why tommy isn't a deacon. one amang th' rest. what's yor hurry? ha owd stooansnatch's dowter gate wed. th' new railrooad. mose hart's twelvth mess. th' hoil-i'th'-hill statty. owd dawdles. property huntin'. abraham's sparrib. a run ovver th' year. frozen to death or the cottage on the hill. a christmas story. chapter i. the last strain of the grand old christmas hymn had just been warbled forth from the throats and hearts of a number of happy folks, who were seated around the blazing log one christmas eve; and on the face of each one of that family circle the cheering light revealed the look of happiness; the young--happy in the present, and indulging in hopeful anticipations for the future; the old,--equally happy as the young, and revelling in many a darling memory of the past. "come, uncle john!" said a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired beauty, over whose head not more than ten christmas days had passed,--"come, uncle, _do_ tell us a story; you know that we always expect one from you." "well, my pretty little niece," he replied, "i fear that i have exhausted all my store of ghosts and hobgoblins, and if i tell you a story now, it must be from the cold, stern world of fact, which, i fear, will be less interesting to you than the romantic fictions i have rehearsed on former occasions." "oh dear, no! tell us a story, a true story--we shall be all the more delighted to know that we are listening to an account of what has really occurred. do begin at once, please". knocking the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, and having carefully reared it against the hob, he commenced:-"the factory bells had just ceased ringing, and the whistles had given out their last shrieks, like the expiring yells of some agonized demon, as the old church clock drowsily tolled the hour of six, on one of the most miserable of december mornings. high on a bleak hill stood a little whitewashed cottage, from the door of which issued two children, apparently about ten years of age. as they stept into the cold morning air they shuddered, and drew their scanty garments closer around them. "nah, yo'll ha' to luk sharp! yond's th' last whew!--yo've nobbut fifteen minutes," cried a voice from within. it was with great difficulty that the little couple succeeded in reaching the high road, for the ground was covered with ice, on which a continual sleet fell, and the wind, in fitful blasts, howled about them, threatening at almost every step to overthrow them. but they had no time to think of these things; slipping and running, giving each other all the aid in their power, they pressed on in the direction of the factory--the fear of being too late over-whelming every other consideration. "come on, susy!" said the little lad, whom we should take to be the older of the two. "come on, we shall niver be thear i' time; come on! stand up! tha hasn't hurt thi, has ta?" he said, as she fell for the third time upon the slippery pavement. tenderly he helped her to rise, but poor susy had hurt herself, and although she strove to keep back her tears and smother her sobs, tom saw that she had sustained a severe injury. "whisht!" he said, "tha munnot cry; whear ar ta hurt? come, lain o' me, an' aw'l hug thi basket." "o, tom, aw've hurt mi leg--aw cannot bide to goa any farther; tha'd better leave me, for aw'm sure we'st be too lat." "happen net--tha'll be better in a bit,--put thi arm raand mi shoulder, tha'rt nobbut leet; aw could ommost hug thi if it worn't soa slippy. sup o' this tea, si thee, it's warm yet, an' then tha'll feel better: an' if we are a bit too lat, aw should think they'll let us in this mornin'." susy drank of the tea, and, revived by its warmth, she made another attempt to pursue her way. but it was slow work; tom did his best to help her, and tried to cheer her as well as he could, though now an' then a tear fell silently from his eyes, for his little fingers were numbed with cold, and he felt the rain had already penetrated to his skin, and the dreadful prospect of being late, and having to remain in the cold for two hours, was in itself sufficient to strike dread into the heart of one older and stronger than he. even the watchman as he passed, turned his light upon them for a moment, and sighed. it was no business of his,--but under his waterproof cape there beat a father's heart, and he murmured as he paced the solitary street, "thank god, they arn't mine." but we must leave them to pursue as best they can, their miserable way, whilst we return to have a glance at the occupants of the cottage from which we saw them start. it is a one storied building, with but one room and a small out-kitchen; in one corner is a bed, on which is laid a pale, emaciated young man, to all appearance not yet thirty years of age: he is asleep, but from the quick short breath, it is not difficult to infer that his best days are over. in another corner, a number of boxes are arranged so as to extemporize a bed, now unoccupied, but from which the two little factory-workers have but lately arisen. a jug of herb tea is on the table. the fire is very low, and the light from it is only sufficient to render all indistinctly visible. in a chair opposite is a young woman with such a mournful, careworn face, that a glance inspires you with sorrow; and from a bundle of clothes on her knee issues the fretful wail of a restless child. the monotonous tick of an old clock is the only sound, saving the longdrawn sigh of that young mother, or the quick, hollow breathing of the sleeping man. now and then the wind whistles more shrilly through the crevices of the door, and the rain beats with greater force against the little window. the mother draws still nearer to the few red embers, and turns a timid glance to the window and then to the bed: another sigh, and then the overburdened heart overflows at her eyes, and the large bright drops fall quickly on that dearly loved infant. the church clock chimes a quarter after six--this rouses the mother once more to set aside her own griefs; the wind still howls, and the rain beats with unabated fury against the glass: her thoughts are of those little ones, and a tremor passes over her as she fears lest they should be shut out. the man moves wearily in his bed, and opening his eyes, he looks towards his wife. she is at his side in an instant. "have they gooan, bessy?" he asks. "eea, they've gooan, an' aw hooap ther thear before nah." "it saands vary wild. we ne'er thowt it ud come to this twelve year sin, bess,--an' it's all along o' me!" "nay, jim, tha munnot say soa--tha knows we can nooan on us help bein poorly sometimes, but when spring comes tha'll pick up thi crumbs agean, an' things 'll be different." "that's true, lass,--aw feel that's true--things _will_ be different when spring comes, an' afoor it comes, aw'm feeard. has ta iver been i' bed to-neet?" "nay, aw couldn't come to bed, 'coss th' child wor cross, but aw've slept a bit i' th' cheer: dooant thee bother, aw'l look after mi sen. will ta have a sup o' this teah?" "whisht!" he said, "that's awr susy callin, aw'm sure it is! oppen th' door!" she flew to oppen th' door, and the storm rushed in with fury; the snow had begun to fall thickly: she strained her eyes and called, "susy! susy!" but she heard no response: yet her heart misgave her, for the thoughts of her darlings being exposed to such a storm made her shudder; but necessity knows no law, and on the slender earnings of these two children depended the subsistence of herself and husband. "aw think tha wor mistakken, jim: aw con see nowt," she said, as she returned and closed the door. "well, happen aw wor; but it's a sorry mornin to turn aght two little lambs like them. bessy," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "aw know aw'm i'th' gate,--aw con do nowt but lig i' bed, an' aw know 'at thee an' th' childer have to goa short mony a time for what aw get, but it willn't be for long. dooant rooar! tha knows it's summat 'at we've nowt to do wi; an' tha heeard what th' parson said, 'ther's one aboon at 'll work all things together for gooid,' an' aw feel my time's commin' varry near; but aw'm nooan freetened like aw used to be; aw think it's gooin to be a change for th' better--an' he'll luk after thee an' th' little ens." "o! jim! tha munnot talk abaght leavin us yet; tha'll be better in a bit." "niver i' this world, bessy! come, put thi heead o' th' pillow here beside me, aw think aw want to rest." she placed the little babe upon the coverlet, laid her head upon the pillow, and worn out with watching, she wept herself asleep. the church clock had chimed the half-hour before tom and his little sister landed at the mill yard, and it was closed. the storm was still raging, but to his repeated entreaties for admission the same answer was returned, "tha'rt too lat! tha connot come in afoor th' braikfast." experience had taught him how vain his endeavours would be to obtain admission; and had it been himself alone that was shut out, he would have gone quietly away and spent the time as best he might; but he felt emboldened by the responsibility that was upon him on his sister's account, and he redoubled his efforts, but the timekeeper was inexorable:--"my orders iz, az nubdy mun come in after a quarter past, an' if tha doesn't goa away aw'l warm thi jacket for thi; tha should ha come i' time same as other fowk." poor tom! there had still lingered some little faith in the goodness of human nature in his breast, but as he turned away, the last spark died out. to attempt to go home he knew would be useless, and therefore he sought as the only alternative, some place where he might find shelter. at a short distance from the gate, but within the sound of the whirling wheels, he sat down with his uncomplaining sister upon his knee. the snow began to fall gently at first, and he watched it as the feathery flakes grew larger and larger. he did not feel cold now; he wrapped his little scarf around his sister's neck. the snow fell still thicker: he felt so weary, so very weary; his little sister too had fallen asleep on his breast;--he laid his head against the cold stone wall, and the snow still fell, so softly, so very gently, that he dozed away and dreamed of sunny lands where all was bright and warm: and in a short time the passer-by could not have told that a brother and sister lay quietly slumbering there, wrapped in their shroud of snow. the hum of wheels has ceased; the crowd of labourers hurry out to their morning's meal; a few short minutes, and the discordant whistles again shriek out their call to work. tom and susy, where are they? the gates will soon be closed again! well, let them close! other gates have opened for those little suffering ones. the gates of pearl have swung upon their golden hinges; no harsh voice of unkind taskmaster greets them on their entrance, but that glorious welcome. "come, ye blessed!" and their unloosed tongues join in the loud "hosannah." but those pearly gates are not for ever open. the time may come when those shall stand before them unto whom the words, "inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me," shall sound the death-knell of all hopes throughout an inconceivable eternity. chapter ii. it is night, and the wind is sighing itself away. the snow has ceased to fall, and the moon looks down upon the hills in their spotless covering, shedding her soft, mild light upon all. the little cottage on the hill side would be imperceptible, were it not for the light that streams through the window and the open door. the church clock has just struck eight, and for nearly an hour a woman has stood looking towards the town, her anxiety increasing every moment. she listens to the sound of feet on the crisp snow--they come nearer--they are opposite the turn that leads to the cottage: but they pass on. again and again she listens:--once or twice she fancies she sees two children in the distance--but they come not. passersby become less frequent; again the church clock chimes, and all is still. her husband and her babe are asleep. quickly putting on her bonnet and shawl, she runs to her nearest rleighbour to ask if she will sit with them until she returns, for she must go and learn how it is that her children have not come home. she fears no denial, and she meets with none; as soon as she has stated her case, the good woman replies, "sit wi' 'em lass! aw'm sure aw will! an' thee," she said, turning to her husband, "put on thi hat an' coit an' goa wi' her." "o, they're nobbut laikin at snowball, or else slurrin a bit," he said;--at the same time he put on his hat and coat, and showed as much alacrity to join in the search as the mother herself. owd becca thrust into her capacious pocket a tea cake and two eggs, and taking the teapot into which she put a good supply of tea, she prepared for starting off; but suddenly recollecting herself, she returned and called in loud tones to her daughter: "sarah i get that sucking bottle, an' fill it wi' milk for th' little en, an' nah, if yo two 'll nobbut bring th' childer back, aw'l see 'at all gooas on reight at hooam." bessy began to express her thanks, but becca was determined not to hear her, and drowned all she said in exhorting her husband to "luk sharp." bessy and old abe directed their steps to the factory, but often paused to ask passers-by if they had seen the two lost ones, but as there had so many children passed whose outward appearance corresponded with theirs of whom they were in search, they thought it best to go at once to the works and ascertain at what time they left. bessy's heart misgave her as she knocked at the gatekeeper's house; an indefinable dread came over her, and she scarce knew how to state her case. little did she think that within sound of her voice lay the dear objects of her search; hundreds of feet had passed them during the day, but none had disturbed them; the whistles had screamed for them in vain, for they had gone to that lasting "rest prepared for the weary and heavy laden." from the gatekeeper they learned that the two had arrived too late in the morning and gone away somewhere, but had not returned or been seen afterwards. bessy stood transfixed for a moment, scarce knowing what to do, but old abe could look at the case more calmly; and taking hold of her hand, he led her gently away, and proceeded forthwith to the police station, where he gave as full an account and as correct a description of the missing ones as he was able. it took but a short time to accomplish this much, but the journey homewards was not so speedily performed. every dark corner was explored, and every alley and by-lane had to be traversed, and the morning was far advanced when they reached home after their unsuccessful search. the husband and babe were still sleeping, for becca had ministered to all their wants. she had buoyed herself with the hope that they would be successful: but when she saw them return alone, her spirits sank as low as those of the mother, and although she was silent, yet the frequent application of the apron to her eyes showed that she felt as a mother for one so sorrowfully placed. promising to "luk in i' th' morn'," they left the disconsolate bessy to her grief. who shall attempt to describe the anguish of that bereaved parent? statuelike she sat, nursing a sorrow too deep for tears. hours passed, and the first faint streak of dawn found her still sitting, with her eyes intently fixed on vacancy. her husband's voice was the first thing that roused her from the state of despondency into which she had sunk. he spoke with difficulty, and his voice was feeble as a child's. "bessy," he gasped, "tha munnot leave me ony moor. it's drawin varry near. awr little tom an' susy have been here wol tha's been off; aw heeard 'em calling for me, but aw could'nt goa until aw'd had a word wi' thee. aw'm feeard tha'll tak it hard, lass, but if tha finds tha cannot bide it, ax th' parson to tell thee what he tell'd to me, an' it'll comfort thee." bessy was unable to reply. sorrows had been heaped upon her so heavily that her feelings were benumbed; she scarcely comprehended what was said, but in the bitterness of her soul she fell upon her knees and sobbed--"lord, help me!" her husband feebly took her hand and drew her towards him. "he will help thee, lassie, niver fear. one kiss, bessy; gooid bye! tom! susy!--it's varry dark.--aw think aw want to sleep."- "and ere that hour departed. all death reveals, he knew." chapter iii. a change had taken place in the atmosphere since bessy and abe had returned. here and there green patches could be seen on the hill side, and the distant town presented a view of smoke-blackened roofs that shone, dripping with wet as the sickly' sun glanced over them. little or no snow was to be found in the streets, and all the hideous sights stood out once more rejoicing in their naked deformities. the giant engine--the factory's heart--was ceasing to beat once more, in order to allow the workers time to swallow the food necessary to enable them to bear up until noon. the gates were opened, and the crowd swarmed forth, but all seemed instinctively directed to a group at a short distance, whose pallid faces reflected the ghastly sight before them. the group soon swelled to a vast crowd. enquiries were made on every hand by those in the outer circle--"what is it? what is it?" "_frozen to death._" tenderly those rough handed, rough-spoken men raised the death-frozen little ones. some there were who knew them and had heard of their loss. it was to them an easy task to account for their deaths, and curses low but deep were cast on them, at whose doors the blood of those innocents must lie. the bodies were taken to the nearest inn to wait an inquest. those in authority were quickly on the alert; whilst some who were acquainted with the parents prepared to carry them the sorrowful tidings.--poor bessy! thy cup of bitterness is nearly full! old becca had come according to promise, and found bessy laid partially upon the bed in a swoon, her arm around the neck of him who had been her faithful partner for a dozen years. she raised her, bathed her forehead, and used all means in her power to promote her recovery. after a short time she was successful; and having prepared the other bed and placed bessy upon it, she hastily left to get some assistance. the poor have but the poor on whom they can depend in an emergency; and it is a blessing that the request for help to each other is rarely if ever made in vain. she soon returned with plenty of willing hands--one took the babe, and others remained to perform the last sad offices to the remains of him who had gone "a little while before." soon the men arrived with the mournful account of the discovery of the children, but bessy knew it not. god had had compassion upon her, and to save her heart from breaking, had thrown a cloud over her reason. silently they stood for a moment in that house of death; and as they turned to go, one after another placed what money each had, noiselessly upon the table: the whole perhaps did not amount to much, but who shall say that it was not a welcome loan to the lord--an investment in heaven that should in after time yield to them an interest outweighing the wealth of the whole world? as the day advanced, numbers gathered round the inn where the coroner and jury were assembled. the usual form of viewing the bodies was gone through; and, with the exception of the girl's ancle, which was found to be dislocated, there appeared nothing to account for death save exposure to the cold. the coroner quickly summed up, and addressing the jury said--"he did not see how they could bring in any other verdict than 'died from natural causes.'" with one exception all acquiesced, and this one refused to agree to such a verdict, saying that death had been caused by unnatural causes! at last the verdict was altered to "found frozen to death." to this a juryman wished to add something about arbitrary laws and inhumanity, but he was overruled. it needed nothing now but to put them in the earth, and cover them up. the following morning the whistles shrieked as fiercely, the wheels went round as merrily as ever; two other children were in the places of the lost ones, and it was as if they had never been. the day for the funeral arrived--the father and children were to be interred together. there was a large gathering of sympathising friends. poor bessy! had partially recovered, but seemed like one just waking from a dream; the mournful cortege gained the church yard. the coffins were slowly lowered into the grave. the grey-haired pastor's voice was at times almost inaudible--every heart was touched, for all took the case home to themselves, and asked the question, "how if they were mine?" "dust to dust, and ashes to ashes," and the ceremony was completed. few of them had failed to remark the presence of a strange mourner--one whose dress bespoke him to be a gentleman; and as the widow turned to leave the grave, he stept up to her and offered her his arm for support. she took it mechanically, and wended her way to her desolate home. he was the only one, with the exception of old becca, who entered with bessy. he looked around the forlorn room, gazing now here, now there, to hide his emotion. he seemed about to speak when a knock at the door interrupted him. becca opened it, and returned with a letter stating that the bearer required an answer. the stranger took it with an air of authority and broke the seal; as he did so, a five pound note fluttered to the ground. while he read the letter his eyes flashed with a strange fire, and his quivering nostril showed the strength of the passion raging within. turning to the boy, he thrust the letter into his hand, and bade him pick up the note. "take this answer to your master, boy," he said; "we return the letter and his money with disdain, and tell him that bessy green is not so desolate and friendless that she needs accept five pounds as the price of two innocent lives. the debt is one that no man can cancel: but the reckoning day is sure to come! tell him that, boy, from the brother of bessy green, from the uncle of tom and susy." the boy hurried away with the message; and bessy, who had been aroused by the stranger's vehemence, at the word "brother," threw herself upon his neck, crying--"it is george!" what follows is quickly told: bessy's grief was deep, and it took long long months before she was fitted to engage in the ordinary occupations of life; but change of scene and cheerful company, together with the daily expanding beauties of her only child, partially healed her lacerated heart. her generous brother, who had returned from a distant land,--where fortune had smiled upon his labours--took her to live with him, and adopted her child as his son. becca and abe became also installed in the house as helpers; and now, far away from the regions of factory whews, they are all living amicably together. "that is my story for this; christmas. how do you like it?" it is very sorrowful, uncle john, but we are much obliged to you for telling it us, but it is surely wrong for children so young to be compelled to go to work at such an early hour? "it may not be wrong to require them so to do, but it would at least show a desire on the part of the employers to ameliorate the hardness of their lot if, while endeavouring to enforce strict punctuality, they would provide some shelter for those who, having come from a distance, fail to arrive in time for admission." "hark, the village waits!" pill jim's progress wi' johns bunion. it wor a varry wild day when john set off to see pill jim, as he wor called, but as it wor varry particklar business, he didn't let th' weather stop him. nah, pill jim wor a varry nooated chap i' some pairts o' yorkshire. he wor an old chap, an' lived in a little haase to hissen, an' gate a livin' wi' quack-docterin' a bit; an' whativer anybody ailed, he'd some pills at wor sure to cure 'em; soa, as john had been sufferin' a long' time, he thought he'd goa an' have a bit o' tawk wi' him, an' see if he could get any gooid done. it chonced, as luck let, at jim wor at hooam, an' he invited him in, but as he'd nobbut one cheer, john had to sit o'th' edge o'th' long table. "well, john," he sed, "an' what's browt thee here this mornin'?" "nay, nowt 'at means mich, jim; but aw've heeard a gooid deal o' tawk abaght thy pills, an' aw thowt they'd happen do me a bit o' gooid; but aw wanted to have a bit o' tawk to thee th' first abaght it, for tha knows one sooart o' physic doesn't do for iverybody." "tha'rt just mistakken abaght that, john, for my pills cure owt; they're oppenin' pills, an' although aw'm a chap 'at doesn't like to crack abaght misen, aw con just tell thee a thing or two 'at'll mak thee stare." "well, that's what aw want, jim, s'oa get on wi' thy tellin'." "aw hardly know whear to begin, but, hasumiver, aw'll tell thee one thing: ther's lots o' fowk livin' raand abaght here 'at's been oppen'd by em, an' to some tune too; an' although aw consider physic an evil at all times, still my pills must be regarded as a necessary evil. a chap once coom to see me, an' browt a lot o' oysters, but he wor fast ha to get into 'em; aw made noa moor to do but just put two or three pills amang 'em, an' they wor oppen'd in a minit. he sed he'd niver seen sich a thing afoor. an' if tha con keep a secret, aw'll tell thi summat else but tha munnot split. one neet just at th' end o' last summer, a queer-lukkin' chap coom an' sed he didn't feel vary weel, an' he'd come to me becoss he didn't want tother doctors to know; soa aw axed him who he wor. he didn't like to tell me for a bit, but at last he sed' he wor th' clerk o'th' weather office, an' he'd just getten a day off, bi th' way ov a leetnin'.' 'well,' aw says, 'aw'll gie yo a box o' pills, an' yo mun tak two ivery neet.' he thanked me an' went away, an' aw've niver seen a wink on him sin, but tha may be sure it's them pills 'at we have to thank for sich a oppen winter as we've had, for as aw sed befoor, they'll oppen owt." "well, jim, tha fair caps me! aw wonder tha hasn't made a fortun befoor nah! but aw dooant think aw want ony pills, tho' aw'm badly enough." "why, what does ta ail? has ta getten th' backwark, or th' heeadwark, or does ta feel wamly sometimes an' cannot ait?" "nawther, john; it's summat else nor that." "why, is it summat 'at tha has o' thi mind!" "noa, it isn't mi mind, it's mi understandin' 'at's 'sufferin'. th' fact is, jim, aw'm troubled wi' a bunion." "let's luk at it," says jim, "ther's nowt easier to cure nor a bunion." john took off his shoe an' stockin', an' when jim saw it he sed, "oh, aw see what it wants; it wants bringin' to a heead." "well, aw think bi th' rate it's growin', it'll be a heead afoor long, for it's as big as mi neive already." "nah, aw'll tell thee what tha mun do. tak five or six o' thease pills ivery neet till tha feels a bit ov a difference, an' when tha gooas to bed tha mun put thi fooit into a pooltice, an' tha'll find it'll get better as it mends." "well, aw think ther's some sense i' what tha says, soa aw think aw'll try some; ha does ta sell 'em?" "if tha buys a box they're a penny, but they corne in cheaper to buy 'em bi weight, an' as its thee aw'll let thi have a pund for a shillin'; if it wor onybody else, they'd be sixteen pence." "well, aw'll tak a pund, onyway. an' if aw can't tak 'em all misen, they'll happen be useful to somdy else." "tha mun tak 'em all thisen, an' then tha'll feel th' benefit on em," sed jim. "well," sed john, when he'd getten 'em teed up in his hankerchy, "aw wish yo gooid day, an aw'll come an' see yo in a bit to repoort progress." john limped hooam as weel as he could, an' after puttin' th' pills into a pint basin i'th' cubbard, he went to bed. his wife axed him what he could like to his supper, but he sed he worn't particklar, soa shoo went daanstairs, an' when shoo luk'd i'th' cubbard, shoo saw this basin o' pills, but shoo thowt they wor pays; soa shoo gate a bit o' mutton an' made a sup o' broth an' put 'em in; an' when they'd been boilin' awhile shoo couldn't find 'em hardly. "why," shoo sed, "aw niver saw sich pays as theease i' all mi life; they've all boiled to smush." shoo tuk him a basinful upstairs, an' after a spooinful or two, he sed he thowt they tasted rayther queer. "oh! it's thi maath at's aght o' order, mun," shoo sed; "get 'em into thee, they're sure to do thee gooid." john tew'd hard wi' 'em an' at last he finished 'em. "niver buy ony moor pays at that shop," he sed, "for aw'm sure they're nooan reight. "aw didn't buy 'em," shoo sed, "they're what wor i'th' cubbard; aw thowt tha'd put 'em thear thisen." when john heeard that, he knew in a minit what shoo'd done, an' he stared at her. "what are ta staring at, wi' thi een an' thi maath wide oppen like that?" sed his wife. "tha'd ha' thi een an' thi maath oppen if tha'd swallowed what aw have," he said, "for they'll oppen ewt." john gate up an' dressed an' went aght, an' as he didn't offer to come back, his wife an' two or three ov his mates went to seek him; an' a few yards off th' door they fan his clooas an' hat an' a pair o' booits, an' in one o'th' booits they fan a bunion,--an' that wor all ther wor left o' john. it wor rayther a awkard thing to swear to, but his wife sed shoo couldn't be mistakken, for shoo knew it soa weel wol shoo'd be bun to be able to pick it aght ov a looad o' new puttates. ov cooarse, they'd a inquest, but as ther wor noa evidence, an' sich a case had niver been known befoor, they returned a oppen verdict. a few days after, as pill jim wor gooin' past th' church yard, he saw a chap oppenin' a grave, an' axed him who he wor oppenin' it for; an' when he heeard it wor for th' remains o' poor john, he muttered to hissen, "noa wonder! noa wonder! them pills, they'll oppen owt. aw wor sure they'd awther drive th' bunion away throo john, or john away throo th' bunion, which wor for th' best aw connot tell; its an oppen question-them pills leeave ivery--thing oppen." moravian knight's entertainment. if yo want to know owt abaght me, let me tell yo 'at they called mi father knight, an' when aw wor born he had me kursend moravian; but noa sooiner did aw begin to laik wi' th' lads abaght ner aw began to be called morry neet. soa mich abaght misen. aw oft think 'at fowk mak a sad mistak, i' spendin all ther time leearnin. aw think if them 'at know soa mich had to spend part o' ther time taichin other fowk what they know, th' world mud ha' fewer philosophers, but it 'ud have fewer fooils. as that's my nooation, awve detarmined to let yo know ha aw gate on th' furst time aw went to a penny readin, an' may be somdy 'll leearn summat bi that. awd seen a lot o' bills stuck up for mony a day, statin' at th' 16th select penny readin' wor to tak place i'th' jimmy loin national schooil, an' aw thowt awd goa. soa when th' neet coom aw went to th' door aw clap daan mi penny like a mon, an' wor walkin in-"stop! stop!" shaated aght th' brass takker, "tha mun come back, tha's nobbut gien me a penny." "aw know aw've nobbut gien thee a penny," aw says; "ha mich moor does ta want? its a penny readin, isn't it?" "eea, its a penny readin, but its thrippince to goa in," he sed. "well, if that's it," aw says, "here's tother tuppince, but awm blowed if aw see it." but aw went in, an' a rare hoilful ther wor. in a bit alderman nonowt wor vooated into th' cheer, an' then he made a speech-"ladies and gentlemen--(then he coughed two or three times, an' supt o' watter),--i can assure you 'at nothink gives me greater pleasure, or greater enjoyment, or i might say greater satisfaction, (a varry deal o' clappin i'th' front seeats--supt twice), when i look around me, ladies and gentlemen, and see so many old and familiar faces that i have never seen before, and when i see so many strangers that i have passed long years of social intercourse amongst, i feel, ladies and gentlemen, i feel moved, very much moved, and when i gaze again i begin to feel removed. our object which we have in view, in keeping agate of giving these here readings, are to throw open the doors of knowledge, so that all may come and drink from the inexhaustible bottle, so to speak, ladies and gentleman, which says 'drink and thirst no more' (great cheering--women wi' cleean pocket hankerchies blow ther nooases). these meetings have also another himportant object, a nobject noble and great, which is namely, to draw people out of the public houses, and create a thirst in them for wisdom. how many men, after a hard day's work, go and sit in the public house, or what is still worse, often spend their time at some thripny concert room until nine or ten o'clock, whereas now they can come here and sit until 10 or 11 o'clock, where they are not only hentertained, but hedicated and hedified. with thease few remarks, i call upon the first reader for a solo on the german concertina." an' it wor a solo! it reminded me o' being in a bazaar at fair time, an' abaght a thaasand childer blowin penny trumpets; an' he whewd his arms abaght like a windmill; an' aw wor nooan sooary when he'd done. but fowk clapt an' stamped wol he coom back agean; an' he bow'd an' sed he'd give 'em an immitation o'th' backpipe, an' awve noa daat it wor varry like it, for awm sure noa frontpipe iver made as faal a din. after that th' cheerman made a few remarks an' sed, music had charms to soothe the savage beast, an' he'd no doubt we all felt soothed with what we had heard. he had now the pleasure to call for something of a more elevating nature still. the next reading would be a comic song. "up in a balloon boys." th' chap 'at gave that wor varry wise, for as sooin as he'd begun singin' he shut his een an' niver oppened 'em agean till he'd done, an' if he'd kept his maath shut aw should ha' been better suited still. ov coorse he wor honcored, an' he coom back an' sang "be--e--eutifool oil of the se--e--e--he!" wol he fair fooamd at th' maath, but awl wave mi opinion o' that. then coom th' gem o'th' evening, an' th' chap wor a gem 'at sang it. th' cheerman sed he was always proud to be able to sit an' listen to such like, for it show'd what a deal better world ther might be if we all did our best for one another. th' peanner struck up, an' a chap in a big white hat an' longlapp'd coit sang "what aw did for hannah," an' afoor he'd finished aw thowt if he'd done hauf as mich for hannah as he'd done for us he owt to be shot. but when a chap's i' favor he con do owt, an' when he'd done an' been called back three times, th' cheerman sed it wor now his duty to introduce the rev'd dowell to read a selection from heenuck harden. as sooin as he'd sed this ivery body began to walk aght, an' soa as aw thowt they must be gooin into another raam to hear it, aw went aght too. but when awd getten aghtside aw saw they wor all awther leetin ther pipes or laikin at soddin one another. aw axed one on 'em if it wor all over. "net it," he sed, "we've nobbut come aght wol yond dry old stick has done talking. th' best pairt o'th' entertainment has to come off yet! ther's three single step doncers gooin to contest for a copy ov 'baxter's saint's rest,' bun up wi' gilt edges." when aw heeard that aw ihowt, well, awm nooa saint misel, but if awm a sinner awl have a bit o' rest, whether it's baxter's or net. soa aw walked quitely off hooam, thinkin ha thankful we owt to be at fowk 'll labor as they do to improve an elevate poor workin' fowk. that wor th' end o' my entertainment. sperrit rappin. did yo iver goa to a sperrit rappin' doo? aw did once, but aw can't say it wor mich i' my line. it happen'd one setterdy neet 'at aw'd been to have a pint at th' "rompin kittlin," an' aw heeard some chaps say 'at ther wor baan to be a meetin i'th' owd wayvin shop o'th' sundy afternooin, an' iver so mony mediums wor commin to tell all 'at wor gooin on i'th' tother world, soa as awd nowt else to do, aw went, an' after a bit o' thrustin aw managed to get into a front seat: but they wor varry particlar who they let in. as aw wor set, waitin for th' performance to begin, aw thowt it luk'd varry mich like a inquest, for ther wor one chap set o'th' end o't' table, an' six daan each side; an' they wor a lot o'th' rummest lukkin fowk aw'd seen for a long time. they all seem'd as if they wanted sendin aght to grass, for ther faces wor th' color ov a lot o' tallow craps. in a bit they started, an' we all sang a hymn, an' varry weel it wor sung too, considerin 'at that radical gravestoan letterer joined in it; for if ther is ony body 'at can throw a whole congregation aght o' tune, its owd cinnamon, for he owt niver to oppen his maath onywhear unless all th' fowk is booath deeaf an' blind, for th' seet o' his chowl is enuff to drive all th' harmony aght ov a meetin. aw dar wager a trifle 'at he'd be able to spoil th' jubilee. but as aw wor sayin, we did varry weel considerin, an' then th' cheerman gate up an' addressed a few words to us. he sed he'd noa daat 'at ther wor a goaid many amang us 'at didn't believe i' sperrits, but he could assure us 'at ther wor moor i' sperrits sometimes nor what we imagined. he sed he knew one man 'at had been under th' influence ov a sperit, 'at went hooam an' tell'd his wife sich things 'at made her hair stand ov an end, an' when he gate up next mornin he knew nowt abaat it till he saw his wife wor i'th' sulks, an' he ax'd her "what ther wor to do." "ther's plenty to do, aw think," shoo says; "ha can ta fashion to put thi heead aght o'th' door? but tha can have yond nasty gooid-for-nawt as soain as tha likes, for awst leeave thi if aw live wol awm an haar older! it's a bonny come off, 'at me at's barn ommoss a duzzen children to thi should be shoved o' one side far a thing like yond!" "why, lass, aw doant know what tha'rt talking abaat," he sed, "tell me what tha meeans!" "aw've noa need to tell thi," shoo sed, "tha knows weel enuff, an' aw believe ivery word 'at tha sed, for they say 'at druffen chaps an' childer allus spaik th' truth, an' awve suspicioned yond betty for a long time! what reight has shoo to be dawdlin abaat other fowks husbands for? if shoo wants a felly, let her get one ov her own! but tha may tak her an' welcome, an' mich gooid may shoo do thi, an' may yo allus be as happy together as aw wish vo--an' noa happier! drot her!" "why, did aw say owt abaat betty? tha mun tak noa nooatice o' owt aw say when aw come hooam throo a meetin, tha sees, sin aw wor made a medium, aw ammot allus just i' mi reight senses, an' it isn't me 'at spaiks, it's what's in me." "eea, an' it wor what wor in thi 'at spaik last neet! tha's noa need to tell me 'at tha worn't i' thi reight wit, for tha hasn't been that for a long time but aw can tell thi one thing--if tha'rt a medium, awm net gooin to be made one! aw'll awther be one thing or tother, soa if tha'd rayther have yond mucky trolly, tak her; an' may yo booath have a seed i' yor tooith an' corns o' yor tooas, an' be fooarsed to walk daan th' hill, all th' days o' yor lives; that's what aw wish." he talked to her for a long time, but it wor noa use, for yo see shoo'd niver been enlightened, an' all he could say didn't convince her 'at he worn't answerable for all he'd sed an' done; but ov cooarse it's weel known 'at mediums arn't responsible for owt. after a few moor remarks, an' relatin a few moor incidents, he sed "it wor abaat time to begin the serious business 'at had called us together, an' he sed he hooap'd 'at if ony had came to scoff, they'd remain to pay, for they wor sadly i' need o' funds, an' he hooap'd 'at iverybody wod respond liberally, for sperits sich as they dealt in could not be getten o' trust, although they had to be takken that way." then he knock'd th' table three times wi' his knuckles, an' two o'th' fiddle-faced chaps 'at wor set one o' each side on him, began to wriggle abaat as if they'd getten th' murly grubs. "stop! stop!" he sed, "one at once, if yo pleease! brother sawny had better give his sperit backward for a few minutes, wol we've done wi' brother titus's." soa sawny gave ovver shakkin hissen, exceptin his heead, an' jumpin onto his feet, he sed, "if awve allus to give way to titus, awm blow'd if awl come to edify yor lot ony longer." "husht, husht!" says th' cheerman, "the sperit has takken possession o' titus already. will ony o'th' unbelievers ax it a few questions?" soa aw thowt aw mud as weel be forrad as onybody else, soa aw stood up an' ax'd it furst-"what did they use to call thi?" "mary jane wittering." "ha long is it since tha deed?" (noa answer; soa th' cheerman sed it wor a varry frivolous an' improper question, an' aw mud ax summat else.) "wor ta iver wed?" "nobbut three times." "wor ta allus true to 'em when tha had 'em?" (no answer; th' cheerman shook his neive at me.) "are they livin or deead?" "one's deead, one's livin, an' one's a medium." "has ta met anybody tha knows up i' yor pairts?" "monny a scoor." "are they happy or miserable?" "some one way an' some another." "has ta seen onybody at's come latly?" "nubdy but a chap they call 'profit." "what did they call him 'profit' for?" "aw doant know, unless it's becoss he did soa weel aght o' collectin th' rates afoor he coom here." "is he happy?" "nut exactly, he's undergooin his punishment, poor chap." "what is it?" "he's shut up i'th dark for as monny year as he's charged fowk for feet o' gas 'at they've niver burned; an' bi what awve heeard some o'th older end o'th sperits say, it seems varry likely 'at eternity will ha getten farish in, befoor he sees leet agean." "is he tormented wi' owt?" "nowt but his conscience." "ha's that?" "he hadn't one when he coom, soa he's had to tak one at's been left bi somdy else, an' it pricks him sadly." "then it seems his brass willn't save him?" "noa, for yo know, 'wi whatsoever metre yo measure, to yo it'll be measured agean." "is ther owt to ait an' drink i' yor quarter?" "noa, they've shut all th' shops up, an' it's time they shut thine up, for aw'm stall'd o' tawkin to thi?" aw wor baan to ax him summat else, but he began to wriggle agean, an' th' cheerman sed th' sperit wor takkin its departure, an' in a minute he oppened his een, an luk'd raand as sackless as if he had nobbut just wakken'd. "nah, my dear friend," sed th' cheerman, turnin an' spaikin to me, "aw hooap yo're satisfied. does ta believe i' what this sperit has communicated?" "well," aw says, "to tell the th' truth, aw can't say 'at aw awther believe in it or net, for aw've noa proof, but if aw sed owt aw should be inclined to say 'net'--but still it saands varry likely what one might expect, an' that's all aw can say abaat it at present." "be sure tha comes to awr meetin next sundy," he sed, "an' aw can see 'at tha'll sooin be one on us." an' for that reason aw niver went agean, for aw couldn't help thinkin 'at if aw wanted to be a medium for sperits, 'at awd rayther get a owd licensed haase an' start reight. wol this had been gooin on, awd heeard a chap an' his wife, 'at sat cloise to me, talkin a gooid deal, an' aw varry sooin fan aght 'at shoo wor tryin to mak him believe as mich i' sperits as shoo did, an' ivery time th' medium answered one o' my questions shoo nudged him, an' sed "does ta hear that? its ivery word as true as gospel? does ta believe it nah?" after shoo'd axed him two or three times, he sed, "well, its varry wonderful, an' aw do begin to think 'at there's summat in it." "a'a!" shoo sed, "aw knew tha'd believe if aw could get thi to come." it wor sawney's turn next to be entranced, as they call it, an' as sooin as th' sperit had takken possession on him (which seemed to be a varry hard task, an' aw dooant know wether it went in at his maath or whear), this woman 'at set aside o' me jumped up an' axed if shoo mud be allowed to put a few questions. th' cheerman sed shoo mud an' welcome, soa shoo began-"ha old am aw?"--"fifty-two." "am aw married or single?"--"married." "ha monny childer have aw?"--"four." "nah," shoo says, turning to her husband, "isn't it true?" "yos, its true enuff," he sed, "aw believe there's summat in it, but aw should like to ax a question or two misen." "why, jump up, then, an' luk sharp an' start," shoo sed. so he started-"ha old am aw?"--"fifty-three." "nah then! didn't aw tell thi! does ta believe it nah?" shoo sed. "am aw married or single?"--"married." "true agean, tha sees," sed his wife. "ha monny childer have aw?"--"two." "two! then if my wife's four whose, is tother two?" as sooin as shoo heeard that, an' befoor th' medium had time to spaik, shoo seized hold ov her umbrella, an'lauped off her seat towards whear th' medium wor set, an' aw fancy if th' umbrella nop had made acquaintance wi' his heead i'th' way shoo'd intended, 'at it wodn't ha taen long to untrance that chap. but th' cheerman saw her comin, an' managed to stop it, but it wor noa easy job to quieten her. "a'a, tha lyin gooid-fornowt!" shoo sed, "has ta come here slanderin daycent wimmin? aw defy awther onybody i' this world or onybody i'th' tother to say owt agean my karractur! yor a lot o' himposters, ivery one on yo, that's what yo are! come on, jim," shoo sed to her husband, as shoo seized hold ov his arm, "let us goa, its nooan a fit place for gradely fowk." "dooant be i' sich a hurry," he sed, "aw begin to think ther's summat in it." "summat in it! has ta noa moor sense nor to believe in a lot o' lyin vagabones like thease? let's get hooam, they're nooan fit spots for daycent fowk, an' aw hooap awst niver catch thi i' one agean! come on!" "why, tha browt me, didn't ta? an' tha seemd to believe in it." "eea, aw believed' em soa long as aw knew what they tell'd me wor true, but as sooin as they start lyin, aw can't believe 'em then; but aw wish awd hold o' that chap's toppin, an' awd shake th' truth aght on him, or else awd rive his heead off--nasty low-lived sneak as he is! but come on hooam, an if tha waits wol aw bring thi agean, tha'll wait wol tha'rt a thaasand year old, an moor ner that." they went aght, an in a bit quietness wor restored. after a few moor remarks, th' cheerman sed 'at it wor too far on i'th' day for ony moor sperits to be sent for, for th' mediums had another meeting to attend that neet, soa he read aght another hymn, an' we tried to sing it to th' tune ov "sweet spirit, hear mi prayer," but we couldn't, for cinnamon wor too mich for us all--he wor a deal better brayer nor prayer, an' after one or two moor tries, th' cheerman sed "'at unless that gentleman (lukkin at cinnamon) wod awther swallow a scaarin--stooan an' a pund o' sweet sooap to clear his voice, or else keep his maath shut, we should have to leave singin aght o'th' question altogether." but cinnamon worn't to be put daan; an' he tell'd th' cheerman 'at if he didn't know what singin wor he did, an' when he wor in horstraly (a voice--"what does ta know abaat horstraly, tupheead, tha niver went noa farther ner burtonheead i' all thi life"). this ryled cim, an' he up wi' a stooil an' whew'd it slap at th' cheerman. aw saw ther wor likely to be a row, for whativer other sperit wor thear, aw could see plain enuff 'at th' sperit o' mischief wor i' some on 'em, soa aw crept up beside th' door an' pop'd aght, an' left 'em to settle it as they could. aw met cinnamon th' next mornin, an' aw saw 'at he'd a gurt plaister ov his nooas, an' aw couldn't help thinkin what a blessin it wod ha been to some fowk if it had been stuck ovver his maath asteead. ther's a mule i' th' garden. (this expression is one that i have often heard used in yorkshire to some unpleasantness being afoot.) a christmas story. hark thi lass, what a wind! it's a long time sin we had sich a storm. folk ought to be thankful 'at's getten a warm hearthstooan to put ther feet on, sich weather as this:--unless it alters it'll be a dree kursmiss-day. if ony poor body has to cross this moor to neet, they'll be lost, as sure as sure con be. it's a fearful neet reight enuff, lad, an' it maks me creep cloiser to th' range,--but it's th' sooart o' weather we mun expect at this time o' th' year. it's a rare gooid job tha gate them peats in, for we stand i' need ov a bit o' fire nah. does ta mean to sit up all th' neet same as usual? eea, aw think ther's nowt like keep in up th' owd customs, an' we've niver missed watchin kursmiss in sin we wor wed, an' that'll be nearly forty year sin; weant it? shift that canel, sithee' ha it sweals! does'nt to think tha'd better ligg summat to th' dooar bottom? hark thi what a wind! aw niver heeard th' likes; it maks th' winders fair gender agean. soa, soa; lend me owd o' that pooaker, aw shall niver be able to taich thee ha to mend a fire aw do think. tha should never bray it in at th' top;--use it kindly mun, tha'll find it'll thrive better; it's th' same wi' a fire as it is wi' a child--if you're allus brayin' at it you'll mak it a sad un at th' last, an' niver get nowt but black luks. but its net mich use talkin' to thee aw con see, for tha'rt ommost asleep; aw believe if th' thack ud to be blown off tha couldn't keep thi e'en oppen after ten o'clock; but use is second natur ommost, an' aw feel rayther sleepy mysen, aw allus do when ther's a wind." * * * * * * * in two or three minutes they wor booath hard asleep, but they had't to sleep long, for ther coom a knock at th' door laad enuff to wakken deeaf debra (an shoo couldn't hear thunner). th' owd man started up an flew to oppen th' door, an' in stawped a walkin' snow-drift. "aw wish yo a merry kursmiss," he said. "thank thi lad; come a bit nearer th' leet. if tha's browt noa better luk nor tha's browt weather, tha'd better ha stopped at hooam. who art ta?" "well, its a bonny come off," said th' chap, "when my own uncle connot own me." "its nooan ezra, is it?" said th' owd woman. "that's my name, aw believe, aunt," he said. "waw, do come an' sit thi daan. set that kettle on lad, and mak him a drop o' summat warm; he'll do wi' it." it worn't long afoor th' new comer wor sat i'th' front o'th' fire, smookin' a long pipe an' weetin' his whistle ivery nah an then wi' a drop o' whiskey an' watter. "nah lad," said th' owd man, "what news has ta browt? tha's generally summut new." "aw've nowt mich uts likely to be fresh, aw dooant think," said ezra. "yo'd hear tell abaght that do o' slinger's aw reckon?" "niver a word, lad; what's th' chuffin heead been doin?" "well, aw'd better start at th' beginnin' o' my tale, an' as it's rayther a longish en, you mun draw up to th' fire and mak up yor mind to harken a bit." "yo happen niver knew molly momooin? shoo lived at coldedge, an' used to keep one o' them sooart o' spots known i' thease pairts as a whist shop; yo'll know what that is? shoo worn't a bad-like woman, considerin' her age (for shoo wor aboon fifty, an' had been a widdy for a dozen year), an iver sin her felly deed, shoo'd sell'd small drink o'th sly (they dooant think its wrang up i' them pairts), an ther wor at said it wor nooan of a bad sooart, tho shoo used to booast at ther wor niver a chap gate druffen i' her haas, tho ther'd been one or two brussen. like monny a widdy beside, at's getten a bit o' brass together, shoo wor pestered wi' chaps at wanted to hing ther hats up, an put ther feet o' th' hearthstooan, an' call thersen th' maister o' what they'd niver helped to haddle. but shoo wornt a waik-minded en, wornt molly:--an shoo tell'd em all at th' chap at gate her ud have to have a willin' hand as well as a warm heart, for shoo'd enuff to do to keep hersen, withaat workin' her fingers to th' booan for a lump o' lumber ith' nook. soa one after another they all left off botherin' her except one, an that wor jim o' long joan's, throo wadsworth, an he seemed detarmined to get her to change her mind if he could. as sooin as iver shoo oppened th' shuts in a mornin', he used to laumer in an' call for a quart (that cost him three-awpence, an used to fit him varry weel woll nooin). well, things nother seemed to get farther nor nearer, for a long time, but one day summat happened at made a change ith' matter. it wor just abaght th' time at th' new police wor put on, an slinger wor made into one. nah slinger thowt he ought to be made into a sargent, an he said "he wor determined to extinguish hissen i' sich a way woll they couldn't be off promotionin' him, an if they didn't he'd nobscond." soa th' furst thing he did wor to goa an ligg information agen owd molly sellin' ale baght license. th' excise chaps sooin had him an two or three moor off to cop th' owd lass ith' act, for they said, "unless they could see it thersen they could mak nowt aght." it wor a varry nice day, an' off they set o' ther eearand. nah it just soa happened at jim o' long joans (they used to call him jimmy-long for short), wor lukin' aght oth' winder, an' saw em comin'; ther wor noabody ith' haas drinkin' but hissen, soa emptyin' his quart daan th' sink, he tell'd molly to be aware, for ther wor mischief brewin'; an then he bob'd under th' seat. in abaght a minit three on em coom in,--not i' ther blue clooas an silver buttons, but i' ther reglar warty duds. "nah, owd lass," said one, "let's have hauf-a-gallon o' stiff-shackle, an luk sharp." "what do yo want, maister? i think yo've come to th' rang haase; do yo tak this to be a jerry-hoil; or ha?" said molly. (they'd ta'en care to leave slinger aghtside, cos they knew he'd be owned.) "nay, nah come," they said, "its all reight mun, here's th' brass, sithee, fotch a soop up, for we're all three as dry as a assmidden." "why, if yo are reight dry," shoo says (an bith' mass they wor, for they'd been walkin' a bit o' ther best), "ther's lots o' watter ith' pot under th' table, but be as careful as yo con, for it bides a deal o' fotchin'--but aw wodn't advise yo to fill yor bellies o' cold watter when yo're sweatin', its nooan a gooid thing mun. have yo come fur? yo luk as if yo'd been runnin' aght oth' gate o' summut, but aw hope yo've been i' noa sooart o' mischief: hasumever, sit yo daan an cooil a bit." they set em daan, for they wor fessened what to do, an at last one on em whispered, "aw believe slinger's been havin' us on, seekin' th' fiddle, but if he has, we'll repoort him an get him discharged like a shot." "why," said another, "ha is it he isn't here? where's he gooan?" "he's hid hissen ith' pigcoit just aghtside. aw expect he'll be ommost stoled o' waitin' bi this, but let him wait, he desarves it for bringin' folk o' sich eearands as theease, we'st nobbut get laft at when we get back, soa what think yo if we goa an say nowt abaght it? he'll nooan stop long aw'll warrant." "well, nowt but reight," they said; soa biddin' th' owd woman gooid day, they set off back. when they went aght, jimmy crope throo under th' langsettle, an' lukin' at molly, he said, "nah, have aw done thi a gooid turn this time owd craytur?" "tha has, jim, an aw'm varry mich obleeged to thi, lad," shoo says, "an tha shall have another quart at my expense." "net yet, thank thi, molly. aw havn't done wi this--ther's a bit ov a spree to be had aght on it yet mun, aw heeard ivery word at they said, an what does ta think! they've left slinger ith' pigcoit waitin', an aw meean to keep him theear for a bit." soa sayin,' he quietly crept aght, an went raand to th' back o' th' pigcoit. "slinger! are ta thear?" "all reight, lad; have yo fun ought?" "nut yet, but we're just gooin to do; tha munnat stir, whativer tha does. its a rare do is this. it'll be th' makin' on us, mun." "does ta think we shall get made into sargents?" axed slinger. "i lad, an corporals too, aw'll be bun; but bowd thi whisht, whatever tha does--we'll come for thi as sooin as we want thi; does ta think tha could sup a drop o' summat if tha had it?" "aw wish aw'd chonce, that's all.'" "well, bide thi time, an aw'll send thi some." jim then walked away, an leavin' slinger screwed up like a dishclaat, he went into th' haase, and call'd for a quart. "well, what's come o' slinger?" said molly. "oh, he's all reight--he's gooin through his degrees to get made into a sargent or a corporal or some other sort ov a ral, but aw'll bet he'll wish it wor his funeral afoor aw've done wi' him." jimmy sat comfortably suppin' his stiffshackle an smokin' a bit o' bacca, an tried by all th' means in his power to wheedle th' owd woman into his way o' thinkin'. "tha mud do wor nor ha' me mun" he said, "aw'm nut ovver handsome aw know, but ther's nowt abaght me to flay onybody." "ther'll nubby be freetened o' thee lad, tha need'nt think," shoo says, "for tha reminds me ov a walkin' cloaas peg--if tha'd been split a bit heigher up tha'd ha' done for a pair o' cart shafts." "well tha knows beauty's i'th eye o'th beholder," says jim. "they'd be able to put all thy beauty i' ther e'e an see noa war for it," shoo says. "well, aw'm willin' to work an keep thi a lady as far as th' brass 'll gaa." "what mack ov a lady aw should like to know? th' same as aw am nah aw reckon, up to th' elbows i' soap suds. but once for all aw want thi to understand at aw'm nooan i'th weddin' vein at present." "well tha'rt a hard-hearted woman, that's what tha art--an nooan as gooid ith' bottom as tha mud be, or else tha'd niver live here chaitin' th' excise for a livin', astead o' being th' wife ov a daycent chap. aw ommost wish aw'd letten them chaps catch thi; it ud nobbut ha sarved thi reight." "sarved me reight, wod it? well tha con goa an fotch slinger aght o' th' pigcoit (for aw reckon he's thear yet), but ha mich better ar ta, at sits thear suppin' it? but whether aw'm as gooid as aw should be or net, aw'm sure tha'rt a gooid-for-nowt, an th' sooiner tha taks thi hook aght o' this haase an' th' better, for aw've studden thy nonsense woll aw'm fair staled. are ta baan? for if tha doesn't tha'll get this poaker abaght thi heead." "nay! nay! tha doesn't mean it?" said jim, jumpin' aght o'th gate, "tha wodn't hurt me surelee?" "hurt thi! drabbit thi up, tha's spun me to th' length--ger aght o' that door." jimmy kept backin' aght step by step, an' molly wor flourishin' th' poaker, but nother on em saw at th' peggy-tub wor fair i'th gate woll jim backed slap into it. splash went th' watter o' ivery side, an' molly skriked, "a'a dear! sarved thi reight, as if tha could'nt see a whole tub! what are ta splashin' like that for?" but poor jimmy couldn't spaik, for he wor wedged as fast as a thief in a miln, an' nowt but his legs an' his arms could be seen. molly catched howd on his legs an' tried to pool him aght, but th' heigher shoo lifted his feet an' th' lower sank his heead, soa ther wor noa way to do but to roll it over an' teem him aght. "this beats all," says molly, as shoo helped him up, "couldn't ta see it?" "does ta think aw've a e'e i' th' back o' my heead?" he said, "it's all long o' thee, an' dang it that watters whoot." "it's like to be whoot," shoo says, "did ta iver know folk wesh i' cold watter, tha lumphead?" "well, what shall aw have to do? aw'm as weet as a sop, to say nowt ov a blister or two. "tha mun goa thi ways to bed an' throw thi clooas daan th' stairs an, aw'll see if aw connot dry 'em off for thi." soa up stairs he went an' flang his weet things daan, sayin' at th' same time, "if tha finds any buttons off tha can suit thisen whether tha puts 'em on or net." "aw've summat else to do nor sew for thee, tha's made we wark enuff," shoo said. it did'nt tak long for molly to dry th' cloas an' shoo raylee felt sooary for him after all, soa shoo set too an' stitched him a button or two on, an' as shoo said, "mensened him up a bit for he wor somebody's poor lad." he wor sooin drest nice an' comfortable agean an' then he thowt it wor time to goa an' see what had come o' slinger. as sooin as he coom near th' coit he could hear him snoaring away ommost as laad as a trombone. "well tha'rt a bonny en" he said "to be paid aght o'th rates for keeping a sharp luk aght. aw did think to bring thi summat to sup but its a pity to disturb thi. aw'll try another dodge an see ha' that'll act." away he went an' in a minit or two coom back wi a huggin o' strea, an' quietly oppenin th' door he shoved it in,--he then walked off mutterin "tha'll be capp'd when tha wackens owd lad." as th' day began to grow shorter a few owd faces began to peep in to see ha molly wor gettin on an' to taste ov her drink. when ther'd getten abaght a hauf a duzzen on em jim slipped aght an' sammed up all he could find i'th' shape o' buckets an' had em filled wi watter an' not o' th' cleanest sooart,--then he lit a wisp o' strea just aghtside o'th' pighoil door an' waited wall th' smook had begun to curl nicely up:-then he darted into th' haase an' bawled aght "heigh lads! do come,-somdy's set th' pighoil o' fire." aght they flew an' sure enuff thear it wor reekin away' like a brick kiln. "sleck th' inside first," says jim, an' in a twinklin one pailful after another wor splashed in. slinger sooin wacken'd but he wor fast what to mak on it,--he thowt he must be dreamin ov a storm at sea or summat. "howd on! howd on!" he yell'd aght "what have yo agate?" "do luk sharp lads," says jim, "ther's somdy inside they'll be burnt to th' deeath. bring some watter some on yo." "ther is noan," they says, "its all done." "why mucky watter 'll sleck as weel as clean, give us howd of a pailful o' swill. we munnot have th' poor body burnt to th' deeath." just as slinger was rushin aght o'th' door he gate a reglar dooas 'at ommost floor'd him. "nah lads, lets stop a bit, says jim, aw think th' dangers ommost ovver,--lets see who this chap is. it's happen somdy at wanted to burn owd molly aght o' haase an' harbor." slinger brast aght o'th' door like a roarin lion,--but he wor sooin collard, an' he wor soa bedisend with soft cake an' puttaty pillins at his own mother could'nt ha owned him. "dooant yo know who aw am," he sputtered aght, "awm slinger, yo know me." "bith mass it is slinger," said jim,--"its noabdy else," whativer has ta been dooin to get into a mess like this? tha may thank thy stars tha worn't burnt to th' deeath." "well aw dooant know 'at it means mich whether a chap's burnt or draand, but awther on 'em befoor being smoord,--did iver ony body see sich a seet as aw am?" "why tha luks like a sheep heead wi brain sauce tem'd over it, said one." "he needn't carry a scent bottle wi' him, they'll be able to smell him withaat," said another. "ha shall aw have to get clean," says slinger. "aw can't goa hooam this pictur?" "tha'll have to get sombdy to scrape thi daan, unless tha thinks tha's getten enuff o'th' scrape tha'rt in already;--but aw think tha'd better goa hooam to th' wife an' tell her tha's comed." "he's noa need to do that, if shoo's ought of a nooas sho'll find it aght. "well if this is what comes o' being a bobby aw'll drop it, but for gooidness sake lads, niver split for aw'st niver hear th' last o' this do." at last they persuaded slinger to goa hooam. what he said to th' wife or what shoo said to him folk niver knew, but certain it is 'at shoo went an' left him an' lived wi her mother for aboon a wick at after. when he turned aght next mornin to goa see th' superintendent, he luked like a gate-post 'at's studden in a rookery for six months. he'd to wait a bit afoor he could see him, but when he did he said "maister!" aw've comed to get turned off for awm sick o' this job--no moor cunstublin for me, aw've had enuff." "why my good man," he said, "what's up? have yo dropt in for summat yo dooant like?" "aw have,--an' summat's been dropt onto me at aw dooant like, an aw've made up my mind to throw up th' drumsticks an' tak to honest hard wark for a livin." "well young man, yo seem dissatisfied, but yo should remember 'at we're like soldiers in a war, we're feightin agean things 'at isn't reight, its nut allus straight forrard, it seems yors has'nt been this time, but its one o'th chances o' war' at yo mun expect." "it may be a chance o' war, but it'll be a chance o' better afoor yo catch me at it agean, so gooid mornin." when he'd getten into th' street he langed to goa up to owd molly's agean, but thowts o'th' neet afoor kept him back, and varry weel it wor soa, for jim o' long wor dooin his best to flay th' owd woman woll shoo'd be glad to have him and shut up th' wisht shop,--an' be shot he managed, for shoo promised shoo'd wed him in a month, an' shoo wor as gooid as her word. jimmy settled daan to his cobblin (for he reckoned to do a bit at that when he did ought), an' he worked away varry weel for a bit, an' molly took a pride i'th' garden aghtside an' th' haase inside, an' they were varry comfortable. but ther wor just an odd booan somewhear abaght jim 'at did'nt like wark, an' aw think it must 'ha' been a wopper, for it used to stop all t'other ivery nah and then for two or three days together. he liked to goa an' sit i'th' beershop opposite, an' have a pint or two, an' molly knew it wor her bit o' brass at wor gooin, for shoo said "he hardly haddled as mich sometimes as he cost i' wax." one day he'd been rayther longer nor usual, an' shoo wor just ready for him. "aw thowt tha used to tell me at it wornt th' ale tha wanted, it wor me; but na it is'nt me ta wants, it's the ale." "why, woll a chap lives he con alter his mind, connot he?" said jim. "oh! soa tha's altered thi mind, has ta? tha's noa need to tell me that, aw can see it, an' aw've altered mine too, an' aw've a gooid mind to pail my heead agean th' jawm when aw think on it." "why, lass, it's a pity to spoil a gooid mind, but aw'st advise thi to tak thi cap off for fear o' crushin it." "an' if aw did crush it, whose brass wor it at bought it, aw should like to know? tha's taen moor brass across th' rooad this wick nor what ud ha bought booath a cap an a bonnet, an' tha'rt staring across nah as if tha langed to be gooin agean. what are ta starin at?" "nay nowt, but aw think ther's a mule i'th' garden," said jim. "he'd hardly getten th' words aght ov his maath, when molly seizes th' besom, an' flies aght, saying, "it's just what yo mun expect when folk come hooam hauf druffen, an' leeav th' gate oppen." "whativer has th' owd craytur up," says jim. "shoo surely doesn't think aw mean ther wor a mule i'th' garden? aw nobbut meant ther wor a bit ov a row i'th' hoil; but aw'll niver be trusted if shoo is'nt lukkin under th' rhubub leaves, as if shoo thowt a mule could get thear, but shoo'll be war mad at ther isn't one nor what shoo wod ha been if shoo'd fun hauf a duzzen." molly coom back in a awful temper. "soa tha thowt tha couldn't do enuff to aggravate me but tha mun mak a fooil on me?" "why, wornt ther one?" "noa, ther worn't, an' tha knew that." "ther wor summat 'at luk'd as faal as one, daatless, when tha wor thear." "come, tha's noa room to talk. aw think aw'm as handsom as thee, ony end up. folk may weel wonder what aw could see i' thee, and aw niver should ha had thee if aw had'nt been varry cloise seeted." "tha'rt booath cloise seeted and cloise fisted, aw think, and if tha wor cloiser maathed sometimes ther'd be less din." "thear tha goaas agean. aw've spakken, have aw. aw'll tell thi what it is, tha can't bide to be tell'd o' thi faults, but aw'm nooan gooin to be muzzled to suit thee." "why, lass, it isn't oft tha oppens thi maath for nowt, tha generally lets summat aght." "well, an' when tha oppens thine, tha generally lets summat in, soa we're abaght straight." "aw wish we wor, lass, for aw'm stoled o' this bother, an' if ther isn't a mule i'th' garden nah, ther's summat else, for if that isn't slinger, aw wor niver soa capt i' my life. why, he looks as fat as a pig. oppen th' door, an' ax him in, for it's th' first time aw've seen him sin he'd his heead in a pooltice." "gooid day, slinger; ha ta gettin on?" "oh, meeterly just. aw thowt a callin when aw went past afoor, but ther wor sich a din, aw thowt ther mud be a mule i' th'"-"what does ta say," says molly. "has ta come here to taunt me? "aw've been tell'd abaght that mule afoor this afternooin." "molly," said jim, "tha caps me. doesn't ta know what folk mean when they say there's a mule i' th' garden? they mean there's a bit of a dust i' th' hoil, that's all mun." "oh! is that it!" says molly. "aw see nah. yo know aw'm to be excused if aw dooant understand iverything, for aw'm not mich of a scholard; ther worn't schooils like there is nah when aw wor a lass; but aw'd a brother once 'at wor as cliver as onybody--he used to be able to rule th' planets; but he wor draaned at last, an' aw declare aw've niver been able to bide th' seet o' watter sin'. aw believe that wor what made me start o' brewin." "why yo happen have a sup left, said slinger?" "ea lad, ther's some i' that pewter sithee--tak howd an sup." "thank thi' "he said, an' here's wishing at ther may niver be a 'mule i' th' garden' but what 'll be as easy getten shut on as this has been this afternooin." "gooid lad slinger! tha talks like a book. aw believe if tha'd had a better bringin up tha'd ha' made a philosipher says molly." "tha had a fancy once to be a police ossifer hadn't ta said jim? but aw think tha's getten that nooation purged aght on thi nah?" "well, aw gate it swill'd aght on me ony way. but aw think some times' at it towt me a bit o' sense, an' whoiver he is 'at wants to raise hissen up, by poolin somdy else daan, aw hope he'll get sarved ith' same way; for when a chap shuts his een to ivery body's interests but his own he desarves to be dropt on--but if we'd all to strive to lend one another a hand, things ud go on a deal smoother, an' as nooan on us is perfect, we ought to try by kindness an' gooid natur an by practisin a bit o' patience to mak one another's rooad as pleasant as we con, an if we stuck to that we should find fewer mules i' th' garden." * * * * * * * "o! an' soa that's th' tale abaght slinger, is it ezra?" "that's it uncle, its done nah." "its abaght time it wor, an' th' next time tha comes here an' brings a tale wi' thi mak it hauf as long an' it'll be twice as welcome." a neet at "widup's rest." we've mooast on us, at one 'time or another, accidentally dropt amang company withaat havin ony idea o' spendin mich time wi' em, an' yet we've kept stoppin an' stoppin, feelin as happy as con be, an' niver thinkin for a minit what a blowin-up we should get when we landed hooam. an' aw've mony a time thowt 'at a body enjoys a bit ov a doo o' that sooart a deal better nor a grand set affair, becoss when a body expects nowt it's hardly likely he'll be disappointed. well, it wor one day last winter 'at aw'd walked monny a weary mile, an' it wor commin dark, when aw called at "widdup's rest," to see if aw could get owt to comfort me old inside, for aw wor feelin varry wamley. as sooin as th' lonlady saw me shoo ax'd me to step forrads into another raam, which aw did, an' fan a few chaps set raand a fire fit to rooast a bull, an' lukkin varry jolly. as sooin as they saw me they made raam for me at th' hob end, an' began talkin to me as friendly as if they'd known me all ther life. aw sooin began to feel varry mich at hooam wi' em, an' as th' lonlady browt in some basins o' hot stew 'at shoo wodn't be paid for, (an old trick to get fowk to spend twice as mich another rooad) an' as another chap wod pay for all we had to sup an' smook, aw thowt aw mud ha gone farther an' fared worse. it worn't long befoor some moor coom droppin in (ha that happens aw dooant know, but aw darsay you'll ha nooaticed it monny a time yorsen, 'at if ther's owt stirrin 'at's cheap ther's allus a certain class o' fowk 'at drop in accidentally). after a bit, we mustered a varry nice pairty ov abaat a dozen, an' as iverybody wor tawkin at once we managed to mak a fairish din. but at last one o'th' chaps proposed 'at we should have a cheerman, an' see if we couldn't conduct business in a moor sensible manner. ivery body sed, "hear, hear!" an' ov cooarse th' chap 'at wor standin sam wor voated in, which seemed to give him mich satisfaction, an aw couldn't help thinking 'at he worn't th' furst chap 'at had getten put i' sich a position for his brass an' net his brains. after "order" had been called two or three times bi every body i'th' place, th' cheerman stood up an' sed, "gentlemen, aw feel varry praad to okkipy this cheer, an' aw'll do mi best to discharge the duties that disolves upon me at this important crikus, an' aw think if ony body wants to order owt they'd better do it at once, soas we shalln't have ony interruptions." we all shaated, "hear, hear!" agean, an' th' lonlady wor i'th' raam befoor we'd time to ring th' bell. when we'd all getten supplied th' cheerman stood up agean, an' knockin th' table wi' a empty ale bottle, sed, "silence!" we ivery one shaated "silence!" an' luk'd daggers at one another for makkin sich a din, an' then he went on to say, "gentlemen, as aw'm a stranger amang yo, ov coorse aw dooant know mich abaat yo, but aw should be varry mich pleeased if one on yo wod oblige bi singing a song." "nah ther's a chonce for thee, cocky," sed one. "tha knows aw connot sing," sed cocky, "aw think ike ud do better nor me." "nay, aw can sing nooan," sed ike, "aw niver sang owt i' mi life but' rock-a-boo-babby,' an' it's soa long sin aw've forgetten that, but ther's old mosslump thear, happen he'll give us one, we all know he can sing." "dooant thee pitch onto me," sed mosslump, "it'll be time enuf for thee to start o' orderin when we mak thi into th' cheerman, what can't yo start wi' standhen for, we know he can sing?" "o, standhen!" they sed, "we'd forgetten standhen! he can give us a owd tory touch we know." up jumpt th' cheerman, an befoor standhen had time to spaik he called aght, "mr. standhen! we're all waitin for thy song, an as cheerman o' this assembly aw expect thee to do what tha con to entertain this compny, or otherwise aw shall vacate this cheer." as all th' glasses wor beginnin to get low, they felt this to be an appeal to ther inmost sowl, soa they all began, perswadin standhen, an' after a deeal to do he promised to try. "aw know awst braik daan befoor aw start," he sed. "nay, tha'll have to start furst," sed one, "but we'll excuse thi if tha does; if tha tries it'll show willin." after coughin once an' suppin twice, he shut his e'en an' oppened his maath, an' this is what coom aght:- thou grand old church of england! though others raise their voice, and try to stain thy spotless name, thou still shall be my choice; just as thou art, i love thee thus, and freely i confess, i'd have thee not one jot the more, nor yet one tittle less. those who would rob thee of thy rights, and urge with specious tongue, that theft by act of parliament can surely not be wrong. i'd have them leave thy sheltering wing, and nevermore to dare to stand within thy courts of praise, or taint thy house of prayer. oh! dear old church of england, that points the way to heaven! amid a sad, sad world of sin the truly, only leaven. we leave thee to our father's care, who knows thy needs the best, convinced that he, by aid of thee, will leaven all the rest. when he'd finished they all knocked ther glasses on th' table bi way ov applaudin, which th' lonlady hearin, at once coom in an' ax'd if they wor "callin?" an' as all wor empty, shoo luk'd varry hard at th' cheerman, an' he nodded "as befoor," soa shoo gethered up th' empties, an' called for liza "to bring in them glasses," which wor at once done, an' showd a gooid deal o' foreseet on her part i' havin 'em ready. when all had getten sarved wi' hot watter, an' given ovver crushin sugar, th' cheerman announced 'at it wor mr. standhen's call, soa up jumped standhen, an' said "he couldn't do better nor call owd mosslump for a song." some moor applause followed this, but they didn't knock th' tables wi' ther glasses this time, becoss they wor too full. mosslump stood up, wiped his maath wi' th' corners ov his necktie, turned up his e'en as if he wor gooin to depart this life i' peace, an' in a voice, time, an' manner peculiarly his own he sung- mistress moore is johnny's wife, an' johnny is a druffen sot; he spends th' best portion ov his life i'th beershop wi' a pipe an' pot. at schooil together john an' me set side by side like trusty chums, an' niver did we disagree till furst we met sweet lizzy lumbs. at john shoo smiled, an' aw wor riled; shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me her bonny e'en aw've seldom seen sin' that sad day shoo slighted me. aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want, for johnny ofttimes gets o'th spree; he spends his wages in a rant, an' leeaves his wife to pine or dee. an' monny a time aw've ligged i' bed, an' cursed my fate for bein poor, an' monny a bitter tear aw've shed, when thinkin ov sweet mistress moore. for shoo's mi life is johnny's wife, an' tho' to love her isn't reet, what con aw do, when all th' neet throo aw'm dreeamin ov her e'en soa breet. aw'll goa away an' leeave this spot, for fear 'at we should iver meet, for if we did, as sure as shot awst throw me daan anent her feet. aw know shoo'd think aw wor a fooil, to love a woman when shoo's wed, but sin' aw saw her furst at schooil, it's been a wretched life aw've led. but th' time has come to leeave mi hooam, an' th' sea between us sooin shall roar, yet still mi heart will niver part wi' th' image ov sweet mistress moore. long befoor he'd done th' chaps had begun tawkin, some abaat politics an some abaat knursticks, an' when he sat daan th' cheerman wor th' only quiet chap i' th' lot, an' he wor ommost asleep; but mosslump comforted hissen wi' whisperin to me 'at classical mewsic wor varry little thowt on, an' after a sigh, a sup, a shake ov his head, an' another leet for his pipe, he sat daan evidently detarmined not to be suited wi' owt i' th' singin way that neet. after th' cheerman had wakken'd up, two or three called for "cocky," an' this time he gate up withaat ony excuses, an' although he did rock backards an' forrads like a clock pendlum th' wrang end up, yet aw must say he entered life an' soul into what he had to do, an' in a voice 'at seemed three times too big for the size ov his carcass he sang- lord john and john lord were both born on a day, but their fortunes were different quite; lord john was decked out in most gorgeous array, as soon as he first saw the light. but poor johnny lord, it's true on my word, he'd no clothes to step into at all; he'd no flannel to wrap, he'd no nightgown or cap, but was rolled in his poor mother's shawl. now, it seems very strange, yet it's true what i say and i hope you're not doubting my word; and i'll tell what took place in a general way, with lord john and with poor johnny lord the nurse took lord john, and the doctors stood round, and examined the child and his clothes; whilst a fussy physician, with looks most profound, wiped his aristocratical nose. "it is, i declare, most uncommonly fair, and its voice, oh! how sweet when it cries; it really would seem like the child of a dream, or an angel just dropt from the skies." now, it seems very strange, &c. now, poor johnny lord and his mother were laid, both fainting and cold on the straw; no doctors would come there unless they were paid, or compelled to be there by the law. no comforting word heard poor mistress lord, as o'er her babe bending she sat, and each one who saw it cried with one accord, "what a little detestable brat." now, it seems very strange, &c. the two babes became men as the years rolled away. and lord john sported carriage and pair, whilst poor johnny lord working hard for poor pay, was content with what fell to his share. lord john went to races, to balls and to routs, and squandered his wealth with the gay, till at last came the reaper, and sought them both out, and took lord john and john lord away. now, it seems very strange, &c. very soon a grand monument stood o'er lord john, to show where the great man was laid, but over john lord was no mark and no stone, it was left as when left by the spade. but the time yet shall come when john lord and lord john shall meet in the realms far away, when the riches and titles of earth are all gone, then which will be greatest, friends, say? then, though it seems strange, yet it's true what you've heard, and a lesson throughout it is cast, which should comfort the poor working men like john lord, for we all shall be equal at last. as sooin as he'd finished quaverin on th' last noat but one, ther wor sich a knockin o' glasses an' thump in o' fists, wol th' lonlady coom in agean, an' th' cheerman felt it his duty to order "as befoor," which order th' lonlady worn't long i' executin. "gooid lad! cocky!" sed ike, "if aw'd a voice like thee aw'd travel! tawk abaat sims reeves! he niver sang a song like that sin he wor creddled! nah maister cheerman, keep up th' harmony, we're mendin on it aw'm sure. 'gow, aw'll have another pipe o' bacca o' th' heead on it' nay, raylee, aw niver did hear sich a song," savin which he sat daan an' hid his astonishment behund a claad o' reek. "well," sed th' cheerman, "as ike seems soa anxious, aw think he'd better try an' let's see what he con do." "hear, hear!" on all sides, an' two or three pulled him up whether he wod or net, an' after a gooid deal o' sidelin abaat, he axed if he mud have his cap on, for he could niver sing withaat cap. "that's to keep th' mewsic throo flyin aght o'th' top ov his heead," sed one. "order!" sed th' cheerman, "if ike wants his cap on let him have it, may be he'll loise th' air withaat it." ike luk'd very solid for a minit, an' then he struck a lively tune in a voice abaat as musical as a saw sharpener. let us have a jolly spree, an' wi' joy an' harmonie, let the merry moments flee, for mi love's come back. o, the days did slowly pass, when aw'd lost mi little lass, but nah we'll have a glass, for mi love's come back. o, shoo left me in a hig, an' shoo didn't care a fig, but nah aw'll donce a jig, for mi love's come back. an' aw know though far away, 'at her heart neer went astray, an' awst iver bless the day, for mi love's come back. when shoo ax'd me yesterneet what made mi heart so leet, aw says, "why can't ta see it's 'coss mi love's come back." then aw gave her just a kiss, an' shoo tuk it noan amiss an' aw'm feear'd aw'st brust wi' bliss, for mi love's come back. nah aw'm gooin to buy a ring, an' a creddle an' a swing, ther's noa tellin what may spring, for mi' love's come back. o, aw niver thowt befoor 'at sich joy could be i' stoor, but nah aw'l grieve noa moor, for mi love's come back. as mud ha been expected, they applauded ike famously, but th' cheerman wor hard asleep agean, an' it tuk a gooid shakkin to wakken him, an' then he didn't seem to be altogether thear, an' as sooin as they left him aloan he dropt on agean. "aw think th' cheerman's ommost sewed up," sed ike. "net he! he's noan sewed up," sed mosslump, "it's that song o' thine 'at's sent him to sleep! who the shames does ta think could keep wakken for sich a song as that? aw knew tha'd do it as sooin as aw heeard thi begin." "come, aw'll sing thee for a quairt any day," sed ike, "tha fancies coss tha'd once a uncle 'at could sing a bit, 'at ther's some mewsic born i' thee; but if aw'd a public haase aw wodn't let thee sing in it for a paand, for aw'll bet tha'd turn all th' ale saar." "tha am't worth tawkin to, ike, an' as for thee havin a voice, why! tha arn't fit to hawk cockles an' mussels." "well, an if aw did hawk 'em aw'd tak gooid care aw didn't sell thee ony unless aw gate th' brass befoorhand, soa tha can crack that nut." "does ta mean to say 'at aw dooant pay mi way? aw've moor brass commin in ivery day nor tha can addle in a wick." aw saw it luk'd likely for a row brewin, soa aw sed, "nah chaps, we've had a verry nice evening soa far, an' aw shouldn't like ony unpleasantness, for yo see th' cheerman's had a drop too much, an' aw think we owt to try to get him hooam if ony body knows wheear he lives." "eea!" sed one chap 'at had been varry quite all th' neet, "aw dooant think he'll pay for owt ony moor, soa we mud as weel get shut on him." "ther's frank standin' at th' corner," sed another "aw dar say he'll tak him." "who's frank, aw asked." "o, it's a donkey 'at they call frank," sed ike, "th' chap 'at bowt him had him kursened frank i' honor o' frank crossley bein made a member o' parliment." "varry weel," aw sed, "then let's get him onto it." one or two came to give a lift, an' wi' a bit o' trouble we gate him aghtside. th' donkey wor thear, but as ther wor a gurt milk can o' each side on it, aw couldn't see exactly ha to put this chap on. "o," sed ike, "he'll ride nicely between' em," soa we hoisted him up, an' gave th' chap 'at belang'd donkey a shilling to see him safe hooam. off they went at a jog trot, an' aw fancy if he'd niver known owt abaat th' can can befoor, 'at he'd have a varry lively noation o' what it meant befoor he'd gooan two mile daan th' hill. when we'd getten him away, some o'th chaps went back into th' haase, but aw thowt my wisest plan wor to steer straight for hooam, which aw did, an' although aw believe my old woman had prepared a dish o' tongue for mi supper, as aw went straight to bed an' fell asleep, aw'm net exactly sure whether aw gate it or net. when aw wakken'd next mornin, aw began thinking abaat th' neet befoor, an' aw coom to th' conclusion, 'at "widdop's rest" might be all varry weel once in a way, but if a chap had weary booans, he'd be able to rest a deal better in a comfortable bed at hooam. tinklin' tom. some time ago i was accidentally thrown into the im company of a number of workmen, who were just wondering how to pass the remainder of the dinner hour agreeably; and, as they were all indulging in the favourite after dinner pipe, with one exception, it was proposed that this one, whom they called amos, should tell them one of his stories. amos, nothing loth, and, evidently accustomed to occupy the position of a story teller, without any apology commenced:-"nah, aw dooan't think for a minit, 'at yo all knew this tinklin' tommy, 'at aw'm gooin to tell yo abaght. nowt o'th' soort! its net to be expected! but aw dar say yo've all known a tinklin chap o' some sooart--one o' them 'ats allus boddin an' doin jobs they niver sarved ther time to--a sooart o' jack-o'-all-trades, one 'at con turn his hand to owt ommost. nah, aw like a chap o' that sooart, if he doesn't carry things too far: but when he begins to say 'at he con build a haase as weel as a mason, an' mak a kist o' drawers as weel as a joiner, or praich a sarmon as weel as th' parson--or playa bazzoon, or spetch a pair o' clogs better nor ony man breathin--then, aw say, tak care an' ha' nowt to do wi' him. it isn't i'th' natur ov ony body to be able to do ivery thing, an' yo 'll oft find 'at them 'at con do all bi ther tawk, con varry seldom do owt reight. this tinklin tom, 'at aw knew, lived at northaaram, an' he'd managed to mak fowk believe 'at he wor a varry cliver chap, an' whoiver wanted owt doin they wor sure to send for tom; an' varry oft he did better nor like, to say 'at he had to do it aght ov his own heead; an' if iver he made a mess o' owt, it wor sure to be th' fault o' th' stuff, or else them 'at held th' leet: it wor niver tommy's. it happened one time 'at tom had a bit o' spare time ov his hands, soa he went up to th' aleus to get a pint o' drink, singing as he went, "ye lads an' lasses so blithe an' gay, come to the 'woodlands,' come away." "hallo, tom," said th' landlord, "tha'rt just th' chicken aw wor wantin! tha mun gi' us a lift, wi' ta?" "a lift! what does ta mean? what is it tha wants liftin? aw dar say aw con do mi share, for aw've seen th' time when ther worn't a chap i' awrram 'at could lift as mich as me." why, tom! aw'm capt tha hasn't heeard! doesn't ta knaw 'at we're goin to have a grand tea-drinkin up stairs to neet, an' a grand ball ta finish off wi'?" "noa, ther's niver noabdy tells me owt," says tom. "well, aw thowt tha knew all abaght it--its to be a furst rate doo; tickets to be a shillin a piece, an' them 'at taks two con have' em for one an' ninepence; an' we're gooin to have a peanner, for tha knaws noa beershop's thowt respectable nah, unless ther's a peanner i' th' chamer an' an ale pump i'th' bar, soa as aw dooan't want to be behund other fowk, aw've borrowed one ov a musichener 'at keeps a shop, an' a grand un it is as iver tha clapt thi een on." "what is it made on?" says tom. "aw dooan't knaw reightly, but aw think its awther mogny or wallmuck--aw forget whether; but there it is. luk! sithee!" he sed, runnin to th' winder, "come help us to get it in." they booath ran aght to help th' lads at bad browt it, to get it off th' spring cart, an' they varry sooin had it inside. as sooin as tom an' th' landlord wor left to thersen, they began to try to get it upstairs; but they'd a job; they gat it up a step or two, an' thear it stuck. "nah, then!" sed tom, for he wor at th' top side, "nab then, lift! howd on! lift! lift! howd on! lift! what th' shames are ta dooin?" "aw'm liftin," sed th' landlord, "what should aw be dooin, thinks ta?" "well, try agean," says tom, "nah then, lift! lift! oh-h-h! howd on! what the hangmit are ta doin?" "what's up?" says th' landlord. "can't ta see, lumpheead! tha's ommost brokken mi fingers ageean that step!" "tha should keep thi fingers aght o'th' gate, an' then they willn't get brokken." "if tha doesn't mind what tha'rt saying, aw 'll pitch booath thee an' it to th' botham; an' it will ha' to goa thear yet, for it'll niver come up this way. they must be fooils 'at mak stuff ta big ta get up th' steps. aw once made a mangel 'at aw could tak up steps hauf this width." "well, its net gooin up, that's plain enuff, tom, soa what mun we do nah?" "we mun get it back, an' try to pull it in 'at th' charner winder, but we shall want a stee." "oh, we can sooin get that," says th' landlord, "just thee stop an' see 'at noabdy touches it, an' aw'll goa borrow one." off he went, an' wor sooin back wi' th' stee; an' they reared it up agean th' charner winder an' teed a roap raand th' middle o'th' peanner, an' wol th' landlord went up th' stairs to pool, tom stopt daan to put it on an' shove, an' it began to goa up varry nicely, an' tom followed to steady it. when it had getten abaght hauf way, th' stee began to bend a gooid bit. "steady fair," says th' landlord, "tha munnot come ony farther, tom: if tha does, it'll smash! aw think awst be able to manage nah." soa tom went back, an' th' landlord kept poolin it up a bit at a time. as it kept gooin up an' up, it kept gettin a bit moor to one side. "ha is it nah, tom?" "oh, its all serene--th' centre o' gravitum's all reight up to nah," says tom. up it went--little an' little--an' ivery time it stirr'd it gat a bit moor off th' edge, an' just as he'd getten it to th' winder bottom, ovver it went an' daan it fell wi' a crash an' a buzz, like a volley o' donce music shot aght ov a cannon, an' aght coom all th' neighbors to see what wor up. an' it did luk a seet, reight enuff. th' top had flown off, an' one leg stuck aght one way an tother stuck aght another. it wodn't ha' luk'd hauf as ill if it had been an owd deal box o' some sooart; but a grand mogny peanner--it luk'd just awful. its like a druffen chap 'ats dressed i' black cloath--he allus luks war nor one 'ats dress'd i' fushten. "well, what's to be done nah?" says th' landlord, when he'd getten daan ta tom agean, "tha reckons to knaw a bit o' summat abaght music, doesn't ta? what mun wi' do wi' this lot?" "well," says tom, "aw've put a hanel or two on to a box organ an' polished a flute or two i' mi time, soa aw owt to knaw summat, but aw've niver had owt to do wi' peanners; but aw dar say if we had it inside, aw could do a bit o' summat wi' it." "we can easy manage that," said th' landlord, "for we can tak it up i' numbers!" in a short time they had it carried up an' put together, but what bothered tom wor, all th' strings wor in a lump, for th' wood 'at they wor screw'd to had brokken lawse an' tumelled into th' bottom. "nah, if we could nobbut get this wood wi' all thease pegs in, an' all thease wires fesend to it, lifted up into th' reight spot, aw think ther'd be a chonce o' gettin some mewsic aght on it--soa seize hold an' lift," said tom. an' they did lift i for they lifted th' peanner clean off th' floor. "a'a dear! this'll never do," says tom, "aw niver saw ony body frame wor i' mi life; we mun ha' somdy to sit on it to hold it daan. connot th' mistress spare time, thinks ta? shoo's a tidy weight. "sally, come here!" shaated aght th' landlord, an' shoo wor up in a minit. "nah, we want thee to sit daan o' this article wol we lift." "what, sit me daan o'th' kays, does ta mean? tha doesn't think at aw con play, does ta lad?" "sit thee daan! says th' landlord, varry cross; tha's noa need to be feeard o' been blown up--its nooan a wind instrument." shoo set daan, tho' shoo didn't seem mich to like it, an after a gooid deal o' tuggin an' poolin, th' chaps managed to get it up within abaght an inch o' whear it had been befoor. "thear!" said tom, "that begins to luk moor like summat." "eea, it does," says th' landlord, "aw shouldn't be daan abaght makin a peanner after this; but if aw did mak one, aw'd mak one 'at wodn't braik wi' fallin an odd stoory. aw dooant think him aw borrowed it on 'll be able to find owt aght." "well, aw dooant knaw," says tom, "aw'm th' fastest what to do wi' thease thingams 'at waggles abaght soa; tha sees they owt to hit thease wires, but they're all too long someha." "why, doesn't ta think 'at tha could shorten 'em a bit? it luks to me as if it 'll do if them gets shortened, sally! get up! are ta baan to sit thear all th' day? go an' borrow yond butcher's saig, an' then tom can cut thease foldedols." sally went an' left' em booath starin at th' music box, as shoo called it, an' when shoo'd gooan th' landlord walked raand it two or three times, an' then stoppin i' front o' tom, he said, "well, tom, aw allus thowt 'at tha wor fond o' tinklin at all sooarts o' jobs, but aw didn't gie thee credit for being able to do owt like this." "why, yo' see, maister, its born i' some fowk,' replied tom. "nah when aw wor a lad aw once made a tin whistle aght ov a brass canel-stick, an' they could ha' played on it too, but it tuk sich a deal o' wind, but ther wor a chap 'at used to come to awr haase 'at blew it mony a time." "tha doesn't say soa! a'a, what a thing it is to be born wi' sich a heead as thine; aw wonder tha doesn't crack thi brain wi' studdyin soa mich abaght things. aw've thowt mony a time when aw've heeard fowk tawk abaght thee 'at its a thaasand pities thi mother hadn't twins." "why," said tom, "aw think sometimes 'at if aw'd been edicated aw should happen a capt somdy; but that's sally's fooit, aw think." sally browt th' saig, an' after a gooid deal o' squarin abaght, tom said "aw think th' best plan 'll be to cut th' lot off to start wi', an' then we can mak 'em what length we want 'em." "suit thi sen, tha owt to knaw," said th' landlord, an' tom began to saig away. he'd getten th' hauf on 'em cut, when up comes th' chap at they'd borrowed it on. "i understand you've had an accident," he said, "but i hope its not much worse?" "well, it has getten a bit ov a shake," says tom, "but aw think we'll be able to mak it all square agean in a bit." "why, my dear fellow, what are you doing? you are destroying the whole affair--you are cutting the action!" "action! what action? what does ta mean?" says tom. "why, you are cutting the working part all to pieces!" "warkin pairt! aw'm dooin nowt o' th' sooart--its th' playing pairt 'at aw'm cuttin; but if aw ammot dooin reight, tak th' saig an' lets see ha tha'll do it." "no, indeed--i shall have nothing to do with it--the whole thing is ruined; and the landlord will have to pay me for it, so i wish you a very good day." tom an' th' landlord watched him aght o'th' seet, an' for a minit or two nawther on 'em spake, but 'at th' last th' landlord says, "what's to be done, tom? what's to be done?" tom seemed as dumb as th' peanner an' dived his hands into his britches pockets varry near up to th' elbows. "if aw wor yo maister," he said, "aw wodn't bother ony moor wi' this to day, for ther's a deal o' tinklin wark to be done at it afoor its fit for mich; aw'd shove it into a corner an' say nowt abaght it for fear it might stop th' tickets for sellin, an' when fowk have getten ther tea an' want to donce, ther's sure some music to turn up throo somewhear." th' landlord seemed convinced ther wor some truth i' what he said, soa they lifted it carefully into a corner an' left it. ther wor a rare sale o' tickets that day, an' when tea time coom they wor as mony as three sittins daan, but th' pots were noa sooiner sided nor they began to ax abaght th' mewsic. tom had set varry still wol he saw all ready--then standing up wi' his cap i' his hand, he coff'd an' began, "ladies an' gents--its a vary unfortunate affair, is this; but yo see troubles are niver to seek: th' landlord said he'd have a peanner to neet, an' he's getten one, but its aght o' tune; but rayther nor yo should be disappointed aw'll whistle a tune for yo misen, an' aw think ther's two or three moor at '11 be able to help me a bit." withaat moor adoo he struck up a tune: th' lasses giggled an th' lads luk'd soft; but in a bit one or two gate up, an' began turnin raand, an' it worn't long afoor they wor all whirlin away like a lot o' scopperils, an' as happy as happy could be. tom sooin fun two or three moor to help him at whistling, an' afoor it wor ovver they all agreed 'at they'd niver enjoyed thersen hauf as weel at ony ball they'd iver been at afoor, as they had that neet; but th' best o' friends mun pairt, an' th' time coom when they mud goa hooam, soa just bith' way ov a wind up, tom stood ov a bench an' then made a varry nice soort ov a speech, an' ended bi sayin "ha sorry he felt for th' landlord: for he'd have a deal o' brass to pay to mak up for th' accident 'at's happened, an' as they'd all enjoy'd thersen soa weel, he thowt they wodn't object to mak a collection ov a trifle to help him, an' he should have mich pleasure i' gooin raand wi' th' hat." after this speech they all began fumlin i' ther pockets an' declaring they'd do what they could for him; an' when th' hat went raand they worn't one but what gave summat an' as ther wor twenty-three on 'em, it coom to eleven-pence-hawpny. tom handed it ovver to th' landlord, who thanked' em in a varry neat an affectin way, an' begged on 'em to have a shillin oth' o' warm ale at his expense, which they had. after that they separated, thankful to think' at they'd been able to do a trifle towards helpin a chap aght ov his troubles. th' landlord had to pay for th' peanner at last, an' as they couldn't mak it play, tinklin tom an' a plumber turned it into a ale pump, an' it stands i'th' bar to this day, an' they say its th' handsomest machine o'th' sooart i' northaaram. th' landlord's studied music a bit sin' then, an' as sooin as he hears th' kay nooat ov a chap's voice, he can tell whether to draw him flat ale or sharp ale, as natural as con be. an' they're gooin to kursen th' haase a "music ale haase;" an soa mony fowk goa to see it, 'at th' landlord says he "fell i' luck for th' furst time in his life when th' peanner fell aght o'th' winder." "ha! ha! ha! well, that's a stunner, amos! tha's done that a gooid en, but yond's th' whew, soa we mun goa an' do another bit for th' maister. ha! ha! ha!" th' new schooil booard. in a village not very far from where i am now sitting, and in the principal street, (for it was the only one,) was situated an old-fashioned hostelry where nightly all the solomons of the district used to congregate. the room they occupied was a large kitchen, the floor of which was scoured and sanded; and all the furniture, which was immovable, was brushed as white as it was possible to be. here they held their political discussions, and showed how gladstone had missed it, and clearly demonstrated that had their advice been acted upon, the world would very soon have become so regenerated that soldiers, sailors, parliaments, and policemen, would be things altogether useless, and we should soon be in such a position that pleasure would be the only business of life. on the night of which i write, the conversation turned upon the question of school boards. old michael, who was a great authority on the question of education, owing to his daughter being a pupil teacher, was at once appealed to for his opinion. "well," he said, "awve net gooan soa deeply into this matter as some things, but aw should think 'at they'res gooin to be a mistak all th' way through. if aw understand it reight, iverybody's to be eddicated to sich a pitch, wol they'll be able to tak a sitiwation awther as a clark at a bank or a clark at a chapel, an' yo know as weel as aw do 'at ther's some fowk yo connot eddicate. my dowter has tell'd me monny a time, 'at ther's a deeal o' fowk 'at's born withaat heeads. yo may think it saands strange but aw believe it's true--they've nobbut getten lumps, an' they're like blind boils, yo may pooltice 'em as long as yo like, an' yo can niver draw 'em to a heead, an' that bein th' case aw think 'at forster's made a mess on it. nah if he'd ha takken my advice, he'd ha letten it alooan until sich times as fowk had getten sense enuff to understand things." "but michael," said dick dardust, "aw must say at aw dooant agree exactly wi' all tha says, an' aw connot help thinkin 'at thy dowter may happen be mistakken abaat fowks' heeads." "nah, if tha'rt gooin to set thisen up as superior to my dowter, ov coorse aw've done at once. if somdy 'at's spent soa monny year i' improvin ther intellectul an' morbid sensibleness is to be questioned bi a ninkumpoop like thee, it's time to drop it." "aw dooant want to set misen up at all, michael, all aw have to say is 'at th' best on us may be mistakken, an' aw've heeard a chap say, an' yo may tak his word for it, for he comes throo london, 'at this schooil booard an' this technical eddication is baan to revolutionize this country." "god forbid! 'at we should iver have ony revolution i' this country as long as aw live," said simon o' th' lee, who had been listening, 'for ther's been blooid enuff shed latly.' "nay," said michael, "tha doesn't understand what he meeans, he doesn't meean wars, he meeans 'at things will ha to be turned raand. nah my dowter tells me 'at th' world's in a revolution allus, that is, it keeps turnin raand ov its own axle tree throo morn to neet an' niver stops." "a'a michael,' said simon, 'aw think thy dowter is tryin to cram thi a bit; nah did ta iver catch th' world th' wrang side up, for aw niver did, an' aw've lived a year or two?" "well, awm net able to argify it, all aw know is 'at awm tell'd soa. but to come back to th' old point, abaat this schooil booard, and technical eddication? nah what do yo call technical eddication? come, aat wi' it some o' yo 'at reckon to be soa weel up." "wel," said dick, "technical eddication is, aw suppooas, summat 'at fowk leearns to do 'em some gooid, an' if aw understand it reight, it's summat 'at fowk leearns withaat ony books or owt o' that sooart." "nay," said simon, "tha'rt wrang this time,--if aw understand it, technical eddication meeans leearnin th' names o' things sich as stars an' plants an' joints o' mait, an' iverything o' that sooart; isn't that it, michael?" "aw dooant think it is, aw think dick's nearer th' mark nor thee, for aw believe it's as he says, yo leearn it withaat ony books; in fact it's that sooart o' eddication at fowk have 'at niver went to th' schooil, it's a sooart o' common sense view o' things,--a sooart o' beein able to invent a way to do owt yo want ommost. nah, aw'll gie yo a sample o' what aw call technical eddication. my gronfayther wor booath deeaf an' dumb an' laim, aw can just recollect him, tho he deed when aw wor a lad; he wor born deeaf an' dumb but he wornt born laim, that happened after he gate to be a man. well, he niver went to th' schooil, but yet he wor one o' th' mooast genius chaps 'at iver yo met i' yor life; he'd a way ov his own o' dooin iverything. aw've heeard mi fayther tell 'at when he wor a lad, ther wor a family o' five on 'em, an' they all worked at th' factory, an' as lads will, they sometimes stopt aat soa lat ov a neet 'at they fan it varry hard wark to get up next mornin; an' they had to be up at five o'clock 'coss they'd a long way to walk. nah, mi gronfayther could nawther get up nor call aat, but ha do yo think he managed to get' 'em aat o' bed? he used to allus keep abaat a barro looad o' brokken bricks at his bedside, an' th' lads used to know as sooin as they felt 'em flyin abaat ther heeads 'at it wor time to be stirrin: one used to be enuff in a general way, but th' second wor sure to do it, even if he wor a hard sleeper, an' if th' third didn't wakken him, yo could book him for a tombstooan ony minit. nah that's what aw call technical eddication." "well, if throwin bricks at a chaps heead is technical eddication, aw dooant see 'at we want a schooil booard to taich us that," said jabez, "for ther's lots 'at can manage that job withaat. nah awl tell yo what technical eddication is as yo all seem fast amang it." "well, if tha can lawse us, we desarve putting in a pooak an' shakkin up," said michael, low down, but just loud enough to be heard. "aw heeard thi what tha sed michael, but technical eddication is that sooart 'at taiches 'em a trade, an aw think its a varry sensible thing, 'an aw for one am i' favor ov a schooil board, 'an if we dooant get one up, ther's sure to be some o' them local board chaps at will, an' aw consider this to be a varry gooid time to consider th' subject, 'an depend on it, them 'at start it will have th' best chonce o' being vooated in members; an' as nooan on us but michael has ony public office, aw beg to propooas 'at we form ussen into a quorum an mak application for a schooil booard, an' aw beg also to propooas 'at michael is th' cheerman." this last proposition was a varry good hit, for he knew that if michael had the chance to be chairman, that he would not care a farthing what the object might be,--and there are a many like michael in that particular. michael hum'd and ha'd a few times, but at last he overcame his scruples and said, "he didn't know but what it wor for th' best, and if it wornt, if it had to be done they might as weel have th' honor o' doin it as onybody else." they held a meeting, but it would be useless for me to attempt to make you understand their arguments, for i did not, and i am pretty well convinced that they were similarly situated; but at last it was unanimously resolved that they should have a school board, and simon called for pen, ink, and paper to draw up a petition, and he began in a very promising manner, and proceeded very well until he came to the word technical, then he scratched his head. "what's to do nah?" said michael. "ha do yo spell technical?" said simon, "is there a k in it?" "ho eea! ther must be a k in it," said dick, "let's see, teck, neck, peck, reck, check, deck, leck;--hi! ther must be a k in it, ther's a k i' all words o' that sooart." "well, but aw believe ther isn't a k in it for all that," said simon, "but whear's ther an old newspaper, we can happen find it mentioned thear." so he got an old paper, and whilst he was running down the columns, the rest of the members were arranging when they could have th' furst feed at th' heead o' th' booard. "nah," he said, "awve fun it." "an' ther's a k in it ov coarse," sed michael. "as it happens tha'rt wrang for once," said simon, "for ther isn't." "then ther owt to be, that's all, but aw dooant put ony faith i' newspapers, for when aw wor wed, they put in my name michael withaat a k." "well, that wor reight enough, ther isnt a k i' michael." "oh, isnt ther?--varry gooid,--aw know 'at my dowter spells it wi' a k an' shoo's a pupil taicher, soa shoo owt to know," said michael. "thy dowter be blowed! tha wants to ram thy dowter daan ivery body's throit." "do aw?--awd be looath to ram her daan thy throit anyway, tho it wodnt be sich a varry hard job, for thi maath's ommost big enuff." "if its ony bigger accordingly nor thy nooas awl be smoored; but tha con tak th' schooil board an thi dowter too for what aw care, an' mich gooid may shoo do thi, for awl niver be under a cheerman at spells michael wi' a k. "nah chaps," said dick dardust, "dont yo fratch." "simon does reight to fratch," said another, "michael has noa business allus to be draggin in his dowter if shoo is a schooil mistress. my wife's sister-i'-law had a hont 'at wor a schooil mistress, an' aw dooant keep reapin it up." as each of them had had their pints replenished a number of times during the discussion, the old saying that "when drink's in wit is out," began to be illustrated; and there was such an uproar in the place that the landlord was compelled to send for some policemen to assist him in turning them out, and when they had gone he muttered to himself, as he picked up the broken pints, "schooil booards! its time they'd summat. what do they want wi' schooil booards? aw niver went to th' schooil an' luk at me! why aw could sup a 18 gallon to mi own cheek an net mak soa mich bother." whilst all this had been going on, a few of the quiet and unassuming people of the village had met at the school room for the purpose of considering the same subject. the clergyman was in the chair, and as might be expected, the business was carried on in a very different manner, and they decided to hold a public meeting, and give all an opportunity to express their opinions. judge the dismay of the pot house solomons, when they saw the village placarded with announcements on which the words "school board," were in very large letters. they at once set about raising some opposition, for they felt themselves aggrieved. michael and simon o'th' lee happened to meet as they were going to work. "nah simon, tha sees what a mess thy stupid wark's getten us into. if tha hadn't sed ther wornt a k i' technical it ud niver ha' come to this." "if tha hadn't sed 'at ther wor a k i' michael it would niver ha happened, an' ther isnt a k i' technical." "well, happen net, but ther is a k i' michael, becoss my dowter says--" "thy dowter's a fooil! shoo taks after her faither!" said simon, as he walked away. "ha ha, ha! well shoo hasnt lived to thy age withaat leearnin to know at ther's a k i' michael," he shouted after him. but the public meeting was held, and there was some very strong opposition, and michael made a very long speech against school boards, for he said that "his dowter wor a pupil taicher, an' shoo sed 'at schooil booards wor nobbut necessary i' them places whear they required 'em, an' he should propooas 'at this meetin wor ov opinion 'at this question should stand ovver until his dowter wor old enuff to have a schooil ov her own, an' if shoo couldn't eddicate fowk up to th' mark, it wod be time enuff to have a schooil booard then." "gooid lad, michael!" said one. "michael wi' a k!" said another. "goa home to thi dowter, an' tell her to give thi brains a soap lather!" shouted a voice that was verry like unto simon's. there was a good deal of uproar for a time, but the meeting at length decided by a vote of ten to one in favour of a school board, so the opposition did no good after all, and michael's daughter will have to take her chance. tha caps me nah! "has ta heeard th' news?" "niver a word! what's up?" "old duke's getten wed." "nay, tha caps me nah! an' who's th' gurt maddlin getten wed to? awst ha thowt he'd gettin to old to do that." "he's wed mary o' nathan's o'th' sludge hoil." "well, tha does cap me nah! why, he's old enuff to be her gronfayther ommost. a'a dear, a'a dear! whativer wor shoo thinkin on? but i reckon shoo mud have a felly o' some sooart; but awd ha waited a bit longer if awd been her befoor awd ha' taen up wi' old duke; besides he's a peg leg." "well shoo may'nt like him ony war for that, an' tha sees it'll save her a bit o' trouble, for shoo'll nobbut have one booit to black. but shoo's a trimmer, an' if he doesn't live to rue his bargain, awst be chaited. shoo play'd him one o'th' nicest tricks, th' day after they gate wed 'at awve heeard tell on for a long time." "ha wor that?" "well, tha sees he gate rayther fresh o'th' weddin day, an' he wor varry dry when he wakken'd next mornin, soa he sed he'd get up an' goa as far as 'th' quiet corner,' for a leck on; but shoo tell'd him he'd ha to do nowt o'th' sooart, for it wor ill enough to have a druffen chap at neet withaat havin one 'at started as sooin as he gate up. but he sed he should goa, an' shoo said he should'nt, an' they started o' threapin, but what does shoo do when he worn't lukkin, but shoves his peg leg up th' flue, an' he sowt it all ovver but couldn't find it?" "that wor a cunnin trick onyway, but what sed duke?" "he had to stop at hooam ov cooarse, for shoo wod'nt tell him whear it wor until he promised net to goa near th' alehouse that day, an it had getten towards neet when he promised and as shoo'd kept a gooid fire all th' time it had getten a fairish warmin, and' old duke noa sooiner gate it on an' wor walkin abaat a bit, nor it mashed like a pot, an' he fell his whoallength on to th' floor with his heead i'th' coilskep." "nay, tha does cap me nah! ther'd be a bonny rumpus awl bet. did ta hear?" "aw heeard nowt noa farther, nobbut some ov his chums gate to know, an soa they made a subscription, an' bowt him another, an' they had it painted red, white and blue, an' sent it lapt up i' silk paper. old duke wor ommost malancholy when he saw it, but mary nobbut laft, an started on an' blackleeaded it, an' in a varry little time he wor set i'th' 'quiet corner,' wi as handsome a peg leg as tha'd wish to see. they chaff him a gooid bit abaat weddin mary, but he taks it all i' gooid part, an' they've sent all sooarts o' presents to him. one day last week they sent him a creddle, an' mary wor soa mad wol shoo gate th' blocker an' wor baan to chop it into chips, and wol shoo wor stormin on, a little lad coom to th' door an' sed, 'please aw've browt a pair o' specteckels for old duke to rock th' creddle in.' an' shoo catched him a drive at side o'th' heead, wol his een fair blazed, an th' specteckels flew into th' middle o'th' rooad." "well, but it wor hardly reight on her to claat th' lad, coss he knew nowt abaat it." "why tha sees shoo didn't just think abaat it, but shoo made it all reight at after an gave him a butter cake, an' old duke sam'd up th' specs, an' after saigin th' heead off, he turned th' creddle into a manger for his donkey." "well, tha caps me! but has ta heeard abaat that barrel o' ale runnin away throo old nipsomes tother wick?" "noa, ha wor that? aw hardly thowt he'd ony ale 'at had strength to run away." "o but he has, for th' last gill awe gate fit three on us, an' we left some then. but it wor sellable stuff, awve had war:--net mich. but awl tell thi abaat this barrel. th' brewery cart wor liverin some, an' tha knows their ale-cellar door is just at th' top o'th' old hill, an th' cartdriver let a barrel slip, an' away it roll'd daan th' hill slap agean th' gas lamp, an' it braik th' pooast i' two, an off it went till it coom to th' wall at th' bottom, when th' barrel end brast aat an' all th' ale wor wasted. soa tha sees ther must ha been some strength in it if it could braik a iron lamp pooast; an' it wor nobbut common ale." "well th' loss wodn't be soa varry mich after all, they'll get ovver it. but has ta heeard they're gooin to turn bill summerscales' tripe shop into a limited liability company?" "nay, it's niver true, is it?" "its true enuff, for aw've been tell'd all abaat it bi a chap 'ats had it throo bill hissen, but its a saycret tha knows, soa tha munnot tell onybody; but what does ta think on it?" "well aw hardly know what to think, but it seems to me 'at ther'll be noa limit to th' limited's in a bit. but what's th' shares to be, has ta heeard?" "ho e'ea! ther's to be two hundred shares at a shillin a piece; nineteen twentieths he's baan to keep for hissen, an' his relations are to have th' furst chonce o'th' other, so as it'll be as mich a family affair as possible. does ta see, that's done soa as if ivery thing doesn't work as it should, or ther should be ony fallin off i'th' quality o'th' tripe, they'll keep it quiet for ther own sakes." "well, aw cannot see what iver he's turnin it into a company consarn for?" "does ta see, he's rayther fast for that stuff fowk buys pigs wi, an' he's niver been able to pay for yon shuts painting yet, an' tha sees if theas shares are all taen up, it'll put him into a bit o' ready brass; an' th' dividend is to be declared once a year, an' th' shareholders can have ther choice whether they tak it aat i' tripe or trotters; an if th' first years' profit doesn't run to as mich as'll be a meal a piece, it'll be carried to a presarve fund, though what presarved tripe 'll be like aw cant tell." "well, tha caps me nah! does ta think o' takkin up a share or two?" "aw hardly know yet. if aw tummel ovver as mich on mi way hooam as'll pay th' deposit, aw happen shall, but net else." "well, they'll net be mich i' my line. who does ta think aw met to-day? try to guess." "net aw marry! awm noa hand at guessin." "it wor jim wilkins, don'd up like a gentleman. it licks me whear he gets his brass; if ther isn't a smash up thear some day awst be capt. but he ows me nowt." "aw suppose his wife's a varry highty tighty sooart ov a body. shoo's been browt up at th' boardin schooil." "why then, shoo'll be a poor dowdy in a haase. it's a queer thing, but eddication seems to mar as mony as it maks. aw dooant know what foster's bill may do." "is he baan to get wed?" "who?" "bill foster." "aw ne'er sed owt abaat bill foster, aw mean foster, m. p. for bradforth. he's browt in a bill to eddicate fowks childer." "ho has he, aw niver heeard on it." "why tha'rt awfully behund hand." "aw may be i' mi politics, but net i' me payments, an' that's what monny a thaasand connot say. aw wonder sometimes ha it wod ha been if iverybody 'at owed owt had been foorced to put it o'th' census paper. but what does ta think abaat old strap puttin daan all his five childer musicianers?" "nay aw dooant know, but he wor allus a foxy sooart ov a chap an' he'd have some reason for it. but ha does ta mak it aat 'at they are all musicians?" "why, ther's two bellringers, two drummers, an' one drum hugger, an they all play off nooats, an' a varry long way off 'em sometimes. did ta hear tell abaat them two lads o' his havin that do i'th' church steeple?" "noa, indeed aw! let's have it." "well tha knows it happened to be practice neet an' as ike wor gooin to th' church he bowt a sheep's pluck an' tuk it wi him, intendin to tak it hooam an have it cooked for ther supper. he happened to be th' furst 'at gate into th' bell chamer, soa he hung th' sheep pluck up agean th' wall, an' then went daan agean, leavin a little lamp burnin i'th' steeple. he'd hardly getten off th' step when his brother coom, an' findin th' door oppen he went up; but befoor he gate thear, a gust o' wind blew aat th' leet an' all wor as dark as pitch. he thowt it wor varry strange for he knew ike had come before him, soa he bawled aat 'ike!' but nobody spaik. 'aw know tha'rt up here,' he sed, 'soa let's ha nooan o' thi tricks. spaik, wi' ta?" but nowt spaik. sid felt rayther freetened, but he began to grope all raand th' walls, bein sure his brother wor thear i'th' dark. all at once his hand coom agean a piece o' liver, an' it felt soa cold, an' soa mich like a face, 'at he started back, an' as sooin as he could find th' step, he ran daan as fast as he could, an' when he gate to th' bottom he luk'd at his hand an' it wor all blooidy. 'awr ike's cut his throit,' he sed, 'whativer mun aw do?' an he wor just gooin to yell aat 'police!' when who should come up but his brother. th' seet on him tuk a gurt looard off sid's mind, but yet he wor varry freetened. 'what's th' matter, sid,' sed his brother, 'tha luks ill; isn't th' pluck all reight?' 'th' pluck's gooan,' sed sid, shakkin his heead an' puttin his hand on his heart. 'gooan!--aw'll niver goa into that bell-chamer ageean as long as aw live! aw've allus sed, if a chap 'll rob another ov his livin, he'll rob him ov his life if he's a chonce.'" "'well aw wor just thinkin a gooin for th' police,' sed sid, 'but we dooant know who it is.' its one o'th' ringers as sure as we're here.' 'hi, its one o'th' ringers noa daat, but aw hooap he hasn't a wife an' a lot o' childer.' 'well,' sed ike, 'if he has, an taks it hooam for 'em to ait, aw hooap it'll chooak th' lot on 'em.' just as he sed this, all th' rest o'th' ringers coom up, an' were capt to find ike an' sid soa excited, soa pairt cluthered raand one an' pairt raand tother, an' sid tell'd one lot 'at a chap had cut his throit i'th' bell chamer, an' ike tell'd tother 'at somdy'd stown his sheep's pluck. 'well we mun goa an see,' sed some on 'em, an they gate some leets an away they went up. ike wor th' first an' sid th' last. when they gate into th' chamer, ike saw th' pluck hung up just whear he'd left it, an' he turned raand an' saw sid peepin off th' corner o'th' door. 'this is one o' thy tricks, sid,' sed ike, but th' words wor hardly aat ov his maath befoor sid wor on his knees declaring, 'at he'd niver harmed onybody i' all his life. 'tha's noa need to goa onto thi knees abaat it onyway,' sed ike, 'haiver, hear it is, soa all's reight, tha con hug it up hooam for me; an' he gave it him. sid wor soa taen, wol he put up his hands to mak sure 'at he worn't asleep; an' th' chaps 'at he'd been tellin his tale to, began to smell a rat, an' at last it wor all explained, an' niver mind if ther worn't some laffin an' chaffin. poor sid gets plagued abaat it yet, for ommost ivery body's getten to know, an' if onnybody, livin abaat that church, wants a sheep's heead an' a pluck, they order th' butcher to send 'em a new-taan boggard." "well tha caps me nah!" "gooid neet.--awr mally 'll think aw'm niver comin." "gooid neet.--but is it true?" "true!--it's just as true as all sich like." "a'a, well,--tha caps me nah!" nay fer sewer! nay fer sewer!" sed betty longtongue, as sally jibjab had finished tellin her 'at one o' th' neighbor's husband's had getten turned off. "well, awm capt he didn't get seck'd long sin, for they tell me he wor niver liked amang th' work fowk, an' awm sure aw've seen him go in to his wark monny a time a full clock haar after awr lot's had to be thear. but aw thawt he'd find his level at last, an' awm net oft mistakken, far aw can see a hoil in a stee as weel as th' maaast." "why but it has'nt been owt abaat his wark 'at he's been seck'd for, but him an' two or three moor have been playin a trick o' jane sucksmith's husband, an' its getten to th' maister's ears, an' soa they seck'd him thear an' then." "nay fer sewer! whatever will ta say! why what has he been dooin? same mak o' pousement aw'll be bun for't." "well, aw can nobbut tell th' tale as it wor tell'd to me tha knows; but her 'at tell'd me, had it tell'd bi somdy 'at had heeard it throo one 'at owt to know, soa its true enuff. it seems old sucksmith had been drinkin tother day, an' he must ha getten moor nor he could carry, an' tha knows as weel as me 'at he can sup moor nor what ud mak some fowk druffen, an' walk as steady as if he'd swallow'd a church, steeple an' all; an' he ligg'd him daan o' some sheets o' wool 'at wor bi th' rooad side, an' as musty wor goain past he saw him, an' soa he thowt he'd have a marlock, an' he went an' fun up some ov his chums an' they gate sooit an' daub'd his face wol he luk'd war nor old scrat hissen." "nay fer sewer! why they mud easily do that aw believe, for he's nooan a gooid favvor'd chap at th' best hand." "noa he isn't, but they worn't content wi' that but musty went an' gate some sooart o' paader 'at they use to dye red worset an' sich like stuff wi', an he tuk off his cap an' sprinkled it all amang his toppin, an then they left him, an' in a bit he wakken'd up, for all th' childer ith district wor gethered raand him, starin at him. just then musty, 'at had been waiting abaat, reckoned to come past in a great hurry, an' as sooin as he saw sucksmith, he set up a gurt shaat o' laffin, an says, "whativer has ta been doain, aw niver saw sich a freet i' mi life." sucksmith wor reight gaumless for a while, but he says, "what is ther to laff at? did ta niver see me befoor thinks ta?" "well aw niver saw thi luk like that affoar onnyway. whoiver is it 'at's been playin thee this trick?" "what trick does ta meean?" he sed. "why doesn't ta know at thi face is all daubed wi sooit?" sucksmith put up his hand to feel, an' when he saw his fingers all grimed, he sed, "aw wish aw knew who'd done this, musty; awd be straight wi' him, an sooin too. to think 'at a chap connot fall asleep in a kristine country withaat havin his face painted war nor a paysayger, but awst find it aght someday." "well, aw think its th' best plan to goa wi' me to th' "blue dunnock," sed musty, an' gie thisen a gooid wesh." soa they went an' all musty's mates wor set waitin in another raam. th' landlady wor varry gooid i' findin him some sooap an' watter, o'th' sinkstooan, an' he started to give hissen a reight gooid swill, an as sooin as th' watter gate to this stuff 'at they'd put ov his heead, it began to roll daan th' color o' blooid, an' as sooin as he oppen'd his e'en he saw it, an' he thowt at first it must be his nooas 'at wor bleedin, an' as th' landlady worn't abaat, he blew his nooase oth towel to see, but it worn't, then he put up his hand to his heead an' thear it wor sure enuff. he ommost fell sick when he saw it, an' he called for musty as laad as he could, to see what wor to do. "whativer's th' matter wi me thinks ta, musty? just iuk, awm bleedin like a pig." "a'a, dear, a'a dear! why tha must ha brokken a blooid vessel." "aw think awve brokken two or three," sed sucksmith "but what mun aw do?" "sewse thi heead wi cold watter; ther's nowt stops bleedin like cold watter. why, if tha gooas on tha'll bleed to th' deeath." "aw begin to feel faint already," sed sucksmith, as he started o' throwin moor watter on his heead; but th' moor he put on an' th' moor blooid seemed to come, an' he sed, "oh, dear! aw believe awm done for this time, musty; doesn't ta think tha'd better send for a doctor?" when he lifted up his heead, musty wor foorced to turn away for a minit to get a straight face, for sucksmith's wor dyed th' color ov a raw beef steak, an' his heead luk'd like one o' them red door mats 'at tha's seen. but musty advised him to goa on wi' th' watter, an' he did, an' in a while it begun to have less colour in it, an' sucksmith's mind began to feel a bit easier. "aw think its ommost gien ovver nah," he sed, but luk at mi hands! why they're like a piece o' scarlet cloath." "eea, an thi face is th' same; tha luks to me as if tha'd getten th' scarlet-fayvor, an' awm sure ther's summat nooan reight wi' thi; but wipe thisen an' come into tother hoil, ther's some o' thi mates thear, an' we'll see what they say." sucksmith did as he wor tell'd, an' went into tother raam with musty, but ther wor sich a crack o' laffin as sooin as he showed his heead, wol they mud ha fell'd him wi' a bean. "nah lads," sed musty, "yo shouldn't laff at a chap's misfortunes, an' awm sure ther's summat matter wi awr friend sucksmith, aw tell him it must be th' scarlet fayvor.' "well aw niver saw sich a heead i' mi life," sed another, "but its nooan th' scarlet fayvor; my belief is its th' cattle plague, an if it is, an' th' police gets to know they'll have him shot, bi th' heart will they, for they've orders to destroy ivery livin thing 'at shows ony signs o' havin it. but whear has ta been to get it thinks ta?" "nay, awve been nowhere 'at aw know on," sed sucksmith, "aw felt all reight a bit sin, an' aw ligg'd daan o' some sheets o' wool an' fell asleep, an' aw niver knew aw ail'd owt wol aw coom in here to wesh me." "why then it will be th' cattle plague, its nowt else, ther's a deal o' sheep had it lately; an' varry likely that's some o' ther wool 'at tha's been sleepin on. but ha does ta feel?" "oh, aw feel varry mich alike all ovver,--awm feeared its up we me ommost, an' this has come for a warnin, for aw havn't behaved misen reight latly. but if awm spared to get ovver this awl alter." "why tha luks as if tha'd awther getten a warnin or a warmin, bith color o' thi face," sed one, "but aw think tha'd do wi' a glass o' summat to cooil thi daan a bit,--a red indian's a fooil to thi." "it must be summat serious," sed another, "are ta th' same color all ovver?" "aw dooant know awm sure, an'. aw havn't strength to luk," he sed. but one o'th' chaps roll'd up his briches slop to see; "nay, thi leg is all reight." "well," sed musty, "tha knows it may be soa, for we've heeard tell o' th' fooit and maath desease, an' this may be th' heead an' hand complaint. but what do yo think it'll be th' best for him to do?" "i shuild advise him to goa hooam at once, but if ony body should see him they'll varry likely tak him for a literary chap becoss he's so deeply red." "well, whether they tak him for a little-hairy chap or net, he'll pass for a red hairy chap an' noa mistak," sed hiram. but sucksmith fancied he felt soa waik wol he didn't think he'd be able to walk hooam, soa after all biddin him "gooid bye," for fear they mud niver see him agean an one chap axin him to be sure an' tell his first wife if he met her up aboon, 'at he'd getten wed to her sister, they sent him hooam in a cab. "nay fer sewer! whativer wi ta say? an' whativer did their margit say when shoo saw him? he must ha luk'd a pictur." "nay, aw dooant know what shoo sed, but ther wor a rare racket ith' hoil awl a-warrant thi. but th' gurt softheead stuck in it, 'at he wor poorly, an' as shoo saw he wornt sober shoo humoured him wi lettin him goa to bed. next mornin he'd come to his senses a bit, soa shoo let him have sich a bit o' tongue as he hadn't had latly, for tha knows shoo's a glaid when shoo starts, for if awd to say quarter as mich to my felly as shoo says to him sometimes, he'd niver darken th' door agean. he began to see what a fooil they'd been makkin on him, an' he gate up intendin to goa to his wark, but when he saw hissen ith' seamin glass, he couldn't fashion, an' soa he began o' weshin hissen first i' cold watter an' then i' hot; but it wor what they call a fast color, an' he couldn't get it to stir do what he wod. "what mun aw do, margit?" he sed, when he'd swill'd his heead wi' hot watter wol it wor hauf boiled; "th' moor aw wesh it an' th' breeter it seems to get. if iver aw get all reight agean ther's somdy'll want a new suit o' clooas, but it'll be a wooden en." "hold thi noise, lumpheead," shoo sed, "an' get thi braikfast an awl see if aw connot do summat for thi. aw expect it'll have to be scaar'd off." soa after th' braikfast shoo made him ligg daan o' th' hearthstooan, an' shoo gate some wire scale an' started o' scrubbin one side ov his head, as if shoo'd been polishin th' fender; but he couldn't stand that, an' he laup'd up, an' donced up an' daan th' hoil, sayin all sooarts o' awkward things. "what the dickens are ta thinkin on," he sed, "does ta fancy awm made o' cast-iron?" "aw dooan't know what tha'rt made on, but aw know tha artn't made o'th' reight sooart o' stuff for a fayther ov a family to be made on; but if tha connot get it off thisen, an' tha weant let me, tha'll be forced to stop as tha art, that's all." an' away shoo flew aat o' th' haase and left him. "nay fer sewer! an' whativer did he do?" well, he set daan and studied a bit, then he sent for a doctor, net becoss he felt poorly, but becoss he wanted to know what to do to get it off. soa th' doctor coom, an' they say he couldn't spaik for iver soa long, for laffin at him; an' he tell'd him he'd be monny a week befoor he gate reight, an' it wod have to wear off by degrees; but his hair, he sed, wod niver be reight, soa he mud as weel have it shaved off sooin as lat. soa he sent for timmy, th' barber, an' had it done, an' when his wife coom back, thear he wor set, lukkin for all th' world like a lot o' old clooas wi' a ball o' red seealin wax stuck at th' top; an' thear he is i'th' haase nah, whear he'll ha to stop wol his hair grows agean. "nay fer sewer! an does he niver goa aat?" "niver,--he did goa to th' door one day when hiram's little lass went to borrow th' looaf tins, but shoo wor soa freetened, wol shoo ran hooam, an' her mother says shoo believes shoo's gooin to have soor een; mun, he's flaysome to luk at, an' th' child has niver been like hersen sin, an' shoo connot sleep ov a neet for dreamin abaat it." "nay fer sewer! an what says musty?" "awve niver heeard what he's sed sin he lost his shop, but sucksmith says he's noan gooin to let it rest, for he'll send 'em some law if it costs him a paand--an' musty says he doesn't care ha sooin for he wod be sure ov a bit o' summat to ait if he wor sent daan th' rails--but aw think it'll get made up agean. but awve left yond child ith' creddle bi hersen, soa aw mun be off." away shoo went an' sally watched her aat o'th seet, an' then sank into a cheer, roll'd up her arms in her appron, stared into th' fire, an' sed, "nay fer sewer! well ov all!--nay fer sewer!" th' battle o' tawkin. "tha'rt a liar if iver ther wor one! an' that's a hard thing to say, but aw wodn't hang a cat o' thi word! it's as sure yor alick 'at's brokken awr winder, as awm standin here, an' tha knows it too!" "aw say it isn't awr alick, for he's niver been aat 'oth' haase this blessed day! tha's awther brokken it thisen or' else one o' thi own's done it,--an' they are a lot 'oth' warst little imps 'at iver lived; an' if aw mud ha' mi mind on 'em, awd thresh' em to within an inch o' ther lives! but yo can expect nowt noa better when yo know what a bringin up they've had." "they've had a different bringin up to what ony o' thine's likely to have, but whativer comes o' ther bringin up, yo'll have to pay for that winder, for it isn't th' first he's brokken, an' if yo dooant, next time i catch him, awl have it aat ov his booans.' "let me catch thee ligging a finger o' one o' mine, an' awl mak this fold too little for thee, an' sharply too; ha can ta fashion! a gurt strappin woman like thee, to mell ov a child? tha owt to be 'shamed o' thi face! but tha has noa shame an' niver had." "well if tha's ony its nobbut latly come to thi! awve too much shame to come hooam druffen of a neet after th' neighbors has getten to bed." "whoas come hooam druffen? does ta mean to say 'at aw wor iver druffen? aw'll mak thee prove thi words if ther's a law 'ith land 'at can do it! aw'll let thee see 'at my keracter is as gooid as onybody's, an' a deal better nor sich as thine." "aw niver sed who it wor 'at coom hooam druffen, but aw dar say tha can guess." "if its onnybody its thisen! gurt brussen thing 'at tha art! who is it 'at sends ther poor husband to his wark wi' a sup o' teah an' dry cake, an' then cooks a beefsteak to ther own breakfast? can ta tell me that?" "if aw connot, tha can, an' that isn't all;--can ta tell me who it is 'at invites th' neighbors to rum and teah 'ith' after nooin, when they know th' husband's gooin to work ovver? can ta tell me that?" "well, if ther's been onny rum an' teah stirrin, tha's allus takken gooid care to have thi share on it, but they've allus been wimmen 'ats' come to awr haase when th' maister's been aat, that's one blessin." "does ta meean to say 'at ther's onny fellies been to awr haase when th' husband's been off? tha'd better mind what tha says or else that cap o' thine ul suffer!" "aw dooant say onny fellies has been;--tha should know th' best, but awm nawther blind nor gaumless. but aw'll tell th' what tha art;--tha'rt a nasty, ill contrived gooid-for-nowt, an' all th' neighbors say soa, an' they wish to gooidness tha'd flit, an' all at belangs to thi, for ther's niver onny peace whear tha ar't." "noa, an' ther niver will be onny peace wol tha pays for yond winder! does ta think fowk's nowt else to do wi' ther brass, but to put in winders for yor alick to mash?" "aw tell thi he hasn't mash'd it, for he's niver cross'd th' doorstun sin he gate up. th' fact is he's niver getten up yet, for he isn't at hooam, for he's aboon twenty miles off, at his gronmothers." "dooant tell me that! ther's awr vaynus comin, he knows who mash'd it. vaynus! who wor it 'at mash'd yond winder? nah tell a lie at thi peril,--did ta see it brokken?" "eea, aw saw topsy jump up at th' birdcage, an' it missed it click an' tumbled throo th' winder." "a'a i drabbit that cat! aw'll as sure screw its neck raand as awm livin!" "nah tha sees, aw tell'd thi it worn't awr aleck!" "noa, it couldn't ha been! are ta sure tha saw yond cat do it, vaynus?" "eea awm sure aw saw it." "why then it wornt yor alick! an aw hardly thowt it wor, for he's abaat as quiet a lad an' as daycent a one as ther is abaat here. aw oft tell awrs to tak a lesson throo him." "ther's noa better lad iver breathed nor awr alick;--aw dooant say'at he's better nor onnybody's else, but he's as gooid. an' awm sure tha's a lot ov as fine childer as onnybody need set e'en on, an' if they are a bit wild, what can yo expect when ther's soa monny on 'em. but aw mun get these clooas dried wol ther's a bit o' druft. wi' ta leean me that clooas prop o' thine agean?" "vaynus! what are ta dooin? goa fetch that prop this minit, an' see 'at tha allus brings it when tha sees her weshin, withaat lettin her allus have to ax for it." "well, awm soa glad it worn't awr alick 'at mashed that winder." "soa am aw, awd rayther it had been one o' mi own bi th' hauf. what time does ta think tha'll ha done weshin?" "abaat four o'clock if awm lucky." "well, wi ta step across an' have a cup o' teah wi us?" "eea, aw dooant mind if aw do." "owd tommy." (a yorkshire sketch.) of all the seasons of the year,--that portion when winter treads upon the skirts of the retiring autumn, always seems to me to be most deeply fraught with sorrowful associations. a few short weeks before, one has beheld the year in stately pride, loaded with blessings, and adorned in nature's most luxurious garb, waters in silvery streams have lightly leaped and bounded in the shadow of the waving ferns,--and little flowers have nodded on the brink and peered into the crystal depths, as though in love with their reflected loveliness;--the little hills have decked their verdant breasts with floral gems, and the frowning crags have seemed to smile, and from their time-worn crevices have thrust some wandering weed, whose emerald tints have lent a soothing softness to the hard outline of their rugged fronts. the feathered songsters on untiring wing, have flitted in the sunny sky, pouring forth melodious sounds in thankfulness and joy, as though their little hearts were filled too full of happiness and overflowed in drops of harmony. light fleecy cloud's like floating heaps of down have sailed along the azure sky, casting their changing shadows on the earth, whilst sighing winds have whispered soothing songs amongst the rustling leaves, and ripened fruits have hung in tempting show their sun-burnt fronts, courting the thirsty lip, to tell us in their silent eloquence that the year has gained its prime. even when the ice-king reigns, and howlling storms drive with remorseless fury o'er the plains, or wreck their vengeance on the sturdy woods,--roaring amongst the pliant branches, and entwining around the knarled trunks, uprooting some as though in sport to show its giant strength. and the cascade which formerly leaped forth from sylvan nooks where the wild flowers half hid its source, and bathed themselves in the ascending mist,--now roaring down in sullied swollen force, bearing along the wrecks of summer beauties,--tumbling and hissing through its frost bordered bed,--growling in foaming rage around the rocks which here and there protrude their sullen face to check its mad career;--even this has much of majesty and beauty, and claims our admiration. but when some glories of the autumn yet remain, and e'er stern winter has usurped the sway,--one wide-wide field of death and desolation is all that's left for man to ponder over;--fading flowers, trembling and shrinking in the raw cold blast;--half naked trees, that day by day present a more weird aspect--fields still green, but stripped of every gem;--whilst still some russet warbler may be heard chirping in sorrow and distress, and heavy looking clouds anxious to screen the cheering ray, which now and then bursts forth with sickly smile, that seems like ill-timed mirth amongst the dead. on such a time as this, and in the early sabbath morning, might be seen a stalwart farmer strolling o'er the hills which command a view of the little but interesting village of luddenden. i do not think that the dreary look of decaying beauties had much effect upon him,--the pale blue smoke that issued from his mouth, in measured time, seemed to afford him every consolation. he evidently saw some one approaching in whom he was interested. having satisfied himself that he was not mistaken, he began talking aloud:-"oi! that's him sure enough; nah whativer can owd tommy want laumering over thease hills at this time o'th' morning? he's a queer chap, takkin him all i' all; an' still if ought should happen him aw doant know where they'd find his marrow; he's been th' same owd tommy iver sin aw wor a lad, an' aw'm noa chicken nah--he said--stroking a few grey hairs, which, like a tuft of frosted grass, adorned his ruddy cheeks. aw sud think he's saved a bit o' brass bi this time, for he wor allus a nipper; but he wor allus honest, an' it isn't ivery man yo meet i'th world 'at's honest; but aw doant think tommy ud wrang ony body aght o'th' vally o' that;"--saying which, he snapped his finger and thumb together to denote its worthlessness. a few minutes more and tommy might be plainly seen slowly ascending the somewhat rugged road toward the spot where stood the farmer leaning against the wall awaiting him. i could not better occupy the time that intervenes than endeavour to picture the approaching traveller. his age i would not dare to guess, he might be 60, or he might be 90. he was a short thick-set man, and rather bent, but evidently more from habit than from weight of years. he wore a long blue coat which plainly spoke of years gone by, and bore in many places unmistakable evidence that tommy was no friend to tailors; beneath this an old crimson plush waistcoat, that had long since done its duty, some drab knee-breeches, and a pair of dark grey stockings which hid their lower extremities in a pair of shoes about large enough to make two leather cradles; on his head a hat that scorned to shine, and in his hand he carried an oaken staff; his small grey eyes glistened with a spark of latent wit, whilst on his face was stamped in unequivocal characters some quaint originality. "gooid morning, tommy," said the farmer. "gooid morning dick," replied tommy, "it's a nice day ower th' head but fearful heavy under th' fooit." "you're reight," said dick, "but where are yo trapesing to this morning?" "waw, aw'm gooin as far as dick's o' tom's at th' durham, to get my tooa nails cut," said tommy. "well, yo'll happen bait a bit and ha a wiff o' bacca wi' me, for its a long time sin aw saw yo afoor," said dick. "waw, aw dooant mind if aw have a rick or two, but aw munnot stop long, for it luks rayther owercussen up i'th' element; but ha's that lad o' thine getting on sin he wed quiet hannah lass? aw've wondered sometimes if he wod'nt rue his bargain,--is shoo as fat as sho wor?" "eea, shoo keeps i' varry gooid order, shoo puts her mait into a better skin nor th' mooast; they didn't hit it soa well at th' furst, for shoo wor varry waspish, an' tha knows awr joa's as queer as dick's hatband, when he's put aght a bit. one morning, abaght a wick after they wor wed, joa woran't varry weel, an' had to ligg i' bed a bit,--shoo gate up to muck th' beeas,--(for shoo can do a job like that, tha knows, when shoo's a mind.)" "eea! eea!" said tommy, "noabody better,--shoo's a pair o' gooid end,--shoo's nooan afeared o' dipping her finger i' water, nut shoo." "well, aw tell thi, shoo gate up, an' in a while shoo call'd aght 'at his porridge wor ready when he liked to come daan, an' then shoo went aght. soa in a bit, he gate up, an' th' pan wor stood o' th' rib flopping away rarely. well, he gate a plate, an' thowt he'd tern' em aght to cooil, when asteead o' porrige, aght come th' dish claat slap on to his fooit;--talk abaght single step doncing!--tha should just ha seen him; he ommost lauped clean ower th' breead flaik;--an' thear shoo stood grinning at him throo th' winder, an' he wor soa mad--he wuthered th' pan fair at her head;--he miss'd his aim an' knock'd th' canary cage to smithereens, th' cat gate th' burd, an' th' pan fell into th' churn. nah, what wod ta think ov a thing like that?" "waw, its just loike one ov her tricks;-tha knows shoo wor allus a trimmer o' one, dick." "shoo wor, tommy, an shoo allus will be to her deeing day. it put awr joa into a awful passhian, but shoo didn't care a pin, shoo said shoo'd lived too long near a wood' to be fear'd ov a hullet,--but they're as reight as dick and liddy nah. aw'll tell thi ha that happens. tha knows, awr joa allus thowt a deeal ov his mother, an he wanted th' wife to do i'th' same way; an one morning shoo' wor neighding th' dooaf, when joa says, 'mally', that isn't th' way to neighd, my mother allus 'used to do soa;'--an' he wor baan to show' haa; shoo made noa mooar to do, but lauped into th' middle o'th' bowl wi' her clogs on, an' started o' traiding it wi' her feet, an' shoo says, 'does thi mother do soa?' after that, he let her have it mooastly to her own way, an' they seem to get on varry weel amang it nah--an' if he keeps steady they're putting it together nicely. an' what have yo fresh, tommy?" "nay, nowt 'at means ought aw think, dick--but aw'd like to been pooisened t'other wick, but as luck let, aw wor noa war." "pooisened! tommy, nay, surelee nut." "yos, but aw had--tha sees aw live at th' ee'gurnard, an' aw'd just been into th' mistal wi' young maister william, an' he'd been holding th' canel for me whol aw siled th' milk, an' he wor full ov his marlocks an' bluzzed th' canel up mi nooas an' put it aght,--he's a shocker." "waw, tommy, yo wodn't be pooisened wi' a canel, aw'll niver believe?" "noa, but as aw wor telling thi, aw'd been i'th' mistal, an' aw went into th' kitchen for a bit o' summat to ait. aw saw some fat o'th' ooven top in a pot, soa aw gate some breead an' ait it up. aw thowt it wor fearful gooid an' savored summat aw'd niver had afoor; but just when aw'd finished it, one o'th' young mistresses come daan an' axed me what aw'd done wi' what wor i'th' pot? soa aw tell'd her aw'd etten it. etten it!!' shoo skriked. 'etten it!! why,' shoo says, 'yo'll be pooisened, tommy, its pumatum!' well, aw says, 'pumatum or net, aw've etten it,'--an' away shoo ran an' browt th' maister an' th' mistress, an' all t'other fowk i'th' haase, an' rarely they laffed tha minds; but maister made me a glass o' rum to settle it, an' aw felt noa mooar on it." "well," said dick, "tha mayn't feel it nah, but aw shouldn't be capped if thi inside wor to grow full o' ringlets." "niver heed that, they'll keep mi belly warm," said tommy, "but th' bacca's done, soa aw mun be making mi way shorter. gooid day, dick." "gooid day, tommy. aw hope tha'll have a fine day for thi walk." "eea, eea, aw hope aw shall, but if it rains aw sholl'n't melt." "nooah, but its rayther coolish." "it'll be warmer as it gets ooater, dick. gooid day." and thus the two friends parted; each smiling at the quaint humor of the other;--the one to climb seven miles of rough and heavy road to get his toe nails cut, and the other to pay an early visit to his son, and rest his limbs, which by six days of willing toil had earned a sabbath's rest. he walked slowly, musing as he went, and every now and again making audible the current of his thoughts. "its monny a long year sin aw saw owd tommy before, an' it may be monny a long year before aw see his face agean; aw think owd time must use him wi' a gentler hand nor he uses me. aw remember th' first time aw saw him, he wor coming past th' churn milk joan, wi' a lump o' parkin in his hand as big as awr ooven top; an' that wor th' day 'at jenny an' me wor wed. it seems like a dream to me nah. poor jenny!--if there's a better place, tha'rt nooan soa far off thear!" and then he paused to wipe the heavy drops from off his cheeks. "aw thowt aw'd getten ower this sooart o' thing, nah he sed, but aw believe aw niver shall. its just five year come easter sin aw laid her low, an awve niver been able to aford a grave stooan for her yet, but aw can find that bit o' rising graand withaat a mark, an prize it nooan the less. but its noa gooid freating abaght things we cannot help. aw'll have another reek or two an' goa an' see awr joa." so filling his little black clay pipe with the fragrant weed (which for convenience he carried loose in his waistcoat pocket), he puffed his cloud of incense in the air and hastened on to gain his journey's end. a walk of a few minutes brought him to the door of a low whitewashed farm-house, around which the cans were reared, ready to be filled with the morning's milk. he ventured in, (first carefully removing all the mire from his shoes, lest he should soil the nicely sanded floor,) and drawing up the old arm chair which shone like polished ebony,--he looked around the strange apartment. "its a queer fancy (he said at last) at mally should be soa fond o' pots,--what ther's mooar here nor what ud start a shop; it saves th' expense of slapdashing onyway." and he was right, for, from floor, to ceiling, and along the old oak beams, appeared one medley of crockery--pots of all sizes--cups and plates of all shapes and patterns were hung or reared against the wall until it was impossible to find another place where one might be displayed; and on the mantle shelf, a long array of china images of fortune-telling gipsies, guarded at each end by what was supposed to represent a dog--they might resemble dogs, but surely such a breed exists not now, for if there was a point about them to recommend, it was what mally often said, "they ait nowt." in a short time both joe and mally made their apperance--health bloom on their cheeks, and with a hearty welcome prepared the morning's meal. a clean white cloth spread on as clean a table, the requisite pots, the fresh churned butter, and the wheaten bread was all that was displayed to tempt them to the meal; but it was all that was required, for appetite gave relish to the plain repast, and many a wealthy man in stately rooms, with every luxury around, might well have envied them their simple fare, sweetened by labor, and so well enjoyed--whilst savory meats, of which they never knew, in vain invited him whose satiated tastes loathed every dish. but the old farmer did not seem at ease, and when the meal was over--after a short conversation, he bade them both good day, and turned his steps towards his lonely home. perhaps it was the son who called up in the old man's mind some thoughts of former days--or perhaps the train of thought he had indulged in previously might have laid a load of gloom upon him; but, be it as it may, he seemed inclined to spend the day under his own roof tree. the winter came and spread its spotless snows o'er hills and dales; the wild winds wailed; the woodman's axe echoed amidst the woods; the song birds fled; the dauntless redbreast twittered on the window sills; the cawing rooks wended their weary way in solemn flight. the spring again, like a young bashful maid, came smiling upon old winter's track; the field's looked gay again; and trees seemed vieing which could first be drest in verdant green. the summer followed on, the sun shone o'er the fields of ripening grass; the mowers scythe was dipped in fragrant dews, and flora bounteously bestowed her favorite flowers. autumn succeeded, and once more the' eye was gladdened with the bearded grain, waving in golden splendour in the breeze;--again the luscious fruits are tempting one to pluck; and soon again the year,--weary with its labors, prepares to sleep, and desolation reigns. 'tis sunday morning, and the sun looks down through murky mists;--the ground is slightly hardened with the nipping frost; here and there some hardy flower endeavours to look gay:--the tolling bell rings out its morning call, and straggling groups wend their way to worship in the village church. but on the hill, which rises high above, was stood a man in deep and earnest thought. one could scarcely have believed that the pale, aged looking man, who dressed in sombre black was standing and looking over the quiet scene, was the stalwart farmer, who just one year before was holding converse with old tommy;--but he begins to speak. "its just twelve months to day," he said, "sin aw wor talking to him o' this varry spot, an nah he's gooan, an awm left to attend his funeral: ther's nowt to feel sorry for 'at aw know on, but when an owd face is noa mooar, 'at one's been used to see--it tells a tale 'at's easy understood;--it leaves a gap i'th' world 'at's never shut--it bids us to prepare an reckon up awr life to see if all's as we could like it to be,--an' use what time's left to square accounts,--soa's when we're called to 'liver up, we may be ready. jenny wor ready, an soa wor tommy. it isn't ivery man yo meet i'th world 'at's honest." it mud ha' been war. if iver onybody had th' luck to get off th' wrang side o'th' bed ivery mornin, an' to allus be gettin into scrapes all th' day long, it 'wor jack throo' th' jumpels. it seemed as if some evil genius wor allus abaat makkin spooart on him. if he gate mezzured for a suit o' clooas, th' tailor wor sure to tak th' length ov his coit sleeves for his britches slops, or else mak 'em after another mezzur altogether; awther soa mich too big wol he luk'd like a wanderin bedtick seekin th' flocks, or else soa mich too little wol he used to send his arm's an' legs soa far throo, till yo'd fancy he'd niver be able to get 'em back. but wi' all his bad luck, an' i' spite o' all th' scrapes he gate into, he wor a varry gooid-hearted chap, an' iverybody 'at knew him gave him a gooid word. he went to see a hont o' his one day, an' he'd donned his best duds, an' he couldn't help thinkin as he wor gooin whether be should be able to keep aght ov a mess or net, an' as he knew his hont wor a varry particlar body, he detarmined to do his varry best. when he gate to th' door he saw' at shoo'd nobbut just scarr'd th' steps, an' he luk'd at his feet an' thowt it wod be a pity to put sich mucky booits on to sich nice wark, soa he went raand to th' back yard; but when he gate thear th' door wor fesand, soa he thowt th' best plan wod be to climb over th' wall, for as it wor th' middle o'th' day, an' all th' fowk i'th' tother haases could see what wor gooin' on, he knew shoo'd niver forgive him for callin her aght if shoo didn't happen to be weshed an' tidied; soa up he climbed, an' as it wor twice as deep o'th' tother side he worn't disappointed to see a big tub just standin nicely ready to step on to; soa ovver he jumpt, an' as might be expected, th' top gave way, an' he varry sooin fan hissen up to th' middle i' pig-mait. but he nawther stamped nor sware nor made a din like mooast fowk wod ha' done--for he'd getten soa use to messes o' one sooart an' another wol he'd begun to tak 'em as a matter o' cooarse. "well, here's another bit o' my luk," he sed; "this is another mullock aw've getten into, soa aw mun get aght on it someway; it's noa use freeatin' abaat what cannot be helped, an' ther's one consolation, it mud ha' been war." just as he wor scramlin' aght, his hont coom to see what wor to do, but shoo didn't fly into a pashon as yo might fancy. "hallo, jack!" shoo says, "aw thowt it must be thee; tha's dropt in for it another time, has ta?" "eea, aw reckon aw have, but if aw havn't spoilt th' swill aw dooant care." "oh, aw'll forgie thi that, lad; tha's'made a nice pictur o' thisen, reight enuff; aw could just like thi fottagraff takkin nah, but come thi ways in." "nay, hont aw'll nooan come in i' this state; aw'll call agean some other day, for awst mak nowt but muck." "niver heed th' muck; come thi ways in, for tha lukes like a hauf-draand ratten; tha'll catch thi deeath o' cold if tha hasn't summat warm. come in an doff them clooas, an' aw'll see if aw connot find some o' thi uncles 'at'll fit thi wol thine's fit to put on agean. aw niver did see sich a mess i' all my life. th' idea ov a chap fallin' up to' th' middle in a swill-tub!" "why, its net varry nice, reight enuff, but it mud ha' been war, hont." "aw wonder ha," shoo sed. "why, if aw'd gooan ovver th' heead." "well, that wodn't ha' made, things ony better, truly; but th' next time 'at tha'rt comin' ovver that way just let me know, an' aw'll have that tub aght o'th' gate. goa thi ways into th' chamer an' change them stinkin' things, an' then come an' sit thi daan an' let's tawk to thi a bit, an' see if aw can get ony sense aght on thi, for aw'm sure nubdy can put ony in." "all serene," sed jack, an he went an' changed his clooas, an' when he'd getten donned afresh he coom daan stairs an' sat daan i'th' arm-cheer beside th' fire. "yea-a-aw! yea-a-aw!" went summat, an' up he sprang as if th' cheer-bottom wor redwoot. "a'a, tha gurt gaumless fooil!" sed his hont, "couldn't ta see a cat an' three kittens? aw do believe tha's killed 'em ivery one! poor little things!" nay, nay, aw niver did see sich a thing i' all my life! tha's killed 'em all three, an' it's a wonder tha hasn't killed th' old cat an' all. dear-a-me, aw did intend draandin 'em to-morn, an' to think 'at they should be squeezed to deeath this way, aw shalln't get ovver it for monny a day." "well, aw'm varry sooary, hont; but aw niver saw' em, iw'm sure. whoiver expected to find a cat an' three kittens in a arm-cheer? but let's be thankful, for it mud ha' been war." "nay, net it! it couldn't ha' been war nor it is: tha's killed em, an' tha couldn't do ony moor if tha'd to try." "well, but aw mud ha' killed th' old cat as weel, yo know." "what does ta say? killed awr tibby? tha'd better keep thi heels this rooad as long as iver tha lives nor think o' sich a thing, for aw browt her up wi a spooin throo being blind, an' aw wodn't swap her for all th' cats i'th' world. an' if it had been anybody else nor thee 'at had done this, they'd ha' heeard a bit o' my tongue, aw con tell thi; but, haiver, it is as it is, soa sit thi daan. tha's noa need to luk soa jaylus, mun, ther's nowt under thi nah but a wish in; tha luks as white as a gooast; aw expect tha's getten thi deeath o' cold, but aw'll get thi a sup o' whiskey, an' see if that'll warm thi a bit." shoo went to th' cubbard an' browt aght a bottle, an' put it onto th' table, teld him to help hissen. "tha's noa need to be flaid on it," shoo sed, "it's some o'th' reight sooart; it's what thi uncle allus taks when he ails owt, an' aw believe if th' time iver comes when a sup o' that willn't cure him, it'll be a case o' curran cake an slow walkin: for aw believe its saved his life manny a scoor times already, an' it's a deeal cheeaper nor doctor's physic." jack tem'd some into a glass an gate a gooid swig; an' if yo could ha' seen his face yo'd niver ha' done ony moor gooid. if it had been stricknine he couldn't ha' pooled a faaler mug. "what's th' matter," shoo says, "is it to strong?" "aw dooant know whether it's to strong or net," he said, "but it's aght ov a different tap to what aw'm used to; just yo taste, an' lets see ha yo like it." "it's thi maath 'at's aght o' order, mun; it's a drop o' old slicer's best, an' aw'm sure ther's noa better to be getten abaat this quarter. aw dooant reckon to tak owt to sup misen," shoo sed, "but aw'll just taste wi' thi." "eea, do, sup it up, aw'm sure tha'rt welcome, for aw've had enuff." shoo gate a drop into her maath, but it coom aght agean sharper nor it went in; aw thowt her heart ud come up. "a'a dear! a'a dear!" shoo says, "it's harryget watter! it's harryget watter! aw've made a t'mistak!' aw've made a mistak! but it's just thi luck." "eea, aw expected yo'd say soa; it's allus put daan to my luck, whether it's my mistak or somdy else's; but it mud ha' been war." "thear, tha'rt at it agean; aw believe if it h'ad been pooisen tha'd say soa; but, here, sithee, try this bottle; aw fancy tha'll find this'll run daan better nor th' last." soa he made hissen a drop, an' after tawkin' a bit abaat ha things wor gooin on in a reglar way, he axed if his uncle wor varry weel. "yos, he's varry weel, aw think; at ony rate, he wor all, reight when he left here at braikfast time. aw'm just gettin his dinner ready, an' tha con tak it him if tha's a mind; tha'll find him up i'th' brickfield yonder, doom summat at th' old well." jack sed he'd be glad to goa, for he wanted to see him befoor he went back, soa as sooin as all wor ready he set off an' went towards th' well, but befoor he gate up to it he 'heeard his uncle shaatin an' bawlin an' gooin on as it he wor mad. "what's to do, uncle?" he sed as sooin as he gate up to him, "whativer's to do?" "do! it's enuff to drive me cracked, aw do declare! here have aw had a lot o' chaps leadin watter to this old well for monny an' monnya day, so as we can pump it as we want it into that long field, an' aw'm blowed if summat hasn't getten to th' valve or summat, an' ther willn't a drop come." "why what will yo have to do nah!" sed jack. "do i what can aw do? ther's nowt for it nah but for somdy to goa daan an' set it reight, an' aw'm far to old for sich a job'." "if that's all," sed jack, "aw think aw con scrammel daan that pipe; ha deep is is it?" "it's nobbut abaat fifty feet, an' ther's a gooid flange to rest on at ivery two yards, but aw hardly dar let thi try, for tha maks si'ch a mess o' iverything." "dooant yo freeat abaat that; aw'll goa daan, just see." "well, mind what tha'rt dooin', for ther's a gooid deeal o' watter in nah." jack began to slide daan, one length at a time, an in a bit he called aght "all reight." "c'an ta raik th' valve," sed his uncle. "eea, but aw cannot stir it unless yo send me a hammer daan." "well, stop thear wol aw fotch one, an' aw'll lower it daan wi' a bit o' band." an' away he ran to th' bottom o'th' next held for a hammer. he'd getten abaaf hauf way daan, when up comes another looad o' watter, drawn bi two horses, an' two men wi' em. "this'll be my last looad to-day, jeffry," sed one to his mate. "an' aw'm glad on it," sed jeffry; "aw wonder if th' gaffer's getten th' valve altered yet; he wor sayin' summat abaat it when aw coom wi' th' last barrel." "aw can't say, aw'm sure; but another barrelful can't mak soa mich difference, whether he has or net, soa here goas." as sooin as he sed that, he knocked a gurt bung aght o'th' back o'th' barrel, an a stream as thick as mi leg began paarin daan th' well. it wor a gooid job for jack 'at he happened to be claspin his arms raand th' pipe, for if he hadn't he'd ha' been swum ovver th' heead, an' noa mistak; an' as it wor, he could hardly get a bit o' breeath, for th' watter seemed to spreead aght like a sheet, an drive all th' air aght. he did try to shaat once or twice, but it wor noa use, for th' watter made sich a din wol nubdy could hear him. it didn't tak th' uncle aboon three or four minits to fotch th' hammer, an' as he war comin with it he saw this wattercart bein emptied into th' well, an' his heart gave ovver beeatin for abaat a minit; then he set up sich a shaat, an' ran at sich a speed, wol th' chaps wondered what could be to do. "hold on!" he sed, "for goodness sake, hold on! didn't yo know 'at my neffy wor i'th' well?" "noa bi th' heart did we!" an' th' barrel wor bunged up in a crack, an' th' uncle bawled daan th' well as laad as he could, "jack, if tha'rt draanded spaik! he's deead sure enuff," he said; "one on yo goa daan an' see if yo con bring up his body." just then coom a saand o' summat knockin th' pipe at th' bottom, an' th' uncle called aght, "jack, whear are ta?" "aw should think yo've a gooid nooation whear aw am," sed jack, "aw've managed th' job, soa nah aw'm comin up; luk aght an' give me a lift." as sooin as his heead wor within th' raich ov his uncle's fist, he collared hold ov his toppin, an niver let goa agean wol he stood o' safe graand. "by gow, jack, tha's given me a shock; awst be some time afoor aw get ovver this; tha owt to manage better nor soa; it's like as if ivery thing tha touches tha maks a mess on it." "that's reight, uncle, lig it o' me! but aw wonder whether yo or me gate th' mooast ov a shock. aw should fancy it wor me." "well, reight enuff, lad, it wor'nt a nice place to be in, an' that suit o' clooas 'll niver be fit to be seen agean." "noa, aw dooant think they will," sed jack; "but it mud ha' been war, for they arn't mine." "why, whoa's are they? aw thowt as tha coom up 'at tha luk'd varry respectable." "aw dooant know whoa's ther reightful owner, uncle, but mi hont has lent 'em me to put on wol mine gate dried, for, yo know, aw've been i'th' swill-tub once today." "why, then, that's my best sundy suit 'at tha's gooan an spoiled! aw wonder 'at thi hont had noa moor sense nor to leean 'em to thee." "aw wonder aw'd noa moor sense nor to goa daan that well to spoil 'em, for it's nooan a nice hoil to be in, an' when aw've a shaar-bath, aw'd rayther have it withaat onybody's clooas." "well, let's lig away, an' get hooam as fast as we can, for thi hont'll mak a noise aw'll bet, soa we mud as weel get it ovver as sooin as possible." they went hooam an' tuk th' uncle's dinner back wi 'em, an' as sooin as shoo saw jack shoo rested her neives on her huggens, an lukkin at him throo heead to fooit sed, "what's ta been doin nah; can't ta stur withaat gettin into a scrape?" "well it seems net, for if aw dooant get into a mess misen, ther's somdy gets me into one." "tha'll keep me dryin cloas for thee, aw can see that; but goa upstairs an' put on thi own duds, an' awl see if aw can fettle them up at tha has on." "awm sooary to give yo soa mich trouble, but then it mud ha been war, if awd gooan daan an' niver come up." "tha'd ha been noa loss, lad, tha needn't think; but luk as sharp as tha con, for aw've begun to get th' teah ready." "awl net be long," he sed, an' wol he wor changin his clooas th' uncle tell'd her all 'at had happen'd, on shoo laff'd wol her face wor as red as a turkey cock. when jack coom daan th' table wor set an' all ready for th' teah, an' th' uncle an' hont had takken ther places at th' table. "come sit thi daan," sed his hont; "but before tha does, just hand me th' tea pot off th' rib; an' mind, for th' hanel's hot." "awl mind," he sed; an' as he began to think he'd had mishaps enuff for one day, he thowt he'd steer clear ov ony moor, an' soa as he'd been wan'd th' hanel wor hot, he tuk hold o'th' spaat, an' he'd hardly getten a yard away throo th' fire wi' it, when a streeam o' boilin teah began to run daan th' inside ov his jacket sleeve; but he held on like a man, an' he wor detarmined he'd land it on to th' table, soa he ran wi' it an' bang'd it into th' middle o'th' tea things, smashin cups an' saucers an' upsettin th' sugar basin an' th; creeam jug, an' makkin sich a mash as yo niver saw. up jumpt booath hont and uncle. "just luk at my yollo satin dress," sed his hont; "it'll niver be fit to be seen agean!" "if tha doesn't tak thysen aght o' this haase," sed his uncle, "awl pawse thi aght, for tha's made moor bother sin tha coom in nor enuff." but poor jack wor sufferin badly, which his hont (woman like) noa sooiner saw nor shoo forgave him all th' damage he'd done, an' went to sympathise with him. his arm wor varry badly scalded, an' soa shoo put some traitle an' flaar on it, an' lapp'd it up, an' then he sed he thowt it wor time he trudged hooam. "aw wish tha'd trudged long sin," sed his uncle, "an' if tha doesn't come here agean wol aw send for thi, tha willn't come yet a bit." jack gate his hat an' wor just gooin aght, when they discovered 'at it wor rainin varry fast. "awl leean thi a umberella," said his hont, "but aw dooant think awst iver see it agean, but as tha's been wet throo twice to-day aw think tha's had baat enuff." he took th' umberella an' went to th' door, an' they follow'd him to bid him gooid day. he shoved th' umbrella under his arm, an' held aght his hand, "gooid bye hont, wol aw see yo agean." "confaand thy stupid heead!" shaated aght th' uncle. "what's up nah?" sed jack. "can't ta see? tha's shoved th' end o' that umberella stick reight into mi e'e." "why, awm varry sooary," sed jack, "but it mud ha' been war!" "ha could it ha' been war, softheead?" "why if awd shoved it into' em booath," sed jack as he hooked it, for he thowt he'd better be goin. whether he landed hooam withaat ony moor mishaps or net aw cannot say; but varry likely net. but aw think, we've follow'd him far enuff for once, an' yo can form yor own opinion ov what sooart ov a chap he wor, but altho we're inclined to laugh at sich a chap, yet they've happen as mich wisdom as some 'at think they've moor; an' a chap's moor to be envied nor pitied 'at can console hissen wi' thinkin 'at haiver bad things are, 'at they mud hai been war. ha a dead donkey towt a lesson. respectfully dedicated to my ill-used long-eared friend, neddy bray some fowk choose one thing, some another, to grace ther prose or rhyme; some sneerin say 'at tha'lot my brother, maks me choose thee for mine; well, let 'em sneer owd neddy lad, or laff at my selection, who fail to see ther type i' thee are void o' mich perception.- ther's things more stupid nor an ass, an things more badly treated, tho' we ait beef, an' tha aits grass, may be we're just related. throo toil an' trouble on tha jogs, an' then like ony sinner, tha dees, an' finds a meal for th' dogs;- we furnish th' worms ther dinner. deemas an' 'becka used to keep th "cock an' bottle," i' awr street. they'd lived thear iver sin th' haase wor built, an' won iverybody's gooid word, at worn't particlar abaght a sup o' drink. one day they sent aght invitashuns to all ther neighbors an' friends to come to a tea drinkin. niver mind if ther wornt a rumpus i' that district! th' chaps winked when they met one another, an' said "aw reckon tha'll be at yond doo?" "aw mean to be nowt else," they'd reply; an' away they'd trudge i' joyful anticipation of a reight spree! but th' women! hi! that's it! it's th' women 'ats th' life an' soul ov a jollificashun yet. they wor buzzin aght o' one door into another just like a lot o' bees, to see what soa an soa wor gooin in. "what sooart ov a bonnet art ta baan in zantippa?" said susan stooanthrow; (or rayther aw should, say, miss stooanthrow, for shoo reckoned hersen th' lady o'th ginnel). "well, aw've nut made up mi mind yet," shoo says; "but aw have thowt aw should goa, aw hardly know ha'; but what does ta think o' gooin in?" "well, aw suppooas it's ta be a varry spicy affair, soa aw have thowt aw should goa i' full dress. yo' see, being a single woman, an' rayther a stylish shape, aw think it 'ud just suit me. what do yo' think?" "just the varry ticket, lass! tha' couldn't do better! for, as aw've mony a time said to betty wagstang, ther's noabody con mak up a moor lady-liker appearance nor what tha con, when tha's a mind! but talkin' abaght betty, has ta seen that new cap o' hers?" "do yo' mean that shoo bowt up th' street t'other wick?" "th' same! did ta iver see onybody luk sich a flaycrow i' all thi life? her heead reminds me ov a gurt pickled cabbage. shoo doesn't keep up her colour wi' nowt, tha may depend on't. awther shoo can mak brass goa farther nor other fowk, or else summat else; but they tell me 'at thers nut mony shopkeepers abaght here but what has her name daan ofter nor they like. but that's noa business o' mine." "aw shouldn't be at all apprised at that, for aw've heeard fowk say 'at her family wor allus fond o' summat to sup afoor shoo wor born, an' they niver had a gooid word at th' shops. is she gooin' ta be at this swarry? "at this what does ta say, susy?" "aw said swarry, some fowk call it sooary. it means a pairty like yo' know; it's th' french for a sooart ov a dooment, that's all." "oh, well, awm sooary to say 'at booath her an' her felly gate a invite, but tha knows we've noa need ta mix up wi' sich like unless we've a mind. aw'm capt whativer made becka ax her, for ther's hardly a woman i'th ginnel but what had leever goa a' mile another rooad nor meet her; but aw declare shoo's comin' sailin' daan like a fifty-gun ship! talk abaght owd nick, an' he'll show his horns." "well, zantippa i aw do declare shoo is! soa we mun stand it aght, but aw shall be varry reverse i' my talk, yo'll see." "gooid morning, lasses!" said betty, burstin' in. "aw thowt awd just come daan to see what yo' thowt o' doing abaght this doo at th' cock." "are ta baan susy?" "yes, aw expect soa, for aw received a 'billy duck' the t'other day, a askin' ov me to be present, if nothing didn't interspect my 'rangements no otherwise." "why, susy! hang it up! sin' tha began o' dressmakin' an' wearin' thi hair like th' empress uginny, wi' all them twists an' twines, aw con hardly tell what tha means. are ta studdyin' for a skooilmistress?" "nut exactualy, but yo' see aw' begun to talk a bit moor propperer; for when aw've to do wi' th' quality fowk, gooid talk an' a gooid redress is one o'th requirations 'at yo' connot disperse wi'; but aw mun goa mi departure, for aw've soa mich to execute afoor neet, woll awm fair consternationed when aw think on it,--for aw've noabody to help me nah, for my 'prentice has to stop at hooam wi' her fayther." "ho, eea! why, what's th' matter wi' him, is he badly?" "he is; for he hurt his leg a month or two sin', an' he's had to goa to th' infirmary to get it anticipated." "why, whativer's that, susy?" "to get it cut off, yo' know. but aw munnot stop, soa, gooid day." an away susy flew daan th' ginnel, famously suited wi' th' way shoo'd capt 'em wi' her scholarship. "well, if iver aw saw sich a flybysky as yond susy i' all my life, aw'll niver be trusted. guy, hang it! shoo mud be as handsome as wax work, shoo thinks soa mich ov her' sen! but aw fancy shoo'll ha' to dee an owd maid, for its nooan her sooarts 'at fellies wants. it's all varry weel to sit nigglin' away wi' a needle an' threed, stickin' bits o' poasies into cap screeds, an' stich in' mooinshine, but when a chap wants a wife, he wants somdy 'at con brew, an' bake, an' scaar th' floor. why, aw could whip raand hauf a duzzen sich like to my thinkin'! an' when aw see her screwin' up her maath an' dutchin, an' settin' her cap at ivery chap shoo sees, it maks mi blooid fair boil in me; an' awm sure, if ther is a young chap abaght, shoo's wor nor a worm ov a whoot bakstull. odd drott it! it caps me 'at fowk should have noa moor sense nor ax sich like to a party. but ha are ta off for clooas zantippa? con ta leean me a under coit? aw've all else ready." "nay lass, aw connot; for th' last doo 'at aw wor at aw had to borrow one o' susy. aw've getten one nah, but aw'st want it.' "aw wonder if susy 'ud leean it me," said betty, "aw hardly like to ax her, for tha sees aw didn't give her the job o' makin' yond cap tha's seen mi new cap, hasn't ta?" "eea! aw saw thi have it on t'other day." "well, it's what aw call a nobby un; but awd better net waste ony time, soa aw'll goa an' see if susy 'll leean me yond coit. shoo can nobbut say noa." an' away went betty. 'an' it's to be hooapt shoo will say' noa, 'for if tha gets it, shoo'll ha' to luk sharp if iver shoo sees th' edge on it agean,' said zantippa "aw'd leean thee nowt unless awd made up mi mind to pairt wi' it. aw dooan't mak' mich o' susy, but shoo's worth a barrow-looad sich like as thee. bith heart! tha'd ma' a daycent looad for a barrow thisen! an' if all's true aw've heeard, it's nut long sin' tha' wor one, an' had a bobby for a cooachman. but that's nowt ta me he! gow! it's turned o' twelve o'clock, an' my chap an' th' childer ul be here to ther dinner! consarn it! aw hate to live amang a lot o' gossippin' fowk sich as ther is abaght here, noabody con get to do owt. be hanged, if th' fire isn't aght! an' aw expect it'll tak' me as long ageean to leet it, coss a'wm in a hurry. there's niver nowt done reight when a body's in a fullock. aw wish ther tea drinkins wor far enuff. aw'd rayther sail across th' salt seea nor be put i' sich a mooild as this. yond's th' bell! an' they'll be here in a minnit! a'a dear! a woman's wark is niver done!" "aw think it niver is done, bi'th luk on it!" said dick, as he stept into th' haase. "ha' is it thers noa dinner ready? it's as ill as th' weshin' day, or else war!" "dinner! tha may weel ax abaght th' dinner," said zantippa, "doesn't ta see 'at th' place is ful o' reik? aw dooan't know what tha means to do, but if we connot have that chimley altered aw know one 'ats baan to flit." "why, aw niver knew it smook'd afoor; but this fire's nobbut just lit." "what's ta been dooin' baght fire?" "fire? does ta want me to be smoord? it's grand for yo' 'at con walk aght to yo're wark as sooin as yo' get up, an' just come in to yo're meals an' aght ageean, but yo' niver think o' what's to come o' me 'ats ta tew amang it throo morn ta neet." "why lass, ha' is it 'at it niver smooks ov a sunday?" "ha con i tell? tha mun ax it! can't one o' yo' childer get th' bellus an' blow a bit, or are yo' baan to stand thear wi' yo're fingers i' yo're maath woll aw fair drop? but it'll nut allus be soa, yo'll get me ligg'd low some day, an' then yo'll have ta shift for yoursen." after a gooid deal o' botherin' an' grummelin', an' a varry deal o' wangin' th' cubbord doors, an' clatterin' th' pots abaght, zantippa managed to mak' a sup o' coffee an' butter a bit o' bread. dick didn't like this, but as he saw his wife wor th' wrang side aght, he thowt, for th' sake o' peace, he'd say nowt; soa he swallow'd his coffee an' cake (if nut wi' thankfulness, at least i' quietness), an' then him an' th' childer budged off. "thear!" said zantippa, as shoo watched 'em aght o'th seet, "aw've managed that varry weel. aw wod'nt ha' let him know for all th' brass i'th bank 'at aw'd been talkin' woll aw'd letten th' fire goa aght. aw do hooap 'at ther'll nut a wick soul come an' bother me agean to-day, for aw've niver had time to tak' th' cowks up yet, an' aw've all th' stockins ta mend' at should ha' been done last wick, an' aw know dick hasn't a button left on his halliday shirt, it's time somdy stirred thersen. aw dooant know ha' fowk manage 'ats allus gaddin' abaght, aw declare if aw ammut' allus slavin' at it, aw connot keep things nowt-bit-like straight. drabbit it! ('at aw should say sich a word) ther's betty comin' agean! aw'd rayther be stranspoorted to botny bay nor be as aw am. ther's hardly a minnit but what ther's somdy o' th' doorstun!" betty coom in smilin' all over her face. "nah!" shoo says, "aw've managed, an' aw've come ta see if tha'll goa wi' us, for susy's baan up th' street to buy a staylace, an' aw thowt aw'd just goa an' get th' stink blown off, for aw've cawered i' this yard woll aw'm feear'd awst grow maald. put thi bonnet on, an' goa wi' us, we'st be back i' gooid time." "aw could like to goa, but aw've soa mich to do woll aw hardly dar, for woll aw wor talkin' to thee an' susy this fornooin, th' fire went aght, an' when dick an' th' childer coom hooam ther wornt a bit o' dinner for 'em." "well, awm capt, 'at tha'll bother wi' cookin' 'em dinners. aw allus let awrs tak' ther jock wi' em, it saves a deal o' trouble, an' aw say a woman's wark enuff, shoo haddles owt shoo gets, an' if we dunnot luk aght for ussen noabody else will for us. but please thisen, if tha doesn't tha darn't." "oh! as to that, aw dar goa, but aw've nowt to goa for, an' lots o' wark at hooam. aw think aw'd rayther nut." "well, tha'll get noa better on for cawering ith' haase like a moldwarp. but aw mun goa, for susy's waitin'." away went betty, an' zantippa ommost rued 'at shoo hadn't goan too: but it wor nobbut for a minit, for shoo teed her apron string a bit tighter, tuck'd up her sleeves, pooled in a long breath, an' as shoo said, "began ta make a sidashun." nah, if iver yo' want a chap to study a bit, an' resolve to mend his ways, let him be quiet; but if iver yo' want a woman to start o' thinkin' an' resolvin', let her have summat to do. if a woman sits quiet shoo begins to mump. aw niver hardly met a woman 'at could sit daan quietly for five minits withaat sighin' two or three times; they think an' think, an' sigh, an' shake ther heeads, an' if they're let alooan they manage to wark thersen inta a bad temper abaght summat, but what that is, aw've never met one 'at could tell. zantippa didn't sit daan an' mump, but up stairs shoo went an' made th' beds, an' a rare shakin' they gat, for shoo wor just ful o' summat an' shoo mud vent her feelins someway. women have a deal better way o'managin' that sooart o' thing nor what men have. ther are times when we're all brimful o' summat, th' steam's up, an' if we connot find a safety valve we shall brust. nah, a woman drives up to th' elbows i'th' weshin' tub, or rives all th' carpets up, or pools all th' pots aght o'th' cubboard an' puts 'em back agean. shoo lets her tongue have full liberty, an' what wi' talkin', an' sweatin', an' scrub bin', an' brushin', shoo finds hersen reight daan tired, an' after a bit ov a wesh an' snoddenin' her toppin', shoo sits daan to her knittin' or sewin', as cooil as a cucumber, an' as ful o' gooid natur as an egg's ful o' mait, an' her een sparkle wi' pleasure, like dewdrops sparkle on a rose in a summer's mornin'. but wi' a chap it's different, nine times aght o' ten he flies to th' ale pot, or else he begins growlin' at hooam. "th' tea's hot," or "th' muffin's cold," or "th' butter's wor nor cart grease." "th' childer's noisy," or "th' wife's quiet," an' noa matter what's done for him it's all wrang. sometimes bi th' way ov a change, he'll pawse th' table ower, an' braik as mony pots as it'll tak a gooid part ov a week's wage to replace, an' at last, after makin' iverybody abaght him miserable, he'll goa to bed lukin' as black as a mule an' sleep woll mornin', when (unless he's ova bad sooart) he'll feel reight daan shamed ov hissel, an' set to wark to put things reight agean. nah, zantippa wor just i' one o' these moods; an' shoo made th' beds, coom daan stairs, an' weshed all th' pots, scaled th' fire an' took the ass aght, gave th' hearthstun another dooas o' idleback, scattered a bit ov fresh sand o' th' floor, an' after weshin' hersen, an' donin' a clean print dress, shoo laid th' table ready for th' teah, gate th' kettle onto th' rib, an' sat daan wi' her bag ful o' worset an' a heap o' stockins, an', as shoo luk'd raand shoo felt as pleased as punch to see what a difference shoo'd been able ta mak in an haar or two. "aw'm nooan sooary 'at aw stopt at hooam," shoo said to hersen. "aw know dick'll be suited when he sees all fettled up, an' if aw get theas stockins done ta neet the'll be aght o'th gate. aw wonder ha it wor 'at he tuk things sooa quietly this nooin; aw dooant think it's reight when a chap's been work in' iver sin six o'clock ov a mornin' for him to come hooam an' find noa dinner ready. reight enuff, a woman's plenty to do to follow her haase, an' cook, an' mend, but if ther wor noa wage comin' in, ther'd be less cookin' an' moor mendin', aw've a noation. aw've made up mi mind woll aw've been sidin' up 'at aw'll nut waste mi time as aw have done, talkin' an' gossippin', for ther's noa gooid comes on it, an' altho' aw want to keep thick wi' mi neighbors, aw'm determined aw'll chop that sooart o' thing off at once; for my mother used to tell me, 'if ther were noa listeners, ther'd be noa taletellers;' an' th' time 'at one spends is war nor wasted, for it oft leads ta 'fendin' an' provin', for them 'at come an' tell yo summat abaght somdy else will just as sooin tell somdy else summat abaght yo. an' luk what scrapes one gets into wi' it. nah, aw made dick believe 'at th' chimley smookd, that wor a lie to say th' least on it, an' he'll be sure ta noatice 'at it doesn't smook ta-neet, but if he names it aw'll tell th' truth, for, aw'm sure noa gooid comes o' lying." when zantippa had just made this resolve, th' door opened, an' dick au' three childer coom in throo th' miln. he saw th' difference in a minnit. "wipe them clogs," he said as th' childer wor walkin' in. "tha's been fettlin' a bit, lass, aw think. are ta baan to ax some o'th' neighbors to ther drinkin'?" "noa!" shoo says, "aw'm baan to ax noabody but thee an' th' childer. does ta want me to ax somdy?" "nay, nooan soa! aw'd as gooid as promised to goa as far as 'th' cock' ta neet, to talk ovver this bit ov a doo, but aw think aw'll stop at hooam, what says ta?" zantippa smiled, nay even blushed, shoo knew what he ment an' shoo felt pleased. it wor a bit ov a compliment, an' paid her for all her trouble. "please thisen," shoo said, as shoo poured aght a cup o' teah for him, an' lifted a pile o' tooast aght o' th' oven, "but aw think th'rt as weel at hooam." "well, an' aw think aw'm better," he said, as he luk'd raand, "aw think th' chimley doesn't smook as ill as it did, does it?" shoo hung her heead, an' stooped ta pick a pin off th' floor, but shoo couldn't find one, an' when shoo luk'd up ther een met. shoo didn't spaik, nor moor did he; it worn't needed. it wor a long time sin they'd sich a comfortable teah, an' when they'd done they sat some time at th' table i' silence. ha' long they might have sat aw connot tell, hadn't th' door oppened, an' betty come runnin' in wi' a pot to beg a sup o' hot watter, for shoo said "her chap had coom hooam, an' shoo'd been rayther longer nor shoo expected, an' he wor playin' th' varry hangment for his drinkin'." shoo gate her hot water, an' went away. dick luk'd at his wife, an' takkin' howd ov her hand, said, "aw'm glad 'at tha hasn't to goa seekin' hot water, an' aw hooap tha niver may have." "aw hooap nut," shoo said, an' sat daan evidently varry ill set ta see her stockins. nah, what a little con make fowk happy or miserable. dick wor as content as a king, becoss all th' haas wor tidy. he saw at somdy had been tryin' to mak' him comfortable; an shoo wor as delighted as if shoo'd getten a fortin left, becoss what shoo'd done had suited him. when th' childer had getten all put ta bed, dick said, "lass, aw've been thinkin' 'at aw dooant care soa mich abaght gooin to this teadrinkin' for aw've a noation 'at we connot goa ta th' tea withaat stoppin' an' spendin' a lot o' brass at after, an' aw've heeard thee say as thar't fast for some flannel. nah, if we stop at hooam an' spend th' brass o' what it is tha wants, it'll do us moor gooid nor th' ale, what says ta?" "just thee please thisen, dick. aw had thowt o' gooin, but as tha says it's sure to cost summat, an' awr billy wants some new clogs, for yond tak watter varry ill, an' aw dooant know what we could do better wi' th' brass, an' aw think we con have as comfortable a teah at hooam." "aw'm sure, an' moor soa, an' as tha's decided nut to goa, aw'll tell thi ov a marlock some o'th' chaps has been playin' but tha munnat split, for it hasn't to get aght woll after th' pairty. tha knows hungary at works wi' us?" "does ta meean him 'at once ait a pailful o' draff?" "th' same chap! an' he declared 'at if he gate aside o'th steaks at this doo, he'd polish th' lot (an' aw believe he can ait owt less nor a bullock), soa some o'th chaps made it up 'at he should have a dish to his own cheek; but they'd ta be donkey steaks--for owd labon ('at hawks cockles an' mussels) had let his donkey catch cold or summat, at ony rate it dee'd, an' soa they thowt if they could get some steaks off that they'd just come in, but they knew 'at owd labon had rayther part wi' his heead nor let onybody mell o'th donkey, for he thowt as mich on it as if it wor a christian. but they determined to scheme some way to get it, soa joe longfooit offered to go into th' yard where it wor, an' cut off one hinder leg an' tak it hooam ta cook, if sam sniggle 'ud watch aght to see 'at noabody coom. labon kept his donkey, tha knows, in a place at th' top o'th long stepses, an' used ta goa raand th' back rooad wi' it, soa one dinner time they'd watch'd labon aght o'th' yard, (where he'd been standin' rubbin' his een, an' strokin' his owd favourite,) an' when he'd getten nicely off they ventured to try ther luck. joe longfooit went up wi' a gurt carvin' knife, an' left sam at th' bottom to whistle if he saw onnybody comin', an' he stood thear for a while, but he wanted a bit o' bacca, an' ther wor sich a wind i'th' steps 'at he couldn't get a leet, soa he went across the rooad into a doorhoil for shelter. he worn't aboon a minnit or two away, but when he coom back what should he see but owd labon within a few steps o'th' top. he hardly knew what ta do, but he managed as mich wind as made a whistle, an' stood watchin' for th' next move. joa heeard the signal, but it wor too lat, for he couldn't get aght withaat th' owd chap seein' him, an' he'd getten th' leg cut off ready for huggin' away, soa seizin' hold o'th' shank, he watched for owd labon's hat showin' aboon th' wall top, when he gave it sich a clencher wi' th' thick end o'th' leg, woll he forced th' brewards reight onto his sholder, then he laup'd ovver th' wall an' ran hooam wi' his prize as fast as his legs could carry him, leavin' laban to find his way into dayleet ageean as weel as he could. sam met him at th' haase an' they worn't long i' cutting some grand lukkin' steaks off, an' puttin' 'em ov a dish i'th cubboard, an' bith' time they'd done that, th' bell rang an' they'd ta goa back ta ther wark. when labon gate his hat, once more onto th' top ov his heead, he went ta see his owd deead friend, an' when he saw it ligged thear wi' nobbut three legs, he vow'd vengeance agean them 'at had done it, an' declared 'at if iver he fan it aght, he'd mak 'em pay for it, for it wor nowt noa less nor robbin' th' deead, an' he'd have' em tried for assasination. joa's wife wor aght when they took th' leg hooam, an' after they cut th' steaks off they'd hid t' other part under th' coils. but they hadn't been gooan soa varry long when shoo coom in, an' as shoo wor gettin' th' pots aght o'th cubbord, shoo saw this dish' ful o' steaks. "a'a!" shoo says, "it's just like yond chap to put thease in here an' say nowt abaght it, but aw con just relish one o' thease to my drinkin', an' aw dar say he'll want one, an' awm sure th' childer 'll do wi' a bit. we hav'nt had as mich fleshmait i' awr haase afoor for many a wick. fotch that gridiron, polly! we'st ha to do it o'th' top o'th' coil, for ther isn't fat enuff to fry it." shoo worn't long afoor shoo had it nicely cooked, an' the tea made, an' a thowt struck her' at shoo'd ax sam's wife to her tea, for shoo knew 'at they didn't oft get steak at their haase, so polly went an' browt mistress sniggle an' all th' childer to ther tea, an' as ther wor eight on' em, they varry sooin put thersen o'th' aghtside o'th' steak. they set to wark then to get some clean pots ready for joa, an' sent one o'th' childer ta watch th' miln loise, ta tell sam ta come wi' him. when they come all wor nicely ready for' em, but ther minds worn't easy, for ther'd been a policeman axing abaght 'em at ther wark, for labon had seen sam at th' bottom o'th' steps, an' he thowt he knew summat abaght it, soa they declared they'd niver own to it to a wick soul. as sooin as they gate in they smell'd what wor up, for joa knew ther wor noa mait i' th' haase else, an' his wife had no brass to buy ony. he looked at sam, an' thear they stooid i' th' middle o' th' floor as white as two ghosts, staring at one another, but they darn't spaik, an' booath waited to see what t'other did. "come on to your drinkin'," said th' women. "a'a! tha'rt a grand un, joa," said his wife, "to put them steaks i' th' cubbord an' niver say a word abaght it, an' tha knows ha fond aw am ov a bit o' steak, an' it's a bit o' nice mait too, tho' it isn't as tender as some. we've savvor'd it, aw con tell thi, for considerin' th' price o' mait nah, a gooid steak's hardly within th' raich o' workin' fowk." joa wor dumb struck, he stirred his tea, but he couldn't tak his een off th' steak. sam rested his head on his hand an' complained abaght bein' poorly. "it's for want o' some gooid support, mun," said his wife, "get some o' that mait into thi. it's made me feel a different body, awm as frisky as a young foil, an' luk at th' childer, they're wrastlin' thear like young bullocks. mun, it puts a bit o'th' natur o'th' beast into 'em." but sam declared he felt poorly, an' couldn't touch mait; but joa couldn't spaik at all. as he sat starin' at th' dish, old laban went past th' door, wi' a basket o' awther arm shaatin' aght "cockles alive! mussels alive, oh!" as sooin as joa heard that he seized a fork, an' stuck it into th' mait wi' sich a force, 'at he smashed th' dish an' pinned it fast to th' table top. "woa, up!" he said, "stop thee thear!" "a'a! gaumless! tha's been having summat to sup this afternooin, aw can see," said his wife. "tha mud ha' thowt owd labon wor callin o'th' steak to goa wi' him!" but poor joa couldn't get a word off. drops o' sweat stood ov his foreheead as big as pays, an' he couldn't tak his een off th' mait. "is ther summat th' matter wi' that steak, makes thi 'at tha connot touch it?" said his wife; "awm sure it's nicely enuff; what is ther to do wi' thi?" "oh, th' steak's reight enuff," said joa, raisin' courage to spaik, "th' steaks all reight, but aw'm nut i'th' knife an' fork line to-neet. what's that noise i'th' cellar?" he said, starting aght ov his chear, wi' his hair ommost studden ov an end, an' his een starin', an' his teeth girnin', like a sheepheead between a pair o' tangs! "what noise! does ta mean that rawtin' daan i'th' cellar?" "eea!" "oh, it's nobbut th' childer 'at's laikin, some on 'em's recknin' to be donkeys an' t'other's drivin' 'em; they've been at it iver sin they'd ther drinkin'; it's that mait 'at's suited 'em soa, mun, woll they dunnot know what to do." "aw mun goa hooam," said sam, "aw can't bide, aw'm varry poorly." "why yo booath luk awther poorly or summat," said his wife. "an' aw think th' sooner yo get to bed an' th' better." sam an' his wife and childer went hooam, an' it wornt long afoor joa wor burrying his heead under th' blankets, an' tryin' to fall asleep; but he couldn't, for as sooin as he began to dooaz off, he began dreamin' 'at he wor tryin 'to swallow a donkey an' wakkened wi' it stickin' in his throit. th' next mornin' when they met ther faces luk'd moor like two dazed cakes nor owt, for they'd hardly a mite o' color left. "we're reight in for it this time, sam," said joa. "aw believe this job 'll tell ov itsel'. does ta think 'at it makes ony difference wi' fowk aiting donkey beef?" "well, aw dooant know; but aw did once know a chap 'at wor a reglar cauf heead, an' he hardly iver ait owt but veal, an' tha knows th' bass singer at awr church gets bacon to ommost ivery meal, an' he grunts as ill as a pig, bi'th' heart does he;--an', awm sure, my childer's ears luk'd longer to me this mornin', or else aw thowt soa!" "well, an aw'm sure my wife snoor'd i'th neet moor like a donkey rawtin nor owt else, an' th' fust thing awr isaac axed me this marnin' wor to buy him some panniers so as he could be a mule. but what are we to do wi' yond t'other pairt o'th' leg?" "oh, we mun burry that, we'll ha' noa moor truck wi' that, an' aw think we'd better ax some advice abaght some o' them 'at's etten th' other; for it wod be a doo if they'd to start o' growin' tails or summat! ther's noa tellin'." they were boath soa terrified woll they left their wark, an' they went to see an owd chap 'at's varry skilful o' heearbs, an' they tell'd him all abaght it, an' axed him "if he thowt it 'ud mak ony difference to them 'at had etten it?" "well," he said, "considerin' what sooart o' fathers they have aw dooant think it will mak mich difference to th' childer, it hardly con, an' if th' wives get rayther unruly, yo mun try an' bridle 'em a bit. but if yo'll tak my advice for't future, yo'll let that alooan 'at doesn't belang to yo, for yo'll allus find ought dishonestly getten, will breed moor trouble to yo nor what th' loss 'll mak to them yo've ta'en it throo,--soa goa hooam, an' bear i' mind 'at "honesty is th' best policy," an' if 'owd labon's donkey has towt yo that lesson, it hasn't dee'd for nowt." they went back to their wark, but someha' or other it's getten wind, an' aw fancy 'at th' doctor's tell'd, but be that as it may, aw consider they wor reight sarved, an' aw dooant think they'll show up at this tea-drinkin'. "well, aw niver heard sich a tale i' my life," said zantippa. "an' aw should think they'll never see a donkey withaght thinkin' on it, an' if soa it'll noa daat be for th' best. noabody owt to be aboon learnin' when they've a chonce, an' aw think aw've lent a lesson to-day." "does ta lass, an' what is it?" "why, 'at to mak hooam comfortable owt to be a woman's furst duty, for a clean hearth an' a cheerful fire do a deal towards makin' a cheerful heart; for when a haase is upset a chap's temper gets upset, an' it's a deal better to prevent a few cross words nor to try an' mak things up agean." "tha'rt a gooid lass, zantippa! god bless thi! let's goa to bed!" one, two, three. nah number one is onybody an' iverybody; for we're all number one to ussen. ther's an old sayin, an' it must be true, for ommost iverybody seems to believe it, 'at we should all remember number one--that is, it's set daan to be iverybody's duty to do th' best they can for thersen, an' it's becoss this doctrine is soa well acted up to, 'at maks me think 'at ther may be a bit ov amusement an' profit i' studying abaat it at this time--yo can tak th' amusement an' let me have th' profit. nah, if you act up to my advice, aw think yo may be happen better nor yo are, an' if yo dooant aw dooant think yo'l be ony war, an' that's one comfort. ther's nowt like startin at th' faandation ov a subject, if yo want to deal wi' it in a reight way, an' aw intend to goa to th' rooit, an' as money is th' rooit ov all evil, an' th' number one doctrine is i' my opinion an evil, aw shall start wi' brass. we mun awther believe money to be th' rooit ov all evil, or else we daat th' wisdom o' him at sed it, but at th' same time my experience taiches me at it's a varry useful thing to have i' yor pocket when yo goa to market, an' it's a wonderful thing for stiffenin a chap's back booan. allus remember this, at th' heigher yo hold yor heead an' lower other fowk 'll bow theirs. ther are exceptions to this rule, for ther are 'at think a honest man has as mich reight to hold up his heead, even if he hasn't a penny in his pocket, as one 'at's thaasands o' paands. ov coorse, yo know better nor that; for a empty heead an' a full purse can pass muster even i'th' parliament. then, whativer yo do, yo mun get hold o' this brass, an' niver heed, if becoss your gettin moor nor yo want causes some others to goa short--that's nowt to yo--yor number one an' luk to that. if yo can nobbut get a fortune, yo'll find friends come withaat seekin. but mind whativer yo do to get yor brass honestly-that is, get it i' some way 'at th' law cannot touch yo. dooant knock a chap daan an' tak it throo him, but start some sooart ov a society wi' a long name, get some offices in a garret in a grand street, get some chap wi' a hannel to his name to be president, an' a lot o' directors 'at nawther yo nor onybody else iver knew, pay a poor begger fourteen shillin a week to be scratchetary, mak yorsen into th' treasurer, an' then advertise. somdy'll be sure to tak shares, an' as sooin as ther's ony brass to goa on wi,' vooat yor sen a salary ov two thaasand a year,--mak sure to get it--an' then, if ther's ony claims at yo connot meet wind up th' business. fowk'll be sure to sympathise wi' yo, and yo'll have as mich as 'll keep yo respectable for a bit, an' then yo can luk aght for another chonce o' turnin a honest penny. yor belly'll be full an' your back weel clooathed, your conscience--well, tak noa noatice o' that,--an' if yo can get a front seeat in a chapel yo'll stand a gooid chonce o' been made a taan caancillor or a member o'th schooil booard. this number one doctrine has another advantage, a chap 'at follows it aght has nubdy's else interests to bother abaat; he doesn't care who dees soa long as he lives, nor who sinks soa long as he can swim. but allus tak care net to let other fowk know 'at yo live up to this system; for although iverybody thinks a gooid deeal o' ther own number one, nubdy seems fond ov another's. some even goa soa far as to call a number one chap selfish. well, worn't we born into th' world to be selfish? what have we nails for if we munnot scrat? what have we teeth for but to bite? what have we een for but to look after awr own interests? what have we ears for but to listen for iverything to us own advantage? what have we bodies for but to serve? this is number one doctrine. its varry popular, an' does varry weel for this world; ther's a deal o' hansom gravestooans stand ovver once successful number ones. what ther number is i'th' next world is moor nor aw can tell, but aw know they'll have to start afresh, for all they iver gained they've left behund. fowk 'at niver loise seet o' 'number one,' are a hard workin set as a rule, but even they have to amuse thersen a bit sometimes, an' they find it a nice change to luk after 'number two.' to a chap o' this sooart, iverybody's 'number two,' 'at's a bit better awther i' luks, position, or pocket. nah if yo want ony fun o' this sooart aw'll tell yo ha to get it. furst ov all, find aght sombdy 'at yo fancy yore mates think moor on nor they think o' yo--watch him ivery time yo get a chonce, an' see if yo connot pick aght a hoil in his coit. dooant be disheartened if yo have to luk a long time before yo can find a fault--be sure ther is one somewhear, an' if yo can't see it at a distance, hutch cloiser up, mak a gurt fuss on him, niver say owt contrary to what he says; if he says summat funny, laff fit to split yor sides, an' if he says owt serious, luk solemn an' shak yor heead. watch him carefully, an' it's a thaasand to one but some day yo'll catch him trippin. if, when yo've fun a hoil, it's soa little as to be hardly worth noaticing, dooant despair, wol yor clappin him on his back an' smilin in his face, yo can happen get yor finger in, an then rive it a bit bigger. do it gently at furst, just a little bit at a time, and then when yo've getten a chonce, rip it as far as yo can. but be sure yo have nowt ony moor to do with him after that. if yo see him comin, cross on t'other side o' th' rooad, niver let on 'at yo've seen him, but as sooin as he's getten past, shak yor heead sorrowfully an' sigh; if yo happen to have a clean hankerchy i' yor pocket, yo may tak it aght and mak believe to wipe off a tear--niver heed if ther isn't one, fowk'll think better o' yo, an' all the war o' him. if onybody should come an' ask yo if yo've heeard that sad tale abaat him, say. 'god forbid at yo should hear owt war nor what yo've heeard before.' dooant seem inclined to listen, but when they've done, say, 'well, well it's a thaasand pities, but if that wor th' warst it wodn't matter mich.' he's sure to go away wi' th' noation 'at yo know summot abaat th' same chap 'at's ten times war nor owt he's heeard, but yo've too mich gooid natur to tell it. nah this is all varry gooid fun for' number one;' an when yo see poor' number two' loise his shop, or shunned, or luked shyly at wi' them at wor once his admirers, an' yo know 'at it's allowing to yo, then yo can goa hooam an' shut yorsen up all bi yorsen, an' laff, an rejoice to yor heart's content. but dooant be surprised if, when yo chuckle, yo should hear another chuckle cloise to yor elbow, for haiver yo lock an' bolt th' door, yo connot keep th' devil aght. he enjoys a bit o' fun o' this sooart as weel as yo, an' he's nobbut come to show yo ha pleased he is. if yo dooant like his compny sarve him th' same way --remember yo're 'number one,' an he's nobbut 'number two' to yo. pool as long a face, an' luk as sanctimonious as yo can, an' wheniver yo've a chonce, tell fowk to shun him an' all his works, tell 'em 'at he's prowlin raand like a lion seekin who to make a meal on th' next. yo needn't be mailly-maathed abaat him, becoss he's net suppooased to have ony friends. he willn't care a button what yo say, 'coss he knows yo cannot injure _his_ character, an' he laffs to hissen as he sees yo sighin, an lyin, an scheamin, all for 'number one,' an he puts a mark opposite yor name to show 'at he's noa need to luk after yo ony moor--yo're all safe--an' then he turns his attention to some 'number twos.' it's gooid spooart, isn't it? may be yo think it's a spooart 'at's niver entered onybody's heead but mine, but yor mistakken. it's a varry common spoart. mind yo dooant catch yorsen indulging in it some day. number three reminds a body ov a deeal o' things, but nowt as mitch as a pop shop. them three gold balls 'at hing aght to show whear th' poor fowk's bankers live, if they could nobbot spaik, could tell a tale 'at wod cap some o' them wiseacres 'at reckon to know all poor fowk's troubles, an' th' way to cure' em. nah, it's a puzzle to me to accaant for one o' these things, an' that is, 'at fowk's actions should be regarded through a different standpoint to owt else i' th' world. a little tree is a tree, an' it's nobbut a tree ha big it is--a puttate is nobbut a puttate if it grows as big as a churn-an' a man considers hissen a man whether he's a goliah or a tom thumb. but actions are different altogether. whether they're to be considered gooid or bad depends entirely o' th' bugth on 'em. a chap 'at can chait somdy aght ov twenty thaasand paands is considered smart: but a poor begger 'at stails a looaf is a thief. a chap 'at walks into th' joint stock bank, an'. leaves th' title deeds ov his property for th' loan ov five or six hundred paands, is an honerable tradesman, 'an it's considered a business--like act; but a poor woman' at taks her fiat-iron to th' pop shop, an' borrows sixpence on it, commits a sin--it's a disgrace. aw wonder what th' mooast o' th' banks are but pop shops. what difference is ther between a pop ticket an' a check book? varry little nobbut th' bugth. i' my opinion it's noa moor a disgrace for a chap to pop a paper coller nor for another to morgage a property. ther's a gooid deal o' speculation sometimes i' booath cases. nah, aw once knew a chap at popt a haufacraan for two-an-four-pence, an then sell'd th' ticket for a shillin: soa he didn't loise owt. they're useful places i' ther way, though aw dooant mean to say at ther's noa evils connected wi' 'em. nah, aw once knew a woman 'at popt her husband's sunday clooas so as shoo could buy a new dress for hersen, 'an when he fan it aght he gave her a lickin an' had to goa befoor th' magistrates, an' they fined him ten shillin or to goa to quad for a month, soa his wife popt her dress to' pay th' fine. nah, it isn't ivery evil 'at can reighten itsen like that; an' varry likely bith time they've getten 'em aght agean they'll have lernt moor wit. ther's summat else 'at number three reminds me on, an' that's th' three things at we all owt to have--faith, hope, an' charity. as to faith, ther's awther a gooid deeal on it i' th' world, or else fowk dooant spaik truth. hope we've all enuff on, an' some fowk moor nor what does' em ony gooid, for they're ofter hopin nor strivin. but when it comes to charity, then aw'm a sooart o' fast amang it. it's a nice word, a bonny word aw think; it luks nice in a church or a bazaar. it's a nice word to tak for a text, it saands nice onytime unless it's at a meetin o' th' poor law guardians, then it saands harder an' harsher someway. for mi own part, aw've niver been able to understand exactly what it meeans. i have an opinion o' mi own; but then aw know it must be wrong, becoss it's so different to other fowk's. aw wor once walkin aght wi' a chap 'at wor chock full o' charity. he wor soa full on it 'at it used to roll aght ov his maath ivery two or three minutes, and we hadn't gone far when we met a little lad, wi' hardly a bit o' clooas on him, an' he luk'd as if he'd been livin o' th' smell ov a cook shop for a wick, an' he coom beggin a hawpney. well, to tell th' truth aw wor gooin to pass him, for aw hadn't a fardin, but my charitable friend did stop, an' he patted him on his heead, and axed if he he'd a father an' mother, an' if he went to th' sunday schooil, an if he knew his catichism, an' then he sed, well, be a good boy, an' sometime when aw've a hawpny aw'l give it thi,' an' we went away. when we'd gooan a two or three yards he sed, 'let's have a glass o' ale, for aw'm dry--aw feel sooary for yond lad, but yo connot allus be givin. sammy bewitched. aw shall niver forget sammy sawney. he's deead nah an' it's a pity at owt like him iver should dee, for he wor net only t' first but aw believe t'last o' 'tsooart. aw niver remember him as a lad, for he wor a gooid age when aw wor born, but aw've heeard enuff abaat him to mak me feel as if aw'd known him at that time, an' judgin' bi what aw knew on him as an old man aw can believe it ivery word true. sammy's mother wor a widdy, an' he wor her only child. shoo wor worth a little bit o' brass, an' his fayther had been considered varry weel to do, for he'd abaat twenty hand-loom weyvers workin for him, an' his bumbazines wor allus considered t'best i' t'market. when sammy wor four year old shoo detarmined to send him to t'schooil an' have him eddicated for a banker's clerk, for to be handlin brass all t'day long wor to her t'happiest condition i' life. it wor easy enough to send sammy to t'schooil but to get him eddicated wor another matter, an' whether it wor as t'schooil-maister sed, 'at his heead wor too thick iver to drive owt into it, or, as his mother said, 'at t'schooilmaister knew nowt an' soa he could taich nowt, aw dooant pretend to say. little sammy hadn't a varry easy time on it, for he wor shifted abaat throo one schooil to another, wol he hadn't mich o' a chonce o' leearnin' even if he had some brains, an' ther' wor at sed he hadn't. but his mother had faith ther wor summat in him, an' varry likely ther wor, for nowt iver coom aght, an' what some fowk called wrangheeadedness, shoo considered to be genius badly directed. one day he wor at t'beckside, an' shoo went to see what he wor dooin', an' as shoo saw he'd nobbut one clog, shoo axed him what he'd done wi' tother, an' he sed he'd made it into a booat, an' it had sailed away down t'beck, soa shoo tawked nicely, an' tell'd him he shouldn't do soa, for it wor lost, an' he mud allus remember 'at if he put owt into t'beck, he'd niver see it ony moor, for t'watter ran daan at sich a rate; but he sed he'd fun aght a better way o' dooin' it next time, for he'd put t'furst in wi' t'toa pointin daan t'hill, but when he put t'next in, he'd point t'toa up t'hill, an' it wouldn't find it quite soa easy gooin. "a'a, sammy lad," sed his mother, as shoo stroked his heead, "tha's a deal moor i' this nop nor ivver thi fayther had, or me awther, for aw should niver ha' thowt o' that." sammy put tother in, takkin care to point t'toe t'contrary way to what t'watter wor runnin, but as sooin as he left lawse it turned raand an' foller'd tother, an' wor sooin aght o' seet. "nah, then!" he sed "didn't aw tell yo? if it hadn't turned raand, it 'ud ha' been goin' up t'hill, but t'chap 'at made them clogs didn't mak' 'em reights an' lefts. yo see they're booath left, an' aw believe that's the reason aw've allus been lat to t'schooil." "niver heed, sammy, tha shalln't go to t'school ony moor, for aw believe tha'rt better able to taich t'maisters nor they are to taich thee." "awm sewer on it mother; for t'last maister aw had sed awd towt him patience, an' awm sartin he niver towt me owt." "come thi ways, lad, an' awl buy thee some new clogs at another shop, but dooant put any moor into that beck, unless tha tees a string to 'em, if tha does awst ha' to give thee a lickin, soa tha knows; for even knowledge can be bowt too dear." after gettin his new clogs, shoo tuk him into a spice shop to buy a penorth o' owt he liked, soa he ax'd t'old woman for a penorth o' humbugs; but as sooin as he'd getten 'em, he altered his mind an' thowt he'd have acid drops, soa shoo changed em'; but he'd hardly getten 'em when he changed his mind, an' said he'd rayther have a rockstick, an' when he'd gate that, he wor walkin' aght, an' shoo sang aght after him 'at he'd niver paid her for it. "why, aw gave yo t'acid drops for it." "eea, but tha niver paid for t'acid drops." "a'a, what a tale i didn't aw give yo t'humbugs?" "but tha niver paid for t'humbugs." "why, aw havn't etten t'humbugs, have aw? didn't aw give' em yo agean? yo dooant want payin' twice, sewerlee?" "well aw dooant know hah it is, what tha says saands reight enuff; but what aw do know is, at tha's getten a rockstick, an' aw havn't getten a penny." "you see what it is to be a scholar," sed his mother; "but yo'st loise nowt bi a child o' mine," soa shoo gave her t'penny an' coom away. as they wor walkin on, sammy put t'last bit into his maath an' sed, "mother, can yo tell me why is old sally like that rockstick?" "nay lad, awm sewer aw cannot." "becoss they've booath getten suckt." "a'a, lad, dooant study soa mich, awm feeard strainin thi brain, but can ta spell brain?" "brane." "nay, lad, ther's a i in it." "then aw must have three, if aw've two i' mi heead an' one i' mi brain." "aw niver thowt o' that, but tha'rt far too clivver for me, an' awst nivver rest until aw get thi into a bank." now it soa happened 'at ther wor a man 'at had done business wi' sammy's fayther i' former days, an' after a bit o' persuadin he consented to tak' him into his office, an' t'lad wor soa praad ov his place, 'at, strange as it seems, he did begin to leearn a bit o' summate t'chap tuk a deeal o' pains wi him, an' his mother's heart wor oft made glad wi' hearin a gooid accaant of his gooins on. when he used to goa to his dinner wi' a pen stuck behind his ear, an' his finger daubed wi' ink, as if he'd been cleeanin' aght t'ink bottles, shoo could hardly keep her arms off his neck, an' monny a time shoo'd sit watchin him as he put t'puddin aght o' t'seet, wi' tears in her een, an' wish his farther wor thear to see him. but his face grew whiter an' he didn't seem to have as mich life in him as he used to have, an' this caused her a deeal ov uneasiness, an' at last shoo decided to goa an' have a word wi' his maister. shoo went to t'office, an' they made a gurt fuss o' t'old woman an' ax'd her into a private raam to sit daan. "aw've come," shoo sed, "to have a word or two abaat ahr sammy; aw should like to know hah yo think he gets on?" "better than we expected," he said; "he runs errands very well and his writing is better than it was, but his spelling wants improving, yet we think we shall be able to make a man of him." "well, if that's all aw think he'll get better on it, an' as for spellin a word wrang nah an' then aw dooant see 'at that maks mich difference soa long as yo know what it meeans. but what do yo think troubles him t'mooast?" "well at the present time it's with the which's, but you must excuse me just now for a very important customer has called and i must see him." soa he jumpt up an' left her. it didn't tak her long to get hooam, an' as shoo'd allus been ov a superstitious way o' thinkin, her mind wor filled wi' anxiety abaat her lad. "just to think," shoo sed, as shoo trudged along, "'at he should be bewitched! a grand lad like him-but it's somdy at's done it just aght o' spite, an' aw've a varry gooid noation who's done it. it's that nasty gooid-for-nowt 'at lives at t'back o' awr haase,--shoo's niver been able to bide t'seet on him sin' he cut her cat tail off, an' shoo knew well enuff he nobbut did it for fun. but awl see if aw connot braik t'spell." as shoo had to pass a smithy on her way hooam shoo went in, an' axed if they'd an old horseshoe to give her, for shoo knew that wor a thing 'at witches couldn't bide t'seet on. "why, meary, what dun yo want it for. are yo freetened o' t'boggards?" "awst nooan be freetened o' thee if tha wor a boggard," shoo sed, "but has ta getten one?" "well, aw dooant know, but aw've a pair o' donkey shooin here, if tha thinks they'll fit yor sammy tha can have' em an' welcome." "aw think they'd be a deeal moor likely to fit thee, judgin bi t'length o' thi ears," shoo sed; "but aw want a horseshoe if tha's getten one, an' if tha hasn't say soa, an' dooant keep me waitin here." he hunted abaat till he rooited one aght, an' he gave it her, an' shoo put it in her pocket an' went off withaat iver stoppin to thank him for it. when sammy had getten his supper shoo sent him to bed, an' tell'd him to leave her his waistcoit, as shoo wanted to do summat at it. as sooin as shoo wor bi hersen shoo pool'd t'horseshoe aght ov her pocket an' began to plan hah shoo could fasten it to t'back ov his waistcoit, for shoo thowt that wod be t'best place for it, an' although it wor a nasty thing to hug up an daan, yet it wor a deeal better nor havin to live under t'influence ov a evil eye. it tuk her a bit o' seheamin befoor shoo gate it stitched on to her fancy, but patience won t'battle, an' when shoo went to bed she felt easier in her mind. t'next mornin shoo'd a deal o' trouble to get sammy to put it on, for he couldn't tell t'meanin on it, but his mother lukt soa serious abaat it 'at he didn't like to say he wodn't wear it. he went to his wark, but his jacket didn't fit quite as well as usual, an' as for keep in his waistcoat i' ony-bit-like shape, he couldn't do it, for t'weight behind wor soa heavy wol it pool'd t'buttons ommost up to his chin, an' when he sat on his stooil i' t'front o' t'desk, he felt as if somdy wor tryin' to upset him backards. when he went to his dinner, he felt as if he wor huggin a pack, an' he begged hard ov his mother to let him goa withaat it, but shoo sed shoo darn't trust him aght ov her seet if he hadn't it on, for it wor to shield him. "it's a queer place for a shield," he sed, "but awl try it this afternooin, an' if it doesn't feel easier awst niver put it on agean." when he coom hooam at neet, he wor booath tired an' cross; an' after his supper he gat a slate an' pencil an' sat daan to write, lukkin' varry glum. his mother watched him varry anxiously for a while, an' then shoo sed quietly, "tha doesn't look varry weel to-neet, sammy, does ta think tha'rt goin' to have a spell o' sickness?" "noa, but awm sick o' spellin', for t'gaffer's allus agate on me becoss aw connot spell 'which.' aw've spell'd it wich-whitch-witch-an' which-du' awl goa to hummer if aw can tell which is which even nah. aw wish ther worn't a which." "which witch does ta mean, sammy?" "aw can't tell which which, aw wish aw could." "a'a sammy," shoo sed, an shoo threw her arms raand his neck, "tha's taen a load offmy mind!" "well, you've putten me one on to mi waistcoit." "tak it off, lad, for tha doesn't need it! tha doesn't know hah thankful aw am, for when aw wor tawkin' to thi maister yesterday he sed tha wor troubled wi' witches, an' aw sewed t'horseshoe on to scare 'em." "which whiches did he mean?" "which witches witch?" "aw can't tell which is which." "nivver heed which it is, sammy, soa long as it isn't a witch. if it's nobbut a difference ov a letter or two aw can't see 'at it means owt. goa thi ways to bed, an' dooant let me have to call on thee for a clock haar before tha frames to get up." hard to pleeas. "aa, well! wonders'll nivver cease! come thi ways in! whativver's browt thee here ov a day like this? it isn't fit to turn a dog aght ot door." "noa lass, an' if awd been a dog aw dooant think awst ha turned aght, but bein' a poor widdy woman my life's war nor a dog's life onny day ith wick." "tak thi bonnet an shawl off an creep up to th' range. awm sure awm fain tha's com'd, for aw wor gettin' reight looansum, for my felly an booath oth lads have gooan to th' taan, an they'll nooan be back afoor neet. but what is it 'at's made thee turn aght ov a day like this?" "tha may weel ax, but aw hardly dar tell thee nanny, for aw knaw varry weel 'at them 'at goa a borrowin' goa a sorrowin', an to mak a long stooary short, awve come to see if tha can leean me ten shillin' wol awr harriet ann's next draw day, for awm behund hand wi mi rent, an tha knows what sooart ov a chap awr landlord is, for although we've lived i' yond haase aboon twenty year, he'd think noa moor abaat puttin' th' bums in, if we were an haar behund wi th' rent, nor he wod o' spittin' aght." "why, jenny, tha knows hah awm fixed, aw've nooan too mich to stir on, for yond lads' bellies tak moor fillin' nor onnybody'd believe, an' that felly o' mine smooks moor bacca nor aw do believe ud fill a seck. he's nivver th' pipe aght ov his maath nobbut when he's aitin or else asleep, an not allus then, an as times is it's ommost a wonder to see a shillin' or two, an' aw've nivver had a new cap sin last mikelmas, an ther's noa signs 'at aw see on, for awr alick's naggin' at me ivvery day for a new this or a new that, wol mi life's a looad to me; but awl see what aw can do for thee, but goodness knaws awm poor enuff." soa nanny went to th' little corner cubbord, an after clatterin' th' cups an plates abaat, shoo managed to find ten shillin', an shoo caanted 'em aght one bi one, an' then wi a sigh 'at wor ommost a sob, shoo sed, "thear it is, an aw hooap tha'll net forget to let me have it back as sooin as tha can. but hah is it tha's managed to run short?" "a'a, lass! it's th' same old tale. it matters little what yo do for a child at this day, yo're niver onny better thowt on, and when they've takken th' bit aght o' yer maath, they'd have yor teeth if they could mak onny use on 'em. aw think awr harriet ann 'll bring mi grey hairs wi sorrow to th' grave." "why, awm capt to hear thee say soa abaat her, for aw allus thowt 'at yor harriet ann wor one oth nicest lasses awd iver met. but what's th' matter? shoo hasn't started o' gooin to th' doncin' classes or owt o' that sooart, surelee?" "nay, nowt o' that sooart; it's war nor that. shoo's net to be called a ill en, but shoo's sich a fooil, an if shoo sets her mind o' owt shoo'll do it if shoo has to wade throo fire and watter. but it maks me fair poorly to think on it, to say nowt abaat tellin' it." "why, tak hold o' that teah pot an sup aght oth spaat, it'll cheer thee up a bit; for if there is owt 'at's heartsluftin, it is what mothers have to put up wi throo undutiful bairns." "a'a, aw want noa teah, lass; awd mi braikfast just afoor aw started aght." "thee taste o' that an tha'll find it'll do thee gooid." "eea, an it is gooid too! that warms me reight daan to mi tooas. ther's nivver nowt seems to settle my stummock like a drop o' gin an watter. but whativer maks thee keep it ith teapot?" "why, tha sees, it doesn't allus do to have a bottle an a glass oth table, for yo niver know who may pop in, an aw dooant like to set it befoor th' childer for fear it mud tempt 'em to tak it befoor they've getten sense to know hah to use it, an awm sewer aw should nivver think o' lukkin t'side it wor on throo one year's end to another if it worn't for theas pains i' mi inside, for it's phisick to me an noa mistak." "aw can believe thee weel enuff, for ther's nowt seems to do as weel for me." "well, tha hasn't tell'd me thi trubble yet, an awd like to know, an may be aw can help thee a bit, for two heeads is better nor one, if one is nobbut--tha knows what." "tha sees, awr harriet ann wor as gooid a lass as iver stept till shoo began o' coortin', an th' furst warnin' aw had wor th' last draw day, for asteead o' givin' me two paand ten, shoo nobbut gave me thirty shillin', an when aw axed her hah it wor shoo sed aw mud try an mak it do, for shoo wanted to buy a two-o'-three bits o' things, for shoo'd made up her mind to get wed. tha could ha fell'd me wi a bean when shoo sed that, for if ther wor owt i' this world 'at aw wor anxious abaat it wor 'at shoo'd ha moor sense nor to get wed, soa aw axed her who it wor, but shoo nobbut laft an sed aw should varry likely know him when aw saw him. nah, tha knows, nanny, it wor nivver my way to goa abaat pryin' into other fowks' consarns, but aw couldn't do but ax one or two ov her comrades an try to get to know who he wor, but all awve fun aght soa far is 'at he's a young gooid-fer-nowt, 'at nawther is owt nor nivver will be, an he wants her for nowt i' this world but to work to keep him, wol he spends his days drinkin' an dog feightin an pidgeon flyin', an' after all th' trouble 'at aw've been at to bring her up in a respectable way, awm sewer it's enuff to braik th' heart ov a stooan. shove that teah pot on here agean, for awm reight daan faint." "sup lass, for aw can sympathise wi thee, an if it 'ad been a paand tha'd wanted to borra tha should ha had it. but tha hasn't all th' trouble to thisen, for aw've getten a share as weel as thee. awl tak a drop o' that if tha'll hand th' teah pot this way. but mine's a deeal war nor thine, for awr alick (a better lad nivver wor born--aw used to say when he wor a babby 'at he'd nivver live, for when he wor varry near doubled up wi th' ballywark he'd ligg in his creddle an hardly mak a muff) he's gooin to mak a fooil ov hissen an all, for he's pickt up some idle trolly, an he's savin' up his brass to ware it o' her, an he's aght two or three neets ith wick, an _if_ aw ax him owt he says, "yo'll find it aght in a bit," an if he doesn't find it aght it'll cap me, for his fayther tell'd me 'at he saw him walkin' abaat last horton tide wi a woman hook'd ov his arm, an what maks it war is aw've heeard at shoo's nooan to gooid, an he's as simple as a cauf, an shoo can just twist him raand her little finger. when aw wor puttin' his sunday clooas away last wick aw fan a thimmel an a hairpin, an a mintdrop 'at had been hauf suckt (an aw know awr alick niver aits spice) in his britches pocket, an when he coom hooam he wor ommost ranty wol he knew what had come on 'em, an when aw gave 'em him he lapt 'em up i' paper an lukt as suited as if he'd fun a fortun." "th' teah-pot's empty if it means owt, but aw wor just gooin to say 'at tha knows we can nivver put old heeads onto young shoolders, an awm sooary to hear 'at yor alick's noa moor wit, but still it isn't as bad a case as mine, for tha sees if a chap gets wed he's th' maister, but a lass has to do as shoo can." "nay, net it! it's th' wimmen 'at's th' maisters oth men, aw know that mysen. whear wod that felly o' mine ha been if it hadn't been for me? why he'd ha been ith warkus long sin, if he hadn't been in his grave. try this, sithee, it's sweeter nor th' last." "eea, it's sweeter, but it 'ud do wi a drop moor gin in it if it's all th' same to thee." "it is rayther waik, but as aw wor sayin', tha sees awr alick's allus lived at hooam, an he's nivver known what it's been to want for owt, even to his booits bein' blackened for sunday, an if he gets hold o' that nasty powse (for shoo's nowt else who shoo is), whativver mun come on him." "eea, an whativer mun come o' awr harriet ann? did ta put owt into th' teah-pot, nanny?" "aw filled it nobbut a minnit sin, an if it's empty tha must ha supt it." "nay, awve nobbut tasted abaat twice. happen it runs." "awm sure it runs, but it's aght oth spaat. put it aght oth seet. ther's awr alick comin' up th' gate, an yor harriet ann follerin' him. it's reight fair wearisome. if a body gets set daan for a bit ov a talk ther's sure somebdy to come. what's browt yo two here at this time aw should like to know?" "whear's ta left thi fayther, alick?" "he's gooan to luk at some pigs aw believe. he said he'd be hooam i' gooid time, an yo hadn't to get him onny drinkin' ready, for he'd have some o' that cold broth." "then he's baan drinkin'! aw know as weel as can be, for he allus taks some wrang-heeaded noation when he's baan to get a bellyful o' ale. a'a! it caps me what fowk can see i' gooin an makkin a swill tub o' ther guts! if aw mud ha my mind ther shouldn't be a drop for onybody unless they wor poorly! but whear's ta been, harriet ann? aw thowt tha wor at thi wark?" "shoo wod ha been but for me," sed alick; "but aw chonced to meet her, an as we'd a bit o' bizness we gate that done, an then we went on to jenny's, but th' door wor lockt, soa aw sed varry likely shoo'd be up here, an it seems aw wor abaat reight, an aw persuaded harriet ann to come up wi me, for it isn't fit weather for noa christian to be aght in." "come on an sit thee daan, alick. awm sooary to hear sich a bad accaant on thee, but tha art better nor awr harriet ann, for shoo knows awm behund wi mi rent, an shoo couldn't do but waste another day." "dooant yo bother yersen, jenny, we've just com'd to keep yo company a bit. aw say, mother! dooant yo think yo've a drop o' summat short, 'at yo could mak harriet ann a sup to keep her throo catchin' cowld?" "tha knows ther's nowt 'short' i' this haase nobbut a drop o' gin 'at's kept o' purpose for thi fayther when he's th' backwark, but as it's harriet ann awl mak her a little drop." "a'a, aw cannot sup all that, nanny, aw nobbut want a tooithful," sed harriet. "ther's happen somdy else wants th' cold keepin' aght as weel as thee," sed jenny. "awve been hearin' some sad tales abaat thee harriet ann," sed nanny. "awve allus thowt as mich o' thee as if tha wor one o' mi own, an' thi mother's been tellin' me abaat some sad gooins on; but aw hooap 'at tha'll allus remember 'at tha's coine ov a daycent stock, an awm sewer yon gooid-for-nowt 'at's allus hankerin' after thee meeans thee noa gooid. bi all aw can hear he's a low-lived offal'd scamp, an' if tha gets wed to him tha'll have to sup sorrow bi spooinsful." "dooant keep that gin all to thisen. basta noa manners?" sed jenny. "aw dooant know what yo're tawkin abaat," sed harriet. "yi tha does; aw meean that chap 'at's reckonin' to cooart thee! when aw wor thy age awd moor sense nor to believe ivvery lyin' lumpheead 'at coom i' mi way, but lasses dooant seem to care who get's 'em nah. if it's owt ith shape ov a felly it'll do." "why, awm sewer yo must be mistakken, nanny, for ther's nubdy cooartin' me." "nah it's noa gooid denyin' it 'coss awr alick's here, for yo're both ith same box! he's as big a fooil as thee! net 'at awve owt ageean him gettin' wed, net aw! aw shall be rare an' glad to be shut on him, but aw did think he'd have gumshun enuff to luk aght for somdy 'at wodn't disgrace booath him an' all 'at belangs to him. but he wor allus a strackle brain, an' he will be till he's bowt his wit, an' it'll be varry weel for him if he doesn't buy it too dear. but if he does wed a trolly like her, he mun keep her, an' aw hooap he'll nivver let me see her, that's all; for shoo shall nivver enter my door nor have a bite nor a sup in a haase o' mine! here, harriet ann, lass, taste o' this for awm sure tha luks as if tha'd do wi' summat." "aw dooant know what yo meean, mother," said alick, "for awm sewer my cooartin days is ovver." "if aw thowt they wor aw should be th' happiest woman under th' sun, but tha must ha dropt it varry suddenly." "well, it's true, an awl promise yo 'at awl nivver start agean till ther's a death ith family." "what wor aw tellin' thee, jenny, before he come in? isn't he a gooid lad thinks ta? he'll nivver get wed wol his old mother's alive, he's too mich sense." "he's a lad to be praad on, nanny; aw wish awr harriet ann could say like him." "awl promise yo 'at awl nivver cooart agean whether ther's a deeath ith family or net." "you've booath turned varry gooid all ov a sudden, aw should like to know what it all meeans?" "it means nowt, mother, nobbut this-'at harriet ann an me thowt we could be varry comfortable together, an soa we've getten wed this mornin'." "yo desarve to be horsewipt! awm in a gooid mind to thresh thee alick as long as aw can bide to stand ovver thee! had ta noa more sense nor' to throw thisen away after a thing like harriet ann." "does ta meean ta tell me 'at tha'd noa more respect for thisen nor to wed a haufthick like alick. a'a, harriet ann, what wod thi fayther ha sed if he'd been here?" "awr alick's noa fooil jenny i dooant thee say that. yor harriet ann knew what shoo wor dooin." "awr harriet ann's as gooid as yor alick!" "well, awr alick's as gooid as yor harriet ann!" "noa daat we're one as gooid as t'other, an as we're satisfied aw think yo owt to be, an' here's yor varry gooid health," sed alick, seizin hold oth teah-pot to sup. "put that daan! tha doesn't want onny teah!" sed nanny. "it's geoid teah is this; aw've monny a time ta'en a gooid swig aght o' that teah-pot before to-day." "o, soa that's where thi fayther's physic go as is it. tha's allus been a bad lad alick, an' awve had to put up wi' thee, but dooant say owt abaat th' teah-pot to thi fayther." "it's ommost time mi fayther wor here, isn't it?" "well, aw dooant know ha yo can fashion to luk him ith face when he does come, but it's done nah, so we shall have to mak th' best on it, but awst niver forgie harriet ann for deceivin' me. here's thi fayther! nah for it! aw wish aw wor a thaasand mile away throo here this minit." "hallo! are yo havin' a teah-drinkin'. what's to do, jenny?" "nay, yo mun ax yor nanny." "what's up, nanny lass?" "can't ta see what's up? tha must be blind aw think or else druffen! aw could see what wor to do as sooin as aw dapt mi een on 'em! awr alick an' harriet ann's gooan an getten wed, that's what's to do!" "why, an' a gradely pair they mak! aw nivver thowt tha wor hawf sich a judge ov a lass as tha's proved thisen. aw allus sed aw thowt harriet ann wor th' bonniest lass i' yorksher. awm soa suited wol awd ommost forgetten awd th' backwark. is there a drop o' gin i' that bottle, nanny?" "tha gets a deal more gin than does thee onny gooid, an aw think that backwark is oft an excuse." "dooant lets have onny grumlin' o'th' weddin' day, for alick's suited me to nowt, an awm sewer shoo's th' lass awve heeard thee say tha could like him to have." "awve nowt agean th' match 'at aw know on, nobbut they should ha been content to wait a year or two. they're both on 'em sadly to young." "why, thee an' me started when we wor monny a year younger nor them. awr alick wor born before tha wor as old as harriet ann. awve wondered monny a time if alick wor iver baan to start.' "has ta noa moor sense nor to talk like that afoor bits o' childer. if shoo's as mich bother wi' him as awve had wi' thee, shoo'l wish shoo'd nivver set een on him." "but whear do yo meean to live? yo'll want a haase somewhear." "we've takken yond little cottage 'at yo can see o'th' hill-side yonder, an' we've getten a bit o' furniture into it for a start." "why, that's the varry haase aw allus sed aw should like to live in if ivver awd to flit," sed jenny. "well, yo can come as sooin as yo like an' keep for harriet ann company, an' if yo'll nobbut behave yorsen awl buy yo a teah-pot like that o' mi mother's, an' yo can have it oth hob end throo morn to neet." "that's reight enuff alick, but aw should ha been better satisfied if-"that's what aw say jenny, aw should ha been better satisfied if-"caar ye daan, an' let th' young ens alooan, for for like all old wimmen, for hard to pleeas." ratcatchin'. ther's roguery i' ivvery trade but awrs, awve' heeard fowk say, an "ivverybody's honest till they're fun aght." that white hen at' nivver lays away hasn't been hatched yet. it taks all sooarts to mak a world an aw suppooas if they wornt ratcatchers ther'd be summat short. sam sniffle wor a karacter in his way, he seemed to have a bit ov a smatterin' o' iverything, but what he professed to know th' mooast abaat wor dogs an rats. noa daat he had a bit o' knowledge, but what wor far more sarviceable to him nor owt else wor a simple luk 'at he could put on, an' a bit ov a lisp 'at he had, made him seem soa harmless an simple 'at yo wodn't believe it possible for him to do owt wrang. he worn't varry big, but he wor varry wiry, an as full o' pluck as a gamcock. aw remember one neet as he wor gooin hooam (net becoss he thowt it wor time, but becoss his brass wor done), he happened to hear a bobby comin' as he turned th' street corner. it wor varry dark, soa he just stept back an waited for him comin', an as sooin as his heead popt past th' corner, he gave him what he called a cauf-knock an sent him sprawlin' his whoal length ith middle oth rooad. he wor hardly daan befoor sam ran to help him up. "a'a! whativver's to do mister poleeceman?" he sed. "are yo hurt? do tell me," an he helpt him up an began to wipe th' muck off his clooas wi' his pocket hankerchy. th' poleeceman turned his bull's-eye onto his face, but nubdy could suspect sam. "did ta see it done?" he axd. "eea, aw saw it as fair as could be. it's a burnin' shame 'at sich like fowk cannot be stransported! it is act'ly. awm sewer aw could ommost roar mi een up when aw see onnybody ill used like that." "does ta think tha'd know him if tha'd to see him agean?" axd th' bobby. "awm sewer aw' could, an' th' furst time he passes me awl bring him up to th' poleece office if aw have to wheel him in a barro." "well, here's a shillin' for helpin' me up, an be sewer an keep thi een oppen." "nay, nay, keep yor brass," sed sam, "awm naoan one a' that sooart 'at wants payin' for dooin a kindness 'at costs me nowt, but awl tak it, tho' awst nivver have th' heart to spend it, but awm mich obleeged to yo, an aw wish yo gooid neet, an hooap yo'll meet wi noa moor misfortunes." "aw hooap net, an' if they wor all like thee th' poleece ud have a easy time on it." "why, maister, if they wor all like me ther wodn't be onny poleece, for aw havn't a heart i' mi belly big enuff for sich a job." sam left him, an th' furst public haase he coome to he went in an had a rare spree wi' th' shillin', but when he coom aght, if onnybody'd met him they'd ha been just as likely to think he'd been to a teetotal meetin' an' signed th' pledge. but if yo'd wanted to see him when he put on his varry simple smile, yo should ha seen him when a lady browt him a pet dog 'at wor poorly. he wor noated far an wide as a dog doctor, an ladies used to come throo all pairts wi ther pet's to ax sam's advice. hahivver ugly a little brute chonced to be brawt, sam had his nomony ready. "a'a, that is a little beauty, mum, aw havn't seen one like that, mum, aw can't say when, mum. aw dooant think yo'd like to pairt wi' it mum?" "oh, no! i would not part with it for its weight in gold i it's such a faithful little dear!" "awm sewer on it, mum, yo can see it in it. it's the varry picture o' faithfulishness. if yo leeav it wi' me it'll be weel takken care on, mum. an what name might yo call it, mum?" "we call it lion." "that's just th' name for a little pet like this, it is fer sewer." "what do you think is the matter with the little darling?" then sam ud tak it in his hands, an after strokin' it an smellin' at its breath, he'd give it a nip 'at ud mak it yelp aght ten thaasand murders, then he'd shake his heead an say, "aw thowt what wor th' matter as sooin as aw saw it, mum; yo see it's soa varry tender it can hardly bide touchin'. it's sufferin wi' enflimashun ov its liver. it's a strange thing, but it's a disease 'at's gooin abaat amang dogs just at present. ther's monny a scoor dee ivvery wick, for yo see ther's net monny 'at know hah to doctor 'em for it. it's a pratty little thing. it'll have to have some castor hoil an a paather, mum. aw think aw can cure it in a wick, mum." "well, then, i must leave it with you, and be sure to treat the little thing kindly." "kindly! why, mum, awd give it th' bit aght o' mi maath. it owt to have some warm milk an a paather th' furst thing, but aw dooant happen to have onny ith haase, an my lad willn't be hooam befoor dark, an it's been awr rent day to-day, but as sooin: as ivver he comes wi his wage awl get it some, tho' it's a pity, poor thing, 'at it connot have it nah, but yo see aw didn't know 'at it wor comin'." after this speech he wor sewer to get a shillin', an sometimes hauf-a-craan, an as he nivver reckoned owt off his doctor's bill, he called that "extra bunce." as sooin as shoo'd getten nicely aght oth gate he'd give it a claat oth side oth heead, to let it know at th' beginnin' what it might expect if it didn't behave, an then he'd tak it into th' cellar an tee some band raand it neck an festen it to th' wall, an throw it a bit o' strea to lig on, an after chuckin' it a crust o' breead an' givin' it some watter, he'd leeav it tellin' it 'at as sooin as it had browt its stummack daan to that it ud noa daat feel better. it ud be pratty sewer to freat a bit but sam ud tak noa noatice wol th' next day, an when he went to luk at it, if he fan th' breead an waiter untouched he'd leeav it agean. abaht th' third day he says they generally begin to nibble a bit, an as sooin as he saw that he used to give 'em a bit o' sop or summat, but he took gooid care net to give 'em too mich. bi th' end oth wick they wor cured, an' he used to wesh 'em an cooam 'em, an tee a bit a blue ribbon raand ther neck, an' tak 'em hooam, an' when ther mistresses saw 'em jumpin' an' caperin' abaat, an ommost fit to ait th' fire iron's, they paid him what he charged withaat a word, an gave him credit for being th' best dog doctor ith country. he made a gooid deal o' brass i' that way, but that didn't pay him as weel as ratcatchin'. ther wor nivver onnybody could equal sam at catch in' a rat, for he wor nivver known to fail. at all th' big haases ith district he wor as weel known! as th' pooastman. he's gien up th' trade nah, or else aw wodn't let yo into th' saycret. this is th' way he used to do. th' cooachman or th' buttler throo some hall wod come to tell sam 'at he wor wanted as sooin as ivver he could spare time, to goa up to th' hall to catch a rat 'at one oth sarvents had seen ith pantry, for they wor all soa freetened 'at they darn't goa in. sam wod promise to be up directly, an he'd put a net into his coit pocket, an a two-o-three breead crumbs in a bit o' paper, an a rat, ommost as big as a kittlin, but withaat a tooith in its heead, into his inside brast pocket, an then he'd set off. when he gate thear all th' sarvent lasses ud cluther raand him an tell him whear th' rat had been seen an all particulars. "well, they're a nasty thing to have abaat a haase, an a varry dangerous thing; but awl do mi best to catch it if yo'll give me a sup o' ale if yo have it, an if net, pooarter'll do. aw want it to mix up summat to tice it aght." they seldom browt less nor a quairt, an after takkin abaat a thimbleful to mix up his breead crumbs, he swallow'd t'other for fear on it bein wasted. then he'd tak a cannel an goa to whear th' rat had been last seen, an all th' lasses followin at a distance. after puttin his bait on th' floor an th' cannel ith far corner, he'd begin chirpin an huntin under th' barrels an all abaat to see if ther wor a rat, but as he seldom fan one, when he thowt he'd carried it on long enuff, he'd set up a gurt shaat, "it's here! it's here!" an pawse th' cannel ovver with his fooit, an as they couldn't tell where it might be they all flew off skrikin, leavin' sam to quietly pool his "owd forrester," as he called him, aght ov his pocket an lap it up ith net an come aght holdin' it at arms' length. then away went th' haasekeeper to tell th' mistress, an th' mistress to tell th' maister, an in a varry few minits ivverybody abaat th' place wor ith kitchen, standin in a ring wi sam an th' rat ith middle. sam wor a hero just then, but to luk at his face yo'd fancy he hadn't sense enuff to know it. ov coorse ther wor nowt to gooid for sam after that, an he'd allus as mich to ait an drink as he could tuck into him an a hauf-a-craan beside. aw dooant know hah monny times he catched that rat, but aw do know 'at he catched it three times i' one haase, an he tell'd me he made as mich brass on it as monnya chap could mak wi a horse an cart. he'd a deeal more queer tricks, but as he gate older he gave it up, for he said it wor all vanity; an as he wanted to settle daan an leead a quiet life, he tuk a beershop, an nah he amuses hiss en an his customers wi sittin' at th' end oth langsettle an tellin' his experience, an if one hawf o' what he says is true, when he dees he owt to be put under a glass shade an stuck ith halifax museum. owd moorcock. it's monny a long year sin what awm gooin to tell tuk place, but aw remember it as weel as if it wor yesterday. he wor a queer sooart ov a chap, wor owd drake, an although some laft at him, an considered him an oddity, ther wor a gooid deeal moor 'at believed him to be a born genius. he wor a cobbler bi trade, an a varry gooid cobbler too, tho' he'd nivver sarved his time to it; an altho' he'd had two or three gooid chonces o' startin' business ith' taan, yet he allus shook his heead, an sed he'd rayther goa on as he wor a bit longer. th' fact wor he loved his liberty, an he'd getten a noashun 'at if he left his little hooam i' th' country, he'd leeav his freedom wi it. an it's hardly to be wondered at, for his snug cot lukt th' pictur' o' comfort. it wor a one-stooary buildin' wi a straw thack, an all th' walls wor covered wi honeysuckle an' jessamine, an th' windows could hardly be seen for th' green leaves 'at hung as a veil i' th' front on 'em. stooan-crop an haaseleek had takken up a hooam i' th' gutter, an th' chimley wor ommost hid wi ivy. it wor a queer-shaped place altogether--all nucks an corners--but it wor just what suited david. they called him david drake, tho' he wor known best as owd moorcock. i' th' front wor a nice bit o' garden, allus kept trim, an seldom withaat a show o' bloom o' one sooart or another; an away to one side wor what he called his farm--a bit o' land abaat ten yards wide, an twenty long--whear he grew his cabbages an puttates an sich like; an all araand for miles wor moorland covered wi heather, an stockt wi game, except at th' back ov his cot, whear a bluff-lukkin hill sprang ommost straight up, makkin' a stranger feel afeeard lest it should tak a fancy to topple over an' bury booath th' cot an all in it. but if th' aghtside wor curious, th' inside wor a deal moor soa; an it wornt to be wondered at if a gooid monny fowk paid david a visit when they'd hauf a day to spare. he'd a wife--geniuses generally manage to get a wife if they get nowt else, an it isn't allus 'at they mak th' wisest choice; but david mud ha done war, for dolly-o'-dick's-o'-th'dike, as shoo wor called, wor as queer a customer as her husband, an if we're to believe what shoo says, if it hadn't ha been for her, dave wod ha been a poor lost craytur. shoo didn't appreciate his genius that's true, but wives as a rule niver do; but shoo let him have his own way, an sometimes, when her wark wor done, shoo'd even help him wi some of his fooilery. aw'd heeard a gooid deal abaat 'em, soa one day aw detarmined aw'd pay 'em a visit, soa, after gettin' off at th' copley station, aw started to climb a rough, steep loin, moor like th' bed of a beck nor owt else, but trees o' awther side hung over wol they met at th' top, an made a cooil shade 'at wor varry welcome, for aw wor ommost sweltered. after a long scramel aw fan misen o norland moor--an it wor a seet worth tewing for, for th' heather wor i' bloom, an it lukt as if a purple carpet had been laid for th' buzzards an bees to frolic on; an ther wor sich a hum raand wol it saanded as if they wor playin' bass to th' skylarks 'at wor warblin' up aboon. aw struck aght in as straight a line as aw could for david's, an havin come to th' garden gate, aw stopt a minnit to admire th' flaars 'at covered th' graand an th' walls, an even stretched far onto th' thack. aw hadn't stood long when a voice claise to my ear sed-"might yo be lukkin' for somdy?" "are yo mistress drake?" aw axed. "eea, aw believe aw am; but what might yo be wantin'? if yo've owt to sell yo've comed to th' wrang shop, for brass is varry scarce here?" "aw've nobbut comed to see yor maister," aw sed; "is he in?" "nay, he isn't, an aw dooant know whear yo'll find him, for aw've niver met him yet; but if it's awr dave yo meean, he's inside, soa yo can walk forrad, an if it's onny shoes yo want mendin', aw can see to that as weel as him, for he's reckonin' to be thrang this afternoon?" "aw've nobbut come to have a bit o' tawk," aw sed. "oh, if that's all yo can come in; there's a deeal moor fowk come to tawk to him nor what brings him any wark; but it's happen as weel, for if it worn't for me bein' allus naggin' at him, he'd nivver get done th' bit he does; an as it is, he's hammerin' away when he owt to be i' bed, an' keepin' ivverybody else wakken; but aw've tried to taich him sense wol aw'm fair stall'd, soa he mun goa his own gate an tak th' consequences. come yor ways; we's find him i' th' far raam makkin marks an' spoilin' cleean paper." we went up a narrow passage, an as th' door wor oppen aw'd a gooid luk at david an his raam befoor he saw me. it wor a varry little place, wi a varry little winder, an hardly heigh enuff for a chap to stand up in, and all th' walls wor covered wi picturs, an he wor set cloise to th' winder hard at wark at another. he wor a short, fat gooid-tempered-lukkin chap, wi a bald heead an just a bit o' white hair hingin' daan like a fringe all raand, an his cheeks wor as red as a ripe apple, an his hands, brooad an braan, show'd they'd had to face booath wark an weather. as dolly went in he lukt up an saw me. "come in," he sed, "come in do, it's varry whut, sit yo daan. whativer browt ye up here to-day? why, yo'll be ommost melted. can yo sup some buttermilk?" an he filled a glass 'at stood o' th' table, an handed it to me. aw swollered it, an then aw sed, "aw thowt as aw'd a bit o' spare time awd just come up an mak yor acquaintance, for awve heeard a gooid deeal abaat yo, an happen yo'll nooan think onny war o' me for comin' bi misel'." "tha's done reight to come, lad; aw'm allus glad to see anybody pop in. aw wor just thrang makkin marks, as awr dolly calls it, but, as awd nivver onybody to taich me, awm feeared aw havn't getten th' reight way o' gooin abaat it yet. yo see all theeas picturs? well, yo'll not think mich on 'em, but sich as they are, they please me, an they niver ait owt." "an what are ta shappin at nah?" sed dolly. "this is to be th' erupshun o' maant vesuvius." "why, what is it eruptin' for?" sed dolly. "aw guess it's like thee, it's nowt better to do? is that th' reason tha's put so mich brimston' colour abaat it? ther's nowt better nor brimston' an traitle for curin' erupshuns." "dolly, aw've tell'd thee for aboon twenty year 'at tha's noa taste nobbut for summut to ait, an yond lad tak's after thee. aw'd allus a fancy for my lad to be an artist," he sed, turnin' to me, "but he seems to care moor abaat hawkin' bits o' garden stuff; but then we am't all born alike, an aw made up mi mind nivver to try to foorce him to owt 'at he'd noa hankerin' after, for if aw'd had two trades to pick aght on, an one on 'em had been cobblin, awst ha takken t'other whativver it had been; but aw could ha liked mi lad to ha been summut better, for aw gave him a gooid name when he wor kursened; but yo cannot order theeas things as yo wod." "noa; an it's a gooid job yo cannot, for aw've quite enuff to put up wi to have thee messin' abaat as tha does; but aw know varry weel that lad wod ha been a painter if tha'd had patience to taich him. but whear's that pictur' he did paint? tha'rt fond enuff o' shewin' thi own wark; let's luk at somdy's else." "he nivver tried his hand but once, an it wor this," he sed, as he' pooled one aght o' th' corner, "an when he showed it me aw'd to luk at it for a long time befoor aw could tell what to mak on it, but at last aw decided it wor a camel; but he wor soa mad 'at he sed he'd nivver paint another so long as he lived, for it wor a drake. soa, to prevent onybody else makkin sich another mistak, aw've written on th' bottom' this is a drake." "tha can say what tha likes, david, but hawf a bad en, an if yo can nobbut catch leets, aw'm sewer ther's monny a thing less like a drake nor that. dooant yo think soa?" shoo sed, turnin' to me. aw sed aw thowt soa, too: an then david axed me to goa into his study, "for yo mun know," he sed, "aw've a study, an a studio, an a museum, an a wild beast show i, this haase, as little as it is." he led the way into another raam abaat as big as that we'd left, an showed me a row o' shelves filled wi books, an a little table covered wi papers; an aw tell'd him aw thowt he wor quite a literary sooart ov a chap. "why," he sed, "aw've allus been fond o' readin' sin aw wor a bit ov a lad, an sometimes aw string a line or two together 'at jingles varry nicely, an two or three times aw've had some printed i'th' papers. mun, it's varry nice to be able to sit daan an eease yor mind wi writin' a bit, even if nubdy reads it. that lad o' mine cares nowt abaat it; aw wish he did, for aw believe if he'd takken to study he'd ha been a wonder, for he's a rare heead--it tak's a hat ommost as big as a coil-skep to fit it. aw gate him to try one time, an he wor a whole day i' gettin' theeas four lines, aw allus keep 'em by me, for aw know he'll nivver write ony moor.":- 'aw once wor lost on norland moor, an' if aw'd ne'er been fun, mooast likely aw'st a been thear yet, an nah mi tale is done.' "tha'rt varry fond o' runnin daan them 'at belangs to thee," sed dolly, "an to hear thee tawk fowk ud think he could nivver do owt reight; but if that isn't poetry, aw should like to know what is, for awm sewer ther's a deeal more common sense in it nor ther is i' lots o' thine. but thear he is gooin past th' winder, an he knows ther isn't a drop o' watter i' th' haase, an aw can't bide to fotch ony. if he's like his fayther i' nowt else he is i' leavin' ivverything for me to do; but aw'll let him see different!" an throwing th' winder oppen, shoo yell'd aght, "rubensrembrandtvandyke drake! tha'll come in this minit, or else aw'll warm thee!" an away shoo flew aght. "whativver made yo call him sich a name as that?" aw axed. "why, aw'd a fancy he'd be a cliver chap if he lived, an soa aw gave him a cliver name; but if aw had it to do nah, aw think summat less wad ha to fit him. but let's have a luk at th' museum." "aw should like to hear one o' yor pieces," aw sed, "if yo'd be soa gooid as to reead one." if that'll suit thee, aw'll reead one, an welcome. ther's one here 'at aw wor felterin' mi brain wi' last neet: 'aw'm havin' a smook bi misel', net a soul here to spaik a word to, aw've noa gossip to hear nor to tell, an ther's nowt i feel anxious to do. aw've noa noashun o' writin' a line, tho' aw've jist dipt mi pen into th' ink, towards wor kin aw don't mich incline, an aw'm ommost to lazy to think. aw've noa riches to mak me feel vain, an yet aw've as mich as aw need; aw've noa sickness to cause me a pain, an noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed, awr dolly's crept off to her bed, an aw hear shoo's beginnin' to snoor; (that upset me when furst we wor wed, but nah it disturbs me noa moor.) like me, shoo taks things as they come, makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot, shoo's content wi her own humble hooam, for her world's i' this snug little cot. we know 'at we're both growin' old, but time's traces we hardly can see; an tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd, shoo's still th same young dolly to me. her face may be wrinkled an grey, an her een may be losin' ther shine, but her heart's just as leetsum to-day as it wor when aw first made her mine. aw've mi hobbies to keep mi i' toit, aw've noa whistle nor bell to obey, aw've mi wark when aw like to goa to it, an mi time's all mi own, neet an day. an tho' some pass mi by wi a sneer, an some pity mi lowly estate, aw think aw've a deealless to fear nor them 'at's soa wealthy an great. when th' sky stretches aght blue an breet, an th' heather's i' blossom all raand, makkin th' mornin's cooi! breezes smell sweet, as they rustle along ovver th' graand. when aw listen to th' lark as he sings far aboon, ommost lost to mi view, aw lang for a pair ov his wings, to fly wi him, an sing like him, too. when aw sit under th' shade ov a tree, wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen, aw think them 'at's sooary for me had far better pitty thersen. when wintry storms howl ovver th' moor, an snow covers all, far an wide, aw carefully festen mi door, an creep claise up to th' fire inside. a basin o' porridge may be, to some a despisable dish, but it allus comes welcome to me, if aw've nobbut as mich as aw wish mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say, an aw havn't a daat but it's true; yet they answer ther purpose to-day just as weel as if th' fashion wor new. let them 'at think joys nobbut dwell wheear riches are piled up i' stoor, try to get a gooid share for thersel', but leave me mi snug cot up o' th' moor mi 'bacca's all done, soa aw'll creep off to bed, just as quiet as a maase for if dolly's disturbed ov her sleep, ther'n be a fine racket i' th' haase. aw mun keep th' band i' th' nick if aw can, for if shoo gets her temper once crost, all comforts an joys aw may plan is just soa mich labour 'at's lost. "weel, aw call that a varry nice piece; an if yo're aullus soa contented, yo must have a happy time on it." "awm happy enuff as things goa, an aw dar say aw'm as contented as th' mooast; but it isn't allus safe to judge ov a chap bi what he writes, for fowk often pen what they'd like things to be nor what they find 'em to be." he led th' way into another raam 'at wor filled wi boxes full o' butterflies, an buzzards, an twitch clocks, an rare an praad he wor on 'em; an then he showed me what he called his wild beeasts, but they wor tame enuff, for they wor nowt but catterpillers, but aw believe ther wor thaasands on 'em, all alive an feedin o' one sooart o' stuff or another; an he tell'd me they ait a barraload o' greens ivvery day. he said he kept 'em till they come into butterflies, an then he cured 'em an sent 'em away to london an sometimes to paris. th' year befoor he sent 15,000 to one man. "soa, yo see, awm a butterfly merchant as weel as a cobbler," he sed. as we wor lukkin at 'em dolly coom up to tell us we'd better goa to us drinkin' if we wanted ony, for, as rubensrembrantvandyke had started, ther'd varry sooin be nooan left. we tuk her advice, an awm thankful to say ther wor plenty for us all, an when we'd finished we went an sat ith garden, an david filled his pipe an sed if awd noa objections he'd tell me hah it happened 'at he coom to live oth moor, an th' reason fowk called him owd moorcock. aw sed nowt could suit me better, soa he began. "yo mun know," sed david, "'at befoor aw gate wed an coom to live here, aw lived in a little haase in a fold cloise to halifax parish church,--it isn't thear nah, for it's been pool'd daan to mak way for improvements o' differernt sooarts,--an awd an idea at that time 'at aw should like to live thear all mi life, an awd noa thowts aw should iver get wed." "its a pity tha ivver altered thi mind," said dolly. "well, happen soa,--but let me tell mi tale i' mi awn way an it'll be finished soa mich sooiner. one setterdy aw donn'd misen up i' mi sundy clooas an went for a walk throo th' market, an when aw coom to th' butter-cross aw saw a chap 'at had a cock an two hens in a basket for sale, an he offered 'em to me for ten shillin'. 'ten fiddlesticks!' aw sed, 'awl gie thee five,' an he put on a luk as if awd stab'd him to th' heart, an begun tellin' me hah mich they'd cost him, an 'at he'd nivver ha tried to sell 'em but he wor behund wi his rent, an wor foorced to pairt wi 'em to keep th' bums aght, an he assured me they wor layin' ivvery day. but th' fact wor, aw didn't want 'em at onny price, for aw'd noa place to put 'em, an aw tell'd him soa. 'well,' he sed, 'gie me three hawf craans an tha shall have 'em, for aw think tha'll luk weel after 'em an aw wodn't like 'em to be ooined.' 'nay,' aw sed, 'aw weant gie aboon five shillin', for awm nooan i' want on 'em.' 'if tha weant, tha weant,' he sed, soa that settles it, but awd rayther let th' bums tak away nearly ivvery stick aght o'th' haase nor awd take a farden less nor seven shillin'; that's th' lowest aw ivver will tak, an if tha doesn't buy'em at that price tha'll rue, for tha'll niver have sich a chonce ageean.' 'well, then, awst be like to rue,' aw sed, 'for aw weant gie thee a hawpny moor nor five shilin'.' 'tha'rt a hard un,' he sed, 'but if tha'll promise me tha'll treat 'em weel, an at tha'll nivver tell anybody what tha's gien for 'em, tha shall have 'em for six shillin'; nah, tha cannot say noa to that. two hens an' a cock! why it's nobbut two shillin' a-piece, an they're as cheap as muck at hawf a sovrin' aw think tha doesn't understand th' hen trade. awm fair sham'd to offer' em at sich a price, an awm sewer aw hardly dar goa hooam wi th' brass." 'nay,' aw sed, 'one word's just as gooid as a thaasand wi me, an awl stick to what aw sed, an if yo like to tak five shillin' awl buy' em, an if net yo can keep' em.' 'tak' em wi thee,' he sed; soa aw pottered aght five shillin', an he began bawlin' 'sowld agean' an aw had 'em under mi arms ommost afoor aw knew what aw wor dooin, an as aw wor walkin' away he pool'd me to one side to luk at another basketful. 'nah,' he sed, 'yo'd better buy theeas, yo can have 'em at th' same price, an they're better nor them. wod yo like a two-or-three ducks or a couple o' pigeons?' 'aw want noa moor to-day,' aw sed, 'but awst like to know if all theeas belang to yo?' 'all tha sees i' this row belangs to me,' he sed, 'an if tha wants onny tha'll finnd me here ivery setterdy, an awl sell thee owt aw have at thi own price,' 'well aw should think yo'll be able to keep th' bums off if yo sell all them,' aw sed, an aw started for hooam, but somehah aw didn't feel just as weel suited wi mi bargain as aw thowt aw should, an aw wor bothered aboon a bit wi wonderin' whear to put 'em, for awd noa room for 'em nobbut ith cellar, an that wor as dark as a booit, but, hahivver, aw thowt they'd be a bit o' company for me, for aw wor oft varry looansome, an aw should be able to have a fresh egg for mi braikfast whenivver aw liked. as sooin as aw gate hooam aw lit a cannel an went into th' cellar, takkin care to shut th' door after me, an then aw unteed ther legs an set 'em at liberty. they worn't a varry prime lot, but aw didn't care for that, for it wor th' eggs aw wanted. th' cock gave hissen a shak, an set up sich a cock-a-doodle-doo wol aw wor ommost deeafened--aw nivver heeard sich a voice i' mi life--if he'd been trained he'd ha been a rare leeader for a rorytory--an wol aw wor wonderin' if it ud be safe to leeav 'em as they wor wol aw went to fotch 'em some screenins, one oth hens flew onto th' shelf whear aw kept all mi jock an stuff. 'that'll niver do,' aw thowt, soa aw went towards it to tak it off, when th' cock tried to foller, an wafted th' cannel aght wi his wings an let fair at th' top o' my heead, so aw grabbed at th' shelf to steady misen, when daan it coom wi all th' plates an pots, an sich a clatter an crash yo'd ha thowt th' haase had tummeld. th' milk wor all spilt, an th' breead an cheese wor rollin' amang th' coils, an a bowl o' broth had emptied itsen onto th' front o' mi clean shirt, an aw wor sylin weet throo mi neck to mi feet. th' hens wor chuckin' i' different corners, an th' cock started crowin' laader bi th' hawff, an aw tried mi best to groap mi way up th' steps into th' haase. aw managed at last, an if yo could ha seen me as' aw lukt just then, yo'd ha believed aw should niver be able 'to get cleean agean. mi heead wor covered wi mail, an mi clooas wor sooaked wi broth an ornamented wi bits o' chopt carrots, an turnips, an onion skins, an hawf a pund o' butter wor stickin' to one booit heel an pairt ov a suet dumplin' to t'other, an as aw wor standin' wonderin' which end to begin at to set things straight, a young woman 'at lived next door coom in to ax me if awd been buyin' some hens, for shoo'd heeard th' cock crowin', an when shoo saw me i' sich a pickle shoo held up her hands an skriked as if awd getten mi throit cut. 'whativver has ta been dooin?' shoo sed. 'tha'rt fair flaysum to luk at.' shut th' door, dorothy,' aw sed, 'an come in an see if yo can help me aght o' this mess;' soa she put th' door to, an aw tell'd her all hah it had happened. 'why,' shoo sed, 'tha mun tak all thi clooase off, for they'll have to goa into th' tub-ther'll nowt ivver get that greeas off but bailin' watter an weshin licker; goa upstairs an get 'em all off an fling 'em daan to me, an awl see if aw can do owt wi 'em.' 'awl pay yo whativver yo charge,' aw sed, 'an if aw dooant screw yond cock an hens' necks raand it'll be becoss awve changed mi mind!' 'o tha'll manage weel enuff wi 'em after this,' shoo sed, 'tha knows th' hen trade is like ivverything else, it wants sombdy 'at understands it; but that cock's a rare voice; is it a young un? sithee, th' childer's standin' ith middle oth yard wonderin' wheal th' noise comes throo.' aw went up stairs an tuk off all mi clooas an threw' em daan to dorothy, an a grand lot they lukt, an awd just pool'd on mi warty britches when shoo called aght, 'david, david! i come this minnit! th' childer's oppend th' cellar winder an letten th' cock aght!' daan stairs aw flew withaat stoppin' to festen mi gallowses or put mi booits on, an as sooin as aw went aght th' lads set up a shaat an th' cock flew into a chamber winder at t'other side o' th' yard. th' naybors all coom runnin' aght, an dorothy foller'd me wi mi clooas tukt under her arm, an a shirt sleeve an a britches slop trailin' behund her. aw ran into th' haase after th' cock, an' withaat spaikin a word to sam or his dowter, 'at wor just at ther dinner, aw baanced upstairs and shut th' winder to mak sure 'at it couldn't get aght, an then aw called aght, 'it's nobbut me, sam, my new cock's flown into your window, an awve coom'd for it, wi ta help me to catch it?' 'why, has ta nobbut just getten aght o' bed? aw think it ud seem thee better to put thi clooas on befoor tha cooms runnin' into a body's haase this fashion, scarin' ivverybbody aght o' ther wits.' 'yo mun excuse me this time,' aw sed, 'its noa fault o' mine. come an help me to catch this chap.' soa they booath coom up, but that cock had made up his mind net to be catched, an he'd peearkt up fair at top oth bed heead, an he set up another crow wi as mich impudence as if he'd been on his own middin. sam made a grab at it, an it flew to th' winder-bottom, upsettin two plant-pots, an we all made a rush for it, but it slipt past an swept all th' chany ornaments off th' mantel-shelf an made a dive at th' chimley, an away it went aght oth seet. th' lass skrikt wi all her might, an sam shaated, an aw made as mich din as aw could tryin' to keep 'em quiet, an th' cock screamed ith chimley wor nor a railway whistle. bi this time ther wor a craad o' thirty or forty fowk aghtside, an they wor callin aght for th' police, for they seemed to think ther wor one or two gettin' murdered at least, an things began to luk serious. 'tha'll have a bonny penny to pay for this,' sed sam. 'ha can ta feshun? just luk at all them ornaments brokken to bits, an th' plants an stuff destroyed! tak that cock aght oth chimley an get aght o' here as sharp as tha can, an nivver let me see thee nor owt belangin to thee agean!' aw sed nowt, for aw saw he wor riled, an aw didn't wonder at it, soa aw put mi hand up th' flue, an aw could feel its legs, but it seemed to be wedged fast. 'it's here,' aw sed, 'but awm feeard aw can't get it withaat hurtin' it.' 'ger aght oth gate,' he sed, 'aw care nowt abaat hurtin' it! awl stir it, or else awl rive it's legs off!' an he shov'd his arm up, an daan it coom an browt all th' sooit wi it, an flapt it into us faces wol we wor ommost smoored. aw seized hoid oth burd an made th' best o' my way aghtside, an as sooin as aw showed mi face ther wor a reglar yell, an they all squandered to let me pass. th' chaps had getten pooakers an tangs, an th' wimmen wor armed wi umbrellas an tooastin forks, an then aw turned raand an axed 'em whot ther wor to do. just then sam an his dowter coom aght, an when they saw me ommost undrest, wi mi face grimed wi sooit an mi heead whitened wi mail, an sam an his lass lukkin varry little better, it set some oth chaps laffin, an aw went inside an festened th' door, an puffin' an blowin' like a brokken-winded horse, aw sat daan convinced 'at that chap wor reight when he sed aw knew nowt abaat th' hen trade. but th' noise aghtslde gate laader, an th' wimmen's voices wor raised to th' screamin' pitch, soa aw ventured to luk aght, an' thear wor poor dorothy ith middle ov a duzzen wimmen 'at wor shakkin ther umbrellas an tooastin forks ovver her heead, wol one on em wor holdin' up mi sundy shirt, an other two wor tryin' to divide mi breeches between 'em, an ther wor sich a hullaballoo as yo nivver heeard. 'tha's war nor him bi th' hawf!' sed one. 'what business as shoo wi his dooas under her arm, aw should like to know. it's a disgrace to ivvery woman ith fold, that's what it is!' sed another; an aw began to see 'at that cock had been th' meeans o' gettin' her into trouble as well as me. aw thowt th' best thing aw could do wor to leeave 'em to settle it amang thersen, soa aw went an gate weshed an donned, an it seems bi th' time aw wor ready to goa aght they'd managed to get hold oth reight end oth tale, an aw wor met wi a shaat o' laffin throo th' men, an even th' wimmen smiled, tho' some on 'em shook ther heeads in a mysterious sooart ov a way, as mich as to gie me to understand 'at they'd let me off that once, but if awd onny desire to keep ther gooid opinion awd better net get into another scrape oth same sooart. aw knew they threw a gooid deal o' blame onto poor dorothy, an aw wor varry sooary it wor soa, for shoo wor a nice quiet young woman, an tewed hard to keep hersen respectable, an noabdy hed a word to say agean her, nobbut shoo kept a tom-cat 'at worn't partiklar whooas dish he put his nooas in. aw nivver went near them hens agean wol mundy mornin'. aw knew they wor in a land flowing wi broth an breead, but ther wor noa fear on me forgettin' 'em, for that cock crowed wol he wor hooarse. ther wornt one chap i' that fold 'at worn't up i' time for his wark o' mundy mornin', an as for misen awd hardly a wink o' sleep all th' neet. aw wor foorced to stop in all th' day o' sundy, becoss o' mi clooas bein' at dorothy's, an when mundy coom aw went daan ith cellar an cut' em all their heeads off, an detarmined to cook 'em all three an invite th' wimmen to ther drinkin', an see if aw couldn't mak things pleasant ageean. aw saw a nay bar hingin' up some clooas, soa aw tell'd her what aw intended to do, an awd noa need to mention it to onnybody else, for th' news hed flown to ivvery haase i' less nor five minnits. dorothy browt me mi clooas back o' tuesdy, an they luk'd ommost as gooid as new, an aw invited' em all to ther drinkin' for fridy neet, an then aw went an bowt two pot dogs an a stag for sam's dowter, an aw wor luk'd on as th' king oth fold. it wor a varry little haase for abaat twenty fowk, but aw cleared all aght, an put tables ith middle an cheers raand th' sides, an contrived raam for 'em all. aw dooant think yo ivver hed onny experience i' cookin' for yorsen, nivver name cookin' for other fowk, but aw considered misen a varry gooid hand, an aw can assure yo when aw stewed them hens an rooasted th' cock, an boiled some puttates, an made a pile o' tooast, an some strong teah flavored wi rum, 'at it wor a set aght net to be despised. all wor ready an promised for a success, an aw could see th' wimmen bobbin' aght o' one door into another wi ther new caps on, an aw saw bi th' clock 'at it nobbut wanted a quarter ov an haar befoor they'd be all thear, sea aw tuk a can an went to th' pump for some clean watter, so as we could keep th' kettle filled up, an aw left th' door oppen. aw wornt aboon a minnit away, but as aw wor comin' back, what should aw see but that tom-cat o' dorothy's comin' aght oth door wi abaat hawf a hen in his maath. away it ran hooam an me after it; net 'at aw cared soa mich abaat th' loss oth mait, for aw knew we should hey enuff, but aw wor mad to think 'at after all mi trouble to cook it aw should be served i' sich a way. dorothy wor upstairs, an away it went to her, but aw didn't foller, for awd net forgetten th' bother awd been in at sam's; but wimmen's all alike, they can nivver keep ther maath shut, an noa sooiner did shoo see it nor shoo set up a screeam an, ov coarse, that wor th' signal for ivvery woman ith fold to fly aght, for they wor all set waitin' for th' time for ther drinkin'. 'ger aght wi thee! tha nasty thief!' shoo sed, an aw could hear her chasin' it raand an raand, singin' aght, 'ha can ta fashion, tha nasty gooid-fer-nowt? awl hey thee hung for it befoor tha'rt a day older!' daanstairs it coom ageean, an aw oppen'd th' door an ran it aght, an as aw foller'd it th' wimmen rushed past me in a body an all cried aght at once, 'what's he been dooin to thee, dorothy? shame on him!' aw went into mi awn haase, an left dorothy to mak what explanation shoo thowt best, for aw felt sewer aw should mak matters war if aw stopt. aw dooant know what shoo sed, but they sooin all coom in laffiin an tawkin, tho' nah an then throwin' aght a sly hint at dorothy an me, but aw wor too thrang to tak mich noatice, an' shoo'd moor sense. as they wor all wed fowk but her an me, it wor agreed 'at shoo should sarve aght th' teah, an' awd to sarve th' mait an stuff. they made a gooid deal o' fun, an th' braan creeam helpt th' teah daan famously, th' tooast seem'd ommost to melt away, an th' stewed hens didn't last long, but th' cock didn't seem to be in as mich favor. noabdy wanted helpin' twice, an as awd taen a deeal a' pains to cook it aw felt rayther disappointed. 'nan get on an mak a gooid drinkin',' aw says; 'does onnybody say a bit moor o' this cock?' but it wor all noa use, aw axd 'em an axd 'em wol aw wor fair stalled, an th moor aw tried to persuade' em an th' moor they laft. 'just thee try a bit thisen,' sed one, 'an then tha'll see hah it is we want noa moor: soa aw tried a bit, an awl be blest if it wornt like gutty percha. awd some varry gooid teeth, but they could do nowt wi it. aw wor varry soary abaat it, but it couldn't be helpt, an they all sed they'd nivver had a better drinkin' i' ther life, soa one or two helpt me to side th' table an straighten up a bit, for ther husbands wor all ta coom an hey a smook an a drop o' summat short after they'd eoom throo ther wark. 'what mun aw do wi what's left o' this rooast cock?' aw sed. 'give it to dorothy's tom-cat!' sed sam's dowter. 'if it gets its teeth fast it'll pull its heead off!' sed another. 'an mich matters if it did,' sed owd sarah; 'for it's a plague i' this fold, for yo can keep nowt aght ov it's rooad.' 'aw think th' best plan ud be,' sed sam, as he popp'd in his heead, 'for david an dorothy to mak it up between' em, an then we'll all join an give' em a weddin' dinner, for awm sewer ther booath looansome, an as david's hed noa luck wi his poultry, an dorothy's cat's allus getten her i' trouble, aw think nah as yo've swallered th' poultry shoo should hang th' cat, an then they could mak a fair start ith world, an aw believe ther isn't a nayhor 'at willn't gladly give 'em a lift.' 'this seemed to fall in wi ivverybody's ideas except mine and dorothy's, an we sed nowt. th' chaps coom in a bit, an a reight jolly lot they wor, an when th' wimmen tell'd 'em what a toff owd customer th' cock hed turned aght, they sed it ud be a gooid name for me, soa they kursened me moorcock, an awve been known bi that name ivver sin. yo'd hardly think' at dorothy wod have agreed to become dolly drake, but shoo did, an th' naybors wor as gooid as ther word, an when we gate wed we sat daan to as grand a dinner as ivver yo'd wish to see, an monny a little thing we have nah 'at wor gein to us then towards haasekeepin'. "but some way or other soa monny fowk gate to know abaat her tom-cat, an they used to come ta iuk at it, far shoo wadn't hang it, an they made sich gam abaat it wol we coom up to this quiet corner, pairtly to get aght oth gate on 'em, an pairtly becoss aw anlls liked th' country best, soa here we are, just as yo see us, an here it's varry likely we shall stop till one on us is fotched away in a black box. th' owd tom-cat's deead, an aw stuffed it, an yo can see it at top oth clock, so nah 'yo know th' reason awm called 'owd moorcock.'" "ther's nivver noa end to thy tongue when it gets runnin'," sed dolly: "th' supper's been ready for long enuff, an if tha hasn't tawkt him booath hungry an dry bi this time he's able to stand it better nor me." we knocked th' ashes aght ov us pipes an went in to supper. it did'nt last long, an after thankin' 'em for ther hospitality an information aw shook hands an bid 'em gooid neet, an it'll be a long time befoor aw forget mi visit to, "owd moorcock." peace makkin. "honest confession is gooid for th' soul," they say, an aw may as weel confess at once 'at awve been a fooil. happen yo'll say "that's nowt fresh," but beggin' for pardon this is summat fresh. yo'll happen think 'at awve been bettin' at donkeystir races, or 'at awve been bun for a chap in a money club, or 'at awve bowt a share in a manufacturin' company, limited, or 'at awve started th' newspaper business, or takken a hotel, or 'at awve joined th' mormons, or 'at awve getten into a law suit. but whichivver yo'd guessed yo'd be sewer to be 'wrang. all awve been tryin' to do has been to act as a peeace makker, an if awd carried it on for onny length o' time, aw should ha been made into sich a lot o' pieces misen 'at it wod ha takken a besom to sweep me up. just anent awr haase lives a old cross-grained chap 'at's getten wed to a varry nice lass, an' as he's a bit o' brass an' shoo's a lump o' beauty, yo'd think they should live together as happy as two turtle doves. but awm sooary to say 'at sich isn't th' case, for they generally get up abaat hawf-past eight an have a feight befoor nine. awm a varry tender-hearted sooart ov a customer, an awm sewer it's monny a time made mi heart bleed to see an hear ther goins on. somehah or other awd allus sided wi th' wife, tho' aw nivver knew what th' rows have been abaat, an ov coorse soa long as they kept 'em i' ther own haase aw couldn't interfere. but t'other day, abaat a wick sin, they wor gooin it war an war, an shoo coom runnin' into th' street wi her hair all daan an her gaon ommost riven off her back, an he rushed aght after her wi a umbrella in his hand, strikin' at her reight an left, all all shoo had to protect hersen wi wor th' rollin' pin. thinks aw to misen, this sooart o' thing has gooan far enuff, an as awd just been readin' abaat th' "atrocities," aw fancied misen england an him turkey an her a poor bulgarian, an aw determined awr wodn't see a poor inoffensive young woman ill-treated bi a brute like that, soa just as he wor gettin' ready to strike her daan into th' eearth, aw stept behund him an planted mi naive at th' back ov his ear, an he rolled ovver like a skittle pin. just as he fell awd an idea 'at awd been struck wi leetnin or else ther wor an eearthquake, for a summat dropped onto mi heead wi sich a foorce 'at aw saw some oth grandest fireworks awd ivver seen, an aw sat daan wi sich a bang 'at awm sewer aw must ha left mi impression pratty deep somewhear. when aw began to collect mi scattered thowts aw saw her standin' ovver me quaverin' th' rollin' pin aboon mi heead to prevent onnybody hittin' me ageean. when aw gate up aw began to reason wi misen as to what had been to do, an aw couldn't help thinkin' 'at that rollin' pin hed summat to do wi th' lump o' mi heead. aw felt sooary then 'at awd been soa rash as to knock th' old chap daan, an aw went to beg his pardon an sympathise wi him. "shoo's a shocker," he sed, "ther's nubdy knows what aw have to put up wi. shoo ill-uses me throo morn to neet, an awm feeard o' mi life." just then shoo made a dash at him as if shood made up her mind to knock his heead cleean off, soa aw catched hold ov her arm an gave her a swing raand 'at landed her just abaat th' same spot 'at awd left a minit befoor. aw dooant know whether ivver yo've been hit at top oth heead wi a old-fashioned umbrella or net, but if yo have, yo know it's nooan a varry pleasant thing, for it seems to strike you i' three or four places at once. whether th' owd chap hit me in a mistak or he did it o' purpose awve niver had th' chance to find aght, for things seem'd to get a gooid deeal mixt just abaat that that time, an all aw know is 'at awve been i' bed for ommost a wick, an awm soa stiff yet wol aw can hardly stir. one hawf o' mi heead is covered wi stickin' plaister, an awm covered wi black an blue marks throo mi neck to mi knees. as aw sit at th' winder suppin' mi gruel, aw can hear th' rows gooin on across th' street just as usual, an if they keep at it wol aw interfere agean they willn't have to drop it just yet, for it's towt me 'at it's best to let fowk feight ther own battles, for when it's nobbut one to one they've booath a chonce, but when it's two to one it's vary oft rough for th' one. awr emma--a false alarm. "aw dooan't know what tha thinks abaat it, isaac, but aw know ther's summat nooan reight. aw went to see awr emma last neet, an' shoo doesn't luk a bit like hersen: an' if shoo hadn't been rooarin' awl nivver trust mi een agean. it's some sooart o' bother shoo's havin' wi' yond felly o' hers, depend on't. aw warned her enuff befoar shoo gate wed, an' tawk'd to her wol aw wor fair stall'd, but nowt 'ud do but shoo mud have him, an' if shoo hasn't getten her hands full aw'm capt." "why, lass, aw dooan't know what reason tha has for sayin' soa, for aw'm sewer they seem varry comfortable together, an' aw've nivver heeard her say a word agean him, an' he seems as steady as old gold. shoo wor happen low spirited last neet, or had a bit o' th' heead wark." "tha needn't try to lap it up; aw can guess eggs when aw see shells, an' aw know as well as if shoo'd tell'd me wi' her own lips 'at ther's summat at's nooan reight. shoo's far too gooid for him, an' aw all us sed soa, an' if shoo'd ha' ta'en my advice shoo'd ha' waited wol shoo'd met wi' som'dy fitter for her. but shoo's thy temper to nowt, an' if shoo sets her mind on a thing, it's noa moor use tawkin' to her nor spittin' aght. aw'm nooan soa mich up o' theas chaps 'at's as steady as old gold: they're varry oft moor decaitful bi th' hauf, an' when aw come to think on it, aw remember he didn't behave just as aw could ha' liked him if he'd just been wed to me, th' first day they wor wed, for he'd hardly a word to say to awr emma at dinner time, but he could gabble fast enuff to that lass o' amos's, an' if shoo wor a child o' mine aw'd awther tak' some o' that consait aght on her or else aw'd tak' th' skin off her back." "tha'rt too perticlar bi hauf. tha allus luks at th' black side o' ivverything. tha may depend on't awr emma knows what shoo's dooin', an' tha'd far better leave 'em to feight it aght thersen if ther's owt wrang, for tha knows it nivver does to interfere between man an' wife, tha tell'd me that monny a year sin' when mi mother sed a word to thee." "eea, but that wor a varry different matter, for thi mother knew tha'd getten a wife wi' a deeal moor sense nor thee, an' a deeal moor feelin' too, for aw believe tha cares noa moor for yond lass o' thine nor if shoo wor nowt related to thi': but aw'm different, an' if that gooid-fer-nowt 'at shoo's thrown hersen away on, doesn't treat her as he owt to do, aw'l mak this taan too hot for him, or my' name isn't angelina!" "why, lass, tha can do as tha likes, but aw think tha'll find it best to let 'em manage ther own affairs, an' aw dooan't suppooas awr emma 'll get throo this life withaat a bit o' trubble nah an' then same as other fowk. aw'm sewer aw connot; an' shoo's noa better nor me." "isn't shoo? but if aw thowt shoo worn't, aw'd nivver own her as one o' mine! but aw'd like to know what trubble tha's ivver had except what tha's browt o' thisen wi' thi own contraryness an' fooilishness? if ivver ther wor a chap 'at went throo' this world wi' silver slippers it's thee, for tha's ivverything done to thi hand, an' aw've been a slave to thee ever sin aw gat thee, an' nivver had ony thanks for it nawther; but aw dooan't want awr emma to be trampled into th' earth as aw've been, an' shoo shalln't be, if aw know on it, for aw'l fotch her back hooam an' sharply too." "aw tell thi tha can do just as tha's a mind, an' aw'm sewer aw didn't know tha had been trampled on, for tha's been booath maister and mistress i' this shop ivver sin aw knew thi." "eea an' aw meean to be booath maister an' mistress, an' if tha'd a heart i' thi belly as big as a beean tha wodn't sit daan quietly as tha does, when tha hears 'at one o' thi own flesh an' blooid is pining away." "aw didn't know shoo wor pining away, for aw'm sewwer shoo's gettin' as fat as a pig, an' aw think it'll be time enuff to interfere when shoo grummels hersen." "tha tawks like a fooil, isaac, an' aw've tell'd thi so over an' over agean. tha knows shoo isn't like thee, at cries aght befoar tha'rt hurt, but aw'l waste noa moor wind o' thee for aw'l put on mi bonnet an' shawl an' goa up to their haase this minit, an' see if aw can't find aght what's to do, an' try to put things into a reight shap'." soa shoo put on her things an' leavin' isaac to luk after th' stew 'at wor i' th' oven, shoo sailed off in a famous flurry to have a tawk wi' emma. it wor'nt monny minits walk, an' as shoo put th' speed on shoo managed to get thear befoar her temper cooiled, an' oppenin' th' door shoo stept in an' sed, "nah, emma, lass, aw've come to see ha' tha art this mornin'?" "aw'm first rate, mother," sed emma, "aw'm rare an' glad to see yo', but what's browt yo' here this mornin'?" "aw know tha artn't furst rate, an' it's noa use thee tellin' me 'at tha art, for aw've com'd here to know th' truth, an' aw'm detarmined tha shall tell me, for aw've hardly been able to sleep a wink sin aw wor here last neet, an' aw've been tawkin' to thi father this mornin', but one mud just as well whistle jigs to a mile-stoop an' expect it to dance as tawk to him an' expect to get ony sense aght on him, but aw want to know what bother tha's been havin' wi' that felly o' thine an' what he'd been dooin' to thi 'at made thee soa sorrowful last neet? nah, dooan't goa raand th' corners, but come straight to th' point. aw've nooan been wed all theas years but what aw know what poor wives have to put up wi'. has he been drinkin'?" "nay, mother, yo' munnot tawk like that, for aw'm sewer ther' wor nivver a better man tied to a woman nor my bob, an' yo' know he's a teetotaller, soa ther's noa fear on him gooin' on th' spree." "aw'm nooan soa sewer abaat that, an' if he doesn't drink he varry likely does war. mun, aw know what men are, an' tha has it to leearn yet. tha'n screen him all tha can, aw know that, just same as aw have to do thi father, but tha connot deceive me, aw've lived to' long to be easily chaited." "aw dooan't want to chait yo', mother, an' aw've nought to screen bob for, for aw dooan't know 'at he's a fault, unless it is his thinkin' soa mich o' me." "a'a, poor fooilish 'child! he thinks nooan too mich o' thee, net he marry! he doesn't think hauf enuff, or else he'd nooan goa on as he does! aw tak' noa noatice o' ther coaxin' an' fondlin'; it's all mak'-believe, an' as long as they can manage to get all they want for a soft word or two they'll give yo' plenty on 'em, but aw know' em, an' they can't come ovver me. ther' isn't a pin to choose amang th' best on 'em, for they're all as full o' decait as an egg's full o' mait. but aw want to know what wor th' reason tha wor lukkin' soa cut-up and daan-trodden last neet?" "why, mother, you're altogether wrang this time. aw wor raythur low spirited last neet, but it's nowt yo' can blame him for, for aw'm sewer he works hard ivvery day, an' if he doesn't haddle as mich as he did it's noa fault o' his. an' this last two or three wicks his wage has been less bi five shillin' nor it used to be, an' at th' price o' mait an' stuff nah, it's hard wark to mak' ends meet, an' what aw wor trubbled abaat last neet wor becoss aw'd nowt to set him for his supper except a basin o' porrige, an' that isn't mich for a chap 'at's been tewin' all th' day, tho' he nivver says a wrang word what ther' is." "an' what should he grummel for, aw'st like to know? bless mi life if he had to goa withaat for a time or two what bi that? ther's better fowk nor him had to goa baaht supper befoor to-day! he gets as gooid stuff as thee, an' better too, aw'l be bun' for't! but aw should like to know ha' it is 'at his wage is five shillin' a wick less nor it wor, for aw've heeard nowt abaat ony on 'em bein' bated, an' aw should ha' done if they had, for ther's two or three lives i' awr street 'at works at th' same shop, an' they'd ha' been safe to tell me. but what does he say abaat it?" "he's nivver sed nowt, an' aw've nivver ax'd him, for he allus gives me all he has ov a friday neet, an' aw mak' it do as weel as aw can." "raillee! emma! aw think tha gets less wit ivvery day! ha' can ta' tell what he's dooin' wi that five shillin' a wick if tha nivver axes him? but tha mun ax him! it's thi duty! depend on't he's spendin' it i' some way 'at's nooan too gooid, or else he'd let thee know. but it's thy affair, net mine; aw've nowt to do wi' it, an' aw've net com'd to interfere; but aw should like to know if tha's seen amos's dowter lately?" "shoo wor here this mornin' befoor yo' coom. shoo luks in for a minit or two nab an' then." "oh! has ta' noaticed whether shoo's getten owt new latly?" "eea, shoo'd a new bonnet on this mornin', an' varry weel shoo luk't in it!" "aw wonder whear shoo gets her new bonnets an' stuff, it's cappin' to me, but aw've a nooashun shoo doesn't buy 'em wi' her own brass. let's see. bob used to lodge wi' amos befoor yo' gate wed, didn't he?" "eea, they thowt as mich on him as one o' ther own, an aw know nowt abaat whose brass shoo buys her things wi', but aw nivver heeard 'at shoo wor i' debt for owt, an' aw can't see' at we've owt to do wi' it." "n'oa, an' tha can see nowt! but ther' is 'at can see if tha cannot, but as tha says it's nowt to us; but if aw wor a wife aw should want to know whear my husband tuk his five shillin' a wick." "ther's mi father commin', he's seekin' yo' aw expect." "aw'l be bun' for't! if aw stir off th' doorstun he's after me! what's browt thee here?" "th' childer's come hooam to ther dinner an' they're all waitin'." "couldn't ta tell' em to get that stew aght o' th' oven?" "aw know nowt abaat th' stew." "hasn't ta stirred it up an' put some moor watter in as aw tell'd thi?" "aw nivver heeard thi say nowt abaat it." "a'a tha art a lumpheead if ivver ther' wor one i' this world! why, it'll be burnt as dry as a chip! aw mun be off! gooid mornin', lass, an' see' at tha taks care o' thisen whativver comes o' other fowk, an' when aw've a bit moor time aw'l slip up to comfort thee a bit agean. tha's noa need to come for ony dinner, isaac, for ther'll be nooan for thi." "all reight lass, aw'm nooan langin', for aw gate that bit o' pie 'at wor i'th' cubbord." "an' tha'd ha' etten th' cubbord too, if it had been pie! come stir thi!" chapter ii. a few wicks passed by, an' angelina couldn't find aght what became ov her son-i'-law's five shillin's, an' tho' shoo kept een an' ears wide oppen to catch a whisper agean him, shoo saw, nor heeard newt. but her mind wor ill at ease, for shoo'd managed to convince hersen 'at ther wor summat nooan reight, an' becoss shoo couldn't find owt shoo put it daan to his decait, an' shoo generally finished up wi' sayin' 'at her dowter wor a fooil an' bob wor a deep 'en. at last th' mystery had to be unveiled an' her mind set at rest. one neet a little lass knock'd at th' door, an' sed 'at emma had sent her to tell her an' isaac to go a to see her as sooin as ivver they could. "nah then! what did aw tell thi? it's come at last, an' aw knew it wad i but if he's raised a finger o' his to hurt a hair ov her heead aw'l fotch law on him if aw have to sell up dish an' spooin! put this stickin' plaister i' thi pocket, an' theas cammomile flaars, an' poppy heeads, an' let's be off this minit!" "what's th' stickin' plaister an' all this stuff for?". sed isaac. "tha'll see what it's for sooin enuff! a'a, aw wish sometimes aw'd flivver been born! it's a bonny come off to bring childer into th' world an' keep' em an' luk after' em till they grow up to be treated war nor dogs!" isaac shov'd th' stuff into his pockets an' wor off after her as sooin as he could, for shoo'd stirred him up a bit, an' he gript his walkin' stick an' pooled his hat ovver his een as mich as to say he thowt it high time to let fowk know what they wor abaat. as sooin as they gate i'th' seet o'th' haase he sed, "ther's noa fowk abaat that's one blessin'; if ther's been a row they must ha' been varry quite abaat it." "shoo'd niver utter a word if shoo wor to be riven i' bits, shoo's too mich like me for that, a'a, aw little thowt aw should ivver have to come o' sich o' eearand as this!" they didn't stop to knock, but oppen'd th' door, an' thear they saw bob an' emma sittin' at th' teah-table lukkin' as cheerful an' as happy as could be. "come in, booath on yo'," sed emma, "yo'r just i' time for a cup o' teah. we didn't expect yo' quite as sooin, but yo'r allus welcome." "why yond lass tha sent coom wi' sich a tale wol we wor sewer ther' munt be summat serious to do, an' we started off withaat wastin' a minit." "aw'm glad yo've com'd," sed bob, "we've getten summat to show yo', but yo' mun have a cup o' teah furst." "what have aw to do wi' all this stickin' plaister an' stuff?" sed isaac. "can't ta keep it i' thi pocket an' say nowt apaat it, softheead! tha wants a piece on it across thi macth." "whativver made yo' bring stickin' plaister, mother, yo' sewerly didn't think ther'd been ony feightin'?" "does fowk nivver want ony stickin' plaister nobbut when they've been feightin'? ha could aw tell but what one o' yo' had tummel'd onto th' foire, or getten scalded or summat? thi father browt it, it wor nooan o' me." "eea, aw browt it, but--" "but--tha can hold thi noise an' tak' it back, for if ther'd been ony use for it tha'd ha' been sewer to ha' forgetten it. but let's see what this thing is 'at tha's sent for us to luk at, for aw can get noa drinkin' unless aw know what it is." "well, come yo're ways into this raam," sed emma, "here it is, an' tell me what yo' think on it." "why aw'l be shot if it isn't a sewin' machine! an' a grand en it is; but ha' mich have yo' to give for it?" "ther's nowt to give for it, becoss it's all paid for. bob's bowt it me aght o'th' brass he's been savin'." "then that's whear his five shillin' a wick has been gooin'?" "eea, an' moor nor that, for he'd getten a raise of hauf a craan, an' he nivver tell'd me, becoss he wanted to buy this for mi birthday." "what did aw tell thi, emma? didn't aw say 'at tha could trust bob? they can't deceive me. aw can tell a straightforrad chap as sooin as aw see him." "nah, tha sees angelina," sed isaac, "things isn't just as black as tha thowt they wor, an' aw tell'd thi--" "tha tell'd me nowt, an' aw dooan't want thi to tell me owt; goa sit thi daan to thi drinkin' an' let thi mait stop thi maath.'" niver judge by appearances. if yo niver heeard tell o' that doo 'at broddington an clarkson once had, aw'll tell yo abaat it; for when aw heeard on it aw lafft wol my bally wark'd, aw did forshure. yo mun understand at broddington kept a butcher's shop i' snicket loin an clarkson kept a puttaty shop ith same row. well, it soa happen'd 'at broddington's shop wor too big for him, an clarkson's wor too little for him, soa they had a bit o' tawk together, an after a deeal o' bargainin, an boath swearin 'at it ud be a loss o' monny a paand, they agreed to swap. broddington wor a single chap an lived bi hissen, but clarkson had a wife an some bairns, an shoo wor a wife an noa mistak! for shoo'd tongue enuff for hauf a duzzen. ther wor a sign ovver each shop wi th' name painted on, but as one wodn't fit t' other they agreed to swap signs as weel an to get' em repainted, each wi thee own name. well, one day they set abaat flittin, an a varry hard day they had, but at last all wor comfortably arranged an nowt moor wanted dooin but names changin. after a hard job like that, broddington thowt he'd give hissen a bit ov a treat, an goa off on a cheap trip to liverpool, for as it wor varry hot weather he hadn't mich to do--butchers niver have--but as he lived bi hissen, an wor a varry hard sleeper, he couldn't tell ha to manage to get up to be ready for four o'clock, an' he didn't like th' idea o' sittin up all th' neet, coss he knew if he did 'at he'd be fit for nowt all th' day. after studdin abaat it a bit an idea struck him, an' off he set to seek th' policeman 'at wor o' that beat, an get him to wakken him. he wornt long afoor he fan him, soa he says, "jim, aw want thee to do me a bit ov a faver if tha will." "well, lad," he sed, "awl do it if aw can awl promise thi; what is it tha wants me to do?" "aw want to set off o' that cheap trip tomorn 'at leaves here at four o'clock, an as awm a varry saand sleeper, aw want thee to wakken me abaat hauf-past three." "o, if that's all, awl do that an' welcome." "but tha knows," sed broddington, "its nooan sich a easy task as tha seems to fancy, for when awm i' bed aw sleep like a stooan, an soa if aw dooant get up at once tha mun pawse th' door wol aw do." "o, awl pawse it niver fear, awl wakken thi afoor aw leave off, tha may bet thi front teeth o' that." "well, aw darsay tha may, an awve made up mi mind to goa, but awm sich a sleepy-head 'at if aw get up its a thaasand to one aw shall goa to bed agean as sooin as iver tha turns thi back, so tha mun stop wol aw come daan stairs, an then tha shall tell me what tha thinks abaat some whisky 'at awve getten." "leave that to me," sed jim, "awl bet tha'll come daan afoor aw stur; if ther's ony whisky inside awl find mi way to it." "that's all right," sed broddington, "nah awl goa hooam an' get to bed an' have a few haars sleep afoor tha comes." soa off he went hooam, but unfortunately he'd forgetten to tell th' policeman 'at he'd flitted. well, old clarkson stuck to his puttaty shop wol abaat ten o'clock an then when he'd getten shut up, he thowt he'd just goa an' spend an' haar or two wi a friend, so a as th' wife wor aght oth seet he snig'd off, an' it seems he faand ther company soa varry agreeable wol it wor ommost three o'clock when he landed hooam. he knew what a blowin up he'd be sure to get, but as his wife liked a drop o' whisky to goa to bed on, he bowt a bottle to tak hooam as a bit ov a sweetner. he crept in as quiet as he could, for he thowt if th' wife wor asleep it wad be a shame to wakken her. he tuk his booits off an' went ov his tiptooas into th' bedroom. "o, soa tha's landed hooam agean has ta? couldn't ta find ony body 'at ud have thi ony longer? if awd been thee awd ha done t'other bit aght. awm capt 'at a wed chap 'at's a wife an' childer at hooam rakin aght i' this way! but ther's one thing certain, it's noa daycent place wheer tha wor wol this time oth' mornin! niver heed! it willn't last long, aw feel awm gettin waiker ivery day--waiker ivery day; tha'll nooan ha me soa long, an' then tha can spree an' drink thi fill. aw do, aw feel awm gettin waiker ivery day," shoo sed agean. but old clarkson made noa reply, for he'd heeard th' same tale monny a time befoor, an' he knew if he sed he wor sooary, shoo'd say he wor a liar, an' praich him a sarmon as long as his leg abaat what he'd do if he wor sooary; an' if he sed he didn't think shoo wor waiker, shoo'd say, "noa, aw ail nowt; ther's nivver any sympathy for me! aw mun slave mi soul aght for owt tha cares--nasty unfeelin wretch!" well, jim didn't spaik for he thowt "the leeast sed an th' soonest mended." but shoo wornt to be done, shoo at it ageean in another tone--"eea, aw feel awm gettin waiker--waiker ivery day; does ta hear what aw say?" "hear thi," he sed, "mi ears are hoof'd wi harkenin to thi." "eea, an they shall be hoof'd," shoo sed, "for as long as awve breath i' my body awl tell thi o' thi faults. ha can ta fashion; but if tha doesn't alter awl niver put legs daan i' bed wi' thee agean i shame o' thisen! but tha has na shame; tha'rt as brazzen as brass, that's what tha art!" "nah, hold thi noise," he sed. "sithee, aw've browt thi a bottle o' whisky; mun, awm allus thinkin on thi." "dooant tell me sich like tales as them, for aw dooant believe thi," shoo says, "tha thinks tha can get ovver me wi a bottle o' whisky aw daresay, but tha'rt mistakken; an' aw dooant know whear tha's getten that at this time oth' mornin." jim kept a still tongue in his bead an' crept quietly into bed, an' it worn't long befoor they wor booath asleep. nah, it wor varry near time for th' polieeman to come to wakken broddington, an' as he knew nowt abaat th' flittin he luck'd up at th' sign, an' feelin sure at he wor at th' reight shop he gave a varry gooid rat-a-tat at clarkson's door. "what's that?" sed his wife, jumpin up; "go daan and see." "net aw," sed clarkson, "its nobbut some druffen chaps 'at's on for a spree." "eea, an they know whear to come it seems! a'a, if aw wor a man aw should shame to have sich like followin me." another rat-a-tat followed, but clarkson wor detarmined not to get up, an' th' policeman wor just as detarmined to pail at th' door till he did get up. rat-a-tat! rat-a-tat! went his stick time after time, wol at last old clarkson baanced aght o' bed an threw up his winder, an' axed what he wanted; but when he saw a blue coat an' shinin buttons, he turned raand to his wife an' sed, "it's a bobby." "why," shoo says, "ax him what he wants." "what does ta want?" sed clarkson. "nah, then, is noa gooid tryin' to mak it strange; tha knows aw've come here for that whisky, an' awmean to have it befoor aw goa." "o, that's it, is it?" sed his wife. "that's thee 'at's browt me th' whisky? it's grand to bring a wife whisky an' ax a policeman to come sup it." "aw niver ax'd onybody to come, aw dooant know what he wants." "that's a varry nice tale, lad, but tha willn't mak me believe it; aw know better nor a policeman comin toa haase at hauf-past three ith mornin if he hadn't been sent for." rat-a-tat! rat-a-tat-tat! went th' policeman's stick, an old clarkson flew to th' winder an shaats aght, "what th' d---does ta want?" "nah, it's noa gooid thee puttin on an' makkin it all strange; tha mud as weel come daan sooin as lat, for tha'll ha to goa wi me an' th' whisky an' all, soa on wi them britches an come daan stairs." "nah, clarkson," sed his wife, sittin up i' bed, "tell me th' truth at once; has ta getten that whisky honestly or net? if tha hasn't say so, an then awst know what to expect. aw allus sed 'at tha'd bring me an th' childer to some end if this rakin aght ov a neet went on. a'a 'at ivver aw should ha lived to see this day!" an then shoo began rockin hersen backards an forrads, an moppin up her tears wi th' corner oth sheet. yo may guess what a din th' policeman made when it wakkened broddington 'at lived six or eight doors off, an aght o' ommust ivvery winder ith row ther wor neetcaps bobbin in an aght, an some on 'em shook ther heeads an sed, "it's nobbut what aw expected; awve thowt many a time 'at if clarkson could afford to dress his wife 'i silks an satins, 'at it didn't all come aght o' th' puttaty trade," an after that feelin remark they went back to bed. broddington gate up an dressed an went daan stairs to see what wor up. all at once he bethowt him abaat th' policeman, an th' fact a' th' wrang sign being ovver th' door, an he saw at once what a mistak had been made. "well, it can't be helped," he sed, "but poor clarkson 'll catch it aw'll bet." soa he went daan an oppened th' door just at th' same time at clarkson wor comin aght. when th' policeman saw clarkson come aght an broddington abaat twenty yards off, he luk'd a trifle soft, an after starin furst at one an then at t'other, he gave vent to his astonishment bi sarin, "blow me tight!" just then mrs. clarkson's heead show'd aght o' th' chamber winder, "o, it's all varry fine," shoo sed, "aw see ha it is; it's a made up doo throo th' beginin to th' endin; but awl have an alteration as sure as my name's liddy:" after sayin this shoo popt back agean an went to bed, noa daat thinkin 'at shoo wor a varry ill used woman. as matters had getten to this pitch, broddington tuk th' policeman an' clarkson on to his haase, an after a gooid deeal a explanation, ivery body seem'd to be satisfied, an broddington browt aght a bottle an put it i' th' middle o' th' table an invited 'em to help thersen. they did, an readily too, for th' policeman worn't a teetotaler, (an ther's summat abaat that 'at aw could nivver understand, for teetotal lecterers tell us 'at if all th' world wor teetotal 'at we should have noa murders, noa robberies, noa rows, all wod be peace an happiness an th' millenium be ushered in, an yet aw nivver met a teetotal policeman, tho ther may be sich like things, th' same as aw've heeard on ther bein white blackburds, an we know 'at policemen are th' varry chaps 'at have to keep th' peace.) well, glass followed glass, an broddington decided net to set off at all, but to spend a friendly haar wi 'em, as he'd been th' cause ov a deeal o' bother, an he thowt th' best thing he could do wod be to apologize like a man an set things straight agean. soa they all turned aght together at about a quarter to ten to goa to clarkson's, but when they gate aght o' th' door what should they see but a lot o' furniture aghtside, an all th' appearances ov another flittin. "what's up nah, clarkson?" sed broddington. "nay, aw dooant know," he sed, "but it seems to me 'at th' wife's sellin up, an shoo's sed shoo wod do monny a time; but awl put a stop to that, an sharply too." away he went in a reglar tiff, an wanted to know who'd fotch'd his stuff aght o' th' haase, an sed he'd let' em see who wor th' maister thear. when his wife coom shoo wor fair maddled, an wanted to know what wor up. "who's tell'd thee to sell th' furniture," he sed. "sell th' furniture! who is selling th' furniture, fooil! it's nobbut me 'at had it taen aght to cleean, becoss aw thowt tha wor off for th' day, an aw thowt awd do it before tha come back, sea as tha wodn't be put abaat wi th' bustle." "o, that's all reight," he sed. "aw see nah; aw hardly thowt tha'd do as ill as that, though tha wor awful crusty this mornin; but ther's broddington an th' policeman aghtside 'at want to come in an explain matters a bit." "dooant bring' em here," shoo sed, "tha's been wi them to oft; it's sich like as them 'at's leeadin thee off." "well, we'd better have 'em in aw think, an hear what they've to say," he sed. soa they went in, an when they'd tell'd th' tale shoo laff'd as hard as any on 'em, for shoo worn't a bad bottom'd woman though she had a tongue; soa after makkin all things straight shoo ax'd' em to have a drop o' summat, which they had, an as shoo sed, "drink o' ony sooart wor a thing 'at shoo seldom or iver touched, though th' doctors had ordered it for her, time after time, yet considerin 'at broddington had missed his cheap trip, an 'at all matters had been put to reights, shoo made hersen a drop o' whisky an hot watter, an as they sat tawkin an smookin they coom to th' conclusion 'at it wor nivver safe to judge bi appearances. clarkson wor soa pleased at his wite takkin it i' sich a philosophical way, wol he bowt her a new gaan, an when th' naybors saw her turn aght in it th' next sunday, they nodded an smiled at her as if they could like to put her into ther pockets, but as sooin as shoo'd turned her back they curl'd ther nooas an turned up th' whites o' ther eyes, an sed, in a varry mysterious way, "it'll do woll it lasts." a'a dear i tak my advice an nivver trust to appearances. mi first testimonial. young gawthorp lived at t'cat-i-t'well; some on yo may know him, he used to come to halifax twice i' th' wick to buy his greens and stuff to hawk, an' he allus call'd at t'tabor to get a pint as he went hooam. nah chairley (his mother had kursen'd him chairley becoss shoo wor sittin in a chair th' furst time shoo saw him); well, chairley worn't like some country hawbucks at fancied' coss he sell'd puttates an turnips, 'at he needed no mooar knowledge nor to be able to tell th' difference between a parsnip an' a manglewurzell. noa, chairley had an inquirin' mind, an' if it hadn't been at one leg wor shorter nor t'other, he'd a been a sowdger, for his heart wor as brave as any greengrocer's heart cud be expected to be. one neet he'd been to th' taan, an' wor trudgin hooam beside owd testy--that's his donkey's name, an' aw owt to tell yo hah it happen'd to be call'd testy; ther's nowt like explainin' things as we goa on. chairley used to goa to th' sunday skooil, an' he wor allus soa weel behaved, an' hardly ivver missed a sunday withaat bringin' his taicher awther a apple or toffy or summat, wol th' superintendant took sich a fancy to him, 'at he determined to get up a testimonial for him; soa one day he call'd him to one side, an' strokin' his heead as tenderley as if it wor a whin bush, he sed, "chairley tha's been a gooid lad, an' we ar detarmin'd to get up a testimonial for thi. aw've mentioned it to th' taichers, an' they've all agreed to subscribe, an aw want thee to say what shape it shall tak." "well," said chairley, "if aw'm to pick, aw should like it to be as near th' shape o' tim hardy's as yo can get." "what dusta meean?" sed th' superintendent. "aw mean tim hardy's donkey." "nay chairley, that'll nivver do for a sundy skooil to give a donkey for a testimonial; that wodn't spaik weel for th' skooil--think ageean lad." "ther's nowt else at aw'd like, soa if yo cannot gie me that, it matters little to me what aw get; an' as for net spaikin weel for th' skooil, aw dooan't see that; balaam's ass spake varry weel for him, an' aw dooan't see but what one mud spaik varry weel for th' taichers." "well lad, that's soa, an awm glad to see at tha hasn't studied thi scriptur for nowt, soa a donkey it shall be. but ther's just one thing awd like to mention, an that is; tha sees aw'm a poor workin' chap mysen, an aw'm hardly in a position to afford to give owt towards it, but it wodn't luk weel for me net to put daan mi name for summat, soa aw'! subscribe five shillings to help to buy it, an' when tha's getten it tha can pay me back i' puttates, kidney puttates, an' noa demiked ens. if tha'll agree to that, awl work this thing up for thi sharp." "aw'l agree." sed chairley, soa th' thing wor all settled, an th' next wednesday neet after th' special prayer meeting, chairley wor called up to th' desk, an' after listenin' to a long speech, th' donkey wor browt in an presented to him, together wi' a beautiful address, painted an' illuminated on glass, wi a tollow cannel, soa's to be useful to him when hawkin' cockles an' mussels i' winter time. chairley wor famosly delited wi th' donkey, an when it stretched aght one hind leg, just to feel whoa it wor at stood behind it, he fairly shed tears, an' it wor some time befooar he cud get his wind back to thank' em. he tell'd 'em at that wor th' first testimonial he'd ivver had gien, an' on that accaant he should name it "testy"; he thanked 'em one an' all, an' thowt it wor abaaght time nah for him to goa. th' superintendant sed he thowt soa too, an' he should advise him net to let testy have soa many beeans for th' future, as they made his breath smell soa bad. soa chairley an' testy went hooam, an t'next morning they started aght hawkin, but it wor th' warst days bizniss he ivver had. he gate shut a mooar stuff nor ivver he'd getten shut on afooar in a wick, but his purse wor varry little heavier at neet nor it wor i'th' morning, for as t'mooast ov his customers wor connected wi th' sunday skoal, an' they all wanted sarvin' that day, he discovered at testy worn't likely to prove all profit after all. if a woman wanted a penny stick a ruburb shoo'd be sure to ax for a cabbage thrown in, an shoo'd say: "tha knows tha'd nivver ha getten that donkey but for awr simon givin' soa mich to'ards it." when chairley reckon'd up at neet he stud lukkin at t'donkey for a minnit an' then he sed--"testy owd lad, aw dooant want to hurt thi feelins, but aw mun say, at if ivvery body's testimonial cost' em as mich as tha's cost me to-day, ther isn't quite as mich profit in 'em as some fowk think; an' unless ther's a lot ov annani-asses amang my customers, th'aft abaat th' warst bargain i'th' donkey line at aw've seen for some time, for aw cud a bowt a horse wi' th' brass at wor subscribed for thee." after that chairley had to leeave th' sunday skooil, for he sed if he didn't they'd ruin booath him an' testy. well, as aw wor sayin' chairley an' testy wor gooin' hooam an' bed just getten to th' tabor, when they booath stopt for a drink. he teed up his donkey an' then went into th' tapraam for a pint a fourpny, (yo can get varry gooid fourpny at t'tabor, ther's some body in it an noa sperrit, hah they brew it is a saycret, an' it's noa use tryin' to see throo it.) just anent chairley sat an owd sowdger tellin' tales abaaght different battles he'd been in, an' chairley lizened to ivvery word as if it wor gospel, for ov cooarse he knew at noa man 'ats been in a battle wad say owt at worn't true, an' at last he sed, "captin' aw've oft thowt aw should like to be sowdger, but yo see mi legs isn't booath just t'same length." "that'll mak little difference," he sed, "tha'd be all th' better for that, it wodn't be as easy to put a bullet throo thi heead when it wor bobbin' up and daan, as it wod a chap at walk'd straight; but aw should advise thee to join th' artillery, that's th' regiment for thee; horse artillery, that's the ticket, tha'd just doo for that." "dun yo think aw should?" "to be sewer, tha'rt just made for it." this set chairley a thinkin', an after treatin' th' owd sowdger wi' a pint, he set off hooam. as he'd noab'dy else to tawk to' he tawk'd to th' donkey. "well testy, what dus ta think abaaght it? dus ta think aw should doo for a hartillery chap? they dooant have donkeys i'th' horse hartillery, or else awd tak thee. what are ta shakin' thi heead at? well if aw doo goa, iwl mak a present o' thee to th' sunday skooil, for aw cudn't tell what price to put on thi if aw wanted to sell thi. hahivver, aw think it ud be a gooid thing for me to practiss a bit, an' awve two owd muskets at hooam at can be made come in, an' awl get up it' mornin' i' gooid time an practiss for an haar or soa befooar we start for bizness. it'll doo us booath gooid." chairley gate hooam, an' after stablin' testy an' makkin him cumfortable, he gave him a bit o' extra corn to mak him lively next mornin'. he left t'stable sayin, "well testy, aw nivver thowt a makkin a war-horse aght o' thee, tho' awve seen war horses nor thee; but to morn tha'll have to be a chairger, an' if tha'rt hauf as gooid a chairger as t'chap wor at sell'd thi to th' superintendent, tha'll doo to practiss on." t'next mornin' chairley gate his two muskets, an havin' teed one on th' top o' each pannier, he maanted testy, an' rooad him to a croft at back o' th' haase. "nah," he says to hissen, "hah can aw pull these triggers when aw'm set up here? it caan't be done; but if aw lig on my belly on th' top of his back, aw can raich 'em then, an that'll be a better position to escape th' enemy." soa he ligg'd his full length o' testy's back, an tuk hold o' booath muskets wi' his fingers on th' triggers. "nah testy, see tha behaves thisen' for this may be a turnin' point i' thy life as weel as mine. tha'll ha' to get used to th' smell o' paather, same as me. nah for it," he sed, an' he shut his een an' whisper'd, "one, two, three--off!" he pooled booath triggers, booath muskets went off, an' chairley went off at th' same time, an' soa did one o' testy's ears, an' when chairley lukk'd up testy wor stanin' on his fore legs, sparrin' away wi' his heels, as lively as yo'd wish to see. chairley maniged to sam hissen together, an' findin' at he worn't killed, he went to mak friends ageean wi' testy; an' if ivver ther wor two disconsolate lukkin' jackasses i' this world, it wor them two. "well, this is a bonny come off," he sed, "tha'rt a bigger donkey nor aw tuk thi for. had ta noa mooar sense nor to put thi ear i'th' front ova gun. tha cud a heeard it goa off withaat lizenin' soa clois? "well, aw wish tha wor nicely aght o' mi hands. what to do wi thi nah aw connot tell, unless aw cut off t'other ear to match, an' tee a bunch o' horsehair to thi tail an' see if aw connot mak a galloway aght on thi; an' if aw doo that, aw expect tha willn't be able to keep thi maath shut, an' that voice o' thine 'll let ivvery body know. but hahivver aw mun try an' bandage that heead o' thine up an' then see what aw can do, for ther'll be noa hawkin' to-day, an' noa mooar hartillery practiss." chairley weshed th' donkey's heead, an' put some sauve on to his ear, an' teed it up as weel as he cud, an' then turned him inta th' croft an' sat daan wonderin' hah to spend th' day. nah ther wor nowt chairley wor fonder on nor kite flyin', an' as he had a kite ommost as big as hissen, he thowt he mud as weel amuse hissen a bit; soa he fotched it, an' befooar monny minnits it wor sailin' away up i'th' air. he kept givin' it mooar band wol it wor ommost aght o' seet, an' beein' a breezy day, it pooled soa hard at he cud hardly hold it. to mak matters war, testy wor varry restless, an' kept wanderin abaaght, an' as ther wor noa gate to th' croft, chairley had to follow him for feeard on him gettin' away. in a while it began to be rayther hard wark, he darn't let t'kite goa, an' ther wor nowt handy to tee it too, soa he thowt his best plan 'ud be to pull it in, but just then a thowt struck him, as he saw testy trottin' off whiskin his tail, an' he went after him. as sooin as he'd catched him, he teed his kite band to th' donkey's tail, sayin' as he did soa, "nah aw can watch yo booath at once." but yo shud a seen that donkey! at first he ran backards for abaaght a dozzen yards, then he shot aght his heels wi' twenty donkey paar; but it wor noa use tryin' to kick that kite, he cud just as easy ha' kicked t'mooin. he tried to turn raand, but that ommost twisted his tail off, then he planted his feet firmly i' t'graand, wi his tail stickkin' straight aght like a brooish stail, an' luk'd at chairley, as if for some explanation. "well, hah dusta like kite flyin', testy? tha'd a rooar'd thi 'een up afooar tha'd thowt a that. it's plain to be seen at tha connot run away wi' that kite, an' th' kite connot flyaway wi' thee, soa awl leeave yo an' goa get a bit a dinner." he worn't long away, but when he coom back, noa kite cud he see, but theear wor testy stud just as he'd left him. as chairley walked to him he nivver sturd, but, fancy his surprise when he saw at th' donkey's tail wor missin'. it had dissolved partnership wi' testy an' gooan to realms aboon. maybe it'll fessen it sen on to some little star an' mak a comet on't. chairley an testy stud lukkin' at one another for a gooid five minnits, an' at last chairley sed, "well testy, tha caan't blame me; aw dooant think thi appearance is mich improved, but still, tha must admit at tha arn't as mich of a donkey nah as tha wor when aw gate tha. it seems to me we'd better pairt, for we dooan't get on soa weel together; awl sell mi stock an't panniers, an' thee an ivverything; aw shall ha' to sell' em wholesale though, for aw cannot re-tail thee. but awl promise tha one thing, whenivver aw fly a kite ageean, awl remember mi donkey's tail." just then, testy's knees begun to tremmle, his body rock'd from side to side; he luk'd at chairley as mich as to say, "assassin," an rowled ovver brokkenhearted; an', withaght a struggle, he breathed his last sigh to th' tune of "good bye, chairley, when aw'm away, dunnot forget your testimonial." five paand nooat. aw remember th' first time at aw iver had a five paand nooat, an' awm like as if aw can see it yet. it worn't a new en, it wor one 'at had gooan throo a gooid monny hands,--it wor soft an' silky to th' touch, an' it wor yeller wi age, an' th' edges wor riven a bit, an it had a split up th' middle, whear it had been cut i' two at some time an' stuck together agean wi a bit o' postage stamp paper. aw remember at that time aw used to sleep up in a garret, all bi mysen, an' th' walls wor covered wi bits o' pictures, an' shelves wor stuck up here an' thear, filled wi bottles o' all maks o' stuff, an' aw'd an old box 'at aw could lock up whear aw kept some pipes an bacca, an' owt else at aw darn't let awr fowk know 'at aw had, an' carefully put away under th' bed wor another little box whear aw kept cannels. awm just th' same as if aw can see mysen nah, as aw wor then, sat daan oth edge oth bed an' th' five paand nooat on th' table anent me, studdyin what to buy. aw varily believe 'at aw bowt one hauf oth taan o' halifax, i' mi mind, before aw went to sleep; an aw didn't goa to sleep soa easily that neet as usual, for after aw'd put th' cannel aght, aw bethowt me 'at skyleet mud be left unfastened, an' soa aw had to get up an see. when aw'd getten to bed agean aw felt sewer aw could hear summat stir under th' bed, an' aw listened for a long time an' then aw felt sure ther wor somdy tryin to breik into th' haase, for aw could hear' em sawin away as if to cut a pannel aght oth door. at last aw thowt awd wakken up some o' awr fowk an let 'em know, but as sooin as aw oppened th' door aw heeard it wor mi father snorin, soa a crept back to bed. aw wor just droppin off to sleep when a thowt struck me, 'at maybe some on 'em ud be comin up stairs ith mornin before aw wakkened, an' they'd be sure to see that five paand nooat, an' then aw should have to give an' accaant on it, an' mi father'd be sure to say he'd tak care on it for me, an' aw know what that meant, soa aw jumped up age an an' put it under th' piller. aw did fall asleep in a while, but aw wakkened i' gooid time ith mornin an' th' furst thing aw luk'd for wor that nooat, an' thear it wor, all reight. then aw gate up an walked aght a bit wol th' braikfast wor ready. aw hadn't gooan far when aw met a chap smokin a cigar, an' thinks aw, awl have a cigar. soa aw went into a shop an' axed far a gaoid cigar. 'do yo want it very mild?' he axed. 'noa,' aw sed, 'let me have it as strong as owt yo have.' for, thinks aw, aw'l let him see at awm noa new beginner,--tho to spaik th' truth aw dooant think aw'd iver smok'd hauf a duzzen i'mi life. 'that's the best and strongest cigar you can buy,' he sed, holdin one up between his finger an thumb, but keepin a gooid distance off. 'weel,' aw sed, 'aw'l tak that.' 'but these cigars are sixpence each.' is that all?' aw sed, as aw threw daan mi five paand nooat. as sooin as he saw that he picked it up an' held it up to th' leet, an stroked it, and luk'd at me an' smiled; and he seemed to tak a fancy to me all at once, an' axed m'e whear aw lived, an what they call'd me, an' a lot o' things beside. then he gave me a leet for mi cigar, an' he sed he thowt aw wor a judge ov a cigar as sooin as he saw me, an' he had just one box 'at he'd like me to give my opinion on. weel, aw worn't gooin to say at aw didn't know th' difference between a penny cigar an' one worth a shillin, soa he showed me a box, an' aw luk'd at 'em an' smel'd at 'em, an' tried to luk wise, an then aw sed, they did seem a varry nice cigar. 'you are right, sir,' he sed, 'i see you understand them,--i wish there were a few more like you.' an then he sed in a whisper, 'at that wor th' only box he had o' that sooart, in fact ther'd niver nobbut been that an' another, a'n t'other wor sent as a present to th' duke o' wellington, but th' duke, he sed wornt hauf as gooid a judge as aw wor; an' he'd sell me that box for two paand, an' it wor worth three. aw wor beginnin to feel a bit sickly wi that aw wor smokin, an' aw didn't care to tawk mich, an' as he hadn't given me onny change, aw just nodded mi heead, and he had lapped up th' box in a crack, and handed it me, an three soverings, an' wished me gooid day an hoped aw'd call agean, and bowed me aght oth shop i' less time nor it taks to tell it. as sooin as awd getten a few yards away, aw threw mi cigar into th' street an' detarmined aw'd niver smook agean befoore braikfast. them cigars didn't last long, for ov coarse aw allus carried a lot i' mi pocket, an' as that used to spoil' em a friend o' mine persuaded me to buy a cigar case. he sell'd it me varry cheap, nobbut ten shillin; an' then another gate me to subscribe a guinea to a cricket club, an' aw wondered ha it wor 'at aw'd niver made friends wi' some o'th' members befoor, for they wor a nice lot. at th' end of three days mi cigars wor all done, an' soa wor mi five paand nooat. all aw had wor a empty cigar box, a pastboard cigar case worth abaat sixpence, a ticket 'at entitled me to visit all th' cricket matches free,--but as th' season wor just endin it wor o' noa use,--an' had a sooart ov an inklin 'at ther wor some truth i'mi father's words 'at aw worn't old enuff to be trusted wi' brass. aw went to bed, an' fell asleep withaat once thinkin abaat thieves; an' ther's noa daat 'at what yo loise i' brass yo oft tinles gain i' knowledge, for aw niver forgate th' fate o mi furst five paand nooat. silly billy. he wor a queer sooart of a chap wor billy--allus makkin a fooil ov hissen or else somedy wor makkin a fooil o' him. he wor a very quiet chap too tho ivery nah an' then he gave hissen a bit ov a leetnin' i'th' shap ov a rant, or as he used to call it, a 'gooid brust.' it woint oft he did that sooart o' thing, but when he did he carried it on for a wick or a fortnit, an' altho' his father had left a nice little farm for him an' his mother, yet it sooin dwindled to nowt, for what wi' neglectin his wark, an' spendin a bit o' brass, it wor like a cannel lit at booath ends, it sooin swealed up. aw remember one day when he'd been drinkin till his brass wor done, he coom hooam to ax his mother to give him some moor, an' coss shoo said shoo wod'nt he declared he'd set th' lathe o' fire; but sho wodn't give him onny, soa he went into th' lathe, an' in a bit one o'th' neighbors saw him gaping at tother side o'th' street an' went up to ax him what he wor starin at? "it'll tinkle tip in a bit," sed billy an' in a bit it did 'tinkle up,' for he'd set th' haymoo o' fire, an' in abaght an haar, booath th' lathe an' all 'at wor in it wor burned to th' graand. "aw tell'd her aw'd do it," he sed, "an' aw'm nooan to be licked when aw start." th' poor owd woman wor sadly troubled, but what could shoo do, for what could ony body expect throo silly billy? shoo used to have some queer ways did nancy; an' one system o' her's wor allus to do iverything like clock wark. when billy wor having one ov his bits o' sprees, an' stoped away for two or three days, shoo allus made him his porrige ivery marnin, an' if he worn't thear to ait 'em shoo put' em i'th' cupbord, all in a row, an' when he did come, he could'nt get a bite o' owt else till he'd finished' em all, soa he used to start at th' oldest furst, an' as th' owd woman kept on makkin moor ivery mornin, it wor noa easy job to ovettak 'em, an' be able to sit daan to a warm meal. but like monny a one beside, altho' he wor soa mich put abaght, it did'nt cure him; but when he'd had a doo, an' been two or three days at cold poltices; as he call'd em, he used to say, "niver noa moor! if aw once get ovver this, yo'll niver catch me at that bat agean! it's towt me a lesson 'as this." an' noa daat it had, but he varry sooin forgate it. ov coarse, when th' brass wor all done, he had to work a bit, an' aw recollect when he started business ov his own hook, fowk used to plague him sadly, an' weel they mud, for he gate a donkey an panniers an' started to sell puttates an' greehs; but it soa happened, 'at one mornin he'd nobbut as monny puttates as ud fill one pannier, an' as he put' em i' one it made it side heavy, soa he gate a lot o' big stooans an' put 'em i'th' tother to balance it a bit, an' then he started off. but he hadn't gooan far when a chap met him an' sed, "what are ta sellin, billy?" "aw'm hawkin puttates," he sed. "why, what's all thease stooans for, has ta started o' leeadin balder?" "noa," he sed, (an' then gave him a sly wink as mich as to say aw'l let thee into a secret), "but does ta see, aw'd nobbut as mich brass as ud buy one pannier full, soa aw wor foorced to put stooans it th' tother to mak it balance." "why, lumphead!" sed th' chap, "couldn't ta put one hauf into one, an' tother into tother?" billy scratched his heead for a minit an' then sed, "e'ea! but aw see a better road nor that--aw'l put hauf o'th' stooans amang th' puttates, an' hauf o'th' puttates, amang th' stooans, an' then aw'st be sure to have it." "why but cannot ta mak 'em balance baght stooans, tup heead?" sed th' chap. "ov coorse aw con! aw niver thowt o' that," sed billy, an' he started an' squared 'em aght. but he niver made mich aght o' hawkin, for he could niver leearn th' difference between six dozen dozens and hauf a dozen dozens, an fowk 'at wor sharper used to chait him mony a bit. one queer thing abaght him wor he delighted i' singing, an' if he heeard a song 'at took his fancy he could remember it word for word. his mother says 'at he's tramped mony a scoor mile to hear a song at pleased him, an' if ony body'd sing for him he'd give' em owt he had. one day, as he wor gooin his raands he met wi a chap 'at wor hummin a bit ov a tune, an' he hearken'd to him for a bit, an' at last he sed, "maister, aw should like to know that song, ha mich will yo taich it me for?" "oh, it's a patent is that, lad, aw should want a gooid deal if aw towt thee that." "why," he said, "aw'l gie thi a bunch o' turnips an' four pund o' puttates if tha'll sing it me twice ovver." "nay," he sed, "wheniver aw engage to sing, aw allus charge double, if aw'm honcoord; but i'll sing it' once if tha'll throw a rooap o' onions into th' bargain." "well, tha'rt rather up i' thi price," he sed, "but aw'l agree soa start off." they booath set daan o'th' rooad side, an' th' chap (he luk'd like a gipsy), began: aw'm as rich as a jew, tho aw hav'nt a meg, but aw'm free as a burd, an' aw shak a loise leg; aw've noa haase, an' noa barns, soa aw niver pay rent, but still aw feel rich, for aw'm bless'd wi content, aw live, an' aw'm jolly, an' if it is folly, let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent. mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up o'th' moor, an' at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor, an' a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop, wol aw listen to th' stormcock 'at pipes up o'th top; aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c. aw niver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak, unless it's thease tatters' at hing o' mi back; an' if they prig them, they'lt get suck'd do yo see, they'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me, aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c. fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me i'th' road, an' get aght o'th' gate as if feear'd ov a tooad, but aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell, for th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel, aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c. tho philosiphers tawk, an' church parsons may praich, an' tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich; yet aw niver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise, for he's nowt to be fear'd on 'at's nowt he can loise, aw live, an' aw'm jolly, &c. "by th' heart!" sed billy, "aw nivver heeard sich a song as that i' all mi life! tha mun sing it ageean for me, wi' ta?" "nay lad, aw'm nooan soa fond o' singin as that comes to." "by gow, but tha mun!" "well if aw do aw'st want all th' puttates tha has left an' th' donkey an' all." "nay, maister, that's rayther too hard, yo willn't want all th' lot aw'l niver believe, yo'l throw me summat off?" "well, aw dooant want to be hard o' ony body, but tha knows it's net to be expected aw shall taich thee a song like that for nowt, but as tha seems to be a daycent sooart ov a chap, if tha'll gie me th' donkey an' th' puttates aw'l mak thee a present o'th' panniers." "an' is that th' lowest hawpenny tha'll tak? aw wodn't bate a hair off th' donkey's tail at that price; tha knows if tha wants to hear some reglar classified music tha'll ha to pay." "well, blaze into it," sed billy, "an' aw'l hug th' panniers mysel." "they're net a gurt weight." sed th' chap, "an' aw dar say they'll luk as weel o' thee as o' it." an' wol billy wor takkin 'em off th' donkey an' puttin 'em on to hissen, th' chap sang th' song ovver ageean, an' when he'd done he walked off wi' th' donkey an' as mony puttates as he could hug, an' billy started off hooam wi his panniers ov his rig, singin, "aw live, an' aw'm jolly," wi such gusto wol th' fowk coom aght to see whativer ther wor to do, an' when they saw him huggin th' panniers they guessed what wor up, an' shook ther heeads, sarin, "silly billy!" ov coorse when he gate hooam he tell'd his mother abaght it, an' wad have her listen to this new song. "song, be hanged!" shoo sed, "aw'd a deal rather hear that donkey rant nor all th' songs at iha con cram into thi empty heead." an' away shoo went to get some fowk to follow th' chap an' get th' donkey back agean. two or three sooin set off an' within a few yards o' where billy sed he'd been, they fan it quietly nibblin a bit o' grass bith' side o' th' gutter, for it seems th' chap had nobbut been havin a bit ov a joak, an' left it behund. they gate it hooam agean an'after billy's mother had given him a gooid tawkin to, th' thing dropt. but aw think aw'st niver forget a marlock some chaps played him one day: ther wor abaat six on 'em, an' they made it up to freeten him a bit, an' mak him believe he wor baan to dee; soa just as he coom off th' corner o' one o' th' streets, a chap steps up to him.--"gooid mornin, billy! ha does ta feel this mornin, lad?" "oh! furst rate!" "why aw'm fain to hear it," he sed, "but, by th' heart! lad! tha luk's ill'!" "does ta think aw do?" "eea, aw'm sure tha does!" "why aw dooant feel to ail owt 'at aw know on,' but aw dooant think 'at this hawkin agrees wi me so weel." "happen net, billy! it doesn't agree wi ivery body, but tha mun tak care o' thisen, nah do!" when he'd getten a bit farther another chap met him:--"well billy!" he sed, "ha's trade lukkin this mornin lad?" "things is lukkin rayther black this mornin." "tha luks white enuff onyway, has ta been havin another wick o' 'cold porrige aitin?" "nay aw hav'nt! but aw dooant feel quite as weel as aw do sometimes, for aw fancy this job doesn't agree wi me." "aw dooant think it does bi' th' luk on thi, if tha gooas on tha'll be able ta tak a lodger i' that suit o' clooas, tha'll ha room enuff,--but tak care o' thisen, lad." poor billy wor beginnin to feel poorly already, but when another met him an' axed him if it wor h' furst time he'd been aght latly, it knock'd th' breeath reig aght on him. he tried to shaat "puttates!" but he nobbut gate hauf way throo, for when he'd sed "put!" he had'nt breeath left to say "tates." "this'll niver do," he said, "aw mun goa hooam an' to bed, its noa gooid trailin abaat th' streets this fashion, a'a, ha badly aw do feel! an' all's come on soa sudden! a'a, man! man! what are ta?--as sooin as th' organ strings get aght o' tune, tha'rt noa moor fit for nor a barrel baght bottom, nor as mich! for they could turn a barrel tother end up; but man! a'a dear a me!" "gee up, neddy, aw'm feeard tha'll sooin have to luk aght for a new maister." when billy gate hooam wi' his donkey, his mother wor fair capt. "what's up, billy," shoo sed, "has ta sell'd up?" "nay, mother, aw've nooan sell'd up, but aw'm ommost done up: get that bed ready an' let me lig me daan a bit." "why what's th' matter? has ta hurt thi or summat?" "noa, but aw'm varry poorly." "where does ta feel to ail owt, lad!" "aw dooant know, aw think it's all ovver me, dooant yo think aw luk ill, mother?" "luk ill! why tha knows lad, aw dooant think it's allus safe to judge fowk bi ther luks, but aw mun say aw nivver saw thi lookin better i' mi life." "why but aw must be poorly, mother, for two or three fowk has tell'd me soa this marnin." just then three or four heeads pop'd off th' side o' th' jawm an' set up a gurt laff. billy luk'd an' saw it wor th' same chaps 'at had been tell in him ha ill he luk'd. "a'a billy!" sed his mother, "aw wonder when tha'll leearn a bit o' wit, tha sees they've nobbut been makkin gam on thee." "aw see," he sed, "but they've nooan chaited me soa varry far after all, for aw'm blow'd if aw iver did believe it! gee up, neddy!" an' away he went to his wark. but like monny a chap 'at's considered rayther soft, he worn't all soft, an' one bit ov a trick he did is worth tellin. he'd been aght one day tryin to sell some red yearin, but it seemed as if noabdy wanted owt o' that sooart that day, an' as he wor commin back, a lot o' chaps wor stood at th' corner o' th' fold, an' one on 'em stop'd him an says, "ha is it tha'rt bringin thi yearin back agean?" "coss ther's noabdy 'll buy' em," sed billy. "well what does ta want for em?" "aw'l tak owt aw can get, if aw can find a customer, but aw'st net find one here aw know." "come dooant tawk so fast, billy!" sed th' chap, winkin at his mates, "ha mich are they worth?" "they should be worth ninepence." "well aw'l bet thee hauf a crown 'at aw can find thee a customer, if tha'll take what he offers thee for em." "well aw dooant oft bet," sed billy, "but aw'l bet thee haulf a craan if tha offers me a price aw'l tak it." "done," sed th' chap, an' th' stakes wor put into a friend's hand to hold. "nah then!" he sed, "aw'! gie thee a penny for th' lot." "they're thine," sed billy, an' he handed 'em ovver. "that's nooan a bad trade," he sed, "a penny an' hauf-a-craan for ninepennorth o' yearin." th' chap sa'w 'at he wor done, an' he luk'd rayther dropt on, an' ov coarse his mates wor suited. "niver heed," sed billy "aw dooant like to be hard o' anybody, soa if tha doesn't want 'em aw'l buy' em back at th' same price." "by gow, billy! tha'rt a trump," sed th' chap, "tak th' yearins an' gie me hold o'th' brass." billy took th' yearings, an' handed him a penny. "nay! gieme th' hauf-craan an' all," sed th' chap. "nooan soa, sed billy, aw've gien thee th' same price for' em as tha gave me, an' aw know aw'm net as sharp as some, but as aw've ninepenorth o' yearin left, an a hauf-a-craan moor i' mi pocket, aw fancy aw've made a profit. an' th' next time tha wants to mak a fooil ov a chap, start o' somdy 'at's less wit nor this en, an' then tha weant be dropt on." that wornt a bad move ov a chap they call silly billy. put up wi' it. aw think aw could tell what day it wor th o' aw didn't know if aw could see a lot o' factry fowk gooin to ther wark. mondy's easy to tell, becoss th' lasses have all clean approns on, an' ther hair hasn't lost its sundy twists, an' twines ther faces luk ruddier an' ther een breeter. tuesdy, ther's a change; they're not quite as prim lukkin! ther topping luk fruzzier, an' ther's net as monny shignons as ther wor th' day before. wednesday,--they just luk like hard-workin fowk 'at live to wark an' wark to live. ther's varry few faces have a smile on 'em, an' th' varry way they set daan ther clogs seems to say, "wark-a-day, live-a-day, laik-a-day, get-noa-pay; rain-or-noa, bun-to-goa." thursdy.--they luk cross, an' ther heeads are abaat hauf-a-yard i' advance o' ther tooas. ther clogs seem to ha made up ther mind net to goa unless they're made. friday.--that's pay day. noa matter ha full ther belly may be, ther's a hungry luk abaat ther een; an'ther's a lot on 'em huggin baskets; an' yo can see it written i' ther faces 'at if they dar leeave as sooin as they've getten ther bit o' brass they wod. then comes setterday --short day--an' yo can tell th' difference as sooin as yo clap een on' em. they're all i' gooid spirits. they luk at th' church clock as they pass, an' think it'll sooin be nooin, an' then!--an' then what? why, then they'll have a day an' a hauf for thersen--abaat one fifth o' ther life--one fifth o' ther health an' strength for thersen. that doesn't luk mich, but ther fain on it. they owt to be thankful becoss they live in a free country. they can suit thersen's whether they do that, or go to th' workhaase. justice, they say, is blind, an' if freedom isn't, shoo must be put to th' blush sometimes. who'd be a slave, when freedom smiling stands, to strike the gyves from of his fettered hands? who'd be a slave, and cringe, and bow the knee, and kiss the hand that steals his liberty? behold the bird that flits from bough to bough; what though at times the wintry blasts may blow,- happier it feels, half frozen in its nest, than caged, though fed and fondled and caressed. 'tis said, 'on briton's shore no slave shall dwell,' but have you heard not the harsh clanging bell, or the discordant whistles' yelling voice, that says, 'work slave, or starve! that is your choice!' and have you never seen the aged and grey, panting along its summons to obey; whilst little children run scarce half awake, sobbing as tho' ther little hearts would break and stalwart men, with features stern and grave, that seem to say, "i scorn to be a slave." he is no slave;--he is a briton free, a noble sample of humanity. this may be liberty,--the ass, the horse, wear out their lives in routine none the worse. they only toil all day,--then eat and sleep, they have no wife or children dear to keep. better, far better, is the tattered lout, who, tho' all so-called luxuries without, can stand upon the hill-side in the morn, and watch the shadows flee as day is born. tho' with a frugal meal his fast he breaks, and from the spring his crystal draught he takes, better, far better, seems that man to mel for he owns heaven's best gift,--his liberty. aw dooant believe i' idleness--aw hate a chap 'at's too lazy to do his share--but what aw dooant like is 'at he should have to wark just exactly when, an' whear, an' for just soa mich (or, aw owt to say, just soa little) as another chap thinks fit. they'll say, if he doesn't like it he can leave it. happen net--may be he can't get owt else, an' he's a haase an' family to luk after. then they'll say, 'if he can't better hissen he mun _put up wi' it._' that's what he is dooin, an' it's _puttin up wi' it_ 'at's makkin him soa raand shouldered. it's _puttin up wi' it_ 'at's made them hollow cheeks an' dull heavy een. a queer dream. eight haars wark, eight haars play, eight haars sleep, an' eight shillin a day.--that saands nice; but them 'at live to see it will live to see moor nor aw it expect to see. patience is a varty, soa let's have patience. things are better nor they wor, an' they're bun to improve. th' thin end o' th' wedge has getten under th' faandation o' that idol 'at tyranny an' fraud set up long sin, an' although fowk bow to it yet, they dooant do it wi' th' same reverence. give it a drive wheniver you've a chonce, an' some day yo'll see it topple ovver, an' once daan it'll crumble to bits, an' can niver be put up agean. i' th' paper t'other day, aw saw a report ov a speech whear a chap kept mentionin his three thaasand hands. he sed nowt abaat three thasand men an' wimmen--they wor his 'hands'--his three thaasand human machines, an' aw couldn't help thinkin 'at it wor a pity 'at they'd iver been born wi' heads an' hearts, they owt to ha been all _hands,_ an' then they'd ha suited him better. an' he seemed to think bi th' way he tawk'd, 'at but for him theas three thaasand _hands_ wad ha had to starve, but providence had raised him up o' purpose to find 'em summat to do. he didn't throw aght a hint 'at but for his three thaasand _hands_ he'd a niver ha been i' parliament. he didn't think he owed' em owt, net he! what wor he born for? why, ov coarse, he wor born to have three thaasand _hands_. an' what wor th' hands born for? to work for him. it's simple enuff if you can nobbut see it. aw had a dream t'other neet, aw'l tell yo abaat it. aw thowt ther wor a little chap, he didn't stand moor nor abaat six or seven inches heigh, but he wor dress'd like a king, an' he had a sceptre in his hand, an' he had hundreds, may be thaasands, for aw couldn't caan't 'em, ov _hands_ (aw should call 'em men an' wimmen, but he call'd 'em _hands_), an' they each stood abaat six feet. some wor daycently clooathed, an' some wor hardly clooathed at all, an' they wor all working to build him a palace; but they wor building it as big as if a thaasand giants wor to live in it, an' th' stooans an' timbers wor soa heavy wol they ommost sank under ther looads; an' at times they seemed soa worn aght 'at aw thowt they'd be foorced to give it up. but th' little king coom strutting raand wi' his sceptre, an' they lifted him up i' ther arms, one bi' one, an' he patted' em o' ther cheeks, an' then they set him daan agean an' went on wi' ther wark, an' he went back to his velvet cushions an' ligged daan an' laff'd. but ther iooads kept gettin heavier, an' at last they wor soa worn aght 'at they detarmined to goa an' ax him to ease 'em a bit or to give 'em a rest; but when they spake to him he jumpt up an' shook his sceptre at 'em, an' as sooin as they saw that they all ran back to ther wark terrified aght o' ther wit, an' he ordered ther looads to be made heavier still, an' if one on em offered to complain he shook his sceptre, an' he ran back to his labour. aw wondered to mysen whativer this sceptre could be made on 'at should mak it be such a terror to 'em, an' aw crept behund him wol he wor asleep, an' put it i' mi pocket, an' then aw hid behund a pillar to watch 'em. in a bit some on' em grew tired an' luk'd towards th' king, an' he jumpt up an' felt for his sceptre, but it had gooan, an' then they rubbed ther een an' luk'd at him, an' then they laff'd an' call'd all t'others to join' em. then they picked up th' little king to luk at, an' they all laff'd, an' th' moor he stormed an' th' better it suited 'em, an' they put him on a square stooan an' made him donce a jig, an' wol he wor dancing aw tuk aght th' septre to iuk at, an' aw saw it wor a ten paand nooat rolled up like a piece o' pipe stopper, an' a hauf a sovereign at th' end on it. then they all set up a gurt shaat an' went off, leavin him to build his own palace, an' as they hustled past me aw wakkened. the mystery of burt's babby chapter i. it sets me thinkin', sometimes, when aw tak a rammel abaat th' hills an' valleys o' mi own neighborhood, what i' th' name o' fortun' maks ivvery body lang to get as far away throo hooam as they can to enjoy thersens. change o' air may be gooid nah an' then; but as aw've travelled a bit misen, an' visited all them spots 'at they favour mooast, an' seen ha fowk conduct thersens 'at goa for th' benefit o' ther health, it strikes me 'at change o' air is a varry poor excuse, for it's just a spree 'at they goa for, an' nowt else, nine times aght o' ten. last june, aw had two or three days to call mi own (an', by gow! if yo nivver worked in a miln, yo dooant knaw what a blessing that is), an' aw tuk a walk as far as pellon, an' then dahn throo birks hall an' ovver th' shrogs to ovenden, then throo illingworth to keighley, an' on as far as steeton. (ony body 'at thinks that isn't fur enuff for one day can try it thersen, an' see ha they like it.) when aw gets to th' gooat's heead, aw wor fain to sit daan an' rest a bit. a pint o' ale ran daan mi throit just like teemin it daan a sink pipe, an' when aw set daan to th' cold roast beef an' pickled cabbage; well, yo' may think aw did it justice, but aw didn't, for that mait had nivver done me ony harm, an' th' way aw punished it was disgraceful, tho' i say it misen; an' when th' landlady coom in to tak away th' bit ther wor left (an' it worn't mich), aw saw her luk raand to mak sure 'at ther wor nobbut one 'at had been pickin' off that. aw felt soa shamed 'at aw wor ivver so long befor' aw dar ax her ha much aw owed, an' when shoo said eightpence, aw blushed like a pyannet, and paid it, but aw knew varry weel 'at aw wor a shillin' i' debt then if ivverybody had ther own. hasumivver shoo were satisfied; in fact, shoos allus satisfied, shoo'd nivver ha' been as big as shoo is if shoo let little things bother her (an shoo has lots o' bonny little things running abaat). well, aw went to bed, an' slept till mornin'. aw can't say whether all were quiet or not, for nowt could ha' disturbed me, aw believe aw should ha' slept saandly if ther'd been sowerby brig local booard o' one side, an' th' stainland school booard o' t'other, an' th' haley hill bell ringers playin' "hail, smilin' morn." at th' bed feet. but all this has nowt to do wi what aw intended tell in' yo abaat. next mornin aw gate up, an' after braikfast (sich a braikfast! aw nivver felt soa stuck up i' all mi life as aw felt after gettin' that braikfast, aw couldn't even bend to see if mi shoes were blackened) aw set aght agean, an' went as far as silsden. nah, for th' information o' fowk at wor nivver thear, aw may as weel tell yo a thing or two. silsden wor nivver planned, it grew, just like th' brackens i' th' woods, throwin' aght a branch one way or another, as it thowt fit. thers one or two fact'rys, a nail shop or two, two or three brigs, some nice chapels, an' th' rummest owd pile for a church' at yo'll meet in a day's march; a lot o' nice, clean cottages, tenanted wi strong men an' hearty lukkin women, wi hearts i' ther breasts as big as bullocks, an' as monny childer raand th' doors as if they wor all infant schooils; an' a varry fair sprinklin' o' public haases. nah monny a one would wonder ha soa monny fowks could live an' thrive i' sich a place--aw wonder misen; an' some wod wonder whear all th' fowk coom throo to fill ther chapels an' church: but aw doant wonder at that, for wheriver there's a lot o' wimmen an' lasses 'at can spooart nice sunday clooas there's sure to be a lot 'at'll goa to places o' worship to show' em; an' whear th' lasses, are, there will th' lads be also. (aw believe that's a quotation, but awm net sure.) an' th' publics--they tell me they niver wod ha' been able to get on at all if it hadn't been for th' sunday closin', but as sooin as fowk see th' doors shut they begin to feel dry, an' as th' constable is a chap' at wodn't lower his dignity bi goin' to see if fowks back doors wor oppen, things wark pratty weel. it wor at th' red lion aw thawt aw'd stop this time (that's whear iverybody stops 'at knows what gooid grub is; an' it's worth sixpence any time to see tommy's face when he's mad, an' a shillin to see his wife's an' hear her laff when shoo's suited). it wor here 'at this tale wor tell'd to me--its's rayther sorrowful, but then it may happen to be relished bi some 'at read it. sally bray worn't a beauty, but shoo wor what yo'd call a nice lass. her hair an' een wor black as sloes, an' her cheeks wor ommost as red as her lips, an' they wor like cherries; her teeth wor as white as a china cup, but her noas worn't mich to crack on. shoo wor rayther short an' dumpy, but ther wor allus sich a pleasant smile abaat her face, an' shoo wor soa gooid tempered at ivvery body liked her an' had a kind word for "awr sal," as they called her. nah sally worn't like other lasses in one respect, shoo nivver tawked abaat having a felly, an' if others sed owt abaat sweethearts an' trolled her for net havin' one, shoo'd luk at 'em wi her een blazin' like two fireballs, but nivver a word could they get her to say. shoo had noa father or mother, nor any relation i' th' world, unless it wor a brother, an' shoo didn't know whether he wor livin' or net, for he'd run away to sea when a little lad, an' shoo'd nivver heeard on him agean; but it wor noaticed 'at when once a sailor happened to call at th' lion one day, 'at shoo showed him moor favor nor shoo'd showed any body else, an' even sat beside him for an haar, to hear him tell abaat ships an' storms. well, he wor th' only one shoo ivver had showed any fancy for, an' he wor th' last, for little moor nor a year after that sally had gooan. chapter ii. one mornin', about eight or nine months after that sailor's visit, a young farmer happened to be walkin' across one o' th' fields 'at formed a part o' th' crow tree farm, when he saw a little hillock wi' fresh gathered wildflowers, an' bending daan wondering at sich a thing should be i' sich a place, all lonely an' barren, he noticed some fresh soil scattered raand it. rooting wi his fingers, he sooin com to a little bundle, an' what should he see when he oppened it, but a bonny little babby, lukkin' as sweet an' pure as th' flaars 'at had been strewed ower it. he wor a rough sooart ov a young chap, but noabody could ha handled that little thing more tenderly nor he did. "that's noa place to bury the likes o' thee," he sed; "aw dooant know who or what tha art, but tha shall have a better burying place nor that, if aw have to pay for it misen." he folded it up carefully, an' carried it to th' farmhouse cloise by, an' when he entered it, slowly an' solemnly, an' laid his strange bundle on th' table, th' farmer's wife and dowters gethered raand an' eagerly axed "what's to do, burt? what has to getten thear? thou luks as if tha'd stown summat." "aw've stown nowt, but aw've fun summat, an' aw've browt it here to be takken care on, wol aw cun tell what to do wi' it." he unteed his kertchey, an' when they saw what were in it th' lasses shriked an' ran away, declaring they'd ha' nowt to do wi' it; but th' owd woman luked at it a minit, and then turnin' to burt, shoo sed, "burt, is this some o' thy work, or what is it? tell me all abaat it, an' mind tha spaiks truth." burt telled all he knew, an' wol he wor repeatin' ivvery thing just as it happened, owd mary (that's what th' farmer's wife wor allus called) wor examinin' th' little thing, an' handlin' it as noabody but an owd mother can handle sich tender things, "why, burt," shoo sed, "it cannot ha' been thear monny minits, for it's warm yet." "here, lasses," shoo cried, "get me some warm water. luk sharp, aw'm blessed if aw believe th' little thing's deead." an' th' owd woman wor reight, for it, hadn't been long i' th' warm watter when it opened its little peepers. an' if onybody can say 'at burt cannot dance a single step, heelan' fling, a hornpipe, an' owt else, all at once, aw say they lie, for th' way he capered raand that kitchen wor a caution. "aw fun it, an' it belangs to me," he sed; "get aght o' th' gate, there's noabody nowt to do wi' that but me." "hold thi din, tha gurt maddlin', are ta wrang i' thi head? does ta think tha can suckle a child?" this sooart o' sobered him. "aw nivver thowt o' that," he sed, "cannot yo' suckle it for me, mary?" "if tha tawks sich tawk to me, aw'll mash thi head wi th' rollin' pin; my suckling days wor ower twenty years sin." "well, one o' th' lasses 'll happen suckle it for me," he sed. at this t'dowters flew at him like two wild cats, an' wanted to know "if he'd owt to say agen their karracters?" "awve nowt to say agean noboddy's karracters," he sed, "but aw know this mich, 'at if aw wor a gurt young woman like one o' yo, aw could suckle a bit o' a thing like that. why it doesn't weigh four pund." "burt," said owd mary, "tha doesn't know what tha'art tawkin' abaat, aw'll luk after this if tha'll goa an' fotch a cunstable as sharp as tha con." "what mun aw fotch a cunstable for? yo' ain't going to have it locked up, are yo'?" "noa, but aw want to find th' woman that belangs to it." "ther isn't noa woman at belangs to it," sed burt, "it belangs to me, aw fun it. aw'm blowed if it isn't trying to tawk, did ta hear it, mary?" "a'a soft-heead, that's th' wind 'at its gettin' off its stummack. away wi thi an' fotch th' cunstable, as aw tell thi. but befoor tha gooas, bring me a drop o' new milk aght o' th' mistal, an' get me a bit o' breead, an' awl see if it'll tak some sops." burt hurried off, an' in a minit wor back wi a can holdin' abaat two gallons, an' a looaf ommast as big as th' faandation stooan for a church. "nay, burt, what will ta do next, aw'm sure tha's gooan clean off thi side. tha's browt moor milk nor ud feed all th' childer i' silsden for a month." "doant yo' be feeared abaat th' milk," sed burt, "awl pay for it; let it have summat to ait. tun summat into it. aw wonder if it ud like a drop o' hooam-brewed?" "if tha doesn't mak thisen scarce aw'll break ivvery booan i' thi skin. haven't aw getten enuff to do wi' this brat, withaat been bothered wi' thee! go and fetch that cunstable when aw tell thi." "well, if aw mun goa, aw'll goa, but mind what yo're doing with that thing, an' dooant squeeze it." after lukkin' at it once moor, an' seeing it sneeze, he started off to th' village happier nor any man within a hundred mile. it didn't tak burt long to find th' cunstable, for he knew th' haase where he slept most ov his time, and they wor sooin up at owd mary's. they'd a fine time when they gat there too, for th' child wer asleep, and mary refused to let onybody disturb it. burt declared it wor his, an he'd a reight to see it when he liked; an'th' cunstable sed he wor armed wi law an' should tak it into custody whether it wor asleep or net. mary's husband wor upstairs confined to bed wi rhumatics, but th' dowters had tell'd him all abaat burt's adventure, an' as he could hear all 'at wor sed, he furst began to feel uneasy, an' then to loise his temper, soa he seized his crutch an' ran daan stairs like a lad o' sixteen, an' laid abaat him reight an' left, an' i' less nor a minit burt, th' cunstable, an' owd mary wor aghtside. "nah," he sed, as he stood i' th' doorhoil, puffin' an' blowin', wi' his crutch ovver his shoulder, like a musket, "aw'll let yo see whose child that is! it wor fun i' my field, an' it belangs to me. what my land produces belangs to me, noa matter whether it's childer or chicken weed!" things wor i' this state when one o' th' dowters showed her heead aght o' th' winder an' cried, "mother, it's wakkened, an' it's suckin' it's thumb as if it wor clammed to deeath." "mary," sed th' owd man, "does ta mean to starve that child to deeath? coss if tha cannot luk after it, aw'll luk after it mysel'." this wor th' signal for all to goa inside, an' a bonnier pictur' yo nivver saw nor that war when owd mary sat wi' that little thing on her lap, givin' it sops, an' three big, strong, but kind-hearted fellows, sat raand, watchin' ivvery bit it tuk as if ther own livin' depended on it. ther war a gooid deeal o' 'fendin' an' provin', but whear that child coom fra an' who wor it's mother noabody could tell. time passed, an' as mary sed th' child thrived like wood, an' ivverybody called it "burt's babby." burt wor a decent, hard-workin' lad, an' had for a long time luk'd longin'ly at one o' mary's dowters, an' one day ther wor a stir i' th' village, an' burt war seen donned up like a dummy at a cloas shop, an' wi' a young woman linked to his arm as if shoo thowt he wor goin' to flyaway, an' it wanted all her weight to keep him daan, an' claise behind, wor th' owd farmer an' his wife, owd mary muggin, an' th' little babby. it didn't tak th' parson monny minits to tee' em together for better an' for worse, an' then burt took th' babby an' gave it to his bride, sayin', "here's summat towards haase keepin' anyway." an' shoo tuk it an' kussed it as if it had been ther own. they went to live at a nice little farm, an' th' owd fowk gave' em a gooid start. sally bray had allus shown a fondness for burt's babby, 'at fowk could hardly accaant for, an' shoo went an' offered her sarvices as sarvant an' nurse, an' nivver did ony body seem soa fond of a child as sally did o' that. things went on nicely for a while, an' then th' scarlet fever coom; every day saw long sorrowful processions follerin' little coffins, an' ivery body luk'd sad an' spake low. at last, burt's babby wor takken sick, an' all they could do couldn't save it, an' early one mornin' it shut it's een, an' went its way to join those 'at had gone before. burt an' his wife wor varry mich troubled, but it war sally bray 'at suffered mooast. they couldn't get her to leave that cold still form, soa they left her with it till her grief should be softened; an' when some time had passed, they went to call her, but it wor no use, for her spirit had goan to tend burt's babby. after shoo wor buried, some papers were picked aght o' one o' sally's boxes, and it were sed' at they explained all, but what they were burt an' his wife nivver telled, so it still remains a mystery. at th' grave side stood a fine young chap, who dropt monny a tear as th' coffin wor lowered. he wor sed to be verry like that strange sailor 'at had once before visited th' village. when burt passed him he gave him a purse, sayin' "for a gravestone," and went away noabody knew whear. some sed it was sally's brother, but noabody seems to know. anybody 'at likes to tak a walk an' call at that little graveyard can see a plain stoan 'at says sally bray, an' burt's babby. mak th' best on't. they say it taks nine tailors to mak a man. weel, all aw have to say abaat it is, 'at aw've known some men i' mi time, 'at it ud tak nineteen to mak a tailor. why some simpletons seem to think 'at they've a right to mak fun ova chap becoss he's a tailor, aw can't see. they're generally praad enuff o' ther clooas--then why not be praad o' th' fowk 'at mak 'em. ther's a deal o' fowk 'at wodn't be as weel off as they are if it worn't for th' tailors. but it's noa use tawkin, for ther's some 'at couldn't live if they didn't find summat to say a word agean. a little word 'at's easy sed, sometimes may heal a smart; a cruel word or luk instead, may help to braik a heart. men hang together like a chain, tho' varied be ther plan; each link hangs by another link, man hangs to brother man. but a gooid word throo some is as scarce as a white crow. they're iverlastingly lukking aght for faults an' failins, an' gooid words an' gooid deeds are things they niver think are due to onnybody but thersen. life's pathway could oft be made pleasant, if fowk wor to foller this plan; throo a prince ov the throne to a peasant, to do a gooid turn when they can. but they'll nawther do a gooid turn thersen nor let onybody else do one if they can help it. they seem to be born wi' soa mich eliker i' ther blooid 'at if they come i' contact wi' ony sweet milk o' human kindness, 'at it curdles it. whether it's ther own fault or th' fault o' ther mother aitin too many saar gooisberries before they wor born aw can't tell. aw've met some soa ill contrived 'at they wodn't let th' sun shine on onybody's puttaty patch but ther own if they could help it. nah this class o' fowk have generally one or two noations o' ther own 'at they think iverybody else owt to be ruled by. one'll be a strict teetotaller, an' consider 'at onybody 'at taks a drop o' drink is gooin to a place whear top coits wiln't be needed. another belangs to some sect, an' doesn't hesitate to say 'at onybody 'at gooas to a concert hall has signed a contract wi' that dark complexioned owd snoozer 'at wears horns an' wags a tail. they've been at th' trouble to chalk aght a line for iverybody else to walk on, tho' they know varry weel 'at they dooant allus keep to it thersen when ther's nubdy lukkin. well, let them 'at relish th' saars have' em to ther hearts' content, but dooant try to prevent other fowk havin some o' th' sweets. aw'm one o' them 'at likes th' sweets best, an' if they'll nobbut let me alooan aw'll promise niver to mell o' them. grooanin, mooanin, an' grummelin, is abaat th' warst way o' spendin one's time. if yo come in for a lot o' gooid things, enjoy 'em wol yo've th' chance, an' dooant pass by ivery flaar 'at smiles along yor path for fear yo may find a twitch-clock i' one. an' if things dooant turn aght just as gooid as yo'd like' em, try to mak th' best o' th' bit o' gooid ther is in 'em. they tell me this world's full o' trouble, an' each one comes in for a share; an' pleasure they say is a bubble, 'at gooas floating away up in th' air. but aw'll niver give way to repinin, tho' th' claads may luk gloomy an' black, for they all have a silvery linin, an' some day shall breeten awr track. let other fowk brood o'er ther sorrow, from each day enjoyment we'll borrow, let to-morrow tak care ov to-morrow, an strive to be happy to-day. mrs spaiktruth's pairty. it ud be a gooid thing if somdy could find a remedy for backbitin an' gossipin:--for lyin an' stailin an' a lot moor things o'th' same sooart 'at's varry common. last year aw gate an invitation to a woman's tea drinkin, an' ov coarse aw went, for aw niver miss a chonce o' enjoyin mysen if aw can do it withaat mich expense. th' warst o' this do wor' at ther wor noa man amang, em but me, an' aw shouldn't a been thear, but mistress spaiktruth wanted me to repoart th' speeches, an' as shoo wor givin th' pairty shoo set at th' end o'th' table an' teem'd aght th' teah an' mistress snipenooas put th' rum in. after iverybody had getten supplied ther wor quietness for abaat five minutes, an' altho' nobdy wanted owt to ait, fatty cakes an' buttered muffins went aght o'th' seet like winkin. after th' second cup one or two began whisperin a bit, an' after th' third, it wor like being i' th' middle ov a lot o' geese; they wor all cacklin at once, an' judging bi th' smiles o' ther faces they felt very happy. when th' pots wor sided (an' they'd takken gooid care to leave nowt but th' pots to side), they drew up in a ring raand th' fire, an' mrs. spaiktruth wor put i'th' rockin chair to rule th' proceedins. 'nah, lasses,' shoo sed, 'aw havnt mich to say nobbut to tell yo all at yor varry welcome, an' aw hooap yo've all made a gooid drinkin ('we have lass!') 'an aw hooap we shall have some gooid speeches throo some on yo', for aw know thers some gooid tawkers amang yo, but this year's meetin is to be conducted on a different plan to onny we've had befoor. ther hasn't to be ony gossipin or backbitin, an' them 'at cannot say a few words withaat scandalizin ther neighbours, blagardin ther own husbands, or throwin aght hints likely to injure sombdy's else, munnot spaik at all.' when mrs. spaiktruth had finished, th' wimmen luk'd one at another, fast what to mak on it. two or three o'th' older end settled thersen daan for a sleep, an' th' rest luk'd as faal as a mule i' th' sulks. aw pooled aght mi book to tak daan th' speeches, an' this is my repooart.- _1st speech._--'let's goa lasses.' _2nd speech._--'ther's nowt to stop here for.' _3rd speech._--'aw'll goa too, awm feard o' goin bi mysen i' th' dark.' _4th speech._--'awr childer'll be waitin for me.' _5th speech._--'it's my weshin day to morn, soa aw want to get to bed i' daycent time.' _6th speech._--(five or six at once) 'come on.' th' meetin braik up varry early, an' as sooin as they'd getten aght side, aw heeard 'em sayin 'at mistress spaiktruth wor naa better nor shoo should be, an' if shoo thowt shoo could put on airs wi' them shoo wor varry mich mistakken, an' as for gossipin, shoo wor th' longest tongued woman i' th' neighbourhood, an' they declared they'd niver enter a haase shoo kept agean. aw saw mrs. spaiktruth next day, an' aw sed, 'ther worn't mich tawkin at yor teah drinkin last neet,' shoo smiled, but all shoo sed wor 'silence is better nor slander.' why tommy isn't a deacon. tommy wor allus considered to be th' tip top in his trade. his worn't a common sooart ov a callin like wayvin, or spinnin, or coil leeadin. he nobbut had to deal wi'th' heeads o'th' community. th' fact is he wor a barber; an' ther's monny a chap at awd moor o' thear gooid fortun to th' way he fixed up th' aghtside o' thear heeads, nor what they did to th' fixin i'th' inside. aw've monny a time thowt when aw've seen him thrang 'at his trade wor just a reight schooil for a chap to gaa to, to leearn to have contempt for wod-be gurt fowk, for aw've seen chaps come in lukkin as fierce as a pot-lion, an ommost makkin yo tremel wi' th' way they sed' gooid mornin,' but as sooin as they've getten set daan, an' a gurt print table-cloth tucked under ther chin, an' lathered up to ther een, they've sat as quiet an' luk'd as sheepish as a chap' at's just been to see his sweetheart get wed. well, ther wor nobbut one thing 'at tommy aspired to, moor nor what he had, an' that wor to be a deacon. net 'at he knew owt abaat what a deacon owt to be, or owt to do, but becoss a chap 'at used to goa to th' same schooil when they wor lads, had getten made a deacon at th' starvhoil baptists' chapel, an' tommy didn't like to be behund hand; an' then agean ther wor a woman in th' case. tommy had allus been a pretty regular attender at auther one chapel or another, but he'd niver stuck to one i' particular, for he liked to hear different preachers, an' he didn't feel varry anxious to pay pew rent. but just abaat this time summat happened 'at made a change in him. cloise to whear he lived ther wor a chap 'at kept a sausage shop, an' he wor takken sick an' deed, an' his widder sent for tommy to come an' shave him befoor he wor burrid, an' he did it i' sich a nice an' considerate way, an' tawked soa solemn, an' pooled sich a long face, 'at he gate invited to th' funeral, an wor axed to be one o'th' bearers an' as he nobbut stood abaat four feet in his booits, he consented at once, for as t'other five chaps all stood abaat six feet, he knew he wodn't have mich to carry. when th' funeral wor nicely ovver, an' they gate back to th' haase, they wor all invited to stop an' have a bit o' summat to ait, an' as sausage wor th' handiest o' owt to cook, shoo axed 'em if they'd have some. nubdy'd owt to say agean it, but tommy didn't seem satisfied, an' when th' widder saw it shoo sed, 'may be, tommy sausage doesn't agree wi' yo,--is thear owt else yo'd like?' "well," he sed, "aw've nowt agean sausage, but aw think 'at black pudding wad be moor appropriate for a burrin." "tha'd happen like black beer to swill it daan," sed one. "nah, yo 'at want sausage can have it, an' them 'at likes black puddin can have that," shoo sed.' an' varry sooin ther wor a dish o' booath befoor' em, but nubdy seemed to fancy th' black pudding nobbut tommy, an aw dooant think he enjoyed' em mich, for they worn't varry fresh. 'get some moor, tommy,' shoo sed, 'it does me gooid to see you ait 'em, for they wor the last thing awr jack made i' this world, an' aw like to see some respect paid to him. he little thowt when he wor makkin them 'at he'd be deead wi' th' small-pox an' burrid in a wick.' wi' this shoo began to cry, an' as th' mourners kept leavin one bi one, ther wor sooin nubdy left but tommy to sympathise wi' her, an' as ivery time he sed owt shoo shoved him another black puddin on his plate, he began to think it time he went hooam, for if shoo kept on at that rate it wodn't tak long to mak another burrin. in a bit he wor forced to stop, an' he sed he thowt it wor time for him to goa; but shoo put her hand on his heead an' luk'd daan at him soa sorrowful like, as shoo lifted daan a black bottle aght o'th' cubbord, wol he couldn't find in his heart to leave her, soa sittin daan they had a drop o' gin an' watter together, for shoo wanted some to draand her sorrow, an he wanted summat to settle his stummack. then he began lukkin raand, an' he wor capt to find what a nice comfortable haase shoo had, an' all th' furniture as gooid as new; and ivery glass he tuk he fancied shoo wor better lukkin nor he'd seen her befoor, an' as he didn't offer to leave as long as th' gin lasted, bi th'time it wor done he thowt he'd niver seen a widder 'at suited him as weel, an' as he wanted a wife he couldn't help thinkin 'at he mud do wor nor try to find room thear to hing his hat up. he knew at shoo wor varry nicely off an' could affoord to live withaat th' sausage shop, an' although shoo wor big enuff to mak two sich chaps as him, he didn't think that wor onny objection. he niver knew exactly ha he gate hooam that neet, but he went to bed an' dreamt 'at he wor riding in a hearse to get wed to th' widder, an' th' trees on booath sides o'th' road wor hung wi' garlands o' black pudding. two months had passed, an' tommy hadn't let his sympathy stop wi' th' funeral, but used to call regularly once a wick to see her, an' allus went to the same chapel ov a sunday, an' tuk care to dress all i' black, an' had a black band raand his hat, which coom in varry weel to cover up th' grease spots; an' one neet as they wor gooin hooam together, he screwed up his courage an' ax'd her if shoo didn't think, as shoo wor soa lonely, an' he wor lonely too 'at they'd better join? 'tha'rt to lat,' shoo sed, 'for aw joined long sin, an' wor made a member directly after aw burrid awr poor jack.' 'but that isn't what aw mean,' sed tommy, 'aw mean, hadn't we better join an' get wed, for awm sure we could get on varry nicely together.' 'well, aw think we can get on varry nicely separate,' shoo sed, 'but anyway, if iver aw do get wed agean it'll have to be a member o'th' chapel; for awr jack, deead an' gooan as he is, an' ther wor niver a better chap teed to a woman nor he wor, yet he had his faults, an' he knew a deeal moor abaat sausages an' puddins nor he knew abaat sarmons an' prayers, an' he'd rayther ha gooan to a dog feight nor a deacons' meetin ony day, an' as he left me varry nicely provided for, though aw've nubdy to thank for that but misen, aw can affoord to wait wol aw get suited.' 'well, hannah maria,' he sed, 'but suppoas aw wor a deacon do yo think aw should suit?' 'that aw connot tell,' shoo sed, 'but if tha iver gets to be a deacon tha can ax me then.' soa tommy bade her gooid neet; an' nah he wor detarmined to be a deacon come what wod. next sunday he joined th' sunday schooil as a taicher, tho' he knew noa moor abaat taichin nor th' powl 'at hung o' th' aghtside ov his shop door. then he tuk a sittin in a pew reight anent th' parson, tho' he had to pay well for it, an' when they made a collection, which wor pratty oft, an' th' chaps used to goa raand wi' th' box allus when they wor singin th' last hymn, he used to be soa takken up wi' th' singin wol th' chap had to nudge him two or three times; then he'd throw daan his book an' fidget in his pocket as if he'd forgetten all abaat it, an' bring aght sixpenoth ov hawpneys, an' put 'em in wi' sich a rattle wol ivery body'd knew 'at he'd gien summat. he wor allus th' furst in his seeat an' one o'th' last to leeav, an' ivery sunday he managed to have summat to say awther to th' parson or one o'th' deacon's, wol befoor he'd been thear a month he'd getten to be quite a nooated chap. wheniver one o'th' congregation called in to get shaved, they allus faand him readin th' evangelical magazine, or else repooarts o'th' liberation society, an' it worn't long befoor sombdy tell'd him in a saycret 'at he wor baan to be propoased for a deacon. he tried to luk as if he cared nowt abaat it, but as sooin as the chap went aght, he flang his lather brush under th' table, threw his razor an' white appron into a corner, upset his lather box on to th' evangelical, an' ran up stairs two steps at a time, an' seized a bottle off th' shelf, an' sayin, 'here's to th' deacon!' swallowed hauf a pint o' neat, an' what else he might ha done aw dooant know if he hadn't ommost brokken his neck wi' tryin to turn a summerset. this browt him to his senses a bit, an' then he sat daan to reckon up ha mich a wick he'd have comin in when he'd getten wed to th' widder. nah aw hardly like to say it, but it's true, tommy wor rayther fond ov a drop o' summat strong, but he niver let monny fowk see him tak it after he'd joined th' chapel. but he had just one confidential friend, an' he allus tell'd him iverything, an' ov coarse he'd let him know all abaat th' widder, an' being made a deacon; soa he sent for him, an' they'd a fine time on it that neet, for they shut up th' shop an' gate as full as they could carry, an' just as they wor gooin to pairt, a letter coom to tell tommy 'at he'd to be voted for as a deacon after th' thursday's meetin; an' as that day wor tuesday they hadn't long to wait, soa they detarmined to have another glass or two on th' heead on it, an' they kept it up soa long wol at last they both fell asleep. when they wakkened it wor broad dayleet, an' they felt rayther seedy; soa they agreed to separate, an' tommy made his friend promise to be sure to call on him to tak him to th' meetin. alick promised, an' then left him. nah alick wor a man ov his word, soa he decided net to goa hooam for fear o' forgettin, but he hadn't been sat long i'th' 'tattered rag tap,' befoor he fell asleep' 'when he wakken'd it wor cloise on six o' clock, an' th' furst thowt 'at struck him wor 'at that wor th' time for th' meetin;--for he didn't think 'at it worn't wol the day after; soa swallowin daan another stiff glass o' rum, he set off to fotch tommy. when he gate thear he saw tommy sittin nursin his heead an' lukkin as sanctimonious as if he'd niver done owt wrang in his life. 'come on!' he sed, 'if tha doesn't luk sharp tha'll be to lat!' 'what does ta mean, alick,' he sed, 'th' meetin isn't till to morn at neet.' 'aw tell thi it's to neet, an' it's time tha wor thear nah. aw promised tha should be i' time an' tha'll ha to goa.' 'aw tell th' meetin isn't wol thursday!' 'well, this is thursday.' 'tha'rt drunk, alick; tha doesn't know what tha'rt talking abaat.' alick wor just drunk enuff to have his own rooad, an' wodn't listen to reason, soa he says, 'awl let thi see who it is 'at's druffen! awl awther ha thee made a deacon or a deead en afoor tha gooas to bed to neet!' an' sayin soa, he seized hold on him, an' tuckin him under his arm as if he'd been a umbereller he started off aght o' door. tommy begged an' prayed, an' kicked an' fittered, but all to noa use. alick wor three times as big as him, an' held him like a vice. just as they'd getten into th' street they met all th' miln fowk, an' as they wor booath weel known, fowk laffed rarely, for they thowt it a gooid spree. th' rooads wor varry mucky an' sloppy, an' as alick worn't varry steady on his pins they hadn't gooan far befoor they wor booath rollin i'th' sludge, but alick niver left goa; he scramel'd up, an' off agean, an' wor varry sooin at th' chapel door. th' only consolation 'at poor tommy had wor thinkin 'at th' chapel wodn't be oppen, an' then alick wod find aght his mistak; but it unfortunately happened' at ther wor a meetin that neet i'th vestry abaat establishing a band o' hope, soa th' chapel doors wor oppen. alick rushed in wi' poor tommy, moor deead nor alive. th' noise they made sooin browt all th' fowk aght o'th' vestry, an' th' parson coom fussin to see what wor to do, an' as ther wor nobbut one or two leets i'th' chapel bottom, an' nooan up stairs, he could hardly see what it all meant. just then alick let goa, an' tommy flew up stairs like a shot, hooapin 'at as it wor ommost dark he'd be able to find his way aghtside befoor he wor seen. alick luk'd varry solid an' tried to balance hissen by holdin to one o'th' gas fixtures. 'what's the meaning of this?' sed th' parson. 'please yor reverence, hic,--aw've browt yo th' new deacon, hic,--an' a d---l ov a job aw've had to mak him come, but awm a man o' mi word, an' aw promised he should bi here i' time, an' aw'd ha browt him if aw'd had to being him in his coffin. that's th' sooart ov chap aw am old cock!' bi this time all th' fowk wor gethered raand, an' th' parson luk'd throo one to another, to see if they could explain matters, but they wor all fast amang it. alick wor standin lukkin raand in a sackless sooart ov a way, when all at once he spied th' widder amang 'em, soa ponitin her aght he sed, 'jack's widder thear can tell yo all abaat it, it's been made up between them two, an' a varry gooid pair they'll mak, an' if he cannot shave her, shoo'll be able to lather him. tha knows awm a man o' mi word, hannah maria, an' aw sed aw'd bring him.' all th' nooatice th' widder tuk wor to shak her neive in his face, an' as they all could see ha drunk alick wor, they left him standin wol they locked all th' doors an' prepared to have a hunt for th' chap 'at had run up stairs. but tommy wor detarmined net to be catched if he could help' it, an' a fine race he led' em, for he flew ovver th' pews like a cat, an' as th' door-keeper, an' pew oppener, an' th' parson ran after him, th' wimmen kept gettin into ther rooad, an' ovver they tummeld knockin th' cannels aght as they fell, an' of all th' skrikin an' screamin yo iver heeard, it licked all. alick wor bi hissen daan stairs, an' wor feelin rayther misty amahg it, but when he heard all th' noise he bethowt him 'at it must be a pairt o'th' ceremony, an' he began to feel excited. 'keep it up owd lad! gooid lad tommy! thar't a cock burd! by gow i tha niver should ha been a barber! two hauf-craans to one on th' little en!' but they catched him at last; an' as they didn't know who it wor, an' he wor soa covered wi' muck an dust wol it wor hard to tell, they browt him daan stairs whear ther wor a better leet. when th' parson saw who it wor he could hardly believe his een, an' all t' others put ther hands as if they thowt th' roof worn't safe. 'thomas,' sed th' parson solemnly, 'i'm sorry to see thou hast fallen. thy race here is run.' 'well, he ran weel didn't he?' sed alick. ther wor moor nor him fell i' that race, or else ther wor a deeal o' skrikin for nowt. but it just suits me, aw wodn't ha missed it for a shillin! aw wor niver at th' makkin ov a deacon afoor, it's three times as mich fun as makkin a free mason.' tommy tried to spaik, but he wor soa aght o' wind wol he couldn't say a word, an' as sooin as th' doors wor oppened he made a bolt for hooam. alick follerd him, but fan th' door locked, soa he went hooam too. next mornin, nawt her on 'em could exactly tell what had happened th' neet afoor, but alick went to pay tommy a visit. what wor sed aw dooant know, but they tell me 'at alick's shaved hissen iver sin, for he doesn't seem to like th' idea o' tommy bein soa varry near him wi' a razor. ov course tommy worn't made a deacon, an' what wor war nor all he lost th' widder into th' bargain. they did try to get him to join th' good templars; an' alick sed if he wanted to be a member he'd promise to see' at he wor thear i' time if he had to sit up another neet for it; 'an tha knows awm a man o' mi word, doesn't ta, tommy?' but someha or other tommy seems content to stop as he is, but if yo should iver give him a call, aw wodn't advise yo to say owt abaat him bein made deacon, for th' thowts on it seems to be like th' black pudding he had at th' burrin drinkin,--varry heavy on his stummack, an' all th' gin an' watter he's been able to get has niver swilled it daan. hannah maria's getten wed agean; shoo wor as gooid as her word.--shoo wed a local praicher; but as his labours didn't seem to profit him mich, he left th' connexion, an' wi' hannah maria's bit o' brass he bowt th' valiation o'th 'purrin pussycat' public haase, an' shoo tends th' bar wi' as mich red ribbon flyin raand her heead as ud mak reins for a six-horse team. tommy called once, but when he saw th' picture frame 'at he'd taen soa mich pains wi' for jack's funeral card hung up wi' a ticket in it sayin 'prime pop,' he supt up his rum an' walked sorrowfully aght, withaat payin for it, an' he's niver been seen thear sin. one amang th' rest. i cannot say that the birth of sally green was heralded with many joyful anticipations. her father was one of those unfortunate men who have never had any trade taught to them, and his income, always small, was also very precarious. one day you might find him distributing circulars, another, acting as porter; at times he got a stray job as gardener, and was always willing to undertake almost any thing by which to earn an honest penny. his wife had for many years been a sickly woman, yet she was fruitful, as was proved by the six children who with laughter or tears, as the case might be, welcomed their father home. "old tip," as he was familiarly called both at home and abroad, was sitting opposite the fire, smoking an old clay pipe, when the news was brought that little sally was born, and both mother and babe were doing well. he answered simply, "ho!" "an' is that all tha has to say when tha's getten another dowter, an' one o' th' grandest childer aw think' at wor iver born?" "well, what am aw to say? it's all reight, isn't it? shoo'll be one amang th' rest." although tip appeared to treat the event with such indifference, yet his mind was ill at ease, for he well knew that his scanty means had barely sufficed to find food for those dependent upon him before time, and an additional mouth to provide for was by no means a thing to be desired. there is an old saying, that god never sends a mouth without sending something to put in it, and that is very true, but it is just possible that the food sent to put in it is appropriated to some other mouth, that has already got above its share. if this was not so, we should be spared the pain of reading the heartrending accounts that are so frequently brought under our notice of people being "starved to death." it is not my intention to detail all the little incidents connected with sally's early years; suffice it to say that she was dragged up somehow, along with her brothers and sisters, who as they got older and able to work and earn a wage sufficient to support themselves, left one by one to depend upon their own exertions, but never once giving a thought to the debt of gratitude they owed to those, who had laboured so long, and endured so many troubles for their sakes. in time sally was old enough to be put to some business, and as she had all along been of a weaker constitution than her sisters, it was deemed advisable to select some occupation for her of a lighter description. accordingly she soon found herself placed with a shopkeeper in the town, to learn the mysteries of concocting bonnets, caps, &c. the money she received at the commencement was very little, but doubtless was a just equivalent for her labours; but her parents, whose income had decreased with their increasing years, had often to suffer privations, in order to dress sally as became her position. sally was naturally quick of apprehension, and the old folks' hearts were often cheered by the reports of her advancement. "it maks me thankful monny a time i'th' day, tip, to think ha sally taks to her wark; an' tha sees shoo's soa steady an' niver braiks ony time, an' aw connot help thinkin, 'at may be, shoo'll net only be a comfort to us in old age, but a varry gurt help." "shoo's steady enough," said tip, "but aw dooant think its wise to build ony castles i'th' air abaat her helpin us mich. th' kitten seldom brings th' old cat a maase. nooan o' th' brothers has iver done owt for us,--net 'at aw want owt, net aw; but aw know 'at we've had to do a deeal for them, an' it luks rayther hard, at they should niver think abaat payin a trifle back; an' awm feeared sally 'll be one amang th' rest." "happen net. tha wor allus fond o' lukkin o'th' dark side." "aw may weel be fond o' lukkin at it, for awve seen varry little o'th' breet en." sally continued to progress, and her employer was not slow to recognize her abilities and increase her wages in proportion. she often indulged in dreams of what she would do for her parents, as soon as she was able, but as yet her own wants were so very pressing, that it took all her money to satisfy them. she saw and admired her fellow-workers, as they entered or left the place of business, dressed in such clothes as she had never had, and such as it must be some time before she could hope to obtain. but she clung to the hope that the time would come, and she strained every nerve to hasten its approach. though by no means vain, yet it was quite evident, sally was aware she was as much her companions' superior, in personal attractions, as they were her superiors in point of dress, and it is to be feared, that there were times when she consulted her mirror with exultation, and painted in her imagination pictures how she could outshine them all when the time came. by degrees almost imperceptible, crept in a dislike to her home;--not to those who owned it, far from it. to her parents she was still loving and dutiful, but she began to conceive that her own attempts to improve her appearance, her manner of speaking, and her general carriage, were strangely at variance with her humble home and its belongings. happily, those precepts most potent to restrain any waywardness or wickedness, had been early instilled into her by her mother, whose quiet christian life had been her daily example. her religion was pure and simple, and she never failed to impress upon sally the happiness to be derived from an adherence to the truth, and a faith in the goodness of god. years rolled on, and the slightly built girl was developed into the beautiful woman. she occupied the second position in the work-room, and her love of dress she was enabled to gratify to its full extent. many a young man lingered about the door of the shop at night, in hopes of catching a smile or some mark of encouragement, but sally's heart was free, respectful to all, but showing partiality to none, she passed on scathless through many temptations that might have proved too strong for many older than herself. one night a strange event occurred. as she was hurrying home, and had arrived within a few yards of the door, she stumbled over some object in her path, and it was with much difficulty she succeeded in saving herself from an awkward fall. it was too dark to see what the object was, but she ran into the house, acquainted her parents with the event, and accompanied by them bearing a light she returned to see what the obstacle was. across the pavement was laid a young man, about her own age, in a helpless, perhaps a dying state. "poor thing! what's th' matter wi' him?" sed her mother; "tip, lift him up an' hug him in th' haase, an' see what's to do! he's somebody's poor lad." tip was not quite so strong as he had been, but he was yet strong enough for the emergency: and lifting up the slim young man, he bore him into the house and laid him on the longsettle. "what does ta think is th' matter wi' him?" asked the mother; "is he hurt?" "noa." "why, has he had a fit thinks ta?" "aw think he has, an' it'll be some time befoor he comes aat on it, for its a druffen fit." "a'a, tha doesn't say soa, tip! does ta?" "its ten thaasand pities to see him i' that state!" sally approached him half in fear and half in anxiety, and after scanning his features, which in spite of the dirt and the drink were yet handsome, she turned to her father and asked, "what shall we do with him?" "we shall be like to tak care on him, lass, wol he sleeps it off aw expect, for we connot turn him aat, an' if we did th' police wod lock him up. awve suffered a deeal i' mi lifetime wi' my lads, but awve niver seen one on 'em i' that state, an' awd rayther follow 'em to th' grave nor iver do it." for hours they sat beside the sleeping man, and when it was far past their usual time of retiring to rest, they looked at each other, mutely asking what would be best to do. "father and mother," said sally, "it is time you went to bed; i know you cannot bear to miss your accustomed rest. i will watch by this young man until he awakes, and so soon as he is fit to leave the house he shall do so, and then i can get an hour's sleep before the shop opens in the morning; i do not think he will sleep long now." the old couple did not like to leave her sitting up, but seeing no reason why they too should watch, they left her with their blessing and retired to rest. the light from the candle fell full on the face of the sleeper, and although sally often tried to read one of her favourite books, yet as oft she found her eyes rivetted upon the countenance of the man before her. at times he moaned as though in pain; again he smiled a sweet, sweet smile so innocent and childlike, as if no care had ever crossed his path; then a deep, deep sigh heaved his breast, as though all hope had died within it. sally leaned over him, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she gazed on him, and with her hand she gently parted his curly locks, exposing a brow that rivalled her own for whiteness. she was thus occupied when his eyes slowly opened, and she started back. he looked around him with a listlessness that showed the stupor had not yet worn off. presently he aroused himself, and in a husky voice asked, "where am i?" "you are in the house of those who have endeavoured to befriend you," she replied; "you are quite safe, perhaps you had better try to sleep again." "no! sleep! no! let me have something to drink i bring me some beer, i'm choaking." "that i cannot do, and would not if i could; but here is some tea made nice and warm, that will do you much more good." and as she said this she handed him the jug. he took it from her, with a half-amused, half-astonished expression on his face, and drank the contents at a draught. "there, there!" he muttered and reseated himself. he looked for a short time at sally, as she sat opposite him, but there was such an air of dignity, mingled with compassion, imprinted on her face, that it was only after one or two ineffectual attempts that he could articulate another word. at length he said, "will you kindly tell me, miss, where i am and how i came here?" "you are in my father's house in--------street, and he carried you here. i stumbled over something on my way home, and on going back with my parents, we found you laid helpless on the pavement. they have gone to bed, and i am waiting until you feel able to resume your walk home." "it must have been quite evident to you that i was in liquor, and i must have caused you great inconvenience. i did not think there was a person in the world who would have taken so much trouble on my behalf, but i am glad to say that i am in a position to pay for it, and you are at liberty to help yourself," saying which, he threw a wellfilled purse upon the table. "i beg that you will replace the purse in your pocket, sir. to any kindness you have received you are welcome, and you would only insult my parents by offering to pay." "not a very enviable looking home," he muttered, "but it seems pride can dwell in a cottage." "just pride can dwell in the cottage as well as in the mansion i hope," she replied, rising to open the door. "the morning is cold yet fine," she said, "and as you are, doubtless, expected home, it may be advisable not to delay your departure." "i will act upon your hint," he said, "but i have one favour yet to ask, will you grant it?" "that depends upon the nature of it." "it is that i may be allowed to call here again, to express the gratitude i feel for the kind manner in which you have acted towards me. at present i am not in a fit state to do so. will you grant me that privilege?" "we do not seek for your thanks, sir, you are a perfect stranger to us, and we have but done that, which we felt it our duty to do, but if it will afford you any pleasure, i am quite sure my father will grant your request." with a hasty "good morning," he hurried off, passing through the quiet streets as quickly as he could, still wondering how he had got into such strange company. sally sought her bed, to snatch a few hours of sleep, but all desire seemed to have flown. she could think of nothing but the young man's face as she had seen him as he slept. his dress and manners bespoke the gentleman; but he had left no name, and she vainly endeavoured to discover who he was. the next day brought the young man once more to the cottage door, but in a very different state. sally was not at home, but the old woman invited him forward, and requested him to be seated. "give my best thanks to your daughter," he said, as they conversed together, "and tell her i shall be for ever grateful to her, for she has proved as good as she is beautiful; and she is beautiful." "ther's lots o' nice young wimmen ith' world," said tip, "an shoo's one amang th' rest." after sitting for a few minutes whilst the old woman warned him of the danger he placed himself in by giving way to such evil habits, and having promised never again to forget himself so far, he shook hands with the worthy couple and departed, leaving behind him a handsome sum of money, unknown to them. not long after, sally was returning home, when she met the same young man. the recognition was mutual, and he at once joined her and strolled along by her side, pouring forth his thanks for her kindness, and begging that she would not look upon him with disgust on account of the unfavourable circumstances under which their first meeting took place. his manners were so easy, and his conversation so entertaining, that they reached the end of the street in which she lived, almost before she was aware. he bade her "good night," and struck off in an opposite direction. sally's heart palpitated more quickly than usual, as she entered the house, and for some reason, unknown even to herself, she did not acquaint her parents with the interview. she endeavoured to occupy her mind by busying herself with the little household affairs, but her manner was abstracted, so feigning exhaustion she went to her room, at an earlier hour than usual. she slept, but not that deep, quiet, undisturbed slumber that wraps in oblivion all the senses. she dreamed strange dreams, in which she saw strange faces, but the one face was ever there, and in the morning she arose, feverish and unrefreshed. chapter ii. some months had elapsed since sally's first interview with young arthur grafton, (for such his name proved to be,) and during that time matters had assumed a very different character. one or two meetings seemingly accidental, led to an intimacy growing between them, which was not easily to be mistaken. arthur was a young man possessing great advantages, not only in personal attractions, but as the possessor of an ample fortune. his father had been dead many years and his mother resided in the neighbourhood of london. no sooner, however, did arthur attain his majority, and find himself in such a favoured position, than he gave way to those excesses which are generally somewhat lightly styled, youthful indiscretions. his mother had done all that lay in her to prevail upon him to alter his course of conduct, but he being headstrong, yet affectionate, and not wishing to cause her pain, at the same time being disinclined to follow her advice, left home in order to be free from all restraint. thus it happened that he was spending a porportion of his time in y------. sally's parents were not blind to the state of their daughter's feelings towards arthur, but they were full of fear. once or twice he had called at the cottage, and they had marked the unnatural sparkle of his eye, that told of a too great indulgence in drink. on one or two occasions he had openly scoffed at religion, and treated as jests, things they held to be most sacred. they often spoke to sally and warned her, but her usual reply was a light laugh, or an assurance that she knew what she was doing. little by little she ceased to think there was anything very wrong in a young man becoming intoxicated, if he only did it occasionally. her attendance at church was not so regular, and in a short time it ceased altogether, and she looked forward to the sabbath only as a day of recreation, and one on which she could spend more time with him who was day by day leading her farther from the path of duty. many a friend warned her of her danger, but her whole soul had become so wrapped up in him, that his very vices appeared as virtues, in her eyes. sally had not forgotten her early teachings, and many a night when all was hushed, the still small voice of conscience whispered, 'beware, --beware,' but she would not listen to it, she had set her heart upon him, and although she could not but admit he had many faults, yet she strove to believe that she had the power to wean him from his evil ways. one night the old couple and their daughter were sat by their cheerful fire. tip, as was his wont, smoking his pipe,--the old woman bending over the oft consulted bible, and sally with her elbow resting upon the table and her head leaned upon her hand, gazing at the kitten sleeping on the hearth, although she saw it note arthur had failed to keep his appointment and she was sad in consequence. a loud knock at the door disturbed them,--sally hastened to open it, and arthur in a state of wild intoxication rushed in. even sally shuddered and shrank from his attempted caresses. her mother shook her head, and looking upward seemed to implore help from him of whose death she had just been reading:--whilst old tip rose to his feet, took the pipe from his mouth, and angrily pointed towards the door. drunk as arthur was, he comprehended his meaning, but advancing towards him with uncertain gait, he placed a hand upon each shoulder and forced him back into his seat, uttering a fearful oath. sally strove to quiet him, and implored her father to excuse him, at the same time begging of arthur to leave the house. the consternation and excitement of those about him, seemed to add fuel to the fire already within him, and tearing the bible from the old woman's lap, he hurled it on the fire. tip rushed to save it, but arthur seized the poker and stood threatening death to any who dared to touch it. tip, undaunted, made another effort. the dreadful weapon fell upon his unprotected head, and in another instant he was stretched upon the floor. the sight of poor tip in such a state, together with the wailing and weeping of sally and her mother, seemed to have the effect of sobering him a little; he threw down the poker, opened the door, and, without a word, passed out. chapter iii. a bright spring morning succeeded the night on which the commotion had taken place in tip's usually quiet home. he was stirring about the house as was his custom, a bandage over his brow being the only indication of the recent unpleasant event. the wound was not a dangerous one, and the unceasing attention of his daughter had enabled him to rally much sooner than might have been expected. sally and her mother were also bustling about. not a word escaped from any of them in reference to what had taken place. old tip looked more than usually morose, the mother, more than usually sorrowful, and sally's brow was contracted and her lips compressed, and her eyes spoke of fixed determination. she dressed herself with more than usual care, and lingered over many little things before she bade her usual good morning; and when she closed the door she gazed a moment at the old familiar structure, wiped the tears from her eyes, that in spite or all she could do, would come to testify that her heart was not so callous as she fain would make it appear; and then she walked rapidly away--but not to her work. no! she sought the home of him who had come like a blight on their domestic peace. she carried with her no feeling of resentment--her heart was full of love and compassion. she had undergone a dreadful struggle. the climax had arrived. she must choose between her parents and her lover. it was a hard, hard task, but it was over. house and parents, all that had been associated with her early and happy years, sacrificed for one whose past life had brought to her so much misery. she reached the door, rang the bell, and was ushered into the room in which arthur sat vainly endeavouring to recall the circumstances of the preceding night. he was pleased yet astonished to see her, and they were quickly engaged in an earnest and hurried conversation. in a few minutes arthur rang the bell, and gave orders for all his boxes to be packed and conveyed to the nearest railway station. he called for his bill which he discharged with alacrity, a hired carriage was at the door, arthur and sally entered it and she returned home no more. the grief of her parents was very great when they knew that she had left them, and they anxiously waited for some tidings of her whereabouts, but no tidings came. for a time remittances of money came regularly, but these suddenly stopped, and their only means of subsistence was gone. the articles of furniture were disposed of one by one, to supply the cravings of appetite, but they were soon exhausted, and one morning saw them placed in a cart and taken to the workhouse. they had both been gradually sinking since sally's flight, and it was but a short time after the removal from their home, that the parish hearse removed them to the last home of all flesh in this world. the fact of their ever having existed seemed to be almost forgotten, when a painful tragedy revived it in the minds of those who had known them. when newspapers gave the distressing account of a young woman having leaped from london bridge into the river, bearing in her arms a little babe. they were taken out quite dead, and on being searched, a piece of paper with the following words written upon it was all that was found. 'let my dreadful fate be a warning to the young. i was young and beautiful,--i became proud and ambitious,--i ceased to lend an ear to the kind counsel of my parents,--i ceased to look upon sin with abhorence,--i sought pleasure in iniquity,--the torments of hell can be no worse than those i have endured, my seducer lives to make other victims,--my babe dies with me, lest it should ever live to know its parent's shame,--i go to meet my god,--a murderess and a suicide. my only hope is in his unbounded mercy, and the intercession of his son. sally green. reader, does not this little story teach a moral? i think it does. be not proud of the personal attractions with which nature has blessed you. shun evil company,--obey your parents, and fear god always. sally green's case is not an isolated one. there are thousands at the present moment, who are pressing on in the same path that terminated so dreadfully for her. watch and pray, lest it should be your unhappy lot to be described in old tip's expressive words, as 'one amang th' rest.' what's yor hurry? ther's nowt done weel 'ud's done in a hurry, unless its catchin a flea, aw've heeard sed, but joa trailer wod'nt ha believed 'at that should be done in a hurry, for he hurried for nowt. it wor allus sed 'at he wor born to th' tune o'th' deead march, an suckled wi' slowman's soothin syrup. his mother declared a better child nivver lived, for he hardly ivver cried, net even for his sops, for if he showed signs o' startin, ther wor allus time enuff to get' em made befoor he'd getten fairly off. he began cuttin his teeth when he wor six months old, an' he'd nobbut getten two when his birthday coom, an' when th' old wimmen used to rub his gums wi ther fingers he used to oppen his een an' stare at 'em as if he wondered what they wor i' sich a hurry for. his mother wor forty-five year old when he wor born, an' shoo anlls sed he wor born sadly too lat, an' if that's th' case ther's noa wonder 'at he's allus behund hand, for ther's nowt can ivver mak him hurry to mak up for lost time. they sent him to a schooil an' paid tuppince a wick for him, but they mud as weel ha saved ther brass, for if they managed to get him to start i' time, he just contrived to get thear when it wor lowsin. he nivver leearned owt but he sed he meant to do sometime, but ther wor time enuff yet: soa he grew up to be a big ovvergrown ignoramus, an' his mother could'nt tell what to do wi him. shoo put him 'prentice to a cobbler, but his maister sent him hooam when he'd been thear a month, for he sed he'd been tryin to spetch a pair o' child's clogs ivver sin he went, an' 'at th' rate he wor gettin on wi 'em he'd have' em thrown on his hands, for th' child ud be grown up befoor they wor finished. "what am aw to do wi' thi," sed his mother, "aw can't afford to keep thi to laik?" "wait a bit," he said, "'an give a chap a chonce. yor i' sich a hurry abaat iverything. rome worn't built in a day." "noa, an' if it had depended o' sich as thee it nivver wod ha been built, awm thinkin!" one day, as he wor sittin on a stoop at th' loin end, a chap com ridin up to him, an' ax'd him if he'd hold his horse for him a minit or two. "eea," he said, "tak for time a bit an awl hold it." it tuk him some time to sydle up an tak hold o'th' reins, an then th' chap left him, tellin him whativver else to stand thear an' net run away wi' it. "awst nooan run far," he sed, an' in abaat ten minits he laft all over his face at th' idea o' sich a thing. it wor a varry quiet horse, an' joa thowt 'at he'd getten th' reight seoart ov a job at last, an' when th' chap coom back he gave him a shillin. if he'd been slow i' other things, he had'nt been vany slow i' leearnin th' vally o' brass, an' as it wor th' furst time he'd ivver had a shillin he wor soa excited 'at he started off hooam at a jog trot, an' th' fowk 'at knew him wor soa capt wol they could'nt tell what to mak on it, but they thowt he must be havin' a race wi' some sooapsuds at wor runnin daan th' gutter; but that wornt it, for he'd getten a noashun at noa trade ud suit him as weel as fishin, for he could tak his own time wi' that, an' he felt sewer he'd be lucky, for if they wor'nt inclined to nibble he'd caar thear wol they'd be glad to bite to get shut on him; an' he'd seen a fishin rod to sell for a shillin, soa he thowt he'd goa hooam an' as sooin as he'd getten his dinner he'd buy it. when he gate in, his mother said, "whear's ta been, an' whativer is ther to do 'at maks thi come in puffin an' blowin like that?" "aw've been to th' end o'th' loin," he sed, "an' wol aw wor thear a chap coom an' ax'd me to hold his horse for him, an' he's glen me a shillin." "well, tha's been sharp for once, an' awm fain to see it, for its a comfort to know at owt can stir thi. gie me' that shillin, its just come i' time, for aw wor at my wits end what to do for a bit o' dinner, an' that'll just come in to get a bit o' summat." joa pottered it aght, an' as shoo took' it shoo sed, "nah, tha sees what it is to be sharp.--tha's done rarely this' mornin." "eea, aw see what it is to be sharp, an' if ivver yo catch me sharp agean yo may call me sharp, for if aw had'nt run hooam 'fit to braik me neck aw should ha had that shillin.--but it sarves me reight to loise it for bein i' sich a hurry." he wor as gooid as his word, an' he's nivver been known to hurry sin. when he gate to be a man he fancied he wor i' love wi' a young woman 'at lived claise to his mother's,--one at wor just as queer a karacter as hissen, wi this difference, shoo could haddle her own livin wi weshin. he tell'd his mother 'at he meant to ax her to have him somday, an' shoo sed shoo wor feeared he'd think abaat it wol they'd be booath too old; but he did'nt, for he met her one day an' he ax'd her if shoo'd nivver thowt o' sich a thing? "nay," shoo sed, "sich a thowt's nivver entered mi heead, an' if it had aw should nivver ha' thawt o' thee,--but awm i' noa hurry to get wed." "noa moor am aw," he sed, "but aw thawt awd mention it, an' tha can tak thi own time,--all aw want to know is, if tha'll have me when tha's made up thi mind?" "tha'd suit me weel enuff joa, if tha'd owt to do, but aw can't wesh to keep misen an' have thee sittin o' th' harstun for a ornament, thar't hardly gooid lukkin enuff for that;--if tha'll stir thisen an' get some wark awl tawk to thi." soa joa left her to consider on it, an' he determined to try if he could'nt find summat to do. as he wor creepin on a chap ovvertuk him an says, "what are ta up to nah, joa?" "awm seekin wark!" "why, if tha keeps on at that speed awm feeard tha'll nivver find ony, for if it wur anent thi tha could'nt ovvertak it. "awm nooan tryin to ovvertak it,--but tha sees if ther's ony comin behund it'll have a chonce o' overtakkin me, an' if aw wor go in faster it might think aw wor tryin to get aght o'th' way on it: an' whativer fowk may say, awm net one o' them 'ats feeard o' wark, for aw nivver put misen aght oth' way to shirk owt yet." "noa, nor to seek owt nawther; but aw heeard ov a job this mornin at'll just suit thi." "what wor it?" "old rodger wants a chap to drive his heears, an' its just the job for thee, for th' horse knows th' way to th' cemetary, an' tha'll have nowt to do but sit o'th box. tha'd better see after it." "aw think aw will sometime this afternooin," he sed, "aw could just manage that sooart o' wark." "tha'd better goa nah if tha meeans to luk after it, or tha may be too lat,--but gooid mornin, aw hav'nt time to stand here ony longer." "aw doant know whether to believe him or net," he sed, "for aw think he's nooan reight in his heead, or he'd nivver ha' spokken abaat standin' here when we've been walkin' all th' time. but ther can be noa harm i' gooin to see after it, an' if aw get it, abergil can have noa excuse for refusin' me." it tuk him a long time to get to rodger's tho' it wor'nt aboon hauf a mile, an' when he tell'd what he'd come for, rodger lukt at him an' sed "well, tha'll do varry weel as far as thi face an' figger's consarned, for tha luks as solid as a tombstun, but if aw gie thi th' job tha mun promise to drive as a'w tell thi, for aw seckt th' last chap aw had becoss he wod drive ta fast when he wor aght o' mi seet; an' tha knows ther's nowt luks wor nor a gallopin funeral, an' aw want somdyaw can trust." "yo, can trust me, an if yo'll gie me th' job aw warrant awl, drive just as slow as yo want. but what's th'wage?" "ten shillin a wick, an' tha'll have as mich curran cake an' warm ale as tha can teim into thi, an' thi clooas all fun for nowt." "awl tak it, an' yo can let me know when awm to start." "tha'l have to start to-day, for old. nancy has to be buried this afternooin, soa tha can stop an' have a bit o' dinner an' wesh thi face, an' put on thi black clooas an' start off." "awm nooan in a hurry to start, but if yo'd rayther i did, why, ov coorse awl do as yo say." soa he did as he wor ordered, an' in a varry short time rodger gate him all ready an' th' heears browt aght, an' they booath gate onto th' box, an' rodger set off to th' haase drivin varry slowly. "nah," he said, "tha mun watch me ha aw drive, an' tha mun drive th' same way, or slower if owt. aw know tha'rt nooan fonda' fussin thisen, an' aw dooant want thi to hurry th' horse." "awl hurry nowt," he sed. when they gate to th' haase rodger waited wal he saw all ready and then he left him. ther wor noa danger o' anybody gettin that horse to goa at maar nor three miles i'th' haar, for it wor booath laim an' blind, an' seem'd varry mich inclined to drop on its knees at ivvery step. it started off at snail pace, but even that wor too mich for joa. "wo, gently!" he sed, an' it stood stock still. "when are ta gooin to start?" sed one o'th' mourners, "if tha does'nt mind we'st be too lat to get into th' cemetary." "thee mind thi' own business,--aw've getten mi orders." "tha'll have to hurry up or else we'st be to lat aw tell thi! we're all stall'd o' waitin!" "its nooan thee at we're baan to bury or tha wodn't be i' sich a hurry. awst tak noa orders nobbut throo rodger or nancy, soa tha can shut up." th' old horse started off agean, an' at last they gate to th' far end, but it wor ommost dark, an' when they'd taen th' coffin aght o'th' heears he drew up to one side to wait wol th' ceremony wor ovver, an' when th' fowk caom throo th' grave side joa wor fast asleep, an' th' horse too, soa they left' em whear they wor an' went hooam. some chaps i'th' village gate to hear abaat joa's drivin an' fallin asleep, soa they thowt they'd have a bit ov a marlock on, an abaat a duzzen on' em went to th' cemetary gates, an tho' it wor dark they faand th' heears an' th' horse just as it had been drawn up, and joa fast asleep. one on 'em at had an old white hat changed it varry gently for joa's black 'en, an' then they hid thersen at tother side o'th' wall. one on 'em set up a whistle at wakkened joa, an' as sooin as he began to rub his een an' wonder whear he wor, they begun singin th' old hundred. "bith' heart!" he said, "they tell'd me at tha'd a varry hard deeath nancy, an' it seems tha'rt having a varry hard burrin. aw declare awve been asleep, an' its as dark as a booit. awm hauf starved stiff wi caarin here, but aw should think they'll nooan be long nah, for they sewerly dooant mean to stop thear singin all th' neet." th' chaps waited vary still for a while wol he began grumblin agean. "aw dooant see ony use i'me caarin here ony longer. ther'll nubdy want to ride inside. aw may as weel be off hooam." just then th' chaps sang another verse, an' he thowt he'd better stop a bit longer, soa he put up his coit collar to keep th' wind aght of his neck, an' wor sooin fast asleep agean. as sooin as they fun it aght they varry quitely tuk th' horse aght o'th' shafts an' turned it into a field cloise by, an' lifted th' gate off th' hinges an' propt it up between th' shafts asteead o'th' horse, an' hung th' harness ovver it; then they teed th' appron strings fast soa as he could'nt get off his seeat, an' waited wol he wakkened agean. they hadn't long to wait before he gave a gape or two, an' then he sed, "awm nooan baan to caar here ony longer! aw nobbut agreed to come to th' burrin, aw didn't bargain to stop wol they lettered th' gravestooan! gee up!" an' he started floggin th' horse for owt he knew, but it nivver stirred. "ger on wi' thi! or else awl bury thee an' all!" an' he slashed away wi' th' whip, but th' heears nivver moved. next he tried to get daan to see if he could leead it, but he couldn't lause th' appron at wor across his legs, soa he had to creep aght as he could an' climb onto th' top, an' as th' top wor smooth an' polished he slipt off, an' sat daan ith' middle o'th' rooad wi' sich a bang at if he worn't wakkened befoor ther wor noa fear on him bein' asleep after that. "tha'rt a bigger fooil nor aw tuk thi for joa," he said to hissen, as he sam'd hissen up, "aw thowt tha'd sense enuff to tak thi time an' net come off th' top ov a thing like that i' sich a hurry. it ommost knockt th' wind aght o' me, an' if aw dooant knock th' wind aght o' that horse awl see." it wor nobbut leet enuff to see th' glimmer oth' harness, tho' th' mooin wor just risin, an' he laid his whip on wi' a vengence, but as it did'nt offer to stir he went up to it. "what's th' matter wi' thi?" an' he put aght his hand to find it. "well, awl be shot! tha worn't mich when we set off, but tha seems to ha gooan to nowt! aw could caant thi ribs befoor, but aw can feel 'em nah. ther's nowt left but a skeleton!" th' meoin began to show a bit breeter, an' after grooapin abaat for a while he sed, "it strikes me it isn't a horse at all. ther's somdy been playin me a trick. awm nooan mich ov a driver at th' best hand, an' awd as mich as aw could manage to drive comin, but awm blest if aw can drive a five barr'd gate goo in back! awm fast what to do wi' this lot." "why, what's th' matter, joa?" sed one o'th' chaps, comin' up as if he knew nowt abaat it. "what are ta dooin wi' th' heears here at this time o' neet?" "that's what aw want to know," he sed, an' he tell'd him all he knew abaat it. "well, th' horse can't be far off," th' chap sed, "they'd nivver tak th' horse, for it isn't worth stailin. it'll be i' one o' theas fields sewer enuff. we can find it bi mooin leet." joa an him went to seek it, an' as he knew just whear to find it they had'nt long to luk. as sooin as ther backs wor turned, tother chaps oppened th' heears an' filled it wi' th' biggest topstooans off th' wall 'at they could lift, an' when it wor fairly looadened they shut it up agean, an' left it as if it had nivver been touched. joa an' his friend coom back wi' th' horse, an' had it harnessed up all right, but altho' it tugged an' pooled as hard as it could, it did'nt stir th' heears. "its studden soa long wol aw think it must ha' takken rooit," sed joa. "o, nay, its nobbut settled a bit wi' th' graand bein soft. it'll goa reight enuff when it gets off. tak hold o' one o'th' wheels an' let's give it a start." th' old horse pooled its hardest, an' wi' th' help they gave at th' wheels they set it movin, an' as sooin as th' chap saw that, he bid joa geoid neet an' left him, tellin him at if it stuck fast he mud get behund an' thrust a bit. it hadn't gooan monny yards when joa saw he mud awther thrust or stop thear all th' neet, an' altho' th' rate they wor gooin at wor slow enuff to suit even one a' joa's disposition, yet th' sweeat rolled off him, for he'd quite as mich to do as th' horse. once or twice he stopt to consider whether he hadn't better tak th' horse aght an' get into th' shafts hissen. abaat two o'clock i'th' mornin they gate back hooam, an' old rodger wor waitin for him in a ragin temper, an' when he saw his favorite horse, "old pickle," blowin an' steamin as if it had just come aght ov a mash tub, an' joa wi' a white hat on, he wor sewer he'd been on th' spree. he didn't give him a chance to spaik, but set to an' called him ivverything he could lig his tongue to joa tried to explain matters, but it wor noa use. "its th' last time tha'll ivver drive for me! tha's been ommost twelve haars away!" "why, yo sed aw hadn't to hurry,--but if my drivin doesn't suit yo, yo can drive yorsen, an' welcome; for that horse o' yor's wants huggin, net drivin,--yo did reight to call it 'old pickle,' for its getten me into a bonny pickle!" "an what are ta dooin wi' that white hat? an' whears th' hat aw lent thi?" "this is th' hat yo lent me, for aw've nivver touched it sin aw set off, an' if its changed color aw can't help it--if it weant do for a burrin it'll do for a weddin." "dooant tell me nooan o' thi lies! awm ommast fit to give thi a gooid hidin whear tha stands!" "yo'd better think twice abaat that!" "aw will'nt think once," he sed, an' made a rush at him but joa held his fist aght, an' rodger ran agean it wi' sich a force wol he flew back an' messured his whole length ith' street. "what's th' meanin o' that," he sed, as he sam'd hissen up,--"isn't it enuff, thinks ta, to goa on th' spree an' ommost kill a horse, but tha mun come an' start o' illusin me? but awl mak thi smart for this as sewer as my name is what it is!" "aw nivver touched yo," sed joa, "all aw did wor to hold mi' neive aght; an' if yo had'nt run agean it i' sich a hurry it wod'nt ha harmed yo." "awl let thi see whether it wod'nt or net! goa into th' haase an' change them clooas, an' nivver let mi' see thi face agean!" joa wor as anxious to change his clooas an' get off hooam as rodger wor to be shut on him, for his shirt wor wet throo wi' sweeatin, an' his shoulder had th' skin off wi' thrustin, to say nowt abaat th' knocks he'd getten when he tummeld off th' heears. he didn't loise any time, an' when he coom back rodger had just oppened th' heears an' fun all th' stooans. "what the degger's th' fooil been doin?" he sed, as he held a ieet to luk inside. "what's ta fill'd th' heears wi' stooans for, lumpheead? why, ther's a looad big enuff for a elephant." "they're just as yo put 'em in," sed joa, "aw nivver touched ony on 'em; an' if yo'll gie me mi wage awl be off hooam." "here's two shillin! goa an' buy a rooap to hang thisen, for tha arn't fit to live!" "when awm deead yo'll happen bury me for nowt, considerin 'at aw've worked for yo?" "eea, an' welcome! th' sooiner an' th' better!" "awm varry mich obliged to yo, an' awl send yo word when yore wanted, but dooant be in a hurry.--ther's nowt like takkin yer time. gooid neet." as that wor th' last job joa ivver hed, abergil did'nt mak up her mind to have him, but that does'nt trouble him, for he says "gettin wed is a job a chap can do ony time, an' ther's noa need to be in a hurry." his mother's ommost fast what to do wi' him, an' hardly a day passes but what shoo axes him "if he ivver meeans to get owt to do?" an' he allus says, "awm thinkin abaat it. give a chap a bit o' time! what's yor hurry?" ha owd stooansnatch's dowter gate wed. he wor a reight hard-hearted sooart ov a chap wor owd stooansnatch; ther wor hardly a child 'at lived i'th' seet o'th' smook ov his chimley but what ran away when they saw him coming, an' ther mothers, when they wanted to freeten 'em a bit used to say, 'aw'll fotch owd stooansnatch if tha doesn't alter.' he wor worth a gooid bit o' brass, 'at he'd scraped together someway, but like moor sich like it didn't mak him a jot happier, an' he lived as miserly as if he hadn't a penny. even th' sparrows knew what sooart ov a chap he wor, for they'd goa into iverybody's back yard for two or three crumbs but his, an' if one wor iver seen abaat his door, it wor set daan to be a young en 'at wor leearnin wit. fowk sed 'at he clam'd his wife to deeath, for he wodn't pairt wi' th' smook off his porrige if he could help it. th' cowdest day i' winter ther wor hardly a bit o' fire i'th' grate, an' sich a thing as a cannel ov a neet wor quite aght o' question. th' fowk 'at kept th' shop at th' yard end, sed he did buy a pund when his wife wor laid deead i'th' haase, but it wor becoss he darn't stop wi' a deead body at neet i'th' dark. but he'd a dowter, as grand a lass 'as iver a star pept throo a skyleet at; shoo wor a beauty, an' shoo wor as gooid as shoo wor bonny. when aw used to see her, shoo used to remind me ov a lily in a assmidden. shoo'd noa grand clooas to her back, but what shoo had shoo lined 'em i' sich a nice style wol they allus luk'd weel. monny a chap wished he'd niver seen her, an' monny a one made up ther mind if shoo wor to be had to get her. some tried one way an' some another, but owd stooansnatch wor ready for 'em. them 'at went honor bright up to th' door an' axed, he ordered abaght ther business, an' them 'at went creepin abaght th' haase after dark, he used to nawp wi' his stick if he could catch' em. but ther wor one, a reglar blade, he used to be allus playin some sooarts o' marlocks, but iverybody liked him except owd stooansnatch. he'd gooan wi' a donkey hawkin puttates an' turnips an' stuff for a year or two, an' as he'd gooan his raand he'd seen bessy,--'bonny bessy,' as fowk called her--an' th' neighbors nooaticed 'at if shoo wanted owt, 'at he allus picked th' grandest bit he had for her, an' used to give her far moor bumpin weight nor what he gave them. he'd gooan as far as to give her a wink once or twice, an' shoo'd gooan as far as to give him a smile, but that wor all they'd getten to. but one neet when he'd getten hooam, an' th' donkey wor put i'th' stable, an' all his wark done, he sat daan ov a stooil an' stared into th' fire. 'what's th' matter wi' thi, joa?' sed his owd mother; 'aw see tha's summat o' thi mind, hasn't ta had a gooid day?' 'yi! aw've had a gooid enuff day, mother, it isn't that.' 'why what is it lad? tha luks a wantin.' 'yo say reight, an' aw am a wantin, but aw dooan't meean to be long. aw've made up mi mind to get wed, an' sooin an' all; for awm sure yo arn't fit to be tewin as yor forced to be nah.' 'a'a, joa, tha'rt tryin to fooil thi owd mother awm feeard! but aw wish aw may live to see that day, for aw think if aw saw thi nicely settled aw could leave this world better content. but who does ta think o' havin? aw didn't know tha wor cooartin.' 'well, aw dooant think yo did, for aw havn't begun yet, but awve made up mi mind to start, an that sooin.' 'waw, ther'll be a bit ov a sign when tha does begin, but if tha luks soa yonderly afoor startin, aw dooant know what tha'll luk like afoor th' weddin day. but let's be knowin who's th' lass.' 'well, aw know yo'll be capt when aw tell yo; but it's owd stooansnatch dowter.' 'th' grandest lass aw iver clapt mi een on, but if that's her tha's made choice on awm feeard tha'll be disappointed. owd stooansnatch 'll want a different chap throo bi thee for his son i'-law; waw, mun, when owt happens th' owd man, shoo'll be worth her weight i' gold.' 'hi! fowk say soa, an' aw've been thinkin 'at that's nooan a bad thing! aw'll drop hawkin then, mother. if aw get aw'll that brass aw'll have suet dumplins to ivery meal. but putting all that i'th' back graand, if shoo hadn't a rag to her back nor a penny in her pocket, shoo's th' lass for me; an' aw connot rest for thinkin abaat her, an' awm just studdyin abaat gooin to see her to neet.' 'why, lad, art ta reight i' thi heead, thinks ta? doesn't ta know what sooart ov a chap her fayther is?' 'aw should think aw do! aw've nooan traded wi' him soa long withaat findin him aght.' 'well, awm nowt agean thi cooartin, but aw think tha mud ha fun sumdy likelier nor bessy; for tha'll nobbut be wastin thi time, tha may depend on't. they'll have to be sumdy better nor thee 'at gets bessy.' 'better nor me! waw, aw wonder whean yo'll find him! for aw can wrastle ony chap mi own weight, an' aw'll set misen agean th' world for bein a judge ov a gooid maily puttate. nah, if yo think awm gooin a beggin for her to owd stooansnatch yo're off yor horse, for awm net. awm baan to ax her th' furst, an' if shoo says 'eea,' aw'l sooin work owd stooansnatch into th' mind.' 'why, lad, aw dooan't know what's getten into thi heead, but ther niver wor one o' awr family went cracked afoor, an' aw hooap tha'll come raand.' 'nah, mother, yo dooant know all 'at aw know, but aw'l just let yo into a bit ov a saycret. nah, aw've nooaticed 'at bessy allus blushes when shoo comes to buy owt o' me, an' shoo luks onywhear else rayther nor shoo'll luk at me; an' shoo strokes th' owd donkey's nooas an' maks a fuss on him, an' even gies him th' carrot tops, an' he munches' em up an' luks at me as mich as to say--'this is her joa; spaik up like a man an' tha'll win;' an' latly he's begun to rawt as sooin as iver we've getten into th' end o' th' street, an' aw tak that for a gooid sign, for yo know jerusalem wod do owt for me. an' nah as aw've finished mi supper aw'll be off.' 'well, lad, aw wish thi weel, but awm feeard. aw think if aw wor thee aw should want summat moor nor a donkey rawtin to set me off o' sich a eearand as that. listen! does ta hear it nah? it's a rawtin agean. can ta tell me what that means?' 'nay, by gow, aw dooant know. aw think it must meean 'luk sharp.'' 'aw think it meeans tha'rt a choolter heead, that's what aw think.' 'neer heed, mother; yo'll see when aw come back.' soa off joa went, full o' faith. when he gate aghtside, th' mooin wor just risin, an' th' stars wor sparklin up i'th' sky, an' all wor clear an' still. it wor a gooid two miles to bessy's, an' he'd time to think a bit; an' he kept turnin over in his mind what his mother had sed abaght gooin cracked, an' he began to have some daats as to whether he wor altogether square or net. 'a'a,' he sed, 'aw've missed it this time, for aw mud ha browt her a heearin or some oonions for her supper, but it's just like me, aw allus think o' thease things when it's too lat--aw must ha been born a bit to lat; but what awm to do, or what awm to say when aw get to owd stooansnatche's aw connot tell. but fortune favors th' brave,' an' aw have been lucky befoor, soa aw'll hooap to be lucky agean.' joa wor fast lessenin th' distance between hissen an' th' haase whear owd stooansnatch lived, an' it worn't long befoor he stood peepin in at th' winder. he couldn't see owt, for all wor as dark as a booit inside. he then began tryin to mak up a speech, or frame some mak ov excuse for comin, but he wor clean lick'd, for moor he tried, an' th' farther off he seemed to get, an he began to think 'at if he went on studdyin mich longer it ud end in him gooin back baght dooin owt, soa he screwed up his pluck an' knocked at th' door. he could hear a mumblin an' scufflin inside, an' somdy strike a match, an' in a bit he heeard somdy unlock two or three locks, an' shooit five or six bolts, an' then th' door oppened abaght two inch, an' a nooas 'at iverybody knew belang'd to owd stooansnatch bobbed aght. 'what does ta want at this time o'th' neet?' sed th' owd man. 'nay, nowt particlar; but didn't yo give me hauf-a-craan amang that copper this mornin, think yo? aw shouldn't like to wrang onybody, an' aw did get hauf-a-craan somewhere.' th' door oppened in a minit, an' joa went in. he knew weel enuff 'at th' hauf craan didn't belang to th' owd sinner, but he didn't care as he'd getten in an' bessy wor sittin bi th' side o'th' fire lukkin bonnier, he thowt nor iver. owd stooansnatch wor reckonin to caant up his brass, an' in a bit he says,--'tha'rt reight, joa, lad, it's mine; awm just hauf-a-craan short, soa tha can give it me.' joa hadn't heeard a word o' this speech, for his een wor fixed o' bessy. an' his maath wor oppen as if he wor gooin to swallow her. bessy wor blushin, an' seemed varry mich takken up wi' her toa 'at had popt throo th' end ov her slipper. 'does ta hear me?' he sed sharply, 'aw tell thi it's mine, an' tha mun give it me, an' dooant stand starin thear! gi me that brass, an' then tak thisen off hooam! aw connot affooard to keep a cannel burnin this rooad for nowt.' 'why, thear's th' brass,' sed joa, flinging it on to th' table. 'aw should think it owt to pay for a cannel or two.' 'it's nowt to thee what it'll pay for! but tha's noa need to sit daan thear for we're gooin to bed, an' soa tha mun goa.' 'well dooan't bi i' sich a hurry abbat it, awm net goin to stop all th' neet yo needn't think, but aw've another bit o' business to see yo abaat, 'at'll be moor i' yer way nor that hauf-craan's been.' 'well if that's th' case tha con stop a bit an' aw'll put th' cannel aght, for we can tawk i'th' dark. an' nah tell me what it is.' 'yo see,' sed joa, 'aw've been thinkin 'at it ud be a trouble to yo to loise yor dowter, for aw know shoo's a gooid lass.' 'shoo's a extravagant hussey, that's what shoo is,' sed stooansnatch, 'for shoo's just gien a booan away 'at's niver been stew'd nobbut once.' 'why shoo mayn't be just as careful as yo, shoo's young yet; but then aw dooant think if her an' me gate wed withaat iver lettin yo know 'at yo'd be altogether suited.' 'wed! wed! who says shoo's gooin to get wed? wed! what to a bit ov a puttaty hawker? if tha mentions sich a thing to me aw'll bundle thi aght o'th' door i' quick sticks.' 'well, aw have mentioned it, an' aw'st mention it agean if aw like; an' as for shovin me aght o'th' door, aw'll forgi yo if yo do that.' an joa quietly gate up an' locked th' door an' put th' key in his pocket. when owd stooansnatch saw that he lauped aght of his cheer, fooamin at th' maath like a mad dog. 'what are ta baan to do? does ta want to rob me? aw'll mak thee pay for this!' 'yo can call it robbin if yo like, but what aw've coom for is yor dowter, an' aw mean to have her unless shoo says noa, an' aw dooant think her heart's hard enuff for that,' sed joa lukkin at her. but bessy niver spaik, an' shoo seemed as if shoo could see nowt but th' toa aght o'th' end ov her slipper. 'tha nasty ragamuffin! tha impident scamp! oppen that door! if tha doesn't aw'll fetch th' perleece! aw'd rayther bury her alive nor tha should have her!' 'why yo needn't get into sich a fit abaat it fayther (for aw suppooas aw may call yo fayther nah), yo know sich things--' 'fayther! fayther! whose fayther? awm nooan thy fayther nor likely to be! aw'd rayther pairt wi' ivery hawpeny aw have nor iver think 'at tha wor owt to me!' 'well, bessy's fayther'll be my fayther when we get wed, an' aw dooan't see what ther is to be 'shamed on i' that. but aw think yo'd better put a bit o' coil on th' foir for it's rayther a cooil neet.' 'awst put noa coil on th' foir, aw con tell thi that. aw havn't getten my brass wi' burnin coil at this time o'th' neet. aw hooap tha'll be frozzen to th' deeath if tha doesn't goa.' 'noa fear abaat me bein frozzen, becoss if yo d'ooant put some on aw will, soa crack that nut, fayther.' 'aw'll crack thy nut if tha touches ony coils here!' sed stooansnatch, seizin hold o'th' pooaker, 'aw'll do that for thee an' sharply if tha doesn't hook it.' 'if yo cannot keep yor temper better nor that aw should advise yo to goa to bed an' leave bessy an' me to talk matters ovver a bit; an' awm net gooin to caar here an' get mi deeath o' cold for th' sake ov a bit ov coil aw can tell yo,' an' joa tuk th' coil basket an' emptied it onto th' foir. 'nah then just leearn me that pooaker, or else scale it yorsen fayther, an' then we shall have a bit o' leet.' but stooansnatch kept fast hold o'th' pooaker, soa joa scaled it wi' th' tongs. 'yo happen havn't owt to sup i'th' haase bessy, have yo?' he sed, spaikin to her for th' first time since he'd takken possession. but still bessy seem'd altogether takken up wi th' toa 'at wor peepin aght ov her slipper. 'dooan't be 'shamed lass, dooan't be 'shamed, thi fayther'll be all reight in a bit. come an' let's gie thi a kuss,' he sed, stoopin ovver her an' puttin his arm raand her waist. this wor moor nor owd stooansnatch could stand, soa swingin th' pooaker aboon his heead, he browt it daan wi' a fearful crack onto th' heead o' poor joa, who at once reel'd ovver an fell insensible to th' graand. terrified when he saw what he'd done, stooansnatch let th' pooaker fall, an' bessy jump'd up wringin her hands an' cryin 'oh, fayther! yo've killed him! yo've killed him! oh, joa, joa, spaik to me! what shall we do? fayther bring a leet sharp!' but that wor aght o'th' question, for his hand tremeld soa 'at he couldn't leet a cannel, soa bessy had to leet it, an' then shoo bent ovver th' form ov poor joa. a little crimson stream wor slowly formin a pool abaat his heead, an' his pale face luk'd soa awful wi' his jet black hair araand his brow, 'at bessy seemed ommast as terrified as her fayther. but tho' shoo wor scared for a minnit shoo sooin gate ovver it, an' set to bind up his heead an' place it carefully on a cushion. then shoo bathed his face wi' watter, but still ther wor noa sign o' life. 'aw didn't mean to hit him soa hard, bessy, awm sure aw didn't.' 'yo'll be hung for it as sure as yor standin thear, an' then what's to come o' me, left withaat onybody to care for me?' owd stooansnatch could say nowt for a long time, but at last he sed, 'bessy, put thi hand in his pocket for th' door kay. aw think aw'd better fotch a doctor.' bessy felt backward at putting her hand i' his pocket, but shoo did soa, an' handed th' kay to her fayther, an' in a varry short time he wor hobblin off for a doctor. bessy kept bathing his heead, an' in a while he slowly oppened his een an' luk'd raand. 'ha does ta feel, joa?' axed bessy, in a voice as tender as if shoo'd been talkin to a babby. 'whativer will thi mother say?' this sooart o' tawk browt joa to his senses. 'well, bessy,' he sed, 'my mother tell'd me aw wor gooin cracked bat aw think awm brokken nah. whear's thi fayther?' 'gooan for a doctor; he thinks tha'rt killed, an' he's terrified aght ov his wits.' 'well, if my heead worn't pratty thick, aw should ha done sellin puttates. but, bessy, if aw come raand all reight will ta be mi wife? tell me that?' 'hold thi noise; tha munnot talk--sithee ha thi heead's bleedin.' 'neer heed it! my heart'll bleed too if tha willn't ha me;--nah, lass, what says ta?' 'tha knows mi fayther'll niver agree to it, soa what's th' use o' talkin.' 'but will ta agree to it if he does? that's what aw want to know?' 'if tha'll nobbut hold thi noise aw'll agree to owt;--tha luks moor like burryin nor weddin.' 'well, that's settled, an' aw'll tell thi ha aw con get top-side o'th' old man. dunnot say a word abaat me havin come raand, an' when th' doctor comes aw'll put him up to a thing.' just then th' door oppen'd, an' stooansnatch an' th' doctor coom in. joa shut his een an' tried to luk as deead as he could. th' doctor felt his pulse, an' luk'd at his heead, an' sed, 'we must get this man to bed, it seems to me that his skull is fractured.' 'do yo think he's likely to dee?' axed stooansnatch. 'well, it's very doubtful; it's a bad case, but we must make the best of it, so help me to get him to bed.' they all three tuk hold on him, an' wi' a deeal o' trouble managed to get him into bessy's room, an' to bed. 'now then, get some brandy an' some stickin plaister,--bessy can fetch it.' 'na, aw'll fotch it; aw con get it cheaper,' sed stooansnatch. an' off he went, wonderin ha mich he could save aght o'th' hauf craan joa'd gien him. as sooin as he'd gooan, joa oppened his een, an' raisin hissen up on his elbow an' winkin at th' doctor, he sed, 'doctor, con yo keep a saycret?' th' doctor wor soa capt wol he ommost fell into th' assnuck, an' withaat waitin for him to spaik, joa sed, 'yo see aw've had a nasty knock, an aw mean to mak owd stooansnatch pay for it.' 'certainly! quite proper! sue him for â£100 damages. i'll attend as a witness.' 'but that isn't th' way aw want to mak him pay for it. aw dooan't want his brass, aw want his dowter, an' it's becoss aw axed him for her 'at he crack'd mi heead. nah, if yo can nobbut mak him believe 'at this is a varry bad case, an' freeten him wi' makkin him believe 'at aw shall niver get better, aw think we can manage it.' 'capital! capital!' sed th' doctor, rubbin his hands wi' glee (for he wor noa fonder o' stooansnatch nor th' rest o' fowk) 'th' very thing! you can depend on me. ah! here he comes.' joa shut his een, an th' doctor lained ovver him as if he wor examinin his heead, an' bessy stood wi' her apron up to her face as if shoo wor cryin, but shoo wor laughin fit to split, for shoo could enjoy a joke at th' owd man's expense as weel as onybody. owd stooansnatch coom in traidin of his tip tooas, holdin a roll o' plaister i' one hand an' sixpenoth o' brandy i'th' tother. th' doctor luk'd at him an' pool'd a long face an' sed, 'i'm afraid its of no use, mr. stooansnatch; this is a bad case, and had better be taken to the hospital.' 'will it be cheaper to have him thear nor at home?' sed stooansnatch. 'that i can't tell, but i shall be compelled to give you into custody. murder is a sad thing, mr. stooansnatch--a terrible thing, sir; and the hanging of an old man is an awful thing to contemplate.' 'murder? hanging? aw didn't do it! they'll niver hang me for it, will they? a'a dear, what'll come o' bessy an' all my bit o' brass? keep him here, doctor, an' try to cure him; aw dooant care if it costs a paand,' an th' old man trembled wol he had to steady hissen agean th' bed pooast. joa had kept quiet as long as he could, an for fear o' spoilin it all wi' laffin, he set up a groan laad enuff to wakken a deead en. 'poor fellow,' sed th' doctor, givin him a drop o' brandy, 'that's a fearful groan.' he then cut a lot o' hair, an' put on abaat six inch square o' plaister, an' leavin him, went into th' next room wi' owd stooansnatch, leavin bessy an' joa together, an' yo may bet joa made gooid use of his time, for he'd begun his cooartin i' hard earnest, an' he meant to goa throo wi' it. what they sed to one another aw dooant know, but aw suppoas they talk'd th' same sooart o' fooilery as other fowk, an' believed it. haiver, ther's one thing sartin, they coom to understand one another varry weel, or if they didn't, they thowt they did. when th' doctor an' th' owd man wor i'th' next room, an' th' door shut, th' doctor sed, 'tell me all about this affair,--how it happened, and tell me the truth, for if he dies, the law will require me to state all i know, and perhaps it might be possible to have the sentence commuted to transportation for life instead of hanging.' 'oh, doctor, do get me aght o' this scrape if yo can. aw'll tell yo all abaat it, an' yo tell me what to do.' soa he tell'd him all just as it happened, an' when he'd finished th' doctor luk'd wise for a minit or two, an' then he sed, varry slowly an' solemnly, 'so you spilt a fellow creature's blood because he wanted to marry your daughter. the case looks very bad--very bad.' 'what mun aw do, doctor? connot you tell me what to do?' 'i can only see one way, and that is, if we could bring him to consciousness, and get a minister to marry them before he dies, then you see he would be your son-in-law, and his mother would never like to have it said that her daughter-in-law's father had been hanged, and the thing might be hushed up; the only difference would be that your daughter would be a widow.' 'a widow! an' then shoo could claim his donkey, an puttates, an' all his clooas, couldn't shoo?' 'yes, certainly.' 'well, they'll be worth summat, for he's some varry gooid clooas, an' they'd just abaat fit me. aw think that's th' best way to do.' 'well if it has to be done it must be done quickly. if you will get a marriage license and a minister, i will endeavour to restore him to consciousness, so you had better be off.' off went old stooansnatch, tho' it wor nobbut four o'clock i'th' mornin. when he'd gooan, th' doctor tell'd all 'at had happened. bessy begged hard to have it put off for a wick, but joa tawk'd soa weel, an' th' doctor backed him i' all he sed, wol at last shoo consented. in abaat two haars, th' old man coom back, an browt th' license an' th' parson wi' him. 'is he livin yet?' he axed in a whisper. 'hush! yes, he still survives and is quite conscious,' an' withaat any moor to do he led' em into th' room an' motioned th' parson to waste noa time; an' he walked up to th' bedside an' takkin hold o' one o' each o' ther hands began his nomony, an' wor varry sooin throo wi' it, an' pronounced 'em man an' wife. it wor a gooid job at stooansnatch turned his back wol it wor gooin on, for if he hadn't he mud ha smell'd a rat, an' a big en too. as sooin as it wor ovver th' doctor went to joa an' axed him ha he felt. 'aw think awm gettin on gradely thank yo; ha's mi fayther gettin on?' he sed, in a voice as laad as if he wor hawkin his greens. th' parson wor soa takken wol he let his book tummel, an owd stooansnatch jumpt ommost aght ov his booits, an' turned raand to see if it wor possible to be joa 'at had spokken; an when he saw him sittin up, winking one e'e, an' a grin all ovver his face, he luk'd at him for a minit an then he sed, 'joa aw allus thowt thee a daycent sooart ov a lad, but aw niver gave thi credit for havin mich wit, but tha's getten th' best on me this time. tha's played thi cards pratty weel for that lass, an' tha hasn't wasted mich time ovver th' gam, but tha's ommost brokken mi heart.' 'well, yo've ommost brokken my heead, soa we're straight.' 'tha thinks tha's done summat clivver, but aw'll fix yo all, for aw willn't leave yo a hawpeny, noa net a hawpeny.' 'yo can keep all yor brass an' welcome, an' mich gooid may it do yo, aw've getten all yo had at aw hankered after, an soa nah aw'll get up an' tak her wi' me, for shoo's mine nah, an' aw think that old donkey an' me will be able to find her summat to ait, at any rate we'll try.' joa jumpt up (for he wor varry little warse for his hurt,) an' tellin bessy to put on her duds prepared to leeave. 'well, mr. stooansnatch,' sed th' doctor, 'a weddin is better than a hangin after all, isn't it?' 'hangin be hanged! yo've been just as deep i'th' muck as they've been i'th' mire, an' if awd my way awd hang yo all. but aw say, luk here, aw dooant want to be made a laffin-stock on, an soa if yo'll promise niver to mention this affair, maybe aw shall do summat for' em yet, an' if anybody axes owt abaat it, say it wor done wi' my consent.' they all promised, an' as they wor leeavin joa sed, 'gooid mornin fayther, yo mun come up an' see _awr_ bessy as oft as yo can, we'll mak yo welcome.' 'joa tha'rt a scaandrel if iver ther wor one, an' thee bess, see at tha behaves thisen, an let' em see at tha hasn't been brought up wi' extravagant ways; save a penny wheariver tha can, th' time may come when yo'll need it. here's a bit o' summat to start wi',' he sed, an' gave her an old bacca box an' shut th' door. they all laffed, an' as they wor goin up th' street joa oppen'd th' box, an' inside wor a little bit o' paper, an' written on it thease words. 'for bessy's wedding if she weds with my consent.' they all luk'd curiously to see what wor in it as he slowly oppen'd it, an they could hardly believe ther een when they saw a bank o' england note for â£500. well, yo may think ha capt joa's mother wor when shoo saw him come in wi' bessy on his arm, for it wor nobbut th' neet befoor 'at he'd goan aght cooartin, an' when he saw her he sed, 'well, mother, yo sed aw wor gooin cracked, an' sin' aw saw yo aw've been cracked an' getten spliced, an' aw've browt yo a dowter; an' as aw've axed some friends o' mine to come to ther drinkin, yo mun side all them tubs an' buy some rum, an' let us have some rum an' teah, an' owt else yo can get us, for we want a gooid blowout. an' wol yo do that, bessy an' me 'll goa to bed a bit, for we've been up all th' neet an' awm sure shoo must be sleepy.' 'nay awm nooan sleepy joa, thee goa to bed an' aw'll help thi mother.' 'that's reight lass,' sed his mother, 'aw mak nowt o' fowk sleepin i'th' day time, thee help me an' tak noa notice o' him, he isn't reight in his heead, aw cannot tell ha iver he caanselled thee to have him.' 'nah mother, dooant yo interfere between a man an' his wife; yo forget at aw've had my heead smashed sin aw saw yo, an' aw want a bit o' rest.' 'thee goa to bed an' get all th' rest tha wants, tha'll sleep better bi thisen 'coss tha'rt moor used to it, an' aw'll see at bessy doesn't run away.' 'but, mother, yo see'-'aw see nowt abaat it, an' unless tha clears aght o' this hoil ther'll nawther be rum an' teah nor nowt else! bless mi life lad! does ta think at ther wor niver onybody wed afoor thee? tha'rt war nor a child wi' a new laikon.' joa saw it wor noa use tawkin, soa he went aght to feed his donkey, an' luk after th' pigs an' poultry, an' mak believe he wor iver soa thrang. at last drinkin time coom, an' a few friends coom up, an' a jolly time they had. joa luk'd joyous an' bessy luk'd bonny, an' just befoor they separated for th' neet an' wor all standin up to drink long life an' prosperity to th' newly married couple, th' door oppen'd an' in coom owd stooansnatch. 'well,' he sed, 'awm just i' time,' soa seizing hold ov a glass o' rum he says here's a toast; 'may thease young ens to-day has seen joined, find all th' pleasure ther hearts are now cravin; an' when spendin my brass may they find, as mich pleasure as aw fun i' savin.' ov coorse this tooast wor drunk i' bumpers, an' sooin after they brake up, an' all went to ther hooams. joa an' bessy seem to get on varry weel together; an joa's mother says 'at all shoo wants to mak her happy is to be a granmother. stooansnatch seems to be altered famously sin bessy gate wed, an' it is sed (but for th' truth on it aw willn't pledge misen), 'at one day he gave a little lad a penny to buy spice wi'. if its true, he isn't past hooap yet. he spends th' mooast ov his time up at joa's, but he's niver had a pooaker in his hand sin that neet, an' if yo want to see him mad, just say a word abaat hangin. th' new railrooad. yo've heeard tell abaat th new railrooad aw dar say? it's an age o' steeam is this! smook nuisance and boilers brustin are ivery-day affairs, an' ivery thing an' ivery body seem to be on at full speed. aw wonder 'at noabdy invents a man wi a drivin pulley at his back soa's they could speed him up as they do a loom to soa mony picks a minit; th' chap 'at get's a patent for that ul mak a fortune. but after all, they dooant seem in a varry gurt hurry abaat th' new railroad; but we mun remember rome wor'nt built in a day, nor a neet nawther, an' soa we mun have patience. they've nobbut been agate two or three year, an' although it's hardly likely at' we shall live to see it finished, happen somedy else will, an' that's a comfort. but bi what aw hear, ther's some fowk at ovenden fancy it'll be finished befoor soa varry long, an' they've started what they call "a railway trainin class," to taich some oth' young chaps to be railway porters, soa's they'll be ready when th' time comes. they meet in a cottage haase twice a wick to practice, an' they say they're gettin on furst rate. ther's owd billy 'at wor once a firer-up for a veal pie shop, an' he's th' president, an he's getten th' asthma soa bad wol if he sturs he puffs war nor a broken winded horse, soa they call him puffin billy. when they're practisin', they stand o'th' side o'th' oven door i' ther turns, an' when billy whistles one on 'em oppens it an' shaats aght "change here for bradford beck, halifax, hull and t'other shops!" then he bangs it too ageean an shaats "all reight!" an another comes an' does th' same. when they began at th' furst they borrowed a tom cat o' th' old woman, an' used to put it i' th' oven for a passenger, but one o'th' chaps wor soa fussy, 'at he bang'd th' door too befoor it had getten reight aght, an' chopped its tail clean off. niver mind if th' owd woman didn't mak a crack--shoo declared shoo'd sue' em for condemnation. billy tell'd her it ud be a manx cat after that, but shoo sooin tell'd him shoo wanted nooan sich lik manx; soa they have to tak ther lessons nah withaat passenger. two on 'em 'at's passed ther examination are studdyin nah for ticket collectors, an' they promise to mak varry gooid uns. when they practise that, they call th' haase door th' furst class, th' cubbord th' second class, an' th' oven door th' third class, an' they start at th' haase door furst, "gentlemen, your tickets please," then they goa to th' cubbord door, "tickets," an' then to th' oven door, "nah then, luk sharp wi' them tickets." but they'd a sad mishap one neet, for it seems th' owd woman had been bakin, and shoo forgate to mention it, soa when th' furst chap gate hold o' th' oven door hannel he burn'd his fingers, an' becos tother students lafft he sed they'd done it o' purpose; an' it led to a reglar fratch, an' he gate into sich a rage 'at he sed he'd swallow one on em, if he did'nt hold his din, an' it wod'nt be th' furst porter he'd swallow'd nawther! soa th' taicher tell'd him 'at sich like carryin on wor varry unporterish, an' if he brake th' rules that way he'd have to be taken before th' inspector. but nowt could quieten him till he gate his fingers rubb'd wi sooap an' they gave ovver smartin, soa as th' oven door wor hot they had to practice another pairt. one on 'em borrowed a wheelbarrow, as they could'nt get a luggage lurry, an' they had to wheel it up an' daan th' haase floor i' ther turns, callin aght "by leave!" an' them 'at could manage to run ovver one o' th' tother's tooas, an' goa on as if nowt wor, gate one gooid mark, but him at could run buzz agean a chap an' fell him wor th' next on th' list for a guard. it used to be warm wark boath for him at wor wheelin' an' for tothers, but they wor all on 'em bent o' bein' porters, soa they tew'd at it, detarmined to maister all th' ins an' aghts abaat it. whether all ther trouble will be thrown away or net aw connot tell, but ther's one gooid thing, it keeps' em aght ov a war turn an' saves th' police a deal o' bother. but th' owd fowk dooant like th' idea; they see noa use i' bringin sich gurt stinkin things into their district, an' they've detarmined to do all they con to stop it; when a body's been able to live 60 or 70 year withaat sich like nonsense, they see noa reason why they shouldn't be let finish their bit o' time aght quietly. ther wor one young lad went to ax his gronfayther if he mud join th' class, an' th' owd chap went varry near into a fit, he luk'd at him for a minit, an' then he says, a'a, johnny! a'a, johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! but come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee. for it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha says;- ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days. when aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then, but nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; for they smook, an' they drink, an' get other bad ways; things wor different once i'thi gronfayther's days. aw remember th' furst day aw went coortin' a bit, an' walked aght thi gronny;--awst niver forget; for we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;- it wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's nooa lasses nah, john, 'at's fit to be wed; they've false teeth i' ther maath, an' false hair o' ther heead: they're a make-up o' buckram, an' waddin', an' stays, but a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days. at that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi th' poor, but nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; he's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah, but ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; an' ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways, whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days. we're teld to be thankful for blessin's 'ats sent, an' aw hooap 'at tha'll allus be blessed wi content: tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, but aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days. mose hart's twelvth mess. 'holloa! whear ta for, dick? tha'rt donned up fearful grand.' 'nay, aw nobbut wish aw knew whear aw wor, but aw connot tell for th' life on me; but tha can happen put me into th' end, for awm seekin "th' fiddle brig an' blow pipe music saloon," for aw've getten two tickets for a grand consart 'at's gooin to be gien bi some morpheus musical society, an' aw've rammel'd abaat for a gooid clock haar, an' awm blow'd if aw can find th' shop.' 'why, if tha's getten two tickets tha mud as weel gie me one, an' aw'll goa hooam an' get donned, an' we'st be company.' 'bith' heart, lad, aw wish tha wod; aw dooant care bein my share towards a quairt if tha'll goa, but awm feeard we'st be lat; doesn't ta think them clooas tha has on'll do?' 'nay, tha sees mi britches knee is brussen.' 'ne'er heed, aw'l leearn thi mi kerchy, an' then as sooin as tha's getten set daan tha can spreead it ovver thi knees, an' nobdy'll iver know owt abaat it.' 'well, if tha doesn't mind aw dooant, for a chap had better have a hoil in his clooas nor a hoil in his karracter, soa let's try to find this place. sithee! what does that sign say 'at's hingin' aght o' th' charmer winder?' 'nay, seth, tha knows awm noa reader, an' besides aw havn't mi specks, but what does ta mak it into?' 'well, ther's a hess, an' a hay, an' a hell, an' two hoes, an' a hen, what does that spell?' 'nay, aw connot tell, but it'll nooan be what we want awm sewer o' that, for thear's noa hens abaat thear.' 'ha hens, lumpheead! it's th' letter n aw sed.' 'litter hen! why aw nivver heeard o' sich o' thing; aw've heeard o' pigs havin litters but nivver hens, we call 'em cletches.' 'tha gets less sense, dick, ivvery day, aw do think. doesn't ta understand? ther's a hess, an' a hay, an' a hell, an' two hoes, an' a hen, an' that spells saloon, or else aw've forgetten my algibra.' 'well, well, happen it does; tha's noa need to get soa cross-grained abaat it; if tha goes on like that aw'll gie th' ticket to somdy else, nah mark that.' 'tha can gie it to who the duce tha's a mind, dick; awm nawther beholden to thee nor to thi ticket, soa crack that nut!' 'well, tha's noa need to be soa chuff. here's th' ticket an' mi kerchy, an' nah tha con follow clois to me an' we'll goa up stairs. aw con hear some mewsic bi nah, come on.' just as they oppened th' door all th' singers wor standin up to begin. 'dooant stand up for th' sake o' us,' sed dick, 'get on wi' yer mewsic, we can caar daan onywhear.' iverybody laff'd when dick sed soa, an' as they didn't know what they wor laffin at they thowt it wor at seth's britches. 'yo've noa need to laff,' sed seth, 'aw've some better at hooam.' 'silence! silence!' bawled aght a lot o' fowk; an' when all wor quiet, th' chap at th' far end began shakkin a bit ov a stick 'at he had, an' seth sed, 'tha's noa need to shak thi stick at me,' but what he sed beside wor lost, for all th' singers struck up, an' dick an' seth set daan o' th' edge ov a big drum 'at ther wor in th' nook. in a bit seth axed th' chap 'at set next to him what they wor singin. 'it's mozart's twelfth mass,' he sed. 'why, what dooant they turn him aght for?' 'turn who aght?' sed th' chap lukkin raand. 'why, mose hart. if he worked at awr shop he'd be secked for one mess, niver tawk abaat twelve.' 'whisht!' sed th' chap, an' gave seth a drive wi' his elbow just between his brace buttons, an' seth went daan wi' a soss onto th' drum end, an' throo it he went wi' a crack as laad as a pistol gooin off. 'thear, tha's done it,' sed dick; 'tha's letten all th' mewsic aght o' that, onyway; they owt to ha made a drum major o' thee.' 'it's noa fawt o' mine,' he sed, as he tried to scramel aght. 'let me catch hold o' that chap' at knocked th' wind aght o' me, an' if aw dooant drum him it'll be becoss aw connot.' when he gate to his feet he luk'd raand, but th' chap had mizel'd, but all th' singers wor standin raand laffin fit to split. 'are yo laffin becoss mi britches knees is brussen or becose th' drum end's brussen, aw'd like to know?' 'what's th' matter wi' thi? tha'rt as mad as if tha'd swoller'd th' drum asteead o'th' drum swollerin thee; tha mud ha getten thi bally brussen,' sed dick. 'it's very plain to me that there will be no more harmony here this ev'ning,' sed th' little man 'at wor shakkin th' stick, 'and so i shall leave you, an' i hope those who have tickets to dispose of, will in future give them to persons who can appreciate music.' 'aw'll mak thee sick for two pins,' sed seth, 'if tha says owt agean me, aw'll sing thee for glasses raand ony day.' the conductor sed no more but went home. 'who is yond leckterin fooil?' sed seth, to a chap 'at stood near. 'that's th' conductor.' 'corn doctor, is he? why, what does he want at a singing doo? connot yo cut yor own corns?' 'tha doesn't understand, he's th' leeader.' 'well, if he's th' leeader, what dooant yo follow him for? but nah luk here! aw'll tell yo what aw'll do. aw've been th' cause o' braikin up yor spree, soa suppoas yo all stop an' have a bit ov a doo wi' me; aw've getten a shillin or two an' we'll send for some ale an' mak a reglar free-an-easy on it.' 'hear! hear!' sed one. 'ov course we'll have it here, whear else does ta want it!' soa they all agreed to sit daan, and seth sent for two gallon o' ale an' some bacca, an' nooan on 'em seemed to be sooary 'at things had turned aght as they had. when they'd all had a second tot, an' getten ther pipes let, they made seth into th' cheerman, an' he sed they'd have to excuse him for net knowin ther names, but when he wanted to call anybody up he'd do his best to mak 'em understand who he meant, an' to begin wi, he should mak bould to ax that chap wi' th' big nooas to sing a song. nubdy stirred, soa seth pointed him aght an' sed, 'will that chap wi' th' red peg i'th' middle ov his face oblige the company with a song?' th' chap couldn't mistak who wor meant this time, so he gate up. 'mister cheerman,' he sed, 'aw doant know 'at my nooas owes yo or onybody else owt, an' why it should be remarked aw can't tell.' 'aw should think it owes thee a gooid deal,' sed th' cheerman. 'if tha doesn't want it to be remarked tha shouldn't paint it sich a bright colour; but get on wi' th' singing.' 'awm noa singer, aw play a offerclyde, but awm thinkin' o' changin, an' leearnin th' fiddle.' 'that's reight, lad, do. awm sure it'll tak all th' wind tha has to blow that peg o' thine i' cold weather; a fiddle 'll suit thee better, an' tha'll niver be fast for a spot to hing up thi stick. but it's a song we want, an' not a speech, an' if tha doesn't sing tha'll be fined a quairt.' that settled it; soa, clearin his voice, he began- tho' the sober shake the head, and drink water, boys, instead, and the foolish all strong liquors do decry; yet the foaming glass for me, may we never, never see a friend without a draught when dry. then quaff, boys, quaff, and let's be merry; why should dull care be crowned a king? let us have another drain, till the night begins to wane, and the bonny, bonny morn peeps in. let us drown each selfish soul deep in the flowing bowl; let the rosy god of wine take the throne; and he who cannot boast some good humour in his toast, let him wander in the world alone. then quaff, boys, &c. o, i love a jolly face, and i love a pretty lass, and i love to see the young and old around; then with frolic and with fun let both wine and moments run, and the hearty, hearty laugh resound. then quaff, boys, &c. when man was placed on earth he was naked at his birth, but god a robe of reason round him threw; first he learned to blow his nose, then he learned to make his clothes, and then he learned to bake and brew. then, quaff, boys, &c. if it's wrong to press the vine- thus to make the rosy wine, then it must be wrong to crush the wheaten grain; but we'll laugh such things to scorn, and although it's coming morn, just join me in another drain. then quaff, boys, &c. 'e'e gow, lad! that's a rare song. aw'll say nowt noa moor abaat thy nooas after that, but tha munnot sing that amang teetotallers. it's thy call nah, let's keep it movin, call for who or what tha likes.' 'well, if awm to call, aw shall call th' landlord to fill this pitcher, for this pipe o' mine's varry dry.' 'all reight, lad, order it to be filled, aw'll pay for it, an wol they're fotchin it call o' somdy for a song or summat.' 'well, aw call o'th' cheerman for a song.' 'nay, lad, tha munnot call o' me, for if awd to start ony mak ov mewsic aw should niver get throo it.' 'yo went throo th' drum easy enuff,' said one. 'eea, an' he brag'd he could sing better ner awr conductor,' sed another. 'nah chaps, aw'll do my best to mak it a pleasant neet, an' as th' ale has just come up aw'll give yo a tooast an' a sentiment booath i' one.' hold up yer heads, tho' at poor workin men simple rich ens may laff an' may scorn; may be they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen, somdy else lived afoor they wor born, as noble a heart may be fun in a man 'at's a poor fusten coit for his best, an 'at knows he mun work or else he mun clam, as yo'll find i' one mich better drest. soa, here's to all th' workers wheariver they be, i'th' land, or i'th' loom, or i'th' saddle; and the dule tak all them 'at wod mak us less free, or rob us o'th' wages we haddle. 'them's just my sentiment,' sed one o'th' singers, 'an' aw dooant care who hears me say it, for aw dooant care whether a chap's coit is aght o'th' elbows or his britches knees brussen, noa matter if he's----' 'thee shut up,' sed seth, 'it's my call next, an' aw want thee to know, owd fiddle-face, 'at tha can give ovver talking abaat fowks clooas, an' sing as sooin an tha likes.' 'mr. cheerman, aw nobbut know one, but as sooin as aw've supt aw'll start, shove th' ale this rooad.' 'get supt then, it taks more bother to start thee singin nor what it taks to start th' dyke engin.' all kinds of songs i've heard folks sing, of things in every nation; of queen's road swells, and clarehall belles, and every new sensation. but i've a song you never heard, although the music's ancient; it's all about one doctor bird, and his fascinating patient. so list to me and i'll tell you all the story of this doctor b. one day he sat within his room, by draughts and pills surrounded; strange pictures hanging on the walls which timid folks confounded. he heard the bell, and strange to tell, he quickly changed his manner, and in there came his bosom's flame his darling mary hannah. so list to me, &c. 'sweet mary hannah!' 'doctor dear'- such was their salutation; 'i've come,' sed she, 'for much i fear, i've got the palpitation.' 'o never mind,' says doctor b., 'you need not long endure it; just come a little nearer me, i fancy i can cure it.' but list to me, &c. he took a loving, long embrace, cries she, 'oh, dear, that's shocking!' when the doctor's boy, to mar their joy, just entered without knocking. and when he saw the state o' things, then down the stairs he hurried, and ran to tell the doctor's wife,- for doctor b. was married. so list to me, &c. the doctor seized his hat and cane, and cried, 'dear mary, hook it!' then down he ran, and found a cab, and in an instant took it- 'drive for your life and fetch my wife, and need no second telling!' and in a very little time they reached the doctor's dwelling. so list to me, &c. his wife was there, said he, 'my dear come with me to the city, i'm lonely when you are not near,' says she, 'why that's a pity.' he took her to the self same room, and in the self same manner; he kissed and coaxed his lawful wife, as he'd just kissed mary hannah. so list to me, &c. in loving talk some time they spent, says she, 'now i'll go shopping;' he kissed her and as out she went, the doctor's boy came hopping; he saw her and he quickly cried, 'o, please excuse me missus, but doctor's got a girl inside, and he's smothering her with kisses. so list to me, &c. 'you little sneaking cur,' she cried, 'that shows that you've been peeping.' she boxed his ears from side to side and quickly sent him weeping. the doctor rubbed his hands and smiled, to think how well he'd plan'd it, and mrs. b.'s quite reconciled, but the boy don't understand it. so you all see what a very cunning fellow was this doctor b. now all you married men so gay, just listen to my moral; indulge your wives in every way, and thus avoid a quarrel. pray do your best to settle down, nor with the fair ones frisk it; you might not fare like doctor b., it isn't safe to risk it. for you can see how very near in trouble was this doctor b. 'is that th' only song tha knows young man?' 'that's all aw know, mr. cheerman.' 'why, tak my advice an' forget it as sooin as tha can, for aw niver heeard a war, an' see if tha cannot find a better. nah tha can call for th' next.' 'well, aw'll call o' owd miles, an' if he con do ony better aw'll pay for th' next gallon.' old miles stood up, an' crossed his hands i' front an turned up his een as if he wor gooin to relate his experience at a prayer-meetin, an' began: they may talk of pure love but its fleeting at best; let them ridicule gold if they will; but money's the thing that has long stood the test, and is longed for and sought after still. love must kick the balance against a full purse, and you'll find if you live to four score, that whativer your troubles the heaviest curse, is to drag on your life and be poor. if you sigh after titles and long for high rank, let this be your aim night and day, to increase the small balance you have at your bank, and to honors' 't will soon point the way. for you'll find that men bow to the glittering dross, whate'er its possessor may be; and if obstacles rise they will help you across, if you only can boast â£. s. d. see that poor man in rags, bending under his load, he passes unnoticed along: no one lends him a hand as he goes on his road, he must toil as he can through the throng. but if he was wealthy, how many would fly to assist him and offer the hand; but he's poor, so they leave him to toil or to die, that's the rule in this christian land. 'nah, that's summat like a song; aw could lizzen to that all th' neet, an' aw think yo'll all agree 'at owd fiddle face has lost his gallon. nah, lad, does ta hear? tak to payin.' but he didn't hear, for he'd quietly slipped away an' left 'em wi' a empty pitcher. 'well, he's a mean owd stick, onyway; but aw'll pay for it fillin once moor. an' nah, miles, it's yor turn to call.' 'mr. cheerman, aw'll call o' yor friend for th' next.' 'a'a, lad,' sed dick, 'tha should pass by me, for aw niver sang a song i' mi life, an' awm to old to start, but if yo've noa objections aw'll give yo a recitation.' 'gooid lad, dick, goa on! tha'rt gam, aw know.' ov all th' enjoyments' at sweeten man's life, ther's nooan can come up to a sweet tempered wife; an' he must be lonesome, an' have little pleasure, 'at doesn't possess sich a woman to treasure. but them 'at expect when they tak hooam a bride, 'at nowt nobbut sunshine wi' them will abide, an' think 'at noa sorrow will iver oppress, they'll find ther mistak aght, yo'll easily guess. for th' mooast fascinatin an' lovable elves, are all on 'em mortal, just th' same as ussels, an' show tempers 'at sometimes are net ovver pleasant, they find fault whear ther's room, an' sometimes whear ther isn't, an' to get there own way, why they'll kiss, coax, or cavil, they'll smile like an angel, or storm like the devil. but aw've monny times sed, an' aw say it ageean, 'at women are ofter i'th' reight nor are th' men, just fancy gooin hooam to a bachelor's bed, all shudderin an' shakkin yo lig daan yor heead. there's a summat a wantin, 'at fills yo wi' fear, yo can turn as yo like, but you find it's not thear, an' yo freeat an' yo fitter, or weep like a willow; an' for want o' owt better, mak love to a pillow. but him 'at's been blessed wi' a wife he can love, liggs his heead on her breast pure as snow from above, an' ther's nubdy could buy it for silver or gold, an' he wodn't exchange it for abrahams of old. an' he falls hard asleep, wi' her arm raand his neck, an' gets up lik a lark, an' then works like a brick. 'nah, friends, aw wish to say a few words befoor aw goa. awm varry sorry 'at aw brack that drum, but yo see it wor an accident, an' aw've done my best to mak it up, an' as dick's recitation maks me think awd better be gettin hooam, or aw shall happen find it varry warm when aw get thear. aw'll nobbut call o' one moor befoor sayin gooid neet, an' that's mose hart. if he's hear aw should like him to try agean; ther's nowt like perseverance, an' if a chap fails twelve times th' thirteenth may pay for all.' 'mr. cheerman, mozart wor deead long befoor yo wor born or thowt on.' 'then that chap 'at dug his elbow into my guts tell'd me a lie, for he sed he'd just made a mess for th' twelfth time when aw come in.' ther wor a crack o' laffin when he sed that, for th' chaps saw his mistak, an' soa one on 'em went quietly up to him an' explained it. 'o, then,' he sed, 'if he's deead we may as weel goa hooam, an' all aw've getten to say is 'at ony time yo chonce to come by awr haase, just luk in an' aw'll mak yo welcome, an' my owd lass'll mak yo a mess o' some sooart 'at'll do yo some gooid. yo'll find it easy, for aw live th' next door to th' pig an' whistle, an' soa aw wish yo all a varry gooid neet--come on dick.' th' hoil-i'th'-hill statty. chapter i. th' hoil-i'th'-hill fowld wor a quiet little place; ther wor sixteen haases altogether, four on each side ov a big square yard, an' a pump i'th' middle. th' fowk 'at lived thear had mooast on 'em been born thear, an' ther'd been soa monny weddin's amang 'em wol they wor all summat moor or less akin. niver i'th' memory o'th' oldest on 'em had ther been ony change i'th' fowld, except nah an' then a bit o' fresh paint wor put on th' doors an' winders, until one day th' landlord coom and browt two or three smart lukkin chaps' at begun to messure hear an' thear, an' all th' wimmen an' th' childer watched' em wi' as mich anxiety as if they wor gooin to pool all th' haases daan. th' chaps wor all off at ther wark, but when they coom hooam at neet they wor sooin made acquainted wi' all 'at had gooan on, an' when they'd getten ther drinkins, one after another walked aght, wol they wor all met together raand th' pump. 'what does ta mak on it, jacob?' sed one o'th' younger end, spaikin to an owd man wi' a grey heead. 'what does ta think they meean to do?' 'nay aw connot tell, unless it's some o' them wrang-heeaded fowk 'at th' maister wor tawkin abaat, 'at want to start a schooil booard or some new-fangled noation.' 'why, what mak o' schooils is them schooil board consarns?' 'aw dooant know, nobbut it's a schooil whear yo send childer to leearn ther letters, an' they booard 'em at same time.' 'why, that's nooan a bad thing if they give 'em owt daycent to ait.' 'does ta think they'll have owt at we shalln't have to pay for? did ta iver know th' corporation give owt for nowt? all aw wish is 'at they'd let us alooan. we've getten on here for aboon fifty year withaat ony o' ther bother, an' aw could like to finish my bit o' time aght as we are.' they all agreed wi' this, an th' wimmen 'at had gethered raand to harken sed they thowt soa too, an' it ud seem 'em better if they'd luk after ther own wives an' childer a bit moor, and net come botherin thear. when th' bacca wor done, they went back into ther haases, one bi one, an' went to bed, but ther wor a sooart ov a claad hung ovver 'em all, and they didn't sleep varry weel. next mornin, as they started off for th' day, they each gave a luk raand, as if to fix iverything i' ther mind, for fear when they coom back they'd niver be able to own th' spot. sooin after they'd gooan, a lot o' navvies coom an' started o' diggin. wor'nt th' wimmin aght in a crack! 'what are yo baan to do?' they sed. 'we're gooin to put yo all watter in,' sed th' gaffer, 'soas yo can do withaat this pump.' 'we dooant want ony watter puttin in; when we want watter we can fotch it,--goa abaat yor business!' but he tell'd 'em they'd getten orders to do it, an th' landlord had agreed, soa they went on wi ther wark. nah, th' chap 'at had takken this job to do, hadn't takken it bi th' day; he'd agreed to do it for soa mich, soa yo may bet he kept' em all at it, an' it tuk varry little time to dig an' get th' pipes laid; an' then th' plumbers wor waitin to start, an' iverybody wor as thrang as if ther lives depended on it bein finished that day,--an' it wor finished,--an' as sooin as it wor done they set to wark an' pool'd daan th' owd pump, an' laid some flags ovver th' well, an' went hooam. th' wimmin didn't know whether to be pleased wi' th' new taps or mad abaat th' loss o'th' pump, an' soa they sed nowt until ther fellies coom back. it worn't monny minits afoor they began to coom hooam, an' as sooin as they saw th' pump ligged o'th' graand an' th' well covered up, they luk'd like--weel, it's noa use me tryin to tell what they luk'd like, for they luk'd so monny different ways 'at aw should be fast amang it; but ther worn't one on 'em suited, an' net one 'em had patience to luk at th' new taps. owd jacob spit his teah aght ov his maath as sooin as he tasted it. 'aw knew ha it ud be,' he sed, 'if iver we lost that pump.' 'why, what's th' matter?' sed his dowter. 'matter! connot ta taste th' difference between that watter an' th' watter tha used to get aght o'th' pump?' 'why, father,' shoo sed, 'that is pump watter, for aw pump'd it mysen befoor they pool'd it daan.' 'oh, did ta. it wor happen a bit o' bacca aw had i' mi maath. but allus bear this i' mind, if iver tha gets wed an' should leave this fowld niver go to live whear ther isn't a pump.' after th' drinkin all th' chaps could be seen standin i'th' door hoils, leeanin agean th' jawm, for they felt lost, an' didn't know whear to goa. they'd allus been i'th' habit o' getherin raand th' owd pump, an' it seemed nah as if they couldn't tell whear to stand for th' pump had acted as cheerman for' em when they had ther argyfyin meetins,--an' a varry gooid cheerman too. at last one on 'em screwed up courage to goa an' luk at th' owd pump case as it ligged i'th' muk, an' then one an' another joined him, wol it luk'd for all th' world as if they wor holdin an inquest. 'that's been a gooid friend to us all,' sed jacob, 'an' aw dooant like to see it liggin thear.' 'noa, moor do aw,' sed another, 'an' it luks a sooart o' desolate, sin they tuk th' guts aght.' 'aw wish somdy'd tak their guts aght,' sed levi, 'it ud sarve 'em reight. but what mun we do wi' it! th' fowld luks lost withaat it. suppooas we put it up agean just to luk at?' 'aw propooas we bury it,' sed jacob, 'an' then raise a monement ovver it. it desarves one better nor lots 'at get 'em. it wor allus sober, an' minded its own business, an' niver refused to give owt it had if yo shook it bi th' hand.' 'well, but whear mun we bury it?' sed jonas. 'aw think,' sed jacob, ''at as it's had a wattery life, it owt to have a wattery grave. let's pool them flags up an' drop it into th' well.' they all agreed to this, soa it worn't monny minits befoor they had th' well oppened, an' wor ready to drop it in, but one o'th' women happened to ax 'who wor gooin to read ovver it.' nah this had n ver struck nooan on' em befoor, an' they saw at once 'at it should be attended to. 'whear's elkanah?' sed jacob. 'he's allus ready wi' a speech, let's see what he can find to say.' soa one on 'em whistled, an' elkanah coom, an' they tell'd him what they wanted. 'all reight,' he sed, 'but if yor baan to bury it like that aw think ther owt to be a burryin drinkin.' 'that's reight, kana!' shaated th' wimmin, 'let's have it reight if we have it at all.' 'that's my noation,' sed elkanah, 'an aw'll see what aw con collect befoor we bury it,--aw'll be a shillin.' 'soa will aw,' 'soa will aw,' 'aw'll be another,' an ther wor sooin thirteen shillin an' sixpence sam'd up. 'nah, awm ready,' he sed, 'tak off yor hats, an' handle it gently for its rayther rotten.' they all did as they wor tell'd, an' havin getten ready elkanah spake,- 'into this well soa deep, we put thee daan to sleep, farewell owd pump. tho' some may thee despise, we know tha'rt sure to rise up wi' a jump. 'tha's sarved thi purpose weel, an' all thi neighbors feel sad at thi fate. but as tha's had thi day, this is all we've to say, ger aght o'th' gate.' after this one on 'em struck up a temperance hymn, an' bi th' time they'd getten through an' th' owd pump wor sent to its restin place two o'th' wimmen wor ready wi' a gallon o' rum an' ale mixed, an' they totted it aght i' pint pots. this didn't go far amang th' lot, soa they fotched another an another wol ther brass wor done, an' then separated wi' heavy hearts an' rayther leet heeads an' went to bed, feelin glad to know 'at they'd done all they could towards payin a fittin tribute to an owd friend. chapter ii. next day wor a gloomy day i'th' hoil-i'th'-fowld; whether it wor grief for th' loss o'th' pump, or th' effects o'th' rum an' ale, aw connot say, but all th' chaps stopt at hooam, an' it wor ommost dinner time when they mustered i'th' middle o'th' yard, an' owd jacob, who'd been puffin at a empty pipe for a long time, luk'd up an' spake. 'lads,' he sed, 'it seems to me 'at this yard will niver luk like itsen agean, unless we have summat standin up i'th' middle i'th' place ov th' owd pump; an' aw've been tryin to think what it had better be, but aw can't mak up mi mind abaat it. what do yo think?' 'suppooas we put a tombstun ovver th' pump,' sed elkanah. 'tha wants th' job o' writin th' hepitaf, does ta?' sed jonas. 'well, aw dooant think that ud do, for a tombstun is nobbut a varry gloomy sooart ov a thing at th' best hand. nah, what do you say if we have a statty? aw think a statty ud look noble an' inspirin like.' 'eea, aw think soa too,' sed simeon, 'but who mun we have a statty on? mun it be th' landlord?' 'landlord be blow'd! what mun we have a statty o' him for? we see enuff o' him ivery month when he comes for his rent.' 'well, who mun it be?' 'aw dooant know 'at it matters mich who it is, for they put up stattys to onybody nah days, nobbut we mun pick aght somdy 'at gets a daycent wage, 'coss he'll have to find pairt o'th' brass. nah, ther's kana thear; he isn't baat a two or three paand. suppooas we put one up to kana?' 'why, what's kana iver done 'at he should have a statty?' 'what difference does that mak? what's lots o' fowk done 'at get stattys? worn't his fayther th' bell-man for monny a year? an' didn't owd sally his mother, bake the best havvercake 'at yo could get i'th' district? an' a statty's a statty noa matter who's it is? what says ta kana?' 'well aw dooant know ha mich it'll cost. what is it to be made on?' 'oh, we'll have it made o' wood,--th' pump wor a wooden un, an' simeon's a wood turner, an' he'll turn it cheap, willn't ta simeon?' 'aw'll do it as reasonable as aw con. aw think aw could get up a varry gooid en for abaat thirty shillin.' 'well, aw'll be ten shillin,' sed kana, 'an' tother can be subscribed for at a penny a wick a piece.' 'why, that's fair enuff, lads, what do yo say?' 'we'll all agree to that,' sed jonas, 'but whear mun we put it? may be 'as th' corporation's taen away th' pump they may want to shift th' statty.' 'corporation be hanged! we'll put it up thear an' let them mell on it 'at dar.' 'well' sed simeon, 'aw'll start it reight away, but aw'st want kana to sit aside o'th' lathe wol awm turnin, or else awst niver be able to get a likeness on him.' 'oh, th' likeness matters nowt; tha can paint his name on it an' then iverybody'll know whose it is.' 'after a bit moor tawk they sauntered off, some one way an' some another, an' amused thersens as weel as they could wol bed time, an' then went to sleep, all except simeon; he could'nt sleep, for he didn't like to admit 'at he couldn't turn a statty, an' still he didn't know ha to start; but he wor bent o' having th' thirty shillin ony way. next mornin he made a beginnin, an' he thowt he'd turn th' body pairt first, an' he made a varry daycent job on it he thowt, an' when they ax'd him at neet ha he wor gettin on, he tell'd 'em th' belly piece wor all reight, an' he'd have it all done bi setterdy neet; an' he kept his word, an' when they all coom hooam thear it wor, wi' a gurt bedquilt ovver it, waitin to be unveiled, an' yo con bet it worn't long befoor they'd all swallow'd ther drinkin an' wor waitin--all except kana, he felt a sooart o' modest abaat it an' had to be fotched aght. jacob wor th' cheerman, an' they maanted him on a peggytub turned upside daan; but he wor a sooart o' fast what to say, soa he ax'd simeon. 'why,' he sed, tha mun praise th' statty, an' say it's a life-like portrait, an' then tha mun tell all th' gooid things tha knows abaat kana.' 'why, but aw dooant know nowt varry gooid abaat him, nobbut he can cure a bit o' bacon dacently.' 'niver heed, tha mun say all tha thinks he owt to ha done, it'll do just as weel.' kana wor wonderin all th' time what he'd have to say, soa he called jonas o' one side an' axed him. 'oh, thy pairt's easy enuff. tha mun thank 'em all, an' say it's th' praadest day o' thi life; but dooant say owt abaat thi own ten shillin, coss it willn't do for iverybody to know that; an' then as tha's nowt to booast on thisen, put in a word or two abaat thi father. owt tha says obaat thi father is sure to goa daan.' 'order! order!' shaated two or three as jacob gate ready to spaik. 'feller citizens, an' citizenesses, under this bed quilt is a statty erected to th' memory of kana, an' it's put here asteead o'th' pump. you all know kana. he's a daycent sooart ov a chap, an' we thowt he owt to have a statty. at onyrate, we wanted a statty, an' it mud as weel be kana's as onybody's else. he's a varry daycent chap, as aw sed befoor, an' upright--varry upright--as upright--as upright as a yard o' pump watter. an' aw've noa daat he's honest; aw niver knew him trusted wi' owt, but varry likely if he wor he'd stick to it. he's a gentleman, th' bit ther is on him, an' he allus pays his rent. aw could say a gooid deeal moor, but th' least sed is th' sooinest mended, an' as yo all want to see what's under this quilt, aw'll say no moor but show yo at once.' off coom th' quilt, an' ther wor th' statty, but it didn't stand on its feet, for it wor raised on a powl, an' turned raand like a weathercock. worn't ther a shaat when they saw it! didn't they swing ther hats raand! niver mind! 'well,' sed jacob, 'tha's made a gooid job o' that, simeon; it's as nice a bit o' wood as aw've seen for a long time, but what made thi have it to turn raand?' 'eea, it's a bit o' nice wood, an' them buttons 'at aw put in for his een cost me sixpence a-piece. aw thowt it wor noa use puttin a nooas on, for tha sees it ud be sure to get brokken off, an' th' reason aw made it to turn raand is becoss aw thowt it wor hardly fair 'at fowk 'at live o' one side o' th' fowld should have his face to luk at allus, an' tother side his back; soa nah we con have it lukkin one way one day an' another th' next. but whisht! kana's baan to spaik.' 'kind friends, aw just stand up to spaik a few words hopin to find yo all weel as aw am at present. if onybody had tell'd my fayther 'at his son wod iver have a statty like that, aw think it wod ha brokken his heart. this is a praad day for me, an' aw shall niver see this work o' art withaat thinkin abaat what it cost. my father wor a gooid man, an' awm his son, an' this is my statty, an' aw thank yo one an' all, soa noa moor at present, throo yours truly, elkanah.' when he'd done ther wor some moor shaatin, an' then one o'th' wimmen sed shoo'd a word or two to say. 'silence for mary o' sarah's!' 'me an' tother wimmen has been tawkin it ovver,' shoo sed, 'an' we think 'at if ther wor a gooid strong hook driven in th' top of its heead, 'at we could fessen a clooas line to, 'at it wod be varry useful, an' we'd ommost as sooin have it as th' pump.' 'that's a gooid idea,' sed simeon, 'aw'll drive one in, for ther's no brains in it.' 'its soa mich moor like kana,' sed jonas, but nubdy tuk ony noatice. they all kept waitin abaat after th' ceremony wor ovver, expectin 'at kana wod ax 'em to have summat to sup at th' heead on it, but he didn't seem to understand things, soa simeon went up to him an' whispered. 'net another hawpney,' he sed, 'it's cost me enuff.' when they heeard this they all turned agean him at once. 'if tha doesn't stand treat,' sed jacob, 'we'll rub thi name off an' put on somdy's else at will.' 'yo can put whose yo like on,' sed kana. an' one o'th' wimmen coom wi' a dishclaat an' wiped it off, for shoo sed 'it wor far to handsome a statty for sich a skinflint as him, as flaysome as it wor.' then jacob gate on to th' tub agean an' ax'd who'd stand a gallon to have their name put on, but they all sed they wor hard up an' couldn't affoord owt, soa thear it stands, an' th' first chap 'at'll pay for a gallon o' ale con have his name put on whether he's a subscriber or net. ther's a chonce for some o' yo 'at wants a statty. owd dawdles. ther's a deeal o' tawkin abaat owd-fashioned kursmisses, an' my belief is 'at moor nor one hauf 'at tawk or write abaat 'em know nowt but what they've heeard or read. aw'm gien to understand 'at a owd-fashioned kursmiss wor one whear iverything we admire an' think comfortable wor despised, an' iverything we have a fear on wor sowt after. awm net sewer whether ther wor ivver an owd-fashioned kursmiss withaat a snowstorm, but aw should think net; but as aw have to tell yo what happened one kursmiss when ther wor nawther frost nor snow, but when th' sun wor shinin, an' th' fields wor lukkin as fresh an' green as if it wer may asteead o' december, aw shall be foorced to call this a tale ov a new-fashioned kursmiss. kursmiss day wor passed an' ommost forgotten, but still th' fowk 'at live i' th' neighborhood o' bingly or keighly nivver think it's ovver until th' new year's getten a start. abaat a duzzen sich like had been to bradforth (as ther wives had been gien to understand on business, but as yo'd ha fancied if yo'd seen 'em, on pleasure), an' they'd set off to walk hooam, but they called so oft on th' way, wol what wi' th' distance an' what wi' th' drink they wor rare an' fain to rest thersens when they gate to th' bingley market cross. it wor a grand neet, an' th' mooin wor shinin ommost as breet as if it wor harvest time; an' as ther purses wor empty an' ther pipes full, they argyfied it wor a deeal moor sensible to caar thear an' have a quiet smook nor to waste ther time in a public haase. th' warst on it is wi' sich like, 'at they know soa mich abaat one another an' soa little abaat onybody else 'at it isn't oft 'at when they oppen ther maath owt new falls aght, an' unless ther's a stranger i' th' company things are apt to grow varry dull. amang this lot 'at aw'm tellin abaat ther didn't happen to be a stranger, an' soa th' owd tales wor tell'd ovver agean, an' altho' some on 'em wor ommost asleep, they allus laft at th' reight spot, for if they didn't hear a word 'at wor sed, they knew th' time when it owt to come in. in a bit one on 'em let his pipe tummel an' mashed it all i' bits, an' as nubdy had one to lend him, an' he'd nowt else to do, he sed: 'did any on yo ivver hear tell abaat owd dawdles?' 'nay,' they sed, 'they didn't know 'at they had.' 'why, but he wor a queer owd chap, wor owd dawdles, an' they didn't call him dawdles for nowt, soa aw'l tell yo summat abaat him wol yo finish yor bacca. he wor a chap 'at thowt he wor full o' sense, an' th' way he winked his left e'e after givin vent to one o' his cliver speeches, showed plain enuff 'at whether it wor satisfactory to other fowk or net, it wor quite soa to him. but if he hadn't a varry heigh opinion o' th' fowk he met, yet he worn't withaat pity for 'em, an' he generally ended up wi' sayin 'at it wor hardly reight to blame 'em for bein short o' wit when they'd had no orderation on it. but tho' he wor varry liberal wi' his advice, ther wor nubdy could charge him wi' bein too liberal wi' his brass, for he'd pairt wi' nowt if he could help it; yet he'd one waikness in his disposition, an' that wor 'at he couldn't say 'noa' if onybody offered to treat him. fowk wodn't ha thowt mich abaat that if it hadn't been for him allus draggin in his friend michael for a share, an' it wor weel known 'at michael had nivver existed except in his own imagination. if ivver he gate ax'd to a supper or a bit ova feed o' ony sooart, he used to stuff hissen wol he wor foorced to lawse his wayscoit, an' then if ther wor owt left, he'd say: 'if yo'll excuse me, ther's a bit thear 'at aw should like to tak for michael,' an' he used to fill his pockets wi' th' best o' th' stuff, an' mony a rare blow aght he gate aght o' what wor supposed to be michael's share. he used to goa to bradforth market two or three times in a wick, an' he allus kept his een skinned to luk aght for a bargain; an' he didn't care what it wor, owt throo a cabbage to a cartwheel, if he could turn a penny into three-awpence. but he didn't allus mak a gooid spec, for strange to say ther wor other fowk 'at wor quite as wise an' even sharper nor hissen. one day he bowt a white bull cauf, an' he wor sewer he'd getten it as cheap as muck, an' happen he had, but haivver cheap yo buy sich a thing, it's varry likely to cause yo some bother unless yo've somewhear to put it. it wor a varry weet day, an' throo bradford to keighley is a long walk, but ther wor nowt else for it unless he tuk it with him on th' train, an' that ud be extra expense, soa he teed a rooap raand its neck an' they started off. it's an' owd sayin' 'at youth will have its fling,' an' this cauf wor detarmined to goa in for its share. th' rooads worn't i' th' best order, yet they mud ha' managed to wade throo but for th' cauf seemin' to have a strong desire to find aght if owd dawdles could swim, an' whenivver it coom to a pond or a puddle it gave him a chonce to try, but like all young caufs it hadn't mich patience, an' th' way it jurk'd him in an' aght worn't varry pleasant for one on 'em. when they'd gooan a mile or two dawdles wor inclined to think it would ha been cheaper to ha taen it bi rail, to say nowt abaat th' extra comfort. at ony rate it gave him noa troble to drive it, for it seemed to know ivvery step o' th' rooad, an' it seem'd a deeal moor like th' cauf takkin dawdles nor him takkin th' cauf. he couldn't help but think 'at it had a deeal moor strength nor sense; but altho' he tried to pity it 'coss it hadn't had th' orderation ov it's own heead, he couldn't help blamin it for bein soa detarmined to have th' orderation o' th' way they'd to goa. when they'd getten to th' bull's heead he wor ommost finished, an' he thowt as he'd getten soa weet aghtside he'd better get a drop in, an' as he made towards th' door th' cauf went an' backed into th' passage, an' wodn't let him enter a yard. he tried his best to get it to stir, but all to noa use. wol he wor tewin with it th' landlord wor scalin th' foir i' th' kitchen, an' he thowt he heard sumdy makkin a noise, an' he went to see; an' when he saw dawdles tryin to pool th' cauf aght o' th' passage he thowt he'd help him, soa he gave it a prod behind wi' th' foir point, an' it flew aght o' th' door as if it had been shot aght ov a cannon, an' its heead happenin to leet i' th' middle o' dawdles' wayscoit, he tummeld a backard summerset, an' ligged him daan i' th' middle o' th' rooad, an' th' cauf laup'd ovver th' wall o' t'other side an' gallop'd away, whiskin its tail abaat as if it wanted to cast it. th' landlord went to see dawdles. 'what's ta dooin thear?' he sed. 'aw'm waitin' wol sumdy comes to help me up,' he sed. soa th' landlord helpt him up, an' then sed: 'come inside an' sit thi daan a bit.' 'nay, lad, aw've been i' th' bull's heead monny a time, but tha's ommust sent th' bull's heead into me to-day. ther's lots o' young caufs come to yor haase beside yond o' mine, an' yo've a deeal o' bother wi' 'em sometimes aw know, but if yo'll just tickle up wi' th' red wut foir point aw'll bet yo'll get shut on 'em in as little time as yo did that o' mine. all aw wish is 'at tha wor th' cauf an' me th' landlord for five minutes.' 'well, tha has dropt in for it pretty rough, an' aw think tha's getten aboon thi share, tha mun see if tha cannot give a trifle to michael.' dawdles wodn't answer him, but set off to catch his white bull cauf, an' after chasin it raand for a whole clock haar he gate hold o' th' rooap another time, an' they made another start for hooam. it went varry quietly on nah, an' th' owd chap thowt it ud be a gooid idea, as he wor soa tired, an' as ther wor nobody abaat, to get astride on it an' have a ride. th' thowt had hardly entered his heead befoor it wor put into practice, but if you could ha seen that cauf yo'd ha been fit to split. it stood stock still for abaat a minit, an' then it started off, gently at furst, but it kept gettin faster an' faster, wol at last it gate into a two up an' two daan gallop, an' dawdles began to find aght 'at altho' veal wor a nice tender soft sooart o' mait when it wor deead, it grew on varry hard booans when it wor wick, an' he wor twice as anxious to get off an' walk as he had been to get up to ride. he managed to twist th' rooap raand its heead an' he pooled for his life, but it didn't mak a bit o' difference. 'wo up! connot ta?' he sed, 'tha'rt as heeadstrong as tha'rt strong i'th' heead. if ivver aw have th' orderation o' thee agean aw'll bet aw tak some o' that nowtiness aght on thee.' he'd hardly getten th' words aght ov his maath when, as they wor passin some pighoils 'at stood o' th' roadside, th' cauf made a dash at th' door o' one 'at wor nobbut just heigh enuff for it get in at, brast it oppen, gooin in an' strippin off dawdles, left him sittin i' th' middle o' th' rooad, wonderin who'd hit him wi a looad o' bricks. trubbles nivver come singly, an' to mak matters war aght rushed a lot o' pigs 'at rolled him ovver an' ovver wol he couldn't tell when he put up his hand whether it wor on his heead or his hat. th' furst thing 'at browt him to his senses wor sumdy shakkin him an' shaatin aght, 'what business has ta to let out my pigs? aw'll ha thi lock'd up!' 'maister! maister! do let me spaik! aw've had nowt to do wi' th' orderation o' this mullock, an' if ther's owt lost aw'll pay for it. hah mony wor ther? ther's my bull cauf i' th' pighoil an' if yo'll tak care on it for a bit aw'll goa an' see if aw can find th' pigs.' th' chap, thowt that wor fair enuff, soa he let him goa, tellin him ther wor six on 'em, an' he must find' em all. owd dawdles had nivver had sich a job in his life, it tuk him aboon an haar, an' when he coom back it wor droppin dark. 'well, has ta fun 'em?' 'eea, they're all here.' 'why, whear did ta find 'em?' 'aw fan one together, an' two bi thersen, an' three amang one o' amos's.' 'well, that's all reight, tak thi cauf an' be off hooam. it luks a varry nice en; it's just such a one as aw wor intendin to buy.' 'yo can have this at yor own price, or aw'll trade wi' yo.' 'nay, it luks too quiet for my brass, aw'd rayther ha one 'at's a' bit life in it.' 'well, then, to be honest, aw dooan't think this will suit yo, for aw'm blessed if aw think ther can be much life left i' this considerin what it's let aght sin aw bowt it. gooid neet.' 'gooid neet, owd chap. cannot ta walk i' th' front an' let it suck thi fingers? it ud be sewer to follow.' 'happen it wod; but th' chap aw bowt it on suckt me quite enuff withaat lettin th' cauf suck me.' after that he managed to get hooam wi' it withaat ony moor mishaps. it wor varry lat, an' all th' family wor i' bed, but he detarmined he wodn't goa huntin up an' daan for a stable at that time o' neet, soa he unlocked th' door an' tuk it into th' haase an' teed it fast to th' wringin machine i' th' back kitchen, an' then he went upstairs to bed. 'tha'rt varry lat, dawdles,' sed his wife, 'has ta ridden or walked?' 'aw walked pairt o' th' way.' 'has ta browt owt wi' thee?' 'eea, aw browt a bit o' mait an' aw've left it daan stairs.' he crept into bed as well as he could, an' in a minit he wor asleep. as th' cauf had had nowt to ait nor drink all th' day it did not feel varry oomfortable, an' in a bit it went 'b-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!' 'dawdles! dawdles!' shoo screamed, an' gave him a dig i' th' ribs 'at made him jump agean. 'what's th' matter wi' thee?' he sed. 'matter enuff! didn't ta hear yond din? ther's summat flaysome getten into th' haase.' 'aw heeard noa din; it's thee 'at's been dreeamin.' 'dreeamin! aw've nooan been dreeamin! ger up an' see what ther is to do! thear's a boggard i' th' haase as sewer as aw'm here!' 'ne'er heed it! goa to sleep an' it'll nooan mell on thee.' 'sleep! awst sleep nooan! awst lig wakken o' purpose to listen. a'a! men havn't a spark o' feelin! thear, he's snoarin agean.' 'b-o-o-o-o-o-o-h! b-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!' 'dawdles! dawdles! wakken, lad; do wakken! it's th' dule hissen an' nubdy else. a'a! whativver mun we do, an' ther hasn't one o' th' childer been to th' sunday schooil for a fortnit! do get up lad, do!' 'aw tell thee aw shalln't get up as what it is; but aw hooap if he's comed for onybody 'at he'll tak thee furst, an' then aw can get a bit o' sleep.' 'tha'rt a brute! an' mi mother allus sed aw should find it aght! but aw'm baan to have yond childer aght o' bed.' up shoo jumpt an' went to wakken 'em, an' he wor soa worn aght 'at he dropt off to sleep agean. sich a hullaballoo as ther wor i' that shop when all th' eight childer wor up, yo nivver heeard, for th' cauf kept at it, an' ther worn't one i' th' lot dar goa to see what it wor. at last they threw up th' chamer winder and skriked wi' all ther might. th' neighbours wor up in a crack, an' th' poleese coom runnin to see what ther wor to do. 'ther's a boggard i' th' haase!' they cried aght. 'do see what it is, poleeseman, if yo pleeas.' but as th' door wor lockt, an' nooan on 'em dar goa daan stairs to oppen it, ther wor noa way to do but to braik a winder pane, soa th' poleese smashed one ank stuck his heead an' his lantern in an' lewkt all raand, but ov coorse he could see nowt. but just as he wor baan to back aght th' cauf gave another 'b-o-o-h!' daan dropt his lantern inside, an' away flew his heead aghtside, an' all th' fowk cluthered raand him an' ax'd him what he'd seen. 'aw've seen nowt,' he sed, 'but aw've heeard summat.' one o' th' childer upstairs shaats aght, 'aw believe it's i'th' back kitchen.' an' away they all ran raand to see if they could see it thear. another poleese had come up, soa he gate his lantern an' held it cloise to th' winder, an' ther wor sich a skrike an' a skutter as yo nivver heeard nor saw. ther wor noa mistak abaat it nah, for they'd all seen it; them 'at hadn't seen th' een had seen th' horns, an' ther wor one or two 'at declared they'd seen a tail. then they held a long confab as to what they'd better do, an' th' wimmen sed they thowt it wor th' duty o' th' poleese to goa in an' tak him up whativver he wor; but th' poleese didn't see it, for, sed one on 'em, 'if he's th' chap aw think he is he might tak us daan wol we wor tryin to tak him up.' at last a chap says, 'aw've a gun, let's shooit him.' they all agreed wi' that, an' he went an' fotched his gun. ther wor a gooid deeal o' squarin abaat when he coom back, befoor he could get fair aim; but at last th' poleese gate his bull's eye on th' bull's eyes. bang! it went, an' th' boggard disappeared. owd dawdles wor varry saand asleep, but when th' gun went off he wakkened, an' wonderin what could be to do, he pooled on his britches an' ran daan stairs an' oppened th' door just as all th' fowk wor comin raand to try an' get in, for they hadn't a back door. 'we've peppered him his nut whoivver he is,' sed th' poleese. 'peppered whose nut? what docs ta mean?' sed owd dawdles. 'we've shot th' boggard i'th' back kitchen.' 'boggard be hang'd! ther's noa boggard i'th' kitchen. it's nowt, nobbut a white bull cauf! hev yo all lost yor wit?' dawdles went to see what wor th' matter an' t'others followed him; but when they saw what a mistak they'd made, the mooast on 'em slink'd off for fear they wud hev to pay for some o'th' damage. dawdles wor ommost ranty abaat it when he saw it ligged deead, but he said as little as he could, for his furst thowt wor hah mich brass he could mak on it as it war. 'well,' he sed, 'it's deead enuff, soa ther's nowt for it but to send for a butcher an' hey it killed, for aw knaw it'll be a bit ov as nice mait as ivver wor etten.' soa he fotched a butcher an' had it skinned an' dressed, an' as he lukt at it he thowt it happen wodn't turn aght so varry bad after all, an' as th' poleese paid for th' winder, an' th' wife an' th' childer fettled up withaat sayin' a word, he decided to be as quiet as he could an' mak th' best of his bargain. th' fact is he thowt it had nobbut sarved it reight, considerin' what a life it had led him th' day befoor. after a bit o' braikfast he set off to see if he could find a customer for it, but th' tale had flown all ovver th' district, an' whearivver he went he gate soa chaffed abaat it wol he wor fain to go back hooam. 'nah, lass,' he sed to his wife, 'aw've tried all ovver, an' aw cannot sell a pund o' that cauf, so ther's nowt for it but to set to an ait it, for aw'm detarmined it shalln't be wasted.' 'why, dawdles, tha knows we can nivver ait it wol it's sweet.' 'aw dooan't care whether it's sweet or saar, it'll have to be etten, soa tha'd better set to an' salt it, for ther isn't another aance o' mait comes into this haase till that's etten.' shoo did as shoo wor tell'd, an' shoo stew'd th' heead an' made some cauf-heead broth, an' rare an' nice it wor. next day they had a rooast, an' th' childer sed they wished ther fayther'd buy another cauf when that wor done. it went on varry weel for th' furst wick, but towards th' end o'th' second they'd rayther ha' seen a boggard walk into th' haase nor another piece o' that cauf walk on to th' table. but dawdles wor as gooid as his word, an' long befoor it wor done he declared it wor th' cheapest mait he ivver bowt. but aitin soa mich o' one sooart o' stuff seemed to have a strange-effect o'th' childer, for they fair seem'd to grow gaumless an' th' hair o' ther heead stood up like a caah toppin, an' dawdles hissen wor terrified if one on 'em complained ov a pain i' ther heead, for fear th' horns should be buddin'. 'nah, then, hah long are ta baan to praich,' sed one o'th' chaps 'at had been lissenin' to this tale, 'does ta know 'at it's ommost twelve o'clock?' 'why, nivver heed! it's th' last day i'th' year, an' we'st all have halliday to-morn. aw havn't tell'd yo hauf o'th' queer tricks he's noated for yet. did yo ivver hear tell abaat that umbrella o' his 'at he lost at bradforth market?' 'noa an' we dooan't want to hear ony moor to neet,' they sed, as they gate up an' knockt th' ash aght o' ther pipes, 'tha's tell'd us quite enough for a kursmiss stoary, an' tha mun save th' rest for th' new year.' soa they all trudged off to ther hooams to get a warm supper an' let ther wives sympathise wi' 'em, for havin' to tramp an' tew wol past twelve o'clock at neet to mak a bit ov a livin' for them 'at wor caar'd warm an' comfortable at hooam. property huntin'. ther's soa monny different sooarts o' fooils 'at it's hard to tell which is th' warst, an' th' best on us do fooilish things at times. it's varry fooilish for a young chap at's a paand a wick to live at th' rate o' twenty-five shillin', for hahivver clivver he may be at figures he'll be sure to find hissen in a hobble befoor long. aw once knew a chap they called "gentleman dick:" he wor nobbut a warp dresser, but to see him ov a neet, when he wor donned up an' walking throo th' streets twirlin' his cane, yo'd ha' taen him to be a gentleman's son at th' varry leeast. fowk 'at knew him sed he had to live o' mail porrige all th' wick, an' a red yearin for a treeat on a sunday, to enable him to get new clooas, an', as it wor, he owed soa monny tailors' bills 'at when he heeard a knock at th' door he allus had to luk aght o'th' chamer winder to see who it wor befoor he dar oppen it. but whativver he had to put up wi he nivver grummeld, an' setterdy neet an sundy wor th' time 'at he enjoyed hissen to his heart's content. one day when he wor aght dooin the grand, he met wi a young woman i'th' train gooin to briggus, an' he showed her soa mich attention wol shoo tuk quite a fancy to him, an' when he ax'd her if he might see her hooam, shoo blushed an' sed shoo didn't mind if he did. shoo wor a varry nice lass an' dressed as grand as yo'd wish to see an' dick sed such nice things to her, an' shoo smiled an' luk'd soa delighted wi him wol he hardly knew what ailed him. when they coom to some gates leeadin to a varry big hall shoo held aght her hand to bid him gooid-bye, for shoo sed, 'i'm at home now.' dick begged hard on her to promise to meet him agean, an' at last it wor arranged shoo'd see him next sundy neet on th' canal bank at brookfooit. all th' next wick dick's mates couldn't tell what to mak on him; he gave ovver singin' 'slap bang' an' 'champagne charlie,' an' tuk to practisin' 'gooid-bye, sweetheart' an' 'bonny jean,' an' whenivver he'd a minit or two to spare he wor scrapin' his finger nails or twistin' th' two or three hairs 'at he wor tryin to coax into a mustash. sundy coom at last, an' what wi curlin' his hair, an' practisin' all sooarts o' nods an' bows i'th' front o'th' lukkin'-glass it filled up th' furst pairt o'th' day. he started off i' gooid time an' wor at th' meetin' place to a minit, an' shoo worn't long after him. it's a gooid job at happiness is short-lived, for if his had lasted long he'd ha gooan cleean off th' side. ivvery sundy neet he tuk her for a walk, an' what delighted him moor nor all wor to find 'at shoo worn't a bit stuck up--real ladies nivver are. he gate to know 'at her name wor matilda, an' 'at shoo wor nobbut twenty-five year old, an' had two nice little properties ov her own, an' he tell'd her 'at he had a share in a big consarn, an' after they'd met an' walked an' tawk'd a few times he began ta be varry anxious for her to name th' happy day. shoo made a lot o' excuses an' sed shoo didn't know what her father 'd say, but dick sooin showed her 'at it wor a varry easy thing ta manage it withaht lettin' him know, an' he begged soa hard wol, after a deeal o' sobbin' an' gettin' him to sware 'at he'd allus love her as weel as he did just then, an' 'at come what wod he'd nivver forsake her, shoo gave her consent. when dick bid her gooid neet an' had watched her in at th' gate, he couldn't help turnin' raand an' smilin' at th' idea 'at in a few days he'd be son-in-law to a gentleman 'at lived i' sich a style as that. ther wor nowt for it but to be wed bi licence, an' hah to get th' brass dick couldn't tell, but at last he detarmined to tell one ov his shopmates all abaht it, an' ax him to advance him twenty paand, to be paid back as sooin as he gate th' properties. th' chap agreed to let him have it if he'd give him five paand for interest, an' th' bargain wor sooin struck. dick lost noa time i' gettin' th' licence, an' they met one mornin' an' went to th' church, an' wor teed as fast as th' law o'th' land could do it. he didn't know what shoo'd say when he tuk her to his hooam, for it wor nobbut a haase an' chamer an' varry little furnitur, tho' he'd fettled it up an' made it lewk as smart as he could. they went to a public-haase to ther dinner, an' then they tuk a long raand abaat way hooam, an' as they kept callin' for a refresher it wor neet when they landed. as sooin as ivver they entered th' door he began to mak all sooarts o' excuses abaat it bein' humble, but shoo stopt him in a minit, for shoo sed 'shoo didn't care hah little it wor soa long as shoo wor th' mistress, for shoo'd getten reight daan stall'd o' sarvice.' 'why,' he sed, 'tha knaws nowt abaat sarvice matilda, dear?' 'aw should think aw owt to do,' shoo sed, 'for aw've been i' place ivver sin aw could walk ommost.' dick stared like a throttled cat for a minit, for he couldn't believe his awn ears. 'aren't ta thi father's dowter?' he sed. 'why aw should think soa--whose dowter does ta think aw am?' 'but isn't that thi father 'at lives i' yond big haase?' 'what are ta tawkin abaat?' shoo sed, 'why th' chap 'at lives i' that haase is one o'th' richest chaps i' briggus--aw wor nobbut th' haasemaid thear--my father lives at salterhebble, an' hawks watter cress.' 'why then, whear did ta get thi two properties 'at tha tell'd me tha had?' matilda sat daan in a cheer, an' covered her face wi her handkertchy, an' began cryin' as if her heart wor braikin. this touched dick, for he wor ov a tender sooart, an' he did like her after all, soa he drew his cheer to her side, an' put his arm raand her waist an' tawk'd pratly to her an' tell'd her shoo shouldn't ha sed shoo had 'em if shoo hadn't. 'but it's true eniff,' shoo sed; 'aw wish it worn't, for that's what causes me to have sich an uneasy mind.' 'why what's th' reason on it? is ther some daat as to who's th' reight owner? or is ther a morgage on 'em? give ower freeatin', an if it's a fine day to-morn we'll goa an' luk at 'em.' 'ther's noa daat who belangs to 'em; a woman has 'em aght at nurse at sowerby brig.' 'at nurse? at nurse? what does ta mean? an' is that what tha ment bi thi two properties? tha'rt a deceitful gooid-for-nowt! to think 'at aw should wed a woman wi two childer!' 'why, tha didn't expect aw should have two elephans, did ta? but tha needn't let it bother thee mich, for one 'em's a varry little en.' 'awst nivver be able to put mi heead aght o'th' door ageean as long as aw live.' 'nivver heed, lad, awl stop at hooam an' keep thee cumpny.' 'well, but awl tell thee, tha'll be suckt, for aw hevn't a penny i'th' world, an' awm nowt but a warp dresser, an' cannot addle aboon two-an'-twenty shillin' a wick, an' awm ovver heead an' heels i' debt, soa tha'll be capt abaat that!' 'nay awm nooan capt, coss aw knew it all monny a wick sin, for aw made it i' mi way to mak a few enquiries, an' if tha'rt satisfied aw am, an' ther's nubdy else owt to do wi it.' 'aw've getten quite enuff to satisfy me, but tha can bet thi booits if it's ivver my luck to goa coortin ageean, awl mak it i' my way to mak a few enquiries.' 'well, it's allus safer but aw dooant think tha'll ivver have th' chonce for nooan o' awr family dee young, but here's a two-a-three paand aw've managed to save, an' it'll happen help to pay some o' thi debts. what time is it? aw feel sleepy.' 'aw think it's time to lock up.' two days after, dick sell'd up an' they went to america; he's been thear monny a year nah, an' th' last time aw heeard on him he'd getten some moor properties. abraham's sparrib. old abraham wor a jolly sooart ov a chap, an' he luk'd like it, for he'd a face ommost as big as a warmin pan, and it tuk ommost as mich stuff to mak him a waistcoit as wod mak some chaps a suit o' clooas, an' fowk 'at knew him varry weel sed he wor as fond ov his guts as he wor praad on 'em. be that as it may, ther wor seldom a feed onywhear for two or three miles raand but what abe wor sure to be thear, an' ther wornt a place within a day's march, whear they made a gooid meal for little brass, but what he knew it. when he wor young he wor put 'prentice to a cook-shop, but befoor he'd been a year th' chap failed, an' when th' bums had fetched aat all th' bits o' furniture, the maister stood opposite young abe, wi tears in his een, an' he sed, 'abraham, if tha'd been livin when thi name-sake wor, it wod ha been a bad job for th' israelities. awve tewd hard for monny a year, an' after all, awve nowt to see for it but thee.' 'well,' sed abe, 'its a bitter pill, noa daat, but yo mun swallow it as weel as yo can.' 'swallow it! if it wor thee tha mud swallow it, for tha's swallowed all ther wor, an thart all ther is left for mi pains.' 'well, maister, yo cannot charge me wi ingratitude for awve stuck to yo to th' last, an if yo like to start another shop, yo'll find me to depend on.' 'aw dooant daat thi for a minnit, lad, but to be plain wi' thi, it'll be noa use me oppenin another shop unless tha shuts thine up.' soa they parted, an abe grew into a man, an wheariver he wor fed he didn't disgrace his pastur. at th' time awm tellin abaat he worked in a warehaase wi two or three moor, an' one mornin when th' waggon coom ther wor a big parcel for abe, an' one o' thease chaps couldn't do but luk what wor in it, an' yo may fancy ha suited they wor when they saw a side o' sparrib. it wor sooin decided to have a lark, an' one o'th' chaps propooased to send it to th' 'three doves,' wi orders to cook it for th' supper, and to provide puttates &c. for a duzzen. abe wornt long befoor he coom, soa one on 'em tell'd him 'at they'd been tawkin abaat having a bit ov a doo, an' they should be varry glad if he'd join 'em. abe sed he had an engagement, but he'd put it off, an' they mud expect him. they knew a few chums 'at could enjoy a spree an' soa they invited 'em to mak up th' number, an' let' em into th' secret. at eight o' clock they wor all i' ther places, an' in coom a big dish wi' this sparrib nicely rooasted. abe wor vooated into th' cheer to cut it up an' deeal it aat, an' he did it wi' a willin hand. after sarvin 'em all he helped hissen, an' it began to disappear like magic. abe thowt he'd niver been at sich a jolly do in his life, ivery body seemed i' sich gooid spirits, an' they laft wol he feeared they'd chooak. he wor as jolly as ony on 'em, but he didn't let it interfere wi' his business. come lads,' he sed, 'pass up yor plates! let's see if we connot finish it, for awm sure its grand.' they wornt at all backward at bein helpt a second time, and rare gooid suppers they made. when th' aitin stuff wor sided, glasses o' hot punch coom in, for which ivery body paid a share, an' then one o'th' chaps propooased th' health o'th' gentleman 'at had given em' sich a treat. another seconded it an' it wor carried. abraham called for th' name, but they sed that wor a secret, but as he didn't get up to respond, they'd be mich obliged if abe wod do so for him. abe wor allus fond o' makkin a speech, soa he wor up in a minit. 'gentlemen,' he sed, 'awm glad to see yo,--yo've done justice to what's been provided, an' awm sure yo're varry welcome.' when he sed this ther wor sich clappin an' stampin wol he wor foorced to drop it an' sit daan, an' he couldn't help thinkin 'at noa speech o' his had made sich an impression befoor. after gettin warmed up wi punch, he tell'd 'em 'at he expected some sparrib comin th' next day, an' it had been his intention to mak a bit ov a doo an' invite 'em all, but as they'd had sich a supper that neet, he knew they wodn't enjoy another off th' same sooart o' mait, soa he shouldn't ax 'em. they all sed they'd had enuff for a week, but they thanked him all th' same, an' after singing 'for he's a jolly gooid fellow,' they went hooam.--next day abraham wor lukkin aght for his sparrib, but it didn't come, an' day after day he wor disappointed, an as th' chaps laft ivery time he mentioned it, a thowt began to creep into his noddle, 'at he'd been done.--he niver grumbled, but he's takken care to have his parcels 'livered at hooam sin then. a run ovver th' year. "a gooid beginin maks a gooid endin," fowk say, soa let's mak a gooid beginnin o'th year. but aw dooant altogether agree wi' thease old sayins, for aw've known monny a gooid beginnin 'at's come to a fearful bad endin, an' my advice to ony body 'at's startin owt is, niver crow till th' finish. aw once heeard tell ov a young woman at wor a reglar glaid; one o' them sooart 'at nubdy could do owt wi'; tawk abaat taming a shrew! why, net all th' shrews in shrewsbury wor a match for her. but a chap 'at lived net far off, thowt shoo wor a varry bonny lass, an' he felt sure he could manage her, soa he went an' made love in his best fashion, an' ivery time shoo call'd him a nasty offald scamp, he sed he lov'd hur moor an' moor; soa at last shoo cooil'd daan, an' all things were made sweet, an' befoor long they gate wed. ov coorse they'd a few friends to ther drinkin, an' a bit ov a donce at after, an' then a drop o' whisky an' hot water, an' when th' husband had getten a glass or two into him, he began to tell th' cumpany ha he'd tamed hur. 'why,' he sed, 'aw can do owt aw like wi' her nah, shoo's as gentle as a lamb.' 'if that's thy noation,' shoo says, 'th' sooiner tha gets shut on it an' th' better!' soa shoo made noa moor to do, but gave him a crack ovver th' nooas wi' her naive, an' in abaat a minit it wor swell'd as big as a cauf blether. he made a gurt din an' quavered abaat a bit, but it wor noa use for shoo wor th' maister on him, an' ivver after that he let her do as shoo liked, for he sed 'nowt suited him as mich as to see her suit hersen.' but ther wor fowk 'at used to wink an say, 'poor beggar!' th' next comes valentine's day, an' 'on valentine's day will a gooid gooise lay,' is a varry old sayin, an' aw dar say a varry gooid en; an' if all th' geese wod nobbut lay o' that day ther'd be moor chonce o' eggs bein cheap. but it isn't th' geese we think on at th' fourteenth o' this month, it's th' little ducks, an' th' billy dux. a'a aw wish aw'd all th' brass 'at's spent o' valentines for one year; aw wodn't thank th' queen to be mi aunt. ther's nubdy sends me valentines nah. aw've known th' time when they did, but aw'm like a old stage cooach, aw'm aght o' date. aw'st niver forget th' furst valentine aw had sent; th pooastman browt it afoor aw'd getten aght o' bed, an' it happen'd to be sunday mornin. aw read it ovver and ovver agean, an' aw luk'd at th' directions an' th' pooast mark, but aw cudn't mak aght for mi life who'd sent it; but whoiver it wor aw wor detarmined to fall i' love wi her as sooin as aw gate to know. then aw shov'd it under th' piller an' shut mi een an' tried to fancy what sooart ov a lass shoo must be, an' someha aw fell asleep, an' aw dremt,--but aw will'nt tell yo what aw dremt for fear yo laaf. but when aw wakken'd aw sowt up an' daan, but nowhear could aw find th' valentine. aw wor ommost heart-broken, an' aw pool'd all th' cloas off th' bed an' aw luk'd under it, an' ovver it, but net a bit on it could aw see, an at last aw began to fancy 'at aw must ha dremt all th' lot, an' 'at aw'd niver had one sent at all; but when aw wor gettin' mi breeches on, blow me! if it worn't stuck fast wi a wafer to mi shirt lap. what her 'at sent it ud a sed if shoo'd seen it, aw can't tell, an' aw wodn't if aw could; but aw know one thing, aw wor niver i' sich a muck sweat afoor sin aw wor born, an when aw went to mi breakfast aw wor soa maddled wol aw couldn't tell which wor th' reight end o'th' porridge spooin, but aw comforted misen at last wi' thinking at aw worn't th' furst at had turned ther back ov a valentine. nah, th' vally ov a thing depends oft o'th' use ov a thing; her's an old sayin 'a peck o' march dust is worth a king's ransom,' but aw should think 'at th' vally o'th' ransom owt to depend o'th' vally o'th' king. it's oft capt me ha it is 'at becos one chap is son ov a king, an' another is son ov a cart-driver, 'at one should be soa mich moor thowt on nor tother. noa daat we should all be sons an' dowters o' kings an' queens if we could, but then ther'd have to be a deal moor kings an' queens, or else they'd niver be able to keep th' stock up. net 'at awm findin fault wi' awr queen, net aw marry! shoo's done her best noa daat, an' her childer seem tryin to follow her example. but then, when princes an' princesses get moor plentyful they'll be less thowt on; it'll be th' same wi' them as it wor wi' th' umbrellas at one time, for th' chap 'at had th' furst wor run after wi' ivery body, an' when ther were nobbut two or three, fowk allus ran to th' winder to have a luk at 'em; but whoiver runs to luk at umbrellas nah? it wor th' same wi' steam engines, it's getten th' same wi' velosipeeds, an it'll be th' same wi' princes, princesses, or owt else, as sooin as they get common, unless they've summat moor to depend on nor a grand title, fowk ull tak but little noatice. we cannot all be fine fowk, but we may all be gooid fowk, if we try, an' a gooid cart-driver ull be better nor a bad king at th' finish. rich fowk ha troubles as weel as poor, but ther's noa need for onybody to be troubled long; for if its summat they can't help its fooilish to freeat, an' if its summat they can help, why the deuce don't they? its fooilish to freeat, but fowk will freeat sometimes. well, nivver heed! 'april shaars bring may flowers,' soa we willn't grumel if we get catched i' one nah an' then an' get a gooid sooaking, for ther's nowt i'th' world bonnier nor flaars, even cauliflaars. ther's lots o' bonny things i'th' world besides flaars; ther's bonny words, an' if fowk wod nobbut use 'em we should all get on a deeal better. aw remember once bein in a public haase, an' ther wor two chaps sat quietly suppin ther pints o' fourpenny, when all at once one o' ther wives coom in, an her een fair blazed when shoo saw him. 'o, soa tha'rt here are ta?' shoo began, 'soa this is th' way th' brass gooas is it! tha nasty gooid-for-nowt! aw could like to smash thi face! sittin thear throo morn to neet sossin like a pig, an' leavin me an' th' childer to do as we con! ha con ta fashion? tha desarves teein to a cart tail an' hidin' throo th' streets, tha low-lived villain! all th' time shoo wor talkin shoo wor shakin her neive in his face, an' when he could edge in a word he sed. 'aw'l tell thee what it is, this is nobbut mi third pint to-day, an' aw wor just commin hooam, but tha can hook it, for aw shall come when aw'm ready, an net before, an' that will'nt be yet a bit.' just wol they wor fratchin tother chap's wife coom seekin him, an' as sooin as shoo saw him shoo smiled an' sed, 'o, aw've fun thi, come lad, aw want thee at hooam, awr little jack has getten his new clogs on an' he will'nt let me put him to bed till tha's seen 'em, tha'll be like to come.' 'howd a minit,' he sed, as he emptied his pint, then he went away wi' her. tother stopt. soa mich for kindness. an' ther's moor ways nor one o' bein kind. nah, yo've oft heeard fowk say, 'niver cast a claot till may goas aght.' that's all varry gooid as far as regards top coits an' flannel shirts an sich like. but ther's another thing, its just abaat th' time for fowk to get new clooas an' throw off th' old ens; an' aw've a word or two to say abaat that, for ther's some poor fowk aw see sometimes 'at cannot cast a claot; th' fact is, they've nowt else to put on. ha monny scoor fowk do we meet as we walk abaat, 'ats hardly a rag to ther back, or aw should say they've nowt but rags, an' that's what prevents 'em havin a chonce to addle brass to buy ony fresh ens. ha monny have to creep aght o'th' seet, into ony sooart ov a low hoil, mix up wi bad compny,--first pine, then beg, then stail--an' all this becoss they've had th' misfortun to be ragged. if ther's one thing moor nor another 'at fowk mak a mistak in, it's _sellin_ ther old clooas. some may say they can't affoord to give 'em: then aw say, wear 'em a bit longer till yo can; ther'll somdy be thankful for 'em after then. ivery body can affoord to be charitable to a certain extent, an' ther's noa charity does as mich gooid wi as little cost as givin yor old clooas. luk what comfort yo give a chap; then as sooin as he sees his sen luk respectable, he begins to want to be soa, he feels to have moor pluck, he doesn't hing daan his heead, he's a better chonce to win a honest livin, an' yo may safely think yo've gien a chap a lift on his way, when yo've gien him yor old clooas. 'if the 8th of june is a rainy day, it foretells a wet harvest, so men say,' but whether it does or it doesn't aw cannot tell: if it does we mun mak th' best on it, that's all; but we've one bit o' comfort left even then, for its sure to be fair at halifax o'th' 24th. it's grand to goa to th' fair an' see fowk starin at th' pictures; an' its cappin to harken to th' show fowk shaatin an' bawlin an' tellin all sooarts o' tales to draw th' brass aght o' yor pockets. then ther's th' swingin booats, them's for cooarters: they're a grand institution for young fowk, for if a chap can get his young woman to get in, he's sure of a chonce to get his arm raand her waist, an' give her a bit of a squeeze. then ther's th' flyin' horses, whear a chap can get made mazy for a penny: wheniver aw see 'em they allus remind me ov a chap aw knew; he stood abaat six foot two in his stockin feet, an' weighed abaat six stooan an' a hauf; an' one day he'd been poorly a bit, soa he thowt he'd ax a friend 'at had a donkey if he'd lend it him. 'tha can have it an' welcome,' th' chap said, 'but aw'm feeard thi legs is too long.' 'oh ne'er heed that,' he sed, 'if aw find 'em to trail aw'l hold 'em up.' soa he gate it, an as he wor varry leet they went on nicely for a bit, but just as he wor comin on charlestaan, a chap stopt him to ax him what they called that old church, soa he dropt daan his feet on to'th floor and began to explain an' as sooin as he'd done that, th' donkey walked away leavin him thear striddlin like a clooas peg. as sooin as he'd finished he sed 'gie up!' an he thowt o' sittin daan; an' he did, but it wor soa mich lower daan wol he thowt his back wor brokken; when he luk'd raand he saw neddy trottin up th' haley hill. 'tha's tow't me a lesson,' he sed, 'an' for th' futur, as long as iver aw can do for misen, aw'l niver seek onybody's ass istance. ther's nowt like bein independent, an mooast fowk have a chonce if they'll nobbut 'mak hay wol th' sun shines,' an' if yo dooant mak it then yo'll niver be able to mak it at ony other time. if yo want to mak love, yo can mak that when th' mooin shines, but it will'nt do for hay. aw remember a queer tale 'at they used to tell ov a chap 'at had some strange nooations, an' allus thowt his own way best. an' one day as some chaps were gooin past his farm, they saw him runnin up an' daan i' th' front o' th' lathe, wi' a empty wheelbarro, and then rush in, an' upset it, and aght agean. 'why,' says one, 'aw'm sure ike must be crack'd, whativer can he be dooin?' soa they went to ax him. 'what's up nah ike?' said one, 'tha'll kill thisen if tha gooas on like that, are ta trainin for a match or summat?' 'yo dooant know,' sed ike, 'but aw'l let yo into a saycret; yo see aw'd getten all th' grass cut yesterday, an' aw fancied it wor baan to rain, soa aw haased it just green as it wor, an' nah aw'm wheelin sunshine in to dry it wi.' 'well, tha'rt a bigger fooil nor aw tuk thi for! does ta think tha can wheel sunshine into th' lathe, same as horse-muck?' 'thee mind thi own business,' says ike, 'aw should think aw've lived long enuff to know what aw'm dooin, an' when aw want taichin aw'll send for thee.' soa they left him to his wheelin, but ha long he kept at it they didn't know, but in a few days they saw him agean an' axed him ha he fan his system to answer? an' he says 'why, aw dooant get on varry weel, but it is'nt th' fault o' th' system, th' fact is, aw connot do it till aw get a bigger barro. but he wod'nt give in. an' ther's lots o' th' same sooart. perseverance is a grand thing. if it wornt for tewin, an' sewin, an' plowin whear wod th' harvest be? an ther's noa greater blessin nor a gooid harvest. ther's a deal o' fowk have a harvest abaat this time. flaar shows reap a benefit if th' weather be fine. ther's nowt aw like better nor to goa to a flaar show, moor especially sich as th' haley hill, ovenden, siddal, or elland, or ony other, whear th' mooast o' th' stuff has been grown bi workin fowk. th' plants may'nt be as bonny, but they luk bonnier to me, an' they tell a tale 'at yo cannot mistak. ha monny haars' enjoyment have they gien to th' fowk 'ats growin 'em? an' ha oft have they kept chaps aght o' th' alehaase? an' then see ha praad prize winners are! aw allus feel sooary 'at they cannot all win th' furst prize, for aw'm sure they desarve it for ther trouble. an' if yo nooatice, yo're sure to see a nice cheerful woman or two, stood cloise aside o'th' plants 'at's wun owt, an' if yo wait a bit yo'll see her ivery nah an' then, touch somdy o'th' elbow as they're gooin past, an' point at th' ticket an' say, 'sithee, them's awr's!' 'what them 'at's won th' prize?' 'eea.' 'why they're grand uns!' an' then shoo'l whisper in her ear, 'ther's nubdy can touch aw'r simon 'at growin thease, tha sees he understands it.' a'a simon! shoo's a deeal o' faith i' thee, an' if tha's made muck wi thi clogs sometimes when tha's trailed in withaat wipin thi feet, shoo forgives thi nah. wimmen's varry soft after all an' its as weel it is soa, for ther's monny a gooid harvest a' happiness been gethered in at wod ha been lost but for a soft word or two. another old sayin', 'september blow soft, till the fruit's i'th' loft,' for if strong winds blow nah it'll spoil all th' apples an' stuff, an' it'll be soa mich war for fowk 'at has to addle ther livin for whativer else fowk differ abaat, aw think they're all agreed o' one point, an' that is, ther's noa livin long withaat aitin. but it's hard wark gettin a livin nah days, an' them 'at's comfortably off owt to be thankful. but it's cappin i' what queer ways some fowk do get a livin! aw knew a chap once 'at stood abaat seven feet, an' he wor soa small he luk'd like a walkin clooas prop. talk abaat skin and grief! aw niver did see sich a chap, an' his face luk'd to be all teeth an' een. he used to waive a bit at one time, but he gate seck'd becos his maister catched him asleep in a stove pipe. but one day he wor wanderin abaat, an' wonderin ha to get a livin, an' in a bit a chap comes up to him, an' says, 'does ta want a job?' 'aw do that, can yo find me one, maister?' he sed. 'well,' says th' chap, 'tha'rt just th' lad 'at aw want if tha'll goa, for aw keep a druggist's shop at sowerby brig, an' if tha'll stand i'th' winder an' flay fowk into fits as they goa past, aw'll gie thee a paand a wick.' 'it's a bargain,' he sed, 'an' he went wi' him, an' aw've been tell'd 'at that druggist made a fortun i' twelve months wi nowt but sellin fit physic. whether that's true or net aw will'nt say, but aw'm sure ther's some fowk at sowerby brig 'at dooant seem altogether reight even yet. an' its hardly to be wondered at, for one hauf o'th' fowk we meet i'th' streets on a neet, seem to be druffen. aw hear some queer tales sometimes, but aw dooant tell all aw know. 'ale sellers shouldn't be tale tellers.' but aw'm sooary to say at th' mooast ale sellers at' aw know are varry fond o' taletellin. ther's nowt shows a chap's littleness as mich as to be allus talkin abaat his own or somdy else's private affairs; an' ther's nowt likely to produce moor bother nor that system o' tittle tattlin abaat other fowk's consarns. ther's a deal o' blame ligg'd o' th' wimmen sometimes, for gossipin ovver a sup o' rum an' tea: an' noa daat its true enuff, but aw think some o' th' men hav'nt mich room to talk, for they gossip as mich ovver ther ale as ivver wimmen do ovver ther tea. little things 'at's sed in a thowtless way sometimes cause noa end o' bother, an' it's as weel to be careful for ther's trouble enuff. a chap an' his wife 'at lived neighbors to me, had a word or two one neet, an' soa shoo went up stairs to sulk; an' when he sat daan to his supper he thowt he'd have her on a bit, soa he cut all th' mait off a booan, an' then he sed to' his oldest lass. 'here, mary! tak this up stairs to thi mother an' tell her 'at thi father has sent her a booan to pick.' th' lass tuk it up to her mother an' tell'd her 'at her father'd sent it, an' as sooin as shoo saw it, shoo says, 'tak it him back, an' tell him 'at he isn't thi father, an' that'll be a booan for him to pick.'--an' it wor an' all, an' it's stuck in his throit to this day, soa yo see what bother that's caused. it's nivver wise to be rackless naythur i' word nor deed, for whativver yo plot an plan agean other fowk it's ommost sewer to roll back on yorsens an' trap yor tooas if it does nowt else; 'fowk 'at laik wi' fire mun expect a burn.' an soa all yo 'at intend to keep up gunpaader plot munnot grummel if yo get warmed a bit. but gunpaader plot isn't th' only plot 'at gets browt to a finish this month; ther's lots o' plottin an' planin besides that. ther's monny a chap 'at's been langin for a year or two to be made a taan caancillor 'at's been havin all his friends to ther supper, an' 'at for th' last month or two has been stoppin fowk 'at he's met, an' shakin hands wi 'em, an' axin all abaat ha ther wives an' childer are gettin on, tho' he's passed th' same fowk monny a hundred times befoor an' nivver spokken to 'em at all. it's all plottin. a'a this little bit o' pride! a'a this desire to be summat thowt on! aw dooant know ha we should get on withaat it! ther's a gooid deeal o' califudge i'th' world after all, but aw dooant think it does mich harm, for mooast fowk can see throo it. but it allus maks me smile when aw goa to a ward meetin, an' hear furst one an' then another get up an' thank a caancillor for dooin soa mich for 'em, an' prayin 'at he'll suffer hissen to be re-elected; when at th' same time they know 'at he's ready to fall ov his knees to beg on 'em to send him agean. well, aw dooant know why a chap shouldn't be thanked for dooin that 'at's a pleasure to hissen an' a benefit to others! it's nobbut th' same as me writin this, it suits me to write it, an' it suits others to read it, yet aw think aw'm entitled to some thanks after all. but one munnot expect to get all they're entitled to, an' its a jolly gooid job we dooant, for if we did ther'd be a lot on us 'at ud have to be burried at th' public expense. we're nooan on us too gooid, but 'it's niver too late to mend,' an' it's niver too sooin to begin, soa nah 'at we've getten to th' end ov another year, let us carefully reckon up an see ha we stand. aw fancy we shall all find 'at ther's lots o' room for improvement yet, an' ther's nowt at yo can do 'at's likely to give yo moor satisfaction nor to detarmine to do better for th' future. a chap's allus awther better or war at th' end o'th' year nor what he wor at th' beginnin, an aw'm sure iverybody'll feel pleased to know at they're all o'th' mendin hand. it's a pity to think ivery time christmas comes raand 'at ther's soa mony fowk 'at will'nt be able to have a merry un. aw'm sooary it is soa, an' aw wod help it if aw could. ther's nubdy enjoys a bit ov a spree better nor aw do, but ther's one thing aw dooant like, an that is to be pestered off my life booath at hooam an abroad wi fowk commin an sayin, 'aw wish yo a merry christmas an' a happy new year,' when all th' time aw know weel enuff they wish nowt at sooart, but just come for what they can get. nah if sich-like wod nobbut come an' say plain aght, 'we come to see what yo'll give us, an' we dooant care a button whether yo've a merry christmas or net,' why, then yo'd know what to mak on 'em. ony body at's ony gooid wishes to give, let 'em give 'em, but aw'm blow'd if aw care to buy' em, becoss they arn't genuine at's to sell. th' price may be low enuff--a glass o' whisky or a shillin, but unless they come free gratis, for nowt, aw'd rather net be bothered wi' 'em. shoolers, please tak nooatice. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ yorkshire oddities incidents and strange events by s. baring-gould, m.a. author of "mehalah," "iceland: its scenes and sagas," "old country life," etc. "there be such a company of wilful gentlemen within yorkshire as there be not in all england besides."--_abbot of york to cromwell, 1556, rolls house ms._ fifth edition london methuen and co. 18 bury street, w.c. 1900 preface. a residence of many years in yorkshire, and an inveterate habit of collecting all kinds of odd and out-of-the-way information concerning men and matters, furnished me, when i left yorkshire in 1872, with a large amount of material, collected in that county, relating to its eccentric children. a friend, when he heard that i was collecting such material, exclaimed, "what are you about? every other yorkshireman is a character!" such is the case. no other county produces so much originality--and that originality, when carried to excess, is eccentricity. i look back with the greatest pleasure to the kindness and hospitality i met with in yorkshire, where i spent some of the happiest years of my life. i venture to offer this collection of memoirs of odd people, and narrative of strange events, as a humble contribution to the annals of the greatest, not perhaps only in extent, of our english counties, and a slight return for the pleasant welcome it afforded a migratory penman from the south. preface to revised edition. this book was well received in yorkshire and elsewhere when it first appeared, and as it preserved notices of strong characters, records of whom were passing away, and some taken from chap books already become scarce, a new edition (the 4th) is issued thoroughly revised and only very slightly curtailed. lew trenchard, _12th april, 1890_. contents. page. the ghost of trinity church, york 1 peter priestly, the wakefield parish clerk 22 prophet wroe 28 bishop-dyke pond 59 snowden dunhill, the convict 65 james naylor, the quaker 87 "old three laps" 102 christopher pivett 108 david turton, musician at horbury 109 john bartendale, the piper 117 blind jack of knaresborough 120 "peg pennyworth" 169 peter barker, the blind joiner 173 the white house 179 jemmy hirst, an oddity 186 the tragedy of beningbrough hall 216 a yorkshire butcher 223 the one-pound note 236 mr. wikes of leaseholme 256 the rev. mr. carter, parson-publican 259 job senior, the hermit of rumbold's moor 263 nancy nicholson, the termagant 270 the wooden bell of ripon 318 old john "mealy-face" 322 the boggart of hellen-pot 326 jonathan martin, the incendiary of york minster 340 brother jucundus 393 mary bateman, witch and murderess 401 yorkshire oddities and incidents. the ghost of trinity church, york. some years ago i heard mention made of an apparition said to have been seen in trinity church, micklegate, york, which at the moment excited my curiosity. but as i heard no more about it, it passed out of my mind. in 1869 i was invited to deliver a lecture at middlesborough, when i met a clergyman who introduced himself to me as an old acquaintance. we had not met for some years, and then he had been a boy at school. about a week after i left middlesborough i received from him the following letter:-i. "_easter sunday evening, 1869._ "dear mr. baring-gould. "i venture, from the slight acquaintance i am happy to have with you personally, and the deeper one i have with your tastes from external sources, to enclose for your perusal a narrative of a perfectly true event, drawn up by myself some few years ago, at the request of some friends who doubted the truth of the circumstances therein related. if you have ever heard anything of it, and can help me in explaining it, i shall be grateful, as it perplexes me, as one always is teased when something which one cannot account for has been brought to one's notice. "mr. s---is going in a few sundays to preach at the very church in york where this took place, and this bringing again before my mind the spectacle i then saw, caused me to apply to my friends for the account i gave them, and i now send it to you. i could, if you are interested, supply some minor details, but better by word of mouth, if ever we meet again. the only correction i should make is this: you will find that i relate a sequence of events, and i am not quite satisfied in my own mind that i have given the order of the incidents exactly as they occurred, and it is possible that i may have inverted them. at the time i was so startled that i was more intent on observing the figures than noting what was the succession in the scenes, if i may use the expression. indeed, each reappearance was a surprise; and when i tried to recall each incident in the order in which it occurred, i found that though i could recall the appearance distinctly before my mind's eye, yet i could not swear to which scene preceded the other. "this was the only occasion of my visiting the church. i confess the impression left on my nerves was not pleasant, and i do not think i should like to risk the effect of a repetition of it. apologising for thus troubling you with my experiences, "i remain, yours very truly, "a. b. "p.s.--the incumbent, mr. w----, has left, and another, mr. m----, has now the living of holy trinity, micklegate." the following account, dated 1866, was enclosed in the letter:- "while staying in york at this time last year (1865), or perhaps a little earlier, i first heard of the apparitions or ghosts supposed to be seen in trinity church, micklegate. i felt curious to see a ghost, i confess, if such a thing is to be seen without the usual concomitants of a dark night and a lone house. accordingly i went to the church for morning service on a blazing hot sunday morning in august last, with a girl about thirteen years old and her little brother. "the east window of the church, i must explain, is of stained glass, rather tawdry, and of no particular design, except that the colouring is much richer in the centre than at the sides, and that at the extreme edge there is one pane of unstained glass which runs all round the window. "the peculiarity of the apparition is, that it is seen on the window itself, rather less than half-way from the bottom (as i saw it from the gallery), and has much the same effect as that of a slide drawn through a magic lantern when seen on the exhibiting sheet. the form seen--i am told invariably--is that of a figure dressed in white walking across the window, and gives the idea of some one passing in the churchyard in a surplice. i say a figure, for the number is generally limited to one, and i was told that only on trinity sunday did more than one appear, and that then there were three. "but i can vouch for the larger number appearing on other occasions, as on the day i was there, which was one of the sundays after trinity, there were rarely fewer than three visible. "the figures began to move across the window long before the commencement of the service, when in fact there was no one present but ourselves. they did so again before the service began, as well as during the 'venite,' and subsequently as many as twenty or thirty times, i should suppose, till the conclusion of the sermon. "of the three figures two were evidently those of women, and the third was a little child. the two women were very distinct in appearance. one was tall and very graceful, and the other middle-sized; we called the second one the nursemaid, from her evident care of the child during the absence of the mother, which relationship we attributed to the tall one, from the passionate affection she exhibited towards the child, her caressing it, and the wringing of her hands over it. "i may add that each figure is perfectly distinct from the others, and after they had been seen once or twice are at once recognisable. "the order of their proceedings, with slight variation, was this: the mother came alone from the north side of the window, and having gone about half-way across, stopped, turned round, and waved her arm towards the quarter whence she had come. this signal was answered by the entry of the nurse with the child. both figures then bent over the child, and seemed to bemoan its fate; but the taller one was always the most endearing in her gestures. the mother then moved towards the other side of the window taking the child with her, leaving the nurse in the centre of the window, from which she gradually retired towards the north corner, whence she had come, waving her hand, as though making signs of farewell, as she retreated. "after some little time she again appeared, bending forward, and evidently anticipating the return of the other two, who never failed to reappear from the south side of the window where they had disappeared. "the same gestures of despair and distress were repeated, and then all three retired together to the north side of the window. "usually they appeared during the musical portions of the service, and especially during one long eight-line hymn, when--for the only occasion without the child--the two women rushed on (in stage phrase), and remained during the whole hymn, making the most frantic gestures of despair. indeed, the louder the music in that hymn, the more carried away with their grief did they seem to be. "nothing could be more emphatic than the individuality of the several figures; the manner of each had its own peculiarity. i do not doubt that if the stained glass were removed, a much plainer view would be obtained. i think so, because the nearer the centre of the window, where the stained glass was thickest, there the less distinct were the forms. it was like catching glimpses of them through leaves. but nearer the edge of the window, where the colours were less bright, they were _perfectly_ distinct; and still more so on the pane of unstained glass at the edge. there they seemed most clear, and gave one the impression of being real persons, not shadows. "indeed, by far the most remarkable and perplexing incident in the whole spectacle was this, that on one occasion, when the mother and child had taken their departure, the medium figure--the nurse--waved her hands, and after walking slowly to the _very edge_ of the window, turned round _whilst on the pane of unstained glass_, and waved her arm towards the other two with what one would call a stage gesture, and then i most distinctly saw, and i emphatically declare i did see the arm bare nearly to the shoulder, with beautiful folds of white drapery hanging from it like a picture on a greek vase. nothing could be plainer than the drag of the robes on the ground after the figures as they retired at the edge of the window where the clear glass was, previous to going out. the impression produced was that one saw real persons in the churchyard; for though the figures were seen on the window, yet they gave one the impression of walking past the window outside, and not moving upon the glass. "no one in the church seemed to be in the smallest degree attracted or discomposed by all this, or, indeed, to observe it. "i talked a great deal on the subject with miss c----, daughter of the late dr. c----, of york, and she told me that mr. w----, the incumbent of trinity church, would give anything to get rid of it, or discover the imposture, if imposture there be. she told me that he and his family had watched day and night without being able to find any clue to the mystery. their house is in the churchyard and opposite the east window, and therefore very favourably placed for such an investigation. i am not inclined to think that the trees outside the church at the east end can originate the appearance by any optical illusions produced by waving branches. i could see their leaves rustling in the air, and their movement was evidently unconnected with the appearance and movement of the figures. "a. b." this curious communication led to my making inquiries, and i speedily heard of several persons who had seen the "ghosts" at a later date. friends to whom i applied have sent me the following letters, written independently of one another. they naturally shrink from having their names published, but i can testify to these accounts being perfectly _bona fide_:-ii. south parade, york, _march 22nd, 1871_. "dear mr. baring-gould, "i promised to send you an account of the ghost at holy trinity, micklegate, and i now forward you the enclosed, written by a friend on whose word you may perfectly rely. "i heard another account a few days ago from a lady who saw it on sunday, the 19th february last. she described the figure--for she saw only one--as being dressed in a shining white garment, and says that it crossed the east window twice, with a slightly 'skipping' step. it appeared to be outside the church, as she saw it distinctly through the stained glass. "i have never seen it myself, though i have been several times to the church. "there are four lights in the east window, and the glass of the two central lights is of a darker tint than that in the side ones. there are, however, narrow panes of transparent glass in each of the lights, so that a person passing across the window outside could be distinctly seen by anyone sitting in the west gallery. "the sill of the east window is about five feet from the ground outside, and about seven feet from the pavement inside; about ten yards from the east wall separating the churchyard from a private garden. "yours very truly, "r. t." this is the enclosure alluded to by my friend "r. t.":-iii. "having heard from several people of the ghost at the church of the holy trinity, micklegate, york, on sunday, at the end of september, 1869, a friend and myself made up our minds to go and see if we also could be favoured with a sight of this wonderful apparition. "well, we went up into the gallery, the only place whence they say it is to be seen. you may, perhaps, already know that the gallery faces the east window, which is filled with modern stained glass. "i am afraid that our attention rambled somewhat from the service, for we were looking out for the ghostly visitant. however, we watched and watched, as we began to think, in vain, until at the very end of the second lesson, when, just before the beginning of the 'jubilate deo,' i saw a figure, i should say of a shortish woman, with something white folded over her, covering even her head and face, but still i could see what it was. the figure appeared to walk very fast across the two middle lights of the east window, from right to left (_i.e._, from south to north), and seemed to be at some distance from the window. "the strange thing is, that i saw it clearly through the thick painted glass. "the whole thing happened so suddenly, and really surprised me so much, that for some time i could hardly get up from the seat or find my place at the beginning of the chant. just as it disappeared my friend said, 'did you see that?' to which, of course, i answered, 'yes; did you?' that was all we saw; and a lady who was there at the same time, whom we knew, saw it also, exactly as we did, only apparently not with the same distinctness. "many persons have seen a great deal more. i believe that the figure is generally seen to walk across the window in the reverse way to that which my friend and i saw, and returns with a child, some say with two. "we examined outside the window. it is a good deal above the ground, about five feet, i should think, and at the side of it is a very old gravestone, with no inscription on the headstone as far as i could make out. i believe it is currently reported that the apparition issues from that grave. "some people thought that it might be a shadow caused in some peculiar manner by the trees that grew outside; but it was not, for the trees were cut down about three years ago, and the apparition is still seen, as it has been, i have been told, for a century. "i have nothing to add, except that this is a true and unexaggerated account of what i saw." iv. york, _march 28th, 1874_. "sir, "owing to severe illness in my family, i was not able to reply to your note earlier. i will now try and tell you what i have seen and been told on the subject of the ghosts at holy trinity church, micklegate. "a york lady, now dead, told me she remembered seeing it when a child, and that she once read an account of it in an old history of york: she thought the book must have been published in the seventeenth century. "we now live in the parish of holy trinity, and attend the church regularly. a part of my family sit in the gallery, therefore i will tell you, in as matter-of-fact a manner as possible, what i myself have seen, and leave one of my daughters, if she likes, to give you her experiences. "i must state also that the ghost is seen more or less distinctly as you happen to be seated in the centre or side of the gallery; as a rule, the former is the best place. "as i have no faith in ghosts, i have been most wishful to have the matter cleared up. at present i cannot account for the appearance in any way. "i went many times to the gallery in hopes of seeing the phenomenon, but was repeatedly disappointed. at last, one dull day, hopeless for the purpose as i thought--rain was falling at the time--i was startled by seeing something. "there are two east windows--one on the right, filled with common green glass, the organ in front of it. from the outside of this window i saw something move, and immediately a graceful figure of a girl of eighteen or twenty years crossed the outside of the stained east window with a light, free step. she was entirely covered with a fine lace veil which, as she walked and met the air, showed the outline of the head and figure; the features i could not distinguish, but could see a shade through the veil where they naturally would be. "the veil was of a pure white, flowing back as a train as she walked. in two or three minutes the figure returned, the robe flowing back in the same way, and disappeared behind the organ window. "the figure appeared to me to be decidedly outside the window, and at a greater distance than was possible for any one to be; in the first place, because the east window is high up, and therefore anyone walking past it, to be seen at all, must be at some little distance from it; and, secondly, because there is a dead wall within a few yards of the window. "the pure white of the robe quite obliterated the colours in the window, but the lead work was distinct enough, and the figure appeared behind it the distinct outline of the figure is most striking. "the apparition always returns to the organ window. i have seen this several times since the first. owing to the dull day and the darkness of the windows, the appearance on the first occasion was the more remarkable. two or three other figures also appear, but i never thought them as distinct as the first, and i thought the second and third might be reflections of the first. the two or three often move quickly back and forwards with a dancing movement somewhat like the reflection of the sun on a wall, but taking the form of human figures. however, it was dull and raining when first i saw the apparition, so that on that occasion there could have been no reflection of sunlight. "these appearances are sometimes not seen for weeks and months; then they appear once or twice on succeeding days or sundays. no one can be sure of seeing them if they go to the church for that purpose. i do not believe the apparition takes place at one more favoured time than another, though some people like to think so. the present rector wished to abolish the 'ghosts,' and was advised to cut down one or two trees. this was done; all thought that the ghosts were banished. ten months after there was a gay wedding; my daughters went into the gallery to witness the ceremony, and lo! the 'ghost or ghosts' were there also. they had not been seen for nine or ten months. that was the first occasion since the cutting down of the trees on which they reappeared. "the sunday-school children who sit in the gallery see the form so often as to be quite familiar with the sight, and call them 'the mother, nurse, and child.' "the legend i have heard told of it is that a family, consisting of a father, mother, and only child, lived here once upon a time. the father died, and was buried at the east end of the church, under or near the organ window. after a while the plague broke out in york and carried off the child, and it was buried outside the city, as those who died of plague were not allowed to be laid in the churchyards for fear of communicating the infection. "the mother died afterwards, and was laid in her husband's grave, and now, as in her lifetime, continues to visit the grave of her child and bemoan the separation. the child is brought from its grave in the plague-pit by the mother and nurse, and brought to the grave of its father, and then it is taken back to where it lies outside the walls." "l. s." v. the following appeared in the "newcastle daily chronicle" a couple of years after the publication of my book, in 1874:- "sir,--on good friday last i went to holy trinity church, york, for morning service, at 11 o'clock, and repaired with a friend to the gallery, being anxious to see a certain apparition which is said to haunt the place. "the gallery is situated at the extreme west end of the building, and faces the east window, from which it is distant some 50 feet or so. it is said that in the aisle and body of the church nothing is ever seen. the gallery was full, but no one seemed to have come there especially for the ghost, and though many of them afterwards said they saw it, they were not in the least affected by the apparition, treating it as a matter of course, to which they were well accustomed. "i kept my eyes fixed upon the east window for nearly the whole of the hour and a half during which the service lasted, but was not favoured with a sight of the phenomenon; although others saw it cross the window and return, and my friend, who knows it well, called my attention to the fact, at the moment, yet i could not perceive nothing. i therefore left the place as unbelieving as ever, and supposed that either i was the victim of a hoax, or that it required a great stretch of imagination to fancy that a passing shadow was the desired object. however, not liking to discredit the statements of many friends who were used to seeing it almost every sunday, i consented on easter day to go to the same place and pew. the seat i occupied was not an advantageous one, a large brass chandelier being between me and the lower panes of the window. in the middle of the service my eyes, which had hardly once moved from the left or north side of the window, were attracted by a bright light formed like a female robed and hooded passing from north to south with a rapid gliding motion outside the church apparently at some distance. the window is gothic, and i fancy, from 20 to 25 feet high, by 12 to 15 feet wide at the base. the panes through which the ghost shines are about 5 feet high and about half-way between the top and bottom. there are four divisions in the window, all of stained glass, of no particular pattern, the outer on right and left being of lighter colour than the two centre panes, and at the edge of each runs a rim of plain transparent white glass, about two inches wide, and adjoining the stone work. through this rim, especially, could be seen what looked like a form transparent, but yet thick, (if such a term can be used) with light. it did not resemble linen, for instance, but was far brighter, and would, no doubt, have been dazzling to a near observer. the robe was long, and trailed. the figure was of course not visible when it had crossed the window and passed behind the wall. my friend whispered to me that it would return, must return, and at the end of five minutes or so, the same figure glided back from right to left, having turned round while out of sight. about half an hour later it again passed across from north to south, and having remained about ten seconds only, returned with what i believe to have been the figure of a young child, and stopped at the last pane but one, where both vanished. i did not see the child again, but a few seconds afterwards the woman reappeared, and completed the passage, behind the last pane, very rapidly. nothing more was seen during the service, and no other opportunity presented itself to me for making observations. during each time, the chandelier prevented me from obtaining a complete view but there could be no doubt as to the shape, a certain amount of indistinctness, however, being caused by the stained glass. on the reappearance for the last time, i saw the head, which was, i believe, that of the child, move up and down distinctly, as if nodding. the figure shone with dazzling brightness, and appeared to be at a considerable distance, say thirty yards or so, though at the same time as distinct as possible, considering the obstruction of coloured glass. each time the level upon which it glided was precisely the same, and afterwards, on carrying a straight line from the spot in the gallery where i sat, through the part of the glass where the feet of the figure shone, and continuing that line (in my mind's eye, with all the objects before me, except the ghost, whose position i had taken good notice of), i found that it would traverse a thick holly tree eight or nine feet high at about four feet from the ground, and at two or three feet from the ground a low wall about four feet high, and would reach the ground itself in the middle of a gravel yard belonging to the back premises of the house, called the vicarage, at a distance of twelve or fifteen yards from the window. any person walking between the window and the holly tree would barely be seen at all, much less be seen in the place which the apparition occupies; and any one on the further side of the tree would be almost if not quite invisible on account of the holly and other bushes and the dead wall. any one about there at all can easily be seen from the many houses on all sides. "if it were a shadow thrown upon the glass of the window it would, of course, be seen by those who sit in the body of the church as well as those in the gallery. "it cannot be a reflection on the principle of pepper's ghost, which is produced by the figure actually being in a very strong light and appearing reflected on glass in a darkish spot. the lights both inside and outside of the church at york which might be thought to produce the ghost, are precisely the reverse, and any figure required to be reproduced by reflection on the east window would have to be standing or walking in the centre of the aisle. "for the above facts i can vouch, and i have no reason to believe that the following are either incorrect or exaggerated. "it is said to appear very frequently on trinity sunday, and to bring two other figures on to the scene, another female, called the nurse, and the child. it is often seen as distinctly on a dark, rainy, or snowy day, as when the sun is shining. when i saw it the sun was not bright. "the motion is even, not at all jerky. sometimes it glides swiftly; at other times slowly. it cannot be a mere accidental reflection, from a door or window, for instance, for the figure faces different ways, according to the direction in which it is going; and it is not always alone, nor do the figures always act in concert. "one of my friends, with a companion, has watched outside on the wall, where he had a full view of the whole place around, during morning service. the ghost has been seen from the inside while outside nothing was visible. "it is said to have haunted the church for 150, 200, and some authorities say 300 years, and there are many pretty legends connected with it. "one of the many traditions says that 300 years ago, during religious disturbances, a party of soldiers came to sack the convent attached to this church; that the abbess, a woman of great virtue and courage, stopped them, as they were entering, declaring that they should enter over her dead body only, and that, should they succeed in their sacrilegious purpose, as they afterwards did, her spirit would haunt the place until the true church were re-established, and a convent built on the same spot. another story relates that during the plague, some two hundred years ago, a nurse and child died of the pestilence, and were necessarily buried outside the city walls, while the unfortunate mother of the child, at her death, was interred in holy trinity churchyard. here the mother waits and receives the nurse and child, weeping and wringing her hands before parting with them. the same scene is often enacted several times during the same day, and even during the same service. "whatever may have been the circumstances under which the ghost (if it is one, which it is hard to believe in these matter-of-fact days) commenced its peculiar promenade, i would recommend those who have the chance to go to holy trinity church, york, and see for themselves, though an audience of the apparition cannot always be assured. a ghost in broad daylight does no harm, frightens no one, and ought to interest everybody.--i am, &c., "h. g. f. t." finally the rector of holy trinity, york, intervened; he wrote to the "york herald":- "i think the time has come when it is perhaps necessary for me to give a word of explanation in regard to this imaginary apparition. the fact is simply this: any one seated in the gallery of the church which is at the west end, can see through the east window any person, or persons, walking in the vicarage garden. the wall at the east end of the church, below the east window, is too high to allow anyone in the body of the church to see either the garden or anyone in it. this fact explains at once the reason, how it is absolutely necessary for anyone to be in the gallery in order to see the 'ghost.' this is the real truth of the matter. what is seen is not a 'ghost;' it is not a 'reflection,' but it is a living being, or beings, walking in a garden. of course the east window being of stained glass and of a rather peculiar pattern, a distinct form is not always visible. and i may say that this simple explanation has been attested and verified over and over again both by myself and others. one argument of proof is all, i think, that i need give. the vicarage house was at one time empty for about 12 months, during which time the 'ghost' was neither seen nor heard of, and then it was let to a person with a large family; and on the very first sunday after the family took possession of the premises, i was told by a simple-minded youth that the ghost had returned, and five or six young ghosts with it. after what i have here stated, i need hardly say that all the sensational matter in regard to vivid lights, mother, nurse, and child, extraordinary displays on trinity sunday, &c., &c., is as pure an invention as ever was fabricated by a morbid imagination. and i will add that i sincerely hope that the people of york will not take the advice of one of your voluminous correspondents, and will not go to the church for the mere purpose of seeing this purely imaginative ghost. i trust that all who go will remember it is god's house, intended to be a house of prayer, and not a place for gratifying an idle curiosity." this letter called forth a sharp animadversion from another correspondent who signed himself "novocastrensis," to which h. g. f. t. replied:--"i have read mr. gould's accounts since i saw the 'ghost,' and find that though they differ considerably in the details from my description, in the essential points they agree with and corroborate it. i should like to state here distinctly that the story was not adapted for my 'own' or any other's 'purpose' from 'yorkshire oddities,' but is an unprejudiced, and to the best of my belief, an unexaggerated and true account and description of what i myself saw. it is not my desire to raise a discussion, but the injustice implied in the letter is the excuse i urge for thus trespassing upon your space.--i am, &c. "h. g. f. t. "newcastle-upon-tyne, 6th may, 1876." this provoked another letter from a fresh correspondent:--"sir,--i was in york when the letters appeared in the _chronicle_ and the _journal_ about the ghost in holy trinity church. a lady, a member of the congregation, who has frequently seen the ghost, gave me the following simple explanation. opposite the window there is a cottage, in one of the windows of which there is a swing pane of glass. the tenant of the cottage can cause the ghost to appear and disappear at pleasure by simply opening and shutting it, thus causing reflected sunlight to fall on the church window:--i am, &c., "j. l. "may 9th, 1876." another correspondent rushed into print:--"sir,--though i am not one of those who can boast of having seen the york ghost, yet even to me the explanation published in today's _journal_, in a letter signed 'j. l.,' seems utterly inadequate to explain the matter. the fact of a swing window opening and shutting might throw sunlight upon the church window, but it is perfectly clear that in such a case the reflection would not be confined perpetually to the same identical part of the window, the angles caused by the sun and the swing window being of course varied, according to the time of day. it strikes me that by those means the figures could not be reversed on their return as is always the case, according to the story. again, the apparition is often seen in dull weather, when no sunbeam could be reflected. if the light were actually turned on to the stained glass, the congregation seated in the body of the church would be able to see it as well as those in the gallery, but they do not. i should like to see the matter explained. yet a reason such as 'j. l.' gives for it is altogether unsatisfactory, and may be taken for what it is worth, which is not much, considering the evidence against him, and the fact that his information is only second-hand.--i am, &c., "r. h. h. "newcastle-on-tyne." vi "m---rectory, york, "_aug. 11th, 1875_. "dear sir,--having had the pleasure of reading your interesting book 'yorkshire oddities,' i recognised an old acquaintance in the 'trinity ghost.' happening to have found out an apparent explanation of the ghost, i thought you would be interested in hearing what i know about it. "in 1869 i went to school at mr. metcalfe's, the present incumbent of the church. for my first year i saw and heard nothing about the ghost. we used to sit in two pews in the body of the church under the gallery. in 1870 we changed to a pew in the front of the gallery and the one behind it. soon after we changed our seats, some of us saw the ghost, and the next sunday we looked for it, and most of us saw it. the attempt was made known to find out what the ghost was. in 1871 my curiosity being rather excited by the frequent appearances of the ghost, i and a boy of the name of yewdall determined to find out what it was. the appearance of the ghost was, as one of your informants describes it, that of a figure in a surplice, and it always went across the window from left to right, and returned from right to left. the east window is a pattern window of a good deal of red and blue glass, and beyond the window there is a small strip of churchyard and then a wall. beyond the wall is the yard of the old parsonage house. on the left hand side of this yard is the parsonage which is rented to a few poor families who used to take in lodgers. on the other side are the offices. [illustration: a east window b gallery c parsonage d wall e churchyard f ashpit, &c. g yard formerly garden] "as we used to teach at the sunday school which was held in a large room jutting out from the parsonage towards the church, we often noticed the women and children of the house going across the yard to the ashpits; and it struck us that this might be the ghost. so we went into the church directly the doors were opened and went up into the gallery while another of us walked across the churchyard in front of the east window. curiously enough, at the same time we saw him going across the window near the bottom, the ghost went across higher up. this goes a good way to proving my supposition, as is drawn in the following diagram. [illustration] "i have forgotten to state that the ghost was always seen best in sunny weather, but it is also to be seen in cloudy weather as well as bright sunshine. usually one ghost appeared, but i have often seen two, and a few times as many as eight children with the two big ones. this was, i suppose, the husband and wife of one of the families surrounded by the children. in 1862 (i believe the date is correct) mr. saul was the incumbent, but upon his death, on vacation of the living, the parsonage house was uninhabited. during this time i have been told that the church was delivered from the ghost, but the very first sunday the new rector came the ghosts reappeared as before.--i remain, yours truly, "----." the name i have not given, though the letter was signed. peter priestly, the wakefield parish clerk. in the middle of last century there lived in wakefield a certain peter priestly, who for many years was sexton of the parish church of all saints. the then vicar was michael bacon, d.d., a tall, portly man, of a commanding presence, who wore a large bushy wig, as was the wont of many old divines of that date. he was a man of rather a warm temperament, and was apt at times, when matters did not flow quite according to his will, to grow a little irritable, and whilst in that condition his habit was frequently to thrust his right hand in a testy, impetuous way under his wig. this habit destroyed the symmetry of that capital ornament, and made it protrude considerably on the right side; and this protrusion grew greater the longer the wig was worn. the vicar's wigs were inherited and worn by the sexton, whose venerable and awe-inspiring appearance was much enhanced thereby. mrs. priestly in vain endeavoured to reduce the protuberance of hair on the right side, so as not to betray the origin of the wig. the horse-hair resumed its elasticity in spite of her efforts, and the congregation in the parish church were amused to see the stately doctor in his reading-desk with a deformed wig, and below him the scarcely less stately clerk in a wig the counterpart of that of the doctor. but what amused the wags not a little was to observe the fact that when the doctor's wig was perfectly symmetrical, instantly the sexton's assumed the most exaggerated inequality in the sides. the secret, of course, was that the doctor had donned a new wig, and had given his old one to the clerk. but after a while the irascible vicar had succeeded in brushing out the tufts of his false head of hair on the right, and simultaneously the continued efforts of mrs. priestly had reduced the right-hand protuberance in the wig of her husband. consequently, as one bush grew, the other shrank into itself. but there were points--like the equinoxes--when both wigs were alike. now it fell out that doctor bacon had determined to present himself with a new wig one easter, and he had accordingly given peter priestly his old wig, which had arrived at its maximum of extension on the right-hand side. peter had heard it said that on s. mark's eve the spirits of all those who are to die during the year may be seen in the church. half believing this popular superstition and half in doubt about the truth of it, and thinking, moreover, that if it might be so, he should like to know whether trade would be brisk for him during the rest of the year, he decided that anyhow he would go to the church and see what would happen; and not wishing to spend his time idly, he determined to occupy himself with lettering some grave-stones which he had not completed. the place in which he carried on this work was the base of the church tower, which was shut off from the nave by a large boarded partition, against which stood the west gallery of the church. the opening from the tower into the nave consisted of large folding-doors. now, according to the story, on s. mark's eve a train of all those who are to die before the ensuing s. mark's eve come into the church through one of the doors in their winding-sheets, each carrying a corpse-candle. a ghostly priest precedes the weird procession, and dolefully intones the burial service. when peter had finished his supper on that eventful evening, he said to his wife: "i think, lass, i'll go and do a bit o' my lettering; so gi'e me my lantern wi' a can'le in it. i happen shan't be so varry long; but i think i'll just go for a bit. howsomever, if i should stop a middling while, ye needn't be flayed (frightened), for i want to finish them two stoanes." it was not without some trepidation that peter took up his place in the tower, and left the folding-doors ajar that he might look into the nave and see the awful train sweep in. peter was not a nervous man, or at least he did not think himself so, and he began his work, whistling a psalm tune. he was engaged on a large grave-stone on which he had already completed about half the inscription. it was standing raised upon tressels to the required height; and at this he worked diligently for a long while, with his face towards the east and the folding-doors, and every now and then he stole to the doors and peeped through into the nave. all was perfectly dark and silent. he returned to his work with lighter heart after each glance into the great dark church. he had taken the candle out of his lantern, and had put it into an old rusty candlestick, which he kept there for the purpose, in order that he might have a better light. the church clock, with many premonitory groanings, had struck the hours of ten and eleven, and peter still pursued his work. the eventful ghostly hour was approaching when the graves reveal their secrets. as this hour drew nigh peter's courage began to fail. it flashed across his mind that perhaps the spectral procession would enter the church, not through the south porch, as he had at first conjectured, but through the western tower-door; in which case it would be upon him, envelop him, before he knew where he was. this caused great agitation in peter's breast, and made him turn his head every now and then to see if anything were stirring. but all remained still; the only sound that broke the silence was the pulse of time, the old clock throbbing above in the tower, and that sound seemed to grow more monotonous and weary. twelve o'clock drew near, and peter's heart began to beat quicker. "i arn't flayed," he said to himself, "but i'm varry hot; t' work ha' made me so, i reckon. there's nowt to be flayed at, for there's nowt to be seen. i'll just wait while it strikes twelve, and then i'll go home." so on he worked, but his hand was not as steady as usual, and he made a blunder in the letter he was cutting; and this annoyed him. "i doan't know how it is," he said; "i think i mun be getting ow'd, for my hand rather shakes, and i can't see as weel as i used." he wiped his spectacles and snuffed the candle which stood at his right hand, and drew it closer to him. at that moment the striking apparatus of the clock groaned and prepared for twelve. peter looked round over his shoulder. the quarter began to strike, and then with a great whirr the first stroke of the ominous hour sounded--the second--the third. how slow they did strike--surely slower than usual. at each stroke he turned his head and glanced behind him. twice he started. surely there was a little sharp sound for a moment, like an unearthly hiss. he raised himself and looked about him. there was nothing. he bent himself again over his work, and the clock had reached the eleventh stroke. the twelfth followed. he turned sharply round, and on the instant such a rush sounded close to his right ear--such a strange, supernatural light glared suddenly through the tower--such a breath of hot air fanned his cheek--that he thought surely the ghostly train was passing. over went the candle, and was extinguished. down fell mallet and chisel. the old man stumbled out of the tower, rushed through the churchyard, and ran home, never looking behind him till he reached his door. his house stood at the north-east corner of the churchyard. opening his door, he ran through the room, and, pale and breathless, sank into his old arm-chair by the side of the fire. for a moment or two his mouth opened and gasped inarticulate words. then, extending his trembling hand, he said to his alarmed wife, "gi'e me my pipe, lass--gi'e me my pipe." "why, peter," said his loving spouse, "whativer is t' matter wi' thee? thou looks right flayed." "gi'e me my pipe, lass--gi'e me my pipe," he gasped again. she went to the clock-case and took the pipe down from a ledge at the side of it, where it always rested when not in use, and reached down the tobacco-box from the delf-case against the wall; and bringing them to the old man, said, as she gained a closer view of him, "why, peter, whativer hast thou been doing? thou'st burnt ommost half t' hair off t' right side o' thy wig!" "what?" said peter, with a sudden feeling of relief from his fright. "why, tak' thy wig off, and thou'll soon see," said the wife. doing as he was bid, he sat studying the precious wig. the great bunch of hair ruffled out by the vicar's hand was consumed to the roots. peter burst out laughing; the mystery was solved. but he made no more visits to the church at midnight on s. mark's eve. peter was remarkable for many witty sayings, but most of these have been forgotten. he was lettering a grave-stone in the churchyard one day, when a physician came by, who, looking at the inscription, which was partly cut, said, "why, peter, you've spelt it wrong." "have i, doctor?" said he, sharply. "then how should it be?" when he was told how to correct his blunder, he looked slyly into the physician's face and said, "well, well, pass it over, doctor--pass it over. i've covered up monny a blot o' yours." he one day stood listening to a methodist local preacher in the market-place. the preacher was attempting an oratorical effect, and exclaimed, "my brethren, if every field in the world was thrown into one field, what a great field that would be!" "ah!" said peter, loud enough to be heard, "if every jackass i' t' world was one jackass, what a big jackass that 'ud be!" prophet wroe. john wroe was born at bowling, in the parish of bradford, yorkshire, on september 19th, 1782, and was baptised in the old parish church of bradford. he was put to school, but from want of capacity or of application he made such poor progress that when he left it he read very imperfectly, and he never acquired a facility of reading. he was brought up to follow his father's employment, which was that of worsted manufacturer, combined with farming and the proprietorship of a coal-pit. in course of time his father gave him a share in his business, and articles of partnership were drawn up, but were never signed. john's natural incapacity for application to business probably obliged his father to place his brother joseph in his room as partner, and john afterwards often complained of being hardly treated by his father and brothers. it is evident, however, that this treatment he brought on himself, and that his father acted with judgment in not entrusting the conduct of business into his hands. his grandfather is said to have declared that "the lord would raise up a minister from among his offspring." to fulfil this prophecy wroe placed his youngest son thomas in a school to be educated for the ministry in the church, but was prevented from applying to the archbishop of york for ordination for him, as the vicar of bradford and a friend dissuaded him from doing so, on account of thomas labouring from an impediment in his speech. john's irritation against his brother joseph brought him to the verge of committing a dreadful crime. he procured a pistol and lay in wait for his brother, intending to shoot him, but his conscience reproached him, and he did not put his murderous purpose into execution.[1] john and his father in course of time came to an open rupture about some wool that had been bought by the latter, and john determined to set up for himself. he applied for a farm in tory street, and the landlord would have accepted him, but his father intercepted the letter, and took the farm himself for three years. john, highly incensed, moved into the farm-house, and maintained his position there during all that time. his father wished to dispossess him, but not liking to summons his own son, he thought it better to suffer him to remain there. on his way one night to adwalton he was attacked by two men, who robbed him of eighteen pounds. the men were apprehended but not convicted, and john never recovered the money. he took up wool-combing as a business, and engaged apprentices. one of his apprentices, benjamin lockwood, involved him in losses, according to his own account, and this led him to bankruptcy. i give the next passage from his memoirs as it stands. it is vaguely worded, and i do not profess to understand it. "he was about five years an housekeeper previous to his marriage with the daughter of benjamin appleby, of fasseley mills, near leeds." in 1819 john wroe was attacked by fever, and was pronounced in danger. dr. field, who attended him, advised mrs. wroe to prevail on him to settle his affairs. the thought of death so moved and alarmed wroe that he entreated that some methodist preacher might be brought to visit and pray with him; but they refused, although his wife sent to four of them. she then asked him if she had better not send for his parish priest, or some of the clergymen of the church; but he declined, saying it was too late, and he begged her to read to him some chapters from the bible; "and," said he, "i will see what i can do for myself." he gradually recovered his bodily health, but not his ease of mind, and for some months he continued wandering about the fields with his bible in his hand, sitting down under the hedges, and spelling out easy passages for himself; but still found no comfort. soon after this he fell into epileptic fits, and saw visions. in these trances he became completely rigid, his eyes remained closed--the eyelids as fast together as if they had grown to one another, and his tongue stiff in his mouth. in this condition he remained sometimes seven, twelve, twenty-four, or even thirty-six hours. after one of his fits, his eyes remained closed for six days, but he recovered the use of his tongue. the first of his trances came on in the morning of november 12th, 1819, at two o'clock, before dawn, as he was rambling in the fields. he says: "a woman came to me, and tossed me up and down in the field. i endeavoured to lay hold of her, but could not; i therefore knew it was a spirit." could this not have been his wife, impatient at him leaving his bed and rambling about so early? after this he was taken and put to bed. whom by? was it by this woman who tossed him about? in bed he remained twelve hours. on the 19th november, six days after his shaking, he had a fit, and lost his sight and power of speech. on his returning to consciousness, he wrote on a black board, in rude letters and abject spelling, the revelations he had been allowed to behold. it consisted of oxen running down a lane, tossing their horns, which frightened him to tears. "i thought that i walked about a mile among these beasts, until i returned to my former place, and there an angel met me, and he took me to a large place, where i saw a great number of books, placed on their edges, having gilt letters. there also appeared large altars, full of letters, but i could not read them. i begged that i might be enabled to read and understand what i had seen; and there appeared another, the letters of which were black print or old english, with the word jeremiah on the top of it, and the letter l. i wrote on the wall with my fingers at the time, as i lay in bed; the people who were present observing me, concluded that i wished to write (i was dumb, for my tongue was fastened in my mouth as before); they gave me a piece of board and chalk, and i wrote jeremiah, 50th chapter. i had never read this chapter, or heard it read, or seen it before, to my recollection; but when i came to myself, i could, without looking at it, repeat nearly every word in it." on the 29th of november following he had another epileptic fit accompanied with visions; and on the 14th of december "i was again struck blind at about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and remained more like a corpse than a living man for twenty-four hours, when i came to myself by degrees, but continued blind for five days. after many things, the angel said to me, 'thou shalt be blind for six days, and on the seventh day thy father shall come to thee, and many people with him; he shall lay his right thumb on thy right eye, and his fourth finger on thy left, as a token that he remembers his former sins and wickedness; and if not, it will be a witness against him at the day of judgment, and thou shalt receive thy sight.' during the six days that i was blind my wife at one time was reading a hymn for me; when she had read it i desired her to read it again; but before she had done so i fainted, and saw the elements separated, and there appeared before me a large open square; i saw our saviour nailed on the cross and the tears trickling down his face, and at that time i thought he was weeping for the wicked people upon the earth. an angel then appeared holding a man by a single hair of his head, who had a very large sword in his hand, which he waved backward and forward. i then saw a pair of large scales let down to the earth, and a great bundle, which was placed in one side of it, which i thought was the sins of the people, and then saw a great number of weights placed in the other; but the bundle was so much heavier that the weights bounced out, and the scales were drawn up into heaven. then the man that was held by the hair of his head by the angel brandished his sword six or seven times, as formerly, and disappeared. i afterwards saw moses and aaron, accompanied by a great number of people, attended by angels, and i heard such delightful music as it would be impossible to describe. there was darkness over the place soon after, and i lost sight of all in a moment." he continued with his eyes shut for exactly six days, and on the seventh his father came and placed his thumb on his right eye, and his fourth finger on his left, whereupon john wroe opened his eyes and then fainted away. as soon as he received his sight the people surrounding him asked if he really saw clearly. he found that with one eye he saw as distinctly as before, but with the other only imperfectly, and this he attributed to some one having three days before endeavoured to force the eyelids open. wroe tells us in his autobiography that his father, placing his thumb and finger on his eyes in the manner indicated beforehand by the angel, filled every one with astonishment; but from joseph wroe, his cousin, we learn that the father did this according to the express orders of john. samuel muff, a spectator, says: "during the twenty-four hours that john wroe was in his trance reports of the circumstance frequently reached my house, adding that he was likely to die. i accordingly went to see him, and he came to himself when i was in the house, but was entirely blind. on hearing my voice, he communicated many things to me which i cannot at present recollect; but i remember his having said that he was blind, but that he would yet see. he wrote me a few lines in the course of his six days' blindness, desiring that i would come and see him at the time his eyes were opened, and which he asserted would be at the end of the six days; the letter was sent to me by one of my neighbours, who declared he saw him write it; and stone blind as he then was, it is the best piece of his writing i ever saw. i complied with his desire, and actually saw his eyes open in the manner already related. after his father had placed his thumb and finger on his eyes, he appeared to me for some time as if he were dead. he afterwards came to himself, sat up in the chair, and his eyes instantly opened. he and i were brought up within a quarter of a mile of each other, and were schoolfellows, but the master who instructed us never could teach him to spell or read, nor even to speak plainly." joseph wroe, john's cousin, says: "the first time i met with john wroe after the commencement of his visions, which was in the street in bradford, i said, 'i have been informed that thou hast begun to preach.' he replied, 'well, i do not know much about preaching, but i have begun talking, and people may call it what they please.' i said, in a contemptuous manner, 'i have also been informed that thou hast been visited with visions or trances; what hast thou seen?' he replied, 'i have seen a great deal too much to relate here.' he appeared reserved, and would say no more. some time after this a person came to my house, and inquired of me whether i had seen my cousin john, adding, 'people say he is blind, and has been so for three or four days.' i went to see him on the following sunday, with many others. at his desire i led him to the door, and accompanied him to the house of a neighbour, named abraham holmes: it was this man who wrote his visions, and part of which was done on that occasion. we delayed there until it was dark, and i led him back to his house. when i was about to return home he laid hold of my hand, and would not suffer me to proceed until i had promised him to return next day, as he asserted that he would then receive his sight. i accordingly attended the same day; several persons did the same, and one of them said to john, 'art thou not afraid that thou wilt never see any more?' he replied, 'no, i have not a doubt about it. i am as firm as a rock in the belief that my sight will be restored at the appointed time.' a few minutes before the time he requested that some person would lead him to a private place, where he might have an opportunity for prayer. i accordingly led him into the parlour, and withdrew; he soon after returned, and ordered a chair to be placed in the middle of the room, so that every person present might observe what was to be done. he then called his father, directing him to lay his thumb and finger on his eyes, and he did so. john said, 'you have done enough; take away your hand.' he then stretched out his legs and feet, his head and arms fell back, and he fainted, and his countenance appeared like that of a person who was dead. he remained so for about a minute, when his eyelids began to move, and suddenly opened: he came to himself and said, 'i can see.' i inquired of him, 'how wast thou before thy sight was restored?' he replied, 'i got a glance of that glorious place, and at that instant my sight returned.'" the following night he prayed that he might be guided in the choice of a sect to which to belong. at about two in the morning he woke, and saw on the tester of his bedstead a black board, on which appeared in gilt letters, "a.a. rabbi, rabbi, rabbi." he awoke his wife, and told her what he had seen. he thought at first that rabbi was the name of a town, and that he was perhaps to go to that place and declare there what he had seen; but afterwards concluded it was a sign that he was to go and testify to the jews. afterwards he conceived himself to be commanded to testify in england for three years, "with his hat on his head," and at the expiration of that time to join the jews. accordingly, in the same year, 1820, wroe went to liverpool by huddersfield, to visit the jews there. at huddersfield he was well received by three methodist preachers, who helped him on his way with money. on reaching manchester he lodged in a house, and was asked by the person who let him his lodging whether he knew john wroe, as he understood that he came from bradford. wroe having answered in the affirmative, the man continued--"what sort of a fellow is he?" john replied, "some give him a very indifferent character; but time proves all things." he was then asked if he were john wroe, and when he said he was, he was told that he should be heartily welcome to his lodging and victuals gratuitously as long as he stayed there. the accomplishment of some predictions made by wroe tended greatly to increase his fame and impress the ignorant and superstitious with belief in his supernatural mission. but it is as easy to account for the accomplishment of these prophecies as it is to vindicate the natural origin of his fits and visions. he predicted the speedy death of his wife's brother, and he sent his wife to her brother, joseph appleby, to inform him that before long he would be dead. appleby was at the time ill in bed: there is little doubt that the fright caused by receiving this message killed him. in the spring of 1821 the cousin of john wroe, who employed him as a wool-comber, refused to engage him or have any more of his badly-executed work, telling him he was more fit to be a preacher than a wool-comber. thereupon john fell back in a fit against a bale of wool, and when he recovered called all to witness what he said--"take notice of that young man," said he, pointing to the son of his employer, who had been foremost in his complaints and abuse; "he will never more do any work; he will never again pay any man wages." the young man was immediately taken ill and died. in this case the lad was no doubt killed by fright. on the 14th of august, 1822, came the final summons to wroe to go to the jews. as he was sitting in conversation with some dupes or believers he asserted that he heard thrice a voice which cried, "go to my people israel, and speak the words that i command thee." it continued speaking for about a quarter of an hour, and was succeeded by beautiful music. "he inquired of the aforenamed persons," we are told in his autobiography, "whether they heard anything? and when they answered in the affirmative, and appeared alarmed, one of them said, 'the voice came from beneath the second bar of the fire-grate.' wroe said, 'this voice is not come for my sake, but for yours.'" one regrets to hear this, for hitherto wroe seems to have been acting in sincere good faith, believing in his visions; but on this occasion there is apparent deception. his neglect had lost him his livelihood, and he was obliged to prey on those deluded people who regarded him as a prophet, and to keep up the delusion had recourse to artifice. he was now convinced of the truth of the great revelation of joanna southcott. already, in august, 1820, he had had an interview with george turner, the prophet of that sect, on his visiting bradford, on which wroe had informed turner that he (wroe) was sent exclusively to the public, and that turner was sent exclusively to the elect of the society; and on this understanding turner had consented to shake hands with him. but in 1822 the society of joanna southcott was in a state of expectancy, awaiting the advent of the promised shiloh on the 14th of october in that year, and it seems to have entered into wroe's head to take advantage of this, and announce himself to the society as a prophet in place of turner, who, he had the shrewdness to see, would be discredited by the failure of the appearance of the shiloh. he was accordingly visited with trances, in which he saw joanna "transfigured before him in the open firmament, in the day-time, with the child in her left arm." accordingly, wroe attended a meeting of the society at bradford on august 25th, 1822, and he announced: "you are expecting shiloh to appear and be amongst you on a certain day; but i tell you he will not; and many of the believers will fall off, not merely one or two in a society, but whole societies will fall away. yet i do not doubt that the visitation to george turner is of god; and as a testimony of which, i will give in my name among you." on the following sunday evening he had one of his epileptic fits in the meeting, and lay as if dead. on recovering he announced that he had seen an angel, who had commissioned him to act as prophet. but only two persons at the meeting believed in him, and the whole of the society at bradford never thoroughly accepted him. he then went to almondbury, where was a meeting of the southcottites, where also he met with indifferent success. on sunday evening he reappeared in bradford, and adopted the following extraordinary expedient to impress the congregation:--unknown to the members, he caused two men to stand, one on each side of the archway leading into the second room of the meeting-house--the house being divided into three parallel apartments, which opened into each other by an archway in each partition, thus forming a sort of narthex, nave, and chancel. each man held a sword, and the swords were united at the points, so that the friends, to enter, had to pass under the swords. wroe entered last of all. then the men pointed their swords at his breast saying, "the sword of the lord is against thee." wroe instantly fell on his knees, and prayed aloud that if his mission were not divine, the swords might fall and smite him asunder. wroe then stood up and walked to the second archway, the men with the swords stepping backwards before him, still with their swords at his breast. thus he stood and preached on his mission to the congregation, who were amazingly impressed at this solemn farce. when all was over, he bade those of the bradford society who believed in him to pass under the swords; and the great majority of the congregation did so. this naturally created a schism in the body. letters were written by the committee of the society at bradford, by wroe's direction, to the societies at ashton-under-line, stockport, sheffield, and colne, to inform them of what had taken place, and requesting them to delegate two men from each congregation to come to bradford and examine the truth concerning the mission of wroe. the societies at stockport and sheffield declined the invitation, but in the following year nearly the whole of the body at sheffield accepted the prophetic mission of wroe, and some at stockport believed. it was time now for wroe to begin his mission to the jews. he had a large following, and was provided liberally with money by his dupes, which he was not, however, suffered to touch himself. after having visited jews at liverpool and london without success, on april 27th he embarked in the brig _doris_ at liverpool for gibraltar, in company of robert harling, of thornhill, and reached there on the 20th of may. but there harling's heart failed, whether at the sight of the "abominable idolatries" of the people, or because his faith was shaken in wroe, does not transpire. on the day following their landing harling returned to england in a vessel that was ready to sail; but john, having visited and converted the local methodist preacher, remained with him two months. this preacher, cooke, was greatly exercised in spirit on the arrival of the prophet; but having prayed earnestly to the lord, as he tells us, "the lord opened my eyes to see," and he became an enthusiastic believer. on saturday, the 31st, wroe appeared in the synagogue of the jews and delivered his testimony. the governor of gibraltar declined to permit him to preach in public; consequently wroe departed, having been offered a free passage to england. before he did so he had been turned out of the synagogue, and had invaded the roman catholic churches, where he deposited his prophecies on the altar in spanish. this is one of them:- "i, jesus from heaven, command thee, john wroe, to warn the kingdom of spain that if they return not from their wicked ways of worshipping images made with men's hands, and bowing before them, i will draw my two-edged sword against them, and it shall turn every way till i have destroyed them. but who is this that has caused them to err? they have hearkened unto their priests instead of hearkening unto me. now, i will tell you what i will do unto your priests: i will chase them as hounds chase a fox, until i utterly destroy them, and the remnant that is left shall slay your king, and they shall know that i have sent this unto them by my servant." he began to address the irish roman catholic soldiers on the rock, but the adjutant turned him out. in the two months he was at gibraltar he had succeeded in making many enemies. a woman threw a pitcher out of a window at his head, but fortunately missed him, and he was several times threatened with a pistol. one day that he was creating disorder in the cathedral the priests took him by the shoulders, thrust him out, and locked the doors behind him. wroe reached liverpool on august 23rd, and then visited ashton and birmingham. on october 12th he again sailed for the continent, and reaching paris on the 16th, he began to preach his mission to the jews in the palais royal. from paris he and his companion, william lees, went to strasburg, where they "attended the meeting of the jews in their synagogue. these jews, not understanding english, conducted them to the house of the rabbi, who was not at home. his daughter could speak some english, but not sufficient to admit of her understanding the whole of what john and william wished to communicate. the jews therefore requested to have the purport of the message given to them in writing, which was accordingly done. they behaved very well. on the following day, sunday, john was so ill that he was confined to the house, and sent william to the hebrews to receive their answer to his letter. william found a man who could speak english. he said 'he had read the letter to the rabbi, who was very angry, and said he had power to imprison them for two years, but had pity on them, thinking they were deranged.'" after visiting vienna, they proceeded to trieste. one would like to know what they thought of that glorious road over the sommering pass, and down the valleys of the murz and the save, by laibach and the weird ashen-grey dolomite peaks of the terglou and dobratz; but no allusion to the scenery escapes these dull travellers, except that they "durst not proceed by night, through the apprehension of robbers, the road being over the mountains." at trieste they visited the jews and a roman catholic priest, who treated them with good-natured contempt; and they went on to venice, where they again testified to the jews. at verona they left a letter addressed to the roman catholic priests, on the altars. at vicenza their letter to the priests was returned to them unanswered. at _table d'hã´te_ at the inn, where about forty gentlemen of different nations were present, "the spirit of the lord rested on john, and he stood up and addressed them, and gave them two letters. _they appeared much astonished._" from milan they made their way to paris, distributing tracts and prophecies among the jews and catholics, and strewing them on the altars of the churches. having deposited one of these prophecies, not couched in the most sanguine and complimentary terms, addressed to the french priest, upon the high altar at amiens, they nearly got into trouble. they were arrested at calais, and their baggage overhauled by the police, who had received orders from the minister of the interior to search them for papers against the government. but the police-officer, having looked through their budget of tracts, observed, contemptuously, that "they were all on religious subjects," and let them depart. john then took all that remained of his tracts and denunciations of woe against the idolators, in italian and french, and tore them into small pieces, which he scattered about the streets of calais, saying "he was commanded to do so as a testimony against them." on the 17th december they embarked on the french mail, a sailing packet, and had a very rough passage. it blew so hard that they could not reach dover, but stood off deal beach, and a boat conveyed the mail and the passengers ashore. they had to pay fifteen shillings each to the watermen, exclusive of their fare in the packet. they were well drenched with salt water, but john cheered on william by assuring him that before they reached home he would see the young woman who was to become his wife. on reaching london, wroe visited some of the believers, and prepared the way for a future visit, when he would meet george turner face to face. he assembled the friends at gravesend and chatham, and prophesied before them, and william lees at the former place saw the enchanting cordelia chenne, whom he afterwards married, thus fulfilling the prediction of wroe in the billy-boat. the following year was an eventful one. in january he received a communication "from the spirit" that he was to spend forty days in a dark hole, and eat nothing but butter and honey, and drink milk. on the 29th he was publicly baptised in the river aire, above apperley bridge, by john brunton, of bradford, in the presence of some thirty thousand spectators. "both sides of the river were lined with persons of various ages and denominations. the spirit had given john a sign--that on his entering the water the sun should shine; for during the two preceding days the weather was extremely cold, with severe frost accompanied with snow. the sunday forenoon on which the ceremony was to take place continued very wet till noon, and when wroe arrived at the brink of the river, the sun was still veiled. he walked down the river, intending to delay till the clouds broke; but the people, thinking that he was afraid of the cold water, roared at him, 'he dussn't go in! he's runnin' away!' they were all disposed to view the fun, and they endeavoured to stop wroe's further progress. some friends followed him, urging him not to disappoint the crowd, and he found that he had better put a bold face on it, and go in. the sun just then shone forth with a degree of warmth most unusual at that season of the year. the musicians and singers began to play and sing, and he descended into the water. but when preparing to do so, a cry was raised by the multitude, 'drown him!' the same words were uttered by some young men who had placed themselves on the branches of a tree adjacent to the river. john commanded them, in the name of the lord, to come down. one of them, named hudson, who was formerly john's apprentice, cursed him. immediately that part of the bank on which the tree grew gave way, and all were precipitated into the river. none of them were drowned, but some had five or six miles to travel home in their wet clothes; and hudson, who had cursed john, died within a few days after. when john came out of the water the musicians and singers again performed." the mob then set on wroe with sticks, pelted him with mud, and he and his band of believers were obliged to beat a precipitate retreat. on april 17th, in the same year, he was _publicly circumcised_. this function was introduced and announced by the band of singers of ashton-under-line marching in procession through the village, playing and singing the whole way. in the evening the highly unedifying performance was performed in the meeting-house of the friends, "in the presence of the congregation." on august 30th he was again baptised in the river medlock, near park bridge, and on coming out of the river he stood with one foot in the water, the other on the land, raised his hands to heaven, and swore that there should be no more time--in imitation of the angel described in revelation (x., 5, 6). he seems now to have enjoined circumcision on all male adherents, and reports circulated that several children had died in consequence. "but," says the autobiography, "these reports, with one exception, were entirely false." the child who died was the son of robert grimshaw, of hurst brook, near ashton. the poor child died six days after the operation. an inquest was held by the coroner, and a verdict of manslaughter was returned against henry lees, the operator. he was, however, acquitted at the assizes, as the medical evidence was not conclusive that the wound occasioned by circumcision had caused the child's death. on the 11th september wroe received a call to wander in the fields for fourteen days, and live on nuts, wheat, blackberries, hips, herbs, and water. but these, as may well be believed, did not satisfy his hunger. at the end of this time, which he spent in wandering to huddersfield and oakenshaw, he told his wife "he had a command from god that she should destroy all pictures, portraits, or likenesses of anything he had created or caused to grow, whether of iron, stone, wood, cloth, or paper, and everything of a black colour that could be found within the house." which command she, like a dutiful but foolish wife, obeyed. he then proceeded to bradford, and on sunday the 26th addressed a large congregation which crowded into the chapel to hear him. it ended in a riot. "john left the room, accompanied by elizabeth elsworth and mary brear, with whom he walked about two hundred yards, when one of the females received a blow and was pushed aside. john was also forced along for some distance. however, they reached the new inn, where there were two horses in readiness for john and his friend. many of the people were about to enter, but were prevented by the landlord. some persons already in the house said the two females were 'john's women,' and that he was picking poor people's pockets. the horses being got ready, the people in the house rushed out, crying to their persecuting companions, 'now, lads, he's going!' on which they closed the yard gate. john, however, escaped by another passage. having succeeded in getting on the road leading to great horton, a cry was raised, 'kill him! kill him!' he was then pursued by the mob, amounting to thousands, some crying out, 'that's the devil who says he's been living on hips and haws, wheat and nuts, for fourteen days!' he was surrounded, and prevented from proceeding. by being preceded by joseph brear, he soon after succeeded in clearing his way, and proceeding a little further. but he was stopped, the mob pulling his horse and tearing his clothes. joseph again succeeded in clearing the way a little, but was presently knocked off his horse by a stone; when remounted, they proceeded a short distance. john then turned and said something to the people. john and his horse were then pulled down and struck; the bridle and girth were broken in pieces. he at length succeeded in getting on the causeway, and resumed his journey on foot; stones and other missiles were showered against him in all directions. some of his companions entertained fears that he never would reach horton with life." the bursting of a storm of rain fortunately dispersed the mob, and the prophet escaped. "on arriving at moses elsworth's nearly his whole body was black; he had also one of his eyes much discoloured, and received a cut on his face from a stone." on the following day he obtained warrants against nineteen of the mob, who appeared before the magistrate, were bound over to keep the peace for twelve months, and had to pay all expenses. prophet wroe now deemed it expedient to visit london. accordingly he had a revelation in august, 1825: "go thou to tozer, and stand before him, and prophesy, with thy rod in thy hand, and say, 'thus saith the lord, the lord thy god has showed thee many things; and for this end wast thou born. the seal thou hast received thou shalt be able to retain; but thy body shall go to the dust, and thou shalt put on incorruption at the first resurrection.... thou shalt be a witness for joanna, and thou shalt come with her, and at that day thou shalt be great unto the ends of the earth." on the 28th august, john wroe, with his faithful ally, william lees, visited the chapel of mr. lindsay, a prophet of the congregation of joanna southcott in london. lindsay received them cordially, and announced to his congregation that "brother wroe" was to have full liberty to use the chapel morning and afternoon. now tozer was the right-hand man of lindsay--his faithful witness, who wrote down the oracles that dropped from his lips. he was, in fact, to lindsay what william lees was to john wroe. it was to this tozer that wroe bore the message given above, which was a speech wrapped up in the most flattering and complimentary language, but a snub for all that. mr. tozer was wont to designate himself, "the man clothed in linen, with the writer's inkhorn," and believed himself, or endeavoured to induce others to believe, that he was the person spoken of by the prophet ezekiel (ix., 2); and when mr. lees appeared on the scene with a white surplice on and an ink-bottle at his left side it was a distinct throwing down of the gauntlet, and was likely to lead to unpleasant results. foreseeing which, wroe wrestled in prayer before the congregation that "satan might be rebuked within _them_ walls that day." then wroe stood up and said with a loud voice, "thus saith the lord, there are in this place those whose places shall be taken by others who have mocked and despised them. none shall enter but such as are circumcised or married." lindsay turned red, trembled, and knocked over his inkstand. tozer got up and said, "friends, what must be my feelings at this time? this day of the month, this day of the week, eleven years ago, i addressed 1500 people in this city, and since that time the visitation has been trodden under foot. eleven days were spoken of by the woman--take them to mean years--(see the book, and find it). god grant that this may be the beginning of the gathering." the people answered "amen." it is evident he was overawed by wroe and lee in his white surplice and ink-pot. in the afternoon wroe was again at the chapel, and again hinted that there was now a new outpouring upon himself, and that the old prophets were to yield to him. "thus saith the lord, many in this place that are first shall be last." tozer and lindsay looked uneasy. "if you will sign for satan's destruction, let a man be deputed to ashton on the 17th of next month. many dreams have been interpreted there; let the same be sent to those who profess to be visited, and see who will get an answer in truth." lindsay walked backward and forward, in and out of the room, whilst john wroe spoke, but said nothing. at the conclusion of wroe's speech, lindsay, who was greatly agitated, said, "i have received an order from above to go and see the living skeleton now exhibiting in pall mall, at three o'clock to-morrow, and john, with others, must go with me. and let so-and-so take his clarionette and play a tune before the skeleton, but for what purpose i know not." john wroe answered--"if the lord hath commanded me to go, i will go; if not, i cannot go." this living skeleton was claude ambroise seurat, born in 1797, who was exhibited in london in 1825. his flesh had wasted completely away, and when he had attained his full height he presented the extraordinary spectacle of a skeleton covered with skin, alive and able to move and converse. a portion of mr. hones' description of him must be quoted here:--"he seemed another 'lazarus come forth,' without his grave-clothes, and for a moment i was too consternated to observe more than his general appearance. my eye then first caught the arm as the most remarkable limb; from the shoulder to the elbow it is like an ivory german flute, somewhat deepened in colour by age; it is not larger, and the skin is of that hue, and not having a trace of muscle, it is as perfect a cylinder as a writing-rule. amazed by the wasted limbs, i was still more amazed by the extraordinary depression of the chest. its indentation is similar to that which an over-careful mother makes in the pillowed surface of an infant's bed for its repose. nature has here inverted her own order, and turned the convex inwards, while nobler organs, obedient to her will, maintain life by the gentle exercise of their wonted functions in a lower region. if the integument of the bowels can be called flesh, it is the only flesh on the body; for it seems to have wholly shrunk from the limbs, and where the muscles that have not wholly disappeared remain, they are also shrunk." that this emaciated object, whose appearance in london created a sensation, should have been supposed by superstitious people, eagerly looking out for portents and realisations of wild prophecies, to be sent into the world with some peculiar significance, is not to be wondered at. lindsay seems to have resolved to put wroe's apostleship to the proof by a visit to the extraordinary phenomenon, then exhibiting in the chinese pavilion, in pall mall. the living skeleton was to have decided between them, and confounded him who was the false prophet and impostor. but wroe would not go through this ordeal: he slunk away, conscious, perhaps, that he was an impostor, and with superstitious fear of the walking skeleton. he escaped to greenwich, where he pretended to be ill. lindsay, finding wroe was not at the exhibition, pursued him to greenwich, and an angry meeting ensued. next sunday, wroe again invaded the chapel of lindsay, who began to prophesy against him, saying, "i say, in the name of the lord, you shall shave!" then john wroe took the prophetic rod, and thrusting it towards lindsay, thundered forth, "dost thou come to defy israel? the lord rebuke thee, satan!" lindsay was silent, but presently tried to create a diversion by setting wroe and his follower lees at variance, for he pointed to the latter and said, "thus saith the lord, this man shall shave, and shall prophesy against his master." "when will he shave off his beard?" asked wroe indignantly. "when thine is plucked up by the roots," answered lindsay. the scene was becoming undignified. the prophets seemed to be aware of it, and that it was necessary to patch the matter up; so lindsay said, "you see the spirits seem to differ a little; it is we who do not understand how they work and move." by degrees wroe succeeded in obtaining recognition as the prophet from the majority of joanna southcott's congregations. the faithful men wore long beards, "the city mark," as it was called, and white linen vestments at the religious meetings in their tabernacles. george turner had succeeded joanna southcott; he was succeeded by william shaw, and then wroe received general acknowledgment. he announced that his mission would last forty years, and that at the expiration of this period shiloh would come. as soon as he was acknowledged as prophet, he had a power in his hands which he did not fail to exercise. in 1830 he announced that he had received orders from heaven that seven virgins should be delivered to him to comfort and cherish him, and three of his believers at once gave up to him their daughters. with these poor girls and some married women wroe wandered from place to place. they were with him in kent, in devonshire, in lancashire, and yorkshire--wherever wroe pretended that he was called. the matter became scandalous, and the confidence of several of the members of the community was shaken. the girls were questioned, and made shocking disclosures. two of the society, named masterman and walker, rose in the congregation at ashton, on february 27th, 1831, and charged him with profligacy. wroe could not stand against the storm; he escaped through a trap-door in the orchestra, amidst cat-calls, jeers, and howls. he remained secreted in ashton a few days, and then left the place for ever. the confidence of his faithful disciple lees was somewhat dashed shortly before this by an exposure of the prophet at manchester. lees had a friend at manchester with whom he did business. wroe used to spend much of his time in lees' house. the prophet announced to lees that he was called by the spirit on a mission, but that he had no money. lees called a covenant meeting, and the sum of eighty pounds was raised, and placed at the disposal of the prophet, who departed with it. now it happened that lees' friend did business at a certain public-house in manchester, and having noticed wroe there, and being shortly after at ashton, he asked lees where the prophet was. lees told him that he had gone on a mission. his friend laughed, and said, "come with me and you shall see him." with difficulty he persuaded lees to get into a cab with him and drive to manchester to the public-house. the two men went in, opened the door into a back parlour, and found the prophet sitting by the fire, in his low-crowned brown hat and long coat, between two low women, drinking hot whiskey and water with them. the landlord informed them that wroe had been there several days. lees went home, burned his white robe, destroyed all his books and tracts belonging to the society, shaved off his beard, and next sunday was in the parish church, which he had been in the habit of attending before he fell under the influence of wroe. but his humiliation did not end here. his daughter gave promise of becoming a mother by wroe. in vain did the prophet assure him that the child that would be born was the promised shiloh. it turned out to be a girl. lees put wroe out of his doors. it was soon after this that the prophet was met by masterman and walker, and the scandal of the virgins was exposed. lees, hearing that wroe was coming to ashton, exasperated at the dishonour of his daughter and the dupe that had been made of himself, stationed himself behind a chimney and fired a gun at wroe. the ball whizzed past his hat, and fortunately did him no injury. but the rumour of these scandals and the death of a child named wood whom he had circumcised, caused a riot at bradford when he visited it shortly after. the mob broke into the tabernacle, tore up the benches, smashed the windows, and would have maltreated wroe if they could have caught him; but the wary prophet made his escape in time. one day in july he had a vocation to go on a mission. he was then living at pudsey. his followers raised a handsome sum to defray his expenses, and he departed. after he had gone, it was observed that his wife passed a certain public-house in the neighbourhood every day. this was unusual, and it was agreed to watch her. after john wroe had been gone fourteen days, she was followed at a distance. she went down a lane to a corn-field and made a signal, whereupon wroe was observed to creep out of the standing corn. his wife opened her basket and produced a dish of new potatoes and a mutton-chop, and a four-ounce bottle of wine. the prophet drew a horse-rug from out the corn, and prepared to seat himself on it and enjoy his dinner, when the spies rushed upon him, carried him in triumph into pudsey, set him on a donkey, rode him through the town, then tied a rope round his body, threw him into a horse-pond, pulled him out, and threw him in again and again; till the women, seeing him nearly exhausted, interfered and begged that he might be spared. when he was living at bowling he had a trance which lasted ten or twelve days. he lay apparently insensible on a stump bedstead, and people came from far and wide to see him. at the foot of the bed was a basket in which the visitors deposited silver and copper; and all who came were expected to give a trifle. there was a fixed hour at which the cottage door was opened and closed, and when it was closed the key was turned in the lock, and no one was admitted on any excuse. it unfortunately happened that one night mrs. wroe went out for some purpose or other, and left the door unfastened behind her, intending to return in a minute. a man named holt and his son lived close by. as they saw mrs. wroe go out, they and a neighbour who was with them thought the opportunity was not to be neglected, and opened the door of wroe's house and peeped cautiously in. to their surprise john was sitting very comfortably in the ingle-nook, eating beef-steak, pickled cabbage, and oat-cake.[2] next day he was laid on his bed as usual in a trance, and so he continued for three or more days. one of the visitors wished to thrust a needle under wroe's nail, to prove if he were perfectly sensible, but his wife would not permit it. another of his devices for raising money was not more honest. he announced that the lord had declared to him that every member of the society of the house of israel was to wear a gold ring of the value of â£1 3s. 6d., which was to be procured from the prophet, and it was to be a sign and a seal to them that they were the elect. this was in 1856, and all the members were supplied with gold rings by 1857. at this time the number of the members was thought to be about 6000, of whom 700 were in ireland. unfortunately for the credit of the prophet, towards the end of 1856 one of the members, who had not wholly lost his common-sense, thought it advisable to have his gold ring tested with nitric acid, and the startling discovery was made that the rings were not of gold at all, not worth a florin each. wroe threw the blame on the goldsmith who had provided him with them, and ordered that no more should be issued. about 1854 john wroe said he had a command from the lord to build a mansion. the treasury of the "house of israel" was empty; so the pillars of the church met, and on consultation agreed to let wroe have the flying roll money. this was a fund to which, after the death of joanna southcott, all sealed members paid according to their income or ability. it was a sacred fund retained by the society for the purpose of publishing the eternal gospel and sending it to all parts of the world, proclaiming the millennium, the outpouring of the spirit, and the great desolation. this eternal gospel was to be published forty years after the death of joanna.[3] the sum amounted to a large amount--over two thousand pounds. wroe bought a piece of land on a height near wakefield, and on this began to build. the house, said wroe, was to be dedicated to the lord, and was to belong to the members of the "house of israel" gathered out of all nations. no architect was to be employed. it was to be built as the spirit directed. subscription-books were issued to all the sanctuaries. every member's contribution was to be entered separately, and no man was to know what his neighbour gave. the poorest workman was to contribute not less than 10 per cent, of his earnings.[4] all extra gifts were to be sent to john wroe at wrenthorpe, near wakefield, and those who did not wish to pay to the local treasurers might send their subscriptions direct to the prophet. during 1855 and 1856 post-office orders poured in from all parts, and it was said in wakefield at the time that wroe had more orders cashed than all the tradesmen of the town put together. the female members of the society were to furnish the mansion. they were not to tell their husbands how much they gave; and many put down their names for sums which they really could not pay, and had to sell goods and borrow cash to keep up their payments to the end of 1856.[5] the land was bought of mr. william ramsden, farmer, of wrenthorpe, and was conveyed by mr. haigh, solicitor, of horbury, to john wroe, and not to the society. a farm of upwards of a hundred acres was bought in addition, and was conveyed to himself. the rumour of this produced some uneasiness among the members, and twenty of them waited on the prophet to question him about the conveyance. he spoke them fair, assured them that the mansion and land would go to the society, and in their presence drew up a will wherein he devised the whole estate to the society. messrs. snell, currey, gill, and farren, leading members and pillars of the church, witnessed it, and departed in satisfaction to their homes. a fortnight after, wroe sent for a solicitor of wakefield, and privately drew up a new will, cancelling the old one, and in this latter will he devised the mansion and ninety-eight acres of land to his grandson, james wroe; and to his daughters, susanna and sarah, property producing about â£50 per annum to each; and to his only son joseph property of the value of â£60 per annum. the mansion was designed somewhat in the style of melbourne town hall. it cost upwards of â£2000, but need not have cost half as much. when wroe saw how the money poured in, he had the north-east wing taken completely down, and enlarged the building. much of the work was done two or three times over. the glazier (mr. slater) had a contract to do all the glazing, and as soon as his contract was finished, wroe contracted with mr. slater to take every square of glass out again, and put good plate-glass into the windows instead. wroe found he could not get on without an architect, and therefore employed mr. thorpe, of wakefield, and worried him out of all endurance. wroe visited australia in 1850, 1854, 1859, and 1862. he was in america in 1840, 1848, 1853, and 1859. his wife died may 16th, 1853, aged seventy-four years, a fortnight after he left for america. he is said to have treated her badly. on his travels he assumed different names; sometimes he called himself johanan asrael, sometimes yokkow or yockaman. he obtained the name of "pudding wroe" among the urchins of wakefield and bradford; the origin of this was as follows:--after one of his long trances, he began to walk about, and was asked by acquaintances concerning his health and appetite, and "what could he eat or fancy?" his invariable answer was, "nowt but pudding." the boys used to shout after him--"pudding wroe," or "nowt but pudding," and this highly incensed the prophet. one day, after he had had this cry ringing in his ears, he came home, and, standing in the door, saw the table laid for dinner, and his wife and children ready in their places. "what is for dinner to-day?" asked wroe. "nowt but pudding!" shouted the incautious children. wroe flew into a passion, and said to his wife, "i'll tell thee what, lass, i wi'nt have yon stuff called pudding ony more." "why, lad!" said mrs. wroe, "what are t' bairns to call it, then?" "they mun call it _soft meat_," answered john. wroe purchased a handsome mule with a long flowing tail, and a basket carriage. the harness was of the best kind, with silver buckles, &c. one day when wroe drove to sandal, and left his mule and carriage outside the house where he had business, some evil-disposed persons shaved the mule's tail. wroe raved and threatened, but could not find the guilty parties. he never went near sandal afterwards. the following is wroe's receipt for curing a cold:--put two gallons of boiling water in a large bottle, and place a funnel on the neck; put your face in the mouth of the funnel, and throw a blanket over your head; thus you inhale the steam, and are thrown into a perspiration. wroe would put a pillow in the oven, lay his head on it, and let the oven be heated as hot as he could bear it, to drive away a head cold. in his last voyage to australia, in 1862, he fell upon the deck of the ship when it was rolling, and dislocated his shoulder. the doctor set it, but it soon fell out of place again, and never was right after. on the day of his death, which occurred at fitzroy, in australia, he had been out walking as usual, and seemed in his wonted health. on his return from a walk he seated himself in his chair, and suddenly fell forward on the floor, and was taken up a corpse. he had been collecting money in australia; and directly it was rumoured that wroe was dead, all the members in melbourne demanded back their money, and threatened to roughly handle benjamin eddow, wroe's companion and secretary, unless he restored the subscriptions. he was obliged to surrender some of the cash, and to conceal himself. he got away the following day, and remained hidden in a blacksmith's shop till he could find a ship on which to get back to england. he brought with him between six and seven hundred pounds. the melbourne society complained that wroe had not kept faith with them, for he had promised them he would never die! footnotes: [1] this he mentions in his tract, "a vision of an angel," bradford, inkersley, 1820. [2] my informant, who knew wroe well, says: "j. holt, the young man who saw this, told it me. he is now living at bradford." [3] is it more than a coincidence that the southcottites should reproduce the forms and terminology of a heresy of the fourteenth century? the abbot joachim was the prophet then, and his "eternal gospel" proclaimed precisely the same doctrines as the "eternal gospel" of joanna. this heresy invaded the ranks of the franciscans, and produced a tremendous schism, which ended in the prescription of the fraticelli. for an account of the abbot joachim and the eternal gospel see hahn, "ketzer geschichte," ii. and iii.; and dean milman's "latin christianity." [4] the members were obliged to keep books of their earnings, and exhibit them, to prove that they paid 10 per cent. to wroe. [5] this information comes from some of those who were thus victimised. some members turned total abstainers, others vegetarians, to economise money in order to pay their subscriptions. bishop-dyke pond.[6] on the monday following palm sunday, being the 14th of april, 1690, william barwick, a man living in cawood, a village a few miles south of york, on the ouse, below its junction with the wharfe, took his wife a stroll along a pleasant lane leading to bishop wood, then an extensive tract of forest trees, and even now one of the wildest and most picturesque spots in the neighbourhood of selby. mary barwick was expecting her confinement at no great distance of time. william made her walk before him; they crossed the little bridge over bishop's dyke, and entered a close or field where was a pond. it was surrounded by thick rushes, and the willows were covered with their silken tufts, unrifled by the children for "palms" on the preceding day. william barwick looked round. no one was in sight. he seized his wife, threw her into the pond, and did not let go his hold till she was drowned. when he was quite satisfied that life was extinct, he drew the body out of the water, and concealed it among the rushes which lay between the water and the quickwood hedge. he then returned home. at dusk he revisited the spot, and taking a hay-spade from a rick that stood in the field, he made a hole by the side of the pond, and there buried the poor woman in her clothes. what was the motive which actuated william barwick does not transpire. next day barwick visited his brother-in-law at rufforth, three miles east from york, a man named thomas lofthouse, who had married the sister of poor mary barwick, and told him that his wife mary had gone to his uncle, richard harrison, in selby, where she was likely to remain for some time. lofthouse gave no thought to this announcement. whether he supposed that barwick was in difficulties, and it was likely to prove advantageous to his wife that she should be confined in selby instead of at home, where she could have more comforts; or whether he thought there had been a quarrel, and the announcement of barwick intimated a separation, i do not know. at all events, the statement of barwick caused no surprise to his brother-in-law, nor did it arouse any suspicion of foul play in his mind. exactly a week after that visit, on tuesday in easter week, about half-past twelve o'clock in the afternoon, thomas lofthouse, having occasion to water a quickset hedge not far from his house, brought water for the purpose in a pail. as he was going for the second pailful, he suddenly observed a woman, in shape like his sister-in-law, going before him towards the pond. he was startled, but hardly thought at the moment that he saw a ghost. the figure glided before him, and seated itself on a rising green bank right over against the pond; he walked before her as he went to the pond, and as he returned with the pail full of water he looked sideways to see if the figure were still there. he saw the face--it was that of mary barwick, but deadly pale; the lips bloodless, the teeth showing, and the eyes fixed on something white, which he thought was a bag at the time, but afterwards supposed to be a baby, which she seemed to be dandling. as soon as he had emptied the pail, he went into his yard, and stood still to see if the figure were still in the same spot; but by this time it had vanished. lofthouse said nothing about what he had seen till evening. he was saying family prayers that night before retiring to rest, when, in praying for their friends and relations, he came to the name of his sister-in-law. he faltered, trembled, his voice broke down, and he could scarcely conclude his devotions. when he went to bed he told his wife everything, and the poor woman was dreadfully alarmed. she implored her husband next day to go to selby and see richard harrison, at whose house barwick had said his wife was staying. he promised to do so, and on the morning early saddled his horse and rode to selby. his nearest road was by york, cawood, and wiston; but he had no mind to meet william barwick, and he therefore took the high road from york by escrick, riccal, and barlby. on reaching selby he soon ascertained that poor mary barwick had never been there. on his return he went to the lord mayor of york; and having obtained a warrant, got barwick apprehended and brought before the mayor. the wretched man then acknowledged what he had done, and his confession was written down and signed in the presence of the lord mayor. to this were annexed the depositions of lofthouse, and barwick was consigned to york castle. these depositions are of sufficient interest to be here given verbatim:- "the information of thomas lofthouse, of rufforth, taken upon oath, the twenty-fourth day of april, 1690; who sayeth and deposeth,- "that one william barwick, who lately married this informant's wife's sister, came to this informant's house about the 14th instant, and told this informant he had carried his wife to one richard harrison's house in selby, who was uncle to him, and would take care of her; and this informant, hearing nothing of the said barwick's wife, his said sister-in-law, imagined he had done her some mischief, did yesterday go to the said harrison's house in selby, where he said he had carried her to; and the said harrison told this informant he knew nothing of the said barwick or his wife; and this informant doth verily believe the said barwick to have murdered her. "thomas lofthouse. "jurat die et anno super dicto coram me. "s. dawson, mayor." "the examination of the said william barwick, taken the day and year abovesaid, who sayeth and confesseth,- "that he, this examinant, on monday was seventh night, about two o'clock in the afternoon, this examinant was walking in a close betwixt cawood and wiston; and he farther sayeth that he threw his said wife into the pond, where she was drowned; and the day following, towards evening, got a hay-spade at a hay-stake in the said close, and made a grave beside the said pond, and buried her. "william barwick. "exam. capt. die et anno super dict. coram me. "s. dawson, mayor." "the examination of william barwick, taken the twenty-fifth day of april, 1690, who sayeth and confesseth,- "that he carried his wife over a certain wain-bridge, called bishop-dyke bridge, betwixt cawood and sherborne, and within a lane about one hundred yards from the said bridge, and on the left hand of the said bridge, he and his wife went over a stile, on the left-hand side of a certain gate entering into a certain close, on the left hand of the said lane; and in a pond in the said close, adjoining to a quickwood hedge, did drown his wife, and upon the bank of the said pond did bury her; and further, that he was within sight of cawood castle, on the left hand; and that there was but one hedge betwixt the said close where he drowned his said wife and the bishop-slates belonging to the said castle. "william barwick. "exam. capt. die et anno super dict. coram me. "s. dawson, mayor." william barwick was tried and convicted before sir john powell, knight, at the summer assizes held in york on the 18th of september, 1690. "on tuesday, september the seventeenth, 1690, at york assizes, thomas lofthouse, of rufforth, within three miles of york city, sayeth,- "that on easter tuesday last, about half an hour after twelve of the clock in the daytime, he was watering quickwood, and as he was going for the second pail there appeared, walking before him, an apparition in the shape of a woman. soon after, she sat down over against the pond, on a green hill; he walked by her as he went to the pond, and as he came with the pail of water from the pond, looking sideways to see if she sat in the same place, which he saw she did; and had on her lap something like a white bag, a-dandling of it (as he thought), which he did not observe before. after he had emptied his pail of water, he stood in his yard to see if he could see her again, but could not. he says her apparel was brown cloathes, waistcoat and petticoat, a white hood, such as his wife's sister usually wore, and her face looked extream pale, her teeth in sight, no gums appearing, her visage being like his wife's sister, and wife to william barwick. (signed) "thomas lofthouse." when barwick ascended the gallows to be hung, he told the hangman that he hoped the rope was strong enough, as if it should break with his weight he would fall to the ground and become a cripple for life. his apprehensions, however, were soon quieted, for the hangman assured him he might venture upon it with perfect confidence. after he was dead the body was hung in chains by the pond where the murder had been committed. footnote: [6] j. aubery, in his "miscellanies upon various subjects," 1696, gives the particulars of this curious story. snowden dunhill, the convict. the following life of a thief and housebreaker, written by himself, is curious and sad.[7] the talent it exhibits, and the real feeling which peeps out here and there, show that the man, had he been better brought up, and subjected in early youth to religious influences, might have become something very superior to the ordinary agricultural labourer. the man cannot have been difficient in his secular education. his style is singularly good for one in his class, but of moral education he had none. the only religion he knew of was that of his wife, sally dunhill, a fanatic, who combined hysterical piety with gross dishonesty:-"i was born at a small village on the wolds in the east riding of yorkshire. the earliest circumstance of which i have any remembrance is that of following bare-headed and on foot, a waggon containing furniture belonging to a farmer who was removing to the village of spaldington, near howden. of my parents i have but an indistinct remembrance, for i never returned to them, but continued to reside in the village of my adoption, and principally in the house of the family i had accompanied. "spaldington is a secluded and purely agricultural village. my earliest recollections are connected with the old hall at that place, a fine building, erected in the time of queen elizabeth. this house, with its peaked roof ornamented with large round stones, its moats, its rookery, and the reputation of being haunted by a fairy, is yet strongly impressed upon my memory. but the old seat of the de la hayes, the vescis, and the vavasours totters to its fall. "i well remember the tradition which prevailed in the village, that one of the de vescis was a competitor for the crown of scotland, he having married a daughter of the king of that country. the burthen of an old song, which is supposed to relate to some eventful battle in which de vesci bore a conspicuous part, still clings to my memory, and now, with a world between me and the spot, i often catch myself humming the chorus- "'and the drums they did beat, and the trumpets did sound, and the cannons did roar fit to tear up the ground; for its oh! brave, gallant, and brave, for the honour of england's crown.'" snowden dunhill's youth was spent much as that of other rural bumpkins; he wrestled, played football, and was passionately fond of cock-fighting. one day, when only six years old, he saved the life of a little companion with whom he was playing by the side of the moat round the old hall at spaldington. the child fell into the water, sank, and rose for the last time, when little snowden, with great pluck, jumped in after his playmate, and caught him by the dress. the two children struggled in the water, and the drowning boy nearly dragged little snowden under. but snowden maintained his hold, and succeeded in dragging his comrade to the bank. at fourteen or fifteen snowden dunhill, being a strong lad, was taken into a small farmhouse to work for his food and clothes. his master died shortly after, but his widow carried on the farm. she was very poor, the farm was small, and the widow took her meals with the farm servants in the kitchen. dunhill was given no pocket-money, and, as he kept fighting-cocks and liked occasionally to go to the public-house to have a game of balls, he was driven to obtain money by theft. "during this time i practised a variety of petty thefts without being suspected. i took apples, eggs, or anything i could lay my hands on, and the corn which ought to have been given to the horses found its way to my game cocks, of which i had several. these acts, which are generally practised by farmers' servants, were confirmed into a habit before i had begun to think them wrong. the education of this class is so utterly neglected, and their morals so little attended to, that i have long been satisfied that the honesty of the rural districts is very much inferior to that of the towns. "my next step in life--the most important one to all--was marriage, and mine assuredly deepened the darkest shades of my character. it was not a connection of the heart, but one almost of fear, for the woman to whom i paid my addresses was the being who ruled me from the first moment of our acquaintance. had it been my fortune to have met with an honest and industrious woman, my destiny might have been different. but if, as the proverb says, 'marriages are made in heaven,' it does not become me to complain. "we lived a short time in the village of spaldington, but one farmer missed his corn, the wife of another her poultry, a third her apples, and a fourth her bees; when the bees were missed i fancy they thought nothing could escape us. they were easily moved and carried into our cottage, but the buzzing, the stinging, and the bother of the business, determined me never again to attempt a similar undertaking. the proverb of running your head into a swarm of bees has ever since appeared to me the most forcible in the english language. "we were then put into a house in the lanes of spaldington, in the road between howden and market-weighton, apart from any other residence, and in the very best situation that could have been chosen if the farmers had wished us to continue our system of plunder. i had never been accustomed to work, and i had now very little wish to learn. the new connexions which i speedily formed put me in the way of obtaining a better though more precarious subsistence. "i continued to live in the cottage above alluded to, and my family increasing rapidly, rendered it necessary to extend my operations. the farmers in the neighbourhood were at first the greatest sufferers, and there was scarcely a barn or granary within several miles which i had not the means of entering when i chose. either from discarded servants, or from labourers who were daily about the farm-houses, i got all the information i wanted. "at this time i was master of two good horses, and i had a numerous connexion among servants and labourers. but what i found most useful was a secret understanding with two or three millers, by whose means i got rid of all the corn which i stole. millers are generally reputed to be great rogues, but in their dealings with me i found them quite the contrary. the most dishonest persons with whom i had dealings were the attorneys, and they stripped me of the fruits of my toil with most surprising expedition and facility. this, however, will be seen in the sequel. "about this time i was concerned in a robbery at bubwith, by which i obtained a considerable sum of money. after our arrangements were made, a comrade entered the house through a back window, by taking an iron bar out of the frame, the wood being quite rotten from age and damp. in scrambling in he kicked from the shelf a large earthenware vessel, and immediately after he himself tumbled head foremost into the pantry, a depth of six or seven feet. the uproar occasioned by his fall caused us to take to our heels and make to our horses, which were at no great distance, in a large field behind the house. we laid down and listened for a considerable time, and hearing nothing, we approached the house again by degrees, and eventually got up to the very window. a low whistle from me was instantly answered, which at once told us all went well. we found the back door open for us, and our comrade, no way alarmed, busy rummaging some drawers, and putting into a sack everything he took a fancy to. "as i had formerly lived in the service of a near relation of the old lady to whom the house belonged (i had forgotten to say it was a widow lady's house we took the liberty with), i found no difficulty in laying my hands upon the tinder-box, candles, and everything else. it was an exceedingly stormy night, or i think we must have been heard, for we carried a chest of drawers out of the house and actually beat them to pieces, not being able to open them. i knew that she had a considerable sum of money, and i hoped we had found it, but it turned out to be a box of farthings; and i was afterwards exceedingly provoked on learning that we had missed three hundred guineas in gold which the old lady had in her lodging room. i also learned that she had a presentiment that she would be robbed, and made an observation to that effect the day before--one of those curious anticipating feelings for which i know not how to account, but which have in several instances happened to myself when coming events, as it were, cast their shadows before. "but to return to our adventure. after helping ourselves to such things as we thought of most value, and such as could be most easily conveyed away on our horses, and drinking the good old lady's health in some excellent homemade wine, we mounted our horses, with four sacks filled with many things of value. we took a route so as to avoid the toll-bars and public roads, and reached my house just as the sun was beginning to chase away the darkness which had proved so propitious to us. having instantly buried all the things, my companions departed, and all was soon ready for the reception of any of those enemies of my profession, the constables, should they pay us a visit. however, none came, and though i was generally supposed to be the person who did the deed, no steps were taken to make it out against me. this is one of the very few exploits of the kind i was ever engaged in, and as to highway robberies, i never dreamed of committing one. "i had now accumulated a considerable sum of money, which i lent out on note to several farmers in the neighbourhood, most of whom, from fear or other considerations, were glad to be on good terms with me. such occurrences as the following frequently happened:--'well, snowden, how do you do?' would farmer ---say, meeting me in the street towards dusk on a market-day. 'are you going home to-night?' 'aye, my lad,' was my general reply. 'i wanted to see you,' retorted the farmer; 'i have just received fifty pounds for some oats; i wish you would take care of it for me, and i will ask you for it again some day when i meet you.' i took charge of the money, and was ever most punctual in returning it. i could not help laughing, however, at the odd mixture of feelings that must have dictated such a choice of a banker. i dare say some of these very farmers have since met with bankers not quite so punctual in their payments as i was in mine. "i was once busily employed in coursing a hare when i was pounced upon by a mr. ----. he came suddenly upon me, with so many violent denunciations that i was for a time really in a fright. however, i eventually recovered my recollection, and had the good sense to leave him without giving way to any abusive language in reply. i secretly, however, resolved to have my revenge, and that in a way at once in accordance with my profession and my own interest. i ordered two or three of the persons i could place the most reliance in to be ready to accompany me with their horses to foggathorpe, the village in which i think the gentleman resided. i had long had a key of his granary, in which i knew he had recently stored a quantity of wheat of the finest quality, and for which the soil of that village is much famed. "we had already been up to the granary once with our horses, having taken them loaded away, and secreted several sacks of wheat in a wood a little from the turnpike road, and about three miles from the house. we had filled our sacks a second time, and got them upon the horses, having previously placed everything in the granary as we found it, or as nearly so as we could. i had just thrown my legs over my horse, then standing near the steps of the granary, i being the last of the party, when i heard the gentleman's voice, which i at once knew, for neither his early habit of rising nor the tone of his voice were unknown to me. it was quite dark, and i proceeded with great care on the way towards the high road till i reached a gate about seventy or eighty yards from his house. by some mismanagement on my part, i had no sooner passed through the gate than i fell back into its place with considerable noise. i again heard his voice, but i made the best of my way with my load, and i felt no little relief when i found myself in the market-weighton turnpike road. though i had no very great opinion of the gentleman's courage, i felt quite sure he would have used every endeavour to make out the charge against me had his suspicions of what had taken place been once roused. as to his following me alone at that moment i had not the most distant fear, for i knew well the care he always took of himself. however, the whole affair passed over. i never heard that he missed what we took away, and the reason probably was, that he at that very time had a large stock of wheat on hand for the purpose of speculation, as i afterwards learned. i remember this wheat was of such singularly good quality that i sold it for the great sum of one guinea and ninepence the bushel, a price i scarcely ever remember to have equalled. "the next thing that occurs to me worthy of remark, and which i had good cause to remember, nearly terminated fatally for myself. i expected a good booty from the information i had previously received. this was an attack upon the property of two bachelors who resided in the same house, in a village about a mile and a half from howden. the house was very near the river ouse, and we had prepared a boat to carry the gains of the night down the river as far as swinefleet, this being considered, for many reasons, the readiest mode of moving it from the premises, and i had some friends in that place in whom i placed the greatest confidence. between one and two o'clock we arrived at the house, and were preparing all things in readiness for the business in hand. i was crossing from the bank of the river over a garden, and so on to the back of the premises. in my way i came to a piece of dead fence, over which i was passing, and which gave a crackling sound under my tread. at that moment i heard a dog bark, and instantly after a shot was fired from the upper part of the eastern end of the house. i had my face at the time rather turned away from the place whence the shot proceeded, and i received the whole of the contents in my back and shoulders. i instantly fell; and i well remember that i thought all was over with me, as i lay for some time with my head in the ditch and my feet upon the dead thorns over which i had just passed, and to which i attributed my mishap; for the night was so dark i could not be seen, and the shot must have been directed by the noise i made in getting over the fence. as i lay there i could distinctly hear a whispering from a small door in the end of the house, and i greatly feared lest the inmates should sally forth and take me in my defenceless state. with my head laid upon the ground, the sensation produced upon me by the striking of two o'clock by the church of howden, i well remember. all was now calm, quiet, and dark; and i actually felt the earth vibrate under my ear as the hollow bell threw over the land its sullen sound. i have understood, since i came here, that the savages in america always resort to this mode of listening for the approach of a friend or an enemy. but to return to myself again. "i at length contrived with great difficulty to get upon my feet; and, with still greater exertion and much loss of blood, i reached the boat, where i found my men in great consternation and alarm. one of them pushed the boat adrift, and the tide soon carried it away with the waters. they then supported me at a slow pace to howden, where i arrived almost in a state of insensibility, from the combined effects of pain and loss of blood. by my desire they took me to the house of a medical man of my acquaintance, and knocked at his door. he soon came down, and without asking a single question, stripped me; and during the night he extracted no fewer than thirty-eight large shot corns from my back and shoulders. "i cannot even now recall the agony i suffered without a shudder; and my general health and strength never recovered from the shock i received. i remained secluded for a considerable time, but thanks to the attentive care of my wife, and my own sober habits, for i never was an habitual drunkard, i speedily was able to get out again. in all my night excursions after this adventure i employed the greatest circumspection. "my inward disposition was accurately betokened by my countenance and outward appearance. i was tall and large-limbed, but neither clumsily nor powerfully made, i speak now of forty years of age; for sufferings, mental and bodily, have entirely changed my face and figure. my hair was light, my eyes a bluish grey, my countenance round and somewhat florid. in my looks i always fancied that i resembled two men of no little celebrity--i mean sir walter scott and william cobbett, who certainly bear a considerable resemblance to each other. but this may be my vanity, for the best of us are not free from it. "in my manners i was boisterous, and in tone familiar with all, and overbearing with most. however, my general appearance promised anything but cruelty and dishonesty; and, thank god, no one can charge me with the former, whatever may be said of the latter. "i must, however, plead guilty to one or two acts of apparent cruelty, towards my horses, but which rather rose from the necessity of self-preservation than from any other cause. it has often happened to me, for the purpose of reaching a given place by a certain hour of the night, to be compelled to strain my horse to the full extent of his speed. i knew so well the general opinion entertained towards me, that i felt i must find the greatest difficulty in clearing myself from anything like a reasonable suspicion of crime. "i distinctly remember once having upon me a considerable sum of money, and i was riding at full speed upon a narrow strip of green sward by the road side, which was nearly covered by the extended branches of the trees. the moon was shining beautifully through them, and in contemplating her i felt a soothing calmness spread over my soul, which i cannot well account for or explain the cause of. my musings were suddenly cut short by a deep-drawn sigh from my horse, then a slight shudder, and the next moment he was dead under me. i cried like a child. i raised his head, but all in vain, no trace of life remained. "by the moon's rays, which at that instant shot through an opening in a dark scots fir immediately over his head, i saw the film of death rapidly spread over his eyes, and felt his limbs stiffen under my grasp. i had to travel several miles on foot, pretty well loaded, and through a very lonely and suspicious-looking part of the country. however, i reached the house of one of my friends towards morning, to his no small astonishment, he thinking me fifty miles distant in a different direction. "my horse was soon recognised; and had any robbery been perpetrated within a reasonable distance of the place where he fell, of course it must have been done by me. the common question of the whole neighbourhood was, 'what had i been doing?' however, this never transpired. i ever afterwards tied a piece of raw beef round the bit of my bridle when about to make hard use of my horse, and i always thought that it afforded him considerable help. i need not observe that this was done in imitation of poor dick turpin, whose history is infinitely better known than mine can ever pretend to be. "on the night of the 25th of october, 1812, i felt a presentiment that something sinister was about to happen to me. few men have passed through life, particularly those of an excitable temperament, who have not felt some boding of this kind. i was seated in my chair by the fire, taking my accustomed pipe--an indulgence i never omitted the last thing at night--when this sudden impression came over me. my wife observed that something was the matter, and questioned me on the subject. however, as i knew she would only laugh at me, i did not tell her the cause. "in the middle of the forenoon, whilst i was listening to my daughter rose, who was my favourite, she suddenly looked up and said, in a hurried tone, 'father, there are several men coming to the house.' it instantly occurred to me that something had happened during the past night, and that my forebodings would not prove vain. however, as my whole family knew that i had not stirred out during the night, i had little fear; and this circumstance even led me to suppose that it might be some mistake. "by this time the party had arrived at the door of the cottage, and one of them gave me to understand that he had a justice's search-warrant, and that i was their prisoner. i submitted at once to be taken into custody, and i was immediately secured. some of the party then began to rummage every drawer and corner of the house, amidst the very voluble abuse of my wife. they, however, found nothing they came to search for, which, as i soon learned, was some wheat stolen during the last night from a neighbouring farmer. "on this information i felt considerable relief, conscious of my innocence; but my wife became perfectly outrageous when the constable refused to take her word that i had never stirred over my threshold since six o'clock of the preceding evening. she, poor woman, swore she would take the law of them threatened writs, indictments, justices, and i know not what; and i verily believed she would have inflicted summary vengeance on the head of the constable with the poker, so furious had she become, from a consciousness that the accusation was without foundation. "however, in spite of all her threats and rage, i was speedily conveyed before the justice who granted the warrant, and on the oath of a person, who swore that he was going along a road near my house and towards the farm-house in question, about two o'clock in the morning, that he saw a horse and two men returning from it, and that he was quite sure i was one of them, my commitment was made out for the house of correction at beverley. "all this took so short a time that i scarcely attempted to defend myself; and indeed i scarcely even know now how i could effectually have done so. for i could only bring the members of my own family to prove that i had not been out of my cottage, and of course they would not have been believed against the positive evidence of the witness who swore to my person, though he was, according to his own statement, fifty yards distant from me--in addition to this, at two o'clock in the morning." the prosecutor of snowden dunhill was mr. barnard clarkson, of holme, at that time a partner in the howden bank. the consciousness that her husband was ignorant of the robbery imputed to him caused sally dunhill to regard him as a martyr. her ranting enthusiasm was excited, and she wrote a long letter to the prosecutor, denouncing him, in biblical terms, as one who "compassed about" the righteous man "with words of hatred, and fought against him without a cause"; and announced to him that she had given herself up to prayer against him (clarkson), and invoked the malediction of heaven upon his head--"let his posterity be cut off; and in the generations following let their name be blotted out." and she concluded this strange epistle with the words of the psalmist: "let them curse, but bless thou: when they arise, let them be ashamed; but let thy servant rejoice. let mine enemies be clothed with shame, and let them cover themselves with their own confusion as with a mantle. i will greatly praise the lord with my mouth; yea, i will praise him among the multitude, for he shall stand at the right hand of the poor, to save him from those that condemn his soul." snowden dunhill continues in his autobiography:-"i now, for the first time, became an inmate of a prison, an event i had always held in the greatest horror. as it was well known that i had plenty of money, i had very soon the proffered and apparently disinterested assistance of an attorney. my situation was maturely considered, and it was soon determined that a writ of habeas corpus should be put in, for the purpose of taking my trial at the approaching assizes at york, in preference to beverley. "i was in consequence taken up to london in custody, after the writ was obtained, and my trial was appointed to take place at york, principally on this ground, as urged by counsel, that my character was so notorious in the east riding of yorkshire that no unprejudiced jury could there be impannelled. the reader may be sure that all this was done at no slight expense; but perhaps he will not believe me when i assure him that by the time my counsel had received his fee for the approaching defence i had scarcely a shilling left in the world. "the march assizes of 1813 at length arrived, when i gave myself up to the gaoler of the castle, and i was soon placed in the dock. my eyes were cast on the ground, and i for a time felt stupefied. however, i at last raised them to the objects before me, and the first that caught them was the judge himself, then the counsel, and then the immense crowd of spectators who had assembled to hear my trial. i soon was calm enough to discover in the gallery the faces of many persons i knew, and i endeavoured to put on a forced courage by nodding familiarly at them, and by appearing to be utterly careless of what was going forward. "the indictment was read over to me, and i was called upon to hold up my hand and plead guilty or not guilty; though i uttered the latter with a loud voice, it was with a full conviction that my doom was sealed. i felt--and i suppose all persons similarly circumstanced feel the same--that not only the assembled people, but that the whole world had combined to destroy me. "the facts above narrated were stated shortly to the jury. the witness swore to my person, and accounted for his being there at that hour, naturally enough, by stating that he had been to visit his sweetheart. the farmer swore to having missed the corn on the night in question. though my counsel tried to confound the first witness by fierce looks and bullying questions, and by dwelling upon the impossibility of his being able to swear to a person at the distance of fifty yards and at two in the morning, yet he stuck to his oath immovably. i was asked what i wished to say, and all that i could state was that i was innocent; that i was in bed at the time, and that all the family knew this to be the fact. my wife was anxious to speak for me, but my counsel insisted upon her holding her tongue, which she at last consented to do on his assuring her that she would do my case more harm than good. the jury without the slightest hesitation found me guilty, and the judge at once sentenced me to seven years' transportation. "i was immediately conveyed back to my cell, and a few days afterwards i was forwarded to the hulks. in this miserable banishment i passed six years, embittered by the most dreadful account of my family, every member of it, even in the remotest degree, having transgressed the laws of his country, and was then undergoing for his offences the punishment awarded to him. could hope under any form have presented herself to me, i felt that i might yet be a reclaimed man, but i could not catch the most distant glimpse of her. my years passed on in the midst of misery the most distressing, till they at last came to an end. i obtained my discharge or pardon a short time before the expiration of my full term, for i had been guilty of no violence, or insolence, or excess, since my arrival. "i left this abode of vice and misery without a friend on the face of the earth, and unconscious where to find even a momentary place of refuge. there are many unfortunate individuals who, had they a house or employment to fly to after having undergone their periods of punishment, would be glad to betake themselves to habits of honesty and industry. but, unluckily for them, they are turned out without a refuge to resort to, and necessity, and not inclination, drives them to the commission of fresh crimes. "as to myself, i returned to spaldington, but the change which my worldly prospects and circumstances had undergone was in the extreme overwhelming. some of these misfortunes i well knew, but to others i was an entire stranger, and i cannot at this day lay blame to anyone but myself for them. my evil example pointed out the way of lawless depredation to my children, in characters so legible that they could not fail to read and study them. "the farmers of the village had thought it right to clear my cottage of every one connected with me in name, relationship, or blood. "i felt at a great loss where to fix, or to what object to turn myself for a livelihood and bare subsistence. as to my children and connections, they were scattered in every direction, and for the most part undergoing the punishment due to their crimes. "my daughter, my favourite daughter, rose, had been committed, and sentenced to confinement in york castle. during her imprisonment she was delivered of a bastard-child; what its fate may be, heaven alone can tell! she was visited in the castle by a gentleman from howden, for the purpose of proffering her some assistance in her necessitous situation. this i have understood she indignantly refused. holding up her new-born babe to his gaze, she said, 'see! he has hands to help himself, and if ever there was a true-born rogue, here he is!' thus, like hannibal towards rome, was this poor child devoted from its earliest infancy to war against all the settled institutions of society. "after her release from york the reader will readily imagine from this anecdote of her, that she would speedily fall into another scrape. this soon happened. she was committed to wakefield house of correction, again tried and found guilty, and i have never since heard of her. she had cohabited with two different men, both of whom passed as her husband. their names were m'dowel and connor, and they both have been transported. "my daughter, sarah dunhill, after having been confined in york castle, was tried at the east riding sessions at beverley, and imprisoned one year. she was subsequently tried at the borough sessions at beverley for picking the pocket of a gentleman named scholfield, and stealing from him a considerable sum of money. "during her trial she made a moving appeal to the barristers present, stating that she had always found them her best friends; that their ingenuity had often assisted her in the hour of need, and she yet reposed faith in their kindness, and proudly left her honesty and honour in their keeping. the recorder, startled into momentary confusion at the nature of this appeal, speedily recovered his dignity, and inflicted on her the doom of the law. she was at this time residing at hull, and had come over to beverley fair that morning for the purpose of depredation. for this offence she was transported for seven years. she had three husbands, named james stanhope, william rhodes, and james crossland, all of whom were severally transported, one after the other. "my son, william dunhill, was transported at the york assizes for the term of fourteen years. he, poor fellow, died immediately on his arrival in new south wales. he was the most promising of my family, and with different examples before him, and good advice, would probably have proved an ornament to society. "robert taylor, son of my wife by a former husband, and who lived under the same roof with us for several years, was also transported. "i think i omitted to state that my wife at the time i married her was a widow, and her name was taylor. her husband was shot in attempting to commit a robbery shortly before i married her, a circumstance which was not known to me, and which she never mentioned. "as to my wife, she was also transported, after having contrived innumerable depredations, and been the cause of those fatal events which befel herself, myself, and the rest of the family. "a robbery committed at howden was readily traced home to the inmates of our house; suspicion fell at once upon them, and the furniture, watches, coins, and many other stolen articles were found on my premises. but as this and many other things happened during my absence, and as i never again saw several members of my family, i am the less particular in narrating them, from my great anxiety that nothing should appear in this history of myself for which i cannot vouch the truth." snowden returned to spaldington, found his family dispersed, his cottage occupied by other tenants, and no one in the village disposed to receive him with open arms. the farmers naturally viewed his return with alarm, and he found none in the neighbourhood disposed to give him work, had he cared to take it. but steady work was distasteful to him. had he sought it in other parts of yorkshire he might readily have found it. instead of this he loafed about, sulky and angry with society. by degrees he formed new connections, in hull and lincolnshire, and resumed his former dishonest practices in concert with them. "i had heard much of the easy lives led by the convicts in new south wales; and, moreover, some members of my family were already there, and i felt impelled to make an endeavour to join them. "i had not long to wait for the gratification of this wish, for i was soon traced to the commission of a paltry crime. i was apprehended, tried, and convicted; my character did the rest, and readily procured for me that banishment from england on which i had set my heart. my trial took place at a district quarter sessions in the north of lincolnshire, in the gaol of which i was only detained a few days when, with several others, i was transmitted, pinioned and loaded with irons, to london, there to await a ship to convey me to botany bay. "it was a cold, bleak morning when i was put upon the coach in the court-yard of the prison, before daylight, with the rain and sleet falling in abundance. the coach remained half-an-hour or more in the yard of the prison till all was in readiness, when the gates were thrown open and we commenced our inauspicious journey. i cannot at all describe the feelings of loneliness and of heartrending distress which came over me at this moment, in which i felt that i was rushing from certain misery to something that might be even still worse, and yet in my despair i felt a clinging to existence. i have never met with--nay, i have never heard of--a bad man who could look death unflinchingly in the face. on ascending the first rise of the ground in our journey towards london a breeze from the north suddenly sprung up, which scattered the loaded clouds, and the sun burst forth in all its glory. there appeared before me, as if a veil had been taken off the earth by magic power, a wide-spread picture. the humber, glorying in its scythian name, rolling to the ocean its mass of waters; and in the distance the winding trent and ouse, stealing onward like two wily serpents; and i could just discover the broad expanse where they became united. "the beautiful lincolnshire hills on my left, and the still more beautiful hills, dales, and woods of my own native yorkshire to the north, lent their charms to form a landscape i never saw equalled, and in casting my last lingering gaze upon it i felt that the inanimate beauties of creation must now to me for ever be a blank. i strained my eyes to catch as much of it as i could, feeling the prospect, as it were, a part of myself, and necessary to my very existence, for there it had commenced, and little at one time did i think at how great a distance i was doomed to end it. "arrived at botany bay, i was soon disposed of, and commenced in good earnest the life of a slave. hard-worked, half-starved, ill-fed, and worse clothed, such is the fate of the hapless convict." whilst in confinement, snowden dunhill wrote his autobiography, and much wished to send it to his native village that it might be printed there for circulation. but it was some time before an opportunity presented itself. one october day, 1830, as he was wheeling earth and stones near the pier of sydney, in the harbour of port jackson, he rested for a moment to look at the beautiful bay before him, and compare it with one of the lake-like reaches of the humber, when he was roused from his musings by a tap on the shoulder, and the salutation of "well, snowden, how are you?" he touched his cap, and looked up. before him stood a sailor, who grasped his hand and shook it warmly. the sailor was the little boy whose life he had saved in the moat of spaldington old hall so many years before. the sailor gave him some money, and told him he was about to return to hull. dunhill at once produced his little autobiography, and entreated him to take it back to yorkshire, and get it printed there. the sailor readily promised to do this, and to his fulfilment of the promise we owe the existence of the curious little memoir presented to the reader. in august, 1833, snowden dunhill was seen by another howden man, who was at hobart town, van dieman's land. his account of dunhill is that he was "a tall, stout man, bent and stooping with suffering and privation more than from natural infirmity, but with the step and assurance of his old self." the howden man would not have known dunhill had not the convict heard his name mentioned, and introduced himself to him: "ye're one of ----'s sons i' howden?" in the broadest east riding yorkshire. then, when the stranger answered that he was, dunhill's eyes filled with tears, and he began to sob. "in external appearance he was not very much altered. the boisterous and overbearing manners of former years yet remained, unsoftened and unrepressed by the sufferings he had undergone. an habitual stoop had bent down his person, and somewhat taken away from the portly and blustering gait of early life. the small, grey, quick, and piercing eye still retained its cunning and prying character. his dress was much the same as he wore in england." dunhill had received his ticket of freedom at sydney two or three years before this, and had then removed to van dieman's land, where his wife and daughter were settled. there is a strange irony in facts. sally dunhill, who had been unable to rear one of her own children in morality and honesty, so impressed on the people of hobart town that she was a saintly woman by her vociferous prayers and familiarity with holy scripture, that she was employed in teaching at a day-school, and was entrusted with the education of children in those paths she had never trodden herself. the residue of her time was spent in making penny pies, which snowden hawked about the town. snowden dunhill gradually sank into habitual drunkenness, and was suspected of reverting to his old tricks of petty larceny. when he died is not known. footnote: [7] "the life of snowden dunhill, written by himself." howden, 1833. james naylor, the quaker.[8] james naylor was born at east ardsley, near wakefield, in 1616. he was the son of a small farmer, whose house was near the old church. he received a passable education in reading, writing, and arithmetic. in 1628, when he was aged twenty-two, he married, and settled in wakefield parish. he was a diligent reader of the scriptures, and zealous as an independent. he spent about three years at wakefield, and then joined the parliamentary army as a private in 1641. he rose to become quartermaster of his regiment under major-general lambert, but in 1649, on account of ill-health, he was obliged to leave the army and return to wakefield. the pulpits of the established church were now in the hands of independent ministers, and that of horbury, near wakefield, was occupied by the "godly and painful master marshall," under whom james naylor sat and groaned with unction. but naylor relaxed his religious exercises on visits to a mrs. roper at horbury, a lady whose husband had been for some time absent. when this lady became a mother by james naylor, the rev. mr. marshall thought it necessary to expose him, and naylor, indignant with his independent minister, joined the sect of the quakers, then founded by george fox. in 1652 he went on a religious visitation to the west, and in 1655 he visited london, in which city a meeting of quakers had been established by the ministry of edward burrough and francis howgill, two men of westmoreland. naylor prophesied in the meeting with so great applause that several women began to exalt him above burrough and howgill, and disturbed the latter when they attempted to speak. the two ministers reproved the women, and they in dudgeon complained to naylor, and he encouraged them in their opposition to burrough and howgill. two of these women, martha symonds and hannah stranger, became his most devoted adherents, and followed him in all his wanderings. in 1656 he revisited the west, prophesied in cornwall, and on passing through exeter was arrested under the sweeping charge of vagrancy, and committed to gaol. there he was visited by many devout females, amongst others by one dorcas erbury, who fell into a swoon, and was revived by naylor, who cried over her, "tabitha, i say unto thee, arise!" she awoke, and the faithful believed that naylor had restored her from death to life. he was released at length by order of council and then he travelled to bristol at the head of six believers. on reaching bedminster, a village a mile from old bristol, though now a suburb of the town, naylor and his party formed in procession, intending to produce a scene in the streets of bristol. one of his disciples, a young man with bare head, led the horse by the bridle upon which naylor was mounted; two men followed in single file on horseback, each with his wife on a pillion behind him; and one woman walked on the causeway. as they went forward the six shouted, "holy, holy, holy, lord god of sabaoth!" till they came to the almshouse in the suburbs of bristol, "when one of the women alighted, and she, with the other of her own sex, lovingly marched on each side of naylor's horse." the road was deep in mud and rain was falling, but neither mud nor rain damped the ardour of the enthusiasts. on reaching redcliffe gate, timothy wedlock, a devonshire man of the company, bareheaded, and martha symonds holding the bridle on one side and hannah stranger holding it on the other, advanced, chanting their hymn of praise. naylor wore a broad-brimmed hat and a long sad-coloured mantle. he was of a moderate height, ruddy complexion, had a slightly arched nose, large brown eyes, was a remarkably handsome man, and was thought by many to resemble the traditional type of face attributed to our lord. martha symonds was the wife of thomas symonds, bookbinder of london; and hannah stranger was the wife of john stranger, combmaker in london. the two other women accompanying naylor were dorcas erbury, whom he had raised from the dead, and her mother. in this way the solemn procession advanced to the high cross at bristol, and after that to the white hart, broad street, where lodged two quakers, dennis hollister and henry row. the magistrates at once apprehended the party, and committed them to prison. the following is the examination of the prisoners, somewhat condensed:-examination of james naylor. being asked his name, he replied, "the men of this world call me james naylor." _q._ "art not thou the man that rid on horseback into bristol, a woman leading thy horse, and others saying before thee, 'holy, holy, holy, hosannah to the son of david'?" _a._ "i did ride into a town, but what its name was i know not; and by the spirit a woman was commanded to hold my horse's bridle, and some there were that cast down clothes and sang praises to the lord, such songs as the lord put into their hearts; and it is like it might be the song, 'holy, holy, holy,' &c." _q._ "whether or no didst thou reprove these women?" _a._ "nay; but i bade them take heed that they say nothing but what they were moved to by the lord." _q._ "dost thou own this letter which hannah stranger sent unto thee?" _a._ "yes, i do own that letter." _q._ "art thou (according to that letter) the fairest of ten thousand?" _a._ "as to the visible, i deny any such attribute to be due unto me; but if as to that which the father hath begotten in me, i shall own it." two letters were then produced and read; we need only give one:- "james naylor, "oh! thou fairest of ten thousand, thou only begotten son of god, how my heart panteth after thee! o stay me with flaggons and comfort me with wine. my beloved, thou art like a roe or young hart upon the mountains of spices, where thy beloved spouse hath long been calling thee to come away, but hath been but lately heard of thee. now it lies something upon me that thou mindest to see her, for the spirit and power of god is with her, and there is given to her much of excellent and innocent wisdom arisen and arising in her, which will make all the honest-hearted to praise the lord alone, and no more set up self. and therefore let not my lord and master have any jealousy against her, for she is highly beloved of the lord, and that shall all see who come to know the lord. and now he doth bless them that bless his, and curse them that curse his; for this hath the lord showed me, that her portion is exceedingly large in the lord, and as her sorrow hath been much, so shall her joy be much more; which rejoiceth my heart to see her walk so valiantly and so faithfully in the work of the lord, in this time of so great trials as hath been upon her especially. "and i am, "hannah stranger. "_the postscript._ "remember my dear love to thy master. thy name is no more james, but jesus. "john stranger." "remember my love to these friends with thee. the 17th day of 8th month, superscribed to the hands of james naylor." _q._ "art thou the only son of god?" _a._ "i am the son of god; but i have many brethren." _q._ "have any called thee by the name of jesus?" _a._ "not as unto the visible, but as jesus, the christ that is in me." _q._ "dost thou own the name of the king of israel?" _a._ "not as a creature; but if they gave it to christ within, i own it, and have a kingdom, but not of this world; my kingdom is of another world, of which thou wotest not." _q._ "whether or no art thou the prophet of the most high?" _a._ "thou hast said i am a prophet." _q._ "by whom were you sent?" _a._ "by him who hath sent the spirit of his son in me to try, not as to carnal matters, but belonging to the kingdom of god, by the indwelling of the father and the son, to judge all spirits, to be guided by none." _q._ "is not the written word of god the guide?" _a._ "the written word declares of it, and what is not according to that is not true." _q._ "who is thy mother? or whether or no is she a virgin?" _a._ "nay, according to the natural birth." _q._ "who is thy mother according to thy spiritual birth?" _a._ "no carnal creature." _q._ "who, then?" he returned no answer. _q._ "art thou the everlasting son of god?" _a._ "when god is manifest in the flesh there is the everlasting son; and i do witness god in the flesh. i am the son of god, and the son of god is but one." _q._ "art thou the everlasting son of god, the king of righteousness?" _a._ "i am; and the everlasting righteousness is wrought in me; if ye were acquainted with the father ye would also be acquainted with me." _q._ "do any kiss thy feet?" _a._ "it might be they did, but i minded them not." _q._ "how dost thou provide for a livelihood?" _a._ "as do the lilies, without care, being maintained of my father." _q._ "what business hast thou at bristol, or that way?" _a._ "i was guided and directed by my father." _q._ "where were you born?" _a._ "at arderslow, in yorkshire." _q._ "where lives thy wife?" _a._ "she whom thou callest my wife lives in wakefield." _q._ "why dost thou not live with her?" _a._ "i did till i was called to the army." _q._ "under whose command didst thou serve in the army?" _a._ "first under him they call lord fairfax." _q._ "who then?" _a._ "afterwards with that man called colonel lambert. and then i went into scotland, where i was quartermaster, and returned sick to my earthly habitation." _q._ "what wentest thou for to exeter?" _a._ "i went to launceston to see the brethren." _q._ "what estate hast thou?" _a._ "take no care for that." _q._ "wherefore camest thou in such an unusual posture as two women leading thy horse; others saying, 'holy, holy, holy!' &c, with another before thee bareheaded, knee-deep in the highway mud, when thou mightest have gone on the causey; and at such a time that, it raining, thy companions received the rain at their necks, and vented it at their hose and breeches?" _a._ "it tended to my father's praise and glory; and i ought not to slight anything which the spirit of the lord moves." _q._ "wherefore didst thou call marthy symonds 'mother,' as george fox affirms?" _a._ "george fox is a liar and a firebrand of hell; for neither i, nor any with me, called her so." _q._ "thou hast a wife at this time?" _a._ "a woman i have, who by the world is called my wife, and some children i have, which according to the flesh are mine." martha symonds' examination. "she contendeth she knew james naylor formerly, for he is now no more james naylor, but refined to a more excellent substance; and so she saith she came with him from eccles to bristol." _q._ "what made thee lead his horse into bristol, and cry, 'holy, holy, holy!' and to spread thy garment before him?" _a._ "i was forced thereto by the power of the lord." _q._ "whether didst thou kneel before him?" _a._ "i was forced thereto by the power of love." _q._ "dost thou own him to be the prince of peace?" _a._ "he is a perfect man; and he that is a perfect man is the prince of peace." _q._ "hast thou a husband?" _a._ "i have a man which thou callest my husband." _q._ "what made thee leave him, and to follow james naylor?" _a._ "it is our life to praise the lord, and the lord my strength is manifest in james naylor." _q._ "oughtest thou to worship james naylor upon thy knees?" _a._ "yea, i ought so to do." hannah stranger, thomas stranger, and timothy wedlock were next examined. it is not necessary to reproduce their interrogations; they much resemble what has been given above. dorcas erbury was next called. she was widow of william erbury, once a minister. _q._ "where dost thou live?" _a._ "with margaret thomas." _q._ "wherefore dost thou sing, 'holy, holy, holy'?" _a._ "i did not at that time; but those that sang did it discharging of their duty." _q._ "dost thou own him to be the holy one of israel?" _a._ "i do, and with my blood will seal it." _q._ "and dost thou own him for the son of god?" _a._ "he is the only begotten son of god." _q._ "wherefore didst thou pull off his stockings, and lay thy clothes beneath his feet?" _a._ "he is worthy of it, for he is the holy one of israel." _q._ "christ raised those that had been dead; so did not he?" _a._ "he raised me." _q._ "in what manner?" _a._ "he laid his hand on my head after i had been dead two days, and said, 'dorcas, arise!' and i arose, and live, as thou seest." _q._ "where did he this?" _a._ "at the gaol in exeter." _q._ "what witness hast thou for this?" _a._ "my mother, who was present." _q._ "his power being so much, wherefore opened he not the prison doors and escaped?" _a._ "the doors shall open when the lord's wish is done." the bristol magistrates sent naylor and his deluded followers to london, to be examined before parliament. on the 31st october it was ordered that a committee should be appointed to consider the information given touching "the misdemeanour and blasphemies of james naylor and others at bristol and elsewhere, and to report thereon." the committee met next day, and on december 2nd it was resolved that the report of the committee should be brought in and read on the following friday, december 5th. on that day it was read by the reporter,--it consisted of thirteen sheets of paper--and the debate on the report began on the 6th, when james naylor was called to the bar of the house. he came with his hat on, but it was removed by the serjeant. the report was read to him, and he was demanded whether each particular was true, and he acknowledged that it was so. the debate was adjourned to monday, the 8th, and it occupied parliament till the 20th december. the house resolved "that james naylor was guilty of horrid blasphemy, and that he was a grand impostor and seducer of the people," and his sentence was, "that he should be set on the pillory, with his head in the pillory, in the palace yard, westminster, during the space of two hours, on thursday next, and be whipped by the hangman through the streets from westminster to the old exchange, london; and there, likewise, he should be set on the pillory, with his head in the pillory, for the space of two hours, between the hours of eleven and one, on saturday next, in each place wearing a paper containing an inscription of his crimes; and that at the old exchange his tongue should be bored through with a hot iron, and that he should be there also stigmatised in the forehead with the letter b; and that he should afterwards be sent to bristol, to be conveyed into and through the city on horseback, with his face backwards, and there also should be whipped the next market-day after he came thither; and that thence he should be committed to prison in bridewell, london, and there be restrained from the society of all people, and there to labour hard till he should be released by parliament; and during that time he should be debarred the use of pen, ink, and paper, and should have no relief but what he earned by his daily labour." the women were ordered to be kept in confinement. the severity of this atrocious sentence deserves notice. the independents, who had suffered under laud and the star chamber, now that they were in power, had no idea of tolerating the quakers, who read their bibles differently from themselves. cromwell was especially prejudiced against them, and it is probable that the protector had something to do with the severity of the sentence on naylor. one robert rich, a merchant of london, wrote to the parliament, on december 15, a petition in favour of naylor: "if i may have liberty of those that sit in parliament, i do here attend at this door, and am now ready out of the scriptures of truth to show that not anything that james naylor hath said or done is blasphemy, &c." sentence was pronounced by the speaker, sir thomas widdrington. naylor on hearing it said, "i pray god he may not lay it to your charge." on december 20th, 1656, naylor suffered a part of his sentence, standing two hours in the pillory, and receiving at the cart's tail three hundred and ten stripes. "the executioner gave him three hundred and ten stripes," says sewell, "and would have given him one more, as he confessed to the sheriff, but his foot slipping, the stroke fell upon his own hand, which hurt him much. naylor was hurt with the horses treading on his feet, whereon the prints of the nails were seen. his wounds were washed by r. travers, who certified, 'there was not the space of a man's nail free from stripes and blood, from his shoulders near to his waist; his right arm sorely striped; his hands much hurt by the cords that they bled and were swelled: the blood and wounds of his back did very little appear at first sight, by reason of abundance of dirt that covered them, till it was washed off.'" another petition in his favour was presented, signed by about a hundred persons, to parliament, requesting the remission of the rest of his sentence, and as this was refused, appeal was made to cromwell the protector, with like want of success. five independent ministers visited naylor in prison, and vainly urged him to recant. rich besieged the doors of parliament on december 27th, from eight o'clock till eleven, imploring a respite, but all in vain. naylor was then brought out to undergo the rest of his sentence; he was again pilloried, his tongue bored through, and his forehead branded. rich held the hand of the unhappy man whilst his tongue was pierced, and the red-hot iron applied to his brow, and he licked the wounds to allay the pain. thousands who witnessed the execution of the sentence exhibited their respect by removing their caps. there was no reviling, and nothing thrown at naylor, but all stood silent and sympathetic. james naylor was then sent to bristol, and whipped from the middle of st. thomas' street to the middle of broad street, and taken back to his prison in bridewell. there he wrote his recantation, in epistles addressed to the quakers. in one of these he says: "dear brethren, my heart is broken this day for the offence which i have occasioned to god's truth and people, and especially to you, who in dear love followed me, seeking me in faithfulness to god, which i rejected, being bound wherein i could not come forth, till god's hand brought me, to whose love i now confess. and i beseech you forgive wherein i evil requited your love in that day. god knows my sorrow for it, since i see it, that ever i should offend that of god in any, or reject his counsel; and i greatly fear further to offend or do amiss, whereby the innocent truth or people of god should suffer, or that i should disobey therein." he was confined about two years, and was then set at liberty. he thereupon went to bristol, where in a public meeting he made confession of his offence and fall so movingly as to draw tears from most of those present; and he was then restored to the community of the quakers, from which he had been excluded by george fox at exeter for his presumption and pride. charges of the most gross immorality have been brought against james naylor, whether truly or falsely who can now decide? it is possible that the language of the women who followed him, in speaking of him, their letters to him, one of which has been quoted, may have given rise to these reports. naylor, however, never would admit that there had been anything unseemly in his behaviour towards the women who followed him from london into cornwall, and from cornwall to bristol; and sewell, who knew hannah stranger, repudiates the charge as utterly false. but it is curious to notice how that religious fanaticism and sensuality so frequently run together. it was so in that outburst of mysticism in the middle ages--the heresy of the fraticelli; it was so with at least one branch of the hussites in bohemia; and in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the great convulsion of the reformation had set minds naturally predisposed to religious excitement in a ferment, this was most conspicuous, as in the ferocious licentiousness of john bockelson, the anabaptist king of sion, or the more cautious profligacy, under a cloak of religion, of ludwig hetzer and david joris. james naylor quitted london finally in 1660, intending to return to wakefield; but was found by a countryman one evening in a field near holm and king's rippon, in huntingdonshire, having been robbed and left bound. he was taken to holm, and his clothes were changed. to those who kindly cared for him he said, "you have refreshed my body; the lord refresh your souls." he shortly after died there of the rough handling he had received from the highwaymen who had plundered him, and was buried in a quaker's cemetery belonging to thomas parnel, a physician. two hours before he died he uttered the touching and eloquent speech:--"there is a spirit which i feel that delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end. its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to weary out all exultation and cruelty, or whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. it sees to the end of all temptations. as it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thoughts to any other. if it be betrayed, it bears it; for its ground and spring are the mercies and forgiveness of god. its crown is meekness; its life is everlasting love, unfeigned, and takes its kingdom with entreaty and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind. in god alone it can rejoice, though none else regard it or can own its life. it is conceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression. it never rejoiceth but through sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered. i found it alone, being forsaken; i have fellowship therein with them who lived in dens and desolate places in the earth; who through death obtained their resurrection, and eternal, holy life." a more beautiful and true description of the christian spirit was never uttered. it is a passage meriting a place beside the famous definition of charity by s. paul. the man who used such words was no hypocrite when he used them. if he had erred greatly, he had also repented; if he had fallen, he had risen after his fall. one is glad to turn away the eye from the blemishes of the unfortunate quaker's career to the spot of pure light that rests on his death-bed. his writings were collected and published in an octavo volume in 1716. they are very unequal. some passages of great beauty, almost comparable to that given above, may be found, but there is also much that is as involved in style and confused in thought as the specimen quoted earlier from his recantation. footnote: [8] authorities:--"the grand imposter examined; or, the life, trial, and examination of james naylor, london, 1656," reprinted in the harleian misc., vi., 424. johannis lussenii "hist. u. schrifft-mã¤ssige erã¶rterung der vor wenig zeit in engelland entstandenen secte der quã¤cker," in "quã¤cker grueuel," published by authority of the magistrates of hamburg, 1702. "the recantation of james naylor," in "somers' tracts," vi., 22, pub. 1659. "naylor's writings collected," 8vo, 1716. sewell's "hist. of the quakers," 1714. sewell was personally acquainted with hannah stranger, one of naylor's followers. "the journals of the house of commons," vi., p. 448-59. blome's "fanatick history." j. whiting's "account." "old three laps." at laycock, two miles west of keighley, at a farm called "the worlds," lived a close-fisted yeoman named sharp, at the end of last century and the beginning of this. he carried on a small weaving business in addition to his farm, and amassed a considerable sum of money. the story goes that on one occasion old sharp brought a piece of cloth to the keighley tailor and told him to make a coat for him out of it. the tailor on measuring the farmer pronounced the cloth to be insufficient to allow of tails to the coat, and asked what he was to do under the circumstances. "tho' mun make it three laps,"--_i.e._, _any way_. the expression stuck to him, and till the day of his death the name of "three laps" adhered to him, when it passed to his still more eccentric son. this son, william sharp, for a while followed the trade of a weaver, but was more inclined to range the moors with his gun than stick to his loom; and the evenings generally found him in the bar of the "devonshire inn" at keighley, the landlord of which was a mr. morgan. young three laps was fond of chaffing his boon companions. on one occasion he encountered a commercial traveller in the timber trade, and began his banter by asking him the price of a pair of mahogany "laithe" (barn) doors. the traveller, prompted by mr. morgan, drew him out, and booked his order. after some weeks the invoice of mahogany barn-doors, price upwards of â£30, was forwarded to william sharp. young three laps was beside his wits with dismay, and had recourse to mr. morgan, and through his intervention the imaginary mahogany barn-doors were not sent. the barmaid of the "devonshire" was a comely, respectable young woman, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer named smith. william sharp fell desperately in love with the girl, proposed, and was accepted. the day for the wedding was fixed, and the young man went to keighley church at the appointed hour to be married. but the bride was not there. at the last moment a difficulty had arisen about the settlements. mr. smith could not induce old three laps to bestow on his son sufficient money to support him in a married condition, and the two old men had quarrelled and torn up the settlements. the blow was more than the mind of william sharp could bear. he returned to "the worlds" sulky, went to bed, and never rose from it again. for forty-nine years he kept to his bed, and refused to speak to anyone. he was just thirty years old when he thus isolated himself from society and active life, and he died in his bed at the age of seventy-nine, on march 3rd, 1856. the room he occupied measured nine feet long and was about the same breadth. the floor was covered with stone flags, and was generally damp. in one corner was a fire-place which could be used only when the wind blew from one or two points of the compass; the window was permanently fastened, and where some of the squares had been broken, was carefully patched with wood. at the time of his death, this window had not been opened for thirty-eight years. the sole furniture comprised an antique clock, minus weight and pendulum, the hands and face covered with a network of cobwebs; a small round table of dark oak, and a plain unvarnished four-post bedstead, entirely without hangings. in this dreary cell, whose only inlet for fresh air during thirty-eight years was the door occasionally left open, did this strange being immure himself. he obstinately refused to speak to anyone, and if spoken to even by his attendants would not answer. all trace of intelligence gradually faded away; the only faculties which remained in active exercise were those he shared with the beasts. his father by his will made provision for the temporal wants of his eccentric son, and so secured him a constant attendant. he ate his meals regularly when brought to him, and latterly in a very singular manner, for in process of time his legs became contracted and drawn towards his body, and when about to eat his food he used to roll himself over and take his meals in a kneeling posture. he was generally cleanly in his habits. during the whole period of his self-imposed confinement he never had any serious illness, the only case of indisposition those connected with him could remember being a slight loss of appetite, caused apparently by indigestion, for two or three days--and this, notwithstanding that he ate on an average as much as any farm labourer. he certainly, physically speaking, did credit to his food, for though arrived at the age of seventy-nine years, his flesh was firm, fair and unwrinkled, save with fat, and he weighed about 240 lbs. he showed great repugnance to being seen, and whenever a stranger entered his den he immediately buried his head in the bed-clothes. about a week before his death his appetite began to fail; his limbs became partially benumbed, so that he could not roll himself over to take his food in his accustomed posture. from this attack he seemed to rally, and no apprehensions were entertained that the attack would prove fatal, till the evening before his death. however, during the night he rapidly became worse, and expired at four a.m. on monday, march 3rd, 1856. shortly before he expired he was heard to exclaim--"poor bill! poor bill! poor bill sharp!"--the most connected sentence he had been known to utter for forty nine years. he was buried in keighley churchyard on the 7th of march, amidst crowds who had come from all parts of the neighbourhood to witness the scene. the coffin excited considerable attention from its extraordinary shape, as his body could not be straightened, the muscles of the knees and thighs being contracted. it was an oak chest, two feet four inches in depth. the weight was so great that it required eight men with strong ropes to lower it into the grave. it was thought to weigh with its contents 480 lbs. a gentleman who visited old three laps before his death has given the following account of what he saw:-"if you chance to go a-skating 'to the tarn,' and want a fine bracing walk, keep on the sutton road about a mile, and you will come to an avenue of larch, not in a very thriving state, but sufficient to indicate that some one had an idea of the picturesque who planted the trees, although the house at the top of the avenue has not a very attractive appearance. you have now reached 'world's end,' and save here and there a solitary farm, with its cold stone buildings and treeless fields, there are few signs of life between you and the wide and boundless moors of yorkshire and lancashire. on the opposite hill, right up in the clouds, is 'tewett hall,' the residence of a bradford town councillor. he alone, in this part, seems to follow three laps' ancestors' plan of planting, and in a few years we may expect to see a fine belt of timber on the verge of the horizon, a sight that will cheer the heart of some future dr. syntax when in search of the picturesque. at this place three laps 'took his bed,' and in a little parlour, with a northern light, the sill of which is level with the field, the floor cold and damp, and meanly furnished, it was my privilege to see three laps some twenty-five years ago. to gain admission we had some difficulty; but with the assistance of the farmer and a tin of tobacco to the nurse, who was an inveterate smoker, we were shown into his bedroom. as soon as he heard strangers, he pulled the bed-clothes over his head, which the nurse with considerable force removed, and uncovered his body, which was devoid of every vestige of body-linen. a more startling and sickening sight i never saw. nebuchadnezzar rushed into my mind. three laps covered his face with his hands, his fingers being like birds' claws, while, with his legs drawn under his body, he had the appearance of a huge beast. he had white hair, and a very handsome head, well set on a strong chest. his body and all about him was scrupulously clean, and his condition healthy, as his nurse proudly pointed out, digging her fist furiously into his ribs. he gave no signs of joy or pain, but lay like a mass of inanimate matter. it struck me at the time that his limbs were stiff; but a neighbour of his, who after his dinner stole a peep into his bedroom window, told me that he found him playing with his plate in the manner of a chinese juggler, and with considerable ability. on my informant tapping the window, he vanished under the bed-clothes. "such was the life of the strange man who for love of a woman never left this obscure room for nearly half a century." the case of old three laps is not unique. in the early part of this century there lived in the neighbourhood of caen, in normandy, a juge de paix, m. halloin, a great lover of tranquillity and ease; so much so, indeed, that, as bed is the article of furniture most adapted to repose, he rarely quitted it, but made his bed-chamber a hall of audience, in which he exercised his functions of magistrate, pronouncing sentence with his head resting on a pillow, and his body languidly extended on the softest of feather beds. however, his services were dispensed with, and he devoted the remaining six years of his life to still greater ease. feeling his end approach, m. halloin determined on remaining constant to his principle, and showing to the world to what an extent he carried his passion for bed. consequently, his last will contained a clause expressing his desire to be buried at night, in his bed, comfortably tucked in, with pillows and coverlets, as he had died. as no opposition was raised against the execution of this clause, a huge pit was sunk, and the defunct was lowered into his last resting-place without any alteration having been made in the position in which death had overtaken him. boards were laid over the bed, that the falling earth might not disturb this imperturbable quietist. christopher pivett. christopher pivett died at york, in 1796, at the advanced age of ninety-three years. he was by trade a carver and gilder, but in early life had served in the army, and been present in several battles--fontenoy, dettingen, and the siege of carlisle. after he settled at york, his house was accidentally burnt down; and he then formed the singular resolution never again to sleep in a bed, lest he should be burned to death whilst asleep, or not have sufficient time to remove his property, should an accident again occur. this resolution he strictly adhered to for the remaining forty years of his life. his practice was to repose upon the floor, or on two chairs, or sitting in a chair, but always dressed. during the whole period he dwelt alone he was his own cook, and seldom suffered anyone to enter the house. he would not tell anyone where he had been born or to whom he was related, and there can be little doubt that the name of pivett was an assumed one. among other singularities, he kept a human skull in his house, and strictly ordered that it should be buried with him. david turton, musician at horbury. david turton was born in horbury, near wakefield, a.d. 1768, and died august 18th, 1846. he was by trade a weaver of flannel, and his loom, which was in the upper room of the cottage in which he lived, might be heard by passers-by going diligently from early morn to dewy eve. in this way he supplied his few earthly wants, for he was a man of a very simple and unobtrusive character; and he did not change either his dress or his habits with the growing luxury of the times. in matter of diet he was frugal, and he always stuck to the old oat-cake and oatmeal porridge he had been accustomed to from childhood. "avver bread and avver me-al porritch" was what he called them, for he spoke the broadest yorkshire. alas! the delightful oat-cake, thin, crisp, is now a thing of the past in horbury. there was an old woman made it, the last of a glorious race of avver bre-ad makers in horbury, some years ago. but she has gone the way of all flesh; and the base descendants of the oat-cake crunchers, the little men of to-day, sustain their miserable lives on bakers' wheat bread. david did not, as is the custom with northerners now, speak two languages--english and yorkshire, according to the company in which they find themselves; but on all occasions, and for all purposes, he adhered to that peculiarly racy and piquant tongue, both in pronunciation and phraseology, which was so well known to those who dwelt in the west riding of yorkshire half a century ago, and which still more or less prevails in that locality. half a century ago every village had its own peculiarity of intonation, its own specialities in words. a horbury man could be distinguished from a man of dewsbury, and a thornhill man from one of batley. the railways have blended, fused these peculiar dialects into one, and taken off the old peculiar edge of provincialism, so that now it is only to be found in its most pronounced and perfect development among the aged. the figure of david turton was spare, his legs long and lean as clothes-line props. he wore drab breeches and white stockings, a long waistcoat of rather coarse black cloth, with a long coat of the same material, much the pattern of that now affected by our bishops. his features were small and sharp, his eye especially bright and full of life; and having lost nearly all his teeth at a comparatively early age, his pointed chin and nose inclined much towards each other. music was his great delight, and in that he spent all his spare time and money. he was a good singer, and could handle the violoncello creditably. all handel's oratorios, besides many other works of the classical composers, he knew off by heart, and he was for a long time the chief musical oracle in the neighbourhood in which he lived. he even aspired to be a composer, and published a volume of chants and psalm tunes. some of the former, but few of the latter, have survived. his chants have found their way into various collections of anglican chants along with those of dr turton, bishop of ely, also a musician and composer of chants. but they have ceased to sound in his own parish church, where they have been displaced by gregorians. not one of his hymn tunes has found its way into the most popular collection of the day--"hymns ancient and modern"--which is the more to be regretted, as turton's tunes were often original, which is much more than can be said for a good many of the new tunes inserted in that collection. a considerable number of choristers in cathedral and parish church choirs owed all their musical skill to the careful training of old david turton. his efficiency in music, together with the simple goodness of his character, made him a favourite among musical people in all grades of society, and there was seldom a gathering in the neighbourhood where any good class of music was performed in which his well-known figure was not to be seen. on one occasion he went to hatfield hall, then the residence of francis maude, esq., who was a great lover of music, and a friend and patron of old david. his own account of his _dã©bã»t_ on that occasion is sufficiently characteristic to be given:-"i went t' other day," said he, "to a gre-at meusic do at ou'd mr. maude's at 'atfield 'all. nah! when i gat theare, a smart looking chap o' a waiter telled me i was to goa into t' parlour; soa i follows efter him doun a long passage till we commed to a big oppen place like, and then he oppens a doo-ar, and says to me, 'cum in!' soa i walks in, and theare i seed t' place were right full o' quality (gentlefolks), and mr. maude comes to me and says, 'now, david, haw are ye?' 'middlin',' says i, 'thenk ye!' soa then there comes a smart chap wi' a tray full of cups o' tea, and he says to me, 'will ye hev sum?' 'thenk ye,' says i, 'i'm none particular.' 'why, then, help yer sen,' says he. soa i taks a cup i' my hand; and then says he, 'weant ye hev sum sugar and cre-am?' 'aye, for sure,' says i; soa i sugars and creams it, and then there comes another chap wi' a tray full of bre-ad and butter, and cakes like, and says he, 'will ye hev sum?' 'i don't mind if i do,' says i. 'well, then,' says he, 'tak sum wi' thy fingers.' soa i holds t' cup and t' sawcer i' one hand, and taks a piece of spice cake i' t' other. 'now, then,' thinks i, 'how am i ever to sup my te-a? i can't team (pour) it out into t' sawcer, for boath my hands is fast.' but all at once i sees a plan o' doin' it. i thowt i could hold t' cake i' my mouth while i teamed (poured) t' te-a into t' sawcer, and then claps th' cup on a chair while i supped my tea. but, bless ye, t' cake war so varry short (crumbling) that it brake off i' my mouth, and tum'led onto t' floor, and i were in a bonny tak-ing. howsomever, i clapt t' cup and t' sawcer onto t' chair, and kneeled me down on t' floor, and sammed (picked) it all up as weel as i could; and then i sups up my tea as sharp as i could, and gave t' cup and t' sawcer to t' chap who cumed round again wi' his tray. 'will ye hev some more?' says he. 'noa,' says i, 'noa more, thenk ye.' for i thowt to mysen i had made maugrums (antics) enough, and all t' quality 'at war theare mun ha' thowt me a hawkard owd chap. weel! when tea were finish'd we gat to th' music, and then, i promise ye, i war all reet, an' a rare do we had on it." david was returning through a pasture one day in which was a furious bull, who seeing old david with his red bag, made at him. the musician did not fly; that would not comport with his dignity, and his bass viol that he carried in the bag might be injured by a precipitate retreat over the hedge. the bull bellowed, and came on with lowered horns. "steady!" soliloquised the musician; "i reckon that was double b nat'ral." again the bull bellowed. "i am pretty sure it were b," said david again, "but i'll mak' sure;" and opening his bag, he extracted the bass viol, set it down, and drawing his bow across the vibrating string, produced a sound as full of volume and of the same pitch as the tone of the infuriated beast. "i thowt i were reet," said david, with a grim smile. at the sound of the bass viol the bull stood still, raised his head, and glowered at the extraordinary object before him. david, having his viol out, thought it a pity to bag it again without a tune, and began the violoncello part in one of handel's choruses. it was too much for the bull; he was out-bellowed, and turned tail. when david was getting a little advanced in years he was coming home on a dark night from a musical gathering, and tumbling over a large stone which happened to be lying on the road, he fell down with great force and dislocated his hip. this was a sore trial to him in many ways. in the first place, it quite prevented his going on with his customary means of obtaining his living, and, besides that, it deprived him of the pleasure of going about among his musical friends. for a long, weary time he was quite confined to his bed, and time hung heavy on his hands, for he had no other resources except his loom and his music. his constant companion in bed was his violoncello, and as he could not for a long time sit up sufficiently to enable him to use the bow, he spent a great part of the day in playing over pizzicato the music which he loved so well. after some time he got about a little on crutches, and ultimately was able to go by the help of a stick. his little savings had now dwindled away, and poverty began to look him in the face. but at this crisis his musical friends came forward, and gave with great success for his benefit the oratorio of the "messiah" in the town of wakefield, and by this means raised for him the liberal sum of â£70, of which they begged his acceptance. he was afraid to have so large a sum in his own charge, and he therefore requested that it might be placed in the hands of the vicar of horbury, so that he might draw from time to time just as much as he needed. this was accordingly done, and by his careful expenditure of it, it sufficed to make him quite comfortable during the rest of his life, and to erect the simple memorial-stone which now stands over his grave in horbury churchyard. he had a married sister living in london who had often invited him to pay her a visit, and when he had recovered from his accident sufficiently to go about pretty well by the aid of a stick, and having now plenty of time at his disposal, on account of his being lame and unable to work at his loom, he determined to embark on the railway to london. his sister lived in kensington, and his own account, of his visit, and of what he saw in the great city, was highly amusing:-"i went up," said he, "on a setterday, and o' t' sunday-morn, while we was getting our breakfast, th' sister's husband says to me across t' table, 'i reckon ye'll goa wi' us to chapel this forenoin,' for ye see they was chapel-folks. 'we'll see,' says i, 'efter a bit.' but i knew varry weel mysen what i were boun' to do, though i didn't say so to them. "soa i just watches my opportunity, an' when they was all gone out of the room, i nips out, as sharp as a lark, and goas to t' end o' t' entry. for t' sister's house war not to t' street, but up a bit on a entry like; and away i goas till i sees a homnibus, and i calls out to t' fellow, 'i say, are ye for sant paul's?' 'aye,' says he. "why then,' says i, 'ye're t' chap for me!' soa he oppens t' door, an' i jumps in. "'how much is it?' says i. 'nobbut sixpence,' says he. soa i rode all t' way thro' (from) kensington to sant paul's--and ye know it's a rare way--all for sixpence. "eh! and bless ye! we just hed a sarvice! think nobbut o' me goin to their ou'd chapel, wi' nowt but a bit on a poor snufflin' hymn or two, an' some squealin' bairns and women to sing 'em, and a ram'lin, rantin' sarmon iver so long, when i had t' opportunity o' going to sant paul's to hear thinks done as they sud be done. nay, nay!--i warn't sich a fooil as that nauther. i warn't born i' yorkshire to know no better nor that, i'll uphou'd ye. "howsomever, when i gat back hoame, they was into me weel for giving 'em t' slip, an' turnin' my back, as they said, on t' blessed gospel invitin' of me. but i let 'em say what they'd a mind to. when a beer barrel begins to fiz out o' t' bung hoil, tha' mun let it fiz a bit, thof't mak a mucky slop, or it'll bust t' barrel. i said nowt; i just set and thowt o' what i'd heard, and i played it ower again on my in'ards. "t' next day i thowt i sud like to goa and hear t' band of t' orse guards. now t' sister 'usband had a nephy 'at was one on 'em; soa i went wi' him. and after they'd played iver so mony things--eh! an' bless ye, they just did play 'em--he says to t' leader o' t' band--'yon ow'd chap'--meaning' me--'knows a bit about meusic.' soa t' fellow says to me, 'is there owt partickler ye'd like?' 'nay,' says i, owt 'at ye've got'll be reight for me.' "'nay,' says he, 'owt' at ye've a mind to ax for.' soa i picks two or three things 'at justs comes to my mind like. and, bless ye! they play 'em like owt at all, and then i menshuned another or two, an' they were never fast wi owt till it was time for 'em to lap up. soa they says, 'we mun goa now, but ye mun come agean another day!' 'i sall,' says i, 'ye may depend.' and i went reg'lar every day as long as i war i' london; and rared pleased they war wi' me an' all, and so ye mind war i wi' them. "that, and sant paul's, an' westminster habbey, war t' main o' what i seed and heeard all t' time i war i' london." john bartendale, the piper. in the reign of king charles i. a strolling musician, a poor piper, named john bartendale, was brought, in 1634, before the assizes, and was convicted of felony. he received sentence, and on march 27th was hung on the gallows, outside micklegate bar, york. there were no houses there at that time--it was open country. after he had remained swinging for three-quarters of an hour, and was to all appearance dead, he was cut down, and buried near the place of execution. the officers of justice had accomplished their work carelessly in both particulars, as it afterwards transpired, for he had been neither properly hung nor properly buried. earth has a peculiarly invigorating and restorative effect, as has been recently discovered; and patients suffering from debility are by some medical men now-a-days placed in earth baths with the most salutary effects. in the case of gangrened wounds a little earth has been found efficacious in promoting healthy action of the skin. john bartendale was now to experience the advantages of an earth-bath. that same day, in the afternoon, a gentleman, one of the vavasours of hazlewood, was riding by, when he observed the earth moving in a certain place. he ordered his servant to alight; he himself descended from his horse; and together they threw off the mould, and discovered the unfortunate piper alive. he opened his eyes, sat up, and asked where he was, and how he came there. mr. vavasour and his servant helped him out of his grave, and seated him on the side. the man was sent for water and other restoratives, and before long the news had spread about down micklegate that the poor piper was come to life again. a swarm of wondering and sympathising people poured out to congratulate john the piper on his resurrection, and to offer their assistance. a conveyance was obtained, and as soon as bartendale was in a sufficient condition to be moved, he was placed in it, covered with mr. vavasour's cloak,--for he had been stripped by the executioner before he was laid in the earth--and was removed again to york castle. it was rather hard that the poor fellow, after he had obtained his release, should have been returned to his prison; but there was no help for it. the resurrection of the piper was no secret; otherwise mr. vavasour would doubtless have removed him privately to a place of security till he was recovered, and then have sent him into another part of the country. at the following assizes, bartendale was brought up again. it was a nice point at law whether the man could be sentenced to execution again after the sheriff had signed his affidavit that the man had been hung till he was dead. mr. vavasour was naturally reluctant to supply the one link in the chain of evidence which established the identity of the prisoner with the piper who had been hung and buried for felony; he made earnest intercession that the poor fellow might be reprieved, popular sympathy was on his side, the judge was disposed to mercy, and bartendale was accorded a full and free pardon, the judge remarking that the case was one in which the almighty seemed to have interfered in mercy to frustrate the ends of human justice, and that therefore he was not disposed to reverse the decree of providence according to the piper a prolongation of his days on earth. drunken barnaby in his "book of travels" alludes to bartendale, when he stops at york: "here a piper apprehended, was found guilty and suspended; being led to t' fatal gallows, boys did cry, 'where is thy bellows? ever must thou cease thy tuning,' answered he, 'for all your cunning, you may fail in your prediction.' which did happen without fiction; for cut down, and quick interred, earth rejected what was buried; half alive or dead he rises, got a pardon next assizes, and in york continued blowing- yet a sense of goodness showing." after his wonderful deliverance the poor fellow turned hostler, and lived very honestly afterwards. when asked to describe his sensations on being hung, he said that when he was turned off, flashes of fire seemed to dart before his eyes, and were succeeded by darkness and a state of insensibility. blind jack of knaresborough.[9] blind jack metcalf is certainly one of the most remarkable characters that yorkshire has produced. afflicted with loss of sight, the indomitable energy of his true north-country character enabled him to carry on a successful business where many a south countryman would have failed. he was born at knaresborough on the 15th august, 1717, and was the son of a labourer. at the age of six he was seized with small-pox, and on his recovery it was found that he had become totally blind. children speedily accommodate themselves to circumstances. jack in six months was able to find his way from his father's cottage along the street of knaresborough and back home without a guide, and in the course of three years could go to any part of the little town alone, could find the shops, and execute errands for his father or mother. he began also to associate with other boys in bird-nesting expeditions, and would climb the trees and throw down the nests to his companions. by accompanying the boys in their rambles he learned his way about the neighbourhood, and was in a short time perfectly acquainted with all the lanes, woods, and fields within a radius of two or three miles. as his father kept horses, he learned to ride, and in time became an able horseman. he was taught the fiddle, as it was thought that the only means open to him for obtaining a subsistence was that of strolling musician. but jack metcalf had more natural taste for the cry of a hound or a harrier than for the squeak of his fiddle. a gentleman at knaresborough, of the name of woodburn, was owner of a pack of hounds. this gentleman encouraged young metcalf by taking him to hunt with him, and blind jack kept five hounds of his own. mr. woodburn's hounds being seldom kennelled, metcalf used to take several of them out secretly along with his own at night when the hares were out feeding in the fields; but one of them having destroyed a couple of lambs, he got into trouble, and was obliged to discontinue his midnight excursions. when about fourteen years old, his activity of limb led him to imagine that he could undertake anything without danger, and with certainty of success. the following adventure, however, somewhat modified his opinion:-a large plum-tree in the neighbourhood of knaresborough having attracted the attention of metcalf's companions, they with one consent repaired to the place on a sunday morning. in these cases metcalf was always appointed to ascend for the purpose of shaking the trees. accordingly, he was sent to his post; but his comrades being suddenly alarmed by the appearance of the owner of the tree, ran away, leaving blind jack up the tree. he, taking the alarm, dropped, and fell headlong into a gravel-pit belonging to sir henry slingsby, cut his face, and lay for some time stunned in the pit. shortly after this, he and some other boys, one night between eleven and twelve o'clock, assembled in the church porch at knaresborough--that being the usual place of meeting. they determined to rob an orchard. having accomplished this feat with success, they returned to the church-porch to divide their booty. now it happened that the door of knaresborough church was opened by means of a ring, which turned the latch. one of the party took hold of it, and by way of bravado gave a loud rap, calling out, "a tankard of ale here!" a voice from within answered aloud, "you are at the wrong house!" the boys were so scared that for a moment or two none spoke or moved. at length metcalf said, "did not you hear something speak in the church?" upon this, without answering, they all ran until they got out of the churchyard. they then held a consultation, all equally wondering at the voice, and equally unable to account satisfactorily for it. like true yorkshire boys, they were not, however, to be scared away without knowing what had frightened them; and they stealthily returned to the porch. but no sooner had they reached it, than the ring turned, and the door began to open. this was too much even for their nerves, and they fled in all directions like wind. only on reaching the outside of the churchyard wall did they venture to breathe freely and look back, and then, lo! the whole of the interior of the church was alight- ". . . glimmering thro' the groaning trees, kirk alloway seem'd in a bleeze." uninspired, like tam o' shanter, with draughts of john barleycorn, they did not venture nearer, but dispersed to their homes. the cause of this panic was as follows:--the remains of an old lady in the neighbourhood had been kept from interment until the arrival of her relations, who lived at a great distance. immediately on their arrival the sexton was called up to dig the grave in the church, and had lighted a great number of candles. about the year 1731, when metcalf was fourteen years old, he began to learn swimming in the river nidd, and soon became so expert, that he surpassed all his companions. about this time two men were drowned in the eddies of the nidd. metcalf was sent to dive for the bodies, and after four attempts succeeded in bringing up one of the corpses. the other body could not be found. there are frequent floods in the river nidd, and in the deep places there are eddies, which draw to the bottom any substance, however light, that comes within their sphere of action. large pieces of timber were often carried down by the floods; these on coming over the deep places spun round, and then sank. upon these occasions metcalf would dive for them, and with the greatest ease fix ropes to the wood, which was then drawn up by persons stationed on the banks. in the year 1732, one john barker kept an inn at the west end of the high bridge, knaresborough. this man was a manufacturer of linen cloth, and used to bleach his own yarn. at one time, having brought two packs of yarn to the river to wash, a sudden flood, occasioned by a heavy rain in the neighbourhood, swept them away, and carried them through the arches of the bridge, which stands on a rock. a little below was a sheet of still water, supposed to be twenty-one feet in depth; as soon as the yarn got to this it sank, except a little which caught the edge of the rock in going down. metcalf being intimate with barker, and calling at his house a few days after the accident, found him lamenting his loss. metcalf told him that he hoped to recover the yarn, but barker smiled at the supposed absurdity of the proposal; finding, however, that his friend was resolved on trial, he consented. metcalf then ordered some long cart-ropes to be procured, and fixing a hook at one end, the other being held by some persons on the high bridge, he descended, and hooking as much of the yarn as he could at one time, gave orders for drawing up. in this way the whole was recovered with little damage. at bilton, two miles from knaresborough, was a rookery, where boys had made many attempts to take the young birds; but the owner wishing to preserve them, they were prevented. metcalf determined to make a trial, sent one of his comrades in the day-time to reconnoitre the position of the nests, and having received his information, they set out in the dead of night and brought away seven dozen and a half, excepting the heads, which they left under the trees. the owner of the rooks finding the heads, offered a reward of two guineas for the discovery of the offenders; but the secret was kept until long afterwards. a person at knaresborough having occasion to go to borough bridge, which is about seven miles distant, and having left something behind, sent his son for it. metcalf being about the same age as this boy, chose to accompany him. when they got to the place the boy missed the key, which he had lost from his pocket by the way, and being afraid to return, he consulted metcalf how they should proceed. metcalf was for entering the house at all events, and not being able to procure a ladder, got a pole, which reached to the thatch, and having borrowed a rope and a stick, he climbed up the pole, and then ascending by the roof to the chimney, he placed the stick across, and fastening the rope to it, attempted to descend, but finding the flue too narrow, he threw off his clothes, and laying them on the ridge of the house, made a second attempt, and got down by the assistance of the rope; he then opened the door for his companion. while they were in the house there was a heavy thunder-shower, to which metcalf's clothes were exposed. he attempted to get up again to fetch them, but the pole by which he had ascended was now so wet that he could not climb by it; he was therefore obliged to wait till it dried, when he succeeded in recovering his clothes. in the year 1732, metcalf was invited to harrogate to succeed as fiddler an old man of the name of morrison, who had played there for seventy years. the old man died in the 102nd year of his age, and played in the year he died. metcalf was well received by the nobility and gentry, who employed no other fiddler, except a boy, whom he hired as an assistant. metcalf now bought a horse, and often ran him for small plates. he kept game-cocks, as he was devotedly fond of cock-fighting. he often hunted, and sometimes went coursing. in the evenings he played at the assemblies. about this time there was a long room built at the green dragon at harrogate. more music being then wanted, he engaged one midgeley (one of the leeds waits) and his son as assistants. midgeley, senior, being a good performer, was taken into partnership gratis, but the son and metcalf's former assistant paid five pounds each as premium. in the year 1735, francis barlow, esq., of middlethorpe, near york, who kept a pack of hounds, was at harrogate, and, liking metcalf, invited him to spend the winter at middlethorpe, and bring his horse with him. the invitation was gladly accepted, and he went out with mr. barlow's hounds twice a week. having completed a visit of six months at middlethorpe, he had learnt to walk and ride very readily through most of the streets of york, and as he was riding past the george inn, in coney street, standish, the landlord, stopped him, calling out, "what haste?" metcalf told him he was for knaresborough that night; the landlord replied that there was a gentleman in the house who wanted a guide to harrogate; adding, "i know you can do that as well as anyone."--"so i can," said he, "but you must not let him know that i am blind, for perhaps he will be afraid to trust me."--"i shall manage that," replied standish. so going in, he informed the gentleman that he had procured a safe guide. pleased at this, the gentleman requested metcalf to come in and take a glass. this, for an obvious reason, the landlord objected to, on the part of metcalf, but recommended some wine at the door. metcalf started as soon as the wine was drunk, taking the lead, naturally enough. as they were turning ousegate corner, a voice shouted out, "squire barlow's blind huntsman!" but the gentleman had no suspicion that the cry had any reference to his guide. they rode briskly up micklegate, through the bar, turned the corner at holgate, and through poppleton field, on to hessay moor, and so proceeded forward, going over skip bridge. at this time the turnpike was not made between york and harrogate. on the north-west of kirk-hammerton moor the road to knaresborough joined the main road which leads to borough bridge by a sudden turn to the left; but metcalf cleared that without any difficulty. when they came to allerton-mauleverer, the stranger asked whose large house that was on the right, and was immediately informed by metcalf. a little farther on, the road is crossed by the one from wetherby to borough bridge, and proceeds along by the high brick wall of allerton park. there was a road leading out of the park opposite to the gate upon the knaresborough road, which metcalf was afraid of missing, but the wind being from the east, and he perceiving a blast coming through the park gate, readily turned his horse to the opposite gate, which leads to knaresborough. reaching out his hand to open it, and feeling the heel, as it is called, he believed the gate had been changed in the hanging part, as he had not been there for seven months; and backing his horse, exclaimed, "confound thee! thou always goes to the gate's heel, instead of the head!" the gentleman observed to him that his horse seemed awkward, and that his own mare was good at coming up to a gate; whereupon metcalf permitted him to perform this office. darkness, which had now come on, being no obstruction to him, he briskly led the way, resolved that his companion should not again see his face till they got to harrogate. as they were going through knaresborough the gentleman proposed a glass of wine, which metcalf refused, alleging that the horses were hot, and that as they were near their journey's end, it was not worth their while to stop. forward they went, and presently some one cried out, "that's blind jack!" this, however, was contradicted by another person, who could not clearly distinguish him; and by this means the stranger was kept in the dark as effectually as his guide. they then proceeded over the high bridge and up forest lane, and entered the forest about a mile from knaresborough. they had now to pass along a narrow causeway which reached about one-third of the way to harrogate, the forest at that time not being inclosed, and no turnpike being made. metcalf still kept the lead. when they had gone a little way upon the forest the gentleman saw a light. he asked what place it was. there were some rocks called hookston crags, and near to these the ground was low and swampy in some places, close by which runs the leeds road. about this part will-o'-the-wisp used to be commonly seen. metcalf took it for granted that his companion had seen one of these lights, but for good reasons declined asking him whereabouts the light was; and to divert his attention, asked him, "do you not see two lights--one to the right, the other to the left?"--"no," replied the gentleman, "i see but one--to the right."--"well, then, sir," said metcalf, "that is harrogate." there were then many tracks, but metcalf made choice of that nearest the fence. by the side of this path, which is very near harrogate, some larches were planted, and stepping-stones laid for the convenience of foot-passengers. metcalf got upon this stony path, and the gentleman's horse following, got one of his hind feet jammed between two of the stones. when his horse was freed, he asked, "is there no other road?"--"yes," replied metcalf, "there is another, but it's a mile about"; knowing there was a dirty cart-way, but thinking the stony road preferable to the deep slough of the other, he preferred this rugged path. on reaching their journey's end, they stopped at the house called the marquis of granby, but found that the hostler was gone to bed. metcalf being very well acquainted with the place, led both the horses into the stable and the hostler soon after appearing, he delivered them into his care, and went into the house to inquire after his fellow-traveller, whom he found comfortably seated over a tankard of negus, in which he pledged his guide. metcalf took the tankard the first time very nicely, but when attempting to take it the second time, he reached out his hand wide of the mark; however, he soon found it, and drank, and going out again, left the landlord with his companion. "i think, landlord," said the gentleman, "my guide must have drunk a great deal of spirits since we came here."--"why, my good sir, what makes you think so?"--"well, i judge so from the appearance of his eyes."--"eyes! bless you, sir," rejoined the landlord, "do you not know that he is blind?"--"what do you mean?"--"i mean, sir, that he cannot see!"--"blind! are you in earnest?"--"yes, sir; as blind as a stone!"--"come, come, landlord," said the gentleman, "this is too much. call him in." metcalf entered. "my friend, are you really blind?"--"yes, sir; i lost my sight when six years old."--"had i known that, i would not have ventured with you for a hundred pounds."--"and i, sir," said metcalf, "would not have lost my way for a thousand." metcalf was rewarded by a present of two guineas, besides a plentiful entertainment the next day at the cost of this gentleman. in 1736, when the harrogate season commenced, metcalf resumed his musical occupation, and was well received at all the inns, where he was always given free quarters for himself and horse. the green dragon at that place was kept by a mr. body, who had two nephews with him; and when the hunting season drew near its close, these, with some other young men, expressed a desire for a day's sport; and knowing that mr. woodburn, the master of the knaresborough pack of hounds, had often lent them to metcalf, they asked blind jack to procure for them the pleasure of a run. metcalf had no doubt but that mr. woodburn would grant him this favour, and went, flushed with hope, to mr. woodburn, requesting him to lend the pack the next day. this, however, was a favour out of his power to grant, as mr. woodburn politely informed him, as he had engaged to meet mr. trappes with the hounds next morning upon scotton moor, for the purpose of entering some young foxhounds. chagrined at this, metcalf debated with himself whether the disappointment should fall to the lot of mr. woodburn's friends or his own, and resolved that it should not be to the latter. he arose the next morning before daybreak, and crossed the high bridge. he took with him an excellent hound of his own, and nipping him by the ears, made him give mouth loudly, himself hallooing at the same time. this device had so good an effect that in a few minutes he had nine couples about him, as the hounds were kept by various people about the shambles, &c, and were suffered to lie unkennelled. mounting his horse, away he rode with the dogs to harrogate, where he met his friends ready mounted and in high spirits. some of them proposed going to bilton wood, near knaresborough, but this was opposed by metcalf, who preferred the moor; in fact, he was apprehensive of being followed by mr. woodburn, and wished accordingly to be at some distance from knaresborough. following his advice, they drew the moor at the distance of five miles, where they started a hare, killed her after a fine chase, and immediately put up another. just at this moment up came mr. woodburn, foaming with anger, swearing terribly, and threatening to send metcalf to the house of correction. he swung his whip round his head, intending to horse-whip the rogue, but metcalf heard the whistle of the lash in the air, and escaped the stroke by making his horse start aside. mr. woodburn then endeavoured to call off his hounds, but metcalf, knowing the fleetness of his own horse, ventured within speaking, but not within whipping distance of him, and begged that he would permit the dogs to finish the chase, alleging that it would spoil them to take them off, and that he was sure they would (as they actually did) kill in a very short time. metcalf soon found that mr. woodburn's anger had begun to abate; and going nearer to him, he pleaded in excuse, a misunderstanding. the apology was accepted, for mr. woodburn, though hot of temper, was very good-natured; and so the affair ended. blind jack became also very skilful at bowls, but he always bargained that he should count three to his adversary's one; and he bribed the jacks to give him hints as to the direction he was to throw, by the inflexion of their voices, lowering their tones in speaking to one another if he flung too much to the right, raising them if he threw too wide on the left. but what is far more singular is, that he was able to distinguish cards by their feel, and that by simply passing his fingers over their surface. by this means he was able to play whist and other games, and beat those opposed to him; by this means realising a little money. these achievements were far from exhausting his ambition. he aspired to the acquaintance of jockeys, and frequented the york races, where he betted, and was able to make books with men of rank and position, who took an interest in jack on account of his affliction and the energy of his character. he commonly rode to the race-ground amongst the crowd, and kept in memory both the winning and losing horses. being much in the habit of visiting york in the winter time, a whim would often take him to call for his horse at bed-time, and set out for knaresborough, regardless of the badness of the roads and weather, and of all remonstrance from his friends. about the year 1738, metcalf having increased his stud, and being aware of the docility of that noble animal the horse, he so tutored his own that whenever he called them by their respective names they would immediately answer him by neighing. this was chiefly accomplished by some discipline at the time of feeding. he could, however, without the help of those responses, select his own horse out of any number. having matched one of his horses to run three miles for a wager of some note, and the parties agreeing to ride each his own, they set up posts at certain distances in the forest, marking a course of one mile; having, of course, three miles to go. great odds were laid against metcalf, upon the supposition of his inability to keep the course. but blind jack was quite equal to the occasion. he procured four dinner-bells, and placed a bell-man at each post. each man rang in turn, and metcalf was thus able to run from one post to the next, and know where to turn his horse. by this means he was able to win the race. a gentleman who was present, named skelton, then came up, and proposed to metcalf a small wager, that he could not gallop a horse of his 50 yards, and stop him within 200. this horse was notorious as a runaway, and had baffled the efforts of the best and strongest riders to hold him. metcalf agreed to the wager on condition that he might choose his ground; but skelton bargained that there should be neither hedge nor wall on the course, lest his horse should be injured. metcalf agreed; the stakes were deposited; and knowing that there was a large bog near the old spa at harrogate, he mounted at about a distance of 150 yards from it. having observed the wind, and placed a person who was to sing a song to guide him by the sound, he set off at a full gallop towards the bog, and soon fixed the horse saddle-deep in the mire. he then floundered through the dirt as well as he was able, till he gained a firm footing, when he demanded his wager, which was allotted him by general suffrage. it was with the greatest difficulty, however, that the horse could be extricated. that metcalf was so well acquainted with the spot was owing to his having about three weeks before relieved a stranger who had got fast in it in the night, and whose cries attracted him. it was now no unusual thing with him to buy horses with a view to selling them. happening to meet with a man who had been huntsman to sir john kaye, and who had a horse to sell, metcalf inquired the price of the horse, and asked to try it. having trotted the horse a mile or two, he returned, and told the owner that the eyes of his nag would soon fail. the man, however, stood firm to his demand of 25 guineas for the horse, alleging that he was beautifully moulded, only six years old, and his action good. metcalf then followed the man into the stable, and desired him to lay his hand upon the eyes of the horse, and feel their unusual heat; asking, at the same time, how he could, in conscience, demand so great a price for a horse that was going blind. the treaty ended with metcalf purchasing the horse, bridle, and saddle for â£14. a few days after, as he was riding on his new purchase, he ran against a sign-post upon the common, near a toyshop, and nearly threw it down. not discouraged by this, he set off for ripon to play at an assembly; and passing by a place at harrogate called the world's-end, he overtook a man going the ripon road: with him metcalf laid a wager of sixpenny-worth of liquor that he would get first to an ale-house at some distance. the ground being rough, metcalf's horse soon fell, and lay for a while on the thigh of his master, when, making an effort to rise, he cut metcalfs face with one of his fore-shoes. the rev. mr. richardson, coming up at this moment and expressing his concern for the accident, metcalf told him that nothing had hurt him but the cowardice of his horse, who had "struck him whilst he was down." his instrument, however, suffered so materially, that he was obliged to borrow one to perform on for the night at ripon, to which place he got without further accident. the assembly over, he set off to return to harrogate, and arrived there about three in the morning. he now thought it was time to dispose of his fine horse, whose eyes began to discharge much. after applying the usual remedies of alum blown into the eyes, rowelling in different parts, &c., he found the beast in marketable condition; and knowing that there would soon be a great show of horses without micklegate bar at york, he resolved to take the chance of that mart; and setting out the night before put up at the swan, in micklegate. the next morning, when the show began, metcalf's nag attracted the notice of one carter, a very extensive dealer, who, asking the price, was told twenty-two guineas. carter then inquired if he was sound, and received for answer, "i have never known him lame; but i will trot him on this pavement, and if there be any ailment of that sort it will soon appear with my weight." the dealer bade him sixteen guineas, and a little after seventeen; which metcalf, for well-known reasons, was glad to receive. in the year 1738 metcalf attained the age of twenty-one years and the height of six feet one inch and a half, and was remarkably robust withal. about this time dr. chambers of ripon had a well-made horse with which he used to hunt, but finding that he had become a great stumbler, he exchanged him with a dealer, who took him to harrogate, and meeting with metcalf told him he had an excellent hunter to sell at a low price. metcalf desired to try how the horse leaped, and the owner agreeing, he mounted him, and found that he could, when saddled, leap over any wall or fence the height of himself. the bargain was soon struck, and this happening at the queen's head hotel, several gentlemen who were witnesses of the horse's performance invited metcalf to accompany them two days after to belmond wood, where a pack of hounds were to throw off. these hounds were the joint property of francis trappes, esq., and his brother, of nidd, near ripley. a pack superior to this was not to be found in the kingdom. the wished-for day arriving, metcalf attended the gentlemen, and the hounds were not long in finding. the fox took away to plumpton rocks, but finding all secure there, he made for stockeld wood, and found matters in the same state as at plumpton--he had then run about six miles: he came back and crossed the river nidd near the old abbey, and went on the east side of knaresborough to a place called coney-garths (where there were earths), near scriven. metcalf's horse carried him nobly, pulling hard, and he required proportionate resistance. the wind being high, metcalf lost his hat, but would not stop to recover it; and coming to thistle hill, near knaresborough, he resolved to cross the river at the abbey mill, having often before gone on foot over the dam-stones. when he got to the dam he attended to the noise of the fall as a guide, and ranging his horse in a line with the stories dashed forward for some part of the way; but the stones being slippery with a kind of moss, the horse stumbled, but recovered this and a second blunder; the third time, however, floundering completely, away went horse and rider into the dam. metcalf had presence of mind to disengage his feet from the stirrups during the descent, but both the horse and himself were immersed over head in water. he then quitted his seat and made for the opposite side, the horse following him. having secured his nag, he laid himself down on his back and held up his heels to let the water run out of his boots, which done, he quickly remounted and went up a narrow lane which leads to the road betwixt knaresborough and wetherby; then through some lanes on the north-east side of knaresborough, and crossing the borough bridge road, he got to the coney-garths, where he found that the whipper-in only had arrived before him. here the fox had earthed, as was expected; and the other horsemen (who had gone over the low bridge and through the town) after some time came up. they were much surprised at finding metcalf there, and attributed the soaked condition of himself and horse to profuse sweating; nor were they undeceived till they reached scriven. soon after this, blind jack was at scarborough. as he was walking one day on the sands with a friend, he resolved to take a swim in the sea, his companion agreeing to shout out when he should think he had gone far enough outward; but the other not making a sufficient allowance for the noise of the sea, suffered him to go out of hearing before he shouted, and metcalf continued swimming until he got out of sight of his friend, who now expected to see him no more. at length metcalf began to think he must have got out of hearing of his friend, and becoming rather tired he turned on his back to rest himself, his ears being covered with water; but after he had sufficiently rested he turned himself again, and removing the hair of his head from his ears, began to listen, when he thought he heard the breakers beating against the pier which defends the spa; finding by the noise that he was at a great distance, he increased his efforts, and providentially taking a right direction, he landed in safety, to the immense relief of his friend. having an aunt at whitby, near the alum works, he went there, left his horse, and got on board an alum ship bound for london. he arrived at the metropolis, stayed there only a few weeks, played on the violin, and did very well; but meeting so many acquaintances, did not think himself safe. after some time, meeting with a vessel, he returned back again to whitby; and having a numerous acquaintance at newcastle, formed at harrogate, he went thither, and was kindly received by many persons. amongst the rest was one councillor grey, who invited metcalf to dine with him every day during the time he should stay, which was about a month. one day he said to metcalf, "you and i are near a size," and brought down a suit of clothes, saying, "i think these will fit you, and are at your service if you please to accept them; they have scarcely been worn; go into the next room and try them on." metcalf then left newcastle and went to sunderland, where he stayed a short time among the sailors; then proceeded to whitby to his aunt's, with whom he had left his horse, as she was in tolerable circumstances; after that he determined to go to knaresborough, and set off in the forenoon, intending to call at mr. varley's, as he had been there for six months shortly before. he had company over the moor to pickering, as he had never been that road. at pickering his company left him. he then went to malton, which was six miles, though he had never been that road before, but had been at malton; he got safe there, and continued along the york road. a little from malton his horse began to tire at a place called crombeck, where there is a ford dangerous in times of flood. it happened to be a very rainy time, and his horse being weak, he took hold of the bridle-rein to lead him through, not being afraid of the water himself, but fearful of drowning his horse. having got safe through, he pursued his journey, but his horse being weak, he was under the necessity of leading him part of the road, and walking sometimes up to the boot-tops in dirt. he soon came to a common called stockton moor, about four or five miles from york, where was neither turnpike nor paved causeway at that time, and he had got out of the track and was in great difficulty; but fortunately he heard a cock crow in stockton, and by turning in the direction whence he heard the call of chanticleer, he got into stockton. from this place there was a paved causeway all the way to york, upon which he went, now feeling himself safe. he then came down goodram gate, crossed peter gate, down the shambles, and through pavement, over ouse bridge, turned into skelder gate, and through the postern, it being in the dead of night, but he wanted no guide, as he knew the places so well; then coming to middlethorpe, the gates were fast: they were made of wood, with iron spikes at the top, which made it difficult to climb over; but necessity being the mother of invention, he called forth her aid. metcalf took the bridle from off his horse's head, doubled the rein, and throwing it over one of the spikes of the gate, by that means and the help of a corner of the wall that joined the gate, he got up and climbed over; but when he was at the top his situation was perilous, for if his foot had slipped he would have fallen on the spikes and been impaled. he then opened the gates, and led his horse through, and greatly surprised some women by his appearance, who happened to be up washing. when daylight appeared, the family received him very kindly. he stayed about three weeks, and then returned to knaresborough, where he met with a north countryman who played on the bagpipes and frequented the houses of many gentlemen in town. he had been in london several times, and he advised metcalf to take a trip with him, which he did. by this man metcalf found out several gentlefolks who were in the habit of visiting harrogate during the season, and amongst others colonel liddell, who resided in king street, covent garden, and who gave him a general invitation to his house. the colonel was member of parliament for berwick-upon-tweed, and lived at ravensworth castle, near newcastle-upon-tyne; and on his return from london to the north, which generally took place in the month of may, he was accustomed to spend three weeks at harrogate. when the winter was over, metcalf thought he must take a walk out of london. accordingly he set out through kensington, hammersmith, colnbrook, maidenhead, and reading, in berkshire; and returned by windsor and hampton court to london in the beginning of may. in his absence, colonel liddell had sent to his lodgings to let him know that he was going to harrogate, and that if agreeable to him he might go down either behind his coach or on the top. metcalf on his return waited upon the colonel and thanked him, but declined his kind offer, observing that he could with great ease walk as far in a day as he would choose to travel in his coach. the next day at noon the colonel and his suite, consisting of sixteen servants on horseback, set off, metcalf starting about an hour before them. they were to go by the way of bugden, and he proceeded as far as barnet. a little way from barnet the bugden and st. alban's roads part, and he had taken the latter; however, he arrived at welling, the place where they were to sleep, a little before the colonel, who was surprised at his performance. metcalf set off again next morning before his friends, and coming to biggleswade, found the road was crossed with water, there being no bridge at that time. he made a circuitous cast, but found no other way except a footpath, which he was doubtful whether to trust. a person coming up, asked, "what road are you for?" he answered, "for bugden." "you have had some liquor this morning, i suppose?" said the stranger. "yes," replied metcalf, although he had tasted none that day. the stranger then bid him follow, and he would direct him into the highway. soon after, they came to some sluices with planks laid across, and metcalf followed by the sound of his guide's feet; then to a gate on one side of the turnpike, which being locked he was told to climb over. metcalf was struck with the kind attention of his conductor, and taking twopence from his pocket, said, "here, good fellow, take that, and get thee a pint of beer;" but the other declined it, saying he was welcome. metcalf, however, pressing the reward upon him, was asked, "can you see very well?" "not remarkably well," he replied. "my friend," said the stranger, "i do not mean to tithe thee--i am rector of this parish; and so god bless you, and i wish you a good journey." metcalf set forward with the parson's benediction, and stopped every night with the colonel. on coming to wetherby, he arrived at the inn before him, as usual, and told the landlord of his approach, who asked him by what means he had become acquainted with that, and was informed by him how he had preceded the colonel the whole week, this being saturday, and they had left town on monday noon. the colonel arriving, ordered metcalf into his room, and proposed halting till monday, but metcalf replied, "with your leave, sir, i shall go to harrogate to-night, and meet you there on monday." so he set off for knaresborough that night, and met the colonel at harrogate on monday, as he had said. metcalf became now in great request as a performer at ripon assembly, which was resorted to by many families of distinction, such as sir walter blacket of newby; sir john wray, sir r. graham, squire rhodes, squire aislaby of studley, and many others. when he played alone, it was usual with him after the assembly to set off for harrogate or knaresborough; but when he had an assistant he remained all night at ripon to keep him company, his partner being afraid to ride in the dark. finding himself worth â£15 (a larger sum than he ever had before), and a main of cocks having been made in the neighbourhood, he became a party, and lost two-thirds of his whole fortune. the remaining â£5 he laid out on a horse which was to run at york a few days later; and had the good fortune to win the last wager. metcalf still followed cock-fighting, cards, and racing, but continued to play at the assemblies; but his profession interfered with his sports, and he cast about in his mind how to obtain an independence. now it fell out that about this time a miss benson, daughter of the host of the royal oak, was about to be married to a young man whom metcalf was convinced she did not like. it was a match made up by the parents, and there was no affection in it--at least on her side. blind jack had some reason to think that the fair lady was not insensible to him, and he hastened to harrogate, and hung about the royal oak till he had an opportunity of speaking to the damsel, who was to be married the very next day. metcalf used his most urgent persuasion with the girl to elope with him that night, and obtained from her a tardy consent. it was arranged that she should put a lighted candle in the window when ready to run away, and metcalf engaged a friend to look out for the candle for him. this having been settled, the lady went into the house, and in a short time was followed by metcalf, who was warmly received by the supposed bridegroom and company. the tankard went briskly round with "success to the intended couple!" in which toast, it may be readily believed, metcalf joined most cordially. having stayed till it was near dark, he thought it time for putting business into proper train. going then to the public-house known by the name of the world's end, he inquired for the hostler, whom he knew to be a steady fellow; and after obtaining from this man a promise either to serve him in an affair of moment in which he was engaged, or keep the secret, he related the particulars of his assignation and the intended elopement, to forward which he desired him to let him have his master's mare, which he knew would carry two. this agreed on, he requested the further service of meeting him at ross's library at ten o'clock. a whistle was to be given by the first who got there, as a signal. they met pretty punctually, and metcalf asked if he saw a star, meaning the lighted candle. after half-an-hour's delay the signal-light appeared. they then approached the house, and left the horses at a little distance, not choosing to venture into the court-yard, which was paved. on the door being opened by the lady, he asked her if she was ready, and she replied in the affirmative. he advised her, however, to pack up a dress or two, as she probably might not see her mother again for some time. she had about twenty gowns at that time, and a new pillion and cloth. metcalf asked her for it. "oh, dear," said she, "it is in the other house; but we must have it." she then went to the window and called up her sister, who let her in. the pillion and cloth were in the room where the intended bridegroom slept, and on his seeing her enter, she said, "i will take this and brush it, that it may be ready in the morning."--"that's well thought on, my dear," said he. she then went down, and all three hastened to the horses. metcalf mounted her behind his friend, then got upon his own horse, and away they went. at that time it was not a matter of so much difficulty to get married as it is at present, and they had only the trouble of riding twelve miles, and a fee to pay, without any calling of banns requiring a delay of three weeks. metcalf left his bride at a friend's house within five miles of harrogate, and came to the queen's head to perform the usual service of playing his violin during the breakfast half-hour. in the meantime mrs. benson and her other daughter began to prepare for breakfast, and observing that dolly lay very long in bed, her mother desired that she might be called; but her usual bed-fellow declaring that she had not slept with her, she was ordered to seek her in some of the other rooms. this was done, but in vain. they then took it for granted that she had gone out early to take a morning ride with mr. dickenson (the intended bridegroom), but he could give no account of her. all her friends now began to be seriously alarmed, and a person from the oak came and informed metcalf of all that had happened there that morning. metcalf listened seriously to the news, and then composedly said, "you need not be alarmed. i married her since you saw me last night!" he then sent a message through the brother of his dolly to the father and mother, to the effect that he asked their pardon. he acknowledged that he was far below them in circumstances, but his affection for their daughter was sincere, and he promised that he would make them the best amends in his power by affectionate treatment of his wife. it is hardly to be supposed that they were mollified by this assurance. metcalf took a small house at knaresborough. it was a matter of wonder that miss benson should have preferred a blind man to dickenson, she being as handsome a woman as any in the country. a lady having asked her why she had refused so many good offers for blind jack, she answered, "because i could not be happy without him." and being more particularly questioned, she replied, "his actions are so singular, and his spirit so manly and enterprising, that i could not help liking him." metcalf continued going to harrogate as usual, and one day determined to pay a visit to his mother-in-law. he mounted his horse, and riding up to the kitchen-door called for a pint of wine. there were then only women in the house, who were afraid to serve him, and they all ran upstairs in a fright. he then rode into the kitchen, through the house, and out at the hall-door, no one molesting him. he afterwards went to demand his wife's clothes, but was refused; on a second application, however, he succeeded. his wife having brought him a boy, and some respectable people being the sponsors, they employed their good offices to heal the breach between the families, and were fortunately successful. on the birth of a daughter (the second child) mrs. benson herself was godmother, and presented metcalf with twenty guineas. he continued to play at harrogate in the season; and set up a four-wheel chaise and a one-horse chair for public accommodation, there having been nothing of the kind there before. he kept these vehicles two summers, when the innkeepers, beginning to run their own, he gave them up, as he also did racing and hunting; but still wanting employment, he bought horses, and went to the coast for fish, which he took to leeds and manchester; and so indefatigable was he that he would frequently walk for two nights and a day with little or no rest; for as a family was coming on he was as eager for business as he had been for diversion, keeping up his spirits, and blessed with good health. going from knaresborough to leeds in a snowstorm, and crossing a brook, the ice gave way under one of his horses, and he was under the necessity of unloading to get him out; but the horse as soon as free ran back to knaresborough, leaving him with two panniers of fish and three other loaded horses in the midst of a snowstorm at night. after much difficulty, however, he divided the weight amongst the others, and pursuing his journey, arrived at leeds by break of day. once passing through halifax, he stopped at an inn called the broad stone. the landlord's son, and some others who frequented harrogate, seeing metcalf come in, and having often heard of his exploits, signified a wish to play at cards with him; he agreed, and accordingly they sent for a pack, but before playing he asked to feel them over. the man of the house being his friend, he could depend upon his honour in preventing deception. they began to play, and metcalf beat four of them in turn, playing only for liquor. not satisfied with this, some of the company proposed playing for money, and when engaged at shilling whist, metcalf won 15s. the losing party then proposed to play double or quit, but metcalf declined playing for more than half-a-guinea points; till at last, yielding to much importunity, he got engaged for guineas, and, favoured by fortune, won ten, and a shilling for liquor each game, which completely cleared the loser of his cash, who took up the cards and went out, but shortly returned with eight guineas more. metcalf's friend examined the cards to see if they were not marked, and finding all fair, they went on again, until those eight pieces followed the other ten. they then drank freely at metcalf's cost, he being now in circumstances to treat. about ten o'clock at night he took his leave, saying he must be at knaresborough in the morning, having sent his horses before. on his way he crossed the river wharfe, about a mile below poole; the water being high, his horse swam, and he got safe home. thus ended his pursuits as a fishmonger, the profit being small and his fatigue very considerable. from the period of his discontinuing the business of fishmonger metcalf continued to attend harrogate as a player on the violin, in the long room, until the commencement of the rebellion in 1745. the alarm which took place was great; and loyalty to the house of hanover, and preparations against the jacobites, were general in the county of york. amongst the many instances which mark this, none were more striking than the conduct of william thornton of thornville, near knaresborough, for he determined to raise a company of soldiers at his own expense, and went to knaresborough about the 1st of october, 1745, where he sent for our blind hero to his inn, and asked him if he knew of any brave fellows who were likely to make spirited soldiers. jack having satisfied his patron on this head, he was appointed assistant to a sergeant already procured, with orders to begin recruiting the next day. such was their success that in two days only they enlisted 140 men at 5s. each, their allowance being 1s. per day; out of whom the captain drafted sixty-four, the number of privates he wanted. soon after, he brought them to thornville, where he ordered every other day a fat ox to be killed for their entertainment, and gave them beer seven years old, expressing great pleasure at its being reserved for so good a purpose. he now began to sound the company as to their attachment to the cause and to himself. "my lads!" said he, "you are going to form a part of a ring-fence to the finest estate in the world! the king's army is on its march northward, and i have confidence that all of you are willing to join them." they replied, enthusiastic for the whole ox a day and the seven-year-old beer, "we will follow you to the world's end!" all matters being adjusted, the company was drawn up, and amongst them blind jack cut no small figure, being near six feet two inches high, and, like his companions, dressed in blue and buff, with a large gold-laced hat. jack played a march, and off the company moved for boroughbridge to join general wade's army, which was there. on reaching newcastle, by order of general wade they were united with pulteney's regiment, which having suffered much in some late actions, was thought unduly weak. captain thornton gave orders for tents for his men and a marquee for himself. he pitched them on newcastle moor, and served out a pair of blankets to each tent. on the first night of their encampment the snow fell six inches. after stopping there for about a week, the general received intelligence of the motions of the jacobite army, and gave orders to march by break of day for hexham in three columns, wishing to intercept it upon the west road, as their route seemed to be for england that way. the tents were instantly struck, but the swiss troops in the van not being willing to move at so early an hour, it was half-past ten before they left the ground, and the snow by that time was extremely deep. the troops were often three or four hours in marching a mile, the pioneers having to cut through some of the drifts, level some of the obstructions, and fill up several ditches, to make a passage for the artillery and baggage. about ten at night they arrived at ovington, the place marked out for them, with straw to rest on; but the ground was frozen so hard that but few of the tent-pins would enter in, and in those few tents which were pitched the men lay upon one another, greatly fatigued with their march, it having been fifteen hours from the time of their striking their tents till their arrival at this place, although the distance was only seven miles. the next day they reached hexham, where they halted. on monday night about ten o'clock the army was put in motion by a false alarm. after stopping there about three days, general wade returned to newcastle to catch the post-road leading to yorkshire, and immediately began his march for yorkshire by way of pierse bridge, catterick, and boroughbridge; and continuing his route southward, encamped his men on clifford moor, where they halted a few days, and then moved to ground between ferrybridge and knottingley. the scottish army had now penetrated southward as far as derby; but the general having heard that they had received a check from the duke of cumberland, sent general oglethorpe with 1000 horse towards manchester, either to harass the enemy in their retreat, or to join the duke's forces; and retired himself with the remainder, by wakefield-outwood and leeds, to newcastle. in the meantime the duke came up with the army of prince charles edward at clifton, on the borders of westmoreland. lord george murray occupied the town, and the highlanders were fortified behind hedges and a ditch. the duke coming upon the open moor after sunset, gave orders for 300 dragoons to dismount and advance to the brink of the ditch; the rebels then fired upon them from behind the hedges; they returned the fire, and fell a few paces back. the highlanders mistaking this for flight, rushed over the ditch, but meeting a warmer reception than they expected, were glad to retreat, and continued their route to penrith, and from thence to carlisle, where they left part of their army. his royal highness thought it advisable to reduce this place; and on its surrender he returned to london. general wade continued his march for the north, dismissing all the foreigners from his army; and general hawley, on coming from london to take the command, was joined by some regiments which had been withdrawn from flanders. they marched to edinburgh, and from thence to falkirk, and pitched their tents on the north-east side of the town on the 16th of january; the highland army being at torwood, about midway between falkirk and stirling, and about three miles from the english camp, they could easily see each other's camp light. the english army lay all night on their arms in expectation of being attacked, but the van and picket-guards came in on the morning of the 17th, having observed no motions in the hostile camp which showed any signs of an attack, although they were as near as safety would permit. soon after, the enemy were observed to move some of their flags from torwood towards stirling, which made the english suppose that they were retreating; but this motion was a feint to deceive them. however, upon this the soldiers were ordered to pile their arms and take some refreshment; and although lord kilmarnock was in the army of prince charles edward, general hawley went to breakfast with lady kilmarnock at callander house. the enemy in the meantime stole a march down a valley northward, unperceived; but just before the army discovered them, they were seen by a person, who ran into the camp exclaiming, "gentlemen! what are you about? the highlanders will be upon you!" on which some of the officers said, "seize that rascal; he is spreading a false alarm!"--"will you believe your own eyes?" said the man; and at that moment the line of highlanders was seen fringing the high ground on falkirk moor. it is unnecessary here to relate the details of the engagement of falkirk, so graphically described by sir walter scott in "waverley," resulting in a momentary gleam of hope to the adherents of prince charles edward, and in as brief a discouragement to the english. captain thornton lost twenty of his men, together with his lieutenant and ensign, who were taken prisoners. the captain was in a house when the english were surprised, and hearing the bagpipes at the door, he ran up-stairs and hid in a room behind the door. one of the highlanders ran in, looked round, but not seeing him, called out, "none of the rascals are here." the woman of the house having seen the captain go up-stairs, went to him soon after, and opening a closet door, entreated him to enter, which he did; she then brought a dresser and placed dishes, &c, upon it, which prevented all appearance of a door in that place; and fortunately there was no bed in the room. about ten minutes after he had been fixed in his new quarters a great number of people, consisting chiefly of highland officers, amongst whom was secretary murray, took possession of the apartment, which being large, they proposed making use of for business during their stay. in the meantime metcalf had escaped the highlanders. knowing that two of his master's horses had been left at a widow's house a short distance from the town, he made his way to the place with intent to secure them. this woman had in the morning expressed great seeming loyalty to king george; but when metcalf returned in the evening, the wind had changed: she now extolled prince charles, and said, "the defeat of george's folk was a just judgment." metcalf went into the stable and found the horses, saddled them, and was leading out the first, when he was surrounded by a few stragglers of the highland army. "we must have that beast," said they; but metcalf refusing to give him up, they said one to another, "shoot him!" on hearing two of them cock their pieces, he asked, "what do you want with him?"--they answered that they wanted him for the prince.--"if so, you must have him," replied he. they took him, and immediately went off. metcalf then brought out the other, but as he was about to mount, the captain's coachman (whose name was snowden), joined him, and metcalf inquiring of him the fate of his master, was answered that he had not seen him for some time. this induced metcalf to think that the worst had befallen him. they then thought it advisable to attempt falling in with the rear of the army, but before they had proceeded many yards their horse sank up to the saddle-girths in a bog; however, being strong, and plunging out, they mounted again, and soon joined the army as they had wished; when, on making diligent inquiry after their captain, they were told that he was left behind. snowden thereupon returned as far as he could with safety, but without gaining any intelligence, and metcalf walked on with the army. they arrived at linlithgow, where they halted, and the next day marched to edinburgh. there the mob and the lower orders of people were very free in their expressions, and some of the higher also spoke out warmly in favour of prince charles, making no secret of their wishes and hopes that "the king should have his own again." the next morning as many of captain thornton's men as had escaped being taken prisoners (about forty-eight in number) assembled; and none of them knowing what had become of the captain, they supposed him to have shared the fate of many other brave men who had fallen in the action. there was therefore no more ox and beer to sustain their loyalty. the disappearance also of two other officers and twenty of their men greatly dispirited them, and to this was added the suspension of their regular pay. this induced some of them to apply to metcalf for a supply in order to carry them home; but this he refused, in part, no doubt, because he had not the means of paying them. the headquarters of the army were now at edinburgh, the staff being located in holyrood palace. the superior officers sent for metcalf, thinking it singular that a person deprived of sight should have entered the army. one of the officers belonging to the dragoons who retreated from falkirk, speaking ironically of thornton's men, asked jack how he got off the field of battle. metcalf answered, "i found it very easy to follow by the sound of the dragoon horses, they made such a clatter over the stones." this reply turned the laugh against the officer, who coloured with anger and shame. colonel cockayne then asked how he durst venture into the service, blind as he was. to which he replied "that had he possessed a pair of good eyes, he would never have come there to have risked the loss of them by gunpowder." then making his obeisance, he withdrew. he now determined upon a journey to falkirk in search of his captain; but this being attended with difficulty, he applied to a knaresborough man who lived at edinburgh, and was of the party of prince charles edward, telling him that he wished to be a musician to the gallant young prince, as he found it was all over with the english. the man informed him that they had a spy, an irishman, going to the prince, and that he might travel with him. this he agreed to do, and they started together; but on coming up to the english out-sentries they were stopped. metcalf inquired for the captain, and informed him of the real cause of his journey. by him he was kindly advised to lay aside his dangerous project; but as he still persisted, he was allowed to proceed with the spy, and arrived at linlithgow, where they stayed all night. they met with several women who had been plundering, and were then on their return to edinburgh; and the spy instructed them how to avoid the english sentries. metcalf was very careful to examine the clothes they had got, making it appear he wanted to purchase some, thinking that by chance he might meet with some of his captain's, and so ascertain if he were dead. one of the women sent a token by metcalf to her husband, who was lord george murray's cook. this woman's guide was a horse-dealer, who soon became acquainted with metcalf, having frequented the fairs in yorkshire, and at this time by some means had got introduced to the heads of both armies, and obtained a pass and orders from each to press horses. this man's fate was remarkable; for going into stirling, where the english army lay, he found that orders were given to let no strangers pass without an examination. he said that he had a protection from general huske. being ordered to produce it, he had the misfortune to take that out of his pocket which he had got from the pretender; and when informed of his mistake instantly produced the other. but too late! for he was tied up by the neck to a lamp-post and hung. a short time before metcalf and the spy had got clear away from linlithgow, some of the vanguard of the rebels came in and called for whiskey; and it was supposed that they dropped there a silver-mounted pistol, which on their setting out the spy picked up and offered to metcalf. he refused it, saying he thought it not advisable to have fire-arms about him, as he expected to be searched. so they pursued their journey, and presently fell in with the rebel out-guard, several of whom accosted metcalf, and as all seemed well, they were allowed to pass, and arrived at falkirk, where metcalf inquired for lord george murray's cook to deliver his present, and was afterwards introduced to and conversed with lord george murray, secretary murray, and other gentlemen. lord george murray gave him part of a glass of wine, an article at that time of great rarity, for, as the rebels had been there three times, and the english twice, they had almost swept the cupboard clean of crumbs. whilst conversing with them he was very cautious, knowing that his life was in danger if the real purpose of his journey became known. he then made his way towards the market-place, where a number of highlanders were assembled. this was on wednesday, the 22nd; but it happened that his master had left the place that morning about four hours before his arrival. we must now return to captain thornton, whom we left on friday in the closet, in close neighbourhood to the highland chiefs, who every day transacted business in the room. the quartermasters of the jacobite army having taken the house, and given the woman to whom it belonged a small apartment at the back, it made captain thornton's position very critical; but every night she took care to carry him such provisions as she could convey through a crevice at the bottom of the door, and this she did for fear of alarming those who slept in the adjoining rooms. the closet was only a yard and a half square, and the captain's clothes being wet when he entered, made his situation the more uncomfortable, as he had got a severe cold, and sometimes could not forbear coughing even when the rebels were in the room. once in particular, hearing a cough, they said one to another, "what is that?" but one of them answered that it was somebody in another room, not in the least suspecting that one of their enemies lay hid so near. on monday night the woman of the house went to the door to carry provisions as usual, when the captain said to her, "i am determined to come out, let the consequence be what it may; for i will not die like a dog in this hole." but she begged that he would bear this confinement until the next night, and she would adopt some plan to effect his escape. she accordingly consulted an old carpenter who was true to the hanoverian cause, and he came the following night when the room was vacant, removed the dresser, and liberated the captain. they proceeded down-stairs in the dark to the woman's apartment, where she made tea whilst the carpenter and captain concerted their plan of operation. they dressed him in a plaid and brogues, and put on him a black wig. the captain had only ten guineas about him (having left his cash with his lieutenant, mr. crofts), eight of which he gave to the woman who had so faithfully preserved him, and two to the carpenter; who, to secrete them, put them into his mouth along with his tobacco, fearful of a search by the highlanders, who would have suspected him had they found more than a shilling. everything being ready, they set out, the captain, with a bag of tools, following his supposed master. on coming into the crowd, the old carpenter looked about and was rather dismayed, for although in disguise, the captain did not look like a common workman. this made the old man dread discovery, so he called out to him: "come alang, ye filthy loon; ye have had half a bannock and a mutchkin of drink in your wame: we shall be o'er late for our day's wark." whether this artifice served him or not is uncertain; but they got safe through the throng, and leaving the high road, pursued their journey across the country. having come to a rising ground, the captain took a view of falkirk moor, and said, "yonder's the place where such a sad piece of work was made last friday." the old man at the same time looking the other way saw about 300 highlanders, who had been on plunder, coming down a lane which led from callander house (lord kilmarnock's seat) into the main road; and being desirous of passing the end of this lane before they came up, in order to avoid them, said, "we shall have a worse piece of wark of it than we had on friday if ye do not hasten your pace," and begged the captain to come forward, which he did; but walking briskly up a hill, he suddenly stopped, and said, "i am very sick." however they gained their point, and passed the highlanders; for had they come up with them, the captain's speech or appearance might have led to suspicion, and he would have been shot or led back to falkirk as a prisoner. on going two miles farther, they arrived at a house belonging to a friend of the carpenter's, and which had been plundered. there the old man got an egg, but not being able to find a pan to boil it in, he roasted it in peat ashes, and gave it to the captain to put in his wame or stomach. proceeding a few miles farther, they arrived at another house, where they procured a horse for the captain. he arrived at the english outposts, and making himself known, was permitted to pass, and reached edinburgh in safety. to return to metcalf, whom we left at falkirk, and whose dress was a plaid waistcoat laced with gold, which he had borrowed of a friend at edinburgh, together with a blue regimental coat faced with buff. jack told the highlanders, in answer to their inquiries, that he had been fiddling for the english officers, and that they had given him that coat, which had belonged to a man who was killed; and also that his intention was to serve in the same capacity with prince charles. but a person coming up who had seen jack at harrogate, said, "that fellow ought to be taken up, for there is something more than common in his proceedings;" on which metcalf was taken to the guard-room and searched for letters, but none were found, he having only a pack of cards in his pocket, which they split, to see if they contained any writing in the folds. finding nothing, he was put into a loft in the roof of the building, along with a dragoon and some other prisoners, and there for three days they were suffered to remain in confinement, exposed to severe cold. metcalf and his fellow-prisoners were brought out at the end of this time, and tried by a court-martial. metcalf was acquitted, and had permission given to go to the prince; but as he asked to borrow a clean shirt they inquired where his own was. he said at linlithgow, but that he durst not go there on account of george's fellows. they then informed him he might safely go there along with the irish spy. he knew that his companion had letters for the highlanders' friends at edinburgh, but had no intention to pass the english sentries. metcalf therefore amused him with assurances that he had â£10 at edinburgh, for which he should have no occasion if he joined the prince, and that he would give his friend a share of it. the spy on hearing this became very desirous of his company to edinburgh, wishing to finger the money, and proposed going across the country; but metcalf said he could pass the english sentries by saying he was going to captain thornton. they then proceeded, and after going two miles they met an officer who was reconnoitring, and he knowing metcalf, told him that his master was arrived safely at edinburgh. on leaving the officer the spy accosted him with, "so, then, you are going to him." "no!" said jack, "nor to any such fellows." they then passed the sentry, as metcalf proposed, and arrived at edinburgh, where they parted, but promised to meet the next evening at nine o'clock. jack went directly to his captain, who rejoiced at so unexpected a meeting. metcalf told him that he had given him a great deal of trouble, adding that he thought people might come home from market without being fetched. the captain smiled and said, "what is to be done, for i have neither money nor clothes, having left all behind at falkirk; but i have bills upon the road to the amount of â£300?" this proved fortunate; for had they been a few days sooner, these also might have been lost. the reason of the delay was that all letters directed to scotland were at this time sent to london to be examined at the general post-office. metcalf told the captain that he could get him some money, but this the other thought impossible. however, he went to a friend and obtained â£30. tailors were immediately set to work, and next morning the captain was enabled to visit his brother officers at holyrood. the army remained quartered at edinburgh, while part of the rebels were in falkirk, and another part at stirling, where they raised several batteries, and besieged stirling castle. the duke of cumberland arrived at edinburgh on the 30th of january, 1746; and two days afterwards marched at the head of the army towards falkirk, prince charles' army leaving it a little time before. captain thornton visited the duke often, and his royal highness took particular notice of metcalf, speaking to him several times on the march. on the arrival of the army at linlithgow, intelligence was received that the rebels were marching towards them to give them battle; upon which the army was drawn up in order, and the duke rode through the lines, and addressed the men as follows:--"if there be any who think themselves in a bad cause, or are afraid to engage the enemy, thinking they may fight against any of their relations, let them now turn out, receive pardon, and go about their business without any further question." on the conclusion of this speech, the whole army gave three hearty cheers. but the intelligence proving false, they proceeded to falkirk, and continued their journey to stirling, perth, montrose, brechin, and aberdeen, where they halted. the army of the prince was encamped at strathbogie. at aberdeen the duke gave a ball to the ladies, and personally solicited captain thornton for his fiddler, there being at that time no music in the army except colonel howard's (the old buffs), which was wind music, and the performers, who were germans, were unaccustomed to country dances. as the prince's army was only twenty miles distant, no invitations were sent until five o'clock, though the ball was to begin at six. twenty-five couples danced for eight hours, and his royal highness made one of the party, and several times as he passed metcalf, who stood on a chair to play, shouted, "thornton, play up!" but jack needed no exhortation, for he was well practised and better inclined. next morning the duke sent him two guineas; but as he was not permitted to take money, he informed his captain, who said, as it was the duke's money, he might take it, but observed that he should give his royal highness's servants a treat (he had only three servants with him--viz., his gentleman, cook, and groom). so the next night two of them paid metcalf a visit, and a merry party they made, the captain ordering them plenty of refreshments. in a little time they proceeded on their march, and engaged the gallant army of the prince on culloden moor. the battle ended in the total rout of the army of the young "pretender," and the somewhat severe treatment of his soldiers by the "butcher" duke. the english prisoners were all liberated. three of captain thornton's men had died in prison; the rest returned home. the rebellion having been completely suppressed and peace restored, captain thornton returned home, accompanied by metcalf, who had the happiness to find his faithful partner and children in good health. blind jack being now at liberty to choose his occupation, attended harrogate as usual; but having in the course of his scotch expedition kept his eyes open (if we may use such an expression of a blind man), he had become acquainted with various articles manufactured in that country, and judging that some of them might find a market in england, he repaired in the spring to scotland, and supplied himself with various articles in cotton and worsted, especially aberdeen stockings. for all these articles he found a ready sale at the houses of gentlemen in the county of york; and being personally known to most of the families, was everywhere kindly received. he was never at a loss to know among one thousand articles what each had cost him, as he had a method of marking them which enabled him to distinguish them by the feel. it was also customary with him to buy horses for sale in scotland, bringing back galloways in return. he was an admirable judge of horses by running his hands over them. he also engaged pretty deeply in contraband trade, the profits of which at that time were so considerable as to make it worth while running the risk. once, having received a pressing letter from newcastle-upon-tyne requiring his speedy attendance, he set out on horseback from knaresborough at three in the morning, and got into newcastle the same evening about six o'clock, a distance of nearly seventy-four miles, and did not feel fatigued. having received some packages, he employed a few soldiers to convey them to a carrier, judging that men of their description were least liable to suspicion. after sending off his goods, he stayed two nights with some relations, and then set out for home. he had with him about a hundred-weight of tea, cased over with tow, and tightly corded up; this he put into a wallet, which he laid across the saddle. coming to chester-le-street (about half-way between newcastle and durham), he met at the inn an exciseman, who knew him as soon as he had dismounted, and asked him what he had got there. metcalf answered, "it is some tow and line for my aunt, who lives a few miles distant. i wish she was far enough, for giving me the trouble to fetch it." the officer said to him, "bring it in"; he replied, "i am only here for a few minutes; it may as well remain on the horsing-stone." by this seeming indifference about his packet he removed suspicion from the mind of the exciseman, who assisted in replacing it across the saddle. once having disposed of a string of horses, he bought with the produce a quantity of rum, brandy, and tea, to the amount of â£200, put them on board a vessel for leith, and travelled overland on foot to meet the vessel at that port. he had about thirty miles to walk, and carried near five stone weight of goods, which he did not choose to put on shipboard. at leith he had the mortification to wait six weeks without receiving any tidings of the vessel, which many supposed to have been lost, there having been a storm in the interval. the distress of mind resulting from this induced him to say, "if she is lost i wish i had been in her, for she had all my property on board." soon after, however, the ship got into leith harbour. he then went on board, and set sail for newcastle; but another storm arising, the mate was washed overboard, the main-sail carried away, and the ship driven near the coast of norway. despair now became general, the prospect of going to the bottom seemed almost certain. metcalf had now no wish to go to the bottom with his property, and vowed he would give all his fortune to touch dry earth again. but the wind changing, hope began to return, and the captain put about for the scotch coast, intending to make aberbrothock. a signal of distress was put up, but the sea ran so high that no boat could venture out with a pilot. he then stood in for the harbour, but struck against the pier end, owing to the unmanageable state of the vessel from the loss of her main-sail; she narrowly escaped being bulged, but having got to the back of the pier, was towed round into the harbour with nearly five feet of water in her hold. as the vessel stood in need of repairs, metcalf put his goods on board another, and went in her to newcastle. there he met with an acquaintance, and thinking the fellow trustworthy, over his cups informed him that he had got 400 gallons of gin and brandy for which he had a permit, and about thirty gallons for which he had none, and which he wanted to land. in a quarter of an hour he found that the man whom he had taken for a friend had gone down the quayside and given information of what he knew, and all the goods were seized and brought on shore. metcalf imagined that none were seizable but the small part for which he had not obtained a permit; but was soon undeceived, the whole being liable to seizure as not agreeing with the specified quantity. he then repaired to the custom-house and applied to mr. sunderland, the collector. this gentleman knew metcalf, whom he had seen at harrogate; he received him very kindly, but informed him that it was not in his power to serve him, the captors being the excise people, and not of his department. he, however, suggested that some good might result from an application to alderman pelreth, with whom metcalf was acquainted, and who was intimate with the collector of the excise. the alderman gave him a letter to the collector, representing that the bearer had bought 400 gallons of spirits at the custom-house at aberdeen, and that the extra quantity was for the purpose of treating the sailors and other friends, as well as for sea-stock for himself. at first the collector told him that nothing could be done for him until he should write up to the board, and receive an answer; but metcalf remonstrating on the inconvenience of the delay, and the other reconsidering the letter, he agreed to come down to the quay at four o'clock in the afternoon, which he accordingly did, and released everything without any expense. a short time after, the regiment called "the queen's bays" were raised; they were quartered at knaresborough and the adjacent towns; but after a short stay they were ordered to the north. the country people seemed unwilling to supply carriages for the baggage, the king's allowance being but ninepence a mile per ton: that of the county, one shilling in the west riding, and fifteenpence in the north riding. metcalf having two waggons, was desirous to try this new business; and to make sure of the job, got the soldiers to press his two carriages, which were accordingly loaded, and he attended them to durham himself. previous to loading, however, the country people, who knew the advantage of carrying for the army, and who had kept back in hopes of an advance in the price, came forward with their waggons in opposition to metcalf; but they were now too late--metcalf had secured the job. on arriving at durham, he met bland's dragoons on their march from the north to york; they loaded his waggons again for northallerton, and would willingly have engaged them to york; but this he was obliged to decline, having promised to bring twenty-three wool-packs to knaresborough. he was just six days in performing this journey; and cleared, with eight horses and the one he rode, as much as â£20. some horses belonging to the queen's bays, stationed at durham, were to be sold, and metcalf, hearing of the sale, set off from knaresborough only the day before, and arrived there in time. amongst the horses to be sold was a grey one, belonging to one of the drums. the man who had the charge of him not having been sufficiently careful in trimming him, had burnt him severely, which caused a swelling. had his careless conduct been known to his superiors he would have been punished for it; upon that account the matter was hushed up. metcalf, however, having been apprised of the circumstances from a farrier whom he had got to know, determined to purchase him, judging that the horse would be sold cheap. he was not mistaken. he bought him for very little, and realised a good profit out of him shortly afterwards. in the year 1754 metcalf commenced a new business. he set up a stage-coach between york and knaresborough, and conducted it himself, twice a week in the summer season, and once in the winter; and this business, together with the occasional conveyance of army baggage, employed him until his first contract for making roads, which suiting him better, he disposed of his draught and interest in the road. an act of parliament having been obtained to make a turnpike from harrogate to boroughbridge, a person of the name of ostler, of farnham, two miles from knaresborough, was appointed surveyor. metcalf being in company with him, agreed to make about three miles of it, between minskip and ferrensby. the materials were to be procured from one gravel-pit for the whole length. he therefore provided deal boards and erected a temporary house at the pit, took twelve horses to the place, fixed racks and mangers, and hired a house for his men at minskip, distant about three-quarters of a mile. he often walked from knaresborough in the morning, with four or five stone-weight of meat on his shoulders, and joined his men by six o'clock. by his attention and diligence he completed the work much sooner than was expected, to the entire satisfaction of the surveyor and trustees. during his leisure hours he studied measurement in a way of his own, and when certain of the girth and length of any piece of timber, he was able to reduce its true contents to feet and inches, and would bring the dimensions of any building into yards and feet. about the time that this road was finished the building of a bridge was advertised to be contracted for at boroughbridge, and a number of gentlemen met there for that purpose at the crown inn. metcalf, amongst others, went also. the masons varied considerably in their estimates. ostler, the surveyor of the roads, was appointed to survey the bridge, and metcalf told him that he wished to undertake it, though he had never done anything of the kind before. on this the surveyor acquainted the gentlemen with what metcalf proposed; when he was sent for and asked what he knew about a bridge. he told them that he could readily describe it, if they would take the trouble of writing down his plan, which was as follows:--"the span of the arch 18 feet, being a semicircle, makes 27; the arch-stones must be a foot deep, which, if multiplied by 27, will be 486; and the basis will be 72 feet more. for the arch, it will require good backing; for which purpose there are proper stones in the old roman wall at aldborough, which may be brought, if you please to give directions to that effect." the gentlemen were surprised at his readiness, and agreed with him for building the bridge. the persons who had given in their estimates were much offended; and as the stone was to be procured from renten, a sale quarry belonging to one of the masons who was there, he was unwilling to sell any to metcalf; upon which he went to farnham, and found good stones which the lime-burners had left (being too strong for their purpose), got them dressed at the place for a trifle, conveyed them to boroughbridge, and having men to take them off the carts, set them, and completed the arch in one day. soon after, there was a mile and a half of turnpike road to be made between knaresborough bridge and harrogate, for which metcalf also agreed. going one day over a place covered with grass, he told his men that he thought it different from the ground adjoining, and would have them try for stone or gravel, which they immediately did, and found an old causeway, supposed to have been made in the time of the romans, which afforded many materials for the new road. between the forest lane-head and knaresborough bridge there was a bog in a low piece of ground. the surveyor thought it impossible to make a road over it, but metcalf assured him he could accomplish it. the other then told him that if so he should be paid as if he had carried the road round the bog. jack set about it, cast the road up, and covered it with whin and ling, and made it as good as any part he had undertaken. he received for his contract about â£400. he afterwards contracted for making five miles of road between harrogate and harewood bridge, and received for it â£1200. for a mile and a half through part of chapeltown to leeds, and for lengthening the arch of sheepscar bridge, he received â£400. the following are some of his other contracts:--four miles of the road between skipton and colne, and two miles on the burnley road. two miles of the road through broughton to marton, and two miles more through addingham and over part of romalds moor, for all which he received â£1350. four miles between mill bridge and halifax, and five miles between wakefield and chickingley beck, near dewsbury; and received for the same â£1200. three miles and a half between hag bridge and pontefract, and one mile and a half on the doncaster road, from crafton, through foldby. for the road from wakefield to pontefract, doncaster, and halifax, he received â£6400. from blackmoor foot to marsden, and from thence to standish foot; also from lupset gate through horbury; and also three miles from standish to thurton clough; from sir john kaye's seat to huddersfield; and thence to longroyd bridge toll-bar, in the course of which were several bridges, the whole distance about twenty-one miles, for which he received â£4500. in the building of bridges, where the foundations were bad, he laid on a sufficient thickness of ling (where it could be got), otherwise straw; he next laid planks five inches thick, with square mortices cut through, and driving in a number of piles, made the foundations secure. he then laid springs for the arches upon the planks, which caused all to settle regularly. and though he built many arches of different sizes, none ever fell. he also undertook to build houses, amongst which was one belonging to mr. marmaduke hebden, near huddersfield, nine yards wide, twenty-three long, and twenty-one feet from the foundation to the square of the building, with twenty chimneys. metcalf having now made up his mind to follow building and road-making, finding it remunerative, contracted for and executed at various times a great many roads. about the year 1781 metcalf, hearing how beneficial the cotton business was to all that were engaged in it, resolved to have a share in that also; he accordingly purchased the necessary machinery, but the scheme failed, as a time came when no yarn could be sold without loss; therefore he gave up that business. in 1789 he contracted for making several pieces of road in lancashire, between bury and heslington, and another part from heslington to accrington; and also a branch from that to blackburn, the work of two summers, for which he received â£3500. in 1791 he returned into yorkshire, and began to speculate in buying and selling hay, measuring the stacks with his arms, and having learnt the height, he could soon tell the number of square yards contained in the whole. having gone to york in the first days of 1795, he set out on january 9th to walk to green-hammerton, on his way to thornville royal, and accomplished the distance, which was ten miles, in three hours and a half. he slept that night at thornville royal, and next day walked to knaresborough, january 10th, the birthday of sir thomas slingsby's eldest son, which was kept with great rejoicings. thence he went to spofforth, where he resided with his daughter, after the death of his wife in 1778. there he died on the 27th april, 1810, in the full possession of his faculties, aged ninety-three. he was buried in spofforth churchyard. at the time of his death his descendants were four children, twenty grandchildren, and ninety great and great-great grandchildren. footnote: [9] chiefly from a chapbook life, written apparently shortly after his death. published by johnson, of leeds. "peg pennyworth." margaret wharton, an unmarried lady of great wealth and ancient family, was one of the yorkshire oddities of last century. she belonged to the family of the whartons of skelton castle, in cleveland, and possessed a fortune of â£200,000, of which, with rare liberality, she made her nephew a present of â£100,000. her charities were liberal, but always private, and if she heard that a recipient of her bounty had disclosed the good deed, that person never received another penny from her. she was a short, stout lady, dressed fashionably, had an aristocratic air, and liked to be respected as rich and of good family. for some time she resided at york, and visited scarborough in the season, where she was well known on account of her eccentricities. she used to send for "a pennyworth of strawberries" or "a pennyworth of cream" at a time, and pay down her penny, as she had an aversion to tradesmen's bills. from this she obtained the name of "peg pennyworth," which stuck to her through life. an incident occurred at scarborough in which she displayed her dislike to public charities. she was solicited by some gentlemen to give a subscription to a charity on behalf of which they were making a collection. peg pulled out her purse with an ominous frown, and turned out its contents into her palm. this was in or about 1774, when light guineas were in disgrace. she deliberately selected from among the coins the lightest guinea she could find, and handed it to the gentlemen. the celebrated foote is said to have drawn her character in a farce. when informed of this she exclaimed, with a smile, "i will see it acted, as i live." she did, and expressed her satisfaction that the character in the play did her justice. she frequently catered for herself, making her own purchases, and taking them home in her carriage. once, having purchased some eels, she put them in her pocket, entered her coach, and called on a lady friend and invited her to come out with her for an airing. the warmth of peg's pocket revived the seemingly dead eels, and they began to wriggle out to enjoy a little fresh air. the lady who was sitting beside peg, happening to look down, saw what she thought was a serpent writhing into her lap, and several hideous heads breaking out of the side of mistress margaret wharton. she uttered an awful shriek, bounded to her feet, pulled the checkstring, and cried, "madam! madam! you are swarming with adders! coachman, stop! let me out! let me out!" mistress wharton coolly looked at the eels, now escaping rapidly from her pocket, gathered them up, and shoved them into her reticule, saying, "i protest, madam, it is only my eels come to life. sit you down again, and don't be frightened." one day at scarborough she had ordered a large meat-pie to be baked for dinner. it was a very large one--to serve for herself, some visitors, and all the servants. when it was made she ordered the footman to take it to the bakehouse, but he declined, saying that it was not his place, neither did it comport with his dignity, to be seen in scarborough stalking through the streets in plush and tags, bearing a huge meat-pie. mistress margaret then ordered the coachman to take it, but he declined. "bring out the carriage, then!" said peg pennyworth. the horses were harnessed; the coachman put on his powdered wig and mounted the box; the footman took his place behind; and mistress margaret wharton, bearing the meat-pie, sat in state in the carriage. "drive to the bakehouse." so the coachman whipped his horses, and the meat-pie was carried thus to the baker's. an hour or two later the carriage was ordered out again, the coachman remounted the box, the footman took his stand behind, and the lady drove to the bakehouse to fetch her pie, which she carried back thus to her house. "now," said she to the coachman, "you have kept your place, which is to drive; and you," turning to the footman, "have kept yours, which is to wait; and now we shall all have some of the pie." mistress wharton had a visiting acquaintance with a lady, a clergyman's wife, in york. on the death of her husband, the widow retired with her four daughters to thirsk, and she invited peg pennyworth to visit her. to her dismay, one day up drove mistress wharton in her carriage, with coachman, footman, and lady's maid. the widow, whose means were not very ample, endured having all these people quartered on her for a month, but at the expiration of that time she was obliged to hint to the nephew of her guest that "the pressure on her means was rather greater than she could bear." "let my aunt have her way," said mr. wharton. "i will pay you two hundred a year during her life, and one hundred during your own, should you survive her." mistress margaret wharton never left the house of the widow, but died there after some years, in the one hundred and third year of her age, in 1791. the annuity was regularly paid to the widow lady to the day of her death. peter barker, the blind joiner of hampswaite. peter barker was born on july 10th, 1808. at the age of four he was deprived of sight by an inflammation of the eyes, and ever afterwards he was- "dark, amid the blaze of noon, irrevocably dark; total eclipse, without all hope of day." the loss of his sight caused peter from an early age to cultivate music, and he became a skilful performer on the violin; and as he grew up to manhood he frequented the village feasts, dances, and merry-makings all round the country, as a performer on that instrument. this led him into habits of intemperance. but he had a strong will, a tender conscience, and seeing that he was sinking in his own respect and in that of others, he determined to abandon his musical profession. but he must earn his livelihood; and he determined to become a joiner. he fell to work to make a chair, succeeded in the first attempt, and for the rest of his life followed carpentering as his profession. he handled his tools with all the dexterity of a practised workman; his shop was always in order, the tools in their proper position in the rack, or in his hands. the only peculiarity about his instruments was in the foot-rule he used for making his measurements, the lines on which were marked by small pins, of different numbers, to indicate the different feet on the rule. the idea of having his rule thus marked was suggested by a lady who interested herself in his welfare. she wrote to a manufacturer of carpenters' rules in london, to inquire if such a thing could be had as a rule with raised lines and figures; the answer was that no such rules were made. failing to procure an article of this kind, she suggested the making of the measurements on it with pins; and this was carried into effect. the articles made by this blind workman were firm and substantial, the joints even and close, and the polish smooth. it is said that a cabinet-maker at leeds, having heard reports of the blind joiner's skill, procured a chair he had made, and showed it to the workmen in his shop, asking them their opinion of the chair. after examining it, they said that they thought there was nothing particular about the chair, only it was a thoroughly well-made, serviceable one. "so it is," said the master; "but--will you believe it?--the man who made it never saw it: he was blind from a child." their indifference was at once turned into amazement. the writer of a memoir of peter barker[10] says:-"we have frequently seen him at work, and were it not from the more frequent handling of the articles operated on, and the nearness of his fingers to the edge of the chisel or saw, there was nothing apparently to distinguish his manner from that of an ordinary workman. in 1868 we found him at work in the church, repairing the seats, and watched him for some time before he was conscious of the presence of any one. he showed us what he had done--lowered the fronts of both the pulpit and reading-desk, the one twenty inches, the other a foot: brought forward a pew some three feet, and refronted it with panels of old carved oak, which he asserted was very difficult to work over again; showed us a piece of carving which he, in conjunction with the churchwarden, had only discovered the day before, and which was upwards of 200 years old; led the way into the belfry, giving a word of advice to be careful in ascending the old rickety stairs; showed the clock, which he had under his care to keep clean and in going order. at this point, while seated on a bench, he gave us a narrative of his first acquaintance with the clock, which we give in his own words as nearly as we can remember:--[11] "you see, our clock is yan o' these and fashion'd handmade 'uns, not made exact and true by machinery as they are now, but ivvery wheel cut an' filed by hand. aud snow, a notified clock-makker 'at lived up aboon abit here, had the managing of her a lang time, at so much a year. he used to come just at t' time when his year was up, give t' aud clock a fether full o' oil, tak his brass, and there was no mair on him till t' next year. at last she gat as she wadn't gang at all; she wad naither turn pointers nor strike. t' foaks i' t' toon were sadly dissatisfied; they neither knew when to get up nor gang to bed, as they had done afore, when t' clock was all reet. t' church-maister sent for t' clock-maker, and he come an' come ageean, an' fizzled an faff'd aboot her, but nivver did her a farthing's worth o' good. at last he was forced to give her up as a bad job; she was fairly worn out, an' she wad nivver be no better till she was mended with a new un; and that's aboon twenty year sin, an' t' aud clock's here yet. then johnny gill, another clever fellow, took her under hands, and she lick'd him as fairly as she'd deean aud snow. i was i' t' church by mysel one day, i hardly know what aboot, when it com' into my heead 'at i would try my hand at her; i nivver had deean nowt o' t' sort; but if ye nivver try, ye nivver can dea (do) nowt. so t' first thing i did was to give her a reet good feelin' all ower her; an' then, heving settled all her parts fairly i' my mind, i fell to work and took her to pieces, bit by bit, got all t' works out of her, and cleaned her all ower reet soundly, particularly t' pivots, and then gav 'em all a sup o' nice oil; then i put her together ageean; efter a few trials i got her all reet, got her started--she strake an' kept time like a good un. efter i finish'd i com' doon, an' into th' church garth, and wha did i meet there but mr. shann, our vicar at that time, and just as i was meeting him t' clock strake ageean. 'what's that, peter?' he says. i says, 'it's t' clock, sir!' he says ageean, 'what does this mean, peter?' i says, 'it meeans t' time o' day when t' clock strikes.' he began o' laughing, and said, 'you're a queer fellow, peter. i mean who made the clock strike?' 'oh,' i says, 'i've deean that mysel, sir. i've been at her a goodish bit to-day, an' i think i've gotten her put all reet at last.' 'well done, peter, you're a clever fellow,' he says. 'but you sha'n't do all this for nothing. i shall let the churchwardens know what you have done. you must have some reward.' 'varry weel, sir,' i says, and so we parted. and he was as good as his word. when t' churchmaisters met, he tell'd 'em all aboot it, and they allowed me four shillings for my job; and i was to have ten shillings a year for keeping her ganning ivvery year efter." in the month of july, 1865, the clock did not strike correctly. as peter told the tale himself:--"i was i' t' shop when i heard her at it, two or three times. i stood it as lang as i could; at last i banged down my teeals (tools), and says to mysel', 'i'll mak thee either strake reet, or i'll mak thee as that thou'll nivver strike ageean.' away i went, spent an hour over her, gat her reet, and she's kept reet ever sin'." his biographer says:--"once on a visit to peter's cottage, we found a window had been recently inserted, according to his statement, to make the fireside more lightsome--peter having been mason, joiner, and glazier himself. in short, he appeared to be able to do any kind of work that he had the desire or the will to do. he was an expert in the art of netting--fabricating articles in that line from the common cabbage net to the curtains which adorn the windows of the stately drawing-room. as a vocalist he sang bass in the church on sundays. he was also one of the bell-ringers; and during the winter months the curfew bell is rung at hampswaite at eight o'clock every evening. when it was peter's turn to ring he took a lighted lanthorn with him--not for the purpose of seeing others, but that others might see him. "he always fattened a pig in the winter season, and had a method of measurement of his own for ascertaining how much weight the pig had gained every week; and to such measurement and calculation the pig was weekly subjected until he attained the proper bulk and weight. peter generally bought his pig himself, and for that purpose attended the market at knaresborough, where the bargain was cause of much amusement to the onlookers. when the pig was pointed out which was thought likely, the seller had to seize the same, and hold it still as possible, until peter had felt it over and ascertained its _points_, and passed his judgment on its feeding qualities." peter learned to read with his fingers in 1853, and was given a new testament with embossed letters. he was very fond of children, and would play tunes to them on his fiddle at his shop door of a summer evening, whilst they danced and sang. he had made this fiddle himself, as well as the case in which he kept it. so delicate was peter's touch that he was able to tell the hour on a watch by opening the case and running his fingers lightly over the face. peter in his youth had a romantic courtship, and married a wife. she presented him with a son, born in 1846; and died on june 3rd, 1862. the boy, who was his father's constant companion and delight, died the following year, on jan. 19th, 1863, leaving the poor blind joiner's house completely desolate. after a few weeks' illness, peter died in his cottage, near the churchyard gate, on february 18th, 1873, at the age of sixty-five. footnotes: [10] published by t. thorpe, pately bridge, 1873. [11] the strong provincial dialect is somewhat modified in this, or it would be unintelligible except to yorkshire readers. the white house. on the road between raskelfe and easingwold stood in 1623, and stands still, a lonely inn called "the white house." the wide, brown, heathery moor called pill-moor then extended to the roots of the hambledon hills; on a slight rising ground above the marshes stood here and there a farm or cottage; and here and there a portion of the soil had been enclosed. to this day a large portion of the moor remains untilled, and is a favourite resort of botanists, who find there several varieties of gentian and orchis, rare elsewhere. originally it stretched from borough bridge to the hambledons, intersected by the streams flowing into the ouse, patched here and there with pools of water. in the white house lived a man called ralph raynard, and his sister. ralph paid his addresses to a fine-looking young woman, dark-eyed, dark-haired, who lived at thornton bridge, at the red house, where the road from brafferton or tollerton crossed the ouse to topcliffe and ripon. the old house, lonely, surrounded by trees, with traces of a moat or pond, in spring full of yellow flags, stands to this day, almost deserted. the girl was poor, and a good match was of the first advantage to her; she was at the time in service at the red house, and thither ralph came to visit her. but, for some cause unknown, they quarrelled, an estrangement ensued, and ralph came no more across thornton bridge. at the same time a yeoman named fletcher, living at moor house, in the parish of raskelfe, had cast his eyes on the comely young woman, and he took advantage of the rupture between the lovers to step in and offer his hand to the damsel. he was at once accepted, in a fit of resentment against ralph raynard, and the marriage rapidly followed; so that she soon found herself the wife of a man whom she did not love, and some miles nearer the white house, where lived ralph, whom she did love, than when she had resided at thornton bridge. the resentment she had felt died away; an explanation followed when too late. there was a scene--despair on both sides, and resentment entertained by both ralph raynard and mrs. fletcher against the unfortunate yeoman who stood between them and perfect union and happiness. on market-day, when mrs. fletcher ambled on her nag into easingwold, she invariably halted at the white house, when the hostler, one mark dunn, a beetle-browed, uncouth fellow from huby, received and held her horse as she dismounted and entered the inn. ralph, the host, was always there, and received mrs. fletcher with an affection which dissatisfied his sister, a woman of sense, who saw that this cherishing of an old passion could lead to no good. when mark dunn disappeared for hours at a time, she shrewdly suspected that he was sent on messages to raskelfe. more than once she interfered and rebuked ralph, her brother, warning him of the dangerous consequences of thus encouraging the attachment of a woman now bound to another man by the most sacred ties. with an oath he bade her mind her own business, and not interfere with him. fletcher could not but be aware that his wife did not love him; whispers reached him that she met her old sweetheart when he was from home; that her nag was seen standing an unreasonable time outside the door of the white house. he caught mark dunn one evening prowling in his orchard, and he fell on him with a stick. the ungainly fellow howled with pain, and swore revenge. fletcher became gloomy, neglected his affairs, and began to fall into difficulties. he had been sincerely, passionately attached to the dark-eyed, handsome girl he had brought to his home. he had done his utmost to render her happy, and now she was making his home miserable, destroying the former serenity of his spirits. he was obliged to go one day on business to easingwold. he would not return till late. his wife knew it. something troubled his mind. a presentiment of evil which he could not shake off hung over him, and he wrote on a sheet of paper- "if i should be missing, or suddenly wanted be, mark ralph raynard, mark dunn, and mark my wife for me," directed it to his sister, and on reaching easingwold, posted it. no sooner was he gone than mrs. fletcher mounted her horse and rode to the white house. she asked to see raynard, and he walked by her side some way back to raskelfe. there they parted; and raynard was next observed in close conversation with his hostler, mark dunn. it was may-day. in the sweet spring evening fletcher was returning on foot from easingwold, when he came to daunay bridge, where at that time a road branched off from the highway from the north to york, and traversing the lund, led to raskelfe. as he crossed the bridge he stood still for a moment, and looked up at the stars, just appearing. next moment raynard and dunn were upon him; they had sprung from behind the bridge, and he was flung over it into the water. the stream is narrow and not deep, so that, once recovered from the shock, he could have easily crawled out. but the murderers leaped into the water after him. mrs. fletcher, with a long sack over her shoulder, ran out from the shadow of a bush where she had been concealed, and they held the farmer under water, the two men grasping his throat, his wife retaining his feet in the sack, into which she thrust them, till his struggles ceased, and he was, or was supposed to be, dead. the body was then thrust into the sack which mrs. fletcher had brought for the purpose, and the three guilty ones assisted in carrying or dragging the body along the road towards the white house. they were alarmed once; the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard, and they concealed themselves by the road-side. the horseman passed, they emerged from their place of hiding, and continued their course. as they drew near to the inn a streak of light from the inn-door showed that it was open. they heard voices. the horseman had called for something to drink, and it was brought to him without his dismounting. then miss raynard was heard calling, "ralph! ralph!" she wondered, perhaps, at his long absence, or wanted him for some purpose in the house. no answer was returned. raynard, dunn, and mrs. fletcher lifted the body over the low hedge into raynard's croft or garden, and buried it in a place where the ground had been disturbed that day by his having stubbed up an old root. they carefully covered the body with earth, and raynard sowed mustard-seed over the place. it was thought prudent that mrs. fletcher and raynard should not meet after this. people wondered what had become of fletcher; but knowing that he was somewhat embarrassed in his circumstances, they readily accepted the statement of his wife--that he had gone out of the way to avoid having a writ served on him. thus matters stood till the 7th july, when ralph raynard rode to topcliffe fair. it was a bright sunny day. he passed the moor house, but did not stay there; crossed thornton bridge, went before the red house, where he had so often visited and spent such happy hours with the woman who was now his accomplice in crime, along by cundall to topcliffe. he dismounted at the inn there--the angel, an old-fashioned house near the dilapidated market-cross. he led his horse out of the yard into the stable. the sun glared without; within it was dark. as he was removing the bridle from his horse, suddenly he saw standing before him the spirit of fletcher, pale, with a phosphoric light playing about him, pointing to him, and saying, "o ralph, ralph! repent. vengeance is at hand!" in an agony of horror he fled out of the stable. in the daylight without he recovered composure, and endeavoured to believe that he had been a victim to delusion. he thought he must buy some present for the woman, love for whom had led him to the commission of murder. he went to one of the stalls to buy some trinket--a chain of imitation coral beads. "how does it look on the neck?" he asked, extending it to the keeper of the stall. then he looked up and saw a ghastly figure opposite--the dead man with the coral round his neck, knotted under his ear, and his head on one side, the eyes wide open, with a blaze in the eyes, and heard him say: "how like you a red streak round the neck such as this? i will put one round the throat of my wife; and you shall wear one too!" sick and faint, he hastened back to the inn, and called for beer. towards evening he rode home. he saw as he came towards the carr, where there is a dense clump of trees, a figure looking at him. it was deliberately getting out of a sack, and shaking and wringing water out of its clothes. with a scream of terror raynard plunged his spurs into the horse's flanks, and galloped past cundall, home. as he crossed thornton bridge he closed his eyes, but when he opened them again he saw the well-known figure of the dead man walking before him so fast that his horse could not catch him up. the ghost trailed the sack after it, and left a luminous track on the road. when it reached a point at a little distance from the white house--the very spot where raynard, mrs. fletcher, and mark dunn had turned aside with the body--the spectre strode across the heather, leaped the low hedge, and melted, apparently, into the ground, where now a rich, green crop of mustard was growing. "you're back earlier than i thought," said the sister of ralph raynard. "i reckon thou'st not been stopping this time at moor house?" raynard said nothing, except "i'm ill." "ah," said his sister, "i've gotten thee a nice bit o' supper ready, with a beautiful dish o' salad." and she laid the cloth, and placed upon it a plate of fresh-cut _mustard_! raynard's face grew rigid and white. "what is the matter?" asked his sister. opposite him, on the settle, sat the dead man, pointing to the salad. ralph sprang up, drew his sister away, and told her all. she, poor woman, horror-struck, ran off at once to sir william sheffield, a justice of peace, residing at raskelfe park. the three guilty parties were apprehended and taken to york, where, on july 28th, 1623, all three were hung. when they had been cut down, the bodies were removed and conveyed in a waggon to the white house, the hangman seated by the driver in front. there is a little rise not far from the inn, commanding the spot where the murder was committed, and the green mustard-bed where the body of fletcher had been hidden, but which had been removed and buried in raskelfe churchyard. on this hill a gibbet had been erected, and there the three bodies were hung, with their faces towards the dismal flat and the gurgling stream where the murdered man had been drowned. there they hung, blown about by the autumn storms, screeched over by the ravens and magpies, baked by the summer sun, their bare scalps capped with cakes of snow in the cold winter, till they dropped upon the ground, and then the bones were buried and the gallows cut down. about eighty years ago the plough was drawn over gallows hill, when a quantity of bones were unearthed by the share. they were the bones of raynard, dunn, and mrs. fletcher. the hill to this day bears its ill-omened name, and people mutter about raskelfe the doggerel lines- "a wooden church, a wooden steeple, rascally church, and rascally[12] people." footnote: [12] raskelfe is commonly called rascall. jemmy hirst; an oddity.[13] jemmy was born at rawcliffe, in the west riding, on october 12th, 1738. his father was a respectable substantial farmer, without great brilliancy of parts, but with the usual yorkshire shrewdness. the boy soon began to exhibit originality; mischievousness was mistaken by a fond mother for genius, and he was destined for the church. he was sent accordingly to a boarding-school, to a clergyman, at the age of eight, to acquire the rudiments of the necessary education. but at school jemmy's genius took an altogether perverse turn. he was always first in the playground and last in class; a leader in mischief, a laggard in study. finding his master's spectacles on the desk one day, jemmy unscrewed them, and removed the glasses. when the principal came in, he gravely took up the spectacles and put them on. finding them dim, he removed them. when he was seen demurely to wipe where the glasses had been, and then, with his fingers through the rims, to hold them up to his eyes to see what was the matter, the whole school burst out laughing. the pedagogue demanded the name of the culprit. jemmy had not the honesty or courage to proclaim himself the author of the trick, and the whole school was whipped accordingly. on the morning of the 1st april, early, a big boy in his dormitory sent jemmy to the master, expecting that he would knock at his bedroom door, wake him, and get a thrashing for his pains. jemmy turned out of bed and went outside the door, waited a minute, and then came into the dormitory again. "ah! tom, thou'rt in for it. thou mun go at once to lovell for having made an april fool of him and me." the boy, believing this, went to the master's door, knocked him up, and got well thrashed for his pains. "you will know in future what is meant by the biter being bit," said jemmy, when the boy returned, crying. "there's an old fable about the viper biting the file and breaking his teeth. perhaps you can understand the moral of it now." the principal kept an old sow. jemmy used to get on her back, tie a piece of twine--"band" a yorkshire boy would call it--to the ring in her snout, run a nail through the heel of his boot to act as spur, and gallop the old sow round the yard. this was often performed with impunity, but not always. the master saw him from his window one morning as he was shaving, and rushed down with a horse-whip in his hand. jemmy was careering joyously round and round the yard when a crack of the lash across his back dislodged him. he was fed next day on bread and water as a punishment. one night jemmy and some of his schoolmates got out of the house with intent to rob an orchard. but one of the day scholars had overheard the boarders planning the raid, and he informed the farmer whose orchard it was purposed to rob, and he was on the look-out for the young rogues. when they arrived he suffered one of them--it was jemmy--to climb an apple-tree without molestation, but then he rushed forth from his hiding-place and laid about him with a carter's whip with hearty good-will. the boys fled in all directions, except jemmy, who escaped further up the tree, and there remained, unable, like a squirrel, to leap from bough to bough, and so escape. the farmer went under the tree and shouted to him, "come down, you young rascal! i'll strap thee!" "nay," answered jemmy, "dost see any green in my eye? it's like i should come down to get a whipping, isn't it?" and he began leisurely to eat some of the apples, and pelt the farmer with others. the man, highly irate, began to climb the tree after him. jem remained composedly eating till the farmer was within reach of him, and then he drew a cornet of pepper from his pocket and dusted it into the eyes of his pursuer. the man, half-blinded, desisted from his attempts to catch the boy, in his efforts to clear his eyes, and jemmy slipt past him down the tree and escaped. next day the farmer came to the school to complain, and jemmy received thirty strokes on his back with the birch. "ah!" said jemmy, "thou'st made my back tingle, and i'll make thine smart." so he got a darning-needle, and stuck it in the master's hair-bottomed chair in such a way that when anyone sat down the needle would protrude through the cushion, but would recede on the person's rising again. at school hour the master came in, and seated himself in his chair with his usual gravity. but suddenly up he bounded like a rocket; then turned and examined the cushion, very red in the face. the cushion seemed all right when he felt it with his hand, so he sat himself down on it again, but this time much more leisurely. no sooner, however, was his weight on it than up came the needle again, and with it up bounded the master. "please, sir," said jemmy, affecting simplicity, "was there a thorn in the seat? if so, thou'd better run two or three times round t' school yard; i did so yesterday to work t' birch buds out o' my flesh." jemmy had one day tied two cats together by their hind legs and thrown them over a rail, when the master, who had been watching him from an upper window, made his appearance on the scene, horsewhip in hand, and belaboured jemmy severely. but little hirst always retaliated in some way. the master used to walk up and down in the evening in the yard behind the school. he wore a foxy wig. jemmy one evening went into the study where mr. lovell kept his fishing tackle, for he was fond of angling. the window was open; jemmy cast the hook, as for a fish, and caught the little fox-coloured wig. then leaving the rod in the window, and the head of hair dangling above the master's reach, he ran down into the school. the principal was therefore obliged to go upstairs with bald head to his study to recover his wig. this final act of insubordination was too much for mr. lovell--it touched him in his tenderest point; and he wrote to mr. hirst to request him to remove the unmanageable boy from his school. he was fourteen years old when his father took him away, and was little advanced in his learning. every prospect of his going into the church was abandoned, but what trade or profession he was qualified for was as yet undecided. his father wanted to put him to school again, but jemmy so steadily and doggedly persisted in his refusal to go to another, that his indulgent father ceased to press it. the boy showed no inclination for farming, and no persuasion of his father could induce him to take a farming implement in his hands to work with. his chief pleasure consisted in teaching pigs and calves to jump. mr. hirst had a friend at rawcliffe, a tanner, and this friend persuaded mr. hirst to bind jemmy apprentice to him; and as the boy showed no disinclination to the trade, he was bound to the tanner for seven years. the tanner had a daughter called mary, a year younger than jemmy, and a tender friendship grew up between the young people: jemmy was softened and civilised by the gentle influence of the girl; he took willingly to the trade, became settled, lost his mischievous propensities, and promised to turn out a respectable member of society. an incident occurred three years after he had entered the tanner's house which tended to cement this attachment closer. mary went one saturday to spend the day with an aunt living at barnsley. jemmy ferried her over the river in a boat belonging to the tanner, and promised to fetch her in the evening. accordingly, towards nightfall, he crossed the river, and made his boat fast to a stake, and then walked to barnsley to meet the young girl. mary met him with her usual smile, and tripped by his side to the boat, but in stepping into it her foot slipped, and she was swept down by the current. jemmy instantly leaped overboard, swam after her, overtook her before she sank, and supporting her with one arm, succeeded in bringing her ashore, where several persons who had witnessed the accident were assembled to assist and receive her. mary's parents showed jemmy much gratitude for his courageous conduct in saving her life, and the girl clung to him with intense affection; whilst jemmy, who seemed to think he had acquired some right over her by his having saved her life, was never happy unless he was by her side. they were always together. she would steal in to do her needlework in the place where he was engaged in his trade, and when work was over they were together walking in the lanes and fields. but in the midst of this happiness a stroke fell on them which for ever altered the tenor of jemmy's life. mary fell ill with small-pox. the lad watched by her bedside night and day, giving her medicine, making up her pillow, tending her with agonised heart, utterly forgetful of himself, fearing no risk of infection, heedless of taking his natural rest. the whole time of her illness he never slept, and could scarcely be induced to leave her side for his meals. on the fifth day she died. the blow was more than jemmy could bear, and he was prostrated with brain-fever. that the poor boy had naturally very deep feelings is evident from his having, some few years before, been laid up with fever when his mother died. hearing of her death whilst he was at school, he became ill and was removed home, where it was some time before he got over the shock. mary had taken the place in his vacant heart formerly occupied by his mother, and with years the strength of his feelings had increased. consequently the loss of mary affected him even more than that of his mother. in his brain fever he raved incessantly of the poor dead girl, and for several weeks his life was despaired of. by degrees he slowly recovered; but for some time it was feared that his reason was gone. at the end of six or seven months he was able to take a little exercise without attendance; but, as will be seen, he never wholly recovered the blow, and his conduct thenceforth was so eccentric that there can be no doubt his brain was affected. he left the tanner's, abandoned the trade, and returned to his father's house, where he idled, preying on his fancies--one day in mad, exuberant spirits, the next overwhelmed with despondency. when aged five-and-twenty he took a fancy to a fine bull-calf belonging to his father, which he called "jupiter," and he began to train it to perform various tricks, and to break it to bear the saddle. jupiter bore the bridle patiently enough, but plunged and tossed his horns when the saddle was placed on his back. jemmy next ventured to mount his back. the young bull stood for a minute or two, as his father said, "right down stagnated," and then began to plunge and kick. jemmy held fast, and jupiter, finding he could not thus dislodge his rider, set off, tearing across the paddock towards a thick quickset hedge at the bottom. but instead of leaping it, as jemmy expected, the bull ran against the fence, and precipitated his rider over the hedge into the ditch on the further side. jemmy was unhurt, except for a few scratches and some rents in his garments, and patches of mud, and picking himself up, raced after jupiter, nothing daunted, caught him, and remounting him, mastered the beast. after this he rode jupiter daily, to the great amusement of people generally, especially when he trotted into snaith on market-days on the back of the now docile bull. on the death of his father he was left about â£1000. the farm he gave up, having no taste for agriculture, and he took a house on the bank of the river, not far from his old master's the tanner. the house had a few acres of land attached to it, which he cultivated. the old housekeeper, who had known him since a child, followed him to his new home; and in his stable was a stall for jupiter. he began to speculate in corn, flax, and potatoes, and having considerable natural shrewdness underlying his eccentric manners, he managed to realise enough to support himself comfortably. he invested â£4000 in consols, and had â£2000 lying at interest in a neighbouring bank. he rode out with lord beaumont's foxhounds, always on jupiter, who was trained to jump as well as to run. when he was seen coming up on the bull, lord beaumont would turn to those with him at the meet and say, "well, gentlemen, if we are not destined to find game to-day, we may be sure of sport." his dress was as extraordinary as his mount, for he wore a broad-brimmed hat of lambskin, fully nine feet in circumference; his waistcoat was like joseph's coat of many colours, made of patchwork; his breeches were of listings of various colours, plaited together by his housekeeper; and he wore yellow boots. though jupiter could keep up with the foxhunters for a few miles, his powers of endurance were not so great as those of a horse, and he began to lag. lord beaumont would pass jemmy, and say, "come, mr. hirst, you will not be in at the death." "no; but i shall at the dinner," was jemmy's dry reply. lord beaumont always took the hint and invited him to carlton house to the hunting dinner. his lordship had a nephew visiting him on one occasion, a london exquisite, who thought he could amuse himself at jemmy's expense. one day at the meet this young man said to captain bolton, "let us quiz the old fellow."--"by all means," answered the captain; "but take care that you do not get the worst of it." when jemmy came up, the young dandy, bowing to him on his saddle, said, "i wish you a good morning, joseph." "my name isn't joseph," answered jemmy. "oh, i beg pardon. i mistook you by your coat and waistcoat for that patriarch." "young man," said jemmy, with perfect composure, "'t win't do to judge by appearances. as i wor a-coming up, says i to mysen, 'you're a gentleman.' when i gotten a bit closer, says i, 'nay, he's a dandy.' and now that i heard thee voice, i knows thou'rt nowt but a jackass." jemmy was out with the hounds one day, along with lord wharncliffe and lord beaumont and several of the gentry of the neighbourhood. it was agreed amongst them, unknown to jemmy, that he should be let into a scrape, if possible. accordingly, after the start, lord wharncliffe kept near him, and led him into a field surrounded by a low, thick hedge--low enough for jupiter to clear without any trouble. on the other side of the hedge in one place there was a drinking-pond for the cattle, five or six feet deep, and full of water at the time. lord wharncliffe kept close by jemmy, and edged towards where the pond was; and then, putting spurs to his horse, he leaped the fence, and jemmy did the same to jupiter, and clearing the hedge in gallant style, came splashing into the water, and rolled off jupiter. lord wharncliffe, when he saw jemmy fairly in the middle of the pond, turned back, and alighted, in order to assist him out of the water. he found him half blinded with mud and dirt, trying to scramble out, his clothes completely saturated. jemmy managed to get out without assistance, but it was some time before their united efforts could extricate jupiter. lord beaumont offered jemmy a change of clothes if he would go to his house, but he would not hear of the proposal, declaring he would see the day's sport over first; and so they rode on together towards the rest of the party, who were halted near rawcliffe wood. the fox had been caught after a short run, and the huntsmen were already beating after another. jemmy was greeted with a general titter. captain bolton laughed out, and said, "why, jemmy, you've been fishing, not hunting. what have you caught?" jemmy looked hard at him--he was in no good humour after his plunge--and said, "i reckon there's a flat fish i know of that i'll catch some day." "why, jemmy," said lord wharncliffe, laughing, "i saw you catch a flounder." "ha! ha!" said the captain, "that's good! you've taken the shine out of your smart clothes to-day, jemmy." "a little water will give it back to them," answered hirst, sulkily. "jemmy," asked captain bolton, "did you think you were drowning in the wash-tub? did you say your prayers in it?" "no," answered jemmy, angrily, "i didn't; but what i was doing then was wishing i'd got a contemptible puppy named bolton in the pond with me, that i might kick his breech." jemmy soon saw that he had been the victim of a planned trick, and he determined to have his revenge. "i know very well that lord wharncliffe led me o' purpose into t' pond--i could see't by his manner; but i'll be even wi' him." he did not carry his purpose into execution at once, lest he should arouse suspicion, but about a month afterwards, when in company with lord wharncliffe, he adroitly let drop that he had seen a number of snipe on rawcliffe moor. this moor, now enclosed, was then a wide, open common, full of marshy places, and with here and there bogs covered with a little green moss, deep holes full of peat water, not to be discerned except by those who were well acquainted with them and the treacherousness of their bright green covering. lord wharncliffe, captain bolton, and some others, made up a party to shoot on the common the following day, and met jemmy, who undertook to show them where the snipe most congregated. they had a good day's sport, and when it fell dusk were returning home, jemmy beside lord wharncliffe, whom he engaged in conversation, and captain bolton, with his gun over his shoulder, immediately behind, joining in the conversation at intervals. jemmy led the way direct to one of these bog-holes, and on reaching the patch of moss adroitly slipped on one side, and let lord wharncliffe and captain bolton walk straight into it. the moss at once yielded, and both sank to their breasts, and only kept their heads above water by spreading out their arms on the moss. in this condition they were perfectly helpless. to struggle was to endanger their lives, for if the web of moss were torn, they must infallibly sink beneath it. jemmy looked at them from the firm ground with a malicious grin. "ha, ha! captain," said he, laughing; "art thou saying thy prayers in yond wash-tub?" "go to the devil!" roared captain bolton. "nay," answered jemmy, "thou'rt going to him as fast as thou can, unless i pull thee out." he held out his gun to lord wharncliffe, and assisted him from the hole. "there, my lord, now you have tit for tat." "well, mr. hirst, i shall take care how i play with edged tools again. but i think it is too bad of you to punish captain bolton as well as me." "why, my lord, he seemed to enjoy the horse-pond so much that i thowt i'd let him taste the bog-pit. i've no doubt it gives him a deal o' pleasure." "you old scarecrow!" said the captain, angrily. "i've a great mind to shoot you." as he was helping captain bolton out with his gun he said drily, "sure it's a rare funny sight to see a queer sole angling for a flat fish." the immersed man little enjoyed the jokes at his expense, and he swore at jemmy. "ah!" said that oddity, "i don't think thou'rt a fish worth catching. shall i fling him in again, my lord? he's nowt but what folks would call a little common-place." jemmy's old housekeeper died, and he supplied her place by a strange creature, nearly as great an oddity as himself, called sarah, who for many years had kept house for a rag-and-bone dealer at howden, but who at his death had returned to rawcliffe, her native place, and was living with her brother there when jemmy engaged her. having made money by his speculations in corn and potatoes, he resolved to retire from business. he invested â£4000 in the funds and â£2000 in the bank, and lived on the interest. he was now forty-five years old. an inactive life, however, did not suit him, so he turned his mind to mechanics, and made several curious contrivances, some useful. he constructed a windmill to thrash corn, but for this purpose it did not answer, though it served for cutting up straw and chopping turnips. his next contrivance was a carriage, the body of which was made of wickerwork. it cost him a year's constant application to finish it, and when completed it was calculated to cause a sensation. it was a huge palanquin, with a top like an exaggerated chinaman's hat, supported on four iron rods, which were screwed into the shafts, the shafts running the whole length of the carriage, and resting on springs connected with the axle of the wheels. the sides and back of the carriage were made of wickerwork matting. the axle-case was faced with a clock dial with numbers, and hands connected with a piece of ingenious mechanism, afterwards perfected and patented by another person, which told the distance the carriage had gone by measuring the number of rotations made by the wheels. jemmy used for his hunting-suit a lambskin hat, a rabbit-skin jacket, a waistcoat made of the skins of drakes' necks with the feathers on, a pair of list breeches, yellow, blue, black, and red, stockings of red and white worsted, and yellow boots. his best room was furnished as curiously as his person. instead of pictures, the walls were hung round with bits of old iron and coils of rope; in one place an old frying-pan, in another a rusty sword, a piece of a chair, or a jug. one evening, after a day's sport, he invited the party to join him for a social evening, and the offer was eagerly accepted, as every one was curious to see the interior of his house. he gave them a very fair entertainment, and amused them all the evening with his jokes. immediately over lord wharncliffe's head was suspended a pair of horse's blinkers. "do you wear these?" asked a mr. sadler who was present. "no, sir, i do not; i keep them for donkeys of a peculiar make, who stand on their hind legs and ask impertinent questions." "what do you mean?" asked the young man, reddening. "is that intended as a personal remark?" "draw your own inferences," answered jemmy, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. the young man was so offended that he demanded satisfaction for the insult. the company tried hard to pacify him, but in vain. jemmy then whispered in lord wharncliffe's ear, and the latter immediately rose from the table, and said, "now, gentlemen, mr. hirst is quite willing to give mr. sadler that satisfaction he desires. he has requested my services as second. i have granted his wish. as soon as mr. sadler can arrange with any gentleman to act as his second, i shall be happy to arrange preliminaries with him." mr. sadler having chosen a second, the belligerents were desired to leave the room for a few moments until arrangements had been made for the duel. as they left the room lord wharncliffe whispered in the ear of one of the party, "follow mr. sadler into the other room, and take a bottle of wine with you; get him to drink as much as possible, and we will manage to make the affair end in fun." the gentleman did as desired. then lord wharncliffe and jemmy, slipping in by another door, proceeded to dress up a dummy that was in a closet hard by in jemmy's clothes. mr. sadler was then told that all was ready, and he returned into the room rather the worse for the liquor he had drunk. the pistol was put into his hand, and he was stationed opposite the dummy, which with outstretched arm pointed a pistol at him. the signal was given, and mr. sadler fired; then jemmy, who was secreted in a closet hard by, pulled a string, and the dummy fell with a heavy thud upon the floor. mr. sadler, who thought he had killed his antagonist, was sobered instantly, and was filled with remorse and fear. he rushed to the dead man and then towards the door, then back to the corpse to see if life were quite extinct. then only, to his great relief, he found that the supposed dead man was made of wood. the company burst into a roar of laughter, and when he had sufficiently recovered from his bewilderment he joined heartily in the mirth raised at his own expense. jemmy, emerging from his place of concealment, apologised for the offence he had given, and both shook hands. the carouse was renewed with fresh vigour, and the sun had risen an hour before the party broke up, and its members unsteadily wended their way homewards. jemmy had bought a litter of pigs, and entertained the idea of teaching them to act as setters in his shooting expeditions, and therefore spent a considerable time every day in training them. there were only two that he could make anything of. but he never could induce them to desist from grunting. it was impossible to make them control their emotions sufficiently to keep quiet, and this inveterate habit of course spoiled them as setters. when the litter was about six months old, one of the little pigs discovered his potato garden, and that by putting its snout under the lowest bar of the gate it could lift the gate so that the latch was disengaged from the catch, and the gate swung open; by this means the pig was able to get to the roots. hirst saw the pig do this several times, and he determined to stop the little game. he therefore ground the blade of a scythe, and fixed it, with the sharp edge downwards, to the lower bar. shortly after, jemmy saw the pig go to the gate, but in lifting it off the hasp the scythe-blade cut the end of the snout off. jemmy burst out laughing, and called his old housekeeper to see the fun; but old sarah was more compassionate than her master, and begged him to kill the pig and put it out of its pain. the carriage did not altogether satisfy jemmy; he therefore enlarged it to double its former size. he made it so that, when necessary, he could have a bed in it; and then he bought four andalusian mules to draw it, and with them he drove to pontefract and doncaster races, which he attended every year, and created no small sensation along the roads and on the course. bear and bull baiting were favourite pastimes with him, as was also cock-fighting. he kept two bulls and a bear for this purpose. he used to call the bear nicholas. it was a large savage animal, and was always kept muzzled at home. one morning, after it had been baited and had destroyed four dogs, he took it something to eat, but it would not touch the meat. "ah! thou'rt sulky; then i mun gi'e thee a taste o' t' whip." so saying, he struck the bear over the muzzle with a hunting-whip he carried in his hand. he had no sooner done so than the bear sprang upon him, seized him, and began to hug him. jemmy roared for help, and a favourite dog rushed to his assistance and seized bruin by the ear. the bear let go jemmy to defend itself against the dog, and jemmy, who had the breath nearly squeezed out of him, managed to crawl beyond the reach of the beast. the dog seeing his master safe, laid himself down by him, facing the bear, to guard him from further attacks. sarah found her master half-an-hour after on the ground, unable to rise, and in great pain. she raised him, assisted him to the house, and put him to bed. he was confined for three weeks by the injuries he had received. a few weeks after his recovery he attended pontefract races in his carriage, drawn by four splendid mules, and no one on the course could keep up with him when he put the mules to their speed. sir john ramsden was in a carriage drawn by two fine bays, of which he was not a little proud, and he challenged jemmy to a trial of speed round the course. off they started, sir john taking the lead for a short time, but jemmy's mules, with their light carriage, soon overtook sir john's bays, and came in a hundred yards before them. it was the most popular race run that year on the pontefract course. he also constructed for himself a pair of wings, and by an ingenious contrivance was able to spread the feathers. but his attempt to fly from the mast-top of a boat in the humber failed. he fell into the water, and was drawn out covered with mud, amidst the laughter of a crowd which had assembled to witness his flight. jemmy's eccentricities had reached the ears of king george iii., and he expressed a desire to see him. lord beaumont promised to do his best to persuade hirst to come to town, but at the same time he told the king that if jemmy took it into his head to decline the invitation, no power on earth could move him. accordingly, lord beaumont wrote to jemmy, stating his majesty's wish to see him, and urging him to come as soon as possible. at the end of the week lord beaumont received the following reply:- "my lord,--i have received thy letter stating his majesty's wish to see me. what does his majesty wish to see me for? i'm nothing related to him, and i owe him nothing that i know of; so i can't conceive what he wants with me. i suspect thou hast been telling him what queer clothes i wear, and such like. well, thou may tell his majesty that i am very busy just now training an otter to fish; but i'll contrive to come in the course of a month or so, as i should like to see london." lord beaumont showed jemmy's letter to george iii., who laughed when he read it, and said, "he seems to think more of seeing london than of the honour of introduction to royalty." jemmy spent a month in getting ready for his journey to london; he had an entirely new suit made--a new lambskin hat of the old dimensions, an otter-skin coat lined with red flannel and turned up with scarlet cloth, a waistcoat of the skins of drakes' necks, list breeches, red and white striped stockings, and shoes with large silver buckles on them. his carriage was repainted in the most lively colours; and when all was ready he adjured sarah to look well after his favourites during his absence, and then drove off at a slashing pace, drawn by his four andalusians. he created a sensation in every town and village he passed through. people turned out of their shops and houses to see him. he put up at doncaster at the king's head inn. the hostler there exhibited jemmy's carriage and mules at a penny charge for admission, and realised something handsome thereby. the landlord also reaped a good harvest, for the inn was crowded as long as jemmy stayed there. jemmy reached london in three days. lord beaumont's butler had been sent some time before to tottenham, with orders to wait there till mr. hirst made his appearance and then to conduct him to his lordship's town residence. on jemmy arriving at tottenham, the butler informed him of his lordship's orders, and then rode off before him to show the way. the news spread through london, and the streets were crowded, so that the carriage could hardly make its way through the numbers of people whom the report of the arrival of an eccentric yorkshireman on a visit to the king had drawn together. jemmy, who was immensely conceited, was greatly delighted with this ovation. on reaching lord beaumont's house he was welcomed by his lordship with great cordiality; and after lunch was driven out in lord beaumont's carriage to see the sights of london. the king was informed of jemmy's arrival, and his majesty expressed his wish that jemmy should be presented to him on the morrow. lord beaumont vainly endeavoured to press on the strange fellow the obligations of the court ceremonial. "d---your forms and ceremonies!" said he, impatiently. "if the king don't like my ways, he must let it alone. i did not seek his acquaintance--he must take me as i am. i am a plain yorkshireman, and if the king asks me a question in a plain manner, i shall answer him in a plain way, so that he or anybody else may understand. i can do no more." lord beaumont saw it was in vain to press him further in the matter, and therefore left him to follow his own course. on the following morning, jemmy set out in his wickerwork carriage, in all the glory of drakes' necks, lambs' wool, and otter skins turned up with scarlet, to visit the king. but if the streets were crowded the day before, on this occasion they were crammed, for the news had spread that jemmy was going in state to court. lord beaumont and a couple of horse guards accompanied the carriage, and with difficulty made a passage for jemmy; and all along the streets the windows were filled with heads. when jemmy alighted he was conducted by lord beaumont into an ante-chamber, to await the king's pleasure. the duke of devonshire was also waiting there for an audience with his majesty, and on seeing this extraordinary fellow enter, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and exclaimed, "'pon my honour! what a scarecrow. why, beaumont, where did you pick up that ridiculous object? why have you brought such a merry-andrew here?" jemmy listened patiently for a moment only to the duke's exclamations and laughter, and then seizing a tumbler of water that stood on the sideboard, he dashed it in the duke's face, exclaiming that the poor man was in hysterics: he ran to the duke, loosed his cravat, pulled his nose, and shook him, pretending that he was using his best endeavours to bring him round from his fit. at that moment a messenger came to announce that his majesty wished to see lord beaumont and mr. hirst; so jemmy was ushered into the royal presence. but instead of kneeling and kissing the hand that was extended to him in silence, he caught it and gave it a hearty shake, saying, "eh! i'm glad to see thee such a plain owd chap. if thou ever comes to rawcliffe, step in and give me a visit. i can give thee some rare good wine, or a sup of brandy and water at ony time." the court was convulsed with laughter, and king george iii. could hardly contain himself. however, he did not laugh out openly, but with courtesy maintained his gravity, and asked jemmy how he liked london. "i like it weel enow," answered the oddity; "but i hadn't ony idea afore yesterday and to-day there were sae mony fools in it." "indeed!" said the king; "you pay us a very poor compliment, mr. hirst. i did not know that we were so badly off for wisdom in london. perhaps that is an article in such demand in yorkshire that there is none to spare for cockneys." "why, i'll thee how it were," said jemmy. "when i come into t' town yesterday, and to thy house to-day, the streets were full o' crowds of folks gathered as thick as owt to see me, just a cause i happ'd to be dressed different frae other folk; and as i were waiting out yonder i' t' fore-chamber, there were one o' thy sarvants burst out laughing at me; but i reckon i spoiled his ruffled shirt for him and punished his impertinence." the king asked an explanation of lord beaumont, and when he had heard what jemmy had done to the duke of devonshire, the king laughed heartily. "did you think to find london streets paved with gold?" asked the king. "mebbe i did," answered jemmy; "but i've found out i was mista'en. it's nowt but a mucky place, after all." "a yorkshire bite," said his majesty. "aye," answered jemmy, "but i'm no a bite for thee." after some further conversation the king and his attendants descended to look at jemmy's carriage, and he showed the clock for marking the distance he travelled; the king was interested with this, and praised it as an ingenious contrivance. jemmy then showed him the place he had made for the reception of his wine when he travelled, but which was then empty. his majesty immediately ordered it to be filled with bottles from the royal cellar. as jemmy was taking leave of the king he heard a young nobleman say to another, "what an old fool that is to wear such a hat; it is three times as large as is necessary." jemmy turned sharply upon him and said: "i'll tell thee what, young chap, folks don't always have things aboot 'em that's necessary, or his majesty could dispense varry weel wi' thee." lord beaumont gave an entertainment at which jemmy was present, and danced with a niece of his host. he danced very well, and was very popular; all the evening he was surrounded by a knot of young ladies and gentlemen who did their best to draw him out. but it was dangerous game, for those who attempted to play jokes on him generally got the worst of it. a young man present asked jemmy to procure him a suit of clothes like his own, as he wanted them to attend a masquerade in. jemmy asked in what character he wished to appear. "oh, as a clown, of course," was the answer. "nay, then," said jemmy, "thou'st nowt to do but go just as thou art; nobbudy'll mistake thee for owt else." "you have got your answer," said lord beaumont's niece, laughing; "i hope you are satisfied with it." during his stay in london, jemmy visited the court of chancery, and whilst lord beaumont was talking to a friend, a barrister in wig and gown passing by stopped, and staring at jemmy, said, "holloa, my man, what lunatic asylum have you escaped from, eh?" "bless me!" exclaimed jemmy, catching lord beaumont's arm; "sithere, yonder's an owd woman i' her nightdress that's tummled out o' bed into an ink-pot, and is crawling aboot. let's get a mop and clean her." after spending a week in the metropolis, he returned home much delighted with his visit, which furnished him with topics of conversation for a long time. sarah, his old housekeeper, falling ill, and being unable to work, jemmy engaged the services of a young woman from snaith to wait upon him, and she so accommodated herself to jemmy's whims, that she soon became a great favourite with him. he would not, however, allow followers about the house; and as mary had a sweetheart, the meetings between them had to be carried on surreptitiously. however, one day whilst jemmy was hunting, his bull tripped in jumping a fence, and fell, with jemmy's leg under him, which was broken with compound fracture. this invalided him for some while. he had a block-tackle fixed to a hook in the ceiling of the room, and a sling made for his leg to rest in, fastened to the lower end, and whenever he wished to alter the position of his leg, he hoisted it up or let it down with the tackle. during his illness the restraint of his observant eye was off mary, and the sweetheart had opportunities of visiting her. one night, when jemmy was somewhat recovered, he was sitting in the corner of his garden enjoying a pipe of tobacco, when he saw a man jump over the wall into the garden and make his way to the kitchen window, then rap with his fingers against the glass. mary came out to him, and they spent some time in conversation together, and when they parted he promised to return and see her the following night. jemmy heard every word that had been said, and he sat chuckling to himself, and muttered, "so thou'lt come again to-morrow night, wilt thou? i'll learn thee to come poaching on my preserves." next morning, very early, jemmy rose and dug a hole, four or five feet deep and six or seven feet long, just under that part of the garden wall where the sweetheart had clambered over the night before, and covered it all over with thin laths and brown paper, and then sprinkled mould over it, so that it had all the appearance of solid earth. a small stream of water ran through his garden into the river. jemmy cut a small grip from it to the hole he had dug, and filled the hole with water; then choked the grip up and went into his house, laughing to himself at what would probably happen that night. stationing himself at nightfall in the garden where he could not be seen, he had not long to wait before he saw a head rising above the wall, then the body of a man, and in another moment the expectant lover had cleared the wall, and dropped on the covering of the pitfall. the laths and brown paper yielded to his weight, and he plunged up to his neck in water. the unfortunate young man screamed with fright, and jemmy and mary rushed to the spot. "holloa, my man! what's the matter? what art a' doing i' yond water-pit? hast a' come to steal my apples and pears?" then turning to mary, he asked if she knew him. the poor girl hesitated, but at last confessed that the young man was her sweetheart. "well, then," said jemmy, "help him out and get him into t' house, and let us change his clothes, for i reckon he's all over muck." the young man was brought in dripping like a water-rat. "now, then," said jemmy, "thou mun have a dry suit. which wilt a' have--a pair o' my list breeches and rabbit-skin coat, or my old housekeeper's petticoats and gown?" the young man ungallantly chose the former, thinking if he must be made ridiculous before the eyes of mary, he would be less so in male than female attire. jemmy gave him a glass of hot brandy-and-water, kept him talking by the kitchen fire till his clothes were dried, and then dismissed him with permission to come to the house openly, and visit mary as often as he liked. the young fellow became in time a great favourite with the old man, and when he married mary, jemmy gave him â£50 to start life with. jemmy took it into his head to make himself a coffin, for he said he was getting old, and did not know how soon he might require one, and therefore it was best to be ready. it took him a month to construct it. it had folding-doors instead of a lid, and two panes of glass in each door; and he fitted the inside with shelves for a cupboard, saying that he might as well turn it to some use whilst he was alive, and then fixed it upright in the corner of his sitting-room. twelve months after, he had a second coffin made on the same model, but better, and with some improvements, by a joiner at snaith, which cost him â£12. "he always wished people to believe that he made it himself; but this was not the case, for the person that made it declared to us that jemmy enjoined him not to divulge who had made it during his lifetime."[14] inside the coffin he placed a handle connected with a bell outside, so that, as he said, if he wanted anything when in his grave--shaving-water, sherry, or his boots--he would ring the bell for his servant to bring them to him. he bought a sloop, which he called "the bull," and made a voyage in her once as far as boston; but he was so sick during the passage that he could never after be persuaded to set foot on her again. "nay, nay," said he, "a yard of dry land is worth a mile of water." otter-hunting on the marshes between rawcliffe and goole was one of his favourite pastimes. he kept a small pack of otter-hounds for the purpose. one day, when out with three dogs, near where tunbridge house now stands, the dogs started an otter and gave him chase. he made for a drain, and there being plenty of water in it, he dived several times. the dogs followed him in the water, and jemmy ran along the edge waiting for him. when the otter came out close to him, jemmy struck at him, but missed his aim and fell, owing to the mud being slippery. the otter immediately seized him by the leg, and succeeded in dragging him into the water before the hounds could come to his assistance. a favourite dog, named sancho, dived, and seizing the otter by the throat, forced it to release jemmy's leg, and he reached the bank greatly shaken and exhausted. he fortunately wore that day a thick pair of leather boots, which prevented the teeth of the otter from cutting his flesh. the other dogs had dived to the assistance of sancho, and they brought the otter to the bank, where jemmy clubbed it. it was the largest otter that he had ever caught, and he had the skin tanned. he kept it for two or three years, and then made a present of it to a hair-dresser who used to attend and shave him. as he was returning one night about eight o'clock from howden, where he had been to the bank to draw some money, he was attacked by a couple of footpads, who probably knew where he had been. one seized the bridle of his bull, and the other took hold of jemmy's arm and demanded his money. jemmy suddenly drew a pistol from his pocket and fired it--according to his own account--full in the man's face, then struck spurs into the bull and galloped home. after getting assistance, he returned to the place where he had been stopped, but could find no trace of the persons who had attempted to rob him. with the assistance of the captain of his sloop, jemmy rigged some sails to his carriage, and after a few trials of the new contrivance in the lanes about rawcliffe, he set off one day to pontefract with all sail set. having a fair wind he went at a dashing speed. when he reached the town every one turned out to see the wonderful ship that sailed on dry land. but when jemmy reached the first cross-street a puff of wind caught him sideways, upset the carriage, and flung jemmy through the window of a draper's shop, smashing several panes. the crowd that followed speedily righted the carriage and extricated jemmy, who paid for the damage he had done, and led the way to the nearest tavern, where he treated the whole crowd with ale. this bounty naturally elicited great enthusiasm, which exhibited itself in prolonged cheers, to jemmy's great delight, for he was one of the most conceited of men. the authorities having intimated to him that he would not be allowed to sail back through the streets, the crowd yoked themselves to the carriage, and drew him triumphantly out of the town, and would have dragged him half way to rawcliffe had not a favourable wind sprung up, when jemmy spread his sails again, and was blown out of sight of the crowd with expedition. he reached home without any further mishap. a friend writes to me:--"i remember jemmy hirst well coming to doncaster races in his wretched turn-out, and with a bag of nuts, which he always brought with him for a scramble. he was not a very reputable individual, and must have been, i fancy, half-witted. he was wont to issue flash notes on the 'bank of rawcliffe,' meaning the river bank, for five farthings; and as these bore a great resemblance to the notes issued by a banking firm in doncaster, he was able to deceive many people with them." among other accomplishments, jemmy played the fiddle tolerably well. in winter he would collect all the boys and girls of rawcliffe at his house in the evenings, once a week at least, when he would play the fiddle for them to dance to. at nine o'clock punctually he rang a bell and dismissed them. he never would allow them to remain a minute longer. they were sent away with buns, simnel-cake, or apples. on another evening of the week he would have all the old women to tea, but he would allow no men in to have tea with him on these occasions. they were invited to come in later, and then dancing and singing began, which continued till nine, when he would dismiss them with a glass of rum or gin each. on the evenings that he wished the children to come he blew a horn thrice at his door, and six blasts of the horn assembled the old people. in his old age, jemmy was frequently laid up with gout, when he amused himself with the composition of doggerel verses, mostly about himself. they were contemptible productions, but his vanity made him suppose that he was a poet. he got these rhymes printed, and sold them for a penny to his numerous visitors, and as sometimes on a sunday he had three or four hundred people to see him, he realised a good sum--enough to keep him for the week--from this source. but besides selling his verses, jemmy used to make money by showing his coffin to visitors. he would induce them to enter the largest one, which was contrived to close upon any one inside, and hold him fast as a prisoner till released from the outside. no one once within was suffered to escape without payment--men were charged a penny, women one of their garters. in this way jemmy accumulated hundreds of garters, which he tied to his chair. they were of all sorts, from a piece of silk down to a bit of whip-cord. he used to say that he could always tell a woman's character by her garter. his old housekeeper, sarah, after a tedious illness, died, and then jemmy would not suffer any one to attend him except the wife of the captain of his sloop, "the bull," who used to live in the house with him when her husband was at sea. all his pets were sold off, except a fox which he called charley, that was chained in the back-yard; and his pointer pigs were converted into bacon and eaten. during the last few years of his life jemmy was confined a great deal within doors, and the neighbouring gentry used very often to visit him for the sake of old times; but he never would tolerate a visit from a clergyman. he had no religion whatever, and very little morality either. no one ever saw him inside a church or chapel, or got him to enter on religious conversation. he was visited one day when he was visibly declining by lord and lady wharncliffe; and the latter, on his swearing at the twinges of his gout, gently reproved him, pained to see how utterly indifferent he seemed to the future. "mr. hirst," said her ladyship, "you should not swear; you really ought to make some preparation for death." "haven't i, my lady?" asked jemmy. "i've had my coffin made these ten years." it was in vain that lady wharncliffe endeavoured to get him into a serious turn; he turned off all her remarks with a bantering reply. jemmy was subject to temporary fits of insanity, in one of which he stripped himself stark naked and ran all round rawcliffe. fortunately it was night, so that there were not many people abroad; but he nearly frightened one young fellow out of his wits as he came bounding upon him in the moonlight, round a corner. the cries of this man brought people to his assistance, and they ran after jemmy and caught him as he was stepping into a boat with the purpose of ferrying himself across the river, his mind in this disordered condition returning to the event of his youth, when he rowed across to meet his poor mary. they brought him, not without trouble, to his house, and put him to bed. what made it the more remarkable was, that he had been confined to his bed all day with gout, and could scarcely move a limb. jemmy died on october 29th, 1829, at the age of ninety-one. by his will he left â£12 to be given to twelve old maids for carrying him to his grave, â£5 for a bagpiper from aberdeen to play before him alternately with a fiddler to whom he also bequeathed â£5, as he was borne to the churchyard. the executors had some trouble in carrying out his wishes. the rector of rawcliffe protested against the music being played on the occasion; but eventually a compromise was effected, and the piper was alone allowed to head the funeral to church, playing sacred music. sacred music on a scottish bagpipe! long before the funeral started for the church hundreds of spectators had collected in front of the house. everything being in readiness, the procession moved off--the neighbouring gentry and farmers on horseback, followed by the piper; next came the coffin, carried by six of the old maids and two men, the other six of the old maids bearing the pall. the piper played a psalm tune; but as soon as ever the funeral was over, the fiddler met the piper at the church gates, and they struck up the tune of "owre the hills and far awa'," followed by the crowd to jemmy's late residence, where they received their money and were dismissed. footnotes: [13] "the life and adventures of j. hirst." hepworth, knottingly (n.d.) another life published at pontefract. [14] "life and adventures of james hirst," knottingley: hepworth (n.d.) the tragedy of beningbrough hall. in 1670, beningbrough hall, a fine elizabethan red-brick mansion, stood in a park near the junction of the ouse and nidd. the old house has been pulled down, and replaced by an edifice neat and commodious, as the guide-books would say, and we need say no more. in 1670 beningbrough hall belonged to a roman catholic family of the name of earle. mr. earle, the proprietor, was in somewhat embarrassed circumstances, and was mixed up with some of the plots then rife. he was much away from the hall--generally in london; but the house was full of servants, under the control of a steward, philip laurie, and a housekeeper, named marian--a comely woman, just passing into middle age. one day, when laurie was absent, two gentlemen arrived at the hall, cloaked, with their hats drawn over their eyes, and were admitted by marian. one of these was mr. earle himself, anxious to escape recognition. who the other was did not transpire. after some conversation with the housekeeper, marian summoned the servants into the hall, and ordered them immediately to collect and pack the plate and pictures--everything that was of value and readily movable. mr. earle did not show himself--he remained in the housekeeper's room; but his companion appeared, and announced that he and marian were acting under the authority of mr. earle, and he read them a letter from that gentleman requiring the removal of his valuable property as the housekeeper should direct. the servants were much surprised; but as it was known that their master was in difficulties, and as some suspicion seems to have entered their heads that he was engaged in a plot, their wonder died away; they diligently discharged their duty, and everything that was required was speedily collected and stowed away in leather bags or wooden boxes in the hall. the housekeeper then dismissed the servants, and she and the stranger conveyed the articles packed up into her room. where were they next to be conveyed to, so as to be readily removed? mr. earle expected a warrant for his arrest on the charge of high treason, and the confiscation of all his property. he was therefore desirous to remove all he could in time to escape to france. to avoid observation, it was advisable that his valuables should be secreted somewhere near, but not in the house. marian then, with some hesitation, told the master that an attachment subsisted between her and the gamekeeper, a man named martin giles; that she could rely on his not divulging the secret, and trust him with the custody of the plate, &c., till it suited the convenience of mr. earle to take them away. she was accordingly despatched to the gamekeeper's cottage, and he was brought to the hall, and as much of the secret confided to him as could not well be retained. he promised most frankly to do what was desired of him, and as he was a roman catholic, mr. earle felt satisfied that he could trust him not to betray a master who professed the same faith. when philip laurie returned he found to his surprise that the house had been stripped of everything precious. he was extremely incensed, and in an angry interview with marian charged her with having told tales of him to her master, and so of having lost him the confidence of mr. earle. she did not deny that she mistrusted his honesty, unhappily recalled a circumstance he thought she knew nothing of, and took occasion to give him "a bit of her mind"; but she protested that she had not spoken on the subject to her master. philip laurie asked where the property was removed to. she refused to tell him. he swore he would know. he did not trust her story. the house had been plundered; the opportunity had been taken when he was absent, and marian was privy to a robbery. after violent words on both sides they parted. as he left the room the steward turned, fixing his eyes, blazing with deadly hate, upon the housekeeper, and muttered a few inarticulate words. it was not long before laurie suspected or discovered where the valuables were secreted. chance had thrown in his way a labourer of bad character named william vasey, a poacher and a reputed thief. laurie walked through the park to the cottage of this miscreant, and it was resolved between them that the housekeeper should be murdered, and then that the lodge of the gamekeeper should be robbed. in the evening marian was taking her accustomed walk along a beech avenue beside the ouse. it was evening, and the red evening sky was reflected in the water, which looked like a streak of blood. the rooks were cawing and wheeling about the tree-tops, settling for the night. a white owl that lived in the ivy that covered the north side of the house floated, ghostlike, through the gathering darkness. marian in her white cap walked quietly in the avenue. she was a roman catholic, and was reciting her beads. laurie knew that she was accustomed every evening to retire into this walk to say her rosary. at one point a beech-tree had been blown over, and had left a gap to the west, through which the faint reflection of the evening sky fell, leaving the shadows beyond it in deeper gloom. for some unaccountable reason, as marian came to this gap, instead of passing it and continuing her walk, she stood still, and then turned. a second time she walked the avenue and came to this gap. a mysterious repugnance to advance caused her to hesitate and halt. thinking that this was an unreasonable feeling, she walked on a couple of steps, and then stood still, turned round, and looked at the spot where the sun had gone down. at that moment vasey sprang from behind a tree, and thrust marian over the brink. with a shriek she sank. next morning the body was found, a part of the rosary clenched in her hand, and the other portion was discovered caught in the stump of the broken beech. prints of a man's boots in the mud showed that marian had not died by accidentally falling into the water. suspicion of the guilt of the murder fell upon martin giles, the gamekeeper. laurie was in the hall the whole time, and therefore no one supposed him implicated in the commission of the crime. the gamekeeper had behaved mysteriously for the last day or two. he had avoided his usual friends; he had been seen privately conversing with the housekeeper. only marian and he knew that their master had been in the house; his presence had been concealed from the other servants, who only saw his companion. the removal of the valuables to the house of giles had been accomplished by the two gentlemen with the assistance of the gamekeeper alone. after the valuables had been taken away, the two gentlemen in disguise had ridden off. the servants, who had noticed that there was some mystery to which giles and marian were privy, thought that the keeper had killed the poor woman out of dread lest she should prove an untrustworthy depositary of the secret, whatever it was. it was known also that the lovers had been accustomed to meet in the beech avenue, the place where the murder had been committed. whilst the tide of popular indignation ran strong against the unfortunate gamekeeper, laurie and vasey resolved on committing the robbery--before also mr. earle and his companion had found means to remove the property entrusted to his custody. at midnight vasey and the steward went to the gamekeeper's cottage. laurie was to remain outside, and the other ruffian to enter and rob the house. they thought that martin giles was sure to be asleep; but they were mistaken. the man had been sincerely attached to poor marian, and lay tossing in bed, wondering who could have murdered her, and vainly racking his brain to discover some clue which could guide him to a solution of the mystery. as he thus lay, he thought he heard a slight sound down-stairs. but the wind was blowing, and the trees roaring in the blast; the little diamond panes in the latticed windows clattered, and the keeper thought nothing of it. presently, however, he heard the latch of his door gently raised, and in the darkness he just distinguished the figure of a man entering the room. he immediately jumped out of bed, but was felled to the ground. as he struggled to rise he was again struck down, and for the moment was stunned. but he recovered consciousness almost immediately. he had fallen upon a sheep net, which lay in a heap on the floor. he quietly gathered up the net in his hands, sprang to his feet, and flinging the net over the murderer, entangled his arms so that he could not extricate himself. he wrenched the bludgeon out of his hand, and struck him over the head with it, so that he measured his length, insensible, on the floor. had martin only known that this ruffian had been the murderer of her who had been dearer to him than anyone else in the world, there is no doubt but the blow would have fallen heavier, and would have spared the hangman his trouble. giles then threw open his window and fired off his gun, to alarm the inmates of the hall. in a few minutes the servants made their appearance, amongst them philip laurie, with a ghastly face. a sign passed between him and vasey, and he recovered some of his composure. the captured ruffian had assured him he would not betray his accomplice. vasey was taken into custody, and on the following day was removed to york castle, where he was committed for burglary with intent to commit murder. when mr. and mrs. earle heard of what had taken place, the latter came with the utmost speed into yorkshire. mr. earle, fearing arrest for treasonable practices, did not venture to do so. laurie's conduct had already excited suspicion. he had not been seen issuing from the hall on the night of the attempted robbery with the other servants, and was found on the spot fully dressed, and that not in his usual costume, but one which looked as if intended for a disguise. mrs. earle sent for him to her boudoir, and dismissed him from her service. as yet there was no charge sufficiently established against him to warrant her committing him to custody; but, she added, vasey had declared his full intention to confess before his execution. laurie, a desperate man, flung himself on his knees, and implored his mistress not to send him away; or if, as he heard, she was about to escape with mr. earle to france, would she allow him to accompany them? she indignantly thrust the wretch from her. he started to his feet, drew a pistol from his coat-pocket, and presented it at her head. she struck up his hand, and the contents of the pistol shivered the glasses of a chandelier that hung in the room. he rushed out of the room, ran to his own apartment, put another pistol to his forehead, and blew his brains out. vasey now confessed everything, and was executed at the tyburn, outside micklegate bar, at york, on august 18th, 1670. it is said that at night a pale, female figure is seen to steal along the bank of the ouse, where the avenue stood in olden time, and to disappear in the churchyard of newton, which adjoins the park, where marian was buried. a yorkshire butcher. the subject of this memoir has been dead but a few years, and therefore i do not give his name, lest it should cause annoyance to his relatives. he was a tall, red-faced, jovial man, with a merry twinkle in his small eyes; a man who could tell a good story with incomparable drollery, and withal was the gentlest, kindest-hearted man, who would never wound the most sensitive feelings by ridicule. he had a splendid bass voice, and sang in the church choir; his knowledge of music was not inconsiderable, and for some time he was choir-master, and performed a feat few other men have been able to accomplish--he was able to keep the discordant elements of a choir in harmony. his inimitable tact, unvarying good nature, and readiness to humour the most self-consequential of the performers, made him vastly popular with them, and prevented or healed those jars which are proverbial among professed votaries of harmony. this worthy butcher thus narrated his courtship:-"it's a queer thing, sir, hoo things turns oot sometimes. noo it war a queer thing hoo i chanced to get wed. i war at leeds once, and i'd na mair thowts aboot marrying na mair 'an nowt; and i war just going doon t' street, tha knaws, sir, when i met wi' my wife--that's her 'at's my wife noo, tha knaws. i'd kenned her afore, a piece back; soa shoo comes oop to me, an' shoo ses, 'why, james, lad, is that thee?'--'aye,' i ses, 'it is awever.'--'weel, james,' ses she, 'what's ta doing wi' thysen noo?'--'why,' i ses, 'i's joost getten me a new hoose.' soa wi' that she ses, 'then i lay, james, if tha's getting a new hoose, tha'll be wanting a hoosekeeper.' soa i ses to 'er, ses i, 'tha ma' coom and be t' wife if ta likes; tha mawn't be t' hoosekeeper, tha knaws, but tha ma' coom and be t' wife.' and soa shoo ses, 'i ain't partikler. i don't mind if i do.' so we never had na mair to do aboot t' job." i asked him if he ever had found occasion to regret such an expeditious way of settling the matter. he shook his head and said, "noa, sir, niver. shoo's made a rare good wife. but shoo's her mawgrums a' times. but what women ain't got 'em? they've all on 'em maggots i' their heads or tempers. tha sees, sir, when a bone were took out o' t' side o' adam, to mak a wife for 'm, 't were hot weather, an' a blue-bottle settled on t' rib. when shoo's i' her tantrums ses i to her, 'ma dear,' ses i, 'i wish thy great-great-grand ancestress hed chanced ta be made i' winter." when he was married he took his wife a trip to bolton, and spent a week on his honeymoon tour. as soon as he was returned home, the first thing he did was to put his wife into the scales and weigh her. then the butcher took out his account-book, and divided the expenses of the marriage and wedding-tour by the weight of the wife. "eh! lass!" said he, "thou'st cost me fourteen pence ha'penny a pound. thou'st the dearest piece o' meat that iver i bought." he had a barometer. the glass stood at set-fair, and for a whole week the rain had been pouring down. on the eighth day the glass was still telling the same tale, and the rain was still falling. our friend lost his patience, and holding the barometer up to the window he said, "sithere, lass! thou'st been telling lees. dost thou see how it's pouring? i'll teach thee to tell lees again!" and he smashed the glass. he was laid up with gout. the doctor had tried all sorts of medicines, but nothing seemed to profit him. at last the medical man said, "try smoking. i daresay smoking would do you a deal of good." "ah," said the wife, "it's possible it might. but thou seest, doctor, chimleys is made so narrow nowadays that one cannot hang un up i' t' reek (smoke) as one did wi' one's bacon i' bygone days." his wife was dying. she was long ill, and during her sickness was always exclaiming, "eh! i'm boun' to dee. it win't be long afore i dee. i shan't be long here"--and the like. our jolly butcher heard these exclamations day after day, and said nothing. at last he got a little impatient over them, and said one day, as she was exclaiming as usual, "o dear! i'm goin' to dee!"--"why, lass, thou'st said that ower and ower again a mony times. why doan't thou set a time, and stick to it?" on another occasion his wife slightly varied the tune to "eh! the poor bairns! what will become o' t' bairns when i dee? who will mind t' bairns when their mother is dead?" "never thee trouble thy head about that," said her husband; "go on wi' thy deein'. i'll mind t' bairns." he was going to york with his son, a boy of eighteen. he took a ticket for himself and a half-one for the boy. when the train drew near to york, the ticket-collector came round, and exclaimed at this half-ticket, "where's the child?" "here," said the butcher, pointing to the tall, awkward youth. "what do you mean?" asked the indignant ticket-collector. "he ain't a child; he's a young man!" "ah! so he is, now," answered the butcher; "but that's thy fault, not mine. i know when we got in at wakefield he were nobbut a bairn; but tha'st been going so confounded slow that he's growed sin' we started!" many years ago, on a rare occasion, james took a glass too much. it was the last time such a misfortune took place with him. his clergyman was obliged to speak to him about it, and in doing so said--"you know, james, beasts do not get drunk." "there's a deal o' things belonging to all things," answered the worthy butcher, who never suffered himself to be cornered. "if a horse were o' one side o' a pond, and another on t' other side, and t' first horse ses to t' other, 'jim, i looks towards ye!' and t' other ses to the first, 'thank y' kindly, tom; i catches your eye.' and the first horse ses again, 'tha'll tak' another sup, lad, and drink ma health'; the second will be sewer to say, 'i will, and i'll drink to lots o' your healths.' why, sir, them two horses will be nobbin to one another iver so long. lor bless ye! them two horses win't part till they's as drunk as christians." james at one time was not well off. he had a brother whom we will call tom, who had some money. now james happened to hear that his brother was very ill, and as they had not latterly been very good friends, he was afraid lest, if tom died, he would not leave him his money. so he immediately set off to his brother's house, and on his arrival found him ill in bed. he went up to the room in which his brother lay, and began--"weel, tommy, an' hoo art a'?" "oah, james!" said tom, "i'se vara bad. i thinks i's boun' to dee." "eh!" said james, "well, mebbe tha'lt outlive me, tommy; i nobbut feels vara middlin' mysen. i hain't felt weel for a long while, and i war just thinking, tommy, o' sending to mr. smith, t' lawyer, to mak' me a bit o' a will, tha knaws. hast a' made _thy_ will, tommy?" "noa," said tom, "i hain't; but i was thinking wi' thee, james, o' sending for lawyer smith. noo, who wast a' thinking o' making thy heir, james?" "weel, tha knaws, tommy," said james, "mebbe thou and me hain't lately been vara particklers; but i war thinking it ever owt ta be, 'let bygones be bygones'; and soa i was thinking o' leaving my bit o' brass to thee. noo, tommy, hoo wast a' thinking o' leaving thy money?" "why," said tommy, "as thou'st been sa good as leave thy money ta me, i think it wadn't be reet if i didn't do t' same by thee, and leave thee my brass." "weel," said james, "i think thou couldn't do better; and soa let's send for mr. smith to mak' our wills, and i think mebbe, tommy, _thou'd better ha' thy will made fust_." so these two men sent for the lawyer to make their wills. tommy's was made first, and a very few days after he died. his money then came to james, who in reality was not ill in the least, but had only pretended to be so. one of james the butcher's sayings i well remember. he was addressing a young man who was courting a girl, and was very hot and eager in his pursuit of her. "i'll gi'e thee a bit o' advice, joa: don't bother to shuttle a happle-tree to get t' fruit; tak' it easy; wait, and t' apples will fall into thy lap o' their selves. don't go coursing over hedges and threw ditches after rabbits; wait a bit, and t' rabbits 'all come into thy springes without trouble. don't take on running after t' lasses; take it easy, and thou'lt find, joa, lad, that t' lasses will run after thee." at one time james rented some land of a neighbouring gentleman of large fortune and estates who was well known for his hospitality. james was invited with other tenants to dine on court day at the hall, and dinner was served up in the best style. on his return home to his wife, he gave her an account of it "eh! phoebe, but it wad ha' capped owt. there were beef and mutton, and chickens and game, and ivery thing one could think of. i's sewer i were fair an' bet wi' it all; but what bet ma moast o' all were 'at we'd ivery one on us a small loaf lapped up i' a clout." liqueurs were handed round after dinner. our good friend took his little glass of the, to him, unknown tipple, and after drinking it off at one gulp, and considering a while, turned round to the waiter and said, "john, bring us some o' this 'ere i' a moog." at a club dinner, a wedding breakfast, or a funeral lunch, james was overflowing with anecdotes. he was generally the hero of his stories; but i do not believe that they all in reality happened to himself. the stories often told against the principal actor in them, and therefore he may have thought it legitimate to appropriate to himself tales which made him appear in a ludicrous light. i can remember only a few of these stories. "it was one night in november last that i and my wife phoebe was sitting tawking i' t' house. it were a dark night, as black as warren's best. now i mun tell thee that our rachel anne--that's our grown up daughter--were at that age when they mostly likes to ha' a sweetheart, shoo'd gotten a young man. i don't like to name names, but as we're all friends here, i don't mind saying he were a downright blackguard. it were old greenwood's son, tha knaws; t' lad as were locked up by t' police for boiling a cat. well, rachel anne were mad after him, and nother her mother nor i liked it. we were nicely put out, i promise you. "to go on with my tale. phoebe and i were sitting by t' fire, when all at once i ses to my old woman, 'phoebe, lass, where's rachel anne? shoo's not at home, i reckon.' "'nay, james, lad,' said she, 'shoo's at a confirmation class.' "'at a confirmation!' said i, and i whistled. 'i thowt confirmation was ower.' "'ah! i dunnow sure; but that's what shoo said.' "'is owd greenwood's son, jim, going to confirmation class too?' "'i cannot tell,' shoo said. "'no more can i,' said i; 'but i'd like to know?' "'so should i,' said she. "'win't thee look out o' chamber window and see if there's a leet i' t' school?' said i. so my owd woman went upstairs and looked, and when shoo came doun, 'no, there ain't,' said she. "'i thowt not,' said i. "well, we sat by t' fire some while, and then my owd lass went into back kitchen to get a bit o' supper ready. shoo hadn't been there long afore shoo come back and said, 'james, lad!' "'ah!' says i; 'what's up?' "'why, this,' says she; 'there's summun i' t' back yard.' "'how dost a' know?' says i. "says she, 'i heard 'em taukin'; and there's a lanthorn there.' "'there's impidence!' says i. 'who is they?' "'i think rachel anne is one,' says phoebe. "'and jim greenwood is t' other,' says i; 'and i'm glad on't.' "'why?' says phoebe. "'lass,' says i, 'i'll pay yond chap out, i will. i'll go out by t' front door, and i'll come on him, and i'll let him know what i think of him, coming arter our rachel anne. and when i've gotten howd on him, i'll hollow. then do thou run out o' t' back door, and i'll howd him tight, and thou can poise him behind as much as thou like. since we've been man and wife these fourteen year,' says i, 'we've taken our pleasure in common,' says i. 'we've been to hollingworth lake together,' says i. 'and we've been to southport together,' says i. 'and wunce we've went together to t' exhibition i' wakefield together. so,' says i, 'we'll ha' the kicking, and the shuttling, and the rumpling up o' yond lad o' greenwood's together. o glory!' and then i run out o' t' front door as wick as a scoprill,[15] and came shirking round towards t' back door i' t' yard. well, t' night were dark, but i could see there were some folks there, and i could see the glint o' a lanthorn, and t' leet from t' back kitchen window came on a bit o' gownd, and i know'd it belonged to rachel anne. "'drat him!' said i to mysen, 'what is lasses coming to next, when they brings their young men under the noses o' their parents wot can't abear them?' "so i came sloping up along the wall till i was quite near. will you believe it?--her young man, that's owd greenwood's lad jim, was sitting as easy as owt i' a chair. "'oh, you charmer!' says rachel anne. i heard her voice. i know'd it were she. 'you're near perfect noo!' "'oh lawk!' thinks i, 'there's no accounting for tastes.' jim he ain't ower much o' a beauty, i promise thee. he's gotten a cast i' one o' his eyes, and when he washes his face he's gotten a black stock on; and when he don't, why, then he's all o' a muck, face and neck alike. "'can i get thee owt?' says rachel anne, as shameless as owt. 'ah! tha wants a pair o' boots. i reckon father's gotten an owd pair he win't miss. i'll get them for thee.' then sudden, as she was going away to t' back door, she turns and says, 'my! he ain't got no pipe. i mun get him one o' father's.' "'oh, ye abandoned profligate!' groaned i, 'robbing thy parents to bestow all on this owdacious waggabone! but i'll be even wi' thee! i'll let my fine gentleman know the looks o' my back-yard! i'll let un ha' a taste o' my baccy! i'll let un know the feel o' my boots!' "'father's breeches fit un rare!' said rachel anne. "well, now! if that warn't too much. i yelled-"'ah! ye dirty waggabone! thou stealing rascal! thou cock-eyed raggamuffin!' and i wor upon him in no time. i caught un by t' neck and shook un furious. i wor nigh brussen wi' rage. he were fair down capped, and said nowt. but, as you'll see presently, he were gathering up his rage for a reglar outbust. he were nigh brussen too. "'well,' says i, 'wot is't a doing here? i knows! thou'rt arter my rachel anne. well. tha'lt never marry my daughter if i can help it. i'll never own thee wi' thy ugly face for a son-in-law. i win't run the chance o' a cock-eye i' my grand-children. if my dowter will ha' thee, i'll disown her; i win't speak to her again.' then i shook him. 'take that,' says i, and i gave him a blow o' the fist on his nose, and i reckon i flattened it in. 'dost a' like it?' says i. 'take another taste--a little stimulant will do thee good.' then i kicked un off t' chair, and dragged him up, and shook, and shook, and shook him till i were all of a muck wi' sweat. so i hollered to my phoebe. 'phoebe, lass! come and poise un i' t' rear. i'll hold un i' position.' well, she came out, and she gave him a crack. "'now,' says i, 'i'd like to look i' thy ugly face and take stock o' t' damages. i've done thy beauty. phoebe, lass! give me t' candle.' shoo went to t' lanthorn, and browt out t' candle and gave it to me. "jim greenwood hung all limp, like old clothes i' my hand, and never spoke. but i didn't know what fire and fury was in him then. he wor just one o' them chaps as endures what you may say and do up to a certain point, but when that point is passed, then--lor'!' "i took t' candle from my owd woman--that's my wife, i mean, tha mun know--and i held it afore me. lor-a-mussy, i were flayed! i let go hold, and let t' candle tumble on jim--that's owd greenwood's son, tha knows--and i stood shakin' i' all my limbs. i'd smashed his nose right in; i'd broken t' bridge and knocked it in, and there weren't nowt on it remaining. and his eyes--lor'! i hadn't time to think, for i had passed t' point, and t' chap couldn't stan' no more. i'd let t' candle fall on him, and set him on fire. folks don't over much like being set fire to--leastways owd greenwood's son didn't; for he did blaze, and bang, and fizz, and snap, and crackle away! he reglar exploded, he did! i stood in a sort o' maze like--i were dazed. phoebe screamed. and then came a great haw-haw from my boys, who were all there. i could see 'em now by t' leet o' t' burning sweetheart. 'lor', father!' said rachel anne, as innocent as owt, _'what hast a' been doing to our guy fawkes?_' "well, sir, will you believe it?--it was nowt but a guy fawkes full o' straw and squibs and crackers 'at i'd involuntarily set on fire." this story was told, scarcely above a breath, during a missionary meeting, whilst a colonial bishop was addressing us. james did not laugh himself--was as grave as was proper on the occasion; but his little eyes twinkled roguishly, and those who could hear the whispered tale with difficulty restrained their laughter. "i think i can tell you summut as happened to my brother tommy," said james, after we had sung "from greenland's icy mountains," and were walking at a judicious distance from the colonial bishop. "well, my brother tom were a rare bird to drink. he'd been to t' horse and jockey one day, and had supped enough beer for once, and when he came out about half after ten, he warn't ower clear as to t' direction he sud go. howm'ever, he took t' loin (lane) all right. presently there come some one along t' road. 'now,' thowt he, 'i mun keep clear o' he, or he'll run hissel' again' me, and knock me down.' t' mooin were up, just settin', and castin' shadows; so he made a great roundabout to avoid lurching again' t' man as were comin' along; but seeing his shadow, ma brother mistook that for t' man, and thowt t' shadow had cast t' feller. so he tried to step ower t' chap and avoid t' shadow. as tha mun see, he came wi' a crack again t' chap. "'ye druffen rascal,' said he, giving ma brother a bang on t' lugs (ears) as made his head spin. "'it's thy fault,' said tom. 'what dost a' mean by having a standing-up shadow and solid too?' "the chap gives him another crack and tumbles him down. when ma brother got up again he went on his road again, saying to hissel', 'i winna go blundering again' no more shadows to-night if i see anybody coming.' just then he thowt he saw another chap; so to get out o' his way he turned into a field by a gate to let un pass. now, ma brother had a little too much beer in his head; soa when he got into t' field he couldn't get out again. he rambled round and round, and t' mooin went down. "'weel,' ses he, 'i don't care; i'll sleep where i am.' and he ligs him down on t' ground. he hadn't been long asleep afore he wakened wi' cold. t' dews o' neet came falling on him and wetted him, and his teeth were chattering; so then he opened his eyes. and what dost a' think he seed? why, standing above him were a hawful form as black as a crow. his legs was crooked, his arms was spread, and tom could see claws on his fingers. his face were like nowt earthly; and he had bristling hair, and great horns like a coo. tom could see t' glint o' his wicked een fixed on him. "weel, now, tommas weren't that sort o' chap exackly as might flatter hissen angels 'ud come after him out o' heaven; so the thowt came on him it were t' owd chap come to fetch his soul to t' other place. "tom lay quite still. he thowt t' owd chap mebbe would let un lig a while if he shammed sleep. he wouldn't be so unmannerly as to wake un up for the purpose o' takin' him away. tha knaws t' owd chap war' a gem'man once, tho' he's fallen a bit sin'. yet what's born i' t' bone comes out i' t' flesh--leastwise so tom thowt. "soa tom lay quiet. but presently he thowt he felt t' owd chap's fingers feeling in his pocket for four and twopence he'd gotten aboot him somewhere. soa tom turned round sudden on him and ses, 'tha mun tak ma soul if tha's boun' to do soa; but i'll trouble thee to let t' four and twopence aloan.' "ah! he war' a deep one war' t' owd chap. as sharp as owt, when tom turned on un, he were standing up stiff and unconcerned, and looking t' other way. "nah, as tom had spoken, 't warn't no use his pretending any more to be asleep. so he thowt, 'what am i to do next? tha mun do more wi' traycle than tha can wi' brimstone. i'll soap un down a bit.' "then tom opens his eyes and looks at un and ses, 'owt fresh?' but he wouldn't answer and reveal the mysteries o' his shop. "so tom ses, ses he, 'i reckon tha'st coom a rare long way, and it's thirsty work walking, or flying, or travelling by train, or whichiver way tha hast comed. and,' ses he, 'i tak it vara civil o' thee to come for me. there's ma owd woman grummles if shoo's to come for ma to t' horse and jockey, and that's half a mile from my home. and mebbe tha's comed for me five thousand mile. it's vara civil. it's not like a north countryman that,' ses he. 'we are outspoken folk, and there ain't much civility among us, but hard rubs. but i won't be outdone by a south countryman i' civility. i daresay tha'rt dry. tha'll stop a bit, and i'll fetch thee a sup o' home-brewed beer.' "soa tom gets up on his feet, and away he goes as wick as a scoprell, and gets home, and dashes in at t' door. there were sarah anne, his wife, as red as a turkey-cock, and swollen fit to brussen wi' he getting home so late. "but tommy he out wi' it at once. 'sarah anne, lass! run and get a jug o' beer and a mug, and off wi' thee as fast as tha' can to t' owd chap--he's waiting for thee.' he thowt, tha knaws, to get t' owd chap to tak t' wife instead of he. but sarah anne she up wi' her fist and knocked him down as flat as ginger-beer as has had t' cork out a fortnight. 'ah, james,' ses ma brother to me, 'i've tried to send ma owd woman to t' owd chap, but shoo winna go. tha mun tak' a horse to t' water, but tha canna mak' un drink.' "weel, next morning ma brother tom hoo went to look at t' place where he was i' t' neet, and there he see'd t' owd chap still.... but by day leet--what dost a' think?--he was nowt but a flaycrow (scarecrow)." footnote: [15] as lively as a teetotum. the one-pound note.[16] samuel sutcliffe lived at hebden hay, or hawden hole, about a quarter of a mile west of newbridge, nearly at the bottom of the steep slope which descends from whitehill nook to the river hebden. the house is still standing, easy to be recognised by its whitewash and by the yew-tree which grows between the door and the path leading to upper hepton and tommy rocky's. beside the farmhouse there is under the same roof a cottage at the east end. in the field at the west end, and below the house, stretching down to the stream, were formerly some mounds, where it was said that the heptonstall people during the plague buried their dead. crabtree says (p. 15): "of that dreadful epidemic, the plague, one hundred and seventeen persons are said to have died at heptonstall in 1631, several of whom were buried at home, but all entered in the register there." in the old barn near the house, pulled down a few years ago, since 1817, an old man cut his throat. the yew-tree is no inapt symbol of the melancholy associations of this secluded spot--a cemetery, a suicide, and a murder. samuel sutcliffe, commonly called sammy o' kattie's, lived there to the age of eighty, a bachelor. he was a manufacturer of worsted pieces, and for several years farmed the small farm. the only person living with him was his nephew, william sutcliffe. on saturdays, sometimes the uncle, sometimes the nephew, attended halifax market; sometimes both. on saturdays, towards evening, the old man might have been seen crossing the old bridge at hebden bridge, and calling at the "hole in the wall" to take a single glass of ale and hear the news, while he gave himself a very brief rest after his walk from halifax, before passing on. he was a stout, active man for his age; sober, steady, and industrious; and by economy, but without penuriousness, had saved a considerable sum of money. the cottage adjoining sammy's dwelling was inhabited by a weaver named william greenwood. for five or six years the nephew, william sutcliffe, had carried on a little business in the fustian trade on his own account; and for two years he had the take of the farm, on which he kept a couple of cows. his business led him to travel into lancashire, craven, and even westmoreland. his journeys were taken three times a year: he started on monday morning, and returned usually on friday evening, sometimes on saturday. he left hawden hole on one of these journeys on monday, february 3rd, 1817, and was this time expected home on the thursday night following, but circumstances prevented his return till the saturday. the name of the murderer was michael pickles, commonly designated "old mike." he lived at northwell, near heptonstall, on the road leading from heptonstall by newbridge to haworth. his cottage, since pulled down, was of one storey: it contained two rooms--one towards the valley and the township of wadsworth, into which the door entered, formed the dwelling or "house;" the other, trenching back into the hill-side, was called the "shop," and contained the looms. some portion of the walls of the shop are still visible. approached from the road, old mike's cottage stood a little below and a little beyond the principal house now standing at northwell. a small garden was attached, in the walls of which are still to be seen the recesses which contained mike's bee-hives. the plump-looking navel-wort, possibly introduced by him, may be seen peeping from crevices in the walls. like hawden hole, northwell has also its characteristic tree. the sombre scotch pine which stands prominently forward in front of northwell is in the corner of mike's garden, and is said to have been planted by him. he lived at this cottage fifteen years. his age was forty-one. he is described as a strong, broad-set, but not a tall man, with rather dark hair, pale, cadaverous face, no whiskers, and large rolling eyes. he was left-handed, his hands being very large: he often made exhibition of the power of his left hand in grasping and crushing anything placed within it, in which exploit he surpassed all competitors. he had a very large, flat foot; his knees inclined very much inwards. he had the reputation of being "double-jointed," whatever may be meant by that term. his occupation was sometimes that of weaving at northwell, sometimes of gardening for his neighbours, but more frequently that of an out-door labourer in dry-walling, and especially in constructing, of large stones, what is called "weiring," for preventing the river-edge from encroaching on the neighbouring fields; for which his great strength qualified him. he had the reputation of being light-fingered. in dressing the gardens of his neighbours he not unfrequently helped himself to some of the contents. his house was generally very well supplied with milk in summer, which was considered to have been obtained by milking the cows in the fields. above all, he had the reputation of stealing bee-hives, to which the fact of his being a bee-keeper was a sort of cover. as a gentleman was one night riding along the "needless road" when not quite dark, he and his horse were suddenly startled, on coming in view of the steep field stretching from that road up to northwell, by the sight of a strange figure moving slowly and heavily up the field: it was mike with his not uncommon night burden, a hive of bees on his head. another gentleman, stopping late at kebcote inn because of the rain, saw mike and a companion take shelter there about an hour after midnight, the former being loaded with the customary "hive-piche" on his head. in the floor of his house, under the bed, he had excavated a secret hiding-place for stolen goods, covered by a moveable flag-stone. the paving before his door had been raised by the earth taken from this so-called "cave." notwithstanding these dishonest practices, mike made a considerable profession of religion. he was a joined member at birchcliffe chapel, having, with his wife, received adult baptism. whether he was originally sincere in his profession and afterwards fell away, is more than doubtful when we consider that, notwithstanding his mal-practices, he continued to make great religious profession. in conversation he would expound at large the doctrines of christianity. to approach him with the view of holding short discourse with him on general topics while he was gardening for you, was to incur the risk of a sermon from him. he fetched milk from old sammy's at hawden hole, and was in the habit of sitting and conversing with him, not unfrequently of reading to him during the long evenings. they had been acquainted many years. mike's accomplice was john greenwood, a weaver, a tallish, slender man, aged twenty-nine years, with lightish hair, whose features gave the impression of a weak and undecided, rather than a depraved and wicked disposition. his characteristic want of firmness rendered him the easy dupe of any deeper adept in villany who might throw temptation into his way. it is believed that he would not have been connected with the murder but for the persuasion of mike. his character does not appear to have lain under any suspicion, although, as his confession afterwards showed, he was already addicted to dishonest practices. he and mike married sisters. he lived in a cottage attached to a remote farm in wadsworth called bog-eggs, above old town, a little below the moorland prominence called tomtitiman from which so noble a prospect of this district may be obtained. his cottage, now unoccupied, forms the upper part of the building at bog-eggs, being contiguous to the farm-house. on thursday, the 6th of february, 1817, "joan o' t' bog-eggs" went over to northwell to try to obtain some money from old mike, saying that he was "pinned." times were very hard just now, and doubtless there was much suffering among the poor. flour was selling at eight shillings per stone, and meal at four and sixpence to five shillings. old mike said that he had no money, but that he knew of a place where they could get some. this was just the sort of temptation in which joan's (john's) weak principles were likely to fail; and mike was exactly the sort of man to attempt to turn joan's infirmities to his own advantage. mike's plausible speech soon prevailed over joan's scruples; and it was agreed that that night they should sally forth and rob old sammy. on thursday evening, february 6th, 1817, "old mike" and "joan o' t' bog-eggs" were sitting by old mike's fireside at northwell. the night was wearing late, and the family had been sometime in bed. it was clearly understood between mike and joan, that after waiting till the hour was sufficiently advanced, they should sally out and rob "sammy o' kattie's." the hour agreed upon was midnight. mike was smoking his pipe, and thinking over the circumstances of the intended burglary. simple, unthinking joan had fallen asleep under the influence of the warm fire. at length the clock struck twelve, and mike aroused his companion, saying, "come, it's time to be going." they took with them mike's gun, and left the house, proceeding towards whitehill nook, along a field called adcock, which is to the left of and above the public road leading to whitehill nook. they then travelled down the steep rough wood to hawden hole. thrice joan's heart failed him as he thought of the possible consequences to them both of the meditated robbery. reassured by mike's arguments, he proceeded to old sammy's. half-past twelve was the hour for the moon to rise; but the night was cloudy, though without rain. arrived at the house, joan was placed as sentry before the door, with the gun in his hand, and directed to shoot any person who should offer interruption. mike, perfectly familiar with the premises, took out a window at the west end of the house. there were more than one window at that end. he took out the larger one, being that nearest to the river. he then entered the house, and undid the door, and opened it. besides a lock, the door was also fastened by a stout wooden bar placed across it, with the ends inserted in holes in the masonry. coming out of the house through the now opened door, he fastened the door of william greenwood, the neighbouring cottager, by placing the wooden bar across the doorway, and fastening the latch to the bar with string. probably they both entered sammy's cottage. mike mounted the stairs into the room where old sammy was sleeping alone. about a month before, the old man had bought a small oak box, in which he placed such of his papers and documents as were of value, and most of his money. the box was placed in a bucket which stood in one corner of his bedroom. mike secured this bucket, with its contents. three cotton pieces and four warps were also taken from the bedroom: the pieces were marked by william greenwood. a cloth-coat, and a pair of shoes belonging to william sutcliffe, which wanted soling, were also taken, and a new shirt of sammy's. but old men sleep lightly. before these things were secured and got away, sammy awoke. sitting up in bed to listen, he heard footsteps in the house. he endeavoured to alarm his neighbour in the adjoining cottage, and called out, "william! william! william!" fearful of being disturbed or detected, mike approached the bed and seized his old friend and companion by the throat with his terrible left hand. gripping him as in a vice, he held him down; nor did he quit his grasp till the spark of life was extinguished. william greenwood was disturbed during the night. he fancied he heard a noise in sammy's house, but could not be sure. he called out, but received no answer. he conjectured that the old man might be talking in his sleep; at any rate, he took no more notice of the matter, and fell asleep again. the wind was very strong, and roared terrible in the yew-tree. probably the noise which he heard was sammy's voice calling out "william" the third and last time. the silence which ensued was, as mr. hardy eloquently described it at york, "the silence of death." i have a short document drawn up at halifax for the satisfaction of william sutcliffe, on the 17th or 18th of february, 1817, that he might possess some account of the manner of his uncle's last struggles, in which is recorded the substance of what mike confessed on the subject at halifax, february 17th. it is as follows:--"the further examination of william sutcliffe, of hawden hole, in heptonstall, who saith that on monday, the 17th day of february, 1817, michael pickles, the prisoner, told this examinant that after he had entered the dwelling-house of his late uncle, samuel sutcliffe, and had got into the bedroom, the said samuel sutcliffe rose up on the bed and called out, 'william! william! william!' on which the said michael pickles seized the said samuel sutcliffe by the throat, and heard no more from him, except that he sobbed, as it was soon over with him, and he bore very little. and saith that the cause of his asking the question of the said michael pickles as to his uncle's death was to know what his said uncle said previous to his death, and if he suffered much." mike now descended the stairs, and greatly alarmed his companion by telling him he was afraid he had killed sammy. leaving the bucket outside the house, they made off to northwell with their booty--the cotton pieces, the warps, the shoes, the cloth-coat, the shirt, and, above all, the oak box with its contents. having arrived at northwell, mike deposited the cotton pieces and warps in the hiding-place under the flag-stone. joan took the shoes. the oak box they at once burnt to prevent detection, but preserved the contents. mike told his wife he was afraid he had killed sammy, and she began to cry. he also charged joan to keep it a secret, even from his wife, for his revealing it would cause them both to be hanged. in dividing the money joan contrived to take advantage of his more crafty companion; for he pocketed one note unknown to mike. mike's "confession" says respecting the remaining notes--"john greenwood took the guinea-note, and gave me the two bank of england notes, and i gave him nine shillings and sixpence in silver, which made it equal--one pound ten shillings and sixpence each." william sutcliffe in his evidence at york said that on going from home on monday, february 3rd, "he left his uncle four one-pound notes and some silver, to pay wages with in his absence. his uncle had also some notes of his own; among others, one of mytholm bank, which had been issued without the signature of turner, bent, and co. it was no. 63. his attention had been called to this note on the 1st of february (the preceding saturday); his uncle had brought it down-stairs in an old book: there were also in this book another pound-note and a guinea-note"--in all seven notes. william sutcliffe on his return said that sammy's three notes were pinned in a ready reckoner. now, on examining the house the following morning, among some loose papers in the window down-stairs, there were found three one-pound notes which had escaped the notice of the robbers. these three which were left being added to the four which mike and joan took away, made seven notes. it would seem that sammy had separated one of william's four notes from the remaining three; that this note he had placed in his box up-stairs with the three notes belonging to himself; and that thus his three notes and one of william's were taken away, while three of william's notes had been left in the pocket-book in the window down-stairs. the note which joan appropriated to himself, unknown to mike, was the unsigned mytholm note. had this note fallen into mike's hands, he would probably have observed the danger arising from the circumstance, and destroyed the note; but the ignorant and unsuspecting joan was not aware of the danger. there was at this time a set of men in the cragg valley who went by a bad name. in order to shift the suspicion of the murder and robbery from himself and mike, joan, on his way home to bog-eggs, instead of crossing the valley at foster mill, travelled down towards mytholmroyd, and crossing the calder at carr bridge, threw down the papers and documents obtained from sammy's box at carr green, hoping thereby to induce suspicion that some of the cragg band were the robbers and murderers. and now for the events of the following morning. during the week sammy had paid some money for work to a man named james greenwood, of lobbmill; but a balance of four shillings was left unpaid. before daylight on friday morning james greenwood presented himself at sammy's door, having come for his four shillings. he was surprised to find the door wide open. this excited his fears that some mischief had taken place during the night. he knocked at william greenwood's door, stated the suspicious circumstance, and desired him to come out. on attempting to do so, he found that the door would not open. james greenwood then discovered (it was still dark) that the door was fastened by means of the wooden bar. it was now ascertained that sammy's house had been entered by robbers through the window, and that he lay lifeless in his bed. his mouth was full of blood, and some had run out upon the bed-clothes. the empty bucket was found outside the door. william greenwood, who had seen sammy at half-past ten the night before in good health, looked for the cotton pieces which he had taken in the previous day, but they were gone. he observed one footstep leading to the window which had been removed. it was the mark of a bare foot. there was great consternation in the neighbourhood as soon as the murder was known. mr. thomas dineley, surgeon, of hebden bridge, was called in. he gave his opinion that the deceased died of strangulation. it is commonly said that he also pronounced sammy to have been strangled by a left-handed person; but some persons very likely to know most of the facts have no remembrance of this circumstance. the papers and documents were found at carr green early in the morning by olive heyhirst, who was going to fetch milk. several persons expressed to each other their suspicions that old mike was the criminal. a woman met him in northwell lane on friday morning. he said, "have you heard that old sammy's murdered?" she replied, "if he is, it's thee that's done it." mike afterwards confessed that the day after the murder he could neither eat, drink, nor sleep, and was always uneasy wherever he was. on friday evening he went to heptonstall to be shaved. he was in such a state of restless agitation that the barber had much difficulty in fulfilling his office, and when mike was gone out, the barber said to some bystanders, "yon's the man that's murdered sammy." william sutcliffe, the nephew, returned from his journey on saturday afternoon. a messenger had been sent to expedite his return; but he was not able to get back more than a couple of hours earlier than he would otherwise have done. he now privately made known to several neighbours, and among others to mr. john sutcliffe, of the lee, that among the missing property there was an unsigned mytholm note. it had been entered by mr. barker, the clerk to turner, bent, and co., but was not signed by them. having been pinned in the ready reckoner, it would show the marks of pin-holes. at that time several firms near hebden bridge issued private notes of various values. messrs. turner, bent, and co. issued both guinea and one-pound notes, printed in black ink. messrs. rawden, of callis mill, issued both guinea-notes and five-shilling cards, printed in blue ink, and therefore called "blue-backs." mr. john sutcliffe, of the lee, issued cards, value three shillings and sixpence, printed red. mr. edmondson issued seven-shilling notes. mr. richard chatburn, of sprutts, issued three and sixpenny cards. mr. robert sutcliffe, of new shop, put out five-shilling notes. silver was very scarce just then; the smooth shillings which had been current were being called in by government, and stamped ones were being issued instead. monday, february 10th, mike attended service at birchcliffe chapel. the minister, mr. hollinrake, during his sermon made some strong remarks about the murder. his text was matthew xxiv., 43--"but know this, that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up." this smote mike's conscience so severely that he afterwards declared that, if any one had looked him earnestly in the face, he might have discovered that he was the man. an inquest was held at heptonstall; and poor old sammy's remains were interred at heptonstall church. standing outside the churchyard, at the east end, near the street, you may read his epitaph through the rails:--"in memory of samuel sutcliffe, of hebden hay, in heptonstall, who died february 7, 1817, aged eighty-one years." john greenwood had a brother living at luddenden, named william. john went to him, and gave the unsigned note into his hand. he then received the note back again from his brother. this farce was enacted between them to enable john to give an evasive answer to any one who should make troublesome inquiries as to how he became possessed of the note. john now went to the house of thomas greenwood, of birchcliffe, and completed the purchase of a clock from him, giving him in payment the unsigned note, with some other money. another version of the story is that given by william greenwood, the brother, at york, viz., that "john greenwood came to his father's house on tuesday, february 11th, and on going home, desired william to 'go agatards' with him; when he told him that he had bought a clock of thomas greenwood that came to forty-two shillings; that he would give him a note which the witness was to give to thomas greenwood on john's account, and say that he had lent it to john. this william did; but he then began to think that john had not come by the note in an honest manner." a woman named betty wadsworth, having had an illegitimate child, had been disowned by her relatives, and was now living "afore t' friend" at rawholme with another william greenwood, commonly known by the name of "will o' t' shop." she possessed a chest of drawers, which, to raise money, she disposed of to thomas greenwood, of birchcliffe, who in payment handed over to her the unsigned note on tuesday, february 11th. the same evening she went to the shop of john hoyle, of woodend, to buy groceries, and offered the unsigned note in payment. hoyle refused to receive it, seeing it was unsigned. she took it back to rawholme. wednesday morning, the 12th, she sent it up to thomas greenwood by sarah, wife of "will o' t' shop," complaining that he had paid to her a note which was not genuine. now this thomas greenwood[17] was a weaver for mr. john sutcliffe, of the lee; and on the day before tuesday he had received from mr. john sutcliffe, for wages, a halifax banknote. not being able to read, he was not aware whether the rejected note was that which he had received from william greenwood, of luddenden, or from mr. john sutcliffe. doubting whether he should be able to get a good note from john or william greenwood in exchange for it, he decided to try the lee first, and hope for a successful issue of the experiment. he went immediately to the lee, and found in the warehouse mr. richard aked, who was learning the business with mr. sutcliffe. to him he gave the note, saying that mr. sutcliffe must have given him an unsigned note by mistake the day before. mr. aked took the note to mr. sutcliffe, who was breakfasting. he at once saw that this note was the key to the discovery of sammy's murderer. he sent for some constables, and meanwhile learned from thomas greenwood that the note had come from "joan o' t' bog-eggs." james wilson, the constable, sizer, of hebden bridge lanes, soon made his appearance, and with him three others--viz., george hargreaves, john o' paul's (greenwood), and john uttley, commonly called john clerk, being the clerk of heptonstall church. mr. john sutcliffe and thomas greenwood accompany the officers to bog-eggs, and joan is apprehended. he declares that the note was paid to him by his brother william. joan is therefore set at liberty, and william is apprehended at luddenden, and taken to halifax in proper custody the same day. he is brought before thomas horton, esq., j.p., at the justice-room, copper street. he refuses to give any account of the note, being afraid of criminating his brother, till friday, february 14th. on that day william greenwood confesses the hoax as to the passing of the note from joan to him, and back again. the same day joan is re-apprehended, and declares before mr. horton that he received the unsigned note from old mike. william greenwood is set at liberty. old mike is looked for, but cannot be found, his wife stating that he is gone off seeking for work. sunday, february 16th, mike is apprehended at his brother's at cowside, near blackshaw head. he is kept in custody at an inn in heptonstall for the night. he declared to the rev. j. charnock, who visited him, "i am as innocent as you are; i am as innocent as a child unborn." monday morning, february 17th, mike was taken to halifax, before justice horton, with many other persons who had by this time been apprehended on suspicion. (some had already been brought before mr. horton at halifax. as many as sixteen or seventeen persons in all were taken up. some of these confessed other crimes, being, however, unconnected with this murder, as of stealing meal and flour, and a gun from handganroyd mill, sheep-stealing, &c. i believe that one or two persons were convicted of sheep-stealing. the rest escaped, partly from the unwillingness of the parties robbed to prosecute.) mike is confronted with joan, and denies joan's accusation. joan contradicts himself by some blunder as to the day of the week and day in the month when he went to old mike's to borrow money. hereupon mike appears to be cleared, and is set at liberty. joan's father comes to joan, and entreats him, if he knows anything about the robbery, to confess it. at length he yields to this persuasion, and unreservedly confesses all about both the robbery and the murder. john uttley, the constable, is in court, and having a horse at the inn, he volunteers to pursue old mike on his way back to heptonstall. he overtakes him in king's cross lane, walking quickly homewards, and eating "sweet parkin." uttley calls out, "you must come back with me." mike, off his guard, asks, "what! has he been telling something?" uttley brings him quietly back to the magistrates' room. mike no longer denies the crimes of murder and burglary. when he and joan were confronted by each other there occurred such a scene of crimination and recrimination that it was found necessary to place joan in the cell (or cellar) until the minutes of joan's confession had been read over to mike. after mike had confessed many circumstances connected with the affair, the prisoners exchanged places, and the minutes of mike's confession were read over to joan. both were now consigned to their cells. tuesday, february 18th, the prisoners were again before mr. horton, but nothing new was elicited. they were this day committed to york castle. the same day james wilson, the constable, searched mike's house for the third time. his evidence at york is that "he found, concealed under a flag, under the bed, three fustian pieces and four warps, and some other articles, and above the fireplace a gun. the cotton pieces were identified by william greenwood, sammy's neighbour, who had taken them into the house of the deceased and marked them; the other articles were identified by william sutcliffe." the _leeds mercury_ of saturday, feb. 22nd, says that on wednesday, the 13th, the two prisoners passed through that town, strongly ironed, on their way to york castle. the trial took place at york castle on friday, march 14th, 1817. the prisoners were arraigned on an indictment of murdering samuel sutcliffe, and also on an indictment of burglary. both admitted the burglary; both denied the murder. by the recommendation of the judge they pleaded "not guilty" to both indictments. no fewer than 22 witnesses were taken to york, including all the individuals whose names have been given above; with mr. william sutcliffe, of heptonstall, who made sammy's writings; mr. john barker and mr. jas. bent, of mytholm, and mr. henry sutcliffe, of pendle forest, &c. mr. hardy, in a very eloquent and perspicuous opening, stated the facts of the case. the names of the witnesses whose evidence is given in the _leeds mercury_ (saturday, march 22, 1817), are william sutcliffe, william greenwood (the neighbouring cottager), thomas dyneley, betty wadsworth, john hoyle, sarah greenwood, thomas greenwood, william greenwood, of luddenden, thomas horton, esq., olive heyhirst, john thomas, of midgley, and james wilson. john thomas "was a shoemaker, and received a pair of shoes from the prisoner, john greenwood, on the 8th of february, which he delivered to the constable, and which, being produced in court, were identified by william sutcliffe as the shoes which he had left in the house" when he went on his journey. the other witnesses gave evidence agreeing in most particulars with the facts stated above. the remainder of the proceedings at york we give in the words of the _leeds mercury_ of saturday, march 22nd, 1817. "the prisoners being called upon for their defence, michael pickles said--john greenwood came to my house and said he was pined, and asked me to go with him to sammy's, of hawden hole, which i did, and he took the gun with him. when we got to the old man's house, we got in at the window, and we both went into the chamber where the old man was. he started up in bed when he heard us, and we both ran away, and i never touched the man. "john greenwood said--the robbery was proposed by michael pickles, for i did not know that there was such a house--i had never been there in my life. when we got to the house, pickles went in at the window, but i stayed at the outside. i was never in the biggin' at all, but stood at the shop-end all the time, and pickles brought out all the goods to me that he had taken out of the biggin'. he then told me that he had taken the old man by the neck, and was afraid he had killed him; and i said, 'surely thou hast not hurt the old man?' michael pickles gave me the gun to carry, but i tied my handkerchief in two knots over the lock, for fear i should do some mischief with it. when we got back to pickles' house, he told his wife he was afraid he had killed the old man; and his wife began to cry. pickles charged me that i should keep it a secret from every one, even from my wife, for if i told i should be hanged. "three witnesses were called. two of them spoke favourably of the character of john greenwood. the third stated that he had a wife and three children, but that he did not know much about his character. "his lordship, in his charge to the jury, stated that where two or more persons were jointly engaged in the commission of any burglary or other felonious act, and one of the party killed a person in furtherance of their common object, every one of the party would in law be guilty of the crime of murder. and it was necessary, continued his lordship, for the safety of society, that it should be so, that associations in guilt might be as much as possible prevented. if indeed an individual of any such party should put a person to death to gratify his own private revenge, and not for the furtherance of their common object, in that case he alone would be answerable for the murder. his lordship explained that this furtherance comprises all acts done to prevent or overpower resistance and to prevent discovery. applying this rule to the case before them, his lordship said that if the jury were satisfied that both the prisoners had gone to the house of the deceased for the purpose of committing a robbery, and that one of them, to prevent any alarm or discovery, had by violence occasioned the death of the deceased, it would be murder in them both, though one of the prisoners should not have been within the house at the time, and should have given no consent to the murderous deed, or even not have known of its being committed. that a burglary had been committed in the house was too evident to admit of a doubt. it also appeared from all the circumstances of the case that the death of samuel sutcliffe had been produced by strangulation, and it was admitted by pickles that he had seized him by the throat, and that when he quitted his grasp he had reason to suppose he was dead. if the jury were satisfied of these facts, and further thought that michael pickles had committed this violence, not from any personal enmity (of which there was not the least proof), but with a view to prevent alarm and secure the accomplishment of their design of robbing the house, it would be the duty of the jury to find both the prisoners guilty. "the jury turned round in the box for a moment, and then pronounced against both prisoners the fatal verdict of 'guilty.' his lordship proceeded, after a most solemn and affecting address, to pass the sentence of the law, which was, that they were both of them to be hung by the neck on monday until they were dead, and that their bodies should be delivered to the surgeons for dissection. "john greenwood fell on his knees, begging for mercy, and protesting his innocence of the murder. "it is understood that since his conviction he has acknowledged to the chaplain that he was in the house, and stood at the foot of the steps with the gun. "the sentence of the law was carried into execution on monday, march 17th, a few minutes after eleven o'clock, and their bodies, after being suspended the usual time, were delivered to the surgeons for dissection. the body of pickles has been sent to the dispensary at halifax." footnotes: [16] the circumstances of the murder and the discovery of the murderer were collected with great care by the brother of a friend of the author, now dead, and were communicated by him to the _hebden bridge chronicle_ in 1856. the papers of the compiler have been kindly sent to the author, and placed at his disposal. the facts of this extraordinary story were collected partly from individuals now surviving, who lived in the neighbourhood at the time, especially from one who was a principal witness at the trial at york, and partly from documents. of the latter the principal are a good report of the trial given in the _leeds mercury_ of saturday, march 22nd, 1817, and a confession by the condemned parties drawn up in the usual style of confessions, and printed at leeds for the purpose of being hawked about the streets. the _manchester mercury_ of tuesday, march, 18th, 1817, gives a short account of the trial and condemnation of the prisoners, and concludes with a confession of the principal prisoner; being a long verbatim extract from the confession printed at leeds for sale by hawkers. one of the official books belonging to heptonstall church contains a copy of the charge of the judge to the jury at york, taken verbatim from the _leeds mercury_ of march 22nd. [17] greenwood is probably the most prevalent name in the neighbourhood. out of 755 entries in a public register in the neighbourhood, the name greenwood occurs 48 times, helliwell 34, sutcliffe 33, cockcroft 18, smith 18, akroyd 15, crabtree 15, mitchell 14, stansfield 13, uttley 13, horsfall 12, midgley 12, gibson 11, taylor 11, pickles 9, fielden 9, gill 9, &c. we may here remark on the prevalence of patronymic names, which sometimes are really useful, however inelegant, in a district where the same names recur so frequently. thus "john o' abbie's" and "joan o' jim's" were the ordinary names of two individuals who were each legally designated john stansfield. by how many useful variations is the name john sutcliffe represented! to strangers this practice is the more puzzling from the frequent use of abbreviations, such as eam, tham, lol, abbie, jooas, kit (or katie), joan, tim, and tum; for edmund, nathaniel, lawrence, abraham, joseph, catherine, john, timothy, thomas. there was formerly a "jimmie, o' jamie, o' james, o'th jumps." "george o' my gronny's" and "will o' nobody's" are bold specimens of what may be done by the principle in question carried out with a little licence. not unfrequently, also, people are named from their residences, as "john up th' steps," and "old ann o' th' hinging royd." bye-names also become sometimes attached as if they were real family surnames. if it were not personal, many singular instances might be given. persons are frequently unable, without some consideration, to recognise the legal names of their neighbours. upon the hillside at jumps, near todmorden, i once asked a little girl who was her father. "will o' th' jumps," she replied. "and who's will o' th' jumps?" i again inquired. "he's ailse o' th' jumps, fellie," replied the girl; and i doubt whether she had any idea whatever of her legal surname. mr. wikes, of leaseholme.[18] the living of leaseholme, in the north riding of yorkshire, was held by three successive generations of the wikeses for upwards of a century; all of whom were men of literary talents, popular preachers, great oddities--but much given to the bottle. the first of the wikes family who held the living was a gentleman who had been captain in the army in the reign of charles i., and had fought for the unfortunate monarch throughout the civil war. in one of the battles he received a wound in his leg, which incapacitated him from further active service, and the death of the king and the supremacy of cromwell prevented him from looking to government for promotion. but on the restoration mr. wikes cast about for some berth in which he might spend his declining years in ease and comfort. the living of leaseholme fell vacant, and he applied for it, remembering how his old friend the sea-captain, lyons, had obtained the bishopric of york from queen elizabeth. captain wikes was ordained by the archbishop of york, and given the living he solicited, king charles ii. being glad to reward an old soldier of his father, who had shared his misfortunes, thus economically to himself. mr. wikes also held the incumbency of ellerburn, near leaseholme, and took service in the morning at leaseholme, and in the afternoon at ellerburn, or _vice versã _. one year, when the 30th of january fell on a sunday, mr. wikes marched off to ellerburn for morning service, with a pathetic sermon on the martyrdom of his royal master in his pocket; but on his arrival at the place he found the clerk and sexton near the churchyard, with a short pole in their hands, watching a domestic quarrel that was going forward on the opposite side of the beck that flows through the village. the parson asked why the church was empty and his subordinates were not in their places. the clerk pointed across the beck, and bade parson wikes "look and see a woman combing her husband's head with a three-legged stool." mr. wikes at once plunged over the brook, and striking the husband with his fist, tore the furious pair asunder, shouting, "be quiet, you brute!" to the husband, and "hold your tongue, you vixen!" to the woman. both fell on him, and he had hard work in defending himself from husband and wife. in the fray that ensued the yells of the parson--"peace, you monster! have done, termagant! hands off, you coward! retire, virago!"--were mingled with the abuse and blows of the disputants, till the absurdity of the whole scene burst upon them all, as the crowd of delighted parishioners and neighbours gathered in a circle about them, and they fell back laughing, and shook hands all round. but matters did not end here. when husband and wife disagree, and a third party interferes, according to local custom, all three are doomed to "ride the stang," whilst the people shout and caper around the victims, chanting, as they beat frying-pans and blow horns- "rub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, ran-a-tan-tang, it's neither what you say nor i say, but i ride the stang." the parishioners insisted on the immemorial custom being complied with, and parson wikes was made to sit astride on the short pole the clerk and sexton had prepared; two others were provided for the belligerent husband and wife; and the whole village prepared to march in procession with them. but though the parson sat complacently on his pole, the husband and wife refused to submit to the ignominious custom, and he armed himself with the pitch-fork, she with the poker, and began to defend themselves against the villagers. parson wikes was carried to the scene of conflict, and the clerk and sexton, in their eagerness to join in the struggle, dropped him into the beck. then the villagers rushed upon him, swearing that he was shirking his duty of riding the stang, and he had to stand up to his middle in the water, and fight them off. armed with the stick, which he whirled about him in single-stick fashion, he rattled their heads and arms with it to such good purpose that he was able to beat a retreat into the church, where he rapidly vested himself in his surplice, and placed the sanctity of the place and garb between him and his opponents. the crowd now poured into the church, and parson wikes proceeded with the service, leaving a trail of water up and down the chancel as he paced to the altar and thence to the pulpit. having prefaced his sermon with an announcement that he took in good part the disorderly conduct and undignified treatment he had met with, he preached them a moving sermon on the merits of charles the martyr, and the ingratitude of the people of england to such a virtuous monarch, and wound up with--"let those who feel the consequence of such a misfortune deplore with me upon this melancholy occasion; but if there be any among you (and i make no doubt there are) who may have secretly wished for this event, they have now got their desire, and may the devil do them good with it." after which he made the best of his way home to his rectory, and endeavoured to counteract the effects of his dipping by moistening his clay within with hot punch. footnote: [18] "anecdotes and manners of a few ancient and modern oddities." york, 1806. the rev. mr. carter, parson-publican. i cannot do better than extract verbatim the following account from a curious book entitled "anecdotes and manners of a few ancient and modern oddities, interspersed with deductive inferences and occasional observations, tending to reclaim some interlocutory foibles which often occur in the common intercourses of society." york, 1806:-"the rev. mr. carter, when curate of lastingham, had a very large family, with only a small income to support them, and therefore often had recourse to many innocent alternatives to augment it; and as the best of men have their enemies--too often more than the worst--he was represented to the archdeacon by an invidious neighbour as a very disorderly character, particularly by keeping a public-house, with the consequences resulting from it. "the archdeacon was a very humane, worthy, good man, who had imbibed the principles not only of a parson, but of a divine, and therefore treated such calumniating insinuations against his subordinate brethren with that contempt which would accrue to the satisfaction and advantage of such as listen to a set of sycophantic tattlers culled from the refuse of society. besides, the improbability of a malevolent story generally renders it more current by increasing the scandal; and the world, like the pious s. austin, believes some things because they are impossible. however, he considered that not only the conduct of the inferior clergy claimed his attention, but also to have some idea how far their subsistence was compatible with the sanctity of their functions; therefore, at the ensuing visitation, when the business of the day was over, he, in a very delicate and candid manner, interrogated mr. carter as to his means of supporting so numerous a family--ever thinking of this admirable hint to charity, that the more a person wants, the less will do him good--which was answered, as related to me by one well acquainted with the parties, in nearly the following words:-"'i have a wife and thirteen children, and with a stipend of â£20 per annum, increased only by a few trifling surplice fees. i will not impose upon your understanding by attempting to advance any argument to show the impossibility of us all being supported from my church preferment. but i am fortunate enough to live in a neighbourhood where there are many rivulets which abound with fish, and being particularly partial to angling, i am frequently so successful as to catch more than my family can consume while good, of which i make presents to the neighbouring gentry, all of whom are so generously grateful as to requite me with something else of seldom less value than two or three-fold. this is not all. my wife keeps a public-house, and as my parish is so wide that some of my parishioners have to come from ten to fifteen miles to church, you will readily allow that some refreshment before they return must occasionally be necessary, and when can they have it more properly than when their journey is half performed? now, sir, from your general knowledge of the world, i make no doubt but you are well assured that the most general topics in conversation at public-houses are politics and religion, with which ninety-nine out of one hundred of those who participate in the general clamour are totally unacquainted; and that perpetually ringing in the ears of a pastor who has the welfare and happiness of his flock at heart, must be no small mortification. to divert their attention from these foibles over their cups, i take down my violin and play them a few tunes, which gives me an opportunity of seeing that they get no more liquor than necessary for refreshment; and if the young people propose a dance, i seldom answer in the negative; nevertheless, when i announce time for return, they are ever ready to obey my commands, and generally with the donation of a sixpence they shake hands with my children, and bid god bless them. thus my parishioners enjoy a triple advantage, being instructed, fed, and amused at the same time. moreover, this method of spending their sundays is so congenial with their inclinations, that they are imperceptibly led along the paths of piety and morality; whereas, in all probability, the most exalted discourses, followed with no variety but heavenly contemplations, would pass like the sounds of harmony over an ear incapable of discerning the distinction of sounds. it is this true sense of religion that has rendered my whole life so remarkably cheerful as it has been, to the great offence of superstitious and enthusiastic religionists. for why should priests be always grave? is it so sad to be a parson? cheerfulness, even gaiety, is consonant with every species of virtue and practice of religion, and i think it inconsistent only with impiety and vice. the ways of heaven are pleasantness. let "o be joyful" be the christian's psalm, and leave to the sad indian to incant the devil with tears and screeches. now, to corroborate my remarks upon cheerfulness as conducive to contentment, i will by leave solicit so much of your indulgence as to hear the following extract from the works of an eminent divine of the established church:--the thirty-nine articles are incomplete without a fortieth precept enjoining cheerfulness; or you may let the number stand as it does at present, provided you expunge the thirteenth article, and place that heavenly maxim in the room of it. might not the archbishop of cashel have been a sound divine though he added the arch-stanza about broglio to the old irish ballad in praise of moll roe? or did the bishop (not the earl) of rochester's poems on the man-like properties of a lady's fan ever impeach his orthodoxy in the least?' "here the archdeacon very candidly acknowledged the propriety of mr. carter's arguments in defence of his conduct, and complimented him on his discernment in using the most convenient vehicle for instruction; observing that, although he might deviate a little from the plans generally advised for the accomplishment of that purpose, yet it bore no less authority than the celebrated dr. young, who wrote a play ('the brothers') for the propagation of the gospel, the profits of which he consecrated to the society for propagating the gospel in foreign parts." job senior, the hermit of rumbold's moor.[19] job's mother was ann senior, of beckfoot, near ilkley; he was an illegitimate child. his father, a man named hacksworth, left him a little money when he died. job grew up a spruce, active young man, very strong, and not devoid of good looks. he was employed as a labourer by the farmers round ilkley; but afterwards went to live at whitkirk, near leeds. he there fell into disorderly ways, drank, and became careless in his dress and dirty in his habits. yet he was a good workman, and when he returned to ilkley he was readily engaged by the farmers to plough, mow, and reap for them. he was a good fence-waller, and being a man of prodigious strength, is said to have used very heavy stones for the purpose, and when days were short he was frequently seen walling by candlelight. some of his walls are still pointed out, and the large stones he lifted elicit surprise. in winter he employed himself in wool-combing at a place called the castle, near ilkley. it is related of him that he once laid himself down on the combing-shed floor, and that some of his fellow-workmen chalked out his figure on the floor. by this outline he used to cut his shirts, the material being coarse harden, sewed with strong hemp-string. job was at one time an hostler in the village, and a person who knew him well at the time says that at this period his dissipated habits made him the subject of many a practical joke. he was afterwards employed by the farmers at burley woodhead; but as he became old and infirm, and troubled with rheumatism, he could not work as formerly, but did what he could, making no stipulations for wages, but asking only for his board, and that his employers should pay him whatever extra they thought his labour entitled him to receive. about this time he became acquainted with a widow named mary barret, who lived in a cottage near coldstone beck, on the edge of rumbold's moor. the widow had a little garden and a paddock which, together with the cottage, had been left her by her husband, who had taken the land from the common and built the cottage on it. job thought if he could secure the hand of the widow the house and land would be his for life. so one day he paid her a visit. "i'll tell ye what i've been thinking," said job senior. "what hast a' been thinking on then, job? out wi' it, lad," said the widow. "well, i've been thinking thou'st getting ou'd, and thou lives all by thy sen i' this house. and i'm a young man"--(he was about sixty)--"and i lives all by my sen by yond crag. why should not thou and me make it agreeable to live together?" "dost a' mean that i'm to take thee as a lodger?" asked mary barret. "nay, nay, lass!" answered job; "i mean we'd better goa to t' kirk together and be wed." "i reckon i'm ower ou'd for that," said the widow. she was in her eightieth year. "i doan't know if tha be ou'd," said job; "but i knows vary weel thou'rt bonny." no woman's heart, not even in her eightieth year, is proof against flattery, and the fair mary blushed and yielded to the blooming job, and married they were. "it's an easy gotten penny by the light o' the moon," said job, looking over his domain. mrs. senior did not long survive her second marriage. she had a long sickness, and job was kind to her in it. "it's cou'd, job," she said to her husband one evening when he returned from his work on the moor. "it's cou'd i' this bed, and i cannot feel t' warmth o' t' fire." "thou shalt be warm, ou'd lass, if i can fashion it," said job. "but as i cannot bring t' fire nigher thee, i mun bring thee nigher to t' fire." so he pulled up a couple of flags in the floor beside the hearth, dug a pit, and made the old woman's bed in this premature grave, so that she could be close to the fire and comfortable, and if she wanted a cup of tea, could put out her hand and take the pot from the hearth. "eh, job!" said old mary another day, "i think i'd like summut good to eat afore i dies." "ah!" answered her husband; "then i'll get thee a rare good morsel, that'll set thee up on thy legs again, ou'd lass." so he bought a pound of bacon, roasted it, caught the melted fat in a large iron spoon, and ladled it down his wife's throat. "it's rare good now, isn't it?" exclaimed the husband, as the old woman gulped it down. "open the trap and i'll teem (pour) down some more." the old woman lay back in her hole and groaned. "i'm boun' to die!" she said. "nay, lass! take another spoonful first." but the poor creature was dead. job looked at her disconsolately for a minute, and whilst doing so the fat of the frying bacon fell into the fire and blazed up. "eh! but i mustn't waste the fat," said job. "if t' ou'd lass cannot take it, why, i mun eat it mysen. ah! it's varry good; but it's hot. i reckon 't were too hot for her ou'd insides." job now thought that the house, garden, and paddock were his own; but he was mistaken. the family of barret, the first husband of mary, claimed it and took possession of the field. job clung desperately to the cottage and the potato-garth. one evening when he returned from his work he found that the cottage had been pulled to pieces. he had hidden some money in the walls, and this was either lost or stolen. his rage and disappointment completely disturbed his brain, and from that time forward he lived in a miserable hovel he erected for himself out of the ruins of the house, in idleness and squalor. his hut was like a dog-kennel; to enter it he was obliged to creep on hands and knees. within it was only large enough for him to lie down in and turn himself about: it was thatched, and provided with a rude door, but no window. the garden had contained fruit trees; but these he stubbed up, and instead planted the whole garth with potatoes. he made large, unsightly ridges, and put in a great quantity of seed, always planting for the following year when he gathered his crop in autumn. in one corner of his garth was a peat fire where he roasted his potatoes. his custom was, when eating, to sit with one leg on each side of the fire of peat, his little bag of oatmeal before him; then with his staff he poked the potatoes out of the embers, peeled them with his dirty fingers, rolled them in his meal bag, and then ate them. he always drank his water warm. "do you drink your water warm, job?" asked a visitor. "yes," said the hermit, "i reckon i does." "and your butter-milk too?" "aye, aye. sithere." and he poked two stone bottles out from the embers. "i do it to clear my voice," said the hermit. "now thou shalt hear my four voices." he then got up, set his face to the crag, and began a wonderful performance of four voices--treble, alto, tenor, and bass. he said he had picked up his "four voices" by listening to the choir in leeds parish church. he usually sang sacred hymns, such as "while shepherds watched their flocks by night," "christians, awake," and the old hundredth. he went about the country in winter, singing in four parts for money, and his performance was sufficiently remarkable for him to be brought to perform in public at the theatre at leeds, and in the headingly gardens and the woolsorters' gardens at bradford, where he stayed for weeks at a time. he would sleep in any outbuilding or blacksmith's shop; indeed, he was so dirty that few people would like to have given him a bed in their houses. he used to walk leaning on two rough sticks, wearing a pair of heavy wooden clogs on his feet, stuffed with hay, his legs bandaged with straw. his coat was of many colours and much patched; his trousers were to match. he wore no braces, but kept his trousers in position with a hempen belt, part of an old horse-girth, which he buckled round his body. a bag on his back was fastened at the front to his belt. his head was adorned with a hat of the most antique shape, without a brim, and stitched together with hemp-string. the condition of his skin, which had not seen water for years, need not be described. his hair, once jetty black, now hung in heavy clotted locks on his shoulders. his eyebrows were black and prominent; his eyes low-set and watery. he wore a coarse beard, grizzled with age, and very dirty. from his hat depended a tobacco-pipe, hung by a string. "never," he would say to his visitors, "never take to nowt, but whenever you can get a penny, felt (hide) it, and let nobody know about it, and then they cannot get it from you. get all the brass ye can, and as soon as ye can buy a bit o' grund like this o' mine, ye see, set it with potatoes, and it'll keep ye. there'll be a peck or two to spare; ye can sell them, and so ha' brass agean. are ye married?" said the hermit to a young man who went to see him. "no," answered the visitor. "then ye are right there, young chap. keep so. if ye get a wife, ye'll see shoo'll be coming on wi' a family, and then that'll take all your brass. i' th' first place, ye'll want a house and furniture, and then there'll be rent and taxes, and your wife'll be always wanting summat for hersen or the bairns. and besides, just look how more flour ye'll want, and sugar, and soap, and candles. and look how many more potatoes ye'll want for them all to eat. eh! but they're the animals 'at eats brass. they say that maggots eats cheese, and weevils eats cloathes, and mice eats corn; but wife and bairns eats brass, and it's t' brass as gets cheese, and cloathes, and corn. nay, lad! have nowt to do wi' them soort o' cattle. and then--if th' wife takes to bonnets and gowns, ye're ruined directly. nay, nay, grund is better nor a wife, and potatoes nor bairns. if ye want to save your brass and snap up a bit o' grund, ye munna be married." job's end came as he was on one of his singing rounds. it is thought that some youngsters drugged his drink, in prank, at silsden, and the consequences were a violent attack of english cholera. he got back to ilkley, and crept into a barn belonging to the white sheaf inn; but the landlord seeing that his end was near, sent for the parish authorities, and he was moved to the carlton workhouse, as he belonged to burley. he died in the course of a few days, at the age of seventy-seven, and was buried in burley churchyard, near otley. footnote: [19] "the hermit of rumbold's moor." bingley: harrison (n.d.) nancy nicholson, the termagant. mrs. nancy nicholson[20] was born at drax, in the county of york, on the 3rd day of may, 1785, and was the only child of the rev. john jackson, vicar of drax, by his second wife. mr. jackson had a son by a former marriage, but he was taken by his mother's relatives into cumberland; consequently the daughter, nancy, was the only child at home, and from her infancy was indulged to a fault, and suffered to grow up without restraint, so that she soon became a terror to the other children in the school of which her father was the master.[21] it is curious that the child of a schoolmaster should have been suffered to grow to womanhood almost wholly without education; but such was the case. the following extract from a letter written by her when aged sixty-four shows how miserably her education had been neglected:--"dear mrs. wilson,--your letter just came in time as i whas thinking of letting my land but if john harrison will come and we can a gree i ceep it on if not i shall let it mr. totton of howden whants it and taylors of asselby also i ceep all land and hosses while i see him pray send him word to come this week as i must have my patays up and also my stakes wants thashing." having naturally a certain amount of shrewdness, it was mistaken for talent, and low cunning for genius. being indulged in every way, her headstrong will became intolerant of the smallest restraint. she played with the boys of the school, and acquired from them the coarsest language, and throughout her life never learned, indeed never attempted, to control her tongue. when miss jackson was about twenty years old, the rev. john nicholson, a young man from cumberland, came to drax to assist mr. jackson in his school. he was at that time a well-disposed, gentlemanly young fellow, who gave promise of being a scholar and of use in his generation. but miss jackson, who was not without some charms of person, was the ill-omened star that was to blight his life. living in the house of her father, he was brought in daily contact with her, and she exerted some sort of fascination upon him. if two young people are brought much together, they are sure to form an attachment, and it was so in this case. nancy concealed her evil disposition from the usher, and laid herself out to catch him. mr. nicholson could not be blind to the fact that miss jackson was entitled to property on the death of her parents, and it is probable enough that to a needy young clergyman without interest, the chance of making himself master of a competence may have had more to do with his paying his addresses to miss jackson than love. in the year 1810 mr. jackson died, and perhaps this event decided mr. nicholson to offer his hand to nancy. he was at once accepted, and the interest of her friends secured for him immediately the vacant situation of master of the grammar school. shortly after the marriage he also became vicar of drax. mr. and mrs. nicholson were married at drax church in october, 1811, and she then became undisputed mistress of the establishment. her harsh and tyrannical disposition had now free scope to develop, and the first to feel it was the mother who had encouraged her as a child. the widow was soon obliged to leave the house, where her daughter made it impossible for her to live in comfort and tranquillity. the servants would not stay; no fresh ones could be induced to enter the house under such a mistress. she was therefore obliged to do all the work of the school-house herself, making the unhappy boarders help her in cleaning the house and in washing the clothes. the poor boys were scantily fed, and otherwise miserably provided for. four gentlemen, including lord downe, were trustees of the grammar school at drax, and made visits of inspection regularly every quarter. nancy was always prepared for these occasions. she had a clean cloth on the table, a plentiful dinner provided, and a dumpling set before each boy. but she took care to impress on each boarder that the one who left the largest amount of dumpling on his plate would receive a reward, and he should receive a hiding who emptied his plate. "and," said mrs. nicholson, "let any boy beware how he looks sad or dissatisfied." when these quarterly visits took place in the cold weather, she had a large fire lighted in the school-room, round which she assembled the boys, and when the trustees came in, she would address them with--"well, gentlemen, and you, my lord, you see how saucy these boys are; scarce one of them has eaten his dumpling. and capital dumplings they are, my lord and gentlemen!" when mr. and mrs. nicholson had been married about three years they took an orphan niece of mr. nicholson's from cumberland to provide for, and to this child for several years she behaved with the greatest cruelty, until at length mrs. nicholson's mother took compassion on the child, and removed it to her own house. however, when mrs. nicholson considered her niece capable of working, she insisted on her return, making her do the work of a servant, and subjecting her to the harshest treatment. the work was heavy, as she kept two or three cows, besides pigs and poultry. the schoolboys were compelled to collect her eggs, and she caused them to rob the neighbours to obtain a greater number. these depredations were not unknown to the neighbours, but they good-naturedly excused the boys, as they knew they were urged to them by mrs. nicholson. she gave the boys a penny a score for all the eggs they could bring. she would then say, "now, boys, i have such nice apples; i will give you a good pennyworth of apples for your penny; do have a pennyworth." the boys durst not object, and bought the apples. but still she was not satisfied, but would say, "come, i will play you a game at push-pin for your apples, and i daresay you will win." however, as may be supposed, they never were suffered to win, so that she obtained eggs, penny, apples, and pins also. she committed various other depredations on the property of her neighbours, such as taking coals, corn, goslings--and, in short, anything that came within her reach. one sunday morning, while the neighbours were at church, she made some of the boys assist her in stealing a hen and fourteen chickens. these she confined in a brick oven till the following morning, when she took them to selby and disposed of them in the market. for many years she regularly attended selby market with her butter, which more than once was seized and taken from her for being light weight. she employed the boys in collecting rags, old iron, &c., all of which she took to selby, because she could obtain a better price there than at home. it was in vain that mr. nicholson remonstrated with her on the disgrace her conduct brought upon him; she only replied in abusive language. on sunday mornings she was always remarkably late in her attendance at church, generally entering in the middle of the service, and her appearance was like anything but that which became a vicar's wife, and formed a strange contrast to that of her husband, who retained his care to appear like a gentleman, in clean and well-brushed clothes, and with scrupulously white cravat. nancy was neither clean nor well-dressed. for many years she would not afford herself a new bonnet, until at length her mother, utterly ashamed of her appearance, bought one for her. but mrs. jackson made her give up the old bonnet before she received the new one, being convinced, if she had the chance, that nancy would put the new one away and continue to wear the old one. mr. and mrs. nicholson continued in the school-house several years, during which time they amassed a considerable sum of money, with which they bought various lots of property in the parish, mrs. nicholson always contriving to have her name inserted in the deeds as well as mr. nicholson's, so that he could not deprive her of her life-interest. one field which they purchased at carlton she had conveyed to her for her own use and disposal. this caused great dissension between them when discovered by mr. nicholson. at length the trustees were obliged to interfere in behalf of the school. they did so with the utmost reluctance. all respected and pitied mr. nicholson, who was a good christian and a gentleman, and was prepared to discharge his duty conscientiously. but it was impossible for him to control his wife, and make her treat the boarders with ordinary humanity. she was a genuine mrs. squeers; but he was a very different sort of person to the yorkshire schoolmaster of "nicholas nickleby." the trustees were obliged to insist on an investigation. it was conducted with the greatest consideration for the feelings of mr. nicholson; but the investigation ended in the school being taken from him. "oh, nancy, nancy!" mr. nicholson would repeat, "you have disgraced me terribly!" the humiliations he was obliged to undergo broke his spirit, and his self-respect, which had battled against adverse circumstances, gradually gave way. she used the most insulting language to him, not only in private, but in public, making the most odious insinuations, and bringing the scarlet spot of shame to his cheek. the unfortunate man was made to drink to the dregs the cup of degradation. at last, maddened beyond self-control, he beat her with his horse-whip. a friend, whose house was situated a mile from that of the nicholsons, has told me that his father has often heard at that distance the screams of rage uttered by nancy when in a passion with her husband. their quarrels became the gossip and scandal of drax. mr. nicholson at last, driven of an evening from his home, would visit farmers, or sometimes the public-house, and forget his humiliation in the society of his inferiors. on these occasions he sometimes took too much. when they lost the school-house the nicholsons built a new house for themselves on some ground they had purchased at a place called newland, near drax, where mrs. nicholson had full opportunity for keeping cows, pigs, and poultry, her favourite occupation. but having no family, she would not be at the expense of a servant, and soon gave herself up to sloth and dirt, both in her person and house. she would rarely admit any visitors, and if mr. nicholson occasionally ventured to invite a friend, she would either offend the guest at the time (unless she saw her way to gaining some advantage by him), or revenge herself on mr. nicholson after his departure. and if mr. nicholson absented himself from the house without her consent, she always upbraided him on his return with the vilest language, attributing the visits to his neighbours or tenants to evil motives. the following extract from the correspondence of a young lady from cumberland, a cousin of mrs. nicholson's, who was staying a few months at drax in the year 1837, gives a lively picture of her mode of life at that period:-"one evening after tea my sister and i proposed, as we frequently did, to walk out as far as newland, to see mr. and mrs. nicholson. it was a delightful evening, and a pleasant walk we had. chatting over bygone times and talking about our future prospects, we soon arrived at the little gate, through which we entered the back grounds belonging to the house, and passed on into the kitchen, where we found mr. and mrs. nicholson seated by the little window which looks out upon the road. as soon as we had got seated and the usual salutations were over, mrs. nicholson (who, by-the-bye, i must confess, however little to my credit, was my cousin) began with saying, 'well, miss h----n, there is going to be a confirmation at selby to-morrow, and mr. nicholson will have to go with the young people; what do you say, will you go with him? you have never been at selby, and it will be a nice opportunity.' 'i certainly would like it very much,' i replied, 'if you are going also. but how are we to go?' 'by langrick ferry,' said mr. nicholson. 'we must be up there by nine o'clock, and meet the packet. you can be up by that time?' 'and who do you think is going to pay a shilling a-piece to go by the packet? not i, nor you either,' said mrs. nicholson, in an angry tone. 'and as for mary anne, she has more sense than to waste her money in that way.' i replied by saying, 'oh, a shilling is not much; and as there is no other conveyance by which we can get, we have no alternative, as we cannot possibly walk it.'--'no,' said she, 'we cannot walk it, but there is a man who has a cart, and i am sure if we could get a dozen to go he would take us at threepence a-piece. there's plenty of lasses and lads who are going to be confirmed would be glad of the chance. why, you see, we should make three ourselves, and mr. nicholson can speak to some of them. the man can put the shelvings on, and we'll go rarely.' 'who do you mean will go?' said the clergyman. 'do you think that i will go to selby in a waggon, or miss h----n either? no, you shall not bring me to that. you have made me give up my horse and gig long since; but, go as you will yourself, i and miss h----n will take the packet.' at this his amiable wife got into such a rage, and went on at such a rate, that to make matters up i was glad to give my consent to go with her in the waggon, and mr. nicholson said he would ask one of the churchwardens to take him in his gig. this pacified her, and as we rose to take our departure, she said she would see the man about the cart, and i was to mind and be ready at nine o'clock, when they would call for me with it. however, i could not bear the idea of the neighbours around seeing a great waggon filled with country rustics stopping at our door for me to go with them, so i told her i would come up to their house by that time, and we would go direct from thence. but she was afraid i wanted to get off going, and it was not without extorting a faithful promise from me that i would not disappoint her that i succeeded in obtaining her consent at last. "the morning came, chill and gloomy, and i rose, hoping it was going to rain, that i might make that an excuse for not going. so i made myself ready, and taking an umbrella, set off for newland. i had proceeded as far as a turn there is in the road, when i heard such a shouting and hurrahing that i stopped to see from whence it proceeded. i had not long to look, for turning the corner, the waggon appeared in sight, with about fourteen or fifteen young people in it of both sexes, and mrs. nicholson in the centre, laughing and shouting as loud as the rest. she soon saw me, and bawled out, 'oh, yonder is miss h----n coming! stop the cart!--stop the cart!' by this time i had come up to them, but was trembling with shame at the idea of going with them, and i felt vexed at the predicament i was in. at length i said, 'i think the cart is so full there is no room for me, and as the rain is already falling, i would rather not go. so do not disturb yourselves, for i will walk back again as quick as possible.' 'oh, it's not going to be much rain, and you shall come,' replied mrs. nicholson; 'so make room for her, lasses. there, betty, you can sit on the edge of the shelves, and polly can take your place. now, miss h----n, jump in, and let us be off.' it was in vain that i made every excuse i could think of. she appealed to them all, and they joined her, until i was forced to consent, and off we drove. i felt thankful that it was raining a little as we passed through the village, so i put up my umbrella to screen myself from view, pretending that my clothes would get wet and spoiled. "on we went, and after we had got through drax the young people and she indulged themselves in conversation such as i had never heard before, and strove in vain to get me to join them, or laugh at their low and obscene discourse. mrs. nicholson at length said, 'come, lasses, can't you raise a song? we'll get her to laugh just now, i warrant us.' they then inquired of her what they must sing, and she told them three or four songs, all of which they sang with all their might, she every now and then asking me how i liked it. at last she said, 'give us some sea songs; she comes from a seaport town, and will maybe like them better.' so, first one and then another was sung, but with no better success. at length i saw a gig coming fast after us, and begged them to give over till it got past. they all looked, and said it was mr. nicholson. 'oh, sing away! don't give over. let them see how we are enjoying ourselves. don't stop for him,' said mrs. nicholson. 'come, go on--go on!'--'no,' replied some of the young people, 'we won't sing while mr. nicholson is going past. wait awhile.' "oh, how glad was i that they kept quiet while the gig was passing, although she was urging them to sing all the time. "many other carriages passed us on the road, and they sang and shouted loudly without regarding them; but i did not feel so mortified as i should have done had i not been a stranger whom they could not know. "at length we arrived at selby, and i begged that i might be allowed to get out at the entrance to the town. but no. she declared i should not till we arrived at the inn where the cart would put up; and i was obliged to submit. on reaching the inn many were the people that stood looking at us as we alighted. i got out almost the first, and mrs. nicholson was the last. i had then an opportunity of seeing her costume in full. there she stood, dressed in an old dirty print gown, so straight that it was like a sack around her, and over her shoulders was thrown an old scarlet cloak, very short, with three small capes, the largest of which did not reach down to her waist. then the bonnet is beyond description, and the cap beneath, with one plain muslin border that had not been ironed, and sadly soiled. these, with a pair of great dirty shoes that looked fit for a ploughman, over a pair of coarse black, or rather brown, worsted stockings, which her short petticoats displayed to full advantage, completed her attire. and thus, with a great, square, butter basket hanging over her arm, stood like some gipsy woman the wife of the rev. mr. nicholson. "we then went to the inn, where mr. nicholson and all the other clergymen were to meet the children, from whence they would proceed to church, each at the head of his own flock. we found mr. nicholson in a room upstairs with some other clergymen. to these he introduced me as his cousin, but none of them appeared to notice mrs. nicholson. at last she said, 'come, mr. nicholson, we have business at the bank, and we will have time enough to get it done before you have all to walk to church.' and bidding me come with them also, she proceeded downstairs, and left the inn. mr. nicholson was dressed in his gown and bands, and no one who was not acquainted with them would have thought for a moment that she was his wife. however, she trotted on before us with her basket, and, i daresay, we were neither of us sorry that she did so. when we reached the bank mr. nicholson's business was soon settled, and then she said he had better go on to the children, or he would be too late. 'come, then, miss h----n,' said mr. nicholson, 'she can meet us at the church.' i replied, 'i had better wait for her.' (i had been told that she was jealous of almost every female that he spoke to, so i feared if i went with him she might abuse me about it another time.) but though i declined going with him till i was ashamed, she insisted that i should go. accordingly we left her, and went again to the inn. the procession was just walking off when mr. nicholson requested me to take his arm, and we walked before the children of his flock to the church. at the entrance we separated. he desired me to go upstairs into the gallery, as he would have to remain below with the children. i was shown into a pew in the gallery, and viewed the imposing and solemn sight with reverential feelings. i thought, how much it was to be feared, many were there that knew not what they did. i thought of our journey to selby; and then i wondered why mrs. nicholson was not coming. often and often did i look to the entrance behind me to catch a glimpse of the bouncing dame in the old red cloak. (she was then very stout, being upwards of seventeen stones in weight.) at length the service was concluded. i hurried down as fast as possible, and, without waiting for mr. nicholson, went out to seek her. after having sought some time, i spied her in a spirit-shop. she saw me at the same time, and called to me to go in. she seemed quite in good humour, and asked where mr. nicholson was. i replied i had left him in the church, having come out to seek her, as i wondered she had not come according to promise. she said she had been doing business all the time, but when she had ordered some spirits here she had done, and would then go with me to the inn, as it was time to be starting for home. "when we got again to the inn, and into the room where we had been before, she inquired for mr. nicholson, and was told he was in another room. she said, 'i suppose he is tipsy; show me where he is.' the waiter went out, and she followed him, desiring me to wait until her return. in a short time she came back, saying, 'aye, he is yonder, tipsy enough. he has been dining and drinking wine with a set of them, and now he is laid upon a sofa, and i cannot get him to stir. it will have cost him a fine deal; but he won't tell me anything, and what is worse, i can't get his money from him, and he has a large sum in his pocket. i expect the cart will be here presently, and they won't wait for me. i suppose i must go, but if i leave him, he'll be robbed. i never can walk home, and besides, i shall have my threepence to pay. so i suppose i must go. oh, mary anne, do you go and speak to him, and see if he will come. the gentleman with whom he came has gone for his gig, and if he won't go with him, and we leave him, he will be robbed, and perhaps murdered.' "'well,' i replied, 'i'll go and see; but if he won't move for you, i don't expect he will for me. but see, there is the waggon with its live load at the door. for my part i would rather walk all the way than go in that horrid thing.' "she went out, and i followed her down a short passage, at the end of which we entered another room, where one or two gentlemen were sitting. we found mr. nicholson lying on a sofa. i went up to him and said, 'come, mr. nicholson, won't you go home? the cart is at the door waiting for mrs. nicholson, and she is quite distressed that you would not speak to her.' he replied that he would go directly the gig was ready. she then came forward and said, 'give me your money, or you will lose or spend it.' "'no,' he replied, 'i won't; you shall not have it. go away, i do not want you here.' "'well, then,' said she, 'may miss h----n stop with you?' "'yes,' he replied, 'i shall be glad of her company.' "'no,' i said, 'i cannot stop, for i intend walking home, and it is time i was going.' "'oh, you must not leave him,' said mrs. nicholson. 'he will get more to drink, and mr. ---will not get him home. he will be as stupid as a mule if he gets any more drink; so, there's a dear good girl, do stay with him, and don't let him get any more drink, and mind and watch that nobody robs him, and see that he does not lose his bands. now,' she said, addressing him, 'mind you do as mary anne wishes you.' "'yes; certainly,' he replied. "'but,' i said, 'i shall have a long walk; so i must go directly.' "'no,' said mr. nicholson, 'you had better come with us. i am sure that mr. ----, the churchwarden, will be glad to accommodate you with a seat in his gig. i will go and ask him.' "'you'll get more drink if you go,' said mrs. nicholson; 'he is in the parlour below, and i'll go and ask him myself. so promise me, mary anne, that you won't leave him, and then i'll be content.' "just then the gentleman himself entered the room, and mr. nicholson asked him if he could take this young lady also. he said he could, with the greatest pleasure. mrs. nicholson was delighted with this arrangement. she charged me again not to leave him, and then hurried away, and got into the cart, where the driver was grumbling at having to wait so long. "mr. nicholson, mr. ----, and myself had a pleasant chat until the gig drove up. we were soon wheeling along the road, and overtook the waggon a short distance from the town, mrs. nicholson bawling out as we passed--'mind, mary anne, and take care of him; don't let him out of your sight till i come.'" about this time they bought some more land, and, as usual, mrs. nicholson wanted to have it secured to herself, but her husband positively refused to hear of it. on the morning when he was going to order the writings she endeavoured to gain her point by a little coaxing. as she assisted him on with his coat she said, "come, johnny, honey, i'll give you a glass of gin for fear you get cold. it is such a cold morning." and when she gave it to him she added, "now, johnny, honey, you'll get these deeds made the same as the others?" "no, nancy," he replied, "i shall not indeed. i have been deceived by you too often." this led to a torrent of abuse, before which mr. nicholson fled. he went to howden to order the writings, from which, however, he excluded her name, an offence which she never forgave him, and the loss of that land after mr. nicholson's death was a constant subject of regret. a small orchard was attached to one of their houses at drax, and at the end of the building was a plum-tree. mrs. nicholson frequently cast a longing eye on the plums, and as she was not on the best terms with the person who occupied the premises, she determined, as the tree was not within the orchard fence, that she would have the plums for herself. accordingly, by alternate scolding and coaxing, she prevailed on mr. nicholson to go with her early one morning to assist in pulling the plums. when they arrived at the place she said--"now, johnny, honey, you'll be like to get into the tree." he told her the consequence of the act, and endeavoured to dissuade her from the attempt, but in vain. she insisted on his climbing; to this he at length consented, and commenced pulling the plums, which mrs. nicholson received in her apron. while they were thus engaged the tenant discovered them, and assembled several other people as witnesses. he then ordered mr. nicholson out of the tree, and afterwards summoned him before a magistrate for stealing the plums. mr. nicholson felt keenly the disgraceful position in which he had placed himself by yielding to his wife's solicitations, and upbraided her bitterly, declaring that he should die of shame if he had to appear before a magistrate. mrs. nicholson advised him to feign himself ill, and undertook to appear in his stead. accordingly, mrs. nicholson set out, and met at langrick ferry with the constable and witnesses, when the constable inquired for mr. nicholson. she informed him he was so poorly he would not be able to walk. the constable said he would get a horse for him, for come he must. having procured a horse, he went to mr. nicholson's, who, finding he had no means of escape, determined to go and endeavour to come to some arrangement with his tenant when he arrived at the ferry. having proposed to settle the affair amicably, the tenant assured mr. nicholson that he felt no resentment against him; and if he would pay â£5 for expenses, he would proceed no further. the money was paid, and the affair settled, but much to the vexation of mrs. nicholson. the tenant, however, generously proposed to spend the five pounds, stating that he only wanted protection, not profit. he accordingly ordered supper for all present, and spent the remainder in drink. mrs. nicholson sulked for some time, but at length joined the party, considering that she might as well get all she could out of the â£5 as let them enjoy it without her. after mr. nicholson refused to let his wife's name appear in the deeds for the property he purchased, she saved up a considerable sum of money unknown to her husband, and with it bought some property at rawcliffe. the deeds for this property she ordered to be made in her mother's name, and thus revenged herself on mr. nicholson for excluding her name from his deeds. mr. nicholson often said it was his money which bought it, and they had frequent altercations about it. her disposition for avarice seems to have increased, if possible, with her years. her mother frequently declared it was impossible for anyone to live with her, and that although nancy was her only child, she (her mother) would rather spend her declining years in the union than in the house with her. in the year 1842 mrs. jackson died, leaving mrs. nicholson the whole of her property for her own disposal, over which he, her husband, notwithstanding the marriage, could have no control. after her mother's death she at once resolved to keep a separate purse, being determined that mr. nicholson should not squander her money by his extravagance. she told him she would not ask him for anything but the egg, butter, and fruit money, just to provide groceries, &c., and she would superintend his house for her meat without any wage. but mr. nicholson had to provide a servant, and he was bound to pay for coals, taxes, butcher's meat, drink, and extras of all kinds, without touching the profits of the dairy. she would never let him have a single penny without insisting on its return, but she was by no means scrupulous about helping herself from his pockets when she had an opportunity, and if he missed anything, she always persisted that he had lost it. as soon as she had got matters settled after her mother's death, she wrote to a cousin in dublin, desiring him to come over and divide the land, which, up to this time, had been a joint estate. but previous to his coming, mrs. nicholson took care to pay a visit to the person who occupied the greatest portion of the land. she got him to show her all over the property, and point out to her where the best land was situated, promising as he was an old tenant that he should never be disturbed. having obtained all the information she could, she took advantage of her cousin, who was ignorant of the different qualities of the soil, and she took care that no person should have an opportunity of telling him till it was too late to retract. when he came over to yorkshire to accommodate her by dividing the land, she laid her plans, and partly by promises if he gratified her in letting her have such and such portions in her allotment, and partly by threats of disinheriting him if he refused, she succeeded in getting nearly all the best land laid to her share, and left him only the same quantity of the inferior quality. at the same time that the cousin from dublin was at drax, another cousin, a widow from cumberland, happened to arrive on some business of her own. mrs. nicholson conceived the project of getting this widow to come and live in yorkshire, doubtless thinking she would be able to make her useful, and, besides, she had a house unoccupied at drax, and thought she might find in this cousin an eligible tenant. these circumstances induced her to behave with tolerable civility to her visitors for a short time, but her temper was so irritable that they could not speak freely in her presence. her cousins had agreed to depart from yorkshire together, and travel in company as far as liverpool, and the day of their departure was fixed, much to the satisfaction of all parties, for she sorely grudged the expense of providing for them, and, as may well be believed, they did not find themselves particularly comfortable at drax. mrs. nicholson had living with her at this time a great-niece of mr. nicholson's, who was acting in place of the servant whom she had discharged in a fit of jealousy. the young girl had striven all she could, along with mr. nicholson, to make the visitors comfortable, and generally contrived during the day to have some eatables deposited where she could have free access to them at night when they went to bed, so that while mrs. nicholson was enjoying her supper in the dairy, her visitors, thanks to the young girl's kindness, were quietly enjoying themselves upstairs in their bedrooms. mr. nicholson, during the visit of these friends of mrs. nicholson's, had behaved with the utmost kindness and cordiality towards them. on the monday evening previous to their departure (which was fixed for wednesday), as they were together walking in the orchard, mr. nicholson directed their attention towards some fine geese. "yes," he repeated, as his visitors admired them, "they are fine ones, and we will have one killed and roasted for tomorrow's dinner, as it may be a long time before we shall all have an opportunity of dining together again." "no," exclaimed mrs. nicholson, "we will not; they are not your geese, they are mine; and i intend to send them to selby market where i shall get four and sixpence a-piece for them." "well, if they are yours," replied mr. nicholson, "you will surely not refuse to have one of them taken as a treat for your friends the last day they will be here." "yes, but i will, though," replied she. "you care nothing about a goose, do you?" said she, addressing herself to them. of course they answered "no." "but," said mr. nicholson, "we must have one; and if you will not give a paltry goose as a treat to your friends, i will buy one from you, for i am determined we shall have it." "well, then," she replied, "i will sell you one for five shillings." "no," he answered; "you said you would get four and sixpence at the market, and i will give you no more." after much altercation and debate, it was at length agreed that he should have a goose for four and sixpence, but he refused to pay the money without a receipt, for he knew if he did not get one she would swear that he had not paid for it. at last a receipt was written out and duly signed, and deposited by mr. nicholson in his pocket-book. the evening passed away pleasantly enough, and the visitors retired to rest not a little amused at the bargain which had been made between the husband and wife. very different, however, were the sentiments they experienced for the two individuals; for the husband they could not help feeling both pity and esteem, but for the wife they felt nothing but disgust. in the morning a scene ensued which it is difficult to describe. the visitors were awakened by loud quarrelling and angry and bitter words. they arose and went down-stairs, and found mr. and mrs. nicholson almost at blows. it was supposed that mrs. nicholson, after they had all retired for the night, crept into her husband's room when she had been assured he was asleep (for at this time, and long previous, they had occupied separate apartments), and taking the pocket-book out of his pocket stole therefrom the receipt for the goose; she then replaced the pocket-book, and went quietly to bed. in the morning mr. nicholson rose early to have the goose killed and dressed in good time, and it was ready for the spit when mrs. nicholson came down-stairs. when she saw it, she was in a furious rage. she stormed and raved, and swore she would have mr. nicholson taken up for theft. just then her cousins all came down-stairs and endeavoured to make peace, but in vain. she declared she would have him taken up, for the goose was hers, and he had stolen it. "how can you say so," he replied, "when i have your own receipt showing that i paid you for it?" "you are a liar!" she replied. "you did not pay for it. you have no receipt. you have killed my goose; but i will have you taken up, i will." "did you ever hear such a woman?" said mr. nicholson, appealing to the company. "is she not enough to drive a man mad? you all saw me pay for the goose last night, and i can produce the receipt she gave me for it." "you can't! you can't! i never gave you one, and you shall pay me for my goose yet. show the receipt if you have it, you thief!" mr. nicholson took out his pocket-book immediately, thinking to silence her; but the receipt was gone. finding it had been abstracted from his pocket-book, he was very much enraged, and accused her of having taken it. but she did not care for that, and after some more angry recrimination, mr. nicholson, for the sake of peace, and to prevent the company from being any longer annoyed by their disagreement, consented to pay for the goose a second time, and it was then roasted for dinner. after dinner was over she suddenly declared her intention of going to cumberland to see some property she had there, and also to visit her half-brother and his children, whom she had not seen for many years. another inducement was her fear that her cousin would not return to settle in yorkshire unless she accompanied her on her journey to cumberland, when she would have an opportunity of continually urging her to do so. she also thought she could travel cheaper in her cousin's company than alone, for she always managed to lean pretty heavily on her companions. the plan which the other friends had formed of travelling as far as liverpool together was prevented by this fresh arrangement, and one of the cousins was placed in a dilemma by a little act of kindness on the part of the niece, who had hidden in her box a few fine pears as a remembrance for the children in cumberland. now, mrs. nicholson had declared that she would not take any box or trunk with her, and desired her cousin to bring down her trunk to see if room could be made for the few things she would require during her absence from home. no time was therefore to be lost in removing the pears, which the niece slyly effected by transferring them to her pocket whilst her aunt was looking in another direction. had mrs. nicholson seen the pears in the box, she would have had cousins, niece, and all indicted together for stealing them. on the wednesday morning her cousin from dublin, with his wife and daughter, took their departure, heartily glad to leave their inhospitable relative. mrs. nicholson immediately commenced preparing for her journey, giving a particular charge to her niece not to let mr. nicholson get possession of the butter or apple money during her absence, and to keep close watch over him that he did not get drunk. previous to her departure, mr. nicholson asked her to bring back with her into yorkshire his sister, who was decrepit and destitute, and dependent on him for her support. she agreed to the proposal, remarking if he would keep her he could do it cheaper at home. but before she would undertake to bring the old lady she required a promise in writing from mr. nicholson that he would refund all travelling expenses incurred on his sister's account; remarking to her cousin that she would charge him plenty, for she was not going to be at the trouble of bringing the old woman for nothing; and she thought if she proved good for anything, she might make her take the place of a servant, if the niece left her, as she often threatened to do. taking all these things into consideration, she promised to bring her sister-in-law with her when she returned from cumberland. and now, all other things being arranged, she began to contrive the most economical way of making the journey. she proposed to take the packet for york at langrick ferry. she could walk that distance very well, but as her cousin had a trunk she advised her to hire a cart, which would take them all, for it would cost as much if she sent the trunk by itself. accordingly, a cart was procured, they bade farewell to mr. nicholson, and proceeded on their journey. they got safe on board the packet, and nothing particular occurred until they arrived in york, about three o'clock in the afternoon, when mrs. nicholson told her cousin that she knew a respectable house in lendal where they could lodge cheap. upon proceeding there they found very comfortable accommodation, and the cousin was much relieved by finding that the landlady perfectly understood mrs. nicholson's character. at this time mrs. nicholson's dress consisted of an old mourning print dress, very thin and faded, and so scanty for her corpulent figure that it was scarcely sufficient to cover her under-garments, which were of a corresponding description. over her shoulders was an old black or rather brown stuff shawl, bound round the edge with what had once been black crape; her bonnet was an old fancy straw, trimmed with black ribbon; a cap to correspond; a large yellow silk handkerchief round her neck, and a large printed apron tied before her, completed her travelling attire. in the trunk was deposited a black, stuff dress. this, along with the shawl she wore, had been bought for her by her mother thirteen years before, as mourning for an aunt, and it had also served as mourning for her mother, for whom she was then wearing it. in addition to the gown, there was a black apron, an old vest, and an old dimity skirt, which formed the whole of her wardrobe. however, the idea of these treasures being in the trunk made her very anxious about its safety in the various stages of their journey. after they had taken some refreshment, mrs. nicholson said they must now consider which would be the cheapest way of getting into cumberland. it would never do to go by train. she knew there were fly waggons travelling from york to various places, and they must try and find them out. being, however, informed that the fly waggons had ceased travelling since all goods were forwarded by train, it occurred to her that perhaps she might get conveyed cheaper by luggage train. accordingly she went to the railway station, and applied at the offices of pickford and other carriers, telling them of her wish to travel by the fly waggons, but as they were superseded by the luggage trains, she thought they might take passengers along with the goods in the same way as was formerly done by the waggons. the clerks and porters told her they could not do anything of the sort; there were regular passenger trains, and she could not go by any other. she said she could scarcely afford to travel in that way, and begged to be allowed to go with the goods. but her labour was in vain, and much to the satisfaction of her thoroughly-ashamed companion, she was obliged to relinquish her hopes, and return to her lodgings, fatigued, dispirited, and abusing everybody she had met with. on the following morning she reluctantly consented to take the train as far as northallerton. when she arrived there several hours were spent in similar fruitless attempts to procure a conveyance to darlington. finding her efforts were useless, she began to consider that the expense of lodgings would be incurred if they remained there much longer, and she then determined to take the last train at night for darlington, at which station they arrived about ten o'clock. proceeding towards the town, they inquired where they could get a decent private lodging, and were directed to an old couple, with whom they spent the night and next day till the conveyance they had chosen was ready to depart. they found the waggon was very heavily loaded, having among other things several very long fir planks. there was some difficulty in getting mrs. nicholson mounted, but at length she got squeezed in, and reclining herself on the planks, endeavoured to compose herself to sleep. but what with the jolting of the waggon and the confined space into which she was squeezed being insufficient for her huge person, her limbs became completely cramped; and this, with the excessive closeness of the place, for the waggon was covered with canvas, made mrs. nicholson ill. reaching out her arms in the dark, she seized her companion by the hair, and exclaimed, "oh, i am dying! oh, do get the man to stop! oh, do, or i shall die in this confounded waggon." in vain did her companion beg she would relinquish her hold of her hair, telling her if she did not release her she could not get to the front of the waggon to make the man hear. the only reply was, "oh, i am dying! get a knife out of your pocket and cut the cover open." at length her companion succeeded in disengaging herself from mrs. nicholson's grasp, and scrambling over the various packages in the waggon, attracted the attention of the waggoner, who immediately stopped his horses, and did all in his power to render the situation of the travellers a little more comfortable. they arrived at barnard castle about nine in the morning. here the driver said they would remain until noon, and then proceed to brough. mrs. nicholson told the landlady of the house where the waggon stopped how ill she had been on the road; that she could not afford to travel by a better conveyance; that she could not take any refreshment except a cup of tea, and that she had plenty of eatables with her in her basket. the kind landlady looked at her as if she sincerely pitied her, and said, "well, never mind, you shall have a kettle boiled, and you shall make yourself comfortable. i will charge you nothing for it." she then showed the travellers into a neat little room, and said she hoped when mrs. nicholson had taken some tea, and had a little rest on the sofa, she would be able to proceed on her journey as soon as the waggon was ready. they arrived in safety at brough, intending to proceed on their journey next morning. but in the morning she was very ill. she had been little accustomed to exercise for some time before, and the long and toilsome journey in the waggon had been too much for her. a day or two recruited her strength, and with the recovery of health, she forgot her dislike to the waggon, for they next proceeded by carrier's cart by appleby to penrith. but here she declared her intention of finishing her journey on foot, for what with lodgings and what with travelling expenses, she said it was going to cost as much as if they had proceeded direct by railway. the trunk was accordingly re-directed, to be left at coldbeck, in cumberland, till called for, and given in charge of the carrier, with many injunctions from mrs. nicholson to be careful of it, as it contained many things of consequence. when they reached the little inn at blencow the landlady eyed them suspiciously from head to foot. the landlady, being unable to accommodate them, set a domestic to inquire for lodgings, but returned unsuccessful, for a company of sappers and miners who were then in that neighbourhood occupied every place which was available in the little village. mrs. nicholson declared her intention of remaining, repeatedly asserting that the landlady was compelled to accommodate them. but the landlady appeared to be anxious to get rid of them, and said she could not be compelled to accommodate more travellers than the size of the house would afford. fortunately mrs. nicholson remembered having an old acquaintance in the place, and from him a light cart was obtained to convey the travellers to southernby, where mrs. nicholson's tenant, mr. ralph, resided. here they remained a day or two, and were treated most hospitably. mr. ralph conveyed them in his own cart to park end, near coldbeck, where mrs. nicholson's brother and family resided. the travellers received a hearty welcome and the kindest treatment. on the day after their arrival at park end, at mrs. nicholson's request, her nephew proceeded to coldbeck to inquire after the trunk. he brought the trunk back with him, and informed them that it had been carried by mistake to another person of the same name, who had opened it, but finding it was not hers, she had fastened it up again as well as she could, and said the owner would find all right inside. "oh, my apron, my good black apron, i am sure it will be gone," exclaimed mrs. nicholson; "i wish i had never put anything into your nasty trunk. my good skirts, too, if they are gone i'll make them pay dearly for them." the trunk was soon examined, and fortunately her precious things were all safe, so that peace was soon restored. they remained at park end about a week, and but for the restraint her presence always inflicted on those connected with her, the kindness they received would have made the visit delightful. mrs. nicholson's nephew took his aunt and her cousin to the place where mr. nicholson's sister resided. she explained to the persons who had the care of her the arrangement which mr. nicholson had made for her future custody, and desired them to be in readiness to convey her to whitehaven when she was sent for. both the old woman and the person she lived with, who was a niece of mr. nicholson's, seemed much affected at the thought of parting with each other; but the idea of joining her dear brother seemed to console the old lady. alas! she little knew the cheerless home that awaited her. when they had arranged this business, they returned to park end. her nephew then took her to visit another lady, an old acquaintance of mr. nicholson's, between whom it appeared a rather close intimacy had subsisted previous to mr. nicholson's removal to yorkshire. they received as usual a very kind reception, and an invitation to remain. many sheep are kept in that part of cumberland, and this was the period for the annual clipping. at this season they make a kind of feast with what is called there "butter sopps." mrs. s----, the lady of the house where they were staying, presented mrs. nicholson with some of the butter sopps in a basin, requesting her to take them to mr. nicholson as a present from her, jocosely remarking that she would like to be within hearing when he was eating them. mrs. nicholson accepted the butter sopps, and promised to deliver the message. part of old miss nicholson's furniture was sold, and arrangements were made for removing the remainder to yorkshire. then mrs. nicholson and the old lady started. it happened that part of the furniture of miss nicholson had been bought by parties from whitehaven, and a cart was engaged next day to convey a sofa and a clock to the abode of the purchaser. mrs. nicholson persuaded her cousin to proceed in this cart to whitehaven, at which place her other sister resided. this lady was the companion of mrs. nicholson when she went to selby confirmation, and wrote the lively account of her visit which appears in this memoir. mrs. nicholson's notable plan of travelling in the cart with the sofa and clock was adopted. the sofa was placed lengthways on the cart, so that the two passengers when seated thereon travelled sideways. the clock-case lay behind, with a basket containing the works placed on the top. they proceeded along pretty well until they were near a town named distington, through which they had to pass, when by some means the works of the clock began to strike like a bell ringing, nor could their efforts to stop it avail. with every roll of the cart it went tingle, tingle, tingle, until the people began to look out of their houses as they passed. "come and look," said they; "here is such a fat woman mounted on a sofa, and they are ringing a bell and going to show her." this exasperated nancy nicholson to the utmost. she swore at the urchins that ran by the side of the cart, and the more furious she grew the more provoking did they become. when they arrived at their cousin's house at whitehaven the servants were struck with amazement at her great size, and exclaimed, "however shall we get her off the cart? we shall be forced to take her to the warehouse and bouse her out with the crane." however, they managed to assist her down without the aid of the crane, and she was very soon made so comfortable that she forgot the vexation of her journey through distington. mrs. nicholson, old miss nicholson, and a cousin who was travelling with them, and to whom the reader is indebted for the details of the journey, were hospitably received by the cousin at whitehaven. mrs. nicholson appears to have been still fearful that her companion would not return with her, and therefore determined to take her departure by the packet which left whitehaven on saturday for liverpool, and her cousin arranged to accompany her. they had been informed that the packet would start at two o'clock in the afternoon, but just as they were sitting down to dinner a gentleman called to say the packet was then making ready. immediately all was bustle and confusion. it was necessary to convey down to the vessel not only the luggage, but mr. nicholson's sister also, who was unable to walk. the dinner was left untasted, but the kind cousin at whose house they had been staying placed the meat and vegetables in a basket, and sent it after them, saying they must dine when they got on board. all their friends assembled on the pier from which the packet sailed, and the sad farewell was followed by many prayers for her who had been lured away from her friends and home by what they considered the specious promises of mrs. nicholson. the travelling party now comprised mrs. nicholson, her sister-in-law (who was quite decrepit, and could scarcely walk even with the assistance of sticks), the cousin who had accompanied her throughout the journey, and her two children. soon after the packet left whitehaven, it commenced blowing pretty strong, and many of the passengers were very sick; amongst the rest, mrs. nicholson and her cousin. when the passengers left whitehaven they expected to reach liverpool by midnight, when they would have been able to take the first train in the morning for manchester. the wind had caused some delay, and unfortunately the packet had run against a loaded schooner, which had carried away one of her paddles, and in consequence the remainder of the voyage was performed without the aid of steam. it was late in the forenoon when our travellers arrived in liverpool, and having procured a cab, as miss nicholson could not walk, they proceeded at once to the railway station in lime street. to their dismay they found the station closed, and on inquiry were informed that it would not be open again for some hours. they were now in an awkward dilemma, for mrs. nicholson declared her intention of remaining in the street until the doors were opened, for she could not think of being at the trouble and expense of removing her sister-in-law backwards and forwards in vain. her cousin urged her to go to the nearest public-house, as it would be disgraceful to remain at the doors of a railway station for such a length of time on the sabbath-day. her cousin felt herself degraded, as she had both friends and relations in liverpool, and was fearful of being recognised. but entreaties and expostulations were all in vain. mrs. nicholson seated herself and her sister-in-law on the baggage, and took out the mutton and potatoes, declaring herself right hungry, and they would have their dinners. mrs. nicholson shared out the mutton and potatoes, settled herself down with the dish on her knees, and commenced her dinner most vigorously, declaring the meat was very good. heartily glad was the cousin when the doors opened; in a few minutes they obtained their tickets, and were soon on their way to manchester. on their arrival they alighted from the train, not being certain that they could proceed any further that night, and their movements being very slow, the train started off again before they got fresh tickets. after the train had departed and the crowd dispersed, the party proceeded to the waiting-room to consult about procuring lodgings for the night, when mrs. nicholson settled the point by declaring she would not leave the station. they were still in the midst of their discussion when some of the company's servants entered the waiting-room, and curtly informed them it was necessary to depart, as the last train had gone, and they wanted to close the station. but mrs. nicholson told them the train had gone off and left them, as that old woman, pointing to her sister-in-law, was unable to walk; and if she was removed from the station that night they would not be able to get her there again in time for the morning train. they replied that there was an hotel close to the doors of the station where they might all be accommodated, and being so near, the old woman could be brought to the train in the morning without much difficulty. "oh," replied mrs. nicholson, "do, if you please, my good man, let us remain here; we would rather remain here than go anywhere else. we will give you a trifle to let us stop where we are, for we cannot afford to pay for our beds. but we will give you something if you will let us stop here; we can sleep on the long settle." "well, poor woman," replied the kind-hearted man, evidently touched with pity, "i cannot give you leave to stay, neither can i accept anything from you; but i will acquaint the master, and see what i can do for you." he accordingly departed, and in a little time returned, saying it was quite contrary to their rules to permit anyone to remain in the station all night. however, as their case was so pitiful, and they had missed the train, they would be allowed to remain till morning. he then kindly offered to make a fire, which, however, mrs. nicholson declined, but thanked him heartily for his kindness. she said if he would only permit the gaslight to remain burning, it would be all they would require. he granted her request, and very kindly bade them good-night, and shut the door. the travellers then endeavoured to compose themselves to rest, mrs. nicholson exulting in her success in obtaining leave to remain at the station, whereby they would save the expense of lodgings. fortunately a pair of pillows belonging to the cousin were corded on the top of one of their trunks. they were accidentally omitted when the other portion of her furniture was packed off, and they now proved extremely useful. the cords were speedily untied, and mrs. nicholson and her sister-in-law each took a pillow, and laid down on the long seats of the waiting-room. her cousin and her children, with the help of sundry bundles, followed their example, and wrapping themselves in shawls and cloaks, were soon settled down, and prepared for a sound sleep after the fatigues of the day. on the following morning they took tickets for selby, where they arrived safely without any further adventures, and returned to drax in the evening by the carrier's cart, after having been absent from home about a month. mr. nicholson received his poor old sister very kindly. mr. nicholson's niece left a few weeks after her aunt returned from cumberland, after which time mrs. nicholson treated the poor sister-in-law with the greatest cruelty, compelling her to walk without the assistance of her sticks, although she was scarcely able to totter along. it will be readily imagined that under these circumstances matters became worse and worse in mr. nicholson's house. it was about the end of november, 1844, that husband and wife had a violent quarrel, which ended in a mutual agreement to separate. mrs. nicholson's intention was to take up her abode in a house belonging to her at drax, which was next door but one to that occupied by her cousin, and at that time unoccupied, and thither she moved with such furniture as mr. nicholson would spare her. a series of miserable squabbles ensued, an account of which is given in full in the chap. book from which this notice is taken, but which we will spare our readers. the final quarrel took place in 1845, when mr. nicholson beat his wife, in the house where she lived. he never from that day visited her again, or would suffer her to re-enter his doors. indeed, they never again met. she remained at newland some time, and then removed to asselby. the first change she made there was to turn out of his farm the tenant who had given her so much information previous to the division of the land with her dublin cousin, by means of which she had obtained the best land. for the purpose of gaining this information she had made her tenant a promise that he should never be disturbed. he reminded her of her promise, but she had made her plan, and cared neither for his entreaties nor for her promise. he was compelled to leave the farm at the termination of his tenancy, which was the lady-day following her final separation from her husband. she persuaded her cousin to come and live with her at asselby, promising her if she would do so that she would leave her all her property. the cousin, although to do so was extremely inconvenient, and certainly most unpleasant, agreed on these terms to do what she wished. poor mr. nicholson had bought an accordion, which he amused himself in the long evenings with playing. on a summer night he sat out under the trees and practised on his instrument. nancy was highly exasperated when she heard this. it was done, she concluded, out of malice, to exhibit to the whole parish that he was indifferent to his loss, and could be supremely happy without his wife. "and i can be happy too," said nancy, and she launched out in the extravagance of an organ. she could not play it, but she could pull out all the stops, bang her fist on the notes, and let the roar of the instrument proclaim to the neighbourhood through the open windows that she too was merry. but not satisfied with this, she determined to be revenged on her husband by obtaining, if possible, his inhibition. she resolved on bringing mr. nicholson's intemperance under the notice of the archbishop, yet so ingeniously did she lay her plans, that when the investigation took place, the part she had taken in it did not transpire. it appears that mr. nicholson had a dispute with a tenant at drax about giving up possession of his premises at a certain time, and this tenant called on mrs. nicholson at asselby, requesting her to be a witness as to the time of his entering into possession, when she instigated him to write to the archbishop of york and give a full account of mr. nicholson's various acts of intemperance, with a full detail of all the circumstances in his conduct which were likely to degrade him in the eyes of the archbishop. mrs. nicholson then caused letters to be written to the archbishop, complaining that mr. nicholson had beat her, and caused her to be turned away without a home. this brought about a correspondence between the archbishop and mrs. nicholson, but, contrary to her hopes, it ended in the archbishop advising mrs. nicholson to consult a solicitor on the subject. the investigation caused mr. nicholson's suspension from preaching for two years, which event gave mrs. nicholson great satisfaction. she wrote several letters to him from asselby, in some of which she abused him, and in others expressed a wish to be again reconciled, but she never received any reply. being now in comparative tranquillity with all around her, she was at a loss for an object on which to employ her ever active brain, when one day, as she was reading over the advertisements in the newspaper, she suddenly exclaimed, "i am tired of doing nothing, and i think it is a sin to be idle. to be sure i have what will keep me, and somebody after me, but i would rather be employed. i will try to obtain a housekeeper's situation. i know there are many who would be glad to have such a person as me, if it was only to take care of things for them." it is probable that no one else would be of the same opinion, but from that time she searched the advertisements in the newspapers with an interest truly ridiculous. week after week passed, but nothing appeared which was likely to suit her. at length an advertisement appeared for a cook and housekeeper wanted for a single gentleman. the address was copied, and a letter written, describing her as a clergyman's daughter, &c. it was read over several times by mrs. nicholson previous to its being deposited in the post-office, and the reply was anxiously looked for. at length it arrived, when it appeared that the advertiser was a highly respectable physician residing at thirsk, and he appointed a time for meeting mrs. nicholson at the railway hotel at york. mrs. nicholson immediately considered herself engaged, and as she expected to leave asselby for some time, she made great preparations for securing her apartments and the property they contained, locking and marking every drawer and cupboard, so that she might know if anyone meddled with them during her absence. she had then to consider what clothing would be necessary for this important occasion. she thought it probable that she would be expected to dress rather smartly in her new situation, and accordingly packed up in a band-box an old-fashioned black silk pelisse, lined in front with yellow; a pink muslin gown which she had got soon after her marriage, and which was consequently too small for her at this time; her never-failing black stuff gown for occasional use; and a light shawl. these formed her wardrobe and filled the band-box, which was then tied up in a large old shawl. she then packed a few articles in a reticule basket covered with a piece of old blue print. this she secured with a padlock passed through the lid of the basket and the willows at the top which were left uncovered by the print. in vain her friends tried to persuade her not to take her clothes with her, as it was doubtful if she would get the situation. she appeared to think that was impossible, because she was determined to go, let the place be what it might, never seeming to think the other side would refuse. she was then entreated to dress herself as tidily as possible, but she would only go her own way. so she arrayed herself in an old print gown, very much soiled, the indispensable apron, a woollen plaid shawl, a cap very much crushed, and a bonnet little better. the day appointed for meeting the gentleman at york was wet and stormy, but mrs. nicholson resolutely faced the storm, and taking the packet at the ferry, arrived in safety at york. she then set off to walk to the hotel, but by the time she reached the end of skeldergate she was pretty well fatigued with her great bundle and basket, and her shoes were covered with mud, her bonnet blown back off her face, and her hair hanging about in disorder. she was in this state when she arrived at the hotel, and inquired if mr. ---from thirsk was there. she was immediately shown into his presence. on entering the room she made a low curtsey, placed her bundle on the floor, and sat down on the nearest chair, almost overcome. the gentleman approached from the other end of the room, which was a large one, and looking at her for about a minute, he inquired, "were you wanting me?" "yes, sir," she replied. "i suppose you are mr. ----, from thirsk?" "i am," said the gentleman. "oh, then," said she, "i am mrs. nicholson who wrote to you about your situation as cook and housekeeper." the gentleman, who appeared rather nervous, immediately replied, "oh, dear me--you mrs. nicholson!--you the person who wrote to me! i understood----" here his sentence was left unfinished, and he commenced again, "oh, my good woman, it must be some mistake. are you the person who wrote to me?" "yes, sir," she replied; "and i assure you i will take all possible care of anything intrusted to me." "oh, dear!" said he, "you are not at all the kind of person that i require. i have hitherto had my sister to superintend my house, but she is going to travel in italy, and i want a person qualified to supply her place." "oh," answered mrs. nicholson, "i can do that. i have been used to manage a family of fifteen, and i am sure i can do all you require." "oh, dear, no!" again retorted the gentleman, who began to look upon her with some degree of apprehension. "i assure you, you are not the sort of person i want. there must have been some mistake, my good woman--you really will not do for me." so saying, he retreated towards the other end of the room. mrs. nicholson began to feel disappointed, but resolved to try again. once more advancing towards him, she said, "well, sir, i am very sorry you think so. however, i have no objections to travel, and if your sister should want a companion----" here the gentleman interrupted her, saying, "my good woman, no such thing, i assure you. you really will not do at all. there has evidently been some mistake, for had i known before, i need not have troubled you." "well, indeed," said mrs. nicholson, "it has been a great deal of trouble, for i have come all the way on purpose, and have brought my clothes with me." the gentleman involuntarily cast his eyes first at the great bundle and then at the speaker, and observed he was really sorry, though he could not be answerable for her actions, but if she desired, he would order her some refreshment. however, she declined, and took her departure, murmuring something about her disappointment and the trouble she had been at. week after week rolled on, and she was still pondering over a situation, when her attention was again attracted by an advertisement for a housekeeper. application was made, and an answer duly returned, informing her that her services would be required to manage a large establishment. her wages would be thirty pounds per annum, and she would have the control of all the female servants, except the lady's maid and the governess. the others she would have power to engage and discharge at her own discretion. she was requested to go over immediately to meet the lady and gentleman at their own house. mrs. nicholson was delighted with these proposals, and already fancied herself at the head of the establishment. she immediately began to calculate how much money she could save out of her wages, and the various perquisites which she considered would be within her reach, and she then rejoiced that she had not obtained the old bachelor's situation at thirsk. as this situation promised to be one of importance, she thought it would be necessary to take most of her smart clothes, but after mature consideration she made up her mind to take precisely the same as she had taken to york. the band-box had not been unpacked since her former journey, so that she had only the covered basket to fill, and she was then ready to start. the letter she had received directed her to a beautiful mansion near skipton in craven. as it was necessary to be there as early as possible, she was obliged to travel by rail. when she arrived at the station at skipton, she inquired the way to a----, and after a weary walk, at length reached the entrance to the grounds surrounding the hall. after proceeding a few yards along the avenue, she sat down to arrange her dress, and then took a survey of the place. from the spot which she occupied she could obtain a slight glimpse of the building. "why," she exclaimed, "this is much finer than k---hall; i shall have a grander place than him." after resting a short time she proceeded to a door, and slightly tapping at it, retired a few steps. it was speedily opened by a female domestic, who inquired of mrs. nicholson what she wanted. she replied by asking if mrs. ---was at home. the girl having answered in the affirmative, she requested her to be so kind as to inform the lady that mrs. nicholson had arrived. "oh, certainly," replied the girl; and eyeing her from head to foot, she asked, "are you mrs. nicholson?" "yes," replied mrs. nicholson, "and i have just arrived by the train." the girl then invited her to walk in, and she was shown into a small sitting-room. in passing along she saw that the house was very extensive, and the apartments so numerous and so grand that she would not be able to stop there. she had just made up her mind that the place was too grand for her, when the door opened and a lady entered. mrs. nicholson arose and curtsied, but was full of confusion, and unable to utter a word. the lady requested her to sit down, and informed her that mrs. ---would be with her in a few minutes. "what," answered mrs. nicholson, "are not you mrs. ----?" "oh, no," replied she; "i am her maid." "i suppose mrs. ---is expecting me?" said mrs. nicholson. "oh, yes," replied the maid; "she sent the carriage to the railway station to meet the train, and bring you here. but it returned some time since. the groom said he made inquiries, but could not hear of a passenger likely to be the new housekeeper." during this speech the lady's maid appeared to be examining mrs. nicholson's dress most minutely. in a short time the lady herself appeared, and the maid withdrew, but mrs. nicholson had both seen and heard sufficient to prevent her from feeling the least desire to remain. she therefore at once said to the lady, "oh, ma'am, i am sorry i have come here, for i could never stay in this great place." the lady replied, "well, mrs. nicholson, i am sorry likewise, for i was really in hopes i had met with an excellent housekeeper. however, as you see it yourself, i shall be spared the necessity of wounding your feelings." the lady then repeated what the maid had told her about sending the carriage to the railway station, but mrs. nicholson appeared quite incapable of entering into conversation. the lady evidently observed her confusion, and behaved with the utmost kindness and condescension. she remarked that night was coming on; therefore if mrs. nicholson would remain till morning, she would give orders for her accommodation. mrs. nicholson decided not to remain, and she also declined taking any refreshments, but she expressed a desire to see some of the rooms in the hall. the lady readily granted her wish, and showed her through the splendid apartments herself. she again expressed her sorrow that a mistake, as she expressed it, had occurred, and mrs. nicholson replied that she was sorry too, for the journey had been a great expense to her, but she hoped the lady would give her something towards it. the lady smiled at her request, and gave her a few shillings, remarking that she had now paid for advertising for a housekeeper. mrs. nicholson humbly thanked her, and took her departure, amidst the half-suppressed titters of the servants, who had assembled to witness her exit. these events were seldom referred to afterwards, and mrs. nicholson thenceforth rested satisfied without seeking another situation, but continued steadily her usual mode of living and amassing money. in the beginning of the year 1850, having heard that mr. nicholson was dangerously ill, she felt anxious to see him, but first caused the question to be put to him if he wished to see her, when he expressed the greatest abhorrence at the idea, and declared that he never wished to see her more. he died on the 8th of february following. at the invitation of the executors she attended the funeral. she was dressed in her never-failing black stuff gown, and a white tuscan bonnet which she bought soon after she separated from her husband. the bonnet was trimmed for the funeral with a narrow black gauze ribbon. mr. nicholson left a will wherein he provided for his poor old sister for life, with remainder to a niece in northamptonshire. his household furniture and effects were to be sold. of course he could not prevent mrs. nicholson from having a life interest in any property referred to in the deeds in which her name was inserted. when the sale of the furniture was advertised, mrs. nicholson determined to go over to newland and take possession of the house. her cousin was invited to accompany her. she was much troubled at the thought of the sale, for the things had formerly been hers, and she seemed to feel great pain at parting with them in that way. at length she declared, as she could not keep them herself, she would endeavour to prevent anybody else from enjoying them. she then broke the glass over the clock face, and with a penknife cut slits in the carpets and haircloth covering of the sofa. these were not visible at the time of the sale, but would undoubtedly appear when brought into use. the sale took place on the saturday, and it was late in the evening when it was concluded. several friends invited mrs. nicholson to their homes, but she refused to leave the house. two bedsteads and a crimson sofa were left, which the purchasers could not conveniently remove that evening, and which mrs. nicholson gladly allowed to remain, as they were likely to be useful to her. she had previously observed a large bundle in the garden, which had evidently been overlooked by the auctioneer and his assistants. this she contrived to conceal in the cellar until all the company had retired, when she brought it forth, and found it to contain an excellent pair of blankets and a good quilt, which enabled the pair to make their quarters rather more comfortable. she also found in the cellar a barrel containing a considerable quantity of ale, with which she nearly filled an old kettle, and having boiled it over a fire made of sticks and old wood, she drank the greater part of the kettleful at her supper, and was soon as fast asleep in her new-found blankets, laid on the bare bedstead, as if she had been on a bed of down. when morning arrived, the house, as might be expected, presented a very desolate appearance. the cold was intense, but mrs. nicholson resolutely refused every invitation to leave it. she and her cousin found plenty of sticks and wood, with which they kept up a tolerable fire, and having drunk some more boiled ale, nancy commenced a thorough inspection of the house. she found some old lumber which had not been worth selling, and in one of the chambers a good heap of barley. into this chamber she removed all the lumber, together with all the pots and pans, whether broken or sound, a quantity of doctors' bottles, and every piece of wood about the place which was not then required for their fire. having only a life interest in the house, she determined to remove the fixtures. she pulled the shelves out of the cupboard, tore down the banisters at the top of the stairs, took the lock off the parlour door and the rollers from the windows, and deposited them in the chamber with the lumber and the barley. when night again drew on she had all arranged to her satisfaction. again she boiled her kettleful of ale, and again slept soundly in her blankets as on the previous night. early on monday morning she deposited in the chamber the blankets, the quilt, and the old kettle, and having securely locked the door and placed a private mark upon it that she might know if an entrance had been attempted, she waited anxiously until the owner of the bedsteads and sofa arrived and took them away. she then secured the house by nailing down the windows, &c., and taking the path across the fields, once more returned to asselby. almost immediately after she arrived at home, she was informed by the niece whose husband was tenant of the farm, that, owing to the heavy rent and other circumstances, their affairs had become embarrassed. mrs. nicholson had always promised to be a friend to them, and they now offered to give all up to her, hoping by that means to secure a continuance of her friendship. but she suddenly took offence at something or other, and seized upon all they possessed, which was immediately advertised to be sold by auction, and her niece and family left the house the same evening. there was then no one left about the premises but herself, and as she could not bear to be alone, she again entreated her cousin to remain with her for a time. the sale of her niece's stock and furniture proceeded. at the conclusion, the villagers, to whom she had always been an object of dislike, made a large straw effigy, and paraded it up and down the place. they then set fire to it in front of her window, and saluted her with songs, hisses, and execrations. the sight of the fire thoroughly alarmed her, and throwing open the window she screamed and swore like a mad woman. she sent for a constable and shouted for help. no one appeared to interfere on her behalf, but when the effigy had ceased burning, the crowd dispersed of their own accord. nancy nicholson was so offended at having been burnt in effigy that she determined to leave asselby, and as she had again a house at liberty at drax, she moved her furniture into it, and persuaded her cousin to accompany her. about six weeks after the death of her husband, an elderly gentleman began to pay his addresses to mrs. nicholson. a second suitor speedily followed, and shortly afterwards a third. this bevy of suitors had a wonderful effect on the old lady, and she began to pay great attention to her dress and personal appearance. she purchased within one week three new gowns, all of which she had made up with flounces; she got also a new bonnet, and had several caps newly trimmed. she then brought from her stores several rings, not one of which was gold except her marriage ring, and with these she adorned her fingers. an hour or more she would spend every morning in rubbing her rings, and in oiling and dressing her hair, taking great pains to set herself off to the best advantage, assuming all the giddy flirting airs of a girl of sixteen. there is little doubt she would have married a second time, but feared parting with her money, and it is thought that none of her suitors were particularly anxious to take her without it. about this time she began to attend the roman catholic chapel at howden, and shortly after was received into the roman church by baptism; and at that time she certainly appeared to have more devotional feeling than she ever displayed either before or afterwards. but on being applied to for a small donation towards the new church then in course of erection at howden, she speedily withdrew from the roman communion, remarking that she had a good pew in the parish church, to which she could go without expense whenever she felt disposed, and she would, too, in spite of every one. mrs. nicholson could never get a servant to live with her for any length of time, her filthy habits being past endurance. she endeavoured to do without assistance, but finding that impossible, she prevailed on her cousin to come once a week to help her to clean up a little. she had her bed in the room down-stairs where she lived, and her chambers were not swept for months previous to her death. if her cousin offered to clean up-stairs, she would reply that it was of no consequence, for no one went up but herself. her cousin received no payment for her attendance, although she found her own provisions, relying entirely on mrs. nicholson's oft-repeated promise that she should be rewarded in her will. her weekly attendance was continued until about the beginning of july, 1854, when mrs. nicholson engaged a daughter of the niece before mentioned, to go three times a week. she also found her own provisions, but had wages for her labour. the cousin, at mrs. nicholson's request, still went occasionally. soon after this mrs. nicholson became very ill, but was without medical advice until the 4th of august, making her words good in that respect, that she would never have another doctor until the last extremity. on that day she allowed one to be sent for, and on the following day she gave instructions for her will to be made. she bequeathed the farm and house she occupied, with all her furniture and money in the bank, to the niece before mentioned. she left another farm to the cousin in ireland, who had been defrauded when they separated their land. she left â£1500 to the son of a half-cousin by her mother's side, residing in cumberland. but the great bulk of her property was left to her half-nephew mentioned in the account of her visit to cumberland. although both the medical gentlemen and the solicitor very kindly urged her to remember the cousin who had so constantly attended upon her, without having hitherto received the slightest recompense or reward for her trouble and expense, she refused to leave her anything. about a fortnight before her death she wished for some wine, and sent for a bottle of the best that could be procured. the wine was brought, and she was informed the price was four shillings, which caused her great dissatisfaction. she accused the person who brought it with extravagance in paying so much, and with folly in not ascertaining what would be allowed for the bottle when empty. she then ordered in a five-gallon barrel of ale, all of which she consumed in the week previous to her death. hearing from the doctor that she could not live long, she was dreadfully afraid of dying before she had finished the barrel, and so not have had all she could out of her money. as she had not been accustomed to drink fermented liquors for some years before, there is no doubt she must have been half-stupefied with beer during the last week of her existence. she signed her will on sunday morning, august 6th, 1854, and died the evening of the same day. footnotes: [20] "the life of mrs nancy nicholson, who died august 6th, 1854." howden: w. small. 1855. [21] the free grammar school at drax, where twelve boys are boarded and educated from a fund left for the purpose. the wooden bell of ripon. near the railway station at ripon is a quaint block of old almshouses, with an ancient chapel dedicated to st. mary magdalen, of grey stone, backed by a grove of elms. the little chapel contains some curious wood carving, the original stone altar, and a large oak chest in which reposes a solitary curiosity--a wooden bell, painted grey-green. the chapel is fortunately unrestored, left in its picturesque antiquity to moulder away. any one who had seen the chapel of barden tower some years ago, and what it has become under the hand of the restorer, will know what it is to be grateful that a venerable relic of antiquity has not been furbished up to suit modern taste. that st. mary magdalen's would have fallen into bad hands had it been given over to restoration may be judged by the hideous new chapel which the authorities have recently erected close to the almshouses. by that wooden bell in the oak chest hangs a tale. in the time of our grandfathers, dr. w----, was dean of ripon, a divine of the old port-wine-drinking school. now st. mary magdalen's chapel was no longer used. by the ancient endowment there was to be a resident chaplain and daily service in the little church, which the inmates of the almshouses were expected to attend. but the chaplaincy and its emoluments were usually held by one of the canons of the minster. the stipend went into his pocket; the duties were neglected. if the old almsfolk wished to pray to god daily, they might totter three-quarters of a mile up to the minster. dean w----, took on himself the chaplaincy; that is, he appropriated to the stocking of his cellar the money bequeathed to the almonership of the magdalen hospital. but his cellar fell low. the dean wanted money; his credit with the wine-merchants was as low as his cellar. how was money to be raised? one day he had the bell of the magdalen chapel removed from the gable in which it had hung for many centuries, and had hung silent for many years. the bell was supposed to have gone to the founders; and the money paid for it to the wine-merchant; anyhow, soon after, a hamper of fine old crusted port arrived at the deanery. but ripon people, though long-suffering, could not quite endure the "robbing of churches." murmurs were heard; the dean was remonstrated with. he puffed out, turning as red as a turkey-cock-"well, well! the bell shall go back again." and sure enough next week the bell was seen once more hanging in the gable of st. mary magdalen's chapel as of yore. the ripon people were content. the bell was never rung, but to that they were accustomed. who cared whether the old goodies in the hospital were ministered to or not? it was no affair of theirs if the founder's wishes were set at nought, and the walls of the magdalen never sounded with the voice of prayer. but next spring, as on many a former one, the swallows built their nests among the eaves, and found a place about the altar of god's deserted house, as they had done in the days of the psalmist. when nesting-time came, some boys began climbing about the roofs in quest of eggs. one of them, seeing a rope dangling from the bell, caught it and began to pull, when, to his amazement, the bell uttered no sound. he crept under it. there was no clapper; and what was more, it hardly looked hollow. his curiosity was excited, and he climbed up to it, and discovered that the bell was only a piece of deal turned, and painted the colour of bell metal! the story sounded further than ever had the old bell; and for very shame the dean was obliged to take it down, and hide it in the chest of the magdalen chapel. autumn came round. the dean had notable espalliers in his garden. his trees were too attractive to the urchins of ripon to escape visits. this highly incensed the dean; and one night, hearing the boys at his apple-trees, he rushed, stick in hand, upon them. one he caught by the scruff of his neck. the others fled over the wall. "oh, you young ruffian! you audacious young scoundrel!" roared the dean; "where do you think thieves will go to hereafter? what do you think will happen to them here?" "please, sir! please, sir!----" "hold your wicked tongue, you rascal!" thundered the dean, whistling his cudgel round his head, "i shall thrash you unmercifully now, and lock you up in the black-hole to-night, and take you to the magistrate to-morrow, and have you sent to prison. and then, if you go on with your stealing, sir! you will go--there!" and the dean progged with his stick in the direction of the centre of the globe. then he shook the boy furiously--"one, two," bang came the stick down. "please, mercy, mr. dean; spare me!" "spare you, sir! no--three." "but, please, mr. dean, _my father made the wooden bell for you_." "go along, you rascal," gasped the dean, relaxing his hold, and rushing back into his house. in 1877 the dean of ripon (dr. freemantle) wrote to me relative to this matter:--"my attention has been directed to an anecdote told by you in your book called 'yorkshire oddities' of the late dean w----. i have made it my business to ascertain the correctness of the story, as it has excited a good deal of feeling in the minds of some of the old residents here. we have found a bell which was sent from the deanery at least 40 years ago, and which has been in the crypt of the cathedral ever since. it is exactly the same size as the wooden bell, which we have recovered from a heap of cinders." so dean w---did not sell the bell after all! old john mealy-face. old john m----[22], a character in his way, and a celebrity in his very little circle, was born in the parish of topcliffe, near thirsk, on february 20th, 1784. he was thrice married. his first and second wives i did not know; the third he married march 29th, 1838. she was afflicted with paralysis of her legs during a great part of her later life. she was a charming old woman--religious, amiable, and a general favourite with her neighbours. old john had sharp features, an eagle nose, and a prominent chin. he wore drab corduroy breeches and blue stockings. he shaved all the hair off his face. the nickname he bore in the village, where he resided on his small farm, was "mealy-face." he obtained it by this means: john was a close-fisted old man, who stinted himself, and his wife above all, in every possible way, for he dearly loved money. he did not allow his wife enough food, and she, poor thing, was wont, when he was out for the day at market or at fair, to bake herself a loaf from which she could cut a hunch when hungry. her husband found this out, and was very wroth. when he went to market he pressed his face down in the flour at the top of the bin, and on his return put his face back in the depressions, to make sure that the flour had not been disturbed. the old man was not without dry humour. the story is told of him that a clergyman called on him one day to say he was about to leave his present sphere of work, "the lord having called him to work in another vineyard." "then," said old mealy-face, "i lay you get a better wage." "yes," answered the clergyman, "it is a better living by a hundred a-year." "heh! i thowt seah (so)," said john, dryly; "else the lord mud ha' called while (till) he'd been hoarse, and ye'd niver ha' heeard." an excursionist met him on whitson scar, on the hambledons. the traveller had come there from thirsk, hoping to see the glorious view stretching to pendle hill, in lancashire. but a fog came on and obscured the scene. the gentleman coming upon john, who had been to helmsley on some business or other, accosted him in an off-hand manner: "hey, gaffer! there's a fine view from here, ain't there, on fine days?" "aye, sur, it might be worse." "one can see a long way, i'm told." "i reckon one may if one's got eyes." "now tell me, gaffer, can one see as far as america, do you think?" "one can see a deel furder," answered john "you don't mean to say so?" "eh, but i do. one can see t' moon from whitston on a moonshiny neet." old john had a famous pear-tree in his garden. two years running his pears were stolen, and no doubt were sold in thirsk market, without john being a penny the richer. the old man grimly awaited the thief as the fruit ripened in the following autumn, sitting nightly in his window, gun in hand. one dark night, just before market-day, he heard some one at his tree. he took careful aim at the spot whence the sound proceeded, fired, and a scream told him his bullet had taken effect. in fact, he had hit the thief in the thigh; but the ball had fortunately penetrated the flesh, and broken no bone. the pear-stealer was caught, and on the first opportunity brought before the magistrates at thirsk. the presiding magistrate--i think it was sir john galway, but am not certain--deemed it advisable to caution john m---against too free a use of his gun. "you know, my good friend, that a gun loaded with a bullet might have killed the man who stole your pears." "ah, it might, and it would, but t' gun snecked (kicked) as i were blazin' wi' it." "if the gun had not 'snecked,' as you call it, the bullet would probably have gone into the poor fellow's heart and killed him dead." "i'll tak' care it deean't sneck again," said old john, who had no scruples against shooting a pear-stealer. whilst in the parish of topcliffe i am constrained to relate an anecdote illustrative of yorkshire shrewdness, though unconnected with mealy-face. an old woman--molly jakes, we will call her--died, or was thought to have died, and was buried by the parish. a few days after the funeral the vicar was talking to the sexton, when the latter said, drawing the back of his hand across his nose, "ye thowt old molly jakes were deead, sur?" "dead, dead! bless my soul! of course she was." "well, mebbe she is neah (now)." "what do you mean? speak, for heaven's sake!" "nay, sur, it's nowt! only i thowt efter i'd thrown the mould in as i heeard her movin' and grum'ling under t' greand (ground)." "you dug her up at once, of course, man?" "nay," said the sexton, "i know two o' that," casting a knowing look at the parson. "t' parish paid one burying: who was to pay me for digging her up and putting her in ageean, if she died once maire? besides," said the sexton, drawing his hand back again across his nose, "old molly cost t' parish hef-a-croon a week when she war wick (alive). noo she's felted (hidden) under t' greeand, she costs nowt. if i'd dug her up and she lived ever seah (so) long, what would ha' t' rate-payers 'a said teah (to) me?" john m----, once, when i was in his house, told me a curious tale about himself. he was riding one night to thirsk, when he suddenly saw passing him a radiant boy on a white horse. there was no sound of footfall as he drew nigh. old john was first aware of the approach of the mysterious rider by seeing the shadow of himself and his horse flung before him on the high-road. thinking there might be a carriage with lamps, he was not alarmed till by the shortening of the shadow he knew that the light must be near him, and then he was surprised to hear no sound. he thereupon turned in his saddle, and at the same moment the radiant boy passed him. he was a child of about eleven, with a bright, fresh face. "had he any clothes on, and, if so, what were they like?" i asked. but john was unable to tell me. his astonishment was so great that he took no notice of particulars. the boy rode on till he came to a gate which led into a field. he stooped as if to open the gate, rode through, and all was instantly dark. "i'm an owd customer," said john when he presented himself to be married the third time; "soa, vicar, i hope ye'll do t' job cheap. strike off two-thirds, as it's the third wife." john mealy-face died at the age of eighty-four, and was buried at topcliffe on november 5th, 1868. footnote: [22] i suppress the name, as the old man died but lately. the boggart of hellen-pot. a tale of the yorkshire moors.[23] i took the opportunity last autumn, just before the break-up of the weather, of shaking off the dust of shoddy-mills, and getting a whiff of air, unadulterated with smoke, in a run among the yorkshire moors for the better part of a week. i spent the first night at bolton, and slept soundly, after a ramble through the beautiful wharfedale, and an examination of the strid, where the river gushes through a rift in the rock so narrow that it is supposed possible to stride across it, though i never heard of any man venturesome enough to make the attempt. a friend accompanied me, a mr. keene, and on the following day we ascended the valley of the wharfe to arncliffe, visiting on the way the picturesque ruin called barden tower, and the magnificent hanging crags at kilnsea. at arncliffe, a quaint moor village, my companion fell lame, and was unable to accompany me next day on a mapless ramble in search of whatsoever was picturesque and wild. it was a glorious day, the sky pure and blue, the air elastic, the heather and fern twinkling with dew. it was really very hard for poor keene to spend ten hours alone in a dismal little country inn, without either a book or a newspaper, whilst i was brushing through the heather, scrambling limestone scaurs, and exploring ravines, inhaling at every breath life and health and ozone. but it served him right. what was the fellow thinking of when he put on a pair of new boots for his walking expedition? he looked wistfully after me out of the parlour window, and called to me to be back for a dinner-tea at seven, adding that he hoped his feet would be better in the afternoon, and then he would stroll to meet me. leaving arncliffe, and noticing a bright, fretful little stream, dashing through a broken and beautiful cleft in the hills, i took a sheep-track above it, and determined on following its course. in a few minutes i seemed to have left civilisation behind me entirely. the great expanse of moorland which opened before, the utter absence of all signs of cultivation, the wild rocky pile of the hard flask on one side and of fountains fell on the other, gave the scene a savage grandeur which one hardly expects to find in england. the little beck moaned far away below me out of sight, the wind soughed pleasantly among the heather, and the curlew, which i constantly started, rose with a melancholy pipe and flew away to the grey scaurs on the side of fountains fell. being of the geological persuasion, i usually carry about with me a hammer and a small sack or pouch, which i sling round my neck, for the conveyance of specimens. i revelled in these limestone hills, spending hour after hour chipping off fragments of rock, and breaking them up to extract the fossils. i hardly knew whither i rambled, but i certainly got into silverdale, for i lunched on my bread and cheese with penigent towering above me on the west, and beyond it rose the glorious pile of ingleborough. i ascended penigent, the height of which is 2270 feet, and watched the sunset from the top. then i followed the precedent of the illustrious king of france who, having marched to the top of a hill, marched down again. but i was quite out in my geography. now, with the map before me, i see that my ideas as to the direction in which arncliffe lay were entirely wrong. my walk during the day had been of such a zig-zag nature that i had lost my compass points, and had made no landmarks. the consequence naturally was, that i descended penigent on the wrong side, and then instinctively perceiving i was in the wrong, i did a foolish thing--i struck off from my line of course at right angles. it would have been better for me to have retraced my steps up the mountain-side, and taken bearings again whilst there was still a little light; but instead of doing so, i involved myself more and more in confusion, and at last, as it became dark, i was utterly ignorant of where i was, and which was the direction in which my face was turned. under such circumstances a man is tempted to allow himself to be that which in a brighter hour he would repudiate--a fool. i remember mentally expressing my conviction that i was an idiot, and indignantly asking myself how i could have thought of setting out on a walk in an unknown country without map or compass? my exasperation with self was by no means allayed when i tripped over a stone and fell my length in a sludgy patch of swamp. at the same time i became conscious of a growing pain in my vitals, and was sensible of a vacuum in that region of the body which is situated beneath the lower buttons of the waistcoat; and a vacuum is what nature is well known to abhor. there was a dinner-tea spread for me in the inn at arncliffe: chickens and ham i knew had been promised; trout i naturally anticipated would prove part of the fare in a famous fishing district; veal cutlets perhaps, and mashed potatoes. heavens! and i not there. i know i groaned at the thought, for the sound as it issued from my lips startled me. as i walked on with drooping head, those veal cutlets and mashed potatoes rose up before me tauntingly. i am a man of resolution, and finding that the vision only aggravated matters, i beat the veal cutlets down; yet, when they vanished, a new phantom rose to distress me. during the day i had examined on the slopes of coska, fountains, and penigent several of those curious pots which are peculiar to the yorkshire limestone moors. these pots, as they are called, are natural wells, hideous circular gaping holes opening perpendicularly into the bowels of the mountain. in rainy weather the tiny rills which descend the fells precipitate themselves into these black gulfs and disappear. far down at the bottom of the mountain the streams bubble out again from low-browed caverns. some of these pots are many hundred feet deep; some are supposed by the vulgar to be unfathomable, for certainly their bottoms have not been sounded yet, and a stone dropped falls and falls, each rebound becoming fainter, but the ear catches no final splash. now, the number of these frightful holes i had stumbled upon during the day made me fear lest in the darkness i should come upon one, and tumble down it without hope of ever coming up alive, or indeed of my bones receiving christian burial. it was now in vain for me to endeavour to revive the dream of veal cutlets in order to obliterate the hideous image of these pots; the pots maintained the day, and haunted me till--till i suddenly became conscious of some one walking rapidly after me, endeavouring apparently to overtake me. the conviction came upon me with relief, and i stood still, eagerly awaiting the individual, expecting at length to be put in the right direction. the stars gave light enough for me to discern the figure as that of a man, but i could scarcely discover more. his walk was strange, a wriggle and duck accompanying each step, the reason being, as i ascertained on his coming alongside of me, that he was a cripple in both legs. "good evening, friend," said i; "i'm a stranger lost on the moor: can you direct me towards arncliffe?" "on, on with me," was the answer, and the hand was waved as though pointing forward. "dark night this," i said. "darker below," he muttered, as though to himself; "darker, darker, darker." "shall we have a bit of moon, think you, presently?" he made no answer, and i turned to look at him. there was something in the way he walked which made me uneasy. when he took a step with his right foot he worked his body round facing me, and then his head jogged on to his left shoulder and reclined upon it. when he stepped out with his left foot his body revolved so that his back was presented to me, and the head was jerked on to the right shoulder. i noticed that he never held his head upright; sometimes it dropped on his breast, and once i saw it drop backwards. the impression forced itself on me that just thus would a man walk who had his neck and legs broken, if by any means the possibility were afforded him to attempt a promenade. "how far to arncliffe?" i asked, but he vouchsafed no answer. i tried another question or two, but could obtain no reply. i lost my temper, and laid my hand on his shoulder to draw his attention to what i was inquiring, but with a wriggle he glided from under my hand, and hobbled on before me. i had no resource but to follow him. he kept ahead of me, and seemed determined not to enter into conversation; yet i offered him half-a-crown if he would give me the information i desired to obtain. i was puzzled with my strange companion, and felt somewhat uneasy. i felt that he was a bit "uncanny," both in his appearance and in his manner. presently we came near water, as i judged by the sound, which was that of a beck murmuring among stones. on went my conductor, following the water-course, and so rapidly that i had difficulty in keeping up with him. when he leaped on a stone or scrambled up a turf-hummock, so as to stand against the horizon, where a feeble light still lingered, i could distinguish the horrible contortions of his body, and the sight invariably heightened my uneasiness. suddenly i missed him! i called--but there was no reply! i stood still and listened, but heard nothing save the bubbling of the stream, and, far, far away, the to-whoo of an owl. noiselessly a bat fluttered past me, coming instantaneously out of the blackness of the night, and vanishing back into it as instantaneously. "i say, you fellow!" hallooed i to the vanishing guide. "you fellow!" answered the scaurs of penigent, in a lower key. "to-whoo," faintly called the owl. "what do you mean by deserting me like this?" i roared. "like this," muttered the echo. "to-whoo," responded the owl. "i must follow the beck," i said; "that will lead me to the river, and the river will guide me to some habitation of living man." "living man," growled the echo. "to-whoo," sang the owl. i stumbled over the water-worn stones, and splashed into water. my ankles were scarified, my shins bruised; i narrowly escaped breaking my bones as i fell again and again. i did not dare leave the stream, lest i should lose my way. then a nightjar began to hiss from among the rocks, and the stream to dash along more wildly. the banks rose higher, and i seemed to be walking through a railway cutting. i looked up, and saw the rugged outline of rock and furze on the eastern bank, and on top of a huge block stood a distorted human figure. it was that of my strange companion. down the slope he came with wriggle and jump; he came straight towards me, spread out his arms--in a moment they were clasped round me, and i was lifted from my feet. i was so astonished that i made no resistance at first, and it was only after he had taken a dozen steps with me, and i heard the splash of the beck falling into what must be a pot, and saw the black yawning hole open before me, and felt the man bending as though about to leap down it with me in his arms, that i tore my right arm loose, and caught at a young rowan-tree which leaned over the gulf. at the same moment there flashed before my eyes the light of a lanthorn, the flame small and yellow, yet sufficient to illumine the face of the bearer--a young woman, the countenance wondrously beautiful, but full of woe unutterable. the lanthorn passed across the open mouth of the pot. the moment it became visible the arms which held me were unclasped, and i saw the man sink down the abyss, with the light reflected from his upturned face. he went down it, not with a whizz as a falling stone, but slowly as a man might sink in water. thus i was well able to observe his blanched face and wide dilated eyes fixed with horror on the lanthorn flame. having recovered my feet, naturally my first impulse was to run up the bank, and get as far as possible from the ugly well into which i might have been precipitated. my next was to look round for the young woman who bore the light. i could see the lanthorn at some little distance, but i could not distinguish the bearer. i called to her; she lifted the light till her hand came within its radiance. the small white hand beckoned me to follow. i ran to catch her up, but the faster i pursued, the swifter glided the flame before me. evidently the bearer did not desire to be overtaken. when i stopped, she stopped; when i advanced, she moved onwards; always keeping the same distance ahead of me. so we must have proceeded for a couple of miles, when suddenly the light went out, and at the same instant i became conscious of a small farm-house lying before me. in less time than it takes me to write this i had entered the enclosure which surrounded it, and had rapped hastily at the door. a gaunt moorland farmer opened it, and looked at me with surprise. "can you let me have shelter for a little while, and then a guide to arncliffe?" i asked. "i have lost my way, and have met with a strange adventure, which has somewhat shaken my nerves." "sit here; come here; sit thee down there," he said, pointing to the ingle corner with the stem of his pipe, and then closing and bolting the door, he stalked over to the opposite corner and sat down on a rocking-chair. he eyed me musingly, and smoked steadily without making any remark. after having puffed away for ten minutes, he shouted at the top of his voice: "gi'e him a glass of ale, lass." "a'm boune to, lad," replied a voice from the back-kitchen: and looking over my shoulder, i noticed that there was a woman in the little lean-to back room, "fettling up" by the light of a rush-candle. "thou'rt none boune to arncliffe to-neet?" said the man, slowly withdrawing his pipe from his mouth. "i am, if you will direct me," i replied, "for i have a friend there who is expecting me, and who will be sorely put out at my non-appearance earlier." "humph!" he smoked for ten minutes more, and then said: "and what brought thee this road?" "i will tell you," i replied; and then proceeded to relate what had happened to me. as soon as i mentioned the strange companion i had met with-"it's t' boggart, lass!" called the farmer to his wife, "he's gotten agait misleading folk again." when i spoke of the flash of light before which the man had quailed, and which had revealed the face of a woman, pale and sad, bending over it-"weel done, peggy!" roared the farmer; "'tis no but peggy wi' t' lanthorn, lass,"--again to his wife. "she's a good 'un," responded the lady from the kitchen. "who are the boggart and peggy?" i asked; "they seem to be intimate acquaintances of yours." the great yorkshireman did not answer, but whiffed away, with his dreamy eyes fixed on the fire. "so t' boggart thowt to ha' hugged thee down pothoile!" then he laughed. "i reckon," mused he again, "i reckon he were a bit flayed to see peggy come anent him that road!" "i wish," said i, "that you would tell me all about him and her." "so i will, lad, bi'm bye, if thou'rt boune to arncliffe to-neet." he looked up at me. "we can gi' thee a bed if thou likes: it's no but a poor one, but it's none so bad--eh, lass?" the last two words were shouted to his wife. "ay, ay," she replied from the kitchen. "thank you very kindly," said i; "if it were not for my friend at arncliffe, i would accept your offer with alacrity; but as it happens, i _must_ return there to-night." "gi'e us a leet, lass!" called the man, knocking the ashes from his pipe, rising, and taking down a lanthorn. the good woman lighted the candle for him, and the great yorkshireman shut the lanthorn door, took up his cap, and said to me-"now, if thou'rt boune to come, come on." i rose and followed him. he led the way, and as we walked towards arncliffe he told me the following tale:-"some hundred years ago there lived a young woman in a cottage near kettlewell. a strange man came into the neighbourhood, gained her affections, and married her. they settled at the little farm in which my guide now resided. they had not lived a twelvemonth together before the constables entered the house one evening, and took the man up on the charge of bigamy. he had a wife and family living at bolton, in lancashire. as they were carrying him off, he broke from them and fled over the moors, and was never retaken. by some it was supposed that he had escaped to america, but by others that he had fallen into one of the pots and had perished. his poor second wife, heart-broken, wandered all that night searching for him, and was found dead on the side of penigent next morning. and they say," added my guide, in a low voice, "that she seeks him still; and when she's gotten him she'll tak' him before the throne of god to be sentenced for having ruined her happiness, and been the cause of her death. that's why he's so flayed (afraid) of meeting wi' she, and sma' blame to him." "so you think the wretched man perished in one of the pots?" "i reckon he did. and he'll never have rest till his bones are laid i' t' churchyard, and that'll never be." "farmer," said i, after a pause, "have you plenty of rope about your house?" he grunted an assent. "then i will descend the pot to-morrow." i am sorry to state here that my companion was so completely thrown off his balance by this announcement that he swore. "shall you have time to assist me?" i asked. "i'm none particular thronged," he replied. "some additional help will be needed," i continued; "if you have a workman or two disposed to earn a day's wage by being useful to me, bid them be ready with all that is requisite at the mouth of the pot to-morrow." "ay! if we can addle us a bit brass that road," responded the farmer, "we're t' chaps for thee. but i reckon thou'rt no but making gam' of me." "i am not, indeed," i replied; "get plenty of rope ready, and a stout pole laid across the mouth of the hole, and i will go down to-morrow." i was as good as my word. keene accompanied me next day to the little farm, and there we found half-a-dozen men with ropes and windlass ready to assist in the exploit. as the sun was shining, i felt no fear whatever, and i laughed and chatted whilst a belt was strapped round my waist, another under my arms, and the cord passed beneath them. before descending i took up my geological bag and slung it round my neck; i also picked up my hammer. "you may be sure i shall find some magnificent stalactites down there," said i. "are you ready?" asked keene. i sat on the edge of the gulf under the mountain ash to which i had clung for life the night before. i directed my eyes downwards, and saw the little stream lose itself in spray after a leap or two. how awfully black the abyss seemed! "now, then!" i slipped down, and the windlass was slowly unwound. click, click, click! i heard each sound of the crank as it descended. the air about me was cold and damp. beautiful ferns and mosses flourished on every ledge; presently, however, i got beyond the fern zone. i was in darkness. the spray of the falling stream was so finely comminuted that it was more like mist than spray. the walls of the pot were green with lichen, and now i was below the region of mosses. here, on a little patch of moist _marchanta polymorpha_, i found a poor butterfly, the common meadow brown. it had probably fluttered some way down the chasm in the giddiness of the moment, its wings had been clogged with spray, and it had been carried lower and lower till at last it had alighted, dripping and chilled, without hope of seeing sunlight again, on a small ledge covered with lichen. i rescued the poor insect, and put it inside my hat. i began to swing like a pendulum, and at one time had some difficulty in preventing myself from striking the rocky sides. i could not see the walls now; i could not hear the click of the windlass. all below was perfectly black; not a sign of a bottom; but white terraces, covered with stalagmite, gleamed up round the well-like ribs, catching a little light from above. with my hammer i broke off a large mass of deposit formed by the droppings of water largely impregnated with lime. it whizzed down, but still i heard no final splash. i shouted--only faintly, as the pressure on my lungs from the belt prevented my using my voice to its full extent--but the whole well seemed alive with echoes. i tried to turn my head and look up at the sky, but i was unable. the darkness and chill began to tell upon me, and an agonising cramp contracted my legs. however i managed to place my feet upon a ledge, and to stand up. those working the windlass, feeling that the strain was off the rope, let out no more. when the cramp left me, i cast myself off again, and dropped below the ledge. after a while i began to hear a sound of falling water, and in a few minutes passed an opening in the side of the pit, out of which gushed an underground stream, and precipitated itself down the chasm. now i became conscious of a broad ledge of rock, extending considerably out into the well, and contracting its size; something lay upon it--fragments of broken stalactites and stalagmites, i fancied--what they were i could not distinguish, especially as at the same moment that i saw them i perceived something black rising towards me. in one second i saw the face of the boggart flash up at me full of hideous triumph, and i felt the grip of his arms about my waist. next moment i lost all consciousness. when i came to myself i was lying in the sunshine on the slope above the pot--hellen or hull-pot is its name--with keene and the farmer bending anxiously over me. "i'm all right," said i, in a low voice; and in a couple of minutes i was sufficiently recovered to sit up. i took off my hat, and away flew the butterfly i had rescued, oblivious of the hours of darkness and misery it had passed through. "did you reach the bottom?" asked keene. i shook my head. "we let out all the rope we had," said my friend, "and then we pulled up again, and found you at the end in a dead faint. i see you have not been idle," he added, lifting my geological bag. "full of stalactites, i suppose," and as he shook it the contents rattled. "no," said i, "i put nothing into it." "then how comes it filled?" he asked. "why, halloo! what have we here?" and he emptied out of it a heap of human bones and a shattered skull. _how_ they got into the sack i shall never know. the remains were very old, and were encrusted with stalagmite. they lie now in horton churchyard. i believe the boggart has not been seen since. * * * * * * * for a considerable time during our walk from malham tarn to settle i had been silent. keene could endure it no longer, and at last exclaimed, "really this is intolerable! you have been in a brown study for the last half-hour without speaking a word. a penny for your thoughts!" "to tell you the truth," i replied, "i have been thinking over what might have happened if you had fallen lame at arncliffe, _if_ i had gone on a geological walk without you, and had lost my way on penigent, and had fallen in with a boggart, who tried to precipitate me down a pot, and if i had been rescued by an _ignus fatuus_, and had finally descended the pot and brought up the boggart's bones!" mr. keene stared at me with amazement. i then related to him what i have just related to you, good reader, and i concluded with the observation: "all this, you know, _might_ have happened, but unfortunately it _didn't_. you have had my thoughts, so hand me your penny." footnote: [23] contributed by me to _once a week_, march, 1867. jonathan martin, the incendiary of york minster.[24] jonathan martin was not a native of yorkshire, but as it was in yorkshire that he lived part of his time, and as his name is inseparably connected with the glorious minster at york, which he partially burnt, he claims our notice in this volume. he was born, according to his own account, at hexham, in northumberland, in 1782, of poor but honest parents, and by them, at a suitable age, was put apprentice to a tanner. he appears to have served his apprenticeship with steadiness, and on its expiration, when he was in his twenty-second year, he removed to london, intending to travel. soon after his arrival in the metropolis, as he was one day viewing the monument, a man accosted him, and inquired if he wanted a situation. martin told him he wished to go abroad, on which the man replied that he could suit him exactly, as a gentleman of his acquaintance had a son on board a frigate on the indian station, who wanted a person of martin's description, and would give him thirty-two shillings per month, besides his chance of prize-money. martin eagerly accepted this offer. but he soon found that he was in the hands of a press-gang; and he was sent to the nore, where he was placed on board the hercules, 74 guns, which formed a part of the expedition against copenhagen in 1804 under lord nelson. after the surrender of the danish fleet he was drafted into one of the prizes, an 84-gun ship, which, with a squadron of seven other vessels, was ordered to proceed to lisbon to blockade the russian fleet in the tagus, in order to prevent it from falling into the hands of the french. these ships were taken by the british, and were brought to england. the next affair martin mentions in his biography as having been engaged in was in assisting to bring off the troops from corunna in january, 1809. he says, setting sail from vigo bay-"we reached corunna in one day, and then approached the shore: the numerous carcases of dead horses, all floating in the bay, showed us the toil our army had suffered. we could plainly see the french and english camps from our ships, each occupying a hill very near the other. we made every exertion to get close in, to cover the embarkation of our troops, who were sadly annoyed by the fire from the french artillery on the heights. our ships replied to the french as well as the heavy sea then setting would allow. by great exertion the whole embarkation was completed. they then directed their batteries against our transports, who had to slip their cables, and stand out of the reach of their guns. during this scene of confusion and terror several boats were sunk by the fire of the enemy and some by the violence of the sea. our vessels presented an awful spectacle, from the number and condition of the wounded, who occupied our cockpit, cable tier, and every spare place on board, and whose misery was rendered greater by the tempest which arose, and prevented that attention being paid to them which their situation required: a great number perished solely on this account. during the gale five transports were lost, from which only few lives could be saved, owing to the state of the weather and the rocky nature of the coast." having landed the wounded men in england, the ship on board which martin was sailed for lisbon. of his adventures at sea martin tells several remarkable incidents; but they are many of them connected with dreams, and if not wilful falsehoods, are most probably misrepresentations. of such probably is what he relates as occurring whilst he was at lisbon. he says that whilst in the tagus the whole crew went on shore except himself, a young negro, and the captain's wife and daughter. the black, knowing the captain had a quantity of gold in his chest, proposed to martin to murder the ladies, and take a boat and escape with it--to india, martin says. to this he refused to accede, and ultimately succeeded in persuading the indian (african?) to abandon his dreadful intention. about this time, he says-"i began to see my lost and ruined state as a sinner, and to cry to god for mercy and salvation, hoping he would spare me to return to my native land, when i would join myself to the people of god. but alas! my vows, often repeated, were as often broken. notwithstanding, the lord heard my prayers, and restored me to my parents as safe and well as when i left them. my deliverance from on board a man-of-war was extraordinary, but the lord having given me favour in the sight of the whole crew, when all hands were piped to breakfast, a boat appointed for the purpose was brought under our bows, and the soldiers formed a circle on the forecastle of the ship, to prevent the sentry seeing what was going forward; i dropped into the boat and got ashore, and remained in safety at the waterman's house until our ship sailed. i entered on board a transport going to egypt for corn for our troops then lying at messina. when i arrived in egypt, i was filled with delight on beholding the place where our blessed lord took refuge from the rage of herod; and where the wisdom of joseph (directed by almighty god) saved the land of egypt and his own father's house from the effects of the seven years' famine, of which i had so often read. a wide range of buildings was pointed out to me by the turks, which they said formerly held the grain preserved by joseph. reflecting on these things, led me to review my mis-spent life, and to see how often god had preserved me in many dangers, and how ill i had requited him; so that my thoughts troubled me sore, and i resolved anew to amend my life. i began to be comforted by reflecting that he preserved me for wise purposes, and that i should live to praise him. blessed be the name of the lord, i was not disappointed." a mr. nicoll, a native of peterhead, who was formerly in the navy, and was a messmate with martin in two vessels, of which one was the "hercules," says-"i remember martin well, and sailed with him first about 1803. he was always skittish. we used to say that he was fitter for a parson than a sailor; nicknamed him parson saxe. he was often sulky and idle. he did not pray much, but was inclined to argue on religious subjects; he said he had a light that we had not, and that he held meetings in his dreams. he told extraordinary and unaccountable tales; but," said mr. nicoll, "they have gone from me, as i treated them as fudge and palaver." mr. nicoll adds that martin was jolly as any at one time, and would drink and dance and be merry as the rest; at another time he would weep bitterly. some were angry with him, others ridiculed him; "but i," said mr. nicoll, "thought him more rogue than fool. i remember his saying that a book was shot from his hands at cadiz, and that he considered it a warning from heaven. some one told him he should have been otherwise employed than in reading at such a time; in reply to which he abused the person who rebuked him. it was my opinion that he shammed a good deal for a sulk. he was particularly fond of viewing and conversing about the celestial bodies, but had a dread of any one pointing to a star,[25] and would not believe that they were other worlds; and, indeed, grew quite angry at such an assertion. i have often said such things as a scot (jest), to draw him on, and he has abused me. he was hale enough, but used to complain of weakness, and, as i thought, sham sick." a greenwich pensioner, who served with him, says:--"i knew jonathan twenty-three years ago and upwards; he was a good sailor, but had fits of melancholy, and then would talk of dying and a future state. i have often told him that our days were fixed, and he blamed me for saying so. i remember somebody larking in the top, and he, martin, fell, catching the hair of the sailor in his way; he actually tore off a portion of his scalp; he saved himself by clinging to the cross-trees. he quarrelled with and fought a man named dobson, who died in greenwich hospital some years since. they sat across a bench and fought. martin was beaten. he was laughed into this quarrel." martin gives the following account of his escape:-"being on the main yard, and losing my balance, i found myself falling; there seemed nothing to save me from being dashed to pieces. the loose end of the tracing line, about an inch thick, was hanging near me. i got it round my left hand, and grasping it with my right, the swing of the rope, together with my weight, threw me overboard, and i remained suspended by my arm, within a few feet of the sea, until my shipmates came to my assistance; and i praised god that i received no material injury, except my arm being a little wrenched by my weight. again, falling by accident out of a gun-port, my shipmates succeeded in rescuing me when not able to help myself. and being on the top-gallant-yard, the topping-lift broke, and the end i was on went down like the end of a beam. in my fall i grappled with the backstay, and brought myself up, and landed on the cross-trees. thus the almighty preserved me from death when there was no other hope--the height from the deck being about eighty feet." he relates also the following circumstance, which was corroborated by a greenwich pensioner:-"after i was appointed to the gunners' crew, when on our voyage to cadiz, the gunners' yeoman, who had charge of the stores and all the powder, shot himself through the head in the store-room, where there were upwards of five hundred barrels of gunpowder, and joining the place where all our oakum and old ropes lay. when the report of the pistol was heard in that place, the consternation became general throughout the ship's company, as an explosion was to be dreaded. some were for making to the boats; others, more desperate, were for leaping overboard, expecting the ship to blow up every moment. in the midst of the panic produced, i and four of my shipmates ran below, rushed into the store-room amidst the smoke, and soon extinguished the little fire produced by the wadding of the pistol, and then we discovered the body of the unfortunate man lying bleeding, his brains literally strewed over the floor. thus did god put in our hearts to risk our lives, and by that means save our ship's company, six hundred in number, from an awful death." "martin," says one of the greenwich pensioners, "went with a boat's crew to get water. in crossing some buoys he fell in; the accident was not perceived, but we at length missed him; when we got him out he was all but gone. he said we had conspired against him, but god had delivered him. i remember this, for dobson threatened to thrash him if he repeated it. martin was punished for drunkenness, and bore it in a very cowardly manner. when he was in the mortar-boat he sang psalms, but when we were afterwards very near wrecked, he was as cool or cooler than any one on board. he fell overboard whilst assisting in hooking a shark, but was picked up almost immediately. he got hurt in falling, and would never assist in the hooking again. we had many sick and dying aboard, and the sharks often followed in our wake: we burnt bricks and covered them with tarpauling, &c., fixing a hook in the brick; this the fish would swallow. martin was very active in this, until his accident. after that he said, 'the lord was vexed at the guile.' he hated the catholics." another pensioner, who corroborated a portion of the foregoing, added: "martin was much noticed by the officers; but he told them many falsehoods, and at last was generally disliked. he was at one time in such favour with his superiors, that two men were punished for cutting the slings of his hammock whilst he was asleep, which is generally passed over as a joke; but he pretended to have been hurt with the fall. when angered, he would swear as much as anyone, and sometimes immediately afterwards would cry and pray. his dreams and stories would have filled a book. i saw him years afterwards at portsmouth. never knew that he had deserted; he was continually amongst the crews of the king's ships. went to london with him, and he talked a good deal about religion when at portsmouth, but lived very loosely in london.[26] martin told me a variety of his adventures--that he was nearly murdered by the algerines, &c., &c., but that he was marvellously delivered, and that god had told him in his dreams to quit the sea. he had a good deal of prize-money to receive, but there was a delay in his getting it. the day he was to have it finally, he was to meet me at rotherhithe; he never came, and from that time (1810) i never saw nor heard of him." martin does not tell us how long he remained in the transport service; but when he was paid off, he proceeded to newcastle to visit his parents, probably in 1810; and then went to work with mr. page, a farmer at norton, in durham. "here," he observes, "commenced that series of trials which almost obliterated the remembrance of my former difficulties, and which, were they not well-known to many now living, might appear to border on romance." in reading his life, however, we can find no traces of "trials" which were not brought upon himself; and there is very little of the "romantic" about them. a few months after his residence at norton he married, and became the father of a son. "i had him baptised richard," he says. "i was deterred from giving him my own name on account of the sins of my youth, as i conceived if i did, the lord might take him away." not long after, he dreamed that his mother came to see him, and told him he would be hanged; and his dream produced a strong impression upon his mind. his thoughts became more directed than before to religious matters, but not without "manifold backslidings," as he himself confessed. at yarm, in yorkshire, four miles from norton, where he lived, was a methodist chapel, and he used to attend church at norton in the morning, and chapel at yarm in the evening. one sunday morning he received the holy communion in the church at norton, and in the evening he was at a love-feast at the wesleyan chapel.[27] this was his first formal reception into full membership with the methodist body. he had obtained, as he calls it, "perfect liberty." he was converted, a new being, emancipated from obedience to the law, being justified by faith only. he now began to feel strongly against the church of england, which taught the necessity of obedience to the moral law even to those who walked in the spirit. the laxity of the clergy in going to parties, balls, and plays, offended him. "i knew also that i was not authorised by law to interfere with the establishment. i betook myself to fasting and prayer, earnestly seeking direction of the lord how i should proceed in this matter. i dreamed on friday night that a man held out to me a piece of honeycomb, of which i did eat, and felt refreshed, and concluded this a gift divine. i felt greatly encouraged. on saturday i gave away most of my working clothes among my shopmates, having fully resolved to confess my lord and saviour the next day before the congregation; not doubting but the step i was about to take would lead me into trouble. i spent that night chiefly in prayer, for strength to perform the task i had undertaken--of warning people of their dangerous state by their carnal security; the necessity of repentance and regeneration, by the operation of the spirit; and finally of their having the witness of the holy ghost that their sins were blotted out through faith in a crucified saviour." he accordingly entered the church with the clerk early in the morning, and whilst the latter went to ring the bell, martin secreted himself in the pulpit, and remained hidden there till the end of the prayers, when he suddenly stood up, and gave forth as his text, st. mark iv. 21-23, and began to preach, with violent gesticulations. he was at once removed by the churchwardens and constable, but was allowed to remain in the church, though dislodged from the pulpit. about this time he was favoured, or deluded, with the following vision:- "i dreamed that i was called to the city gates of london, and beheld the inhabitants tearing each other's flesh in the most horrible manner, and i heard a voice speak to me--'in one day this city shall be burnt to the ground.' and i was taken by the spirit to the banks of a river, and i commenced digging the earth, and cast up several sharp-edged weapons, in particular a large axe, stained with human blood. i took hold of it, and that instant there appeared, as i thought, st. james, and i struck off his head at one blow, and awoke out of my sleep. this strange concern opprest me in the spirit, and i said, 'this is no other than popery and persecution are intending to come forward amongst true christians. oh! england, beware of popery!'" martin now began to write letters to the clergy and other members of the church, "entreating them, as they valued their souls, to amend their lives, and flee to the blood of sprinkling for mercy and pardon." his conduct seems to have been so improper, so marked by a "zeal not according to knowledge," that he was expelled the methodist society; and he complains that his religious friends were afraid to own him--he was left alone in the world; and, to add to his troubles, he lost his employment. he then went to whitby and worked for a few weeks, but soon returned to norton, and from thence went to bishop auckland, where he obtained employment; and determined once more to attempt exhorting the people in the church. he was, however, taken out by a constable; and then he began that practice which he appears never afterwards to have abandoned, of posting papers on the church doors, as a warning to the clergy and congregation. the following is a copy of one of these singular productions:- "oh! hear the word of the lord, you clergymen, for the mighty sword is expanded over your guilty heads; now shall you come to a complete dissolution; now shall your candlesticks be completely overthrown; now shall your blindness come to the light, and your shame before all the people, for the lord will not suffer you to deceive the work of his hands any longer. oh! prepare yourselves to meet your god, you double-hearted sinners; cry aloud for mercy, and now shall my god make bare his arm and conquer the devil, your great master, for the monster of hell shall be completely overthrown, and you and him shall not deceive the nations any longer, for now shall god be worshipped in spirit and truth; now you shall and must throw away your little books you carry into the pulpits to deceive the people with; you now preach for wine and gluttonous living, and not for precious souls--will you not get your portion with the rich man in hell if you do not repent and find mercy? "jonathan martin, "your sincere friend." martin continued for some time attending church, and disturbing the service by his groans and exclamations of assent to, or dissent from, what was enunciated from the pulpit. at bishop auckland one day he heard the preacher declare that no man could be absolutely certain that his sins were forgiven, and his happiness hereafter was assured, till he had put off mortality, and his eyes were opened in the light of eternity. this was too much for martin to bear. he says:-"the bitterness of my soul constrained me to call out--'thou hast no business in that pulpit, thou whitened sepulchre, thou deceiver of the people, how canst thou escape the damnation of hell?' i was determined to address the people on the following sunday, and tell them the state they must be in under such a ministry, and of the justness of that god who will judge the world in righteousness. john bunyan admonished his hearers to an upright and strict life, being assured if this were neglected they were void of religion, and popery would again spread through england. like poor john bunyan, i was pulled out of the place as soon as i began to speak. the clergyman employed an attorney to write against me, and i was apprehended as a vagabond; and they wanted my master to swear that i was deranged. my master objected thereto, stating that i had been with him seven months, and had been a faithful servant. he inquired of my master and several neighbours at norton if they were not afraid of me, but was answered in the negative." martin mentions here that his wife had become a great enemy to him since he joined the methodists; that she wanted him to leave them, and vowed to god that, unless he deserted them, she would disown him as a husband; and "from that period to the day of her death, eight years, she kept her word, but his firmness was not shaken." "about this time the bishop (i think of lincoln) was to hold a confirmation at stockton, for the bishop of durham. i had heard that he was a good man, and that numbers attended his visitation. i was glad to hear so good a report of him, and concluded that if he were really so good a man and so eminent a christian, he would not fear death, and resolved to try his faith by pretending to shoot him. i had been in newcastle to see my brother, and recollecting he had an old pistol, i asked and obtained it, and brought it home with me. on my arrival, my wife, observing the pistol, inquired what i wanted with it. i replied with a smile that i got it to shoot the bishop. i laid it down carelessly, determined, if she should remove it, and i should receive no encouragement by a dream, i would proceed no further in the matter. when i got up in the morning the pistol was not to be found, and there, as i thought, the matter dropped; but some officious person hearing of it, told the clergyman of norton, and he laid a complaint before the magistrate against me. a vestry meeting was then called, to which i was summoned. my previous interference with the church was urged against me, and so much was i tormented with questions on the subject, before i went to the vestry, and while there, that i was considerably agitated and off my guard. however, the reverend gentleman was little better tempered than myself, and showed a degree of rancour that i did not expect. i was asked if i had a pistol to shoot the bishop with; to which i replied, 'that i did not mean to injure the man, although i considered they all deserved shooting, being blind leaders of the blind; consequently both must fall into the ditch.' i was then suffered to depart, but was next day taken into custody, and brought before the meeting of justices at stockton, and examined very harshly. they asked me, if i had found the pistol, would i really have shot the bishop? i replied, 'it depended upon circumstances--i would ask him some questions out of the creed, and if he did not answer me satisfactorily as to his conversion, and the evidence of the spirit, he must be branded as a deceiver of the people.' for this i was sentenced to be confined in a mad-house for life, but glory be to god, they could not keep me an hour longer than my lord and saviour thought fit. i felt as happy under this trial, in the assurance of jesus' love, as if i had been going to a palace." he was at first confined in a lunatic asylum at west auckland, but was afterwards removed to a similar establishment at gateshead. his afflictions then and subsequently he relates thus:-"i had not for a long time seen my wife and child, as during the time i was so rigorously confined they had been denied admittance. my poor wife had long been labouring under heavy affliction, having a cancer in her breast when i began to work they were allowed to come and see me, and my wife at parting said--'farewell, jonathan, look to jesus; pray for me; may god bless you; my strength is fast failing, and i feel that i shall not be able to come any more.' she spoke prophetically, for we met no more. a short time after, she took to her bed, from which she never rose. my readers may judge of my grief to think that my poor wife was a-dying, at no great distance, and when she requested to see me, even in custody and in chains, the keeper was so unfeeling as to refuse her dying request. she afterwards sent my son (little more than seven years old), hoping that his youth, innocence, and distress might soften their hearts, but his appeal was unheeded. she sent him again with her dying love to me, and the keeper's wife shut the door in his face, and the child was suffered to return weeping to his mother. his supplication, as i afterwards heard, would have melted any heart, crying, 'what will become of me? my mother is dying, and my father is shut up in a mad-house, where i am not so much as allowed to see him.'" it must be remembered that martin's account of things is not to be trusted in all particulars. at the same time it is certain that asylums were not conducted at that period with humanity and judgment. mrs. orton, the keeper's wife alluded to, was examined at the trial of martin, ten years later. she said: "when martin was with me i thought him a really insane person. he would sit on the floor with two cross-sticks as if he was fiddling, either singing hymns or whistling. he called his sticks an imitation of david's harp. i have known him fast four days--and say it was god almighty's orders--in imitation of christ fasting forty days on the mount. he was often under restraint, and was bad to manage." he succeeded in making his escape from the asylum[28] on the 17th of june, 1820, but was caught at norton and brought back. on the 1st of july, 1820, he made his escape again by rubbing the rivets of his irons with freestone, which he managed to secrete in his room. he broke through the ceiling, got into a garret, and escaped through the tiles upon the roof. he thence descended cautiously and safely to the ground; and thus ended his captivity of three years. with great difficulty--still with the rings of his chains on his ankles--he reached the house of mr. kell, an intimate friend, of the same way of thinking, at cadlaw hill. mr. kell freed him from the remains of his fetters--"the degrading emblem of slavery," as jonathan termed them. mr. kell was a distant relation of martin on his mother's side; and he remained there a fortnight, till his strength was recruited, when he left him, designing to proceed to an uncle's, a distance of sixteen miles, to assist him to get in his hay harvest. however, before he reached his uncle's house, he was met by his cousin, who told him that orton, the keeper, with a constable, had been there in search of him: he therefore escaped as fast as he could to glasgow, where another uncle resided; and he reached it in safety. from glasgow he went to edinburgh; and was in that city at the rejoicings on account of the coronation of george iv. martin stopped at edinburgh only one day, being anxious to see his wife; and on returning to norton he found his wife still alive, but in the last stage. after remaining three weeks with his friend mr. kell, he determined to go to london to be near his brothers, one of whom was the celebrated imaginative painter so well known by his wonderful pictures, "the eve of the deluge," "the plains of heaven," &c. his friend having furnished him with money, he left darlington for london on the 1st of august, 1820, exactly a month after he had made his escape. he went, however, no farther than boroughbridge, where, on september 8th, he received a letter informing him of his wife's death, and of his having had his house robbed of money and goods to the amount of â£24. he gives a pitiable account of the last illness and the distress of his poor wife:-"i learned afterwards that my dear wife had to go through great tribulation. there was a woman allowed one shilling and sixpence per week to wait on her, but she always locked her in at night, without any attendant but the poor child to wait on his wretched mother; until my sister, hearing of their condition, came and took him away with her. so greatly neglected was he, that there was none to cut the bread for him; and when my sister came to see them he had the loaf picked out, as if eaten by mice, not being able to cut it himself. in this pitiable condition my poor boy sat up several nights with his mother, to hold the drink to her when she became too weak to do it for herself." he then went to hull, where he began to preach to his mates in the tannery where he worked. "i was moved to speak to them of their drunken lives, what would be the consequence if they did not repent. one or two of them, more wicked than the rest, got above me with a bucket of bullock's blood, which they heaved over me; but that did not move me from my stand: then they tried water. then the devil put it into their minds to heave wet skins in my face, and that did not make me quit my stand until the hour was up." notwithstanding these checks, which in jonathan's description strongly remind the reader of the sufferings of mawworm, he continued his exhortations in and out of the shop, and if we are to believe his own account, two hundred persons were converted by him. from hull he was driven by this treatment by his carnally-minded shopmates, and went to norton, where his old master, mr. page, having obtained the consent of the magistrates that martin should not be again consigned to the asylum, employed him as a tanner. but he soon after (in 1822) removed to darlington, where he also worked at his trade, and spent his evenings in preaching to and praying with those who would hear him. he boasts that through his labours in seven weeks "two hundred precious souls were set at liberty." he remained at darlington apparently till 1827, and here he pretends to have had some remarkable visions. "i should inform my readers how i was taken to the seaside in a vision, and beheld a countless army of men arising from the waves. as i stood gazing thereon a man advanced towards me, and said, 'where shall we find bread for so great a multitude?' he quickly answered, 'where they can.' they then advanced with great fury, and covered, as it were, the whole earth, and i thought england fled before them. this dream made great impression on my mind after i came to darlington, and i determined to make known the things that will befall england, unless we all turn to the lord with full purpose of heart, for i dreamed of a great battle between newcastle and sunderland; and again, that the son of buonaparte came and conversed with me, and having a musket, said he would shoot through the door of an englishman. he tried three times, and the third was successful. "i then left him, and was soon overtaken by some baggage waggons; all the french fired their muskets in the air. i was taken prisoner, and they shut me up with the word of god and a wesley hymn-book in my hand. in the prison the sun shone upon me with all its splendour, and i rejoiced to see the mercy of god towards me." he then bursts out into the following denunciation against clergymen:-"deceive not yourselves, oh, you clergymen, for my dream has been doubled, for you will have to fly to the mountains to hide yourselves from your enemies, for the son of buonaparte has a second time appeared to me. the first time he stood before me, he stood with a firelock in his hand, and said to me, i will shoot through the door of an englishman. the first time he tried to present, but he was too weak, but willing to avenge the death of his father, though but a child. the second time he levelled the firelock, but could not stand the force of powder. the third time he levelled and fired, and hit his mark, and said, i will shoot through the door of an englishman. the second dream was like unto the first: he broke through the door, and demolished the house before me with great dexterity and art. the youth appeared before me with a beautiful countenance, with a light complexion, and light curled hair; and as he passed before me through the door, i held out my hand, and he shook hands with me. i have the honour of shaking hands with the son of buonaparte, though i have not seen his father, and he vanished out of my sight. he came from denmark to reside in england. o england! prepare for war, and to meet a hot reception; for as you surprised the danes at copenhagen, so will the son of buonaparte surprise you and reign in england, and come off victoriously. the thing is certain, and will come to pass. you must not think the time long, for the youth will soon be ready to act the part of his father, and do valiantly; for he shall be a scourge to the wicked clergymen of england." at darlington he was wont to declare that prayer-books had been the means of sending many souls to hell. he then wore a coat and boots of seal-skin, with the hairy side outwards. afterwards he procured an ass, which he rode upon, to be more like christ; and he used to preach to a society of oddfellows at the high cross at darlington. his son richard he put with a pedlar jew, as his assistant; and when remonstrated with, said that his reason was that little dick might labour at the conversion of the jews. he was a good workman. "i came to lincoln on one saturday in september, 1827, and on the following sunday went to view the cathedral, as i was a stranger in the town. i heard the voice of singing close by the cathedral; i drew near, and as i stood listening, a young man, a methodist, opened the door and invited me in. three violent young men (for piety), sunday-school teachers, pressed me hard to join them to assist them in instructing the rising generation, and pray that god would give a blessing to their labours. i told them i would as well as god would teach me. we had not been long together before the lord put it in our minds to hold a short prayer-meeting, that god would own our feeble efforts, and bless the children. whilst i was at prayer it was impressed on my mind to pray that the lord would fill the large cathedral full of converted clergymen, and that he would distribute them amongst all the churches of great britain, that blind guides and the devil might not deceive the people any longer. i was fervent in prayer, and that prayer disturbed the devil out of his den. a public-house being next door, the landlady and her company came into the room whilst i was on my knees, the landlady afraid of losing her company, and, as it were, hell broke loose upon me. the devil fiercely attacked me, but i stood to my arms: the powers of the bottomless pit could not make me rise from my knees until i had prayed for my enemies; then i arose and gave out a hymn to conclude the meeting. when the landlady could not turn us out, then she engaged her wicked company to attack me. they surrounded me, and flew upon me like fiery serpents from hell, gnashing their teeth, and crying out: 'out with him, head first! break his neck over the stones!' but i alighted on my feet, and the devil was conquered." at lincoln, where martin worked for a man named weatherall, he compiled and printed his biography; two editions were soon disposed of, and he printed a third edition in 1828, of five thousand copies. a friend and fellow-believer wrote his biography from his dictation, and it underwent some sort of supervision, for martin was wholly ignorant of spelling, and had little idea of constructing a grammatical sentence. by hawking his little book about the country, and by quartering occasionally in the houses of those who were willing to extend their hospitality to him on account of his gifts of prayer and the word, he contrived to make a decent living. he frequented the methodist chapel at lincoln, and received his card of membership from the minister there. in 1828 he got acquainted with a young woman, twenty years his junior, named maria hodson, who lived at boston. martin visited her there, and they were married in boston parish church. shortly after the marriage they came together to york, on the day after christmas-day, 1828, and obtained lodgings in the house of a shoemaker named william lawn, no. 60, aldwark. during his stay in york he employed himself in vending his books, and was well known in the city from wearing a glazed, broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, and a singular black leather cape, which came down to his elbows, with a square patch of fur sewn on the back, and extending from one corner to the other. at york he attended the methodist meeting, but sometimes was with the primitives, or ranters. when he had any vacant time, he spent it in reading either the bible or his hymn-book. on sunday afternoon he was wont to go to the minster, and on the 6th of january the following letter was found tied to one of the iron gates of the minster choir; it was fastened by a shoemaker's waxed thread, but was not directed. a verger, however, took it down and gave it to one of the canons or minor canons, who, however, thought it too absurd to deserve notice. the following is a verbatim copy of it:- "york, janrey the 5-1829. "hear the word of lord, oh you dark and lost clergymen. "repent and cry for marcey for know is the day of vangens and your cumplet destruction is at hand for the lord will not sufer you and the deveal and your blind hellish docktren to dseve the works of his hands no longer. "oh, you desevears will not milleons of the mighty and rich men of the earth have to curs the day that ever they gat under your blind docktren know to be a shamd of your selvs and wepe for your bottls of wine and your downey beds will be taken away from you i warn you to repent in the name of jesuse and believe he is able on earth to forgeve sines, for there is no repenting in the greave oh you blind gydes are you not like the man that bilt his hous upon the sands when the thunder starmes of gods heavey vangens lites upon your gildrys heads a way gos your sandey foundaytons and you to the deepest pet of hell re serve the curses of millions that your blind doctrens has decevd and to reseve gods heve curs and the ward pronounst depart you carsit blind gides in to the hotist plase of hell to be tormented with the deveal and all his eanguls for ever and ever "jona. martin, a frind of the sun of boneypart must conclude by warning you again oh repent repent he will soon be able to act "the part of his father "derect for jonathan martin "aldwark no. 60" another epistle was also found, on wednesday, the 21st of january, by a sailor from hull, who being at york, visited the cathedral in company with his wife. when walking along the western aisle he saw on the ground near a pillar, a small packet, which he had the curiosity to open. it was tied with a shoemaker's waxed thread, covered with old matting, and contained a stone, round which was wrapped a pamphlet, entitled "the life of jonathan martin." he also found in the parcel a letter, sealed with cobbler's wax, and addressed to the clergy of york. he read and exhibited both the letter and pamphlet at the house where he was stopping, but they were thought of no consequence. fortunately, unimportant as they were considered, he did not destroy them. the letter was couched in the same strain as that already given. in other mss. dropped in or near the minster, and bearing the signature of "m.," the following expressions were found:-"your great churches and minsters will fall down on your guilty heads;" but no sort of suspicion was entertained that anyone was wicked or mad enough to cherish the determination of destroying one of the finest existing specimens of the munificence and piety of our ancestors; therefore no precautionary measures were taken. on the 27th of january, martin left york with his wife, stating that they were going to leeds to reside, and his luggage was sent off accordingly to that place. they arrived in leeds on the 28th, and martin remained there till the saturday following. they lodged at the house of john quin, no. 6, brick street. his conduct is described as having been most orderly and decorous. he attended worship at a chapel of the primitive methodists one evening; his conversation was cheerful and perfectly rational; he appeared to be kind and affectionate to his wife, and spent the time while he was in the house chiefly in singing hymns, reading the scriptures, and conversing on sacred subjects. the principal part of thursday and friday he was engaged in vending his pamphlet. when he left quin's house on saturday morning, between nine and ten o' clock, he seemed perfectly tranquil, and said he was going to fulfil an appointment that he had in the neighbourhood of tadcaster, and that he should return to his wife at leeds on monday by dinner-time. instead of stopping at tadcaster, he came back to york, and went to his old lodgings in aldwark. he told mr. and mrs. lawn that he and his wife had been no further than tadcaster, and that he was going to stop in that neighbourhood for the purpose of hawking books. he asked if he could sleep there that night, and on being answered in the affirmative, he took possession of the room he had before occupied. in the afternoon he went out and was observed perambulating the minster-yard, and taking special note of the building. his attention appeared particularly directed to the western towers. he returned to mr. lawn's in the evening, and remained till eleven o'clock on sunday morning, when he went out--and returned no more. this wretched incendiary had then, no doubt, laid all his plans for the destruction of the minster; a project which, to judge from his subsequent communications to mr. wilson, a local preacher at the wesleyan methodist connexion at hexham, he seems to have entertained for some time. the motives which prompted him to attempt the destruction of this beautiful church were the fanatical antipathy he entertained towards the clergy of the church, whom he condemned as "blind guides"--to whom, however, he said he felt no ill-will, malice, or personal hostility, but he was sorry for them, as he believed they were leading the higher ranks in society astray; and the destruction of the minster, he was of opinion, "was for the glory of god, the good of the people of england generally, and for the good of the inhabitants of york in particular, as when the cathedral was destroyed they would be compelled to disperse themselves to other places of worship, where they would hear the gospel preached." when he had fully made up his mind on the subject, he began to apprehend opposition from his wife; and he told mr. wilson that he adopted the following extraordinary mode of neutralising it:--"he took the ring from her finger whilst she slept, and though she manifested much concern at the loss of her ring, he allowed her to vent her feelings in unavailing regrets, until he thought her sufficiently moulded to his purpose. he then exacted a vow from her that she was to keep his secret, and he would restore her ring. this being agreed to, he told her his intention, on which she seemed greatly disturbed, and they went to leeds." after martin left his lodgings on sunday morning he went to the minster and heard the sermon. in the afternoon he repaired there again, and entered the south transept as soon as the doors were open. he walked about till after the service began; and the sexton (job knowles) noticed him passing several times as he was ringing the bell for prayers. before he entered the minster in the afternoon he had provided himself with a "razor with a white haft, the back of which he used instead of a steel; a flint, tinder, matches, and a penny candle cut in two." this, however, soon burnt out, and he replaced it with one of the wax candles which had been used in the minster the previous evening. during service he concealed himself behind a tomb--probably archbishop grinfield's, in the north transept--muttering to himself as the organ played, "buzz, buzz--i'll teach thee to stop thy buzzing." there he remained till all the people had left. he then quitted his place of concealment and walked about, looking where he could best make the fire. the ringers were in the belfry in the evening, and from behind a column he watched them go out. and here it may be remarked that very important consequences often result from apparent accidents. if the ringers had locked the door of the belfry after them, in all probability he could not have made his escape from the minster, but would have been compelled to remain till the doors were opened in the morning; when mingling with the crowd, in the hurry and confusion, he might not have been noticed, and the calamity would always have been ascribed to accident. after the ringers left, martin went into the belfry and struck a light. a gentleman who was passing the minster about half-past eight o'clock, saw a light in the belfry at that time; but as the ringers had been there, he thought they were about ringing again, and took no notice of the circumstance. two persons who were confined in peter prison also saw a light in the belfry after nine o'clock. at this time the incendiary was busy preparing his means of escape. he cut about ninety feet off the rope attached to the prayer-bell, which passed through a hole in the floor of the belfry into the aisle below, and having pulled it up, he formed it into a ladder by doubling it and tying knots at regular distances. after he had worked some time, he put out his light, and finished his ladder in the dark. when this was completed he left the belfry, and having climbed over the iron gates which separate the nave from the north-east aisle, he used the rope-ladder to get over the gate leading from that aisle into the choir, which is usually kept fast. he then struck a light the second time, and with the razor cut three yards of gold fringe, two gold tassels, &c., from the pulpit, and the crimson velvet curtains from the dean's and precentor's seats at the bottom of the choir, and those from the archbishop's throne. he also took a small bible, and as he expected to be taken and imprisoned, he brought away the bible that it might be a comfort to him in his confinement. he then piled the cushions and prayer-books in two heaps, on each side near the carved work, and set them on fire by introducing matches among them. having done this, he set about making his escape. he had brought with him a pair of shoemaker's pincers, which mr. lawn had left in the room where he slept on saturday night, and having tied one end of his rope to the machine used for cleaning the minster, he dragged it under the window in the west aisle of the north transept, which he broke with the pincers; and having seen that one of the piles (that by the archbishop's throne) to which he had set fire was burning briskly, he descended, and left the cathedral a little after three o'clock in the morning of the 2nd of february, taking with him the articles before mentioned, and also some purple silk--a part of one of the robes of the clergy. during the time he was in the minster he says he felt no fear, but was, "on the contrary, quite happy; sometimes he prayed, and sometimes he praised god, because, as he said, he had strengthened him to do so good a work!" the incendiary had left the minster several hours before the fire was discovered. the patrol left the minster-yard about half-past two o'clock, before he had made his escape, and they saw no indications of anything unusual when they left. about four o'clock a man going past saw a light in the minster, but he thought the workmen were preparing a vault, and unfortunately passed on without endeavouring to ascertain what was really the cause of so unusual an occurrence as a light burning in the sacred edifice at that early hour. at five o'clock a series of reports, resembling repeated explosions, were heard. the parties who heard them wondered what they meant, but never thought of tracing them to their source. the discovery at last took place in the following singular manner:--a lad named swinbank, one of the younger choristers, whose duty it was to go and practise at the minster early every morning, went as usual a little before seven o'clock on the morning of the 2nd of february. he found the doors were not open, and began to slide on a piece of ice in the minster-yard to amuse himself. whilst so doing he fell on his back, and before he recovered himself from that position he saw smoke issuing from the roof of the minster. alarmed at the sight, he went to job knowles, the sexton, for the keys. on his return he found the doors had been opened by some of the workmen, and mr. scott, the builder, entered the building at the south door, but had scarcely got in when he was compelled to retreat--so dense was the smoke that respiration was impossible. a gentleman with difficulty then made his way to the organ screen; but was compelled to retreat to avoid suffocation. by the vestry-door, however, access was obtained to the choir--the gates from the vestry, and also those leading from the aisle into the choir, being fortunately open. the fire, which originated at one end of the stalls, had consumed the whole row, with all their tabernacle work; and about half-an-hour after it was first discovered, the flames had spread to the stalls on the other side. one of the minster engines was kept in the vestry, and this was immediately placed in the aisle, where it played on the place where the communion-plate was kept, and around which the flames were raging with great intensity: the tabernacle screen was in this spot burnt to the ground, and the plate was melted into one mass. as soon as this engine was got to work, several individuals succeeded in carrying out the whole of the cushions and books from the north side of the choir; the cushions and part of the hangings of the cathedral were also saved, as was the curious old chair which stood within the rails. the next effort was to remove the brass eagle or lectern. this was effected with great difficulty, owing to its weight, by the few persons who had the courage to brave the suffocating effects of the smoke. they were driven back three times before they succeeded in carrying off the upper part of the eagle, which was taken into the vestry; the other portion was afterwards carried out at a door on the chapter-house side. all this was the work of a few minutes; and at this time (perhaps about a quarter after seven), the organ screen, the north side of the choir, and the roof, were to all appearance untouched by the fire. at this period, if a few firemen had been present who understood their business, this part of the church might have been saved. shortly after, however, the flames spread round the south-west corner of the choir and reached the organ; and when this noble instrument caught fire, an appalling noise--occasioned by the action of the air in the pipes upon the flames--resounded through the building, and struck with awe all who heard it. whilst this was passing in the interior of the building, the alarm had been spread through the city by the ringing of the bells of st. michael-le-belfry, and the yorkshire insurance company's engine was soon on the spot. it was placed at the south door, and the pipes were carried into the minster, and directed over the organ upon the fire which was then raging in the choir. the city engines arrived soon after, and were stationed at different parts of the building. an express was sent to the barracks, and the barrack engine arrived about eight o'clock. major clark and several officers accompanied it with a file of the 7th dragoon guards, who were of great use in facilitating the operations of the persons employed in extinguishing the flames. about ten minutes before eight o'clock another engine was brought into the minster; but the roof having caught fire from the organ--the flames from the latter igniting some of the bosses of the groining, which were of maple-wood--the melted lead and pieces of burning timber began to fall so rapidly that the men were compelled to abandon their positions, and the engine was stationed further off, in the nave, whence it continued to play over the screen upon the burning ruins in the choir for several hours. previous to the removal of this engine, an attempt was made by two or three gentlemen to cut down the great gates leading from the choir into the north-east aisle, with a view to cut off the communication with the altar: the molten lead and burning rafters, however, fell about them so rapidly that they were obliged to desist. by eight o'clock, or a little later, the organ--one scarce equalled for tone and power by any instrument in the world--was totally consumed, together with the valuable collection of music which was deposited in the organ loft; and much of which, being in manuscript, could not be replaced. by the exertions of mr. plows, stone-mason, a number of men were about this time got upon the roof of the side aisle; by means of ropes, buckets and the pipe of an engine were hoisted up, and from this elevation a torrent of water was discharged upon the flames beneath. a number of men were also employed in cutting away the roof towards the east window, who continued their exertions as long as they were practicable. about a quarter past eight o'clock the flames burst through the roof, near the lantern tower, and the spectacle from the exterior was awful and impressive in the extreme, whilst the effect of the scene in the interior was magnificent beyond description. immediately in front of the screen which divides the nave from the choir, the engine already alluded to was playing directly upon the fire, but with little effect, owing to the magnitude of the space over which the flames had spread themselves. from the screen to the altar the vast area had the appearance of an ignited furnace; and the men who were employed in working the engines, and in various other ways endeavouring to stop the progress of the flames, resembled beings of another world rather than inhabitants of this material globe. their voices, as they shouted to their comrades for "water" or for more assistance, fell in harsh and discordant tones on the ear; they moved enveloped in an atmosphere so dense that it was scarcely possible to breathe in it, partially illumined by the flames and partly by the rays of the sun, which now streamed in through the painted windows, producing altogether an effect indescribably beautiful and grand. a number of bats and other birds, burnt out of their retreats, were now seen flitting about, unable to find an outlet, and many perished in the flames. about half-past eight o'clock an express was sent by archdeacon markham to the mayor of leeds, informing him that the minster was on fire, and requesting that two of the largest engines belonging to that town might be sent off immediately. this was shortly followed by another express from mr. newman, the actuary of the yorkshire fire office, requesting that two more engines might be immediately forwarded to york. at this period serious fears were entertained that the fire would extend over the whole of this immense fabric; the flames were rapidly gaining ground at the east end, and the engines had not the least effect in allaying their progress. the lantern tower, and the whole of the roof of the nave appeared to be saturated with smoke, which also poured out of the windows of the western towers. the knotted rope having been discovered by which martin made his escape, and not satisfactorily accounted for, and its being rumoured that a bunch of matches had also been found which had been lighted at both ends, the opinion that the fire was not caused by the gas, or by candles being left in the organ-loft or in the clergymen's robing-room, which had at first been entertained, began to give way to the idea that this was the work of an incendiary; and when the smoke was seen issuing from the places we have mentioned, it was at once said that a train had been laid, and that it was breaking out in different places. this, providentially, was not the case; the smoke penetrating the roof, &c., was merely occasioned by the denseness of the volume of vapour collected in the church before the doors were opened, and which at last found vent in that manner; and the fire never extended beyond the lantern tower. at ten minutes past nine a portion of the burning roof fell in with a tremendous crash. for an instant the whole area was illuminated, and the next moment a volume of smoke and ashes was sent forth which involved for a short time everything in darkness and obscurity. from that time till half-past ten portions of the roof kept falling in, till from the lantern tower to the east window the blue vault of heaven was the only canopy. the molten lead from the roof during this period poured down in torrents. soon after ten o'clock an engine arrived from escrick park, near york, the seat of paul beilby thompson, esq., m.p. that no time might be lost, that gentleman's beautiful grey carriage horses were yoked to his engine, and it was driven into the city with the utmost promptitude. about half-past ten another engine arrived from tadcaster, and was immediately got to work. one of these engines was brought to the east end, and played into the choir through an aperture made in the lower department of the window; another also played for a short time through the farthest window at the north-east end. as great alarm was felt lest the east end of the minster should fall, a part of the staff of the 2nd west york militia was placed to prevent the public from passing in that direction; the inmates of the opposite houses had previously removed their families. providentially, however, this alarm turned out to be unfounded. this fine window--the largest, we believe, in england, if not in the world--was only very partially injured. the floor of the choir was strewed with fierce-burning timbers, and resembled a liquid lake of fire; it was heated completely through, and the vaults below glowed with a radiance that occasioned a general cry from those who could get near, of "the vaults are on fire." but the heat now began sensibly to abate, owing partly to the quantity of water poured upon the burning timbers which covered the floor of the choir and the lady's chapel behind the altar screen, and partly to the removal of the burning rubbish from the bases of the pillars, which latter being of limestone, were very much injured by the action of the fire. the rafters of the roof, and other immense pieces of timber, were converted literally into charcoal, and were removed to the nave and into the minster-yard. about noon the fears of the fire spreading any farther were removed; but the engines continued to play for hours after upon the mass of fire and flame on the floor of the church. great efforts were also made to save the beautiful screen which divides the nave from the choir, and this was effected, for that ornament of the minster was only very slightly injured. about two o'clock the engine of the norwich union company, with the requisite number of men, arrived from leeds. they had been barely two hours on the road, and in less than three minutes after the engine stopped in the minster-yard it was at work. two other engines arrived from leeds shortly after. a fourth arrived about four o'clock. when the fire was so far got under that no fears were apprehended of its extending beyond the choir and chancel, several parties were admitted into the nave to view the spectacle. some ladies were amongst them, one of whom was heard to exclaim, on viewing the awfully splendid yet distressing scene, "what a subject for martin!" alluding to the celebrated painter. little did she then think that martin's brother had occasioned this terrible conflagration. the crowds of people who flocked to the scene of this calamity continued to increase all the afternoon, and it was found necessary to place constables at the minster doors, to prevent the influx of persons desirous of seeing the state of the edifice; many arrived from a considerable distance, and it was quite impossible that more intense feelings of anxiety and distress could have been evinced than were displayed by the inhabitants of york, who from their infant days had been accustomed to consider the minster as their boast and glory. a great-aunt of mine has often described to me the overwhelming sensation it caused. her father, a man of remarkable self-restraint, wept like a child. the feeling in many a home was as if some accident had befallen and carried off a dearly-loved relation. there was gloom that day on every countenance, and in the early part of the day a sort of stupor appeared to pervade all ranks; people were overcome by the greatness of the unexpected calamity, and seemed scarcely to know whether to consider as real the events which were passing around them, or whether they were under the influence of a dream. during the whole of the afternoon the workmen and others were busily employed in removing the fallen rafters and other rubbish from the choir. most of these were carried out into the minster-yard, which was thickly strewed from the south door to the vestry with the fragments of the roof, blackened and reduced to charcoal. within the nave a detachment of the dragoon guards was drawn up to prevent intrusion there, and a guard of the staff of the 2nd west york was mounted for the same purpose, as well as to secure the ornamental portions of that part of the structure from damage. the floor of the nave was strewn with fragments of the roof which had been brought from the choir; and against one of the pillars lay the remains of the organ--a few fragments of the gilt pipes and a portion of the iron work. a dense mass of smoke still rose from the embers, on which several of the engines continued to play during the night. the fire was not totally extinguished when the shades of evening drew on, for occasionally a fitful flash of lambent flame was seen struggling with the gloom, but was quickly extinguished by the water from the engines directed to the spot. during the evening the silence which reigned around, only broken at intervals by the tread of the sentinels or the occasional remarks of a passenger, formed a striking contrast to the bustle and confusion which had prevailed during the day. about ten o'clock men were observed with lanterns visiting every part of the roof, to see that all was safe; and the night was passed without any further alarm. a word as to the extent of injury which the sacred building sustained. the roof of the central aisle, which was of exquisite workmanship, was entirely destroyed from the lantern tower to the east window; this roof occupied a space of 131 feet in length by 45 in breadth, and was 99 in height from the floor of the choir. in the interior, from the organ screen to the altar screen, all the beautiful tabernacle work, the stalls, galleries, bishop's throne, pulpit, &c., were entirely consumed. the altar screen was so much injured that it was obliged to be taken down. of the monuments, several were damaged either from the effect of the fire or the falling of the timbers of the roof. it is impossible to conclude this part of the subject without alluding to the remarkable circumstance that one of the lessons appointed to be read on the sunday after this calamity at the evening service was the 64th chapter of isaiah, being the church's prayer to god. it was singularly applicable to the fire which destroyed the cathedral; one verse especially--"our holy and our beautiful house, where our fathers praised thee, is burned with fire: and all our pleasant things are laid waste." few in the congregations assembled in the numerous churches of york on the sunday evening heard it unmoved. another thing, thought to be a coincidence, but which is certainly a very remote one, was that the cathedral was fired by martin on candlemas day, using one of the wax-candles employed in the choir during evensong. various reports as to the origin of the fire circulated in york. some supposed it originated from the gas, others attributed it to the candles left alight in the organ loft or in the vestry of the clergy. but others suspected it was the work of an incendiary, and they were confirmed in this belief by finding the knotted rope which had been left by martin, and was discovered early in the morning. on monday evening a committee of inquiry was formed, consisting of clergy and gentlemen. they met at the residence; and the vergers, workmen, and other individuals connected with the minster, underwent a rigorous examination. the investigation was continued on tuesday and wednesday, and the strictest secrecy was observed in the proceedings; in the course of which it was ascertained that the rope was cut from the one which is attached to the prayer-bell, and that not with a knife, but by being chafed with a sharp stone. it was also ascertained that the window was opened from the interior; and a bunch of matches, burnt at both ends, was found among the rubbish, and afterwards a pair of shoemaker's pincers. the matches were found under the rubbish of the burnt organ; the pincers on the stool of the window out of which the knotted rope was suspended. the fact was also proved that several anonymous letters had been sent to the vergers; and also that the parcel, with the letter and pamphlet before alluded to, had been found in the minster by a person from hull. a gentleman was despatched to hull to obtain possession of these documents; but in the meantime they had fallen into the hands of mr. isaac wilson, of that place, who with great promptitude came to york and laid them before the committee. mr. pardoe, the active police officer of york, was employed to ascertain to whom the shoemaker's pincers belonged, and they were owned by mr. lawn, at whose house martin had lodged. other circumstances formed a chain of evidence so complete and conclusive as to leave no doubt that jonathan martin was the incendiary, and hand-bills were issued on thursday offering a reward for his apprehension. pardoe had been despatched to leeds in pursuit the previous day, with a warrant from archdeacon markham, which on his arrival was instantly backed by the mayor of the borough. for the rest of the day and during the night pardoe and the whole force of the police were employed in endeavouring to find a clue to the retreat of the incendiary. they were not successful; but on thursday morning his wife was taken into custody while vending the "history of his life." when discovered by the officers, she expressed her surprise at the charge against her husband; and after admitting that he left that town on saturday morning, said that she understood, on his departure, he was going into the neighbourhood of tadcaster; that she had not heard of him since; and that she had experienced great uneasiness at his long absence. she added that his place of concealment, or anything further connected with the affair, was totally unknown to her. she was kept in custody at leeds, in her own house, in the charge of two constables, who obtained possession of all martin's books and papers. on thursday morning information was received which caused an express to be sent off to the neighbourhood of pontefract, where an active and diligent search was commenced. a clue was obtained, which led to the belief that the incendiary had passed through pontefract on the road to wakefield. the mayor of pontefract ordered the police of that town to afford every assistance to the gentlemen in pursuit, and he was traced to polston toll-gate. from the information there obtained it was supposed he had taken the direction to heath; and the pursuit was immediately followed up in that direction, and continued through most of friday. it was reported in the evening about seven o'clock that martin had been captured about five miles from bedale, and would be brought into york by the carlisle express coach. the coach was half-an-hour beyond its time, and the streets were filled with crowds of anxious spectators, who waited in the expectation that the incendiary would arrive by it. many persons went out of micklegate bar, and ran alongside of the coach till it stopped in coney street. it was then found that the report was an erroneous one, for martin was not there; nor was it true that he had been captured. on saturday morning it was ascertained that the police had been on a wrong scent, as martin had proceeded to the north instead of to the west; and about half-past nine o'clock that morning an express was received stating that he had been arrested the previous evening near hexham. the following are the particulars of his flight and capture: martin left the minster, as has been stated, a little after three o'clock in the morning. he proceeded to easingwold and got a pint of ale; from thence to thirsk, at which place he arrived at eleven o'clock; from thirsk he went to northallerton, where he arrived about three o'clock in the afternoon in a state of apparent fatigue. he remained till evening with a brother in-law who resided there, and expressed great anxiety to get on to hexham to see a friend. at nine that evening he left northallerton in a coal cart, in which he travelled all night till he arrived at joft-hill pit, near west auckland, on the watling street road. the next morning he proceeded to alensford, on the derwent, where he slept on the tuesday evening. he left alensford about eight o'clock on the wednesday morning, and stopped at the riding mill, where he had a pint of ale; from thence he proceeded to corbridge, where he arrived about twelve o'clock, and had half-a-pint of ale; and then went to cadlaw hill to his friend mr. kell, where he arrived about two the same afternoon, being the same place where he sought refuge when he escaped from the asylum at gateshead. martin remained there till eleven o'clock on friday morning, and during his stay he expressed a great anxiety to see newspapers. the handbills giving a description of martin's person, and offering a reward for his apprehension, were circulated in all parts of the north; and one of them fell into the hands of mr. stainthorpe, a sheriff's officer, of newcastle, who knew him. mr. s., on friday, the 6th, having to go to corbridge, heard that martin had returned home, but did not at that time know there was any charge against him. returning to hexham, where he kept a public-house, mr. s. found the handbill lying on the table; and he immediately saddled his pony and set off to mr. kell's, where he felt satisfied he would find him. the house, called cadlaw hill, is situated between stagshaw bank and hexham, on the north side of the tyne. it is a house situated by itself, and had martin not been well known in the neighbourhood, it might have afforded concealment for some time. on alighting he inquired of a young woman who was standing at the door if jonathan martin had got home. the family, it would seem, were not aware of the crime he had committed, as the bailiff was readily answered in the affirmative. on receiving this information he bolted in, and found mr. kell and martin sitting together, the latter engaged in reading a hymn-book. they both rose on his entrance, and he, accosting martin, asked, "is not your name jonathan martin?" he immediately replied, "yes, it is." on which mr. stainthorpe said, "you are my prisoner." martin displayed very little emotion, nor did he even ask why he was made a prisoner. mr. kell was greatly surprised, and asked mr. stainthorpe what martin was charged with. he replied he was not at liberty to tell him; but that he should require his assistance to convey the prisoner to hexham, on reaching which place he would give him every information necessary. mr. kell readily agreed, and the prisoner as readily seemed disposed to take the road. the first question he asked mr. stainthorpe was, "do you belong to york?" mr. stainthorpe replied in the negative, and cautioned him not to say anything that might criminate himself. on their coming in sight of hexham, from which cadlaw hill is distant nearly four miles, martin, pointing to highside house, two miles from hexham, said, "yonder is the house in which i was born;" and seeing the church of hexham, he exclaimed, "that is a fine old church. did the catholics build that too?" on the way martin asked if any york papers came to hexham. and also he said to mr. stainthorpe, "am i advertised in the newcastle papers?" on being told he was, and also that he was charged with burning york cathedral, he readily said _he had done it_; and he added, "as soon as i knew i was advertised, i intended to tell everything." on reaching the house of correction, martin's bundle was opened, when it was found to contain part of the valuable crimson fringe, &c., which he said he had cut away from the pulpit, or some part of the minster, a small bible which he had brought away at the same time, and a piece or two of the painted glass of the minster. an old razor was found in his pocket, with which he said he cut the crimson fringe, &c., and with which also he struck the fatal light by which he was able to fire the minster. there were found also seven copies of his life, but only one penny of money. he appeared up to the moment of his apprehension to have been profoundly ignorant of the extent of the injury he had occasioned; but on a gentleman telling him he had totally destroyed the cathedral, his countenance brightened, and the news seemed to exhilarate him. he exclaimed, seemingly pleased, "have i?" after he was lodged in the house of correction an express was sent off to york with the intelligence. it was whilst he was in the house of correction at hexham that mr. wilson (of whom mention has been made) visited him, in company with mr. stainthorpe. mr. wilson asked him whether his desire to see the newspapers at cadlaw hill arose from an anxiety for self-preservation. he replied, "none whatever;" but as he was ignorant what effects had been produced by the fires he had kindled, he was anxious to know; on which mr. stainthorpe said the damage was estimated at â£100,000. he coolly said, "if it were not for the glory of god, if that could be promoted, â£200,000 would not have been too much, and that in his opinion it would have been well if all the minster had gone together, as the worship carried on in it was idolatrous and superstitious." he declared that he was quite happy and fully resigned to his situation, and "would give himself up into the hands of the lord." such had been the demonstration of popular feeling shown by the persons collected at different times to wait the coaches coming in when martin was expected, that the magistrates very prudently arranged that he should arrive in york early on monday morning, and that the examination should take place immediately on his arrival. it was as near as possible half-past three o'clock when mr. newstead and pardoe arrived with their prisoner in a post-chaise at the session house in the minster-yard. he was taken into the room occupied by harrison, the keeper of peter prison, where he seated himself on a chair with his hands clasped, his feet elevated on the fender, and his eyes closed. mr. pardoe asked him if his feet were cold; to which he replied "yes"; and this was the only word he spoke till the examination commenced. he was dressed in a blue coat and trousers, with a drab great-coat. he had by no means the appearance of a "stout man," as described in the bill; but the person where he lodged said he had fallen away very much in that short period. it was half-past four o'clock when everything was arranged for examination. the magistrates took their seats on the bench, and martin was placed at the bar; the warrant under which he was apprehended was read over to him, and the depositions of witnesses were also read. it is unnecessary here to give the evidence either on this occasion or at the subsequent trial. on being asked what he had to say for himself, he made the following confession in a firm tone of voice:-"the reason that i set fire to the cathedral was on account of two particular dreams. in the first dream i dreamed that a man stood by me with a bow and a sheath of arrows. he shot an arrow, and the arrow stuck in the minster door. i then wished to shoot, and the man presented me the bow, and i took an arrow from the sheath and shot, and it struck on a stone and i lost it. in the second dream i dreamed that a cloud came down on the cathedral, and came over to the house where i slept, and it made the whole house tremble. then i woke; and i thought it was the hand of god pointing out that i was to set fire to the cathedral. and those things which were found on me i took lest any one should be blamed wrongfully. i took them to bear witness against myself; i cut the hangings from the throne, or cathedra, or whatever you call it, and tore down the curtains." here he stopped rather abruptly, and being asked whether he had anything more to say, he replied, "no." during the whole of the proceedings martin appeared perfectly calm, and stood with his eyes closed nearly the whole of the time, his head inclining over the right shoulder. his committal was then made out, and signed by mr. dickens, the chairman, and the rev. d. r. currer, and he was removed to the city gaol, and given into the custody of mr. kilby, to remain till the assizes. after martin was committed to the charge of the gaoler on the morning of the 9th of february, he breakfasted and went to bed. his sleep was sound and tranquil, and he awoke much refreshed and in good spirits. strangers were not admitted to see him. next day he appeared greatly depressed, and was very anxious to avoid public observation. he attended prayers in the chapel during the morning. the next day, however, he refused to attend the chapel. subsequently he was visited by the rev. g. coopland, the chaplain, in his day-room, who found that so deeply rooted was his aversion to the liturgy of the church of england as to leave him no reason to doubt that a forced attendance during the chapel service would be much more likely to prove injurious than beneficial to his own mind. besides, he thought it not at all improbable that were he compelled to attend, he might consider it his duty to interrupt the service, and publicly to protest against a mode of worship which he deemed unscriptural. under these circumstances his attendance at chapel was not enforced. he frequently prayed and sang hymns, and when the order was relaxed by which strangers were prohibited from seeing him, he entered very freely into conversation with them. he still pretended to be favoured with extraordinary visions. on one occasion he said he dreamed that two angels appeared to him in prison, one of whom told him to apply his lips to the tip of his wings, which he did, when he was immediately conveyed beyond the walls of his prison. his brother arrived in york about ten days before the assizes commenced, to make preparations for his defence. the defence intended to be set up was insanity; and a number of witnesses were collected with a view to support this plea. dr. wake, at the request of his brother, visited him on friday, the 20th. up to this period his conduct had been extremely mild, and his feelings composed; but a little change had been observed for a day or two previous, and that night, about twelve o'clock, he attempted to make his escape. he slept in what was called the hospital room--a room in which there were two beds, a person who was appointed as his guard sleeping in one of them, and martin in the other. the guard fell asleep about half-past eleven o'clock, and was soon after awoke by a knocking, apparently outside the room. not apprehending anything, he went to sleep again; and martin, having torn his bed-rug into lengths, tied them together, and formed a rope about nine yards long. he fastened this round his ankles, and having on only his shirt and his drawers, he ascended the chimney. an iron grate which was fixed in near the top prevented him, however, from getting to the outside of the prison, and he was obliged to descend again. he then placed his sooty shirt under the bed, swept the soot into the same place, and put on his flannel dress, and retired to bed. the attendant, on awaking about two o'clock, found him up, but he soon lay down again; and both rose at half-past six o'clock. almost as soon as the door was opened martin bolted out, and went into the yard. his attendant, alarmed, followed him, and found him washing himself. the state of the room and of his person, together with two bricks being laid in the fire-place, proved the fact that an escape had been attempted. indeed, when charged with it, he did not deny it. he said, if he had been a smaller person he should have effected his escape; but that it was the "will of god" he should make the attempt, and be frustrated. of course, after this, a closer watch was kept upon the actions of the prisoner. on monday, march 23rd, he was brought before mr. justice bayley at the guildhall, and true bills were found against him for arson and sacrilege. he is described during the examination at the guildhall as having been perfectly placid, and as having smiled occasionally. when the court adjourned for rest and refreshment to the mansion house during the proceedings, he engaged in conversation with the parties near him, and laughed at their observations. a lady said to him--"in destroying that beautiful pile of buildings you inflicted no real punishment on its clergy." martin laughed, and answered--"eh, but it may mak' them stand and consider their ways. all those who are really converted will think i've done reight enuff." the trumpets soon after sounded, heralding the approach of the judge. the prisoner said--"hark, how the watchman cries. oh! attend to the sound." the crowd was so dense in the hall that it was with difficulty a passage could be made for his lordship. martin laughed, and observed to mr. kilby, "they'll have t' ould man down." a gentleman asked him if he was not afraid. he said, "no, not at all." the populace entirely filled the hall and part of the yard; and jonathan turned his face towards them, frequently laughing, and talking to those with whom he came immediately in contact. he said he "believed he was the most righteous man in court"; adding, "i have made as much noise as buonaparte ever did. i think this is a very throng day." he then turned round to the counsel and reporters, and said, "i keep them very busy; i have given them all a job. i'll put their hands in by-and-bye." when the judge returned he said, "here's t' ould man coming again." he seemed quite pleased at being the object of such universal interest, and repeatedly laughed at the attempts of the people to get a sight of him. the trial of jonathan martin took place in the crown court of york castle before mr. baron hullock, on monday, march 30. the court was crowded. when placed at the bar, and the first charge, that of having feloniously set fire to the cathedral church of st. peter's, york, had been read to martin by the clerk of arraigns, and he had been asked the usual question whether he were "guilty or not guilty," he placed himself in a theatrical attitude, and said, "it was not me, my lord, but my god did it. it is quite common to him to punish to the third and fourth generation, and to show mercy to all that fear him and keep his commandments." a plea of "not guilty" was entered. the second indictment was then read over to him, charging him with feloniously stealing a quantity of crimson velvet and gold fringe and two gold tassels, the property of the dean and chapter of the cathedral and metropolitical church of york. he was asked whether he was guilty or not guilty. throwing out his left hand, he replied-"my god gave me that for my hire. the lord gave the silk to mak' a robe, like david the king, and the velvet to mak' a cap, and the tassels i took from the pulpit to hang down over my right and left ear." the clerk of indictments.--"are you guilty or not guilty?" martin.--"i had it given me for my hire." this was taken as a plea of "not guilty;" and mr. baron hullock addressing him, said, "you will be tried to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." he bowed, and said, "very well, my lord;" and was removed from the bar. the crier of the court then announced, at the desire of the judge, that the trial of jonathan martin would not take place till tuesday morning at nine o'clock. on tuesday, march 31st, the court was as crowded as on the preceding day, and great confusion was the result; this seemed to cause martin much amusement, and he laughed repeatedly at the struggles of the crowd at the door, and leaped on a seat to observe it. after the hearing of the evidence, the substance of which has been incorporated in the narrative, jonathan martin was called upon for his defence. martin, who had become very listless during the examination, seemed at this moment full of animation, and in a very vehement manner uttered in broad northern dialect the following words in his defence:-"the first impression that i had was by two particular dreams, sir; and after i had written five letters to warn the clergy. i think the last i wrote was a very severe one. i believe i wrote in it all the curses of the scripture to warn them, and likewise signed my name to every letter, and the place i lodged at, no. 60, aldgate. i never received any letters, which i was anxious to have from these clergymen, to speak to them by mouth, but there was found none among them that dared to answer me. i prayed to the lord what i was to do. the next night i dreamt that a wonderful thick cloud came from heaven and rested upon the minster." [here the prisoner gave a long account of his dream, mentioned above, and about the cloud resting over the house.] he continued:--"the house was so shook that it awoke me from sleep. i was astonished, and began to ask the lord what it meant. i felt a voice inwardly speak that the lord had chosen me to destroy the cathedral for the wrong that was doing by the clergy in going to plays, and balls, and card-tables, and dinners. different things impressed my mind that the lord had chosen me, because the house shook and trembled. i thought it resembled the pillar of smoke, and fulfilled the prophecy of joel, that god would pour out his spirit upon all flesh, and the old men should see visions, and the young men dream dreams, and that there should be signs in the heavens, blood and fire, and vapour and smoke. i thought that i should be fulfilling the word of god, and it was so impressed on my mind i had no rest night or day; for i found the lord had determined to have me to show this people a warning to flee from the wrath to come. i was rather at a loss, and astonished about my wife lest she should attack me, for i could not do it without being all night from her. after i had considered a while and got everything in order, i began to think it was impossible for me to do it, as if i was away without my wife knowing where, she might conceive i was about the cathedral, and come and put me out. therefore i thought of this, to take my wife's ring off her finger, and tie her over to this concern, which i did, as i have mentioned before, and the circumstance of my wife's keeping the vow. after i told her the circumstance she was much grieved, and strove to get me away to leeds, to get me from the purpose i had informed her of. we went to leeds and stayed a few days there, but i could get no rest to my mind till i had accomplished the deed. i was obliged to take leave of her on the saturday morning. i had a severe contest between flesh and blood. it was a sair contest, especially when she asked what was to become of her, and of my child richard i had at school at lincoln. i thought she would have nailed me to the spot; but after a moment a passage of scripture struck my ears, and it cried out like a whisper, 'what thou doest, do quickly.' i heard another--'he that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.' and i heard a third whisper--'even thine own life.' i tore myself from her arms. i said--'lord, not my will, but thine be done.' i then felt the love of god in my heart. i thought i would go to tadcaster, and took twenty books with me. when i got them the spirit told me to go forward. i had no money to keep me over the sunday. i had only fourpence-halfpenny." the prisoner then gave a minute detail of his proceedings, and the different expedients resorted to in order to set fire to the building, which he described as having been a work of great labour and difficulty. he said, at the evening service he was "very much vexed at hearing them sing the prayers and amens; he thought the prayer of the heart came from the heart, and that they had no call for prayer-books." he observed--"the organ then made such a buzzing noise, i thought, 'thou shalt buzz no more--i'll have thee down to-night.' well," he continued, "they were all going out, and i lay me down aside of the bishop, round by the pillar." [the prisoner concealed himself behind a tomb.] "i lay here till all went out. i thought i heard the people coming down from ringing the bells; they all went out, and then it was so dark that i could not see my hand. well, i left the bishop, and came out and fell upon my knees, and asked the lord what i was to do first, and he said--'get thy way up into the belfry and cut a rope;' and i had never been there, and i went round and round; i had a sort of a guess of the place from hearing the men, as i thought, come down. then the spirit said, 'strike a light.' and i then struck a light with a flint and razor that i had got, and some tinder that i had brought from my landlord's. i saw there were plenty of ropes: then i cut one, and then another; but i had no idea they were so long, and i kept draw, draw, and the rope came up till i daresay i had near 100 feet. i have been a sailor, and thought to myself, this will make a man-rope, a sort of scaling-rope, and i tied knots in it. aye, this is it, i know it well enough (pointing to the rope which lay upon the table). so i went down to the body of the cathedral, and bethought me how i should go inside. i thought if i did so, by throwing the rope over the organ, i might set it _ganging_, and that would spoil the job. so i made an end of the rope fast, and went hand-over-hand over the gates, and got down on the other side, and fell on my knees, and prayed to the lord, and he told me that do what i would they would take me. then i asked the lord what i was to do with the velvet, and he told me," (the prisoner here repeated what he had before stated in his plea about the robe, cap, and tassels.) "the fringe, i thought, would do for my hairy jacket that i have at lincoln. i have a very good sealskin one there; i wish i had it with me, that i might show it you. then i got all ready. glory to god! i never felt so happy; but i had a hard night's work of it, particularly with a hungry belly. well, i got a bit of wax-candle, and i set fire to one heap, and with the matches i set fire to the other. i then tied up the things that the lord had given me for my hire in this very handkerchief that i have in my hand." he then observed that he had "hard work" while engaged in making his preparations; "but," said he, "i had a glorious time of it; and many a time i called 'glory be to god' in a way which i wonder they did not hear on the outside." he left the pincers, he said, because the old man with whom he lodged could not afford to lose them, and he knew he would get them again. he thought it a work of merit to burn prayer-books and music-books, but not to burn the word of god, and he appeared to regret that he could not save the large bible by getting it over the gates and putting it outside. he detailed the particulars of his journey to the north; and described himself as having, from his arrival at york till he reached northallerton, had very little food, but "t' lord refreshed my soul on t' road wi' t' snow upon t' ground." he then went on with his story till he reached mr. kell's house, and "t' hexham man came, tapped me on t' shoulder, and took me to t' lock-up." he concluded, after speaking twenty minutes--"i am almost tired of talking, but i will efterwards tell ye a bit more." a minute or two after, he said to the reporters--"an' you have been writing down what i said--i think i talked o'er fast for thee!" he then espied one of his publications, and said--"i see the'se gotten one of my bukes. i wrote mysen at different times, and have sold 10,000 copies." the defence set up for the prisoner by mr. brougham, acting for jonathan martin's brother, was that jonathan had perpetrated the deed when in an unsound state of mind. the jury returned the verdict--"we are of opinion that he set fire to the cathedral, being at the time insane, or of unsound mind." baron hulloch:--"then your verdict must be _not guilty_ on the ground of insanity; and the prisoner must remain in close custody during his majesty's pleasure." martin was highly irritated at the line of defence adopted by mr. brougham; but that some suspicion of his lunacy was entertained by himself at an early period appears from his own words in his autobiography, written before he set fire to york minster:--"the devil suggested to me that the people would think me mad. my wife endeavoured to comfort me, as she feared for my head." after the sentence he was handcuffed and conveyed into the castle. he made no observation, but was evidently disappointed and dejected at the result. for some days after this martin seemed rather despondent, but he soon resumed his activity, pacing up and down at the rate of five miles an hour, and at an average of twenty miles per day. he asked some one he knew, who visited him, after his son, who was at school at lincoln, and said--"i'm thinking that god ha' used me varry badly." he was removed from york castle to st. luke's hospital in london, where his conduct is described as having been generally rational. he seldom spoke on the subject of his crime. towards his brother he entertained the bitterest enmity for having had him proved insane. but he consoled himself in his confinement with the thought, "the lord will take his own time to deliver me, and that will not be long, for he has a great work which cannot be done without me." when he heard of the death of baron hulloch, before whom he was tried, and which took place the same year, he seemed much agitated, walked about a while, as if talking to himself, but made no observation. it transpired afterwards that he looked on this as a signal instance of the lord punishing one of his enemies. footnotes: [24] authorities for this memoir:--"a full and authentic report of the trial of jonathan martin for setting fire to york minster; with an account of the life of the lunatic." york: bellerby, 1829. his own life, written by himself, 1828, 1829. "york castle in the nineteenth century; being an account of the principal offences committed in yorkshire from the year 1800." by l. t. rede. leeds, 1829. [25] in yorkshire this prejudice exists strongly. a yorkshireman once pulled down my hand as i pointed to the great bear, saying that if i pointed to a star i should be struck dead--it was a sin. [26] neither mr. nicoll nor the other pensioner assert that martin was guilty of a loose life. perhaps this was only on the occasion of his visiting london with the sailor who mentions it. mr. nicoll says martin was a moral man. [27] as an instance of martin's carelessness of expression, i may say that he relates in his own biography that he attended the love-feast at yarm half-an-hour after communion at the church at norton. yarm is four miles from norton. this mistake arose from the life being written from his dictation by a second, who wrote half-an-hour per afternoon. [28] nicholson, the keeper of the gateshead asylum before the ortons, said at the trial: "martin was under my care eleven or twelve months. he conversed very rationally. i should not have thought him fit for a lunatic asylum." brother jucundus. at york were two religious houses--st. mary's abbey and st. leonard's priory--so close together that their walls abutted. the magnificent ruins of st. mary's abbey church, the heavy fragments of the priory church of st. leonard's, now stand in the gardens of the botanical society, and resound no longer to the sound of psalmody, but to the strains of the band playing marches, waltzes, and overtures. at the close of the fifteenth century, before the dissolution was thought of, there lived, and fasted, and prayed in st. leonard's priory a fat monk named brother jucundus. he had not been long in the house. he had joined the order in a fit of headache and remorse, after heavy potations on the occasion of the installation of a new lord mayor, and it is possible--probable, i suspect--that he somewhat regretted his precipitancy. yet there was no escape. the irrevocable vows were on him; for life he was bound to eat only vegetables and bread, drink very small beer, and sleep only six hours in the night. convivial songs floated through his mind when he ought to have been chanting the psalms of david, and the flavour of old sack rose upon his palate when he looked dolefully down at dinner-time into his mug of "swipes." a year passed. the full paunch of brother jucundus began to subside; his fat cheeks to fall flabby, like the dewlaps of a cow; a dispirited expression took the place of the watery twinkle which had once animated his eye. come what might, brother jucundus felt he must have a fling. he should die without it. just one jolification in the twelvemonth, and then he would put up for the rest of the year with beans and cabbage, small beer and matins before dawn. york fair approached. york fair! of all that is ravishing! the shows of dancing dogs, the whirli-go-rounds, the giantesses and dwarfs, the "spice" stalls, the drinking-booths! to york fair he must, he would go, if condemned to a bean and a thimbleful of water for fasting dinner ever after. and go he did. he managed it in this way:--after dinner the whole community took an hour's sleep. as they rose at midnight and dined at mid-day, this was very necessary, and the priory was silent, save for snores, from one o'clock to two. at half-past one brother jucundus stole to the porter's lodge, found the porter asleep in his chair--so took possession of his keys; went to the prior's apartment; the prior was asleep; pocketed a crown from his money-box, and left the priory. at two o'clock the community awoke. the porter missed his keys. the prior missed the crown. all the monks were summoned into the chapter-house, and all missed brother jucundus. after long deliberation it was decided that two sedate and trusty brothers should be sent out in quest of him. it was a bright, sunny afternoon. jucundus had enjoyed himself amazingly. the amount of gingerbread horses and men he had consumed was prodigious. he had seen "the spotted boy" and "the bearded woman;" he had gone round in the whirligig on the back of a wooden horse; he had shot for nuts at a mark, and won his pocket full, which he cracked every now and then, and washed down with a draft of really good ale. and now, just now, he was going up in the boat of a great see-saw, with a foaming tankard in his hand, his jolly red face illumined with glee, and his ample throat thundering forth- "in dulce jubilo-o-o, up, up, up we go-o-o;" when his sweet jubilee was cut short by the sight of two monks from his priory, with grim faces, making their way towards the see-saw. brother jucundus tried to scramble out, and in so doing tumbled down. he was picked up. either his libations, or the fall, or disinclination to return to st. leonard's weakened his legs, and he tottered so much that the reverend fathers were obliged to put him in a wheelbarrow and roll him to the priory gate. at the entrance stood the prior with a brow of thunder. brother jucundus looked pleasantly up in his face from out of his conveyance, smiled benignantly, and piped- "in dulce jubilo-o-o, up, up, up we go-o-o." the chapter was still sitting, stern and threatening. the helpless monk was trundled in his barrow into the midst of the assembled fathers, to be tried and sentenced. he had been caught, _flagrante delicto_, in a see-saw, drunk, riotous, and incapable. nevertheless, brother jucundus was not disposed to view his case unfavourably. he looked round on the chapter with an affectionate glance from out of his watery eye, and the kindest, most winsome smile on his ruddy cheeks. he was asked at once for his defence. he murmured, with a hiccup- "in dulce jubilo-o-o." the sentence was unanimous, and unfalteringly given. he was to be walled alive into a niche in the priory cellar. the execution was to be carried into effect immediately. as he was helped down the cellar stairs, some glimmer of his situation came in on the mind of jucundus, and he sadly trolled out- "down, down, down we go-o-o." a convenient niche was soon found. a cruse of water and a loaf of bread, with cruel mockery, were placed in the recess. the ready hands of zealous monks mixed the mortar, brought the bricks, and in a quarter of an hour brother jucundus was firmly walled in to his living grave. now for the first time did the extreme inconvenience of his position break upon the unfortunate monk. in the wheelbarrow he had been able to sit; here he was walled upright. it was cramping, intolerable. he kicked, he pressed backwards with all his might; and suddenly, with a crash, the wall behind him gave way, and he rolled backwards over a heap of fallen bricks into a cellar. the shock brought him completely to his senses. where was he? now he saw the gravity of his offence--the terrible fate that had been prepared for him. escape was fortunately open to him. he ran up the cellar stairs, and found himself in the abbey of st. mary's. the cellars of the two monasteries had adjoined; a wall alone had divided them. he had tumbled out of st. leonard's into st. mary's. st. mary's abbey belonged to the severe cistercian order. complete silence was one of the rules of the society. except on easter day, no monk might speak; on easter day every one talked, and nobody listened. when brother jucundus accordingly appeared in the cloisters, no monk turned to look at him, or asked him "how the saints he had come there?" but swept by him like a ghost. jucundus made himself as much at home as was possible. he took his place at table, ate and drank what was set before him, occupied a pallet in the common dormitory, lifted his voice in concert with the others in the abbey choir, and nobody meddled with him. the monks, if they thought about him at all--and it was against their rules to think of anything but their own spiritual affairs--thought he was a new monk just joined in the usual accepted manner. a twelvemonth passed. it had been dull in st. leonard's; it was duller in st. mary's. the day came round on which york fair was held, the day, that happy day, which had ended so dolorously. now the day before york fair the office of cellarer fell vacant in st. mary's abbey by the death of the monk who had presided over the wine and beer. the abbot by a happy inspiration committed the keys to brother jucundus. here was an opportunity! if york fair might not be enjoyed in the market-place and the pavement, he would at least commemorate it in the abbey cellar. on york fair day, accordingly, brother jucundus, after having seen all his fellow monks safe in bed, stole down the stone steps into the vault where were the barrels, with a tankard in his one hand and a lantern in the other. st. mary's abbey was often called upon to receive noble, even royal guests, and entertain them nobly and royally. it therefore contained barrels of very prime wine and very strong audit ale. brother jucundus went along the range of barrels trying one tipple after another. there is nothing so dangerous as mixing your drink, and this the reverend brother discovered at last, for he sat down, unable to proceed further, by the best cask of malmsey, and turning the tap, filled his tankard. next day at noon the cistercians assembled in the refectory for their frugal repast, dinner and breakfast in one: and as they had been up since midnight, and had eaten and drunk nothing for twelve hours, were tolerably hungry and dry. but the mugs were empty. at the abbot's table even was neither wine nor beer. the silent fraternity bore with this some time, but at last even the rules of the order could not keep them perfectly silent. they shuffled with their feet, growled and grunted discontentedly. at last the abbot, in a voice of thunder, shouted-"i want my beer!" and the example of the head becoming infectious, "beer, beer, beer! we all want our beer!" resounded from every part of the refectory. "where was the cellarer?" nobody knew. at last two brothers were commissioned to go to the cellar and fetch ale. they presently returned with awe-struck countenances, beckoned to the abbot to follow them, and led the way along the cloisters down the cellar stairs. curiosity, though against the rule, was infectious, and all the monks crept _en queue_ after the abbot. when they reached the vault a shocking sight presented itself to their eyes. brother jucundus lay with his head against the butt of malmsey, flourishing his tankard over his head, and feebly, incoherently, trolling forth- "in dulce jubilo-o-o, up, up, up we go-o-o." it was too flagrant an offence to be passed over. a chapter of the order was at once constituted in the cellar itself. all the monks were present. unanimously it was decided that after solemn excommunication with bell, book, and candle, the guilty brother should be walled up alive on the scene of his crime in that very cellar. the awful scene of excommunication was proceeded with. it took some time, and during the ceremony brother jucundus gradually resumed consciousness--the fumes of malmsey slowly evaporated. a convenient recess was found, where a heap of crumbling bricks lay prostrate. it was the identical nook out of which a year and a day before brother jucundus had escaped into the cistercian order and abbey of st. mary. into this niche therefore he was built. his terrible position had not, however, as yet forced itself on the monk's brain; he still tasted malmsey, still was his heart buoyant, and with swelling lungs he roared forth his song- "in dulce jubilo-o-o, up, up, up we go-o-o." now, it happened that the clocks in st. leonard's and st. mary's differed by a quarter of an hour. that of st. leonard's was slower than that of st. mary's. consequently it was only just dinner-time in st. leonard's priory, and the cellarer, pitcher in hand, had just descended the stairs, and was filling his vessel with small beer, when he heard close to his ear, from behind the wall, a stentorian voice thunder forth- "in dulce jubilo-o-o, up, up, up we go-o-o." the voice, the strain, the words were those of brother jucundus, who a year and a day before had been immured at that very spot. down went the pitcher, and away fled the monk--amazement, admiration in his countenance, "a miracle! a miracle!" in his mouth--to the monks, just issuing from the church and the recitation of sext and the office for the dead around the body of their prior, lately deceased, and that day to be buried. the whole community rolled like a tidal wave down the cellar-stairs, and stood with breathless awe in a circle about the spot where twelve months and a day before they had walled in brother jucundus. it was a miracle--there could be no doubt of it. eager hands tore down the wall, and revealed the reverend brother, hale and rosy as of yore, and at his side a loaf as fresh as when put in, and a pitcher still full to the brim. there could be no doubt but that this was a special interposition to establish the innocence of the monk, and to indicate to the community who was to be their future prior. with one voice they shouted, "jucundus our prior! saint jucundus our head and father!" on the shoulders of the enthusiastic brethren the miraculous monk was carried up-stairs and installed in the prior's seat in the chapter-house. under him st. leonard's jogged along very pleasantly, and he did much in his long rule of the monastery for its discipline and good order, if not to justify, at least to excuse the dissolution which fell on it immediately after his death. mary bateman, witch and murderess. mary harker was the daughter of a small farmer at aisenby, in the parish of topcliffe, near thirsk, where she was born in 1768. from an early age she exhibited great quickness, which, instead of taking a direct course and developing into intelligence, was warped into low cunning. she received, for one in her situation, a good education--was taught to read, and write, and cypher. but she very early showed a want of moral principle, very possibly because it was never instilled into her by her parents, and her first petty thefts having been pardoned or laughed at, she grew bolder, and what had been occasional grew to be frequent, and matured into a habit of peculation. her father sent her into service at the age of thirteen, in thirsk, and for a while she either concealed or did not yield to her propensity for theft. at all events, if she did pilfer, she was neither suspected nor discovered. at the age of twenty she left thirsk for york, and after a year's sojourn in that city, was detected in an attempt at robbery, and ran away to leeds, where, in 1788, she worked as a mantua-maker; but as her knowledge of dressmaking was imperfect--she had only acquired it during her twelvemonth at york, where her mistress had been a dressmaker--she was able to work for the lower classes alone. she lived in leeds for four years, following this occupation and occasionally telling fortunes. her professed calling admirably served to introduce dupes to her, and the servant-girls for whom she worked not infrequently introduced her to their young mistresses. in the year 1792 she married an honest, hard-working man named john bateman, who had made her acquaintance only three weeks previously. this man, there is no reason for believing, was, at first at all events, an accomplice in, or acquainted with, the crimes committed subsequently by his wife, though afterwards it is scarcely possible to exculpate him from connivance in them. she now began openly to profess fortune-telling, the removal of spells, the power of controlling the future, &c., in which, however, she did not act in her own name, but as the deputy of mrs. moore, whom she represented as a person endowed with the supernatural powers belonging to the seventh child of a seventh child. whether such a person existed or not was never ascertained, but it is certain that mary bateman, at the outset of her career, had some accomplice, and she was from her youth fond of associating with gipsies and other vagrants, from whom she learned the art she afterwards practised. the batemans lodged in high court lane, leeds, and she stole from a fellow-lodger a silver watch, a spoon of the same metal, and two guineas. the theft was discovered, and she was made to restore what she had taken, but she was not prosecuted. several charges of obtaining silk goods under various names of persons with whom she was acquainted were made and substantiated at this time, but the shopkeepers, with mistaken clemency, regarding her as a poor milliner, forgave her. a poor man, a neighbour, who earned his living and supported his family with the assistance of a horse and cart, sickened and died, leaving a widow and four children, the eldest a boy about fifteen years of age. the widow, who was only stepmother of the children, was persuaded by mary bateman that the eldest boy meant to sell all the little property his father had left, and appropriate the money to his own use, to prevent which she advised the mother to sell the horse, cart, and furniture as soon as possible, and to quit yorkshire. this advice the infatuated woman took, turned everything into money, left a share with mary for the children, and departed. mary bateman appropriated the sum entrusted to her, and sent the children to the union. a gentleman living in meadow lane, in leeds, bought a leg of mutton at the shambles, and requested that it might be sent home immediately. mary, ever on the watch for her prey, hastened to the bridge over which the butcher's boy had to pass, and when she saw him approach, made towards him in a great hurry, pretending she was the gentleman's servant, scolded the boy for being so long upon the road, and taking the mutton by the shank, gave him a slap on the back, telling him she would carry it home herself. it is needless to say that carry it home she did, but not to the gentleman's house. when dinner-time came the joint had not arrived. the gentleman went to his butcher to inquire about the neglect, but he was informed that the meat had been sent an hour ago, and was taken from the boy by a woman, whom the butcher described, and whom the gentleman recollected to have seen at the stall when he was buying the meat, and whose residence he luckily knew to be in the old assembly-room yard, in kirkgate. he accordingly posted down to her house, and the first object that presented itself to his eyes on entering it was his leg of mutton roasting before bateman's fire. after upbraiding mary, she agreed to pay for the mutton, and the matter was thus compromised. in 1793 bateman took a small house in well's yard, and furnished it decently--by what means, unless from the proceeds of her frauds, it is difficult to say, though it is due to the husband to admit that he was never proved to be cognisant of any of her malpractices, and was sometimes the victim of them. she once went to his workshop and took with her a letter representing that his father, who was then town-crier at thirsk, was at the point of death. her husband instantly set off for that town, and had scarcely entered it when he heard his father's voice in the market-place announcing an auction. he hurried back to leeds to inform his wife of the hoax that had been practised upon them; but on his return he found his house stripped of every article of furniture, which mary had sold, in all probability to hush up some robbery she had committed. after some time they jointly found means to get fresh furniture, and they took in lodgers, one of whom, a mr. dixon, discovered mary in the act of purloining money from his box. she was forced to refund it, and make good several losses that mr. dixon had before sustained, but for which he had not been able to account. in the year 1796 a tremendous fire broke out in a large manufactory in leeds, and by the falling of one of the walls many unfortunate people lost their lives. this calamity mary bateman turned to her own advantage. she went to miss maude, a lady known for her charitable disposition, and telling her that the child of a poor woman had fallen a victim, and that she had not linen to lay the child out on, begged she would lend her a pair of sheets. this request was complied with; but the sheets, instead of being turned to such a benevolent purpose, were pledged at a pawnbroker's shop. three similar instances occurred at the same time, and all the sheets were disposed of in the same way. nor did her frauds on the plea of this calamity end here. she went round the town representing herself as a nurse at the general infirmary, and collecting all the old linen she could beg to dress the wounds, as she said, of the patients who had been brought into the infirmary, but in reality to dispose of them for herself. bateman, ashamed of the disgrace caused by his wife's conduct, entered the supplementary militia, but he took with him his plague--his wife. and here a wide field opened for a woman of her disposition. she practised her old arts and learnt fresh ones. of her exploits while in this situation we have no information; but when she quitted the army with her husband in the year 1796, on their return to leeds, they took up their residence in marsh lane, near timble bridge. mary then began to practise on a large scale. she herself, as she said, had no skill in casting nativities or reading the stars, but a certain mrs. moore was a proficient in this art, and to mrs. moore she referred all knotty points. it is hardly necessary to say that mrs. moore had no existence whatever. the first experiment in witchcraft was made upon a mrs. greenwood, whom she attempted to persuade that she, mrs. greenwood, was in danger of committing suicide on account of domestic misfortunes, and that the skill of mrs. moore would be necessary to prevent so dire a catastrophe. next she informed her that her husband, who was then from home, was taken up for some offence, and placed in confinement; that four men had been set to watch him; and that if four pieces of gold, four pieces of leather, four pieces of blotting-paper, and four brass screws were not produced that night, and placed in her hands to give to mrs. moore to "screw down" the guards, her husband would be a dead man before morning. in vain did mrs. greenwood plead that she had no pieces of gold; this difficulty mrs. bateman proposed to overcome by suggesting to her that she might borrow or steal them; the latter proposal startled her intended dupe, and, fortunately for her, she had fortitude enough to emancipate herself from the witch's trammels. the family of barzillai stead, a person who had been unsuccessful in business, next became the object of mary's iniquitous exactions. upon the husband's fears she contrived to work with so much success, by representing the bailiffs to be in continual pursuit of him, that she obliged him to enlist, and to share his bounty with her and her imaginary wise-woman. her next object was to arouse the jealousy of the wife: this she did by assuring her that it was the intention of barzillai to take with him, when he went to his regiment, a young woman out of vicar lane, leeds. in order to prevent this it became necessary to "screw down" the rival queen; this was to be effected by the agency of mrs. moore, but mrs. moore's screws would never drive without money--three half-crowns were to be produced for this purpose, and two pieces of coal; the coals were to be placed at the woman's door in vicar lane; they were then to be laid on the fire--the woman was to be thrown into a sound sleep--the fire was to communicate to her clean clothes, which had been washed in contemplation of the intended journey, and, the clothes being consumed, she could not of course elope without them. the morning after this charm had taken effect, stead left leeds to join his regiment, and left the imaginary woman of vicar lane behind him. mary was then left at liberty to play off the whole artillery of her frauds upon the unsuspecting wife of stead. to enter into all the expedients she adopted to fleece this poor woman would swell this article to an inconvenient length; suffice it to say that she obliged her to sell or pawn every article in her house that would raise money, and drove her to such a state of desperation as to lead her victim to attempt suicide. while mary bateman was practising upon this woman, her dupe was confined, and the leeds benevolent society, finding her in a state of destitution, determined to apply a guinea to the relief of her wants. this sum was given to her in three payments of 7s., and out of this guinea mary bateman had the inhumanity to extort 18s. by persuading the credulous woman that she would "screw down" the benevolent society, so as to force the managers to give her more alms. the furniture and clothes were now all gone, and nothing remained but a few tools left by stead when he went into the army, but even these could not escape the avarice of mary bateman, who was never at a loss for expedients to effect her purposes. she persuaded stead's wife that it was in the power of mrs. moore--mrs. moore again!--to "screw down" all the officers in her husband's regiment, and so to screw them that they could not avoid giving him his discharge; but then money must be raised, and how, when nothing remained in the house but the tools? they of course must be sent to the pawnbroker's and every farthing they fetched was paid to mary to get her friend moore to interpose her kind offices for the liberation of the soldier. this charm failed, as the officers were too much for the witch. mary bateman next became acquainted with a tradesman's wife of the name of cooper. she persuaded this woman that her husband was about to abscond, and take with him all the property he could raise, and that she might not be left quite destitute, mary prevailed upon her to convey as much of the furniture as she could out of the house, including an excellent clock, and to lodge all this furniture at bateman's. there it did not remain long. mary took it all to the pawnbroker's, got for it what it would fetch, and left the abused husband and his credulous wife to redeem it at their leisure. blown upon as the credit of mrs. bateman's witchcraft then was, she removed from timble bridge to the black dog yard, at the bank. while she lived here one of her hens laid a wonderful egg, remarkable for bearing this inscription- "christ is coming." but as so singular a phenomenon was not likely to obtain all the credit necessary for carrying into effect her fraudulent intentions unless supported by some kind of proof, she had the ingenuity and cruelty to contrive that two other eggs, bearing similar inscriptions, should be deposited in the nest by the same unfortunate hen. persons flocked from all quarters to see the wonderful eggs, and they who dared to disbelieve stood a good chance of being maltreated by the credulous multitude. mary's motive for producing those eggs is not well made out, but it is supposed that she had at that time a notion of following the example of joanna southcote, as she was then in the habit of attending the meetings of the sect founded by that extraordinary woman. mary succeeded in realising no inconsiderable sum by means of these eggs, for she made those who came to see the miracle pay a penny each for the gratification of their curiosity. shortly after, the subject of this narrative contrived to ingratiate herself, as she well knew how, into the good graces of a family of the name of kitchin, two maiden ladies of the quaker persuasion, who kept a small linen-draper's shop near st. peter's square, in leeds. there is every reason to suppose that she had deluded these unfortunate young women with some idea of her skill in looking into futurity, or, at least, that some of her friends--a mrs. moore or a miss blythe perhaps--could read their destiny in the stars! for some time mary was the confidant of the misses kitchin. she was frequently at their house; she assisted in their shop; and her interference extended even to their domestic concerns. in the early part of september, 1803, one of the young women became very ill; mary bateman procured for her medicines, as she said, from a country doctor. these medicines, like those administered afterwards to perigo and his unfortunate wife, were of powerful efficacy, and in the course of less than one week miss kitchin died. in the meantime her mother, hearing of her dangerous situation, came from wakefield, and though in good health when she left home, the mother as well as the second daughter took the same illness, and in a few days both were laid in the grave, at the side of their ill-fated relation. previous to the death of one of the sisters a female friend of the family was sent for, and when she arrived the poor sufferer seemed oppressed with some secret that she wished to communicate, but her strength failing her, she expired without being able to do so. only ten days sufficed to carry off the mother and two sisters. the complaint of which they died was said to be _cholera_--a complaint, let it be remembered, attended by symptoms resembling those produced by poison. it did not, however, suit the purposes of mary bateman to give the disorder so mild a name. she represented it to be the plague, and the whole neighbourhood shunned the place, and would as soon have entered the most infectious wards of a pest-house as this dwelling. mary alone, in the face of all danger, was ready to afford her friendly offices; and when the persons composing this unfortunate family were buried, the door was closed, and a padlock placed upon it. a physician of eminence in the town, on being called in to visit the last surviving sister, was so strongly impressed with the opinion that her sickness and sudden death had been caused by poison, that he examined with much care many of the vessels in the house, inquired if any water for poisoning flies had been used, and expressed a wish to open the body; but the family being all dead, and no persons at hand who thought themselves authorised to give that permission, the corpse was interred unopened, and with it the opportunity for detection. during the time of the fatal illness in the misses kitchin's house, mary bateman was unremitting in her attention; she administered their food, and from her hands the medicine was conveyed to their lips. some time after the death of these ladies their creditors looked over their effects, when it was found that their house and shop had been plundered of almost everything they contained: and to add to the embarrassment of their affairs, the shop books were missing. the creditors only divided eightpence in the pound. two young women, then servants in leeds, had long been in mary's toils, and she had fleeced them pretty handsomely; and not only them, but their friends, for she had prevailed upon one of them to rob her mother of several articles, and amongst the rest of a large family bible. when she had got all from them that could be extorted without awakening the suspicions of their friends, she sent both these deluded girls, at different times, to seek service in manchester, cautioning them, if they met, not to speak to each other, on pain of breaking the charm. when they arrived in manchester, mary contrived to keep up a correspondence with them, and got from them even the clothes they wore, so that they were almost reduced to a state of nakedness. one day these poor destitute girls met in the streets of manchester; the meeting being quite unexpected, they both burst into tears, and their emotions became so violent that further concealment was out of the question. they thereupon related to each other their sad history, and by comparing notes, found that they were both the dupes of mary bateman. they then wrote to leeds, and laid their case before their friends, who interfered in their behalf, and got from the witch part of the property she had so wickedly extorted. the witch also contrived to ingratiate herself into the good opinion of another young woman, and got from her several sums of money for the purpose of curing her of an "evil wish" laid upon her by an old beggar-woman whom she had refused to relieve. the cure was to be effected by miss blythe, to whom a pocket-handkerchief was to be sent. in due course the directions arrived, and miss blythe, who, like mrs. moore, could never put her charms in motion without money, required that different sums, amounting in all to five guineas, should be produced, and as much wearing apparel as was worth about the same sum; but this money and these clothes were only to be kept till the evil wish was removed, and then to be restored to the owner. the period fixed for the opening of the mysterious bags, in which these articles were deposited, had arrived, when one day a person brought a fruit-pie to the young woman, telling her that her sweetheart had sent it. this pie she tasted, and let a fellow-servant partake with her, but though very nice in appearance, the taste was hot and offensive; they in consequence desisted from eating it, and the young woman took it down to mary bateman to ask her opinion. mary affected that she knew nothing herself of such things, but she would send it to the sagacious miss blythe. this, as the simple girl supposed, was done, and miss blythe informed her that it was very well she had not eaten much of the pie, for if she had, it would have been her last, as it was "full of poison!" soon after the girl opened the bags, and found that her guineas had turned to copper and her clothes to old rags! in the year 1807, bateman, who, owing to the conduct of mary, never remained long in one place, removed into meadow lane. while living in this situation a very extraordinary circumstance occurred, and it is not improbable that mary was in some way privy to the transaction. a man of the name of joseph gosling, a cloth-dresser, had been long out of employ, and his family, which consisted of a wife and four children, was reduced to great extremity. one day the whole of the family had been out for some time, when one of the children, a boy about seven years of age, returned, and found on the table a small cake; the mother and other children soon after returned, and partook of this cake. they immediately became so sick as to render medical aid necessary. mr. atkinson, the surgeon, was then sent for, and by administering emetics saved the lives of the family. on analysing the cake it was found to contain a large quantity of arsenic. it is impossible to say why or by whom this poisonous bread was placed in the situation in which the boy found it, and the only reason why it is supposed to have been placed there by mary bateman is the knowledge that poisonous drugs were much in use by her, that human life was in her estimation of little value; and that the cries or tricks of the children may have inconvenienced her. in the month of april, 1807, judith cryer, a poor old washerwoman, and a widow, was occasioned uneasiness by the misconduct of her grandson, a boy about eleven years of age. winifred bond, a person who had some dealings with mary bateman, either as her dupe or her agent, recommended the old woman to apply to mary, as a person who could remove the cause of her distress. judith consented to consult her; mary soon found out the foible of the poor woman. an inordinate fear about the future fate of this darling grandson was the spring in judith's mind on which the witch found she could play with success. she recommended that an application should be made to miss blythe, a lady of her acquaintance, who she said lived at scarboro', but who, in fact, had no more real existence than the invisible mrs. moore. she then undertook to write to her dear friend. in a few days an answer was received from this lady, which shocked judith beyond description. the letter contained the representation of a gallows, with a rope dangling from it. the letter also stated that the grandson would be executed before he attained the age of fourteen years, unless the catastrophe was prevented by the old woman raising four guineas, and applying them as miss blythe should direct. to raise such a sum seemed as impossible to poor judith as to pay the national debt. at last, however, she contrived to scrape it together with the utmost difficulty. when raised, it was, as mary pretended, to remain unapplied till she received further instructions from miss blythe. the instructions at length arrived, and ordered that three guineas should be put into a leathern bag, and sewed up in judith's bed, where they were to remain untouched till the boy had attained the age of fourteen. the former part of these directions were, as far as concerned judith, faithfully complied with--mary, as she thought, deposited the money as directed; but when the witch was afterwards apprehended, judith opened her bed, took out the bag, and found it empty. mary having embraced the faith of the followers of joanna southcote, got introduced to the houses of many of them, and invariably robbed them: sometimes by practising on their fears, and at others by absolute theft. in the year 1808, bateman's family removed to camp field, in water lane, and there mary met with a new and profitable subject for the exercise of her villainous arts. the wife of james snowden, a neighbour, had a sort of presentiment that one of her children would be drowned; but whether this notion proceeded from morbid fancies originating in her own mind, or was suggested to her by mary bateman, is not known. mary bateman offered her services, or rather the services of miss blythe, to save the child from a watery grave. miss blythe was then represented as living at thirsk, and a letter was received from her, directing that james snowden's silver watch should be sewed up in the bed by mary bateman. this was accordingly done. next, money to the amount of twelve guineas was required. letters were received from miss blythe, directing that this money should also be sewn up in the bed, to be restored when the charm had taken effect. by-and-bye it was found necessary to increase the terrors, and in addition to the death of the son, miss blythe suggested that ill would befall the daughter, unless the family left leeds, and removed to bowling, near bradford. the bed containing the charms they were allowed to take with them, but it was thought expedient to leave a considerable portion of their property in the house, and deposit the key with bateman. at length they expressed a wish to be allowed to rip open the bed and take out the watch and money, but the proper time, they were told, had not yet arrived; and before the property was taken out, the family of snowden was to take a dose, which was at that time in preparation for them, and was to have been administered about the end of october, 1808. happily for them this dose was never taken. at this juncture, so critical to the family in question, mary bateman was apprehended for the frauds committed on william perigo's family, and the wilful murder of perigo's wife, by administering poison, of which she had died nearly two years before. this event naturally created a good deal of interest, and a narrative of the transaction was published in the _leeds mercury_ of the 22nd of october. on the evening of that day snowden was sitting in a public-house at bradford when the _mercury_ was produced, and the narrative read by some person in the company. snowden heard the relation with violent emotion, and as soon as it was finished, started from his chair and hurried home with all possible expedition. his first care was to give his wife a hasty and confused notion of the imposition that had been practised upon them, and next to unrip the folds of the bed; when, instead of watch and money, he discovered--a coal! he then went to leeds, and found his house, which he had left in the care of mary bateman, plundered of almost everything it had contained, and on a search-warrant being procured, part of the property was found in bateman's house. john bateman, the husband, was in consequence apprehended and committed to prison, to take his trial for the offence, either as a principal or as an accomplice. at the following sessions his trial came on, and he was acquitted. a brother of mary bateman, who had deserted from his majesty's navy, had come with his wife to live in leeds, and lodged with bateman. mary finding that her lodgers were a restraint upon her, determined to be quit of them. for this purpose she wrote, or procured to be written, a letter to her sister-in-law, stating that her father was on the point of death, and summoning her to attend to receive his last blessing. the affectionate daughter answered the summons instantly, but when she arrived at newcastle, where her father lived, she found him in perfect health. in the absence of his wife, mary contrived to persuade her brother that she was inconstant, and was plunging him into debt, and so far succeeded as to induce him to write to his wife and tell her she need not return, for he would not receive her. she did, however, return, and convinced him of her innocence; when on examining their trunks it was discovered that mary had, in the wife's absence, stolen their clothes, and disposed of them for what they would bring. this, as might be expected, roused the brother's indignation; but mary soon got him out of the way, for she actually went before the magistrates and lodged an information against him as a deserter. he was in consequence obliged to quit leeds, and afterwards entered military service. this did not, however, content mary. she wrote to his mother, and told her that her son had been apprehended as a deserter, and that if she could send â£10, a substitute was ready to go, and would be accepted in his stead. the ten pounds were sent, and mary pocketed the money. on the 21st of october, 1808, mary bateman was apprehended by the chief constable of leeds on a charge of fraud, and was, after undergoing several long examinations before the magistrates of the borough, committed to york castle on suspicion of the wilful murder of rebecca perigo, of bramley. a poor family of the name of perigo, living at bramley, near leeds, had been defrauded by mary bateman of money to the amount of nearly â£70, and of clothes and furniture to a considerable amount. these frauds were committed under the pretence of engaging miss blythe to relieve mrs. perigo from the effects of an "evil wish" under which she was supposed to labour. the money was all represented as sewn up in the bed, and was to be at the disposal of the perigos when the spell was broken. but when the appointed time for restoring the property approached, mary bateman conveyed poison to perigo and his wife in their food. the woman died, but providentially perigo recovered, and was able to bring the poisoner to justice. it is unnecessary to give the particulars of the series of extortions committed on the perigos. when nothing more could be extracted from the unfortunate people, and mary saw that the time was come when she must refund or be exposed, the following letter reached her victims, purporting to come from miss blythe:- "my dear friends,- "i am sorry to tell you you will take an illness in the month of may next, either one or both, but i think both; but the work of god must have its course. you will escape the chambers of the grave; though you seem to be dead, yet you will live. your wife must take half a pound of honey down from bramley to mary bateman's at leeds, and it must remain there till you go down yourself, and she will put in such like stuff as i have sent from scarboro' to her, and she will put it in when you come down and see her yourself, or it will not do. you must eat pudding for six days, and you must put in such like stuff as i have sent to mary bateman from scarboro', and she will give your wife it, but you must not begin to eat of this pudding while i let you know. if ever you find yourselves sickly at any time, you must take each of you a teaspoonful of this honey. i will remit â£20 to you on the 20th day of may, and it will pay a little of what you owe. you must bring this down to mary bateman's, and burn it at her house when you come down the next time." the rest shall be told by perigo himself, as given in his evidence at the trial. pursuant to the directions in this letter, witness stated that his wife took the honey to mary bateman's; that when she returned she brought six powders with her. the witness went to mary bateman's house, and talked to her about the letter he had received, and said it was a queerish thing that miss blythe should be able to foresee that they should be ill. mary explained that she (miss blythe) knew everything relating to them, and that if they followed her directions all would be well. mary also told him that they were to do with the powders each day as they were marked, or it would kill them all. mrs. bateman then mixed a powder in the honey in his presence, and he took the honey home. on the 5th of may witness received another letter from miss blythe, but after reading it over one or twice, and copying a few lines from it, he destroyed it. he said the copy he had taken was also destroyed. the witness was then desired to state the contents of this letter, which he recited, as he did all the letters that had been destroyed, from memory, as follows:- "my dear friends,- "you must begin to eat pudding on the 11th of may, and you must put one of the powders in every day as they are marked, for six days; and you must see it put in yourself every day, or else it will not do. if you find yourself sickly at any time, you must not have no doctor, for it will not do, and you must not let the boy that used to eat with you eat of that pudding for six days; and you must make only just as much as you can eat yourselves; if there is any left it will not do. you must keep the door fast as much as possible, or you will be overcome by some enemy. now think on and take my directions, or else it will kill us all. about the 25th of may i will come to leeds, and send for your wife to mary bateman's. your wife will take me by the hand, and say, 'god bless you that i ever found you out.' it has pleased god to send me into the world that i might destroy the works of darkness. i call them the works of darkness because they are dark to you. now, mind what i say, whatever you do. this letter must be burnt in straw on the hearth by your wife." the witness proceeded to state that in consequence of these directions, on the 11th of may (monday) they began to eat of the pudding, a powder being put in each day as marked on the paper, and that they found no particular taste in the pudding for five days. and that on saturday the witness was coming to leeds without seeing the powder put in, when his wife reminded him that it was necessary he should see it put in. witness said his wife had made the pudding earlier than usual for that purpose. witness saw the powder put in, which was four or five times larger than any of the other powders. on his return from leeds, about twenty minutes after twelve o'clock, his wife had prepared a small cake from some of the dough which was left after making the pudding; this she broke in two pieces, and he ate one of them. witness said the cake tasted very keen, and observed to his wife if the pudding tasted as bad he would not eat it. when the pudding was ready he ate a single mouthful, but it was so nauseous that he could eat no more of it; his wife, however, swallowed three or four mouthfuls, but was unable to eat more, and she carried the pudding into the cellar, and was there seized with the most violent vomitings. his wife said this was the illness predicted by miss blythe, and they should take the honey. witness took two spoonfuls of it, and his wife took six or seven. this made them worse than before. the vomiting continued incessantly for twenty-four hours. his wife would not hear of a doctor being sent for, as that was contrary to miss blythe's directions, who had assured them that their sickness should not be unto death, and though they might seem to be dead, yet should they live, for that she was sent to destroy the works of darkness. witness said a violent heat came out of his mouth, which was very sore, that his lips were black, and that he had a most violent pain in his head, twenty times worse than a common headache; everything appeared green to him. witness had also a violent complaint in his bowels; he could eat nothing for several days, and began to get better only by hairbreadths. the witness then proceeded to detail the symptoms of his wife, which were similar to his own, only more violent. her tongue swelled so that she could not shut her mouth, she was constantly thirsty, entirely lost her strength, and expired on sunday, the 24th of may. before she died he sent for mr. chorley, a surgeon from leeds, but as she died before his arrival, a messenger was sent to acquaint him with this circumstance, and therefore he did not come. his wife before she died made him promise not to be rash with mary bateman, but to wait the appointed time. witness himself went to mr. chorley on the day after the death of his wife. mr. chorley having examined him and heard his account of the symptoms, expressed his opinion that he had received poison into his stomach. witness said that his wife was perfectly well immediately before eating of the pudding on saturday. by the directions of mr. chorley, a paste was made of the flour of which their pudding had been made and given to a fowl; but it received no injury, and the witness said it was alive to this day. a part of the fatal pudding was also given to a cat, which it poisoned, but the result of this experiment was detailed by another witness. witness now went into a detail of transactions subsequent to the death of his wife. in the month of june, a short time after that event, the witness went to the prisoner's house, and acquainted her with the death of his wife, and told her he was sorry they had not sent for a doctor when they were sick, but that they had acted according to the directions of the letter. mary bateman said, "perhaps you did not lick up all the honey as directed in the letter;" and i said, "no; i am afraid it is that honey that has done our job." about the beginning of june, perigo received a letter to the following effect, purporting to be from miss blythe:- "my dear friend,- "i am sorry to tell you that your wife should touch of those things which i ordered her not, and for that reason it has caused her death. it had likened to have killed me at scarboro' and mary bateman at leeds, and you and all; and for this reason she will rise from the grave, she will stroke your face with her right hand, and you will lose the use of one side, but i will pray for you. i would not have you to go to no doctor, for it will not do. i would have you eat and drink what you like, and you will be better. now, my dear friend, take my directions, do, and it will be better for you. pray god bless you. amen, amen. you must burn this letter immediately after it is read." soon after this, witness was ordered by mr. chorley to buxton, and having on his return called on the poisoner, she expressed her surprise that he should have gone to a doctor contrary to miss blythe's command, and said that had she known he had been going to buxton, she would have given him a bottle that would have cured him on the road. william perigo proceeded to relate that on the 19th of october, 1808, he unripped the bed in which all the bags were sewn up, and having opened the whole of them, he found no money whatever. in the bags in which he expected to find guinea-notes, he found only waste paper, and where he expected to find gold, he found only a halfpenny or a farthing. but the four silk bags in which he saw four guinea-notes put, he could not find at all, nor could he give any account as to how or where they were gone. upon making this discovery the witness went to leeds, and saw mary bateman, and said to her, "i am sorry to think you should use me in this manner;" to which she replied, "how?" he then said, "i have opened the bags, and there is nothing in them but bits of lead, plain paper, bad halfpennies, and bad farthings." at which she did not seem at all surprised, but said, "you have opened them too soon." he answered, "i think it is too late." he then said he would come down to her house in the morning with two or three men and have things settled. the prisoner begged that he would not, and said if he would appoint a time and place to meet her alone, she would satisfy him. to this the witness consented, and the leeds and liverpool canal bank, near the bridge, was fixed as the place of meeting. the officers of justice arrested mary bateman at this meeting. the trial was conducted at york before sir simon le blanc on the 17th march, 1809; she was found guilty, and condemned to death. during the brief interval between her receiving the sentence of death and her execution, the rev. george brown took great pains to prevail upon her to acknowledge and confess her crime. on his touching upon the subject of the quaker ladies, whose death had been so sudden and mysterious, she seemed perfectly to understand his meaning, but said that she knew nothing about it, as at the time she was confined in childbirth. though the prisoner behaved with her usual decorum during the time that remained to her, and joined with apparent fervour in the customary offices of devotion, she exhibited no compunction for crimes of which she would not acknowledge herself to be guilty. she maintained her caution and mystery to the last. on the day preceding her execution she wrote a letter to her husband, in which she enclosed her wedding-ring, with a request that it might be given to her daughter. in this letter she lamented the disgrace she had brought upon her husband and family, but declared her entire innocence of the crime laid to her charge, and for which she was about to suffer, though she acknowledged--what, indeed, she could not deny to her husband--that she had been guilty of several frauds. "i have made my peace with my god, and am easy in mind. to-morrow will end all here, and the lord will care for me hereafter." it will hardly be credited, though it is a certain fact, that this unhappy woman was so addicted to fraud that even then she was incapable of refraining from her trickery and deception. a young female prisoner had, in her presence, expressed a wish to see her sweetheart. mary bateman took her aside, and said that if she could procure a sum of money to be made into a charm, and sewed into her stays, the young man would be compelled to visit her. the simple girl complied, and mary bateman having prepared a potent spell, it was bound round the breast of the young woman. no sweetheart made his appearance, and the girl's confidence beginning to waver, she unbound the charm to take out her money, and found that it had vanished. the circumstance having been reported to the governor of york castle, where mary bateman and the girl were confined, part of the spoil was refunded, and mary bateman directed to balance the account by giving to the dupe some of her clothes. exhortations and remonstrances failed to move her to confess her crimes. at five o'clock on the morning of monday, march 20th, 1809, she was removed from her cell and from her infant child, which lay sleeping on the bed, unconscious of the fate of its wretched mother. she stopped and kissed it for the last time, but without showing any emotion at having to leave it for ever. every possible effort, every religious influence was brought to bear on her to make her confess, but in vain. at twelve o'clock she was led forth to execution. on the scaffold she again denied her guilt, and with this denial on her lips was launched into eternity. her body was taken to the general infirmary at leeds. though the hearse did not reach leeds till midnight, it was met by a considerable number of people who were waiting for it. at the infirmary her body was exhibited at the charge of 3d. a head to visitors for the benefit of the institution. at this rate 2500 individuals were admitted, and upwards of â£30 was realised. her body was afterwards dissected, and in compliance with a favourite yorkshire custom, her skin was tanned and distributed in small pieces to various applicants. the end. _printed by cowan & co., limited, perth._ file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) wenderholme. _a story of lancashire and yorkshire_. by philip gilbert hamerton, author of "the intellectual life," etc. "it takes a deal o' sorts to make a world." _popular proverb_. boston: roberts brothers. 1876. _author's edition_. _cambridge: press of john wilson and son_. to an old lady in yorkshire. you remember a time when the country in which this story is placed was quite different from what it is to-day; when the old proprietors lived in their halls undisturbed by modern innovation, and neither enriched by building leases, nor humiliated by the rivalry of mighty manufacturers. you have seen wonderful changes come to pass,--the valleys filled with towns, and the towns connected by railways, and the fields covered with suburban villas. you have seen people become richer and more refined, though perhaps less merry, than they used to be; till the simple, unpretending life of the poorer gentlefolks of the past has become an almost incredible tradition, which few have preserved in their memory. when this story was first written, some passages of it were read to you, and they reminded you of those strong contrasts in the life of the north of england which are now so rapidly disappearing. wenderholme is therefore associated with you in my mind as one of its first hearers, and i dedicate it to you affectionately. preface to the american edition. it happened, some time before this story was originally composed, that the author had a conversation, about the sale of novels, with one of the most eminent publishers of fiction in london.[1] the result of his experience was, that in the peculiar conditions of the english market short novels did not pay, whilst long ones, of the same quality, were a much safer investment. having incurred several successive losses on short novels, my friend, the publisher, had made up his mind never to have any thing more to do with them, and strongly recommended me, if i attempted a work of fiction, to go boldly into three volumes at once, and not discourage myself by making an experiment on a smaller scale, which would only make failure a certainty. the reader may easily imagine the effect of such a conversation as this upon an author who, whatever may have been his experience in other departments of literature, had none at all in the publication of novels. the practical consequence of it was, that, when the present story was written, commercial reasons prevailed, as they unhappily so often do prevail, over artistic reasons, and the book was made far longer than, as a work of art, it ought to have been. the present edition, though greatly abridged, is not by any means, from the author's point of view, a mutilated edition. on the contrary, it rather resembles a building of moderate dimensions, from which excrescences have been removed. the architect has been careful to preserve every thing essential, and equally careful to take away every thing which had been added merely for the sake of size. the work is therefore at the present time much nearer in character to the original conception of the designer than it has ever been before. notwithstanding the defect of too great length, and the difficulty which authors often experience in obtaining recognition in a new field, _wenderholme_ was very extensively reviewed in england, and, on the whole, very favorably. unfortunately, however, for the author's chances of profiting by the suggestions of his critics, it so happened that when any character or incident was selected for condemnation by one writer, that identical character or incident was sure to be praised enthusiastically by another, who spoke with equal authority and decision, in some journal of equal importance. the same contradictions occurred in criticisms by private friends, people of great experience and culture. some praised the first volume, but did not like the third; whilst others, who certainly knew quite as much about such matters, considered that the book began badly, but improved immensely as it went on, and finished in quite an admirable manner, like a horse that has warmed to his work. these differences of opinion led me to the rather discouraging conclusion that there is nothing like an accepted standard of right and wrong in the criticism of fiction; that the critic praises what interests or amuses him, and condemns what he finds tiresome, with little reference to any governing laws of art. i may observe, however, that the book had an artistic intention, which was the contrast between two classes of society in lancashire, and that the militia was used as a means of bringing these two classes together. i may here reply to one or two objections which have been made as to the manner in which this plan was carried out. most of the local newspapers in the north of england at once recognized the truth of local character in the book; but one manchester critic, with a patriotism for his native county which is a most respectable sentiment, felt hurt by my descriptions of intemperance, and treated them as a simple calumny, arguing that the best answer to them was the industry of the county, which would not have been compatible with such habits. i have never desired to imply that all lancashire people were drunkards, but there are certain nooks and corners of the county where drinking habits were prevalent, in the last generation, to a degree which is not exaggerated in this book. such places did not become prosperous until the energy of the better-conducted inhabitants produced a change in the local customs; and i need hardly say that the hard drinkers themselves were unable to follow business either steadily or long. downright drunkenness is now happily no longer customary in the middle classes, and in the present day men use stimulants rather to repair temporarily the exhaustion produced by over-work than for any bacchanalian pleasure. in this more modern form of the drinking habit i do not think that lancashire men go farther than the inhabitants of other very busy counties, or countries, where the strain on human energy is so great that there is a constant temptation to seek help from some kind of stimulating beverage. the only other objection to the local truth of _wenderholme_ which seems to require notice is that which was advanced in the _saturday review_. the critic in that periodical thought it untrue to english character to represent a man in colonel stanburne's position as good-natured enough to talk familiarly with his inferiors. well, if modern literature were a literature of types, and not of persons, such an objection would undoubtedly hold good. the typical englishman, when he has money and rank, is certainly a very distant and reserved being, except to people of his own condition; but there are exceptions to this rule,--i have known several in real life,--and i preferred to paint an exception, for the simple reason that reserve and pride are the death of human interest. it would be possible enough to introduce a cold and reserved aristocrat in a novel of english life,--such personages have often been delineated with great skill and fidelity,--but i maintain that they do not excite sympathy and interest, and that it would be a mistake in art to place one of them in a central situation, such as that of colonel stanburne in this volume. they may be useful in their place, like a lump of ice on a dinner-table. on the first publication of _wenderholme_, the author received a number of letters from people who were quite convinced that they had recognized the originals of the characters. the friends and acquaintances of novelists always amuse themselves in this way; and yet it seldom happens, i believe, that there is any thing like a real portrait in a novel. a character is suggested by some real person, but when once the fictitious character exists in the brain of the author, he forgets the source of the original suggestion, and simply reports what the imaginary personage says and does. it is narrated of an eminent painter, famous for the saintly beauty of his virgins, that his only model for them was an old man-servant, and this is a good illustration of the manner in which the imagination operates. some of my correspondents made guesses which were very wide of the mark. one lady, whom i had never thought about in connection with the novel at all, recognized herself in mrs. prigley, confessed her sins, and promised amendment; an illusion scarcely to be regretted, since it may have been productive of moral benefit. a whole township fancied that it recognized jacob ogden in a wealthy manufacturer, whose face had not been present to me when i conceived the character. a correspondent recognized dr. bardly as the portrait of a surgeon in lancashire who was never once in my mind's eye during the composition of the novel. the doctor was really suggested by a frenchman, quite ignorant of the lancashire dialect, and even of english. but, of all these guesses, one of the commonest was that philip stanburne represented the author himself, probably because he was called philip. there is no telling what may happen to us before we die; but i hope that the supposed original of jacob ogden may preserve his sanity to the end of his earthly pilgrimage, and that the author of this volume may not end his days in a monastery. p. g. h. contents. part i. chapter i. manners and customs of shayton 1 ii. grandmother and grandson 5 iii. at the parsonage 16 iv. isaac ogden becomes a backslider. 29 v. father and son 42 vi. little jacob is lost 52 vii. isaac ogden's punishment 59 viii. from sootythorn to wenderholme 69 ix. the fugitive 87 x. christmas at milend 94 xi. the colonel goes to shayton 106 xii. ogden's new mill 119 xiii. stanithburn peel 130 xiv. at sootythorn 136 xv. with the militia 143 xvi. a case of assault 150 xvii. isaac ogden again 155 xviii. isaac's mother comes 161 xix. the colonel at whittlecup 170 xx. philip stanburne in love 174 xxi. the wenderholme coach 179 xxii. colonel stanburne apologizes 185 xxiii. husband and wife 193 xxiv. the colonel as a consoler 201 xxv. wenderholme in festivity 212 xxvi. more fireworks 225 xxvii. the fire 229 xxviii. father and daughter 238 xxix. progress of the fire 241 xxx. uncle jacob's love affair 249 xxxi. uncle jacob is accepted 252 xxxii. mr. stedman relents 258 xxxiii. the saddest in the book 265 xxxiv. jacob ogden free again 273 xxxv. little jacob's education 280 xxxvi. a short correspondence. 284 xxxvii. at wenderholme cottage 286 xxxviii. artistic intoxication 290 xxxix. good-bye to little jacob 301 part ii. i. after long years. 303 ii. in the dining-room 318 iii. in the drawing-room 322 iv. alone. 327 v. the two jacobs 331 vi. the sale 336 vii. a frugal supper 340 viii. at chesnut hill 345 ix. ogden of wenderholme 354 x. young jacob and edith 357 xi. edith's decision. 366 xii. jacob ogden's triumph 374 xiii. the blow-out. 380 xiv. mrs. ogden's authority 389 xv. lady helena returns 393 xvi. the colonel comes 400 xvii. a morning call. 404 xviii. money on the brain 409 xix. the colonel at stanithburn 418 xx. a simple wedding 425 xxi. the monk 431 wenderholme. part i. chapter i. manners and customs of shayton. it was an immemorial custom in shayton for families to restrict themselves to a very few christian names, usually taken from the old testament, and these were repeated, generation after generation, from a feeling of respect to parents, very laudable in itself, but not always convenient in its consequences. thus in the family of the ogdens, the eldest son was always called isaac, and the second jacob, so that if they had had a pedigree, the heralds would almost have been driven to the expedient of putting numbers after these names--as we say henry viii, or louis xiv. the isaac ogden who appears in this history may have been, if collateral isaacs in other branches were taken into account, perhaps isaac the fortieth; indeed, the tombstones in shayton churchyard recorded a number of isaac ogdens that was perfectly bewildering. even the living isaac ogdens were numerous enough to puzzle any new-comer; and a postman who had not been accustomed to the place, but was sent there from rochdale, solemnly declared that "he wished all them hisaac hogdens was deead, every one on 'em, nobbut just about five or six, an' then there'd be less bother about t' letters." this wish may seem hard and unchristian,--it may appear, to readers who have had no experience in the delivery of letters, that to desire the death of a fellow-creature merely because he happened to be called isaac ogden implied a fearful degree of natural malevolence; but the business of a postman cultivates an eagerness to get rid of letters, whereof the lay mind has no adequate conception; and when a bachelor isaac ogden got a letter from an affectionate wife, or an isaac ogden, who never owed a penny, received a pressing dun from an impatient and exasperated creditor, these epistles were returned upon the postman's hands, and he became morbidly anxious to get rid of them, or "shut on 'em," as he himself expressed it. some annoying mistakes of this kind had occurred in reference to _our_ mr. isaac ogden at the time when he was engaged to miss alice wheatley, whose first affectionate letter from her father's house at eatherby had not only miscarried, but actually been opened and read by several isaac ogdens in shayton and its vicinity; for poor miss alice, in the flurry of directing her first epistle to her lover, had quite forgotten to put the name of the house where he then lived. this was particularly annoying to mr. ogden, who had wished to keep his engagement secret, in order to avoid as long as possible the banter of his friends; and he sware in his wrath that there were far too many isaac ogdens in the world, and that, however many sons he had, he would never add to their number. this declaration was regarded by his mother, and by the public opinion of the elder generation generally, as little better than a profession of atheism; and when our little friend jacob, about whom we shall have much to say, was christened in shayton church, it was believed that the misguided father would not have the hardihood to maintain his resolution in so sacred a place. he had, however, the courage to resist the name of isaac, though it was pressed upon him with painful earnestness; but he did not dare to offend tradition so far as to resist that of jacob also, though the objections to it were in truth equally cogent. on his retirement to twistle farm, an out-of-the-way little estate up in the hill country near shayton, mr. ogden, who was now a widower, determined, at least for the present, to educate his child himself. and so it was that, at the age of nine, little jacob was rather less advanced than some other boys of his age. he had not begun latin yet, but, on the other hand, he read english easily and with avidity, and wrote a very clear and legible hand. his friend doctor bardly, the shayton medical man, who rode up to twistle farm very often (for he liked the fresh moorland air, and enjoyed a chat with mr. ogden and the child), used to examine little jacob, and bring him amusing books, so that his young friend had already several shelves in his bedroom which were filled with instructive histories and pleasant tales. the youthful student had felt offended one day at milend, where his grandmother and his uncle jacob lived, when a matronly visitor had asked whether he could read. "he can read well enough," said his grandmother. "well, an' what can he read? can he read i' th' bible?" the restriction of jacob's reading powers to one book offended him. could he not read all english books at sight, or the newspaper, or any thing? indeed, few people in shayton, except the doctor, read as much as the little boy at twistle farm; and when his uncle at milend discovered one day what an appetite for reading the child had, he was not altogether pleased, and asked whether he could "cast accounts." finding him rather weak in the elementary practice of arithmetic, uncle jacob made him "do sums" whenever he had an opportunity. arithmetic (or "arethmitic," as uncle jacob pronounced it) was at milend considered a far higher attainment than the profoundest knowledge of literature; and, indeed, if the rank of studies is to be estimated by their influence on the purse, there can be no doubt that the milend folks were right. without intending a pun (for this would be a poor one), uncle jacob had never found any thing so interesting as interest, and the annual estimate which he made of the increase of his fortune brought home to his mind a more intense sense of the delightfulness of addition than any school-boy ever experienced. but arithmetic, like every other human pursuit, has its painful or unpleasant side, and uncle jacob regarded subtraction and division with an indescribable horror and dread. subtraction, in his vivid though far from poetical imagination, never meant any thing less serious than losses in the cotton trade; and division evoked the alarming picture of a wife and eight children dividing his profits amongst them. indeed, he never looked upon arithmetic in the abstract, but saw it in the successes of the prosperous and the failures of the unfortunate,--in the accumulations of rich and successful bachelors like himself, and the impoverishment of struggling mortals, for whom there was no increase save in the number of their children. and this concrete conception of arithmetic he endeavored to communicate to little jacob, who, in consequence of his uncle's teaching, already possessed the theory of getting rich, and was so far advanced in the practice of it that, by keeping the gifts of his kind patrons and friends, he had nearly twenty pounds in the savings bank. chapter ii. grandmother and grandson. mrs. ogden, at the time when our story commences, was not much above sixty, but had reached an appearance of old age, though a very vigorous old age, which she kept without perceptible alteration for very many years afterward. her character will develop itself sufficiently in the course of the present narrative to need no description here; but she had some outward peculiarities which it may be well to enumerate. she is in the kitchen at milend, making a potato-pie, or at least preparing the paste for one. whilst she deliberately presses the rolling-pin, and whilst the sheet of paste becomes wider and thinner under the pressure of it as it travels over the soft white surface, we perceive that mrs. ogden's arms, which are bare nearly to the elbow, are strong and muscular yet, but not rounded into any form that suggests reminiscences of beauty. there is a squareness and a rigidity in the back and chest, which are evidences rather of strength of body and a resolute character than of grace. the visage, too, can never have been pretty, though it must in earlier life have possessed the attractiveness of health; indeed, although its early bloom is of course by this time altogether lost, there remains a firmness in the fleshy parts of it enough to prove that the possessor is as yet untouched by the insidious advances of decay. the cheeks are prominent, and the jaw is powerful; but although the forehead is high, it suggests no ideas of intellectual development, and seems rather to have grown merely as a fine vegetable-marrow grows, than to have been developed by any exercise of thought. the nose is slightly aquiline in outline, but too large and thick; the lips, on the contrary, are thin and pale, and would be out of harmony with the whole face if the eyes did not so accurately and curiously correspond with them. those eyes are of an exceedingly light gray, rather inclining to blue, and the mind looks out from them in what, to a superficial observer, might seem a frank and direct way; but a closer analyst of character might not be so readily satisfied with a first impression, and might fancy he detected some shade of possible insincerity or power of dissimulation. the hair seems rather scanty, and is worn close to the face; it is gray, of that peculiar kind which results from a mixture of very fair hairs with perfectly white ones. we can only see a little of it, however, on account of the cap. although mrs. ogden is hard at work in her kitchen, making a potato-pie, and although it is not yet ten o'clock in the morning, she is dressed in what in any other person would be considered rather an extravagant manner, and in a manner certainly incongruous with her present occupation. it is a theory of hers that she is so exquisitely neat in all she does, that for her there is no danger in wearing any dress she chooses, either in her kitchen or elsewhere; and as she has naturally a love for handsome clothes, and an aversion to changing her dress in the middle of the day, she comes downstairs at five o'clock in the morning as if she had just dressed to receive a small dinner-party. the clothes that she wears just now _have_ in fact done duty at past dinner-parties, and are quite magnificent enough for a lady at the head of her table, cutting potato-pies instead of fabricating them, if only they were a little less shabby, and somewhat more in harmony with the prevailing fashion. her dress is a fine-flowered satin, which a punster would at once acknowledge in a double sense if he saw the farinaceous scatterings which just now adorn it; and her cap is so splendid in ribbons that no writer of the male sex could aspire to describe it adequately. she wears an enormous cameo brooch, and a long gold chain whose fancy links are interrupted or connected by little glittering octagonal bars, like the bright glass bugles in her head-dress. the pattern of her satin is occasionally obscured by spots of grease, notwithstanding mrs. ogden's theory that she is too neat and careful to incur any risk of such accidents. one day her son isaac had ventured to call his mother's attention to these spots, and to express an opinion that it might perhaps be as well to have two servants instead of one, and resign practical kitchen-work; or else that, if she _would_ be a servant herself, she ought to dress like one, and not expose her fine things to injury; but mr. isaac ogden received such an answer as gave him no encouragement to renew his remonstrances on a subject so delicate. "my dresses," said mrs. ogden, "are paid for out of my own money, and i shall wear them when i like and where i like. if ever my son is applied to to pay my bills for me, he may try to teach me economy, but i'm 'appy to say that i'm not dependent upon him either for what i eat or for what i drink, or for any thing that i put on." the other brother, who lived under the same roof with mrs. ogden, and saw her every day, had a closer instinctive feeling of what might and might not be said to her, and would as soon have thought of suggesting any abdication, however temporary, of her splendors, as of suggesting to queen victoria that she might manage without the luxuries of her station. when the potato-pie stood ready for the oven, with an elegant little chimney in the middle and various ornaments of paste upon the crust, mrs. ogden made another quantity of paste, and proceeded to the confection of a roly-poly pudding. she was proud of her roly-polies, and, indeed, of every thing she made or did; but her roly-polies were really good, for, as her pride was here more especially concerned, she economized nothing, and was liberal in preserves. she had friends in a warm and fertile corner of yorkshire who were rich in apricots, and sent every year to milend several large pots of the most delicious apricot preserve, and she kept this exclusively for roly-polies, and had won thereby a great fame and reputation in shayton, where apricot-puddings were by no means of everyday occurrence. the judicious reader may here criticise mrs. ogden, or find fault with the author, because she makes potato-pie and a roly-poly on the same day. was there not rather too much paste for one dinner,--baked paste that roofed over the savory contents of the pie-dish, and boiled paste that enclosed in its ample folds the golden lusciousness of those yorkshire apricots? some reflection of this kind may arise in the mind of jacob ogden when he comes back from the mill to his dinner. he may possibly think that for to-day the pie might have been advantageously replaced by a beefsteak, but he is too wise not to keep all such reflections within his own breast. no such doubts or perplexities will ever disturb his mother, simply because she is convinced that no man _can_ eat too much of _her_ pastry. other people's pastry one might easily get too much of, but that is different. and there is a special reason for the pudding to-day. little jacob is expected at dinner-time, and little jacob loves pudding, especially apricot roly-poly. his grandmother, not a very affectionate woman by nature, is, nevertheless, dotingly fond of the lad, and always makes a little feast to welcome him and celebrate his coming. on ordinary days they never have any dessert at milend, but, as soon as dinner is over, uncle jacob hastily jumps up and goes to the cupboard where the decanters are kept, pours himself two glasses of port, and swallows them one after the other, standing, after which he is off again to the mill. when little jacob comes, what a difference! there is a splendid dessert of gingerbread, nuts, apples, and _fruits glacã©s_; there are stately decanters of port and sherry, with a bottle of sparkling elder-flower wine in the middle, and champagne-glasses to drink it from. there is plenty of real champagne in the cellars, but this home-made vintage is considered better for little jacob, who feels no other effect from it than an almost irresistible sleepiness. he likes to see the sparkling bubbles rise; and, indeed, few beverages are prettier or pleasanter to the taste than mrs. ogden's elder-flower wine. it is as clear as crystal, and sparkles like the most brilliant wit. but we are anticipating every thing; we have jumped from the very fabrication of the roly-poly to the sparkling of the elder-flower, of that elder-flower which never sparkled at milend, and should not have done so in this narrative, until the pudding had been fully disposed of. the reader may, however, take that for granted, and feel perfectly satisfied that little jacob has done his duty to the pudding, as he is now doing it to the nuts and wine. he has a fancy for putting his kernels into the wine-glass, and fishing them out with a spoon, and is so occupied just now, whilst grandmother and uncle jacob sit patiently looking on. "jerry likes nuts," says little jacob; "i wonder if he likes wine too." "it would be a good thing," said mrs. ogden, with her slow and distinct pronunciation,--"it would be a good thing if young men would take example by their 'orses, and drink nothing but water." "nay, nay, mother," said uncle jacob, "you wouldn't wish to see our lad a teetotaller." "i see no 'arm in bein' a teetotaller, and i see a good deal of 'arm that's brought on with drinking spirits. i wish the lad's father was a teetotaller. but come" (to little jacob), "you'll 'ave another glass of elder-flower. well, willn't ye now? then 'ave a glass of port; it'll do you _no_ 'arm." mrs. ogden's admiration for teetotalism was entirely theoretical. she approved of it in the abstract and in the distance, but she could not endure to sit at table with a man who did not take his glass like the rest; the nonconformity to custom irritated her. there was a curate at shayton who thought it his duty to be a teetotaller in order to give weight to his arguments against the evil habit of the place, and the curate dined occasionally at milend without relaxing from the rigidity of his rule. mrs. ogden was always put out by his empty wine-glass and the pure water in his tumbler, and she let him have no peace; so that for some time past he had declined her invitations, and only dropped in to tea, taking care to escape before spirits and glasses were brought forth from the cupboard, where they lay in wait for him. the reader need therefore be under no apprehensions that little jacob was likely to be educated in the chilly principles of teetotalism; or at least he may rest assured that, however much its principles might be extolled in his presence, the practice of it would neither be enforced nor even tolerated. "i say, i wish my son isaac was a teetotaller. i hear tell of his coming to shayton time after time without ever so much as looking at milend. wasn't your father in the town on tuesday? i know he was, i was told so by those that saw him; and if he was in the town, what was to hinder him from coming to milend to his tea? did he come down by himself, or did you come with him, jacob?" "i came with him, grandmother." "well, and why didn't you come here, my lad? you know you're always welcome." "father had his tea at the red lion. well, it wasn't exactly tea, for he drank ale to it; but i had tea with him, and we'd a lobster." "i wish he wouldn't do so." "why, mother," said uncle jacob, "i see no great 'arm in drinking a pint of ale and eating a lobster; and if he didn't come to milend, most likely he'd somebody to see; very likely one of his tenants belonging to that row of cottages he bought. i wish he hadn't bought 'em; he'll have more bother with 'em than they're worth." "but what did he do keeping a young boy like little jacob at the red lion? why couldn't he send him here? the lad knows the way, i reckon." then to her grandson,--"what time was it when you both went home to twistle farm?" "we didn't go home together, grandmother. father was in the parlor at the red lion, and left me behind the bar, where we had had our tea, till about eight o'clock, when he sent a message that i was to go home by myself. so i went home on jerry, and father stopped all night at the red lion." "why, it was after dark, child! and there was no moon!" "i'm not afraid of being out in the dark, grandmother; i don't believe in ghosts." "what, hasn't th' child sense enough to be frightened in the dark? if he doesn't believe in ghosts at his age, it's a bad sign; but he's got a father that believes in nothing at all, for he never goes to church; and there's that horrid dr. bardly"-"he isn't horrid, grandmother," replied little jacob, with much spirit; "he's very jolly, and gives me things, and i love him; he gave me a silver horn." now dr. bardly's reputation for orthodoxy in shayton was greatly inferior to his renown as a medical practitioner; but as the inhabitants had both mr. prigley and his curate, as well as several dissenting ministers, to watch over the interests of their souls, they had no objection to allow mr. bardly to keep their stomachs in order; at least so far as was compatible with the freest indulgence in good living. his bad name for heterodoxy had been made worse by his favorite studies. he was an anatomist, and therefore was supposed to believe in brains rather than souls; and a geologist, therefore he assigned an unscriptural antiquity to the earth. "i'm sure it's that dr. bardly," said mrs. ogden, "that's ruined our isaac." "why, mother, bardly's one o' th' soberest men in shayton; and being a doctor beside, he isn't likely to encourage isaac i' bad 'abits." "i wish isaac weren't so fond on him. he sets more store by dr. bardly, and by all that he says, than by any one else in the place. he likes him better than mr. prigley. i've heard him say so, sittin' at this very table. i wish he liked mr. prigley better, and would visit with him a little. he'd get nothing but good at the parsonage; whereas they tell me--and no doubt it's true--that there's many a bad book in dr. bardly's library. i think i shall ask mr. prigley just to set ceremony on one side, and go and call upon isaac up at twistle farm; no doubt he would be kind enough to do so." "it would be of no use, mother, except to prigley's appetite, that might be a bit sharpened with a walk up to twistle; but supposin' he got there, and found isaac at 'ome, isaac 'ud be as civil as civil, and he'd ax prigley to stop his dinner; and prigley 'ud no more dare to open his mouth about isaac's goin's on than our sarvint lass 'ud ventur to tell you as you put too mich salt i' a potato-pie. it's poor folk as parsons talks to; they willn't talk to a chap wi' ten thousand pound till he axes 'em, except in a general way in a pulpit." "well, jacob, if mr. prigley were only just to go and renew his acquaintance with our isaac, it would be so much gained, and it might lead to his amendment." "mother, i don't think he needs so much amendment. isaac's right enough. i believe he's always sober up at twistle; isn't he, little 'un?" little jacob, thus appealed to, assented, but in rather a doubtful and reserved manner, as if something remained behind which he had not courage to say. his grandmother observed this. "now, my lad, tell me the whole truth. it can do your father no 'arm--nothing but good--to let us know all about what he does. your father is my son, and i've a right to know all about him. i'm very anxious, and 'ave been, ever since i knew that he was goin' again to the red lion. i 'oped he'd given that up altogether. you must tell me--i insist upon it." little jacob said nothing, but began to cry. "nay, nay, lad," said his uncle, "a great felly like thee should never skrike. thy grandmother means nout. mother, you're a bit hard upon th' lad; it isn't fair to force a child to be witness again' its own father." with this uncle jacob rose and left the room, for it was time for him to go to the mill; and then mrs. ogden rose from her chair, and with the stiff stately walk that was habitual to her, and that she never could lay aside even under strong emotion, approached her grandson, and, bending over him, gave him one kiss on the forehead. this kiss, be it observed, was a very exceptional event. jacob always kissed his grandmother when he came to milend; but she was invariably passive, though it was plain that the ceremony was agreeable to her, from a certain softness that spread over her features, and which differed from their habitual expression. so when jacob felt the old lady's lips upon his forehead, a thrill of tenderness ran through his little heart, and he sobbed harder than ever. mrs. ogden drew a chair close to his, and, putting her hand on his brow so as to turn his face a little upwards that she might look well into it, said, "come now, little un, tell granny all about it." what the kiss had begun, the word "granny" fully accomplished. little jacob dried his eyes and resolved to tell his sorrows. "grandmother," he said, "father is so--so"-"so _what_, my lad?" "well, he beats me, grandmother!" now mrs. ogden, though she loved jacob as strongly as her nature permitted, by no means wished to see him entirely exempt from corporal punishment. she knew, on the authority of scripture, that it was good for children to be beaten, that the rod was a salutary thing; and she at once concluded that little jacob had been punished for some fault which in her own code would have deserved such punishment, and would have drawn it down upon her own sons when they were of his age. so she was neither astonished nor indignant, and asked, merely by way of continuing the conversation,-"and when did he beat thee, child?" if jacob had been an artful advocate of his own cause, he would have cited one of those instances unhappily too numerous during the last few months, when he had been severely punished on the slightest possible pretexts, or even without any pretext whatever; but as recent events occupy the largest space in our recollection, and as all troubles diminish by a sort of perspective according to the length of time that has happened since their occurrence, jacob, of course, instanced a beating that he had received that very morning, and of which certain portions of his bodily frame, by their uncommon stiffness and soreness, still kept up the most lively remembrance. "he beat me this morning, grandmother." "and what for?" "because i spilt some ink on my new trowsers that i'd put on to come to milend." "well, then, my lad, all i can say is that you deserved it, and should take better care. do you think that your father is to buy good trowsers for you to spill ink upon them the very first time you put them on? you'll soon come to ruin at that rate. little boys should learn to take care of their things; your uncle jacob was as kerfle[2] as possible of his things; indeed he was the kerflest boy i ever saw in all my life, and i wish you could take after him. it's a very great thing is kerfleness. there's people as thinks that when they've worn[3] their money upon a thing, it's no use lookin' after it, and mindin' it, because the money's all worn and gone, and so they pay no heed to their things when once they've got them. and what's the consequence? they find that they have to be renewed, that new ones must be bought when the old ones ought to have been quite good yet; and so they spend and spend, when they might spare and have every thing just as decent, if they could only learn a little kerfleness." after this lecture, mrs. ogden slowly rose from her seat and proceeded to put the decanters into a triangular cupboard that occupied a corner of the room. in due course of time the apples, the gingerbread, and the nuts alike disappeared in its capacious recesses, and were hidden from little jacob's eyes by folding-doors of dark mahogany, polished till they resembled mirrors, and reflected the window with its glimpse of dull gray sky. after this mrs. ogden went into the kitchen to look after some household affairs, and her grandson went to the stable to see jerry, and to make the acquaintance of some puppies which had recently come into the world, but were as yet too blind to have formed any opinion of its beauties. chapter iii. at the parsonage. mrs. ogden's desire to bring about a renewal of the acquaintance between her son isaac and mr. prigley was not an unwise one, even if considered independently of his religious interests. mr. prigley, though by no means a man of first-rate culture or capacity, was still the only gentleman in shayton,--the only man in the place who resolutely kept himself up to the standard of the outer world, and refused to adopt the local dialect and manners. no doubt the doctor was in a certain special sense a gentleman, and much more than a gentleman,--he was a man of high attainment, and had an excellent heart. but, so far from desiring to rise above the outward ideal of the locality, he took a perverse pleasure in remaining a little below it. his language was a shade more provincial than that of the neighboring manufacturers, and his manners somewhat more rugged and abrupt than theirs. perhaps he secretly enjoyed the contrast between the commonplace exterior which he affected, and the elaborate intellectual culture which he knew himself to possess. he resembled the house he lived in, which was, as to its exterior, so perfectly commonplace that every one would pass it without notice, yet which contained greater intellectual riches, and more abundant material for reflection, than all the other houses in shayton put together. therefore, if i say that mr. prigley was the only gentleman in the place, i mean externally,--in language and manner. the living of shayton was a very meagre one, and mr. prigley had great difficulty in keeping himself above water; but there is more satisfaction in struggling with the difficulties of open and avowed poverty than in maintaining deceitful appearances, and mr. prigley had long since ceased to think about appearances at all. it had happened some time ago that the carpets showed grievous signs of wear, and in fact were so full of holes as to be positively dangerous. they had been patched and mended over and over again, and an ingenious seamstress employed by mrs. prigley, and much valued by her, had darned them with variously colored wools in continuation of the original patterns, so that (unless on close inspection) the repairs were not very evident. now, however, both mrs. prigley and the seamstress, notwithstanding all their ingenuity and skill, had reluctantly come to the conclusion that to repair the carpets in their present advanced stage of decay it would be necessary to darn nothing less than the whole area of them, and mrs. prigley declared that she would rather manufacture new ones with her knitting-needles. but if buying carpets was out of the question, so it was not less out of the question for mrs. prigley to fabricate objects of luxury, since her whole time was taken up by matters of pressing necessity; indeed, the poor lady could only just keep up with the ceaseless accumulations of things that wanted mending; and whenever she was unwell for a day or two, and unable to work, there rose such a heap of them as made her very heart sink. in this perplexity about the carpets, nature was left to take her course, and the carpets were abandoned to their fate, but still left upon the floors; for how were they ever to be replaced? by a most unfortunate coincidence, mr. prigley discovered about the same time that his shirts, though apparently very sound and handsome shirts indeed, had become deplorably weak in the tissue; for if, in dressing himself in a hurry, his hand did not just happen to hit the orifice of the sleeve, it passed through the fabric of the shirt itself, and that with so little difficulty that he was scarcely aware of any impediment; whilst if once the hem were severed, the immediate consequence was a rent more than a foot long. poor mrs. prigley had mended these patiently for a while; but one day, after marvelling how it happened that her husband had become so violent in his treatment of his linen, she tried the strength of it herself, and, to use her own expressive phrase, "it came in two like a sheet of wet paper." it was characteristic of the prigleys that they determined to renew the linen at once, and to abandon carpets for ever. shayton is not in france, and to do without carpets in shayton amounts to a confession of what, in the middle class, is looked upon as a pitiable destitution. mr. prigley did not care much about this; but his wife was more sensitive to public opinion, and, long after that heroic resolution had been taken, hesitated to put it in execution. day after day the ragged remnants remained upon the floor; and still did mrs. prigley procrastinate. whilst things were in this condition at the parsonage, the conversation took place at milend which we have narrated in the preceding chapter; and as soon as mrs. ogden had seen things straight in the kitchen, she "bethought her," as she would have herself expressed it, that it might be a step towards intercourse between isaac ogden and the clergyman if she could make little jacob take a fancy to the parsonage. there was a little boy there nearly his own age, and as jacob was far too much isolated, the acquaintance would be equally desirable for him. the idea was by no means new to her; indeed, she had long been anxious to find suitable playmates for her grandson, a matter of which isaac did not sufficiently perceive the importance; and she had often intended to take steps in this direction, but had been constantly deterred by the feelings of dislike to mr. prigley, which both her sons did not hesitate to express. what had mr. prigley done to them that they should never be able to speak of him without a shade of very perceptible aversion or contempt? they had no definite accusation to make against him; they did not attempt to justify their antipathy, but the antipathy did not disguise itself. in an agricultural district the relations between the parson and the squire are often cordial; in a manufacturing district the relations between the parson and the mill-owners are usually less intimate, and have more the character of accidental neighborship than of natural alliance. the intercourse between milend and the parsonage had been so infrequent that mrs. prigley was quite astonished when betty, the maid-of-all-work, announced mrs. ogden as she pushed open the door of the sitting-room. but she was much more astonished when mrs. ogden, instead of quietly advancing in her somewhat stiff and formal manner, fell forward on the floor with outstretched arms and a shriek. mrs. prigley shrieked too, little jacob tried manfully to lift up his grandmother, and poor betty, not knowing what to say under circumstances so unexpected, but vaguely feeling that she was likely to incur blame, and might possibly (though in some manner not yet clear to her) deserve it, begged mrs. ogden's pardon. mr. prigley was busy writing a sermon in his study, and being suddenly interrupted in the midst of what seemed to him an uncommonly eloquent passage on the spread of infidelity, rushed to the scene of the accident in a state of great mental confusion, which for some seconds prevented him from recognizing mrs. ogden, or mrs. ogden's bonnet, for the lady's face was not visible to him as he stood amazed in the doorway. "bless me!" thought mr. prigley, "here's a woman in a fit!" and then came a dim and somewhat unchristian feeling that women liable to fits need not just come and have them in the parlor at the parsonage. "it's mrs. ogden, love," said mrs. prigley; "and, oh dear, i _am_ so sorry!" by the united efforts of the parson and his wife, joined to those of betty and little jacob, mrs. ogden was placed upon the sofa, and mr. prigley went to fetch some brandy from the dining-room. on his way to the door, the cause of the accident became apparent to him in the shape of a yawning rent in the carpet, which was dragged up in great folds and creases several inches high. he had no time to do justice to the subject now, and so refrained from making any observation; but he fully resolved that, whether mrs. prigley liked it or not, all ragged old carpets should disappear from the parsonage as soon as mrs. ogden could be got out of it. when mrs. prigley saw the hole in her turn, she was overwhelmed with a sense of culpability, and felt herself to be little better than a murderess. "betty, run and fetch dr. bardly as fast as ever you can." "please let _me_ go," said little jacob; "i can run faster than she can." the parson had a professional disapproval of dr. bardly because he would not come to church, and especially, perhaps, because on the very rare occasions when he _did_ present himself there, he always contrived to be called out in time to escape the sermon; but he enjoyed the doctor's company more than he would have been willing to confess, and had warmly seconded mrs. prigley's proposal that, since mrs. ogden, in consequence of her accident, was supposed to need the restoration of "tea and something to it," the doctor should stay tea also. the arrival of isaac and jacob gave a new turn to the matter, and promised an addition to the small tea-party already organized. it was rather stiff and awkward just at first for isaac and jacob when they found themselves actually in the parson's house, and forced to stop there to tea out of filial attention to their mother; but it is wonderful how soon mr. prigley contrived to get them over these difficulties. he resolved to take advantage of his opportunity, and warm up an acquaintance that might be of eminent service in certain secret projects of his. shayton church was a dreary old building of the latest and most debased tudor architecture; and, though it sheltered the inhabitants well enough in their comfortable old pews, it seemed to mr. prigley a base and degraded sort of edifice, unfit for the celebration of public worship. he therefore nourished schemes of reform; and when he had nothing particular to do, especially during the singing of the hymns, he could not help looking up at the flat ceiling and down along the pew-partitioned floor, and thinking what might be done with the old building,--how it would look, for instance, if those octagon pillars that supported those hateful longitudinal beams were crowned with beautiful gothic arches supporting a lofty clerestory above; and how the organ, instead of standing just over the communion-table, and preventing the possibility of a creditable east window, might be removed to the west end, to the inconvenience, it is true, of all the richest people in the township, who held pews in a gallery at that end of the church, but to the general advancement of correct and orthodox principles. once the organ removed, a magnificent east window might gleam gorgeously over the renovated altar, and shayton church might become worthy of its incumbent. and now, as he saw, by unhoped-for good-luck, these three rich ogdens in his own parlor, it became mr. prigley's earnest wish to keep them there as long as possible, and cultivate their acquaintance, and see whether there was not some vulnerable place in those hard practical minds of theirs. as for the doctor, he scarcely hoped to get any money out of _him_; he had preached at him over and over again, and, though the doctor only laughed and took care to keep out of the way of these sermons, it was scarcely to be expected that he should render good for evil,--money for hard language. nobody in shayton precisely knew what the doctor's opinions were; but when mr. prigley was writing his most energetic onslaughts on the infidel, it is certain that the type in the parson's mind had the doctor's portly body and plain socratic face. mrs. prigley had rather hesitated about asking the man to stay tea at the parsonage, for her husband freely expressed his opinion of him in privacy, and when in a theological frame of mind spoke of him with much the same aversion that mrs. prigley herself felt for rats and toads and spiders. and as she looked upon the doctor's face, it seemed to her at first the face of the typical "bad man," in whose existence she firmly believed. the human race, at the parsonage, was divided into sheep and goats, and dr. bardly was amongst the goats. was he not evidently a goat? had not nature herself stamped his badness on his visage! his very way of laughing had something suspicious about it; he seemed always to be thinking more than he chose to express. what was he thinking? there seemed to be something doubtful and wrong even about his very whiskers, but mrs. prigley could not define it, neither can we. on the contrary, they were respectable and very commonplace gray whiskers, shaped like mutton-chops, and no doubt they would have seemed only natural to mrs. prigley, if they had been more frequently seen in shayton church. it was a very pleasant-looking tea-table altogether. mrs. prigley, who was a miss stanburne of byfield, a branch of the stanburnes of wenderholme, possessed a little ancestral plate, a remnant, after much subdivision, of the magnificence of her ancestors. she had a tea-pot and a coffee-pot, and a very quaint and curious cream-jug; she also possessed a pair of silver candlesticks, of a later date, representing corinthian columns, and the candles stood in round holes in their graceful acanthus-leaved capitals. many clergymen can display articles of contemporary manufacture bearing the most flattering inscriptions, but mr. prigley had never received any testimonials, and, so long as he remained in shayton, was not in the least likely to enrich his table with silver of that kind. mrs. prigley, whilst apparently listening with respectful attention to mrs. ogden's account of a sick cow of hers (in which mrs. ogden seemed to consider that she herself, and not the suffering animal, was the proper object of sympathy), had in fact been debating in her own mind whether she ought to display her plate on a mere chance occasion like the present; but the common metal tea-pot was bulged and shabby, and the thistle in electro-plate, which had once decorated its lid, had long since been lost by one of the children, who had fancied it as a plaything. the two brass candlesticks were scarcely more presentable; indeed, one of them would no longer stand upright, and mrs. prigley had neglected to have it repaired, as one candle sufficed in ordinary times; and when her husband wrote at night, he used a tin bed-candlestick resembling a frying-pan, with a tin column, _not_ of the corinthian order, sticking up in the middle of it, and awkwardly preventing those culinary services to which the utensil seemed naturally destined. as these things were not presentable before company, mrs. prigley decided to bring forth her silver, but in justice to her it is necessary to say that she would have preferred something between the two, as more fitted to the occasion. for similar reasons was displayed a set of old china, of whose value the owner herself was ignorant; and so indeed would have been the present writer, if he had not recognized mrs. prigley's old cups and saucers in jacquemart's 'histoire de la porcelaine.' the splendor of mrs. prigley's tea-table struck mrs. ogden with a degree of surprise which she had not art enough to conceal, for the manners and customs of shayton had never inculcated any kind of reticence as essential to the ideal of good-breeding. the guests had scarcely taken their places round this brilliant and festive board when mrs. ogden said,-"you've got some very '_andsome_ silver, mrs. prigley. i'd no idea you'd got such 'andsome silver. those candlesticks are taller than any we've got at milend." a slight shade of annoyance passed across the countenance of the hostess as she answered, "it came from wenderholme; there's not much of it except what is on the table; there were six of us to divide it amongst." "those are the stanburne arms on the tea-pot," said the doctor; "i've hoftens noticed them at wendrum 'all. they have them all up and down. young stanburne's very fond of his coat-of-arms, but he's a right to be proud of it, for it's a very old one. he's quite a near relation of yours, isn't he, mrs. prigley?" "my father and his grandfather were brothers, but there was a coolness between them on account of a small estate in yorkshire, which each thought he'd a right to, and they had a lawsuit. my father lost it, and never went to wenderholme again; and they never came from wenderholme to byfield. when my uncle reginald died, my father was not even asked to the funeral, but they sent him gloves and a hatband." "have you ever been at wenderholme, mrs. prigley?" said isaac. "never! i've often thought i should like to see it, just once; it's said to be a beautiful place, and i should like to see the house my poor father was born in." "why, it's quite close to shayton, a great deal nearer than anybody would think. it isn't much more than twelve or fourteen miles off, and my house at twistle is within nine miles of wenderholme, if you go across the moor. there is not a single building of any kind between. but it's thirty miles to wenderholme by the turnpike. you have to go through sootythorn." "it's a very nice estate," said uncle jacob; and, to do him justice, he was an excellent judge of estates, and possessed a great fund of information concerning all the desirable properties in the neighborhood, for he made it his business to acquire this sort of knowledge beforehand, in case such properties should fall into the market. so that when uncle jacob said an estate was "very nice," you may be sure it was so. "there are about two thousand acres of good land at wendrum," he continued, "all in a ring-fence, and a very large moor behind the house, with the best shooting anywhere in the whole country. our moors join up to mr. stanburne's, and, if the whole were put together, it would be a grand shooting." "that is," said mr. prigley, rather maliciously, "if mr. stanburne were to buy your moor, i suppose. perhaps he might feel inclined to do so if you wished to sell." mrs. ogden could not endure to hear of selling property, even in the most remote and hypothetical manner. her back was generally as straight as a stone wall, but it became, if possible, straighter and stiffer, as, with a slight toss of the head, she spoke as follows:-"we don't use selling property, mr. prigley; we're not sellers, we are buyers." these words were uttered slowly, deliberately, and with the utmost distinctness, so that it was not possible for any one present to misunderstand the lady's intention. she evidently considered buying to be the nobler function of the two, as implying increase, and selling to be a comparatively degrading operation,--a confession of poverty and embarrassment. this feeling was very strong, not only in shayton, but for many miles round it, and instances frequently occurred of owners who clung to certain properties against their pecuniary interest, from a dread of it being said of them that they had sold land. there are countries where this prejudice has no existence, and where a rich man sells land without hesitation when he sees a more desirable investment for his money; but in shayton a man was married to his estate or his estates (for in this matter polygamy was allowed); and though the law, after a certain tedious and expensive process, technically called conveyancing, permitted divorce, public opinion did _not_ permit it. mr. prigley restored the harmony of the evening by admitting that the people who sold land were generally the old landowners, and those who bought it were usually in trade,--not a very novel or profound observation, but it soothed the wounded pride of mrs. ogden, and at the same time flattered a shade of jealousy of the old aristocracy which coexisted with much genuine sympathy and respect. "but we shouldn't say mister stanburne now," observed the doctor; "he's colonel stanburne." "do militia officers keep their titles when not on duty?" asked mr. isaac. "colonels always do," said the doctor, "but captains don't, in a general way, though there are some places where it is the custom to call 'em captain all the year round. i suppose mr. isaac here will be captain ogden some of these days." "i was not aware you intended to join the militia, mr. isaac," said the clergyman. "i am very glad to hear it. it will be a pleasant change for you. since you left business, you must often be at a loss for occupation." "i've had plenty to do until a year or two since in getting twistle farm into order. it's a wild place, but i've improved it a good deal, and it amused me. i sometimes wish it were all to be done over again. a man is never so happy as when he's very busy about carrying out his own plans." "you made a fine pond there, didn't you?" said mr. prigley, who always had a hankering after this pond, and was resolved to improve his opportunity. "yes, i need a small sheet of water. it is of use to me nearly the whole year round. i swim in it in summer, i skate on it in winter, and in the spring and autumn i can sail about on it in a little boat, though there is not much room for tacking, and the pond is too much in a hollow to have any regular wind." "ah! when the aquatic passion exists in any strong form," said mr. prigley, "it will have its exercise, even though on a small scale. one of the great privations to me in shayton is that i never get any swimming." "my pond is very much at your service," said mr. isaac, politely. "i am sorry that it is so far off, but one cannot send it down to shayton in a cart, as one might send a shower-bath." mrs. ogden was much pleased to see her scheme realizing itself so naturally, without any ingerence of her own, and only regretted that it was not the height of summer, in order that mr. prigley might set off for twistle farm the very next morning. however enthusiastic he might be about swimming, he could scarcely be expected to explore the too cool recesses of the twistle pond in the month of november,--at least for purposes of enjoyment; and mrs. ogden was not papist enough to encourage the good man in any thing approaching to a mortification of the flesh. little jacob had been admitted to the ceremony of tea, and had been a model of good behavior, being "seen and not heard," which in shayton comprised the whole code of etiquette for youth when in the presence of its seniors and superiors. luckily for our young friend, he sat between the doctor and the hostess, who took such good care of him that by the time the feast was over he was aware, by certain feelings of tightness and distension in a particular region, that the necessities of nature were more than satisfied, although, like vitellius, he had still quite appetite enough for another equally copious repast if only he had known where to put it. if sancho panza had had an equally indulgent physician at his side, one of the best scenes in don quixote could never have been written, for dr. bardly never hindered his little neighbor, but, on the other hand, actually encouraged him to do his utmost, and mentally amused himself by enumerating the pieces of tea-cake and buttered toast, and the helpings to crab and potted meat, and the large spoonfuls of raspberry-jam, which our hero silently absorbed. the doctor, perhaps, acted faithfully by little jacob, for if nature had not intended boys of his age to accomplish prodigies in eating, she would surely never have endowed them with such vast desires; and little jacob suffered no worse results from his present excesses than the uncomfortable tightness already alluded to, which, as his vigorous digestion operated, soon gave place to sensations of comparative elasticity and relief. the parson's children had not been admitted to witness and partake of the splendor of the festival, but had had their own tea--or rather, if the truth must be told, their meal of porridge and milk--in a nursery upstairs. they had been accustomed to tea in the evening, but of late the oatmeal-porridge which had always been their breakfast had been repeated at tea-time also, as the prigleys found themselves compelled to measures of still stricter economy. people must be fond of oatmeal-porridge to eat it with pleasure seven hundred times a-year; and whenever a change _did_ come, the children at the parsonage relished it with a keenness of gastronomic enjoyment which the most refined epicure might envy, and which he probably never experienced. there were five little prigleys, and it is a curious fact that the parson's children were the only ones in the whole parish that did not bear biblical names. all the other households in shayton sought their names in the old testament, and had a special predilection for the most ancient and patriarchal ones; but the parson's boys were called henry and william and richard, and his girls edith and constance--not one of which names are to be found anywhere in holy scripture, either in the old testament or the new. chapter iv. isaac ogden becomes a backslider. about a month later in the year, when december reigned in all its dreariness over shayton, and the wild moors were sprinkled with a thin scattering of snow, little jacob began to be very miserable. his grandmother had gone to stay a fortnight with some old friends of hers beyond manchester, and his father had declared that for the next two sundays he should remain at twistle, and not "go bothering his uncle at milend." mr. prigley had walked up to the farm, and kindly offered to receive little jacob at the parsonage during mrs. ogden's absence; but mr. isaac had declined the proposal rather curtly, and, as mr. prigley thought, in a manner that did not sufficiently acknowledge the kindness of his intention. indeed, the clergyman had not been quite satisfied with his reception; for although mr. isaac had shown him the pond, and given him something to eat, there had been, mr. prigley thought, symptoms of secret annoyance or suppressed irritation. little jacob's loneliness was rendered still more complete by the continued absence of his friend the doctor, who, in consequence of a disease then very prevalent in the neighborhood, found his whole time absorbed by pressing professional duties, so that the claims of friendship, and even the anxious interest which he took in mr. isaac's moral and physical condition, had for the time to be considered in abeyance. we have already observed that mr. jacob ogden of milend never came to twistle farm at all, so that his absence was a matter of course; and as he was not in the habit of writing any letters except about business, there was an entire cessation of intercourse with milend. it had been a part of mr. isaac's plan of reformation not to keep spirits of any kind at the farm, but he had quite enough ale and wine to get drunk upon in case his resolution gave way. he had received such a lecture from the doctor after that evening at the parsonage as had thoroughly frightened him. he had been told, with the most serious air that a doctor knows how to assume, that his nervous system was already shattered, that his stomach was fast becoming worthless, and that, if he continued his present habits, his life would terminate in eighteen months. communications of this kind are never agreeable, but they are especially difficult to bear with equanimity when the object of them has lost much of the combative and recuperative powers which belong to a mind in health; and the doctor's terrible sermon produced in mr. isaac _not_ a manly strength of purpose that subdues and surmounts evil, and passes victoriously beyond it, but an abject terror of its consequences, and especially a nervous dread of the red lion. he would enter that place no more, he was firmly resolved upon _that_. he would stay quietly at twistle farm and occupy himself,--he would try to read,--he had often regretted that business and pleasure had together prevented him from cultivating his mind by reading, and now that the opportunity was come, he would seize it and make the most of it. he would qualify himself to direct little jacob's studies, at least so far as english literature went. as for latin, the little he ever knew had been forgotten many years ago, but he might learn enough to judge of his boy's progress, and perhaps help him a little. he knew no modern language, and had not even that pretension to read french which is so common in england, and which is more injurious to the character of the nation than perfect ignorance, whilst it is equally unprofitable to its intellect. if mr. isaac were an ignorant man, he had at least the great advantage of clearly knowing that he was so, but it might not even yet be too late to improve himself. had he not perfect leisure? could he not study six hours a day, if he were so minded? this would be better than destroying himself in eighteen months in the parlor at the red lion. there were not many books at twistle, but there _were_ books. mr. isaac differed from his brother jacob, and from the other men in shayton, in having long felt a hankering after various kinds of knowledge, though he had never possessed the leisure or the resolution to acquire it. there was a bookseller's shop in st. ann's square, in manchester, which he used to pass when he was in the cotton business on his way from the exchange to a certain oyster-shop where it was his custom to refresh himself; and he had been occasionally tempted to make purchases,--amongst the rest, the works of charles dickens and sir walter scott, and the 'encyclopã¦dia britannica.' he had also bought macaulay's 'history of england,' and subscribed to a library edition of the british poets in forty volumes, and a biographical work containing lives of eminent englishmen, scarcely less voluminous. these, with several minor purchases, constituted the whole collection,--which, though not extensive, had hitherto much more than sufficed for the moderate wants of its possessor. he had read all the works of dickens, having been enticed thereto by the pleasant merriment in 'pickwick;' but the waverley novels had proved less attractive, and the forty volumes of british poets reposed uncut upon the shelf which they adorned. even macaulay's history, though certainly not less readable than any novel, had not yet been honored with a first perusal; and, as mr. ogden kept his books in a bookcase with glass doors, the copy was still technically a new one. he resolved now that all these books should be _read_, all except perhaps the 'encyclopã¦dia britannica;' for mr. ogden was not then aware of the fact, which a successful man has recently communicated to his species, that a steady reading of that work according to its alphabetical arrangement _may_ be a road to fortune, though it must be admitted to be an arduous one. he would begin with macaulay's history; and he _did_ begin one evening in the parlor at twistle farm after sarah had removed the tea-things. he took down the first volume, and began to cut the leaves; then he read a page or two, but, in spite of the lucid and engaging style of the historian, he felt a difficulty in fixing his attention,--the difficulty common to all who are not accustomed to reading, and which in mr. ogden's case was perhaps augmented by the peculiar condition of his nervous system. so he read the page over again, but could not compel his mind to follow the ideas of the author: it _would_ wander to matters of everyday interest and habit, and then there came an unutterable sense of blankness and dulness, and a craving--yes, an all but irresistible craving--for the stimulus of drink. there could be no harm in drinking a glass of wine,--everybody, even ladies, might do that,--and he had always allowed himself wine at twistle farm. he would see whether there was any in the decanters. what! not a drop? no port in the port decanter, and in the sherry decanter nothing but a shallow stratum of liquid which would not fill a glass, and was not worth drinking. he would go and fill both decanters himself: there ought always to be wine ready in case any one should come. mr. prigley might walk up any day, or the doctor might come, and he always liked a glass or two of port. there was a nice little cellar at twistle farm, for no inhabitant of shayton ever neglects that when he builds himself a new house; and mr. ogden had wine in it to the value of three hundred pounds. some friends of his near manchester, who came to see him in the shooting season and help him to kill his grouse, were connoisseurs in port, and he had been careful to "lay down" a quantity of the finest he could get. he was less delicate in the gratification of his own palate, and contented himself with a compound of no particular vintage, which had the advantage of being exceedingly strong, and therefore allowed a sort of disguised dram-drinking. it need therefore excite little surprise in the mind of the reader to be informed that, when mr. isaac had drunk a few glasses of this port of his, the nervous system began to feel more comfortable, and at the same time tempted him to a still warmer appreciation of the qualities of the beverage. his mind was clearer and brighter, and he read macaulay with a sort of interest, which, perhaps, is as much as most authors may hope for or expect; that is, his mind kept up a sort of double action, following the words of the historian, and even grasping the meaning of his sentences, and feeling their literary power, whilst at the same time it ran upon many subjects of personal concern which could not be altogether excluded or suppressed. mr. ogden was not very delicate in any of his tastes; but it seemed to him, nevertheless, that clay tobacco-pipes consorted better with gin-and-water than with the juice of the grape; and he took from a cupboard in the corner a large box of full-flavored havannas, which, like the expensive port in the cellar, he kept for the gratification of his friends. now, although the first five or six glasses had indeed done no more than give a beneficial stimulus to mr. ogden's brain, it is not to be inferred, as mr. ogden himself appeared to infer, that the continuation of the process would be equally salutary. he went on, however, reading and sipping, at the rate of about a glass to a page, smoking at the same time those full-flavored havannas, till after eleven at night. little jacob and the servants had long since gone to bed; both decanters had been on the table all the evening, and both had been in equal requisition, for mr. ogden had been varying his pleasures by drinking port and sherry alternately. at last the eloquence of macaulay became no longer intelligible, for though his sentences had no doubt been constructed originally in a perfectly workmanlike manner, they now seemed quite out of order, and no longer capable of holding together. mr. ogden put the book down and tried to read the manchester paper, but the makers of articles and the penny-a-liners did not seem to have succeeded better than macaulay, for their sentences were equally disjointed. the reader rose from his chair in some discouragement and looked at his watch, and put his slippers on, and began to think about going to bed, but the worst of it was he felt so thirsty that he must have something to drink. the decanters were empty, and wine would not quench thirst; a glass of beer might, perhaps--but how much better and more efficacious would be a tall glass of brandy-and-soda-water! alas! he had no brandy, neither had he any soda-water, at least he thought not, but he would go down into the cellar and see. he took a candle very deliberately, and walked down the cellar-steps with a steady tread, never staggering or swerving in the least. "am i drunk?" he thought; "no, it is impossible that i should be drunk, i walk so well and so steadily. i'm not afraid of walking down these stone steps, and yet if i were to fall i might hit my forehead against their sharp edges, sharp edges--yes, they have very sharp edges; they are very new steps, cut by masons; and so are these walls new--good ashlar stones; and that arched roof--that arch is well made: there isn't a better cellar in shayton." there was no soda-water, but there were bottles whose round, swollen knobs of corks were covered with silvery foil, that glittered as mr. ogden's candle approached them. the glitter caught his eye, and he pulled one of the bottles out. it wasn't exactly soda-water, but it would fizz; and just now mr. ogden had a morbid, passionate longing for something that would "fizz," as he expressed it in his muttered soliloquy. so he marched upstairs with his prize, in that stately and deliberate manner which marks his particular stage of intoxication. "it's good slekk!"[4] said mr. ogden, as he swallowed a tumblerful of the sparkling wine, "and it _can_ do me no harm--it's only a lady's wine." he held it up between his eye and the candle, and thought that really it looked very nice and pretty. how the little bubbles kept rising and sparkling! how very clear and transparent it was! then he sat down in his large arm-chair, and thought he might as well have another cigar. he had smoked a good many already, perhaps it would be better not; and whilst his mind was resolving not to smoke another, his fingers were fumbling in the box, and making a sort of pretence at selection. at last, for some reason as mysterious as that which decides the famous donkey between two equidistant haystacks, the fingers came to a decision, and the cigar, after the point had been duly amputated with a penknife, was inserted between the teeth. after this the will made no further attempt at resistance, and the hand poured out champagne into the tumbler, and carried the tumbler to the lips, with unconscious and instinctive regularity. mr. isaac was now drunk, but it was not yet proved to him that he was drunk. his expedition to the cellar had been perfectly successful; he had walked in the most unexceptionable manner, and even descended those dangerous stone steps. he looked at his watch--it was half-past twelve; he read the hour upon the dial, though not just at first, and he replaced the watch in his fob. he would go to bed--it was time to go to bed; and the force of habits acquired at the red lion, where he usually went to bed drunk at midnight, aided him in this resolution. but when he stood upon his legs this project did not seem quite so easy of realization as it had done when viewed in theory from the arm-chair. "go to bed!" said mr. isaac; "but how are we to manage it?" there were two candles burning on the table. he blew one of them out, and took the other in his hand. he took up the volume of macaulay, with an idea that it ought to be put somewhere, but his mind did not successfully apply itself to the solution of this difficulty, and he laid the book down again with an air of slight disappointment, and a certain sense of failure. he staggered towards the doorway, steadied himself with an effort, and made a shot at it with triumphant success, for he found himself now in the little entrance-hall. the staircase was a narrow one, and closed by a door, and the door of the cellar was next to it. instead of taking the door that led up to his bedroom, mr. ogden took that of the cellar, descended a step or two, discovered his mistake, and, in the attempt to turn round, fell backwards heavily down the stone stair, and lay at last on the cold pavement, motionless, and in total darkness. he might have remained there all night, but there was a sharp little scotch terrier dog that belonged to little jacob, and was domiciled in a snug kennel in the kitchen. the watchful animal had been perfectly aware that mr. ogden was crossing the entrance on his way to his bedroom, but if feo made any reflections on the subject they were probably confined to wonder that the master of the house should go to bed so unusually late. when, however, the heavy _thud_ of mr. ogden's body on the staircase and the loud, sharp clatter of the falling candlestick came simultaneously to her ears, feo quitted her lair at a bound, and, guided by her sure scent, was down in the dark cellar in an instant. a less intelligent dog than feorach (for that was her gaelic name in the far highlands where she was born) would have known that something was wrong, and that the cold floor of the cellar was not a suitable bed for a gentleman; and no sooner had feorach ascertained the state of affairs than she rushed to the upper regions. feorach went to the door of little jacob's chamber, and there set up such a barking and scratching as awoke even _him_ from the sound sleep of childhood. old sarah came into the passage with a lighted candle, where jim joined her, rubbing his eyes, still heavy with interrupted sleep. "there's summat wrong," said old sarah; "i'm feared there's summat wrong." "stop you here," said jim, "i'll wake master: he's gotten loaded pistols in his room. if it's thieves, it willn't do to feight 'em wi' talk and a tallow candle." jim knocked at his master's door, and, having waited in vain a second or two for an answer, determined to open it. there was no one in the room, and the bed had not been slept upon. "hod thy din, dog," said jim to feorach; and then, with a grave, pale face, said, "it isn't thieves; it's summat 'at's happened to our master." now lancashire people of the class to which jim and sarah belonged never, or hardly ever, use the verb _to die_, but in the place of it employ the periphrase of something happening; and, as he chanced to use this expression now, the idea conveyed to sarah's mind was the idea of death, and she believed that jim had seen a corpse in the room. he perceived this, and drew her away, whispering, "he isn't there: you stop wi' little jacob." so the man took the candle, and left sarah in the dark with the child, both trembling and wondering. feorach led jim down into the cellar, and he saw the dark inert mass at the bottom of the steps. a chill shudder seized him as he recognized the white, inanimate face. one of mr. ogden's hands lay upon the floor; jim ventured to touch it, and found it deadly cold. a little blood oozed from the back of the head, and had matted the abundant brown hair. perhaps the hand may have been cold simply from contact with the stone flag, but jim did not reflect about this, and concluded that mr. ogden was dead. he went hastily back to old sarah. "master jacob," he said, "you must go to bed." "no, i won't go to bed, jim!" "my lad," said old sarah, "just come into your room, and i'll light you a candle." so she lighted a candle, and then left the child, and jim quietly locked the door upon him. the lock was well oiled, and jacob did not know that he was a prisoner. "now what is't?" said old sarah, in a whisper. "master's deead: he's fallen down th' cellar-steps and killed hisself." old sarah had been fully prepared for some terrible communication of this kind, and did not utter a syllable. she simply followed the man, and between them they lifted mr. ogden, and carried him, not without difficulty, up the cellar-steps. sarah carried the head, and jim the legs and feet, and old sarah's bed-gown was stained with a broad patch of blood. it is one of the most serious inconveniences attending a residence in the country that on occasions of emergency it is not possible to procure prompt medical help; and twistle farm was one of those places where this inconvenience is felt to the uttermost. when they had got mr. ogden on the bed, jim said, "i mun go an' fetch dr. bardly, though i reckon it's o' no use;" and he left sarah alone with the body. the poor woman anticipated nothing but a dreary watch of several hours by the side of a corpse, and went and dressed herself, and lighted a fire in mr. ogden's room. old sarah was not by any means a woman of a pusillanimous disposition; but it may be doubted whether, if she had had any choice in the matter, a solitary watch of this kind would have been exactly to her taste. however, when the fire was burning briskly, she drew a rocking-chair up to it, and, in order to keep up her courage through the remainder of the night, fetched a certain physic-bottle from the kitchen, and her heavy lead tobacco-pot, for like many old women about shayton she enjoyed the solace of a pipe. she did not attempt to lay out the body, being under the impression that the coroner might be angry with her for having done so when the inquest came to be held. the physic-bottle was full of rum, and sarah made herself a glass of grog, and lighted her pipe, and looked into the fire. she had drawn the curtains all round mr. ogden's bed; ample curtains of pale-brown damask, with an elaborate looped valance, from whose deep festoons hung multitudes of little pendants of turned wood covered with flossy silk. the movement communicated to these pendants by the act of drawing the curtains lasted a very long time, and sarah was startled more than once when on looking round from her arm-chair she saw them swinging and knocking against each other still. as soon as the first shock of alarm was past, the softer emotions claimed their turn, and the old woman began to cry, repeating to herself incessantly, "and quite yoong too, quite yoong, quite a yoong man!" suddenly she was aware of a movement in the room. was it the little dog? no; feorach had elected to stay with his young master, and both little jacob and his dog were fast asleep in another room. she ventured to look at the great awful curtained bed. the multitudinous pendants had not ceased to swing and vibrate, and yet it was now a long time since sarah had touched the curtains. she wished they would give up and be still; but whilst she was looking at them and thinking this, a little sharp shock ran round the whole valance, and the pendants rattled against each other with the low dull sound which was all that their muffling of silk permitted; a low sound, but an audible one,--audible especially to ears in high excitement; a stronger shock, a visible agitation, not only of the tremulous pendants, but even of the heavy curtain-folds themselves. then they open, and mr. ogden's pale face appears. "well, sarah, i hope you've made yourself comfortable, you damned old rum-drinking thief! d'ye think i can't smell rum? give me that bottle." sarah was much too agitated to say or do any thing whatever. she had risen from her chair, and stood looking at the bed in speechless amazement. mr. ogden got up, and walked towards the fire with an unsteady pace. then he possessed himself of the rum-bottle, and, putting it to his lips, began to swallow the contents. this brought sarah to herself. "nay, nay, master: you said as you wouldn't drink no sperrits at twistle farm upo' no 'count." but the rum had been tasted, and the resolution broken. it had been broken before as to the intention and meaning of it, and was now broken even as to the letter. isaac ogden had got drunk at twistle farm; and now he was drinking spirits there, not even diluting them with water. after emptying old sarah's bottle, which fortunately did not contain enough to endanger, for the present, his existence, mr. ogden staggered back to his bed, and fell into a drunken sleep, which lasted until dr. bardly's arrival. the doctor found the wound at the back of the head exceedingly slight; there was abrasure of the skin and a swelling, but nothing more. the blood had ceased to flow soon after the accident; and there would be no worse results from it than the temporary insensibility, from which the patient had already recovered. the most serious results of what had passed were likely, for the present, to be rather moral than physical. dr. bardly greatly dreaded the moral depression which must result from the breaking down of the only resolution which stood between his friend and an utter abandonment to his propensity. twistle farm would no longer be a refuge for him against the demon, for the demon had been admitted, had crossed the threshold, had taken possession. mr. ogden was not in a condition to be advised, for he was not yet sober, and, if he had been, the doctor felt that advice was not likely to be of any use: he had given enough of it already. the parson might try, if he liked, but it seemed to the doctor that the case had now become one of those incurable cases which yield neither to the desire of self-preservation nor to the fear of hell; and that if the warnings of science were disregarded by a man intelligent enough to appreciate the certainty of the data on which they were founded, those of religion were not likely to have better success. chapter v. father and son. mr. ogden came downstairs in the middle of the day, and ordered breakfast and dinner in one meal. he asked especially for sarah's small-beer, and drank two or three large glasses of it. he did not eat much, and used an unusual quantity of pepper. he was extremely taciturn, contrarily to his ordinary habit, for he commonly talked very freely with old sarah whilst she served him. when his repast was finished, he expressed a wish to see little jacob. "good morning, papa! i hope you are better. sarah says you were poorly last night when feorach barked so." "oh, she says i was poorly, does she? then she lies: i wasn't poorly,--i was drunk. i want you to read to me." "must i read in that book mr. prigley gave me when he came?" "read what you please." so little jacob opened for the first time a certain volume which will be recognized by every reader when he begins:- "'the way was long, the wind was cold. the minstrel was infirm and old.'" "that would be difficult," said mr. ogden. "what, papa?" "i say, it would be difficult." little jacob felt rather frightened. he did not understand in what the supposed difficulty consisted, and yet felt that he was expected to understand it. he did not dare to ask a second time for enlightenment on the point, so he stood quite still and said nothing. his father waited a minute in perfect silence, and then burst out,-"why, you little confounded blockhead, i mean that it would be difficult for a man to be infirm and bold at the same time! infirm people are timid, commonly." "please, papa, it doesn't say infirm and bold--it says infirm and old--see, papa;" and little jacob pointed with his finger to the place. "then you read damned badly, for you read it 'bold,' and it's 'old.' i expect you to read better than that--you read badly, damned badly." "please, papa, i read it 'old' the first time, and not 'bold.'" "then you mean to say i cannot trust my own ears, you little impertinent monkey. i say you read it 'bold,' and i heard you." an elder person would have perceived that mr. ogden was ill, and humored him; and a child of a more yielding disposition would have submitted to the injustice, and acquiesced. but little jacob had an instinctive hatred of injustice, and his whole nature rose in revolt. he had also made up his mind never to tell lies--less perhaps from principle than from a feeling that it was cowardly. the present was an occasion which roused these feelings in all their energy. he was required to utter a falsehood, and submit to an injustice. "no, papa, i said 'old.' i didn't say 'bold' at all. it was you that heard wrong." mr. ogden became white with anger. "oh, _i_ was mistaken, was i? do you mean to say that i am deaf?" "no, papa." "well, then, if i'm not deaf i have been lying. i am a liar, am i?" the state of extreme nervous depression, in combination with irritability, under which mr. ogden's system was laboring that day, made him a dangerous man to contradict, and not by any means a pleasant antagonist in argument. but he was not altogether lost; he still kept some control over himself, in proof of which may be mentioned the fact that he simply dismissed little jacob without even a box on the ear. "he deserves a good thrashing," said mr. ogden; "but if i were to begin with him i should nearly kill him, the little impudent scoundrel!" the afternoon was exceedingly dull and disagreeable to mr. ogden. he walked out into his fields and round the pond. he had made a small footpath for his walks, which, after leaving the front-door first, went all round the pond, and then up to the rocks that overlooked the little valley, and from which he enjoyed a very extensive view. there were several springs in the little hollow, but before mr. ogden's settlement they had contented themselves with creating those patches of that emerald grass, set in dark heather, which are so preciously beautiful in the scenery of the moors. at each of these springs mr. ogden had made a circular stone-basin, with a water-duct to his pond, and it was his fancy to visit these basins rather frequently to see that they were kept clean and in order. he did so this afternoon, from habit, and by the time he had finished his round it was nearly dark. he was intensely miserable. twistle farm had been sweet and dear to him because he had jealously guarded the purity of the associations that belonged to it. neither in the house nor in the little undulating fields that he had made was there a single object to remind him of his weakness and his sin, and therefore the place had been a refuge and a sanctuary. it could never again be for him what it had been; this last lamentable failure had broken down the moral defences of his home, and invaded it and contaminated it for ever. whatever the future might bring, the event of the past night was irrevocable; he had besotted himself with drink; he had brought the mire of the outer world into his pure dwelling, and defiled it. isaac ogden felt this the more painfully that he had little of the support of religion, and few of the consolations and encouragements of philosophy. a religious mind would have acknowledged its weakness and repented of its sin, yet in the depths of its humiliation hoped still for strength from above, and looked and prayed for ultimate deliverance and peace. a philosophic mind would have reflected that moral effort is not to be abandoned for a single relapse, or even for many relapses, and would have addressed itself only the more earnestly to the task of self-reformation that the need for effort had made itself so strikingly apparent. but mr. ogden had neither the faith which throws itself on the support of heaven, nor the faculty of judging of his own actions with the impartiality of the independent intellect. he was simply a man of the world, so far as such a place as shayton could develop a man of the world, and had neither religious faith nor intellectual culture. therefore his misery was the greater for the density of the darkness in which he had stumbled and fallen. what he needed was light of some sort; either the beautiful old lamp of faith, with its wealth of elaborate imagery, or the plainer but still bright and serviceable gas-light of modern thought and science. mr. prigley possessed the one, and the doctor gave his best labor to the maintenance of the other; but mr. ogden was unfortunate in not being able to profit by the help which either of these friends would have so willingly afforded. no one except dr. bardly had suspected the deplorable fact that mr. ogden was no longer in a state of mental sanity. the little incident just narrated, in which he had mistaken one word for another, and insisted, with irritation, that the error did not lie with him, had been a common one during the last few weeks, whenever little jacob read to him. if our little friend had communicated his sorrows to the doctor, this fact would have been a very valuable one as evidence of his father's condition; but he never mentioned it to any one except his grandmother and old sarah, who both inferred that the child had read inaccurately, and saw no reason to suspect the justice of mr. ogden's criticism. the truth was, that by a confusion very common in certain forms of brain-disease, a sound often suggested to mr. ogden some other sound resembling it, or of which it formed a part, and the mere suggestion became to him quite as much a fact as if he had heard it with his bodily ears. thus, as we have seen, the word "old" had suggested "bold;" and when, as in that instance, the imagined word did not fit in very naturally with the sense of the passage, mr. ogden attributed the fault to little jacob's supposed inaccuracy in reading. indeed he had now a settled conviction that his son was unpardonably careless, and no sooner did the child open his book to read, than his father became morbidly expectant of some absurd mistake, which, of course, never failed to arrive, and to give occasion for the bitterest reproaches. on his return to the house mr. ogden desired his son's attendance, and requested him to resume his reading. little jacob took up his book again, and this time, as it happened, mr. ogden heard the second line correctly, and expressed his satisfaction. but in the very next couplet- "his withered cheek and tresses gray seemed to have known a better day"-mr. ogden found means to imagine another error. "it seems to me curious," said he, "that scott should have described the minstrel as having a 'withered cheek and tresses gay;' there could be little gayety about him, i should imagine." "please, papa, it isn't gay, but gray." "then why the devil do you read so incorrectly? i have always to be scolding you for making these absurd mistakes!" if little jacob had had an older head on his shoulders he would have acquiesced, and tried to get done with the reading as soon as possible, so as to make his escape. but it was repugnant to him to admit that he had made a blunder of which he was innocent, and he answered,-"but, papa, i read it right--i said _gray_; i didn't say _gay_." mr. ogden made a violent effort to control himself, and said, with the sort of calm that comes of the intensest emotion,-"then you mean to say i am deaf." little jacob had really been thinking that his father might be deaf, and admitted as much. "fetch me my riding-whip." little jacob brought the whip, expecting an immediate application of it, but mr. ogden, still keeping a strong control over himself, merely took the whip in his hands, and began to play with it, and look at its silver top, which he rubbed a little with his pocket-handkerchief. then he took a candle in his right hand, and brought the flame quite close to the silver ornament, examining it with singular minuteness, so as apparently to have entirely ceased to pay attention to his son's reading, or even to hear the sound of his voice. "is this my whip?" "yes, papa." "well, then, i am either blind or i have lost my memory. my whip was precisely like this, except for one thing--my initials were engraved upon it, and i can see no initials here." little jacob began to feel very nervous. a month before the present crisis he had taken his father's whip to ride with, and lost it on the moor, after dark, where he and jim had sought for it long, and vainly. little jacob had since consulted a certain saddler in shayton, a friend of his, as to the possibility of procuring a whip of the same pattern as the lost one, and it had fortunately happened that this saddler had received two precisely alike, of which mr. isaac ogden had bought one, whilst the other remained unsold. there was thus no difficulty in replacing the whip so as to deceive mr. ogden into the belief that it had never been lost, or rather so as to prevent any thought or suspicion from presenting itself to his mind. when the master of a house has given proofs of a tyrannical disposition, or of an uncontrollable and unreasonable temper, a system of concealment naturally becomes habitual in his household, and the most innocent actions are hidden from him as if they were crimes. some trifling incident reveals to him how sedulously he is kept in ignorance of the little occurrences which make up the existence of his dependants, and then he is vexed to find himself isolated and cut off from their confidence and sympathy. mr. ogden continued. "this is _not_ my whip; it is a whip of the same pattern, that some people have been buying to take me in. fetch me my own whip--the one with my initials." little jacob thought the opportunity for escaping from the room too good to be thrown away, and vanished. mr. ogden waited quietly at first, but, after ten minutes had escaped, became impatient, and rang the bell violently. old sarah presented herself. "send my son here." on his reappearance, little jacob was in that miserable state of apprehension in which the most truthful child will lie if it is in the least bullied or tormented, and in which indeed it is not possible to extract pure truth from its lips without great delicacy and tenderness. "have you brought my whip?" "please, papa," said little jacob, who began to get very red in the face, as he always did when he told a downright fib--"please, papa, that's your whip." there was a mental reservation here, slightly jesuitical; for the boy had reflected, during his brief absence, that since he had given that whip to mr. ogden, it now, of course, might strictly be said to belong to him. "what has become of my whip with i. o. upon it?" "it's that whip, papa; only you--you told jim to clean the silver top, and--and perhaps he rubbed the letters off." "you damned little lying sneaking scoundrel, this whip is perfectly new; but it will not be new long, for i will lay it about you till it isn't worth twopence." the sharp switching strokes fell fast on poor little jacob. some of them caught him on the hands, and a tremendous one came with stinging effect across his lips and cheek; but it was not the first time he had endured an infliction of this sort, and he had learned the art of presenting his body so as to shield the more sensitive or least protected places. on former occasions mr. ogden's anger had always cooled after a score or two of lashes, but this time it rose and rose with an ever-increasing violence. little jacob began to find his powers of endurance exhausted, and, with the nimble ingenuity of his years, made use of different articles of furniture as temporary barriers against his enemy. for some time he managed to keep the table between mr. ogden and himself, but his father's arm was long, and reached far, and the child received some smarting cuts about the face and neck, so then he tried the chairs. mr. ogden, who was by this time a furious madman, shivered his whip to pieces against the furniture, and then, throwing it with a curse into the fire, looked about him for some other means of chastisement. now there hung a mighty old hunting-whip in a sort of trophy with other memorials of the chase, and he took this down in triumph. the long knotted lash swung heavily as he poised it, and there was a steel hammer at the end of the stick, considered as of possible utility in replacing lost nails in the shoes of hunters. a great terror seized little jacob, a terror of that utterly hopeless and boundless and unreasoning kind that will sometimes take possession of the nervous system of a child--a terror such as the mature man does not feel even before imminent and violent death, and which he can only conceive or imagine by a reference to the dim reminiscences of his infancy. the strong man standing there menacing, armed with a whip like a flail, his eyes glaring with the new and baleful light of madness, became transfigured in the child's imagination to something supernatural. how tall he seemed, how mighty, how utterly irresistible! when a persian travels alone in some wide stony desert, and sees a column of dust rise like smoke out of the plain and advance rapidly towards him, and believes that out of the column one of the malignant genii will lift his colossal height, and roll his voice of thunder, and wield his sword of flame, all that that persian dreads in the utmost wildness of his credulous oriental imagination this child felt as a present and visible fact. the power before him, in the full might and height of manhood, in the fury of madness, lashing out the great thong to right and left till it cracked like pistol-shots--with glaring eyes, and foaming lips out of which poured curses and blasphemies--was this a paternal image, was it civilized, was it human? the aspect of it paralyzed the child, till a sharp intolerable pain came with its fierce stimulus, and he leaped out from behind his barricade and rushed towards the door. the lad had thick fair hair in a thousand natural curls. he felt a merciless grip in it, and his forehead was drawn violently backwards. well for him that he struggled and writhed! for the steel hammer was aimed at him now, and the blows from it crashed on the furniture as the aim was continually missed. the man-servant was out in the farm-buildings, and old sarah had been washing in an out-house. she came in first, and heard a bitter cry. many a time her heart had bled for the child, and now she could endure it no longer. she burst into the room, she seized ogden's wrist and drove her nails into it till the pain made him let the child go. she had left both doors open. in an instant little jacob was out of the house. old sarah was a strong woman, but her strength was feebleness to ogden's. he disengaged himself quite easily, and at every place where his fingers touched her there was a mark on her body for days. the child heard curses following him as he flew over the smooth grass. the farm was bounded by a six-foot wall. the curses came nearer and nearer; the wall loomed black and high. "i have him now," cried ogden, as he saw the lad struggling to get over the wall. little jacob felt himself seized by the foot. an infinite terror stimulated him, and he wrenched it violently. a sting of anguish crossed his shoulders where the heavy whip-lash fell,--a shoe remained in ogden's hand. chapter vi. little jacob is lost. ogden flung the shoe down with an imprecation, and the whip after it. he then climbed the wall and tried to run, but the ground here was rough moorland, and he fell repeatedly. he saw no trace of little jacob. he made his way back to the house, sullen and savage, and besmeared with earth and mud. "give me a lantern, damn you," he said to old sarah, "and look sharp!" old sarah took down a common candle-lantern, and purposely selected one with a hole in it. she also chose the shortest of her candle-ends. ogden did not notice these particulars in his impatience, and went out again. just then jim came in. "well," said old sarah, "what d'ye think master's done? he's licked little jacob while[5] he's wenly[6] kilt him, but t' little un's reight enough now. he'll never catch him." "what! has little jacob run away?" "ay, that he has; and he _can_ run, can little jacob; and he knows all th' places about. i've no fears on him. master's gone after him wi' a lantern wi' a hoile in it, and auve a hinch o' cannle. it's like catchin' a bird wi' a pinch o' salt." "little un's safe enough, i'se warrant him." "we mun just stop quite[7] till th' ould un's i' bedd, and then we'll go and seech[8] little jacob." in a quarter of an hour ogden came back again. his light had gone out, and he threw the lantern down on the kitchen-floor without a word, and shut himself up in his sitting-room. the furniture was in great disorder. the chairs were all overturned, the mahogany table bore deep indentations from the blows of the hammer. some pieces of old china that had ornamented the chimney-piece lay scattered on the hearth. he lifted up a chair and sat upon it. the disorder was rather pleasing to him than otherwise; he felt a bitter satisfaction in the harmony between it and the state of his own mind. a large fragment of broken china lay close to his foot. it belonged to a basin, which, having been broken only into three or four pieces, was still repairable. ogden put it under his heel and crushed it to powder, feeling a sort of grim satisfaction in making repair out of the question. he sat in perfect inaction for about a quarter of an hour, and then rang the bell. "bring me hot water, and, stop--put these things in their places, will you?" old sarah restored some order in the room, removed the broken china, and brought the hot water. "now, bring me a bottle of rum." "please, mestur ogden, you've got no rum in the house." "no, but you have." "please, sir, i've got very little. i think it's nearly all done." "d'ye think i want to rob you? i'll pay ye for't, damn you!" "mestur ogden, you don't use drinkin' sperrits at twistle farm." ogden gave a violent blow on the table with his fist, and shouted, "bring me a bottle of rum, a bottle of rum! d'ye think you're to have all the rum in the world to yourself, you drunken old witch?" there was that in his look which cowed sarah, and she reflected that he might be less dangerous if he were drunk. so she brought the rum. ogden was pouring himself a great dose into a tumbler, when a sudden hesitation possessed him, and he flung the bottle from him into the fireplace. there was a shivering crash, and then a vast sheet of intolerable flame. the intense heat drove ogden from the hearth. he seized the candle, and went upstairs into his bedroom. sarah and jim waited to see whether he would come down again, but he remained in his room, and they heard the boards creak as he walked from wall to wall. this continued an hour. at last old sarah said,-"i cannot bide no longer. let's go and seech th' childt;" and she lighted two lanterns, which, doubtless, were in better condition, and better provided with candles, than the one she had lent to mr. ogden. they went into the stable and cowhouse (or _mistle_ as it was called in that country), and called in the softest and most winning tones their voices knew how to assume. "little jacob, little jacob, come, my lad, come; it's nobbut old sarah an' jim. mestur's i' bedd." they went amongst the hay with their lanterns, in spite of the risk of setting it on fire, but he was not there. he was not to be found in any of the out-buildings. suddenly an idea struck jim. "if we'd nobbut his bit of a dog, who'd find him, sure enough." but feorach had disappeared. feorach was with her young master. they began to be rather alarmed, for it was very cold, and intensely dark. the lad was certainly not on the premises. they set off along the path that led to the rocks. they examined every nook and cranny of the huge masses of sandstone, and their lanterns produced the most unaccustomed effects, bringing out the rough projections of the rock against the unfathomable black sky, and casting enormous shadows from one rock to another. wherever their feet could tread they went, missing nothing; but the lad was not amongst the rocks. it began to be clear to them that he could not even be in a place of such shelter as that. he must be out on the open moor. "we mun go and tell mestur," said jim. "if he's feared about th' childt, he willn't be mad at him." so they returned straight to the house, and went to mr. ogden's room. he had gone to bed, but was not asleep. if he thought about little jacob at all, his reflections were probably not of an alarming kind. the child would come back, of course. "please, sir," said jim, "master jacob isn't come back, and we can't find him." "he'll come back," said ogden. "please, sir, i'm rather feared about him," said jim; "it's nearly two hours sin' he left the house, and it's uncommon cold. we've been seekin' him all up and down, old sarah and me, and he's nowhere about th' premises, and he isn't about th' rocks neither." mr. ogden began to feel rather alarmed. the paroxysm of his irritation was over by this time, and he had become rational again; indeed his mind was clearer, and, in a certain sense, calmer, than it had been for two or three days. for the last half-hour he had been suffering only from great prostration, and a feeling of dulness and vacancy, which this new anxiety effectually removed. notwithstanding the violence of his recent treatment of his son--a violence which had frequently broken out during several months, and which had culminated in the scene described in the last chapter, when it had reached the pitch of temporary insanity--he really had the deepest possible affection for his child, and this paternal feeling was more powerful than he himself had ever consciously known or acknowledged. when once the idea was realized that little jacob might be suffering physically from the cold, and mentally from a dread of his father, which the events of the night only too fully justified, mr. ogden began to feel the tenderest care and anxiety. "i'll be down with you in a moment," he said. "see that the lanterns are in good order. have the dogs ready to go with us--they may be of some use." he came downstairs with a serious but quite reasonable expression on his face. he spoke quite gently to old sarah, and said, with a half-smile, "you needn't give me a lantern with a hole in it this time;" and then he added, "i wasted all that rum you gave me." "it 'ud 'ave been worst wasted if you'd swallowed it, mestur." "it would--it would; but we may need a little for the lad if we find him--very cold, you know. give a little to jim, if you have any; and take a railway rug, or a blanket from my bed, to wrap him in if he should need it." the dogs were in the kitchen now--a large mastiff and a couple of pointers. mr. ogden took down a little cloak that belonged to jacob, and made the dogs smell at it. then he seemed to be looking about for something else. "are ye seekin' something, mr. ogden?" "i want something to make a noise with, sarah." she fetched the little silver horn that had been the doctor's last present to his young friend. "that's it," said mr. ogden; "he'll know the sound of that when he hears it." the little party set out towards the moor. mr. ogden led it to the place where jacob had crossed the wall; and as jim was looking about with his lantern he called out, "why, master, here's one of his shoes, and--summat else." the "summat else" was the great whip. mr. ogden took the shoe up, and the whip. they were within a few yards of the pond, and he went down to the edge of it. a slight splash was heard, and he came back without the whip. the weight of the steel hammer had sunk it, and hidden it from his eyes for ever. he carried the little shoe in his right hand. when they had crossed the wall, mr. ogden bent down and put the shoe on the ground, and called the dogs. the pointers understood him at once, and went rapidly on the scent, whilst the little party followed them as fast as they could. it led out upon the open moor. when they were nearly a mile from the house, mr. ogden told sarah to go back and make a fire in little jacob's room, and warm his bed. the two men then went forward in silence. it was bitterly cold, and the wind began to rise, whistling over the wild moor. it was now eleven o'clock; mr. ogden looked at his watch. suddenly the dogs came to a standstill; they had reached the edge of a long sinuous bog with a surface of treacherous green, and little black pools of peat-water and mud. mr. ogden knew the bog perfectly, as he knew every spot on the whole moor that he was accustomed to shoot over, and he became terribly anxious. "we must mark this spot," he said; but neither he nor jim carried a stick, and there was no wood for miles round. the only resource was to make a little cairn of stones. when this was finished, mr. ogden stood looking at the bog a few minutes, measuring its breadth with his eye. he concluded that it was impossible for a child to leap over it even at the narrowest place, and suggested that little jacob must have skirted it. but in which direction--to the right hand or the left? the dogs gave no indication; they were off the scent. mr. ogden followed the edge of the bog to the right, and after walking half a mile, turned the extremity of it, and came again on the other side till he was opposite the cairn he had made. the dogs found no fresh scent; they were perfectly useless. "make a noise," said mr. ogden to jim; "make a noise with that horn." jim blew a loud blast. there came no answering cry. the wind whistled over the heather, and a startled grouse whirred past on her rapid wings. an idea was forcing its way into mr. ogden's mind--a hateful, horrible, inadmissible idea--that the foul black pit before him might be the grave of his only son. how ascertain it? they had not the necessary implements; and what would be the use of digging in that flowing, and yielding, and unfathomable black mud? he could not endure the place, or the intolerable supposition that it suggested, and went wildly on, in perfect silence, with compressed lips and beating heart, stumbling over the rough land. old sarah warmed the little bed, and made a bright fire in jacob's room. when ogden came back, he went there at once, and found the old woman holding a small night-gown to the fire. his face told her enough. his dress was covered with snow. "th' dogs is 'appen mistaken," she said; "little jacob might be at milend by this time." mr. ogden sent jim down to shayton on horseback, and returned to the moor alone. they met again at the farm at three o'clock in the morning. neither of them had any news of the child. jim had roused the household at milend, and awakened everybody both at the parsonage and the doctor's. he had given the alarm, and he had done the same at the scattered cottages and, farm-houses between twistle farm and shayton. if jacob were seen anywhere, news would be at once sent to his father. dr. bardly was not at home; he had left about noon for sootythorn on militia business, and expected to go on to wenderholme with colonel stanburne, where he intended to pass the night. chapter vii. isaac ogden's punishment. during what remained of the night, it is unnecessary to add that nobody at twistle farm had rest. the search was continually renewed in various directions, and always with the same negative result. mr. ogden began to lose hope, and was more and more confirmed in his supposition that his son must have perished in the bog. jim returned to shayton, where he arrived about half-past four in the morning. when the hands assembled at ogden's mill, mr. jacob told them that the factory would be closed that day, but that he would pay them their full wages; and he should feel grateful to any of the men who would help him in the search for his little nephew, who had unfortunately disappeared from twistle on the preceding evening, and had not been since heard of. he added, that a reward of a hundred pounds would be given to any one who would bring him news of the child. soon after daylight, handbills were posted in every street in shayton offering the same reward. mr. jacob returned to milend from the factory, and prepared to set out for twistle. the sun rose in clear frosty air, and the moors were covered with snow. large groups began to arrive at the farm about eight o'clock, and at nine the hill was dotted with searchers in every direction. it was suggested to mr. ogden by a policeman that if he had any intention of having the pond dragged, it would be well that it should be done at once, as there was already a thin coat of ice upon it, and it would probably freeze during the whole of the day and following night, so that delay would entail great additional labor in the breaking of the ice. an apparatus was sent up from shayton for this purpose. mr. ogden did not superintend this operation, but sat alone in his parlor waiting to hear the result. there was a tap at the door, and the policeman entered. "we've found nothing in the pond, mr. isaac, except--" "except what?" "only this whip, sir, that must belong to you;" and he produced the whip with the steel hammer. "it may be an important hindication, sir, if it could be ascertained whether your little boy had been playin' with it yesterday evenin'. you don't remember seein' him with it, do you, sir?" mr. ogden groaned, and covered his face with his hands. then his whole frame shook convulsively. old sarah came in. "i was just askin' mr. ogden whether he knew if the little boy had been playin' with this 'ere whip yesterday--we've found it in the pond; and as i was just sayin', it might be a useful hindication." old sarah looked at the whip, which lay wet upon the table. "i seed that whip yistady, but i dunnot think our little lad played wi' it. he didn't use playin' wi' that whip. that there whip belongs to his father, an' it's him as makes use on it, and non little jacob." mr. ogden removed his hands from his face, and said, "the whip proves nothing. i threw it into the pond yesterday myself." the policeman looked much astonished. "it's a fine good whip, sir, to throw away." "well, take it, then, if you admire it i'll make ye a present of it." "i've no use for it, sir." "then, i reckon," said old sarah, "as you 'aven't got a little lad about nine year old; such whips as that is consithered useful for thrashin' little lads about nine year old." mr. ogden could bear this no longer, and said he would go down to the pond. when he had left the room, old sarah took up the whip and hung it in its old place, over the silver spurs. the policeman lingered. old sarah relieved her mind by recounting what had passed on the preceding evening. "i am some and glad[9] as you brought him that there whip. th' sight of it is like pins and needles in 'is een. you've punished 'im with it far worse than if you'd laid it ovver his shoulthers." mr. ogden gave orders that every one who wanted any thing to eat should be freely supplied in the kitchen. one of old sarah's great accomplishments was the baking of oat-cake, and as the bread in the house was soon eaten up, old sarah heated her oven, and baked two or three hundred oat-cakes. when once the mixture is prepared, and the oven heated, a skilful performer bakes these cakes with surprising rapidity, and old sarah was proud of her skill. if any thing could have relieved her anxiety about little jacob, it would have been this beloved occupation--but not even the pleasure of seeing the thin fluid mixture spread over the heated sheet of iron, and of tossing the cake dexterously at the proper time, could relieve the good heart of its heavy care. even the very occupation itself had saddening associations, for when old sarah pursued it, little jacob had usually been a highly interested spectator, though often very much in the way. she had scolded him many a time for his "plaguiness;" but, alas! what would she have given to be plagued by that small tormentor now! the fall of snow had been heavy enough to fill up the smaller inequalities of the ground, and the hills had that aspect of exquisite smoothness and purity which would be degraded by any comparison. under happier circumstances, the clear atmosphere and brilliant landscape would have been in the highest degree exhilarating; but i suppose nobody at twistle felt that exhilaration now. on the contrary, there seemed to be something chilling and pitiless in that cold splendor and brightness. no one could look on the vast sweep of silent snow without feeling that _somewhere_ under its equal and unrevealing surface lay the body of a beloved child. the grave-faced seekers ranged the moors all day, after a regular system devised by mr. jacob ogden. the circle of their search became wider and wider, like the circles from a splash in water. in this way, before nightfall, above thirty square miles had been thoroughly explored. at last, after a day that seemed longer than the longest days of summer, the sun went down, and one by one the stars came out. the heavens were full of their glittering when the scattered bands of seekers met together again at the farm. the fire was still kept alive in little jacob's room. the little night-gown still hung before it. old sarah changed the hot water in the bed-warmer regularly every hour. alas! alas! was there any need of these comforts now? do corpses care to have their shrouds warmed, or to have hot-water bottles at their icy feet? mr. ogden, who had controlled himself with wonderful success so long as the sun shone, began to show unequivocal signs of agitation after nightfall. he had headed a party on the moor, and came back with a sinking heart. he had no hope left. the child must certainly have died in the cold. he went into little jacob's bedroom and walked about alone for a few minutes, pacing from the door to the window, and looking out on the cold white hills, the monotony of which was relieved only by the masses of black rock that rose out of them here and there. the fire had burnt very briskly, and it seemed to mr. ogden that the little night-gown was rather too near. as he drew back the chair he gazed a minute at the bit of linen; his chest heaved with violent emotion, and then there came a great and terrible agony. he sat down on the low iron bed, his strong frame shook and quivered, and with painful gasps flowed the bitter tears of his vain repentance. he looked at the smooth little pillow, untouched during a whole night, and thought of the dear head that had pressed it, and might never press it more. where was it resting now? was the frozen snow on the fair cheek and open brow, or--oh horror, still more horrible!--had he been buried alive in the black and treacherous pit, and were the dear locks defiled with the mud of the bog, and the bright eyes filled with its slimy darkness for ever? surely he had not descended into _that_ grave; they had done what they could to sound the place, and had found nothing but earth, soft and yielding--no fragment of dress had come up on their boat-hooks. it was more endurable to imagine the child asleep under the snow. when the thaw came they would find him, and bring him to his own chamber, and lay him again on his own bed, at least for one last night, till the coffin came up from shayton. how good the child had been! how brutally ogden felt that he had used him! little jacob had been as forgiving as a dog, and as ready to respond to the slightest mark of kindness. he had been the light of the lonely house with his innocent prattle and gayety. ogden had frightened him into silence lately, and driven him into the kitchen, where he had many a time heard him laughing with old sarah and jim, and been unreasonably angry with him for it. ogden began to see these things in a different light. "i used him so badly," he thought, "that it was only natural he should shun and avoid me." and then he felt and knew how much sweet and pure companionship he had missed. he had not half enjoyed the blessing he had possessed. he ought to have made himself young again for the child's sake. would it have done him any harm to teach little jacob cricket, and play at ball with him, or at nine-pins? the boy's life had been terribly lonely, and his father had done nothing to dissipate or mitigate its loneliness. and then there came a bitter sense that he had really loved the child with an immense affection, but that the coldness and roughness and brutality of his outward behavior had hidden this affection from his son. in this, however, mr. ogden had not been quite so much to blame as in the agony of his repentance he himself believed. his self-accusation, like all sincere and genuine self-accusation, had a touch of exaggeration in it. the wrong that he had done was attributable quite as much to the temper of the place he lived in as to any peculiar evil in himself as an individual man. he had spoiled his temper by drinking, but every male in shayton did the same; he had been externally hard and unsympathetic, but the inhabitants of shayton carried to an excess the english contempt for the betrayal of the softer emotions. in all that ogden had done, in the whole tenor of his life and conversation, he had merely obeyed the great human instinct of conformity. had he lived anywhere else--had he even lived at sootythorn--he would have been a different man. such as he was, he was the product of the soil, like the hard pears and sour apples that grew in the dismal garden at milend. he had been sitting more than an hour on the bed, when he heard a knock at the door. it was old sarah, who announced the arrival of mr. prigley and mrs. ogden. mr. prigley had been to fetch her from the place where she was visiting, and endeavored to offer such comfort to her during the journey as his heart and profession suggested. as on their arrival at milend there had been no news of a favorable or even hopeful kind, mrs. ogden was anxious to proceed to twistle immediately, and mr. prigley had kindly accompanied her. the reader may have inferred from previous pages of this history, that although mr. prigley may have been a blameless and earnest divine, he was not exactly the man best fitted to influence such a nature as that of isaac ogden. he had little understanding either of its weakness or its strength--of its weakness before certain forms of temptation, or its strength in acknowledging unwelcome and terrible facts. after mrs. ogden had simply said, "well, isaac, there's no news of him yet," the clergyman tried to put a cheerful light on the subject by expressing the hope that the boy was safe in some farm-house. mr. ogden answered that every farm-house within several miles had been called at, and that twistle farm was the last of the farms on the moor side. it was most unlikely, in his opinion, that the child could have resisted the cold so long, especially as he had no provisions of any kind, and was not even sufficiently clothed to go out; and as he had certainly not called at any house within seven or eight miles of twistle, mr. ogden could only conclude that he must have perished on the moor, and that the thick fall of snow was all that had prevented the discovery of his body. mrs. ogden sat down and began to cry very bitterly. the sorrow of a person like mrs. ogden is at the same time quite frank in its expression, and perfectly monotonous. her regrets expressed themselves adequately in three words, and the repetition of them made her litany of grief--"poor little lad!" and then a great burst of weeping, and then "poor little lad!" again, perpetually. the clergyman attempted to "improve" the occasion in the professional sense. "the lord hath given," he said, "and the lord hath taken away;" then he paused, and added, "blessed be the name of the lord." but this brought no solace to ogden's mind. "it was not the lord that took the lad away," he answered; "it was his father that drove him away." the great agony came over him again, and he flung himself on his breast upon the sofa and buried his face in the cushions. then his mother rose and came slowly to his side, and knelt down by him. precious maternal feelings, that had been, as it were, forgotten in her heart for more than twenty years, like jewels that are worn no more, shone forth once more from her swimming eyes. "isaac, lad," she said, with a voice that sounded in his ears like a far-off recollection of childhood,--"isaac, lad, it were none o' thee as did it,--it were drink. thou wouldn't have hurt a hair of his head." and she kissed him. it was a weary night at twistle. nobody had any hope left, but they felt bound to continue the search, and relays of men came up from shayton for the purpose. they were divided into little parties of six or eight, and mr. jacob directed their movements. each group returned to the house after exploring the ground allotted to it, and mr. ogden feverishly awaited its arrival. the ever-recurring answer, the sad shake of the head, the disappointed looks, sank into the heart of the bereaved father. about two in the morning he got a little sleep, and awoke in half an hour somewhat stronger and calmer. it is unnecessary to pursue the detail of these sufferings. the days passed, but brought no news. dr. bardly came back from wenderholme, and seemed less affected than would have been expected by those who knew his love and friendship for little jacob. he paid, however, especial attention to mr. isaac, whom he invited to stay with him for a few weeks, and who bore his sorrow with a manly fortitude. the doctor drank his habitual tumbler of brandy-and-water every evening before going to bed, and the first evening, by way of hospitality, had offered the same refreshment to his guest. mr. ogden declined simply, and the offer was not renewed. for the first week he smoked a great deal, and drank large quantities of soda-water, but did not touch any intoxicating liquor. he persevered in this abstinence, and declared his firm resolve to continue it as a visible sign of his repentance, and of his respect to the memory of his boy. he was very gentle and pleasant, and talked freely with the doctor about ordinary subjects; but, for a man whose vigor and energy had manifested themselves in some abruptness and rudeness in the common intercourse of life, this new gentleness was a marked sign of sadness. when the doctor's servant, martha, came in unexpectedly and found mr. ogden alone, she often observed that he had shed tears; but he seemed cheerful when spoken to, and his grief was quiet and undemonstrative. the search for the child was still actively pursued, and his mysterious disappearance became a subject of absorbing interest in the neighborhood. the local newspapers were full of it, and there appeared a very terrible article in the 'sootythorn gazette' on mr. ogden's cruelty to his child. the writer was an inhabitant of shayton, who had had the misfortune to have mr. jacob ogden for his creditor, and had been pursued with great rigor by that gentleman. he got the necessary data from the policeman who had brought the whip back from the pond, and wrote such a description of it as made the flesh of the sootythorn people creep upon their bones, and their cheeks redden with indignation. the doctor happened to be out of the house when this newspaper arrived, and mr. isaac opened it and read the article. the facts stated in it were true and undeniable, and the victim quailed under his punishment. if he had ventured into sootythorn, he would have been mobbed and pelted, or perhaps lynched. he was scarcely safe even in shayton; and when he walked from the doctor's to milend, the factory operatives asked him where his whip was, and the children pretended to be frightened, and ran out of his way. a still worse punishment was the singular gravity of the faces that he met--a gravity that did not mean sympathy but censure. the 'sootythorn gazette' demanded that he should be punished--that an example should be made of him, and so on. the writer had his wish, without the intervention of the law. after a few weeks the mystery was decided to be insoluble, and dismissed from the columns of the newspapers. even the ingenious professional detectives admitted that they were at fault, and could hold out no hopes of a discovery. mr. ogden had with difficulty been induced to remain at the doctor's during the prosecution of these inquiries; but dr. bardly had represented to him that he ought to have a fixed address in case news should arrive, and that he need not be wholly inactive, but might ride considerable distances in various directions, which indeed he did, but without result. mrs. ogden remained at milend, but whether from the strength of her nature, or some degree of insensibility, she did not appear to suffer greatly from her bereavement, and pursued her usual household avocations with her accustomed regularity. mr. jacob went to his factory, and was absorbed in the details of business. no one put on mourning, for the child was still considered as possibly alive, and perhaps his relations shrank from so decided an avowal of their abandonment of hope. the one exception to this rule was old sarah at twistle, who clad herself in a decent black dress that she had by her. "if t' little un's deead," she said, "it's nobbut reight to put mysel' i' black for him; and if he isn't i'm so sore in my heart ovver him 'at i'm fit to wear nought else." chapter viii. from sootythorn to wenderholme. the next scene of our story is in the thorn hotel at the prosperous manufacturing town of sootythorn, a place superior to shayton in size and civilization and selected by the authorities as the headquarters of colonel stanburne's regiment of militia. dr. bardly arrived at the thorn the morning after isaac ogden's relapse, having driven all the way from shayton, through scenery which would have been comparable to any thing in england, if the valleys had not been spoiled by cotton-mills, rows of ugly cottages, and dismal-looking coal-pits. "colonel stanburne's expecting you, doctor," said mr. garley, the landlord of the thorn: "he's in the front sitting-room." the colonel was sitting by himself, with the 'times' and a little black pipe. "good morning, dr. bardly! you've a nice little piece of work before you. there are a lot of fellows here to be examined as to their physical constitution--fellows, you know, who aspire to the honor of serving in the twentieth regiment of royal lancashire militia." "perhaps i'd better begin with the hofficers," said the doctor. the colonel looked alarmed, or affected to be so. "my dear doctor, there's not the least necessity for examining officers--it isn't customary, it isn't legal; officers are always perfect, both physically and morally." a theory of this kind came well enough from colonel stanburne. he was six feet high, and the picture of health. he brought forth the fruits of good living, not, as mr. garley did, in a bloated and rubicund face and protuberant corporation, but in that admirable balance of the whole human organism which proves the regular and equal performance of all its functions. dr. bardly was a good judge of a man, and he had the same pleasure in looking at the colonel that a fox-hunter feels in contemplating a fine horse. beyond this, he liked colonel stanburne's society, not precisely, perhaps, for intellectual reasons--for, intellectually, there was little or nothing in common between the two men--but because he found in it a sort of mental refreshment, very pleasant to him after the society at shayton. the colonel was a different being--he lived in a different world from the world of the ogdens and their friends; and it amused and interested the doctor to see how this strange and rather admirable creature would conduct itself under the conditions of its present existence. the doctor, as the reader must already feel perfectly assured, had not the weakness of snobbishness or parasitism in any form whatever; and if he liked to go to wenderholme with the colonel, it was not because there was an earl's daughter there, and the sacred odor of aristocracy about the place, but rather because he had a genuine pleasure in the society of his friend, whether amongst the splendors of wenderholme, or in the parlor of the inn at sootythorn. the colonel, too, on his part, liked the doctor, though he laughed at him, and mimicked him to lady helena. the mimicry was not, however, very successful, for the doctor's lancashire dialect was too perfect and too pure for any mere ultramontane (that is, creature living beyond the hills that guarded the shayton valley) to imitate with any approximation to success. if the colonel, however, notwithstanding all his study and effort, could not succeed in imitating the doctor's happy selection of expressions and purity of style, he could at any rate give him a nickname--so he called him hoftens, not to his face, but to lady helena at home, and to the adjutant, and to one or two other people who knew him, and the nickname became popular; and, after a while, the officers called dr. bardly hoftens to his face, which he took with perfect good-nature. the first time that this occurred, the doctor (such was the delicacy of his ear) believed he detected something unusual in the way an impudent ensign pronounced the word _often_, and asked what he meant, on which the adjutant interposed, and said,--"don't mind his impudence, doctor; he's mimicking you." "well," said the doctor, simply, "i wasn't aware that there was hany thing peculiar in my pronunciation of the word, but people _hoftens_ are unaware of their own defects." but we anticipate. they lunched at the thorn with the adjutant, a fair-haired and delicate-looking little gentleman of exceedingly mild and quiet manners, whose acquaintance the doctor had made very recently. captain eureton had retired a year or two before from the regular army, and was now living in the neighborhood of sootythorn with his old mother whom he loved with his whole heart. he had never married, and now there was little probability of his ever marrying. the people of sootythorn would have set him down as a milk-sop if he had not seen a good deal of active service in india and at the cape; but a soldier who has been baptized in the fire of the battle-field has always that fact in his favor, and has little need to give himself airs of boldness in order to impose upon the imagination of civilians. "i believe, dr. bardly," said eureton, "that we are going to have an officer from your neighborhood, a mr. ogden. his name has been put down for a lieutenant's commission." "yes, he's a neighbor of mine," answered the doctor, rather curtly. "you should have brought him with you, doctor," said colonel stanburne, "that we might make his acquaintance. i've never seen him, you know, and he gets his commission on your recommendation. i should like, as far as possible, to know the officers personally before we meet for our first training. what sort of a fellow is mr. ogden? tell us all about him." the doctor felt slightly embarrassed, and showed it in his manner. any true description of isaac ogden, as he was just then, must necessarily seem very unfavorable. dr. bardly had been to twistle that very morning before daylight, and had found mr. ogden suffering from the effects of that fall down the cellar-steps in a state of drunkenness. the doctor had that day abandoned all hope of reclaiming isaac ogden, and saving him from the fate that awaited him. "i've nothing good to tell of mr. ogden, colonel stanburne. i wish i hadn't recommended him to you. he's an irreclaimable drunkard!" "well, if you'd known it you wouldn't have recommended him, of course. you found it out since, i suppose. you must try and persuade him to resign. tell him there'll be some awfully hard work, especially for lieutenants." "i knew that he drank occasionally, but i believed that it was because he had nobody to talk to except a drunken set at the red lion at shayton. i thought that if he came into the regiment it would do him good, by bringing him into more society. shayton's a terrible place for drinking. there's a great difference between shayton and sootythorn." "what sort of a man is he in other respects?" asked the colonel. "he's right enough for every thing else. he's a good-looking fellow, tall, and well-built; and he used to be pleasant and good-tempered, but now his nervous system must be shattered, and i would not answer for him." "if you still think he would have sufficient control over himself to keep sober for a month we might try him, and see whether we cannot do him some good. perhaps, as you thought, it's only want of society that drives him to amuse himself by drinking. upon my word, i think i should take to drinking myself if i lived all the year round in such a place as sootythorn--and i suppose shayton's no better." captain eureton, who was simple and even abstemious in his way of living, and whose appetite had not been sharpened, like that of the doctor, by a long drive in the morning, finished his lunch in about ten minutes, and excused himself on the plea that he had an appointment with a joiner about the orderly-room, which had formerly been an infant-school of some dissenting persuasion, and therefore required remodelling as to its interior fittings. we shall see more of him in due time, but for the present must leave him to the tranquil happiness of devising desks and pigeon-holes in company with an intelligent workman, than which few occupations can be more delightful. "perhaps, unless you've something to detain you in sootythorn, doctor, we should do well to leave here as early as possible. it's a long drive to wenderholme--twenty miles, you know; and i always make a point of giving the horses a rest at rigton." as the doctor had nothing to do in sootythorn, the colonel ordered his equipage. when he drove alone, he always preferred a tandem, but when lady helena accompanied him, he took his seat in a submissive matrimonial manner in the family carriage. as wenderholme was so far from sootythorn, the colonel kept two pairs of horses; and one pair was generally at wenderholme and the other in mr. garley's stables, where the colonel had a groom of his own permanently. the only inconvenience of this arrangement was that the same horses had to do duty in the tandem and the carriage; but they did it on the whole fairly well and the colonel contented himself with the carriage-horses, so far as driving was concerned. the doctor drove his own gig with the degree of skill which results from the practice of many years; but he had never undertaken the government of a tandem, and felt, perhaps, a slight shade of anxiety when john stanburne took the reins, and they set off at full trot through the streets of sootythorn. a manufacturing town, in that particular stage of its development, is one of the most awkward of all possible places to drive in--the same street varies so much in breadth that you never can tell whether there will be room enough to pass when you get round the corner; and there are alarming noises of many kinds--the roar of a cotton mill in the street itself, or the wonderfully loud hum of a foundry, or the incessant clattering hammer-strokes of a boiler-making establishment--which excite and bewilder a nervous horse, till, if manageable at all, he is manageable only with the utmost delicacy and care. as colonel stanburne seemed to have quite enough to do to soothe and restrain his leader, the doctor said nothing till they got clear of the last street; but once out on the broad turnpike, or "yorkshire road," the colonel gave his team more freedom, and himself relaxed from the rigid accuracy of seat he had hitherto maintained. he then turned to the doctor, and began to talk. "i say, doctor, why don't you drive a tandem? you--you _ought_ to drive a tandem. 'pon my word you ought, seriously, now." the doctor laughed. he didn't see the necessity or the duty of driving a tandem, and so begged to have these points explained to him. "well, because, don't you see, when you've only got one horse in your dog-cart, or gig, or whatever two-wheeled vehicle you may possess, you've no fun, don't you see?" the doctor didn't see, or did not seem to see. "i mean," proceeded the colonel, explanatorily, "that you haven't that degree of anxiety which is necessary to give a zest to existence. now, when you've a leader who is almost perfectly free, and over whom you can only exercise a control of--the most gentle and persuasive kind, you're always slightly anxious, and sometimes you're _very_ anxious. for instance, last time we drove back from sootythorn it was pitch dark,--wasn't it, fyser?" here colonel stanburne turned to his groom, who was sitting behind; and fyser, as might be expected, muttered something confirmatory of his master's statement. "it was pitch dark; and, by george! the candles in the lamps were too short to last us; and that confounded fyser forgot to provide himself with fresh ones before he left sootythorn, and--didn't you, fyser?" fyser confessed his negligence. "and so, when the lamps were out, it was pitch dark; so dark that i couldn't tell the road from the ditch--upon my word, i couldn't; and i couldn't see the leader a bit, i could only feel him with the reins. so i said to fyser, 'get over to the front seat, and then crouch down as low as you can, so as to bring the horses' heads up against the sky, and tell me if you can see them.' so fyser crouched down as i told him; and when i asked him if he saw any thing, he said he _did_ think he saw the leader's ears. well, damn it, then, if you _do_ see 'em, i said, keep your eye on 'em." "and were you going fast?" asked the doctor. "why, of _course_ we were. we were trotting at the rate of, i should say, about nine miles an hour; but after a while, fyser, by hard looking, began to see rather more distinctly--so distinctly that he clearly made out the difference between the horses' heads and the hedges; and he kept calling out 'right, sir,' 'left, sir,' 'all right, sir,' and so he kept me straight. if he'd been a sailor he'd have said 'starboard' and 'port;' but fyser isn't a sailor." "and did you get safe to wenderholme?" "of _course_ we did. fyser and i _always_ get safe to wenderholme." "i shouldn't recommend you to try that experiment hoftens." "well, but you see the advantage of driving tandem. if you've only one horse you know where he is, however dark it is--he's in the shafts, of course, and you know where to find him: but when you've got a leader you never exactly know where he is, unless you can see him." the doctor didn't see the advantage. the reader will have gathered from this specimen of colonel stanburne's conversation that he was a pleasant and lively companion; but if he is rather hasty in forming his opinion of people on a first acquaintance, he may also infer that the colonel was a man of somewhat frivolous character and very moderate intellectual powers. he certainly was not a genius, but he conveyed the impression of being less intelligent and less capable of serious thought than nature had made him. his predominant characteristic was simple good-nature, and he possessed also, notwithstanding a sort of swagger in his manner, an unusual share of genuine intellectual humility, that made him contented to pass for a less able and less informed man than he really was. the doctor's perception of character was too acute to allow him to judge colonel stanburne on the strength of a superficial acquaintance, and he clearly perceived that his friend was in the habit of wearing, as it were, his lighter nature outside. some ponderous philistines in sootythorn, who had been brought into occasional contact with the colonel, and who confounded gravity of manner with mental capacity, had settled it amongst themselves that he had no brains; but as the most intelligent of quadrupeds is at the same time the most lively, the most playful, the most good-natured, and the most affectionate,--so amongst human beings it does not always follow that a man is empty because he is lively and amusing, and seems merry and careless, and says and does some foolish things. an hour later they reached rigton, a little dull village quite out of the manufacturing district, and where it was the colonel's custom to bait. the remainder of the drive was in summer exceedingly beautiful; but as it passed through a rich agricultural country, whose beauty depended chiefly on luxuriant vegetation, the present time of the year was not favorable to it. all this region had a great reputation for beauty amongst the inhabitants of the manufacturing towns, and no doubt fully deserved it; but it is probable that their faculties of appreciation were greatly sharpened by the stimulus of contrast. to get fairly clear of factory-smoke, to be in the peaceful quiet country, and see no buildings but picturesque farms, was a definite happiness to many an inhabitant of sootythorn. there were fine bits of scenery in the manufacturing district itself--picturesque glens and gorges, deep ravines with hidden rivulets, and stretches of purple moorland; but all this scenery lacked one quality--_amenity_. now the scenery from rigton to wenderholme had this quality in a very high degree indeed, and it was instantly felt by every one who came from the manufacturing district, though not so perceptible by travellers from the south of england. the sootythorn people felt a soothing influence on the nervous system when they drove through this beautiful land; their minds relaxed and were relieved of pressing cares, and they here fell into a state very rare indeed with them--a state of semi-poetical reverie. the reader is already aware that wenderholme is situated on the opposite side of the hills which separate shayton from this favored region, and close to the foot of them. great alterations have been made in the house since the date at which our story begins, and therefore we will not describe it as it exists at present, but as it existed when the colonel drove up the avenue with the doctor at his side, and the faithful fyser jumped up behind after opening the modest green gate. a large rambling house, begun in the reign of queen elizabeth, but grievously modernized under that of king george the third, it formed three sides of a quadrangle, and, as is usual in that arrangement of a mansion, had a great hall in the middle, and the principal reception rooms on each side on the ground floor. the house was three stories high, and there were great numbers of bedrooms. an arched porch in the centre, preceded by a flight of steps, gave entrance at once to the hall; and over the porch was a projection of the same breadth, continued up to the roof, and terminated in a narrow gable. this had been originally the centre of enrichment, and there had been some good sculpture and curious windows that went all round the projection, and carried it entirely upon their mullions; but the modernizer had been at work and inserted simple sash-windows, which produced a deplorable effect. the same owner, john stanburne's grandfather, had ruthlessly carried out that piece of vandalism over the whole front of the mansion, and, except what architects call a string-course (which was still traceable here and there), had effaced every feature that gave expression to the original design of the elizabethan builder. the entrance-hall was a fine room fifty feet long, and as high as two of the ordinary stories in the mansion. it had, no doubt, been a splendid specimen of the elizabethan hall; but the modernizer had been hard at work here also, and had put himself to heavy expense in order to give it the aspect of a thoroughly modern interior. the wainscot which had once adorned the walls, and which had been remarkable for its rich and fanciful carving, the vast and imaginative tapestries, the heraldic blazonries in the flaming oriels, the gallery for the musicians on twisted pillars of sculptured chestnut,--all these glories had been ruthlessly swept away. the tapestries had been used as carpets, and worn out; the wainscot had been made into kitchen cupboards, and painted lead-color; and the magnificent windows had been thrown down on the floor of a garret, where they had been trodden under foot and crushed into a thousand fragments: and in place of these things, which the narrow taste of the eighteenth century had condemned as barbarous, and destroyed without either hesitation or regret, it had substituted--what?--absolute emptiness and negation; for the heraldic oriels, sash-windows of the commonest glass; for the tapestry and carving, a bare wall of yellow-washed plaster; for the carved beams of the roof, a blank area of whitewash. the doctor found lady helena in the drawing-room; a little woman, who sometimes looked very pretty, and sometimes exceedingly plain, according to the condition of her health and temper, the state of the weather, and a hundred things beside. hence there were the most various and contradictory opinions about her; the only approach to unanimity being amongst certain elderly ladies who had formed the project of being mother-in-law to john stanburne, and failed in that design. the doctor was not much accustomed to ladyships--they did not come often in his way; indeed, if the truth must be told, lady helena was the only specimen of the kind he had ever enjoyed the opportunity of studying, and he had been rather surprised, on one or two preceding visits to wenderholme, to find that she behaved so nicely. but there are ladyships and ladyships, and the doctor had been fortunate in the example which chance had thrown in his way. for instance, if he had known lady eleanor griffin, who lived about ten miles from wenderholme, and came there occasionally to spend the day, the doctor would have formed quite a different opinion of ladyships in general, so much do our impressions of whole classes depend upon the individual members of them who are personally known to us. lady helena asked the doctor a good many questions about shayton, which it is quite unnecessary to report here, because the answers to them would convey no information to the reader which he does not already possess. her ladyship inquired very minutely about the clergyman there, and whether the doctor "liked" him. now the verb "to like," when applied to a clergyman, is used in a special sense. everybody knows that to like a clergyman and to like gooseberry-pie are very different things; for nobody in england eats clergyman, though the natives of new zealand are said to appreciate cold roast missionary. but there is yet another distinction--there is a distinction between liking a clergyman and liking a layman. if you say you like a clergyman, it is understood that it gives you a peculiar pleasure to hear him preach, and that you experience feelings of gratification when he reads prayers. and in this sense could dr. bardly say that he liked the reverend incumbent of his parish? certainly not; so he seemed to hesitate a little--and if he said "yes" he said it as if he meant _no_, or a sort of vague, neutral answer, neither negative nor affirmative. "i mean," said lady helena, "do you like him as a preacher?" "upon my word, it's so long since i heard him preach that i cannot give an opinion." "oh! i thought you attended his church. there are other churches in shayton, i suppose." "no, there's only one," said the imprudent and impolitic doctor. lady helena began to think he was some sort of a dissenter. she had heard of dissenters--she knew that such people existed--but she had never been brought into contact with one, and it made her feel rather queer. she felt strongly tempted to ask what place of worship this man _did_ attend, since by his own confession he never went to his parish church; but curiosity, and the natural female tendency to be an inquisitor, were kept in check by politeness, and also, perhaps, a little restrained by the perfectly fearless aspect of the doctor's face. if he had seemed in the least alarmed or apologetic, her ladyship would probably have assumed the functions of the inquisitor at once; but he looked so cool, and so very capable of a prolonged and vigorous resistance, that lady helena retired. when she began to talk about mrs. prigley, the doctor knew that she was already in full retreat. a little relieved, perhaps (for it is always disagreeable to quarrel with one's hostess, even though one has no occasion to be afraid of her), the doctor gladly told lady helena all about mrs. prigley, and even narrated the anecdote about the hole in the carpet, and its consequences to mrs. ogden, which put lady helena into good humor, for nothing is more amusing to rich people than the ludicrous consequences of a certain kind of poverty. the sense of a pleasant contrast, all in their own favor, is delightful to them and when the doctor had told this anecdote, lady helena became agreeably aware that she had carpets, and that her carpets had no holes in them--two facts of which use and custom had made her wholly unconscious. her eye wandered with pleasure over the broad soft surface of dark pomegranate color, with its large white and red flowers and its nondescript ornaments of imitated gold, and the ground seemed richer, and the flowers seemed whiter and redder, because poor mrs. prigley's carpets were in a condition so lamentably different. "mrs. prigley's a relation of yours, lady helena,--rather a near relation,--perhaps you are not aware of it?" lady helena looked, and was, very much surprised. "a relation of _mine_, dr. bardly! you must be mistaken. i believe i know the names of all my relations!" "i mean a relation of your husband--of colonel stanburne. mrs. prigley was a miss stanburne of byfield, and her father was brother to colonel stanburne's father, and was born in this house." "that's quite a near relationship indeed," said lady helena; "i wonder i never heard of it. john never spoke to me about mrs. prigley." "there was a quarrel between colonel stanburne's father and his uncle, and there has been no intercourse between their families since. i daresay the colonel does not even know how many cousins he had on that side, or what marriages they made." on this the colonel came in. "john, dear, dr. bardly has just told me that we have some cousins at shayton that i knew nothing about. it's the clergyman and his wife, and their name is prig--prig"-"prigley," suggested the doctor. "yes, prigley; isn't it curious, john? did you know about them?" "not very accurately. i knew one of my cousins had married a clergyman somewhere in that neighborhood, but was not aware that he was the incumbent of shayton. i don't know my cousins at all. there was a lawsuit between their father and mine, and the two branches have never eaten salt together since. i haven't the least ill-will to any of them, but there's an awkwardness in making a first step--one never can tell how it may be received. what do you say, doctor? how would mrs. prig--prigley and her husband receive me if i were to go and call upon them?" "they'd give you cake and wine." "would they really, now? then i'll go and call upon them. i like cake and wine--always liked cake and wine." the conversation about the prigleys did not end here. the doctor was well aware that it would be agreeable to mrs. prigley to visit at wenderholme, and be received there as a relation; and he also knew that the good-nature of the colonel and lady helena might be relied upon to make such intercourse perfectly safe and pleasant. so he made the most of the opportunity, and that so successfully, that by the time dinner was announced both john stanburne and his wife had promised to drive over some day to shayton from sootythorn, and lunch with the doctor, and call at the parsonage before leaving. colonel stanburne's conversation was not always very profound, but his dinners were never dull, for he _would_ talk, and make other people talk too. he solemnly warned the doctor not to allow himself to be entrapped into giving gratuitous medical advice to lady helena. "she thinks she's got fifteen diseases, she does, upon my word; and she's a sort of notion that because you're the regimental doctor, she has a claim on you for gratuitous counsel and assistance. now i consider that i _have_ such a claim--if a private has it, surely a colonel has it too--and when we come up for our first training i shall expect you to look at my tongue, and feel my pulse, and physic me as a militia-man, at her majesty's expense. but it is by no means so clear to me that my wife has any right to gratuitous doctoring, and mind she doesn't extort it from you. she's a regular screw, my wife is; and she loses no opportunity of obtaining benefits for nothing." then he rattled on with a hundred anecdotes about ladies and doctors, in which there was just enough truth to give a pretext for his audacious exaggerations. when they returned to the drawing-room, the colonel made lady helena sing; and she sang well. the doctor, like many inhabitants of shayton, had a very good ear, and greatly enjoyed music. lady helena had seldom found so attentive a listener; he sought old favorites of his in her collection of songs, and begged her to sing them one after another. it seemed as if he never would be tired of listening. her ladyship felt pleased and flattered, and sang with wonderful energy and feeling. the doctor, though in his innocence he thought only of the pure pleasure her music gave him, could have chosen no better means of ingratiating himself in her favor; and if there had not, unhappily, been that dark and dubious question about church attendance, which made her ladyship look upon him as a sort of dissenter, or worse, the doctor would that night have entered into relations of quite frank and cordial friendship with lady helena. english ladies are very kind and forgiving on many points. a man may be notoriously immoral, or a gambler, or a drinker, yet if he be well off they will kindly ignore and pass over these little defects; but the unpardonable sin is failure in church attendance, and they will not pass over _that_. lady helena, in her character of inquisitor, had discovered this symptom of heresy, and would have been delighted to find a moral screw of some kind by which the culpable doctor might be driven churchwards. if the law had permitted it, i have no doubt that she would have applied material screws, and pinched the doctor's thumbs, or roasted him gently before a slow fire, or at least sent him to church between two policemen with staves; but as these means were beyond her power, she must wait until the moral screw could be found. a good practical means, which she had resorted to in several instances with poor people, had been to deprive them of their means of subsistence; and all men and women whom her ladyship's little arm could reach knew that they must go to church or leave their situations; so they attended with a regularity which, though exemplary in the eyes of men, could scarcely, one would think (considering the motive), be acceptable to heaven. but lady helena acted in this less from a desire to please god than from the instinct of domination, which, in her character of spiritual ruler, naturally exercised itself on this point. it seldom happens that the master of a house is the spiritual ruler of it; he is the temporal power, not the spiritual. colonel stanburne felt and knew that he had no spiritual power. this matter of the doctor's laxness as a church-goer had been rankling in lady helena's mind all the time she had been singing, and when she closed the piano she was ready for an attack. if the doctor had been shivering blanketless in a bivouac, and she had had the power of giving him a blanket or withholding it, she would have offered it on condition he promised to go to church, and she would have withheld it if he had refused compliance. but the doctor had blankets of his own, and so could not be touched through a deprivation of blanket. she might, however, deprive the old woman he had recommended, and at the same time give the doctor a lesson, indirectly. "i forgot to ask you, dr. bardly, whether the old woman you recommended for a blanket was a churchwoman, and regular in her attendance." "two questions very easily answered," replied that audacious and unhesitating doctor; "she is a wesleyan methodist, and irregular in her attendance." "then i'm--very sorry--dr. bardly, but i cannot give her a blanket, as i had promised. i can only give them to our--own people, you know; and i make it essential that they should be _good_ church-people--i mean, very regular church-people." "very well; i'll give her a blanket myself." the opportunity was not to be neglected, and her ladyship fired her gun. she had the less hesitation in doing so, that it seemed monstrously presumptuous in a medical man to give blankets at all! what right had he to usurp the especial prerogative of great ladies? and then to give a blanket to this very woman whom, for good reasons, her ladyship had condemned to a state of blanketlessness! "i quite understand," she said, with much severity of tone, "that dr. bardly, who never attends public worship himself, should have a fellow-feeling with those who are equally negligent." it is a hard task to fight a woman in the presence of her husband, who is at the same time one's friend. the doctor _thought_, "would the woman have me offer premiums on hypocrisy as she does?" but he did not say so, because there was poor john stanburne at the other end of the hearth-rug in a state of much uncomfortableness. so the doctor said nothing at all, and the silence became perfectly distressing. lady helena had a way of her own out of the difficulty. though it was an hour earlier than the usual time for prayers, she rang the bell and ordered all the servants in. when they were kneeling, each before his chair, her ladyship read the prayers herself, and accentuated with a certain severity a paragraph in which she thanked god that she was not as unbelievers, who were destined to perish everlastingly. it was a satisfaction to lady helena to have the doctor there down upon his knees, with no means of escape from the expression of spiritual superiority. chapter ix. the fugitive. "i say, doctor," said john stanburne, when her ladyship was fairly out of hearing, and half-way in her ascent of the great staircase--"i say, doctor, i hope you don't mind what helena says about you not being--you know some women are so--indeed i do believe all women are so. they seem laudably anxious to keep us all in the right path, but perhaps they're just a little _too_ anxious." the doctor said he believed lady helena meant to do right, but--and then he hesitated. "but you don't see the sense of bribing poor people into sham piety with blankets." "well, no, i don't." "neither do i, doctor. there's a roman catholic family about three miles off, and the lady there gives premiums on going to mass, and still higher premiums on confession. she has won a great many converts; and there's a strong antagonism between her and helena--a most expensive warfare it is too, i assure you, this warfare for souls. however, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the poor profit by it, which is a consolation, only it makes them sneaks--it makes them sneaks and hypocrites. doctor, come into my study, will you, and let's have a weed?" the "study," as john stanburne called it, was a cosey little room, with oak wainscot that his grandfather had painted white. it contained a small bookcase, and the bookcase contained a good many novels, some books of poetry, a treatise on dog-breaking, a treatise on driving, and a treatise on fishing. the novels were very well selected, and so was the poetry; and john stanburne had read all these books, many of them over and over again. such literary education as he possessed had been mainly got out of that bookcase; and though he had no claim to erudition, a man's head might be worse furnished than with such furniture as that. there was a splendid library at wenderholme--a big room lined with the backs of books as the other rooms were lined with paper or wainscot; and when stanburne wanted to know something he went there, and disturbed his ponderous histories and encyclopã¦dias; but he _used_ the little bookcase more than the big library. he could not read either latin or greek. few men can read latin and greek, and of the few who can, still fewer do read them; but his french was very much above the usual average of english french--that is, he spoke fluently, and would no doubt have spoken correctly if only he could have mastered the conjugations and genders, and imitated the peculiar gallic sounds. the society of ladies is always charming, but it must be admitted that there is an hour especially dear to the male sex, and which does not owe its delightfulness to their presence. it is the hour of retirement into the smoking-room. when the lady of the house has a tendency to make the weight of her authority felt (and this will sometimes happen), the male members of her family and their guests feel a schoolboyish sense of relief in escaping from it; but even when she is very genial and pleasant, and when everybody enjoys the light of her countenance, it must also be confessed that the timely withdrawal of that light, like the hour of sunset, hath a certain sweetness of its own. "my wife's always very good about letting me sit here, and smoke and talk as long as i like with my friends, after she's gone to bed," said colonel stanburne. "you smile because i seem to value a sort of goodness that seems only natural, but that's on account of your old-bachelorish ignorance of womankind. there are married men who no more dare sit an hour with a cigar when their wives are gone to bed than they dare play billiards on sunday. now, for instance, i was staying this autumn with a friend of mine in another county, and about ten o'clock his wife went to bed. he and i wanted to talk over a great many things. we had been old school-fellows, and we had travelled together when we were both bachelors, and we knew lots of men that his wife knew nothing about, and each of us wanted to hear all the news that the other had to tell; so he just ventured, the first night i was there, to ask me into his private study and offer me a cigar. well, we had scarcely had time to light when his wife's maid knocks at the door and says, 'please, sir, missis wishes to see you;' so he promised to go, and began to look uncomfortable, and in five minutes the girl came again, and she came three times in a quarter of an hour. after that came the lady herself, quite angry, and ordered her husband to bed, just as if he had been a little boy; and though he seemed cool, and didn't stir from his chair, it was evident that he was afraid of her, and he solemnly promised to go in five minutes. at the expiration of the five minutes in she bursts again (she had been waiting in the passage--perhaps she may have been listening at the door), and held out her watch without one word. the husband got up like a sheep, and said 'good-night, john,' and she led him away just like that; and i sat and smoked by myself, thinking what a pitiable spectacle it was. now my wife is not like that; she will have her way about her blankets, but she's reasonable in other respects." they sat very happily for two hours, talking about the regiment that was to be. suddenly, about midnight, a large watch-dog that inhabited a kennel on that side of the house began to bark furiously, and there was a cry, as of some woman or child in distress. the colonel jumped out of his chair, and threw the window open. the two men listened attentively, but it was too dark to see any thing. at length colonel stanburne said, "let us go out and look about a little--that was a human cry, wasn't it?" so he lighted a lantern, and they went. there was a thick wood behind the house of wenderholme, and this wood filled a narrow ravine, in the bottom of which was a little stream, and by the stream a pathway that led up to the open moor. this moor continued without interruption over a range of lofty hills, or, to speak more strictly, over a sort of plateau or table-land, till it terminated at the enclosed pasture-lands near shayton. john stanburne and the doctor walked first along this pathway. the watch-dog's kennel was close to the path, at a little green wooden gate, where it entered the garden. the dog, hearing his master's step, came out of his kennel, much excited with the hope of a temporary release from the irksomeness of his captivity; but his master only caressed and spoke to him a little, and passed on. then he began to talk to the doctor. the sound of his voice reached the ears of a third person, who came out of the wood, and began to follow them on the path. the doctor became aware that they were followed, and they stopped. the colonel turned his lantern, and the light of it fell full upon the intruder. "why, it's a mere child," said the colonel. "but what on earth's the matter with the doctor?" certainly that eccentric doctor _did_ behave in a most remarkable manner. he snatched the lantern from the colonel's hand without one word of apology, and having cast its beams on the child's face, threw it down on the ground, and seized the vagrant in his arms. "the doctor's mad," thought the colonel, as he picked up the lantern. "why, _it's little jacob_!" cried dr. bardly. but this conveyed nothing to the mind of the colonel. what did he know about little jacob? meanwhile the lad was telling his tale to his friend. father had beaten him so, and he'd run away. "please, doctor, don't send me back again." the child's feet were bare, and icy cold, and covered with blood. his clothes were wet up to the waist. his little dog was with him. "it's a little boy that's a most particular friend of mine," said the doctor; "and he's been very ill-used. we must take care of him. i must beg a night's lodging for him in the house." they took him into the colonel's study, before the glowing fire. "now, what's to be done?" said the colonel. "it's lucky you're a doctor." "let us undress him and warm him first. we can do every thing ourselves. there is a most urgent reason why no domestic should be informed of his being here. his existence here must be kept secret." the colonel went to his dressing-room and brought towels. then he set some water on the fire in a kettle. the doctor took the wet things off, and examined the poor little lacerated feet. he rubbed little jacob all over with the towels most energetically. the colonel, whose activity was admirable to witness, fetched a tub from somewhere, and they made arrangements for a warm bath. "one person must be told about this," said dr. bardly, "and that's lady helena. go and tell her now. ask her to get up and come here, and warn her not to rouse any of the servants." her ladyship made her appearance in a few minutes in a dressing-gown. "lady helena," said the doctor, "you're wanted as a nurse. this child requires great care for the next twenty-four hours, and you must do every thing for him with your own hands. is there a place in the house where he can be lodged out of the way of the servants?" lady helena had no boys of her own. she had had one little girl at the beginning of her married life, who had lived, and was now at wenderholme, comfortably sleeping in the prettiest of little beds, in a large and healthy nursery in the left wing of the building. she had had two little boys since, but _they_ were both sleeping in wenderholme churchyard. when she saw little jacob in his tub, the tears came into her eyes, and she was ready to be his nurse as long as ever he might have need of her. "i'll tell you all about him, lady helena, when we've put him to bed." little jacob sat in his tub looking at the kind, strange lady, and feeling himself in a state of unrealizable bliss. "you must be very tired and very hungry, my poor child," she said. little jacob said he was very hungry, but he didn't feel tired now. he had felt tired in the wood, but he didn't feel tired now in the tub. the boy being fairly put to bed, female curiosity could not wait till the next day, and she sought out the doctor, who was still with the colonel in his study. "i beg to be excused, gentlemen," she said, "for intruding in this room in an unauthorized manner, but i want to know all about that little boy." the doctor told his history very minutely, and the history of his father. then he added, "i believe the only possible chance of saving his father from killing himself with drinking is to leave him for some time under the impression that the boy, having been driven away by his cruelty, has died from exposure on the moor. this may give him a horror of drinking, and may effect a permanent cure. there is another thing to be considered, the child's own safety. if we send him back to his father, i will not answer for his life. the father is already in a state of hirritability bordering on insanity--in fact he is partially insane; and if the child is put under his power before there has been time to work a thorough cure, it is likely that he will beat him frequently and severely--he may even kill him in some paroxysm of rage. if isaac ogden knew that the child were here, and claimed him to-morrow, i believe it would be your duty not to give him up, and i should urge his uncle to institute legal proceedings to deprive the father of the guardianship. a man in isaac ogden's state is not fit to have a child in his power. he has beaten him very terribly already,--his body is all bruises; and now if we send him back, he will beat him again for having run away." these reasons certainly had great weight, but both the colonel and lady helena foresaw much difficulty in keeping the child at wenderholme without his presence there becoming immediately known. his disappearance would make a noise, not only at shayton, but at sootythorn, and everywhere in the neighborhood. the relations of the child were in easy circumstances, and a heavy reward would probably be offered, which the servants at wenderholme hall could scarcely be expected to resist, still less the villagers in the neighboring hamlet. it would be necessary to find some very solitary person, living in great obscurity, to whose care little jacob might be safely confided--at any rate, for a few days. lady helena suggested two old women who lived together in a sort of almshouse of hers on the estate, but the colonel said they were too fond of gossip, and received too many visitors, to be trusted. at last the doctor's countenance suddenly brightened, and he said that he knew where to hide little jacob, but where that was he positively refused to tell. all he asked for was, that the child should be kept a close prisoner in the colonel's sanctum for the next twenty-four hours, and that the colonel would lend him a horse and gig--_not_ a tandem. chapter x. christmas at milend. it is quite unnecessary to inform the reader where dr. bardly had determined to hide little jacob. his resolution being decidedly taken, the colonel and he waited till the next night at half-past twelve, and then, without the help of a single servant, they harnessed a fast-trotting mare to a roomy dog-cart. little jacob and feorach were put where the dogs were kept on shooting expeditions. and both fell asleep together. it was six o'clock in the morning when the doctor arrived at his destination. mr. isaac ogden, whose wretchedness the reader pities perhaps as much as the doctor did, continued his researches for some weeks in a discouraged and desultory way, but little jacob was perfectly well hidden. mrs. ogden had been admitted into the secret by the doctor, and approved of his policy of concealment. under pretext of a journey to manchester with dr. bardly, to consult an eminent physician there, she absented herself two days from milend and went to visit her grandson. the truth was also known to jacob ogden, senior, who supported his mother's resolution, which would certainly have broken down without him. it pained her to see her son isaac in the misery of a bereavement which he supposed to be eternal. the doctor took a physiological view of the case, and argued that time was a necessary condition of success. "we aren't sure of having saved him yet," said the doctor: "we must persevere till his constitution has got past the point of craving for strong drink altogether." matters remained in this state until christmas eve. periodical festivals are highly agreeable institutions for happy people, who have the springs of merriment within them, ready to gush forth on any pretext, or on the strength of simple permission to gush forth; but it is difficult for a man oppressed by a persistent weight of sorrow to throw it off because the almanac has brought itself to a certain date, and it is precisely at the times of general festivity that such a man feels his burden heaviest. it may be observed also, that as a man, or a society of men, approaches the stage of maturity and reflection, the events of life appear more and more to acquire the power of coloring the whole of existence; so that the faculty of being merry at appointed times, and its converse, the faculty of weeping at appointed times, both give place to a continual but quiet sadness, from which we never really escape, even for an hour, though we may still be capable of a manly fortitude, and retain a certain elasticity, or the appearance of it. in a word, our happiness and misery are no longer alternative and acute, but coexist in a chronic form, so that it has ceased to be natural for men to wear sackcloth and heap ashes on their heads, and sit in the dust in their wretchedness; and it has also ceased to be natural for them to crown themselves with flowers, and anoint themselves with the oil of gladness, and clothe themselves in the radiance of purple and cloth-of-gold. no hour of life is quite miserable enough or hopeless enough for the sackcloth and the ashes--no hour of life is brilliant enough for the glorious vesture and the flowery coronal. a year before, isaac ogden would have welcomed the christmas festivities as a legitimate occasion for indulgence in his favorite vice, without much meditation (and in this perhaps he may have resembled some other very regular observers of the festival) on the history of the founder of christianity. but as it was no longer his desire to celebrate either this or any other festival of the church by exposing himself to a temptation which, for him, was the strongest and most dangerous of all temptations--and as the idea of a purely spiritual celebration was an idea so utterly foreign to the whole tenor of his thoughts and habits as never even to suggest itself to him--he had felt strongly disposed to shun christmas altogether,--that is, to escape from the outward and visible christmas to some place where the days might pass as merely natural days, undistinguished by any sign of national or ecclesiastical commemoration. he had determined, therefore, to go back to twistle farm, from which it seemed to him that he had been too long absent, and had announced this intention to the doctor. but when the doctor repeated it to mrs. ogden, she would not hear of any such violation of the customs and traditions of the family. her sons had always spent christmas eve together; and so long as she lived, she was firmly resolved that they always should. the pertinacity with which a determined woman will uphold a custom that she cherishes is simply irresistible--that is, unless the rebel makes up his mind to incur her perpetual enmity; and isaac ogden was less than ever in a condition of mind either to brave the hostility of his mother or wound her tenderer feelings. so it came to pass that on christmas eve he went to milend to tea. now on the tea-table there were some little cakes, and mrs. ogden, who had not the remotest notion of the sort of delicacy that avoids a subject because it may be painful to somebody present, and who always simply gave utterance to her thoughts as they came to her, observed that these little cakes were of her own making, and actually added, "they're such as i used makin' for little jacob--he was so fond on 'em." isaac ogden's feelings were not very sensitive, and he could bear a great deal; but he could not bear this. he set down his cup of tea untasted, gazed for a few seconds at the plateful of little cakes, and left the room. the doctor was there, but he said nothing. jacob ogden did not feel under any obligation to be so reticent. "mother," he said, "i think you needn't have mentioned little jacob--our isaac cannot bear it; he knows no other but what th' little un's dead, and he's as sore as sore." this want of delicacy in mrs. ogden arose from an all but total lack of imagination. she could sympathize with others if she suffered along with them--an expression which might be criticised as tautological, but the reader will understand what is meant by it. if mrs. ogden had had the toothache, she would have sympathized with the sufferings of another person similarly afflicted so long as her own pangs lasted; but if a drop of creosote or other powerful remedy proved efficacious in her own case, and released her from the torturing pain, she would have looked upon her fellow-sufferer as pusillanimous, if after that she continued to exhibit the outward signs of torment. therefore, as she herself knew that little jacob was safe it was now incomprehensible by her that his father should not feel equally at ease about him, though, as a matter of fact, she was perfectly well aware that he supposed the child to be irrecoverably lost. mrs. ogden, therefore, received her son jacob's rebuke with unfeigned surprise. she had said nothing to hurt isaac that she knew of--she "had only said that little jacob used being fond o' them cakes, and it was quite true." isaac did not return to the little party, and they began to wonder what had become of him. after waiting some time in silence, mrs. ogden left her place at the tea-tray, and went to a little sitting-room adjoining--a room the men were more accustomed to than any other in the house, and where indeed they did every thing but eat and sleep. mr. ogden had gone there from habit, as his mother expected, and there she found him sitting in a large rocking-chair, and gazing abstractedly into the fire. the chair rocked regularly but gently, and its occupant seemed wholly unconscious--not only of its motion, but of every other material circumstance that surrounded him. mrs. ogden laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said, "isaac, willn't ye come to your tea? we 're all waiting for you." the spell was broken, and ogden suddenly started to his feet. "give me my hat," he said, "and let me go to my own house. i'm not fit to keep christmas this year. how is a man to care about tea and cakes when he's murdered his own son? i'm best by myself; let me go up to twistle farm. d 'ye expect me to sing songs at supper, and drink rum-punch?" "there'll be no songs, and you needn't drink unless you like, but just come and sit with us, my lad--you always used spendin' christmas eve at milend, and christmas day too." "it signifies nought what i used doin'. isaac ogden isn't same as he used to be. he'd have done better, i reckon, if he'd altered a month or two sooner. there'd have been a little lad here then to make christmas merry for us all." "well, isaac, i'm very sorry for little jacob; but it cannot be helped now, you know, and it's no use frettin' so much over it." "mother," said isaac ogden, sternly, "it seems to me that _you're_ not likely to spoil your health by frettin' over my little lad. you take it very easy it seems to me, and my brother takes it easy too, and so does dr. bardly--but then dr. bardly was nothing akin to him. folk says that grandmothers care more for chilther than their own parents does; but you go on more like a stepmother nor a grandmother." this was hard for mrs. ogden to bear, and she was strongly tempted to reveal the truth, but she forebore and remained silent. ogden resumed,-"i cannot tell how you could find in your heart to bake them little cakes when th' child isn't here to eat 'em." the effort to restrain herself was now almost too much for mrs. ogden, since it was the fact that she had baked the said little cakes, or others exactly like them, and prepared various other dainties, for the especial enjoyment of master jacob, who at that very minute was regaling himself therewith in the privacy of his hiding-place. still she kept silent. after another pause, a great paroxysm of passionate regret seized ogden--one of those paroxysms to which he was subject at intervals, but which in the presence of witnesses he had hitherto been able to contend against or postpone. "oh, my little lad!" he cried aloud, "oh, my little innocent lad, that i drove away from me to perish! i'd give all i'm worth to see thee again, little 'un!" he suddenly stopped, and as the tears ran down his cheeks, he looked out of the window into the black night. "if i did but know," he said, slowly, and with inexpressible sadness--"mother, mother, if i did but know where his bits o' bones are lying!" it was not possible to witness this misery any longer. all dr. bardly's solemn injunctions, all dread of a possible relapse into the terrible habit, were forgotten. the mother had borne bitter reproaches, but she could not bear this agony of grief. "isaac," she said, "isaac, my son, listen to me: thy little lad is alive--he's alive and he's well, isaac." ogden did not seem to realize or understand this communication. at last he said, "i know what you mean, mother, and i believe it. he's alive in heaven, and he can ail nothing, and want nothing, there." "i hope he'll go there when he's an old man, but a good while after we go there ourselves, isaac." a great change spread over ogden's face, and he began to tremble from head to foot. he laid his hand on his mother's arm with a grasp of iron. his eyes dilated, the room swam round him, his heart suspended its action, and in a low hissing whisper, he said, "mother, have they found him?" "yes--and he's both safe and well." ogden rushed out of the house, and paced the garden-walk hurriedly from end to end. the intensity of his excitement produced a commotion in the brain that needed the counter-stimulus of violent physical movement. it seemed as if the roof of his skull must be lifted off, and for a few minutes there was a great crisis of the whole nervous system, to which probably his former habits may have more especially exposed him. when this was over, he came back into the house, feeling unusually weak, but incredibly calm and happy. mrs. ogden had told the doctor and mr. jacob what had passed, and the doctor without hesitation set off at once for his own house, where he ordered his gig, and drove away rapidly on the sootythorn road. "mother," said isaac, when he came in, "give me a cup of tea, will you?" "a glass of brandy would do you more good." "nay, mother, we've had enough of brandy, it will not do to begin again now." he sat down in evident exhaustion and drank the tea slowly, looking rather vacantly before him. then he laid his head back upon the chair and closed his eyes. the lips moved, and two or three tears ran slowly down the cheeks. at last he started suddenly, and, looking sharply round him, said, "where is he, where is he, mother? where is little jacob, my little lad, my lad, my lad?" "be quiet, isaac--try to compose yourself a little; dr. bardly's gone to fetch him. he'll be with us very soon." mr. ogden remained quietly seated for some minutes without speaking, and then, as his mind began to clear after the shock of the great emotion it had passed through, he asked who had found his boy, and where they had found him, and when. these questions were, of course, somewhat embarrassing to his mother, and she would probably have sheltered herself behind some clumsy invention, but her son jacob interposed. "the fact is, isaac, the loss of your little 'un seemed to be doin' you such a power o' good 'at it seemed a pity to spoil it by tellin' you. and it's my opinion as mother's let th' cat out o' th' bag three week too soon as it is." "do you mean to tell me," said isaac, "that you knew the child was found, and hid him from his own father?" "isaac, isaac, you mun forgive us," said the mother; "we did it for your good." "partly for his good, mother," interposed jacob, "but still more for th' sake o' that child. what made him run away from twistle farm, isaac ogden? answer me that." isaac remained silent. "do you fancy, brother isaac, that any consideration for your feelin's was to hinder us from doin' our duty by that little lad? what sort of a father is it as drives away a child like that with a horsewhip? thou was no more fit to be trusted with him nor a wolf wi' a little white lamb. if he'd been brought back to thee two days after, it 'ud a' been as much as his life was worth. and i'll tell thee what, isaac ogden, if ever it comes to my ears as you take to horse-whippin' him again, i'll go to law wi' you and get the guardianship of him into safer hands. there'd be little difficulty about that as it is. i've taken my measures--my witnesses are ready--i've consulted lawyers; and i tell you candidly, i mean to act at once if i see the least necessity for it. little jacob was miserable for many a week before you drove him out o' th' house, an' if we'd only known, you would never have had the chance." "nay, jacob," interposed mrs. ogden, "you're a bit too hard on isaac; he's the child's own father, and he had a right to punish him within reason." "father! father!" cried jacob, scornfully; "there isn't a man in shayton as isn't more of a father to our little un than isaac has been for many a month past. there isn't a man in shayton but what would have been kinder to a nice little lad like that than he has been. what signifies havin' begotten a child, if fatherin' it is to stop there?" at last isaac ogden lifted up his face and spoke. "brother jacob, you have said nothing but what is right and true, and you have all acted right both by me and him. but let us start fresh. i've turned over a new leaf; i'm not such as i used to be. i mean to be different, and to do different, and i will be a good father to that child. so help me god!" he held out his hand, and jacob took it and shook it heartily. the two brothers looked in each other's face, and there was more of brotherly affection in their look than there had ever been since the dissolution of their partnership in the cotton business, which had taken place some years before. mrs. ogden saw this with inexpressible pleasure. "that's right, lads--that's right, lads; god bless you! god bless both on you!" the customs of shayton were mighty, especially the custom of drinking a glass of port-wine on every imaginable occasion. if a shayton man felt sorry, he needed a glass of port-wine to enable him to support his grief; but if he felt glad, there arose at once such a feeling of true sympathy between his heart and that joyous generous fluid, that it needed some great material impediment to keep them asunder, and such an impediment was not to be found in any well-to-do shayton household, where decanters were always charged, and glasses ever accessible. so it was inevitable that on an occasion so auspicious as this mr. jacob ogden should drink a glass--or, more probably, two glasses--of port; and his mother, who did not object to the same refreshment, bore him company. "now isaac, lad, let's drink a glass to mother's good health." mr. ogden had not made any positive vow of teetotalism, and though there might be some danger in allowing himself to experience afresh, however slightly, the seductive stimulus of alcohol, whole centuries of tradition, the irresistible power of prevalent custom, and the deep pleasure he felt in the new sense of brotherly fellowship, made his soul yearn to the wine. "here's mother's good health. your good health, mother," he said, and drank. jacob repeated the words, and drank also, and thus in a common act of filial respect and affection did these brothers confirm and celebrate their perfect reconciliation. isaac now began to show symptoms of uneasiness and restlessness. he walked to the front door, and listened eagerly for wheels. "how fidgety he is, th' old lad!" said jacob; "it's no use frettin' an' fidgetin' like that; come and sit thee down a bit, an' be quiet." "how long will he be, mother?" before mrs. ogden could reply, isaac's excited ear detected the doctor's gig. he was out in the garden immediately, and passed bareheaded through the gate out upon the public road. two gig-lamps came along from the direction of sootythorn. he could not see who was in the gig, but something told him that little jacob was there, and his heart beat more quickly than usual. perhaps our little friend might have behaved himself somewhat too timidly on this occasion, but the doctor had talked to him on the road. he had explained to him, quite frankly, that mr. ogden's harshness had been wholly due to the irritable state of his nervous system, and that he would not be harsh any more, because he had given up drinking. he had especially urged upon little jacob that he must not seem afraid of his father; and as our hero was of a bold disposition, and had plenty of assurance, he was fully prepared to follow the doctor's advice. isaac ogden hails the gig; it stops, and little jacob is in his arms. "please, papa, i wish you a merry christmas and a happy new year!" little jacob's pony was sent for, and the next morning his father and he rode together up to twistle farm. until the man came for the pony, old sarah had not the faintest hope that little jacob was in existence, and the shock had nearly been too much for her. the messenger had simply said, "i'm comed for little jacob[10] tit." "and who wants it?" sarah said; for it seemed to her a desecration for any one else to mount that almost sacred animal. "why, little jacob wants it hissel, to be sure." and this (with some subsequent explanations of the most laconic description) was his way of breaking the matter delicately to old sarah. the old woman had never spent an afternoon, even the afternoon of christmas day, so pleasantly as she spent that. how she did toil and bustle about? the one drawback to her happiness was that she did not possess a christmas cake; but she set to work and made tea-cakes, and put such a quantity of currants in them that they were almost as good as a christmas cake. she lighted a fire in the parlor, and another in little jacob's room; and she took out the little night-gown that she had cried over many a time, and, strange to say, she cried over it this time too. and she arranged the small bed so nicely, that it looked quite inviting, with its white counterpane, and clean sheets, and bright brass knobs, and pretty light iron work painted blue. when all was ready, it occurred to her that since it was christmas time she would even attempt a little decoration; and as there were some evergreens at twistle farm, and some red berries, she went and gathered thereof, and attempted the adornment of the house--somewhat clumsily and inartistically, it must be confessed, yet not without giving it an air of festivity and rejoicing. she had proceeded thus far, and could not "bethink her" of any thing else that needed to be done, when, suddenly casting her eye on her own costume, she perceived that it was of the deepest black; for, being persuaded that the dear child was dead, she had so clothed herself out of respect for his memory. she held her sombre skirt out with both her hands as if to push it away from her, and exclaimed aloud, "i'll be shut o' _thee_, onyhow, and sharply too;" and she hurried upstairs to change it for the brightest garment in her possession, which was of sky-blue, spotted all over with yellow primroses. she also put on a cap of striking and elaborate magnificence, which the present writer does not attempt to describe, only because such an attempt would incur the certainty of failure. that cap had hardly been assumed and adjusted when it was utterly crushed and destroyed in a most inconsiderate manner. a sound of hoofs had reached old sarah's ears, and in a minute afterwards the cap was ruined in master jacob's passionate embraces. you may do almost any thing you like to a good-tempered old woman, so long as you do not touch her cap; and it is an undeniable proof of the strength of old sarah's affection, and of the earnestness of her rejoicing, that she not only made no remonstrance in defence of her head-dress, but was actually unaware of the irreparable injury which had been inflicted upon it. chapter xi. the colonel goes to shayton. the next time the doctor met colonel stanburne at sootythorn, he gave such a good account of mr. isaac ogden, that the colonel, who took a strong interest in little jacob, expressed the hope that mr. ogden would still join the regiment; though in the time of his grief and tribulation he had resigned his commission, or, to speak more accurately--for the commission had not yet been formally made out and delivered to him--he had withdrawn his name as a candidate for one. the colonel, in his friendly way, declared that the doctor was not a hospitable character. "i ask you to wenderholme every time i see you, and you come and stay sometimes, though not half often enough, but you never ask me to your house; and, by jove! if i want to be invited at all, i must invite myself." the doctor, who liked john stanburne better and better the more he knew of him, still retained the very erroneous notion that a certain state and style were essential to his happiness; and, notwithstanding many broad hints that he had dropped at different times on the subject, still hung back from asking him to a house where, though comfort reigned supreme, there was not the slightest pretension to gentility. the old middle-class manner of living still lingered in many well-to-do houses in shayton, and the doctor faithfully adhered to it. every thing about him was perfectly clean and decent, but he had not marched with the times; and whilst the attorneys and cotton-spinners in sootythorn and elsewhere had the chairs of their dining-rooms covered with morocco leather, and their drawing-rooms filled with all manner of glittering fragilities, and brussels carpets with pretty little tasteful patterns, and silver forks, and napkins, and a hundred other visible proofs of the advance of refinement, the worthy doctor had not kept up with them at all, but lagged behind by the space of about thirty years. he had no drawing-room; the chairs of his parlor were of an ugly and awkward pattern, and their seats were covered with horsehair; the carpet was cheap and coarse, with a monstrous pattern that no artistic person would have tolerated for a single day; and though the doctor possessed a silver punch-ladle and tea-pot, and plenty of silver spoons of every description, all the forks in the house were of steel! indeed, the doctor's knives and forks, which had belonged to his mother, or perhaps even to his grandmother, were quite a curiosity in their way. they had horn handles, of an odd indescribable conformation, supposed to adapt itself to the hollow of the hand, but which, from some misconception of human anatomy on the part of the too ingenious artificer, seemed always intended for the hand of somebody else. these handles were stained of such a brilliant green, that, in the slang of artists, they "killed" every green herb on the plate of him who made use of them. the forks had spring guards, to prevent the practitioner from cutting his left hand with the knife that he held in his right; and the knife had a strange round projection at what should have been the point, about the size of a shilling, which (horrible to relate!) had been originally designed to convey gravy and small fragments of viands, not prehensible by means of the two-pronged fork, into the human mouth! in addition to these strange relics of a bygone civilization the doctor possessed two large rocking-chairs, of the same color as the handles of his knives. the doctor loved a rocking-chair, in which he did but share a taste universally prevalent in shayton, and defensible on the profoundest philosophical grounds. the human creature loves repose, but a thousand causes may hinder the perfect enjoyment of it, and torment him into restlessness at the very time when he most longs for rest. he may sit down after the business of the day, and some mental or bodily uneasiness may make the quiet of the massive easy-chair intolerable to him. the easy-chair does not sympathize with him, does not respond to the fidgety condition of his nervous system; and yet he tries to sit down in it and enjoy it, for, though fidgety, he is also weary, and needs the comfort of repose. now, the rocking-chair--that admirable old lancashire institution--and the rocking-chair alone, responds to both these needs. if you are fidgety, you rock; if not, you don't. if highly excited, you rock boldly back, even to the extremity of danger; if pleasantly and moderately stimulated, you lull yourself with a gentle motion, like the motion that little waves give to a pleasure boat. it is true that the bolder and more emphatic manner of rocking has become impossible in these latter days, for the few upholsterers who preserve the tradition of the rocking-chair at all make it in such a highly genteel manner, that the rockers are diminished to the smallest possible arc; but the doctor troubled himself little concerning these achievements of fashionable upholstery, and regarded his old rocking-chairs with perfect satisfaction and complacency--in which, without desiring to offend against the decisions of the fashionable world, we cannot help thinking that he was right. a large green rocking-chair, with bold high rockers and a soft cushion like a small feather-bed, a long clay pipe quite clean and new, a bright copper spittoon, and a jug of strong ale,--these things, with the necessary concomitants of a briskly burning fire and an unlimited supply of tobacco, formed the ideal of human luxury and beatitude to a generation now nearly extinct, but of which the doctor still preserved the antique traditions. in substance often identical, but in outwardly visible means and appliances differing in every detail, the pleasures of one generation seem quaint and even ridiculous in comparison with the same pleasures as pursued by its successor. colonel stanburne smoked a pipe, but it was a short meerschaum, mounted in silver; and he also used a knife and fork, and used them skilfully and energetically, but they were not like the doctor's grandmother's knives and forks. and yet, when the colonel came to shayton, he managed to eat a very hearty dinner at one p.m. with the above-named antiquated instruments. after the celery and cheese, dr. bardly took one of the rocking-chairs, and made the colonel sit down in the other; and martha brought a fresh bottle of uncommonly fine old port, which she decanted on a table in the corner that did duty as a sideboard. when they had done full justice to this, the doctor ordered hot water; and martha, accustomed to this laconic command, brought also certain other fluids which were hot in quite a different sense. she also brought a sheaf of clay tobacco-pipes, about two feet six inches long, and in a state of the whitest virginity--emblems of purity! emblems, alas! at the same time, of all that is most fragile and most ephemeral! "nay, martha," said the doctor, "we don't want them clay pipes to-day. colonel stanburne isn't used to 'em, i reckon. bring that box of cigars that i bought the other day in manchester." the colonel, however, would smoke a clay pipe, and he tried to rock as the doctor did, and soon, by the effect of that curious sympathy which exists between rocking-chairs (or their occupants), the two kept time together like musicians in a duet, and clouds of the densest smoke arose from the two long tobacco-pipes. it had been announced to the inhabitants of the parsonage that the representative of the house of stanburne intended to call there that afternoon; and though it would be an exaggeration to state that the preparations for his reception were on a scale of magnificence, it is not an exaggeration to describe them as in every respect worthy of mrs. prigley's skill as a manager, and her husband's ingenuity and taste. new carpets they could _not_ buy, so it was no use thinking about them; and though mrs. prigley had indulged the hope that mrs. ogden's attention would be drawn to the state of her carpets by that accident with which the reader is already acquainted, so as to lead, it might be, to some act of generosity on her part, this result had not followed, and indeed had never suggested itself to mrs. ogden, who had merely resolved to look well to her feet whenever she ventured into the parlor at the parsonage, as on dangerous and treacherous ground. under these circumstances mrs. prigley gradually sank into that condition of mind which accepts as inevitable even the outward and visible signs of impecuniosity; and though an english lady must indeed be brought low before she will consent to see the boards of her floors in a condition of absolute nakedness, poor mrs. prigley had come down to this at last; and she submitted without a murmur when her husband expressed his desire that "that old rag" on the floor of the drawing-room might be removed out of his sight. when the deal boards were carpetless, mrs. prigley was proceeding with a sigh to replace the furniture thereon; but her husband desired that it might be lodged elsewhere for a few days, during which space of time he kept the door of the drawing-room locked, and spent two or three hours there every day in the most mysterious seclusion, to the neglect of his parochial duties. mrs. prigley in vain endeavored to discover the nature of his occupation there. she tried to look through the key-hole, but a flap of paper had been adapted to it on the inside to defeat her feminine curiosity; she went into the garden and attempted to look in at the window, but the blind was down, and as it was somewhat too narrow, slips of paper had been pasted on the glass down each side so as to make the interstice no longer available. the reverend master of the house endeavored to appear as frank and communicative as usual, by talking volubly on all sorts of subjects except the mystery of the drawing-room; but mrs. prigley did not consider it consistent with her self-respect to appear to take any interest in his discourse, and during all these days she preserved, along with an extreme gentleness of manner, the air of a person borne down by secret grief. an invisible line of separation had grown up between the two; and though both were perfectly courteous and polite, each felt that the days of mutual confidence were over. there was a difference, however, in their respective positions; for the parson felt tranquil in the assurance that the cloud would pass away, whereas his wife had no such assurance, and the future was dark before her. it is true, that, notwithstanding the outward serenity of her demeanor, mrs. prigley was sustained by the inward fires of wrath, which enable an injured woman to endure almost any extremity of mental misery and distress. we have seen that the shayton parson had that peculiar form of eccentricity which consists in the love of the beautiful. he had great projects for shayton church, which as yet lay hidden in the privacy of his own breast; and he had also projects for the parsonage, of which the realization, to the eye of reason and common-sense, would have appeared too remote to be entertained for an instant. but the enthusiasm for the beautiful does not wait to be authorized by the philistines,--if it _did_, it would wait till the end of all things; and mr. prigley, poor as he was, determined to have such a degree of beauty in his habitation as might be consistent with his poverty. without being an artist, or any thing approaching to an artist, he had practised the drawing of the simpler decorative forms, and was really able to combine them very agreeably. he could also lay a flat tint with a brush quite neatly, though he could not manage a gradation. when it had been finally decided that carpets could no longer be afforded, mr. prigley saw that the opportunity had come for the exercise of his talents; but he was far too wise a man to confide to his wife projects so entirely outside the orbit of her ideas. he had attempted, in former days, to inoculate her mind with the tastes that belong to culture, but he had been met by a degree of impenetrability which proved to him that the renewal of such attempts, instead of adding to his domestic happiness by creating closer community of ideas, might be positively detrimental to it, by proving too plainly the impossibility of such a community. mrs. prigley, like many good women of her class, was totally and absolutely devoid of culture of any kind. she managed her house admirably, and with a wonderful thrift and wisdom; she was an excellent wife in a certain sense, though more from duty than any great strength of affection; but beyond this and the church service, and three or four french phrases which she did not know how to pronounce, her mind was in such a state of darkness and ignorance as to astonish even her husband from time to time, though he had plenty of opportunities for observing it. but what _was_ he doing in the drawing-room? he was doing things unheard of in the shayton valley. in the days of his youth and extravagance he had bought a valuable book on etruscan design; and though, as we have said elsewhere, his taste and culture, though developed up to a certain point, were yet by no means perfect or absolutely reliable, still he could not but feel the singular simplicity and grace of that ancient art, and he determined that the decoration of his drawing-room should be etruscan. on the wide area of the floor he drew a noble old design, and stained it clearly in black and red; and, when it was dry, rubbed linseed-oil all over it to fix it. the effect was magnificent! the artist was delighted with his performance! but on turning his eye from the perfect unity of the floor, with its centre and broad border, to the old paper on the walls, which was covered with a representation of a brown angler fishing in a green river, with a blue hill behind him, and an equally blue church-steeple, and a cow who had eaten so much grass that it had not only fattened her but colored her with its own greenness--and when the parson counted the number of copies of this interesting landscape that adorned his walls, and saw that they numbered sixscore and upwards--then he felt that he had too much of it, and boldly resolved to abolish it. he looked at all the wall-papers in the shop at shayton, but the endurable ones were beyond his means, and the cheap ones were not endurable--so he purchased a quantity of common brown parcel-paper, of which he took care to choose the most agreeable tint; and he furtively covered his walls with _that_, conveying the paper, a few sheets at a time, under his topcoat. when the last angler had disappeared, the parson began to feel highly excited at the idea of decorating all that fresh and inviting surface. he would have a frieze--yes, he would certainly have a frieze; and he set to work, and copied long etruscan processions. then the walls must be divided into compartments, and each compartment must have its chosen design, and the planning and the execution of this absorbed mr. prigley so much, that for three weeks he did not write a single new sermon, and, i am sorry to say, scarcely visited a single parishioner except in cases of pressing necessity. as the days were so short, he took to working by candle-light; and when once he had discovered that it was possible to get on in this way, he worked till two o'clock in the morning. he made himself a cap-candlestick, and with this crest of light on the top of his head, and the fire of enthusiasm inside it, forgot the flying hours. the work was finished at last. it was not perfect; a good critic might have detected many an inaccuracy of line, and some incongruousness in the juxtaposition of designs, which, though all antique and etruscan, were often of dissimilar epochs. but, on the whole, the result justified the proud satisfaction of the workman. the room would be henceforth marked with the sign of culture and of taste: it was a little temple of the muse in the midst of a barbarian world. but what would mrs. prigley say? the parson knew that he had done a bold deed, and he rather trembled at the consequence. "my love," he said, one morning at breakfast-time, "i've finished what i was doing in the drawing-room, and you can put the furniture back when you like; but i should not wish to have any thing hung upon the walls--they are sufficiently decorated as it is. the pictures" (by which mr. prigley meant sundry worthless little lithographs and prints)--"the pictures may be hung in one of the bedrooms wherever you like." mrs. prigley remained perfectly silent, and her husband did not venture to ask her to accompany him into the scene of his artistic exploits. he felt that in case she did not approve what he had done, the situation might become embarrassing. so, immediately after breakfast, he walked forth into the parish, and said that he should probably dine with mr. jacob ogden, who (by his mother's command) had kindly invited him to do so whenever he happened to pass milend about one o'clock in the day. and in this way the parson managed to keep out of the house till tea-time. it was not that mr. prigley dreaded any criticism, for to criticise, one must have an opinion. mrs. prigley on these matters had not an opinion. all that mr. prigley dreaded was the anger of the offended spouse--of the spouse whom he had not even gone through the formality of seeming to consult. he was punished, but not as he had expected to be punished. mrs. prigley said nothing to him on the subject; but when they went into the drawing-room together at night, she affected not to perceive that he had done any thing whatever there. not only did she not speak about these changes, but, though mr. prigley watched her eyes during the whole evening to see whether they would rest upon his handiwork, they never seemed to perceive it, even for an instant. she played the part she had resolved upon with marvellous persistence and self-control. she seemed precisely as she had always been:--sulky? not in the least; there was not the slightest trace of sulkiness, or any thing approaching to sulkiness in her manner--the etruscan designs were simply invisible for her, that was all. they were not so invisible for the colonel when he came to pay his visit at the parsonage, and, in his innocence, he complimented mrs. prigley on her truly classical taste. he had not the least notion that the floor was carpetless because the prigleys could not afford a carpet--the degree of poverty which could not afford a carpet not being conceivable by him as a possible attribute of one of his relations or friends. he believed that this beautiful etruscan design was preferred by mrs. prigley to a carpet--to the best of carpets--on high ã¦sthetic grounds. ah! if he could have read her heart, and seen therein all the shame and vexation that glowed like hidden volcanic fires! all these classical decorations seemed to the simple lady a miserable substitute for the dear old carpet with its alternate yellow flourish and brown lozenge; and she regretted the familiar fisherman whose image used to greet her wherever her eyes might rest. but she felt a deeper shame than belongs to being visibly poor or visibly ridiculous. the room looked poor she knew, and in her opinion it looked ridiculous also; but there was something worse than that, and harder far to bear. how shall i reveal this bitter grief and shame--how find words to express the horror i feel for the man who was its unpardonable cause! carried away by his enthusiasm for a profane and heathen art, mr. prigley had actually introduced, in the frieze and elsewhere, several figures which--well, were divested of all drapery whatever! "and he a clergyman, too!" thought mrs. prigley. true, they were simply outlined; and the conception of the original designer had been marvellously elegant and pure, chastened to the last degree by long devotion to the ideal; but there they were, these shameless nymphs and muses, on the wall of a christian clergyman! john stanburne, who had travelled a good deal, and who had often stayed in houses where there were both statues and pictures, saw nothing here but the evidence of cultivated taste. "what _will_ he think of us?" said mrs. prigley to herself; and she believed that his compliments were merely a kind way of trying to make her feel less uncomfortable. she thought him very nice, and he chattered as pleasantly as he possibly could, so that the doctor, who had come with him, had no social duty to perform, and spent his time in studying the etruscan decorations. colonel stanburne apologized for lady helena, who had intended to come with him; but her little girl was suffering from an attack of fever--not a dangerous fever, he hoped, though violent. the doctor, who had not before heard of this, was surprised; but as he did not visit wenderholme professionally (for wenderholme hall was, medically speaking, under the authority of the surgeon at rigton, whose jealousy was already awakened by our doctor's intimacy with the colonel), he reflected that it was no business of his. the fact was, that little miss stanburne was in the enjoyment of the most perfect health, but her mother thought it more prudent to let the colonel go to shayton by himself in the first instance, so as to be able to regulate her future policy according to his report. mr. prigley came in before the visitor had exhausted the subject of the fever, which he described with an accuracy that took in these two very experienced people; for he described from memory--his daughter having suffered from such an attack about six months earlier than the very recent date the colonel found it convenient to assign to it. it was, of course, a great satisfaction to the prigleys that the head of the stanburnes should thus voluntarily renew a connection which, so far as personal intercourse was concerned, was believed to have been permanently severed. it was not simply because the colonel was a man of high standing in the county that they were glad to become acquainted with him--there were certain clannish and romantic sentiments which now found a satisfaction long denied to them. mrs. prigley felt, in a minor degree, what a highland gentlewoman still feels for the chief of her clan; and she was disposed to offer a sort of loyalty to the colonel as the head of her house, which was very different from the common respect for wealth and position in general. the stanburnes had never taken any conspicuous part in the great events of english history, but the successive representatives of the family had at least been present in many historical scenes, in conflicts civil and military, on the field, on the quarter-deck of the war-ship, in stormy parliamentary struggles; and the present chief of the name, for other descendants of the family, inherited in an especial sense a place in the national life of england. not that mrs. prigley had any definite notions even about the history of her own family; the sentiment of birth is quite independent of historical knowledge, and many a good gentlewoman in these realms is in a general way proud of belonging to an old family, without caring to inquire very minutely into the history of it, just as she may be proud of her coat-of-arms without knowing any thing about heraldry. the colonel, in a very kind and graceful manner, expressed his regret that such near relations should have been separated for so long by an unfortunate dispute between their fathers. "i believe," he said, "that your side has most to forgive, since my father won the lawsuit, but surely we ought not to perpetuate ill-feeling, generation after generation." mr. prigley said that no ill-feeling remained; but that though he had often wished to see wenderholme and its owner, he knew that, as a rule, poor relations were liked best at a distance, and that not having hitherto had the pleasure of knowing colonel stanburne, he must be held excusable for having supposed him to be like the rest of the world. john stanburne was not quite satisfied with this somewhat formal and dignified assurance, and was resolved to establish a more intimate footing before he left the parsonage. he exerted himself to talk about ecclesiastical matters and church architecture, and when mr. prigley offered to show him the church, accompanied him thither with great apparent interest and satisfaction. the doctor had patients to visit, and went his own way. chapter xii. ogden's new mill. our jacob, or big jacob, or jacob at milend, as he now began to be called in the ogden family, to distinguish him from his nephew and homonym, had arrived at that point in the career of every successful cotton-spinner when a feeling of great embarrassment arises as to the comparative wisdom of purchasing an estate or "laying down a new mill." when his brother isaac retired from the concern with ten thousand pounds, jacob had not precisely cheated him, perhaps, but he had made a bargain which, considered prospectively, was highly favorable to his own interest; and since he had been alone, the profits from the mill had been so considerable that his savings had rapidly accumulated, and he was now troubled with a very heavy balance at his bankers, and in various investments, which, to a man accustomed to receive the large interest of successful cotton-spinning, seemed little better than letting money lie idle. mrs. ogden had three hundred a-year from five or six very small farms of her own, which she had inherited from her mother, and this amply sufficed for the entire expenses of the little household at milend. jacob spent about a hundred and fifty pounds a-year on himself personally, of which two-thirds were absorbed in shooting,--the only amusement he cared about. his tailor's bill was incredibly small, for he had the excuse, when in shayton, of being constantly about the mill, and it was natural that he should wear old fustian and corduroy there; and as for his journeys to manchester, it was his custom on these occasions to wear the suit which had been the sunday suit of the preceding year. his mother knitted all his stockings for him, and made his shirts, these being her usual occupations in an evening. his travelling expenses were confined to the weekly journeys to manchester, and as these were always on business, they were charged to the concern. if jacob ogden had not been fond of shooting, his personal expenses, beyond food and lodging (which were provided for him by his mother), would not have exceeded fifty pounds a-year; and it is a proof of the great firmness of his character in money matters that, although by nature passionately fond of sport, he resolutely kept the cost of it within the hundred. his annual outlay upon literature was within twenty shillings; not that it is to be supposed that he spent so large a sum as one pound sterling in a regular manner upon books, but he had been tempted by a second-hand copy of baine's 'history of lancashire,' which, being much the worse for wear, had been marked by the bookseller at five pounds, and jacob ogden, by hard bargaining, had got it for four pounds nine shillings and ninepence. after this extravagance he resolved to spend no more "foolish money," as he called it, and for several years made no addition to his library, except a book on dog-breeding, and a small treatise on the preservation of game, which he rightly entered amongst his expenses as a sportsman. we are far from desiring to imply that jacob ogden is in this respect to be considered a representative example of the present generation of cotton-manufacturers, many of whom are highly educated men, but he may be fairly taken as a specimen of that generation which founded the colossal fortunes that excite the wonder, and sometimes, perhaps, awaken the envy, of the learned. when nature produces a creature for some especial purpose, she does not burden it with wants and desires that would scatter its force and impair its efficiency. the industrial epoch had to be inaugurated, the manufacturing districts had to be created--and to do this a body of men were needed who should be fresh springs of pure energy, and reservoirs of all but illimitable capital; men who should act with the certainty and steadiness of natural instincts which have never been impaired by the hesitations of culture and philosophy--men who were less nearly related to university professors than to the ant, and the beaver, and the bee. and if any cultivated and intellectual reader, in the thoughtful retirement of his library, feels himself superior to jacob ogden, the illiterate cotton-spinner, he may be reminded that he is not on all points ogden's superior. we are all but tools in the hands of god; and as in the mind of a writer great delicacy and flexibility are necessary qualities for the work he is appointed to do, so in the mind of a great captain of industry the most valuable qualities may be the very opposite of these. have we the energy, the directness, the singleness of purpose, the unflinching steadiness in the dullest possible labor, that mark the typical industrial chief? we know that we have not; we know that these qualities are not compatible with the tranquillity of the studious temperament and the meditative life. and if the ogdens cannot be men of letters, neither can the men of letters be ogdens. it is admitted, then, that jacob ogden was utterly and irreclaimably illiterate. he really never read a book in his life, except, perhaps, that book on dog-breaking. whenever he tried to read, it was a task and a labor to him; and as literature is not of the least use in the cotton trade, the energy of his indomitable will had never been brought to bear upon the mastery of a book. and yet you could not meet him without feeling that he was very intelligent--that he possessed a kind of intelligence cultivated by the closest observation of the men and things within the narrow circle of his life. has it never occurred to the reader how wonderfully the most illiterate people often impress us with a sense of their intelligence--how men and women who never learned the alphabet have its light on their countenance and in their eyes? in ogden's face there were clear signs of that, and of other qualities also. and there was a keenness in the glance quite different from the penetration of the thinker or the artist--a keenness which always comes from excessively close and minute attention to money matters, and from the passionate love of money, and which no other passion or occupation ever produces. in all that related to money jacob ogden acted with the pitiless regularity of the irresistible forces of nature. as the sea which feeds the fisherman will drown him without remorse--as the air which we all breathe will bury us under heaps of ruin--so this man, though his capital enabled a multitude to live, would take the bed from under a sick debtor, and, rather than lose an imperceptible atom of his fortune, inflict the utmost extremity of misery. even hanby, his attorney, who was by no means tender-hearted, had been staggered at times by his pitilessness, and had ventured upon a feeble remonstrance. on these occasions a shade of sternness was added to the keenness of ogden's face, and he repeated a terrible maxim, which, with one or two others, guided his life: "if a man means to be rich, he must have no fine feelings;" and then he would add, "_i_ mean to be rich." perhaps he would have had fine feelings on a sunday, for on sundays he was religious, and went to church, where he heard a good deal about being merciful and forgiving which on week-days he would have attributed to the influence of the sentiments which he despised. but ogden was far too judicious an economist of human activities to be ignorant of the great art of self-adaptation to the duties and purposes of the hour; and as a prudent lawyer who has a taste for music will take care that it shall not interfere with his professional work, so jacob ogden, who really had rather a taste for religion, and liked to sit in church with gloved hands and a clean face, had no notion of allowing the beautiful sentiments which he heard there to paralyze his action on a week-day. every sunday he prayed repeatedly that god would forgive him his debts or trespasses as he forgave his debtors or those that trespassed against him; but that was no reason why he should not, from monday morning to saturday night inclusively, compel everybody to pay what he owed, and distress him for it if necessary. after all, he acted so simply and instinctively that one can hardly blame him very severely. the truest definition of him would be, an incarnate natural force. the forces of wealth, which are as much natural forces as those of fire and frost, had incarnated themselves in him. his sympathy with money was so complete, he had so entirely subjected his mind to it, so thoroughly made himself its pupil and its mouth-piece, that it is less accurate to say that he _had_ money than that he _was_ money. jacob ogden was a certain sum of money whose unique idea was its own increase, and which acted in obedience to the laws of wealth as infallibly as a planet acts in obedience to the cosmic forces. it is only natural that a man so endowed and so situated should grow rich. in all respects circumstances were favorable to him. he had robust health and indefatigable energy. his position in a little place like shayton, where habits of spending had not yet penetrated, was also greatly in his favor, because it sheltered him in undisturbed obscurity. no man who is born to wealth, and has lived from his infancy in the upper class, will confine his expenditure during the best years of manhood to the pittance which sufficed for ogden. it was an advantage to him, also, that his mind should be empty, because he needed all the room in it for the endless details concerning his property and his trade. no fact of this nature, however minute, escaped him. his knowledge of the present state of all that belonged to him was so clear and accurate, and his foresight as to probable changes so sure, that he anticipated every thing, and neutralized every cause of loss before it had time to develop itself. that a man whose daily existence proved the fewness of his wants should have an eager desire for money, may appear one of the inconsistencies of human nature; but in the case of jacob ogden, and in thousands of cases similar to his, there is no real inconsistency. he did not desire money in order to live luxuriously; he desired it because the mere possession of it brought increased personal consideration, and gave him weight and importance in the little community he lived in. and when a man relies on wealth _alone_ for his position--when he is, obviously, not a gentleman--he needs a great quantity of it. another reason why jacob ogden never felt that he had enough was because the men with whom he habitually compared himself, and whom he wished to distance in the race, did not themselves remain stationary, but enriched themselves so fast that it needed all jacob ogden's genius for money-getting to keep up with them; for men of talent in every order compare themselves with their equals and rivals, and not with the herd of the incapable. it was his custom to go to manchester in the same railway carriage with four or five men of business, who talked of nothing but investments, and it would have made jacob ogden miserable not to be able to take a share in these conversations on terms of perfect equality. "i'm sure," thought mrs. ogden, "that our jacob's got something on his mind. he sits and thinks a deal more than he used doin'. he's 'appen[11] fallen in love, an' doesn't like to tell me about it, because it's same as tellin' me to leave milend." mrs. ogden was confirmed in her suspicions that very evening by the fact that "our jacob" shut himself up in the little sitting-room with a builder. "if it's to build himself a new 'ouse and leave me at milend, i willn't stop; and if it's to build me a new 'ouse, i shall never live there. i shall go an' live i' th' cream-pot." the idea of mrs. ogden living in a cream-pot may appear to some readers almost as mythical as the story of that other and much more famous old lady who lived in a shoe; but although a cream-pot would not be a bad place to live in if one were a mouse, and the rich fluid not dangerously deep, it is not to be supposed that mrs. ogden entertained such a project in an obvious and literal sense. her intentions were rational, but they need a word of explanation. she possessed a small farm called the cream-pot; and of all her small farms this was her best beloved. therefore had she resolved, years and years before, that when jacob married she would go to the cream-pot, and dwell there for the days that might remain to her. she waited till the builder had gone, and then went into the little room. jacob was busy examining a plan. "i wish you wouldn't trouble yourself about that buildin', jacob," said mrs. ogden; "there needs no buildin', for as soon as ever you get wed i shall go to th' cream-pot." her son looked up from his plan with an air of the utmost astonishment. mrs. ogden continued,-"i think you might have told me about it a little sooner. i don't even know her name, not positively, though i may guess it, perhaps. there's no doubt about one thing--you'll have time enough to repent in. as they make their bed, so they must lie." "what the devil," said jacob, thinking aloud and _very_ loudly,--"what the devil is th' ould woman drivin' at?" "nay, if i'm to be sworn at, i've been too long i' this 'ouse already." and mrs. ogden, with that stately step which distinguished her, made slowly for the door. in cases where the lady of a house acts in a manner which is altogether absurd, the male or males, whose comfort is in a great degree dependent upon her good temper, have a much better chance of restoring it than when she is but moderately unreasonable. they are put upon their guard; they are quite safe from that most fatal of errors, an attempt to bring the lady round by those too direct arguments which are suggested by masculine frankness; they are warned that judicious management is necessary. thus, although jacob ogden, in the first shock of his astonishment, had not replied to his mother in a manner precisely calculated to soothe her, he at once perceived his error, and saw that she must be brought round. in politer spheres, where people beg pardon of each other for the most trifling and even imaginary offences, the duty of begging pardon is so constantly practised that (like all well-practised duties) it is extremely easy. but it was impossible for jacob ogden, who had never begged pardon in his life. "i say, mother, stop a bit. you've gotten a bit o' brass o' your own, an' i'm layin' down a new mill, and i shall want o' th'[12] brass i can lay my hands on. i willn't borrow none, out of this 'ouse, not even of my brother isaac; but if you could lend me about four thousand pound, i could give a better finish to th' new shed." "why, jacob, you never told me as you were layin' down a new mill." "no, but i should a' done if you'd a' waited a bit i never right made up my mind about it while last night." it was not jacob ogden's custom to be confidential with his mother about money matters, and she on her part had been too proud to seek a confidence that was never offered; but many little signs had of late led her to the conclusion that jacob was in a period of unusual prosperity. he had bought one or two small estates for three or four thousand pounds each, and then had suddenly declared that he would lay out no more money in "potterin' bits o' property like them, but keep it while he'd a good lump for summat o' some use." the decision about the new mill proved to mrs. ogden that the "lump" in question was already accumulated. "jacob," she said, "how much do you reckon to put into th' new mill?" "why, 'appen about forty thousand; an' if you'll lend me four, that'll be forty-four." this was a larger sum than mrs. ogden had hoped; but she showed no sign of rejoicing beyond a quiet smile. "and where do you think of buildin' it?" "well, mother, if you don't mind sellin' me little mouse field, it's the best mill-site in all shayton. there's that water-course so handy; and it'll increase the valley[13] of our land round about it." mrs. ogden was perfectly soothed by this time. jacob wanted to borrow four thousand pounds of her. she had coal under her little farms, of which the accumulated produce had reached rather more than that amount; and she promised the loan with a facetious hope that the borrower would be able to give her good security. as to little mouse field, he was quite welcome to it, and she begged him to accept it as a present. "nay, mother; you shouldn't give me no presents bout[14] givin' summat to our isaac. but i reckon it's all one; for all as i have, or shall have, 'll go to little jacob." "eh, how you talk, lad! why, you'll get wed an' have chilther of your own. you're young enough, an' well off beside." "there's no need for me to get wed, mother, so long as th' old woman lasts, an' who'll last a long while yet, i reckon. there's none o' these young ladies as is kerfle enough to do for a man like me as has been accustomed to see his house well managed. why, they cannot neither make a shirt nor a puddin'." these disparaging remarks concerning the "girl of the period" filled (as they were designed to fill) mrs. ogden's mind with tranquillity and satisfaction. to complete her good-humor, jacob unrolled the plans and elevation of his new mill. the plans were most extensive, but the elevation did not strike the spectator by its height; for as the site was not costly, jacob ogden had adopted a system then becoming prevalent in the smaller towns of the manufacturing districts, where land was comparatively cheap--the system of erecting mills rather as sheds than on the old five-storied model. his new mill was simply a field walled in and roofed over, with a tall engine house and an enormous chimney at one end. people of ã¦sthetic tastes would see nothing lovely in the long straight lines of roofs and rows of monotonously identical windows which displayed themselves on the designs drawn by ogden's architect; but to ogden's eyes there was a beauty here greater than that of the finest cathedral he had ever beheld. he was not an imaginative person; but he had quite enough imagination to realize the vista of the vast interior, the roar of the innumerable wheels, the incessant activity of the living makers of his wealth. he saw himself standing in the noble engine-room, and watching the unhurried see-saw of the colossal beams; the rise and fall of the pistons, thicker than the spear of goliath, and brighter than columns of silver; the revolution of the enormous fly-wheel; the exquisite truth of motion; the steadiness of man's great creature, that never knows fatigue. that engine-room should be the finest in all shayton. it should have a plaster cornice round its ceiling, and a great moulded ornament in the middle of it; the gas-lights should be in handsome ground-glass globes; and about the casings of the cylinders there should be a luxury of mahogany and brass. "but, jacob," said his mother, when she had duly adjusted her spectacles, and gradually mastered the main features of the plan, "it seems to me as you've put th' mill all o' one side, and th' engine nobbut half-fills th' engine-house." ogden had never heard of taymouth castle and the old earl of breadalbane, who, when somebody asked him why he built his house at the extremity of his estate, instead of in the middle of it, answered that he intended to "brizz yint."[15] but, like the ambitious earl, ogden was one of those who "brizz yint." "why, mother," he said, "this 'ere's nobbut half the new mill. what can you do with forty-five thousand?" chapter xiii. stanithburn peel. "helena!" said colonel stanburne one morning when he came down to breakfast, "i've determined on a bold stroke. i'm going to take the tandem this morning to stanithburn peel, to see young philip stanburne and get him to accept a captaincy in the new regiment." her ladyship did not see why this should be called a bold stroke, so she asked if the road were particularly dangerous to drive upon, and suggested that, if it were, one horse would be safer than two. "that's not it. the sort of courage wanted on the present occasion, my dear helena, is moral courage and not physical courage, don't you see? did you never hear the history of the stanburnes of stanithburn? surely female ignorance does not go so far as to leave you uninformed about such a distinguished family as ours?" "i know the history of its present representative, or at least as much of it as he chooses to tell me." "error added to ignorance! i am not the representative of the family. we of wenderholme are only a younger branch. the real representative is philip stanburne, of stanithburn peel." "i scarcely ever heard of him before. i had some vague notion that such a person existed. why does he never come here?" "it's a long story, but you will find it all in the county histories. in henry the eighth's time sir philip stanburne was a rebel and got beheaded, some people say hanged, for treason, so his estates were confiscated. wenderholme and stanithburn tower were given back to the family in the next generation, but the elder branch had only stanithburn, which is a much smaller estate than this. since then they married heiresses, but always regularly spent their fortunes, and now young philip stanburne has nothing but the tower with a small estate of bad land which brings him in four or five hundred a-year." "not much certainly; but why does he never come here?" "my father used to say that there had been no intercourse between stanithburn and wenderholme for three hundred years. most likely the separation was a religious quarrel, to begin with. the elder branch always remained strictly roman catholic; but the wenderholme branch was more prudent, and turned protestant in queen elizabeth's time." "all this is quite a romantic story, but those county histories are so full of archã¦ology that one does not venture to look into them. would it not be better to write to mr. philip stanburne? there is no knowing how he may receive you." the colonel thought it better to go personally. "i'm not clever, helena, at persuading people with a pen; but i can generally talk them round, when i have a chance of seeing them myself." the distance from wenderholme to stanithburn peel was exactly twenty-five miles; but the colonel liked a long drive, and the tandem was soon on its way through the narrow but well-kept lanes that traversed the stretch of fertile country which separated the two houses. the colonel lunched and baited his horses at a little inn not often visited by such a stylish equipage, and it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when he began to enter the hilly country near the peel. the roads here were not so good as those in the plain, and instead of being divided from the fields by hedges they passed between gray stone walls. the scenery became more and more desolate as the horses advanced. there was little sylvan beauty left in it except that of the alders near a rapid stream in the valley, and the hills showed the bare limestone in many places through a scanty covering of grass. at length a turn of the road brought the colonel in sight of the tower or peel of stanithburn itself, an edifice which had little pretension to architectural beauty, and lacked altogether that easily achieved sublimity which in so many continental buildings of a similar character is due to the overhanging of _machicoulis_ and _tourelles_. it possessed, however, the distinguishing feature of a battlement, which, still in perfect preservation, entirely surrounded the leads of the flat roof. beyond this the old tower retained no warlike character, but resembled an ordinary modern house, with an additional story on the top of it. there were, alas! some modern sash-windows, which went far to destroy the character of the edifice; yet whatever injury the philistinism of the eighteenth century might have inflicted upon the building itself, it had not been able to destroy the romantic beauty of its site. the hill that separates shayton from wenderholme is of sandstone; and though behind twistle farm and elsewhere there are groups of rocks of more or less picturesque interest, they are not comparable to the far grander limestone region about the tower of stanithburn. the tower itself is situated on a bleak eminence, half surrounded by a curve of the stream already mentioned; but a mile below the tower the stream passes through a ravine of immense depth, and in a series of cascades reaches the level of the plain below. above stanithburn peel, on the other hand, the stream comes from a region of unimaginable desolation--where the fantastic forms of the pale stone lift themselves, rain-worn, like a council of rude colossi, and no sound is heard but the wind and the stream, and the wild cry of the plover. a very simple gateway led from the public to a private road, which climbed the hill till it ended in a sort of farm-yard between the peel and its out-buildings. when the colonel arrived here, he was received by a farm-servant, who showed the way to the stable, and said that his master was out fishing. by following the stream, the colonel would be sure to find him. john stanburne set off on foot, not without some secret apprehension. "perhaps helena was right," he thought; "perhaps i ought to have written. they say he is a strange, eccentric sort of fellow, and there is no telling how he may receive me." philip stanburne, of the peel, was in fact reputed to be morbid and misanthropic, with as much justice as there usually is in such reports. after his father's death he had been left alone with his mother, and the few years that he lived in this way with her had been the sweetest and happiest of his life. when he lost her, his existence became one of almost absolute solitude, broken only by a weekly visit to a great house ten miles from stanithburn, where a chaplain was kept, and he could hear mass--or by the occasional visits of the doctor, and one or two by no means intimate neighbors. in country places a difference of religion is a great impediment to intercourse; and though people thought it quite right that philip stanburne should be a catholic, they never could get over a feeling of what they called "queerness" in the presence of a man who believed in transubstantiation, and said prayers to the virgin mary. like many other recluses, he was credited with a dislike to society far different from his real feeling, and much less creditable to his good sense. habit had made solitude endurable to him, and there was something agreeable, no doubt, in the sense of his independence, but there was not the slightest taint of misanthropy in his whole nature. he naturally shrank from the society of sootythorn because it was so strongly protestant; and there were no families of his own creed in his immediate neighborhood. his way of living was too simple for the entertainment of guests. having no profession by which money might be earned, he was reduced to mere economy, which got him a reputation for being stingy and unsociable. the colonel walked a mile along the stream without perceiving anybody, but at length he saw philip stanburne, very much occupied with his fly-book, and accompanied only by a dog, which began to bark vigorously as soon as he perceived the presence of a stranger. a quarter of an hour afterwards the two new acquaintances were talking easily enough, and the recluse of the tower began to feel inclined to join the militia, though he had asked for time to consider. "i have heard," said the colonel, "that the name which your house still keeps, and from which our own name comes, is due to some stone in your stream--stone in the burn, or stane i' th' burn, and so to stanithburn and stanburne. is there any particular stone here likely to give a ground for the theory, or is it only a tradition?" "i have no doubt," said philip stanburne, "of the accuracy of tradition in this instance. come and look at the stone itself." he turned aside from the direct path to the tower, and they came again to the brink of the stream, which had here worn for itself two channels deep in the limestone. between these channels rose an islanded rock about thirty feet above the present level of the water. a fragment of ruined building was discernible on its narrow summit. as the two men looked together on the stone from which their race had taken its name centuries ago, both fell under the influence of that mysterious sentiment, so different from the pride of station or the vanity of precedence, which binds us to the past. neither of them spoke, but it is not an exaggeration to say that both felt their relationship then. had not the time been when stanburne of the peel and stanburne of wenderholme were brothers? a fraternal feeling began to unite these two by subtle, invisible threads. chapter xiv. at sootythorn. not many days after the little events narrated in the preceding chapter, mr. philip stanburne awoke in a small bedroom on the second floor of the thorn inn, or thorn hotel, at sootythorn. it was a disagreeable, stuffy little room; and an extensive four-poster covered fully one-half the area of the floor. there was the usual wash-hand stand, and close to the wash-hand stand a chair, and on the chair the undress uniform of a militia officer. philip stanburne lay in the extensive four-poster, and contemplated the military equipment, of which the most brilliant portions were the crimson sash, and the bright, newly gilded hilt of a handsome sword. as it was only the undress uniform, there was nothing particularly striking in the dress itself, which consisted of a plain dark-blue frock-coat, and black trowsers with narrow red seam. nevertheless, captain stanburne felt no great inclination to invest his person with what looked very like a disguise. his instincts were by no means military; and the idea of marching through the streets of sootythorn with a drawn sword in his hand had little attraction for him. when he drew up his blind, the view from the window was unpleasantly different from the view that refreshed his eye every morning at stanithburn peel. the thorn inn was higher than most of the houses in sootythorn, and philip stanburne had a view over the roofs. very smoky they all were, and still smokier were the immense chimney-stalks of the cotton-mills. "one, two, three, four," began philip, aloud, as he counted the great chimneys, and he did not stop till he had counted up to twenty-nine. the thorn inn was just in the middle of the town, and there were as many on the other side--a consideration which occurred to philip stanburne's reflective mind, as it sometimes occurs to very philosophical people to think about the stars that are under our feet, on the other side of the world. "what a dirty place it is!" thought philip stanburne. "i wish i had never come into the militia. fancy me staying a month in such a smoky hole as this! i wish i were back at the peel. and just the nicest month in the year, too!" however, there he was, and it was too late to go back. he had to present himself at the orderly-room at half-past nine, and it was already a quarter to nine. on entering the coffee-room of the hotel he found half-a-dozen gentlemen disguised like himself in military apparel, and engaged in the business of breakfast. he did not know one of them. he knew few people, especially amongst the protestant gentry; and he literally knew nobody of the middle class in sootythorn except mr. garley the innkeeper, and one or two tradesmen. philip had no sooner entered the coffee-room than mr. garley made his appearance with that air of confidence which distinguished him. mr. garley was not philip stanburne's equal in a social point of view, but he was immensely his superior in _aplomb_ and knowledge of the world. thus, whilst captain stanburne felt slightly nervous in the presence of the gentlemen in uniform, and disguised his nervousness under an appearance of lofty reserve, mr. garley, though little accustomed to the sight of military men, or of gentlemen wearing the appearance of military men, was no more embarrassed than in the presence of his old friends the commercials. "good morning, captain stanburne," said mr. garley; "good morning to _you_, sir; 'ope you slep well; 'ope you was suited with your room." philip muttered something about its being "rather small." "well, sir, it _is_ rather small, as you say, sir. i could have wished to have given you a better, but you see, sir, i kep the best room in the 'ouse for the curnle; and then there was the majors, and his lordship here, captain lord henry ughtred, had bespoke a good room more than six weeks ago; so you see, sir, i wasn't quite free to serve you quite so well as i could have wished. sorry we can't content _all_ gentlemen, sir. what will you take to breakfast, captain stanburne? would you like a boiled hegg, new-laid, or a little fried 'am, or shall i cut you some cold meat; there's four kinds of cold meat on the sideboard, besides a cold beefsteak-pie?" as he finished his sentence, mr. garley drew a chair out, the seat of which had been under the table, and, with a mixture of servility and patronage (servility because he was temporarily acting the part of a waiter, patronage because he still knew himself to be mr. garley of the thorn hotel), he invited philip stanburne to sit down. the other gentlemen at the table had not been engaged in a very animated conversation, and they suspended it by mutual consent to have a good stare at the new-comer. for it so happened that these men were the swell clique, which had for its head captain lord henry ughtred, and for its vice-captain the honorable fortunatus brabazon; and the swell clique had determined in its own corporate mind that it would have as little to do with the snobs of sootythorn as might be. it was apprehensive of a great influx of the snob element into the regiment. there was a belief or suspicion in the clique that there existed cads even amongst the captains; and as the officers had not yet met together, a feeling of great circumspection predominated amongst the members of the clique. philip stanburne ventured to observe that it was a fine morning; but although his next neighbor admitted that fact, he at once allowed the conversation to drop. mr. garley had given philip his first cup of tea; but, in his temporary absence, philip asked a distinguished member of the swell clique for a second. the liquid was not refused, yet there was something in the manner of giving it which might have turned the hottest cup of tea in lancashire to a lump of solid ice. at length lord henry ughtred, having for a length of time fixed his calm blue eyes on philip (they were pretty blue eyes, and he had nice curly hair, and a general look of an overgrown cupid), said,-"pray excuse me; did i not hear mr. garley say that your name was stanburne?" "yes, my name is stanburne." "are you colonel stanburne's brother, may i ask?" "no; the colonel has no brothers." "ah, true, true; i had forgotten. of _course_, i knew stanburne had no brothers. indeed, he told me he'd no relations--or something of the kind. you're not a relation of his, i presume; you don't belong to his family, do you?" philip stanburne, in these matters, had very much of the feeling of a highland chief. he was the representative of the stanburnes, and the colonel was head of a younger branch only. so when he was asked in this way whether he belonged to the colonel's family, he at once answered "no," seeing that the colonel belonged to _his_ family, not he to the colonel's. he was irritated, too, by the tone of his questioner; and, besides, such a relationship as the very distant one between himself and colonel stanburne was rather a matter for poetical sentiment than for the prose of the outer world. mr. garley only made matters worse by putting his word in. "beg pardon, captn stanburne, but i've always 'eard say that your family was a younger branch of the wendrum family." "then you were misinformed, for it isn't." "perhaps it isn't just clearly traced out, sir," said mr. garley, intending to make himself agreeable; "but all the old people says so. if i was you, sir, i'd have it properly traced out. mr. higgin, the spinner here, got his pedigree traced out quite beautiful. it's really a very 'andsome pedigree, coats of arms and all. nobody would have thought mr. higgin 'ad such a pedigree; but there's nothin' like tracin' and studyin', and 'untin' it all hup." philip stanburne was well aware that his position as chief of his house was very little known, and that he was popularly supposed to descend from some poor cadet of wenderholme; but it was disagreeable to be reminded of the popular belief about him in this direct way, and in the hearing of witnesses before whom he felt little disposed to abate one jot of his legitimate pretensions. however, pride kept him silent, even after mr. garley's ill-contrived speech, and he sought a diversion in looking at his watch. this made the others look at their watches also; and as it was already twenty-five minutes after nine, they all set off for the orderly-room, the swell clique keeping together, and philip stanburne following about twenty yards in the rear. the streets of sootythorn were seldom very animated at ten o'clock in the morning, except on a market-day; and though there was a great deal of excitement amongst the population of the town on the subject of the militia, that population was safely housed in the fifty-seven factories of sootythorn, and an officer might pass through the streets in comparative comfort, free from the remarks which would be likely to assail him when the factories loosed. with the exception of two or three urchins who ran by philip's side, and stared at him till one of them fell over a wheelbarrow, nothing occurred to disturb him. as the orderly-room was very near, captain stanburne thought he had time to buy a pocket-book at the bookseller's shop, and entered it for that purpose. whilst occupied with the choice of his pocket-book he heard a soft voice close to him. "papa wishes to know if you have got mr. blunting's sermons on popery." "no, miss stedman, we haven't a copy left, but we can order one for mr. stedman if he wishes it. perhaps it would be well to order it at once, as there has been a great demand for the book, and it is likely to be out of print very soon, unless the new edition is out in time to keep up the supply. four editions are exhausted already, and the book has only been out a month or two. we are writing to london to-day; shall we order the book for you, miss stedman?" the lady hesitated a little, and then said, "papa seemed to want it very much--yes, you can order it, please." there was something very agreeable to philip stanburne's ear in what he had heard, and something that grated upon it harshly. the tone of the girl's voice was singularly sweet. it came to him as comes a pure unexpected perfume. it was amongst sounds what the perfume of violets is amongst odors, and he longed to hear it again. what had grated upon him was the word "popery;" he could not endure to hear his religion called "popery." still, it was only the title of some protestant book the girl had mentioned, and she was not responsible for it--she could not give the book any other title than its own. philip stanburne was examining a quantity of morocco contrivances (highly ingenious, most of them) in a glass case in the middle of the shop, and he turned round to look at the young lady, but she had her back to him. she was now choosing some note-paper on the counter. her dress was extremely simple--white muslin, with a little sprig; and she wore a plain straw bonnet--for in those days women _did_ wear bonnets. it was evident that she was not a fashionable young lady, for her whole dress showed a timid lagging behind the fashion. when she had completed her little purchases miss stedman left the shop, and captain stanburne was disappointed, for she had given him no opportunity of seeing her face; but just as he was leaving she came back in some haste, and they met rather suddenly in the doorway. "i beg your pardon," said the captain, making way for her--and then he got a look at her face. the look must have been agreeable to him, for when he saw a little glove lying on the mat in the doorway, he picked it up rather eagerly and presented it to the fair owner. "is this your glove, miss--miss stedman?" now miss stedman had never in her life been spoken to by a gentleman in military uniform, with a sword by his side, and the fact added to her confusion. it was odd, too, to hear him call her miss stedman, but it was not disagreeable, for he said it very nicely. there is an art of pronouncing names so as to turn the commonest of them into titles of honor; and if philip had said "your ladyship," he could not have said it more respectfully. so she thanked him for the glove with the warmth which comes of embarrassment, and she blushed, and he bowed, and they saw no more of each other--that day. it was a poor little glove--a poor little cheap thread glove; but all the finest and softest kids that lay in their perfumed boxes in the well-stocked shops of sootythorn,--all the pale gray kids and pale yellow kids which the young shopmen so strongly recommended as "suitable for the present season,"--were forgotten in a month, whereas alice stedman's glove was remembered for years and years. chapter xv. with the militia. the officers met at the orderly-room, after which they all went to the parade-ground at once; the field-officers and the adjutant on horseback, the rest on foot. philip stanburne followed the others. he knew nobody except the colonel and the adjutant, who had just said "good morning" to him in the orderly-room; but they had trotted on in advance, so he was left to his own meditations. it was natural that in passing the bookseller's shop he should think of miss stedman, and he felt an absurd desire to go into the shop again and buy another pocket-book, as if by acting the scene over again he could cause the principal personage to reappear. "i don't think she's pretty," said philip to himself--"at least, not really pretty; but she's a sweet girl. there's a simplicity about her that is very charming. who would have thought that there was any thing so nice in sootythorn?" just as he was thinking this, philip stanburne passed close to one of the blackest mills in the place--an old mill,--that is, a mill about thirty years old, for mills, like horses, age rapidly; and through the open windows there came a mixture of bad smells on the hot foul air, and a deafening roar of machinery, and above the roar of machinery a shrill clear woman's voice singing. the voice must have been one of great power, for it predominated over all the noises in the place; and it either was really a very sweet one or its harshness was lost in the noises, whilst it rose above them purified. philip stopped to listen, and as he stopped, two other officers came up behind him. the footpath was narrow, and as soon as he perceived that he impeded the circulation, philip went on. "that's one o' th' oudest mills i' sootythorn," said one of the officers behind captain stanburne; "it's thirty year oud, if it's a day." the broad lancashire accent surprised captain stanburne, and attracted his attention. could it be possible that there were officers in the regiment who spoke no better than that? evidently this way of speaking was not confined to an individual officer, for the speaker's companion answered in the same tone,-"why, that's john stedman's mill, isn't it?" "john stedman? john stedman? it cannot be t' same as was foreman to my father toward thirty year sin'?" when philip stanburne heard the name of stedman, he listened attentively. the first speaker answered, "yes, but it is--it's t' same man." "well, an' how is he? he must be well off. has he any chilther?" "just one dorter, a nice quiet lass, 'appen eighteen year old." "so she's the daughter of a cotton-spinner," thought philip, "and a protestant cotton-spinner, most likely a bigot. indeed, who ever heard of a catholic cotton-spinner? i never did. i believe there aren't any. but what queer fellows these are to be in the militia; they talk just like factory lads." then, from a curiosity to see more of these extraordinary officers, and partly, no doubt, from a desire to cultivate the acquaintance of a man who evidently knew something about miss stedman, philip left the causeway, and allowed the officers to come up with him. "i beg your pardon," he said; "no doubt you are going to the parade-ground. will you show me the way? i was following some officers who were in sight a minute or two since, but they turned a corner whilst i was not looking at them, and i have lost my guides." to captain stanburne's surprise he was answered in very good english, with no more indication of the lancashire accent than a clearly vibrated _r_, and a certain hardness in the other consonants, which gave a masculine vigor to the language, not by any means disagreeable. the aspirate, however, was too frequently omitted or misplaced. "we are going straight to the parade-ground ourselves, so if you come with us you cannot go wrong." there was a short silence, and the same speaker continued, "the colonel said we were to consider ourselves introduced. i know who you are--you're captain stanburne of stanithburn peel; and now i'll tell you who we are, both of us: i'm the doctor--my name's bardly. i don't look like a doctor, do i? perhaps you are thinking that i don't look very like an officer either, though i'm dressed up as one. well, perhaps i don't. this man here is called isaac ogden, and he lives at twistle farm, on a hill-top near shayton, when he's at home." this queer introduction, which was accompanied by the oddest changes of expression in the doctor's face, and by a perpetual twinkle of humor in his gray eye, amused philip stanburne, and put him into a more genial frame of mind than his experience of the swell clique at breakfast-time. isaac ogden asked stanburne what company he had got, and on being told that it was number six, informed him that he himself was only a lieutenant. "he's lieutenant in the grenadier company," said the doctor, "and on sunday morning we shall see him like a butterfly with a pair of silver wings.[16] he's only a chrysalis to-day; his wings haven't budded yet. he's very likely put 'em on in private--most of them put on their full uniform in private, as soon as ever it comes from the tailor's. it's necessary to try it on, you know--it _might_ not fit. the epaulettes would fit, though; but they generally take their epaulettes out of the tin box and put them on, to see how they look in the glass." "well, doctor," said stanburne, "i suppose you are describing from personal experience. when your own epaulettes came, you looked at yourself in the glass, i suppose." here an indescribably comic look irradiated dr. bardly's face. "you don't imagine that _i_ have laid out any money on epaulettes and such gear? the tailor tried to make me buy a full uniform, of course, but it didn't answer with me. what do i want with a red coat, and dangling silver fringes over my shoulders? i've committed one piece of tomfoolery, and that's enough--i've bought this sword; but a sword might just possibly be of use for a thief. there was a man in shayton who had an old volunteer sword always by his bedside, and one night he put six inches of it into a burglar; so you see a sword _may_ be of use, but what can you do with a bit of silver fringe?" "but i don't see how you are to do without a full uniform. how will you manage on field days, and how will you go to church on sundays?" "get leave of absence on all such occasions," said the doctor; "so long as i haven't a full uniform i have a good excuse." the fact was, that the doctor's aversion to full dress came quite as much from a dislike to public ceremonies as from an objection to scarlet and silver in themselves. he had a youthful assistant in the regiment who was perfectly willing to represent the medical profession in all imaginable splendor, and who had already passed three evenings in full uniform, surrounded by his brothers and sisters, and a group of admiring friends. the day was a tiresome idle day for everybody except the adjutant, who shouted till his throat was sore, and the sergeants, on whom fell the real work of the companies. after lunch, the important matter of billets had to be gone into, and it was discovered that it was impossible to lodge all the men in sootythorn. one company, at least, must seek accommodation elsewhere. the junior captain must therefore submit, for this training, to be banished from the mess, and sent to eat his solitary beefsteak in some outlandish village, or, still worse, in some filthy and uncouth little manufacturing town. his appetite, it is true, might so far benefit by the long marches to and from the parade-ground that the beefsteak might be eaten with the best of sauces; but the ordinary exercises of the regiment would have been sufficient to procure that, and the great efforts of mr. garley at the thorn might have been relied upon for satisfying it. so the junior captain was ordered to take his men to whittlecup, a dirty little town, of about six thousand inhabitants, four miles distant from sootythorn; and the junior captain was philip stanburne. behold him, therefore, marching at the head of his rabble, for the men as yet had neither uniforms nor military bearing, on the dusty turnpike road! the afternoon had been uncommonly hot for the season of the year; and a military uniform, closely buttoned across the breast, and padded with cotton wool, is by no means the costume most suitable for the summer heats. there were so few lieutenants in the regiment (there was not one ensign) that a junior captain could not hope for a subaltern, and all the work of the company fell upon philip stanburne and his old sergeant. it was not easy to keep any thing like order amongst the men. they quarrelled and fought during the march; and it became necessary to arrange them so as to keep enemies at a distance from each other. still, by the time they reached the precincts of whittlecup several of the men were adorned with black eyes; and as a few had been knocked down and tumbled in the dust by their comrades, the company presented rather the appearance of a rabble after a riot than of soldiers in her majesty's service. philip stanburne's uniform was white with dust; but as the dust that alighted on his face was wetted by perspiration, it did not there remain a light-colored powder, but became a thick coat of dark paste. indeed, to tell the truth, the owner of stanithburn had never been so dirty in his life. now there was a river at the entrance to whittlecup, and over the river a bridge; and on the bridge, or in advance of it (for the factories had just loosed), there stood a crowd of about three thousand operatives awaiting the arrival of the militia-men. the lancashire operative is not accustomed to restrain the expression of his opinions from motives of delicacy, and any consideration for your feelings which he may have when isolated diminishes with the number of his companions. three factory lads may content themselves with exchanging sarcastic remarks on your personal appearance when you are out of hearing, thirty will make them in your presence, three hundred will jeer you loudly; and from three thousand, if once you are unlucky enough to attract their attention, there will come such volleys of derision as nobody but a philosopher could bear with equanimity. not only was the road lined on both sides with work-people, but they blocked it up in front, and made way for the militia-men so slowly, that there was ample time for philip stanburne to hear every observation that was directed against him. amidst the roars of laughter which the appearance of the men gave rise to, a thousand special commentaries might be distinguished. "them chaps sowdiers! why, there's nobbut one sowdier i' th' lot as i can see on." "where is he? i can see noan at o'." "cannot ta see th' felly wi' th' red jacket?" "eh, what a mucky lot!" "they'll be right uns for fightin', for there's four on 'em 'as gotten black een to start wi'." "where's their guns?" "they willn't trust 'em wi' guns. they'd be shootin' one another." "there's one chap wi' a soourd." "why, that's th' officer." "eh, captain!" screamed a factory girl in philip's ear, "i could like to gi' thee a kiss, but thou's getten sich a mucky face!" "i wouldn't kiss him for foive shillin'," observed another. "eh, but i would!" said a third; "he's a nice young felly. i'll kiss him to-neet when he's washed hissel!" chapter xvi. a case of assault. the officers' mess was rather a good thing for mr. garley. he charged five shillings a-head for dinner without wine; and although both the colonel and the large majority of his officers were temperate men, a good deal of profit may be got out of the ordinary vinous and spirituous consumption of a set of english gentlemen in harder exercise than usual, and more than usually disposed to be convivial. even the cigars were no inconsiderable item of profit for mr. garley, who had laid in a stock large enough and various enough for a tobacconist. a dense cloud of smoke filled the card-room, and through it might be discerned a number of officers in red shell-jackets reposing after the labors of the day, and wisely absolving nature from other efforts, in order that she might give her exclusive care to the digestion of that substantial repast which had lately been concluded in the mess-room. there was a party of whist-players in a corner, and the rattle of billiard-balls came through an open door. captain eureton's servant came in and said that there was an innkeeper from whittlecup who desired to speak to the adjutant. the captain left the card-room, and the officers scarcely noticed his departure, but when he came back their attention was drawn to him by an exclamation of the colonel's. "why, eureton, what's the matter now? how grave you look!" the adjutant came to the hearth-rug where john stanburne was standing, and said, "is not captain stanburne a relation of yours, colonel?" "cousin about nine times removed. but what's the matter? he's not ill, i hope." "very ill, very ill indeed," said eureton, with an expression which implied that he had not yet told the whole truth. "there's no near relation or friend of captain stanburne in the regiment, is there, colonel?" "none whatever; out with it, eureton--you're making me very anxious;" and the colonel nervously pottered with the end of a new cigar. "the truth is, gentlemen," said eureton, addressing himself to the room, for every one was listening intently, "a great crime has been committed this evening. captain stanburne has been murdered--or if it's not a case of murder it's a case of manslaughter. he has been killed, it appears, whilst visiting a billet, by a man in his company." the colonel rang the bell violently. fyser appeared--he was at the door, expecting to be called for. "harness the tandem immediately." "the tandem is at the door, sir, or will be by the time you get downstairs. i knew you would be wantin' it as soon as i 'eard the bad news." the doctor was in the billiard-room, trying to make a cannon, to the infinite diversion of his more skilful brother officers. his muscular but not graceful figure was stretched over the table, and his scarlet shell-jacket, whose seams were strained nearly to bursting by his attitude, contrasted powerfully with the green cloth as the strong gas-light fell upon him. just as he was going to make the great stroke a strong hand was laid upon his arm. "now then, isaac ogden, you've spoiled a splendid stroke. i don't hoftens get such a chance." "you're wanted for summat else, doctor. come, look sharp; the colonel's waiting for you." in common with many members of his profession, dr. bardly had a dislike to be called in a hurried and peremptory manner, and a disposition, when so called, to take his time. he had so often been pressed unnecessarily that he had acquired a general conviction that cases could wait--and he made them wait, more or less. in this instance, however, isaac ogden insisted on a departure from the doctor's usual customs, and threw his gray military cloak over his shoulders, and set his cap on his head, and led him to the street-door, where he found the tandem, the colonel in his place with the adjutant, fyser already mounted behind, and the leader dancing with impatience. the bright lamps flashed swiftly through the dingy streets of sootythorn, and soon their light fell on the blossoming hedges in the country. colonel stanburne had been too much occupied with his horses whilst they were in the streets; but now on the broad open road he had more leisure to talk, and he was the first to break silence. "you don't know any further details, do you, eureton?" "nothing beyond what i told you. the innkeeper who brought the news was the one captain stanburne was billeted with, and he quitted whittlecup immediately after the event. he appears quite certain that captain stanburne is dead. the body was brought to the inn before the man left, and he was present at the examination of it by a doctor who had been hastily sent for." "beg pardon, sir," said fyser from behind, "i asked the innkeeper some questions myself. it appears that captain stanburne was wounded in the head, sir, and his skull was broken. it was done with a deal board that a hirish militia-man tore up out of a floor. there was two hirish that was quarrellin' and fightin', and the captain put 'em both into a hempty room which was totally without furnitur', and where they'd nothink but straw to lie upon; and he kep 'em there under confinement, and set a guard at the door. and then these two drunken hirish fights wi' their fists--but fists isn't bloody enough for hirish, so they starts tearin' up the boards o' the floor, and the guard at the door tried to interfere between 'em, but, not havin' no arms, could do very little; and the captain was sent for, and as soon as hever one o' these hirish sees him he says, 'here's our bloody captain,' and he aims a most tremenjious stroke at him with his deal board, and it happened most unfortunate that it hit the captain with the rusty nail in it." "i wonder it never occurred to him to separate the irishmen," observed eureton, in a lower tone, to the colonel. "he ought not to have confined them together." "strictly speaking, he ought not to have placed them in confinement at all at whittlecup, but sent them at once under escort to headquarters." "what's this that we are meeting?" said the adjutant. "i hear men marching." the colonel drew up his horses, and the regular footfall of soldiers became audible, and gradually grew louder. "they march uncommonly well, eureton, for militia-men who have had no training; i cannot understand it." "there were half-a-dozen old soldiers in captain stanburne's company, and i suppose the sergeant has selected them as a guard for the prisoners." the night was cloudy and dark, and the lamps of the colonel's vehicle were so very splendid and brilliant that they made the darkness beyond their range blacker and more impenetrable than ever. as the soldiers came nearer, the colonel stopped his horses and waited. suddenly out of the darkness came a corporal and four men with two prisoners. the colonel shouted, "halt!" "have you any news of captain stanburne?" "he's not quite dead, sir, or was not when we left." the tall wheels rolled along the road, and in a quarter of an hour the leader had to make his way through a little crowd of people in front of the blue bell. the doctor was the first in the house, and was led at once to young stanburne's room. the whittlecup surgeon was there already. no professional men are so ticklish on professional etiquette as surgeons are, but in this instance there could be little difficulty of that kind. "you are the surgeon to the regiment, i believe," said the whittlecup doctor; "you will find this a very serious case. i simply took charge of it in your absence." the patient was not dead, but he was perfectly insensible. he breathed faintly, and every few minutes there was a rattling in the throat, resembling that which precedes immediate dissolution. the two doctors examined the wound together. the skull had been fractured by the blow, and there was a gash produced by the nail in the board. the face was extremely pale, and so altered as to be scarcely recognizable. the innkeeper's wife, mrs. simpson, was moistening the pale lips with brandy. when the colonel and captain eureton had seen the patient, they had a talk with dr. bardly in another room. the doctor's opinion was that there were chances of recovery, but not very strong chances. though philip stanburne had enjoyed tolerably regular health in consequence of his temperate and simple way of living, he had by no means a robust constitution, and it was possible--it was even probable--that he would succumb; but he _might_ pull through. dr. bardly proposed to resign the case entirely to the whittlecup doctor, as it would require constant attention, and the surgeon ought to be on the spot. chapter xvii. isaac ogden again. as the lieutenant of the grenadier company, mr. isaac ogden was appointed to do captain's work at whittlecup in the place of philip stanburne. for many weeks mr. ogden had displayed a strength of resolution that astonished his most intimate friends. without meanly taking refuge in the practice of total abstinence, he had kept strictly within the bounds of what in shayton is considered moderation. the customs of the mess at sootythorn were not likely to place him in the power of his old enemy again; for although the officers were not severely abstinent, their utmost conviviality scarcely extended beyond the daily habits of the very soberest of shaytonians. viewing the matter, therefore, from the standpoint of his personal experience, dr. bardly looked upon ogden as now the most temperate of men. it is true that as a militia officer he could not follow a new rule of his about not entering inns, for the business of the regiment required him to visit a dozen inns every day, and to eat and sleep in one for a month together; and it is obvious that the other good rule about not drinking spirits at twistle farm could not be very advantageous to him just now, seeing that, although it was always in force, it was practically efficacious only during his residence under his own roof. it seems a pity that he did not legislate for himself anew, so as to meet his altered circumstances; but the labors of regimental duty appeared so onerous that extraordinary stimulation seemed necessary to meet this extraordinary fatigue, and it would have appeared imprudent to confine himself within rigidly fixed limits which necessity might compel him to transgress. so in point of fact mr. ogden was a free agent again. whilst philip stanburne had remained at the blue bell, lieutenant ogden had been in all respects a model of good behavior. he had watched by philip's bedside in the evenings, sometimes far into the night, and the utmost extent of his conviviality had been a glass of grog with the whittlecup doctor. but the day philip stanburne was removed, lieutenant ogden, after having dined and inspected his billets, began to feel the weight of his loneliness, and he felt it none the less for being accustomed to loneliness at the farm. captain stanburne's illness, and the regular evening talk with the whittlecup doctor, had hitherto given an interest to isaac ogden's life at the blue bell, and this interest had been suddenly removed. something must be found to supply its place; it became necessary to cultivate the acquaintance of somebody in the parlor. it is needless to trouble the reader with details about the men of whittlecup whom mr. ogden found there, because they have no connection with the progress of this history. but he found somebody else too, namely, jeremiah smethurst, a true shaytonian, and one of the brightest ornaments of the little society that met at the red lion. when jerry saw his old friend isaac ogden, whom he had missed for many weeks, his greeting was so very cordial, so expressive of good-fellowship, that it was not possible to negative his proposition that they should "take a glass together." now the keeper of the blue bell inn knew jerry smethurst. he knew that jerry drank more than half a bottle of brandy every night before he went to bed, and without giving mr. ogden credit for equal powers, he had heard that he came from shayton, which is a good recommendation to a vendor of spirituous liquors. he therefore, instead of bringing a glass of brandy for each of the shayton gentlemen, uncorked a fresh bottle and placed it between them, remarking that they might take what they pleased--that there was 'ot warter on the 'arth, for the kettle was just bylin, an' there was shugger in the shugger-basin. the reader foresees the consequences. after two or three glasses with his old friend, isaac ogden fell under the dominion of the old shayton associations. jerry smethurst talked the dear old shayton talk, such as isaac ogden had not heard in perfection for many a day. for men like the doctor and jacob ogden were, by reason of their extreme temperance, isolated beings--beings cut off from the heartiest and most genial society of the place--and isaac had been an isolated being also since he had kept out of the red lion and the white hart. "why should a man desire in any way to vary from the kindly race of men?" that abandonment of the red lion had been a moral gain--a moral victory--but an intellectual loss. was such a fellow as parson prigley any compensation for jerry smethurst? and there were half-a-dozen at the red lion as good as jerry. he was short of stature--so short, that when he sat in a rocking-chair he had a difficulty in giving the proper impetus with his toes; and he had a great round belly, and a face which, if not equally great and round, seemed so by reason of all the light and warmth that radiated from it. it was enough to cure anybody of hypochondria to look at jerry smethurst's face. i have seen the moon look rather like it sometimes, rising warm and mellow on a summer's night; but though anybody may see that the moon has a nose and eyes, she certainly lacks expression. it was pleasant to isaac ogden to see the friendly old visage before him once again. genial and kind thoughts rose in his mind. tennyson had not yet written "tithonus," and if he had, no shaytonian would have read it--but the thoughts in ogden's mind were these:- "why should a man desire in any way to vary from the kindly race of men, or pass beyond the goal of ordinance, where all should pause, as is most meet for all?" the "goal of ordinance," at shayton, being death from _delirium tremens_. mr. smethurst would have been much surprised if anybody had told him that he was inducing ogden to drink more than was good for him. it seemed so natural to drink a bottle of brandy! and jerry, too, in his way, was a temperate man--a man capable of self-control--a man who had made a resolution and kept it for many years. jerry's resolution had been never to drink more than one bottle of spirits in an evening; and, as he said sometimes, it was "all howin' to that as he enjy'd sich gud 'ealth." therefore, when mr. simpson had placed the bottle between them, mr. smethurst made a little mental calculation. he was strong in mental arithmetic. "i've 'ad three glasses afore hogden coom, so when i've powered him out three glasses, the remainder 'll be my 'lowance." therefore, when isaac had mixed his third tumbler, jerry smethurst rang the bell. "another bottle o' brandy." mr. simpson stood aghast at this demand, and his eyes naturally reverted to the bottle upon the table. "you've not finished that yet, gentlemen," he ventured to observe. "what's left in it is my 'lowance," said mr. smethurst. "mr. hogden shalln't 'ave none on 't." "well, that _is_ a whimmy gent," said mr. simpson to himself--but he fetched another bottle. they made a regular red lion evening of it, those two. a little before midnight mr. smethurst rose and said good night. he had finished his bottle, and his law of temperance, always so faithfully observed, forbade him one drop more. the reader probably expects that mr. smethurst was intoxicated; but his genial nature was only yet more genial. he lighted his bed-candle with perfect steadiness, shook ogden's hand affectionately, and mounted the stair step by step. when he got into his bedroom he undressed himself in a methodical manner, laid his clothes neatly on a chair, wound his watch up, and when he had assumed his white cotton night-cap, looked at himself in the glass. he put his tongue out, and held the candle close to it. the result of the examination was satisfactory, and he proceeded to pull down the corners of his eyes. this he did every night. the bugbear of his life was dread of a coming fit, and he fancied he might thus detect the premonitory symptoms. meanwhile mr. ogden, left by himself, took up the "sootythorn gazette," and when mr. simpson entered he found him reading, apparently. "beg pardon, sir," said mr. simpson, "but it's the rule to turn the gas out at twelve, and it's a few minutes past. i'll light you your bed-candle, sir, and you can sit up a bit later if you like. you'll find your way to your room." ogden was too far gone to have any power of controlling himself now. the type danced before his eyes, the sentences ran into one another, and the sense of the phrases was a mystery to him. he kept drinking mechanically; and when at length he attempted to reach the door, the candlestick slipped from his hand, and the light was instantly extinguished. a man who is quite drunk cannot find the door of a dark room--he cannot even walk in the dark; his only chance of walking in broad daylight is to fix his eye steadily on some object, and when it loses its hold of that, to fasten it upon some other, and so on. ogden stumbled against the furniture and fell. the deep insensibility of advanced drunkenness supervened, and he lay all night upon the floor. the servant-girl found him there the next morning when she came to clean the room. he could not go to sootythorn that day, and the true reason for his absence soon became known to dr. bardly, who asked leave to drive over to shayton to see a patient of his own. he drove directly to milend. "well, mrs. ogden," said the doctor, "i've come wi' bad news for you this time. your isaac's made a beast of himself once more. he lay all night last night dead drunk upo' th' parlor-floor o' th' blue bell inn i' whittlecup." "why--you don't say so, dr. bardly! now, really, this _is_ provokin', and 'im as was quite reformed, as one may say. i could like to whip him--i could." "well, i wish you'd just go to whittlecup and take care of him while he stops there. if he'd nobbut stopped at sootythorn i could have minded him a bit mysen, but there's nout like his mother for managin' him." little jacob was staying at milend during his father's military career, and so mrs. ogden objected--"but what's to become o' th' childt?" "take him with ye--take him with ye. it'll do him a power o' good, and it'll amuse him rarely. he'll see the chaps with their red jackets, and his father with a sword, and a fine scarlet coat on sundays, and he'll be as fain as fain." so it was immediately decided that mrs. ogden and little jacob should leave for whittlecup as soon as they possibly could. a fly was sent for, and mrs. ogden hastily filled two large wooden boxes, which were her portmanteaus. little jacob was at the parsonage with the youthful prigleys, and had to be sent for. mrs. ogden took the decanters from the corner cupboard, and drank two glasses of port to sustain her in the hurry of the occasion. "well, who would have thought," she said to herself, as she ate a piece of cake--"who would have thought that i should go and stop at whittlecup? i wonder how soon mary ridge will have finished my new black satin." chapter xviii. isaac's mother comes. mrs. ogden and her grandson reached sootythorn rather late that evening--namely, about eight o'clock; and as it happened that she knew an old maid there--one miss mellor--whose feelings would have been wounded if mrs. ogden had passed through sootythorn without calling upon her, she took the opportunity of doing so whilst the horse was baited at the inn. the driver took the fly straight to the thorn; and when mr. garley saw a lady and a little boy emerge therefrom he concluded that they intended to stay at his house, and came with his apologies for want of room. "but we can let you 'ave a nice parlor, mum, to take your tea, and i can find you good bedrooms in the town." mrs. ogden declined these obliging propositions, in the hope that miss mellor would offer her a night's lodging. it was not that she loved miss mellor so much as to desire to stay longer under her roof than was necessary to keep her in a good temper, but she had made sundry reflections on the road. "if i stop at th' thorn they'll charge me 'appen 'alf-a-crown for my bedroom, and jane mellor 'ad a nice spare bedroom formerly. it really is no use throwin' money away on inn-keepers. and then there's our tea; they'll make me pay eighteenpence or two shillin' for't at garley's, and very likely charge full as much for little jacob. it's quite enough to 'ave to pay seven shillin' for th' horse and fly." and in any case there would be time to get on to whittlecup after the horse had had his feed. but miss mellor, who had not been to shayton or heard direct news of shayton for several years, was so delighted to see mrs. ogden that she would not hear of her going forward that night. "it's lucky i 'appened to be at 'ome," said miss mellor, "for i'm often out of an evening." it was lucky, certainly, for little jacob, who got a much better tea than he would have done at the thorn inn, with quantities of sweet things greatly to his taste. little jacob was convinced that there was nobody in the world so kind and generous as his grandmother, yet he conceived an affection for miss mellor also before the close of the evening. "the devil take the people," said isaac ogden, when he got back from sootythorn to the blue bell, and had gone as usual to his bedroom there--"the devil take the people, they've hidden all my things!" just then came a gentle knock at the door, and the servant-maid entered. "please, sir, your mother's come, and she says you aren't to sleep here any more, sir; and she's fetched your things to lodgings that she's took over mr. wood's, the shoemaker's." it is at all times vexatious and humiliating to the independent spirit of a man to be disposed of by female authority, but it is most especially so when the authority is one's mamma. a grown-up man will submit to his mother on most points if he is worth any thing, but the best of sons does not quite like to see his submission absolutely taken for granted. in this case there was an aggravation in the look of the servant-girl. notwithstanding the respectful modesty of her tone, there was just a twinkle of satire in her eye. it was plain that she was inwardly laughing at the lieutenant. "damn it!" he said, "this house is good enough for me; i don't want to leave it." yet he _did_ leave, nevertheless. the next day was sunday, and it was a satisfaction to mrs. ogden to think that isaac would be professionally compelled to attend public worship. little jacob was one of the crowd of spectators who gathered round the company when it was mustered for church-parade. he was proud of his resplendent papa--a papa all scarlet and silver; and it was a matter of peculiar anxiety with him that they should sit in the same pew. mr. ogden gratified him in this respect, and the child felt himself the most important young personage in whittlecup. a steady attention to the service is not commonly characteristic of little boys; and on this occasion little jacob's eye was so continually caught by the glitter of his father's gold sword-knot and the silver embroidery on his sleeve, that he followed the clergyman much less regularly than usual. the neighborhood of whittlecup was not aristocratic, but there were one or two manufacturing families of rather a superior description. one of these families, the anisons, were at church not far from the pew which the ogdens occupied. they lived at a house near whittlecup called arkwright lodge, in a comfortable manner, with most of those refinements of civilization which are to be met with in the houses of rich professional men in london. mr. anison, indeed, was a manufacturer of the new school, whilst jacob ogden belonged to the old one. men of the anison class sometimes make large fortunes, but they more frequently content themselves with a moderate independence and a sufficient provision for their families. money does not seem to them an end in itself, but they value the comforts and refinements which it procures and which cannot be had without it. jacob ogden, on the other hand, did not care a fig for comforts and refinements, and had no domestic objects: his only purpose was the inward satisfaction and the outward glory of being rich. mr. anison worked in moderation, spent a good deal, saved something, and kept a very hospitable house, where everybody who had the slightest imaginable claim upon his kindness was always heartily welcome. after philip stanburne's accident he had been immediately moved to arkwright lodge, in compliance with the surgeon's advice and mr. anison's urgent request. here he had rapidly passed into a state of agreeable convalescence, and found the house so pleasant that the prospect of a perfect recovery, and consequent departure, was not very attractive to him now. when the service in whittlecup church was over, joseph anison went straight to mr. ogden's pew and reminded him that he had promised to dine that day at arkwright lodge. when they got out of the church, isaac presented his mother to mr. anison, and to mrs. anison also, who joined them in the midst of that ceremony. this was followed by a polite little speech from mrs. anison (she was an adept in polite little speeches), to the effect that, as mr. ogden had kindly promised to eat a dinner and pay his first call at the lodge at the same time, his duties in the militia having prevented him from calling during the week, perhaps they might hope that mrs. ogden would allow them to call upon her at once at her lodgings, and then would she come with her son to the lodge to spend the afternoon? so when the militia-men were disbanded, the anisons accompanied the ogdens to the lodging over mr. wood's, the shoemaker. it was a very fine may morning, and they had all come on foot. there are families in sootythorn (perhaps also there may be families out of sootythorn) who, though living within a very short distance of their parish church, go thither always in their carriages--on the same principle which causes the prince of wales to go from marlborough house to st james's palace in a state-coach--namely, for the maintenance of their dignity. but though the anisons' carriage was an institution sufficiently recent to have still some of the charms of novelty, they dispensed with it as much as possible on sundays. the young ladies had gone slowly forwards towards the lodge with the clergyman, who had a standing invitation to dine there whenever he came to whittlecup. mrs. ogden's great regret in going to dine at the lodge was for the dinner she left behind her, and she did not hesitate to express it. "it seems quite a pity," she said, "to leave them ducks and green peas--they were such fine ducks, and we're all of us very fond o' ducks, 'specially when we've green peas to 'em." after this little speech, she paused regretfully, as if meditating on the delightfulness of the ducks, and then she added, more cheerfully, "but what--ducks are very good cold, and they'll do very well for supper to-morrow night, when our isaac comes back from sootythorn." the dinner at the lodge was good enough to compensate even for the one left untasted at the shoemaker's, and nobody did better justice to it than the rev. abel blunting. a man may well be hungry who has preached vehemently for seventy minutes, and eaten nothing since seven in the morning, which was mr. blunting's habitual breakfast-hour. he was a very agreeable guest, and worth his salt. he had a vein of rich humor approaching to joviality, yet he drank only water. on this matter of teetotalism he was by no means fanatical, but he said simply that in his office of minister it was useful to his work amongst the poor. mrs. ogden sat next to him at table, and was perfectly delighted with him. the rev. abel perceived at once what manner of woman she was, and talked to her accordingly. when he found out that she came from shayton, he said that he had a great respect for shayton, it was such a sound protestant community--there was not a single papist in the place--popery had no hold _there_. unfortunately, when mr. blunting made this observation, there happened to be a lull in the talk, and it was audible to everybody, including philip stanburne, who was well enough to sit at table. poor mrs. anison began to feel very uncomfortable, but as mr. blunting sat next to her, she whispered to him that they had a roman catholic at table. this communication not having been loud enough to be heard by mrs. ogden, who, never having sat down with a roman catholic in her life, was incapable of imagining such a contingency, that lady replied,-"shayton folk believe i' th' bible." "and may i ask," said philip, very loudly and resolutely from the other end of the table, "what catholics believe in?" "why, they believe i' th' koran." the hearers--and everybody present had heard mrs. ogden distinctly--could not credit their ears. each thought that he must be mistaken--that by some wholly unaccountable magic he had heard the word "koran" when it had been pronounced by no mortal lips. nobody laughed--nobody even smiled. there is a degree of astonishment which stuns the sense of humor. every one held his breath when mr. blunting spoke. "no, ma'am," he said, respectfully, "you are somewhat mistaken. you appear to have confounded the papal and the mohammedan religions." what mrs. ogden's answer may have been does not matter very much, for mr. and mrs. anison both saw the necessity for an immediate diversion, and talked about something else in the most determined manner. on reflection, philip stanburne thought his church quite sufficiently avenged already. "as i believe in the koran," he said to miss anison, "i may marry four wives. what an advantage that will be!" "you horrible man!" "why am i a horrible man? why are you so ungracious to me? the sultan and the viceroy of egypt are like me--they believe in the koran--and they act upon their belief as i intend to do. yet a christian queen has been gracious to them. she did not tell them they were horrible men. why should you not be gracious to me in the same way? when i have married my four wives, you will come and visit me, won't you, in my palace on the bosphorus? black slaves shall bring you coffee in a little jewelled cup, and your lips shall touch the amber mouth-piece of a diamonded chibouque." "but then your four wives will all be orientals, and i shall not be able to talk to them." the misses anison were not the only young ladies at the table. philip stanburne had a neighbor on his left hand who interested him even more than the brilliant girl on his right. this was miss alice stedman, whom he had seen in the bookseller's shop at sootythorn. "and if you believe in the koran," said miss stedman, "you ought to show it by refusing to drink wine." "ah, then, i renounce mohammed, that i may have the pleasure of drinking wine with you, miss stedman!" this was said with perfect grace, and in the little ceremony which followed, the young gentleman contrived to express so much respect and admiration for his fair neighbor, that mrs. anison took note of it. "mr. stanburne is in love with alice," she said to herself. "would you renounce your religion for love?" asked madge anison, in a low tone. philip felt a sudden sensation, as if a doctor had just probed him. garibaldi felt the corresponding physical pain when nã©laton found the bullet. he turned slowly and looked at madge. there was a strange expression about her lips, and the perennial merriment had faded from her face. "are you speaking seriously, miss anison, i wonder?" the talk was noisy enough all round the table to isolate the two completely. even miss stedman was listening to her loud-voiced neighbor, the lieutenant. madge anison looked straight at philip, and said, "yes, i _am_ speaking seriously." "i believe i should not, now. but nobody knows what he may do when he is in love." "you _are_ in love." this time the room whirled, and the voices sounded like the murmur of a distant sea. in an instant philip stanburne passed from one state of life to another state of life. a crisis, which changed the whole future of four persons there present, occurred in the world of his consciousness. his imagination rioted in wild day-dreams; but one picture rose before him with irresistible vividness--a picture of alice kneeling with him under a canopy, before the high altar at st. agatha's. a slight pressure on his left arm recalled him to the actual world. the ladies were all leaving their seats, and madge had kindly reminded him where he was. "a sad place for drinking is shayton," observed mr. blunting, as he poured himself a glass of pure water. "i wonder if one could do any good there?" "they're past curing, mostly, are shayton folk," answered john stedman. "are not they, mr. ogden?" "there's one here that is, i'm afraid," answered isaac, with much humility. mr. blunting inquired, with sympathy in his tone, whether mr. ogden had himself fallen under temptation. when isaac confessed his backslidings of the past week, the reverend gentleman requested permission to see him in private. isaac had a dislike to clergymen in general, and in matters of religion rather shared the latitudinarian views of his friend dr. bardly; but he was in a state of profound moral discouragement, and ready to be grateful to any one who held out prospects of effectual help. so it ended by his accepting an invitation to take tea at the parsonage at sootythorn. "if you take tea with mr. blunting," said joseph anison, "you must mind he doesn't inoculate you with his own sort of intemperance, if he cures you of your little excesses. he drinks tea enough in a year to float a canal-boat. it's a terribly bad habit. in my opinion it's far worse than drinking brandy. the worst of it is that it makes men like gossip just as women do. stick to your brandy-bottle, mr. ogden, like a man, and let mr. blunting empty his big tea-pot!" chapter xix. the colonel at whittlecup. whilst the gentlemen were still in the dining-room, mr. blunting saw a horse pass the window--a riderless, yet harnessed horse--followed by another horse in an unaccustomed manner; and then came a lofty vehicle, drawn by the latter animal. i have described this equipage as it appeared to mr. blunting; but the experienced reader will perceive that it was a tandem, and by the association of ideas will expect to see fyser and the colonel. colonel stanburne came into the dining-room, and soon made himself at home there. he had never happened to meet joseph anison or mr. stedman, but he knew the incumbent of sootythorn slightly, and the other two men were his own officers, though he had as yet seen very little of either of them. the stanburnes of wenderholme held a position in all that part of the country so far above that to which their mere wealth would have entitled them (for there were manufacturers far richer than the colonel), that joseph anison felt it an honor that the head of that family should have entered his gates. "he's only calling on young stanburne," thought joseph anison; "he isn't calling upon us." "i came to thank you and mrs. anison," said the colonel, "for having so kindly taken care of our young friend here. he seems to be getting on uncommonly well; and no wonder, when he's in such good quarters." "captain stanburne is gaining strength, i am glad to say," replied the master of the house. "he rather alarmed us when he came here, he seemed so weak; but he has come round wonderfully." "i am very much better, certainly," said the patient himself. the commanding officer hoped he would be fit for duty again at an early date, but captain stanburne declared that he did not feel strong enough yet to be equal to the march and the drill; that he was subject to frequent sensations of giddiness, which would make him most uncomfortable, if not useless, on the parade-ground; and that, in a word, he was best for the present where he was. this declaration was accompanied by due expressions of regret for the way in which he abused the kind hospitality of the anisons--expressions which, of course, drew forth from the good host a cordial renewal of his lease. "and what have you done with the irishman who nearly killed him?" asked mr. anison of the colonel. "i've heard nothing about him. if you'd had him shot, we should have heard of it." "it was a perplexing case. if you consider the man a soldier, the punishment is most severe--in fact it is death, even if he did not mean to kill. but we hardly could consider him a soldier--he had had no military experience--a raw irish laborer, who had never worn a uniform. i have been unwilling to bring the man before a court-martial. he is in prison still." "he has been punished enough," said philip. "pray consider him simply as having been drunk. irishmen are always combative when they are drunk. it was not a deliberate attack upon me as his officer. the man was temporarily out of his senses, and struck blindly about him." it having been settled that the irishman was to be pardoned on the intercession of captain stanburne, the colonel begged to be presented to mrs. anison. "he had not much time," he said, looking at his watch; "he had to be back in sootythorn in time for mess, and he was anxious to pay his respects to the lady of the house." so they all went into the drawing-room. after the introductory bows, the colonel perceived our friend, little jacob (who had retreated with the ladies); but as he had not quite finished his little speech to mrs. anison about her successful nursing, he did not as yet take any direct notice of him. when the duties of politeness had been fully performed, the colonel beckoned for little jacob, and when he came to him, laid both hands on his shoulders. "and so you're here, too, are you, young man? i thought you were at shayton with your grandmamma." lieutenant ogden came up at this instant to excuse himself. "my mother only came to whittlecup yesterday, colonel, and she brought my little boy with her." mrs. ogden approached the group. "i'm little jacob's grandmother," she said, "and i'm mother to this great lad here" (pointing to the lieutenant), "and it's as much as ever i can do to take care of him. what did you send him by himself to whittlecup for? you should have known better nor that; sending a drunkard like him to stop by hisself in a public-house. if he's a back-slider now, it's 'long o' them as turned him into temptation, same as a cow into a clover-field. i wish he'd never come into th' malicious (militia)--i do so." the colonel was little accustomed to be spoken to with that unrestrained frankness which characterizes the inhabitants of shayton, and felt a temporary embarrassment under mrs. ogden's onslaught. "well, mrs. ogden, let us hope that mr. isaac will be safe now under your protection." "safe? ay, he is safe now, i reckon, when he's getten his mother to take care of him; and there's more on ye as wants your mothers to take care on ye, by all accounts." "mother," said the lieutenant, "you shouldn't talk so to the colonel. you should bear in mind how he kept little jacob at wenderholme hall." mrs. ogden was pacified immediately, and held out her hand. "i thank you for that," she said, "you were very kind to th' childt; and i've been doin' a piece of needlework ever since for your wife, but it willn't be finished while christmas." "mother, you shouldn't say 'your wife'--you should say 'her ladyship,'" observed the lieutenant, in a low tone. "my wife will be greatly obliged to you, mrs. ogden. i hope you will make her acquaintance before you leave the regiment; for i may say that you belong to the regiment now, since you have come to be lieutenant ogden's commanding officer." mrs. anison had been first an astonished and then an amused auditor of this colloquy, but she ended it by offering mrs. ogden a cup of tea. then the colonel began to talk to mrs. anison. he had that hearty and frank enjoyment of the society of ladies which is not only perfectly compatible with morality, but especially belongs to it as one of its best attributes and privileges. good women liked the colonel, and the colonel liked good women; he liked them none the less when they were handsome, as mrs. anison was, and when they could talk well and easily, as she did. some women are distinguished by nature; and though mrs. anison had seen little of the great world, and the colonel had seen a good deal of it, the difference of experience did not place a perceptible barrier between them. the time seemed to have passed rapidly for both when the visitor took his leave. chapter xx. philip stanburne in love. if any rational and worldly-minded adviser had said to philip stanburne a month before, "why don't you look out for some well-to-do cotton-spinner's daughter in sootythorn? you might pick up a good fortune, that would mend the stanithburn property, and you might find a nice well-educated girl, who would do you quite as much credit as if she belonged to one of the old families"--if any counsel of this kind had been offered to philip stanburne then, before he saw alice stedman, he would have rejected it at once as being altogether inadmissible. _he_, the representative of the house of stanburne, connect himself with a family of cotton-spinners! he, the dutiful son of the church, ally himself with a member of one of those heretical sects who insult her in her affliction! our general views of things may, however, be very decided, and admit, nevertheless, of exception in favor of persons who are known to us. to hate protestants in general--to despise the commercial classes as a body--is one thing; but to hate and despise a gentle maiden, whose voice sounds sweetly in our ears, is quite another thing. "she's as perfect a lady as any i ever saw," thought philip, as she walked before him in the garden at arkwright lodge. a closer social critic might have answered, that although alice stedman was a very admirable and good young woman, absolutely free from the least taint of vulgarity, she lacked the style and "go" of a young lady of the world. her deficiency in this respect may, however, have gone far to produce the charm which attracted philip. alice had not the _aplomb_ of a fine lady, nor the brilliance of a clever woman; but nature had given her a stamp of genuineness which is sometimes effaced by the attrition of society. "it's wrong of me to have taken possession of you, captain stanburne," said margaret anison; "i see you are longing to be with alice stedman--you would be a great deal happier with her;" and, without consulting him further, she called her sister, adding, "i beg pardon, lissy, but i want to say something to sarah." of course, as miss anison had some private communication to make to her sister, philip and alice had nothing to do but _s'ã©loigner_. the young gentleman offered his arm, which was accepted, and they went on down a deviously winding walk. alice looked round, and seeing nobody, said, "hadn't we better wait, or go back a little? we have been walking faster than they have." philip did as he was bid, not precisely knowing or caring which way he went. but the young ladies were not there. "i think," he said at last, "we should do better to go in our first direction, as they will expect us to do. very likely miss anison may have taken her sister to the house, to show her something, and they will meet us in the garden again, if we go in the direction they calculate upon." so they turned round and walked down the winding path again. "you often come to this place, i believe," said philip. "the anisons are old friends of yours, are they not, miss stedman?" "oh yes; i come to stay here very often. the anisons are very kind to me." "they are kind to me also, miss stedman, and yet i have no claim of old acquaintance. a fortnight since i did not even know their name, and yet it seems to me now as if i had known them for years. _you_ are rather an older acquaintance, miss stedman. i had the pleasure of seeing you at sootythorn before i came to whittlecup." alice looked up at her companion rather archly, and said, "you mean in the bookseller's shop?" "yes, when you came to buy a book of sermons. shall i tell you what book you ordered? i remember the name perfectly. it was 'blunting's sermons on popery.'" "so you were listening, were you?" "i wasn't listening when i heard your voice for the first time, but i listened very attentively afterwards. my attention was attracted by the title of the book. you know that i am a catholic, miss stedman?" "yes," said alice, very briefly, and in a tone which seemed to endeavor not to imply disapprobation. "and perhaps you know that catholics don't quite like to hear their religion called 'popery.' so i was a little irritated; but then i reflected that as the title of the book was so, you could not order it by another name than the name upon its titlepage." here there was a pause, as alice did not speak. philip resumed,-"do you live _in_ sootythorn, miss stedman?" "not far out of the town. indeed our house is surrounded by buildings now. it used to be quite in the country." "i--i should like to call upon mr. stedman very much when i am quite well again." for some seconds there was no answer. then alice said in a low tone, almost inaudible, "i should be very glad to see you again." a heavy and rapid step on the gravel behind them abruptly ended this interesting conversation. it was not madge anison's step. they stopped and looked round. the reverend abel blunting confronted them. if poor alice had not had that miserable habit of blushing, the reverend gentleman would have perceived nothing beyond the simple fact that the young lady was walking in a garden with mr. philip stanburne. but alice's face was suffused with crimson, and the knowledge that it was so made her so uncomfortable that she blushed more than ever. in spite of his manhood, there was a slightly heightened color on philip's cheek also, but a good deal of this may be attributed to vexation at what he was disposed to consider an ill-timed and unwarrantable intrusion. "good morning, miss alice! i hope you are quite well: and you, sir, i wish you good morning; i hope i see you well." philip bowed, a little stiffly, and alice proceeded to make hasty inquiries about her papa. did mr. blunting know if her papa had changed his intentions? mr. blunting was always very polite, the defect in his manners (betraying that he was not quite a gentleman) being that they were only too deferential. he had a fatherly affection for alice stedman, whose spiritual guide he had been from her infancy, and it was certainly the very first time in her life that she had seen him without feelings of unmingled satisfaction. "i have come to fetch you myself, miss alice. i met your papa in sootythorn this morning as i was leaving in my gig, and he asked if i were coming to whittlecup. so he requested me to offer you the vacant seat, miss alice, which i now do with great pleasure." here mr. blunting made a sort of a bow. there was an unctuousness in his courtesy that irritated philip, but perhaps philip envied him his place in the gig. "are we going to leave immediately, then?" inquired miss stedman, in a tone which did not imply the most perfect satisfaction with these arrangements. "mrs. anison has been so kind as to invite me to dine, and i have accepted." mr. blunting was too honest to say that miss alice ought to dine before her drive. he accepted avowedly in his own interest. he had a large body to nourish, he had to supply energies for an enormous amount of work, and the dinners at the sootythorn parsonage were not always very succulent. he therefore thought it not wrong to accept effective aid in his labors when it offered itself in the shape of hospitality. at dessert the clergyman found an opportunity of conveying, not too directly, a little hint or lesson which he felt it his duty to convey, and which had been tormenting him since the meeting in the garden. the conversation, which at whittlecup, as elsewhere, very generally ran upon people known to the speakers, had turned to a case of separation between a neighboring country gentleman and his wife, who were, or had been, of different religions. "marriages of that kind," said mr. blunting, "between people of different religions, seldom turn out happily, and it is a great imprudence to contract them." mrs. anison expressed a hearty concurrence in this view, but certain young persons present believed that, however just mr. blunting's observation might be, considered generally, there must be exceptions to a rule so discouraging. chapter xxi. the wenderholme coach. the distance from wenderholme to sootythorn was rather inconveniently great, being about twenty miles; and as there was no railway in that direction, the colonel determined to set up a four-in-hand, which he facetiously entitled "the wenderholme coach." the immediate purpose of the wenderholme coach was to enable the officers to enjoy more frequently the hospitalities of the hall; but it may be admitted that john stanburne had a natural gift for driving, and also a cultivated taste for that amusement, which may have had their influence in deciding him to add this item to his establishment. he had driven his tandem so long now, that, though it was still very agreeable to him, it no longer offered any excitement; but his experience of a four-in-hand was much more limited, and it therefore presented many of the allurements of novelty. nothing is more agreeable than a perfect harmony between our duties towards others and our private tastes and predilections. it was clearly a duty to offer hospitality to the officers; and the hospitality would be so much more graceful if wenderholme were brought nearer to sootythorn by a capacious conveyance travelling at high speed, and with the style befitting a company of officers and gentlemen. at the same time, when john stanburne imagined the charms of driving a four-in-hand, his fingers tingled with anticipations of their delight in holding "the ribbons." like all men of a perfectly healthy nature, he still retained a great deal of the boy (alas for him whose boyhood is at an end for ever!), and he was still capable of joyously anticipating a new pleasure. the _idea_ of the four-in-hand was not new to him. he had long secretly aspired to its realization, but then lady helena (who had not the sacred fire) was not likely to see the thing quite in the same light. john stanburne had never precisely consulted her upon the subject--he had never even gone so far as to say that he should like a four-in-hand if he could afford it; but he had expatiated on the delights of driving other people's teams, and his enthusiasm had met with no answering warmth in helena's unresponsive breast. she had known for years that her husband had a hankering after a four-in-hand, and had discouraged it in her own way--namely, by steadily avoiding the least expression (even of simple politeness) which might be construed into approbation. in this negative way, without once speaking openly about the matter, she had clearly conveyed to the colonel's mind her opinion thereupon. the reader, no doubt, approves her ladyship's wisdom and economy. but lady helena was not on all points wise and economical. her qualities of this order shone most conspicuously with reference to pleasures which she did not personally appreciate. it is with sins of extravagance as with most other sins--we compound for those which we're inclined to by condemning those that we've no mind to. on the other hand, it may most reasonably be argued, in favor of her ladyship and other good women who criticise their husbands' expenditure on this excellent old principle, that if they not only encouraged the outlay which procures them the things they like, but also outlay for things they are indifferent about, the general household expenditure would be ruinously augmented. the colonel's manner of proceeding about the four-in-hand was characteristic of a husband in his peculiar position. he knew by experience the strength of the _fait accompli_. he wrote privily to a knowing friend of his who was spending the pleasant month of may amidst the joys of the london season, to purchase for him at once the commodious vehicle destined to become afterwards famous as the wenderholme coach. he wrote for it on that monday evening when alice stedman returned from her interrupted visit to whittlecup; and as it was sent down on a truck attached to a passenger train, it arrived at the sootythorn station within forty-eight hours of the writing of the letter, and was brought to the thorn inn by two of mr. garley's hacks. the officers turned out to look at it after mess, and as it was known to have been selected by a man of high repute in the sporting world, its merits were unanimously allowed. there was a complete set of silver-mounted harness for four horses in the boot, carefully wrapped up in three sorts of paper; and london celerity had even found time to emblazon the stanburne arms on the panels. it is true that they were exceedingly simple, like the arms of most old families, and the painter had omitted to impale them with the bearings of her ladyship--an accident which might also be considered ominous under the circumstances, since it seemed to imply that in this extravagance of the colonel's his wife had no part nor lot. as the mess was just over when the coach entered mr. garley's yard, the colonel, with the boyish impulsiveness which he did not attempt to conceal, said, "let's have a drive in the wenderholme coach! where shall we go to? let's go and look up lieutenant ogden at whittlecup, and see what he's doing!" so the two tandem horses and two of mr. garley's hacks were clothed in the splendors of the new harness, and attached to the great vehicle, whilst a dozen officers mounted to the lofty outside places. they wore the mess costume (red shell-jacket, &c.), and looked something like a lot of scarlet geraniums on the top of a horticulturist's van. just as they were starting, and as the colonel was beginning to feel his reins properly, a youthful lieutenant who possessed a cornet-ã -piston, and had privily carried it with him as he climbed to his place behind, filled the streets of sootythorn with triumphant trumpet-notes. the sound caused many of the inhabitants to come to their windows, and amongst others miss mellor and her friend, mrs. ogden, who had been drinking tea with her that evening. "why," said miss mellor, "it's a new coach!" "and it's boun' to'rd whittlecup, i declare," added mrs. ogden. she had already put her things on, intending to walk back to whittlecup with little jacob in the cool of the evening, for it was quite contrary to mrs. ogden's character (at once courageous and economical) to hire a fly for so short a distance as four miles. but when she saw the coach, it occurred to her that here was a golden mean betwixt the extravagance of fly-hiring and the fatigues of pedestrianism; so she clapped little jacob's cap on his head (in a manner unsatisfactory to that young gentleman, for nobody can put a boy's cap on to suit him except himself), and dragged him out at the front door, hardly taking time to say good night to the worthy lady by whom she had just been so hospitably entertained. when the colonel saw mrs. ogden making signs with her parasol, he recognized her at once, and good-naturedly drew up his horses that she might get inside. fyser got down to open the door, and the following conversation, which was clearly overheard by several of the officers, and partially by the colonel himself, took place between fyser and mrs. ogden. "is this whittlecup coach?" "yes, mum." "is there room inside for me and this 'ere little lad?" "plenty of room, mum. step in, please; the horses is waitin'." "stop a bit. what's the fare as far as whittlecup?" "one shilling, mum," said fyser, who ventured thus far, from his knowledge of the colonel's indulgent disposition when a joke was in the wind. "the childt'll be half-price?" said mrs. ogden, mixing the affirmative with the interrogative. "very well, mum," said fyser, and shut the door on mrs. ogden and little jacob. the colonel, since the box-seat was on the other side of the vehicle, had not heard the whole of this colloquy; and when it was reported to him amidst roars of laughter, he looked rather graver than was expected. "it's a good joke, gentlemen," he said, "but there is one little matter i must explain to you. our inside passenger is the mother of one of our brother officers, lieutenant ogden, who is commanding number six company at whittlecup, and the little boy with her is his son; so please be very careful never to allude to this little incident in his presence, you understand." meanwhile mrs. ogden found the whittlecup coach comfortable in a supreme degree. "they've rare good coaches about sootythorn," she said to little jacob; "this is as soft as soft--it's same as sittin' on a feather-bedd." a few minutes later she continued: "th' outside passengers is mostly soldiers[17] by what i can see. they're 'appen some o' your father's men as are boun' back to whittlecup." in less than half an hour the colonel drew up in the market-place at whittlecup, at the sign of the blue bell. he handed the reins to his neighbor on the box, and descended with great alacrity. fyser had just opened the door when the colonel arrived in time to help mrs. ogden politely as she got out. "it's eighteenpence," she said, and handed him the money. the colonel had thrown his gray cloak over his shell-jacket, and, to a person with mrs. ogden's habits of observation, or non-observation, looked sufficiently like a coachman. he thought it best to take the money, to prevent an explanation in the presence of so many witnesses. so he politely touched his cap, and thanked her. it being already dusk, she did not recognize him. suddenly the love of a joke prevailed over other considerations, and the colonel, imitating the cabman's gesture, contemplated the three sixpences in his open hand by the light of the lamp, and said, "is there nothing for the coachman, mum?" the lamplight fell upon his features, and mrs. ogden recognized him at once; so did little jacob. her way of taking the discovery marked her characteristic self-possession. she blundered into no apologies; but, fixing her stony gray eyes full on the colonel's face, she said, "i think you want no sixpences; stanburnes o' wendrum hall doesn't use wantin' sixpences. give me my eighteenpence back." then, suddenly changing her resolution, she said, "nay, i willn't have them three sixpences back again; it's worth eighteenpence to be able to tell folk that colonel stanburne of wenderholme hall took money for lettin' an old lady ride in his carriage." she said this with real dignity, and taking little jacob by the hand, moved off with a steady step towards her lodging over the shoemaker's shop. chapter xxii. colonel stanburne apologizes. the next day lieutenant ogden appeared not on the parade-ground at sootythorn. captain stanburne commanded his own company for the first time since his accident (his cure having been wonderfully advanced by the departure of miss stedman from arkwright lodge); and during one of the short intervals of repose which break the tedium of drill, he went to pay his respects to the colonel, who was engaged in conversation with the adjutant on a bit of elevated ground, whilst fyser promenaded his war-horse to and fro. colonel stanburne, who was ignorant of the cause to which he owed the rapid recovery of his young friend, heartily congratulated him, and then said, "but where is ogden? what's ogden doing? why didn't he come to the parade-ground to join the grenadier company again? is he taking a day's holiday with those pretty girls at arkwright lodge?" "mr. ogden begs to be excused from attending drill to-day. i have a note from him." and captain stanburne handed the letter to the colonel. as soon as john stanburne had read the letter he looked very grave, or rather very much put out, and made an ejaculation. the ejaculation was "damn it!" then he folded the letter again, and put it in his pocket-book. "have you had any conversation with mr. ogden on the subject of this letter?" captain stanburne knew nothing about it. the colonel made a signal for fyser, and mounted his horse. fyser mounted another, and followed his master. the senior major was telling humorous anecdotes to a group of captains, and the colonel went straight to him at a canter. he told him to command the regiment in his absence, entering into some details about what was to be done--details which puzzled the major exceedingly, for he knew nothing whatever about battalion drill, or any drill, though in some former state of existence he had been an ornamental officer in the guards. this done, the colonel galloped off the field. the letter which had caused this sudden departure was as follows:- "sir,--as you have thought fit to play a practical joke upon my mother, i send in my resignation. "your obedient servant, isaac ogden." there was no hesitation about the colonel's movements; he rode straight to whittlecup as fast as his horse could carry him. he went first to the blue bell, where he found a guide to mrs. ogden's lodging over the shoemaker's shop. in answer to his inquiries, the shoemaker's wife admitted that all her lodgers were at home, but--but--in short, they were "getting their breakfast." the colonel said his business was urgent--that he must see the lieutenant, and mrs. ogden too--so mrs. wood guided him up the narrow stairs. we may confess for john stanburne that he had not much of that courage which rejoices in verbal encounters, or if he had, it was of that kind which dares to do what the man is constitutionally most afraid to do. the reader may remember an anecdote of another english officer, who, as he went into battle, betrayed the external signs of fear, and in reply to a young subaltern, who had the impudence to taunt him, said, "yes, i _am_ afraid, and if you were as much afraid as i am, you would run away." yet, by the strength of his will, he conducted himself like a true soldier. and there is that other stirring anecdote about a french commander, who, when his body trembled at the opening of a battle, thus apostrophized it: "tu trembles, vile carcasse! tu tremblerais bien plus si tu savais oã¹ je vais te mener!" if these men were cowards, john stanburne was a coward too, for he mortally dreaded this encounter with the ogdens; but if they were not cowards (having will enough to neutralize that defect of nature), neither was john stanburne. lieutenant ogden rose from his seat, and bowed rather stiffly as the colonel entered. mrs. ogden made a just perceptible inclination of the head, and conveyed to her mouth a spoonful of boiled egg, which she had just dipped in the salt. "i beg pardon," said the colonel, "for intruding upon you during breakfast time, but--but i was anxious"--the moment of hesitation which followed was at once taken advantage of by mrs. ogden. "and is that all you've come to beg pardon for?" this thrust put the colonel more on his defence than a pleasanter reception would have done. he had intended to offer nothing but a very polite apology; but as there seemed to be a disposition on the part of the enemy to extort concessions so as to deprive them of the grace of being voluntary, he withdrew into his own retrenchments. "i came to ask mr. ogden for an explanation about his letter of this morning." "i should think you need no explanations, colonel stanburne. you know what passed yesterday evening." "he knows that well enough," said mrs. ogden. "i should be glad if lieutenant ogden would tell me in detail what he thinks that he has to complain of." "leaftenant! leaftenant! nay, there's no more leaftenantin', i reckon. this is isaac ogden--plain isaac ogden--an' nout elz. he's given up playin' at soldiers. he's a cotton-spinner, or he were one, nobbut his brother an' him quarrelled; and i wish they hadn't done, many a time i do--for our jacob's as much as ever he can manage, now as he's buildin' a new mill; an' if he gets wed--and there's hiram ratcliff's dorther"--mrs. ogden might have gone very far into family matters if her son had not perceived (or imagined that he perceived) something like a smile on colonel stanburne's face. in point of fact, the colonel did not precisely smile; but there was a general relaxation of the muscles of his physiognomy from their first expression of severity, betraying an inward tendency to humor. "well, sir," broke in ogden, "i'll tell you what you did, if you want me. it seems that you've set up a new carriage, a four-in-hand, which looks very like a mail coach, and you drove this vehicle yesterday through the streets of sootythorn, and you saw my mother on the footpath, and you made a signal to her with your whip, as coachmen do, and you allowed her to get inside under the impression that it was a public conveyance, so that you might make a laughing-stock of her with the officers. and"-"pardon me," said the colonel, "it was not"-"you've asked me to tell you why i sent in my resignation, and i'm telling you. if you stop me, i shalln't begin it over again. let me say my say, colonel stanburne; you may explain it away afterwards at your leisure, if you can. when you got into whittlecup, and stopped at the blue bell, you took my mother's money--and not only that, but you asked for a gratuity for yourself, as driver, to make her ridiculous in the eyes of your friends on the vehicle. i suppose, though your joke may have been a very good one, that you will be able to understand why it is not very pleasing to me, and why i don't choose to remain under you in the militia." "if the thing had occurred as you have told it"--the colonel began, but was instantly interrupted by mrs. ogden. "do you mean to say i didn't tell him right what happened? if anybody knows what happened, i do." "let the colonel say what he has to say, mother; don't you stop him. i've said my say, and it's his turn now." the colonel told the facts as the reader knows them. "he had made no sign to mrs. ogden," he said, "in the street at sootythorn, but she had made a sign with her parasol, which he had interpreted as a request for a place. he had been ignorant that fyser had kept up her illusion about the vehicle being a public one until after the fact; and so far from encouraging the merriment of the officers, had put a stop to it by telling them who mrs. ogden was, particularly requesting that the incident might not be made a subject of pleasantry, lest it should reach mr. ogden's ears. on arriving in whittlecup, he had taken her money, but with the express purpose of saving her the pain of an explanation. he had intended mrs. ogden to remain ignorant--happily ignorant--of her little mistake." "pardon me," said isaac ogden; "this might have been equally well accomplished without asking my mother for a coachman's gratuity. _that_ was done to make a fool of her, evidently; and no doubt you laughed about it with your friends as you drove back to sootythorn." "here is the only point on which i feel that i owe an apology to mrs. ogden, and i very willingly make it. in every thing else i did what lay in my power to save her from ridicule, but on this point i confess that i did wrong. i couldn't help it. i was carried away by a foolish fancy for acting the coachman out and out. the temptation was too strong for me, you know. i thought i had taken the money cleverly, in the proper professional manner, and i was tempted to ask for a gratuity. i acknowledge that i went too far. mrs. ogden, i am very sorry for this." mrs. ogden had been gradually softening during the colonel's explanation, and when it came to its close she turned to him and said, "we've been rather too hard upon you, i think." such an expression as this from mrs. ogden was equivalent to a profuse apology. the lieutenant added a conciliatory little speech of his own: "i think my mother may accept your explanation. i am willing to accept it myself." this was not very cordial, but at any rate it was an expression of satisfaction. little jacob had hitherto been a silent and unobserved auditor of this conversation, but it now occurred to the colonel that he might be of considerable use. "mrs. ogden," he said, "will you allow me to transfer your eighteenpence to this young gentleman's pocket?" mrs. ogden consented, and it will be believed that little jacob on his part had no objection. then the colonel drew little jacob towards him, and began to ask him questions--"what would he like to be?" little jacob said he would like to be a coachman, as the colonel was, and drive four horses. the colonel promised him a long drive on the coach. "and may i drive the horses?" "well, we shall see about that. yes, you shall drive them a little some day." then turning towards mrs. ogden, he continued,-"lady helena is not at wenderholme just now, unfortunately; she is gone to town to her father's for a few days, so that i am a bachelor at present, and cannot invite ladies; but if it would please little jacob to ride on the coach with me, i should be very glad if you would let him. i am going to drive to wenderholme this evening as soon as our afternoon drill is finished, and shall return to-morrow morning. about half-a-dozen officers are going to dine with me. ogden, you'll dine with me too, won't you? do--there's a good fellow; and pray let us forget this unlucky bit of unpleasantness. don't come full fig--come in a shell-jacket." "well, but you know, colonel stanburne, i've resigned my commission, and so how can i come in a red jacket?" this was said with an agreeable expression of countenance, intended to imply that the resignation was no longer to be taken seriously. the colonel laughed. "nonsense," he said; "you don't talk about resigning? it isn't a time for resigning when there's such a capital chance of promotion. most likely you'll be a captain next training, for there's a certain old major who finds battalion drill a mystery beyond the utmost range of his intellect, and i don't think he'll stop very long with us, and when he leaves us there'll be a general rise, and the senior lieutenant, you know, will be a captain." mrs. ogden's countenance began to shine with pride at these hints of promotion. after all, he would be somebody at shayton, would captain ogden, for she was fully determined that when once he should be in possession of the title, it should not perish for want of use. when the colonel rose to take his leave, mrs. ogden said, "nay, nay, you shalln't go away without drinking a glass of wine. there's both port and sherry in the cupboard; and if you'd like something to eat--you must be quite hungry after your ride. why, you've 'appen never got your breakfast?" the colonel confessed that he had not breakfasted. he had come away from early drill just before his usual breakfast-hour. "eh, well, i wish i'd known sooner; indeed i do. the coffee's quite cold, and there's nothing worse than cold coffee; but mr. wood 'll very soon make some fresh." colonel stanburne was really hungry, and ate his breakfast in a manner which gave the greatest satisfaction to mrs. ogden. the more he ate the more he rose in her esteem, and at length she could no longer restrain her feelings of approval, and said, "you _can_ eat your breakfast; it does me good to watch ye. there's many a young man as cannot eat half as much as you do. there's our isaac here that's only a very poor breakfast-eater. i tell him so many a time." indeed she _did_ tell him so many a time--namely, about fifteen times whenever they breakfasted together. when the colonel had done eating, he looked at his watch and said it was time to go. "well, i'm very sorry you're goin' so soon--indeed i am," said mrs. ogden, who, when he ceased to eat, felt that her own pleasure was at an end. "but you _must_ drink a glass of wine. it isn't bought at the blue bell at whittlecup--it comes from shayton." she said this with a calm assurance that it settled the question of the wine's merits, just as if shayton had been the centre of a famous wine-district. returning to the subject of breakfast-eating, she repeated, "eh, i do wish our isaac could eat his breakfast same as you do, but he's spoiled his stomach wi' drinking." then addressing her son: "isaac, i put two glasses with the decanter--why don't you fill your glass?" "i've given up drinking." "do you mean to say as you're teetotal?" "yes, i do, mother; i'm teetotal now." mrs. ogden's face assumed an expression of extreme astonishment and displeasure. "well," she said, "isaac ogden, you're the first teetotal as has been in our family!" and she looked at him in scorn. then she resumed: "if i'd known what was to come of your meeting that teetotal clergyman--for it's him that's done it--i'd have prevented it if i could. turned teetotal! turned teetotal! well, isaac, i never could have believed this of any son of mine!" chapter xxiii. husband and wife. when lady helena came back from london, she found the wenderholme coach already in full activity. it ran from sootythorn to wenderholme twice a week regularly with many passengers, who, so far from contributing to its maintenance, did but yet further exhaust the pocket of its proprietor. it happened precisely that on the day of her ladyship's return the colonel had one of his frequent dinner-parties at the hall--parties composed almost exclusively of militia officers, and already known in the regiment as the "wenderholme mess." the colonel had thought it prudent to prepare lady helena for his new acquisition by mentioning it in a letter, so that she experienced no shock of surprise when the four-in-hand came swinging heavily round the drive in front of the house, announcing itself with loud blasts from ensign featherby's cornet-ã -piston. they had such numbers of spare bedrooms at wenderholme that these hospitalities caused no perceptible inconvenience, except that of getting up very early the next morning, which chiefly affected the guests themselves, who had to be in time for early drill. on this point the colonel was inexorable, so that the wenderholme mess was much more popular on saturday than on thursday evening, as the officers stayed at wenderholme till after luncheon, going to the village church in the morning with the people at the hall, and returning to sootythorn in the course of the afternoon, so as to be in time for mess. it happened that the day of lady helena's return was a saturday, and the colonel thought, "she said nothing about the coach to-night, but i'm in for it to-morrow morning." however, when sunday morning came, beautiful with full spring sunshine, her ladyship's countenance appeared equally cloudless. encouraged by these favorable appearances, john stanburne observed, a little before church-time,-"i say, helena, you haven't seen the wenderholme coach. come and look at it; _do_ come, helena--that's a good gell. it's in the coach-house." but her ladyship replied that she had seen the coach the evening before from the drawing-room window, when it arrived from sootythorn. "well, but you can't have seen it properly, you know. you can't have looked inside it. come and look inside it, and see what comfortable accommodation we've got for inside passengers. inside passengers don't often present themselves, though, and yet there's no difference in the fare. you'll be an inside passenger yourself--won't you, now, helena?" her ladyship was clearly aware that this coaxing was intended to extract from her an official recognition of the new institution, and she was resolutely determined to withhold it. so she looked at her watch, and observed that it was nearly church-time, and that she must go at once and put her things on. as they walked to church, she said to one of the officers, "we always walk to church from the hall, even in rainy weather." "helena's a capital walker," said the colonel. "it is fortunate for ladies to be good walkers," replied her ladyship, "when they have no carriage-horses." here was a stab; and the worst of it was, that it might clearly be proved to be deserved. the colonel had suggested in his letter to lady helena that she would do well to come by way of manchester to sootythorn, instead of going by bradford to a little country station ten miles on the yorkshire side of wenderholme. her ladyship had not replied to this communication, but had written the day before her return to the housekeeper at wenderholme, ordering her carriage, as usual, to the yorkshire station. the carriage had not come; the housekeeper had only been able to send the pony carriage, a tiny basket that lady helena drove herself, with seats for two persons, no place for luggage, and a black pony a little bigger than a newfoundland dog. lady helena had driven herself from the station; there had been a smart shower, and, notwithstanding a thin gray cloak, which was supposed to be waterproof, she had been wet through. the colonel had taken possession of all the carriage-horses for his four-in-hand, and they were at sootythorn. her ladyship would continue to be equally carriageless, since the colonel would take his whole team back with him, unless he sent back the horses from sootythorn on the day following. these things occupied john stanburne's mind when he should have been attending to the service. they had always kept four carriage-horses since their marriage, but never more than four; and though one of the two pairs had been often kept at sootythorn, when circumstances required them to go there frequently, still her ladyship had never been left carriageless without being previously consulted upon the subject, and then only for twenty-four hours at the longest. the idea of setting up a four-in-hand with only two pairs of horses, one of which was in almost daily requisition for a lady's carriage, would indeed have been ridiculous if john stanburne had quite seriously entertained it; but, though admitting vaguely the probable necessity of an increase, he had not yet recognized that necessity in a clear and definite way. it came to his mind, however, on that sunday morning with much distinctness. "well, hang it!" he thought, as he settled down in his corner at the beginning of the sermon, "i have as much right to spend my own money as helena has. every journey she makes to town costs more than a horse. i spend nothing on myself--really nothing whatever. look at my tailor's bill! i positively _haven't_ any tailor's bill. helena spends more on dress in a month than i do in a year. and then her jeweller's bill! she spends hundreds of pounds on jewellery, and i never spend one penny. every time she goes to a drawing-room she has all her old jewels pulled to pieces and set afresh, and it costs nobody knows what--it does. i'll have my four-in-hand properly horsed with horses of my own, by george! and none of those confounded sootythorn hacks any more; and helena shall keep her carriage-horses all to herself, and drive about all day long if she likes. of course i can't take her carriage-horses--she's right there." on her own part, her ladyship was steadily resolved not to be deprived of any of those belongings which naturally appertained to a person of her rank and consideration; and there had existed in her mind for several years a feeling of jealous watchfulness, which scrutinized at the same time john stanburne's projects of economy and his projects of expense. it had happened several times within the experience of this couple that the husband had taken little fits of parsimony, during which he attacked the expenditure he least cared for, but which, by an unfortunate fatality, always seemed to his wife to be most reasonable and necessary. it might perhaps have been more favorable to his tranquillity to ally himself with some country girl acclimatized to the dulness of a thoroughly provincial existence, and satisfied with the position of mistress of wenderholme hall, who would have let him spend his money in his own way, and would never have dragged him beyond the circle of his tastes and inclinations. he hated london, especially during the season; and though he enjoyed the society of people whom he really knew something about, he disliked being in a crowd. lady helena, on the other hand, was fond of society, and even of the spectacle of the court. john stanburne had regularly accompanied his wife on these annual visits to the metropolis until this year, when the militia afforded an excellent pretext for staying in the country; but every year he had given evidence of an increasing disposition to evade the performance of his duties; and it had come to this at last, that lady helena was obliged to go about with the adisham family, since john stanburne could not be made to go to parties any more. he grumbled, too, a good deal about the costliness of these london expeditions, and sometimes talked of suppressing them altogether. there was another annual expedition that he disliked very much, namely, a winter expedition to brighton; and it had come to pass that a coolness had sprung up between john stanburne and the adisham family (who went to brighton every year), because his indisposition to meet them there had been somewhat too openly manifested. his old mother was the confidant of these rebellious sentiments. she lived in a picturesque cottage situated in wenderholme park, which served as a residence for dowagers. she came very regularly to wenderholme church, and sat there in a small pew of her own, which bore the same relation to the big family pew that the cottage bore to the hall. john stanburne had objected very strongly to his mother's removal to the cottage, and he had also objected to the separate pew, but his mother maintained the utility of both institutions. she said it was good for an old woman, who found some difficulty in fixing her attention steadily, not to be disturbed in her devotions by the presence of too many strangers in the same pew; and as there would often be company at the hall, she would stick to her own seat. so she sat there as usual on this particular sunday, looking very nice in her light summer dress. the colonel's little daughter, edith, had slipped into her grandmamma's pew, as she often did, when they were walking up the aisle. she had been staying at the cottage during her mother's absence, as was her custom when lady helena went to london; and it had cost her, as usual, a little pang to leave the old lady by herself again. besides, she felt that it would be pleasanter to sit with her grandmother than with all those strange militia officers. she would have felt, in the family pew, as a very young sapling may be supposed to feel when it is surrounded by over-poweringly big trees--sufficiently protected, no doubt, but more than sufficiently overshadowed. amongst the officers in the wenderholme pew was lieutenant ogden, and by his side a young gentleman whose presence has not hitherto been mentioned, namely, little jacob. little jacob's curious eyes wandered over the quaint old church during the sermon, and they fixed frequently upon the strange hatchments and marble monuments in the chapel of the stanburnes. he had never seen such things before in his life (for there were no old families at shayton), and he marvelled greatly thereat. advancing, however, from the known to the unknown, he remembered the royal arms which decorated the front of the organ gallery in shayton church, and finding a similar ornament at wenderholme, proceeded to the inference that the hatchments were something of the same kind, in which he was not far wrong. gradually his eyes fell upon mrs. stanburne's pew, and rested there. a vague new feeling crept into his being; edith stanburne seemed very nice, he thought. it was pleasant to look upon her face. here the more rigid of my readers may exclaim, "surely he is not going to make little jacob fall in love at _that_ age!" well, not as you would fall in love, respected reader, if that good or evil fortune were to happen to you; but a child like little jacob is perfectly capable of falling in love in his own way. the loves of children bear about the same proportion to the great passion which rules the destiny of men, that their contests in fisticuffs do to the bloody work of the bayonet; but as we may many of us remember having given bob or tom an ugly-looking black eye, or perchance remember having received one from tom or bob, so also there may linger amongst the recollections of our infancy some vision of a sweet little child-face that seemed to us brighter than any other face in the whole world. in this way did edith stanburne take possession of master jacob's honest little heart, and become the object of his silent, and tender, and timid, and exceedingly respectful adoration. he intensely felt the distance between himself and the heiress of wenderholme hall, and so he admired her as some young officer about a court may admire some beautiful princess whom it is his dangerous privilege to see. children are affected by the externals of ancient wealth to a degree which the mature mind, dwelling amongst figures, is scarcely capable of realizing; and the difference between wenderholme and twistle farm, or wenderholme and milend, seemed to little jacob's imagination an utterly impassable abyss. but there was steam in ogden's mill, and there was a leak in john stanburne's purse, and the slow months and years were gradually bringing about great changes. little jacob's adventure on the moor, and his fortunate arrival at the hall, had given him a peculiar footing there. colonel stanburne had taken a marked fancy to the lad; and lady helena--who, as the reader may perhaps remember, had lost two little boys in their infancy--was always associating him with her tenderest regrets and recollections, so that there was a sad kindness in her ways with him that drew him very strongly towards her. isaac ogden spoke the lancashire dialect as thoroughly, when it suited him, as any cotton-spinner in the county; but he could also speak, when he chose, a sort of english which differed from aristocratic english by greater hardness and body, rather than by any want of correctness, and he had always strictly forbidden little jacob to speak the lancashire dialect in his presence. the lad spoke lancashire all the more energetically for this prohibition when his father was not within hearing; but the severity of the paternal law had at least given him an equal facility in english, and he kept the two languages safely in separate boxes in his cranium. it is unnecessary to say that at wenderholme hall the box which contained the lancashire dialect was shut up with lock and key, and nothing but the purest english was produced, so that her ladyship thought that the little boy "spoke very nicely--with a northern accent, of course, but it was not disagreeable." when they came out of church lady helena said to lieutenant ogden, "of course you will bring your little boy here on thursday for the presentation of colors;" and then, whilst mr. ogden was expressing his acknowledgments, she interrupted him: "why not let him remain with us till then? we will try to amuse him, and make him learn his lessons." mr. ogden said he would have been very glad, but--in short, his mother was staying at sootythorn, and might wish to keep her little grandson with her. colonel stanburne came up just then, and her ladyship's answer was no doubt partially intended for his ear. "let me keep little jacob till to-morrow at any rate. i have several people to see in sootythorn, and must go there to-morrow. i scarcely know how i am to get there, though, for i have no carriage-horses." chapter xxiv. the colonel as a consoler. "i say, doctor," said colonel stanburne to dr. bardly, the day before the presentation of colors, "i wish you'd look to philip stanburne a little. he doesn't seem to me to be going on satisfactorily at all. i'm afraid that accident at whittlecup has touched his brain--he's so absent. he commanded his company very fairly a short time back, and he took an interest in drill, but now, upon my word, he gets worse and worse. to-day he made the most absurd mistakes; and one time he marched his company right off, and, by george! i thought he was going to take them straight at the hedge; and i believe he would have done so if the adjutant hadn't galloped after him. eureton rowed him so, that it brought him to his senses. i never saw such a youth. he doesn't seem to be properly awake. i'm sure he's ill. he eats nothing. i noticed him at mess last night. he didn't eat enough to keep a baby alive. i don't believe he sleeps properly at nights. his face is quite haggard. one might imagine he'd got something on his conscience. if you can't do him any good, i'll see the catholic priest, and beg him to set his mind at ease. i'm quite anxious about him, really." the doctor smiled. "it's my opinion," he said, "that the young gentleman has a malady that neither you nor i can cure. some young woman may cure it, but we can't. the lad's fallen in love." "why, doctor, you don't believe that young fellows make themselves ill about such little matters as that, do you? men are ill in that way in novels, but never in real life. i was desperately spoony myself before i married helena, and it wasn't helena i was spoony about either, and the girl jilted me to marry a marquis; and i think she did quite right, for i'd rather she ran away with the marquis before she was my wife than after, you know. but it didn't spoil me a single meal--it didn't make me sleep a wink the less. in fact i felt immensely relieved after an hour or two; for there's nothing like being a bachelor, doctor--it's so jolly being a bachelor; no man in his senses can be sad and melancholy because he's got to remain a bachelor." the doctor heartily agreed with this opinion, but observed that men in love were _not_ men in their senses. "indeed they're not, doctor--indeed they're not; but, i say, have you any idea about who the girl is in this business of philip's? it isn't that pretty miss anison, is it?" now the doctor had seen captain stanburne coming out of mr. stedman's mill one day when he went there to get the manufacturer's present address, and, coupling this incident with his leave of absence, had arrived at a conclusion of his own. but he was not quite sure where young stanburne had been during his leave of absence. "why, he was down in derbyshire," said the colonel. "he told me he didn't feel quite well, and wanted a day or two for rest in the country. he said he was going to fish. i don't like giving leaves of absence--we're here only for twenty-eight days; but in his case, you know, after that accident"-"oh, he went down to derbyshire, did he? then i know for certain who the girl is. it's alice stedman. her father is down there, fishing." "and who's she?" "why, you met her at whittlecup, at joseph anison's. she's a quiet bit of a lass, and a nice-looking lass, too. he might do worse." "i say," said the colonel, "tell me now, doctor, has she got any tin?" "she's safe to have thirty thousand if she's a penny; but it'll most likely be a good bit more." then the doctor continued, "but there's no blood in that family. her father began as a working man in shayton. it wouldn't be much of a match for a stanburne. it would not be doing like you, colonel, when you married an earl's daughter." "hang earls' daughters!" said the colonel, energetically; and then, recollecting himself, he added, "not all of 'em, you know, doctor--i don't want all of 'em to be hanged. but this young woman--i suppose she hasn't been presented at court, and doesn't want to be--and doesn't go to london every season, and has no swell relations." the doctor gave full assurances on all these points. "then i'll tell you what it is, doctor; if this young fellow's fretting about the girl, we'll do all we can to help him. he'd be more prudent still if he remained a bachelor; but it seems a rational sort of a marriage to make. she ain't got an uncle that's a baronet--eh, doctor?" "there's no danger of that." "that's right, that's right; because, look you here, doctor--it's a foolish thing to marry an earl's daughter, or a marquis's, or a duke's; but the foolishest thing of all is to marry a baronet's niece. a baronet's niece is the proudest woman in the whole world, and she's always talking about her uncle. a young friend of mine married a baronet's niece, and she gave him no rest till, by good luck, one day _his_ uncle was created a baronet, and then he met her on equal terms. it's the only way out of it: you _must_ under those circumstances get your uncle made a baronet. and if you don't happen to have such a thing as an uncle, what then? what can cheer the hopelessness of your miserable position?" after this conversation with the doctor, the colonel had another with philip stanburne himself. "captain stanburne," he said, gravely, in an interval of afternoon drill, "i consider you wanting in the duties of hospitality. i ask you to the sootythorn mess, and you never ask me to the whittlecup mess. i am reduced to ask myself. i beg to inform you that i shall dine at the whittlecup mess this evening." "i should be very happy, but--but i'm afraid you'll have a bad dinner. there's nothing but a beefsteak." "permit me to observe," continued the colonel, in the same grave tone, "that there's a most important distinction to be drawn between bad dinners and simple dinners. some of the very worst dinners i ever sat down to have been elaborate, expensive affairs, where the ambition of the cook exceeded his artistic skill; and some of the best and pleasantest have been simple and plain, and all the better because they were within the cook's capacity. that's my theory about dining, and every day's experience confirms it. for instance, between you and me, it seems to me highly probable that your whittlecup mess is better than ours at headquarters, for mr. garley _rather_ goes beyond what nature and education have qualified him for. his joints are good, but his side-dishes are detestable, and his sweets dangerous. so let us have the beefsteak to-night; there'll be enough for both of us, i suppose. and, i say," added the colonel, "don't ask anybody to meet me. i want to have a quiet hour or two with you." when drill was over, fyser appeared on the field with a led horse for the captain, and the two stanburnes rode off together in advance of the company, which for once was left to the old sergeant's care. the dinner turned out to be a beefsteak, as had been promised, and there was a pudding and some cheese. the colonel seemed to enjoy it very much, and ate very heartily, and declared that every thing was excellent, and talked at random about all sorts of subjects. they had the inn parlor all to themselves; and when dinner was over, and coffee had been served, and mr. simpson, the innkeeper (who had waited), had retired into other regions, the colonel lighted a cigar, and plunged _in medias res_. "i know what you went down into derbyshire for. you didn't go to fish; you went to ask mr. stedman to let you marry his daughter, miss alice stedman." for the first time since he had known him, philip stanburne was angry with the colonel. his face flushed at once, and he asked, in a tone which was any thing but conciliatory,-"do you keep spies in your regiment, colonel stanburne?" "bardly saw you accidentally just as you were coming out of mr. stedman's counting-house, and between us we have made a guess at the object of your visit to derbyshire." "you are very kind to interest yourself so much in my affairs." "try not to be angry with me. what if i _do_ take an interest in your affairs? it isn't wrong, is it? i take an interest in all that concerns you, because i wish to do what i can to be of use to you." "you are very kind." "you are angry with me yet; but if i had plagued you with questions about your little excursion, would it not have been more impertinent and more irritating? i thought it best to let you see that i know all about it." "it was unnecessary to speak upon that subject until i had informed you about it." "my dear fellow, look here. it is not in the nature of things that you _would_ tell me. you have been rejected either by the father or the daughter, and you are going to make yourself ill about it; you are ill already--you are pale, and you never eat any thing, and your face is as melancholy as a face well can be. be a good fellow, and take me into your confidence, and we will see if we cannot put you out of your misery." "that is a phrase commonly used by people who kill diseased or wounded animals. you are becoming alarming. you will let me live, i hope, such as i am." the colonel perceived that philip was coming round a little. he waited a minute, and then went on. "she's a very nice girl. i met her at mr. anison's here. i would rather you married her than one of those pretty miss anisons. she seems a quiet sensible young lady, who will stay at home with her husband, and not always be wanting to go off to london, and brighton, and the lord knows where." philip had had a suspicion that the colonel was going to remonstrate with him for making a plebeian alliance, but that began to be dispelled. to induce him to express an opinion on that point, philip said,-"her father is not a gentleman, you know." "i know who he is--a very well-to-do cotton manufacturer; and a very intelligent, well-informed man, i'm told. a gentleman! pray what _is_ a gentleman?" "a difficult question to answer in words; but we all know what we mean by the word when we use it." "well, yes; but is it quite necessary to a man to be a gentleman at all? upon my word, i very often think that in our line of life we are foolishly rigid on that point. i have met very clever and distinguished men--men of science, and artists, and even authors--who didn't seem quite to answer to our notions of what a gentleman is; and i know scores of fellows who are useless and idle, and vicious too, and given up to nothing but amusement--and not always the most innocent amusement either--and yet all who know society would recognize them as gentlemen at once. now, between ourselves, you and i answer to what is called a gentleman, and your proposed father-in-law, mr. stedman, you say doesn't; but it's highly probable that he is superior to either of us, and a deal more useful to mankind. he spins cotton, and he studies botany and geology. i wish i could spin cotton, or increase my income in any honest way, and i wish i had some pursuit. i tried once or twice: i tried botany myself, but i had no perseverance; and i tried to write a book, but i found my abilities weren't good enough for that; so i turned my talents to tandem-driving, and now i've set up a four-in-hand. by the by, my new team's coming to-morrow from london--a friend of mine there has purchased it for me." there was a shade of dissatisfaction on john stanburne's face as he concluded this little speech about himself. he did not seem to anticipate the arrival of the new team with pleasure unalloyed. the price, perhaps, may have been somewhat heavy--somewhat beyond his means. that london friend of his was a sporting character, with an ardent appreciation of horse-flesh in the abstract, and an elevated ideal. when he purchased for friends, which he was sometimes commissioned to do, he became truly a servant of the ideal, and sought out only such realities as a servant of the ideal might contemplate with feelings of satisfaction. these realities were always very costly--they always considerably exceeded the pecuniary limits which had been assigned to him. this was his only fault; he purchased well, and none of the purchase-money, either directly or indirectly, found its way into his own pocket. the colonel did not dwell, as he might have been expected to do, upon the subject of the horses--he returned almost immediately to that of matrimonial alliances. "it's not very difficult to make a guess at the cause of mr. stedman's opposition. bardly tells me he's a most tremendous protestant, earnest to a degree, and you, my dear fellow, happen to be a catholic. you'll have to let yourself be converted, i'm afraid, if you really want the girl." "a man cannot change his faith, when he has one, because it is his interest to do so. i would rather you did not talk about that subject--at least, in that strain. you know my views; you know that nothing would induce me to profess any other views." "bardly tells me he doesn't think stedman will give in, so long as you remain a catholic." "very well." "yes, it may be very well--it may be better than marrying. it's a very good thing, no doubt, to marry a good wife, but i'm not sure that the condition of a bachelor isn't really better than that of the most fortunate husband in the world. you see, philip (excuse me calling you by your christian name; i wish you'd call me john), you see a married man either cares about his wife or he doesn't. if he doesn't care about her, what's the use of being married to her? if, on the other hand, he _does_ care about her, then his happiness becomes entirely dependent upon her humors. some women--who are very good women in other respects--are liable to long fits of the sulks. you omit some little attention which they think is their due; you omit it in pure innocence, because your mind is very much occupied with other matters, and then the lady attributes it to all sorts of imaginary motives--it is a plan of yours to insult her, and so on. or, if she attributes it to carelessness, then your carelessness is itself such a tremendous crime that she isn't quite certain whether you ought ever to be forgiven for it or not; and she hesitates about forgiving you for a fortnight or three weeks, and then she decides that you shall be forgiven, and taken into her grace and favor once more. but by the time this has been repeated twenty or thirty times, a fellow gets rather weary of it, you know. it's my belief that women are divided into two classes--the sulky ones and the scolds. some of 'em do their sulking in a way that clearly shows it's done consciously, and intentionally, and artistically, as a frenchwoman arranges her ribbons. the great object is to show you that the lady holds herself in perfect command--that she is mistress of her own manner in every thing; and this makes her manner all the more aggravating; because, if she is so perfectly mistress of it, why doesn't she make it rather pleasanter?" "it's rather a gloomy picture that you have been painting, colonel, but every lover will believe that there is _one_ exception to it." "of course he will. you believe miss alice stedman is the exception; only, if you can't get her, don't fret about her. she seems a very admirable young lady, and i should be glad if you married her; because, if you don't, the chances are that you will marry somebody else not quite so suitable. but if i could be quite sure that you would remain a bachelor, and take a rational view of the immense advantages of bachelorhood, i shouldn't much regret mr. stedman's obduracy on your account." these views of the colonel's were due, no doubt, to his present position with lady helena. the causes which were gradually dividing them had been slowly operating for several years, but the effects which resulted from them were now much more visible than they had ever previously been. first they had walked together on one path, then the path had been divided into two by an all but invisible separation--still they had walked together. but now the two paths were diverging so widely that the eye began to measure the space between them, and as it measured the space widened. it is as when two trains leave some great railway station side by side. for a time they are on the same railroad, but after a while you begin to perceive that the distance from your own train to the other is gradually widening; and on looking down to the ground, which seems to flow like a swift stream, you see a streak of green between the two diverging ways, and it deepens to a chasm between two embankments; and after that they are separated by spaces ever widening--spaces of field and river and wood--till the steam of the other engine has vanished on the far horizon. john stanburne's offers of assistance were very sincere, but what, in a practical way, could he do? he could not make mr. stedman come round by asking him to wenderholme. there were plenty of people at sootythorn who would have done any thing to be asked to wenderholme, but mr. stedman was not one of them. him the blandishments of aristocracy seduced not; and there was something in his looks, even when you met him merely by accident for an hour, as the colonel had met him at arkwright lodge, which told you very plainly how obdurate he would be where his convictions were concerned, and how perfectly inaccessible to the most artful and delicate coaxing. so the colonel's good offices were for the present very likely to be confined to a general willingness to do something when the opportunity should present itself. the day fixed for the ceremony of presentation of colors was now rapidly approaching, and the invitations had all been sent out. it was the colonel's especial desire that this should take place at wenderholme, and the whole regiment was to arrive there the evening before, after a regular military march from sootythorn. the colonel had invited as many guests of his own as the house could hold; and, in addition to these, many of the sootythorn people, and one family from whittlecup, were asked to spend the day at wenderholme hall, and be witnesses of the ceremony. the whittlecup family, as the reader has guessed already, was that from arkwright lodge; and it happened that whilst the colonel was talking with philip stanburne about his matrimonial prospects, mr. joseph anison came to the blue bell to call upon his young friend. philip and the colonel were both looking out of the window when he came, and before he entered the room, the colonel found time to say, "take anison into your confidence--_he_'ll be your best man, he knows stedman so well. let me tell him all about it, will you? do, now, let me." philip consented, somewhat reluctantly, and mr. anison had not been in the room a quarter of an hour before the colonel had put him in possession of the whole matter. mr. anison's face did not convey very much encouragement. "john stedman is very inflexible," he said, "where his religious convictions are in any way concerned, and he is very strongly protestant. i will do what i can with him. i don't see why he should make such a very determined opposition to the match--it would be a very good match for his daughter--but he is a sort of man that positively enjoys sacrificing his interests and desires to his views of duty. if i've any advice to offer, it will be to leave him to himself for a while, and especially not to do any thing to conciliate him. his daughter _may_ bring him round in her own way; she's a clever girl, though she's a quiet one--and she can manage him better than anybody else." when mr. anison got back to arkwright lodge, he had a talk with mrs. anison about philip's prospects. "_i_ shouldn't have objected to him as a son-in-law," said the husband; "he'll be reasonable enough, and let his wife go to her own church." "i wish he'd taken a fancy to madge," said mrs. anison. "have you any particular reason for wishing so? do you suspect any thing in madge herself? do you think she cares for him?" mrs. anison looked grave, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "i'm afraid there _is_ something. i'm afraid she _does_ think about him more than she ought to do. she is more irritable and excitable than she used to be, and there is a look of care and anxiety on her face which is quite painful sometimes. and yet i fancy that when alice was here she rather encouraged young stanburne to propose to alice. she did it, no doubt, from anxiety to know how far he would go in that direction, and now he's gone farther than she wished." chapter xxv. wenderholme in festivity. at length the eve of the great day arrived on which the twentieth royal lancashire was to possess its colors--those colors which (according to the phrase so long established by the usage of speech-making subalterns) it was prepared to dye with all its blood--yes, to the very last drop thereof. lady helena had had a terribly busy time during the whole week. arrangements for this ceremony had been the subject of anxious planning for months before; and during her last stay in london her ladyship had been very active in seeing tradesmen accustomed to create those temporary splendors and accommodations which are necessary when great numbers of people are to be entertained. mr. benjamin edgington had sent down so many tents and marquees that the park of wenderholme presented the appearance of a rather extensive camp. the house itself contained even more than the amount of accommodation commonly found in houses of its class, but every chamber had its destined occupant. a great luncheon was to be given in the largest of the marquees, and the whole regiment was to be entertained for a night and a day. the weather, fortunately, was most propitious, the only objection to it being the heat, and the consequent dust on the roads. once fairly out of sootythorn, the colonel gave permission to march at ease, and the men opened their jackets and took their stiff collars off, and began to sing and talk very merrily. they halted, too, occasionally, by the banks of clear streams, and scattered themselves on the grass, drinking a great deal of water, there being fortunately nothing stronger within reach. at the half-way house, however, the colonel gave every man a pint of ale, and drank one himself, as he sat on horseback. it was after sunset when they reached wenderholme, and the men marched into the park--not at ease, as they had marched along the road, but in fairly good military order. lady helena and a group of visitors stood by the side of the avenue, at the point where they turned off towards the camp. a quarter of an hour afterwards the whole regiment was at supper in the tents, except the officers, who dined at the hall, with the colonel's other guests, in full uniform. the dining-room presented a more splendid and animated appearance than it had ever presented since the days of john stanburne's grandfather, who kept a pack of hounds, and received his scarlet-coated companions at his table. and even the merry fox-hunters of yore glittered not as glittered all these majors and captains and lieutenants. their full uniforms were still as fresh as when they came from the tailor's. they had not been soiled in the dust of reviews, for the regiment had never been reviewed. the silver of the epaulettes was as brilliant as the brilliant old plate that covered the colonel's hospitable board, and the scarlet was as intense as that of the freshest flower with which the table was decorated. it was more than a dinner--it was a stately and magnificent banquet. the stanburnes, like many old families in england, had for generations been buyers of silver plate, and there was enough of the solid metal in the house to set up a hundred showy houses with electro. rarely did it come forth from the strong safes where it reposed, eating up in its unprofitable idleness the interest of a fortune. but now it glittered once again under the innumerable lights, a heterogeneous, a somewhat barbarous, medley of magnificence. lady helena, without being personally self-indulgent--without caring particularly about eating delicately or being softly clad--had a natural taste for splendor, which may often be independent both of vanity and the love of ease. human pomp suited her as the pomp of nature suits the mind of the artist and the poet; instead of paralyzing or oppressing her, it only made her feel the more perfectly at home. john stanburne had known beforehand that his clever wife would order the festivities well, and he had felt no anxiety about her management in any way, but he had not quite counted upon this charming gayety and ease. there are ladies who, upon occasions of this kind, show that they feel the weight of their responsibility, and bring a trouble-clouded visage to the feast. they cannot really converse, because they cannot really listen. they hear your words, perhaps, but do not receive their meaning, being distracted by importunate cares. nothing kills conversation like an absent and preoccupied hostess; nothing animates it like her genial and intelligent participation. surely, john stanburne, you may be proud of helena to-night! what would your festival have been without her? he recognizes her superiorities, and admires them; but he would like to be delivered from the little inconveniences which attend them. that clear-headed little woman has rather too much of the habit and the faculty of criticism, and john stanburne would rather be believed in than criticised. like many other husbands, he would piously uphold that antique religion of the household which sets up the husband as the deity thereof--a king who can do no wrong. if these had been his views from the beginning--if he had wanted simple unreasoning submission to his judgment, and unquestioning acceptance of his actions--what a mistake he made in choosing a woman like lady helena! he who marries a woman of keen sight cannot himself expect to be screened from its keenness. and this woman was so fearless--shall we say so proud?--that she disdained the artifices of what might have been a pardonable hypocrisy. she made john stanburne feel that he was living in a glass case,--nay, more, that she saw through his clothes--through his skin--into his viscera--into his brain. you must love a woman very much indeed to bear this perpetual scrutiny, or she must love you very much to make it not altogether intolerable. the colonel had a reasonable grievance in this, that in the presence of his wife he found no moral rest. but her criticisms were invariably just. for example, in that last cause of irritation between them--that about the horses--lady helena had been clearly in the right. it was, to say the least, a want of good management on the colonel's part to have all the carriage-horses at sootythorn on the day of her arrival. and so it always was. she never made any observation on his conduct except when such an observation was perfectly justified--perfectly called for, if you will; but then, on the other hand, she never omitted to make an observation when it was called for. it would have been more graceful--it would certainly have been more prudent--to let things pass sometimes without taking them up in that way. she might have let john stanburne rest more quietly in his own house, i think; she might have forgiven his little faults more readily, more freely, more generously than she did. the reader perhaps wonders whether she loved him. yes, she was greatly attached to him. she loved him a great deal better than some women love their husbands who give them perfect peace, and yet she contrived to make him feel an irksomeness in the tie that bound him. perhaps, with all her perspicacity, she did not quite thoroughly comprehend--did not quite adequately appreciate--his simple, and frank, and honorable nature, his manly kindness of heart, his willingness to do all that could fairly be required of him, and the sincerity with which he would have regretted all his little failures in conjugal etiquette, if only he might have been left to find them out for himself, and repent of them alone. the digression has been long, but the banquet we were describing was long enough to permit us to absent ourselves from the spectacle for a while, and still find, on returning to it, all the guests seated in their places, and all the lights burning, though the candles may be half an inch shorter. amongst the guests are several personages to whom we have not yet had the honor of being introduced, and some good people, not personages, whom we know already, but have lost sight of for a long time. there are two belted earls--namely, the earl of adisham, lady helena's august papa; and the earl brabazon, who is papa to captain brabazon of the sootythorn mess. there are two neighboring baronets, and five or six country squires from distant manor-houses, some of which are not less considerable than wenderholme itself, whilst the rent-rolls which maintain them are longer. then there is a military commander, with gray whiskers and one eye, and an ugly old sword-cut across the cheek. he is in full uniform, with three medals and perfect ladders of clasps--the ladders by which he has climbed to his present distinguished position. he wears also the insignia of the bath, of which he is grand cross. but of all these personages, the most distinguished in point of rank must certainly be the little thin gentleman who is sitting by lady helena. it is easy to see that he is perfectly delighted with her ladyship, for he is constantly talking to her with evident interest and pleasure, or listening to her with pleasure still more evident. he has a broad ribbon across his white waistcoat, and another round his neck, and a glittering star on his black coat. it is his grace of ingleborough, lord henry ughtred's noble father. he is a simple, modest little man--both agreeable and, in his way, intelligent; an excellent man of business, as his stewards and agents know too well--and one of the best greek scholars in england. habits of real work, in any direction, have a tendency to diminish pride in those gifts of fortune with which work has nothing to do; and if the duke found a better greek scholar than himself, or a better man of business, he had that kind of hearty and intelligent respect for him which is yielded only by real workmen to their superiors. indeed he had true respect for excellence of all kinds, and was incomparably more human, more capable of taking an interest in men and of understanding them, than the supercilious young gentleman his son. amongst our acquaintances at this great and brilliant feast are the worthy incumbent of shayton and his wife, mr. and mrs. prigley. whilst we were occupied with the graver matters which affected so seriously the history of philip stanburne, lady helena had been to shayton and called upon mrs. prigley, and after that they had been invited to the great festivities at wenderholme. it was kind of lady helena, when the house was so full that she hardly knew where to lodge more distinguished guests, to give the prigleys one of her best bedrooms; but she did so, and treated them with perfect tact and delicacy, trying to make them feel like near relations with whom intercourse had never been suspended. mrs. prigley was the exact opposite of a woman of the world, having about as much experience of society as a girl of nine years old who is receiving a private education; yet her manners were very good, except so far as she was too deferential, and it was easy to see that she was a lady, though a lady who had led a very retired life. mrs. prigley had never travelled more than twenty miles from her two homes, byfield and shayton, since she was born; she had read nothing--she had no time for reading--and the wonder is how, under these circumstances, she could be so nice and lady-like as she was, so perfectly free from all taint of vulgarity. the greatest evil which attends ladies like mrs. prigley, when they _do_ go into society, is, that they sometimes feel obliged to tell white lies, and that these white lies occasionally lead them into embarrassment. mrs. prigley never frankly and simply avowed her ignorance when she thought it would not be _comme il faut_ to be ignorant. for instance, if you asked her whether she had read some book, or heard some piece of music, she _always_ answered with incredible temerity in the affirmative. if your subsequent remarks called for no further display of knowledge it was well--she felt that she had bravely acted her part, and not been behind the age; but if in your innocence or in your malice (for now and then a malicious person found her out and tormented her) you went into detail, asking what she thought, for instance, of becky sharp in "vanity fair," she might be ultimately compelled to avow that though she had read "vanity fair" she didn't remember becky. thus she placed herself in most uncomfortable situations, having the courage to run perpetual risks of detection, but not the courage to admit her ignorance of any thing which she imagined that a lady ought to know. when she had once affirmed her former knowledge of any thing, she stuck to it with astonishing hardihood, and accused the imperfection of her memory--one of her worst fibs, for her memory was excellent. the conversation at a great banquet is never so pleasant as that at a table small enough for everybody to hear everybody else, and the only approach to a general exchange of opinion on any single topic which occurred on the present occasion was about the house in which the entertainment was given. the duke had never been to wenderholme before, and during a lull in the conversation his eye wandered over the wainscot opposite to him. it had been painted white, but the carved panels still left their designs clearly visible under the paint. "what a noble room this is, lady helena!" he said; "but it is rather a pity--don't you think so?--that those beautiful panels should have been painted. it was done, no doubt, in the last century." "yes, we regret very much that the house should have been modernized. we have some intention of restoring it." "glad to hear that--very glad to hear that. i envy you the pleasure of seeing all these beautiful things come to light again. i wish i had a place to restore, lady helena; but those delights are over for me, and i can only hope to experience them afresh by taking an interest in the doings of my friends. i had a capital place for restoration formerly--an old gothic house not much spoiled by the renaissance, but overlaid by much incongruous modern work. so i determined to restore it, and for nearly four years it was the pleasantest hobby that a man could have. it turned out rather an expensive hobby, though, but i economized in some other directions, and did what seemed to be necessary." "does your grace allude to varolby priory?" asked mr. prigley, timidly. "yes, certainly; yes. do you know varolby?" "i have never been there, but i have seen the beautiful album of illustrations of the architectural details which was engraved by your directions." mrs. prigley was within hearing, and thinking that it would be well not to be behind her husband, said, "oh yes; what a beautiful book it was!" the duke turned towards mrs. prigley, and made her a slight bow; then he asked in his innocence, and merely to say something, "whether the copy which mrs. prigley had seen was a colored one or a plain one?" "oh, it was colored," she answered, without hesitation--"beautifully colored!" this was mrs. prigley's way--she waited for the suggestions of her interlocutor, and on hearing a thing which was as new to her as the kernel of a nut just cracked, assented to it with the tone of a person to whom it was already familiar. so clever had she become by practice in this artifice, that she conveyed the impression that nothing _could_ be new to her; and the people who talked with her had no idea that it was themselves who supplied, _ã  mesure_, all the information wherewith she met them, and kept up the conversation. she had never heard of varolby priory before--she had never heard of the album of engravings before--and therefore it is superfluous to add that, as to colored copies or plain ones, she was equally unacquainted with either. mrs. prigley had however gone a step too far in this instance, for the duke immediately replied,-"ah, then, i know that you are a friend of my old friend, sir archibald. you wonder how i guessed it, perhaps? it's because there are only two colored copies of the album in existence--my own copy and his." mrs. prigley tried to put on an agreeable expression of assent, intended to imply that she knew sir archibald (though as yet ignorant of sir archibald's surname), when her husband interposed. she made him feel anxious and fidgety. he always knew when she was telling her little fibs--he knew it by a certain facile suavity in her tone, which would not have been detected by a stranger. "the old mural paintings must be very interesting," said the incumbent of shayton, and by this skilful diversion saved his wife from imminent exposure. "most interesting--most interesting: they were found in a wonderful state of preservation under many layers of whitewash in the chapel. and do you know, _apropos_ of your carved panels, lady helena, we found such glorious old wainscot round a room that had been lined with lath and plaster afterwards, and decorated with an abominably ugly paper. not one panel was injured--really not one panel! and the designs carved upon them are so very elegant! that was one of the best finds we made." "i should think it very probable," said mr. prigley, "that discoveries would be made at wenderholme if a thorough restoration were undertaken." "no doubt, no doubt," said the duke, "and there is nothing so interesting. even the workmen come to take an interest in all they bring to light. our workmen were quite proud when they found any thing, and so careful not to injure what they found. do induce your husband to restore wenderholme, lady helena; it would make such a magnificent place!" this talk about wenderholme and restoration had gradually reached the other end of the table, and john stanburne, feeling no doubt rather a richer and greater personage that evening than usual, being surrounded by more than common splendor, announced his positive resolution to restore the hall thoroughly. "it was lamentable," he said, "perfectly lamentable, that the building should have been so metamorphosed by his grandfather. but it was not altogether past mending; and architects, you know, understand old elizabethan buildings so much better than they used to do." it was a delicious evening, soft and calm, without either the chills of earlier spring or the sultriness of the really hot weather. when the ladies had left the room, and the gentlemen had sat long enough to drink the moderate quantity of wine which men consume in these days of sobriety, the colonel proposed that they should all go and smoke in the garden. there was a very large lawn, and there were a great many garden-chairs about, so the smokers soon formed themselves into a cluster of little groups. the whole lawn was as light as day, for the front of the hall was illuminated, and hundreds of little glow-worm lamps lay scattered amongst the flowers. the colonel had managed to organize a regimental band, which, being composed of tolerably good musicians from shayton and sootythorn (both musical places, but especially shayton), had been rapidly brought into working order by an intelligent band-master. this band had been stationed somewhere in the garden, and began to fill the woods of wenderholme with its martial strains. "upon my word, colonel," said the duke, stirring his cup of coffee, "you do things very admirably; i have seen many houses illuminated, but i think i never saw one illuminated so well as wenderholme is to-night. every feature of the building is brought into its due degree of prominence. all that rich central projection over the porch is splendid! a less intelligent illuminator would have sacrificed all those fine deep shadows in the recesses of the sculpture, which add so much to the effect." "my wife has arranged all about these matters," said john stanburne; "she has better taste than i have, and more knowledge. i always leave these things to her." "devilish clever woman that lady helena!" thought his grace; but he did not say it exactly in that way. "all these sash-windows must be very recent. last century, probably--eighteenth century; very sad that eighteenth century--wish it had never existed, only don't see how we should have got into the nineteenth!" the colonel laughed. "very difficult," he said, "to get into a nineteenth century without passing through an eighteenth century of some sort." "yes, of course, of course; but i don't mean merely in the sense of numbers, you know--in the arithmetical sense of eighteen and nineteen. i mean, that seeing how very curiously people's minds seem to be generally constituted, it does not seem probable that they could ever have reached the ideas of the nineteenth century without passing through the ideas of the eighteenth. but what a pity it is they were such destructive ideas! the people of the eighteenth century seem to have destroyed for the mere pleasure of destroying. only fancy the barbarism of my forefathers at varolby, who actually covered the most admirable old wainscot in the world, full of the most delicate, graceful, and exquisite work, with lath and plaster, and a hideous paper! they preferred the paper, you see, to the wainscot." "perhaps paper happened to be more in the fashion, and they did not care about either. my grandfather did not leave the wainscot, however, under the paper. at least, he must have removed a great deal of it. there is an immense lot of old carved work that he removed from the walls and rooms in a lumber-garret at the top of the house." "is there though, really?" said the duke, with much eagerness; "then you _must_ let me see it to-morrow--you must indeed; nothing would interest me more." just then a white stream of ladies issued from the illuminated porch, and flowed down the broad stairs. their diamonds glittered in the light, flashing visibly to a considerable distance. they came slowly forward to the lawn. "i think it is time to have the fireworks now," said lady helena to the colonel. the colonel called the officers about him, whilst the other gentlemen began to talk to the ladies. "it would prevent confusion," he said, "if we were to muster the men properly to see the fireworks. i should like them to have good places; but there is some chance, you know, that they might damage things in the garden unless they come in military order. there are already great numbers of people in the park, and i think it would be better to keep our men separate from the crowd as much as possible." horses were brought for the colonel and other field-officers, and they rode to the camp, the others following on foot. transparencies had been set up at different parts of the garden, with the numbers of the companies; and the arrangements had been so perfectly made, that in less than twenty minutes every company was at its appointed place. no private individual in john stanburne's position could afford a display of pyrotechnics sufficient to astonish such experienced people as his noble guests; but lady helena and the pyrotechnician, or "firework-man," as her ladyship more simply called him, had planned something quite sufficiently effective. he and his assistants were on the roof of the hall, where temporary platforms and railings had been set up in different places for their accommodation; and the floods of fire that soon issued therefrom astonished many of the spectators, especially mrs. prigley. and yet when a perfectly novel device was displayed, which the "firework-man" had invented for the occasion, and lady helena asked mrs. prigley what she thought of it, that lady averred that she had seen it before, in some former state of existence, and had "always thought it very beautiful." suddenly these words, "the fiery niagara," shone in great burning letters along the front of the house, and then an immense cascade of fire poured over the roof in all directions, and hid wenderholme hall as completely as the rock is hidden where the real niagara thunders into its abyss. at the same time trees of green fire burned on the sides of the flowing river, and their boughs seemed to dip in its rushing gold, as the boughs of the sycamores bend over the swift-flowing water. and behind the edge of the great cascade rose slowly a great round moon. chapter xxvi. more fireworks. after the fiery cascade came the bouquet; and the fireworks ended with a prodigious sheaf of rockets, which made the country people think that the stars were falling. though the hall was still illuminated, it looked poorer after the brilliant pyrotechnics; and as this diminution of its effect had been foreseen, arrangements had been made beforehand to cheer the minds of the guests at the critical moment by a compensation. the venetian lanterns had been reserved till now, and the band had been silent during the fireworks. a large flat space on the lawn had been surrounded by masts with banners, and from mast to mast hung large festoons of greenery, and from the festoons hung the many-colored lanterns. a platform had been erected at one end for the band; and before the last rocket-constellation had burst into momentary splendor, and been extinguished as it fell towards the earth, the lanterns were all burning, and the band playing merrily. before and during the fireworks the company had been considerably increased by arrivals from neighboring villages and the houses of the smaller gentry, so lady helena passed the word that there would be a dance in the space that was enclosed by the lanterns. it had been part of our friend philip stanburne's duty to march to wenderholme with his company, and to dine with the colonel in the hall; but in his present moody and melancholy temper he found it impossible to carry complaisance so far as to whirl about in a waltz with some young lady whom he had never before seen. there was nobody there that he knew; and when lady helena kindly offered to introduce him to a partner, his refusal was so very decided that it seemed almost wanting in politeness. the colonel had not mentioned philip's love-affair to her ladyship, for reasons which the reader will scarcely need to have explained to him. people who have lived together for some years generally know pretty well what each will think and say about a subject before it has been the subject of open conversation between them; and since philip stanburne was now treated as a near relation at wenderholme, it was clear that her ladyship would be a good deal put out if she heard of his intended misalliance. the colonel himself was by no means democratic in his aboriginal instincts; but after his experience of married life, the one quality in lady helena which he would most willingly have done without was her rank, with its concomitant inconveniences. he did not now feel merely indifferent to rank, he positively disliked it; and with his present views, alice stedman's humble origin seemed a guarantee of immunity from many of the perils which were most dangerous to his own domestic peace. but lady helena (as he felt instinctively, without needing to give to his thought the consistency of words and phrases) was still in that state of mind which is natural to every one who is born with the advantages of rank--the state of mind which values rank too highly to sacrifice it willingly, or to see any relation sacrifice it without protesting against his folly. hers would be the natural and rational view of the matter; the common-sense view; the view which in all classes who have rank of any sort to maintain (and what class has not?) has ever been recognized, has ever persisted and prevailed. the colonel did not go so far as to wish that he had married some other person of humble provincial rank; but he often wished that lady helena herself had been the daughter of some small squire, or country clergyman, or cotton-spinner, if he had brought her up as nicely as alice stedman had been brought up. it was not to be expected that she could ever share this opinion about herself, or the opinion about alice stedman, which was merely a reflection of it. owing to philip stanburne's exile at whittlecup, which had continued during the whole of the training, and to his natural shyness and timidity, which the extreme reclusion of his existence had allowed to become the permanent habit of his nature, he had made few acquaintances amongst the officers, and not one friend. there were several men in the regiment to know whom would have done philip stanburne a great deal of good, but he missed the opportunities which presented themselves. for instance, on the present occasion, though several of his brother officers, who, like himself, were not dancing, had gathered into a little group, philip stanburne avoided the group, and walked away by himself in the direction of the great dark wood. he felt the necessity for a little solitude; he had not been by himself during the whole day, and it was now nearly midnight. a man who is accustomed to be alone will steal out in that way from society to refresh himself in the loneliness which is his natural element--_pour se remettre_, as a frenchman would express it. so he followed a narrow walk that led into the wood, and soon lost sight of the illuminations, whilst the music became gradually fainter, and at last was confined to such hints of the nature of the melody as could be gathered from the occasional fortissimo of a trumpet or the irregular booming of a drum. there was, as the reader already knows, a ravine behind wenderholme hall, which was a gash in the great hill that divided wenderholme from shayton. all this ravine was filled with a thick wood, and a stream came down the middle of it from the moorland above--a little noisy stream that tumbled over a good many small rocks, and made some cascades which the inhabitants of wenderholme showed to all their visitors, and which lady visitors often more or less successfully sketched. by an outlay of about a hundred pounds, john stanburne's grandfather had dammed this stream up in one conveniently narrow place, and made a small pond there, and the walk which philip stanburne was now following skirted the stream till it came to the pond's edge. it turned round the upper end of the tiny lake, and crossed the stream where it entered by means of a picturesque wooden bridge. from this bridge the hall might be distinctly seen in the day-time; and philip, remembering this, or perhaps merely from the habit of looking down towards the hall when he crossed the bridge, stopped and looked, as if in the darkness of the night he could hope to distinguish any thing at the back of the house, which, of course, was not illuminated. not illuminated! why, the firework-men have applied a more effective device to the back of the house than the elaborate illumination of the front! they have invented a curling luminous cloud, these accomplished pyrotechnicians! philip stanburne began to wonder how it was managed, and to speculate on the probable artifice. was the smoke produced separately, and then lighted from below, or was it really luminous smoke? however produced, the effect was an admirable one, and philip admired it accordingly. "but it is odd," he thought, "that i should be left to enjoy it (probably) by myself. it's not likely that they have left their dancing--i'm sure they haven't; i can hear the drum yet, and it's marking the time of a waltz." a gentle breeze came towards him, and rippled the surface of the dark water. it brought the sound of the trumpets and he recognized the air. "they are waltzing still, no doubt." the luminous smoke still rose and curled. then a red flash glared in it for an instant "those are not fireworks," said philip stanburne, aloud; "_wenderholme hall is on fire!_" chapter xxvii. the fire. "why, philip," said the colonel, "i didn't know that you'd been dancing. you've been over-exerting yourself. you look tremendously hot, and very much out of breath." "young fellahs will dance, you know, colonel," said the general with the ladders of clasps--"young fellahs will; i envy them!" "where is edith--your daughter--little edith?" philip asked, with a scared and anxious face. "in bed, of course, at this time of night. you don't want to dance with _her_, a small child like her?" then fixing his eyes on philip stanburne's face, the colonel exclaimed, grasping his arm so strongly as to cause pain. "something is wrong, by jove! out with it, out with it!" "where's edith's room? the house is on fire!" john stanburne said nothing, but turned at once with swift steps towards the house. philip followed him closely: they entered by the great doorway under the porch, and passed rapidly across the hall. it was quiet and empty, lighted by a few lamps suspended from the ceiling by long crimson cords--the portraits of the old fox-hunting stanburnes looking down with their usual healthy self-possession. the door from the hall to the staircase was closed: when the colonel opened it, a smell of burning became for the first time perceptible. he took four steps at a time. edith's rooms were nearly at the top of the house. the nurseries had been up there traditionally, because that situation kept noisy children well out of the way of guests. wenderholme was a lofty house, with a long lateral corridor on each story. as they ascended, the smell of burning strongly increased. the lower corridors were lighted--all the guests' rooms were there. but the uppermost corridor, where the servants' rooms and the nurseries were, was not permanently lighted, as the servants took their own bed-candlesticks from below. when the colonel got there he could not see, and he could not breathe. volumes of dense smoke rolled along the dark passages. he ran blindly in the direction of edith's room. philip tried to follow, but the suffocating atmosphere affected his more delicate organization with tenfold force, and he was compelled to draw back. he stood on the top of the great staircase, agitated by mortal anxiety. but the colonel himself, strong as he was, could not breathe that atmosphere for long. he came back out of the darkness, his hands over his face. even on the staircase the air was stifling, but to him, who had breathed thick fire, it was comparative refreshment. he staggered forward to the banister, and grasped it. this for three or four seconds, then he ran down the stairs without uttering one word. the two passed swiftly through a complicated set of passages on the ground-floor and reached one of the minor staircases, of which there were five or six at wenderholme. this one led directly to the nurseries above, and was their most commonly used access. when they came to this, john stanburne turned round, paused for an instant, and said, "come with me, philip; it's our last chance. poor little edith! o god, o god!" in this narrow stair there was no light whatever. the colonel ran up it, or leaped up it, in a series of wild bounds, like a hunted animal. philip kept up with him as he could. as they rose higher and higher the temperature quickly increased: the walls were hot--it was the temperature of a heated oven. the colonel tried to open a door, but the brass handle burnt his hand. then he burst it open by pushing against it with his shoulder. a gust of air rushed up the staircase, and in an instant the room they were trying to enter was illuminated by a burst of flame. for a second the paper was visible--a pretty, gay paper, with tiny flowers, suitable for a young girl's room--and a few engravings on the walls, and the pink curtains of a little french bed. either by one of those unaccountable presentiments which sometimes hold us back at the moment of imminent danger, or else from horror at the probable fate of little edith, the colonel paused on the threshold of the burning room. then the ceiling cracked from end to end, and fiery rafters, with heaps of other burning wood, came crashing down together. the heat was now absolutely intolerable--to remain on the threshold was death, and the two went down the stairs. there was a strong draught in the staircase, which revived them physically, and notwithstanding the extremity of his mental anguish, the colonel descended with a steady step. when they came into the lighted hall he stood still, and then broke into stifled, passionate sobs. "edith! little edith!" he cried, "burnt to death! horrible! horrible!" then he turned to his companion with such an expression on his white face as the other had never before seen there. "and, philip, the people were dancing on the lawn!" then john stanburne sat down in one of the chairs against the wall, and set his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with both his hands. so he sat, immovable. the house was burning above him--it might burn. what were all the treasures of wenderholme to its master, who had lost the one treasure of his heart? what were the parchments and the seals in the charter-room--what were the records of the stanburnes--what was that waggon-load of massive silver which had shone at the festival that night? his anguish was not wild--he did not become frantic--and the shock had not produced any benumbing insensibility; for his health was absolutely sound and strong, and his nervous system perfectly whole and unimpaired. but the sound mind in the sound body is still capable of an exquisite intensity of suffering, though it will live through it without either madness or insensibility. philip stanburne felt compelled to respect this bitter agony of his friend; but he was anxious to lose no more time in trying to save the house. so at last he said, "colonel, the house is burning!" john stanburne looked up, and said, "it may burn now--it may burn now." then suddenly seeming to recollect himself, he added, "god forgive me, philip, i have not bestowed one thought on the poor girl that was burnt with edith--edith's maid! she brought my child to me to say good-night, just when the fireworks were over, and kiss me"--here his voice faltered--"and kiss me for the last time." this extension of his sympathy to another did john stanburne good. "i wonder where her parents are; they must be told--god help them!" "and the house, colonel!--the house! can you give some orders?" "no, philip; not fit for that--not fit for that yet, you know, dear philip. ask eureton, the adjutant--ask eureton." then he rose suddenly, and went towards the drawing-room. some of the older ladies had come in, and were sitting here and there about the room, which was brilliantly lighted. on one of the walls hung a portrait of edith stanburne, by millais--one of his most successful pictures of that class. the colonel went straight to this picture, but could not politely get at it without begging two old ladies, who were sitting on a _causeuse_ under it, to get out of his way. when a man who has just been brought face to face with one of the tragical realities of life comes into what is called "society" again, he is always out of tune with it, and it is difficult for him to accept the _lã©gã¨retã©_ of its manner without some degree of irritation. he appears brutal to the people in society, and the people in society seem exasperatingly frivolous to him. thus, when the colonel came amongst these bediamonded old ladies in the drawing-room, a conversation took place which he was not quite sufficiently master of himself to maintain in its original key. "ah, here is colonel stanburne! we were just saying how delightful your fireworks were; only they've left quite a strong smell of fire, even in the house itself. don't you perceive it, colonel stanburne?" "i want to get this picture--excuse me," and he began to put his foot on the white silk damask of the _causeuse_, between the two great ladies. they rose immediately, much astonished, even visibly offended. "colonel stanburne might have waited until we had left the room," said lady brabazon, aloud, "if he wished to change the hanging of his pictures." "the house is on fire! my daughter is burnt to death! i want to save this. you ladies are still in time to save the originals of _your_ portraits." in an instant they were out upon the lawn, running about and calling out "fire!" they had not time to take care of their dignity now. luckily philip stanburne was already with the adjutant, who was giving his orders with perfect calm, and an authority that made itself obeyed. lady helena was not to be found. fyser had been summoned into the adjutant's presence. "fyser," he said, "what are the water supplies here?" "pump-water, sir, for drinking, and the stream behind the house for washing." "no pipes of any sort in the upper rooms?" "no, sir." "sergeant maxwell, collect all the men who have served in the army. i don't want any others at present." then, turning to fyser, "harness four horses to a carriage, and drive to the nearest station. telegraph for fire-engines and a special locomotive. whilst they are coming, collect more horses near the station. when they arrive, leave your carriage there, and harness your team to a fire-engine, and come here as fast as you can. do you hear? repeat what i have said to you. very well." then he walked quickly towards the band, and made signs to the band-master to stop. the music ceased abruptly, and captain eureton ascended the platform. "i wish to be heard!" he said, in a loud voice. the dancers gave up their dancing, and came towards the orchestra, followed by the other guests. "excuse this interruption to your pleasures. you had better not go into the hall." at this instant the old ladies (as has just been narrated) came out of the hall-door shrieking, "fire!" their cry was taken up immediately, and wildly repeated amongst the crowd. "silence!" shouted eureton, with authority. "silence! i have something to say to you." the people crowded round him. "the colonel wishes me to act for him. our only chance of saving the house is to set to work systematically. i forbid any one to enter it for the present." "but my trunks," cried lady brabazon; "i will order my people to save my trunks!" this raised a laugh; but eureton's answer to it came in the shape of an order. "sergeant maxwell," he said, "if any one attempts to enter the house without leave, you will have him arrested." "yes, sir." the sergeant was there with a body of about forty old soldiers. "captains of numbers one, two, three, four, and five companies!" shouted the adjutant. they came forward. "you will form a cordon with your men round the front of the house, and prevent any unauthorized person from breaking it. all who enter the cordon will be considered as volunteers, and set to carry water. they will not be allowed to get out of it again, on any pretext." "now send me colonel stanburne's men-servants." several men presented themselves. "fetch every thing you can lay your hands on in the out-houses that will hold water." "pray accept me as a volunteer, captain eureton," said the duke. "and i'm an old soldier," said the medalled general; "you'll have me, too, i suppose." the cordon was by this time formed, and a quantity of buckets fetched from the out-houses. a chain was very soon formed from the brink of the rivulet to the inside of the house, and the adjutant went in with philip stanburne to reconnoitre. when he came out he walked to the middle of the space enclosed by the cordon of militia-men, and cried with a loud voice, "volunteers for saving the furniture, come forward!" such numbers of men presented themselves (including the colonel's guests), that it was necessary to close the cordon against many of them. those who were admitted were told off by the adjutant in parties of a dozen each, and each party placed under the command of a gentleman, with an old soldier for a help. it was philip stanburne's duty to guide and distribute the parties in the house--the adjutant commanding outside. the colonel, in his kind way, had shown philip stanburne over the house on his first visit to wenderholme, so that he knew and remembered the arrangement of the rooms. though the house did not front precisely to the west, it will best serve our present purposes to speak as if it had done so. supposing, then, the principal front to be the west front, the back of the edifice, where philip stanburne first discovered the fire, was to the east, whilst the south and north fronts looked to the wood on each side the ravine, at the opening of which wenderholme hall was situated. the fire had been discovered towards the south-east corner of the edifice, where little edith's apartments were. the great staircase was in the centre, immediately behind the entrance-hall; but there were five other staircases of much narrower dimensions, two of them winding stairs of stone, the other three modern stairs of deal wood, such as are commonly made for servants. acting under captain eureton's directions, philip stanburne distributed his parties according to the staircases, and other parties were stationed at the doors to receive the things they brought down, and carry them to places already decided upon by the adjutant. the business of extinguishing or circumscribing the fire was altogether distinct from that of salvage. two lines of men were stationed from the side of the rivulet to the top of the great staircase. one line passed full buckets from hand to hand, the other passed them down again as soon as they were empty. a special party, consisting of the gardeners belonging to colonel stanburne's establishment, a joiner, and one or two other men who were employed at wenderholme, had been formed by the adjutant for the purpose of collecting what might serve as buckets, the supply being limited. various substitutes were found; amongst others, a number of old oyster-barrels, which were rapidly fitted with rope-handles. notwithstanding the number of men under his command, and the excellent order which was maintained, it became evident to captain eureton that it was beyond his power to save the south wing of the building. even the northern end of the upper corridor was filled with dense smoke, and towards edith stanburne's apartments there was a perfect furnace. by frequently changing places, the men were able to dispute the ground against the fire inch by inch; and the clouds of steam which rose as they deluged the hot walls had the effect of making the atmosphere more supportable. if the fire did not gain on them too rapidly, there seemed to be a fair chance of saving some considerable proportion of the mansion by means of the fire-engines, when they arrived. meanwhile the salvage of goods went forward with perfect regularity. the influence of captain eureton's coolness and method extended itself to every one, and the things were handed down as quietly as in an ordinary removal. hardly any thing was broken or even injured; the rooms were emptied one by one, and the contents of each room placed together. every thing was saved from the charter-room--philip stanburne took care to see to that. what the duke was most anxious to save was the contents of the lumber-garrets, where lay the dishonored remnants of the old wainscot and carved furniture of elizabethan wenderholme. but when he got up there with his party he found that it was not quite possible to breathe. a more serious discovery than the inevitable loss of the old oak was that the fire was rapidly spreading northwards in the garrets. there was a little ledge round the roof outside, protected by a stone parapet, and broad enough for a man to walk along; so the chain of water-carriers was continued up to this ledge, and a hole was made in the slating through which a tolerably continuous stream was poured amongst the burning lumber inside. the uselessness of this, however, shortly became apparent; the water had little or no effect--it flowed along the floor, and the rafters had already caught fire. the slates were so hot that it was impossible to touch them. it was evident that the lead under the men's feet would soon begin to melt, and the men were withdrawn into the interior. chapter xxviii. father and daughter. when colonel stanburne had removed edith's picture, he carried it away into the darkness. he could not endure the idea of having to explain his action, and instinctively kept out of people's way. still, he could not leave it out of doors; he dreaded some injury that might happen to it. where could he put it? in one of the out-houses? a careless groom might injure it in the hurry and excitement of the night. no; it would be safe nowhere but at his mother's, and thither he would carry it. there were two communications from the hall to the cottage--a carriage-drive and a little footpath. the drive curved about a little under the old trees in the park, but the footpath was more direct, and went through a dense shrubbery. on his way to the cottage the colonel met no one, but on his arrival there he met lady helena in the entrance. his mother was there too. late as it was, she had not yet gone to bed. the sight of the colonel, bareheaded, and carrying a great oil-picture in his hands, greatly astonished both these ladies. "what _are_ you doing with that picture, john?" said lady helena. "i want it to be safe--it will be safe here;" and he reared it against the wall. then he said, "no, not here; it will be safer in the drawing-room; open the door. thank you." when they got into the drawing-room, the colonel deliberately took down a portrait of himself and hung edith's portrait in its place. his manner was very strange, both the ladies thought; his action most strange and eccentric. lady helena thought he had drunk too much wine; mrs. stanburne dreaded insanity. with that humoring tone which is often adopted towards persons not in possession of their mental faculties, mrs. stanburne said, "well, john, i shall be glad to take care of edith's picture for you, if you think that it can be safer here than at the hall." "yes, it will be safer--it will be safer." this answer, and his strange wild look, confirmed poor old mrs. stanburne's fears. she began to tremble visibly. "helena, helena," she whispered, "poor john is--has"-"no, mother, i'm not mad, and i'm not drunk either, helena, but i've brought this picture here because it's more valuable to me now than it used to be, and--i don't want it to be burnt, you understand." "no, i don't understand you at all," said her ladyship; "you are unintelligible to-night. better come home, i think, and not drink any more wine. i never saw you like this before. it is disgraceful." "helena!" said the colonel, in a very deep, hoarse voice, "wenderholme hall is on fire, and my daughter edith is burnt to death!" just as he finished speaking, a lurid light filled the sky, and shone through the windows of the cottage. lady helena went suddenly to the window, then she left the room, left the house, and went swiftly along by the little path. john stanburne was left alone with his mother. she took him by the hand, and looked in his face anxiously. "my dear boy," she said, "it's a pity about the house, you know; but our little edith"-"what?" "is perfectly safe here, and fast asleep upstairs in her own little bed!" john stanburne did not quite realize this at first. when it became clear to him, he walked about the room in great agitation, not uttering a word. then he stopped suddenly, and folded his mother in his arms, and kissed her. he kept her hand and knelt down before the sofa; she understood the action, and knelt with him. edith's picture was hanging just above them, and as his lips moved in inaudible thanksgiving, his eyes rose towards it and contemplated its sweet and innocent beauty. he had had the courage to save it from the burning house, but not the courage to let his eyes dwell upon it thus. fair hair that hast not been consumed in cruel flame! fair eyes that shall shine in the sunlight of to-morrow! sweet lips whose dear language shall yet be heard in your father's house!--your living beauty shall give him cheerfulness under this calamity! when they rose, his mother said, "come and see;" and she took him up to a little dainty room which edith loved, and there, in a narrow bed curtained with pale blue silk, she lay in perfect peace. the night was warm, and there was a glow on the healthy cheek, and one little hand, frilled with delicate lace, lay trying to cool itself upon the counterpane. "i'm afraid she's rather too warm," said her grandmother. but john stanburne thought of the fiery chamber at wenderholme. chapter xxix. progress of the fire. mrs. stanburne's tender sympathy for her son's grief at the supposed loss of edith, and participation in his gladness at the recovery of his treasure, had for a time restrained the expression of her anxiety about the fire at the hall; but now that her son had seen little edith, mrs. stanburne went to the window of the bedroom and looked out. the hall was not visible from the lower rooms of the cottage, being hidden by the thick shrubbery which bounded the little lawn; but it was clearly visible from the upper windows, which looked in that direction. no sooner had mrs. stanburne opened the curtains and drawn up the blind, than she uttered a cry of alarm. the fire having originated in the garret, the carpentry of the roof had been attacked early, and now a portion of it had given way. a column of sparks, loftier than the victoria tower at westminster, shot up in the dark sky. mrs. stanburne turned round in great agitation. "let us go, john--let us go to the hall; it will be burnt down. you will be wanted to give orders." this recalled the colonel to himself, and for the present he gave up thinking about his little edith. "eureton is in command, and he's a better officer than i am. he will do all that can be done. but come along, mother--come along; let us go there." as they approached the hall, it was evident to john stanburne that the fire had made terrible progress. the whole of the uppermost story was illuminated by the dread light of conflagration. at the south end, which had been burning longest, and where the roof had fallen in, sparks still rose in immense quantities, and terrible tongues of flame showed their points, darting angrily, above the lofty walls. eureton was in the centre of the open space still steadily guarded by the cordon of militia-men. he was looking at his watch, but on lifting his eyes from the dial, saw the colonel and mrs. stanburne, and went to them at once. "i have been anxious to see you for some time, colonel. do you wish to take the men under your own orders?" "my dear fellow, do oblige me by directing every thing just as you have done. you do it ten times better than i should--i know you do." "i am sorry we have been unable to save the roof. i withdrew the men from it rather early, perhaps, but wished to avoid any sacrifice of life." "better let the whole place burn down than risk any of these good fellows' lives. is there anybody in the house now?" "captain stanburne has eight parties on the first floor removing furniture. he has removed every thing from the upper floors." "but are they safe?" said mrs. stanburne. "no floors have fallen in yet except part of the garret floor, and one or two in the south wing. we have drenched every room with water, after it was emptied; we have left the carpets on the floors purposely, because being thoroughly wetted, they will help to delay the progress of the fire. we have used all the blankets from the beds in the same way. every thing else has been removed." "i hope all the visitors' things will be safe. some of those old ladies, you know, have wonderful lots of things in their portmanteaus. i believe that in point of mere money's worth, old lady brabazon's boxes are more valuable than all wenderholme and its furniture too, by jove!" "i must ask the ladies to sleep at the cottage," said mrs. stanburne. "they are at the summer-house, watching the fire," said the adjutant. "i believe it amuses them." "you are uncharitable," said mrs. stanburne; "nobody can help watching a fire, you know. a fire always fascinates people." "i wouldn't let old lady brabazon have her boxes, and she's furiously angry with me." "well, but why wouldn't you?" "if i let one, i must let another, and there would be no end to the confusion and breakage that would ensue. i have refused lady helena herself, but she took it very nicely and kindly. it's different with lady brabazon; she's in a rage." "i'll go with my mother to the summer-house, and come back to you, eureton, in ten minutes." the summer-house in question presented rather a curious picture. it was not strictly a "house" at all, but simply a picturesque shed with a long bench under it, which people could sit down upon at noon, with their backs to the south, well sheltered from the summer sun by a roof and wall of excellent thatch, whilst the stream purled pleasantly at the foot of a steep slope, and seemed to cool the air by its mere sound. the back of the seat was towards the steep wooded hill, and the front of it looked towards the south wing of the house, including a very good view of the front. it was decidedly the best view of wenderholme which could be had; and when artists drew wenderholme for those well-known works, "homes of the landed gentry," and "dwellings of the english aristocracy," and "ancient seats of yorkshire," here they always rubbed their cakes of sepia and began. the ladies were not playing the harp or the fiddle, as nero is said to have done during the burning of rome; but they were enjoying the spectacle as most people enjoy that which greatly interests and excites. lady adisham, john stanburne's august mother-in-law, was not there; she was in close conference with her daughter, in a part of the grounds yet more private and remote. but lady brabazon was there, and some other splendidly adorned dames, who were passing an opera-glass from hand to hand. as the colonel and his mother approached, they had the pleasure of overhearing the following fragment of conversation. "quite a great fire; really magnificent! don't you think so? we're safe here, i believe." "yes; captain eureton said we should be safe here." "i wonder if mr. stanburne has insured his house. they say he's not at all rich. pity his little daughter was burnt--really great pity; nice little girl!" "where are we to sleep to-night, do you think?" "really don't know. _ã� la belle ã©toile_, i suppose. that horrid man that's ordering the men about won't let us have our boxes. we shall take cold. i have nothing but this shawl." just then the colonel presented himself: "i am very sorry," he said, with some bitterness, "that my house should be burnt down, if the accident has caused you any inconvenience. mrs. stanburne is come to offer you some accommodation at wenderholme cottage." lady brabazon was going to make a speech of condolence, but the colonel prevented it by adding, "pray excuse me--i ought to be amongst the men;" and bowing very deferentially, he disappeared. john stanburne left eureton in command, and worked himself as a volunteer amongst the water-carriers within the building. the reaction from his despair about edith made his other misfortunes light, and he worked with a cheerfulness and courage that did good to the men about him. "this is hot work," he said to one of the volunteers; "have none of the men had any thing to drink?" "thank you, sir, we are doing pretty well for that. we take a little water from the buckets now and then." "and the other fellows who are removing the furniture?" "it must be dry work for them, sir." on this the colonel said he could be more useful elsewhere, and went to find out his old butler. this was very easy, since the adjutant knew where every one was posted. the colonel, with a small party of trustworthy sober fellows, went down into the cellar, and returned with some dozens of bottled ale and other liquids. he made it his business to distribute refreshment amongst the men, giving the glass always with his own hand, and never without some kind expression of his personal gratitude for the exertions they had made. he took this office upon himself simply because he "thought the men must be thirsty," as he expressed it; but the deepest policy could not have suggested a better thing to do. it brought him into personal contact with every volunteer about the place, and in the most graceful way. captain eureton was beginning to be anxious about the fire-engines, and had the road cleared, and kept clear, by a patrol. fyser had been absent nearly three hours. the distance from wenderholme to the little station (the same that lady helena had arrived at on her return from london) was ten miles. supposing that fyser drove at the rate of thirteen miles an hour, or thereabouts (which he would do on such an emergency), he would be at the station in forty-five minutes. he would have to seek the telegraphist in the village, and wake him up, and get him to the station--all that would consume twenty minutes. then to get the engines from bradford, over thirty miles of rail, a special locomotive running fifty miles an hour, thirty-six minutes. time to get the engines in bradford to the station and to start the train, say thirty minutes--total, a hundred and thirty-one minutes, or two hours and eleven minutes. then the return to wenderholme, forty-five minutes--say three hours. "yes, three hours," said captain eureton to himself; "i believe i should have done better to send for the sootythorn engines. fyser would have been there in an hour and a half, and there would have been no delays about the railway." just then a sound of furious galloping was heard in the distance, and the welcome exclamation, "the engines, the engines!" passed amongst the crowd. the gates being all open, and the road clear, the engines were soon in the avenue. the drivers galloped into the middle of the space enclosed by the cordon of militia-men, then they trotted a few yards and stopped. the horses were covered with foam and perspiration; the men leaped down from their seats and at once began to arrange the hose. captain eureton went to the captain of the fire-brigade. "you have lost no time; i feared some delay on the railway." "railway, sir? there is no railway from sootythorn to this place." "but you come from bradford." "beg pardon, sir, we are the sootythorn brigade--we come from sootythorn. you telegraphed for us--anyhow, a mr. fyser did." "he did right. what do you think of the fire?" the fireman looked up. "it's a bad one. been burning three hours? we may save the first floor, and the ground-floor. not very likely, though. where's water?" "small stream here;" the adjutant led the fireman to the rivulet. "very good, very good. house burns most at this end, i see." the hose was soon laid. there were two engines, and the firemen, aided by volunteers, began to pump vigorously. two powerful jets began to play upon the south wing, and it was a satisfaction to captain eureton to see them well at work, though with little immediate effect. there being no sign of fyser, the adjutant concluded that he was waiting for the bradford engines. the whole remaining mass of roof now fell in with a tremendous crash, and the flames enveloped the gables, issuing from the windows of the uppermost story. the multitude was hushed by the grandeur of the spectacle. all the woods of wenderholme, all its deep ravine, were lighted by the glare, and even at shayton the glow of an unnatural dawn might be seen in the sky over the lofty moorland. and the real dawn was approaching also, the true aurora, ever fresh and pure, bathed in her silver dews. there are engines hurrying towards wenderholme, through the beautiful quiet lanes and between the peaceful fields; and the gray early light shows the road to the eager drivers and their galloping steeds, and the breath of the pure morning fans the brows of the men who sit in dark uniforms, helmeted, perilously on those rocking chariots. but the old house is past any help of theirs! the floors have fallen one after another. all the accumulated wood is burning together on the ground-floor now: in the hall, where reginald stanburne's portrait hung; in the dining-room, where, a few hours before, the brilliant guests had been sumptuously entertained; in the drawing-room, where the ladies sat after dinner in splendor of diamonds and fine lace. every one of these rooms is a focus of ardent heat--a red furnace, terrible, unapproachable. the red embers will blacken in the daylight, under the unceasing streams from the fire-engines, and heaps of hissing charcoal will fill the halls of wenderholme! but the walls are standing yet--the brave old walls! even the carving of the front is not injured. the house exists still, or the shell of it--the ghost of old wenderholme, its appearance, its eidolon! i know who laments this grievous misfortune most. it is not john stanburne: ever since that child of his was known to be in safety, he has been as gay as if this too costly spectacle had been merely a continuation of the fireworks. it is not lady helena: she is very busy, has been very busy all night, going this way and that, and plaguing the people with contradictory orders. she is much excited--even irritated--but she is not sad. wenderholme was not much to her; she never really loved it. if a country house had not been a necessity of station, she would have exchanged wenderholme for a small house in belgravia, or a tiny hotel in paris. but old mrs. stanburne grieved for the dear old house that had been made sacred to her by a thousand interests and associations. there was more to her in the rooms as they had been, than there was either to lady helena or to the proprietor himself. she had dreaded in silence the proposed changes and restorations, and this terrible destruction came upon her like the blow of an eternal exclusion and separation. the rooms where her husband had lived with her, the room he died in, she could enter never more! so she sat alone in her sadness, looking on the ruin as it blackened gradually in the morning, and her spirits sank low within her, and the tears ran down her cheeks. chapter xxx. uncle jacob's love affair. the fire at wenderholme was known all over the country the same morning, so the people who had been asked to the presentation of colors stayed away. the colors were given almost without ceremony, and the men came back to sootythorn. jacob ogden had got as far as sootythorn the evening before with the intention of going on to wenderholme in the morning to see the ceremony, for he had been invited thereto by his brother isaac. as matters turned out, however, he thought he would go to whittlecup to fetch his mother back to milend, for the house seemed to him very uncomfortable without her. he called at arkwright lodge, and spent the day there. the day following, mr. anison was to give a small dinner-party composed of some of the leading manufacturers in that neighborhood, so he pressed jacob ogden to stay it over. he stayed three days at arkwright lodge--three whole days away from the mill--from the mills, we may now say, for jacob ogden was already a pluralist in mills. the new one was rising rapidly out of the green earth, and a smooth, well-kept meadow was now trampled into mud and covered with heaps of stone and timber, and cast-iron columns and girders. and for three days had jacob ogden left this delightful, this enchanting scene! what a strong attraction there must have been at whittlecup, to draw him from his industrial paradise! he felt bound to the unpoetical shayton, as hafiz was to his fair persian valley when he sang- "they will not allow me to proceed upon my travels, those gentle gales of mosellã¡y, that limpid stream of rooknã¢bã¢d." "i've no time for goin' courtin'," thought jacob to himself as he sat drinking his port wine after dinner. "i've been here three days, and it's as much as i can afford for courtin'. but who's a rare fine lass is miss madge, an' i'll write her a bit of a letter." before leaving the lodge, he thought it as well to prepare mr. anison's mind for what was to come, so he asked to go and see the works. as they were walking together, ogden went abruptly into the subject of matrimony. "mother's been stoppin' at whittlecup a good bit, 'long of our isaac. i felt very lonesome at milend 'bout th' oud woman, and i thought i s'd be lonesomer and lonesomer if who[18] 'ere deead." "no doubt she would be a very great loss to you," said mr. anison; "but mrs. ogden appears to enjoy excellent health." ogden scarcely heard this, and continued, "so i've been thinkin', like, as i 'appen might get wed." "it would certainly be a good security against loneliness." "i can afford to keep a wife. you may look at my banker's account whenever you like. i've a good property already in land and houses, and i'm building a new mill." "there is no necessity for going into detail," mr. anison said deprecatingly; "every one knows that you are a rich man." ogden laughed, half inwardly. it was a chuckling little laugh, full of the intensest self-satisfaction. "they think they know," he said, "but they don't know--not right. nobody knows what i'm worth, and nobody knows what i shall be worth. i'm one o' those as sovereigns sticks to, same as if they'd every one on 'em a bit o' stickin'-plaister to fasten 'em on wi'. if i live ten year, i s'll be covered over wi' gold fourteen inch thick." "is there any positive necessity for you to leave us now? why not remain a little longer?" "do you think i've any chance at your house?" mr. anison laughed at the eagerness of ogden's manner. then he said, "i see no reason for you to be discouraged. you cannot expect a young lady to accept you before you have asked her." ogden hesitated a moment, and then determined to go on to shayton and write his letter. chapter xxxi. uncle jacob is accepted. and this is the letter jacob ogden wrote:- "miss margaret anison. "miss,--when i was at your house this afternoon, i meant to say something to you, but could not find a chance, because other people came in just at the time. i wished to ask you to be so kind as to marry me. i believe i shall be a good husband--at any rate, i promise to do all i can to be one. my wife shall have every thing that a lady wants, and i will either build a new house or purchase one, as she may like best. there's a good one on sale near shayton, but i don't mind building, if you prefer it. i am well able to keep my wife as a lady. i may say that i have always been very steady, and not in the habit of drinking. i never go into an ale-house, and i never spend any foolish money. i shall feel very anxious until i receive your answer, as you will easily understand; for my regard for you is such that i most sincerely wish your answer may be favorable. "yours truly, jacob ogden." though rather a queer letter, and singularly devoid of the graces of composition and the tenderness of love, its purport, at least, was intelligible. the reply showed that the lover had made himself clearly understood. "my dear sir,--the proposal contained in your letter has rather surprised me, as we have seen so little of each other, but after consulting my parents i may say that i do not refuse, and they desire me to add that there will be a room for you here whenever your business engagements permit you to visit us. sincerely yours, "margaret anison." it is to be supposed that mr. ogden felt sensations of profound happiness on reading this little perfumed note; but when a man is an old bachelor by nature, he does not become uxorious in a week or two; and we may confess that, after the unpleasantness of the first shock, a positive refusal would have left the lover's mind in a state of far more perfect happiness and calm. his pride was gratified, his passion was fortunate in dreaming of its now certain fruition, and he knew that such a woman as margaret anison would add greatly to his position in the world. he knew that she would improve it in one way, but then he felt anxiously apprehensive that she might deteriorate it in another. he would become more of a gentleman in society with a lady by his side, but a wife and family would be a hindrance to his pecuniary ambition. from the hour of his acceptance he saw this a good deal more clearly than he had done since this passion implanted itself in his being. he had seen it clearly enough before he knew margaret anison, but the strength of a new passion acting upon a nature by no means subtly self-conscious, had for a time obscured the normal keenness of his sight. after re-reading margaret's note for the tenth time, mr. jacob ogden said to himself: "she's a fine girl--there isn't a finer lass in all manchester; but i'm a damned fool--that's what i am. what have i to do goin' courtin'? howsomever, it's no good skrikin' over spilt milk--we mun manage as well as we can. we've plenty to live on, and she can have four or five servants, if she'll nobbut look well afther 'em." then he went into the little sitting-room, where his mother sat mending his stockings. "mother," he said, abruptly, "there's news for you. somebody's boun' to be wed." the stocking was deposited in mrs. ogden's lap, and she looked at her son with fixed eyes. "it's owther our isaac or me, and it isn't our isaac." "why, then, it's thee, jacob." "you're clever at guessin', old woman; you always was a 'cute un." "what! are you boun' to wed somebody at whittlecup?" "she doesn't live a hundred mile off whittlecup." mrs. ogden rose from her seat and laid down her stocking, and made slowly for the door. she stopped, however, midway, and with a stately gesture pointed to the mended stocking. "can she darn like that?" "she 'appen can do, mother." "han you seen her do?" "no." "nor nobody else nayther. but what i reckon you think you can do b'out havin' your stockin's mended when you get your fine wife into th' house, and you think servants 'll do every thing. but if you'd forty servants, you'd be badly off without somebody as knew how to look afther 'em all. and if they cannot do for theirselves, they cannot orther other folk--not right." "well, but, mother," said jacob, deprecatingly. he was going to suggest consolatory considerations, founded upon the apparent order and regularity of the housekeeping at arkwright lodge, in the midst of which miss anison had been educated. but mrs. ogden was not disposed to enter into a discussion which would have involved the necessity of giving her son a hearing, and she cut short his expostulation with a proverb, solemnly enunciated,-"as they make their bed, so they must lie," and then she left the room. "th' old woman isn't suited," thought jacob, "but it makes nothing who it had been, she would have been just the same. she used always to reckon she could like me to get wed, but i knew well enough that when it came to the point i could never get wed so as to suit her. whoever i wedded, she'd always have said it should have been somebody else." the fact was, that whilst mrs. ogden warmly and sincerely approved of marriage as a sort of general proposition, and had even advised her son for many years past to take unto himself a wife, her jealousy only slumbered so long as the said wife remained a vague impersonal idea. mrs. ogden had not much imagination, and the mere notion of a possible wife for jacob was very far from arousing in her breast the lively sensations which were sure to be aroused there by a visible, criticisable young woman, of flesh and blood, with the faults that flesh is heir to. now she had seen margaret anison, and she had thought at whittlecup, "she might happen do for our jacob;" but when "our jacob" announced that he had decided to espouse margaret anison, that was quite a different thing. matters had been in this condition for a month or two, when jacob ogden, whose visits to his beloved one had been made rare by the exigencies of business, became somewhat importunate about the fixing of his wedding-day. it was not that he looked forward thereto with feelings of very eager or earnest anticipation, but he had a business-like preference for "fixtures" and dates over the vague promises of an indefinite _avenir_. miss anison, on the contrary, seemed to have a rooted objection to such rigid limitations of liberty; and, like a man in debt whose creditor proposes to draw upon him for an inexorable thirtieth of next month, felt that the vague intention of paying some time was for the present less hard and harassing to the mind. and as the debtor procrastinates, so did margaret anison procrastinate. her heart was not in this marriage, but her interest was; and, so far as she avowed to herself any purpose at all, her purpose was to gain time, and keep jacob ogden as a resource, when all chance of philip stanburne should be lost finally and for ever. miss anison, in a matter of this kind, was a great deal cleverer than jacob ogden, who, though not easily taken in by a man in men's business, had little experience of womankind, and none whatever of polite young ladies and their ways. margaret anison had found a capital excuse for delay in the necessity for building a new house, and she set jacob ogden to work thereupon with an energy at least equal to that which he lavished on the new mill. he wanted very much to have the house close to the factory, but the young lady preferred the tranquillity of the country, and went to milend expressly to select a site. she chose a little dell that opened into the shayton valley; and though of all views in the world the pleasantest for mr. ogden would have been a view of his own mills, he was denied this satisfaction, and his windows looked out upon nothing but green fields. "if they'd nobbut been my own fields," jacob thought, "i wouldn't so much have cared. not but what a good mill is a prettier sight than the greenest field in lancashire, but it's no plezur to me to look out upon other folks' property." and the worst of it was, that there was no chance of ever purchasing the said property, for it belonged to an ancient lancashire family, which had a wise hereditary objection to parting with a single acre of land. mrs. ogden, now that the engagement was a _fait accompli_, expressed the most perfect readiness to quit milend and go and live in "th' cream-pot," which, as the reader is already aware, was the expressively rich appellative of the richest of her little farms. but such was the amiable and truly filial consideration displayed by margaret anison towards her future mother-in-law, that she would on no account hear of such an arrangement. "mrs. ogden," she said, "had always been accustomed to milend, and it would be quite wrong to turn her out;" indeed she "would not hear of such a thing." so the obedient jacob hurried on the construction of a mansion worthy of the young lady who had honored him with her affections--a mansion to be replete with all modern comforts and conveniences, such as abounded at arkwright lodge. chapter xxxii. mr. stedman relents. philip stanburne's life had not been settled or happy since the date of his visit to derbyshire. the old tranquil existence at the peel had become impossible for him now. it was intolerable to him to be cut off from all direct communication with miss stedman, and one day he went boldly to chesnut hill. he went there, not under cover of the darkness, as cowardly lovers do, but in the broad openness of such daylight as is ever to be seen in sootythorn. i think, however, that it would have needed still greater courage on his part to present himself there about eight o'clock in the evening; for in the day-time mr. stedman was usually at his factory, whereas about eight in the evening a friend might count upon the pleasure of finding him at chesnut hill. the servant-maid who opened the door to philip showed him at once into the drawing-room. "what name shall i say, sir?" she asked. philip gave his name, and waited. he had not inquired whether miss stedman was at home--he felt a slight embarrassment in inquiring about miss stedman--and the servant on her part had simply asked him to walk in. he had waited about five minutes, when a heavy step became audible in the passage, and the door of the room was opened. the reverend abel blunting stood before him. "pray sit down, sir," said the reverend gentleman; "i hope you are quite well. i hope i see you well. mr. stedman is not at home--he is down at the mill--but i am expecting him every minute." mr. blunting's bland amiability ought no doubt to have awakened amiable feelings in mr. stanburne's breast, but, unfortunately, it had just the opposite effect. "i did not come here to see mr. stedman," he replied; "i came to see his daughter." now mr. blunting was a powerful man, both physically and mentally, and a man by no means disposed to yield when he considered firmness to be a duty. in the present instance he _did_ consider it necessary to prevent an interview between alice and her lover, and he quietly resolved to do so at all costs. "i am sorry," he said, "that you cannot see miss stedman." "why cannot i see her? is she not at home?" "she is under this roof, sir." "then i will see her," philip answered, and rose to his feet. "pray sit down, sir--pray sit down," said mr. blunting, without stirring from the easy-chair in which he had ensconced himself. he made a gesture with his hand at the same time, which said as plainly as it could, "calm yourself, young gentleman, and listen to me." "pray sit down. miss stedman is not very well to-day; indeed she has not been really well, i am sorry to say, for some time past. she does not rise until the afternoon, and of course you cannot go into her bedroom." "why not? come with me if you like. the doctor may go there, i suppose?" "the doctor goes there professionally, and so does miss stedman's spiritual adviser." "i could do her more good than either of you. how wretchedly lonely she is!" "my wife comes to sit with miss stedman every day." "what _is_ the matter with her? tell me the plain truth." "most willingly--most happy to reassure you, sir. there is really nothing serious in miss stedman's case; the medical men are agreed upon that. she merely suffers from debility, which has been neglected for some time because she did not complain. now that the ailment is known, it will be combated in every way. already there is a decided improvement. but in her present state of weakness, agitation of any kind might be most prejudicial--most prejudicial; and therefore i hope you will easily see that i dare not accept the responsibility of permitting an interview between you." "i shall wait here till mr. stedman comes, and ask his permission." "that is a very proper course to pursue, and i highly approve your resolution. but from what we both know of mr. stedman's sentiments, it seems scarcely probable that he will grant your request. you will do well, however, to wait and see him. it is always the best, when there are differences of opinion, that the contending parties should meet personally." here there was a pause of a minute or two, after which mr. blunting resumed, with great politeness of manner,-"i fear you must need refreshment, sir, if you have come from a distance. your own residence, as i am informed, is at a considerable distance from this place. in mr. stedman's absence, i may take upon myself to offer you something. would you like a sandwich and a glass of wine? i cannot offer to drink wine with you, being myself a total abstainer, but as i know that you use it in great moderation, it is not against my conscience to ring for the decanters." philip stanburne had eaten nothing since six in the morning, and willingly accepted the clergyman's proposition. perhaps he accepted it the more willingly that he felt the need of all his courage for the approaching interview with mr. stedman. when the decanters and the sandwich came, the teetotal parson filled a wine-glass with formal courtesy, and young stanburne could not help feeling a certain liking, and even admiration, for the man. in truth, without being a gentleman, mr. blunting had many of the best qualities of a gentleman. he was as brave as a man well could be, more learned than most members of his own learned profession, and he had a feminine softness of manner. whilst philip was engaged with his sandwiches and sherry, he heard the hall-door open, and a manly step on the stone floor. though by no means a coward, either morally or physically, he had a sensitive constitution, and his pulse was considerably accelerated by the knowledge that mr. stedman had entered the house. the heavy steps passed the drawing-room door, and became gradually less and less audible as they ascended the stairs. "mr. stedman is gone to see his daughter," said mr. blunting. "he always goes straight to her room when he returns from the mill. he is a most affectionate father." "where his prejudices are not concerned," added philip stanburne. "where his conscience is not involved, you ought to say. his objection to your suit is strictly a conscientious objection. personally, he likes you, and your position would be an excellent one for miss alice; indeed it is beyond what she might have hoped for. but mr. stedman--ah! he is coming now." philip had somewhat hastily finished his sandwich, and resumed his first seat. mr. stedman opened the door slowly, and walked in. he gave no sign of astonishment on seeing philip (who rose as he entered), but simply bowed. then turning to mr. blunting, he said, quietly, "i think alice would be glad to see you now," on which mr. blunting left the room. there was an expression of deep sadness on john stedman's face as he sat down and looked fixedly at the table. his eyes looked in the direction of the decanters, but he evidently did not see them. suddenly recalling himself to the things about him, he saw the decanters before any thing else, and said,-"have you had a glass of wine? take another. take one with me." astonished at this reception, philip stanburne held his glass whilst john stedman filled it. a tremulous hope rose in his breast. what if this man were relenting? what if the icy barrier were gradually thawing away? they drank the wine in silence, and mr. stedman sat down again. "sit down," he said, "sit down. you are come to talk to me about my daughter. you are under my roof, and are my guest. i will listen to you patiently, and i will answer you plainly. i can do no more than that, can i?" philip urged his suit with all the eloquence at his command. john stedman listened, as he had promised, patiently; and when his guest's eloquence had exhausted itself, he spoke in this wise:-"i explained my views to you on a former occasion, in derbyshire. it is no use going over all that ground again. but since we met then, the position of matters has changed somewhat. my daughter is getting nearer to her majority; at the same time, you and she have made an engagement between yourselves without my sanction, and i have reason to suspect that you have corresponded. miss margaret anison has been here rather too much lately, and i have politely informed miss margaret anison that she had better remain at arkwright lodge. but another thing has altered matters still more--that is, my daughter's health. i'm very much grieved to say that i haven't a great deal of confidence in her constitution. she gets weaker every day." "mr. blunting says she is getting stronger again now." "stronger? well, momentarily she may, by the help of tonics and stimulants, but it will not last. she was never really strong, but if i'd not been so much absorbed in business, i might have taken her more out, and given her more exercise. i am ready to give up business now. i'd give up any thing for my alice. poor alice, poor alice!" philip stanburne became inoculated with mr. stedman's openly expressed alarm. "are you seriously afraid, sir?" he asked, with intense anxiety. mr. stedman looked at him fixedly and seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. "you love my girl, young man, but you don't love her as i do. ever since i have got this fear into my heart and into my brain i can neither eat nor sleep. i think sometimes i shall go out of my mind. a man loves a daughter, mr. stanburne, differently from the way he loves a son. if i'd had a son, i shouldn't have felt so anxious, for it seems that a lad should bear illnesses and run risks; but a tender little girl, philip stanburne--a tender little girl, and a great rough fellow like me to take care of her!" "is there any change in your feelings towards me, sir?" "no, none at all. i always liked you very well, and i like you very well still. there isn't a young fellow anywhere who would suit me better, if it weren't for your being such a papist. i'll tell you what i'll do with you, if you like. you give me an honest promise not to marry my daughter before twelve months are out, and you shall see her every day if you like. and if you can cheer her up and make her get her strength back again, you shall have her and welcome, papist or no papist. i'd let her marry the pope of rome before i'd see her as sad as she has been during the last two or three months. stop your dinner, will you? that sandwich is nothing; our dinner-time's one o'clock, and it's just ten minutes to. alice 'll get up when she knows you're here, i'll warrant." the reader will easily believe that philip stanburne heard this speech with a joy that made him forget his anxiety about alice. he would bring gladness to her, and with gladness, health. how bright the long future seemed for these two, true lovers always, till the end of their lives! o golden hope, fair promise of happy years! but the doctor, who had been at chesnut hill that morning, had heard a little faint sound in his polished black stethoscope, which was as terrible in its import as the noise of the loudest destroyers, as the crack of close thunder, the roar of cannon, the hiss of the hurricane, the explosion of a mine! chapter xxxiii. the saddest in the book. let this part of our story be quickly told, for it is very sad! let us not dwell upon this sorrow, and analyze it, and anatomize it, and lecture upon it, as if it were merely a study for the intellect, and caused the heart no pain! it is the middle of winter. the streets of sootythorn are sloppy with blackened snow, the sky is dreary and gray, and dirtied by the smoke from the factory-chimneys. sootythorn is dismal, and manchester is all in a fog. the cotton-spinners' train that goes from sootythorn to manchester is running into a cloud that gets ever denser and yellower, and the whistle screams incessantly. the knees of the travellers are covered with "guardians," and "couriers," and "examiners," for there is not light enough to read comfortably. one manufacturer asks his neighbor a question: "where is john stedman of sootythorn? he uses comin' by this train, and i haven't seen him as i cannot tell how long." the question interests us also. where is john stedman? not at chesnut hill, certainly. there is nobody at chesnut hill but the old gardener and his wife. he tends the plants in the hothouse, and keeps them comfortable in this dreary lancashire winter by the help of lancashire coal. but the house is all shut up, except on the rare days when a bit of sunshine comes, and the old woman opens the shutters and draws up the blinds to let the bright rays in. every thing seems ready for alice, if she would only come. there is her little pretty room upstairs, and there are twenty things of hers in the drawing-room that wait for their absent mistress. miss alice is far away in the south, and her father is with her--and there is a third, who never leaves them. they had been travelling towards italy, but when they reached avignon, alice became suddenly worse, and they stayed there to give her a long rest. the weather happened to be very pure and clear, and it suited her. the winter weather about avignon is often very exhilarating and delicious, when the keen frost keeps aloof, and the dangerous winds are at rest. as for saving alice now, not one of the three had a vestige of delusive hope. the progress of the malady had been terribly rapid; every week had been, a visible advance towards the grave. john stedman had hoped little from the very beginning, philip stanburne had hoped much longer, and alice herself longest of all. but none of the three hoped any longer now. when alice found herself settled at avignon, she felt a strong indisposition to go farther. the railway tired and agitated her, and the dust made her cough more painful. "papa," she said one day, as she sat in her easy-chair looking up the rhone, "i think we cannot do better than just remain where we are. i shall not keep you in this place very long. no climate can save me now, and this weather is as pleasant as any italian weather could be. i am cowardly about travelling, and it troubles me to think of the journey before us." mr. stedman feebly tried to encourage alice, and talked of the beautiful italian coast as if they were going to see it; but it soon became tacitly understood that alice's travels were at an end. mr. stedman, who, since he had left england with his daughter, had never considered expense in any thing in which her comfort was, or seemed to be, involved, sought out a pleasanter lodging than the hotel they had chosen as a temporary resting-place. he found a charming villa on the slopes that look towards mount ventoux. the view from its front windows included the great windings of the rhone and the beautiful mountainous distance; whilst from the back there was a very near view of avignon, strikingly picturesque in composition, crowned by the imposing mass of the papal palace. alice preferred the mountains, and chose a delightful little _salon_ upstairs as her own sitting-room, whilst her bedroom was close at hand. there was a balcony, and she liked to sit there in the mild air during the warmest and brightest hours. mr. stedman's powerful and active nature suffered from their monotonous life at the villa, and he needed exercise both for the body and the mind. alice perceived this, and, well knowing that it was impossible for her father to do any thing except in her service, plotted a little scheme by which she hoped to make him take the exercise and the interest in outward things which in these sad days were more than ever necessary to him. "papa," she said one day, "i think if i'd a little regular work to do, it would do me good. i wish you would go geologizing for me, and bring me specimens. you might botanize a little, too, notwithstanding the time of the year; it would be amusing to puzzle out some of the rarer plants. it's a very curious country, isn't it, papa? i'm sure, if i were well, we should find a great deal of work to do together here." then she began to question him about the geology and botany of the district, and made him buy some books which have been written upon these subjects by scientific inhabitants of avignon. her little trick succeeded. mr. stedman, under the illusion that he was working to please his poor alice, trudged miles and miles in the country, and extended his explorations to the very slopes of mount ventoux itself. in this way he improved the tone of his physical constitution, and alice saw with satisfaction that it would be better able to endure the impending sorrow. he had long ceased to treat philip stanburne with coldness or distrust. his manner with his young friend was now quite gentle, and even affectionate, tenderly and sadly genial. the one point on which they disagreed was no longer a sore point for either of them. one day, when they were together, they met a religious procession, with splendid sacerdotal costumes and banners, and philip kneeled as the host was carried by. their conversation, thus briefly interrupted, was resumed without embarrassment, and mr. stedman asked some questions about the especial purpose of the procession, without the slightest perceptible expression of contempt for it. he began to take an interest in the charities of the place, and having visited the hospital, said he thought he should like to give something, and actually left a bank-note for five hundred francs, though the managers of the institution, and the nurses, and the patients, were romanists without exception. meanwhile, he read his bible very diligently every day, and the prayers of the little household, in which philip willingly joined. during one of mr. stedman's frequent absences on the little scientific missions ordered by his daughter alice, she and philip had a conversation which he ever afterwards remembered. "philip," she said, "do you ever think much about what _might have been_, if just one circumstance had been otherwise? i have been thinking a great deal lately, almost constantly, about what might have been, for us two, if my health had been strong and good. people say that love such as ours is only an illusion--only a short dream--but i cannot believe that. it might have changed, as our features change, with time, but it would have remained with us all our lives. do you ever fancy us a quiet respectable old couple, living at the tower, and coming sometimes to sootythorn together? i do. i fancy that, and all sorts of things that might have been--and some of them would have been, too--if i had lived. there's one thing vexes me, and that is, that i never saw the tower. i wish i had just seen it once, so that i might fancy our life there more truly. how glad dear papa would have been to come and stay with us, and botanize and geologize amongst your rocks there! you would have let him come, wouldn't you, dear?--i am sure you would have been very kind to him. you _will_ be kind to him, won't you, my love, when he has no longer his poor little lissy to take care of him? don't leave him altogether by himself. i am afraid his old age will be very sad and lonely. it grieves me to think of that, for he will be old in a few years now, and his poor little daughter will not be near him to keep him cheerful. fancy him coming home every evening from the mill, and nobody but servants in the house! go and stay with him sometimes, dear, at chesnut hill, and get him to go to the tower, and you will sometimes talk together about alice, and it will do you both good." philip had kept up manfully as long as he was able, but the vivid picture that these words suggested of a world without alice was too much for him to bear, and he burst into passionate tears. as for alice, she remained perfectly calm, but when she spoke again it was with an ineffable tenderness. she took his hand in hers, and drew him towards her, and kissed him. again and again she kissed him, smoothing his hair caressingly with her fingers--gentle touches that thrilled through his whole being. "you don't know, my darling," she said, "how much i love you, and how miserable it made me when i thought we must be separated in this world. it isn't so hard to be separated by death; but to live both of us in the same world, seeing the same sun, and moon, and stars, even the same hills, and not to be together, but always living out of sight and hearing of each other, and yet so near--it would have been a trial beyond my strength! and isn't it something, my love, to be together as we are now for the last few weeks and days? you don't know how happy it makes me to see you and papa getting on so nicely as you do. isn't he nice, now? i don't believe he thinks a bit the worse of you for being a catholic. we shall all meet again, darling--shall we not?--in the same heaven, and then we shall have the same perfect knowledge, and our errors and differences will be at an end for ever." she was a good deal exhausted with saying this, and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a while. philip gradually recovered his usual melancholy tranquillity, and they sat thus without speaking, he holding both her hands in his, and gently chafing and caressing them. he had not courage to speak to alice--indeed, in all their saddest and most serious conversations, the courage was mainly on her side. whilst they were sitting thus, the sky became suddenly overcast, and there came a few pattering drops of rain. alice started suddenly, and seemed to be agitated by an unknown terror. she grasped philip's hand in a nervous way, and complained of a strange suffering and foreboding. "i felt so calm and peaceful all the morning," she said; "i wish i could feel so now." the agitation increased, and it was evident to philip that a great change had taken place. alice threw her arms round him, and clasped him to her. "o philip!" she cried, wildly, "don't leave me now--don't leave me even for a minute! stay, darling, stay; it is coming, coming!" the pattering of the rain had ceased. it had been nothing but a few drops--scarcely even a shower--and it had ceased. but the air was not clearer after the rain. on the contrary, it had been clearer before it than it was now. the snowy summit of mount ventoux was hidden in an opaque, thick atmosphere; mist it was not, as we northerns understand mist, but a substantial thickening of the air. soon there was the same thickening, the same opacity in the atmosphere of the remote plain that stretched to the mountain's foot. it was invisible now, the mount ventoux, the mountain of the winds. and as the plain grew dark the rhone as suddenly whitened. it whitened and whitened, nearer and nearer avignon; then a dull distant roar became audible, steadily increasing. a violent brief squall shook the villa. what! so frightened already? poor children, it is nothing yet! over the terrified plain, over the foaming river, comes the mistral, careering in his strength! well for you, walls of avignon, that you were built for the shocks of battle! well for thee, most especially, o palace of the transplanted papacy, that thy fortress-heights were erected less for pleasure than for resistance! louder and louder, nearer and nearer! how the trees bend like fishing-rods! crash, crash--they break before the tempest. what a clatter against the windows! it is a volley of pebbles that the mistral carries with it as a torrent does. bang, bang--the shutters are torn off their iron hinges and pitched nobody knows where--into the court, on the roof-top, it may be, or into the neighbor's garden! the intensity of the noise made all human voices inaudible. the mistral likes to make an uproar--it is his amusement, when he comes to avignon from his mountain. and he whistles at once in a thousand chimneys, as a boy whistles in two steel keys; and he makes such a clatter with destroying things, that the most insured house-property leaves no peace to its possessor. but straight in the midst of his path rise the towers of the fortress-palace, and peter obreri, its architect, knows in the world of spirits that they resist the mistral yet. but alas for our poor little alice! this wind does not suit her at all; this unceasing, this wearisome wind--this agitating, terrible wind! she did not fear death before, in the calm serene weather, when it seemed that her soul might rise in the blue ether, and be borne by floating angels. but to go out into the bleak, stern tempest--to leave _his_ encircling arms, and be dashed no one knows whither along the desolate, unfamiliar provence, with twigs, and dead leaves, and pebbles, and that choking cloud of sand! "forgive me these foolish fancies," she prayed, from the depths of this horror. "my soul knows her way to the haven of thy rest, o lord, my guide and my redeemer!" chapter xxxiv. jacob ogden free again. early in the month of february there came a black-edged letter to arkwright lodge, with a french stamp upon it. the letter was from philip stanburne, and it announced alice stedman's death. two days after the arrival of that letter another letter arrived at milend for jacob ogden. it bore the whittlecup post-mark, and had an exact outward resemblance to several other letters which had come from the same place, but its contents were of a new character. miss anison expressed her regret that in consequence of mr. jacob ogden's neglect, of his readiness to postpone his visits on the slightest pretexts, of the rarity and coldness of his letters, she felt compelled, from a due regard to her own happiness, to put an end to the engagement which had existed between them. the accusations in this letter were perfectly well founded, though it is quite certain that they would never have been made if philip stanburne's communication had been edged with silver instead of black. margaret anison had remarked with secret satisfaction that jacob ogden's behavior as a lover gave her good reasons for retreating from her engagement, whenever she might determine on that decisive step; but in the mean while she had never reproached him with it, had never appeared aware of it when he _did_ come, but always received him in the same uniformly gracious way, as if he had been the most assiduous of adorers. she had kept this accusation of negligence to be used against him whenever it might be convenient to throw the blame of a rupture upon _him_; but if she had finally decided to marry him, this and all other faults would have been affectionately overlooked. it had been highly convenient to let him sink deeper and deeper in that sin of negligence, till at last, from mere carelessness and an aversion to all letter-writing that was not upon business, he had actually reached that depth in crime that he no longer observed the common forms of society, and did not even write a line of apology or excuse. margaret never expected him to be attentive to her as a husband: she intended to spend his money, and, so long as that was forthcoming, cared little about jacob ogden's manners. but it was charming to be able to back out of her engagement, now that alice was dead, and do it in a dignified and honorable manner. for of all sins that a lover can commit, the chief is the sin of neglect; and in this case any competent and just jury would have pronounced the verdict "guilty." to this letter jacob ogden made no reply. his feelings on receiving it were, first, the most unfeigned astonishment (for he thought he had been very attentive, and that "courtin'" had absorbed far too much of his time); next, a paroxysm of indignation, with a sense of injury; and then, when this subsided, a sense of relief so exquisite, so delicious, and so complete, that nobody can have any idea of it unless at some period of his existence a wearing and persistent anxiety has been suddenly removed for ever. the love of margaret anison had been one of those masterful passions which sometimes force the most prudent men to folly. he had made his offer in the height of his temporary insanity, but after the engagement had been entered upon, his old self had gradually returned; and though he was fully determined to "go through with it," as a business which had to be done, he by no means looked forward to the conjugal state as an improvement upon his accustomed life. it was like embarking on an unknown and perilous sea, in utter ignorance of the art of navigation, and that sea might be a sea of troubles. the complex details of married life, its endless little duties, were perplexing to a man whose time and thoughts were already taken up by the government of a heavy business, and the care of an increasing estate. and now to escape from these new and unfamiliar troubles--to remain in the old quiet life at milend--to have full control over his own expenditure, with no female criticism or interference--to see his fortune growing and growing without sons to establish or daughters to dower, or an expensive houseful of servants to eat the bank-notes in his pocket-book like so many nattering mice,--ah! it was sweet to him to think of this in his innermost and sincerest self! he had loved his bachelor life well enough before, but he had never felt the full luxury of its independence as he did now! jacob ogden enjoyed a privilege highly favorable to happiness, but not so favorable to moral or intellectual growth. he lived at peace with himself, and looking back on his life, he approved of its whole course, with the single exception of that hour of folly at whittlecup. he felt and believed that no man could be wiser or more perfect than he was. when he humbly called his faculties "common-sense," he by no means understood the word as meaning a sense which he had in common with others, but rather a special faculty, to himself vouchsafed by the bounteous gift of nature. he lived in absolute independence of the good opinion of others, because his mind was at peace with itself--because he always manfully did to-day what he was sure to approve to-morrow, or ten years after to-morrow. am i painting the portrait of a man of pre-eminent virtues? not exactly, but of a man who would have been pre-eminently virtuous, or pre-eminently learned, if virtue or knowledge had been his ideal. for he had a manly resolution, a steady unflinching determination, to live up to the standard which he fixed for himself. and the inward peace which he enjoyed was due to his obedience to the laws of his own nature, which thus ever remained in harmony with itself in serene strength and efficiency. this peace had for a while been lost to him, and he had felt a strange change and diminution in the inward satisfactions. his communings with himself had lost their old sweetness, and he no longer masticated the cud of contentment in the fair pastures of reflection and imagination. to go back to those happy pastures once more--to chew that sweet cud again, after months of privation--what a deep, strengthening, cheering, encouraging, replenishing delight it was! yet there was one drawback to the plenitude of ogden's happiness, even though he had escaped the misery of the wedding-day. that new mansion had been begun, he had spent â£400 upon it already, and spoilt a pretty meadow, and he had spent some money on presents for margaret--not very much, for his ideas on the subject of gift-making were not very large ideas, yet still enough to plague and torment him, for the loss of a sovereign would do that. to be jilted did not trouble him much, but to have been cheated into wasting his money! that thought would not let him rest. it followed and harassed him wherever he went, and it was the cause of the following letter, which was received by mr. joseph anison:- "sir,--i am instructed by my client, mr. jacob ogden, to lay before you the following statement of facts. your daughter, miss margaret anison, by a letter bearing date ----, and which is in our possession, accepted his proposal of marriage, and promised marriage; which promise she now, by a letter bearing date ----, refuses to execute. in consequence of her promise, and in conformity with her desires, our client has been led into considerable expense, especially in the erection of a mansion, of which miss anison herself selected the site. the works were immediately stopped when it became known to our client that miss anison had determined upon a breach of promise, but a heavy sum had been already expended, which, so far as our client is concerned, is money utterly thrown away. we beg to call your attention to the fact that our client and his mother offered another most commodious and suitable residence to miss anison, situated at milend, and that she declined this, and induced our client to commence the erection of a new and costly mansion on a site which he would never have selected for himself. we therefore claim for our client damages to the amount of one thousand pounds (â£1,000), and beg to inform you, that unless this sum is paid before the expiration of one calendar month from this date, we shall institute a suit for breach of promise of marriage, and claim damages on that score to a far heavier amount. the present claim, we desire it to be understood, is not made on the ground of breach of promise, but is merely a claim for compensation on account of outlay which our client has been induced to incur. our client has no desire to push matters to the extremity of a public exposure, but will not shrink from doing so if his present just claim is refused. "i am, sir, your obedient servant, "jonas hanby." "you may decide for yourself, margaret," said mr. anison, "whether you prefer that i should pay this out of your fortune, or stand an action for breach of promise. it is not usual to bring actions of this sort against women, but ogden is a most determined fellow, and he doesn't care much for what people may say. he will bring his action if we don't send him a cheque, and i don't think such an action would be very pleasant to you. considering circumstances, too, especially the building of that new house, i am inclined to think that he would get rather heavy damages, certainly at least as much as he is asking for. such an action would make a tremendous noise, and we should be in all the newspapers. we must consider your sisters, too, who wouldn't be much benefited by publicity of this kind. in short, my advice is to send the cheque." the cheque was accordingly sent to mr. hanby, and duly acknowledged. the presents had been returned a few days before. these last had been purchased of a jeweller in st. ann's square, manchester, who took them back in exchange for an excellent gentleman's watch and a big cameo brooch. the watch went into jacob ogden's own fob, and the brooch adorned his already sufficiently ornamented mother. all things considered, jacob ogden now felt that he could look back upon the whole business with a mind at ease. he had done his duty by himself. after deducting the outlay on the house, and the outlay necessary for restoring the field to its pristine verdure, he found that there remained to him a clear surplus of four hundred and fifteen pounds seven shillings and twopence, which he entered in the column of profits. "it's been rather a good business for once, has this courtin'," said jacob to himself; "but it's devilish risky, and there's nobody'll catch me at it again. if she'd nobbut stuck to me, she'd 'ave wenly ruined me." so, when the walls of the mansion that was to have been were levelled with the ground, and the foundations buried under the earth that they might be no more seen, jacob ogden buried with them the thought and idea of marriage; and the grass grew on the field that had been so torn, and cut, and burdened, and disturbed by the masons and laborers who had been there. as the field grew level and green again just as it used to be, so flourished the mind of jacob ogden in serene and productive life. but as _beneath_ the field--beneath the waving of the rich grass--there still lay the plan of the house that was to have been, traced out in stony foundations, so in the mind of its owner there lay hidden a stony memory of the plans of this strange year; and though the surface was perfectly restored, there were hard places under his happiness that had not been there before. chapter xxxv. little jacob's education. the rupture between jacob ogden and miss anison had an immediate effect upon the fortunes of a young friend of ours, who has for a long time been very much in the background. little jacob began to occupy a larger and larger place in his uncle's thoughts. for, though uncle jacob had formerly always intended, in a general way, to remain a bachelor, this had been nothing more than a sort of intellectual preference for bachelorhood, deduced from his general views of life, and especially from his dominant anxiety to make a fortune. but his objections to matrimony were no longer of this mild kind. like a wild animal that has once felt the noose of the trapper round its neck, and yet succeeded in freeing itself, he had conceived a horror of the snare which was incomparably more active and intense than the vague alarms of the inexperienced. his former ideas about marriage had been purely negative. he had no intention to marry, and there was the end of his reflections on the matter. but now his preference for celibacy had taken the shape of a passionate and unalterable resolution. the increase of his fortune, which might henceforth be surely relied on, led him to think a good deal about the little boy at twistle farm, who was most probably destined to inherit it; and he determined to use a legitimate influence over his brother isaac, so that little jacob might be educated in a manner suitable to his future position. we have said that jacob ogden was perfectly satisfied with himself, and that knowledge was not his ideal. but although this is true, his views were really larger than the reader may have hitherto suspected. he considered himself perfect in his place; but as little jacob would probably have a very different place in the world, he would need different perfections. the qualities needed for making a large fortune were, in jacob ogden's view, the finest qualities that a human being can possess, and he knew that he possessed them; but then there were certain ornaments and accomplishments which were necessary to a rich gentleman, and which the manufacturer had not had time to acquire. he was not foolish enough to torment himself with regrets that he did not know latin and greek; he had none of the silly humilities of weak minds that are perpetually regretting their "deficiencies." whatever it was necessary for his main purpose that he should know, he always resolutely set himself to learn, and, by strenuous application, mastered; what was unnecessary for his purpose, he remained contentedly ignorant about. the customary pedantries of the world, its shallow pretension to scholarship, never humiliated _him_. he suspected, perhaps, that genuine classical acquirement was much rarer than the varnish of pseudo-scholarship, and he had not that deferential faith in gentlemen's latin and greek which is sometimes found in the uneducated. but, on the other hand, as he had learned every thing that was necessary to a plodding shayton cotton-spinner, so he was determined that little jacob should learn every thing necessary to a perfect english gentleman. he had not read the sentence of emerson, "we like to see every thing do its office after its kind, whether it be a milk-cow or a rattlesnake;" but the sentiment in it was his own. his strong sense perceived that so long as men hold different situations in the world, their preparatory training must be different; and that, as a young pigeon must learn to fly, and a young terrier to catch rats, so the youthful heir of a splendid fortune, and the boy who has his fortune to make, ought to receive respectively a celestial and a terrestrial training. for jacob ogden, himself a terrestrial, knew that there was a heaven above him--the heaven of aristocracy! _there_ dwelt superior beings, in golden houses, like gods together, far above the ill-used race of men that cleave the soil and store their yearly dues. there is something ludicrous, if it were not pathetic and painful, in the self-abasement of a man so strong and resolute as ogden before a heaven whose saints and angels were only titled ladies and gentlemen, mainly occupied in amusing themselves; but to him it was the world of the ideal. and this religion had one great advantage--it kept him a little humbler than he ever would have been without it. great was the successful cotton-spinner in his eyes, but there were beings cast by nature in a nobler mould. for jacob ogden actually believed, in all sincerity and simplicity, that there was the same natural difference between a lord and a plebeian that there is between a thorough-bred and a cart-horse. this superstition, though founded on a dim sense of the natural differences which do exist, erred in making them the obedient servants of the artificial differences. there are, no doubt, thorough-breds and cart-horses amongst mankind, and the popular phraseology would imply that there are also asses; but these natural differences seem to be independent of title altogether, and dependent even upon fortune only so far as it may help or hinder their development. the superstition that lords, _quã¢_ lords, are wiser, and better, and braver, and more respectable than other people, was more prevalent in shayton than it is in places where lords are more frequently seen. now, with this deeply rooted anglican superstition about the heaven of aristocracy and the angels that dwell therein, uncle jacob naturally desired that his nephew should be qualified for admission there. and he had a devout belief that the states of probation for a young soul aspiring to celestial bliss were terms of residence at eton and at oxford. little jacob had continued his custom of staying at milend every sunday, that he might benefit by the services of our friend mr. prigley in the pew at shayton church. isaac ogden, though he had come to church three sundays in succession after the recovery of little jacob, and had attended divine service regularly as an officer of militia (being in that character compulsible thereunto by martial law), had, i regret to say, relapsed into his old habits of negligence at twistle farm, and spent the sunday there in following his own devices. it must be admitted, however, that he did little harm, on that day or any other, to himself or anybody else. he remained religiously faithful to his vow of total abstinence, and spent several hours every day in giving a sound elementary education to his son. "i'll tell you what it is, isaac," said uncle jacob one day when his elder brother had come on one of his rare visits to milend--"i'll tell you what it is; if you'll just let me have my own way about th' eddication o' th' young un, i'll leave him all my brass, and, what's more, i don't mind payin' for his schoolin' beside. i want nowt nobbut what's reet, but i'll make sich a gentleman on him as there isn't i' o shayton nor i' o manchester nother. and to start wi', i reckon nowt of his stoppin' up at twistle farm same as he is doin' an' idlin' away auve[19] his time. let him live at milend regular for a twelvemonth, and go to prigley six hour every day, and then send him to eton--that's where gentlefolk sends their lads to. and afther that, we'll send him to hoxford college." chapter xxxvi. a short correspondence. no sooner had mr. prigley got into the full swing of work with his young pupil, than he received a letter from our friend colonel stanburne of wenderholme:- "my dear mr. prigley,--it would give me great pleasure, and be of great use to me besides, if you could come over here and stay with me for a fortnight or three weeks. we got the house covered in just before the winter, and the works have been going forward since in some parts of the interior, but there are some points about internal fittings, especially in the principal rooms, that i and my architect don't agree about. now, what i most want is, the advice of a competent unprofessional friend; and as i know that you have studied architecture much more deeply than i have ever done myself, i look to you to help me. it will probably be a long time before the house is finished, but now is the time to decide about the interior arrangements. helena is at lord adisham's, and so i am left alone with the architect. i wish you would come. he seems to want me to adopt a different style for the finishing of the interior to that which was generally prevalent when wenderholme was built. now my notion is (_puisque l'occasion se prã©sente_) to make the place as homogeneous as possible. "do come. you will stay here at the cottage. i am living with my mother. "very faithfully yours, john stanburne." to this letter, which offered to mr. prigley's mind the most tempting of all possible baits, for he dearly loved to dabble in architecture and restorations, the reverend gentleman, being bound by his engagement with the ogdens, could only regretfully answer:- "my dear colonel stanburne,--i should have accepted your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure, and the more so that i take a deep interest in the restoration of your noble old mansion, but unfortunately i have a private pupil whom i cannot leave. it is young jacob ogden, whose father is one of your militia officers. "yours most truly, e. prigley." but by return of post mr. prigley got the following short reply:- "my dear mr. prigley,--the best solution of the difficulty will be, to bring little jacob with you. i know little jacob very well, and he knows me. give my compliments to his father if you have to ask his permission, and tell him we will take good care of his little boy. "yours very faithfully, j. stanburne." so the end of it was, that little jacob found himself suddenly removed to wenderholme cottage, where old mrs. stanburne lived. the change was highly agreeable to him--not the less agreeable that the companion of his leisure hours was the beautiful little edith. chapter xxxvii. at wenderholme cottage. wenderholme cottage was in fact a very comfortable and commodious house. its claims to the humble title which it bore, were, first, that its front was all gables, with projecting roofs, and carved or traceried barge-boards; and, secondly, that its rooms were small. but if they were small they were numerous; and when it pleased mrs. stanburne to receive visitors--and it often pleased that hospitable lady so to do--it was astonishing how many people the cottage could be made to hold. a little kindness soon wins the affections of a child, and little jacob had not been more than three or four days at wenderholme before he began to be very fond of mrs. stanburne. hers was just the sort of influence which is necessary to a young gentleman at that age--the influence of a woman of experience, who is at the same time a high-bred gentlewoman. no doubt his old grandmother loved little jacob more than any thing else in the world; but she was narrow-minded, and despotic, and vulgar in all her ways. mrs. ogden, too, had moments of caprice and violence, in which, she was dangerous to oppose, and difficult to pacify; in short, she was one of those persons, too common in her class, of whom matthew arnold says that they are deficient in sweetness and light. the steady unfailing goodness of mrs. stanburne, her uniformly gentle manners, her open intelligent sympathy, produced on her young guest an effect made ten times more powerful by all his early associations. it was like coming out of a chamber where every thing was rough and uncouth, into a pleasant drawing-room, full of light and elegance, where there are flowers, and music, and books. such a change would not be agreeable to every one: whether it would be agreeable or not depends upon the instinctive preferences. ladies like mrs. stanburne do not put everybody at his ease, and it proves much in little jacob's favor that he felt happy in her presence. as jacob ogden, the elder, had been formed by nature for the rude contest with reluctant fortune, so his nephew had been created for the refinements of an attained civilization. therefore, henceforth, though he still loved his grandmother, both from gratitude and habit, his young mind saw clearly that neither her precepts nor her example were to be accepted as authoritative, and he looked up to mrs. stanburne as his preceptress. little jacob's healthy honest face and simple manners recommended him to the good lady from the first, and he had not been a week under her roof before she took a kind interest in every thing concerning him. the mere facts that he had no mother, no sister, no brother, and that he had lived alone with his father in such a place as twistle farm, were of themselves enough to attract attention and awaken curiosity; but the story of his arrival at wenderholme in the preceding winter was also known to her, and she knew how unendurably miserable his lonely home had been. mrs. stanburne talked a good deal with mr. prigley about the boy, and learned with pleasure his father's wonderful and (as now might be hoped) permanent reformation. "he does not seem to have neglected the little boy," she said; "he reads very well. i asked him to read aloud to me yesterday, and was surprised to hear how well he read--i mean, quite as if he understood it, and not in the sing-song way children often acquire." "he's ten years old now, and he ought to read well," replied mr. prigley; "but he knows a great deal for a boy of his age. it's high time to send him to school, though; it's too lonely for him at the farm. i am preparing him for eton." mrs. stanburne expressed some surprise at this. "boys in his rank in life don't often go to eton, do they, mr. prigley?" the clergyman smiled as he answered that little jacob's rank in life was not yet definitively settled. mrs. stanburne replied that she thought it was, since his father was a retired tradesman. "yes, but his uncle, mr. jacob ogden of milend, has not left business; indeed he is greatly extending his business just now, for he has built an immense new factory. and this little boy is to be his heir--his uncle told me so himself three weeks since. this child will be a rich man--nobody can tell how rich. his uncle wishes him to be educated as a gentleman." it is a great recommendation to a little boy to be heir to a large fortune, and mrs. stanburne's natural liking for little jacob was by no means diminished by a knowledge of that fact. as he was going to eton, too, she began to look upon him as already in her own rank of life, where boys were sent to eton, and inherited extensive estates. during mr. prigley's frequent absences with colonel stanburne at the hall, mrs. stanburne undertook to hear little jacob his lessons, and then the idea struck her that jacob and edith might both write together from her dictation. in this way the boy and the girl became class-fellows. edith had a governess usually, but the governess had gone to visit her relations, and miss edith's education was for the present under the superintendence of her grandmamma. so between these two children an intimacy rapidly established itself--an intimacy which affected the course of their whole lives. one day when they had been left alone together in the drawing-room, little jacob asked the young lady some question, and he began by calling her "miss edith." "miss edith!" said she, pouting; "why do you call me miss? the servants may call me miss, but you mayn't. we're school-fellows now, and you must call me edith. and i shall call you jacob. why haven't you got a prettier name for me to call you by? jacob isn't pretty at all. haven't you another name?" poor little jacob was obliged to confess his poverty in names. he had but one, and that one uncouth and unacceptable! "only one name. why, you funny little boy, only to have one name! i've got four. i'm called edith maud charlotte elizabeth. but i'll tell you what i'll do. as i've got four names and you've only one, i'll give you one of mine. i can't call you charlotte, you know, because you're not a girl; but i can call you charley, and i always will do. so now i begin. charley, come here!" little jacob approached obediently. "ha, ha! he answers to his new name already!" she cried in delight, clapping her hands. "what a clever little boy he is! he's a deal cleverer than the pony was when we changed _its_ name! but then, to be sure, the pony never properly knew its first name either." suddenly she became grave, and put her fingers on the young gentleman's arm. "charley," she said, "this must be a secret between us two, because if grandmamma found out, she might be angry with me, you know. but you like to be called charley, don't you? isn't it nice?" chapter xxxviii. artistic intoxication. the london architect who was charged with the restoration of wenderholme gave advice which could not be followed without a heavy outlay; but in this respect he was surpassed by colonel stanburne's amateur adviser, mr. prigley, whose imagination revelled in the splendors of an ideal elizabethan interior, full of carving and tapestry, and all manner of barbaric magnificence. where the architect would have been content with paper, mr. prigley insisted upon wainscot; and where the architect admitted plain panelling, the clergyman would have it carved in fanciful little arches, or imitations of folded napkins, or shields of arms, or large medallion portraits of the kings of england, or bas-reliefs of history or the chase. only consider what mr. prigley's tastes and circumstances had been, and what a painful contradiction had ever subsisted between them! he had an intense passion for art--not for painting or sculpture in their independent form, for of these he knew little--but mr. prigley loved architecture mainly, and then all the other arts as they could help the effect of architecture. with these tastes he lived in a degree of poverty which utterly forbade any practical realization of them, and surrounded by buildings of which it is enough to say that they represented the taste of the inhabitants of shayton. the ugliest towns in the world are english towns--the ugliest towns in england are in the manufacturing district--the ugliest town in the manufacturing district was the one consigned to mr. prigley's spiritual care. here his artistic tastes dwelt in a state of suppression, like jack-in-the-box. colonel stanburne had imprudently unfastened the lid; it flew open, and jack sprang up with a suddenness and an energy that was positively startling and alarming. the fact is, mr. prigley lived in a condition of intoxication during the whole time of his stay at wenderholme cottage--an intoxication just as real as that which he denounced in seth schofield and jerry smethurst, and the other patrons of the red lion. a man may get tipsy on other things than ale or brandy; and it may be doubted whether any tipsiness is more complete, or more enjoyable whilst it lasts, than that which attends the realization of our ideas and the gratification of our tastes. and it has been kindly ordained that when we are not rich enough to realize our ideas for ourselves, we take nearly as much interest in seeing them realized by somebody else; so that critics who could not afford to build a laborer's cottage, get impassioned about prince albert's monument or the future palace of justice. how much the more, then, should mr. prigley excite himself about wenderholme, especially seeing that colonel stanburne had done him the honor to consult his judgment, and expressed the desire to benefit by his extensive knowledge, his cultivated taste! was it not a positive duty to interest himself in the matter, and to give the best advice he could? it was a duty, and it was a pleasure. mr. prigley had already half decided the colonel, when a powerful ally came unexpectedly to his assistance. one morning at breakfast-time, when the colonel read his letters, he said to mrs. stanburne, "here's a letter from an acquaintance of ours who wants to come and stay here," and he handed her the following note:- "my dear colonel stanburne,--since i had the pleasure of seeing you at wenderholme, i have often thought about what you are doing there. having had a good deal of experience with architects, restorations, &c., it has occurred to me that i might be of some use. would you present my compliments to mrs. stanburne, and say that if it occasioned no inconvenience to her, i should very much like to spend a few days at wenderholme cottage? i would bring nobody with me except thompson, my valet; and though our acquaintance is comparatively a recent one, i presume upon it so far as to hope that you will not allow my visit to make any difference--i mean, in asking people to meet me. i should like, on the contrary, to have you all to myself, so that we may talk about the restoration of wenderholme in detail: it interests me greatly. with kind compliments to mrs. stanburne, "yours very truly, ingleborough." "well, dear," said mrs. stanburne, when she had read the note, "the duke must come, of course. i like him very much--he is a very agreeable man. we needn't make any fuss." so the duke came; and as colonel stanburne had insisted that mr. prigley should stay to meet him, he and little jacob prolonged their visit at the cottage. "i look upon you, mr. prigley, as a necessary shield for my ignorance. whenever you see that the duke is puzzling me, you must divert the attack by drawing it on yourself. _you're_ a match for him--you know all the technical terms." his grace brought with him a heavy box of books, such as made mr. prigley's mouth water, and several portfolios of original designs for carvings, which had been executed for an old mansion of his own, contemporary with wenderholme. he warmly supported mr. prigley's views; and in the long conversations which the three held together in the evenings, whilst the colonel consumed his habitual allowance of tobacco, the books and portfolios were triumphantly appealed to, and it was proved in a conclusive manner that this thing ought to be done, and that this other thing was absolutely indispensable, till poor john stanburne hardly knew what to think. "it is an opportunity," said the duke--"an opportunity such as, we hope, may never occur again; and it rests with you, colonel stanburne, whether your noble old mansion is to be restored, in the genuine sense of the word, so that it may have once again the perfect character of an elizabethan house of the best class--or whether it is to be simply repaired so as to shelter you from the weather, like any other house in the neighborhood. you will never repent a liberal expenditure at the right moment. i say, be liberal now; it is an expense which will not occur twice, either in your lifetime or in that of your descendants for many generations. what are a few thousand pounds more or less in a matter of such importance? make wenderholme a perfect mansion of its kind. restore all the wainscot, and tapestry, and glass; replace all the carved furniture that must have been there in queen elizabeth's time"-"thanks to eureton's good management the night of the fire, all our furniture is safe." the duke made a little gesture of impatience. "captain eureton," he said, "did his duty most creditably on the night of the fire; but as the fire originated in the garrets, where all the old remnants were accumulated, the consequence was, that the most precious things in the house were destroyed, and the less precious were preserved." "a good deal more useful, though, duke, if less precious in the eyes of an antiquary." "useful? yes, that is what makes them so dangerous. people admit incongruous things into their houses on the wretched pretext of utility. do you know, in my opinion, it is a subject of regret that the furniture was saved that night?" "you worked very hard yourself in saving it." "of course, it was my duty to take my share of the work; but circumstances will sometimes place us in such a position that duty compels us to act against what we believe to be the general interest of mankind. for instance, suppose i were out at sea in my yacht, and that i met with a boatful of republicans, such as mazzini, garibaldi, louis blanc, and ledru rollin, all so hungry that they were just going to eat each other up, and so thirsty that they were just going to drink salt water and go raving mad, it would be my duty to pick up the rascals, and give them food, and land them on some hospitable shore, and i should do so because to save men from death is an elementary duty; but i should be rendering a far better service to mankind in letting the fellows eat each other, instead of assassinating their betters, and go raving mad out at sea rather than disseminate insane doctrines on the land." the colonel could not help laughing at this sally. "do you mean to compare my furniture with a set of republicans?" "what radicals and republicans are in an ancient state, commonplace and ignoble furniture is in a fine old mansion; and your old remnants in the lumber-room were like men of refined education and ancient descent, who have been thrust out of their natural place in society to make room for vulgar _parvenus_." "well, but what on earth would you have me do with my furniture?" "there are many ways of getting it out of wenderholme. why not furnish some other house with it? why don't you have a house in london? you _ought_ to have a house in london. the furniture here is quite appropriate in a modern house, though it is incongruous in an old one. or if you had a modern house anywhere, no matter where, you might furnish it with that furniture, and then wenderholme would be free to receive things suitable for it." amongst other books that the duke had brought with him was viollet-le-duc's valuable and comprehensive "dictionnaire du mobilier;" and the three gentlemen were soon as deep in the study of chairs and _bahuts_ as they had before been in that of wainscots and stained glass. colonel stanburne was not by nature an enthusiast in matters of this kind, and would have lived calmly all his life amidst the incongruities of the wenderholme of his youth; but nobody knows, until he has been exposed to infection, whether he may not catch some enthusiasm from others which never would have originated in himself. from the very beginning of his stay, mr. prigley had begun to indoctrinate john stanburne in these matters; and after the arrival of the duke's richly illustrated volumes, the pupil's progress had been remarkable for its rapidity. he now felt thoroughly persuaded that it would be wrong to miss such a rare opportunity, and that economy at such a moment would be unworthy of the owner of wenderholme. he had a large sum of money in the funds, entirely under his own control, and he resolved to appropriate a portion of this to the restoration of the mansion, in accordance with the advice of the duke and mr. prigley. one day at lunch, his grace was lamenting the loss of the old carvings in the lumber-room, when little jacob, who dined when his elders lunched, and was usually a model of good behavior, in that he observed a trappistine silence during the repast, rather astonished the company by saying, "please, i know where there's plenty of old oak." the gentlemen took this for one of those remarks, usually so little to the point, which children are in the habit of making. mrs. stanburne kindly answered by inquiring "whether there was much old oak at twistle farm?" "oh no, i don't mean at papa's--i mean here," replied little jacob, with great vivacity. john stanburne said, "there used to be plenty, my boy, but it was all burnt in the fire." "i don't mean that; i never saw that. i mean, what i have seen since i have been here this time,--real old oak, all carved with lions and tigers--at least, i believe they are lions and tigers--and pigs and wolves, too, and all sorts of birds and things." there was not an atom of old oak in wenderholme cottage, and there was not an atom of furniture of any kind in wenderholme hall. what could the child mean? had he been dreaming? everybody's attention was drawn to little jacob, who, becoming very red and excited, reiterated his assertion with considerable boldness and emphasis. when called upon for an explanation, he said that when he had been playing in the great barn, amongst the hay, he had got into a long low garret over the pigsties and the hen-houses, and that it was full of old oak--"quite full of it," he reiterated. mrs. stanburne's face assumed an expression of thought and reflection, as if she were seeking inwardly for something imperfectly remembered. "it strikes me," she said, "that when my husband's father modernized the house, he must have put part of the old things into other lumber-rooms than those at the top of the house itself. there are places amongst the out-buildings which have not been opened for many years, and i believe we should find something there." the duke became eager with anticipation. "the merest fragments of the original furniture would be precious, mrs. stanburne. if we only had some specimens, as data, the rest might be reconstructed in the same taste. let us go and look up whatever may remain. this little boy will be our guide." little jacob, proud and excited, led the way to the great barn. it was fun to him to make the gentlemen follow him up the ladder, and over the hay, to a little narrow doorway that was about three feet above the hay-level. "that's the door," he said, and began to climb up the rough wall. he pushed it open by using all his force in frequent shoulder-thrusts, the rusty hinges gradually yielding. the adult explorers followed, and found themselves in total darkness. "the old oak isn't here," said little jacob; "it's a good bit further on." the garret they were in served as a lumber-room for disused agricultural implements, and both the duke and mr. prigley hurt their shins against those awkward obstacles. at last they came to a blank wall, and then to what seemed to be a sort of cupboard, so far as they could guess by touching. behind the cupboard was a small space, into which little jacob insinuated himself, and afterwards cheerfully sang out, "i'm all right; here's the place!" the gentlemen pushed the cupboard back a foot or two, and found the doorway behind it by which their guide had passed. they were in a long, low attic, very dimly lighted by a little hole in the wall at its remote extremity. it was full of obstacles, which the duke's touch recognized at once as carved oak. "we ought to have had lanterns," he said; "how tantalizing it is not to be able to see!" "i would rather have a few slates taken off," john stanburne answered; "that will make us a fine sky-light. i have a dread of fire." little jacob was sent to fetch two or three men, who in half an hour had removed slates enough to throw full daylight on the scene--such daylight as had not penetrated there for many a long year. the old furniture of wenderholme, gray, almost white, with age, filled the place from end to end in one continuous heap. "but this is all white," said little jacob, "and old oak ought to be brown, oughtn't it?" "a little linseed-oil will restore the color," the duke replied. then he exclaimed, "by jove! colonel, we have found a treasure--we have indeed! let us get every thing out into the yard, and then we can examine the things in detail." the whole of the afternoon was spent in getting the old oak out. the gentlemen worked with the laborers, the duke himself as energetically as any one. his great anxiety was to prevent injury to the carvings, which were very picturesque and elaborate. when the things were all out of doors, and the garret finally cleared, it was astonishing what a display they made. there were six cabinets, of which four had their entablatures supported by massive griffins or lions, and their panels inlaid with ebony and satin-wood, or carved with bas-reliefs, which, though certainly far from accurate in point of design, produced a very rich effect; whilst even the plainest of the cabinets were interesting for some curious specimen of turner's work or tracery. then there were portions of three or four state beds, with massive deeply panelled testers and huge columns, constructed with that disdain for mechanical necessity, and that emphatic preference of the picturesque, which marked the taste of the elizabethan age. thus, a single bed-post would in one place be scarcely thicker than a man's wrist, and in another thicker than his body; the weight of the whole being enormously out of proportion to its strength. there were a number of chairs of various patterns, but which agreed in uniting weight with fragility, and stateliness with discomfort. there were also innumerable fragments, difficult at first sight to classify, but amongst which might be recognized the legs of tables (constructed on the same principle as the bed-posts), and pieces that had been detached from chairs, and cabinets, and beds. in addition to all these things, there were quantities of old wainscot, some of it carved, or inlaid with various woods. the men had come to the wainscot at last, for it was reared against the walls of the garret behind the barricade of furniture. as they were removing it, there was a crashing of broken glass. a piece of this glass was brought to the light, and it was found to be stained with the arms of the stanburnes (or, a bend cottised sa.), simple old bearings like those of most ancient untitled houses. on this other fragments were carefully collected, and they all bore the arms of stanburne impaled with those of families with which the colonel's ancestors had intermarried. mr. prigley, who was rather strong in heraldry, and knew the genealogy of his wife's family and all its alliances much better than did john stanburne himself, recognized the martlets of tempest, the red lion of mallory, the green lion of sherburne, the black lion of stapleton, the chevron and cinquefoils of falkingham, the golden lozenges of plumpton, charged with red scallop-shells, in fess on a field of azure. "this has been a great heraldic window, commemorating the alliances of the family!" cried mr. prigley, in ecstasy. "it must be restored, colonel," said the duke, "and brought down to the present time--down to you and lady helena." soon afterwards another discovery was due to the restless curiosity and boyish activity of little jacob. he had found means to open one of the biggest of the cabinets, and had hauled out what seemed to him an old piece of carpet folded in many folds. he ran to inform the duke of his discovery; but his grace, eagerly unfolding the supposed piece of carpet, displayed a rich field of "arras green and blue, showing a gaudy summer morn, where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew his wreathã©d bugle-horn." other pieces of tapestry followed, and the heaviest of the cabinets was found to be nearly full of them. they consisted almost exclusively of hunting scenes and pastorals, with landscapes and foliage, which, though seldom approaching correctness as a representation of nature, must have produced, nevertheless, a superbly decorative effect when hung in the halls of wenderholme. the duke had said very little for nearly an hour, except in ordering the men to arrange the furniture in groups. when this had been accomplished to his satisfaction, he turned to the colonel, and made him the following little speech:-"colonel stanburne, i congratulate you upon a discovery which would be interesting to any intelligent person, but is so most especially to the representative of the stanburnes. here are specimens of the furniture used by your ancestors from the reign of henry vii. to that of james i. we have here ample data for the complete restoration of wenderholme, even in the details of wainscot and tapestry and glass. the minutest fragments in these heaps are valuable beyond price. it is getting late now, but to-morrow i will go through every bit of it and ticket every thing, and when i leave i will send you workmen capable of doing every thing that ought to be done." here little jacob whispered to mr. prigley, "it was i that found it out, wasn't it, mr. prigley?" to which piece of self-assertion his tutor replied by the repressive monosyllable "hush!" but his grace had overheard both of them, and said, "indeed we are very much obliged to you, my little boy--very much obliged indeed. i should like to make you a little present of some sort for the pleasure you have afforded me this afternoon. you are going to eton, i hear. have you got a watch?" little jacob pulled out a silver watch, of the old-fashioned kind popularly known as turnips, from their near approach to the spherical conformation. the duke smiled as he looked at it, and asked what time it was. little jacob's watch was two hours late. "but it ticks yet," he said. the duke said no more just then, but when little jacob was dressed to go down to dessert, his grace's valet, thompson, knocked at the door, and brought a gold watch with a short chain, wherewith the young gentleman proudly adorned himself. one of the first things he did was to go to the duke and thank him; and he did it so nicely that the nobleman was pleased to say that when little jacob went to eton he might "show his watch to the fellows, and tell 'em who gave it him." chapter xxxix. good-bye to little jacob. little jacob was in luck's way, for the day he left wenderholme cottage the colonel tipped him with a five-pound note. he had a private interview, too, with miss edith, and there was quite a little scene between the infantine lovers. "are you really going away to-day, charley?" she said, using the name she had given him. "yes; mr. prigley says he must go back on account of shayton church. it will be sunday to-morrow, you know." "and when will you come back to us again?" "i don't know. perhaps never." "perhaps never!" exclaimed miss edith; "and aren't you very sorry?" "yes, very sorry. i have been very happy here." "well, then, you must come again. i wish you would. i like you very much. you are a nice boy," and the frank young lady made him a small present--a little gold pin with a turquoise in it. "keep that; you must never lose it, you know--it is a keepsake." when little jacob left with mr. prigley, mrs. stanburne was very kind to him, and said he must come again some time. this cheered edith's heart considerably, but still there was a certain moisture in her eyes as she bade farewell to her boy-friend. and in the same way i, who write this, feel a sadness coming over me which is not to be resisted. children _never_ live long. when they are not carried away in little coffins, and laid for ever in the silent grave, they become transformed so rapidly that we lose them in another way. the athletic young soldier or oxonian, the graceful heroine of the ball-room, may make proud the parental heart, but can they quite console it for the eternal loss of the little beings who plagued and enlivened the early years of marriage? a father may sometimes feel a legitimate and reasonable melancholy as he contemplates the most promising of little daughters, full of vivacity and health. how long will the dear child remain to him? she will be altered in six months; in six years she will be succeeded by a totally different creature--a creature new in flesh and blood and bone, thinking other thoughts and speaking another language. there is a sadness even in that change which is increase and progression; for the glory of noon-day has destroyed the sweet delicacy of the dewy aurora, and the wealth of summer has obliterated the freshness of the spring. in saying good-bye to little jacob and his friend miss edith, now, i am like some father who, under the fierce sun of india, sends his children away from him, that they may live. he expects to meet them again, yet these children he will never meet. in their place he will see men and women in the vigor of ripened adolescence. and when he quits the deck before the ship sails, and the little arms cling round him for the last time, and for the last time he hears the lisping voices, the dear imperfect words, a great grief comes like ice upon his heart, and he feels a void, and a loss, and a vain longing, only less painful than what we feel at the grave's brink, when the earth clatters down on the coffin, and the clergyman reads his farewell. part ii. chapter i. after long years. if the reader has ever been absent for many years from some neighborhood where he has once lived--where many faces were familiar to him, and the histories that belonged to the faces--where he once knew the complex relations of the inhabitants towards each other, and was at least in some measure cognizant of the causes which were silently modelling their existence in the future, as masons build houses in which some of us will have to live--if, after knowing the life of a neighborhood so intimately as this, he has left that place for long years, and come back to it again to visit it, that he may renew the old sensations, and revive his half-forgotten ancient self, he has learned a lesson about human life which no other experience can teach. the inhabitants who have never gone away for long, the parson who preaches every sunday in the church, the attorney who goes to his office every day after breakfast, the shop-keepers who daily see the faces of their customers across the counter, perceive changes, but not change. to them every vicissitude has the air of a particular accident, and it always seems that it might have been avoided. but the great universal change has that in its aspect which tells you that it cannot be avoided; and he who has once seen it face to face knows that all things are moving and flowing, and that the world travels fast in a sense other than the astronomical. i have endeavored to enlist the reader's interest in a set of persons who lived at shayton and sootythorn at the time of the establishment of the militia. the first training of colonel stanburne's regiment took place in the month of may, 1853--to be precise, it met for the first time on the 23d of that month; and the 15th of the month following will long be remembered in the neighborhood on account of the great fire at wenderholme hall, which, as the reader is already aware, took place under circumstances of the most exceptional publicity. it is probable that on no occasion, from the times of the tudors to our own, were so many people collected in the park and garden of wenderholme as on that memorable night. it is the misfortune of certain positions that the virtues which are necessary to those who occupy them have to be translated into a money outlay before they can be adequately appreciated. colonel stanburne was not an extravagant man by nature; he was simple in all his habits and tastes, liked to live quietly at his own house, hated london, and indulged himself only in an innocent taste for tandem-driving, which certainly did not cost him two hundred a-year. but this was john stanburne's character in his private capacity; as a leader of men--as the head of a regiment--his nature was very different. whether his surroundings excited him, and so caused him to lose the mental balance which is necessary to perfect prudence, or whether he acted at first in ignorance of the wonderful accumulativeness of tradesmen's bills, and afterwards went on from the force of established habit, it is certain that from the 23d of may, 1853, when his regiment assembled for the first time, colonel stanburne entered upon a new phase of his existence. hitherto he had lived strictly within his income, whilst from the year 1853 he lived within it no longer. his whole style of living had been heightened and increased by his position in the militia. the way he drove out was typical of every thing else. before his colonelcy he had been contented with a tandem, and his tandem was horsed from the four ordinary carriage-horses which were regularly kept at wenderholme. but since it had seemed convenient--nay, almost indispensably necessary--to have a commodious vehicle of some kind, that he might convey his officers from sootythorn to wenderholme every time he asked them to dinner--and since he had naturally selected a drag as the proper thing to have, and the pleasantest thing for himself to drive--there had been an increase in his stable expenses, and a change in his habits, which lasted all the year round. besides, his natural kindliness and generosity of disposition, which had formerly found a sufficing expression in a general heartiness and good-nature, now began to express themselves in a much more expensive way--namely, by more frequent and more profuse hospitality. in the year 1865 colonel stanburne was still at the head of his regiment of militia, and during the annual trainings the wenderholme coach has never ceased to run. wenderholme had become quite a famous place, and tourists knowing in architecture came to see it from distant counties. it is a perfect type now of a great elizabethan mansion: the exterior, especially the central mass over the porch, is enriched with elaborate sculpture; there are great mullioned windows everywhere, and plenty of those rich mouldings and copings which diversify the fronts of great houses of that age, and crown their lofty walls. there are globes and pinnacles on the completed gables, and at the intersections of the roofing rise fantastic vanes of iron-work, gilded, and glittering in the sunshine against the blue of the summer sky. the interior has but one defect--it seems to require, in its inhabitants, the costume of sir walter raleigh and the great ladies of his time. it has become like a poem or a dream, and one would hardly be surprised to find edmund spenser there reading the "faã«ry queene" to the noble surrey, or imagining, in the solitude of one of its magnificent rooms, some canto still to be written. let us pause here, and look at the place simply as in a picture, or series of pictures, before the current of events hurries us on till we have no time left to enjoy beautiful things, nor mental tranquillity enough to feel in tune with this perfect peace. it is noon in summer. under every oak in the great avenues lies a dark patch of shadow, and on the rich expanse of the open park the sunshine glows and darkens as the thin white clouds sail slowly in the blue aerial ocean. how rich and stately is the rounded foliage--how perfect the fulness of the protected trees! in the midst of them stands the house of wenderholme, surrounded by soft margins of green lawn and wide borders of gleaming flowers. it is pleasant this hot day to enter the great cool hall, to walk on its pavement of marble (white marble and black, in lozenges), and rest the eye in the subdued light which reigns there, even at noon. under pretext of restoration, wenderholme had been made a great deal more splendid, and incomparably more comfortable, than it ever was in the time of its pristine magnificence. in the wainscot and the furniture the architect had lavishly used a great variety of strange and beautiful woods, quite unknown to our ancestors; and not contented with the stones and marbles of the british islands, he had brought varieties from normandy, and sicily, and spain, and the mediterranean shores of africa. as for the arrangements that regarded comfort and convenience, john stanburne's architect had learned the extent of a rich englishman's exigence when he erected the mansions of five or six great cotton-manufacturers, and, strong in this experience, had made wenderholme a model place for elaborately perfect housekeeping. what had been done with the modern furniture that had been saved on the night of the fire? we may learn this, and some other matters also, when the colonel comes in to lunch. he crosses his great hall, and goes straight to the dining-room. the twelve years that have passed by have aged him even more than so many dozens of months ought to have done. his hair is getting prematurely gray, and his step, though still firm and manly, has lost a good deal of its elasticity, and something of its grace. the expression on his countenance does not quite correspond with all the glory of the paradise that is his, with the sunshine on the broad green park and vast shade-bestowing trees, with the rich peace of these cool and silent halls. when he is with other people, his face is very much as it used to be; but when he is alone, as he is now, it looks weary and haggard, as if to live were an effort and a care--as if some hateful anxiety haunted him, and wore him hour after hour. "tell her ladyship that i have come in to lunch; and stay--you need not wait upon us to-day." lady helena comes with her scarcely audible little step, and quietly takes her place at the table. _she_ is not very much changed by the lapse of these last twelve years. she is still rather pretty, and she looks as intelligent as ever, though not perhaps quite so lively. but as for liveliness, she has nothing to encourage her vivacity just now, for the colonel eats his slice of cold beef in silence, and scarcely even looks in her direction. when he looks up at all, it is at the window,--not that there is any thing particular to be seen there--only the sunny garden with the fountain, fed from the hills behind. "my dear," said lady helena, "as the regiment is disbanded now, i suppose we have no longer any reason to remain at wenderholme? suppose we went up to town again for the end of the season? there are several people that you promised to see, and didn't call upon before you came away. there's old lady sonachan's ball on the 15th, and i think we ought to do something ourselves in grosvenor square--you know we meant to do, if the training of the regiment had not been a fortnight earlier than we expected." "i think it would be as well to stop quietly at wenderholme." "i'm afraid, dear," said lady helena, caressingly, "that you're losing your good habits, and going back to the ideas you had many years ago, before the militia began. you've been so very nice for a long time now that it would be a pity to go back again to what you used to be before you were properly civilized. for you know, dear, you were _not_ quite civilized then--you were _sauvage_, almost a recluse; and now you like society, and it does you good--doesn't it, dear? everybody ought to go into society--we all of us need it. _do_ come with me to town, dear, and after that i will go with you wherever you like." "helena," the colonel answered, gravely, "that's the sort of game we have been playing for many years. 'do indulge me in my fancy, and then i will indulge you in some fancy of your own.' it is time to put a stop to that sort of thing." "it would be a pity, i think. have we not been very happy, my love, all these years together?" "yes, no doubt, of course. but i'll tell you what it is, helena--we made a great mistake." lady helena's face flushed, and her eyes filled. "a mistake! i am grieved if you think your marriage was a mistake, john. i never think so of mine." "it isn't that; i don't mean the marriage. i mean something since the marriage. but it's no use talking about that just now. i say, put your shawl on and take a little walk with me, will you?" they went in silence by the path that rose towards the moors behind the house. when they came to the pond, the colonel seemed to pause and hesitate a little; then he said, "no, not here--on the open moor." they came to the region of the heather, and the park of wenderholme, with all the estate around it, lay spread like a great map beneath them. "sit down here, helena, and let us talk together quietly. it may be better for both of us." then came a long pause of silence, and when lady helena looked in the colonel's face, she perceived that his eyes were wandering over the land from one field to another, with a strange expression of lingering and longing and regret. evidently he had forgotten that she was with him. "dear," she said at last, "what was that great mistake you talked about?" he started and looked round at her suddenly. then, laying his hand very gently on her shoulder, said with strange tenderness, "you won't be hurt, will you? it was mutual, you know." "do you recollect, helena," he went on, after a little while, "the time when i first began to drive four horses? you didn't approve of it--of course i know you didn't--and there were a good many other things that you didn't approve of either, and your opinion was plain enough in your way with me. well, then, there were some things that you either did or wanted to do, you know, which didn't quite suit me, and seemed to me as unnecessary as my fancy for driving four horses seemed to you. but i found out that i could keep you in a good temper, and make you indulge me in my fancies, by indulging you in corresponding fancies of your own. so whenever i resolved upon an extravagance, i stopped your criticisms by some bribe; and the biggest bribe of all--the one that kept you indulgent to me year after year--was that house in grosvenor square." "it was your own proposing." "that's just what i am saying. i proposed the house in town to keep you quiet--to keep you from criticising me. you had got into a way of criticising me about the time of the fire, and i hated being criticised. so i thought, 'she shall have her own way if she'll only let me have mine;' and it seems you thought something of the same kind, for you became very indulgent with me. that has been our mistake, helena." "but _was_ it such a mistake after all, darling? have we not been very happy all these years? i remember we were not so happy just when the militia began. you were not so nice with me as you have been since." "perhaps not--and you weren't as nice with me either, helena; but we were nearer being right then than we ever have been during the last few years. i mean to say that, if we had said plainly to each other then--in a kind sort of way, of course--what each was thinking, we should have spared each other a great deal of suffering." "we have suffered very little, love; we have been very happy." "the punishment is yet to come. i've been punished, in my mind, for years past, and said nothing about it to you, because i wanted partly to spare you, and partly to screen myself, for i thought i could bring things round again." "do you mean about money?" "yes." "well, but, dear, you always told me that there had been no diminution in our income. did you not tell me the truth?" "all that was perfectly true. the income was not diminished, but the new investments weren't as safe as the old ones. don't you see, we had less capital to get our income from, and our expenses were even heavier than they used to be. so i invested at higher interest, to make up the difference in our income, and i've been carrying that on to an extent you know nothing about." lady helena began to be alarmed. nobody knew better than her ladyship that the _prestige_ of aristocracy rested ultimately upon wealth, and that she could no more keep up her station without a good income than her strength without food. it had been a capital error of john stanburne's from the beginning, not to consult his wife on every detail of his money transactions. she had always been perfectly prudent in not letting current expenses go beyond income, although, as they had only one child, there appeared to be no necessity for saving. she would have advised him well if he had invited her to advise him; but though he had always told her, with truth, that their income was four thousand a-year, he had not told her the history of the capital sum from which this income had, in consequence of some devices of his own, been drawn so unfailingly. the restoration of wenderholme had been a very costly undertaking indeed. the whole outlay upon it john stanburne had never dared to calculate; but we, who have no reason for that nervous abstinence from terrible totals, know that during the years immediately succeeding the great fire, he did not, in the restoration and adornment of his beautiful home, spend less than twenty-seven thousand pounds. the result, no doubt, was worth even so large an outlay as this; nor was the sum in itself very wildly extravagant, when one reflects that one of the sootythorn cotton-spinners laid out fully as much on an ugly new house about half a mile beyond chesnut hill. but it diminished john stanburne's funded property by more than one-half, and it therefore became necessary to invest the remainder more productively, to keep his income up to its old level. whilst he is telling these things to lady helena in his own way, let us narrate them somewhat more succinctly in ours. it had happened, about three years after the fire--that is, in the year 1856--that a new bank had been established in sootythorn, called the sootythorn district bank, and some of the capitalists both in the immediate locality and in the neighboring country had invested in it rather largely. amongst these was our acquaintance, mr. joseph anison of arkwright lodge, near whittlecup, who, not having a son to succeed him in his business, did not care to extend it, and sought another investment for his savings which might as nearly as possible approach in productiveness the ample returns of commerce. mr. anison was one of the original founders of the new bank, and if the idea had not positively its first source in his own mind, it was he who brought it to a practicable shape, and finally made it a reality. colonel stanburne had taken joseph anison into his confidence about his money matters--at least so far as to show him the present reduced state of his funded capital; and he added that, with his diminished income, it had become necessary to economize by a determined reduction of expenses, the most obvious means to which would be the resignation of his commission in the militia--which, directly or indirectly, cost him a clear thousand a-year--and the abandonment of the house in town, which had then recently been established for the gratification of lady helena, and furnished with the modern furniture saved at the burning of wenderholme. mr. anison strongly dissuaded the colonel from both these steps, urging upon him the popularity which he enjoyed both in the regiment and at sootythorn, and even certain considerations of public duty to which an english gentleman is rarely altogether insensible. the colonel liked the regiment, he liked his position, and it may even be said, without any exaggeration of his merits, that, independently of the consideration which it procured him, he felt an inward satisfaction in doing something which could be considered useful. to resign his commission, then, would have been difficult for another reason, if not altogether impossible. the regiment, instead of coming to sootythorn for a month's training in the year, was on permanent garrison duty in ireland, and he could not gracefully leave it. the other project--the abandonment of his house in london--might have been agreeable enough to himself personally, but he was one of those husbands who, from weakness or some other cause, find it impossible to deprive a wife of any thing which she greatly cares for. this defect was due in his case, as it is in many others, to an inveterate habit of politeness towards all women, _even_ towards his wife; and just as no gentleman would take possession of a chair or a footstool which a lady happened to be using, so john stanburne could not turn lady helena out of that house in town which she liked so much, and which both of them looked upon as peculiarly her own. it is easy for rough and brutal men to do these things, but a gentleman will often get into money embarrassments out of mere delicacy. i don't mean to imply that the colonel's way of dealing with his wife was the best way. it would have been far better to be frank with her from the beginning; but then a simple nature like john stanburne's has such a difficulty in uniting the gentleness and the firmness which are equally necessary when one has to carry out measures which are sure to be disagreeable to a lady. the _suaviter in modo_, &c., is, after all, a species of hypocrisy--at least until it has become habitual; and when the colonel was soft in manner, which he always was with women, he was soft in the matter also. in a word, though no one was better qualified to please a lady, he was utterly incapable of governing one--an incapacity which perhaps he shared with the majority of the sons of adam. as retrenchment had appeared impossible, or, at least, too difficult to be undertaken so long as there was the alternative of a change of investments, the colonel begged mr. anison, as an experienced man of business, to look out for something good in that way; and mr. anison, who, with his brother capitalists, had just started the sootythorn district bank, honestly represented to his friend that a better and a safer investment was not likely to be found anywhere. as he preached not merely by precept but by example, and showed that he had actually staked every thing which he possessed on the soundness of the speculation--he, the father of a family--colonel stanburne was easily persuaded, and became one of the largest shareholders. the bank was soon in a very flourishing condition--in fact it was really prosperous, and exceeded the most sanguine hopes of its originators. the manager was both an honorable man and a man of real ability as a financier. the dividends were very large, and _not_ paid out of capital. after five or six years of this prosperity, during which the colonel's aggregate income had been higher than it ever was during his best days as a fund-holder, he began to conceive the idea of replacing, by economy, the sum of â£27,000, which had been withdrawn from his funded capital for the restoration and embellishment of wenderholme. to do this he prudently began by saving the surplus of his income; but as this did not seem to accumulate fast enough for his desires, he thought that, without permanently alienating his estate, he might mortgage some portion of it, and invest the money so procured at the higher interest received by the shareholders of the sootythorn district bank. the mere surplus of interest would of itself redeem the mortgage after a few years, leaving the money borrowed in his own hands as a clear increase of capital. in this way he mortgaged a great part of the estate of wenderholme to our friend mr. jacob ogden of milend. all these things were done _clam helenã¢_--unknown to her ladyship. she was not supposed to understand business, and probably the colonel, from the first, had apprehended her womanish fears of the glorious uncertainties of speculation. his conscience, however, was perfectly at ease. at the cost of a degree of risk which he set aside as too trifling to be dwelt upon, he was gradually--nay, even rapidly--replacing the money sunk in wenderholme; and every day brought him nearer to the time when he might live in his noble mansion without the tormenting thought that it had been paid for out of his inherited capital. at the same time, so far from withdrawing from the world's eyes into the obscurity which is usually one of the most essential conditions of retrenchment, he actually filled a higher place in the county than he had ever occupied before. the taste for society grows upon us and becomes a habit, so that the man who a year or two since bore solitude with perfect ease, may to-morrow find much companionship a real want, though an acquired one. the more sociable john stanburne became, the more he felt persuaded that the house in london was a proper thing to keep up, and there came to be quite an admirable harmony between him and lady helena. she had always loved him very much, but in the days when he had a fancy for retirement, she had felt just a shade of contempt for the rusticity of his tastes. as this rusticity wore off, her ladyship respected her husband more completely; and the coolness which had existed between them in the year 1853 was succeeded by an affectionate indulgence on both sides, which was entirely satisfactory to lady helena, and was only a little less so to the colonel, because he knew it to be a sacrifice of firmness. he began to feel this very keenly at the time our story reopens, because some very heavy misfortunes had befallen the sootythorn district bank, and the colonel began to doubt whether, after all, his financial operations (successful as they had hitherto appeared) were quite so prudent as he and mr. anison had believed. mr. stedman had been against the enterprise from the very first, and had openly attempted to dissuade both mr. anison and the colonel from any participation in it; but then mr. stedman, who had neither the expenses of a family nor the drain of a high social position, could afford the utmost extremity of prudence, and could literally have lived in his accustomed manner if his money had been invested at one per cent. however, the bank had kept up the colonel's position by giving him an easy income for several years; and by enabling him to put by a surplus, had compensated, by the mental satisfaction which is the reward of those who save, any little anxiety which from time to time may have disturbed the tranquillity of his mind. but now the anxiety was no longer a light one, to be compensated by thinking about savings. a private meeting of the principal shareholders had been held the day before, and it had become clear to them that the position of the sootythorn bank (and consequently their own individual position, for their liability was unlimited) was perilous in the extreme. immense sums had been advanced to cotton firms which were believed to be sound, but which had gone down within the preceding fortnight; and many other loans were believed to be very doubtful. under these circumstances, the chief shareholders--colonel stanburne amongst the number--bound themselves by a mutual promise not to attempt to sell, as any unusual influx of shares upon the market would at once provoke their depreciation, and probably create a panic. whilst the colonel had been telling all these things to lady helena, he had not dared to look once upon her face; but when he had come to an end, a silence followed--a silence so painful that he could not bear it, and turned to her that she might speak to him. she was not looking in his direction. she was not looking at wenderholme, nor on any portion of the fair estate around it; but her eyes were fixed on the uttermost line of the far horizon. she was very pale; her lips were closely compressed, and there was a tragic sternness and severity in her brow that john stanburne had never before seen. for a whole minute--for sixty intolerable seconds--not one word escaped her. "helena, speak to me!" she turned slowly towards him, and rose to her feet. then came words--words that cut and chilled as if they were made of sharp steel that had been sheathed in a scabbard of ice. "you have been very imprudent and very weak. you are not fit to have the management of your own affairs." she said no more. she was intensely angry at her husband, but in her strongest irritation she never said any thing not justified by the circumstances--never put herself in the wrong by violence or exaggeration. she had a great contempt for female volubility and scolding; and the effect of her tongue, when she used it, was to the effect of a scold's rattle what the piercing of a rapier is to the cracking of a whip. john stanburne dreaded the severity of his wife's judgment more than he would have dreaded the fury of an unreasonable woman. he had not a word to offer in reply. he felt that it was literally and accurately true that he had been "very imprudent and very weak, and was not fit to have the management of his own affairs." he covered his face with both hands in an agony of self-accusation, and remained so for several minutes. then he cried out passionately, "helena, dear helena!" and again, "helena! helena!" there was no answer. he lifted up his eyes. the place she had occupied was vacant. she had noiselessly departed from his side. chapter ii. in the dining-room. one of the most strange and painful things about ruin is, that for days, and even weeks, after it has actually come upon a man, his outward life remains in all its details as it was before; so that in the interval between the loss of fortune and the abandonment of his habitual way of living he leads a double life, just as a ghost would do if it were condemned to simulate the earthly existence it led before death amongst the dear familiar scenes. for there are two sorts of separation. you get into a railway train, and take ship, and emigrate to some distant colony or some alien empire, and see no more the land which gave you birth, nor the house which sheltered you, nor the faces of your friends. this separation is full of sadness; but there is another separation which, in its effect upon the mind, is incomparably more to be dreaded, whose pain is incomparably more poignant. i mean, that terrible separation which divides you from the persons with whom you are still living, from the house you have never quitted, from the horses in the stable, from the dog upon the hearth, from the bed you lie in, from the chair you sit upon, from the very plate out of which you eat your daily food! the man who, still in his old house, knows that he has become insolvent, feels this in a thousand subtly various tortures, that succeed each other without intermission. a curse has fallen on every thing that he sees, on every thing that he touches--a wonderful and magical curse, devised by the ingenuity of plutus, the arch-enchanter! the wildest fairy tale narrates no deeper sorcery than this. every thing shall remain, materially, exactly as it was; but when you go into your library you shall not be able to read, in your dining-room the food shall choke you, and you shall toss all night upon your bed. and thus did it come to pass that from this hour all the beauties, and the luxuries, and all the accumulated objects and devices that made up the splendor of wenderholme, became so many several causes of torture to john stanburne. and by another effect of the same curse, he was compelled to torture himself endlessly with these things, as a man when he is galvanized finds that his fingers contract involuntarily round the brass cylinders through which flows the current that shatters all his nerves with agony. the first bell rings for dinner, and the colonel, from long habit, leaves his little den, and is half-way up the grand staircase before he knows that he is moving. that great staircase had been one of the favorite inventions in new wenderholme. it was panelled with rich old yew, and in the wainscot were inserted a complete series of magnificent italian tapestries, in which was set forth the great expedition of the argonauts. there was the sowing of the poisoned grain, the consequent pestilence of thebes, the flight of phryxus and helle on the winged ram with the golden fleece, the fall of poor helle in the dark hellespont, the sacrifice of the ram at colchis, the murder of phryxus. above all, there was the glorious embarkation in the good ship argo, when jason and the grecian princes came down to the shore, with a background of the palaces they left. and in another great tapestry the ship argo sailed in the open sea, her great white sail curving before the wind, and the blue waves dancing before her prow, whilst the warriors stood quaintly upon the deck, with all their glittering arms. then there was the storm on the coast of thrace, and the famous ploughing-scene with the golden-horned bulls, and the sowing of the dragon's teeth. dragon's teeth! john stanburne paused long before that tapestry. had he not likewise been a sower of dragon's teeth, and were not the armed men rising, terrible, around him? who will help him as medea helped jason? who will pass him through all his dangers in a day? it will not be his wife--it will not be lady helena. she is coming up the great staircase too, whilst he is vacantly staring at the tapestry. he does not know that she is there till the rustle of her draperies awakens him. she passes in perfect silence, slowly, in the middle of the broad carpeted space, between the margins of white stone. they met again that evening at dinner. so long as the men waited they talked about this thing and that. but when the dessert was on the table, and the men were gone, the colonel handed the following letter to lady helena:- "my dear colonel stanburne,--as you have been aware for some time of the precarious position of the bank, the bad news i have to communicate will not find you altogether unprepared. we have been obliged to stop payment, and it will require such a large sum to meet the liabilities of the company that both you and i and many other shareholders must consider ourselves ruined men. god grant us fortitude to bear it! when i advised you to embark in this speculation, god knows i did so honestly, and you have the proof of it in the fact that i am ruined along with you. it will be hard for you to descend from a station you were born for and are accustomed to, and it is hard for me to see the fruits of a life of hard work swept away just as i am beginning to be an old man. pray think charitably of me, colonel stanburne. i did what i believed to be best, and though my heart is heavy, my conscience is clear still. may heaven give strength to both of us, and to all others who are involved in the same ruin! "yours truly, joseph anison." lady helena read the letter from beginning to end, and then returned it to her husband without a word. her face wore an expression of the most complete indifference. "why, helena!" said john stanburne, "you haven't a word to say to me. it's far more my misfortune than my fault, and i think you might be kinder, under the circumstances, than you are." "_que voulez-vous que je vous dise?_" chapter iii. in the drawing-room. coffee having been announced, the colonel, who had been sitting alone with his burgundy, and perhaps drinking a little more of it than usual, followed her ladyship into the drawing-room. that drawing-room was the most delicately fanciful room in the whole house. it was wainscoted with cedar to the height of eight feet, where the panels terminated in a beautiful little carved arcade running all round the noble room, and following the wall everywhere into its quaint recesses. heraldic decoration, used so profusely in the great hall and elsewhere, was here limited to john stanburne's own conjugal shield, in which the arms of stanburne were impaled with those of basenthorpe. if the colonel could only have drunk his cup of coffee in silence, or made a commonplace remark or two, and then gone straight to bed, or into his own den, it might have been better for them both; but he was stung to the quick by her ladyship's unsympathizing manner, and he had absorbed so much burgundy in the dining-room as to have lost altogether that salutary fear of his wife's keen little observations which usually kept him in restraint. it was a great pity, too, that they were alone together in the drawing-room that evening, and that miss stanburne had left wenderholme two days before on a brief visit to a country house at a distance. his heart yearned for helena's sympathy and support, and of this she was perfectly aware; but, with that rashness which is peculiarly feminine, and which makes women play their little game of withholding what men's hearts want, even in moments of the utmost urgency and peril, she determined to give him no help until he had properly and sufficiently humiliated himself and confessed his sins before her. the woman who _could_ withhold her tenderness in such an hour as this diminished, in doing so, the value of that tenderness itself; and every minute that passed whilst it was still withheld made such a large deduction from it, that if this coldness lasted for an hour longer, john stanburne felt that no subsequent kindness could atone for it. as the slow, miserable minutes went by whilst lady helena sat yards away from him at a little table in a great oriel window, saying not one word, not even looking once in his direction, john stanburne's brain, already in a state of intense excitement in consequence of the miseries of the day, began to suffer from an almost insane irritability and impatience on account of the silence and calm that surrounded him. it was a most peaceful and beautiful summer evening, and the sun, as he declined towards the west, sent rich warm rays into the noble room, glowing on the cedar panels, and on the quaintly elegant furniture, with its pervading expression of luxury and ease. this luxury maddened john stanburne, the soft carpet was hateful to his feet, the easy-chair irritating to his whole body; he hated the great clusters of flowers in the _jardiniã¨res_, and the white delicate webs that were the summer curtains. considering the present temper of his mind, and his horror of every thing that had cost him money, the drawing-room was the worst place he could have been in. if her ladyship would just have left that interesting bit of plain hemming that she was engaged upon (and whereby she was effecting an economy of about twopence a-day), and gone to her husband and said one kind word to him, merely his name even, and given him one caress, one kiss, their fate would have been incomparably easier to endure. they would have supported each other under the pressure of calamity, and the material loss might have been balanced by a moral gain. but she sat there silently, persistently, doing that farthing's worth of plain needlework. "helena!" at last the colonel broke out, "i say, helena, i wonder what the devil we are to do?" "you need not swear at me, sir." "swear at you!--who swears at you? i didn't. but if i did swear at you, it wouldn't be without provocation. you are the most provoking woman i ever knew in my life; upon my word you are--you are, by god, helena!" "you are losing your temper, colonel stanburne. pray remember whom you are speaking to. i am not to be sworn at like your grooms." "you never lose _your_ temper. now, i say that as you are such a mistress of yourself under all circumstances, it's your own fault that you don't make yourself more agreeable." "i regret that you don't think me agreeable, colonel stanburne." "well, now, _are_ you, helena? here am i under the blow of a tremendous calamity, and you haven't a word to say to me. if fyser knew what had happened, he'd be more sorry than you are." "what would you have me say to you? if i said all you deserve, would you listen to it? you appear to forget that you have as yet expressed no sympathy for me, whom you have ruined by your folly, whereas you are angry because i have said little to you." "_you_ ruined, helena!" said john stanburne, with a bitter laugh; "_you_ ruined--why, you never had any thing to lose! your father allows you six hundred a-year, and he'll continue your allowance, i suppose. you never owned a thousand pounds in your life. but it's different with me. i'm losing all i was born to." the answer to this was too obvious for lady helena to condescend to make it. she remained perfectly silent, which irritated the colonel more than any imaginable answer could have irritated him. he certainly was wrong so far as this, that any one who _asks_ for sympathy puts himself in a false position. condolence must be freely given, or it is worthless. and any disposition which her ladyship may have felt towards a more wifely frame of mind was effectually checked by his advancing these claims of his. she was not to be scolded into amiability. "hang it, helena!" he broke out, "i didn't think there was a woman in england that would behave as you are behaving under such circumstances. the thing doesn't seem to make the least impression upon you. there you sit, doing your confounded sewing, just as if nothing had happened, you do. you won't sit there doing your sewing long. the bailiffs will turn you out. they'll be here in a day or two." "you are becoming very coarse, sir; your language is not fit for a woman to hear." "it's the plain truth, it is. but women won't hear the plain truth. they don't like it--they never do. but your ladyship must be made to understand that this cannot go on. we cannot stop here, at wenderholme. the place will be sold, and every thing in it. now, i should just like to know what your ladyship proposes to do. if my way of asking your ladyship this question isn't polite enough, please do me the favor to instruct me in the necessary forms." "if you could speak without oaths, that would be something gained." "answer me my question, can't you? where do you mean to go--what do you mean to do?" "i intend to go to my father's." "well, that's plain. why couldn't you tell me that sooner? you mean to go to old adisham's. but i'll be hanged if i'll go there, to be patronized as a beggarly relation." "very well." "very well, is it? it's very well that you are to live in one place, and i in another." "a distance sufficient to protect me from your rudeness would certainly be an advantage." "would it, indeed? you really think so, do you? well, if you think so, it shall be so." "very well." she spoke with a calmness that was perfectly exasperating, and john stanburne's brain was too much overwrought by the terrible trial of that day for him to bear things with any patience. he was half insane temporarily; he could not bear to see that calm little woman sitting there, with her jarring self-control. "i say, lady helena, if you mean to go to old adisham's, the sooner you go the better. all this house is crumbling over our heads as if it were rotten." lady helena rose quietly from her seat, took up her work, and walked towards the door. just as she was opening it, she turned towards the colonel, and pronounced with the clearest possible articulation the following sentences:-"you will please remember, colonel stanburne, that it was you who turned me out of your house, and the sort of language you used in doing so. _i_ shall always remember it." then the door closed quietly upon her--the great heavy door, slowly moving on its smooth hinges. chapter iv. alone. it happened that the hall-door was open, as it usually was in the fine weather, and john stanburne, without knowing it, went out upon the lawn. the balmy evening air, fragrant from the sweet breath of innumerable flowers, caressed his hot flushed face. he became gradually calmer as he walked in a purposeless way about the garden, and, looking at his mansion from many a different point of view, began to feel a strange, dreamy, independent enjoyment of its beauty, as if he had been some tourist or visitor for whom the name of wenderholme had no painful associations. then he passed out into the park, down the rich dark avenues whose massive foliage made a premature night, and wandered farther and farther, till, by pure accident, he came upon the carriage-drive. a man whose mind is quite absent, and who is wandering without purpose, will, when he comes upon a road, infallibly follow it in one direction or another, not merely because it is plain before the feet, but from a deep instinct in our being which impels us to prefer some human guidance to the wilderness of nature. it happened that the colonel went in the direction which led him away from the house, perhaps because the road sloped invitingly that way. suddenly he heard a noise behind him, and had barely time to get out of the way when a carriage dashed passed him at full speed, with two great glittering lamps. he caught no glimpse of its occupant, but he knew the carriage--lady helena's. for a few seconds he stood immovable. then, bounding forward, he cried aloud, "helena! helena!" and again and again, "helena!" too late! the swift high-spirited horses were already on the public road, hurrying to catch the last train at the little station ten miles off. the sudden impulse of tenderness which drew john stanburne's heart after her, as she passed, had no magnetism to arrest her fatal course. they had parted now, and for ever. he would have passed that night more easily if he could have gone at once to the cottage, and unburdened his wretchedness to his mother, and become, for his hour of weakness, a little child again in her dear presence. but he dreaded to inflict upon her the blow which in any event would only come too soon, and he resolved to leave her whatever hours might yet remain to her of peace. somehow he went back to the hall, and got to his own den. the place was more supportable to him than any other in the house, being absolutely devoid of splendor. a poor man might feel himself at home _there_. he rang the bell. "fyser, her ladyship has been obliged to go away this evening for an absence of some days, and i mean to live here. make up my camp-bed, will you, in that corner?" it was not the first time that the colonel had retreated in this manner to his den; for when there were no guests in the house, and her ladyship was away, he found himself happier there than in the great reception-rooms. i think, perhaps, in his place i should have preferred something between the two, and would have allowed myself a couple of tolerably large rooms in a pleasant part of the house; but his mind seems to have needed the reaction from the extreme splendor of new wenderholme to a simplicity equally extreme. here, in his den, it must be admitted that he had passed many of his happiest hours, either in making artificial flies, or in reading the sort of literature that suited him; and though the place was so crammed with things that the occupant could hardly stir, and in such a state of apparent disorder that no woman would have stayed in it ten minutes, he here found all he wanted, ready to his hand. this night, however, not even the little camp-bed that he loved could give him refreshing sleep; and the leathern cylindrical pillow, on which his careless head had passed so many hours of perfect oblivion, became as hard to him morally as it certainly was materially. he found it utterly impossible to get rest; and after rolling and tossing an hour or two, and vainly trying to read, finished by getting up and dressing himself. it was only one o'clock in the morning, but the colonel determined to go out. unfastening a side door, he was soon in the fresh cool air. he followed the path behind the house that led to the spot where he had made his confession to lady helena. a strange attraction drew him to it, and once there, he could not get away. there was no moon, and the details of the scene before him were not visible in the clear starlight, but dark mysterious shades indicated the situation of the hall and its shrubberies, and the long avenues that led away from it. and here, in the solitude of the hill, under the silent stars, came upon john stanburne the hour and crisis of his agony. until now he had not realized the full extent of his misery, and of the desolation that lay before him. he had _known_ it since five o'clock in the afternoon, but he felt it now for the first time. as some terrible bodily disease lays hold of us at first with gentle hands, and causes us little suffering, but afterwards rages in us, and tears us with intolerable anguish, so it had been with this man's affliction. his brain was in a state of unnatural lucidity, casting an electric light upon every idea that suggested itself. in ordinary life a man of common powers, he possessed for this hour the insight and the intensity of genius. he reviewed his life with lady helena,--the twenty years--for it was twenty years!--that they had eaten at the same table, and lived under the same roof. and in all that long space of a thousand weeks of marriage, he could not remember a single instance in which she had been clearly in the wrong. on her side, it now seemed to him, there had always been intelligence and justice; on his side, a want of capacity to understand her, and of justice to recognize her merits. having now, as i have said, for one hour of excitement, the clear perceptions of genius, it was plain to him where he had erred; and this perception so humbled him that he no longer dared to admit the faults which lady helena really had, her constant severity and her lasting _rancune_. then came the bitterest hour of all, that of remorse for his own folly, for his want of conjugal trust in lady helena, for his fatal ambition and pride. how different their life might have been if he had understood her better from the first! how different if he had lived within his means! had he lived within his means, that great foolish _fãªte_ would never have been given at wenderholme, the house would not have been burned down, the money lavished on its restoration would still have been in the funds, and john stanburne would have kept out of that fatal sootythorn bank. all his ruin was clearly traceable to that fatal entertainment, and to his expensive ways as a colonel of militia. he saw now quite clearly that there had never been any real necessity for the profuse manner in which he had thought it obligatory to do the honor of his rank. there were rich colonels and there were colonels not so rich--he might have done things well enough without going beyond his means. "if i alone suffered from it!" he cried aloud; "but helena, and edith, and my mother!" chapter v. the two jacobs. the twelve years that have passed since we had the pleasure of seeing mrs. ogden have not deducted from her charms. the reader has doubtless observed that, notwithstanding the law of change which governs all sublunary persons and things, there are certain persons, as there are certain things, which, relatively at least to the rest of their species, have the enviable privilege of permanence. mrs. ogden was like those precious gems that are found in the sarcophagi of ancient kings, and which astonish us by their freshness and brilliance, when all around them bears the impress of death and of decay. one would be tempted to exclaim, "may my old age be like hers!" were it not that advancing years, whilst deducting so little from her physical or mental vigor, have not enriched her mind with a single new idea, or corrected one of her ancient prejudices. however, though intellectual people may think there is little use in living unless life is an intellectual advance, such people as mrs. ogden are not at all of that way of thinking, but seem to enjoy life very well in their own stationary way. there are intellectual policemen who are always telling us to "keep moving;" but what if i find a serener satisfaction in standing still? then, if we stand still, we are to be insulted, and told that we are rusty, or that we are getting the "blue-mould." _et aprã¨s?_ suppose we _are_ getting the blue-mould, what then? so far as may be ascertained by the study of such instances as mrs. ogden, the blue-mould is a great comfort and a great safeguard to the system--it is moral flannel. would she have lasted as she has done without it? i say, it is a solace, amidst the rapid changes of the body politic, and the new-fangled ideas which take possession of the heads of ministers, to feel that there is one personage in these realms who will live on in vigor undiminished, yet never advance one inch. and when the british constitution shall be finally swept away, and the throne itself no more, it will be something amidst the giddiness of universal experiment to know that in mrs. ogden this country will still possess an example that all is not given over to mutability. "now, young un," said uncle jacob, one day at dinner at milend, "i reckon you've been writing no letters to that lass at wendrum; and if you've written nout, there's no 'arm done. it isn't a match for such a young felly as you, as 'll have more brass nor stanburne iver had in his best days. we 'st 'ave no weddin' wi' bankrupts' dorthers." "bankrupts, indeed!" said mrs. ogden. "i reckon nout o' bankrupts! besides, stanburne had no need to be a bankrupt if he hadn't been such a fool. and foolishness runs i' th' blood. like father, like dorther. th' father's been a wastril with his money, and it 's easy to see 'at the dorther 'ud be none so kerfle." "who shalln't have th' chance o' spendin' none o' my brass," said uncle jacob. "do you yer that, young un? stanburne dorther shall spend none o' _my_ brass. if you wed her, yer father 'll 'ave to keep both on ye, an' all yer chilther beside. he's worth about five hundred a-year, is your father; and i'm worth--nobody knows what i 'm worth." young jacob knew both his uncle and his grandmother far too intimately to attempt discussion with either of them; but the news of colonel stanburne's bankruptcy, which in their view had put an end to the dream of a possible alliance with his daughter, wore a very different aspect to the young lover. an attachment existed between himself and edith stanburne, of which both were perfectly conscious, and yet nothing had been said about it openly on either side. young jacob ogden had felt every year more and more keenly the width of the social gulf which separated them, though his education at eton and oxford and his constantly increasing prospects of future riches had already begun to build a bridge across the gulf. even in his best days colonel stanburne had not been what in lancashire is considered a rich man; in his best days, he had been poorer than the leading manufacturers of sootythorn; and jacob ogden's mill had of itself cost more money than any squire of wenderholme had ever possessed, whilst jacob ogden had property of many kinds besides his mill, and a huge lump of money lying by ready for immediate investment. the superiority in money had therefore for some years been entirely on the side of the ogdens; but, although aristocracy in england is in reality based on wealth, it has a certain poetic sense which delights also in antiquity and honors. jacob ogden and his money might have been agreeable to the matter-of-fact side of english aristocratic feeling, but they were unsatisfying to its poetic sense. young jacob was clearly aware of this, and so indeed, in a cruder form, was his uncle. so long therefore as the colonel was prosperous, or apparently prosperous, the ogdens knew that the obstacles in the way of a marriage were all but insurmountable, and no proposal had ever been made. the colonel's ruin changed the relative situation very considerably; and, if young jacob ogden could have permitted himself to rejoice in an event so painful to one who had always been kind to him, he would have rejoiced now. he did, indeed, feel a degree of hope about edith stanburne to which he had been a stranger for some years. as young jacob had said nothing in answer to his uncle and his grandmother, they both gave him credit for a prudent abandonment of his early dream. there existed, however, between him and his father a much closer confidence and friendship; and isaac ogden (who, notwithstanding the errors of his earlier life, had the views and feelings of a gentleman, as well as an especial loyalty and attachment to his unfortunate friend, the colonel) encouraged his son in his fidelity. the materials were thus accumulating for a war in the ogden family; and whenever that war shall be declared, we may rely upon it that it will be prosecuted with great vigor on both sides, for the ogdens are wilful people, all of them. mr. isaac has been enjoying excellent health for these last twelve years, thanks to his vow of total abstinence, to which he still courageously adheres. a paternal interest in the education of his son has gradually filled many of the voids in his own education, so that, without being aware of it himself, he has become really a well-informed man. his solitary existence at twistle farm has been favorable to the habit of study, and, like all men who have acquired the love of knowledge, he sees that life may have other aims and other satisfactions than the interminable accumulation of wealth. small as may have been his apparent worldly success, isaac ogden has raised himself to a higher standpoint than his brother jacob is likely ever to attain. amongst the many expressions of sympathy which reached colonel stanburne after his disaster, few pleased him more than the following letter from twistle farm:- "my dear colonel stanburne,--i am truly grieved to hear that the failure of the sootythorn bank has involved you in misfortune. i would have come to wenderholme to say this personally, but it seemed that, under present circumstances, you might wish to be alone with your family. i hardly know how to say what i wish to say in addition to this. for some years i have spent very little, and, although my income is small, i find there is a considerable balance in my favor with messrs. ----. if this could be of any use to you, pray do not scruple to draw upon my bankers, who will be forewarned that you may possibly do so. up to â£1,000 you will occasion me no inconvenience, and, though this is not much, it might be of temporary service. "yours most faithfully, i. ogden." to this letter the colonel returned the following reply:- "my dear ogden,--your kind letter gave me great pleasure. i am greatly obliged by your friendly offer of help, which i accept as one brother officer may from another. if, as is probable, i find myself in urgent need of a little ready money, i will draw upon your bankers, but, of course, not to such an extent as would go beyond a reasonable probability of repayment. "at the last meeting of creditors and shareholders, it appeared that, although we are likely to save nothing from the wreck, the bank will probably pay nineteen shillings in the pound. this is a great satisfaction. "yours most truly, j. stanburne." chapter vi. the sale. the colonel would not expose himself even to the appearance of flight, but remained in the neighborhood manfully, and went personally to manchester, before the court of bankruptcy, through which he passed very easily. his name then appeared in the manchester papers, and in the "sootythorn gazette," in the list of bankrupts. bailiffs were in possession of the house and estate of wenderholme, and mr. jacob ogden foreclosed his mortgages, by which he became owner of a fair portion of the land. finally, wenderholme hall and the remainder of the estate, including the cottage, in which mrs. stanburne still resided, were sold by auction in the large room at the thorn inn at sootythorn--the very place which the colonel's regiment of militia was accustomed to use as a mess-room. little had john stanburne or his officers foreseen, whilst there consuming mr. garley's substantial dinners, that the hammer of the auctioneer would one day there transfer wenderholme from the name of stanburne to another name--to what name? the room was crowded. the sale was known all over lancashire and yorkshire. competitors had come even from distant counties. wenderholme had been a famous place since the fire, and the magnificent restoration which had succeeded to the fire. drawings of it had appeared in the "illustrated london news," and, since the failure of the sootythorn bank, the creditors had cunningly caused a volume to be made in which the whole place was fully illustrated and described. this volume they had widely circulated. the sale had been announced for eight o'clock in the evening, and at ten minutes after eight precisely the auctioneer mounted his rostrum. he made a most elaborate speech, in which (with the help of the volume above mentioned) he went over every room in the house, describing, with vulgar magniloquence, all those glories which had cost john stanburne so dear. there was one person present to whom the description can hardly have been very agreeable. john stanburne himself, from anxiety to know the future possessor, and the amount realized, had quietly entered the room unperceived, for every one was looking at the auctioneer. he had stationed himself near the wall, and there bore the infliction of this torture, his hat over his eyes. at length all this eloquence had run dry, and the business of the evening began. the place was put up at â£30,000, and no bid was to be made of less than â£1,000 over its predecessor. the first two or three bids were made by persons with whom this history has no concern, but that for â£35,000 was made by our friend mr. john stedman. some one present called out "thirty-six," on which mr. stedman replied "thirty-seven," and there he ceased to bid. he knew that this was the value of the remaining estate;[20] he did not want the house. philip stanburne whispered something in his ear, after which he cried "forty-two," the last bid having been forty-one. after that he made no further offer, and philip stanburne's countenance fell. the bidding hitherto had been strictly of the nature of investment, but now the seekers after an eligible investment retired from the field, except one or two dealers in estates who intended to sell the place again, at a profit, by private contract, and who looked upon its architectural and other beauties as marketable qualities. these men went on to â£47,000. the place had now reached what was called a "fancy price." there was a man of rather short stature, with fair hair, a closely shaven face, a greasy cap on his head, a velveteen jacket on his back, and the rest of his person clothed in old corduroy. fluffs of cotton were sticking about him, and he presented the general appearance of a rather respectable operative. he stood immediately before philip stanburne, who did not see his face, and was rather surprised to hear him call out, "forty-eight." "forty-eight, gentlemen!" cried the auctioneer; "going at forty-eight thousand--forty-nine? forty-nine--going at forty-nine! come, who says fifty?--we must round the number, you know, gentlemen--who says fifty? going, going--forty-nine--only forty-nine, going--going"-the man in the greasy cap said, "fifty," and the auctioneer, after the usual delays, hearing no other voice amidst the breathless silence of the room, struck the decisive blow with his little hammer, and wenderholme was sold. then the auctioneer beckoned to him the man in the greasy cap, and said in broad lancashire, and in a tone of somewhat contemptuous familiarity, "you mun go and tell them as sent you here as they'll have to pay hup one-third as deposit-money. one-third o' fifty thousand pound is sixteen thousand six hundred and sixty-six pound, thirteen and four-pence, and that's what them as sent you here has got to pay hup. you can recklect that. it's all sixes, nobbut the one to start wi' and th' odd shillings." the man in the greasy cap smiled quietly, and took out an old pocket-book. "you've got a pen and ink?" "i'll write it down for ye, if ye like. and stop--tell me th' name o' them as sent ye." "there's no need; you'll know it soon enough." and the man in the greasy cap took out a cheque-book, wrote a cheque, filled it, signed it, crossed it, and handed it to the auctioneer. the name signed was "jacob ogden," now owner of wenderholme. when the auctioneer perceived his error (for the name of ogden was now mighty in the land), he was covered with confusion, and profuse in perspiration and apology. jacob affected to forgive him, but in truth he had little to forgive, for no incident could have been more exquisitely agreeable to his feelings. to stand there in public, and in the dress he usually wore at the mill, to sign a heavy cheque, to buy a fine estate, to feel himself the most important man in the room, to be, in his greasy cap and velveteen jacket, the envied man, the observed of all observers, was for him a triumph sweeter than is the triumph of some fair lady, who, in her diamonds and her lace, and her exquisite cleanliness, shines in some great assembly with the purity of a lily and the splendor of a star. chapter vii. a frugal supper. mrs. ogden was sitting up for her son jacob that night, and she had prepared him a little supper of toasted cheese. she had no positive knowledge of the object of his journey to sootythorn. she was aware that wenderholme would be sold by auction one of these days, but she did not know exactly whether her son intended to bid for it. there was not much talk generally between the two about the great financial matters--their money-talk ran chiefly upon minutiã¦, such as the wages of a servant or the purchase of a cow. notwithstanding the great increase of their riches, the mother and son still lived at milend in their old simple manner. mrs. ogden still made all jacob's shirts and stockings, and still did a great deal of the cooking. the habits of her life had been formed many years before, and she could not endure to depart from them, even when the departure would have been an increase to her comfort. thus she continued to keep only one girl as a servant, and did most of the work of the house with her own hands. her happiness depended upon abundance and regularity of occupation; and she acted much more wisely in keeping up the activity of her habits, even though these habits may have been in themselves somewhat inconsistent with her pecuniary position, than she would have done if she had exposed herself to the certain _ennui_ of attempting to play the fine lady. the girl was gone to bed when jacob ogden came back from sootythorn, and his mother was seated by the kitchen-fire, darning one of his stockings and superintending the toasted cheese. the kitchen at milend was a clean and spacious room, with stone floor nicely sanded, and plenty of hams and oat-cakes hanging from the ceiling. there was a great clock too in one corner, with shining case, and a rubicund figure above the dial, by which were represented the phases of the moon. the old lady had laid out a small supper-table in the kitchen, and when jacob came back she told him he was to have his supper there, "for th' fire 'ad gone out i' th' parlor." so he sat down to eat his toasted cheese, which was a favorite supper of his, and whilst he was eating, his mother took a little oatmeal-porridge with treacle. she rather feared the effects of toasted cheese, believing porridge to be more easily digested. neither one nor the other said any thing about the object of the journey to sootythorn during supper, and there was nothing in jacob's face to indicate either extraordinary news or unusual elation. in fact, so accustomed was jacob ogden to purchasing estates, that he had little of the feeling of elation which attends the young beginner; and after that momentary triumph at garley's hotel, any excitement which he may have felt had subsided, and left in his mind no other feeling than the old spirit of calculation. it was the very first time in his life that he had gone beyond the principle of investment, and paid something over and above for the mere gratification of his fancy or his pride, and his reflections were not of unmixed self-congratulation. "anyhow," he said to himself, "it'll be ogden of wendrum, j.p." however late jacob ogden took his supper, he must necessarily smoke his pipe after it (one pipe), and drink his glass of grog. his mother usually went to bed as soon as the water boiled, but this evening she kept moving about in the kitchen, first finding one little thing to set to rights, and then another. at last she stood still in the middle of the floor, and said,-"our jacob!" "what, mother?" "wherestabeen?"[21] "why, you knoan that weel enough, i reckon. i'n been sootythorn road." "and what 'as ta been doin'?" "nowt nobbut what's reet."[22] "what 'as there been at sootythorn?" "there's been a sale." "'an[23] they been sellin' a mill?" "noah." "and what _'an_ they been sellin'?" "wendrum 'all." "and who's bout it?" "i have." "and what 'an ye gin for't?" "fifty thousand." "why, it's ta mich by th' 'auve!" "'appen." notwithstanding the laconic form of the conversation, mrs. ogden felt a strong desire to talk over the matter rather more fully, and to that end seated herself on the other side the kitchen-fire. "jacob," she said, as she looked him steadily in the face, "i never knew thee part wi' thy brass b'out five pussent. how will ta get five pussent out o' wendrum 'all for the fifty thousand?" "why, mother, there's investments for brass, and there's investments for pasition. i dunnot reckon to get so much interest out o' wendrum, but it'll be ogden o' wendrum, j.p." "well, now, jacob, that's what i call spendin' your money for pride!" mrs. ogden said this solemnly, and in as pure english as she could command. "why, and what if it is? there's plenty more where that coom from. what signifies?" "and shall you be going to live at wendrum 'all, jacob? _i_ willn't go there--indeed i willn't; i'll stop at milend. why, you'll require ever so many servants. they tell me there's twenty fires to light! and what will become o' the mill when you're over at wendrum?" mrs. ogden's face wore an expression of trouble and dissatisfaction. her eyebrows rose higher than usual, and her forehead displayed more wrinkles. but jacob knew that this was her way, and that in her inmost soul she was not a little gratified at the idea of being the lady of wenderholme. for as an ambitious ecclesiastic, promoted to the episcopal throne, rejoices not openly, but affects a decent unwillingness and an overwhelming sense of the responsibilities of his office, so mrs. ogden, at every advance in her fortunes, sang her own little _nolumus episcopari_. "why, it's thirty miles off, is wendrum," she went on, complainingly; "and there's no railway; and you'll never get there and back in a day. one thing's plain, you'll never manage the mill and the estate too." "all the land between this 'ere mill and wendrum 'all is mine," said jacob, with conscious dignity; "and i mean to make a road, mother, across the hill from the mill to wendrum 'all. it'll be nine mile exactly. and i'll have a telegraph from th' countin'-house to my sittin'-room at wendrum. and i shall take little jacob into partnership, and when one jacob's i' one spot t'other jacob 'll be i' t'other spot. recklect there's two jacobs, mother." "well, i reckon you'll do as you like, whatever _i_ say. but _i_'ll go non to wendrum. i'll stop 'ere at shayton while i live (it 'appen willn't be for long)--i'm a shayton woman bred and born." "nonsense, mother. you'll go to wendrum, and ride over to milend in your carriage!" mrs. ogden's face assumed an expression of unfeigned amazement. "a cayridge! a cayridge! why, what is th' lad thinkin' about now! i think we shall soon be ridin' into prison. did ever anybody hear the like?" there is a curious superstition about carriage-keeping which mrs. ogden fully shared. it is thought to be the most extravagant, though the most respectable, way of spending money; and an annual outlay which, if dissipated in eating and drinking, or continental tours, would excite no remark, is considered extravagance if spent on a comfortable vehicle to drive about in one's own neighborhood. thus mrs. ogden considered her son's proposition as revolutionary--as an act of secession from the simplicity of faith and practice which had been their rule of life and the tradition of their family. in short, it produced much the same effect upon her mind as if the shayton parson had proposed to buy a gilded dalmatic and chasuble. "there's folk," said mrs. ogden, with the air of an oracle--"there's folk as are foolish when they are young, and grow wiser as they advance in years. but there's other folk that is wise in their youth, to be foolish and extravagant at an age when they ought to know better." she evidently was losing her faith in the prudence of her son jacob. when they had parted for the night, and mrs. ogden got into her bed, the last thing she uttered as she stood with her night-cap on, in her long white night-gown, was the following brief ejaculation:-"a cayridge! a cayridge! what are we comin' to now!" but the last thing uncle jacob thought, as he settled his head on his lonely pillow, was, "it'll be ogden of wendrum, j.p." chapter viii. at chesnut hill. we return to garley's hotel at the conclusion of the sale. philip stanburne had recognized the colonel, and gone up to him to shake hands. he had not seen him before since the downfall of the sootythorn bank, though he had written a very feeling letter, in which he had begged his friend to make use of stanithburn peel so long as he might care to remain in yorkshire. indeed the colonel had received many such letters. mr. stedman, on looking about for philip, saw him with the colonel, and joined them. "where are you staying, colonel stanburne?" asked mr. stedman. "i have been staying with my mother lately at wenderholme cottage. i have persuaded her to remain there. it is better, i think, that an old lady should not be obliged to change all her habits. i hope the new owner will allow her to remain. she will have very good neighbors in the prigleys. i gave the living of wenderholme to mr. prigley when the old vicar died, about three months since. he used to be the incumbent of shayton." "it will be a great advance for mr. prigley. shayton was a poor living, but i have heard that wenderholme is much better." "wenderholme is worth seven hundred a-year. the prigleys have been very poor for many years, with their numerous family and the small income they had at shayton. i am very glad," the colonel added, with rather a melancholy smile, "that i was able to do this for them before my own ill-luck overtook me. a few months later i should have missed the chance." "do you return to wenderholme to-night? it is late, is it not?" "no; i mean to sleep here in the hotel." "would you accept a bed at chesnut hill, colonel stanburne? philip is staying with me." the colonel was only too glad to spend the rest of his evening with two real friends, and they were soon in the comfortable dining-room at chesnut hill. the colonel had often met mr. stedman, who had stayed once or twice for a night or two at wenderholme; and he had dined a few times at chesnut hill, and had stayed all night, so that the house was not altogether strange to him; though, since he had repeatedly met with mr. stedman at sootythorn and at stanithburn peel (where during the last twelve years he had been a frequent visitor), he knew the owner of the mansion much more intimately than the mansion itself. ever since the death of poor alice, a warm friendship had united her father and philip stanburne--a friendship which had been beneficial to them both. each was still sincerely attached to his own convictions, but the great sorrow which they had suffered in common had drawn them together, and mr. stedman considered the younger man as nearly related to him as if the intended marriage had actually taken place. their loss had been of that kind which time may enable us to accept as an inevitable void in our existence, but which no amount of habit can ever obliterate from the memory. philip still remembered that conversation with alice in which she had begged him not to desert her father in his old age; and mr. stedman, on his part, felt that every kindness which he could show to the man whom his daughter had loved was a kindness to alice herself. so there was a paternal and filial tie between these two; and though, after alice's death, philip had resumed his solitary existence at stanithburn, and mr. stedman continued his business as a cotton manufacturer (for he felt the need of some binding occupation), they made use of each other's houses, as is done by the nearest relatives; and mr. stedman spent many a summer day in botanizing about stanithburn, whilst his friend, when on duty in the militia, always billeted himself at chesnut hill. "what is the last news about our poor friend anison?" the colonel asked, when the three were comfortably seated in mr. stedman's easy-chairs. "it cannot be very good news, but it is as good as can be expected. his works and arkwright lodge were sold by auction three days since, at whittlecup." "and who bought them?" "the same man, colonel stanburne, who purchased wenderholme this evening--jacob ogden of shayton." "they must be rich, those ogdens. i know his brother isaac very well, and his nephew is a great friend of mine, but i really know nothing of this jacob." "he is the only rich one in the family, but he _is_ a rich one. he made a great bargain at whittlecup. he gave twenty thousand for anison's works, with every thing in them in working order; and to my certain knowledge, joseph anison had a capital of thirteen thousand sunk in copper rollers alone.[24] he paid four thousand for arkwright lodge. it's dirt cheap. the house alone cost more than that, and there's thirty acres of excellent land. i wish i'd bought it myself. i missed it by not going to that sale; but philip and i wanted to bid for wenderholme, and we stayed away from whittlecup so as to keep out of temptation." "and what do you think mr. anison will do?" "he asked jacob ogden to let him remain at whittlecup and manage the works for a very moderate salary, but jacob declined; and in doing so he did what i never heard of him doing before--he acted directly against his own interest. he'll never get such a manager as anison would have been, but he refused him out of spite. twelve years ago madge anison jilted jacob ogden, just when my daughter died. he made her pay up a thousand for breach of promise. she's an old maid now, or something very like one, for she's over thirty-three; but jacob ogden hasn't forgiven her for jiltin' him, and never will. last news i had of joseph anison, he was seeking a situation in manchester, and his three girls 'll have to seek situations too. it 's a bad job there isn't one of 'em married--they were as fine lasses as a man need set his eyes on, and in their father's good time they'd scores of offers, but either they looked too high or else they were very difficult to suit, for they never hooked on, somehow." philip stanburne knew rather more about madge anison by this time than mr. stedman did, and could have enlightened his friends concerning her had he been so minded. the young lady had thrown jacob ogden over, as the reader is already aware, for no other purpose than to leave herself free for philip stanburne on his return from the continent after the death of alice. when he visited his friends at arkwright lodge, miss anison had not had the degree of prudence necessary to conceal her designs, and philip (to his intense disgust, for all his thoughts were with the gentle creature he had so recently lost) perceived that he was the object which margaret had in view. a young lady can scarcely commit a greater mistake than to make advances to a man so saddened as philip was then; for in such a condition of mind he has not the buoyancy of spirit necessary for a flirtation, and it is only through a flirtation that he can be led to pay his addresses in earnest. poor margaret had fatally under-estimated the duration of philip stanburne's sorrow, and also the keenness of his perceptions. for instead of his being less observant and easier to manage than he had been before that episode in his life, it had so wrought upon his intellect and his feelings as to be equivalent to the experience of years. in a word, her project had ended in total failure, and the sense of this failure gave a certain petulance and irritability to her manner, and lent a sharpness of sarcasm to her tongue, which did not induce other gentlemen to aspire to that happiness which philip had refused. so she was margaret anison still, and at the present period of our story was trying, not very successfully, to obtain a situation in manchester. it was mr. stedman's custom, as in lancashire it is the custom of his class, to have a little supper about nine or ten o'clock--a pleasant and sociable meal, though not always quite suitable to persons of feeble digestion. colonel stanburne, on the other hand, according to the custom of _his_ class, dined substantially at seven, and took nothing later except tobacco-smoke. this evening, however, he was in a position to conform to the custom of chesnut hill; for though he had dined at mr. garley's an hour before the time fixed for the sale, he had felt so melancholy about it, and so anxious to know who would be the future possessor of his home, that he had eaten a very poor dinner indeed. but now that the thing was decided, and that he found himself with two such kind and faithful friends (whose manner to him was exactly the same as it had been in the days of his prosperity), john stanburne's naturally powerful appetite reasserted itself at the expense of mr. stedman's cold roast-beef, which, with plenty of pickles and mashed potatoes, formed the staple of the repast. the colonel was already beginning to learn the great art of miserable men--the art which enables them to gain in hours of comparative happiness the energy and elasticity necessary for future times of trial--the art of laying unhappiness aside like a pinching boot, and of putting their weary feet into the soft slippers of a momentary contentment. wenderholme was sold--it belonged to mr. jacob ogden; why think of wenderholme any more? the colonel actually succeeded in dismissing the matter from his thoughts for at least five minutes at a time, till a sort of pang would come upon his heart, and he rapidly asked himself what the pang meant, and then he knew that it meant wenderholme. one very curious consequence of the great event of that day was this, that whereas the last time he had been to chesnut hill (in the days of his prosperity) the place had seemed to him both vulgar and unenviable, he now appreciated certain qualities about the place which before had been by him altogether imperceptible. for example, when he was rich, mere comfort had never been one of his objects. having the power to create it wherever he might happen to be, he had often done very well without it, and his rooms in barracks, or his den in his own mansion, had been often very destitute thereof. but now that it had become highly probable that comfort would soon be beyond his reach, he began to awaken to a perception of it. the warm red flock-paper on mr. stedman's dining-room wall, the good carpet on the floor, the clean white table-cloth, the comfortable morocco-covered chairs--all these things began to attract his attention in quite a novel and remarkable manner. and yet hitherto he had continued to live like a gentleman, therefore, what will it be, i wonder, when he is reduced a good deal lower in the world? when they had done supper, and were drinking the inevitable grog, mr. stedman said to the colonel,-"i hope you will forgive me if i am guilty of any indiscretion, colonel stanburne, but you know you are with sincere friends. may i ask what your own plans are?" mr. stedman's age, and his evident good-will, made the question less an indiscretion than an acceptable proof of kindness, and the colonel took it in that way. "my dear mr. stedman," he said in answer, "you know a position like mine is very embarrassing. i am getting on in life--i mean i am getting oldish; i never had a profession by which money could be earned, you know, though i have been in the army, but that 's not a trade to live by. as to the colonelcy of the militia, the lord-lieutenant has my resignation. no, i can't see any thing very clearly just now. the only thing i'm fit for is driving a public coach." philip stanburne said, "why did you refuse to come and live at the peel? you would have been very welcome--you would be welcome still." it was already publicly understood that the colonel and lady helena were separated, and that miss stanburne would either follow her ladyship to lord adisham's, or remain with her old grandmother. "my dear philip," the colonel said, very sadly and affectionately, laying his hand on philip's hand--"my dear philip, if i were quite old and done for, i would have no false pride. i would come to the peel and live with you, and you should buy me a suit of clothes once every two years, and give me a little tobacco, and a sovereign or two for pocket-money. i would take all this from you. but you see, philip, though i'm not a clever man, and though i really have no profession, still my bodily health and strength are left to me, thank god; and so long as i have these, i think it is my duty to try in some way to earn my living for myself. you know that helena and i are separated--everybody seems to know it now. well, i got a letter from her father this morning, in which--but stop, i'll show you the letter itself. will you read it, mr. stedman?" "dear sir,--my daughter helena desires me to say to you, that as you shared your means with her in the time of your prosperity, so it is her desire that you should share her income now in your adversity. a sum of three hundred a-year will therefore be paid to your credit at any banker's you may be pleased to name. "your obedient servant, adisham." "well," said mr. stedman, "you may still live very comfortably as a single man on such an income as three hundred a-year. it is a great deal of money." "i have accepted lady helena's offer, but not for myself. i will not touch one penny of lord adisham's allowance. i have told the banker to pay it over to my mother, whom i have ruined. she has not a penny in the world. however, you see helena is provided for, since she is living at lord adisham's (a very good house to live in), and my mother is provided for, and between them they will keep edith till i can do something for her; so my mind is easy about these three ladies, and i 've nobody to provide for but myself. any man with a sound constitution ought to be able to earn his bread. you see, philip, my mind is made up. there is still, notwithstanding my misfortune, a spirit of independence in me which will not permit me to live upon the kindness of my friends. but i am very greatly obliged both to you and others--to you more especially." "well, colonel, haven't i a right to offer you some assistance? are we not relations?" the colonel looked at philip with tender affection, and gently pressed his hand. then he said to mr. stedman: "this young friend of yours never called me a relation of his when i was prosperous, but now when i am a poor man he claims me. isn't he an eccentric fellow, to lay claim to a poor relation?" the next morning at breakfast-time the colonel did not appear. the servant said he had risen very early, and left a note. "my dear and kind friends,--i came to a decision in the middle of the night, but will not just now tell you what it is. the decision having been come to, i am determined to act upon it at once, and leave chesnut hill to catch the early train. pray excuse this, and believe me, with much gratitude for all your kindness, "yours most truly, john stanburne." chapter ix. ogden of wenderholme. the ogdens did not go to live at wenderholme for a long time, indeed mrs. ogden did not even go to see the place; but her son jacob went over one day in a gig, and, in the course of his stay of a few hours, settled more points of detail than a country gentleman would have settled in a month. he planted an agent there, and took on several of colonel stanburne's outdoor servants, including all his gamekeepers, but for the present did not seem inclined to make any use of wenderholme as a residence. he had been present at the sale of the furniture, where he had bought every thing belonging to the principal rooms, except a few old cabinets and chairs, and other odd matters, of which the reader may hear more in a future chapter. it had always been a characteristic of the ogdens not to be in a hurry to enjoy. they would wait, and wait, for any of the good things of this world--perhaps to prolong the sweet time of anticipation, perhaps simply because the habit of saving, so firmly ingrained in their natures, is itself a habit of waiting and postponing enjoyment in favor of ulterior aims. but in the case of wenderholme, the habit of postponing a pleasure was greatly helped by an especial kind of pride. both jacob ogden and his mother were proud to a degree which may sometimes have been equalled, but can never have been surpassed, by the proudest chiefs of the aristocracy. their pride, as i have said, was of a peculiar kind, and consisted far more in an intense satisfaction with themselves and their own ways, than in any ambition to be thought, or to become, different from what they were. now, it would not have been possible to imagine any thing more exquisitely agreeable to this pride of theirs than that wenderholme hall should be _treated as an appendage to milend_, that the great kitchen-gardens at wenderholme should supply vegetables, and the hothouse grapes, to the simple table in the little plain house at shayton. it was delightful to mrs. ogden to be able to say, in a tone of assumed indifference or semi-disapproval, "since our jacob bought wenderholme, he's always been wishin' me to go to see it--and they say it's a very fine place--but i don't want to go to see it; milend is good enough for me." if the hearer expressed a natural degree of astonishment, mrs. ogden was inwardly delighted, but showed no sign of it on her countenance. on the contrary, her eyebrows would go up, and the wrinkles upon her forehead would assume quite a melancholy appearance, and her stony gray eyes would look out drearily into vacancy. in short, the impression which both jacob ogden and his mother wished to produce upon all their friends and acquaintances after the purchase of wenderholme was, that the mansion and estate of the stanburnes could add nothing to the importance of the family at milend. so pleasant was it to mrs. ogden to be able to say that she had never been to wenderholme that, although she burned with curiosity to behold its magnificence, she restrained herself month after month. meanwhile her son jacob was getting forward very rapidly with a project he had entertained for twelve years--that is, ever since the idea of purchasing wenderholme had first shaped itself in his mind--the road from his mills in shayton to the house at wenderholme, direct across the moors. he set about this with the energy of a little napoleon (emerson tells us that the natural chiefs of our industrial classes are all little napoleons), and in a few weeks the road existed. posts were set up on the side of it, and a telegraphic wire connected the counting-house at ogden's mill with a certain little room in wenderholme hall, which he destined for his private use. even already, though jacob ogden is still quietly living at milend, he knows incomparably more about the wenderholme property than john stanburne ever knew, or any of john stanburne's ancestors before him. he knows the precise condition of every field, or part of a field, and what is to be done to it. even in such a matter as gardening, the gardener finds him uncheatable, though how he acquired that knowledge is a mystery, for you can hardly call that a "garden" at milend. it follows, from all these valuable qualifications of mr. jacob ogden, that he was likely to be an excellent mentor for such a youth as his nephew, destined to have to support the cares, and see his way through the perplexities, of property. and he took him seriously in hand about this time, with the consent of the lad's father, who was well aware that without experience in affairs his boy's education could not (in any but the narrow sense of the word, as it is used by pedagogues) be considered to be complete. young jacob had to get up regularly at five in the morning and accompany his uncle to the mill, where he saw the hands enter. after this, his time was divided between the counting-house and overlooking; but his duty at the mill was very frequently broken by orders from his uncle to go and inspect the improvements which were in progress on his various estates, especially, at this particular time, the road from shayton to wenderholme. the youth made these journeys on horseback, and, being uncommonly well mounted, accomplished them more rapidly than his uncle jacob, with all his shrewdness, ever calculated upon. in this way the inspection of the new road permitted very frequent visits to wenderholme cottage, where, for the present, miss edith resided with her grandmother. chapter x. young jacob and edith. the state of affairs between edith and young jacob was this. nothing had been said of marriage, but their attachment was as perfectly understood between them as if it had been openly expressed. the misfortune of their situation had been, that although many circumstances had been decidedly favorable to them, it had never been possible to unite all the favorable circumstances together at the same time, so as to get themselves formally engaged. in the days of colonel stanburne's splendor and prosperity the milend influence had been openly encouraging, but lady helena had warned edith in such a decided way against allowing herself to form a plebeian attachment, the allusion to young jacob being (as it was intended to be) as intelligible as if she had named him, that it had been considered prudent by both the lovers to refrain from compromising the future by precipitation, and they had waited in the hope that, by the pressure of constantly increasing riches, her ladyship's opposition might finally be made to give way. if colonel stanburne had continued prosperous, the milend influence was so strongly, even eagerly, in favor of the alliance, that it would have subsidized its candidate very largely; and as its power of subsidizing increased every day, it was evident that, by simply waiting, his prospects would steadily improve. but the colonel's ruin, utter and hopeless as it was, had set the milend influence on the other side; and nobody who knew the obstinacy of jacob ogden in opposition, and the relentless lengths to which he would go to get himself obeyed, or to inflict punishment on those who had opposed him, could doubt that, if his nephew refused compliance in this instance, it would be equivalent to a total renunciation of his prospects. edith stanburne had inherited much of her mother's perspicacity, with the colonel's frank and genial manner. some people, mrs. prigley amongst the number, disapproved of edith's manner, and considered her a "bold girl," because she looked people straight in the face, and had not yet learned the necessity for dissimulating her sentiments. but what experienced man of the world would not give half his subtlety for that boldness which comes from the perfect harmony of our nature with its surroundings? why, that is simply a definition of happiness itself! when we have learned to be careful, it is because we have perceived that between our real selves and the world around us there is so little harmony that they would clash continually, so we invent a false artificial self that may be in harmony with the world, and make it live our outward life for us, talk for us in drawing-rooms and at the dinner-table, and go through the weary round of public pleasures and observances. it is the worst possible sign of approaching unhappiness when courage begins to give way, and this hour had come for edith. young jacob, relying upon the speed of his horse, had, on one or two occasions, prolonged his visits to wenderholme cottage long enough to excite his uncle's suspicions. jacob ogden inquired whether miss stanburne was with her mother at lord adisham's, or with her grandmother at wenderholme. the young man said he "believed" she was with her grandmother. "oh, you 'believe,' do you, young un? cannot you tell me for certain?" young jacob was no match for his keen-eyed relations at milend, who saw through the whole matter in a minute. "that horse o' yours is a fast un, little jacob, but it isn't quite sharp enough to make up for three hours' courtin' at wendrum." the next day young jacob was sent to look over works in a totally opposite direction; and as he had a good many measurements to take, there was no chance of getting any time to himself. twenty-four hours later miss stanburne received the following letter:- "madam,--i have discovered that my nephew has been idling his time away at wenderholme cottage. you may, perhaps, know how he was occupied. excuse me if i say that, if my nephew idles his time away at wenderholme cottage, _he will never be a rich man_. "yours truly, jacob ogden." the note was very intelligible, and the consequence of it was, that edith resolved to sacrifice herself. "i love him too much," she said, "to ruin him." the reader may remember one jerry smethurst whom isaac ogden met at whittlecup when on duty in the militia, and with whom he got drunk for the last time. it is twelve years since then, a long interval in any place, but an especially long interval in shayton, where _delirium tremens_ carries off the mature males with a rapidity elsewhere unknown. there had been hundreds of deaths from drinking in that township since 1853; and of all the jolly companions who used to meet at the red lion, the only one remaining was the proprietor of twistle farm. james hardcastle, the innkeeper, was dead; seth schofield was in shayton churchyard, and so was jerry smethurst. a new generation was drinking itself to death in that parlor, served by another landlord. most of these worthies had ruined themselves in fortune as in health. men cannot spend their time in public-houses without their business feeling the effects of it; and they cannot fuddle their intellects with beer and brandy and preserve their clearness for arithmetic. so, as the prosperity of a society is the prosperity of the individuals composing it, shayton was not a very prosperous locality, and, in comparison with sootythorn, lagged wofully behindhand in the race. a few men, however, managed somehow to reconcile business and the brandy-bottle, and the most successful conciliator of pleasure and affairs had been the notable jerry smethurst. he managed it by never drinking any thing before the mill was closed; drink, to him, was the reward of the labors of the day, and not their accompaniment. his constitution had been strong enough to resist this double strain of laborious days and convivial evenings for a much longer time than dr. bardly ever expected; and when the end came, which it did by a single attack of _delirium tremens_, succeeded by a fit of apoplexy (the patient had always apprehended apoplexy), mr. smethurst's affairs were found to be in admirable order, and his only daughter, then a fine girl of fourteen, became heiress to an extensive mill and a quantity of building land, as well as many shops and tenements in the interior of the town which would infallibly increase in value. in a word, sarah smethurst was worth forty thousand now, and would be worth a hundred thousand in twenty years; so that, as the charms of her youth faded, the man fortunate enough to win her might count upon a progressive compensation in the increase of her estate. jacob ogden, senior, was very accurately acquainted with miss smethurst's property, and could calculate its future value to a nicety. he had the best opportunities for knowing these matters, being one of jerry smethurst's trustees. when colonel stanburne was a rich man, jacob ogden would have preferred miss stanburne for his nephew to any girl in sally smethurst's position; for though nobody could love and appreciate money more than jacob did, he wished to see his nephew take a higher place in society than money of itself would be able to procure for him. as in mixing a glass of grog the time comes when we want no more spirit, but turn our attention to the sugar-basin, although there can be no doubt that the spirit is the main thing (since without it the glass would be nothing but _eau sucrã©e_), so, when we want to make that composite of perfections, a gentleman, there is a time when money is no longer needed, though that is the main element of his strength, and we turn our attention to the sugar-basin of the _comme il faut_. when jacob ogden, senior, was favorable to the wenderholme match, it was not so much on account of miss stanburne's money as on account of her decided position as a young lady of the aristocracy; and when the colonel was ruined, he did not disapprove of the match because miss stanburne would have no fortune, but because her position as member of a county family had been upset by her father's bankruptcy. well, if the lad could not marry like a gentleman, he should marry like a prince among cotton-spinners, and contract alliance with a princess of his own order. sally smethurst was such a princess. therefore it was decided that young jacob should espouse sally smethurst. and a very nice lass she was, too--a nice fat lass, with cheeks like a milkmaid, that anybody might have been glad to kiss. mrs. ogden invited her to stop at milend, and young jacob saw her every day. but the effect of this acquaintance was precisely contrary to uncle jacob's plans and intentions. sally had never been out of shayton in her life, except to a school at lytham, and she had not a word to say. neither was her deportment graceful. a good lass enough, and well to do, but not the woman with whom an intelligent man would be anxious to pass his existence. the image of miss stanburne, already somewhat idealized by absence, was elevated to the divine by this contrast. there is no surer way of making a noble youth worship some noble maiden, than by presenting to him a virgin typical of the commonplace, and ordering him to marry her. edith became henceforth the object of young jacob's ardent and chivalrous adoration. two fortunes--his uncle's and sally smethurst's--making in the aggregate a prodigious heap of money, were offered to him as the reward of infidelity, and the higher the bribe rose, the higher rose his spirit of resistance. sally had come to milend on a wednesday. she was to stay sunday over, and go to shayton church with the ogdens. on saturday night, at tea-time, young jacob declared his intention of going to twistle farm. "why, and willn't ye stop sunday with us and miss smethurst, and go to shayton church?" "i haven't seen my father for a fortnight." "then, all that i've got to say," observed mrs. ogden, "is, that it's your father's own wickedness that's the cause of it. if he came regularly to church, as he ought to do, you'd be sure to see him to-morrow, and every sunday as well, and you'd have no need to go up to twistle farm. i could like to drag him to shayton church by the hair of his head, that i could!" here mrs. ogden paused and sipped her tea--then she resumed,-"i declare i _will not have_ you goin' up to twistle farm and missin' church in that way. it's awful to think of! you miss church many a sunday to go and stop with your father, who should know better, and set you a better example." the lad drank his scalding tea, and rose from the table. he was not a boor, however; and, offering his hand to miss smethurst, he said; very courteously, "i am sorry, miss smethurst, not to have the pleasure of going to church with you to-morrow; it looks rude of me, but many things trouble me just now, and i must talk them over, both with my father and somebody else." and with that, and a simple good-night to the elder people, he left the room. the owner of twistle farm had become a great recluse since he gave up drinking, except during his weeks of active duty in the militia, and occasional visits to his brother officers. in fact, a shayton man, not in business, must either be a drunkard or a recluse; and ogden, by his own experience, had learned to prefer the latter. young jacob, however, had a friend in shayton who did not lead quite such a retired life, and whose opinion on the present crisis it might be worth while to ask for. need i say that this friend was the worthy doctor, mr. bardly? so, when the young gentleman rode through the town on his way to twistle farm, he turned into the doctor's yard. the twelve years that have passed since we saw the doctor have rather aged him, but they have certainly deducted nothing from the vigor of his mind. he received his young friend with his old heartiness of manner, and made him promise to stop supper with him. "you'll ride up to twistle farm after supper; your father willn't be gone to bed--he sits up reading till one o'clock in the morning. i wish he wouldn't. i'm sure he's injuring his eyes." young jacob laid the perplexities of his case before his experienced friend. the doctor heard him for nearly an hour with scarcely a word of comment. then he began:-"i'll tell you what it is, little jacob; you're not independent, because you haven't got a profession, don't you see? you've had a fine education, but it's worth nothing to live by, unless you turn schoolmaster; and in england, education is altogether in the hands o' them parsons. your father isn't rich enough to keep a fine gentleman like you, never talk o' keepin' a fine wife. that's how it is as you're dependent on them at milend, and they know it well enough. you'll always be same as a childt for your uncle and your grandmother, and you'll 'ave to do just as they bid you. as long as your uncle lives you'll be a minor. i know him well enough. he governs everybody he can lay his hands on, and your grandmother's exactly one o' th' same sort; she's a governin' woman, is your grandmother--a governin' woman. there's a certain proportion of women as is made to rule folk, and she's one on 'em." "well, but, doctor, what would you advise me to do?" "i'm comin' to that, lad. there's two courses before you, and you mun choose one on 'em, and follow it out. you mun either just make up your mind to submit to them at milend"-"and desert edith?" "yes, to be sure, and wed sally smethurst beside, and be manager of ogden's mills, and collect his cottage-rents, and dun poor folk, and be cowed for thirty years by your uncle, and have to render 'count to him of every hour of every day--for he'll live thirty years, will your uncle; or else you mun learn a profession, and be independent on him." "independence would be a fine thing certainly, but it is not every profession that would suit the aristocratic prejudices of lady helena. i think it very likely the colonel would give his consent, for he has always treated me very kindly, and he must have seen that i was thinking of edith, but with lady helena the case is different. she was never encouraging. she might give way before a large fortune like my uncle's, and the prospect of reinstating edith at wenderholme, but if i were a poor man in a profession all her aristocratic prejudices would be active against me. besides, there are only two professions which the aristocracy really recognizes, the army and the church. the army is not a trade to live by, and the church"-"nay, never turn parson, lad, never be a parson!" young jacob smiled at the doctor's sudden earnestness, and soon reassured him. "i have no vocation for the church," he said quietly but decidedly, "and shall certainly never take orders." then he went on, half talking to himself and half addressing the doctor. "there is no other profession by which an income may be earned that lady helena would be likely to tolerate. people like her look down upon attorneys and--and"-"and doctors!" added bardly, laughing, "except when they think there's summat wrong i' their insides, and then they're as civil as civil." "i cannot see my way at all, for if i please my uncle i am not to think of edith, and if i displease him i am to have no money, so that it will be no use thinking about edith." "are you sure of the young woman herself? d'ye think she would have you if you had just a decent little income from a profession such as doctorin'? it strikes me 'at if th' lass herself is o' your side, who'll bring her feyther to her way o' thinkin', an' her feyther'll find ways o' makin' his wife listen to him." young jacob's eyes sparkled, and his heart beat. "i believe she would, doctor, i do really believe she would." "tell her then as you'll be shayton doctor. it's worth â£500 a-year to me; and you might increase it, an active young fellow like you. come and learn doctorin' wi' me. i'll allow you â£250 a-year to start wi', if you get wed to miss stanburne; your father will do as much,--that'll be â£500; and you may live on that, if you live quietly. and then when there's chilther, there'll be more brass." young jacob's eyes moistened. "i'd take help from you, sir, sooner than from anybody else, but i cannot accept half your income." "half my income, young man! do you know who you are speaking to? you're speaking to one of the shayton capitalists, sir. i've never been much of a spender, and have had neither wife nor child to spend for me. i can live well enough on the interest of my railway shares, young gentleman, and yet i've other investments. i can say like your uncle jacob that nobody knows what i'm worth. how can they know, if i never told 'em?" here the doctor gave a very knowing wink and a grin, and shook young jacob very heartily by the hand. chapter xi. edith's decision. such was young jacob's piety, that rather than remain all the sunday at twistle farm with that heterodox father of his, he rode over to wenderholme in order to attend divine service there. he got to church in very good time; and when he took his seat in mrs. stanburne's pew, the ladies had not yet arrived. indeed, even the prigleys had not taken their places, so that young jacob had something to interest him in watching the gradual arrival of the members of the congregation. the reader may remember that mrs. stanburne had a small pew of her own appertaining to the cottage, whereas there was a large pew appertaining to the hall. mrs. stanburne still remained faithful to her little pew, and the great comfortable enclosure (a sort of drawing-room without ceiling, and with walls only four feet high) had been empty since the departure of the colonel and lady helena. the congregation gradually constituted itself; the prigleys soon filled the pew belonging to the vicarage; the principal farmers on the wenderholme estate penned themselves like sheep (mr. prigley's sheep) in their narrow wooden partitions; and lastly came mrs. stanburne and edith. when people meet in a pew at church, their greetings are considerably abridged; and if edith's face was more than usually sad, her lover might, if he liked, attribute the expression to religious seriousness. young jacob kneeled whilst mr. prigley read the general confession, and when he got up again his eyes wandered over the pews before him, before they settled again upon his prayer-book. he gave a start of astonishment. in the great wenderholme pew, quietly in one corner of it, sat the present owner of the estate! young jacob's heart beat. he knew that the plot was thickening, and that a great struggle was at hand. but he was in a better position to meet his uncle to-day than he had been yesterday. yesterday he had been undecided, and though inwardly rebellious, had had no plans; to-day he was resolved, and _had_ plans. the conversation with the doctor had been succeeded by another conversation with his father, and the consequence was that young jacob was resolved that, rather than give up edith, he would go to the length of a rupture with the authorities at milend. mr. prigley preached one of his best sermons that day, but neither of the two jacob ogdens paid very much attention to it, i am afraid. they were polishing their weapons for the combat. each was taking the gravest resolutions, each was resolving upon the sacrifice of long-cherished hopes; for, notwithstanding the hardness of the manufacturer's nature, he had still rather tender feelings about "little jacob," as he still habitually called him, and it was painful to think that a youth in all respects so perfectly the gentleman should not succeed to a splendid position for which he had been expressly and elaborately prepared. on the other hand, the manufacturer could not endure that anybody should thwart his will and not be sufficiently punished for it; and if little jacob persisted in marrying in opposition to the authorities at milend, the only punishment adequate to an offence so heinous was the extreme one of disinheritance. both the hostile parties were made aware that the service was at an end by the general movement of the congregation. jacob ogden left his pew before anybody else, and walked straight to that of mrs. stanburne. he bowed slightly to the ladies, and beckoned to young jacob, who came to the pew-door. then he whispered in his ear,-"come and have your dinner with me at wendrum 'all." "i cannot, uncle. i've promised to lunch at the cottage." "you'd better have your dinner with me. if you stop at the cottage, it'll be worse for you and it'll be worse for 'er." "do what you like, sir; my mind is made up." "very well; you'll rue it." and the owner of wenderholme walked alone across the park, and dined alone in the great dining-room. during dinner (an extravagance very rare at all times with him, and in solitude unprecedented), he ordered a bottle of champagne. meanwhile young jacob lunched with the two ladies at the cottage. mrs. stanburne saw that there was something wrong, some cause of trouble and anxiety, so she did her best to remove the burden which seemed to oppress the minds of the young people. old mrs. stanburne had great powers of conversation, and _made_ young jacob talk. she made him talk about oxford, and then she made him talk about his present occupations, and of the transition from one to the other. finally she asked him how he liked the life of a cotton-manufacturer. "not much, mrs. stanburne. but it signifies very little whether i liked it or not, for i have left it." "left it! well, but is not that very imprudent? when gentlemen have a great deal of property in factories, they ought to know all about it, and i have always heard that the only way to do that is to pass a year or two in the trade." "very true. but then i shall never have any property in factories, so there is no occasion for me to learn the trade." mrs. stanburne was much astonished, but her good-breeding struggled against curiosity. edith did not seem to be paying any attention to what was going forward; she looked out of the window, and it was evident that she was mentally absent. "edith," mrs. stanburne said at last, "do you hear what jacob says? he says he has left business. i think it is very imprudent; and when i say so, he tells me that he will never have any factories." edith lent the most languid attention to her grandmother's piece of information. her whole conduct was just the reverse of her usual way of behaving. formerly she had taken the liveliest interest in every thing that concerned her lover, so, to _make_ her listen, he blurted out the truth suddenly in one sentence. "my uncle has disinherited me. i am going to be a doctor. i am going to learn the profession with mr. bardly in shayton." mrs. stanburne was more surprised by this news than edith was. "but _why_?" she asked, emphatically; "_why_ has he disinherited you? i thought you were on the best possible terms. he spoke to you to-day as he was going out of church." young jacob was silent for a minute. mrs. stanburne came back to the charge. "but _why_, i say--_why_?" "my uncle wants me to marry a girl of his own choosing, called sally smethurst." here young jacob paused, then he took courage and added,--"and i, mrs. stanburne, have ventured for some years past to indulge dreams and hopes which may never be realized. you know what my dreams have been. i had hoped that perhaps my plain common name might have been forgotten, and that as you and colonel stanburne had always been very kind to me, and miss edith had never wounded me by any haughtiness or coldness, i had hoped that perhaps some day any difficulties which existed might be overcome, and that she would accept me with the consent of her parents." edith stanburne rose from her seat and quietly left the room. there was no agitation visible in her face, but it was very pale. "my dear jacob," mrs. stanburne said decidedly, "we like you very much--we have always liked you very much, and you have always behaved honorably, and as a gentleman. but i am sure that edith would not sacrifice your prospects. every thing forbids it; our esteem for yourself forbids it, and our pride forbids it. besides, i have not authority to allow you two young people to engage yourselves without the consent of the colonel and lady helena." "may i not speak to miss stanburne?" "it would be better that you should not speak to her in private, but you may speak to her if you like in my presence." "i should be glad to know what she herself really thinks." mrs. stanburne left the room, and after ten minutes had elapsed, which seemed to young jacob like a century, she returned, accompanied by her grand-daughter. edith was still pale, but she had a look of great self-possession. what was going on in her mind just then may be best expressed by the following little soliloquy:-"poor, dear jacob, how i do love him! what a paradise it would be, that simple, quiet life with him--at shayton, anywhere in the world! but i love him too much to ruin him, so i must be hard now." and then she acted her part. looking at her lover coldly, she was the first to speak. "mr. ogden," she said, "i may sink a good deal in your esteem by what i am going to say to you, but my own future must be considered as well as yours. we should be sorry to sacrifice your prospects, but i am thinking of myself also. i do not think that i could live contentedly as a surgeon's wife at shayton." young jacob was astounded. this from edith! the very last thing he had ever anticipated was an objection of the selfish kind from her. he had counted upon all obstacles but this; and all other obstacles were surmountable, but this was insurmountable. he saw at once that it would be madness to marry a young lady who despised his life, and the labors which he went through for her sake. if he could only have known! she, poor thing, was new in this game of cruelty with a kind intention, and she played it with even more than necessary hardness. perhaps she felt that without this overstrung hardness she could not deceive him at all; that the least approach to tenderness would be fatal to her purpose. she had imagination enough to conceive and act a part utterly foreign to her character, but not imagination enough to act a part only just sufficiently foreign to herself to serve her immediate end. so there was a harsh excess in what she did. "miss stanburne," he said at last, "this gives me great pain." the poor girl writhed inwardly, but she maintained a serene countenance, and, looking young jacob full in the face, said, with a well-imitated sneer,-"i may say with truth that it has latterly been agreeable to me to think that the daughter of colonel stanburne would one day live at wenderholme.--but i confess i have not the sort of heroism which would consent to be a surgeon's wife in such a place as shayton." "if these are your reasons, miss stanburne, i have done. a man would be a fool to sacrifice his prospects, and slave at a profession all his life, for a woman who paid him with contempt. and i think i may say that you dismiss me with uncommon coolness. i've loved you these twelve years--i've loved you ever since i was a child. i never loved any other woman; and the reward of this devotion is, that i am sent away when my prospects are clouded, without a sign of emotion or a syllable to express regret. i think you might say you are sorry, at any rate." "very well, i will say that. i am sorry." by a supreme effort of acting, edith put an expression into her face which conveyed the idea that she considered emotion ridiculous, and young jacob's own conduct as verging slightly upon the absurd. this stung him to the quick. "miss stanburne," he said, after a pause, "this conversation is leading to no good. it is useless to prolong it." "i quite agree with you." and he was gone. if he could have seen what passed after his departure, he would have gone back to shayton in a very different frame of mind. edith had acted her part and held out bravely to the last, but when jacob was once fairly out of the house, the faithful heart could endure its self-inflicted torture no longer, and she ran upstairs to her bedroom and locked the door, and burst into bitter tears. "how good and brave he is, and how he loves me! it is hard, it is _very_ hard, to have to throw away a heart like his. but i will not be his ruin--i never will be his ruin!" then a thousand tender recollections came into her memory--recollections of the long years of his faithful love and service. it had begun in their childhood, when first she called him "charley," giving him one of her own names; it had continued year after year until this very day, when he would have sacrificed all for her, and she had treated him with coldness and cruelty--_she_ who so loved him! and to think that he would _never know the truth_--that the long dreary future would wear itself gradually out until both of them were in their graves, and that he would never know how her heart yearned to him, and remained faithful to him always! that thought was the hardest and bitterest of them all, _that he would never know_; that all his life he would retain that misconception about her which she herself had so carefully created! it is easy to bear the bad opinion of people we care nothing about, but when those we most love disapprove, how eagerly we desire their absolution! edith was not quite so strong as she herself believed. the late events had tried her courage to the utmost, and outwardly she seemed to have borne them well; but they had strained her nervous system a good deal, and this last trial of her fortitude had been too much, even for her. her agony rapidly passed from mental grief into an uncontrollable crisis of the nerves. she went through this alone, lying upon her bed, sobbing and moaning, her face on the pillow, her hands convulsively agitated. then came utter vacancy, and after the vacancy a slow, painful awakening to the new sadness of her life. chapter xii. jacob ogden's triumph. at length the great day arrived, towards the end of october, when the new road from shayton to wenderholme was to be solemnly inaugurated. mr. jacob ogden had made all his arrangements with that administrative ability which distinguished him. he had gone into every detail just as closely as if the work of this great day had been the earning of money instead of its expenditure. the main features of the programme were: 1. a procession from shayton to wenderholme by the new route. 2. a grand dinner at wenderholme. 3. a ball. the procession was to leave shayton at noon precisely; and about half-past eleven, a magnificent new carriage, ornamented with massive silver, and drawn by two superb gray horses, whose new harness glittered in the sunshine, rolled up to mrs. ogden's door. on the box sat a fine coachman in livery, and a footman jumped down from behind to knock at the milend front door. just at the same moment mr. jacob ogden walked quietly up the drive, and when the door opened he walked in. the splendid servants respectfully saluted him. the shayton tailor had surpassed himself for this occasion, and mr. jacob looked so well dressed that anybody would have thought his clothes had been made at sootythorn. he wore kid gloves also. but however well dressed a man may be, his splendor can never be comparable to a lady's, especially such a lady as mrs. ogden, who had a fearlessness in the use of colors like that which distinguished our younger painters twenty years ago. she always managed to adorn herself so that every thing about her looked bright, except her complexion and her eyes. behold her as the door opens! the queen in all her glory is not so fine as the mistress of milend! what shining splendor! what dazzling effulgence! a blind man said that he imagined scarlet to be as the sound of a trumpet; but the vision of mrs. ogden was equal to a whole brass band. "why, and whose cayridge is this 'ere, jacob?" "cayridge, mother? it's nobbut a two-horse fly, fro' manchester, new painted." the fact was, it was mrs. ogden's own carriage, purchased by her son without her knowledge or consent; but, to avoid a scene before his new domestics, he preferred the above amiable little fiction. so mrs. ogden stepped for the first time into her carriage without being aware that she had attained that great object of the _nouveau riche_. there was no danger that she would recognize the armorial bearings which decorated the panels and the harness. jacob himself had not known them a month before, but he had sent "name and county" to a heraldic establishment in lincoln's inn fields; and, as his letter had been duly accompanied by a post-office order, three days afterwards he had received a very neat drawing of his coat of arms, emblazoned in azure and gold. it was cheaper than going to the college of arms, and did just as well. there was nobody in the new carriage except mrs. ogden and her son. miss smethurst was invited, but she had a carriage and pair of her own, which she used to do honor to the occasion. many other friends of the ogdens (friends or business acquaintances) also came in their carriages, for the tradesmen of those parts had generally adopted the custom of carriage-keeping during the last few years. even our friend the doctor now kept a comfortable brougham, in which he joined the procession. mr. isaac ogden of twistle farm, and mr. jacob ogden, jr., his son, joined the procession on horseback, riding very fine animals indeed. a pack of harriers was kept a short distance from shayton, and it had been agreed that all the gentlemen of the hunt who had invitations should be asked to come as equestrians. jacob ogden had contrived to give a public character to his triumph by his gift of the new road to the township. the magistrates for the time being were to be the trustees of it, hence the magistrates (including one or two country gentlemen of some standing) found themselves compelled to take part in the triumph. all men were that day compelled to acknowledge jacob ogden's greatness, and to do him homage. the telegraph was already established, and when the shayton procession started on its way, the fact was known instantaneously at wenderholme. at the same moment a counter-procession left wenderholme on horseback to meet the one coming from shayton. the yorkshire procession consisted chiefly of the tenants of the estate on horseback, headed by the agent. most of them were in any thing but a congratulatory frame of mind, but as they dreaded the anger of their landlord, they rode forth to meet him to a man. a holiday had been given at the mill, and all the mill hands were to accompany the shayton procession for two miles upon the road, after which they were to return to shayton, and there make merry at mr. ogden's expense. most of the hands belonged to benefit clubs such as the odd fellows, the druids, the robin hood, and so on; and they borrowed for the occasion the banners used in the solemnities of these societies, and their picturesque and fanciful costumes. these added immensely to the effect, and gave the procession a richness and a variety which it would otherwise have lacked. the departure of the _cortã¨ge_ had been timed at the dinner-hour, when all the mills were loosed, so that the whole shayton population might witness it. as it moved slowly along the streets, the crowd was as dense as if royalty itself had made a progress through the town. mrs. ogden repeatedly recognized acquaintances in the crowd, and bowed and smiled most graciously from her carriage-window--indeed a queen could hardly have looked more radiant or more gracious. seeing her good-humor, jacob ventured to inform her that she was "sitting in her own carriage." "sitting in my own cayridge! well, then, stop th' horses, for i s'll get out." "nay, nay, mother, you munnut do so--you munnut do so. you'll stop o' th' procession. there's no stoppin' now. it's too latt for stoppin'." "well, if i'd known i'd never a coom! what is th' folk sayin', thinken ye? why, they're o' sayin,' one to another, 'there's mistress ogden in her new cayridge, an' who's as fain[25] as fain.'" "well, mother, and what if they do say so? what means it?" "draw them there blinds down." "nay, but i willn't. we aren't goin' to a funeral." after a while mrs. ogden began to look at the nice blue lining of her carriage somewhat more approvingly. at last she said, "jacob, i'n never thanked thee. thank ye, jacob--thank ye. i shalln't live to use it for long, but it'll do for little jacob wife at afther." when mrs. ogden had made this little speech, her son knew that the carriage difficulty was at an end, and indeed she never afterwards evinced any repugnance to entering that very handsome and comfortable vehicle. the procession moved at a walking pace for the first two miles, on account of the people on foot. when these, however, had returned in the direction of shayton, the speed was somewhat increased, though, as the road steadily ascended till it reached the yorkshire border, the horses could not go very fast. the road, too, being quite new, the macadam was rather rough, though jacob ogden had sent a heavy iron roller, drawn by fourteen powerful horses, from one end to the other. the weather could not possibly have been more favorable, and it would be difficult to imagine a more cheerful and exhilarating route. there had been a slight frost during the night, and the air of the high moorland was deliciously fresh and pure. the startled grouse frequently whirred over the heads of the horsemen, and made not a few of them regret the absence of their fowling-pieces, and the present necessity for marching in military order. the view became gradually more and more extensive, till at length, on approaching the border, a splendid prospect was visible on both sides, stretching in lancashire far beyond shayton to the level land near manchester--and in yorkshire, beyond wenderholme and rigton to the hills near stanithburn peel. a landmark had been erected on the border, and as the shayton procession approached it, the body of horsemen from wenderholme were seen approaching it from the other side. it had been arranged that they should meet at the stone. when both processions had stopped, the wenderholme agent came and presented an address to mrs. ogden, which he read in a loud voice, and then handed to her in the carriage. she was graciously pleased to say a few words in reply, which were not audible to the people about. this ceremony being over, the combined procession formed itself in order of march, and began to descend the long slope towards wenderholme. the road entered the village, and therefore did not go quite directly to the hall. as it had been jacob ogden's intention from the first to play the part of public benefactor in this matter, he guarded the privacy of his mansion. at the entrance of the village there was a triumphal arch made of heather and evergreens, and decorated with festoons of colored calico. here the procession paused a second time, whilst the villagers came to make their little offering to mrs. ogden. the lord of wenderholme was both surprised and offended by the absence of mr. prigley. "i'll make him pay for't," he thought, "if he wants out[26] doin' at his church, or any subscriptions, or the like o' that" indeed, the absence of mr. prigley was the more surprising that it was contrary to the traditions of his caste, usually sufficiently ready to do honor to the powers that be. also, jacob ogden thought that the church bells might have rung for him. but they didn't ring. a hostile prigley or stanburne influence was apparent there also. it was irritating to have the great triumph marred by this pitiful ecclesiastical opposition. "he shall rue it," said jacob, inwardly--"he shall rue it!" a table had been set in the middle of wenderholme green, and on this table was a large and massive silver inkstand, and in the inkstand a gold pen with a jewelled penholder. here jacob ogden descended from his carriage, and, surrounded by all the chief personages in the procession, sat down under a spreading oak, and signed the deed of gift by which the road from shayton to wenderholme was transferred in trust to the shayton magistrates and their successors for ever and ever. the inkstand bore an inscription, and was formally presented to mr. ogden. and a great shout rose--all john stanburne's former tenants distinguishing themselves in the "hip, hip," &c. after that the procession entered wenderholme park, and mrs. ogden descended at the grand entrance, and moved across the hall, and up the tapestried staircase. chapter xiii. the "blow-out." the reader is not to suppose, from the parsimony which marked the habitual life of jacob ogden and his mother, that when they had made up their minds to what they called a "blow-out," there would be any meanness or littleness in their proceedings. under all circumstances they acted with clear minds, knowing what they were doing; and when they resolved to be extravagant, they _were_ extravagant. the fine principle of that grand and really moral motto, "_pecca fortiter_," was thoroughly understood and consistently acted upon by the man who had won wenderholme by his industry and thrift. when he sinned, there was no weak compromise with conscience--he did it manfully and boldly, and no mistake. he never "muddled away" a sovereign, but his triumph cost him many a hundred sovereigns, and he knew beforehand precisely what he was going to spend. when it was all over he would pay the piper, and lock up his cash-box again, and return to his old careful ways. the ogdens did not receive many visitors at milend, and yet they had rather an extensive acquaintance amongst people of their own class--rich people belonging to trade, and living in the great manufacturing towns. and to this festivity they had invited everybody they knew. the house of wenderholme, large as it was, was filled with jacob ogden's guests, and his mother did the honors with a homely but genuine hospitality, which made everybody feel kindly disposed to her; and though they could not help laughing a little at her now and then, they did it without malice. the reader will remember that, from a sort of pride which distinguished her, she had refrained from visiting wenderholme until the completion of the new road; and as the chariot of the olympic victor entered his city by a breach in the wall, so mrs. ogden's carriage came to wenderholme by a route which no carriage had ever before traversed. it would have been better, however, in some respects, if the good lady had familiarized herself a little with the splendors of wenderholme before she undertook to receive so many guests therein, for it was quite foreign to the frankness of her nature to act the _nil admirari_. thus, on entering the magnificent drawing-room, where many guests were already assembled, she behaved exactly as she had done when, during a visit to buxton, some friends had taken her to see chatsworth. "well!" she exclaimed, lifting up both her hands, "this _is_ a grand room!" nor was she contented with this simple exclamation, but she went on examining and exclaiming, and walked all round, and lifted up the curtains, and the heavy tassels of their cords, and touched the tapestry on the chairs, and, in a word, quite forgot her dignity of hostess in the novelty of the things about her. "those curtains must have cost thirty shillings a-yard!" she said, appealing to the judgment of the elder ladies present, "and the stuff's narrow beside." impressions of splendor depend very much upon contrast, so that wenderholme seemed very astonishing to a person coming directly from milend. but such impressions are soon obliterated by habit, and in a week mrs. ogden will have lost the "fresh eye," to which she owes her present sense of enchantment. how long would it take to get accustomed to blenheim, or castle howard, or compiã¨gne? would it take a fortnight? however, mrs. ogden had the advantage of a far fresher eye than _nous autres_, who are so accustomed to gilding and glitter in public _cafã©s_ and picture-galleries, that we are all, as it were, princes, insensible to impressions of splendor. all that mrs. ogden said upon that memorable day it would be tedious to relate. she thought aloud, and the burden of her thoughts, their ever-recurring refrain, was her sense of the grandeur that surrounded her. jacob ogden had bought a good deal of colonel stanburne's fine old silver plate, and this formed the main subject of mrs. ogden's conversation during dinner. "i think our jacob's gone fair mad with pride," she said to all the company, and in the hearing of the attentive servants, "for we'd plenty of silver at milend--quite plenty for any one; we've all my uncle adam's silver spoons, and my aunt alice's, and plenty of silver candlesticks, and a tea-service--and i cannot tell what our jacob would be at." then she added, with serene complacency, "however, it's all paid for." she had not the art of avoiding a topic likely to be disagreeable either to herself or anybody else, but would make other folks uncomfortable, and torture her own mind by dwelling upon their sores and her own. i don't think that in this she was altogether wrong, or that the most delicate people are altogether right in doing exactly the contrary, for it is as well to grasp nettles with a certain hardihood; but she carried a respectable sort of courage to a very unnecessary excess. thus, when she had done about the silver and the general extravagance of "our jacob," the next topic she found to talk about was the absence of mr. and mrs. prigley. she launched forth into a catalogue of all the benefits wherewith she had overwhelmed mrs. prigley in the days of her poverty at shayton, and represented that lady as a monster of ingratitude. "why, they were so poor," mrs. ogden said, "that they couldn't even afford carpets to their floors; but now that they're better off in the world, they turn their backs on those that helped them. we were always helping them, and making them presents." every one saw that the ogdens were dreadfully sore about the absence of the vicar and his wife, and it was not very good policy on mrs. ogden's part to draw attention to it in that way; for a parson, though ornamental, is not absolutely indispensable to a good dinner, and they might have got on very well without one. the dinner was served in the great hall at five o'clock, and few of the guests, as they sat at the feast, could help lifting their eyes to the wainscot, and the frescoes, and the great armorial ceiling--few could help thinking of the colonel. no one present, however, was in such a conflicting and contradictory state of mind as young jacob, nor was any one so thoroughly miserable. the whole triumph had disgusted him from beginning to end, and he was not in a humor to be either charitable or indulgent, or to see things on their amusing side. ever since that last interview with edith, he had been moody and misanthropical, accepting the position his uncle had made for him, but accepting it without one ray of pleasure. such a condition of mind, if prolonged for several years, would end by making a man horribly cynical and sour, and probably drive him to take refuge in the lowest pleasures and the lowest aims. when the bark of love is wrecked, and the noble ambition of work and independence lies feeble and half dead, and we allow others to arrange all our life for us, what is the use of being young? what is the use of having health and riches, and all sorts of fine prospects and advantages? when the banquet was over, the company returned to the drawing-room, and young jacob began to think that sally smethurst was the nicest-looking young person there. his uncle was pleased to observe his polite attentions to the young lady, and, taking him aside, said, "that's reet, lad--that's reet; ax 'er to dance, and when you've been dancin' a good bit, ax her summat elz. you'll never have such another chance. she's quite fresh to this place, and she never saw out like wendrum 'all; she's just been tellin' my mother what a rare fine place it is." "well," thought young jacob to himself, "as i cannot have edith, why not please my uncle and my grandmother? sally smethurst is a nice honest-looking young woman, and i daresay she'd make a very good sort of wife." the male nature is so constituted that, when not firmly anchored in some strong attachment, it easily drifts away on the _fleuve du tendre_, and this poor youth had been cut away from his moorings. what wonder, then, if he drifted? sally thought him very nice, and handsome, and kind, and she promised to dance with him most willingly. the dining-room had been prepared for dancing, and it answered the purpose all the better as there was a dais at one end of the room which afforded at once a safe retreat and a convenient position for spectators, whilst at the other was a gallery for musicians, now occupied by an excellent band of stringed instruments from manchester. in short, the dining-room at wenderholme had been arranged strictly on the principle of the old baronial hall. the gallery was supported by fantastic pillars of carved oak, and decorated with gigantic antlers which had been given to colonel stanburne by a friend of his, a mighty hunter in south africa. the ball went on with great spirit till after midnight, when supper was served in the long gallery. even mrs. ogden, old as she was, had danced, and danced well too, to the astonishment of the spectators. the host himself had performed, though his proficiency might be questioned. what with the dancing, and the negus, and the champagne, and the splendors of the noble house, and the flattery of so many guests, and the obsequious service of so many attendants, and the sense of their own greatness and success, not only jacob ogden, senior, but all the ogdens, were a little elevated that night. young jacob did not escape this infection--at his age, how could he?--and having taken miss smethurst up the grand staircase to supper, rapidly approached that point which his uncle desired him to attain. amidst the noise of the talk around him, the lad went further and further. he talked about wenderholme already almost as if it were his own, and forgot, for the time, his old friend the colonel and his misfortunes in an exulting sense of his own highly promising position. "he intended to live at wenderholme a good deal," he said, and then asked miss smethurst whether _she_ would like to live at wenderholme. but he did not hear her answer. a figure like a ghost, with pale, sad, resolute face, approached silently, moving from the darker end of the long gallery into the blaze of light about the supper-table. it was mr. prigley. the master of the house saw him, too, and as he approached said aloud, and not very politely,-"better late than never, parson; come and sit down next to my mother and get your supper." but mr. prigley still remained standing. however, he approached the table. still he would not sit down. every one looked at him, and no one who had looked once took his eyes off mr. prigley again. there was that in his face which fixed attention irresistibly. the roar of the conversation was suddenly hushed, and a silence succeeded in which you might have heard the breaking of a piece of bread. mr. prigley went straight to mrs. ogden, not noticing anybody else. he spoke to her, not loudly, but audibly enough for every one to hear him. "i have come to tell you, mrs. ogden, that mrs. stanburne, mother of colonel stanburne of wenderholme, is now lying in a dying state at the vicarage." mrs. ogden did not answer at once. when she had collected her ideas, she said, "i thought mrs. stanburne had been in her own house and well in health. if i'd known she was dyin', you may be sure, mr. prigley, as there should 'ave been no dancin' i' this house, though she's not a relation of ours. we're only plain people, but we know what's fittin' and seemly." "then you cannot be aware, mrs. ogden, of what has happened at wenderholme cottage. mrs. stanburne's illness has been brought on by the suddenness with which the present owner of wenderholme ordered her to quit her cottage on this estate. she was an old lady, in feeble health, and the trouble of a sudden eviction has proved too much for her. if there is any surgeon here, let him follow me." this said, mr. prigley quitted the table without bowing to anybody, and his gaunt figure and pale grave face passed along the gallery to the great staircase. dr. bardly left his place at the supper-table, and followed him. miss smethurst's young partner made no more soft speeches to her that night. a great pang smote him in his breast. had he forgotten those dear friends who had been so good to him in the time of their prosperity? and what was this horrible story of an eviction? mrs. stanburne turned out of wenderholme cottage! could it be possible that his uncle had gone to such a length as that? the boy was down the staircase in an instant, and overtook the doctor and mr. prigley as they were crossing the great hall. they walked swiftly and silently to the vicarage. "you'd better wait here, little jacob," said dr. bardly; "i'll go upstairs." and he put jacob into a small sitting-room, which was empty. the lad had been there five minutes when the door opened, and edith came in. she looked very ill and miserable. all the old tenderness came back into jacob's heart as he felt for her in this trial. "miss stanburne," he said, "dear miss stanburne, what does he say?" weak and shattered as she was by the trials of these last days, that word of tenderness made any farther acting impossible. she went to him, took both his hands in hers, and the tears came. "there's no hope; she's dying. come upstairs--she wants to see you." mrs. stanburne was lying in a state of extreme exhaustion, with occasional intervals of consciousness, in which the mind was clear. when jacob entered the sick-room, she was in one of her better moments. "go quite near to her," said mr. prigley; "she can only speak in a whisper." there had always existed a great friendship between the youth and the old lady now lying on the brink of the grave. he bent down over her, and tenderly kissed her forehead. "god bless you!" she whispered, "it is very kind of you to come." then she said, in answer to his enquiries,-"i shall not live long, but i shall live rather longer than they think. i shan't die to-night. i want my son--my son!" after this supervened a syncope, which jacob and edith believed to be death. but the doctor, with his larger experience, reassured them for the present. "she will live several hours," he said. jacob told them that she had asked for colonel stanburne, and added, "i have not the slightest idea where he is." then edith made a sign to him to follow her, and led him downstairs again to the little sitting-room. "papa is a long way off; he is in france. he must be telegraphed for." and she took a writing-case and wrote an address. now, although there was a telegraph from wenderholme to ogden's mill at shayton, there was none from shayton to sootythorn, which was the nearest town of importance. so the best way appeared to be for jacob to ride off at once with the despatch to the station, which was ten miles off. "and you must telegraph for mamma at the same time." and edith wrote lady helena's address. a little delay occurred now, because jacob's horse had to be sent for to wenderholme hall. edith went upstairs, and soon came down again with rather favorable news. the syncope had not lasted long, and the patient seemed to rally from it somewhat more easily than she had done from the preceding ones. "miss stanburne!" said jacob, "will you give me a word of explanation? you were hard and unkind the last time we spoke to each other." "i did very wrong. i thought i was sacrificing myself for your good. i told you nothing but lies." half an hour since miss smethurst was within a hair's-breadth of being lady of wenderholme; but her chances are over now, and she will not bring her fortune to this place--her coals to this newcastle. as her late partner in the dance rides galloping, galloping through the wooded lanes to the telegraph station, his brain is full of other hopes, and of a far higher, though less brilliant, ambition. he will free himself from the milend slavery, and work for independence--and for edith! chapter xiv. mrs. ogden's authority. after the apparition of mr. prigley, the supper in the long gallery changed its character completely. until he came it had been one of the merriest of festivals; after he went away, it became one of the dullest. a sense of uncomfortableness and embarrassment oppressed everybody present, and though many attempts were made to give the conversation something of its old liveliness, the guests soon became aware that for that time it was frozen beyond hope of recovery. it had been intended to resume the dancing after supper, but the dancing was not resumed, and the guests who intended to return to shayton that night became suddenly impressed with so strong a sense of the distance of that place from wenderholme, that all the pressing hospitality of the ogdens availed not to retain them. notwithstanding the philistinism of mrs. ogden's character, and the external hardness which she had in common with most of her contemporaries in shayton, she was not without heart; and when she heard that her son had turned old mrs. stanburne out of the cottage, she both felt disapproval and expressed it. "jacob," she said, "you shouldn't 'ave done so." and she repeated many a time to other people in the room, "our jacob shouldn't 'ave done so." and when the carriages had departed, although there were still many people in the house, mrs. ogden put her bonnet on, and had herself conducted to the vicarage. the situation there might have been embarrassing for some people, but mrs. ogden was a woman who did not feel embarrassment under any circumstances. she did what was right, or she did what was wrong, in a simple and resolute way, and her very immunity from nervous reflectiveness often enabled her to do the right thing when a self-conscious person would hardly have ventured to do it. so she knocked at mrs. prigley's door. it happened that the person nearest the door at that moment was edith, who was crossing the passage from one room to another. so edith opened the door. mrs. ogden walked in at once, and asked very kindly after mrs. stanburne. edith was pleased with the genuine interest in her manner, and showed her into the little sitting-room. the news was rather more favorable than might have been hoped for. mrs. stanburne had had no return of unconsciousness; and though the doctor still thought she was gradually sinking, he began to be of opinion that her illness might be much longer than was at first anticipated, and thought that she would live to see the colonel. "you don't know me," said mrs. ogden; "but as you speak of mrs. stanburne as your grandmamma, i know who you are. you're miss edith. i'm little jacob's grandmamma--mrs. ogden of milend, whom no doubt you've heard speak of." edith bowed slightly, and then there was rather an awkward pause. "my son jacob did very wrong about your grandmother in turning her out of her house. i wish we could make amends." edith tried to say something polite in acknowledgment of mrs. ogden's advance, but it ended in tears. "i'm afraid it is too late," she said, finally. the young lady's evident love for her grandmother won the heart of mrs. ogden, who was herself a grandmother. "tell me what has been done, my dear. i know nothing about it; i only heard about it to-night. has mrs. stanburne removed her furniture?" "not quite all yet. most of it is here, in mr. prigley's out-houses. it was the hurry of the removal that brought on grandmamma's illness." "well, my dear," said the old lady, laying her hand upon edith's, "let us pray to god that she may live. and we'll have all the furniture put back into the cottage." "i don't think grandmamma would consent to that." "but i'll make my son come and beg her pardon. i'll make him come!" edith could not resist mrs. ogden's earnestness. "i will try to bring grandmamma round, if she lives. you are very kind, mrs. ogden." "now, if you'd like me to sit up with mrs. stanburne, if you and mrs. prigley was tired, you know? i'm an old woman, but i'm a strong one, and i can sit up well enough. i've been used to nursing. i nursed our isaac wife all through her last illness." "mrs. prigley and i can do very well for to-night; but to-morrow, in the day-time, we shall need a little rest, and if you would come we should be much obliged." "and if there was any thing i could send from the great 'ouse--any jellies or blomonge?" "thank you; if we want any thing we will send for it to the hall." mrs. ogden rose to take her leave, which she did very affectionately. "i am very sorry for you, my dear," she said, "and i am angry at our jacob. he shouldn't 'ave done so--he shouldn't 'ave done so." she had no notion of abdicating parental authority--no idea that, because a lad happened to be twenty-one, or thirty-one, or forty-one, he was to be free to do exactly as he liked. and when she got back to the hall, and the guests were in bed, she treated "our jacob" _en petit garã§on_, just as if he had been fifteen. she informed him that mrs. stanburne's furniture would be reinstated in wenderholme cottage immediately, and that if she recovered he would have to go there and eat humble-pie. "an' if who doesn't get better, it'll be thee as has murdered her; and thou'll desarve to be hanged for't, same as bill o' great john's[27] as shot old nanny suthers wi' a pistil." chapter xv. lady helena returns. mrs. ogden returned to the vicarage the next day, and found mrs. stanburne in the same condition of extreme exhaustion. the rigton doctor had arrived in the interval, and relieved dr. bardly, who returned to shayton. the two medical men had expressed the same opinion--namely, that the old lady was gradually, but quite surely, sinking. mrs. ogden took her place by the bedside, and relieved mrs. prigley and edith. the patient being perfectly conscious, and in possession of all her mental faculties, edith had told her about mrs. ogden's first visit; and when she came near the bedside, mrs. stanburne held out her hand, or rather attempted to do so--for she had not strength to lift it--and it fell upon the counterpane. then she whispered a few words of thanks and welcome. "my son jacob shouldn't have done so--he shouldn't have done so," said mrs. ogden; and in reply there came faint syllables of forgiveness. then mrs. ogden asked mrs. stanburne if she would prove her forgiveness by going back to wenderholme cottage. "if i live, i will." "live! why you're sure to live. you're quite a young woman. look at me, how strong i am, and i'm older than you are. it's nothing but the hurry and worry of leaving your 'ouse that you was accustomed to that's brought you down in this way. you'll get well again--i'm sure you will; only, we must take care of you. now we've had enough talking for the present, and i'll get my sewing; and if you want any thing, i'll fetch it for you." then the strong old woman sat down by the bedside of the weaker one, and from that time forth established herself as one of her recognized nurses, and by no means the least efficient. in one essential point she was superior both to edith and mrs. prigley--she was less melancholy and more encouraging. the others could not help crying, and the patient saw that they had been crying, which made her feel as if she were assisting at her own funeral; whereas mrs. ogden kept a cheerful countenance, and, though as gentle as a woman could be, had nevertheless a fine firmness and courage which made mrs. stanburne feel that she could rely upon her. another immense advantage was, that in the presence of this hale and active example of a vigorous old age, mrs. stanburne altogether ceased to feel the burden of her years, and began to consider herself simply as a sick person in a state of temporary exhaustion, instead of an old woman whose thread of life had come to its inevitable end. indeed, mrs. ogden had not been long with the invalid before both of them had given up the theory that she was gradually sinking, and replaced it by more hopeful views. young jacob's interest in mrs. stanburne's health proved to be so strong that he could hardly absent himself from the vicarage; yet though mrs. ogden must have been perfectly well aware that he passed a good deal of his time there with miss edith, she showed no sign of displeasure, but when she found them together, seemed to consider it perfectly natural, and spoke to edith always affectionately, calling her "my dear," and putting an unaccustomed tenderness even into the very tones of her voice. the lord of wenderholme and his remaining guests left for shayton in the course of the afternoon, but mrs. ogden declared her intention of remaining until her patient was out of danger; and though her son had suggested that young jacob was not absolutely necessary as a nurse, mrs. ogden asserted that it was "a great comfort" to her to have him near her, and that he should go back to milend with his grandmother at such times as she might see fit to return thither. jacob ogden was a wilful and a mighty man; but either from habit or some genuine filial sentiment, or perhaps because no man can be really happy unless he is governed by a woman of some sort--either a wife, or a mother, or a maiden aunt--this hard and terrible master-spirit submitted to "the old woman" without question, and whatever _she_ willed was done. in saying that all jacob ogden's guests went back with him to shayton, an exception must be made in the case of his elder brother. captain ogden, as he was now generally called (for the people had gradually got into the habit of giving militia officers their titles), remained at wenderholme, for reasons of his own. he knew that colonel stanburne had been telegraphed for, and wished to see him. perhaps, too, he thought it might be agreeable to john stanburne to find a sincere friend in his old place, and that he might be able in some degree to mitigate the painfulness of an unavoidable return to scenes which could not be revisited without awakening many regretful associations. as all the prigley children were at school except conny, now a young lady who was supposed to have "come out," though in fact no such ceremony had taken place, from the want of any society to come out in, the vicarage was able to accommodate a good many guests, and the prigleys were only too happy to place it at the disposal of the family to whom they owed their recent advancement in the world. it was a pleasant and spacious, though not a very elegant, house; and there was a large garden, and an orchard, and a glebe of two or three fields, with sufficient stabling and out-houses. they had set up a small pony-carriage, or rather continued that which belonged to the late vicar, which they had purchased at the sale, with pony and harness complete, for the moderate sum of nine guineas; and conny prigley set off in this machine to await the train by which lady helena was expected to arrive. this arrangement was made without mrs. ogden's knowledge, and when she came to be aware of it, she exclaimed, "well, now, i wish i'd known--i do indeed, i _wish_ i'd known--for there's my cayridge at the 'all, which is quite at your service. our jacob's gone back with miss smethurst, and he's left me my cayridge, which you would have been quite welcome to." but the prigleys had tact enough to know, that although her ladyship rather liked to be magnificent, she might not particularly care for it to be mrs. ogden's magnificence; and that the little green pony-carriage, driven by conny prigley, was a more suitable vehicle to bring her ladyship to the vicarage than the sumptuous chariot in which mrs. ogden had triumphed the day before. lady helena duly arrived. it did not require much explanation from edith to make the whole situation quite clear to her perspicuous mind. she went upstairs to see mrs. stanburne, who was grateful to her for coming so soon, and the first person she saw in the room was mrs. ogden. there was a little stiffness at first, but it did not last long. lady helena and mrs. ogden got into conversation about the state of the patient, and then about other matters connected with what might be called the diocese of the lady of wenderholme. had mrs. ogden been one of the examples, so numerous in these days, of amazingly refined ladyhood in the middle classes, lady helena might have been jealous of her; but how was it possible for her ladyship to feel jealous of a simple old woman like mrs. ogden, who spoke broad lancashire, and in every movement of her body, and every utterance of her lips, proclaimed the humility of her birth? lady helena, moreover, had a keen sense of humor, and it was impossible not to feel interested and amused, as soon as the first anxiety about mrs. stanburne was at least temporarily tranquillized, by mrs. ogden's quaint turns of expression, and her wonderful reliance on her own wisdom and experience. even mrs. stanburne, ill as she was, could not help smiling, as she lay in her bed of sickness, when mrs. ogden came out with some of those sayings which were peculiarly her own. the condition of the invalid had become less distressing and less alarming, though the doctor still held out no hopes of a recovery. mrs. ogden, however, had succeeded in making the patient believe that she would get better because she believed it herself, and she believed it herself because the idea of a person dying of mere weakness at the early age of seventy-two was not admissible to her patriarchal mind. it was a great thing for mrs. stanburne to have somebody near her who did not consider that she was used up, and she began to regard mrs. ogden with the partiality which human nature always feels for those who preach comfortable doctrine. as there were so many ladies to nurse mrs. stanburne, and as the invalid now gave comparatively little immediate anxiety, edith easily got lady helena to herself for half an hour. the young lady was firmly resolved upon one thing--namely, that this opportunity for a reconciliation between her father and mother should not be lost through any pusillanimity of hers. "mamma," she said boldly, "why did you leave papa when he was ruined?" "because he ordered me to leave him; because he turned me out of the house." "but why did he do so? it is quite contrary to his character to turn anybody out. when he dismissed the servants, he did it very kindly, and only because he could not afford to keep them." lady helena remained silent. "do tell me, mamma, why he behaved so. it isn't like him; you know it isn't like him." "there are people, edith," said her ladyship, "who commit great follies; and then, when the misfortunes come which they themselves have caused, they cannot endure to hear one word of blame. they must be pitied and sympathized with, and then they are very nice and amiable; but if you express the least censure, they fly into a passion and insult you." "you mean that you censured papa for his imprudence, and that he got angry." "i said very little to him. i said a few words which were strictly true. i never scold." "no, mamma, you never scold; but scolding would be easier to bear than your blame. i see how it all was; you blamed papa in two or three terribly just and severe words, and then, after that, you said nothing to console him in his misery, and he became irritable, and said something hasty." lady helena said nothing to this, but she did not look displeased; and she showed no inclination either to leave the room or to change the subject. "dear mamma, i don't think you did wrong in blaming papa's imprudence; but if you had given him one word of kindness afterwards, you would never have lost him." "is not this rather"-"impertinent from a daughter, you mean to say. you know i don't want to be impertinent, mamma; but i'm old enough to be of some use, and i mean to be, too, whether your ladyship is quite satisfied or not. are you aware that papa will be here to-morrow?" "it is natural that he should come here, as his mother is ill." "and when he comes, we must do what we can to help him to bear his afflictions, i suppose." "certainly." "well, we won't pass any more votes of censure, mamma, will we? and we shall forgive him his trespasses, shall we not?" to this lady helena made no reply; but her face wore a new and a softer expression. this encouraged edith, who continued:-"he has suffered enough. he has been living all by himself in a miserable little french town on the loire. i have a whole heap of his letters. he told me every thing about his situation. grandpapa has been allowing him three hundred a-year--he has never touched a penny of it; it is paid regularly to grandmamma stanburne, who does not know that she is ruined, and who fancies that papa has an allowance, and lives abroad for his pleasure. his letters to her are all about amusements, but he writes to me sincerely, and _i_ know what his life has been. he has got a post as english master in a school, and they pay him twenty-five francs a-week, but he gives lessons in the town, and gets two francs a lesson, only he has not many of these. he is _en pension_ in an inn. it is a miserably lonely life. i would have gone to him, but i could not leave grandmamma." lady helena's eyes glistened in the firelight. they were brimming with tears. "you should have told me this sooner, edith," she said, at last. "would you have gone to him? would you have gone to live with him there, in his lodgings, and cheer him after his day's work?" "i have been less happy, edith, during these last months, than i should have been with him, wherever he is, however poor he is." after this avowal of her ladyship, the chances are great, i think, that the colonel will be agreeably received at the vicarage. miss edith communicated as much to the worthy vicar himself, who, though with anglican discretion he would have avoided intruding in the character of peacemaker, thought it a duty to encourage lady helena in the path of charity and forgiveness. "forgive him heartily and entirely any thing you may have to forgive. go to him at once when he comes. all your days will be blessed for this." chapter xvi. the colonel comes. in the evening came a telegram from the colonel, dated from dover, and announcing his arrival for the following morning. "what a pity it is," said lady helena, "that he did not give us a london address! we might have spared him a whole night of anxiety." she was thinking about him just as she used to think about him in their happiest years. on reference to the time-table, it appeared that the colonel would arrive at the station at about eight o'clock in the morning. when captain ogden heard of this, he said he would go to meet him, and so did young jacob; and mrs. ogden offered her carriage, and, in short, there was a general fuss, to which lady helena suddenly put an end by declaring her intention of going to meet him herself in the little pony-carriage that belonged to the vicarage. mr. prigley smiled approbation, and assured her ladyship that he would lend her that humble equipage with great pleasure, meaning a great deal more than he said. so lady helena drove off in the little green carriage at six o'clock in the morning; for the station, as the reader may remember, was ten miles from wenderholme, and it was necessary to bait the pony before he came back. it was a rude little equipage altogether, not very well hung, and by no means elegant in its proportions. the pony, too, in anticipation of winter, was beginning to put on his rough coat, and his harness had long since lost any brilliance it might have once possessed. the morning was cold and raw, and a chilly gray dawn was in the east--an aurora of the least encouraging kind, which one always feels disposed to be angry at for coming and disturbing the more cheerful darkness. some people at the vicarage were astonished that mr. prigley should allow her ladyship to drive off alone in this dreary way at six o'clock in the morning; but then these people did not know all that mr. prigley knew. when lady helena got into the carriage, the vicar shook hands with her in an uncommonly affectionate manner, just as if she had been leaving him for a very long time, and then he said something to her in a very low tone. "dear lady helena," he said, "god bless you!" and it is my firm belief that if mrs. prigley had not been within sight, that vicar would have given lady helena a kiss. away went the pony through the darkling lanes, with the rattling machine after him. poor pony! he had often done that long journey to the station, and done it with reasonable celerity, but he had never trotted so fast as he trotted now. can it be the early morning air that so exhilarates her ladyship? her face is so bright and cheerful that it conquers the dreariness of the hour, and brings a better sunshine than the gray october dawn. how little we know under what circumstances we shall enjoy the purest and sweetest felicity! this little woman had been in lordly equipages, in all sorts of splendid pleasures and stately ceremonies; she had been drawn by magnificent horses, with a powdered coachman on the box, and a cluster of lacqueys behind; she had gone in diamonds and feathers to st. james's; better still, she had driven through the fairest scenery under cloudless skies, when all nature rejoiced around her. all the luxury that skilled craftsmen can produce in combination had been hers; carriages hung so delicately, and cushioned so softly, that they seemed to float on air; harness that seemed as if its only purpose were to enhance the beauty of the horses which it adorned; liveries, varnish, silver, and the rest of it. and yet, of all the drives that lady helena had ever taken in her whole life, _this_ was the most delightful, this drive in the dreary dawn of an october morning in a rattling little carriage with stiff springs, painted like a park paling, and drawn by a shaggy pony at the rate of six miles an hour! she reached the station half an hour before the train came, and sat a little in the waiting-room, and walked about on the platform, in a state of nervous fidgetiness and anxiety. at length the bell rang, and the engine came round a curve, and grew bigger and bigger, and her heart beat faster and faster. "there he is, poor john, getting out of a third-class carriage!" lady helena had been seeking him amongst the well-to-do first-class passengers. she ran to him, and took his hand in both hers, and said, "she's better, love--a good deal better since yesterday." and the tears ran down her cheeks. the colonel looked at her for a moment, and took both her hands, and would have said something, or perhaps gone so far as to give her just one little kiss on the forehead--which is a wonderful thing for an englishman to achieve in a railway station--but these good intentions were frustrated by the guard, who, in rather a peremptory way, demanded to know whether he had any luggage. john stanburne felt like a man in a dream. going back to wenderholme, no longer his, with helena, his own helena once more! it was not in his nature to cherish the least vindictive feeling, and that one word of his wife had wiped away every evil recollection. when they got into the little pony-carriage, and were out of hearing of the hostler, the colonel turned to her ladyship, and said,-"i owe you a great many apologies, dear. i behaved very badly the last time we were together, but i was upset, you know. you are a good woman to come and meet me in this way, and forgive me. i have meant to write to you many a time and say how sorry i was, but i put it off because--because"-it is well that the pony was quiet, and knew its own way to wenderholme, for when they got into an uncommonly retired lane, with very high hedges, her ladyship, who was driving, threw the reins down, and embraced the gentleman by her side in an extraordinary manner. then came passionate tears, and after that she grew calmer. "what geese we were to fancy we could live separately!" she said. and then they talked incessantly the whole way. she asked him a thousand questions about his life abroad,--how he passed his evenings, whether he had found any society, and so on. as the colonel told her about his humble, lonely life, she listened with perfect sympathy; and when he said that some people had been kind to him, and got him pupils, she wanted to know all about them. "i'm getting on famously," said the colonel. "i'm earning nearly sixty francs a-week, and i pronounce french better than i used to do." chapter xvii. a morning call. since we are obliged to leave the vicarage now, the reader must be told the exact truth about mrs. stanburne's condition. it continued to give great anxiety for several weeks, and all her friends, even including the doctors, gave her up over and over again, believing that she had not more than an hour or two to live; yet she always passed through these times of danger, and gradually, very gradually, began to feel rather stronger in the month of december. the season of the year was not favorable to her, but dr. bardly hoped that if she could be sustained till the return of spring, she would regain her strength, at least in a great measure, and probably have several years of life still before her. she bore the winter better than had been expected, though without quitting her room at the vicarage, and in the month of april entered upon a convalescence which astonished all around her. the old lady's illness led to very important consequences. since the period of her danger was protracted, her friends remained near her day after day, and week after week, always believing that they were performing the last duty by a deathbed. a great sadness reigned in the vicarage during all this season of watching, but it was sadness of the kind which is most favorable to sympathy and good feeling. the vicar and his good wife, so far from feeling the presence of the invalid and their other guests a burden, were glad that it was in their power to do any thing for her and for them; and whilst the old lady lay upon her bed of sickness she was producing happier and more important results, simply by throwing certain persons together by invisible bonds of mutual approval and a common anxiety, than she could ever have achieved by an active ingerence in their affairs. everybody who loved old mrs. stanburne was grateful to everybody who gave proof of a real interest in her condition; and the majestic approach of death, whose shadow lay on the vicarage so long, subdued all its inhabitants into a more perfect spiritual harmony than they would ever have attained to amongst the distractions of gayer, though not happier, days. lady helena was admirable. there was a tenderness and a simplicity in her manner which pleased the colonel greatly, and won the warm approval of the vicar. she devoted herself mainly to the care of mrs. stanburne, but, saying that exercise was necessary to enable her to do her duty as a nurse, made the colonel walk out with her every day. these walks were delightful to both of them--for even though the scenery about the village of wenderholme was full of painful associations, their sense of loss was more than balanced by the sense of a yet larger gain; and the future, though it could not have the external brilliance of the past, promised a deeper and more firm felicity. sadness and unhappiness are two very different conditions of the mind, and it does not follow that because we are saddened we are incapable of being very happy in a certain quiet and not unenviable way. indeed, it might even be asserted, that as "our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought"-so it is with life itself, as well as poetry, and that our sweetest hours are far from being our gayest. it had become tacitly understood that neither lady helena nor mrs. ogden would offer any opposition to the marriage between jacob and edith. whatever mrs. ogden determined to do, she did in a thorough and effectual manner; and as she had resolved that amends ought to be made to the stanburnes for her son's conduct to the old lady, she considered that the best way to do this would be to receive edith kindly into her family. in this resolution she was greatly helped by a genuine approval of the young lady herself. "there's some girls as brings fortunes," she said to young jacob, "and there's other girls as _is_ a fortune themselves, and i think miss stanburne will be as good as a fortune to any one who may marry her." nor had this opinion been lightly arrived at, for during her frequent visits to the vicarage, mrs. ogden had studied edith, much in the same way as an entomologist studies an insect under a microscope. one day, when the weather became a little warmer, lady helena said to the colonel, "don't you think, dear, that we ought to go and call upon that old mrs. ogden at the hall? she has been exceedingly kind in coming to sit with mamma. i would have suggested it sooner, but i was afraid it might be painful for you, dear, to go to the old house again." so they set out and walked to the hall together, both of them feeling very strange feelings, indeed, as they passed up the familiar avenue. when they came at last in sight of the great house, john stanburne paused and gazed upon it for a long time without speaking. it stood just as he had left it--none of the carved stanburne shields had been removed. "i'm glad they've altered nothing, helena," he said. then they met their old gardener, who spoke to them with the tears in his eyes. "it's different for us to what it used to be, my lady," he said; "not but what mrs. ogden is a good woman, but her son is a hard master." "we were coming to see mrs. ogden," said lady helena; "do you know if she is at home?" "you won't find her in the house, my lady; but if you will come this way, i'll take you to where she is." nature always puts some element of comedy into the most touching circumstances, and saves us from morbid feelings by glimpses of the ludicrous side of life. thus, although the gardener had had tears in his eyes when he saw the colonel and lady helena, there was a smile upon his face as he led them in the direction of the stables. "your ladyship will find mrs. ogden in that carriage," he said, pointing to the magnificent ogden chariot, which stood, as if to air itself, without horses, in the middle of the yard. when he had said this, the gardener made his bow and disappeared, smiling with keen satisfaction at what he had just done. the visitors were much surprised, but, as the gardener well knew, curiosity alone was strong enough to make them go up to the carriage and see whether there was anybody inside it. the colonel peeped in at the window, and saw mrs. ogden sitting in the vehicle, apparently in quite a settled and permanent way, for she had her knitting. "eh, well, it's the colonel and her ladyship, i declare!" cried mrs. ogden, opening the carriage-door. "come and get in--do get in--it's very comfortable. i often come and sit here a bit of an afternoon with my knitting. but what perhaps you'd rather go and sit a bit i' th' 'ouse?" they got inside the carriage with the old lady, and their amusement at this circumstance quite relieved those feelings of melancholy which had naturally taken possession of them on revisiting wenderholme. the conversation was quite agreeable and animated, and half an hour passed very rapidly. after that, the callers proposed to depart. "nay," said mrs. ogden, "you willn't be going away so soon, will you? come into th' 'ouse, now--_do_ come and have a glass of wine." lady helena promised that they would come to the house another day, but said that she wished to go back to mrs. stanburne. on this mrs. ogden said, "well, then, if you _will_ go back, sit you still." and she let down the glass and called out in a loud voice for the horses. the horses were put to the carriage, and the visitors shortly found themselves in motion towards the vicarage, which proves the advantage of receiving friends in a small drawing-room on four wheels. the incident created a great deal of amusement, and even old mrs. stanburne laughed at it very heartily. very trifling and absurd things are often of great use in putting people in a good temper, and chasing melancholy ideas; and mrs. ogden's fancy for sitting in her carriage developed a wonderful amount of kindly humor at the vicarage. nothing does people more good than laughing at their neighbors, and they love their neighbors all the better for having laughed at them; so mrs. ogden's popularity at the vicarage was increased by this incident, and i dare say it accelerated mrs. stanburne's recovery in an appreciable, though not ascertainable, degree. chapter xviii. money on the brain. immediately after the colonel's return from france, captain ogden went back to his solitude at twistle farm, but his son spent a good deal of his time with old mrs. ogden at wenderholme. jacob ogden, senior, came to wenderholme frequently to look after the work-people on the estate, but did not mark his disapproval of his nephew's proceedings otherwise than by quietly excluding him from all participation in his affairs. although the young man passed a great deal more time at wenderholme than his uncle did, he was never requested, and he never offered, to do any of the duties of an overlooker, and his uncle treated him strictly upon the footing of a visitor--a visitor, not to himself, but to his mother. there is so much firmness in the character of the typical lancashire man, that he can assume, and maintain for an indefinite length of time, an attitude towards a friend or relation which would be impossible for more mobile temperaments; and young jacob knew his uncle well enough to be aware that having once decided upon his line of conduct, there was every probability that he would follow it without deviation. therefore, although young jacob could have made himself of the greatest use at wenderholme without interfering either with his amusement of shooting or his dutiful attendance upon miss edith; he paid no more attention to the work-people than if they had been employed by some proprietor entirely unknown to him. it is unnecessary to add, that when at twistle farm, where he spent about one week out of three, he never went near his uncle's factories. and yet, notwithstanding the apparent indifference with which jacob ogden dispensed with his nephew's services, they were more than ever necessary to him. the great factories at shayton were enough of themselves to absorb the whole time of a very active master; but, in addition to these, jacob ogden was now working the calico-printing establishment at whittlecup, which had formerly belonged to mr. joseph anison, and carrying out extensive improvements, not only upon the wenderholme estate, but upon many other properties of his, scattered over the neighboring parishes, and often at a considerable distance from his headquarters at milend. though his constitution was a strong one, he had always taxed its strength to the utmost; and his powers were not what they had been, nor what he still believed them to be. he might have gone on for many years in the old routine that he had been accustomed to--for a hard-worked man will endure labor that seems beyond his present strength if he merely continues the habits of his better time. but a man already in the decline of life cannot _add_ to his labor without danger, if it is already excessive, and especially if the new labors require thought and study before they can be fully mastered. the improvements at wenderholme, to an experienced land-owner like jacob ogden, required no new apprenticeship; but that was not the case with the calico-printing business at whittlecup. it was a new trade that had to be learned, and not a very easy trade--not nearly so simple as cotton-spinning. he applied himself to it with that indomitable will and resolution which had hitherto overcome every obstacle in his career, and he rapidly acquired the new knowledge that he needed. but this effort, in addition to the enormous burden of his daily work--the daily work of a rich man who could not endure to be robbed, and would trust nothing to his agents--began to tell upon his cerebral system in a peculiar manner; and these effects were the more dangerous that jacob ogden had no conception of the terrible nature of the enemy that was invading him, but believed this enemy might be conquered by his will and perseverance, as every other obstacle had been. if he had frankly consulted dr. bardly on the appearance of the first symptoms, and followed the advice which dr. bardly would have given, the evil would have been checked in time; but he felt a certain hostility to the doctor, which disinclined him to communications which he did not feel to be immediately necessary; and even if this could have been laid aside, a man so wilful as jacob ogden, and so accustomed to look after his own affairs, would scarcely have consented under present circumstances to give up the management of his business to his nephew, and retire to a premature and inglorious repose. hitherto he had gone through his work with great energy, in combination with perfect calm. the energy still remained, it even increased; but the calm did not remain--it was succeeded by a perpetual hurry and fever. in a short time after these symptoms first developed themselves, jacob ogden could not add up a column of figures without excitement; when he came to the totals his heart beat violently, and he began to make mistakes, which he perceived, and was afterwards nervously anxious to avoid. as his malady increased, he could not open a letter without emotion, or sign a cheque without a strong effort of self-control; in a word, the nervous system was rapidly giving way. and instead of taking rest, which could alone have restored him to health--rest at wenderholme amongst his own fair fields in the beautiful months of spring--he persisted and persisted, and would not allow himself to be beaten. the people about him did not know any thing of his condition. he was more irritable, he pushed everybody faster than he had formerly done, and he was constantly moving from one place to another; but his determination to control himself was so strong, and his power of _appearing_ well still so considerable, that such people as mrs. ogden and young jacob (unaccustomed as they both were to that kind of suffering, and incapable of imagining it) had not the most distant suspicion that he had become unfit for work. indeed, although an experienced london physician, who had made brain disease his particular study, would no doubt have seen at a glance that this was a case which needed the most watchful care, it may be doubted whether a country practitioner (even so clever, naturally, as dr. bardly) would have warned jacob ogden in time. the overtasked brain translated its own dangerous condition by _anxiety_, and the anxiety was not about health, but, as often happens in such instances, about that subject which had most occupied the patient's mind before the approaches of disease--namely, money. with all his riches, jacob ogden grew more nervously anxious about money matters than the poorest laborer on his estate. his mind ran incessantly upon possible causes of loss; and as in the best-regulated property such causes are always infinitely numerous, he found them only too easily. the thousands of details which, when in health, he had carried in his head as lightly as we carry the words of a thoroughly mastered language, began to torment him with the apprehension that they might escape his memory; and whereas, in his better days, no fact troubled him except just at the moment when he wanted it, they now importunately intruded upon his mind when they could only disturb and confuse it. at length, as his disease advanced towards its sure and terrible development, the anxiety, which was the form it had taken, and the mental hurry and worry which accompanied it, arrived at such a pitch that the least delicate and acute observers remarked it in jacob ogden's face. his mother earnestly entreated him not to torment himself so much about his affairs, but to take a partner, and allow himself more rest. the advice came too late. the tender cells of the cerebrum were in a state of fevered disturbance, which must now inevitably lead to one of the forms of madness. it broke out one night at wenderholme. he toiled till three o'clock in the morning, alone, at his accounts. there was nothing in them which he would not have mastered quite easily when in health, but the condition of his brain had led to many errors, and the attempt to correct these had only increased and multiplied them. he toiled and toiled till his brain could no longer stand the confusion, and he went mad. first there came a sense of strangeness to every thing about him, and then a wild alarm--a _terror_ such as he had never known! for a few minutes reason fiercely struggled to keep her seat, and would not be dispossessed. those minutes were the most fearful the man had ever passed through. he sprang from his place, and paced the room from wall to wall in violent agitation. "i'm very ill," he thought; "i cannot tell what's the matter with me. i believe i'm going to have a fit. no, it isn't that--it isn't that; i know what it is--i know now--_i'm going mad_!" no visible external foe can ever be so terrible as the mysterious internal avengers. they come upon us we know not when nor where. they come when the doors are locked, the mansion guarded, and all the household sleeps. they come in their terrible invisibility, like devils taking possession. the strokes of mortal disease are dealt mysteriously _within_; and who would not rather meet a body of armed savages than invisible apoplexy or paralysis? for five minutes ogden wrestled with his invisible enemy. "i _will_ not go mad," he cried aloud--"i _will_ not!" and a minute afterwards the struggle ceased, and he was another being, mad beyond hope of recovery. a strange smile came over his face, and he pressed his hand upon his forehead. "i'll dodge them yet," he said; "they aren't as sharp as i am. i'm sharper than the best of them!" he began to count the money in his purse. it was not much--five pounds eighteen exactly. he counted the sum quite correctly, over and over again; then he looked anxiously about for a place to hide it in. whilst he was doing this, his mother, who had felt anxious about him all night, and had been unable to sleep, came to his room-door and listened. she heard him walking about and muttering to himself. then she opened the door and went in. he concealed his purse cunningly, and placed himself between the intruder and its hiding-place. "jacob," she said, "you ought to be in bed; why are you up like that? it's three o'clock in the morning." he began to talk very rapidly. he knew his mother perfectly well. "mother," he said, "when bailiffs comes you willn't tell 'em where i have hid my brass; see, i've hidden it here, but you willn't tell 'em, mother?" and then he lifted up a corner of the carpet and showed his little purse. mrs. ogden trembled from head to foot. "our jacob's crazed," she said to herself--"our jacob's gone crazed!" she felt too weak to remain standing, and sat down, never taking her eyes off him. he put the purse back, and covered it again with great care. then he took his memorandum-book, and seemed to be making an entry. "let me look at that book," mrs. ogden said. it was as she had feared. the entry was a hopelessly illegible jumble of unmeaning lines and figures. "hadn't you better go to bed?" "go to bed, mother--not if i know it!" he said this with a smile of intense cunning, and then added, confidentially, "the bailiffs are comin' to-morrow, and baron rothschild has bought all my property, a large price, a million sterling--a million sterling; it's baron rothschild that bought it, mother, for a million sterling!" the poor old woman burst into tears. "o jacob!" she said, "i wish you wouldn't talk so!" "why, mother," he replied, with an injured air, and a look of intense penetration, "you know well enough what i failed for. i never should have failed if it hadn't been for that sootythorn bank; but they came to borrow money of me at milend, and i took up shares for a hundred thousand, and then the smash came, and i failed. but never you mind, mother. baron rothschild bought my estates for a million sterling. that shows i was a millionnaire. doesn't it, mother? for if i hadn't been worth a million, baron rothschild wouldn't have given a million for my property. he willn't give more for property than what it's worth." "o jacob! you do make me miserable with talking so." she did not know what to do with him. young jacob and her son isaac were both at twistle farm. at last she thought of colonel stanburne, who was staying at wenderholme cottage. she left her son for a few minutes, and sent a messenger for the colonel. on returning to jacob's room, she found him busy counting his money over again. he had taken the purse from its hiding-place. the strength of her own nervous system was such that she bore even this appalling event with firmness. she was grieved beyond power of expression, but she was not overcome. happily there was no violence in jacob ogden's madness; he was not in the least dangerous. he simply kept repeating that story about his supposed failure, which he always attributed to the sootythorn bank, and the purchase of his property by baron rothschild. when the colonel came, he told him the same story in the same words. "you are mistaken on one point," the colonel said. "it was i, colonel stanburne, who was ruined by the failure of the sootythorn bank, not you. you were never ruined. you purchased wenderholme." mr. ogden looked at him with the air of a professional man when a layman has advanced something which he knows to be absurd. then he shook his head, and repeated the story about baron rothschild. the colonel kindly remained with him till morning, and bravely watched him through the dreary hours. a messenger had been despatched on horseback to twistle farm and to dr. bardly. isaac ogden and his son were at wenderholme by breakfast-time, and the doctor's brougham drove up very shortly afterwards. dr. bardly tried to be encouraging. "he has been working too much," he said, "and made himself too anxious; he may get round again with rest and care. give him good roast-meat and plenty of physical work." but about ten o'clock jacob ogden became anxious to quit wenderholme, being full of apprehension about the bailiffs. "better let him have his own way," said the doctor; so he was taken to milend. at milend, however, there were other causes of anxiety. the bailiffs tormented him at wenderholme; the idea of baron rothschild haunted him at milend. the experiment was tried of showing him the factory and the counting-house, but with most discouraging results. the factory produced a degree of excitement which, if continued, would probably lead to madness of an aggravated and far more dangerous kind. specialists were telegraphed for from manchester and from london, and a consultation was held. they agreed that the patient must be kept out of the way of every thing that might remind him of his former career, recommending extreme tranquillity, good but simple diet, and as much physical exercise as the patient could be induced to take. these might be had conveniently in mrs. ogden's favorite little farm, the cream-pot. it was situated in a glen or clough, out of sight of the shayton factory-chimneys. so the old lady went there to live with her afflicted son. she could manage him better than anybody else, and he was never dangerous. after a time, a happy discovery was made. he counted the money in his purse several times a-day, and mrs. ogden told him that if he would dig their little garden, she would pay him wages. he seized upon this idea with great joy and eagerness, and she paid him a sovereign on the saturday night. the week following he worked very hard, and counted the days, and spoke of his anticipated earnings with delight. so his mother paid him another sovereign, and ever afterwards this became the rule, and she employed him at a pound a-week. he kept all the sovereigns in his purse, and they were his joy and treasure. his physical health became excellent, and though his intellect gave no hope of restoration, his days passed not unhappily. his mother tended him with the most touching devotion, and a self-sacrifice so absolute that she ceased to visit her friends, and abandoned all the little amusements and varieties of her life. chapter xix. the colonel at stanithburn. the long illness and slow convalescence of mrs. stanburne, and the deplorable mental affliction which fell upon jacob ogden, and threw a cloud of lasting sadness over the whole ogden family, produced long delays in the projects of young jacob and edith, and were the cause of much indecision on the part of the colonel and lady helena. mrs. stanburne returned to wenderholme cottage in the earliest days of spring, but the colonel and his wife had already stayed there for many weeks, being anxious not to abuse the kind hospitality of the vicarage. the vicar's sentiments when they left him were of a mixed kind. he was glad, and he was sorry. in his gladness there was no selfish calculation--the stanburnes were welcome to every thing he could offer them; but in his warm approval of lady helena's conduct towards the colonel, he had been a little too demonstrative to be quite agreeable to mrs. prigley, and therefore mrs. prigley had thought it incumbent upon her, as a british matron of unspotted virtue, to make his life as miserable as she could. mrs. ogden, too, had inflamed mrs. prigley's jealousy in another way by coming and nursing mrs. stanburne. what right had one of those "nasty ogdens" to come and nurse mrs. stanburne? mrs. prigley looked upon the invalid as exclusively her own property. edith, being young and insignificant, might sit a little with her grandmother--but mrs. ogden! if lady helena had not come just in time to take upon herself a good deal of this now inflamed and awakened jealousy, the consequence would have been that poor mr. prigley would have incurred grave suspicions of an amorous intrigue with the old lady of milend; but as lady helena was younger than mrs. prigley, and mrs. ogden a good deal her senior, the vicaress paid her husband the compliment of believing that he had placed his sinful affections on the more eligible of the two ladies. so soon, therefore, as she had ascertained to her own satisfaction the culpability of the guilty pair (and when the commonest politeness was evidence, proofs were not far to seek), the vicaress treated her ladyship with the haughty coldness which is the proper behavior of a virtuous and injured woman towards her sinful rival, and she treated her husband as his abominable wickedness deserved. in a word, she made life utterly insupportable for mr. prigley. lady helena saw the true situation of affairs before the parson did (for he in his masculine simplicity attributed his wife's behavior to any cause but the right one), and she migrated at once to the cottage with the colonel. when mrs. stanburne was well enough to bear the removal, she was brought back to her old house, and continued steadily to improve. still her health was far from being strong enough to make the idea of leaving her an admissible one, so the colonel and lady helena remained at wenderholme a long time. young jacob came frequently to see edith, but the marriage, though now agreed upon by all parties, was indefinitely postponed. whilst matters were in this state of suspension, the relation between mr. jacob ogden and his family had to be legally settled. his brother isaac received the factories and estates, in trust, conjointly with his mother, with the usufruct thereof, â£500 a-year being set aside for the patient's maintenance. on account of the urgency of the situation, but much against the grain of his now acquired habits, mr. isaac ogden quitted his solitude at twistle farm, and resumed, at milend, the life of a cotton-manufacturer, in partnership with his son. meanwhile colonel stanburne's position was, from the financial point of view, any thing but brilliant. he had no income, after paying the allowance to his mother, except a share in the â£300 a-year remaining to his wife. he was anxious to return to france and resume the humble profession which he had found for himself there. lady helena said that wherever he went she would go too, and nothing but the slowness of mrs. stanburne's recovery prevented them from leaving england. they were in this state--being, as things in life often are, in a sort of temporary but indefinite lull and calm--when an event occurred which produced the most important changes. mr. john stedman being on a visit to his friend at stanithburn peel, took one of his customary long walks amongst the wild rocky hills in that neighborhood, and was caught--not for the first time--in a sudden storm of rain. by the time the storm was over he was wet through, but being interested in the search for a plant, went on wandering till rather late in the evening. if he had kept constantly in movement it is probable that no harm would have resulted from this little imprudence, but unfortunately he found the plant he was in search of, and this led him to do a little botanical anatomy with a microscope which he carried in his pocket. absorbed in this occupation, he sat down on the bare rock, and forgot the minutes as they passed. he spent more than an hour in this way, and rose from his task with a feeling of chill, and a slight shiver, which, however, disappeared when his pedestrian exercise was resumed. on returning to the peel he thought no more of the matter, and ate a hearty dinner, sitting rather late afterwards with philip stanburne, and drinking more than his usual allowance of brandy-and-water. the next day he did not go out, and towards evening complained of a slight pain or embarrassment in the chest. the symptoms gradually became alarming, a doctor was sent for, and mr. stedman's illness was discovered to be a congestion of both lungs. of this malady he died. in his will, after various legacies, liberal but not excessive, to all the poor people who were his relations, and the relations of his deceased wife, he named "his dear friend and son, philip stanburne," residuary legatee, "both in token of his own friendship and gratitude towards the said philip stanburne, and also because in making this bequest the testator believes that he is best fulfilling the wishes of his beloved daughter, alice." but, notwithstanding john stedman's affectionate friendship for the man whom alice had loved, there still remained in him much of the resolution of a stalwart enemy of rome, and the resolution dictated a certain codicil written not long before his death. in this codicil he provided that, "in case the said philip stanburne should enter any order of the church of rome, whether secular or ecclesiastical, or endow the said church of rome with any portion of his wealth, then the foregoing will and testament should be void, and of none effect. and further, that the said philip stanburne should solemnly promise never to give or bequeath to the church of rome any portion of this bequest, and in case of his refusal to make such promise," the money should be disposed of as we will now explain. the testator proceeded to affirm that it was still his desire to leave part of his property in such a manner as to testify his gratitude to philip stanburne; and therefore, if the latter took orders in the church of rome, mr. stedman's bequest should still pass to a person of the name of stanburne, but professing the protestant religion--namely, to john stanburne, formerly of wenderholme. in this case, however, a large deduction would be made from the legacy in favor of an intimate friend of the testator, joseph anison, formerly of arkwright lodge, near whittlecup. all this was set forth with that minute and tedious detail which is necessary, or is supposed to be necessary, in every legal document. now for several years past philip stanburne had been firmly resolved, on the death of mr. stedman (which would release him from his promise to alice), to enter a monastic order remarkable for industry and simplicity of life, founded by the celebrated father muard, but since affiliated to the benedictines; and it was a suspicion of this resolve, or perhaps more than a suspicion, which had dictated mr. stedman's codicil. the will made no difference in philip stanburne's plans, and he was delighted that the colonel should inherit what would probably turn out to be a fortune. when the question was formally put to him, he affirmed his intention of being a monk of _la pierre qui vire_. in consequence of this declaration, the codicil took effect. the factory in sootythorn, the house at chesnut hill, and a capital sum of â£20,000, went to mr. joseph anison; but even after all the legacies to poor relations, there still remained a residue of â£35,000, which passed directly to the colonel. mr. stedman had been much richer than any one believed, and his fortune, already considerable in the lifetime of his daughter, had doubled since her death. philip stanburne, who had been occasionally to wenderholme since the colonel's return, to inquire after mrs. stanburne, and pass an hour or two with an old friend, now proposed to sell him stanithburn peel. "it would make me miserable," he said, "to sell it to anybody else, but to you it's different. buy it, and go to live there." but he did not really sell the peel itself. he sold the land, and gave the strong old tower. the place was valued by friends, mutually appointed, who received a hint from philip that they were not to count the peel. the colonel knew nothing about this, but gave â£20,000 for the estate, and invested the remainder of his capital in something better than the sootythorn bank. as mrs. stanburne was now well enough to be left, the colonel and lady helena set off one fine day for stanithburn. the peel had been admirably restored, though with great moderation, in philip stanburne's quiet and persevering way, and all its incongruities and anachronisms had been removed. when they came to the front door, who should open it but--fyser! "please, sir," he said, "would you be so kind as to take me on again?" the colonel said not a word in answer, but he gave honest fyser's hand such a shake that it was perfectly natural the tears should come into his eyes. the tears would come into anybody's eyes if his hand was squeezed like that. whilst her ladyship went to take her things off, fyser said, "would you like to step this way, sir?" the colonel followed obediently. "this will be your den, i suppose, sir, unless you would like to have it in another part of the 'ouse." john stanburne felt like a man in a dream. there was every scrap of his old den-furniture in the place. philip stanburne had bought it all at the wenderholme sale--every atom of it, even to his old boot-jack. and as mr. fyser had had the arrangement of it, you may be sure that it was in the old convenient and accustomed order. but the colonel and lady helena were still more surprised to find in the principal rooms of the house various cabinets and other things of value which had formerly been at wenderholme, and especially a museum of family relics which had occupied the centre of the great hall. in these cabinets and cases little plates of silver were discovered, on examination, to be inlaid, and each of these little plates was engraved with the inscription, "presented to colonel stanburne by the officers of the twentieth royal lancashire militia." the regiment happened to be just then up for its annual training under a major-commanding, no new colonel having as yet been appointed. and one day there came rather a solemn deputation of officers to stanithburn peel, all in full uniform. the spokesman of the deputation was our old acquaintance, captain eureton. he began by informing colonel stanburne that, although the lieutenant-colonelcy had been offered to the senior major, he had begged the lord-lieutenant to permit him to remain at the head of the regiment as major-commanding; and that now he and all the officers unanimously joined in entreating colonel stanburne to withdraw his resignation, and resume his old position amongst them. there was no mistaking the earnestness and sincerity of this petition, and john stanburne consented. he was received at sootythorn at a great banquet given by the officers just before the disbanding of the regiment; and at the review which concluded the training, it was john stanburne who commanded. chapter xx. a simple wedding. "i could so like to go to little jacob weddin'," said mrs. ogden one day in her little home at the cream-pot, "but i'm like as if i were 'feard to leave our jacob for one single day. he's just same as a childt, an' to-morrow's his pay-day, an' i couldn't like anybody else to pay him his week's wage. but what i suppose they'll be just as well wed as if i'd been there, for that matter." it seems to us quite a pity that mrs. ogden could not contrive to be at wenderholme church on the wedding-day, for she would have been well received by mrs. stanburne at the breakfast given by that lady at wenderholme cottage, but ever since "our jacob misfortin'" no power on earth could get her away from the cream-pot, and all reasoning on the subject was trouble thrown away. little jacob's wedding-day passed like all other monotonous days for mrs. ogden, so far as action or variety was concerned, but she thought of him from morning till night. as for the elder jacob, he tranquilly pursued his digging in the garden, looking forward with eager anticipation to the payment of his week's wages on the same evening, for he had some consciousness of the lapse of time, especially towards the close of the week. on thursdays he began to ask if it were not saturday, on fridays the question became frequent, and on saturday itself his mother had to promise a hundred times that she would pay his wages at six o'clock. his old habits of energy and perseverance were still visible in his daily work. he labored conscientiously to make the garden produce as much as spade labor could do for it, he carefully economized every inch of ground, and did all that mere physical labor could for its advantage. on the other hand, wherever the intelligence of a gardener was necessary, his shattered intellect was constantly at fault, and he committed the wildest havoc. he rooted up the garden-flowers as weeds, and could only recognize one or two of the most familiar and most productive plants. he knew the carrot, for example, and the potato, and these he cultivated in his own strange way. his mother sacrificed the little cream-pot garden to him entirely, and got the vegetables for house use from milend, and the fruit from wenderholme, so that he could destroy or cultivate at his own absolute will and pleasure, and this he did with the cunning and self-satisfaction of the insane. the evening of that day when little jacob was married, his grandmother had a new idea about her afflicted son. "jacob," she said to him when the time for payment came, and his eyes were glistening as he clutched the golden coin, "jacob, thou shouldn't let thy money lie by same as that without gettin' interest for it. there's twenty pound in thy purse by this. lend me thy twenty pound, an' i'll give thee five per cent, that'll make a pound a-year interest for thee." when the magical word "interest" sounded in his ear for the first time since the break-down of his mental faculties, uncle jacob's face assumed a look of intelligence which startled his mother and gave her a gleam of hope. "interest, interest!" he said, and paused as if lost in thought; then he added, "compound interest! doubles up, compound interest, doubles up fast!" these words, however, must have been mere reminiscences of his former state, for he proved utterly incapable of understanding the nature of even simple interest as a weekly payment. mrs. ogden offered him sixpence as a week's interest for his money, but he asked for a sovereign being accustomed to weekly payments of one pound, and he seemed troubled and irritated when it was not given to him. he understood the pound a week for his digging, but he could not grasp any more complicated idea. his constant secret occupation, when not at work, was to handle his accumulating sovereigns. in this way, notwithstanding his insanity and his incapability of imagining the great fortune he had heaped up when in health, he enjoyed money as much as ever, for the mere quantity has really very little to do with the delight of the passion of avarice. it is the _increase_ which gives delight, not the quantity, and jacob ogden's private store was incessantly increasing, so much indeed that his mother had to give him a money-box. when the weekly sovereigns became numerous, he was incapable of counting them, but he had a certain sense of quantity and a keen satisfaction in the evident increase of his store. little jacob's marriage was strangely simple, considering the wealth of one of the two families and the station of the other; but the elder jacob's condition, and recent events in the life of colonel stanburne, had so sobered everybody that there was not the slightest desire on either side for any demonstration or display. as it concerned lady helena, this simplicity was not displeasing to her, for reasons of her own. she was glad, in her own mind, that mrs. ogden did not come, for she keenly dreaded the old lady's strange sayings on a semi-public occasion like the present, and the privacy of the marriage was a good excuse for not inviting many of her own noble friends. the bridesmaids were the prigley girls and a young sister of lady helena. mr. prigley performed the ceremony, and there was not a stranger in the little wenderholme church, except a reporter for the "sootythorn gazette," who furnished a brilliant account of this "marriage in high life," which we have no disposition to quote. if mrs. ogden had chosen to bring to bear upon poor edith all the weight of her terrible critical power as a supreme judge of housekeeping accomplishments, i am afraid that the young lady would have come out of the ordeal ignominiously for she could neither darn a stocking properly nor make a potato-pie, but criticism is often mollified by personal favor and partiality; and the old lady never goes farther in the severity of censure than to say, "little jacob wife is not much of a housekeeper, but she was never brought up to it you know; and they'll have plenty to live upon, so it willn't matter so much as it would 'ave done if they'd been poorer people." poverty is certainly not the evil which the young couple need apprehend, for the condition of jacob ogden the elder being considered permanent, a judicial decision transferred his income to his brother isaac, after deducting â£1,000 a year for his maintenance, which was paid to his mother; an entirely superfluous formality, as she accumulated the whole of it for her grandson, and kept jacob ogden well supplied with all that he needed, or had intelligence to desire, out of her own little independent fortune. isaac ogden was now charged with the management of the business and estates. it then became apparent how splendidly successful the life of the cotton-manufacturer had been. at the time of the opening of this history, he was already earning, or rather _netting_, since the operatives earned it for him, an income larger than the salary of a prime minister, and successive years raised him to a pecuniary equality with the lord chancellor, the archbishop of canterbury, and the governor-general of india. at the time of his cerebral catastrophe, he was at the height of his success; and his numerous rills and rivers of income, flowing from properties of all kinds, from shares, from the print-works at whittlecup, and from his enormous mill at shayton, made, when added together, an aggregate far surpassing the national allowance to princes of royal blood. in a word, at the time of what mrs. ogden always called "our jacob's misfortin'," "our jacob" had just got past â£50,000 a year, and was beginning to encourage the not improbable anticipation that his income would get up to the hundred thousand before he died. such as it was already, it exceeded by exactly one thousand times the pittance for which, as the slave of his own disordered imagination, he was now toiling from morning till night. nothing is more difficult than to get rid of a great business. such mills as jacob ogden's are very difficult to let, and to close them entirely would be to throw a whole neighborhood out of work and diminish the value of property within a considerable radius. there was nothing for it, therefore, but to keep the business going, so mr. isaac ogden threw aside his habits of leisure at twistle farm and came to live at milend. he managed the work for some time with considerable energy; but he had been so long unused to the employment, that this business life, with its incessant claims upon time and attention, required a constant effort of the will, and he felt himself incapable of continuing it indefinitely. young jacob helped him energetically; but the vast concern which his uncle had established, with the addition of the print-works at whittlecup, required more looking after than even he was equal to; so in order that isaac ogden might have some leisure at twistle farm, and be able to join the militia at the annual training, the calico business at whittlecup had to be given up. it could not be sold during old jacob ogden's life; but it was let, together with arkwright lodge, to mr. joseph anison, on terms exceedingly advantageous to the latter, who will be able, after all, to give handsome dowries to his younger daughters, and to leave miss margaret the richest old maid in whittlecup. young jacob and his wife established themselves at wenderholme, but she soon complained that he was too much away on business, and declared her intention of accompanying him on his journeys to milend, which she has ever since been in the habit of doing. when at milend (which has been much beautified and improved), they go a great deal to the cream-pot, where old mrs. ogden still devotes herself to the care of her unfortunate son. "i'm thankful to god," she says, "that our jacob is so 'appy with his misfortin'. every time i give him his sovereign of a saturday night he's as 'appy and proud as a little lad ten year old. and he's as well in 'ealth as anybody could wish for." young jacob and edith are both very attentive to him, but it is thought better not to bring him to wenderholme again, nor even to milend. this makes it a great tie for poor mrs. ogden, but she fulfils her duty with a noble self-abnegation, and tends "our jacob" with the most minute and unrelaxing care. as for her fine carriage, she made a wedding-present of it to edith, and has never been in it since, not even to do a little knitting. her life is the simple old life that she was accustomed to in her youth, and it suits her health so well, that if all old women that one hears of did not finish some day by dying, one might almost expect her to prolong her sojourn permanently upon the earth, in the green "cream-pot" fields. but the recent death of old sarah at twistle farm has been a serious warning, and the new shayton clergyman is a frequent visitor at the cream-pot. dr. bardly is not so much in request, on account of his heterodox views, and because mrs. ogden's physical condition is still excellent, whatever may be her spiritual state. chapter xxi. the monk. the colonel and lady helena made a tour on the continent in the autumn, and visited the little french city where he had earned his living as a teacher of english. young jacob and edith accompanied them as far as geneva, and on their way from paris it was decided that they should stop at auxerre, and go thence to avallon, which was not very far from the monastery of _la pierre qui vire_. the colonel desired to see philip stanburne once again. through narrow and rocky valleys, indescribably picturesque, and full of a deep melancholy poetry of their own, they journeyed a whole day, and came at last to the confines of the monastery, in a wild stony desert amongst the hills, through which flowed a rapid stream. the ladies could not enter, but young jacob and the colonel passed through the simple gateway. a monk received them in silence, and, in answer to a question of the colonel, put his finger upon his lips. he then went to ask permission to speak from his superior. the monk promised to lead the colonel to philip stanburne. they passed along wild paths cut in the rock and the forest, with rudely carved bas-reliefs of the chief scenes of the passion erected at stated distances. they saw many monks engaged in the most laborious manual occupations: some were washing linen in the clear river; others were road-making, with picks and wheel-barrows; others were hard at work as masons, building the walls of some future portion of the monastery, or the enclosures of its fields. all worked and were silent, not even looking at the strangers as they passed. at length the three came to a little wood, and, having passed through the wood, to a small field on the steep slope of a hill. in the field two monks were ploughing in their monastic dress, with a pair of white oxen. suddenly the angelus rang from the belfry of the monastery, and its clear tones filled the quiet valley where these monks had made their home. all the monks heard it, and all who heard it fell instantaneously on their knees in the midst of their labor, wherever they might happen to be. the masons dropped their stones and trowels, the washermen prayed with the wet linen still in their grasp, the ploughman knelt between the handles of his plough, and the driver with the goad in his right hand. the colonel's guide dropped upon the ploughed earth, and prayed. all in the valley prayed. when this was over, the two englishmen were led forward towards the oxen, and before the slow animals had resumed their toil, the colonel had recognized their driver. so this was the life he had chosen--a life of rudest labor, with the simplest food and the severest discipline--a life of toil and silence. he knew the colonel at once, but dared not speak to him, and placed his fingers on his lips, and goaded his oxen forward, and resumed his weary march. a special permission having been procured, the monk talked with john stanburne freely, saying that he loved his new life and the hardships of it, dwelling with quiet enthusiasm on the beautiful discipline of his order, and leading him over the rude and picturesque lands which had been reclaimed by the industry of his brethren. but when they parted, there came a great pang of regret in philip stanburne's heart for the free english life that he had lost--a pang of regret for stanithburn, and that alice should not be mistress there instead of lady helena. and after the service in the humble chapel of the monastery--a service singularly devoid of the splendors of the catholic worship--a monk lay prostrate across the threshold, doing penance. and all his brethren passed over him, one by one. cambridge: press of john wilson & son. * * * * * mr. hamerton's works. "_the style of this writer is a truly admirable one, light and picturesque, without being shallow, and dealing with all subjects in a charming way. whenever our readers see or hear of one of mr. hamerton's books, we advise them to read it._"--springfield republican. the intellectual life. square 12mo. price $2.00. "not every day do we take hold of a book that we would fain have always near us, a book that we read only to want to read again and again, that is so vitalized with truth, so helpful in its relation to humanity, that we would almost sooner buy it for our friend than spare him our copy to read. such a book is 'the intellectual life,' by philip gilbert hamerton, itself one of the rarest and noblest fruits of that life of which it treats. (here we must beg the pardon of our younger readers, since what we have to say about this book is not for them, but for their parents, and older brothers and sisters, though we can have no better wish for them than that they may soon be wise and thoughtful enough to enjoy it too.) "just how much this book would be worth to each individual reader it would be quite impossible to say, but we can hardly conceive of any human mind, born with the irresistible instincts toward the intellectual life, that would not find in it not only ample food for deep reflection, but also living waters of the sweetest consolation and encouragement. "we wonder how many readers of this noble volume, under a sense of personal gratitude, have stopped to exclaim with its author, in a similar position, 'now the only croesus that i envy is he who is reading a better book than this.'"--_from the children's friend._ thoughts about art. new edition, revised, with notes and an introduction. "fortunate is he who at an early age knows what _art_ is."--goethe. square 12mo. price $2.00. "the whole volume is adapted to give a wholesome stimulus to the taste for art, and to place it in an intelligent and wise direction. with a knowledge of the principles, which it sets forth in a style of peculiar fascination, the reader is prepared to enjoy the wonders of ancient and modern art, with a fresh sense of their beauty, and a critical recognition of the sources of their power."--_new york tribune._ "beginning with a recommendation to capable artists to write on art, and illustrating his arguments on this point by some forcible illustrations, mr. hamerton proceeds to discuss the different styles of painting, defines the place of landscape among the fine arts, treats of the relation between photography and painting, makes some curious comparisons between word-painting and color-painting, speaks of the painter in his relation to society, and finally offers some practical and valuable suggestions concerning picture-buying and the choice of furniture of artistic patterns for our houses. all these subdivisions of the general subject are touched airily and pleasantly, but not flippantly, and the book is delightful from beginning to end."--_new york commercial advertiser._ a painter's camp. a new edition, in 1 vol. 16mo price $1.50. square 12mo. price $2.00. "we are not addicted to enthusiasm, but the little work before us is really so full of good points that we grow so admiring as to appear almost fulsome in its praise.... it has been many a day since we have been called upon to review a work which gave us such real pleasure."--_philadelphia evening telegraph._ "if any reader whose eye chances to meet this article has read 'the painter's camp,' by mr. philip gilbert hamerton, he will need but little stimulus to feel assured that the same author's work, entitled 'thoughts about art,' is worth his attention. the former, i confess, was so unique that no author should be expected to repeat the sensation produced by it. like the 'adventures of robinson crusoe,' or the 'swiss family robinson,' it brought to maturer minds, as those do to all, the flavor of breezy out-of-door experiences,--an aroma of poetry and adventure combined. it was full of art, and art-discussions too; and yet it needed no rare technical knowledge to understand and enjoy it."--_joel benton._ "they ('a painter's camp' and 'thoughts about art') are the most useful books that could be placed in the hands of the american art public. if we were asked where the most intelligent, the most trustworthy, the most practical, and the most interesting exposition of modern art and cognate subjects is to be found, we should point to hamerton's writings."--_the atlantic monthly._ the unknown river: an etcher's voyage of discovery. with an original preface for the american edition, and thirty-seven plates etched by the author. one elegant 8vo volume, bound in cloth, extra, gilt, and gilt edges. price $6.00. (a cheaper edition now ready.) "wordsworth might like to come back to earth for a summer, and voyage with philip gilbert hamerton down some 'unknown river! if this supposition seem extravagant to any man, let him buy and read 'the unknown river, an etcher's voyage of discovery,' by p. g. hamerton. it is not easy to write soberly about this book while fresh from its presence. the subtle charm of the very title is indescribable; it lays hold in the outset on the deepest romance in every heart; it is the very voyage we are all yearning for. when, later on, we are told that this 'unknown river' is the arroux, in the eastern highlands of france, that it empties into the loire, and has on its shores ancient towns of historic interest, we do not quite believe it. mr. hamerton has flung a stronger spell by his first word than he knew. "it is not too much to say that this book is artistically perfect, perfectly artistic, and a poem from beginning to end; the phrasing of its story is as exquisite as the etching of its pictures; each heightens the other; each corroborates the other; and both together blend in harmonious and beautiful witness to what must have been one of the most delicious journeys ever made by a solitary traveller. the word solitary, however, has no meaning when applied to hamerton, poet, painter, adventurous man, all in one, and with a heart for a dog! there is no empty or barren spot on earth for such as he. the book cannot be analyzed nor described in any way which will give strangers to it any idea of its beauty."--_scribner's monthly._ chapters on animals. with twenty illustrations by j. veyrassat and karl bodmer. square 12mo. price $2.00. "this is a choice book. no trainer of animals, no whipper-in of a kennel, no master of fox-hounds, no equine parson, could have written this book. only such a man as hamerton could have written it, who, by virtue of his great love of art, has been a quick and keen observer of nature, who has lived with and loved animal nature, and made friends and companions of the dog and horse and bird. and of such, how few there are! we like to amuse ourselves for an idle moment with any live thing that has grace and color and strength. we like to show our wealth in fine equipages; to be followed by a fond dog at our heel, to hunt foxes and bag birds, but we like all this merely in the way of ostentation or personal pleasure. but as for caring really for animals, so as to study their happiness, to make them, knowing us, love us, so as to adapt ourselves to themselves, is quite another thing. mr. hamerton has observed to much purpose, for he has a curious sympathy with the 'painful mystery of brute [transcriber's note: this is where the text ends.] footnotes: [1] this publisher was not a member of the firm of messrs. w. blackwood & sons, who afterwards purchased the copyright of _wenderholme_, nor was the story ever offered to him; but his opinion had great influence with the author on account of his large experience. [2] careful. [3] spent. [4] slake; it is good slake--it slakes thirst well. the expression was actually used by a carter, to whom a gentleman gave champagne in order to ask his opinion of the beverage. [5] till. [6] almost. [7] quiet. [8] seek. [9] "some and glad" is a common lancashire expression, meaning "considerably glad." [10] the possessive is omitted in the genuine lancashire dialect. [11] perhaps. [12] all the. in lancashire the word _all_ is abbreviated, as in scotland, to a', but pronounced _o_. [13] value. [14] without. [15] push beyond. [16] for the information of some readers, it may be well to explain that the epaulettes of flank companies, which were of a peculiar shape, used to be called wings. [17] the reader who cares to attain the perfection of mrs. ogden's pronunciation will please to bear in mind that she pronounced the _d_ well in "soldiers" (thus, sol-di-ers), and did not replace it with a _g_, according to the barbarous usage of the polite world. [18] the reader will please to bear in mind that _who_ means _she_ in the pure lancashire dialect. [19] half. [20] the reader will remember that the best part of the estate had been mortgaged to mr. jacob ogden. [21] where hast thou been. [22] nothing but what is right. [23] have. [24] the engraved copper rollers used in calico-printing. the larger printing firms sink immense sums in these rollers, far surpassing the above estimate for mr. anison, who was only in a moderate way of business. [25] fain is a combination of happy and proud. it answers very nearly to a certain sense of the french word "content." [26] any thing. [27] a common form of sobriquet in lancashire. [editor's note:--the chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter xv and volume 3 starts with chapter xxx.] sylvia's lovers. by elizabeth gaskell oh for thy voice to soothe and bless! what hope of answer, or redress? behind the veil! behind the veil!--tennyson in three volumes. vol. i. london: m.dccc.lxiii. contents i monkshaven ii home from greenland iii buying a new cloak iv philip hepburn v story of the press-gang vi the sailor's funeral vii tete-a-tete.--the will viii attraction and repulsion ix the specksioneer x a refractory pupil xi visions of the future xii new year's fete xiii perplexities xiv partnership xv a difficult question xvi the engagement xvii rejected warnings xviii eddy in love's current xix an important mission xx loved and lost xxi a rejected suitor xxii deepening shadows xxiii retaliation xxiv brief rejoicing xxv coming troubles xxvi a dreary vigil xxvii gloomy days xxviii the ordeal xxix wedding raiment xxx happy days xxxi evil omens xxxii rescued from the waves xxxiii an apparition xxxiv a reckless recruit xxxv things unutterable xxxvi mysterious tidings xxxvii bereavement xxxviii the recognition xxxix confidences xl an unexpected messenger xli the bedesman of st sepulchre xlii a fable at fault xliii the unknown xliv first words xlv saved and lost chapter i monkshaven on the north-eastern shores of england there is a town called monkshaven, containing at the present day about fifteen thousand inhabitants. there were, however, but half the number at the end of the last century, and it was at that period that the events narrated in the following pages occurred. monkshaven was a name not unknown in the history of england, and traditions of its having been the landing-place of a throneless queen were current in the town. at that time there had been a fortified castle on the heights above it, the site of which was now occupied by a deserted manor-house; and at an even earlier date than the arrival of the queen and coeval with the most ancient remains of the castle, a great monastery had stood on those cliffs, overlooking the vast ocean that blended with the distant sky. monkshaven itself was built by the side of the dee, just where the river falls into the german ocean. the principal street of the town ran parallel to the stream, and smaller lanes branched out of this, and straggled up the sides of the steep hill, between which and the river the houses were pent in. there was a bridge across the dee, and consequently a bridge street running at right angles to the high street; and on the south side of the stream there were a few houses of more pretension, around which lay gardens and fields. it was on this side of the town that the local aristocracy lived. and who were the great people of this small town? not the younger branches of the county families that held hereditary state in their manor-houses on the wild bleak moors, that shut in monkshaven almost as effectually on the land side as ever the waters did on the sea-board. no; these old families kept aloof from the unsavoury yet adventurous trade which brought wealth to generation after generation of certain families in monkshaven. the magnates of monkshaven were those who had the largest number of ships engaged in the whaling-trade. something like the following was the course of life with a monkshaven lad of this class:--he was apprenticed as a sailor to one of the great ship-owners--to his own father, possibly--along with twenty other boys, or, it might be, even more. during the summer months he and his fellow apprentices made voyages to the greenland seas, returning with their cargoes in the early autumn; and employing the winter months in watching the preparation of the oil from the blubber in the melting-sheds, and learning navigation from some quaint but experienced teacher, half schoolmaster, half sailor, who seasoned his instructions by stirring narrations of the wild adventures of his youth. the house of the ship-owner to whom he was apprenticed was his home and that of his companions during the idle season between october and march. the domestic position of these boys varied according to the premium paid; some took rank with the sons of the family, others were considered as little better than servants. yet once on board an equality prevailed, in which, if any claimed superiority, it was the bravest and brightest. after a certain number of voyages the monkshaven lad would rise by degrees to be captain, and as such would have a share in the venture; all these profits, as well as all his savings, would go towards building a whaling vessel of his own, if he was not so fortunate as to be the child of a ship-owner. at the time of which i write, there was but little division of labour in the monkshaven whale fishery. the same man might be the owner of six or seven ships, any one of which he himself was fitted by education and experience to command; the master of a score of apprentices, each of whom paid a pretty sufficient premium; and the proprietor of the melting-sheds into which his cargoes of blubber and whalebone were conveyed to be fitted for sale. it was no wonder that large fortunes were acquired by these ship-owners, nor that their houses on the south side of the river dee were stately mansions, full of handsome and substantial furniture. it was also not surprising that the whole town had an amphibious appearance, to a degree unusual even in a seaport. every one depended on the whale fishery, and almost every male inhabitant had been, or hoped to be, a sailor. down by the river the smell was almost intolerable to any but monkshaven people during certain seasons of the year; but on these unsavoury 'staithes' the old men and children lounged for hours, almost as if they revelled in the odours of train-oil. this is, perhaps, enough of a description of the town itself. i have said that the country for miles all around was moorland; high above the level of the sea towered the purple crags, whose summits were crowned with greensward that stole down the sides of the scaur a little way in grassy veins. here and there a brook forced its way from the heights down to the sea, making its channel into a valley more or less broad in long process of time. and in the moorland hollows, as in these valleys, trees and underwood grew and flourished; so that, while on the bare swells of the high land you shivered at the waste desolation of the scenery, when you dropped into these wooded 'bottoms' you were charmed with the nestling shelter which they gave. but above and around these rare and fertile vales there were moors for many a mile, here and there bleak enough, with the red freestone cropping out above the scanty herbage; then, perhaps, there was a brown tract of peat and bog, uncertain footing for the pedestrian who tried to make a short cut to his destination; then on the higher sandy soil there was the purple ling, or commonest species of heather growing in beautiful wild luxuriance. tufts of fine elastic grass were occasionally to be found, on which the little black-faced sheep browsed; but either the scanty food, or their goat-like agility, kept them in a lean condition that did not promise much for the butcher, nor yet was their wool of a quality fine enough to make them profitable in that way to their owners. in such districts there is little population at the present day; there was much less in the last century, before agriculture was sufficiently scientific to have a chance of contending with such natural disqualifications as the moors presented, and when there were no facilities of railroads to bring sportsmen from a distance to enjoy the shooting season, and make an annual demand for accommodation. there were old stone halls in the valleys; there were bare farmhouses to be seen on the moors at long distances apart, with small stacks of coarse poor hay, and almost larger stacks of turf for winter fuel in their farmyards. the cattle in the pasture fields belonging to these farms looked half starved; but somehow there was an odd, intelligent expression in their faces, as well as in those of the black-visaged sheep, which is seldom seen in the placidly stupid countenances of well-fed animals. all the fences were turf banks, with loose stones piled into walls on the top of these. there was comparative fertility and luxuriance down below in the rare green dales. the narrow meadows stretching along the brookside seemed as though the cows could really satisfy their hunger in the deep rich grass; whereas on the higher lands the scanty herbage was hardly worth the fatigue of moving about in search of it. even in these 'bottoms' the piping sea-winds, following the current of the stream, stunted and cut low any trees; but still there was rich thick underwood, tangled and tied together with brambles, and brier-rose, [sic] and honeysuckle; and if the farmer in these comparatively happy valleys had had wife or daughter who cared for gardening, many a flower would have grown on the western or southern side of the rough stone house. but at that time gardening was not a popular art in any part of england; in the north it is not yet. noblemen and gentlemen may have beautiful gardens; but farmers and day-labourers care little for them north of the trent, which is all i can answer for. a few 'berry' bushes, a black currant tree or two (the leaves to be used in heightening the flavour of tea, the fruit as medicinal for colds and sore throats), a potato ground (and this was not so common at the close of the last century as it is now), a cabbage bed, a bush of sage, and balm, and thyme, and marjoram, with possibly a rose tree, and 'old man' growing in the midst; a little plot of small strong coarse onions, and perhaps some marigolds, the petals of which flavoured the salt-beef broth; such plants made up a well-furnished garden to a farmhouse at the time and place to which my story belongs. but for twenty miles inland there was no forgetting the sea, nor the sea-trade; refuse shell-fish, seaweed, the offal of the melting-houses, were the staple manure of the district; great ghastly whale-jaws, bleached bare and white, were the arches over the gate-posts to many a field or moorland stretch. out of every family of several sons, however agricultural their position might be, one had gone to sea, and the mother looked wistfully seaward at the changes of the keen piping moorland winds. the holiday rambles were to the coast; no one cared to go inland to see aught, unless indeed it might be to the great annual horse-fairs held where the dreary land broke into habitation and cultivation. somehow in this country sea thoughts followed the thinker far inland; whereas in most other parts of the island, at five miles from the ocean, he has all but forgotten the existence of such an element as salt water. the great greenland trade of the coasting towns was the main and primary cause of this, no doubt. but there was also a dread and an irritation in every one's mind, at the time of which i write, in connection with the neighbouring sea. since the termination of the american war, there had been nothing to call for any unusual energy in manning the navy; and the grants required by government for this purpose diminished with every year of peace. in 1792 this grant touched its minimum for many years. in 1793 the proceedings of the french had set europe on fire, and the english were raging with anti-gallican excitement, fomented into action by every expedient of the crown and its ministers. we had our ships; but where were our men? the admiralty had, however, a ready remedy at hand, with ample precedent for its use, and with common (if not statute) law to sanction its application. they issued 'press warrants,' calling upon the civil power throughout the country to support their officers in the discharge of their duty. the sea-coast was divided into districts, under the charge of a captain in the navy, who again delegated sub-districts to lieutenants; and in this manner all homeward-bound vessels were watched and waited for, all ports were under supervision; and in a day, if need were, a large number of men could be added to the forces of his majesty's navy. but if the admiralty became urgent in their demands, they were also willing to be unscrupulous. landsmen, if able-bodied, might soon be trained into good sailors; and once in the hold of the tender, which always awaited the success of the operations of the press-gang, it was difficult for such prisoners to bring evidence of the nature of their former occupations, especially when none had leisure to listen to such evidence, or were willing to believe it if they did listen, or would act upon it for the release of the captive if they had by possibility both listened and believed. men were kidnapped, literally disappeared, and nothing was ever heard of them again. the street of a busy town was not safe from such press-gang captures, as lord thurlow could have told, after a certain walk he took about this time on tower hill, when he, the attorney-general of england, was impressed, when the admiralty had its own peculiar ways of getting rid of tiresome besiegers and petitioners. nor yet were lonely inland dwellers more secure; many a rustic went to a statute fair or 'mop,' and never came home to tell of his hiring; many a stout young farmer vanished from his place by the hearth of his father, and was no more heard of by mother or lover; so great was the press for men to serve in the navy during the early years of the war with france, and after every great naval victory of that war. the servants of the admiralty lay in wait for all merchantmen and traders; there were many instances of vessels returning home after long absence, and laden with rich cargo, being boarded within a day's distance of land, and so many men pressed and carried off, that the ship, with her cargo, became unmanageable from the loss of her crew, drifted out again into the wild wide ocean, and was sometimes found in the helpless guidance of one or two infirm or ignorant sailors; sometimes such vessels were never heard of more. the men thus pressed were taken from the near grasp of parents or wives, and were often deprived of the hard earnings of years, which remained in the hands of the masters of the merchantman in which they had served, subject to all the chances of honesty or dishonesty, life or death. now all this tyranny (for i can use no other word) is marvellous to us; we cannot imagine how it is that a nation submitted to it for so long, even under any warlike enthusiasm, any panic of invasion, any amount of loyal subservience to the governing powers. when we read of the military being called in to assist the civil power in backing up the press-gang, of parties of soldiers patrolling the streets, and sentries with screwed bayonets placed at every door while the press-gang entered and searched each hole and corner of the dwelling; when we hear of churches being surrounded during divine service by troops, while the press-gang stood ready at the door to seize men as they came out from attending public worship, and take these instances as merely types of what was constantly going on in different forms, we do not wonder at lord mayors, and other civic authorities in large towns, complaining that a stop was put to business by the danger which the tradesmen and their servants incurred in leaving their houses and going into the streets, infested by press-gangs. whether it was that living in closer neighbourhood to the metropolis--the centre of politics and news--inspired the inhabitants of the southern counties with a strong feeling of that kind of patriotism which consists in hating all other nations; or whether it was that the chances of capture were so much greater at all the southern ports that the merchant sailors became inured to the danger; or whether it was that serving in the navy, to those familiar with such towns as portsmouth and plymouth, had an attraction to most men from the dash and brilliancy of the adventurous employment--it is certain that the southerners took the oppression of press-warrants more submissively than the wild north-eastern people. for with them the chances of profit beyond their wages in the whaling or greenland trade extended to the lowest description of sailor. he might rise by daring and saving to be a ship-owner himself. numbers around him had done so; and this very fact made the distinction between class and class less apparent; and the common ventures and dangers, the universal interest felt in one pursuit, bound the inhabitants of that line of coast together with a strong tie, the severance of which by any violent extraneous measure, gave rise to passionate anger and thirst for vengeance. a yorkshireman once said to me, 'my county folk are all alike. their first thought is how to resist. why! i myself, if i hear a man say it is a fine day, catch myself trying to find out that it is no such thing. it is so in thought; it is so in word; it is so in deed.' so you may imagine the press-gang had no easy time of it on the yorkshire coast. in other places they inspired fear, but here rage and hatred. the lord mayor of york was warned on 20th january, 1777, by an anonymous letter, that 'if those men were not sent from the city on or before the following tuesday, his lordship's own dwelling, and the mansion-house also, should be burned to the ground.' perhaps something of the ill-feeling that prevailed on the subject was owing to the fact which i have noticed in other places similarly situated. where the landed possessions of gentlemen of ancient family but limited income surround a centre of any kind of profitable trade or manufacture, there is a sort of latent ill-will on the part of the squires to the tradesman, be he manufacturer, merchant, or ship-owner, in whose hands is held a power of money-making, which no hereditary pride, or gentlemanly love of doing nothing, prevents him from using. this ill-will, to be sure, is mostly of a negative kind; its most common form of manifestation is in absence of speech or action, a sort of torpid and genteel ignoring all unpleasant neighbours; but really the whale-fisheries of monkshaven had become so impertinently and obtrusively prosperous of late years at the time of which i write, the monkshaven ship-owners were growing so wealthy and consequential, that the squires, who lived at home at ease in the old stone manor-houses scattered up and down the surrounding moorland, felt that the check upon the monkshaven trade likely to be inflicted by the press-gang, was wisely ordained by the higher powers (how high they placed these powers i will not venture to say), to prevent overhaste in getting rich, which was a scriptural fault, and they also thought that they were only doing their duty in backing up the admiralty warrants by all the civil power at their disposal, whenever they were called upon, and whenever they could do so without taking too much trouble in affairs which did not after all much concern themselves. there was just another motive in the minds of some provident parents of many daughters. the captains and lieutenants employed on this service were mostly agreeable bachelors, brought up to a genteel profession, at the least they were very pleasant visitors, when they had a day to spare; who knew what might come of it? indeed, these brave officers were not unpopular in monkshaven itself, except at the time when they were brought into actual collision with the people. they had the frank manners of their profession; they were known to have served in those engagements, the very narrative of which at this day will warm the heart of a quaker, and they themselves did not come prominently forward in the dirty work which, nevertheless, was permitted and quietly sanctioned by them. so while few monkshaven people passed the low public-house over which the navy blue-flag streamed, as a sign that it was the rendezvous of the press-gang, without spitting towards it in sign of abhorrence, yet, perhaps, the very same persons would give some rough token of respect to lieutenant atkinson if they met him in high street. touching their hats was an unknown gesture in those parts, but they would move their heads in a droll, familiar kind of way, neither a wag nor a nod, but meant all the same to imply friendly regard. the ship-owners, too, invited him to an occasional dinner or supper, all the time looking forward to the chances of his turning out an active enemy, and not by any means inclined to give him 'the run of the house,' however many unmarried daughters might grace their table. still as he could tell a rattling story, drink hard, and was seldom too busy to come at a short notice, he got on better than any one could have expected with the monkshaven folk. and the principal share of the odium of his business fell on his subordinates, who were one and all regarded in the light of mean kidnappers and spies--'varmint,' as the common people esteemed them: and as such they were ready at the first provocation to hunt and to worry them, and little cared the press-gang for this. whatever else they were, they were brave and daring. they had law to back them, therefore their business was lawful. they were serving their king and country. they were using all their faculties, and that is always pleasant. there was plenty of scope for the glory and triumph of outwitting; plenty of adventure in their life. it was a lawful and loyal employment, requiring sense, readiness, courage, and besides it called out that strange love of the chase inherent in every man. fourteen or fifteen miles at sea lay the _aurora_, good man-of-war; and to her were conveyed the living cargoes of several tenders, which were stationed at likely places along the sea-coast. one, the _lively lady_, might be seen from the cliffs above monkshaven, not so far away, but hidden by the angle of the high lands from the constant sight of the townspeople; and there was always the randyvow-house (as the public-house with the navy blue-flag was called thereabouts) for the crew of the _lively lady_ to lounge about, and there to offer drink to unwary passers-by. at present this was all that the press-gang had done at monkshaven. chapter ii home from greenland one hot day, early in october of the year 1796, two girls set off from their country homes to monkshaven to sell their butter and eggs, for they were both farmers' daughters, though rather in different circumstances; for molly corney was one of a large family of children, and had to rough it accordingly; sylvia robson was an only child, and was much made of in more people's estimation than mary's by her elderly parents. they had each purchases to make after their sales were effected, as sales of butter and eggs were effected in those days by the market-women sitting on the steps of the great old mutilated cross till a certain hour in the afternoon, after which, if all their goods were not disposed of, they took them unwillingly to the shops and sold them at a lower price. but good housewives did not despise coming themselves to the butter cross, and, smelling and depreciating the articles they wanted, kept up a perpetual struggle of words, trying, often in vain, to beat down prices. a housekeeper of the last century would have thought that she did not know her business, if she had not gone through this preliminary process; and the farmers' wives and daughters treated it all as a matter of course, replying with a good deal of independent humour to the customer, who, once having discovered where good butter and fresh eggs were to be sold, came time after time to depreciate the articles she always ended in taking. there was leisure for all this kind of work in those days. molly had tied a knot on her pink-spotted handkerchief for each of the various purchases she had to make; dull but important articles needed for the week's consumption at home; if she forgot any one of them she knew she was sure of a good 'rating' from her mother. the number of them made her pocket-handkerchief look like one of the nine-tails of a 'cat;' but not a single thing was for herself, nor, indeed, for any one individual of her numerous family. there was neither much thought nor much money to spend for any but collective wants in the corney family. it was different with sylvia. she was going to choose her first cloak, not to have an old one of her mother's, that had gone down through two sisters, dyed for the fourth time (and molly would have been glad had even this chance been hers), but to buy a bran-new duffle cloak all for herself, with not even an elder authority to curb her as to price, only molly to give her admiring counsel, and as much sympathy as was consistent with a little patient envy of sylvia's happier circumstances. every now and then they wandered off from the one grand subject of thought, but sylvia, with unconscious art, soon brought the conversation round to the fresh consideration of the respective merits of gray and scarlet. these girls were walking bare-foot and carrying their shoes and stockings in their hands during the first part of their way; but as they were drawing near monkshaven they stopped, and turned aside along a foot-path that led from the main-road down to the banks of the dee. there were great stones in the river about here, round which the waters gathered and eddied and formed deep pools. molly sate down on the grassy bank to wash her feet; but sylvia, more active (or perhaps lighter-hearted with the notion of the cloak in the distance), placed her basket on a gravelly bit of shore, and, giving a long spring, seated herself on a stone almost in the middle of the stream. then she began dipping her little rosy toes in the cool rushing water and whisking them out with childish glee. 'be quiet, wi' the', sylvia? thou'st splashing me all ower, and my feyther'll noane be so keen o' giving me a new cloak as thine is, seemingly.' sylvia was quiet, not to say penitent, in a moment. she drew up her feet instantly; and, as if to take herself out of temptation, she turned away from molly to that side of her stony seat on which the current ran shallow, and broken by pebbles. but once disturbed in her play, her thoughts reverted to the great subject of the cloak. she was now as still as a minute before she had been full of frolic and gambolling life. she had tucked herself up on the stone, as if it had been a cushion, and she a little sultana. molly was deliberately washing her feet and drawing on her stockings, when she heard a sudden sigh, and her companion turned round so as to face her, and said, 'i wish mother hadn't spoken up for t' gray.' 'why, sylvia, thou wert saying as we topped t'brow, as she did nought but bid thee think twice afore settling on scarlet.' 'ay! but mother's words are scarce, and weigh heavy. feyther's liker me, and we talk a deal o' rubble; but mother's words are liker to hewn stone. she puts a deal o' meaning in 'em. and then,' said sylvia, as if she was put out by the suggestion, 'she bid me ask cousin philip for his opinion. i hate a man as has getten an opinion on such-like things.' 'well! we shall niver get to monkshaven this day, either for to sell our eggs and stuff, or to buy thy cloak, if we're sittin' here much longer. t' sun's for slanting low, so come along, lass, and let's be going.' 'but if i put on my stockings and shoon here, and jump back into yon wet gravel, i 'se not be fit to be seen,' said sylvia, in a pathetic tone of bewilderment, that was funnily childlike. she stood up, her bare feet curved round the curving surface of the stone, her slight figure balancing as if in act to spring. 'thou knows thou'll have just to jump back barefoot, and wash thy feet afresh, without making all that ado; thou shouldst ha' done it at first, like me, and all other sensible folk. but thou'st getten no gumption.' molly's mouth was stopped by sylvia's hand. she was already on the river bank by her friend's side. 'now dunnot lecture me; i'm none for a sermon hung on every peg o' words. i'm going to have a new cloak, lass, and i cannot heed thee if thou dost lecture. thou shall have all the gumption, and i'll have my cloak.' it may be doubted whether molly thought this an equal division. each girl wore tightly-fitting stockings, knit by her own hands, of the blue worsted common in that country; they had on neat high-heeled black leather shoes, coming well over the instep, and fastened as well as ornamented with bright steel buckles. they did not walk so lightly and freely now as they did before they were shod, but their steps were still springy with the buoyancy of early youth; for neither of them was twenty, indeed i believe sylvia was not more than seventeen at this time. they clambered up the steep grassy path, with brambles catching at their kilted petticoats, through the copse-wood, till they regained the high road; and then they 'settled themselves,' as they called it; that is to say, they took off their black felt hats, and tied up their clustering hair afresh; they shook off every speck of wayside dust; straightened the little shawls (or large neck-kerchiefs, call them which you will) that were spread over their shoulders, pinned below the throat, and confined at the waist by their apron-strings; and then putting on their hats again, and picking up their baskets, they prepared to walk decorously into the town of monkshaven. the next turn of the road showed them the red peaked roofs of the closely packed houses lying almost directly below the hill on which they were. the full autumn sun brought out the ruddy colour of the tiled gables, and deepened the shadows in the narrow streets. the narrow harbour at the mouth of the river was crowded with small vessels of all descriptions, making an intricate forest of masts. beyond lay the sea, like a flat pavement of sapphire, scarcely a ripple varying its sunny surface, that stretched out leagues away till it blended with the softened azure of the sky. on this blue trackless water floated scores of white-sailed fishing boats, apparently motionless, unless you measured their progress by some land-mark; but still, and silent, and distant as they seemed, the consciousness that there were men on board, each going forth into the great deep, added unspeakably to the interest felt in watching them. close to the bar of the river dee a larger vessel lay to. sylvia, who had only recently come into the neighbourhood, looked at this with the same quiet interest as she did at all the others; but molly, as soon as her eye caught the build of it, cried out aloud-'she's a whaler! she's a whaler home from t' greenland seas! t' first this season! god bless her!' and she turned round and shook both sylvia's hands in the fulness of her excitement. sylvia's colour rose, and her eyes sparkled out of sympathy. 'is ta sure?' she asked, breathless in her turn; for though she did not know by the aspect of the different ships on what trade they were bound, yet she was well aware of the paramount interest attached to whaling vessels. 'three o'clock! and it's not high water till five!' said molly. 'if we're sharp we can sell our eggs, and be down to the staithes before she comes into port. be sharp, lass!' and down the steep long hill they went at a pace that was almost a run. a run they dared not make it; and as it was, the rate at which they walked would have caused destruction among eggs less carefully packed. when the descent was ended, there was yet the long narrow street before them, bending and swerving from the straight line, as it followed the course of the river. the girls felt as if they should never come to the market-place, which was situated at the crossing of bridge street and high street. there the old stone cross was raised by the monks long ago; now worn and mutilated, no one esteemed it as a holy symbol, but only as the butter cross, where market-women clustered on wednesday, and whence the town crier made all his proclamations of household sales, things lost or found, beginning with 'oh! yes, oh! yes, oh! yes!' and ending with 'god bless the king and the lord of this manor,' and a very brisk 'amen,' before he went on his way and took off the livery-coat, the colours of which marked him as a servant of the burnabys, the family who held manorial rights over monkshaven. of course the much frequented space surrounding the butter cross was the favourite centre for shops; and on this day, a fine market day, just when good housewives begin to look over their winter store of blankets and flannels, and discover their needs betimes, these shops ought to have had plenty of customers. but they were empty and of even quieter aspect than their every-day wont. the three-legged creepie-stools that were hired out at a penny an hour to such market-women as came too late to find room on the steps were unoccupied; knocked over here and there, as if people had passed by in haste. molly took in all at a glance, and interpreted the signs, though she had no time to explain their meaning, and her consequent course of action, to sylvia, but darted into a corner shop. 't' whalers is coming home! there's one lying outside t' bar!' this was put in the form of an assertion; but the tone was that of eager cross-questioning. 'ay!' said a lame man, mending fishing-nets behind a rough deal counter. 'she's come back airly, and she's brought good news o' t' others, as i've heered say. time was i should ha' been on th' staithes throwing up my cap wit' t' best on 'em; but now it pleases t' lord to keep me at home, and set me to mind other folks' gear. see thee, wench, there's a vast o' folk ha' left their skeps o' things wi' me while they're away down to t' quay side. leave me your eggs and be off wi' ye for t' see t' fun, for mebbe ye'll live to be palsied yet, and then ye'll be fretting ower spilt milk, and that ye didn't tak' all chances when ye was young. ay, well! they're out o' hearin' o' my moralities; i'd better find a lamiter like mysen to preach to, for it's not iverybody has t' luck t' clargy has of saying their say out whether folks likes it or not.' he put the baskets carefully away with much of such talk as this addressed to himself while he did so. then he sighed once or twice; and then he took the better course and began to sing over his tarry work. molly and sylvia were far along the staithes by the time he got to this point of cheerfulness. they ran on, regardless of stitches and pains in the side; on along the river bank to where the concourse of people was gathered. there was no great length of way between the butter cross and the harbour; in five minutes the breathless girls were close together in the best place they could get for seeing, on the outside of the crowd; and in as short a time longer they were pressed inwards, by fresh arrivals, into the very midst of the throng. all eyes were directed to the ship, beating her anchor just outside the bar, not a quarter of a mile away. the custom-house officer was just gone aboard of her to receive the captain's report of his cargo, and make due examination. the men who had taken him out in his boat were rowing back to the shore, and brought small fragments of news when they landed a little distance from the crowd, which moved as one man to hear what was to be told. sylvia took a hard grasp of the hand of the older and more experienced molly, and listened open-mouthed to the answers she was extracting from a gruff old sailor she happened to find near her. 'what ship is she?' 't' _resolution_ of monkshaven!' said he, indignantly, as if any goose might have known that. 'an' a good _resolution_, and a blessed ship she's been to me,' piped out an old woman, close at mary's elbow. 'she's brought me home my ae' lad--for he shouted to yon boatman to bid him tell me he was well. 'tell peggy christison,' says he (my name is margaret christison)--'tell peggy christison as her son hezekiah is come back safe and sound.' the lord's name be praised! an' me a widow as never thought to see my lad again!' it seemed as if everybody relied on every one else's sympathy in that hour of great joy. 'i ax pardon, but if you'd gie me just a bit of elbow-room for a minute like, i'd hold my babby up, so that he might see daddy's ship, and happen, my master might see him. he's four months old last tuesday se'nnight, and his feyther's never clapt eyne on him yet, and he wi' a tooth through, an another just breaking, bless him!' one or two of the better end of the monkshaven inhabitants stood a little before molly and sylvia; and as they moved in compliance with the young mother's request, they overheard some of the information these ship-owners had received from the boatman. 'haynes says they'll send the manifest of the cargo ashore in twenty minutes, as soon as fishburn has looked over the casks. only eight whales, according to what he says.' 'no one can tell,' said the other, 'till the manifest comes to hand.' 'i'm afraid he's right. but he brings a good report of the _good fortune_. she's off st abb's head, with something like fifteen whales to her share.' 'we shall see how much is true, when she comes in.' 'that'll be by the afternoon tide to-morrow.' 'that's my cousin's ship,' said molly to sylvia. 'he's specksioneer on board the _good fortune_.' an old man touched her as she spoke-'i humbly make my manners, missus, but i'm stone blind; my lad's aboard yon vessel outside t' bar; and my old woman is bed-fast. will she be long, think ye, in making t' harbour? because, if so be as she were, i'd just make my way back, and speak a word or two to my missus, who'll be boiling o'er into some mak o' mischief now she knows he's so near. may i be so bold as to ax if t' crooked negro is covered yet?' molly stood on tip-toe to try and see the black stone thus named; but sylvia, stooping and peeping through the glimpses afforded between the arms of the moving people, saw it first, and told the blind old man it was still above water. 'a watched pot,' said he, 'ne'er boils, i reckon. it's ta'en a vast o' watter t' cover that stone to-day. anyhow, i'll have time to go home and rate my missus for worritin' hersen, as i'll be bound she's done, for all as i bade her not, but to keep easy and content.' 'we'd better be off too,' said molly, as an opening was made through the press to let out the groping old man. 'eggs and butter is yet to sell, and tha' cloak to be bought.' 'well, i suppose we had!' said sylvia, rather regretfully; for, though all the way into monkshaven her head had been full of the purchase of this cloak, yet she was of that impressible nature that takes the tone of feeling from those surrounding; and though she knew no one on board the resolution, she was just as anxious for the moment to see her come into harbour as any one in the crowd who had a dear relation on board. so she turned reluctantly to follow the more prudent molly along the quay back to the butter cross. it was a pretty scene, though it was too familiar to the eyes of all who then saw it for them to notice its beauty. the sun was low enough in the west to turn the mist that filled the distant valley of the river into golden haze. above, on either bank of the dee, there lay the moorland heights swelling one behind the other; the nearer, russet brown with the tints of the fading bracken; the more distant, gray and dim against the rich autumnal sky. the red and fluted tiles of the gabled houses rose in crowded irregularity on one side of the river, while the newer suburb was built in more orderly and less picturesque fashion on the opposite cliff. the river itself was swelling and chafing with the incoming tide till its vexed waters rushed over the very feet of the watching crowd on the staithes, as the great sea waves encroached more and more every minute. the quay-side was unsavourily ornamented with glittering fish-scales, for the hauls of fish were cleansed in the open air, and no sanitary arrangements existed for sweeping away any of the relics of this operation. the fresh salt breeze was bringing up the lashing, leaping tide from the blue sea beyond the bar. behind the returning girls there rocked the white-sailed ship, as if she were all alive with eagerness for her anchors to be heaved. how impatient her crew of beating hearts were for that moment, how those on land sickened at the suspense, may be imagined, when you remember that for six long summer months those sailors had been as if dead from all news of those they loved; shut up in terrible, dreary arctic seas from the hungry sight of sweethearts and friends, wives and mothers. no one knew what might have happened. the crowd on shore grew silent and solemn before the dread of the possible news of death that might toll in upon their hearts with this uprushing tide. the whalers went out into the greenland seas full of strong, hopeful men; but the whalers never returned as they sailed forth. on land there are deaths among two or three hundred men to be mourned over in every half-year's space of time. whose bones had been left to blacken on the gray and terrible icebergs? who lay still until the sea should give up its dead? who were those who should come back to monkshaven never, no, never more? many a heart swelled with passionate, unspoken fear, as the first whaler lay off the bar on her return voyage. molly and sylvia had left the crowd in this hushed suspense. but fifty yards along the staithe they passed five or six girls with flushed faces and careless attire, who had mounted a pile of timber, placed there to season for ship-building, from which, as from the steps of a ladder or staircase, they could command the harbour. they were wild and free in their gestures, and held each other by the hand, and swayed from side to side, stamping their feet in time, as they sang- weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, weel may the keel row that my laddie's in! 'what for are ye going off, now?' they called out to our two girls. 'she'll be in in ten minutes!' and without waiting for the answer which never came, they resumed their song. old sailors stood about in little groups, too proud to show their interest in the adventures they could no longer share, but quite unable to keep up any semblance of talk on indifferent subjects. the town seemed very quiet and deserted as molly and sylvia entered the dark, irregular bridge street, and the market-place was as empty of people as before. but the skeps and baskets and three-legged stools were all cleared away. 'market's over for to-day,' said molly corney, in disappointed surprise. 'we mun make the best on't, and sell to t' huxters, and a hard bargain they'll be for driving. i doubt mother'll be vexed.' she and sylvia went to the corner shop to reclaim their baskets. the man had his joke at them for their delay. 'ay, ay! lasses as has sweethearts a-coming home don't care much what price they get for butter and eggs! i dare say, now, there's some un in yon ship that 'ud give as much as a shilling a pound for this butter if he only knowed who churned it!' this was to sylvia, as he handed her back her property. the fancy-free sylvia reddened, pouted, tossed back her head, and hardly deigned a farewell word of thanks or civility to the lame man; she was at an age to be affronted by any jokes on such a subject. molly took the joke without disclaimer and without offence. she rather liked the unfounded idea of her having a sweetheart, and was rather surprised to think how devoid of foundation the notion was. if she could have a new cloak as sylvia was going to have, then, indeed, there might be a chance! until some such good luck, it was as well to laugh and blush as if the surmise of her having a lover was not very far from the truth, and so she replied in something of the same strain as the lame net-maker to his joke about the butter. 'he'll need it all, and more too, to grease his tongue, if iver he reckons to win me for his wife!' when they were out of the shop, sylvia said, in a coaxing tone,-'molly, who is it? whose tongue 'll need greasing? just tell me, and i'll never tell!' she was so much in earnest that molly was perplexed. she did not quite like saying that she had alluded to no one in particular, only to a possible sweetheart, so she began to think what young man had made the most civil speeches to her in her life; the list was not a long one to go over, for her father was not so well off as to make her sought after for her money, and her face was rather of the homeliest. but she suddenly remembered her cousin, the specksioneer, who had given her two large shells, and taken a kiss from her half-willing lips before he went to sea the last time. so she smiled a little, and then said,-'well! i dunno. it's ill talking o' these things afore one has made up one's mind. and perhaps if charley kinraid behaves hissen, i might be brought to listen.' 'charley kinraid! who's he?' 'yon specksioneer cousin o' mine, as i was talking on.' 'and do yo' think he cares for yo'?' asked sylvia, in a low, tender tone, as if touching on a great mystery. molly only said, 'be quiet wi' yo',' and sylvia could not make out whether she cut the conversation so short because she was offended, or because they had come to the shop where they had to sell their butter and eggs. 'now, sylvia, if thou'll leave me thy basket, i'll make as good a bargain as iver i can on 'em; and thou can be off to choose this grand new cloak as is to be, afore it gets any darker. where is ta going to?' 'mother said i'd better go to foster's,' answered sylvia, with a shade of annoyance in her face. 'feyther said just anywhere.' 'foster's is t' best place; thou canst try anywhere afterwards. i'll be at foster's in five minutes, for i reckon we mun hasten a bit now. it'll be near five o'clock.' sylvia hung her head and looked very demure as she walked off by herself to foster's shop in the market-place. chapter iii buying a new cloak foster's shop was the shop of monkshaven. it was kept by two quaker brothers, who were now old men; and their father had kept it before them; probably his father before that. people remembered it as an old-fashioned dwelling-house, with a sort of supplementary shop with unglazed windows projecting from the lower story. these openings had long been filled with panes of glass that at the present day would be accounted very small, but which seventy years ago were much admired for their size. i can best make you understand the appearance of the place by bidding you think of the long openings in a butcher's shop, and then to fill them up in your imagination with panes about eight inches by six, in a heavy wooden frame. there was one of these windows on each side the door-place, which was kept partially closed through the day by a low gate about a yard high. half the shop was appropriated to grocery; the other half to drapery, and a little mercery. the good old brothers gave all their known customers a kindly welcome; shaking hands with many of them, and asking all after their families and domestic circumstances before proceeding to business. they would not for the world have had any sign of festivity at christmas, and scrupulously kept their shop open at that holy festival, ready themselves to serve sooner than tax the consciences of any of their assistants, only nobody ever came. but on new year's day they had a great cake, and wine, ready in the parlour behind the shop, of which all who came in to buy anything were asked to partake. yet, though scrupulous in most things, it did not go against the consciences of these good brothers to purchase smuggled articles. there was a back way from the river-side, up a covered entry, to the yard-door of the fosters, and a peculiar kind of knock at this door always brought out either john or jeremiah, or if not them, their shopman, philip hepburn; and the same cake and wine that the excise officer's wife might just have been tasting, was brought out in the back parlour to treat the smuggler. there was a little locking of doors, and drawing of the green silk curtain that was supposed to shut out the shop, but really all this was done very much for form's sake. everybody in monkshaven smuggled who could, and every one wore smuggled goods who could, and great reliance was placed on the excise officer's neighbourly feelings. the story went that john and jeremiah foster were so rich that they could buy up all the new town across the bridge. they had certainly begun to have a kind of primitive bank in connection with their shop, receiving and taking care of such money as people did not wish to retain in their houses for fear of burglars. no one asked them for interest on the money thus deposited, nor did they give any; but, on the other hand, if any of their customers, on whose character they could depend, wanted a little advance, the fosters, after due inquiries made, and in some cases due security given, were not unwilling to lend a moderate sum without charging a penny for the use of their money. all the articles they sold were as good as they knew how to choose, and for them they expected and obtained ready money. it was said that they only kept on the shop for their amusement. others averred that there was some plan of a marriage running in the brothers' heads--a marriage between william coulson, mr. jeremiah's wife's nephew (mr. jeremiah was a widower), and hester rose, whose mother was some kind of distant relation, and who served in the shop along with william coulson and philip hepburn. again, this was denied by those who averred that coulson was no blood relation, and that if the fosters had intended to do anything considerable for hester, they would never have allowed her and her mother to live in such a sparing way, ekeing out their small income by having coulson and hepburn for lodgers. no; john and jeremiah would leave all their money to some hospital or to some charitable institution. but, of course, there was a reply to this; when are there not many sides to an argument about a possibility concerning which no facts are known? part of the reply turned on this: the old gentlemen had, probably, some deep plan in their heads in permitting their cousin to take coulson and hepburn as lodgers, the one a kind of nephew, the other, though so young, the head man in the shop; if either of them took a fancy to hester, how agreeably matters could be arranged! all this time hester is patiently waiting to serve sylvia, who is standing before her a little shy, a little perplexed and distracted, by the sight of so many pretty things. hester was a tall young woman, sparely yet largely formed, of a grave aspect, which made her look older than she really was. her thick brown hair was smoothly taken off her broad forehead, and put in a very orderly fashion, under her linen cap; her face was a little square, and her complexion sallow, though the texture of her skin was fine. her gray eyes were very pleasant, because they looked at you so honestly and kindly; her mouth was slightly compressed, as most have it who are in the habit of restraining their feelings; but when she spoke you did not perceive this, and her rare smile slowly breaking forth showed her white even teeth, and when accompanied, as it generally was, by a sudden uplifting of her soft eyes, it made her countenance very winning. she was dressed in stuff of sober colours, both in accordance with her own taste, and in unasked compliance with the religious customs of the fosters; but hester herself was not a friend. sylvia, standing opposite, not looking at hester, but gazing at the ribbons in the shop window, as if hardly conscious that any one awaited the expression of her wishes, was a great contrast; ready to smile or to pout, or to show her feelings in any way, with a character as undeveloped as a child's, affectionate, wilful, naughty, tiresome, charming, anything, in fact, at present that the chances of an hour called out. hester thought her customer the prettiest creature ever seen, in the moment she had for admiration before sylvia turned round and, recalled to herself, began,-'oh, i beg your pardon, miss; i was thinking what may the price of yon crimson ribbon be?' hester said nothing, but went to examine the shop-mark. 'oh! i did not mean that i wanted any, i only want some stuff for a cloak. thank you, miss, but i am very sorry--some duffle, please.' hester silently replaced the ribbon and went in search of the duffle. while she was gone sylvia was addressed by the very person she most wished to avoid, and whose absence she had rejoiced over on first entering the shop, her cousin philip hepburn. he was a serious-looking young man, tall, but with a slight stoop in his shoulders, brought on by his occupation. he had thick hair standing off from his forehead in a peculiar but not unpleasing manner; a long face, with a slightly aquiline nose, dark eyes, and a long upper lip, which gave a disagreeable aspect to a face that might otherwise have been good-looking. 'good day, sylvie,' he said; 'what are you wanting? how are all at home? let me help you!' sylvia pursed up her red lips, and did not look at him as she replied, 'i'm very well, and so is mother; feyther's got a touch of rheumatiz, and there's a young woman getting what i want.' she turned a little away from him when she had ended this sentence, as if it had comprised all she could possibly have to say to him. but he exclaimed, 'you won't know how to choose,' and, seating himself on the counter, he swung himself over after the fashion of shop-men. sylvia took no notice of him, but pretended to be counting over her money. 'what do you want, sylvie?' asked he, at last annoyed at her silence. 'i don't like to be called "sylvie;" my name is sylvia; and i'm wanting duffle for a cloak, if you must know.' hester now returned, with a shop-boy helping her to drag along the great rolls of scarlet and gray cloth. 'not that,' said philip, kicking the red duffle with his foot, and speaking to the lad. 'it's the gray you want, is it not, sylvie?' he used the name he had had the cousin's right to call her by since her childhood, without remembering her words on the subject not five minutes before; but she did, and was vexed. 'please, miss, it is the scarlet duffle i want; don't let him take it away.' hester looked up at both their countenances, a little wondering what was their position with regard to each other; for this, then, was the beautiful little cousin about whom philip had talked to her mother, as sadly spoilt, and shamefully ignorant; a lovely little dunce, and so forth. hester had pictured sylvia robson, somehow, as very different from what she was: younger, more stupid, not half so bright and charming (for, though she was now both pouting and cross, it was evident that this was not her accustomed mood). sylvia devoted her attention to the red cloth, pushing aside the gray. philip hepburn was vexed at his advice being slighted; and yet he urged it afresh. 'this is a respectable, quiet-looking article that will go well with any colour; you niver will be so foolish as to take what will mark with every drop of rain.' 'i'm sorry you sell such good-for-nothing things,' replied sylvia, conscious of her advantage, and relaxing a little (as little as she possibly could) of her gravity. hester came in now. 'he means to say that this cloth will lose its first brightness in wet or damp; but it will always be a good article, and the colour will stand a deal of wear. mr. foster would not have had it in his shop else.' philip did not like that even a reasonable peace-making interpreter should come between him and sylvia, so he held his tongue in indignant silence. hester went on: 'to be sure, this gray is the closer make, and would wear the longest.' 'i don't care,' said sylvia, still rejecting the dull gray. 'i like this best. eight yards, if you please, miss.' 'a cloak takes nine yards, at least,' said philip, decisively. 'mother told me eight,' said sylvia, secretly conscious that her mother would have preferred the more sober colour; and feeling that as she had had her own way in that respect, she was bound to keep to the directions she had received as to the quantity. but, indeed, she would not have yielded to philip in anything that she could help. there was a sound of children's feet running up the street from the river-side, shouting with excitement. at the noise, sylvia forgot her cloak and her little spirit of vexation, and ran to the half-door of the shop. philip followed because she went. hester looked on with passive, kindly interest, as soon as she had completed her duty of measuring. one of those girls whom sylvia had seen as she and molly left the crowd on the quay, came quickly up the street. her face, which was handsome enough as to feature, was whitened with excess of passionate emotion, her dress untidy and flying, her movements heavy and free. she belonged to the lowest class of seaport inhabitants. as she came near, sylvia saw that the tears were streaming down her cheeks, quite unconsciously to herself. she recognized sylvia's face, full of interest as it was, and stopped her clumsy run to speak to the pretty, sympathetic creature. 'she's o'er t' bar! she's o'er t' bar! i'm boun' to tell mother!' she caught at sylvia's hand, and shook it, and went on breathless and gasping. 'sylvia, how came you to know that girl?' asked philip, sternly. 'she's not one for you to be shaking hands with. she's known all down t' quay-side as "newcastle bess."' 'i can't help it,' said sylvia, half inclined to cry at his manner even more than his words. 'when folk are glad i can't help being glad too, and i just put out my hand, and she put out hers. to think o' yon ship come in at last! and if yo'd been down seeing all t' folk looking and looking their eyes out, as if they feared they should die afore she came in and brought home the lads they loved, yo'd ha' shaken hands wi' that lass too, and no great harm done. i never set eyne upon her till half an hour ago on th' staithes, and maybe i'll niver see her again.' hester was still behind the counter, but had moved so as to be near the window; so she heard what they were saying, and now put in her word: 'she can't be altogether bad, for she thought o' telling her mother first thing, according to what she said.' sylvia gave hester a quick, grateful look. but hester had resumed her gaze out of the window, and did not see the glance. and now molly corney joined them, hastily bursting into the shop. 'hech!' said she. 'hearken! how they're crying and shouting down on t' quay. t' gang's among 'em like t' day of judgment. hark!' no one spoke, no one breathed, i had almost said no heart beat for listening. not long; in an instant there rose the sharp simultaneous cry of many people in rage and despair. inarticulate at that distance, it was yet an intelligible curse, and the roll, and the roar, and the irregular tramp came nearer and nearer. 'they're taking 'em to t' randyvowse,' said molly. 'eh! i wish i'd king george here just to tell him my mind.' the girl clenched her hands, and set her teeth. 'it's terrible hard!' said hester; 'there's mothers, and wives, looking out for 'em, as if they were stars dropt out o' t' lift.' 'but can we do nothing for 'em?' cried sylvia. 'let us go into t' thick of it and do a bit of help; i can't stand quiet and see 't!' half crying, she pushed forwards to the door; but philip held her back. 'sylvie! you must not. don't be silly; it's the law, and no one can do aught against it, least of all women and lasses. by this time the vanguard of the crowd came pressing up bridge street, past the windows of foster's shop. it consisted of wild, half-amphibious boys, slowly moving backwards, as they were compelled by the pressure of the coming multitude to go on, and yet anxious to defy and annoy the gang by insults, and curses half choked with their indignant passion, doubling their fists in the very faces of the gang who came on with measured movement, armed to the teeth, their faces showing white with repressed and determined energy against the bronzed countenances of the half-dozen sailors, who were all they had thought it wise to pick out of the whaler's crew, this being the first time an admiralty warrant had been used in monkshaven for many years; not since the close of the american war, in fact. one of the men was addressing to his townspeople, in a high pitched voice, an exhortation which few could hear, for, pressing around this nucleus of cruel wrong, were women crying aloud, throwing up their arms in imprecation, showering down abuse as hearty and rapid as if they had been a greek chorus. their wild, famished eyes were strained on faces they might not kiss, their cheeks were flushed to purple with anger or else livid with impotent craving for revenge. some of them looked scarce human; and yet an hour ago these lips, now tightly drawn back so as to show the teeth with the unconscious action of an enraged wild animal, had been soft and gracious with the smile of hope; eyes, that were fiery and bloodshot now, had been loving and bright; hearts, never to recover from the sense of injustice and cruelty, had been trustful and glad only one short hour ago. there were men there, too, sullen and silent, brooding on remedial revenge; but not many, the greater proportion of this class being away in the absent whalers. the stormy multitude swelled into the market-place and formed a solid crowd there, while the press-gang steadily forced their way on into high street, and on to the rendezvous. a low, deep growl went up from the dense mass, as some had to wait for space to follow the others--now and then going up, as a lion's growl goes up, into a shriek of rage. a woman forced her way up from the bridge. she lived some little way in the country, and had been late in hearing of the return of the whaler after her six months' absence; and on rushing down to the quay-side, she had been told by a score of busy, sympathizing voices, that her husband was kidnapped for the service of the government. she had need pause in the market-place, the outlet of which was crammed up. then she gave tongue for the first time in such a fearful shriek, you could hardly catch the words she said. 'jamie! jamie! will they not let you to me?' those were the last words sylvia heard before her own hysterical burst of tears called every one's attention to her. she had been very busy about household work in the morning, and much agitated by all she had seen and heard since coming into monkshaven; and so it ended in this. molly and hester took her through the shop into the parlour beyond--john foster's parlour, for jeremiah, the elder brother, lived in a house of his own on the other side of the water. it was a low, comfortable room, with great beams running across the ceiling, and papered with the same paper as the walls--a piece of elegant luxury which took molly's fancy mightily! this parlour looked out on the dark courtyard in which there grew two or three poplars, straining upwards to the light; and through an open door between the backs of two houses could be seen a glimpse of the dancing, heaving river, with such ships or fishing cobles as happened to be moored in the waters above the bridge. they placed sylvia on the broad, old-fashioned sofa, and gave her water to drink, and tried to still her sobbing and choking. they loosed her hat, and copiously splashed her face and clustering chestnut hair, till at length she came to herself; restored, but dripping wet. she sate up and looked at them, smoothing back her tangled curls off her brow, as if to clear both her eyes and her intellect. 'where am i?--oh, i know! thank you. it was very silly, but somehow it seemed so sad!' and here she was nearly going off again, but hester said-'ay, it were sad, my poor lass--if i may call you so, for i don't rightly know your name--but it's best not think on it for we can do no mak' o' good, and it'll mebbe set you off again. yo're philip hepburn's cousin, i reckon, and yo' bide at haytersbank farm?' 'yes; she's sylvia robson,' put in molly, not seeing that hester's purpose was to make sylvia speak, and so to divert her attention from the subject which had set her off into hysterics. 'and we came in for market,' continued molly, 'and for t' buy t' new cloak as her feyther's going to give her; and, for sure, i thought we was i' luck's way when we saw t' first whaler, and niver dreaming as t' press-gang 'ud be so marred.' she, too, began to cry, but her little whimper was stopped by the sound of the opening door behind her. it was philip, asking hester by a silent gesture if he might come in. sylvia turned her face round from the light, and shut her eyes. her cousin came close up to her on tip-toe, and looked anxiously at what he could see of her averted face; then he passed his hand so slightly over her hair that he could scarcely be said to touch it, and murmured-'poor lassie! it's a pity she came to-day, for it's a long walk in this heat!' but sylvia started to her feet, almost pushing him along. her quickened senses heard an approaching step through the courtyard before any of the others were aware of the sound. in a minute afterwards, the glass-door at one corner of the parlour was opened from the outside, and mr. john stood looking in with some surprise at the group collected in his usually empty parlour. 'it's my cousin,' said philip, reddening a little; 'she came wi' her friend in to market, and to make purchases; and she's got a turn wi' seeing the press-gang go past carrying some of the crew of the whaler to the randyvowse. 'ay, ay,' said mr. john, quickly passing on into the shop on tip-toe, as if he were afraid he were intruding in his own premises, and beckoning philip to follow him there. 'out of strife cometh strife. i guessed something of the sort was up from what i heard on t' bridge as i came across fra' brother jeremiah's.' here he softly shut the door between the parlour and the shop. 'it beareth hard on th' expectant women and childer; nor is it to be wondered at that they, being unconverted, rage together (poor creatures!) like the very heathen. philip,' he said, coming nearer to his 'head young man,' 'keep nicholas and henry at work in the ware-room upstairs until this riot be over, for it would grieve me if they were misled into violence.' philip hesitated. 'speak out, man! always ease an uneasy heart, and never let it get hidebound.' 'i had thought to convoy my cousin and the other young woman home, for the town is like to be rough, and it's getting dark.' 'and thou shalt, my lad,' said the good old man; 'and i myself will try and restrain the natural inclinations of nicholas and henry.' but when he went to find the shop-boys with a gentle homily on his lips, those to whom it should have been addressed were absent. in consequence of the riotous state of things, all the other shops in the market-place had put their shutters up; and nicholas and henry, in the absence of their superiors, had followed the example of their neighbours, and, as business was over, they had hardly waited to put the goods away, but had hurried off to help their townsmen in any struggle that might ensue. there was no remedy for it, but mr. john looked rather discomfited. the state of the counters, and of the disarranged goods, was such also as would have irritated any man as orderly but less sweet-tempered. all he said on the subject was: 'the old adam! the old adam!' but he shook his head long after he had finished speaking. 'where is william coulson?' he next asked. 'oh! i remember. he was not to come back from york till the night closed in.' philip and his master arranged the shop in the exact order the old man loved. then he recollected the wish of his subordinate, and turned round and said-'now go with thy cousin and her friend. hester is here, and old hannah. i myself will take hester home, if need be. but for the present i think she had best tarry here, as it isn't many steps to her mother's house, and we may need her help if any of those poor creatures fall into suffering wi' their violence.' with this, mr. john knocked at the door of the parlour, and waited for permission to enter. with old-fashioned courtesy he told the two strangers how glad he was that his room had been of service to them; that he would never have made so bold as to pass through it, if he had been aware how it was occupied. and then going to a corner cupboard, high up in the wall, he pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked his little store of wine, and cake, and spirits; and insisted that they should eat and drink while waiting for philip, who was taking some last measures for the security of the shop during the night. sylvia declined everything, with less courtesy than she ought to have shown to the offers of the hospitable old man. molly took wine and cake, leaving a good half of both, according to the code of manners in that part of the country; and also because sylvia was continually urging her to make haste. for the latter disliked the idea of her cousin's esteeming it necessary to accompany them home, and wanted to escape from him by setting off before he returned. but any such plans were frustrated by philip's coming back into the parlour, full of grave content, which brimmed over from his eyes, with the parcel of sylvia's obnoxious red duffle under his arm; anticipating so keenly the pleasure awaiting him in the walk, that he was almost surprised by the gravity of his companions as they prepared for it. sylvia was a little penitent for her rejection of mr. john's hospitality, now she found out how unavailing for its purpose such rejection had been, and tried to make up by a modest sweetness of farewell, which quite won his heart, and made him praise her up to hester in a way to which she, observant of all, could not bring herself fully to respond. what business had the pretty little creature to reject kindly-meant hospitality in the pettish way she did, thought hester. and, oh! what business had she to be so ungrateful and to try and thwart philip in his thoughtful wish of escorting them through the streets of the rough, riotous town? what did it all mean? chapter iv philip hepburn the coast on that part of the island to which this story refers is bordered by rocks and cliffs. the inland country immediately adjacent to the coast is level, flat, and bleak; it is only where the long stretch of dyke-enclosed fields terminates abruptly in a sheer descent, and the stranger sees the ocean creeping up the sands far below him, that he is aware on how great an elevation he has been. here and there, as i have said, a cleft in the level land (thus running out into the sea in steep promontories) occurs--what they would call a 'chine' in the isle of wight; but instead of the soft south wind stealing up the woody ravine, as it does there, the eastern breeze comes piping shrill and clear along these northern chasms, keeping the trees that venture to grow on the sides down to the mere height of scrubby brushwood. the descent to the shore through these 'bottoms' is in most cases very abrupt, too much so for a cartway, or even a bridle-path; but people can pass up and down without difficulty, by the help of a few rude steps hewn here and there out of the rock. sixty or seventy years ago (not to speak of much later times) the farmers who owned or hired the land which lay directly on the summit of these cliffs were smugglers to the extent of their power, only partially checked by the coast-guard distributed, at pretty nearly equal interspaces of eight miles, all along the north-eastern seaboard. still sea-wrack was a good manure, and there was no law against carrying it up in great osier baskets for the purpose of tillage, and many a secret thing was lodged in hidden crevices in the rocks till the farmer sent trusty people down to the shore for a good supply of sand and seaweed for his land. one of the farms on the cliff had lately been taken by sylvia's father. he was a man who had roamed about a good deal--been sailor, smuggler, horse-dealer, and farmer in turns; a sort of fellow possessed by a spirit of adventure and love of change, which did him and his own family more harm than anybody else. he was just the kind of man that all his neighbours found fault with, and all his neighbours liked. late in life (for such an imprudent man as he, was one of a class who generally wed, trusting to chance and luck for the provision for a family), farmer robson married a woman whose only want of practical wisdom consisted in taking him for a husband. she was philip hepburn's aunt, and had had the charge of him until she married from her widowed brother's house. he it was who had let her know when haytersbank farm had been to let; esteeming it a likely piece of land for his uncle to settle down upon, after a somewhat unprosperous career of horse-dealing. the farmhouse lay in the shelter of a very slight green hollow scarcely scooped out of the pasture field by which it was surrounded; the short crisp turf came creeping up to the very door and windows, without any attempt at a yard or garden, or any nearer enclosure of the buildings than the stone dyke that formed the boundary of the field itself. the buildings were long and low, in order to avoid the rough violence of the winds that swept over that wild, bleak spot, both in winter and summer. it was well for the inhabitants of that house that coal was extremely cheap; otherwise a southerner might have imagined that they could never have survived the cutting of the bitter gales that piped all round, and seemed to seek out every crevice for admission into the house. but the interior was warm enough when once you had mounted the long bleak lane, full of round rough stones, enough to lame any horse unaccustomed to such roads, and had crossed the field by the little dry, hard footpath, which tacked about so as to keep from directly facing the prevailing wind. mrs. robson was a cumberland woman, and as such, was a cleaner housewife than the farmers' wives of that north-eastern coast, and was often shocked at their ways, showing it more by her looks than by her words, for she was not a great talker. this fastidiousness in such matters made her own house extremely comfortable, but did not tend to render her popular among her neighbours. indeed, bell robson piqued herself on her housekeeping generally, and once in-doors in the gray, bare stone house, there were plenty of comforts to be had besides cleanliness and warmth. the great rack of clap-bread hung overhead, and bell robson's preference of this kind of oat-cake over the leavened and partly sour kind used in yorkshire was another source of her unpopularity. flitches of bacon and 'hands' (_i.e._, shoulders of cured pork, the legs or hams being sold, as fetching a better price) abounded; and for any visitor who could stay, neither cream nor finest wheaten flour was wanting for 'turf cakes' and 'singing hinnies,' with which it is the delight of the northern housewives to regale the honoured guest, as he sips their high-priced tea, sweetened with dainty sugar. this night farmer robson was fidgeting in and out of his house-door, climbing the little eminence in the field, and coming down disappointed in a state of fretful impatience. his quiet, taciturn wife was a little put out by sylvia's non-appearance too; but she showed her anxiety by being shorter than usual in her replies to his perpetual wonders as to where the lass could have been tarrying, and by knitting away with extra diligence. 'i've a vast o' mind to go down to monkshaven mysen, and see after t' child. it's well on for seven.' 'no, dannel,' said his wife; 'thou'd best not. thy leg has been paining thee this week past, and thou'rt not up to such a walk. i'll rouse kester, and send him off, if thou think'st there's need on it.' 'a'll noan ha' kester roused. who's to go afield betimes after t' sheep in t' morn, if he's ca'ed up to-neet? he'd miss t' lass, and find a public-house, a reckon,' said daniel, querulously. 'i'm not afeard o' kester,' replied bell. 'he's a good one for knowing folk i' th' dark. but if thou'd rather, i'll put on my hood and cloak and just go to th' end o' th' lane, if thou'lt have an eye to th' milk, and see as it does na' boil o'er, for she canna stomach it if it's bishopped e'er so little.' before mrs. robson, however, had put away her knitting, voices were heard at a good distance down the lane, but coming nearer every moment, and once more daniel climbed the little brow to look and to listen. 'it's a' reet!' said he, hobbling quickly down. 'niver fidget theesel' wi' gettin' ready to go search for her. i'll tak' thee a bet it's philip hepburn's voice, convoying her home, just as i said he would, an hour sin'.' bell did not answer, as she might have done, that this probability of philip's bringing sylvia home had been her own suggestion, set aside by her husband as utterly unlikely. another minute and the countenances of both parents imperceptibly and unconsciously relaxed into pleasure as sylvia came in. she looked very rosy from the walk, and the october air, which began to be frosty in the evenings; there was a little cloud over her face at first, but it was quickly dispersed as she met the loving eyes of home. philip, who followed her, had an excited, but not altogether pleased look about him. he received a hearty greeting from daniel, and a quiet one from his aunt. 'tak' off thy pan o' milk, missus, and set on t' kettle. milk may do for wenches, but philip and me is for a drop o' good hollands and watter this cold night. i'm a'most chilled to t' marrow wi' looking out for thee, lass, for t' mother was in a peck o' troubles about thy none coining home i' t' dayleet, and i'd to keep hearkening out on t' browhead.' this was entirely untrue, and bell knew it to be so; but her husband did not. he had persuaded himself now, as he had done often before, that what he had in reality done for his own pleasure or satisfaction, he had done in order to gratify some one else. 'the town was rough with a riot between the press-gang and the whaling folk; and i thought i'd best see sylvia home.' 'ay, ay, lad; always welcome, if it's only as an excuse for t' liquor. but t' whalers, say'st ta? why, is t' whalers in? there was none i' sight yesterday, when i were down on t' shore. it's early days for 'em as yet. and t' cursed old press-gang's agate again, doing its devil's work!' his face changed as he ended his speech, and showed a steady passion of old hatred. 'ay, missus, yo' may look. i wunnot pick and choose my words, noather for yo' nor for nobody, when i speak o' that daumed gang. i'm none ashamed o' my words. they're true, and i'm ready to prove 'em. where's my forefinger? ay! and as good a top-joint of a thumb as iver a man had? i wish i'd kept 'em i' sperits, as they done things at t' 'potticary's, just to show t' lass what flesh and bone i made away wi' to get free. i ups wi' a hatchet when i saw as i were fast a-board a man-o'-war standing out for sea--it were in t' time o' the war wi' amerikay, an' i could na stomach the thought o' being murdered i' my own language--so i ups wi' a hatchet, and i says to bill watson, says i, "now, my lad, if thou'll do me a kindness, i'll pay thee back, niver fear, and they'll be glad enough to get shut on us, and send us to old england again. just come down with a will." now, missus, why can't ye sit still and listen to me, 'stead o' pottering after pans and what not?' said he, speaking crossly to his wife, who had heard the story scores of times, and, it must be confessed, was making some noise in preparing bread and milk for sylvia's supper. bell did not say a word in reply, but sylvia tapped his shoulder with a pretty little authoritative air. 'it's for me, feyther. i'm just keen-set for my supper. once let me get quickly set down to it, and philip there to his glass o' grog, and you'll never have such listeners in your life, and mother's mind will be at ease too.' 'eh! thou's a wilfu' wench,' said the proud father, giving her a great slap on her back. 'well! set thee down to thy victual, and be quiet wi' thee, for i want to finish my tale to philip. but, perhaps, i've telled it yo' afore?' said he, turning round to question hepburn. hepburn could not say that he had not heard it, for he piqued himself on his truthfulness. but instead of frankly and directly owning this, he tried to frame a formal little speech, which would soothe daniel's mortified vanity; and, of course, it had the directly opposite effect. daniel resented being treated like a child, and yet turned his back on philip with all the wilfulness of one. sylvia did not care for her cousin, but hated the discomfort of having her father displeased; so she took up her tale of adventure, and told her father and mother of her afternoon's proceedings. daniel pretended not to listen at first, and made ostentatious noises with his spoon and glass; but by-and-by he got quite warm and excited about the doings of the press-gang, and scolded both philip and sylvia for not having learnt more particulars as to what was the termination of the riot. 'i've been whaling mysel',' said he; 'and i've heerd tell as whalers wear knives, and i'd ha' gi'en t' gang a taste o' my whittle, if i'd been cotched up just as i'd set my foot a-shore.' 'i don't know,' said philip; 'we're at war wi' the french, and we shouldn't like to be beaten; and yet if our numbers are not equal to theirs, we stand a strong chance of it.' 'not a bit on't--so be d--d!' said daniel robson, bringing down his fist with such violence on the round deal table, that the glasses and earthenware shook again. 'yo'd not strike a child or a woman, for sure! yet it 'ud be like it, if we did na' give the frenchies some 'vantages--if we took 'em wi' equal numbers. it's not fair play, and that's one place where t' shoe pinches. it's not fair play two ways. it's not fair play to cotch up men as has no call for fightin' at another man's biddin', though they've no objection to fight a bit on their own account and who are just landed, all keen after bread i'stead o' biscuit, and flesh-meat i'stead o' junk, and beds i'stead o' hammocks. (i make naught o' t' sentiment side, for i were niver gi'en up to such carnal-mindedness and poesies.) it's noane fair to cotch 'em up and put 'em in a stifling hole, all lined with metal for fear they should whittle their way out, and send 'em off to sea for years an' years to come. and again it's no fair play to t' french. four o' them is rightly matched wi' one o' us; and if we go an' fight 'em four to four it's like as if yo' fell to beatin' sylvie there, or little billy croxton, as isn't breeched. and that's my mind. missus, where's t' pipe?' philip did not smoke, so took his turn at talking, a chance he seldom had with daniel, unless the latter had his pipe between his lips. so after daniel had filled it, and used sylvia's little finger as a stopper to ram down the tobacco--a habit of his to which she was so accustomed that she laid her hand on the table by him, as naturally as she would have fetched him his spittoon when he began to smoke--philip arranged his arguments, and began-'i'm for fair play wi' the french as much as any man, as long as we can be sure o' beating them; but, i say, make sure o' that, and then give them ivery advantage. now i reckon government is not sure as yet, for i' the papers it said as half th' ships i' th' channel hadn't got their proper complement o' men; and all as i say is, let government judge a bit for us; and if they say they're hampered for want o' men, why we must make it up somehow. john and jeremiah foster pay in taxes, and militiaman pays in person; and if sailors cannot pay in taxes, and will not pay in person, why they must be made to pay; and that's what th' press-gang is for, i reckon. for my part, when i read o' the way those french chaps are going on, i'm thankful to be governed by king george and a british constitution.' daniel took his pipe out of his mouth at this. 'and when did i say a word again king george and the constitution? i only ax 'em to govern me as i judge best, and that's what i call representation. when i gived my vote to measter cholmley to go up to t' parliament house, i as good as said, 'now yo' go up theer, sir, and tell 'em what i, dannel robson, think right, and what i, dannel robson, wish to have done.' else i'd be darned if i'd ha' gi'en my vote to him or any other man. and div yo' think i want seth robson ( as is my own brother's son, and mate to a collier) to be cotched up by a press-gang, and ten to one his wages all unpaid? div yo' think i'd send up measter cholmley to speak up for that piece o' work? not i.' he took up his pipe again, shook out the ashes, puffed it into a spark, and shut his eyes, preparatory to listening. 'but, asking pardon, laws is made for the good of the nation, not for your good or mine.' daniel could not stand this. he laid down his pipe, opened his eyes, stared straight at philip before speaking, in order to enforce his words, and then said slowly-'nation here! nation theere! i'm a man and yo're another, but nation's nowheere. if measter cholmley talked to me i' that fashion, he'd look long for another vote frae me. i can make out king george, and measter pitt, and yo' and me, but nation! nation, go hang!' philip, who sometimes pursued an argument longer than was politic for himself, especially when he felt sure of being on the conquering side, did not see that daniel robson was passing out of the indifference of conscious wisdom into that state of anger which ensues when a question becomes personal in some unspoken way. robson had contested this subject once or twice before, and had the remembrance of former disputes to add to his present vehemence. so it was well for the harmony of the evening that bell and sylvia returned from the kitchen to sit in the house-place. they had been to wash up the pans and basins used for supper; sylvia had privately shown off her cloak, and got over her mother's shake of the head at its colour with a coaxing kiss, at the end of which her mother had adjusted her cap with a 'there! there! ha' done wi' thee,' but had no more heart to show her disapprobation; and now they came back to their usual occupations until it should please their visitor to go; then they would rake the fire and be off to bed; for neither sylvia's spinning nor bell's knitting was worth candle-light, and morning hours are precious in a dairy. people speak of the way in which harp-playing sets off a graceful figure; spinning is almost as becoming an employment. a woman stands at the great wool-wheel, one arm extended, the other holding the thread, her head thrown back to take in all the scope of her occupation; or if it is the lesser spinning-wheel for flax--and it was this that sylvia moved forwards to-night--the pretty sound of the buzzing, whirring motion, the attitude of the spinner, foot and hand alike engaged in the business--the bunch of gay coloured ribbon that ties the bundle of flax on the rock--all make it into a picturesque piece of domestic business that may rival harp-playing any day for the amount of softness and grace which it calls out. sylvia's cheeks were rather flushed by the warmth of the room after the frosty air. the blue ribbon with which she had thought it necessary to tie back her hair before putting on her hat to go to market had got rather loose, and allowed her disarranged curls to stray in a manner which would have annoyed her extremely, if she had been upstairs to look at herself in the glass; but although they were not set in the exact fashion which sylvia esteemed as correct, they looked very pretty and luxuriant. her little foot, placed on the 'traddle', was still encased in its smartly buckled shoe--not slightly to her discomfort, as she was unaccustomed to be shod in walking far; only as philip had accompanied them home, neither she nor molly had liked to go barefoot. her round mottled arm and ruddy taper hand drew out the flax with nimble, agile motion, keeping time to the movement of the wheel. all this philip could see; the greater part of her face was lost to him as she half averted it, with a shy dislike to the way in which she knew from past experience that cousin philip always stared at her. and avert it as she would she heard with silent petulance the harsh screech of philip's chair as he heavily dragged it on the stone floor, sitting on it all the while, and felt that he was moving round so as to look at her as much as was in his power, without absolutely turning his back on either her father or mother. she got herself ready for the first opportunity of contradiction or opposition. 'well, wench! and has ta bought this grand new cloak?' 'yes, feyther. it's a scarlet one.' 'ay, ay! and what does mother say?' 'oh, mother's content,' said sylvia, a little doubting in her heart, but determined to defy philip at all hazards. 'mother 'll put up with it if it does na spot would be nearer fact, i'm thinking,' said bell, quietly. 'i wanted sylvia to take the gray,' said philip. 'and i chose the red; it's so much gayer, and folk can see me the farther off. feyther likes to see me at first turn o' t' lane, don't yo', feyther? and i'll niver turn out when it's boun' for to rain, so it shall niver get a spot near it, mammy.' 'i reckoned it were to wear i' bad weather,' said bell. 'leastways that were the pretext for coaxing feyther out o' it.' she said it in a kindly tone, though the words became a prudent rather than a fond mother. but sylvia understood her better than daniel did as it appeared. 'hou'd thy tongue, mother. she niver spoke a pretext at all.' he did not rightly know what a 'pretext' was: bell was a touch better educated than her husband, but he did not acknowledge this, and made a particular point of differing from her whenever she used a word beyond his comprehension. 'she's a good lass at times; and if she liked to wear a yellow-orange cloak she should have it. here's philip here, as stands up for laws and press-gangs, i'll set him to find us a law again pleasing our lass; and she our only one. thou dostn't think on that, mother! bell did think of that often; oftener than her husband, perhaps, for she remembered every day, and many times a day, the little one that had been born and had died while its father was away on some long voyage. but it was not her way to make replies. sylvia, who had more insight into her mother's heart than daniel, broke in with a new subject. 'oh! as for philip, he's been preaching up laws all t' way home. i said naught, but let molly hold her own; or else i could ha' told a tale about silks an' lace an' things.' philip's face flushed. not because of the smuggling; every one did that, only it was considered polite to ignore it; but he was annoyed to perceive how quickly his little cousin had discovered that his practice did not agree with his preaching, and vexed, too, to see how delighted she was to bring out the fact. he had some little idea, too, that his uncle might make use of his practice as an argument against the preaching he had lately been indulging in, in opposition to daniel; but daniel was too far gone in his hollands-and-water to do more than enunciate his own opinions, which he did with hesitating and laboured distinctness in the following sentence: 'what i think and say is this. laws is made for to keep some folks fra' harming others. press-gangs and coast-guards harm me i' my business, and keep me fra' getting what i want. theerefore, what i think and say is this: measter cholmley should put down press-gangs and coast-guards. if that theere isn't reason i ax yo' to tell me what is? an' if measter cholmley don't do what i ax him, he may go whistle for my vote, he may.' at this period in his conversation, bell robson interfered; not in the least from any feeling of disgust or annoyance, or dread of what he might say or do if he went on drinking, but simply as a matter of health. sylvia, too, was in no way annoyed; not only with her father, but with every man whom she knew, excepting her cousin philip, was it a matter of course to drink till their ideas became confused. so she simply put her wheel aside, as preparatory to going to bed, when her mother said, in a more decided tone than that which she had used on any other occasion but this, and similar ones-'come, measter, you've had as much as is good for you.' 'let a' be! let a' be,' said he, clutching at the bottle of spirits, but perhaps rather more good-humoured with what he had drunk than he was before; he jerked a little more into his glass before his wife carried it off, and locked it up in the cupboard, putting the key in her pocket, and then he said, winking at philip-'eh! my man. niver gie a woman t' whip hand o'er yo'! yo' seen what it brings a man to; but for a' that i'll vote for cholmley, an' d----t' press-gang!' he had to shout out the last after philip, for hepburn, really anxious to please his aunt, and disliking drinking habits himself by constitution, was already at the door, and setting out on his return home, thinking, it must be confessed, far more of the character of sylvia's shake of the hand than of the parting words of either his uncle or aunt. chapter v story of the press-gang for a few days after the evening mentioned in the last chapter the weather was dull. not in quick, sudden showers did the rain come down, but in constant drizzle, blotting out all colour from the surrounding landscape, and filling the air with fine gray mist, until people breathed more water than air. at such times the consciousness of the nearness of the vast unseen sea acted as a dreary depression to the spirits; but besides acting on the nerves of the excitable, such weather affected the sensitive or ailing in material ways. daniel robson's fit of rheumatism incapacitated him from stirring abroad; and to a man of his active habits, and somewhat inactive mind, this was a great hardship. he was not ill-tempered naturally, but this state of confinement made him more ill-tempered than he had ever been before in his life. he sat in the chimney-corner, abusing the weather and doubting the wisdom or desirableness of all his wife saw fit to do in the usual daily household matters. the 'chimney-corner' was really a corner at haytersbank. there were two projecting walls on each side of the fire-place, running about six feet into the room, and a stout wooden settle was placed against one of these, while opposite was the circular-backed 'master's chair,' the seat of which was composed of a square piece of wood judiciously hollowed out, and placed with one corner to the front. here, in full view of all the operations going on over the fire, sat daniel robson for four live-long days, advising and directing his wife in all such minor matters as the boiling of potatoes, the making of porridge, all the work on which she specially piqued herself, and on which she would have taken advice--no! not from the most skilled housewife in all the three ridings. but, somehow, she managed to keep her tongue quiet from telling him, as she would have done any woman, and any other man, to mind his own business, or she would pin a dish-clout to his tail. she even checked sylvia when the latter proposed, as much for fun as for anything else, that his ignorant directions should be followed, and the consequences brought before his eyes and his nose. 'na, na!' said bell, 'th' feyther's feyther, and we mun respect him. but it's dree work havin' a man i' th' house, nursing th' fire, an' such weather too, and not a soul coming near us, not even to fall out wi' him; for thee and me must na' do that, for th' bible's sake, dear; and a good stand-up wordy quarrel would do him a power of good; stir his blood like. i wish philip would turn up.' bell sighed, for in these four days she had experienced somewhat of madame de maintenon's difficulty (and with fewer resources to meet it) of trying to amuse a man who was not amusable. for bell, good and sensible as she was, was not a woman of resources. sylvia's plan, undutiful as it was in her mother's eyes, would have done daniel more good, even though it might have made him angry, than his wife's quiet, careful monotony of action, which, however it might conduce to her husband's comfort when he was absent, did not amuse him when present. sylvia scouted the notion of cousin philip coming into their household in the character of an amusing or entertaining person, till she nearly made her mother angry at her ridicule of the good steady young fellow, to whom bell looked up as the pattern of all that early manhood should be. but the moment sylvia saw she had been giving her mother pain, she left off her wilful little jokes, and kissed her, and told her she would manage all famously, and ran out of the back-kitchen, in which mother and daughter had been scrubbing the churn and all the wooden implements of butter-making. bell looked at the pretty figure of her little daughter, as, running past with her apron thrown over her head, she darkened the window beneath which her mother was doing her work. she paused just for a moment, and then said, almost unawares to herself, 'bless thee, lass,' before resuming her scouring of what already looked almost snow-white. sylvia scampered across the rough farmyard in the wetting, drizzling rain to the place where she expected to find kester; but he was not there, so she had to retrace her steps to the cow-house, and, making her way up a rough kind of ladder-staircase fixed straight against the wall, she surprised kester as he sat in the wool-loft, looking over the fleeces reserved for the home-spinning, by popping her bright face, swathed round with her blue woollen apron, up through the trap-door, and thus, her head the only visible part, she addressed the farm-servant, who was almost like one of the family. 'kester, feyther's just tiring hissel' wi' weariness an' vexation, sitting by t' fireside wi' his hands afore him, an' nought to do. an' mother and me can't think on aught as 'll rouse him up to a bit of a laugh, or aught more cheerful than a scolding. now, kester, thou mun just be off, and find harry donkin th' tailor, and bring him here; it's gettin' on for martinmas, an' he'll be coming his rounds, and he may as well come here first as last, and feyther's clothes want a deal o' mending up, and harry's always full of his news, and anyhow he'll do for feyther to scold, an' be a new person too, and that's somewhat for all on us. now go, like a good old kester as yo' are.' kester looked at her with loving, faithful admiration. he had set himself his day's work in his master's absence, and was very desirous of finishing it, but, somehow, he never dreamed of resisting sylvia, so he only stated the case. 't' 'ool's a vast o' muck in 't, an' a thowt as a'd fettle it, an' do it up; but a reckon a mun do yo'r biddin'.' 'there's a good old kester,' said she, smiling, and nodding her muffled head at him; then she dipped down out of his sight, then rose up again (he had never taken his slow, mooney eyes from the spot where she had disappeared) to say--'now, kester, be wary and deep--thou mun tell harry donkin not to let on as we've sent for him, but just to come in as if he were on his round, and took us first; and he mun ask feyther if there is any work for him to do; and i'll answer for 't, he'll have a welcome and a half. now, be deep and fause, mind thee!' 'a'se deep an' fause enow wi' simple folk; but what can a do i' donkin be as fause as me--as happen he may be?' 'ga way wi' thee! i' donkin be solomon, thou mun be t' queen o' sheba; and i'se bound for to say she outwitted him at last!' kester laughed so long at the idea of his being the queen of sheba, that sylvia was back by her mother's side before the cachinnation ended. that night, just as sylvia was preparing to go to bed in her little closet of a room, she heard some shot rattling at her window. she opened the little casement, and saw kester standing below. he recommenced where he left off, with a laugh-'he, he, he! a's been t' queen! a'se ta'en donkin on t' reet side, an' he'll coom in to-morrow, just permiskus, an' ax for work, like as if 't were a favour; t' oud felley were a bit cross-grained at startin', for he were workin' at farmer crosskey's up at t' other side o' t' town, wheer they puts a strike an' a half of maut intil t' beer, when most folk put nobbut a strike, an t' made him ill to convince: but he'll coom, niver fear!' the honest fellow never said a word of the shilling he had paid out of his own pocket to forward sylvia's wishes, and to persuade the tailor to leave the good beer. all his anxiety now was to know if he had been missed, and if it was likely that a scolding awaited him in the morning. 't' oud measter didn't set up his back, 'cause a didn't coom in t' supper?' 'he questioned a bit as to what thou were about, but mother didn't know, an' i held my peace. mother carried thy supper in t' loft for thee.' 'a'll gang after 't, then, for a'm like a pair o' bellowses wi' t' wind out; just two flat sides wi' nowt betwixt.' the next morning, sylvia's face was a little redder than usual when harry donkin's bow-legs were seen circling down the path to the house door. 'here's donkin, for sure!' exclaimed bell, when she caught sight of him a minute after her daughter. 'well, i just call that lucky! for he'll be company for thee while sylvia and me has to turn th' cheeses.' this was too original a remark for a wife to make in daniel's opinion, on this especial morning, when his rheumatism was twinging him more than usual, so he replied with severity-'that's all t' women know about it. wi' them it's "coompany, coompany, coompany," an' they think a man's no better than theirsels. a'd have yo' to know a've a vast o' thoughts in myself', as i'm noane willing to lay out for t' benefit o' every man. a've niver gotten time for meditation sin' a were married; leastways, sin' a left t' sea. aboard ship, wi' niver a woman wi'n leagues o' hail, and upo' t' masthead, in special, a could.' 'then i'd better tell donkin as we've no work for him,' said sylvia, instinctively managing her father by agreeing with him, instead of reasoning with or contradicting him. 'now, theere you go!' wrenching himself round, for fear sylvia should carry her meekly made threat into execution. 'ugh! ugh!' as his limb hurt him. 'come in, harry, come in, and talk a bit o' sense to me, for a've been shut up wi' women these four days, and a'm a'most a nateral by this time. a'se bound for 't, they'll find yo' some wark, if 't's nought but for to save their own fingers.' so harry took off his coat, and seated himself professional-wise on the hastily-cleared dresser, so that he might have all the light afforded by the long, low casement window. then he blew in his thimble, sucked his finger, so that they might adhere tightly together, and looked about for a subject for opening conversation, while sylvia and her mother might be heard opening and shutting drawers and box-lids before they could find the articles that needed repair, or that were required to mend each other. 'women's well enough i' their way,' said daniel, in a philosophizing tone, 'but a man may have too much on 'em. now there's me, leg-fast these four days, and a'll make free to say to yo', a'd rather a deal ha' been loading dung i' t' wettest weather; an' a reckon it's th' being wi' nought but women as tires me so: they talk so foolish it gets int' t' bones like. now thou know'st thou'rt not called much of a man oather, but bless yo', t' ninth part's summut to be thankful for, after nought but women. an' yet, yo' seen, they were for sending yo' away i' their foolishness! well! missus, and who's to pay for t' fettling of all them clothes?' as bell came down with her arms full. she was going to answer her husband meekly and literally according to her wont, but sylvia, already detecting the increased cheerfulness of his tone, called out from behind her mother-'i am, feyther. i'm going for to sell my new cloak as i bought thursday, for the mending on your old coats and waistcoats.' 'hearken till her,' said daniel, chuckling. 'she's a true wench. three days sin' noane so full as she o' t' new cloak that now she's fain t' sell.' 'ay, harry. if feyther won't pay yo' for making all these old clothes as good as new, i'll sell my new red cloak sooner than yo' shall go unpaid.' 'a reckon it's a bargain,' said harry, casting sharp, professional eyes on the heap before him, and singling out the best article as to texture for examination and comment. 'they're all again these metal buttons,' said he. 'silk weavers has been petitioning ministers t' make a law to favour silk buttons; and i did hear tell as there were informers goin' about spyin' after metal buttons, and as how they could haul yo' before a justice for wearing on 'em.' 'a were wed in 'em, and a'll wear 'em to my dyin' day, or a'll wear noane at a'. they're for making such a pack o' laws, they'll be for meddling wi' my fashion o' sleeping next, and taxing me for ivery snore a give. they've been after t' winders, and after t' vittle, and after t' very saut to 't; it's dearer by hauf an' more nor it were when a were a boy: they're a meddlesome set o' folks, law-makers is, an' a'll niver believe king george has ought t' do wi' 't. but mark my words; i were wed wi' brass buttons, and brass buttons a'll wear to my death, an' if they moither me about it, a'll wear brass buttons i' my coffin!' by this time harry had arranged a certain course of action with mrs robson, conducting the consultation and agreement by signs. his thread was flying fast already, and the mother and daughter felt more free to pursue their own business than they had done for several days; for it was a good sign that daniel had taken his pipe out of the square hollow in the fireside wall, where he usually kept it, and was preparing to diversify his remarks with satisfying interludes of puffing. 'why, look ye; this very baccy had a run for 't. it came ashore sewed up neatly enough i' a woman's stays, as was wife to a fishing-smack down at t' bay yonder. she were a lean thing as iver you saw, when she went for t' see her husband aboard t' vessel; but she coom back lustier by a deal, an' wi' many a thing on her, here and theere, beside baccy. an' that were i' t' face o' coast-guard and yon tender, an' a'. but she made as though she were tipsy, an' so they did nought but curse her, an' get out on her way.' 'speaking of t' tender, there's been a piece o' wark i' monkshaven this week wi' t' press-gang,' said harry. 'ay! ay! our lass was telling about 't; but, lord bless ye! there's no gettin' t' rights on a story out on a woman--though a will say this for our sylvie, she's as bright a lass as iver a man looked at.' now the truth was, that daniel had not liked to demean himself, at the time when sylvia came back so full of what she had seen at monkshaven, by evincing any curiosity on the subject. he had then thought that the next day he would find some business that should take him down to the town, when he could learn all that was to be learnt, without flattering his womankind by asking questions, as if anything they might say could interest him. he had a strong notion of being a kind of domestic jupiter. 'it's made a deal o' wark i' monkshaven. folk had gotten to think nought o' t' tender, she lay so still, an' t' leftenant paid such a good price for all he wanted for t' ship. but o' thursday t' _resolution_, first whaler back this season, came in port, and t' press-gang showed their teeth, and carried off four as good able-bodied seamen as iver i made trousers for; and t' place were all up like a nest o' wasps, when yo've set your foot in t' midst. they were so mad, they were ready for t' fight t' very pavin' stones.' 'a wish a'd been theere! a just wish a had! a've a score for t' reckon up wi' t' press-gang!' and the old man lifted up his right hand--his hand on which the forefinger and thumb were maimed and useless--partly in denunciation, and partly as a witness of what he had endured to escape from the service, abhorred because it was forced. his face became a totally different countenance with the expression of settled and unrelenting indignation, which his words called out. 'g'on, man, g'on,' said daniel, impatient with donkin for the little delay occasioned by the necessity of arranging his work more fully. 'ay! ay! all in good time; for a've a long tale to tell yet; an' a mun have some 'un to iron me out my seams, and look me out my bits, for there's none here fit for my purpose.' 'dang thy bits! here, sylvie! sylvie! come and be tailor's man, and let t' chap get settled sharp, for a'm fain t' hear his story.' sylvia took her directions, and placed her irons in the fire, and ran upstairs for the bundle which had been put aside by her careful mother for occasions like the present. it consisted of small pieces of various coloured cloth, cut out of old coats and waistcoats, and similar garments, when the whole had become too much worn for use, yet when part had been good enough to be treasured by a thrifty housewife. daniel grew angry before donkin had selected his patterns and settled the work to his own mind. 'well,' said he at last; 'a mought be a young man a-goin' a wooin', by t' pains thou'st taken for t' match my oud clothes. i don't care if they're patched wi' scarlet, a tell thee; so as thou'lt work away at thy tale wi' thy tongue, same time as thou works at thy needle wi' thy fingers.' 'then, as a were saying, all monkshaven were like a nest o' wasps, flyin' hither and thither, and makin' sich a buzzin' and a talkin' as niver were; and each wi' his sting out, ready for t' vent his venom o' rage and revenge. and women cryin' and sobbin' i' t' streets--when, lord help us! o' saturday came a worse time than iver! for all friday there had been a kind o' expectation an' dismay about t' _good fortune_, as t' mariners had said was off st abb's head o' thursday, when t' _resolution_ came in; and there was wives and maids wi' husbands an' sweethearts aboard t' _good fortune_ ready to throw their eyes out on their heads wi' gazin', gazin' nor'ards over t'sea, as were all one haze o' blankness wi' t' rain; and when t' afternoon tide comed in, an' niver a line on her to be seen, folk were oncertain as t' whether she were holding off for fear o' t' tender--as were out o' sight, too--or what were her mak' o' goin' on. an' t' poor wet draggled women folk came up t' town, some slowly cryin', as if their hearts was sick, an' others just bent their heads to t' wind, and went straight to their homes, nother looking nor speaking to ony one; but barred their doors, and stiffened theirsels up for a night o' waiting. saturday morn--yo'll mind saturday morn, it were stormy and gusty, downreet dirty weather--theere stood t' folk again by daylight, a watching an' a straining, and by that tide t' _good fortune_ came o'er t' bar. but t' excisemen had sent back her news by t' boat as took 'em there. they'd a deal of oil, and a vast o' blubber. but for all that her flag was drooping i' t' rain, half mast high, for mourning and sorrow, an' they'd a dead man aboard--a dead man as was living and strong last sunrise. an' there was another as lay between life an' death, and there was seven more as should ha' been theere as wasn't, but was carried off by t' gang. t' frigate as we 'n a' heard tell on, as lying off hartlepool, got tidings fra' t' tender as captured t' seamen o' thursday: and t' _aurora_, as they ca'ed her, made off for t' nor'ard; and nine leagues off st abb's head, t' _resolution_ thinks she were, she see'd t' frigate, and knowed by her build she were a man-o'-war, and guessed she were bound on king's kidnapping. i seen t' wounded man mysen wi' my own eyes; and he'll live! he'll live! niver a man died yet, wi' such a strong purpose o' vengeance in him. he could barely speak, for he were badly shot, but his colour coome and went, as t' master's mate an' t' captain telled me and some others how t' _aurora_ fired at 'em, and how t' innocent whaler hoisted her colours, but afore they were fairly run up, another shot coome close in t' shrouds, and then t' greenland ship being t' windward, bore down on t' frigate; but as they knew she were an oud fox, and bent on mischief, kinraid (that's he who lies a-dying, only he'll noane die, a'se bound), the specksioneer, bade t' men go down between decks, and fasten t' hatches well, an' he'd stand guard, he an' captain, and t' oud master's mate, being left upo' deck for t' give a welcome just skin-deep to t' boat's crew fra' t' _aurora_, as they could see coming t'wards them o'er t' watter, wi' their reg'lar man-o'-war's rowing----' 'damn 'em!' said daniel, in soliloquy, and under his breath. sylvia stood, poising her iron, and listening eagerly, afraid to give donkin the hot iron for fear of interrupting the narrative, unwilling to put it into the fire again, because that action would perchance remind him of his work, which now the tailor had forgotten, so eager was he in telling his story. 'well! they coome on over t' watters wi' great bounds, and up t' sides they coome like locusts, all armed men; an' t' captain says he saw kinraid hide away his whaling knife under some tarpaulin', and he knew he meant mischief, an' he would no more ha' stopped him wi' a word nor he would ha' stopped him fra' killing a whale. and when t' _aurora_'s men were aboard, one on 'em runs to t' helm; and at that t' captain says, he felt as if his wife were kissed afore his face; but says he, "i bethought me on t' men as were shut up below hatches, an' i remembered t' folk at monkshaven as were looking out for us even then; an' i said to mysel', i would speak fair as long as i could, more by token o' the whaling-knife, as i could see glinting bright under t' black tarpaulin." so he spoke quite fair and civil, though he see'd they was nearing t' _aurora_, and t' _aurora_ was nearing them. then t' navy captain hailed him thro' t' trumpet, wi' a great rough blast, and, says he, "order your men to come on deck." and t' captain of t' whaler says his men cried up from under t' hatches as they'd niver be gi'en up wi'out bloodshed, and he sees kinraid take out his pistol, and look well to t' priming; so he says to t' navy captain, "we're protected greenland-men, and you have no right t' meddle wi' us." but t' navy captain only bellows t' more, "order your men t' come on deck. if they won't obey you, and you have lost the command of your vessel, i reckon you're in a state of mutiny, and you may come aboard t' _aurora_ and such men as are willing t' follow you, and i'll fire int' the rest." yo' see, that were t' depth o' the man: he were for pretending and pretexting as t' captain could na manage his own ship, and as he'd help him. but our greenland captain were noane so poor-spirited, and says he, "she's full of oil, and i ware you of consequences if you fire into her. anyhow, pirate, or no pirate" (for t' word pirate stuck in his gizzard), "i'm a honest monkshaven man, an' i come fra' a land where there's great icebergs and many a deadly danger, but niver a press-gang, thank god! and that's what you are, i reckon." them's the words he told me, but whether he spoke 'em out so bold at t' time, i'se not so sure; they were in his mind for t' speak, only maybe prudence got t' better on him, for he said he prayed i' his heart to bring his cargo safe to t' owners, come what might. well, t' _aurora_'s men aboard t' _good fortune_ cried out "might they fire down t' hatches, and bring t' men out that a way?" and then t' specksioneer, he speaks, an' he says he stands ower t' hatches, and he has two good pistols, and summut besides, and he don't care for his life, bein' a bachelor, but all below are married men, yo' see, and he'll put an end to t' first two chaps as come near t' hatches. an' they say he picked two off as made for t' come near, and then, just as he were stooping for t' whaling knife, an' it's as big as a sickle----' 'teach folk as don't know a whaling knife,' cried daniel. 'i were a greenland-man mysel'.' 'they shot him through t' side, and dizzied him, and kicked him aside for dead; and fired down t' hatches, and killed one man, and disabled two, and then t' rest cried for quarter, for life is sweet, e'en aboard a king's ship; and t' _aurora_ carried 'em off, wounded men, an' able men, an' all: leaving kinraid for dead, as wasn't dead, and darley for dead, as was dead, an' t' captain and master's mate as were too old for work; and t' captain, as loves kinraid like a brother, poured rum down his throat, and bandaged him up, and has sent for t' first doctor in monkshaven for to get t' slugs out; for they say there's niver such a harpooner in a' t' greenland seas; an' i can speak fra' my own seeing he's a fine young fellow where he lies theere, all stark and wan for weakness and loss o' blood. but darley's dead as a door-nail; and there's to be such a burying of him as niver was seen afore i' monkshaven, come sunday. and now gi' us t' iron, wench, and let's lose no more time a-talking.' 'it's noane loss o' time,' said daniel, moving himself heavily in his chair, to feel how helpless he was once more. 'if a were as young as once a were--nay, lad, if a had na these sore rheumatics, now--a reckon as t' press-gang 'ud find out as t' shouldn't do such things for nothing. bless thee, man! it's waur nor i' my youth i' th' ameriky war, and then 't were bad enough.' 'and kinraid?' said sylvia, drawing a long breath, after the effort of realizing it all; her cheeks had flushed up, and her eyes had glittered during the progress of the tale. 'oh! he'll do. he'll not die. life's stuff is in him yet.' 'he'll be molly corney's cousin, i reckon,' said sylvia, bethinking her with a blush of molly corney's implication that he was more than a cousin to her, and immediately longing to go off and see molly, and hear all the little details which women do not think it beneath them to give to women. from that time sylvia's little heart was bent on this purpose. but it was not one to be openly avowed even to herself. she only wanted sadly to see molly, and she almost believed herself that it was to consult her about the fashion of her cloak; which donkin was to cut out, and which she was to make under his directions; at any rate, this was the reason she gave to her mother when the day's work was done, and a fine gleam came out upon the pale and watery sky towards evening. chapter vi the sailor's funeral moss brow, the corney's house, was but a disorderly, comfortless place. you had to cross a dirty farmyard, all puddles and dungheaps, on stepping-stones, to get to the door of the house-place. that great room itself was sure to have clothes hanging to dry at the fire, whatever day of the week it was; some one of the large irregular family having had what is called in the district a 'dab-wash' of a few articles, forgotten on the regular day. and sometimes these articles lay in their dirty state in the untidy kitchen, out of which a room, half parlour, half bedroom, opened on one side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at the opposite. in face of you, as you entered the door, was the entrance to the working-kitchen, or scullery. still, in spite of disorder like this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the place; the corneys were rich in their way, in flocks and herds as well as in children; and to them neither dirt nor the perpetual bustle arising from ill-ordered work detracted from comfort. they were all of an easy, good-tempered nature; mrs. corney and her daughters gave every one a welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would just as soon sit down for a gossip at ten o'clock in the morning, as at five in the evening, though at the former time the house-place was full of work of various kinds which ought to be got out of hand and done with: while the latter hour was towards the end of the day, when farmers' wives and daughters were usually--'cleaned' was the word then, 'dressed' is that in vogue now. of course in such a household as this sylvia was sure to be gladly received. she was young, and pretty, and bright, and brought a fresh breeze of pleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere. and besides, bell robson held her head so high that visits from her daughter were rather esteemed as a favour, for it was not everywhere that sylvia was allowed to go. 'sit yo' down, sit yo' down!' cried dame corney, dusting a chair with her apron; 'a reckon molly 'll be in i' no time. she's nobbut gone int' t' orchard, to see if she can find wind-falls enough for t' make a pie or two for t' lads. they like nowt so weel for supper as apple-pies sweetened wi' treacle, crust stout and leathery, as stands chewing, and we hannot getten in our apples yet.' 'if molly is in t' orchard, i'll go find her,' said sylvia. 'well! yo' lasses will have your conks' (private talks), 'a know; secrets 'bout sweethearts and such like,' said mrs. corney, with a knowing look, which made sylvia hate her for the moment. 'a've not forgotten as a were young mysen. tak' care; there's a pool o' mucky watter just outside t' back-door.' but sylvia was half-way across the back-yard--worse, if possible, than the front as to the condition in which it was kept--and had passed through the little gate into the orchard. it was full of old gnarled apple-trees, their trunks covered with gray lichen, in which the cunning chaffinch built her nest in spring-time. the cankered branches remained on the trees, and added to the knotted interweaving overhead, if they did not to the productiveness; the grass grew in long tufts, and was wet and tangled under foot. there was a tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the gray old trees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green bosses of untrimmed grass. why the fruit was not gathered, as it was evidently ripe, would have puzzled any one not acquainted with the corney family to say; but to them it was always a maxim in practice, if not in precept, 'do nothing to-day that you can put off till to-morrow,' and accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any little gust of wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the 'lads' wanted a supply of pies for supper. molly saw sylvia, and came quickly across the orchard to meet her, catching her feet in knots of grass as she hurried along. 'well, lass!' said she, 'who'd ha' thought o' seeing yo' such a day as it has been?' 'but it's cleared up now beautiful,' said sylvia, looking up at the soft evening sky, to be seen through the apple boughs. it was of a tender, delicate gray, with the faint warmth of a promising sunset tinging it with a pink atmosphere. 'rain is over and gone, and i wanted to know how my cloak is to be made; for donkin 's working at our house, and i wanted to know all about--the news, yo' know.' 'what news?' asked molly, for she had heard of the affair between the _good fortune_ and the _aurora_ some days before; and, to tell the truth, it had rather passed out of her head just at this moment. 'hannot yo' heard all about t' press-gang and t' whaler, and t' great fight, and kinraid, as is your cousin, acting so brave and grand, and lying on his death-bed now?' 'oh!' said molly, enlightened as to sylvia's 'news,' and half surprised at the vehemence with which the little creature spoke; 'yes; a heerd that days ago. but charley's noane on his death-bed, he's a deal better; an' mother says as he's to be moved up here next week for nursin' and better air nor he gets i' t' town yonder.' 'oh! i am so glad,' said sylvia, with all her heart. 'i thought he'd maybe die, and i should niver see him.' 'a'll promise yo' shall see him; that's t' say if a' goes on well, for he's getten an ugly hurt. mother says as there's four blue marks on his side as'll last him his life, an' t' doctor fears bleeding i' his inside; and then he'll drop down dead when no one looks for 't.' 'but you said he was better,' said sylvia, blanching a little at this account. 'ay, he's better, but life's uncertain, special after gun-shot wounds.' 'he acted very fine,' said sylvia, meditating. 'a allays knowed he would. many's the time a've heerd him say "honour bright," and now he's shown how bright his is.' molly did not speak sentimentally, but with a kind of proprietorship in kinraid's honour, which confirmed sylvia in her previous idea of a mutual attachment between her and her cousin. considering this notion, she was a little surprised at molly's next speech. 'an' about yer cloak, are you for a hood or a cape? a reckon that's the question.' 'oh, i don't care! tell me more about kinraid. do yo' really think he'll get better?' 'dear! how t' lass takes on about him. a'll tell him what a deal of interest a young woman taks i' him!' from that time sylvia never asked another question about him. in a somewhat dry and altered tone, she said, after a little pause-'i think on a hood. what do you say to it?' 'well; hoods is a bit old-fashioned, to my mind. if 't were mine, i'd have a cape cut i' three points, one to tie on each shoulder, and one to dip down handsome behind. but let yo' an' me go to monkshaven church o' sunday, and see measter fishburn's daughters, as has their things made i' york, and notice a bit how they're made. we needn't do it i' church, but just scan 'em o'er i' t' churchyard, and there'll be no harm done. besides, there's to be this grand burryin' o' t' man t' press-gang shot, and 't will be like killing two birds at once.' 'i should like to go,' said sylvia. 'i feel so sorry like for the poor sailors shot down and kidnapped just as they was coming home, as we see'd 'em o' thursday last. i'll ask mother if she'll let me go.' 'ay, do. i know my mother 'll let me, if she doesn't go hersen; for it 'll be a sight to see and to speak on for many a long year, after what i've heerd. and miss fishburns is sure to be theere, so i'd just get donkin to cut out cloak itsel', and keep back yer mind fra' fixing o' either cape or hood till sunday's turn'd.' 'will yo' set me part o' t' way home?' said sylvia, seeing the dying daylight become more and more crimson through the blackening trees. 'no; i can't. a should like it well enough, but somehow, there's a deal o' work to be done yet, for t' hours slip through one's fingers so as there's no knowing. mind yo', then, o' sunday. a'll be at t' stile one o'clock punctual; and we'll go slowly into t' town, and look about us as we go, and see folk's dresses; and go to t' church, and say wer prayers, and come out and have a look at t' funeral.' and with this programme of proceedings settled for the following sunday, the girls whom neighbourhood and parity of age had forced into some measure of friendship parted for the time. sylvia hastened home, feeling as if she had been absent long; her mother stood on the little knoll at the side of the house watching for her, with her hand shading her eyes from the low rays of the setting sun: but as soon as she saw her daughter in the distance, she returned to her work, whatever that might be. she was not a woman of many words, or of much demonstration; few observers would have guessed how much she loved her child; but sylvia, without any reasoning or observation, instinctively knew that her mother's heart was bound up in her. her father and donkin were going on much as when she had left them; talking and disputing, the one compelled to be idle, the other stitching away as fast as he talked. they seemed as if they had never missed sylvia; no more did her mother for that matter, for she was busy and absorbed in her afternoon dairy-work to all appearance. but sylvia had noted the watching not three minutes before, and many a time in her after life, when no one cared much for her out-goings and in-comings, the straight, upright figure of her mother, fronting the setting sun, but searching through its blinding rays for a sight of her child, rose up like a sudden-seen picture, the remembrance of which smote sylvia to the heart with a sense of a lost blessing, not duly valued while possessed. 'well, feyther, and how's a' wi' you?' asked sylvia, going to the side of his chair, and laying her hand on his shoulder. 'eh! harkee till this lass o' mine. she thinks as because she's gone galraverging, i maun ha' missed her and be ailing. why, lass, donkin and me has had t' most sensible talk a've had this many a day. a've gi'en him a vast o' knowledge, and he's done me a power o' good. please god, to-morrow a'll tak' a start at walking, if t' weather holds up.' 'ay!' said donkin, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice; 'feyther and me has settled many puzzles; it's been a loss to government as they hannot been here for profiting by our wisdom. we've done away wi' taxes and press-gangs, and many a plague, and beaten t' french--i' our own minds, that's to say.' 'it's a wonder t' me as those lunnon folks can't see things clear,' said daniel, all in good faith. sylvia did not quite understand the state of things as regarded politics and taxes--and politics and taxes were all one in her mind, it must be confessed--but she saw that her innocent little scheme of giving her father the change of society afforded by donkin's coming had answered; and in the gladness of her heart she went out and ran round the corner of the house to find kester, and obtain from him that sympathy in her success which she dared not ask from her mother. 'kester, kester, lad!' said she, in a loud whisper; but kester was suppering the horses, and in the clamp of their feet on the round stable pavement, he did not hear her at first. she went a little farther into the stable. 'kester! he's a vast better, he'll go out to-morrow; it's all donkin's doing. i'm beholden to thee for fetching him, and i'll try and spare thee waistcoat fronts out o' t' stuff for my new red cloak. thou'll like that, kester, won't ta?' kester took the notion in slowly, and weighed it. 'na, lass,' said he, deliberately, after a pause. 'a could na' bear to see thee wi' thy cloak scrimpit. a like t' see a wench look bonny and smart, an' a tak' a kind o' pride in thee, an should be a'most as much hurt i' my mind to see thee i' a pinched cloak as if old moll's tail here were docked too short. na, lass, a'se niver got a mirroring glass for t' see mysen in, so what's waistcoats to me? keep thy stuff to thysen, theere's a good wench; but a'se main and glad about t' measter. place isn't like itsen when he's shut up and cranky.' he took up a wisp of straw and began rubbing down the old mare, and hissing over his work as if he wished to consider the conversation as ended. and sylvia, who had strung herself up in a momentary fervour of gratitude to make the generous offer, was not sorry to have it refused, and went back planning what kindness she could show to kester without its involving so much sacrifice to herself. for giving waistcoat fronts to him would deprive her of the pleasant power of selecting a fashionable pattern in monkshaven churchyard next sunday. that wished-for day seemed long a-coming, as wished-for days most frequently do. her father got better by slow degrees, and her mother was pleased by the tailor's good pieces of work; showing the neatly-placed patches with as much pride as many matrons take in new clothes now-a-days. and the weather cleared up into a dim kind of autumnal fineness, into anything but an indian summer as far as regarded gorgeousness of colouring, for on that coast the mists and sea fogs early spoil the brilliancy of the foliage. yet, perhaps, the more did the silvery grays and browns of the inland scenery conduce to the tranquillity of the time,--the time of peace and rest before the fierce and stormy winter comes on. it seems a time for gathering up human forces to encounter the coming severity, as well as of storing up the produce of harvest for the needs of winter. old people turn out and sun themselves in that calm st. martin's summer, without fear of 'the heat o' th' sun, or the coming winter's rages,' and we may read in their pensive, dreamy eyes that they are weaning themselves away from the earth, which probably many may never see dressed in her summer glory again. many such old people set out betimes, on the sunday afternoon to which sylvia had been so looking forward, to scale the long flights of stone steps--worn by the feet of many generations--which led up to the parish church, placed on a height above the town, on a great green area at the summit of the cliff, which was the angle where the river and the sea met, and so overlooking both the busy crowded little town, the port, the shipping, and the bar on the one hand, and the wide illimitable tranquil sea on the other--types of life and eternity. it was a good situation for that church. homeward-bound sailors caught sight of the tower of st nicholas, the first land object of all. they who went forth upon the great deep might carry solemn thoughts with them of the words they had heard there; not conscious thoughts, perhaps--rather a distinct if dim conviction that buying and selling, eating and marrying, even life and death, were not all the realities in existence. nor were the words that came up to their remembrance words of sermons preached there, however impressive. the sailors mostly slept through the sermons; unless, indeed, there were incidents such as were involved in what were called 'funeral discourses' to be narrated. they did not recognize their daily faults or temptations under the grand aliases befitting their appearance from a preacher's mouth. but they knew the old, oft-repeated words praying for deliverance from the familiar dangers of lightning and tempest; from battle, murder, and sudden death; and nearly every man was aware that he left behind him some one who would watch for the prayer for the preservation of those who travel by land or by water, and think of him, as god-protected the more for the earnestness of the response then given. there, too, lay the dead of many generations; for st. nicholas had been the parish church ever since monkshaven was a town, and the large churchyard was rich in the dead. masters, mariners, ship-owners, seamen: it seemed strange how few other trades were represented in that great plain so full of upright gravestones. here and there was a memorial stone, placed by some survivor of a large family, most of whom perished at sea:--'supposed to have perished in the greenland seas,' 'shipwrecked in the baltic,' 'drowned off the coast of iceland.' there was a strange sensation, as if the cold sea-winds must bring with them the dim phantoms of those lost sailors, who had died far from their homes, and from the hallowed ground where their fathers lay. each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a small flat space, on which a wooden seat was placed. on this particular sunday, all these seats were filled by aged people, breathless with the unusual exertion of climbing. you could see the church stair, as it was called, from nearly every part of the town, and the figures of the numerous climbers, diminished by distance, looked like a busy ant-hill, long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service. all who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token of mourning; it might be very little; an old ribbon, a rusty piece of crape; but some sign of mourning was shown by every one down to the little child in its mother's arms, that innocently clutched the piece of rosemary to be thrown into the grave 'for remembrance.' darley, the seaman shot by the press-gang, nine leagues off st. abb's head, was to be buried to-day, at the accustomed time for the funerals of the poorer classes, directly after evening service, and there were only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not come forth to show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon as murdered. the crowd of vessels in harbour bore their flags half-mast high; and the crews were making their way through the high street. the gentlefolk of monkshaven, full of indignation at this interference with their ships, full of sympathy with the family who had lost their son and brother almost within sight of his home, came in unusual numbers--no lack of patterns for sylvia; but her thoughts were far otherwise and more suitably occupied. the unwonted sternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all whom she met awed and affected her. she did not speak in reply to molly's remarks on the dress or appearance of those who struck her. she felt as if these speeches jarred on her, and annoyed her almost to irritation; yet molly had come all the way to monkshaven church in her service, and deserved forbearance accordingly. the two mounted the steps alongside of many people; few words were exchanged, even at the breathing places, so often the little centres of gossip. looking over the sea there was not a sail to be seen; it seemed bared of life, as if to be in serious harmony with what was going on inland. the church was of old norman architecture; low and massive outside: inside, of vast space, only a quarter of which was filled on ordinary sundays. the walls were disfigured by numerous tablets of black and white marble intermixed, and the usual ornamentation of that style of memorial as erected in the last century, of weeping willows, urns, and drooping figures, with here and there a ship in full sail, or an anchor, where the seafaring idea prevalent through the place had launched out into a little originality. there was no wood-work, the church had been stripped of that, most probably when the neighbouring monastery had been destroyed. there were large square pews, lined with green baize, with the names of the families of the most flourishing ship-owners painted white on the doors; there were pews, not so large, and not lined at all, for the farmers and shopkeepers of the parish; and numerous heavy oaken benches which, by the united efforts of several men, might be brought within earshot of the pulpit. these were being removed into the most convenient situations when molly and sylvia entered the church, and after two or three whispered sentences they took their seats on one of these. the vicar of monkshaven was a kindly, peaceable old man, hating strife and troubled waters above everything. he was a vehement tory in theory, as became his cloth in those days. he had two bugbears to fear--the french and the dissenters. it was difficult to say of which he had the worst opinion and the most intense dread. perhaps he hated the dissenters most, because they came nearer in contact with him than the french; besides, the french had the excuse of being papists, while the dissenters might have belonged to the church of england if they had not been utterly depraved. yet in practice dr wilson did not object to dine with mr. fishburn, who was a personal friend and follower of wesley, but then, as the doctor would say, 'wesley was an oxford man, and that makes him a gentleman; and he was an ordained minister of the church of england, so that grace can never depart from him.' but i do not know what excuse he would have alleged for sending broth and vegetables to old ralph thompson, a rabid independent, who had been given to abusing the church and the vicar, from a dissenting pulpit, as long as ever he could mount the stairs. however, that inconsistency between dr wilson's theories and practice was not generally known in monkshaven, so we have nothing to do with it. dr wilson had had a very difficult part to play, and a still more difficult sermon to write, during this last week. the darley who had been killed was the son of the vicar's gardener, and dr wilson's sympathies as a man had been all on the bereaved father's side. but then he had received, as the oldest magistrate in the neighbourhood, a letter from the captain of the _aurora_, explanatory and exculpatory. darley had been resisting the orders of an officer in his majesty's service. what would become of due subordination and loyalty, and the interests of the service, and the chances of beating those confounded french, if such conduct as darley's was to be encouraged? (poor darley! he was past all evil effects of human encouragement now!) so the vicar mumbled hastily over a sermon on the text, 'in the midst of life we are in death'; which might have done as well for a baby cut off in a convulsion-fit as for the strong man shot down with all his eager blood hot within him, by men as hot-blooded as himself. but once when the old doctor's eye caught the up-turned, straining gaze of the father darley, seeking with all his soul to find a grain of holy comfort in the chaff of words, his conscience smote him. had he nothing to say that should calm anger and revenge with spiritual power? no breath of the comforter to soothe repining into resignation? but again the discord between the laws of man and the laws of christ stood before him; and he gave up the attempt to do more than he was doing, as beyond his power. though the hearers went away as full of anger as they had entered the church, and some with a dull feeling of disappointment as to what they had got there, yet no one felt anything but kindly towards the old vicar. his simple, happy life led amongst them for forty years, and open to all men in its daily course; his sweet-tempered, cordial ways; his practical kindness, made him beloved by all; and neither he nor they thought much or cared much for admiration of his talents. respect for his office was all the respect he thought of; and that was conceded to him from old traditional and hereditary association. in looking back to the last century, it appears curious to see how little our ancestors had the power of putting two things together, and perceiving either the discord or harmony thus produced. is it because we are farther off from those times, and have, consequently, a greater range of vision? will our descendants have a wonder about us, such as we have about the inconsistency of our forefathers, or a surprise at our blindness that we do not perceive that, holding such and such opinions, our course of action must be so and so, or that the logical consequence of particular opinions must be convictions which at present we hold in abhorrence? it seems puzzling to look back on men such as our vicar, who almost held the doctrine that the king could do no wrong, yet were ever ready to talk of the glorious revolution, and to abuse the stuarts for having entertained the same doctrine, and tried to put it in practice. but such discrepancies ran through good men's lives in those days. it is well for us that we live at the present time, when everybody is logical and consistent. this little discussion must be taken in place of dr wilson's sermon, of which no one could remember more than the text half an hour after it was delivered. even the doctor himself had the recollection of the words he had uttered swept out of his mind, as, having doffed his gown and donned his surplice, he came out of the dusk of his vestry and went to the church-door, looking into the broad light which came upon the plain of the church-yard on the cliffs; for the sun had not yet set, and the pale moon was slowly rising through the silvery mist that obscured the distant moors. there was a thick, dense crowd, all still and silent, looking away from the church and the vicar, who awaited the bringing of the dead. they were watching the slow black line winding up the long steps, resting their heavy burden here and there, standing in silent groups at each landing-place; now lost to sight as a piece of broken, overhanging ground intervened, now emerging suddenly nearer; and overhead the great church bell, with its mediaeval inscription, familiar to the vicar, if to no one else who heard it, i to the grave do summon all, kept on its heavy booming monotone, with which no other sound from land or sea, near or distant, intermingled, except the cackle of the geese on some far-away farm on the moors, as they were coming home to roost; and that one noise from so great a distance seemed only to deepen the stillness. then there was a little movement in the crowd; a little pushing from side to side, to make a path for the corpse and its bearers--an aggregate of the fragments of room. with bent heads and spent strength, those who carried the coffin moved on; behind came the poor old gardener, a brown-black funeral cloak thrown over his homely dress, and supporting his wife with steps scarcely less feeble than her own. he had come to church that afternoon, with a promise to her that he would return to lead her to the funeral of her firstborn; for he felt, in his sore perplexed heart, full of indignation and dumb anger, as if he must go and hear something which should exorcize the unwonted longing for revenge that disturbed his grief, and made him conscious of that great blank of consolation which faithfulness produces. and for the time he was faithless. how came god to permit such cruel injustice of man? permitting it, he could not be good. then what was life, and what was death, but woe and despair? the beautiful solemn words of the ritual had done him good, and restored much of his faith. though he could not understand why such sorrow had befallen him any more than before, he had come back to something of his childlike trust; he kept saying to himself in a whisper, as he mounted the weary steps, 'it is the lord's doing'; and the repetition soothed him unspeakably. behind this old couple followed their children, grown men and women, come from distant place or farmhouse service; the servants at the vicarage, and many a neighbour, anxious to show their sympathy, and most of the sailors from the crews of the vessels in port, joined in procession, and followed the dead body into the church. there was too great a crowd immediately within the door for sylvia and molly to go in again, and they accordingly betook themselves to the place where the deep grave was waiting, wide and hungry, to receive its dead. there, leaning against the headstones all around, were many standing--looking over the broad and placid sea, and turned to the soft salt air which blew on their hot eyes and rigid faces; for no one spoke of all that number. they were thinking of the violent death of him over whom the solemn words were now being said in the gray old church, scarcely out of their hearing, had not the sound been broken by the measured lapping of the tide far beneath. suddenly every one looked round towards the path from the churchyard steps. two sailors were supporting a ghastly figure that, with feeble motions, was drawing near the open grave. 'it's t' specksioneer as tried to save him! it's him as was left for dead!' the people murmured round. 'it's charley kinraid, as i'm a sinner!' said molly, starting forward to greet her cousin. but as he came on, she saw that all his strength was needed for the mere action of walking. the sailors, in their strong sympathy, had yielded to his earnest entreaty, and carried him up the steps, in order that he might see the last of his messmate. they placed him near the grave, resting against a stone; and he was hardly there before the vicar came forth, and the great crowd poured out of the church, following the body to the grave. sylvia was so much wrapt up in the solemnity of the occasion, that she had no thought to spare at the first moment for the pale and haggard figure opposite; much less was she aware of her cousin philip, who now singling her out for the first time from among the crowd, pressed to her side, with an intention of companionship and protection. as the service went on, ill-checked sobs rose from behind the two girls, who were among the foremost in the crowd, and by-and-by the cry and the wail became general. sylvia's tears rained down her face, and her distress became so evident that it attracted the attention of many in that inner circle. among others who noticed it, the specksioneer's hollow eyes were caught by the sight of the innocent blooming childlike face opposite to him, and he wondered if she were a relation; yet, seeing that she bore no badge of mourning, he rather concluded that she must have been a sweetheart of the dead man. and now all was over: the rattle of the gravel on the coffin; the last long, lingering look of friends and lovers; the rosemary sprigs had been cast down by all who were fortunate enough to have brought them--and oh! how much sylvia wished she had remembered this last act of respect--and slowly the outer rim of the crowd began to slacken and disappear. now philip spoke to sylvia. 'i never dreamt of seeing you here. i thought my aunt always went to kirk moorside.' 'i came with molly corney,' said sylvia. 'mother is staying at home with feyther.' 'how's his rheumatics?' asked philip. but at the same moment molly took hold of sylvia's hand, and said-'a want t' get round and speak to charley. mother 'll be main and glad to hear as he's getten out; though, for sure, he looks as though he'd ha' been better in 's bed. come, sylvia.' and philip, fain to keep with sylvia, had to follow the two girls close up to the specksioneer, who was preparing for his slow laborious walk back to his lodgings. he stopped on seeing his cousin. 'well, molly,' said he, faintly, putting out his hand, but his eye passing her face to look at sylvia in the background, her tear-stained face full of shy admiration of the nearest approach to a hero she had ever seen. 'well, charley, a niver was so taken aback as when a saw yo' theere, like a ghost, a-standin' agin a gravestone. how white and wan yo' do look!' 'ay!' said he, wearily, 'wan and weak enough.' 'but i hope you're getting better, sir,' said sylvia, in a low voice, longing to speak to him, and yet wondering at her own temerity. 'thank you, my lass. i'm o'er th' worst.' he sighed heavily. philip now spoke. 'we're doing him no kindness a-keeping him standing here i' t' night-fall, and him so tired.' and he made as though he would turn away. kinraid's two sailor friends backed up philip's words with such urgency, that, somehow, sylvia thought they had been to blame in speaking to him, and blushed excessively with the idea. 'yo'll come and be nursed at moss brow, charley,' said molly; and sylvia dropped her little maidenly curtsey, and said, 'good-by;' and went away, wondering how molly could talk so freely to such a hero; but then, to be sure, he was a cousin, and probably a sweetheart, and that would make a great deal of difference, of course. meanwhile her own cousin kept close by her side. chapter vii tete-a-tete.--the will 'and now tell me all about th' folk at home?' said philip, evidently preparing to walk back with the girls. he generally came to haytersbank every sunday afternoon, so sylvia knew what she had to expect the moment she became aware of his neighbourhood in the churchyard. 'my feyther's been sadly troubled with his rheumatics this week past; but he's a vast better now, thank you kindly.' then, addressing herself to molly, she asked, 'has your cousin a doctor to look after him?' 'ay, for sure!' said molly, quickly; for though she knew nothing about the matter, she was determined to suppose that her cousin had everything becoming an invalid as well as a hero. 'he's well-to-do, and can afford everything as he needs,' continued she. 'his feyther's left him money, and he were a farmer out up in northumberland, and he's reckoned such a specksioneer as never, never was, and gets what wage he asks for and a share on every whale he harpoons beside.' 'i reckon he'll have to make himself scarce on this coast for awhile, at any rate,' said philip. 'an' what for should he?' asked molly, who never liked philip at the best of times, and now, if he was going to disparage her cousin in any way, was ready to take up arms and do battle. 'why, they do say as he fired the shot as has killed some o' the men-o'-war's men, and, of course, if he has, he'll have to stand his trial if he's caught.' 'what lies people do say!' exclaimed molly. 'he niver killed nought but whales, a'll be bound; or, if he did, it were all right and proper as he should, when they were for stealing him an' all t' others, and did kill poor darley as we come fra' seemin' buried. a suppose, now yo're such a quaker that, if some one was to break through fra' t' other side o' this dyke and offer for to murder sylvia and me, yo'd look on wi' yo'r hands hanging by yo'r side.' 'but t' press-gang had law on their side, and were doing nought but what they'd warrant for.' 'th' tender's gone away, as if she were ashamed o' what she'd done,' said sylvia, 'and t' flag's down fra' o'er the randyvowse. there 'll be no more press-ganging here awhile.' 'no; feyther says,' continued molly, 'as they've made t' place too hot t' hold 'em, coming so strong afore people had getten used to their ways o' catchin' up poor lads just come fra' t' greenland seas. t' folks ha' their blood so up they'd think no harm o' fighting 'em i' t' streets--ay, and o' killing 'em, too, if they were for using fire-arms, as t' _aurora_'s men did.' 'women is so fond o' bloodshed,' said philip; 'for t' hear you talk, who'd ha' thought you'd just come fra' crying ower the grave of a man who was killed by violence? i should ha' thought you'd seen enough of what sorrow comes o' fighting. why, them lads o' t' _aurora_ as they say kinraid shot down had fathers and mothers, maybe, a looking out for them to come home.' 'i don't think he could ha' killed them,' said sylvia; 'he looked so gentle.' but molly did not like this half-and-half view of the case. 'a dare say he did kill 'em dead; he's not one to do things by halves. and a think he served 'em reet, that's what a do.' 'is na' this hester, as serves in foster's shop?' asked sylvia, in a low voice, as a young woman came through a stile in the stone wall by the roadside, and suddenly appeared before them. 'yes,' said philip. 'why, hester, where have you been?' he asked, as they drew near. hester reddened a little, and then replied, in her slow, quiet way-'i've been sitting with betsy darley--her that is bed-ridden. it were lonesome for her when the others were away at the burying.' and she made as though she would have passed; but sylvia, all her sympathies alive for the relations of the murdered man, wanted to ask more questions, and put her hand on hester's arm to detain her a moment. hester suddenly drew back a little, reddened still more, and then replied fully and quietly to all sylvia asked. in the agricultural counties, and among the class to which these four persons belonged, there is little analysis of motive or comparison of characters and actions, even at this present day of enlightenment. sixty or seventy years ago there was still less. i do not mean that amongst thoughtful and serious people there was not much reading of such books as _mason_ on _self-knowledge_ and _law's serious call_, or that there were not the experiences of the wesleyans, that were related at class-meeting for the edification of the hearers. but, taken as a general ride, it may be said that few knew what manner of men they were, compared to the numbers now who are fully conscious of their virtues, qualities, failings, and weaknesses, and who go about comparing others with themselves--not in a spirit of pharisaism and arrogance, but with a vivid self-consciousness that more than anything else deprives characters of freshness and originality. to return to the party we left standing on the high-raised footway that ran alongside of the bridle-road to haytersbank. sylvia had leisure in her heart to think 'how good hester is for sitting with the poor bed-ridden sister of darley!' without having a pang of self-depreciation in the comparison of her own conduct with that she was capable of so fully appreciating. she had gone to church for the ends of vanity, and remained to the funeral for curiosity and the pleasure of the excitement. in this way a modern young lady would have condemned herself, and therefore lost the simple, purifying pleasure of admiration of another. hester passed onwards, going down the hill towards the town. the other three walked slowly on. all were silent for a few moments, then sylvia said-'how good she is!' and philip replied with ready warmth,-'yes, she is; no one knows how good but us, who live in the same house wi' her.' 'her mother is an old quakeress, bean't she?' molly inquired. 'alice rose is a friend, if that is what you mean,' said philip. 'well, well! some folk's so particular. is william coulson a quaker, by which a mean a friend?' 'yes; they're all on 'em right-down good folk.' 'deary me! what a wonder yo' can speak to such sinners as sylvia and me, after keepin' company with so much goodness,' said molly, who had not yet forgiven philip for doubting kinraid's power of killing men. 'is na' it, sylvia?' but sylvia was too highly strung for banter. if she had not been one of those who went to mock, but remained to pray, she had gone to church with the thought of the cloak-that-was-to-be uppermost in her mind, and she had come down the long church stair with life and death suddenly become real to her mind, the enduring sea and hills forming a contrasting background to the vanishing away of man. she was full of a solemn wonder as to the abiding-place of the souls of the dead, and a childlike dread lest the number of the elect should be accomplished before she was included therein. how people could ever be merry again after they had been at a funeral, she could not imagine; so she answered gravely, and slightly beside the question: 'i wonder if i was a friend if i should be good?' 'gi' me your red cloak, that's all, when yo' turn quaker; they'll none let thee wear scarlet, so it 'll be of no use t' thee.' 'i think thou'rt good enough as thou art,' said philip, tenderly--at least as tenderly as he durst, for he knew by experience that it did not do to alarm her girlish coyness. either one speech or the other made sylvia silent; neither was accordant to her mood of mind; so perhaps both contributed to her quietness. 'folk say william coulson looks sweet on hester rose,' said molly, always up in monkshaven gossip. it was in the form of an assertion, but was said in the tone of a question, and as such philip replied to it. 'yes, i think he likes her a good deal; but he's so quiet, i never feel sure. john and jeremiah would like the match, i've a notion.' and now they came to the stile which had filled philip's eye for some minutes past, though neither of the others had perceived they were so near it; the stile which led to moss brow from the road into the fields that sloped down to haystersbank. here they would leave molly, and now would begin the delicious _tete-a-tete_ walk, which philip always tried to make as lingering as possible. to-day he was anxious to show his sympathy with sylvia, as far as he could read what was passing in her mind; but how was he to guess the multitude of tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle? a resolution to be good, if she could, and always to be thinking on death, so that what seemed to her now as simply impossible, might come true--that she might 'dread the grave as little as her bed'; a wish that philip were not coming home with her; a wonder if the specksioneer really had killed a man, an idea which made her shudder; yet from the awful fascination about it, her imagination was compelled to dwell on the tall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the wan countenance; a hatred and desire of revenge on the press-gang, so vehement that it sadly militated against her intention of trying to be good; all these notions, and wonders, and fancies, were whirling about in sylvia's brain, and at one of their promptings she spoke,-'how many miles away is t' greenland seas?--i mean, how long do they take to reach?' 'i don't know; ten days or a fortnight, or more, maybe. i'll ask.' 'oh! feyther 'll tell me all about it. he's been there many a time.' 'i say, sylvie! my aunt said i were to give you lessons this winter i' writing and ciphering. i can begin to come up now, two evenings, maybe, a week. t' shop closes early after november comes in.' sylvia did not like learning, and did not want him for her teacher; so she answered in a dry little tone,-'it'll use a deal o' candle-light; mother 'll not like that. i can't see to spell wi'out a candle close at my elbow.' 'niver mind about candles. i can bring up a candle wi' me, for i should be burning one at alice rose's.' so that excuse would not do. sylvia beat her brains for another. 'writing cramps my hand so, i can't do any sewing for a day after; and feyther wants his shirts very bad.' 'but, sylvia, i'll teach you geography, and ever such a vast o' fine things about t' countries, on t' map.' 'is t' arctic seas down on t' map?' she asked, in a tone of greater interest. 'yes! arctics, and tropics, and equator, and equinoctial line; we'll take 'em turn and turn about; we'll do writing and ciphering one night, and geography t' other.' philip spoke with pleasure at the prospect, but sylvia relaxed into indifference. 'i'm no scholard; it's like throwing away labour to teach me, i'm such a dunce at my book. now there's betsy corney, third girl, her as is younger than molly, she'd be a credit to you. there niver was such a lass for pottering ower books.' if philip had had his wits about him, he would have pretended to listen to this proposition of a change of pupils, and then possibly sylvia might have repented making it. but he was too much mortified to be diplomatic. 'my aunt asked me to teach _you_ a bit, not any neighbour's lass.' 'well! if i mun be taught, i mun; but i'd rayther be whipped and ha' done with it,' was sylvia's ungracious reply. a moment afterwards, she repented of her little spirit of unkindness, and thought that she should not like to die that night without making friends. sudden death was very present in her thoughts since the funeral. so she instinctively chose the best method of making friends again, and slipped her hand into his, as he walked a little sullenly at her side. she was half afraid, however, when she found it firmly held, and that she could not draw it away again without making what she called in her own mind a 'fuss.' so, hand in hand, they slowly and silently came up to the door of haytersbank farm; not unseen by bell robson, who sate in the window-seat, with her bible open upon her knee. she had read her chapter aloud to herself, and now she could see no longer, even if she had wished to read more; but she gazed out into the darkening air, and a dim look of contentment came like moonshine over her face when she saw the cousins approach. 'that's my prayer day and night,' said she to herself. but there was no unusual aspect of gladness on her face, as she lighted the candle to give them a more cheerful welcome. 'wheere's feyther?' said sylvia, looking round the room for daniel. 'he's been to kirk moorside church, for t' see a bit o' th' world, as he ca's it. and sin' then he's gone out to th' cattle; for kester's ta'en his turn of playing hissel', now that father's better.' 'i've been talking to sylvia,' said philip, his head still full of his pleasant plan, his hand still tingling from the touch of hers, 'about turning schoolmaster, and coming up here two nights a week for t' teach her a bit o' writing and ciphering.' 'and geography,' put in sylvia; 'for,' thought she, 'if i'm to learn them things i don't care a pin about, anyhow i'll learn what i do care to know, if it 'll tell me about t' greenland seas, and how far they're off.' that same evening, a trio alike in many outward circumstances sate in a small neat room in a house opening out of a confined court on the hilly side of the high street of monkshaven--a mother, her only child, and the young man who silently loved that daughter, and was favoured by alice rose, though not by hester. when the latter returned from her afternoon's absence, she stood for a minute or two on the little flight of steep steps, whitened to a snowy whiteness; the aspect of the whole house partook of the same character of irreproachable cleanliness. it was wedged up into a space which necessitated all sorts of odd projections and irregularities in order to obtain sufficient light for the interior; and if ever the being situated in a dusky, confined corner might have been made an excuse for dirt, alice rose's house had that apology. yet the small diamond panes of glass in the casement window were kept so bright and clear that a great sweet-scented-leaved geranium grew and flourished, though it did not flower profusely. the leaves seemed to fill the air with fragrance as soon as hester summoned up energy enough to open the door. perhaps that was because the young quaker, william coulson, was crushing one between his finger and thumb, while waiting to set down alice's next words. for the old woman, who looked as if many years of life remained in her yet, was solemnly dictating her last will and testament. it had been on her mind for many months; for she had something to leave beyond the mere furniture of the house. something--a few pounds--in the hands of john and jeremiah foster, her cousins: and it was they who had suggested the duty on which she was engaged. she had asked william coulson to write down her wishes, and he had consented, though with some fear and trepidation; for he had an idea that he was infringing on a lawyer's prerogative, and that, for aught he knew, he might be prosecuted for making a will without a licence, just as a man might be punished for selling wine and spirits without going through the preliminary legal forms that give permission for such a sale. but to his suggestion that alice should employ a lawyer, she had replied-'that would cost me five pounds sterling; and thee canst do it as well, if thee'll but attend to my words.' so he had bought, at her desire, a black-edged sheet of fine-wove paper, and a couple of good pens, on the previous saturday; and while waiting for her to begin her dictation, and full serious thought himself, he had almost unconsciously made the grand flourish at the top of the paper which he had learnt at school, and which was there called a spread-eagle. 'what art thee doing there?' asked alice, suddenly alive to his proceedings. without a word he showed her his handiwork. 'it's a vanity,' said she, 'and 't may make t' will not stand. folk may think i were na in my right mind, if they see such fly-legs and cob-webs a-top. write, "this is my doing, william coulson, and none of alice rose's, she being in her sound mind."' 'i don't think it's needed,' said william. nevertheless he wrote down the words. 'hast thee put that i'm in my sound mind and seven senses? then make the sign of the trinity, and write, "in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost."' 'is that the right way o' beginning a will?' said coulson, a little startled. 'my father, and my father's father, and my husband had it a-top of theirs, and i'm noane going for to cease fra' following after them, for they were godly men, though my husband were o' t' episcopal persuasion.' 'it's done,' said william. 'hast thee dated it?' asked alice. 'nay.' 'then date it third day, ninth month. now, art ready?' coulson nodded. 'i, alice rose, do leave my furniture (that is, my bed and chest o' drawers, for thy bed and things is thine, and not mine), and settle, and saucepans, and dresser, and table, and kettle, and all the rest of my furniture, to my lawful and only daughter, hester rose. i think that's safe for her to have all, is 't not, william?' 'i think so, too,' said he, writing on all the time. 'and thee shalt have t' roller and paste-board, because thee's so fond o' puddings and cakes. it 'll serve thy wife after i'm gone, and i trust she'll boil her paste long enough, for that's been t' secret o' mine, and thee'll noane be so easy t' please.' 'i din't reckon on marriage,' said william. 'thee'll marry,' said alice. 'thee likes to have thy victuals hot and comfortable; and there's noane many but a wife as'll look after that for t' please thee.' 'i know who could please me,' sighed forth william, 'but i can't please her.' alice looked sharply at him from over her spectacles, which she had put on the better to think about the disposal of her property. 'thee art thinking on our hester,' said she, plainly out. he started a little, but looked up at her and met her eyes. 'hester cares noane for me,' said he, dejectedly. 'bide a while, my lad,' said alice, kindly. 'young women don't always know their own minds. thee and her would make a marriage after my own heart; and the lord has been very good to me hitherto, and i think he'll bring it t' pass. but don't thee let on as thee cares for her so much. i sometimes think she wearies o' thy looks and thy ways. show up thy manly heart, and make as though thee had much else to think on, and no leisure for to dawdle after her, and she'll think a deal more on thee. and now mend thy pen for a fresh start. i give and bequeath--did thee put "give and bequeath," at th' beginning?' 'nay,' said william, looking back. 'thee didst not tell me "give and bequeath!"' 'then it won't be legal, and my bit o' furniture 'll be taken to london, and put into chancery, and hester will have noane on it.' 'i can write it over,' said william. 'well, write it clear then, and put a line under it to show those are my special words. hast thee done it? then now start afresh. i give and bequeath my book o' sermons, as is bound in good calfskin, and lies on the third shelf o' corner cupboard at the right hand o' t' fire-place, to philip hepburn; for i reckon he's as fond o' reading sermons as thee art o' light, well-boiled paste, and i'd be glad for each on ye to have somewhat ye like for to remember me by. is that down? there; now for my cousins john and jeremiah. they are rich i' world's gear, but they'll prize what i leave 'em if i could only onbethink me what they would like. hearken! is na' that our hester's step? put it away, quick! i'm noane for grieving her wi' telling her what i've been about. we'll take a turn at t' will next first day; it will serve us for several sabbaths to come, and maybe i can think on something as will suit cousin john and cousin jeremiah afore then.' hester, as was mentioned, paused a minute or two before lifting the latch of the door. when she entered there was no unusual sign of writing about; only will coulson looking very red, and crushing and smelling at the geranium leaf. hester came in briskly, with the little stock of enforced cheerfulness she had stopped at the door to acquire. but it faded away along with the faint flush of colour in her cheeks; and the mother's quick eye immediately noted the wan heavy look of care. 'i have kept t' pot in t' oven; it'll have a'most got a' t' goodness out of t' tea by now, for it'll be an hour since i made it. poor lass, thou look'st as if thou needed a good cup o' tea. it were dree work sitting wi' betsy darley, were it? and how does she look on her affliction?' 'she takes it sore to heart,' said hester, taking off her hat, and folding and smoothing away her cloak, before putting them in the great oak chest (or 'ark,' as it was called), in which they were laid from sunday to sunday. as she opened the lid a sweet scent of dried lavender and rose-leaves came out. william stepped hastily forwards to hold up the heavy lid for her. she lifted up her head, looked at him full with her serene eyes, and thanked him for his little service. then she took a creepie-stool and sate down on the side of the fire-place, having her back to the window. the hearth was of the same spotless whiteness as the steps; all that was black about the grate was polished to the utmost extent; all that was of brass, like the handle of the oven, was burnished bright. her mother placed the little black earthenware teapot, in which the tea had been stewing, on the table, where cups and saucers were already set for four, and a large plate of bread and butter cut. then they sate round the table, bowed their heads, and kept silence for a minute or two. when this grace was ended, and they were about to begin, alice said, as if without premeditation, but in reality with a keen shrinking of heart out of sympathy with her child-'philip would have been in to his tea by now, i reckon, if he'd been coming.' william looked up suddenly at hester; her mother carefully turned her head another way. but she answered quite quietly-'he'll be gone to his aunt's at haytersbank. i met him at t' top o' t' brow, with his cousin and molly corney.' 'he's a deal there,' said william. 'yes,' said hester. 'it's likely; him and his aunt come from carlisle-way, and must needs cling together in these strange parts.' 'i saw him at the burying of yon darley,' said william. 'it were a vast o' people went past th' entry end,' said alice. 'it were a'most like election time; i were just come back fra' meeting when they were all going up th' church steps. i met yon sailor as, they say, used violence and did murder; he looked like a ghost, though whether it were his bodily wounds, or the sense of his sins stirring within him, it's not for me to say. and by t' time i was back here and settled to my bible, t' folk were returning, and it were tramp, tramp, past th' entry end for better nor a quarter of an hour.' 'they say kinraid has getten slugs and gun-shot in his side,' said hester. 'he's niver one charley kinraid, for sure, as i knowed at newcastle,' said william coulson, roused to sudden and energetic curiosity. 'i don't know,' replied hester; 'they call him just kinraid; and betsy darley says he's t' most daring specksioneer of all that go off this coast to t' greenland seas. but he's been in newcastle, for i mind me she said her poor brother met with him there.' 'how didst thee come to know him?' inquired alice. 'i cannot abide him if it is charley,' said william. 'he kept company with my poor sister as is dead for better nor two year, and then he left off coming to see her and went wi' another girl, and it just broke her heart.' 'he don't look now as if he iver could play at that game again,' said alice; 'he has had a warning fra' the lord. whether it be a call no one can tell. but to my eyne he looks as if he had been called, and was going.' 'then he'll meet my sister,' said william, solemnly; 'and i hope the lord will make it clear to him, then, how he killed her, as sure as he shot down yon sailors; an' if there's a gnashing o' teeth for murder i' that other place, i reckon he'll have his share on't. he's a bad man yon.' 'betsy said he were such a friend to her brother as niver was; and he's sent her word and promised to go and see her, first place he goes out to. but william only shook his head, and repeated his last words,-'he's a bad man, he is.' when philip came home that sunday night, he found only alice up to receive him. the usual bedtime in the household was nine o'clock, and it was but ten minutes past the hour; but alice looked displeased and stern. 'thee art late, lad,' said she, shortly. 'i'm sorry; it's a long way from my uncle's, and i think clocks are different,' said he, taking out his watch to compare it with the round moon's face that told the time to alice. 'i know nought about thy uncle's, but thee art late. take thy candle, and begone.' if alice made any reply to philip's 'good-night,' he did not hear it. chapter viii attraction and repulsion a fortnight had passed over and winter was advancing with rapid strides. in bleak northern farmsteads there was much to be done before november weather should make the roads too heavy for half-fed horses to pull carts through. there was the turf, pared up on the distant moors, and left out to dry, to be carried home and stacked; the brown fern was to be stored up for winter bedding for the cattle; for straw was scarce and dear in those parts; even for thatching, heather (or rather ling) was used. then there was meat to salt while it could be had; for, in default of turnips and mangold-wurzel, there was a great slaughtering of barren cows as soon as the summer herbage failed; and good housewives stored up their christmas piece of beef in pickle before martinmas was over. corn was to be ground while yet it could be carried to the distant mill; the great racks for oat-cake, that swung at the top of the kitchen, had to be filled. and last of all came the pig-killing, when the second frost set in. for up in the north there is an idea that the ice stored in the first frost will melt, and the meat cured then taint; the first frost is good for nothing but to be thrown away, as they express it. there came a breathing-time after this last event. the house had had its last autumn cleaning, and was neat and bright from top to bottom, from one end to another. the turf was led; the coal carted up from monkshaven; the wood stored; the corn ground; the pig killed, and the hams and head and hands lying in salt. the butcher had been glad to take the best parts of a pig of dame robson's careful feeding; but there was unusual plenty in the haytersbank pantry; and as bell surveyed it one morning, she said to her husband-'i wonder if yon poor sick chap at moss brow would fancy some o' my sausages. they're something to crack on, for they are made fra' an old cumberland receipt, as is not known i' yorkshire yet.' 'thou's allays so set upo' cumberland ways!' said her husband, not displeased with the suggestion, however. 'still, when folk's sick they han their fancies, and maybe kinraid 'll be glad o' thy sausages. i ha' known sick folk tak' t' eating snails.' this was not complimentary, perhaps. but daniel went on to say that he did not mind if he stepped over with the sausages himself, when it was too late to do anything else. sylvia longed to offer to accompany her father; but, somehow, she did not like to propose it. towards dusk she came to her mother to ask for the key of the great bureau that stood in the house-place as a state piece of furniture, although its use was to contain the family's best wearing apparel, and stores of linen, such as might be supposed to be more needed upstairs. 'what for do yo' want my keys?' asked bell. 'only just to get out one of t' damask napkins.' 'the best napkins, as my mother span?' 'yes!' said sylvia, her colour heightening. 'i thought as how it would set off t' sausages.' 'a good clean homespun cloth will serve them better,' said bell, wondering in her own mind what was come over the girl, to be thinking of setting off sausages that were to be eaten, not to be looked at like a picture-book. she might have wondered still more, if she had seen sylvia steal round to the little flower border she had persuaded kester to make under the wall at the sunny side of the house, and gather the two or three michaelmas daisies, and the one bud of the china rose, that, growing against the kitchen chimney, had escaped the frost; and then, when her mother was not looking, softly open the cloth inside of the little basket that contained the sausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her autumn blossoms in one of the folds of the towel. after daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had had his afternoon meal (tea was a sunday treat), he prepared to set out on his walk to moss brow; but as he was taking his stick he caught the look on sylvia's face; and unconsciously interpreted its dumb wistfulness. 'missus,' said he, 't' wench has nought more t' do, has she? she may as well put on her cloak and step down wi' me, and see molly a bit; she'll be company like.' bell considered. 'there's t' yarn for thy stockings as is yet to spin; but she can go, for i'll do a bit at 't mysel', and there's nought else agate.' 'put on thy things in a jiffy, then, and let's be off,' said daniel. and sylvia did not need another word. down she came in a twinkling, dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her face peeping out of the folds of the latter, bright and blushing. 'thou should'st na' ha' put on thy new cloak for a night walk to moss brow,' said bell, shaking her head. 'shall i go take it off, and put on my shawl?' asked sylvia, a little dolefully. 'na, na, come along! a'm noane goin' for t' wait o' women's chops and changes. come along; come, lassie!' (this last to his dog). so sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that had to be restrained to the sober gait her father chose. the sky above was bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars, the grass was crisping under their feet with the coming hoar frost; and as they mounted to the higher ground they could see the dark sea stretching away far below them. the night was very still, though now and then crisp sounds in the distant air sounded very near in the silence. sylvia carried the basket, and looked like little red riding hood. her father had nothing to say, and did not care to make himself agreeable; but sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, and any conversation would have been a disturbance to her. the long monotonous roll of the distant waves, as the tide bore them in, the multitudinous rush at last, and then the retreating rattle and trickle, as the baffled waters fell back over the shingle that skirted the sands, and divided them from the cliffs; her father's measured tread, and slow, even movement; lassie's pattering--all lulled sylvia into a reverie, of which she could not have given herself any definite account. but at length they arrived at moss brow, and with a sudden sigh she quitted the subjects of her dreamy meditations, and followed her father into the great house-place. it had a more comfortable aspect by night than by day. the fire was always kept up to a wasteful size, and the dancing blaze and the partial light of candles left much in shadow that was best ignored in such a disorderly family. but there was always a warm welcome to friends, however roughly given; and after the words of this were spoken, the next rose up equally naturally in the mind of mrs corney. 'and what will ye tak'? eh! but t' measter 'll be fine and vexed at your comin' when he's away. he's off to horncastle t' sell some colts, and he'll not be back till to-morrow's neet. but here's charley kinraid as we've getten to nurse up a bit, and' t' lads 'll be back fra' monkshaven in a crack o' no time.' all this was addressed to daniel, to whom she knew that none but masculine company would be acceptable. amongst uneducated people--whose range of subjects and interest do not extend beyond their daily life--it is natural that when the first blush and hurry of youth is over, there should be no great pleasure in the conversation of the other sex. men have plenty to say to men, which in their estimation (gained from tradition and experience) women cannot understand; and farmers of a much later date than the one of which i am writing, would have contemptuously considered it as a loss of time to talk to women; indeed, they were often more communicative to the sheep-dog that accompanied them through all the day's work, and frequently became a sort of dumb confidant. farmer robson's lassie now lay down at her master's feet, placed her nose between her paws, and watched with attentive eyes the preparations going on for refreshments--preparations which, to the disappointment of her canine heart, consisted entirely of tumblers and sugar. 'where's t' wench?' said robson, after he had shaken hands with kinraid, and spoken a few words to him and to mrs. corney. 'she's getten' a basket wi' sausages in 'em, as my missus has made, and she's a rare hand at sausages; there's noane like her in a' t' three ridings, i'll be bound!' for daniel could praise his wife's powers in her absence, though he did not often express himself in an appreciative manner when she was by to hear. but sylvia's quick sense caught up the manner in which mrs. corney would apply the way in which her mother's housewifery had been exalted, and stepping forwards out of the shadow, she said,-'mother thought, maybe, you hadn't killed a pig yet, and sausages is always a bit savoury for any one who is na' well, and----' she might have gone on but that she caught kinraid's eyes looking at her with kindly admiration. she stopped speaking, and mrs. corney took up the word-'as for sausages, i ha' niver had a chance this year, else i stand again any one for t' making of 'em. yorkshire hams 's a vast thought on, and i'll niver let another county woman say as she can make better sausages nor me. but, as i'm saying, i'd niver a chance; for our pig, as i were sa fond on, and fed mysel', and as would ha' been fourteen stone by now if he were an ounce, and as knew me as well as any christian, and a pig, as i may say, that i just idolized, went and took a fit a week after michaelmas day, and died, as if it had been to spite me; and t' next is na' ready for killing, nor wunnot be this six week. so i'm much beholden to your missus, and so's charley, i'm sure; though he's ta'en a turn to betterin' sin' he came out here to be nursed.' 'i'm a deal better,' said kinraid; 'a'most ready for t' press-gang to give chase to again.' 'but folk say they're gone off this coast for one while,' added daniel. 'they're gone down towards hull, as i've been told,' said kinraid. 'but they're a deep set, they'll be here before we know where we are, some of these days.' 'see thee here!' said daniel, exhibiting his maimed hand; 'a reckon a served 'em out time o' t' ameriky war.' and he began the story sylvia knew so well; for her father never made a new acquaintance but what he told him of his self-mutilation to escape the press-gang. it had been done, as he would himself have owned, to spite himself as well as them; for it had obliged him to leave a sea-life, to which, in comparison, all life spent on shore was worse than nothing for dulness. for robson had never reached that rank aboard ship which made his being unable to run up the rigging, or to throw a harpoon, or to fire off a gun, of no great consequence; so he had to be thankful that an opportune legacy enabled him to turn farmer, a great degradation in his opinion. but his blood warmed, as he told the specksioneer, towards a sailor, and he pressed kinraid to beguile the time when he was compelled to be ashore, by coming over to see him at haytersbank, whenever he felt inclined. sylvia, appearing to listen to molly's confidences, was hearkening in reality to all this conversation between her father and the specksioneer; and at this invitation she became especially attentive. kinraid replied,-'i'm much obliged to ye, i'm sure; maybe i can come and spend an ev'ning wi' you; but as soon as i'm got round a bit, i must go see my own people as live at cullercoats near newcastle-upo'-tyne.' 'well, well!' said daniel, rising to take leave, with unusual prudence as to the amount of his drink. 'thou'lt see, thou'lt see! i shall be main glad to see thee; if thou'lt come. but i've na' lads to keep thee company, only one sprig of a wench. sylvia, come here, an let's show thee to this young fellow!' sylvia came forwards, ruddy as any rose, and in a moment kinraid recognized her as the pretty little girl he had seen crying so bitterly over darley's grave. he rose up out of true sailor's gallantry, as she shyly approached and stood by her father's side, scarcely daring to lift her great soft eyes, to have one fair gaze at his face. he had to support himself by one hand rested on the dresser, but she saw he was looking far better--younger, less haggard--than he had seemed to her before. his face was short and expressive; his complexion had been weatherbeaten and bronzed, though now he looked so pale; his eyes and hair were dark,--the former quick, deep-set, and penetrating; the latter curly, and almost in ringlets. his teeth gleamed white as he smiled at her, a pleasant friendly smile of recognition; but she only blushed the deeper, and hung her head. 'i'll come, sir, and be thankful. i daresay a turn'll do me good, if the weather holds up, an' th' frost keeps on.' 'that's right, my lad,' said robson, shaking him by the hand, and then kinraid's hand was held out to sylvia, and she could not avoid the same friendly action. molly corney followed her to the door, and when they were fairly outside, she held sylvia back for an instant to say,-'is na' he a fine likely man? i'm so glad as yo've seen him, for he's to be off next week to newcastle and that neighbourhood.' 'but he said he'd come to us some night?' asked sylvia, half in a fright. 'ay, i'll see as he does; never fear. for i should like yo' for to know him a bit. he's a rare talker. i'll mind him o' coming to yo'.' somehow, sylvia felt as if this repeated promise of reminding kinraid of his promise to come and see her father took away part of the pleasure she had anticipated from his visit. yet what could be more natural than that molly corney should wish her friend to be acquainted with the man whom sylvia believed to be all but molly's engaged lover? pondering these thoughts, the walk home was as silent as that going to moss brow had been. the only change seemed to be that now they faced the brilliant northern lights flashing up the sky, and that either this appearance or some of the whaling narrations of kinraid had stirred up daniel robson's recollections of a sea ditty, which he kept singing to himself in a low, unmusical voice, the burden of which was, 'for i loves the tossin' say!' bell met them at the door. 'well, and here ye are at home again! and philip has been, sylvie, to give thee thy ciphering lesson; and he stayed awhile, thinking thou'd be coming back.' 'i'm very sorry,' said sylvia, more out of deference to her mother's tone of annoyance, than because she herself cared either for her lesson or her cousin's disappointment. 'he'll come again to-morrow night, he says. but thou must take care, and mind the nights he says he'll come, for it's a long way to come for nought.' sylvia might have repeated her 'i'm very sorry' at this announcement of philip's intentions; but she restrained herself, inwardly and fervently hoping that molly would not urge the fulfilment of the specksioneer's promise for to-morrow night, for philip's being there would spoil all; and besides, if she sate at the dresser at her lesson, and kinraid at the table with her father, he might hear all, and find out what a dunce she was. she need not have been afraid. with the next night hepburn came; and kinraid did not. after a few words to her mother, philip produced the candles he had promised, and some books and a quill or two. 'what for hast thou brought candles?' asked bell, in a half-affronted tone. hepburn smiled. 'sylvia thought it would take a deal of candlelight, and was for making it into a reason not to learn. i should ha' used t' candles if i'd stayed at home, so i just brought them wi' me.' 'then thou may'st just take them back again,' said bell, shortly, blowing out that which he had lighted, and placing one of her own on the dresser instead. sylvia caught her mother's look of displeasure, and it made her docile for the evening, although she owed her cousin a grudge for her enforced good behaviour. 'now, sylvia, here's a copy-book wi' t' tower o' london on it, and we'll fill it wi' as pretty writing as any in t' north riding.' sylvia sate quite still, unenlivened by this prospect. 'here's a pen as 'll nearly write of itsel',' continued philip, still trying to coax her out her sullenness of manner. then he arranged her in the right position. 'don't lay your head down on your left arm, you'll ne'er see to write straight.' the attitude was changed, but not a word was spoken. philip began to grow angry at such determined dumbness. 'are you tired?' asked he, with a strange mixture of crossness and tenderness. 'yes, very,' was her reply. 'but thou ought'st not to be tired,' said bell, who had not yet got over the offence to her hospitality; who, moreover, liked her nephew, and had, to boot, a great respect for the learning she had never acquired. 'mother!' said sylvia, bursting out, 'what's the use on my writing "abednego," "abednego," "abednego," all down a page? if i could see t' use on 't, i'd ha' axed father to send me t' school; but i'm none wanting to have learning.' 'it's a fine thing, tho', is learning. my mother and my grandmother had it: but th' family came down i' the world, and philip's mother and me, we had none of it; but i ha' set my heart on thy having it, child.' 'my fingers is stiff,' pleaded sylvia, holding up her little hand and shaking it. 'let us take a turn at spelling, then,' said philip. 'what's t' use on't?' asked captious sylvia. 'why, it helps one i' reading an' writing.' 'and what does reading and writing do for one?' her mother gave her another of the severe looks that, quiet woman as she was, she could occasionally bestow upon the refractory, and sylvia took her book and glanced down the column philip pointed out to her; but, as she justly considered, one man might point out the task, but twenty could not make her learn it, if she did not choose; and she sat herself down on the edge of the dresser, and idly gazed into the fire. but her mother came round to look for something in the drawers of the dresser, and as she passed her daughter she said in a low voice-'sylvie, be a good lass. i set a deal o' store by learning, and father 'ud never send thee to school, as has stuck by me sore.' if philip, sitting with his back to them, heard these words he was discreet enough not to show that he heard. and he had his reward; for in a very short time, sylvia stood before him with her book in her hand, prepared to say her spelling. at which he also stood up by instinct, and listened to her slow succeeding letters; helping her out, when she looked up at him with a sweet childlike perplexity in her face: for a dunce as to book-learning poor sylvia was and was likely to remain; and, in spite of his assumed office of schoolmaster, philip hepburn could almost have echoed the words of the lover of jess macfarlane- i sent my love a letter, but, alas! she canna read, and i lo'e her a' the better. still he knew his aunt's strong wish on the subject, and it was very delightful to stand in the relation of teacher to so dear and pretty, if so wilful, a pupil. perhaps it was not very flattering to notice sylvia's great joy when her lessons were over, sadly shortened as they were by philip's desire not to be too hard upon her. sylvia danced round to her mother, bent her head back, and kissed her face, and then said defyingly to philip,-'if iver i write thee a letter it shall just be full of nothing but "abednego! abednego! abednego!"' but at this moment her father came in from a distant expedition on the moors with kester to look after the sheep he had pasturing there before the winter set fairly in. he was tired, and so was lassie, and so, too, was kester, who, lifting his heavy legs one after the other, and smoothing down his hair, followed his master into the house-place, and seating himself on a bench at the farther end of the dresser, patiently awaited the supper of porridge and milk which he shared with his master. sylvia, meanwhile, coaxed lassie--poor footsore dog--to her side, and gave her some food, which the creature was almost too tired to eat. philip made as though he would be going, but daniel motioned to him to be quiet. 'sit thee down, lad. as soon as i've had my victual, i want t' hear a bit o' news.' sylvia took her sewing and sat at the little round table by her mother, sharing the light of the scanty dip-candle. no one spoke. every one was absorbed in what they were doing. what philip was doing was, gazing at sylvia--learning her face off by heart. when every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the mighty bowl, kester yawned, and wishing good-night, withdrew to his loft over the cow-house. then philip pulled out the weekly york paper, and began to read the latest accounts of the war then raging. this was giving daniel one of his greatest pleasures; for though he could read pretty well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding what he read was almost too much for him. he could read, or he could understand what was read aloud to him; reading was no pleasure, but listening was. besides, he had a true john bullish interest in the war, without very well knowing what the english were fighting for. but in those days, so long as they fought the french for any cause, or for no cause at all, every true patriot was satisfied. sylvia and her mother did not care for any such far-extended interest; a little bit of york news, the stealing of a few apples out of a scarborough garden that they knew, was of far more interest to them than all the battles of nelson and the north. philip read in a high-pitched and unnatural tone of voice, which deprived the words of their reality; for even familiar expressions can become unfamiliar and convey no ideas, if the utterance is forced or affected. philip was somewhat of a pedant; yet there was a simplicity in his pedantry not always to be met with in those who are self-taught, and which might have interested any one who cared to know with what labour and difficulty he had acquired the knowledge which now he prized so highly; reading out latin quotations as easily as if they were english, and taking a pleasure in rolling polysyllables, until all at once looking askance at sylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her pretty rosy lips open, her eyes fast shut; in short, she was asleep. 'ay,' said farmer robson, 'and t' reading has a'most sent me off. mother 'd look angry now if i was to tell yo' yo' had a right to a kiss; but when i was a young man i'd ha' kissed a pretty girl as i saw asleep, afore yo'd said jack robson.' philip trembled at these words, and looked at his aunt. she gave him no encouragement, standing up, and making as though she had never heard her husband's speech, by extending her hand, and wishing him 'good-night.' at the noise of the chairs moving over the flag floor, sylvia started up, confused and annoyed at her father's laughter. 'ay, lass; it's iver a good time t' fall asleep when a young fellow is by. here's philip here as thou'rt bound t' give a pair o' gloves to.' sylvia went like fire; she turned to her mother to read her face. 'it's only father's joke, lass,' said she. 'philip knows manners too well.' 'he'd better,' said sylvia, flaming round at him. 'if he'd a touched me, i'd niver ha' spoken to him no more.' and she looked even as it was as if she was far from forgiving him. 'hoots, lass! wenches are brought up sa mim, now-a-days; i' my time they'd ha' thought na' such great harm of a kiss.' 'good-night, philip,' said bell robson, thinking the conversation unseemly. 'good-night, aunt, good-night, sylvie!' but sylvia turned her back on him, and he could hardly say 'good-night' to daniel, who had caused such an unpleasant end to an evening that had at one time been going on so well. chapter ix the specksioneer a few days after, farmer robson left haytersbank betimes on a longish day's journey, to purchase a horse. sylvia and her mother were busied with a hundred household things, and the early winter's evening closed in upon them almost before they were aware. the consequences of darkness in the country even now are to gather the members of a family together into one room, and to make them settle to some sedentary employment; and it was much more the case at the period of my story, when candles were far dearer than they are at present, and when one was often made to suffice for a large family. the mother and daughter hardly spoke at all when they sat down at last. the cheerful click of the knitting-needles made a pleasant home-sound; and in the occasional snatches of slumber that overcame her mother, sylvia could hear the long-rushing boom of the waves, down below the rocks, for the haytersbank gulley allowed the sullen roar to come up so far inland. it might have been about eight o'clock--though from the monotonous course of the evening it seemed much later--when sylvia heard her father's heavy step cranching down the pebbly path. more unusual, she heard his voice talking to some companion. curious to see who it could be, with a lively instinctive advance towards any event which might break the monotony she had begun to find somewhat dull, she sprang up to open the door. half a glance into the gray darkness outside made her suddenly timid, and she drew back behind the door as she opened it wide to admit her father and kinraid. daniel robson came in bright and boisterous. he was pleased with his purchase, and had had some drink to celebrate his bargain. he had ridden the new mare into monkshaven, and left her at the smithy there until morning, to have her feet looked at, and to be new shod. on his way from the town he had met kinraid wandering about in search of haytersbank farm itself, so he had just brought him along with him; and here they were, ready for bread and cheese, and aught else the mistress would set before them. to sylvia the sudden change into brightness and bustle occasioned by the entrance of her father and the specksioneer was like that which you may effect any winter's night, when you come into a room where a great lump of coal lies hot and slumbering on the fire; just break it up with a judicious blow from the poker, and the room, late so dark, and dusk, and lone, is full of life, and light, and warmth. she moved about with pretty household briskness, attending to all her father's wants. kinraid's eye watched her as she went backwards and forwards, to and fro, into the pantry, the back-kitchen, out of light into shade, out of the shadow into the broad firelight where he could see and note her appearance. she wore the high-crowned linen cap of that day, surmounting her lovely masses of golden brown hair, rather than concealing them, and tied firm to her head by a broad blue ribbon. a long curl hung down on each side of her neck--her throat rather, for her neck was concealed by a little spotted handkerchief carefully pinned across at the waist of her brown stuff gown. how well it was, thought the young girl, that she had doffed her bed-gown and linsey-woolsey petticoat, her working-dress, and made herself smart in her stuff gown, when she sate down to work with her mother. by the time she could sit down again, her father and kinraid had their glasses filled, and were talking of the relative merits of various kinds of spirits; that led on to tales of smuggling, and the different contrivances by which they or their friends had eluded the preventive service; the nightly relays of men to carry the goods inland; the kegs of brandy found by certain farmers whose horses had gone so far in the night, that they could do no work the next day; the clever way in which certain women managed to bring in prohibited goods; in fact, that when a woman did give her mind to smuggling, she was more full of resources, and tricks, and impudence, and energy than any man. there was no question of the morality of the affair; one of the greatest signs of the real progress we have made since those times seems to be that our daily concerns of buying and selling, eating and drinking, whatsoever we do, are more tested by the real practical standard of our religion than they were in the days of our grandfathers. neither sylvia nor her mother was in advance of their age. both listened with admiration to the ingenious devices, and acted as well as spoken lies, that were talked about as fine and spirited things. yet if sylvia had attempted one tithe of this deceit in her every-day life, it would have half broken her mother's heart. but when the duty on salt was strictly and cruelly enforced, making it penal to pick up rough dirty lumps containing small quantities that might be thrown out with the ashes of the brine-houses on the high-roads; when the price of this necessary was so increased by the tax upon it as to make it an expensive, sometimes an unattainable, luxury to the working man, government did more to demoralise the popular sense of rectitude and uprightness than heaps of sermons could undo. and the same, though in smaller measure, was the consequence of many other taxes. it may seem curious to trace up the popular standard of truth to taxation; but i do not think the idea would be so very far-fetched. from smuggling adventures it was easy to pass on to stories of what had happened to robson, in his youth a sailor in the greenland seas, and to kinraid, now one of the best harpooners in any whaler that sailed off the coast. 'there's three things to be afeared on,' said robson, authoritatively: 'there's t' ice, that's bad; there's dirty weather, that's worse; and there's whales theirselves, as is t' worst of all; leastways, they was i' my days; t' darned brutes may ha' larnt better manners sin'. when i were young, they could niver be got to let theirsels be harpooned wi'out flounderin' and makin' play wi' their tales and their fins, till t' say were all in a foam, and t' boats' crews was all o'er wi' spray, which i' them latitudes is a kind o' shower-bath not needed.' 'th' whales hasn't mended their manners, as you call it,' said kinraid; 'but th' ice is not to be spoken lightly on. i were once in th' ship _john_ of hull, and we were in good green water, and were keen after whales; and ne'er thought harm of a great gray iceberg as were on our lee-bow, a mile or so off; it looked as if it had been there from the days of adam, and were likely to see th' last man out, and it ne'er a bit bigger nor smaller in all them thousands and thousands o' years. well, the fast-boats were out after a fish, and i were specksioneer in one; and we were so keen after capturing our whale, that none on us ever saw that we were drifting away from them right into deep shadow o' th' iceberg. but we were set upon our whale, and i harpooned it; and as soon as it were dead we lashed its fins together, and fastened its tail to our boat; and then we took breath and looked about us, and away from us a little space were th' other boats, wi' two other fish making play, and as likely as not to break loose, for i may say as i were th' best harpooner on board the _john_, wi'out saying great things o' mysel'. so i says, "my lads, one o' you stay i' th' boat by this fish,"--the fins o' which, as i said, i'd reeved a rope through mysel', and which was as dead as noah's grandfather--"and th' rest on us shall go off and help th' other boats wi' their fish." for, you see, we had another boat close by in order to sweep th' fish. (i suppose they swept fish i' your time, master?)' 'ay, ay!' said robson; 'one boat lies still holding t' end o' t' line; t' other makes a circuit round t' fish.' 'well! luckily for us we had our second boat, for we all got into it, ne'er a man on us was left i' th' fast-boat. and says i, "but who's to stay by t' dead fish?" and no man answered, for they were all as keen as me for to go and help our mates; and we thought as we could come back to our dead fish, as had a boat for a buoy, once we had helped our mates. so off we rowed, every man jack on us, out o' the black shadow o' th' iceberg, as looked as steady as th' pole-star. well! we had na' been a dozen fathoms away fra' th' boat as we had left, when crash! down wi' a roaring noise, and then a gulp of the deep waters, and then a shower o' blinding spray; and when we had wiped our eyes clear, and getten our hearts down agen fra' our mouths, there were never a boat nor a glittering belly o' e'er a great whale to be seen; but th' iceberg were there, still and grim, as if a hundred ton or more had fallen off all in a mass, and crushed down boat, and fish, and all, into th' deep water, as goes half through the earth in them latitudes. th' coal-miners round about newcastle way may come upon our good boat if they mine deep enough, else ne'er another man will see her. and i left as good a clasp-knife in her as ever i clapt eyes on.' 'but what a mercy no man stayed in her,' said bell. 'why, mistress, i reckon we a' must die some way; and i'd as soon go down into the deep waters as be choked up wi' moulds.' 'but it must be so cold,' said sylvia, shuddering and giving a little poke to the fire to warm her fancy. 'cold!' said her father, 'what do ye stay-at-homes know about cold, a should like to know? if yo'd been where a were once, north latitude 81, in such a frost as ye ha' niver known, no, not i' deep winter, and it were june i' them seas, and a whale i' sight, and a were off in a boat after her: an' t' ill-mannered brute, as soon as she were harpooned, ups wi' her big awkward tail, and struck t' boat i' her stern, and chucks me out into t' watter. that were cold, a can tell the'! first, i smarted all ower me, as if my skin were suddenly stript off me: and next, ivery bone i' my body had getten t' toothache, and there were a great roar i' my ears, an' a great dizziness i' my eyes; an' t' boat's crew kept throwin' out their oars, an' a kept clutchin' at 'em, but a could na' make out where they was, my eyes dazzled so wi' t' cold, an' i thought i were bound for "kingdom come," an' a tried to remember t' creed, as a might die a christian. but all a could think on was, "what is your name, m or n?" an' just as a were giving up both words and life, they heaved me aboard. but, bless ye, they had but one oar; for they'd thrown a' t' others after me; so yo' may reckon, it were some time afore we could reach t' ship; an' a've heerd tell, a were a precious sight to look on, for my clothes was just hard frozen to me, an' my hair a'most as big a lump o' ice as yon iceberg he was a-telling us on; they rubbed me as missus theere were rubbing t' hams yesterday, and gav' me brandy; an' a've niver getten t' frost out o' my bones for a' their rubbin', and a deal o' brandy as i 'ave ta'en sin'. talk o' cold! it's little yo' women known o' cold!' 'but there's heat, too, i' some places,' said kinraid. i was once a voyage i' an american. they goes for th' most part south, to where you come round to t' cold again; and they'll stay there for three year at a time, if need be, going into winter harbour i' some o' th' pacific islands. well, we were i' th' southern seas, a-seeking for good whaling-ground; and, close on our larboard beam, there were a great wall o' ice, as much as sixty feet high. and says our captain--as were a dare-devil, if ever a man were--"there'll be an opening in yon dark gray wall, and into that opening i'll sail, if i coast along it till th' day o' judgment." but, for all our sailing, we never seemed to come nearer to th' opening. the waters were rocking beneath us, and the sky were steady above us; and th' ice rose out o' the waters, and seemed to reach up into the sky. we sailed on, and we sailed on, for more days nor i could count. our captain were a strange, wild man, but once he looked a little pale when he came upo' deck after his turn-in, and saw the green-gray ice going straight up on our beam. many on us thought as the ship were bewitched for th' captain's words; and we got to speak low, and to say our prayers o' nights, and a kind o' dull silence came into th' very air; our voices did na' rightly seem our own. and we sailed on, and we sailed on. all at once, th' man as were on watch gave a cry: he saw a break in the ice, as we'd begun to think were everlasting; and we all gathered towards the bows, and the captain called to th' man at the helm to keep her course, and cocked his head, and began to walk the quarter-deck jaunty again. and we came to a great cleft in th' long weary rock of ice; and the sides o' th' cleft were not jagged, but went straight sharp down into th' foaming waters. but we took but one look at what lay inside, for our captain, with a loud cry to god, bade the helmsman steer nor'ards away fra' th' mouth o' hell. we all saw wi' our own eyes, inside that fearsome wall o' ice--seventy miles long, as we could swear to--inside that gray, cold ice, came leaping flames, all red and yellow wi' heat o' some unearthly kind out o' th' very waters o' the sea; making our eyes dazzle wi' their scarlet blaze, that shot up as high, nay, higher than th' ice around, yet never so much as a shred on 't was melted. they did say that some beside our captain saw the black devils dart hither and thither, quicker than the very flames themselves; anyhow, he saw them. and as he knew it were his own daring as had led him to have that peep at terrors forbidden to any on us afore our time, he just dwined away, and we hadn't taken but one whale afore our captain died, and first mate took th' command. it were a prosperous voyage; but, for all that, i'll never sail those seas again, nor ever take wage aboard an american again.' 'eh, dear! but it's awful t' think o' sitting wi' a man that has seen th' doorway into hell,' said bell, aghast. sylvia had dropped her work, and sat gazing at kinraid with fascinated wonder. daniel was just a little annoyed at the admiration which his own wife and daughter were bestowing on the specksioneer's wonderful stories, and he said-'ay, ay. if a'd been a talker, ye'd ha' thought a deal more on me nor ye've iver done yet. a've seen such things, and done such things.' 'tell us, father!' said sylvia, greedy and breathless. 'some on 'em is past telling,' he replied, 'an some is not to be had for t' asking, seeing as how they might bring a man into trouble. but, as a said, if a had a fancy to reveal all as is on my mind a could make t' hair on your heads lift up your caps--well, we'll say an inch, at least. thy mother, lass, has heerd one or two on 'em. thou minds the story o' my ride on a whale's back, bell? that'll maybe be within this young fellow's comprehension o' t' danger; thou's heerd me tell it, hastn't ta?' 'yes,' said bell; 'but it's a long time ago; when we was courting.' 'an' that's afore this young lass were born, as is a'most up to woman's estate. but sin' those days a ha' been o'er busy to tell stories to my wife, an' as a'll warrant she's forgotten it; an' as sylvia here niver heerd it, if yo'll fill your glass, kinraid, yo' shall ha' t' benefit o't. 'a were a specksioneer mysel, though, after that, a rayther directed my talents int' t' smuggling branch o' my profession; but a were once a whaling aboord t' _ainwell_ of whitby. an' we was anchored off t' coast o' greenland one season, an' we'd getten a cargo o' seven whale; but our captain he were a keen-eyed chap, an' niver above doin' any man's work; an' once seein' a whale he throws himself int' a boat an' goes off to it, makin' signals to me, an' another specksioneer as were off for diversion i' another boat, for to come after him sharp. well, afore we comes alongside, captain had harpooned t' fish; an' says he, "now, robson, all ready! give into her again when she comes to t' top;" an' i stands up, right leg foremost, harpoon all ready, as soon as iver i cotched a sight o' t' whale, but niver a fin could a see. 'twere no wonder, for she were right below t' boat in which a were; and when she wanted to rise, what does t' great ugly brute do but come wi' her head, as is like cast iron, up bang again t' bottom o' t' boat. i were thrown up in t' air like a shuttlecock, me an' my line an' my harpoon--up we goes, an' many a good piece o' timber wi' us, an' many a good fellow too; but a had t' look after mysel', an a were up high i' t' air, afore i could say jack robinson, an' a thowt a were safe for another dive int' saut water; but i'stead a comes down plump on t' back o' t' whale. ay! yo' may stare, master, but theere a were, an' main an' slippery it were, only a sticks my harpoon intil her an' steadies mysel', an' looks abroad o'er t' vast o' waves, and gets sea-sick in a manner, an' puts up a prayer as she mayn't dive, and it were as good a prayer for wishin' it might come true as iver t' clargyman an' t' clerk too puts up i' monkshaven church. well, a reckon it were heerd, for all a were i' them north latitudes, for she keeps steady, an' a does my best for t' keep steady; an' 'deed a was too steady, for a was fast wi' t' harpoon line, all knotted and tangled about me. t' captain, he sings out for me to cut it; but it's easy singin' out, and it's noane so easy fumblin' for your knife i' t' pocket o' your drawers, when yo've t' hold hard wi' t' other hand on t' back of a whale, swimmin' fourteen knots an hour. at last a thinks to mysel' a can't get free o' t' line, and t' line is fast to t' harpoon, and t' harpoon is fast to t' whale; and t' whale may go down fathoms deep wheniver t' maggot stirs i' her head; an' t' watter's cold, an noane good for drownin' in; a can't get free o' t' line, and a connot get my knife out o' my breeches pocket though t' captain should ca' it mutiny to disobey orders, and t' line's fast to t' harpoon--let's see if t' harpoon's fast to t' whale. so a tugged, and a lugged, and t' whale didn't mistake it for ticklin', but she cocks up her tail, and throws out showers o' water as were ice or iver it touched me; but a pulls on at t' shank, an' a were only afeard as she wouldn't keep at t' top wi' it sticking in her; but at last t' harpoon broke, an' just i' time, for a reckon she was near as tired o' me as a were on her, and down she went; an' a had hard work to make for t' boats as was near enough to catch me; for what wi' t' whale's being but slippery an' t' watter being cold, an' me hampered wi' t' line an' t' piece o' harpoon, it's a chance, missus, as thou had stopped an oud maid.' 'eh dear a' me!' said bell, 'how well i mind yo'r telling me that tale! it were twenty-four year ago come october. i thought i never could think enough on a man as had rode on a whale's back!' 'yo' may learn t' way of winnin' t' women,' said daniel, winking at the specksioneer. and kinraid immediately looked at sylvia. it was no premeditated action; it came as naturally as wakening in the morning when his sleep was ended; but sylvia coloured as red as any rose at his sudden glance,--coloured so deeply that he looked away until he thought she had recovered her composure, and then he sat gazing at her again. but not for long, for bell suddenly starting up, did all but turn him out of the house. it was late, she said, and her master was tired, and they had a hard day before them next day; and it was keeping ellen corney up; and they had had enough to drink,--more than was good for them, she was sure, for they had both been taking her in with their stories, which she had been foolish enough to believe. no one saw the real motive of all this almost inhospitable haste to dismiss her guest, how the sudden fear had taken possession of her that he and sylvia were 'fancying each other'. kinraid had said early in the evening that he had come to thank her for her kindness in sending the sausages, as he was off to his own home near newcastle in a day or two. but now he said, in reply to daniel robson, that he would step in another night before long and hear some more of the old man's yarns. daniel had just had enough drink to make him very good-tempered, or else his wife would not have dared to have acted as she did; and this maudlin amiability took the shape of hospitable urgency that kinraid should come as often as he liked to haytersbank; come and make it his home when he was in these parts; stay there altogether, and so on, till bell fairly shut the outer door to, and locked it before the specksioneer had well got out of the shadow of their roof. all night long sylvia dreamed of burning volcanoes springing out of icy southern seas. but, as in the specksioneer's tale the flames were peopled with demons, there was no human interest for her in the wondrous scene in which she was no actor, only a spectator. with daylight came wakening and little homely every-day wonders. did kinraid mean that he was going away really and entirely, or did he not? was he molly corney's sweetheart, or was he not? when she had argued herself into certainty on one side, she suddenly wheeled about, and was just of the opposite opinion. at length she settled that it could not be settled until she saw molly again; so, by a strong gulping effort, she resolutely determined to think no more about him, only about the marvels he had told. she might think a little about them when she sat at night, spinning in silence by the household fire, or when she went out in the gloaming to call the cattle home to be milked, and sauntered back behind the patient, slow-gaited creatures; and at times on future summer days, when, as in the past, she took her knitting out for the sake of the freshness of the faint sea-breeze, and dropping down from ledge to ledge of the rocks that faced the blue ocean, established herself in a perilous nook that had been her haunt ever since her parents had come to haytersbank farm. from thence she had often seen the distant ships pass to and fro, with a certain sort of lazy pleasure in watching their swift tranquillity of motion, but no thought as to where they were bound to, or what strange places they would penetrate to before they turned again, homeward bound. chapter x a refractory pupil sylvia was still full of the specksioneer and his stories, when hepburn came up to give her the next lesson. but the prospect of a little sensible commendation for writing a whole page full of flourishing 'abednegos,' had lost all the slight charm it had ever possessed. she was much more inclined to try and elicit some sympathy in her interest in the perils and adventures of the northern seas, than to bend and control her mind to the right formation of letters. unwisely enough, she endeavoured to repeat one of the narratives that she had heard from kinraid; and when she found that hepburn (if, indeed, he did not look upon the whole as a silly invention) considered it only as an interruption to the real business in hand, to which he would try to listen as patiently as he could, in the hope of sylvia's applying herself diligently to her copy-book when she had cleared her mind, she contracted her pretty lips, as if to check them from making any further appeals for sympathy, and set about her writing-lesson in a very rebellious frame of mind, only restrained by her mother's presence from spoken mutiny. 'after all,' said she, throwing down her pen, and opening and shutting her weary, cramped hand, 'i see no good in tiring myself wi' learning for t' write letters when i'se never got one in a' my life. what for should i write answers, when there's niver a one writes to me? and if i had one, i couldn't read it; it's bad enough wi' a book o' print as i've niver seen afore, for there's sure to be new-fangled words in 't. i'm sure i wish the man were farred who plagues his brains wi' striking out new words. why can't folks just ha' a set on 'em for good and a'?' 'why! you'll be after using two or three hundred yoursel' every day as you live, sylvie; and yet i must use a great many as you never think on about t' shop; and t' folks in t' fields want their set, let alone the high english that parsons and lawyers speak.' 'well, it's weary work is reading and writing. cannot you learn me something else, if we mun do lessons?' 'there's sums--and geography,' said hepburn, slowly and gravely. 'geography!' said sylvia, brightening, and perhaps not pronouncing the word quite correctly, 'i'd like yo' to learn me geography. there's a deal o' places i want to hear all about.' 'well, i'll bring up a book and a map next time. but i can tell you something now. there's four quarters in the globe.' 'what's that?' asked sylvia. 'the globe is the earth; the place we live on.' 'go on. which quarter is greenland?' 'greenland is no quarter. it is only a part of one.' 'maybe it's a half quarter.' 'no, not so much as that.' 'half again?' 'no!' he replied, smiling a little. she thought he was making it into a very small place in order to tease her; so she pouted a little, and then said,-'greenland is all t' geography i want to know. except, perhaps, york. i'd like to learn about york, because of t' races, and london, because king george lives there.' 'but if you learn geography at all, you must learn 'bout all places: which of them is hot, and which is cold, and how many inhabitants is in each, and what's the rivers, and which is the principal towns.' 'i'm sure, sylvie, if philip will learn thee all that, thou'lt be such a sight o' knowledge as ne'er a one o' th' prestons has been sin' my great-grandfather lost his property. i should be main proud o' thee; 'twould seem as if we was prestons o' slaideburn once more.' 'i'd do a deal to pleasure yo', mammy; but weary befa' riches and land, if folks that has 'em is to write "abednegos" by t' score, and to get hard words int' their brains, till they work like barm, and end wi' cracking 'em.' this seemed to be sylvia's last protest against learning for the night, for after this she turned docile, and really took pains to understand all that philip could teach her, by means of the not unskilful, though rude, map which he drew for her with a piece of charred wood on his aunt's dresser. he had asked his aunt's leave before beginning what sylvia called his 'dirty work;' but by-and-by even she became a little interested in starting from a great black spot called monkshaven, and in the shaping of land and sea around that one centre. sylvia held her round chin in the palms of her hands, supporting her elbows on the dresser; looking down at the progress of the rough drawing in general, but now and then glancing up at him with sudden inquiry. all along he was not so much absorbed in his teaching as to be unconscious of her sweet proximity. she was in her best mood towards him; neither mutinous nor saucy; and he was striving with all his might to retain her interest, speaking better than ever he had done before (such brightness did love call forth!)--understanding what she would care to hear and to know; when, in the middle of an attempt at explaining the cause of the long polar days, of which she had heard from her childhood, he felt that her attention was no longer his; that a discord had come in between their minds; that she had passed out of his power. this certainty of intuition lasted but for an instant; he had no time to wonder or to speculate as to what had affected her so adversely to his wishes before the door opened and kinraid came in. then hepburn knew that she must have heard his coming footsteps, and recognized them. he angrily stiffened himself up into coldness of demeanour. almost to his surprise, sylvia's greeting to the new comer was as cold as his own. she stood rather behind him; so perhaps she did not see the hand which kinraid stretched out towards her, for she did not place her own little palm in it, as she had done to philip an hour ago. and she hardly spoke, but began to pore over the rough black map, as if seized with strong geographical curiosity, or determined to impress philip's lesson deep on her memory. still philip was dismayed by seeing the warm welcome which kinraid received from the master of the house, who came in from the back premises almost at the same time as the specksioneer entered at the front. hepburn was uneasy, too, at finding kinraid take his seat by the fireside, like one accustomed to the ways of the house. pipes were soon produced. philip disliked smoking. possibly kinraid did so too, but he took a pipe at any rate, and lighted it, though he hardly used it at all, but kept talking to farmer robson on sea affairs. he had the conversation pretty much to himself. philip sat gloomily by; sylvia and his aunt were silent, and old robson smoked his long clay pipe, from time to time taking it out of his mouth to spit into the bright copper spittoon, and to shake the white ashes out of the bowl. before he replaced it, he would give a short laugh of relishing interest in kinraid's conversation; and now and then he put in a remark. sylvia perched herself sideways on the end of the dresser, and made pretence to sew; but philip could see how often she paused in her work to listen. by-and-by, his aunt spoke to him, and they kept up a little side conversation, more because bell robson felt that her nephew, her own flesh and blood, was put out, than for any special interest they either of them felt in what they were saying. perhaps, also, they neither of them disliked showing that they had no great faith in the stories kinraid was telling. mrs. robson, at any rate, knew so little as to be afraid of believing too much. philip was sitting on that side of the fire which was nearest to the window and to sylvia, and opposite to the specksioneer. at length he turned to his cousin and said in a low voice-'i suppose we can't go on with our spell at geography till that fellow's gone?' the colour came into sylvia's cheek at the words 'that fellow'; but she only replied with a careless air-'well, i'm one as thinks enough is as good as a feast; and i've had enough of geography this one night, thank you kindly all the same.' philip took refuge in offended silence. he was maliciously pleased when his aunt made so much noise with her preparation for supper as quite to prevent the sound of the sailor's words from reaching sylvia's ears. she saw that he was glad to perceive that her efforts to reach the remainder of the story were baulked! this nettled her, and, determined not to let him have his malicious triumph, and still more to put a stop to any attempt at private conversation, she began to sing to herself as she sat at her work; till, suddenly seized with a desire to help her mother, she dexterously slipped down from her seat, passed hepburn, and was on her knees toasting cakes right in front of the fire, and just close to her father and kinraid. and now the noise that hepburn had so rejoiced in proved his foe. he could not hear the little merry speeches that darted backwards and forwards as the specksioneer tried to take the toasting-fork out of sylvia's hand. 'how comes that sailor chap here?' asked hepburn of his aunt. 'he's none fit to be where sylvia is.' 'nay, i dunnot know,' said she; 'the corneys made us acquaint first, and my master is quite fain of his company.' 'and do you like him, too, aunt?' asked hepburn, almost wistfully; he had followed mrs. robson into the dairy on pretence of helping her. 'i'm none fond on him; i think he tells us traveller's tales, by way o' seeing how much we can swallow. but the master and sylvia think that there never was such a one.' 'i could show them a score as good as he down on the quayside.' 'well, laddie, keep a calm sough. some folk like some folk and others don't. wherever i am there'll allays be a welcome for thee.' for the good woman thought that he had been hurt by the evident absorption of her husband and daughter with their new friend, and wished to make all easy and straight. but do what she would, he did not recover his temper all evening: he was uncomfortable, put out, not enjoying himself, and yet he would not go. he was determined to assert his greater intimacy in that house by outstaying kinraid. at length the latter got up to go; but before he went, he must needs bend over sylvia and say something to her in so low a tone that philip could not hear it; and she, seized with a sudden fit of diligence, never looked up from her sewing; only nodded her head by way of reply. at last he took his departure, after many a little delay, and many a quick return, which to the suspicious philip seemed only pretences for taking stolen glances at sylvia. as soon as he was decidedly gone, she folded up her work, and declared that she was so much tired that she must go to bed there and then. her mother, too, had been dozing for the last half-hour, and was only too glad to see signs that she might betake herself to her natural place of slumber. 'take another glass, philip,' said farmer robson. but hepburn refused the offer rather abruptly. he drew near to sylvia instead. he wanted to make her speak to him, and he saw that she wished to avoid it. he took up the readiest pretext. it was an unwise one as it proved, for it deprived him of his chances of occasionally obtaining her undivided attention. 'i don't think you care much for learning geography, sylvie?' 'not much to-night,' said she, making a pretence to yawn, yet looking timidly up at his countenance of displeasure. 'nor at any time,' said he, with growing anger; 'nor for any kind of learning. i did bring some books last time i came, meaning to teach you many a thing--but now i'll just trouble you for my books; i put them on yon shelf by the bible.' he had a mind that she should bring them to him; that, at any rate, he should have the pleasure of receiving them out of her hands. sylvia did not reply, but went and took down the books with a languid, indifferent air. 'and so you won't learn any more geography,' said hepburn. something in his tone struck her, and she looked up in his face. there were marks of stern offence upon his countenance, and yet in it there was also an air of wistful regret and sadness that touched her. 'yo're niver angry with me, philip? sooner than vex yo', i'll try and learn. only, i'm just stupid; and it mun be such a trouble to you.' hepburn would fain have snatched at this half proposal that the lessons should be continued, but he was too stubborn and proud to say anything. he turned away from the sweet, pleading face without a word, to wrap up his books in a piece of paper. he knew that she was standing quite still by his side, though he made as if he did not perceive her. when he had done he abruptly wished them all 'good-night,' and took his leave. there were tears in sylvia's eyes, although the feeling in her heart was rather one of relief. she had made a fair offer, and it had been treated with silent contempt. a few days afterwards, her father came in from monkshaven market, and dropped out, among other pieces of news, that he had met kinraid, who was bound for his own home at cullercoats. he had desired his respects to mrs. robson and her daughter; and had bid robson say that he would have come up to haytersbank to wish them good-by, but that as he was pressed for time, he hoped they would excuse him. but robson did not think it worth while to give this long message of mere politeness. indeed, as it did not relate to business, and was only sent to women, robson forgot all about it, pretty nearly as soon as it was uttered. so sylvia went about fretting herself for one or two days, at her hero's apparent carelessness of those who had at any rate treated him more like a friend than an acquaintance of only a few weeks' standing; and then, her anger quenching her incipient regard, she went about her daily business pretty much as though he had never been. he had gone away out of her sight into the thick mist of unseen life from which he had emerged--gone away without a word, and she might never see him again. but still there was a chance of her seeing him when he came to marry molly corney. perhaps she should be bridesmaid, and then what a pleasant merry time the wedding-day would be! the corneys were all such kind people, and in their family there never seemed to be the checks and restraints by which her own mother hedged her round. then there came an overwhelming self-reproaching burst of love for that 'own mother'; a humiliation before her slightest wish, as penance for the moment's unspoken treason; and thus sylvia was led to request her cousin philip to resume his lessons in so meek a manner, that he slowly and graciously acceded to a request which he was yearning to fulfil all the time. during the ensuing winter, all went on in monotonous regularity at haytersbank farm for many weeks. hepburn came and went, and thought sylvia wonderfully improved in docility and sobriety; and perhaps also he noticed the improvement in her appearance. for she was at that age when a girl changes rapidly, and generally for the better. sylvia shot up into a tall young woman; her eyes deepened in colour, her face increased in expression, and a sort of consciousness of unusual good looks gave her a slight tinge of coquettish shyness with the few strangers whom she ever saw. philip hailed her interest in geography as another sign of improvement. he had brought back his book of maps to the farm; and there he sat on many an evening teaching his cousin, who had strange fancies respecting the places about which she wished to learn, and was coolly indifferent to the very existence of other towns, and countries, and seas far more famous in story. she was occasionally wilful, and at times very contemptuous as to the superior knowledge of her instructor; but, in spite of it all, philip went regularly on the appointed evenings to haytersbank--through keen black east wind, or driving snow, or slushing thaw; for he liked dearly to sit a little behind her, with his arm on the back of her chair, she stooping over the outspread map, with her eyes,--could he have seen them,--a good deal fixed on one spot in the map, not northumberland, where kinraid was spending the winter, but those wild northern seas about which he had told them such wonders. one day towards spring, she saw molly corney coming towards the farm. the companions had not met for many weeks, for molly had been from home visiting her relations in the north. sylvia opened the door, and stood smiling and shivering on the threshold, glad to see her friend again. molly called out, when a few paces off,-'why, sylvia, is that thee! why, how thou'rt growed, to be sure! what a bonny lass thou is!' 'dunnot talk nonsense to my lass,' said bell robson, hospitably leaving her ironing and coming to the door; but though the mother tried to look as if she thought it nonsense, she could hardly keep down the smile that shone out of her eyes, as she put her hand on sylvia's shoulder, with a fond sense of proprietorship in what was being praised. 'oh! but she is,' persisted molly. 'she's grown quite a beauty sin' i saw her. and if i don't tell her so, the men will.' 'be quiet wi' thee,' said sylvia, more than half offended, and turning away in a huff at the open barefaced admiration. 'ay; but they will,' persevered molly. 'yo'll not keep her long, mistress robson. and as mother says, yo'd feel it a deal more to have yer daughters left on hand.' 'thy mother has many, i have but this one,' said mrs. robson, with severe sadness; for now molly was getting to talk as she disliked. but molly's purpose was to bring the conversation round to her own affairs, of which she was very full. 'yes! i tell mother that wi' so many as she has, she ought to be thankful to t' one as gets off quickest.' 'who? which is it?' asked sylvia, a little eagerly, seeing that there was news of a wedding behind the talk. 'why! who should it be but me?' said molly, laughing a good deal, and reddening a little. 'i've not gone fra' home for nought; i'se picked up a measter on my travels, leastways one as is to be.' 'charley kinraid,' said sylvia smiling, as she found that now she might reveal molly's secret, which hitherto she had kept sacred. 'charley kinraid be hung!' said molly, with a toss of her head. 'whatten good's a husband who's at sea half t' year? ha ha, my measter is a canny newcassel shopkeeper, on t' side. a reckon a've done pretty well for mysel', and a'll wish yo' as good luck, sylvia. for yo' see,' (turning to bell robson, who, perhaps, she thought would more appreciate the substantial advantages of her engagement than sylvia,) 'though measter brunton is near upon forty if he's a day, yet he turns over a matter of two hundred pound every year; an he's a good-looking man of his years too, an' a kind, good-tempered feller int' t' bargain. he's been married once, to be sure; but his childer are dead a' 'cept one; an' i don't mislike childer either; an' a'll feed 'em well, an' get 'em to bed early, out o' t' road.' mrs. robson gave her her grave good wishes; but sylvia was silent. she was disappointed; it was a coming down from the romance with the specksioneer for its hero. molly laughed awkwardly, understanding sylvia's thoughts better than the latter imagined. 'sylvia's noane so well pleased. why, lass! it's a' t' better for thee. there's charley to t' fore now, which if a'd married him, he'd not ha' been; and he's said more nor once what a pretty lass yo'd grow into by-and-by.' molly's prosperity was giving her an independence and fearlessness of talk such as had seldom appeared hitherto; and certainly never before mrs. robson. sylvia was annoyed at molly's whole tone and manner, which were loud, laughing, and boisterous; but to her mother they were positively repugnant. she said shortly and gravely,-'sylvia's none so set upo' matrimony; she's content to bide wi' me and her father. let a be such talking, it's not i' my way.' molly was a little subdued; but still her elation at the prospect of being so well married kept cropping out of all the other subjects which were introduced; and when she went away, mrs. robson broke out in an unwonted strain of depreciation. 'that's the way wi' some lasses. they're like a cock on a dunghill, when they've teased a silly chap into wedding 'em. it's cock-a-doodle-do, i've cotched a husband, cock-a-doodle-doo, wi' 'em. i've no patience wi' such like; i beg, sylvie, thou'lt not get too thick wi' molly. she's not pretty behaved, making such an ado about men-kind, as if they were two-headed calves to be run after.' 'but molly's a good-hearted lass, mother. only i never dreamt but what she was troth-plighted wi' charley kinraid,' said sylvia, meditatively. 'that wench 'll be troth-plight to th' first man as 'll wed her and keep her i' plenty; that's a' she thinks about,' replied bell, scornfully. chapter xi visions of the future before may was out, molly corney was married and had left the neighbourhood for newcastle. although charley kinraid was not the bridegroom, sylvia's promise to be bridesmaid was claimed. but the friendship brought on by the circumstances of neighbourhood and parity of age had become very much weakened in the time that elapsed between molly's engagement and wedding. in the first place, she herself was so absorbed in her preparations, so elated by her good fortune in getting married, and married, too, before her elder sister, that all her faults blossomed out full and strong. sylvia felt her to be selfish; mrs. robson thought her not maidenly. a year before she would have been far more missed and regretted by sylvia; now it was almost a relief to the latter to be freed from the perpetual calls upon her sympathy, from the constant demands upon her congratulations, made by one who had no thought or feeling to bestow on others; at least, not in these weeks of 'cock-a-doodle-dooing,' as mrs. robson persisted in calling it. it was seldom that bell was taken with a humorous idea; but this once having hatched a solitary joke, she was always clucking it into notice--to go on with her own poultry simile. every time during that summer that philip saw his cousin, he thought her prettier than she had ever been before; some new touch of colour, some fresh sweet charm, seemed to have been added, just as every summer day calls out new beauty in the flowers. and this was not the addition of philip's fancy. hester rose, who met sylvia on rare occasions, came back each time with a candid, sad acknowledgement in her heart that it was no wonder that sylvia was so much admired and loved. one day hester had seen her sitting near her mother in the market-place; there was a basket by her, and over the clean cloth that covered the yellow pounds of butter, she had laid the hedge-roses and honeysuckles she had gathered on the way into monkshaven; her straw hat was on her knee, and she was busy placing some of the flowers in the ribbon that went round it. then she held it on her hand, and turned it round about, putting her head on one side, the better to view the effect; and all this time, hester, peeping at her through the folds of the stuffs displayed in foster's windows, saw her with admiring, wistful eyes; wondering, too, if philip, at the other counter, were aware of his cousin's being there, so near to him. then sylvia put on her hat, and, looking up at foster's windows, caught hester's face of interest, and smiled and blushed at the consciousness of having been watched over her little vanities, and hester smiled back, but rather sadly. then a customer came in, and she had to attend to her business, which, on this as on all market days, was great. in the midst she was aware of philip rushing bare-headed out of the shop, eager and delighted at something he saw outside. there was a little looking-glass hung against the wall on hester's side, placed in that retired corner, in order that the good women who came to purchase head-gear of any kind might see the effect thereof before they concluded their bargain. in a pause of custom, hester, half-ashamed, stole into this corner, and looked at herself in the glass. what did she see? a colourless face, dark soft hair with no light gleams in it, eyes that were melancholy instead of smiling, a mouth compressed with a sense of dissatisfaction. this was what she had to compare with the bright bonny face in the sunlight outside. she gave a gulp to check the sigh that was rising, and came back, even more patient than she had been before this disheartening peep, to serve all the whims and fancies of purchasers. sylvia herself had been rather put out by philip's way of coming to her. 'it made her look so silly,' she thought; and 'what for must he make a sight of himself, coming among the market folk in that-a-way'; and when he took to admiring her hat, she pulled out the flowers in a pet, and threw them down, and trampled them under foot. 'what for art thou doing that, sylvie?' said her mother. 'the flowers is well enough, though may-be thy hat might ha' been stained.' 'i don't like philip to speak to me so,' said sylvia, pouting. 'how?' asked her mother. but sylvia could not repeat his words. she hung her head, and looked red and pre-occupied, anything but pleased. philip had addressed his first expression of personal admiration at an unfortunate tune. it just shows what different views different men and women take of their fellow-creatures, when i say that hester looked upon philip as the best and most agreeable man she had ever known. he was not one to speak of himself without being questioned on the subject, so his haytersbank relations, only come into the neighborhood in the last year or two, knew nothing of the trials he had surmounted, or the difficult duties he had performed. his aunt, indeed, had strong faith in him, both from partial knowledge of his character, and because he was of her own tribe and kin; but she had never learnt the small details of his past life. sylvia respected him as her mother's friend, and treated him tolerably well as long as he preserved his usual self-restraint of demeanour, but hardly ever thought of him when he was absent. now hester, who had watched him daily for all the years since he had first come as an errand-boy into foster's shop--watching with quiet, modest, yet observant eyes--had seen how devoted he was to his master's interests, had known of his careful and punctual ministration to his absent mother's comforts, as long as she was living to benefit by his silent, frugal self-denial. his methodical appropriation of the few hours he could call his own was not without its charms to the equally methodical hester; the way in which he reproduced any lately acquired piece of knowledge--knowledge so wearisome to sylvia--was delightfully instructive to hester--although, as she was habitually silent, it would have required an observer more interested in discovering her feelings than philip was to have perceived the little flush on the pale cheek, and the brightness in the half-veiled eyes whenever he was talking. she had not thought of love on either side. love was a vanity, a worldliness not to be spoken about, or even thought about. once or twice before the robsons came into the neighbourhood, an idea had crossed her mind that possibly the quiet, habitual way in which she and philip lived together, might drift them into matrimony at some distant period; and she could not bear the humble advances which coulson, philip's fellow-lodger, sometimes made. they seemed to disgust her with him. but after the robsons settled at haytersbank, philip's evenings were so often spent there that any unconscious hopes hester might, unawares, have entertained, died away. at first she had felt a pang akin to jealousy when she heard of sylvia, the little cousin, who was passing out of childhood into womanhood. once--early in those days--she had ventured to ask philip what sylvia was like. philip had not warmed up at the question, and had given rather a dry catalogue of her features, hair, and height, but hester, almost to her own surprise, persevered, and jerked out the final question. 'is she pretty?' philip's sallow cheek grew deeper by two or three shades; but he answered with a tone of indifference,-'i believe some folks think her so.' 'but do you?' persevered hester, in spite of her being aware that he somehow disliked the question. 'there's no need for talking o' such things,' he answered, with abrupt displeasure. hester silenced her curiosity from that time. but her heart was not quite at ease, and she kept on wondering whether philip thought his little cousin pretty until she saw her and him together, on that occasion of which we have spoken, when sylvia came to the shop to buy her new cloak; and after that hester never wondered whether philip thought his cousin pretty or no, for she knew quite well. bell robson had her own anxieties on the subject of her daughter's increasing attractions. she apprehended the dangers consequent upon certain facts, by a mental process more akin to intuition than reason. she was uncomfortable, even while her motherly vanity was flattered, at the admiration sylvia received from the other sex. this admiration was made evident to her mother in many ways. when sylvia was with her at market, it might have been thought that the doctors had prescribed a diet of butter and eggs to all the men under forty in monkshaven. at first it seemed to mrs. robson but a natural tribute to the superior merit of her farm produce; but by degrees she perceived that if sylvia remained at home, she stood no better chance than her neighbours of an early sale. there were more customers than formerly for the fleeces stored in the wool-loft; comely young butchers came after the calf almost before it had been decided to sell it; in short, excuses were seldom wanting to those who wished to see the beauty of haytersbank farm. all this made bell uncomfortable, though she could hardly have told what she dreaded. sylvia herself seemed unspoilt by it as far as her home relations were concerned. a little thoughtless she had always been, and thoughtless she was still; but, as her mother had often said, 'yo' canna put old heads on young shoulders;' and if blamed for her carelessness by her parents, sylvia was always as penitent as she could be for the time being. to be sure, it was only to her father and mother that she remained the same as she had been when an awkward lassie of thirteen. out of the house there were the most contradictory opinions of her, especially if the voices of women were to be listened to. she was 'an ill-favoured, overgrown thing'; 'just as bonny as the first rose i' june, and as sweet i' her nature as t' honeysuckle a-climbing round it;' she was 'a vixen, with a tongue sharp enough to make yer very heart bleed;' she was 'just a bit o' sunshine wheriver she went;' she was sulky, lively, witty, silent, affectionate, or cold-hearted, according to the person who spoke about her. in fact, her peculiarity seemed to be this--that every one who knew her talked about her either in praise or blame; in church, or in market, she unconsciously attracted attention; they could not forget her presence, as they could that of other girls perhaps more personally attractive. now all this was a cause of anxiety to her mother, who began to feel as if she would rather have had her child passed by in silence than so much noticed. bell's opinion was, that it was creditable to a woman to go through life in the shadow of obscurity,--never named except in connexion with good housewifery, husband, or children. too much talking about a girl, even in the way of praise, disturbed mrs. robson's opinion of her; and when her neighbours told her how her own daughter was admired, she would reply coldly, 'she's just well enough,' and change the subject of conversation. but it was quite different with her husband. to his looser, less-restrained mind, it was agreeable to hear of, and still more to see, the attention which his daughter's beauty received. he felt it as reflecting consequence on himself. he had never troubled his mind with speculations as to whether he himself was popular, still less whether he was respected. he was pretty welcome wherever he went, as a jovial good-natured man, who had done adventurous and illegal things in his youth, which in some measure entitled him to speak out his opinions on life in general in the authoritative manner he generally used; but, of the two, he preferred consorting with younger men, to taking a sober stand of respectability with the elders of the place; and he perceived, without reasoning upon it, that the gay daring spirits were more desirous of his company when sylvia was by his side than at any other time. one or two of these would saunter up to haytersbank on a sunday afternoon, and lounge round his fields with the old farmer. bell kept herself from the nap which had been her weekly solace for years, in order to look after sylvia, and on such occasions she always turned as cold a shoulder to the visitors as her sense of hospitality and of duty to her husband would permit. but if they did not enter the house, old robson would always have sylvia with him when he went the round of his land. bell could see them from the upper window: the young men standing in the attitudes of listeners, while daniel laid down the law on some point, enforcing his words by pantomimic actions with his thick stick; and sylvia, half turning away as if from some too admiring gaze, was possibly picking flowers out of the hedge-bank. these sunday afternoon strolls were the plague of bell's life that whole summer. then it took as much of artifice as was in the simple woman's nature to keep daniel from insisting on having sylvia's company every time he went down to monkshaven. and here, again, came a perplexity, the acknowledgement of which in distinct thought would have been an act of disloyalty, according to bell's conscience. if sylvia went with her father, he never drank to excess; and that was a good gain to health at any rate (drinking was hardly a sin against morals in those days, and in that place); so, occasionally, she was allowed to accompany him to monkshaven as a check upon his folly; for he was too fond and proud of his daughter to disgrace her by any open excess. but one sunday afternoon early in november, philip came up before the time at which he usually paid his visits. he looked grave and pale; and his aunt began,-'why, lad! what's been ado? thou'rt looking as peaked and pined as a methody preacher after a love-feast, when he's talked hisself to death's door. thee dost na' get good milk enow, that's what it is,--such stuff as monkshaven folks put up wi'!' 'no, aunt; i'm quite well. only i'm a bit put out--vexed like at what i've heerd about sylvie.' his aunt's face changed immediately. 'and whatten folk say of her, next thing?' 'oh,' said philip, struck by the difference of look and manner in his aunt, and subdued by seeing how instantly she took alarm. 'it were only my uncle;--he should na' take a girl like her to a public. she were wi' him at t' "admiral's head" upo' all souls' day--that were all. there were many a one there beside,--it were statute fair; but such a one as our sylvie ought not to be cheapened wi' t' rest.' 'and he took her there, did he?' said bell, in severe meditation. 'i had never no opinion o' th' wenches as 'll set theirselves to be hired for servants i' th' fair; they're a bad lot, as cannot find places for theirselves--'bout going and stannin' to be stared at by folk, and grinnin' wi' th' plough-lads when no one's looking; it's a bad look-out for t' missus as takes one o' these wenches for a servant; and dost ta mean to say as my sylvie went and demeaned hersel' to dance and marlock wi' a' th' fair-folk at th' "admiral's head?"' 'no, no, she did na' dance; she barely set foot i' th' room; but it were her own pride as saved her; uncle would niver ha' kept her from it, for he had fallen in wi' hayley o' seaburn and one or two others, and they were having a glass i' t' bar, and mrs. lawson, t' landlady, knew how there was them who would come and dance among parish 'prentices if need were, just to get a word or a look wi' sylvie! so she tempts her in, saying that the room were all smartened and fine wi' flags; and there was them in the room as told me that they never were so startled as when they saw our sylvie's face peeping in among all t' flustered maids and men, rough and red wi' weather and drink; and jem macbean, he said she were just like a bit o' apple-blossom among peonies; and some man, he didn't know who, went up and spoke to her; an' either at that, or at some o' t' words she heard--for they'd got a good way on afore that time--she went quite white and mad, as if fire were coming out of her eyes, and then she turned red and left the room, for all t' landlady tried to laugh it off and keep her in.' 'i'll be down to monkshaven before i'm a day older, and tell margaret lawson some on my mind as she'll not forget in a hurry.' bell moved as though she would put on her cloak and hood there and then. 'nay, it's not in reason as a woman i' that line o' life shouldn't try to make her house agreeable,' said philip. 'not wi' my wench,' said bell, in a determined voice. philip's information had made a deeper impression on his aunt than he intended. he himself had been annoyed more at the idea that sylvia would be spoken of as having been at a rough piece of rustic gaiety--a yearly festival for the lower classes of yorkshire servants, out-door as well as in-door--than at the affair itself, for he had learnt from his informant how instantaneous her appearance had been. he stood watching his aunt's troubled face, and almost wishing that he had not spoken. at last she heaved a deep sigh, and stirring the fire, as if by this little household occupation to compose her mind, she said-'it's a pity as wenches aren't lads, or married folk. i could ha' wished--but it were the lord's will--it would ha' been summut to look to, if she'd had a brother. my master is so full on his own thoughts, yo' see, he's no mind left for thinking on her, what wi' th' oats, and th' wool, and th' young colt, and his venture i' th' _lucky mary_.' she really believed her husband to have the serious and important occupation for his mind that she had been taught to consider befitting the superior intellect of the masculine gender; she would have taxed herself severely, if, even in thought, she had blamed him, and philip respected her feelings too much to say that sylvia's father ought to look after her more closely if he made such a pretty creature so constantly his companion; yet some such speech was only just pent within philip's closed lips. again his aunt spoke-'i used to think as she and yo' might fancy one another, but thou'rt too old-fashioned like for her; ye would na' suit; and it's as well, for now i can say to thee, that i would take it very kindly if thou would'st look after her a bit.' philip's countenance fell into gloom. he had to gulp down certain feelings before he could make answer with discretion. 'how can i look after her, and me tied to the shop more and more every day?' 'i could send her on a bit of an errand to foster's, and then, for sure, yo' might keep an eye upon her when she's in th' town; and just walk a bit way with her when she's in th' street, and keep t' other fellows off her--ned simpson, t' butcher, in 'special, for folks do say he means no good by any girl he goes wi'--and i'll ask father to leave her a bit more wi' me. they're coming down th' brow, and ned simpson wi' them. now, philip, i look to thee to do a brother's part by my wench, and warn off all as isn't fit.' the door opened, and the coarse strong voice of simpson made itself heard. he was a stout man, comely enough as to form and feature, but with a depth of colour in his face that betokened the coming on of the habits of the sot. his sunday hat was in his hand, and he smoothed the long nap of it, as he said, with a mixture of shyness and familiarity-'sarvant, missus. yo'r measter is fain that i should come in an' have a drop; no offence, i hope?' sylvia passed quickly through the house-place, and went upstairs without speaking to her cousin philip or to any one. he sat on, disliking the visitor, and almost disliking his hospitable uncle for having brought simpson into the house, sympathizing with his aunt in the spirit which prompted her curt answers, and in the intervals of all these feelings wondering what ground she had for speaking as if she had now given up all thought of sylvia and him ever being married, and in what way he was too 'old-fashioned.' robson would gladly have persuaded philip to join him and simpson in their drink, but philip was in no sociable mood, and sate a little aloof, watching the staircase down which sooner or later sylvia must come; for, as perhaps has been already said, the stairs went up straight out of the kitchen. and at length his yearning watch was rewarded; first, the little pointed toe came daintily in sight, then the trim ankle in the tight blue stocking, the wool of which was spun and the web of which was knitted by her mother's careful hands; then the full brown stuff petticoat, the arm holding the petticoat back in decent folds, so as not to encumber the descending feet; the slender neck and shoulders hidden under the folded square of fresh white muslin; the crowning beauty of the soft innocent face radiant in colour, and with the light brown curls clustering around. she made her way quickly to philip's side; how his heart beat at her approach! and even more when she entered into a low-voiced _tete-a-tete_. 'isn't he gone yet?' said she. 'i cannot abide him; i could ha' pinched father when he asked him for t' come in.' 'maybe, he'll not stay long,' said philip, hardly understanding the meaning of what he said, so sweet was it to have her making her whispered confidences to him. but simpson was not going to let her alone in the dark corner between the door and the window. he began paying her some coarse country compliments--too strong in their direct flattery for even her father's taste, more especially as he saw by his wife's set lips and frowning brow how much she disapproved of their visitor's style of conversation. 'come, measter, leave t' lass alone; she's set up enough a'ready, her mother makes such a deal on her. yo' an' me's men for sensible talk at our time o' life. an', as i was saying, t' horse was a weaver if iver one was, as any one could ha' told as had come within a mile on him.' and in this way the old farmer and the bluff butcher chatted on about horses, while philip and sylvia sate together, he turning over all manner of hopes and projects for the future, in spite of his aunt's opinion that he was too 'old-fashioned' for her dainty, blooming daughter. perhaps, too, mrs. robson saw some reason for changing her mind on this head as she watched sylvia this night, for she accompanied philip to the door, when the time came for him to start homewards, and bade him 'good-night' with unusual fervour, adding-'thou'st been a deal o' comfort to me, lad--a'most as one as if thou wert a child o' my own, as at times i could welly think thou art to be. anyways, i trust to thee to look after the lile lass, as has no brother to guide her among men--and men's very kittle for a woman to deal wi; but if thou'lt have an eye on whom she consorts wi', my mind 'll be easier.' philip's heart beat fast, but his voice was as calm as usual when he replied-'i'd just keep her a bit aloof from monkshaven folks; a lass is always the more thought on for being chary of herself; and as for t' rest, i'll have an eye to the folks she goes among, and if i see that they don't befit her, i'll just give her a warning, for she's not one to like such chaps as yon simpson there; she can see what's becoming in a man to say to a lass, and what's not.' philip set out on his two-mile walk home with a tumult of happiness in his heart. he was not often carried away by delusions of his own creating; to-night he thought he had good ground for believing that by patient self-restraint he might win sylvia's love. a year ago he had nearly earned her dislike by obtruding upon her looks and words betokening his passionate love. he alarmed her girlish coyness, as well as wearied her with the wish he had then felt that she should take an interest in his pursuits. but, with unusual wisdom, he had perceived his mistake; it was many months now since he had betrayed, by word or look, that she was anything more to him than a little cousin to be cared for and protected when need was. the consequence was that she had become tamed, just as a wild animal is tamed; he had remained tranquil and impassive, almost as if he did not perceive her shy advances towards friendliness. these advances were made by her after the lessons had ceased. she was afraid lest he was displeased with her behaviour in rejecting his instructions, and was not easy till she was at peace with him; and now, to all appearance, he and she were perfect friends, but nothing more. in his absence she would not allow her young companions to laugh at his grave sobriety of character, and somewhat prim demeanour; she would even go against her conscience, and deny that she perceived any peculiarity. when she wanted it, she sought his advice on such small subjects as came up in her daily life; and she tried not to show signs of weariness when he used more words--and more difficult words--than were necessary to convey his ideas. but her ideal husband was different from philip in every point, the two images never for an instant merged into one. to philip she was the only woman in the world; it was the one subject on which he dared not consider, for fear that both conscience and judgment should decide against him, and that he should be convinced against his will that she was an unfit mate for him, that she never would be his, and that it was waste of time and life to keep her shrined in the dearest sanctuary of his being, to the exclusion of all the serious and religious aims which, in any other case, he would have been the first to acknowledge as the object he ought to pursue. for he had been brought up among the quakers, and shared in their austere distrust of a self-seeking spirit; yet what else but self-seeking was his passionate prayer, 'give me sylvia, or else, i die?' no other vision had ever crossed his masculine fancy for a moment; his was a rare and constant love that deserved a better fate than it met with. at this time his hopes were high, as i have said, not merely as to the growth of sylvia's feelings towards him, but as to the probability of his soon being in a position to place her in such comfort, as his wife, as she had never enjoyed before. for the brothers foster were thinking of retiring from business, and relinquishing the shop to their two shopmen, philip hepburn and william coulson. to be sure, it was only by looking back for a few months, and noticing chance expressions and small indications, that this intention of theirs could be discovered. but every step they took tended this way, and philip knew their usual practice of deliberation too well to feel in the least impatient for the quicker progress of the end which he saw steadily approaching. the whole atmosphere of life among the friends at this date partook of this character of self-repression, and both coulson and hepburn shared in it. coulson was just as much aware of the prospect opening before him as hepburn; but they never spoke together on the subject, although their mutual knowledge might be occasionally implied in their conversation on their future lives. meanwhile the fosters were imparting more of the background of their business to their successors. for the present, at least, the brothers meant to retain an interest in the shop, even after they had given up the active management; and they sometimes thought of setting up a separate establishment as bankers. the separation of the business,--the introduction of their shopmen to the distant manufacturers who furnished their goods (in those days the system of 'travellers' was not so widely organized as it is at present),--all these steps were in gradual progress; and already philip saw himself in imagination in the dignified position of joint master of the principal shop in monkshaven, with sylvia installed as his wife, with certainly a silk gown, and possibly a gig at her disposal. in all philip's visions of future prosperity, it was sylvia who was to be aggrandized by them; his own life was to be spent as it was now, pretty much between the four shop walls. chapter xii new year's fete all this enlargement of interest in the shop occupied philip fully for some months after the period referred to in the preceding chapter. remembering his last conversation with his aunt, he might have been uneasy at his inability to perform his promise and look after his pretty cousin, but that about the middle of november bell robson had fallen ill of a rheumatic fever, and that her daughter had been entirely absorbed in nursing her. no thought of company or gaiety was in sylvia's mind as long as her mother's illness lasted; vehement in all her feelings, she discovered in the dread of losing her mother how passionately she was attached to her. hitherto she had supposed, as children so often do, that her parents would live for ever; and now when it was a question of days, whether by that time the following week her mother might not be buried out of her sight for ever, she clung to every semblance of service to be rendered, or affection shown, as if she hoped to condense the love and care of years into the few days only that might remain. mrs. robson lingered on, began slowly to recover, and before christmas was again sitting by the fireside in the house-place, wan and pulled down, muffled up with shawls and blankets, but still there once more, where not long before sylvia had scarcely expected to see her again. philip came up that evening and found sylvia in wild spirits. she thought that everything was done, now that her mother had once come downstairs again; she laughed with glee; she kissed her mother; she shook hands with philip, she almost submitted to a speech of more than usual tenderness from him; but, in the midst of his words, her mother's pillows wanted arranging and she went to her chair, paying no more heed to his words than if they had been addressed to the cat, that lying on the invalid's knee was purring out her welcome to the weak hand feebly stroking her back. robson himself soon came in, looking older and more subdued since philip had seen him last. he was very urgent that his wife should have some spirits and water; but on her refusal, almost as if she loathed the thought of the smell, he contented himself with sharing her tea, though he kept abusing the beverage as 'washing the heart out of a man,' and attributing all the degeneracy of the world, growing up about him in his old age, to the drinking of such slop. at the same time, his little self-sacrifice put him in an unusually good temper; and, mingled with his real gladness at having his wife once more on the way to recovery, brought back some of the old charm of tenderness combined with light-heartedness, which had won the sober isabella preston long ago. he sat by her side, holding her hand, and talking of old times to the young couple opposite; of his adventures and escapes, and how he had won his wife. she, faintly smiling at the remembrance of those days, yet half-ashamed at having the little details of her courtship revealed, from time to time kept saying,-'for shame wi' thee, dannel--i never did,' and faint denials of a similar kind. 'niver believe her, sylvie. she were a woman, and there's niver a woman but likes to have a sweetheart, and can tell when a chap's castin' sheep's-eyes at her; ay, an' afore he knows what he's about hissen. she were a pretty one then, was my old 'ooman, an' liked them as thought her so, though she did cock her head high, as bein' a preston, which were a family o' standin' and means i' those parts aforetime. there's philip there, i'll warrant, is as proud o' bein' preston by t' mother's side, for it runs i' t' blood, lass. a can tell when a child of a preston tak's to being proud o' their kin, by t' cut o' their nose. now philip's and my missus's has a turn beyond common i' their nostrils, as if they was sniffin' at t' rest of us world, an' seein' if we was good enough for 'em to consort wi'. thee an' me, lass, is robsons--oat-cake folk, while they's pie-crust. lord! how bell used to speak to me, as short as though a wasn't a christian, an' a' t' time she loved me as her very life, an' well a knew it, tho' a'd to mak' as tho' a didn't. philip, when thou goes courtin', come t' me, and a'll give thee many a wrinkle. a've shown, too, as a know well how t' choose a good wife by tokens an' signs, hannot a, missus? come t' me, my lad, and show me t' lass, an' a'll just tak' a squint at her, an' tell yo' if she'll do or not; an' if she'll do, a'll teach yo' how to win her.' 'they say another o' yon corney girls is going to be married,' said mrs. robson, in her faint deliberate tones. 'by gosh, an' it's well thou'st spoke on 'em; a was as clean forgettin' it as iver could be. a met nanny corney i' monkshaven last neet, and she axed me for t' let our sylvia come o' new year's eve, an' see molly an' her man, that 'n as is wed beyond newcassel, they'll be over at her feyther's, for t' new year, an' there's to be a merry-making.' sylvia's colour came, her eyes brightened, she would have liked to go; but the thought of her mother came across her, and her features fell. her mother's eye caught the look and the change, and knew what both meant as well as if sylvia had spoken out. 'thursday se'nnight,' said she. 'i'll be rare and strong by then, and sylvie shall go play hersen; she's been nurse-tending long enough.' 'you're but weakly yet,' said philip shortly; he did not intend to say it, but the words seemed to come out in spite of himself. 'a said as our lass should come, god willin', if she only came and went, an' thee goin' on sprightly, old 'ooman. an' a'll turn nurse-tender mysen for t' occasion, 'special if thou can stand t' good honest smell o' whisky by then. so, my lass, get up thy smart clothes, and cut t' best on 'em out, as becomes a preston. maybe, a'll fetch thee home, an' maybe philip will convoy thee, for nanny corney bade thee to t' merry-making, as well. she said her measter would be seem' thee about t' wool afore then.' 'i don't think as i can go,' said philip, secretly pleased to know that he had the opportunity in his power; 'i'm half bound to go wi' hester rose and her mother to t' watch-night.' 'is hester a methodee?' asked sylvia in surprise. 'no! she's neither a methodee, nor a friend, nor a church person; but she's a turn for serious things, choose wherever they're found.' 'well, then,' said good-natured farmer robson, only seeing the surface of things, 'a'll make shift to fetch sylvie back fra' t' merry-making, and thee an' thy young woman can go to t' prayer-makin'; it's every man to his taste, say i.' but in spite of his half-promise, nay against his natural inclination, philip was lured to the corneys' by the thought of meeting sylvia, of watching her and exulting in her superiority in pretty looks and ways to all the other girls likely to be assembled. besides (he told his conscience) he was pledged to his aunt to watch over sylvia like a brother. so in the interval before new year's eve, he silently revelled as much as any young girl in the anticipation of the happy coming time. at this hour, all the actors in this story having played out their parts and gone to their rest, there is something touching in recording the futile efforts made by philip to win from sylvia the love he yearned for. but, at the time, any one who had watched him might have been amused to see the grave, awkward, plain young man studying patterns and colours for a new waistcoat, with his head a little on one side, after the meditative manner common to those who are choosing a new article of dress. they might have smiled could they have read in his imagination the frequent rehearsals of the coming evening, when he and she should each be dressed in their gala attire, to spend a few hours under a bright, festive aspect, among people whose company would oblige them to assume a new demeanour towards each other, not so familiar as their every-day manner, but allowing more scope for the expression of rustic gallantry. philip had so seldom been to anything of the kind, that, even had sylvia not been going, he would have felt a kind of shy excitement at the prospect of anything so unusual. but, indeed, if sylvia had not been going, it is very probable that philip's rigid conscience might have been aroused to the question whether such parties did not savour too much of the world for him to form one in them. as it was, however, the facts to him were simply these. he was going and she was going. the day before, he had hurried off to haytersbank farm with a small paper parcel in his pocket--a ribbon with a little briar-rose pattern running upon it for sylvia. it was the first thing he had ever ventured to give her--the first thing of the kind would, perhaps, be more accurate; for when he had first begun to teach her any lessons, he had given her mavor's spelling-book, but that he might have done, out of zeal for knowledge, to any dunce of a little girl of his acquaintance. this ribbon was quite a different kind of present; he touched it tenderly, as if he were caressing it, when he thought of her wearing it; the briar-rose (sweetness and thorns) seemed to be the very flower for her; the soft, green ground on which the pink and brown pattern ran, was just the colour to show off her complexion. and she would in a way belong to him: her cousin, her mentor, her chaperon, her lover! while others only admired, he might hope to appropriate; for of late they had been such happy friends! her mother approved of him, her father liked him. a few months, perhaps only a few weeks more of self-restraint, and then he might go and speak openly of his wishes, and what he had to offer. for he had resolved, with the quiet force of his character, to wait until all was finally settled between him and his masters, before he declared himself to either sylvia or her parents. the interval was spent in patient, silent endeavours to recommend himself to her. he had to give his ribbon to his aunt in charge for sylvia, and that was a disappointment to his fancy, although he tried to reason himself into thinking that it was better so. he had not time to wait for her return from some errand on which she had gone, for he was daily more and more occupied with the affairs of the shop. sylvia made many a promise to her mother, and more to herself, that she would not stay late at the party, but she might go as early as she liked; and before the december daylight had faded away, sylvia presented herself at the corneys'. she was to come early in order to help to set out the supper, which was arranged in the large old flagged parlour, which served as best bed-room as well. it opened out of the house-place, and was the sacred room of the house, as chambers of a similar description are still considered in retired farmhouses in the north of england. they are used on occasions like the one now described for purposes of hospitality; but in the state bed, overshadowing so large a portion of the floor, the births and, as far as may be, the deaths, of the household take place. at the corneys', the united efforts of some former generation of the family had produced patchwork curtains and coverlet; and patchwork was patchwork in those days, before the early yates and peels had found out the secret of printing the parsley-leaf. scraps of costly indian chintzes and palempours were intermixed with commoner black and red calico in minute hexagons; and the variety of patterns served for the useful purpose of promoting conversation as well as the more obvious one of displaying the work-woman 's taste. sylvia, for instance, began at once to her old friend, molly brunton, who had accompanied her into this chamber to take off her hat and cloak, with a remark on one of the chintzes. stooping over the counterpane, with a face into which the flush would come whether or no, she said to molly,-'dear! i never seed this one afore--this--for all t' world like th' eyes in a peacock's tail.' 'thou's seen it many a time and oft, lass. but weren't thou surprised to find charley here? we picked him up at shields, quite by surprise like; and when brunton and me said as we was comin' here, nought would serve him but comin' with us, for t' see t' new year in. it's a pity as your mother's ta'en this time for t' fall ill and want yo' back so early.' sylvia had taken off her hat and cloak by this time, and began to help molly and a younger unmarried sister in laying out the substantial supper. 'here,' continued mrs. brunton; 'stick a bit o' holly i' yon pig's mouth, that's the way we do things i' newcassel; but folks is so behindhand in monkshaven. it's a fine thing to live in a large town, sylvia; an' if yo're looking out for a husband, i'd advise yo' to tak' one as lives in a town. i feel as if i were buried alive comin' back here, such an out-o'-t'-way place after t' side, wheere there's many a hundred carts and carriages goes past in a day. i've a great mind for t' tak yo' two lassies back wi' me, and let yo' see a bit o' t' world; may-be, i may yet. her sister bessy looked much pleased with this plan, but sylvia was rather inclined to take offence at molly's patronizing ways, and replied,-'i'm none so fond o' noise and bustle; why, yo'll not be able to hear yoursels speak wi' all them carts and carriages. i'd rayther bide at home; let alone that mother can't spare me.' it was, perhaps, a rather ungracious way of answering molly brunton's speech, and so she felt it to be, although her invitation had been none of the most courteously worded. she irritated sylvia still further by repeating her last words,-'"mother can't spare me;" why, mother 'll have to spare thee sometime, when t' time for wedding comes.' 'i'm none going to be wed,' said sylvia; 'and if i were, i'd niver go far fra' mother.' 'eh! what a spoilt darling it is. how brunton will laugh when i tell him about yo'; brunton's a rare one for laughin'. it's a great thing to have got such a merry man for a husband. why! he has his joke for every one as comes into t' shop; and he'll ha' something funny to say to everything this evenin'.' bessy saw that sylvia was annoyed, and, with more delicacy than her sister, she tried to turn the conversation. 'that's a pretty ribbon in thy hair, sylvia; i'd like to have one o' t' same pattern. feyther likes pickled walnuts stuck about t' round o' beef, molly.' 'i know what i'm about,' replied mrs. brunton, with a toss of her married head. bessy resumed her inquiry. 'is there any more to be had wheere that come fra', sylvia?' 'i don't know,' replied sylvia. 'it come fra' foster's, and yo' can ask.' 'what might it cost?' said betsy, fingering an end of it to test its quality. 'i can't tell,' said sylvia, 'it were a present.' 'niver mak' ado about t' price,' said molly; 'i'll gi'e thee enough on 't to tie up thy hair, just like sylvia's. only thou hastn't such wealth o' curls as she has; it'll niver look t' same i' thy straight locks. and who might it be as give it thee, sylvia?' asked the unscrupulous, if good-natured molly. 'my cousin philip, him as is shopman at foster's,' said sylvia, innocently. but it was far too good an opportunity for the exercise of molly's kind of wit for her to pass over. 'oh, oh! our cousin philip, is it? and he'll not be living so far away from your mother? i've no need be a witch to put two and two together. he's a coming here to-night, isn't he, bessy?' 'i wish yo' wouldn't talk so, molly,' said sylvia; 'me and philip is good enough friends, but we niver think on each other in that way; leastways, i don't.' '(sweet butter! now that's my mother's old-fashioned way; as if folks must eat sweet butter now-a-days, because her mother did!) that way,' continued molly, in the manner that annoyed sylvia so much, repeating her words as if for the purpose of laughing at them. '"that way?" and pray what is t' way yo're speaking on? i niver said nought about marrying, did i, that yo' need look so red and shamefaced about yo'r cousin philip? but, as brunton says, if t' cap fits yo', put it on. i'm glad he's comin' to-night tho', for as i'm done makin' love and courtin', it's next best t' watch other folks; an' yo'r face, sylvia, has letten me into a secret, as i'd some glimpses on afore i was wed.' sylvia secretly determined not to speak a word more to philip than she could help, and wondered how she could ever have liked molly at all, much less have made a companion of her. the table was now laid out, and nothing remained but to criticize the arrangement a little. bessy was full of admiration. 'theere, molly!' said she. 'yo' niver seed more vittle brought together i' newcassel, i'll be bound; there'll be above half a hundredweight o' butcher's meat, beside pies and custards. i've eaten no dinner these two days for thinking on 't; it's been a weary burden on my mind, but it's off now i see how well it looks. i told mother not to come near it till we'd spread it all out, and now i'll go fetch her.' bessy ran off into the house-place. 'it's well enough in a country kind o' way,' said molly, with the faint approbation of condescension. 'but if i'd thought on, i'd ha' brought 'em down a beast or two done i' sponge-cake, wi' currants for his eyes to give t' table an air.' the door was opened, and bessy came in smiling and blushing with proud pleasure. her mother followed her on tip-toe, smoothing down her apron, and with her voice subdued to a whisper:-'ay, my lass, it _is_ fine! but dunnot mak' an ado about it, let 'em think it's just our common way. if any one says aught about how good t' vittle is, tak' it calm, and say we'n better i' t' house,--it'll mak' 'em eat wi' a better appetite, and think the more on us. sylvie, i'm much beholden t' ye for comin' so early, and helpin' t' lasses, but yo' mun come in t' house-place now, t' folks is gatherin', an' yo'r cousin's been asking after yo' a'ready.' molly gave her a nudge, which made sylvia's face go all aflame with angry embarrassment. she was conscious that the watching which molly had threatened her with began directly; for molly went up to her husband, and whispered something to him which set him off in a chuckling laugh, and sylvia was aware that his eyes followed her about with knowing looks all the evening. she would hardly speak to philip, and pretended not to see his outstretched hand, but passed on to the chimney-corner, and tried to shelter herself behind the broad back of farmer corney, who had no notion of relinquishing his customary place for all the young people who ever came to the house,--or for any old people either, for that matter. it was his household throne, and there he sat with no more idea of abdicating in favour of any comer than king george at st james's. but he was glad to see his friends; and had paid them the unwonted compliment of shaving on a week-day, and putting on his sunday coat. the united efforts of wife and children had failed to persuade him to make any farther change in his attire; to all their arguments on this head he had replied,-'them as doesn't like t' see me i' my work-a-day wescut and breeches may bide away.' it was the longest sentence he said that day, but he repeated it several times over. he was glad enough to see all the young people, but they were not 'of his kidney,' as he expressed it to himself, and he did not feel any call upon himself to entertain them. he left that to his bustling wife, all smartness and smiles, and to his daughters and son-in-law. his efforts at hospitality consisted in sitting still, smoking his pipe; when any one came, he took it out of his mouth for an instant, and nodded his head in a cheerful friendly way, without a word of speech; and then returned to his smoking with the greater relish for the moment's intermission. he thought to himself:-'they're a set o' young chaps as thinks more on t' lasses than on baccy;--they'll find out their mistake in time; give 'em time, give 'em time.' and before eight o'clock, he went as quietly as a man of twelve stone can upstairs to bed, having made a previous arrangement with his wife that she should bring him up about two pounds of spiced beef, and a hot tumbler of stiff grog. but at the beginning of the evening he formed a good screen for sylvia, who was rather a favourite with the old man, for twice he spoke to her. 'feyther smokes?' 'yes,' said sylvia. 'reach me t' baccy-box, my lass.' and that was all the conversation that passed between her and her nearest neighbour for the first quarter of an hour after she came into company. but, for all her screen, she felt a pair of eyes were fixed upon her with a glow of admiration deepening their honest brightness. somehow, look in what direction she would, she caught the glance of those eyes before she could see anything else. so she played with her apron-strings, and tried not to feel so conscious. there were another pair of eyes,--not such beautiful, sparkling eyes,--deep-set, earnest, sad, nay, even gloomy, watching her every movement; but of this she was not aware. philip had not recovered from the rebuff she had given him by refusing his offered hand, and was standing still, in angry silence, when mrs. corney thrust a young woman just arrived upon his attention. 'come, measter hepburn, here's nancy pratt wi'out ev'n a soul to speak t' her, an' yo' mopin' theere. she says she knows yo' by sight fra' having dealt at foster's these six year. see if yo' can't find summut t' say t' each other, for i mun go pour out tea. dixons, an' walkers, an' elliotts, an' smiths is come,' said she, marking off the families on her fingers, as she looked round and called over their names; 'an' there's only will latham an' his two sisters, and roger harbottle, an' taylor t' come; an' they'll turn up afore tea's ended.' so she went off to her duty at the one table, which, placed alongside of the dresser, was the only article of furniture left in the middle of the room: all the seats being arranged as close to the four walls as could be managed. the candles of those days gave but a faint light compared to the light of the immense fire, which it was a point of hospitality to keep at the highest roaring, blazing pitch; the young women occupied the seats, with the exception of two or three of the elder ones, who, in an eager desire to show their capability, insisted on helping mrs. corney in her duties, very much to her annoyance, as there were certain little contrivances for eking out cream, and adjusting the strength of the cups of tea to the worldly position of the intended drinkers, which she did not like every one to see. the young men,--whom tea did not embolden, and who had as yet had no chance of stronger liquor,--clustered in rustic shyness round the door, not speaking even to themselves, except now and then, when one, apparently the wag of the party, made some whispered remark, which set them all off laughing; but in a minute they checked themselves, and passed the back of their hands across their mouths to compose that unlucky feature, and then some would try to fix their eyes on the rafters of the ceiling, in a manner which was decorous if rather abstracted from the business in hand. most of these were young farmers, with whom philip had nothing in common, and from whom, in shy reserve, he had withdrawn himself when he first came in. but now he wished himself among them sooner than set to talk to nancy pratt, when he had nothing to say. and yet he might have had a companion less to his mind, for she was a decent young woman of a sober age, less inclined to giggle than many of the younger ones. but all the time that he was making commonplace remarks to her he was wondering if he had offended sylvia, and why she would not shake hands with him, and this pre-occupation of his thoughts did not make him an agreeable companion. nancy pratt, who had been engaged for some years to a mate of a whaling-ship, perceived something of his state of mind, and took no offence at it; on the contrary, she tried to give him pleasure by admiring sylvia. 'i've often heerd tell on her,' said she, 'but i niver thought she's be so pretty, and so staid and quiet-like too. t' most part o' girls as has looks like hers are always gape-gazing to catch other folks's eyes, and see what is thought on 'em; but she looks just like a child, a bit flustered wi' coming into company, and gettin' into as dark a corner and bidin' as still as she can. just then sylvia lifted up her long, dark lashes, and catching the same glance which she had so often met before--charley kinraid was standing talking to brunton on the opposite side of the fire-place--she started back into the shadow as if she had not expected it, and in so doing spilt her tea all over her gown. she could almost have cried, she felt herself so awkward, and as if everything was going wrong with her; she thought that every one would think she had never been in company before, and did not know how to behave; and while she was thus fluttered and crimson, she saw through her tearful eyes kinraid on his knees before her, wiping her gown with his silk pocket handkerchief, and heard him speaking through all the buzz of commiserating voices. 'your cupboard handle is so much i' th' way--i hurt my elbow against it only this very afternoon.' so perhaps it was no clumsiness of hers,--as they would all know, now, since he had so skilfully laid the blame somewhere else; and after all it turned out that her accident had been the means of bringing him across to her side, which was much more pleasant than having him opposite, staring at her; for now he began to talk to her, and this was very pleasant, although she was rather embarrassed at their _tete-a-tete_ at first. 'i did not know you again when i first saw you,' said he, in a tone which implied a good deal more than was uttered in words. 'i knowed yo' at once,' she replied, softly, and then she blushed and played with her apron-string, and wondered if she ought to have confessed to the clearness of her recollection. 'you're grown up into--well, perhaps it's not manners to say what you're grown into--anyhow, i shan't forget yo' again.' more playing with her apron-string, and head hung still lower down, though the corners of her mouth would go up in a shy smile of pleasure. philip watched it all as greedily as if it gave him delight. 'yo'r father, he'll be well and hearty, i hope?' asked charley. 'yes,' replied sylvia, and then she wished she could originate some remark; he would think her so stupid if she just kept on saying such little short bits of speeches, and if he thought her stupid he might perhaps go away again to his former place. but he was quite far enough gone in love of her beauty, and pretty modest ways, not to care much whether she talked or no, so long as she showed herself so pleasingly conscious of his close neighbourhood. 'i must come and see the old gentleman; and your mother, too,' he added more slowly, for he remembered that his visits last year had not been quite so much welcomed by bell robson as by her husband; perhaps it was because of the amount of drink which he and daniel managed to get through of an evening. he resolved this year to be more careful to please the mother of sylvia. when tea was ended there was a great bustle and shifting of places, while mrs. corney and her daughters carried out trays full of used cups, and great platters of uneaten bread and butter into the back-kitchen, to be washed up after the guests were gone. just because she was so conscious that she did not want to move, and break up the little conversation between herself and kinraid, sylvia forced herself to be as active in the service going on as became a friend of the house; and she was too much her mother's own daughter to feel comfortable at leaving all the things in the disorder which to the corney girls was second nature. 'this milk mun go back to t' dairy, i reckon,' said she, loading herself with milk and cream. 'niver fash thysel' about it,' said nelly corney, 'christmas comes but onest a year, if it does go sour; and mother said she'd have a game at forfeits first thing after tea to loosen folks's tongues, and mix up t' lads and lasses, so come along.' but sylvia steered her careful way to the cold chill of the dairy, and would not be satisfied till she had carried away all the unused provision into some fresher air than that heated by the fires and ovens used for the long day's cooking of pies and cakes and much roast meat. when they came back a round of red-faced 'lads,' as young men up to five-and-thirty are called in lancashire and yorkshire if they are not married before, and lasses, whose age was not to be defined, were playing at some country game, in which the women were apparently more interested than the men, who looked shamefaced, and afraid of each other's ridicule. mrs. corney, however, knew how to remedy this, and at a sign from her a great jug of beer was brought in. this jug was the pride of her heart, and was in the shape of a fat man in white knee-breeches, and a three-cornered hat; with one arm he supported the pipe in his broad, smiling mouth, and the other was placed akimbo and formed the handle. there was also a great china punch-bowl filled with grog made after an old ship-receipt current in these parts, but not too strong, because if their visitors had too much to drink at that early part of the evening 'it would spoil t' fun,' as nelly corney had observed. her father, however, after the notions of hospitality prevalent at that time in higher circles, had stipulated that each man should have 'enough' before he left the house; enough meaning in monkshaven parlance the liberty of getting drunk, if they thought fit to do it. before long one of the lads was seized with a fit of admiration for toby--the name of the old gentleman who contained liquor--and went up to the tray for a closer inspection. he was speedily followed by other amateurs of curious earthenware; and by-and-by mr. brunton (who had been charged by his mother-in-law with the due supplying of liquor--by his father-in-law that every man should have his fill, and by his wife and her sisters that no one should have too much, at any rate at the beginning of the evening,) thought fit to carry out toby to be replenished; and a faster spirit of enjoyment and mirth began to reign in the room. kinraid was too well seasoned to care what amount of liquor he drank; philip had what was called a weak head, and disliked muddling himself with drink because of the immediate consequence of intense feelings of irritability, and the more distant one of a racking headache next day; so both these two preserved very much the same demeanour they had held at the beginning of the evening. sylvia was by all acknowledged and treated as the belle. when they played at blind-man's-buff go where she would, she was always caught; she was called out repeatedly to do what was required in any game, as if all had a pleasure in seeing her light figure and deft ways. she was sufficiently pleased with this to have got over her shyness with all except charley. when others paid her their rustic compliments she tossed her head, and made her little saucy repartees; but when he said something low and flattering, it was too honey-sweet to her heart to be thrown off thus. and, somehow, the more she yielded to this fascination the more she avoided philip. he did not speak flatteringly--he did not pay compliments--he watched her with discontented, longing eyes, and grew more inclined every moment, as he remembered his anticipation of a happy evening, to cry out in his heart _vanitas vanitatum_. and now came crying the forfeits. molly brunton knelt down, her face buried in her mother's lap; the latter took out the forfeits one by one, and as she held them up, said the accustomed formula,-'a fine thing and a very fine thing, what must he (or she) do who owns this thing.' one or two had been told to kneel to the prettiest, bow to the wittiest, and kiss those they loved best; others had had to bite an inch off the poker, or such plays upon words. and now came sylvia's pretty new ribbon that philip had given her (he almost longed to snatch it out of mrs. corney's hands and burn it before all their faces, so annoyed was he with the whole affair.) 'a fine thing and a very fine thing--a most particular fine thing--choose how she came by it. what must she do as owns this thing?' 'she must blow out t' candle and kiss t' candlestick.' in one instant kinraid had hold of the only candle within reach, all the others had been put up high on inaccessible shelves and other places. sylvia went up and blew out the candle, and before the sudden partial darkness was over he had taken the candle into his fingers, and, according to the traditional meaning of the words, was in the place of the candlestick, and as such was to be kissed. every one laughed at innocent sylvia's face as the meaning of her penance came into it, every one but philip, who almost choked. 'i'm candlestick,' said kinraid, with less of triumph in his voice than he would have had with any other girl in the room. 'yo' mun kiss t' candlestick,' cried the corneys, 'or yo'll niver get yo'r ribbon back.' 'and she sets a deal o' store by that ribbon,' said molly brunton, maliciously. 'i'll none kiss t' candlestick, nor him either,' said sylvia, in a low voice of determination, turning away, full of confusion. 'yo'll not get yo'r ribbon if yo' dunnot,' cried one and all. 'i don't care for t' ribbon,' said she, flashing up with a look at her tormentors, now her back was turned to kinraid. 'an' i wunnot play any more at such like games,' she added, with fresh indignation rising in her heart as she took her old place in the corner of the room a little away from the rest. philip's spirits rose, and he yearned to go to her and tell her how he approved of her conduct. alas, philip! sylvia, though as modest a girl as ever lived, was no prude, and had been brought up in simple, straightforward country ways; and with any other young man, excepting, perhaps, philip's self, she would have thought no more of making a rapid pretence of kissing the hand or cheek of the temporary 'candlestick', than our ancestresses did in a much higher rank on similar occasions. kinraid, though mortified by his public rejection, was more conscious of this than the inexperienced philip; he resolved not to be baulked, and watched his opportunity. for the time he went on playing as if sylvia's conduct had not affected him in the least, and as if he was hardly aware of her defection from the game. as she saw others submitting, quite as a matter of course, to similar penances, she began to be angry with herself for having thought twice about it, and almost to dislike herself for the strange consciousness which had made it at the time seem impossible to do what she was told. her eyes kept filling with tears as her isolated position in the gay party, the thought of what a fool she had made of herself, kept recurring to her mind; but no one saw her, she thought, thus crying; and, ashamed to be discovered when the party should pause in their game, she stole round behind them into the great chamber in which she had helped to lay out the supper, with the intention of bathing her eyes, and taking a drink of water. one instant charley kinraid was missing from the circle of which he was the life and soul; and then back he came with an air of satisfaction on his face, intelligible enough to those who had seen his game; but unnoticed by philip, who, amidst the perpetual noise and movements around him, had not perceived sylvia's leaving the room, until she came back at the end of about a quarter of an hour, looking lovelier than ever, her complexion brilliant, her eyes drooping, her hair neatly and freshly arranged, tied with a brown ribbon instead of that she was supposed to have forfeited. she looked as if she did not wish her return to be noticed, stealing softly behind the romping lads and lasses with noiseless motions, and altogether such a contrast to them in her cool freshness and modest neatness, that both kinraid and philip found it difficult to keep their eyes off her. but the former had a secret triumph in his heart which enabled him to go on with his merry-making as if it absorbed him; while philip dropped out of the crowd and came up to where she was standing silently by mrs. corney, who, arms akimbo, was laughing at the frolic and fun around her. sylvia started a little when philip spoke, and kept her soft eyes averted from him after the first glance; she answered him shortly, but with unaccustomed gentleness. he had only asked her when she would like him to take her home; and she, a little surprised at the idea of going home when to her the evening seemed only beginning, had answered-'go home? i don't know! it's new year's eve!' 'ay! but yo'r mother 'll lie awake till yo' come home, sylvie!' but mrs. corney, having heard his question, broke in with all sorts of upbraidings. 'go home! not see t' new year in! why, what should take 'em home these six hours? wasn't there a moon as clear as day? and did such a time as this come often? and were they to break up the party before the new year came in? and was there not supper, with a spiced round of beef that had been in pickle pretty nigh sin' martinmas, and hams, and mince-pies, and what not? and if they thought any evil of her master's going to bed, or that by that early retirement he meant to imply that he did not bid his friends welcome, why he would not stay up beyond eight o'clock for king george upon his throne, as he'd tell them soon enough, if they'd only step upstairs and ask him. well; she knowed what it was to want a daughter when she was ailing, so she'd say nought more, but hasten supper. and this idea now took possession of mrs. corney's mind, for she would not willingly allow one of her guests to leave before they had done justice to her preparations; and, cutting her speech short, she hastily left sylvia and philip together. his heart beat fast; his feeling towards her had never been so strong or so distinct as since her refusal to kiss the 'candlestick.' he was on the point of speaking, of saying something explicitly tender, when the wooden trencher which the party were using at their play, came bowling between him and sylvia, and spun out its little period right betwixt them. every one was moving from chair to chair, and when the bustle was over sylvia was seated at some distance from him, and he left standing outside the circle, as if he were not playing. in fact, sylvia had unconsciously taken his place as actor in the game while he remained spectator, and, as it turned out, an auditor of a conversation not intended for his ears. he was wedged against the wall, close to the great eight-day clock, with its round moon-like smiling face forming a ludicrous contrast to his long, sallow, grave countenance, which was pretty much at the same level above the sanded floor. before him sat molly brunton and one of her sisters, their heads close together in too deep talk to attend to the progress of the game. philip's attention was caught by the words-'i'll lay any wager he kissed her when he ran off into t' parlour.' 'she's so coy she'd niver let him,' replied bessy corney. 'she couldn't help hersel'; and for all she looks so demure and prim now' (and then both heads were turned in the direction of sylvia), 'i'm as sure as i'm born that charley is not t' chap to lose his forfeit; and yet yo' see he says nought more about it, and she's left off being 'feared of him.' there was something in sylvia's look, ay, and in charley kinraid's, too, that shot conviction into philip's mind. he watched them incessantly during the interval before supper; they were intimate, and yet shy with each other, in a manner that enraged while it bewildered philip. what was charley saying to her in that whispered voice, as they passed each other? why did they linger near each other? why did sylvia look so dreamily happy, so startled at every call of the game, as if recalled from some pleasant idea? why did kinraid's eyes always seek her while hers were averted, or downcast, and her cheeks all aflame? philip's dark brow grew darker as he gazed. he, too, started when mrs. corney, close at his elbow, bade him go in to supper along with some of the elder ones, who were not playing; for the parlour was not large enough to hold all at once, even with the squeezing and cramming, and sitting together on chairs, which was not at all out of etiquette at monkshaven. philip was too reserved to express his disappointment and annoyance at being thus arrested in his painful watch over sylvia; but he had no appetite for the good things set before him, and found it hard work to smile a sickly smile when called upon by josiah pratt for applause at some country joke. when supper was ended, there was some little discussion between mrs. corney and her son-in-law as to whether the different individuals of the company should be called upon for songs or stories, as was the wont at such convivial meetings. brunton had been helping his mother-in-law in urging people to eat, heaping their plates over their shoulders with unexpected good things, filling the glasses at the upper end of the table, and the mugs which supplied the deficiency of glasses at the lower. and now, every one being satisfied, not to say stuffed to repletion, the two who had been attending to their wants stood still, hot and exhausted. 'they're a'most stawed,' said mrs. corney, with a pleased smile. 'it'll be manners t' ask some one as knows how to sing.' 'it may be manners for full men, but not for fasting,' replied brunton. 'folks in t' next room will be wanting their victual, and singing is allays out o' tune to empty bellies.' 'but there's them here as 'll take it ill if they're not asked. i heerd josiah pratt a-clearing his throat not a minute ago, an' he thinks as much on his singin' as a cock does on his crowin'.' 'if one sings i'm afeard all on 'em will like to hear their own pipes.' but their dilemma was solved by bessy corney, who opened the door to see if the hungry ones outside might not come in for their share of the entertainment; and in they rushed, bright and riotous, scarcely giving the first party time to rise from their seats ere they took their places. one or two young men, released from all their previous shyness, helped mrs. corney and her daughters to carry off such dishes as were actually empty. there was no time for changing or washing of plates; but then, as mrs. corney laughingly observed,-'we're a' on us friends, and some on us mayhap sweethearts; so no need to be particular about plates. them as gets clean ones is lucky; and them as doesn't, and cannot put up wi' plates that has been used, mun go without.' it seemed to be philip's luck this night to be pent up in places; for again the space between the benches and the wall was filled up by the in-rush before he had time to make his way out; and all he could do was to sit quiet where he was. but between the busy heads and over-reaching arms he could see charley and sylvia, sitting close together, talking and listening more than eating. she was in a new strange state of happiness not to be reasoned about, or accounted for, but in a state of more exquisite feeling than she had ever experienced before; when, suddenly lifting her eyes, she caught philip's face of extreme displeasure. 'oh,' said she, 'i must go. there's philip looking at me so.' 'philip!' said kinraid, with a sudden frown upon his face. 'my cousin,' she replied, instinctively comprehending what had flashed into his mind, and anxious to disclaim the suspicion of having a lover. 'mother told him to see me home, and he's noan one for staying up late.' 'but you needn't go. i'll see yo' home.' 'mother's but ailing,' said sylvia, a little conscience-smitten at having so entirely forgotten everything in the delight of the present, 'and i said i wouldn't be late.' 'and do you allays keep to your word?' asked he, with a tender meaning in his tone. 'allays; leastways i think so,' replied she, blushing. 'then if i ask you not to forget me, and you give me your word, i may be sure you'll keep it.' 'it wasn't i as forgot you,' said sylvia, so softly as not to be heard by him. he tried to make her repeat what she had said, but she would not, and he could only conjecture that it was something more tell-tale than she liked to say again, and that alone was very charming to him. 'i shall walk home with you,' said he, as sylvia at last rose to depart, warned by a further glimpse of philip's angry face. 'no!' said she, hastily, 'i can't do with yo''; for somehow she felt the need of pacifying philip, and knew in her heart that a third person joining their _tete-a-tete_ walk would only increase his displeasure. 'why not?' said charley, sharply. 'oh! i don't know, only please don't!' by this time her cloak and hood were on, and she was slowly making her way down her side of the room followed by charley, and often interrupted by indignant remonstrances against her departure, and the early breaking-up of the party. philip stood, hat in hand, in the doorway between the kitchen and parlour, watching her so intently that he forgot to be civil, and drew many a jest and gibe upon him for his absorption in his pretty cousin. when sylvia reached him, he said,-'yo're ready at last, are yo'?' 'yes,' she replied, in her little beseeching tone. 'yo've not been wanting to go long, han yo'? i ha' but just eaten my supper.' 'yo've been so full of talk, that's been the reason your supper lasted so long. that fellow's none going wi' us?' said he sharply, as he saw kinraid rummaging for his cap in a heap of men's clothes, thrown into the back-kitchen. 'no,' said sylvia, in affright at philip's fierce look and passionate tone. 'i telled him not.' but at that moment the heavy outer door was opened by daniel robson himself--bright, broad, and rosy, a jolly impersonation of winter. his large drover's coat was covered with snow-flakes, and through the black frame of the doorway might be seen a white waste world of sweeping fell and field, with the dark air filled with the pure down-fall. robson stamped his snow-laden feet and shook himself well, still standing on the mat, and letting a cold frosty current of fresh air into the great warm kitchen. he laughed at them all before he spoke. 'it's a coud new year as i'm lettin' in though it's noan t' new year yet. yo'll a' be snowed up, as sure as my name s dannel, if yo' stop for twel' o'clock. yo'd better mak' haste and go whoam. why, charley, my lad! how beest ta? who'd ha' thought o' seeing thee i' these parts again! nay, missus, nay, t' new year mun find its way int' t' house by itsel' for me; for a ha' promised my oud woman to bring sylvie whoam as quick as may-be; she's lyin' awake and frettin' about t' snow and what not. thank yo' kindly, missus, but a'll tak' nought to eat; just a drop o' somethin' hot to keep out coud, and wish yo' a' the compliments o' the season. philip, my man, yo'll not be sorry to be spared t' walk round by haytersbank such a neet. my missus were i' such a way about sylvie that a thought a'd just step off mysel', and have a peep at yo' a', and bring her some wraps. yo'r sheep will be a' folded, a reckon, measter pratt, for there'll niver be a nibble o' grass to be seen this two month, accordin' to my readin'; and a've been at sea long enough, and on land long enough t' know signs and wonders. it's good stuff that, any way, and worth comin' for,' after he had gulped down a tumblerful of half-and-half grog. 'kinraid, if ta doesn't come and see me afore thou'rt many days ouder, thee and me'll have words. come, sylvie, what art ta about, keepin' me here? here's mistress corney mixin' me another jorum. well, this time a'll give "t' married happy, and t' single wed!"' sylvia was all this while standing by her father quite ready for departure, and not a little relieved by his appearance as her convoy home. 'i'm ready to see haytersbank to-night, master!' said kinraid, with easy freedom--a freedom which philip envied, but could not have imitated, although he was deeply disappointed at the loss of his walk with sylvia, when he had intended to exercise the power his aunt had delegated to him of remonstrance if her behaviour had been light or thoughtless, and of warning if he saw cause to disapprove of any of her associates. after the robsons had left, a blank fell upon both charley and philip. in a few minutes, however, the former, accustomed to prompt decision, resolved that she and no other should be his wife. accustomed to popularity among women, and well versed in the incipient signs of their liking for him, he anticipated no difficulty in winning her. satisfied with the past, and pleasantly hopeful about the future, he found it easy to turn his attention to the next prettiest girl in the room, and to make the whole gathering bright with his ready good temper and buoyant spirit. mrs. corney had felt it her duty to press philip to stay, now that, as she said, he had no one but himself to see home, and the new year so near coming in. to any one else in the room she would have added the clinching argument, 'a shall take it very unkind if yo' go now'; but somehow she could not say this, for in truth philip's look showed that he would be but a wet blanket on the merriment of the party. so, with as much civility as could be mustered up between them, he took leave. shutting the door behind him, he went out into the dreary night, and began his lonesome walk back to monkshaven. the cold sleet almost blinded him as the sea-wind drove it straight in his face; it cut against him as it was blown with drifting force. the roar of the wintry sea came borne on the breeze; there was more light from the whitened ground than from the dark laden sky above. the field-paths would have been a matter of perplexity, had it not been for the well-known gaps in the dyke-side, which showed the whitened land beyond, between the two dark stone walls. yet he went clear and straight along his way, having unconsciously left all guidance to the animal instinct which co-exists with the human soul, and sometimes takes strange charge of the human body, when all the nobler powers of the individual are absorbed in acute suffering. at length he was in the lane, toiling up the hill, from which, by day, monkshaven might be seen. now all features of the landscape before him were lost in the darkness of night, against which the white flakes came closer and nearer, thicker and faster. on a sudden, the bells of monkshaven church rang out a welcome to the new year, 1796. from the direction of the wind, it seemed as if the sound was flung with strength and power right into philip's face. he walked down the hill to its merry sound--its merry sound, his heavy heart. as he entered the long high street of monkshaven he could see the watching lights put out in parlour, chamber, or kitchen. the new year had come, and expectation was ended. reality had begun. he turned to the right, into the court where he lodged with alice rose. there was a light still burning there, and cheerful voices were heard. he opened the door; alice, her daughter, and coulson stood as if awaiting him. hester's wet cloak hung on a chair before the fire; she had her hood on, for she and coulson had been to the watch-night. the solemn excitement of the services had left its traces upon her countenance and in her mind. there was a spiritual light in her usually shadowed eyes, and a slight flush on her pale cheek. merely personal and self-conscious feelings were merged in a loving good-will to all her fellow-creatures. under the influence of this large charity, she forgot her habitual reserve, and came forward as philip entered to meet him with her new year's wishes--wishes that she had previously interchanged with the other two. 'a happy new year to you, philip, and may god have you in his keeping all the days thereof!' he took her hand, and shook it warmly in reply. the flush on her cheek deepened as she withdrew it. alice rose said something curtly about the lateness of the hour and her being much tired; and then she and her daughter went upstairs to the front chamber, and philip and coulson to that which they shared at the back of the house. chapter xiii perplexities coulson and philip were friendly, but not intimate. they never had had a dispute, they never were confidential with each other; in truth, they were both reserved and silent men, and, probably, respected each other the more for being so self-contained. there was a private feeling in coulson's heart which would have made a less amiable fellow dislike philip. but of this the latter was unconscious: they were not apt to exchange many words in the room which they occupied jointly. coulson asked philip if he had enjoyed himself at the corneys', and philip replied,-'not much; such parties are noane to my liking.' 'and yet thou broke off from t' watch-night to go there.' no answer; so coulson went on, with a sense of the duty laid upon him, to improve the occasion--the first that had presented itself since the good old methodist minister had given his congregation the solemn warning to watch over the opportunities of various kinds which the coming year would present. 'jonas barclay told us as the pleasures o' this world were like apples o' sodom, pleasant to look at, but ashes to taste.' coulson wisely left philip to make the application for himself. if he did he made no sign, but threw himself on his bed with a heavy sigh. 'are yo' not going to undress?' said coulson, as he covered him up in bed. there had been a long pause of silence. philip did not answer him, and he thought he had fallen asleep. but he was roused from his first slumber by hepburn's soft movements about the room. philip had thought better of it, and, with some penitence in his heart for his gruffness to the unoffending coulson, was trying not to make any noise while he undressed. but he could not sleep. he kept seeing the corneys' kitchen and the scenes that had taken place in it, passing like a pageant before his closed eyes. then he opened them in angry weariness at the recurring vision, and tried to make out the outlines of the room and the furniture in the darkness. the white ceiling sloped into the whitewashed walls, and against them he could see the four rush-bottomed chairs, the looking-glass hung on one side, the old carved oak-chest (his own property, with the initials of forgotten ancestors cut upon it), which held his clothes; the boxes that belonged to coulson, sleeping soundly in the bed in the opposite corner of the room; the casement window in the roof, through which the snowy ground on the steep hill-side could be plainly seen; and when he got so far as this in the catalogue of the room, he fell into a troubled feverish sleep, which lasted two or three hours; and then he awoke with a start, and a consciousness of uneasiness, though what about he could not remember at first. when he recollected all that had happened the night before, it impressed him much more favourably than it had done at the time. if not joy, hope had come in the morning; and, at any rate, he could be up and be doing, for the late wintry light was stealing down the hill-side, and he knew that, although coulson lay motionless in his sleep, it was past their usual time of rising. still, as it was new year's day, a time of some licence, philip had mercy on his fellow-shopman, and did not waken him till just as he was leaving the room. carrying his shoes in his hand, he went softly downstairs for he could see from the top of the flight that neither alice nor her daughter was down yet, as the kitchen shutters were not unclosed. it was mrs. rose's habit to rise early, and have all bright and clean against her lodgers came down; but then, in general, she went to rest before nine o'clock, whereas the last night she had not gone till past twelve. philip went about undoing the shutters, and trying to break up the raking coal, with as little noise as might be, for he had compassion on the tired sleepers. the kettle had not been filled, probably because mrs. rose had been unable to face the storm of the night before, in taking it to the pump just at the entrance of the court. when philip came back from filling it, he found alice and hester both in the kitchen, and trying to make up for lost time by hastening over their work. hester looked busy and notable with her gown pinned up behind her, and her hair all tucked away under a clean linen cap; but alice was angry with herself for her late sleeping, and that and other causes made her speak crossly to philip, as he came in with his snowy feet and well-filled kettle. 'look the' there! droppin' and drippin' along t' flags as was cleaned last night, and meddlin' wi' woman's work as a man has no business wi'.' philip was surprised and annoyed. he had found relief from his own thoughts in doing what he believed would help others. he gave up the kettle to her snatching hands, and sate down behind the door in momentary ill-temper. but the kettle was better filled, and consequently heavier than the old woman expected, and she could not manage to lift it to the crook from which it generally hung suspended. she looked round for hester, but she was gone into the back-kitchen. in a minute philip was at her side, and had heaved it to its place for her. she looked in his face for a moment wistfully, but hardly condescended to thank him; at least the sound of the words did not pass the lips that formed them. rebuffed by her manner, he went back to his old seat, and mechanically watched the preparations for breakfast; but his thoughts went back to the night before, and the comparative ease of his heart was gone. the first stir of a new day had made him feel as if he had had no sufficient cause for his annoyance and despondency the previous evening; but now, condemned to sit quiet, he reviewed looks and words, and saw just reason for his anxiety. after some consideration he resolved to go that very night to haytersbank, and have some talk with either sylvia or her mother; what the exact nature of this purposed conversation should be, he did not determine; much would depend on sylvia's manner and mood, and on her mother's state of health; but at any rate something would be learnt. during breakfast something was learnt nearer home; though not all that a man less unconscious and more vain than philip might have discovered. he only found out that mrs. rose was displeased with him for not having gone to the watch-night with hester, according to the plan made some weeks before. but he soothed his conscience by remembering that he had made no promise; he had merely spoken of his wish to be present at the service, about which hester was speaking; and although at the time and for a good while afterwards, he had fully intended going, yet as there had been william coulson to accompany her, his absence could not have been seriously noticed. still he was made uncomfortable by mrs. rose's change of manner; once or twice he said to himself that she little knew how miserable he had been during his 'gay evening,' as she would persist in calling it, or she would not talk at him with such persevering bitterness this morning. before he left for the shop, he spoke of his intention of going to see how his aunt was, and of paying her a new year's day visit. hepburn and coulson took it in turns week and week about to go first home to dinner; the one who went first sate down with mrs. rose and her daughter, instead of having his portion put in the oven to keep warm for him. to-day it was hepburn's turn to be last. all morning the shop was full with customers, come rather to offer good wishes than to buy, and with an unspoken remembrance of the cake and wine which the two hospitable brothers foster made a point of offering to all comers on new year's day. it was busy work for all--for hester on her side, where caps, ribbons, and women's gear were exclusively sold--for the shopmen and boys in the grocery and drapery department. philip was trying to do his business with his mind far away; and the consequence was that his manner was not such as to recommend him to the customers, some of whom recollected it as very different, courteous and attentive, if grave and sedate. one buxom farmer's wife noticed the change to him. she had a little girl with her, of about five years old, that she had lifted up on the counter, and who was watching philip with anxious eyes, occasionally whispering in her mother's ear, and then hiding her face against her cloak. 'she's thought a deal o' coming to see yo', and a dunnot think as yo' mind her at all. my pretty, he's clean forgotten as how he said last new year's day, he'd gi' thee a barley-sugar stick, if thou'd hem him a handkercher by this.' the child's face was buried in the comfortable breadth of duffle at these words, while the little outstretched hand held a small square of coarse linen. 'ay, she's noane forgotten it, and has done her five stitches a day, bless her; and a dunnot believe as yo' know her again. she's phoebe moorsom, and a'm hannah, and a've dealt at t' shop reg'lar this fifteen year.' 'i'm very sorry,' said philip. 'i was up late last night, and i'm a bit dazed to-day. well! this is nice work, phoebe, and i'm sure i'm very much beholden to yo'. and here's five sticks o' barley-sugar, one for every stitch, and thank you kindly, mrs. moorsom, too.' philip took the handkerchief and hoped he had made honourable amends for his want of recognition. but the wee lassie refused to be lifted down, and whispered something afresh into her mother's ear, who smiled and bade her be quiet. philip saw, however, that there was some wish ungratified on the part of the little maiden which he was expected to inquire into, and, accordingly, he did his duty. 'she's a little fool; she says yo' promised to gi'e her a kiss, and t' make her yo'r wife.' the child burrowed her face closer into her mother's neck, and refused to allow the kiss which philip willingly offered. all he could do was to touch the back of the little white fat neck with his lips. the mother carried her off only half satisfied, and philip felt that he must try and collect his scattered wits, and be more alive to the occasion. towards the dinner-hour the crowd slackened; hester began to replenish decanters and bottles, and to bring out a fresh cake before she went home to dinner; and coulson and philip looked over the joint present they always made to her on this day. it was a silk handkerchief of the prettiest colours they could pick out of the shop, intended for her to wear round her neck. each tried to persuade the other to give it to her, for each was shy of the act of presentation. coulson was, however, the most resolute; and when she returned from the parlour the little parcel was in philip's hands. 'here, hester,' said he, going round the counter to her, just as she was leaving the shop. 'it's from coulson and me; a handkerchief for yo' to wear; and we wish yo' a happy new year, and plenty on 'em; and there's many a one wishes the same.' he took her hand as he said this. she went a little paler, and her eyes brightened as though they would fill with tears as they met his; she could not have helped it, do what she would. but she only said, 'thank yo' kindly,' and going up to coulson she repeated the words and action to him; and then they went off together to dinner. there was a lull of business for the next hour. john and jeremiah were dining like the rest of the world. even the elder errand-boy had vanished. philip rearranged disorderly goods; and then sate down on the counter by the window; it was the habitual place for the one who stayed behind; for excepting on market-day there was little or no custom during the noon-hour. formerly he used to move the drapery with which the window was ornamented, and watch the passers-by with careless eye. but now, though he seemed to gaze abroad, he saw nothing but vacancy. all the morning since he got up he had been trying to fight through his duties--leaning against a hope--a hope that first had bowed, and then had broke as soon as he really tried its weight. there was not a sign of sylvia's liking for him to be gathered from the most careful recollection of the past evening. it was of no use thinking that there was. it was better to give it up altogether and at once. but what if he could not? what if the thought of her was bound up with his life; and that once torn out by his own free will, the very roots of his heart must come also? no; he was resolved he would go on; as long as there was life there was hope; as long as sylvia remained unpledged to any one else, there was a chance for him. he would remodel his behaviour to her. he could not be merry and light-hearted like other young men; his nature was not cast in that mould; and the early sorrows that had left him a lonely orphan might have matured, but had not enlivened, his character. he thought with some bitterness on the power of easy talking about trifles which some of those he had met with at the corneys' had exhibited. but then he felt stirring within him a force of enduring love which he believed to be unusual, and which seemed as if it must compel all things to his wish in the end. a year or so ago he had thought much of his own cleverness and his painfully acquired learning, and he had imagined that these were the qualities which were to gain sylvia. but now, whether he had tried them and had failed to win even her admiration, or whether some true instinct had told him that a woman's love may be gained in many ways sooner than by mere learning, he was only angry with himself for his past folly in making himself her school--nay, her taskmaster. to-night, though, he would start off on a new tack. he would not even upbraid her for her conduct the night before; he had shown her his displeasure at the time; but she should see how tender and forgiving he could be. he would lure her to him rather than find fault with her. there had perhaps been too much of that already. when coulson came back philip went to his solitary dinner. in general he was quite alone while eating it; but to-day alice rose chose to bear him company. she watched him with cold severe eye for some time, until he had appeased his languid appetite. then she began with the rebuke she had in store for him; a rebuke the motives to which were not entirely revealed even to herself. 'thou 're none so keen after thy food as common,' she began. 'plain victuals goes ill down after feastin'.' philip felt the colour mount to his face; he was not in the mood for patiently standing the brunt of the attack which he saw was coming, and yet he had a reverent feeling for woman and for age. he wished she would leave him alone; but he only said--'i had nought but a slice o' cold beef for supper, if you'll call that feasting.' 'neither do godly ways savour delicately after the pleasures of the world,' continued she, unheeding his speech. 'thou wert wont to seek the house of the lord, and i thought well on thee; but of late thou'st changed, and fallen away, and i mun speak what is in my heart towards thee.' 'mother,' said philip, impatiently (both he and coulson called alice 'mother' at times), 'i don't think i am fallen away, and any way i cannot stay now to be--it's new year's day, and t' shop is throng.' but alice held up her hand. her speech was ready, and she must deliver it. 'shop here, shop there. the flesh and the devil are gettin' hold on yo', and yo' need more nor iver to seek t' ways o' grace. new year's day comes and says, "watch and pray," and yo' say, "nay, i'll seek feasts and market-places, and let times and seasons come and go without heedin' into whose presence they're hastening me." time was, philip, when thou'd niver ha' letten a merry-making keep thee fra' t' watch-night, and t' company o' the godly.' 'i tell yo' it was no merry-making to me,' said philip, with sharpness, as he left the house. alice sat down on the nearest seat, and leant her head on her wrinkled hand. 'he's tangled and snared,' said she; 'my heart has yearned after him, and i esteemed him as one o' the elect. and more nor me yearns after him. o lord, i have but one child! o lord, spare her! but o'er and above a' i would like to pray for his soul, that satan might not have it, for he came to me but a little lad.' at that moment philip, smitten by his conscience for his hard manner of speech, came back; but alice did not hear or see him till he was close by her, and then he had to touch her to recall her attention. 'mother,' said he, 'i was wrong. i'm fretted by many things. i shouldn't ha' spoken so. it was ill-done of me.' 'oh, my lad!' said she, looking up and putting her thin arm on his shoulder as he stooped, 'satan is desiring after yo' that he may sift yo' as wheat. bide at whoam, bide at whoam, and go not after them as care nought for holy things. why need yo' go to haytersbank this night?' philip reddened. he could not and would not give it up, and yet it was difficult to resist the pleading of the usually stern old woman. 'nay,' said he, withdrawing himself ever so little from her hold; 'my aunt is but ailing, they're my own flesh and blood, and as good folks as needs be, though they mayn't be o' our--o' your way o' thinking in a' things.' 'our ways--your ways o' thinking, says he, as if they were no longer his'n. and as good folks as need be,' repeated she, with returning severity. 'them's satan's words, tho' yo' spoke 'em, philip. i can do nought again satan, but i can speak to them as can; an' we'll see which pulls hardest, for it'll be better for thee to be riven and rent i' twain than to go body and soul to hell.' 'but don't think, mother,' said philip, his last words of conciliation, for the clock had given warning for two, 'as i'm boun' for hell, just because i go t' see my own folks, all i ha' left o' kin.' and once more, after laying his hand with as much of a caress as was in his nature on hers, he left the house. probably alice would have considered the first words that greeted philip on his entrance into the shop as an answer to her prayer, for they were such as put a stop to his plan of going to see sylvia that evening; and if alice had formed her inchoate thoughts into words, sylvia would have appeared as the nearest earthly representative of the spirit of temptation whom she dreaded for philip. as he took his place behind the counter, coulson said to him in a low voice,-'jeremiah foster has been round to bid us to sup wi' him to-night. he says that he and john have a little matter o' business to talk over with us.' a glance from his eyes to philip told the latter that coulson believed the business spoken of had something to do with the partnership, respecting which there had been a silent intelligence for some time between the shopmen. 'and what did thou say?' asked philip, doggedly unwilling, even yet, to give up his purposed visit. 'say! why, what could a say, but that we'd come? there was summat up, for sure; and summat as he thought we should be glad on. i could tell it fra' t' look on his face.' 'i don't think as i can go,' said philip, feeling just then as if the long-hoped-for partnership was as nothing compared to his plan. it was always distasteful to him to have to give up a project, or to disarrange an intended order of things, such was his nature; but to-day it was absolute pain to yield his own purpose. 'why, man alive?' said coulson, in amaze at his reluctance. 'i didn't say i mightn't go,' said philip, weighing consequences, until called off to attend to customers. in the course of the afternoon, however, he felt himself more easy in deferring his visit to haytersbank till the next evening. charley kinraid entered the shop, accompanied by molly brunton and her sisters; and though they all went towards hester's side of the shop, and philip and coulson had many people to attend to, yet hepburn's sharpened ears caught much of what the young women were saying. from that he gathered that kinraid had promised them new year's gifts, for the purchase of which they were come; and after a little more listening he learnt that kinraid was returning to shields the next day, having only come over to spend a holiday with his relations, and being tied with ship's work at the other end. they all talked together lightly and merrily, as if his going or staying was almost a matter of indifference to himself and his cousins. the principal thought of the young women was to secure the articles they most fancied; charley kinraid was (so philip thought) especially anxious that the youngest and prettiest should be pleased. hepburn watched him perpetually with a kind of envy of his bright, courteous manner, the natural gallantry of the sailor. if it were but clear that sylvia took as little thought of him as he did of her, to all appearance, philip could even have given him praise for manly good looks, and a certain kind of geniality of disposition which made him ready to smile pleasantly at all strangers, from babies upwards. as the party turned to leave the shop they saw philip, the guest of the night before; and they came over to shake hands with him across the counter; kinraid's hand was proffered among the number. last night philip could not have believed it possible that such a demonstration of fellowship should have passed between them; and perhaps there was a slight hesitation of manner on his part, for some idea or remembrance crossed kinraid's mind which brought a keen searching glance into the eyes which for a moment were fastened on philip's face. in spite of himself, and during the very action of hand-shaking, philip felt a cloud come over his face, not altering or moving his features, but taking light and peace out of his countenance. molly brunton began to say something, and he gladly turned to look at her. she was asking him why he went away so early, for they had kept it up for four hours after he left, and last of all, she added (turning to kinraid), her cousin charley had danced a hornpipe among the platters on the ground. philip hardly knew what he said in reply, the mention of that pas seul lifted such a weight off his heart. he could smile now, after his grave fashion, and would have shaken hands again with kinraid had it been required; for it seemed to him that no one, caring ever so little in the way that he did for sylvia, could have borne four mortal hours of a company where she had been, and was not; least of all could have danced a hornpipe, either from gaiety of heart, or even out of complaisance. he felt as if the yearning after the absent one would have been a weight to his legs, as well as to his spirit; and he imagined that all men were like himself. chapter xiv partnership as darkness closed in, and the new year's throng became scarce, philip's hesitation about accompanying coulson faded away. he was more comfortable respecting sylvia, and his going to see her might be deferred; and, after all, he felt that the wishes of his masters ought to be attended to, and the honour of an invitation to the private house of jeremiah not to be slighted for anything short of a positive engagement. besides, the ambitious man of business existed strongly in philip. it would never do to slight advances towards the second great earthly object in his life; one also on which the first depended. so when the shop was closed, the two set out down bridge street to cross the river to the house of jeremiah foster. they stood a moment on the bridge to breathe the keen fresh sea air after their busy day. the waters came down, swollen full and dark, with rapid rushing speed from the snow-fed springs high up on the moorland above. the close-packed houses in the old town seemed a cluster of white roofs irregularly piled against the more unbroken white of the hill-side. lights twinkled here and there in the town, and were slung from stern and bow of the ships in the harbour. the air was very still, settling in for a frost; so still that all distant sounds seemed near: the rumble of a returning cart in the high street, the voices on board ship, the closing of shutters and barring of doors in the new town to which they were bound. but the sharp air was filled, as it were, with saline particles in a freezing state; little pungent crystals of sea salt burning lips and cheeks with their cold keenness. it would not do to linger here in the very centre of the valley up which passed the current of atmosphere coming straight with the rushing tide from the icy northern seas. besides, there was the unusual honour of a supper with jeremiah foster awaiting them. he had asked each of them separately to a meal before now; but they had never gone together, and they felt that there was something serious in the conjuncture. they began to climb the steep heights leading to the freshly-built rows of the new town of monkshaven, feeling as if they were rising into aristocratic regions where no shop profaned the streets. jeremiah foster's house was one of six, undistinguished in size, or shape, or colour; but noticed in the daytime by all passers-by for its spotless cleanliness of lintel and doorstep, window and window frame. the very bricks seemed as though they came in for the daily scrubbing which brightened handle, knocker, all down to the very scraper. the two young men felt as shy of the interview with their master under such unusual relations of guest and host, as a girl does of her first party. each rather drew back from the decided step of knocking at the door; but with a rebuffing shake at his own folly, philip was the one to give a loud single rap. as if they had been waited for, the door flew open, and a middle-aged servant stood behind, as spotless and neat as the house itself; and smiled a welcome to the familiar faces. 'let me dust yo' a bit, william,' said she, suiting the action to the word. 'you've been leanin' again some whitewash, a'll be bound. ay, philip,' continued she, turning him round with motherly freedom, 'yo'll do if yo'll but gi' your shoon a polishin' wipe on yon other mat. this'n for takin' t' roughest mud off. measter allays polishes on that.' in the square parlour the same precise order was observed. every article of furniture was free from speck of dirt or particle of dust; and everything was placed either in a parallel line, or at exact right-angles with every other. even john and jeremiah sat in symmetry on opposite sides of the fire-place; the very smiles on their honest faces seemed drawn to a line of exactitude. such formality, however admirable, was not calculated to promote ease: it was not until after supper--until a good quantity of yorkshire pie had been swallowed, and washed down, too, with the best and most generous wine in jeremiah's cellar--that there was the least geniality among them, in spite of the friendly kindness of the host and his brother. the long silence, during which mute thanks for the meal were given, having come to an end, jeremiah called for pipes, and three of the party began to smoke. politics in those days were tickle subjects to meddle with, even in the most private company. the nation was in a state of terror against france, and against any at home who might be supposed to sympathise with the enormities she had just been committing. the oppressive act against seditious meetings had been passed the year before; and people were doubtful to what extremity of severity it might be construed. even the law authorities forgot to be impartial, but either their alarms or their interests made too many of them vehement partisans instead of calm arbiters, and thus destroyed the popular confidence in what should have been considered the supreme tribunal of justice. yet for all this, there were some who dared to speak of reform of parliament, as a preliminary step to fair representation of the people, and to a reduction of the heavy war-taxation that was imminent, if not already imposed. but these pioneers of 1830 were generally obnoxious. the great body of the people gloried in being tories and haters of the french, with whom they were on tenter-hooks to fight, almost unaware of the rising reputation of the young corsican warrior, whose name would be used ere a dozen years had passed to hush english babies with a terror such as that of marlborough once had for the french. at such a place as monkshaven all these opinions were held in excess. one or two might, for the mere sake of argument, dispute on certain points of history or government; but they took care to be very sure of their listeners before such arguments touched on anything of the present day; for it had been not unfrequently found that the public duty of prosecuting opinions not your own overrode the private duty of respecting confidence. most of the monkshaven politicians confined themselves, therefore, to such general questions as these: 'could an englishman lick more than four frenchmen at a time?' 'what was the proper punishment for members of the corresponding society (correspondence with the french directory), hanging and quartering, or burning?' 'would the forthcoming child of the princess of wales be a boy or a girl? if a girl, would it be more loyal to call it charlotte or elizabeth?' the fosters were quite secure enough of their guests this evening to have spoken freely on politics had they been so inclined. and they did begin on the outrages which had been lately offered to the king in crossing st james's park to go and open the house of lords; but soon, so accustomed were their minds to caution and restraint, the talk dropped down to the high price of provisions. bread at 1_s_. 3_d_. the quartern loaf, according to the london test. wheat at 120_s_. per quarter, as the home-baking northerners viewed the matter; and then the conversation died away to an ominous silence. john looked at jeremiah, as if asking him to begin. jeremiah was the host, and had been a married man. jeremiah returned the look with the same meaning in it. john, though a bachelor, was the elder brother. the great church bell, brought from the monkshaven monastery centuries ago, high up on the opposite hill-side, began to ring nine o'clock; it was getting late. jeremiah began: 'it seems a bad time for starting any one on business, wi' prices and taxes and bread so dear; but john and i are getting into years, and we've no children to follow us: yet we would fain draw out of some of our worldly affairs. we would like to give up the shop, and stick to banking, to which there seemeth a plain path. but first there is the stock and goodwill of the shop to be disposed on.' a dead pause. this opening was not favourable to the hopes of the two moneyless young men who had been hoping to succeed their masters by the more gradual process of partnership. but it was only the kind of speech that had been agreed upon by the two brothers with a view of impressing on hepburn and coulson the great and unusual responsibility of the situation into which the fosters wished them to enter. in some ways the talk of many was much less simple and straightforward in those days than it is now. the study of effect shown in the london diners-out of the last generation, who prepared their conversation beforehand, was not without its parallel in humbler spheres, and for different objects than self-display. the brothers foster had all but rehearsed the speeches they were about to make this evening. they were aware of the youth of the parties to whom they were going to make a most favourable proposal; and they dreaded that if that proposal was too lightly made, it would be too lightly considered, and the duties involved in it too carelessly entered upon. so the _role_ of one brother was to suggest, that of the other to repress. the young men, too, had their reserves. they foresaw, and had long foreseen, what was coming that evening. they were impatient to hear it in distinct words; and yet they had to wait, as if unconscious, during all the long preamble. do age and youth never play the same parts now? to return. john foster replied to his brother: 'the stock and goodwill! that would take much wealth. and there will be fixtures to be considered. philip, canst thee tell me the exact amount of stock in the shop at present?' it had only just been taken; philip had it at his fingers' ends. 'one thousand nine hundred and forty-one pounds, thirteen shillings and twopence.' coulson looked at him in a little dismay, and could not repress a sigh. the figures put into words and spoken aloud seemed to indicate so much larger an amount of money than when quickly written down in numerals. but philip read the countenances, nay, by some process of which he was not himself aware, he read the minds of the brothers, and felt no dismay at what he saw there. 'and the fixtures?' asked john foster. 'the appraiser valued them at four hundred and thirty-five pounds three and sixpence when father died. we have added to them since, but we will reckon them at that. how much does that make with the value of the stock?' 'two thousand one hundred and seventy-six pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence,' said philip. coulson had done the sum quicker, but was too much disheartened by the amount to speak. 'and the goodwill?' asked the pitiless john. 'what dost thee set that at?' 'i think, brother, that that would depend on who came forward with the purchase-money of the stock and fixtures. to some folks we might make it sit easy, if they were known to us, and those as we wished well to. if philip and william here, for instance, said they'd like to purchase the business, i reckon thee and me would not ask 'em so much as we should ask millers' (millers was an upstart petty rival shop at the end of the bridge in the new town). 'i wish philip and william was to come after us,' said john. 'but that's out of the question,' he continued, knowing all the while that, far from being out of the question, it was the very question, and that it was as good as settled at this very time. no one spoke. then jeremiah went on: 'it's out of the question, i reckon?' he looked at the two young men. coulson shook his head. philip more bravely said,-'i have fifty-three pounds seven and fourpence in yo'r hands, master john, and it's all i have i' the world.' 'it's a pity,' said john, and again they were silent. half-past nine struck. it was time to be beginning to make an end. 'perhaps, brother, they have friends who could advance 'em the money. we might make it sit light to them, for the sake of their good service?' philip replied,-'there's no one who can put forwards a penny for me: i have but few kin, and they have little to spare beyond what they need.' coulson said-'my father and mother have nine on us.' 'let alone, let alone!' said john, relenting fast; for he was weary of his part of cold, stern prudence. 'brother, i think we have enough of this world's goods to do what we like wi' our own.' jeremiah was a little scandalized at the rapid melting away of assumed character, and took a good pull at his pipe before he replied-'upwards of two thousand pounds is a large sum to set on the well-being and well-doing of two lads, the elder of whom is not three-and-twenty. i fear we must look farther a-field.' 'why, john,' replied jeremiah, 'it was but yesterday thee saidst thee would rather have philip and william than any men o' fifty that thee knowed. and now to bring up their youth again them.' 'well, well! t' half on it is thine, and thou shall do even as thou wilt. but i think as i must have security for my moiety, for it's a risk--a great risk. have ye any security to offer? any expectations? any legacies, as other folk have a life-interest in at present?' no; neither of them had. so jeremiah rejoined-'then, i suppose, i mun do as thee dost, john, and take the security of character. and it's a great security too, lads, and t' best o' all, and one that i couldn't ha' done without; no, not if yo'd pay me down five thousand for goodwill, and stock, and fixtures. for john foster and son has been a shop i' monkshaven this eighty years and more; and i dunnot think there's a man living--or dead, for that matter--as can say fosters wronged him of a penny, or gave short measure to a child or a cousin betty.' they all four shook hands round with the same heartiness as if it had been a legal ceremony necessary to the completion of the partnership. the old men's faces were bright with smiles; the eyes of the young ones sparkled with hope. 'but, after all,' said jeremiah, 'we've not told you particulars. yo're thanking us for a pig in a poke; but we had more forethought, and we put all down on a piece o' paper.' he took down a folded piece of paper from the mantel-shelf, put on his horn spectacles, and began to read aloud, occasionally peering over his glasses to note the effect on the countenances of the young men. the only thing he was in the habit of reading aloud was a chapter in the bible daily to his housekeeper servant; and, like many, he reserved a peculiar tone for that solemn occupation--a tone which he unconsciously employed for the present enumeration of pounds, shillings, and pence. 'average returns of the last three years, one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, three shillings, and seven penny and one-sixth a week. profits thereupon thirty-four per cent.--as near as may be. clear profits of the concern, after deducting all expenses except rent--for t' house is our own--one thousand two hundred and two pound a year.' this was far more than either hepburn or coulson had imagined it to be; and a look of surprise, almost amounting to dismay, crept over their faces, in spite of their endeavour to keep simply motionless and attentive. 'it's a deal of money, lads, and the lord give you grace to guide it,' said jeremiah, putting down his paper for a minute. 'amen,' said john, shaking his head to give effect to his word. 'now what we propose is this,' continued jeremiah, beginning afresh to refer to his paper: 'we will call t' value of stock and fixtures two thousand one hundred and fifty. you may have john holden, appraiser and auctioneer, in to set a price on them if yo' will; or yo' may look over books and bills; or, better still, do both, and so check one again t'other; but for t' sake o' making the ground o' the bargain, i state the sum as above; and i reckon it so much capital left in yo'r hands for the use o' which yo're bound to pay us five per cent. quarterly--that's one hundred and seven pound ten per annum at least for t' first year; and after it will be reduced by the gradual payment on our money, which must be at the rate of twenty per cent., thus paying us our principal back in five years. and the rent, including all back yards, right of wharfage, warehouse, and premises, is reckoned by us to be sixty-five pound per annum. so yo' will have to pay us, john and jeremiah foster, brothers, six hundred and twelve pound ten out of the profits of the first year, leaving, at the present rate of profits, about five hundred and eighty-nine pound ten, for the share to be divided between yo'.' the plan had, in all its details, been carefully arranged by the two brothers. they were afraid lest hepburn and coulson should be dazzled by the amount of profits, and had so arranged the sliding-scale of payment as to reduce the first year's income to what the elder men thought a very moderate sum, but what to the younger ones appeared an amount of wealth such as they, who had neither of them ever owned much more than fifty pounds, considered almost inexhaustible. it was certainly a remarkable instance of prosperity and desert meeting together so early in life. for a moment or two the brothers were disappointed at not hearing any reply from either of them. then philip stood up, for he felt as if anything he could say sitting down would not be sufficiently expressive of gratitude, and william instantly followed his example. hepburn began in a formal manner, something the way in which he had read in the york newspapers that honourable members returned thanks when their health was given. 'i can hardly express my feelings' (coulson nudged him) 'his feelings, too--of gratitude. oh, master john! master jeremiah, i thought it might come i' time; nay, i've thought it might come afore long; but i niver thought as it would be so much, or made so easy. we've got good kind friends--we have, have we not, william?--and we'll do our best, and i hope as we shall come up to their wishes.' philip's voice quivered a little, as some remembrance passed across his mind; at this unusual moment of expansion out it came. 'i wish mother could ha' seen this day.' 'she shall see a better day, my lad, when thy name and william's is painted over t' shop-door, and j. and j. foster blacked out.' 'nay, master,' said william, 'that mun never be. i'd a'most sooner not come in for the business. anyhow, it must be 'late j. and j. foster,' and i'm not sure as i can stomach that.' 'well, well, william,' said john foster, highly gratified, 'there be time enough to talk over that. there was one thing more to be said, was there not, brother jeremiah? we do not wish to have this talked over in monkshaven until shortly before the time when yo' must enter on the business. we have our own arrangements to make wi' regard to the banking concern, and there'll be lawyer's work to do, after yo've examined books and looked over stock again together; may-be we've overstated it, or t' fixtures aren't worth so much as we said. anyhow yo' must each on yo' give us yo'r word for to keep fra' naming this night's conversation to any one. meantime, jeremiah and i will have to pay accounts, and take a kind of farewell of the merchants and manufacturers with whom fosters have had dealings this seventy or eighty year; and when and where it seems fitting to us we will take one of yo' to introduce as our successors and friends. but all that's to come. but yo' must each give us yo'r word not to name what has passed here to any one till further speech on the subject has passed between us.' coulson immediately gave the promise. philip's assent came lagging. he had thought of sylvia living, almost as much as of the dead mother, whose last words had been a committal of her child to the father of the friendless; and now that a short delay was placed between the sight of the cup and his enjoyment of it, there was an impatient chafing in the mind of the composed and self-restrained philip; and then repentance quick as lightning effaced the feeling, and he pledged himself to the secrecy which was enjoined. some few more details as to their mode of procedure--of verifying the fosters' statements, which to the younger men seemed a perfectly unnecessary piece of business--of probable journeys and introductions, and then farewell was bidden, and hepburn and coulson were in the passage donning their wraps, and rather to their indignation being assisted therein by martha, who was accustomed to the office with her own master. suddenly they were recalled into the parlour. john foster was fumbling with the papers a little nervously: jeremiah spoke-'we have not thought it necessary to commend hester rose to you; if she had been a lad she would have had a third o' the business along wi' yo'. being a woman, it's ill troubling her with a partnership; better give her a fixed salary till such time as she marries.' he looked a little knowingly and curiously at the faces of the young men he addressed. william coulson seemed sheepish and uncomfortable, but said nothing, leaving it as usual to philip to be spokesman. 'if we hadn't cared for hester for hersel', master, we should ha' cared for her as being forespoken by yo'. yo' and master john shall fix what we ought t' pay her; and i think i may make bold to say that, as our income rises, hers shall too--eh, coulson?' (a sound of assent quite distinct enough); 'for we both look on her as a sister and on alice like a mother, as i told her only this very day.' chapter xv a difficult question philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope. the night before it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes; he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours before, had been almost impious, so great was the change in his circumstances for the better. now all seemed promising for the fulfilment of what he most desired. he was almost convinced that he was mistaken in thinking that kinraid had had anything more than a sailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to sylvia; at any rate, he was going away to-morrow, in all probability not to return for another year (for greenland ships left for the northern seas as soon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere then he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love. so this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they had been the night before; they were a vehement expression of gratitude to god for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to grant him the desire of his eyes and the lust of his heart. he was like too many of us, he did not place his future life in the hands of god, and only ask for grace to do his will in whatever circumstances might arise; but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing which, when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out to be equivalent to a curse. and that spirit brings with it the material and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes are answers to our prayer; and so they are in one sense, but they need prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptation to evil which such events invariably bring with them. philip little knew how sylvia's time had been passed that day. if he had, he would have laid down this night with even a heavier heart than he had done on the last. charley kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where the path to haytersbank farm diverged. then he stopped his merry talk, and announced his intention of going to see farmer robson. bessy corney looked disappointed and a little sulky; but her sister molly brunton laughed, and said,-'tell truth, lad! dannel robson 'd niver have a call fra' thee if he hadn't a pretty daughter.' 'indeed, but he would,' replied charley, rather annoyed; 'when i've said a thing, i do it. i promised last night to go see him; besides, i like the old man.' 'well! when shall we tell mother yo're comin' whoam?' 'toward eight o'clock--may-be sooner.' 'why it's bare five now! bless t' lad, does he think o' staying theere a' neet, and they up so late last night, and mrs. robson ailing beside? mother 'll not think it kind on yo' either, will she, bess?' 'i dunno. charley mun do as he likes; i daresay no one'll miss him if he does bide away till eight.' 'well, well! i can't tell what i shall do; but yo'd best not stop lingering here, for it's getting on, and there'll be a keen frost by t' look o' the stars.' haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed; there were no shutters to the windows, nor did they care to draw the inside curtains, so few were the passers-by. the house door was fastened; but the shippen door a little on in the same long low block of building stood open, and a dim light made an oblong upon the snowy ground outside. as kinraid drew near he heard talking there, and a woman's voice; he threw a passing glance through the window into the fire-lit house-place, and seeing mrs. robson asleep by the fireside in her easy-chair, he went on. there was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into the pail, and kester, sitting on a three-legged stool, cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. sylvia stood near the farther window-ledge, on which a horn lantern was placed, pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in reality laughing at kester's futile endeavours, and finding quite enough to do with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail, or the occasional kick. the frosty air was mellowed by the warm and odorous breath of the cattle--breath that hung about the place in faint misty clouds. there was only a dim light; such as it was, it was not dearly defined against the dark heavy shadow in which the old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped. as charley came to the door, kester was saying, 'quiet wi' thee, wench! theere now, she's a beauty, if she'll stand still. there's niver sich a cow i' t' riding; if she'll only behave hersel'. she's a bonny lass, she is; let down her milk, theere's a pretty!' 'why, kester,' laughed sylvia, 'thou'rt asking her for her milk wi' as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a wife!' 'hey, lass!' said kester, turning a bit towards her, and shutting one eye to cock the other the better upon her; an operation which puckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines and folds. 'an' how does thee know how a man woos a wife, that thee talks so knowin' about it? that's tellin'. some un's been tryin' it on thee.' 'there's niver a one been so impudent,' said sylvia, reddening and tossing her head a little; 'i'd like to see 'em try me!' 'well, well!' said kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning, 'thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou's a good lass, may-be thy turn 'll come and they 'll try it.' 'i wish thou'd talk of what thou's some knowledge on, kester, i'stead of i' that silly way,' replied sylvia. 'then a mun talk no more 'bout women, for they're past knowin', an' druv e'en king solomon silly.' at this moment charley stepped in. sylvia gave a little start and dropped her ball of worsted. kester made as though absorbed in his task of cajoling black nell; but his eyes and ears were both vigilant. 'i was going into the house, but i saw yo'r mother asleep, and i didn't like to waken her, so i just came on here. is yo'r father to the fore?' 'no,' said sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if he could have heard the way in which she and kester had been talking, and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger against herself. 'father is gone to winthrop about some pigs as he's heerd on. he'll not be back till seven o'clock or so.' it was but half-past five, and sylvia in the irritation of the moment believed that she wished kinraid would go. but she would have been extremely disappointed if he had. kinraid himself seemed to have no thought of the kind. he saw with his quick eyes, not unaccustomed to women, that his coming so unexpectedly had fluttered sylvia, and anxious to make her quite at her ease with him, and not unwilling to conciliate kester, he addressed his next speech to him, with the same kind of air of interest in the old man's pursuit that a young man of a different class sometimes puts on when talking to the chaperone of a pretty girl in a ball-room. 'that's a handsome beast yo've just been milking, master.' 'ay; but handsome is as handsome does. it were only yesterday as she aimed her leg right at t' pail wi' t' afterings in. she knowed it were afterings as well as any christian, and t' more t' mischief t' better she likes it; an' if a hadn't been too quick for her, it would have a' gone swash down i' t' litter. this'n 's a far better cow i' t' long run, she's just a steady goer,' as the milky down-pour came musical and even from the stall next to black nell's. sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the while that it was a great pity she had not put on a better gown, or even a cap with brighter ribbon, and quite unconscious how very pretty she looked standing against the faint light, her head a little bent down; her hair catching bright golden touches, as it fell from under her little linen cap; her pink bed-gown, confined by her apron-string, giving a sort of easy grace to her figure; her dark full linsey petticoat short above her trim ancles, looking far more suitable to the place where she was standing than her long gown of the night before would have done. kinraid was wanting to talk to her, and to make her talk, but was uncertain how to begin. in the meantime kester went on with the subject last spoken about. 'black nell's at her fourth calf now, so she ought to ha' left off her tricks and turned sober-like. but bless yo', there's some cows as 'll be skittish till they're fat for t' butcher. not but what a like milking her better nor a steady goer; a man has allays summat to be watchin' for; and a'm kind o' set up when a've mastered her at last. t' young missus theere, she's mighty fond o' comin' t' see black nell at her tantrums. she'd niver come near me if a' cows were like this'n.' 'do you often come and see the cows milked?' asked kinraid, 'many a time,' said sylvia, smiling a little. 'why, when we're throng, i help kester; but now we've only black nell and daisy giving milk. kester knows as i can milk black nell quite easy,' she continued, half vexed that kester had not named this accomplishment. 'ay! when she's in a good frame o' mind, as she is sometimes. but t' difficulty is to milk her at all times.' 'i wish i'd come a bit sooner. i should like t' have seen you milk black nell,' addressing sylvia. 'yo'd better come to-morrow e'en, and see what a hand she'll mak' on her,' said kester. 'to-morrow night i shall be far on my road back to shields.' 'to-morrow!' said sylvia, suddenly looking up at him, and then dropping her eyes, as she found he had been watching for the effect of his intelligence on her. 'i mun be back at t' whaler, where i'm engaged,' continued he. 'she's fitting up after a fresh fashion, and as i've been one as wanted new ways, i mun be on the spot for t' look after her. maybe i shall take a run down here afore sailing in march. i'm sure i shall try.' there was a good deal meant and understood by these last few words. the tone in which they were spoken gave them a tender intensity not lost upon either of the hearers. kester cocked his eye once more, but with as little obtrusiveness as he could, and pondered the sailor's looks and ways. he remembered his coming about the place the winter before, and how the old master had then appeared to have taken to him; but at that time sylvia had seemed to kester too little removed from a child to have either art or part in kinraid's visits; now, however, the case was different. kester in his sphere--among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it was--had heard with much pride of sylvia's bearing away the bell at church and at market, wherever girls of her age were congregated. he was a north countryman, so he gave out no further sign of his feelings than his mistress and sylvia's mother had done on a like occasion. 't' lass is weel enough,' said he; but he grinned to himself, and looked about, and listened to the hearsay of every lad, wondering who was handsome, and brave, and good enough to be sylvia's mate. now, of late, it had seemed to the canny farm-servant pretty clear that philip hepburn was 'after her'; and to philip, kester had an instinctive objection, a kind of natural antipathy such as has existed in all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in the country, between agriculture and trade. so, while kinraid and sylvia kept up their half-tender, half-jesting conversation, kester was making up his slow persistent mind as to the desirability of the young man then present as a husband for his darling, as much from his being other than philip in every respect, as from the individual good qualities he possessed. kester's first opportunity of favouring kinraid's suit consisted in being as long as possible over his milking; so never were cows that required such 'stripping,' or were expected to yield such 'afterings', as black nell and daisy that night. but all things must come to an end; and at length kester got up from his three-legged stool, on seeing what the others did not--that the dip-candle in the lantern was coming to an end--and that in two or three minutes more the shippen would be in darkness, and so his pails of milk be endangered. in an instant sylvia had started out of her delicious dreamland, her drooping eyes were raised, and recovered their power of observation; her ruddy arms were freed from the apron in which she had enfolded them, as a protection from the gathering cold, and she had seized and adjusted the wooden yoke across her shoulders, ready to bear the brimming milk-pails to the dairy. 'look yo' at her!' exclaimed kester to charley, as he adjusted the fragrant pails on the yoke. 'she thinks she's missus a ready, and she's allays for carrying in t' milk since t' rhumatiz cotched my shouther i' t' back end; and when she says "yea," it's as much as my heed's worth to say "nay."' and along the wall, round the corner, down the round slippery stones of the rambling farmyard, behind the buildings, did sylvia trip, safe and well-poised, though the ground wore all one coating of white snow, and in many places was so slippery as to oblige kinraid to linger near kester, the lantern-bearer. kester did not lose his opportunity, though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic cough when-ever he breathed, and often interrupted his words. 'she's a good wench--a good wench as iver was--an come on a good stock, an' that's summat, whether in a cow or a woman. a've known her from a baby; she's a reet down good un.' by this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, just as sylvia had unladen herself, and was striking a light with flint and tinder. the house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air, although the kitchen into which they entered contained only a raked and slumbering fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung the immense pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. to this pan kester immediately addressed himself, swinging it round with ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the old-fashioned machinery. kinraid stood between kester and the door into the dairy, through which sylvia had vanished with the milk. he half wished to conciliate kester by helping him, but he seemed also attracted, by a force which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went. kester read his mind. 'let alone, let alone,' said he; 'pigs' vittle takes noan such dainty carryin' as milk. a may set it down an' niver spill a drop; she's noan fit for t' serve swine, nor yo' other, mester; better help her t' teem t' milk.' so kinraid followed the light--his light--into the icy chill of the dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed with the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans. in his haste to help her, charley took up one of the pails. 'eh? that'n 's to be strained. yo' have a' the cow's hair in. mother's very particular, and cannot abide a hair.' so she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she--but not before he--was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer over the bowl, and pouring the white liquid through it. 'there!' said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; 'now yo'll know how to do it next time.' 'i wish next time was to come now,' said kinraid; but she had returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear him. he followed her to her side of the dairy. 'i've but a short memory, can yo' not show me again how t' hold t' strainer?' 'no,' said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. 'but there's no need to tell me yo've getten a short memory.' 'why? what have i done? how dun you know it?' 'last night,' she began, and then she stopped, and turned away her head, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and such like. 'well!' said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and flattered by it, if his conjecture were right. 'last night--what?' 'oh, yo' know!' said she, as if impatient at being both literally and metaphorically followed about, and driven into a corner. 'no; tell me,' persisted he. 'well,' said she, 'if yo' will have it, i think yo' showed yo'd but a short memory when yo' didn't know me again, and yo' were five times at this house last winter, and that's not so long sin'. but i suppose yo' see a vast o' things on yo'r voyages by land or by sea, and then it's but natural yo' should forget.' she wished she could go on talking, but could not think of anything more to say just then; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flattering interpretation he might put upon her words, on her knowing so exactly the number of times he had been to haytersbank, flashed upon her, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther afield--to make it a little less personal. this was not his wish, however. in a tone which thrilled through her, even in her own despite, he said,-'do yo' think that can ever happen again, sylvia?' she was quite silent; almost trembling. he repeated the question as if to force her to answer. driven to bay, she equivocated. 'what happen again? let me go, i dunno what yo're talking about, and i'm a'most numbed wi' cold.' for the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window, and the ice was already forming on the milk. kinraid would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most young women, warm; but he paused before he dared put his arm round sylvia; she had something so shy and wild in her look and manner; and her very innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check. so he contented himself with saying,-'i'll let yo' go into t' warm kitchen if yo'll tell me if yo' think i can ever forget yo' again.' she looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. he enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question; it showed she felt its significance. her pure eyes looked steadily into his; nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make her afraid. they were like two children defying each other; each determined to conquer. at last she unclosed her lips, and nodding her head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more in her check apron,-'yo'll have to go home sometime.' 'not for a couple of hours yet,' said he; 'and yo'll be frozen first; so yo'd better say if i can ever forget yo' again, without more ado.' perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence,--perhaps the tones were less modulated than they had been before, but anyhow bell robson's voice was heard calling sylvia through the second door, which opened from the dairy to the house-place, in which her mother had been till this moment asleep. sylvia darted off in obedience to the call; glad to leave him, as at the moment kinraid resentfully imagined. through the open door he heard the conversation between mother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning, so difficult did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas he had just been forming with sylvia's bright lovely face right under his eyes. 'sylvia!' said her mother, 'who's yonder?' bell was sitting up in the attitude of one startled out of slumber into intensity of listening; her hands on each of the chair-arms, as if just going to rise. 'there's a fremd man i' t' house. i heerd his voice!' 'it's only--it's just charley kinraid; he was a-talking to me i' t' dairy.' 'i' t' dairy, lass! and how com'd he i' t' dairy?' 'he com'd to see feyther. feyther asked him last night,' said sylvia, conscious that he could overhear every word that was said, and a little suspecting that he was no great favourite with her mother. 'thy feyther's out; how com'd he i' t' dairy?' persevered bell. 'he com'd past this window, and saw yo' asleep, and didn't like for t' waken yo'; so he com'd on to t' shippen, and when i carried t' milk in---' but now kinraid came in, feeling the awkwardness of his situation a little, yet with an expression so pleasant and manly in his open face, and in his exculpatory manner, that sylvia lost his first words in a strange kind of pride of possession in him, about which she did not reason nor care to define the grounds. but her mother rose from her chair somewhat formally, as if she did not intend to sit down again while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in that standing attitude long. 'i'm afeared, sir, sylvie hasn't told yo' that my master's out, and not like to be in till late. he'll be main and sorry to have missed yo'.' there was nothing for it after this but to go. his only comfort was that on sylvia's rosy face he could read unmistakable signs of regret and dismay. his sailor's life, in bringing him suddenly face to face with unexpected events, had given him something of that self-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman; and with an apparent calmness which almost disappointed sylvia, who construed it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or stayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in holding her hand a minute longer than was absolutely necessary,-'i'm coming back ere i sail; and then, may-be, you'll answer yon question.' he spoke low, and her mother was rearranging herself in her chair, else sylvia would have had to repeat the previous words. as it was, with soft thrilling ideas ringing through her, she could get her wheel, and sit down to her spinning by the fire; waiting for her mother to speak first, sylvia dreamt her dreams. bell robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as it lay on the surface. she was not aware how deep down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl's heart who sat on the other side of the fire, with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure. bell looked upon sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbidden things by threats of danger. but the forbidden thing was already tasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it more precious-sweet. bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. her milk-white linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face, from which the usual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from the same cause, rendered more prominent and stern. she had a clean buff kerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her sunday woollen gown of dark blue,--if she had been in working-trim she would have worn a bedgown like sylvia's. her sleeves were pinned back at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands lay crossed in unwonted idleness on her check apron. her knitting was by her side; and if she had been going through any accustomed calculation or consideration she would have had it busily clinking in her fingers. but she had something quite beyond common to think about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was not equal to knitting. 'sylvie,' she began at length, 'did i e'er tell thee on nancy hartley as i knew when i were a child? i'm thinking a deal on her to-night; may-be it's because i've been dreaming on yon old times. she was a bonny lass as ever were seen, i've heerd folk say; but that were afore i knew her. when i knew her she were crazy, poor wench; wi' her black hair a-streaming down her back, and her eyes, as were a'most as black, allays crying out for pity, though never a word she spoke but "he once was here." just that o'er and o'er again, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, "he once was here," were all her speech. she had been farm-servant to my mother's brother--james hepburn, thy great-uncle as was; she were a poor, friendless wench, a parish 'prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad, as nobody knowed, come o'er the hills one sheep-shearing fra' whitehaven; he had summat to do wi' th' sea, though not rightly to be called a sailor: and he made a deal on nancy hartley, just to beguile the time like; and he went away and ne'er sent a thought after her more. it's the way as lads have; and there's no holding 'em when they're fellows as nobody knows--neither where they come fro', nor what they've been doing a' their lives, till they come athwart some poor wench like nancy hartley. she were but a softy after all: for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. i've heerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was wrong wi' nancy as soon as th' milk turned bingy, for there ne'er had been such a clean lass about her milk-cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse, and she would sit and do nothing but play wi' her fingers fro' morn till night, and if they asked her what ailed her, she just said, "he once was here;" and if they bid her go about her work, it were a' the same. and when they scolded her, and pretty sharp too, she would stand up and put her hair from her eyes, and look about her like a crazy thing searching for her wits, and ne'er finding them, for all she could think on was just, "he once was here." it were a caution to me again thinking a man t' mean what he says when he's a-talking to a young woman.' 'but what became on poor nancy?' asked sylvia. 'what should become on her or on any lass as gives hersel' up to thinking on a man who cares nought for her?' replied her mother, a little severely. 'she were crazed, and my aunt couldn't keep her on, could she? she did keep her a long weary time, thinking as she would, may-be, come to hersel', and, anyhow, she were a motherless wench. but at length she had for t' go where she came fro'--back to keswick workhouse: and when last i heerd on her she were chained to th' great kitchen dresser i' t' workhouse; they'd beaten her till she were taught to be silent and quiet i' th' daytime, but at night, when she were left alone, she would take up th' oud cry, till it wrung their heart, so they'd many a time to come down and beat her again to get any peace. it were a caution to me, as i said afore, to keep fro' thinking on men as thought nought on me.' 'poor crazy nancy!' sighed sylvia. the mother wondered if she had taken the 'caution' to herself, or was only full of pity for the mad girl, dead long before. chapter xvi the engagement 'as the day lengthens so the cold strengthens.' it was so that year; the hard frost which began on new year's eve lasted on and on into late february, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers, as it kept back the too early growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gave them the opportunity of leading manure. but it did not suit invalids as well, and bell robson, though not getting worse, did not make any progress towards amendment. sylvia was kept very busy, notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow-woman in the neighbourhood on cleaning, or washing, or churning days. her life was quiet and monotonous, although hard-working; and while her hands mechanically found and did their accustomed labour, the thoughts that rose in her head always centred on charley kinraid, his ways, his words, his looks, whether they all meant what she would fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love at the time, such a feeling was likely to endure. her mother's story of crazy nancy had taken hold of her; but not as a 'caution,' rather as a parallel case to her own. like nancy, and borrowing the poor girl's own words, she would say softly to herself, 'he once was here'; but all along she believed in her heart he would come back again to her, though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies of forsaken love. philip knew little of all this. he was very busy with facts and figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary business, and only now and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going to haytersbank in an evening, to inquire after his aunt's health, and to see sylvia; for the two fosters were punctiliously anxious to make their shopmen test all their statements; insisting on an examination of the stock, as if hepburn and coulson were strangers to the shop; having the monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise the fixtures and necessary furniture; going over the shop books for the last twenty years with their successors, an employment which took up evening after evening; and not unfrequently taking one of the young men on the long commercial journeys which were tediously made in a gig. by degrees both hepburn and coulson were introduced to distant manufacturers and wholesale dealers. they would have been willing to take the fosters' word for every statement the brothers had made on new year's day; but this, it was evident, would not have satisfied their masters, who were scrupulous in insisting that whatever advantage there was should always fall on the side of the younger men. when philip saw sylvia she was always quiet and gentle; perhaps more silent than she had been a year ago, and she did not attend so briskly to what was passing around her. she was rather thinner and paler; but whatever change there was in her was always an improvement in philip's eyes, so long as she spoke graciously to him. he thought she was suffering from long-continued anxiety about her mother, or that she had too much to do; and either cause was enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference which had a repressed tenderness in it, of which she, otherwise occupied, was quite unaware. she liked him better, too, than she had done a year or two before, because he did not show her any of the eager attention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fully understood. things were much in this state when the frost broke, and milder weather succeeded. this was the time so long looked forward to by the invalid and her friends, as favouring the doctor's recommendation of change of air. her husband was to take her to spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, who lived near the farm they had occupied, forty miles or so inland, before they came to haytersbank. the widow-woman was to come and stay in the house, to keep sylvia company, during her mother's absence. daniel, indeed, was to return home after conveying his wife to her destination; but there was so much to be done on the land at this time of the year, that sylvia would have been alone all day had it not been for the arrangement just mentioned. there was active stirring in monkshaven harbour as well as on shore. the whalers were finishing their fittings-out for the greenland seas. it was a 'close' season, that is to say, there would be difficulty in passing the barrier of ice which lay between the ships and the whaling-grounds; and yet these must be reached before june, or the year's expedition would be of little avail. every blacksmith's shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers, beating out old iron, such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into the great harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and important sailors, rushing hither and thither, conscious of the demand in which they were held at this season of the year. it was war time, too. many captains unable to procure men in monkshaven would have to complete their crews in the shetlands. the shops in the town were equally busy; stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters, warm clothing of all sorts to be provided. these were the larger wholesale orders; but many a man, and woman, too, brought out their small hoards to purchase extra comforts, or precious keepsakes for some beloved one. it was the time of the great half-yearly traffic of the place; another impetus was given to business when the whalers returned in the autumn, and the men were flush of money, and full of delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends. there was much to be done in fosters' shop, and later hours were kept than usual. some perplexity or other was occupying john and jeremiah foster; their minds were not so much on the alert as usual, being engaged on some weighty matter of which they had as yet spoken to no one. but it thus happened that they did not give the prompt assistance they were accustomed to render at such times; and coulson had been away on some of the new expeditions devolving on him and philip as future partners. one evening after the shop was closed, while they were examining the goods, and comparing the sales with the entries in the day-book, coulson suddenly inquired-'by the way, hester, does thee know where the parcel of best bandanas is gone? there was four left, as i'm pretty sure, when i set off to sandsend; and to-day mark alderson came in, and would fain have had one, and i could find none nowhere.' 'i sold t' last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who fought the press-gang same time as poor darley were killed. he took it, and three yards of yon pink ribbon wi' t' black and yellow crosses on it, as philip could never abide. philip has got 'em i' t' book, if he'll only look.' 'is he here again?' said philip; 'i didn't see him. what brings him here, where he's noan wanted?' 't' shop were throng wi' folk,' said hester, 'and he knew his own mind about the handkercher, and didn't tarry long. just as he was leaving, his eye caught on t' ribbon, and he came back for it. it were when yo' were serving mary darby and there was a vast o' folk about yo'.' 'i wish i'd seen him,' said coulson. 'i'd ha' gi'en him a word and a look he'd not ha' forgotten in a hurry.' 'why, what's up?' said philip, surprised at william's unusual manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a reflection of his own feelings about kinraid. coulson's face was pale with anger, but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he would reply or not. 'up!' said he at length. 'it's just this: he came after my sister for better nor two year; and a better lass--no, nor a prettier i' my eyes--niver broke bread. and then my master saw another girl, that he liked better'--william almost choked in his endeavour to keep down all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, 'and that he played t' same game wi', as i've heerd tell.' 'and how did thy sister take it?' asked philip, eagerly. 'she died in a six-month,' said william; '_she_ forgived him, but it's beyond me. i thought it were him when i heerd of t' work about darley; kinraid--and coming fra' newcassel, where annie lived 'prentice--and i made inquiry, and it were t' same man. but i'll say no more about him, for it stirs t' old adam more nor i like, or is fitting.' out of respect to him, philip asked no more questions although there were many things that he fain would have known. both coulson and he went silently and grimly through the remainder of their day's work. independent of any personal interest which either or both of them had or might have in kinraid's being a light o' love, this fault of his was one with which the two grave, sedate young men had no sympathy. their hearts were true and constant, whatever else might be their failings; and it is no new thing to 'damn the faults we have no mind to.' philip wished that it was not so late, or that very evening he would have gone to keep guard over sylvia in her mother's absence--nay, perhaps he might have seen reason to give her a warning of some kind. but, if he had done so, it would have been locking the stable-door after the steed was stolen. kinraid had turned his steps towards haytersbank farm as soon as ever he had completed his purchases. he had only come that afternoon to monkshaven, and for the sole purpose of seeing sylvia once more before he went to fulfil his engagement as specksioneer in the _urania_, a whaling-vessel that was to sail from north shields on thursday morning, and this was monday. sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low window, in order to have all the light the afternoon hour afforded for her work. a basket of her father's unmended stockings was on the little round table beside her, and one was on her left hand, which she supposed herself to be mending; but from time to time she made long pauses, and looked in the fire; and yet there was but little motion of flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. it was 'redd up' for the afternoon; covered with a black mass of coal, over which the equally black kettle hung on the crook. in the back-kitchen dolly reid, sylvia's assistant during her mother's absence, chanted a lugubrious ditty, befitting her condition as a widow, while she cleaned tins, and cans, and milking-pails. perhaps these bustling sounds prevented sylvia from hearing approaching footsteps coming down the brow with swift advance; at any rate, she started and suddenly stood up as some one entered the open door. it was strange she should be so much startled, for the person who entered had been in her thoughts all during those long pauses. charley kinraid and the story of crazy nancy had been the subjects for her dreams for many a day, and many a night. now he stood there, bright and handsome as ever, with just that much timidity in his face, that anxiety as to his welcome, which gave his accost an added charm, could she but have perceived it. but she was so afraid of herself, so unwilling to show what she felt, and how much she had been thinking of him in his absence, that her reception seemed cold and still. she did not come forward to meet him; she went crimson to the very roots of her hair; but that, in the waning light, he could not see; and she shook so that she felt as if she could hardly stand; but the tremor was not visible to him. she wondered if he remembered the kiss that had passed between them on new year's eve--the words that had been spoken in the dairy on new year's day; the tones, the looks, that had accompanied those words. but all she said was-'i didn't think to see yo'. i thought yo'd ha' sailed.' 'i told yo' i should come back, didn't i?' said he, still standing, with his hat in his hand, waiting to be asked to sit down; and she, in her bashfulness, forgetting to give the invitation, but, instead, pretending to be attentively mending the stocking she held. neither could keep quiet and silent long. she felt his eyes were upon her, watching every motion, and grew more and more confused in her expression and behaviour. he was a little taken aback by the nature of his reception, and was not sure at first whether to take the great change in her manner, from what it had been when last he saw her, as a favourable symptom or otherwise. by-and-by, luckily for him, in some turn of her arm to reach the scissors on the table, she caught the edge of her work-basket, and down it fell. she stooped to pick up the scattered stockings and ball of worsted, and so did he; and when they rose up, he had fast hold of her hand, and her face was turned away, half ready to cry. 'what ails yo' at me?' said he, beseechingly. 'yo' might ha' forgotten me; and yet i thought we made a bargain against forgetting each other.' no answer. he went on: 'yo've never been out o' my thoughts, sylvia robson; and i'm come back to monkshaven for nought but to see you once and again afore i go away to the northern seas. it's not two hour sin' i landed at monkshaven, and i've been near neither kith nor kin as yet; and now i'm here you won't speak to me.' 'i don't know what to say,' said she, in a low, almost inaudible tone. then hardening herself, and resolving to speak as if she did not understand his only half-expressed meaning, she lifted up her head, and all but looking at him--while she wrenched her hand out of his--she said: 'mother's gone to middleham for a visit, and feyther's out i' t' plough-field wi' kester; but he'll be in afore long.' charley did not speak for a minute or so. then he said-'yo're not so dull as to think i'm come all this way for t' see either your father or your mother. i've a great respect for 'em both; but i'd hardly ha' come all this way for to see 'em, and me bound to be back i' shields, if i walk every step of the way, by wednesday night. it's that yo' won't understand my meaning, sylvia; it's not that yo' don't, or that yo' can't.' he made no effort to repossess himself of her hand. she was quite silent, but in spite of herself she drew long hard breaths. 'i may go back to where i came from,' he went on. 'i thought to go to sea wi' a blessed hope to cheer me up, and a knowledge o' some one as loved me as i'd left behind; some one as loved me half as much as i did her; for th' measure o' my love toward her is so great and mighty, i'd be content wi' half as much from her, till i'd taught her to love me more. but if she's a cold heart and cannot care for a honest sailor, why, then, i'd best go back at once.' he made for the door. he must have been pretty sure from some sign or other, or he would never have left it to her womanly pride to give way, and for her to make the next advance. he had not taken two steps when she turned quickly towards him, and said something--the echo of which, rather than the words themselves, reached him. 'i didn't know yo' cared for me; yo' niver said so.' in an instant he was back at her side, his arm round her in spite of her short struggle, and his eager passionate voice saying, 'yo' never knowed i loved you, sylvia? say it again, and look i' my face while yo' say it, if yo' can. why, last winter i thought yo'd be such a woman when yo'd come to be one as my een had never looked upon, and this year, ever sin' i saw yo' i' the kitchen corner sitting crouching behind my uncle, i as good as swore i'd have yo' for wife, or never wed at all. and it was not long ere yo' knowed it, for all yo' were so coy, and now yo' have the face--no, yo' have not the face--come, my darling, what is it?' for she was crying; and on his turning her wet blushing face towards him the better to look at it, she suddenly hid it in his breast. he lulled and soothed her in his arms, as if she had been a weeping child and he her mother; and then they sat down on the settle together, and when she was more composed they began to talk. he asked her about her mother; not sorry in his heart at bell robson's absence. he had intended if necessary to acknowledge his wishes and desires with regard to sylvia to her parents; but for various reasons he was not sorry that circumstances had given him the chance of seeing her alone, and obtaining her promise to marry him without being obliged to tell either her father or her mother at present. 'i ha' spent my money pretty free,' he said, 'and i've ne'er a penny to the fore, and yo'r parents may look for something better for yo', my pretty: but when i come back fro' this voyage i shall stand a chance of having a share i' th' _urania_, and may-be i shall be mate as well as specksioneer; and i can get a matter of from seventy to ninety pound a voyage, let alone th' half-guineas for every whale i strike, and six shilling a gallon on th' oil; and if i keep steady wi' forbes and company, they'll make me master i' time, for i've had good schooling, and can work a ship as well as any man; an' i leave yo' wi' yo'r parents, or take a cottage for yo' nigh at hand; but i would like to have something to the fore, and that i shall have, please god, when we come back i' th' autumn. i shall go to sea happy, now, thinking i've yo'r word. yo're not one to go back from it, i'm sure, else it's a long time to leave such a pretty girl as yo', and ne'er a chance of a letter reaching yo' just to tell yo' once again how i love yo', and to bid yo' not forget yo'r true love.' 'there'll be no need o' that,' murmured sylvia. she was too dizzy with happiness to have attended much to his details of his worldly prospects, but at the sound of his tender words of love her eager heart was ready to listen. 'i don't know,' said he, wanting to draw her out into more confession of her feelings. 'there's many a one ready to come after yo'; and yo'r mother is not o'er captivated wi' me; and there's yon tall fellow of a cousin as looks black at me, for if i'm not mista'en he's a notion of being sweet on yo' hisself.' 'not he,' said sylvia, with some contempt in her tone. 'he's so full o' business and t' shop, and o' makin' money, and gettin' wealth.' 'ay, ay; but perhaps when he gets a rich man he'll come and ask my sylvia to be his wife, and what will she say then?' 'he'll niver come asking such a foolish question,' said she, a little impatiently; 'he knows what answer he'd get if he did.' kinraid said, almost as if to himself, 'yo'r mother favours him though.' but she, weary of a subject she cared nothing about, and eager to identify herself with all his interests, asked him about his plans almost at the same time that he said these last words; and they went on as lovers do, intermixing a great many tender expressions with a very little conversation relating to facts. dolly reid came in, and went out softly, unheeded by them. but sylvia's listening ears caught her father's voice, as he and kester returned homewards from their day's work in the plough-field; and she started away, and fled upstairs in shy affright, leaving charley to explain his presence in the solitary kitchen to her father. he came in, not seeing that any one was there at first; for they had never thought of lighting a candle. kinraid stepped forward into the firelight; his purpose of concealing what he had said to sylvia quite melted away by the cordial welcome her father gave him the instant that he recognized him. 'bless thee, lad! who'd ha' thought o' seein' thee? why, if iver a thought on thee at all, it were half way to davis' straits. to be sure, t' winter's been a dree season, and thou'rt, may-be, i' t' reet on 't to mak' a late start. latest start as iver i made was ninth o' march, an' we struck thirteen whales that year.' 'i have something to say to you,' said charley, in a hesitating voice, so different to his usual hearty way, that daniel gave him a keen look of attention before he began to speak. and, perhaps, the elder man was not unprepared for the communication that followed. at any rate, it was not unwelcome. he liked kinraid, and had strong sympathy not merely with what he knew of the young sailor's character, but with the life he led, and the business he followed. robson listened to all he said with approving nods and winks, till charley had told him everything he had to say; and then he turned and struck his broad horny palm into kinraid's as if concluding a bargain, while he expressed in words his hearty consent to their engagement. he wound up with a chuckle, as the thought struck him that this great piece of business, of disposing of their only child, had been concluded while his wife was away. 'a'm noan so sure as t' missus 'll like it,' said he; 'tho' whativer she'll ha' to say again it, mischief only knows. but she's noan keen on matterimony; though a have made her as good a man as there is in a' t' ridings. anyhow, a'm master, and that she knows. but may-be, for t' sake o' peace an' quietness--tho' she's niver a scolding tongue, that a will say for her--we'n best keep this matter to ourselves till thou comes int' port again. t' lass upstairs 'll like nought better than t' curl hersel' round a secret, and purr o'er it, just as t' oud cat does o'er her blind kitten. but thou'll be wanting to see t' lass, a'll be bound. an oud man like me isn't as good company as a pretty lass.' laughing a low rich laugh over his own wit, daniel went to the bottom of the stairs, and called, 'sylvie, sylvie! come down, lass! a's reet; come down!' for a time there was no answer. then a door was unbolted, and sylvia said, 'i can't come down again. i'm noan comin' down again to-night.' daniel laughed the more at this, especially when he caught charley's look of disappointment. 'hearken how she's bolted her door. she'll noane come near us this night. eh! but she's a stiff little 'un; she's been our only one, and we'n mostly let her have her own way. but we'll have a pipe and a glass; and that, to my thinking, is as good company as iver a woman in yorkshire.' chapter xvii rejected warnings the post arrived at monkshaven three times in the week; sometimes, indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the bag, which was brought thither by a man in a light mail-cart, who took the better part of a day to drive from york; dropping private bags here and there on the moors, at some squire's lodge or roadside inn. of the number of letters that arrived in monkshaven, the fosters, shopkeepers and bankers, had the largest share. the morning succeeding the day on which sylvia had engaged herself to kinraid, the fosters seemed unusually anxious to obtain their letters. several times jeremiah came out of the parlour in which his brother john was sitting in expectant silence, and, passing through the shop, looked up and down the market-place in search of the old lame woman, who was charitably employed to deliver letters, and who must have been lamer than ever this morning, to judge from the lateness of her coming. although none but the fosters knew the cause of their impatience for their letters, yet there was such tacit sympathy between them and those whom they employed, that hepburn, coulson, and hester were all much relieved when the old woman at length appeared with her basket of letters. one of these seemed of especial consequence to the good brothers. they each separately looked at the direction, and then at one another; and without a word they returned with it unread into the parlour, shutting the door, and drawing the green silk curtain close, the better to read it in privacy. both coulson and philip felt that something unusual was going on, and were, perhaps, as full of consideration as to the possible contents of this london letter, as of attention to their more immediate business. but fortunately there was little doing in the shop. philip, indeed, was quite idle when john foster opened the parlour-door, and, half doubtfully, called him into the room. as the door of communication shut the three in, coulson felt himself a little aggrieved. a minute ago philip and he were on a level of ignorance, from which the former was evidently going to be raised. but he soon returned to his usual state of acquiescence in things as they were, which was partly constitutional, and partly the result of his quaker training. it was apparently by john foster's wish that philip had been summoned. jeremiah, the less energetic and decided brother, was still discussing the propriety of the step when philip entered. 'no need for haste, john; better not call the young man till we have further considered the matter.' but the young man was there in presence; and john's will carried the day. it seemed from his account to philip (explanatory of what he, in advance of his brother's slower judgment, thought to be a necessary step), that the fosters had for some time received anonymous letters, warning them, with distinct meaning, though in ambiguous terms, against a certain silk-manufacturer in spitalfields, with whom they had had straightforward business dealings for many years; but to whom they had latterly advanced money. the letters hinted at the utter insolvency of this manufacturer. they had urged their correspondent to give them his name in confidence, and this morning's letter had brought it; but the name was totally unknown to them, though there seemed no reason to doubt the reality of either it or the address, the latter of which was given in full. certain circumstances were mentioned regarding the transactions between the fosters and this manufacturer, which could be known only to those who were in the confidence of one or the other; and to the fosters the man was, as has been said, a perfect stranger. probably, they would have been unwilling to incur the risk they had done on this manufacturer dickinson's account, if it had not been that he belonged to the same denomination as themselves, and was publicly distinguished for his excellent and philanthropic character; but these letters were provocative of anxiety, especially since this morning's post had brought out the writer's full name, and various particulars showing his intimate knowledge of dickinson's affairs. after much perplexed consultation, john had hit upon the plan of sending hepburn to london to make secret inquiries respecting the true character and commercial position of the man whose creditors, not a month ago, they had esteemed it an honour to be. even now jeremiah was ashamed of their want of confidence in one so good; he believed that the information they had received would all prove a mistake, founded on erroneous grounds, if not a pure invention of an enemy; and he had only been brought partially to consent to the sending of hepburn, by his brother's pledging himself that the real nature of philip's errand should be unknown to any human creature, save them three. as all this was being revealed to philip, he sat apparently unmoved and simply attentive. in fact, he was giving all his mind to understanding the probabilities of the case, leaving his own feelings in the background till his intellect should have done its work. he said little; but what he did say was to the point, and satisfied both brothers. john perceived that his messenger would exercise penetration and act with energy; while jeremiah was soothed by philip's caution in not hastily admitting the probability of any charge against dickinson, and in giving full weight to his previous good conduct and good character. philip had the satisfaction of feeling himself employed on a mission which would call out his powers, and yet not exceed them. in his own mind he forestalled the instructions of his masters, and was silently in advance of john foster's plans and arrangements, while he appeared to listen to all that was said with quiet business-like attention. it was settled that the next morning he was to make his way northwards to hartlepool, whence he could easily proceed either by land or sea to newcastle, from which place smacks were constantly sailing to london. as to his personal conduct and behaviour there, the brothers overwhelmed him with directions and advice; nor did they fail to draw out of the strong box in the thick wall of their counting-house a more than sufficient sum of money for all possible expenses. philip had never had so much in his hands before, and hesitated to take it, saying it was more than he should require; but they repeated, with fresh urgency, their warnings about the terrible high prices of london, till he could only resolve to keep a strict account, and bring back all that he did not expend, since nothing but his taking the whole sum would satisfy his employers. when he was once more behind the counter, he had leisure enough for consideration as far as coulson could give it him. the latter was silent, brooding over the confidence which philip had apparently received, but which was withheld from him. he did not yet know of the culminating point--of philip's proposed journey to london; that great city of london, which, from its very inaccessibility fifty years ago, loomed so magnificent through the mist of men's imaginations. it is not to be denied that philip felt exultant at the mere fact of 'going to london.' but then again, the thought of leaving sylvia; of going out of possible daily reach of her; of not seeing her for a week--a fortnight; nay, he might be away for a month,--for no rash hurry was to mar his delicate negotiation,--gnawed at his heart, and spoilt any enjoyment he might have anticipated from gratified curiosity, or even from the consciousness of being trusted by those whose trust and regard he valued. the sense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he thought on the subject; he almost wished that he had told his masters earlier in the conversation of his unwillingness to leave monkshaven for so long a time; and then again he felt that the gratitude he owed them quite prohibited his declining any task they might impose, especially as they had more than once said that it would not do for them to appear in the affair, and yet that to no one else could they entrust so difficult and delicate a matter. several times that day, as he perceived coulson's jealous sullenness, he thought in his heart that the consequence of the excessive confidence for which coulson envied him was a burden from which he would be thankful to be relieved. as they all sat at tea in alice rose's house-place, philip announced his intended journey; a piece of intelligence he had not communicated earlier to coulson because he had rather dreaded the increase of dissatisfaction it was sure to produce, and of which he knew the expression would be restrained by the presence of alice rose and her daughter. 'to lunnon!' exclaimed alice. hester said nothing. 'well! some folks has the luck!' said coulson. 'luck!' said alice, turning sharp round on him. 'niver let me hear such a vain word out o' thy mouth, laddie, again. it's the lord's doing, and luck's the devil's way o' putting it. maybe it's to try philip he's sent there; happen it may be a fiery furnace to him; for i've heerd tell it's full o' temptations, and he may fall into sin--and then where'd be the "luck" on it? but why art ta going? and the morning, say'st thou? why, thy best shirt is in t' suds, and no time for t' starch and iron it. whatten the great haste as should take thee to lunnon wi'out thy ruffled shirt?' 'it's none o' my doing,' said philip; 'there's business to be done, and john foster says i'm to do it; and i'm to start to-morrow.' 'i'll not turn thee out wi'out thy ruffled shirt, if i sit up a' neet,' said alice, resolutely. 'niver fret thyself, mother, about t' shirt,' said philip. 'if i need a shirt, london's not what i take it for if i can't buy mysel' one ready-made.' 'hearken to him!' said alice. 'he speaks as if buying o' ready-made shirts were nought to him, and he wi' a good half-dozen as i made mysel'. eh, lad? but if that's the frame o' mind thou'rt in, lunnon is like for to be a sore place o' temptation. there's pitfalls for men, and traps for money at ivery turn, as i've heerd say. it would ha' been better if john foster had sent an older man on his business, whativer it be.' 'they seem to make a deal o' philip all on a sudden,' said coulson. 'he's sent for, and talked to i' privacy, while hester and me is left i' t' shop for t' bear t' brunt o' t' serving.' 'philip knows,' said hester, and then, somehow, her voice failed her and she stopped. philip paid no attention to this half-uttered sentence; he was eager to tell coulson, as far as he could do so without betraying his master's secret, how many drawbacks there were to his proposed journey, in the responsibility which it involved, and his unwillingness to leave monkshaven: he said-'coulson, i'd give a deal it were thou that were going, and not me. at least, there is many a time i'd give a deal. i'll not deny but at other times i'm pleased at the thought on't. but, if i could i'd change places wi' thee at this moment.' 'it's fine talking,' said coulson, half mollified, and yet not caring to show it. 'i make no doubt it were an even chance betwixt us two at first, which on us was to go; but somehow thou got the start and thou'st stuck to it till it's too late for aught but to say thou's sorry.' 'nay, william,' said philip, rising, 'it's an ill look-out for the future, if thee and me is to quarrel, like two silly wenches, o'er each bit of pleasure, or what thou fancies to be pleasure, as falls in t' way of either on us. i've said truth to thee, and played thee fair, and i've got to go to haytersbank for to wish 'em good-by, so i'll not stay longer here to be misdoubted by thee.' he took his cap and was gone, not heeding alice's shrill inquiry as to his clothes and his ruffled shirt. coulson sat still, penitent and ashamed; at length he stole a look at hester. she was playing with her teaspoon, but he could see that she was choking down her tears; he could not choose but force her to speak with an ill-timed question. 'what's to do, hester?' said he. she lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene; now they were full of the light of indignation shining through tears. 'to do!' she said; 'coulson, i'd thought better of thee, going and doubting and envying philip, as niver did thee an ill turn, or said an ill word, or thought an ill thought by thee; and sending him away out o' t' house this last night of all, may-be, wi' thy envyings and jealousy.' she hastily got up and left the room. alice was away, looking up philip's things for his journey. coulson remained alone, feeling like a guilty child, but dismayed by hester's words, even more than by his own regret at what he had said. philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards haytersbank. he was chafed and excited by coulson's words, and the events of the day. he had meant to shape his life, and now it was, as it were, being shaped for him, and yet he was reproached for the course it was taking, as much as though he were an active agent; accused of taking advantage over coulson, his intimate companion for years; he who esteemed himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man! his feeling on the subject was akin to that of hazael, 'is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' his feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his judgment off its balance on another. the resolution he had deliberately formed of not speaking to sylvia on the subject of his love till he could announce to her parents the fact of his succession to fosters' business, and till he had patiently, with long-continuing and deep affection, worked his way into her regard, was set aside during the present walk. he would speak to her of his passionate attachment, before he left, for an uncertain length of time, and the certain distance of london. and all the modification on this point which his judgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited heart was, that he would watch her words and manner well when he announced his approaching absence, and if in them he read the slightest token of tender regretful feeling, he would pour out his love at her feet, not even urging the young girl to make any return, or to express the feelings of which he hoped the germ was already budding in her. he would be patient with her; he could not be patient himself. his heart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable coming scene, he turned into the field-path that led to haytersbank. coming along it, and so meeting him, advanced daniel robson, in earnest talk with charley kinraid. kinraid, then, had been at the farm: kinraid had been seeing sylvia, her mother away. the thought of poor dead annie coulson flashed into philip's mind. could he be playing the same game with sylvia? philip set his teeth and tightened his lips at the thought of it. they had stopped talking; they had seen him already, or his impulse would have been to dodge behind the wall and avoid them; even though one of his purposes in going to haytersbank had been to bid his uncle farewell. kinraid took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he gave him, and which philip would fain have avoided. but the specksioneer was full of kindliness towards all the world, especially towards all sylvia's friends, and, convinced of her great love towards himself, had forgotten any previous jealousy of philip. secure and exultant, his broad, handsome, weather-bronzed face was as great a contrast to philip's long, thoughtful, sallow countenance, as his frank manner was to the other's cold reserve. it was some minutes before hepburn could bring himself to tell the great event that was about to befall him before this third person whom he considered as an intrusive stranger. but as kinraid seemed to have no idea of going on, and as there really was no reason why he and all the world should not know of philip's intentions, he told his uncle that he was bound for london the next day on business connected with the fosters. daniel was deeply struck with the fact that he was talking to a man setting off for london at a day's notice. 'thou'll niver tell me this hasn't been brewin' longer nor twelve hours; thou's a sly close chap, and we hannot seen thee this se'nnight; thou'll ha' been thinkin' on this, and cogitating it, may-be, a' that time.' 'nay,' said philip, 'i knew nought about it last night; it's none o' my doing, going, for i'd liefer ha' stayed where i am.' 'yo'll like it when once yo're there,' said kinraid, with a travelled air of superiority, as philip fancied. 'no, i shan't,' he replied, shortly. 'liking has nought to do with it.' 'ah' yo' knew nought about it last neet,' continued daniel, musingly. 'well, life's soon o'er; else when i were a young fellow, folks made their wills afore goin' to lunnon.' 'yet i'll be bound to say yo' niver made a will before going to sea,' said philip, half smiling. 'na, na; but that's quite another mak' o' thing; going' to sea comes natteral to a man, but goin' to lunnon,--i were once there, and were near deafened wi' t' throng and t' sound. i were but two hours i' t' place, though our ship lay a fortneet off gravesend.' kinraid now seemed in a hurry; but philip was stung with curiosity to ascertain his movements, and suddenly addressed him: 'i heard yo' were i' these parts. are you for staying here long?' there was a certain abruptness in philip's tone, if not in his words, which made kinraid look in his face with surprise, and answer with equal curtness. 'i'm off i' th' morning; and sail for the north seas day after.' he turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for any further conversation with his interrogator. philip, indeed, had nothing more to say to him: he had learned all he wanted to know. 'i'd like to bid good-by to sylvie. is she at home?' he asked of her father. 'a'm thinking thou'll not find her. she'll be off to yesterbarrow t' see if she'd get a settin' o' their eggs; her grey speckled hen is cluckin', and nought 'll serve our sylvia but their eggs to set her upon. but, for a' that, she mayn't be gone yet. best go on and see for thysel'.' so they parted; but philip had not gone many steps before his uncle called him back, kinraid slowly loitering on meanwhile. robson was fumbling among some dirty papers he had in an old leather case, which he had produced out of his pocket. 'fact is, philip, t' pleugh's in a bad way, gearin' and a', an' folk is talkin' on a new kind o' mak'; and if thou's bound for york---' 'i'm not going by york; i'm going by a newcastle smack.' 'newcassel--newcassel--it's pretty much t' same. here, lad, thou can read print easy; it's a bit as was cut out on a papper; there's newcassel, and york, and durham, and a vast more towns named, wheere folk can learn a' about t' new mak' o' pleugh.' 'i see,' said philip: '"robinson, side, newcastle, can give all requisite information."' 'ay, ay,' said robson; 'thou's hit t' marrow on t' matter. now, if thou'rt i' newcassel, thou can learn all about it; thou'rt little better nor a woman, for sure, bein' mainly acquaint wi' ribbons, but they'll tell thee--they'll tell thee, lad; and write down what they sayn, and what's to be t' price, and look sharp as to what kind o' folk they are as sells 'em, an' write and let me know. thou'll be i' newcassel to-morrow, may-be? well, then, i'll reckon to hear fro' thee in a week, or, mayhap, less,--for t' land is backward, and i'd like to know about t' pleughs. i'd a month's mind to write to brunton, as married molly corney, but writin' is more i' thy way an' t' parson's nor mine; and if thou sells ribbons, brunton sells cheese, and that's no better.' philip promised to do his best, and to write word to robson, who, satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission, bade him go on and see if he could not find the lass. her father was right in saying that she might not have set out for yesterbarrow. she had talked about it to kinraid and her father in order to cover her regret at her lover's accompanying her father to see some new kind of harpoon about which the latter had spoken. but as soon as they had left the house, and she had covertly watched them up the brow in the field, she sate down to meditate and dream about her great happiness in being beloved by her hero, charley kinraid. no gloomy dread of his long summer's absence; no fear of the cold, glittering icebergs bearing mercilessly down on the _urania_, nor shuddering anticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her mind. he loved her, and that was enough. her eyes looked, trance-like, into a dim, glorious future of life; her lips, still warm and reddened by his kiss, were just parted in a happy smile, when she was startled by the sound of an approaching footstep--a footstep quite familiar enough for her to recognize it, and which was unwelcome now, as disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which alone she cared to indulge. 'well, philip! an' what brings _yo'_ here?' was her rather ungracious greeting. 'why, sylvie, are yo' sorry to see me?' asked philip, reproachfully. but she turned it off with assumed lightness. 'oh, yes,' said she. 'i've been wanting yo' this week past wi' t' match to my blue ribbon yo' said yo'd get and bring me next time yo' came.' 'i've forgotten it, sylvie. it's clean gone out of my mind,' said philip, with true regret. 'but i've had a deal to think on,' he continued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven. sylvia did not want his penitence, did not care for her ribbon, was troubled by his earnestness of manner--but he knew nothing of all that; he only knew that she whom he loved had asked him to do something for her, and he had neglected it; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went on with the apology she cared not to hear. if she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less engrossed with deep feeling, she would have reproached him, if only in jest, for his carelessness. as it was, she scarcely took in the sense of his words. 'you see, sylvie, i've had a deal to think on; before long i intend telling yo' all about it; just now i'm not free to do it. and when a man's mind is full o' business, most particular when it's other folk's as is trusted to him, he seems to lose count on the very things he'd most care for at another time.' he paused a little. sylvia's galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by his silence; she felt that he wanted her to say something, but she could think of nothing besides an ambiguous-'well?' 'and i'm off to london i' t' morning,' added he, a little wistfully, almost as if beseeching her to show or express some sorrow at a journey, the very destination of which showed that he would be absent for some time. 'to lunnon!' said she, with some surprise. 'yo're niver thinking o' going to live theere, for sure!' surprise, and curiosity, and wonder; nothing more, as philip's instinct told him. but he reasoned that first correct impression away with ingenious sophistry. 'not to live there: only to stay for some time. i shall be back, i reckon, in a month or so.' 'oh! that's nought of a going away,' said she, rather petulantly. 'them as goes to t' greenland seas has to bide away for six months and more,' and she sighed. suddenly a light shone down into philip's mind. his voice was changed as he spoke next. 'i met that good-for-nothing chap, kinraid, wi' yo'r father just now. he'll ha' been here, sylvie?' she stooped for something she had dropped, and came up red as a rose. 'to be sure; what then?' and she eyed him defiantly, though in her heart she trembled, she knew not why. 'what then? and yo'r mother away. he's no company for such as thee, at no time, sylvie.' 'feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leave o' yo',' said sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the little wooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting it away. at the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix any meaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among the contents thus turned over before the box was locked. 'but thy mother wouldn't like it, sylvie; he's played false wi' other lasses, he'll be playing thee false some o' these days, if thou lets him come about thee. he went on wi' annie coulson, william's sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he's been on wi' others.' 'i dunnot believe a word on 't,' said sylvia, standing up, all aflame. 'i niver telled a lie i' my life,' said philip, almost choking with grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which she betrayed. 'it were willie coulson as telled me, as solemn and serious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren't the first nor the last time as he had made his own game with young women.' 'and how dare yo' come here to me wi' yo'r backbiting tales?' said sylvia, shivering all over with passion. philip tried to keep calm, and to explain. 'it were yo'r own mother, sylvia, as knowed yo' had no brother, or any one to see after yo'; and yo' so pretty, so pretty, sylvia,' he continued, shaking his head, sadly, 'that men run after yo' against their will, as one may say; and yo'r mother bade me watch o'er ye and see what company yo' kept, and who was following after yo', and to warn yo', if need were.' 'my mother niver bade yo' to come spying after me, and blaming me for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. an' i don't believe a word about annie coulson; an' i'm not going to suffer yo' to come wi' yo'r tales to me; say 'em out to his face, and hear what he'll say to yo'.' 'sylvie, sylvie,' cried poor philip, as his offended cousin rushed past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, where he heard the sound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. he could hear her feet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. he sate still in despair, his head buried in his two hands. he sate till it grew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by careful hands, died out into gray ashes. dolly reid had done her work and gone home. there were but philip and sylvia in the house. he knew he ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangements to make. yet it seemed as though he could not stir. at length he raised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. up the little wooden stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. he breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of sylvia's room. 'sylvie! i'm going away; say good-by.' no answer. not a sound heard. 'sylvie!' (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). there was no reply. 'sylvie! i shall be a long time away; perhaps i may niver come back at all'; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death. 'say good-by.' no answer. he waited patiently. can she be wearied out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. yet once again--'good-by, sylvie, and god bless yo'! i'm sorry i vexed yo'.' no reply. with a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his cap, and left the house. 'she's warned, any way,' thought he. just at that moment the little casement window of sylvia's room was opened, and she said-'good-by, philip!' the window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. philip knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. those two words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach or blame. 'she's but a young lassie,' said he to himself; 'an' kinraid has been playing wi' her, as such as he can't help doing, once they get among the women. an' i came down sudden on her about annie coulson, and touched her pride. maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her how her mother was feared for her. i couldn't ha' left the place to-morrow if he'd been biding here; but he's off for half a year or so, and i'll be home again as soon as iver i can. in half a year such as he forgets, if iver he's thought serious about her; but in a' my lifetime, if i live to fourscore, i can niver forget. god bless her for saying, "good-by, philip."' he repeated the words aloud in fond mimicry of her tones: 'good-by, philip.' chapter xviii eddy in love's current the next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a march morning did. the beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever storms it might go raging out. it was long since philip had tasted the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as his employment at the shop detained him in monkshaven till the evening. and as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and elastic. with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared for a good stretch towards hartlepool, whence a coach would take him to newcastle before night. for seven or eight miles the level sands were as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down land-ways. philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying the sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushing almost up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing back over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. to his left were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies here and there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, and then sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yet greater richness of colour at their base towards the blue ocean before him. the loud, monotonous murmur of the advancing and receding waters lulled him into dreaminess; the sunny look of everything tinged his day-dreams with hope. so he trudged merrily over the first mile or so; not an obstacle to his measured pace on the hard, level pavement; not a creature to be seen since he had left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in the sea-pools near monkshaven. the cares of land were shut out by the glorious barrier of rocks before him. there were some great masses that had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay half embedded in the sand, draperied over by the heavy pendent olive-green seaweed. the waves were nearer at this point; the advancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar; here and there the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks into white breakers; but otherwise the waves came up from the german ocean upon that english shore with a long steady roll that might have taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of the sea-serpent on the coast of 'norroway over the foam.' the air was soft as may; right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened into gray near the sea lines. flocks of seagulls hovered about the edge of the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumage to glimmer in the sunlight as philip approached. the whole scene was so peaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (too well founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during the dark hours of the past night. there was haytersbank gully opening down its green entrance among the warm brown bases of the cliffs. below, in the sheltered brushwood, among the last year's withered leaves, some primroses might be found. he half thought of gathering sylvia a posy of them, and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace-offering. but on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action out of his head; it was above an hour later than he had supposed, and he must make all haste on to hartlepool. just as he was approaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran out some way upon the sand with the very force of his descent; then he turned to the left and took the direction of hartlepool a hundred yards or so in advance of philip. he never stayed to look round him, but went swiftly and steadily on his way. by the peculiar lurch in his walk--by everything--philip knew it was the specksioneer, kinraid. now the road up haytersbank gully led to the farm, and nowhere else. still any one wishing to descend to the shore might do so by first going up to the robsons' house, and skirting the walls till they came to the little slender path down to the shore. but by the farm, by the very house-door they must of necessity pass. philip slackened his pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock. by-and-by kinraid, walking on the sunlight open sands, turned round and looked long and earnestly towards haytersbank gully. hepburn paused when he paused, but as intently as he looked at some object above, so intently did hepburn look at him. no need to ascertain by sight towards whom his looks, his thoughts were directed. he took off his hat and waved it, touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. when he turned away at last, hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and crept yet more into the cold dank shadow of the cliffs. each step was now a heavy task, his sad heart tired and weary. after a while he climbed up a few feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with the stones and rocks around. stumbling over the uneven and often jagged points, slipping on the sea-weed, plunging into little pools of water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet kept his eyes fixed as if in fascination on kinraid, and made his way almost alongside of him. but the last hour had pinched hepburn's features into something of the wan haggardness they would wear when he should first be lying still for ever. and now the two men were drawing near a creek, about eight miles from monkshaven. the creek was formed by a beck (or small stream) that came flowing down from the moors, and took its way to the sea between the widening rocks. the melting of the snows and running of the flooded water-springs above made this beck in the early spring-time both deep and wide. hepburn knew that here they both must take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge about a quarter of a mile up the stream; indeed from this point, owing to the jutting out of the rocks, the land path was the shortest; and this way lay by the water-side at an angle right below the cliff to which hepburn's steps were leading him. he knew that on this long level field path he might easily be seen by any one following; nay, if he followed any one at a short distance, for it was full of turnings; and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for a while till kinraid was far enough in advance for him to escape being seen. he came up to the last rock behind which he could be concealed; seven or eight feet above the stream he stood, and looked cautiously for the specksioneer. up by the rushing stream he looked, then right below. 'it is god's providence,' he murmured. 'it is god's providence.' he crouched down where he had been standing and covered his face with his hands. he tried to deafen as well as to blind himself, that he might neither hear nor see anything of the coming event of which he, an inhabitant of monkshaven at that day, well understood the betokening signs. kinraid had taken the larger angle of the sands before turning up towards the bridge. he came along now nearing the rocks. by this time he was sufficiently buoyant to whistle to himself. it steeled philip's heart to what was coming to hear his rival whistling, 'weel may the keel row,' so soon after parting with sylvia. the instant kinraid turned the corner of the cliff, the ambush was upon him. four man-of-war's men sprang on him and strove to pinion him. 'in the king's name!' cried they, with rough, triumphant jeers. their boat was moored not a dozen yards above; they were sent by the tender of a frigate lying off hartlepool for fresh water. the tender was at anchor just beyond the jutting rocks in face. they knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to and from their nets by the side of the creek; but such a prize as this active, strong, and evidently superior sailor, was what they had not hoped for, and their endeavours to secure him were in proportion to the value of the prize. although taken by surprise, and attacked by so many, kinraid did not lose his wits. he wrenched himself free, crying out loud: 'avast, i'm a protected whaler. i claim my protection. i've my papers to show, i'm bonded specksioneer to the _urania_ whaler, donkin captain, north shields port.' as a protected whaler, the press-gang had, by the 17th section of act 26 geo. iii. no legal right to seize him, unless he had failed to return to his ship by the 10th march following the date of his bond. but of what use were the papers he hastily dragged out of his breast; of what use were laws in those days of slow intercourse with such as were powerful enough to protect, and in the time of popular panic against a french invasion? 'd--n your protection,' cried the leader of the press-gang; 'come and serve his majesty, that's better than catching whales.' 'is it though?' said the specksioneer, with a motion of his hand, which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him saw and interpreted rightly. 'thou wilt, wilt thou? close with him, jack; and ware the cutlass.' in a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it became a hand-to-hand struggle, of which, from the difference in numbers, it was not difficult to foretell the result. yet kinraid made desperate efforts to free himself; he wasted no breath in words, but fought, as the men said, 'like a very devil.' hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull struggle of limbs on the sand, the growling curses of those who thought to have managed their affair more easily; the sudden cry of some one wounded, not kinraid he knew, kinraid would have borne any pain in silence at such a moment; another wrestling, swearing, infuriated strife, and then a strange silence. hepburn sickened at the heart; was then his rival dead? had he left this bright world? lost his life--his love? for an instant hepburn felt guilty of his death; he said to himself he had never wished him dead, and yet in the struggle he had kept aloof, and now it might be too late for ever. philip could not bear the suspense; he looked stealthily round the corner of the rock behind which he had been hidden, and saw that they had overpowered kinraid, and, too exhausted to speak, were binding him hand and foot to carry him to their boat. kinraid lay as still as any hedgehog: he rolled when they pushed him; he suffered himself to be dragged without any resistance, any motion; the strong colour brought into his face while fighting was gone now, his countenance was livid pale; his lips were tightly held together, as if it cost him more effort to be passive, wooden, and stiff in their hands than it had done to fight and struggle with all his might. his eyes seemed the only part about him that showed cognizance of what was going on. they were watchful, vivid, fierce as those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in its desperate quickened brain for some mode of escape not yet visible, and in all probability never to become visible to the hopeless creature in its supreme agony. without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and taking in everything while he lay bound at the bottom of the boat. a sailor sat by his side, who had been hurt by a blow from him. the man held his head in his hand, moaning; but every now and then he revenged himself by a kick at the prostrate specksioneer, till even his comrades stopped their cursing and swearing at their prisoner for the trouble he had given them, to cry shame on their comrade. but kinraid never spoke, nor shrank from the outstretched foot. one of his captors, with the successful insolence of victory, ventured to jeer him on the supposed reason for his vehement and hopeless resistance. he might have said yet more insolent things; the kicks might have hit harder; kinraid did not hear or heed. his soul was beating itself against the bars of inflexible circumstance; reviewing in one terrible instant of time what had been, what might have been, what was. yet while these thoughts thus stabbed him, he was still mechanically looking out for chances. he moved his head a little, so as to turn towards haytersbank, where sylvia must be quickly, if sadly, going about her simple daily work; and then his quick eye caught hepburn's face, blanched with excitement rather than fear, watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat breathless during the affray and the impressment of his rival. 'come here, lad!' shouted the specksioneer as soon as he saw philip, heaving and writhing his body the while with so much vigour that the sailors started away from the work they were engaged in about the boat, and held him down once more, as if afraid he should break the strong rope that held him like withes of green flax. but the bound man had no such notion in his head. his mighty wish was to call hepburn near that he might send some message by him to sylvia. 'come here, hepburn,' he cried again, falling back this time so weak and exhausted that the man-of-war's men became sympathetic. 'come down, peeping tom, and don't be afeared,' they called out. 'i'm not afeared,' said philip; 'i'm no sailor for yo' t' impress me: nor have yo' any right to take that fellow; he's a greenland specksioneer, under protection, as i know and can testify.' 'yo' and yo'r testify go hang. make haste, man and hear what this gem'man, as was in a dirty blubbery whale-ship, and is now in his majesty's service, has got to say. i dare say, jack,' went on the speaker, 'it's some message to his sweetheart, asking her to come for to serve on board ship along with he, like billy taylor's young woman.' philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want of activity, but because he was undecided what he should be called upon to do or to say by the man whom he hated and dreaded, yet whom just now he could not help admiring. kinraid groaned with impatience at seeing one, free to move with quick decision, so slow and dilatory. 'come on then,' cried the sailors, 'or we'll take you too on board, and run you up and down the main-mast a few times. nothing like life aboard ship for quickening a land-lubber.' 'yo'd better take him and leave me,' said kinraid, grimly. 'i've been taught my lesson; and seemingly he has his yet to learn.' 'his majesty isn't a schoolmaster to need scholars; but a jolly good captain to need men,' replied the leader of the gang, eyeing philip nevertheless, and questioning within himself how far, with only two other available men, they durst venture on his capture as well as the specksioneer's. it might be done, he thought, even though there was this powerful captive aboard, and the boat to manage too; but, running his eye over philip's figure, he decided that the tall stooping fellow was never cut out for a sailor, and that he should get small thanks if he captured him, to pay him for the possible risk of losing the other. or else the mere fact of being a landsman was of as little consequence to the press-gang, as the protecting papers which kinraid had vainly showed. 'yon fellow wouldn't have been worth his grog this many a day, and be d--d to you,' said he, catching hepburn by the shoulder, and giving him a push. philip stumbled over something in this, his forced run. he looked down; his foot had caught in kinraid's hat, which had dropped off in the previous struggle. in the band that went round the low crown, a ribbon was knotted; a piece of that same ribbon which philip had chosen out, with such tender hope, to give to sylvia for the corneys' party on new year's eve. he knew every delicate thread that made up the briar-rose pattern; and a spasm of hatred towards kinraid contracted his heart. he had been almost relenting into pity for the man captured before his eyes; now he abhorred him. kinraid did not speak for a minute or two. the sailors, who had begun to take him into favour, were all agog with curiosity to hear the message to his sweetheart, which they believed he was going to send. hepburn's perceptions, quickened with his vehement agitation of soul, were aware of this feeling of theirs; and it increased his rage against kinraid, who had exposed the idea of sylvia to be the subject of ribald whispers. but the specksioneer cared little what others said or thought about the maiden, whom he yet saw before his closed eyelids as she stood watching him, from the haytersbank gully, waving her hands, her handkerchief, all in one passionate farewell. 'what do yo' want wi' me?' asked hepburn at last in a gloomy tone. if he could have helped it, he would have kept silence till kinraid spoke first; but he could no longer endure the sailors' nudges, and winks, and jests among themselves. 'tell sylvia,' said kinraid---'there's a smart name for a sweetheart,' exclaimed one of the men; but kinraid went straight on,-'what yo've seen; how i've been pressed by this cursed gang.' 'civil words, messmate, if you please. sylvia can't abide cursing and swearing, i'm sure. we're gentlemen serving his majesty on board the _alcestis_, and this proper young fellow shall be helped on to more honour and glory than he'd ever get bobbing for whales. tell sylvia this, with my love; jack carter's love, if she's anxious about my name.' one of the sailors laughed at this rude humour; another bade carter hold his stupid tongue. philip hated him in his heart. kinraid hardly heard him. he was growing faint with the heavy blows he had received, the stunning fall he had met with, and the reaction from his dogged self-control at first. philip did not speak nor move. 'tell her,' continued kinraid, rousing himself for another effort, 'what yo've seen. tell her i'll come back to her. bid her not forget the great oath we took together this morning; she's as much my wife as if we'd gone to church;--i'll come back and marry her afore long.' philip said something inarticulately. 'hurra!' cried carter, 'and i'll be best man. tell her, too that i'll have an eye on her sweetheart, and keep him from running after other girls.' 'yo'll have yo'r hands full, then,' muttered philip, his passion boiling over at the thought of having been chosen out from among all men to convey such a message as kinraid's to sylvia. 'make an end of yo'r d--d yarns, and be off,' said the man who had been hurt by kinraid, and who had sate apart and silent till now. philip turned away; kinraid raised himself and cried after him,-'hepburn, hepburn! tell her---' what he added philip could not hear, for the words were lost before they reached him in the outward noise of the regular splash of the oars and the rush of the wind down the gully, with which mingled the closer sound that filled his ears of his own hurrying blood surging up into his brain. he was conscious that he had said something in reply to kinraid's adjuration that he would deliver his message to sylvia, at the very time when carter had stung him into fresh anger by the allusion to the possibility of the specksioneer's 'running after other girls,' for, for an instant, hepburn had been touched by the contrast of circumstances. kinraid an hour or two ago,--kinraid a banished man; for in those days, an impressed sailor might linger out years on some foreign station, far from those he loved, who all this time remained ignorant of his cruel fate. but hepburn began to wonder what he himself had said--how much of a promise he had made to deliver those last passionate words of kinraid's. he could not recollect how much, how little he had said; he knew he had spoken hoarsely and low almost at the same time as carter had uttered his loud joke. but he doubted if kinraid had caught his words. and then the dread inner creature, who lurks in each of our hearts, arose and said, 'it is as well: a promise given is a fetter to the giver. but a promise is not given when it has not been received.' at a sudden impulse, he turned again towards the shore when he had crossed the bridge, and almost ran towards the verge of the land. then he threw himself down on the soft fine turf that grew on the margin of the cliffs overhanging the sea, and commanding an extent of view towards the north. his face supported by his hands, he looked down upon the blue rippling ocean, flashing here and there, into the sunlight in long, glittering lines. the boat was still in the distance, making her swift silent way with long regular bounds to the tender that lay in the offing. hepburn felt insecure, as in a nightmare dream, so long as the boat did not reach her immediate destination. his contracted eyes could see four minute figures rowing with ceaseless motion, and a fifth sate at the helm. but he knew there was a sixth, unseen, lying, bound and helpless, at the bottom of the boat; and his fancy kept expecting this man to start up and break his bonds, and overcome all the others, and return to the shore free and triumphant. it was by no fault of hepburn's that the boat sped well away; that she was now alongside the tender, dancing on the waves; now emptied of her crew; now hoisted up to her place. no fault of his! and yet it took him some time before he could reason himself into the belief that his mad, feverish wishes not an hour before--his wild prayer to be rid of his rival, as he himself had scrambled onward over the rocks alongside of kinraid's path on the sands--had not compelled the event. 'anyhow,' thought he, as he rose up, 'my prayer is granted. god be thanked!' once more he looked out towards the ship. she had spread her beautiful great sails, and was standing out to sea in the glittering path of the descending sun. he saw that he had been delayed on his road, and had lingered long. he shook his stiffened limbs, shouldered his knapsack, and prepared to walk on to hartlepool as swiftly as he could. chapter xix an important mission philip was too late for the coach he had hoped to go by, but there was another that left at night, and which reached newcastle in the forenoon, so that, by the loss of a night's sleep, he might overtake his lost time. but, restless and miserable, he could not stop in hartlepool longer than to get some hasty food at the inn from which the coach started. he acquainted himself with the names of the towns through which it would pass, and the inns at which it would stop, and left word that the coachman was to be on the look-out for him and pick him up at some one of these places. he was thoroughly worn out before this happened--too much tired to gain any sleep in the coach. when he reached newcastle, he went to engage his passage in the next london-bound smack, and then directed his steps to robinson's, in the side, to make all the inquiries he could think of respecting the plough his uncle wanted to know about. so it was pretty late in the afternoon, indeed almost evening, before he arrived at the small inn on the quay-side, where he intended to sleep. it was but a rough kind of place, frequented principally by sailors; he had been recommended to it by daniel robson, who had known it well in former days. the accommodation in it was, however, clean and homely, and the people keeping it were respectable enough in their way. still hepburn was rather repelled by the appearance of the sailors who sate drinking in the bar, and he asked, in a low voice, if there was not another room. the woman stared in surprise, and only shook her head. hepburn went to a separate table, away from the roaring fire, which on this cold march evening was the great attraction, and called for food and drink. then seeing that the other men were eyeing him with the sociable idea of speaking to him, he asked for pen and ink and paper, with the intention of defeating their purpose by pre-occupation on his part. but when the paper came, the new pen, the unused thickened ink, he hesitated long before he began to write; and at last he slowly put down the words,-'dear and honoured uncle,'---there was a pause; his meal was brought and hastily swallowed. even while he was eating it, he kept occasionally touching up the letters of these words. when he had drunk a glass of ale he began again to write: fluently this time, for he was giving an account of the plough. then came another long stop; he was weighing in his own mind what he should say about kinraid. once he thought for a second of writing to sylvia herself, and telling her---how much? she might treasure up her lover's words like grains of gold, while they were lighter than dust in their meaning to philip's mind; words which such as the specksioneer used as counters to beguile and lead astray silly women. it was for him to prove his constancy by action; and the chances of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in philip's estimation. but should the latter mention the bare fact of kinraid's impressment to robson? that would have been the natural course of things, remembering that the last time philip had seen either, they were in each other's company. twenty times he put his pen to the paper with the intention of relating briefly the event that had befallen kinraid; and as often he stopped, as though the first word would be irrevocable. while he thus sate pen in hand, thinking himself wiser than conscience, and looking on beyond the next step which she bade him take into an indefinite future, he caught some fragments of the sailors' talk at the other end of the room, which made him listen to their words. they were speaking of that very kinraid, the thought of whom filled his own mind like an actual presence. in a rough, careless way they spoke of the specksioneer, with admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner; and from that they passed on to jesting mention of his power amongst women, and one or two girls' names were spoken of in connection with him. hepburn silently added annie coulson and sylvia robson to this list, and his cheeks turned paler as he did so. long after they had done speaking about kinraid, after they had paid their shot, and gone away, he sate in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts. the people of the house prepared for bed. their silent guest took no heed of their mute signs. at length the landlord spoke to him, and he started, gathered his wits together with an effort, and prepared to retire with the rest. but before he did so, he signed and directed the letter to his uncle, leaving it still open, however, in case some sudden feeling should prompt him to add a postscript. the landlord volunteered the information that the letter his guest had been writing must be posted early the next morning if it was going south; as the mails in that direction only left newcastle every other day. all night long hepburn wearied himself with passionate tossings, prompted by stinging recollection. towards morning he fell into a dead sound sleep. he was roused by a hasty knocking at the door. it was broad full daylight; he had overslept himself, and the smack was leaving by the early tide. he was even now summoned on board. he dressed, wafered his letter, and rushed with it to the neighbouring post-office; and, without caring to touch the breakfast for which he paid, he embarked. once on board, he experienced the relief which it always is to an undecided man, and generally is at first to any one who has been paltering with duty, when circumstances decide for him. in the first case, it is pleasant to be relieved from the burden of decision; in the second, the responsibility seems to be shifted on to impersonal events. and so philip sailed out of the mouth of the tyne on to the great open sea. it would be a week before the smack reached london, even if she pursued a tolerably straight course, but she had to keep a sharp look-out after possible impressment of her crew; and it was not until after many dodges and some adventures that, at the end of a fortnight from the time of his leaving monkshaven, philip found himself safely housed in london, and ready to begin the delicate piece of work which was given him to do. he felt himself fully capable of unravelling each clue to information, and deciding on the value of the knowledge so gained. but during the leisure of the voyage he had wisely determined to communicate everything he learnt about dickinson, in short, every step he took in the matter, by letter to his employers. and thus his mind both in and out of his lodgings might have appeared to have been fully occupied with the concerns of others. but there were times when the miserable luxury of dwelling upon his own affairs was his--when he lay down in his bed till he fell into restless sleep--when the point to which his steps tended in his walks was ascertained. then he gave himself up to memory, and regret which often deepened into despair, and but seldom was cheered by hope. he grew so impatient of the ignorance in which he was kept--for in those days of heavy postage any correspondence he might have had on mere monkshaven intelligence was very limited--as to the affairs at haytersbank, that he cut out an advertisement respecting some new kind of plough, from a newspaper that lay in the chop-house where he usually dined, and rising early the next morning he employed the time thus gained in going round to the shop where these new ploughs were sold. that night he wrote another letter to daniel robson, with a long account of the merits of the implements he had that day seen. with a sick heart and a hesitating hand, he wound up with a message of regard to his aunt and to sylvia; an expression of regard which he dared not make as warm as he wished, and which, consequently, fell below the usual mark attained by such messages, and would have appeared to any one who cared to think about it as cold and formal. when this letter was despatched, hepburn began to wonder what he had hoped for in writing it. he knew that daniel could write--or rather that he could make strange hieroglyphics, the meaning of which puzzled others and often himself; but these pen-and-ink signs were seldom employed by robson, and never, so far as philip knew, for the purpose of letter-writing. but still he craved so for news of sylvia--even for a sight of paper which she had seen, and perhaps touched--that he thought all his trouble about the plough (to say nothing of the one-and-twopence postage which he had prepaid in order to make sure of his letter's reception in the frugal household at haytersbank) well lost for the mere chance of his uncle's caring enough for the intelligence to write in reply, or even to get some friend to write an answer; for in such case, perhaps, philip might see her name mentioned in some way, even though it was only that she sent her duty to him. but the post-office was dumb; no letter came from daniel robson. philip heard, it is true, from his employers pretty frequently on business; and he felt sure they would have named it, if any ill had befallen his uncle's family, for they knew of the relationship and of his intimacy there. they generally ended their formal letters with as formal a summary of monkshaven news; but there was never a mention of the robsons, and that of itself was well, but it did not soothe philip's impatient curiosity. he had never confided his attachment to his cousin to any one, it was not his way; but he sometimes thought that if coulson had not taken his present appointment to a confidential piece of employment so ill, he would have written to him and asked him to go up to haytersbank farm, and let him know how they all were. all this time he was transacting the affair on which he had been sent, with great skill; and, indeed, in several ways, he was quietly laying the foundation for enlarging the business in monkshaven. naturally grave and quiet, and slow to speak, he impressed those who saw him with the idea of greater age and experience than he really possessed. indeed, those who encountered him in london, thought he was absorbed in the business of money-making. yet before the time came when he could wind up affairs and return to monkshaven, he would have given all he possessed for a letter from his uncle, telling him something about sylvia. for he still hoped to hear from robson, although he knew that he hoped against reason. but we often convince ourselves by good argument that what we wish for need never have been expected; and then, at the end of our reasoning, find that we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for that our wishes are untouched, and are as strong enemies to our peace of mind as ever. hepburn's baulked hope was the mordecai sitting in haman's gate; all his success in his errand to london, his well-doing in worldly affairs, was tasteless, and gave him no pleasure, because of this blank and void of all intelligence concerning sylvia. and yet he came back with a letter from the fosters in his pocket, curt, yet expressive of deep gratitude for his discreet services in london; and at another time--in fact, if philip's life had been ordered differently to what it was--it might have given this man a not unworthy pleasure to remember that, without a penny of his own, simply by diligence, honesty, and faithful quick-sightedness as to the interests of his masters, he had risen to hold the promise of being their successor, and to be ranked by them as a trusted friend. as the newcastle smack neared the shore on her voyage home, hepburn looked wistfully out for the faint gray outline of monkshaven priory against the sky, and the well-known cliffs; as if the masses of inanimate stone could tell him any news of sylvia. in the streets of shields, just after landing, he encountered a neighbour of the robsons, and an acquaintance of his own. by this honest man, he was welcomed as a great traveller is welcomed on his return from a long voyage, with many hearty good shakes of the hand, much repetition of kind wishes, and offers to treat him to drink. yet, from some insurmountable feeling, philip avoided all mention of the family who were the principal bond between the honest farmer and himself. he did not know why, but he could not bear the shock of first hearing her name in the open street, or in the rough public-house. and thus he shrank from the intelligence he craved to hear. thus he knew no more about the robsons when he returned to monkshaven, than he had done on the day when he had last seen them; and, of course, his first task there was to give a long _viva voce_ account of all his london proceedings to the two brothers foster, who, considering that they had heard the result of everything by letter, seemed to take an insatiable interest in details. he could hardly tell why, but even when released from the fosters' parlour, he was unwilling to go to haytersbank farm. it was late, it is true, but on a may evening even country people keep up till eight or nine o'clock. perhaps it was because hepburn was still in his travel-stained dress; having gone straight to the shop on his arrival in monkshaven. perhaps it was because, if he went this night for the short half-hour intervening before bed-time, he would have no excuse for paying a longer visit on the following evening. at any rate, he proceeded straight to alice rose's, as soon as he had finished his interview with his employers. both hester and coulson had given him their welcome home in the shop, which they had, however, left an hour or two before him. yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which surprise was blended, when he came to his lodgings. even alice seemed gratified by his spending this first evening with them, as if she had thought it might have been otherwise. weary though he was, he exerted himself to talk and to relate what he had done and seen in london, as far as he could without breaking confidence with his employers. it was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors, although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to produce the expression of it which gratified him. coulson was sorry for his former ungenerous reception of the news that philip was going to london; hester and her mother each secretly began to feel as if this evening was like more happy evenings of old, before the robsons came to haytersbank farm; and who knows what faint delicious hopes this resemblance may not have suggested? while philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could not sleep, was glad to pass away the waking hours that must intervene before to-morrow night, at times, he tried to make them talk of what had happened in monkshaven during his absence, but all had gone on in an eventless manner, as far as he could gather; if they knew of anything affecting the robsons, they avoided speaking of it to him; and, indeed, how little likely were they ever to have heard their names while he was away? chapter xx loved and lost philip walked towards the robsons' farm like a man in a dream, who has everything around him according to his wish, and yet is conscious of a secret mysterious inevitable drawback to his enjoyment. hepburn did not care to think--would not realize what this drawback, which need not have been mysterious in his case, was. the may evening was glorious in light and shadow. the crimson sun warmed up the chilly northern air to a semblance of pleasant heat. the spring sights and sounds were all about; the lambs were bleating out their gentle weariness before they sank to rest by the side of their mothers; the linnets were chirping in every bush of golden gorse that grew out of the stone walls; the lark was singing her good-night in the cloudless sky, before she dropped down to her nest in the tender green wheat; all spoke of brooding peace--but philip's heart was not at peace. yet he was going to proclaim his good fortune. his masters had that day publicly announced that coulson and he were to be their successors, and he had now arrived at that longed-for point in his business, when he had resolved to openly speak of his love to sylvia, and might openly strive to gain her love. but, alas! the fulfilment of that wish of his had lagged sadly behind. he was placed as far as he could, even in his most sanguine moments, have hoped to be as regarded business, but sylvia was as far from his attainment as ever--nay, farther. still the great obstacle was removed in kinraid's impressment. philip took upon himself to decide that, with such a man as the specksioneer, absence was equivalent to faithless forgetfulness. he thought that he had just grounds for this decision in the account he had heard of kinraid's behaviour to annie coulson; to the other nameless young girl, her successor in his fickle heart; in the ribald talk of the sailors in the newcastle public-house. it would be well for sylvia if she could forget as quickly; and, to promote this oblivion, the name of her lover should never be brought up, either in praise or blame. and philip would be patient and enduring; all the time watching over her, and labouring to win her reluctant love. there she was! he saw her as he stood at the top of the little hill-path leading down to the robsons' door. she was out of doors, in the garden, which, at some distance from the house, sloped up the bank on the opposite side of the gully; much too far off to be spoken to--not too far off to be gazed at by eyes that caressed her every movement. how well philip knew that garden; placed long ago by some tenant of the farm on a southern slope; walled in with rough moorland stones; planted with berry-bushes for use, and southernwood and sweet-briar for sweetness of smell. when the robsons had first come to haytersbank, and sylvia was scarcely more than a pretty child, how well he remembered helping her with the arrangement of this garden; laying out his few spare pence in hen-and-chicken daisies at one time, in flower-seeds at another; again in a rose-tree in a pot. he knew how his unaccustomed hands had laboured with the spade at forming a little primitive bridge over the beck in the hollow before winter streams should make it too deep for fording; how he had cut down branches of the mountain-ash and covered them over, yet decked with their scarlet berries, with sods of green turf, beyond which the brilliancy crept out; but now it was months and years since he had been in that garden, which had lost its charm for sylvia, as she found the bleak sea-winds came up and blighted all endeavours at cultivating more than the most useful things--pot-herbs, marigolds, potatoes, onions, and such-like. why did she tarry there now, standing quite motionless up by the highest bit of wall, looking over the sea, with her hand shading her eyes? quite motionless; as if she were a stone statue. he began to wish she would move--would look at him--but any way that she would move, and not stand gazing thus over that great dreary sea. he went down the path with an impatient step, and entered the house-place. there sat his aunt spinning, and apparently as well as ever. he could hear his uncle talking to kester in the neighbouring shippen; all was well in the household. why was sylvia standing in the garden in that strange quiet way? 'why, lad! thou'rt a sight for sair een!' said his aunt, as she stood up to welcome him back. 'an' when didst ta come, eh?--but thy uncle will be glad to see thee, and to hear thee talk about yon pleughs; he's thought a deal o' thy letters. i'll go call him in.' 'not yet,' said philip, stopping her in her progress towards the door. 'he's busy talking to kester. i'm in no haste to be gone. i can stay a couple of hours. sit down, and tell me how you are yoursel'--and how iverything is. and i've a deal to tell you.' 'to be sure--to be sure. to think thou's been in lunnon sin' i saw thee!--well to be sure! there's a vast o' coming and going i' this world. thou'll mind yon specksioneer lad, him as was cousin to t' corneys--charley kinraid?' mind him! as if he could forget him. 'well! he's dead and gone.' 'dead! who told you? i don't understand,' said philip, in strange bewilderment. could kinraid have tried to escape after all, and been wounded, killed in the attempt? if not, how should they know he was dead? missing he might be, though how this should be known was strange, as he was supposed to be sailing to the greenland seas. but dead! what did they mean? at philip's worst moment of hatred he had hardly dared to wish him dead. 'dunnot yo' mention it afore our sylvie; we niver speak on him to her, for she takes it a deal to heart, though i'm thinkin' it were a good thing for her; for he'd got a hold of her--he had on bessy corney, too, as her mother telled me;--not that i iver let on to them as sylvia frets after him, so keep a calm sough, my lad. it's a girl's fancy--just a kind o' calf-love; let it go by; and it's well for her he's dead, though it's hard to say so on a drowned man.' 'drowned!' said philip. 'how do yo' know?' half hoping that the poor drenched swollen body might have been found, and thus all questions and dilemmas solved. kinraid might have struggled overboard with ropes or handcuffs on, and so have been drowned. 'eh, lad! there's no misdoubtin' it. he were thought a deal on by t' captain o' t' _urania_; and when he niver come back on t' day when she ought for to have sailed, he sent to kinraid's people at cullercoats, and they sent to brunton's i' newcassel, and they knew he'd been here. t' captain put off sailing for two or three days, that he might ha' that much law; but when he heard as kinraid were not at corneys', but had left 'em a'most on to a week, he went off to them northern seas wi' t' next best specksioneer he could find. for there's no use speaking ill on t' dead; an' though i couldn't abear his coming for iver about t' house, he were a rare good specksioneer, as i've been told.' 'but how do you know he was drowned?' said philip, feeling guiltily disappointed at his aunt's story. 'why, lad! i'm a'most ashamed to tell thee, i were sore put out mysel'; but sylvia were so broken-hearted like i couldn't cast it up to her as i should ha' liked: th' silly lass had gone and gi'en him a bit o' ribbon, as many a one knowed, for it had been a vast noticed and admired that evenin' at th' corneys'--new year's eve i think it were--and t' poor vain peacock had tied it on his hat, so that when t' tide----hist! there's sylvie coming in at t' back-door; never let on,' and in a forced made-up voice she inquired aloud, for hitherto she had been speaking almost in a whisper,-'and didst ta see king george an' queen charlotte?' philip could not answer--did not hear. his soul had gone out to meet sylvia, who entered with quiet slowness quite unlike her former self. her face was wan and white; her gray eyes seemed larger, and full of dumb tearless sorrow; she came up to philip, as if his being there touched her with no surprise, and gave him a gentle greeting as if he were a familiar indifferent person whom she had seen but yesterday. philip, who had recollected the quarrel they had had, and about kinraid too, the very last time they had met, had expected some trace of this remembrance to linger in her looks and speech to him. but there was no such sign; her great sorrow had wiped away all anger, almost all memory. her mother looked at her anxiously, and then said in the same manner of forced cheerfulness which she had used before,-'here's philip, lass, a' full o' lunnon; call thy father in, an we'll hear a' about t' new-fangled pleughs. it'll be rare an' nice a' sitting together again.' sylvia, silent and docile, went out to the shippen to obey her mother's wish. bell robson leant forward towards philip, misinterpreting the expression on his face, which was guilt as much as sympathy, and checked the possible repentance which might have urged him on at that moment to tell all he knew, by saying, 'lad! it's a' for t' best. he were noane good enough for her; and i misdoubt me he were only playin' wi' her as he'd done by others. let her a-be, let her a-be; she'll come round to be thankful.' robson bustled in with loud welcome; all the louder and more talkative because he, like his wife, assumed a cheerful manner before sylvia. yet he, unlike his wife, had many a secret regret over kinraid's fate. at first, while merely the fact of his disappearance was known, daniel robson had hit on the truth, and had stuck to his opinion that the cursed press-gang were at the bottom of it. he had backed his words by many an oath, and all the more because he had not a single reason to give that applied to the present occasion. no one on the lonely coast had remarked any sign of the presence of the men-of-war, or the tenders that accompanied them, for the purpose of impressment on the king's ships. at shields, and at the mouth of the tyne, where they lay in greedy wait, the owners of the _urania_ had caused strict search to be made for their skilled and protected specksioneer, but with no success. all this positive evidence in contradiction to daniel robson's opinion only made him cling to it the more; until the day when the hat was found on the shore with kinraid's name written out large and fair in the inside, and the tell-tale bit of ribbon knotted in the band. then daniel, by a sudden revulsion, gave up every hope; it never entered his mind that it could have fallen off by any accident. no! now kinraid was dead and drowned, and it was a bad job, and the sooner it could be forgotten the better for all parties; and it was well no one knew how far it had gone with sylvia, especially now since bessy corney was crying her eyes out as if he had been engaged to her. so daniel said nothing to his wife about the mischief that had gone on in her absence, and never spoke to sylvia about the affair; only he was more than usually tender to her in his rough way, and thought, morning, noon, and night, on what he could do to give her pleasure, and drive away all recollection of her ill-starred love. to-night he would have her sit by him while philip told his stories, or heavily answered questions put to him. sylvia sat on a stool by her father's knee, holding one of his hands in both of hers; and presently she laid down her head upon them, and philip saw her sad eyes looking into the flickering fire-light with long unwinking stare, showing that her thoughts were far distant. he could hardly go on with his tales of what he had seen, and what done, he was so full of pity for her. yet, for all his pity, he had now resolved never to soothe her with the knowledge of what he knew, nor to deliver the message sent by her false lover. he felt like a mother withholding something injurious from the foolish wish of her plaining child. but he went away without breathing a word of his good fortune in business. the telling of such kind of good fortune seemed out of place this night, when the thought of death and the loss of friends seemed to brood over the household, and cast its shadow there, obscuring for the time all worldly things. and so the great piece of news came out in the ordinary course of gossip, told by some monkshaven friend to robson the next market day. for months philip had been looking forward to the sensation which the intelligence would produce in the farm household, as a preliminary to laying his good fortune at sylvia's feet. and they heard of it, and he away, and all chance of his making use of it in the manner he had intended vanished for the present. daniel was always curious after other people's affairs, and now was more than ever bent on collecting scraps of news which might possibly interest sylvia, and rouse her out of the state of indifference as to everything into which she had fallen. perhaps he thought that he had not acted altogether wisely in allowing her to engage herself to kinraid, for he was a man apt to judge by results; and moreover he had had so much reason to repent of the encouragement which he had given to the lover whose untimely end had so deeply affected his only child, that he was more unwilling than ever that his wife should know of the length to which the affair had gone during her absence. he even urged secrecy upon sylvia as a personal favour; unwilling to encounter the silent blame which he openly affected to despise. 'we'll noane fret thy mother by lettin' on how oft he came and went. she'll, may-be, be thinkin' he were for speakin' to thee, my poor lass; an' it would put her out a deal, for she's a woman of a stern mind towards matteremony. and she'll be noane so strong till summer-weather comes, and i'd be loath to give her aught to worrit hersel' about. so thee and me 'll keep our own counsel.' 'i wish mother had been here, then she'd ha' known all, without my telling her.' 'cheer up, lass; it's better as it is. thou'll get o'er it sooner for havin' no one to let on to. a myself am noane going to speak on't again.' no more he did; but there was a strange tenderness in his tones when he spoke to her; a half-pathetic way of seeking after her, if by any chance she was absent for a minute from the places where he expected to find her; a consideration for her, about this time, in his way of bringing back trifling presents, or small pieces of news that he thought might interest her, which sank deep into her heart. 'and what dun yo' think a' t' folks is talkin' on i' monkshaven?' asked he, almost before he had taken off his coat, on the day when he had heard of philip's promotion in the world. 'why, missus, thy nephew, philip hepburn, has got his name up i' gold letters four inch long o'er fosters' door! him and coulson has set up shop together, and fosters is gone out!' 'that's t' secret of his journey t' lunnon,' said bell, more gratified than she chose to show. 'four inch long if they're theere at all! i heerd on it at t' bay horse first; but i thought yo'd niver be satisfied 'bout i seed it wi' my own eyes. they do say as gregory jones, t' plumber, got it done i' york, for that nought else would satisfy old jeremiah. it'll be a matter o' some hundreds a year i' philip's pocket.' 'there'll be fosters i' th' background, as one may say, to take t' biggest share on t' profits,' said bell. 'ay, ay, that's but as it should be, for i reckon they'll ha' to find t' brass the first, my lass!' said he, turning to sylvia. 'a'm fain to tak' thee in to t' town next market-day, just for thee t' see 't. a'll buy thee a bonny ribbon for thy hair out o' t' cousin's own shop.' some thought of another ribbon which had once tied up her hair, and afterwards been cut in twain, must have crossed sylvia's mind, for she answered, as if she shrank from her father's words,-'i cannot go, i'm noane wantin' a ribbon; i'm much obliged, father, a' t' same.' her mother read her heart clearly, and suffered with her, but never spoke a word of sympathy. but she went on rather more quickly than she would otherwise have done to question her husband as to all he knew about this great rise of philip's. once or twice sylvia joined in with languid curiosity; but presently she became tired and went to bed. for a few moments after she left, her parents sate silent. then daniel, in a tone as if he were justifying his daughter, and comforting himself as well as his wife, observed that it was almost on for nine; the evenings were light so long now. bell said nothing in reply, but gathered up her wool, and began to arrange the things for night. by-and-by daniel broke the silence by saying,-'a thowt at one time as philip had a fancy for our sylvie.' for a minute or two bell did not speak. then, with deeper insight into her daughter's heart than her husband, in spite of his greater knowledge of the events that had happened to affect it, she said,-'if thou's thinking on a match between 'em, it 'll be a long time afore th' poor sad wench is fit t' think on another man as sweetheart.' 'a said nought about sweethearts,' replied he, as if his wife had reproached him in some way. 'woman's allays so full o' sweethearts and matteremony. a only said as a'd thowt once as philip had a fancy for our lass, and a think so still; and he'll be worth his two hunder a year afore long. but a niver said nought about sweethearts.' chapter xxi a rejected suitor there were many domestic arrangements to be made in connection with the new commercial ones which affected hepburn and coulson. the fosters, with something of the busybodiness which is apt to mingle itself with kindly patronage, had planned in their own minds that the rose household should be removed altogether to the house belonging to the shop; and that alice, with the assistance of the capable servant, who, at present, managed all john's domestic affairs, should continue as mistress of the house, with philip and coulson for her lodgers. but arrangements without her consent did not suit alice at any time, and she had very good reasons for declining to accede to this. she was not going to be uprooted at her time of life, she said, nor would she consent to enter upon a future which might be so uncertain. why, hepburn and coulson were both young men, she said, and they were as likely to marry as not; and then the bride would be sure to wish to live in the good old-fashioned house at the back of the shop. it was in vain she was told by every one concerned, that, in case of such an event, the first married partner should take a house of his own, leaving her in undisputed possession. she replied, with apparent truth, that both might wish to marry, and surely the wife of one ought to take possession of the house belonging to the business; that she was not going to trust herself to the fancies of young men, who were always, the best of them, going and doing the very thing that was most foolish in the way of marriage; of which state, in fact, she spoke with something of acrimonious contempt and dislike, as if young people always got mismatched, yet had not the sense to let older and wiser people choose for them. 'thou'll not have been understanding why alice rose spoke as she did this morning,' said jeremiah foster to philip, on the afternoon succeeding the final discussion of this plan. 'she was a-thinking of her youth, i reckon, when she was a well-favoured young woman, and our john was full of the thought of marrying her. as he could not have her, he has lived a bachelor all his days. but if i am not a vast mistaken, all that he has will go to her and to hester, for all that hester is the child of another man. thee and coulson should have a try for hester, philip. i have told coulson this day of hester's chances. i told him first because he is my wife's nephew; but i tell thee now, philip. it would be a good thing for the shop if one of ye was married.' philip reddened. often as the idea of marriage had come into his mind, this was the first time it had been gravely suggested to him by another. but he replied quietly enough. 'i don't think hester rose has any thought of matrimony.' 'to be sure not; it is for thee, or for william coulson, to make her think. she, may-be, remembers enough of her mother's life with her father to make her slow to think on such things. but it's in her to think on matrimony; it's in all of us.' 'alice's husband was dead before i knew her,' said philip, rather evading the main subject. 'it was a mercy when he were taken. a mercy to them who were left, i mean. alice was a bonny young woman, with a smile for everybody, when he wed her--a smile for every one except our john, who never could do enough to try and win one from her. but, no! she would have none of him, but set her heart on jack rose, a sailor in a whale-ship. and so they were married at last, though all her own folks were against it. and he was a profligate sinner, and went after other women, and drank, and beat her. she turned as stiff and as grey as thou seest her now within a year of hester's birth. i believe they'd have perished for want and cold many a time if it had not been for john. if she ever guessed where the money came from, it must have hurt her pride above a bit, for she was always a proud woman. but mother's love is stronger than pride.' philip fell to thinking; a generation ago something of the same kind had been going on as that which he was now living through, quick with hopes and fears. a girl beloved by two--nay, those two so identical in occupation as he and kinraid were--rose identical even in character with what he knew of the specksioneer; a girl choosing the wrong lover, and suffering and soured all her life in consequence of her youth's mistake; was that to be sylvia's lot?--or, rather, was she not saved from it by the event of the impressment, and by the course of silence he himself had resolved upon? then he went on to wonder if the lives of one generation were but a repetition of the lives of those who had gone before, with no variation but from the internal cause that some had greater capacity for suffering than others. would those very circumstances which made the interest of his life now, return, in due cycle, when he was dead and sylvia was forgotten? perplexed thoughts of this and a similar kind kept returning into philip's mind whenever he had leisure to give himself up to consideration of anything but the immediate throng of business. and every time he dwelt on this complication and succession of similar events, he emerged from his reverie more and more satisfied with the course he had taken in withholding from sylvia all knowledge of her lover's fate. it was settled at length that philip was to remove to the house belonging to the shop, coulson remaining with alice and her daughter. but in the course of the summer the latter told his partner that he had offered marriage to hester on the previous day, and been refused. it was an awkward affair altogether, as he lived in their house, and was in daily companionship with hester, who, however, seemed to preserve her gentle calmness, with only a tinge more of reserve in her manner to coulson. 'i wish yo' could find out what she has again' me, philip,' said coulson, about a fortnight after he had made the proposal. the poor young man thought that hester's composure of manner towards him since the event argued that he was not distasteful to her; and as he was now on very happy terms with philip, he came constantly to him, as if the latter could interpret the meaning of all the little occurrences between him and his beloved. 'i'm o' right age, not two months betwixt us; and there's few in monkshaven as would think on her wi' better prospects than me; and she knows my folks; we're kind o' cousins, in fact; and i'd be like a son to her mother; and there's noane i' monkshaven as can speak again' my character. there's nought between yo' and her, is there, philip?' 'i ha' telled thee many a time that she and me is like brother and sister. she's no more thought on me nor i have for her. so be content wi't, for i'se not tell thee again.' 'don't be vexed, philip; if thou knew what it was to be in love, thou'd be always fancying things, just as i am.' 'i might be,' said philip; 'but i dunnut think i should be always talking about my fancies.' 'i wunnot talk any more after this once, if thou'll just find out fra' thysel', as it were, what it is she has again' me. i'd go to chapel for iver with her, if that's what she wants. just ask her, philip.' 'it's an awkward thing for me to be melling wi',' said hepburn, reluctantly. 'but thou said thee and she were like brother and sister; and a brother would ask a sister, and niver think twice about it.' 'well, well,' replied philip, 'i'll see what i can do; but, lad, i dunnot think she'll have thee. she doesn't fancy thee, and fancy is three parts o' love, if reason is t' other fourth.' but somehow philip could not begin on the subject with hester. he did not know why, except that, as he said, 'it was so awkward.' but he really liked coulson so much as to be anxious to do what the latter wished, although he was almost convinced that it would be of no use. so he watched his opportunity, and found alice alone and at leisure one sunday evening. she was sitting by the window, reading her bible, when he went in. she gave him a curt welcome, hearty enough for her, for she was always chary in her expressions of pleasure or satisfaction. but she took off her horn spectacles and placed them in the book to keep her place; and then turning more fully round on her chair, so as to face him, she said,-'well, lad! and how does it go on? though it's not a day for t' ask about worldly things. but i niver see thee now but on sabbath day, and rarely then. still we munnot speak o' such things on t' lord's day. so thee mun just say how t' shop is doing, and then we'll leave such vain talk.' 't' shop is doing main an' well, thank ye, mother. but coulson could tell yo' o' that any day.' 'i'd a deal rayther hear fra' thee, philip. coulson doesn't know how t' manage his own business, let alone half the business as it took john and jeremiah's heads--ay, and tasked 'em, too--to manage. i've no patience with coulson.' 'why? he's a decent young fellow as ever there is in monkshaven.' 'he may be. he's noane cut his wisdom-teeth yet. but, for that matter, there's other folks as far fra' sense as he is.' 'ay, and farther. coulson mayn't be so bright at all times as he might be, but he's a steady-goer, and i'd back him again' any chap o' his age i' monkshaven.' 'i know who i'd sooner back in many a thing, philip!' she said it with so much meaning that he could not fail to understand that he himself was meant, and he replied, ingenuously enough,-'if yo' mean me, mother, i'll noane deny that in a thing or two i may be more knowledgeable than coulson. i've had a deal o' time on my hands i' my youth, and i'd good schooling as long as father lived.' 'lad! it's not schooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning as carries a man through t' world. it's mother-wit. and it's noane schooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning as takes a young woman. it's summat as cannot be put into words.' 'that's just what i told coulson!' said philip, quickly. 'he were sore put about because hester had gi'en him the bucket, and came to me about it.' 'and what did thou say?' asked alice, her deep eyes gleaming at him as if to read his face as well as his words. philip, thinking he could now do what coulson had begged of him in the neatest manner, went on,-'i told him i'd help him all as i could---' 'thou did, did thou? well, well, there's nought sa queer as folks, that a will say,' muttered alice, between her teeth. '--but that fancy had three parts to do wi' love,' continued philip, 'and it would be hard, may-be, to get a reason for her not fancying him. yet i wish she'd think twice about it; he so set upon having her, i think he'll do himself a mischief wi' fretting, if it goes on as it is.' 'it'll noane go on as it is,' said alice, with gloomy oracularness. 'how not?' asked philip. then, receiving no answer, he went on, 'he loves her true, and he's within a month or two on her age, and his character will bear handling on a' sides; and his share on t' shop will be worth hundreds a year afore long.' another pause. alice was trying to bring down her pride to say something, which she could not with all her efforts. 'maybe yo'll speak a word for him, mother,' said philip, annoyed at her silence. 'i'll do no such thing. marriages are best made wi'out melling. how do i know but what she likes some one better?' 'our hester's not th' lass to think on a young man unless he's been a-wooing on her. and yo' know, mother, as well as i do--and coulson does too--she's niver given any one a chance to woo her; living half her time here, and t' other half in t' shop, and niver speaking to no one by t' way.' 'i wish thou wouldn't come here troubling me on a sabbath day wi' thy vanity and thy worldly talk. i'd liefer by far be i' that world wheere there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage, for it's all a moithering mess here.' she turned to the closed bible lying on the dresser, and opened it with a bang. while she was adjusting her spectacles on her nose, with hands trembling with passion, she heard philip say,-'i ask yo'r pardon, i'm sure. i couldn't well come any other day.' 'it's a' t' same--i care not. but thou might as well tell truth. i'll be bound thou's been at haytersbank farm some day this week?' philip reddened; in fact, he had forgotten how he had got to consider his frequent visits to the farm as a regular piece of occupation. he kept silence. alice looked at him with a sharp intelligence that read his silence through. 'i thought so. next time thou thinks to thyself, 'i'm more knowledgeable than coulson,' just remember alice rose's words, and they are these:--if coulson's too thick-sighted to see through a board, thou'rt too blind to see through a window. as for comin' and speakin' up for coulson, why he'll be married to some one else afore t' year's out, for all he thinks he's so set upon hester now. go thy ways, and leave me to my scripture, and come no more on sabbath days wi' thy vain babbling.' so philip returned from his mission rather crestfallen, but quite as far as ever from 'seeing through a glass window.' before the year was out, alice's prophecy was fulfilled. coulson, who found the position of a rejected lover in the same house with the girl who had refused him, too uncomfortable to be endured, as soon as he was convinced that his object was decidedly out of his reach, turned his attention to some one else. he did not love his new sweetheart as he had done hester: there was more of reason and less of fancy in his attachment. but it ended successfully; and before the first snow fell, philip was best man at his partner's wedding. chapter xxii deepening shadows but before coulson was married, many small events happened--small events to all but philip. to him they were as the sun and moon. the days when he went up to haytersbank and sylvia spoke to him, the days when he went up and she had apparently no heart to speak to any one, but left the room as soon as he came, or never entered it at all, although she must have known that he was there--these were his alternations from happiness to sorrow. from her parents he always had a welcome. oppressed by their daughter's depression of spirits, they hailed the coming of any visitor as a change for her as well as for themselves. the former intimacy with the corneys was in abeyance for all parties, owing to bessy corney's out-spoken grief for the loss of her cousin, as if she had had reason to look upon him as her lover, whereas sylvia's parents felt this as a slur upon their daughter's cause of grief. but although at this time the members of the two families ceased to seek after each other's society, nothing was said. the thread of friendship might be joined afresh at any time, only just now it was broken; and philip was glad of it. before going to haytersbank he sought each time for some little present with which to make his coming welcome. and now he wished even more than ever that sylvia had cared for learning; if she had he could have taken her many a pretty ballad, or story-book, such as were then in vogue. he did try her with the translation of the _sorrows of werther_, so popular at the time that it had a place in all pedlars' baskets, with law's _serious call_, the _pilgrim's progress_, klopstock's _messiah_, and _paradise lost_. but she could not read it for herself; and after turning the leaves languidly over, and smiling a little at the picture of charlotte cutting bread and butter in a left-handed manner, she put it aside on the shelf by the _complete farrier_; and there philip saw it, upside down and untouched, the next time he came to the farm. many a time during that summer did he turn to the few verses in genesis in which jacob's twice seven years' service for rachel is related, and try and take fresh heart from the reward which came to the patriarch's constancy at last. after trying books, nosegays, small presents of pretty articles of dress, such as suited the notions of those days, and finding them all received with the same languid gratitude, he set himself to endeavour to please her in some other way. it was time that he should change his tactics; for the girl was becoming weary of the necessity for thanking him, every time he came, for some little favour or other. she wished he would let her alone and not watch her continually with such sad eyes. her father and mother hailed her first signs of impatient petulance towards him as a return to the old state of things before kinraid had come to disturb the tenour of their lives; for even daniel had turned against the specksioneer, irritated by the corneys' loud moans over the loss of the man to whom their daughter said that she was attached. if daniel wished for him to be alive again, it was mainly that the corneys might be convinced that his last visit to the neighbourhood of monkshaven was for the sake of the pale and silent sylvia, and not for that of bessy, who complained of kinraid's untimely death rather as if by it she had been cheated of a husband than for any overwhelming personal love towards the deceased. 'if he were after her he were a big black scoundrel, that's what he were; and a wish he were alive again to be hung. but a dunnot believe it; them corney lasses were allays a-talkin' an' a-thinking on sweethearts, and niver a man crossed t' threshold but they tried him on as a husband. an' their mother were no better: kinraid has spoken civil to bessy as became a lad to a lass, and she makes an ado over him as if they'd been to church together not a week sin'.' 'i dunnot uphold t' corneys; but molly corney--as is molly brunton now--used to speak on this dead man to our sylvie as if he were her sweetheart in old days. now there's no smoke without fire, and i'm thinking it's likely enough he were one of them fellows as is always after some lass or another, and, as often as not, two or three at a time. now look at philip, what a different one he is! he's niver thought on a woman but our sylvie, i'll be bound. i wish he wern't so old-fashioned and faint-hearted.' 'ay! and t' shop's doin' a vast o' business, i've heard say. he's a deal better company, too, 'n or he used to be. he'd a way o' preaching wi' him as a couldn't abide; but now he tak's his glass, an' holds his tongue, leavin' room for wiser men to say their say.' such was a conjugal colloquy about this time. philip was gaining ground with daniel, and that was something towards winning sylvia's heart; for she was unaware of her father's change of feeling towards kinraid, and took all his tenderness towards herself as if they were marks of his regard for her lost lover and his sympathy in her loss, instead of which he was rather feeling as if it might be a good thing after all that the fickle-hearted sailor was dead and drowned. in fact, daniel was very like a child in all the parts of his character. he was strongly affected by whatever was present, and apt to forget the absent. he acted on impulse, and too often had reason to be sorry for it; but he hated his sorrow too much to let it teach him wisdom for the future. with all his many faults, however, he had something in him which made him be dearly loved, both by the daughter whom he indulged, and the wife who was in fact superior to him, but whom he imagined that he ruled with a wise and absolute sway. love to sylvia gave philip tact. he seemed to find out that to please the women of the household he must pay all possible attention to the man; and though he cared little in comparison for daniel, yet this autumn he was continually thinking of how he could please him. when he had said or done anything to gratify or amuse her father, sylvia smiled and was kind. whatever he did was right with his aunt; but even she was unusually glad when her husband was pleased. still his progress was slow towards his object; and often he sighed himself to sleep with the words, 'seven years, and maybe seven years more'. then in his dreams he saw kinraid again, sometimes struggling, sometimes sailing towards land, the only one on board a swift advancing ship, alone on deck, stern and avenging; till philip awoke in remorseful terror. such and similar dreams returned with the greater frequency when, in the november of that year, the coast between hartlepool and monkshaven was overshadowed by the presence of guard-ships, driven south from their station at north shields by the resolution which the sailors of that port had entered into to resist the press-gang, and the energy with which they had begun to carry out their determination. for on a certain tuesday evening yet remembered by old inhabitants of north shields, the sailors in the merchant service met together and overpowered the press-gang, dismissing them from the town with the highest contempt, and with their jackets reversed. a numerous mob went with them to chirton bar; gave them three cheers at parting, but vowed to tear them limb from limb should they seek to re-enter north shields. but a few days afterwards some fresh cause of irritation arose, and five hundred sailors, armed with such swords and pistols as they could collect, paraded through the town in the most riotous manner, and at last attempted to seize the tender eleanor, on some pretext of the ill-treatment of the impressed men aboard. this endeavour failed, however, owing to the energetic conduct of the officers in command. next day this body of sailors set off for newcastle; but learning, before they reached the town, that there was a strong military and civil force prepared to receive them there, they dispersed for the time; but not before the good citizens had received a great fright, the drums of the north yorkshire militia beating to arms, and the terrified people rushing out into the streets to learn the reason of the alarm, and some of them seeing the militia, under the command of the earl of fauconberg, marching from the guard-house adjoining new gate to the house of rendezvous for impressed seamen in the broad chase. but a few weeks after, the impressment service took their revenge for the insults they had been subjected to in north shields. in the dead of night a cordon was formed round that town by a regiment stationed at tynemouth barracks; the press-gangs belonging to armed vessels lying off shields harbour were let loose; no one within the circle could escape, and upwards of two hundred and fifty men, sailors, mechanics, labourers of every description, were forced on board the armed ships. with that prize they set sail, and wisely left the place, where deep passionate vengeance was sworn against them. not all the dread of an invasion by the french could reconcile the people of these coasts to the necessity of impressment. fear and confusion prevailed after this to within many miles of the sea-shore. a yorkshire gentleman of rank said that his labourers dispersed like a covey of birds, because a press-gang was reported to have established itself so far inland as tadcaster; and they only returned to work on the assurance from the steward of his master's protection, but even then begged leave to sleep on straw in the stables or outhouses belonging to their landlord, not daring to sleep at their own homes. no fish was caught, for the fishermen dared not venture out to sea; the markets were deserted, as the press-gangs might come down on any gathering of men; prices were raised, and many were impoverished; many others ruined. for in the great struggle in which england was then involved, the navy was esteemed her safeguard; and men must be had at any price of money, or suffering, or of injustice. landsmen were kidnapped and taken to london; there, in too many instances, to be discharged without redress and penniless, because they were discovered to be useless for the purpose for which they had been taken. autumn brought back the whaling-ships. but the period of their return was full of gloomy anxiety, instead of its being the annual time of rejoicing and feasting; of gladdened households, where brave steady husbands or sons returned; of unlimited and reckless expenditure, and boisterous joviality among those who thought that they had earned unbounded licence on shore by their six months of compelled abstinence. in other years this had been the time for new and handsome winter clothing; for cheerful if humble hospitality; for the shopkeepers to display their gayest and best; for the public-houses to be crowded; for the streets to be full of blue jackets, rolling along with merry words and open hearts. in other years the boiling-houses had been full of active workers, the staithes crowded with barrels, the ship-carpenters' yards thronged with seamen and captains; now a few men, tempted by high wages, went stealthily by back lanes to their work, clustering together, with sinister looks, glancing round corners, and fearful of every approaching footstep, as if they were going on some unlawful business, instead of true honest work. most of them kept their whaling-knives about them ready for bloody defence if they were attacked. the shops were almost deserted; there was no unnecessary expenditure by the men; they dared not venture out to buy lavish presents for the wife or sweetheart or little children. the public-houses kept scouts on the look-out; while fierce men drank and swore deep oaths of vengeance in the bar--men who did not maunder in their cups, nor grow foolishly merry, but in whom liquor called forth all the desperate, bad passions of human nature. indeed, all along the coast of yorkshire, it seemed as if a blight hung over the land and the people. men dodged about their daily business with hatred and suspicion in their eyes, and many a curse went over the sea to the three fatal ships lying motionless at anchor three miles off monkshaven. when first philip had heard in his shop that these three men-of-war might be seen lying fell and still on the gray horizon, his heart sank, and he scarcely dared to ask their names. for if one should be the _alcestis_; if kinraid should send word to sylvia; if he should say he was living, and loving, and faithful; if it should come to pass that the fact of the undelivered message sent by her lover through philip should reach sylvia's ears: what would be the position of the latter, not merely in her love--that, of course, would be hopeless--but in her esteem? all sophistry vanished; the fear of detection awakened philip to a sense of guilt; and, besides, he found out, that, in spite of all idle talk and careless slander, he could not help believing that kinraid was in terrible earnest when he uttered those passionate words, and entreated that they might be borne to sylvia. some instinct told philip that if the specksioneer had only flirted with too many, yet that for sylvia robson his love was true and vehement. then philip tried to convince himself that, from all that was said of his previous character, kinraid was not capable of an enduring constant attachment; and with such poor opiate to his conscience as he could obtain from this notion philip was obliged to remain content, until, a day or two after the first intelligence of the presence of those three ships, he learned, with some trouble and pains, that their names were the _megoera_, the _bellerophon_, and the _hanover_. then he began to perceive how unlikely it was that the _alcestis_ should have been lingering on this shore all these many months. she was, doubtless, gone far away by this time; she had, probably, joined the fleet on the war station. who could tell what had become of her and her crew? she might have been in battle before now, and if so--so his previous fancies shrank to nothing, rebuked for their improbability, and with them vanished his self-reproach. yet there were times when the popular attention seemed totally absorbed by the dread of the press-gang; when no other subject was talked about--hardly, in fact, thought about. at such flows of panic, philip had his own private fears lest a flash of light should come upon sylvia, and she should suddenly see that kinraid's absence might be accounted for in another way besides death. but when he reasoned, this seemed unlikely. no man-of-war had been seen off the coast, or, if seen, had never been spoken about, at the time of kinraid's disappearance. if he had vanished this winter time, every one would have been convinced that the press-gang had seized upon him. philip had never heard any one breathe the dreaded name of the _alcestis_. besides, he went on to think, at the farm they are out of hearing of this one great weary subject of talk. but it was not so, as he became convinced one evening. his aunt caught him a little aside while sylvia was in the dairy, and her husband talking in the shippen with kester. 'for good's sake, philip, dunnot thee bring us talk about t' press-gang. it's a thing as has got hold on my measter, till thou'd think him possessed. he's speaking perpetual on it i' such a way, that thou'd think he were itching to kill 'em a' afore he tasted bread again. he really trembles wi' rage and passion; an' a' night it's just as bad. he starts up i' his sleep, swearing and cursing at 'em, till i'm sometimes afeard he'll mak' an end o' me by mistake. and what mun he do last night but open out on charley kinraid, and tell sylvie he thought m'appen t' gang had got hold on him. it might make her cry a' her saut tears o'er again.' philip spoke, by no wish of his own, but as if compelled to speak. 'an' who knows but what it's true?' the instant these words had come out of his lips he could have bitten his tongue off. and yet afterwards it was a sort of balm to his conscience that he had so spoken. 'what nonsense, philip!' said his aunt; 'why, these fearsome ships were far out o' sight when he went away, good go wi' him, and sylvie just getting o'er her trouble so nicely, and even my master went on for to say if they'd getten hold on him, he were not a chap to stay wi' 'em; he'd gi'en proofs on his hatred to 'em, time on. he either ha' made off--an' then sure enough we should ha' heerd on him somehow--them corneys is full on him still and they've a deal to wi' his folk beyond newcassel--or, as my master says, he were just t' chap to hang or drown hissel, sooner nor do aught against his will.' 'what did sylvie say?' asked philip, in a hoarse low voice. 'say? why, a' she could say was to burst out crying, and after a bit, she just repeated her feyther's words, and said anyhow he was dead, for he'd niver live to go to sea wi' a press-gang. she knowed him too well for that. thou sees she thinks a deal on him for a spirited chap, as can do what he will. i belie' me she first began to think on him time o' t' fight aboard th' _good fortune_, when darley were killed, and he would seem tame-like to her if he couldn't conquer press-gangs, and men-o'-war. she's sooner think on him drowned, as she's ne'er to see him again.' 'it's best so,' said philip, and then, to calm his unusually excited aunt, he promised to avoid the subject of the press-gang as much as possible. but it was a promise very difficult of performance, for daniel robson was, as his wife said, like one possessed. he could hardly think of anything else, though he himself was occasionally weary of the same constantly recurring idea, and would fain have banished it from his mind. he was too old a man to be likely to be taken by them; he had no son to become their victim; but the terror of them, which he had braved and defied in his youth, seemed to come back and take possession of him in his age; and with the terror came impatient hatred. since his wife's illness the previous winter he had been a more sober man until now. he was never exactly drunk, for he had a strong, well-seasoned head; but the craving to hear the last news of the actions of the press-gang drew him into monkshaven nearly every day at this dead agricultural season of the year; and a public-house is generally the focus from which gossip radiates; and probably the amount of drink thus consumed weakened robson's power over his mind, and caused the concentration of thought on one subject. this may be a physiological explanation of what afterwards was spoken of as a supernatural kind of possession, leading him to his doom. chapter xxiii retaliation the public-house that had been chosen by the leaders of the press-gang in monkshaven at this time, for their rendezvous (or 'randyvowse', as it was generally pronounced), was an inn of poor repute, with a yard at the back which opened on to the staithe or quay nearest to the open sea. a strong high stone wall bounded this grass-grown mouldy yard on two sides; the house, and some unused out-buildings, formed the other two. the choice of the place was good enough, both as to situation, which was sufficiently isolated, and yet near to the widening river; and as to the character of the landlord, john hobbs was a failing man, one who seemed as if doomed to be unfortunate in all his undertakings, and the consequence of all this was that he was envious of the more prosperous, and willing to do anything that might bring him in a little present success in life. his household consisted of his wife, her niece, who acted as servant, and an out-of-doors man, a brother of ned simpson, the well-doing butcher, who at one time had had a fancy for sylvia. but the one brother was prosperous, the other had gone on sinking in life, like him who was now his master. neither hobbs nor his man simpson were absolutely bad men; if things had gone well with them they might each have been as scrupulous and conscientious as their neighbours, and even now, supposing the gain in money to be equal, they would sooner have done good than evil; but a very small sum was enough to turn the balance. and in a greater degree than in most cases was the famous maxim of rochefoucault true with them; for in the misfortunes of their friends they seemed to see some justification of their own. it was blind fate dealing out events, not that the events themselves were the inevitable consequences of folly or misconduct. to such men as these the large sum offered by the lieutenant of the press-gang for the accommodation of the mariners' arms was simply and immediately irresistible. the best room in the dilapidated house was put at the service of the commanding officer of the impress service, and all other arrangements made at his desire, irrespective of all the former unprofitable sources of custom and of business. if the relatives both of hobbs and of simpson had not been so well known and so prosperous in the town, they themselves would have received more marks of popular ill opinion than they did during the winter the events of which are now being recorded. as it was, people spoke to them when they appeared at kirk or at market, but held no conversation with them; no, not although they each appeared better dressed than they had either of them done for years past, and although their whole manner showed a change, inasmuch as they had been formerly snarling and misanthropic, and were now civil almost to deprecation. every one who was capable of understanding the state of feeling in monkshaven at this time must have been aware that at any moment an explosion might take place; and probably there were those who had judgment enough to be surprised that it did not take place sooner than it did. for until february there were only occasional cries and growls of rage, as the press-gang made their captures first here, then there; often, apparently, tranquil for days, then heard of at some distance along the coast, then carrying off a seaman from the very heart of the town. they seemed afraid of provoking any general hostility, such as that which had driven them from shields, and would have conciliated the inhabitants if they could; the officers on the service and on board the three men-of-war coming often into the town, spending largely, talking to all with cheery friendliness, and making themselves very popular in such society as they could obtain access to at the houses of the neighbouring magistrates or at the rectory. but this, however agreeable, did not forward the object the impress service had in view; and, accordingly, a more decided step was taken at a time when, although there was no apparent evidence as to the fact, the town was full of the greenland mariners coming quietly in to renew their yearly engagements, which, when done, would legally entitle them to protection from impressment. one night--it was on a saturday, february 23rd, when there was a bitter black frost, with a north-east wind sweeping through the streets, and men and women were close shut in their houses--all were startled in their household content and warmth by the sound of the fire-bell busily swinging, and pealing out for help. the fire-bell was kept in the market-house where high street and bridge street met: every one knew what it meant. some dwelling, or maybe a boiling-house was on fire, and neighbourly assistance was summoned with all speed, in a town where no water was laid on, nor fire-engines kept in readiness. men snatched up their hats, and rushed out, wives following, some with the readiest wraps they could lay hands on, with which to clothe the over-hasty husbands, others from that mixture of dread and curiosity which draws people to the scene of any disaster. those of the market people who were making the best of their way homewards, having waited in the town till the early darkness concealed their path, turned back at the sound of the ever-clanging fire-bell, ringing out faster and faster as if the danger became every instant more pressing. as men ran against or alongside of each other, their breathless question was ever, 'where is it?' and no one could tell; so they pressed onwards into the market-place, sure of obtaining the information desired there, where the fire-bell kept calling out with its furious metal tongue. the dull oil-lamps in the adjoining streets only made darkness visible in the thronged market-place, where the buzz of many men's unanswered questions was rising louder and louder. a strange feeling of dread crept over those nearest to the closed market-house. above them in the air the bell was still clanging; but before them was a door fast shut and locked; no one to speak and tell them why they were summoned--where they ought to be. they were at the heart of the mystery, and it was a silent blank! their unformed dread took shape at the cry from the outside of the crowd, from where men were still coming down the eastern side of bridge street. 'the gang! the gang!' shrieked out some one. 'the gang are upon us! help! help!' then the fire-bell had been a decoy; a sort of seething the kid in its mother's milk, leading men into a snare through their kindliest feelings. some dull sense of this added to utter dismay, and made them struggle and strain to get to all the outlets save that in which a fight was now going on; the swish of heavy whips, the thud of bludgeons, the groans, the growls of wounded or infuriated men, coming with terrible distinctness through the darkness to the quickened ear of fear. a breathless group rushed up the blackness of a narrow entry to stand still awhile, and recover strength for fresh running. for a time nothing but heavy pants and gasps were heard amongst them. no one knew his neighbour, and their good feeling, so lately abused and preyed upon, made them full of suspicion. the first who spoke was recognized by his voice. 'is it thee, daniel robson?' asked his neighbour, in a low tone. 'ay! who else should it be?' 'a dunno.' 'if a am to be any one else, i'd like to be a chap of nobbut eight stun. a'm welly done for!' 'it were as bloody a shame as iver i heerd on. who's to go t' t' next fire, a'd like to know!' 'a tell yo' what, lads,' said daniel, recovering his breath, but speaking in gasps. 'we were a pack o' cowards to let 'em carry off yon chaps as easy as they did, a'm reckoning!' 'a think so, indeed,' said another voice. daniel went on-'we was two hunder, if we was a man; an' t' gang has niver numbered above twelve.' 'but they was armed. a seen t' glitter on their cutlasses,' spoke out a fresh voice. 'what then!' replied he who had latest come, and who stood at the mouth of the entry. 'a had my whalin' knife wi' me i' my pea-jacket as my missus threw at me, and a'd ha' ripped 'em up as soon as winkin', if a could ha' thought what was best to do wi' that d----d bell makin' such a din reet above us. a man can but die onest, and we was ready to go int' t' fire for t' save folks' lives, and yet we'd none on us t' wit to see as we might ha' saved yon poor chaps as screeched out for help.' 'they'll ha' getten 'em to t' randyvowse by now,' said some one. 'they cannot tak' 'em aboard till morning; t' tide won't serve,' said the last speaker but one. daniel robson spoke out the thought that was surging up into the brain of every one there. 'there's a chance for us a'. how many be we?' by dint of touching each other the numbers were counted. seven. 'seven. but if us seven turns out and rouses t' town, there'll be many a score ready to gang t' mariners' arms, and it'll be easy work reskyin' them chaps as is pressed. us seven, each man jack on us, go and seek up his friends, and get him as well as he can to t' church steps; then, mebbe, there'll be some theere as'll not be so soft as we was, lettin' them poor chaps be carried off from under our noses, just becase our ears was busy listenin' to yon confounded bell, whose clip-clappin' tongue a'll tear out afore this week is out.' before daniel had finished speaking, those nearest to the entrance muttered their assent to his project, and had stolen off, keeping to the darkest side of the streets and lanes, which they threaded in different directions; most of them going straight as sleuth-hounds to the haunts of the wildest and most desperate portion of the seafaring population of monkshaven. for, in the breasts of many, revenge for the misery and alarm of the past winter took a deeper and more ferocious form than daniel had thought of when he made his proposal of a rescue. to him it was an adventure like many he had been engaged in in his younger days; indeed, the liquor he had drunk had given him a fictitious youth for the time; and it was more in the light of a rough frolic of which he was to be the leader, that he limped along ( always lame from old attacks of rheumatism), chuckling to himself at the apparent stillness of the town, which gave no warning to the press-gang at the rendezvous of anything in the wind. daniel, too, had his friends to summon; old hands like himself, but 'deep uns', also, like himself, as he imagined. it was nine o'clock when all who were summoned met at the church steps; and by nine o'clock, monkshaven, in those days, was more quiet and asleep than many a town at present is at midnight. the church and churchyard above them were flooded with silver light, for the moon was high in the heavens: the irregular steps were here and there in pure white clearness, here and there in blackest shadow. but more than half way up to the top, men clustered like bees; all pressing so as to be near enough to question those who stood nearest to the planning of the attack. here and there, a woman, with wild gestures and shrill voice, that no entreaty would hush down to the whispered pitch of the men, pushed her way through the crowd--this one imploring immediate action, that adjuring those around her to smite and spare not those who had carried off her 'man',--the father, the breadwinner. low down in the darkened silent town were many whose hearts went with the angry and excited crowd, and who would bless them and caress them for that night's deeds. daniel soon found himself a laggard in planning, compared to some of those around him. but when, with the rushing sound of many steps and but few words, they had arrived at the blank, dark, shut-up mariners' arms, they paused in surprise at the uninhabited look of the whole house: it was daniel once more who took the lead. 'speak 'em fair,' said he; 'try good words first. hobbs 'll mebbe let 'em out quiet, if we can catch a word wi' him. a say, hobbs,' said he, raising his voice, 'is a' shut up for t' neet; for a'd be glad of a glass. a'm dannel robson, thou knows.' not one word in reply, any more than from the tomb; but his speech had been heard nevertheless. the crowd behind him began to jeer and to threaten; there was no longer any keeping down their voices, their rage, their terrible oaths. if doors and windows had not of late been strengthened with bars of iron in anticipation of some such occasion, they would have been broken in with the onset of the fierce and now yelling crowd who rushed against them with the force of a battering-ram, to recoil in baffled rage from the vain assault. no sign, no sound from within, in that breathless pause. 'come away round here! a've found a way to t' back o' behint, where belike it's not so well fenced,' said daniel, who had made way for younger and more powerful men to conduct the assault, and had employed his time meanwhile in examining the back premises. the men rushed after him, almost knocking him down, as he made his way into the lane into which the doors of the outbuildings belonging to the inn opened. daniel had already broken the fastening of that which opened into a damp, mouldy-smelling shippen, in one corner of which a poor lean cow shifted herself on her legs, in an uneasy, restless manner, as her sleeping-place was invaded by as many men as could cram themselves into the dark hold. daniel, at the end farthest from the door, was almost smothered before he could break down the rotten wooden shutter, that, when opened, displayed the weedy yard of the old inn, the full clear light defining the outline of each blade of grass by the delicate black shadow behind. this hole, used to give air and light to what had once been a stable, in the days when horse travellers were in the habit of coming to the mariners' arms, was large enough to admit the passage of a man; and daniel, in virtue of its discovery, was the first to get through. but he was larger and heavier than he had been; his lameness made him less agile, and the impatient crowd behind him gave him a helping push that sent him down on the round stones with which the yard was paved, and for the time disabled him so much that he could only just crawl out of the way of leaping feet and heavy nailed boots, which came through the opening till the yard was filled with men, who now set up a fierce, derisive shout, which, to their delight, was answered from within. no more silence, no more dead opposition: a living struggle, a glowing, raging fight; and daniel thought he should be obliged to sit there still, leaning against the wall, inactive, while the strife and the action were going on in which he had once been foremost. he saw the stones torn up; he saw them used with good effect on the unguarded back-door; he cried out in useless warning as he saw the upper windows open, and aim taken among the crowd; but just then the door gave way, and there was an involuntary forward motion in the throng, so that no one was so disabled by the shots as to prevent his forcing his way in with the rest. and now the sounds came veiled by the walls as of some raging ravening beast growling over his prey; the noise came and went--once utterly ceased; and daniel raised himself with difficulty to ascertain the cause, when again the roar came clear and fresh, and men poured into the yard again, shouting and rejoicing over the rescued victims of the press-gang. daniel hobbled up, and shouted, and rejoiced, and shook hands with the rest, hardly caring to understand that the lieutenant and his gang had quitted the house by a front window, and that all had poured out in search of them; the greater part, however, returning to liberate the prisoners, and then glut their vengeance on the house and its contents. from all the windows, upper and lower, furniture was now being thrown into the yard. the smash of glass, the heavier crash of wood, the cries, the laughter, the oaths, all excited daniel to the utmost; and, forgetting his bruises, he pressed forwards to lend a helping hand. the wild, rough success of his scheme almost turned his head. he hurraed at every flagrant piece of destruction; he shook hands with every one around him, and, at last, when the destroyers inside paused to take breath, he cried out,-'if a was as young as onest a was, a'd have t' randyvowse down, and mak' a bonfire on it. we'd ring t' fire-bell then t' some purpose.' no sooner said than done. their excitement was ready to take the slightest hint of mischief; old chairs, broken tables, odd drawers, smashed chests, were rapidly and skilfully heaped into a pyramid, and one, who at the first broaching of the idea had gone for live coals the speedier to light up the fire, came now through the crowd with a large shovelful of red-hot cinders. the rioters stopped to take breath and look on like children at the uncertain flickering blaze, which sprang high one moment, and dropped down the next only to creep along the base of the heap of wreck, and make secure of its future work. then the lurid blaze darted up wild, high, and irrepressible; and the men around gave a cry of fierce exultation, and in rough mirth began to try and push each other in. in one of the pauses of the rushing, roaring noise of the flames, the moaning low and groan of the poor alarmed cow fastened up in the shippen caught daniel's ear, and he understood her groans as well as if they had been words. he limped out of the yard through the now deserted house, where men were busy at the mad work of destruction, and found his way back to the lane into which the shippen opened. the cow was dancing about at the roar, and dazzle, and heat of the fire; but daniel knew how to soothe her, and in a few minutes he had a rope round her neck, and led her gently out from the scene of her alarm. he was still in the lane when simpson, the man-of-all-work at the mariners' arms, crept out of some hiding-place in the deserted outbuilding, and stood suddenly face to face with robson. the man was white with fear and rage. 'here, tak' thy beast, and lead her wheere she'll noane hear yon cries and shouts. she's fairly moithered wi' heat an' noise.' 'they're brennin' ivery rag i have i' t' world,' gasped out simpson: 'i niver had much, and now i'm a beggar.' 'well! thou shouldn't ha' turned again' thine own town-folks, and harboured t' gang. sarves thee reet. a'd noane be here leadin' beasts if a were as young as a were; a'd be in t' thick on it.' 'it was thee set 'm on--a heerd thee--a see'd thee a helping on 'em t' break in; they'd niver ha' thought on attackin' t' house, and settin' fire to yon things, if thou hadn't spoken on it.' simpson was now fairly crying. but daniel did not realize what the loss of all the small property he had in the world was to the poor fellow (rapscallion though he was, broken down, unprosperous ne'er-do-weel!) in his pride at the good work he believed he had set on foot. 'ay,' said he; 'it's a great thing for folk to have a chap for t' lead 'em wi' a head on his shouthers. a misdoubt me if there were a felly theere as would ha' thought o' routling out yon wasps' nest; it tak's a deal o' mother-wit to be up to things. but t' gang'll niver harbour theere again, one while. a only wish we'd cotched 'em. an' a should like t' ha' gi'en hobbs a bit o' my mind.' 'he's had his sauce,' said simpson, dolefully. 'him and me is ruined.' 'tut, tut, thou's got thy brother, he's rich enough. and hobbs 'll do a deal better; he's had his lesson now, and he'll stick to his own side time to come. here, tak' thy beast an' look after her, for my bones is achin'. an' mak' thysel' scarce, for some o' them fellys has getten their blood up, an' wunnot be for treating thee o'er well if they fall in wi' thee.' 'hobbs ought to be served out; it were him as made t' bargain wi' lieutenant; and he's off safe wi' his wife and his money bag, and a'm left a beggar this neet i' monkshaven street. my brother and me has had words, and he'll do nought for me but curse me. a had three crown-pieces, and a good pair o' breeches, and a shirt, and a dare say better nor two pair o' stockings. a wish t' gang, and thee, and hobbs and them mad folk up yonder, were a' down i' hell, a do.' 'coom, lad,' said daniel, noways offended at his companion's wish on his behalf. 'a'm noane flush mysel', but here's half-a-crown and tuppence; it's a' a've getten wi' me, but it'll keep thee and t' beast i' food and shelter to-neet, and get thee a glass o' comfort, too. a had thought o' takin' one mysel', but a shannot ha' a penny left, so a'll just toddle whoam to my missus.' daniel was not in the habit of feeling any emotion at actions not directly affecting himself; or else he might have despised the poor wretch who immediately clutched at the money, and overwhelmed that man with slobbery thanks whom he had not a minute before been cursing. but all simpson's stronger passions had been long ago used up; now he only faintly liked and disliked, where once he loved and hated; his only vehement feeling was for himself; that cared for, other men might wither or flourish as best suited them. many of the doors which had been close shut when the crowd went down the high street, were partially open as daniel slowly returned; and light streamed from them on the otherwise dark road. the news of the successful attempt at rescue had reached those who had sate in mourning and in desolation an hour or two ago, and several of these pressed forwards as from their watching corner they recognized daniel's approach; they pressed forward into the street to shake him by the hand, to thank him (for his name had been bruited abroad as one of those who had planned the affair), and at several places he was urged to have a dram--urgency that he was loath for many reasons to refuse, but his increasing uneasiness and pain made him for once abstinent, and only anxious to get home and rest. but he could not help being both touched and flattered at the way in which those who formed his 'world' looked upon him as a hero; and was not insensible to the words of blessing which a wife, whose husband had been impressed and rescued this night, poured down upon him as he passed. 'theere, theere,--dunnot crack thy throat wi' blessin'. thy man would ha' done as much for me, though mebbe he mightn't ha' shown so much gumption and capability; but them's gifts, and not to be proud on.' when daniel reached the top of the hill on the road home, he turned to look round; but he was lame and bruised, he had gone along slowly, the fire had pretty nearly died out, only a red hue in the air about the houses at the end of the long high street, and a hot lurid mist against the hill-side beyond where the mariners' arms had stood, were still left as signs and token of the deed of violence. daniel looked and chuckled. 'that comes o' ringin' t' fire-bell,' said he to himself; 'it were shame for it to be tellin' a lie, poor oud story-teller.' chapter xxiv brief rejoicing daniel's unusually late absence from home disturbed bell and sylvia not a little. he was generally at home between eight and nine on market days. they expected to see him the worse for liquor at such times; but this did not shock them; he was no worse than most of his neighbours, indeed better than several, who went off once or twice a year, or even oftener, on drinking bouts of two or three days' duration, returning pale, sodden, and somewhat shame-faced, when all their money was gone; and, after the conjugal reception was well over, settling down into hard-working and decently sober men until the temptation again got power over them. but, on market days, every man drank more than usual; every bargain or agreement was ratified by drink; they came from greater or less distances, either afoot or on horseback, and the 'good accommodation for man and beast' (as the old inn-signs expressed it) always included a considerable amount of liquor to be drunk by the man. daniel's way of announcing his intention of drinking more than ordinary was always the same. he would say at the last moment, 'missus, i've a mind to get fuddled to-neet,' and be off, disregarding her look of remonstrance, and little heeding the injunctions she would call after him to beware of such and such companions, or to attend to his footsteps on his road home. but this night he had given no such warning. bell and sylvia put the candle on the low window-seat at the usual hour to guide him through the fields--it was a habit kept up even on moonlight nights like this--and sate on each side of the fire, at first scarcely caring to listen, so secure were they of his return. bell dozed, and sylvia sate gazing at the fire with abstracted eyes, thinking of the past year and of the anniversary which was approaching of the day when she had last seen the lover whom she believed to be dead, lying somewhere fathoms deep beneath the surface of that sunny sea on which she looked day by day without ever seeing his upturned face through the depths, with whatsoever heart-sick longing for just one more sight she yearned and inwardly cried. if she could set her eyes on his bright, handsome face, that face which was fading from her memory, overtasked in the too frequent efforts to recall it; if she could but see him once again, coming over the waters beneath which he lay with supernatural motion, awaiting her at the stile, with the evening sun shining ruddy into his bonny eyes, even though, after that one instant of vivid and visible life, he faded into mist; if she could but see him now, sitting in the faintly flickering fire-light in the old, happy, careless way, on a corner of the dresser, his legs dangling, his busy fingers playing with some of her woman's work;--she wrung her hands tight together as she implored some, any power, to let her see him just once again--just once--for one minute of passionate delight. never again would she forget that dear face, if but once more she might set her eyes upon it. her mother's head fell with a sudden jerk, and she roused herself up; and sylvia put by her thought of the dead, and her craving after his presence, into that receptacle of her heart where all such are kept closed and sacred from the light of common day. 'feyther's late,' said bell. 'it's gone eight,' replied sylvia. 'but our clock is better nor an hour forrard,' answered bell. 'ay, but t' wind brings monkshaven bells clear to-night. i heerd t' eight o'clock bell ringing not five minutes ago.' it was the fire-bell, but she had not distinguished the sound. there was another long silence; both wide awake this time. 'he'll have his rheumatics again,' said bell. 'it's cold for sartin,' said sylvia. 'march weather come afore its time. but i'll make him a treacle-posset, it's a famous thing for keeping off hoasts.' the treacle-posset was entertainment enough for both while it was being made. but once placed in a little basin in the oven, there was again time for wonder and anxiety. 'he said nought about having a bout, did he, mother?' asked sylvia at length. 'no,' said bell, her face a little contracting. after a while she added, 'there's many a one as has husbands that goes off drinking without iver saying a word to their wives. my master is none o' that mak'.' 'mother,' broke in sylvia again, 'i'll just go and get t' lantern out of t' shippen, and go up t' brow, and mebbe to t' ash-field end.' 'do, lass,' said her mother. 'i'll get my wraps and go with thee.' 'thou shall do niver such a thing,' said sylvia. 'thou's too frail to go out i' t' night air such a night as this.' 'then call kester up.' 'not i. i'm noane afraid o' t' dark.' 'but of what thou mayst meet i' t' dark, lass?' sylvia shivered all over at the sudden thought, suggested by this speech of her mother's, that the idea that had flashed into her own mind of going to look for her father might be an answer to the invocation to the powers which she had made not long ago, that she might indeed meet her dead lover at the ash-field stile; but though she shivered as this superstitious fancy came into her head, her heart beat firm and regular; not from darkness nor from the spirits of the dead was she going to shrink; her great sorrow had taken away all her girlish nervous fear. she went; and she came back. neither man nor spirit had she seen; the wind was blowing on the height enough to sweep all creatures before it; but no one was coming. so they sate down again to keep watch. at length his step was heard close to the door; and it startled them even in their state of expectation. 'why, feyther!' cried sylvia as he entered; while his wife stood up trembling, but not saying a word. 'a'm a'most done up,' said he, sitting heavily down on the chair nearest the door. 'poor old feyther!' said sylvia, stooping to take off his heavy clogged shoes; while bell took the posset out of the oven. 'what's this? posset? what creatures women is for slops,' said he; but he drank it all the same, while sylvia fastened the door, and brought the flaring candle from the window-seat. the fresh arrangement of light displayed his face blackened with smoke, and his clothes disarranged and torn. 'who's been melling wi' thee?' asked bell. 'no one has melled wi' me; but a've been mellin' wi' t' gang at last.' 'thee: they niver were for pressing thee!' exclaimed both the women at once. 'no! they knowed better. they'n getten their belly-full as it is. next time they try it on, a reckon they'll ax if daniel robson is wi'in hearin'. a've led a resky this neet, and saved nine or ten honest chaps as was pressed, and carried off to t' randyvowse. me and some others did it. and hobbs' things and t' lieutenant's is a' burnt; and by this time a reckon t' randyvowse is pretty nigh four walls, ready for a parish-pound.' 'thou'rt niver for saying thou burnt it down wi' t' gang in it, for sure?' asked bell. 'na, na, not this time. t' 'gang fled up t' hill like coneys; and hobbs and his folks carried off a bag o' money; but t' oud tumbledown place is just a heap o' brick and mortar; an' t' furniture is smoulderin' int' ashes; and, best of a', t' men is free, and will niver be cotched wi' a fire-bell again.' and so he went on to tell of the ruse by which they had been enticed into the market-place; interrupted from time to time by their eager questions, and interrupting himself every now and then with exclamations of weariness and pain, which made him at last say,-'now a'm willing to tell yo' a' about it to-morrow, for it's not ivery day a man can do such great things; but to-neet a mun go to bed, even if king george were wantin' for to know how a managed it a'.' he went wearily upstairs, and wife and daughter both strove their best to ease his aching limbs, and make him comfortable. the warming-pan, only used on state occasions, was taken down and unpapered for his service; and as he got between the warm sheets, he thanked sylvia and her mother in a sleepy voice, adding,-'it's a vast o' comfort to think on yon poor lads as is sleepin' i' their own homes this neet,' and then slumber fell upon him, and he was hardly roused by bell's softly kissing his weather-beaten cheek, and saying low,-'god bless thee, my man! thou was allays for them that was down and put upon.' he murmured some monosyllabic reply, unheard by his wife, who stole away to undress herself noiselessly, and laid herself down on her side of the bed as gently as her stiffened limbs would permit. they were late in rising the next morning. kester was long since up and at his work among the cattle before he saw the house-door open to admit the fresh chill morning air; and even then sylvia brushed softly, and went about almost on tip-toe. when the porridge was ready, kester was called in to his breakfast, which he took sitting at the dresser with the family. a large wooden platter stood in the middle; and each had a bowl of the same material filled with milk. the way was for every one to dip his pewter spoon into the central dish, and convey as much or as little as he liked at a time of the hot porridge into his pure fresh milk. but to-day bell told kester to help himself all at once, and to take his bowl up to the master's room and keep him company. for daniel was in bed, resting from his weariness, and bemoaning his painful bruises whenever he thought of them. but his mind was still so much occupied with the affair of the previous night, that bell judged rightly that a new listener would give ease to his body as well as to his mind, and her proposal of kester's carrying up his breakfast had been received by daniel with satisfaction. so kester went up slowly, carrying his over-full basin tenderly, and seated himself on the step leading down into the bed-room (for levels had not been calculated when the old house was built) facing his master, who, half sitting up in the blue check bed, not unwillingly began his relation again; to which kester listened so attentively, that his spoon was often arrested in its progress from the basin to his mouth, open ready to receive it, while he gazed with unwinking eyes at daniel narrating his exploits. but after daniel had fought his battle o'er again to every auditor within his reach, he found the seclusion of his chamber rather oppressive, without even the usual week-days' noises below; so after dinner, though far from well, he came down and wandered about the stable and the fields nearest to the house, consulting with kester as to crops and manure for the most part; but every now and then breaking out into an episodical chuckle over some part of last night's proceedings. kester enjoyed the day even more than his master, for he had no bruises to remind him that, although a hero, he was also flesh and blood. when they returned to the house they found philip there, for it was already dusk. it was kester's usual sunday plan to withdraw to bed at as early an hour as he could manage to sleep, often in winter before six; but now he was too full of interest in what philip might have to tell of monkshaven news to forego his sabbath privilege of spending the evening sitting on the chair at the end of the dresser behind the door. philip was as close to sylvia as he could possibly get without giving her offence, when they came in. her manner was listless and civil; she had lost all that active feeling towards him which made him positively distasteful, and had called out her girlish irritation and impertinence. she now was rather glad to see him than otherwise. he brought some change into the heavy monotony of her life--monotony so peaceful until she had been stirred by passion out of that content with the small daily events which had now become burdensome recurrences. insensibly to herself she was becoming dependent on his timid devotion, his constant attention; and he, lover-like, once so attracted, in spite of his judgment, by her liveliness and piquancy, now doted on her languor, and thought her silence more sweet than words. he had only just arrived when master and man came in. he had been to afternoon chapel; none of them had thought of going to the distant church; worship with them was only an occasional duty, and this day their minds had been too full of the events of the night before. daniel sate himself heavily down in his accustomed chair, the three-cornered arm-chair in the fireside corner, which no one thought of anybody else ever occupying on any occasion whatever. in a minute or two he interrupted philip's words of greeting and inquiry by breaking out into the story of the rescue of last night. but to the mute surprise of sylvia, the only one who noticed it, philip's face, instead of expressing admiration and pleasant wonder, lengthened into dismay; once or twice he began to interrupt, but stopped himself as if he would consider his words again. kester was never tired of hearing his master talk; by long living together they understood every fold of each other's minds, and small expressions had much significance to them. bell, too, sate thankful that her husband should have done such deeds. only sylvia was made uneasy by philip's face and manner. when daniel had ended there was a great silence, instead of the questions and compliments he looked to receive. he became testy, and turning to bell, said,-'my nephew looks as though he was a-thinking more on t' little profit he has made on his pins an' bobs, than as if he was heeding how honest men were saved from being haled out to yon tender, an' carried out o' sight o' wives and little 'uns for iver. wives an' little 'uns may go t' workhouse or clem for aught he cares. philip went very red, and then more sallow than usual. he had not been thinking of charley kinraid, but of quite another thing, while daniel had told his story; but this last speech of the old man's brought up the remembrance that was always quick, do what he would to smother or strangle it. he did not speak for a moment or two, then he said,-'to-day has not been like sabbath in monkshaven. t' rioters, as folks call 'em, have been about all night. they wanted to give battle to t' men-o'-war's men; and it were taken up by th' better end, and they've sent to my lord malton for t' militia; and they're come into t' town, and they're hunting for a justice for t' read th' act; folk do say there'll be niver a shop opened to-morrow.' this was rather a more serious account of the progress of the affair than any one had calculated upon. they looked grave upon it awhile, then daniel took heart and said,-'a think we'd done a'most enough last neet; but men's not to be stopped wi' a straw when their blood is up; still it's hard lines to call out t' sojers, even if they be but militia. so what we seven hatched in a dark entry has ta'en a lord to put a stop to 't!' continued he, chuckling a little, but more faintly this time. philip went on, still graver than before, boldly continuing to say what he knew would be discordant to the family he loved so well. 'i should ha' telled yo' all about it; i thought on it just as a bit o' news; i'd niver thought on such a thing as uncle there having been in it, and i'm main sorry to hear on it, i am.' 'why?' said sylvia, breathlessly. 'it's niver a thing to be sorry on. i'm proud and glad,' said bell. 'let-a-be, let-a-be,' said daniel, in much dudgeon. 'a were a fool to tell him o' such-like doings, they're noane i' his line; we'll talk on yard measures now. philip took no notice of this poor attempt at sarcasm: he seemed as if lost in thought, then he said,-'i'm vexed to plague yo', but i'd best say all i've got i' my mind. there was a vast o' folk at our chapel speaking about it--last night's doings and this morning's work--and how them as set it afoot was assured o' being clapt int' prison and tried for it; and when i heered uncle say as he was one, it like ran through me; for they say as t' justices will be all on t' government side, and mad for vengeance.' for an instant there was dead silence. the women looked at each other with blank eyes, as if they were as yet unable to take in the new idea that the conduct which had seemed to them a subject for such just pride could be regarded by any one as deserving of punishment or retribution. daniel spoke before they had recovered from their amazement. 'a'm noane sorry for what a did, an' a'd do it again to-neet, if need were. so theere's for thee. thou may tell t' justices fra' me that a reckon a did righter nor them, as letten poor fellys be carried off i' t' very midst o' t' town they're called justices for.' perhaps philip had better have held his tongue; but he believed in the danger, which he was anxious to impress upon his uncle, in order that, knowing what was to be apprehended, the latter might take some pains to avert it. he went on. 'but they're making a coil about the randyvowse being all destroyed!' daniel had taken down his pipe from the shelf in the chimney corner, and was stuffing tobacco into the bowl. he went on pretending to do this a little while after it was filled; for, to tell the truth, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the new view of his conduct presented to him. still he was not going to let this appear, so lifting up his head with an indifferent air he lighted the pipe, blew into it, took it out and examined it as something were wrong about it, and until that was put to rights he was unable to attend to anything else; all the while the faithful three who hung upon his well-being, gazing, breathless, at his proceedings, and anxious for his reply. 'randyvowse!' said he at length, 'it were a good job it were brenned down, for such a harbour for vermin a never seed: t' rats ran across t' yard by hunders an' thousands; an' it were no man's property as a've heerd tell, but belonged to chancery, up i' lunnon; so wheere's t' harm done, my fine felly?' philip was silent. he did not care to brave any further his uncle's angry frown and contracted eye. if he had only known of daniel robson's part in the riot before he had left the town, he would have taken care to have had better authority for the reality of the danger which he had heard spoken about, and in which he could not help believing. as it was, he could only keep quiet until he had ascertained what was the legal peril overhanging the rioters, and how far his uncle had been recognized. daniel went on puffing angrily. kester sighed audibly, and then was sorry he had done so, and began to whistle. bell, full of her new fear, yet desirous to bring all present into some kind of harmony, said,-'it'll ha' been a loss to john hobbs--all his things burnt, or trampled on. mebbe he desarved it all, but one's a kind o' tender feeling to one's tables and chairs, special if one's had t' bees-waxing on 'em.' 'a wish he'd been burnt on t' top on 'em, a do,' growled out daniel, shaking the ash out of his pipe. 'don't speak so ill o' thysel',' said his wife. 'thou'd ha' been t' first t' pluck him down if he'd screeched out.' 'an' a'll warrant if they come about wi' a paper asking for feyther's name to make up for what hobbs has lost by t' fire, feyther 'll be for giving him summut,' said sylvia. 'thou knows nought about it,' said daniel. 'hold thy tongue next time till thou's axed to speak, my wench.' his sharp irritated way of speaking was so new to sylvia, that the tears sprang to her eyes, and her lip quivered. philip saw it all, and yearned over her. he plunged headlong into some other subject to try and divert attention from her; but daniel was too ill at ease to talk much, and bell was obliged to try and keep up the semblance of conversation, with an occasional word or two from kester, who seemed instinctively to fall into her way of thinking, and to endeavour to keep the dark thought in the background. sylvia stole off to bed; more concerned at her father's angry way of speaking than at the idea of his being amenable to law for what he had done; the one was a sharp present evil, the other something distant and unlikely. yet a dim terror of this latter evil hung over her, and once upstairs she threw herself on her bed and sobbed. philip heard her where he sate near the bottom of the short steep staircase, and at every sob the cords of love round his heart seemed tightened, and he felt as if he must there and then do something to console her. but, instead, he sat on talking of nothings, a conversation in which daniel joined with somewhat of surliness, while bell, grave and anxious, kept wistfully looking from one to the other, desirous of gleaning some further information on the subject, which had begun to trouble her mind. she hoped some chance would give her the opportunity of privately questioning philip, but it seemed to be equally her husband's wish to thwart any such intention of hers. he remained in the house-place, till after philip had left, although he was evidently so much fatigued as to give some very distinct, though unintentional, hints to his visitor to be gone. at length the house-door was locked on philip, and then daniel prepared to go to bed. kester had left for his loft above the shippen more than an hour before. bell had still to rake the fire, and then she would follow her husband upstairs. as she was scraping up the ashes, she heard, intermixed with the noise she was making, the sound of some one rapping gently at the window. in her then frame of mind she started a little; but on looking round, she saw kester's face pressed against the glass, and, reassured, she softly opened the door. there he stood in the dusk outer air, distinct against the gray darkness beyond, and in his hand something which she presently perceived was a pitchfork. 'missus!' whispered he, 'a've watched t' maister t' bed; an' now a'd be greatly beholden to yo' if yo'd let me just lay me down i' t' house-place. a'd warrant niver a constable i' a' monkshaven should get sight o' t' maister, an' me below t' keep ward.' bell shivered a little. 'nay, kester,' she said, patting her hand kindly on his shoulder; 'there's nought for t' fear. thy master is not one for t' hurt nobody; and i dunnot think they can harm him for setting yon poor chaps free, as t' gang catched i' their wicked trap.' kester stood still; then he shook his head slowly. 'it's t' work at t' randyvowse as a'm afeared on. some folks thinks such a deal o' a bonfire. then a may lay me down afore t' fire, missus?' said he, beseechingly. 'nay, kester--' she began; but suddenly changing, she said, 'god bless thee, my man; come in and lay thee down on t' settle, and i'll cover thee up wi' my cloak as hangs behind t' door. we're not many on us that love him, an' we'll be all on us under one roof, an' niver a stone wall or a lock betwixt us.' so kester took up his rest in the house-place that night, and none knew of it besides bell. chapter xxv coming troubles the morning brought more peace if it did not entirely dissipate fear. daniel seemed to have got over his irritability, and was unusually kind and tender to wife and daughter, especially striving by silent little deeds to make up for the sharp words he had said the night before to the latter. as if by common consent, all allusion to the saturday night's proceedings was avoided. they spoke of the day's work before them; of the crops to be sown; of the cattle; of the markets; but each one was conscious of a wish to know more distinctly what were the chances of the danger that, to judge from philip's words, hung over them, falling upon them and cutting them off from all these places for the coming days. bell longed to send kester down into monkshaven as a sort of spy to see how the land lay; but she dared not manifest her anxiety to her husband, and could not see kester alone. she wished that she had told him to go to the town, when she had had him to herself in the house-place the night before; now it seemed as though daniel were resolved not to part from him, and as though both had forgotten that any peril had been anticipated. sylvia and her mother, in like manner, clung together, not speaking of their fears, yet each knowing that it was ever present in the other's mind. so things went on till twelve o'clock--dinner-time. if at any time that morning they had had the courage to speak together on the thought which was engrossing all their minds, it is possible that some means might have been found to avert the calamity that was coming towards them with swift feet. but among the uneducated--the partially educated--nay, even the weakly educated--the feeling exists which prompted the futile experiment of the well-known ostrich. they imagine that, by closing their own eyes to apprehended evil, they avert it. the expression of fear is supposed to accelerate the coming of its cause. yet, on the other hand, they shrink from acknowledging the long continuance of any blessing, in the idea that when unusual happiness is spoken about, it disappears. so, although perpetual complaints of past or present grievances and sorrows are most common among this class, they shrink from embodying apprehensions for the future in words, as if it then took shape and drew near. they all four sate down to dinner, but not one of them was inclined to eat. the food was scarcely touched on their plates, yet they were trying to make talk among themselves as usual; they seemed as though they dared not let themselves be silent, when sylvia, sitting opposite to the window, saw philip at the top of the brow, running rapidly towards the farm. she had been so full of the anticipation of some kind of misfortune all the morning that she felt now as if this was the very precursive circumstance she had been expecting; she stood up, turning quite white, and, pointing with her finger, said,-'there he is!' every one at table stood up too. an instant afterwards, philip, breathless, was in the room. he gasped out, 'they're coming! the warrant is out. you must go. i hoped you were gone.' 'god help us!' said bell, and sate suddenly down, as if she had received a blow that made her collapse into helplessness; but she got up again directly. sylvia flew for her father's hat. he really seemed the most unmoved of the party. 'a'm noane afeared,' said he. 'a'd do it o'er again, a would; an' a'll tell 'em so. it's a fine time o' day when men's to be trapped and carried off, an' them as lays traps to set 'em free is to be put i' t' lock-ups for it.' 'but there was rioting, beside the rescue; t' house was burnt,' continued eager, breathless philip. 'an' a'm noane goin' t' say a'm sorry for that, neyther; tho', mebbe, a wouldn't do it again.' sylvia had his hat on his head by this time; and bell, wan and stiff, trembling all over, had his over-coat, and his leather purse with the few coins she could muster, ready for him to put on. he looked at these preparations, at his wife and daughter, and his colour changed from its ruddy brown. 'a'd face lock-ups, an' a fair spell o' jail, but for these,' said he, hesitating. 'oh!' said philip, 'for god's sake, lose no time, but be off.' 'where mun he go?' asked bell, as if philip must decide all. 'anywhere, anywhere, out of this house--say haverstone. this evening, i'll go and meet him there and plan further; only be off now.' philip was so keenly eager, he hardly took note at the time of sylvia's one vivid look of unspoken thanks, yet he remembered it afterwards. 'a'll dang 'em dead,' said kester, rushing to the door, for he saw what the others did not--that all chance of escape was over; the constables were already at the top of the little field-path not twenty yards off. 'hide him, hide him,' cried bell, wringing her hands in terror; for she, indeed they all, knew that flight would now be impossible. daniel was heavy, rheumatic, and, moreover, had been pretty severely bruised on that unlucky night. philip, without another word, pushed daniel before him upstairs, feeling that his own presence at haytersbank farm at that hour of the day would be a betrayal. they had just time to shut themselves up in the larger bed-room, before they heard a scuffle and the constables' entry down-stairs. 'they're in,' said philip, as daniel squeezed himself under the bed; and then they held quite still, philip as much concealed by the scanty, blue-check curtain as he could manage to be. they heard a confusion of voices below, a hasty moving of chairs, a banging of doors, a further parley, and then a woman's scream, shrill and pitiful; then steps on the stairs. 'that screech spoiled all,' sighed philip. in one instant the door was opened, and each of the hiders was conscious of the presence of the constables, although at first the latter stood motionless, surveying the apparently empty room with disappointment. then in another moment they had rushed at philip's legs, exposed as these were. they drew him out with violence, and then let him go. 'measter hepburn!' said one in amaze. but immediately they put two and two together; for in so small a place as monkshaven every one's relationships and connexions, and even likings, were known; and the motive of philip's coming out to haytersbank was perfectly clear to these men. 't' other 'll not be far off,' said the other constable. 'his plate were down-stairs, full o' victual; a seed measter hepburn a-walking briskly before me as a left monkshaven.' 'here he be, here he be,' called out the other man, dragging daniel out by his legs, 'we've getten him.' daniel kicked violently, and came out from his hiding-place in a less ignominious way than by being pulled out by his heels. he shook himself, and then turned, facing his captors. 'a wish a'd niver hidden mysel'; it were his doing,' jerking his thumb toward philip: 'a'm ready to stand by what a've done. yo've getten a warrant a'll be bound, for them justices is grand at writin' when t' fight's over.' he was trying to carry it off with bravado, but philip saw that he had received a shock, from his sudden look of withered colour and shrunken feature. 'don't handcuff him,' said philip, putting money into the constable's hand. 'you'll be able to guard him well enough without them things.' daniel turned round sharp at this whisper. 'let-a-be, let-a-be, my lad,' he said. 'it 'll be summut to think on i' t' lock-up how two able-bodied fellys were so afeared on t' chap as reskyed them honest sailors o' saturday neet, as they mun put him i' gyves, and he sixty-two come martinmas, and sore laid up wi' t' rheumatics.' but it was difficult to keep up this tone of bravado when he was led a prisoner through his own house-place, and saw his poor wife quivering and shaking all over with her efforts to keep back all signs of emotion until he was gone; and sylvia standing by her mother, her arm round bell's waist and stroking the poor shrunken fingers which worked so perpetually and nervously in futile unconscious restlessness. kester was in a corner of the room, sullenly standing. bell quaked from head to foot as her husband came down-stairs a prisoner. she opened her lips several times with an uneasy motion, as if she would fain say something, but knew not what. sylvia's passionate swollen lips and her beautiful defiant eyes gave her face quite a new aspect; she looked a helpless fury. 'a may kiss my missus, a reckon,' said daniel, coming to a standstill as he passed near her. 'oh, dannel, dannel!' cried she, opening her arms wide to receive him. 'dannel, dannel, my man!' and she shook with her crying, laying her head on his shoulder, as if he was all her stay and comfort. 'come, missus! come, missus!' said he, 'there couldn't be more ado if a'd been guilty of murder, an' yet a say again, as a said afore, a'm noane ashamed o' my doings. here, sylvie, lass, tak' thy mother off me, for a cannot do it mysel', it like sets me off.' his voice was quavering as he said this. but he cheered up a little and said, 'now, good-by, oud wench' (kissing her), 'and keep a good heart, and let me see thee lookin' lusty and strong when a come back. good-by, my lass; look well after mother, and ask philip for guidance if it's needed.' he was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill cries of the women; but in a minute or two they were checked by the return of one of the constables, who, cap in hand at the sight of so much grief, said,-'he wants a word wi' his daughter.' the party had come to a halt about ten yards from the house. sylvia, hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran out and threw her arms round her father, as if to burst out afresh on his neck. 'nay, nay, my wench, it's thee as mun be a comfort to mother: nay, nay, or thou'll niver hear what a've got to say. sylvie, my lass, a'm main and sorry a were so short wi' thee last neet; a ax thy pardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and sent thee to thy bed wi' a sore heart. thou munnot think on it again, but forgie me, now a'm leavin' thee.' 'oh, feyther! feyther!' was all sylvia could say; and at last they had to make as though they would have used force to separate her from their prisoner. philip took her hand, and softly led her back to her weeping mother. for some time nothing was to be heard in the little farmhouse kitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women. philip stood by silent, thinking, as well as he could, for his keen sympathy with their grief, what had best be done next. kester, after some growls at sylvia for having held back the uplifted arm which he thought might have saved daniel by a well-considered blow on his captors as they entered the house, went back into his shippen--his cell for meditation and consolation, where he might hope to soothe himself before going out to his afternoon's work; labour which his master had planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight, as kester thought, for the job was one which would take him two or three days without needing any further directions than those he had received, and by the end of that time he thought that his master would be at liberty again. so he--so they all thought in their ignorance and inexperience. although daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impulsive--in a word, often thinking and acting very foolishly--yet, somehow, either from some quality in his character, or from the loyalty of nature in those with whom he had to deal in his every-day life, he had made his place and position clear as the arbiter and law-giver of his household. on his decision, as that of husband, father, master, perhaps superior natures waited. so now that he was gone and had left them in such strange new circumstances so suddenly, it seemed as though neither bell nor sylvia knew exactly what to do when their grief was spent, so much had every household action and plan been regulated by the thought of him. meanwhile philip had slowly been arriving at the conclusion that he was more wanted at monkshaven to look after daniel's interests, to learn what were the legal probabilities in consequence of the old man's arrest, and to arrange for his family accordingly, than standing still and silent in the haytersbank kitchen, too full of fellow-feeling and heavy foreboding to comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appearance from the very aching of his heart. so when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity and propriety, began to put away the scarcely tasted dinner, and sylvia, blinded with crying, and convulsively sobbing, was yet trying to help her mother, philip took his hat, and brushing it round and round with the sleeve of his coat, said,-'i think i'll just go back, and see how matters stand.' he had a more distinct plan in his head than these words implied, but it depended on so many contingencies of which he was ignorant that he said only these few words; and with a silent resolution to see them again that day, but a dread of being compelled to express his fears, so far beyond theirs, he went off without saying anything more. then sylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry. somehow she had expected him to do something--what, she did not know; but he was gone, and they were left without stay or help. 'hush thee, hush thee,' said her mother, trembling all over herself; 'it's for the best. the lord knows.' 'but i niver thought he'd leave us,' moaned sylvia, half in her mother's arms, and thinking of philip. her mother took the words as applied to daniel. 'and he'd niver ha' left us, my wench, if he could ha' stayed.' 'oh, mother, mother, it's philip as has left us, and he could ha' stayed.' 'he'll come back, or mebbe send, i'll be bound. leastways he'll be gone to see feyther, and he'll need comfort most on all, in a fremd place--in bridewell--and niver a morsel of victual or a piece o' money.' and now she sate down, and wept the dry hot tears that come with such difficulty to the eyes of the aged. and so--first one grieving, and then the other, and each draining her own heart of every possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheer and console--the february afternoon passed away; the continuous rain closing in the daylight even earlier than usual, and adding to the dreariness, with the natural accompaniments of wailing winds, coming with long sweeps over the moors, and making the sobbings at the windows that always sound like the gasps of some one in great agony. meanwhile philip had hastened back to monkshaven. he had no umbrella, he had to face the driving rain for the greater part of the way; but he was thankful to the weather, for it kept men indoors, and he wanted to meet no one, but to have time to think and mature his plans. the town itself was, so to speak, in mourning. the rescue of the sailors was a distinctly popular movement; the subsequent violence (which had, indeed, gone much further than has been described, after daniel left it) was, in general, considered as only a kind of due punishment inflicted in wild justice on the press-gang and their abettors. the feeling of the monkshaven people was, therefore, in decided opposition to the vigorous steps taken by the county magistrates, who, in consequence of an appeal from the naval officers in charge of the impressment service, had called out the militia (from a distant and inland county) stationed within a few miles, and had thus summarily quenched the riots that were continuing on the sunday morning after a somewhat languid fashion; the greater part of the destruction of property having been accomplished during the previous night. still there was little doubt but that the violence would have been renewed as evening drew on, and the more desperate part of the population and the enraged sailors had had the sabbath leisure to brood over their wrongs, and to encourage each other in a passionate attempt at redress, or revenge. so the authorities were quite justified in the decided steps they had taken, both in their own estimation then, and now, in ours, looking back on the affair in cold blood. but at the time feeling ran strongly against them; and all means of expressing itself in action being prevented, men brooded sullenly in their own houses. philip, as the representative of the family, the head of which was now suffering for his deeds in the popular cause, would have met with more sympathy, ay, and more respect than he imagined, as he went along the streets, glancing from side to side, fearful of meeting some who would shy him as the relation of one who had been ignominiously taken to bridewell a few hours before. but in spite of this wincing of philip's from observation and remark, he never dreamed of acting otherwise than as became a brave true friend. and this he did, and would have done, from a natural faithfulness and constancy of disposition, without any special regard for sylvia. he knew his services were needed in the shop; business which he had left at a moment's warning awaited him, unfinished; but at this time he could not bear the torture of giving explanations, and alleging reasons to the languid intelligence and slow sympathies of coulson. he went to the offices of mr. donkin, the oldest established and most respected attorney in monkshaven--he who had been employed to draw up the law papers and deeds of partnership consequent on hepburn and coulson succeeding to the shop of john and jeremiah foster, brothers. mr. donkin knew philip from this circumstance. but, indeed, nearly every one in monkshaven knew each other; if not enough to speak to, at least enough to be acquainted with the personal appearance and reputation of most of those whom they met in the streets. it so happened that mr. donkin had a favourable opinion of philip; and perhaps for this reason the latter had a shorter time to wait before he obtained an interview with the head of the house, than many of the clients who came for that purpose from town or country for many miles round. philip was ushered in. mr. donkin sate with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, ready to watch his countenance and listen to his words. 'good afternoon, mr. hepburn!' 'good afternoon, sir.' philip hesitated how to begin. mr. donkin became impatient, and tapped with the fingers of his left hand on his desk. philip's sensitive nerves felt and rightly interpreted the action. 'please, sir, i'm come to speak to you about daniel robson, of haytersbank farm.' 'daniel robson?' said mr. donkin, after a short pause, to try and compel philip into speed in his story. 'yes, sir. he's been taken up on account of this affair, sir, about the press-gang on saturday night.' 'to be sure! i thought i knew the name.' and mr. donkin's face became graver, and the expression more concentrated. looking up suddenly at philip, he said, 'you are aware that i am the clerk to the magistrates?' 'no, sir,' in a tone that indicated the unexpressed 'what then?' 'well, but i am. and so of course, if you want my services or advice in favour of a prisoner whom they have committed, or are going to commit, you can't have them, that's all.' 'i am very sorry--very!' said philip; and then he was again silent for a period; long enough to make the busy attorney impatient. 'well, mr. hepburn, have you anything else to say to me?' 'yes, sir. i've a deal to ask of you; for you see i don't rightly understand what to do; and yet i'm all as daniel's wife and daughter has to look to; and i've their grief heavy on my heart. you could not tell me what is to be done with daniel, could you, sir?' 'he'll be brought up before the magistrates to-morrow morning for final examination, along with the others, you know, before he's sent to york castle to take his trial at the spring assizes.' 'to york castle, sir?' mr. donkin nodded, as if words were too precious to waste. 'and when will he go?' asked poor philip, in dismay. 'to-morrow: most probably as soon as the examination is over. the evidence is clear as to his being present, aiding and abetting,--indicted on the 4th section of 1 george i., statute 1, chapter 5. i'm afraid it's a bad look-out. is he a friend of yours, mr. hepburn?' 'only an uncle, sir,' said philip, his heart getting full; more from mr. donkin's manner than from his words. 'but what can they do to him, sir?' 'do?' mr. donkin half smiled at the ignorance displayed. 'why, hang him, to be sure; if the judge is in a hanging mood. he's been either a principal in the offence, or a principal in the second degree, and, as such, liable to the full punishment. i drew up the warrant myself this morning, though i left the exact name to be filled up by my clerk.' 'oh, sir! can you do nothing for me?' asked philip, with sharp beseeching in his voice. he had never imagined that it was a capital offence; and the thought of his aunt's and sylvia's ignorance of the possible fate awaiting him whom they so much loved, was like a stab to his heart. 'no, my good fellow. i'm sorry; but, you see, it's my duty to do all i can to bring criminals to justice.' 'my uncle thought he was doing such a fine deed.' 'demolishing and pulling down, destroying and burning dwelling-houses and outhouses,' said mr. donkin. 'he must have some peculiar notions.' 'the people is so mad with the press-gang, and daniel has been at sea hisself; and took it so to heart when he heard of mariners and seafaring folk being carried off, and just cheated into doing what was kind and helpful--leastways, what would have been kind and helpful, if there had been a fire. i'm against violence and riots myself, sir, i'm sure; but i cannot help thinking as daniel had a deal to justify him on saturday night, sir.' 'well; you must try and get a good lawyer to bring out all that side of the question. there's a good deal to be said on it; but it's my duty to get up all the evidence to prove that he and others were present on the night in question; so, as you'll perceive, i can give you no help in defending him.' 'but who can, sir? i came to you as a friend who, i thought, would see me through it. and i don't know any other lawyer; leastways, to speak to.' mr. donkin was really more concerned for the misguided rioters than he was aware; and he was aware of more interest than he cared to express. so he softened his tone a little, and tried to give the best advice in his power. 'you'd better go to edward dawson on the other side of the river; he that was articled clerk with me two years ago, you know. he's a clever fellow, and has not too much practice; he'll do the best he can for you. he'll have to be at the court-house, tell him, to-morrow morning at ten, when the justices meet. he'll watch the case for you; and then he'll give you his opinion, and tell you what to do. you can't do better than follow his advice. i must do all i can to collect evidence for a conviction, you know.' philip stood up, looked at his hat, and then came forward and laid down six and eightpence on the desk in a blushing, awkward way. 'pooh! pooh!' said mr. donkin, pushing the money away. 'don't be a fool; you'll need it all before the trial's over. i've done nothing, man. it would be a pretty thing for me to be feed by both parties.' philip took up the money, and left the room. in an instant he came back again, glanced furtively at mr. donkin's face, and then, once more having recourse to brushing his hat, he said, in a low voice-'you'll not be hard upon him, sir, i hope?' 'i must do my duty,' replied mr. donkin, a little sternly, 'without any question of hardness.' philip, discomfited, left the room; an instant of thought and mr donkin had jumped up, and hastening to the door he opened it and called after philip. 'hepburn--hepburn--i say, he'll be taken to york as soon as may be to-morrow morning; if any one wants to see him before then, they'd better look sharp about it.' philip went quickly along the streets towards mr. dawson's, pondering upon the meaning of all that he had heard, and what he had better do. he had made his plans pretty clearly out by the time he arrived at mr. dawson's smart door in one of the new streets on the other side of the river. a clerk as smart as the door answered philip's hesitating knock, and replied to his inquiry as to whether mr. dawson was at home, in the negative, adding, after a moment's pause-'he'll be at home in less than an hour; he's only gone to make mrs dawson's will--mrs. dawson, of collyton--she's not expected to get better.' probably the clerk of an older-established attorney would not have given so many particulars as to the nature of his master's employment; but, as it happened it was of no consequence, the unnecessary information made no impression on philip's mind; he thought the matter over and then said-'i'll be back in an hour, then. it's gone a quarter to four; i'll be back before five, tell mr. dawson.' he turned on his heel and went back to the high street as fast as he could, with a far more prompt and decided step than before. he hastened through the streets, emptied by the bad weather, to the principal inn of the town, the george--the sign of which was fastened to a piece of wood stretched across the narrow street; and going up to the bar with some timidity (for the inn was frequented by the gentry of monkshaven and the neighbourhood, and was considered as a touch above such customers as philip), he asked if he could have a tax-cart made ready in a quarter of an hour, and sent up to the door of his shop. 'to be sure he could; how far was it to go?' philip hesitated before he replied-'up the knotting lane, to the stile leading down to haytersbank farm; they'll have to wait there for some as are coming.' 'they must not wait long such an evening as this; standing in such rain and wind as there'll be up there, is enough to kill a horse.' 'they shan't wait long,' said philip, decisively: 'in a quarter of an hour, mind.' he now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, which was increasing as the tide came in and the night hours approached. coulson had no word for him, but he looked reproachfully at his partner for his long, unexplained absence. hester was putting away the ribbons and handkerchiefs, and bright-coloured things which had been used to deck the window; for no more customers were likely to come this night through the blustering weather to a shop dimly lighted by two tallow candles and an inefficient oil-lamp. philip came up to her, and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes; but the strange consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, and called the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length compelled her, as it were, to speak, and break the spell of the silence. so, curiously enough, all three spoke at once. hester asked (without looking at philip)-'yo're sadly wet, i'm feared?' coulson said-'thou might have a bit o' news to tell one after being on the gad all afternoon.' philip whispered to hester-'wilt come into t' parlour? i want a word wi' thee by oursel's.' hester quietly finished rolling up the ribbon she had in her hands when he spoke, and then followed him into the room behind the shop before spoken of. philip set down on the table the candle which he had brought out of the shop, and turning round to hester, took her trembling hand into both of his, and gripping it nervously, said-'oh! hester, thou must help me--thou will, will not thou?' hester gulped down something that seemed to rise in her throat and choke her, before she answered. 'anything, thou knows, philip.' 'yes, yes, i know. thou sees the matter is this: daniel robson--he who married my aunt--is taken up for yon riot on saturday night at t' mariners' arms----' 'they spoke on it this afternoon; they said the warrant was out,' said hester, filling up the sentence as philip hesitated, lost for an instant in his own thoughts. 'ay! the warrant is out, and he's in t' lock-up, and will be carried to york castle to-morrow morn; and i'm afeared it will go bad with him; and they at haytersbank is not prepared, and they must see him again before he goes. now, hester, will thou go in a tax-cart as will be here in less than ten minutes from t' george, and bring them back here, and they must stay all night for to be ready to see him to-morrow before he goes? it's dree weather for them, but they'll not mind that.' he had used words as if he was making a request to hester; but he did not seem to await her answer, so sure was he that she would go. she noticed this, and noticed also that the rain was spoken of in reference to them, not to her. a cold shadow passed over her heart, though it was nothing more than she already knew--that sylvia was the one centre of his thoughts and his love. 'i'll go put on my things at once,' said she, gently. philip pressed her hand tenderly, a glow of gratitude overspread him. 'thou's a real good one, god bless thee!' said he. 'thou must take care of thyself, too,' continued he; 'there's wraps and plenty i' th' house, and if there are not, there's those i' the shop as 'll be none the worse for once wearing at such a time as this; and wrap thee well up, and take shawls and cloaks for them, and mind as they put 'em on. thou'll have to get out at a stile, i'll tell t' driver where; and thou must get over t' stile and follow t' path down two fields, and th' house is right before ye, and bid 'em make haste and lock up th' house, for they mun stay all night here. kester 'll look after things.' all this time hester was hastily putting on her hat and cloak, which she had fetched from the closet where they usually hung through the day; now she stood listening, as it were, for final directions. 'but suppose they will not come,' said she; 'they dunnot know me, and mayn't believe my words.' 'they must,' said he, impatiently. 'they don't know what awaits 'em,' he continued. 'i'll tell thee, because thou 'll not let out, and it seems as if i mun tell some one--it were such a shock--he's to be tried for 's life. they know not it's so serious; and, hester,' said he, going on in his search after sympathy, 'she's like as if she was bound up in her father.' his lips quivered as he looked wistfully into hester's face at these words. no need to tell her who was _she_. no need to put into words the fact, told plainer than words could have spoken it, that his heart was bound up in sylvia. hester's face, instead of responding to his look, contracted a little, and, for the life of her, she could not have helped saying,-'why don't yo' go yourself, philip?' 'i can't, i can't,' said he, impatiently. 'i'd give the world to go, for i might be able to comfort her; but there's lawyers to see, and iver so much to do, and they've niver a man friend but me to do it all. you'll tell her,' said philip, insinuatingly, as if a fresh thought had struck him, 'as how i would ha' come. i would fain ha' come for 'em, myself, but i couldn't, because of th' lawyer,--mind yo' say because of th' lawyer. i'd be loath for her to think i was minding any business of my own at this time; and, whatever yo' do, speak hopeful, and, for t' life of yo', don't speak of th' hanging, it's likely it's a mistake o' donkin's; and anyhow--there's t' cart--anyhow i should perhaps not ha' telled thee, but it's a comfort to make a clean breast to a friend at times. god bless thee, hester. i don't know what i should ha' done without thee,' said he, as he wrapped her well up in the cart, and placed the bundles of cloaks and things by her side. along the street, in the jolting cart, as long as hester could see the misty light streaming out of the shop door, so long was philip standing bareheaded in the rain looking after her. but she knew that it was not her own poor self that attracted his lingering gaze. it was the thought of the person she was bound to. chapter xxvi a dreary vigil through the dark rain, against the cold wind, shaken over the rough stones, went hester in the little tax-cart. her heart kept rising against her fate; the hot tears came unbidden to her eyes. but rebellious heart was soothed, and hot tears were sent back to their source before the time came for her alighting. the driver turned his horse in the narrow lane, and shouted after her an injunction to make haste as, with her head bent low, she struggled down to the path to haytersbank farm. she saw the light in the window from the top of the brow, and involuntarily she slackened her pace. she had never seen bell robson, and would sylvia recollect her? if she did not how awkward it would be to give the explanation of who she was, and what her errand was, and why she was sent. nevertheless, it must be done; so on she went, and standing within the little porch, she knocked faintly at the door; but in the bluster of the elements the sound was lost. again she knocked, and now the murmur of women's voices inside was hushed, and some one came quickly to the door, and opened it sharply. it was sylvia. although her face was completely in shadow, of course hester knew her well; but she, if indeed she would have recognized hester less disguised, did not know in the least who the woman, muffled up in a great cloak, with her hat tied down with a silk handkerchief, standing in the porch at this time of night, could be. nor, indeed, was she in a mood to care or to inquire. she said hastily, in a voice rendered hoarse and arid with grief: 'go away. this is no house for strangers to come to. we've enough on our own to think on;' and she hastily shut the door in hester's face, before the latter could put together the right words in which to explain her errand. hester stood outside in the dark, wet porch discomfited, and wondering how next to obtain a hearing through the shut and bolted door. not long did she stand, however; some one was again at the door, talking in a voice of distress and remonstrance, and slowly unbarring the bolts. a tall, thin figure of an elderly woman was seen against the warm fire-light inside as soon as the door was opened; a hand was put out, like that which took the dove into the ark, and hester was drawn into the warmth and the light, while bell's voice went on speaking to sylvia before addressing the dripping stranger-'it's not a night to turn a dog fra' t' door; it's ill letting our grief harden our hearts. but oh! missus (to hester), yo' mun forgive us, for a great sorrow has fallen upon us this day, an' we're like beside ourselves wi' crying an' plaining.' bell sate down, and threw her apron over her poor worn face, as if decently to shield the signs of her misery from a stranger's gaze. sylvia, all tear-swollen, and looking askance and almost fiercely at the stranger who had made good her intrusion, was drawn, as it were, to her mother's side, and, kneeling down by her, put her arms round her waist, and almost lay across her lap, still gazing at hester with cold, distrustful eyes, the expression of which repelled and daunted that poor, unwilling messenger, and made her silent for a minute or so after her entrance. bell suddenly put down her apron. 'yo're cold and drenched,' said she. 'come near to t' fire and warm yo'rsel'; yo' mun pardon us if we dunnot think on everything at onest.' 'yo're very kind, very kind indeed,' said hester, touched by the poor woman's evident effort to forget her own grief in the duties of hospitality, and loving bell from that moment. 'i'm hester rose,' she continued, half addressing sylvia, who she thought might remember the name, 'and philip hepburn has sent me in a tax-cart to t' stile yonder, to fetch both on yo' back to monkshaven.' sylvia raised her head and looked intently at hester. bell clasped her hands tight together and leant forwards. 'it's my master as wants us?' said she, in an eager, questioning tone. 'it's for to see yo'r master,' said hester. 'philip says he'll be sent to york to-morrow, and yo'll be fain to see him before he goes; and if yo'll come down to monkshaven to-night, yo'll be on t' spot again' the time comes when t' justices will let ye.' bell was up and about, making for the place where she kept her out-going things, almost before hester had begun to speak. she hardly understood about her husband's being sent to york, in the possession of the idea that she might go and see him. she did not understand or care how, in this wild night, she was to get to monkshaven; all she thought of was, that she might go and see her husband. but sylvia took in more points than her mother, and, almost suspiciously, began to question hester. 'why are they sending him to york? what made philip leave us? why didn't he come hissel'?' 'he couldn't come hissel', he bade me say; because he was bound to be at the lawyer's at five, about yo'r father's business. i think yo' might ha' known he would ha' come for any business of his own; and, about york, it's philip as telled me, and i never asked why. i never thought on yo'r asking me so many questions. i thought yo'd be ready to fly on any chance o' seeing your father.' hester spoke out the sad reproach that ran from her heart to her lips. to distrust philip! to linger when she might hasten! 'oh!' said sylvia, breaking out into a wild cry, that carried with it more conviction of agony than much weeping could have done. 'i may be rude and hard, and i may ask strange questions, as if i cared for t' answers yo' may gi' me; an', in my heart o' hearts, i care for nought but to have father back wi' us, as love him so dear. i can hardly tell what i say, much less why i say it. mother is so patient, it puts me past mysel', for i could fight wi' t' very walls, i'm so mad wi' grieving. sure, they'll let him come back wi' us to-morrow, when they hear from his own sel' why he did it?' she looked eagerly at hester for an answer to this last question, which she had put in a soft, entreating tone, as if with hester herself the decision rested. hester shook her head. sylvia came up to her and took her hands, almost fondling them. 'yo' dunnot think they'll be hard wi' him when they hear all about it, done yo'? why, york castle's t' place they send a' t' thieves and robbers to, not honest men like feyther.' hester put her hand on sylvia's shoulder with a soft, caressing gesture. 'philip will know,' she said, using philip's name as a kind of spell--it would have been so to her. 'come away to philip,' said she again, urging sylvia, by her looks and manner, to prepare for the little journey. sylvia moved away for this purpose, saying to herself,-'it's going to see feyther: he will tell me all.' poor mrs. robson was collecting a few clothes for her husband with an eager, trembling hand, so trembling that article after article fell to the floor, and it was hester who picked them up; and at last, after many vain attempts by the grief-shaken woman, it was hester who tied the bundle, and arranged the cloak, and fastened down the hood; sylvia standing by, not unobservant, though apparently absorbed in her own thoughts. at length, all was arranged, and the key given over to kester. as they passed out into the storm, sylvia said to hester,-'thou's a real good wench. thou's fitter to be about mother than me. i'm but a cross-patch at best, an' now it's like as if i was no good to nobody.' sylvia began to cry, but hester had no time to attend to her, even had she the inclination: all her care was needed to help the hasty, tottering steps of the wife who was feebly speeding up the wet and slippery brow to her husband. all bell thought of was that 'he' was at the end of her toil. she hardly understood when she was to see him; her weary heart and brain had only received one idea--that each step she was now taking was leading her to him. tired and exhausted with her quick walk up hill, battling all the way with wind and rain, she could hardly have held up another minute when they reached the tax-cart in the lane, and hester had almost to lift her on to the front seat by the driver. she covered and wrapped up the poor old woman, and afterwards placed herself in the straw at the back of the cart, packed up close by the shivering, weeping sylvia. neither of them spoke a word at first; but hester's tender conscience smote her for her silence before they had reached monkshaven. she wanted to say some kind word to sylvia, and yet knew not how to begin. somehow, without knowing why, or reasoning upon it, she hit upon philip's message as the best comfort in her power to give. she had delivered it before, but it had been apparently little heeded. 'philip bade me say it was business as kept him from fetchin' yo' hissel'--business wi' the lawyer, about--about yo'r father.' 'what do they say?' said sylvia, suddenly, lifting her bowed head, as though she would read her companion's face in the dim light. 'i dunnot know,' said hester, sadly. they were now jolting over the paved streets, and not a word could be spoken. they were now at philip's door, which was opened to receive them even before they arrived, as if some one had been watching and listening. the old servant, phoebe, the fixture in the house, who had belonged to it and to the shop for the last twenty years, came out, holding a candle and sheltering it in her hand from the weather, while philip helped the tottering steps of mrs. robson as she descended behind. as hester had got in last, so she had now to be the first to move. just as she was moving, sylvia's cold little hand was laid on her arm. 'i am main and thankful to yo'. i ask yo'r pardon for speaking cross, but, indeed, my heart's a'most broken wi' fear about feyther.' the voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that hester could not but yearn towards the speaker. she bent over and kissed her cheek, and then clambered unaided down by the wheel on the dark side of the cart. wistfully she longed for one word of thanks or recognition from philip, in whose service she had performed this hard task; but he was otherwise occupied, and on casting a further glance back as she turned the corner of the street, she saw philip lifting sylvia carefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of the wheel, and then they all went into the light and the warmth, the door was shut, the lightened cart drove briskly away, and hester, in rain, and cold, and darkness, went homewards with her tired sad heart. philip had done all he could, since his return from lawyer dawson's, to make his house bright and warm for the reception of his beloved. he had a strong apprehension of the probable fate of poor daniel robson; he had a warm sympathy with the miserable distress of the wife and daughter; but still at the back of his mind his spirits danced as if this was to them a festal occasion. he had even taken unconscious pleasure in phoebe's suspicious looks and tones, as he had hurried and superintended her in her operations. a fire blazed cheerily in the parlour, almost dazzling to the travellers brought in from the darkness and the rain; candles burned--two candles, much to phoebe's discontent. poor bell robson had to sit down almost as soon as she entered the room, so worn out was she with fatigue and excitement; yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as she thought, from her husband. 'i'm ready now,' said she, standing up, and rather repulsing sylvia's cares; 'i'm ready now,' said she, looking eagerly at philip, as if for him to lead the way. 'it's not to-night,' replied he, almost apologetically. 'you can't see him to-night; it's to-morrow morning before he goes to york; it was better for yo' to be down here in town ready; and beside i didn't know when i sent for ye that he was locked up for the night.' 'well-a-day, well-a-day,' said bell, rocking herself backwards and forwards, and trying to soothe herself with these words. suddenly she said,-'but i've brought his comforter wi' me--his red woollen comforter as he's allays slept in this twelvemonth past; he'll get his rheumatiz again; oh, philip, cannot i get it to him?' 'i'll send it by phoebe,' said philip, who was busy making tea, hospitable and awkward. 'cannot i take it mysel'?' repeated bell. 'i could make surer nor anybody else; they'd maybe not mind yon woman--phoebe d'ye call her?' 'nay, mother,' said sylvia, 'thou's not fit to go.' 'shall i go?' asked philip, hoping she would say 'no', and be content with phoebe, and leave him where he was. 'oh, philip, would yo'?' said sylvia, turning round. 'ay,' said bell, 'if thou would take it they'd be minding yo'.' so there was nothing for it but for him to go, in the first flush of his delightful rites of hospitality. 'it's not far,' said he, consoling himself rather than them. 'i'll be back in ten minutes, the tea is maskit, and phoebe will take yo'r wet things and dry 'em by t' kitchen fire; and here's the stairs,' opening a door in the corner of the room, from which the stairs immediately ascended. 'there's two rooms at the top; that to t' left is all made ready, t' other is mine,' said he, reddening a little as he spoke. bell was busy undoing her bundle with trembling fingers. 'here,' said she; 'and oh, lad, here's a bit o' peppermint cake; he's main and fond on it, and i catched sight on it by good luck just t' last minute.' philip was gone, and the excitement of bell and sylvia flagged once more, and sank into wondering despondency. sylvia, however, roused herself enough to take off her mother's wet clothes, and she took them timidly into the kitchen and arranged them before phoebe's fire. phoebe opened her lips once or twice to speak in remonstrance, and then, with an effort, gulped her words down; for her sympathy, like that of all the rest of the monkshaven world, was in favour of daniel robson; and his daughter might place her dripping cloak this night wherever she would, for phoebe. sylvia found her mother still sitting on the chair next the door, where she had first placed herself on entering the room. 'i'll gi'e you some tea, mother,' said she, struck with the shrunken look of bell's face. 'no, no' said her mother. 'it's not manners for t' help oursel's.' 'i'm sure philip would ha' wished yo' for to take it,' said sylvia, pouring out a cup. just then he returned, and something in his look, some dumb expression of delight at her occupation, made her blush and hesitate for an instant; but then she went on, and made a cup of tea ready, saying something a little incoherent all the time about her mother's need of it. after tea bell robson's weariness became so extreme, that philip and sylvia urged her to go to bed. she resisted a little, partly out of 'manners,' and partly because she kept fancying, poor woman, that somehow or other her husband might send for her. but about seven o'clock sylvia persuaded her to come upstairs. sylvia, too, bade philip good-night, and his look followed the last wave of her dress as she disappeared up the stairs; then leaning his chin on his hand, he gazed at vacancy and thought deeply--for how long he knew not, so intent was his mind on the chances of futurity. he was aroused by sylvia's coming down-stairs into the sitting-room again. he started up. 'mother is so shivery,' said she. 'may i go in there,' indicating the kitchen, 'and make her a drop of gruel?' 'phoebe shall make it, not you,' said philip, eagerly preventing her, by going to the kitchen door and giving his orders. when he turned round again, sylvia was standing over the fire, leaning her head against the stone mantel-piece for the comparative coolness. she did not speak at first, or take any notice of him. he watched her furtively, and saw that she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, and she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe them away with her apron. while he was turning over in his mind what he could best say to comfort her (his heart, like hers, being almost too full for words), she suddenly looked him full in the face, saying,-'philip! won't they soon let him go? what can they do to him?' her open lips trembled while awaiting his answer, the tears came up and filled her eyes. it was just the question he had most dreaded; it led to the terror that possessed his own mind, but which he had hoped to keep out of hers. he hesitated. 'speak, lad!' said she, impatiently, with a little passionate gesture. 'i can see thou knows!' he had only made it worse by consideration; he rushed blindfold at a reply. 'he's ta'en up for felony.' 'felony,' said she. 'there thou're out; he's in for letting yon men out; thou may call it rioting if thou's a mind to set folks again' him, but it's too bad to cast such hard words at him as yon--felony,' she repeated, in a half-offended tone. 'it's what the lawyers call it,' said philip, sadly; 'it's no word o' mine.' 'lawyers is allays for making the worst o' things,' said she, a little pacified, 'but folks shouldn't allays believe them.' 'it's lawyers as has to judge i' t' long run.' 'cannot the justices, mr. harter and them as is no lawyers, give him a sentence to-morrow, wi'out sending him to york?' 'no!' said philip, shaking his head. he went to the kitchen door and asked if the gruel was not ready, so anxious was he to stop the conversation at this point; but phoebe, who held her young master in but little respect, scolded him for a stupid man, who thought, like all his sex, that gruel was to be made in a minute, whatever the fire was, and bade him come and make it for himself if he was in such a hurry. he had to return discomfited to sylvia, who meanwhile had arranged her thoughts ready to return to the charge. 'and say he's sent to york, and say he's tried theere, what's t' worst they can do again' him?' asked she, keeping down her agitation to look at philip the more sharply. her eyes never slackened their penetrating gaze at his countenance, until he replied, with the utmost unwillingness, and most apparent confusion,-'they may send him to botany bay.' he knew that he held back a worse contingency, and he was mortally afraid that she would perceive this reserve. but what he did say was so much beyond her utmost apprehension, which had only reached to various terms of imprisonment, that she did not imagine the dark shadow lurking behind. what he had said was too much for her. her eyes dilated, her lips blanched, her pale cheeks grew yet paler. after a minute's look into his face, as if fascinated by some horror, she stumbled backwards into the chair in the chimney comer, and covered her face with her hands, moaning out some inarticulate words. philip was on his knees by her, dumb from excess of sympathy, kissing her dress, all unfelt by her; he murmured half-words, he began passionate sentences that died away upon his lips; and she--she thought of nothing but her father, and was possessed and rapt out of herself by the dread of losing him to that fearful country which was almost like the grave to her, so all but impassable was the gulf. but philip knew that it was possible that the separation impending might be that of the dark, mysterious grave--that the gulf between the father and child might indeed be that which no living, breathing, warm human creature can ever cross. 'sylvie, sylvie!' said he,--and all their conversation had to be carried on in low tones and whispers, for fear of the listening ears above,--'don't,--don't, thou'rt rending my heart. oh, sylvie, hearken. there's not a thing i'll not do; there's not a penny i've got,--th' last drop of blood that's in me,--i'll give up my life for his.' 'life,' said she, putting down her hands, and looking at him as if her looks could pierce his soul; 'who talks o' touching his life? thou're going crazy, philip, i think;' but she did not think so, although she would fain have believed it. in her keen agony she read his thoughts as though they were an open page; she sate there, upright and stony, the conviction creeping over her face like the grey shadow of death. no more tears, no more trembling, almost no more breathing. he could not bear to see her, and yet she held his eyes, and he feared to make the effort necessary to move or to turn away, lest the shunning motion should carry conviction to her heart. alas! conviction of the probable danger to her father's life was already there: it was that that was calming her down, tightening her muscles, bracing her nerves. in that hour she lost all her early youth. 'then he may be hung,' said she, low and solemnly, after a long pause. philip turned away his face, and did not utter a word. again deep silence, broken only by some homely sound in the kitchen. 'mother must not know on it,' said sylvia, in the same tone in which she had spoken before. 'it's t' worst as can happen to him,' said philip. 'more likely he'll be transported: maybe he'll be brought in innocent after all.' 'no,' said sylvia, heavily, as one without hope--as if she were reading some dreadful doom in the tablets of the awful future. 'they'll hang him. oh, feyther! feyther!' she choked out, almost stuffing her apron into her mouth to deaden the sound, and catching at philip's hand, and wringing it with convulsive force, till the pain that he loved was nearly more than he could bear. no words of his could touch such agony; but irrepressibly, and as he would have done it to a wounded child, he bent over her, and kissed her with a tender, trembling kiss. she did not repulse it, probably she did not even perceive it. at that moment phoebe came in with the gruel. philip saw her, and knew, in an instant, what the old woman's conclusion must needs be; but sylvia had to be shaken by the now standing philip, before she could be brought back to the least consciousness of the present time. she lifted up her white face to understand his words, then she rose up like one who slowly comes to the use of her limbs. 'i suppose i mun go,' she said; 'but i'd sooner face the dead. if she asks me, philip, what mun i say?' 'she'll not ask yo',' said he, 'if yo' go about as common. she's never asked yo' all this time, an' if she does, put her on to me. i'll keep it from her as long as i can; i'll manage better nor i've done wi' thee, sylvie,' said he, with a sad, faint smile, looking with fond penitence at her altered countenance. 'thou mustn't blame thysel',' said sylvia, seeing his regret. 'i brought it on me mysel'; i thought i would ha' t' truth, whativer came on it, and now i'm not strong enough to stand it, god help me!' she continued, piteously. 'oh, sylvie, let me help yo'! i cannot do what god can,--i'm not meaning that, but i can do next to him of any man. i have loved yo' for years an' years, in a way it's terrible to think on, if my love can do nought now to comfort yo' in your sore distress.' 'cousin philip,' she replied, in the same measured tone in which she had always spoken since she had learnt the extent of her father's danger, and the slow stillness of her words was in harmony with the stony look of her face, 'thou's a comfort to me, i couldn't bide my life without thee; but i cannot take in the thought o' love, it seems beside me quite; i can think on nought but them that is quick and them that is dead.' chapter xxvii gloomy days philip had money in the fosters' bank, not so much as it might have been if he had not had to pay for the furniture in his house. much of this furniture was old, and had belonged to the brothers foster, and they had let philip have it at a very reasonable rate; but still the purchase of it had diminished the amount of his savings. but on the sum which he possessed he drew largely--he drew all--nay, he overdrew his account somewhat, to his former masters' dismay, although the kindness of their hearts overruled the harder arguments of their heads. all was wanted to defend daniel robson at the approaching york assizes. his wife had handed over to philip all the money or money's worth she could lay her hands upon. daniel himself was not one to be much beforehand with the world; but to bell's thrifty imagination the round golden guineas, tied up in the old stocking-foot against rent-day, seemed a mint of money on which philip might draw infinitely. as yet she did not comprehend the extent of her husband's danger. sylvia went about like one in a dream, keeping back the hot tears that might interfere with the course of life she had prescribed for herself in that terrible hour when she first learnt all. every penny of money either she or her mother could save went to philip. kester's hoard, too, was placed in hepburn's hands at sylvia's earnest entreaty; for kester had no great opinion of philip's judgment, and would rather have taken his money straight himself to mr. dawson, and begged him to use it for his master's behoof. indeed, if anything, the noiseless breach between kester and philip had widened of late. it was seed-time, and philip, in his great anxiety for every possible interest that might affect sylvia, and also as some distraction from his extreme anxiety about her father, had taken to study agriculture of an evening in some old books which he had borrowed--_the farmer's complete guide_, and such like; and from time to time he came down upon the practical dogged kester with directions gathered from the theories in his books. of course the two fell out, but without many words. kester persevered in his old ways, making light of philip and his books in manner and action, till at length philip withdrew from the contest. 'many a man may lead a horse to water, but there's few can make him drink,' and philip certainly was not one of those few. kester, indeed, looked upon him with jealous eyes on many accounts. he had favoured charley kinraid as a lover of sylvia's; and though he had no idea of the truth--though he believed in the drowning of the specksioneer as much as any one--yet the year which had elapsed since kinraid's supposed death was but a very short while to the middle-aged man, who forgot how slowly time passes with the young; and he could often have scolded sylvia, if the poor girl had been a whit less heavy at heart than she was, for letting philip come so much about her--come, though it was on her father's business. for the darkness of their common dread drew them together, occasionally to the comparative exclusion of bell and kester, which the latter perceived and resented. kester even allowed himself to go so far as to wonder what philip could want with all the money, which to him seemed unaccountable; and once or twice the ugly thought crossed his mind, that shops conducted by young men were often not so profitable as when guided by older heads, and that some of the coin poured into philip's keeping might have another destination than the defence of his master. poor philip! and he was spending all his own, and more than all his own money, and no one ever knew it, as he had bound down his friendly bankers to secrecy. once only kester ventured to speak to sylvia on the subject of philip. she had followed her cousin to the field just in front of their house, just outside the porch, to ask him some question she dared not put in her mother's presence--(bell, indeed, in her anxiety, usually absorbed all the questions when philip came)--and stood, after philip had bid her good-by, hardly thinking about him at all, but looking unconsciously after him as he ascended the brow; and at the top he had turned to take a last glance at the place his love inhabited, and, seeing her, he had waved his hat in gratified farewell. she, meanwhile, was roused from far other thoughts than of him, and of his now acknowledged love, by the motion against the sky, and was turning back into the house when she heard kester's low hoarse call, and saw him standing at the shippen door. 'come hither, wench,' said he, indignantly; 'is this a time for courtin'?' 'courting?' said she, drawing up her head, and looking back at him with proud defiance. 'ay, courtin'! what other mak' o' thing is't when thou's gazin' after yon meddlesome chap, as if thou'd send thy eyes after him, and he making marlocks back at thee? it's what we ca'ed courtin' i' my young days anyhow. and it's noane a time for a wench to go courtin' when her feyther's i' prison,' said he, with a consciousness as he uttered these last words that he was cruel and unjust and going too far, yet carried on to say them by his hot jealousy against philip. sylvia continued looking at him without speaking: she was too much offended for expression. 'thou may glower an' thou may look, lass,' said he, 'but a'd thought better on thee. it's like last week thy last sweetheart were drowned; but thou's not one to waste time i' rememberin' them as is gone--if, indeed, thou iver cared a button for yon kinraid--if it wasn't a make-believe.' her lips were contracted and drawn up, showing her small glittering teeth, which were scarcely apart as she breathed out-'thou thinks so, does thou, that i've forgetten _him_? thou'd better have a care o' thy tongue.' then, as if fearful that her self-command might give way, she turned into the house; and going through the kitchen like a blind person, she went up to her now unused chamber, and threw herself, face downwards, flat on her bed, almost smothering herself. ever since daniel's committal, the decay that had imperceptibly begun in his wife's bodily and mental strength during her illness of the previous winter, had been making quicker progress. she lost her reticence of speech, and often talked to herself. she had not so much forethought as of old; slight differences, it is true, but which, with some others of the same description, gave foundation for the homely expression which some now applied to bell, 'she'll never be t' same woman again. this afternoon she had cried herself to sleep in her chair after philip's departure. she had not heard sylvia's sweeping passage through the kitchen; but half an hour afterwards she was startled up by kester's abrupt entry. 'where's sylvie?' asked he. 'i don't know,' said bell, looking scared, and as if she was ready to cry. 'it's no news about him?' said she, standing up, and supporting herself on the stick she was now accustomed to use. 'bless yo', no, dunnot be afeared, missus; it's only as a spoke hasty to t' wench, an' a want t' tell her as a'm sorry,' said kester, advancing into the kitchen, and looking round for sylvia. 'sylvie, sylvie!' shouted he; 'she mun be i' t' house.' sylvia came slowly down the stairs, and stood before him. her face was pale, her mouth set and determined; the light of her eyes veiled in gloom. kester shrank from her look, and even more from her silence. 'a'm come to ax pardon,' said he, after a little pause. she was still silent. 'a'm noane above axing pardon, though a'm fifty and more, and thee's but a silly wench, as a've nursed i' my arms. a'll say before thy mother as a ought niver to ha' used them words, and as how a'm sorry for 't.' 'i don't understand it all,' said bell, in a hurried and perplexed tone. 'what has kester been saying, my lass?' she added, turning to sylvia. sylvia went a step or two nearer to her mother, and took hold of her hand as if to quieten her; then facing once more round, she said deliberately to kester,-'if thou wasn't kester, i'd niver forgive thee. niver,' she added, with bitterness, as the words he had used recurred to her mind. 'it's in me to hate thee now, for saying what thou did; but thou're dear old kester after all, and i can't help mysel', i mun needs forgive thee,' and she went towards him. he took her little head between his horny hands and kissed it. she looked up with tears in her eyes, saying softly,-'niver say things like them again. niver speak on----' 'a'll bite my tongue off first,' he interrupted. he kept his word. in all philip's comings and goings to and from haytersbank farm at this time, he never spoke again of his love. in look, words, manner, he was like a thoughtful, tender brother; nothing more. he could be nothing more in the presence of the great dread which loomed larger upon him after every conversation with the lawyer. for mr. donkin had been right in his prognostication. government took up the attack on the rendezvous with a high and heavy hand. it was necessary to assert authority which had been of late too often braved. an example must be made, to strike dismay into those who opposed and defied the press-gang; and all the minor authorities who held their powers from government were in a similar manner severe and relentless in the execution of their duty. so the attorney, who went over to see the prisoner in york castle, told philip. he added that daniel still retained his pride in his achievement, and could not be brought to understand the dangerous position in which he was placed; that when pressed and questioned as to circumstances that might possibly be used in his defence, he always wandered off to accounts of previous outrages committed by the press-gang, or to passionate abuse of the trick by which men had been lured from their homes on the night in question to assist in putting out an imaginary fire, and then seized and carried off. some of this very natural indignation might possibly have some effect on the jury; and this seemed the only ground of hope, and was indeed a slight one, as the judge was likely to warn the jury against allowing their natural sympathy in such a case to divert their minds from the real question. such was the substance of what philip heard, and heard repeatedly, during his many visits to mr. dawson. and now the time of trial drew near; for the york assizes opened on march the twelfth; not much above three weeks since the offence was committed which took daniel from his home and placed him in peril of death. philip was glad that, the extremity of his danger never having been hinted to bell, and travelling some forty miles being a most unusual exertion at that time to persons of her class, the idea of going to see her husband at york had never suggested itself to bell's mind. her increasing feebleness made this seem a step only to be taken in case of the fatal extreme necessity; such was the conclusion that both sylvia and he had come to; and it was the knowledge of this that made sylvia strangle her own daily longing to see her father. not but that her hopes were stronger than her fears. philip never told her the causes for despondency; she was young, and she, like her father, could not understand how fearful sometimes is the necessity for prompt and severe punishment of rebellion against authority. philip was to be in york during the time of the assizes; and it was understood, almost without words, that if the terrible worst occurred, the wife and daughter were to come to york as soon as might be. for this end philip silently made all the necessary arrangements before leaving monkshaven. the sympathy of all men was with him; it was too large an occasion for coulson to be anything but magnanimous. he urged philip to take all the time requisite; to leave all business cares to him. and as philip went about pale and sad, there was another cheek that grew paler still, another eye that filled with quiet tears as his heaviness of heart became more and more apparent. the day for opening the assizes came on. philip was in york minster, watching the solemn antique procession in which the highest authority in the county accompanies the judges to the house of the lord, to be there admonished as to the nature of their duties. as philip listened to the sermon with a strained and beating heart, his hopes rose higher than his fears for the first time, and that evening he wrote his first letter to sylvia. 'dear sylvia, 'it will be longer first than i thought for. mr. dawson says tuesday in next week. but keep up your heart. i have been hearing the sermon to-day which is preached to the judges; and the clergyman said so much in it about mercy and forgiveness, i think they cannot fail to be lenient this assize. i have seen uncle, who looks but thin, but is in good heart: only he will keep saying he would do it over again if he had the chance, which neither mr. dawson nor i think is wise in him, in especial as the gaoler is by and hears every word as is said. he was very fain of hearing all about home; and wants you to rear daisy's calf, as he thinks she will prove a good one. he bade me give his best love to you and my aunt, and his kind duty to kester. 'sylvia, will you try and forget how i used to scold you about your writing and spelling, and just write me two or three lines. i think i would rather have them badly spelt than not, because then i shall be sure they are yours. and never mind about capitals; i was a fool to say such a deal about them, for a man does just as well without them. a letter from you would do a vast to keep me patient all these days till tuesday. direct-'mr. philip hepburn, 'care of mr. fraser, draper, 'micklegate, york. 'my affectionate duty to my aunt. 'your respectful cousin and servant, 'philip hepburn. 'p.s. the sermon was grand. the text was zechariah vii. 9, "execute true judgment and show mercy." god grant it may have put mercy into the judge's heart as is to try my uncle.' heavily the days passed over. on sunday bell and sylvia went to church, with a strange, half-superstitious feeling, as if they could propitiate the most high to order the events in their favour by paying him the compliment of attending to duties in their time of sorrow which they had too often neglected in their prosperous days. but he 'who knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust,' took pity upon his children, and sent some of his blessed peace into their hearts, else they could scarce have endured the agony of suspense of those next hours. for as they came slowly and wearily home from church, sylvia could no longer bear her secret, but told her mother of the peril in which daniel stood. cold as the march wind blew, they had not felt it, and had sate down on a hedge bank for bell to rest. and then sylvia spoke, trembling and sick for fear, yet utterly unable to keep silence any longer. bell heaved up her hands, and let them fall down on her knees before she replied. 'the lord is above us,' said she, solemnly. 'he has sent a fear o' this into my heart afore now. i niver breathed it to thee, my lass----' 'and i niver spoke on it to thee, mother, because----' sylvia choked with crying, and laid her head on her mother's lap, feeling that she was no longer the strong one, and the protector, but the protected. bell went on, stroking her head, 'the lord is like a tender nurse as weans a child to look on and to like what it lothed once. he has sent me dreams as has prepared me for this, if so be it comes to pass. 'philip is hopeful,' said sylvia, raising her head and looking through her tears at her mother. 'ay, he is. and i cannot tell, but i think it's not for nought as the lord has ta'en away all fear o' death out o' my heart. i think he means as daniel and me is to go hand-in-hand through the valley--like as we walked up to our wedding in crosthwaite church. i could never guide th' house without daniel, and i should be feared he'd take a deal more nor is good for him without me.' 'but me, mother, thou's forgetting me,' moaned out sylvia. 'oh, mother, mother, think on me!' 'nay, my lass, i'm noane forgetting yo'. i'd a sore heart a' last winter a-thinking on thee, when that chap kinraid were hanging about thee. i'll noane speak ill on the dead, but i were uneasylike. but sin' philip and thee seem to ha' made it up----' sylvia shivered, and opened her mouth to speak, but did not say a word. 'and sin' the lord has been comforting me, and talking to me many a time when thou's thought i were asleep, things has seemed to redd theirselves up, and if daniel goes, i'm ready to follow. i could niver stand living to hear folks say he'd been hung; it seems so unnatural and shameful.' 'but, mother, he won't!--he shan't be hung!' said sylvia, springing to her feet. 'philip says he won't.' bell shook her head. they walked on, sylvia both disheartened and almost irritated at her mother's despondency. but before they went to bed at night bell said things which seemed as though the morning's feelings had been but temporary, and as if she was referring every decision to the period of her husband's return. 'when father comes home,' seemed a sort of burden at the beginning or end of every sentence, and this reliance on his certain coming back to them was almost as great a trial to sylvia as the absence of all hope had been in the morning. but that instinct told her that her mother was becoming incapable of argument, she would have asked her why her views were so essentially changed in so few hours. this inability of reason in poor bell made sylvia feel very desolate. monday passed over--how, neither of them knew, for neither spoke of what was filling the thoughts of both. before it was light on tuesday morning, bell was astir. 'it's very early, mother,' said weary, sleepy sylvia, dreading returning consciousness. 'ay, lass!' said bell, in a brisk, cheerful tone; 'but he'll, maybe, be home to-night, and i'se bound to have all things ready for him.' 'anyhow,' said sylvia, sitting up in bed, 'he couldn't come home to-night.' 'tut, lass! thou doesn't know how quick a man comes home to wife and child. i'll be a' ready at any rate.' she hurried about in a way which sylvia wondered to see; till at length she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to drive away thought. every place was cleaned; there was scarce time allowed for breakfast; till at last, long before mid-day, all the work was done, and the two sat down to their spinning-wheels. sylvia's spirits sank lower and lower at each speech of her mother's, from whose mind all fear seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange restless kind of excitement. 'it's time for t' potatoes,' said bell, after her wool had snapped many a time from her uneven tread. 'mother,' said sylvia, 'it's but just gone ten!' 'put 'em on,' said bell, without attending to the full meaning of her daughter's words. 'it'll, maybe, hasten t' day on if we get dinner done betimes.' 'but kester is in t' far acre field, and he'll not be home till noon.' this seemed to settle matters for a while; but then bell pushed her wheel away, and began searching for her hood and cloak. sylvia found them for her, and then asked sadly-'what does ta want 'em for, mother?' 'i'll go up t' brow and through t' field, and just have a look down t' lane.' 'i'll go wi' thee,' said sylvia, feeling all the time the uselessness of any looking for intelligence from york so early in the day. very patiently did she wait by her mother's side during the long half-hour which bell spent in gazing down the road for those who never came. when they got home sylvia put the potatoes on to boil; but when dinner was ready and the three were seated at the dresser, bell pushed her plate away from her, saying it was so long after dinner time that she was past eating. kester would have said something about its being only half-past twelve, but sylvia gave him a look beseeching silence, and he went on with his dinner without a word, only brushing away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand from time to time. 'a'll noane go far fra' home t' rest o' t' day,' said he, in a whisper to sylvia, as he went out. 'will this day niver come to an end?' cried bell, plaintively. 'oh, mother! it'll come to an end some time, never fear. i've heerd say-"be the day weary or be the day long, at length it ringeth to even-song."' 'to even-song--to even-song,' repeated bell. 'd'ye think now that even-song means death, sylvie?' 'i cannot tell--i cannot bear it. mother,' said sylvia, in despair, 'i'll make some clap-bread: that's a heavy job, and will while away t' afternoon.' 'ay, do!' replied the mother. 'he'll like it fresh--he'll like it fresh.' murmuring and talking to herself, she fell into a doze, from which sylvia was careful not to disturb her. the days were now getting long, although as cold as ever; and at haytersbank farm the light lingered, as there was no near horizon to bring on early darkness. sylvia had all ready for her mother's tea against she wakened; but she slept on and on, the peaceful sleep of a child, and sylvia did not care to waken her. just after the sun had set, she saw kester outside the window making signs to her to come out. she stole out on tip-toe by the back-kitchen, the door of which was standing open. she almost ran against philip, who did not perceive her, as he was awaiting her coming the other way round the corner of the house, and who turned upon her a face whose import she read in an instant. 'philip!' was all she said, and then she fainted at his feet, coming down with a heavy bang on the round paving stones of the yard. 'kester! kester!' he cried, for she looked like one dead, and with all his strength the wearied man could not lift her and carry her into the house. with kester's help she was borne into the back-kitchen, and kester rushed to the pump for some cold water to throw over her. while philip, kneeling at her head, was partly supporting her in his arms, and heedless of any sight or sound, the shadow of some one fell upon him. he looked up and saw his aunt; the old dignified, sensible expression on her face, exactly like her former self, composed, strong, and calm. 'my lass,' said she, sitting down by philip, and gently taking her out of his arms into her own. 'lass, bear up! we mun bear up, and be agait on our way to him, he'll be needing us now. bear up, my lass! the lord will give us strength. we mun go to him; ay, time's precious; thou mun cry thy cry at after!' sylvia opened her dim eyes, and heard her mother's voice; the ideas came slowly into her mind, and slowly she rose up, standing still, like one who has been stunned, to regain her strength; and then, taking hold of her mother's arm, she said, in a soft, strange voice-'let's go. i'm ready.' chapter xxviii the ordeal it was the afternoon of an april day in that same year, and the sky was blue above, with little sailing white clouds catching the pleasant sunlight. the earth in that northern country had scarcely yet put on her robe of green. the few trees grew near brooks running down from the moors and the higher ground. the air was full of pleasant sounds prophesying of the coming summer. the rush, and murmur, and tinkle of the hidden watercourses; the song of the lark poised high up in the sunny air; the bleat of the lambs calling to their mothers--everything inanimate was full of hope and gladness. for the first time for a mournful month the front door of haytersbank farm was open; the warm spring air might enter, and displace the sad dark gloom, if it could. there was a newly-lighted fire in the unused grate; and kester was in the kitchen, with his clogs off his feet, so as not to dirty the spotless floor, stirring here and there, and trying in his awkward way to make things look home-like and cheerful. he had brought in some wild daffodils which he had been to seek in the dawn, and he placed them in a jug on the dresser. dolly reid, the woman who had come to help sylvia during her mother's illness a year ago, was attending to something in the back-kitchen, making a noise among the milk-cans, and singing a ballad to herself as she worked; yet every now and then she checked herself in her singing, as if a sudden recollection came upon her that this was neither the time nor the place for songs. once or twice she took up the funeral psalm which is sung by the bearers of the body in that country-our god, our help in ages past. but it was of no use: the pleasant april weather out of doors, and perhaps the natural spring in the body, disposed her nature to cheerfulness, and insensibly she returned to her old ditty. kester was turning over many things in his rude honest mind as he stood there, giving his finishing touches every now and then to the aspect of the house-place, in preparation for the return of the widow and daughter of his old master. it was a month and more since they had left home; more than a fortnight since kester, with three halfpence in his pocket, had set out after his day's work to go to york--to walk all night long, and to wish daniel robson his last farewell. daniel had tried to keep up and had brought out one or two familiar, thread-bare, well-worn jokes, such as he had made kester chuckle over many a time and oft, when the two had been together afield or in the shippen at the home which he should never more see. but no 'old grouse in the gunroom' could make kester smile, or do anything except groan in but a heart-broken sort of fashion, and presently the talk had become more suitable to the occasion, daniel being up to the last the more composed of the two; for kester, when turned out of the condemned cell, fairly broke down into the heavy sobbing he had never thought to sob again on earth. he had left bell and sylvia in their lodging at york, under philip's care; he dared not go to see them; he could not trust himself; he had sent them his duty, and bade philip tell sylvia that the game-hen had brought out fifteen chickens at a hatch. yet although kester sent this message through philip--although he saw and recognized all that philip was doing in their behalf, in the behalf of daniel robson, the condemned felon, his honoured master--he liked hepburn not a whit better than he had done before all this sorrow had come upon them. philip had, perhaps, shown a want of tact in his conduct to kester. acute with passionate keenness in one direction, he had a sort of dull straightforwardness in all others. for instance, he had returned kester the money which the latter had so gladly advanced towards the expenses incurred in defending daniel. now the money which philip gave him back was part of an advance which foster brothers had made on philip's own account. philip had thought that it was hard on kester to lose his savings in a hopeless cause, and had made a point of repaying the old man; but kester would far rather have felt that the earnings of the sweat of his brow had gone in the attempt to save his master's life than have had twice ten times as many golden guineas. moreover, it seemed to take his action in lending his hoard out of the sphere of love, and make it but a leaden common loan, when it was philip who brought him the sum, not sylvia, into whose hands he had given it. with these feelings kester felt his heart shut up as he saw the long-watched-for two coming down the little path with a third person; with philip holding up the failing steps of poor bell robson, as, loaded with her heavy mourning, and feeble from the illness which had detained her in york ever since the day of her husband's execution, she came faltering back to her desolate home. sylvia was also occupied in attending to her mother; one or twice, when they paused a little, she and philip spoke, in the familiar way in which there is no coyness nor reserve. kester caught up his clogs, and went quickly out through the back-kitchen into the farm-yard, not staying to greet them, as he had meant to do; and yet it was dull-sighted of him not to have perceived that whatever might be the relations between philip and sylvia, he was sure to have accompanied them home; for, alas! he was the only male protector of their blood remaining in the world. poor kester, who would fain have taken that office upon himself, chose to esteem himself cast off, and went heavily about the farmyard, knowing that he ought to go in and bid such poor welcome as he had to offer, yet feeling too much to like to show himself before philip. it was long, too, before any one had leisure to come and seek him. bell's mind had flashed up for a time, till the fatal day, only to be reduced by her subsequent illness into complete and hopeless childishness. it was all philip and sylvia could do to manage her in the first excitement of returning home; her restless inquiry for him who would never more be present in the familiar scene, her feverish weariness and uneasiness, all required tender soothing and most patient endurance of her refusals to be satisfied with what they said or did. at length she took some food, and, refreshed by it, and warmed by the fire, she sank asleep in her chair. then philip would fain have spoken with sylvia before the hour came at which he must return to monkshaven, but she eluded him, and went in search of kester, whose presence she had missed. she had guessed some of the causes which kept him from greeting them on their first return. but it was not as if she had shaped these causes into the definite form of words. it is astonishing to look back and find how differently constituted were the minds of most people fifty or sixty years ago; they felt, they understood, without going through reasoning or analytic processes, and if this was the case among the more educated people, of course it was still more so in the class to which sylvia belonged. she knew by some sort of intuition that if philip accompanied them home (as, indeed, under the circumstances, was so natural as to be almost unavoidable), the old servant and friend of the family would absent himself; and so she slipped away at the first possible moment to go in search of him. there he was in the farm-yard, leaning over the gate that opened into the home-field, apparently watching the poultry that scratched and pecked at the new-springing grass with the utmost relish. a little farther off were the ewes with their new-dropped lambs, beyond that the great old thorn-tree with its round fresh clusters of buds, again beyond that there was a glimpse of the vast sunny rippling sea; but sylvia knew well that kester was looking at none of these things. she went up to him and touched his arm. he started from his reverie, and turned round upon her with his dim eyes full of unshed tears. when he saw her black dress, her deep mourning, he had hard work to keep from breaking out, but by dint of a good brush of his eyes with the back of his hand, and a moment's pause, he could look at her again with tolerable calmness. 'why, kester: why didst niver come to speak to us?' said sylvia, finding it necessary to be cheerful if she could. 'a dun know; niver ax me. a say, they'n gi'en dick simpson' (whose evidence had been all material against poor daniel robson at the trial) 'a' t' rotten eggs and fou' things they could o' saturday, they did,' continued he, in a tone of satisfaction; 'ay, and they niver stopped t' see whether t' eggs were rotten or fresh when their blood was up--nor whether stones was hard or soft,' he added, in a lower tone, and chuckling a little. sylvia was silent. he looked at her now, chuckling still. her face was white, her lips tightened, her eyes a-flame. she drew a long breath. 'i wish i'd been theere! i wish i could do him an ill turn,' sighed she, with some kind of expression on her face that made kester quail a little. 'nay, lass! he'll get it fra' others. niver fret thysel' about sich rubbish. a'n done ill to speak on him.' 'no! thou hasn't. then as was friends o' father's i'll love for iver and iver; them as helped for t' hang him' (she shuddered from head to foot--a sharp irrepressible shudder!) 'i'll niver forgive--niver!' 'niver's a long word,' said kester, musingly. 'a could horsewhip him, or cast stones at him, or duck him mysel'; but, lass! niver's a long word!' 'well! niver heed if it is--it's me as said it, and i'm turned savage late days. come in, kester, and see poor mother.' 'a cannot,' said he, turning his wrinkled puckered face away, that she might not see the twitchings of emotion on it. 'there's kine to be fetched up, and what not, and he's theere, isn't he, sylvie?' facing round upon her with inquisitiveness. under his peering eyes she reddened a little. 'yes, if it's philip thou means; he's been all we've had to look to sin'.' again the shudder. 'well, now he'll be seein' after his shop, a reckon?' sylvia was calling to the old mare nibbling tufts of early-springing grass here and there, and half unconsciously coaxing the creature to come up to the gate to be stroked. but she heard kester's words well enough, and so he saw, although she made this excuse not to reply. but kester was not to be put off. 'folks is talkin' about thee and him; thou'll ha' to mind lest thee and him gets yo'r names coupled together.' 'it's right down cruel on folks, then,' said she, crimsoning from some emotion. 'as if any man as was a man wouldn't do all he could for two lone women at such a time--and he a cousin, too! tell me who said so,' continued she, firing round at kester, 'and i'll niver forgive 'em--that's all.' 'hoots!' said kester, a little conscious that he himself was the principal representative of that name of multitude folk. 'here's a pretty lass; she's' got "a'll niver forgi'e" at her tongue's end wi' a vengeance.' sylvia was a little confused. 'oh, kester, man,' said she, 'my heart is sore again' every one, for feyther's sake.' and at length the natural relief of plentiful tears came; and kester, with instinctive wisdom, let her weep undisturbed; indeed, he cried not a little himself. they were interrupted by philip's voice from the back-door. 'sylvie, your mother's awake, and wants you!' 'come, kester, come,' and taking hold of him she drew him with her into the house. bell rose as they came in, holding by the arms of the chair. at first she received kester as though he had been a stranger. 'i'm glad to see yo', sir; t' master's out, but he'll be in afore long. it'll be about t' lambs yo're come, mebbe?' 'mother!' said sylvia, 'dunnot yo' see? it's kester,--kester, wi' his sunday clothes on.' 'kester! ay, sure it is; my eyes have getten so sore and dim of late; just as if i'd been greeting. i'm sure, lad, i'm glad to see thee! it's a long time i've been away, but it were not pleasure-seeking as took me, it were business o' some mak'--tell him, sylvie, what it were, for my head's clean gone. i only know i wouldn't ha' left home if i could ha' helped it; for i think i should ha' kept my health better if i'd bided at home wi' my master. i wonder as he's not comed in for t' bid me welcome? is he far afield, think ye, kester?' kester looked at sylvia, mutely imploring her to help him out in the dilemma of answering, but she was doing all she could to help crying. philip came to the rescue. 'aunt,' said he, 'the clock has stopped; can you tell me where t' find t' key, and i'll wind it up.' 't' key,' said she, hurriedly, 't' key, it's behind th' big bible on yon shelf. but i'd rayther thou wouldn't touch it, lad; it's t' master's work, and he distrusts folk meddling wi' it.' day after day there was this constant reference to her dead husband. in one sense it was a blessing; all the circumstances attendant on his sad and untimely end were swept out of her mind along with the recollection of the fact itself. she referred to him as absent, and had always some plausible way of accounting for it, which satisfied her own mind; and, accordingly they fell into the habit of humouring her, and speaking of him as gone to monkshaven, or afield, or wearied out, and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led her to believe for the moment. but this forgetfulness, though happy for herself, was terrible for her child. it was a constant renewing of sylvia's grief, while her mother could give her no sympathy, no help, or strength in any circumstances that arose out of this grief. she was driven more and more upon philip; his advice and his affection became daily more necessary to her. kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly than sylvia did herself; and, impotent to hinder what he feared and disliked, he grew more and more surly every day. yet he tried to labour hard and well for the interests of the family, as if they were bound up in his good management of the cattle and land. he was out and about by the earliest dawn, working all day long with might and main. he bought himself a pair of new spectacles, which might, he fancied, enable him to read the _farmer's complete guide_, his dead master's _vade-mecum_. but he had never learnt more than his capital letters, and had forgotten many of them; so the spectacles did him but little good. then he would take the book to sylvia, and ask her to read to him the instructions he needed; instructions, be it noted, that he would formerly have despised as mere book-learning: but his present sense of responsibility had made him humble. sylvia would find the place with all deliberation: and putting her finger under the line to keep the exact place of the word she was reading, she would strive in good earnest to read out the directions given; but when every fourth word had to be spelt, it was rather hopeless work, especially as all these words were unintelligible to the open-mouthed listener, however intent he might be. he had generally to fall back on his own experience; and, guided by that, things were not doing badly in his estimation, when, one day, sylvia said to him, as they were in the hay-field, heaping up the hay into cocks with dolly reid's assistance-'kester--i didn't tell thee--there were a letter from measter hall, lord malton's steward, that came last night and that philip read me.' she stopped for a moment. 'ay, lass! philip read it thee, and whatten might it say?' 'only that he had an offer for haytersbank farm, and would set mother free to go as soon as t' crops was off t' ground.' she sighed a little as she said this. "'only!" sayst ta? whatten business has he for to go an' offer to let t' farm afore iver he were told as yo' wished to leave it?' observed kester, in high dudgeon. 'oh!' replied sylvia, throwing down her rake, as if weary of life. 'what could we do wi' t' farm and land? if it were all dairy i might ha' done, but wi' so much on it arable.' 'and if 'tis arable is not i allays to t' fore?' 'oh, man, dunnot find fault wi' me! i'm just fain to lie down and die, if it were not for mother.' 'ay! thy mother will be sore unsettled if thou's for quitting haytersbank,' said merciless kester. 'i cannot help it; i cannot help it! what can i do? it would take two pair o' men's hands to keep t' land up as measter hall likes it; and beside----' 'beside what?' said kester, looking up at her with his sudden odd look, one eye shut, the other open: there she stood, her two hands clasped tight together, her eyes filling with tears, her face pale and sad. 'beside what?' he asked again, sharply. 't' answer's sent to measter hall--philip wrote it last night; so there's no use planning and fretting, it were done for t' best, and mun be done.' she stooped and picked up her rake, and began tossing the hay with energy, the tears streaming down her cheeks unheeded. it was kester's turn to throw down his rake. she took no notice, he did not feel sure that she had observed his action. he began to walk towards the field-gate; this movement did catch her eye, for in a minute her hand was on his arm, and she was stooping forward to look into his face. it was working and twitching with emotion. 'kester! oh, man! speak out, but dunnot leave me a this-ns. what could i ha' done? mother is gone dateless wi' sorrow, and i am but a young lass, i' years i mean; for i'm old enough wi' weeping.' 'i'd ha' put up for t' farm mysel', sooner than had thee turned out,' said kester, in a low voice; then working himself up into a passion, as a new suspicion crossed his mind, he added, 'an' what for didn't yo' tell me on t' letter? yo' were in a mighty hurry to settle it a', and get rid on t' oud place.' 'measter hall had sent a notice to quit on midsummer day; but philip had answered it hisself. thou knows i'm not good at reading writing, 'special when a letter's full o' long words, and philip had ta'en it in hand to answer.' 'wi'out asking thee?' sylvia went on without minding the interruption. 'and measter hall makes a good offer, for t' man as is going to come in will take t' stock and a' t' implements; and if mother--if we--if i--like, th' furniture and a'----' 'furniture!' said kester, in grim surprise. 'what's to come o' t' missus and thee, that yo'll not need a bed to lie on, or a pot to boil yo'r vittel in?' sylvia reddened, but kept silence. 'cannot yo' speak?' 'oh, kester, i didn't think thou'd turn again' me, and me so friendless. it's as if i'd been doin' something wrong, and i have so striven to act as is best; there's mother as well as me to be thought on.' 'cannot yo' answer a question?' said kester, once more. 'whatten's up that t' missus and yo'll not need bed and table, pots and pans?' 'i think i'm going to marry philip,' said sylvia, in so low a tone, that if kester had not suspected what her answer was to be, he could not have understood it. after a moment's pause he recommenced his walk towards the field-gate. but she went after him and held him tight by the arm, speaking rapidly. 'kester, what could i do? what can i do? he's my cousin, and mother knows him, and likes him; and he's been so good to us in a' this time o' trouble and heavy grief, and he'll keep mother in comfort all t' rest of her days.' 'ay, and thee in comfort. there's a deal in a well-filled purse in a wench's eyes, or one would ha' thought it weren't so easy forgettin' yon lad as loved thee as t' apple on his eye.' 'kester, kester,' she cried, 'i've niver forgotten charley; i think on him, i see him ivery night lying drowned at t' bottom o' t' sea. forgetten him! man! it's easy talking!' she was like a wild creature that sees its young, but is unable to reach it without a deadly spring, and yet is preparing to take that fatal leap. kester himself was almost startled, and yet it was as if he must go on torturing her. 'an' who telled thee so sure and certain as he were drowned? he might ha' been carried off by t' press-gang as well as other men.' 'oh! if i were but dead that i might know all!' cried she, flinging herself down on the hay. kester kept silence. then she sprang up again, and looking with eager wistfulness into his face, she said,-'tell me t' chances. tell me quick! philip's very good, and kind, and he says he shall die if i will not marry him, and there's no home for mother and me,--no home for her, for as for me i dunnot care what becomes on me; but if charley's alive i cannot marry philip--no, not if he dies for want o' me--and as for mother, poor mother, kester, it's an awful strait; only first tell me if there's a chance, just one in a thousand, only one in a hundred thousand, as charley were ta'en by t' gang?' she was breathless by this time, what with her hurried words, and what with the beating of her heart. kester took time to answer. he had spoken before too hastily, this time he weighed his words. 'kinraid went away from this here place t' join his ship. an' he niver joined it no more; an' t' captain an' all his friends at newcassel as iver were, made search for him, on board t' king's ships. that's more nor fifteen month ago, an' nought has iver been heerd on him by any man. that's what's to be said on one side o' t' matter. then on t' other there's this as is known. his hat were cast up by t' sea wi' a ribbon in it, as there's reason t' think as he'd not ha' parted wi' so quick if he'd had his own will.' 'but yo' said as he might ha' been carried off by t' gang--yo' did, kester, tho' now yo're a' for t' other side.' 'my lass, a'd fain have him alive, an' a dunnot fancy philip for thy husband; but it's a serious judgment as thou's put me on, an' a'm trying it fair. there's allays one chance i' a thousand as he's alive, for no man iver saw him dead. but t' gang were noane about monkshaven then: there were niver a tender on t' coast nearer than shields, an' those theere were searched.' he did not say any more, but turned back into the field, and took up his hay-making again. sylvia stood quite still, thinking, and wistfully longing for some kind of certainty. kester came up to her. 'sylvie, thou knows philip paid me back my money, and it were eight pound fifteen and three-pence; and t' hay and stock 'll sell for summat above t' rent; and a've a sister as is a decent widow-woman, tho' but badly off, livin' at dale end; and if thee and thy mother 'll go live wi' her, a'll give thee well on to all a can earn, and it'll be a matter o' five shilling a week. but dunnot go and marry a man as thou's noane taken wi', and another as is most like for t' be dead, but who, mebbe, is alive, havin' a pull on thy heart.' sylvia began to cry as if her heart was broken. she had promised herself more fully to philip the night before than she had told kester; and, with some pains and much patience, her cousin, her lover, alas! her future husband, had made the fact clear to the bewildered mind of her poor mother, who had all day long shown that her mind and heart were full of the subject, and that the contemplation of it was giving her as much peace as she could ever know. and now kester's words came to call up echoes in the poor girl's heart. just as she was in this miserable state, wishing that the grave lay open before her, and that she could lie down, and be covered up by the soft green turf from all the bitter sorrows and carking cares and weary bewilderments of this life; wishing that her father was alive, that charley was once more here; that she had not repeated the solemn words by which she had promised herself to philip only the very evening before, she heard a soft, low whistle, and, looking round unconsciously, there was her lover and affianced husband, leaning on the gate, and gazing into the field with passionate eyes, devouring the fair face and figure of her, his future wife. 'oh, kester,' said she once more, 'what mun i do? i'm pledged to him as strong as words can make it, and mother blessed us both wi' more sense than she's had for weeks. kester, man, speak! shall i go and break it all off?--say.' 'nay, it's noane for me t' say; m'appen thou's gone too far. them above only knows what is best.' again that long, cooing whistle. 'sylvie!' 'he's been very kind to us all,' said sylvia, laying her rake down with slow care, 'and i'll try t' make him happy.' chapter xxix wedding raiment philip and sylvia were engaged. it was not so happy a state of things as philip had imagined. he had already found that out, although it was not twenty-four hours since sylvia had promised to be his. he could not have defined why he was dissatisfied; if he had been compelled to account for his feeling, he would probably have alleged as a reason that sylvia's manner was so unchanged by her new position towards him. she was quiet and gentle; but no shyer, no brighter, no coyer, no happier, than she had been for months before. when she joined him at the field-gate, his heart was beating fast, his eyes were beaming out love at her approach. she neither blushed nor smiled, but seemed absorbed in thought of some kind. but she resisted his silent effort to draw her away from the path leading to the house, and turned her face steadily homewards. he murmured soft words, which she scarcely heard. right in their way was the stone trough for the fresh bubbling water, that, issuing from a roadside spring, served for all the household purposes of haytersbank farm. by it were the milk-cans, glittering and clean. sylvia knew she should have to stop for these, and carry them back home in readiness for the evening's milking; and at this time, during this action, she resolved to say what was on her mind. they were there. sylvia spoke. 'philip, kester has been saying as how it might ha' been----' 'well!' said philip. sylvia sate down on the edge of the trough, and dipped her hot little hand in the water. then she went on quickly, and lifting her beautiful eyes to philip's face, with a look of inquiry--'he thinks as charley kinraid may ha' been took by t' press-gang.' it was the first time she had named the name of her former lover to her present one since the day, long ago now, when they had quarrelled about him; and the rosy colour flushed her all over; but her sweet, trustful eyes never flinched from their steady, unconscious gaze. philip's heart stopped beating; literally, as if he had come to a sudden precipice, while he had thought himself securely walking on sunny greensward. he went purple all over from dismay; he dared not take his eyes away from that sad, earnest look of hers, but he was thankful that a mist came before them and drew a veil before his brain. he heard his own voice saying words he did not seem to have framed in his own mind. 'kester's a d--d fool,' he growled. 'he says there's mebbe but one chance i' a hundred,' said sylvia, pleading, as it were, for kester; 'but oh! philip, think yo' there's just that one chance?' 'ay, there's a chance, sure enough,' said philip, in a kind of fierce despair that made him reckless what he said or did. 'there's a chance, i suppose, for iverything i' life as we have not seen with our own eyes as it may not ha' happened. kester may say next as there's a chance as your father is not dead, because we none on us saw him----' 'hung,' he was going to have said, but a touch of humanity came back into his stony heart. sylvia sent up a little sharp cry at his words. he longed at the sound to take her in his arms and hush her up, as a mother hushes her weeping child. but the very longing, having to be repressed, only made him more beside himself with guilt, anxiety, and rage. they were quite still now. sylvia looking sadly down into the bubbling, merry, flowing water: philip glaring at her, wishing that the next word were spoken, though it might stab him to the heart. but she did not speak. at length, unable to bear it any longer, he said, 'thou sets a deal o' store on that man, sylvie.' if 'that man' had been there at the moment, philip would have grappled with him, and not let go his hold till one or the other were dead. sylvia caught some of the passionate meaning of the gloomy, miserable tone of philip's voice as he said these words. she looked up at him. 'i thought yo' knowed that i cared a deal for him.' there was something so pleading and innocent in her pale, troubled face, so pathetic in her tone, that philip's anger, which had been excited against her, as well as against all the rest of the world, melted away into love; and once more he felt that have her for his own he must, at any cost. he sate down by her, and spoke to her in quite a different manner to that which he had used before, with a ready tact and art which some strange instinct or tempter 'close at his ear' supplied. 'yes, darling, i knew yo' cared for him. i'll not say ill of him that is--dead--ay, dead and drowned--whativer kester may say--before now; but if i chose i could tell tales.' 'no! tell no tales; i'll not hear them,' said she, wrenching herself out of philip's clasping arm. 'they may misca' him for iver, and i'll not believe 'em.' 'i'll niver miscall one who is dead,' said philip; each new unconscious sign of the strength of sylvia's love for her former lover only making him the more anxious to convince her that he was dead, only rendering him more keen at deceiving his own conscience by repeating to it the lie that long ere this kinraid was in all probability dead--killed by either the chances of war or tempestuous sea; that, even if not, he was as good as dead to her; so that the word 'dead' might be used in all honest certainty, as in one of its meanings kinraid was dead for sure. 'think yo' that if he were not dead he wouldn't ha' written ere this to some one of his kin, if not to thee? yet none of his folk newcassel-way but believe him dead.' 'so kester says,' sighed sylvia. philip took heart. he put his arm softly round her again, and murmured-'my lassie, try not to think on them as is gone, as is dead, but t' think a bit more on him as loves yo' wi' heart, and soul, and might, and has done iver sin' he first set eyes on yo'. oh, sylvie, my love for thee is just terrible.' at this moment dolly reid was seen at the back-door of the farmhouse, and catching sight of sylvia, she called out-'sylvia, thy mother is axing for thee, and i cannot make her mind easy.' in a moment sylvia had sprung up from her seat, and was running in to soothe and comfort her mother's troubled fancies. philip sate on by the well-side, his face buried in his two hands. presently he lifted himself up, drank some water eagerly out of his hollowed palm, sighed, and shook himself, and followed his cousin into the house. sometimes he came unexpectedly to the limits of his influence over her. in general she obeyed his expressed wishes with gentle indifference, as if she had no preferences of her own; once or twice he found that she was doing what he desired out of the spirit of obedience, which, as her mother's daughter, she believed to be her duty towards her affianced husband. and this last motive for action depressed her lover more than anything. he wanted the old sylvia back again; captious, capricious, wilful, haughty, merry, charming. alas! that sylvia was gone for ever. but once especially his power, arising from whatever cause, was stopped entirely short--was utterly of no avail. it was on the occasion of dick simpson's mortal illness. sylvia and her mother kept aloof from every one. they had never been intimate with any family but the corneys, and even this friendship had considerably cooled since molly's marriage, and most especially since kinraid's supposed death, when bessy corney and sylvia had been, as it were, rival mourners. but many people, both in monkshaven and the country round about, held the robson family in great respect, although mrs. robson herself was accounted 'high' and 'distant;' and poor little sylvia, in her heyday of beautiful youth and high spirits, had been spoken of as 'a bit flighty,' and 'a set-up lassie.' still, when their great sorrow fell upon them, there were plenty of friends to sympathize deeply with them; and, as daniel had suffered in a popular cause, there were even more who, scarcely knowing them personally, were ready to give them all the marks of respect and friendly feeling in their power. but neither bell nor sylvia were aware of this. the former had lost all perception of what was not immediately before her; the latter shrank from all encounters of any kind with a sore heart, and sensitive avoidance of everything that could make her a subject of remark. so the poor afflicted people at haytersbank knew little of monkshaven news. what little did come to their ears came through dolly reid, when she returned from selling the farm produce of the week; and often, indeed, even then she found sylvia too much absorbed in other cares or thoughts to listen to her gossip. so no one had ever named that simpson was supposed to be dying till philip began on the subject one evening. sylvia's face suddenly flashed into glow and life. 'he's dying, is he? t' earth is well rid on such a fellow!' 'eh, sylvie, that's a hard speech o' thine!' said philip; 'it gives me but poor heart to ask a favour of thee!' 'if it's aught about simpson,' replied she, and then she interrupted herself. 'but say on; it were ill-mannered in me for t' interrupt yo'.' 'thou would be sorry to see him, i think, sylvie. he cannot get over the way, t' folk met him, and pelted him when he came back fra' york,--and he's weak and faint, and beside himself at times; and he'll lie a dreaming, and a-fancying they're all at him again, hooting, and yelling, and pelting him.' 'i'm glad on 't,' said sylvia; 'it's t' best news i've heered for many a day,--he, to turn again' feyther, who gave him money fo t' get a lodging that night, when he'd no place to go to. it were his evidence as hung feyther; and he's rightly punished for it now.' 'for a' that,--and he's done a vast o' wrong beside, he's dying now, sylvie!' 'well! let him die--it's t' best thing he could do!' 'but he's lying i' such dree poverty,--and niver a friend to go near him,--niver a person to speak a kind word t' him.' 'it seems as yo've been speaking wi' him, at any rate,' said sylvia, turning round on philip. 'ay. he sent for me by nell manning, th' old beggar-woman, who sometimes goes in and makes his bed for him, poor wretch,--he's lying in t' ruins of th' cow-house of th' mariners' arms, sylvie.' 'well!' said she, in the same hard, dry tone. 'and i went and fetched th' parish doctor, for i thought he'd ha' died before my face,--he was so wan, and ashen-grey, so thin, too, his eyes seem pushed out of his bony face.' 'that last time--feyther's eyes were starting, wild-like, and as if he couldn't meet ours, or bear the sight on our weeping.' it was a bad look-out for philip's purpose; but after a pause he went bravely on. 'he's a poor dying creature, anyhow. t' doctor said so, and told him he hadn't many hours, let alone days, to live.' 'and he'd shrink fra' dying wi' a' his sins on his head?' said sylvia, almost exultingly. philip shook his head. 'he said this world had been too strong for him, and men too hard upon him; he could niver do any good here, and he thought he should, maybe, find folks i' t' next place more merciful.' 'he'll meet feyther theere,' said sylvia, still hard and bitter. 'he's a poor ignorant creature, and doesn't seem to know rightly who he's like to meet; only he seems glad to get away fra' monkshaven folks; he were really hurt, i am afeared, that night, sylvie,--and he speaks as if he'd had hard times of it ever since he were a child,--and he talks as if he were really grieved for t' part t' lawyers made him take at th' trial,--they made him speak, against his will, he says.' 'couldn't he ha' bitten his tongue out?' asked sylvia. 'it's fine talking o' sorrow when the thing is done!' 'well, anyhow he's sorry now; and he's not long for to live. and, sylvie, he bid me ask thee, if, for the sake of all that is dear to thee both here, and i' th' world to come, thou'd go wi' me, and just say to him that thou forgives him his part that day.' 'he sent thee on that errand, did he? and thou could come and ask me? i've a mind to break it off for iver wi' thee, philip.' she kept gasping, as if she could not say any more. philip watched and waited till her breath came, his own half choked. 'thee and me was niver meant to go together. it's not in me to forgive,--i sometimes think it's not in me to forget. i wonder, philip, if thy feyther had done a kind deed--and a right deed--and a merciful deed--and some one as he'd been good to, even i' t' midst of his just anger, had gone and let on about him to th' judge, as was trying to hang him,--and had getten him hanged,--hanged dead, so that his wife were a widow, and his child fatherless for ivermore,--i wonder if thy veins would run milk and water, so that thou could go and make friends, and speak soft wi' him as had caused thy feyther's death?' 'it's said in t' bible, sylvie, that we're to forgive.' 'ay, there's some things as i know i niver forgive; and there's others as i can't--and i won't, either.' 'but, sylvie, yo' pray to be forgiven your trespasses, as you forgive them as trespass against you.' 'well, if i'm to be taken at my word, i'll noane pray at all, that's all. it's well enough for them as has but little to forgive to use them words; and i don't reckon it's kind, or pretty behaved in yo', philip, to bring up scripture again' me. thou may go about thy business.' 'thou'rt vexed with me, sylvie; and i'm not meaning but that it would go hard with thee to forgive him; but i think it would be right and christian-like i' thee, and that thou'd find thy comfort in thinking on it after. if thou'd only go, and see his wistful eyes--i think they'd plead wi' thee more than his words, or mine either.' 'i tell thee my flesh and blood wasn't made for forgiving and forgetting. once for all, thou must take my word. when i love i love, and when i hate i hate; and him as has done hard to me, or to mine, i may keep fra' striking or murdering, but i'll niver forgive. i should be just a monster, fit to be shown at a fair, if i could forgive him as got feyther hanged.' philip was silent, thinking what more he could urge. 'yo'd better be off,' said sylvia, in a minute or two. 'yo' and me has got wrong, and it'll take a night's sleep to set us right. yo've said all yo' can for him; and perhaps it's not yo' as is to blame, but yo'r nature. but i'm put out wi' thee, and want thee out o' my sight for awhile.' one or two more speeches of this kind convinced him that it would be wise in him to take her at her word. he went back to simpson, and found him, though still alive, past the understanding of any words of human forgiveness. philip had almost wished he had not troubled or irritated sylvia by urging the dying man's request: the performance of this duty seemed now to have been such a useless office. after all, the performance of a duty is never a useless office, though we may not see the consequences, or they may be quite different to what we expected or calculated on. in the pause of active work, when daylight was done, and the evening shades came on, sylvia had time to think; and her heart grew sad and soft, in comparison to what it had been when philip's urgency had called out all her angry opposition. she thought of her father--his sharp passions, his frequent forgiveness, or rather his forgetfulness that he had even been injured. all sylvia's persistent or enduring qualities were derived from her mother, her impulses from her father. it was her dead father whose example filled her mind this evening in the soft and tender twilight. she did not say to herself that she would go and tell simpson that she forgave him; but she thought that if philip asked her again that she should do so. but when she saw philip again he told her that simpson was dead; and passed on from what he had reason to think would be an unpleasant subject to her. thus he never learnt how her conduct might have been more gentle and relenting than her words--words which came up into his memory at a future time, with full measure of miserable significance. in general, sylvia was gentle and good enough; but philip wanted her to be shy and tender with him, and this she was not. she spoke to him, her pretty eyes looking straight and composedly at him. she consulted him like the family friend that he was: she met him quietly in all the arrangements for the time of their marriage, which she looked upon more as a change of home, as the leaving of haytersbank, as it would affect her mother, than in any more directly personal way. philip was beginning to feel, though not as yet to acknowledge, that the fruit he had so inordinately longed for was but of the nature of an apple of sodom. long ago, lodging in widow rose's garret, he had been in the habit of watching some pigeons that were kept by a neighbour; the flock disported themselves on the steep tiled roofs just opposite to the attic window, and insensibly philip grew to know their ways, and one pretty, soft little dove was somehow perpetually associated in his mind with his idea of his cousin sylvia. the pigeon would sit in one particular place, sunning herself, and puffing out her feathered breast, with all the blue and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her plumage. philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a certain piece of shot silk--now in the shop; and none other seemed to him so suitable for his darling's wedding-dress. he carried enough to make a gown, and gave it to her one evening, as she sate on the grass just outside the house, half attending to her mother, half engaged in knitting stockings for her scanty marriage outfit. he was glad that the sun was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the changing colours in fuller light. sylvia admired it duly; even mrs. robson was pleased and attracted by the soft yet brilliant hues. philip whispered to sylvia--(he took delight in whispers,--she, on the contrary, always spoke to him in her usual tone of voice)-'thou'lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart,--o' thursday fortnight!' 'thursday fortnight. on the fourth yo're thinking on. but i cannot wear it then,--i shall be i' black.' 'not on that day, sure!' said philip. 'why not? there's nought t' happen on that day for t' make me forget feyther. i couldn't put off my black, philip,--no, not to save my life! yon silk is just lovely, far too good for the likes of me,--and i'm sure i'm much beholden to yo'; and i'll have it made up first of any gown after last april come two years,--but, oh, philip, i cannot put off my mourning!' 'not for our wedding-day!' said philip, sadly. 'no, lad, i really cannot. i'm just sorry about it, for i see thou'rt set upon it; and thou'rt so kind and good, i sometimes think i can niver be thankful enough to thee. when i think on what would ha' become of mother and me if we hadn't had thee for a friend i' need, i'm noane ungrateful, philip; tho' i sometimes fancy thou'rt thinking i am.' 'i don't want yo' to be grateful, sylvie,' said poor philip, dissatisfied, yet unable to explain what he did want; only knowing that there was something he lacked, yet fain would have had. as the marriage-day drew near, all sylvia's care seemed to be for her mother; all her anxiety was regarding the appurtenances of the home she was leaving. in vain philip tried to interest her in details of his improvements or contrivances in the new home to which he was going to take her. she did not tell him; but the idea of the house behind the shop was associated in her mind with two times of discomfort and misery. the first time she had gone into the parlour about which philip spoke so much was at the time of the press-gang riot, when she had fainted from terror and excitement; the second was on that night of misery when she and her mother had gone in to monkshaven, to bid her father farewell before he was taken to york; in that room, on that night, she had first learnt something of the fatal peril in which he stood. she could not show the bright shy curiosity about her future dwelling that is common enough with girls who are going to be married. all she could do was to restrain herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on the subject. in time he saw that she shrank from it; so he held his peace, and planned and worked for her in silence,--smiling to himself as he looked on each completed arrangement for her pleasure or comfort; and knowing well that her happiness was involved in what fragments of peace and material comfort might remain to her mother. the wedding-day drew near apace. it was philip's plan that after they had been married in kirk moorside church, he and his sylvia, his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for the day to robin hood's bay, returning in the evening to the house behind the shop in the market-place. there they were to find bell robson installed in her future home; for haytersbank farm was to be given up to the new tenant on the very day of the wedding. sylvia would not be married any sooner; she said that she must stay there till the very last; and had said it with such determination that philip had desisted from all urgency at once. he had told her that all should be settled for her mother's comfort during their few hours' absence; otherwise sylvia would not have gone at all. he told her he should ask hester, who was always so good and kind--who never yet had said him nay, to go to church with them as bridesmaid--for sylvia would give no thought or care to anything but her mother--and that they would leave her at haytersbank as they returned from church; she would manage mrs robson's removal--she would do this--do that--do everything. such friendly confidence had philip in hester's willingness and tender skill. sylvia acquiesced at length, and philip took upon himself to speak to hester on the subject. 'hester,' said he, one day when he was preparing to go home after the shop was closed; 'would yo' mind stopping a bit? i should like to show yo' the place now it's done up; and i've a favour to ask on yo' besides.' he was so happy he did not see her shiver all over. she hesitated just a moment before she answered,-'i'll stay, if thou wishes it, philip. but i'm no judge o' fashions and such like.' 'thou'rt a judge o' comfort, and that's what i've been aiming at. i were niver so comfortable in a' my life as when i were a lodger at thy house,' said he, with brotherly tenderness in his tone. 'if my mind had been at ease i could ha' said i niver were happier in all my days than under thy roof; and i know it were thy doing for the most part. so come along, hester, and tell me if there's aught more i can put in for sylvie.' it might not have been a very appropriate text, but such as it was the words, 'from him that would ask of thee turn not thou away,' seemed the only source of strength that could have enabled her to go patiently through the next half-hour. as it was, she unselfishly brought all her mind to bear upon the subject; admired this, thought and decided upon that, as one by one philip showed her all his alterations and improvements. never was such a quiet little bit of unconscious and unrecognized heroism. she really ended by such a conquest of self that she could absolutely sympathize with the proud expectant lover, and had quenched all envy of the beloved, in sympathy with the delight she imagined sylvia must experience when she discovered all these proofs of philip's fond consideration and care. but it was a great strain on the heart, that source of life; and when hester returned into the parlour, after her deliberate survey of the house, she felt as weary and depressed in bodily strength as if she had gone through an illness of many days. she sate down on the nearest chair, and felt as though she never could rise again. philip, joyous and content, stood near her talking. 'and, hester,' said he, 'sylvie has given me a message for thee--she says thou must be her bridesmaid--she'll have none other.' 'i cannot,' said hester, with sudden sharpness. 'oh, yes, but yo' must. it wouldn't be like my wedding if thou wasn't there: why i've looked upon thee as a sister iver since i came to lodge with thy mother.' hester shook her head. did her duty require her not to turn away from this asking, too? philip saw her reluctance, and, by intuition rather than reason, he knew that what she would not do for gaiety or pleasure she would consent to, if by so doing she could render any service to another. so he went on. 'besides, sylvie and me has planned to go for our wedding jaunt to robin hood's bay. i ha' been to engage a shandry this very morn, before t' shop was opened; and there's no one to leave wi' my aunt. th' poor old body is sore crushed with sorrow; and is, as one may say, childish at times; she's to come down here, that we may find her when we come back at night; and there's niver a one she'll come with so willing and so happy as with thee, hester. sylvie and me has both said so.' hester looked up in his face with her grave honest eyes. 'i cannot go to church wi' thee, philip; and thou must not ask me any further. but i'll go betimes to haytersbank farm, and i'll do my best to make the old lady happy, and to follow out thy directions in bringing her here before nightfall.' philip was on the point of urging her afresh to go with them to church; but something in her eyes brought a thought across his mind, as transitory as a breath passes over a looking-glass, and he desisted from his entreaty, and put away his thought as a piece of vain coxcombry, insulting to hester. he passed rapidly on to all the careful directions rendered necessary by her compliance with the latter part of his request, coupling sylvia's name with his perpetually; so that hester looked upon her as a happy girl, as eager in planning all the details of her marriage as though no heavy shameful sorrow had passed over her head not many months ago. hester did not see sylvia's white, dreamy, resolute face, that answered the solemn questions of the marriage service in a voice that did not seem her own. hester was not with them to notice the heavy abstraction that made the bride as if unconscious of her husband's loving words, and then start and smile, and reply with a sad gentleness of tone. no! hester's duty lay in conveying the poor widow and mother down from haytersbank to the new home in monkshaven; and for all hester's assistance and thoughtfulness, it was a dreary, painful piece of work--the poor old woman crying like a child, with bewilderment at the confused bustle which, in spite of all sylvia's careful forethought, could not be avoided on this final day, when her mother had to be carried away from the homestead over which she had so long presided. but all this was as nothing to the distress which overwhelmed poor bell robson when she entered philip's house; the parlour--the whole place so associated with the keen agony she had undergone there, that the stab of memory penetrated through her deadened senses, and brought her back to misery. in vain hester tried to console her by telling her the fact of sylvia's marriage with philip in every form of words that occurred to her. bell only remembered her husband's fate, which filled up her poor wandering mind, and coloured everything; insomuch that sylvia not being at hand to reply to her mother's cry for her, the latter imagined that her child, as well as her husband, was in danger of trial and death, and refused to be comforted by any endeavour of the patient sympathizing hester. in a pause of mrs robson's sobs, hester heard the welcome sound of the wheels of the returning shandry, bearing the bride and bridegroom home. it stopped at the door--an instant, and sylvia, white as a sheet at the sound of her mother's wailings, which she had caught while yet at a distance, with the quick ears of love, came running in; her mother feebly rose and tottered towards her, and fell into her arms, saying, 'oh! sylvie, sylvie, take me home, and away from this cruel place!' hester could not but be touched with the young girl's manner to her mother--as tender, as protecting as if their relation to each other had been reversed, and she was lulling and tenderly soothing a wayward, frightened child. she had neither eyes nor ears for any one till her mother was sitting in trembling peace, holding her daughter's hand tight in both of hers, as if afraid of losing sight of her: then sylvia turned to hester, and, with the sweet grace which is a natural gift to some happy people, thanked her; in common words enough she thanked her, but in that nameless manner, and with that strange, rare charm which made hester feel as if she had never been thanked in all her life before; and from that time forth she understood, if she did not always yield to, the unconscious fascination which sylvia could exercise over others at times. did it enter into philip's heart to perceive that he had wedded his long-sought bride in mourning raiment, and that the first sounds which greeted them as they approached their home were those of weeping and wailing? chapter xxx happy days and now philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. the business flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. as for himself he required very little; but he had always looked forward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means for this were now furnished to him. the dress, the comforts, the position he had desired for sylvia were all hers. she did not need to do a stroke of household work if she preferred to 'sit in her parlour and sew up a seam'. indeed phoebe resented any interference in the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that she looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. 'mrs hepburn' (as sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piece in her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day when she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray or scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding. what she cared for far more were the comforts with which it was in her power to surround her mother. in this philip vied with her; for besides his old love, and new pity for his aunt bell, he never forgot how she had welcomed him to haytersbank, and favoured his love to sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he should ever win his cousin to be his wife. but even if he had not had these grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he would have done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare smiles which his wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when she saw him attending to 'mother,' for so both of them now called bell. for her creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble luxury, sylvia did not care; philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she often manifested to all his efforts to surround her with such things. it was even a hardship to her to leave off her country dress, her uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to don a stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. sitting in the dark parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 'white work,' was much more wearying to her than running out into the fields to bring up the cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. she sometimes thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where there were no out-door animals to look after; the 'ox and the ass' had hitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father's home into mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to speak in words the grateful regard that she could read without the poor expression of language. she missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above the fields; she rebelled against the necessity of 'dressing' (as she called it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was a necessity where the first step beyond the threshold must be into a populous street. it is possible that philip was right at one time when he had thought to win her by material advantages; but the old vanities had been burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. a great deal of passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent; but at this period it appeared as though she were indifferent to most things, and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing much. she was stunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most points; those on which she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice and oppression of her father's death, or anything that concerned her mother. she was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with philip; he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts of impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, had gone to form his idea of the former sylvia. once or twice he was almost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much to have a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse her to pleasure by gratifying it. indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights without his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for the morrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in the early dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side, or whether it was not all a dream that he called sylvia 'wife.' he was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken of in the same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in only being allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patient perseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, he went on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other men would have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with half a heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. all this time philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he was over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. over and over again in this first year of married life he dreamt this dream; perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never varied. it was always of kinraid's return; kinraid was full of life in philip's dream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himself by all the laws of probability that his rival was dead. he never remembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible dream after he had roused himself, with a fight and a struggle, from his feverish slumbers. he was generally sitting up in bed when he found himself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of kinraid's living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. occasionally sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class at that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation; but philip never gave her any truth in his reply. after all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to himself, the long-desired happiness was not so delicious and perfect as he had anticipated. many have felt the same in their first year of married life; but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, striving to gain love, and capable itself of steady love all the while, is a gift not given to all. for many weeks after their wedding, kester never came near them: a chance word or two from sylvia showed philip that she had noticed this and regretted it; and, accordingly, he made it his business at the next leisure opportunity to go to haytersbank (never saying a word to his wife of his purpose), and seek out kester. all the whole place was altered! it was new white-washed, new thatched: the patches of colour in the surrounding ground were changed with altered tillage; the great geraniums were gone from the window, and instead, was a smart knitted blind. children played before the house-door; a dog lying on the step flew at philip; all was so strange, that it was even the strangest thing of all for kester to appear where everything else was so altered! philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour on the part of the latter before he could induce kester to promise to come down into the town and see sylvia in her new home. somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure; at least, it seemed so at the time, though probably it broke the ice of restraint which was forming over the familiar intercourse between kester and sylvia. the old servant was daunted by seeing sylvia in a strange place, and stood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively looking about him, instead of seating himself on the chair sylvia had so eagerly brought forward for him. then his sense of the estrangement caused by their new positions infected her, and she began to cry pitifully, saying,-'oh, kester! kester! tell me about haytersbank! is it just as it used to be in feyther's days?' 'well, a cannot say as it is,' said kester, thankful to have a subject started. 'they'n pleughed up t' oud pasture-field, and are settin' it for 'taters. they're not for much cattle, isn't higginses. they'll be for corn in t' next year, a reckon, and they'll just ha' their pains for their payment. but they're allays so pig-headed, is folk fra' a distance.' so they went on discoursing on haytersbank and the old days, till bell robson, having finished her afternoon nap, came slowly down-stairs to join them; and after that the conversation became so broken up, from the desire of the other two to attend and reply as best they could to her fragmentary and disjointed talk, that kester took his leave before long; falling, as he did so, into the formal and unnaturally respectful manner which he had adopted on first coming in. but sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the door. 'to think of thy going away, kester, without either bit or drink; nay, come back wi' thee, and taste wine and cake.' kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while sylvia, in all the glow and hurry of a young housekeeper's hospitality, sought for the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard, and hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she crammed into his hand in spite of his remonstrances; and then she poured him out an overflowing glass of wine, which kester would far rather have gone without, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might taste it without having gone through the preliminary ceremony of wishing the donor health and happiness. he stood red and half smiling, with his cake in one hand, his wine in the other, and then began,- 'long may ye live, happy may ye he, and blest with a num'rous pro-ge-ny.' 'theere, that's po'try for yo' as i larnt i' my youth. but there's a deal to be said as cannot be put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot say it, somehow. it 'd tax a parson t' say a' as a've getten i' my mind. it's like a heap o' woo' just after shearin' time; it's worth a deal, but it tak's a vast o' combin', an' cardin', an' spinnin' afore it can be made use on. if a were up to t' use o' words, a could say a mighty deal; but somehow a'm tongue-teed when a come to want my words most, so a'll only just mak' bold t' say as a think yo've done pretty well for yo'rsel', getten a house-full o' furniture' (looking around him as he said this), 'an' vittle an' clothin' for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' missus in her time o' need; an' mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man 'ud mak'; a'm not above sayin' as he's, mebbe, better nor a took him for;--so here's to ye both, and wishin' ye health and happiness, ay, and money to buy yo' another, as country folk say.' having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, kester tossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and made off. that night sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. philip never said how he himself had brought it to pass, nor did he name the fact that he had heard the old man come in just as he himself had intended going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, as he thought sylvia and kester would most enjoy their interview undisturbed. and sylvia felt as if her husband's silence was unsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning to expand towards him. she sank again into the listless state of indifference from which nothing but some reference to former days, or present consideration for her mother, could rouse her. hester was almost surprised at sylvia's evident liking for her. by slow degrees hester was learning to love the woman, whose position as philip's wife she would have envied so keenly had she not been so truly good and pious. but sylvia seemed as though she had given hester her whole affection all at once. hester could not understand this, while she was touched and melted by the trust it implied. for one thing sylvia remembered and regretted--her harsh treatment of hester the rainy, stormy night on which the latter had come to haytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring them into monkshaven to see the imprisoned father and husband. sylvia had been struck with hester's patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudeness which she was conscious that she herself should have immediately and vehemently resented. sylvia did not understand how a totally different character from hers might immediately forgive the anger she could not forget; and because hester had been so meek at the time, sylvia, who knew how passing and transitory was her own anger, thought that all was forgotten; while hester believed that the words, which she herself could not have uttered except under deep provocation, meant much more than they did, and admired and wondered at sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against her. again, the two different women were divergently affected by the extreme fondness which bell had shown towards hester ever since sylvia's wedding-day. sylvia, who had always received more love from others than she knew what to do with, had the most entire faith in her own supremacy in her mother's heart, though at times hester would do certain things more to the poor old woman's satisfaction. hester, who had craved for the affection which had been withheld from her, and had from that one circumstance become distrustful of her own power of inspiring regard, while she exaggerated the delight of being beloved, feared lest sylvia should become jealous of her mother's open display of great attachment and occasional preference for hester. but such a thought never entered sylvia's mind. she was more thankful than she knew how to express towards any one who made her mother happy; as has been already said, the contributing to bell robson's pleasures earned philip more of his wife's smiles than anything else. and sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and caresses she lavished on hester whenever poor mrs. robson spoke of the goodness and kindness of the latter. hester attributed more virtue to these sweet words and deeds of gratitude than they deserved; they did not imply in sylvia any victory over evil temptation, as they would have done in hester. it seemed to be sylvia's fate to captivate more people than she cared to like back again. she turned the heads of john and jeremiah foster, who could hardly congratulate philip enough on his choice of a wife. they had been prepared to be critical on one who had interfered with their favourite project of a marriage between philip and hester; and, though full of compassion for the cruelty of daniel robson's fate, they were too completely men of business not to have some apprehension that the connection of philip hepburn with the daughter of a man who was hanged, might injure the shop over which both his and their name appeared. but all the possible proprieties demanded that they should pay attention to the bride of their former shopman and present successor; and the very first visitors whom sylvia had received after her marriage had been john and jeremiah foster, in their sabbath-day clothes. they found her in the parlour (so familiar to both of them!) clear-starching her mother's caps, which had to be got up in some particular fashion that sylvia was afraid of dictating to phoebe. she was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her at this employment; but she was on her own ground, and that gave her self-possession; and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly and modestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, besides, so notable in her handiwork, that she conquered all their prejudices at one blow; and their first thought on leaving the shop was how to do her honour, by inviting her to a supper party at jeremiah foster's house. sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding feast, and philip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, to make her consent to go at all. she had been to merry country parties like the corneys', and to bright haymaking romps in the open air; but never to a set stately party at a friend's house. she would fain have made attendance on her mother an excuse; but philip knew he must not listen to any such plea, and applied to hester in the dilemma, asking her to remain with mrs. robson while he and sylvia went out visiting; and hester had willingly, nay, eagerly consented--it was much more to her taste than going out. so philip and sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down bridge street, across the bridge, and then clambered up the hill. on the way he gave her the directions she asked for about her behaviour as bride and most honoured guest; and altogether succeeded, against his intention and will, in frightening her so completely as to the grandeur and importance of the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certain set rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to them when the right time came, that, if any one so naturally graceful could have been awkward, sylvia would have been so that night. as it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very edge of her chair; she uttered the formal words which philip had told her were appropriate to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe at home and in bed. yet she left but one unanimous impression on the company when she went away, namely, that she was the prettiest and best-behaved woman they had ever seen, and that philip hepburn had done well in choosing her, felon's daughter though she might be. both the hosts had followed her into the lobby to help philip in cloaking her, and putting on her pattens. they were full of old-fashioned compliments and good wishes; one speech of theirs came up to her memory in future years:-'now, sylvia hepburn,' said jeremiah, 'i've known thy husband long, and i don't say but what thou hast done well in choosing him; but if he ever neglects or ill-uses thee, come to me, and i'll give him a sound lecture on his conduct. mind, i'm thy friend from this day forrards, and ready to take thy part against him!' philip smiled as if the day would never come when he should neglect or ill-use his darling; sylvia smiled a little, without much attending to, or caring for, the words that were detaining her, tired as she was; john and jeremiah chuckled over the joke; but the words came up again in after days, as words idly spoken sometimes do. before the end of that first year, philip had learnt to be jealous of his wife's new love for hester. to the latter, sylvia gave the free confidence on many things which philip fancied she withheld from him. a suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, that sylvia might speak of her former lover to hester. it would be not unnatural, he thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead; but the idea irritated him. he was entirely mistaken, however; sylvia, with all her apparent frankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. she never mentioned her father's name, though he was continually present to her mind. nor did she speak of kinraid to human being, though, for his sake, her voice softened when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor; and for his sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others, trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait; and partly for his dead sake, and partly because of the freedom of the outlook and the freshness of the air, she was glad occasionally to escape from the comfortable imprisonment of her 'parlour', and the close streets around the market-place, and to mount the cliffs and sit on the turf, gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of the open sea; for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked like broken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. she did not want any companion on these rambles, which had somewhat of the delight of stolen pleasures; for all the other respectable matrons and town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have always a business object for their walk, or else to stop at home in their own households; and sylvia was rather ashamed of her own yearnings for solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of the mother-like sea. she used to take off her hat, and sit there, her hands clasping her knees, the salt air lifting her bright curls, gazing at the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of thought; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she could not have told you. but, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner in the house; a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a little baby by her side--her child, philip's child. his pride, his delight knew no bounds; this was a new fast tie between them; this would reconcile her to the kind of life that, with all its respectability and comfort, was so different from what she had lived before, and which philip had often perceived that she felt to be dull and restraining. he already began to trace in the little girl, only a few days old, the lovely curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother's face. sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes, really happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. for its irrevocableness had weighed much upon her with a sense of dull hopelessness; she felt all philip's kindness, she was grateful to him for his tender regard towards her mother, she was learning to love him as well as to like and respect him. she did not know what else she could have done but marry so true a friend, and she and her mother so friendless; but, at the same time, it was like lead on her morning spirits when she awoke and remembered that the decision was made, the dead was done, the choice taken which comes to most people but once in their lives. now the little baby came in upon this state of mind like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room. even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even with her crazed brain and broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful infancy brought light to her. all the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep, of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, came back, like the habits of her youth, to bell; and she was never so happy or so easy in her mind, or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as when she had sylvia's baby in her arms. it was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us such things may be--the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint, old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her knees, looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking the little language to it as though it could understand; the father on his knees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger curled round his strong and sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature with wondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, and smiling, propped up on pillows in order that she, too, might see the wonderful babe; it was astonishing how the doctor could come and go without being drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this baby just as if babies came into the world every day. 'philip,' said sylvia, one night, as he sate as still as a mouse in her room, imagining her to be asleep. he was by her bed-side in a moment. 'i've been thinking what she's to be called. isabella, after mother; and what were yo'r mother's name?' 'margaret,' said he. 'margaret isabella; isabella margaret. mother's called bell. she might be called bella.' 'i could ha' wished her to be called after thee.' she made a little impatient movement. 'nay; sylvia's not a lucky name. best be called after thy mother and mine. and i want for to ask hester to be godmother.' 'anything thou likes, sweetheart. shall we call her rose, after hester rose?' 'no, no!' said sylvia; 'she mun be called after my mother, or thine, or both. i should like her to be called bella, after mother, because she's so fond of baby.' 'anything to please thee, darling.' 'don't say that as if it didn't signify; there's a deal in having a pretty name,' said sylvia, a little annoyed. 'i ha' allays hated being called sylvia. it were after father's mother, sylvia steele.' 'i niver thought any name in a' the world so sweet and pretty as sylvia,' said philip, fondly; but she was too much absorbed in her own thoughts to notice either his manner or his words. 'there, yo'll not mind if it is bella, because yo' see my mother is alive to be pleased by its being named after her, and hester may be godmother, and i'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me afore we were married made up into a cloak for it to go to church in.' 'i got it for thee,' said philip, a little disappointed. 'it'll be too good for the baby.' 'eh! but i'm so careless, i should be spilling something on it? but if thou got it for me i cannot find i' my heart for t' wear it on baby, and i'll have it made into a christening gown for mysel'. but i'll niver feel at my ease in it, for fear of spoiling it.' 'well! an' if thou does spoil it, love, i'll get thee another. i make account of riches only for thee; that i may be able to get thee whativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother.' she lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips to kiss him for these words. perhaps on that day philip reached the zenith of his life's happiness. chapter xxxi evil omens the first step in philip's declension happened in this way. sylvia had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at a stationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languid days. occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, but she usually awoke startled and feverish. one afternoon philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and his child; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made the door creak on its hinges as he opened it. the woman employed to nurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound might rouse her from her slumber; and philip would probably have been warned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had he been perceived by the nurse. as it was, he opened the door, made a noise, and sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyes wild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not know where she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all which actions philip saw, dismayed and regretful. but he kept still, hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. instead she stretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of yearning and tears,-'oh! charley! come to me--come to me!' and then as she more fully became aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, she sank back and feebly began to cry. philip's heart boiled within him; any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense of guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. her weak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through his anxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm she was doing herself. at this moment he stirred, or unintentionally made some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,-'oh, who's theere? do, for god's sake, tell me who yo' are!' 'it's me,' said philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down the miserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger, that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of himself. indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for the time, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruel words he did. but she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive tone of voice. 'oh, philip, i've been asleep, and yet i think i was awake! and i saw charley kinraid as plain as iver i see thee now, and he wasn't drowned at all. i'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear and life-like. oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?' she wrung her hands in feverish distress. urged by passionate feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the agitation which was doing her harm, philip spoke, hardly knowing what he said. 'kinraid's dead, i tell yo', sylvie! and what kind of a woman are yo' to go dreaming of another man i' this way, and taking on so about him, when yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne to another man?' in a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. she looked at him with the mute reproach which some of us see (god help us!) in the eyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in the night-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look, never saying a word of reply or defence. then she lay down, motionless and silent. he had been instantly stung with remorse for his speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony had entered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb and motionless as if by a spell. now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, half threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless for the time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must have her pardon--her relenting--at any price, even if they both died in the act of reconciliation. but she lay speechless, and, as far as she could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with the quivering she could not still. philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she entered full of the dignified indignation of wisdom. 'are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter?' she asked. 'she's noane so strong as she can bear flytin' and scoldin', nor will she be for many a week to come. go down wi' ye, and leave her i' peace if yo're a man as can be called a man!' her anger was rising as she caught sight of sylvia's averted face. it was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of some kind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitching overmastering her resolute stillness from time to time. philip, who did not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger in which he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word, one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which was not even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, any more than if it had been an impassive stone. the nurse had fairly to take him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room. in half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. of course, the nurse gave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much _animus_ against philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to have some very serious conversation with him. 'i do assure you, mr. hepburn, that, in the state your wife has been in for some days, it was little less than madness on your part to speak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.' 'it was madness, sir!' replied philip, in a low, miserable tone of voice. the doctor's heart was touched, in spite of the nurse's accusations against the scolding husband. yet the danger was now too serious for him to mince matters. 'i must tell you that i cannot answer for her life, unless the greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measures i shall use have the effect i wish for in the next twenty-four hours. she is on the verge of a brain fever. any allusion to the subject which has been the final cause of the state in which she now is must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which may bring it to her memory.' and so on; but philip seemed to hear only this: then he might not express contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiven through all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the doctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what had passed! heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passed through by all during the course of their lives; and philip had had his share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and the speech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution to patience. for many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see sylvia, as the very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the fever and convulsive movement. yet she seemed, from questions she feebly asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the day of her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. but how much she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. she was quiet enough when, at length, philip was allowed to see her. but he was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she could smile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all he could do or say. and of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was her behaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and was able to go about the house again. philip thought many a time of the words she had used long before--before their marriage. ominous words they were. 'it's not in me to forgive; i sometimes think it's not in me to forget.' philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. but nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. and he knew she was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her nature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once more into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of anger? then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. he only seemed to drive her love away still more. if any one had known all that was passing in that household, while yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love; sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth caught the echoes of what ought to have been his. it was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact. everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the love seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaints can avail to bring it back. so reason outsiders, and are convinced of the result before the experiment is made. but philip could not reason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained and reproached. she did not much answer him; but he thought that her eyes expressed the old words,-'it's not in me to forgive; i sometimes think it's not in me to forget.' however, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in the most tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season of their lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than such as are connected with love. even with the most domestic and affectionate men, their emotions seem to be kept in a cell distinct and away from their actual lives. philip had other thoughts and other occupations than those connected with his wife during all this time. an uncle of his mother's, a cumberland 'statesman', of whose existence he was barely conscious, died about this time, leaving to his unknown great-nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put him at once in a different position with regard to his business. henceforward his ambition was roused,--such humble ambition as befitted a shop-keeper in a country town sixty or seventy years ago. to be respected by the men around him had always been an object with him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than ever now, as a sort of refuge from his deep, sorrowful mortification in other directions. he was greatly pleased at being made a sidesman; and, in preparation for the further honour of being churchwarden, he went regularly twice a day to church on sundays. there was enough religious feeling in him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such conduct from himself. he believed that he went because he thought it right to attend public worship in the parish church whenever it was offered up; but it may be questioned of him, as of many others, how far he would have been as regular in attendance in a place where he was not known. with this, however, we have nothing to do. the fact was that he went regularly to church, and he wished his wife to accompany him to the pew, newly painted, with his name on the door, where he sate in full sight of the clergyman and congregation. sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular church-going, and she felt it as a hardship, and slipped out of the duty as often as ever she could. in her unmarried days, she and her parents had gone annually to the mother-church of the parish in which haytersbank was situated: on the monday succeeding the sunday next after the romish saint's day, to whom the church was dedicated, there was a great feast or wake held; and, on the sunday, all the parishioners came to church from far and near. frequently, too, in the course of the year, sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to scarby moorside afternoon service,--when the hay was got in, and the corn not ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was no afternoon milking. many clergymen were languid in those days, and did not too curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them such small congregations in country parishes. now she was married, this weekly church-going which philip seemed to expect from her, became a tie and a small hardship, which connected itself with her life of respectability and prosperity. 'a crust of bread and liberty' was much more accordant to sylvia's nature than plenty of creature comforts and many restraints. another wish of philip's, against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled in thought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had engaged during the time of her illness to take charge of the baby, should always carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. sylvia often felt, now she was strong, as if she would far rather have been without the responsibility of having this nursemaid, of whom she was, in reality, rather afraid. the good side of it was that it set her at liberty to attend to her mother at times when she would have been otherwise occupied with her baby; but bell required very little from any one: she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodical even in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative habits of her earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had been at the basis of the formation of such habits, was gone. she took great delight in watching the baby, and was pleased to have it in her care for a short time; but she dozed so much that it prevented her having any strong wish on the subject. so sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible to herself, in spite of the nursemaid; and, above all, she would carry it out, softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear it to the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the west side of the town where the cliffs were not so high, and there was a good space of sand and shingle at all low tides. once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be in this world. the fresh sea-breeze restored something of the colour of former days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits; here she might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her baby; here it was all her own; no father to share in it, no nursemaid to dispute the wisdom of anything she did with it. she sang to it, she tossed it; it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were weary; and then she would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall to gazing on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests, advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all her life long--as they did when she had walked with them that once by the side of kinraid; those cruel waves that, forgetful of the happy lovers' talk by the side of their waters, had carried one away, and drowned him deep till he was dead. every time she sate down to look at the sea, this process of thought was gone through up to this point; the next step would, she knew, bring her to the question she dared not, must not ask. he was dead; he must be dead; for was she not philip's wife? then came up the recollection of philip's speech, never forgotten, only buried out of sight: 'what kind of a woman are yo' to go on dreaming of another man, and yo' a wedded wife?' she used to shudder as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm, living body as she remembered these words; cruel words, harmlessly provoked. they were too much associated with physical pains to be dwelt upon; only their memory was always there. she paid for these happy rambles with her baby by the depression which awaited her on her re-entrance into the dark, confined house that was her home; its very fulness of comfort was an oppression. then, when her husband saw her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes upbraided her for doing what was so unnecessary as to load herself with her child. she knew full well it was not that that caused her weariness. by-and-by, when he inquired and discovered that all these walks were taken in one direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of her love for the inanimate ocean. was it connected in her mind with the thought of kinraid? why did she so perseveringly, in wind or cold, go out to the sea-shore; the western side, too, where, if she went but far enough, she would come upon the mouth of the haytersbank gully, the point at which she had last seen kinraid? such fancies haunted philip's mind for hours after she had acknowledged the direction of her walks. but he never said a word that could distinctly tell her he disliked her going to the sea, otherwise she would have obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absolute obedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at this period--obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed her smallest wish had she but expressed it! she never knew that philip had any painful association with the particular point on the sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both from a consciousness of wifely duty, and also because the sight of it brought up so much sharp pain. philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her illness was the suggestive cause that drew her so often to the shore. her illness consequent upon that dream had filled his mind, so that for many months he himself had had no haunting vision of kinraid to disturb his slumbers. but now the old dream of kinraid's actual presence by philip's bedside began to return with fearful vividness. night after night it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, and close approach; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all men were then, even then, knocking at his door. in his business philip prospered. men praised him because he did well to himself. he had the perseverance, the capability for head-work and calculation, the steadiness and general forethought which might have made him a great merchant if he had lived in a large city. without any effort of his own, almost, too, without coulson's being aware of it, philip was now in the position of superior partner; the one to suggest and arrange, while coulson only carried out the plans that emanated from philip. the whole work of life was suited to the man: he did not aspire to any different position, only to the full development of the capabilities of that which he already held. he had originated several fresh schemes with regard to the traffic of the shop; and his old masters, with all their love of tried ways, and distrust of everything new, had been candid enough to confess that their successors' plans had resulted in success. 'their successors.' philip was content with having the power when the exercise of it was required, and never named his own important share in the new improvements. possibly, if he had, coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he might not have been so acquiescent for the future. as it was, he forgot his own subordinate share, and always used the imperial 'we', 'we thought', 'it struck us,' &c. chapter xxxii rescued from the waves meanwhile hester came and went as usual; in so quiet and methodical a way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almost forgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. she was a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times of darkness. she herself was almost surprised at her own increasing regard for sylvia. she had not thought she should ever be able to love the woman who had been such a laggard in acknowledging philip's merits; and from all she had ever heard of sylvia before she came to know her, from the angry words with which sylvia had received her when she had first gone to haytersbank farm, hester had intended to remain on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. but her kindness to bell robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; and in spite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she had become the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household. now the very change in sylvia's whole manner and ways, which grieved and vexed philip, made his wife the more attractive to hester. brought up among quakers, although not one herself, she admired and respected the staidness and outward peacefulness common amongst the young women of that sect. sylvia, whom she had expected to find volatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as if she had been born a friend: she seemed to have no will of her own; she served her mother and child for love; she obeyed her husband in all things, and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. and yet at times hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind, as if all things were not as right as they seemed. philip looked older, more care-worn; nay, even hester was obliged to allow to herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved tones. innocent hester! she could not understand how the very qualities she so admired in sylvia were just what were so foreign to her nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, felt what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and would have hailed petulant words or wilful actions with an unspeakable thankfulness for relief. one day--it was in the spring of 1798--hester was engaged to stay to tea with the hepburns, in order that after that early meal she might set to again in helping philip and coulson to pack away the winter cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use. the tea-time was half-past four; about four o'clock a heavy april shower came on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken mrs. robson from her afternoon's nap. she came down the corkscrew stairs, and found phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things. phoebe and mrs. robson were better friends than phoebe and her young mistress; and so they began to talk a little together in a comfortable, familiar way. once or twice philip looked in, as if he would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then phoebe would put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon as his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain mrs. robson's sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and the nurse-maid. the latter had misappropriated some hot water, prepared and required by phoebe, to the washing of the baby's clothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience of any one in full possession of their senses; but the details were just within poor bell's comprehension, and she was listening with the greatest sympathy. both the women were unaware of the lapse of time; but it was of consequence to philip, as the extra labour was not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were precious. at a quarter to five hester and he came in, and then phoebe began to hurry. hester went up to sit by bell and talk to her. philip spoke to phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk. indeed, until his marriage, phoebe had always called him by his christian name, and had found it very difficult to change it into 'master.' 'where's sylvie?' said he. 'gone out wi' t' babby,' replied phoebe. 'why can't nancy carry it out?' asked philip. it was touching on the old grievance: he was tired, and he spoke with sharp annoyance. phoebe might easily have told him the real state of the case; nancy was busy at her washing, which would have been reason enough. but the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not like philip's sharpness, so she only said,-'it's noane o' my business; it's yo' t' look after yo'r own wife and child; but yo'r but a lad after a'.' this was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke to philip's fit of ill-temper. 'i'm not for my tea to-night,' said he, to hester, when all was ready. 'sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be. i'll go and set to on t' stock-taking. don't yo' hurry, hester; stop and chat a bit with th' old lady.' 'nay, philip,' said hester, 'thou's sadly tired; just take this cup o' tea; sylvia 'll be grieved if yo' haven't something.' 'sylvia doesn't care whether i'm full or fasting,' replied he, impatiently putting aside the cup. 'if she did she'd ha' taken care to be in, and ha' seen to things being as i like them.' now in general philip was the least particular of men about meals; and to do sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every household duty in which old phoebe would allow her to meddle, and always careful to see after her husband's comforts. but philip was too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was saying, nor was he aware how bell robson had been attending to what he said. but she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter was neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as paramount to all others; nor could hester convince her that philip had not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor old woman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress. presently sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless with hurry. 'oh,' said she, taking off her wet shawl, 'we've had to shelter from such a storm of rain, baby and me--but see! she's none the worse for it, as bonny as iver, bless her.' hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order to prevent bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was coming down on the unsuspecting sylvia; but all in vain. 'philip's been complaining on thee, sylvie,' said bell, in the way in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child; grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words. 'i forget justly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual. it's not right, my lass, it's not right; a woman should--but my head's very tired, and all i can think on to say is, it's not right.' 'philip been complaining of me, and to mother!' said sylvia, ready to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she. 'no!' said hester, 'thy mother has taken it a little too strong; he were vexed like at his tea not being ready.' sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, and the contraction of care returned to her brow. she occupied herself with taking off her baby's walking things. hester lingered, anxious to soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at sylvia, when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak, and then it seemed as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the shop-work, where she knew she was expected by both philip and coulson. she poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to sylvia, and kneeling down by her, she whispered,-'just take him this into t' ware-room; it'll put all to rights if thou'll take it to him wi' thy own hands.' sylvia looked up, and hester then more fully saw how she had been crying. she whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,-'i don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. i know i'm for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an' it's very dull work; harder than yo' think on, hester,--an' i would ha' been home for tea to-night only i was afeared of baby getting wet wi' t' storm o' hail as we had down on t' shore; and we sheltered under a rock. it's a weary coming home to this dark place, and to find my own mother set against me.' 'take him his tea, like a good lassie. i'll answer for it he'll be all right. a man takes it hardly when he comes in tired, a-thinking his wife 'll be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and niver know nought of t' reason why.' 'i'm glad enough i've getten a baby,' said sylvia, 'but for aught else i wish i'd niver been married, i do!' 'hush thee, lass!' said hester, rising up indignant; 'now that is a sin. eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. but let's talk no more on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it's a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.' hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of position; and the word fasting caught mrs. robson's ear, as she sate at her knitting by the chimney-corner. 'fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting. lassie! it's not right in thee, i say; go, take him his tea at once.' sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to nancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to put it to bed. sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, passionate tenderness as she did so. then she took the cup of tea; but she said, rather defiantly, to hester,-'i'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her mind.' then louder to her mother, she added,-'mother, i'll take him his tea, though i couldn't help the being out.' if the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was going to do it was the reverse. hester followed her slowly into the ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. sylvia held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to philip, but avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, or regret, or self-justification. if she had spoken, though ever so crossly, philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred it to her silence. he wanted to provoke her to speech, but did not know how to begin. 'thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. she did not answer him. 'i cannot think what's always taking thee there, when one would ha' thought a walk up to esdale would be far more sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. thou'll be having that baby ill some of these days.' at this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were going to say something. oh, how he wished she would, that they might come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. but she had come resolved not to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion. only as she was going away she turned and said,-'philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot grieve her, and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. our being wed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let us make as if we were happy.' 'sylvie! sylvie!' he called after her. she must have heard, but she did not turn. he went after her, and seized her by the arm rather roughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. 'sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you've said? speak! i will have an answer.' he almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence of behaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst of agonized and unrequited love. 'let me go! oh, philip, yo' hurt me!' just at this moment hester came up; philip was ashamed of his passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of his wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as to a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable crying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the length of our days on earth to be indulged in often. when she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a time, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of his footstep coming in search of her to make friends. but he was detained below on business, and never came. instead, her mother came clambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bed between seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an earlier hour. sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her face and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort her mother's last waking hours. she helped her to bed with gentle patience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to have another wild outburst. when her mother was going off to sleep, sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. then she gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful heavens took possession of her once more. 'it's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthly harm in it. i would ha' been at home to his tea, if i could; but when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is either in my arms or asleep; why, i'll go any cry my fill out under yon great quiet sky. i cannot stay in t' house to be choked up wi' my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding or peace-making.' so she put on her things and went out again; this time along the high street, and up the long flights of steps towards the parish church, and there she stood and thought that here she had first met kinraid, at darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very look of all the sad, earnest faces round the open grave--the whole scene, in fact; and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she had so often tried to control. then she walked on, crying bitterly, almost unawares to herself; on through the high, bleak fields at the summit of the cliffs; fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far from all sight of the habitation of man. but, below, the sea rose and raged; it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blew gustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves that came invincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against the base of the cliffs below. sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of many waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound of the blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. she was more quieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been had all nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while she was yet in-doors and only saw a part of the serene sky. she fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she would reach, and then turn back again. it was where the outline of the land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. here the field-path she had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a cluster of fishermen's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village; and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it again reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for many and many a mile. sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards when she came within sight of this cove,--headlington cove, they called it. all the way along she had met no one since she had left the town, but just as she had got over the last stile, or ladder of stepping-stones, into the field from which the path descended, she came upon a number of people--quite a crowd, in fact; men moving forward in a steady line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or something of that kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in their arms, as if all were fain to come out and partake in some general interest. they kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, and sylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. the great cable the men held was attached to some part of a smack, which could now be seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and all but a wreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as the waning light would allow her to see. the vessel strained to get free of the strong guiding cable; the tide was turning, the wind was blowing off shore, and sylvia knew without being told, that almost parallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to many a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in straight for monkshaven port. and the ships that had been thus lost had been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, which seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. by this time, the crowd--the fishermen from the hamlet down below, with their wives and children--all had come but the bedridden--had reached the place where sylvia stood. the women, in a state of wild excitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words, even while they hindered them by actions; and, from time to time, one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deck below. whether these latter heard it or not, no one could tell; but it seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun and tumult of wind and wave. it was generally a woman with a child in her arms who so employed herself. as the strain upon the cable became greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were depending. on they came, a long line of human beings, black against the ruddy sunset sky. as they came near sylvia, a woman cried out,-'dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi' us; there's many a bonny life at stake, and many a mother's heart a-hangin' on this bit o' hemp. tak' houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and god remember thee i' thy need.' sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in an instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed as though she was holding fire in her bare palms. never a one of them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over many of their hands were raw and bleeding. some strong, experienced fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving directions as to how it should be held according to varying occasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough to speak. the women and children that accompanied them ran on before, breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay or hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, explaining. from their many words and fragmentary sentences, sylvia learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a newcastle smack sailing from london, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save time, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to withstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen who had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she would have been cast upon the rocks before this, and 'all on board perished'. 'it were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces, they were so near. they were as pale as dead men, an' one was prayin' down on his knees. there was a king's officer aboard, for i saw t' gowd about him.' 'he'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see his own folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aught but king's ships.' 'eh! but it's gettin' dark! see there's t' leeghts in t' houses in t' new town! t' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet. it'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' into still waters.' one more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the vessel--or what remained of her--was in the harbour, among the lights and cheerful sounds of safety. the fishermen sprang down the cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. not sylvia, however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day: her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before. she would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with them all round. but instead she must go home, and well would it be with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped any notice of her absence. so she separated herself from the groups of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of the monkshaven public houses. as sylvia went down the church steps, she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel into port. 'there was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant as had comed as passenger. it were a good job as we could manage her. good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent a hand.' the street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time. already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and sylvia scarcely met any one. she went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the private door. all was still; the basins of bread and milk that she and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. nancy had gone to bed, phoebe dozed in the kitchen; philip was still in the ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with coulson, for hester had gone home to her mother. sylvia was not willing to go and seek out philip, after the manner in which they had parted. all the despondency of her life became present to her again as she sate down within her home. she had forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back again. still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. she took her basin up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. when it had been fed and hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by some unusual noise in her room. she found mrs. robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much on what philip had said in his anger against sylvia. it was really necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so sylvia stole out, and went quickly down-stairs to philip--now sitting tired and worn out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite--and told him she meant to pass the night with her mother. his answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her mother's indisposition. as soon as she had left the room, philip set down his half-finished basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his folded arms. the wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell, and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or the pale gray fire that was dying out--dead at last. chapter xxxiii an apparition mrs. robson was very poorly all night long. uneasy thoughts seemed to haunt and perplex her brain, and she neither slept nor woke, but was restless and uneasy in her talk and movements. sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that at length she preferred sitting in the easy-chair by the bedside. here she dropped off to slumber in spite of herself; the scene of the evening before seemed to be repeated; the cries of the many people, the heavy roar and dash of the threatening waves, were repeated in her ears; and something was said to her through all the conflicting noises,--what it was she could not catch, though she strained to hear the hoarse murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning of the utmost importance to her. this dream, that mysterious, only half-intelligible sound, recurred whenever she dozed, and her inability to hear the words uttered distressed her so much, that at length she sate bolt upright, resolved to sleep no more. her mother was talking in a half-conscious way; philip's speech of the evening before was evidently running in her mind. 'sylvie, if thou're not a good wife to him, it'll just break my heart outright. a woman should obey her husband, and not go her own gait. i never leave the house wi'out telling father, and getting his leave.' and then she began to cry pitifully, and to say unconnected things, till sylvia, to soothe her, took her hand, and promised never to leave the house without asking her husband's permission, though in making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing her last pleasure to her mother's wish; for she knew well enough that philip would always raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of her old free open-air life. but to comfort and cherish her mother she would have done anything; yet this very morning that was dawning, she must go and ask his permission for a simple errand, or break her word. she knew from experience that nothing quieted her mother so well as balm-tea; it might be that the herb really possessed some sedative power; it might be only early faith, and often repeated experience, but it had always had a tranquillizing effect; and more than once, during the restless hours of the night, mrs. robson had asked for it; but sylvia's stock of last year's dead leaves was exhausted. still she knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered corner of haytersbank farm garden; she knew that the tenants who had succeeded them in the occupation of the farm had had to leave it in consequence of a death, and that the place was unoccupied; and in the darkness she had planned that if she could leave her mother after the dawn came, and she had attended to her baby, she would walk quickly to the old garden, and gather the tender sprigs which she was sure to find there. now she must go and ask philip; and till she held her baby to her breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and chains of matrimony. but the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of its little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentleness. she gave it back to nancy to be dressed, and softly opened the door of philip's bed-room. 'philip!' said she, gently. 'philip!' he started up from dreams of her; of her, angry. he saw her there, rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek, and a little beseeching. 'mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as some balm-tea would do her good--it allays used to: but my dried balm is all gone, and i thought there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at haytersbank. feyther planted a bush just for mother, wheere it allays came up early, nigh t' old elder-tree; and if yo'd not mind, i could run theere while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, and it's not seven now.' 'thou's not wear thyself out with running, sylvie,' said philip, eagerly; 'i'll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,' continued he, catching the shadow that was coming over her face, 'thou'd rather go thyself: it's only that i'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself.' 'it'll not tire me,' said sylvia. 'afore i was married, i was out often far farther than that, afield to fetch up t' kine, before my breakfast.' 'well, go if thou will,' said philip. 'but get somewhat to eat first, and don't hurry; there's no need for that.' she had got her hat and shawl, and was off before he had finished his last words. the long high street was almost empty of people at that early hour; one side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. up the hill-road, through the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, sylvia went by the very shortest path she knew. she had only once been at haytersbank since her wedding-day. on that occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the corneys' kitchen in former times, than her mother's orderly and quiet abode. those little children were fatherless now; and the house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. there were no shutters to shut; the long low window was blinking in the rays of the morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn, or early worms. it was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck solemnly on sylvia's mind. only a thrush in the old orchard down in the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill melody. sylvia went slowly past the house and down the path leading to the wild, deserted bit of garden. she saw that the last tenants had had a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the well she was passing could feel the insult. over it grew two hawthorn trees; on the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit, long ago: the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible danger of falling into the well and being drowned. the rusty unused chain was wound round the windlass; the bucket was falling to pieces from dryness. a lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed pitifully with hunger; accompanying sylvia to the garden, as if glad of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be touched. primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they formerly did; and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away, and cumbering the ground. sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb-plot, and plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek; sighing a little all the time. then she retraced her steps; paused softly before the house-door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood. she tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to carry it home and befriend it; but it was scared by her endeavour and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across the white dew of the meadow. then sylvia began to hasten home, thinking, and remembering--at the stile that led into the road she was brought short up. some one stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of a naval officer, so well known in monkshaven in those days. sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. she had not gone a yard--no, not half a yard--when her heart leaped up and fell again dead within her, as if she had been shot. 'sylvia!' he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate love. 'sylvia!' she looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell straight on his face. it was bronzed, and the lines were strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in haytersbank gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see in life again. he was close to her and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if trying to clear away some bewildering mist. then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes, if he could but have read it. twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which bore them back into the depths of her heart. he thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and to woo her to his outstretched hungry arms once more. but when she saw this motion of his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; and with an inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more, and turning away began to run blindly towards the town for protection. for a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour; and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. so he followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to overtake her too speedily. 'i have frightened my poor love,' he kept thinking. and by this thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he longed to use; yet he was always so near behind that her quickened sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion flashed across her brain that she would go to the wide full river, and end the hopeless misery she felt enshrouding her. there was a sure hiding-place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide. no one can tell what changed her course; perhaps the thought of her sucking child; perhaps her mother; perhaps an angel of god; no one on earth knows, but as she ran along the quay-side she all at once turned up an entry, and through an open door. he, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlour, with a cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast; the change from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on, and that no one was there, and he stood for an instant baffled, and hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart; but an irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp shudders going through her whole frame. 'my love, my darling!' said he, going up to her, and trying to raise her, and to loosen her hands away from her face. 'i've been too sudden for thee: it was thoughtless in me; but i have so looked forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the field, and go past me, but i should ha' been more tender and careful of thee. nay! let me have another look of thy sweet face.' all this he whispered in the old tones of manoeuvring love, in that voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams. she tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden shadow--to sink into the ground out of sight. once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him hear her speak. but she only moaned. 'sylvia!' said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and offence. 'sylvia! one would think you weren't glad to see me back again at length. i only came in late last night, and my first thought on wakening was of you; it has been ever since i left you.' sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was gray as the face of death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair. 'where have yo' been?' she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her voice were half strangled within her. 'been!' said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion entering his mind. 'been!' he repeated; then, coming a step nearer to her, and taking her hand, not tenderly this time, but with a resolution to be satisfied. 'did not your cousin--hepburn, i mean--did not he tell you?--he saw the press-gang seize me,--i gave him a message to you--i bade you keep true to me as i would be to you.' between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for her answer; but none came. her eyes dilated and held his steady gaze prisoner as with a magical charm--neither could look away from the other's wild, searching gaze. when he had ended, she was silent for a moment, then she cried out, shrill and fierce,-'philip!' no answer. wilder and shriller still, 'philip!' she cried. he was in the distant ware-room completing the last night's work before the regular shop hours began; before breakfast, also, that his wife might not find him waiting and impatient. he heard her cry; it cut through doors, and still air, and great bales of woollen stuff; he thought that she had hurt herself, that her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the spot whence the cry proceeded. on opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting-room, he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground, huddled up in a heap; when she perceived him come in, she dragged herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and came and stood facing him. the officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant that he saw the realization of his greatest dread. but sylvia laid her hand on kinraid's arm, and assumed to herself the right of speech. philip did not know her voice, it was so changed. 'philip,' she said, 'this is kinraid come back again to wed me. he is alive; he has niver been dead, only taken by t' press-gang. and he says yo' saw it, and knew it all t' time. speak, was it so?' philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what refuge of words or acts to shelter. sylvia's influence was keeping kinraid silent, but he was rapidly passing beyond it. 'speak!' he cried, loosening himself from sylvia's light grasp, and coming towards philip, with a threatening gesture. 'did i not bid you tell her how it was? did i not bid you say how i would be faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? oh! you damned scoundrel! have you kept it from her all that time, and let her think me dead, or false? take that!' his closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but sylvia came swift between the blow and its victim. 'charley, thou shan't strike him,' she said. 'he is a damned scoundrel' (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone) 'but he is my husband.' 'oh! thou false heart!' exclaimed kinraid, turning sharp on her. 'if ever i trusted woman, i trusted you, sylvia robson.' he made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt that stung her to life. 'oh, charley!' she cried, springing to him, 'dunnot cut me to the quick; have pity on me, though he had none. i did so love thee; it was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was drowned--feyther, and th' corneys, and all, iverybody. thy hat and t' bit o' ribbon i gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi' sea-water; and i went mourning for thee all the day long--dunnot turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, and i'll bless yo',--and have niver been mysel' since; niver ceased to feel t' sun grow dark and th' air chill and dreary when i thought on t' time when thou was alive. i did, my charley, my own love! and i thought thou was dead for iver, and i wished i were lying beside thee. oh, charley! philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo' this was true. philip, wasn't it so?' 'would god i were dead!' moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man. but she had turned to kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and neither of them heard or heeded him--they were drawing closer and closer together--she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking eagerly. 'and feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t' press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i' york prison, and tried, and hung!--hung! charley!--good kind feyther was hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' wide world, and poor mother dateless--and i thought yo' were dead--oh! i thought yo' were dead, i did--oh, charley, charley!' by this time they were in each other's arms, she with her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break. philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but charley held her tight, mutely defying philip. unconsciously she was philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill. 'sylvie!' said he, grasping her tight. 'listen to me. he didn't love yo' as i did. he had loved other women. i, yo'--yo' alone. he loved other girls before yo', and had left off loving 'em. i--i wish god would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till i die, whether yo' love me or not. and then--where was i? oh! that very night that he was taken, i was a-thinking on yo' and on him; and i might ha' given yo' his message, but i heard them speaking of him as knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways. how was i to know he would keep true to thee? it might be a sin in me, i cannot say; my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. i know this, i've loved yo' as no man but me ever loved before. have some pity and forgiveness on me, if it's only because i've been so tormented with my love.' he looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. he let go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. 'i may die,' he said, 'for my life is ended!' 'sylvia!' spoke out kinraid, bold and fervent, 'your marriage is no marriage. you were tricked into it. you are my wife, not his. i am your husband; we plighted each other our troth. see! here is my half of the sixpence.' he pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his neck. 'when they stripped me and searched me in th' french prison, i managed to keep this. no lies can break the oath we swore to each other. i can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. i'm in favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out. come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married again, all square and above-board. come away. leave that damned fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we'll be true, whatever has come and gone. come, sylvia.' his arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. just then the baby cried. 'hark!' said she, starting away from kinraid, 'baby's crying for me. his child--yes, it is his child--i'd forgotten that--forgotten all. i'll make my vow now, lest i lose mysel' again. i'll never forgive yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. all that's done and ended. he's spoilt my life,--he's spoilt it for as long as iver i live on this earth; but neither yo' nor him shall spoil my soul. it goes hard wi' me, charley, it does indeed. i'll just give yo' one kiss--one little kiss--and then, so help me god, i'll niver see nor hear till--no, not that, not that is needed--i'll niver see--sure that's enough--i'll never see yo' again on this side heaven, so help me god! i'm bound and tied, but i've sworn my oath to him as well as yo': there's things i will do, and there's things i won't. kiss me once more. god help me, he's gone!' chapter xxxiv a reckless recruit she lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her face unseen. every now and then a thrill ran through her body: she was talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of words. philip stood near her, motionless: he did not know whether she was conscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he and she were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, and it numbed all other thought. once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give. she rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; her glazed eyes fell upon philip as he instinctively made a step to hold her steady. no light came into her eyes any more than if she had looked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contraction of dislike. some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no more than she saw the inanimate table. that way of looking at him withered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done. he watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out of sight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily weakness. the door of communication between the parlour and the shop was opened. that was the first event of which philip took note; but phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them unused, and knowing that sylvia had sate up all night with her mother, she had gone back to the kitchen. philip had neither seen nor heard her. now coulson came in, amazed at hepburn's non-appearance in the shop. 'why! philip, what's ado? how ill yo' look, man!' exclaimed he, thoroughly alarmed by philip's ghastly appearance. 'what's the matter?' 'i!' said philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 'why should there be anything the matter?' his instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation or sympathy. 'there may be nothing the matter wi' thee,' said coulson, 'but thou's the look of a corpse on thy face. i was afeared something was wrong, for it's half-past nine, and thee so punctual!' he almost guarded philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching him, and perplexing himself with philip's odd, strange ways. hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on philip's ashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that first glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of noticing or watching. only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. it was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store of gossip from the country, or the town--from the farm or the quay-side. among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before furnished a large topic; and by-and-by philip heard a name that startled him into attention. the landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors was talking to coulson. 'there was a sailor aboard of her as knowed kinraid by sight, in shields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they were well out o' t' river. and kinraid was no ways set up, for all his lieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome in it!); but he tells 'm all about it--how he was pressed aboard a man-o'-war, an' for his good conduct were made a warrant officer, boatswain, or something!' all the people in the shop were listening now; philip alone seemed engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible chance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the good woman's narration. she, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went on with fresh vigour. 'an' there's a gallant captain, one sir sidney smith, and he'd a notion o' goin' smack into a french port, an' carryin' off a vessel from right under their very noses; an' says he, "which of yo' british sailors 'll go along with me to death or glory?" so kinraid stands up like a man, an' "i'll go with yo', captain," he says. so they, an' some others as brave, went off, an' did their work, an' choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught by them french, an' were clapped into prison i' france for iver so long; but at last one philip--philip somethin' (he were a frenchman, i know)--helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. but they were welcomed by th' whole british squadron as was i' t' channel for t' piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a french port; an' captain sir sidney smith was made an admiral, an' him as we used t' call charley kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a lieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' king's service; and is come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as is just past!' a murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around philip. all this was publicly known about kinraid,--and how much more? all monkshaven might hear tomorrow--nay, to-day--of philip's treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate, and supplanted him in his love. philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew must follow. any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury; and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in such matters, spreads like wildfire. philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before him, if only kinraid spoke the word. his head was bent down while he thus listened and reflected. he half resolved on doing something; he lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. the sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face, made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's events. he saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he remembered the square, upright build of kinraid; his fine uniform, with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. the comparison drove philip from passive hopelessness to active despair. he went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless of phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left the place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him. he paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight together, he went upstairs. first of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs, in which his baby slept. he dearly loved the child, and many a time would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life. the little bella was having her morning slumber; nancy used to tell long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers when they got up, and when they went to bed. then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long, lingering, soft, fond kiss. and on tip-toe he passed away into the room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to him! he was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the shame to come. he had not meant to see sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay, apparently asleep. mrs. robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards the wall. philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at his wife. she was turned towards her mother, her face averted from him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that lay listless by her side. as his hot breath neared that hand it was twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body. and then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her misery,--misery that he had caused. he sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever. only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, one of himself, one of sylvia, done in the first month of their marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. they were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of humanity as could be conceived; but philip went up, and after looking for a minute or so at sylvia's, he took it down, and buttoned his waistcoat over it. it was the only thing he took away from his home. he went down the entry on to the quay. the river was there, and waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of rest in their perpetual monotony of sound. but many people were there, if such a temptation presented itself to philip's mind; the sight of his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up another entry--the town is burrowed with such--back into the high street, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fells and moors beyond. he plunged and panted up this rough ascent. from the top he could look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright shining river into two parts. to the right lay the sea, shimmering and heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of the little port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them, thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to the market-place, which of them was his? and he singled it out in its unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, where even now phoebe was cooking the household meal that he never more must share. up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither. he went through the ploughed fields where the corn was newly springing; he came down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back upon it with loathing; he made his way inland to the high green pastures; the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised 'at heaven's gate'. he strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and bush, that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after him with their great blank puzzled eyes. he had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly on the desolate brown moors; through the withered last year's ling and fern, through the prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down the tender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startled plover's cry, goaded by the furies. his only relief from thought, from the remembrance of sylvia's looks and words, was in violent bodily action. so he went on till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came out upon the wild fells. he had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance of men's tracks; but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out, and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beats for a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist swam and quivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find some shelter and food, or lie down to die. he fell down now, often; stumbling over the slightest obstacle. he had passed the cattle pastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and they, too, ceased nibbling, and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of monkshaven people--people who ought to be far, far away. 'thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't tak' heed,' shouted some one. philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. an old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within a couple of hundred yards. philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbled towards him. 'good lork!' said the man, 'wheere hast ta been? thou's seen oud harry, i think, thou looks so scared.' philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old standard of respectability; but the effort was pitiful to see, had any one been by, who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain cries of bodily and mental agony. 'i've lost my way, that's all.' ''twould ha' been enough, too, i'm thinkin', if i hadn't come out after t' ewes. there's t' three griffins near at hand: a sup o' hollands 'll set thee to reeghts.' philip followed faintly. he could not see before him, and was guided by the sound of footsteps rather than by the sight of the figure moving onwards. he kept stumbling; and he knew that the old shepherd swore at him; but he also knew such curses proceeded from no ill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in going and 'seem' after t' ewes.' but had the man's words conveyed the utmost expression of hatred, philip would neither have wondered at them, nor resented them. they came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells. a hundred yards off, and there was a small public-house, with a broad ruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract. 'theere!' said the old man. 'thee cannot well miss that. a dunno tho', thee bees sich a gawby.' so he went on, and delivered philip safely up to the landlord. 'here's a felly as a fund on t' fell side, just as one as if he were drunk; but he's sober enough, a reckon, only summat's wrong i' his head, a'm thinkin'.' 'no!' said philip, sitting down on the first chair he came to. 'i'm right enough; just fairly wearied out: lost my way,' and he fainted. there was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the house-place, drinking. he, too, like philip, had lost his way; but was turning his blunder to account by telling all manner of wonderful stories to two or three rustics who had come in ready to drink on any pretence; especially if they could get good liquor without paying for it. the sergeant rose as philip fell back, and brought up his own mug of beer, into which a noggin of gin had been put (called in yorkshire 'dog's-nose'). he partly poured and partly spilt some of this beverage on philip's face; some drops went through the pale and parted lips, and with a start the worn-out man revived. 'bring him some victual, landlord,' called out the recruiting sergeant. 'i'll stand shot.' they brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. the sergeant asked for pepper and salt; minced the food fine and made it savoury, and kept administering it by teaspoonfuls; urging philip to drink from time to time from his own cup of dog's-nose. a burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either pepper or salt, took possession of philip, and he drank freely, scarcely recognizing what he drank. it took effect on one so habitually sober; and he was soon in that state when the imagination works wildly and freely. he saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, and active, in his gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to philip, taking life lightly; admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth. if philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, returning with martial glory to monkshaven, would not sylvia love him once more? could not he win her heart? he was brave by nature, and the prospect of danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his imagination. he thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistment with his new friend, the sergeant; but the latter was twenty times as cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. philip was older by some years than the regulation age; but, at that time of great demand for men, the question of age was lightly entertained. the sergeant was profuse in statements of the advantages presented to a man of education in his branch of the service; how such a one was sure to rise; in fact, it would have seemed from the sergeant's account, as though the difficulty consisted in remaining in the ranks. philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, each time with failing power of reason. at length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of hand, he found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go before the nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his majesty's marines the next morning. and after that he remembered nothing more. he wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as the sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment; while gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before came, filling up philip's cup of agony. he knew that he had received the bounty-money; and though he was aware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, no care, indeed, for any of the advantages so liberally promised him the night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondent passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. anything was welcome that severed him from his former life, that could make him forget it, if that were possible; and also welcome anything which increased the chances of death without the sinfulness of his own participation in the act. he found in the dark recess of his mind the dead body of his fancy of the previous night; that he might come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had never been his. but he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight--so full of despair was he. he could eat no breakfast, though the sergeant ordered of the best. the latter kept watching his new recruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or dreading a sudden bolt. but philip walked with him the two or three miles in the most submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret or repentance; and before justice cholmley, of holm-fell hall, he was sworn into his majesty's service, under the name of stephen freeman. with a new name, he began a new life. alas! the old life lives for ever! chapter xxxv things unutterable after philip had passed out of the room, sylvia lay perfectly still, from very exhaustion. her mother slept on, happily unconscious of all the turmoil that had taken place; yes, happily, though the heavy sleep was to end in death. but of this her daughter knew nothing, imagining that it was refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of life. both mother and daughter lay motionless till phoebe entered the room to tell sylvia that dinner was on the table. then sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, bewildered and uncertain as to what was to be done next; how she should meet the husband to whom she had discarded all allegiance, repudiated the solemn promise of love and obedience which she had vowed. phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in the invalid, scarcely older than herself. 'how is t' old lady?' asked she, in a low voice. sylvia turned her head round to look; her mother had never moved, but was breathing in a loud uncomfortable manner, that made her stoop over her to see the averted face more nearly. 'phoebe!' she cried, 'come here! she looks strange and odd; her eyes are open, but don't see me. phoebe! phoebe!' 'sure enough, she's in a bad way!' said phoebe, climbing stiffly on to the bed to have a nearer view. 'hold her head a little up t' ease her breathin' while i go for master; he'll be for sendin' for t' doctor, i'll be bound.' sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly on her breast, speaking to her and trying to rouse her; but it was of no avail: the hard, stertorous breathing grew worse and worse. sylvia cried out for help; nancy came, the baby in her arms. they had been in several times before that morning; and the child came smiling and crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own dying parent. 'oh, nancy!' said sylvia; 'what is the matter with mother? yo' can see her face; tell me quick!' nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out of the room, crying out, 'master! master! come quick! t' old missus is a-dying!' this appeared to be no news to sylvia, and yet the words came on her with a great shock, but for all that she could not cry; she was surprised herself at her own deadness of feeling. her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard both her mother and her child. it seemed a long, long time before any one came, and then she heard muffled voices, and a heavy tramp: it was phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, and nancy creeping in behind to hear his opinion. he did not ask many questions, and phoebe replied more frequently to his inquiries than did sylvia, who looked into his face with a blank, tearless, speechless despair, that gave him more pain than the sight of her dying mother. the long decay of mrs. robson's faculties and health, of which he was well aware, had in a certain manner prepared him for some such sudden termination of the life whose duration was hardly desirable, although he gave several directions as to her treatment; but the white, pinched face, the great dilated eye, the slow comprehension of the younger woman, struck him with alarm; and he went on asking for various particulars, more with a view of rousing sylvia, if even it were to tears, than for any other purpose that the information thus obtained could answer. 'you had best have pillows propped up behind her--it will not be for long; she does not know that you are holding her, and it is only tiring you to no purpose!' sylvia's terrible stare continued: he put his advice into action, and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. this she resisted; laying her cheek against her poor mother's unconscious face. 'where is hepburn?' said he. 'he ought to be here!' phoebe looked at nancy, nancy at phoebe. it was the latter who replied, 'he's neither i' t' house nor i' t' shop. a seed him go past t' kitchen window better nor an hour ago; but neither william coulson or hester rose knows where he's gone to. dr morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, but he made no sound. 'give me baby!' he said, suddenly. nancy had taken her up off the bed where she had been sitting, encircled by her mother's arm. the nursemaid gave her to the doctor. he watched the mother's eye, it followed her child, and he was rejoiced. he gave a little pinch to the baby's soft flesh, and she cried out piteously; again the same action, the same result. sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched out her arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning over it. 'so far so good!' said dr morgan to himself. 'but where is the husband? he ought to be here.' he went down-stairs to make inquiry for philip; that poor young creature, about whose health he had never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after her confinement, was in an anxious condition, and with an inevitable shock awaiting her. her husband ought to be with her, and supporting her to bear it. dr morgan went into the shop. hester alone was there. coulson had gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered house, with his common-place wife. if he had felt anxious about philip's looks and strange disappearance, he had also managed to account for them in some indifferent way. hester was alone with the shop-boy; few people came in during the universal monkshaven dinner-hour. she was resting her head on her hand, and puzzled and distressed about many things--all that was implied by the proceedings of the evening before between philip and sylvia; and that was confirmed by philip's miserable looks and strange abstracted ways to-day. oh! how easy hester would have found it to make him happy! not merely how easy, but what happiness it would have been to her to merge her every wish into the one great object of fulfiling his will. to her, an on-looker, the course of married life, which should lead to perfect happiness, seemed to plain! alas! it is often so! and the resisting forces which make all such harmony and delight impossible are not recognized by the bystanders, hardly by the actors. but if these resisting forces are only superficial, or constitutional, they are but the necessary discipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will make all things right in heaven. some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its light on hester's troubled thoughts from time to time. but again, how easy would it have been to her to tread the maze that led to philip's happiness; and how difficult it seemed to the wife he had chosen! she was aroused by dr morgan's voice. 'so both coulson and hepburn have left the shop to your care, hester. i want hepburn, though; his wife is in a very anxious state. where is he? can you tell me?' 'sylvia in an anxious state! i've not seen her to-day, but last night she looked as well as could be.' 'ay, ay; but many a thing happens in four-and-twenty hours. her mother is dying, may be dead by this time; and her husband should be there with her. can't you send for him?' 'i don't know where he is,' said hester. 'he went off from here all on a sudden, when there was all the market-folks in t' shop; i thought he'd maybe gone to john foster's about th' money, for they was paying a deal in. i'll send there and inquire.' no! the messenger brought back word that he had not been seen at their bank all morning. further inquiries were made by the anxious hester, by the doctor, by coulson; all they could learn was that phoebe had seen him pass the kitchen window about eleven o'clock, when she was peeling the potatoes for dinner; and two lads playing on the quay-side thought they had seen him among a group of sailors; but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no knowledge of his appearance among them. before night the whole town was excited about his disappearance. before night bell robson had gone to her long home. and sylvia still lay quiet and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any other creature by the events of the day, and the strange vanishing of her husband. the only thing she seemed to care for was her baby; she held it tight in her arms, and dr morgan bade them leave it there, its touch might draw the desired tears into her weary, sleepless eyes, and charm the aching pain out of them. they were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, whose non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife must (they thought) seem strange to her. and night drew on while they were all in this state. she had gone back to her own room without a word when they had desired her to do so; caressing her child in her arms, and sitting down on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much for her. they saw her eyes turn towards the door every time it was opened, and they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who could not be found, though many were seeking for him in all probable places. when night came some one had to tell her of her husband's disappearance; and dr morgan was the person who undertook this. he came into her room about nine o'clock; her baby was sleeping in her arms; she herself pale as death, still silent and tearless, though strangely watchful of gestures and sounds, and probably cognizant of more than they imagined. 'well, mrs. hepburn,' said he, as cheerfully as he could, 'i should advise your going to bed early; for i fancy your husband won't come home to-night. some journey or other, that perhaps coulson can explain better than i can, will most likely keep him away till to-morrow. it's very unfortunate that he should be away at such a sad time as this, as i'm sure he'll feel when he returns; but we must make the best of it.' he watched her to see the effect of his words. she sighed, that was all. he still remained a little while. she lifted her head up a little and asked, 'how long do yo' think she was unconscious, doctor? could she hear things, think yo', afore she fell into that strange kind o' slumber?' 'i cannot tell,' said he, shaking his head. 'was she breathing in that hard snoring kind of way when you left her this morning?' 'yes, i think so; i cannot tell, so much has happened.' 'when you came back to her, after your breakfast, i think you said she was in much the same position?' 'yes, and yet i may be telling yo' lies; if i could but think: but it's my head as is aching so; doctor, i wish yo'd go, for i need being alone, i'm so mazed.' 'good-night, then, for you're a wise woman, i see, and mean to go to bed, and have a good night with baby there.' but he went down to phoebe, and told her to go in from time to time, and see how her mistress was. he found hester rose and the old servant together; both had been crying, both were evidently in great trouble about the death and the mystery of the day. hester asked if she might go up and see sylvia, and the doctor gave his leave, talking meanwhile with phoebe over the kitchen fire. hester came down again without seeing sylvia. the door of the room was bolted, and everything quiet inside. 'does she know where her husband is, think you?' asked the doctor at this account of hester's. 'she's not anxious about him at any rate: or else the shock of her mother's death has been too much for her. we must hope for some change in the morning; a good fit of crying, or a fidget about her husband, would be more natural. good-night to you both,' and off he went. phoebe and hester avoided looking at each other at these words. both were conscious of the probability of something having gone seriously wrong between the husband and wife. hester had the recollection of the previous night, phoebe the untasted breakfast of to-day to go upon. she spoke first. 'a just wish he'd come home to still folks' tongues. it need niver ha' been known if t' old lady hadn't died this day of all others. it's such a thing for t' shop t' have one o' t' partners missin', an' no one for t' know what's comed on him. it niver happened i' fosters' days, that's a' i know.' 'he'll maybe come back yet,' said hester. 'it's not so very late.' 'it were market day, and a',' continued phoebe, 'just as if iverything mun go wrong together; an' a' t' country customers'll go back wi' fine tale i' their mouths, as measter hepburn was strayed an' missin' just like a beast o' some kind.' 'hark! isn't that a step?' said hester suddenly, as a footfall sounded in the now quiet street; but it passed the door, and the hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the sound died away. 'he'll noane come to-night,' said phoebe, who had been as eager a listener as hester, however. 'thou'd best go thy ways home; a shall stay up, for it's not seemly for us a' t' go to our beds, an' a corpse in t' house; an' nancy, as might ha' watched, is gone to her bed this hour past, like a lazy boots as she is. a can hear, too, if t' measter does come home; tho' a'll be bound he wunnot; choose wheere he is, he'll be i' bed by now, for it's well on to eleven. i'll let thee out by t' shop-door, and stand by it till thou's close at home, for it's ill for a young woman to be i' t' street so late.' so she held the door open, and shaded the candle from the flickering outer air, while hester went to her home with a heavy heart. heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. no news of philip, no change in sylvia; an unceasing flow of angling and conjecture and gossip radiating from the shop into the town. hester could have entreated coulson on her knees to cease from repeating the details of a story of which every word touched on a raw place in her sensitive heart; moreover, when they talked together so eagerly, she could not hear the coming footsteps on the pavement without. once some one hit very near the truth in a chance remark. 'it seems strange,' she said, 'how as one man turns up, another just disappears. why, it were but upo' tuesday as kinraid come back, as all his own folk had thought to be dead; and next day here's measter hepburn as is gone no one knows wheere!' 'that's t' way i' this world,' replied coulson, a little sententiously. 'this life is full o' changes o' one kind or another; them that's dead is alive; and as for poor philip, though he was alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came into t' shop o' wednesday morning.' 'and how does she take it?' nodding to where sylvia was supposed to be. 'oh! she's not herself, so to say. she were just stunned by finding her mother was dying in her very arms when she thought as she were only sleeping; yet she's never been able to cry a drop; so that t' sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all i can hear, she doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. t' doctor says if she could but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of things.' 'and what do john and jeremiah foster say to it all?' 'they're down here many a time in t' day to ask if he's come back, or how she is; for they made a deal on 'em both. they're going t' attend t' funeral to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to be shut up in t' morning.' to the surprise of every one, sylvia, who had never left her room since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her intention of following her mother to the grave. no one could do more than remonstrate: no one had sufficient authority to interfere with her. dr morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to tears by the occasion; only he begged hester to go with her, that she might have the solace of some woman's company. she went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past. but on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw kester, in his sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, kind mistress. his evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the fountain of sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the funeral. but she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she made an effort to go round by the place where kester stood. 'come and see me,' was all she could say for crying: and kester only nodded his head--he could not speak a word. chapter xxxvi mysterious tidings that very evening kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door. phoebe opened it. he asked to see sylvia. 'a know not if she'll see thee,' said phoebe. 'there's no makin' her out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.' 'she bid me come and see her,' said kester. 'only this mornin', at missus' buryin', she telled me to come.' so phoebe went off to inform sylvia that kester was there; and returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. an instant after he was gone, phoebe heard him return, and carefully shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and sitting-room. sylvia was in the latter when kester came in, holding her baby close to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, making nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to phoebe's indignation. sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. she went up to kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over. 'don't talk to me of her,' she said hastily. 'i cannot stand it. it's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh----' she began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down her sobs. 'kester,' she went on, hastily, 'charley kinraid isn't dead; dost ta know? he's alive, and he were here o' tuesday--no, monday, was it? i cannot tell--but he were here!' 'a knowed as he weren't dead. every one is a-speaking on it. but a didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. a took comfort i' thinkin' as thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.' 'then he's gone?' said sylvia. 'gone; ay, days past. as far as a know, he but stopped a' neet. a thought to mysel' (but yo' may be sure a said nought to nobody), he's heerd as our sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it.' 'kester!' said sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. 'i saw him. he was here. philip saw him. philip had known as he wasn't dead a' this time!' kester stood up suddenly. 'by goom, that chap has a deal t' answer for.' a bright red spot was on each of sylvia's white cheeks; and for a minute or so neither of them spoke. then she went on, still whispering out her words. 'kester, i'm more afeared than i dare tell any one: can they ha' met, think yo'? t' very thought turns me sick. i told philip my mind, and took a vow again' him--but it would be awful to think on harm happening to him through kinraid. yet he went out that morning, and has niver been seen or heard on sin'; and kinraid were just fell again' him, and as for that matter, so was i; but----' the red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination. kester spoke. 'it's a thing as can be easy looked into. what day an' time were it when philip left this house?' 'tuesday--the day she died. i saw him in her room that morning between breakfast and dinner; i could a'most swear to it's being close after eleven. i mind counting t' clock. it was that very morn as kinraid were here.' 'a'll go an' have a pint o' beer at t' king's arms, down on t' quay-side; it were theere he put up at. an' a'm pretty sure as he only stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. but a'll go see.' 'do,' said sylvia, 'and go out through t' shop; they're all watching and watching me to see how i take things; and daren't let on about t' fire as is burning up my heart. coulson is i' t' shop, but he'll not notice thee like phoebe.' by-and-by kester came back. it seemed as though sylvia had never stirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak. 'he went away i' rob mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters to hartlepool. t' lieutenant (as they ca' him down at t' king's arms; they're as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new-painted sign to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin' longer wi' 'em; but he went out betimes o' tuesday morn', an' came back a' ruffled up, an paid his bill--paid for his breakfast, though he touched noane on it--an' went off i' rob postman's mail-cart, as starts reg'lar at ten o'clock. corneys has been theere askin' for him, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near em; and they bees cousins. niver a one among 'em knows as he were here as far as a could mak' out.' 'thank yo', kester,' said sylvia, falling back in her chair, as if all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now that her anxiety was relieved. she was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on her child's head. kester spoke next. 'a think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. but it's a' t' more wonder where thy husband's gone to. thee and him had words about it, and thou telled him thy mind, thou said?' 'yes,' said sylvia, not moving. 'i'm afeared lest mother knows what i said to him, there, where she's gone to--i am-' the tears filled her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; 'and yet it were true, what i said, i cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt my life, and i'm not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, how very wretched, i were. a word fra' him would ha' mended it a'; and charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful love, and philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on as him i was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd keep true to me, as i were to do to him.' 'a wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,' said kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation. sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still shut. then she said, 'yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. oh, kester!' lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, 'it's well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.' 'ay!' said he. 'but there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra' shirkin' their misery. think yo' now as philip is livin'?' sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied. 'i dunnot know. i said such things; he deserved 'em all----' 'well, well, lass!' said kester, sorry that he had asked the question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. 'neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not think on him. a'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it wi' my mind so full. thou knows haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' oud place is empty?' 'yes!' said sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with feeling. 'a only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i' monkshaven. my sister, her as lived at dale end an' is a widow, has comed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about. a'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. a'm lodgin' at peggy dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea: no one can miss it.' he stood up and shook hands with her. as he did so, he looked at her sleeping baby. 'she's liker yo' than him. a think a'll say, god bless her.' with the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. she ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the disturbance made her cry fretfully. 'hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's no one left to love me but thee, and i cannot stand thy weeping, my pretty one. hush thee, my babe, hush thee!' she whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs to bed. about three weeks after the miserable date of bell robson's death and philip's disappearance, hester rose received a letter from him. she knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble so much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose. but she need not have feared; there were no facts told, unless the vague date of 'london' might be something to learn. even that much might have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been too much taken by surprise to examine it. it ran as follows:-'dear hester,-'tell those whom it may concern, that i have left monkshaven for ever. no one need trouble themselves about me; i am provided for. please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the messrs foster, and to my partner, william coulson. please to accept of my love, and to join the same to your mother. please to give my particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt isabella robson. her daughter sylvia knows what i have always felt, and shall always feel, for her better than i can ever put into language, so i send her no message; god bless and keep my child. you must all look on me as one dead; as i am to you, and maybe shall soon be in reality. 'your affectionate and obedient friend to command, 'philip hepburn. 'p.s.--oh, hester! for god's sake and mine, look after ('my wife,' scratched out) sylvia and my child. i think jeremiah foster will help you to be a friend to them. this is the last solemn request of p. h. she is but very young.' hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. she put it in her pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the shop. the customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than usual. she thought that in the evening she would go across the bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers foster. but something occurred to put off the fulfilment of this plan. that same morning sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, because consultation would have required previous confidence, and confidence would have necessitated such a confession about kinraid as it was most difficult for sylvia to make. the poor young wife yet felt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be she could not imagine. she had no home to go to; for as philip was gone away, she remained where she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means of livelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankful to take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, what could she do? in this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end of her wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go and ask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered. it would be the first time of her going out since her mother's funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. more even than on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. she could not get over the impression that kinraid must be lingering near; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positive terror to think of meeting him again. she felt as though, if she but caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. or rather so she felt, and so she thought before she took her baby in her arms, as nancy gave it to her after putting on its out-of-door attire. with it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her thoughts was changed. the infant was wailing and suffering with its teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and the bridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she notice the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met who recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the draping mourning provided for her by hester and coulson, in the first unconscious days after her mother's death. though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon philip's disappearance--warned possibly by kinraid's story against hasty decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general disturbance--yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate could have befallen philip's wife. marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest even in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her mother at the market cross--her father had lost his life in a popular cause, and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of his townsmen; sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet daily life was well known to them; and now her husband had been carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his comfort most. for the general opinion was that philip had been 'carried off'--in seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those days--either by land-crimps or water-crimps. so sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk to jeremiah foster's. she had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinner hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than to the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours of the day. sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry. in an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. 'no, sir, i cannot take it! wine allays gives me th' headache; if i might have just a drink o' water. thank you, ma'am' (to the respectable-looking old servant), 'i'm well enough now; and perhaps, sir, i might speak a word with yo', for it's that i've come for.' 'it's a pity, sylvia hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the bank, for it's been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, with thy child. but if there's aught i can do or say for thee, thou hast but to name it, i am sure. martha! wilt thou relieve her of her child while she comes with me into the parlour?' but the wilful little bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was. so the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life depended on this trivial fact. once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with jeremiah, sylvia did not know how to begin. jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little fingers. 'she favours you a deal,' said he, at last. 'more than her father,' he went on, purposely introducing philip's name, so as to break the ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about something connected with her husband. still sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that house the last time that she entered it. 'it's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. 'it's about philip as i comed to speak. do yo' know any thing whatsomever about him? he niver had a chance o' saying anything, i know; but maybe he's written?' 'not a line, my poor young woman!' said jeremiah, hastily putting an end to that vain idea. 'then he's either dead or gone away for iver,' she whispered. 'i mun be both feyther and mother to my child.' 'oh! thee must not give it up,' replied he. 'many a one is carried off to the wars, or to the tenders o' men-o'-war; and then they turn out to be unfit for service, and are sent home. philip 'll come back before the year's out; thee'll see that.' 'no; he'll niver come back. and i'm not sure as i should iver wish him t' come back, if i could but know what was gone wi' him. yo' see, sir, though i were sore set again' him, i shouldn't like harm to happen him.' 'there is something behind all this that i do not understand. can thee tell me what it is?' 'i must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel; and i came up here to ask for it.' another long pause, during which jeremiah made a feint of playing with the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience at not being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at length stretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of the coveted possession. surprise at this action roused sylvia, and she made some comment upon it. 'i niver knew her t' go to any one afore. i hope she'll not be troublesome to yo', sir?' the old man, who had often longed for a child of his own in days gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, and almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering over some painful story which she could not bring herself to tell. 'i'm afeared of speaking wrong again' any one, sir. and mother were so fond o' philip; but he kept something from me as would ha' made me a different woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. i were troth-plighted wi' kinraid the specksioneer, him as was cousin to th' corneys o' moss brow, and comed back lieutenant i' t' navy last tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead and gone these three years.' she paused. 'well?' said jeremiah, with interest; although his attention appeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eager playfulness of the baby on his knee. 'philip knew he were alive; he'd seen him taken by t' press-gang, and charley had sent a message to me by philip.' her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of her story. 'and he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to break my heart in thinking as kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel'; and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t' truth. it would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had his message if i'd niver ha' been to see him again. but philip niver let on to any one, as i iver heared on, that he'd seen charley that morning as t' press-gang took him. yo' know about feyther's death, and how friendless mother and me was left? and so i married him; for he were a good friend to us then, and i were dazed like wi' sorrow, and could see naught else to do for mother. he were allays very tender and good to her, for sure.' again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep sighs. 'if i go on, sir, now, i mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell. i do so need some one to tell me what i ought to do, and i were led here, like, else i would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. yo'll promise, sir?' jeremiah foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eager look, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving the promise required; she went on. 'upon a tuesday morning, three weeks ago, i think, tho' for t' matter o' time it might ha' been three years, kinraid come home; come back for t' claim me as his wife, and i were wed to philip! i met him i' t' road at first; and i couldn't tell him theere. he followed me into t' house--philip's house, sir, behind t' shop--and somehow i told him all, how i were a wedded wife to another. then he up and said i'd a false heart--me false, sir, as had eaten my daily bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrow and mourning for his death! then he said as philip knowed all t' time he were alive and coming back for me; and i couldn't believe it, and i called philip, and he come, and a' that charley had said were true; and yet i were philip's wife! so i took a mighty oath, and i said as i'd niver hold philip to be my lawful husband again, nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as a stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.' she stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. but her listener said, after a pause, 'it were a cruel wrong, i grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin, and thy words were evil, my poor lass. what happened next?' 'i don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'kinraid went away, and mother cried out; and i went to her. she were asleep, i thought, so i lay down by her, to wish i were dead, and to think on what would come on my child if i died; and philip came in softly, and i made as if i were asleep; and that's t' very last as i've iver seen or heared of him.' jeremiah foster groaned as she ended her story. then he pulled himself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice, 'he'll come back, sylvia hepburn. he'll think better of it: never fear!' 'i fear his coming back!' said she. 'that's what i'm feared on; i would wish as i knew on his well-doing i' some other place; but him and me can niver live together again.' 'nay,' pleaded jeremiah. 'thee art sorry what thee said; thee were sore put about, or thee wouldn't have said it.' he was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over conjugal differences; but he did not go deep enough. 'i'm not sorry,' said she, slowly. 'i were too deeply wronged to be "put about"; that would go off wi' a night's sleep. it's only the thought of mother (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of all this, i trust) that comes between me and hating philip. i'm not sorry for what i said.' jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and undisguised in expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say. he looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. so pretty and delicate a young creature to use such strong relentless language! she seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them. 'i dare say you think i'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. perhaps i am. i can't think o' that for remembering how i've suffered; and he knew how miserable i was, and might ha' cleared my misery away wi' a word; and he held his peace, and now it's too late! i'm sick o' men and their cruel, deceitful ways. i wish i were dead.' she was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing her tears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its little arms to go back to its mother. the hard stony look on her face melted away into the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one to her, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs. a bright thought came into the old man's mind. he had been taking a complete dislike to her till her pretty way with her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her. 'poor little one!' said he, 'thy mother had need love thee, for she's deprived thee of thy father's love. thou'rt half-way to being an orphan; yet i cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom god will be a father. thou'rt a desolate babe, thou may'st well cry; thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and i know not if the lord will take thee up.' sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby tighter to her, she exclaimed. 'don't speak so, sir! it's cursing, sir! i haven't forsaken her! oh, sir! those are awful sayings.' 'thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with him again. dost thee know that by the law of the land, he may claim his child; and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn? poor little maiden!' continued he, once more luring the baby to him with the temptation of the watch and chain. sylvia thought for a while before speaking. then she said, 'i cannot tell what ways to take. whiles i think my head is crazed. it were a cruel turn he did me!' 'it was. i couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness.' this acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on jeremiah's part, almost took sylvia by surprise. why might she not hate one who had been both cruel and base in his treatment of her? and yet she recoiled from the application of such hard terms by another to philip, by a cool-judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed jeremiah to be. from some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she began to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh judgment which she herself had been the first to pronounce. 'he were so tender to mother; she were dearly fond on him; he niver spared aught he could do for her, else i would niver ha' married him.' 'he was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen. and i never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother.' 'but it were all the same as a lie,' said sylvia, swiftly changing her ground, 'to leave me to think as charley were dead, when he knowed all t' time he were alive.' 'it was. it was a self-seeking lie; putting thee to pain to get his own ends. and the end of it has been that he is driven forth like cain.' 'i niver told him to go, sir.' 'but thy words sent him forth, sylvia.' 'i cannot unsay them, sir; and i believe as i should say them again.' but she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction. all jeremiah replied, however, was, 'poor wee child!' in a pitiful tone, addressed to the baby. sylvia's eyes filled with tears. 'oh, sir, i'll do anything as iver yo' can tell me for her. that's what i came for t' ask yo'. i know i mun not stay theere, and philip gone away; and i dunnot know what to do: and i'll do aught, only i must keep her wi' me. whativer can i do, sir?' jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. then he replied, 'i must have time to think. i must talk it over with brother john.' 'but you've given me yo'r word, sir!' exclaimed she. 'i have given thee my word never to tell any one of what has passed between thee and thy husband, but i must take counsel with my brother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now that thy husband has left the shop.' this was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up, as a sign that the interview was ended. he gave the baby back to its mother; but not without a solemn blessing, so solemn that, to sylvia's superstitious and excited mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse. 'the lord bless thee and keep thee! the lord make his face to shine upon thee!' all the way down the hill-side, sylvia kept kissing the child, and whispering to its unconscious ears,-'i'll love thee for both, my treasure, i will. i'll hap thee round wi' my love, so as thou shall niver need a feyther's.' chapter xxxvii bereavement hester had been prevented by her mother's indisposition from taking philip's letter to the fosters, to hold a consultation with them over its contents. alice rose was slowly failing, and the long days which she had to spend alone told much upon her spirits, and consequently upon her health. all this came out in the conversation which ensued after reading hepburn's letter in the little parlour at the bank on the day after sylvia had had her confidential interview with jeremiah foster. he was a true man of honour, and never so much as alluded to her visit to him; but what she had then told him influenced him very much in the formation of the project which he proposed to his brother and hester. he recommended her remaining where she was, living still in the house behind the shop; for he thought within himself that she might have exaggerated the effect of her words upon philip; that, after all, it might have been some cause totally disconnected with them, which had blotted out her husband's place among the men of monkshaven; and that it would be so much easier for both to resume their natural relations, both towards each other and towards the world, if sylvia remained where her husband had left her--in an expectant attitude, so to speak. jeremiah foster questioned hester straitly about her letter: whether she had made known its contents to any one. no, not to any one. neither to her mother nor to william coulson? no, to neither. she looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, and he looked at her, each wondering if the other could be in the least aware that a conjugal quarrel might be at the root of the dilemma in which they were placed by hepburn's disappearance. but neither hester, who had witnessed the misunderstanding between the husband and wife on the evening, before the morning on which philip went away, nor jeremiah foster, who had learnt from sylvia the true reason of her husband's disappearance, gave the slightest reason to the other to think that they each supposed they had a clue to the reason of hepburn's sudden departure. what jeremiah foster, after a night's consideration, had to propose was this; that hester and her mother should come and occupy the house in the market-place, conjointly with sylvia and her child. hester's interest in the shop was by this time acknowledged. jeremiah had made over to her so much of his share in the business, that she had a right to be considered as a kind of partner; and she had long been the superintendent of that department of goods which were exclusively devoted to women. so her daily presence was requisite for more reasons than one. yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to render it unadvisable that the old woman should be too much left alone; and sylvia's devotion to her own mother seemed to point her out as the very person who could be a gentle and tender companion to alice rose during those hours when her own daughter would necessarily be engaged in the shop. many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this removal of alice: an occupation was provided for sylvia, which would detain her in the place where her husband had left her, and where (jeremiah foster fairly expected in spite of his letter) he was likely to come back to find her; and alice rose, the early love of one of the brothers, the old friend of the other, would be well cared for, and under her daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of the time that she was occupied in the shop. philip's share of the business, augmented by the money which he had put in from the legacy of his old cumberland uncle, would bring in profits enough to support sylvia and her child in ease and comfort until that time, which they all anticipated, when he should return from his mysterious wandering--mysterious, whether his going forth had been voluntary or involuntary. thus far was settled; and jeremiah foster went to tell sylvia of the plan. she was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to any independence of action, to do anything but leave herself in his hands. her very confession, made to him the day before, when she sought his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. otherwise, she had had notions of the possibility of a free country life once more--how provided for and arranged she hardly knew; but haytersbank was to let, and kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible that she might have to return to her early home, and to her old life. she knew that it would take much money to stock the farm again, and that her hands were tied from much useful activity by the love and care she owed to her baby. but still, somehow, she hoped and she fancied, till jeremiah foster's measured words and carefully-arranged plan made her silently relinquish her green, breezy vision. hester, too, had her own private rebellion--hushed into submission by her gentle piety. if sylvia had been able to make philip happy, hester could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards her; but sylvia had failed in this. philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth a wanderer into the wide world--never to come back! and his last words to hester, the postscript of his letter, containing the very pith of it, was to ask her to take charge and care of the wife whose want of love towards him had uprooted him from the place where he was valued and honoured. it cost hester many a struggle and many a self-reproach before she could make herself feel what she saw all along--that in everything philip treated her like a sister. but even a sister might well be indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded and slighted, and his life embittered by the thoughtless conduct of a wife! still hester fought against herself, and for philip's sake she sought to see the good in sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to take care of her. with the baby, of course, the case was different. without thought or struggle, or reason, every one loved the little girl. coulson and his buxom wife, who were childless, were never weary of making much of her. hester's happiest hours were spent with that little child. jeremiah foster almost looked upon her as his own from the day when she honoured him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and seal, and coming to his knee; not a customer to the shop but knew the smiling child's sad history, and many a country-woman would save a rosy-cheeked apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on next market-day for 'philip hepburn's baby, as had lost its father, bless it.' even stern alice rose was graciously inclined towards the little bella; and though her idea of the number of the elect was growing narrower and narrower every day, she would have been loth to exclude the innocent little child, that stroked her wrinkled cheeks so softly every night in return for her blessing, from the few that should be saved. nay, for the child's sake, she relented towards the mother; and strove to have sylvia rescued from the many castaways with fervent prayer, or, as she phrased it, 'wrestling with the lord'. alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose ewe-lamb she was, could not be even in heaven without yearning for the creature she had loved best on earth; and the old woman believed that this was the principal reason for her prayers for sylvia; but unconsciously to herself, alice rose was touched by the filial attentions she constantly received from the young mother, whom she believed to be foredoomed to condemnation. sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read her bible; for though she spoke little of her ignorance, and would fain, for her child's sake, have remedied it now it was too late, she had lost what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and could only make out her words with much spelling and difficulty. so the taking her bible in hand would have been a mere form; though of this alice rose knew nothing. no one knew much of what was passing in sylvia; she did not know herself. sometimes in the nights she would waken, crying, with a terrible sense of desolation; every one who loved her, or whom she had loved, had vanished out of her life; every one but her child, who lay in her arms, warm and soft. but then jeremiah foster's words came upon her; words that she had taken for cursing at the time; and she would so gladly have had some clue by which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown region from whence both blessing and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed done something which should cause her sin to be visited on that soft, sweet, innocent darling. if any one would teach her to read! if any one would explain to her the hard words she heard in church or chapel, so that she might find out the meaning of sin and godliness!--words that had only passed over the surface of her mind till now! for her child's sake she should like to do the will of god, if she only knew what that was, and how to be worked out in her daily life. but there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to and ask information from. jeremiah foster had spoken as if her child, sweet little merry bella, with a loving word and a kiss for every one, was to suffer heavily for the just and true words her wronged and indignant mother had spoken. alice always spoke as if there were no hope for her; and blamed her, nevertheless, for not using the means of grace that it was not in her power to avail herself of. and hester, that sylvia would fain have loved for her uniform gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed so cold in her unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour; and moreover, sylvia felt that hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding philip's absence without knowing how bitter a cause sylvia had for casting him off. the only person who seemed to have pity upon her was kester; and his pity was shown in looks rather than words; for when he came to see her, which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual tacit consent, they spoke but little of former days. he was still lodging with his sister, widow dobson, working at odd jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time. but on his returns to monkshaven he was sure to come and see her and the little bella; indeed, when his employment was in the immediate neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away without a visit. there was not much conversation between him and sylvia at such times. they skimmed over the surface of the small events in which both took an interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a checked speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they were never mentioned. twice sylvia--below her breath--had asked kester, just as she was holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been heard of kinraid since his one night's visit to monkshaven: each time (and there was an interval of some months between the inquiries) the answer had been simply, no. to no one else would sylvia ever have named his name. but indeed she had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any questions about him from any one likely to know. the corneys had left moss brow at martinmas, and gone many miles away towards horncastle. bessy corney, it is true was married and left behind in the neighbourhood; but with her sylvia had never been intimate; and what girlish friendship there might have been between them had cooled very much at the time of kinraid's supposed death three years before. one day before christmas in this year, 1798, sylvia was called into the shop by coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the bales of winter goods supplied to them from the west riding, and other places. he was looking at a fine irish poplin dress-piece when sylvia answered to his call. 'here! do you know this again?' asked he, in the cheerful tone of one sure of giving pleasure. 'no! have i iver seen it afore?' 'not this, but one for all t' world like it.' she did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying to recollect where she could have seen its like. 'my missus had one on at th' party at john foster's last march, and yo' admired it a deal. and philip, he thought o' nothing but how he could get yo' just such another, and he set a vast o' folk agait for to meet wi' its marrow; and what he did just the very day afore he went away so mysterious was to write through dawson brothers, o' wakefield, to dublin, and order that one should be woven for yo'. jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t' exact colour.' sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, in a low voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to coulson's displeasure. all the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. alice rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen eyes. at length, after one of sylvia's deep, unconscious sighs, the old woman spoke: 'it's religion as must comfort thee, child, as it's done many a one afore thee.' 'how?' said sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself an object of notice. 'how?' (the answer was not quite so ready as the precept had been.) 'read thy bible, and thou wilt learn.' 'but i cannot read,' said sylvia, too desperate any longer to conceal her ignorance. 'not read! and thee philip's wife as was such a great scholar! of a surety the ways o' this life are crooked! there was our hester, as can read as well as any minister, and philip passes over her to go and choose a young lass as cannot read her bible.' 'was philip and hester----' sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned upon her, she did not know how to word her question. 'many a time and oft have i seen hester take comfort in her bible when philip was following after thee. she knew where to go for consolation.' 'i'd fain read,' said sylvia, humbly, 'if anybody would learn me; for perhaps it might do me good; i'm noane so happy.' her eyes, as she looked up at alice's stern countenance, were full of tears. the old woman saw it, and was touched, although she did not immediately show her sympathy. but she took her own time, and made no reply. the next day, however, she bade sylvia come to her, and then and there, as if her pupil had been a little child, she began to teach sylvia to read the first chapter of genesis; for all other reading but the scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would not condescend to the weakness of other books. sylvia was now, as ever, slow at book-learning; but she was meek and desirous to be taught, and her willingness in this respect pleased alice, and drew her singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might become a convert. all this time sylvia never lost the curiosity that had been excited by the few words alice had let drop about hester and philip, and by degrees she approached the subject again, and had the idea then started confirmed by alice, who had no scruple in using the past experience of her own, of her daughter's, or of any one's life, as an instrument to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything earthly. this knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into sylvia's thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in hester--poor hester, whose life she had so crossed and blighted, even by the very blighting of her own. she gave hester her own former passionate feelings for kinraid, and wondered how she herself should have felt towards any one who had come between her and him, and wiled his love away. when she remembered hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness towards herself from the very first, she could better bear the comparative coldness of her present behaviour. she tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she had lost; but the very means she took were blunders, and only made it seem to her as if she could never again do right in hester's eyes. for instance, she begged her to accept and wear the pretty poplin gown which had been philip's especial choice; feeling within herself as if she should never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing she could do with it was to offer it to hester. but hester rejected the proffered gift with as much hardness of manner as she was capable of assuming; and sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it by for the little daughter, who, hester said, might perhaps learn to value things that her father had given especial thought to. yet sylvia went on trying to win hester to like her once more; it was one of her great labours, and learning to read from hester's mother was another. alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite fond of sylvia; if she could not read or write, she had a deftness and gentleness of motion, a capacity for the household matters which fell into her department, that had a great effect on the old woman, and for her dear mother's sake sylvia had a stock of patient love ready in her heart for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. she never thought of seeking them out, as she knew that hester did; but then she looked up to hester as some one very remarkable for her goodness. if only she could have liked her! hester tried to do all she could for sylvia; philip had told her to take care of his wife and child; but she had the conviction that sylvia had so materially failed in her duties as to have made her husband an exile from his home--a penniless wanderer, wifeless and childless, in some strange country, whose very aspect was friendless, while the cause of all lived on in the comfortable home where he had placed her, wanting for nothing--an object of interest and regard to many friends--with a lovely little child to give her joy for the present, and hope for the future; while he, the poor outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. how could hester love sylvia? yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. hester was not well; and the doctors said that the constant occupation in the shop was too much for her, and that she must, for a time at least, take daily walks into the country. sylvia used to beg to accompany her; she and the little girl often went with hester up the valley of the river to some of the nestling farms that were hidden in the more sheltered nooks--for hester was bidden to drink milk warm from the cow; and to go into the familiar haunts about a farm was one of the few things in which sylvia seemed to take much pleasure. she would let little bella toddle about while hester sate and rested: and she herself would beg to milk the cow destined to give the invalid her draught. one may evening the three had been out on some such expedition; the country side still looked gray and bare, though the leaves were showing on the willow and blackthorn and sloe, and by the tinkling runnels, making hidden music along the copse side, the pale delicate primrose buds were showing amid their fresh, green, crinkled leaves. the larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping down into their nests in the pasture fields; the air had just the sharpness in it which goes along with a cloudless evening sky at that time of the year. but hester walked homewards slowly and languidly, speaking no word. sylvia noticed this at first without venturing to speak, for hester was one who disliked having her ailments noticed. but after a while hester stood still in a sort of weary dreamy abstraction; and sylvia said to her, 'i'm afeared yo're sadly tired. maybe we've been too far.' hester almost started. 'no!' said she, 'it's only my headache which is worse to-night. it has been bad all day; but since i came out it has felt just as if there were great guns booming, till i could almost pray 'em to be quiet. i am so weary o' th' sound.' she stepped out quickly towards home after she had said this, as if she wished for neither pity nor comment on what she had said. chapter xxxviii the recognition far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns were booming on that 7th of may, 1799. the mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glittering white with snowy sand, and the fragments of innumerable sea-shells, delicate and shining as porcelain. looking at that shore from the sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth, stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a great mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a convent sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. in the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliage that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might be discerned from a long distance by the naked eye; the silver gray of the olive-trees near its summit; the heavy green and bossy forms of the sycamores lower down; broken here and there by a solitary terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread; till the eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the white seaboard and the sandy hillocks; with here and there feathery palm-trees, either isolated or in groups--motionless and distinct against the hot purple air. look again; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are the white walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black in shadow. the fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a port and a haven against the wild levantine storms; and a lighthouse rises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety. beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, there is the same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground, till the upland circuit comes closing in to the north, and the great white rocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue colour. above, the sky is literally purple with heat; and the pitiless light smites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore. nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of our own soft green. the limestone rock underlies the vegetation, and gives a glittering, ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even to the cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. in spring-time alone does the country look rich and fruitful; then the corn-fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, 'some fifty, some an hundred fold'; down by the brook kishon, flowing not far from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, there grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh to look upon; the orchards are full of glossy-leaved cherry-trees; the tall amaryllis puts forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling the pomp of king solomon; the daisies and the hyacinths spread their myriad flowers; the anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and thither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire. a spicy odour lingers in the heated air; it comes from the multitude of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. later on they will have withered and faded, and the corn will have been gathered, and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kind of gray-bleached tint. even now in may, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, the terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, the fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, were inexpressibly wearying to the english eyes that kept their skilled watch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast-town that lay out a little to the northward of where the british ships were anchored. they had kept up a flanking fire for many days in aid of those besieged in st jean d'acre; and at intervals had listened, impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or the sharper rattle of the french musketry. in the morning, on the 7th of may, a man at the masthead of the _tigre_ sang out that he saw ships in the offing; and in reply to the signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist friendly flags. that may morning was a busy time. the besieged turks took heart of grace; the french outside, under the command of their great general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault than all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before (for the siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes of carrying the town by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive; and sir sidney smith, aware of buonaparte's desperate intention, ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be spared from the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from the ships upon the french, to land, and assist the turks and the british forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. lieutenant kinraid, who had shared his captain's daring adventure off the coast of france three years before, who had been a prisoner with him and westley wright, in the temple at paris, and had escaped with them, and, through sir sidney's earnest recommendation, been promoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant, received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed to an especial post of danger. his heart was like a war-horse, and said, ha, ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to land him under the ancient machicolated walls where the crusaders made their last stand in the holy land. not that kinraid knew or cared one jot about those gallant knights of old: all he knew was, that the french, under boney, were trying to take the town from the turks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they should not. he and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town by the water-port gate; he was singing to himself his own country song,- weel may the keel row, the keel row, &c. and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught up the air, and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. so, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of acre, hemmed in on either side by the white walls of turkish houses, with small grated openings high up, above all chance of peeping intrusion. here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned turk going along with as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. but the majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together to defend the breach, where the french guns thundered out far above the heads of the sailors. they went along none the less merrily for the sound to djezzar pacha's garden, where the old turk sate on his carpet, beneath the shade of a great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who made known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of sir sidney smith and the colonel of the marines. as soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of h.m.s. _tigre_, he interrupted the council of war without much ceremony, and going to kinraid, he despatched them, as before arranged, to the north ravelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions. out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the strange, desolate garden; but once more in the streets, the old newcastle song rose up again till the men were, perforce, silenced by the haste with which they went to the post of danger. it was three o'clock in the afternoon. for many a day these very men had been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour--even when at sea, fanned by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot smoke, with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whizz of death perpetually whistling in their ears, they were uncomplaining and light-hearted. many an old joke, and some new ones, came brave and hearty, on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was veiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by the bright flames of death. a sudden message came; as many of the crew of the _tigre_ as were under lieutenant kinraid's command were to go down to the mole, to assist the new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the masthead at day-dawn), under command of hassan bey, to land at the mole, where sir sidney then was. off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, though two of their number lay silent for ever at the north ravelin--silenced in that one little half-hour. and one went along with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his right arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. they helped the turkish troops to land more with good-will than tenderness; and then, led by sir sidney, they went under the shelter of english guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantly defended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burning afternoon. the ruins of the massive wall that here had been broken down by the french, were used by them as stepping stones to get on a level with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the latter hurled down; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning's comrades were made into ghastly stairs. when djezzar pacha heard that the british sailors were defending the breach, headed by sir sidney smith, he left his station in the palace garden, gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to the breach; where, with his own hands, and with right hearty good-will, he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that if he lost his english friends he lost all! but little recked the crew of the _tigre_ of the one old man--pacha or otherwise--who tried to hold them back from the fight; they were up and at the french assailants clambering over the breach in an instant; and so they went on, as if it were some game at play instead of a deadly combat, until kinraid and his men were called off by sir sidney, as the reinforcement of turkish troops under hassan bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old breach in the walls, which was no longer the principal object of the french attack; for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breach by their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the city walls. 'fight your best kinraid!' said sir sidney; 'for there's boney on yonder hill looking at you.' and sure enough, on a rising ground, called richard coeur de lion's mount, there was a half-circle of french generals, on horseback, all deferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words, of a little man in their centre; at whose bidding the aide-de-camp galloped swift with messages to the more distant french camp. the two ravelins which kinraid and his men had to occupy, for the purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not ten yards from that enemy's van. but at length there was a sudden rush of the french to that part of the wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed. surprised at this movement, kinraid ventured out of the shelter of the ravelin to ascertain the cause; he, safe and untouched during that long afternoon of carnage, fell now, under a stray musket-shot, and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned by his men, who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had been planned for the french; who, descending the city walls into the pacha's garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and lay headless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, and by the fountain side. kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls. he was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. dead bodies of frenchmen lay strewn around him; no englishman had ventured out so far. all the wounded men that he could see were french; and many of these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed him aloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume the semblance of death; for some among these men were still capable of dragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all their failing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end. the outlying pickets of the french army were within easy rifle shot; and his uniform, although less conspicuous in colour than that of the marines, by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. yet how he longed to turn, if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat full into his aching eyes. fever, too, was coming upon him; the pain in his leg was every moment growing more severe; the terrible thirst of the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, made his lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed parched and wooden. thoughts of other days, of cool greenland seas, where ice abounded, of grassy english homes, began to make the past more real than the present. with a great effort he brought his wandering senses back; he knew where he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, which were but small; the unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought of the newly-made wife in her english home, who might never know how he died thinking of her. suddenly he saw a party of english marines advance, under shelter of the ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and bear them within the walls for surgical help. they were so near he could see their faces, could hear them speak; yet he durst not make any sign to them when he lay within range of the french picket's fire. for one moment he could not resist raising his head, to give himself a chance for life; before the unclean creatures that infest a camp came round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the dead bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of life within them. but the setting sun came full into his face, and he saw nothing of what he longed to see. he fell back in despair; he lay there to die. that strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation. he had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in the red glare of a house on fire; the same despair of help, of hopeless farewell to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red light. one man left his fellows, and came running forwards, forwards in among the enemy's wounded, within range of their guns; he bent down over kinraid; he seemed to understand without a word; he lifted him up, carrying him like a child; and with the vehement energy that is more from the force of will than the strength of body, he bore him back to within the shelter of the ravelin--not without many shots being aimed at them, one of which hit kinraid in the fleshy part of his arm. kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken leg, and his very life seemed leaving him; yet he remembered afterwards how the marine recalled his fellows, and how, in the pause before they returned, his face became like one formerly known to the sick senses of kinraid; yet it was too like a dream, too utterly improbable to be real. yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and alone by the fainting kinraid, fitted in well with the belief conjured up by his personal appearance. he panted out,-'i niver thought you'd ha' kept true to her!' and then the others came up; and while they were making a sling of their belts, kinraid fainted utterly away, and the next time that he was fully conscious, he was lying in his berth in the _tigre_, with the ship surgeon setting his leg. after that he was too feverish for several days to collect his senses. when he could first remember, and form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the man especially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and make inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named philip hepburn, and, when he was found, to entreat him to come and see kinraid. the sailor was away the greater part of the day, and returned unsuccessful in his search; he had been from ship to ship, hither and thither; he had questioned all the marines he had met with, no one knew anything of any philip hepburn. kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and when the doctor exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, he told him, with some irritation, of the ill-success of his servant; he accused the man of stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to go himself. partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would undertake the search for hepburn, and he engaged faithfully to follow all kinraid's eager directions; not to be satisfied with men's careless words, but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books. he, too, brought the same answer, however unwillingly given. he had set out upon the search so confident of success, that he felt doubly discomfited by failure. however, he had persuaded himself that the lieutenant had been partially delirious from the effects of his wound, and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay. there had, indeed, been slight symptoms of kinraid's having received a sun-stroke; and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour to persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endued a stranger with the lineaments of some former friend. kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all this plausible talk, which was even more irritating than the fact that hepburn was still undiscovered. 'the man was no friend of mine; i was like to have killed him when last i saw him. he was a shopkeeper in a country town in england. i had seen little enough of him; but enough to make me able to swear to him anywhere, even in a marine's uniform, and in this sweltering country.' 'faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to return upon the memory in cases of fever,' quoth the doctor, sententiously. the attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by the failure of another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful, now put in his explanation. 'maybe it was a spirit. it's not th' first time as i've heared of a spirit coming upon earth to save a man's life i' time o' need. my father had an uncle, a west-country grazier. he was a-coming over dartmoor in devonshire one moonlight night with a power o' money as he'd got for his sheep at t' fair. it were stowed i' leather bags under th' seat o' th' gig. it were a rough kind o' road, both as a road and in character, for there'd been many robberies there of late, and th' great rocks stood convenient for hiding-places. all at once father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting beside him on th' empty seat; and he turns his head and looks, and there he sees his brother sitting--his brother as had been dead twelve year and more. so he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never say a word, but wonders what it all means. all of a sudden two fellows come out upo' th' white road from some black shadow, and they looked, and they let th' gig go past, father's uncle driving hard, i'll warrant him. but for all that he heard one say to t' other, "by----, there's _two_ on 'em!" straight on he drove faster than ever, till he saw th' far lights of some town or other. i forget its name, though i've heared it many a time; and then he drew a long breath, and turned his head to look at his brother, and ask him how he'd managed to come out of his grave i' barum churchyard, and th' seat was as empty as it had been when he set out; and then he knew that it were a spirit come to help him against th' men who thought to rob him, and would likely enough ha' murdered him.' kinraid had kept quiet through this story. but when the sailor began to draw the moral, and to say, 'and i think i may make bold to say, sir, as th' marine who carried you out o' th' frenchy's gun-shot was just a spirit come to help you,' he exclaimed impatiently, swearing a great oath as he did so, 'it was no spirit, i tell you; and i was in my full senses. it was a man named philip hepburn. he said words to me, or over me, as none but himself would have said. yet we hated each other like poison; and i can't make out why he should be there and putting himself in danger to save me. but so it was; and as you can't find him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. it was him, and not my fancy, doctor. it was flesh and blood, and not a spirit, jack. so get along with you, and leave me quiet.' all this time stephen freeman lay friendless, sick, and shattered, on board the _theseus_. he had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed on her deck; a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to get the fusee out of one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that lay close at hand; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the poor marine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shockingly burnt and disfigured, the very skin of all the lower part of his face being utterly destroyed by gunpowder. they said it was a mercy that his eyes were spared; but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy, as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded by splinters, and feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itself were preserved. of all that suffered by that fearful accident (and they were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, as the philip hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being made at that very time. chapter xxxix confidences it was a little later on in that same summer that mrs. brunton came to visit her sister bessy. bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer who lived at an almost equal distance between monkshaven and hartswell; but from old habit and convenience the latter was regarded as the dawsons' market-town; so bessy seldom or never saw her old friends in monkshaven. but mrs. brunton was far too flourishing a person not to speak out her wishes, and have her own way. she had no notion, she said, of coming such a long journey only to see bessy and her husband, and not to have a sight of her former acquaintances at monkshaven. she might have added, that her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as lost if it was not displayed among those who, knowing her as molly corney, and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was, would look upon it with wondering admiration, if not with envy. so one day farmer dawson's market-cart deposited mrs. brunton in all her bravery at the shop in the market-place, over which hepburn and coulson's names still flourished in joint partnership. after a few words of brisk recognition to coulson and hester, mrs brunton passed on into the parlour and greeted sylvia with boisterous heartiness. it was now four years and more since the friends had met; and each secretly wondered how they had ever come to be friends. sylvia had a country, raw, spiritless look to mrs. brunton's eye; molly was loud and talkative, and altogether distasteful to sylvia, trained in daily companionship with hester to appreciate soft slow speech, and grave thoughtful ways. however, they kept up the forms of their old friendship, though their hearts had drifted far apart. they sat hand in hand while each looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which time had made. molly was the first to speak. 'well, to be sure! how thin and pale yo've grown, sylvia! matrimony hasn't agreed wi' yo' as well as it's done wi me. brunton is allays saying (yo' know what a man he is for his joke) that if he'd ha' known how many yards o' silk i should ha' ta'en for a gown, he'd ha' thought twice afore he'd ha' married me. why, i've gained a matter o' thirty pound o' flesh sin' i were married!' 'yo' do look brave and hearty!' said sylvia, putting her sense of her companion's capacious size and high colour into the prettiest words she could. 'eh! sylvia! but i know what it is,' said molly, shaking her head. 'it's just because o' that husband o' thine as has gone and left thee; thou's pining after him, and he's not worth it. brunton said, when he heared on it--i mind he was smoking at t' time, and he took his pipe out of his mouth, and shook out t' ashes as grave as any judge--"the man," says he, "as can desert a wife like sylvia robson as was, deserves hanging!" that's what he says! eh! sylvia, but speakin' o' hanging i was so grieved for yo' when i heared of yo'r poor feyther! such an end for a decent man to come to! many a one come an' called on me o' purpose to hear all i could tell 'em about him!' 'please don't speak on it!' said sylvia, trembling all over. 'well, poor creature, i wunnot. it is hard on thee, i grant. but to give t' devil his due, it were good i' hepburn to marry thee, and so soon after there was a' that talk about thy feyther. many a man would ha' drawn back, choose howiver far they'd gone. i'm noane so sure about charley kinraid. eh, sylvia! only think on his being alive after all. i doubt if our bessy would ha' wed frank dawson if she'd known as he wasn't drowned. but it's as well she did, for dawson's a man o' property, and has getten twelve cows in his cow-house, beside three right down good horses; and kinraid were allays a fellow wi' two strings to his bow. i've allays said and do maintain, that he went on pretty strong wi' yo', sylvie; and i will say i think he cared more for yo' than for our bessy, though it were only yesterday at e'en she were standing out that he liked her better than yo'. yo'll ha' heared on his grand marriage?' 'no!' said sylvia, with eager painful curiosity. 'no! it was in all t' papers! i wonder as yo' didn't see it. wait a minute! i cut it out o' t' _gentleman's magazine_, as brunton bought o' purpose, and put it i' my pocket-book when i were a-coming here: i know i've got it somewheere.' she took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and rummaged in the pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit of printed paper, from which she read aloud, 'on january the third, at st mary redcliffe, bristol, charles kinraid, esq., lieutenant royal navy, to miss clarinda jackson, with a fortune of 10,000_l_.' 'theere!' said she, triumphantly, 'it's something as brunton says, to be cousin to that.' 'would yo' let me see it?' said sylvia, timidly. mrs. brunton graciously consented; and sylvia brought her newly acquired reading-knowledge, hitherto principally exercised on the old testament, to bear on these words. there was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she might not have expected; and yet the surprise turned her giddy for a moment or two. she never thought of seeing him again, never. but to think of his caring for another woman as much as he had done for her, nay, perhaps more! the idea was irresistibly forced upon her that philip would not have acted so; it would have taken long years before he could have been induced to put another on the throne she had once occupied. for the first time in her life she seemed to recognize the real nature of philip's love. but she said nothing but 'thank yo',' when she gave the scrap of paper back to molly brunton. and the latter continued giving her information about kinraid's marriage. 'he were down in t' west, plymouth or somewheere, when he met wi' her. she's no feyther; he'd been in t' sugar-baking business; but from what kinraid wrote to old turner, th' uncle as brought him up at cullercoats, she's had t' best of edications: can play on t' instrument and dance t' shawl dance; and kinraid had all her money settled on her, though she said she'd rayther give it all to him, which i must say, being his cousin, was very pretty on her. he's left her now, having to go off in t' _tigre_, as is his ship, to t' mediterranean seas; and she's written to offer to come and see old turner, and make friends with his relations, and brunton is going to gi'e me a crimson satin as soon as we know for certain when she's coming, for we're sure to be asked out to cullercoats.' 'i wonder if she's very pretty?' asked sylvia, faintly, in the first pause in this torrent of talk. 'oh! she's a perfect beauty, as i understand. there was a traveller as come to our shop as had been at york, and knew some of her cousins theere that were in t' grocery line--her mother was a york lady--and they said she was just a picture of a woman, and iver so many gentlemen had been wantin' to marry her, but she just waited for charley kinraid, yo' see!' 'well, i hope they'll be happy; i'm sure i do!' said sylvia. 'that's just luck. some folks is happy i' marriage, and some isn't. it's just luck, and there's no forecasting it. men is such unaccountable animals, there's no prophesyin' upon 'em. who'd ha' thought of yo'r husband, him as was so slow and sure--steady philip, as we lasses used to ca' him--makin' a moonlight flittin', and leavin' yo' to be a widow bewitched?' 'he didn't go at night,' said sylvia, taking the words 'moonlight flitting' in their literal sense. 'no! well, i only said "moonlight flittin'" just because it come uppermost and i knowed no better. tell me all about it, sylvie, for i can't mak' it out from what bessy says. had he and yo' had words?--but in course yo' had.' at this moment hester came into the room; and sylvia joyfully availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the conversation that had reached this painful and awkward point. she detained hester in the room for fear lest mrs. brunton should repeat her inquiry as to how it all happened that philip had gone away; but the presence of a third person seemed as though it would be but little restraint upon the inquisitive molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same questions till she nearly drove sylvia distracted, between her astonishment at the news of kinraid's marriage; her wish to be alone and quiet, so as to realize the full meaning of that piece of intelligence; her desire to retain hester in the conversation; her efforts to prevent molly's recurrence to the circumstances of philip's disappearance, and the longing--more vehement every minute--for her visitor to go away and leave her in peace. she became so disturbed with all these thoughts and feelings that she hardly knew what she was saying, and assented or dissented to speeches without there being either any reason or truth in her words. mrs. brunton had arranged to remain with sylvia while the horse rested, and had no compunction about the length of her visit. she expected to be asked to tea, as sylvia found out at last, and this she felt would be the worst of all, as alice rose was not one to tolerate the coarse, careless talk of such a woman as mrs. brunton without uplifting her voice in many a testimony against it. sylvia sate holding hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving the room, and trying to arrange her little plans so that too much discordance should not arise to the surface. just then the door opened, and little bella came in from the kitchen in all the pretty, sturdy dignity of two years old, alice following her with careful steps, and protecting, outstretched arms, a slow smile softening the sternness of her grave face; for the child was the unconscious darling of the household, and all eyes softened into love as they looked on her. she made straight for her mother with something grasped in her little dimpled fist; but half-way across the room she seemed to have become suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, and she stopped short, fixing her serious eyes full on mrs. brunton, as if to take in her appearance, nay, as if to penetrate down into her very real self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about her mother's lips for an hour past. 'do away!' said bella, decisively. 'what a perfect love!' said mrs. brunton, half in real admiration, half in patronage. as she spoke, she got up and went towards the child, as if to take her up. 'do away! do away!' cried bella, in shrill affright at this movement. 'dunnot,' said sylvia; 'she's shy; she doesn't know strangers.' but mrs. brunton had grasped the struggling, kicking child by this time, and her reward for this was a vehement little slap in the face. 'yo' naughty little spoilt thing!' said she, setting bella down in a hurry. 'yo' deserve a good whipping, yo' do, and if yo' were mine yo' should have it.' sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run to her arms, and was soothing herself with sobbing on her mother's breast; for alice took up the defence. 'the child said, as plain as words could say, "go away," and if thou wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding her wish, thou mun put up with the wilfulness of the old adam, of which it seems to me thee hast getten thy share at thirty as well as little bella at two.' 'thirty!' said mrs. brunton, now fairly affronted. 'thirty! why, sylvia, yo' know i'm but two years older than yo'; speak to that woman an' tell her as i'm only four-and-twenty. thirty, indeed!' 'molly's but four-and-twenty,' said sylvia, in a pacificatory tone. 'whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is alike to me,' said alice. 'i meant no harm. i meant but for t' say as her angry words to the child bespoke her to be one of the foolish. i know not who she is, nor what her age may be.' 'she's an old friend of mine,' said sylvia. 'she's mrs. brunton now, but when i knowed her she was molly corney.' 'ay! and yo' were sylvia robson, and as bonny and light-hearted a lass as any in a' t' riding, though now yo're a poor widow bewitched, left wi' a child as i mustn't speak a word about, an' living wi' folk as talk about t' old adam as if he wasn't dead and done wi' long ago! it's a change, sylvia, as makes my heart ache for yo', to think on them old days when yo' were so thought on yo' might have had any man, as brunton often says; it were a great mistake as yo' iver took up wi' yon man as has run away. but seven year 'll soon be past fro' t' time he went off, and yo'll only be six-and-twenty then; and there'll be a chance of a better husband for yo' after all, so keep up yo'r heart, sylvia.' molly brunton had put as much venom as she knew how into this speech, meaning it as a vengeful payment for the supposition of her being thirty, even more than for the reproof for her angry words about the child. she thought that alice rose must be either mother or aunt to philip, from the serious cast of countenance that was remarkable in both; and she rather exulted in the allusion to a happier second marriage for sylvia, with which she had concluded her speech. it roused alice, however, as effectually as if she had been really a blood relation to philip; but for a different reason. she was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to herself in what had been said; she was indignant at sylvia for suffering the words spoken to pass unanswered; but in truth they were too much in keeping with molly brunton's character to make as much impression on sylvia as they did on a stranger; and besides, she felt as if the less reply molly received, the less likely would it be that she would go on in the same strain. so she coaxed and chattered to her child and behaved like a little coward in trying to draw out of the conversation, while at the same time listening attentively. 'as for sylvia hepburn as was sylvia robson, she knows my mind,' said alice, in grim indignation. 'she's humbling herself now, i trust and pray, but she was light-minded and full of vanity when philip married her, and it might ha' been a lift towards her salvation in one way; but it pleased the lord to work in a different way, and she mun wear her sackcloth and ashes in patience. so i'll say naught more about her. but for him as is absent, as thee hast spoken on so lightly and reproachfully, i'd have thee to know he were one of a different kind to any thee ever knew, i reckon. if he were led away by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for him, and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it's him as is suffering for it, inasmuch as he's a wanderer from his home, and an outcast from wife and child.' to the surprise of all, molly's words of reply were cut short even when they were on her lips, by sylvia. pale, fire-eyed, and excited, with philip's child on one arm, and the other stretched out, she said,-'noane can tell--noane know. no one shall speak a judgment 'twixt philip and me. he acted cruel and wrong by me. but i've said my words to him hissel', and i'm noane going to make any plaint to others; only them as knows should judge. and it's not fitting, it's not' (almost sobbing), 'to go on wi' talk like this afore me.' the two--for hester, who was aware that her presence had only been desired by sylvia as a check to an unpleasant _tete-a-tete_ conversation, had slipped back to her business as soon as her mother came in--the two looked with surprise at sylvia; her words, her whole manner, belonged to a phase of her character which seldom came uppermost, and which had not been perceived by either of them before. alice rose, though astonished, rather approved of sylvia's speech; it showed that she had more serious thought and feeling on the subject than the old woman had given her credit for; her general silence respecting her husband's disappearance had led alice to think that she was too childish to have received any deep impression from the event. molly brunton gave vent to her opinion on sylvia's speech in the following words:-'hoighty-toighty! that tells tales, lass. if yo' treated steady philip to many such looks an' speeches as yo'n given us now, it's easy t' see why he took hisself off. why, sylvia, i niver saw it in yo' when yo' was a girl; yo're grown into a regular little vixen, theere wheere yo' stand!' indeed she did look defiant, with the swift colour flushing her cheeks to crimson on its return, and the fire in her eyes not yet died away. but at molly's jesting words she sank back into her usual look and manner, only saying quietly,-'it's for noane to say whether i'm vixen or not, as doesn't know th' past things as is buried in my heart. but i cannot hold them as my friends as go on talking on either my husband or me before my very face. what he was, i know; and what i am, i reckon he knows. and now i'll go hurry tea, for yo'll be needing it, molly!' the last clause of this speech was meant to make peace; but molly was in twenty minds as to whether she should accept the olive-branch or not. her temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which is not easily ruffled; her mind, stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement from without; and her appetite was invariably good, so she stayed, in spite of the inevitable _tete-a-tete_ with alice. the latter, however, refused to be drawn into conversation again; replying to mrs. brunton's speeches with a curt yes or no, when, indeed, she replied at all. when all were gathered at tea, sylvia was quite calm again; rather paler than usual, and very attentive and subduced in her behaviour to alice; she would evidently fain have been silent, but as molly was her own especial guest, that could not be, so all her endeavours went towards steering the conversation away from any awkward points. but each of the four, let alone little bella, was thankful when the market-cart drew up at the shop door, that was to take mrs. brunton back to her sister's house. when she was fairly off, alice rose opened her mouth in strong condemnation; winding up with-'and if aught in my words gave thee cause for offence, sylvia, it was because my heart rose within me at the kind of talk thee and she had been having about philip; and her evil and light-minded counsel to thee about waiting seven years, and then wedding another.' hard as these words may seem when repeated, there was something of a nearer approach to an apology in mrs. rose's manner than sylvia had ever seen in it before. she was silent for a few moments, then she said,-'i ha' often thought of telling yo' and hester, special-like, when yo've been so kind to my little bella, that philip an' me could niver come together again; no, not if he came home this very night----' she would have gone on speaking, but hester interrupted her with a low cry of dismay. alice said,-'hush thee, hester. it's no business o' thine. sylvia hepburn, thou'rt speaking like a silly child.' 'no. i'm speaking like a woman; like a woman as finds out she's been cheated by men as she trusted, and as has no help for it. i'm noane going to say any more about it. it's me as has been wronged, and as has to bear it: only i thought i'd tell yo' both this much, that yo' might know somewhat why he went away, and how i said my last word about it.' so indeed it seemed. to all questions and remonstrances from alice, sylvia turned a deaf ear. she averted her face from hester's sad, wistful looks; only when they were parting for the night, at the top of the little staircase, she turned, and putting her arms round hester's neck she laid her head on her neck, and whispered,-'poor hester--poor, poor hester! if yo' an' he had but been married together, what a deal o' sorrow would ha' been spared to us all!' hester pushed her away as she finished these words; looked searchingly into her face, her eyes, and then followed sylvia into her room, where bella lay sleeping, shut the door, and almost knelt down at sylvia's feet, clasping her, and hiding her face in the folds of the other's gown. 'sylvia, sylvia,' she murmured, 'some one has told you--i thought no one knew--it's no sin--it's done away with now--indeed it is--it was long ago--before yo' were married; but i cannot forget. it was a shame, perhaps, to have thought on it iver, when he niver thought o' me; but i niver believed as any one could ha' found it out. i'm just fit to sink into t' ground, what wi' my sorrow and my shame.' hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, immediately she was in sylvia's arms. sylvia was sitting on the ground holding her, and soothing her with caresses and broken words. 'i'm allays saying t' wrong things,' said she. 'it seems as if i were all upset to-day; and indeed i am;' she added, alluding to the news of kinraid's marriage she had yet to think upon. 'but it wasn't yo', hester: it were nothing yo' iver said, or did, or looked, for that matter. it were yo'r mother as let it out.' 'oh, mother! mother!' wailed out hester; 'i niver thought as any one but god would ha' known that i had iver for a day thought on his being more to me than a brother.' sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking hester's smooth brown hair, off which her cap had fallen. sylvia was thinking how strange life was, and how love seemed to go all at cross purposes; and was losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of the world; she was almost startled when hester rose up, and taking sylvia's hands in both of hers, and looking solemnly at her, said,-'sylvia, yo' know what has been my trouble and my shame, and i'm sure yo're sorry for me--for i will humble myself to yo', and own that for many months before yo' were married, i felt my disappointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day and by night; but now i ask yo', if yo've any pity for me for what i went through, or if yo've any love for me because of yo'r dead mother's love for me, or because of any fellowship, or daily breadliness between us two,--put the hard thoughts of philip away from out yo'r heart; he may ha' done yo' wrong, anyway yo' think that he has; i niver knew him aught but kind and good; but if he comes back from wheriver in th' wide world he's gone to (and there's not a night but i pray god to keep him, and send him safe back), yo' put away the memory of past injury, and forgive it all, and be, what yo' can be, sylvia, if you've a mind to, just the kind, good wife he ought to have.' 'i cannot; yo' know nothing about it, hester.' 'tell me, then,' pleaded hester. 'no!' said sylvia, after a moment's hesitation; 'i'd do a deal for yo', i would, but i daren't forgive philip, even if i could; i took a great oath again' him. ay, yo' may look shocked at me, but it's him as yo' ought for to be shocked at if yo' knew all. i said i'd niver forgive him; i shall keep to my word.' 'i think i'd better pray for his death, then,' said hester, hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her hold of sylvia's hands. 'if it weren't for baby theere, i could think as it were my death as 'ud be best. them as one thinks t' most on, forgets one soonest.' it was kinraid to whom she was alluding; but hester did not understand her; and after standing for a moment in silence, she kissed her, and left her for the night. chapter xl an unexpected messenger after this agitation, and these partial confidences, no more was said on the subject of philip for many weeks. they avoided even the slightest allusion to him; and none of them knew how seldom or how often he might be present in the minds of the others. one day the little bella was unusually fractious with some slight childish indisposition, and sylvia was obliged to have recourse to a never-failing piece of amusement; namely, to take the child into the shop, when the number of new, bright-coloured articles was sure to beguile the little girl out of her fretfulness. she was walking along the high terrace of the counter, kept steady by her mother's hand, when mr. dawson's market-cart once more stopped before the door. but it was not mrs. brunton who alighted now; it was a very smartly-dressed, very pretty young lady, who put one dainty foot before the other with care, as if descending from such a primitive vehicle were a new occurrence in her life. then she looked up at the names above the shop-door, and after ascertaining that this was indeed the place she desired to find, she came in blushing. 'is mrs. hepburn at home?' she asked of hester, whose position in the shop brought her forwards to receive the customers, while sylvia drew bella out of sight behind some great bales of red flannel. 'can i see her?' the sweet, south-country voice went on, still addressing hester. sylvia heard the inquiry, and came forwards, with a little rustic awkwardness, feeling both shy and curious. 'will yo' please walk this way, ma'am?' said she, leading her visitor back into her own dominion of the parlour, and leaving bella to hester's willing care. 'you don't know me!' said the pretty young lady, joyously. 'but i think you knew my husband. i am mrs. kinraid!' a sob of surprise rose to sylvia's lips--she choked it down, however, and tried to conceal any emotion she might feel, in placing a chair for her visitor, and trying to make her feel welcome, although, if the truth must be told, sylvia was wondering all the time why her visitor came, and how soon she would go. 'you knew captain kinraid, did you not?' said the young lady, with innocent inquiry; to which sylvia's lips formed the answer, 'yes,' but no clear sound issued therefrom. 'but i know your husband knew the captain; is he at home yet? can i speak to him? i do so want to see him.' sylvia was utterly bewildered; mrs. kinraid, this pretty, joyous, prosperous little bird of a woman, philip, charley's wife, what could they have in common? what could they know of each other? all she could say in answer to mrs. kinraid's eager questions, and still more eager looks, was, that her husband was from home, had been long from home: she did not know where he was, she did not know when he would come back. mrs. kinraid's face fell a little, partly from her own real disappointment, partly out of sympathy with the hopeless, indifferent tone of sylvia's replies. 'mrs. dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly a year ago, but i thought he might be come home by now. i am expecting the captain early next month. oh! how i should have liked to see mr. hepburn, and to thank him for saving the captain's life!' 'what do yo' mean?' asked sylvia, stirred out of all assumed indifference. 'the captain! is that' (not 'charley', she could not use that familiar name to the pretty young wife before her) 'yo'r husband?' 'yes, you knew him, didn't you? when he used to be staying with mr corney, his uncle?' 'yes, i knew him; but i don't understand. will yo' please to tell me all about it, ma'am?' said sylvia, faintly. 'i thought your husband would have told you all about it; i hardly know where to begin. you know my husband is a sailor?' sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart beating thick all the time. 'and he's now a commander in the royal navy, all earned by his own bravery! oh! i am so proud of him!' so could sylvia have been if she had been his wife; as it was, she thought how often she had felt sure that he would be a great man some day. 'and he has been at the siege of acre.' sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, and mrs. kinraid caught the look. 'st jean d'acre, you know--though it's fine saying "you know", when i didn't know a bit about it myself till the captain's ship was ordered there, though i was the head girl at miss dobbin's in the geography class--acre is a seaport town, not far from jaffa, which is the modern name for joppa, where st paul went to long ago; you've read of that, i'm sure, and mount carmel, where the prophet elijah was once, all in palestine, you know, only the turks have got it now?' 'but i don't understand yet,' said sylvia, plaintively; 'i daresay it's all very true about st paul, but please, ma'am, will yo' tell me about yo'r husband and mine--have they met again?' 'yes, at acre, i tell you,' said mrs. kinraid, with pretty petulance. 'the turks held the town, and the french wanted to take it; and we, that is the british fleet, wouldn't let them. so sir sidney smith, a commodore and a great friend of the captain's, landed in order to fight the french; and the captain and many of the sailors landed with him; and it was burning hot; and the poor captain was wounded, and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within the enemy's--that is the french--fire; so that they were ready to shoot any one of his own side who came near him. they thought he was dead himself, you see, as he was very near; and would have been too, if your husband had not come out of shelter, and taken him up in his arms or on his back (i couldn't make out which), and carried him safe within the walls.' 'it couldn't have been philip,' said sylvia, dubiously. 'but it was. the captain says so; and he's not a man to be mistaken. i thought i'd got his letter with me; and i would have read you a part of it, but i left it at mrs. dawson's in my desk; and i can't send it to you,' blushing as she remembered certain passages in which 'the captain' wrote very much like a lover, 'or else i would. but you may be quite sure it was your husband that ventured into all that danger to save his old friend's life, or the captain would not have said so.' 'but they weren't--they weren't--not to call great friends.' 'i wish i'd got the letter here; i can't think how i could be so stupid; i think i can almost remember the very words, though--i've read them over so often. he says, "just as i gave up all hope, i saw one philip hepburn, a man whom i had known at monkshaven, and whom i had some reason to remember well"--(i'm sure he says so--"remember well"), "he saw me too, and came at the risk of his life to where i lay. i fully expected he would be shot down; and i shut my eyes not to see the end of my last chance. the shot rained about him, and i think he was hit; but he took me up and carried me under cover." i'm sure he says that, i've read it over so often; and he goes on and says how he hunted for mr. hepburn all through the ships, as soon as ever he could; but he could hear nothing of him, either alive or dead. don't go so white, for pity's sake!' said she, suddenly startled by sylvia's blanching colour. 'you see, because he couldn't find him alive is no reason for giving him up as dead; because his name wasn't to be found on any of the ships' books; so the captain thinks he must have been known by a different name to his real one. only he says he should like to have seen him to have thanked him; and he says he would give a deal to know what has become of him; and as i was staying two days at mrs. dawson's, i told them i must come over to monkshaven, if only for five minutes, just to hear if your good husband was come home, and to shake his hands, that helped to save my own dear captain.' 'i don't think it could have been philip,' reiterated sylvia. 'why not?' asked her visitor; 'you say you don't know where he is; why mightn't he have been there where the captain says he was?' 'but he wasn't a sailor, nor yet a soldier.' 'oh! but he was. i think somewhere the captain calls him a marine; that's neither one nor the other, but a little of both. he'll be coming home some day soon; and then you'll see!' alice rose came in at this minute, and mrs. kinraid jumped to the conclusion that she was sylvia's mother, and in her overflowing gratitude and friendliness to all the family of him who had 'saved the captain' she went forward, and shook the old woman's hand in that pleasant confiding way that wins all hearts. 'here's your daughter, ma'am!' said she to the half-astonished, half-pleased alice. 'i'm mrs. kinraid, the wife of the captain that used to be in these parts, and i'm come to bring her news of her husband, and she don't half believe me, though it's all to his credit, i'm sure.' alice looked so perplexed that sylvia felt herself bound to explain. 'she says he's either a soldier or a sailor, and a long way off at some place named in t' bible.' 'philip hepburn led away to be a soldier!' said she, 'who had once been a quaker?' 'yes, and a very brave one too, and one that it would do my heart good to look upon,' exclaimed mrs. kinraid. 'he's been saving my husband's life in the holy land, where jerusalem is, you know.' 'nay!' said alice, a little scornfully. 'i can forgive sylvia for not being over keen to credit thy news. her man of peace becoming a man of war; and suffered to enter jerusalem, which is a heavenly and a typical city at this time; while me, as is one of the elect, is obliged to go on dwelling in monkshaven, just like any other body.' 'nay, but,' said mrs. kinraid, gently, seeing she was touching on delicate ground, 'i did not say he had gone to jerusalem, but my husband saw him in those parts, and he was doing his duty like a brave, good man; ay, and more than his duty; and, you may take my word for it, he'll be at home some day soon, and all i beg is that you'll let the captain and me know, for i'm sure if we can, we'll both come and pay our respects to him. and i'm very glad i've seen you,' said she, rising to go, and putting out her hand to shake that of sylvia; 'for, besides being hepburn's wife, i'm pretty sure i've heard the captain speak of you; and if ever you come to bristol i hope you'll come and see us on clifton downs.' she went away, leaving sylvia almost stunned by the new ideas presented to her. philip a soldier! philip in a battle, risking his life. most strange of all, charley and philip once more meeting together, not as rivals or as foes, but as saviour and saved! add to all this the conviction, strengthened by every word that happy, loving wife had uttered, that kinraid's old, passionate love for herself had faded away and vanished utterly: its very existence apparently blotted out of his memory. she had torn up her love for him by the roots, but she felt as if she could never forget that it had been. hester brought back bella to her mother. she had not liked to interrupt the conversation with the strange lady before; and now she found her mother in an obvious state of excitement; sylvia quieter than usual. 'that was kinraid's wife, hester! him that was th' specksioneer as made such a noise about t' place at the time of darley's death. he's now a captain--a navy captain, according to what she says. and she'd fain have us believe that philip is abiding in all manner of scripture places; places as has been long done away with, but the similitude whereof is in the heavens, where the elect shall one day see them. and she says philip is there, and a soldier, and that he saved her husband's life, and is coming home soon. i wonder what john and jeremiah 'll say to his soldiering then? it'll noane be to their taste, i'm thinking.' this was all very unintelligible to hester, and she would dearly have liked to question sylvia; but sylvia sate a little apart, with bella on her knee, her cheek resting on her child's golden curls, and her eyes fixed and almost trance-like, as if she were seeing things not present. so hester had to be content with asking her mother as many elucidatory questions as she could; and after all did not gain a very clear idea of what had really been said by mrs. kinraid, as her mother was more full of the apparent injustice of philip's being allowed the privilege of treading on holy ground--if, indeed, that holy ground existed on this side heaven, which she was inclined to dispute--than to confine herself to the repetition of words, or narration of facts. suddenly sylvia roused herself to a sense of hester's deep interest and balked inquiries, and she went over the ground rapidly. 'yo'r mother says right--she is his wife. and he's away fighting; and got too near t' french as was shooting and firing all round him; and just then, according to her story, philip saw him, and went straight into t' midst o' t' shots, and fetched him out o' danger. that's what she says, and upholds.' 'and why should it not be?' asked hester, her cheek flushing. but sylvia only shook her head, and said, 'i cannot tell. it may be so. but they'd little cause to be friends, and it seems all so strange--philip a soldier, and them meeting theere after all!' hester laid the story of philip's bravery to her heart--she fully believed in it. sylvia pondered it more deeply still; the causes for her disbelief, or, at any rate, for her wonder, were unknown to hester! many a time she sank to sleep with the picture of the event narrated by mrs. kinraid as present to her mind as her imagination or experience could make it: first one figure prominent, then another. many a morning she wakened up, her heart beating wildly, why, she knew not, till she shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes that had passed in her dreams: scenes that might be acted in reality that very day; for philip might come back, and then? and where was philip all this time, these many weeks, these heavily passing months? chapter xli the bedesman of st sepulchre philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. if his heart had been light, he might have rallied sooner; but he was so depressed he did not care to live. his shattered jaw-bone, his burnt and blackened face, his many injuries of body, were torture to both his physical frame, and his sick, weary heart. no more chance for him, if indeed there ever had been any, of returning gay and gallant, and thus regaining his wife's love. this had been his poor, foolish vision in the first hour of his enlistment; and the vain dream had recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement which the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit had called forth. but that was all over now. he knew that it was the most unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass; and yet those were happy days when he could think of it as barely possible. now all he could look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and the bare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want. those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion, and attended to his bodily requirements; but they had no notion of listening to any revelations of unhappiness, if philip had been the man to make confidences of that kind. as it was, he lay very still in his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always saying he was better, when the ship-surgeon came round with his daily inquiries. but he did not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view, that he was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount of attention. perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all. the doctors said it was the heat that made him languid, for that his wounds and burns were all doing well at last; and by-and-by they told him they had ordered him 'home'. his pulse sank under the surgeon's finger at the mention of the word; but he did not say a word. he was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will; otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longer where he was. slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served; resting here and there in garrison hospitals, philip at length reached portsmouth on the evening of a september day in 1799. the transport-ship in which he was, was loaded with wounded and invalided soldiers and sailors; all who could manage it in any way struggled on deck to catch the first view of the white coasts of england. one man lifted his arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, 'old england for ever!' in a faint shrill voice, and then burst into tears and sobbed aloud. others tried to pipe up 'rule britannia', while more sate, weak and motionless, looking towards the shores that once, not so long ago, they never thought to see again. philip was one of these; his place a little apart from the other men. he was muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him by one of his officers; he felt the september breeze chill after his sojourn in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. as the ship came in sight of portsmouth harbour, the signal flags ran up the ropes; the beloved union jack floated triumphantly over all. return signals were made from the harbour; on board all became bustle and preparation for landing; while on shore there was the evident movement of expectation, and men in uniform were seen pressing their way to the front, as if to them belonged the right of reception. they were the men from the barrack hospital, that had been signalled for, come down with ambulance litters and other marks of forethought for the sick and wounded, who were returning to the country for which they had fought and suffered. with a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel came up to her appointed place, and was safely moored. philip sat still, almost as if he had no part in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, the loud directions that cut the air around him, and pierced his nerves through and through. but one in authority gave the order; and philip, disciplined to obedience, rose to find his knapsack and leave the ship. passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings for particular comrades; there was one especially, a man as different from philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always attached himself; a merry fellow from somersetshire, who was almost always cheerful and bright, though philip had overheard the doctors say he would never be the man he was before he had that shot through the side. this marine would often sit making his fellows laugh, and laughing himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible a fit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die in the paroxysm. after one of these fits he had gasped out some words, which led philip to question him a little; and it turned out that in the quiet little village of potterne, far inland, nestled beneath the high stretches of salisbury plain, he had a wife and a child, a little girl, just the same age even to a week as philip's own little bella. it was this that drew philip towards the man; and this that made philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptive marine. the litters had moved off towards the hospital, the sergeant in charge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids, who tried to obey them to the best of their power, falling into something like military order for their march; but soon, very soon, the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and felt as if the rough welcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were almost too much for them. philip and his companion were about midway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced herself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressing on either side, and threw herself on the neck of philip's friend. 'oh, jem!' she sobbed, 'i've walked all the road from potterne. i've never stopped but for food and rest for nelly, and now i've got you once again, i've got you once again, bless god for it!' she did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her husband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she had got him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her; she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she be repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while her little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces, and clinging to her mammy's gown. jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; and philip bitterly envied him--envied his life, envied his approaching death; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, and is not such love stronger than death? philip had felt as if his own heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold heavy stone. but at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him. the road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measure by the guard of soldiers. all sorts of kindly speeches, and many a curious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked along. philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandaged up; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, and shivered within its folds. they came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner of a street. down the causeway of this street a naval officer with a lady on his arm was walking briskly, with a step that told of health and a light heart. he stayed his progress though, when he saw the convoy of maimed and wounded men; he said something, of which philip only caught the words, 'same uniform,' 'for his sake,' to the young lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes kindled. then leaving her for an instant, he pressed forward; he was close to philip,--poor sad philip absorbed in his own thoughts,--so absorbed that he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having the northumbrian burr, the newcastle inflections which he knew of old, and that were to him like the sick memory of a deadly illness; and then he turned his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well enough who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of the handsome, happy man,--the man whose life he had saved once, and would save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for all that, he prayed that he might never meet more on earth. 'here, my fine fellow, take this,' forcing a crown piece into philip's hand. 'i wish it were more; i'd give you a pound if i had it with me.' philip muttered something, and held out the coin to captain kinraid, of course in vain; nor was there time to urge it back upon the giver, for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed, the crowd pressed upon the captain and his wife, the procession moved on, and philip along with it, holding the piece in his hand, and longing to throw it far away. indeed he was on the point of dropping it, hoping to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving it to jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily along by her husband's side. they thanked him, and spoke in his praise more than he could well bear. it was no credit to him to give that away which burned his fingers as long as he kept it. philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion on board the _theseus_ would oblige him to leave the service. he also believed that they would entitle him to a pension. but he had little interest in his future life; he was without hope, and in a depressed state of health. he remained for some little time stationary, and then went through all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds received in service, and was turned out loose upon the world, uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what became of him. it was fine, warm october weather as he turned his back upon the coast, and set off on his walk northwards. green leaves were yet upon the trees; the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wild rough-flavoured fruits of different kinds; the fields were tawny with the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald green with the growth of the aftermath. the roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks and michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of the windows glittered through a veil of china roses. the war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, soldiers and sailors were heroes everywhere. philip's long drooping form, his arm hung in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his jaw bound up with a black silk handkerchief; these marks of active service were reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had been crowns and sceptres. many a hard-handed labourer left his seat by the chimney corner, and came to his door to have a look at one who had been fighting the french, and pushed forward to have a grasp of the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the good wife's keeping, for the kind homely women were ever ready with milk or homebrewed to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when he stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water. at the village public-house he had had a welcome of a more interested character, for the landlord knew full well that his circle of customers would be large that night, if it was only known that he had within his doors a soldier or a sailor who had seen service. the rustic politicians would gather round philip, and smoke and drink, and then question and discuss till they were drouthy again; and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extra glass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism. altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to philip just now; and not before he needed the warmth of brotherly kindness to cheer his shivering soul. day after day he drifted northwards, making but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this short daily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest--for the morning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of an hour or two he must be up and away. he was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that he was drawing near a stately city, with a great old cathedral in the centre keeping solemn guard. this place might be yet two or three miles distant; he was on a rising ground looking down upon it. a labouring man passing by, observed his pallid looks and his languid attitude, and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down a lane to the left a few steps farther on, he would find himself at the hospital of st sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to all comers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile on the old stone benches within the shadow of the gateway. obeying these directions, philip came upon a building which dated from the time of henry the fifth. some knight who had fought in the french wars of that time, and had survived his battles and come home to his old halls, had been stirred up by his conscience, or by what was equivalent in those days, his confessor, to build and endow a hospital for twelve decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were to attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of all time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century, pretty well for an eternity bespoken by a man), for his soul and the souls of those whom he had slain. there was a large division of the quadrangular building set apart for the priest who was to say these masses; and to watch over the well-being of the bedesmen. in process of years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been forgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries; and the place itself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set of almshouses; and the warden's office (he who should have said or sung his daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily prayers and preached a sermon on sundays) an agreeable sinecure. another legacy of old sir simon bray was that of a small croft of land, the rent or profits of which were to go towards giving to all who asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. this beer was, so sir simon ordained, to be made after a certain receipt which he left, in which ground ivy took the place of hops. but the receipt, as well as the masses, was modernized according to the progress of time. philip stood under a great broad stone archway; the back-door into the warden's house was on the right side; a kind of buttery-hatch was placed by the porter's door on the opposite side. after some consideration, philip knocked at the closed shutter, and the signal seemed to be well understood. he heard a movement within; the hatch was drawn aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by a pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all disinclined for conversation. 'you may sit down on yonder bench,' said he. 'nay, man! sit i' the sun, for it's a chilly place, this, and then you can look through the grate and watch th' old fellows toddling about in th' quad.' philip sat down where the warm october sun slanted upon him, and looked through the iron railing at the peaceful sight. a great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with broad flag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all round the quadrangle; low two-storied brick houses, tinted gray and yellow by age, and in many places almost covered with vines, virginian creepers, and monthly roses; before each house a little plot of garden ground, bright with flowers, and evidently tended with the utmost care; on the farther side the massive chapel; here and there an old or infirm man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit of gardening, or talking to one of his comrades--the place looked as if care and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and excluded by the ponderous gate through which philip was gazing. 'it's a nice enough place, bean't it?' said the porter, interpreting philip's looks pretty accurately. 'leastways, for them as likes it. i've got a bit weary on it myself; it's so far from th' world, as a man may say; not a decent public within a mile and a half, where one can hear a bit o' news of an evening.' 'i think i could make myself very content here,' replied philip. 'that's to say, if one were easy in one's mind.' 'ay, ay, my man. that's it everywhere. why, i don't think that i could enjoy myself--not even at th' white hart, where they give you as good a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere i' th' four kingdoms--i couldn't, to say, flavour my ale even there, if my old woman lay a-dying; which is a sign as it's the heart, and not the ale, as makes the drink.' just then the warden's back-door opened, and out came the warden himself, dressed in full clerical costume. he was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped to speak to philip, the wounded soldier; and all the more readily because his old faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he had belonged to the marines. 'i hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the founder of st sepulchre,' said he, kindly. 'you look but poorly, my good fellow, and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down.' 'thank you, sir!' said philip. 'i'm not hungry, only weary, and glad of a draught of beer.' 'you've been in the marines, i see. where have you been serving?' 'i was at the siege of acre, last may, sir.' 'at acre! were you, indeed? then perhaps you know my boy harry? he was in the----th.' 'it was my company,' said philip, warming up a little. looking back upon his soldier's life, it seemed to him to have many charms, because it was so full of small daily interests. 'then, did you know my son, lieutenant pennington?' 'it was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were sending me back to england. i had been his servant for a short time before i was wounded by the explosion on board the _theseus_, and he said i should feel the cold of the voyage. he's very kind; and i've heard say he promises to be a first-rate officer.' 'you shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,' said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'i recognize the cloak now--the young scamp! how soon he has made it shabby, though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immense tear not too well botched up. 'and so you were on board the _theseus_ at the time of the explosion? bring some cold meat here for the good man--or stay! come in with me, and then you can tell mrs. pennington and the young ladies all you know about harry,--and the siege,--and the explosion.' so philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roast beef almost against his will; and he was questioned and cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as it seemed to him. he had given all possible details on the subjects about which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how he could best make his retreat, when the younger miss pennington went up to her father--who had all this time stood, with his hat on, holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. he bent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion of his daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioning philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich do question the poor. 'and where are you going to now?' philip did not answer directly. he wondered in his own mind where he was going. at length he said, 'northwards, i believe. but perhaps i shall never reach there.' 'haven't you friends? aren't you going to them?' there was again a pause; a cloud came over philip's countenance. he said, 'no! i'm not going to my friends. i don't know that i've got any left.' they interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had either lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting. the warden went on, 'i ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. old dobson, who was with general wolfe at the taking of quebec, died a fortnight ago. with such injuries as yours, i fear you'll never be able to work again. but we require strict testimonials as to character,' he added, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at philip. philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or the illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory. he was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care very much what became of him. the warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider a settlement at st sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-out soldier, were a little annoyed at philip's cool way of receiving the proposition. the warden went on to name the contingent advantages. 'besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing on all saints', on christmas, and on candlemas days--a blue gown and suit of clothes to match every michaelmas, and a shilling a day to keep yourself in all other things. your dinner you would have with the other men, in hall.' 'the warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees that everything is comfortable, and says grace,' added the warden's lady. 'i know i seem stupid,' said philip, almost humbly, 'not to be more grateful, for it's far beyond what i iver expected or thought for again, and it's a great temptation, for i'm just worn out with fatigue. several times i've thought i must lie down under a hedge, and just die for very weariness. but once i had a wife and a child up in the north,' he stopped. 'and are they dead?' asked one of the young ladies in a soft sympathizing tone. her eyes met philip's, full of dumb woe. he tried to speak; he wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal the truth. 'well!' said the warden, thinking he perceived the real state of things, 'what i propose is this. you shall go into old dobson's house at once, as a kind of probationary bedesman. i'll write to harry, and get your character from him. stephen freeman i think you said your name was? before i can receive his reply you'll have been able to tell how you'd like the kind of life; and at any rate you'll have the rest you seem to require in the meantime. you see, i take harry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character,' added he, smiling kindly. 'of course you'll have to conform to rules just like all the rest,--chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights out at nine; but i'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walk across quad to your new quarters.' and thus philip, almost in spite of himself, became installed in a bedesman's house at st sepulchre. chapter xlii a fable at fault philip took possession of the two rooms which had belonged to the dead sergeant dobson. they were furnished sufficiently for every comfort by the trustees of the hospital. some little fragments of ornament, some small articles picked up in distant countries, a few tattered books, remained in the rooms as legacies from their former occupant. at first the repose of the life and the place was inexpressibly grateful to philip. he had always shrunk from encountering strangers, and displaying his blackened and scarred countenance to them, even where such disfigurement was most regarded as a mark of honour. in st sepulchre's he met none but the same set day after day, and when he had once told the tale of how it happened and submitted to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. the slight employment his garden gave him--there was a kitchen-garden behind each house, as well as the flower-plot in front--and the daily arrangement of his parlour and chamber were, at the beginning of his time of occupation, as much bodily labour as he could manage. there was something stately and utterly removed from all philip's previous existence in the forms observed at every day's dinner, when the twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall, and the warden came in his college-cap and gown to say the long latin grace which wound up with something very like a prayer for the soul of sir simon bray. it took some time to get a reply to ship letters in those times when no one could exactly say where the fleet might be found. and before dr pennington had received the excellent character of stephen freeman, which his son gladly sent in answer to his father's inquiries, philip had become restless and uneasy in the midst of all this peace and comfort. sitting alone over his fire in the long winter evenings, the scenes of his past life rose before him; his childhood; his aunt robson's care of him; his first going to foster's shop in monkshaven; haytersbank farm, and the spelling lessons in the bright warm kitchen there; kinraid's appearance; the miserable night of the corneys' party; the farewell he had witnessed on monkshaven sands; the press-gang, and all the long consequences of that act of concealment; poor daniel robson's trial and execution; his own marriage; his child's birth; and then he came to that last day at monkshaven: and he went over and over again the torturing details, the looks of contempt and anger, the words of loathing indignation, till he almost brought himself, out of his extreme sympathy with sylvia, to believe that he was indeed the wretch she had considered him to be. he forgot his own excuses for having acted as he had done; though these excuses had at one time seemed to him to wear the garb of reasons. after long thought and bitter memory came some wonder. what was sylvia doing now? where was she? what was his child like--his child as well as hers? and then he remembered the poor footsore wife and the little girl she carried in her arms, that was just the age of bella; he wished he had noticed that child more, that a clear vision of it might rise up when he wanted to picture bella. one night he had gone round this mill-wheel circle of ideas till he was weary to the very marrow of his bones. to shake off the monotonous impression he rose to look for a book amongst the old tattered volumes, hoping that he might find something that would sufficiently lay hold of him to change the current of his thoughts. there was an old volume of _peregrine pickle_; a book of sermons; half an army list of 1774, and the _seven champions of christendom_. philip took up this last, which he had never seen before. in it he read how sir guy, earl of warwick, went to fight the paynim in his own country, and was away for seven long years; and when he came back his own wife phillis, the countess in her castle, did not know the poor travel-worn hermit, who came daily to seek his dole of bread at her hands along with many beggars and much poor. but at last, when he lay a-dying in his cave in the rock, he sent for her by a secret sign known but to them twain. and she came with great speed, for she knew it was her lord who had sent for her; and they had many sweet and holy words together before he gave up the ghost, his head lying on her bosom. the old story known to most people from their childhood was all new and fresh to philip. he did not quite believe in the truth of it, because the fictitious nature of the histories of some of the other champions of christendom was too patent. but he could not help thinking that this one might be true; and that guy and phillis might have been as real flesh and blood, long, long ago, as he and sylvia had even been. the old room, the quiet moonlit quadrangle into which the cross-barred casement looked, the quaint aspect of everything that he had seen for weeks and weeks; all this predisposed philip to dwell upon the story he had just been reading as a faithful legend of two lovers whose bones were long since dust. he thought that if he could thus see sylvia, himself unknown, unseen--could live at her gates, so to speak, and gaze upon her and his child--some day too, when he lay a-dying, he might send for her, and in soft words of mutual forgiveness breathe his life away in her arms. or perhaps--and so he lost himself, and from thinking, passed on to dreaming. all night long guy and phillis, sylvia and his child, passed in and out of his visions; it was impossible to make the fragments of his dreams cohere; but the impression made upon him by them was not the less strong for this. he felt as if he were called to monkshaven, wanted at monkshaven, and to monkshaven he resolved to go; although when his reason overtook his feeling, he knew perfectly how unwise it was to leave a home of peace and tranquillity and surrounding friendliness, to go to a place where nothing but want and wretchedness awaited him unless he made himself known; and if he did, a deeper want, a more woeful wretchedness, would in all probability be his portion. in the small oblong of looking-glass hung against the wall, philip caught the reflection of his own face, and laughed scornfully at the sight. the thin hair lay upon his temples in the flakes that betoken long ill-health; his eyes were the same as ever, and they had always been considered the best feature in his face; but they were sunk in their orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. as for the lower part of his face, blackened, contracted, drawn away from his teeth, the outline entirely changed by the breakage of his jaw-bone, he was indeed a fool if he thought himself fit to go forth to win back that love which sylvia had forsworn. as a hermit and a beggar, he must return to monkshaven, and fall perforce into the same position which guy of warwick had only assumed. but still he should see his phillis, and might feast his sad hopeless eyes from time to time with the sight of his child. his small pension of sixpence a day would keep him from absolute want of necessaries. so that very day he went to the warden and told him he thought of giving up his share in the bequest of sir simon bray. such a relinquishment had never occurred before in all the warden's experience; and he was very much inclined to be offended. 'i must say that for a man not to be satisfied as a bedesman of st sepulchre's argues a very wrong state of mind, and a very ungrateful heart.' 'i'm sure, sir, it's not from any ingratitude, for i can hardly feel thankful to you and to sir simon, and to madam, and the young ladies, and all my comrades in the hospital, and i niver expect to be either so comfortable or so peaceful again, but----' 'but? what can you have to say against the place, then? not but what there are always plenty of applicants for every vacancy; only i thought i was doing a kindness to a man out of harry's company. and you'll not see harry either; he's got his leave in march!' 'i'm very sorry. i should like to have seen the lieutenant again. but i cannot rest any longer so far away from--people i once knew.' 'ten to one they're dead, or removed, or something or other by this time; and it'll serve you right if they are. mind! no one can be chosen twice to be a bedesman of st sepulchre's.' the warden turned away; and philip, uneasy at staying, disheartened at leaving, went to make his few preparations for setting out once more on his journey northwards. he had to give notice of his change of residence to the local distributor of pensions; and one or two farewells had to be taken, with more than usual sadness at the necessity; for philip, under his name of stephen freeman, had attached some of the older bedesmen a good deal to him, from his unselfishness, his willingness to read to them, and to render them many little services, and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his habitual silence, which made him a convenient recipient of all their garrulousness. so before the time for his departure came, he had the opportunity of one more interview with the warden, of a more friendly character than that in which he gave up his bedesmanship. and so far it was well; and philip turned his back upon st sepulchre's with his sore heart partly healed by his four months' residence there. he was stronger, too, in body, more capable of the day-after-day walks that were required of him. he had saved some money from his allowance as bedesman and from his pension, and might occasionally have taken an outside place on a coach, had it not been that he shrank from the first look of every stranger upon his disfigured face. yet the gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless teeth always did away with the first impression as soon as people became a little acquainted with his appearance. it was february when philip left st sepulchre's. it was the first week in april when he began to recognize the familiar objects between york and monkshaven. and now he began to hang back, and to question the wisdom of what he had done--just as the warden had prophesied that he would. the last night of his two hundred mile walk he slept at the little inn at which he had been enlisted nearly two years before. it was by no intention of his that he rested at that identical place. night was drawing on; and, in making, as he thought, a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain to seek shelter where he might find it. but it brought him very straight face to face with his life at that time, and ever since. his mad, wild hopes--half the result of intoxication, as he now knew--all dead and gone; the career then freshly opening shut up against him now; his youthful strength and health changed into premature infirmity, and the home and the love that should have opened wide its doors to console him for all, why in two years death might have been busy, and taken away from him his last feeble chance of the faint happiness of seeing his beloved without being seen or known of her. all that night and all the next day, the fear of sylvia's possible death overclouded his heart. it was strange that he had hardly ever thought of this before; so strange, that now, when the terror came, it took possession of him, and he could almost have sworn that she must be lying dead in monkshaven churchyard. or was it little bella, that blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to see again? there was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant air to his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil import to him. as well as he could, he found his way back to monkshaven, over the wild heights and moors he had crossed on that black day of misery; why he should have chosen that path he could not tell--it was as if he were led, and had no free will of his own. the soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart beat thick, and then stopped, only to start again with fresh violence. there he was, at the top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts a literal staircase leading down from the hill-top into the high street, through the very entry up which he had passed when he shrank away from his former and his then present life. there he stood, looking down once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks of chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once been his own dwelling--who dwelt there now? the yellower gleams grew narrower; the evening shadows broader, and philip crept down the lane a weary, woeful man. at every gap in the close-packed buildings he heard the merry music of a band, the cheerful sound of excited voices. still he descended slowly, scarcely wondering what it could be, for it was not associated in his mind with the one pervading thought of sylvia. when he came to the angle of junction between the lane and the high street, he seemed plunged all at once into the very centre of the bustle, and he drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow, from whence he could look out upon the street. a circus was making its grand entry into monkshaven, with all the pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. trumpeters in parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out triumphant discord. next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald horses, and the windings of this team through the tortuous narrow street were pretty enough to look upon. in the chariot sate kings and queens, heroes and heroines, or what were meant for such; all the little boys and girls running alongside of the chariot envied them; but they themselves were very much tired, and shivering with cold in their heroic pomp of classic clothing. all this philip might have seen; did see, in fact; but heeded not one jot. almost opposite to him, not ten yards apart, standing on the raised step at the well-known shop door, was sylvia, holding a child, a merry dancing child, up in her arms to see the show. she too, sylvia, was laughing for pleasure, and for sympathy with pleasure. she held the little bella aloft that the child might see the gaudy procession the better and the longer, looking at it herself with red lips apart and white teeth glancing through; then she turned to speak to some one behind her--coulson, as philip saw the moment afterwards; his answer made her laugh once again. philip saw it all; her bonny careless looks, her pretty matronly form, her evident ease of mind and prosperous outward circumstances. the years that he had spent in gloomy sorrow, amongst wild scenes, on land or by sea, his life in frequent peril of a bloody end, had gone by with her like sunny days; all the more sunny because he was not there. so bitterly thought the poor disabled marine, as, weary and despairing, he stood in the cold shadow and looked upon the home that should have been his haven, the wife that should have welcomed him, the child that should have been his comfort. he had banished himself from his home; his wife had forsworn him; his child was blossoming into intelligence unwitting of any father. wife, and child, and home, were all doing well without him; what madness had tempted him thither? an hour ago, like a fanciful fool, he had thought she might be dead--dead with sad penitence for her cruel words at her heart--with mournful wonder at the unaccounted-for absence of her child's father preying on her spirits, and in some measure causing the death he had apprehended. but to look at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she had had an hour's painful thought in all her blooming life. ay! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, now the gay cavalcade has gone out of sight, and the chill of night has succeeded to the sun's setting. husband and father, steal out into the cold dark street, and seek some poor cheap lodging where you may rest your weary bones, and cheat your more weary heart into forgetfulness in sleep. the pretty story of the countess phillis, who mourned for her husband's absence so long, is a fable of old times; or rather say earl guy never wedded his wife, knowing that one she loved better than him was alive all the time she had believed him to be dead. chapter xliii the unknown a few days before that on which philip arrived at monkshaven, kester had come to pay sylvia a visit. as the earliest friend she had, and also as one who knew the real secrets of her life, sylvia always gave him the warm welcome, the cordial words, and the sweet looks in which the old man delighted. he had a sort of delicacy of his own which kept him from going to see her too often, even when he was stationary at monkshaven; but he looked forward to the times when he allowed himself this pleasure as a child at school looks forward to its holidays. the time of his service at haytersbank had, on the whole, been the happiest in all his long monotonous years of daily labour. sylvia's father had always treated him with the rough kindness of fellowship; sylvia's mother had never stinted him in his meat or grudged him his share of the best that was going; and once, when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow-house, she had made him possets, and nursed him with the same tenderness which he remembered his mother showing to him when he was a little child, but which he had never experienced since then. he had known sylvia herself, as bud, and sweet promise of blossom; and just as she was opening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy and prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle of kester's interests, one sorrow after another came down upon her pretty innocent head, and kester's period of service to daniel robson, her father, was tragically cut short. all this made sylvia the great centre of the faithful herdsman's affection; and bella, who reminded him of what sylvia was when first kester knew her, only occupied the second place in his heart, although to the child he was much more demonstrative of his regard than to the mother. he had dressed himself in his sunday best, and although it was only thursday, had forestalled his saturday's shaving; he had provided himself with a paper of humbugs for the child--'humbugs' being the north-country term for certain lumps of toffy, well-flavoured with peppermint--and now he sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the door as might be, in sylvia's presence, coaxing the little one, who was not quite sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening the paper parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen. 'she's like thee--and yet she favours her feyther,' said he; and the moment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see how sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to her husband. his stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though he thought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as he had feared. it was true that bella had her father's grave, thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's gray ones, out of which the childlike expression of wonder would never entirely pass away. and as bella slowly and half distrustfully made her way towards the temptation offered her, she looked at kester with just her father's look. sylvia said nothing in direct reply; kester almost thought she could not have heard him. but, by-and-by, she said,-'yo'll have heared how kinraid--who's a captain now, and a grand officer--has gone and got married.' 'nay!' said kester, in genuine surprise. 'he niver has, for sure!' 'ay, but he has,' said sylvia. 'and i'm sure i dunnot see why he shouldn't.' 'well, well!' said kester, not looking up at her, for he caught the inflections in the tones of her voice. 'he were a fine stirrin' chap, yon; an' he were allays for doin' summut; an' when he fund as he couldn't ha' one thing as he'd set his mind on, a reckon he thought he mun put up wi' another.' 'it 'ud be no "putting up,"' said sylvia. 'she were staying at bessy dawson's, and she come here to see me--she's as pretty a young lady as yo'd see on a summer's day; and a real lady, too, wi' a fortune. she didn't speak two words wi'out bringing in her husband's name,--"the captain", as she called him.' 'an' she come to see thee?' said kester, cocking his eye at sylvia with the old shrewd look. 'that were summut queer, weren't it?' sylvia reddened a good deal. 'he's too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t' old way,--as he used for t' speak to me. i were nought to her but philip's wife.' 'an' what t' dickins had she to do wi' philip?' asked kester, in intense surprise; and so absorbed in curiosity that he let the humbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, and the little bella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great as those fabled to exist on tom tiddler's ground. sylvia was again silent; but kester, knowing her well, was sure that she was struggling to speak, and bided his time without repeating his question. 'she said--and i think her tale were true, though i cannot get to t' rights on it, think on it as i will--as philip saved her husband's life somewheere nearabouts to jerusalem. she would have it that t' captain--for i think i'll niver ca' him kinraid again--was in a great battle, and were near upon being shot by t' french, when philip--our philip--come up and went right into t' fire o' t' guns, and saved her husband's life. and she spoke as if both she and t' captain were more beholden to philip than words could tell. and she come to see me, to try and get news on him. 'it's a queer kind o' story,' said kester, meditatively. 'a should ha' thought as philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into t' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape.' 'nay!' said sylvia, suddenly looking straight at kester; 'yo're out theere. philip had a deal o' good in him. and i dunnot think as he'd ha' gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd been i' kinraid's place.' 'an' yo've niver heared on philip sin' he left?' asked kester, after a while. 'niver; nought but what she told me. and she said that t' captain made inquiry for him right and left, as soon after that happened as might be, and could hear niver a word about him. no one had seen him, or knowed his name.' 'yo' niver heared of his goin' for t' be a soldier?' persevered kester. 'niver. i've told yo' once. it were unlike philip to think o' such a thing.' 'but thou mun ha' been thinkin' on him at times i' a' these years. bad as he'd behaved hissel', he were t' feyther o' thy little un. what did ta think he had been agait on when he left here?' 'i didn't know. i were noane so keen a-thinking on him at first. i tried to put him out o' my thoughts a'together, for it made me like mad to think how he'd stood between me and--that other. but i'd begun to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think i should like to hear as he were doing well. i reckon i thought he were i' london, wheere he'd been that time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke as if he'd enjoyed hissel' tolerable; and then molly brunton told me on t' other one's marriage; and, somehow, it gave me a shake in my heart, and i began for to wish i hadn't said all them words i' my passion; and then that fine young lady come wi' her story--and i've thought a deal on it since,--and my mind has come out clear. philip's dead, and it were his spirit as come to t' other's help in his time o' need. i've heard feyther say as spirits cannot rest i' their graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done i' their bodies.' 'them's my conclusions,' said kester, solemnly. 'a was fain for to hear what were yo'r judgments first; but them's the conclusions i comed to as soon as i heard t' tale.' 'let alone that one thing,' said sylvia, 'he were a kind, good man.' 'it were a big deal on a "one thing", though,' said kester. 'it just spoilt yo'r life, my poor lass; an' might ha' gone near to spoilin' charley kinraid's too.' 'men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,' said sylvia, bitterly. 'not a' mak' o' men. i reckon, lass, philip's life were pretty well on for bein' spoilt at after he left here; and it were, mebbe, a good thing he got rid on it so soon.' 'i wish i'd just had a few kind words wi' him, i do,' said sylvia, almost on the point of crying. 'come, lass, it's as ill moanin' after what's past as it 'ud be for me t' fill my eyes wi' weepin' after t' humbugs as this little wench o' thine has grubbed up whilst we'n been talkin'. why, there's not one on 'em left!' 'she's a sad spoilt little puss!' said sylvia, holding out her arms to the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother's cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath the matronly cap. 'mammy spoils her, and hester spoils her----' 'granny rose doesn't spoil me,' said the child, with quick, intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother's list. 'no; but jeremiah foster does above a bit. he'll come in fro' t' bank, kester, and ask for her, a'most ivery day. and he'll bring her things in his pocket; and she's so fause, she allays goes straight to peep in, and then he shifts t' apple or t' toy into another. eh! but she's a little fause one,'--half devouring the child with her kisses. 'and he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi' bella's steps. i often run upstairs and watch 'em out o' t' window; he doesn't care to have me with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child all to hisself.' 'she's a bonny un, for sure,' said kester; 'but not so pretty as thou was, sylvie. a've niver tell'd thee what a come for tho', and it's about time for me t' be goin'. a'm off to t' cheviots to-morrow morn t' fetch home some sheep as jonas blundell has purchased. it'll be a job o' better nor two months a reckon.' 'it'll be a nice time o' year,' said sylvia, a little surprised at kester's evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey or absence; he had often been away from monkshaven for a longer time without seeming to care so much about it. 'well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for t' leave my sister--she as is t' widow-woman, wheere a put up when a'm at home. things is main an' dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an' there's a deal o' talk on a famine i' t' land; an' whaten a paid for my victual an' t' bed i' t' lean-to helped t' oud woman a bit,--an' she's sadly down i' t' mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t' tak' my place, for a' she's moved o'er to t' other side o' t' bridge for t' be nearer t' new buildings, an' t' grand new walk they're makin' round t' cliffs, thinkin' she'd be likelier t' pick up a labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. a'd ha' liked to ha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha' left, for she's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbut gets houd on her blind side.' 'can i help her?' said sylvia, in her eager way. 'i should be so glad; and i've a deal of money by me---' 'nay, my lass,' said kester, 'thou munnot go off so fast; it were just what i were feared on i' tellin' thee. i've left her a bit o' money, and i'll mak' shift to send her more; it's just a kind word, t' keep up her heart when i'm gone, as i want. if thou'd step in and see her fra' time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi' talkin' to her on me, i'd tak' it very kind, and i'd go off wi' a lighter heart.' 'then i'm sure i'll do it for yo', kester. i niver justly feel like mysel' when yo're away, for i'm lonesome enough at times. she and i will talk a' t' better about yo' for both on us grieving after yo'.' so kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by sylvia's promise to go and see his sister pretty often during his absence in the north. but sylvia's habits were changed since she, as a girl at haytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, running out perpetually without anything on to scatter crumbs to the poultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to go up to the garden for a handful of herbs, or to clamber to the highest point around to blow the horn which summoned her father and kester home to dinner. living in a town where it was necessary to put on hat and cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk in a steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape down to the freedom of the sea-shore until philip went away; and after that time she had learnt so to fear observation as a deserted wife, that nothing but bella's health would have been a sufficient motive to take her out of doors. and, as she had told kester, the necessity of giving the little girl a daily walk was very much lightened by the great love and affection which jeremiah foster now bore to the child. ever since the day when the baby had come to his knee, allured by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently considered her as in some sort belonging to him; and now he had almost come to think that he had a right to claim her as his companion in his walk back from the bank to his early dinner, where a high chair was always placed ready for the chance of her coming to share his meal. on these occasions he generally brought her back to the shop-door when he returned to his afternoon's work at the bank. sometimes, however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for from his house in the new town, as his business at the bank for that day was ended. then sylvia was compelled to put on her things, and fetch back her darling; and excepting for this errand she seldom went out at all on week-days. about a fortnight after kester's farewell call, this need for her visit to jeremiah foster's arose; and it seemed to sylvia that there could not be a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise and going to see the widow dobson, whose cottage was on the other side of the river, low down on the cliff-side, just at the bend and rush of the full stream into the open sea. she set off pretty early in order to go there first. she found the widow with her house-place tidied up after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the open door--not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at the rush and recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing them either,--rather seeing days long past. she started into active civility as soon as she recognized sylvia, who was to her as a great lady, never having known sylvia robson in her wild childish days. widow dobson was always a little scandalized at her brother christopher's familiarity with mrs. hepburn. she dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed it for sylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool to mark her sense of the difference in their conditions, for there was another chair or two in the humble dwelling; and then the two fell into talk--first about kester, whom his sister would persist in calling christopher, as if his dignity as her elder brother was compromised by any familiar abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart a little more. 'a could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand,' said she; 'for a've that for to tell christopher as might set his mind at ease. but yo' see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn't read it; so a just comfort mysel' wi' thinkin' nobody need learn writin' unless they'n got friends as can read. but a reckon he'd ha' been glad to hear as a've getten a lodger.' here she nodded her head in the direction of the door opening out of the house-place into the 'lean-to', which sylvia had observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection of the mention of which by kester had enabled her to identify widow dobson's dwelling. 'he's a-bed yonder,' the latter continued, dropping her voice. 'he's a queer-lookin' tyke, but a don't think as he's a bad un.' 'when did he come?' said sylvia, remembering kester's account of his sister's character, and feeling as though it behoved her, as kester's confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudent advice. 'eh! a matter of a s'ennight ago. a'm noane good at mindin' time; he's paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand. he'd comed in one night, an' sate him down afore he could speak, he were so done up; he'd been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. "can yo' give me a bed?" says he, panting like, after a bit. "a chap as a met near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let." "ay," says a, "a ha' that; but yo' mun pay me a shilling a week for 't." then my mind misgive me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, an' yet if he hadn't, a should just ha' gi'en him t' bed a' t' same: a'm not one as can turn a dog out if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. so he outs wi' a shillin', an' lays it down on t' table, 'bout a word. "a'll not trouble yo' long," says he. "a'm one as is best out o' t' world," he says. then a thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. an' says i, "a'm a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:" for yo' see a were low about our christopher's goin' away north; "so a'm forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a've made mysel' some stirabout for my supper; and if yo'd like t' share an' share about wi' me, it's but puttin' a sup more watter to 't, and god's blessing 'll be on 't, just as same as if 't were meal." so he ups wi' his hand afore his e'en, and says not a word. at last he says, "missus," says he, "can god's blessing be shared by a sinner--one o' t' devil's children?" says he. "for the scriptur' says he's t' father o' lies." so a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "thou mun ask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but a've allays had god's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll share it wi' thee as far as my will goes." so he raxes his hand across t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. a thought it were scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just then for t' lift t' pot off t' fire--it were t' first vittle a'd tasted sin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' us poor folk: an' a' a said were just "coom along, chap, an' fa' to; an' god's blessing be on him as eats most." an' sin' that day him and me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me nought of who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. but a think he's one o' them poor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure, his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t' his bed, an' just lies there sighing,--for one can hear him plain as dayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.' as a proof of this, a sigh--almost a groan--startled the two women at this very moment. 'poor fellow!' said sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'there's more sore hearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' but after a while, she bethought her again of kester's account of his sister's 'softness'; and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. so she added, in a sterner, harder tone--'still, yo' say yo' know nought about him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow, and it behoves yo' to be careful. i think i'd just send him off as soon as he's a bit rested. yo' say he's plenty o' money?' 'nay! a never said that. a know nought about it. he pays me aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him some broth as good as a could make 'em.' 'i wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if i were yo; but i think yo'd be better rid on him,' said sylvia. 'it would be different if yo'r brother were in monkshaven.' as she spoke she rose to go. widow dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humble woman said,-'yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heart t' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? for a wouldn't like to vex yo', for christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t' feel for friendless folk, an' choose what may come on it, i cannot send him away.' 'no!' said sylvia. 'why should i be vexed? it's no business o' mine. only i should send him away if i was yo'. he might go lodge wheere there was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and are up to them.' into the sunshine went sylvia. in the cold shadow the miserable tramp lay sighing. she did not know that she had been so near to him towards whom her heart was softening, day by day. chapter xliv first words it was the spring of 1800. old people yet can tell of the hard famine of that year. the harvest of the autumn before had failed; the war and the corn laws had brought the price of corn up to a famine rate; and much of what came into the market was unsound, and consequently unfit for food, yet hungry creatures bought it eagerly, and tried to cheat disease by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour with rice or potato meal. rich families denied themselves pastry and all unnecessary and luxurious uses of wheat in any shape; the duty on hair-powder was increased; and all these palliatives were but as drops in the ocean of the great want of the people. philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew stronger; and as he grew stronger hunger took the place of loathing dislike to food. but his money was all spent; and what was his poor pension of sixpence a day in that terrible year of famine? many a summer's night he walked for hours and hours round the house which once was his, which might be his now, with all its homely, blessed comforts, could he but go and assert his right to it. but to go with authority, and in his poor, maimed guise assert that right, he had need be other than philip hepburn. so he stood in the old shelter of the steep, crooked lane opening on to the hill out of the market-place, and watched the soft fading of the summer's eve into night; the closing of the once familiar shop; the exit of good, comfortable william coulson, going to his own home, his own wife, his comfortable, plentiful supper. then philip--there were no police in those days, and scarcely an old watchman in that primitive little town--would go round on the shady sides of streets, and, quickly glancing about him, cross the bridge, looking on the quiet, rippling stream, the gray shimmer foretelling the coming dawn over the sea, the black masts and rigging of the still vessels against the sky; he could see with his wistful, eager eyes the shape of the windows--the window of the very room in which his wife and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, broken-hearted outcast. he would go back to his lodging, and softly lift the latch of the door; still more softly, but never without an unspoken, grateful prayer, pass by the poor sleeping woman who had given him a shelter and her share of god's blessing--she who, like him, knew not the feeling of satisfied hunger; and then he laid him down on the narrow pallet in the lean-to, and again gave sylvia happy lessons in the kitchen at haytersbank, and the dead were alive; and charley kinraid, the specksioneer, had never come to trouble the hopeful, gentle peace. for widow dobson had never taken sylvia's advice. the tramp known to her by the name of freeman--that in which he received his pension--lodged with her still, and paid his meagre shilling in advance, weekly. a shilling was meagre in those hard days of scarcity. a hungry man might easily eat the produce of a shilling in a day. widow dobson pleaded this to sylvia as an excuse for keeping her lodger on; to a more calculating head it might have seemed a reason for sending him away. 'yo' see, missus,' said she, apologetically, to sylvia, one evening, as the latter called upon the poor widow before going to fetch little bella (it was now too hot for the child to cross the bridge in the full heat of the summer sun, and jeremiah would take her up to her supper instead)--'yo' see, missus, there's not a many as 'ud take him in for a shillin' when it goes so little way; or if they did, they'd take it out on him some other way, an' he's not getten much else, a reckon. he ca's me granny, but a'm vast mista'en if he's ten year younger nor me; but he's getten a fine appetite of his own, choose how young he may be; an' a can see as he could eat a deal more nor he's getten money to buy, an' it's few as can mak' victual go farther nor me. eh, missus, but yo' may trust me a'll send him off when times is better; but just now it would be sendin' him to his death; for a ha' plenty and to spare, thanks be to god an' yo'r bonny face.' so sylvia had to be content with the knowledge that the money she gladly gave to kester's sister went partly to feed the lodger who was neither labourer nor neighbour, but only just a tramp, who, she feared, was preying on the good old woman. still the cruel famine cut sharp enough to penetrate all hearts; and sylvia, an hour after the conversation recorded above, was much touched, on her return from jeremiah foster's with the little merry, chattering bella, at seeing the feeble steps of one, whom she knew by description must be widow dobson's lodger, turn up from the newly-cut road which was to lead to the terrace walk around the north cliff, a road which led to no dwelling but widow dobson's. tramp, and vagrant, he might be in the eyes of the law; but, whatever his character, sylvia could see him before her in the soft dusk, creeping along, over the bridge, often stopping to rest and hold by some support, and then going on again towards the town, to which she and happy little bella were wending. a thought came over her: she had always fancied that this unknown man was some fierce vagabond, and had dreaded lest in the lonely bit of road between widow dobson's cottage and the peopled highway, he should fall upon her and rob her if he learnt that she had money with her; and several times she had gone away without leaving the little gift she had intended, because she imagined that she had seen the door of the small chamber in the 'lean-to' open softly while she was there, as if the occupant (whom widow dobson spoke of as never leaving the house before dusk, excepting once a week) were listening for the chink of the coin in her little leathern purse. now that she saw him walking before her with heavy languid steps, this fear gave place to pity; she remembered her mother's gentle superstition which had prevented her from ever sending the hungry empty away, for fear lest she herself should come to need bread. 'lassie,' said she to little bella, who held a cake which jeremiah's housekeeper had given her tight in her hand, 'yon poor man theere is hungry; will bella give him her cake, and mother will make her another to-morrow twice as big?' for this consideration, and with the feeling of satisfaction which a good supper not an hour ago gives even to the hungry stomach of a child of three years old, bella, after some thought, graciously assented to the sacrifice. sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned her back to the town, and to the slow wayfarer in front. under the cover of her shawl she slipped a half-crown deep into the crumb of the cake, and then restoring it to little bella, she gave her her directions. 'mammy will carry bella; and when bella goes past the poor man, she shall give him the cake over mammy's shoulder. poor man is so hungry; and bella and mammy have plenty to eat, and to spare.' the child's heart was touched by the idea of hunger, and her little arm was outstretched ready for the moment her mother's hurried steps took her brushing past the startled, trembling philip. 'poor man, eat this; bella not hungry.' they were the first words he had ever heard his child utter. the echoes of them rang in his ears as he stood endeavouring to hide his disfigured face by looking over the parapet of the bridge down upon the stream running away towards the ocean, into which his hot tears slowly fell, unheeded by the weeper. then he changed the intention with which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and turned back to his lodging. of course the case was different with sylvia; she would have forgotten the whole affair very speedily, if it had not been for little bella's frequent recurrence to the story of the hungry man, which had touched her small sympathies with the sense of an intelligible misfortune. she liked to act the dropping of the bun into the poor man's hand as she went past him, and would take up any article near her in order to illustrate the gesture she had used. one day she got hold of hester's watch for this purpose, as being of the same round shape as the cake; and though hester, for whose benefit the child was repeating the story in her broken language for the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch as it was intended that she should (she being the representative of the 'hungry man' for the time being), it went to the ground with a smash that frightened the little girl, and she began to cry at the mischief she had done. 'don't cry, bella,' said hester. 'niver play with watches again. i didn't see thee at mine, or i'd ha' stopped thee in time. but i'll take it to old darley's on th' quay-side, and maybe he'll soon set it to rights again. only bella must niver play with watches again.' 'niver no more!' promised the little sobbing child. and that evening hester took her watch down to old darley's. this william darley was the brother of the gardener at the rectory; the uncle to the sailor who had been shot by the press-gang years before, and to his bed-ridden sister. he was a clever mechanician, and his skill as a repairer of watches and chronometers was great among the sailors, with whom he did a very irregular sort of traffic, conducted, often without much use of money, but rather on the principle of barter, they bringing him foreign coins and odd curiosities picked up on their travels in exchange for his services to their nautical instruments or their watches. if he had ever had capital to extend his business, he might have been a rich man; but it is to be doubted whether he would have been as happy as he was now in his queer little habitation of two rooms, the front one being both shop and workshop, the other serving the double purpose of bedroom and museum. the skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man was sometimes sought by the jeweller who kept the more ostentatious shop in the high street; but before darley would undertake any 'tickle' piece of delicate workmanship for the other, he sneered at his ignorance, and taunted and abused him well. yet he had soft places in his heart, and hester rose had found her way to one by her patient, enduring kindness to his bed-ridden niece. he never snarled at her as he did at too many; and on the few occasions when she had asked him to do anything for her, he had seemed as if she were conferring the favour on him, not he on her, and only made the smallest possible charge. she found him now sitting where he could catch the most light for his work, spectacles on nose, and microscope in hand. he took her watch, and examined it carefully without a word in reply to her. then he began to open it and take it to pieces, in order to ascertain the nature of the mischief. suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a checked sound of surprise. he looked at her from above his spectacles; she was holding a watch in her hand which she had just taken up off the counter. 'what's amiss wi' thee now?' said darley. 'hast ta niver seen a watch o' that mak' afore? or is it them letters on t' back, as is so wonderful?' yes, it was those letters--that interlaced, old-fashioned cipher. that z. h. that she knew of old stood for zachary hepburn, philip's father. she knew how philip valued this watch. she remembered having seen it in his hands the very day before his disappearance, when he was looking at the time in his annoyance at sylvia's detention in her walk with baby. hester had no doubt that he had taken this watch as a matter of course away with him. she felt sure that he would not part with this relic of his dead father on any slight necessity. where, then, was philip?--by what chance of life or death had this, his valued property, found its way once more to monkshaven? 'where did yo' get this?' she asked, in as quiet a manner as she could assume, sick with eagerness as she was. to no one else would darley have answered such a question. he made a mystery of most of his dealings; not that he had anything to conceal, but simply because he delighted in concealment. he took it out of her hands, looked at the number marked inside, and the maker's name--'natteau gent, york'--and then replied,-'a man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for t' sell it. it's a matter o' forty years old. natteau gent has been dead and in his grave pretty nigh as long as that. but he did his work well when he were alive; and so i gave him as brought it for t' sell about as much as it were worth, i' good coin. a tried him first i' t' bartering line, but he wouldn't bite; like enough he wanted food,--many a one does now-a-days.' 'who was he?' gasped hester. 'bless t' woman! how should i know?' 'what was he like?--how old?--tell me.' 'my lass, a've summut else to do wi' my eyes than go peering into men's faces i' t' dusk light.' 'but yo' must have had light for t' judge about the watch.' 'eh! how sharp we are! a'd a candle close to my nose. but a didn't tak' it up for to gaze int' his face. that wouldn't be manners, to my thinking.' hester was silent. then darley's heart relented. 'if yo're so set upo' knowing who t' fellow was, a could, mebbe, put yo' on his tracks.' 'how?' said hester, eagerly. 'i do want to know. i want to know very much, and for a good reason.' 'well, then, a'll tell yo'. he's a queer tyke, that one is. a'll be bound he were sore pressed for t' brass; yet he out's wi' a good half-crown, all wrapped up i' paper, and he axes me t' make a hole in it. says i, "it's marring good king's coin, at after a've made a hole in't, it'll never pass current again." so he mumbles, and mumbles, but for a' that it must needs be done; and he's left it here, and is t' call for 't to-morrow at e'en.' 'oh, william darley!' said hester, clasping her hands tight together. 'find out who he is, where he is--anything--everything about him--and i will so bless yo'.' darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs of sympathy on his grave face. 'my woman,' he said 'a could ha' wished as you'd niver seen t' watch. it's poor, thankless work thinking too much on one o' god's creatures. but a'll do thy bidding,' he continued, in a lighter and different tone. 'a'm a 'cute old badger when need be. come for thy watch in a couple o' days, and a'll tell yo' all as a've learnt.' so hester went away, her heart beating with the promise of knowing something about philip,--how much, how little, in these first moments, she dared not say even to herself. some sailor newly landed from distant seas might have become possessed of philip's watch in far-off latitudes; in which case, philip would be dead. that might be. she tried to think that this was the most probable way of accounting for the watch. she could be certain as to the positive identity of the watch--being in william darley's possession. again, it might be that philip himself was near at hand--was here in this very place--starving, as too many were, for insufficiency of means to buy the high-priced food. and then her heart burnt within her as she thought of the succulent, comfortable meals which sylvia provided every day--nay, three times a day--for the household in the market-place, at the head of which philip ought to have been; but his place knew him not. for sylvia had inherited her mother's talent for housekeeping, and on her, in alice's decrepitude and hester's other occupations in the shop, devolved the cares of due provision for the somewhat heterogeneous family. and sylvia! hester groaned in heart over the remembrance of sylvia's words, 'i can niver forgive him the wrong he did to me,' that night when hester had come, and clung to her, making the sad, shameful confession of her unreturned love. what could ever bring these two together again? could hester herself--ignorant of the strange mystery of sylvia's heart, as those who are guided solely by obedience to principle must ever be of the clue to the actions of those who are led by the passionate ebb and flow of impulse? could hester herself? oh! how should she speak, how should she act, if philip were near--if philip were sad and in miserable estate? her own misery at this contemplation of the case was too great to bear; and she sought her usual refuge in the thought of some text, some promise of scripture, which should strengthen her faith. 'with god all things are possible,' said she, repeating the words as though to lull her anxiety to rest. yes; with god all things are possible. but ofttimes he does his work with awful instruments. there is a peacemaker whose name is death. chapter xlv saved and lost hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which the unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it again at william darley's. she had schooled herself to believe that time and patience would serve her best. her plan was to obtain all the knowledge about philip that she could in the first instance; and then, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fall on sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. so hester put on her things, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that evening after the shop was closed. poor little sylvia! she was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the full extent of what hester believed. many a time since philip went away had she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spoke shortly to her, when alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, when hester's gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when her own heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that she had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly she did by this time. philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly to her during the eighteen months of their married life, except on the two occasions before recorded: once when she referred to her dream of kinraid's possible return, and once again on the evening of the day before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of kinraid's involuntary disappearance. after she had learnt that kinraid was married, her heart had still more strongly turned to philip; she thought that he had judged rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing; she was even more indignant at kinraid's fickleness than she had any reason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring love as philip's had been--lasting ever since the days when she first began to fancy what a man's love for a woman should be, when she had first shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial term for her, a girl of twelve--'little lassie,' as he was wont to call her. but across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow--like the chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. how should she decide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once more called her 'wife'? she shrank from such a possibility with all the weakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which made her strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words; and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion when hester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the heart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point. now, on this bright summer evening, while hester had gone down to the quay-side, sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in the parlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset. she could not leave alice: the old woman had grown so infirm that she was never left by her daughter and sylvia at the same time; yet sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the new town, where she had been to her supper at jeremiah foster's. hester had said that she should not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and hester was generally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect, appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt to rely upon her. sylvia wanted to go and see widow dobson, and learn when kester might be expected home. his two months were long past; and sylvia had heard through the fosters of some suitable and profitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be glad to know as soon as possible. it was now some time since she had been able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew, kester might already be come back from his expedition to the cheviots. kester was come back. scarce five minutes had elapsed after these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hasty hand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps brought him face to face with her. the smile of greeting was arrested on her lips by one look at him: his eyes staring wide, the expression on his face wild, and yet pitiful. 'that's reet,' said he, seeing that her things were already on. 'thou're wanted sore. come along.' 'oh! dear god! my child!' cried sylvia, clutching at the chair near her; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact before her that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it. 'ay; thy child!' said kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm, and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to the quay-side. 'tell me!' said sylvia, faintly, 'is she dead?' 'she's safe now,' said kester. 'it's not her--it's him as saved her as needs yo', if iver husband needed a wife.' 'he?--who? o philip! philip! is it yo' at last?' unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up her arms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were then crossing. 'he!--philip!--saved bella? bella, our little bella, as got her dinner by my side, and went out wi' jeremiah, as well as could be. i cannot take it in; tell me, kester.' she kept trembling so much in voice and in body, that he saw she could not stir without danger of falling until she was calmed; as it was, her eyes became filmy from time to time, and she drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaning all the while against the wall of the bridge. 'it were no illness,' kester began. 't' little un had gone for a walk wi' jeremiah foster, an' he were drawn for to go round t' edge o' t' cliff, wheere they's makin' t' new walk reet o'er t' sea. but it's but a bit on a pathway now; an' t' one was too oud, an' t' other too young for t' see t' water comin' along wi' great leaps; it's allays for comin' high up again' t' cliff, an' this spring-tide it's comin' in i' terrible big waves. some one said as they passed t' man a-sittin' on a bit on a rock up above--a dunnot know, a only know as a heared a great fearful screech i' t' air. a were just a-restin' me at after a'd comed in, not half an hour i' t' place. a've walked better nor a dozen mile to-day; an' a ran out, an' a looked, an' just on t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a wave runnin' back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, an' oud jeremiah standin' like one crazy, lookin' o'er int' t' watter; an' like a stroke o' leeghtnin' comes a man, an' int' t' very midst o' t' great waves like a shot; an' then a knowed summut were in t' watter as were nearer death than life; an' a seemed to misdoubt me that it were our bella; an' a shouts an' a cries for help, an' a goes mysel' to t' very edge o' t' cliff, an' a bids oud jeremiah, as was like one beside hissel', houd tight on me, for he were good for nought else; an' a bides my time, an' when a sees two arms houdin' out a little drippin' streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist-band, an' hauls her to land. she's noane t' worse for her bath, a'll be bound.' 'i mun go--let me,' said sylvia, struggling with his detaining hand, which he had laid upon her in the fear that she would slip down to the ground in a faint, so ashen-gray was her face. 'let me,--bella, i mun go see her.' he let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too weak to stir. 'now, if you'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' along; but yo' mun be a steady and brave lass.' 'i'll be aught if yo' only let me see bella,' said sylvia, humbly. 'an' yo' niver ax at after him as saved her,' said kester, reproachfully. 'i know it's philip,' she whispered, 'and yo' said he wanted me; so i know he's safe; and, kester, i think i'm 'feared on him, and i'd like to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at bella would give me courage. it were a terrible time when i saw him last, and i did say--' 'niver think on what thou did say; think on what thou will say to him now, for he lies a-dyin'! he were dashed again t' cliff an' bruised sore in his innards afore t' men as come wi' a boat could pick him up.' she did not speak; she did not even tremble now; she set her teeth together, and, holding tight by kester, she urged him on; but when they came to the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which way to turn. 'this way,' said kester. 'he's been lodgin' wi' sally this nine week, an' niver a one about t' place as knowed him; he's been i' t' wars an' getten his face brunt.' 'and he was short o' food,' moaned sylvia, 'and we had plenty, and i tried to make yo'r sister turn him out, and send him away. oh! will god iver forgive me?' muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp cries of pain, sylvia, with kester's help, reached widow dobson's house. it was no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. several sailors stood about the door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict of the doctor, who was even now examining philip's injuries. two or three women stood talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway. but when sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women moved aside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with a certain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of antagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it--she who had been living in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was little better than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle with starvation; for so much of the lodger at widow dobson's was popularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp was quite forgotten now. sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of their silence; but it was as nothing to her. if such things could have touched her at this moment, she would not have stood still right in the midst of their averted hearts, and murmured something to kester. he could not hear the words uttered by that hoarse choked voice, until he had stooped down and brought his ear to the level of her mouth. 'we'd better wait for t' doctors to come out,' she said again. she stood by the door, shivering all over, almost facing the people in the road, but with her face turned a little to the right, so that they thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff-side, a hundred yards or so distant, below which the hungry waves still lashed themselves into high ascending spray; while nearer to the cottage, where their force was broken by the bar at the entrance to the river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight before her eyes. she only saw a blurred mist; she heard no sound of waters, though it filled the ears of those around. instead she heard low whispers pronouncing philip's earthly doom. for the doctors were both agreed; his internal injury was of a mortal kind, although, as the spine was severely injured above the seat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of his body. they had spoken in so low a tone that john foster, standing only a foot or so away, had not been able to hear their words. but sylvia heard each syllable there where she stood outside, shivering all over in the sultry summer evening. she turned round to kester. 'i mun go to him, kester; thou'll see that noane come in to us, when t' doctors come out.' she spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she had heard, made some easy conditional promise. then those opposite to the cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors coming out, and john foster, graver, sadder still, following them. without a word to them,--without a word even of inquiry--which many outside thought and spoke of as strange--white-faced, dry-eyed sylvia slipped into the house out of their sight. and the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore. the room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle of light made by a dip candle. widow dobson had her back to the bed--her bed--on to which philip had been borne in the hurry of terror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. she was crying--crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, with her back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes cut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. she only shook her head as she saw sylvia, spirit-like, steal in--white, noiseless, and upborne from earth. but noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding it in the shadow. he knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed; that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching death was stealing. but no one spoke. at length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort. 'little lassie, forgive me now! i cannot live to see the morn!' there was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her whole body. 'i did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'i see it now. but i'm a dying man. i think that god will forgive me--and i've sinned against him; try, lassie--try, my sylvie--will not thou forgive me?' he listened intently for a moment. he heard through the open window the waves lapping on the shelving shore. but there came no word from her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her lips at length. 'child,' said he, once more. 'i ha' made thee my idol; and if i could live my life o'er again i would love my god more, and thee less; and then i shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. but speak one word of love to me--one little word, that i may know i have thy pardon.' 'oh, philip! philip!' she moaned, thus adjured. then she lifted her head, and said, 'them were wicked, wicked words, as i said; and a wicked vow as i vowed; and lord god almighty has ta'en me at my word. i'm sorely punished, philip, i am indeed.' he pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. but he asked for yet another word. 'i did thee a wrong. in my lying heart i forgot to do to thee as i would have had thee to do to me. and i judged kinraid in my heart.' 'thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly; 'and so he were. he were married to another woman not so many weeks at after thou went away. oh, philip, philip! and now i have thee back, and--' 'dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread of telling him what she believed he did not know, and next her passionate sobs, choked her. 'i know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing her with gentle, caressing hand. 'little lassie!' he said, after a while when she was quiet from very exhaustion, 'i niver thought to be so happy again. god is very merciful.' she lifted up her head, and asked wildly, 'will he iver forgive me, think yo'? i drove yo' out fra' yo'r home, and sent yo' away to t' wars, wheere yo' might ha' getten yo'r death; and when yo' come back, poor and lone, and weary, i told her for t' turn yo' out, for a' i knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. i think i shall go about among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo' are wheere all tears are wiped away.' 'no!' said philip, turning round his face, forgetful of himself in his desire to comfort her. 'god pities us as a father pities his poor wandering children; the nearer i come to death the clearer i see him. but you and me have done wrong to each other; yet we can see now how we were led to it; we can pity and forgive one another. i'm getting low and faint, lassie; but thou must remember this: god knows more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me to you. i think and do believe as we shall meet together before his face; but then i shall ha' learnt to love thee second to him; not first, as i have done here upon the earth.' then he was silent--very still. sylvia knew--widow dobson had brought it in--that there was some kind of medicine, sent by the hopeless doctors, lying upon the table hard by, and she softly rose and poured it out and dropped it into the half-open mouth. then she knelt down again, holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, and watching the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. and in the stillness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the shelving shore. something like an hour before this time, which was the deepest midnight of the summer's night, hester rose had come hurrying up the road to where kester and his sister sate outside the open door, keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all others having gone away, one by one, even john and jeremiah foster having returned to their own house, where the little bella lay, sleeping a sound and healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. hester had heard but little from william darley as to the owner of the watch and the half-crown; but he was chagrined at the failure of all his skilful interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised her further information in a few days, with all the more vehemence because he was unaccustomed to be baffled. and hester had again whispered to herself 'patience! patience!' and had slowly returned back to her home to find that sylvia had left it, why she did not at once discover. but, growing uneasy as the advancing hours neither brought sylvia nor little bella to their home, she had set out for jeremiah foster's as soon as she had seen her mother comfortably asleep in her bed; and then she had learnt the whole story, bit by bit, as each person who spoke broke in upon the previous narration with some new particular. but from no one did she clearly learn whether sylvia was with her husband, or not; and so she came speeding along the road, breathless, to where kester sate in wakeful, mournful silence, his sister's sleeping head lying on his shoulder, the cottage door open, both for air and that there might be help within call if needed; and the dim slanting oblong of the interior light lying across the road. hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to ask how much was truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which she had heard. kester looked at her without a word. through this solemn momentary silence the lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up close on the shelving shore. 'he? philip?' said she. kester shook his head sadly. 'and his wife--sylvia?' said hester. 'in there with him, alone,' whispered kester. hester turned away, and wrung her hands together. 'oh, lord god almighty!' said she, 'was i not even worthy to bring them together at last?' and she went away slowly and heavily back to the side of her sleeping mother. but 'thy will be done' was on her quivering lips before she lay down to her rest. the soft gray dawn lightens the darkness of a midsummer night soon after two o'clock. philip watched it come, knowing that it was his last sight of day,--as we reckon days on earth. he had been often near death as a soldier; once or twice, as when he rushed into fire to save kinraid, his chances of life had been as one to a hundred; but yet he had had a chance. but now there was the new feeling--the last new feeling which we shall any of us experience in this world--that death was not only close at hand, but inevitable. he felt its numbness stealing up him--stealing up him. but the head was clear, the brain more than commonly active in producing vivid impressions. it seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his mother's knee, wishing with all the earnestness of his childish heart to be like abraham, who was called the friend of god, or david, who was said to be the man after god's own heart, or st john, who was called 'the beloved.' as very present seemed the day on which he made resolutions of trying to be like them; it was in the spring, and some one had brought in cowslips; and the scent of those flowers was in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying--his life ended, his battles fought, his time for 'being good' over and gone--the opportunity, once given in all eternity, past. all the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before him; the scenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism--he could have touched the places; the people, the thoughts, the arguments that satan had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the vividness of a present time. and he knew that the thoughts were illusions, the arguments false and hollow; for in that hour came the perfect vision of the perfect truth: he saw the 'way to escape' which had come along with the temptation; now, the strong resolve of an ardent boyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 'what a christian might be'; and then the swift, terrible now, when his naked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of god's mercy-seat, out of the blaze of his anger against all those who act a lie. his mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. was this death in very deed? he tried to grasp at the present, the earthly present, fading quick away. he lay there on the bed--on sally dobson's bed in the house-place, not on his accustomed pallet in the lean-to. he knew that much. and the door was open into the still, dusk night; and through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the waves on the shelving shore, could see the soft gray dawn over the sea--he knew it was over the sea--he saw what lay unseen behind the poor walls of the cottage. and it was sylvia who held his hand tight in her warm, living grasp; it was his wife whose arm was thrown around him, whose sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time. 'god bless and comfort my darling,' he said to himself. 'she knows me now. all will be right in heaven--in the light of god's mercy.' and then he tried to remember all that he had ever read about, god, and all that the blessed christ--that bringeth glad tidings of great joy unto all people, had said of the father, from whom he came. those sayings dropped like balm down upon his troubled heart and brain. he remembered his mother, and how she had loved him; and he was going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. as he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; but sylvia clenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the same for her, for his child, and for himself. then he saw the sky redden with the first flush of dawn; he heard kester's long-drawn sigh of weariness outside the open door. he had seen widow dobson pass through long before to keep the remainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, which had been his for many and many a sleepless and tearful night. those nights were over--he should never see that poor chamber again, though it was scarce two feet distant. he began to lose all sense of the comparative duration of time: it seemed as long since kind sally dobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, before going into the humble sleeping-room--as long as it was since his boyhood, when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should be his, with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off to the woodlands where they grew. then there came a rush and an eddying through his brain--his soul trying her wings for the long flight. again he was in the present: he heard the waves lapping against the shelving shore once again. and now his thoughts came back to sylvia. once more he spoke aloud, in a strange and terrible voice, which was not his. every sound came with efforts that were new to him. 'my wife! sylvie! once more--forgive me all.' she sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips; she held him in her arms, she moaned, and said, 'oh, wicked me! forgive me--me--philip!' then he spoke, and said, 'lord, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive each other!' and after that the power of speech was conquered by the coming death. he lay very still, his consciousness fast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that he knew it was sylvia who touched his lips with cordial, and that it was sylvia who murmured words of love in his ear. he seemed to sleep at last, and so he did--a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sun fell on his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turned so as once more to see his wife's pale face of misery. 'in heaven,' he cried, and a bright smile came on his face, as he fell back on his pillow. not long after hester came, the little bella scarce awake in her arms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see him ere yet he passed away. hester had watched and prayed through the livelong night. and now she found him dead, and sylvia, tearless and almost unconscious, lying by him, her hand holding his, her other thrown around him. kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly; but she not at all. then hester bore her child to her, and sylvia opened wide her miserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was gone from her. but bella suddenly rousing up at the sight of the poor, scarred, peaceful face, cried out,-'poor man who was so hungry. is he not hungry now?' 'no,' said hester, softly. 'the former things are passed away--and he is gone where there is no more sorrow, and no more pain.' but then she broke down into weeping and crying. sylvia sat up and looked at her. 'why do yo' cry, hester?' she said. 'yo' niver said that yo' wouldn't forgive him as long as yo' lived. yo' niver broke the heart of him that loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very door. oh, philip! my philip, tender and true.' then hester came round and closed the sad half-open eyes; kissing the calm brow with a long farewell kiss. as she did so, her eye fell on a black ribbon round his neck. she partly lifted it out; to it was hung a half-crown piece. 'this is the piece he left at william darley's to be bored,' said she, 'not many days ago.' bella had crept to her mother's arms as a known haven in this strange place; and the touch of his child loosened the fountains of her tears. she stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put it round her own neck; after a while she said, 'if i live very long, and try hard to be very good all that time, do yo' think, hester, as god will let me to him where he is?' * * * * * monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing place. yet, standing near the site of widow dobson's house on a summer's night, at the ebb of a spring-tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up the shelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as that which philip listened to in the pauses between life and death. and so it will be until 'there shall be no more sea'. but the memory of man fades away. a few old people can still tell you the tradition of the man who died in a cottage somewhere about this spot,--died of starvation while his wife lived in hard-hearted plenty not two good stone-throws away. this is the form into which popular feeling, and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded the story. not long since a lady went to the 'public baths', a handsome stone building erected on the very site of widow dobson's cottage, and finding all the rooms engaged she sat down and had some talk with the bathing woman; and, as it chanced, the conversation fell on philip hepburn and the legend of his fate. 'i knew an old man when i was a girl,' said the bathing woman, 'as could niver abide to hear t' wife blamed. he would say nothing again' th' husband; he used to say as it were not fit for men to be judging; that she had had her sore trial, as well as hepburn hisself.' the lady asked, 'what became of the wife?' 'she was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. i can just remember her when i was a little child, but she died before her daughter was well grown up; and miss rose took t' lassie, as had always been like her own.' 'miss rose?' 'hester rose! have yo' niver heared of hester rose, she as founded t' alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers on t' horncastle road? there's a piece o' stone in front to say that "this building is erected in memory of p. h."--and some folk will have it p. h. stands for t' name o' th' man as was starved to death.' 'and the daughter?' 'one o' th' fosters, them as founded t' old bank, left her a vast o' money; and she were married to distant cousin of theirs, and went off to settle in america many and many a year ago.' the end.